"Shall I die?" she asked. I could only kiss her.

"Then," she said, "even if it isn't true, tell papa I died game."

She was Canadian, and there is valor in that blood.

Before she was moved, Doctor Saunderson, of Clinton, had taken charge, and since we lacked petroleum enough for a bath, approved what we had done. He used opiates, but the pain, after a frostbite is thawed, is that which follows burning. On the third day came exhaustion--and release.

I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest, and my profession has taught me quietness, restraint, simplicity. The coroner might talk law, but I was dealing with men, it was my business to make them cry. There was no case against Brooke, but from that time onward visitors to Spite House were treated as lepers until they left the country.

For the rest, I would not be present either at the funeral or at the public meeting, or see the press man who came up from Ashcroft, or discuss the matter with any of my neighbors.

The theme was one distasteful to any woman with claims to decency. These things are not discussed. And even if through misfortune my relationship with Jesse became a common scandal, at least I need not share the conversation. To make a scene, to discuss my affairs with strangers, to seek public sympathy, were things impossible. Yet I heard enough. The waitresses were gone from Spite House, the constable was dismissed from his position; the business of the post-office and stage-line were transferred to Mr. Eure's stopping-place at the falls. Brooke and Polly were left alone, with no power, it seemed then, for any further mischief.

Until it actually happened, I never expected that Brooke would visit me, but perhaps from his point of view the event was piquant. His betrayal of Billy's father to the gallows, of Jesse and myself to Polly's vengeance, and of an innocent lady to ruin, and death by cold, might have made even Brooke suspect he would not be welcomed. But then Billy was away, the gentleman had a revolver, and neither the nurse, the Chinaman, nor myself were dangerous. Hearing a horse at the door, I went to the barroom, and dodged behind the bar or he would have shaken hands.

While he was actually present it did not occur to me that there might be danger. I was conscious of aromas from stale clothes and cigars, liquor, perfumes, and hair-oil; I noted the greasy pallor which comes of a life by lamplight; and while Brooke was Brooke, he had to dress his part. As a professional gambler, he wore long hair, mustache and imperial, broadcloth and black slouch hat, celluloid "linen" and sham diamonds. To these the climate added bright yellow moccasins, and a fur coat of the hairiest, the whole costume keyed up to Sunday best. Dirty and common, of course, yet let me in justice own that Brooke was handsome, frank, and magnetic as of old. Even the ravages of every vice had left him something of charm, his only a.s.set in the place of manhood.

No, I was not frightened, but as a daughter of Eve a little curious to know what brought him, and not quite fool enough to run the risk of showing any temper.

When I asked him to state his business, with a large gesture he claimed the visitor's drink. It is an old custom, which I broke.

"You think I'm a villain?"

I made no comment.

"I've come to thank you, ma'am. If you'd pressed that girl's case it might have been well--awkward."

I told him that had I known the law, I should have done my best to get him penal servitude for life.

"That's straight," he answered indulgently, "you always were clear grit, and that's why I want--well, ma'am," he lowered his eyes, "I'm going to confess. You don't mind?" he added.

My eyes betrayed my one desire, escape, but he stood in the doorway leading to the house.

"Your presence," I said, "is distasteful. Please, will you let me pa.s.s?"

"Not till I've set things straight."

There was no bell with which to summon help, and I should have been ashamed to make a scene.

"Go on," I said.

"I dunno how you feel, mum, about life. I've been disappointed, starting in with ideals, and they're gone. I'm as straight as the world will let me, without my going hungry."

Let me here quote one of Jesse's letters to his mother. "This Brooke and I grew our beef and matured our horns on the same strong pasture, but where a homely face kept me out of temptation, he had what you call beauty, and I'd call vanity. Instead of trying to _be_, he aimed to act.

He'd play cow-boy, or robber, or gambler, things he could never _be_, because he's not a man. He could wear the clothes, the manners, the talk, and pa.s.s himself off for real. The women who petted him sank and were left in the lurch. The men who trusted him were shot and hanged.

That made him lonesome, gave him the melancholy past, the romantic air, the charm--all stock in trade. Long hair costs nothing, he pays no dog tax, but life is too rich for his blood, and in the end he'll die of it like Judas. Say, mother, wasn't there a Mrs. Judas Iscariot? She must have been a busy woman to judge by the size of the Iscariot family."

"Yes," Brooke sighed, "I'm a disillusioned, disappointed man."

I had a curious sense that this actor of life was trying to be real, and in the attempt he posed.

"Not that I claim," he went on, "that Spite House is anyways holy. It's not. Of course, a sporting and gambling joint meets a demand, a regrettable demand, a thing we both abhor and would like to be shut of.

But since demand creates the supply, let's have it in high-toned style, not run by thugs. That's what I say."

His s.p.a.cious benevolence seemed to confer partnership, yet to be shocked at my immoral tendencies.

"However," he sighed, "it's over. It's done with, shoved aside. There was money in it, but small money, and we pa.s.s on. Old Taylor may have told you that as far back as November we decided, Mrs. Smith and me, to run the house as a first-cla.s.s resort for tourists. We bought the Star Pack-train from Taylor, and the old cargador is making our new riggings."

This was news indeed!

"Of course pack-trains as such are out of date as Noah's ark, and we've got to march with the procession. You'll see in this prospectus," he held out a paper, "well, I'll read it. Let's see--yes--'Forest Lodge, long under the able management of Mrs. Jesse Smith, with great experience in' * * * no, it's further on--'Forest Lodge is the natural center for parties viewing the wondrous wilds.' That should grip them, eh? 'Experienced guides with pack and saddle animals from the famous Star _atajo_,' we can't call them mules, of course, 'will escort parties visiting the sceneries and hunting grounds of the Coast Range, the Cariboo, the Omenica, the Babine, and the Ca.s.siar.' That ought to splash!"

Billy had warned me of bad characters settled on the lands toward Jesse's ranch. Were these Brooke's "experienced guides"?

"Naturally," Brooke folded his prospectus, "the sporting trade had to be closed right down before the tourist connection took a hold. Millionaire sportsmen out to spend their dollars, expect to find things just so.

They want recherche meals, and unique decorations, real champagne wine, and everything 'imported' even when it's made on the spot. They don't make no hurroar over losing a few thousands at cards, but they just ain't going to stand seeing Polly laying around drunk on the barroom floor. I tell you when they comes I ain't going to have Polly around my place. That's straight. She'll get her marching orders P. D. Q."

So Polly was next for betrayal.

"Yes." Brooke became very confidential. "What I require at Forest Lodge is a real society hostess, a lady. Yes, that's what's the matter--a lady. Now that's what I come about. Ever since I seen you Mrs., I mean madam, I mean--"

He became quite diffident, leaving the doorway, leaning over the counter.

"Would you--" he began, "would you be prepared, ma'am, to--"

My way was clear, and I ran.

It often seemed to me that Jesse's life and mine were veiled in some strange glamour of a directed fate. Little by little, in ever so slow degrees this mist was lifting, and I began to feel that soon the air would clear, giving us back to blessed commonplace. Through no act of mine, but by Brooke's incompetence, the prosperous business of Spite House had been brought to ruin.[A] Polly was drinking herself to death, and presently would find herself betrayed by that same callous treachery which had wrought such havoc in my dear man's life and mine.

[Footnote A: Note: Jesse says I ruined Polly, which just shows how _prejudiced_ men are, even at the best.]

Billy had held these last few weeks that Polly's funds were gone, that she was penniless. He begged me to let him destroy the great sign-board across the road to Spite House. Failure to renew that would indeed be conclusive proof of the woman's penury, but the meanness of such a test revolted me, for one does not strike a fallen adversary.

Were there any funds to promote black pines and mosquitoes as an attraction to millionaires? Brooke in his folly had divulged that foolish scheme, sufficient to complete the ruin of a poor wretched woman, before he abandoned her interests to seek his own. Was it true? I went straight to Captain Taylor.

For a week past my refractory patient had insisted upon living entirely upon cheese, a seemingly fatal diet, which to confess the truth had done him a world of good. Save for the loss of his sight he was quite his dear old self and glad of a gossip.

"Yes, Kate," he chuckled, "the murder's out at last. You see I'm not exactly prosperous, and my retired pay is a drop in my bucket of debts.

And then our good friend Polly invested all her wealth in buying up the mortgage on this ranch."

"But why?"

"For fun. For the pleasure of turning me out. She kindly granted me permission to sleep in that old barrel which used to belong to my fox, but then you see I really couldn't be under any obligations to the lady."

"Did you pay off the mortgage?"

"I did. So Polly strums rag-time tunes on my piano, Brooke wears my early Victorian frock coat, they serve their beans and bacon with my family plate, the gentleman sports my crest, the lady has my dear mother's diamonds which are really paste. My dear, they're county society--you really must call and leave cards."

"But the portraits!"