Lighted Windows, page 24
“Do you think I can’t support my wife?”
“Mebbe so, mebbe so, but I can’t see her taking money from a man who returns her as stolidly as he would an unsatisfactory pair of shoes.”
“Tubby!”
“It’s true, isn’t it? Why go dark red and glare at me? Granted you’re a wow of an engineer, as a married man you’re a total loss. Isn’t he, Miss Martha?” he demanded, as the elder Miss Samp entered the office. The black cat raced by her to pounce a scrap of paper skipping across the floor.
“Isn’t he what? I heard you shoutin’, Mr. Tubby, as I came from M’s. Hale’s cabin—she’s pretty near packed up—an’ dropped in to see if you were tryin’ to talk with Fairbanks without a wire.”
Grant’s grievance was too acute to permit of appreciation of her humor. “You’ll shout when you hear that the chief wants Janice to join the party on Paxton’s yacht.”
“Sakes alive, has the excitement turned his brain?” Miss Samp dropped into a chair. “Course ’tisn’t any of my business any more than ’tis Mr. Tubby’s, but why are you sending that child away, Mr. Bruce?”
“You have been so kind to Janice that it is your business, Miss Martha. I don’t want her to experience the hardships of a winter here. Remember what this life did to Millicent Hale.”
Martha Samp’s gnarled fingers stroked the glossy coat of the black cat circling in her lap. She regarded Harcourt with shrewd eyes.
“Did to her! It made a woman of her, didn’t it? Think back. She came here just an ordinary, spoiled, flighty young married girl. At first she fretted. Then she kinder found herself. Never complained. She developed the heart, the endurance of a noble woman.”
“And how did it end?”
“You mean about her kinder flyin’ off the handle at the last? I’ve got a pretty good idea of what caused it. She got to leanin’ on you, Mr. Bruce, you were all her husband wasn’t. When Janice came along, so pretty an’ gay an’ attractive, she got to broodin’ on her troubles an’ thinkin’ life played favorites, an’ something snapped. She hadn’t any notion of hurtin’ Joe. Course she shouldn’t have threatened him, but who doesn’t do a fool thing or two in the course of a life? Doesn’t it restore your faith in human nature to find an officer of the law with the common sense to recognize an accident when he sees one, an’ not try to make a criminal out of a female who hasn’t enough sense to leave a revolver hangin’ in its holster?”
The black cat slid to the floor as she stood up. “I must be running along. I left Tatima alone in the Waffle Shop. That Indian girl is about as much use since she got that jewelry as one of them slinky paper women in the magazines Mary’s always lookin’ at. I didn’t know but what I’d be packin’ for my sister, she flared up so ’bout wastin’ her life cookin’ waffles. Perhaps she’s right, but we’ll both stand by so long as Janice stays.”
She laid one hand on Harcourt’s arm, with rough-skinned fingers gently touched his temple. “That hair wasn’t white when you left to hunt for Jimmy Chester, boy.”
“Last night was a thousand years long, Miss Martha.”
She patted his sleeve. “This winter’ll be a million years long if you send Janice away—for you—for us all.” She coughed to clear her voice. Hand on the latch of the door, she stopped. “If Millicent Hale could grow spiritually in this wilderness, seems to me you might trust a girl like Janice. Course if you’re afraid of her gettin’ so homesick that she’d shoot you, you could lock up your guns. Blot, don’t you know that’s nothin’ but a piece of paper you’re hectorin’? You’re as short-sighted as the rest of your sex. Can’t see two inches in front of your nose.” The door banged.
Grant grinned. “And that’s that. Let’s eat.”
Martha Samp’s argument seethed like an undercurrent in Harcourt’s mind during the afternoon as he packed for Chester, sent messages, helped the Commissioner with his reports. Not until she came to the shore to embark in the launch which was to take her to the yacht did he speak to Millicent Hale. Her hand clung to his, her violet eyes were tear-filled.
“I wish I were the one to stay with you, Bruce.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You have forgotten the long dark winter. I’m willing to bet that with the first sight of the lights of Vancouver, you’ll be thanking all the gods that be that you’re back in civilization.”
“Boat’s waiting for you, Mrs. Hale,” Grant reminded. The Commisssioner took her hand, steadied her into the launch. Chester, pale, gloomy-eyed, leaned against Stephen Mallory’s broad shoulder in the stern.
Side by side Harcourt and Grant watched the launch as it shot like a brown streak for the yacht. Indians and Eskimos stood in groups on the shingle behind them, section bosses and engineers, with unconsciously wistful faces, waited for the Modern Mariner to hoist the anchor. Men were at headquarters flagstaff. Gulls circled and dove about the prow of the yacht. An occasional berg dotted the water. The broken mouth of the crater across the bay blew out filmy scarfs of pastel colors in farewell.
Harcourt glanced up at the cabins. White handkerchiefs were fluttering from the doorway of the Waffle Shop. He could see Janice on the step of the H house. What was she thinking as she stood there?
“Hi! There she goes! She’s dipping the colors in response to our flag!” Grant’s voice caught in his throat. “Ba-gosh, gives you a queer feeling in the pit of the stomach to see a boat going—going home, what?”
Harcourt let the question go unanswered. His intent eyes were on the yacht as it moved majestically toward the south. Across the water drifted the measured stroke of a ship’s bell. He could distinguish the figures at the rail. Paxton with glasses at his eyes, Millicent Hale waving a handkerchief, the Commissioner beside her flourishing a cap, Jimmy Chester braced against Mallory. Grant linked his arm in his.
“Bad luck to watch them out of sight. Come on, let’s cheer up the Samp girls. I’ll bet that home-bound boat laid their spirits low for a minute. I’ll suggest a tea-party for those of us left behind. Preparations for that will pep them up. Hope that Janice is with them.”
“She is at the H house. Let me know if we are to have the party and I will bring her.”
He walked on rapidly. If that out-going boat had made him, who had spent years in the wilderness, desperately homesick, what must it have meant to Janice? He had been brutal to leave her alone. He had deliberately kept out of her way. He couldn’t trust himself with her. He honestly wanted her to go for her own sake. If she had loved him—well, she didn’t.
She was leaning against the H house, eyes on the pale blur which was gliding into an opaline mist. Her long lashes were wet, but she faced him with gay bravado.
“Sorry not to have been moved out before you came back, but Pasca was so busy helping the travelers off that he had no time for me.”
He caught her by the shoulders. “You’re not going back to the Samp cabin. You will stay in my house.”
She defied him flippantly. “Big Chief! Heap bossy! You tried to push me out of headquarters, and now you are dictating as to where I shall live. I am working for Tubby Grant, not for you.”
His hands tightened. “Jan, my dear, don’t you know what it means to love a person so much that you would tear your heart out if you thought it best for her?” He cleared his voice of huskiness. “I know that you are forcing yourself to stay, triumphing over what you think is a fear-complex, what I know to be imagination. I know, also, that if you stay here you are bound to be miserably unhappy.”
Angry tears drenched the eyes which made him think of bronze pansies. “How do you know that I would be unhappy? You and Tubby and the Samp girls think Mrs. Hale a marvel of sweetness and light because she carried on. Why shouldn’t she? It was her job. You talk about love. A lot you know about it. I can see you following a person half across the world. Not a chance!”
“Jan!” The incredulous whisper brought her eyes to his. Even his lips whitened. “Jan!” He caught her up in his arms, kicked open the door. His laugh was a caress. “This time I’ll carry my bride across the threshold as big, strong men do in the movies and points south.” He set her on her feet, gently raised her chin till her head rested against his shoulder, demanded softly:
“All right with you, Beautiful?”
Eyes valiant, lovely color tinting her soft skin, she answered with an unsteady attempt at raillery. “I never did think much of that trial companionship idea of yours. If you care—”
“Care! If I care!” In a fury of passion he kissed her eyes, the hollow in her throat, her mouth. Kissed her vehemently, thoroughly. Said with a husky, reckless laugh: “That’s how I care.”
Tubby Grant pushed open the door. “First call for tea in the dining-car! You—” His voice dwindled to a gurgle. He blinked something suspiciously like tears from his wistful green eyes. With a softly breathed, “Praise be to Allah!” he gently closed the door from the outside.
Emilie Loring, Lighted Windows
