Murder Point: A Tale of Keewatin

  CHAPTER XI

  THE LOVE OF WOMAN

  It was past noon before they had completed Strangeways' burial at thebend. When they had finished, the skies had cleared themselves ofstorm and cloud, and the sun shone out again. The air was full ofearth-fragrance, and the landscape was cool and fresh. Nothing ofdisorder remained, no sign that a man was dead, save only a mound ofpiled-up stones and sod, surmounted by a little cross of branchesbound together with twisted grass.

  Pere Antoine had searched the body with scant results, for he hadfound no more than the warrant for Spurling's detection and arrest,and the fragments of two torn and well-nigh obliterated letters, atwhich latter he had only glanced up to the present. Nor had he seenthe contents of the locket as yet, for when he had asked Granger whatwas its secret, he had received as answer, "Oh, nothing, only a younggirl's face." So he had been foiled in his endeavour to gathermaterials for the establishing of Granger's innocence, should that beassailed, and had discovered nothing which might be of use in hisdefence. All he could contribute was his own personal evidence thatthe appearance of the body, as he had seen it, bore out Granger'saccount in every detail as to the manner in which Strangeways'catastrophe had occurred, and that his deportment, when he hadcharged him with murder, had proved conclusively to himself that therewas no ground for such an accusation.

  When they had returned to the store and had had supper together,Granger sat for a long while with the locket open before him, gazingintently on the portrait. Suddenly he looked up. "Have you seenBeorn?" he asked. "Do you know whether he is on his way back?"

  "I have not seen him."

  "Antoine, you must stay here with me until he returns."

  "Why?"

  "I was on my way to meet Peggy when you met and stopped me; I want youto marry us."

  "But why now and at once?"

  "Because if we're not married she won't live with me,--and I must dosomething to break down my loneliness by getting a new interest intomy life. If I don't, I shall be always thinking of what has happened,and shall go mad,--in which case it will be the worse for Spurling. Idon't want to kill him--at least, not until he has had his chance toexplain himself. I'm sure now that it was Mordaunt whom he murdered,but I'm still uncertain as to whether he knew that she was a woman, atthe time when he killed her--he may not know even yet. If he did itmistaking her for a man, I might be able to forgive him; anyhow, I cansay so now, while you are with me. What I should do and think if Iwere left here miserably alone, I dare not tell. Yet, if whatStrangeways said to me is true, that her body was found at Forty-Milein a woman's dress, which would mean that Spurling killed her,well-knowing that she was a girl, why then I would go in search ofhim, and tell him what I thought about him, and shoot him carefully,and be glad when he was dead."

  "But you have promised God to leave him alone with Himself."

  "And shall I be the first man who has gone back on his prayers andpromises? There's nothing to be gained by talking about it; fate mustwork itself out. But if you want to understand what Strangeways felt,and what I am still feeling, then look at that."

  He handed him the locket. Pere Antoine took it and bent above it. Atlast he said, "Why, she's only a girl . . . and he killed _her_!"

  "Yes, and he killed her when her back was turned. Now do youunderstand?"

  "May God help you!" was all that Antoine said. Granger went over towhere he sat and, from above his shoulder, gazed down upon theportrait. The face had in it so little that was tragic that it seemedimpossible to realise that its owner should have encountered such adeath. When the smile upon the painted lips seemed so fresh andimperishable, it seemed incredible that the lips themselves should benow silent and underground.

  "I wonder where she lived and what sort of a girlhood she had,"Granger said.

  "I have here two letters which I found upon Strangeways; perhaps theymay tell us something about her."

  Pere Antoine produced the letters from an oilskin pouch. They were ina pointed feminine hand, and the ink was faded. Granger lit the lamp,for the twilight without was deepening into darkness; spreading outthe crumpled sheets on his knees before him, he read their contentsaloud. Across the top, left-hand corner of the uppermost page wasscrawled in a rude, boyish writing, "_The first letter she ever wroteme_"; the letter itself had been evidently penned by a young girl'shand. It bore the address of a school in London, and ran as follows:--

  DEAR ERIC.

  I am very miserable hear and sometimes wonder why I was ever brought into the world. Your Papa was very kind to me once, but why has he scent me away from you? You did not want me to be scent, and so I can tell you all about myself. I am very home-sick hear. I say home-sick, though I have no home; I have always been a stranger in your Papa's house. I suppose I am reely home-sick for you. I think it is because you and I are seperated that I am sorry. The girls hear are not always kind; they say that I look as though I had been crying, and then of course I do cry when they say that. But if my eyes are red, I don't care. I want you badly and I'm writting to tell you that. Don't forget to feed my rabbits.

  Your loving little friend, J. M.

  The second was marked in the same way, but in a manlier hand, "_Herlast letter to me_."

  DEAREST ERIC.

  I am so sorry that I am the cause of all this trouble, and that I cannot love you in the way that you and your father so much desire. I would do anything to make you happy save that--play the coward, and say that I love you as a woman should whom you were going to marry, when I do not. I have always been used to think of you as a brother, which is natural, seeing that from our earliest childhood we have grown up together. I thought that you would be content with that; no other kind of affection for you has ever entered into my heart or head.

  Your father was very angry with me last night after you went out. He said that I, by my conduct, had led you on to _expect_; believe me, I never meant to do that. It never occurred to me that there was any need to be careful in your presence. The truth is, I have always been an interloper in your home; you will remember how, long years since, when first I went to boarding-school, I told you that . . . (four lines were here undecipherable, being faded and rubbed out). When I look back, I see that in all my life you have been my only friend--which makes me the more unhappy that this has happened. Mind, I don't mean to accuse your family of unkindness; I only say that I, perhaps naturally, was never one of them. If I thought that you would be willing, knowing how I feel toward you, to make me your wife, for the sake of your peace I might consent even to that. But you are not such a man. (Three lines were here obliterated.) Let there be no bitterness between us by reason of harsh words which others have spoken; what has happened must make a difference, but I want to remain still your friend. This recent occurrence seems to make it necessary that one of us should go away--there will never be any quiet in your father's house while we both live there. Don't be alarmed or surprised if you get word shortly that I have vanished.

  Yours as ever, J. M.

  To this letter was added a note in Strangeways' hand at the bottom ofthe page, "_She was not to blame; it was I who left_."

  "We have not learnt very much about her from those two letters, havewe?" said Pere Antoine. "They are ordinary, and leave many questions,which we wanted to ask, unanswered."

  "Yes, they do little more than confirm Strangeways' own statements,and yet. . . ."

  "Well?"

  "They tell us that her true initials were J. M., the same as those ofher assumed name, and the same as those of the monogram on the locket;and they tell us of her great loneliness."

  "But I can't see how a knowledge of that one fact--her greatloneliness--will help us; it does not reconstruct for u
s the detailsof her life so that we can imagine her to ourselves, nor does itcontribute anything towards your defence."

  "Bother my defence. I don't much care if I am hanged; that would atleast be a final solution, so far as I am concerned, to this problemof living. What troubles me at present is, how is this woman feelingabout my marriage with a half-breed girl? Now these letters help me;they make me certain that whatever I may be compelled to do at anyfuture time by reason of my isolation, she will not be hard upon me,but will understand. This marriage with Peggy, for instance, lookslike a betrayal of her. And though she is dead, I should hate togrieve her in the other world."

  Granger paused, and then he added fiercely, "And I'm glad of that lastletter for another reason, because it states so clearly that she neverloved the other man."

  "That can make no difference now."

  "But it can," said Granger, rising to his feet, and speaking in astrained whisper, with clenched hands, "I tell you it can. If Ithought that she had ever really cared for him, I would shoot myselfhere and now, that I might be beside her to get between him and her.The thought that he was there with her all alone in the vastness, freeto do and to say just whatever he pleased, and that I was shut out,would drive me crazy. Do you think that, if I supposed that he had gothis arms around her over there, I could ever rest--if I thought thatshe would allow him? One little pull of a trigger, the report of arevolver, which I probably shouldn't hear and in any case shouldn'tcare about, and the journey would be accomplished and I could bebending over her. It sounds very tempting. But I'm prepared to liveout my life like a man, now that I know that she understands. If shehadn't known what loneliness meant, she might misjudge my motives intaking up with Peggy, and might, out of revenge, instead of waitingfor me, herself take up with Strangeways before my arrival there."

  Pere Antoine watched him gravely for some seconds after he hadfinished speaking; then he said, "I don't think that Heaven is quitelike that; but none of us can be certain, perhaps your views are ascorrect as those of anyone else. When I was a young man, before I cameto Keewatin, I should have been angry with any man who had said tome a thing like that--but we come to hold strange opinions in thisland where all things, judged by our former standards of sanity,even God Himself, seem mad. At that time I longed to be dogmaticand definite in all my beliefs on religion, and this life, and theafter-world--that was why I became a Jesuit, that I might exchangedespair for certainty. Now, priest though I am, like you I see onegigantic interrogation mark written over sky and earth--and because ofit I am grateful. I have learnt that the whole attraction of religionfor the human mind, and the entire majesty of God depend on Hismystery and silence, and the things which He does not care to tell. Ifall our questions were answered, we might lose our God-sense. If weknew everything, we should cease to be curious and to strive. Of onething only are we certain, that Jesus lived and died, and that thoughwe live in the uttermost parts of the earth, it is our duty to be likeHim."

  "And Spurling--if Spurling dwells near us in the uttermost parts ofthe earth?"

  "He also is God's child."

  "It is easy for you to talk, Pere Antoine; you are an old man, and,being a priest, have never loved a woman yourself."

  The stern, grey features of the Jesuit relaxed; he hesitated, then hesaid, "My child, don't be too sure of that. Perhaps I may beattempting to live this life well only in order that I may make sureof meeting and being worthy of one such woman in the after-world. Ifthat were so, it would be great shame to me, for I ought to bestriving to live this life well solely for the love of Christ."

  He fell silent, sitting with his head bent forward, his gnarled handsfolded on his knees before him. A far-away look had come into hiseyes, a fixed expression of calmness, as though they slept with thelids parted. Granger watched the hands, mutilated and ruined, withthree fingers missing from the right, and two from the left; and yet,despite their brokenness, he thought how beautiful they were. Therewas scarcely a part of the priest's body that had not been at sometime shattered with service. It had never occurred to Granger thatPere Antoine, like most other men in the district, had a past whichdid not belong to Keewatin--memories of a happier time to which hemight sometimes look back with the painfulness of regret. Antoine hadbeen there so long that there was no man who remembered the day whenfirst he arrived. He seemed as natural to the landscape as the LastChance River itself. And now suddenly, in an electric moment ofsympathy, his past had revealed itself.

  Granger watched and waited, hoping that presently he would explain. Itoccurred to him as a discovery that he had no knowledge of thepriest's real name or of his family. At his nationality he could onlyguess, supposing him to be a Frenchman or a French-Canadian. Howincurious he had been! And, in this case, lack of curiosity had meantlack of kindness; he blamed himself. He, like all Keewatin, was readyin time of crisis to draw upon the old man's strength, but beyond thathe had never shown him real friendship--he had never been conscious ofany desire to hear about the man himself. And now he had learned thatthis man also had a tragedy, and, like himself, had loved a woman whowas now long since dead. He wanted to ask him questions, that so hemight make up for omitted kindnesses; but he was restrained when helooked upon the grey dreamy countenance, for it was evident that lePere was wandering in the idealised meadows of a bygonepleasantness--a country which was known only to himself. So Grangerreturned his eyes to the portrait which he had taken from the deadman's hand, and, gazing upon it, tried his best to fill in the blanksin his little knowledge of the woman he had loved.

  He constructed for himself a picture of an ivied manor-house, terracedand with an old-world garden lying round about it, where her childhoodhad been spent and where she had grown to girlhood. He told himselfthat there must have been a river somewhere near, and he imagined heras stretched upon its banks in the summer shadows. And he thought ofthe schoolhouse in London, and the little heart-weary child who hadpenned that letter there. He re-read it, and then once again re-readit, suffering the same agony of longing for things irrecoverable whichthis small creature had suffered years ago, who was now beyond allknowledge of pain. What a mystery it was that across that expanse ofspace and years her letter should have drifted down to him, fromLondon to Keewatin, carried over the last few yards of its journey inthe breast of a man who was already dead. It made him feel less of anexile that a miracle like that could happen--it was almost as thoughshe herself had appealed to him from the hidden world. It made him askhimself that question, which so many had asked before him, "_And arewe really ever dead_?"

  Pere Antoine stirred, rose up and walked over to the window, where hestood in the shadow, outside the circle of the lamp's rays, with hisback turned toward the younger man. There was something which hewanted to say, but which he found difficult to express. Grangerguessed that, and so he said, "Antoine, you are thinking of _her_to-night. She must have lived very long ago. Was she anything like theportrait of this young girl?"

  There was silence. Then, still gazing away from him, his long leanfigure blocking out the moonlight, the priest returned, "All whitewomen seem alike to one who has lived long in Keewatin. Yet that facedid seem very like to hers; but it is many years ago now, and I maynot remember her well. She died; and she was everything that was ofworth to me in this world. I begin to fear that she is all that Icount of highest value in the next."

  "But why fear? I should not fear that."

  "Because, being a missionary, with me it should be otherwise. I becamea Jesuit through distrust of myself. I knew, when she had been takenfrom me, that because of my despair, if I did not bind myself stronglyto that which was highest, I should sink to that which was worst. AndI knew that if I sank to that which was worst, she would be lost to methroughout all eternity. So, in order that God might give her to meagain in a future world, I strove to bribe Him; I asked that I mightbe sent to this hardest of all fields of missionary labour, hopingthat thus I might acquire merit. Since then a new doubt has come tohaunt me, has been with me half a century; the
fear lest the lifewhich I have led may count for nothing, may be regarded as onlysinfulness, because I have done God's work for her sake rather thanfor the sake of His Christ, and that therefore as a punishment to meshe may still be withheld. Ah, I have fought against her memory,trying to cling only to God! That has been useless. So I have gone ondoing my best for my fellow-men, hoping that He may overlook themotive, and judging only by the work, may give me my reward in theend,--may allow me to be with her."

  "Antoine, I am a sinful man and one who is little qualified to judgeof God's purposes, but I think that He will grant you your request.But if you, with all your goodness, are banished from her whom youloved most on earth, how can I hope for success?"

  Then the Jesuit turned round and faced him. "It was because I fearedfor your success that I mentioned my own trouble," he said. "You areplanning to do a thing which is right in marrying this half-breedgirl--you owe it to her and to God, inasmuch as you have lived withher. But you will be doing her a greater wrong than if you were toleave her unmarried, if, when you have made her your wife, you thinkonly of the dead white woman. When the turmoil of living is over, youwant to meet and be worthy of the woman who wrote those letters, youtell me; your best chance of success in that desire is in trying toforget her in this world, by giving all your affection to the womanwho is your wife, and trusting to God's goodness to give you therewards which He knows that you covet after death. Don't make mymistake--it means torture in this life, and, perhaps, disappointmentin the next. Be true to the choice which you have made, and leave therest to God's mercy. I have not been strong enough to do all that Iadvise, for, though I love Christ, I am shamed into owning, old manthough I am, that I more often do His work in the hope of re-meetingwith a woman who is dead than out of loyalty to Christ Himself."

  "Pere Antoine, you do not judge kindly of your own actions as Christwould judge of them; you Catholics, in making Christ God, forget thatHe also was a lonely man. I think it is not as a God, but as a peasantthat He will judge us, having knowledge of what we have suffered--ifHe judges us at all. It is more likely that He will just be sorry forus, that we ever thought that He would judge us."

  "Whether I judge kindly or not, will you try to take my advice? I havetold you a secret to-night which never, since I came to Keewatin, haveI told to any man. And I have told you that I may save you. Believeme, if you cannot love your daily companions for their own sake inthis world, whoever and wherever they are, you will fail to find lovefor your own sake in the next--and to love well, whatever you love youmust love for itself, and not for any future and mercenary end."

  Granger moved restlessly, but remained silent; then he sat still andthought. Pere Antoine also said nothing, for he knew that the manbefore him was reasoning his way toward a decision upon which all hishappiness must depend.

  But to Granger the problem appeared quite otherwise; it seemed to himthat he was being asked to abandon another pleasantness for the sakeof Peggy, a half-breed girl, for whom he had been prepared already tosacrifice his career. To be sure, his career was not of much value atpresent, and didn't seem a large thing to sacrifice; but then, when itcomes to giving anything away, even the most thorough-paced pessimistis capable of turning optimist about its worth.

  Since he had become certain of Mordaunt's death, he had vaguelyplanned out for himself a course of spiritual debauchery, though hewould not have applied to it such a word. He had expected to marryPeggy Ericsen, and to live with the memory of the woman for whom hehad really cared. His wife was to have been the servant of his comfortand desires, and the dead woman the companion of his mind and dailyround. So he hoped, by keeping Mordaunt near him in his thoughts, toqualify himself for attaining her after death, and to atone for hisapostasy in marrying a different woman while yet on earth. Throughoutall his reasoning ran a streak of madness, of which he himself wastotally unaware. And now, when he had completed arrangements to hisown satisfaction, here came this Jesuit telling him that such a courseof action savoured of adultery, and would probably end in the eternalseparation of Mordaunt from himself.

  Presently he heard a sound of moving. He looked up. Antoine wasstanding before him, on the outer edge of the light which was thrownby the lamp, appearing huge and prophetic against the background ofdwarfed shadows which crawled over wall and ceiling, crowding behindhim. His awe for the office of the man returned to him, blotting outthe equality which the past few hours of confession had brought about.Once more he recalled how it was said that le Pere had been seenwalking in the wilderness, wearing the countenance of Jesus Christ. Helooked like that now. Granger, made conscious of his own premeditatedwrong-doing, shrank back before him. Yet the words which Pere Antoineuttered were very simple: "I am an old man, and I knew what I wassaying," was all he said.

  Granger rose to his feet. "I'm going out," he said. "I'll return in alittle while and give you my decision."

  He passed out from the close stale air of the shack into thestarlight; he could be nearer God there. A low, leisurely wind wasjourneying over the forest, crooning softly to itself as it went.Dominant over all other sounds, as was ever the case at Murder Point,the wash of the ongoing river was to be heard--even in winter, whenevery other live thing had ceased to stir, it was not silent. But now,in the early summer of the northern year, it laughed uproariously andclapped its hands against the banks in its passage, as if the waterwere calling to the land, "Good-bye, old fellow; you won't see meagain for many a century. It was the end of the ice age when last weparted." To Granger the shouting of the river was for all the worldlike that of a troop-ship departing for a distant country. "Farewell,farewell," it cried. The sound of its going made him weary with asense of world-wideness; if he was left behind to-day, when once hehad joined himself to a daughter of that country, he would be foreverleft behind. But he had come outside not to reargue his way over theold ground, but to decide. To do that he must be alone, quitesolitary; and there, just outside the shack, he was all too consciousof Pere Antoine's eyes.

  Slowly he commenced to descend the Point toward the river-bank. As hewent, a new desire sprang up within him--to speak with Strangeways; ifpossible to make a compact and extort some approving sign from thatdead man. Stepping into the canoe, he pushed off lightly and set outfor the bend. The nearer he drew, the sterner his face became; he wasthinking of what he should say, and one has to be careful in what hesays in speaking with a man who is dead. Soon he came in sight of theflimsy little cross which they had raised, and saw the stones whichthey had piled above the body, shining white and grey in themoonlight; then with a twist of the paddle his canoe shot in towardthe bank and the prow grated on the ice. Granger stepped out andbeached his craft above the water's edge. With slow deliberate stepshe went forward till he stood above the grave. There, with his handsclasped behind him and his head bowed, he waited for a few minuteslistening, half expecting that something would happen. When nothingstirred, he went upon his knees, as if he prayed, placing his lips sonear to the grave that sometimes they touched the stones and mould;and so he began to speak to the man imprisoned beneath the ground.

  "Strangeways," he said, "you know everything about me now, and youought to understand. I want to act fairly by you. I didn't do that inyour lifetime; if I had, you might not now be dead. I ought to havewarned you about the ice at first, and I ought to have told you thetruth about Spurling; then you might have believed me. But I did trymy best to save you in the end. Pere Antoine says that I may gethanged for your death; but I don't mind that so very much, if I canonly act fairly by you now."

  He paused to hear whether there was any sound of movement underground;when he heard none, he knew that the dead man was listening andwaiting eagerly for what would come next. Crouching still nearer, sothat he might narrow the space between them, "Strangeways, are youlistening?" he said. "We both loved her, and neither of us won her inthis world; but because you are dead, you are nearer to her now than Iam. I want you to promise me to do nothing till I have come."

  And still when h
e halted, waiting for his answer, nothing stirred.Presently he spoke again. "I have a reason for asking which, if youremember anything of what you suffered in this life, you shouldunderstand. To save myself from madness, I must have a companion, andso I am going to marry a woman of this country. In order that I maylive well with her, and even in order to marry her, I must pledge myword to forget Mordaunt while I am in this world. Now do youunderstand? I cannot pledge my word until you have promised me thatyou will do nothing until I am also dead." He fell forward over thegrave and lay there silent. His brain had become numb; he couldfashion no more words--perhaps in the interval which elapsed heslept. Then it seemed to him that the chambers within his brain werelighted up, so that pressing his face against the crannies and betweenthe stones he could look right down, and see distinctly the narrow bedof the grave whereon the body of Strangeways rested. The eyes of thebody were open and the lips were working, trying to say something. Bywatching the lips he discovered that they kept on repeating, over andover, one word; then he read that that word was _revenge_. "I cannot,I cannot," he whispered. "I have promised God that I will not; and,moreover, to take revenge on Spurling would be to remember her."

  Was it that he moved as he slept, or did the thing which he thought hesaw actually occur! Some stones slipped from off the mound and, to hiseyes looking down into the grave, it seemed that Strangeways' handbegan to grope frantically after the locket which had been about hisneck, and that, finding it missing, his face became angry and hestrove to rise, causing the stones to fall and the ground to tremble.

  Granger jumped up, and stood there shaking with his hands clenched andhis head thrown back, prepared.

  "Will you answer me?" he cried in despair. "Don't you know how Isuffer? If you consent to what I have asked of you, give me a sign? Ifnothing happens, I shall know that you are cruel and do not care."

  When he had waited in vain some seconds, he lost his nerve and hiscourage. Kneeling beside the grave he commenced to weep, smoothing thestones with his hands coaxingly like a child, and whispering, "Give mea sign. Give me a sign. Give me a sign."

  Suddenly he paused in his pleading. The rustling of water against atravelling prow, and sound of paddles thrust in, forced back, andwithdrawn, struck upon his ears. He threw himself full length alongthe ground; he did not want to be discovered there. Stealing up-streamfrom the northward, creeping close in to the opposite bank to avoidthe current, came a canoe, sitting deep in the water, heavily ladenwith furs; the stern-paddle was held by a tall and thickly beardedman, and in the prow, even at that distance and in that shadowy light,it was possible to make out that the second figure was that of a girl.Granger recognised them immediately, and knew that the Man with theDead Soul and his daughter had returned. He also noticed that Eyelidswas not there. They did not see him, but quickly vanished round thebend.

  When all was silent and lonely again, Granger arose. "It is a sign,"he said. Standing above the grave, before departing he spoke once morewith the man who lay buried there. "Strangeways, you may rest quietnow," he said. "Though I cannot revenge her as you have desired, wecan both, in our separate ways, be true to her."

  He delayed a moment to have what he had said confirmed; but this timeno token either of dissent or approval was vouchsafed.