With the slow approach of the storm which was advancing over the wilderness1, Carrigan felt more poignantly2 the growing unrest that was in him. He heard the last of St. Pierre's voice, and after that the fires on the distant shore died out slowly, giving way to utter blackness. Faintly there came to him the far-away rumbling3 of thunder. The air grew heavy and thick, and there was no sound of night-bird over the breast of the river, and out of the thick cedar4 and spruce and balsam there came no cry or whisper of the nocturnal life waiting in silence for the storm to break. In that stillness David put out the lights in the cabin and sat close to the window in darkness.
He was more than sleepless5. Every nerve in his body demanded action, and his brain was fired by strange thoughts until their vividness seemed to bring him face to face with a reality that set his blood stirring with an irresistible6 thrill. He believed he had made a discovery, that St. Pierre had betrayed himself. What he had visioned, the conclusion he had arrived at, seemed inconceivable, yet what his own eyes had seen and his ears had heard pointed7 to the truth of it all. The least he could say was that St. Pierre's love for Marie-Anne Boulain was a strange sort of love. His attitude toward her seemed more like that of a man in the presence of a child of whom he was fond in a fatherly sort of way. His affection, as he had expressed it, was parental8 and careless. Not for an instant had there been in it a betrayal of the lover, no suggestion of the husband who cared deeply or who might be made jealous by another man.
Sitting in darkness thickening with the nearer approach of storm, David recalled the stab of pain mingled9 with humiliation10 that had come into the eyes of St. Pierre's wife when she had stood facing her husband. He heard again, with a new understanding, the low note of pathos11 in her voice as in song she had called upon the Mother of Christ to hear her—and help her. He had not guessed at the tragedy of it then. Now he knew, and he thought of her lying awake in the gloom beyond the bulkhead, her eyes were with tears. And St. Pierre had gone back to his raft, singing in the night! Where before there had been sympathy for him, there rose a sincere revulsion. There had been a reason for St. Pierre's masterly possession of himself, and it had not been, as he had thought, because of his bigness of soul. It was because he had not cared. He was a splendid hypocrite, playing his game well at the beginning, but betraying the lie at the end. He did not love Marie-Anne as he, Dave Carrigan, loved her. He had spoken of her as a child, and he had treated her as a child, and was serenely13 dispassionate in the face of a situation which would have roused the spirit in most men. And suddenly, recalling that thrilling hour in the white strip of sand and all that had happened since, it flashed upon David that St. Pierre was using his wife as the vital moving force in a game of his own—that under the masquerade of his apparent faith and bigness of character he was sacrificing her to achieve a certain mysterious something it the scheme of his own affairs.
Yet he could not forget the infinite faith Marie-Anne Boulain had expressed in her husband. There had been no hypocrisy14 in her waiting and her watching for him, or in her belief that he would straighten out the tangles15 of the dilemma16 in which she had become involved. Nor had there been make-believe in the manner she had left him that day in her eagerness to go to St. Pierre. Adding these facts as he had added the others, he fancied he saw the truth staring at him out of the darkness of his cabin room. Marie-Anne loved her husband. And St. Pierre was merely the possessor, careless and indifferent, almost brutally17 dispassionate in his consideration of her.
A heavy crash of thunder brought Carrigan back to a realization18 of the impending19 storm. He rose to his feet in the chaotic20 gloom, facing the bulkhead beyond which he was certain St. Pierre's wife lay wide awake. He tried to laugh. It was inexcusable, he told himself, to let his thoughts become involved in the family affairs of St. Pierre and Marie-Anne. That was not his business. Marie-Anne, in the final analysis, did not appear to be especially abused, and her mind was not a child's mind. Probably she would not thank him for his interest in the matter. She would tell him, like any other woman with pride, that it was none of his business and that he was presuming upon forbidden ground.
He went to the window. There was scarcely a breath of air, and unfastening the screen, he thrust out his head and shoulders into the night. It was so black that he could not see the shadow of the water almost within reach of his hands, but through the chaos21 of gloom that lay between him and the opposite shore he made out a single point of yellow light. He was positive the light was in the cabin on the raft. And St. Pierre was probably in that cabin.
A huge drop of rain splashed on his hand, and behind him he heard sweeping22 over the forest tops the quickening march of the deluge23. There was no crash of thunder or flash of lightning when it broke. Straight down, in an inundation24, it came out of a sky thick enough to slit25 with a knife. Carrigan drew in his head and shoulders and sniffed26 the sweet freshness of it. He tried again to make out the light on the raft, but it was obliterated27.
Mechanically he began taking off his clothes, and in a few moments he stood again at the window, naked. Thunder and lightning had caught up with the rain, and in the flashes of fire Carrigan's ghost-white face stared in the direction of the raft. In his veins28 was at work an insistent29 and impelling30 desire. Over there was St. Pierre, he was undoubtedly31 in the cabin, and something might happen if he, Dave Carrigan, took advantage of storm and gloom to go to the raft.
It was almost a presentiment32 that drew his bare head and shoulders out through the window, and every hunting instinct in him urged him to the adventure. The stygian darkness was torn again by a flash of fire. In it he saw the river and the vivid silhouette33 of the distant shore. It would not be a difficult swim, and it would be good training for tomorrow.
Like a badger34 worming his way out of a hole a bit too small for him, Carrigan drew himself through the window. A lightning flash caught him at the edge of the bateau, and he slunk back quickly against the cabin, with the thought that other eyes might be staring out into that same darkness. In the pitch gloom that followed he lowered himself quietly into the river, thrust himself under water, and struck out for the opposite shore.
When he came to the surface again it was in the glare of another lightning flash. He flung the water from his face, chose a point several hundred yards above the raft, and with quick, powerful strokes set out in its direction. For ten minutes he quartered the current without raising his head. Then he paused, floating unresistingly with the slow sweep of the river, and waited for another illumination. When it came, he made out the tented raft scarcely a hundred yards away and a little below him. In the next darkness he found the edge of it and dragged himself up on the mass of timbers.
The thunder had been rolling steadily35 westward36, and David crouched37 low, hoping for one more flash to illumine the raft. It came at last from a mass of inky cloud far to the west, so indistinct that it made only dim shadows out of the tents and shelters, but it was sufficient to give him direction. Before its faint glare died out, he saw the deeper shadow of the cabin forward.
For many minutes he lay where he had dragged himself, without making a movement in its direction. Nowhere about him could he see a sign of light, nor could he hear any sound of life. St. Pierre's people were evidently deep in slumber38.
Carrigan had no very definite idea of the next step in his adventure. He had swum from the bateau largely under impulse, with no preconceived scheme of action, urged chiefly by the hope that he would find St. Pierre in the cabin and that something might come of it. As for knocking at the door and rousing the chief of the Boulains from sleep—he had at the present moment no very good excuse for that. No sooner had the thought and its objection come to him than a broad shaft39 of light shot with startling suddenness athwart the blackness of the raft, darkened in another instant by an obscuring shadow. Swift as the light itself David's eyes turned to the source of the unexpected illumination. The door of St. Pierre's cabin was wide open. The interior was flooded with lampglow, and in the doorway40 stood St. Pierre himself.
The chief of the Boulains seemed to be measuring the weather possibilities of the night. His subdued41 voice reached David, chuckling42 with satisfaction, as he spoke12 to some one who was behind him in the cabin.
"Pitch and brimstone, but it's black!" he cried. "You could carve it with a knife, and stand it on end, AMANTE. But it's going west. In a few hours the stars will be out."
He drew back into the cabin, and the door closed. David held his breath in amazement43, staring at the blackness where a moment before the light had been. Who was it St. Pierre had called sweetheart? AMANTE! He could not have been mistaken. The word had come to him clearly, and there was but one guess to make. Marie-Anne was not on the bateau. She had played him for a fool, had completely hoodwinked him in her plot with St. Pierre. They were cleverer than he had supposed, and in darkness she had rejoined her husband on the raft! But why that senseless play of falsehood? What could be their object in wanting him to believe she was still aboard the bateau?
He stood up on his feet and mopped the warm rain from his face, while the gloom hid the grim smile that came slowly to his lips. Close upon the thrill of his astonishment44 he felt a new stir in his blood which added impetus45 to his determination and his action. He was not disgusted with himself, nor was he embittered46 by what he had thought of a moment ago as the lying hypocrisy of his captors. To be beaten in his game of man-hunting was sometimes to be expected, and Carrigan always gave proper credit to the winners. It was also "good medicine" to know that Marie-Anne, instead of being an unhappy and neglected wife, had blinded him with an exquisitely47 clever simulation. Just why she had done it, and why St. Pierre had played his masquerade, it was his duty now to find out.
An hour ago he would have cut off a hand before spying upon St. Pierre's wife or eavesdropping48 under her window. Now he felt no uneasiness of conscience as he approached the cabin, for Marie-Anne herself had destroyed all reason for any delicate discrimination on his part.
The rain had almost stopped, and in one of the near tents he heard a sleepy voice. But he had no fear of chance discovery. The night would remain dark for a long time, and in his bare feet he made no sound the sharpest ears of a dog ten feet away might have heard. Close to the cabin door, yet in such a way that the sudden opening of it would not reveal him, he paused and listened.
Distinctly he heard St. Pierre's voice, but not the words. A moment later came the soft, joyous49 laughter of a woman, and for an instant a hand seemed to grip David's heart, filling it with pain. There was no unhappiness in that laughter. It seemed, instead, to tremble in an exultation50 of gladness.
Suddenly St. Pierre came nearer the door, and his voice was more distinct. "Chere-coeur, I tell you it is the greatest joke of my life," he heard him say. "We are safe. If it should come to the worst, we can settle the matter in another way. I can not but sing and laugh, even in the face of it all. And she, in that very innocence51 which amuses me so, has no suspicion—"
He turned, and vainly David keyed his ears to catch the final words. The voices in the cabin grew lower. Twice he heard the soft laughter of the woman. St. Pierre's voice, when he spoke, was unintelligible52.
The thought that his random53 adventure was bringing him to an important discovery possessed54 Carrigan. St. Pierre, he believed, had been on the very edge of disclosing something which he would have given a great deal to know. Surely in this cabin there must be a window, and the window would be open—
Quietly he felt his way through the darkness to the shore side of the cabin. A narrow bar of light at least partly confirmed his judgment55. There was a window. But it was almost entirely56 curtained, and it was closed. Had the curtain been drawn57 two inches lower, the thin stream of light would have been shut entirely out from the night.
Under this window David crouched for several minutes, hoping that in the calm which was succeeding the storm it might be opened. The voices were still more indistinct inside. He scarcely heard St. Pierre, but twice again he heard the low and musical laughter of the woman. She had laughed differently with HIM—and the grim smile settled on his lips as he looked up at the narrow slit of light over his head. He had an overwhelming desire to look in. After all, it was a matter of professional business—and his duty.
He was glad the curtain was drawn so low. From experiments of his own he knew there was small chance of those inside seeing him through the two-inch slit, and he raised himself boldly until his eyes were on a level with the aperture58.
Directly in the line of his vision was St. Pierre's wife. She was seated, and her back was toward him, so he could not see her face. She was partly disrobed, and her hair was streaming loose about her. Once, he remembered, she had spoken of fiery59 lights that came into her hair under certain illumination. He had seen them in the sun, but never as they revealed themselves now in that cabin lamp glow. He scarcely looked at St. Pierre, who was on his feet, looking down upon her—not until St. Pierre reached out and crumpled60 the smothering61 mass of glowing tresses in his big hands, and laughed. It was a laugh filled with the unutterable joy of possession. The woman rose to her feet. Up through her hair went her two white, bare arms, encircling St. Pierre's neck. The giant drew her close. Her slim form seemed to melt in his, and their lips met.
And then the woman threw back her head, laughing, so that her glory of hair fell straight down, and she was out of reach of St. Pierre's lips. They turned. Her face fronted the window, and out in the night Carrigan stifled62 a cry that almost broke from his lips. For a flash he was looking straight into her eyes. Her parted lips seemed smiling at him; her white throat and bosom63 were bared to him. He dropped down, his heart choking him as he stumbled through the darkness to the edge of the raft. There, with the lap of the water at his feet, he paused. It was hard for him to get Breath. He stared through the gloom in the direction of the bateau. Marie-Anne Boulain, the woman he loved, was there! In her little cabin, alone, on the bateau, was St. Pierre's wife, her heart crushed.
And in this cabin on the raft, forgetful of her degradation64 and her grief, was the vilest65 wretch66 he had ever known—St. Pierre Boulain. And with him, giving herself into his arms, caressing67 him with her lips and hair, was the sister of the man he had helped to hang—CARMIN FANCHET!
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1
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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poignantly
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3
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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4
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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6
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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7
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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8
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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9
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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12
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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15
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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18
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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19
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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23
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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inundation
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| n.the act or fact of overflowing | |
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25
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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26
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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27
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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28
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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29
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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31
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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32
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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33
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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34
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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39
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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40
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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41
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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42
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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43
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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44
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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45
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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46
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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48
eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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49
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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50
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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51
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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52
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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53
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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54
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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55
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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56
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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58
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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59
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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60
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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61
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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62
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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63
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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64
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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65
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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66
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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67
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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