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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 17, 1922)
to light In and snow so bad. We l«-en on the road since 3 o'clock.’’ A lady! Pamela Brooke. Four weeks—that was it—the four weeks he had delayed that letter. Apology whs in l.ige Walker's voice, and something else—panic, l.ige had not told her, had not told Ely s girl who had come all the way in from Little Travois. "All—you hotter come in.’’ Lu eien hardly knew his own voice. It had a flat, far away quality. Like that of a man tniking in his sleep. The girl climbed down numbly. She was bundled to shapelessness in many coats. Lueien recognised the old moth eaten beaver belonging to the station agent ut Mahnpac as the outer covering. "I’m stiff. ' she said in an even, melodious voice "Ely-—Ely is bet ter?” Lueien flamed with hot agony, ft had been hard enough to write it down—but this He began feebly. "Ely—Ely--” l.ige Walker eagerly assisted. •‘Yes'm. Ely lie—now Ely-” They moved toward the house •’He is better?” insisted the girl. Lueien could not speak. He opened the door. And just then the giiKt blew out ttie light, but even as fhe flame died he saw her face, knew that she had noted that solemnly empty bed. She clutched the door posts on cither side, her hands lost in Bleat fur gloves. ‘‘Kly Is dead?'' I.ueien nodded, the agony In his ryes only faintly less than her own. "1 wrote you a letter—but the snow has been so bad. *The trnine weren't running—there wasn't any mail—" "No," she repeated dully, "there wasn't any mail." l.igc Walker ’broke In, eager to smooth the sharp angles of the situation. "I could 'a' told you down yonder to Mahopno, ma'am 1 could 'a' told yt>u Kly was gone, ltut I thought mebbe I.oosh would ruther break tho noos himself Heen four weeks now, ain't II. !,oosh, sence Kly was took? That's it—four weeks. Just 'fjire the big snow come, I recollect—cold spell i-nmo along and fro mthe ground six foot dorp. I.oosh certainly took can1 of Kly mighty grand, ma'am lie was a friend and a father to tint hoy Some of us confe out and set ill) long fords the last, hut I.oosh never left him a minute. Hi Id his head when bin breath go! short—and Kly he says—’* "My (iod. I.ige—shut up!” This from I.ueien, who was white with uigulsh. The girl had sunk into a chair, where Hhe huddled, a shapeless bun die of fur, with a fair tress of hair striving out and two eyes burning likeuilue flames in a face as white as death. She stared straight in front of her while the two men looked on miserably. "I knew," she said dully, after a little. “All the way up—sonic how—1 knew. After the letters stopped coining—I knew. Hut 1 kept on hoping—you can't stop hoping, even when you feel It's no use. Thank you for lieing kind In hint." I.n< ion's straight brows drew down. "Kind to him?" he repeated "Kind to Kly?" "I guess you don't kno™ about I.oosh and Kly, ma'am,” volunteer ed I.ige Walker. "They heen like brothers, you might say, ever since they came up here to this piece of timber. 1 guess If you'd seen I.oosh standing there when we were fillin' up tho-" I.ige!" warned i.ueien sharplj Ik- turned to the girl. "Nobodj hived Kly lietter than I did," lie said. "We shared everything, Miss Hnmke. Ilo was all I had—" "And you let him die!" A deso late agony was in her voice, but to I.ueien Mefford's ears, made too keen by grief and pride and soli tude, the tremor of her words was scorn; the flick of u lash, the flash of blue, bitter fire. He stiffened "Hood Olid!" I.Iky a wall of frosted steel tin shadow which had shut him it barring him gently away from this love of Ely's which he could not share, fell crystallized suddenly into a definite icy prison. Through Its frozen and unfriendly glitter ho beheld Pamela Brooke—a woman of snow and marble, white throat ed, eyes like blue ice, hostlly. He drew hack a step, shivering a littli his black brows lient. Then he in dined his head stiffly. "This hon.se is your's, Miss Brooke. It is yours as it was Ely's. 1 im sorry for what has happened —but it cannot be helped. Please make yourself comfortable. We bet ter see about your horse. IJge.” In the Rtahle T.ige Walker relieved his mind. "Ely wnulda played hell marry in* that girl, now wouldn't he? Buckin' a half section of raw stump land with a white fingered woman like that—and him coughin' up his guts half the time." "What the devil did you bring her up here for—ami not tell her?" “Oosh. how could I tell her—her looking through me that way she** got, like I was a cold draft out of the north or aoniething equally in significant?' Callin’ mo my good man,' orderin' me to drive her to Ely Lucas' place Immediately. Where’d Ely pick up an iceberg like her?” "Ely came out of the provinces after the war. His people had money—lost most of it. I guess.” "Yeah—hut Ely didn't give you a mouthful of high and mighty talk. If he wanted anything he'd yoll out 'HI, you old sun of a gun’— sumo as anybody. She was mighty took back when I told her it was 14 miles tip here on shoes, and the loads all blowed to hell with drifts higher than the devil can spit. "Did you know Ely was Axin' to git mar ried?” "Yes, he told me.” Lueien thought with dull pang of the times that Ely had tried to tell him; tried to plan the future, dream aloud his boyish dreams of Pamela Brooke. "She'll make this shack a home, hoosh. And you’ll be a brother to both of us." Always Luclen's own grudging silences had chilled Ely's confidences. Always the shadow had fallen. The memory hurt. "What you goln' to do with her. I .oosh?” "She can have what was Ely's. I guess he would have wanted her to have It." "1 guess Ely hadn’t told her much about you. She got a notion you was some kind of a hired man somebody Ely's befriended and hel|>ed out. She was took back when I told her you owned this hull section.” "Tho land was mine, hut me money was Ely’s. Half of every thing was his—half of everything.” Luclen’s voice held a dead level. But Into his soul a bard had thrust, lending, poisoning. In every fiber lie was loyal to Ely. hut doubt be ton to work like a toxin, brewing swift, Insidious decay. He tramped out of the barn and swallowed through the welter of the blizzard to the drifted place beneath the hemlock. There he leaned his head against tho sadly singing tree, and lot wretchedness possess him. This was ft new pain—jealousy—and doubt. x . "1 don't guess Ely had told her much about you.” He fought it with argument and . old" logic. “Why the devil should he have told her about me?” Elgo Walker was a liar, a cheaply mail . ions liar who distorted the truth to sis* men wince. And what was there about him—silent, eseetlc, dogged I.m ien Mefford, that would fit Into v love letter? - You’re a fool'." he scoffed at him self. "You're about as romantic as i crosscut pawl” But in the hollow core of his heart, in that aching, empty place which had been Ely's, a wall per “isted. If he, Lueien. had owned i girl, what could he have written i0 per that would not have Kben colored with Ely, red and brown end laughing with Ely. steeped ami tinctured with Ely? Had he matter . d so little, then, in the boy's life?” ‘Eoosh. you’re a damn fool,” he scorned. “You’re acting like a fool woman. He wrh all you had—and you were only a little part of what he had—and wanting to be all"' It was always that way. Out ot iu-y two there must be one who loves deepest, gives most. He walk c d back to the house, beaing igainst tho wind. Within Pamela Brooko still sat beside the stove, •‘she had not i ken off her wraps. The big snow is here. Miss Brooke,” Lueien told her. ' You may have to stay for some time. You will have this room. Ligo and I will hunk In the leanto.” For three days the storm new. md in the tar paper shack a great silence, keen strung and tense ns l he blue stillness of the pines diode, broken only by the spas modic grumbling of I„ige Walker who spat on the stove and cursed tho snow which whirled uneasily uni refused to settle, cursed the fool woman who made all the trouble for a man, cursed the green dssing wood and the cold, even he frozen sausage and beans which lUeien hewed out of cans and cook d at meal times. Pamela Brooke hqddl'd, whltely. i transparent, desolated figure, in mie of Ely's heavy mackinaws. She Stoke seldom, and then quietly, ex cept to the deg. Chinook had at inched himself devotedly to her front the first hour. T.ucien grim aced bitterly when the dog refused to follow him, but somewhere deep within him lurked a faint glow. Chinook had been h.s dog, not Ely's. On the fourth day Idge tightened his snow shoes relentlessly. "1 got to get back to my woman,' he argued. "Mebbe 1 can get old Charlie Fishtail's squaw to shoe down here and chaperone you. I.oosh—but I ain’t goin' to stay an other day. The crust holds— und it's likely to thaw and rot hell out of everything tomorrow. Old Mnndy Fishtail la a right good cook, too, if you can keep her from spittin on the griddle. That's what a feller needs In this country, a good, fat squaw that can swing an ax and butcher a beef and make good mash whisky. Ain't no place for queens to queen It in. That gal ought to go • back to linden and hoard In Buck ingham palace. It'll be April 'fore you can take her out In a pung. Wouldn't be so duberous for you if she was like wane women—but a lish blooded stony faced critter like her—’’ “You watch your lip. lJge! She belongs to Ely!" ''All right. Don't get hot about it." When luge bad floundered away I.ucien lingered about the barn till the swift, steely dark fell. Reluc tantly he tramped to the door, be tween the dogged M and the laugh ing U Within was warmth and light—to which men have for ages returned with gladness. But Luclcn felt an alien, defensive aloofness, lie opened the door reluctantly. He had composed a formal speecn In the barn and he begun It. doggedly, but Pamela Brooke cut him short. "How long will this snow last. Mr. Mcfford?” she a.-ked quietly. “This is January. Wo may have a thaw—and then the roads may be closed till April." “Very well.” She stepped from behind the table and lifted the cof fee pot from the stove. “We will have supper now. It is ready." “It is not necessary for you to cook." “I shall do iny part." He saw with amazement that she had dress ed herself In some of Ely's clothes —an old pair of cordupoy knickers, ■i flannel shirt, army puttees, and a sweater. Luclen braced himseir. I may us well tell you. I am not pleasant to live with, like Ely. I can’t talk— or Bing or luugh—or dig up a tune like ho could. I’m sorry—I’ll try to mako things as easy for you as J can. I've sent for an Indian wo man. She ought to get down tomor row." Strange days—all alike as so .many black crows sulking by. ley. silent days, made of glaring, snow blind mornings, pale frozen noons, and bitter nights. The pines about (he house swayed and cracked like shot. A rabbit crept under the hemlock and died, rigidly, and Lu oien hid It beneath a drift before ho remembered that it no longer mattered to Ely how many little creatures froze and died In the woods. He lay at night in the leanto, where the air was more hitter than death. At times he rose and tip toed Into the wide room to feed the lire, and only once did he look toward the western corner where Pamela Brooke slept under her furs in Ely's wooden bed. Only once, and then the sight of a lock of yel low hair lying loose on the worn beaver of the station agent’s coat made his breath quicken, until he conquered the tremor with wrath. Old Charlie Fishtail's squaw did not come. The cold settled, deeper, merciless. Coffee froze in the tin pot on the back of the stove of nights. And deeper and deeper the freezing sank into Luclen Mef ford's soul. He walked, like a man of ice. He spoke, when rarely he uttered a sentence, with the cold, clipped thinness of icicles clipping •ft boughs of pine. Even Chinook moved away from him nervously and hung about the girl, his small eyes upturned In devotion. The girl was still, self-sufficient, proud. They moved about the house like two formal shadows, and sat at the red covered table with the vrarmth of the lamp between them, Luclen’s eyes held doggedly upon his plate, Pamela Brooke's round chin lifted her look level and undaunted. A dumb devil brooded in Lueien s breast, sulky and dour, whic.h he fostered, since by the unleavened poisons it brewed it slew strange troubling thoughts which crept into his brain—slew them a most be fore they were born. Thoughts be gotten by the sight of white fin gers under a light, by two chairs beside a glowing stove by the re membranes of that tress of yellow hair. lie nutrued this devil, for more and more he found his eyes seeing not the cold pride of Pamela’s face but the soft curve of her cheek, the strong, sure movement of her white wrist, the still mothering look that lay aways behind a cloudy barrier in her eyes. For so long there had been nobody—nobody but Ely. For so long the desert of his days had lain stark and arid under an un friendly sky, uncomforted by rains, a mournful place where no flow ers grew. The thing which was happening to Lueien was inevit able, but not knowing this he fought it with moods and surly silent-es and smolderings of temper until at times lightning flashed in Pamela Brooke's eyes and her lips parted in anger before her cool in hibitions prevailed. "I hate you!” she said to him one lowering morning. "I wonder if you know how utterly intolerable you are?” "Thank you.” His tone held an even scorn. “I know it very well.” "You seem to boast. Is it such an accomplishment to be a beast?’ "There are times when it is an accomplishment to be a beast.” And Lueien, aching with a curious and futile bewilderment, hardly knew how truly he spoke. He tramped away, head down, every pulse jerking. When he re turned at dusk she was sitting on the floor tinkering with Ely's worn old snowshoes. "What are you doing?" he de manded. "I think 1 shall learn to use these. One should know how to do every thing. Isn't that true?" “You'd last about a quarter of a mile." Lucien scoffed. "You’re abso lutely soft. The cold would get you in about 10 minutes." "But ultimately I would last two quarters of a mii>. Do you mind telling me which end of this thing is which?” “Neither end is any good. Ely ruined them last winter following the log sleds down.” Her eyes clouded quickly. A twitch of pain clutched her lips, and she laid the warped old shoes down. . It was as if Bhe saw what Lucien was always seeing—a red head bent, eyes that laughed and dared, a laughing mouth, red checks—too red. The living, glowing Ely whom it seemed incredible could he lost to life. She had never wept. Her grief was frozen, inward turning, white. She sat stonily for very long, until Lucien relented. “May I help you up?” lie could not remember when he had touched a woman's hand be fore. The thaw had come with the wan ing of the moon. A sinister, rotting mildness undermined the snow heaps, making the paths, rivers and the woods a quagmire where even the rabbits sank oozily, leaving chill pools of black water in their tracks. "If it freezes it's all right," said Lucien. But it did not freeze. In stead came fresh snow, loose and soft and clinging, lying on every twig and stem like a covering of baby fur. Lucien tramped down to the mill to look to the roof; return ing at dark. He found an empty house, cold and dark. Pamela Brook was gone. As ho followed tho wide, awkward track of Ely's old snowshoeos Lu cien tried not to think. Out of the curious mire of his thoughts he chose one and clung to it because it was loyal and stupid and therefore safe. Hhe was Ely's. Ho must bring her back because she was Ely’s. Not for a white throat or soft hands or eyes that mothered and then somehow lighted a lamp and closed a shutter in his face. For Ely. - He found her a hundred yards from the house, thigh deep in a sod den drift, chilled and soaked, but undismayed. "I find you are right,” she said coolly. “1 did not last a quarter of a mile. If you’ll take these off my feet I think I can get out myself.” “Be still,” ordered Lucien sudden ly, his brows thunderous. "Take hold of my shoulders.” He gave her mustard tea and rather bad whisky when they re turned to the house. "I apologize for everything," he said with diffi culty. “Don't try to leave the house again.” Hhe smiled faintly lor the first time since she had come from Little Tra vois. "He told me you carried Ely —that swearing man. I didn’t be lieve it then but I do now.” "I carried him, at the last—alone." "Will you show me some time— where-” "When the snow melts. "Ah, but I shall be Bone then.” At midnight came rain, sluicing • town the roof, trickling in a Mack i ill beneath jthe door. Lucien moved into the upper bunk in tiie leanto, and set his boots high off the earth en floor. It was then that he heard a call. For an Instant he thought It was Ely calling again—"Looslif Loosh!” Then he knew it was Pamela Brooke. He leaped from the bunk, snatching on his outer clothes. In the flicker from the stove he saw her lying, very brigt eyed, her hair 'umbled, flame in her cheeks. “Something seems to be wrong here." She wore a brave and ghastly shadow of a smile. Lucien counted the wiry leap of her pulse, marked the rasp of her breathing. Instantly it seemed to him that the dreary weeks of win ter were wiped away like frost on a pane. That this was Ely lying here grumbling at the pain in his gassed lung. He knew what to do. Ail the clutter of remedies, so futile with Ely, were still on the shelf. Ho brought them all out, mended the fire, opened the window wide. “Cover your ears,” lie counseled. “We’ll light this with oxygen." At dawn she was coughing with every breath, writhing a iittle with pain, biting her lips. Lucien made hot coffee and held her while she drank it, his arm thrilling under her shoulders. The clean part of her bright hair lay near to his lips and before he scarcely knew what he did a tingling madness fired him and he pressed his mouth hard against the soft gold of it. And at that moment Pamela Brooke lifted her eyes and looked into his face. What lie saw in that look send Lu cien stumbling out to the hemlock tree, blind with a curious, monastic self condemnation. For the first time he owned to himself the sin of hi9 own soul. He was a lhief—J coveting what was Ely's. And cause he had seen a melting in Pa mela Brooke’s eyes he knew what manner of thief he was. "God knows, Ely," ho declared to the blackened, rain-washed mound, “I didn't want It to happen. God knows that.” He fought the thing out in the dragging, hours that passed, fought it first witli pre tense. "This is Ely,” he said to him self when Pamela Brooke burned with fever und fought for breath and he held her upright all night, with the old mackinaw of Ely’s pinned under her chin. "This is Ely, sick. I’ve got to take care of Ely.” He fought it with the old dumb stubbornness until the cruelty of it made him sick Fever had made Pa mela a babbler. ‘“Talk to me, I.oosh,” she plead constantly. "Tell mo about -him.” And so I.ucien told over and over the anguished story of those two months after the grippe had found the weakened tissue In Ely's glassed lung. Every word, every whisper of Ely’s she wanted, and I.ucien chanted them as a tortured penitent might say a miserere, searching for absolution and finding it nowhere. But when the fever left her and she grew stronger he gave it tip. He had been built four square, with botli feet on the ground. Deception was not In him. He could not act. could not pretend. He came In from the mill and flung off his coat, standing forth very lithe and slender and stern, with black brows drawn down. The road is open, lie said to Pamela Brooke. “In a week or two -as soon as you are strong enough I’ll take you down to Little Travois. They found old Charlie Fishtail’s^ squaw under a drift—she's bcen^ frozen a long time, I guess. And you can't stay here—1 guess you know—I care—to much.” She was still. Her eyes looked'at him, mothered him, lighted a lamp, and so Luclen dared to believe—did not drawn down a baffling shutter to bar him out. Her lips' grew gentle. “But first,” she said after a little, “you’ll show me—where— The snow was gone when at last ho took her out to the hemlock tree. She walked steadily, clad in Ely’s old clothes, his puttees and boots, his niachinaw. They stood together for very long, while th® barberry hush rustled Its naked lacy branches vainly, boasting in a still little way the wood things have, of the feath ery leaves it was weaving for those boughs. Then Pamela Brooke spoke. "Clood-by, Ely.” She turned away, her hands in the pockets of the old mackinaw. Then she faced Luclen, a curious expression on her face. In her fingers she held a folded, soiled piece of paper. "It was in the pocket.” “It’s his handwriting, Ely’s, lie was pretty weak — see how it shakes.” The handwriting was Ely’s. Penciled, frail, wandering. But the script was decipherable, the signature unmistakable. This was Ely’s testament scrawled on a scrap torn from a letter. “I want Lueien Mefford to have everything that belongs to me. "(Signed) ELY LLCAS.” r-very tiling that belongs to me. The girl's voice was shaken. £ Lucien stood still, every nerve taut as frozen wires. Overhead a vagrant breeze,, born in the south, stirred the hemlock till it sang. Lucien's blood leaped. Ely was digging up a tune.again. The world was good. Ah, the world was good. "Everything that belongs to me!" he repeated like a prayer. She went away that day. Llge Walker drove her, grumbling, in the pung. Chinook, chained to a stake, yelped desolately and plunged at his collar. Lucien told her good bye at the door. They said little. There was so little to say, out of a world of words so few that were any use. "I'll come down—after a little,’* Lucien stammered. "When it's sum mer will you let me come—Pa mela?” "When it’s summer—Loosh.” The brief warmth of her fingers iti hia own; a blue, blue tenderness of eyes—and she was gone. But Lucien felt no emptiness of loss. lie stood very straight in the fringy path between two grayish ribbons which were all that remained of the great snow harriers, and the glow of all the possessions of the earth was his. lie looked at the house, at the rusty tin letters whimsily tacked beside the door. Ely had said thnt L le lunged in Love! “Shut up. you fool," he said to the dog. "She's coming hack.” Copyright, 1922. The compressed air shovel, which is taking the place of the old hand Jj pick and snovel, weighs 2:1 pounds.^ Blows delivered in rapid succes sion to the upper end of the spade drive it rapidly into the earth, which may be then readily pried loose.