Conjuror's House. Stewart Edward White

suite—maybee he is shoot you."

      "I'll take the chances—my friend."

      "Bâ oui," shrugged Achille Picard, "eet is wan chance."

      He commenced to roll another cigarette.

Chapter Five

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      Having sat buried in thought for a full five minutes after the traders of the winter posts had left him, Galen Albret thrust back his chair and walked into a room, long, low, and heavily raftered, strikingly unlike the Council Room. Its floor was overlaid with dark rugs; a piano of ancient model filled one corner; pictures and books broke the wall; the lamps and the windows were shaded; a woman's work-basket and a tea-set occupied a large table. Only a certain barbaric profusion of furs, the huge fireplace, and the rough rafters of the ceiling differentiated the place from the drawing-room of a well-to-do family anywhere.

      Galen Albret sank heavily into a chair and struck a bell. A tall, slightly stooped English servant, with correct side whiskers and incompetent, watery blue eyes, answered. To him said the Factor:

      "I wish to see Miss Albret."

      A moment later Virginia entered the room.

      "Let us have some tea, O-mi-mi," requested her father.

      The girl moved gently about, preparing and lighting the lamp, measuring the tea, her fair head bowed gracefully over her task, her dark eyes pensive and but half following what she did. Finally with a certain air of decision she seated herself on the arm of a chair.

      "Father," said she.

      "Yes."

      "A stranger came to-day with Louis Placide of Kettle Portage."

      "Well?"

      "He was treated strangely by our people, and he treated them strangely in return. Why is that?"

      "Who can tell?"

      "What is his station? Is he a common trader? He does not look it."

      "He is a man of intelligence and daring."

      "Then why is he not our guest?"

      Galen Albret did not answer. After a moment's pause he asked again for his tea. The girl turned away impatiently. Here was a puzzle, neither the voyageurs, nor Wishkobun her nurse, nor her father would explain to her. The first had grinned stupidly; the second had drawn her shawl across her face, the third asked for tea!

      She handed her father the cup, hesitated, then ventured to inquire whether she was forbidden to greet the stranger should the occasion arise.

      "He is a gentleman," replied her father.

      She sipped her tea thoughtfully, her imagination stirring. Again her recollection lingered over the clear bronze lines of the stranger's face. Something vaguely familiar seemed to touch her consciousness with ghostly fingers. She closed her eyes and tried to clutch them. At once they were withdrawn. And then again, when her attention wandered, they stole back, plucking appealingly at the hem of her recollections.

      The room was heavy-curtained, deep embrasured, for the house, beneath its clap-boards, was of logs. Although out of doors the clear spring sunshine still flooded the valley of the Moose; within, the shadows had begun with velvet fingers to extinguish the brighter lights. Virginia threw herself back on a chair in the corner.

      "Virginia," said Galen Albret, suddenly.

      "Yes, father."

      "You are no longer a child, but a woman. Would you like to go to Quebec?"

      She did not answer him at once, but pondered beneath close-knit brows.

      "Do you wish me to go, father?" she asked at length.

      "You are eighteen. It is time you saw the world, time you learned the ways of other people. But the journey is hard. I may not see you again for some years. You go among strangers."

      He fell silent again. Motionless he had been, except for the mumbling of his lips beneath his beard.

      "It shall be just as you wish," he added a moment later.

      At once a conflict arose in the girl's mind between her restless dreams and her affections. But beneath all the glitter of the question there was really nothing to take her out. Here was her father, here were the things she loved; yonder was novelty—and loneliness.

      Her existence at Conjuror's House was perhaps a little complex, but it was familiar. She knew the people, and she took a daily and unwearying delight in the kindness and simplicity of their bearing toward herself. Each detail of life came to her in the round of habit, wearing the garment of accustomed use. But of the world she knew nothing except what she had been able to body forth from her reading, and that had merely given her imagination something tangible with which to feed her self-distrust.

      "Must I decide at once?" she asked.

      "If you go this year, it must be with the Abítibi brigade. You have until then."

      "Thank you, father," said the girl, sweetly.

      The shadows stole their surroundings one by one, until only the bright silver of the tea-service, and the glitter of polished wood, and the square of the open door remained. Galen Albret became an inert dark mass. Virginia's gray was lost in that of the twilight.

      Time passed. The clock ticked on. Faintly sounds penetrated from the kitchen, and still more faintly from out of doors. Then the rectangle of the doorway was darkened by a man peering uncertainly. The man wore his hat, from which slanted a slender heron's plume; his shoulders were square; his thighs slim and graceful. Against the light, one caught the outline of the sash's tassel and the fringe of his leggings.

      "Are you there, Galen Albret?" he challenged.

      The spell of twilight mystery broke. It seemed as if suddenly the air had become surcharged with the vitality of opposition.

      "What then?" countered the Factor's heavy, deliberate tones.

      "True, I see you now," rejoined the visitor carelessly, as he flung himself across the arm of a chair and swung one foot. "I do not doubt you are convinced by this time of my intention."

      "My recollection does not tell me what messenger I sent to ask this interview."