University of Virginia Library

57. CHAPTER LVII.
TWO FATHERS.

Puccoon sat crouching still in front of his fire. His elbows rested
on his knees, his forehead on his knotty hands. Without, the
snow was falling steadily—a white, moving wall, seen dimly
through the small, square window.

Within the hut, as without, a profound stillness reigned. In
front of the blaze, the old hound of the trapper lay serenely
sleeping. The flames did not so much as flicker. The silence was
unbroken.

Puccoon's eyes were half-shut. Of what was he thinking? He
could scarcely have answered that question—but chiefly of his beloved
Fanny.

After a while he began to mutter something—vaguely and indistinctly.
An apathetic sadness seemed to take possession of him.
The flame assumed weird shapes, and danced before his eyes.
Then his eyes slowly closed. His head drooped lower on his two
hands. He had fallen into a doze.

Suddenly he started up. Had he been asleep? Had he been
dreaming? He thought he had heard steps in the snow without,
approaching the hut. He rose to his feet, looking around him and
listening. Nothing. Not a sound disturbed the deep silence.
Through the window he could see the snow steadily descending.

“I've been asleep!” he muttered, shaking himself like a dog.
Then he added:

“I must have been dreaming.”

He remained motionless, listening with the silent intensity of a
hunter endeavoring to catch the faint footfalls of the game. Nothing.

All at once he thought he heard the sound again, and went
quickly to the door. The snow was driven by a sudden gust into
his face.

“That blinds a body!” he said.

He saw nothing.

“I must 'a' been dreaming,” he repeated.

He then closed the door, went back to his seat, and sat down,
resting his elbows on his knees as before. If he had turned his

head, he might have seen something. That something was the
head of a man outside the window. The head was covered by a
black hat, on which the snow had fallen thickly, and the eyes
under the hat were calm and penetrating.

Puccoon fell again into a doze, carrying the fantastic outlines of
the flames with him into slumber-land. He was thus crouching
down, with his back to the door, when something singular happened!
The door slowly opened, the figure of a man appeared on
the threshold, and coming into the hut, approached the stooping
form of the trapper.

Puccoon must have been sound asleep. He did not stir. But the
instinct of the hound was keener. He suddenly sprung up with a
hoarse growl, showing a double-row of formidable teeth, and Puccoon,
waked by the noise, started to his feet, turning around and
facing the man.

As he caught sight of the man's face he retreated two steps,
looking at him with distended eyes.

“The man of the swamp!” he exclaimed.

The intruder extended his left hand and closed the door. He
then unbuckled from around his neck a sort of cape which the
snow had whitened, let it fall on the floor, and remained standing
in front of Puccoon, lithe and powerful. He was wholly unarmed.

“Yes,” he said; “I see you know me.”

His voice was low, grave, and had a sort of tremor in it. He
looked round as he spoke.

“You!” said Puccoon, still gazing at him with vague wonder.

“Yes, friend—I call you friend, though you have tried to kill me
more than once. You recognize me, I see, in spite of my change
of dress. You fired on me—you will not fire on me to-night. Let
us talk, friend.”

He had turned his head, and was looking toward the little room
in rear of the cabin.

“She is there!” he said, in a low tone, to himself. As he uttered
these words his whole face grew soft—a wonderful expression of
tenderness filled his dark eyes.

“She is there!—there!—within a few feet of me!” he repeated.

Puccoon had not uttered a word. The hound, understanding, apparently,
that the intentions of the intruder were not hostile, had
retreated to his master's side, and stood with his head lowered, his
eyes fixed upon the man—waiting.

The man was looking still toward the little room, and seemed to
be listening. Was it for the low breathing of a person asleep?
His head had sunk upon his breast. Not his face only, but his
whole frame, seemed to have softened.

After a moment he looked at Puccoon. He then went and sat
down in the chair opposite the stool.

“Friend!” he said.

Puccoon fixed his eyes upon him, warily.

“I have something to say to you.”

He pointed, as he spoke, to the stool, and Puccoon sat down, still
gazing at him.

“Something took place here nearly seven years ago,” said the
man, in his low, grave voice. “I will tell you what this something
was.”

Puccoon listened with his old expression of vague astonishment.

“You had been out hunting, probably, and had remained away all
day. You lived in this hut by yourself. You did not expect to
find any human being here on your return, but you found—a
child.”

“Yes,” said Puccoon, in a low tone.

“The child was wrapped in a cloak, and was asleep. You no
doubt looked at the poor little one sleeping, and pitied her, wondering
where she came from. You did not hesitate what to do.
You took the child to your heart.”

He stopped a moment, and then went on:

“I have come now to tell you about the child. You have been a
father to her—it was her real father who left her in your charge.
He was a desperate man, and was going on a desperate undertaking
—not criminal, whatever the law might say, but desperate. He intended
to return in two hours, and repossess himself of the child,
but something happened to him—he was prevented from returning
—the child remained with you, and has grown up. Her name is
the one you found upon her clothing—Fanny Gontran.”

The face melted more and more as he spoke. The man's breast
heaved.

“I have seen her all these years—looking from the bushes—I
have not spoken to her. I had no home for her. I was content to
know that she was happy!”

Tears came to his eyes.

“My child!—she is there!—I shall speak to her!”

“No!” exclaimed Puccoon, loudly.

The man started at these words.

“She is not there!” said Puccoon. And he burst forth with an
account of the accident which had happened to Fanny. Puccoon's
narrative was rude and abrupt, but it told the listener everything.
His emotion was profound.

“She is suffering—suffering! You have seen her!”

“Yes!”

“Oh! my child!—my Fanny!”

His face sunk into his two hands. His frame shook. Puccoon,
looking at him, felt in his rough way the full extent of this emotion.

“He is her father!” he muttered.

“Oh yes! yes!” said the man, raising his head, and allowing
Puccoon to see that his face was wet with tears. “Her father!—
could you doubt that? Men like me do not shed tears for other
people's children! And I shall not see her to-night! I shall not
listen to her voice! I thought she was asleep there in her little
chamber, with the flowers growing around the window, where I
have seen her sitting so often!”

He fixed his eyes upon the door. Suddenly he rose and went
and opened it. Puccoon started—the Lady of the Snow was not
there! The bright firelight streamed through upon the little white
bed, the poor furniture, the small table with its few books, and the
window protected by a white curtain.

The man went into the little room, walking with the air of one
treading upon sacred ground. Turning his head slowly from side
to side, he embraced at a glance every object. His eyes were then
fixed upon the small bed, with its white coverlid and snowy pillow.
He went and knelt down, and kissed the pillow and sobbed.

Puccoon was looking at him with dull wonder, and was conscious
of only one thought—this man was his child's father, and was coming
to take her from him. But he had the right to do that—the
father had the right to take his child—and he—he—Puccoon—he
would soon be dead. The trapper uttered a groan, looking at the
man, who had risen and stood by the table on which lay the books.
One of these caught his eye. It was a Bible, and taking it up, he
came back to the fire, murmuring,

“This is my child's!”

He had opened it as he approached the fire, and glanced at the
fly-leaf. Upon this leaf was written, in a woman's hand, “Augusta
Chandos.”

When his eyes fell upon this name, the man's face filled with a
sudden wonder. Then he turned quickly.

“Whose Bible is this, friend?—tell me! tell me!”

The strange voice mastered Puccoon.

“The Lady of the Snow's!”

“Who is she? Why do you call her so?”

Puccoon, thrown off his guard, told his story—how he had found
the poor wanderer, how she had remained with them, and how she
and Fanny had come to love each other.

“Where is she!” exclaimed the stranger.

Puccoon had been in a maze ever since the door opened and he
had seen that the lady was not in the room.

“Oh! I know now! I know!” he shouted. “She's stole away,
and gone to the child! She's followed my steps! It was while I
was asleep there!”

The man of the swamp had sunk down into the chair.

“Heaven sent her—to her child!” he murmured.

And seated opposite each other, with eyes fixed on the fire, the
real father and the man who had taken his place remained sunk in
thought—the old hound sleeping between them, the snow still
descending, the slow hours passing without the exchange of
another word.

At last, worn out by his long tramp that day, Puccoon let his
head fell on his breast, lost consciousness and fell asleep.

He did not awake until daylight, and then it was with a cold
shiver.

His fire was out.

He looked around him for the man. He was nowhere to be
seen.