Breed of the Wolf/Chapter 33

Fresh from a London hospital though he was, John Hunter found that the condition of Julie Breton demanded the exercise of all his skill as a surgeon. But the operation, aided by the girl’s young strength and vitality, was successful, and she slowly over came the grip of the infection.

Four days after Marcel reeled into Whale River with his battered dogs, bringing the man who was winning back life for Julie Breton, an exhausted dog team limped in from the south. Rushing into the trade house the white-faced Wallace grasped Gillies’ hand, hoarsely demanding:

“Does she live, Gillies?”

“She’s all right, Mr. Wallace; doing well, the doctor says,” answered Gillies. “She’s going to pull through, thanks to Jean Marcel and Doctor Hunter. I take my hat off to those two men.”

Wallace’s eyes shifted to the floor as he ventured:

“When did they get in?”

“They came through against that blow in three days and a half. The greatest feat of a man and dogs in my time. When did you leave East Main?”

Wallace stared incredulously at Colin Gillies’ wooden face.

“East Main? Why, didn’t Marcel tell you?”

“No,” replied Gillies, but he did not say that his wife had been told by Hunter of the presence of Wallace at Fort George the night Marcel brought the news. However, the factor did not further embarrass his chief by questions. And Wallace did not see fit to inform him that not until the wind died, two days after the relief party started, had he left Fort George.

“I suppose she’s too sick to see me?” the nervous inspector hazarded.

“Yes, no one sees her except Mrs. Gillies and Hunter.”

“Well, I’ll look up Father Breton,” and Wallace went out followed by an expression in Colin Gillies’ face which the inspector would not have cared to see.

For a week Wallace remained at Whale River and then, assured by Doctor Hunter of Julie’s safety, left, to return later. When he met Marcel in the trade house and attempted to thank him, the cold glitter in the eyes of the Frenchman as he listened with impassive face to the halting words of the great man of the coast filled Colin Gillies with inward delight.

As Gillies bade good-by to his chief, he said casually, “Well, I suppose we’ll have a wedding here in June, Mr. Wallace.”

“Yes, Gillies. Father Breton and I are only waiting for Julie to set the date. Good-by—I’ll be up the coast next month.”

But what piqued Gillies’ curiosity, was whether Doctor Hunter had told Père Breton just what happened at Fort George when the tragic call for help came in on Christmas night. Jean Marcel’s mouth had been shut like a sprung trap. Even Jules and Angus did not know; of that Gillies was sure. But why had the doctor not told Père Breton, as well as Mrs. Gillies? He was Julie’s brother and ought to know. If Hunter had enlightened the priest, then Colin Gillies was no judge of men, for he had always admired the Oblat.

The first week in February Julie Breton was sitting up, and Mr. Hunter bade good-by to the stanch friends he had made at Whale River. Not always are the relations between Oblat or Jesuit and Protestant missionaries unduly cordial in the land of their labors, but when the Reverend Hunter left the mission house at Whale River there remained in the hearts of Père Breton, his sister, and Jean Marcel, a love for the doctor, clergyman, and man, which the years did not dim.

One day, later on, Marcel and Fleur were making their afternoon call on Julie, who was propped in bed, her hair hanging in two thick braids.

“We leave in a few days,” Jean said in French. “Michel is anxious to get back to his traps.”

“But—don’t go so soon, Jean. I haven’t had an opportunity to talk to you as I wished.”

“If you mean to thank me, I am glad of that,” he said, his .lips curling in a faint smile.

“Why should I not thank you, Jean Marcel, who risked your life like a madman to help me? I do now thank you with all my heart. But for you I would not be here. Doctor Hunter told me I could not have lived had he arrived one day later.”

With a gesture of impatience Marcel turned in his chair and gazed through the window on the world of snow.

The dark eyes in the pale face of the girl were strangely soft as they rested on the sinewy strength of the man’s figure; then lifted to the strong profile, with its bony jaw and bold, aquiline nose.

“You do not care for my thanks, Jean?” she asked.

“Please!” he begged. “It is all over, that! You are well again! I am happy; and will go back to my trap lines.”

“But it is not all over with Julie Breton,” she insisted.

He turned with brows raised questioningly.

“It has left her—changed. She will never be the same.”

“What do you mean? Doctor Hunter said you would be as strong as ever by spring.”

“Ah, but I do not speak of my body, Jean Marcel.”

He gazed in perplexity at her wistful face, then his eyes again sought the window.

For a long space Julie was silent. Then a suppressed sob roused him from his bitter thoughts, and he heard the strained voice of the girl.

“I know all,” she said.

"What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Gillies and Doctor Hunter—when I asked him—told me—long ago. We have kept it from Père Henri. It seems years—for I have been thinking much since then—lying awake—thinking.”

“Julie, what has been worrying you? Don’t let what I did cause you pain,” he pleaded, not catching the significance of her words. “It’s all right, Julie. You owe me nothing—I understand.”

“Ah, but you do not understand,” she said, smiling at the man’s averted face.

“Julie, I have suffered, but I want you to be happy. Don’t think of Jean Marcel.”

“But it is of Jean Marcel of the great heart that I must think—have been thinking, for days and days.” She was sitting erect, tense; her pale face drawn with emotion.

“I tell you I know it all,” she cried, “how they—he—feared to start in the storm—and waited—ordered you to wait. But no wind or snow could hold Jean Marcel, and in spite of them he brought Doctor Hunter to Whale River—and saved Julie Breton.”

Dumb with surprise at her knowledge of what he thought he and Hunter alone knew—at the scorn in her voice, Marcel listened with pounding heart.

“Yes, they told me,” she went on, “how Jean Marcel heard the news when he reached Whale River and without sleep that night hurried south for help, swifter than men had ever traveled, because I was in peril. Doctor Hunter has told me how you and Fleur fought wind and snow to bring him to Whale River—and to me. And now you ask her not to thank you—you who gave her back her life!”

Only the low sobbing of the girl broke the silence. In a moment the paroxysm passed and she looked through tears at the man who sat with bowed head in hands as she faltered:

“Ah, will you not see—not understand? Must I tell you—that I love—Jean Marcel?”

Dazed, Jean rose. With a hoarse cry of, “Julie!” he groped to the bed and took her in his arms.

After the years she had come home to Jean Marcel.

Later, Mrs. Gillies looked in to see a dusky head on the shoulder of the man who knelt by the bed, and on the coverlet beside them the great head of Fleur, who gazed up into two illumined faces through narrow eyes which seemed to comprehend as her bushy tail slowly swept to and fro.

In June there was a wedding at Whale River, with an honored guest who journeyed up the coast from Fort George for the ceremony, John Hunter.

The mission church overflowed with post people and the visiting Crees, few of whom but had known some kindness from Julie Breton. In the robes of his order, Père Breton faced the bride and groom. Beside the former gravely stood the matron of honor, her gown of slate-gray and snowy white, carefully groomed for the occasion by the faithful Jules, glossy with superb vitality; her great neck circled by a white ribbon knotted in a bow—which it had required days to accustom her to wear—in strange contrast to the massive dignity of the head.

From priest to bride and groom, her slant eyes shifted, in wonder at the proceeding.

The ceremony over, the bride impulsively kissed the great head of the dog while a hum of approval swept the church. Then, before repairing with their friends to the mission house where the groaning table awaited them, Julie and Jean Marcel, accompanied by Fleur, went to the stockade. Three gray noses thrust through the pickets and whined a welcome. Three gigantic, wolfish huskies met them at the gate with wild yelps and the mad swishing of tails. Then the happy Jean and Julie gave the whelps of the wolf their share of the wedding feast.