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Updated: June 20, 2025
Sitting in Jack Fyfe's living room through that evening she had begun to formulate a philosophy to fit her enforced environment to live for the day only, and avoid thought of the future until there loomed on the horizon some prospect of a future worth thinking about. The present looked passable enough, she thought, if she kept her mind strictly on it alone.
Is the big stone fireplace in the living room, Jack?" "Yes, and one in pretty nearly every other room besides," he nodded. "Wood fires are cheerful." The Panther turned her nose shoreward at Fyfe's word. "I wondered about that foundation the first time I saw it," Stella confessed, "whether you built it, and why it was never finished. There was moss over the stones in places.
I never knowed till this mornin' there was any white woman at this end of the lake besides myself." She showed Stella into a bedroom. It boasted an enamel washstand with taps which yielded hot and cold water, neatly curtained windows, and a deep-seated Morris chair. Certainly Fyfe's household accommodation was far superior to Charlie Benton's.
And so in passing the door of Fyfe's den, she heard her brother say: "But, good Lord, you don't suppose he'll be sap-head enough to try such fool stunts as that? He couldn't make it stick, and he brings himself within the law first crack; and the most he could do would be to annoy you." "You underestimate Monohan," Fyfe returned. "He'll play safe, personally, so far as the law goes. He's foxy.
And when she looked over the port bow and saw in behind Halfway Point the huddled shacks of her brother's camp where so much had overtaken her, she experienced a swift rush of thankfulness that she was as she was. She slid her gloved hand impulsively into Jack Fyfe's, and his strong fingers shut down on hers closely. They sat silent until the camp lay abeam.
She throve on work; and with increasing salary, her fund grew. Coming from any other source, she would have accepted this further augmentation of it without hesitation, since for a comparative beginner, it was a liberal offer. But Vancouver was Fyfe's home town; it had been hers. Many people knew her; the local papers would feature her.
A plump, smiling woman of forty greeted her on the threshold. Once within, Stella perceived that there was in fact considerable difference in Mr. Fyfe's habitation. There was a great stone fireplace, before which big easy-chairs invited restful lounging. The floor was overlaid with thick rugs which deadened her footfalls.
"Are there any passenger boats that call there?" she asked. MacDougal shook his head. "Not reg'lar. There's a gas boat goes t' the head of the lake now an' then. She's away now. Ye might hire a launch. Jack Fyfe's camp tender's about to get under way. But ye wouldna care to go on her, I'm thinkin'. She'll be loaded wi' lumberjacks every man drunk as a lord, most like.
He dropped his hands and stood panting with his exertions. Suddenly he kicked, a swift lunge for Fyfe's body. Fyfe leaped aside. Then he closed. Powerful and weighty a man as Monohan was, Fyfe drove him halfway around with a short-arm blow that landed near his heart, and while he staggered from that, clamped one thick arm about his neck in the strangle-hold.
She could not discuss Monohan with him, with any one. Why should she ask? she told herself. It was a closed book, a balanced account. One does not revive dead issues. The month of November slid day by day into the limbo of the past. The rains washed the land unceasingly. Gray veilings of mist and cloud draped the mountain slopes. As drab a shade colored Stella Fyfe's daily outlook.
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