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FreeThe Other Man's Wife
James Oliver Curwood
Adapt
I never would have guessed that Thornton carried a devil inside him.
He was a big, blond, broad-shouldered man, and when I first saw him I assumed he was an Englishman. That was at the trading post at Lac la Biche, six hundred miles north of civilization. Scotty and I had been doing government survey work, and for over six months we hadn't seen a real white man who reminded us of home.
We arrived late one night, and the factor gave us a room in his house. When we looked out our window the next morning, we saw a little shack about a hundred feet away, and in front of it stood Thornton, only half dressed, stretching in the sun and laughing. There was nothing funny, but we could see his teeth shining white, and he grinned constantly as he did a kind of setting-up exercise.
When you try to understand a man, some one trait always stands out, and for Thornton it was that laugh. Even the wolfish sled dogs at the post wagged their tails when they heard it.
We quickly became friendly, but I couldn't get past that laugh. Thornton was an enigma. DeBar, the factor, said Thornton had shown up six months before, carrying a pack and a rifle, with no apparent purpose. He wasn't a prospector, and he rarely used the rifle except for target practice.
One thing puzzled DeBar more than anything else: Thornton worked like three men around the post, cutting firewood, helping catch and clean the tons of whitefish stored for the dogs, and doing endless other chores. For all this, he refused payment except for his food.
Scotty continued east to Churchill, and for seven weeks I shared Thornton's shack. By the end of those seven weeks, I knew little more about him than at the start. He was the closest, most pleasant companion, but his talk never went beyond the big woods, the mountains, and the tangled swamps. He was educated and clearly a gentleman, and despite his tanned skin, hard muscles, and excellent health, I knew he was mostly a tenderfoot. But he loved the wilderness.
"I never knew what life could offer until I came up here," he said one day, his gray eyes shining in the light of a glorious sunset. "I'm ten years younger than I was two years ago."
"You've been in the north two years?"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c6c6bff6873848d09a0eaf6c429a632a
# book_title: The Other Man's Wife
# chapter_id: 1-the-other-man-s-wife
# chapter_title: The Other Man's Wife
# book_page: 1 / 5
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
I never would have guessed that Thornton carried a devil inside him.
He was a big, blond, broad-shouldered man, and when I first saw him I assumed he was an Englishman. That was at the trading post at Lac la Biche, six hundred miles north of civilization. Scotty and I had been doing government survey work, and for over six months we hadn't seen a real white man who reminded us of home.
We arrived late one night, and the factor gave us a room in his house. When we looked out our window the next morning, we saw a little shack about a hundred feet away, and in front of it stood Thornton, only half dressed, stretching in the sun and laughing. There was nothing funny, but we could see his teeth shining white, and he grinned constantly as he did a kind of setting-up exercise.
When you try to understand a man, some one trait always stands out, and for Thornton it was that laugh. Even the wolfish sled dogs at the post wagged their tails when they heard it.
We quickly became friendly, but I couldn't get past that laugh. Thornton was an enigma. DeBar, the factor, said Thornton had shown up six months before, carrying a pack and a rifle, with no apparent purpose. He wasn't a prospector, and he rarely used the rifle except for target practice.
One thing puzzled DeBar more than anything else: Thornton worked like three men around the post, cutting firewood, helping catch and clean the tons of whitefish stored for the dogs, and doing endless other chores. For all this, he refused payment except for his food.
Scotty continued east to Churchill, and for seven weeks I shared Thornton's shack. By the end of those seven weeks, I knew little more about him than at the start. He was the closest, most pleasant companion, but his talk never went beyond the big woods, the mountains, and the tangled swamps. He was educated and clearly a gentleman, and despite his tanned skin, hard muscles, and excellent health, I knew he was mostly a tenderfoot. But he loved the wilderness.
"I never knew what life could offer until I came up here," he said one day, his gray eyes shining in the light of a glorious sunset. "I'm ten years younger than I was two years ago."
"You've been in the north two years?""A year and ten months," he replied.
Something prompted me to ask a question I had held back many times. "What brought you up here, Thornton?"
"Two things," he said quietly, "a woman—and a scoundrel."
He said no more, and I didn't press. There was a strange tremble in his voice, something like sadness; but when he turned from the sunset to me, his eyes were filled with an even stranger joy, and his big boyish laugh rang out so infectiously that I laughed with him in spite of myself.
That night in our shack, he produced a tightly bound bundle of letters about six inches thick, spread them on the table, and began reading them at random while I sat propped in my bunk, smoking and watching. He was a curious study. Every so often he'd chuckle, his teeth gleaming, and then grow serious. At one point I saw tears rolling down his cheeks.
He puzzled me, and the more puzzled I became, the better I liked him. Every night for a week, he spent an hour or two reading those letters again and again. I had many chances to see they were a woman's letters, but he never offered a word of explanation.
As September approached, I made plans to head south by way of Moose Factory and the Albany.
"Why not take the shorter route by Reindeer Lake to Prince Albert?" Thornton asked. "If you'll do that, I'll come with you."
His proposal delighted me, and we began planning. From then on, a curious change came over Thornton. It was as if he had touched some mysterious dynamo that charged him with nervous energy. We took two days to get ready, and the night before we left, he didn't sleep at all, just sat reading the letters, smoking, and rereading what he'd read fifty times before.
I was pretty hardened, but during the first week of our canoe trip, he nearly wore me out. He insisted on leaving before dawn, laughing, singing, and talking, and pushed the pace until sunset. I doubt he slept two hours a night. Often when I woke, I'd see him pacing in the moonlight, humming softly. There was almost a touch of madness in it, but I knew Thornton was sane.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c6c6bff6873848d09a0eaf6c429a632a
# book_title: The Other Man's Wife
# chapter_id: 1-the-other-man-s-wife
# chapter_title: The Other Man's Wife
# book_page: 2 / 5
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"A year and ten months," he replied.
Something prompted me to ask a question I had held back many times. "What brought you up here, Thornton?"
"Two things," he said quietly, "a woman—and a scoundrel."
He said no more, and I didn't press. There was a strange tremble in his voice, something like sadness; but when he turned from the sunset to me, his eyes were filled with an even stranger joy, and his big boyish laugh rang out so infectiously that I laughed with him in spite of myself.
That night in our shack, he produced a tightly bound bundle of letters about six inches thick, spread them on the table, and began reading them at random while I sat propped in my bunk, smoking and watching. He was a curious study. Every so often he'd chuckle, his teeth gleaming, and then grow serious. At one point I saw tears rolling down his cheeks.
He puzzled me, and the more puzzled I became, the better I liked him. Every night for a week, he spent an hour or two reading those letters again and again. I had many chances to see they were a woman's letters, but he never offered a word of explanation.
As September approached, I made plans to head south by way of Moose Factory and the Albany.
"Why not take the shorter route by Reindeer Lake to Prince Albert?" Thornton asked. "If you'll do that, I'll come with you."
His proposal delighted me, and we began planning. From then on, a curious change came over Thornton. It was as if he had touched some mysterious dynamo that charged him with nervous energy. We took two days to get ready, and the night before we left, he didn't sleep at all, just sat reading the letters, smoking, and rereading what he'd read fifty times before.
I was pretty hardened, but during the first week of our canoe trip, he nearly wore me out. He insisted on leaving before dawn, laughing, singing, and talking, and pushed the pace until sunset. I doubt he slept two hours a night. Often when I woke, I'd see him pacing in the moonlight, humming softly. There was almost a touch of madness in it, but I knew Thornton was sane.One night—our fourteenth down the river—I awoke a little after midnight and looked around for Thornton. It was a glorious night, full moon overhead, lake at our feet, spruce and balsam forest on either side. The scene was one of the most beautiful I'd ever seen.
When I stepped out of the tent, Thornton was nowhere. Across the lake a moose called; an owl hooted softly behind me; from miles away came the faint howl of a wolf. The night sounds were broken by my startled cry as a hand fell on my shoulder. It was Thornton. I had never seen his face like that.
"Isn't it beautiful—glorious?" he cried softly.
"It's wonderful!" I said. "You won't see this down there, Thornton!"
"Nor hear those sounds," he replied, his hand tightening on my arm. "We're pretty close to God up here, aren't we? She'll like it—I'll bring her back!"
"She!" He looked at me, his teeth shining in that wonderful silent laugh. "I'm going to tell you about it," he said. "I can't keep it in any longer. Let's go down by the lake."
We walked down and sat on the edge of a big rock.
"I told you I came up here because of a woman—and a man," continued Thornton. "Well, I did. The man and woman were husband and wife, and I—" He interrupted with a chuckle that made me shudder.
"No use telling you I loved her," he went on. "I worshipped her. She was my life. And I believe she loved me as much. But there was a third thing that drove me up here—what remained of a man's honor."
"I begin to understand," I said when he paused. "You came up here to get away from the woman. But this woman—her husband—" For the first time since I'd known him, I saw anger flash in Thornton's face. He struck his hand against the rock.
"Her husband was a scoundrel, a brute who came home drunk from his club, a cheap spendthrift, a man not fit to wipe the mud from her little feet, much less call her wife! He should have been shot. I can see it now, and—well, I might as well tell you. I'm going back to her!"
"You are?" I cried. "Has she got a divorce? Is her husband still living?"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c6c6bff6873848d09a0eaf6c429a632a
# book_title: The Other Man's Wife
# chapter_id: 1-the-other-man-s-wife
# chapter_title: The Other Man's Wife
# book_page: 3 / 5
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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One night—our fourteenth down the river—I awoke a little after midnight and looked around for Thornton. It was a glorious night, full moon overhead, lake at our feet, spruce and balsam forest on either side. The scene was one of the most beautiful I'd ever seen.
When I stepped out of the tent, Thornton was nowhere. Across the lake a moose called; an owl hooted softly behind me; from miles away came the faint howl of a wolf. The night sounds were broken by my startled cry as a hand fell on my shoulder. It was Thornton. I had never seen his face like that.
"Isn't it beautiful—glorious?" he cried softly.
"It's wonderful!" I said. "You won't see this down there, Thornton!"
"Nor hear those sounds," he replied, his hand tightening on my arm. "We're pretty close to God up here, aren't we? She'll like it—I'll bring her back!"
"She!" He looked at me, his teeth shining in that wonderful silent laugh. "I'm going to tell you about it," he said. "I can't keep it in any longer. Let's go down by the lake."
We walked down and sat on the edge of a big rock.
"I told you I came up here because of a woman—and a man," continued Thornton. "Well, I did. The man and woman were husband and wife, and I—" He interrupted with a chuckle that made me shudder.
"No use telling you I loved her," he went on. "I worshipped her. She was my life. And I believe she loved me as much. But there was a third thing that drove me up here—what remained of a man's honor."
"I begin to understand," I said when he paused. "You came up here to get away from the woman. But this woman—her husband—" For the first time since I'd known him, I saw anger flash in Thornton's face. He struck his hand against the rock.
"Her husband was a scoundrel, a brute who came home drunk from his club, a cheap spendthrift, a man not fit to wipe the mud from her little feet, much less call her wife! He should have been shot. I can see it now, and—well, I might as well tell you. I'm going back to her!"
"You are?" I cried. "Has she got a divorce? Is her husband still living?""No, she hasn't got a divorce, and her husband is still living; but for all that, we've arranged it. Those were her letters I've been reading, and she'll be at Prince Albert waiting for me on the 15th—three days from now. We'll be a little late, that's why I'm hurrying. I've stayed away for two years, but I can't do it any longer—and she says if I do, she'll kill herself. So there you have it. She's the sweetest, most beautiful girl in the world—eyes the color of those blue flowers up here, brown hair, and—but you'll see her when we reach Prince Albert. You won't blame me then!"
I had nothing to say. At my silence, he turned to me with that happy smile and said again, "I tell you, you won't blame me when you see her. You'll envy me and think I was a fool to stay away so long. It's been terribly hard for both of us. I bet she's no sleepier than I am tonight, knowing I'm hurrying to her."
"You're pretty confident," I couldn't help but sneer. "I wouldn't bet much on such a woman. To be frank, Thornton, I don't care to meet her, so I'll decline your invitation. I have a wife of my own, true as steel, and I'd rather avoid this kind of affair. You understand?"
"Perfectly," said Thornton, without a hint of ill humor. "You think I'm a scoundrel?"
"If you've stolen another man's wife—yes."
"And the woman?"
"If she's betraying her husband, she's no better than you."
Thornton rose and stretched his long arms over his head.
"Isn't the moon glorious!" he cried joyfully. "She's never seen a moon like this. She's never seen a world like this. Do you know what we're going to do? We'll build a cabin up here, and she'll know what a real man is at last. She deserves it. And we'll have you and your wife up to visit us—two months each year. But then," he turned and laughed straight at me, "you probably wouldn't want your wife to know her."
"Probably not," I said, embarrassed.
"I don't blame you," he said, and before I could step back, he grabbed my hand and shook it warmly. "Let's stay friends a little longer, old man," he went on. "I know you'll change your mind when we reach Prince Albert."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c6c6bff6873848d09a0eaf6c429a632a
# book_title: The Other Man's Wife
# chapter_id: 1-the-other-man-s-wife
# chapter_title: The Other Man's Wife
# book_page: 4 / 5
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"No, she hasn't got a divorce, and her husband is still living; but for all that, we've arranged it. Those were her letters I've been reading, and she'll be at Prince Albert waiting for me on the 15th—three days from now. We'll be a little late, that's why I'm hurrying. I've stayed away for two years, but I can't do it any longer—and she says if I do, she'll kill herself. So there you have it. She's the sweetest, most beautiful girl in the world—eyes the color of those blue flowers up here, brown hair, and—but you'll see her when we reach Prince Albert. You won't blame me then!"
I had nothing to say. At my silence, he turned to me with that happy smile and said again, "I tell you, you won't blame me when you see her. You'll envy me and think I was a fool to stay away so long. It's been terribly hard for both of us. I bet she's no sleepier than I am tonight, knowing I'm hurrying to her."
"You're pretty confident," I couldn't help but sneer. "I wouldn't bet much on such a woman. To be frank, Thornton, I don't care to meet her, so I'll decline your invitation. I have a wife of my own, true as steel, and I'd rather avoid this kind of affair. You understand?"
"Perfectly," said Thornton, without a hint of ill humor. "You think I'm a scoundrel?"
"If you've stolen another man's wife—yes."
"And the woman?"
"If she's betraying her husband, she's no better than you."
Thornton rose and stretched his long arms over his head.
"Isn't the moon glorious!" he cried joyfully. "She's never seen a moon like this. She's never seen a world like this. Do you know what we're going to do? We'll build a cabin up here, and she'll know what a real man is at last. She deserves it. And we'll have you and your wife up to visit us—two months each year. But then," he turned and laughed straight at me, "you probably wouldn't want your wife to know her."
"Probably not," I said, embarrassed.
"I don't blame you," he said, and before I could step back, he grabbed my hand and shook it warmly. "Let's stay friends a little longer, old man," he went on. "I know you'll change your mind when we reach Prince Albert."I didn't sleep again that night, and the next several days were uneasy, at least for me. Despite my coolness, Thornton didn't change. He never mentioned what he'd told me, and his good spirits only grew as we neared our destination. I had the stern of the canoe and a good view of him. It was impossible not to like him, even knowing his plan.
We reached Prince Albert on a Sunday, after three days in a buckboard. As we drove up to the hotel, there was one person on the long veranda looking out over the Saskatchewan. It was a woman reading a book.
When Thornton saw her, I heard a deep breath heave in his chest.
The woman looked up, stared for a moment, then dropped her book with a cry of welcome I've never heard before. She rushed down the steps, and Thornton jumped from the wagon. They met a dozen paces from me, and he caught her in his arms while she clasped hers around his neck.
I heard her sobbing, and I saw Thornton kissing her again and again; then she pulled his blond head down close to her face. It was sickening, knowing what I did, so I started helping the driver unload our gear.
About two minutes later, I heard Thornton calling me. I didn't turn. Then he came over and spun me around by the shoulders. I caught a glimpse of the woman. He was right—she was very beautiful.
"I told you her husband was a scoundrel and a rake," he said gently. "Well, he was—and I was that scoundrel! I came up here to redeem myself, and your big, glorious North made a man of me. Will you come and meet my wife?"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-c6c6bff6873848d09a0eaf6c429a632a
# book_title: The Other Man's Wife
# chapter_id: 1-the-other-man-s-wife
# chapter_title: The Other Man's Wife
# book_page: 5 / 5
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
I didn't sleep again that night, and the next several days were uneasy, at least for me. Despite my coolness, Thornton didn't change. He never mentioned what he'd told me, and his good spirits only grew as we neared our destination. I had the stern of the canoe and a good view of him. It was impossible not to like him, even knowing his plan.
We reached Prince Albert on a Sunday, after three days in a buckboard. As we drove up to the hotel, there was one person on the long veranda looking out over the Saskatchewan. It was a woman reading a book.
When Thornton saw her, I heard a deep breath heave in his chest.
The woman looked up, stared for a moment, then dropped her book with a cry of welcome I've never heard before. She rushed down the steps, and Thornton jumped from the wagon. They met a dozen paces from me, and he caught her in his arms while she clasped hers around his neck.
I heard her sobbing, and I saw Thornton kissing her again and again; then she pulled his blond head down close to her face. It was sickening, knowing what I did, so I started helping the driver unload our gear.
About two minutes later, I heard Thornton calling me. I didn't turn. Then he came over and spun me around by the shoulders. I caught a glimpse of the woman. He was right—she was very beautiful.
"I told you her husband was a scoundrel and a rake," he said gently. "Well, he was—and I was that scoundrel! I came up here to redeem myself, and your big, glorious North made a man of me. Will you come and meet my wife?"
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