After a short space she turned
and went out, shutting the door softly on the wounded man and
Mrs. Joe, whose howls had now simmered down to whines. In the
next room, Paul was crying out with pain as the doctor worked on
his arm, but Tannis did not go to him. Instead, she slipped out
and hurried down the stormy street to old Auguste's stable. Five
minutes later she was galloping down the black, wind-lashed river
trail, on her way to town, to bring Elinor Blair to her lover's
deathbed.
I hold that no woman ever did anything more unselfish than this
deed of Tannis! For the sake of love she put under her feet the
jealousy and hatred that had clamored at her heart. She held,
not only revenge, but the dearer joy of watching by Carey to the
last, in the hollow of her hand, and she cast both away that the
man she loved might draw his dying breath somewhat easier. In a
white woman the deed would have been merely commendable. In
Tannis of the Flats, with her ancestry and tradition, it was
lofty self-sacrifice.
It was eight o'clock when Tannis left the Flats; it was ten when
she drew bridle before the house on the bluff. Elinor was
regaling Tom and his wife with Avonlea gossip when the maid came
to the door.
"Pleas'm, there's a breed girl out on the verandah and she's
asking for Miss Blair."
Elinor went out wonderingly, followed by Tom. Tannis, whip in
hand, stood by the open door, with the stormy night behind her,
and the warm ruby light of the hall lamp showering over her white
face and the long rope of drenched hair that fell from her bare
head.
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