Lords of the North

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I tried to turn to that side of the little room, where a great wave of
fresh, clear air blew from the prairie. For some reason my head refused
to revolve. Stooping, the elder man gently raised the sheet and rolled
me over so that I faced the sweet freshness of an open, sunny view.

"Did I rive ye sore, lad?" asked the voice with a gruffness in strange
contradiction to the gentleness of the touch.

Now I hold that however rasping a man's words may be, if he handle the
sick with gentleness, there is much goodness under the rough surface.
Thoughtlessness and stupidity, I know, are patent excuses for half the
unkindness and sorrow of life. But thoughtlessness and stupidity are
also responsible for most of life's brutality and crime. Not
spiteful intentions alone, but the dulled, brutalized, deadened
sensibilities--that go under the names of thoughtlessness and
stupidity--make a man treat something weaker than himself with
roughness, or in an excessive degree, qualify for murder. When the
harsh voice asked, "Do I rive ye sore?" I began to understand how
surface roughness is as often caused by life's asperities as by the
inner dullness akin to the brute.

Indeed, if my thoughts had not been so intent on the daughter, I could
have found Mr. Sutherland's character a wonderfully interesting study.
The infinite capacity of a canny Scot for keeping his mouth shut I never
realized till I knew Mr. Sutherland. For instance, now that
consciousness had returned, I noticed that the father himself, and not
the daughter, did all the waiting on me even to the carrying of my
meals.

"How is your daughter, Mr. Sutherland?" I asked, surely a natural enough
question to merit a civil reply.

"Aye--is it Frances y'r speerin' after?" he answered, meeting my
question with a question; and he deigned not another word. But I lay in
wait for him at the next meal.

"I haven't seen your daughter yet, Mr. Sutherland," I stuttered out with
a deal of blushing. "I haven't even heard her about the house."

"No?" he asked with a show of surprise. "Have ye no seen Frances?" And
that was all the satisfaction I got.

Between the dinner hour and supper time I conjured up various plots to
hoodwink paternal caution.

"Mr. Sutherland," I began, "I have a message for your daughter."

"Aye," said he.

"I wish her to hear it personally."

"Aye."

"When may I see her?"

"Ye maun bide patient, lad!"

"But the message is urgent." That was true; for had not forty-eight
hours passed since I had regained consciousness and I had heard neither
her footsteps nor her voice?

"Aye," said the imperturbable father.

"Very urgent, Mr. Sutherland," I added.

"Aye."

"When may I see her, Sir?"

"All in guid time. Ye maun bide quiet, lad."

"The message cannot wait," I declared. "It must be given at once."

"Then deleever it word for word to me, young mon, and I'll trudge off to
Frances."

"Your daughter is not at home?"

"What words wu'l ye have me bear to her, lad?" he asked.

That was too much for a youth in a peevish state of convalescence. What
lover could send his heart's eloquence by word of mouth with a peppery,
prosaic father?

"Tell Mistress Sutherland I must see her at once," I quickly responded
with a flash of temper that was ever wont to flare up when put to the
test.

"Aye," he answered, with an amused look in the cold, steel eyes. "I'll
deleever y'r message when--when"--and he hesitated in a way suggestive
of eternity--"I'll deleever y'r message when I see her."

At that I turned my face to the wall in the bitterness of spirit which
only the invalid, with all the strength of a man in his whims and the
weakness of an infant in his body, knows. I spent a feverish, restless
night, with the hard-faced Scotchman watching from his armchair at my
bedside. Once, when I suddenly awakened from sleep, or delirium, his
eyes were fastened on my face with a gleam of grave kindliness.

"Mr. Sutherland," I cried, with all the impatience of a child, "please
tell me, where is your daughter?"

"I sent her to a neighbor, sin' ye came to y'r senses, lad," said he.
"Ye hae kept her about ye night and day sin' ye gaed daft, and losh,
mon, ye hae gabbled wild talk enough to turn the head o' ony lassie
clean daft. An' ye claver sic' nonsense when ye're daft, what would ye
say when ye're sane? Hoots, mon, ye maun learn to haud y'r tongue----"

"Mr. Sutherland," I interrupted in a great heat, quite forgetful of his
hospitality, "I'm sorry to be the means of driving your daughter from
her home. I beg you to send me back to Fort Douglas----"

"Haud quiet," he ordered with a wave of his hand. "An' wa'd ye have me
expose the head of a mitherless bairn to a' the clack o' the auld geese
in the settlement? Temper y'r ardor wi' discretion, lad! 'Twas but the
day before yesterday she left and she was sair done wi' nursing you and
losing of sleep! Till ye're fair y'rsel' again and up, and she's weel
and rosy wi' full sleep, bide patient!"

That speech sent my face to the wall again; but this time not in anger.
And that dogged fashion Mr. Sutherland had of taking his own way did me
many a good turn. Often have I heard those bragging captains of the
Hudson's Bay mercenaries swagger into the little cottage sitting-room,
while I lay in bed on the other side of the thin board partition, and
relate to Mr. Sutherland all the incidents of their day's search for me.

"So many pounds sterling for the man who captures the rascal," declares
D'Orsonnens.

"Aye, 'tis a goodly price for one poor rattle-pate," says Mr.
Sutherland.

Whereupon, D'Orsonnens swears the price is more than my poor empty head
is worth, and proceeds to describe me in terms which Mr. Sutherland will
only tolerate when thundered from an orthodox pulpit.

"I'd have ye understand, Sir," he would declare with great dignity,
"I'll have no papistical profanity under my roof."

Forthwith, he would show D'Orsonnens the door, lecturing the astonished
soldier on the errors of Romanism; for whatever Mr. Sutherland deemed
evil, from oaths to theological errors, he attributed directly to the
pope.

"The ne'er-do-weel can hawk naething frae me," said he when relating the
incident.

Once I heard a Fort Douglas man observe that, as the search had proved
futile, I must have fallen into one of the air-holes of the ice.

"Nae doot the headstrong young mon is' gettin' what he deserves. I
warrant he's warm in his present abode," answered Mr. Sutherland.

On another occasion D'Orsonnens asked who the man was that Mr.
Sutherland's daughter had been nursing all winter.

"A puir body driven from Fort Douglas by those bloodthirsty villains,"
answered Mr. Sutherland, giving his visitor a strong toddy; and he at
once improved the occasion by taking down a volume and reading the
French officer a series of selections against Romanism. After that
D'Orsonnens came no more.

"I hope I did not tell Nor'-West secrets in a Hudson's Bay house when I
was delirious, Mr. Sutherland," I remarked.

The Scotchman had lugged me from bed in a gentle, lumbering, well-meant
fashion, and I was sitting up for the first time.

"Ye're no the mon wi' a leak t' y'r mouth. I dinna say, though, ye're
aye as discreet wi' the thoughts o' y'r heart as y'r head! Ye need na
fash y'r noodle wi' remorse aboot company secrets. I canna say ye'll no
fret aboot some other things ye hae told. A' the winter lang, 'twas
Frances and stars and spooks and speerits and bogies and statues and
graven images--wha' are forbidden by the Holy Scriptures--till the
lassie thought ye gane clean daft! 'Twas a bonnie e'e, like silver
stars; or a bit blush, like the pippin; or laughter, like a wimplin'
brook; or lips, like posies; or hair, like links o' gold; and mair o'
the like till the lassie came rinnin' oot o' y'r room, fair red wi'
shame! Losh, mon, ye maun keep a still tongue in y'r head and not blab
oot y'r thoughts o' a wife till she believes na mon can hae peace wi'out
her. I wad na hae ye abate one jot o' all ye think, for her price is far
above rubies; but hae a care wi' y'r grand talk! After ye gang to the
kirk, lad, na mon can keep that up."

His warning I laughed to the winds, as youth the world over has ever
laughed sage counsels of chilling age.

I can compare my recovery only to the swift transition of seasons in
those northern latitudes. Without any lingering spring, the cold
grayness of long, tense winter gives place to a radiant sun-burst of
warm, yellow light. The uplands have long since been blown bare of snow
by the March winds, and through the tangle of matted turf shoot myriad
purple cups of the prairie anemone, while the russet grass takes on
emerald tints. One day the last blizzard may be sweeping a white trail
of stormy majesty across the prairie; the next a fragrance of flowers
rises from the steaming earth and the snow-filled ravines have become
miniature lakes reflecting the dazzle of a sunny sky and fleece clouds.

My convalescence was similar to the coming of summer. Without any weary
fluctuation from well to ill, and ill to well--which sickens the heart
with a deferred hope--all my old-time strength came back with the glow
of that year's June sun.

"There's nae accountin' for some wilful folk, lad," was Mr. Sutherland's
remark, one evening after I was able to leave my room. "Ye hae risen
frae y'r bed like the crocus frae snaw. An' Frances were hangin' aboot
y'r pillow, lad, I'm nae sure y'd be up sae dapper and smart."

"I thought my nurse was to return when I was able to be up," I answered,
strolling to the cottage door.

"Come back frae the door, lad. Dinna show y'rsel' tae the enemy. There
be more speerin' for ye than hae love for y'r health. Have y'r wits
aboot ye! Dinna be frettin' y'rsel' for Frances! The lassies aye rin
fast enow tae the mon wi' sense to hold his ain!"

With that advice he motioned me to the only armchair in the room, and
sitting down on the outer step to keep watch, began reading some
theological disputation aloud.

"Odds, lad, ye should see the papist so'diers rin when I hae Calvin by
me," he remarked.

"It's a pity you can't lay the theological thunderers on the doorstep to
drive stray De Meurons off. Then you could come in and take this chair
yourself," I answered, sitting back where no visitor could see me.

But Mr. Sutherland did not hear. He was deep in polemics, rolling out
stout threats, that used Scriptural texts as a cudgel, with a zest that
testified enjoyment. "The wicked bend their bow," began the rasping
voice; but when he cleared his throat, preparatory to the main argument,
my thoughts went wandering far from the reader on the steps. As one
whose dream is jarred by outward sound, I heard his tones quaver.

"Aye, Frances, 'tis you," he said, and away he went, pounding at the
sophistries of some straw enemy.

A shadow was on the threshold, and before I had recalled my listless
fancy, in tripped Frances Sutherland, herself, feigning not to see me.
The gray eyes were veiled in the misty fashion of those fluffy things
women wear, which let through all beauty, but bar out intrusion. I do
not mean she wore a veil: veils and frills were not seen among the
colonists in those days. But the heavy lashes hung low in the slumbrous,
dreamy way that sees all and reveals nothing. Instinctively I started
up, with wild thoughts thronging to my lips. At the same moment Mr.
Sutherland did the most chivalrous thing I have seen in homespun or
broadcloth.

"Hoots wi' y'r giddy claver," said he, before I had spoken a word; and
walking off, he sat down at some distance.

Thereupon his daughter laughed merrily with a whole quiver of dangerous
archery about her lips.

"That is the nearest to an untruth I have ever heard him tell," she
said, which mightily relieved my embarrassment.

"Why did he say that?" I asked, with my usual stupidity.

"I am sure I cannot say," and looking straight at me, she let go the
barbed shaft, that lies hidden in fair eyes for unwary mortals.

"Sit down," she commanded, sinking into the chair I had vacated. "Sit
down, Rufus, please!" This with an after-shot of alarm from the heavy
lashes; for if a woman's eyes may speak, so may a man's, and their
language is sometimes bolder.

"Thanks," and I sat down on the arm of that same chair.

For once in my life I had sense to keep my tongue still; for, if I had
spoken, I must have let bolt some impetuous thing better left unsaid.

"Rufus," she began, in the low, thrilling tones that had enthralled me
from the first, "do you know I was your sole nurse all the time you were
delirious?"

"No wonder I was delirious! Dolt, that I was, to have been delirious!"
thought I to myself; but I choked down the foolish rejoinder and
endeavored to look as wise as if my head had been ballasted with the
weight of a patriarch's wisdom instead of ballooning about like a kite
run wild.

"I think I know all your secrets."

"Oh!" A man usually has some secrets he would rather not share; and
though I had not swung the full tether of wild west freedom--thanks
solely to her, not to me--I trembled at recollection of the passes that
come to every man's life when he has been near enough the precipice to
know the sensation of falling without going over.

"You talked incessantly of Miriam and Mr. Hamilton and Father Holland."

"And what did I say about Frances?"

"You said things about Frances that made her tremble."

"Tremble? What a brute, and you waiting on me day and----"

"Hush," she broke in. "Tremble because I am just a woman and not an
angel, just a woman and not a star. We women are mortals just as you men
are. Sometimes we're fools as well as mortals, just as you men are; but
I don't think we're knaves quite so often, because we're denied the
opportunity and hedged about and not tempted."

As she gently stripped away the pretty hypocrisies with which lovers
delude themselves and lay up store for disappointment, I began to
discount that old belief about truth and knowledge rendering a woman
mannish and arrogant and assertive.

"You men marry women, expecting them to be angels, and very often the
angel's highest ambition is to be considered a doll. Then your hope goes
out and your faith----"

"But, Frances," I cried, "if any sensible man had his choice of an
angel and a fair, good woman----"

"Be sure to say fair, or he'd grumble because he hadn't a doll," she
laughed.

"No levity! If he had choice of angels and stars and a good woman, he'd
choose the woman. The star is mighty far away and cold and steely. The
angel's a deal too perfect to know sympathy with faults and blunders. I
tell you, Little Statue, life is only moil and toil, unless love
transmutes the base metal of hard duty into the pure gold of unalloyed
delight."

"That's why I tremble. I must do more than angel or star! Oh, Rufus, if
I can only live up to what you think I am--and you can live up to what I
think you are, life will be worth living."

"That's love's leverage," said I.

Then there was silence; for the sun had set and the father was no longer
reading. Shadows deepened into twilight, and twilight into gloaming. And
it was the hour when the brooding spirit of the vast prairie solitudes
fills the stillness of night with voiceless eloquence. Why should I
attempt to transcribe the silent music of the prairie at twilight, which
every plain-dweller knows and none but a plain-dweller may understand?
What wonder that the race native to this boundless land hears the
rustling of spirits in the night wind, the sigh of those who have lost
their way to the happy hunting-ground, and the wail of little ones whose
feet are bruised on the shadow trail? What wonder the gauzy northern
lights are bands of marshaling warriors and the stars torches lighting
those who ride the plains of heaven? Indeed, I defy a white man with all
the discipline of science and reason to restrain the wanderings of
mystic fancy during the hours of sunset on the prairie.

There is, I affirm, no such thing as time for lovers. If they have
watches and clocks, the wretched things run too fast; and if the sun
himself stood still in sympathy, time would not be long. So I confess I
have no record of time that night Frances Sutherland returned to her
home and Mr. Sutherland kept guard at the door. When he had passed the
threshold impatiently twice, I recollected with regret that it was
impossible to read theology in the dark. The third time he thrust his
head in.

"Mind y'rselves," he called. "I hear men coming frae the river, a pretty
hour, indeed, for visitin'. Frances, go ben and see yon back window's
open!"

"The soldiers from the fort," cried Frances with a little gasp.

"Don't move," said I. "They can't see me here. It's dark. I want to hear
what they say and the window is open. Indeed, Frances, I'm an expert at
window-jumping," and I had begun to tell her of my scrape with Louis'
drunken comrades in Fort Douglas, when I heard Mr. Sutherland's grating
tones according the newcomers a curious welcome. "Ye swearin',
blasphemin', rampag'us, carousin' infidel, ye'll no darken my doorway
this night. Y'r French gab may be foul wi' oaths for all I ken; but
ye'll no come into my hoose! An' you, Sir, a blind leader o' the blind,
a disciple o' Beelzebub, wi' y'r Babylonish idolatries, wi' y'r incense
that fair stinks in the nostrils o' decent folk, wi' y'r images and
mummery and crossin' o' y'rsel', wi' y'r pagan, popish practises, wi'
y'r skirts and petticoats, I'll no hae ye on my premises, no, not an' ye
leave y'r religion outside! An' you, Meester Hamilton, a respectable
Protestant, I'm fair surprised to see ye in sic' company."

"'Tis Eric and Father Holland and Laplante," I shouted, springing to my
feet and rushing to the doorway, but Frances put herself before me.

"Keep back," she whispered. "The priest and Mr. Hamilton have been here
before; but father would not let them in. The other man may be a De
Meuron. Be careful, Rufus! There's a price on your head."

"Ho--ho--my _Ursus Major_, prime guardian of _Ursa Major_, first of the
heavenly constellations in the north," insolently laughed Louis Laplante
through the dusk.

"Let me pass, Frances," I begged, thrusting her gently aside, but her
trembling hands still clung to my arm.

"Impertinent rascal," rasped the irate Scotchman. "I'd have ye
understand my name's Sutherland, not _Major Ursus_. I'll no bide wi'
y'r impudence! Leave this place----"

"The Bruin growls," interrupted Louis with a laugh, and I heard Mr.
Sutherland's gasp of amazed rage at the lengths of the Frenchman's
insolence.

"I must, dearest," I whispered, disengaging the slender hands from my
arm; and I flung out into the dusk.

In the gloom, my approach was unnoticed; and when I came upon the group,
Father Holland had laid his hand upon Mr. Sutherland's shoulder and in a
low, tense voice was uttering words, which--thank an all-bountiful
Providence!--have no sectarian limits.

"And the King shall answer and say unto them, 'I was a stranger and ye
took me not in: naked and ye clothed me not: sick and in prison and ye
visited me not. Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one
of the least of these, ye did it not to me'----"

"Dinna con Holy Writ to me, Sir," interrupted Mr. Sutherland, throwing
the priest's hand off and jerking back.

Then Louis Laplante saw me. There was a long, low whistle.

"Ye daft gommerel," gasped Mr. Sutherland, facing me with unutterable
disgust. "Ye daft gommerel! A' my care and fret, waste--gane clean to
waste. I wash m' hands o' ye----"

But Louis had knocked the Scotchman aside and tumbled into my arms, half
laughing, half crying and altogether as hysterical as was his wont.

"I pay you back at las', my comrade! Ha--old solemncholy! You thought
the bird of passage, he come not back at all! But the birds return! So
does Louis! He decoy-duck the whole covey! You generous? No more not
generous than the son of a seigneur, mine enemy! You give life? He give
life! You give liberty! So does Louis! You help one able help himself?
Louis help one not able help himself! Ha! _Tres bien! Noblesse oblige!
La Gloire!_ She--near! She here! She where I, Louis Laplante, son of a
seigneur, snare that she-devil, trap that fox, trick the tigress!
Ha--ol' tombstone! _Noblesse oblige_--I say! She near--she here," and he
flung up both arms like a frenzied maniac.

"Man! Are you mad?" I demanded, uncertain whether he were apostrophizing
Diable's squaw, or abstract glory. "Speak out!" I shouted, shaking him
by the shoulder.

"These--are they all friends?" asked Louis, suddenly cooled and looking
suspiciously at the group.

"All," said I, still holding him by the shoulder.

"That--that thing--that bear--that bruin--he a friend?" and Louis
pointed to Mr. Sutherland.

"Friend to the core," said I, laying both hands upon his shoulders.
"Core with prickles outside," gibed Louis.

"Louis," I commanded, utterly out of patience, "what of Miriam? Speak
plain, man! Have you brought the tribe as you promised?"

It must have been mention of Miriam's name, for the white, drawn face of
Eric Hamilton bent over my shoulder and fiery, glowing eyes burned into
the very soul of the Frenchman. Louis staggered back as if red irons had
been thrust in his face.

"_Sacredie_," said he, backing against Father Holland, "I am no
murderer."

It was then I observed that Frances Sutherland had followed me. Her
slender white fingers were about the bronzed hand of the French
adventurer.

"Monsieur Laplante will tell us what he knows," she said softly, and she
waited for his answer.

"The daughter of _L'Aigle_," he replied slowly and collectedly, all the
while feasting upon that fair face, "comes down the Red with her tribe
and captives, many captive women. They pass here to-night. They camp
south the rapids, this side of the rapids. Last night I leave them. I
run forward, I find Le Petit Garcon--how you call him?--Leetle Fellow?
He take me to the priest. He bring canoe here. He wait now for carry us
down. We must go to the rapids--to the camp! There my contract! My
bargain, it is finished," and he shrugged his shoulders, for Frances had
removed her hand from his.

Whether Louis Laplante's excitable nature were momentarily unbalanced by
the success of his feat, I leave to psychologists. Whether some
premonition of his impending fate had wrought upon him strangely, let
psychical speculators decide. Or whether Louis, the sly rogue, worked up
the whole situation for the purpose of drawing Frances Sutherland into
the scene--which is what I myself suspect--I refer to private judgment,
and merely set down the incidents as they occurred. That was how Louis
Laplante told us of bringing Diable's squaw and her captives back to Red
River. And that was how Father Holland and Eric and Louis and Mr.
Sutherland and myself came to be embarking with a camping outfit for a
canoe-trip down the river.

"Have the Indians passed, or are they to come?" I asked Louis as Mr.
Sutherland and Eric settled themselves in a swift, light canoe, leaving
the rest of us to take our places in a larger craft, where Little
Fellow, gurgling pleased recognition of me, acted as steersman.

"They come later. The fast canoe go forward and camp. We watch behind,"
ordered Louis, winking at me significantly.

I saw Frances step to her father's canoe.

"You're no coming, Frances," he protested, querulously.

"Don't say that, father. I never disobeyed you in my life, and I _am_
coming! Don't tell me not to! Push out, Mr. Hamilton," and she picked up
a paddle and I saw the canoe dart swiftly forward into mid-current,
where the darkness enveloped it; and we followed fast in its wake.

"Louis," said I, trying to fathom the meaning of his wink, "are those
Indians to come yet?"

"No. Simpleton--you think Louis a fool?" he asked.

"Why did you lie to them?"

"Get them out of the way."

"Why?"

"Because, stupid, some ones they be killed to-night! The Englishman, he
have a wife--he not be killed! Mademoiselle--she love a poor fool--or
break her pretty heart! The father--he needed to stick-pin you both--so
you never want for to fight each other," and Louis laughed low like the
purr of water on his paddle-blade.

"Faith, lad," cried the priest, who had been unnaturally silent,
because, I suppose, he was among aliens to his faith, "faith, lad, 'tis
a good heart ye have, if ye'd but cut loose from the binding past. May
this night put an end to your devil pranks!"

* * * * *

And that night did!

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LAST OF LOUIS' ADVENTURES

I think, perhaps, the reason good enterprises fail so often where evil
ventures succeed, is that the good man blunders forward, trusting to the
merits of his cause, where the evil manipulator proceeds warily as a cat
over broken glass. And so, altogether apart from his services as guide,
I felt Louis Laplante's presence on the river a distinct advantage.

"The Lord is with us, lad. She shall be delivered! The Lord is with us;
but don't you bungle His plans!" ejaculated Father Holland for the
twentieth time; and each time the French trapper looked waggishly over
his shoulder at me and winked.

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