when the prima-donna of some vauntful city trills her bird-song above the foot-lights, or the cremona moans out the sigh of night-winds through the forest, artificial townsfolk applaud. yet a nesting-tree, a thousand leagues from city discords, gives forth better music with deeper meaning and higher message—albeit the songster sings only from love of song. the fretted folk of the great cities cannot understand the witching fascinations of a wild life in a wild, free, tameless land, where god's own hand ministers to eye and ear. to fare sumptuously, to dress with the faultless distinction that marks wealth, to see and above all to be seen—these are the empty ends for which city men engage in a mad, feverish pursuit of wealth, trample one another down in a strife more ruthless than war and gamble away gifts of mind and soul. these are the things for which they barter all freedom but the name. where one succeeds a thousand fail. those with higher aims count themselves happy, indeed, to possess a few square feet of canvas, that truly represents the beauty dear to them, before weeds had undermined and overgrown[pg 182] and choked the temple of the soul. that any one should exchange gilded chains for freedom to give manhood shoulder swing, to be and to do—without infringing on the liberty of others to be and to do—is to such folk a matter of no small wonderment. for my part, i know i was counted mad by old associates of quebec when i chose the wild life of the north country.
but each to his taste, say i; and all this is only the opinion of an old trader, who loved the work of nature more than the work of man. other voices may speak to other men and teach them what the waterways and forests, the plains and mountains, were teaching me. if "ologies" and "ics," the lore of school and market, comfort their souls—be it so. as for me, it was only when half a continent away from the jangle of learning and gain that i began to stir like a living thing and to know that i existed. the awakening began on the westward journey; but the new life hardly gained full possession before that cloudless summer day on the prairie, when i followed the winding river trail south of the forks. the indian scouts were far to the fore. rank grass, high as the saddle-bow, swished past the horse's sides and rippled away in an unbroken ocean of green to the encircling horizon. of course allowance must be made for a man in love. other men have discovered a worldful of beauty, when in love; but i do not see what difference two figures on horseback against the southern sky-line could possibly make to the shimmer of[pg 183] purple above the plains, or the fragrance of prairie-roses lining the trail. it seems to me the lonely call of the meadow-lark high overhead—a mote in a sea of blue—or the drumming and chirruping of feathered creatures through the green, could not have sounded less musical, if i had not been a lover. but that, too, is only an opinion; for one glimpse of the forms before me brought peace into the whole world.
father holland evidently saw me, for he turned and waved. the other rider gave no sign of recognition. a touch of the spur to my horse and i was abreast of them, frances sutherland curveting her cayuse from the trail to give me middle place.
"arrah, me hearty, here ye are at last! och, but ye're a skulkin' wight," called the priest as i saluted both. "what d'y' say for y'rself, ye belated rascal, comin' so tardy when ye're headed for gretna green—och! 'twas a lapsus linguæ! 'tis pembina—not gretna green—that i mean."
had it been half a century later, when a little place called gretna sprang up on this very trail, frances sutherland and i need not have flinched at this reference to an old-world mecca for run-away lovers. but there was no gretna on the pembina trail in those days and the little statue's cheeks were suddenly tinged deep red, while i completely lost my tongue.
"not a word for y'rself?" continued the priest, giving me full benefit of the mischievous spirit working in him. "he, who bearded the foe in[pg 184] his den, now meeker than a lambkin, mild as a turtle-dove, timid as a pigeon, pensive as a whimpering-robin that's lost his mate——"
"there ought to be a law against the jokes of the clergy, sir," i interrupted tartly. "the jokes aren't funny and one daren't hit back."
"there ought to be a law against lovers, me hearty," laughed he. "they're always funny, and they can't stand a crack."
"against all men," ventured frances sutherland with that instinctive, womanly tact, which whips recalcitrant talkers into line like a deft driver reining up kicking colts. "all men should be warranted safe, not to go off."
"unless there's a fair target," and the priest looked us over significantly and laughed. if he felt a gentle pull on the rein, he yielded not a jot. unluckily there are no curb-bits for hard-mouthed talkers.
"rufus, i don't see that ye wear a ticket warranting ye'll not go off," he added merrily. red became redder on two faces, and hot, hotter with at least one temper.
"and womankind?" i managed to blurt out, trying to second her efforts against our tormentor. "what guarantee against dangers from them? the pulpit silenced—though that's a big contract—mankind labeled, what for women?"
"libeled," she retorted. "men say we don't hit straight enough to be dangerous."
"the very reason ye are dangerous," the priest broke in. "ye aim at a head and hit a heart![pg 185] then away ye go to gretna green—och! it's pembina, i mean! marry, my children——" and he paused.
"marry!—what?" i shouted. thereupon frances sutherland broke into peals of laughter, in which i could see no reason, and father holland winked.
"what's wrong with ye?" asked the priest solemnly. "faith, 'tis no advice i'm giving; but as i was remarking, marry, my children, i'd sooner stand before a man not warranted safe than a woman, who might take to shying pretty charms at my head! faith, me lambs, ye'll learn that i speak true."
as mr. jack mackenzie used to put it in his peppery reproof, i always did have a knack of tumbling head first the instant an opportunity offered. this time i had gone in heels and all, and now came up in as fine a confusion as any bashful bumpkin ever displayed before his lady. frances sutherland had regained her composure and came to my rescue with another attempt to take the lead from the loquacious churchman.
"i'm so grateful to you for arranging this trip," and she turned directly to me.
"hm-m," blurted father holland with unutterable merriment, before i could get a word in, "he's grateful to himself for that same thing. faith! he's been thankin' the stars, especially venus, ever since he got marching orders!"
"how did you reach fort gibraltar?" she persisted.[pg 186]
"sans boots and cap," i promptly replied, determined to be ahead of the interloper.
"sans heart, too," and the priest flicked my broncho with his whip and knocked the ready-made speech, with which i had hoped to silence him, clean out of my head. frances sutherland took to examining remote objects on the horizon. hers was a nature not to be beaten.
"let us ride faster," she suddenly proposed with a glance that boded roguery for the priest's portly form. she was off like a shaft from a bow-string, causing a stampede of our horses. that was effective. a hard gallop against a stiff prairie wind will stop a stout man's eloquence.
"ho youngsters!" exclaimed the priest, coming abreast of us as we reined up behind the scouts. "if ye set me that gait—whew—i'll not be left for gretna green—faith—it's pembina, i mean," and he puffed like a cargo boat doing itself proud among the great liners.
he was breathless, therefore safe. frances sutherland was not disposed to break the accumulating silence, and i, for the life of me, could not think of a single remark appropriate for a party of three. the ordinary commonplaces, that stop-gap conversation, refused to come forth. i rehearsed a multitude of impossible speeches; but they stuck behind sealed lips.
"silence is getting heavy, rufus," he observed, enjoying our embarrassment.
thus we jogged forward for a mile or more.
"troth, me pet lambs," he remarked, as[pg 187] breath returned, "ye'll both bleat better without me!"
forthwith, away he rode fifty yards ahead, keeping that distance beyond us for the rest of the day and only calling over his shoulder occasionally.
"och! but y'r bronchos are slow! don't be telling me y'r bronchos are not slow! arrah, me hearties, be making good use o' the honeymoon,—i mean afternoon, not honeymoon. marry, me children, but y'r bronchos are bog-spavined and spring-halted. jiggle-joggle faster, with ye, ye rascals! faith, i see ye out o' the tail o' my eye. those bronchos are nosing a bit too close, i'm thinkin'! i'm going to turn! i warn ye fair—ready! one—shy-off there! two—have a care! three—i'm coming! four—prepare!"
and he would glance back with shouts of droll laughter. "get epp! we mustn't disturb them! get epp!" this to his own horse and off he would go, humming some ditty to the lazy hobble of his nag.
"old angel!" said i, under my breath, and i fell to wondering what earthly reason any man had for becoming a priest.
he was right. talk no longer lagged, whatever our bronchos did; but, indeed, all we said was better heard by two than three. why that was, i cannot tell, for like beads of a rosary our words were strung together on things commonplace enough; and fond hearts, as well as mystics, have a key to unlock a world of meaning from[pg 188] meaningless words. tufts of poplars, wood islands on the prairie, skulking coyotes, that prowled to the top of some earth mound and uttered their weird cries, mud-colored badgers, hulking clumsily away to their treacherous holes, gophers, sly fellows, propped on midget tails pointing fore-paws at us—these and other common things stole the hours away. the sun, dipping close to the sky-line, shone distorted through the warm haze like a huge blood shield. far ahead our scouts were pitching tents on ground well back from the river to avoid the mosquitoes swarming above the water. it was time to encamp for the night.
those long june nights in the far north with fire glowing in the track of a vanished sun and stillness brooding over infinite space—have a glory, that is peculiarly their own. only a sort of half-darkness lies between the lingering sunset and the early sun-dawn. at nine o'clock the sun-rim is still above the western prairie. at ten, one may read by daylight, and, if the sky is clear, forget for another hour that night has begun. after supper, father holland sat at a distance from the tents with his back carefully turned towards us, a precaution on his part for which i was not ungrateful. frances sutherland was throned on the boxes of our quondam table, and i was reclining against saddle-blankets at her feet.
"oh! to be so forever," she exclaimed, gazing at the globe of solid gold against the opal-green sky. "to have the light always clear, just ahead,[pg 189] nothing between us and the light, peace all about, no care, no weariness, just quiet and beauty like this forever."
"like this forever! i ask nothing better," said i with great heartiness; but neither her eyes nor her thoughts were for me. would the eyes looking so intently at the sinking sun, i wondered, condescend to look at a spot against the sun. in desperation i meditated standing up. 'tis all very well to talk of storming the citadel of a closed heart, but unless telepathic implements of war are perfected to the same extent as modern armaments, permitting attack at long range, one must first get within shooting distance. apparently i was so far outside the defences, even my design was unknown.
"i think," she began in low, hesitating words, so clear and thrilling, they set my heart beating wildly with a vague expectation, "i think heaven must be very, very near on nights like this, don't—you—rufus?"
i wasn't thinking of heaven at all, at least, not the heaven she had in mind; but if there is one thing to make a man swear white is black and black white and to bring him to instantaneous agreement with any statement whatsoever, it is to hear his christian name so spoken for the first time. i sat up in an electrified way that brought the fringe of lashes down to hide those gray eyes.
"very near? well rather! i've been in heaven all day," i vowed. "i've been getting[pg 190] glimpses of paradise all the way from fort william——"
"don't," she interrupted with a flash of the imperious nature, which i knew. "please don't, mr. gillespie."
"please don't mister gillespie me," said i, piqued by a return to the formal. "if you picked up rufus by mistake from the priest, he sets a good example. don't drop a good habit!"
that was my first step inside the outworks.
"rufus," she answered so gently i felt she might disarm and slay me if she would, "rufus gillespie"—that was a return of the old spirit, a compromise between her will and mine—"please don't begin saying that sort of thing—there's a whole day before us——"
"and you think i can't keep it up?"
"you haven't given any sign of failing. you know, rufus," she added consolingly, "you really must not say those things, or something will be hurt! you'll make me hurt it."
"something is hurt and needs mending, miss sutherland——"
"don't miss sutherland me," she broke in with a laugh, "call me frances; and if something is hurt and needs mending, i'm not a tinker, though my father and the priest—yes and you, too—sometimes think so. but sisters do mending, don't they?" and she laughed my earnestness off as one would puff out a candle.
"no—no—no—not sisters—not that," i protested. "i have no sisters, little statue. i[pg 191] wouldn't know how to act with a sister, unless she were somebody else's sister, you know. i can't stand the sisterly business, frances——"
"have you suffered much from the sisterly?" she asked with a merry twinkle.
"no," i hastened to explain, "i don't know how to play the sisterly touch-and-go at all, but the men tell me it doesn't work—dead failure, always ends the same. sister proposes, or is proposed to——"
"oh!" cried the little statue with the faintest note of alarm, and she moved back from me on the boxes. "i think we'd better play at being very matter-of-fact friends for the rest of the trip."
"no, thank you, miss sutherland—frances, i mean," said i. "i'm not the fool to pretend that——"
"then pretend anything you like," and there was a sudden coldness in her voice, which showed me she regarded my refusal and the slip in her name as a rebuff. "pretend anything you like, only don't say things."
that was a throwing down of armor which i had not expected.
"then pretend that a pilgrim was lost in the dark, lost where men's souls slip down steep places to hell, and that one as radiant as an angel from heaven shone through the blackness and guided him back to safe ground," i cried, taking quick advantage of my fair antagonist's sudden abandon and casting aside all banter.
"children! children!" cried the priest. "children![pg 192] sun's down! time to go to your trundles, my babes!"
"yes, yes," i shouted. "wait till i hear the rest of this story."
at my words she had started up with a little gasp of fright. a look of awe came into her gray eyes, which i have seen on the faces of those who find themselves for the first time beside the abyss of a precipice. and i have climbed many lofty peaks, but never one without passing these places with the fearful possibilities of destruction. always the novice has looked with the same unspeakable fear into the yawning depths, with the same unspeakable yearning towards the jewel-crowned heights beyond. this, or something of this, was in the startled attitude of the trembling figure, whose eyes met mine without flinching or favor.
"or pretend that a traveler had lost his compass, and though he was without merit, god gave him a star."
"is it a pretty story, rufus?" called the priest.
"very," i cried out impatiently. "don't interrupt."
"or pretend that a poor fool with no merit but his love of purity and truth and honor lost his way to paradise, and god gave him an angel for a guide."
"is it a long story, rufus?" called the priest.
"it's to be continued," i shouted, leaping to my feet and approaching her.[pg 193]
"and pretend that the pilgrim and the traveler and the fool, asked no other privilege but to give each his heart's love, his life's devotion to her who had come between him and the darkness——"
"rufus!" roared the priest. "i declare i'll take a stick to you. come away! d' y' hear? she's tired."
"good-night," she answered, in a broken whisper, so cold it stabbed me like steel; and she put out her hand in the mechanical way of the well-bred woman in every land.
"is that all?" i asked, holding the hand as if it had been a galvanic battery, though the priest was coming straight towards us.
"all?" she returned, the lashes falling over the misty, gray eyes. "ah, rufus! are we playing jest is earnest, or earnest is jest?" and she turned quickly and went to her tent.
how long i stood in reverie, i do not know. the priest's broad hand presently came down on my shoulder with a savage thud.
"ye blunder-busticus, ye, what have ye been doing?" he asked. "the little statue was crying when she went to her tent."
"crying?"
"yes, ye idiot. i'll stay by her to-morrow."
and he did. nor could he have contrived severer punishment for the unfortunate effect of my words. fool, that i was! i should keep myself in hand henceforth. how many men have made that vow regarding the woman they love?[pg 194] those that have kept it, i trow, could be counted easily enough. but i had no opportunity to break my vow; for the priest rode with frances sutherland the whole of the second day, and not once did he let loose his scorpion wit. she had breakfast alone in her tent next morning, the priest carrying tea and toast to her; and when she came out, she leaped to her saddle so quickly i lost the expected favor of placing that imperious foot in the stirrup. we set out three abreast, and i had no courage to read my fate from the cold, marble face. the ground became rougher. we were forced to follow long detours round sloughs, and i gladly fell to the rear where i was unobserved. clumps of willows alone broke the endless dip of the plain. glassy creeks glittered silver through the green, and ever the trail, like a narrow ribbon of many loops, fled before us to the dim sky-line.
when we halted for our nooning, frances sutherland had slipped from her saddle and gone off picking prairie roses before either the priest or i noticed her absence.
"if you go off, you nuisance, you," said the priest rubbing his bald pate, and gazing after her in a puzzled way, when we had the meal ready, "i think she'll come back and eat."
i promptly took myself off and had the glum pleasure of hearing her chat in high spirits over the dinner table of packing boxes; but she was on her cayuse and off with the scouts long before father holland and i had mounted.[pg 195]
"rufus," said the priest with a comical, quizzical look, as we set off together. "rufus, i think y'r a fool."
"i've thought that several hundred thousand times myself, this morning."
"have ye as much as got a glint of her eye to-day?"
"no. i can't compete against the church with women. any fool knows that, even as big a fool as i."
"tush, youngster! don't take to licking your raw tongue up and down the cynic's saw edge! put a spur to your broncho there and ride ahead with her."
"having offended a goddess, i don't wish to be struck dead by inviting her wrath."
"pah! i've no patience with y'r ramrod independence! bend a stiff neck, or you'll break a sore heart! ride ahead, i tell you, you young mule!" and he brought a smart flick across my broncho.
"father holland," i made answer with the dignity of a bishop and my nose mighty high in the air, "will you permit me to suggest that people know their own affairs best——"
"tush, no! i'll permit you to do nothing of the kind," said he, driving a fly from his horse's ear. "don't you know, you young idiot, that between a man surrendering his love, and a woman surrendering hers, there's difference enough to account for tears? a man gives his and gets it back with compound interest in coin[pg 196] that's pure gold compared to his copper. a woman gives hers and gets back——" the priest stopped.
"what?" i asked, interest getting the better of wounded pride.
"not much that's worth having from idiots like you," said he; by which the priest proved he could deal honestly by a friend, without any mincing palliatives.
his answer set me thinking for the best part of the afternoon; and i warrant if any man sets out with the priest's premises and thinks hard for an afternoon he will come to the same conclusion that i did.
"let's both poke along a little faster," said i, after long silence.
"oho! with all my heart!" and we caught up with frances sutherland and for the first time that day i dared to look at her face. if there were tear marks about the wondrous eyes, they were the marks of the shower after a sun-burst, the laughing gladness of life in golden light, the joyous calm of washed air when a storm has cleared away turbulence. why did she evade me and turn altogether to the priest at her right? had i been of an analytical turn of mind, i might, perhaps, have made a very careful study of an emotion commonly called jealousy; but, when one's heart beats fast, one's thoughts throng too swiftly for introspection. was i a part of the new happiness? i did not understand human nature then as i understand it now, else would i[pg 197] have known that fair eyes turn away to hide what they dare not reveal. i prided myself that i was now well in hand. i should take the first opportunity to undo my folly of the night before.
it was after supper. father holland had gone to his tent. frances sutherland was arranging a bunch of flowers in her lap; and i took my place directly behind her lest my face should tell truth while my tongue uttered lies.
"speaking of stars, you know miss sutherland," i began, remembering that i had said something about stars that must be unsaid.
"don't call me miss sutherland, rufus," she said, and that gentle answer knocked my grand resolution clean to the four winds.
"i beg your pardon, frances——" chaos and i were one. whatever was it i was to say about stars?
"well?" there was a waiting in the voice.
"yes—you know—frances." i tried to call up something coherent; but somehow the thumping of my heart set up a rattling in my head.
"no—rufus. as a matter of fact, i don't know. you were going to tell me something."
"bother my stupidity, miss—miss—frances, but the mastiff's forgotten what it was going to bow-wow about!"
"not the moon this time," she laughed. "speaking of stars," and she gave me back my own words.
"oh! yes! speaking of stars! do you[pg 198] know i think a lot of the men coming up from fort william got to regarding the star above the leading canoe as their own particular star."
i thought that speech a masterpiece. it would convince her she was the star of all the men, not mine particularly. that was true enough to appease conscience, a half-truth like louis laplante's words. so i would rob my foolish avowal of its personal element. a flush suffused the snowy white below her hair.
"oh! i didn't notice any particular star above the leading canoe. there were so very, very many splendid stars, i used to watch them half the night!"
that answer threw me as far down as her manner had elated me.
"well! what of the stars?" asked the silvery voice.
i was dumb. she flung the flowers aside as though she would leave; but father holland suddenly emerged from the tent fanning himself with his hat.
"babes!" said he. "you're a pair of fools! oh! to be young and throw our opportunities helter-skelter like flowers of which we're tired," and he looked at the upset lapful. "children! children! carpe diem! carpe diem! pluck the flowers; for the days are swifter than arrows," and he walked away from us engrossed in his own thoughts, muttering over and over the advice of the latin poet, "carpe diem! carpe diem!"[pg 199]
"what is carpe diem?" asked frances sutherland, gazing after the priest in sheer wonder.
"i wasn't strong on classics at laval and i haven't my crib."
"go on!" she commanded. "you're only apologizing for my ignorance. you know very well."
"it means just what he says—as if each day were a flower, you know, had its joys to be plucked, that can never come again."
"flowers! oh! i know! the kind you all picked for me coming up from fort william. and do you know, rufus, i never could thank you all? were those carpe diem flowers?"
"no—not exactly the kind father holland means we should pick."
"what then?" and she turned suddenly to find her face not a hand's length from mine.
"this kind," i whispered, bending in terrified joy over her shoulder; and i plucked a blossom straight from her lips and another and yet another, till there came into the deep, gray eyes what i cannot transcribe, but what sent me away the king of all men—for had i not found my queen?
and that was the way i carried out my grand resolution and kept myself in hand.
