CHAPTER X
A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD
The sun was shining down; the spring rains had ceased; within lessthan a month winter had vanished, and summer had swept throughKeewatin with a burst of gladness. The land was riotously green;through the heart of it wandered the river, newly released, a streakof azure, or of gilded splendour where smitten by the sun. Althoughits waters were running freely, many memories of the frozen quietstill remained in the shape of ice piled up along its banks, sometimesto the height of fifteen feet, and of snow in the more shady hollowsof the forest, which glimmered distantly between leaves and brancheshinting at secret woodland lakes. Even the most backward among thetrees had commenced to unfold their buds. All day long, and throughthe major portion of the night, the frogs continued to whistle in themarshes and along the river's edges. Flock after flock of duckarrived, flashing their wings against the sky, dropping from under acloud suddenly, and coming to rest in the water with a shower ofspray, where they rode at ease side by side, like painted, anchoredmerchantmen returned in safety from the earth's end. Now the wildswan, teal, or goose would go by with a whirr of wings, cryinghoarsely. To make the world seem yet more wide an occasional gullwould heave in sight, drifting without effort in silent flightmajestically. In the forest Granger was conscious of a commotion atthe cause of which he could only guess. Love was at work in theshadows, or what among the dumb creation passes for love. There was acontinual stirring of leaves, the rustle of branches forced aside, thescattering of birds, those spies and betrayers of the four-footedanimal, and the grievous low wail of the wolf. Sometimes a fish wouldleap in the river, flash silvery and dripping in the sunlight, on itsbridal journey from the ocean. Was it an act of gallantry, hewondered, which some deep-sea female witnessed from beneath the rippleof the stream, or was it a terrified effort to escape from love. Heknew what that best of all passions could mean to the forest animal,and how cruel it might become. Often in the fall of the year he hadwatched a doe, seen her dash down the river bank, stand quivering,leap in and swim, made fearless of man because she knew that herlover, the stag, was not far behind.
This frenzy of passion set him thinking, and made him long for thereturn of Peggy Ericsen. He knew that his love for her was not of thehighest, was little more than physical, not much nobler than forestlove; but what was a man to do, and how guide his conduct when all theworld was a-mating? On occasions he had a clearer vision, and realisedwith a sense of sudden shame to how low a level he had sunk. Then hewould strive to throw off this attraction for a half-breed girl byrecalling the faces of all the other women whom he had admired andloved. Yet this also was dangerous, for it caused him to rememberMordaunt, thoughts of whom roused up anger within him againstSpurling. He had agreed to leave him to God, and could not go back onhis word; therefore he must forget Mordaunt and, if his mind must behaunted by womankind, think only of Peggy. Peggy! Well, she was not abad little sort. Pretty? Yes. But between her and himself there couldbe no community of mind. He knew that for hundreds of years it hadbeen the custom of traders and white trappers to take to themselves asquaw from a tribe of friendly Indians, sometimes for the sake ofcommercial advantages, sometimes for defence, sometimes for domesticconvenience, rarely for love. But there his education, which wouldhave served him well in an older land, stood in his way, as it had sooften done, making him over-delicate.
He could find it in his heart to wish himself more ignorant and lessrefined. That glamour of intellectual gentility, which England setssuch store by, had made him unfit for the outdoor brutalities ofnorthern life. In his catastrophe he knew that he was not single,though there was small consolation in that; all through Canada he hadencountered younger sons, drawing-room bred young gentlemen, whoworked in lumber camps, on railroads, and in mines by day, and speltout their Horace from ragged texts by brushwood fires, beneath thestars, or in verminous shacks by night. Their power to construe a deadlanguage served to differentiate them from their associates, and,rather foolishly if heroically, to bolster up their pride.
But, to return to Peggy, what a pity it was that she had insisted onthe marriage ceremony! Yet, he respected her for that. _But_, andthere was always a but in Granger's reasonings, suppose he should gethis chance to return to England one day! And this would certainlyhappen to him on his mother's death. And suppose, when he hadtethered himself to this half-breed wife, he should get word thatMordaunt was still alive! Granger was always at a loss when the momentfor decision presented itself; he was too moderate, too far-sightedand philosophic to act immediately. It takes an abrupt, coarse-grainedman, or a prophet, to handle a crisis efficiently; your man who isonly endowed just beyond the average sees too far--and not far enough.The insolent infringement of personality which he had suffered as manand child from his mother's unwise interference had caused him tobecome a chronic hesitator. As usual, in this case as in all others,he determined to let matters slide, to give circumstance an unfetteredopportunity to evolve its own event. He was content to remain thespectator of his own career, allowing Chance to be the only doer ofthe deeds which went to make up the record of his life. And what wouldChance do next? The Man with the Dead Soul might return at any hourfrom his winter's hunt, bringing with him his daughter, in which casemost surely his book of life would commence to write out its latestchapter of disgrace.
Beorn had cached a canoe at the mouth of the Forbidden River, andtherefore would reach the Point up-stream from the northward. Grangerfound excitement in the thought that any minute, looking out from hiswindow, he might discover the approach of his future wife. The more heallowed his fancy to dwell upon her, the more pleasant her imagebecame for him. After all, there is always something of romance, atfirst at any rate, in marrying out of your blood heritage. Pizarromust have felt that when he took to himself Inez Huayllas Nusta, theInca princess. The havoc of affection which was being enactedsecretly beneath the shadow of the forest trees urged him on, crying,"Take your pleasure while it is yours, winter will return. Short viewsof life are best." Having listened to that advice for several days, heallowed himself to be persuaded. It seemed to him, when he rememberedhow they had parted, that it would be a gallant and reconciling act toset forth to meet her. Moreover, though the mind that was in him stoodaside from the project in disdain, the body cried, "Forward! Forward!"in chorus with the song of the wild-wood.
Early one morning he carried down his canoe to the water's edge,loaded it with a week's provisions, padlocked his store and set out.As the prow drove forward down-stream, exultation entered into him. Hewas playing at saying good-bye to his long exile; miles ahead lay theHudson Bay, and beyond that England. If his boat were not so frail andhis arms were stronger, by pressing on and onward he could escape.These were scarcely the thoughts with which a man should set out tomeet his bride. Desires to meet and avoid her alternated even now,when with each fresh thrust of the paddle he approached her nearerpresence. Yet, even to his way of thinking, there was something epicin the situation--that this girl of an alien tradition and a savagerace, with her copper skin, and blue-black hair, and timid eyes,should be threading her passage up her native river, through the earlysummer, toward her western lover who was hastening down the self-sameprimeval highroad to meet her. Oh, he would be very happy with Peggy!Thus imagining himself on through the labyrinth of passionate fancy,he floated down stream, shrouded in the morning mist. He had to goslowly, for he could not see far ahead, and travel by water was stilltreacherous by reason of belated floes of ice. Over to the eastwardthe sun winked down on him with a dissipated bloodshot eye, knowingly,with the cruel misanthropic humour of a tired man of the world who,regarding idealism as a jest, had guessed at the purpose of his errandand was eager to declare his own shrewd cleverness.
And if the sun is a cynic, who can blame him? He alone of createdthings has an intimate knowledge of all live things' love affairs,from when Eve shook back her hair and lifted up her lips, to the lastgirl kissed in Japan. The canoe drifting out of a scarf of mistbrought Granger in sight of th
e bend, where Strangeways had beendrowned. He plunged his paddle deeper in the water, thrusting itforward to stay the progress of the prow, and glanced from side toside, then straight ahead. He had caught the smell of burning. On thenorthern side of the bend, curling above the trees, he could detectthe rise of smoke. Someone had lit a fire and was camping there. Butwho? Was it Beorn and Peggy? No, they would not camp so near theirdestination; they would have pushed on to the store for rest. Norcould it be men from the Crooked Creek coming up to God's Voice; theseason was as yet too early for them to be expected. Then, was itSpurling?
Paddling out into the middle stream, he stole beneath the fartherbank, and, rounding the bend, came in sight of two men, the one seatedupright before the fire cooking his bannocks, the other stretched outtwenty paces distant at the edge of the underbrush, completely coveredwith a robe, motionless as if he slept. The man who was awake lookedup, shaded his eyes, then rising to his feet came down to the water'sedge and waved his hand.
Granger recognised in him his friend Pere Antoine, the gaunt oldJesuit of Keewatin. No one could remember, not even the Indians, atwhat time he had first come into the district; he seemed to have beenthere always and was of a great age. Yet, despite his many years, hecould travel miracles of journeys in the name of Mary's son. It wassaid of him that he was always to be seen mounting the sky-line intimes of crisis and temptation; that he knew by instinct where menwere in spiritual peril, as the caribou scents water; that he hadoften broken out of the forest unexpectedly in time to prevent murder.There were Indians to be found who would circumstantially assert thatthey had met with Pere Antoine, five hundred miles distant from thespot where he had last been seen, walking in the wilderness radiantly,wearing the countenance of Jesus Christ.
Granger recalled these legends as he gazed toward the camp; he watchedthe figure of the sleeping man--and he thought of Spurling. Was thisSpurling? He tried to make out the man's identity by his figure'soutline, but the robes which were piled above him forbade that. Yetwithin himself he was sure that his guess was correct. What was morelikely than that Antoine should have met the fugitive wandering up theForbidden River, perhaps sick and starving, should have taken hisconfession and compassionately have brought him back? Probably it wasAntoine's purpose that they two should be reconciled. He might evenhave converted Spurling and have brought back God into his life, sothat now he was willing to return to Winnipeg to give himself up, andto take his chance of death.
Having run his canoe aground between the bank-ice, he stepped out andgrasped the Jesuit's hand.
"God has arrived before you this time, Pere Antoine," he said, jerkinghis head in the direction of the sleeping man; "he has already doneyour work. I have promised Him that I will do no harm to yourcompanion, so you have arrived too late."
"If it was God who arrived," he said, "I am content."
He spoke significantly, hinting at a further knowledge of which hesupposed Granger to be possessed.
"If it was not God, then who else?"
"Ah, who else?"
Granger, in common with most white men of the district, had falleninto the Indian superstition that Pere Antoine was omniscient; it cameto him as a shock that he might be unaware of how God had written onthe ice. Usually in talking with the priest he took short-cuts in hismethods of communication, leaving many things understood butunmentioned, as a man is wont to do when conversing with himself.
"There is no doubt that it was God," he said; "He did not want me tomurder this man. He wished that I should leave him alone, to be judgedin the forest by Himself. Therefore, if you have brought him here withyou to make us friends, I will not do that; but I will promise you, asI have promised God, that I will not be his enemy."
Antoine tapped him on the arm gently, looking him full in the facewith his grave, penetrating eyes: "And did not God Himself arrive toolate?" he asked.
Granger flushed hotly, for he thought that he detected an under-toneof accusation in the way in which those words were uttered. "Tell me,is he dead?" he asked abruptly.
"He is dead."
"Is it . . . is that his body over there?"
"You should know best."
Involuntarily Granger sank his voice, now that he knew that thatsleeping man was dead. He pressed closer to the priest and commencedto whisper, now that he knew that no noise of his, however loud, coulddisturb the rest of this man who would never wake. Sometimes, when inthe hurry of his speech his voice had been by accident a littleraised, he would cease speaking, lift up his head, and peer furtivelyfrom side to side, then over to where the dead man lay, to makecertain that he had not stirred,--all this lest someone in that greatsilence should have heard what he had said. Thus does the presence ofthe dead accuse living men, as if by our mere retention of life we didthem injury. Wheresoever we encounter them, whether in the hired prideof the vulgar city hearse, or in the pitiful disarray of bleachedbones and tattered raiment strewn on a mountainside, they make eventhose of us who are remotest from blame feel guilty men.
"But, Pere Antoine, I did not kill him," Granger was saying. "I wasgravely tempted, but God wrote upon the ice and stayed my hand. Thisman was once my friend, and is now again--now that he is dead. Let meuncover and look upon his face."
But the priest withheld him. "Not yet--not yet," he said. "Let usfirst talk together awhile, that I may hear what has happened, and getto understand."
So there in the quiet of the early morning, with nothing to break thestillness save the crackling of the fire, and the flowing of theriver, and the occasional flight of a bird, Granger told the priestall his story, from his first dream of El Dorado to the thoughts ofescape and of Peggy Ericsen which he had had, as drifting down-stream,he had caught the smell of burning and come in sight of the bend. Itwas a true confession; nothing to his own discredit was left out.
When he came to an end the mist had lifted, and the sun rode high inthe heavens disentangled of cloud. All the time that he had beenspeaking the priest had sat motionless, with his head bent forwardlistening, his knees drawn up and his arms about them. Now that thetale was over, he slowly turned his head; and then it was for thefirst time that Granger knew what the Indians meant when they saidthat they had met with Pere Antoine in the wilderness, walkingradiantly, wearing the countenance of Jesus Christ. There was such abrightness about him that he could not bear his gaze, but tremblingwith a kind of fearful joy fell forward on his face, covering his eyeswith his hands. And still the priest said nothing, not trustinghimself to speak, perhaps, so great was his compassion.
But it was not long before Granger was conscious of a hand, hard andhorny and ungentle, as far as outward circumstance could make it so,which rested on his head. At last he spoke. "I think I understand," hesaid, and then, after a pause, "but you will never help yourself orthe world by merely being sad. No man ever has."
When Granger answered nothing nor lifted up his head, he spoke again."Does that seem a strange judgment to pass on you here in Keewatin?Does it sound too much like the speech of a city man? Nevertheless, itis because of your flight from sadness that you have met with all yourdangers. All your life you have spent in striving to escape fromthings which are sad. Why did you dream of El Dorado when you were inLondon? Because, as you yourself have told me, exquisiteness of dressdid not reassure you of another's happiness; you were alwaysremembering that a decent coat may sometimes cover cancer. You are oneof those who suffer more because of the sores of Lazarus than Lazarushimself. That is well and Christlike, if you suffer gladly--which youdo not. So you left London and travelled half across the world toYukon, only to find a greater wretchedness; for your misery growingvicious pursued you, and goaded you on to crime. Once more to escapeyou left Yukon and came to Winnipeg, and came up here, and still youare sad. Will I tell you why? Always, always you have depended onyourself for escape and rest. That is useless, for your sadness doesnot belong to any city, or any land; it is within yourself. Whereveryou have travelled you have carried it with you. You must look forhelp from ou
tside yourself."
Again he paused, but Granger did not stir. Then he repeated, speakingyet more gently, "I am an old man and have lived in Keewatin thelength of most men's lives, yet I have not always lived up here. I wasnot always happy, and I say to you, you must look for help fromoutside yourself."
Then Granger answered him, keeping his head still bowed.
"Where, where must I look for help?"
"Lift up your head."
He obeyed, and the first sight he saw was the face of Pere Antoinebent above him. Again he was struck with its likeness to thetraditional face of Christ--but the face was that of a Jesus who hadgrown grey in suffering and had been often crucified, who was veryancient and had not yet attained his death. Then he thought he knewwhat le Pere had meant by saying that he must look for help fromoutside himself. He turned his eyes away and gazed into the sunshine,and on the greenness of the awakened country. Somehow it all lookedvery happy and changed from what it had been before they two had met.He vaguely wondered whether already he might not be now experiencingthat help. But, as had always happened to him after tasting of amomentary joy, in turning his head he found a new grief awaiting him,for there, twenty paces distant, stretched out at the edge of theunderbrush, covered with a robe, he caught sight of that recumbentfigure, lying motionless as if it slept. He shuddered, and seizing thepriest by the arm, speaking hoarsely with suppressed excitement,exclaimed, "Where did he come from? But where did you find him?"
"I found him stretched out on the bank-ice, awaiting me as I paddledup-stream toward the bend."
"Then he was coming back. God must have met him down there on theForbidden River and have spoken with him face to face; he could notendure His voice, so he fled. Oh, to come back at such a season, whenthe river was in flood, he must have been terribly afraid. He musthave clambered his way up-stream, all those hundred miles, running bythe bank. Pere Antoine, you know many things, what kind of words werethose, do you suppose, that God spoke to Spurling?"
"The kind of words which God always speaks to men; He told him thetruth about himself."
"The truth about himself? There are few who could endure to hearthat."
"Yes, He would accuse him with a question, I think."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because that is the way in which God usually speaks to men. He askedAdam a question, and Adam hid himself; he asked Cain a question, andCain became a vagabond in the earth."
They sat in silence awhile, and then Granger said, "And if God were tospeak to me, what question would He ask?"
"I think he would say, 'John Granger, by how much are you better thanSpurling, whom you condemn?'"
"You are right; yes, I think He would say that. Even I have askedmyself that question before to-day."
"You did not ask yourself; it was God's voice."
"And I could give no answer to what He said. Pere Antoine, before wemet, I had often wondered what I would say to Spurling should we meetagain. I had planned all manner of kindly phrases to make him again myfriend; but I had thought of him as coming to me prosperous, with theapproval of the world. When he came to me in poverty, asking help, inperil of his life for a sin which had been almost mine, I turned himaway. He had chosen me out from among all men between Winnipeg and theKlondike, as the only one to whom he could safely go for help; and Iturned him away. I see it clearly now; God sent to me this man whom Ihad wished to murder, when he had performed my crime, that, byendangering my life for his, I might cleanse myself. When all men hadfailed him, he and God expected that I, at least, would understand.But for Mordaunt, I might have had to flee as he fled, changed by theraising of a gun and hasty pulling of a trigger into a Judas to allthat is best; I might have had to support within me his uttersolitariness and agony of mind, and have been compelled to see myselfas debased throughout and forever by a single, momentary act. How hemust have suffered! I shall fear to die now; till now I have beenafraid only of life."
"Why will you fear to die?"
"Because I shall meet with Spurling, and then I shall hear God'squestion and His accusing voice."
The priest laid a hand upon his shoulder gently. "Ah, my child, butyou forget," he said; "in the country where Spurling has gone he willhave learnt how to understand."
That thought was new to Granger, that of the two faults his own wasthe greater and that forgiveness belonged to Spurling. He satmotionless for a long time arguing it out; he wanted to be exactlyjust to both Spurling and himself. The fire died down and Pere Antoinethrew on more brushwood; the sun grew tall in the heavens and a raincloud gathered in the west; the floe-ice caught in its passage roundthe bend, gasped and whined and, tearing itself free again, vanisheddown river out of sight. The arithmetic of the problem stood thus:Spurling's sin had been the result of a sudden violence, his own of aconscious and premeditated uncharitableness. Which sin was morally theworse, to shoot a fellow creature in a fit of passionate desperation,or to turn your back upon a bygone benefactor who comes to you indistress, comes to you when his heart is breaking, because he cantrust himself with no one else? "My sin is the greater," Granger toldhimself, "I am more wrongful than wronged against"; his thoughts goingback to what le Pere had said, he added, "I am Cain, and yet I judgedSpurling as if I had been God Himself."
He was roused from his meditation by a dull thudding sound which hadcommenced behind his back; turning his head, he saw that Pere Antoinewas already digging a grave. Rising without a word, he began to lend ahand. They had not gone far when they found that the ground was hardas granite, that it had not yet thawed out; then they commenced tolook for stones to pile upon the body so that, since the grave wouldbe shallow, they might raise a mound above it to prevent the wolvesfrom getting the body out.
By the time they had completed their preparations the rain was fallingin large and heavy drops, and the storm was blowing in great guststhrough the forest, causing the young leaves to shudder and whispertogether, and to turn their backs to the wind. The priest and thetrader stood upright from their work and gazed at one another. Alreadythe narrow hole, which they had scooped out, was filling with water;there was no time to lose; yet neither seemed inclined to hurry. Atlast Pere Antoine said, "So you are sure that you did not do it?"
"I cannot be sure of that."
"Ah, but you did not do it in the way I mean? You did not kill himwith the strength of your hands?"
They went together to the edge of the underbrush where the dead man'sbody lay, and carried it, without disturbing the coverings, to theside of the grave; there they set it down.
"I cannot bear that he should lie in that dampness," Granger brokeout; "I remember when we were in London, how he used to hate the wet.Coldness he could put up with or the hottest sunshine, but he couldnot endure the damp. He said it made him feel as though the world wascrying, like a dreary woman because her youngest child was dead. Wecan't drop him into that puddle and leave him there."
He commenced to strip off his clothes, and to fold them along thefloor of the grave. When he had apparently made all ready, he stoopeddown again and smoothed out a ruck, lest its discomfort should irk thedead.
"Now," he said, "let me see his face for the last time, for he was myfriend."
Le Pere bent down, and drew the coverings back to the waist, whileGranger leant over him in his eagerness. The body, having lain uponthe ice, had been well preserved, no feature had been disturbed; butit was not the body of a man who was newly dead, nor was it the faceof Spurling. So absorbed had Granger been by thoughts of the comradewhom he had treated harshly, and by the mysterious meaning of thewriting which he had seen upon the ice, that the likelier solution ofthe problem of this man's identity had not entered into his head, thatthe body might be that of Strangeways, thrown up by the back-rush ofthe current around the bend.
"Strangeways," he muttered, "it is Strangeways." And with those wordshis charity towards Spurling began to ebb.
Pere Antoine, when he heard it, realising that these were the remainsof an officer of jus
tice, for whom, when he did not return, searchwould be made, and not of an escaped murderer with a price upon hishead, at news of whose death Authority would be glad, went down on hishands and knees and began to examine the clothing of the dead forproofs of his identity, which could be sent in to headquarters for theestablishing of his death. He foresaw that there was need for care;when the matter came to be investigated, it would be discovered thatGranger had been Spurling's partner in the Klondike; questions wouldcertainly be asked of Robert Pilgrim, as Hudson Bay factor and headman of the district, concerning Granger's conduct in Keewatin, and nogood word could be looked for from that quarter. That which would tellmost heavily against him would be this fact, that two men, separatedby a few hours, were known to have passed God's Voice en route for theindependent store of Garnier, Parwin, and Wrath, the first a huntedcriminal, the second an officer of justice--the criminal had escapedand the officer was dead. Presumably both pursued and pursuer hadarrived at Murder Point, for the body of Strangeways, the follower,had been found a mile down-river below the Point. Then where wasSpurling? And how had he managed to escape, if he had not been helped?Who could have helped him save Granger? And why was Strangeways dead?
These were some of the many questions which avenging justice would besure to ask, and, however skilfully they might be answered, the priestknew well that it would be difficult to prevent suspicion fromattaching to a hated independent trader, especially when it becameknown that he had once been the fugitive's friend. Why, he himself hadsuspected Granger at first!
His present purpose was, if possible, to gather such proofs from thedead man's clothing as would exclude the doubt of foul play, andestablish as a fact Granger's assertion that the corporal had arrivedat his death by the accident of drowning.
In the meanwhile, he was not meeting with much success in his search,for the right arm of the dead man was pressed so rigidly across hisbreast that it could not be moved without breaking; the hand wasconcealed and the fingers tangled in the folds of his dress, as ifeven in the last moments of life he had been conscious that he kept asecret hidden there. Only with violence could it be forced aside, andto this the priest was averse; he commenced to cut away the clothing,above downwards from the neck, below upwards from the belt. The clothripped easily, having become rotten with the wet, but the trimmings offur were tough and obstinate to separate. When he had slit the capoteand under-garments above and below the arm in two big flaps, he rolledthem back, laying bare the breast, where he discovered a silver chainwhich went about the neck, the pendant to which, wrapped in theportion of the dress that had covered it, was clutched in the icyhand. He now cut away the stuff from around the hand, and, with aseverity which seemed both profane and cruel, bent back the fingersone by one, compelling them to release their hold, so that the boneswere heard to crack.
"What are you doing?" cried Granger, angrily, being roused by thesound from an unsatisfactory examination of the mixed feelings whichhad arisen within him on discovering that Spurling, whom he had justbeen regretting, was not dead. "Why must we torture him? Why can't weleave him alone, and lay him decently in his grave?"
"Perhaps in order that we may prevent you from being hanged."
"From being hanged! You mistake me for Spurling, Pere Antoine; yourmemory must be failing. What have I done to deserve such courtesy atthe hands of Fate? Why should men want to hang me?"
"For the murder of Strangeways."
Granger stood back, and drew himself erect, as if by asserting hisphysical cleanness and manhood he could refute the accusation. Helifted up his head and gazed with a fixed stare on the landscape,seeing nothing. Yes, it was true, they could make that accusation;there was sufficient evidence for suspecting him and, with the aid ofa few lies and inaccurate statements on the part of hisenemies--Robert Pilgrim, for instance, and Indians whom he hadoffended--sufficient evidence might be got together to bring him tothe gallows. A fitting ending that for the son of the ambitious motherwho had stinted herself and planned for his success, and a mostappropriate sequel to the example of reckless bravery set by the lasttwo generations of his father's house!
Dimly, slowly, as he stood there in the northern icy drizzle, with hiseyes on the muddy river hurrying toward its freedom between jaggedbanks, he came very wretchedly to realise that there was only one wayin which he could save himself, a way, albeit, which both his loyaltyand honour forbade, by becoming ardent in the pursuit and effectingthe capture of Spurling, that so he might prove his innocence. Anemotion of shame and self-disgust throbbed through him that it shouldhave been possible for him, even for a moment, to entertain such acoward's thought as that. He shook himself free from temptation andlooked about. What was Pere Antoine doing? What had he meant by sayingthat he was perhaps preventing him from being hanged? Did he stillbelieve him to be guilty, as he had evidently done at first?
Pere Antoine was intent upon his undertaking; when asked, he onlyshook his head, saying, "If I believed you guilty, why should Iendeavour to find the signs which will prove you innocent? Would I dothat, do you think, if I believed you to be a guilty man?"
Granger was softened by those words; they meant a great deal to him atsuch a time, spoken as they were curtly by one who was so eager torehabilitate his character before all the world that he had no momentsto waste in argument. They were far more convincing to him of the trueopinion which le Pere held of him than an hour consumed in apology,which would have been an hour spent in idleness. He came and kneltdown by the side of the priest, and gazed on the results of his work.He saw the cold white face of Strangeways with the eyes set wide,staring upwards at the clouds. Their gaze did not seem to concentrateas in life, but like that of a well-painted portrait, while the eyesthemselves remained fixed, wandered everywhere. Yet, when he settledhis attention upon them, they seemed to look at him alone as if, sincethe lips were silent, they were trying to speak those words which thebody had come to utter; if he turned his head away for a moment andthen looked back, they seemed themselves to have changed theirdirection and to be staring again incuriously out on space, havingabandoned hope of delivering their message. And he saw the nakedthroat and neck, and the marks where the teeth of the yellow-facedhusky had clashed and met; last of all he saw the silver chain and thependant attached, which Pere Antoine had at that moment succeeded infreeing from the cold clenched hand.
"What have you there?" he asked.
"I don't know yet. Lift up the head, so that we can slip the chainover and find out."
Granger did as he was bidden; but, as he stooped to his task, he washorribly conscious that the dead man's eyes were intently fixed uponhim, as if they knew and lived on, though every other part of themotionless body was dead and ignorant.
"Well, here it is. It's a locket."
Granger started up from the ground trembling. "Pere Antoine, do youthink we ought to look at it?" he said.
"Why not?"
"Look at the eyes of that dead man."
"They seem to me to be saying 'yes.'"
Granger looked again, went near, bent down and looked carefully; thenhe turned his head. "You are right," he said; "I also think they aresaying 'yes.'"
The priest put the locket in his hand. "It is for you to open it," hesaid.
It was of gold and studded with turquoise, a woman's trinket andold-fashioned, the chasing being worn flat in places; the silver chainwas common and strong, and had evidently not at first belonged to it,being of modern manufacture--probably a comparatively recentpurchase. Granger looked it over critically, but could get no hint ofits contents from the outside. On the front was engraved a monogram J.M., and on the back a coat-of-arms. The lines of the monogram weredistinct and sharp to the touch, they must have been cut many yearsafter the locket itself was made, but the coat-of-arms seemedcontemporary with the rest of the chasing. He tried to open it, butthe dampness had caused it to stick, so that he broke his nails uponthe fastening. He took out his knife and attempted to lever its edgesapart with the blade. At last, growing impatie
nt, he set it on itshinges upon a rock and commenced to hammer it with a stone. At thethird blow the fastening gave, and the sides fell apart. He could seethat it contained a miniature, and, on the other side, a lock of hair;but the glasses which shut them in were mist-covered. He rubbed themclean on the lining of his coat and looked again.
The portrait was that of a young girl, fresh and innocent, abouteighteen years of age; her hair, worn loose, all blown about, fellupon her neck and shoulders in long curls; her eyes were blue andintensely bright; her face was animated, with a certain dash ofgenerous spirit and healthy defiance in it, which were chiefly denotedby the full firm lips and arching brows--and the face was the face ofMordaunt. For the first time, he saw the woman whom he had loved, inher rightful woman's guise. He had often longed that he might do that;it had made him feel that he shared so small a portion of her lifethat he should know her only by her man's name and remember her onlyin her Yukon placer-miner's dress. He would have stooped to kiss herlips at that time, had it not been for the presence of the dead, whohad also loved her and from whom he had stolen his treasure. Would hisbody be able to rest in the grave when thus robbed of the symbol ofthe passion which had caused its blood to pulsate most fiercely in itslife?
Then he fell to thinking other thoughts--of how strangely thisknowledge had come to him, from all across the world, by the hand of arejected lover who was dead. Had this been the secret which thecorporal had waited to tell him, thrown up on the ice, lying silentand deserted throughout that month at the bend; had he been waitingonly to say, "I hold the knowledge which you most desire in myclenched right hand. Here is her woman's likeness. I require it nolonger, now that I am dead?" No, surely he had not delayed for that.Then suddenly he realised that this must mean that the woman herselfwas dead. He remembered distinctly those last words which Strangewayshad spoken, even as though he were now repeating them again aloud, "Itell you if the ice were as rotten as your soul or Spurling's, I wouldstill follow him, though I had to follow him to Hell." And his lastutterance had been a reiteration of that promise, "He killed the womanI loved, and he shall pay the price though I follow him to Hell."
This was the fulfilment of that promise; though he himself was dead,he had delayed his body near Murder Point that, with his pale andsilent lips and the portrait which hung about his neck, he might urgehis rival on in their common cause of vengeance. "I will pray Godevery day of my life that Spurling may be damned throughout theages--eternally and pitilessly damned," he had said, and now that thedays of his life were over his body had tarried behind to continuethat errand, so far as was possible, into the days of his death. Whenthey had parted that night, a month ago outside the shack, he had tolda lie; he had denied that the woman was Mordaunt who had beenmurdered, and had tried to prove his words by asserting that the bodywhich was found in the creek near Forty-Mile had worn a woman's dress.Now he had come back to silently refute his own statement, and todeclare the truth which would stir up anger and give him an inheritorof his revenge.
Here, then, was a new reason why he should become ardent in thepursuit and effect the capture of Spurling, that by so doing he wouldbe behaving honourably by a man who was dead. He saw in it at present,with his cynic's eye for self-scorn and self-depreciation, only anadded excuse and more subtle temptation for the saving of himself."No, I cannot do it," he said. And yet, somewhere at the back of hisbrain, the monotonous and oracular voice of a wise self-knowledge keptanswering, "But you will do it, when you have had leisure to belonely, and have tortured yourself with memories of her."
It seemed to Granger as though Strangeways himself were the speaker ofthose words; but when he turned round hotly, prepared for argument, hefound that the eyes had become glazed and vacant, and that at last thebody was truly dead. It had no need to live longer--it had deliveredits message.
Murder Point: A Tale of Keewatin Page 10