Lords of the North

by Agnes C. Laut

  CHAPTER XXVII

  UNDER ONE ROOF

  Nature is not unlike a bank. When drafts exceed deposits comes aprotest, and not infrequently, after the protest, bankruptcy. From thebuffalo hunt to the recapture of Fort Douglas by the Hudson's Baysoldiers, drafts on that essential part of a human being called staminahad been very heavy with me. Now came the casting-up of accounts, and mybill was minus reserve strength, with a balance of debt on the wrongside.

  The morning after the escape from Fort Douglas, when Mr. Sutherlandstrode off, leaving his daughter alone with me, I remember very wellthat Frances abruptly began putting my pillow to rights. Instead ofkeeping wide awake, as I should by all the codes of romance and commonsense, I--poor fool--at once swooned, with a vague, glimmeringconsciousness that I was dying and this, perhaps, was the first blissfulglimpse into paradise. When I came to my senses, Mr. Sutherland wasagain standing by the bedside with a half-shamed look of compassionunder his shaggy brows.

  "How far," I began, with a curious inability to use my wits and tongue,"how far--I mean how long have I been asleep, sir?"

  "Hoots, mon! Dinna claver in that feckless fashion! It's months, lad,sin' ye opened y'r mouth wi' onything but daft gab."

  "Months!" I gasped out. "Have I been here for months?"

  "Aye, months. The plain was snaw-white when ye began y'r bit nappie.Noo, d'ye no hear the clack o' the geese through yon open window?"

  I tried to turn to that side of the little room, where a great wave offresh, clear air blew from the prairie. For some reason my head refusedto revolve. Stooping, the elder man gently raised the sheet and rolledme 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 strangecontradiction to the gentleness of the touch.

  Now I hold that however rasping a man's words may be, if he handle thesick with gentleness, there is much goodness under the rough surface.Thoughtlessness and stupidity, I know, are patent excuses for half theunkindness and sorrow of life. But thoughtlessness and stupidity arealso responsible for most of life's brutality and crime. Notspiteful intentions alone, but the dulled, brutalized, deadenedsensibilities--that go under the names of thoughtlessness andstupidity--make a man treat something weaker than himself withroughness, or in an excessive degree, qualify for murder. When theharsh voice asked, "Do I rive ye sore?" I began to understand howsurface roughness is as often caused by life's asperities as by theinner dullness akin to the brute.

  Indeed, if my thoughts had not been so intent on the daughter, I couldhave found Mr. Sutherland's character a wonderfully interesting study.The infinite capacity of a canny Scot for keeping his mouth shut I neverrealized till I knew Mr. Sutherland. For instance, now thatconsciousness had returned, I noticed that the father himself, and notthe daughter, did all the waiting on me even to the carrying of mymeals.

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

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

  "I haven't seen your daughter yet, Mr. Sutherland," I stuttered out witha 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?" Andthat was all the satisfaction I got.

  Between the dinner hour and supper time I conjured up various plots tohoodwink 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-eighthours passed since I had regained consciousness and I had heard neitherher 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 toFrances."

  "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. Whatlover 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 respondedwith a flash of temper that was ever wont to flare up when put to thetest.

  "Aye," he answered, with an amused look in the cold, steel eyes. "I'lldeleever y'r message when--when"--and he hesitated in a way suggestiveof 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 whichonly the invalid, with all the strength of a man in his whims and theweakness of an infant in his body, knows. I spent a feverish, restlessnight, with the hard-faced Scotchman watching from his armchair at mybedside. Once, when I suddenly awakened from sleep, or delirium, hiseyes were fastened on my face with a gleam of grave kindliness.

  "Mr. Sutherland," I cried, with all the impatience of a child, "pleasetell 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 lassieclean daft. An' ye claver sic' nonsense when ye're daft, what would yesay 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 hishospitality, "I'm sorry to be the means of driving your daughter fromher 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 meexpose the head of a mitherless bairn to a' the clack o' the auld geesein the settlement? Temper y'r ardor wi' discretion, lad! 'Twas but theday before yesterday she left and she was sair done wi' nursing you andlosing of sleep! Till ye're fair y'rsel' again and up, and she's weeland 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 memany a good turn. Often have I heard those bragging captains of theHudson's Bay mercenaries swagger into the little cottage sitting-room,while I lay in bed on the other side of the thin board partition, andrelate to Mr. Sutherland all the incidents of their day's search for me.

  "So many pounds sterling for the man who captures the rascal," declaresD'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 headis worth, and proceeds to describe me in terms which Mr. Sutherland willonly 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 astonishedsoldier on the errors of Romanism; for whatever Mr. Sutherland deemedevil, from oaths to theological errors, he attributed directly to thepope.

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

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

  "Nae doot the headstrong young mon is' gettin' what he deserves. Iwarrant 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 a
tonce improved the occasion by taking down a volume and reading theFrench officer a series of selections against Romanism. After thatD'Orsonnens came no more.

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

  The Scotchman had lugged me from bed in a gentle, lumbering, well-meantfashion, 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'reaye as discreet wi' the thoughts o' y'r heart as y'r head! Ye need nafash y'r noodle wi' remorse aboot company secrets. I canna say ye'll nofret aboot some other things ye hae told. A' the winter lang, 'twasFrances and stars and spooks and speerits and bogies and statues andgraven images--wha' are forbidden by the Holy Scriptures--till thelassie thought ye gane clean daft! 'Twas a bonnie e'e, like silverstars; 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 blaboot y'r thoughts o' a wife till she believes na mon can hae peace wi'outher. I wad na hae ye abate one jot o' all ye think, for her price is farabove rubies; but hae a care wi' y'r grand talk! After ye gang to thekirk, lad, na mon can keep that up."

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

  I can compare my recovery only to the swift transition of seasons inthose northern latitudes. Without any lingering spring, the coldgrayness of long, tense winter gives place to a radiant sun-burst ofwarm, yellow light. The uplands have long since been blown bare of snowby the March winds, and through the tangle of matted turf shoot myriadpurple cups of the prairie anemone, while the russet grass takes onemerald tints. One day the last blizzard may be sweeping a white trailof stormy majesty across the prairie; the next a fragrance of flowersrises from the steaming earth and the snow-filled ravines have becomeminiature lakes reflecting the dazzle of a sunny sky and fleece clouds.

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

  "There's nae accountin' for some wilful folk, lad," was Mr. Sutherland'sremark, one evening after I was able to leave my room. "Ye hae risenfrae y'r bed like the crocus frae snaw. An' Frances were hangin' abooty'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. Therebe more speerin' for ye than hae love for y'r health. Have y'r witsaboot ye! Dinna be frettin' y'rsel' for Frances! The lassies aye rinfast enow tae the mon wi' sense to hold his ain!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "That is the nearest to an untruth I have ever heard him tell," shesaid, 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 thebarbed shaft, that lies hidden in fair eyes for unwary mortals.

  "Sit down," she commanded, sinking into the chair I had vacated. "Sitdown, Rufus, please!" This with an after-shot of alarm from the heavylashes; for if a woman's eyes may speak, so may a man's, and theirlanguage 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 hadspoken, I must have let bolt some impetuous thing better left unsaid.

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

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

  "I think I know all your secrets."

  "Oh!" A man usually has some secrets he would rather not share; andthough I had not swung the full tether of wild west freedom--thankssolely to her, not to me--I trembled at recollection of the passes thatcome to every man's life when he has been near enough the precipice toknow 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 anangel, just a woman and not a star. We women are mortals just as you menare. Sometimes we're fools as well as mortals, just as you men are; butI don't think we're knaves quite so often, because we're denied theopportunity and hedged about and not tempted."

  As she gently stripped away the pretty hypocrisies with which loversdelude themselves and lay up store for disappointment, I began todiscount that old belief about truth and knowledge rendering a womanmannish and arrogant and assertive.

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

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

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

  "No levity! If he had choice of angels and stars and a good woman, he'dchoose the woman. The star is mighty far away and cold and steely. Theangel's a deal too perfect to know sympathy with faults and blunders. Itell you, Little Statue, life is only moil and toil, unless lovetransmutes the base metal of hard duty into the pure gold of unalloyeddelight."

  "That's why I tremble. I must do more than angel or star! Oh, Rufus, ifI can only live up to what you think I am--and you can live up to what Ithink 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 longerreading. Shadows deepened into twilight, and twilight into gloaming.
Andit was the hour when the brooding spirit of the vast prairie solitudesfills the stillness of night with voiceless eloquence. Why should Iattempt to transcribe the silent music of the prairie at twilight, whichevery plain-dweller knows and none but a plain-dweller may understand?What wonder that the race native to this boundless land hears therustling of spirits in the night wind, the sigh of those who have losttheir way to the happy hunting-ground, and the wail of little ones whosefeet are bruised on the shadow trail? What wonder the gauzy northernlights are bands of marshaling warriors and the stars torches lightingthose who ride the plains of heaven? Indeed, I defy a white man with allthe discipline of science and reason to restrain the wanderings ofmystic fancy during the hours of sunset on the prairie.

  There is, I affirm, no such thing as time for lovers. If they havewatches and clocks, the wretched things run too fast; and if the sunhimself stood still in sympathy, time would not be long. So I confess Ihave no record of time that night Frances Sutherland returned to herhome and Mr. Sutherland kept guard at the door. When he had passed thethreshold impatiently twice, I recollected with regret that it wasimpossible to read theology in the dark. The third time he thrust hishead in.

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

  "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 hearwhat they say and the window is open. Indeed, Frances, I'm an expert atwindow-jumping," and I had begun to tell her of my scrape with Louis'drunken comrades in Fort Douglas, when I heard Mr. Sutherland's gratingtones according the newcomers a curious welcome. "Ye swearin',blasphemin', rampag'us, carousin' infidel, ye'll no darken my doorwaythis night. Y'r French gab may be foul wi' oaths for all I ken; butye'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 incensethat fair stinks in the nostrils o' decent folk, wi' y'r images andmummery 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' yeleave y'r religion outside! An' you, Meester Hamilton, a respectableProtestant, I'm fair surprised to see ye in sic' company."

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

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

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

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

  "Impertinent rascal," rasped the irate Scotchman. "I'd have yeunderstand 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'sinsolence.

  "I must, dearest," I whispered, disengaging the slender hands from myarm; 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 alow, tense voice was uttering words, which--thank an all-bountifulProvidence!--have no sectarian limits.

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

  "Dinna con Holy Writ to me, Sir," interrupted Mr. Sutherland, throwingthe 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 unutterabledisgust. "Ye daft gommerel! A' my care and fret, waste--gane clean towaste. I wash m' hands o' ye----"

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

  "I pay you back at las', my comrade! Ha--old solemncholy! You thoughtthe bird of passage, he come not back at all! But the birds return! Sodoes Louis! He decoy-duck the whole covey! You generous? No more notgenerous than the son of a seigneur, mine enemy! You give life? He givelife! 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 aseigneur, snare that she-devil, trap that fox, trick the tigress!Ha--ol' tombstone! _Noblesse oblige_--I say! She near--she here," and heflung up both arms like a frenzied maniac.

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

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

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

  "That--that thing--that bear--that bruin--he a friend?" and Louispointed 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? Speakplain, man! Have you brought the tribe as you promised?"

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

  "_Sacredie_," said he, backing against Father Holland, "I am nomurderer."

  It was then I observed that Frances Sutherland had followed me. Herslender white fingers were about the bronzed hand of the Frenchadventurer.

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

  "The daughter of _L'Aigle_," he replied slowly and collectedly, all thewhile feasting upon that fair face, "comes down the Red with her tribeand captives, many captive women. They pass here to-night. They campsouth the rapids, this side of the rapids. Last night I leave them. Irun 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 usdown. We must go to the rapids--to the camp! There my contract! Mybargain, it is finished," and he shrugged his shoulders, for Frances hadremoved her hand from his.

  Whether Louis Laplante's excitable nature were momentarily unbalanced bythe success of his feat, I leave to psychologists. Whether somepremonition of his impending fate had wrought upon him strangely, letpsychical speculators decide. Or whether Louis, the sly rogue, worked upthe whole situation for the purpose of drawing Frances Sutherland intothe scene--which is what I myself suspect--I refer to private judgment,and merely set down the incidents as they occurred. That was how LouisLaplante told us of bringing Diable's squaw and her captives back to RedRiver. And that was how Father Holland and Eric and Louis and Mr.Sutherland and myself came to be embarking with a camping outfit for acanoe-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, leavingthe rest of us to take our places in a larger craft, where LittleFellow, 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 upa 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 thoseIndians 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, hehave a wife--he not be killed! Mademoiselle--she love a poor fool--orbreak her pretty heart! The father--he needed to stick-pin you both--soyou never want for to fight each other," and Louis laughed low like thepurr 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, 'tisa good heart ye have, if ye'd but cut loose from the binding past. Maythis night put an end to your devil pranks!"

  * * * * *

  And that night did!