A thousand new thoughts were thrilling through him. Yet this man had
given his word to do that for which he must ask forgiveness of the woman
he loved. But to Pretty Pierre, forgiven or unforgiven, he would keep
his word. She understood it better than most of those who read this
brief record can. Every sphere has its code of honour and duty peculiar
to itself.
"You will come to me on Christmas morning, Aleck?"
"I will come on Christmas morning."
"And no more after that of Pretty Pierre?"
"And no more of Pretty Pierre."
She trusted him; but neither could reckon with unknown forces.
Sergeant Fones, sitting in the barracks in talk with Private Gellatly,
said at that moment in a swift silence, "Exactly."
Pretty Pierre, at Pardon's Drive, drinking a glass of brandy at that
moment, said to the ceiling:
"No more of Pretty Pierre after to-morrow night, monsieur! Bien! If it
is for the last time, then it is for the last time. So....so."
He smiled. His teeth were amazingly white.
The stalwart figure strode on under the stars, the white night a lens for
visions of days of rejoicing to come. All evil was far from him. The
dolorous tide rolled back in this hour from his life, and he revelled in
the light of a new day.
"When I've played my last card to-morrow night with Pretty Pierre, I'll
begin the world again," he whispered.
And Sergeant Fones in the barracks said just then, in response to a
further remark of Private Gellatly,--"Exactly."
Young Aleck fell to singing:
"Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,
Father, mother, and child;
Come, my love, to our home,
Father, mother, and child,
Father, mother, and--"
He fell to thinking again--"and child--and child,"--it was in his ears
and in his heart.
But Pretty Pierre was singing softly to himself in the room at Pardon's
Drive:
"Three good friends with the wine at night
Vive la compagnie!
Two good friends when the sun grows bright
Vive la compagnie!
Vive la, vive la, vive l'amour!
Vive la, vive la, vive l'amour!
Three good friends, two good friends
Vive la compagnie!"
What did it mean?
Private Gellatly was cousin to Idaho Jack, and Idaho Jack disliked Pretty
Pierre, though he had been one of the gang. The cousins had seen each
other lately, and Private Gellatly had had a talk with the man who was
ha'sh. It may be that others besides Pierre had an idea of what it
meant.
In the house at Pardon's Drive the next night sat eight men, of whom
three were Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Idaho Jack. Young Aleck's
face was flushed with bad liquor and the worse excitement of play. This
was one of the unreckoned forces. Was this the man that sang the tender
song under the stars last night? Pretty Pierre's face was less pretty
than usual; the cheeks were pallid, the eyes were hard and cold. Once he
looked at his partner as if to say, "Not yet." Idaho Jack saw the look;
he glanced at his watch; it was eleven o'clock. At that moment the door
opened, and Sergeant Fones entered. All started to their feet, most with
curses on their lips; but Sergeant Fones never seemed to hear anything
that could make a feature of his face alter. Pierre's hand was on his
hip, as if feeling for something. Sergeant Fones saw that; but he walked
to where Aleck stood, with his unplayed cards still in his hand, and,
laying a hand on his shoulder, said, "Come with me."
"Why should I go with you?"--this with a drunken man's bravado.
"You are my prisoner."
Pierre stepped forward. "What is his crime?" he exclaimed.
"How does that concern you, Pretty Pierre?"
"He is my friend."
"Is he your friend, Aleck?"
What was there in the eyes of Sergeant Fones that forced the reply,--
"To-night, yes; to-morrow, no."
"Exactly. It is near to-morrow; come."
Aleck was led towards the door. Once more Pierre's hand went to his hip;
but he was looking at the prisoner, not at the Sergeant. The Sergeant
saw, and his fingers were at his belt. He opened the door. Aleck passed
out. He followed. Two horses were tied to a post. With difficulty
Aleck was mounted. Once on the way his brain began slowly to clear, but
he grew painfully cold. It was a bitter night. How bitter it might have
been for the ne'er-do-weel let the words of Idaho Jack, spoken in a long
hour's talk next day with Old Brown Windsor, show. "Pretty Pierre, after
the two were gone, said, with a shiver of curses,--'Another hour and it
would have been done, and no one to blame. He was ready for trouble.
His money was nearly finished. A little quarrel easily made, the door
would open, and he would pass out. His horse would be gone, he could not
come back; he would walk. The air is cold, quite, quite cold; and the
snow is a soft bed. He would sleep well and sound, having seen Pretty
Pierre for the last time. And now--' The rest was French and furtive."
From that hour Idaho Jack and Pretty Pierre parted company.
Riding from Pardon's Drive, Young Aleck noticed at last that they were
not going towards the barracks. He said: "Why do you arrest me?"
The Sergeant replied: "You will know that soon enough. You are now going
to your own home. Tomorrow you will keep your word and go to David
Humphrey's place; the next day I will come for you. Which do you choose:
to ride with me to-night to the barracks and know why you are arrested,
or go, unknowing, as I bid you, and keep your word with the girl?"
Through Aleck's fevered brain, there ran the words of the song he sang
before--
"Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,
Father, mother, and child."
He could have but one answer.
At the door of his home the Sergeant left him with the words, "Remember
you are on parole."
Aleck noticed as the Sergeant rode away that the face of the sky had
changed, and slight gusts of wind had come up. At any other time his
mind would have dwelt upon the fact. It did not do so now.
Christmas Day came. People said that the fiercest night, since the
blizzard day of 1863, had been passed. But the morning was clear and
beautiful. The sun came up like a great flower expanding. First the
yellow, then the purple, then the red, and then a mighty shield of roses.
The world was a blanket of drift, and down, and glistening silver.
Mab Humphrey greeted her lover with such a smile as only springs to a
thankful woman's lips. He had given his word and had kept it; and the
path of the future seemed surer.
He was a prisoner on parole; still that did not depress him. Plans for
coming days were talked of, and the laughter of many voices filled the
house. The ne'er-do-weel was clothed and in his right mind. In the
Hunter's Room the noblest trophy was the heart of a repentant prodigal.
In the barracks that morning a gazetted notice was posted, announcing,
with such technical language as is the custom, that Sergeant Fones was
promoted to be a lieutenant in the Mounted Police Force of the North West
Territory. When the officer in command sent for him he could not be
found. But he was found that morning; and when Private Gellatly, with
a warm hand, touching the glove of "iron and ice" that, indeed, now said:
"Sergeant Fones, you are promoted, God help you!" he gave no sign.
Motionless, stern, erect, he sat there upon his horse, beside a stunted
larch tree. The broncho seemed to understand, for he did not stir, and
had not done so for hours;--they could tell that. The bridle rein was
still in the frigid fingers, and a smile was upon the face.
A smile upon the face of Sergeant Fones!