A Night Vision
For several minutes Hugo knelt there holding the ring in his right
hand. It was a delicate circlet, a fragile wisp of gold to contain such
an exquisite gem. What fair finger had it adorned? What eyes, looking
down upon it, had rivalled its sparkling beauty? What comely cheeks had
flushed in the joy of its possession? He felt sure that Mrs. Haines
had not worn it. What use would such an ornament have been to her in
that rude cabin? At any rate, he had never seen it upon her finger. Her
hands, he had noted, were rough and toil-worn. But had she once worn
it? Was it a precious keepsake, a memento of other and happier days?
Had it in any way figured in the terrible tragedy which had so recently
taken place? Why was it wedged in the crack between those two planks?
Why had it not been broken and crushed in the terrible struggle that
had ensued?
These were some of the thoughts which surged through Hugo’s mind as he
stared hard at the ring. The value of the diamond he did not know. That
it was no ordinary stone he felt certain. How it gleamed and sparkled
as he held it to the sun. He turned it over and over in his fingers. He
was gradually becoming its slave. Its beauty was fascinating him; its
radiance was dazzling him.
A sound from the bunk startled him. He glanced quickly and guiltily
around like one caught in a criminal deed. But it was only the child,
chuckling as it tried to grasp a narrow beam of sunshine which fell
athwart the blankets. With lightning rapidity Hugo thrust the ring
into an inside pocket of his jacket and sprang to his feet. He stepped
swiftly to the side of the bunk and glared down upon the child. Then a
harsh, mirthless laugh burst from his lips. The perspiration stood out
in beads upon his forehead.
“Hugo, you’re a fool,” he growled. “What has come over you, anyway? No
more such nonsense.”
He went to the door, opened it and looked out. The air cooled his hot
brow. He felt better, and more like himself. He was anxious now to
get away from that cabin. It was not good for him to be there--with
the ring and the child. The place was polluted. Innocent blood had
been shed in that room, and who could tell what might happen should he
stay much longer? He had always scoffed at the idea of ghosts. But he
did not wish to remain in that building overnight. He had a peculiar
creeping sensation whenever he thought of it. He was not afraid of
travellers who might call in passing. But he did have great respect
for the Mounted Police, the redoubtable guardians of the north, the
sleuth-hounds of the trails. Should they suddenly appear, he might find
the situation most embarrassing. Alone with the child, and with the
marks of a tragedy so evident, he might have difficulty in convincing
them of his innocency in the affair. And should the ring be discovered
upon his person, his position would be far from enviable.
Hugo’s greatest fear, however, was of himself. He could not explain
the reason, but so long as he remained in that cabin he could not feel
responsible for his acts. A subtle influence seemed to pervade the
place which exerted upon him a magic effect. He had never experienced
the like before. He must get away at once. Out upon the trail, battling
against stern nature, he would surely regain his former self-mastery.
Hugo was not long in getting ready for his departure. He wrapped up the
baby in a big fur-lined coat he found hanging on the wall. He hesitated
when he realised that it was necessary to cast aside the lynx to make
room for the lad upon the small toboggan. The pelt of the animal was
valuable, but he could not afford to take the time to remove it. In
fact, the lynx was of more use to him than the child. One he could sell
for good money, while the other--well, he would be fortunate if he
could give him away.
He thought of this as he tucked in the wee fellow, placing extra
blankets about him to make sure that he would not be cold. According
to the law of the country he was entitled to all the rights and
privileges of the British Constitution. To take his life would be an
indictable offense, and the punishment death if found out. But he could
not be sold for money, and who would want him? Outside, someone might
adopt him, or he could be placed in an Orphans’ Home. But here on
the frontier of civilisation who would wish to be bothered with such
a helpless waif? The life of the lynx, on the other hand, was worth
nothing in the eyes of the law. Any one could take it with impunity.
But the animal could be sold for a fair price. What a paradox! A dead
lynx worth more than a priceless child!
Hugo sighed as he picked up his rifle and drew the cord of the toboggan
over his shoulder. It was a problem too profound for him to solve.
Others would have to attend to that, if they so desired, while he
looked after the baby. Closing the cabin door, and turning his back
upon the river, he headed for the uplands. Although he had no watch,
yet he knew that it was past midday. The afternoon would be all too
short, so he must make the most of it. Kynox was over thirty miles
away, and a hard trail lay between. Under ordinary circumstances he
could make the journey by a long day’s march. But now he would be
forced to travel slower and more carefully, and to halt at times to
feed the child.
Hugo made his way along the trail down which he had sped a few hours
before. Reaching the brow of the hill, he paused and looked back upon
the cabin. It had a new meaning to him now. How grim and desolate it
seemed. It was a building stained with human blood. Never again would
it breathe forth its warm and inviting welcome to weary travellers.
Soon word of the tragedy would be noised abroad. It would pass from man
to man. In towns and villages, in miners’ shacks, in Indian lodges, in
wood-cutters’ cabins, and in most remote recesses it would penetrate,
to be discussed with burning indignation and heart-thrilling interest.
The Mounted Police would arouse to swift and terrible action. They
would throw out their nets; they would scour the trails; they would
compass the world, if necessary, to bring the criminals to justice.
They had done it before; they would do it again. No one yet had escaped
their long and overwhelming grip.
And what of the little cabin? It would be shunned, looked upon with
dread, a haunted abode. Oh, yes, Hugo was well aware how it would be.
He knew of several such places scattered over the country, once the
centres of life and activity, but now abandoned by the foot of man,
white and Indian alike.
As he stood and rested, thinking of these things, something upon the
river attracted his attention. At first it appeared as a mere speck,
but it was moving. With breathless interest he strained his eyes
across the snowy waste. He knew what it was--a dog-team! Was it the
Police patrol? He shrank instinctively back, and unconsciously raised
his right hand as if to ward off some impending danger. A low growl,
almost like a curse, rumbled in his throat, as he turned and once more
continued his journey.
His course now led inland, and in a few minutes the river was lost to
view. The trail for a time wound through a forest of young firs and
jack-pines, whose slender branches reached out like welcoming hands. He
felt at home here and breathed more freely. Then the way sloped to a
valley, and up a long wild meadow.
It was a magnificent region through which he was travelling. To the
right rose great mountains, terrace above terrace, and terminating
in majestic summits far beyond the timber-line. These, however, were
surpassed by one towering peak far away in the distance. For years it
had been his special guide. Others might be lost to view, but not the
Golden Horn. It formed the subject of considerable speculation among
miners, prospectors, and trappers. Its summit had never been reached.
But daring adventurers who had scaled beyond the timber-line, solemnly
affirmed that it was the real Mount Ararat. Embedded in everlasting
snow and ice they had seen the timbers of a vessel of huge size and
marvellous design, which they declared to be the ruins of Noah’s ark.
Others believed that in that massive pile would be found a great
mother-lode of precious gold. Its commanding peak, which from certain
points of view resembled a gigantic horn, caught and reflected the
brief winter sun in a glow of golden glory. To eager eyes and hopeful
hearts this was surely an outward sign of vast treasures within. But so
far it had only served as a landmark, a gleaming guide to hardy rovers
of the trails.
With the Golden Horn ever before him, Hugo pressed steadily onward. At
times he glanced anxiously back, especially after he had crossed a lake
or a wild meadow where the view of the trail was unobstructed. Seeing
no one following, he always breathed a sigh of relief, and hurried on
his way.
Darkness had already settled over the land when Hugo drew up at a
little shack crouching in a dense thicket of firs and pines. This was
one of his stopping-places in the large circle of his trapping region.
The single room contained a bunk, a sheet-iron heater, a rough table, a
block of wood for a seat, and a few traps. This abode was far from the
main line of travel, and no head but the owner’s had ever bent to pass
its low portal.
Hugo paid careful attention to the child, looking after its welfare
to the best of his knowledge. It had been remarkably good during the
afternoon, and before it fell asleep upon the bunk it showed its
friendliness to its rescuer by chuckling gleefully, holding out its
hands, and kicking its feet in a lively manner.
For the first time in years Hugo’s stern face relaxed. His eyes,
hard and defiant, assumed a softer expression. All unconsciously the
helpless child was exerting upon him a subtle influence; it was casting
about him a magic spell, and breathing into the coldness of his heart a
warm, stimulating glow.
And when the little lad at length slept, Hugo sat by its side, gazing
straight before him, silent and unseeing. Occasionally he aroused to
replenish the fire, to snuff the single candle, to open the door to
peer into the night, and to listen for sounds which did not come. He
would then return to the bunk, to continue his watch and meditation.
About midnight he wrapped himself up in a thick blanket, stretched
himself upon the floor near the heater, and in a few minutes was fast
asleep. He awoke with a start, and sat bolt upright. He looked toward
the bunk, and something there held him spellbound. The child, gently
whimpering, was surrounded by a soft, peculiar light such as he had
never seen before. Hugo wondered at this, for the candle was out and it
was not yet daylight. As he stared, striving to comprehend the meaning,
he saw the dim form of a woman bending tenderly over the child, her
hands touching the little face. An involuntary gasp of surprise escaped
his lips, and he rubbed his eyes to be sure that he was not dreaming.
When he looked again all was in darkness. The vision had disappeared.
Rising quickly to his feet, Hugo struck a match and lighted the candle.
His hands trembled as he did so, and his knees seemed unusually weak.
He glanced furtively around the room as if expecting to see someone
standing near. Then he went to the bunk and looked down upon the child.
It was asleep! This was a surprise, for Hugo was certain that he had
heard its whimper but a couple of minutes before. What did it all
mean? Was it a dream from which he had been suddenly aroused: or had
the mother really been bending over her child, and for a few fleeting
seconds was revealed to mortal eyes? He had heard of such apparitions,
but had always considered them as mere delusions, the fanciful
imagination of overwrought brains. Now, however, it was different. He
had seen with his own eyes that form bending over the bunk, surrounded
by a halo of no earthly light. Was it the child’s mother? But perhaps
it was an angel! At once there flashed into his mind the words of the
Master over which he had often meditated.
“Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto
you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father
which is in heaven.”
Little children, then, had angel guardians, so, perhaps, he had
unwittingly surprised one this night in its ministry of love. Hugo was
deeply impressed. A feeling such as he had not known for years stole
into his heart. The room seemed suddenly transfigured. It was no longer
a humble abode, but the dwelling-place of a celestial messenger. And
the child was the cause of it all. For its sake the courts of heaven
had been stirred, and swifter than light an angel had winged its way
to that lone shack in the heart of the northern wilderness. It may
have been hovering around that cabin near the river at the time of
the tragedy. What part had it taken in protecting the child? It was
wonderful, and Hugo’s heart beat fast as these thoughts swept through
his mind. Had the angel guided his steps to that smokeless cabin? He
recalled how he had been on the point of taking another route that
morning, but had suddenly changed his mind and gone to the river
instead. Why he did so he could not tell, as he had never done the like
before. But now he understood. It was the angel which had altered his
course!
Hugo’s mind dwelt continually upon this as he stirred up the fire and
prepared his breakfast. He made the tea exceptionally strong to soothe
his nerves. After he had eaten his meagre meal, he filled and lighted
his pipe. He then smoked and watched as the slow-footed hours dragged
wearily by. He was anxious to be away upon his journey, but he did not
wish to awaken the child.
Once he thrust his right hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and
brought forth the ring. The diamond still fascinated him, though not as
formerly. He was master of himself now, and could examine the precious
gem more calmly. Its possession gave him a thrill of pleasure, even
though he knew that it was not his. What would he do with it? An idea
flashed into his mind, which caused him to glance toward the child.
“No, not now,” he mused. “I must wait. It might get into wrong hands.”
This decision seemed to satisfy him, so he replaced the ring, and
continued his watch.
The dawn of a new day was stealing slowly over the land as Hugo resumed
his journey. At noon he halted to feed the child, and to eat his own
meal. Then up and on again through the short afternoon. He thought much
of what had occurred during the night, and the vision he had beheld
inspired him. His step was firmer and more decided than on the previous
day. The coldness did not seem so intense, and the Golden Horn appeared
to take on a brighter glow. When darkness enshrouded the land he again
halted to feed the baby. This took but a short time, and once more he
sped forward. Kynox was not far away, and he wished to make it that
night.
Hour after hour he moved onward, though slower now, for the trail
was heavy and he was becoming very weary. No longer did the Golden
Horn direct his course. But he had the north star to guide him. The
Northern Lights were throwing out their long glittering streamers. They
appeared like vast battalions marching and countermarching across the
Arctic sky. Their banners rose, faded, vanished; to reappear, writhing,
twisting, curling, and flashing forth in matchless beauty all the
colors of the rainbow. Yellow and green, green and yellow, ruby-red and
greenish-white, chasing one another, vying with one another as the
great, silent army incessantly retreated and advanced.
Hugo saw all this, and it never failed to arouse in him a feeling of
wonder and awe. He watched the stars, too. For years they had been
his steady companions on many a weary trail, and he read them like an
open book. He saw the belted Orion swinging in its usual place, and
the Great Bear dipping close to the horizon. He knew the time by the
figures on that vast dial overhead. He peered keenly forward now, and
at length he was rewarded by several faint lights glimmering through
the darkness. Kynox was just beyond. In a few minutes the outlines of
a number of buildings could be dimly discerned. These increased in
clearness as he advanced. Ere long one larger than the others loomed up
before him. He knew it well, and toward it he eagerly made his way.