The next morning was almost painfully beautiful, so delicate in its
clearness, so exalted by the glory of the hills, so grand in the
limitless stretch of the green-brown prairie north and south. It was
a day for God’s creatures to meet in, and speed away, and having flown
round the boundaries of that spacious domain, to return again to
the nest of home on the large plateau between the sea and the stars.
Gathered about Ida’s home was everybody who lived within a radius of a
hundred miles. In the large front room all the presents were set: rich
furs from the far north, cunningly carved bowls, rocking-chairs made
by hand, knives, cooking utensils, a copy of Shakespeare in six volumes
from the Protestant missionary who performed the ceremony, a nugget of
gold from the Long Light River; and outside the door, a horse, Hilton’s
own present to his wife, on which was put Pierre’s saddle, with its
silver mounting and Ida’s name branded deep on pommel and flap. When
Macavoy arrived, a cheer went up, which was carried on waves of laughter
into the house to Hilton and Ida, who even then were listening to the
first words of the brief service which begins, “I charge you both if you
do know any just cause or impediment--” and so on.
They did not turn to see what it was, for just at that moment they
themselves were the very centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and
dumb, it was necessary to interpret to her the words of the service by
signs, as the missionary read it, and this was done by Pierre himself,
the half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought Hilton and Ida
together, for he and Ida had been old friends. After Father Corraine
had taught her the language of signs, Pierre had learned them from her,
until at last his gestures had become as vital as her own. The delicate
precision of his every movement, the suggestiveness of look and motion,
were suited to a language which was nearer to the instincts of his own
nature than word of mouth. All men did not trust Pierre, but all women
did; with those he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he had no sign
of Mephistopheles, and few were the occasions in his life when he
showed outward tenderness to either: which was equally effective. He
had learnt, or knew by instinct, that exclusiveness as to men and
indifference as to women are the greatest influences on both. As he
stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by graceful allusive signs, the
words of the service, one could not think that behind his impassive
face there was any feeling for the man or for the woman. He had that
disdainful smile which men acquire who are all their lives aloof from
the hopes of the hearthstone and acknowledge no laws but their own.
More than once the eyes of the girl filled with tears, as the pregnancy
of some phrase in the service came home to her. Her face responded to
Pierre’s gestures, as do one’s nerves to the delights of good music, and
there was something so unique, so impressive in the ceremony, that the
laughter which had greeted Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence;
beginning from where the two stood, crept out until it covered all the
prairie. Nothing was heard except Hilton’s voice in strong tones saying,
“I take thee to be my wedded wife,” etc.; but when the last words of
the service were said, and the newmade bride turned to her husband’s
embrace, and a little sound of joy broke from her lips, there was plenty
of noise and laughter again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or rather
outside it, stooping to look in upon the scene. Someone had lent him the
cinch of a broncho and he had belted himself with it, no longer carrying
his clothes about “on the underbrush.” Hilton laughed and stretched out
his hand. “Come in, King,” he said, “come and wish us joy.”
Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his way, and instantly was
stooping before the pair--for he could not stand upright in the room.
“Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that’s pluckin’ the rose av
the valley, snatchin’ the stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o’
that! Travel down I did yesterday from Fort Ste. Anne, and divil a word
I knew till Pierre hit me in the eye wid it last night--and no time for
a present, for a wedding-gift--no, aw no!”
Just here Ida reached up and touched him on the shoulder. He smiled down
on her, puffing and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to her, yet
knowing no word by signs to say; but he nodded his head at her, and
he patted Hilton’s shoulder, and he took their hands and joined them
together, hers on top of Hilton’s, and shook them in one of his own
till she almost winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who nodded
in reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy to kiss--Macavoy, the idle,
ill-cared-for, boisterous giant. His face became red like that of a
child caught in an awkward act, and with an absurd shyness he stooped
and touched her cheek. Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, “Aw,
the rose o’ the valley, the pride o’ the wide wurruld! aw, the bloom o’
the hills! I’d have kissed her dirty shoe. McQuire!”
A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear air of the prairie, and
the hills seemed to stir with the pleasure of life. Then it was that
Macavoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the
horse, drew from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had written,
and said, “Yis, but all the weddin’-gifts aren’t in. ‘Tis nothin’ I had
to give-divil a cent in the wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot
for the fire, or a bit av linin for the table; nothin’ but meself and me
dirty clothes, standin’ seven fut three an me bare toes. What was I to
do? There was only meself to give, so I give it free and hearty, and
here it is wid the Queen’s head an it, done in Mr. Tarlton’s office.
Ye’d better had had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, or a
saddle, or a quart o’ brown brandy; but such as it is I give it ye--I
give it to the rose o’ the valley and the star o’ the wide wurruld.”
In a loud voice he read the promissory note, and handed it to Ida. Men
laughed till there were tears in their eyes, and a keg of whisky was
opened; but somehow Ida did not laugh. She and Pierre had seen a serious
side to Macavoy’s gift: the childlike manliness in it. It went home to
her woman’s heart without a touch of ludicrousness, without a sound of
laughter.