I
“Read on, Pierre,” the sick man said, doubling the corner of the
wolf-skin pillow so that it shaded his face from the candle.
Pierre smiled to himself, thinking of the unusual nature of his
occupation, raised an eyebrow as if to someone sitting at the other side
of the fire,--though the room was empty save for the two--and went on
reading:
“Woe to the multitude of many people, which make a noise like the
noise of the seas; and to the rushing of nations, that make a
rushing like the rushing of mighty waters!
“The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters: but God
shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased
as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling
thing before the whirlwind.
“And behold at evening-tide trouble; and before the morning he is
not. This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them
that rob us.”
The sick man put up his hand, motioning for silence, and Pierre, leaving
the Bible open, laid it at his side. Then he fell to studying the figure
on the couch. The body, though reduced by a sudden illness, had an
appearance of late youth, a firmness of mature manhood; but the hair was
grey, the beard was grizzled, and the face was furrowed and seamed as
though the man had lived a long, hard life. The body seemed thirty
years old, the head sixty; the man’s exact age was forty-five. His most
singular characteristic was a fine, almost spiritual intelligence, which
showed in the dewy brightness of the eye, in the lighted face, in
the cadenced definiteness of his speech. One would have said, knowing
nothing of him, that he was a hermit; but again, noting the firm,
graceful outlines of his body, that he was a soldier. Within the past
twenty-four hours he had had a fight for life with one of the terrible
“colds” which, like an unstayed plague, close up the courses of the
body, and carry a man out of the hurly-burly, without pause to say how
much or how little he cares to go.
Pierre, whose rude skill in medicine was got of hard experiences here
and there, had helped him back into the world again, and was himself
now a little astonished at acting as Scripture reader to a Protestant
invalid. Still, the Bible was like his childhood itself, always with him
in memory, and Old Testament history was as wine to his blood. The lofty
tales sang in his veins: of primitive man, adventure, mysterious and
exalted romance. For nearly an hour, with absorbing interest, he had
read aloud from these ancient chronicles to Fawdor, who held this Post
of the Hudson’s Bay Company in the outer wilderness.
Pierre had arrived at the Post three days before, to find a half-breed
trapper and an Indian helpless before the sickness which was hurrying to
close on John Fawdor’s heart and clamp it in the vice of death. He had
come just in time. He was now ready to learn, by what ways the future
should show, why this man, of such unusual force and power, should have
lived at a desolate post in Labrador for twenty-five years.
“‘This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that
rob us--’” Fawdor repeated the words slowly, and then said: “It is
good to be out of the restless world. Do you know the secret of life,
Pierre?”
Pierre’s fingers unconsciously dropped on the Bible at his side,
drumming the leaves. His eyes wandered over Fawdor’s face, and presently
he answered, “To keep your own commandments.”
“The ten?” asked the sick man, pointing to the Bible. Pierre’s fingers
closed the book. “Not the ten, for they do not fit all; but one by one
to make your own, and never to break--comme ca!”
“The answer is well,” returned Fawdor; “but what is the greatest
commandment that a man can make for himself?”
“Who can tell? What is the good of saying, ‘Thou shalt keep holy the
Sabbath day,’ when a man lives where he does not know the days? What is
the good of saying, ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ when a man has no heart to
rob, and there is nothing to steal? But a man should have a heart, an
eye for justice. It is good for him to make his commandments against
that wherein he is a fool or has a devil. Justice,--that is the thing.”
“‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour’?” asked
Fawdor softly.
“Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own words, and keep the
law which he makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in the mouth.”
“What commandments have you made for yourself, Pierre?”
The slumbering fire in Pierre’s face leaped up. He felt for an instant
as his father, a chevalier of France, might have felt if a peasant had
presumed to finger the orders upon his breast. It touched his native
pride, so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit behind
the question, and the meaning justified the man. “Thou shalt think
with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman,” he said, and
paused.
“Justice and mercy,” murmured the voice from the bed.
“Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket.” Again Pierre paused.
“And a man shall have no cause to fear his friend,” said the voice
again.
The pause was longer this time, and Pierre’s cold, handsome face took
on a kind of softness before he said, “Remember the sorrow of thine own
wife.”
“It is a good commandment,” said the sick man, “to make all women safe
whether they be true--or foolish.”
“The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such a sport
ends in nothing. Man only is man’s game.”
Suddenly Pierre added: “When you thought you were going to die, you gave
me some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall I
give them back? Will you take them yourself?”
Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out a
hand, saying, “I will take them myself. You have not read them?”
“No. I was not to read them till you died--bien?” He handed the packet
over.
“I will tell you the story,” Fawdor said, turning over on his side, so
that his eyes rested full on Pierre.
He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildest
breed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened
its red eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and
sniffed at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly
around the room. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go
on again. Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man,
it paused, and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude
headboard of the couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid’s head.
There was something rarely savage and yet beautifully soft in the dog’s
face, scarred as it was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick man’s
hand went up and caressed the wolfish head. “Good dog, good Akim!” he
said softly in French. “Thou dost know when a storm is on the way; thou
dost know, too, when there is a storm in my heart.”
Even as he spoke a wind came crying round the house, and the parchment
windows gave forth a soft booming sound. Outside, Nature was trembling
lightly in all her nerves; belated herons, disturbed from the freshly
frozen pool, swept away on tardy wings into the night and to the south;
a herd of wolves, trooping by the hut, passed from a short, easy trot
to a low, long gallop, devouring, yet fearful. It appeared as though
the dumb earth were trying to speak, and the mighty effort gave it pain,
from which came awe and terror to living things.
So, inside the house, also, Pierre almost shrank from the unknown sorrow
of this man beside him, who was about to disclose the story of his life.
The solitary places do not make men glib of tongue; rather, spare of
words. They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly, being
given the woe of imagination, bring forth inner history as a mother
gasps life into the world.
“I was only a boy of twenty-one,” Fawdor said from the pillow, as he
watched the dog noiselessly travelling from corner to corner, “and I had
been with the Company three years. They had said that I could rise fast;
I had done so. I was ambitious; yet I find solace in thinking that I saw
only one way to it,--by patience, industry, and much thinking. I read
a great deal, and cared for what I read; but I observed also, that in
dealing with men I might serve myself and the Company wisely.
“One day the governor of the Company came from England, and with him a
sweet lady, his young niece, and her brother. They arranged for a tour
to the Great Lakes, and I was chosen to go with them in command of the
boatmen. It appeared as if a great chance had come to me, and so said
the factor at Lachine on the morning we set forth. The girl was as
winsome as you can think; not of such wonderful beauty, but with a face
that would be finer old than young; and a dainty trick of humour had she
as well. The governor was a testy man; he could not bear to be crossed
in a matter; yet, in spite of all, I did not think he had a wilful
hardness. It was a long journey, and we were set to our wits to make it
always interesting; but we did it somehow, for there were fishing and
shooting, and adventure of one sort and another, and the lighter things,
such as singing and the telling of tales, as the boatmen rowed the long
river.
“We talked of many things as we travelled, and I was glad to listen to
the governor, for he had seen and read much. It was clear he liked
to have us hang upon his tales and his grand speeches, which seemed a
little large in the mouth; and his nephew, who had a mind for raillery,
was now and again guilty of some witty impertinence; but this was hard
to bring home to him, for he could assume a fine childlike look when he
pleased, confusing to his accusers. Towards the last he grew bolder,
and said many a biting thing to both the governor and myself, which more
than once turned his sister’s face pale with apprehension, for she had a
nice sense of kindness. Whenever the talk was at all general, it was his
delight to turn one against the other. Though I was wary, and the girl
understood his game, at last he had his way.
“I knew Shakespeare and the Bible very well, and, like most bookish
young men, phrase and motto were much on my tongue, though not always
given forth. One evening, as we drew to the camp-fire, a deer broke from
the woods and ran straight through the little circle we were making, and
disappeared in the bushes by the riverside. Someone ran for a rifle; but
the governor forbade, adding, with an air, a phrase with philosophical
point. I, proud of the chance to show I was not a mere backwoodsman
at such a sport, capped his aphorism with a line from Shakespeare’s
Cymbeline.
“‘Tut, tut!’ said the governor smartly; ‘you haven’t it well, Mr.
Fawdor; it goes this way,’ and he went on to set me right. His nephew
at that stepped in, and, with a little disdainful laugh at me, made some
galling gibe at my ‘distinguished learning.’ I might have known better
than to let it pique me, but I spoke up again, though respectfully
enough, that I was not wrong. It appeared to me all at once as if some
principle were at stake, as if I were the champion of our Shakespeare;
so will vanity delude us.
“The governor--I can see it as if it were yesterday--seemed to go like
ice, for he loved to be thought infallible in all such things as well as
in great business affairs, and his nephew was there to give an edge to
the matter. He said, curtly, that I would probably come on better in the
world if I were more exact and less cock-a-hoop with myself. That stung
me, for not only was the young lady looking on with a sort of superior
pity, as I thought, but her brother was murmuring to her under his
breath with a provoking smile. I saw no reason why I should be treated
like a schoolboy. As far as my knowledge went it was as good as another
man’s, were he young or old, so I came in quickly with my reply. I said
that his excellency should find me more cock-a-hoop with Shakespeare
than with myself. ‘Well, well,’ he answered, with a severe look, ‘our
Company has need of great men for hard tasks.’ To this I made no answer,
for I got a warning look from the young lady,--a look which had a
sort of reproach and command too. She knew the twists and turns of her
uncle’s temper, and how he was imperious and jealous in little things.
The matter dropped for the time; but as the governor was going to his
tent for the night, the young lady said to me hurriedly, ‘My uncle is a
man of great reading--and power, Mr. Fawdor. I would set it right with
him, if I were you.’ For the moment I was ashamed. You cannot guess how
fine an eye she had, and how her voice stirred one! She said no more,
but stepped inside her tent; and then I heard the brother say over my
shoulder, ‘Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!’ Afterwards,
with a little laugh and a backward wave of the hand, as one might toss a
greeting to a beggar, he was gone also, and I was left alone.”
Fawdor paused in his narrative. The dog had lain down by the fire again,
but its red eyes were blinking at the door, and now and again it growled
softly, and the long hair at its mouth seemed to shiver with feeling.
Suddenly through the night there rang a loud, barking cry. The dog’s
mouth opened and closed in a noiseless snarl, showing its keen, long
teeth, and a ridge of hair bristled on its back. But the two men made no
sign or motion. The cry of wild cats was no new thing to them.
Presently the other continued: “I sat by the fire and heard beasts howl
like that, I listened to the river churning over the rapids below, and
I felt all at once a loneliness that turned me sick. There were three
people in a tent near me; I could even hear the governor’s breathing;
but I appeared to have no part in the life of any human being, as if I
were a kind of outlaw of God and man. I was poor; I had no friends; I
was at the mercy of this great Company; if I died, there was not a human
being who, so far as I knew, would shed a tear. Well, you see I was only
a boy, and I suppose it was the spirit of youth hungering for the huge,
active world and the companionship of ambitious men. There is no one
so lonely as the young dreamer on the brink of life. I was lying by
the fire. It was not a cold night, and I fell asleep at last without
covering. I did not wake till morning, and then it was to find the
governor’s nephew building up the fire again. ‘Those who are born
great,’ said he, ‘are bound to rise.’ But perhaps he saw that I had
had a bad night, and felt that he had gone far enough, for he presently
said, in a tone more to my liking, ‘Take my advice, Mr. Fawdor; make it
right with my uncle. It isn’t such fast rising in the Company that you
can afford to quarrel with its governor. I’d go on the other tack: don’t
be too honest.’ I thanked him, and no more was said; but I liked him
better, for I saw that he was one of those who take pleasure in dropping
nettles more to see the weakness of human nature than from malice.
“But my good fortune had got a twist, and it was not to be straightened
that day; and because it was not straightened then it was not to be at
all; for at five o’clock we came to the Post at Lachine, and here the
governor and the others were to stop. During all the day I had waited
for my chance to say a word of apology to his excellency, but it was
no use; nothing seemed to help me, for he was busy with his papers and
notes, and I also had to finish up my reports. The hours went by, and
I saw my chances drift past. I knew that the governor held the thing
against me, and not the less because he saw me more than once that day
in speech with his niece. For she appeared anxious to cheer me, and
indeed I think we might have become excellent friends had our ways run
together. She could have bestowed her friendship on me without shame to
herself, for I had come of an old family in Scotland, the Sheplaws of
Canfire, which she knew, as did the governor also, was a more ancient
family than their own. Yet her kindness that day worked me no good, and
I went far to make it worse, since, under the spell of her gentleness,
I looked at her far from distantly, and at the last, as she was getting
from the boat, returned the pressure of her hand with much interest. I
suppose something of the pride of that moment leaped up in my eye, for
I saw the governor’s face harden more and more, and the brother shrugged
an ironical shoulder. I was too young to see or know that the chief
thing in the girl’s mind was regret that I had so hurt my chances; for
she knew, as I saw only too well afterwards, that I might have been
rewarded with a leaping promotion in honour of the success of the
journey. But though the boatmen got a gift of money and tobacco and
spirits, nothing came to me save the formal thanks of the governor, as
he bowed me from his presence.
“The nephew came with his sister to bid me farewell. There was little
said between her and me, and it was a long, long time before she knew
the end of that day’s business. But the brother said, ‘You’ve let the
chance go by, Mr. Fawdor. Better luck next time, eh? And,’ he went on,
‘I’d give a hundred editions the lie, but I’d read the text according to
my chief officer. The words of a king are always wise while his head is
on,’ he declared further, and he drew from his scarf a pin of pearls and
handed it to me. ‘Will you wear that for me, Mr. Fawdor?’ he asked; and
I, who had thought him but a stripling with a saucy pride, grasped his
hand and said a God-keep-you. It does me good now to think I said it. I
did not see him or his sister again.
“The next day was Sunday. About two o’clock I was sent for by the
governor. When I got to the Post and was admitted to him, I saw that my
misadventure was not over. ‘Mr. Fawdor,’ said he coldly, spreading out a
map on the table before him, ‘you will start at once for Fort Ungava, at
Ungava Bay, in Labrador.’ I felt my heart stand still for a moment, and
then surge up and down, like a piston-rod under a sudden rush of steam.
‘You will proceed now,’ he went on, in his hard voice, ‘as far as the
village of Pont Croix. There you will find three Indians awaiting you.
You will go on with them as far as Point St. Saviour and camp for the
night, for if the Indians remain in the village they may get drunk. The
next morning, at sunrise, you will move on. The Indians know the trail
across Labrador to Fort Ungava. When you reach there, you will take
command of the Post and remain till further orders. Your clothes are
already at the village. I have had them packed, and you will find there
also what is necessary for the journey. The factor at Ungava was there
ten years; he has gone--to heaven.’
“I cannot tell what it was held my tongue silent, that made me only
bow my head in assent, and press my lips together. I knew I was pale as
death, for as I turned to leave the room I caught sight of my face in a
little mirror tacked on the door, and I hardly recognised myself.
“‘Good-day, Mr. Fawdor,’ said the governor, handing me the map. ‘There
is some brandy in your stores; be careful that none of your Indians
get it. If they try to desert, you know what to do.’ With a gesture of
dismissal he turned, and began to speak with the chief trader.
“For me, I went from that room like a man condemned to die. Fort Ungava
in Labrador,--a thousand miles away, over a barren, savage country, and
in winter too; for it would be winter there immediately! It was an exile
to Siberia, and far worse than Siberia; for there are many there to
share the fellowship of misery, and I was likely to be the only white
man at Fort Ungava. As I passed from the door of the Post the words of
Shakespeare which had brought all this about sang in my ears.” He ceased
speaking, and sank back wearily among the skins of his couch. Out of the
enveloping silence Pierre’s voice came softly:
“Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one
woman.”