this man's story of grim and fighting determination that had led to the
discovery of that mountain of mica away up on the Clearwater Bulge. He
looked upon the other's strength, his bronzed face and the glory of
achievement in his eyes, and a great and yearning hopelessness burned
like a dull fire in his heart. He was no older than the man who sat on
the other side of the table--perhaps thirty-five; yet what a vast gulf
lay between them! He with his millions; the other with that flood of
red blood coming and going in his body, and his wonderful fortune of a
hundred thousand! Barrow leaned a little over the table, and laughed.
It was the laugh of a man who had grown tired of life, in spite of his
millions. Day before yesterday a famous specialist had warned him that
the threads of his life were giving way, one by one. He told this to
Curtis. He confessed to him, with that strange glow in his eyes,--a
glow that was like making a last fight against total
extinguishment,--that he would give up his millions and all he had won
for the other's health and the mountain of mica.
"And if it came to a close bargain," he said, "I wouldn't hold out for
the mountain. I'm ready to quit--and it's too late."
Which, after a little, brought Philip Curtis to tell so much as he knew
of the story of Peter God. Philip's voice was tuned with the winds and
the forests. It rose above the low and monotonous hum about them.
People at the two or three adjoining tables might have heard his story,
if they had listened. Within the immaculateness of his evening dress,
Barrows shivered, fearing that Curtis' voice might attract undue
attention to them. But other people were absorbed in themselves. Philip
went on with his story, and at last, so clearly that it reached easily
to the other tables, he spoke the name of Peter God.
Then came the interruption, and with that interruption a strange and
sudden upheaval in the life of Philip Curtis that was to mean more to
him than the discovery of the mica mountain. His eyes swept over
Barrow's shoulder, and there he saw a woman. She was standing. A low,
stifled cry had broken from her almost simultaneously with his first
glimpse of her, and as he looked, Philip saw her lips form gaspingly
the name he had spoken--Peter God!
She was so near that Barrow could have turned and touched her. Her eyes
were like luminous fires as she stared at Philip. Her face was
strangely pale. He could see her quiver, and catch her breath. And she
was looking at him. For that one moment she had forgotten the presence
of others.
Then a hand touched her arm. It was the hand of her elderly escort, in
whose face were anxiety and wonder. The woman started and took her eyes
from Philip. With her escort she seated herself at a table a few paces
away, and for a few moments Philip could see she was fighting for
composure, and that it cost her a struggle to keep her eyes from
turning in his direction while she talked in a low voice to her
companion.
Philip's heart was pounding like an engine. He knew that she was
talking about him now, and he knew that she had cried out when he had
spoken Peter God's name. He forgot Barrow as he looked at her. She was
exquisite, even with that gray pallor that had come so suddenly into
her cheeks. She was not young, as the age of youth is measured. Perhaps
she was thirty, or thirty-two, or thirty-five. If some one had asked
Philip to describe her, he would have said simply that she was
glorious. Yet her entrance had caused no stir. Few had looked at her
until she had uttered that sharp cry. There were a score of women under
the brilliantly lighted chandeliers possessed of more spectacular
beauty, Barrow had partly turned in his seat, and now, with careful
breeding, he faced his companion again.
"Do you know her?" Philip asked.
Barrow shook his head.
"No." Then he added: "Did you see what made her cry out like that?"
"I believe so," said Philip, and he turned purposely so that the four
people at the next table could hear him. "I think she twisted her
ankle. It's an occasional penance the women make for wearing these
high-heeled shoes, you know."
He looked at her again. Her form was bent toward the white-haired man
who was with her. The man was staring straight over at Philip, a
strange searching look in his face as he listened to what she was
saying. He seemed to question Philip through the short distance that
separated them. And then the woman turned her head slowly, and once
more Philip met her eyes squarely--deep, dark, glowing eyes that
thrilled him to the quick of his soul. He did not try to understand
what he saw in them. Before he turned his glance to Barrow he saw that
color had swept back into her face; her lips were parted; he knew that
she was struggling to suppress a tremendous emotion.
Barrow was looking at him curiously--and Philip went on with his story
of Peter God. He told it in a lower voice. Not until he had finished
did he look again in the direction of the other table. The woman had
changed her position slightly, so that he could not see her face. The
uptilt of her hat revealed to him the warm soft glow of shining coils
of brown hair. He was sure that her escort was keeping watch of his
movements.
Suddenly Barrow drew his attention to a man sitting alone a dozen
tables from them.
"There's DeVoe, one of the Amalgamated chiefs," he said. "He has almost
finished, and I want to speak to him before he leaves. Will you excuse
me a minute--or will you come along and meet him?"
"I'll wait," said Philip.
Ten seconds later, the woman's white-haired escort was on his feet. He
came to Philip's table, and seated himself casually in Barrow's chair,
as though Philip were an old friend with whom he had come to chat for a
moment.
"I beg your pardon for the imposition which I am laying upon you," he
said in a low, quiet voice. "I am Colonel McCloud. The lady with me is
my daughter. And you, I believe, are a gentleman. If I were not sure of
that, I should not have taken advantage of your friend's temporary
absence. You heard my daughter cry out a few moments ago? You observed
that she was--disturbed?"
Philip nodded.
"I could not help it. I was facing her. And since then I have thought
that I--unconsciously--was the cause of her perturbation. I am Philip
Curtis, Colonel McCloud, from Fort MacPherson, two thousand miles north
of here, on the Mackenzie River. So you see, if it is a case of
mistaken identity--"
"No--no--it is not that," interrupted the older man. "As we were
passing your table we--my daughter--heard you speak a name. Perhaps she
was mistaken. It was--Peter God."
"Yes. I know Peter God. He is a friend of mine."
Barrow was returning. The other saw him over Philip's shoulder, and his
voice trembled with a sudden and subdued excitement as he said quickly:
"Your friend is coming' back. No one but you must know that my daughter
is interested in this man--Peter God. She trusts you. She sent me to
you. It is important that she should see you to-night and talk with you
alone. I will wait for you outside. I will have a taxicab ready to take
you to our apartments. Will you come?"
He had risen. Philip heard Barrow's footsteps behind him.
"I will come," he said.
A few minutes later Colonel McCloud and his daughter left the cafe. The
half-hour after that passed with leaden slowness to Philip. The
fortunate arrival of two or three friends of Barrow gave him an
opportunity to excuse himself on the plea of an important engagement,
and he bade the Mica King good-night. Colonel McCloud was waiting for
him outside the cafe, and as they entered a taxicab, he said:
"My daughter is quite unstrung to-night, and I sent her home. She is
waiting for us. Will you have a smoke, Mr. Curtis?"
With a feeling that this night had set stirring a brew of strange and
unforeseen events for him, Philip sat in a softly lighted and richly
furnished room and waited. The Colonel had been gone a full
quarter-hour. He had left a box half filled with cigars on a table at
Philip's elbow, pressing him to smoke. They were an English brand of
cigar, and on the box was stamped the name of the Montreal dealer from
whom they had been purchased.
"My daughter will come presently," Colonel McCloud had said.
A curious thrill shot through Philip as he heard her footsteps and the
soft swish of her skirt. Involuntarily he rose to his feet as she
entered the room. For fully ten seconds they stood facing each other
without speaking. She was dressed in filmy gray stuff. There was lace
at her throat. She had shifted the thick bright coils of her hair to
the crown of her head; a splendid glory of hair, he thought. Her cheeks
were flushed, and with her hands against her breast, she seemed
crushing back the strange excitement that glowed in her eyes. Once he
had seen a fawn's eyes that looked like hers. In them were suspense,
fear--a yearning that was almost pain. Suddenly she came to him, her
hands outstretched. Involuntarily, too, he took them. They were warm
and soft. They thrilled him--and they clung to him.
"I am Josephine McCloud," she said. "My father has explained to you?
You know--a man--who calls himself--God?"
Her fingers clung more tightly to his, and the sweetness of her hair,
her breath, her eyes were very close as she waited.
"Yes, I know a man who calls himself Peter God."
"Tell me--what he is like?" she whispered. "He is tall--like you?"
"No. He is of medium height."
"And his hair? It is dark--dark like yours?"
"No. It is blond, and a little gray."
"And he is young--younger than you?"
"He is older."
"And his eyes--are dark?"
He felt rather than heard the throbbing of her heart as she waited for
him to reply. There was a reason why he would never forget Peter God's
eyes.
"Sometimes I thought they were blue, and sometimes gray," he said; and
at that she dropped his hands with a strange little cry, and stood a
step back from him, a joy which she made no effort to keep from him
flaming in her face.
It was a look which sent a sudden hopelessness through Curtis--a
stinging pang of jealousy. This night had set wild and tumultuous
emotions aflame in his breast. He had come to Josephine McCloud like
one in a dream. In an hour he had placed her above all other women in
the world, and in that hour the little gods of fate had brought him to
his knees in the worship of a woman. The fact did not seem unreal to
him. Here was the woman, and he loved her. And his heart sank like a
heavily weighted thing when he saw the transfiguration of joy that came
into her face when he said that Peter God's eyes were not dark, but
were sometimes blue and sometimes gray.
"And this Peter God?" he said, straining to make his voice even. "What
is he to you?"
His question cut her like a knife. The wild color ebbed swiftly out of
her cheeks. Into her eyes swept a haunting fear which he was to see and
wonder at more than once. It was as if he had done something to
frighten her. "We--my father and I--are interested in him," she said.
Her words cost her a visible effort. He noticed a quick throbbing in
her throat, just above the filmy lace. "Mr. Curtis, won't you pardon
this--this betrayal of excitement in myself? It must be unaccountable
to you. Perhaps a little later you will understand. We are imposing on
you by not confiding in you what this interest is, and I beg you to
forgive me. But there is a reason. Will you believe me? There is a
reason."
Her hands rested lightly on Philip's arm. Her eyes implored him.
"I will not ask for confidences which you are not free to give," he
said gently.
He was rewarded by a soft glow of thankfulness.
"I cannot make you understand how much that means to me," she cried
tremblingly. "And you will tell us about Peter God? Father--"
She turned.
Colonel McCloud had reentered the room.
With the feeling of one who was not quite sure that he was awake,
Philip paused under a street lamp ten minutes after leaving the McCloud
apartments, and looked at his watch. It was a quarter of two o'clock. A
low whistle of surprise fell from his lips. For three hours he had been
with Colonel McCloud and his daughter. It had seemed like an hour. He
still felt the thrill of the warm, parting pressure of Josephine's
hand; he saw the gratitude in her eyes; he heard her voice, low and
tremulous, asking him to come again to-morrow evening. His brain was in
a strange whirl of excitement, and he laughed--laughed with gladness
which he had not felt before in all the days of his life.
He had told a great many things about Peter God that night; of the
man's life in the little cabin, his loneliness, his aloofness, and the
mystery of him. Philip had asked no questions of Josephine and her
father, and more than once he had caught that almost tender gratitude
in Josephine's eyes. And at least twice he had seen the swift, haunting
fear--the first time when he told of Peter God's coming and goings at
Port MacPherson, and again when he mentioned a patrol of the Royal
Northwest Mounted Police that had passed Peter God's cabin while Philip
was there, laid up during those weeks of darkness and storm with a
fractured leg.
Philip told how tenderly Peter God nursed him, and how their
acquaintance grew into brotherhood during the long gray nights when the
stars gleamed like pencil-points and the foxes yapped incessantly. He
had seen the dewy shimmer of tears in Josephine's eyes. He had noted
the tense lines in Colonel McCloud's face. But he had asked them no
questions, he had made no effort to unmask the secret which they so
evidently desired to keep from him.
Now, alone in the cool night, he asked himself a hundred questions, and
yet with a feeling that he understood a great deal of what they had
kept from him. Something had whispered to him then--and whispered to
him now--that Peter God was not Peter God's right name, and that to
Josephine McCloud and her father he was a brother and a son. This
thought, so long as he could think it without a doubt, filled his cup
of hope to overflowing. But the doubt persisted. It was like a spark
that refused to go out. Who was Peter God? What was Peter God, the
half-wild fox-hunter, to Josephine McCloud? Yes--he could be but that
one thing! A brother. A black sheep. A wanderer. A son who had
disappeared--and was now found. But if he was that, only that, why
would they not tell him? The doubt sputtered up again.
Philip did not go to bed. He was anxious for the day, and the evening
that was to follow. A woman had unsettled his world. His mica mountain
became an unimportant reality. Barrow's greatness no longer loomed up
for him. He walked until he was tired, and it was dawn when he went to
his hotel. He was like a boy living in the anticipation of a great
promise--restless, excited, even feverishly anxious all day. He made
inquiries about Colonel James McCloud at his hotel. No one knew him, or
had even heard of him. His name was not in the city directory or the
telephone directory. Philip made up his mind that Josephine and her
father were practically strangers in the city, and that they had come
from Canada--probably Montreal, for he remembered the stamp on the box
of cigars.
That night, when he saw Josephine again, he wanted to reach out his
arms to her. He wanted to make her understand how completely his
wonderful love possessed him, and how utterly lost he was without her.
She was dressed in simple white--again with that bank of filmy lace at
her throat. Her hair was done in those lustrous, shimmering coils, so
bright and soft that he would have given a tenth of his mica mountain
to touch them with his hands. And she was glad to see him. Her
eagerness shone in her eyes, in the warm flush of her cheeks, in the
joyous tremble of her voice.
That night, too, passed like a dream--a dream in paradise for Philip.
For a long time they sat alone, and Josephine herself brought him the
box of cigars, and urged him to smoke. They talked again about the
North, about Fort MacPherson--where it was, what it was, and how one
got to it through a thousand miles or so of wilderness. He told her of
his own adventures, how for many years he had sought for mineral
treasure and at last had found a mica mountain.
"It's close to Fort MacPherson," he explained.
"We can work it from the Mackenzie. I expect to start back some time in
August."
She leaned toward him, last night's strange excitement glowing for the
first time in her eyes.
"You are going back? You will see Peter God?"
In her eagerness she laid a hand on his arm.
"I am going back. It would be possible to see Peter God."
The touch of her hand did not lighten the weight that was tugging again
at his heart.
"Peter God's cabin is a hundred miles from Fort MacPherson," he added.
"He will be hunting foxes by the time I get there."
"You mean--it will be winter."
"Yes. It is a long journey. And"--he was looking at her closely as he
spoke--"Peter God may not be there when I return. It is possible he may
have gone into another part of the wilderness."
He saw her quiver as she drew back.
"He has been there--for seven--years," she said, as if speaking to
herself. "He would not move--now!"
"No; I don't think he would move now."
His own voice was low, scarcely above a whisper, and she looked at him
quickly and strangely, a flush in her cheeks.
It was late when he bade her good-night. Again he felt the warm thrill
of her hand as it lay in his. The next afternoon he was to take her
driving.
The days and weeks that followed these first meetings with Josephine
McCloud were weighted with many things for Philip. Neither she nor her
father enlightened him about Peter God. Several times he believed that
Josephine was on the point of confiding in him, but each time there
came that strange fear in her eyes, and she caught herself.
Philip did not urge. He asked no questions that might be embarrassing.
He knew, after the third week had passed, that Josephine could no
longer be unconscious of his love, even though the mystery of Peter God
restrained him from making a declaration of it. There was not a day in
the week that they did not see each other. They rode together. The
three frequently dined together. And still more frequently they passed
the evenings in the McCloud apartments. Philip had been correct in his
guess--they were from Montreal. Beyond that fact he learned little.
As their acquaintance became closer and as Josephine saw in Philip more
and more of that something which he had not spoken, a change developed
in her. At first it puzzled and then alarmed him. At times she seemed
almost frightened. One evening, when his love all but trembled on his
lips, she turned suddenly white.
It was the middle of July before the words came from him at last. In
two or three weeks he was starting for the North. It was evening, and
they were alone in the big room, with the cool breeze from the lake
drifting in upon them. He made no effort to touch her as he told her of
his love, but when he had done, she knew that a strong man had laid his
heart and his soul at her feet.
He had never seen her whiter. Her hands were clasped tightly in her
lap. There was a silence in which he did not breathe. Her answer came
so low that he leaned forward to hear.
"I am sorry," she said. "It is my fault--that you love me. I knew. And
yet I let you come again and again. I have done wrong. It is not
fair--now--for me to tell you to go--without a chance. You--would want
me if I did not love you? You would marry me if I did not love you?"
His heart pounded. He forgot everything but that he loved this woman
with a love beyond his power to reason.
"I don't think that I could live without you now, Josephine," he cried
in a low voice. "And I swear to make you love me. It must come. It is
inconceivable that I cannot make you love me--loving you as I do."
She looked at him clearly now. She seemed suddenly to become tense and
vibrant with a new and wonderful strength.
"I must be fair with you," she said. "You are a man whose love most
women would be proud to possess. And yet--it is not in my power to
accept that love, or give myself to you. There is another to whom you
must go."
"And that is--"
"Peter God!"
It was she who leaned forward now, her eyes burning, her bosom rising
and falling with the quickness of her breath.
"You must go to Peter God," she said. "You must take a letter to
him--from me. And it will be for him--for Peter God--to say whether I
am to be your wife. You are honorable. You will be fair with me. You
will take the letter to him. And I will be fair with you. I will be
your wife, I will try hard to care for you--if Peter God--says--"
Her voice broke. She covered her face, and for a moment, too stunned to
speak, Philip looked at her while her slender form trembled with sobs.
She had bowed her head, and for the first time he reached out and laid
his hand upon the soft glory of her hair. Its touch set aflame every
fiber in him. Hope swept through him, crushing his fears like a
juggernaut. It would be a simple task to go to Peter God! He was
tempted to take her in his arms. A moment more, and he would have
caught her to him, but the weight of his hand on her head roused her,
and she raised her face, and drew back. His arms were reaching out. She
saw what was in his eyes.
"Not now," she said. "Not until you have gone to him. Nothing in the
world will be too great a reward for you if you are fair with me, for
you are taking a chance. In the end you may receive nothing. For if
Peter God says that I cannot be your wife, I cannot. He must be the
arbiter. On those conditions, will you go?"
"Yes, I will go," said Philip.
It was early in August when Philip reached Edmonton. From there he took
the new line of rail to Athabasca Landing; it was September when he
arrived at Fort McMurray and found Pierre Gravois, a half-breed, who
was to accompany him by canoe up to Fort MacPherson. Before leaving
this final outpost, whence the real journey into the North began,
Philip sent a long letter to Josephine.
Two days after he and Pierre had started down the Mackenzie, a letter
came to Fort McMurray for Philip. "Long" La Brie, a special messenger,
brought it from Athabasca Landing. He was too late, and he had no
instructions--and had not been paid--to go farther.
Day after day Philip continued steadily northward. He carried
Josephine's letter to Peter God in his breast pocket, securely tied in
a little waterproof bag. It was a thick letter, and time and again he
held it in his hand, and wondered why it was that Josephine could have
so much to say to the lonely fox-hunter up on the edge of the Barren.
One night, as he sat alone by their fire in the chill of September
darkness, he took the letter from its sack and saw that the contents of
the bulging envelope had sprung one end of the flap loose. Before he
went to bed Pierre had set a pail of water on the coals. A cloud of
steam was rising from it. Those two things--the steam and the loosened
flap--sent a thrill through Philip. What was in the letter? What had
Josephine McCloud written to Peter God?
He looked toward sleeping Pierre; the pail of water began to bubble and
sing--he drew a tense breath, and rose to his feet. In thirty seconds
the steam rising from the pail would free the rest of the flap. He
could read the letter, and reseal it.
And then, like a shock, came the thought of the few notes Josephine had
written to him. On each of them she had never failed to stamp her seal
in a lavender-colored wax. He had observed that Colonel McCloud always
used a seal, in bright red. On this letter to Peter God there was no
seal! She trusted him. Her faith was implicit. And this was her proof
of it. Under his breath he laughed, and his heart grew warm with new
happiness and hope. "I have faith in you," she had said, at parting;
and now, again, out of the letter her voice seemed to whisper to him,
"I have faith in you."
He replaced the letter in its sack, and crawled between his blankets
close to Pierre.
That night had seen the beginning of his struggle with himself. This
year, autumn and winter came early in the North country. It was to be a
winter of terrible cold, of deep snow, of famine and pestilence--the
winter of 1910. The first oppressive gloom of it added to the fear and
suspense that began to grow in Philip.