_Cameron’s Resolve._
It was the end of September. The wind blew violently, the faint light
of the pale moon, hidden every other instant by the masses of dark
clouds that were sweeping across the sky, whitened the faces of the two
silent watchers in the chamber of the sick. Under the same hospitable
roof where Barbara had fallen exhausted at the feet of her husband,
she now lay prostrated by a raging fever. Standing near the foot
of the couch, alert for a sign of returning consciousness, Cameron
watched by turns with his friend the passing of the life of his devoted
wife, which now hung in the balance by only a slight thread. In her
rational moments during the days when the burning fever would be
lowest, Barbara had told the story of the persecution of the Cameron
family by Nick Perkins, the insinuating gossip set afloat by Fraser,
the carpenter, the defense in their behalf made by Bill Blakely and
the kindnesses offered them by Angus Ferguson and Davy Simpson, the
blacksmith. LeClare had divined the truth long before his friend
Cameron, that the relentless fever raging in the brain and body of the
proud, determined woman must soon burn her life’s taper to the end.
All the available medical skill and the tenderest nursing would not
arrest the progress of the fever, and Cameron, too, at last despaired
of the life of his beloved. The doctors had told him that the end
was nearing, and now he sat by the side of the couch, never for a
moment removing his gaze from the face of the sick one. As the hour of
midnight approached, the eyes of the patient opened slowly, and the
look of intelligence brought a ray of joy to his heart. Feebly she
murmured as he bent over her to catch every precious syllable.
“I am going now, Andy,” she whispered. “Say good-bye to Dan for me. I
loved you too much to hear them say you had deserted me, and that’s why
I came to find you. You won’t blame me, will you?” and he answered her
by smoothing her feverish brow. “Make me only this promise, Andy,” she
continued with great difficulty, for her strength was quickly going,
“that you take me back with you. And if Nick Perkins has taken our home
from us, then go direct to the graveyard by the little church.”
Then the soft love light in her eyes faded out as she sank quietly
away into the pillows, her lips slightly parted and the long eyelashes
drooping from the half-closed lids. The proud spirit had taken its
flight. It was in the twilight of that mysterious country called
Death, and for a moment, as Cameron stood by the side of the cot, the
veil seemed to part from before the throne of Glory, and beckoning to
him to follow, he saw the spirit of his loved one borne safely hence
by the angels of peace. A great sob shook his frame, and as he stood
up, gazing at the lifeless form of his devoted wife, he exclaimed in
indignant agony: “Murdered! Their infernal gossip has done this, and
here, in the presence of the angel of death, I vow that I shall live to
avenge this innocent soul.”
* * * * *
Together they journeyed homeward. LeClare was greatly concerned over
the change which had taken place in his friend. The transformation so
suddenly accomplished in the man reminded him of the instances told of
how, from a terrible fright at the sudden approach of danger, reason
had been restored to the unbalanced mind. In the case of Cameron,
however, where before he had been content to follow, acquiescing
without objection or comment to the conditions which surrounded
him, awaiting always a suggestion from his partner to act out the
inclination which had arisen in his own mind, he had now suddenly
assumed the rôle of leader, and so naturally, it appeared, that no
indecision was manifest because of his recent acquirement of the
office. That primitive charm of manner, that honest, simple style
of the Glengarry farmer, which had so won the confidence of LeClare
when traversing the same route in going to the gold fields, had now
upon their return trip given place to personal traits of even greater
significance. The new development of character in his friend showed
LeClare at every turn the master mind awakening. Grief had rudely torn
away the mask from the uncharitable, had laid bare the deceit of the
untrue and the wickedness of the hypocrite. The death of his wife,
Barbara, had removed the object of his unselfish love, and to LeClare
it was very evident that the future had in store for those who figured
in the events consequent to Cameron’s leaving The Front, a destiny more
or less happy, according as they should be judged upon the return of
the prospector to his home.