A SNOW-BLIND MAN
WHEN the next day dawned, a soft warm day, holding in it all the
promise of the Northland spring, Dick Bracknell was in no condition
to travel. He was clearly much weaker, and at times he lapsed into
delirium during which the hearts of two of those with him were wrung.
The feverish babble was of nothing relating to his life in the North,
but about his boyhood at Harrow Fell, and of his first meeting with
Joy. More than once Joy was unable to restrain her tears, and as the
day wore on, it was evident that the strain was telling upon her.
Several times Roger Bracknell begged her to leave the sick man and
rest, but she shook her head.
“No,” she whispered on the last occasion. “No! Look at him. It will not
be very long. I think I should like to be with him, when--when---- It
will help him, you know,” she concluded hastily.
“Yes,” he admitted, “you are quite right. He told me in that lucid
interval that these moments with you by his side were among the
happiest in his life.”
She looked down at the drawn face, her eyes flooding with sudden tears.
She did not love him, but there was a great pity in her heart for the
wayward man whose life had taken the wrong turn, and whose nature
as she now knew was as full of generous good as of desperate evil.
She prayed for him silently, and leaving her with bowed head, Roger
Bracknell walked slowly away.
At the outer edge of the camp he met Sibou. The latter waved a hand
towards the river, on the frozen surface of which tiny streams of water
were beginning to run.
“It is the spring,” he said. “If we do not leave today the ice may not
hold.”
“We cannot leave today, Sibou.”
“No,” replied the Indian. “We wait for death. Is it not so?”
“It is so!” agreed the corporal.
“And tomorrow comes the spring and new life,” said the Indian
thoughtfully. “That is the way, always death on the heels of life, and
life on the heels of death.” He jerked his head towards the camp. “The
woman nurses the man who dies, what is she to him?”
“She is his wife.”
“But she loves him not. I have watched her, I have seen the light in
her eyes.” He broke off abruptly, and again waved his hand towards the
river. “But the spring comes, and with the spring comes life and the
kindling of the heart.”
Roger Bracknell looked towards the river. He knew that the Indian’s
words were true, but he offered no comment on them. Instead he watched
the water running on the ice, and after a minute he asked abruptly,
“How long will the ice hold, Sibou?”
The Indian shook his head.
“That is not to be told.” He pointed across the river to where a
tributary stream flowed into the main river. “The water comes down
there and adds to the strength of this. It may break the ice here, and
spread over the surface. Listen.”
The corporal listened. The air was full of an indescribable sound, a
moaning and growling, quite different to the sound of the soft wind in
the trees.
“Already the water fights for the mastery,” said Sibou, “and tomorrow
it may have won.”
“No--today!” cried the corporal quickly, as there came a sudden crash
far out in front, and the next moment a gaping fissure showed in the
ice.
“Yes, today!” assented the Indian as he watched. “That is the first,
and there will be others. The break up has come. The spring has
arrived.”
A cry from the camp startled them, and divining what had happened, the
white man began to run. When he reached the fire he found Joy standing
by his cousin. Her eyes were burning with tears. He looked at her, and
as their eyes met, she answered the question in his.
“Yes,” she said, “a moment ago. He knew me again at the last.”
Roger Bracknell took a step forward, and looked into the still face
of his cousin. To him it seemed extraordinarily peaceful, and the
half-smile on the lips caught and held by death told its own story.
“He was happy in his death,” he said, “happier than in life. Poor old
Dick!”
He turned away, leaving Joy alone with the dead for a little while. He
knew that his cousin’s death meant release for her, and for himself
also, since it would remove the bands of silence from him. But in that
moment he refused to think of that aspect of the matter, and as with
the help of Sibou he bent a couple of young spruces, that his cousin’s
body might have the aerial sepulchre practised by the Northern tribes,
he reflected how much of good there was in Dick, and how many such
there are who having taken the wrong turn miss the full purpose of life.
Half an hour later the dead man was lashed to the young trees which
were released, carrying the body high in the air. Such portions of the
burial service as Roger could remember were recited, and then with Joy,
he turned towards the camp.
“We will start in an hour, if you like,” he said. “The ice is not very
good, but it will be worse tomorrow, and we can get some way towards
Chief Louis’ camp. Once there, ice or no ice will not matter. We shall
be able to get canoes.”
“Yes,” she said, “Yes, in an hour. There is no reason why we should
linger here now.”
They started before the hour was out; and travelled hard until the edge
of dark, avoiding fissures which were ever increasing, and pitched
camp several miles away from their last resting-place. In the night
the corporal was awakened by a crash somewhere on the river in front,
and in the morning he knew that sled-travelling was over till the
Northland winter should once more bind the rivers. A stream of water
was flowing on the surface of the ice. There were fissures everywhere,
and a distant rumble told him that somewhere the ice was breaking up,
Sibou came and joined him, and together they looked across the river.
Something caught the Indian’s keener eyes, something moving. He pointed
it out to Bracknell.
“There is a man there. He is coming this way!” The corporal looked
intently for a moment, then he agreed. “Yes, it is a man. He is alone.
He has no dogs.”’
“Maybe they are lost,” said the Indian.
“He will never get across,” commented Bracknell, “and we cannot warn
him. He will have to return.”
The Indian shaded his eyes against the rising sun and watched, then he
said, “He walks strangely.”
Bracknell himself thought so. The man, whoever he was, seemed to be
making an erratic course, and more than once just skirted a fissure.
Twenty minutes passed and then the two were joined by Joy and her
foster-sister. “What are you watching?” asked Joy.
The corporal pointed to the man, now little more than a hundred yards
away. Joy looked and cried out, and just at that moment Sibou started.
“The man is blind,” he said. “See how he walks, hands in front groping
for the way. Behold! He did not see the ice.”
The stranger, whoever he was, had stumbled over a cake of ice thrown
out on the surface, and as he picked himself up, he took his next step
into a stream running fast over the yielding surface. He withdrew the
foot instantly and half turned to try another course.
“It is the snow-blindness,” said Sibou. “He cannot see. He only feels,
and there is danger everywhere for him.”
“Oh,” cried Joy, “can nothing be done?”
“Something can be tried,” answered the corporal, beginning to get down
the bank.
Sibou followed him, and they moved towards the blinded man in imminent
risk of their lives. The ice seemed to be in movement everywhere, and
the noise out on the river was increasing. Even as they stepped on
the ice, it broke loose from the bank, and the rescuers felt it shake
beneath their feet. Cracks appeared through which the water spurted,
but they moved forward, for both were aware that the ice beneath them
might be thrown into the air as by some living monster and themselves
thrown into the swirling water.
A providence seemed to watch over the blind man. He had turned again
and now was running towards them. With a luck that was almost uncanny
he passed a couple of yawning cavities from which the water welled, and
once, he put his foot on emptiness, he leaped from the other foot, and
crossed the danger before him at a bound. They were but fifteen yards
apart, when suddenly Sibou stood still and gripped his companion’s arm.
“Behold!” he said quickly. “The man who was with me when the trail was
blown up before Mr. Gargrave.”
Roger Bracknell also stood still, and looked at the figure shambling
towards them. There was a distraught look on the man’s face, a madness
of fear that convulsed it, but in spite of that Roger Bracknell
recognized it. It was the face of Adrian Rayner.
Whilst he stood there, stunned, and held inactive by the recognition,
there was a sound of splintering at the corporal’s feet, and
instinctively both he and Sibou leaped backward. The ice parted, and a
little lane of turgid water appeared between them and the snow-blind
man. The latter still came on. Roger Bracknell watched him like a man
hypnotized; but when Rayner had almost reached the place where the
fracture had occurred, he cried out suddenly, in agonized warning--
“Look out, Rayner! For God’s sake, look out!”
His cry must have been heard by Rayner, for the latter halted suddenly,
and threw up his arm as if to ward off a blow. Then he gave a great
cry of fear, and turning suddenly began to run away from the bank.
He ran fast, helped by some great impulse of fear, but he ran only a
little way. A stretch of open water appeared in the line he followed,
and unconscious of its existence, he ran straight into it. They saw
the plunge, and watched painfully. A moment later his head appeared
above the water, and disappeared again, as the rush of water hurled him
forward. There was no further sign of him, and as delay was dangerous
both of them turned and raced for the bank.
As they gained it, the corporal saw a look of horror on Joy Gargrave’s
face.
“Who was the man?” she asked. “I seemed to recognize something about
him.”
“It was Adrian Rayner.”
“Ah, I guessed it! I knew it! You recognized him when you stopped?”
“Sibou recognized him first,” replied the corporal meaningly.
“Sibou! I did not know that he---- Oh, I remember. He was with the man
who was responsible for my father’s death.”
“Yes, and Adrian Rayner was the man.”
Joy was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on the place where her
cousin had met his death. There was an enigmatic look in them which
made Roger Bracknell wonder. Then she spoke again.
“You halted when you recognized him? You would not help him?”
“It was not that,” he answered quickly. “It was just amazement that
held me for a minute, amazement and a feeling of horror that my
suspicions were proved right, though for weeks I have been sure that
Adrian Rayner was the guilty man. He would have stepped into open water
if I had not suddenly cried out. I think he heard me, I think he may
have recognized my voice. He may have been startled, though I think he
was afraid at hearing his name called out when he was without knowledge
that any one was near. As you saw he turned and ran, but I saw his face
as he stopped at my hail, and it was stark with fear.”
After a few seconds the girl spoke again, her eyes still on the tumult
of the river.
“He was alone,” she said, “Snow-blind! I wonder how that came about.
He had two Indians with him when he started.”
“He may have lost them, have wandered from the camp or something of
that sort. Or they may have deserted him, carrying away the outfit.
In any case what has happened, terrible as it is, is probably for the
best. Rayner’s death saves him a trial for murder, and the past need
not be raked up.”
Joy nodded, and looked once more to where the broken floes were
grinding each other in the waters which had engulfed the guilty man.
“It is the judgment of God.”
* * * * *
It was five and a half months later when Roger Bracknell, fresh from
England, walked up the road from the river leading to North Star Lodge.
There was a touch of frost in the air, and already the wild geese were
moving southward, and he heard their honk! honk! as they flew over his
head for the warmer lands of the South, but he never so much as lifted
his eyes to look at them. His gaze was fixed on the place where the
road turned, eagerly expectant, and from behind came the voyageurs’
song as his men unpacked the boat.
“What is there like to the laughing star,
Far up from the lilac tree?
A face that’s brighter and finer far,
It laughs and it shines, ci, ci!--”
The honk of the geese overhead for a moment drowned the words, but they
reached him again a moment later.
“--Till I go forth and bring it home,
And house if within my door--
Row along, row along home, ci, ci!”
Then he turned the corner of the road. A girl was hurrying between the
long lines of trees. It was Joy Gargrave. There was no laughter on her
face, but the blood was warm in it, and her eyes were shining.
“Oh, my dear!” she said, half sobbing with gladness as he took her in
his arms.
“At last,” he whispered, then together they turned and walked towards
the lodge.
“Babette?” he inquired.
“She is well!” Then Joy laughed gaily. “She had the good sense to
remain indoors. You know she is going to be married.”
“No?”
“It has been arranged a long time, before ever you came to North Star,
but the little minx only told me the other day, when she knew that you
were really coming back.”
“Who is the man?”
“An American engineer, James Sherlock. He came here once or twice in
the old days when my father was alive. He is a very fine man.”
“I hope she will be happy.”
“There is no doubt of that,” answered Joy, “but she will not be as
happy as we shall. But what news is there from England? My uncle?”
Roger Bracknell’s face grew a little graver as he looked at her, then
he said quietly, “I think I had better tell you at once, and dismiss
the unpleasantness once and for all.... I told him of his son’s death,
without telling him all that lay behind it. It was a great shock
to him--and for a little time he broke down completely. He seemed
to regard it as in some way a judgment on himself, and he made a
confession to me.”
“A confession!” Joy stopped and looked at him with eyes that were wide
with fear. “You do not mean that he knew that Adrian intended----”
“He knew nothing, not even of your marriage with Dick, and even now he
does not know that your father’s death was anything but accidental.
He was, I could tell, in complete ignorance of the real object of
his son’s journey here, and thought it had to do with his confessed
infatuation for you. The confession he made had to do with his
financial affairs. It appears that he has speculated rashly, that his
affairs have become very much involved, and that absolute control of
your money was needed to save him.”
“I gave it,” cried Joy.
“Yes! and it did save him. Some of his ventures turned out very well
after all, but that matters nothing now. Adrian was the apple of his
eye, and his loss, as I said, he regarded as a personal judgment on
himself as he had first sent Adrian to North Star in the hope that the
match he desired would come to pass.”
“But he did not know of Dick. He was not party to my cousin’s
schemes----”
“I am sure he was in absolute ignorance.”
“Thank God! He was always kind to me, and I could not bear to think
that he was in my cousin’s confidence. He wanted me to marry Adrian,
but he thought that I was free.”
“He is going out of business, and I have arranged with him to transfer
your affairs to a firm that manages the Harrow Fell estates. When we go
to England----”
“When will that be?” asked Joy quickly.
Roger Bracknell smiled. “There is no hurry. I thought I might winter up
here--that is if you are agreeable.”
She looked at him reproachfully. “You know----”
“Wait! You have not heard everything, Joy! Down the river I passed
the missionary priest, Father Doherty. He is going North--racing the
winter. He knows he has already lost the race, and that he will have to
finish his journey on the ice. I ventured to persuade him to break the
journey at the Lodge, and he agreed to do so. It was very audacious of
me----”
“Why should it be audacious? Travellers are always welcome at North
Star.”
“Well,” he answered smilingly, “he is a priest you know.”
For a couple of seconds she looked at him wonderingly, then
comprehension came to her, and a blush mantled her face.
“It _was_ very audacious of you,” she said. “Very! But--but----”
“But what?” he asked.
“I am glad that--that----”
“Yes?”
“That Father Doherty is a priest.”
She laughed with gladness as he stooped to kiss her; and when they
resumed their way, she asked, “When will he arrive?”
“Tomorrow, I think.”
“So soon?”
“No--so long!” he corrected smilingly.
“And we shall have a winter honeymoon at North Star?”
“Yes!”
“That,” she said, “will be delightful!”
And as she spoke, through the trees the Lodge appeared in sight, and to
them drifted a fragment of the boatman’s song--
“--Till I go forth and bring it home,
And enter and close my door--
Row along, row along home, ci, ci!”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
--Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Lady of North Star, by Ottwell J. Binns