AN OLD MAN OF THE NORTH
Having walked resolutely to the black hole in the snow bank, Marian
looked within. There was no door; merely an opening here. A dim lamp in
the distance sent an uncertain and ghostly light down the corridor. By
this light she made out numerous posts and saw that a narrow passage-way
ran between them.
There was something so mysterious about the place that she hesitated on
the threshold. At that moment a thought flashed through her mind, a
startling and disheartening thought.
“Radio,” she murmured, “nothing but radio.”
She was convinced in an instant that her solution of the origin of the
wonderful music was correct.
The persons who lived in this strange dwelling, which reminded her of
pictures she had seen of the dens and caves of robbers and brigands, had
somehow come into possession of a powerful radio receiving set. Somewhere
in Nome, or Fairbanks, or perhaps even in Seattle—a noted musician was
giving an organ recital. This radio set with its loud speaker had picked
up the music and had faithfully reproduced it. That was all there was to
the mystery. There was no pipe organ, no skillful musician out here in
the forest wilderness. It had been stupid of her to think there might be.
This revelation, for revelation it surely seemed to be, was both
disappointing and disturbing. Disappointing, because in her
adventure-loving soul she had hoped to discover here in the wilderness a
thing that to all appearances could not be—a modern miracle. Disturbing
it was, too, for since a mere instrument, a radio-phone, has no soul, the
character of the person who operated it might be anything at all. She
could not conceive of the person who actually touched the keys and caused
that divine music to pour forth as a villain. Any sort of person,
however, might snap on the switch that sends such music vibrating from
the horn of the loud speaker of a radiophone.
For a full five minutes she wavered between two courses of action; to go
on inside this den, or to go back to Attatak and attempt to pass it
unobserved.
Perhaps it was the touch of a finger on what she supposed to be a far off
key—the resuming of the music; perhaps it was her own utter weariness
that decided her at last. Whatever it was, she set a resolute foot inside
the entrance, and the next instant found herself carefully picking her
way down the dark passage toward the dim lamp.
To her surprise, when she at last reached the lamp that hung over a door,
she found not an oil lamp, but a small electric light bulb.
“Will marvels never cease?” she whispered.
For a second she hesitated. Should she knock? She hated spying; yet the
door stood invitingly ajar. If the persons within did not appear to be
the sort of persons a girl might trust; if she could see them and remain
unobserved, there was still opportunity for flight.
Acting upon this impulse, she peered through the crack in the door.
Imagine her surprise upon seeing at the far end of a long,
high-ceilinged, heavily timbered room, not a radio horn, but a pipe
organ.
“So,” she breathed, “my first thought was right. That enchanting music
_was_ produced on the spot. And by such a musician!”
Seated with his side toward her, was the bent figure of an old man. His
long, flowing white beard, his snowy locks, the dreamy look upon his face
as his fingers drifted back and forth across the keys, reminded her of
pictures she had seen of ancient bards playing upon golden harps.
“‘Harp of the North that mouldering long has hung,’” she recited in a low
voice.
The fingers on the keys suddenly ceased their drifting, the dreamy look
faded from the musician’s face. A smile lighted his eyes as, turning
about, he spoke in a cheery voice:
“Come in. I have been waiting for you. You are welcome to an old man’s
lonely house; doubly welcome, coming as you do in time for Sunday
vespers.”
This strange, almost uncanny proceeding so startled the girl that for a
second she was tempted to turn and flee. The next second she had complete
control of herself. Pushing the door open, as if entering the chamber of
the king of fairies, she made a little bow and said:
“Thank you.”
Then, realizing how perfectly absurd her action had been, she broke into
a hearty laugh and in this laugh the old man joined.
So, with the ice broken, they became friends at once.
To her vast relief she found that the old man, though he had undoubtedly
been expecting them or someone else, did not know all about them. He
asked if they travelled with dog team or reindeer. Upon being told that
they drove reindeer, he smiled and said:
“Good. It’s lucky I have feed for your deer. Reindeer people seldom come
this way. Once I was caught unprepared to entertain them, so last autumn
I put in a good stock of moss and willow leaves. Your deer shall be
safely housed and richly fed, and so shall you. Go bring them at once. Or
shall I go with you?”
“Oh no; that is not necessary,” Marian hastened to assure him.
“Very well then, while you go I will put the birds on to broil. You are
doubtless very hungry.”
Ten minutes later Marian was chattering to Attatak:
“The queerest place you ever saw; and the strangest old gentleman. But
really, I think he is a dear.”