VI

Scarce had he spoken when he would have given much to have recalled his

words, wrung from his lips by that sobbing note of loneliness, of

defiance, of half pain in the girl's voice. It was the same note, the

same spirit crying out against his world that he had listened to in the

moaning of the surf as it labored to carry away the dead, and in the

wind that sighed in the spruce-tops below the mountain, only now it was

the spirit speaking through a human voice. Every fiber in his body

vibrated in response to it, and he stood with bared head, filled with a

wild desire to make these people understand, and yet startled at the

effect which his appearance had produced.

The girl faced him, her eyes shining with sudden fear. Quicker than her

own was the movement of the half-breed. In a flash he was upon his

feet, his dark face tense with action, his right hand gripping at

something in his belt as he bent toward the figure in the center of the

rock. His posture was that of an animal ready to spring. Close beside

him gleamed the white fangs of the wolf-dog. The girl leaned over and

twisted her fingers in the tawny hair that bristled on the dog's neck.

Philip heard her speak, but she did not move her eyes from his face. It

was the tableau of a moment, tense, breathless. The only thing that

moved was the shimmer of steel. Philip caught the gleam of it under the

half-breed's hand.

"Don't do that, M'sieur," he said, pointing at the other's belt. "I am

sorry that I disturbed you. Sometimes I come up here--alone--to smoke

my pipe and listen to the sea down there. I heard you say that you hate

Churchill, and I hate it. That is why I spoke."

He turned to the girl.

"I am sorry. I beg your pardon."

He looked at her with new wonderment. She had tossed back her loose

hair, and stood tall and straight in the moonlight, her dark eyes

gazing at him now calmly and without affright. She was dressed in rich

yellow buckskin, as soft as chamois. Her throat was bare. A deep collar

of lace fell over her shoulders. One hand, raised to her breast,

revealed a wide gauntlet cuff of red or purple plush, of a fashion two

centuries old. Her lips were parted, and he saw the faintest gleam of

her white teeth, the quick rising and falling of her bosom. He had

spoken directly to her, yet she gave no sign of having heard him.

"You startled us, that is all, M'sieur," said Pierre, quietly. His

English was excellent, and as he spoke he bowed low to Philip. "It is I

whom you must pardon, M'sieur--for betraying so much caution."

Philip held out his hand.

"My name is Whittemore--Philip Whittemore," he said. "I'm staying at

Churchill until the ship comes in and--and I hope you'll let me sit

here on the rock."

For an instant Pierre's fingers gripped his hand, and he bowed low

again like a courtier. Philip saw that he, too, wore the same big,

old-fashioned cuffs, and that it was not a knife that hung at his belt,

but a short rapier.

"And I am Pierre--Pierre Couchee," he said. "And this--is my

sister--Jeanne. We do not belong to Fort Churchill, but come from Fort

o' God. Good night, M'sieur!"

The girl had taken a step back, and now she swept him a courtesy so low

that her fallen hair streamed over her shoulders. She spoke no word,

but passed quickly with Pierre up the rock, and while Philip stood

stunned and speechless they disappeared swiftly into the white gloom of

the night.

Mutely he gazed after them. For a long time he stood staring beyond the

rocks, marveling at the strangeness of this thing that had happened. An

hour before he had stood with bared head over the ancient dead at

Churchill, and now, on the rock, he had seen the resurrection of what

he had dreamed those dead to be in life. He had never seen people like

Pierre and Jeanne. Their strange dress, the rapier at Pierre's side,

his courtly bow, the low, graceful courtesy that the girl had made him,

all carried him back to the days of the old pictures that hung in the

factor's room at Churchill, when high-blooded gallants came into the

wilderness with their swords at their sides, wearing the favors of

court ladies next their hearts. Pierre, standing there on the rock,

with his hand on his rapier, might have been Grosellier himself, the

prince's favorite, and Jeanne--

Something white on the rock near where the girl had been sitting caught

Philip's eyes. In a moment he held in his fingers a small handkerchief

and a broad ribbon of finely knit lace. In her haste to get away she

had forgotten these things. He was about to run to the crest of the

cliff and call loudly for Pierre Couchee when he held the handkerchief

and the lace close to his face and the delicate perfume of heliotrope

stopped him. There was something familiar about it, something that held

him wondering and mystified, until he knew that he had lost the

opportunity to recall Pierre and his companion. He looked at the

handkerchief more, closely. It was a dainty fabric, so soft that it

gave barely the sensation of touch when he crushed it in the palm of

his hand. For a few moments he was puzzled to account for the filmy

strip of lace. Then the truth came to him. Jeanne had used it to bind

her hair!

He laughed softly, joyously, as he wound the bit of fabric about his

fingers and retraced his steps toward Churchill. Again and again he

pressed the tiny handkerchief to his face, breathing of its sweetness;

and the action suddenly stirred his memory to the solution of its

mystery. It was this same sweetness that had come to him on the night

that he had looked down into the beautiful face of Eileen Brokaw at the

Brokaw ball. He remembered now that Eileen Brokaw loved heliotrope, and

that she always wore a purple heliotrope at her white throat or in the

gold of her hair. For a moment it struck him as singular that so many

things had happened this day to remind him of Brokaw's daughter. The

thought hastened his steps. He was anxious to look at the picture

again, to convince himself that he had been mistaken. Gregson was

asleep when he re-entered the cabin. The light was burning low, and

Philip turned up the wick. On the table was the picture as Gregson had

left it. This time there was no doubt. He had drawn the face of Eileen

Brokaw. In a spirit of jest he had written under it, "The Wife of Lord

Fitzhugh."

In spite of their absurdity the words affected Philip curiously. Was it

possible that Miss Brokaw had reached Fort Churchill in some other way

than by ship? And, if not, was it possible that in this remote corner

of the earth there was another woman who resembled her so closely?

Philip took a step toward Gregson, half determined to awaken him. And

yet, on second thought, he knew that Gregson could not explain. Even if

the artist had learned of his affair with Miss Brokaw and had secured a

picture of her in some way, he would not presume to go this far. He was

convinced that Gregson had drawn the picture of a face that he had seen

that day. Again he read the words at the bottom of the sketch, and once

more he experienced their curious effect upon him--an effect which it

was impossible for him to analyze even in his own mind.

He replaced the picture upon the table and drew the handkerchief and

bit of lace from his pocket. In the light of the lamp he saw that both

were as unusual as had been the picturesque dress of the girl and her

companion. Even to his inexperienced eyes and touch they gave evidence

of a richness that puzzled him, of a fashion that he had never seen.

They were of exquisite workmanship. The lace was of a delicate ivory

color, faintly tinted with yellow. The handkerchief was in the shape of

a heart, and in one corner of it, so finely wrought that he could

barely make out the silken letters, was the word "Camille."

The scent of heliotrope rose more strongly in the closed room, and from

the handkerchief Philip's eyes turned to the face of Eileen Brokaw

looking at him from out of Gregson's sketch. It was a curious

coincidence. He reached over and placed the picture face down. Then he

loaded his pipe, and sat smoking, his vision traveling beyond the

table, beyond the closed door to the lonely black rock where he had

come upon Jeanne and Pierre. Clouds of smoke rose about him, and he

half closed his eyes. He saw the girl again, as she stood there; he saw

the moonlight shining in her hair, the dark, startled beauty of her

eyes as she turned upon him; he heard again the low sobbing note in her

voice as she cried out her hatred against Churchill. He forgot Eileen

Brokaw now, forgot in these moments all that he and Gregson had talked

of that day. His schemes, his fears, his feverish eagerness to begin

the fight against his enemies died away in thoughts of the beautiful

girl who had come into his life this night. It seemed to him now that

he had known her for a long time, that she had been a part of him

always, and that it was her spirit that he had been groping and

searching for, and could never find. For the space of those few moments

on the cliff she had driven out the emptiness and the loneliness from

his heart, and there filled him a wild desire to make her understand,

to talk with her, to stand shoulder to shoulder with Pierre out there

in the night, a comrade.

Suddenly his fingers closed tightly over the handkerchief. He turned

and looked steadily at Gregson. His friend was sleeping, with his face

to the wall.

Would not Pierre return to the rock in search of these articles which

his sister had left behind? The thought set his blood tingling. He

would go back--and wait for Pierre. But if Pierre did not return--until

to-morrow?

He laughed softly to himself as he drew paper toward him and picked up

the pencil which Gregson had used. For many minutes he wrote steadily.

When he had done, he folded what he had written and tied it in the

handkerchief. The strip of lace with which Jeanne had bound her hair he

folded gently and placed in his breast pocket. There was a guilty flush

in his face as he stole silently to the door. What would Gregson say if

he knew that he--Phil Whittemore, the man whom he had once idealized as

"The Fighter," and whom he believed to be proof against all love of

woman--was doing this thing? He opened and closed the door softly.

At least he would send his message to these strange people of the

wilderness. They would know that he was not a part of that Churchill

which they hated, that in his heart he had ceased to be a thing of its

breed. He apologized again for his sudden appearance on the rock, but

the apology was only an excuse for other things which he wrote, in

which for a few brief moments he bared himself to those whom he knew

would understand, and asked that their acquaintance might be continued.

He felt that there was something almost boyish in what he was doing;

and yet, as he hurried over the ridge and down into Churchill again, he

was thrilled as no other adventure had ever thrilled him before. As he

approached the cliff he began to fear that the half-breed would not

return for the things which Jeanne had left, or that he had already

re-visited the rock. The latter thought urged him on until he was half

running. The crest of the cliff was bare when he reached it. He looked

at his watch. He had been gone an hour.

Where the moonlight seemed to fall brightest he dropped the

handkerchief, and then slipped back into the rocky trail that led to

the edge of the Bay. He had scarcely reached the strip of level beach

that lay between him and Churchill when from far behind him there came

the long howl of a dog. It was the wolf-dog. He knew it by the slow,

dismal rising of the cry and the infinite sadness with which it as

slowly died away until lost in the whisperings of the forest and the

gentle wash of the sea. Pierre was returning. He was coming back

through the forest. Perhaps Jeanne would be with him.

For the third time Philip climbed back to the great moonlit rock at the

top of the cliff. Eagerly he faced the north, whence the wailing cry of

the wolf-dog had come. Then he turned to the spot where he had dropped

the handkerchief, and his heart gave a sudden jump.

There was nothing on the rock. The handkerchief was gone!