Both Philip and Jeanne were silent for some moments after Gregson had
gone; their only movement was the gentle stroking of Philip's hand over
the girl's soft hair. Their hearts were full, too full for speech. And
yet he knew that upon his strength depended everything now. The
revelations of Gregson, which virtually ended the fight against him
personally, were but trivial in his thoughts compared with the ordeal
which was ahead of Jeanne. Both Pierre and her father were dead, and,
with the exception of Jeanne, no one but he knew of the secret that had
died with them. He could feel against him the throbbing of the storm
that was passing in the girl's heart, and in answer to it he said
nothing in words, but held her to him with a gentleness that lifted her
face, quiet and beautiful, so that her eyes looked steadily and
questioningly into his own.
"You love me," she said, simply, and yet with a calmness that sent a
curious thrill through him.
"Beyond all else in the world," he replied.
She still looked at him, without speaking, as though through his eyes
she was searching to the bottom of his soul.
"And you know," she whispered, after a moment.
He drew her so close she could not move, and crushed his face down
against her own.
"Jeanne--Jeanne--everything is as it should be," he said. "I am glad
that you were found out in the snows. I am glad that the woman in the
picture was your mother. I would have nothing different than it is, for
if things were different you would not be the Jeanne that I know, and I
would not love you so. You have suffered, sweetheart. And I, too, have
had my share of sorrow. God has brought us together, and all is right
in the end. Jeanne--my sweet Jeanne--"
Gregson had left the outer door slightly ajar. A gust of wind opened it
wider. Through it there came now a sound that interrupted the words on
Philip's lips, and sent a sudden quiver through Jeanne. In an instant
both recognized the sound. It was the firing of rifles, the shots
coming to them faintly from far beyond the mountain at the end of the
lake. Moved by the same impulse, they ran to the door, hand in hand.
"It is Sachigo!" panted Jeanne. She could hardly speak. She seemed to
struggle to get breath, "I had forgotten. They are fighting--"
MacDougall strode up from his post beside the door, where he had been
waiting for the appearance of Jeanne.
"Firing--off there," he said. "What does it mean?"
"We must wait and see," replied Philip. "Send two of your men to
investigate, Mac. I will rejoin you after I have taken Miss d'Arcambal
over to Cassidy's wife."
He moved away quickly with Jeanne. On a sudden rise of the wind from
the south the firing came to them more distinctly. Then it died away,
and ended in three or four intermittent shots. For the space of a dozen
seconds a strange stillness followed, and then over the mountain top,
where there was still a faint glow in the sky, there came the low,
quavering, triumphal cry of the Crees: a cry born of the forest itself,
mournful even in its joy, only half human--almost like a far-away burst
of tongue from a wolf pack on the hunt trail. And after that there was
an unbroken silence.
"It is over," breathed Philip.
He felt Jeanne's fingers tighten about his own.
"No one will ever know," he continued. "Even MacDougall will not guess
what has happened out there--to-night."
He stopped a dozen paces from Cassidy's cabin. The windows were aglow,
and they could hear the laughter and play of Cassidy's two children
within. Gently he drew Jeanne to him.
"You will stay here to-night, dear," he said. "To-morrow we will go to
Fort o' God."
"You must take me home to-night," whispered Jeanne, looking up into his
face. "I must go, Philip. Send some one with me, and you can come--in
the morning--with Pierre--"
She put her hand to his face again, in the sweet touch that told more
of her love than a thousand words.
"You understand, dear," she went on, seeing the anxiety in his eyes. "I
have the strength--to-night. I must return to father, and he will know
everything--when you come to Fort o' God."
"I will send MacDougall with you," said Philip, after a moment. "And
then I will follow--"
"With Pierre."
"Yes, with Pierre."
For a brief space longer they stood outside of Cassidy's cabin, and
then Philip, lifting her face, said gently:
"Will you kiss me, dear? It is the first time."
He bent down, and Jeanne's lips reached his own.
"No, it is not the first time," she confessed, in a whisper. "Not since
that day--when I thought you were dying--after we came through the
rapids--"
Five minutes later Philip returned to MacDougall. Roberts, Henshaw,
Cassidy, and Lecault were with the engineer.
"I've sent the St. Pierres to find out about the firing," he said.
"Look at the crowd over at the store. Every one heard it, and they've
seen the fire on the mountain. They think the Indians have cornered a
moose or two and are shooting them by the blaze."
"They're probably right," said Philip. "I want a word with you, Mac."
He walked a little aside with the engineer, leaving the others in a
group, and in a low voice told him as much as he cared to reveal about
the identity of Thorpe and Gregson's mission in camp. Then he spoke of
Jeanne.
"I believe that the death of Thorpe practically ends all danger to us,"
he concluded. "I'm going to offer you a pleasanter job than fighting,
Mac. It is imperative that Miss d'Arcambal should return to D'Arcambal
House before morning, and I want you to take her, if you will. I'm
choosing the best man I've got because--well, because she's going to be
my wife, Mac. I'm the happiest man on earth to-night!"
MacDougall did not show surprise.
"Guessed it," he said, shortly, thrusting out a hand and grinning
broadly into Philip's face "Couldn't help from seeing, Phil. And the
firing, and Thorpe, and that half-breed in there--"
Understanding was slowly illuminating his face.
"You'll know all about them a little later, Mac," said Philip softly.
"To-night we must investigate nothing--very far. Miss d'Arcambal must
be taken home immediately. Will you go?"
"With pleasure."
"She can ride one of the horses as far as the Little Churchill,"
continued Philip. "And there she will show you a canoe. I will follow
in the morning with the body of Pierre, the half-breed."
A quarter of an hour later MacDougall and Jeanne set out over the river
trail, leaving Philip standing behind, watching them until they were
hidden in the night. It was fully an hour later before the St. Pierres
returned. Philip was uneasy until the two dark-faced hunters came into
the little office and leaned their rifles against the wall. He had
feared that Sachigo might have left some trace of his ambush behind.
But the St. Pierres had discovered nothing, and could give only one
reason for the burning pine on the summit of the mountain. They agreed
that Indians had fired it to frighten moose from a thick cover to the
south and west, and that their hunt had been a failure.
It was midnight before Philip relaxed his caution, which he maintained
until then in spite of his belief that Thorpe's men, under Blake, had
met a quick finish at the hands of Sachigo and his ambushed braves. His
men left for their cabins, with the exception of Cassidy, whom he asked
to spend the remainder of the night in one of the office bunks. Alone
he went in to prepare Pierre for his last journey to Fort o' God.
A lamp was burning low beside the bunk in which Pierre lay. Philip
approached and turned the wick higher, and then he gazed in wonder upon
the transfiguration in the half-breed's face. Pierre had died with a
smile on his lips; and with a curious thickening in his throat Philip
thought that those lips, even in death, were craved in the act of
whispering Jeanne's name. It seemed to him, as he stood in silence for
many moments, that Pierre was not dead, but that he was sleeping a
quiet, unbreathing sleep, in which there came to him visions of the
great love for which he had offered up his life and his soul. Jeanne's
hands, in his last moments, had stilled all pain. Peace slumbered in
the pale shadows of his closed eyes. The Great God of his faith had
come to him in his hour of greatest need on earth, and he had passed
away into the Valley of Silent Men on the sweet breath of Jeanne's
prayers. The girl had crossed his hands upon his breast. She had
brushed back his long hair. Philip knew that she had imprinted a kiss
upon the silent lips before the soul had fled, and in the warmth and
knowledge of that kiss Pierre had died happy.
And Philip, brokenly, said aloud:
"God bless you, Pierre, old man!"
He lifted the cold hands back, and gently drew the covers which had
hidden the telltale stains of death from Jeanne's eyes. He turned down
Pierre's shirt, and in the lamp-glow there glistened the golden locket.
For the first time he noticed it closely. It was half as large as the
palm of his hand, and very thin, and he saw that it was bent and
twisted. A shudder ran through him when he understood what had
happened. The bullet that had killed Pierre had first struck the
locket, and had burst it partly open. He took it in his hand. And then
he saw that through the broken side there protruded the end of a bit of
paper. For a brief space the discovery made him almost forget the
presence of death. Pierre had never opened the locket, because it was
of the old-fashioned kind that locked with a key, and the key was gone.
And the locket had been about Jeanne's neck when he found her out in
the snows! Was it possible that this bit of paper had something to do
with the girl he loved?
Carefully, so that it would not tear, he drew it forth. There was
writing on the paper, as he had expected, and he read it, bent low
beside the lamp. The date was nearly eighteen years old. The lines were
faint. The words were these:
MY HUSBAND,--God can never undo what I have done. I have dragged myself
back, repentant, loving you more than I have ever loved you in my life,
to leave our little girl with you. She is your daughter, and mine. She
was born on the eighth day of September, the seventh month after I left
Fort o' God, She is yours, and so I bring her back to you, with the
prayer that she will help to fill the true and noble heart that I have
broken. I cannot ask your forgiveness, for I do not deserve it. I
cannot let you see me, for I should kill myself at your feet. I have
lived this long only for the baby. I will leave her where you cannot
fail to find her, and by the time you have read this I will have
answered for my sin--my madness, if you can have charity regard it so.
And if God is kind I will hover about you always, and you will know
that in death the old sweetheart, and the mother, has found what she
could never again hope for in life.