Philip rose slowly erect and gazed down into the still, tranquil face
of Pierre, the half-breed.
"Why didn't you open it?" he whispered. "Why didn't you open it? My
God, what it would have saved--"
For a full minute he looked down at Pierre, as though he expected that
the white lips would move and answer him. And then he thought of Jeanne
hurrying to Fort o' God, and of the terrible things which she was to
reveal to her father that night. She was D'Arcambal's own daughter.
What pain--what agony of father and child he might have saved if he had
examined the locket a little sooner! He looked at his watch and found
that Jeanne had been gone three hours. It would be impossible to
overtake MacDougall and the girl unless something had occurred to delay
them somewhere along the trail. He hurried back into the little room,
where he had left Cassidy. In a few words he explained that it was
necessary for him to follow Jeanne and the engineer to D'Arcambal House
without a moment's delay, and he directed Cassidy to take charge of
camp affairs, and to send Pierre's body with a suitable escort the next
day.
"It isn't necessary for me to tell you what to do," he finished, "You
understand."
Cassidy nodded. Six months before he had buried his youngest child
under a big spruce back of his cabin.
Philip hastened to the stables, and, choosing one of the lighter
animals, was soon galloping over the trail toward the Little Churchill.
In his face there blew a cold wind from Hudson's Bay, and now and then
he felt the sting of fine particles in his eyes. They were the presage
of storm. A shifting of the wind a little to the east and south, and
the fine particles would thicken, and turn into snow. By morning the
world would be white. He came into the forests beyond the plain, and in
the spruce and the cedar tops the wind was half a gale, filling the
night with wailing and moaning sounds that sent strange shivers through
him as he thought of Pierre in the cabin. In such a way, he imagined,
had the north wind swept across the cold barrens on the night that
Pierre had found the woman and the babe; and now it seemed, in his
fancies, as though above and about him the great hand that had guided
the half-breed then was bringing back the old night, as if Pierre, in
dying, had wished it so. For the wind changed. The fine particles
thickened, and changed to snow. And then there was no longer the
wailing and the moaning in the tree-tops, but the soft murmur of a
white deluge that smothered him in a strange gloom and hid the trail.
There were two canoes concealed at the end of the trail on the Little
Churchill, and Philip chose the smallest. He followed swiftly after
MacDougall and Jeanne. He could no longer see either side of the
stream, and he was filled with a fear that he might pass the little
creek that led to Fort o' God. He timed himself by his watch, and when
he had paddled for two hours he ran in close to the west shore,
traveling so slowly that he did not progress a mile in half an hour.
And then suddenly, from close ahead, there rose through the snow-gloom
the dismal howl of a dog, which told him that he was near to Fort o'
God. He found the black opening that marked the entrance to the creek,
and when he ran upon the sand-bar a hundred yards beyond he saw lights
burning in the great room where he had first seen D'Arcambal. He went
now where Pierre had led him that night, and found the door unlocked.
He entered silently, and passed down the dark hall until, on the left,
he saw a glow of light that came from the big room. Something in the
silence that was ahead of him made his own approach without sound, and
softly he entered through the door.
In the great chair sat the master of Fort o' God, his gray head bent;
at his feet knelt Jeanne, and so close were they that D'Arcambal's face
was hidden in Jeanne's shining, disheveled hair. No sooner had Philip
entered the room than his presence seemed to arouse the older man. He
lifted his head slowly, looking toward the door, and when he saw who
stood there he raised one of his arms from about the girl and held it
out to Philip.
"My son!" he said.
In a moment Philip was upon his knees beside Jeanne, and one of
D'Arcambal's heavy hands fell upon his shoulder in a touch that told
him he had come too late to keep back any part of the terrible story
which Jeanne had bared to him. The girl did not speak when she saw him
beside her. It was as if she had expected him to come, and her hand
found his and nestled in it, as cold as ice.
"I have hurried from the camp," he said. "I tried to overtake Jeanne.
About Pierre's neck I found a locket, and in the locket--was this--"
He looked into D'Arcambal's haggard face as he gave him the
blood-stained note, and he knew that in the moment that was to come the
master of Fort o' God and his daughter should be alone.
"I will wait in the portrait-room," he said, in a low voice, and as he
rose to his feet he pressed Jeanne's hand to his lips.
The old room was as he had left it weeks before. The picture of
Jeanne's mother still hung with its face to the wall. There was the
same elusive movement of the portrait over the volume of warm air that
rose from the floor. In this room he seemed to breathe again the
presence of a warm spirit of life, as he had felt it on the first
night--a spirit that seemed to him to be a part of Jeanne herself, and
he thought of the last words of the wife and mother--of her promise to
remain always near those whom she loved, to regain after death the
companionship which she could never hope for in life. And then there
came to him a thought of the vast and wonderful mystery of death, and
he wondered if it was her spirit that had been with him more than one
lonely night, when his camp-fire was low; if it was her presence that
had filled him with transcendent dreams of hope and love, coming to him
that night beside the rock at Churchill, and leading him at last to
Jeanne, for whom she had given up her life. He heard again the rising
of the wind outside and the beating of the storm against the window,
and he went softly to see if his vision could penetrate into the white,
twisting gloom beyond the glass. For many minutes he stood, seeing
nothing. And then he heard a sound, and turned to see Jeanne and her
father standing in the door. Glory was in the face of the master of
Fort o' God. He seemed not to see Philip--he seemed to see nothing but
the picture that was turned against the wall. He strode across the
room, his great shoulders straightened, his shaggy head erect, and with
the pride of one revealing first to human eyes the masterpiece of his
soul and life he turned the picture so that the radiant face of the
wife and mother looked down upon him. And was it fancy that for a
fleeting moment the smile left the beautiful lips, and a light, soft
and luminous, pleading for love and forgiveness, filled the eyes of
Jeanne's mother? Philip trembled. Jeanne came across to him silently,
and crept into his arms. And then, slowly, the master of Fort o' God
turned toward them and stretched out both of his great arms.
"My children!" he said.