THE MUSIC
"Listen, John--I hear music--"
The words came in a gentle whisper from the woman's lips. One white,
thin hand lifted itself weakly to the rough face of the man who was
kneeling beside her bed, and the great dark eyes from which he had
hidden his own grew luminously bright for a moment, as she whispered
again:
"John--I hear--music--"
A sigh fluttered from her lips. The man's head drooped until it rested
very near to her bosom. He felt the quiver of her hand against his
cheek, and in its touch there was something which told John Cummins
that the end of all life had come for him and for her. His heart beat
fiercely, and his great shoulders shook with the agony that was eating
at his soul.
"Yes, it is the pretty music, my Mélisse," he murmured softly, choking
back his sobs. "It is the pretty music in the skies."
The hand pressed more tightly against his face.
"It's not the music in the skies, John. It is real--REAL music that I
hear--"
"It's the sky music, my sweet Mélisse! Shall I open the door so that we
can hear it better?"
The hand slipped from his cheek. Cummins lifted his head, slowly
straightening his great shoulders as he looked down upon the white
face, from which even the flush of fever was disappearing, as he had
seen the pale glow of the northern sun fade before a thickening snow.
He stretched his long, gaunt arms straight up to the low roof of the
cabin, and for the first time in his life he prayed--prayed to the God
who had made for him this world of snow and ice and endless forest very
near to the dome of the earth, who had given him this woman, and who
was now taking her from him.
When he looked again at the woman, her eyes were open, and there glowed
in them still the feeble fire of a great love. Her lips, too, pleaded
with him in their old, sweet way, which always meant that he was to
kiss them, and stroke her hair, and tell her again that she was the
most beautiful thing in the whole world.
"My Mélisse!"
He crushed his face to her, his sobbing breath smothering itself in the
soft masses of her hair, while her arms rose weakly and fell around his
neck. He heard the quick, gasping struggle for breath within her bosom,
and, faintly again, the words:
"It--is--the--music--of--my--people!"
"It is the music of the angels in the skies, my sweet Mélisse! It is
OUR music. I will open the door."
The arms had slipped from his shoulders. Gently he ran his rough
fingers through the loose glory of the woman's hair, and stroked her
face as softly as he might have caressed the cheek of a sleeping child.
"I will open the door, Mélisse."
His moccasined feet made no sound as he moved across the little room
which was their home. At the door he paused and listened; then he
opened it, and the floods of the white night poured in upon him as he
stood with his eyes turned to where the cold, pale flashes of the
aurora were playing over the pole. There came to him the hissing,
saddening song of the northern lights--a song of vast, unending
loneliness, which they two had come to know as the music of the skies.
Beyond that mystery-music there was no sound. To the eyes of John
Cummins there was no visible movement of life. And yet he saw signs of
it--signs which drew his breath from him in choking gulps, and which
sent him out into the night, so that the woman might not hear.
It was an hour past midnight at the post, which had the Barren Lands at
its back door. It was the hour of deep slumber for its people; but
to-night there was no sleep for any of them. Lights burned dimly in the
few rough log homes. The company's store was aglow, and the factor's
office, a haven for the men of the wilderness, shot one gleaming yellow
eye out into the white gloom. The post was awake. It was waiting. It
was listening. It was watching.
As the woman's door opened, wide and brimful of light, a door of one of
the log houses opened, and then another, and out into the night, like
dim shadows, trod the moccasined men from the factor's office, and
stood there waiting for the word of life or death from John Cummins. In
their own fashion these men, who, without knowing it, lived very near
to the ways of God, sent mute prayers into the starry heavens that the
most beautiful thing in the world might yet be spared to them.
It was just two summers before that this beautiful thing had come into
Cummins' life, and into the life of the post. Cummins, red-headed,
lithe as a cat, big-souled as the eternal mountain of the Crees, and
the best of the company's hunters, had brought Mélisse thither as his
bride. Seventeen rough hearts had welcomed her. They had assembled
about that little cabin in which the light was shining now, speechless
in their adoration of this woman who had come among them, their caps in
their hands, their faces shining, their eyes shifting before the
glorious ones that looked at them and smiled at them as the woman shook
their hands, one by one.
Perhaps she was not strictly beautiful, as most people judge; but she
was beautiful here, four hundred miles beyond civilization. Mukee, the
half-Cree, had never seen a white woman, for even the factor's wife was
part Chippewayan; and no one of the others went down to the edge of the
southern wilderness more than once each twelvemonth or so.
Melisse's hair was brown and soft, and it shone with a sunny glory that
reached far back into their conception of things dreamed of but never
seen. Her eyes were as blue as the early wild flowers that came after
the spring floods, and her voice was the sweetest sound that had ever
fallen upon their ears. So these men thought when Cummins first brought
home his wife, and the masterpiece which each had painted in his soul
and brain was never changed. Each week and month added to the
deep-toned value of that picture, as the passing of a century might add
to a Raphael or a Vandyke.
The woman became more human, and less an angel, of course, but that
only made her more real, and allowed them to become acquainted with
her, to talk with her, and to love her more. There was no thought of
wrong, for the devotion of these men was a great, passionless love
unhinting of sin. Cummins and his wife accepted it, and added to it
when they could, and were the happiest pair in all that vast Northland.
The girl--she was scarce more than budding into womanhood--fell happily
into the ways of her new life. She did nothing that was elementally
unusual, nothing more than any pure woman reared in the love of God and
of a home would have done. In her spare hours she began to teach the
half-dozen wild little children about the post, and every Sunday she
told them wonderful stories out of the Bible. She ministered to the
sick, for that was a part of her code of life. Everywhere she carried
her glad smile, her cheery greeting, her wistful earnestness, to
brighten what seemed to her the sad and lonely lives of these silent
men of the North.
And she succeeded, not because she was unlike other millions of her
kind, but because of the difference between the fortieth degree and the
sixtieth--the difference in the viewpoint of men who fought themselves
into moral shreds in the big game of life and those who lived a
thousand miles nearer to the dome of the earth.
A few days before there had come a wonderful event in the history of
the company's post. A new life was born into the little cabin of
Cummins and his wife. After this the silent, wordless worship of their
people was filled with something very near to pathos. Cummins' wife was
a mother! She was one of them now, an indissoluble part of their
existence--a part of it as truly as the strange lights for ever
hovering over the pole, as surely as the countless stars that never
left the night skies, as surely as the endless forests and the deep
snows!
Then had come the sudden change, and the gloom, that brought with it
the shadow of death, fell like a pall upon the post, stifling its life,
and bringing with it a grief that those who lived there had never known
before.
There came to them no word from Cummins now.
He stood for a moment before his lighted door, and then went back, and
the word passed softly from one to another that the most beautiful
thing in the world was still living her sweet life in that little cabin
at the end of the clearing.
"You hear the music in the skies--now, my Mélisse?" whispered the man,
kneeling beside her again. "It is very pretty to-night!"
"It was not that," repeated the woman.
She attempted to stroke his face, but Cummins saw nothing of the
effort, for the hand lay all but motionless. He saw nothing of the
fading softness that glowed in the big, loving eyes, for his own eyes
were blinded by a hot film. And the woman saw nothing of the hot film,
so torture was saved them both. But suddenly the woman quivered, and
Cummins heard a thrilling sound.
"It is the music!" she panted. "John, John, it is--the
music--of--my--people!"
The man straightened himself, his face turned to the open door. He
heard it now! Was it the blessed angels coming for his Mélisse? He
rose, a sobbing note in his throat, and went, his arms stretched out,
to meet them. He had never heard a sound like that--never in all his
life in this endless wilderness.
He went from the door out into the night, and, step by step, through
the snow toward the black edge of the spruce forest. The sobs fell
chokingly from his lips, and his arms were still reaching out to greet
this messenger of the God of his beloved; for Cummins was a man of the
wild and mannerless ways of a savage world, and he knew not what to
make of this sweetness that came to them from out of the depths of the
black forest.
"My Mélisse! My Mélisse!" he sobbed.
A figure came from the shadows, and with the figure came the music,
sweet and soft and low. John Cummins stopped and turned his face
straight up to the sky. His heart died within him.
The music ceased, and when he looked again the figure was close to him,
staggering as it walked, and a face white and thin and starved came
with it. It was a boy's face.
"For the museek of the violon--somet'ing to eat!" he heard, and the
thin figure swayed and fell almost into his arms. The voice came weak
again. "Thees is Jan--Jan Thoreau--and his violon--"
The woman's bloodless face and her great staring dark eyes greeted them
as they entered the cabin. As the man knelt beside her again, and
lifted her head against his breast, she whispered once more:
"It is the--music--of my people--the violin!"
John Cummins turned his head.
"Play!" he breathed.
"Ah, the white angel is seek--ver' seek," murmured Jan, and he drew his
bow gently across the strings of his violin.
From the instrument there came something so soft and sweet that John
Cummins closed his eyes as he held the woman against his breast and
listened. Not until he opened them again, and felt a strange chill
against his cheek, did he know that his beloved's soul had gone from
him on the gentle music of Jan Thoreau's violin.