THE WHITE PHANTOM
"Who is the White Phantom?" asked my young master eagerly.
He sat on a rug beside Mrs. Devering. I was just behind under some
alders and occasionally I thrust my head through the curtain of Virginia
creeper and my young master handed me a bit of whatever he was eating.
"She is that rare thing, a white doe," said Mrs. Devering. "Hunters shot
her mother, and the warden brought her up. She is like a beautiful dog
and comes home every night. You must see the hurdles the warden taught
her to jump over."
"Why can't the soldier stay here and finish his supper?" said Dallas.
"Can't he hear her coming?"
Big Chief, who sat the other side of his mother, had his mouth stuffed
with egg salad, but he managed to open it long enough to say scornfully,
"Hear a deer!"
"No, he couldn't hear her," said Mrs. Devering. "Wild creatures, no
matter how tame, don't care for strangers. She would not like our being
here and would stay in the bush until we left."
My young master had given me so many tid-bits and also having nibbled
some grass on my own account, I was no longer hungry, so I backed into
the sweet green undergrowth and then slipped softly after the soldier
when he went languidly up the path to the road and over it back of the
house.
He was whistling at intervals as he went. First a low musical chuck,
then a liquid "Puit-puit," a song that was both flute-like and
bell-like, and so natural that a hermit-thrush, thinking it was her
mate, began to pipe back to him.
When we got on the hill back of the house, I saw a little brushwood
shelter, and beyond it the warden's wide grass belt that in case of a
forest fire would prevent the flames from reaching his pretty house.
At intervals along the grassy clearing, were placed high movable frames
made of interlaced twigs and sticks. This was evidently the doe's
race-track. They were pretty high hurdles and absolutely beyond a
Shetland-Arabian pony. How I wished I might see her take them.
I saw her attempt it, though the young man Denty did his best to turn me
back.
He was not easily deceived, and hearing the slight rustling of branches
as I came along behind him, he looked back and said irritably, "Return,
Mr. Curiosity--I don't want you."
Then he turned his head quickly, for there was another rustling sound
beyond him.
We both looked toward the spot where the sound had been made, and there,
gazing at us from a wild raspberry thicket was the most beautiful animal
I have ever seen. Only the head was visible. The eyes were soft and
lovely, but clouded by a mist of suffering. She was in pain, but though
I saw this plainly the soldier did not.
"_Ma belle!_" he called as he pointed to the hurdles, "thy duty, then
thy supper."
It seems the beautiful creature was usually addressed in French, which
language I know a little, as so many of my owners have spoken it.
She came slowly, drawing her slender legs along and showing her
exquisite white body stained alas! by red spots.
The soldier, his languor all gone, started forward in dismay, then he
called, "Stop! my beauty. I did not know thy condition."
The beloved animal was actually trying to jump over the hurdles, but in
a heavy and stupid manner, not with the usual graceful and bird-like
agility of her family.
At his words she fell and could not rise.
He ran frantically to her, tore at his clothing, pulled off his green
woollen shirt and taking off quite a nice fine white one under it, began
to staunch the blood flow.
"Pony," he called to me over his shoulder, "_Va donc--cherche ton
maître_." I knew what he meant, and for once I sprang like a deer myself
and dashing down that hill landed in the midst of the picnic party and
had Mr. Devering by the coat sleeve.
He looked down at my teeth biting the cloth as I endeavoured to pull him
along.
"I'm coming," he said, and he gave a bound to the motor-boat, then came
springing up the hill after me.
It seems that whenever anyone called him in a hurry he sprang for his
black bag. So many people die in the backwoods for lack of first aid.
All the children wished to sweep up the hill. I could hear them crying
out, but Mrs. Devering kept them back.
Her clear voice rose above the clamour. "Wait till we are called. Your
father will let us know if we are wanted."
However, she could not keep Bolshy back. It would have taken a squad of
soldiers to do that. Snorting and blowing, he rushed like a tornado up
the hill beside me as I led the way. He was afraid something had
happened to his soldier friend.
When he saw it was only the doe he fell back beside me and, throwing his
arm over my neck, caressed me. I remembered that caress later when he
was in disgrace and needed a friend himself. A pony never forgets a blow
nor a kind word.
Well! that splendid man, Mr. Devering, who had the quick deft fingers
and active brain that would have made him a first-class surgeon if he
had remained in the city, was handling that beautiful doe's wounds as
delicately as if she had been a human being.
Bolshy and I could not see exactly what he and the soldier were doing as
they bent so closely over the doe, but before I left I pressed forward
and spoke to her in our animal language.
"Beautiful creature," I said as she lay on the grass very weak and
exhausted, "I heard of you one morning after I came from a dying stick
of birch wood. It was sorry for you."
Her glazed eyes brightened. "The trees of the wood are all good to me,"
she murmured, "they will mourn that I die. They were my
play-fellows--the wild deer shunned me."
"You must not die, beautiful one," I said decidedly. "You will grieve
the warden and his fine son."
"The cruel hunters," she gasped, "they hunted so long and so hard. Why
did they not shoot and kill? I am so weary."
"Rouse yourself, dear one," I said. "Sleep and rest. Do not die, I beg
of you. It would be wrong."
"I will try," she just breathed, and I was about to leave her to rest
when something made me turn back.
"Oh, why," I said, "did you try to leap when you were so weary?"
"To please my master, whom I love. Could I die a better death?" she
said, but so faintly that I could scarcely hear her.
Then I went on, "If you die, you will break the young Denty's heart. He
will say that he killed you."
Some strength seemed to come to her at that.
"I will live then," she said quite distinctly, "I will, indeed. Thank
you, little Pony friend." Then she laid her lovely white head on the
green grass and closed her dim eyes.
"You are too beautiful to die," I whinnied ever so softly, then I
looked at the human beings. They didn't know I had spoken a word to her.
Bless their dear hearts!--clever, so clever, but some things they don't
know.
Mr. Devering and I were just leaving the doe, when a man suddenly stood
beside us. I don't know whether he came from the east, west, north or
south. He just seemed to drop down among us, and at his heels was an
equally gliding bloodhound.
The warden was like his son, but more French. He was dark, slender,
silent, and had short grizzled hair and black eyes more piercing even
than Mr. Devering's.
He never said a word, he just bent down and touched the doe's head. She
opened her eyes and fixed them on him with a wonderful expression. They
were talking to each other without a word being said. Then she closed
her eyes, and he rose.
"My Father," said Denty in French, "they've got her at last!"
The warden said nothing. He just stared at his son in such a painful way
that it made me shudder.
I spoke to the dog, but he paid no attention to me whatever. He just
pressed forward a little in front of his master, and in a tender way
began licking the red spots from the doe's white coat. She was his
playmate and friend.
"Father," said Denty again, "you have not been long away this time."
"I came," began the older man, then he stopped. "I came because I heard
a shot," and he pointed to the doe. "Now I go again."
"For what, Father?" asked the young man.
The man said a few ugly French words under his breath, then he spoke to
the dog, "Come! Ravaud."
"But you will have something to eat?"
"I stop for nothing," said the father irritably.
"You are going after the poachers?" said Mr. Devering.
"Yes. I found the ashes of their last night's fire."
Mr. Devering never said a word. He went scampering down the hill like a
boy, and I tore after him.
Didn't he break up that picnic party in the twinkling of an eye, and
didn't his fine little wife help him! The slow eaters were just at the
cake and pie stage of the affair. She bundled them into the boat,
promising more good things on the water, and after them went rugs,
cushions, baskets, pots and pans.
It wasn't five minutes before they were all seated, and when the warden
came stepping down the bank in his quiet way and he and the hound
prepared to get into the green canoe, Mr. Devering called out, "We'll
give you a lift across the lake, Dentais. Here, sit by me. One of the
boys will trail your canoe."
"Thank you, Monsieur," he said. "I trust my canoe to no one."
"I want him in the stern," cried Mrs. Devering. "I'm going to give him
his supper," and the dear woman, as the Heron slowly started, was
handing a cup of coffee to the saddened man, who took it in an absent
way, while the children stuffed the dog with bread and meat, and
Drunkard pressed closely beside him as if to say, "Be comforted. Your
lovely doe is not going to die."
We stood on the bank--Cassowary, my master and Bolshy. The soldier had
stayed with the White Phantom.
On the clear air came back Mr. Devering's voice, heard even above the
dreadful noise made by the engine, "Do you know what your Christmas
present this year is to be, Dentais?"
Then without waiting for an answer, he bawled to the stern, "I'm going
to install a wireless in the Last House. It would have saved you a long
paddle to-night, for the next warden is nearer those fellows than you
are--and you're going to have someone live with you this winter. I'll
come myself if you don't get another man!"
I could see the warden flash him a glance almost of adoration, and then
the boat swung round Old Woman's Islands, the evening breeze bringing to
us the song the children suddenly began to sing to cheer their friend in
his distress,
"Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre
Ri too tra la, Ri too tra la,
Malbrouck s'en va-t-en en guerre,
Ne sait quand reviendra, là-bas----"
As soon as they were out of sight Cassowary turned to my young master,
"Oh! boy, we've got to hurry, but first let us call on the Phantom," and
she ran up the hill to the fire belt where the doe lay with the soldier
watching beside her.
Bolshy followed us, putting his big hand out quite kindly to lay it on
my hips, but I always kept a bit ahead of him.
When Cassowary and my young master stood peering through the trees at
the white creature on the grass, Dallas broke down and began to cry.
"The brutes!" he said, "to chase a lovely thing like that. Why did they
not spare her to brighten the woods? I'd like to shoot them."
"Naughty boy," said Cassowary. "You mustn't shoot even the pot-hunters.
Fine 'em or put 'em in jail and educate 'em--Dad will see that they get
some humane teaching."
Dallas dashed his tears away. "Do you think that the warden will get
them?"
"He'll not sleep till he does. You don't know the warden. That doe is
like a child to him. When she was a little fawn she used to run to him
and hide her head in his bosom. He's all alone here in the winter, you
know--won't he have those men fined to the limit of the law! Deer are
out of season now."
"When can bad men shoot them?" asked Dallas.
"Not till November, and then only one deer a man, but it isn't always
bad to shoot them, Cousin. The government had 700 shot last year for
settlers. Meat was so dear."
"But they would shoot mercifully," said Dallas.
"Oh! yes--when the Ontario Government shoots, it shoots to kill. It
wouldn't torture man nor beast. Dad thinks deer should be shot every
year if there is enough natural overflow from the parks. Precious as
they are, hungry people are more precious. Now let's go home. We'll see
if you remember my lesson about harnessing--Good night, Denty. Will you
stay here till morning?"
He smiled cheerfully. "Why not? A couple of blankets on the grass, and
the owls and the stars for company. It's Paradise compared with the
trenches."
"Good boy," said Cassowary in a motherly way. "I might have known you
wouldn't leave our wonderful Phantom alone in her suffering--_Au
revoir_," and she went nimbly to the place where she had left the cart,
and bossed Dallas unmercifully while he with active fingers harnessed me
in what I thought was a very remarkable way for a boy who had had only
one lesson.
"Room for improvement, Cousin," she said, "but you're doing fine."
Bolshy got in our way dreadfully. I did not like the manner in which he
followed my young master about. He might be quite trustworthy, but when
the soldier wasn't there to watch him he was too bold. He seemed
perfectly fascinated by the boy, and Cassowary remarked that she thought
the poor fellow in some way connected Dallas with his own dead children.
Now if there was any question of kidnapping, here was the person who
would like to have my handsome little lad for his own charge.
Poor creature! the last sound we heard as I trotted away from the Last
House, was Bolshy's roar of disappointment at being deprived of his
new-found treasure.
"Thank goodness!" I said to myself, "we've done with him,"--but it was
only a few hours before the bewitched Bolshy was skulking about Devering
Farm and taxing my pony wits to know how to manage him.