The next morning Lepage was placed upon a sled, and they started back, Bouche barking joyfully as he led off, with Cloud-in-the-Sky beside him. There was light in the faces of all, though the light could not be seen by reason of their being muffled so. All day they travelled, scarcely halting, Lepage’s Indian marching well. Often the corpse-like bundle on the sled was disturbed, and biscuits wet in brandy and bits of preserved venison were given.
That night Hume said to Late Carscallen: “I am going to start at the first light of the morning to get to Gaspe Toujours and Jeff Hyde as soon as possible. Follow as fast as you can. He will be safe, if you give him food and drink often. I shall get to the place where we left them about noon; you should reach there at night or early the next morning.”
“Hadn’t you better take Bouche with you?” said Late Carscallen.
The sub-factor thought a moment, and then said: “No, he is needed most where he is.”
At noon the next day Jaspar Hume looked round upon a billowy plain of sun and ice, but saw no staff, no signal, no tent, no sign of human life: of Gaspe Toujours or of Jeff Hyde. His strong heart quailed. Had he lost his way? He looked at the sun. He was not sure. He consulted his compass, but it quivered hesitatingly. For awhile that wild bewilderment which seizes upon the minds of the strongest, when lost, mastered him, in spite of his struggles against it. He moved in a maze of half-blindness, half-delirium. He was lost in it, swayed by it. He began to wander about; and there grew upon his senses strange delights and reeling agonies. He heard church bells, he caught at butterflies, he tumbled in new-mown hay, he wandered in a tropic garden. But in the hay a wasp stung him, and the butterfly changed to a curling black snake that struck at him and glided to a dark-flowing river full of floating ice, and up from the river a white hand was thrust, and it beckoned him—beckoned him. He shut his eyes and moved towards it, but a voice stopped him, and it said, “Come away, come away,” and two arms folded him round, and as he went back from the shore he stumbled and fell, and... What is this? A yielding mass at his feet—a mass that stirs! He clutches at it, he tears away the snow, he calls aloud—and his voice has a faraway unnatural sound—“Gaspe Toujours! Gaspe Toujours!” Then the figure of a man shakes itself in the snow, and a voice says: “Ay, ay, sir!” Yes, it is Gaspe Toujours! And beside him lies Jeff Hyde, and alive. “Ay, ay, sir, alive!”
Jaspar Hume’s mind was itself again. It had but suffered for a moment the agony of delirium.
Gaspe Toujours and Jeff Hyde had lain down in the tent the night of the great wind, and had gone to sleep at once. The staff had been blown down, the tent had fallen over them, the drift had covered them, and for three days they had slept beneath the snow, never waking.
Jeff Hyde’s sight was come again to him. “You’ve come back for the book,” he said. “You couldn’t go on without it. You ought to have taken it yesterday.”
He drew it from his pocket. He was dazed.
“No, Jeff, I’ve not come back for that, and I did not leave you yesterday: it is three days and more since we parted. The book has brought us luck, and the best. We have found our man; and they’ll be here to-night with him. I came on ahead to see how you fared.”
In that frost-bitten world Jeff Hyde uncovered his head for a moment. “Gaspe Toujours is a papist,” he said, “but he read me some of that book the day you left, and one thing we went to sleep on: it was that about ‘Lightenin’ the darkness, and defendin’ us from all the perils and dangers of this night.’” Here Gaspe Toujours made the sign of the cross. Jeff Hyde continued half apologetically for his comrade: “That comes natural to Gaspe Toujours—I guess it always does to papists. But I never had any trainin’ that way, and I had to turn the thing over and over, and I fell asleep on it. And when I wake up three days after, here’s my eyes as fresh as daisies, and you back, sir, and the thing done that we come to do.”
He put the Book into Hume’s hands and at that moment Gaspe Toujours said: “See!” Far off, against the eastern horizon, appeared a group of moving figures.
That night the broken segments of the White Guard were reunited, and Clive Lepage slept by the side of Jaspar Hume.
Napoleon might have marched back from Moscow with undecimated legions safely enough, if the heart of those legions had not been crushed. The White Guard, with their faces turned homeward, and the man they had sought for in their care, seemed to have acquired new strength. Through days of dreadful cold, through nights of appalling fierceness, through storm upon the plains that made for them paralysing coverlets, they marched. And if Lepage did not grow stronger, life at least was kept in him.
There was little speech among them, but once in a while Gaspe Toujours sang snatches of the songs of the voyageurs of the great rivers; and the hearts of all were strong. Between Bouche and his master there was occasional demonstration. On the twentieth day homeward, Hume said with his hand on the dog’s head “It had to be done, Bouche; even a dog could see that.”
And so it was “all right” for the White Guard. One day when the sun was warmer than usual over Fort Providence, and just sixty-five days since that cheer had gone up from apprehensive hearts for brave men going out into the Barren Grounds, Sergeant Gosse, who, every day, and of late many times a day, had swept the north-east with a field-glass, rushed into the chief-factor’s office, and with a broken voice cried: “They’ve all come! They’ve come!” Then he leaned his arm and head against the wall and sobbed. And the old factor rose from his chair tremblingly, and said his thank-god, and went hurriedly into the square. He did not go steadily, however, the joyous news had shaken him, sturdy old pioneer as he was. A fringe of white had grown about his temples in the last two months. The people of the fort had said they had never seen him so irascible, yet so gentle; so uneasy, yet so reserved; so stern about the mouth, yet so kind about the eyes as he had been since Hume had gone on this desperate errand.
Already the handful of people at the fort had gathered. Indians left the store, and joined the rest; the factor and Sergeant Gosse set out to meet the little army of relief. To the factor’s “In the name of the Hudson’s Bay Company, Mr. Hume,” when they met there came “By the help of God, sir,” and he pointed to the sled whereon Lepage lay. A feeble hand was clasped in the burly hand of the factor, and then they all fell into line again, Cloud-in-the-Sky running ahead of the dogs. Snow had fallen on them, and as they entered the stockade, men and dogs were white from head to foot.
The White Guard had come back. Jaspar Hume as simply acknowledged his strident welcome as he had done the God-speed two months and more ago. With the factor he bore the sick man in, and laid him on his own bed. Then he came outside again, and when they cheered him once more, he said: “We have come safe through, and I’m thankful. But remember that my comrades in this march deserve your cheers more than I. Without them I couldn’t have done anything.”
“In our infirmities and in all our dangers and necessities,” added Jeff Hyde. “The luck of the world was in that book!”
In another half-hour the White Guard was at ease, and four of them were gathered about the great stove in the store, Cloud-in-the-Sky smoking placidly, and full of guttural emphasis; Late Carscallen moving his animal-like jaws with a sense of satisfaction; Gaspe Toujours talking in Chinook to the Indians, in patois to the French clerk, and in broken English to them all; and Jeff Hyde exclaiming on the wonders of the march, the finding of Lepage at Manitou Mountain, and of himself and Gaspe Toujours buried in the snow.
In Hume’s house at midnight Lepage lay asleep with his wife’s letters—received through the factor—in his hand. The firelight played upon a dark, disappointed face—a doomed, prematurely old face, as it seemed to the factor.
“You knew him, then,” the factor said, after a long silence, with a gesture towards the bed.
“Yes, well, years ago,” replied Hume.
Just then the sick man stirred in his sleep, and he said disjointedly: “I’ll make it all right to you, Hume.” Then came a pause, and a quicker utterance: “Forgive—forgive me, Rose.” The factor got up, and turned to go, and Hume, with a sorrowful gesture, went over to the bed.
Again the voice said: “Ten years—I have repented ten years—I dare not speak—”
The factor touched Hume’s arm. “He has fever. You and I must nurse him, Hume. You can trust me—you understand.”
“Yes, I can trust you,” was the reply. “But I can tell you nothing.”
“I do not want to know anything. If you can watch till two o’clock I will relieve you. I’ll send the medicine chest over. You know how to treat him.”
The factor passed out, and the other was left alone with the man who had wronged him. The feeling most active in his mind was pity, and, as he prepared a draught from his own stock of medicines, he thought the past and the present all over. He knew that however much he had suffered, this man had suffered more. In this silent night there was broken down any barrier that may have stood between Lepage and his complete compassion. Having effaced himself from the calculation, justice became forgiveness.
He moistened the sick man’s lips, and bathed his forehead, and roused him once to take a quieting powder. Then he sat down and wrote to Rose Lepage. But he tore the letter up again and said to the dog: “No, Bouche, I can’t; the factor must do it. She needn’t know yet that it was I who saved him. It doesn’t make any burden of gratitude, if my name is kept out of it. The factor mustn’t mention me, Bouche—not yet. When he is well we will go to London with It, Bouche, and we needn’t meet her. It will be all right, Bouche, all right!”
The dog seemed to understand; for he went over to the box that held It; and looked at his master. Then Jaspar Hume rose, broke the seal, unlocked the box and opened it; but he heard the sick man moan, and he closed it again and went over to the bed. The feeble voice said: “I must speak—I cannot die so—not so.” Hume moistened the lips once, put a cold cloth on the fevered head, and then sat down by the fire again.
Lepage slept at last. The restless hands grew quiet, the breath became more regular, the tortured mind found a short peace. With the old debating look in his eyes, Hume sat there watching until the factor relieved him.
February and March and April were past, and May was come. Lepage had had a hard struggle for life, but he had survived. For weeks every night there was a repetition of that first night after the return: delirious self-condemnation, entreaty, appeal to his wife, and Hume’s name mentioned in shuddering remorse. With the help of the Indian who had shared the sick man’s sufferings in the Barren Grounds, the factor and Hume nursed him back to life. After the first night no word had passed between the two watchers regarding the substance of Lepage’s delirium. But one evening the factor was watching alone, and the repentant man from his feverish sleep cried out: “Hush, hush! don’t let them know—I stole them both, and Rose did not know. Rose did not know!”
The factor rose and walked away. The dog was watching him. He said to Bouche: “You have a good master, Bouche.”
In an arm-chair made of hickory and birch-bark by Cloud-in-the-Sky, Lepage sat reading a letter from his wife. She was at Winnipeg, and was coming west as far as Regina to meet him on his way down. He looked a wreck; but a handsome wreck. His refined features, his soft black beard and blue eyes, his graceful hand and gentle manners, seemed not to belong to an evil-hearted man. He sat in the sunlight at the door, wrapped about in moose and beaver skins. The world of plain and wood was glad. Not so Lepage. He sat and thought of what was to come. He had hoped at times that he would die, but twice Hume had said: “I demand your life. You owe it to your wife—to me.” He had pulled his heart up to this demand and had lived. But what lay before him? He saw a stony track, and he shuddered.
As he sat there facing the future, Hume came to him and said: “If you feel up to it, Lepage, we will start for Edmonton on Monday. I think it will be quite safe, and your wife is anxious. I shall accompany you as far as Edmonton; you can then proceed by easy stages, in this pleasant weather. Are you ready to go?”
“Quite ready,” was the reply.
On a beautiful May evening Lepage, Hume, and the White Guard were welcomed at Fort Edmonton by the officer in command of the Mounted Police. They were to enjoy the hospitality of the fort for a couple of days. Hume was to go back with Cloud-in-the-Sky and Late Carscallen, and a number of Indian carriers; for this was a journey of business too. Gaspe Toujours and Jeff Hyde were to press on with Lepage, who was now much stronger and better. One day passed, and on the following morning Hume gave instructions to Gaspe Toujours and Jeff Hyde, and made preparations for his going back. He was standing in the Barracks Square, when a horseman rode in and made inquiry of a sergeant standing near, if Lepage had arrived at the fort. A few words brought out the fact that Rose Lepage was nearing the fort from the south. The trooper had been sent on ahead the day before, but his horse having met with a slight accident, he had been delayed. He had seen the party, however, a long distance back in the early morning. He must now ride away and meet Mrs. Lepage, he said. He was furnished with a fresh horse, and he left, bearing a message from Lepage.
Hume decided to leave Fort Edmonton at once, and to take all the White Guard back with him; and gave orders to that effect. Entering the room where Lepage sat alone, he said: “Lepage, the time has come for good-bye. I am starting for Fort Providence.”
But the other replied: “You will wait until my wife comes. You must.” There was trouble in his voice. “I must not.”
Lepage braced himself for a heavy task and said: “Hume, if the time has come to say good-bye, it has also come when we should speak together for once openly: to settle, in so far as can be done, a long account. You have not let my wife know who saved me. That appears from her letters. She asks the name of my rescuer. I have not yet told her. But she will know that to-day when I tell her all.”
“When you tell her all?”
“When I tell her all.”
“But you shall not do that.”
“I will. It will be the beginning of the confession which I shall afterwards make to the world.”
“By Heaven you shall not do it. Do you want to wreck her life?”
Jaspar Hume’s face was wrathful, and remained so till the other sank back in the chair with his forehead in his hands; but it softened as he saw this remorse and shame. He began to see that Lepage had not clearly grasped the whole situation. He said in quieter but still firm tones: “No, Lepage, that matter is between us two, and us alone. She must never know—the world therefore must never know. You did an unmanly thing; you are suffering a manly remorse. Now let it end here—but I swear it shall,” he said in sharp tones, as the other shook his head negatively: “I would have let you die at Manitou Mountain, if I had thought you would dare to take away your wife’s peace—your children’s respect.”
“I have no children; our baby died.”
Hume softened again. “Can you not see, Lepage? The thing cannot be mended. I bury it all, and so must you. You will begin the world again, and so shall I. Keep your wife’s love. Henceforth you will deserve it.”
Lepage raised moist eyes to the other and said: “But you will take back the money I got for that?”
There was a pause, then Hume replied: “Yes, upon such terms, times, and conditions as I shall hereafter fix. You have no child, Lepage?” he gently added.
“We have no child; it died with my fame.”
Hume looked steadily into the eyes of the man who had wronged him. “Remember, Lepage, you begin the world again. I am going now. By the memory of old days, good-bye.” He held out his hand. Lepage took it, rose tremblingly to his feet, and said, “You are a good man, Hume. Good-bye.”
The sub-factor turned at the door. “If it will please you, tell your wife that I saved you. Some one will tell her; perhaps I would rather—at least it would be more natural, if you did it.”
He passed out into the sunshine that streamed into the room and fell across the figure of Lepage, who murmured dreamily: “And begin the world again.”
Time passed. A shadow fell across the sunlight that streamed upon Lepage. He looked up. There was a startled cry of joy, an answering exclamation of love, and Rose was clasped in her husband’s arms.
A few moments afterwards the sweet-faced woman said: “Who was that man who rode away to the north as I came up, Clive? He reminded me of some one.”
“That was the leader of the White Guard, the man who saved me, Rose.” He paused a moment and then solemnly said: “It was Jaspar Hume.”
The wife came to her feet with a spring. “He saved you—Jaspar Hume! Oh, Clive!”
“He saved me, Rose.”
Her eyes were wet: “And he would not stay and let me thank him! Poor fellow, poor Jaspar Hume! Has he been up here all these years?”
Her face was flushed, and pain was struggling with the joy she felt in seeing her husband again.
“Yes, he has been here all the time.”
“Then he has not succeeded in life, Clive!” Her thoughts went back to the days when, blind and ill, Hume went away for health’s sake, and she remembered how sorry then she felt for him, and how grieved she was that when he came back strong and well, he did not come near her or her husband, and offered no congratulations. She had not deliberately wronged him. She knew he cared for her: but so did Lepage. A promise had been given to neither when Jaspar Hume went away; and after that she grew to love the successful, kind-mannered genius who became her husband. No real pledge had been broken. Even in this happiness of hers, sitting once again at her husband’s feet, she thought with tender kindness of the man who had cared for her eleven years ago; and who had but now saved her husband.
“He has not succeeded in life,” she repeated softly. Looking down at her, his brow burning with a white heat, Lepage said: “He is a great man, Rose.”
“I am sure he is a good man,” she added.
Perhaps Lepage had borrowed some strength not all his own, for he said almost sternly: “He is a great man.”
His wife looked up half-startled and said: “Very well, dear; he is a good man—and a great man.”
The sunlight still came in through the open door. The Saskatchewan flowed swiftly between its verdant banks, an eagle went floating away to the west, robins made vocal a solitary tree a few yards away, troopers moved backwards and forwards across the square, and a hen and her chickens came fluttering to the threshold. The wife looked at the yellow brood drawing close to their mother, and her eyes grew wistful. She thought of their one baby asleep in an English grave. But thinking of the words of the captain of the White Guard, Lepage said firmly: “We will begin the world again.”
She smiled, and rose to kiss him as the hen and chickens hastened away from the door, and a clear bugle call sounded in the square.
A great gathering is dispersing from a hall in Piccadilly. It has been drawn together to do honour to a man who has achieved a triumph in engineering science. As he steps from the platform to go, he is greeted by a fusilade of cheers. He bows calmly and kindly. He is a man of vigorous yet reserved aspect; he has a rare individuality. He receives with a quiet cordiality the personal congratulations of his friends. He remains for some time in conversation with a royal duke, who takes his arm, and with him passes into the street. The duke is a member of this great man’s club, and offers him a seat in his brougham. Amid the cheers of the people they drive away together. Inside the club there are fresh congratulations, and it is proposed to arrange an impromptu dinner, at which the duke will preside. But with modesty and honest thanks the great man declines. He pleads an engagement. He had pleaded this engagement the day before to a well-known society. After his health is proposed, he makes his adieux, and leaving the club, walks away towards a West-end square. In one of its streets he pauses, and enters a building called “Providence Chambers.” His servant hands him a cablegram. He passes to his library, and, standing before the fire, opens it. It reads: “My wife and I send congratulations to the great man.”
Jaspar Hume stands for a moment looking at the fire, and then says simply: “I wish poor old Bouche were here.” He then sits down and writes this letter:
My dear Friends,—Your cablegram has made me glad. The day is over.My latest idea was more successful than I even dared to hope; andthe world has been kind. I went down to see your boy, Jaspar, atClifton last week. It was his birthday, you know—nine years old,and a clever, strong-minded little fellow. He is quite contented.As he is my god-child, I again claimed the right of putting athousand dollars to his credit in the bank,—I have to speak ofdollars to you people living in Canada—which I have done on hisevery birthday. When he is twenty-one he will have twenty-onethousand dollars—quite enough for a start in life. We get alongwell together, and I think he will develop a fine faculty forscience. In the summer, as I said, I will bring him over to you.There is nothing more to say to-night except that I am as always,Your faithful and loving friend,JASPAR HUME.
A moment after the letter was finished, the servant entered and announced “Mr. Late Carscallen.” With a smile and hearty greeting the great man and this member of the White Guard met. It was to entertain his old arctic comrade that Jaspar Hume had declined to be entertained by society or club. A little while after, seated at the table, the ex-sub-factor said: “You found your brother well, Carscallen?”
The jaws moved slowly as of old. “Ay, that, and a grand meenister, sir.”
“He wanted you to stay in Scotland, I suppose?”
“Ay, that, but there’s no place for me like Fort Providence.”
“Try this pheasant. And you are sub-factor now, Carscallen?”
“There’s two of us sub-factors—Jeff Hyde and myself. Mr. Field is old, and can’t do much work, and trade’s heavy now.”
“I know. I hear from the factor now and then. And Gaspe Toujours, what of him?”
“He went away three years ago, and he said he’d come back. He never did though. Jeff Hyde believes he will. He says to me a hundred times, ‘Carscallen, he made the sign of the cross that he’d come back from Saint Gabrielle; and that’s next to the Book with a papist. If he’s alive he’ll come.’”
“Perhaps he will, Carscallen. And Cloud-in-the-Sky?”
“He’s still there, and comes in and smokes with Jeff Hyde and me, as he used to do with you; but he doesn’t obey our orders as he did yours, sir. He said to me when I left: ‘You see Strong-back, tell him Cloud-in-the-Sky good Injun—he never forget. How!’”
Jaspar Hume raised his glass with smiling and thoughtful eyes: “To Cloud-in-the-Sky and all who never forget!” he said.