Project Gutenberg's The March Of The White Guard, by Gilbert Parker This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The March Of The White Guard Author: Gilbert Parker Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6223] Last Updated: August 27, 2016 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARCH OF THE WHITE GUARD *** Produced by David Widger
In the hope that you may soon give me good news of my husband,
I am, with all respect,
Faithfully yours,
ROSE LEPAGE.
Again he repeated: “With all respect, faithfully yours, Rose Lepage.”
The dog Bouche looked up. Perhaps it detected something unusual in the
voice. It rose, came over, and laid its head on its master’s knee. Hume’s
hand fell gently on the head, and he said to the fire: “Ah, Rose Lepage,
you can write to Factor Field what you dare not write to your husband if
you knew. You might say to him then, ‘With all love,’ but not ‘With all
respect.’”
He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Then he took the dog’s head
between his hands and said: “Listen, Bouche, and I will tell you a story.”
The dog blinked, and pushed its nose against his arm.
“Ten years ago two young men who had studied and graduated together at the
same college were struggling together in their profession as civil
engineers. One was Clive Lepage and the other was Jaspar Hume. The one was
brilliant and persuasive, the other, persistent and studious. Lepage could
have succeeded in any profession; Hume had only heart and mind for one.
“Only for one, Bouche, you understand. He lived in it, he loved it, he saw
great things to be achieved in it. He had got an idea. He worked at it
night and day, he thought it out, he developed it, he perfected it, he was
ready to give it to the world. But he was seized with illness, became
blind, and was ordered to a warm climate for a year. He left his idea, his
invention, behind him—his complete idea. While he was gone his bosom
friend stole his perfected idea—yes, stole it, and sold it for
twenty thousand dollars. He was called a genius, a great inventor. And
then he married her. You don’t know her, Bouche. You never saw beautiful
Rose Varcoe, who, liking two men, chose the one who was handsome and
brilliant, and whom the world called a genius. Why didn’t Jaspar Hume
expose him, Bouche? Proof is not always easy, and then he had to think of
her. One has to think of a woman in such a case, Bouche. Even a dog can
see that.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he said: “Come, Bouche. You will keep
secret what I show you.”
He went to a large box in the corner, unlocked it, and took out a model
made of brass and copper and smooth but unpolished wood.
“After ten years of banishment, Bouche, Hume has worked out another idea,
you see. It should be worth ten times the other, and the world called the
other the work of a genius, dog.”
Then he became silent, the animal watching him the while. It had seen him
working at this model for many a day, but had never heard him talk so much
at a time as he had done this last ten minutes. He was generally a silent
man—decisive even to severity, careless carriers and shirking
under-officers thought. Yet none could complain that he was unjust. He was
simply straight-forward, and he had no sympathy with those who had not the
same quality. He had carried a drunken Indian on his back for miles, and
from a certain death by frost. He had, for want of a more convenient
punishment, promptly knocked down Jeff Hyde, the sometime bully of the
fort, for appropriating a bundle of furs belonging to a French half-breed,
Gaspe Toujours. But he nursed Jeff Hyde through an attack of pneumonia,
insisting at the same time that Gaspe Toujours should help him. The result
of it all was that Jeff Hyde and Gaspe Toujours became constant allies.
They both formulated their oaths by Jaspar Hume. The Indian,
Cloud-in-the-Sky, though by word never thanking his rescuer, could not be
induced to leave the fort, except on some mission with which Jaspar Hume
was connected. He preferred living an undignified, un-Indian life, and
earning food and shelter by coarsely labouring with his hands. He came at
least twice a week to Hume’s log house, and, sitting down silent and
cross-legged before the fire, watched the sub-factor working at his
drawings and calculations. Sitting so for perhaps an hour or more, and
smoking all the time, he would rise, and with a grunt, which was answered
by a kindly nod, would pass out as silently as he came.
And now as Jaspar Hume stood looking at his “Idea,” Cloud-in-the-Sky
entered, let his blanket fall by the hearthstone and sat down upon it. If
Hume saw him or heard him, he at least gave no sign at first. But he said
at last in a low tone to the dog: “It is finished, Bouche; it is ready for
the world.”
Then he put it back, locked the box, and turned towards Cloud-in-the-Sky
and the fireplace. The Indian grunted; the other nodded with the debating
look again dominant in his eyes. The Indian met the look with
satisfaction. There was something in Jaspar Hume’s habitual reticence and
decisiveness in action which appealed more to Cloud-in-the-Sky than any
freedom of speech could possibly have done.
Hume sat down, handed the Indian a pipe and tobacco, and, with arms
folded, watched the fire. For half an hour they sat so, white man, Indian,
and dog. Then Hume rose, went to a cupboard, took out some sealing wax and
matches, and in a moment melted wax was dropping upon the lock of the box
containing his Idea. He had just finished this as Sergeant Gosse knocked
at the door, and immediately afterwards entered the room.
“Gosse,” said the sub-factor, “find Jeff Hyde, Gaspe Toujours, and Late
Carscallen, and bring them here.” Sergeant Gosse immediately departed upon
this errand. Hume then turned to the Indian, and said “Cloud-in-the-Sky, I
want you to go a long journey hereaway to the Barren Grounds. Have twelve
dogs ready by nine to-morrow morning.”
Cloud-in-the-Sky shook his head thoughtfully, and then after a pause said:
“Strong-back go too?” Strongback was his name for the sub-factor. But the
other either did not or would not hear. The Indian, however, appeared
satisfied, for he smoked harder afterwards, and grunted to himself many
times. A few moments passed, and then Sergeant Gosse entered, followed by
Jeff Hyde, Gaspe Toujours, and Late Carscallen. Late Carscallen had got
his name “Late” from having been called “The Late Mr. Carscallen” by the
chief factor because of his slowness. Slow as he was, however, the stout
Scotsman had more than once proved himself a man of rare merit according
to Hume’s ideas. He was, of course, the last to enter.
The men grouped themselves about the fire, Late Carscallen getting the
coldest corner. Each man drew his tobacco from his pocket, and, cutting
it, waited for Hume to speak. His eyes were debating as they rested on the
four. Then he took out Mrs. Lepage’s letter, and, with the group looking
at him, he read it aloud. When it was finished, Cloud-in-the-Sky gave a
guttural assent, and Gaspe Toujours, looking at Jeff Hyde, said: “It is
cold in the Barren Grounds. We shall need much tabac.” These men could
read without difficulty Hume’s reason for summoning them. To Gaspe
Toujours’ remark Jeff Hyde nodded affirmatively, and then all looked at
Late Carscallen. He opened his heavy jaws once or twice with an
animal-like sound, and then he said, in a general kind of way:
“To the Barren Grounds. But who leads?”
Hume was writing on a slip of paper, and he did not reply. The faces of
three of them showed just a shade of anxiety. They guessed who it would
be, but they were not sure. Cloud-in-the-Sky, however, grunted at them,
and raised the bowl of his pipe towards the subfactor. The anxiety then
seemed to disappear.
For ten minutes more they sat so, all silent. Then Hume rose, handed the
slip of paper to Sergeant Gosse, and said: “Attend to that at once, Gosse.
Examine the food and blankets closely.”
The five were left alone.
Then Hume spoke: “Jeff Hyde, Gaspe Toujours, Late Carscallen, and
Cloud-in-the-Sky, this man, alive or dead, is between here and the Barren
Grounds. He must be found—for his wife’s sake.”
He handed Jeff Hyde her letter. Jeff rubbed his fingers before he touched
the delicate and perfumed missive. Its delicacy seemed to bewilder him. He
said: in a rough but kindly way: “Hope to die if I don’t,” and passed it
on to Gaspe Toujours, who did not find it necessary to speak. His comrade
had answered for him. Late Carscallen held it inquisitively for a moment,
and then his jaws opened and shut as if he were about to speak. But before
he did so Hume said: “It is a long journey and a hard one. Those who go
may never come back. But this man was working for his country, and he has
got a wife—a good wife.” He held up the letter. “Late Carscallen
wants to know who will lead you. Can’t you trust me? I will give you a
leader that you will follow to the Barren Grounds. To-morrow you will know
who he is. Are you satisfied? Will you do it?”
The four rose, and Cloud-in-the-Sky nodded approvingly many times. Hume
held out his hand. Each man shook it, Jeff Hyde first. Then he said:
“Close up ranks for the H.B.C.!” (H.B.C. meaning, of course, Hudson’s Bay
Company.)
With a good man to lead them, these four would have stormed, alone, the
Heights of Balaklava.
Once more Hume spoke. “Go to Gosse and get your outfits at nine to-morrow
morning. Cloud-in-the-Sky, have your sleds at the store at eight o’clock,
to be loaded. Then all meet me at 10.15 at the office of the chief factor.
Good night.”
As they passed out into the semi-arctic night, Late Carscallen with an
unreal obstinacy said: “Slow march to the Barren Grounds—but who
leads?”
Left alone Hume sat down to the pine table at one end of the room and
after a short hesitation began to write. For hours he sat there, rising
only to put wood on the fire. The result was three letters: the largest
addressed to a famous society in London, one to a solicitor in Montreal,
and one to Mr. Field, the chief factor. They were all sealed carefully.
Then he rose, took out his knife, and went over to the box as if to break
the red seal. He paused, however, sighed, and put the knife back again. As
he did so he felt something touch his leg. It was the dog.
Hume drew in a sharp breath and said: “It was all ready, Bouche; and in
another six months I should have been in London with it. But it will go
whether I go or not—whether I go or not, Bouche.”
The dog sprang up and put his head against his master’s breast.
“Good dog, good dog, it’s all right, Bouche; however it goes, it’s all
right,” said Hume.
Then the dog lay down and watched his master until he drew the blankets to
his chin, and sleep drew oblivion over a fighting soul.
December 25th.—This is Christmas Day and Camp twenty-seven. We have marched only five miles to-day. We are eighty miles from Great Fish River, and the worst yet to do. We have discovered no signs. Jeff Hyde has had a bad two days with his frozen foot. Gaspe Toujours helps him nobly. One of the dogs died this morning. Bouche is a great leader. This night’s shelter is a god-send. Cloud-in-the-Sky has a plan whereby some of us will sleep well. We are in latitude 63deg 47’ and longitude 112deg 32’ 14”. Have worked out lunar observations. Have marked a tree JH/27 and raised cairn No. 3. We are able to celebrate Christmas Day with a good basin of tea and our stand-by of beans cooked in fat. I was right about them: they have great sustaining power. To-morrow we will start at ten o’clock.The writing done, Jaspar Hume put his book away and turned towards the rest. Cloud-in-the-Sky and Late Carscallen were smoking. Little could be seen of their faces; they were snuffled to the eyes. Gaspe Toujours was drinking a basin of tea, and Jeff Hyde was fitfully dozing by the fire. The dogs were above in the tent—all but Bouche, who was permitted to be near his master. Presently the sub-factor rose, took from a knapsack a small tin pail, and put it near the fire. Then he took five little cups that fitted snugly into each other, separated them, and put them also near the fire. None of the party spoke. A change seemed to pass over the faces of all except Cloud-in-the-Sky. He smoked on unmoved. At length Hume spoke cheerily: “Now, men, before we turn in we’ll do something in honour of the day. Liquor we none of us have touched since we started; but back there in the fort, and maybe in other places too, they will be thinking of us; so we’ll drink a health to them, though it’s but a spoonful, and to the day when we see them again!” The cups were passed round. The sub-factor measured out a very small portion to each. They were not men of uncommon sentiment; their lives were rigid and isolated and severe. Fireside comforts under fortunate conditions they saw but seldom, and they were not given to expressing their feelings demonstratively. But each man then, save Cloud-in-the-Sky, had some memory worth a resurrection. Jaspar Hume raised his cup; the rest followed his example. “To absent friends and the day when we see them again!” he said; and they all drank. Gaspe Toujours drank solemnly, and, as though no one was near, made the sign of the cross; for his memory was with a dark-eyed, soft-cheeked habitant girl of the parish of Saint Gabrielle, whom he had left behind seven years before, and had never seen since. Word had come from the parish priest that she was dying, and though he wrote back in his homely patois of his grief, and begged that the good father would write again, no word had ever come. He thought of her now as one for whom the candles had been lighted and masses had been said. But Jeff Hyde’s eyes were bright, and suffering as he was, the heart in him was brave and hopeful. He was thinking of a glorious Christmas Day upon the Madawaska River three years agone; of Adam Henry, the blind fiddler; of bright, warm-hearted Pattie Chown, the belle of the ball, and the long drive home in the frosty night. Late Carscallen was thinking of a brother whom he had heard preach his first sermon in Edinburgh twenty years before. And Late Carscallen, slow of speech and thought, had been full of pride and love of that brilliant brother. In the natural course of things, they had drifted apart, the slow and uncouth one to make his home at last in the Far North, and to be this night on his way to the Barren Grounds. But as he stood with the cup to his lips he recalled the words of a newspaper paragraph of a few months before. It stated that “the Reverend James Carscallen, D.D., preached before Her Majesty on Whitsunday, and had the honour of lunching with Her Majesty afterwards.” Remembering that, Late Carscallen rubbed his left hand joyfully against his blanketed leg and drank. Cloud-in-the-Sky’s thoughts were with the present, and his “Ugh!” of approval was one of the senses purely. Instead of drinking to absent friends he looked at the sub-factor and said: “How!” He drank to the subfactor. Jaspar Hume had a memory of childhood; of a house beside a swift-flowing river, where a gentle widowed mother braced her heart against misfortune and denied herself and slaved that her son might be educated. He had said to her that some day he would be a great man, and she would be paid back a hundredfold. And he had worked hard at school, very hard. But one cold day of spring a message came to the school, and he sped homewards to the house beside the dark river down which the ice was floating,—he would remember that floating ice to his last day, and entered a quiet room where a white-faced woman was breathing away her life. And he fell at her side and kissed her hand and called to her; and she waked for a moment only and smiled on him, and said: “Be good, my boy, and God will make you great.” Then she said she was cold, and some one felt her feet—a kind old soul who shook her head sadly at him; and a voice, rising out of a strange smiling languor, murmured: “I’ll away, I’ll away to the Promised Land—to the Promised Land.... It is cold—so cold—God keep my boy!” Then the voice ceased, and the kind old soul who had looked at him, pityingly folded her arms about him, and drawing his brown head to her breast, kissed him with flowing eyes and whispered: “Come away, laddie, come away.” But he came back in the night and sat beside her, and remained there till the sun grew bright, and then through another day and night, until they bore her out of the little house by the river to the frozen hill-side. Sitting here in this winter desolation Jaspar Hume once more beheld these scenes of twenty years before and followed himself, a poor dispensing clerk in a doctor’s office, working for that dream of achievement in which his mother believed; for which she hoped. And following further the boy that was himself, he saw a friendless first-year man at college, soon, however, to make a friend of Clive Lepage, and to see always the best of that friend, being himself so true. At last the day came when they both graduated together in science, a bright and happy day, succeeded by one still brighter, when they both entered a great firm as junior partners. Afterwards befell the meeting with Rose Varcoe; and he thought of how he praised his friend Lepage to her, and brought him to be introduced to her. He recalled all those visions that came to him when, his professional triumphs achieved, he should have a happy home, and happy faces by his fireside. And the face was to be that of Rose Varcoe, and the others, faces of those who should be like her and like himself. He saw, or rather felt, that face clouded and anxious when he went away ill and blind for health’s sake. He did not write to her. The doctors forbade him that. He did not ask her to write, for his was so steadfast a nature that he did not need letters to keep him true; and he thought she must be the same. He did not understand a woman’s heart, how it needs remembrances, and needs to give remembrances. Hume’s face in the light of this fire seemed calm and cold, yet behind it was an agony of memory—the memory of the day when he discovered that Lepage was married to Rose, and that the trusted friend had grown famous and well-to-do on the offspring of his brain. His first thought had been one of fierce determination to expose this man who had falsified all trust. But then came the thought of the girl, and, most of all, there came the words of his dying mother, “Be good, my boy, and God will make you great”; and for his mother’s sake he had compassion on the girl, and sought no restitution from her husband. And now, ten years later, he did not regret that he had stayed his hand. The world had ceased to call Lepage a genius. He had not fulfilled the hope once held of him. Hume knew this from occasional references in scientific journals. And now he was making this journey to save, if he could, Lepage’s life. Though just on the verge of a new era in his career—to give to the world the fruit of ten years’ thought and labour, he had set all behind him, that he might be true to the friendship of his youth, that he might be clear of the strokes of conscience to the last hour of his life. Looking round him now, the debating look came again into his eyes. He placed his hand in his breast, and let it rest there for a moment. The look became certain and steady, the hand was drawn out, and in it was a Book of Common Prayer. Upon the fly-leaf was written: “Jane Hume, to her dear son Jaspar, on his twelfth birthday.” These men of the White Guard were not used to religious practices, whatever their past had been in that regard, and at any other time they might have been surprised at this action of their leader. Under some circumstances it might have lessened their opinion of him; but his influence over them now was complete. They knew they were getting nearer to him than they had ever done; even Cloud-in-the-Sky appreciated that. Hume spoke no word to them, but looked at them and stood up. They all did the same, Jeff Hyde leaning on the shoulders of Gaspe Toujours. He read first, four verses of the Thirty-first Psalm, then followed the prayer of St. Chrysostom, and the beautiful collect which appeals to the Almighty to mercifully look upon the infirmities of men, and to stretch forth His hand to keep and defend them in all dangers and necessities. Late Carscallen, after a long pause, said “Amen,” and Jeff said in a whisper to Gaspe Toujours: “That’s to the point. Infirmities and dangers and necessities is what troubles us.” Immediately after, at a sign from the sub-factor, Cloud-in-the-Sky began to transfer the burning wood from one fire to the other until only hot ashes were left where a great blaze had been. Over these ashes pine twigs and branches were spread, and over them again blankets. The word was then given to turn in, and Jeff Hyde, Gaspe Toujours, and Late Carscallen lay down in this comfortable bed. Each wished to give way to their captain, but he would not consent. He and Cloud-in-the-Sky wrapped themselves in their blankets like mummies, covering the head completely, and under the arctic sky they slept alone in an austere and tenantless world. They never know how loftily sardonic Nature can be who have not seen that land where the mercury freezes in the tubes, and there is light but no warmth in the smile of the sun. Not Sturt in the heart of Australia with the mercury bursting the fevered tubes, with the finger-nails breaking like brittle glass, with the ink drying instantly on the pen, with the hair fading and falling off, would, if he could, have exchanged his lot for that of the White Guard. They were in a frozen endlessness that stretched away to a world where never voice of man or clip of wing or tread of animal is heard. It is the threshold to the undiscovered country, to that untouched north whose fields of white are only furrowed by the giant forces of the elements; on whose frigid hearthstone no fire is ever lit; where the electric phantoms of a nightless land pass and repass, and are never still; where the magic needle points not towards the north but darkly downward; where the sun never stretches warm hands to him who dares confront the terrors of eternal snow. The White Guard slept.
January 10th: Camp 39.—A bitter day. We are facing three fears now: the fate of those we left behind; Lepage’s fate; and the going back. We are twenty miles from Manitou Mountain. If he is found, I should not fear the return journey; success gives hope. But we trust in God.Another day passed and at night, after a hard march, they camped five miles from Manitou Mountain. And not a sign! But Hume felt there was a faint chance of Lepage being found at this mountain. His iron frame had borne the hardships of this journey well; his strong heart better. But this night an unaccountable weakness possessed him. Mind and body were on the verge of helplessness. Bouche seemed to understand this, and when he was unhitched from the team of dogs, now dwindled to seven, he leaped upon his master’s breast. It was as if some instinct of sympathy, of prescience, was passing between the man and the dog. Hume bent his head down to Bouche for an instant and rubbed his side kindly; then he said, with a tired accent: “It’s all right, old dog, it’s all right.” Hume did not sleep well at first, but at length oblivion came. He waked to feel Bouche tugging at his blankets. It was noon. Late Carscallen and Cloud-in-the-Sky were still sleeping—inanimate bundles among the dogs. In an hour they were on their way again, and towards sunset they had reached the foot of Manitou Mountain. Abruptly from the plain rose this mighty mound, blue and white upon a black base. A few straggling pines grew near its foot, defying latitude, as the mountain itself defied the calculations of geographers and geologists. A halt was called. Late Carscallen and Cloud-in-the-Sky looked at the chief. His eyes were scanning the mountain closely. Suddenly he motioned. A hundred feet up there was a great round hole in the solid rock, and from this hole there came a feeble cloud of smoke! The other two saw also. Cloud-in-the-Sky gave a wild whoop, and from the mountain there came, a moment after, a faint replica of the sound. It was not an echo, for there appeared at the mouth of the cave an Indian, who made feeble signs for them to come. In a little while they were at the cave. As Jaspar Hume entered, Cloud-in-the-Sky and the stalwart but emaciated Indian who had beckoned to them spoke to each other in the Chinook language, the jargon common to all Indians of the West. Jaspar Hume saw a form reclining on a great bundle of pine branches, and he knew what Rose Lepage had prayed for was come to pass. By the flickering light of a handful of fire he saw Lepage—rather what was left of him—a shadow of energy, a heap of nerveless bones. His eyes were shut, but as Hume, with a quiver of memory and sympathy at his heart, stood for an instant, and looked at the man whom he had cherished as a friend and found an enemy, Lepage’s lips moved and a weak voice said: “Who is there?” “A friend.” “Come-near-me,—friend.” Hume made a motion to Late Carscallen, who was heating some liquor at the fire, and then he stooped and lifted up the sick man’s head, and took his hand. “You have come—to save me!” whispered the weak voice again. “Yes; I’ve come to save you.” This voice was strong and clear and true. “I seem—to have—heard—your voice before—somewhere before—I seem to—have—” But he had fainted. Hume poured a little liquor down the sick man’s throat, and Late Carscallen chafed the delicate hand—delicate in health, it was like that of a little child now. When breath came again Hume whispered to his helper “Take Cloud-in-the-Sky and get wood; bring fresh branches. Then clear one of the sleds, and we will start back with him in the early morning.” Late Carscallen, looking at the skeleton-like figure, said: “He will never get there.” “Yes, he will get there,” was Hume’s reply. “But he is dying.” “He goes with me to Fort Providence.” “Ay, to Providence he goes, but not with you,” said Late Carscallen, doggedly. Anger flashed in Hume’s eye, but he said quietly “Get the wood, Carscallen.” Hume was left alone with the starving Indian, who sat beside the fire eating voraciously, and with the sufferer, who now was taking mechanically a little biscuit sopped in brandy. For a few moments thus, then his sunken eyes opened, and he looked dazedly at the man bending above him. Suddenly there came into them a look of terror. “You—you—are Jaspar Hume,” his voice said in an awed whisper. “Yes.” The hands of the sub-factor chafed those of the other. “But you said you were a friend, and come to save me.” “I have come to save you.” There was a shiver of the sufferer’s body. This discovery would either make him stronger or kill him. Hume knew this, and said: “Lepage, the past is past and dead to me; let it be so to you.” There was a pause. “How—did you know—about me?” “I was at Fort Providence. There came letters from the Hudson’s Bay Company, and from your wife, saying that you were making this journey, and were six months behind—” “My wife—Rose!” “I have a letter for you from her. She is on her way to Canada. We are to take you to her.” “To take me—to her.” Lepage shook his head sadly, but he pressed to his lips the letter that Hume had given him. “To take you to her, Lepage.” “No, I shall never see her again.” “I tell you, you shall. You can live if you will. You owe that to her—to me—to God.” “To her—to you—to God. I have been true to none. I have been punished. I shall die here.” “You shall go to Fort Providence. Do that in payment of your debt to me, Lepage. I demand that.” In this transgressor there was a latent spark of honour, a sense of justice that might have been developed to great causes, if some strong nature, seeing his weaknesses, had not condoned them, but had appealed to the natural chivalry of an impressionable, vain, and weak character. He struggled to meet Hume’s eyes, and doing so, he gained confidence and said: “I will try to live. I will do you justice—yet.” “Your first duty is to eat and drink. We start for Fort Providence to-morrow.” The sick man stretched out his hand. “Food! Food!” he said. In tiny portions food and drink were given to him, and his strength sensibly increased. The cave was soon aglow with the fire kindled by Late Carscallen and Cloud-in-the-Sky. There was little speaking, for the sick man soon fell asleep. Lepage’s Indian told Cloud-in-the-Sky the tale of their march—how the other Indian and the dogs died; how his master became ill as they were starting towards Fort Providence from Manitou Mountain in the summer weather; how they turned back and took refuge in this cave; how month by month they had lived on what would hardly keep a rabbit alive; and how, at last, his master urged him to press on with his papers; but he would not, and stayed until this day, when the last bit of food had been eaten, and they were found.
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; and
the world has been kind. I went down to see your boy, Jaspar, at
Clifton 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 a
thousand dollars to his credit in the bank,—I have to speak of
dollars to you people living in Canada—which I have done on his
every birthday. When he is twenty-one he will have twenty-one
thousand dollars—quite enough for a start in life. We get along
well together, and I think he will develop a fine faculty for
science. 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.
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