CHAPTER X
CONSTANCE MAKES A DISCOVERY
Old Pete and Keith walked back to the former's cabin together, and left Constance for a time alone with her father.
"One of the b'ys'll come," said Pete, "an' sit with yer dad, so ye kin git some sleep, fer ye need it mighty bad."
It was early dawn as the two plodded their way through the deep snow. The furious storm of the night had ceased, and a hush reigned over the land, as if in honour of the birth of the Great Prince of Peace. All around lay the virgin snow, unsullied as yet by its contact with earth, and untrodden save by the two night watchers.
"How like my life," thought Keith. "Last night, the storm howling and raging; this morning the stillness of God. Ah, I see it clearly," he unconsciously uttered aloud, following hard in Pete's footsteps.
"Hey? what d'ye see?" asked the prospector, suddenly stopping and looking at his companion.
Keith laughed. "Nothing outwardly," he replied. "I must have been dreaming and forgot myself."
"Umph!" returned the other, and continued on his way.
"An' what did ye see out yon, laddie?" queried Pete, when they at length reached the cabin.
Keith looked keenly at the old man, but only an expression of calmness, tinged with sadness, was depicted upon his rugged countenance.
"I saw much, Pete, very much."
"So did I, laddie. I saw it, too."
"And what did you see, Pete?"
The prospector looked intently into the young man's face before replying.
"I saw," he said slowly, "a new trail bein' blazed out fer ye by the hand of the Almighty. Somethin' tells me, I dunno what it is, unless it was yer knocked out condition last night, an' yer rough appearance, that ye've been on a hard trail of late."
"I have, Pete, I have," assented Keith, resisting with difficulty the temptation to tell his companion all about his troubles.
"I knowed it, laddie. An' now ye've almost fergot the old trail with all its snags, because a new one lies afore ye. Ye'll find snags thar, too, remember, but it'll make all the difference in the warld when the shinin' light of a true woman lightens yer path."
"Pete!" exclaimed Keith. "I——"
"It reminds me of this cabin," continued the prospector, unheeding the interruption. "I come back to it, sometimes, tired an' discouraged. The place is cold and dismal, an' I feel that life isn't worth livin'. But when yon stove gits to wark, blazin' away like mad, purty soon things change, an' a new feelin' creeps over me. It's jist because somethin' warm an' cheerful has knocked out an' taken the place of t'other.
"Now, that's jist what that lassie over yon has done fer me. I've had a mighty bad season, an' felt like seven divils when I come back. Even the old stove couldn't cheer me up completely, an' things looked purty blue. Jist then that lassie an' her dad drifted inter this camp. We call 'im 'Colonel,' because of his white hair, long beard, an' noble bearin'. They was down to hard pan, if any one ever was, an' says I to meself, says I, 'Pete, ye've got to do somethin'!' So in the doin' that somethin', an' seein' the lassie's bright face an' sunny ways in the midst of her hardships, knocked my own trouble clean outer my head. She's a woman, through and through, if ever thar was one."
"She is," ejaculated Keith, looking meditatively at the stove.
"But come, laddie," said Pete, suddenly rising to his feet, "it's time ye was in bed. Ye'll need a good rest afore the b'ys come to church."
"What! a service?" asked Keith eagerly. "Will the men come? And do you think they will care for it?"
"It's not what they care fer, laddie; but, what's yer dooty? It's Christmas Day, an' it'll remind us of old times. Some'll like it, an' some won't. But yer Orders, as fer as I kin understand, is 'to preach the Gospel,' an' here's an opportunity. They'll come, never ye fear that."
"I'll have to hold the service just as I am," said Keith apologetically. "I haven't my robes with me, and not even a decent suit of clothes."
"Don't ye worry about yer robes an' clothes. The uniform's all right on parade, an' starched collars, an' sich like, but the b'ys'll take it better if they see ye in yer rough togs. They'll feel yer one of themselves. I'll trim yer hair an' whiskers a bit, so ye won't look too savage, an' frighten 'em away."
Keith gave a little laugh. "What you say is quite true," he replied, "but it's been so long since I preached to white people that I'm afraid I'll make a mess of it. My addresses to the Indians have always been in their own language, and very simple."
"That's all right, laddie. Give us some of the old prayers from the Prayer Book, sich as 'Lighten Our Darkness,' ye can't beat them. Then about yer preachin': Give it to us red hot from the heart; that's what we want here. Trimmin's, an' fixin's, an' flowers, an' poetry, are all right, I suppose, fer some places, whar they live on sich things. But we want straight shot that'll reach the heart, and help us up the shinin' way. An' ye kin do it, lad; the stuff's thar, so let's have it. I'll round up the b'ys, an' they'll come."
And so it was settled that the service should be held. Keith then threw himself upon the rude bunk, and, wearied out, was soon fast asleep. Late in the day he awoke and made preparations for the evening. He visited his patient, and found him progressing as well as possible, though still possessing the vacant look in his face. Constance he did not see, as she was taking a much-needed rest, while one of the prospectors was watching by her father's side.
Early in the evening the men of Siwash Creek began to arrive at Pete's cabin. They drifted in, one by one, and sat around smoking and chatting. Some did not even remove their hats, and maintained an air of indifference and lofty superiority. They had not much use for such things, so they told themselves, but, as no other diversion offered, they might as well take in what was going on.
When Keith at length stood up to begin the service, about fifteen men were gathered round him. Before he could say a word, however, Pete came close to his side.
"Whar's the lassie?" he whispered. "She should be here."
Keith had noticed her absence, and wondered, for she had promised to be present.
"Perhaps she is watching her father," he replied. "That must be the reason why she is not here."
Pete at once crossed to where Alec McPherson was sitting. A short whispered conversation ensued, after which both men started for the door.
"Don't begin till I come back," said Pete, as he left the building.
Constance was sitting quietly near her father when the two prospectors arrived. She was thinking hard, and the small handkerchief which lay in her lap was moist with tears. It had been a strange, lonely Christmas Day for her. She remembered the old times when they were all together in their snug little home in Vancouver. What a contrast to her present dreary surroundings! Then, her father was so happy, and Kenneth, the life of the house, was at his best. How her father had changed in such a short time, and the poor boy, she wondered where and how he was spending his Christmas.
She was feeling weary, too, as she sat there, for the excitement of the past night was telling upon her. The flush had left her cheeks, leaving her pale and wan. She felt somewhat troubled about having confided her story to an almost entire stranger. Would her father have approved of such a thing? But then it had lifted a load from her mind; she had shared her burden with another, and it was not so hard to bear. Besides, she was sure she could trust that big, rough man, who looked at her with such sympathetic eyes.
"Ye'll come to sarvice, lassie, won't ye?" Pete asked, when Constance had opened the door.
"Y-yes," she answered half doubtfully, looking at her father. "I'd like to go, but I can't leave him here alone."
"I'll see to yer father, miss," replied Alec, "sae ye gang along."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. McPherson, but I'm half afraid to go, as I will be the only woman there."
"The greater reason fer ye to come, lassie," broke in Pete. "It isn't every day the b'ys have a woman among them, an' I think yer presence'll soften 'em up a bit, an' make'm think of their mothers, sisters, an' sweethearts. An' then, ye'll sing some, won't ye?" he continued in a pleading manner.
"Why, how do you know I can sing?" asked Constance, while some of the old colour rushed back to her cheeks.
"Know? How could I help a-knowin'? Haven't I stood at my own cabin door, night after night, an' sometimes in the marnin', too, a-listenin' to yer singin', remindin' me of a sweet canary bird penned up in a gloomy cage. An' didn't one of the young fellers up yon freeze his toes one night sittin' on the stump of a tree when ye was warblin' 'Annie Laurie'? I ain't got much use fer them newcomers, but to-day bein' Christmas, I feel kinder warm towards'm, an' would like fer'm ter hear ye sing a bit. It 'ud do'm a mighty lot of good."
Constance laughed. She was feeling better already. "Well, I'll go then," she assented, "if you will promise to look after me."
"I'll see to that," responded Pete, delighted with his success. "I'll stand off any one, even the angel Gabriel himself, except one thing."
"And what's that?"
"It's love," solemnly answered the old man. "It's the cutest, wiriest thing a man kin run aginst. It's so mighty powerful that it'll make the strongest an' biggest chap as weak as a baby, an' the smallest woman as strong as a giant. I can't savvy it, nohow."
"I guess you will have no trouble about such an opponent to-night," laughed Constance, as she drew on her mittens.
"Mebbe not, lassie; but we'll see."
The service was short and the strangest that Constance had ever witnessed. Accustomed, as she was, to the familiar and dignified form of the Church of England, this appeared harsh, and at times almost ludicrous. Keith led off with the opening hymn of "Nearer, My God, to Thee," in a clear, strong, tenor voice, trusting to his memory for the words. He was followed by the others, those who knew the hymn giving him much assistance. There were a few, however, who persisted in swinging off on tunes of their own composition.
"Stop yer yelpin'," said a miner to one of these vagrant singers. "Yer spilin' the show."
But the other heeded not, and with head thrown back against the wall, and brawny chest expanded, almost drowned the rest of the voices by his marvellous roars.
"My, that's fine!" he ejaculated, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. "I ain't heard such singing since I left the Caribou country."
"And no one else," contemptuously remarked his companion. "But say, duck yer head, the parson's prayin'."
Interested though Constance was in watching the miners, her attention was centred chiefly on the missionary. She hardly knew him at first, so much had he been transformed by Old Pete's scissors and razor. The long hair had been neatly trimmed, and the unkempt beard removed, exposing a face, almost youthful in appearance, but full of determination and strength of character. It was when the prayers had been said, the second hymn sung, and he had begun his address, that her interest became thoroughly aroused.
His subject was peace, and, after referring to the Great Prince of Peace, whose birth they were commemorating, he passed on to speak about the peace of life. As he described a vessel beating her way through a furious storm, while the cruel waves dealt her mighty sledge-hammer blows, she noticed how stern became his face, while a bright light gleamed in his eye. But as he spoke about the peace of the harbour, with the storm shut out, and the light of home shining clearly ahead, his features softened.
"He's livin' it fer sure," remarked Bill Towser, to a miner at his side, when Keith had finished.
"Y' bet," came the response.
"An' did ye notice the power on him when he told about that ship?"
"Yep."
"Well, I tell ye it moved me mighty. I allus said thar's more inside a man than lights an' liver, an' now I know it fer sure. Hello! what in blazes is this?" he continued, looking suddenly up. "A fiddle! well, I'll be blowed! an' the parson's tunin' up!"
"Ye'll sing it, lassie, won't ye?" whispered Pete to Constance, when Keith had played over the air of "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing."
"I'll help," she replied in an abstracted manner.
From the moment when Pete had brought forth the violin and handed it to Keith for the last hymn, she had not taken her eyes off of the instrument. It fascinated her, and brought back a flood of memory. She sang almost mechanically the first verse, and had begun the second.
"Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born——"
Snap! went one of the strings, and the singing suddenly stopped. Keith moved close to the table and endeavored to repair the damage. As he did so the light fell upon a bright piece of metal. Constance saw it, and, with a cry, she rushed forward, and, stooping down, gazed earnestly at the small, letters engraved thereon. Then she looked around the room, as if seeking for some special person.
In her eyes was an expression which the men never forgot, and which formed the topic of conversation for nights afterward.
"When she looked at me with those beseeching eyes of hers," said one husky fellow, "I felt that I had done something wrong, and I wanted to drop right through the floor, that's what I did."
"Well, I tell you I didn't," replied the young chap whose feet had been frozen, "I just longed to be her brother, that was the way I felt."
"Wanted to be her brother!" ejaculated the other. "And what for? Ye didn't think those pretty arms would encircle yer scrawny neck, did ye, or her sweet lips touch yer rough face?"
"I only f-felt sorry for her, and wanted to comfort her," stammered the youth, blushing to the roots of his hair, at which a hearty laugh ensued at his expense.
But Constance had no thought of the pretty picture she made. It was only of Kenneth she was thinking.
"Oh, Pete!" she cried, "tell me what it all means!"
"What's wrong, lassie?" he replied, somewhat embarassed by her searching look.
"The violin! It's my brother's! I gave it to him for a Christmas present two years ago. See, here are his initials upon this small silver plate," and she held the violin up close to his eyes.
"Waal, waal, so it is as ye say. Who'd a thought it?"
"But where is he? Do you know? Oh, please tell me!"
"I don't know much meself," and Pete scratched his head. "I met the chap who owned that fiddle last Fall, on the trail way yon East. He give it to me 'cause 'twas too heavy fer 'im to carry, so I 'jist brought her along, an' thar she be. Ye may keep her, lassie, if ye like."
Constance made no reply to these words, but grasped the violin firmly in her hands, while a look of hope shone in her eyes, Then she realized her position, and what a strange scene she was making before these men. The blood rushed to her face.
"Please take me home," she said to Pete, "I wish to be alone."
During this brief scene Keith was undergoing an agony of soul. How he longed to rush forward, clasp those little hands in his own, and speak words of comfort. But he had no comfort to give, he could only bring deep sorrow if he told what he knew. Should he speak? Would it be right? Whenever the question arose, he crushed it back. No, not now; some other time. And so he watched her leave the building without one word of farewell, and as the door closed behind her a sense of loneliness swept over him, which even the presence of the miners could not dispel.
"Pete," he asked that night, as the two sat alone in the cabin, "did Miss Radhurst question you much about her brother?"
"Question me? question me?" replied the prospector. "She drained me like a force pump."
"And did you tell her all?"
"No, why do ye ask, laddie?" and Pete looked at him in surprise.
"Did you tell her about her brother's cruel partner?"
This time Pete was more than surprised. He stared at his companion in amazement. "What d'ye mean?" he demanded. "What d'ye know about the matter?"
"Keep cool, Pete. I know more than you think. Listen, and I will tell you something."
"My God!" burst from the old man's lips, when Keith had told him the story of the death in the Ibex cabin, and had shown him the little locket. "It will kill her!"
"Now, that's the point, Pete. Is it right for us to tell her? She has enough trouble at the present time with her father, and this new sorrow will, I am afraid, break her down completely.
"Right, laddie, right ye are," groaned Pete. "But what are we to do?"
"I've been thinking of that," went on Keith. "Mr. Radhurst's condition is very serious, and he must have special and regular treatment. I can't stay here, as there is trouble at Klassan, so I must leave to-morrow."
"What; so soon?" exclaimed Pete.
"Yes, it is necessary."
"But what about the 'Colonel'?"
"He must go to Klassan. Will you take him? He has a good cabin there, I understand, and a fair supply of provisions, so he and his daughter will be quite comfortable."
Pete ran his fingers through his hair in an abstracted manner. "I'd take'm, laddie, an' be glad of the job, but I ain't got no team. An' besides, is the "Colonel" able to stand the jant?"
"In two weeks I think it might be tried. You see, Miss Radhurst is a trained nurse, and she can look after his arm very well. As for a team, you need not worry about that, for I'll send an Indian back with my own dogs. I know it will mean a risk to move the patient so far, but if he stays here I am afraid he will die."
Pete stretched out his rough hand toward the missionary. "Put it thar, laddie," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "ye're all gold."
Thus in the silence of the little cabin these two hardy frontiersmen clasped hands. Outside, the world lay cold and dismal, but in their honest hearts reigned a great peace—"the peace of God which passeth understanding."