Flower of the North Part 5

There was no answer, and in the next breath he was sorry that he had called. He went silently down the trail. He had come to the edge of Churchill when once more he heard the howl of the dog far back in the forest. He stopped to locate as nearly as he could the point whence the sound came, for he was certain now that the dog had not returned with Pierre, but had remained with Jeanne, and was howling from their camp.

Gregson was awake and sitting on the edge of his bunk when Philip entered the cabin.

"Where the deuce have you been?" he demanded. "I was just trying to make up my mind to go out and hunt for you. Stolen--lost--or something like that?"

"I've been thinking," said Philip, truthfully.

"So have I," said Gregson. "Ever since you came back, wrote that letter, and went out again--"

"You were asleep," corrected Philip. "I looked at you."

"Perhaps I was--when you looked. But I have a hazy recollection of you sitting there at the table, writing like a fiend. Anyway, I've been thinking ever since you went out of the door, and--I'd like to read that Lord Fitzhugh letter again."

Philip handed him the letter. He was quite sure from his friend's manner of speaking that he had seen nothing of the handkerchief and the lace.

Gregson seized the paper lazily, yawned, and slipped it under the blanket which he had doubled up for a pillow.

"Do you mind if I keep it for a few days. Phil?" he asked.

"Not in the least, if you'll tell me why you want it," said Philip.

"I will--when I discover a reason myself," replied his friend, coolly, stretching himself out again in the bunk. "Remember when I dreamed that Carabobo planter was sticking a knife into you, Phil?--and the next day he tried it? Well, I've had a funny dream, I want to sleep on this letter. I may want to sleep on it for a week. Better turn in if you expect to get a wink between now and morning."

For half an hour after he had undressed and extinguished the light Philip lay awake reviewing the incidents of his night's adventure. He was certain that his letter was in the hands of Pierre and Jeanne, but he was not so sure that they would respond to it. He half expected that they would not, and yet he felt a deep sense of satisfaction in what he had done. If he met them again he would not be quite a stranger. And that he would meet them he was not only confident, but determined. If they did not appear in Fort Churchill he would hunt out their camp.

He found himself asking a dozen questions, none of which he could answer. Who was this girl who had come like a queen from out of the wilderness, and this man who bore with him the manner of a courtier?

Was it possible, after all, that they were of the forests? And where was Fort o' G.o.d? He had never heard of it before, and as he thought of Jeanne's strange, rich dress, of the heliotrope-scented handkerchief, of the old-fashioned rapier at Pierre's side, and of the exquisite grace with which the girl had left him he wondered if such a place as this Fort o' G.o.d must be could exist in the heart of the desolate northland. Pierre had said that they had come from Fort o' G.o.d. But were they a part of it?

He fell asleep, the resolution formed in his mind to investigate as soon as he found the opportunity. There would surely be those at Churchill who would know these people; if not, they would know of Fort o' G.o.d.

Philip found Gregson awake and dressed when he rolled out of his bunk a few hours later. Gregson had breakfast ready.

"You're a good one to have company," growled the artist. "When you go out mooning again please take me along, will you? Chuck your head in that pail of water and let's eat. I'm starved."

Philip noticed that his companion had tacked the sketch against one of the logs above the table.

"Pretty good for imagination, Greggy," he said, nodding. "Burke will jump at that if you do it in colors."

"Burke won't get it," replied Gregson, soberly, seating himself at the table. "It won't be for sale."

"Why?"

Gregson waited until Philip had seated himself before he answered.

"Look here, old man--get ready to laugh. Split your sides, if you want to. But it's G.o.d's truth that the girl I saw yesterday is the only girl I've ever seen that I'd be willing to die for!"

"To be sure," agreed Philip. "I understand."

Gregson stared at him in surprise. "Why don't you laugh?" he asked.

"It is not a laughing matter," said Philip. "I say that I understand.

And I do."

Gregson looked from Philip's face to the picture.

"Does it--does it hit you that way, Phil?"

"She is very beautiful."

"She is more than that," declared Gregson, warmly. "If I ever looked into an angel's face it was yesterday, Phil. For just a moment I met her eyes--"

"And they were--"

"Wonderful!"

"I mean--the color," said Philip, engaging himself with the food.

"They were blue or gray. It is the first time I ever looked into a woman's eyes without being sure of the color of them. It was her hair, Phil--not this tinsel sort of gold that makes you wonder if it's real, but the kind you dream about. You may think me a loon, but I'm going to find out who she is and where she is as soon as I have done with this breakfast."

"And Lord Fitzhugh?"

A shadow pa.s.sed over Gregson's face. For a few moments he ate in silence. Then he said:

"That's what kept me awake after you had gone--thinking of Lord Fitzhugh and this girl. See here, Phil. She isn't one of the kind up here. There was breeding and blood in every inch of her, and what I am wondering is if these two could be a.s.sociated in any way. I don't want it to be so. But--it's possible. Beautiful young women like her don't come, traveling up to this k.n.o.b-end of the earth alone, do they?"

Philip did not pursue the subject. A quarter of an hour later the two young men left the cabin, crossed the ridge, and walked together down into Churchill. Gregson went to the Company's store, while Philip entered the building occupied by Pearce. Pearce was at his desk. He looked up with tired, puffy eyes, and his fat hands lay limply before him. Philip knew that he had not been to bed. His oily face strove to put on an appearance of animation and business as Philip entered.

Philip produced a couple of cigars and took a chair opposite him.

"You look bushed, Pearce," he began. "Business must be rushing. I saw a light in your window after midnight, and I came within an ace of calling. Thought you wouldn't like to be interrupted, so I put off my business until this morning."

"Insomnia," said Pearce, huskily. "I can't sleep. Suppose you saw me at work through the window?" There was almost an eager haste in his question.

"Saw nothing but the light," replied Philip, carelessly. "You know this country pretty well, don't you, Pearce?"

"Been 'squatting' on prospects for eight years, waiting for this d.a.m.ned railroad," said Pearce, interlacing his thick fingers. "I guess I know it!"

"Then you can undoubtedly tell me the location of Fort o' G.o.d?"

"Fort o' What?"

"Fort o' G.o.d."

Pearce looked blank.

"It's a new one on me," he said, finally. "Never heard of it." He rose from his chair and went over to a big map hanging against the wall.

Studiously he went over it with the point of his stubby forefinger.

"This is the latest from the government," he continued, with his back to Philip, "but it ain't here. There's a G.o.d's Lake down south of Nelson House, but that's the only thing with a G.o.d about it north of fifty-three."