Lords of the North Part 49

Miriam was rescued, the priest restored, and I dowered with G.o.d's best gift--the love of a n.o.ble, fair woman. Hard duty's compulsion no longer spurred me; but my thoughts still drove in a wild whirl. There was a gla.s.sy reflection of a faded moon on the water, and daybreak came rustling through the trees which nodded and swayed overhead. A twittering of winged things arose in the branches, first only the cadence of a robin's call, an oriole's flute-whistle, the stirring wren's mellow note. Then, suddenly, out burst from the leafed sprays a chorus of song that might have rivaled angels' melodies. The robin's call was a gust of triumph. The oriole's strain lilted exultant and a thousand throats gushed out golden notes.

"Now G.o.d be praised for love and beauty and goodness--and above all--for Frances--for Frances," were the words that every bird seemed to be singing; though, indeed, the interpretation was only my heart's response. I know not how it was, but I found myself with hat off and bowed head, feeling a grat.i.tude which words could not frame--for the splendor of the universe and the glory of G.o.d.

"Rufus," called a voice more musical to my ear than any bird song; and Frances was at my side with a troubled face. "He's conscious and talking, but I can't understand what he means. Neither can Miriam and Eric. I wish you would come in."

I found the priest pale as the pillows against which he leaned, with glistening eyes gazing fixedly high above the lintel of the door.

Miriam, with her snow-white hair and sad-lined face, was fanning the air before him. At the other side stood Eric with the boy in his arms. Mr.

Sutherland and I entered the room abreast. For a moment his wistful gaze fell on the group about the bed. First he looked at Eric and the child, then at Miriam, and from Miriam to me, then back to the child. The meaning of it all dawned, gleamed and broke in full knowledge upon him; and his face shone as one transfigured.

"The Lord was with us," he muttered, stroking Miriam's white hair.

"Praise be to G.o.d! Now I can die in peace----"

"No, you can't, Father," I cried impetuously.

"Ye irriverent ruffian," he murmured with a flash of old mirth and a gentle pressure of my hand. "Ye irriverent ruffian. Peace! Peace! I die in peace," and again the wistful eyes gazed above the door.

"Rufus," he whispered softly, "where are they taking me?"

"Taking you?" I asked in surprise; but Frances Sutherland's finger was on her lips, and I stopped myself before saying more.

"Troth, yes, lad, where are they taking me? The northern tribes have heard not a word of the love of the Lord; and I must journey to a far, far country."

At that the boy set up some meaningless child prattle. The priest heard him and listened.

"Father," asked the child in the language of Indians when referring to a priest, "Father, if the good white father goes to a far, far away, who'll go to northern tribes?" "And a little child shall lead them,"

murmured the priest, thinking he, himself, had been addressed and feeling out blindly for the boy. Eric placed the child on the bed, and Father Holland's wasted hands ran through the lad's tangled curls.

"A little child shall lead them," he whispered. "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation. A light to lighten the Gentiles--and a little child shall lead them."

Then I first noticed the filmy glaze, as of gla.s.s, spreading slowly across the priest's white face. Blue lines were on his temples and his lips were drawn. A cold chill struck to my heart, like icy steel. Too well I read the signs and knew the summons; and what can love, or grat.i.tude, do in the presence of that summons? Miriam's face was hidden in her hands and she was weeping silently.

"The northern tribes know not the Lord and I go to a far country; but a little child shall lead them!" repeated the priest.

"Indeed, Sir, he shall be dedicated to G.o.d," sobbed Miriam. "I shall train him to serve G.o.d among the northern tribes. Do not worry! G.o.d will raise up a servant----"

But her words were not heeded by the priest.

"Rufus, lad," he said, gazing afar as before, "Lift me up," and I took him in my arms.

"My sight is not so good as it was," he whispered. "There's a dimness before my face, lad! Can _you_ see anything up there?" he asked, staring longingly forward.

"Faith, now, what might they all be doing with stars for diadems? What for might the angels o' Heaven be doin' going up and down betwane the blue sky and the green earth? Faith, lad, 'tis daft ye are, a-changin'

of me clothes! Lave the black gown, lad! 'Tis the badge of poverty and He was poor and knew not where to lay His head of a weary night! Lave the black gown, I say! What for wu'd a powr Irish priest be doin'

a-wearin' of radiant white? Where are they takin' me, Rufus? Not too near the light, lad! I ask but to kneel at the Master's feet an' kiss the hem of His robe!"

There was silence in the room, but for the subdued sobbing of Miriam.

Frances had caught the priest's wrists in both her hands, and had buried her face on the white coverlet. With his back to the bed, Mr. Sutherland stood by the window and I knew by the heaving of his angular shoulders that flood-gates of grief had opened. There was silence; but for the hard, sharp, quick, short breathings of the priest. A crested bird hopped to the window-sill with a chirp, then darted off through the quivering air with a glint of sunlight from his flashing wings. I heard the rustle of morning wind and felt the priest's face growing cold against my cheek.

"I must work the Master's work," he whispered, in short broken breaths, "while it is day--for the night cometh--when no man--can work.--Don't hold me back, lad--for I must go--to a far, far country--It's cold, cold, Rufus--the way is--rugged--my feet are slipping--slipping--give a hand--lad!--Praise to G.o.d--there's a resting-place--somewhere!--Farewell--boy--be brave--farewell--I may not come back soon--but I must--journey--to--a----far----far----"

There was a little gasp for breath. His head felt forward and Frances sobbed out, "He is gone! He is gone!"

And the warmth of pulsing life in the form against my shoulder gave place to the rigid cold of motionless death.

"May the Lord G.o.d of Israel receive the soul of His righteous servant,"

cried Mr. Sutherland in awesome tones.

With streaming eyes he came forward and helped me to lay the priest back.

Then we all pa.s.sed out from that chamber, made sacred by an invisible presence.

VALEDICTORY.

'Twas twenty years after Father Holland's death that a keen-eyed, dark-skinned, young priest came from Montreal on his way to Athabasca.

This was Miriam's son.

To-day it is he, the missionary famous in the north land, who pa.s.sing back and forward between his lonely mission in the Athabasca and the headquarters of his order, comes to us and occupies the guest-chamber in our little, old-fashioned, vine-grown cottage.

The retaking of Fort Douglas virtually closed the bitter war between Hudson's Bay and Nor'-Westers. To both companies the conflict had proved ruinous. Each was as anxious as the other for the terms of peace by which the great fur-trading rivals were united a few years after the ma.s.sacre of Seven Oaks.

So ended the despotic rule of gentlemen adventurers in the far north.

The ma.s.sacre turned the attention of Britain to this unknown land and the daring heroism of explorers has given place to the patient nation-building of mult.i.tudes who follow the pioneer. Such is the record of a day that is done.