Читать книгу The Greatest Romance Novels of Grace Livingston Hill - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 109

Table of Contents

The night was wide and white and starry. The purple-blue dome of the sky fitted close to the still, deep white of the earth, that glittered sharply here and there as a star beam stabbed it; or was splashed and punctured with shadowy footprints of some stealthy, furry creature wending secret way to its lair. The trees stood stark and black against the whiteness, like lonely, solemn sentinels that even in the starlight were picked out in detail against the night. On such a night it seemed the wise men must have started on their star-led way, so lonely, so longing, so crying out to be satisfied, seemed the earth.

A single trapper clad in furs walked silently like one of the creatures he trapped. He had been out all day and over his shoulder were slung several fine pelts. He had done well, and the furs he was carrying now would bring a fancy price. He had but two more traps to visit, then his day’s work would be done and he could go home. He trod the aisles of the night as surely as one might walk in a familiar park of magnificent distance and note no object because all were so accustomed.

He did not whistle as he walked. He had formed the stealthy habit of the creatures of the wild, and his going was like a part of the night, a far cloud passing would have made as much stir. There was almost a majesty and rhythm in his movements.

A mile or two further on he knelt beside a deadfall trap and found a fine lynx as his reward. As easily and deftly as a lady might have stooped in her garden and plucked a rose he drew forth his knife and took the beautiful skin to add to those he already carried; made his trap ready for another victim, and passed on to the last trap.

Several times on the way he paused, alertly, listening; and then stalked on again. There were sounds enough to the uninitiated, --coyotes howling, wolves baying, the call of the wild being answered from all directions, enough to make a stranger pause and tremble every step of the way. But it was a sound far more delicate that came to the trained ear of the trapper, and a perception of a sort of sixth sense that made him pause and gaze keenly now and again; a faint distant metallic ring, the crackle of a broken twig, the fall of a branch—they all might have been accounted for in natural ways, yet they were worth marking for what they might mean.

There was nothing in the last trap and it had the appearance of having been tampered with. The trapper was still kneeling beside it, when there came a sound like the tone of a distant organ playing an old church hymn, just a note or two. It might have been the sighing of the wind in the tall trees if there had been a wind that night. The man on the ground rose suddenly to his feet and lifted his eyes to the purple-dark of the distance. Faint and far the echo repeated itself—or was it imagination?

The trapper knelt again and quickly adjusted the trap, then swung his pelts to his shoulders once more and strode forward with purpose in his whole bearing. Thrice he paused and listened, but could not be sure he still heard the sound. Just ahead was his cabin of logs. He stopped at the door again, intently listening. Then suddenly the music came again, this time sweet and clear, but far off hill, and only in echoing fragments—a bit of an old tune—or was it fancy?—that used to be sung in the church at home in the East. There was only a haunting memory of a familiar days in the broken strains—foolishness perhaps—a weakness that seemed to be growing on him in this loneliness.

A moment more he lingered by the door to make sure some one was riding down the trail, then he went in, swung his burden in the corner, made haste to strike a light and make a fire. If the voice he thought he had heard singing was really someone coming down the trail, he might have company to supper that night.

The strong face of the trapper was lighted with new interest as he went about his simple preparations for a guest. Double portions of venison and corn bread were put to cook before the fire, and an extra candle lighted and put in the window toward the mountain trail. When all was ready he went to the door once more and listened and now the voice came full and strong:

“Yes, my native land, I love thee.”

High up and far away still, and only now and then a line or phrase distinct, but growing nearer all the time.

The trapper, standing big and strong in his cabin door that barely let his height through without stooping, listened, and his eyes glowed warmly in the starlight. There was something good in the sound of that song. It warmed his heart where it had not been warmed for many a day. He listened an instant, calculated well the distance of his approaching guest, then drew the door to and swung himself away a few paces in the dark. When he returned his arms were filled with fragrant piney boughs which he tossed down in an unoccupied corner of his cabin, not far from the fire, and spread over with a great furry skin. After placing the coffee pot on the fire he went back to the door.

There were distinct and connected words to the song now, and a familiar tune used to be sung in the old church at home when the trapper was a little boy. He had learned the words at his mother’s knee:

“The spacious firmament on high,

With all the blue ethereal sky,

The spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim.”

The oncomer was riding down the trail, now close at hand. The ring of his horse’s footsteps on the crisp snow could be heard, and the singing suddenly stopped. He had seen the light in the window. In a moment he came into the clearing, greetings were exchanged, and he dismounted.

The newcomer was a man of more than medium height, but he had to look up at the trapper, who towered above him in the starlight.

“I am fortunate to find you at home,” he said pleasantly, “I have passed this way several times before but always there was no one here.”

He was dressed in buckskin trousers, a waistcoat, and a blue English duffle coat, a material firm, closely-woven and thicker than a Mackinaw blanket. Over this was a buffalo overcoat a few inches shorter than the duffle, making a fantastic dress withal. From under his fur cap keen blue eyes looked forth and one could see at a glance from his wide, firm mouth, that he was a man of strong purpose, great powers of fearless execution, reticent, and absolutely self-contained. For a moment the two stood looking quietly, steadily into each other’s eyes, gathering, as it were, confidence in one another. What each saw must have been satisfactory, for their handclasp was filled with warm welcome and a degree of liking.

“I am the fortunate one,” said the trapper.

“My name’s Whitman, Marcus Whitman, missionary from Waiilatpu,” went on the newcomer in explanation. “May I camp with you to-night? I’ve come a long way since daybreak and a sound sleep would be pleasant.”

“You’re welcome,” said the host. “Supper’s all ready. I heard you coming down the trail. So you are Dr. Whitman? I’ve heard of you of course. I’m just a trapper.” He waved his hand significantly toward the heap of furs in the corner and the fine pelts hanging about the walls—“My name’s Whitney. Take off your coat.”

He led the stranger inside and offered him water for washing.

“Whitney is it, and Whitman,--not much difference is there? Easy to remember. Supper sounds good. That coffee smells like nectar. So you heard me singing, did you? I’m not much of a singer I own, but my wife took a lot of pleasure teaching me. She taught me on the way out here, and I try to practise now and then when I’m out in the open where I won’t annoy anyone.”

“It sounded good,” said the trapper. “Made me think of home. Mother used to sing that when I was a little chap,--that one about the spacious firmament on high—”

There was a wistfulness in the trapper’s tone that made his guest look at him keenly once again.

“Your mother is gone, then?” he ventured,

“Years ago.”

“She’s not at home waiting for you to come back then.”

“No, she’s not at home—”

It was after they were seated at the table and the meal was well under way that the conversation began again.

“You belong to the Hudson Bay Fur people?”

The stranger asked the question half anxiously, as though it had been on the tip of his tongue from the first.

“I trade with them—” responded the younger man quickly, “that’s all. I was with them for a while,--but there were things I didn’t like. A man doesn’t care to be angered too often. I’m not much of an American, perhaps you might say, but I don’t like to hear my own country sneered at—”

There was deep significance in young Whitney’s tone.

“How’s that?” The stranger’s keen eyes were searching the other’s understandingly, a light of sympathy flashing into his own.

“They do not want us Americans,” he said, and his voice conveyed a deeper meaning even than his words. “They want this country for England. They want undisputed sway in Oregon!”

“You have felt that, have you?” the guest’s eyes were steady and his voice calm. It was impossible to tell just what he himself believed.

“Haven’t you seen it? It’s to your interest you should understand, if you don’t. Why, sir, they don’t want you and your mission! They want the Indians to remain ignorant. They don’t want them to become civilized. They can make more money out of ’em ignorant!”

The doctor’s eyes flashed fire now and his whole speaking face responded:

“I have seen it, yes, I have seen it. But what are the prospects? Do you think they can carry out their wishes?”

“I’m afraid they can,” said the trapper half sullenly. “They have done all they can to make their hold secure. They are retiring their servants on farms and making voters of them. Every year more settlers are coming from the Red River country, and they are spreading reports among Americans that passage over the mountains is impossible. They are alive and awake to the facts. Our government down there at Washington is asleep yet. They haven’t an idea what a glorious country this is. Why, I’ve heard that they are talking of selling it off for the cod fisheries; and all because these Hudson Bay Fur people have had the report circulated that you can’t get over the Rockies with wagons or women and children. They’re wiley, these fur people. They won’t sell a share of their stock. They’ve gone about things slow, but sure. They have got everything all fixed. If they would only wait long enough and feel secure enough we might fool ’em yet, if just some more Americans could be persuaded to come this way. Somebody ought to go and tell them back at Washington. If only I—But I can’t go back! Perhaps next Spring there’ll be a way to send some word. I’ve thought of writing a letter to the President—Why don’t you write a letter, Dr. Whitman? It would have weight coming from you.”

“Next Spring will be too late! A letter will be too late, young man. Do you know the peril is at our door? I do not know but it is even now too late. Listen! I have just come from Fort Walla. Walla, where I have heard what has stirred my soul. There was a dinner a few days ago at which were present some officers from the fort, employees of the company, and a few Jesuit priests. During the feasting a messenger came saying that immigrants from Red River had crossed the mountains, and had reached Fort Colville on the Columbia. Nearly everybody present received the news enthusiastically, and one priest stood up and shouted: ‘Hurrah for Oregon! America is too late! We have got the country!’”

The log in the fireplace fell apart with a thud, and the trapper sprang forward to mend the fire, his fine, strong face showing set and indignant in the glow that blazed up.

“It is not too late yet if only we could get word to headquarters,” he said as he came back to his seat, “but the snow-fall has already begun. This will clear away and we’ll have some good weather yet, but treacherous. No man could get across the mountains alive at this time of year.

“And yet, with so much at stake, a man who loved his country might try—” said Dr. Whitman musingly, and the other man, watching the heavy, thoughtful brow, the determined chin, the very bristling of the iron gray hair, thought that if any man could do it here was the one who would try. There was a long silence and then the trapper spoke:

“I would go in a minute. My life is not worth anything! But what would I be when I got there? No one would listen to me against the words of great men—not even if I brought messages from men who know—And—besides—there are reasons why I cannot go back East!” And he drew a long sigh that came from the depths of bitterness, hard to hear from one so young and strong and full of life.

Dr. Whitman looked at him quickly, keenly, appreciatively, but asked no question. He knew men well and would not force a confidence.

They presently threw themselves down upon their couches of boughs and fur, with only the firelight to send weird shadows over the cabin room, but they talked on for a long time; of the country, its needs, its possibilities, its prospects; then before they slept the Doctor arose, knelt beside his couch and prayed. And such a prayer! The very gates of heaven neared and seemed opening to let the petition in. The country, the wonderful country! the people, the poor, blinded, ignorant people! That was the burden of his cry. He brought the matter of their conversation home to God in such a way that now it scarcely seemed necessary any longer to get word to Washington about the peril of Oregon, since appeal had been made to a higher authority. Then, in just a word or two the trapper felt himself acknowledged and introduced before the Most High, and he seemed to stand bare-faced, looking into the eyes of God, knowing that he was known and cared for.

Overhead the silent age-old stars kept vigil, wise in their far-seeing, and marvelling perhaps that the affairs of a mere nation should so stir the soul of a mortal whose life on earth was but a breath at best; since God was in high heaven and all peoples of the earth were His.

Next morning at daybreak the missionary went upon his way to Waiilatpu, and the trapper went his rounds again, yet neither was quite the same as before that long night conference.

One sentence had passed between them as they parted that had told volumes, and that neither would forget. As they looked together at the glory of the dawn, Dr. Whitman turned and gazed deeply into the trapper’s eyes.

“Almost—I could ask you to go with me,” he said, and waited.

A light leapt forth in the other man’s eyes.

“And but for one thing—I would go,” was the quick reply with a sudden shadowing of his brows.

That was all. They clasped hands warmly with a quick, meaningful pressure and parted, but each was possessed of at least a portion of the other’s secret.