Newspaper Page Text
T HX tffogant tun bad stalked away Into the
evening, trailing behind him banners of gold
and crimson, ant* a swift twilight was
JL streaming over the land. As the sun passed,
the eyes of two men on a high hill fol
lowed it, and the look of one was like a
light In a window to a lost traveller. It had
In ft the sense of home and the tale of a journey done. *
Such a journey this man had made as few have ever
attempted, and fewer accomplished. To the farther
most regions of snow and ice, where the shoulder of a
continent juts out into the northwestern Arctic seas*
he had travelled on foot and alone, save for his dogs,
and for Indian guides, who, now and then, shepherded
him frt>m point to point. The vast ice-hummocks had
been his housing, pcmmican, the raw flesh of fish, and
even the fat and oil of seals had been his food. Ever
and ever through long months the everlasting white
glitter of the snow and Ice, ever and ever the cold
stars, the cloudless sky, the moon at full, or like a
white sickle set to warn him that his life must be
mown like grass-
Where he had gone none other had been of white
men from the Western lands, though from across the
wide Pacific, from the Eastern world, adventurers ind
exiles had once visited what is now known as the
Yukon Valley. So this man, browsing in the library
of his grandfather, an Eastern scholar, had come to
know, and for love of adventure, and because of the
tale of a valley of gold and treasure to be had, and
because he had been ruined by bad investments, had
made a journey likd none any one man had essayed
before. And on his way up to those regions, where
the veil before the^face of God is very thin and fine,
and men’s hearts glow within them, though all the
world of herb and flower and flowing water is con
gealed about them, and never a bird floats in the air
or a tree in loneliness stretches out gaunt arafs to the
Spring-on his way to the desert of white, where no
oasis was save the' unguessed deposit of a great hu
man dream that his soul could feel but his eyes could
' not behold, he had seen the face of a girl which had
haunted him on his austere pilgrimage. Her voice—
so sweet a voice that It rang like muffled, silver In his
ears, till in the arena of the everlasting theatre of the
Pole, the stars seeemed to repeat it through millions
of echoing hills, growing softer and softer as the frost
hushed it to his ears—it had said to him late and
early, so that he was cheered when he would have
wept In misery, and raised when he would have fallen,
“You must come back with the swallows."
It had been but an acquaintance of five days while
he fitted out for his expedition, but in this brief time
It had sunk deep Into his mind that life was now a
thing to cherish and that he must indeed come back;
though he had left England caring little if, in the
peril and danger of his quest, he ever returned. He
had been Indifferent to his fate till he came to the
Valley of the Saskatchewan, to the town lying at the
foot of the maple hill beside the great northern stream,
and saw the girl whose life was knit with the far
north, whose mother's heart was buried in the great
wastes where Sir John Franklin’s expedition was lost;
for her husband had been one of the ill-fated if not
unhappy band of lovers of their kind and of that civili
sation for which they had risked all and lost all save
immortality. Hither they had come after Tie had been
cast away on the icy plains, and as the settlement had
crept north, had gone north with it, always on the
outer edge of house and field, ever stepping northward.
Here, with small income but high hearts and quiet
souls, they had lived and labored, angels of mercy and
kindness among pioneers, as he whom they mourned
had been before them.
And when the man, who now again looked down In
safety upon the little town, set his faee northward to
an unknown destination, she and her daughter had
prayed-as the mother did In the old days when the
daughter was but a babe at her knee, and it was not
yet certain that Franklin and his men had been cast
away forever.
And he had returned. He was now looking down
into the valley where the village lay. Far, far over,
two days’ march away,, he could see the cluster of
houses, and the glow of the sun on the tin spire of the
little Mission Church where he had heard the girl and
her mother sing till the hearts of all were swept by
feeling and ravished by the desire for “the peace of the
Holy Grail.” The village was, in truth, but a day’s
march away, from him, but he was not alone, and the
journey coul^ not be hastened. Beside him, his eyes
also upon the sunset and the village, was a man in a
costume half-trapper, half-Indian, with bushy gray
heard and massive frame, and a distant, sorrowful
look, like that of one whose soul was tuned to past
suffering. As he sat, his head sunk on hik breast, his
elbow resting on a stump of pine—the token of a
progressive civilization—his chin upon his hand, he
looked like the figure of Moses made immortal by
Michael Angelo. But his strength was not like that
of the young man beside him, who was thirty years
younger. When he walked, it was as one who had no
destination, who had no haven toward which tp travel,
who journeyed as one to whom the world is a wilder
ness, and one tent or one hut is the same as another,
and none Is home.
Like two ships meeting hull to hull on the wide seas,
where a few miles of water will hide them from each
other, whose ports are thousands of miles apart, whose
courses are not the same, they two had met, the elder
man, sick and worn, and near to death, in the poor
hospitality of an Indian’s tepee. John- Bickersteth had
nursed-him back to strength, ahd had brought him
southward with him, a silent companion who spoke In
monosyllables, who had no conversation at all of the
■*st, and little of the present; but who was a woods
man and an Arctic traveller cf the most expert kind,
who knew by instinct where the best places for shelter
?**d for sleeping might be found, who never com
bined, was wonderful with the dogs, of whom only
one was left of the original team
younger man had started.
What did Bickersteth know of him? Little or noth
ing. Bickersteth knew a little of the Chinook lan
guage, which is known to most Indian tribes, a kind
o! Volapilk the lingua franca of the north, and he had
learned that the Indians knew, nothing exact concern
ing the old man; but there were rumors which had
passed from tribe to tribe that this white man had
lived forever in the farthest north among the Arctic
woros were, out happiness and pity in him at once,
and talking as one talks to a child that cannot under
stand, "you shall never want while I have a penny or
have head or hands to world But is there no one
that you care for or that cares for you? That you
remember, or that remembers you?"
The old man shook his head though not with under
standing, for he appeared rapt in reverie as he lodked
out on the green valley, the sweet verdure far away,
and the shining skies. But he laid a hand on the
Help look afetf you, too. Neithet* of us would Have
been here without the other, dear old man, and we
shall not be separated. Whoever vou are, you are a
gentleman, and you might have been my father or
hers—or hers I”
He stopped suddenly. A thought had flashed through
his mind, a thought which stunned him, which passed
like some powerful current through his veins, shocked
him, then gave him a palpitating life. It was a wild
thought, but yet why not—why not? There was the
chance, the faint, far-off chance. He caught the old
man by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes,
scanned his features, pushed back the hsir from the
rugged forehead.
‘ Dear old man," he said, his voice shaking, "do you
know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that you may
be of those who went out to the Arctic Sea with Sir
John Franklin—-with Sir John Franklin, you under
stand. Did you know Sir John Franklin—is it true,
dear old boy, is it true? Are you one that has lived
to tell the tale? Did you know. Sir John Franklin—
is it true—oh, is It true?"
He let go the old man’s shoulders, for over the face
of the other there had passed a change—it was strained
rv x , TytiTflEMlm—? v- g /■'MlUFMIffflBVVlH * n d ten,e » the* hands were outstretched, the eyes now
*1 - {fif®'•‘j'vfljifcL I XwWwMw'ltSrjll Staring straight Into the west and the coming night.
!%..• » \ \ Mflfear VS&Sr . ^71 m miWwlM "Dear God I It Is—it is—that's it I" cried Bicker-
steth. “Thst’s it—oh, love of Christ, that’s it I Sir
John Franklin—Sir John Franklin, and all the brave
lads that died up there—you remember the ship—the
Arctic Sea—the ice-fields, and Franklin—you remember
him l Dear old man, say you remember Franklin 1"
The thing had seized him. Conviction was upon him,
and he watched the other's anguished face with anguish
and excitement in his own. "But—but it might be—it
might be her father—the eyes, the eyes, the forehead
are like hers, the hands, the long hands, the pointed
fingers, the eyes—if it should be so f if I am not mad,
and It is only so—Dear old man, did you have a wife
and child, and were they both called Alice—do you
remember? Alice, and they both had faces like angels I
Franklin—Alice I Do you remember?"
The old man got slowly to* his feet, his arms out
stretched, the look in his face changing, understanding
struggling for its place, memory fighting for its own,
the soul contending for its mastery.
"Franklin—Alice—the snow," he said, confusedly,
and sank down.
"God have mercy I" cried Bickersteth, as he caught
the swayiug body and laid it upon the ground. "He
was there—almost." •
He settled the old man against the great pine stump
,and chafed his hands. “Man, dear man, if you belong
to her, if you do, can’t you sec what it will mean to
me-i-she can’t say no to me then. But If It’s true,
you'll belong to England and to all the world, too, ana
you’ll have fame everlasting. I’ll have gold for her
and for you, and for your Alice, too, dear old man.
Wake up now, you’re coming home, and remember—
you must remember everything, or it will be so awful
—if you are Dyke Alllngham who went with Franklin
to the silent seas of the Pole. If it’s you, really you,
what wonder you lost your memory I You saw things
that no other man has seen—saw them all die but you,
Franklin and all, die there In the snow, with afl the
white world round them. If you were there, dear old
man, what a travel you have had, what strange things
I ou have seen I Where the world Is loneliest—there.
suppose, God is most, and you got near the heart of
it all. If you did, if you have seen things closer than
the rest of us, it's no marvel you forgot what you
were, or where you came from, because It didn’t mutter
—you knew that you were only one of thousands of
millions who have come and gone that make up the
soul of things, that make the pulses of the universe ‘
beat. That's it, dear old traveller, the universe would
die if it weren't for the souls that leave this world and
fill it with life. Wake up I Wake up, Allingiiam. and
tell us where you’ve been and what you've seen."
He did not labor in vain. Slowly consciousness
came r back, and the gray eyes opened wide, the lips
smiled faintly under the bushy beard, but Bickersteth
saw that the look in the face was much the same as
it had keen before. The struggle had bfen too great,
the fight for the other lost self had exhaustea him
mind and body, and only a deep obliquity and a great
weariness filled the countenance. He had come back
to the verge, he had almost again discovered himself,
but the door which was opening had shut fast again
suddenly, and he was back again in the night, the in-
companionable night of forgetfulness.
Bkkeriteth saw that the travail and strife had
drained life and energy, and that he must not press the
mind and vitality pf this exile of time and the unknown
too far. He felt that when the next test came the old
man would either break completely, and 6ink down
into another and everlasting forgetfulness, or tear
away forever the veil between himself and his past,
and emerge into a long-lost life. He must shepherd
his strength and keep him quiet and undisturbed until
Esquimaux, and the least-known tribes, and that he young man’s shoulder, and whispered: * they came to the town yonder in the valley over which
passed from people to people, disappearing into the un- "Once it Was always snow, but now, it Is green, tffe the night was slowly settling down, and where two
tenanted wilderness, but reappearing again among land. I have seen it—I have seen it once." Iiis shaggy women waited. The two Alices, from both of whom had
stranger tribes, never resting; but as one always seeking
what he could not find.
One thing had helped the man In all his travels and
sojourning. He had, as it seemed to the native peo
ple, a gift of the hands, for when they were sick, a
few moments’ manipulation of his huge, quiet fingers
and pain vanished. A few herbs he gave in tincture,
and these alio were praised; but it was a legend that
when he was persuaded to lay on his hands, and close
his eyes, and with his fingers to "search for the pain -
and find it, and kill it," he always prevailed. These
lonely aborigines had the belief, as the Egyptians have,
that though his body was on earth his soul was with
Manitou, ana that it was his soul which came fntc
him again, and gave # the Great Spirit’s healing to the
fingers. *
It was only visible things, or sounds, that appeared
to open the door* of memory of the most recent
happenings. Happenings if not varied were of the
most critical moment, since, passing down from the
land of unchanging ice and snow, they had come into
March and April storms, and the perils of the rapids
and the swollen floods of May. Now, in June, two
years and a month since Bickersteih had gone into the
wilds, they looked down upon the goal of one at least
—of the younger man who had triumphed in his quest
up-in these wilds abandoned four centuries ago, and
whose face now was shining in what was to him—he
had said it so often to himself—the light of home; of
love and home.
With this Joyoai thooght In Mi heart, thit he hid
tucceeded, that he hid ditcovered anew one.of the
greatest gold-fields of the world, and that t journey
unparalleled had been accomplished, and all that was
dear.it to h!> life wai beneath hl» e/ea, he turned
toward his ancient companion and a great feeling of
pity and human lore enlarged within him. He, John
Bickersteth, was going into t world again, where his . , . .
fate, at he believed a happy fate, awaited him; but eyebrow, gathered over, hit ejrtl tearehed, learched
what of Util old man? He had brought him out of U>e face of John Bickeriteth. 'Once, 10 loo* ago-l
the wildi, out of the unknown—w,i he only taking cannot think, he added helpleaaly.
Mm into the unknown again? Were there friendi, any “Dear old man" Blckerit«h laid, gently, knowing
friendi anywhere in the world awaiting him? He he would not wholly comprehend, ' I am going to ask
called bimielf by no name, he laid he had no name, her—Allco-to marry me, and if ihe doca, aha wtU
COPYRIGHT ntt
mhi
\ i ..-'
Til* OLD MAH SHOOK HIS HEAD, THOUGH HOT WITH UNDERSTANDING, FOX nE APPEARED RAPT IN REVERIE AS HE
LOOKED OUT ON THE GREEN VALLEY
the man loved her { while her mother had had for t few
unequalled happiness and love and comradeship,
years since Bickersteth had gone, and not a sign I
Yet, if she had looked out from ner bedroom window,
which faced the north this Friday night after practice
of the choir, she would have seen on the far hill a
sign; for there burned a fire beside whieh sat two
travellers who had come from the uttermost limits of
snow. But as the fire burned, a beacon to her heart
if she had but known it, she went to her rest, the words
of a song she had sung with tears in her voice and in
her heart ringing in her ears. There was to be a con
cert after the service on the coming, Sunday night at
which there wss to be a collection for funds to build
another mission-house a hundred miles farther north
and she had practised songs she was to sing. Her
mother had been an amateur singer of great power,
trained under the best masters, and she was renewing
her mother’s gift in a voice behind which lay a hidden
sorrow, as above her smiling there was a shadow in
the eyes that would not away. This night as she crifed
to sleep the words of the song which had moved her
kept ringing in her ears, and echoing in her hearts
But her mother, looking out into the night, aaw on
the hill the fire, burning like a star, where she had
never eeen a tire set before, and a hope shot Into her
heart for her daughter, a hone that had flamed up and
died down so often during the past year. Yet she had
fanned w her life-breath every such glimmer of hopo
when it came, and now she went to her rest saying,
"Perhaps he will come to-morrow." In her ears, too,
rang the words of the song which had ravished her
ears that night, the song she had sung the night before
her husband. Dyke Allingham, had gone with Franklin
to the Polar seas—
"When the swallows homeward fly—"
Next morning, as she and her daughter looked out
over the valley toward the north, words flashed into
her mind which she had not thought fit for many a
year; since, indeed, her own mother had passed away, .
with them on her lips: "Mine eyes look toward the
hills from whence cometh my helps' She was happier
all that day, and the next, she knew not, or thought
not, why.
As she and her daughter entered the little church on
this Sunday evening, two men came slowly toward
the town with a solitary dog, and both raised their
heads to the sound of the church bell calling to prayer.
In the eyes of the younger man there was a look which
has come to many in this world returning from hard
enterprise and great dangers, to the familiar streets,
the friendly faces of men of their kin and clan, to the
lights of home.
An hour later the two walked slowly toward the
church from the little tavern where they had put their
things. They were cleared of the dust of travel, and
Bickersteth, who knew that the two whom he most
wanted to see on earth would be at evening service,
drew the old man thither. The service was over, but
the concert had begun. The church was full, and
there were people in the porch, but these made way for
the two strange figures, and, as Bickersteth was recog
nized by two or three men, place was found for them
inside. The old man stared round him in a confused
ami troubled way, but his motions were quiet and
patient, and he looked like some old viking, bis work-
a-day life done, come to pray ere he went hence. They
had entered In a pause in the concert, but now two
ladies came forward to the chancel step, and one with
her hands clasped before her, began to sing—
"When the swallows homeward fly,
And the roses' bloom Is o’er,
And the nightingale’s sweet song
In the woods is heard po more—"
It was Alico—Alice the daughter—and presently the
mother, the other Alice, joined in the refrain. At
Bight of them Bickersteth’s eyes had filled, not with
tears, but with a cloud of feeling, so that he went
blind. There she was, the girl he loved. .Her voice
was ringing In his ears. In hii own joy for one in
stant he had forgotten the old man beside him, and
the great test that was now upon him. He turned
quickly as the old man got to nis feet. For an in-
.slant. the 1<*st exile »»f the north stood as though trans
fixed. Tile blood slowly drained from his face, and
in his eyes was an agony of struggle and desire. For
a moment an awful confusion had the mastery, and
then «uddrnly a dear light hr.ike into his ryes, his
face flushed healthily and shone, his arm went up, and
there rang in his cars tho words:
’Then I think with bitter pain,
Shall we ever meet again ?
When the swallows homeward fly"-*
"Alice—Alice,” he called. "0 my God I" He tottered
forward up the aisle, followed by John Bickersteth.
gone two lovers Into the north, who hid not returned;
the daughter living over again in her yctang love the
pangs of suspense through which her mother had
passed, yet who bad never told her love, who had
never had more than the assurance of a fond look tad
a last hand-clasp, and broken words of farewell, that
-A... L.
*AHee, I fiave comrfJockPtfi cited again. "Alloa
my wife.” a
One that had died with Franklin had returned to life *
and all that makes life good, and one other had re- ;
turned also, and at the cnanca steps he knew his fate j
and his happiness. «
Next Week:
Terry Connolly’s Wife
By Seumas MacManus