Chapter 4

But the horse misunderstood the deacon's calls, as he had his pressure on the reins, for the crowd on either side were now yelling, and hooting, and swinging their caps, so that the deacon's voice came indistinctly to his ears at the best, and he interpreted his calls for him to stop as only so many encouragements and signals for him to go ahead; and so, with the memory of a hundred races stirring his blood, the crowd cheering him to the echo, the steadying pull and encouraging cries of his driver in his ears, and his only rival, the pacer, whirling along only a few rods ahead of him, the monstrous animal, with a desperate plunge that half lifted the old sleigh from the snow, let out another link, and, with such a burst of speed as was never seen in the village before, tore along after the pacer at such a terrific pace that, within the distance of a dozen lengths, he lay lapped upon him, and the two were going it nose and nose.

What is that feeling in human hearts which makes us sympathetic with man or animal who has unexpectedly developed courage and capacity when engaged in a struggle in which the odds are against him? And why do we enter so spiritedly into the contest, and lose ourselves in the excitement of the moment? Is it pride? Is it the comradeship of courage? Or is it the rising of the indomitable in us, that loves nothing so much as victory, and hates nothing so much as defeat? Be that as it may, no sooner was old Jack fairly lapped on the pacer, whose driver was urging him along with reins and voice alike, and the contest seemed doubtful, than the spirit of old Adam himself entered into the deacon and the parson both, so that, carried away by the excitement of the race, they fairly forgot themselves, and entered as wildly into the contest as two ungodly jockeys.

"Deacon Tubman!" said the parson, as he clutched the rim of his tall hat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow chips were pelting in showers, more stoutly, "Deacon Tubman! do you think the pacer will beat us?"

"Not if I can help it! not if I can help it!" yelled the deacon in reply, as, with something like a reinsman's skill, he instinctively lifted Jack to another spurt. "Go it, old boy!" he shouted encouragingly. "Go along with you, I say!" and the parson, also carried away by the whirl of the moment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go along with you, I say!"

This was the very thing, and the only thing, that huge horse, whose blood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort; and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, he gathered himself together for another burst of speed, and put forth his collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of movement that the little deacon, who had risen, and was standing erect in the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the great horse rushed over the line a winner by a clear length, amid such cheers and roars of laughter as were never heard in that village before.

Nor was the horse any more the object of public interest and remark--we may say favoring remark--than the parson, who suddenly found himself the centre of a crowd of his own parishioners, many of whom would scarcely be expected as participants of such a scene, but who, thawed out of their iciness by the genial temper of the day, and vastly excited over Jack's contest, thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as any jolly sinner in the crowd.

So everybody shook hands with the parson and wished him a Happy New Year, and the parson shook hands with everybody and wished them all many happy returns; and everybody praised old Jack, and rallied the deacon on his driving; and then everybody went home good-natured and happy, laughing and talking about the wonderful race, and the change that had come over Parson Whitney.

And as for Parson Whitney himself, the day and its fun had taken twenty years from his age, and nothing would answer but the deacon must go home and eat the New Year's pudding at the parsonage; and he did. And at the table they laughed and talked over the funny incidents of the day, and joked each other as merrily as two boys. Then Parson Whitney told some reminiscences of his college days, and the scrapes he got into, and a riot between town and gown, when he carried the "Bully's Club;" and the deacon responded by narrating his experiences with a certain Deacon Jones's watermelon patch when he was a boy, and over their tales and their mulled cider they laughed till they cried, and roared so lustily at the remembered frolics of their youthful days that the old parsonage rang, the books on the library shelves rattled, and several of the theological volumes actually gaped with horror.

But at last the stories were all told, the jokes all cracked, and the laughter all laughed, and the little deacon wished the parson good-by, and jogged happily homeward; but more than once he laughed to himself, and said, "Bless my soul! I didn't know the parson had so much fun in him." And long the parson sat by the glowing grate after the deacon had left him, musing of other days, and the happy, pleasant things that were in them; and many times he smiled, and once he laughed outright at some remembered folly, for he said, "What a wild boy I was, and yet I meant no wrong; and the dear old days were very happy."

Ay, ay! Parson Whitney, the dear old days were very happy, not only to thee, but to all of us, who, following our sun, have fared westward so long that the light of the morning shows dull through the dim haze of memory. But happier than even the old days will be the young ones, I ween, when, following still westward, we suddenly come to the gates of the new east and the morning once more; and there, in the dawn of a day which is cloudless and endless, we find our lost youth and its loves, to lose them and it no more forever, thank God!

THE LEAF OF RED ROSE.

THE LEAF OF RED ROSE:

THE OLD TRAPPER'S STORY.

A story? Why, yes. If Henry, there, will translate it And put it in verse and print as he promised To do when it happened. Will he do it? I doubt. He dislikes to dabble with rhyme and with measure. Says that good honest prose is the best and the sweetest If the words be well chosen, short, Saxon, and pithy. And that making of verse is the business of women, Of green boys at school, and of lovers when spooning. But try him. It may be he will. For a lesson Is in it, and that makes it worth telling. The woods have their secrets and sorrows and struggles As well as the cities. You can find in the woods Many things, if you look, beside trees, rocks, and mountains.

Jack Whitcomb he said his name was, though I doubted. For the name on his bosom, tattooed in purple, Didn't point quite that way. But that doesn't matter. One name in the woods is as good as another If a man answers to it and it's easily spoken. So we called him Jack Whitcomb and asked nothing further. Brave? Why, of course he was brave. Men are not cowards. Cowards don't come to the woods. They stay in the cities, Where policemen are thick and the streets are all lighted. In the woods men trail with their ears and eyes open, And sleep when they sleep with their hands on their rifles. Why? Well, panthers are plenty and cunning and quiet, And a man is a fool that goes carelessly stumbling Under trees where they crouch, under crags where they gather. Furthermore, with the saints, now and then there are sinners That live in the woods; and some half-breeds are wicked, And know nothing of law unless taught by a bullet. I've done what I could to teach knaves the commandments. Yes. Jack Whitcomb was brave. Brave as the bravest. His glance was as keen and his mouth was as silent As a trailer's should be who looks and who listens By day and by night, having no one to talk to. His finger was quick when it handled the trigger, And his eye loved the sights as lightning loves rivers. I've seen him stand up when the odds were against him. Stand up like a man who takes coolly the chances. That proves he was brave as I understand it.

One day we were boating on far Mistassinni. We were fetching the portage above the great rapids, Where they whirled, roaring down, freshet full, at their whitest, When we saw from a rock that stretched outward and over The wild hissing water as it swept on in thunder, A canoe coming down, rolling over and over, With a little papoose clinging tight to the lashings; And as it lanced by Jack went in like an otter. How he did it God knows, but at the foot of the rapids, Half a mile farther down racing onward, I found him High and dry on the beach in a faint like a woman, With the little papoose pulling away at his jacket. And when he came to, he put child to his shoulder, Nor stopped till it lay in the arms of its mother.

We were trailing, Henry and I, trailing and trapping In the land to the north, where fur was the thickest, And knaves were as plenty as mink or as otter. We took turns at sleeping, and trailed our line double To keep our own skins, if we didn't get others. It was folly to stay where we were, and we knew it, For the knaves they got thicker, and soon there was shooting Going on pretty lively. But we held to the business And scouted the line once a week like true trappers. And no accident happened save some holes in our jackets, And my powder-horn emptied by a vagabond's bullet. So we mended our clothing and felt pretty lively. But the signs pointed one way. Our enemies thickened Around us each day, and we weren't quite decided To stand in for a fight and settle the matter, Or pull up our traps and get out of the country, When it settled itself. And in this way it happened.

We were scouting the lake on the west shore one morning, To find the knaves' camp and how many were in it, When a short space ahead there came of a sudden A crash as of thunder, and we knew that a dozen Or twenty placed rifles had burst an ambushment. And then in an instant there sounded another. Two sharp, twin reports and the death yells that followed Told us as we listened where the lead had been driven. Knew who he was? Of course. The man was Jack Whitcomb. Do you think men who live by trapping and shooting Don't learn to distinguish the voice of their rifles? Jack was trailing the lake to find our encampment, For far away in the south there had come to his cabin A rumor that we in the north land were holding Our line and our furs with a good deal of shooting. So he left his own traps and came by swift trailing To give us the help of another good rifle. That was just like Jack Whitcomb. If you were in trouble He was there by your side. You could always count on him, With finger on trigger and both barrels loaded.

So Henry and I both took to our covers Right and left of the trail Jack must take in retreating. We didn't wait long, for the boy knew his business, And soon he came backward, loading and running, Like a man who was busy but wouldn't be hurried Beyond his own gait, if he stopped there forever. As he passed our two covers I piped him a whistle; And he stopped in his tracks, and with low, pleasant laughter, Stood there in full view coolly capping the nipples. I have shot on each Gulf, both Southern and Northern. I have trailed the long trail between either ocean. Brave men I have seen, both in good and in evil, But never a braver than the man called Jack Whitcomb. Well, why describe it? Call it scrimmage or battle, It was done in a minute, or it may be a dozen. It came like a whirlwind, and we three were in it As men are in whirlwinds. It came like the thunder, With a crash and a roar and a long running rumble Dying down into silence. There were dead and some wounded, And a few lucky knaves that fled wildly backward; And Henry and I, when it passed, were left standing By the body of him whose name was Jack Whitcomb, Who lay as he fell, when headlong he tumbled, His rifle still clinched and both barrels smoking. I have seen in my life many wounds made by bullets, And a good many gashes by spear-points and arrows. I have learned in my trailing a good many simples Which have power to keep men from crossing the river Before the Lord calls with voice that is certain. And the wound that we found on Jack Whitcomb's body, Though ugly and deep, was not beyond curing.

We cleansed and we stanched it and fought a brave battle With death, for his life, and we won. For Jack mended. We made a canoe and we bore him far southward. A hundred good miles down the river we boated, Till we came to his house of huge logs, strongly builded, Beneath the big pines on the bank of a rapid, Which under it flowed its soft rush of brown water. 'Twas a place to bring peace to a heart that was troubled, If peace might be found this side of the silence Which brings peace to all that know sorrow in living.

Yes, we boated him down to his home by the rapids. His home? No, rather his house let us call it. For how can a house be a home with naught in it? In house that is home must be love, warm and human, A voice that is sweet, a heart that is gentle, A soul that is true, and beside these a cradle That prattles and coos; and the quick-falling patter Of little white feet that run hither and thither. To his house, and not to his home, then, we brought him, For certainly nothing and no one was in it, Save himself and a dog, a bed and a table, Some chairs, a few books, and a--Picture. And this was the story that he told us in dying. The man might have lived, beyond doubt, had he cared to. But he didn't. No motive, he said. And he had none, As we felt later on, when he told us his story. So he died without word or sign. And in silence We stood and saw him go forth on his journey Without speaking a word, without a hand lifted To hold or to stop him, for we did not feel certain What was wisdom for one who went forth in such fashion. Perhaps it was best he should go and be over With pain, loss and trouble for ever and ever. Henry says, it were well we should all of us go When life has no aim and no hope; and no doing Remains to be done; and days are but eating And drinking and breathing, only these and no more.

But before he went forth he gave me a message. "I loved her," so his story began. Henry, You remember the look on his face as he said it, As he lay with his eyes fixed fast on the Picture? "She was strong, and she drew me as life draws the young And as death draws the old. I could not resist her. She was vital with force, to attract and to hold. She raced me a race for my life, and she won it. I was man, not a boy, and I loved as man loves When the forces of life are in him full-flooded As rivers in meadows, when they flow to the sedges. Did she love me? Perhaps. Who can tell? She was woman, And hence she was dark as the night, and as hidden! Who could find her? Who the depth of her nature Might measure? I tried but could not. Then boldly I spake--spake as man speaks but once unto woman. True and straight did I say it man fashion. But she drew back offended; she shrank from my praying, And with coldness of tone and suspicion dismissed me. Had a man shown a tithe of that look in his eye, On his face, he or I would have died on the instant. But what can a man do, when scorned by a woman? So I left her.

I need not say more. My life it was ended. It wasn't worth living;--I am made in that fashion. So I came to the woods. Where else when in trouble Can man go and find what he needs, consolation? Go you down to her house, in the city, John Norton, To the house where she lives, and give her this message. Word for word let her hear it,--say where you left me. There's gold in that box to pay your expenses. Word for word as I tell you, nor say a word further." Then he bade us good-by, and marched away bravely, As a man on a trail that is somewhat uncertain. And under the pines on the bank of the rapids We buried the man whom the woods called--Jack Whitcomb, And the picture he loved we placed on his bosom.

* * * * *

I went down to her house in the city. A cabin Of stone, brown as tamarack bark, trimmed with olive. It was high as a pine that stands on a mountain. The door was as wide as the mouth of a cavern. At the door stood a man rigged up like a soldier; His face was as solemn as judgment to sinners; He looked at me some, and I looked him all over, Then he suddenly bowed like a half-breed with manners, And told me to enter, and he would call Madame. The room was as large as a town house where settlers Hold meetings to vote themselves office and wages. The walls were like caves in far Arizona. All covered with pictures of houses and battles; Of ships blown onward by gales in mid-ocean; Of children with wings, pretty queer-looking creatures; Of men and of women, and some were half-naked. But the floor was of oak, which gleamed like a polish; And with mats thick as moss, and with skins it was covered, So I felt quite at home, as there I stood looking, And noting the size and signs of the cabin.

Then, all of a sudden, there came a soft rustle, Like the rustle of leaves when the wind blows in autumn. And down the wide stairway across the great hall, To the door of the room in which I was standing, Stately and swift, came a woman and entered. Tall as the tallest. Made firmly, knit firmly Both in form and in limb, but full and well rounded; Dark of eye, dark of face, with hair like a raven, Like the girls of Nevada, where live the old races, Whose blood is as fire, and whose skin is of olive, Whose mouths are as sweet as a fig when it ripens. Arms bare to the shoulders. Neck and bosom uncovered. Her gown of white satin gleamed and flowed downward And round her in folds of soft, creamy whiteness. No ring on her hand, nor in ear. Not a circle Of gold round her throat. One armlet of silver, And one at her wrist loosely clasped, small and slender. So she entered and stood, and looked me all over.

Then slowly she spake. "Your name, sir, and business?" "Madame," I said, "in the woods men call me John Norton; John Norton, the Trapper." Then I stopped mighty sudden, For her face it grew white to the lips and the chin, And she swayed as a tree to the stroke of the chopper When he sinks his axe in to the heart and it totters And quivers. So I stopped, stopped quick and stood looking.

Then her dark face it lighted, and she said, speaking quickly: "John Norton, I know you. I know you are honest. You live in the woods. You are good. I can trust you. All men, I have heard, come to you in their trouble. Have you seen in the North, have you met in the woods, Has there come to your cabin a man, tall as you, Brave as you and as tender? A man like to this?" And out of her gown, from the folds on her bosom, She lifted a locket of pearl-colored velvet, Touched a spring, and I saw, as the lid of it opened, The face of the man I and Henry had buried!

"John Norton," she cried, and her eyes burned like fever. Her hand shook and trembled, her face was as marble, "Have you seen in the woods man like to this picture? Speak quick and speak true as to woman in trouble. For I did him great wrong, I thought he held lightly My fair name and fame; held lightly my honor. I thought he meant evil, and my heart, filled with anger, Dismissed him in scorn; but I learned, I learned later, He was true, and spake truth and loved me as heaven."

Then I stood and I looked and held my face steady, So it gave her no sign of what I was thinking. I saw she was honest, and I wished then to spare her, But my word it was pledged, pledged to him in dying, To stand as I stood, face to face with this woman, In her house, in that room, and give her his message. Beside, not to know is far worse than the knowing At times. So I rallied and told her the message, Word for word, as he charged, the night he lay dying In his house on the bank above the swift rapids.

"Madame," I said, "I have seen man like that picture, Face and form. He was brave as you say. He was tender. He was true unto death, and he loved you as heaven. And these are the words that he sent you in dying. I, a man of the woods, bring you this as last message, From one who now sleeps on the bank of the rapids Of that northern river which pours its brown water To the Lake of St. John from far Mistassinni. 'Tell her, John Norton, I loved her. Loved her in living, With a love that was true, and with same love in dying. Loved her like a man, like a saint, like a sinner, For time now and time ever. That the one picture She gave me I kept;--living, dying, and after. That it lies on the breast of the man that you buried; On the breast of the man who living did love her, And that there it will lie until it shall crumble, With heart underneath it, to dust. So tell her. And in proof that I tell her the truth, and did tell it The night when we met, and I told her I loved her, Give her this, the watch that I wore on the evening We met, and the evening we parted. Let her open And see. With her eyes let her see that I loved her. So say and no more."

Thus I spake. Word for word as he told me I spake. I gave her the watch, and I said no word further. I had done as I pledged, I had said as he charged me, So I stopped and stood waiting for word of dismissal. But she said not a word, nor made she a sign. The watch she took from me, touched the spring and it opened, And there, 'twixt the glass and the gold, withered and faded, Lay a leaf of Red Rose. One leaf, and--no more.

For a moment she stood; stood, and gazed at the leaf, Her face grew as white as her gown, and she trembled And shook like a white swan in dying, then she cried, "My God, I have killed him, my lover!" And down on the floor, on the skins at her feet She dropped as one stricken by bullet or lightning.

It was only last month that we two, in trailing, Trailed a hundred good miles across to the rapids. For we wanted to see before going northward If evil had come to the grave of our comrade. But the grave lay untouched, by beast or by human. The grass on the mound was well rooted and growthful. At the foot of the grave the rose-tree I planted Was as high as my head. And the leaves of the roses Lay as thick as red snow-flakes on the mound that was under. And we knew that on breast, as he slept, was her picture. So we felt, as we gazed, it was well with Jack Whitcomb.