[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
stars above him, filling a gray-blue vault in which there was not even the lingering mist of a cloud. It was a
beautifully clear night, and he wondered how the light fell so that it did not reveal Jeanne in her nest. The
thought that came to him then set his heart tingling and made his face radiant. Even the stars were guarding
Jeanne, and refused to disclose the mystery of her slumber. He laughed within himself. His being throbbed,
and suddenly a voice seemed to cry softly, trembling in its joy:
"Jeanne! Jeanne! My beloved Jeanne!"
With horror Philip caught himself too late. He had spoken the words aloud. For an instant reality had
transformed itself into the old dream, and his dream-spirit had called to its mate for the first time in words.
Appalled at what he had said, Philip bent over and listened. He heard Jeanne's breathing. It was deeper than
before. She was surely asleep!
Flower of the North 48/115
Flower of the North
He straightened himself and resumed his paddling. He was glad now that he had spoken. Jeanne seemed
nearer to him after those words.
Before this night he never realized how beautiful the wilderness was, how complete it could be. It had offered
him visions of new life, but these visions had never quite shut out the memories of old pain. He watched and
listened. The water rippled behind his canoe; it trickled in a soothing cadence after each dip of his paddle; he
heard the gentle murmur of it among the reeds and grasses, and now and then the gurgling laughter of it, like
the faintest tinkling of dainty bells. He had never understood it before; he had never joined in its happiness.
The night sounds came to him with a different meaning, filled him with different sensations. As he slipped
quietly around a bend in the river he heard a splashing ahead of him, and knew that a moose was feeding,
belly-deep, in the water. At other times the sound would have set his fingers itching for a rifle, but now it was
a part of the music of the night. Later he heard the crashing of a heavy body along the shore and in the
distance the lonely howl of a wolf. He listened to the sounds with a quiet pleasure instead of creeping thrills
which they once sent through him. Every sound spoke of Jeanne--of Jeanne and her world, into which each
stroke of his paddle carried them a little deeper.
And yet the truth could not but come to him that Jeanne was but a stranger. She was a creature of mystery, as
she lay there asleep in the bow of the canoe; he loved her, and yet he did not know her. He confessed to
himself, as the night lengthened, that he would be glad when morning came. Jeanne would clear up a half of
his perplexities then, perhaps all of them. He would at least learn more about herself and the reason for the
attack at Fort Churchill.
He paddled for another hour, and then looked at his watch by the light of a match. It was three o'clock.
Jeanne had not moved, but as the match burned out between his fingers she startled him by speaking.
"Is it nearly morning, M'sieur?"
"An hour until dawn," said Philip. "You have been sleeping a long time--" Her name was on his lips, but he
found it a little more difficult to speak now. And yet there was a gentleness in Jeanne's "M'SIEUR" which
encouraged him. "Are you getting hungry?" he asked.
"Pierre and my father always ask me that when THEY are starving," replied Jeanne, sitting erect in her nest so
that Philip saw her face and the shimmer of her hair. "There is everything to eat in the pack, M'sieur Philip,
even to a bottle of olives."
"Good!" cried Philip, delighted, "But won't you please cut out that 'm'sieur?' My greatest weakness is a desire
to be called by my first name. Will you?"
"If it pleases you," said Jeanne. "There is everything there to eat, and I will make you a cup of coffee,
M'sieur--"
"What?"
"Philip."
There was a ripple of laughter in the girl's voice. Philip fairly trembled.
"You were prepared for this journey," he said. "You were going to leave after you saw me on the rock. I have
been wondering why--why you took enough interest in me--"
Flower of the North 49/115
Flower of the North
He knew that he was blundering, and in the darkness his face turned red. Jeanne's tact was delightful.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]