That night a stalwart figure passed from David Humphrey’s door, carrying with him the warm atmosphere of a good woman’s love. The chilly outer air of the world seemed not to touch him, Love’s curtains were drawn so close. Had one stood within “the Hunter’s Room,” as it was called, a little while before, one would have seen a man’s head bowed before a woman, and her hand smoothing back the hair from the handsome brow where dissipation had drawn some deep lines. Presently the hand raised the head until the eyes of the woman looked full into the eyes of the man.
“You will not go to Pardon’s Drive again, will you, Aleck?”
“Never again after Christmas Day, Mab. But I must go to-morrow. I have given my word.”
“I know. To meet Pretty Pierre and all the rest, and for what? Oh, Aleck, isn’t the suspicion about your father enough, but you must put this on me as well?”
“My father must suffer for his wrong-doing if he does wrong, and I for mine.”
There was a moment’s silence. He bowed his head again.
“And I have done wrong to us both. Forgive me, Mab.”
She leaned over and caressed his hair. “I forgive you, Aleck.”
A thousand new thoughts were thrilling through him. Yet this man had given his word to do that for which he must ask forgiveness of the woman he loved. But to Pretty Pierre, forgiven or unforgiven, he would keep his word. She understood it better than most of those who read this brief record can. Every sphere has its code of honour and duty peculiar to itself.
“You will come to me on Christmas morning, Aleck?”
“I will come on Christmas morning.”
“And no more after that of Pretty Pierre?”
“And no more of Pretty Pierre.”
She trusted him; but neither could reckon with unknown forces.
Sergeant Fones, sitting in the barracks in talk with Private Gellatly, said at that moment in a swift silence, “Exactly.”
Pretty Pierre, at Pardon’s Drive, drinking a glass of brandy at that moment, said to the ceiling:
“No more of Pretty Pierre after to-morrow night, monsieur! Bien! If it is for the last time, then it is for the last time. So … so.”
He smiled. His teeth were amazingly white.
The stalwart figure strode on under the stars, the white night a lens for visions of days of rejoicing to come. All evil was far from him. The dolorous tide rolled back in this hour from his life, and he revelled in the light of a new day.
“When I’ve played my last card to-morrow night with Pretty Pierre, I’ll begin the world again,” he whispered.
And Sergeant Fones in the barracks said just then, in response to a further remark of Private Gellatly—“Exactly.”
Young Aleck fell to singing:
“Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,
Father, mother, and child;
Come, my love, to our home,
Father, mother, and child,
Father, mother, and—”
He fell to thinking again—“and child—and child,”—it was in his ears and in his heart.
But Pretty Pierre was singing softly to himself in the room at Pardon’s Drive:
“Three good friends with the wine at night
Vive la compagnie!
Two good friends when the sun grows bright
Vive la compagnie!
Vive la, vive la, vive l’amour!
Vive la, vive la, vive l’amour!
Three good friends, two good friends
Vive la compagnie!”
What did it mean?
Private Gellatly was cousin to Idaho Jack, and Idaho Jack disliked Pretty Pierre, though he had been one of the gang. The cousins had seen each other lately, and Private Gellatly had had a talk with the man who was ha’sh. It may be that others besides Pierre had an idea of what it meant.
In the house at Pardon’s Drive the next night sat eight men, of whom three were Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Idaho Jack. Young Aleck’s face was flushed with bad liquor and the worse excitement of play. This was one of the unreckoned forces. Was this the man that sang the tender song under the stars last night? Pretty Pierre’s face was less pretty than usual; the cheeks were pallid, the eyes were hard and cold. Once he looked at his partner as if to say, “Not yet.” Idaho Jack saw the look; he glanced at his watch; it was eleven o’clock. At that moment the door opened, and Sergeant Fones entered. All started to their feet, most with curses on their lips; but Sergeant Fones never seemed to hear anything that could make a feature of his face alter. Pierre’s hand was on his hip, as if feeling for something. Sergeant Fones saw that; but he walked to where Aleck stood, with his unplayed cards still in his hand, and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said, “Come with me.”
“Why should I go with you?”—this with a drunken man’s bravado.
“You are my prisoner.”
Pierre stepped forward. “What is his crime?” he exclaimed.
“How does that concern you, Pretty Pierre?”
“He is my friend.”
“Is he your friend, Aleck?”
What was there in the eyes of Sergeant Fones that forced the reply—“To-night, yes; to-morrow, no.”
“Exactly. It is near to-morrow; come.”
Aleck was led towards the door. Once more Pierre’s hand went to his hip; but he was looking at the prisoner, not at the Sergeant. The Sergeant saw, and his fingers were at his belt. He opened the door. Aleck passed out. He followed. Two horses were tied to a post. With difficulty Aleck was mounted. Once on the way his brain began slowly to clear, but he grew painfully cold. It was a bitter night. How bitter it might have been for the ne’er-do-weel let the words of Idaho Jack, spoken in a long hour’s talk next day with Old Brown Windsor, show. “Pretty Pierre, after the two were gone, said, with a shiver of curses—‘Another hour and it would have been done, and no one to blame. He was ready for trouble. His money was nearly finished. A little quarrel easily made, the door would open, and he would pass out. His horse would be gone, he could not come back; he would walk. The air is cold, quite, quite cold; and the snow is a soft bed. He would sleep well and sound, having seen Pretty Pierre for the last time. And now—’ The rest was French and furtive.”
From that hour Idaho Jack and Pretty Pierre parted company.
Riding from Pardon’s Drive, Young Aleck noticed at last that they were not going towards the barracks. He said: “Why do you arrest me?”
The Sergeant replied: “You will know that soon enough. You are now going to your own home. Tomorrow you will keep your word and go to David Humphrey’s place; the next day I will come for you. Which do you choose: to ride with me to-night to the barracks and know why you are arrested, or go, unknowing, as I bid you, and keep your word with the girl?”
Through Aleck’s fevered brain, there ran the words of the song he sang before—
“Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,
Father, mother, and child.”
He