No More Learning

What hangs not there of fairy carriages
And fairy steeds so marvelously feigned
In gold that every charger seems alive?
Let thy right hand be pressed against thy side
Beneath thy waistcoat, and the other hand
Upon thy snowy linen rest, and hide
Next to thy heart; let the breast rise sublime,
The shoulders broaden both, and bend toward her
Thy pliant neck, then at the corners close
Thy lips a little, pointed in the middle
Somewhat; and from thy mouth thus set exhale
A murmur inaudible. Meanwhile her right
Let her have given, and now softly drop
On the warm ivory a double kiss.
Seat thyself then, and with one hand draw closer
Thy chair to hers, while every tongue is stilled.
Thou only, bending slightly over, with her
Exchange in whisper secret nothings, which
Ye both accompany with mutual smiles
And covert glances that betray- or seem
At least your tender passion to betray.


## p. 11045 (#257) ##########################################

GIUSEPPE PARINI
11045
SHE
THE LADY'S LAP-DOG
From The Day'
HE recalls the day-
Alas, the cruel day! - what time her lap-dog,
Her beauteous lap-dog, darling of the Graces,
Sporting in youthful gayety, impressed
The light mark of her ivory tooth upon
The rude foot of a menial; he, with bold
And sacrilegious toe, flung her away.
Over and over thrice she rolled, and thrice
Rumpled her silken coat, and thrice inhaled
With tender nostril the thick, choking dust.
Then raised imploring cries, and "Help, help, help! "
She seemed to call, while from the gilded vaults
Compassionate Echo answered her again,
And from their cloistral basements in dismay
The servants rushed, and from the upper rooms
The pallid maidens trembling flew all came.
Thy lady's face was with reviving essence
Sprinkled, and she awakened from her swoon.
Anger and grief convulsed her still; she cast
A lightning glance upon the guilty menial,
And thrice with languid voice she called her pet,
Who rushed to her embrace and seemed to invoke
Vengeance with her shrill tenor. And revenge
Thou hadst, fair poodle, darling of the Graces.
The guilty menial trembled, and with eyes
Downcast received his doom. Naught him availed
His twenty years' desert; naught him availed
His zeal in secret services; for him
In vain were prayer and promise: forth he went,
Spoiled of the livery that till now had made him
Enviable with the vulgar. And in vain
He hoped another lord: the tender dames
Were horror-struck at his atrocious crime,
And loathed the author. The false wretch succumbed
With all his squalid brood, and in the streets,
With his lean wife in tatters at his side,
Vainly lamented to the passer-by.


## p. 11046 (#258) ##########################################

11046
GIUSEPPE PARINI
THE AFTERNOON CALL
From The Day'
ND now the ardent friends to greet each other
A Impatient fly, and pressing breast to breast
They tenderly embrace, and with alternate kisses
Their cheeks resound; then clasping hands, they drop
Plummet-like down upon the sofa, both
Together. Seated thus, one flings a phrase,
Subtle and pointed, at the other's heart,
Hinting of certain things that rumor tells,
And in her turn the other with a sting
Assails. The lovely face of one is flushed
With beauteous anger, and the other bites
Her pretty lips a little; evermore
At every instant waxes violent
The anxious agitation of the fans.
So in the age of Turpin, if two knights
Illustrious and well cased in mail encountered
Upon the way, each cavalier aspired
To prove the valor of the other in arms,
And after greetings courteous and fair,
They lowered their lances and their chargers dashed
Ferociously together; then they flung
The splintered fragments of their spears aside,
And, fired with generous fury, drew their huge
Two-handed swords and rushed upon each other!
But in the distance through a savage wood
The clamor of a messenger is heard,
Who comes full gallop to recall the one
Unto King Charles, and th' other to the camp
Of the young Agramante. Dare thou, too,
Dare thou, invincible youth, to expose the curls
And the toupet, so exquisitely dressed
This very morning, to the deadly shock
Of the infuriate fans; to new emprises
Thy fair invite, and thus the extreme effects
Of their periculous enmity suspend.


## p. 11047 (#259) ##########################################

11047
GILBERT PARKER
(1861-)
ILBERT PARKER belongs to the rising generation of novelists
who seem inclined to depart from the morbid realism of
certain jaundiced schools of modern writers, and to revive
the tenets of Scott and Thackeray, of Cooper and Dickens. Through
them the historical romance is being brought again into prominence.
This form of fiction is well adapted for the exercise of Mr. Parker's
literary talent, which is objective and impersonal; and for the mani-
festation of his belief that men are primarily lovers and fighters, and
that life itself revolves about the pivots of love and war. In all of
his tales, whether historical or not, there is the element of strife, and
the element of the strong human affections. He perceives that the
dramatic possibilities of these two elements are endless. His histori-
cal novels, The Trail of the Sword' and 'The Seats of the Mighty,'
are of the time of the French and Indian wars, and involve many
incidents of that period. In them, as in all but the greatest novels
of the same class, the delineation of character is somewhat subordi-
nated to the development of the plot and the setting forth of the
historical background; yet Mr. Parker is too much of an artist to be
merely a good story-teller. For this reason he is most successful in
writing of people with whom he has come into sympathetic contact,
and of localities with which he is familiar. It is this intimacy which
gives charm to his tales of modern Canadian life.
(
He himself was born in Canada in 1861; his father being an Eng-
lish officer in the Artillery, who had come to the country with Sir
John Colburn. From his childhood Mr. Parker was devoted to read-
ing and study; and it may have been his early enthusiasm for Shake-
speare which developed the strong dramatic quality discernible in his
novels. His parents wishing him to enter the church, he began theo-
logical studies at the University of Toronto; he became a lecturer in
Trinity College, and continued to hold this position until, his health
failing, he was ordered to the South Sea. In Australia he resumed
his lectures: the reputation gained by them influenced the editor of
a Sydney newspaper to invite him to write a series of articles on his
impressions of the country. From that time he gave himself up to
literary work: his talents as a novelist could not long remain hidden.
The editor of the London Illustrated News engaged him to write a


## p. 11048 (#260) ##########################################

11048
GILBERT PARKER
serial story; he became known in England, and then in America,-
the reading public recognizing him not only as a writer of strength
and imagination, but as one whose genius had manifested itself most
clearly in a new field. Mr. Parker is at his best in the stories pub-
lished originally in various magazines, and now collected under the
title 'Pierre and His People. ' The scene of these tales is a country
little known to the outside world,- that vast region extending from
Quebec in the east to British Columbia in the west, and from the
Cypress Hills in the south to the Coppermine River in the north; the
great wilderness of the Hudson's Bay Company. Living on the edges
of this dimly known land from boyhood, its mystery and its romantic
possibilities must have early impressed the creator of Pierre. In a
prefatory note to the book he says:
"Until 1870 the Hudson's Bay Company-first granted its charter by King
Charles II. -practically ruled that vast region stretching from the fiftieth
parallel of latitude to the Arctic Ocean: a handful of adventurous men in-
trenched in forts and posts, yet trading with, and most peacefully conquering,
many savage tribes. Once the sole master of the North, the H. B. C. (as it
is familiarly called) is reverenced by the Indians and half-breeds as much as,
if not more than, the government established at Ottawa. It has had its
forts within the Arctic Circle; it has successfully exploited a country larger
than the United States. The Red River Valley, the Saskatchewan Valley,
and British Columbia, are now belted by a great railway and given to the
plow; but in the far north, life is much the same as it was a hundred years
ago. There the trapper, clerk, trader, and factor are cast in the mold of
another century, though possessing the acuter energies of this. The voyageur
and coureur de bois still exist, though generally under less picturesque names.
"The bare story of the hardy and wonderful career of the adventurers
trading in Hudson's Bay,- of whom Prince Rupert was once chiefest,— and
the life of the prairies, may be found in histories and books of travel; but
their romances, the near narratives of individual lives, have waited the tell-
ing. In this book I have tried to feel my way towards the heart of that
life. »
Mr. Parker has been entirely successful in his endeavor. What
Bret Harte did for the California of '49 he has done for this region
of the north, with its picturesque, heterogeneous population, and its
untrammeled life. Pierre is a half-breed, a strange mixture of saint
and savage, a wanderer over the purple stretches of the prairies, an
incarnation indeed of the spirit of the region,― primitive, restless,
bearing with ill grace the superimposed yoke of civilization.
people are for the most part like him,- brothers and sisters to the
sun and moon, to the wild mountains and the boundless plains. He
moves in and out among them, participating more in the tragedies
than in the comedies of their lives. Over all the stories of himself


## p. 11049 (#261) ##########################################

GILBERT PARKER
11049
and his brethren there is the half-earthly light of romance, softening
the records of bloodshed, giving a tenderer grace to wild loves, and a
deeper pathos to obscure deaths; through them all sweeps the wind
of the prairie itself, fresh, invigorating, laden with outdoor scents
and with outdoor sounds. The refreshment of nature itself is part
of the charm of these tales.
In 'When Valmond Came to Pontiac,' a fascinating bit of comedy,
Gilbert Parker has told the story of a lost Napoleon; a youth around
whom clings the magic, elusive atmosphere of a great name and a
great lost cause. The scent of the Imperial violets is always about
him. He comes into the little Canadian village of Pontiac, and into
the hearts of a simple people turning ever back to France, and to
overwhelming traditions of the past. He dies at last for his ideal;
not knowing that he is indeed what he personates, the son of the
Napoleon of St. Helena.
The other stories of Mr. Parker's-Mrs. Facchion,' 'An Unpar-
donable Liar,' 'The Translation of a Savage,' 'An Unpardonable Sin,'
and The Trespasser while not showing the power and originality
of 'Pierre' and 'Valmond,' are yet well written, and wholesome in
spirit. Their author deserves no little commendation for adhering to
an ideal of beautiful and vigorous romance, in an age of literature
which has confounded the work of the scavenger with realistic treat-
ment.
THE PATROL OF THE CYPRESS HILLS
From Pierre and His People. ' Copyright 1894, by Stone & Kimball
"H
E's too ha'sh," said old Alexander Windsor, as he shut the
creaking door of the store after a vanishing figure, and
turned to the big iron stove with outstretched hands;
hands that were cold both summer and winter. He was of lean
and frigid make.
"Sergeant Fones is too ha'sh," he repeated, as he pulled out
the damper and cleaned away the ashes with the iron poker.
Pretty Pierre blew a quick, straight column of cigarette
smoke into the air, tilted his chair back, and said, "I do not
know what you mean by 'ha'sh,' but he is the Devil. Eh, well,
there was more than one devil made sometime in the North-
west. " He laughed softly.
"That gives you a chance in history, Pretty Pierre," said a
voice from behind a pile of woolen goods and buffalo skins in
the centre of the floor. The owner of the voice then walked to


## p. 11050 (#262) ##########################################

11050
GILBERT PARKER
the window. He scratched some frost from the pane, and looked
out to where the trooper in dogskin coat, and gauntlets, and
cap, was mounting his broncho. The old man came and stood
near the young man,- the owner of the voice,—and said again,
"He is too ha'sh. "
"Harsh you mean, father," added the other.
"Yes, harsh you mean, Old Brown Windsor,- quite harsh,"
said Pierre.
Alexander Windsor, storekeeper and general dealer, was some-
times called "Old Brown Windsor" and sometimes "Old Aleck,”
to distinguish him from his son, who was known as "Young
Aleck. "
As the old man walked back again to the stove to warm his
hands, Young Aleck continued, "He does his duty: that's all.
If he doesn't wear kid gloves while at it, it's his choice. He
doesn't go beyond his duty. You can bank on that. It'd be
hard to exceed that way out here. "
"True, Young Aleck, so true; but then he wears gloves of
iron, of ice. That is not good. Sometime the glove will be too
hard and cold on a man's shoulder, and then-! Well, I should
like to be there," said Pierre, showing his white teeth.
Old Aleck shivered, and held his fingers where the stove was
red-hot.
The young man did not hear this speech; he was watching
Sergeant Fones as he rode toward the Big Divide. Presently
he said, "He's going towards Humphrey's place. I-» He
stopped, bent his brows, caught one corner of his slight mus-
tache between his teeth, and did not stir a muscle until the Ser-
geant had passed over the Divide.
Old Aleck was meanwhile dilating upon his theme before a
passive listener. But Pierre was only passive outwardly. Besides
hearkening to the father's complaints he was closely watching the
son. Pierre was clever, and a good actor. He had learned the
power of reserve and outward immobility. The Indian in him
helped him there. He had heard what Young Aleck had just
muttered; but to the man of the cold fingers he said, "You keep
good whisky in spite of the law and the iron glove, Old Aleck. "
To the young man, "And you can drink it so free, eh, Young
Aleck? " The half-breed looked out of the corners of his eyes
at the young man, but he did not raise the peak of his fur cap
in doing so, and his glances askance were not seen.


## p. 11051 (#263) ##########################################

GILBERT PARKER
11051
Young Aleck had been writing something with his finger-nail
on the frost of the pane, over and over again. When Pierre
spoke to him thus he scratched out the word he had written,
with what seemed unnecessary force. But in one corner it re-
mained: "Mab-
>>
-
Pierre added, "That is what they say at Humphrey's ranch. ”
"Who says that at Humphrey's? - Pierre, you lie! " was the
sharp and threatening reply. The significance of this last state-
ment had been often attested on the prairies by the piercing
emphasis of a six-chambered revolver. It was evident that Young
Aleck was in earnest. Pierre's eyes glowed in the shadow, but
he idly replied:-
"I do not remember quite who said it Well, mon ami,
perhaps I lie; perhaps. Sometimes we dream things, and these
dreams are true. You call it a lie: bien! Sergeant Fones, he
dreams perhaps Old Aleck sells whisky against the law to men
you call whisky runners, sometimes to Indians and half-breeds-
half-breeds like Pretty Pierre. That was a dream of Sergeant
Fones; but you see he believes it true. It is good sport, eh?
Will you not take-what is it? -a silent partner? Yes; a silent
partner, Old Aleck. Pretty Pierre has spare time, a little to
make money for his friends and for himself, eh? "
When did not Pierre have time to spare? He was a gam-
bler. Unlike the majority of half-breeds, he had a pronounced
French manner, nonchalant and debonair. The Indian in him
gave him coolness and nerve. His cheeks had a tinge of deli-
cate red under their whiteness, like those of a woman. That
was why he was called Pretty Pierre. The country had, how-
ever, felt a kind of weird menace in the name. It was used to
snakes whose rattle gave notice of approach or signal of danger.
But Pretty Pierre was like the death-adder, small and beautiful,
silent and deadly. At one time he had made a secret of his
trade, or thought he was doing so. In those days he was often
to be seen at David Humphrey's home, and often in talk with
Mab Humphrey; but it was there one night that the man who
was ha'sh gave him his true character, with much candor and no
comment.
Afterwards Pierre was not seen at Humphrey's ranch. Men
prophesied that he would have revenge some day on Sergeant
Fones; but he did not show anything on which this opinion could


## p. 11052 (#264) ##########################################

GILBERT PARKER
11052
be based.
gambler.
Young Aleck had inherited some money through his dead
mother from his grandfather, a Hudson's Bay factor. He had
been in the East for some years, and when he came back he
brought his "little pile" and an impressionable heart with him.
The former, Pretty Pierre and his friends set about to win; the
latter, Mab Humphrey won without the trying. Yet Mab gave
Young Aleck as much as he gave her. More. Because her love
sprang from a simple, earnest, and uncontaminated life. Her
purity and affection were being played against Pierre's designs
and Young Aleck's weakness. With Aleck cards and liquor went
together. Pierre seldom drank.
But what of Sergeant Fones? If the man that knew him
best the Commandant - had been asked for his history, the
reply would have been: "Five years in the Service, rigid dis-
ciplinarian, best non-commissioned officer on the Patrol of the
Cypress Hills. " That was all the Commandant knew.
A soldier-policeman's life on the frontier is rough, solitary,
and severe. Active duty and responsibility are all that makes it
endurable. To few is it fascinating. A free and thoughtful
nature would however find much in it, in spite of great hard-
ships, to give interest and even pleasure. The sense of breadth
and vastness, and the inspiration of pure air, could be a very
gospel of strength, beauty, and courage, to such a one-for a
time. But was Sergeant Fones such a one? The Command-
ant's scornful reply to a question of the kind would have been:
"He is the best soldier on the Patrol. "
-
He took no umbrage at being called Pretty Pierre the
But for all that he was possessed of a devil.
And so, with hard gallops here and there after the refugees
of crime or misfortune, or both, who fled before them like deer
among the passes of the hills, and like deer at bay, often fought.
like demons to the death; with border watchings, and protection
and care and vigilance of the Indians; with hurried marches.
at sunrise, the thermometer at fifty degrees below zero often in
winter, and open camps beneath the stars, and no camp at all,
as often as not, winter and summer; with rough barrack fun and
parade and drill and guard of prisoners; and with chances now
and then to pay homage to a woman's face,-the Mounted Force
grew full of the Spirit of the West and became brown, val-
iant, and hardy, with wind and weather. Perhaps some of them


## p. 11053 (#265) ##########################################

GILBERT PARKER
11053
longed to touch, oftener than they did, the hands of children, and
to consider more the faces of women, for hearts are hearts even
under a belted coat of red on the Fiftieth Parallel,- but men of
nerve do not blazon their feelings.
No one would have accused Sergeant Fones of having a heart.
Men of keen discernment would have seen in him the little Bis-
marck of the Mounted Police. His name carried farther on the
Cypress Hills Patrol than any other; and yet his officers could
never say that he exceeded his duty or enlarged upon the orders
he received. He had no sympathy with crime. Others of the
force might wink at it; but his mind appeared to sit severely
upright upon the cold platform of Penalty, in beholding breaches
of the Statutes. He would not have rained upon the unjust as the
just if he had had the directing of the heavens. As private Gel-
latly put it: "Sergeant Fones has the fear o' God in his heart,
and the law of the land across his saddle, and the newest breech-
loading at that! " He was part of the great machine of Order,
the servant of Justice, the sentinel in the vestibule of Martial
Law. His interpretation of duty worked upward as downward.
Officers and privates were acted on by the force known as
Sergeant Fones. Some people, like Old Brown Windsor, spoke
hardly and openly of this force. There were three people who
never did,— Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Mab Humphrey.
Pierre hated him; Young Aleck admired in him a quality lying.
dormant in himself,-decision; Mab Humphrey spoke unkindly
of no one. Besides- But no!
―――――
-
What was Sergeant Fones's country? No one knew. Where
had he come from? No one asked him more than once. He
could talk French with Pierre,-a kind of French that sometimes
made the undertone of red in the Frenchman's cheeks darker.
He had been heard to speak German to a German prisoner;
and once when a gang of Italians were making trouble on a line
of railway under construction, he arrested the leader, and in a
few swift, sharp words in the language of the rioters settled the
business. He had no accent that betrayed his nationality.
He had been recommended for a commission. The officer
in command had hinted that the sergeant might get a Christmas
present. The officer had further said, "And if it was something
that both you and the patrol would be the better for, you couldn't
object, sergeant.
" But the sergeant only saluted, looking steadily
into the eyes of the officer. That was his reply.


## p. 11054 (#266) ##########################################

11054
GILBERT PARKER
Private Gellatly, standing without, heard Sergeant Fones say,
as he passed into the open air, and slowly bared his forehead to
the winter sun:
"Exactly. "
And Private Gellatly cried with revolt in his voice, "Divils
me own, the word that a't to have been full o' joy was like the
clip of a rifle breech. "
Justice in a new country is administered with promptitude
and vigor, or else not administered at all. Where an officer
of the Mounted Police Soldiery has all the powers of a magis-
trate, the law's delay and the insolence of office has little space
in which to work. One of the commonest slips of virtue in the
Canadian West was selling whisky contrary to the law of prohi-
bition which prevailed. Whisky runners were land smugglers.
Old Brown Windsor had somehow got the reputation of being
connected with the whisky runners; not a very respectable busi-
ness, and thought to be dangerous. Whisky runners were in-
clined to resent intrusion of their privacy, with a touch of that
biting inhospitableness which a moonlighter of Kentucky uses
toward an inquisitive, unsympathetic marshal. On the Cypress
Hills Patrol, however, the erring servants of Bacchus were hav-
ing a hard time of it. Vigilance never slept there in the days of
which these lines bear record. Old Brown Windsor had, in words,
freely espoused the cause of the sinful. To the careless spectator
it seemed a charitable siding with the suffering; a proof that the
old man's heart was not so cold as his hands. Sergeant Fones
thought differently; and his mission had just been to warn the
storekeeper that there was menacing evidence gathering against
him, and that his friendship with Golden Feather, the Indian
chief, had better cease at once. Sergeant Fones had a way of
putting things. Old Brown Windsor endeavored for a moment
to be sarcastic. This was the brief dialogue in the domain of
sarcasm:-
"I s'pose you just lit round in a friendly sort of way, hopin'
that I'd kenoodle with you later. "
"Exactly. "
There was an unpleasant click to the word. The old man's
hands got colder. He had nothing more to say.
Before leaving, the sergeant said something quietly and
quickly to Young Aleck. Pierre observed, but could not hear.
Young Aleck was uneasy; Pierre was perplexed.
The sergeant


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GILBERT PARKER
11055
turned at the door, and said in French, "What are your chances
for a Merry Christmas at Pardon's Drive, Pretty Pierre ? » Pierre
said nothing. He shrugged his shoulders, and as the door closed,
muttered, "Il est le Diable. " And he meant it. What should
Sergeant Fones know of that intended meeting at Pardon's Drive
on Christmas day? And if he knew, what then? It was not
against the law to play euchre. Still it perplexed Pierre. Before
the Windsors, father and son, however, he was, as we have seen,
playfully cool.
After quitting Old Brown Windsor's store, Sergeant Fones
urged his stout broncho to a quicker pace than usual. The bron-
cho was, like himself, wasteful of neither action nor affection.
The sergeant had caught him wild and independent, had brought
him in, broken him, and taught him obedience. They understood
each other; perhaps they loved each other. But about that, even
Private Gellatly had views in common with the general sentiment
as to the character of Sergeant Fones. The private remarked
once on this point, "Sarpints alive! the heels of the one and the
law of the other is the love of them. They'll weather together
like the Divil and Death. "
The sergeant was brooding; that was not like him.
He was
hesitating; that was less like him. He turned his broncho round
as if to cross the Big Divide and to go back to Windsor's store;
but he changed his mind again, and rode on toward David Hum-
phrey's ranch. He sat as if he had been born in the saddle.
His was a face for the artist,-strong and clear, and having
a dominant expression of force. The eyes were deep-set and
watchful. A kind of disdain might be traced in the curve of the
short upper lip, to which the mustache was clipped close-a
good fit, like his coat. The disdain was more marked this morn-
ing.
The first part of his ride had been seen by Young Aleck, the
second part by Mab Humphrey. Her first thought on seeing him
was one of apprehension for Young Aleck and those of Young
Aleck's name. She knew that people spoke of her lover as a
ne'er-do-weel; and that they associated his name freely with that
of Pretty Pierre and his gang. She had a dread of Pierre; and
only the night before, she had determined to make one last great
effort to save Aleck, and if he would not be saved-strange that,
thinking it all over again, as she watched the figure on horse-
back coming nearer, her mind should swerve to what she had


## p. 11056 (#268) ##########################################

11056
GILBERT PARKER
heard of Sergeant Fones's expected promotion. Then she fell to
wondering if any one had ever given him a real Christmas pres-
ent; if he had any friends at all; if life meant anything more to
him than carrying the law of the land across his saddle. Again
he suddenly came to her in a new thought, free from apprehen-
sion, and as the champion of her cause to defeat the half-breed
and his gang, and save Aleck from present danger or future
perils.
She was such a woman as prairies nurture,- in spirit broad
and thoughtful and full of energy; not so deep as the mount-
ain woman, not so imaginative, but with more persistency, more
daring. Youth to her was a warmth, a glory. She hated excess
and lawlessness, but she could understand it. She felt some-
times as if she must go far away into the unpeopled spaces, and
shriek out her soul to the stars from the fullness of too much
life. She supposed men had feelings of that kind too, but that
they fell to playing cards and drinking instead of crying to the
stars. Still, she preferred her way.
Once Sergeant Fones, on leaving the house, said grimly
after his fashion, "Not Mab but Ariadne — excuse a soldier's
bluntness. . . . Good-by! " and with a brusque salute he had
ridden away.
What he meant she did not know and could
not ask. The thought instantly came to her mind: Not Sergeant
Fones; but-who? She wondered if Ariadne was born on the
prairie. What knew she of the girl who helped Theseus, her
lover, to slay the Minotaur? What guessed she of the Slopes of
Naxos ? How old was Ariadne? Twenty? For that was Mab's
age. Was Ariadne beautiful? - She ran her fingers loosely
through her short brown hair, waving softly about her Greek-
shaped head, and reasoned that Ariadne must have been present-
able or Sergeant Fones would not have made the comparison.
She hoped Ariadne could ride well, for she could.
But how white the world looked this morning! and how proud
and brilliant the sky! Nothing in the plane of vision but waves
of snow stretching to the Cypress Hills; far to the left a solitary
house, with its tin roof flashing back the sun, and to the right
the Big Divide. It was an old-fashioned winter, not one in
which bare ground and sharp winds make life outdoors inhos-
pitable. Snow is hospitable-clean, impacted snow; restful and
silent. But there is one spot in the area of white, on which
Mab's eyes are fixed now, with something different in them


## p. 11057 (#269) ##########################################

GILBERT PARKER
11057
from what had been there. Again it was a memory with which
Sergeant Fones was associated. One day in the summer just
past she had watched him and his company put away to rest,
under the cool sod where many another lay in silent company,
a prairie wanderer,- some outcast from a better life gone by.
Afterwards, in her home, she saw the sergeant stand at the
window, looking out toward the spot where the waves in the
sea of grass were more regular and greener than elsewhere, and
were surmounted by a high cross. She said to him,- for she of
all was never shy of his stern ways,-
"Why is the grass always greenest there, Sergeant Fones? "
He knew what she meant, and slowly said, "It is the Bar-
racks of the Free. "
She had no views of life save those of duty and work and
natural joy and loving a ne'er-do-weel, and she said, "I do not
understand that. "
And the sergeant replied, "Free among the Dead, like unto
them that are wounded and lie in the grave, who are out of re-
membrance. "
But Mab said again, "I do not understand that either. "
The sergeant did not at once reply. He stepped to the door
and gave a short command to some one without, and in a mo-
ment his company was mounted in line: handsome, dashing fel-
lows; one the son of an English nobleman, one the brother of an
eminent Canadian politician, one related to a celebrated English
dramatist. He ran his eye along the line, then turned to Mab,
raised his cap with machine-like precision, and said, "No, I sup-
pose you do not understand that. Keep Aleck Windsor from
Pretty Pierre and his gang. Good-by. "
Then he mounted and rode away. Every other man in the
company looked back to where the girl stood in the doorway; he
did not. Private Gellatly said with a shake of the head, as she
was lost to view, "Devils bestir me, what a widdy she'll make! "
It was understood that Aleck Windsor and Mab Humphrey were
to be married on the coming New Year's Day. What connection.
was there between the words of Sergeant Fones and those of
Private Gellatly? None, perhaps.
Mab thinks upon that day as she looks out, this December
morning, and sees Sergeant Fones dismounting at the door.
David Humphrey, who is outside, offers to put up the sergeant's
horse; but he says, "No, if you'll hold him just a moment, Mr.
XIX-692


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11058
GILBERT PARKER
Humphrey, I'll ask for a drink of something warm, and move on.
Miss Mab is inside, I suppose? "
"She'll give you a drink of the best to be had on your patrol,
sergeant," was the laughing reply.
"Thanks for that, but tea or coffee is good enough for me,"
said the sergeant. Entering, the coffee was soon in the hand of
the hardy soldier. Once he paused in his drinking and scanned
Mab's face closely. Most people would have said the sergeant
had an affair of the law in hand, and was searching the face of
a criminal; but most people are not good at interpretation. Mab
was speaking to the chore-girl at the same time and did not see
the look. If she could have defined her thoughts when she, in
turn, glanced into the sergeant's face a moment afterwards, she
would have said, "Austerity fills this man. Isolation marks him
for its own. " In the eyes were only purpose, decision, and com-
mand. Was that the look that had been fixed upon her face a
moment ago? It must have been. His features had not changed
a breath. Mab began their talk.
"They say you are to get a Christmas present of promotion,
Sergeant Fones. "
"I have not seen it gazetted," he answered enigmatically.
"You and your friends will be glad of it. "
"I like the service. "
"You will have more freedom with a commission. "
He made no reply, but rose and walked to the window, and
looked out across the snow, drawing on his gauntlets as he
did so.
She saw that he was looking where the grass in summer was
the greenest!
He turned and said:
:-
"I am going to barracks now. I suppose young Aleck will
be in quarters here on Christmas Day, Miss Mab?
>>
"I think so," and she blushed.
"Did he say he would be here? "
"Yes. "
"Exactly. "
He looked toward the coffee. Then:-
"Thank you.
. . Good-by. "
Sergeant->
((
"Miss Mab-»
་་
"Will you not come to us on Christmas Day? ”


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GILBERT PARKER
11059
His eyelids closed swiftly and opened again.
"I shall be on duty. "
"And promoted? "
"Perhaps. "
"And merry and happy? "-she smiled to herself to think of
Sergeant Fones being merry and happy.
"Exactly. "
The word suited him.
He paused a moment with his fingers on the latch, and turned
round as if to speak; pulled off his gauntlet, and then as quickly
put it on again. Had he meant to offer his hand in good-by?
He had never been seen to take the hand of any one except with
the might of the law visible in steel.
He opened the door with the right hand, but turned round as
he stepped out, so that the left held it while he faced the warmth
of the room and the face of the girl.
The door closed.
Mounted, and having said good-by to Mr. Humphrey, he
turned toward the house, raised his cap with soldierly brusque-
ness, and rode away in the direction of the barracks.
The girl did not watch him. She was thinking of Young
Aleck, and of Christmas Day, now near. The sergeant did not
look back.
Meantime the party at Windsor's store was broken up. Pretty
Pierre and Young Aleck had talked together, and the old man
had heard his son say:
"Remember, Pierre, it is for the last time. "
Then they talked after this fashion:-
"Ah, I know, mon ami; for the last time! Eh, bien! You
will spend Christmas Day with us too—
No! You surely will
not leave us on the day of good fortune? Where better can you
take your pleasure-for the last time? One day is not enough
for farewell. Two, three; that is the magic number. You will,
eh? no? Well, well, you will come to-morrow-and- eh, mon
ami, where do you go the next day? Oh, pardon, I forgot, you
spend the Christmas Day-I know. And the day of the New
Year? Ah, Young Aleck, that is what they say,-the Devil for
the Devil's luck. So! "
"Stop that, Pierre. There was fierceness in the tone. « I
spend the Christmas Day where you don't, and as I like, and the
rest doesn't concern you. I drink with you, I play with you-
bien! As you say yourself, bien! isn't that enough? »


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11060
GILBERT PARKER
"Pardon! We will not quarrel. No: we spend not the
Christmas Day after the same fashion, quite; then, to-morrow at
Pardon's Drive! Adieu! "
Pretty Pierre went out of one door, a malediction between
his white teeth, and Aleck went out of another door with a male-
diction upon his gloomy lips. But both maledictions were leveled
at the same person. Poor Aleck!
«< Poor Aleck! " That is the way we sometimes think of a
good nature gone awry; one that has learned to say cruel male-
dictions to itself, and against which demons hurl their maledic-
tions too. Alas for the ne'er-do-weel!
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.