CHAPTER V
DESIREE
The mass bell's solemn chime pealed forth from the squat tower of theMission House, echoed against a thousand different rock peaks of theshoreline and rolled resonantly over Oxford's bosom till distance killedthe sound and the tone was lost in the splash of whitecaps jumping likesilvery salmon beyond the Bay.
Since Carman, the Church of England missionary, had perished in thewinter's last blizzard on Lone Wolf Lake and the Company had failed asyet to get a minister in his place, the spiritual welfare of OxfordHouse was entirely in the hands of Father Brochet. Protestant andCatholic, disciple and pagan, zealot and scorner alike attended thekindly priest's services and sought his generous aid in many privatematters.
With the bell's summons they came singly, in twos or threes, and ingroups of varying size to take part in, or view the morning mass as wellas to see the christening of Flora Macleod's child.
Bruce Dunvegan left his business in the trading room of the Hudson's BayStore and stepped out into the dewy sunshine. The auroral flame whichhad licked the waters of Oxford Lake was gone. He saw the horizon as asheet of molten gold floating the coppery disc of the sun. From wetrocks the writhing mists twisted and uncoiled, while the breeze whichcrooned over the outer reach of the lake and raised the crested swellsbeat in with little darts and lanceolate charges, puffing the fog-smokelike the muzzle-jets of rifles.
As the chief trader contemplated the magnificent splendor of the wateryvista before him, he thrilled with the indefinable magic of the outland.He inhaled a huge breath and threw his arms wide, the action nearlyupsetting the balance of Edwin Glyndon, the new clerk, who had emergedat his side.
"Ha! Your pardon!" exclaimed Dunvegan, laughing. "These northernsunrises get into my blood like wine. You'll feel it before you are verylong here. Going over to the Mission?"
"I wouldn't mind," returned Glyndon. "It's all so new to me, and Iwasn't at Norway long enough to see much. Do you attend?"
"We all drop in," the chief trader informed him. "Brochet's faith hasmany adherents, but of course you don't have to take part unless yourinclinations run that way. You are a Church of England man, I suppose!"
"Oh, yes--quite an orthodox one," laughed Glyndon bitterly. "Didn't youknow I drank myself and parents into disgrace at home? That's why theysent me out here--away from the evil ruts, you understand! And I fancyit might not be so hard to be a good Churchman in this wilderness. Atany rate the chances are increased."
"This is the best opportunity that you will ever find," Dunvegandeclared. "If you want to go straight and live clean, the way is easy.It seems to me these lake breezes, these pine woods, these outdoor daysare a long way removed from temptation."
He swung his hands illustratively from the sheen of Oxford's surface tothe dark green of the Black Forest, which loomed in somber mystery onCaribou Point, and looked into the clerk's soft eyes. But Edwin Glyndonwas staring over the chief trader's shoulder at someone coming up thepath to the store.
"Good Lord!" was his amazed exclamation. "Who in all the angels'category is that?"
Dunvegan turned to see Lazard's niece hurrying toward the building.
"That? Oh, Desiree Lazard!" he answered, striving ineffectually to keephis stirring blood from crimsoning his tan. "She's a ward of old Pierresince her father died. Pierre is her uncle."
"My word!" Glyndon gasped, and could say no more; although his chin wentnervously up and down while Desiree Lazard approached.
She walked without perceptible effort in that easy rhythm of movementpeculiar to wilderness-born women. Her hair, dun-gold as the morning skybehind, was pinned in a loose knot and parted in the center, letting theshimmer and wave of the tresses play upon either side like shallow-waterripples over sun-browned gravel. Forehead, cheeks, nose and mouth heldserene beauty in their perfect chiselling, while her eyes shone liketwin lakes of the north, sapphire-blue beneath the morning sun.
So sincere were the men in the unconscious homage they paid to herfairness that they did not move aside to let her enter the door. Shestopped and gazed inquiringly at the stranger. And the pair gazed ather. They marvelled at the luxurious development of throat, bosom, andarms, clearly revealed by a tight-fitting chamois waist with open neckand rolled-up sleeves, and at the trim, full contour of her healthy bodyfrom the tops of her shoulders to the hem of her doeskin skirt and ondown the well-filled leggins to moccasined feet which would hardly havecovered a man's palm.
"Good morning, Bruce," she said demurely. "Good morning, monsieur----"
"Glyndon--Edwin Glyndon," supplemented the clerk, eagerly. He wasdelighted to find that ceremony was an unknown thing in the posts andthat each greeted a neighbor whether formally acquainted or not.
"I have told Glyndon you are Pierre's niece," Dunvegan interposed. "Hehas been drafted from Norway House as our clerk and will henceforth beone of us."
"Ah! Monsieur will find the society of Oxford House limited after livingin London," laughed Desiree.
"More limited, but assuredly not less desirable," Glyndon returnedgallantly; and the dwelling of his soft eyes on the girl brought therose to her cheeks.
"Come," she cried peremptorily to hide her confusion, "let me go in andget my things or I shall be late for mass."
Dunvegan thought to wait upon her, but the English clerk sprang infirst.
"It is for me to serve," he declared. "I must learn my business."
And the chief trader experienced a pang of intense jealousy as hewatched the laughter and badinage of the two across the counter whileDesiree made her purchases. He glowered in dark envy and strode out onto the steps. When the girl danced gaily over the threshold, he did notspeak.
Glyndon rejoined him, his eyes devouring the lithe, swinging form ofDesiree Lazard as she rushed home humming a little French song under herbreath.
"Jove!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever see such a figure? Look at theinswell of the torso to the waist and the outswell over the hips----"
But Dunvegan's hand falling like a great weight on his shoulder cutshort the speech. Glyndon felt that grip clear through his body; felthis collar bone bend beneath the chief trader's thumb, and he winced.
"Glyndon, never admire a woman in that way," Bruce warned. "Never, Isay! Do you understand me?"
The English clerk slunk back under the powerful menace in Dunvegan'sglance.
"Oh!" he ejaculated with swift intuition. "I didn't know that you----"
"That'll do," the chief trader cut in. "You don't know anything yet. Trynot to bother your head! Go on over to the Mission House!" He startedEdwin Glyndon down the path.
Malcolm Macleod for the first time in twenty years had entered thechapel, not for the service but for the christening. Dunvegan left thestore in charge of his _metis_ clerk and followed.
Was he going for the service? Perhaps, for he was a good man, and hisreligious creed was not a narrow one. Was he going for the christeningalso? Undoubtedly, for he was to stand sponsor for the child.
But in the depths of his being something cried a third reason.
Across the flat ground which served as the trading house yard lay thechapel. Roughly built after the fashion of northern missions, its veryruggedness suggested the strength of the faith for which it stood assymbol.
As Dunvegan approached the steps, people were already filing rapidlythrough the narrow doorway. A medley of types was there. Acorn-headedsquaws pattered in. Morose Indians filed after. Women, children, andsettlers drifted through the doorway. The Hudson's Bay men slouchedover. Trappers and halfbreeds filled the single aisle. At the end of arough bench in one front corner of the building sat the Factor, dour andunyielding. His head was bowed. Not a muscle of his body moved. Perchedon the opposite end of that seat was Gaspard Follet, the Fool who haddrifted in from nowhere to the post about a year before. It was theFool's delight to go about hearing everything through dog-like ears,seeing everything through owlish eyes.
None could find out who or what he was, or whence he had come. Ye
t manyat Oxford House contended that he was not so simple as he appeared.They declared that he was as wise as themselves and only kept up thesham to get an easy living. In proof of their contention thesesuspicious ones set forth his glibness of tongue when he pleased, for onoccasion he could talk as well as Brochet.
As Dunvegan seated himself not far from Pierre Lazard and his niece, themass began in solemn intonation.
"_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_," began Father Brochet,the mass book supported where the black cassock bulged over his portlywaist.
The clear voice of the clerk answered with sonorous "amens", and theresponses rose in chorus.
Dunvegan looked at the Factor. The latter seemed unconscious that anearnest service was progressing. Sunk in stony oblivion, he appearedabsolutely motionless, his chest neither rising nor falling as hebreathed.
The long, familiar service was finally concluded, and those who hadtaken no part other than as mere listeners sat up with an expectantshuffle. Flora Macleod moved to the front with her child and stoodbefore the altar. Father Brochet looked down upon her. There was noreproach in his mien. Experience had taught him that in such a case asthis, women followed their own hearts even to fleeing from theirparents.
A hush brooded over the chapel's interior, a sort of awkward silence, adread of things running awry! The child's whimper broke it, and Floraswayed the boy in her arms to quiet him.
Brochet spoke when she finished, his clear voice carrying to the doorand even outside where some latecomers unable to find seats were groupedon the slab of rough stone which served for a step.
"Who is the male parent, the father of the child?" he asked in thenatural course of the ceremony.
Deep silence reigned. Flora Macleod's lips closed tightly, indicatingthat out of stubbornness she would not speak the name. People looked atthe Factor, and he turned from his immobility with the attitude of asleeping bear suddenly prodded into angry activity.
"Black Ferguson," he snarled, sidling over a foot or so upon the bench.
"The name this child is to bear with honor through life?" Father Brochetcontinued.
"Honor?" grunted Macleod. "I don't know about that. No doubt he willinherit the spirit of disobedience from his mother. Call him Charles IanMacleod! There will be no Ferguson in it."
A murmur stirred the assemblage at the Factor's rude remark, but theydared not add protest to their surprises. Dunvegan of course, hadexpected it from the first.
"Who stands as sponsor for this infant?" asked the priest.
Macleod swung himself half round and nodded to Dunvegan. Bruce rose tohis feet, seeing with surprise that Gaspard, the Fool, had also raisedhimself up by jumping upon the seat.
"Who stands sponsor?"
"I," squealed the idiot. "Also, he can have my name, for if the truthcame out, it is as good as anyone's and----"
He got no farther for old Pierre Lazard pulled the foolish dwarf off hisperch before the angry Factor could strike him and pushed himunceremoniously to the door amid the suppressed chuckles of theassembly.
"Again, who stands sponsor?" inquired the unruffled Father Brochet.
"I do," spoke Dunvegan.
"Do you, Charles Ian Macleod, renounce the devil, his angels and alltheir evil works?"
"I do," Dunvegan, as sponsor, replied.
"Do you believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost?"
"I believe!"
"It is well," observed Brochet. "We may now proceed with the service ofbaptism. Behold in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of theHoly Ghost I baptize you Charles Ian Macleod. And may the good Lord'smercy lead your feet in honorable paths."
"Amen! Amen! Amen!" rang the responses in many tongues throughout thechapel.
With the chanting of a hymn the people poured forth. Flora disappearedinstantly with her child, waiting for no birth offering.
The Factor was equally swift in effacing himself from the unfamiliarMission House. One of his desires had been fulfilled. There remained theother, and the consummation of that one promised to be a harder matter.