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 r.^S V'^'S) *82 - 0^00 - Pnone 
 
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ijt£Ki[#[iir^ri 
 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
I 
 
 ne GOING of 
 THE WHITE SWAN 
 
'No, no — this!* the priest said." 
 
 [p- 56] 
 
The GOING of 
 THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 BY 
 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
 I 
 
 NEW YORK 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 MCMXII 
 
c 
 
 Copyright, 1913, bv 
 GILBERT PARKER 
 
 Copyright, 1895. by Charles Scribner's Sons 
 
 Copyright, iSqs. by Stone and Kimball 
 Copyright, 1898, by The Macmillan Company 
 
THE GOING OF THE 
 WHITE SWAN 
 
 WHY don't she come back, 
 father?" 
 The man shook his head, his hand 
 fumbled with the wolfskin robe 
 covering the child, and he made no 
 reply. 
 
 "She'd come if she knew I was 
 hurted, wouldn't she?" 
 
 The father nodded, and then 
 turned restlessly toward the door, 
 as though expecting some one. The 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 look was troubled, and the pipe he 
 held was not alight, though he made 
 a pretense of smoking. 
 
 "Suppose the wildcat had got 
 me, she'd be sorry when she comes, 
 wouldn't she?" 
 
 There was no reply yet, save by 
 gesture, the language of primitive 
 man; but the big body shivered a 
 little, and the uncouth hand felt for 
 a place in the bed where the lad's 
 knee made a lump under the robe. 
 He felt the little heap tenderly, but 
 the child winced. 
 
 "S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf- 
 skin's most too much on me, isn't it, 
 father?" 
 
 Th'' man softly, yet awkwardly, 
 lifted the robe, folded it back, and 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 slowly uncovered the knee. The 
 leg was worn away almost to skin 
 and bone, but the knee itself was 
 swollen with inflammation. He 
 bathed it with some water, mixed 
 with vinegar and herbs, then drew 
 down the deer-skin shirt, and did the 
 same with the child's shoulder. 
 Both shoulder and knee bore the 
 marks of teeth, — where a huge wild- 
 cat had made havoc — and the body 
 had long red scratches. 
 
 Presently the man shook his head 
 sorrowfully, and covered up the 
 small disfigured frame again, but 
 this time with a tanned skin of the 
 caribou. The flames of the huge 
 woo '^re dashed the walls and floor 
 with a velvety red and black, and 
 3 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 the large iron kettle, bought of the 
 Company at Fort Sacrament, puffed 
 out geysers of steam. 
 
 The place was a low hut with 
 parchment windows and rough 
 mud-mortar lumped between the 
 logs. Skins hung along two sides, 
 with bullet-holes and knife-holes 
 showing: of the great gray wolf, the 
 red puma, the bronze hill-lion, the 
 beaver, the bear, and the sable; and 
 in one corner was a huge pile of 
 them. Bare of the usual comforts 
 as the room was, it had a sort of re- 
 finement also, joined to an inexpress- 
 ible loneliness, you could scarce 
 have told how or why. 
 
 "Father," said the boy, his face 
 pinched with pain for a moment, "it 
 4 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 hurts so, all over, every once in a 
 w^hile." 
 
 His fingers caressed the leg just 
 below the knee. 
 
 "Father," he suddenly added, 
 "what does it mean when you hear 
 a bird sing in the middle of the 
 night?" 
 
 The woodsn .i looked down anx- 
 iously into the boy's face. "It hasn't 
 no meaning, Dominique. There 
 ain't such a thing on the Labrador 
 Heights as a bird singin' in the 
 night. That's only in warm coun- 
 tries where there's nightingales. So 
 — bien sur!" 
 
 The boy had a wise, dreamy, spec- 
 ulative look. 
 
 "Well, I guess it was a nightin- 
 5 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 gale — it didn't sing like any I ever 
 heard." 
 
 The look of nervousness deepened 
 in the woodman's face. "What did 
 it sing like, Dominique?" 
 
 "So it made you shiver. You 
 wanted it to go on, and yet you 
 didn't want it. It was pretty, but 
 you felt as if something was going 
 to snap inside of you." 
 
 "When did you hear it, my son?" 
 
 "Twice last night — and — and I 
 guess it was Sunday the other time. 
 I don't know, for there hasn't been 
 no Sunday up here since mother 
 went away — has there?" 
 
 "Mebbe not." 
 
 The veins were beating like live 
 6 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 cords in the man's throai and at his 
 temples. 
 
 'Twas just the 
 
 Fathe 
 
 same 
 
 Corraine bein' here, when mother 
 had Sunday, wasn't it?" 
 
 The man made no reply; but a 
 gloom drew down his forehead, and 
 his lips doubled in as though he en- 
 dured physical pain. He got to his 
 feet and paced the floor. For weeks 
 he had listened to the same kind of 
 talk from this wounded, and, as he 
 thought, dying son, and he was get- 
 ting less and less able to bear it. 
 The boy at nine years of age was, in 
 manner of speech, the merest child, 
 but his thoughts were sometimes 
 large and wise. The only white 
 7 
 
THE GOING OF 
 child within a compass of a hun- 
 dred miles or so; the lonely life of 
 the hills and plains, so austere in 
 winter, so melted to a sober joy in 
 summer; listening to the talk of his 
 elders at camp-fires and on the 
 hunting-trail, when, even as an in- 
 fant almost, he was swung in a 
 blanket from a tree or was packed 
 in the torch-crane of a canoe; and 
 more than all, the care of a good, 
 loving—if passionate— little moth- 
 er: all these had made him far wiser 
 than his years. He had been hours 
 upon hours each day alone with 
 the birds, and squirrels, and wild 
 animals, and something of the keen 
 scent and instinct of the animal 
 world hid entered into his bodv and 
 8 
 
THE WHITF SWAN 
 
 brain, so that he felt what he could 
 not understand. 
 
 He saw that he had worried his 
 inher, and it troubled him. He 
 thought of something. 
 
 "Daddy," he said, "let me have 
 it." 
 
 A smile struggled for life in the 
 hunter's face, a.« he turned to the 
 wall and took down the skin of a 
 silver fox. He held it on his palm 
 for a moment, looking at it in an 
 interested, satisfied way, then he 
 brought it over and put it into the 
 child's hands; and the smile now 
 shaped itself, as he saw an eager 
 pale face buried in the soft fur 
 
 "Good I good!" he said involunta- 
 rily. 
 
 9 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 "Bon! bon!" said the boy's voice 
 from the fur, in the language of 
 his mother, who added a strain of 
 Indian blood to her French ances- 
 try. 
 
 The two sat there, the man half- 
 kneeling on the low bed, and strok- 
 ■ -g the fur very gently. It could 
 scarcely be thought that such pride 
 should be spent on a little pelt, by 
 a mere backwoodsman and his nine- 
 year-old son. One has seen a wom- 
 an fingering a splendid necklace, 
 her eyes fascinated by the bunch of 
 warm, deep jewels — a light not of 
 mere vanity, or hunger, or avarice 
 in her face — only the love of the 
 beautiful thing. But this was an 
 animal's skin. Did they feel the 
 
 10 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 animal underneath it yet, giving it 
 beauty, life, glory? 
 
 The silver-fox skin is the prize of 
 the lorth, and this one was of the 
 boy's own harvesting. While his 
 father was away he saw the fox 
 creeping by the hut. The joy of the 
 hunter seized him, and guided his 
 eye over the sights of his father's 
 rifle as he rested the barrel on the 
 windowsill, and the animal was his! 
 Now his finger ran into the hole 
 made by the bullet, and he gave 
 a little laugh of modest triumph. 
 Minutes passed as they studied, felt, 
 and admired the skin, the hunter 
 prcud of his son, the son alive with 
 a primiti e passion, which inflicts 
 sufl^ering to get the beautiful thing. 
 
I ■ 
 
 THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 Perhaps the tenderness as well as the 
 wild passion of the animal gets into 
 the hunter's blood, and tips his fin- 
 gers at times with an exquisite kind- 
 ness—as one has noted in a lion 
 fondling her young, or in tigers ae 
 they sport upon the sands of the des- 
 ert. This boy had seen his father 
 shoot a splendid moose, and, as it lay 
 dying, drop down and kiss it in the 
 neck for sheer love of its handsome- 
 ness. Death is no insult. It is the 
 law of the primitive world— war, 
 and love in war. 
 
II 
 
 'pHEY sat there for a long time, 
 not speaking, each busy in his 
 own way: the boy full of imagin- 
 ings, strange, half-heathen, half- 
 angelic feelings; the man roaming 
 Jn that savage, romantic, super- 
 stitious atmosphere which belongs to 
 the north, and to the north alone 
 At last the boy lay back on his 
 P'llow, his finger still in the bullet- 
 hok of the pelt. His eyes closed, 
 and he seemed about to fall asleep 
 but presently looked up and whis- 
 13 
 

 I I 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 pered: "I haven't said my prayers, 
 have I?" 
 
 The father shook his head in a sort 
 of rude confusion. 
 
 "I can pray out loud if I want to, 
 can't I?" 
 
 "Of course, Dominique." The 
 man shrank a little. 
 
 "I forget a good many times, but 
 I know one all right, for I said it 
 when the bird was singing. It isn't 
 one out of the book Father Cor- 
 raine sent mother by Pretty Pierre; 
 it's one she taught me out of her 
 own head. P'r'aps I'd better say 
 it." 
 
 "P'r'aps, if you want to." The 
 voice was husky. 
 
 The boy began : 
 14 
 
 *.l«- . Al 
 
 -.'IM^J:^:^ 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 "O Bon Jesu, who died to save us 
 from our sins, and to lead us to Thy 
 country, where there is no cold, nor 
 hunger, nor thirst, and where no one 
 is afraid, listen to Thy child. . . . 
 When the great winds and rains 
 come down from the hills, do not 
 let the floods drown us, nor the 
 woods cover us, nor the snow-slide 
 bury us, and do not let the prairie- 
 fires burn us. Keep wild beasts, 
 from killing us in our sleep, and 
 give us good hearts that we may not 
 kill them in anger." 
 
 His finger twisted involuntarily 
 into the bullet-hole in the pelt, and 
 he paused a moment. 
 
 "Keep us from getting lost, O 
 Bon Jesu." 
 
 15 
 
 A 
 
 ^^^^^m^. 
 
u 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 Again there was a pause, his eyes 
 opened wide, and he said: 
 
 "Do you think mother's lost, fa- 
 ther?" 
 
 A heavy broken breath came from 
 the father, and he replied haltingly: 
 "Mebbe— mebbe so." 
 
 Dominique's eyes closed again. 
 "I'h make up some," he said slowly: 
 "And if mother's lost, O Bon Jesu, 
 bring her back again to us, for every- 
 thing's going wrong." 
 
 Again he paused, then went on 
 with the prayer as it had been taught 
 him. 
 
 "Teach us to hear Thee whenever 
 
 Thou callest, and to see Thee when 
 
 Thou visitest us, and let the blessed 
 
 Mary and all the saints speak oftei 
 
 i6 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 to Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. 
 Lord have mercy upon us. Christ, 
 have mercy upon us. Amen." 
 
 Making the sign of the cross, he 
 lay back, and said: "I'll go to sleep 
 now, I guess." 
 
 '0 
 
'I ■!•'■ 
 
 Ill 
 
 'T^HE man sat for a long time 
 ■*■ looking at the pale, shining 
 face, at the blue veins showing pain- 
 fully dark on the temples and fore- 
 head, at the firm little white hand, 
 which was as brown as a butternut 
 a few weeks before. The longer he 
 sut, the deeper did his misery sink 
 into his soul. His wife had gone he 
 knew not where, his child was wast- 
 ing to death, and he had for his 
 sorrows no inner consolation. He 
 had ever had that touch of mystical 
 imagination inseparable from the 
 iS 
 
 l|l||^R^pWJli>- 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 far north, yet he had none of that re- 
 ligious belief which swallowed up 
 natural awe and turned it to the re- 
 fining of life, and to the advantage 
 of a man's soul. Now it was forced 
 in upon him that his child was wiser 
 than himself; wiser and safer. His 
 life had been spent in the wastes, 
 with rough deeds and rugged habits, 
 and a youth of hardship, danger, and 
 almost savage endurance had given 
 him a half-barbarian temperament, 
 which could strike an angry blow at 
 one moment and fondle to death at 
 the next. 
 
 When he married sweet Lucette 
 
 Barbond his religion reached little 
 
 farther than a belief in the Scarlet 
 
 Hunter of the Kimash Hills and 
 
 19 
 
( 
 
 if 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 those voices that could be heard call- 
 ing in the night, till their time of 
 sleep be past and they should rise 
 and reconquer the north. 
 
 Not even Father Corraine, whose 
 ways were like those of his Master, 
 could ever bring him to a more 
 definite faith. His wife had at first 
 striven with him, mourning yet lov- 
 ing. Sometimes the savage in him 
 had broken out over the little crea- 
 ture, merely because barbaric tyr- 
 anny was in him — torture followed 
 by the passionate kiss. But how was 
 she philosopher enough to under- 
 stand the cause 1 
 
 When she fled from their hut one 
 bitter day, as he roared some wild 
 words at her, it was because her 
 
 20 
 
 ( f .i 
 
 ST^ 
 
 t 
 
 ^£b-^ ^:!t f- f ''V^SM.- <^ 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 nerves had all been shaken from 
 threatened death by wild beasts, (of 
 this he did not knew) and his 
 violence drove her mad. She had 
 run out of the house, and on, and 
 on, and on— and she had never come 
 back. That was weeks ago, and 
 there had been no word nor sign of 
 her since. The man was now busy 
 with it all, in a slow, cumbrous way. 
 A nature more to be touched by 
 things seen than by things told, his 
 mind was being awakened in a mas- 
 sive kind of fashion. He was view- 
 ing this crisis of his life as one sees 
 a human face in the wide searching 
 light of a great fire. He was rest- 
 less, but he held himself still by a 
 strong effort, not wishing to disturb 
 
 21 
 
 
•f( 
 
 i( 
 
 i ' 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 the little sleeper. His eyes seemed 
 to retreat farther and farther back 
 under his shaggy brows. 
 
 The great logs in the chimney 
 burned brilliantly, and a brass cruci- 
 fix over the child's head now and 
 again reflected soft little flashes of 
 light. This caught the hunter's eye. 
 Presently there grew up in him a 
 vague kind of hope that, somehow, 
 this symbol would bring him luck- 
 that was the way he put it to him- 
 self. He had felt this— and some- 
 thing more — when Dominique 
 prayed. Somehow, Dominique's 
 prayer was the only one he had ever 
 heard that had gone home to him, 
 had opened up the big sluices of his 
 nature, and let the light of God flood 
 
 22 
 
 •Afmmm^M'^ ^^i^f^^JT* 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 in. No, there was another: the one 
 Lucette made on the day that they 
 were married, when a wonderful 
 timid reverence played through his 
 hungry love for her. 
 
IV 
 
 TTOURS passed. All at once, 
 •*■ ■■■ without any other motion or 
 gesture, the boy's eyes opened wide 
 with a strange, intense look. 
 
 "Father," he said slowly, and in a 
 kind of dream, "when you hear a 
 sweet horn blow at night, is it the 
 Scarlet Hunter calling?" 
 
 "P'r'aps. Why, Dominique?" 
 24 
 
 4 
 
 x~mfi^:i.fj'-'-f. ir^^iX'^^f^::^" 
 
TUF- WHITF SWAN 
 
 He made up his mind to humor the 
 boy, though it gave him strange 
 aching forebodings. He had seen 
 grown men and women with these 
 fancies— and they had died. 
 
 "I heard one blowing just now, 
 and the sounds seemed to wave over 
 my head. P'r'aps he's calling some 
 one that's lost." 
 "Mebbe." 
 
 "And I heard a voice singing — It 
 wasn't a bird to-night." 
 
 "There was no voice, Domi- 
 nique." 
 
 "Yes, yes." There was some- 
 thing fine in the grave, courteous 
 certainty of the lad. "I waked, and 
 you were sitting there thinking, and 
 I shut my eyes again, and I heard 
 
 25 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 the voice. I remember the tu se and 
 the words." 
 
 "What were the words?' lu 
 spite of himself the hunter felt 
 awed. 
 
 "I've heard mother sing them, or 
 something most like them : 
 
 " 'Why does the fire no longer burn? 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 Why does the tent-door swing outward? 
 
 (I have no home.) 
 Oh, let me breathe hard in your face! 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me? 
 
 (I have no home.)' " 
 
 The boy paused. 
 
 "Was that all, Dominique?" 
 
 "No, not all." 
 
 " 'Let us make friends with the stars; 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 
 26 
 
 [ 1 
 
 X .m 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 Give me your hand, I will hold it. 
 
 (I have no home.) 
 Let us go hunting together. 
 
 (I am so lonely.) 
 We will sleep at God's camp to-night. 
 
 (I have no home.)' " 
 
 Dominique did not sing, but re- 
 cited the words with a sort of chant- 
 ing inflection. 
 
 "What does it mean when you 
 hear a voice like that, father?" 
 
 "I don't know. Who told— your 
 mother— the song?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I suppose 
 she just made them up— she and 
 God. . . . There! There it is 
 again? Don't you hear it— don't 
 you hear it, daddy?" 
 
 "No, Dominique, it's only the ket- 
 tle singing." 
 
 27 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 11 
 
 "A kettle isn't a voice. Daddy—" 
 He paused a little, then went on, 
 hesitatingly: "I saw a white swan 
 fly through the door over your 
 shoulder when you came in to- 
 night." 
 
 "No, no, Dominique, it was a 
 flurry of snow blowing over my 
 shoulder." 
 
 "But it looked at me with two 
 shining eyes." 
 
 "That was two stars shining 
 through the door, my son." 
 
 "How could there be snow flying 
 and stars shining, too, father?" 
 
 "It was just drift-snow on a light 
 wind, but the stars were shining 
 above, Dominique." 
 28 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 The man's voice was anxious and 
 unconvincing, his eyes had a 
 hungry, haunted look. The legend 
 of the White Swan had to do with 
 the passing of a human soul. The 
 Swan had come in — would it go out 
 alone? He touched the boy's hand 
 — it was hot with fever; he felt the 
 pulse— it ran high; he watched the 
 face — it had a glowing light. Some- 
 thing stirred within him, and passed 
 like a wave to the farthest course of 
 his being. Through his misery he 
 had touched the garment of the 
 Master of Souls. As though a voice 
 said to him there, "Some one hath 
 touched me," he got to his feet, and, 
 with a sudden blind humility, lit two 
 
 3 29 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 : 
 
 candles, and placed them on a shelf 
 in a corner before a porcelain fig- 
 ure of the Virgin, as he had seen his 
 wife do. Then he picked a small 
 handful of fresh spruce twigs from 
 a branch over the chimney, and laid 
 them beside the candles. After a 
 short pause he came slowly to the 
 head of the boy's bed. Very sol- 
 emnly he touched the foot of the 
 Christ on the cross with the tips of 
 his fingers, and brought them to his 
 lips with an indescribable reverence. 
 After a moment, standing with eyes 
 fixed on the face of the crucified 
 figure, he said, in a shaking voice: 
 
 "Pardon, bon Jhu! Sauves man 
 enfant! Ne me laissez pas seul!" 
 
 The boy looked up with eyes 
 30 
 
 fH 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 again grown unnaturally heavy, and 
 said: 
 
 "Amen! . . . Bon Jesu! . . . En- 
 core/ Encore, man pere!" 
 
npHE boy slept. The father 
 ■■■ stood still by the bed for a 
 time, but at last slowly turned and 
 went toward the fire. 
 
 Outside, two figures were ap- 
 proaching the hut — a man and a 
 woman; yet at first glance the man 
 might easily have been taken for a 
 woman, because of his clean-shaven 
 face, of the long black robe which 
 he wore, and because his hair fell 
 loose on his shoulders. 
 
 "Have patience, my daughter," 
 32 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 said the man. "Do not enter till I 
 call you. But stand close to the 
 door, if you will, and hear all." 
 
 So saying he raised his hand as in 
 a kind of benediction, passed to the 
 door, and, after tapping very softly, 
 opened it, entered, and closed it be- 
 hind him— not so quickly, however, 
 but that the woman caught a glimpse 
 of the father and the boy. In her 
 eyes there was the divine look of 
 motherhood. 
 
 "Peace be to this house!" said the 
 man gently, as he stepped forward 
 frcm the door. 
 
 The father, startled, turned 
 shrinkingly on him, as though he had 
 seen a spirit. 
 
 "M'sim' le cure!" he said in 
 33 
 
&•: 
 
 i ^ 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 French, w th an accent much poorer 
 than that of the priest, or even of his 
 own son. He had learned Frenc.i 
 from his wife; he himself was Eng- 
 lish. 
 
 The priest's quick eye had taken 
 in the lighted candles at the little 
 shrine, even as he saw the painfully 
 changed aspect of the man. 
 
 "The wife and child, Bagot?" he 
 asked, looking round. "Ah, the 
 boy!" he added, and going toward 
 the bed, continued, presently, in a 
 low voice: "Dominique is ill?" 
 
 Bagot nodded, and then answered: 
 "A wildcat and then fever, Father 
 Corraine." 
 
 The priest felt the boy's pulse 
 softly, then with a close personal 
 34 
 
 i! 
 
 l:;l 
 
 ■:#*? 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 look he spoke hardly above his 
 breath, yet distinctly, too: 
 "Your wife, Bagot?" 
 "She is not here, m'sieu'." The 
 voice was low and gloomy. 
 "Where is she, Bagot?" 
 "I do not know, m'sieu'." 
 "When did you see her last?" 
 "Four weeks ago, m'sieu'." 
 "That was September, this is 
 October — winter. On the ranches 
 they let their cattle loose upon the 
 plains in winter, knowing not where 
 they go, yet looking for them to re- 
 turn in the spring. But a woman — 
 a woman and a wife— is different. 
 . . . Bagot, you have been a rough, 
 hard man, and you have been a 
 stranger to your God, but I thought 
 35 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 you loved your wife and child I" 
 The hunter's hands clenched, and 
 a wicked light flashed up into his 
 eyes; but the calm, benignant gaze 
 of the other cooled the tempest in 
 his veins. The priest sat down on 
 the couch where the child lay, and 
 took the fevered hand in his own. 
 
 "Stay where you are, Bagot, just 
 there where you are, and tell me 
 what your trouble is, and why your 
 wife is not here. ... Say all 
 honestly— by the name of the 
 Christ 1" he added, lifting up an iron 
 crucifix that hung on his breast. 
 
 Bagot sat down on a bench near 
 
 the fireplace, the light playing on 
 
 his bronzed, powerful face, his eyes 
 
 shining beneath his heavy brows like 
 
 36 
 
 \l 
 
 i 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 two coals. After a moment he be- 
 gan: 
 
 "I don't know how it started. 
 I'd lost a lot of pelts— stolen they 
 were, down on the Child o' Sin 
 River. Well, she was hasty and 
 nervous, like as not— she always was 
 brisker and more sudden than I am. 
 I— I laid my powder-horn and 
 whiskey-flash— up there 1" 
 
 He pointed to the little shrine of 
 the Virgin, where now his candles 
 were burning. The priest's grave 
 eyes did not change expression at all, 
 but looked out wisely, as though he 
 understood everything before it was 
 told. 
 
 Bagot continued: "I didn't notice 
 it, but she had put some flowers 
 37 
 
ff 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 there. She said something with an 
 edge, her face all snapping angry, 
 threw the things down, and called 
 me a heathen and a wicked heretic 
 —and I don't say now but she'd a 
 right to do it. But I let out then, 
 for them stolen pelts was rasping 
 me on the raw. I said something 
 pretty rough, and made as if I was 
 goin' to break her in two — just 
 fetched up my hands, and went like 
 this!—" 
 
 With a singular simplicity he 
 made a wild gesture with his hands, 
 and an animal-like snarl came from 
 his throat. Then he looked at the 
 priest with the honest intensity of a 
 boy. 
 
 "Yes, that was what you did— 
 38 
 
 ;- 
 
 -■^^Mm 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 what was it you laij which was 
 'pretty rough'?" 
 
 There was a slight hesitation, then 
 came the reply: 
 
 "I said there was enough powder 
 spilt on the floor to kill all the 
 priests in heaven." 
 
 A fire suddenly shot up into Fa- 
 ther Corraine's face, and his lips 
 tightened for an instant, but pres- 
 ently he was as before, and he 
 said: 
 
 "How that will face you one day, 
 Bagot! Go on. What else?" 
 
 Sweat began to break out on 
 Bagot's face, and he spoke as though 
 he were carrying a heavy weight on 
 his shoulders, low and brokenly. 
 
 "Then I said, 'And if virgins has 
 39 
 
J ^ 
 
 14 
 
 ' 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 it so fine, why didn't you stay 
 
 one?' " 
 
 "Blasphemer!" said the priest in 
 a stern, reproachful voice, his face 
 turning a little pale, and he brought 
 the crucifix to his lips. "To the 
 mother of your child— shame 1 
 What more?" 
 
 "She threw up her hands to her 
 ears with a wild cry, ran out of the 
 house, down the hills, and away. I 
 went to the door and watched her 
 as long as I could see her, and waited 
 for her to come back— but she never 
 did. I've hunted and hunted, but I 
 can't find her." Then, with a sud- 
 den thought, "Do you know any- 
 thing of her, m'sieu'?" 
 The priest appeared not to hear 
 40 
 
 «l 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 the question. Turning for a mo- 
 ment toward the boy, who now was 
 in a deep sleep, he looked at him 
 intently. Presently he spoke. 
 
 "Ever since I married you and 
 Lucette Barbond you have stood in 
 the way of her duty, Bagot. How 
 well I remember that first day when 
 you knelt before me! Was ever so 
 sweet and good a girl — with her 
 golden eyes and the look of summer 
 in her face, and her heart all pure! 
 Nothing had spoiled her — you can- 
 not spoil such women — God is in 
 their hearts. But you, what have 
 you cared? One day you would 
 fondle her, and the next you were a 
 savage — and she, so gentle, so 
 gentle all the time. Then, for her 
 41 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 J.fl 
 
 t ;!i 
 
 n 
 
 |H 
 
 religion and the faitii of her child 
 — she has fought for it, prayed for 
 it, suffered for it. You thought you 
 had no need of religion, for you had 
 so much happiness, which you did 
 not deserve — that was it. But she 
 — with all a woman suffers, how can 
 she bear life — and man — without 
 God? No, it is not possible. And 
 you thought you and your few super- 
 stitions were enough for her. — Ah, 
 poor fooll She should worship 
 youl So selfish, so small, for a man 
 who knows in his heart how great 
 God is. You did not love her." 
 
 "By the Heaven above, yes!" said 
 Bagot, half starting to his feet. 
 
 "Ah, 'by the Heaven above,' no! 
 nor the child. For true love is un- 
 42 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 selfish and patient, and where it is 
 the stronger, it cares for the wealier; 
 but it was your wife who was un- 
 selfish, patient, and cared for you. 
 Every time she said an ave she 
 thought of you, and her every 
 thanks to God had you therein. 
 They know you well in heaven, 
 Bagot— through your wife. Did 
 you ever pray— ever since I married 
 you to her?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "An hour or so ago." 
 
 Once again the priest's eyes 
 glanced towards the lighted candles. 
 
VI 
 
 PRESENTLY he said: "You 
 asked me if I had heard any- 
 thing of your wife. Listen, and be 
 patient while you listen. . . . Three 
 weeks ago I was camping on the 
 Sundust Plains, over against the 
 Young Sky River. In the morning, 
 as I was lighting a fire outside my 
 tent, my young Cree Indian with 
 me, I saw coming over the crest of 
 44 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 a landwave, from the very lips of 
 the sunrise, as it were, a band of In- 
 dians. I could not quite make them 
 out. I hoisted my little flag on the 
 tent, and they hurried on to me. I 
 did not know the tribe — they had 
 come from near Hudson's Bay. 
 They spoke Chinook, and I could 
 understand them. Well, as they 
 came near, I saw that they had a 
 woman with them." 
 
 Bagot leaned forward, his body 
 strained, every muscle tense. "A 
 woman!" he -jaid, as if breathing 
 gave him sorrow — "my wife?" 
 
 "Your wife." 
 
 "Quick! Quick! Go on— oh, go 
 on, m'sieu' — good father." 
 
 "She fell at my feet, begging 
 * 45 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 me to save her. ... I waved her 
 off." 
 
 The sweat dropped from Bagot's 
 forehead, a low growl broke from 
 him, and he made such a motion as 
 a lion might make at its prey. 
 
 "You wouldn't — wouldn't save 
 her — you coward!" He ground 
 the words out. 
 
 The priest raised his palm against 
 the other's violence. "Hush! . . . 
 She drew away, saying that God and 
 man had deserted her. . . . We 
 had breakfast, the chief and I. 
 Afterwards, when the chief had 
 eaten much and was in good humor, 
 I asked him where he had got the 
 woman. He said that he had found 
 her on the plains — she had lost 
 46 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 her way. I told him then that I 
 wanted to buy her. He said to mc. 
 'What does a priest want of a wo- 
 man?' I said that I wished to 
 give her back to her husband. He 
 said that he had found her, and she 
 was his, and that he would marry 
 her when they reached the great 
 camp of the tribe. I was patient. 
 It would not do to make him angry. 
 I wrote down on a piece of bark 
 the things that I would give him for 
 her: an order on the Company at 
 Fort o' Sin for shot, blankets and 
 beads. He said no." 
 
 The priest paused. Bagot's face 
 was all swimming with sweat, his 
 body was rigid, but the veins of his 
 neck knotted and twisted. 
 47 
 
hi 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 "For the love of God go on I" he 
 said hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes, for the love of God. I 
 have no money, I am poor, but the 
 Company will always honor my 
 orders, for I pay sometimes by the 
 help of le hon Jesu. Well, I added 
 some things to the list: a saddle, a 
 rifle, and some flannel. But no, he 
 would not. Once more I put many 
 things down. It was a big bill — it 
 would keep me poor for five years. 
 To save your wife, John Bagot, you 
 who drove her from your door, 
 blaspheming and railing at such as 
 I. ... I offered the things, and 
 told him that was all I could 
 give. After a little he shook his 
 head, and said that he must have the 
 48 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 woman for his wife. I did not 
 know what to add. I said, 'She is 
 white, and the white people will 
 never rest till they have killed you 
 all, if you do this thing. The Com- 
 pany will track you down.' Then 
 he said, 'The whites must catch 
 me and fight me before they 
 kill me.' . . . What was there to 
 do?" 
 
 Bagot came near to the priest, 
 bending over him savagely: 
 
 "You let her stay with them — you, 
 with hands like a man!" 
 
 "Hush," was the calm, reproving 
 answer. "I was one man, they 
 were twenty." 
 
 "Where was your God to help 
 you, then?" 
 
 49 
 
THE GOING OF 
 
 "Her God and mine was with 
 me." 
 
 Bagot's eyes blazed. "Why 
 didn't you offer rum — rum? They'd 
 have done it for that — one — five — 
 ten kegs, of rum!" 
 
 He swayed to and fro in his ex- 
 citement, yet their voices hardly 
 rose above a hoarse whisper all the 
 time. 
 
 "You forget," answered the priest, 
 "that it is against the law, and that 
 as a priest of my order I am vowed 
 to give no rum to an Indian." 
 
 "A vow I A vow I Son of God I 
 what is a vow beside a woman — my 
 wife?" 
 
 His misery and his rage were 
 pitiful to see. 
 
 50 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 "Perjure my soul I Oflfer rum I 
 Break my vow in the face of the 
 enemies of God's Church! What 
 have you done for me that I should 
 do this for you, John Bagot?" 
 
 "Coward!" was the man's despair- 
 ing cry, with a sudden threatening 
 movement. "Christ himself would 
 have broke a vow to s^ve her." 
 
 The grave, kind eyes of the priest 
 met the other's fierce gaze, and 
 quieted the wild storm that was 
 about to break. 
 
 "Who am I that I should teach 
 my Master?" he said, solemnly. 
 "What would you give Christ, 
 Bagot, if He had saved her to you?" 
 
 The man shook with grief, and 
 tears rushed from his eyes, so sud- 
 51 
 
i1 '4 
 
 THE GOING OF 
 
 denly and fully had a new emotion 
 passed through him. 
 
 "Give— give!" he cried, "I 
 would give twenty years of my 
 life!" 
 
 The figure of the priest stretched 
 up with gentle grandeur. Hold- 
 ing out the iron crucifix, he said: 
 "On your knees and swear it, John 
 Bagotl" 
 
 There was something inspiring, 
 commanding, in the voice and man- 
 ner, and Bagot, with a new hope 
 rushing through his veins, knelt 
 and repeated his words. 
 
 The priest turned to the door, and 
 called, "Madame Lucettel" 
 
 The boy, hearing, waked, and sat 
 up in bed suddenly. 
 52 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 "Mother! mother!" he cried, as 
 the door flew open. 
 
 The mother came to her hus- 
 band's arms, laughing and weeping, 
 and an instant after\vards was pour- 
 ing out her love and anxiety over 
 her child. 
 
 Father Corraine now faced the 
 man, and with a soft exaltation of 
 voice and manner said: 
 
 "John Bagot, in the name of 
 Christ, I demand twenty years of 
 your life — of love and obedience 
 of God. I broke my vow; I per- 
 jured my soul; I bought your wife 
 with ten kegs of rum." 
 
 The tall hunter dropped again to 
 his knees, and caught the priest's 
 hand to kiss it. 
 
 S3 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 "No, no— this!" the priest said, 
 and laid his iron crucifix against the 
 other's lips. 
 
 1 
 
VII 
 
 ■pvOMINIQUE'S voice came 
 ■*-' clearly through the room: 
 
 "Mother, I saw the white swan 
 fly away through the door when you 
 came in." 
 
 "My dear, my dear," she said, 
 
 "there was no white swan." But 
 
 she clasped the boy to her breast 
 
 protectingly, and whispered an ave. 
 
 55 
 
THE WHITE SWAN 
 
 "Peace be to this house," said the 
 voice of the priest. 
 
 And there was peace — for the 
 child lived, and the man has loved, 
 and has kept his vow, even unto this 
 day. 
 
 For the visions of the boy, who 
 can know the divers ways in which 
 God speaks to the children of menl 
 
 m 
 
 THE END 
 
NOVELS BY SIR GILBERT PARKER 
 
 Tha Going of the White S«.an 
 
 The SeeU of the Mighty 
 
 The Trail of the Sword 
 
 
 
 Mrs. Falchion 
 
 D. APPLKTON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK