Seattle University - Aegis Yearbook (Seattle, WA)

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28 THE PALESTRA Seated at a roughly hewn table, over their half-forgotten drinks, they exchanged reminiscences. “And Pierre Monet—you remember Andre—Little Pierre who used to play the banjo—he died last fall, consumption I guess.” The newcomer’s eyes filled with quick compassion; “Ah, dat’s bad,” lie murmured slowly, “he was nice young fellah.” In silence they lit their pipes and, as though by mutual agreement, raised the half-forgotten glasses to dry lips. “ And Tommie LaLonde, he went out to the ‘States.’ ” “Ych,” the other’s eyes bespoke lagging interest, “tired of prospectin’ I guess?” “Um huh,” his friend went on, half unconscious of the question, “An’ Francois Panton lie’s married.” “Huh!” the voyageur was fully interested now, “dat’s fine—good—good. Where does he live? I’ll say ‘hello’ when I pass by. Second house to de left? Good! Let’s have a drink to Francois—Gud luck! By golly dat stuff’s hot—she burn all the way down. An' who did Francois marry?” Re-lighting his pipe carefully and sipping again at the drink the other shifted his posture and made a lazy reply, half-bored; “Oh that little girl that came over from France, little Jeanne —you know—she’s a fine------” But Dclac had risen, his face showing grey beneath the heavy growth of black, untrimmed beard. “No! No! Not the little Jeanne that lived on the point!” “Yeh—sure!” answered the other, “why? what’s the matter, man? You look sick.” “Oh nothin’.” the other strove to reply laconically. “Too much smoke—I guess. I’m go-in’ out, good night.” “Good-night. responded the other, puzzled at his friend’s haste, “why the- But the door slammed. Dclac had gone, into the night he rushed, his pulse wildly bounding, his heart threatening to rise up and choke him. “No! No!” he muttered in a half sobbing whine, “No! he lied! Around the corner to the left he made his way. There, faintly silhouetted against the snow, was the shadowy outline of the house. He stopped before the window that sends its ruddy streamer of light dancing waver ingly, hazily here and there, spirit-like amid the dusk. He moves closer and looks. Seated in a chair near the broad-mouthed fireplace, sat a woman—it was Jeanne—his Jeanne. In her arms she held a year-old babe. While just bevond. in quiet retrospection, reposed the figure of a man. Francois Banton!—her husband! His blood, which had flowed warm and joyous, slowly chilled like a swimmer who, having ventured too far out from shore, feels the dcadeningly sluggish advance of the cold and gradually relaxes to sink slowly down into that dark green oblivion which closes over his hcad- -gho$tily gurgles and is still. And his great frame shook like that of the giant fir that stood on the edge of the canyon when, being roughly touched by the cruel blizzard, first murmurs in gentle remonstrance, then quivers in abject fear. And so now he stood there alone beneath the myriad of cold, glittering stars that twinkled in a sort of ghoulish derision at his silent sorrow. “Mon Dleu,” he brokenly muttered at last. “Six years I work—for dis.” Then cautiously, lest he disturb that quiet peaceful scene, he retreated backwards, very slowly. T he cold which entered everybody, every living animal and rendered them insensible to feeling. only accentuated that dull, hurting pain in his heart. His whole body, which had been the

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‘27 S E A T T L E C () L L E G E A iV N U A L of those raftlike makeshift steamers that ply between the few lonely windswept villages. There had been a wreck. His boat had crashed upon one of the many hidden rocks, which render that great Arctic river so dangerous to navigation. It was crumbled and was crushed like an egg thrown with youthful accuracy against the stalwart opposition of a cement wall. Out of the chaos that followed he drifted half-dead, wholly helpless, clinging to a bit of drift-wood which chance had directed into his desperately seeking fingers. At a point farther down the river he was rescued by two taciturn Indians, who by dint of ceaseless labor, and knowing hands, finally fanned anew the flame of life, which had dangerously smouldered within him. Apparently he alone, of all that happy, gold-seeking band of men, that had embarked upon the steamer, was saved. He had written to her during his convalescence—once; for in the North, where mails are slow and uncertain, and fingers crooked and gnarled with toil do not readily grasp the pen, writing is an uncommon practice. Six years he had labored; not the petty, irregular work of one who strives merely to gain enough to keep himself in existence, hut the feverish, furious toil of a man who is putting his very heart into the struggle. And always in his mind remained the picture of his Jeanne— and always rang in his ears, “I'll be true to you, Andre, tho I have to wait forever.” It was true his Idol of wealth had been shattered; but he had made enough that he might start his home and then—but he would find a way. Most of all, lie was coming home to her and so he was happy. Into the dark shadowy forest he plunged—up the steep hill, struggling along with a heart that beat faster with each succeeding step. The sun, finally beaten back in its daily battle with the shadows, began slowly to recede into a nest woven of its own golden beams, and the shadow of Andre Dclac began to lengthen and grow dim. Still he trudged on and on with no sign of abating. Far off in the purpling gloom a star emerged. Another! No—it was the first of the few lights that dimly twinkled out from the village of Illyuk. Unconsciously he increased his pace until now he fairly leaped along. His dream of six long, weary years was soon to be realized. Yes, he had labored long in the desert wastes and now—to the victor belonged the spoils. The town had been reached. Past the simple, unobtrusive little Catholic Church, that stood as a barrier against the iniquities of the outside civilization, he made his way. At last he reached the saloon and, recognizing the face of an old friend, entered. 'File place was hot. Clouds of blue smoke drifted lazily up from the bowls of a score of pipes, blackened by constant usage, and melted into the golden colored, madly leaping Hatnes of the great fireplace. He looked at the man he knew so well, but received in return only the casual, disinterested glance such as is given to the countless, drifting bands of miners that passed through every day. Finally, walking up to him, he touched him lightly on the shoulder and said: “It is I—Andre Dclac, don’t you remember?” In the other’s eyes came the light of subdued anger, as to one being rudely awakened in the midst of a pleasant dream; followed by a cursory glance of mistrust—“Dclac was drowned six years ago,” he answered shortly, half-turning as if to resume his fragrant smoke. 'Flic other’s fingers tightened on his sleeves and swiftly he told him his story. “Andre!—my old friend!,” into the other’s eyes at last came the glad light of the believer. “Come, let us drink once together and we’ll tell what has happened since we said ‘good-bye’ last.”

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S E A T T I. E COLLEGE ANNUAL 29 perfect personification of a vigorous active manhood, now slumped along; a wreck on lifes sea of hope. Up to the canyon where the great lonesome fir extended its arms to him with a sigh of compassion, as only a real, true friend can sigh, he slowly, aimlessly made his way. Here he stopped and turned for one last look. t All was peaceful and still, as though the whole of nature was watching him with hated breath. The house still stood shadowy and silent against the snow. 1 he light still wavered mistily out from the window, but the light of his greatest desire had vanished into the gloomy shadows of disappointment. Then, pointing his arms to the wildly fantastic Aurora that blazed above him, he began in a cold hard voice, as though pronouncing a curse, “And so this is the North—the land of wealth. This is the land of strong men, and true. The land of realized dreams. Bah! It is the land of disappointment. My Idol, of Wealth I sought and built in my mind—it is shattered. And my Idol of Love, which to me was more than anything, everything else—it is shattered. I will go back to my France, my land of sunshine and laughter. It beckons and calls—I will answer. So you sneer and laugh—so. Begone! To me you are forever the “LAND OF SHA 1 I LRKD IDOLS.’ R. E. Cooni.an’, ’IS.