Adventure Magazine Cover, April 3, 1918 — page 60: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

58 The latter she filled with candles, and as she lighted them, the Hudson’s Bay officers came tramping over from the store, Drum- mond, Galt, Lewis in from the Pas, Lea from the Nepowin, Garry from Moose Lake, Hampton from Chimawawin, Jarvis from Grand Rapids, Wells from the Seepanock Channel. “Bon soir, Mademoiselle Wayne,” greet- ed Drummond, opening the door in the lead, his volatile face a-quiver with sup- pressed merriment. ‘‘Wan happy New Year to you, an’ I’m wondaire if you re- membaire dis day be Oochemegou Kesi- gow?” ‘“‘Soaring Eagle told you, Eugene, ” flashed Joan intuitively, breaking into laughter with them all. ‘‘But it shall never be said that I did less for white men than for red. You may kiss my hand, sir.” With the air of an old-world courtier Drummond bent over it, then all his com- panions, and Joan with a queenly gesture waved them to the table. “The feast is ready; be seated, gentle- men,” she directed. She took her stately place behind the silver tea-service. Carlisle took his opposite her, beyond the branching candelabra, at the foot of the table, and the other officers ranged themselves on either side. Under the mellow candlelight they dined like true lords of the North in the presence of a gracious lady. Course by course the quiet-footed Cree maids served the meal—soup of delicious moose meat, stewed ptarmigan breasts garnished with forest herbs, fish course of flaky lake trout, the savory dressed goose, the Christmas pudding and cake and the wines of Sicily and Madea. (Si THEN white the men lighted the WS) fragrant Company tobacco in their pipes, Joan stole away to her instru- ment, playing soft, dreamy airs that wafted like Summer winds through the hazy in- cense of the room. As they smoked and listened, the officers gave their brief verbal reports to Carlisle, so much fur taken in trade, this and that incident in the post routine, such and such friction with the ad- herents of the rival companies. Succinctly Garry told how avagrant party of Free-Traders sacked two of his fur trains on Moose Lake. Lea described the looting of his Nepowin post by a tribe of the French hs Adventure Company’s Indians and his struggle to save the greater part of the fur which he had managed to cache safely on the Saskatche- wan by the mouth of Ptarmigan Creek. Wells related how he had captured a Northwest guide forerouteing the See- panock Channel for brigades in the Spring and sent him southward on La Longue Traverse to the Assiniboine. ‘“‘But never fear, zur,’’? Wells concluded in his broad wheeze, ‘‘they zhan’t get through there. I will zee to’t.” Their tones were low so as not to raise discord in the music’s harmony. Joan’s playing was zephyr-like, unobtrusive as meditation, so as not to break the thread of their council. But as the talk lagged and lapsed, her music increased in volume, and the men heard the airs of their own lands swelling in their ears. With magic interpretation she played them back to those lands, to the rugged Highlands, the English downs, the vineyards of sunny France. Their battle chants, their hymns of unction, their folk legends, their hearth songs, the songs that never die she played them, and their hearts went out to their far-off homes. Galt drove an imaginary paddle down to the Sault, home of the white adventurer who had fathered him and his old mother of the Crees. Drummond lay sun-basking under the loom of the Pyrenees on the banks of the River Adour. Garry and Lea trod again their beloved Inverness and Cro- marty. Hampton climbed his Devon hills. Jarvis saw and heard the color and rattle of London. Wells stood under the waving trees upon the green lawns of the Squire’s house. Lewis watched with his aged eyes the gray seas breaking upon the foamy crags which whelped him, in his nostrils the salted fog, in his soul the void that runs: From the dim shielding of the misty island Mountains divide us and a world of seas, But still ours hearts are true, our hearts are Highland, And we in dreams behold the Hebrides. On and on she played while they drifted in their dreams and Carlisle lay back in his chair before the fireplace watching her through the blue wreaths of his pipe smoke. Ethereal, intangible she seemed through the blur, the candlelight filtering softly on her spun-gold hair and golden satin dress and striking the facets of a few choice rings upon her nimble fingers. COnnIClooo S (C@