He was forgotten: the night life of the club whirled on without him. The talk was the same, the lights glittered as ever, the crowds thronged through the streets without, the same round of gaieties made its lifeless and eternal circuit. By a strange paradox he suddenly knew that if he were remembered at all, it was by those who had shared with him in his debauches. And after all they had been the most vital part of his old life. They were the thing most worth while. At least he had lived then, he had known basic exultations and passions, he had not been soft and dead. There had been stress, wakefulness, vitality. Perhaps their pleasure lay in the fact that they had simulated life. But by the other clubmen, men he had laughed with and talked to, he was simply one who had been and passed on.
He was stirred to the depths of his being by the contrast here. He laughed at the thought that he might ever be forgotten by the companion beside him now—the great shepherd dog that muzzled his hands. Had they not fought on the same side in battle? Had they not faced the same enemies, known the same stress, felt the same pinch of cold in the crisp dawns and the same cheering warmth of the fire? Had they not gone together into still and sinister glens after the lost sheep? They had braved the dangers, they had endured the storms, they had fought the same fight for the same reward—the joy of living and of service. Here was one of whom he did not know merely the exterior. He felt the animal’s heart pounding against his own body, and he knew its strength and its courage. Its fidelity, its love, its true and noble worth could not be put into words. And here was a friend, as long as blood stirred in his veins, who would be faithful.
No artificial lights glittered in these mountains. Rather Hugh knew those known to the shepherds who watched the sky for a sign in olden days—the peace of the stars and the glory of the moon. The only talk was such as he and the shepherd dog had together, the complaint of the sheep, and the voices of the forest about him. The crowds were far, the gaieties were known at last as the dreams they really were, and in their place was the silence, the inner peace, the joy of conquest, and the white sheep, feeding in the shadow of the high peaks. He was far and alone, but he was content.
But Hugh was not entirely forgotten. Even now the Old Colonel sat in his chair in the lounging room, his factory-tied tie at an angle at his collar, his hands folded, his eyes seeing out and beyond the city that stretched about him. And to him, at least, Hugh was still a reality. Even if he were dead—slain in some great stress in those far Rockies—he was more vital and alive in the Colonel’s eye than he had ever been before. Had he won, or had he failed? Was he standing straight or had he fallen? Had he gone down, or even now was he sitting, redeemed and recreated, beside his camp fire in the Land of Mighty Men?
XIX
Beyond all other joys and compensations for these three months in Smoky Land, there remained—a subject for humble thanks to the skies—the comradeship of Alice. Every day it made the struggle more worth while, his happiness more complete.
She made periodical trips to his camps, bringing food for himself and salt for his sheep, and assisting him as he moved the flock from range to range. He counted the days of her absence, and the nights that she sat beside his fire simply opened a new world to him. They had a thousand things to tell each other: Hugh’s little victories over coyotes and cougars, the new tricks of Spot the flock leader, some little faithfulness on the part of Shep, the dog, and their exultation at the passing of the days. For if they passed the present month in safety, if Fargo and his gang did not rout them before October first, the victory was won.
She cooked his meals and mended some of the holes in his soiled clothing, and her laugh rang with the bells of fairyland over their silent camp. They had serious moments in which—with far-reaching intimacy—they told each other their own secret thoughts and philosophies of life—sober talk such as was never heard in the rooms of the Greenwood Club. For the first time in his life Hugh had really known self-expression. The inmost springs of his nature flowed forth. And he was constantly amazed and delighted by the girl’s ideas and points of view. There was nothing particularly modern about them. In fact, Hugh thought that they had passed from the earth in his grandmother’s time. Of course they were trite, perhaps they could have been proven ridiculous by the logic of a realist, and the only reason she had for them was the impulse of her own conscience; yet Hugh found himself staring at her as if she were a being from another planet. But Hugh’s amazement was due to his own lack of knowledge of the heart of humanity. He would have been surprised to know that ninety out of every hundred girls, east and west and south and north, had the same illogical conscience, the same high heart, the
