Chapter XV: An Old Man of the North

Having walked resolutely to the black hole in the snow bank, Marian looked within. There was no door; merely an opening here. A dim lamp in the distance sent an uncertain and ghostly light down the corridor. By this light she made out numerous posts and saw that a narrow passage-way ran between them.

There was something so mysterious about the place that she hesitated on the threshold. At that moment a thought flashed through her mind, a startling and disheartening thought.

“Radio,” she murmured, “nothing but radio.”

She was convinced in an instant that her solution of the origin of the wonderful music was correct.

The persons who lived in this strange dwelling, which reminded her of pictures she had seen of the dens and caves of robbers and brigands, had somehow come into possession of a powerful radio receiving set. Somewhere in Nome, or Fairbanks, or perhaps even in Seattle—a noted musician was giving an organ recital. This radio set with its loud speaker had picked up the music and had faithfully reproduced it. That was all there was to the mystery. There was no pipe organ, no skillful musician out here in the forest wilderness. It had been stupid of her to think there might be.

This revelation, for revelation it surely seemed to be, was both disappointing and disturbing. Disappointing, because in her adventure-loving soul she had hoped to discover here in the wilderness a thing that to all appearances could not be—a modern miracle. Disturbing it was, too, for since a mere instrument, a radio-phone, has no soul, the character of the person who operated it might be anything at all. She could not conceive of the person who actually touched the keys and caused that divine music to pour forth as a villain. Any sort of person, however, might snap on the switch that sends such music vibrating from the horn of the loud speaker of a radiophone.

For a full five minutes she wavered between two courses of action; to go on inside this den, or to go back to Attatak and attempt to pass it unobserved.

Perhaps it was the touch of a finger on what she supposed to be a far off key—the resuming of the music; perhaps it was her own utter weariness that decided her at last. Whatever it was, she set a resolute foot inside the entrance, and the next instant found herself carefully picking her way down the dark passage toward the dim lamp.

To her surprise, when she at last reached the lamp that hung over a door, she found not an oil lamp, but a small electric light bulb.

“Will marvels never cease?” she whispered.

For a second she hesitated. Should she knock? She hated spying; yet the door stood invitingly ajar. If the persons within did not appear to be the sort of persons a girl might trust; if she could see them and remain unobserved, there was still opportunity for flight.

Acting upon this impulse, she peered through the crack in the door.

Imagine her surprise upon seeing at the far end of a long, high-ceilinged, heavily timbered room, not a radio horn, but a pipe organ.

“So,” she breathed, “my first thought was right. That enchanting music _was_ produced on the spot. And by such a musician!”

Seated with his side toward her, was the bent figure of an old man. His long, flowing white beard, his snowy locks, the dreamy look upon his face as his fingers drifted back and forth across the keys, reminded her of pictures she had seen of ancient bards playing upon golden harps.

“‘Harp of the North that mouldering long has hung,’” she recited in a low voice.

The fingers on the keys suddenly ceased their drifting, the dreamy look faded from the musician’s face. A smile lighted his eyes as, turning about, he spoke in a cheery voice:

“Come in. I have been waiting for you. You are welcome to an old man’s lonely house; doubly welcome, coming as you do in time for Sunday vespers.”

This strange, almost uncanny proceeding so startled the girl that for a second she was tempted to turn and flee. The next second she had complete control of herself. Pushing the door open, as if entering the chamber of the king of fairies, she made a little bow and said:

“Thank you.”

Then, realizing how perfectly absurd her action had been, she broke into a hearty laugh and in this laugh the old man joined.

So, with the ice broken, they became friends at once.

To her vast relief she found that the old man, though he had undoubtedly been expecting them or someone else, did not know all about them. He asked if they travelled with dog team or reindeer. Upon being told that they drove reindeer, he smiled and said:

“Good. It’s lucky I have feed for your deer. Reindeer people seldom come this way. Once I was caught unprepared to entertain them, so last autumn I put in a good stock of moss and willow leaves. Your deer shall be safely housed and richly fed, and so shall you. Go bring them at once. Or shall I go with you?”

“Oh no; that is not necessary,” Marian hastened to assure him.

“Very well then, while you go I will put the birds on to broil. You are doubtless very hungry.”

Ten minutes later Marian was chattering to Attatak:

“The queerest place you ever saw; and the strangest old gentleman. But really, I think he is a dear.”