I know of no promise.
In the earlier letters?
Yes, you promised, but as I neither asked nor answered, it was unratified. So I do not know of any such promise. But I do know of another, which you, too, may remember. It was very long ago. He dropped the axe-handle to the floor and raised his head. It was so very long ago, yet I remember it distinctly, the day, the time, every detail. We were in a rose garden, you and I, your mothers rose garden. All things were budding, blossoming, and the sap of spring was in our blood. And I drew you over it was the first and kissed you full on the lips. Dont you remember?
Dont go over it, Dave, dont! I know every shameful line of it. How often have I wept! If you only knew how I have suffered
You promised me then ay, and a thousand times in the sweet days that followed. Each look of your eyes, each touch of your hand, each syllable that fell from your lips, was a promise. And then how shall I say? there came a man. He was old old enough to have begotten you and not nice to look upon, but as the world goes, clean. He had done no wrong, followed the letter of the law, was respectable. Further, and to the point, he possessed some several paltry mines, a score; it does not matter: and he owned a few miles of lands, and engineered deals, and clipped coupons. He
But there were other things, she interrupted, I told you. Pressure money matters want my people trouble. You understood the whole sordid situation. I could not help it. It was not my will. I was sacrificed, or I sacrificed, have it as you wish. But, my God! Dave, I gave you up! You never did me justice. Think what I have gone through!
It was not your will? Pressure? Under high heaven there was no thing to will you to this mans bed or that.
But I cared for you all the time, she pleaded.
I was unused to your way of measuring love. I am still unused. I do not understand.
But now! now!
We were speaking of this man you saw fit to marry. What manner of man was he? Wherein did he charm your soul? What potent virtues were his? True, he had a golden grip, an almighty golden grip. He knew the odds. He was versed in cent per cent. He had a narrow wit and excellent judgment of the viler parts, whereby he transferred this mans money to his pockets, and that mans money, and the next mans. And the law smiled. In that it did not condemn, our Christian ethics approved. By social measure he was not a bad man. But by your measure, Karen, by mine, by ours of the rose garden, what was he?
Remember, he is dead.
The fact is not altered thereby. What was he? A great, gross, material creature, deaf to song, blind to beauty, dead to the spirit. He was fat with laziness, and flabby-cheeked, and the round of his belly witnessed his gluttony
But he is dead. It is we who are now now! now! Dont you hear? As you say, I have been inconstant. I have sinned. Good. But should not you, too, cry peccavi? If I have broken promises, have not you? Your love of the rose garden was of all time, or so you said. Where is it now?
It is here! now! he cried, striking his breast passionately with clenched hand. It has always been.
And your love was a great love; there was none greater, she continued; or so you said in the rose garden. Yet it is not fine enough, large enough, to forgive me here, crying now at your feet?
The man hesitated. His mouth opened; words shaped vainly on his lips. She had forced him to bare his heart and speak truths which he had hidden from himself. And she was good to look upon, standing there in a glory of passion, calling back old associations and warmer life. He turned away his head that he might not see, but she passed around and fronted him.
Look at me, Dave! Look at me! I am the same, after all. And so are you, if you would but see. We are not changed.
Her hand rested on his shoulder, and his had half-passed, roughly, about her, when the sharp crackle of a match startled him to himself. Winapie, alien to the scene, was lighting the slow wick of the slush lamp. She appeared to start out against a background of utter black, and the flame, flaring suddenly up, lighted her bronze beauty to royal gold.
You see, it is impossible, he groaned, thrusting the fair-haired woman gently from him. It is impossible, he repeated. It is impossible.
I am not a girl, Dave, with a girls illusions, she said softly, though not daring to come back to him. It is as a woman that I understand. Men are men. A common custom of the country. I am not shocked. I divined it from the first. But ah! it is only a marriage of the country not a real marriage?
We do not ask such questions in Alaska, he interposed feebly.
I know, but
Well, then, it is only a marriage of the country nothing else.
And there are no children?
No.
Nor
No, no; nothing but it is impossible.
But it is not. She was at his side again, her hand touching lightly, caressingly, the sunburned back of his. I know the custom of the land too well. Men do it every day. They do not care to remain here, shut out from the world, for all their days; so they give an order on the P. C. C. Company for a years provisions, some money in hand, and the girl is content. By the end of that time, a man She shrugged her shoulders. And so with the girl here. We will give her an order upon the company, not for a year, but for life. What was she when you found her? A raw, meat-eating savage; fish in summer, moose in winter, feasting in plenty, starving in famine. But for you that is what she would have remained. For your coming she was happier; for your going, surely, with a life of comparative splendor assured, she will be happier than if you had never been.
No, no, he protested. It is not right.
Come, Dave, you must see. She is not your kind. There is no race affinity. She is an aborigine, sprung from the soil, yet close to the soil, and impossible to lift from the soil. Born savage, savage she will die. But we you and I the dominant, evolved race the salt of the earth and the masters thereof! We are made for each other. The supreme call is of kind, and we are of kind. Reason and feeling dictate it. Your very instinct demands it. That you cannot deny. You cannot escape the generations behind you. Yours is an ancestry which has survived for a thousand centuries, and for a hundred thousand centuries, and your line must not stop here. It cannot. Your ancestry will not permit it. Instinct is stronger than the will. The race is mightier than you. Come, Dave, let us go. We are young yet, and life is good. Come.
Winapie, passing out of the cabin to feed the dogs, caught his attention and caused him to shake his head and weakly to reiterate. But the womans hand slipped about his neck, and her cheek pressed to his. His bleak life rose up and smote him, the vain struggle with pitiless forces; the dreary years of frost and famine; the harsh and jarring contact with elemental life; the aching void which mere animal existence could not fill. And there, seduction by his side, whispering of brighter, warmer lands, of music, light, and joy, called the old times back again. He visioned it unconsciously. Faces rushed in upon him; glimpses of forgotten scenes, memories of merry hours; strains of song and trills of laughter
Come, Dave, Come. I have for both. The way is soft. She looked about her at the bare furnishings of the cabin. I have for both. The world is at our feet, and all joy is ours. Come! come!
Come, Dave, Come. I have for both. The way is soft. She looked about her at the bare furnishings of the cabin. I have for both. The world is at our feet, and all joy is ours. Come! come!
She was in his arms, trembling, and he held her tightly. He rose to his feet.. But the snarling of hungry dogs, and the shrill cries of Winapie bringing about peace between the combatants, came muffled to his ear through the heavy logs. And another scene flashed before him. A struggle in the forest, a bald-face grizzly, broken-legged, terrible; the snarling of the dogs and the shrill cries of Winapie as she urged them to the attack; himself in the midst of the crush, breathless, panting, striving to hold off red death; broken-backed, entrail-ripped dogs howling in impotent anguish and desecrating the snow; the virgin white running scarlet with the blood of man and beast; the bear, ferocious, irresistible, crunching, crunching down to the core of his life; and Winapie, at the last, in the thick of the frightful muddle, hair flying, eyes flashing, fury incarnate, passing the long hunting knife again and again Sweat started to his forehead. He shook off the clinging woman and staggered back to the wall. And she, knowing that the moment had come, but unable to divine what was passing within him, felt all she had gained slipping away.
Dave! Dave! she cried. I will not give you up! I will not give you up! If you do not wish to come, we will stay. I will stay with you. The world is less to me than are you. I will be a Northland wife to you. I will cook your food, feed your dogs, break trail for you, lift a paddle with you. I can do it. Believe me, I am strong.
Nor did he doubt it, looking upon her and holding her off from him; but his face had grown stern and gray, and the warmth had died out of his eyes.
I will pay off Pierre and the boatmen, and let them go. And I will stay with you, priest or no priest, minister or no minister; go with you, now, anywhere! Dave! Dave! Listen to me! You say I did you wrong in the past and I did let me make up for it, let me atone. If I did not rightly measure love before, let me show that I can now.
She sank to the floor and threw her arms about his knees, sobbing. And you do care for me. You do care for me. Think! The long years I have waited, suffered! You can never know! He stooped and raised her to her feet.
Listen, he commanded, opening the door and lifting her bodily outside. It cannot be. We are not alone to be considered. You must go. I wish you a safe journey. You will find it tougher work when you get up by the Sixty Mile, but you have the best boatmen in the world, and will get through all right. Will you say good-by?
Though she already had herself in hand, she looked at him hopelessly. If if if Winapie should She quavered and stopped.
But he grasped the unspoken thought, and answered, Yes. Then struck with the enormity of it, It cannot be conceived. There is no likelihood. It must not be entertained.
Kiss me, she whispered, her face lighting. Then she turned and went away.
* * * * *
Break camp, Pierre, she said to the boatman, who alone had remained awake against her return. We must be going.
By the firelight his sharp eyes scanned the woe in her face, but he received the extraordinary command as though it were the most usual thing in the world. Oui, madame, he assented. Which way? Dawson?
No, she answered, lightly enough; up; out; Dyea.
Whereat he fell upon the sleeping voyageurs, kicking them, grunting, from their blankets, and buckling them down to the work, the while his voice, vibrant with action, shrilling through all the camp. In a trice Mrs. Saythers tiny tent had been struck, pots and pans were being gathered up, blankets rolled, and the men staggering under the loads to the boat. Here, on the banks, Mrs. Sayther waited till the luggage was made ship-shape and her nest prepared.
We line up to de head of de island, Pierre explained to her while running out the long tow rope. Den we tak to das back channel, where de water not queek, and I tink we mak good tam.
A scuffling and pattering of feet in the last years dry grass caught his quick ear, and he turned his head. The Indian girl, circled by a bristling ring of wolf dogs, was coming toward them. Mrs. Sayther noted that the girls face, which had been apathetic throughout the scene in the cabin, had now quickened into blazing and wrathful life.
What you do my man? she demanded abruptly of Mrs. Sayther. Him lay on bunk, and him look bad all the time. I say, What the matter, Dave? You sick? But him no say nothing. After that him say, Good girl Winapie, go way. I be all right bimeby. What you do my man, eh? I think you bad woman.
Mrs. Sayther looked curiously at the barbarian woman who shared the life of this man, while she departed alone in the darkness of night.
I think you bad woman, Winapie repeated in the slow, methodical way of one who gropes for strange words in an alien tongue. I think better you go way, no come no more. Eh? What you think? I have one man. I Indian girl. You Merican woman. You good to see. You find plenty men. Your eyes blue like the sky. Your skin so white, so soft.
Coolly she thrust out a brown forefinger and pressed the soft cheek of the other woman. And to the eternal credit of Karen Sayther, she never flinched. Pierre hesitated and half stepped forward; but she motioned him away, though her heart welled to him with secret gratitude. Its all right, Pierre, she said. Please go away.
He stepped back respectfully out of earshot, where he stood grumbling to himself and measuring the distance in springs.
Um white, um soft, like baby. Winapie touched the other cheek and withdrew her hand. Bimeby mosquito come. Skin get sore in spot; um swell, oh, so big; um hurt, oh, so much. Plenty mosquito; plenty spot. I think better you go now before mosquito come. This way, pointing down the stream, you go St. Michaels; that way, pointing up, you go Dyea. Better you go Dyea. Good-by.
And that which Mrs. Sayther then did, caused Pierre to marvel greatly. For she threw her arms around the Indian girl, kissed her, and burst into tears.
Be good to him, she cried. Be good to him.
Then she slipped half down the face of the bank, called back Good-by, and dropped into the boat amidships. Pierre followed her and cast off. He shoved the steering oar into place and gave the signal. Le Goire lifted an old French chanson; the men, like a row of ghosts in the dim starlight, bent their backs to the tow line; the steering oar cut the black current sharply, and the boat swept out into the night.
WHICH MAKE MEN REMEMBER
Fortune La Pearle crushed his way through the snow, sobbing, straining, cursing his luck, Alaska, Nome, the cards, and the man who had felt his knife. The hot blood was freezing on his hands, and the scene yet bright in his eyes, the man, clutching the table and sinking slowly to the floor; the rolling counters and the scattered deck; the swift shiver throughout the room, and the pause; the game-keepers no longer calling, and the clatter of the chips dying away; the startled faces; the infinite instant of silence; and then the great blood-roar and the tide of vengeance which lapped his heels and turned the town mad behind him.
All hells broke loose, he sneered, turning aside in the darkness and heading for the beach. Lights were flashing from open doors, and tent, cabin, and dance-hall let slip their denizens upon the chase. The clamor of men and howling of dogs smote his ears and quickened his feet. He ran on and on. The sounds grew dim, and the pursuit dissipated itself in vain rage and aimless groping. But a flitting shadow clung to him. Head thrust over shoulder, he caught glimpses of it, now taking vague shape on an open expanse of snow, how merging into the deeper shadows of some darkened cabin or beach-listed craft.