The snow that had began to fall softly and quietly about the middle of
the afternoon had steadily increased until now in the thickening dusk it
spread a white blindness everywhere. From her bedroom window Esmée
looked out, and though she could not see the sky, there were signs
enough to tell her what the coming night would be. Fresh snow lay piled
in the trench, and snow was whirling in. The blast outside wailed in the
chimney, and shook the house, and sifted snow in beneath the outer door.
Esmée was not surprised that Jack, when he came home, should be as
dismal and quiet as she was herself; but it did surprise her that he
should not at once perceive that something had happened in his absence.
At first there was supper to cook, and she could not talk to him then.
Later, when they were seated together at the table, she tried to speak
of that ghostly knocking; but Jack seemed preoccupied and not inclined
to talk, and she was glad of an excuse to postpone a subject that had
for her a peculiar terror in its suggestions.
It was nine o'clock before all the little house tasks were done, and
they drew up to the fire, seeking in each other's eyes the assurance
that both were in need of, that nothing of their dear-bought treasure of
companionship had altered since they had sat that way before. But it was
not quite the same Esmée, nor the same Jack. They were not thinking
exclusively of each other.
"Why don't you read your letters, dear?"
"I can't read them," said Esmée. "They were not written to me--the woman
I am now."
These were the home letters, telling of her sister's coming wedding
festivities, that Esmée could not read, especially that one from
Lilla--her last letter as a girl to the sister who had been a bride
herself, and would know what a girl's feelings at such a time must be.
"I have tried to write to mama," said Esmée; "but it's impossible.
Anything I could say by way of defense sounds as if I were trying to lay
the blame on some one else; and if I say nothing, but just state the
facts, it is harsh, as if I were brazening it out. And she has never
seen you, Jack. You are my only real defense. By what you are, by what
you will be to me, I am willing to be judged."
"Dearest, you make me ashamed, but I can say the same of you. Still, to
a mother, I'm afraid it will make little difference whether it's
'Launcelot or another.'"
"It certainly made little difference to her when she made her choice of
a husband for me," said Esmée, bitterly. One by one she dropped the
sheets of her letters in the fire, and watched them burn to ashes.
"When they know--if they ever write to me after that, I will read those
letters. These have no meaning." They had too much meaning, was what
Esmée should have said.
After a silence Jack spoke somewhat hoarsely: "It's a beastly long time
since I have written to any of my people. It's a pity I didn't write and
tell them something; it might have saved trouble. But how can a fellow
write? I got a letter to-day from my brother Sid. Says he's thinking of
coming out here."
"Heaven save us!" cried Esmée. "Do write at once--anything--say
anything you like."
Jack smiled drearily. "I'm afraid it's too late. In fact, the letter was
written the day before he was to start, and it's dated January 25.
There's a rumor that some one is in town, now, looking for me. I
shouldn't be surprised if it were Sid."
"What if it were?" asked Esmée. "What could you do?"
"I don't know, indeed," said Jack. "I'm awfully cut up about it. The
worst of it is, I asked him to come."
"You asked him!"
"Some time ago, dearest, when everything was different. I thought I must
make the fight for both our sakes, and I sent for Sid, thinking it might
help to have him here with me."
"Did you indeed," said Esmée, coldly. "What a pity he did not come
before it was too late; he might have saved us both. How long ago was
it, please?"
"Esmée, don't speak to me like that."
"But do you realize what you are saying?"
"You should not mind what I say. Think--what shall we do if it should
be Sid? It rests with you, Esmée. Could you bear to meet him?"
"What is he like?" said Esmée, trembling.
"Oh, he's a lovely fellow. There's nobody like Sid."
"What does he look like?"
"He's good-looking, of course, being my brother," said Jack, with a
wretched attempt at pleasantry, which met with no response. Esmée was
staring at him, a strange terror in her eyes. "But there is more to his
looks, somehow, than to most pretty boys. People who are up in such
things say he's like the Saint George, or Saint Somebody, by Donatello.
He's blond, you know; he's as fresh as a girl, but he has an uncommonly
set look at times, when he's serious or a bit disgusted about something.
He has a set in his temper, too. I should not care to have Sid hear our
story--not till after he had seen you, Esmée. Perhaps even then he could
not understand. He has never loved a woman, except his mother. He
doesn't know what a man's full-grown passion means. At least, I don't
think he knows. He was rather fiercely moral on some points when I
talked to him last; a little bit inhuman--what is it, Esmée?"
"There is that dog again!"
Jack looked at her in surprise at her shocked expression. Every trace of
color had left her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the door.
"What dog? Why, it's Tip."
A creature as white as the storm sprang into the room as he opened the
door, threw himself upon Jack, and whimpered and groaned and shivered,
and seemed to weep with joy. Jack hugged him, laughing, and then threw
him off, and dusted the snow from his clothing.
Tip shook himself, and came back excitedly for more recognition from his
master. He took no notice at all of Esmée.
"Speak to him, won't you, dear? It's only manners, even if you don't
care for him," Jack prompted gently. But Tip refused to accept Esmée's
sad, perfunctory greeting; his countenance changed, he held aloof,
glancing at her with an unpleasant gleam in his bloodshot eyes.
He had satisfied the cravings of affection, and now made it plain that
his visit was on business that demanded his master's attention outside
of the house. Jack knew the creature's intelligent ways so well that
speech was hardly needed between them. "What's the racket, Tip? What's
wrong out there? No, sir; I don't go back to town with you to-night,
sir. Not much. Lie down! Be quiet, idiot!"
But Tip stood at the door, and began to whine, fixing his eyes on his
master's face. As nothing came of this, he went back and stood in front
of him, wagging his tail heavily and slowly; troubled wrinkles stood out
over his beseeching eyes.
"What under heaven's the matter with you, dog? You're a regular funeral
procession." Jack shoved the creature from him, and again he took up his
station at the door. Jack rose, and opened it, and playfully tried to
push him out. Tip stood his ground, always with his eyes on his master's
face, and whimpered under his breath with almost tearful meaning.
"He's on duty to-night," said Jack. "He's got something on his mind, and
he wants me to help him out with it. I say, old chap, we don't keep a
life-saving station up here. Get out with your nonsense."
"There was some one with him when he was here this afternoon," Esmée
forced herself to say.
"Has Tip been here before?"
"Yes, Jack. But a man was with him--a young, strange man. It was about
four o'clock, perhaps five; it was getting dusk. I had been asleep, and
I was so frightened. He knocked and knocked. I thought he would never
stop knocking. He came to my window, and tried to get in, but the sash
was frozen fast." Esmée paused, and caught her breath. "And I heard a
dog scratching and whining."
"Did you not see the man?"
"I did. I saw him," gasped Esmée. "It was all quiet after a while. I
thought he had gone. I came out into the room, and there he stood close
by that window, staring in; and the dog was with him. It was Tip."
"And you did not open the door to Tip?"
"Jack dear, have you not told me that I was never to open the door when
you were away?"
"But didn't you speak to the man? Didn't you ask him who he was or what
he wanted?"
"How could I? He did not speak to me. He stared at me as if I were a
ghost, and then he went away."
"I would have questioned any man that came here with Tip. Tip doesn't
take up with toughs and hobos. What was he like?"
Esmée had retreated under this cross-questioning, and stood at some
distance from Jack, pale, and trembling with an ague of the nerves.
"What was he like?" Jack repeated.
"He was most awfully beautiful. He had a face like--like a death-angel."
Jack rejected this phrase with an impatient gesture. "Was he fair, with
blue eyes, and a little blond mustache?"
"I don't know. The light was not good. He stood close to the window, or
I could not have seen him. What have I done? Was it wrong not to open
the door?"
"Never mind about that, Esmée. I want you to describe the man."
"I can't describe him. I don't need to. I know--I know it was your
brother."
"It must have been; and we have been sitting here--how many hours?"
"I did not know there could be anybody--who--had a right to come in."
"Such a night as this? Get away, Tip!"
Jack had risen, and thrown off his coat. Esmée saw him get down his
snow-shoe rig. He pulled on a thick woolen jersey, and buttoned his
reefer over that. His foot-gear was drying by the fire; he put on a pair
of German stockings, and fastened them below the knee, and over these
the India-rubber buskins which a snow-shoer wears.
"Tip had better have something to eat before we start," he suggested. He
did not look at Esmée, but his manner to her was very gentle and
forbearing; it cut her more than harsh words and unreasonable reproaches
would have done.
"He seems to think that I have done it," she said to herself, with the
instinct of self-defense which will always come first with timid
natures.
Tip would not touch the food she brought him. She followed him about the
room meekly, with the plate in her hand; but he shrunk away, lifting
his lip, and showing the whites of his blood-rimmed eyes.
Except for this defect, the sequel of distemper or some other of the
ills of puppyhood, Tip had been a good-looking dog. But this accident of
his appearance had prejudiced Esmée against him at the first sight.
Later he had made her dislike and fear him by a habit he had of dogging
his master to her door, and waiting there, outside, like Jack's
discarded conscience. If chidden, or invited to come in, the
unaccountable creature would skulk away, only to return and take up his
post of dumb witness as before; so that no one who watched the movements
of Jack's dog could fail to know how Jack bestowed his time. In this
manner Esmée had come almost to hate the dog, and Tip returned her
feeling in his heart, though he was restrained from showing it. But
to-night there was a new accusation in his gruesome eye.
"He will not eat for me," said Esmée, humbly.
"He must eat," said Jack. "Here, down with it!" The dog clapped his jaws
on the meat his master threw to him, and stood ready, without a change
of countenance, at the door.
"Can't you say that you forgive me?" Esmée pleaded.
"Forgive you? Who am I, to be forgiving people?" Jack answered hoarsely.
"But say it--say it! It was your brother. If it had been mine, I could
forgive you."
"Esmée, you don't see it as it is."
"I do see it; but, Jack, you said that I was not to open the door."
"Well, you didn't open it, did you? So it's all right. But there's a man
out in the snow, somewhere, that I have got to find, if Tip can show me
where he is. Come, Tip!"
"Oh, Jack! You will not go without"--Jack turned his back to the door,
and held out his arms. Esmée cast herself into them, and he kissed her
in bitter silence, and went out.
* * * * *
These two were seated together again by the fire in the same room. It
was four o'clock in the morning, but as dark as midnight. The floor in
spots was wet with melted snow. They spoke seldom, in low, tired
voices; it was generally Esmée who spoke. They had not been weeping, but
their faces were changed and grown old. Jack shivered, and kept feeding
the fire. On the bed in the adjoining room, cold as the snow in a
deserted nest, lay their first guest, whom no house fire would ever
warm.
"I cannot believe it. I cannot take it in. Are you sure there is nothing
more we could do that a doctor would do if we had one?"
"We have done everything. It was too late when I found him."
"How is it possible? I have heard of persons lost for days--and this was
only such a few hours."
"A few hours! Good God, Esmée! Come out with me, and stand five minutes
in this storm, if you can. And he had been on snow-shoes all day; he had
come all the way up-hill from town. He had had no rest, and nothing to
eat. And then to turn about, and take it worse than ever!"
"It is an impossible thing," she reiterated. "I am crazy when I think of
it."
Tip lifted his head uneasily, rose, and tapped about the room, his
long-nailed toes rattling on the uncarpeted floor. He paused, and licked
up one of the pools of melted snow. "Stop that!" Jack commanded. There
was dead silence. Then Tip began again his restless march about the
room, pausing at the bedroom door to whine his questioning distress.
"Can't you make him stay in the kitchen?" Esmée suggested timidly.
"It is cold in the kitchen. Tip has earned his place by my fire as long
as I shall have one," said Jack, emphatically.
Down fell some crashing object, and was shivered on the floor. The dog
sprang up, and howled; Esmée trembled like a leaf.
"It's only your little looking-glass," she whispered. There was no
mystery in its having fallen in such a wind from the projecting log
where Esmée, with more confidence than judgment, had propped it.
In silence both recalled the light words that had passed when Jack had
taken it down from its high nail, saying that the mirrors in his
establishment had not been hung with reference to persons of her size;
and Esmée could see the picture they had made, putting their heads
together before it, Jack stooping, with his hands on her shoulders, to
bring his face in line with hers. Those laughing faces! All smiles, all
tremulous mirth in that house had vanished as the reflections in a
shattered mirror.
Jack got up, and fetched a broom, and swept the clinking fragments into
the fire. The frame he broke in two and tossed after them.
"Call me as soon as it is light enough to start," he said to Esmée.
"But not unless it has stopped snowing?"
"Call me as soon as it is light, please," Jack repeated. He stumbled as
he walked, like an old man. Esmée followed him into the drear little
kitchen, where a single candle on the table was guttering in the draft.
The windows were blank with frost, the boards cracked with the cold.
Esmée helped prepare him a bed on a rude bunk against the wall, and Jack
threw himself down on his pallet, and closed his eyes, without speaking.
Esmée stood watching him in silence a moment; then she fell on her knees
beside him on the floor.
"Say that you can forgive me! How shall I bear it all alone!"
At first Jack made no answer; he could not speak; his breath came deep
and hard. Then he rose on one elbow, and looked at her with great stern
eyes.
"Have I accused you? You did not do it. I did not do it. It happened--to
show us what we are. We have broken with all the ties of family. We can
have no brother or sister--our brothers and sisters are the rebels like
ourselves; every man and woman whom society has branded and cast out.
Sooner or later we shall embrace them all. Nothing healthy can come near
us and not take harm from us. We are contamination to women and
destruction to men. Poor Sid had better have come to a den of thieves
and murderers than to his own brother's house last night; yet we might
have done him worse harm if we had let him in. Now he is only
dead--clean and true, as he lived. He is dead through my sin. Do you
see, now, what this means to me?"
"I see," said Esmée, rising from her knees. She went out of the room,
closing the door gently between them.
Jack lay stretching his aching muscles in one position after another,
and every way he turned his thoughts pursued him. The brutality of his
speech to Esmée wrought its anguish equally upon him, now that it was
too late to get back a single word. Still, she must understand,--she
would understand, when she came to think--how broken up he was in mind
and body, how crazed for want of rest after that horrible night's work.
This feeling of irresponsibility to himself satisfied him that she could
not hold him responsible for his words at such a time. The strain he was
supporting, mentally and physically, must absolve him if she had any
consideration for him left.
So at length he slept. Esmée was careful not to disturb him. She had no
need of bodily rest, and the beating of her heart and the ceaseless
thinking went on and on.
"I am to be left here alone with _it_"--she glanced toward the room
where the body lay--"while he goes for help to take it to town. He has
not asked me if I can go through with this. If I should say to him,
'Spare me this awful trial,' he would answer,--and of course he would be
right,--'There are only us two; one to go and one to stay. Is it so
much to ask of you after what has happened?'
"He does not ask it; he expects it. He is not my tender, remorseful
lover now, dreading for me, every day, what his happiness must cost me.
He is counting what I have cost him in other possessions which he might
have had if he had not paid too great a price for one."
So these two had come to judge each other in the common misery that
drove them apart. Toward daylight the snow ceased and the wind went
down. Jack had forgotten to provide wood for Esmée's fire; the room was
growing cold, and the wood supply was in the kitchen, where he slept.
She sat still and suffered mutely, rather than waken him before the
time. This was not altogether consideration for him. It was partly
wounded pride, inflicting its own suffering on the flesh after a moral
scourging, either through one's own or another's conscience.
When the late morning slowly dawned, she went to waken him, obedient to
orders. She made every effort to arouse him, but in vain. His sleep was
like a trance. She had heard of cases of extreme mental and physical
strain where a sleep like this, bordering on unconsciousness, had been
nature's cure. She let him sleep.
Seeing that her movements did not disturb him, she went cautiously about
the room, trying, now in forlorn sincerity, to adapt herself to the
necessities of the situation. She did her best to make ready something
in the nature of a breakfast for Jack when he should at length awaken.
It promised to be a poor substitute, but the effort did her good.
It was after noon before Jack came to himself. He had been awake some
little time, watching her, before she was aware of it. He could see for
himself what she had been trying to accomplish, and he was greatly
touched.
"Poor child!" he said, and held out his arms.
She remained at a distance, slightly smiling, her eyes on the floor.
He did not press the moment of reconciliation. He got upon his feet,
and, in the soldierly fashion of men who live in camps and narrow
quarters, began to fold his blankets, and straighten things in his
corner of the room.
"If you will go into the sitting-room, I will bring in the breakfast,
such as it is," said Esmée. Jack obeyed her meekly. The sitting-room
fire had been relighted, and was burning brightly. It was strange to him
to sit and see her wait upon him. Stranger still was her silence. Here
was a new distress. He tried to pretend unconsciousness of the change in
her.
"It is two o'clock," he said, looking at his watch. "I'm afraid I shall
be late getting back; but you must not worry. The storm is over, and I
know every foot of the way."
"Did I do wrong," Esmée questioned nervously, "not to call you? I tried
very hard, but you could not wake. You must have needed to sleep, I
think."
"Do you expect me to scold you every time I speak, Esmée? I have said
enough, I think. Come here, dear girl. _I_ need to be forgiven now. It
cuts me to the heart to see you so humble. May God humble me for those
words I said!"
"You spoke the truth. Only we had not been telling each other the truth
before."
"No. And we must stop it. We shall learn the truth fast enough. We need
not make whips of it to lash each other with. Come here."
"I can't," said Esmée in a choking whisper.
"Yes, you can. You shall forgive me."
She shook her head. "That is not the question. You did not do it. I did
not do it. God has done it--as you said."
"Did I say that? Did I presume to preach to you?"
"If I have done what you say--if I have cut you off from all human
relations, and made your house worse than a den of thieves and
murderers, how can anything be too bad for me to hear? What does it
matter from whom I hear it?"
"I was beside myself. I was drunk with sorrow and fatigue."
"That is when people speak the truth, they say. I don't blame you, Jack.
How should I? But you know it can never be the same, after this, with
you or with me."
"Esmée," said Jack, after a long and bitter silence, holding out his
shaking hand, "will you come with me in there, and look at him? He knows
the truth--the whole truth. If you can see in his face anything like
scorn or reproach, anything but peace,--peace beyond all
conception,--then I will agree that we part this day, forever. Will you
come?"
"Oh, Jack, you _are_ beside yourself, now. Do you think that I would go
in there, in the presence of _that_ peace, and call on it for my
justification, and begin this thing again? I should expect that peace
would come to me--the peace of instant death--for such awful
presumption."
"I didn't mean that--not to excuse ourselves; only to bring back the
trust that was between us. Does this bitterness cure the past? Have we
not hurt each other enough already?"
"I think so. It is sufficient for me. But men, they say, get over such
things, and their lives go on, and they take their places as before. I
want you to"--
"There is nothing for me--will you believe it?--more than there is for
you. Will you not do me that much justice, not to treat this one
passion of my life as--what shall I say? It is not possible that you can
think such things. We must make up to each other for what we have each
cost the other. Come. Let us go and stand beside him--you and I, before
the others get here. It will do us good. Then we will follow him out, on
his way home, as far as we can; and if there is any one in town who has
an account with me, he can settle it there and then. Perhaps my mother
will have both her sons shipped home to her on the same train."
Jack had not miscounted on the effect of these words. They broke down
Esmée's purer resolution with their human appeal. Yet he was not
altogether selfish.
He held out his hand to her. She took it, and they went together,
shrinkingly, into the presence of the dead. When they came out, the eyes
of both were wet.
Late as it was, it was inevitable that Jack must start. Esmée watched
him prepare once more for the journey. When he was ready to set out, she
said to him, with an extreme effort:
"If any one should come while you are gone, I am to let him in?"
"Do as you think best, dear; but I am afraid that no one will disturb
you. It will be a lonely watch. I wish I could help you through with
it."
"It is my watch," said Esmée. "I must keep it."
She would have been thankful for the company even of Tip, to answer for
something living, if not human, in the house; but the dog insisted so
savagely on following his master that she was forced to set him free.
She closed the door after him, and locked it mechanically, hardly aware
of what she did.
* * * * *
There is a growth of the spirit which is gradual, progressive,
healthful, and therefore permanent. There are other psychical births
that are forced, convulsive, agonizing in their suddenness. They may be
premature, brought on by the shock of a great sorrow, or a sin perhaps
committed without full knowledge of its nature, or realization of its
consequences. Such births are perilous and unsure. Of these was the
spiritual crisis through which Esmée was now passing.
She had made her choice: human love was satisfied according to the
natural law. Now, in the hours of her solitary watch, that irrevocable
choice confronted her. It was as a cup of trembling held to her lips by
the mystery of the Invisible, which says: Whoever will drink of this cup
of his desire, be it soon, be it late, shall drain it to the dregs, and
"wring them out." Esmée had come very soon to the dregs of her cup of
trembling.
In such anguish and abasement her new life of the spirit began. Will she
have strength to sustain it, or must it pass like a shaken light into
the keeping of a steadier hand?
She was but dimly aware of outward changes as the ordeal wore on. It had
been pale daylight in the cabin, and now it was dusk. It had been as
still as death outside after the night of storm, the cold relenting, the
frost trickling like tears down the pane; but now there was a rising
stir. The soft, wild gale, the chinook of the Northwest, came roaring up
the peak--the breath of May, but the voice of March. The forest began to
murmur and moan, and strip its white boughs of their burden, and all
its fairy frost-work melted like a dream. At intervals in the deep
timber a strange sound was heard, the rush and thump of some soft, heavy
mass into the snow. Esmée had never heard the sound before; it filled
her with a creeping dread. Every separate distinct pounce--they came at
intervals, near or far, but with no regularity--was a shock to her
overwrought nerves. These sounds had taken sole possession of her ear.
It was hence a double shock, at about the same hour of early twilight
when her visitor had come the night before, to hear again a man's feet
in the trench outside, and again a loud knock upon the door.
Her heart with its panting answered in her breast. There was a pause
while outside the knocker seemed to listen, as he had done before. Then
the new-born will of the woman fearfully took command of her cowering
senses. Something that was beyond herself forced her to the door. Pale,
and weak in every limb, she dragged herself to meet whatever it was that
summoned her. This time she opened the door.
There stood a mild-faced man, in the dress of a miner, smiling
apologetically. Esmée simply stared at him, and held the door wide. The
man stepped hesitatingly inside, taking off his hat to the pale girl who
looked at him so strangely.
David Bruce modestly attempted to give an incidental character to his
visit by inventing an errand in that neighborhood.
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said. "I was going along over to the Mule Deer,
but I thought I'd just ask if Mr. Waring's brother got through all right
yesterday evenin'. It was so ugly outside."
The girl parted her lips to speak, but no sound came. The light shone in
her ashy face. Her eyes were losing their expression. Bruce saw that she
was fainting, and caught her as she fell.
The interview begun in this unpromising manner proved of the utmost
comfort to Esmée. There was nothing in Bruce's manner to herself,
nothing in his references to Jack, that implied any curiosity on his
part as to the relation between them, or the least surprise at their
being together at the Dreadnaught. He had "spared the situation" with an
instinct that does not come from knowledge of the world.
He listened to her story of the night's tragedy, which she told with
helpless severity, almost with indifference, as if it had happened to
another.
He appeared to be greatly moved by it personally; its moral significance
he did not seem to see. He sat helplessly repeating himself, in his
efforts to give words to his sorrow for the "kid." His vocabulary being
limited, and chiefly composed of words which he could not use before a
lady, he was put to great inconvenience to do justice to his feelings.
He blamed himself and his brother for letting the young man go by their
cabin on such a threatening day.
"Why, Jim and me we couldn't get to sleep for thinkin' about him, 't was
blowin' such a blizzard. Seemed like we could hear him a-yellin' to us,
'Is this the way to the Dreadnaught mine?' Wisht the Lord we'd 'a' said
it wa'n't. Well, sir, we don't want no more such foolishness. And that's
partly why I come. We never thought but what he _had_ got through, for
all we was pestered about it, or else me and Jim would 'a' turned out
last night. But what we was a-sayin' this morning was this: Them folks
up there ain't acquainted with this country like we be--not in the
winter-time. This here is what we call snow-slide weather. Hain't you
been hearing how things is lettin' go? The snow slumpin' off the
trees--you must have heard that. It's lettin' go up above us, too.
There's a million ton of snow up there a-settlin' and a-crawlin' in this
chinook, just a-gettin' ready to start to slide. We fellers in the
mountains know how 'tis. This cabin has stood all right so far, but the
woods above was cut last summer. Now, I want you to come along with me
right now. I've got a hand-sleigh here. You can tuck yourself up on it,
and we'll pull out for the Mule Deer, and likely meet with Mr. Waring on
the way. And if there's a snow-slide here before morning, it'll bury the
dead, and not the living and the dead."
At these words the blood rushed to Esmée's cheek, and then dropped back
to her heart, leaving her as white as snow.
"I don't remember that I have ever seen you before," she said; "but I
thank you more than I ever thanked anybody in all my life."
David Bruce thought of course that she was going with him. But that was
not what she meant. Her face shone. God, in his great mercy, had given
her this one opportunity.
"This is my watch, you know. I cannot leave this house. But I don't
think there will be a snow-slide. Things do not happen so simply as
that. You don't know what I mean? But think a moment. You know, do you
not, who I am? Should you think really that death is a thing that any
friend of mine would wish to save me from? Life is what I am afraid
of--long life to the end. I don't think there will be a snow-slide, not
in time for me. But I thank you so much. You have made me feel so
human--so like other people. You don't understand that, either? Well, no
matter. I am just as grateful. I shall remember your visit all my life;
and even if I live long, I doubt if I shall ever have a kinder visitor.
I am much better for your coming, though you may think you have come for
nothing. Now you must go before it gets too dark. You will go to the
Mule Deer, will you not, and carry this same message to--there?"
"I'm goin' to stop right here till Jack Waring gets back."
"Oh, no, you're not. You are going this instant." She rose, and held out
her hand. She had that power over him that one so much in earnest as she
will always have over one who is amazed and in doubt.
"Won't you shake hands with me?" Her thrilling voice made a sort of
music of the common words.
He took her hand, and wagged it clumsily in a dazed way, and she almost
pushed him out of the house.
* * * * *
"Well, I'll be hanged if that ain't the meanest trick since I was
born--to leave a little lone woman watchin' with a dead man in a cabin,
with snow-slides startin' all over the mountains! What's the matter with
me, anyhow? Seem to be knocked silly with her blamed queer talk. Heap of
sense in it, too. Wouldn't think one of her kind would see it that way,
though. Durned if I know which kind she is. B'lieve I'll go back now.
Why, Lord! I must go back! What'll I say to Jim?"
David Bruce had gained the top of the road leading away from the mine
before he came to himself in a burst of unconscious profanity. He could
hear the howling of the wind around the horn of the peak. He looked up
and down, and considered a second.
In another second it was too late--too late to add his life to hers,
that instant buried beneath the avalanche.
A stroke out of a clear sky; a roar that filled the air; a burst of
light snow mounting over the tree-tops like steam condensed above a
rushing train; a concussion of wind that felled trees in the valley a
hundred yards from the spot where the plunging mass shot down--then the
chinook eddied back, across the track of the snow-slide, and went
storming up the peak.