THE AWAKENING
All through the rest of the summer Martin carried on his mining
operations, and steadily the pile of gold within the cabin increased. At
length the cold nights and the short days warned him that winter was
fast approaching. He accordingly began to wonder what he should do with
his treasure. He did not care to have it lying about in the house, as it
was hard to tell what might happen to it. At any time a white man might
drift that way, and he well knew that dark deeds had been committed with
a far lesser motive than the seizure of so much gold. It would prove a
temptation to almost any man. He would often awake with a start in the
dead of night thinking that some one was creeping stealthily across the
floor. Formerly he would sit late before the fire with never a shadow of
a fear upon his mind. But now he would turn apprehensively towards the
window, thinking that faces were peering in upon him. He hardly liked to
be away from home for any length of time lest something should happen to
the gold during his absence.
His mind became so obsessed with this idea that he became nervous, and
his peace of mind vanished. At last he determined to deposit the gold in
a secure place. After careful consideration he dug a hole in the ground
at the back of the cabin. At the bottom he placed a large flat stone,
walled up the sides, and plastered them over with clay, such as he had
used upon the fire-place and chimney.
When this had been finished to his satisfaction he erected over it a
small, strong log building, the back of the cabin forming one of the
sides, through which he cut a door. There was no other opening in the
lean-to, not even a window, so the place would always be in darkness
except when lighted by a candle. In the floor, and immediately over the
excavation, he fastened a trap-door, fitting the flat-hewn pieces of
timber in such an irregular manner that no one would ever suspect that
there was any opening in the floor at all. Then when the roof was placed
in position, and all finished, Martin brought the gold from the cabin
and deposited it in his ground vault. When the trap-door was dropped
back into place Martin viewed everything with great approval. He called
this building his "Bank," and he often smiled to himself as he
considered what a unique bank it really was. He alone was the president,
shareholder, and depositor. There were no books to keep, and no regular
hours in which to do business. There was no competition, and no anxious
watching of the fluctuations in the money market. He had full control of
everything, and to no one did he have to render any account.
Martin's mind thus became so filled with the lure of the gold that for
weeks everything else was either neglected or forgotten. From morning
till night, and often during the night, he thought of the wealth he was
acquiring. The fear lest the missionary should visit the encampment
troubled him very little. Nance, too, received but a small share of his
attention. He found it difficult to play with her, or to tell her the
stories for which she asked. She was left more and more to Quabee's
tender care, and always ran to the Indian woman with her little
troubles. Martin did not notice that the child was eating less of late,
neither did he awaken to the fact that her happy joyous laugh was seldom
heard. She would often sit quietly by herself, holding her doll in her
arms, while her big open eyes gazed far off into space.
One morning when Nance did not get up at her usual time Martin went to
her cot.
"What's the matter, little one?" he asked. "You are sleepy this
morning."
A faint smile trembled about the corners of the child's mouth, but she
made no reply.
As this was something unusual, Martin became anxious. He placed his hand
to her forehead, and found that it was very hot.
"Nance, Nance! are you sick?" he cried, as he bent and looked
searchingly into her eyes.
"Yes, daddy," was the low response. "I'm so tired and hot. I want
Quabee."
As Martin listened to these words he was seized with a nameless dread.
For the first time he noticed how very wan was her flushed face. What
should he do? He was helpless in the presence of sickness. The Indian
women might know what was the trouble.
"So you want Quabee, do you?" he questioned.
"Yes, I want Quabee," was the faint reply.
"Very well, then. I shall go for her at once. I won't be long."
As Martin hurried over to the Indian encampment he upbraided himself for
his neglect of the child. "I've been a fool, a downright fool!" he
muttered to himself. "I might have seen days ago that she was failing if
I had not been so taken up with that cursed gold."
It did not take him long to tell Quabee and her mother, Naheesh, about
the child's illness, and soon the three were hurrying towards the cabin.
Nance's face brightened as the young Indian woman bent over her. Martin
saw the smile of greeting and it smote him sore. Knowing that the women
could do all that was possible for the child, he left the building and
sat upon the trunk of the old tree just outside the door. What if Nance
should die? The thought was terrible. How could he live without her? He
had neglected her so much that the first one she wanted was Quabee. A
jealous feeling stole into his heart. And yet he knew that it was his
own fault. Oh, why had he left her so much to herself? It was for her
sake, he reasoned. He desired the gold for her, not for himself. But if
Nance should be taken away what good would all the gold in the country
amount to then?
Later when he crept softly back into the room Nance was asleep, and
Quabee motioned to him to be silent. Naheesh had gone to prepare some
medicine from native herbs and bark, and would return shortly. All that
he could do, therefore, was to sit close by the cot and watch. Ere long
Nance opened her eyes and asked for water. All through the day she
tossed upon her little bed. Martin left her side hardly for a moment.
She did not know him nor any one else in the room. She called often for
her mother, and piteously asked why she did not come to her. The day
passed and night came on, but Martin remained at his post with Quabee
ever near. His eyes seldom left the child's face, and sometimes he would
hold one of her little hot hands in his. How he longed for her to look
up into his face, speak to him, and throw her arms about his neck. He
recalled the last time she had run to him. It was when he was busy
sorting the gold he had gathered that day. He had put her away somewhat
abruptly, telling her that he was very busy, and that she must not
bother him. She had looked surprised, her lips had quivered as she
turned away towards Quabee. How forcibly the whole incident came to him
now. What would he not give to have her put her arms around his neck and
ask him to play with her as of old.
The second night of Nance's illness Martin was sitting alone by her
side, as Quabee had gone back to her own lodge for a much-needed rest.
The faithfulness and self-denial of the young Indian woman made a deep
impression upon his mind. No mother could have been more attentive to
her sick child than was Quabee to this motherless girl. Martin sat very
still with his head bent low, but with ears keenly alert to Nance's
heavy breathing. He tried to be brave and hope for the best. But as the
hours dragged by he found it difficult to keep up his drooping spirits.
The terrible fear was ever with him that he was to lose Nance. What
should he do without her? he asked himself over and over again. With her
gone, what was there for him to live for? There was no one else in the
whole world who cared for him except this little child. Why should he
lose her when she meant so much to him?
A vision of his past life rose suddenly before him. It came upon him
with a startling intensity, and in a manner altogether different from
anything he had hitherto experienced. The sin which had caused him to be
an outcast upon the face of the earth loomed out of the darkness black
and appalling. There was not one extenuating circumstance connected with
the whole affair. He saw the woman, whose life he had ruined, left to
bear her disgrace alone. Never before did he comprehend what a monster
he really was. What chastisement could be severe enough to punish him
for what he had done? Had he a right to expect anything else? He
believed that he had suffered during the past years, but it was as
nothing compared to what he was enduring this night. His very soul was
being laid bare by some mysterious power which he could not fathom. Why
should such thoughts arise within his bosom now? he asked himself. Was
Nance to be taken away as a part of the punishment which truly belonged
to him? He had often thought and preached about the miseries of the
damned, but only now did he realise that a man who has sinned carries
the tortures of hell within his own bosom.
Haggard and trembling, Martin staggered to his feet, and paced up and
down the room. The veins stood out upon his forehead; his blood-shot
eyes had the look of a hunted animal; the muscles of his body were
firmly rigid, while his clenched hands had the grip of a drowning man
clinging desperately for life to a few floating straws. How could he
endure such agony of soul? Would it last through days, months, and years
to come? He knew that such could not be the case, for if it continued
much longer he would surely go raving mad.
A slight moan from Nance aroused him. Going at once to the cot, he
looked down upon the face of the sleeping child. She was talking in her
sleep, and listening attentively Martin could catch the words, "Mamma,
Daddy." After a pause she began to repeat the words of a prayer she said
every night.
"'Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I----'"
Then she wandered off and talked about Quabee, her dolly, and the
Christmas tree.
Martin took her little hand in his, and as he watched her a love, such
as he had never before known, came into his heart. Then his eyes grew
dim, and down his cheeks flowed the tears. He sank upon a stool by the
cot, and buried his face in his hands. Not for years had he wept, but it
was that little prayer which had unbound the flood-gates and allowed the
tears to well forth. He thought of the nights she had said the same
words at his knees, and how she had always prayed for her father and her
mother. At length he lifted his head and in his eyes was a new light. He
slipped from the stool, and sank upon his knees upon the hard floor. It
was no set formal prayer which the outcast uttered this night. It was a
passionate, yearning cry to the great Father above to spare the little
child, and to leave her with him for a while longer.
For some time he remained in this kneeling position, but somehow he did
not receive the reassuring comfort he had expected. He recalled the time
when peace and comfort had always come to him on such an occasion. Now,
however, it was so different. He believed that the same Father was ready
to hear as of old, but why was there not the feeling of peace as
formerly?
He thought of this as he knelt by the side of the sick child, with his
face deep in his hands. Then in an instant it all came to him. It was
his great sin which stood between him and his God! He understood for the
first time the full meaning of the story of the Garden of Eden. As it
was impossible for the first parents to go back to the sweet peace of
their former life after they had sinned, so neither could he return to
the blessed state of years ago because of the sin which he had
committed. There stood before him at the gate the explicit "Nay" of the
eternal God which guarded the entrance to the throne of purity and peace
as truly as did the flaming revolving sword in the far-off Edenic days.
He knew that he was an outcast in a more terrible manner than he had
ever imagined. He was an outcast not only from his Church, but from his
God. The former he had scorned, believing that he could get along
without it. But an outcast from his God! He lifted his haggard face as
the terrible reality dawned upon him. He rose slowly to his feet. He
groped his way to the big chair, and sank heavily into it, the very
epitome of wretched despair.