"FOR MY MOTHER'S SAKE"
Among the Indians in Perdue's store none watched the proceedings more
intently than Yukon Jennie, the orphan, whose home was in every camp,
but with no certain abiding place. Wrapped in her old shawl, she
crouched on the floor, taking no part in the rough-and-tumble fight.
Her eyes were constantly fixed upon Pritchen with a strange
fascination, which seemed never to waver. Once, when he sprang at
Amos, she half started from her place, moved by some sudden impulse.
But it was only for an instant, and then she shrank back to her former
position.
When, however, the wild scene had ended, and the missionary had left
the building, her whole being roused to activity. With the agility and
stealthiness of a young tigress she glided from the room into the
darkness without, and made straight for the Indian village. Reaching
this, she wound her way among the various lodges till, stopping before
one larger than the rest, she drew back the skin from the door and
entered.
With no light to guide her she went at once to a corner of the room,
and drew from a bundle of rags a small parcel. Unwrapping this, she
brought forth a formidable looking knife, and with intense eagerness
ran her small finger over the keen edge and sharp point. So satisfied
was she at the result of this performance that a low chuckle of
pleasure escaped her lips. Then, hastily concealing the weapon within
the folds of her shawl, she left the lodge and started for the store.
"Ding, dong. Ding, dong. Ding, dong." The sharp sound spit the
frosty air and stayed the feet of the little hurrying maid. She had
never refused to obey its summons, which spoke to her like a living
voice. To her childlike mind that dark thing hanging high aloft had a
great meaning. It was the centre of an unseen world, and many were the
strange and beautiful pictures she wove in her busy brain whenever the
bell sounded out its message. But this night it was speaking directly
to her in a warning sense. It seemed to understand her secret.
"Tell him. Tell him. Tell him," it was saying, over and over again.
She tried to go forward. She clutched the knife more firmly, and moved
a few steps. She paused again, as a sudden thought came into her mind.
Yes, she would listen to it. She would tell him first; after that
there would be time.
Turning to the left, she started toward the church. The bell had
ceased before she reached the building, and all was still. Pushing
open the door, she entered and slipped quietly into her accustomed
place in a back seat. The rows of bowed heads in front of her were
unseen; the altar, with its little wooden cross, flanked by the Ten
Commandments in the Indian tongue, did not interest her as on other
occasions, neither did the small mission harmonium, the delight of the
natives, which had cost such an effort to bring to Klassan. She saw
none of these. Her attention was fixed upon the kneeling form of the
missionary, repeating several of the prayers of the Church.
He was dressed just as he had come from the trail. Presently he arose
and began to speak. He was calm, to all outward appearance, terribly
calm, with not a hint of the seething furnace within.
"I am glad to be with you again," he told the Indians. "My heart has
been yearning for you all, and I have many messages from the
Gikhyi-Choh (the Bishop) of the Mackenzie River. His hair is white
now, and his steps feeble, so he cannot make long journeys as of old,
or else he would come to see you himself. Next year, before the ground
is white with snow, and the wild geese have gone south, he hopes that
another Gikhyi-Choh will come and live among us on this side of the
mountains. When he comes he will cheer us, so we must be strong till
then. Then the white men have arrived; some, but not all, are wolves,
and we must beware of their fangs. They would like to tear us to
pieces, to break up our mission, and to ruin our young men and women.
But we must stand together, and the Great Father in Heaven will send
His Holy Spirit to guide us. I have many things to say, but I cannot
speak of them now. We will meet again and have a long talk."
The Indians understood their leader. They needed no other word, and,
after the benediction had been pronounced, they filed silently out of
the building.
Jennie alone remained, almost hidden from view in the dimly
candle-lighted church. She watched the missionary with her small
bright eyes, saw him place his hand wearily to his forehead, and then
turn to the little harmonium.
At first his playing dragged; it lacked the true fire of life. He was
like one creeping foot-sore and lone over a long and darksome trail,
far down in the valley. But as he played gradually he ascended from
the mists below up the mountain side. The air became clearer and
filled him with a new vigor. As he reached the top, and the sun shone
out, his spirit leaped within him and thrilled his whole being. The
heart nerved the hand and the weak, dilatory playing ceased.
Hopefulness and courage burst forth in every note. His face cleared.
He looked up, and his countenance became transfigured with a glorious
light.
For a time Jennie retained her position in the back of the church. She
loved music dearly, and could not resist the temptation to remain very
still and listen. But at length she left her place, glided up the
aisle, and stood quite near the missionary. He did not notice her, so
lost in thought was he. When, however, she reached out a thin, dusky
hand and touched his arm, he gave a sudden start, and, turning quickly,
looked upon the girl.
"Jennie!" he exclaimed. "You here! Why, I thought every one had gone!"
"All but me," she replied. "I waited to speak to you. It told me to
come."
"It? And who is It?" asked Keith in a puzzled manner.
"The bell; it spoke to me, as I was going to the store, and said to
tell you."
"What were you going to the store for, Jennie, and what were you to
tell me?"
The girl looked earnestly into his face. "I saw him!" she gasped. "He
was there! He has been here for some time! See--" and she drew the
keen knife from the folds of her shawl. "It is sharp, my mother's
knife. What she tried to do I will finish. She only scarred his
breast, and died for it; I will go deeper and reach his heart."
A cold chill passed through Keith's frame as he listened to these
terrible words, and observed the passion which possessed her soul. He
could hardly believe it possible that this was the same gentle Jennie,
the apt scholar, of whom he had hoped so much. His mind went back to
one fearful night, seven years before, when he first met her, and saved
her. He saw again her dead mother, with her lifeless babe in her
bosom, the result of the renegade squaw-man, the vile serpent in human
guise, who now menaced his flock. Jennie was a child of eight, alone
with the dead in that desolate place. He had brought her to Klassan,
where she had lived ever since, cared for by the Indians. They loved
the maiden, but could not always understand her, with that dreamy,
far-away look in her eyes. Little did they realize the deep longing in
her heart, or the fire which was smouldering there, only awaiting an
opportunity to burst forth. At last the time had arrived, and she
stood ready with flashing eyes to carry out her design.
"Jennie," said Keith, calming his voice as much as possible, "how long
have you been thinking of this?"
"Ever since that night," she replied, "when I saw my poor mother and
sister lying cold and dead. I said in my heart that some day I would
meet him and kill him."
"And you told no one of what was in your heart, Jennie?"
"No. The Indians would only have laughed at me for thinking such a
thing."
"But why did you come to me?"
"The bell told me to come, and I felt you would understand. He hates
you and would like to kill you. I thought you would be glad if I
killed him."
Keith placed his hand to his forehead, while a strange helplessness
took possession of him. Was this, then, the result of years of
prayerful instruction of the truths he had tried to instil into her
childish mind? Turning to her he said:
"Jennie, Jennie. Do you know what you are saying? Do you know it is
wrong to kill? It is murder. Do you know the sixth Commandment?" he
continued, pointing to the right of the altar.
"Tinjih zhigotyin rsho," repeated the girl in a mechanical manner.
"Who said that, Jennie?"
"God."
"And do you think God will like it if you do not obey Him?"
"God will understand; He killed His own enemies."
"Jennie--!"
"Anyway, He doesn't mean me," hurried on the girl, when she saw the
sorrow in her clergyman's face.
"Whom does He mean, then?"
"Men, only. He says so."
Well did Keith know that "Tinjih zhigtoyin rsho," to the Indian, was
"Man, do not kill," but how often he had explained that tinjih, man,
meant everybody, men, women, and children. But here was a child--a
child in years, though a woman in thought--who through long brooding
had absorbed only that which appealed to her own case. What was he to
do?
"Christ said," he replied, after a pause, "that we are to forgive
people who wrong us. He said '_your_ enemies,' and that includes the
man who killed your mother."
"But no one ever killed Christ's mother," answered the girl.
"No, not His mother, Jennie. But cruel men killed Him, drove nails
through His hands and feet, and hung Him on the cross. But He forgave
them, and asked His Father to do the same."
To these words she listened intently, and a gentler look came into her
face. "I like Him," she said. "He was good to little children, and
loved the birds and flowers."
A ray of hope shot into Keith's heart. Was he to win after all?
"Give me the knife, Jennie," and he stretched out his hand for the
weapon.
But the girl drew back. "No, no!" she cried. "You will keep it. I
want it."
"What, to-night?"
"Yes, to-night. I must kill him."
Keith arose. His face was stern. He had tried kindness in vain. The
girl must be stopped by force from her mad design.
Jennie read his thoughts only too truly. She clutched the knife more
firmly and, before a restraining hand could be laid upon her, she fled
down the aisle and out into the cold, silent night.