THE SHADOWED GLEN
The night the jam gave way Constance was seated by the table engaged
upon a piece of needlework. The candle by her side threw its feeble,
flickering beams upon her dark hair and well-formed face. The rich
tide of health was not flowing as of old, free and strong. It had fled
from her cheeks, leaving them at times very white. Occasionally her
busy fingers ceased and her work lay unheeded in her lap, while a
far-away look stole into her dark brown eyes. The wind beat against
the little window and shook the loose panes of glass; it whirled around
the cabin, and rattled the rudely constructed stove pipe. Constance
shivered, but not from the cold, and often unconscious sighs escaped
her lips.
Her father was sitting near, reading, or pretending to read, a book
Keith had loaned him. It was one of the few volumes left of the
missionary's carefully chosen library. The rest had gone up in smoke.
It exemplified the truth that what we keep we lose; what we give we
have. Mr. Radhurst was much improved. The haggard look had left his
face; his eyes were clear and his step strong and decisive as of old.
Occasionally his gaze wandered from the page he was reading to his
daughter's face. He was uneasy about her of late, and noted with
apprehension the paleness of her cheeks and the absence of her cheery
songs.
"Connie," he kindly said, laying aside the book, "I'm afraid this life
is not agreeing with you."
"Why, father dear," she smilingly replied. "Do you think I look very
sick?"
"You look far from well, my child, and you need a decided change. This
is no place for a woman. You have no companion, no place to visit,
nothing but the same dreary routine from morning till night, week in
and week out. Then this commotion among the miners and your adventure
with that rascally Pritchen are telling upon you, I can see that."
"Yes, father, I am uneasy about the miners, I must admit. We saw them
with all those Indians this afternoon, but have heard nothing. Every
one seems to have forsaken us."
"Connie," and Mr. Radhurst's voice was low, "I think we had better
leave the North. It is no place for us. We are not accustomed to the
hardships, and I am too old. It was a great mistake I made, but the
fever ran in my veins, and my eyes were blinded. Now I see
differently, and think it best to go back."
Had Mr. Radhurst uttered these words several months before Constance
would have been filled with delight. But now they brought little joy
to her heart. She had changed much. Her old life, with all its
associations, was fading, and the North was gripping her hard, as it
does so many sooner or later who enter its portals. Chains had been
forged which were binding her to the land, chains of hardships, sorrow,
and, not the least, love. She had lost a dear and only brother here,
but she had gained much in compensation. Life had become more real
since Keith Steadman had crossed her path and infused into her heart
and mind the longing for higher and nobler things. She compared him
with many she had met in days gone by, and how superior he appeared.
They were living so much for self, with their little rounds of
business, pleasure and small talk. He was living for others, not a
common life, but one filled with thought and activity, an unconscious
hero in a stern, dreary field. Go back! back to what? That was the
question which surged through her mind, causing her long lashes to
droop, and her head to bend over her work, till the rich abundance of
her hair almost hid her face.
Her father, noticing her embarrassment, wondered. He felt there was
some reason for her bent head and unusual silence, but with fatherly
solicitude forebore to question her farther.
A peculiar noise outside startled them.
"What's that?" exclaimed Constance.
"The wind," replied her father, "or else a prowling dog."
When, however, the pounding upon the door began both sprang to their
feet, and with fast-beating hearts crossed the room. Then when the
door was opened and Keith, weary, ragged and blood-stained, staggered
into the building, they stared in amazement. They listened
speechlessly to his brief message, gasped forth in quick, short
syllables, and before they had recovered from their astonishment he was
gone.
Constance was the first to realize the situation. "Quick, father!" she
cried, reaching for her cloak and hood. "We must leave the cabin! The
flood is coming! Hurry!"
"But I don't think it will reach us, Connie. We are too high up. But
what about the miners?"
By this time Constance was out of the house, listening to the dull,
ominous roar, sounding down through the darkness. She shivered and
drew the cloak more closely around her shoulders. How weird it all
seemed! Oh, if the night would only pass and give the blessed daylight!
"Connie," said her father, who had joined her, "I think we had better
cross to the higher ground by the Indian encampment. We must not run
any risk, and, besides, we may learn how the miners are faring."
Together they made their way through the night, along the rough trail,
and after much stumbling reached the Indian village. Here they paused
and listened. No light was to be seen, and no human voice could they
hear. The camp was deserted.
"Let us go farther," suggested Mr. Radhurst. "We may find out
something lower down."
Through the midst of the lodges they moved for several hundred yards
along the high bank of the Kaslo. The waters were now surging
tumultuously on their left. They could hear the ice groaning and
tearing in its onward sweep, but could see nothing. When the last
house had been reached they stood straining their eyes in an effort to
pierce the darkness.
"What's that?" cried Constance, grasping her father's arm more firmly.
"I heard nothing but the waters," was the reply.
"But I did, father, and it sounded like a shout far ahead. Oh, let us
go on along the bank! I am afraid something terrible has happened!"
They had groped their way but a short distance when a light fell upon
their eyes. Small at first, it soon grew larger, and then they knew it
was a watch-fire upon the shores. Forms of men were seen flitting here
and there, gathering sticks to throw upon the flames, which ere long
developed into a magnificent blaze. Guided by this they soon reached
the spot, and great was the miners' surprise to behold the gray-haired
man and the hooded maiden emerge from the darkness.
"What's wrong?" inquired Mr. Radhurst, looking from one to another.
"Wrong?" replied a husky fellow, who had just deposited an armful of
wood, "everything's wrong to-night! Flood and death, that's what's
wrong!"
Constance's face paled as she listened to these words.
"Why," she gasped, "didn't all escape?"
"Naw. The best has gone down, the only men of the whole gang."
"Who? Oh, tell me quick!"
"Old Pete an' the parson."
The words smote Constance like a sudden blow. Pale at the first
intimation of the disaster, she was like death now. She tried to
speak, but could utter not a sound.
"Don't be frightened, Miss," said the man not unkindly, noticing her
excitement. "It may not be as bad as we think."
"Oh, tell me!" she gasped, "what has happened?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, Miss, we don't know much ourselves. You
see we were at that devilish job when the parson landed upon us with a
yell which made our blood run cold. Then there was a scramble for the
high bank, and I guess the Injuns are scramblin' yet, for they haven't
shown up since. It was Pete who first shouted out for the parson, and
when he could not be found I thought the old man would go mad. He made
for the river with one bound, and the last we heard of him was his cry,
"I'm comin', laddie!" and then the flood was upon them."
"But didn't anyone go to their rescue?" asked Constance excitedly.
"Did the men all stand by and let them drown?"
"Not a bit of it, Miss. Most of the men are down yon searchin' the
shore, but it's so dark I'm afraid they can do very little. We've made
this fire to guide them back, and if they do find the poor chaps, a
little heat won't be amiss, I reckon."
"Oh, what can we do!" and Constance wrung her hands in agony of mind.
"Wait, Connie. We can wait," replied her father.
"Wait! Wait, and----" A thought flashed through her mind. It was
like a still, small voice.
"Call upon Me in the day of trouble," it said.
Yes, why had she forgotten? It made her feel that a Presence was very
near, and that He who long ago had delivered His people from the waters
of Egypt would hear her now.
"Father," she said quietly, "we can wait, and we can do something more,
we can pray."
"Yes, Connie, we can do that."
"And will you pray, father?"
"You do it, dear, for you know better what to say."
A slight flush came into her face as she knelt upon the ground before
the fire. She knew the men were watching her, but she did not mind,
for what were they to the ones now in peril?
"Oh God," she prayed, "lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, and by
Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night,
for the love of Thine only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ."
"Amen. Amen. Amen," came from the miners, who with bowed and
uncovered heads were standing reverently around her.
That was all she could utter. When she rose from her knees the men
were bestirring themselves. Some had gone for more wood, while others
were poking the fire. This latter work was unnecessary, but the men
had to do something. The pathetic sight of the beautiful woman
kneeling on the ground, offering up that fervent prayer, had touched
their hearts, and more than one brushed their sleeves across their eyes
when safe under the friendly cover of darkness.
The wood-gatherers had been gone but a short time when they came
hurrying back much excited.
"They're coming! They're coming!" shouted one, "and I believe they've
found them!"
The report was true, for soon a band of men slowly approached, bearing
something between them.
Constance stepped quickly forward and scanned the faces of the men,
and, oh joy! there before her stood Keith, with water dripping from his
clothes, his wet hair streaming over his forehead and his face white
and haggard.
He did not look upon the men, nor did he see the eager woman gazing so
longingly upon him. He beheld only the prostrate form of Pete Martin
lying by the fire. Intense agony was expressed in every line of his
face as he stooped down and examined the unconscious man.
"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" he murmured, as he found the prospector's
pulse still beating. "We must get him somewhere out of this," he
continued, turning to the men. "He is alive and we may do something
for him yet."
"Bring him to our cabin, Mr. Steadman," said Mr. Radhurst. "We will
care for him."
"Thank you," and Keith turned towards the old man. Then his eye rested
upon Constance's animated face, standing by her father's side. It was
like a ray of sunshine to his clouded heart, a light in the darkness,
peace in the midst of storm, and a faint smile crossed his face--the
first in many days.
Tender hands bore Old Pete over the trail to the Radhurst cabin and
laid him upon the couch within. Outside, the miners stood in little
groups waiting, but hardly knowing what they were waiting for.
Homeless, penniless were they, but they never thought of it then.
Their own losses were swallowed up in the excitement of the moment, and
the sudden blow which had fallen.
Down below, the river--the river of death--surged and moaned. It had
swept away the cabins and had gripped in its icy grasp the body of one
wretched man, whose hand no more would be raised to strike at the
Standard of the Lord and His co-workers.