_THE WILL OF YULADA_
Again it was winter in Sobul. The snow lay deep in the deserted fields,
and in the woods it wove strange arabesques about the limbs of leafless
trees; the mountains were white with vast majestic new draperies. At
times the blizzards came moaning out of the northwest, with driving
flakes and gales; at times the sky was icy clear and scarcely a breeze
stirred amid the charmed silences. But whether the day was bright
or tempest-blurred could matter little now, for all days alike were
desolate in this saddest of winters.
Not long after the last birds had flown south, I began to repent of my
madness in detaining Yasma. Once that fierce culminating revolt had
collapsed, she did not flame forth any more in rebellion or protest;
but I would have welcomed a return of the old impetuous spirit. She
was gentle now, exceedingly kindly and gentle; she would hover by me
fondly, and her words would be soft-spoken and affectionate; but she
was no longer her old self. Something had gone out of her that had
made her spirit like fire; and something with the touch of frost had
taken its place. The dreary mood of the autumn, with its mute and
morbid musing, had not left her even now; but with it another mood
was mingled, a chilling mood, a mood as of one dazed and frightened.
But of what she was frightened she would not say; she was afraid of
the outdoors, and would never go forth except in my company, and then
never far; and she liked best of all to linger amid the shadows of the
cabin, gazing into the golden log blaze or merely staring at the blank
walls and brooding.
And always she appeared to be cold, both mentally and physically cold.
An abnormal apathy, almost a lethargy, had drained all her interest in
life; she seemed to have few ideas except those which I suggested to
her; and blue days and gray days were all as one to her. When I spoke,
she would answer, but usually only in monosyllables; she would agree to
every statement as though the world held nothing worth disputing; she
had the manner of one whose visible form occupies this earth, but whose
spirit dwells far-off.
Yet scarcely less disturbing than her mental inertia was the actual
bodily cold she felt. She was always shivering, and not seldom when
I took the little hands in mine I found them icy. The heavy goatskin
robes, which I stripped from my own back and piled about her, seemed
without effect; she still shivered, as though the very blood in her
veins were chilled. And she hardly seemed to care whether or not she
was cold, and, except for my little attentions, might have suffered
perpetually. Reluctantly I told myself that she was leading a life for
which nature had not fitted her; that she would have done better to
join her tribesmen in their migration.
And there came a time when, ironically, I began to wish that she could
follow her tribesmen. Alarm was springing up full-fledged in my heart,
and I wondered whether her absence could be half so sad as the change
that had come over her; whether it would not be far better to lose her
for half the year and receive her back, buoyant and happy, along with
the first spring flowers. For days I pondered, in dreadful agony of
mind; and at last, seeing her growing even more melancholy and more
detached, I decided to advise the very step I had once forbidden.
Shall I ever forget the time when I mentioned this most painful
subject? ... forget the hurt look in her eyes, the mute reproach? It
was on a December evening, when dusk had already engulfed the world,
and the wind went soughing by with a distressing monotone, and the
wolves on unseen mountain slopes matched the gale in the monody of
their wailing. All afternoon I had been noticing how like a languishing
flower Yasma looked, with her pale cheeks and drooping eyes; and
terror had come upon me, the terror of things I dared not express.
Even now I could not suggest Yasma's departure without the pangs of
self-sacrifice; but when I saw her huddled in a corner, a pitiable
figure that scarcely took note of the leaping firelight and that
responded in silence to my caresses, I felt that I had no longer any
choice, and hesitatingly proposed the solution that betokened my defeat.
"Yasma," said I, gently, coming to her and taking her hand, "what are
you so sad about? Are you still sorry I would not let you go away?"
She turned about slowly, and looked at me with big eyes full of sorrow.
"Why do you ask?" she questioned, with none of her old animation. "Why
do you ask what you already know?"
"I do not know," I said, quite truthfully, "why you should be so
unhappy, Yasma. But it is certain that you are unhappy, and that is all
that counts. It hurts me deeply to see you so, and I think that I have
been very, very wrong. I cannot adapt your nature to my own, and it was
foolish to try. So I want you to forget everything I said before; I am
willing for you to go away if you like, and join your kinsmen until the
green leaves are once more on the trees."
For a moment she stared at me as if she did not quite comprehend. Then
a wistful light came into her eyes, to smolder away in a sad glow, as
of one who knows she desires in vain. But there was just a trace of
the old energy in her voice as she replied, with words that burned like
a rebuke, "Why do you tell me this now? Why did you not tell me before,
when the red leaves were still on the trees and the birds were still
flying south?"
"I should have told you before," I pleaded, abjectly. "I should have
told you. Forgive me, my darling, I did not understand. But is there
not time even now? Think, it will be whole long months yet before the
spring breezes blow!"
"It is too late!" she sighed. "Too late! I could not go now. It is too
cold. I would not know the way. The last bird has flown south. It is
too late!"
In her tones there was such finality that I knew it would be futile to
protest.
For minutes I stood there before her in silence, burdened with a
sadness that equalled her own, face to face with a certainty I
had never contemplated before. Perhaps, in that first moment of
realization, I did not sufficiently conceal my forebodings, for in the
end I felt a gentle hand tugging at mine, and looked down to see a
wanly smiling face peering at me with pathetic kindliness and sympathy.
And for a moment I enveloped Yasma's frail figure in an embrace of such
fury as I had seldom bestowed.
But her form, at first rigid, quickly grew limp in my clasp; and, with
renewed apprehensions, I released her.
For a few seconds she turned from me to stare into the dwindling fire;
then her whole body was shaken by a spasmodic twinge, like an electric
shock. And facing me again, she murmured, sorrowfully, "It is too late,
my beloved, too late. But do not be sad. It is no one's fault. You
could not be different if you wished, and I could not be. And one of us
must suffer the cost."
"Do not say that, Yasma!" I protested, in rising alarm. "What cost can
there be?"
"Yulada alone can answer," she returned, calmly but in tones of
certainty. "But better that it should be I--"
"No, no!" I interrupted, furiously. "It is I that should suffer--I--"
But my sentence was never finished. Yasma had again turned aside, her
whole form suddenly convulsive. It was long before I could comfort
her; and late into that dismal night, while the wind clamored even
more frantically without and the fire within sank untended to a smoky
glow, I hovered despairingly at her side, warming the chilly hands,
coaxing and caressing and pleading, murmuring reassuring words I could
not feel, and all the while disconsolate because she seemed beyond the
power of my consolation.
Eventually, after what may have been hours, the tumult ebbed away, and
she lay impassive in my arms, like one meekly resigned when there is
no longer any purpose in struggling. Her eyes had grown listless and
weary; her whole frame seemed without energy; it was as though she
had expended her last reserves of emotion. And in the end sleep came,
impartial sleep that could never have been more welcome; and she lay
huddled in my arms, unconscious of my long dreary vigil, her breath
rising and falling so faintly that at times I scarcely heard it at all
and listened in alarm for the feeble, reassuring beating of her heart.
But if her present state was disturbing, she was to give me double
cause for concern as the days went by. Her languid and indifferent mood
persisted; she showed no more passionate flashes, no more upsurgings of
revolt; she had the sad submissiveness of a nun who has taken the last
irrevocable vows. And, all the while, a disquieting physical change was
coming over her. The color was being drained from her cheeks, which
were assuming a waxen hue; the blue veins were standing out on her
forehead; her face was growing drawn and thin, with a forlorn, almost
ghostly beauty; her hands were seemingly without strength, and hollows
began to appear about the palms and wrists. Only her vivid dark eyes
remained unchanged, her dark eyes and her auburn ringlets.
I would have been less than human had I not fought with all my strength
against the cruel transformation. Yet what, after all, could I do? I
would spend hours in tending her simplest physical needs, in building
fires, in keeping her warmly clothed, in fetching water and preparing
food; but it seemed as if she were above all mere physical attentions.
She would scarcely put forth an effort to safeguard herself; she would
expose herself recklessly or unthinkingly to the cold; and would hardly
touch the morsels I made ready for her with hopeful care. To argue with
her, to coax her, to entreat her, was but a waste of time; she remained
immune to the power of my persuasion and of my love; and I had the
unhappy fate of watching her sinking and fading while I was unable to
reach out a succoring hand.
After the days had begun to grow longer and December storms had made
way for January blizzards, a still more distressing change took place.
Until now Yasma had been able to go occasionally into the open, leaning
upon my arm and breathing a few breaths of the refreshing breeze when
the day was not too cold; but even this privilege was to be taken from
her. There came a morning when, perhaps incautiously, we ventured out
into the clear tingling air following a snow-storm; but we had not
gone twenty paces when I felt Yasma's form sagging; and I thrust my
arms about her just in time to save her from sinking into the snow. To
bear the fainting girl back to the cabin and revive her was a matter
of a few minutes; but she came out of this new trial weaker than
ever, and was filled with such dread of the open that she would no
longer leave shelter. She did not now hover brooding in a corner; she
lay almost motionless on her couch of straw, covered with goatskin
robes, uncomplaining, and speaking but little. And now came the real
ordeal for us both. Fear, always muffled before by reason and hope, was
rising unrelieved within me; I passed my days in a nightmare, tormented
by my own thoughts, tortured by sight of her, and by remorse at my
folly in bringing Yasma to this plight. But it was useless to waste
time condemning myself, useless to let terror paralyze me. Whatever
there was that I could do, that I did almost with passion; I would
stir the fire into a blaze as eagerly as though the flames might fan
Yasma's flagging spirits; I would prepare some poor broth of dried
beans or peas as zealously as though it might put fresh strength into
her drooping limbs. Yet all the while I realized that I was waging a
hopeless fight. What she needed was the most skillful medical aid, the
most tender nursing and carefully selected food--and how provide these
here in this wilderness, alone among the crags and the snow?
But, to judge from her own state of mind, no means at the disposal
of science would have been of much use. She bore the aspect of one
waiting, waiting for the imminent and the inevitable; and she seemed
to feel as if by instinct that her fate was foreordained. Sometimes
she would call me to her, and in feeble tones confide that she loved
me, and that I should not worry; sometimes she would merely take my
hand, and speak by a silence more moving than words. Of our few brief
conversations there is only an occasional phrase that I can recall: how
once a bright light came into her eyes, and she murmured that she had
been happy, very happy with me; how one moment she would say that she
was tired, and the next moment that she was cold, but always that I
was very good to her; how at times her wan face would be seamed with
sorrow, and she would sigh that she did not wish to leave me alone. But
most distinctly of all I remember the occasion when she sat up halfway
on her couch, and her countenance was transfused with a radiance that
brought reminders of her old self, and she held out a pleading hand to
me and whispered that I should not be sad no matter what happened; that
she would not be sad, but would be marvelously happy. And in her eyes
I noticed a beautiful glitter that might have been the brilliance of
delirium, and might have been the exaltation of one who sees that which
is hidden from most men.
Of course, I would always try to reassure her; would tell her that
there was nothing to be sad about, and that all would again be as it
had been. But in my heart I knew that this was not so. And my eyes
showed me signs that were far from hopeful. Gradually she was growing
thinner still; her cheeks, ashen before, were brightening with a hectic
glow. And when I placed my hand on her forehead, I realized that she
was burning with fever. Just how severe that fever was, I could not
tell; but my one consolation was that she did not appear to suffer.
And now my hours were passed in continual dread. I scarcely dared leave
the cabin even to obtain water from the creek a stone's throw away; I
was reluctant to desert my post for brief sleep at night. Perhaps I too
was growing emaciated and weak, but could that matter when my whole
world was withering away before my eyes?
At last the long-protracted January days were over, and February was
ushered in by the songs of a demon wind. And with February a faint
hope, remote and candle-dim, came flickering into my heart, for now the
return of spring and the revival of the universe seemed not quite so
distant. But that hope was to be snuffed out almost at birth.
The month was still young when the shattering day arrived. The sun
had come out bright and clear over the fields and slopes of snow; and
toward noon a few clouds had gathered, lazy and slow-drifting and
scarcely disturbing the serene blue. Responsive to the tranquility of
earth and sky, my mood was more placid than for weeks; and Yasma too
seemed to feel the charmed peace, for her face showed a calm as of
utter content, and the fever had apparently receded and left her cheeks
almost their normal rose-hue. She did not speak much, but it seemed to
me that her eyes had more alertness than for many days; and when she
did break silence with a whisper, it was to assure me of her love in
tones unforgettably tender.
How often I was to remember those words in later days, to treasure
them, to repeat them over and over to myself like some old tune whose
magic never fails! But at the time I did not foresee how precious these
few hours were to be. Even when evening was approaching and Yasma's
eyes began to glitter as with some secret ecstasy, I did not realize
that the present moment might dominate all other moments in my life;
and when sunset was setting fire to the west and the stray clouds wore
vermilion and purple, I was still unprepared for what the night had in
store.
Dusk was falling over the world and in our cabin a lively blaze was
beaming, when I was surprised to see Yasma draw herself up to a sitting
posture and throw out her hands as though invoking some unseen power.
In her face there was a light as of one who gazes at some ravishing
beauty; she seemed utterly overmastered and borne out of herself.
"Yasma," I murmured, myself overawed at her fierce transport. "Yasma,
what is it?"
She turned to me with eyes that burned and sparkled as in the first
ardor of our love. Her features were transfigured and glorified; it
was as though she were yearning, straining upward toward something
unspeakably lovely.
"I see the birds!" she cried, with a passion she had not shown for
months. "I see the wild birds! They are calling, calling! Oh, I must
join them! I must go where the flowers are! I must go, my beloved, I
must go!"
"What are you saying, Yasma?" I burst forth, in a frenzy of terror.
"Are you out of your senses? There are no birds near us now!"
She bent upon me a gaze in which her ecstasy seemed to be crossed by
a fugitive tenderness. "Yes, there are, there are! I hear them! They
call to me! But do not be sorry, my beloved. I will be happier, oh,
so happy! The birds are calling me--I must follow them, follow them
south--only"--here she hesitated just the fraction of a second--"only,
this time I shall not return!"
"Oh, do not speak so strangely, Yasma!" I pleaded, half beside myself.
But she was already beyond reach of my appeals. "I see the birds! I see
the wild birds!" she repeated, rising to a crescendo of exaltation.
"I will fly with them, fly south, fly south! I will go where the sun
always shines! I will go where all things are green and fair! Oh, I am
going, I am going!"
Once more she turned passionately toward me; but her voice faltered,
and a note of something wistful and gentle softened her fervid
outburst. "Good-bye, my beloved--good-bye! I am going! It is the
will--the will--of Yulada!"
At mention of that dread name, all power seemingly left her. Her
thin form crumpled up and slumped down upon the disordered straw;
for a moment a muffled gurgling filled her throat, and then she lay
motionless where the firelight cast fantastic shadows.
With the fury of one scarcely conscious what he does, I bent down
and lifted the silent figure in my arms. But she hung limp and
unresponsive, and the open lips gave forth no sound, and the pulse no
longer fluttered.
Then when the first terror of realization came upon me and my shoulders
shook and heaved and the tears flooded down, I thought that I heard
a strange sound without. Even in the unutterable depths of my agony,
a rhythm as of whirring wings seemed to reach me; and some will not
my own took hold of me, and brought me to the cabin door, and made me
fling it wide before me. Not a dozen yards above, a great bird was
poised in air; and at my approach it retreated into the twilight,
speeding with swift-flapping wings upward and southward; and against
the last red flare of day it was dimly visible for a moment, and then
became a shadow, and then less than a shadow against the spectral
peaks. And the western radiance paled and faded; and the stars came
out one by one in the vague solitudes, and a faint glow to the east
presaged the moon-rise; and I returned to the waning firelight, and to
my grief that already was merged in a flaming remembrance.
* * * * *
Blue skies shone above me when I paid my last tribute to the Valley
of Sobul. In the white breast of the new-fallen snow, a deep brown
furrow had been riven; and into this aperture, with hands that trembled
and threatened to give way, I lifted the rough-hewn oaken chest that
contained the sole earthly remains of her who had loved me. Very
carefully I had smoothed out the flowing auburn locks; very tenderly
I had sheared off a tress, which even now is with me; then, with a
tearless regret bitterer than words shall ever describe, I had looked
my last at that silent, tranquil face, had slipped a scented pine
twig impulsively against the unmoving form, and slowly had drawn the
oaken lid into place.... And now, beneath the bright beams of the sun,
under the circle of the inexorable peaks, I felt my eyes flooded with
a passion that at the same time brought relief; and as the first clod
slipped above the casket, it seemed to me (or perhaps it was but my
disordered fancy speaking) that I heard a bird singing, singing faintly
a thin elfin song, a strange, trilling song such as I had heard long
before when Yasma had come to me after the bleak winter....
But no bird was to be seen, although I looked for one wistfully. And
no bird was to be seen, although I fancied I heard one, at that later
time when I stood bent beneath my pack on the flank of a western
mountain, gazing back at the solitary valley and the white-draped
figure of Yulada, aloof and invincible as ever. Before me was the trail
that led toward the natives I had chanced upon last summer; before
me, after months of waiting, would be the open road to my own land
and civilization; before me would be the beginning of a new life, and
new interests that would bring consolation, and work that would bring
forgetfulness; but here in this secluded vale, with its lonely woods
and encompassing peaks, I had left that which not all the golden cities
of the earth could ever give me back again.
_THE END_