For half an hour Alan sat smoking his cigar. Mentally he was not at
ease. Mary Standish had come to him like a soldier, and she had left
him like a soldier. But in that last glimpse of her face he had caught
for an instant something which she had not betrayed in his cabin—a stab
of what he thought was pain in her tear-wet eyes as she smiled, a proud
regret, possibly a shadow of humiliation at last—or it may have been a
pity for him. He was not sure. But it was not despair. Not once had she
whimpered in look or word, even when the tears were in her eyes, and
the thought was beginning to impress itself upon him that it was he—and
not Mary Standish—who had shown a yellow streak this night. A half
shame fell upon him as he smoked. For it was clear he had not come up
to her judgment of him, or else he was not so big a fool as she had
hoped he might be. In his own mind, for a time, he was at a loss to
decide.
It was possibly the first time he had ever deeply absorbed himself in
the analysis of a woman. It was outside his business. But, born and
bred of the open country, it was as natural for him to recognize
courage as it was for him to breathe. And the girl’s courage was
unusual, now that he had time to think about it. It was this thought of
her coolness and her calm refusal to impose her case upon him with
greater warmth that comforted him after a little. A young and beautiful
woman who was actually facing death would have urged her necessity with
more enthusiasm, it seemed to him. Her threat, when he debated it
intelligently, was merely thrown in, possibly on the spur of the
moment, to give impetus to his decision. She had not meant it. The idea
of a girl like Mary Standish committing suicide was stupendously
impossible. Her quiet and wonderful eyes, her beauty and the exquisite
care which she gave to herself emphasized the absurdity of such a
supposition. She had come to him bravely. There was no doubt of that.
She had merely exaggerated the importance of her visit.
Even after he had turned many things over in his mind to bolster up
this conclusion, he was still not at ease. Against his will he recalled
certain unpleasant things which had happened within his knowledge under
sudden and unexpected stress of emotion. He tried to laugh the absurd
stuff out of his thoughts and to the end that he might add a new color
to his visionings he exchanged his half-burned cigar for a black-bowled
pipe, which he filled and lighted. Then he began walking back and forth
in his cabin, like a big animal in a small cage, until at last he stood
with his head half out of the open port, looking at the clear stars and
setting the perfume of his tobacco adrift with the soft sea wind.
He felt himself growing comforted. Reason seated itself within him
again, with sentiment shuttled under his feet. If he had been a little
harsh with Miss Standish tonight, he would make up for it by
apologizing tomorrow. She would probably have recovered her balance by
that time, and they would laugh over her excitement and their little
adventure. That is, he would. “I’m not at all curious in the matter,”
some persistent voice kept telling him, “and I haven’t any interest in
knowing what irrational whim drove her to my cabin.” But he smoked
viciously and smiled grimly as the voice kept at him. He would have
liked to obliterate Rossland from his mind. But Rossland persisted in
bobbing up, and with him Mary Standish’s words, “If I should make an
explanation, you would hate me,” or something to that effect. He
couldn’t remember exactly. And he didn’t want to remember exactly, for
it was none of his business.
In this humor, with half of his thoughts on one side of the fence and
half on the other, he put out his light and went to bed. And he began
thinking of the Range. That was pleasanter. For the tenth time he
figured out how long it would be before the glacial-twisted ramparts of
the Endicott Mountains rose up in first welcome to his home-coming.
Carl Lomen, following on the next ship, would join him at Unalaska.
They would go on to Nome together. After that he would spend a week or
so in the Peninsula, then go up the Kobuk, across the big portage to
the Koyukuk and the far headwaters of the north, and still
farther—beyond the last trails of civilized men—to his herds and his
people. And Stampede Smith would be with him. After a long winter of
homesickness it was all a comforting inducement to sleep and pleasant
dreams. But somewhere there was a wrong note in his anticipations
tonight. Stampede Smith slipped away from him, and Rossland took his
place. And Keok, laughing, changed into Mary Standish with tantalizing
deviltry. It was like Keok, Alan thought drowsily—she was always
tormenting someone.
He felt better in the morning. The sun was up, flooding the wall of his
cabin, when he awoke, and under him he could feel the roll of the open
sea. Eastward the Alaskan coast was a deep blue haze, but the white
peaks of the St. Elias Range flung themselves high up against the
sun-filled sky behind it, like snowy banners. The _Nome_ was pounding
ahead at full speed, and Alan’s blood responded suddenly to the
impelling thrill of her engines, beating like twin hearts with the
mighty force that was speeding them on. This was business. It meant
miles foaming away behind them and a swift biting off of space between
him and Unalaska, midway of the Aleutians. He was sorry they were
losing time by making the swing up the coast to Cordova. And with
Cordova he thought of Mary Standish.
He dressed and shaved and went down to breakfast, still thinking of
her. The thought of meeting her again was rather discomforting, now
that the time of that possibility was actually at hand, for he dreaded
moments of embarrassment even when he was not directly accountable for
them. But Mary Standish saved him any qualms of conscience which he
might have had because of his lack of chivalry the preceding night. She
was at the table. And she was not at all disturbed when he seated
himself opposite her. There was color in her cheeks, a fragile touch of
that warm glow in the heart of the wild rose of the tundras. And it
seemed to him there was a deeper, more beautiful light in her eyes than
he had ever seen before.
She nodded, smiled at him, and resumed a conversation which she had
evidently broken for a moment with a lady who sat next to her. It was
the first time Alan had seen her interested in this way. He had no
intention of listening, but something perverse and compelling overcame
his will. He discovered the lady was going up to teach in a native
school at Noorvik, on the Kobuk River, and that for many years she had
taught in Dawson and knew well the story of Belinda Mulrooney. He
gathered that Mary Standish had shown a great interest, for Miss
Robson, the teacher, was offering to send her a photograph she
possessed of Belinda Mulrooney; if Miss Standish would give her an
address. The girl hesitated, then said she was not certain of her
destination, but would write Miss Robson at Noorvik.
“You will surely keep your promise?” urged Miss Robson.
“Yes, I will keep my promise.”
A sense of relief swept over Alan. The words were spoken so softly that
he thought she had not wanted him to hear. It was evident that a few
hours’ sleep and the beauty of the morning had completely changed her
mental attitude, and he no longer felt the suspicion of responsibility
which had persisted in attaching itself to him. Only a fool, he assured
himself, could possibly see a note of tragedy in her appearance now.
Nor was she different at luncheon or at dinner. During the day he saw
nothing of her, and he was growing conscious of the fact that she was
purposely avoiding contact with him. This did not displease him. It
allowed him to pick up the threads of other interests in a normal sort
of way. He discussed Alaskan politics in the smoking-room, smoked his
black pipe without fear of giving offense, and listened to the talk of
the ship with a freedom of mind which he had not experienced since his
first meeting with Miss Standish. Yet, as night drew on, and he walked
his two-mile promenade about the deck, he felt gathering about him a
peculiar impression of aloneness. Something was missing. He did not
acknowledge to himself what it was until, as if to convict him, he saw
Mary Standish come out of the door leading from her cabin passageway,
and stand alone at the rail of the ship. For a moment he hesitated,
then quietly he came up beside her.
“It has been a wonderful day, Miss Standish,” he said, “and Cordova is
only a few hours ahead of us.”
She scarcely turned her face and continued to look off into the
shrouding darkness of the sea. “Yes, a wonderful day, Mr. Holt,” she
repeated after him, “and Cordova is only a few hours ahead.” Then, in
the same soft, unemotional voice, she added: “I want to thank you for
last night. You brought me to a great decision.”
“I fear I did not help you.”
It may have been fancy of the gathering dusk, that made him believe he
caught a shuddering movement of her slim shoulders.
“I thought there were two ways,” she said, “but you made me see there
was only _one_.” She emphasized that word. It seemed to come with a
little tremble in her voice. “I was foolish. But please let us forget.
I want to think of pleasanter things. I am about to make a great
experiment, and it takes all my courage.”
“You will win, Miss Standish,” he said in a sure voice. “In whatever
you undertake you will win. I know it. If this experiment you speak of
is the adventure of coming to Alaska—seeking your fortune—finding your
life here—it will be glorious. I can assure you of that.”
She was quiet for a moment, and then said:
“The unknown has always held a fascination for me. When we were under
the mountains in Skagway yesterday, I almost told you of an odd faith
which I have. I believe I have lived before, a long time ago, when
America was very young. At times the feeling is so strong that I must
have faith in it. Possibly I am foolish. But when the mountain swung
back, like a great door, and we saw Skagway, I knew that
sometime—somewhere—I had seen a thing like that before. And I have had
strange visions of it. Maybe it is a touch of madness in me. But it is
that faith which gives me courage to go on with my experiment. That—and
_you_!”
Suddenly she faced him, her eyes flaming.
“You—and your suspicions and your brutality,” she went on, her voice
trembling a little as she drew herself up straight and tense before
him. “I wasn’t going to tell you, Mr. Holt. But you have given me the
opportunity, and it may do you good—after tomorrow. I came to you
because I foolishly misjudged you. I thought you were different, like
your mountains. I made a great gamble, and set you up on a pedestal as
clean and unafraid and believing all things good until you found them
bad—and I lost. I was terribly mistaken. Your first thoughts of me when
I came to your cabin were suspicious. You were angry and afraid. Yes,
_afraid_—fearful of something happening which you didn’t want to
happen. You thought, almost, that I was unclean. And you believed I was
a liar, and told me so. It wasn’t fair, Mr. Holt. It wasn’t _fair_.
There were things which I couldn’t explain to you, but I told you
Rossland knew. I didn’t keep everything back. And I believed you were
big enough to think that I was not dishonoring you with my—friendship,
even though I came to your cabin. Oh, I had that much faith in myself—I
didn’t think I would be mistaken for something unclean and lying!”
“Good God!” he cried. “Listen to me—Miss Standish—”
She was gone, so suddenly that his movement to intercept her was
futile, and she passed through the door before he could reach her.
Again he called her name, but her footsteps were almost running up the
passageway. He dropped back, his blood cold, his hands clenched in the
darkness, and his face as white as the girl’s had been. Her words had
held him stunned and mute. He saw himself stripped naked, as she
believed him to be, and the thing gripped him with a sort of horror.
And she was wrong. He had followed what he believed to be good judgment
and common sense. If, in doing that, he had been an accursed fool—
Determinedly he started for her cabin, his mind set upon correcting her
malformed judgment of him. There was no light coming under her door.
When he knocked, there was no answer from within. He waited, and tried
again, listening for a sound of movement. And each moment he waited he
was readjusting himself. He was half glad, in the end, that the door
did not open. He believed Miss Standish was inside, and she would
undoubtedly accept the reason for his coming without an apology in
words.
He went to his cabin, and his mind became increasingly persistent in
its disapproval of the wrong viewpoint she had taken of him. He was not
comfortable, no matter how he looked at the thing. For her clear eyes,
her smoothly glorious hair, and the pride and courage with which she
had faced him remained with him overpoweringly. He could not get away
from the vision of her as she had stood against the door with tears
like diamonds on her cheeks. Somewhere he had missed fire. He knew it.
Something had escaped him which he could not understand. And she was
holding him accountable.
The talk of the smoking-room did not interest him tonight. His efforts
to become a part of it were forced. A jazzy concert of piano and string
music in the social hall annoyed him, and a little later he watched the
dancing with such grimness that someone remarked about it. He saw
Rossland whirling round the floor with a handsome, young blonde in his
arms. The girl was looking up into his eyes, smiling, and her cheek lay
unashamed against his shoulder, while Rossland’s face rested against
her fluffy hair when they mingled closely with the other dancers. Alan
turned away, an unpleasant thought of Rossland’s association with Mary
Standish in his mind. He strolled down into the steerage. The Thlinkit
people had shut themselves in with a curtain of blankets, and from the
stillness he judged they were asleep. The evening passed slowly for him
after that, until at last he went to his cabin and tried to interest
himself in a book. It was something he had anticipated reading, but
after a little he wondered if the writing was stupid, or if it was
himself. The thrill he had always experienced with this particular
writer was missing. There was no inspiration. The words were dead. Even
the tobacco in his pipe seemed to lack something, and he changed it for
a cigar—and chose another book. The result was the same. His mind
refused to function, and there was no comfort in his cigar.
He knew he was fighting against a new thing, even as he subconsciously
lied to himself. And he was obstinately determined to win. It was a
fight between himself and Mary Standish as she had stood against his
door. Mary Standish—the slim beauty of her—her courage—a score of
things that had never touched his life before. He undressed and put on
his smoking-gown and slippers, repudiating the honesty of the emotions
that were struggling for acknowledgment within him. He was a bit mad
and entirely a fool, he told himself. But the assurance did him no
good.
He went to bed, propped himself up against his pillows, and made
another effort to read. He half-heartedly succeeded. At ten o’clock
music and dancing ceased, and stillness fell over the ship. After that
he found himself becoming more interested in the first book he had
started to read. His old satisfaction slowly returned to him. He
relighted his cigar and enjoyed it. Distantly he heard the ship’s
bells, eleven o’clock, and after that the half-hour and midnight. The
printed pages were growing dim, and drowsily he marked his book, placed
it on the table, and yawned. They must be nearing Cordova. He could
feel the slackened speed of the _Nome_ and the softer throb of her
engines. Probably they had passed Cape St. Elias and were drawing
inshore.
And then, sudden and thrilling, came a woman’s scream. A piercing cry
of terror, of agony—and of something else that froze the blood in his
veins as he sprang from his berth. Twice it came, the second time
ending in a moaning wail and a man’s husky shout. Feet ran swiftly past
his window. He heard another shout and then a voice of command. He
could not distinguish the words, but the ship herself seemed to
respond. There came the sudden smoothness of dead engines, followed by
the pounding shock of reverse and the clanging alarm of a bell calling
boats’ crews to quarters.
Alan faced his cabin door. He knew what had happened. Someone was
overboard. And in this moment all life and strength were gone out of
his body, for the pale face of Mary Standish seemed to rise for an
instant before him, and in her quiet voice she was telling him again
that _this was the other way._ His face went white as he caught up his
smoking-gown, flung open his door, and ran down the dimly lighted
corridor.