Alan slept soundly for several hours, but the long strain of the
preceding day did not make him overreach the time he had set for
himself, and he was up at six o’clock. Wegaruk had not forgotten her
old habits, and a tub filled with cold water was waiting for him. He
bathed, shaved himself, put on fresh clothes, and promptly at seven was
at breakfast. The table at which he ordinarily sat alone was in a
little room with double windows, through which, as he enjoyed his
meals, he could see most of the habitations of the range. Unlike the
average Eskimo dwellings they were neatly built of small timber brought
down from the mountains, and were arranged in orderly fashion like the
cottages of a village, strung out prettily on a single street. A sea of
flowers lay in front of them, and at the end of the row, built on a
little knoll that looked down into one of the watered hollows of the
tundra, was Sokwenna’s cabin. Because Sokwenna was the “old man” of the
community and therefore the wisest—and because with him lived his
foster-daughters, Keok and Nawadlook, the loveliest of Alan’s tribal
colony—Sokwenna’s cabin was next to Alan’s in size. And Alan, looking
at it now and then as he ate his breakfast, saw a thin spiral of smoke
rising from the chimney, but no other sign of life.
The sun was already up almost to its highest point, a little more than
half-way between the horizon and the zenith, performing the apparent
miracle of rising in the north and traveling east instead of west. Alan
knew the men-folk of the village had departed hours ago for the distant
herds. Always, when the reindeer drifted into the higher and cooler
feeding-grounds of the foothills, there was this apparent abandonment,
and after last night’s celebration the women and children were not yet
awake to the activities of the long day, where the rising and setting
of the sun meant so little.
As he rose from the table, he glanced again toward Sokwenna’s cabin. A
solitary figure had climbed up out of the ravine and stood against the
sun on the clough-top. Even at that distance, with the sun in his eyes,
he knew it was Mary Standish.
He turned his back stoically to the window and lighted his pipe. For
half an hour after that he sorted out his papers and range-books in
preparation for the coming of Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, and when they
arrived, the minute hand of his watch was at the hour of eight.
That the months of his absence had been prosperous ones he perceived by
the smiling eagerness in the brown faces of his companions as they
spread out the papers on which they had, in their own crude fashion,
set down a record of the winter’s happenings. Tautuk’s voice, slow and
very deliberate in its unfailing effort to master English without a
slip, had in it a subdued note of satisfaction and triumph, while Amuk
Toolik, who was quick and staccato in his manner of speech, using
sentences seldom of greater length than three or four words, and who
picked up slang and swear-words like a parrot, swelled with pride as he
lighted his pipe, and then rubbed his hands with a rasping sound that
always sent a chill up Alan’s back.
“A ver’ fine and prosper’ year,” said Tautuk in response to Alan’s
first question as to general conditions. “We bean ver’ fortunate.”
“One hell-good year,” backed up Amuk Toolik with the quickness of a
gun. “Plenty calf. Good hoof. Moss. Little wolf. Herds fat. This
year—she peach!”
After this opening of the matter in hand Alan buried himself in the
affairs of the range, and the old thrill, the glow which comes through
achievement, and the pioneer’s pride in marking a new frontier with the
creative forces of success rose uppermost in him, and he forgot the
passing of time. A hundred questions he had to ask, and the tongues of
Tautuk and Amuk Toolik were crowded with the things they desired to
tell him. Their voices filled the room with a paean of triumph. His
herds had increased by a thousand head during the fawning months of
April and May, and interbreeding of the Asiatic stock with wild,
woodland caribou had produced a hundred calves of the super-animal
whose flesh was bound to fill the markets of the States within a few
years. Never had the moss been thicker under the winter snow; there had
been no destructive fires; soft-hoof had escaped them; breeding records
had been beaten, and dairying in the edge of the Arctic was no longer
an experiment, but an established fact, for Tautuk now had seven deer
giving a pint and a half of milk each twice a day, nearly as rich as
the best of cream from cattle, and more than twenty that were
delivering from a cupful to a pint at a milking. And to this Amuk
Toolik added the amazing record of their running-deer, Kauk, the
three-year-old, had drawn a sledge five miles over unbeaten snow in
thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds; Kauk and Olo, in team, had
drawn the same sledge ten miles in twenty-six minutes and forty
seconds, and one day he had driven the two ninety-eight miles in a
mighty endurance test; and with Eno and Sutka, the first of their
inter-breed with the wild woodland caribou, and heavier beasts, he had
drawn a load of eight hundred pounds for three consecutive days at the
rate of forty miles a day. From Fairbanks, Tanana, and the ranges of
the Seward Peninsula agents of the swiftly spreading industry had
offered as high as a hundred and ten dollars a head for breeding stock
with the blood of the woodland caribou, and of these native and larger
caribou of the tundras and forests seven young bulls and nine female
calves had been captured and added to their own propagative forces.
For Alan this was triumph. He saw nothing of what it all meant in the
way of ultimate personal fortune. It was the earth under his feet, the
vast expanse of unpeopled waste traduced and scorned in the blindness
of a hundred million people, which he saw fighting itself on the glory
and reward of the conqueror through such achievement as this; a land
betrayed rising at last out of the slime of political greed and
ignorance; a giant irresistible in its awakening, that was destined in
his lifetime to rock the destiny of a continent. It was Alaska rising
up slowly but inexorably out of its eternity of sleep, mountain-sealed
forces of a great land that was once the cradle of the earth coming
into possession of life and power again; and his own feeble efforts in
that long and fighting process of planting the seeds which meant its
ultimate ascendancy possessed in themselves their own reward.
Long after Tautuk and Amuk Toolik had gone, his heart was filled with
the song of success.
He was surprised at the swiftness with which time had gone, when he
looked at his watch. It was almost dinner hour when he had finished
with his papers and books and went outside. He heard Wegaruk’s voice
coming from the dark mouth of the underground icebox dug into the
frozen subsoil of the tundra, and pausing at the glimmer of his old
housekeeper’s candle, he turned aside, descended the few steps, and
entered quietly into the big, square chamber eight feet under the
surface, where the earth had remained steadfastly frozen for some
hundreds of thousands of years. Wegaruk had a habit of talking when
alone, but Alan thought it odd that she should be explaining to herself
that the tundra-soil, in spite of its almost tropical summer richness
and luxuriance, never thawed deeper than three or four feet, below
which point remained the icy cold placed there so long ago that “even
the spirits did not know.” He smiled when he heard Wegaruk measuring
time and faith in terms of “spirits,” which she had never quite given
up for the missionaries, and was about to make his presence known when
a voice interrupted him, so close at his side that the speaker,
concealed in the shadow of the wall, could have reached out a hand and
touched him.
“Good morning, Mr. Holt!”
It was Mary Standish, and he stared rather foolishly to make her out in
the gloom.
“Good morning,” he replied. “I was on my way to your place when
Wegaruk’s voice brought me here. You see, even this icebox seems like a
friend after my experience in the States. Are you after a steak,
Mammy?” he called.
Wegaruk’s strong, squat figure turned as she answered him, and the
light from her candle, glowing brightly in a split tomato can, fell
clearly upon Mary Standish as the old woman waddled toward them. It was
as if a spotlight had been thrown upon the girl suddenly out of a pit
of darkness, and something about her, which was not her prettiness or
the beauty that was in her eyes and hair, sent a sudden and
unaccountable thrill through Alan. It remained with him when they drew
back out of gloom and chill into sunshine and warmth, leaving Wegaruk
to snuff her tomato-can lantern and follow with the steak, and it did
not leave him when they walked over the tundra together toward
Sokwenna’s cabin. It was a puzzling thrill, stirring an emotion which
it was impossible for him to subdue or explain; something which he knew
he should understand but could not. And it seemed to him that knowledge
of this mystery was in the girl’s face, glowing in a gentle
embarrassment, as she told him she had been expecting him, and that
Keok and Nawadlook had given up the cabin to them, so that he might
question her uninterrupted. But with this soft flush of her uneasiness,
revealing itself in her eyes and cheeks, he saw neither fear nor
hesitation.
In the “big room” of Sokwenna’s cabin, which was patterned after his
own, he sat down amid the color and delicate fragrance of masses of
flowers, and the girl seated herself near him and waited for him to
speak.
“You love flowers,” he said lamely. “I want to thank you for the
flowers you placed in my cabin. And the other things.”
“Flowers are a habit with me,” she replied, “and I have never seen such
flowers as these. Flowers—and birds. I never dreamed that there were so
many up here.”
“Nor the world,” he added. “It is ignorant of Alaska.”
He was looking at her, trying to understand the inexplicable something
about her. She knew what was in his mind, because the strangely
thrilling emotion that possessed him could not keep its betrayal from
his eyes. The color was fading slowly out of her cheeks; her lips grew
a little tense, yet in her attitude of suspense and of waiting there
was no longer a suspicion of embarrassment, no trace of fear, and no
sign that a moment was at hand when her confidence was on the ebb. In
this moment Alan did not think of John Graham. It seemed to him that
she was like a child again, the child who had come to him in his cabin,
and who had stood with her back against his cabin door, entreating him
to achieve the impossible; an angel, almost, with her smooth, shining
hair, her clear, beautiful eyes, her white throat which waited with its
little heart-throb for him to beat down the fragile defense which now
lay in the greater power of his own hands. The inequality of it, and
the pitilessness of what had been in his mind to say and do, together
with an inundating sense of his own brute mastery, swept over him, and
in sudden desperation he reached out his hands toward her and cried:
“Mary Standish, in God’s name tell me the truth. Tell me why you have
come up here!”
“I have come,” she said, looking at him steadily, “because I know that
a man like you, when he loves a woman, will fight for her and protect
her even though he may not possess her.”
“But you didn’t know that—not until—the cottonwoods!” he protested.
“Yes, I did. I knew it in Ellen McCormick’s cabin.”
She rose slowly before him, and he, too, rose to his feet, staring at
her like a man who had been struck, while intelligence—a dawning
reason—an understanding of the strange mystery of her that morning,
sent the still greater thrill of its shock through him. He gave an
exclamation of amazement.
“You were at Ellen McCormick’s! She gave you—_that!_”
She nodded. “Yes, the dress you brought from the ship. Please don’t
scold me, Mr. Holt. Be a little kind with me when you have heard what I
am going to tell you. I was in the cabin that last day, when you
returned from searching for me in the sea. Mr. McCormick didn’t know.
But _she_ did. I lied a little, just a little, so that she, being a
woman, would promise not to tell you I was there. You see, I had lost a
great deal of my faith, and my courage was about gone, and I was afraid
of you.”
“Afraid of me?”
“Yes, afraid of everybody. I was in the room behind Ellen McCormick
when she asked you—that question; and when you answered as you did, I
was like stone. I was amazed and didn’t believe, for I was certain that
after what had happened on the ship you despised me, and only through a
peculiar sense of honor were making the search for me. Not until two
days later, when your letters came to Ellen McCormick, and we read
them—”
“You opened both?”
“Of course. One was to be read immediately, the other when I was
found—and I had found myself. Maybe it wasn’t exactly fair, but you
couldn’t expect two women to resist a temptation like that. And—_I
wanted to know_.”
She did not lower her eyes or turn her head aside as she made the
confession. Her gaze met Alan’s with beautiful steadiness.
“And then I believed. I knew, because of what you said in that letter,
that you were the one man in all the world who would help me and give
me a fighting chance if I came to you. But it has taken all my
courage—and in the end you will drive me away—”
Again he looked upon the miracle of tears in wide-open, unfaltering
eyes, tears which she did not brush away, but through which, in a
moment, she smiled at him as no woman had ever smiled at him before.
And with the tears there seemed to possess her a pride which lifted her
above all confusion, a living spirit of will and courage and womanhood
that broke away the dark clouds of suspicion and fear that had gathered
in his mind. He tried to speak, and his lips were thick.
“You have come—because you know I love you, and you—”
“Because, from the beginning, it must have been a great faith in you
that inspired me, Alan Holt.”
“There must have been more than that,” he persisted. “Some other
reason.”
“Two,” she acknowledged, and now he noticed that with the dissolution
of tears a flush of color was returning into her cheeks.
“And those—”
“One it is impossible for you to know; the other, if I tell you, will
make you despise me. I am sure of that.”
“It has to do with John Graham?”
She bowed her head. “Yes, with John Graham.”
For the first time long lashes hid her eyes from him, and for a moment
it seemed that her resolution was gone and she stood stricken by the
import of the thing that lay behind his question; yet her cheeks flamed
red instead of paling, and when she looked at him again, her eyes
burned with a lustrous fire.
“John Graham,” she repeated. “The man you hate and want to kill.”
Slowly he turned toward the door. “I am leaving immediately after
dinner to inspect the herds up in the foothills,” he said. “And
you—_are welcome here_.”
He caught the swift intake of her breath as he paused for an instant at
the door, and saw the new light that leaped into her eyes.
“Thank you, Alan Holt,” she cried softly, “_Oh, I thank you!_!”
And then, suddenly, she stopped him with a little cry, as if at last
something had broken away from her control. He faced her, and for a
moment they stood in silence.
“I’m sorry—sorry I said to you what I did that night on the _Nome_,”
she said. “I accused you of brutality, of unfairness, of—of even worse
than that, and I want to take it all back. You are big and clean and
splendid, for you would go away now, knowing I am poisoned by an
association with the man who has injured you so terribly, _and you say
I am welcome!_ And I don’t want you to go. You have made me _want_ to
tell you who I am, and why I have come to you, and I pray God you will
think as kindly of me as you can when you have heard.”