Alan’s first thought was of the monstrous incongruity of the thing, the
almost physical impossibility of a mésalliance of the sort Mary
Standish had revealed to him. He saw her, young and beautiful, with
face and eyes that from the beginning had made him feel all that was
good and sweet in life, and behind her he saw the shadow-hulk of John
Graham, the pitiless iron-man, without conscience and without soul,
coarsened by power, fiendish in his iniquities, and old enough to be
her father!
A slow smile twisted his lips, but he did not know he smiled. He pulled
himself together without letting her see the physical part of the
effort it was taking. And he tried to find something to say that would
help clear her eyes of the agony that was in them.
“That—is a most unreasonable thing—to be true,” he said.
It seemed to him his lips were making words out of wood, and that the
words were fatuously inefficient compared with what he should have
said, or acted, under the circumstances.
She nodded. “It is. But the world doesn’t look at it in that way. Such
things just happen.”
She reached for a book which lay on the table where the tundra daisies
were heaped. It was a book written around the early phases of pioneer
life in Alaska, taken from his own library, a volume of statistical
worth, dryly but carefully written—and she had been reading it. It
struck him as a symbol of the fight she was making, of her courage, and
of her desire to triumph in the face of tremendous odds that must have
beset her. He still could not associate her completely with John
Graham. Yet his face was cold and white.
Her hand trembled a little as she opened the book and took from it a
newspaper clipping. She did not speak as she unfolded it and gave it to
him.
At the top of two printed columns was the picture of a young and
beautiful girl; in an oval, covering a small space over the girl’s
shoulder, was a picture of a man of fifty or so. Both were strangers to
him. He read their names, and then the headlines. “A
Hundred-Million-Dollar Love” was the caption, and after the word love
was a dollar sign. Youth and age, beauty and the other thing, two great
fortunes united. He caught the idea and looked at Mary Standish. It was
impossible for him to think of her as Mary Graham.
“I tore that from a paper in Cordova,” she said. “They have nothing to
do with me. The girl lives in Texas. But don’t you see something in her
eyes? Can’t you see it, even in the picture? She has on her wedding
things. But it seemed to me—when I saw her face—that in her eyes were
agony and despair and hopelessness, and that she was bravely trying to
hide them from the world. It’s just another proof, one of thousands,
that such unreasonable things do happen.”
He was beginning to feel a dull and painless sort of calm, the stoicism
which came to possess him whenever he was confronted by the inevitable.
He sat down, and with his head bowed over it took one of the limp,
little hands that lay in Mary Standish’s lap. The warmth had gone out
of it. It was cold and lifeless. He caressed it gently and held it
between his brown, muscular hands, staring at it, and yet seeing
nothing in particular. It was only the ticking of Keok’s clock that
broke the silence for a time. Then he released the hand, and it dropped
in the girl’s lap again. She had been looking steadily at the streak of
gray in his hair. And a light came into her eyes, a light which he did
not see, and a little tremble of her lips, and an almost imperceptible
inclination of her head toward him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” he said. “I realize now how you must have
felt back there in the cottonwoods.”
“No, you don’t realize—_you don’t!_” she protested.
In an instant, it seemed to him, a vibrant, flaming life swept over her
again. It was as if his words had touched fire to some secret thing, as
if he had unlocked a door which grim hopelessness had closed. He was
amazed at the swiftness with which color came into her cheeks.
“You don’t understand, and I am determined that you _shall_,” she went
on. “I would die before I let you go away thinking what is now in your
mind. You will despise me, but I would rather be hated for the truth
than because of the horrible thing which you must believe if I remain
silent.” She forced a wan smile to her lips. “You know, Belinda
Mulrooneys were very well in their day, but they don’t fit in now, do
they? If a woman makes a mistake and tries to remedy it in a fighting
sort of way, as Belinda Mulrooney might have done back in the days when
Alaska was young—”
She finished with a little gesture of despair.
“I have committed a great folly,” she said, hesitating an instant in
his silence. “I see very clearly now the course I should have taken.
You will advise me that it is still not too late when you have heard
what I am going to say. Your face is like—a rock.”
“It is because your tragedy is mine,” he said.
She turned her eyes from him. The color in her cheeks deepened. It was
a vivid, feverish glow. “I was born rich, enormously, hatefully rich,”
she said in the low, unimpassioned voice of a confessional. “I don’t
remember father or mother. I lived always with my Grandfather Standish
and my Uncle Peter Standish. Until I was thirteen I had my Uncle Peter,
who was grandfather’s brother, and lived with us. I worshiped Uncle
Peter. He was a cripple. From young manhood he had lived in a
wheel-chair, and he was nearly seventy-five when he died. As a baby
that wheel-chair, and my rides in it with him about the great house in
which we lived, were my delights. He was my father and mother,
everything that was good and sweet in life. I remember thinking, as a
child, that if God was as good as Uncle Peter, He was a wonderful God.
It was Uncle Peter who told me, year after year, the old stories and
legends of the Standishes. And he was always happy—always happy and
glad and seeing nothing but sunshine though he hadn’t stood on his feet
for nearly sixty years. And my Uncle Peter died when I was thirteen,
five days before my birthday came. I think he must have been to me what
your father was to you.”
He nodded. There was something that was not the hardness of rock in his
face now, and John Graham seemed to have faded away.
“I was left, then, alone with my Grandfather Standish,” she went on.
“He didn’t love me as my Uncle Peter loved me, and I don’t think I
loved him. But I was proud of him. I thought the whole world must have
stood in awe of him, as I did. As I grew older I learned the world
_was_ afraid of him—bankers, presidents, even the strongest men in
great financial interests; afraid of him, and of his partners, the
Grahams, and of Sharpleigh, who my Uncle Peter had told me was the
cleverest lawyer in the nation, and who had grown up in the business of
the two families. My grandfather was sixty-eight when Uncle Peter died,
so it was John Graham who was the actual working force behind the
combined fortunes of the two families. Sometimes, as I now recall it,
Uncle Peter was like a little child. I remember how he tried to make me
understand just how big my grandfather’s interests were by telling me
that if two dollars were taken from every man, woman, and child in the
United States, it would just about add up to what he and the Grahams
possessed, and my Grandfather Standish’s interests were three-quarters
of the whole. I remember how a hunted look would come into my Uncle
Peter’s face at times when I asked him how all this money was used, and
where it was. And he never answered me as I wanted to be answered, and
I never understood. I didn’t know _why_ people feared my grandfather
and John Graham. I didn’t know of the stupendous power my grandfather’s
money had rolled up for them. I didn’t know”—her voice sank to a
shuddering whisper—“I didn’t know how they were using it in Alaska, for
instance. I didn’t know it was feeding upon starvation and ruin and
death. I don’t think even Uncle Peter knew _that_.”
She looked at Alan steadily, and her gray eyes seemed burning up with a
slow fire.
“Why, even then, before Uncle Peter died, I had become one of the
biggest factors in all their schemes. It was impossible for me to
suspect that John Graham was _anticipating_ a little girl of thirteen,
and I didn’t guess that my Grandfather Standish, so straight, so
grandly white of beard and hair, so like a god of power when he stood
among men, was even then planning that I should be given to him, so
that a monumental combination of wealth might increase itself still
more in that juggernaut of financial achievement for which he lived.
And to bring about my sacrifice, to make sure it would not fail, they
set Sharpleigh to the task, because Sharpleigh was sweet and good of
face, and gentle like Uncle Peter, so that I loved him and had
confidence in him, without a suspicion that under his white hair lay a
brain which matched in cunning and mercilessness that of John Graham
himself. And he did his work well, Alan.”
A second time she had spoken his name, softly and without
embarrassment. With her nervous fingers tying and untying the two
corners of a little handkerchief in her lap, she went on, after a
moment of silence in which the ticking of Keok’s clock seemed tense and
loud.
“When I was seventeen, Grandfather Standish died. I wish you could
understand all that followed without my telling you: how I clung to
Sharpleigh as a father, how I trusted him, and how cleverly and gently
he educated me to the thought that it was right and just, and my
greatest duty in life, to carry out the stipulation of my grandfather’s
will and marry John Graham. Otherwise, he told me—if that union was not
brought about before I was twenty-two—not a dollar of the great fortune
would go to the house of Standish; and because he was clever enough to
know that money alone would not urge me, he showed me a letter which he
said my Uncle Peter had written, and which I was to read on my
seventeenth birthday, and in that letter Uncle Peter urged me to live
up to the Standish name and join in that union of the two great
fortunes which he and Grandfather Standish had always planned. I didn’t
dream the letter was a forgery. And in the end they won—and I
promised.”
She sat with bowed head, crumpling the bit of cambric between her
fingers. “Do you despise me?” she asked.
“No,” he replied in a tense, unimpassioned voice. “I love you.”
She tried to look at him calmly and bravely. In his face again lay the
immobility of rock, and in his eyes a sullen, slumbering fire.
“I promised,” she repeated quickly, as if regretting the impulse that
had made her ask him the question. “But it was to be business, a cold,
unsentimental business. I disliked John Graham. Yet I would marry him.
In the eyes of the law I would be his wife; in the eyes of the world I
would remain his wife—but never more than that. They agreed, and I in
my ignorance believed.
“I didn’t see the trap. I didn’t see the wicked triumph in John
Graham’s heart. No power could have made me believe then that he wanted
to possess only _me_; that he was horrible enough to want me even
without love; that he was a great monster of a spider, and I the fly
lured into his web. And the agony of it was that in all the years since
Uncle Peter died I had dreamed strange and beautiful dreams. I lived in
a make-believe world of my own, and I read, read, read; and the thought
grew stronger and stronger in me that I had lived another life
somewhere, and that I belonged back in the years when the world was
clean, and there was love, and vast reaches of land wherein money and
power were little guessed of, and where romance and the glory of
manhood and womanhood rose above all other things. Oh, I wanted these
things, and yet because others had molded me, and because of my
misguided Standish sense of pride and honor, I was shackling myself to
John Graham.
“In the last months preceding my twenty-second birthday I learned more
of the man than I had ever known before; rumors came to me; I
investigated a little, and I began to find the hatred, and the reason
for it, which has come to me so conclusively here in Alaska. I almost
knew, at the last, that he was a monster, but the world had been told I
was to marry him, and Sharpleigh with his fatherly hypocrisy was behind
me, and John Graham treated me so courteously and so coolly that I did
not suspect the terrible things in his heart and mind—and I went on
with the bargain. _I married him._”
She drew a sudden, deep breath, as if she had passed through the ordeal
of what she had most dreaded to say, and now, meeting the changeless
expression of Alan’s face with a fierce, little cry that leaped from
her like a flash of gun-fire, she sprang to her feet and stood with her
back crushed against the tundra flowers, her voice trembling as she
continued, while he stood up and faced her.
“You needn’t go on,” he interrupted in a voice so low and terribly hard
that she felt the menacing thrill of it. “You needn’t. I will settle
with John Graham, if God gives me the chance.”
“You would have me stop _now_—before I have told you of the only shred
of triumph to which I may lay claim!” she protested. “Oh, you may be
sure that I realize the sickening folly and wickedness of it all, but I
swear before my God that I didn’t realize it then, until it was too
late. To you, Alan, clean as the great mountains and plains that have
been a part of you, I know how impossible this must seem—that I should
marry a man I at first feared, then loathed, then came to hate with a
deadly hatred; that I should sacrifice myself because I thought it was
a duty; that I should be so weak, so ignorant, so like soft clay in the
hands of those I trusted. Yet I tell you that at no time did I think or
suspect that I was sacrificing _myself_; at no time, blind though you
may call me, did I see a hint of that sickening danger into which I was
voluntarily going. No, not even an hour before the wedding did I
suspect that, for it had all been so coldly planned, like a great deal
in finance—so carefully adjudged by us all as a business affair, that I
felt no fear except that sickness of soul which comes of giving up
one’s life. And no hint of it came until the last of the few words were
spoken which made us man and wife, and then I saw in John Graham’s eyes
something which I had never seen there before. And Sharpleigh—”
Her hands caught at her breast. Her gray eyes were pools of flame.
“I went to my room. I didn’t lock my door, because never had it been
necessary to do that. I didn’t cry. No, I didn’t cry. But something
strange was happening to me which tears might have prevented. It seemed
to me there were many walls to my room; I was faint; the windows seemed
to appear and disappear, and in that sickness I reached my bed. Then I
saw the door open, and John Graham came in, and closed the door behind
him, and locked it. My room. He had come into _my room!_ The
unexpectedness of it—the horror—the insult roused me from my stupor. I
sprang up to face him, and there he stood, within arm’s reach of me, a
look in his face which told me at last the truth which I had failed to
suspect—or fear. His arms were reaching out—
“‘You are my wife,’ he said.
“Oh, I knew, then. ‘_You are my wife_,’ he repeated. I wanted to
scream, but I couldn’t; and then—then—his arms reached me; I felt them
crushing around me like the coils of a great snake; the poison of his
lips was at my face—and I believed that I was lost, and that no power
could save me in this hour from the man who had come to my room—the man
who was my husband. I think it was Uncle Peter who gave me voice, who
put the right words in my brain, who made me laugh—yes, laugh, and
almost caress him with my hands. The change in me amazed him, stunned
him, and he freed me—while I told him that in these first few hours of
wifehood I wanted to be alone, and that he should come to me that
evening, and that I would be waiting for him. And I smiled at him as I
said these things, smiled while I wanted to kill him, and he went, a
great, gloating, triumphant beast, believing that the obedience of
wifehood was about to give him what he had expected to find through
dishonor—and I was left alone.
“I thought of only one thing then—escape. I saw the truth. It swept
over me, inundated me, roared in my ears. All that I had ever lived
with Uncle Peter came back to me. This was not his world; it had never
been—and it was not mine. It was, all at once, a world of monsters. I
wanted never to face it again, never to look into the eyes of those I
had known. And even as these thoughts and desires swept upon me, I was
filling a traveling bag in a fever of madness, and Uncle Peter was at
my side, urging me to hurry, telling me I had no minutes to lose, for
the man who had left me was clever and might guess the truth that lay
hid behind my smiles and cajolery.
“I stole out through the back of the house, and as I went I heard
Sharpleigh’s low laughter in the library. It was a new kind of
laughter, and with it I heard John Graham’s voice. I was thinking only
of the sea—to get away on the sea. A taxi took me to my bank, and I
drew money. I went to the wharves, intent only on boarding a ship, any
ship, and it seemed to me that Uncle Peter was leading me; and we came
to a great ship that was leaving for Alaska—and you know—what happened
then—Alan Holt.”
With a sob she bowed her face in her hands, but only an instant it was
there, and when she looked at Alan again, there were no tears in her
eyes, but a soft glory of pride and exultation.
“I am clean of John Graham,” she cried. “_Clean!_”
He stood twisting his hands, twisting them in a helpless, futile sort
of way, and it was he, and not the girl, who felt like bowing his head
that the tears might come unseen. For her eyes were bright and shining
and clear as stars.
“Do you despise me now?”
“I love you,” he said again, and made no movement toward her.
“I am glad,” she whispered, and she did not look at him, but at the
sunlit plain which lay beyond the window.
“And Rossland was on the _Nome_, and saw you, and sent word back to
Graham,” he said, fighting to keep himself from going nearer to her.
She nodded. “Yes; and so I came to you, and failing there, I leaped
into the sea, for I wanted them to think I was dead.”
“And Rossland was hurt.”
“Yes. Strangely. I heard of it in Cordova. Men like Rossland frequently
come to unexpected ends.”
He went to the door which she had closed, and opened it, and stood
looking toward the blue billows of the foothills with the white crests
of the mountains behind them. She came, after a moment, and stood
beside him.
“I understand,” she said softly, and her hand lay in a gentle touch
upon his arm. “You are trying to see some way out, and you can see only
one. That is to go back, face the creatures I hate, regain my freedom
in the old way. And I, too, can see no other way. I came on impulse; I
must return with impulse and madness burned out of me. And I am sorry.
I dread it. I—would rather die.”
“And I—” he began, then caught himself and pointed to the distant hills
and mountains. “The herds are there,” he said. “I am going to them. I
may be gone a week or more. Will you promise me to be here when I
return?”
“Yes, if that is your desire.”
“It is.”
She was so near that his lips might have touched her shining hair.
“And when you return, I must go. That will be the only way.”
“I think so.”
“It will be hard. It may be, after all, that I am a coward. But to face
all that—alone—”
“You won’t be alone,” he said quietly, still looking at the far-away
hills. “If you go, I am going with you.”
It seemed as if she had stopped breathing for a moment at his side, and
then, with a little, sobbing cry she drew away from him and stood at
the half-opened door of Nawadlook’s room, and the glory in her eyes was
the glory of his dreams as he had wandered with her hand in hand over
the tundras in those days of grief and half-madness when he had thought
she was dead.
“I am glad I was in Ellen McCormick’s cabin the day you came,” she was
saying. “And I thank God for giving me the madness and courage to come
to _you_. I am not afraid of anything in the world now—because—_I love
you, Alan_!”
And as Nawadlook’s door closed behind her, Alan stumbled out into the
sunlight, a great drumming in his heart, and a tumult in his brain that
twisted the world about him until for a little it held neither vision
nor space nor sound.