A MINER'S OWN STORY
The woman I loved above all others in this world had been my happy wife
for a number of years when we decided to come to hunt for Alaskan gold.
We lived only for each other. Our attachment was very great, a feeling
which at the first time of meeting sprang suddenly into existence. My
love for my wife was my ruling passion, my ambition for Alaskan gold
being always secondary, as were all other earthly concerns.
Her attachment for me was of a like nature, warm and sincere.
My greatest anxiety was her health. Never entirely robust, she had
gradually grown less so, even with all my tender care, and as her mind
grew and expanded her body became more frail. At last our physician
prescribed an entire change of life and scene. As I was not a rich man,
and must wherever I went still manage to bring in by business methods
enough for our support, it was an important question with us for some
time where we should settle.
Olga (for that was the name of my little wife) wished to go to Alaska.
There she thought we could together search for the precious mineral only
recently discovered in various places; and though the journey was a long
one she argued that the change would be beneficial to her.
So we came to the northern gold fields. Fortune favored us for two
years. Our claims were turning out so well that we planned to build a
good house in town soon which would be a comfortable home until, after
the further growth of our bank account, we could leave the country
forever.
Before that time arrived, however, a thunder bolt had fallen--Olga was
dead.
I had gone for two days to my claims on the creeks ten miles away,
leaving her alone. At night she was to have the company of a woman
friend in order that she might not feel lonely, and the following
evening I was to be at home again.
How I hated to leave her! Something like an unseen hand upon my arm held
me back; but my men were even then awaiting my orders and I was obliged
to go. To remain at home now meant a loss of thousands of dollars as the
late rains had so swollen the creeks that sluicing was in full blast
after many weeks of waiting on account of scarcity of water.
Olga was in her usual health and smiled brightly, standing in the
doorway when I pressed my lips to her for a good-bye.
"Don't get lonesome, dear, I'll be back as soon as possible, and bring a
good-size poke full of nuggets with me, too," said I hurrying away in
the direction of the hills where my claims were situated.
Looking back from the tundra trail which I had been putting behind me as
fast as possible for some time, I saw her standing in the doorway
looking after me, but whether she had remained as I left her, or whether
she had returned to the door after going inside, I never knew.
The next time I saw her she was dead.
I had walked ten miles to my claim and superintended the daily
"clean-up" at the sluice boxes, securing as I had said I would a poke
full of golden nuggets worth several thousand dollars.
It was a splendid clean-up, but for some unexplainable reason I was
restless and uneasy. I had seen so much gold it was getting to be an old
story; or my meals had not digested well; or perhaps I was working too
hard--I tried in these ways to account for my indifference. My mind
wandered from the work in hand. I looked often in the direction of home
and Olga, but the hills were between us. I slept fitfully at night,
after waking with a start which disturbed me greatly. At last I looked
at my watch. It was past midnight, and I determined to go home.
Going to the creek where the night gang was at work, shoveling into the
sluice boxes, I told the foreman I was starting for home, as I believed
something had happened.
"You're nervous!" he said.
"I don't care what you call it; I'm going home to see how things are
there," and I hurried away toward town.
"Don't worry, Mr. A.", called out the man after me, "Your wife's all
right," then in a lower tone to himself, "That fellow'll go daffy over
his little wife, as he calls her, if he isn't careful. It's a good thing
I haven't any, for I couldn't watch her like that if I did have, that's
certain."
I hurried on over the trail, the night being light and clear, the grass
dewy, and the sun about to rise; for it was midsummer in Alaska.
Afterwards I remembered these things.
When half way home I saw a horseman coming toward me. He was riding
rapidly, and when he drew near I recognized a neighbor. He reined in his
horse.
"Good morning, Mr. A.," said he.
"What is it, Peter, tell me quick! Has anything happened at home?" I
cried impatiently.
"Mr. A., I am sorry to tell you, but you're"--
"Don't say she is dead! Don't say that!" I begged.
"Mount my horse, and I'll follow. Go as fast as you can for the animal
is fresh," said he; but I heard nothing, saw nothing. I was simply
clinging to the saddle, as the animal galloped back over the trail.
In a dazed condition I reached home. Our cabin was filled with
sympathetic friends, trying to assist in some way. As I came in they
dispersed, leaving me alone with Olga.
They had placed her upon a couch where she lay with a sweet smile upon
her lips, but they were cold when I kissed them--her heart had ceased
to beat, and for the first time in all our lives there was no answering
pressure when I took her hands in mine.
Oh, the agony of that moment! No tongue can tell, no pen describe, the
awful loneliness of that hour. She had been part of my life--of me. I
could not live without her; I did not want to try.
Oh, God! How could I bear it? What should I do? I had given her my love,
my life, and now she was dead--everything was swept away and there was
absolutely nothing to live for. If I could only die! Dare I take my own
life? No, for that would then mean everlasting separation, as she was
doubtless now in the happiest state to which mortals could be assigned.
I must try to reach her no matter at what cost. For hours I knelt beside
her with her hands in mine, and my cheek beside her cold one.
I was again talking to Olga, as I fondled her face, her hair, her hands.
"Speak to me, my darling," I pleaded, "if only once more. I cannot live
without you. Why did you leave me? How could you go without telling me?
Surely you did not intend to do it, did you, darling?" Eagerly I
watched her face to see her blue eyes open and her lips once more move.
Could I bring her back by calling her? It might be so; and then I tried,
repeating her name again and again, tenderly, lovingly, oh, so lovingly!
Hours passed thus. The smile on her lips remained. Presently I listened,
my arms about her neck and my head upon her breast.
I was quiet now. The awful storm which had well-nigh uprooted my very
soul was gradually subsiding. I must be ready to hear her if she should
come back with a message.
This I believed she would do. Many times we had talked together of these
things, and each had faithfully promised the other to return, if
possible, with comfort and assistance from the mysterious beyond in the
event of a separation by death.
I could see her now as she looked while speaking, and then I grew calmer
immediately.
I would wait.
By and by it came--only two words.
"The letter."
The letter! Where was it? I had not seen it--I had not thought to look
for such a thing because her departure came so suddenly. A burning
building close to our cabin, with wind blowing the flames toward her,
had caused the fright and heart failure which deprived me of Olga--but a
letter! I would search for it.
Among her writing materials I found it. A sealed packet, directed to me
in her own dainty Swedish handwriting.
I cannot reproduce it here. It was for my eyes only, and written a week
previously; but she said she was expecting soon to be called away. She
did not wish to worry me with goodbyes, and in truth there was no need
of saying them for she would be as constantly with me as ever, even
though I could not always see her. She did not want me to forget her and
hoped I could conveniently manage to keep the poor little body (in which
she had lived for nearly thirty years) quite close to me where I could
sometimes look upon her face.
All this and much more she had written; each letter and word of which
comforted me as only Olga knew how to comfort, because she understood my
very soul.
We had been made for each other. We were souls twinned in creation by a
higher power than many know; but it had been given us to understand in
her lifetime, and now that she had been called away for a season I must
bear it as patiently as possible for her sake, and I would. God helping
me, I would bear it! And my unreasoning grief should not disturb her
quietude.
The day passed.
In the evening a knock at the door brought me back to my objective
senses. I had been oblivious to the outside world all day.
"We thought you might like some coffee and supper, and I have brought it
to you," said a kind miner, who was also a neighbor.
"Wife and I will come and stay all night here if you will go to our
cabin and get some rest."
I thanked him, declining his last offer, but drank the hot coffee. I
then asked him if he would go out and secure the use of the adjoining
vacant log cabin for me, so that I could immediately move into it.
This he did, returning in half an hour, asking what further service he
could render.
I told him I would move all my belongings into the log cabin, leaving
Olga here. This was her house, and it was still to be her home.
By midnight this was done. The man had gone home after making me promise
to call him when I wanted help.
In Olga's cabin of two small rooms there remained only a stove, a couch
upon which she still rested, and an easy lounging chair.
The door at the front I soon padlocked on the outside, and barricaded
within, leaving the back door as the only entrance. Next a man was hired
to dig a narrow trench about the whole cabin to conduct all surface
water away from the lot. During the hours following I busied myself with
the receptacle which would contain the still beautiful, but now
discarded body, of my darling Olga.
Carefully removing a part of the flooring in the center of the room, I
began digging underneath. The ground was frozen. A pick and shovel in my
hands found their way into the frost-locked earth and gravel; but at a
depth of about five feet I stopped.
Her bed was deep enough; also long and wide enough. Its walls were of
ice.
They had dressed her in a robe of pale blue veiling, distinctly suited
to her, upon which rested the long braids of her yellow hair, while her
only ornament was her wedding ring upon her finger.
How perfectly serene and happy she looked! I fully expected her to open
her lips and speak. When this did not happen, the sense of my awful loss
surged back into my brain, seeming almost to take my reason; but another
quiet hour by the side of my darling partially restored me.
It was midnight. A perfect storm of grief had just spent itself and left
me weak and weary. I threw myself, with a heavy sigh, into the depth of
the lounging chair.
Presently I slept. What was that? A bit of beautiful yellow light
floated gracefully above Olga's head. With a fast-beating heart I
watched it from my resting place. It grew in size, and increased in
height, gradually assuming the form of my darling, a complete
counterpart of the one lying before me in the soft blue gown.
The face, the golden braids, the fingers, and the wedding ring were all
there, completed by a smile so heavenly that I gazed as one transfixed.
Could this, then, be Olga, and not a stray beam of light which had
struggled through the curtains?
"Olga!" I cried, stretching out my arms toward her in an ecstasy of
gladness.
"Dear Victor! Have no fear. I will come again." The voice seemed like
Olga's and as full of love as ever.
With that the beautiful yellow light began slowly to fade, the form of
my beloved melted into a haze which drifted gradually upward and out of
sight. Then I awoke.
Weeks passed, during which the fall rains set in, and I was working as
hard as ever; not so much in a feverish desire for the gold I was taking
out of the ground, but because the work helped me to forget my sorrow. I
did not cease to think hourly of Olga, but I wished to put behind me the
shock of her sudden leave-taking, and remember the fact that she was
still in memory mine, that she was watching over me and would visit me
in my dreams.
My all-absorbing love for her I could not--did not wish to put away from
me. I had loved her so devotedly that I envied the passing breeze which
played among the loose locks of the hair on her forehead. I had envied
the dust of the road as it clung to her feet because it could remain so
near to her; and I longed to become the atmosphere she breathed, that I
might live a part of her very physical being This sort of love never
dies, because it is part of one's constitution and sub-consciousness,
and cannot be eradicated.
I grew more and more silent. I was physically well and strong, but
looked forward from morning until night to going home to my cabin and
Olga. Each evening when my lonely supper had been eaten I turned the key
of the adjoining cabin door, and carefully locked it behind me. From the
outer place I entered the room which was now a sacred spot. A solitary
candle gave all the light required. Lifting the section of flooring upon
which had been placed two strong hinges, a few turns of the mechanical
contrivance brought up from below the narrow bed in which the earthly
form of Olga rested, securely covered by clear and heavy glass.
In my low, lounging chair I sat for hours beside her, told her of my
love which would remain forever the same; I reminded her of her pledges
of constancy, reviving instances of our past lives, even bringing to my
mind bright bits of pleasantry which had been habitual to her while
here.
At times I placed my cheek upon the icy glass as near hers as possible,
whispering words of love--always my great love, which like a deep and
flowing well refused to be stopped.
At last one evening I leaned back in my easy chair much wearied, and
because of the stillness, soon slept.
Ah! She had come again! In the brightest and purest yellow light she
stood there bending toward me with a radiant and happy smile upon her
face.
"Victor," she said, softly, "don't worry so much, dear, you will make
yourself ill. Believe me you will soon cease to do this for you will
know the better way and find real happiness. I know that this trial has
been very hard indeed for you to bear, but you must not grieve longer,"
then I seemed to feel the light pressure of her hand upon my head.
Oh, the joy of it all once more!
"Tell me, Olga, do you still love me as well as before you went away?"
"Victor, dear Victor, believe me, I love you far better than ever
before, because I understand. Try to be happy, dear." Then, with a light
caress, she vanished.
For a moment I felt dazed. I looked about me. The lighted candle was
sputtering itself out in its socket, fitfully darting a thin and feeble
flame upward into the darkness. My mouth was parched and dry--I must
have water.
Carefully I lowered the blue-robed form to its resting place, adjusting
the cover, locked the door behind me, and crept back into my own cabin.
Time passed. With a young lover's regularity at the side of his
sweetheart I visited my dear one in the little cabin beside my own.
Casting about in my mind how to make the place appropriate for the
purpose for which it was now used, and at the same time be somewhat more
comfortable, I had covered the walls of Olga's cabin both inside and out
with a heavy black paper, well calculated to keep out the wind. Upon the
ceiling of the front room hung silvered stars which shone brightly, and
with a fitfulness not all unnatural in the flickering candlelight. In
one corner of the outer room there still remained the heap of earth and
gravel taken from the spot where Olga's body now rested. The rainy
season was far advanced and before many days the snow and ice would be
here for long and weary months. My mining would then be over until
another summer. I had been successful beyond my dreaming and could
afford to rest, but I dreaded the tediousness and loneliness of winter.
One evening, while dozing in the depths of the easy chair, I saw a form
bending above the sand and gravel in the next room. I fancied I heard a
pleased and gentle laugh like Olga's of old, and I asked timidly, "What
is it, friend?"
"Here is gold. Will you pan out this sand and gravel? You will be
repaid." And again I heard the gentle laugh.
"What," said I in astonishment, "will I there find gold?"
A gesture of assent was given.
"Then this cabin and others must stand upon rich, gold-bearing ground?"
A second gesture of assent.
With that I wakened. I immediately procured a gold pan from my cabin,
and used it for a few hours to good advantage.
The ground was truly rich; and Olga's form was lying in a bed literally
lined with gold. There was wheat gold as well as dust and small nuggets.
In my agony of mind at her sudden death it had never occurred to me
while digging that the gravel might contain anything of value; but it
was plain to me now. Only for my dream I would surely have shovelled the
sand thoughtlessly outside where someone might have made the discovery
to my own loss.
Not long afterward a strange incident occurred. It happened in the
following way. It was raining and past midnight, being one of the last
rainstorms before the regular freeze-up it was proving to us there was
no shortage of water in the clouds which seemed wide open, and it was
pouring in torrents. For four hours I had been using the pick and shovel
in the frozen gravel under the adjoining cabin, and had finally gone to
sleep, lulled by the patter of the regularly falling rain upon the roof.
Suddenly I was aroused with a fear of--I knew not what. I instantly
sprang from my bed, striking a match, and getting into my clothing as
rapidly as possible, I made my way through the storm into the next
cabin. It was then but a moment's work to lift Olga's casket to the
floor from its icy bed beneath. As I did so a small stream of water
burst its way through below the flooring and began pouring over the
side of the excavation, at the bottom of which only a moment before had
rested Olga's casket.
Like a flash I understood the situation. The small trench around the
cabin had filled with water and become obstructed, while the heavy rain
had saturated the surface of the ground swelling the little stream
beyond the capacity of its bank. I immediately ran out of doors to make
a search for the obstruction, which, once removed, allowed the water to
pass away as before. A small clump of grass and sticks had found
lodgment, having been swept there by the unusual amount of falling rain,
and in less time than it takes to write it, the mortal remains of my
darling would have been flooded, had it not been for the warning and my
prompt response. To clean out the small amount of water which had
entered while I hastily worked at the trench was short work and soon
completed.
With these and other incidents was my life henceforth made up. For
months I spent several hours each day with pick or shovel in my hands. I
bought the adjoining cabins with the lots upon which they stood, thereby
continuing my work of thoroughly prospecting the ground, even after
finishing that upon which Olga's house stood.
Following my practice of working during the midnight hour when most
people were asleep, the indistinct noise of my pick in the frozen gravel
below the floors aroused no one; though I once overheard two belated
pedestrians outside my door wondering from what quarter the noise of the
picking and shoveling came. No light was allowed to betray my
whereabouts, as a single tallow candle placed low in my prospect hole
beneath the floor told no tales; and once hearing the sound of voices in
the street my labors instantly ceased.
After a few weeks it was whispered about the camp that strange noises
proceeded from the mysterious black cabin at midnight, and later that
the same uncanny sounds seemed further away. Only a few persons had ever
heard them, and they assured their friends that the vicinity was a good
one to keep away from at night time; the latter advice pleasing me quite
as well as it did them.
For this reason I was never disturbed; and if more and more left to
myself by my neighbors I was not displeased, as it suited my frame of
mind best to be alone with my own thoughts--and Olga.
Many months now passed. My life was a very quiet one, the most enjoyable
hours to me being the ones spent in dreaming of Olga. Gradually the fact
dawned upon me that my life was now a most selfish one. I was feeding
upon memories of dear, by-gone days, but allowing the present to slip
unimproved away. If I could arouse myself to some good purpose in life,
and take a hand at scattering bright bits of happiness to console some
lonely hearts who had less of comfort than myself, might it not be
better? With the wealth which I had rapidly accumulated in Alaska, I
could assist in much good work for the poor and needy if I were so
inclined.
Perhaps I would find more happiness and contentment in living henceforth
unselfishly, with more thought for others and less for myself.
Many times during the long winter evenings I had felt twinges of
conscience concerning my selfish mode of life, well knowing that Olga
would enjoy spending our wealth for the good and happiness of others
before accepting luxuries for herself. Now I had come to feel in the
same way, and no longer craved riches or that which they would bring. My
own wants were simple, and would continue to be so. I would make others
happier. The helpless, homeless and suffering, I would relieve. My
wealth would now permit it.
In this manner, and by my dreaming, my sorrow had been somewhat
mitigated, and that grief, so terrible in the beginning, was to some
extent assuaged. Not that I loved Olga less, or had forgotten, but all
unknowingly I had been striving to be more worthy of her memory.
Daily I meditated in the sweet silence, and hourly received strength and
consolation therefrom. Many pledges I made which I would fulfil later
on--the future then held no terrors for me--I would work, work and wait.
More, I would learn, I would grow, I would climb. I resolved to reach
those heights to which many were traveling, and to which Olga had
already surely attained. In due time, my Olga, we shall no doubt meet
again and live, love and work together as of old, only that our
happiness will be farther perfected because we have farther advanced.
* * * * *
It was midnight. I seemed to visit the land of Holy Dreams. In the
distance I heard a chorus of voices, exquisitely beautiful and well
modulated, coming nearer as I continued to listen. The singers were
many, but so perfect was the rhythm and harmony that I dared not breathe
for fear of losing some part of the beautiful song. Not only so, but the
accompanying orchestra faithfully upheld and completed the symphony
which rose and fell with crescendos and diminuendoes more glorious as
the chorus pealed louder and nearer. I was listening in sheer delight
and with each nerve tingling, when a dear familiar voice began in
obligato, so clearly and sweetly that the tears sprang into my eyes--
"Have love; not love alone for one,
But man as man thy brother call,
And scatter like the circling sun
Thy charities on all."