Chapter V

In the months since she had heard the first news of her husband’s death life had moved gracefully in Dorothy’s home in the South. Ivan had tried hard to make her forget her loss, ignoring the clamoring public to be with her, heedful of her every wish, showering her with princely attentions. Meanwhile he wooed her with that incomparable finesse that is the peculiar gift of the Eastern peoples.

He never let her forget his suit, one moment in an hour. He played to her, he brought her gifts, priceless but always in perfect taste: curios out of the East, rare works of art from his own ancestral castle in the Urals. In her warmer moods he urged immediate marriage, and when she was cool and unresponsive he begged for her promise of future surrender to him, when time had healed the wound of Peter’s loss. He told her that while it was true that only a year and a half had elapsed since his death, he had been absent nearly two years; and the tradition of two years’ mourning need not hold with her.

Sometimes she encouraged him—letting him tell her of a long honeymoon in the Orient, of a wonderful world tour in which she could see the far countries as only he could show them to her, meeting the great of many lands and entering forbidden palaces by the “Open, Sesame” of his music; of a home in Paris where he had studied as a youth—but sometimes she seemed to draw within herself, infinitely beyond his reach. She did not go often into his arms, and this she was at a loss to explain, even to herself. It was not through loyalty to Peter that she refrained: Peter was dead and these caresses were certainly of the living world. Rather it was a vague fear of his fire. She could not overcome an abiding instinct to hold him rigidly at a distance until she was sure that the full sweep of her love had gone to him, and of this, even with the passing months, she was not sure.

One night in the second year he had brought her a marvelous blue diamond—a priceless thing with a sinister history—and he had wanted her to take it as a symbol of engagement; and that night she had been strangely, deeply afraid of him. She had let the stone gather fire to her hand, and when she had taken it off and put it in his palm it was as if its cruel, hard, malevolently beautiful light had passed to his thin face. “Keep it a while, Ivan,” she told him. “Sometime I would be proud to wear it—but not yet——”

She had drawn back from him, appalled in spite of herself at what she could so dimly read in his striking, dark face. He was always like a splendid tiger to her; to-night he suggested the same jungle monarch cheated of its prey. Yet almost instantly the mood passed, lingering only in an aloof courtesy that her charm did not at once overcome.

She had gone into subdued mourning, but still saw a few friends and visited a few of the neighboring homes; and now, as another Georgia summer was at its height, he pleaded with her to go back to the gay colors that he loved. He seemed to feel that when her old gaiety returned to her, when she again took her place in the smart Southern society, his long courtship would be crowned with success. But he did not at once win this point; and because she did not fully understand it herself, she was scarcely able to explain to him the curious way she felt about it. “I can’t be the girl I was, Ivan,” she explained. “If that girl was the girl you loved, and you don’t want her changed, you’d better go away—and not come back. Some way, I don’t feel that I could begin exactly where I left off. I don’t feel and think exactly like I did—maybe I’m more like the girl that Peter originally married—like a schoolgirl instead of a woman. At least, I find that I look on things in a whole lot simpler, less complicated way than I did; many things that I thought I wanted I don’t want; many things that I used to think mattered do not matter at all. I feel bewildered—not knowing where to turn or how to go. I know I can’t wear mourning for ever——”

“Then put it off. It’s been a year and a half. Take up the old happy life again——”

“There’s the trouble. I don’t feel I can go back to exactly the kind of happiness that you mean: of course I’ll come round to it in time. Just don’t hurry me, Ivan. Something is working in me, and I don’t know what it is; but in the end I think it will be all right. You know there is no other man. But when I try to think of you, so many times I find myself thinking of Peter—lying on that storm-tossed seacoast. Just don’t hurry me, and I feel—I almost know—that everything will come out right for you in time.”

She had received, long since, her husband’s few belongings, gathered by the patient effort of Captain Johansen; and she could not go near them now without tears. With them she had received a letter—one that no human eyes save her own had seen—and some way it had revealed their marriage relation in a new light. It had not only shown Peter from a different angle, but had also illumined her point of view in regard to herself.

Her thought had taken a new course since reading this letter. Up until then she had always thought upon her husband’s disgrace and death as the consummation of his own deeds: heroic punishment, surely, but for which he could blame no one but himself. Now she began to wonder if some little jot of the blame could not be laid on her.

She had always been vain, somewhat spoiled by too much attention and flattery; and it might have been that somehow she had acquired wrong standards, that wrong standards were guiding her still. She was accustomed to flattery, and her vanity had come to demand it, to live by it, and to set too much store by it. Her devotion to society at the cost of even her own comfort was an expression of this same, inordinate vanity; she had associated with people with whom she had nothing in common, she had adopted habits that she personally did not like, and she had taken away from Peter to pay homage to it.

Ivan’s attentions, after those first, blissful months of her marriage, had been flattery of the most engaging kind. To receive it, to waken other women’s jealousy, she had given him more dances than were his right, had devoted too much of her time and attention to him. It had all been like a mad dream,—going from morning till night, sacrificing her home hours with Peter, laying all she had on the altar of vanity. She might have been able to restrain Peter’s hard drinking if she had tried, if she had shown real interest. He never drank when he was alone with her—he did not even care for a cocktail before dinner—and at first he had not drunk dangerously to excess even with his men friends. This had only come after they had begun to fall away from each other, after Ivan—no one else—had come between.

She knew perfectly that there was no happiness in thinking upon these things. The sensible course for her was to follow Ivan’s advice, marry him, let him guide her steps down the shining path he promised, and play the gay game more desperately than ever. Really nothing else was left her now; yet she experienced a poignant sense of loss at what she might have had. In the end this would be her destiny; she sensed it as certain as the dawn of a new year. In all probability it was for the best; yet she could not quite escape a vague, haunting sense of remorse.

It was this that persuaded her to the amazing course that she unfolded to Ivan one night in late July, and which at first he refused to credit: nothing less than an expedition into Western Alaska with the purpose of finding her husband’s lost and neglected grave and transferring his remains to the dignified resting place in the old City Cemetery, and the Newhall family vault.

Ivan’s attitude was at first uncompromising opposition. “Dorothy, that’s ridiculous,” he told her. “I won’t hear of it! A long, dangerous trip for nothing.”

She turned to him in amazement, vaguely offended rather than pleased at this solicitude for her. The look of his face baffled her; the idea had evidently moved him much more profoundly than the occasion seemed to justify. He not only looked intent and determined, but almost desperate; there was a quick flash of a startled light in his eyes that she had never seen before. Yet, she thought, it was characteristic of this man’s savage, enthralling love for her that could not bear her out of his sight for the months needed for the trip.

She was not pleased at his proprietary air, and she showed it. Her full lips closed and made a thin, red line; and the dull-red color deepened in the higher curve of her cheeks. “I’m afraid I’ll be obliged not to consult you then, Ivan,” she told him.

He saw instantly that nothing was to be gained by violent opposition. His brilliant smile broke like the sunlight. “Let’s talk this matter over sensibly,” he urged. “I can imagine how you feel—that you don’t like to think of his poor remains lying out there on that lonely, rocky, desolate beach. But Dorothy, remember he left a note asking for immediate burial—it was not his wish to be sent home. He was buried decently—embalmed, the ship captain wired you. Besides, you don’t realize the difficulty of the trip. I have a fair idea of far Western Alaska, while you probably, like most people, think of the territory in terms of a nine-day tourist trip out of Seattle. I looked it up once, planning a big-game hunt. In the first place, to get there you’d have to go all the nine-day trip to Seward and then make connections with the mail boat, if there’s one afloat now, all the way out to False Pass and back east along the northern side of the Peninsula—the roughest stretch of water known to man—or else take one of the salmon boats out of Bellingham, probably a ten-day trip, and then hire a launch at some one of the cannery stations—Squaw Harbor, or perhaps even around to Nushagak. Of course, the latter is the best way to go. It’s not a trip that any one would care to take except by necessity—rough, dangerous seas, the most barren, rocky, treeless, bitter land you could imagine. If you feel you must have poor Peter’s body here, with his father’s, why don’t you hire men and have them tend to it, and you stay safe at home?”

“Let me explain,” the girl answered, her good humor at once returned. “I want to say in the beginning that I _do_ feel I must have poor Peter buried here, beside his father and his father’s father—those distinguished men that headed the line. Ivan, there is something primitive in me in this regard; I want my own near me, where I can look after him, and do what I can for his memory. I used to wonder why those heart-broken war mothers would open old wounds by having their martyr sons sent back from the battlefields of France—from the consecrated ground where they fell—but I don’t wonder any more. It’s a human instinct, Peter; and I hope it doesn’t grate on your sensibilities. It’s a real need in me, and I have to do it. Peter’s crime against Sarichef was wiped out with his death: there is no reason why he should not lie with the other Newhalls, as is his right. I can’t bear to think of him on that storm-swept beach you speak of, with no one to care for his grave, the cross that carries his proud name already rotting and falling to pieces—all alone, on that awful, barren shore. I can’t stand to think of it any more. I can’t make myself believe that it is only clay that the spirit itself no longer cares about; to me it’s sacred. You ask why I don’t have some one tend to it for me. Well, there are a good many reasons. The first is that it is my place and my right. In the second, I don’t want desecrating hands at work at that grave—rough, wicked men who will say anything, do anything. At first I was willing to have it done that way, and three months or more ago I wrote to the postmaster at False Pass, and had him engage men and boats to go and procure the casket. I’ve just learned that after great cost and many delays they have returned without finding the grave. They explained that they couldn’t get hold of any of the ship’s crew that had buried it, and they say that the country is simply immense.”

“And they’re right in that,” Ivan observed.

“The work needs the presence and supervision of some one who is really interested,” the girl went on. “I’m not sorry they didn’t find it. Since I wrote the letter I’ve decided it was my place and my duty to see about this personally—to see that it’s done right all the way through. It has been preying on my mind, Ivan. And if you ever want me to be yours, you had better assist me, rather than try to discourage me. As long as I have this feeling of duty unperformed—duty to Peter—I can’t go to you. It’s as if I am still bound to him—as long as he lies out there on that beach—but perhaps, when we come back again, everything can be as you want it to be.”

Ivan was not in the least convinced; but realizing that he could not possibly dissuade the girl from her bold project, he prepared to make the best of it. “Well, in spite of a dozen reasons why I should stay here—concerts, business, everything—I’m going with you,” he told her. “You’ve got to have some one to look after you.”

“I’m going to ask Uncle Ned to go. Mother’s health, as you know, won’t let her take such a trip. But it would be wonderful if you would go too.”

“Of course I’ll go too. Your Uncle Ned is wrapped up in his business—he’ll be glad to have my help in making arrangements for boats, hire of men, and so on. Wait a minute till I get an atlas. Perhaps we can figure our course.”

Ivan procured a large map of Alaska, and they looked over it together. Later they consulted schedules and travel bureaus, and after endless investigation concluded that their best plan was to take one of the large Pacific American Fisheries steamers out of Bellingham, Washington; go to Squaw Harbor, in the Shumagin Islands, and there hire a launch and guides to go the rest of the way to the place of burial on the north side of the Peninsula. Squaw Harbor not only seemed among the nearest settlements of any importance—far though it was—but Ivan wisely decided that because it had been the home port of the _Jupiter_, he could likely find men available who knew the approximate place of burial. He frowned on the plan to go to the north side of the Peninsula from which they would be obliged to work back to the burial place, explaining such a course would mean a loss of time and a less chance of finding and hiring a launch suitable to their needs.

Thus it was that Aleck Bradford, superintendent of the cannery at Squaw Harbor, received the following letter:

DEAR SIR:

Mrs. Peter Newhall, her uncle Ned Stanhope, and myself are
planning an expedition onto the north coast of the Peninsula
with the idea of exhuming the body of Peter Newhall, whom you
will remember was a victim of the wreck of your launch the
_Jupiter_, and bringing the remains back to the family vault in
this city.

Our plan is to take one of the Pacific American Fisheries boats
to your cannery, and there, with your coöperation, we will hire
a launch to transport us the rest of the way to the scene of the
tragedy. If you can help us in procuring a launch and suitable
crew, also in engaging men who might know the location of the
grave, it will be deeply appreciated by Mrs. Newhall and myself.

Yours very truly,
IVAN ISHMIN.

Bradford called his assistant, De Long, and they thought upon the matter together. “The tough part of it is, by the time we can get a wire to them, they’ll have to rush to catch the last boat,” Bradford said, glancing at his calendar. “The _Catherine D_ sails early in September—they can make it if they get a move on—but how are they going to get back? Of course the _Catherine_ will be back for the winter in Bellingham before they can encircle the Peninsula, find the casket, and get back here in a launch. And I don’t fancy that Mrs. Newhall has had the proper raising to enjoy a winter in the Shumagins!”

De Long grinned cheerfully. “She probably hasn’t the least idea what kind of a hard-boiled land this is.” He knitted his heavy brows. “It will be easy about getting out, though. You know we’re scheduled to send the _Warrior_ down to Seward this fall, on that new trap business. You’ve scheduled her to leave about the end of the fish season. Well, we’ll have her wait for the _Catherine_, and these three people can get on her—the lady can occupy one of the officer’s rooms—Martin’s, I guess, and Martin will have to bunk in the hold. Then they can start out, and the _Warrior_ can take time to run around the Peninsula, pick up the casket, and go on down to Seward. At Seward they can transfer to one of the Admiral Line boats for Seattle. In this way they’ll have the most comfortable launch in these parts—the only one of any decency—that’s fit to sail those Bering Sea waters; and besides, it won’t interfere with our getting out—down to God’s country—when the _Catherine_ goes back on her last trip.”

“That’s easy enough: perfect, in fact. They can go down to Seward, you and I and the others down to Seattle on the _Catherine_, without having to delay the schedule waiting for them to return. The matter of getting suitable men for guides and camp help is not quite so easy, but I believe I’ve got that, also. Fortune Joe is a good native—he’ll be glad of the chance to make some money—and he’s a good worker.”

De Long grinned. “The medicine man, eh? They may need a medicine man before they get back. Yes, he’s a good one—for one. Of course he doesn’t know the location of the body.”

“No. For the other packer—they’ll need at least two, especially if they don’t find the grave for some days—they can have their choice of Buck Uman, Dago Sessa, or Nick Pavlof. Buck Uman is honest, but he’s the laziest native that walks. Sessa is given to violent spells when he’s apt to toss around his knife, and Pavlof thinks he’s a priest. I don’t know which two of the three are the worst.”

“Pavlof isn’t alone in thinking he’s a priest. All the other natives think so too—and you know, he has some sort of a dim, hereditary claim. It is a wonder to me yet, the echo of the power the Greek Church once swayed over these people. But not one of the three you mentioned, Aleck, knows where the body lies. We’ve got to get some one of Captain Johansen’s crew for their main guide.”

“And Captain Johansen and his crew have pulled out for Bellingham not to return until next season, and besides, the original burial party is scattered to the four winds. Jacks, the apprentice undertaker, is in Siberia. But De Long, I’ve got it. Send one of the papooses down to the docks and tell Limejuice Pete to come up here.”

One of the native boys carried the message as commanded, and the two men bent over their desks as they waited. In a few moments Pete’s lean form stood in the doorway.

He took off his hat and held it in his toil-worn hands,—that great, blond, rugged man who had once been a gentleman in a far city. Bradford looked up with the instinctive respect that he had always felt for such a good workman as Limejuice Pete had proven himself to be.

It had been an auspicious day for the cannery when he had hired Pete on the deck of the _Dolly Bettis_. Although he was a silent, taciturn man to whom none of his fellow workmen had ever got close, he had learned the fish game in record time and had proved a valuable addition to the force. Bradford was glad to put him in the way of making some extra money.

“Pete, didn’t you tell Mr. De Long here that you intended to winter on the mainland?”

“Yes, sir,” the blond giant answered slowly. “I was going to take in some grub and a few traps and stick it out till the fish season begins, next spring.”

“Well, you’ve got a queer idea of having a good time, to say the least. Six months of this sweet land is all I can stand at a stretch. Well, we’ve run into a good thing for you. How would you like to act as a guide for a party of people from the States—a job of two or three weeks, I should judge, in which you could fairly ask guides’ wages—ten dollars a day. It would be late September and early October—giving you plenty of time to get out your lines before furs are prime.”

Pete had long since lost all fear of recognition—of any one far or near—and he was immediately pleased at this show of confidence in him. “I’d like it mighty well,” he assented.

“Well, you’re the best man for the place. Some people are coming up on the last trip of the _Catherine_, and we’re going to let them board the _Warrior_—and after they’ve finished with their business on the Bering Sea side of the mainland, they’ll go on in the _Warrior_ down to Seward. You can pack on your winter’s grub and your outfit, and they can leave you on the mainland when they go on down to Seward. As the single survivor of the _Vigten_ you can show them approximately where they want to go.”

Pete slowly straightened. His fingers went white to the tips. “What has the _Vigten_ to do with it?” he asked brokenly.

“Nothing, except that the wreck of the _Vigten_—of course you know the last vestige of her has broken up and vanished—marks also the site of the wreck of the _Jupiter_. They are going out to exhume the body of that Remittance Man who went down with the _Jupiter_ and was buried on the shore—Peter Newhall was his name. Mrs. Newhall and a couple of other people are in the party.”

He thought it an illusion that the tall man in the doorway should seem suddenly pale and stricken, as if in the presence of a ghost. And it was true; the dead had risen for Limejuice Pete. The dead past had broken the locks of its sepulchre of the vanished years and had risen to haunt him again. He felt himself the victim of a strange and ironic destiny.