Chapter VI

Even as he wondered at the maze into which fate was leading him Pete was swept with exultation. Even though the few days in his wife’s presence would only open old wounds, waken him again to the full poignancy of his loss, even though it would be but a ray of sunlight that would make the cast of his life all the darker by comparison, he was thrilled to the heart with thankfulness. His emotion was such that it was beyond his humbled powers to utter it. It was some way akin to certain emotions of childhood, too poignant ever to find expression in speech, never really to be understood by any one except a child.

It was not that his dreams overleaped themselves, that he was lifted up by false hopes. He knew exactly where he stood, his exact limitations. He knew, first of all, that Dorothy must never know his identity. She must never be permitted to receive the faintest hint of the truth: that the embalmed body in the casket was not that of her husband. Her eternal happiness depended upon that; and her happiness, hers alone—now that full vision had come to him—was the one theme of his life. He must never jeopardize it, waken a haunting, dreadful doubt by any word or deed. Except for the fact that his appearance, in face, body, hand and voice, had been so utterly changed, he would not dare take the risk of facing her.

He was down to essentials at last, this ghost of Peter Newhall. Cruel and hard had been his teacher, strait the gate and charged with punishment the scroll, but he had learned something of the very soul of life. He had learned that even unrewarded service is better than no service at all; that even lost love was better than an empty heart. He knew perfectly that his joy in the expedition to follow would be what he himself could derive from it, nothing that he might receive from Dorothy. The love that he poured out to her across the camp fire, on the far-off, lonely shore, must be absolutely unrequited. He would be a guide, nothing else. He could not enter into his old comradeship with her. He could never touch her hand except, perhaps, in some delectable accident as he worked about the camp or on the boat: no word of hers could be addressed to him except in command, no looks except the impersonal ones of a master for a servant. He knew too that Ivan would be with her, that he would claim her and be her comrade. Yet it was all worth while. It was worth all the rest of his gray life on earth.

Could he not serve her, tend to her comfort, work for her, shelter her from danger? Would he not be her guide on that storm-tossed shore? Just to see her was enough: her warm coloring enhanced by the glow of the fire, her bobbed hair wind-tossed, the light in her eyes and the wonder of her smile. He would see her in the starlight on the long ride in the launch; he would know her beauty, her fragrance; he could lose himself in dreams that he could almost dream were true. It would be only for a few days—he could not follow her down to Seward—but their memory would glorify the remainder of his life, sustain him in the storm, shelter him in the night of despair.

Indeed, after that counterfeit of himself in the casket had been unearthed and Dorothy had sailed away, his own fate would not greatly matter. He would vanish into the interior with his traps and perhaps the bitter winter would destroy him; but at least he would have fulfilled his last dream—the only thing that he had ever dared to dream, since his flight from home three years before—and he would bear no ill will. The dark curtains of oblivion could drop over him for all he would care.

It moved him deeply that his wife should make the long, perilous journey in his memory, leaving the warmth, the light and gaiety that she loved simply to do honor to her dead. This was enough for him. He would not begrudge her the happiness she found later in Ivan’s arms; her happiness was his law, and surely Ivan’s decency and care for her deserved this incalculable reward. That the bones of Big Chris Larson should lie in his own family vault while his—when his time was over—would be blown dry by the winds on some rocky, desolate shore could not depress him either; although the infinite irony of the thing appealed to his grim sense of humor. Family vaults meant little to him now. When his time was over he was content to lie in the greater family vault of the world.

It was a great joke on Big Chris. He hoped that he would not be too uncomfortable in the proud, distinguished company of dead and gone Newhalls.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Dorothy made leisurely preparations for the journey. It did not occur to her that there might be need of haste, that the Northern winter was not far off and would soon spread his snowy banners on the stormy coasts of Bering Sea. She bought sturdy outing clothes, a heavy sleeping robe in case the search for the grave kept her over night on the mainland, and only the journey’s grim objective prevented a certain spirit of adventure. Bradford’s telegram, however, urged haste; and as soon as reservations could be procured, she, Ivan, and her uncle, a gray, kindly, successful business man of Savannah, departed on the west-bound train. At Bellingham the party boarded the _Catherine D_, the large freight and passenger steamer that was used in the fish trade.

She had expected some sort of a disreputable, old tramp steamer that was to be endured from necessity; and she was hardly prepared for the long, spick-and-span deck of the _Catherine D_. She soon found to her surprise that the journey promised even greater comfort than she had found in her apartment on the western flyer. Captain Knight let her occupy what he proudly called the bridal suite: a beautiful stateroom on the upper deck, equipped with bathroom, a great settee, and every possible device for her comfort.

She had always been a good sailor, and the ten-day cruise to Squaw Harbor possessed real pleasure for her. In the first place it was a complete rest for her tired nerves. She slept long in the morning, ate simple, well-cooked food at regular hours, walked the deck with Ivan or with the friendly ship captain, and spent the day at her ease on the long deck. She found that the vast expanse of waters wakened in her a sober, yet not unhappy mood. They made her rather thoughtful, dreamy; and in these days the memory of her husband was surprisingly clear and her own sense of remorse incomprehensibly accentuated. Sometimes Ivan found her preoccupied, and his dislike for this journey grew apace.

Sometimes Dorothy thought that he was struggling with something akin to actual fear. He seemed troubled, rather nervous; and it was not like this brave man to be appalled by the natural perils of the journey. Could it be that he was afraid of losing her: fearful that this voyage might waken and put in the ascendancy a certain side of her nature that he had always dimly recognized as antagonistic to him? Was he afraid that this serious, dreamy, thoughtful mood might shut him out of her heart?

Those ten days were wonderfully instructive to her as far as real human nature was concerned. She had been abroad several times, but always with people of her own immediate social class. On this journey she got to know the ship’s officers, men who had the charm that only world-wide experience can give; she listened to sea tales when she was the captain’s guest at a chocolate supper he nightly held in the dining saloon; she explored the hot, quivering engine room with the chief engineer, and she marvelled at that greatest mystery, messages carried to her from the void in the wireless room beside her cabin.

The morning of the eleventh day she wakened to find herself in Squaw Harbor, the first lap of the journey done. After breakfast, she went ashore with Ivan to make final plans for the launch trip to the north coast of the mainland.

She was immensely pleased with Bradford’s arrangements. The _Warrior_ would carry her straight to the scene of the wreck, he said; then the boat would lie at anchor outside until a dory could be put ashore and the casket unearthed and brought aboard. This accomplished, she and her party would be transported down to Seward, whence they could catch the _Admiral Watson_ back to Seattle.

“I’ve got you three good men for your labor,” he told her—with that kindness and courtesy toward strangers that is the tradition of the North. “Your head guide is Pete—he was wrecked on the _Vigten_ and knows approximately where the _Jupiter_ broke up. He’s a hard worker and a conscientious man—I know you’ll get the best of service out of him. Then you have Fortune Joe and Nick Pavlof for general labor—packers, we call them—both as good men as I could find.”

“I’m sure they will be satisfactory,” Dorothy commented. “And what odd names your Alaskans have.”

“There are some queerer ones than that, if you just give me time to think of them. Fortune Joe is a native medicine man, and laugh if you like, the things he can do are not easily explained away. Of course, it is some kind of psychic power, but don’t ask me what. Nick Pavlof, however, is an Indian of another skin.

“He’ll interest you, Mrs. Newhall. He calls himself a priest, and the truth is that he has some sort of a vague, hereditary claim on the office. You see at one time this was Russian territory, and the entire native population were members of the Greek Church. The Church itself has lost out since American occupation, but the old Indians, particularly, still retain a superstitious shadow of their old religion. This Pavlof is part Russian—he is the grandson, in fact, of a more or less discredited Russian priest, but the rest of his blood is native. However, the natives accept him, kotow to him: he officiates at funerals and has some sort of a vested right to marry people. Don’t trust him too far, however. Pete will see that he behaves himself, but he’s inclined to sulk, and I think he’s a villain at heart.

“Pete will be with you until you have the casket safe on board; then he intends to leave the party, take his grub and his traps, and go into the interior for the winter. Wait an instant—I’ll bring him in and introduce him.”

Pete, waiting outside, had dreaded even as he had longed for this moment. It was hard for him to believe that their meeting, the crucial test of his disguise, was actually at hand. If she recognized him at all it would be at first glance; if he passed that, she would accept him for what he claimed to be and an absolute stranger to her, not looking for anything in him except the character of Limejuice Pete.

For the instant he hated himself that he had ever dared to risk her happiness by thus risking recognition. He had the wild impulse to fly, never to return to this part of Alaska again; but already that chance was lost. Bradford was guiding him through the door.

Though he had thought of little else for weeks he was not quite prepared for the first sight of the slender girl framed by the window and the sea. In their three years’ separation he had gone through so much, he was so utterly changed from the man he had been that he had believed Dorothy would be changed too: that the changes he would find in her would put him at his ease in her presence, as if she were some other woman than his wife. Yet outwardly the tragic years had left her unscathed. Here she stood, the same woman he had left, the same witchery in her eyes and her smile. Indeed, she was nearer the heart’s image he had held of her than when he had left home; in reality, she had reverted back, in some degree, to the girl she had been in their first months of marriage. Every nerve in his body seemed to leap and thrill with the violence of his heart’s welcome to her.

He could no longer remember that he was Limejuice Pete. He had come in awkwardly fumbling his hat; but now he stood staring, unable to speak, risking instant exposure by the white flame in his face. Yet there was no glimmer of recognition in Dorothy’s manner. She smiled graciously, as always to the lowly, looked with keen interest into his bearded face, then stretched her hand.

Pete bowed awkwardly, then took the proffered hand; and its touch sent a violent electric shock throughout the intricate system of his nerves. By no gift of speech could he have told what that slight touch meant to him. He had always loved her hand—it had so reflected her dainty individuality—and the magic of its touch had not yet dimmed. It was only yesterday that its every caress was his. The touch of their palms bridged the years.

He held himself with a grip of iron. He must not let his thoughts carry him into madness. His only desire was to draw her nearer, nearer to him, to confess everything, to take her in his arms even at the tragic cost of her happiness, and thus the forsaking of his last theme. Only disaster lay that way. He must keep to his dream, hold true to his guiding faith.

He dropped her hand instantly, then turned to face Ivan. The latter bowed courteously enough, but did not extend his hand. It was through no desire to show superiority that he failed to observe this universal Northern custom—indeed, birth and breeding had made him sufficiently sure of his own place so that he was not obliged to have recourse to a cheap snob’s tricks—it was simply not in his training to shake hands with menials, and of that class he assumed Pete to be.

And Dorothy, who had watched with deep interest, felt a dim, queer, inexplicable stir of resentment. It was something instinctive in her, and she was not sufficiently adept at introspection to analyze or trace it. Perhaps it was simply a desire to save the feelings of this big, shy, humble man before her; a belief that Ivan could have extended his hand in courtesy if only to save the man embarrassment. And all this was confused with a vague excitement that the moment had some way held for her, a spell and a magic for which there was no visible justification.

Her right hand fluttered and trembled, and the moment was like a dream.