MORE extracts from the lady’s journal:
“I can never begin an entry in my journal without having that frightful scene come between me and these pages. Oh, it was terrible,—terrible beyond all comprehension! I cannot believe, after thinking it over and over during these weeks that have passed since it occurred, that it was the fear of death that so terrified me, and, I know, made an old woman of me. No, it could not have been that. It was the fear of going with that awful condemnation upon me. Was it just? Was it true?
“He seems to have recovered at last from the alarming depression that followed his outbreak, and this gives me leisure to think, leisure to recall many circumstances that in my blindness, my incredible blindness and stupidity, I had overlooked. I take into account the fearful strain under which he had suffered so long. He is a delicate, finely organized man, and has had more to do and to bear than a dozen strong men would have done and borne so well and patiently.
“There was his anxiety on the score of my recovery. Then there were the endless duties of waiting on me, of thinking of the thousands of little things that had to be thought of and done, and that he never forgot nor neglected. He has done my cooking, my washing,—everything that was hard and distasteful for a man to do. Then there was his constant anxiety on account of the snow; and it has been growing daily all through the winter with the increasing dangers and discomforts; and besides his anxiety was the hard physical labor—far too heavy for him—that he has been compelled to do in order to keep our hut from being buried and ourselves from being smothered. And, last, there has been the constant wearing upon him of a close imprisonment with me, for whom I know he now must have a most intense dislike.
“I am satisfied, too, that he has anxieties concealed from me. That they are associated with something upon which the back door opens, I have no doubt. There are several reasons for my thinking so. I am so nearly well now that I could get about and be helpful to him if he would only make me a crutch, as I have often begged him to do; but he has always put me off, saying that it was too early for a crutch, that my desire to be useful would give me a serious setback through making me overdo, and that the main thing for us both to consider was the return of my strength as quickly as possible, and our escape on snow-shoes that he would make as soon as I should be able to walk. It has all sounded very plausible, but it seems to me that common-sense would suggest that I take a little exercise. In spite of my having regained my flesh, I am as weak as an infant. Knowing that he is a good physician, I doubt his sincerity about the crutch. I believe the solemn truth is that he fears I would try to invade his cherished secret if I were able to be about.
“I know that he keeps the provisions in the place into which the back door opens, and that this fact seems to give him a sufficient excuse for going there so often,—especially as he does the cooking there; and that is another strange circumstance. For weeks after I was first brought to the hut he prepared the food on the broad hearth here; but after a while he did that in the rear apartment, explaining that the odors from the cooking were not good for me, and that it was uncomfortable for him to cook before an open fireplace. I protested that I did not mind the odors, and he replied that I would at least consider his comfort.
“Another thing: He has not eaten with me for a long, long time. His original plan was to prepare my meal, wait on me until I had finished, and then have his own at the little table in the chimney-corner. I did not observe for some time that he had quit eating in that way, and that he took his meals in the rear apartment. He always speaks of it as an ‘apartment,’ and not as a room. I wonder why. I have been sitting up for a long time now, and do not require his assistance after he has brought me my food. It would be much pleasanter if he would sit at the little table and eat with me. Is his dislike of me so deep that he cannot eat with me? With all my sense, I have permitted this condition of affairs to come about! And we both are sufferers by it.
“It is no wonder, with all these things troubling him, that he has changed so much since I came. He is as scrupulously neat as ever, and he makes this poor little hut shine, but he has changed remarkably since I came. It has been so gradual that I didn’t observe it until my blindness was no longer sufficient to keep me from seeing it. He was slender and evidently not strong when I came, but he has become a shadow, and his gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes are distressing to me. When he comes in now from fighting the snow,—for we must not be buried by it, and must have light and air, and the top of the chimney must be kept clear,—his weakness and exhaustion, though he tries so hard to conceal them, are terrible to see.
“And now a great fear has come to me. It is that at any moment he may break down and die. I wish I had not written that, I wish I had never thought of it. Oh, if my father would only come! What can be keeping him? Do I not know that he loves me better than anything else in the world? Am I not all that he has to love and cling to? I cannot, cannot, understand it. Dr. Malbone says it is unreasonable for me to expect my father, and that if he should make the effort to reach me now it would be at too great a risk to his own life. He tries to assure me that my father will be governed entirely by the advice of the people who know the mountains, and that they will restrain him from making any such attempt, as they would not dare to make it themselves. All that may be true, but it is difficult for me to believe it. If I could only get a word from him, it would give me greater strength to bear the horrors of my situation. But why should I complain, when Dr. Malbone bears it all so patiently, so sweetly, so cheerfully?
“Still, that awful picture of murder comes between me and these pages unceasingly. I think I can understand now why men sometimes kill women. Why should men and women be so different? Why should it be impossible for them to comprehend each other? It was Murder that I saw standing before me—both the horrible picture of murder as he painted it, with me as the murderess—me as the murderess!—and Murder in the flesh as he stood ready to strangle me. Oh, the incredible ferocity of the man, the terrible, wild savagery of him, the awful dark and nether side of his strangely complex character! All along I had taken him for a pusillanimous milksop, a baby, an old woman, a weak nobody; and at once he dropped his outer shell and stood forth a Man,—terrible, savage, brutal, overwhelming, splendid, wonderful! What is my judgment worth after this? And I was so proud of my understanding of men!
“Why didn’t he kill me? It was my cry that checked him; but why should it? Was it my appeal for help that brought him to his senses? I think so. It touched that within him which had been so keenly alert, so unrelaxingly vigilant, ever since I had come under his care. But what did he mean by the howl of the she-wolf? And what did he mean by saying that the wolves had come down? Several times since that terrible scene he has waked me in the night with groans, and with crying out in his sleep, ‘The she-wolf?’ These things have a meaning, I know. Why does he explain nothing? And why have I permitted an estrangement between us that makes it impossible for me to seek his confidence? Is it too late now?
“Oh, the terrible moments, the interminable hours, that passed after he had left the hut by the rear door! Every second, at first, I expected him to return and kill me. Would he have a rifle, a revolver, a knife, or a bludgeon, or would he come with those terrible long fingers hooked like claws to fasten upon my throat? And yet, somehow, I felt safe; I felt that his old watchfulness and solicitude had returned.
“As soon as I could overcome the half-stupor into which his outburst had thrown me I dragged myself to the rear door, intending to barricade it against him. The effort was exceedingly painful and exhausting, and brought me great suffering for a week afterward. But my sufferings of mind and spirit were so much greater that I could bear those of the flesh. When I had crawled to the door and was trying to drag a box against it, I heard something that stopped me. I am not certain that it was anything real. There was a loud singing in my ears from the awful fright that I had suffered, and what I heard may have been that, made seemingly coherent by my over-strained imagination. What I heard sounded like the distant, smothered, awful strains of Saint-Saens’s ‘Dance of Death’ played on the violin. But wild and terrible as it sounded, it came as a pledge of my safety. Murder cannot come with music.
“I drew myself away and with great effort clambered upon the bed, where I lay a long time in complete exhaustion. Time had no meaning for me. A dull, massive, intangible weight seemed to be crushing me, and I longed—oh, how I longed!—for human sympathy.
“The hut was dark when he returned. We had been very saving with the candles, for Dr. Malbone explained that they were running low; so in the evenings we generally had only the fire-light. There seemed to be a generous supply of fire-wood in the rear apartment, and some of it was a pitchy pine that gave out a fine blaze. When he returned the fire had burned out. I felt no fear when I heard him enter. I knew by the unsteadiness of his movements that he was weak and ill, but the first sound of his voice as he called me anxiously was perfectly reassuring.
“‘I am lying on the bed,’ I answered.
“He groped to the bedside and there he knelt, and buried his face in his hands upon the coverlet. And then—I say it merely as his due, merely as the simple truth—he did the manliest thing that a man ever did. He raised his head and in dignified humility said,—
“‘I have done the most cowardly, the most brutal thing that a man can do. Will you forgive me? Can you forgive me?
“I put out my hand to stop him, for it was terrible that a man should be so humble and broken; but he took my hand in both of his and held it.
“‘Will you? Can you? he pleaded.
“It was the only time that his touch had been other than the cold and perfunctory one of the physician, and—I feel no shame in writing it—it was the first time in my life that the touch of a man’s hand had been so comforting. For a moment his hand seemed to have been thrust through the wall that hitherto had separated us so completely.
“‘You were not the one to blame,’ I said. ‘I alone was the guilty one.’
“‘No, no!’ he protested, warmly. ‘What provocation under heaven could excuse such conduct as mine?’
“‘I will forgive you,’ I said, ‘upon one condition.’
“‘And that———-’
“‘You forgive me in turn.’
“Very slowly, as soon as I had said that, the pressure with which he had been holding my hand began to relax. What did that mean, and why did he remain silent, and why did a pain come stealing into my heart? Could not he be as generous as I? Had I overrated him, after all?
“‘It was terrible!’ he half whispered. ‘By every obligation resting upon a man, I should have been kind to you. You were my guest as well as my patient. You were crippled and helpless, and unable to defend yourself. You were a woman, looking to every man, by the right of your sex, for comfort and protection. I was a man, owing to you, because you were a woman, all the comfort and protection that every man owes to every woman. All of these obligations I trampled under foot.’
“Why did he put that sting into our reconciliation? Had he not done it so innocently, so unintentionally, it would not have hurt so much. I withdrew my hand from his very slowly; he made no effort to retain it. He did not again ask me to forgive him, and he did not offer me his forgiveness. The breach in the wall was closed, and the barrier stood intact and impregnable between us.
“Presently he rose and made a fire, and prepared me something to eat; but I had no appetite. Then he found that I had a fever, and he was much distressed. There was just one comforting touch of sympathy when he said to me,—
“‘You were sobbing all the time I was making the fire and preparing your supper. I promise not to frighten nor distress you again.’
“How did he know I had been sobbing, when I had taken so much pains to conceal it And yet I might have known that his watchfulness upon my welfare is so keen, so unrelaxing, that nothing affecting me can be hidden from him.
“I was confined to bed a week, and suffered greatly both in mind and body. I had hurt my crippled leg, and that made my physician very anxious. During all this time it had not occurred to me, so sodden with selfishness is my nature, that he had suffered a very serious nervous shock from his outburst of mad passion, and that only by a mighty effort was he holding up to put me again on the road to recovery. A realization of the truth came when my ill turn had passed. He had hardly placed me comfortably on a chair when a ghastly pallor made a death’s-head of his face, and he reeled to the bed and fell fainting upon it, still having the thoughtfulness to say, as he reeled,—
“‘I am—a little—tired—and sleepy. I—am perfectly—well. Have no—uneasiness.’
“Except for his slight, short breathing, he lay for hours as one dead; and then I realized more fully than ever the weight of the awful burden that my presence has laid upon him. I know that I am killing him. O God! is there nothing that I can do to help him, to make it easier for him? What have I done that this horrible curse should have come upon me?
“The most wonderful of all the strange things that I have seen and learned in this terrible imprisonment is that his kindness toward me has not suffered the slightest change. He is still the soul of thoughtfulness, watchfulness, unselfishness, and yet he has denounced me to my face as a——
“Another thing I have found: All the training that I have had in cleverness goes for nothing here. He always avoids the beginning of any conversation on subjects other than those that lie immediately near us. It therefore requires a great effort on my part—and I think I deserve some praise for it—to draw him into discussions of general matters. In these discussions he never advances an opinion if he suspects that I have an opposite one, and never opposes nor contradicts me; but I cannot help feeling that his views are so much broader and deeper than mine, so much wiser, so much more charitable, so much nearer to what he calls ‘the great heart of humanity,’ as to make me seem shallow and mean. Am I really so? I try not to be.
“With indescribable tact and delicacy, he holds me at an infinite distance, and I have been unable to find any way to bridge the vast gulf.... After all, why should I try? If he despises me, I cannot help it. This miserable position in which I am placed will be at an end some time; and when I am again free, and in my own world, I will show him the gratitude that I feel. Will he let me?...
“What is there so repulsive about me? Why should I be treated as a viper? And why is it that of all the men I have known—men whom I could handle as putty—this obscure backwoods doctor sets himself wholly apart from me, remains utterly impregnable, shames and humiliates me with a veiled pity, and feels not the slightest touch of the power that I know myself to have? Is my face ugly? Are my manners crude? Is my voice repellent? Where are my resources of womanly tact that I have used successfully in the past? Why is it that I fail utterly to impress him as having a single admirable trait, a single grace of appearance, manner, or character?
“It is hard to bear all this. I try to be brave and strong and cheerful, as he always is; but it is human nature to resent his treatment, and it is cruel of him to keep me in such a position. It is the first time in my life that I have been at a disadvantage.
“I imagine that he has suffered some great sorrow. Indeed, he said so in his outburst. His distrust of me seems to indicate its character. He probably gave some heartless woman his whole love, his whole soul, and she laughed at him and cast him off. That would go hard with a man of his kind. There can be no other explanation; and now I am the sufferer for that woman’s sin: he thinks that all women are like her.
“I will write this vow, so that I may turn to it often and strengthen my purpose by reading it:
“I will make this man like me. I will tear down the wall that he has built between us. I will employ every resource to bring him to my feet. I will make him appreciate me. I will make him need me. I will make him want me.
“That is my vow.”
Thus end, again for the present, these extracts from the lady’s journal.
THE severity of the winter did not relax. There were intervals when the wind did not blow and the snow did not fall; but there were neither warm winds nor sunshine to melt the snow, the depth of which grew steadily and aggravated the impassableness of the roads. Day by day, week by week, month by month it strengthened the bars of the prison holding the two unhappy souls.
With the prolonged and increasing rigors of the winter harder and harder grew the rigors of the prison. The strength of Wilder’s spirit was beginning to break down; and while it distressed his fair charge to see him suffer, it warmed her heart to realize that the day of her triumph was near,—the day when she should serve him as gently, as unselfishly, as faithfully as he had served her. It would be sweet to have him helpless, to have him lean upon her, need her, want her.
Her manner had undergone a great change since the terrible scene in which her life was threatened. Her firmness, her self-reliance, her aggressiveness, her condescension, all had gone, and she bore herself toward her rescuer as mother, sister, and friend. In innumerable little ways she saved him trouble through denying herself, and did it so tactfully that he never suspected the deception. Under the influence of this he had at last made her a crutch, which, though rude and uncomfortable, she declared to be a miracle of ease. She believed that in giving it to her he expressed more confidence in her than he had felt before.
Its introduction into the scheme of their lives worked changes that astonished and pleased him. In spite of his distressed protests, she overhauled his meagre wardrobe, and with deft workmanship put every article in perfect order. Her skill and ingenuity were employed in many other ways, so that the cabin soon took on a look very different from that which she had found when she came. Little touches lent an air of grace and a sense of comfort that the place had not borne before.
She relieved him of all the work of caring for her, except that of cooking; this was a duty that he reserved with immovable stubbornness. Nor could she contrive with all her wiles and persuasion to make him have his meals with her. She formed many a theory to explain his conduct in that particular. Finally, she settled upon this one: He preferred to fill the rôle of a servitor; as such he must take his meals apart. But why should he so choose? Was it because he deemed it the safer course for them both? Was it because he wished to discipline her by placing her above him, when by obvious right they were equals? Speculation was useless; she was forced to accept the fact, which she did with all the grace at her command.
He had grown thin to emaciation. His hands were those of a skeleton covered tightly with skin. His cheeks were greatly sunken, and the drawn skin upon his cheek-bones was a chalky white. But his eyes were the most haunting of his features. They seemed to be looking always for something that could not be found, and to show a mortal dread of a catastrophe that had given no sign of its imminence. In their impenetrable depths she imagined that she saw all mysteries, all fears, all anxieties.
Still, though very weak, he kept sturdily and cheerfully at his duties. There was the snow to fight. There was the fire to be kept up, for the cold was intense. There was the cooking to do.
Uncomfortable as her bed was, she knew that it was luxurious in comparison with the thinly covered floor of stones and earth upon which he slept. In time this came to haunt her unceasingly, and she pondered every conceivable plan to make him more comfortable. At first it was her firm intention to make him take the bed while she slept on the floor; but she knew that it would be useless to make the suggestion; so she was forced to abandon the idea, dear as it was to her, and happy as its adoption would have made her. Instead, she did what she could to make his pallet comfortable. Her ingenuity made so great a difference that his gratitude touched her.
One day she discovered him in agonizing pain. The torture was so great that it broke down his iron fortitude and drew his face awry. She was instantly at his side, her hand on his shoulder and her face showing a wistful anxiety.
“What is it, my friend?” she inquired, in the gentlest voice.
With a pitiful effort at self-mastery he declared that it was only a trifling and transitory pain, and that it was rapidly passing. She knelt beside him and looked anxiously into his face. Her solicitude evidently increased his suffering, but she was determined to make the fight then and there.
“Tell me what it is, my friend,” she begged.
This was the second time that she had called him “my friend.”
“It is only rheumatism,” he said, somewhat impatiently, and making a gentle effort to push her away. But she persisted.
“That is not a trifling thing,” she said, “for your strength is greatly reduced. Where is the pain?”
“Oh, I don’t know; you are only making it harder for me!” he petulantly exclaimed.
A great gladness filled her heart, for she knew that he was giving way, and that her solicitude was hastening his collapse.
“No,” she said, “I will make you well. Where is the pain?” His face gave the glad sign of his wavering.
“Where is the pain?” she repeated. “It is my right to know and your duty to tell me.”
“In my——” he said, gasping, “in my chest.”
She rose and went to the bed, which she prepared for him. When he saw what her intention was he came to his feet with great effort. Before she could divine his purpose or check him, he had gone to the rear door, hastily opened it, and saying, “I will be back in a moment,” passed out and closed it after him. She stood bewildered at the neatness with which he had baffled her, and alarmed for his safety. But he had promised to return at once, and she knew that he would if he could. To her great relief he soon came back, bearing some biscuits and a few tins of provisions. As he stepped within and locked the door he dropped a tin, and before she could go to his assistance he had fallen while trying to pick it up. She drew him to his feet, and was amazed to discover how much stronger she was than he, and yet she had thought herself very weak. She seated him upon the edge of the bed and began to remove his shoes.
“No, no!” he gasped; “you shall not do that.”
But she kept on and succeeded, and laid him upon the bed and drew the covers over him.
“Now,” she said, “tell me what to give you.”
He did so, and it gave her infinite satisfaction to have him take the medicine from her hand. Soon his pain relaxed, and he fell into a heavy slumber.
While she watched him as might a mother her slumbering first-born, her soul warmed and expanded, and her one shy regret was that his head was not resting on her breast. But there were duties awaiting her. She took up the surplus ashes from the hearth. She revived the fire with the wood that he had heaped up at the chimney-side the night before. She put snow into a vessel to heat water. She stowed away his pallet. She prepared to make tea as soon as the water should be hot. In the performance of these and other minor tasks she was very happy, and for the first time since she had entered the hut she sang softly. The work was not easy, for she had little strength, being unused so long to exercise, and her lameness and the crutch interfered sorely.
One sting hurt unceasingly. She reflected that her host had decided to take to the bed under her persuasion, and that he had brought the provisions from the rear apartment so that she might prepare food during his helplessness; but this was because he had not trusted her to get the provisions herself,—had made it unnecessary for her to enter the forbidden chamber. As well as she could she tried to be generous; she tried to think that a man so kind, so thoughtful, so respectful, must have the best reasons for keeping her out of that room. If so, she had no right to expect his confidence. But why did he give her no explanation? Why should he not trust her to that extent? This was the sting that hurt.
In a vague way she believed that something ought to be put on his chest for the pain that he had suffered there.
She had an intense desire to do something for him. She thought that cloths saturated with liniment would be good for him. With great caution, to avoid waking him, she opened the garments covering his chest. He still slept heavily, for the medicine that he had taken carried a soporific element. When she had bared his breast and seen the frightful emaciation of his body, she quickly covered him, fell upon her face to the floor, and sobbed.
The day advanced, but still he slept. Her one hope now was that he would sleep into the night, for that would require her to sleep on the pallet before the hearth. She had another precious hope, and it was that they would at last eat a meal together; but she would rather that he slept; so, toward evening, she made a simple meal and ate her share alone, and kept his ready for him against his waking.
She marvelled that there was so much to do in so small a place, and that the day—the sweetest, she believed, of all the days of her life—had passed so quickly. At short intervals she would lean over him and listen to his short, half-checked breathing; or she would gently lay her cool hand upon his hot forehead, or hold one of his burning hands in hers, and then press it to her cheek. It seemed surpassingly wonderful that the strong man, strong in spirit only, should be lying now as helpless as an infant, wholly dependent upon her.
At times he was restless, and talked unintelligibly in his sleep; she was instantly at his side, to soothe him with her cool, soft hand upon his face; and when she saw that it always calmed him, she sighed from the sweet pain that filled her breast. Once, when he seemed on the verge of waking, she slipped her arm under his head, and gave him more of the medicine, which he took unresistingly, and slept again. As the night wore on, she made herself unhappy with trying to choose between sitting at his bedside and watching, and suffering the hardship that he had borne so long in sleeping on the pallet. While she was in the throes of this contention, another urgent matter arose. It had been her host’s custom to bring in a supply of wood every night. That which he had brought the night before was now exhausted, and more was needed. How could she get it. She knew that he had locked the back door and put the key into a certain pocket. She knew that she could not get the wood without the key. Procuring a supply of fuel was one precaution that he had overlooked when he had brought in a supply of provisions.
He was in a profound slumber. She could get the key, and thus provide the wood for the night. But would it be right to do so? If the fire went out the cold would be intense, and might prove fatal to him. If she should enter the forbidden room, would that be taking an unfair advantage of his helplessness? It was a hard problem, but in the end her sense of duty outweighed her sense of delicacy. With the greatest caution she slipped her hand into his pocket and secured the key. With equal caution she went to the door and unlocked it.
Then a great fear assailed her. What lay beyond the door? Might it not be some danger that only her host could safely face? If so, what could it be?... It were wise to have a candle; but search failed to discover one. She secured a small torch from the fire, and cautiously opened the door.
To her surprise, no chamber was revealed, but merely a walled and roofed passage closed at the farther end with a door. Piled within it was a store of wood; there was nothing else. It was very awkward for the young woman to carry the crutch, the torch, and the wood all at once; it was necessary to relinquish the torch. She carried it back to the fireplace, and went again to the passage, piled some wood in her free arm, and started back. As she did so she saw her host sitting up and staring at her in horror. This so frightened her that she dropped the wood, screamed, and fell fainting to the floor.
When she became conscious she found herself on the bed and her host watching beside her. There was the old look of command in his face, the old veil that hung between her and his confidence; and thus her glorious day had come to an inglorious end, and her spirit was nearly crushed. Her host had recovered in a measure,—sufficiently for him to resume the command of his house. No questions were asked, no explanations were given. He thanked her gratefully for her kindness to him, and thus her brief happiness came to an end. The old round of labor, of waiting, of hoping, of suffering, of imprisonment, was taken up again.
AFEW days afterward they were sitting before the fire in silence. It had become habitual with the young woman to study every look and movement of her host; to anticipate him in the discharge of the household duties; to provide for him every little comfort that the meagre resources of the hut afforded; and to observe with a strange pleasure the steady breaking down of his will and courage. She realized that his recent attack, though so quickly overcome, was a warning of his approaching complete collapse; and she believed that only when that should happen could she hope with sympathy and careful nursing to save him. She welcomed the moroseness that was stealing over him, his growing failure to study her every want, and his occasional lapses into a petulant bearing toward her. It gratified her to see him gradually loosen the iron mask that he had worn so long. Most significant of all his symptoms were hallucinations that began to visit him. At times he would start up in violent alarm and whisper, “Did you hear the howling of the wolves?” At others he would start in alarm to resist an imaginary attack upon the rear door. A touch of her hand, a gentle, firm word, would instantly calm him, and then he would look foolish and ashamed.
On this day, as they sat before the fire, matters took a new and strange turn. He suddenly said,—
“Listen!”
She was so deeply absorbed in watching him and so expectant of erratic conduct from him that she gave no thought to the possibility of danger from an external source. For dreary months she had waited in this small prison, and no longer gave heed to any tumult without. The young man had been lounging in hopeless langour, but now he sat upright, every nerve, muscle, and faculty under extraordinary tension.
“It is coming!” he cried. “I have been expecting it every day. Come—quick, for God’s sake!”
Saying that, he seized her by the arm, and with furious eagerness and surprising strength dragged her to the rear door, giving her little time to seize her crutch. He unlocked the door and threw it open, but before he could open the door at the further end of the passage she heard a heavy roar and felt the great mountain tremble. Wholly ignorant of the meaning of it all, but seeing that her host was moved by an intelligent purpose, and feeling profound confidence and comfort in the protection that he was throwing about her, she placed herself completely under his guidance.
The rear door was opened, and they entered a dark, cold chamber. With every moment the roaring increased and the trembling of the mountain was augmented. Then came a tremendous, stupefying crash, and the cataclysm gradually died away in silence, leaving an impenetrable, oppressive blackness.
The two prisoners stood in breathless silence, held tightly in each other’s arms. The young woman asked no questions; her sense of security and comfort in this man’s arms filled the whole want of her hour. She felt vaguely that something more dreadful than all their past misfortunes had befallen them; but that feeling brought no chill to the strong warm blood that swept rhythmically through her heart. She was at peace with her fate. If this was death, it was death for them both, it was death with him.
Her keen sympathy made her intensely attentive to every sign that he gave; and thus it was that she accepted, without surprise or dismay, the realization that he was not rallying, and that, on the contrary, he was sinking under the nameless blow that had fallen upon them. It was not anxiety for that, but for him, that now gave her every conscious quality a redoubled alertness. His grasp upon her tightened, and by this she knew that he felt the need of her, and was clinging to her. He trembled in every member, and swayed as he stood. With little effort she bore him to the ground, where, kneeling beside him and holding his hands, she softly spoke,—
“My friend, we are together; and so long as each is the stay of the other, we shall have strength and courage for all things. Now tell me what I may do for you.” She knew by the pressure of his hand upon hers that her words had found good ground. She gently pressed her advantage. “Tell me what I may do for you. You are weak. You know how strong and healthy and willing I am; then, imagine how much pleasure it would give me to help you! You need a stimulant. Is there one in the cabin? Tell me where it is, and I will bring it.”
“You are kind,” he said, tremulously.
“But do you know what has happened?” As he asked this question he rose to a sitting posture, she assisting him.
“No,” she calmly answered; “but no matter what has happened, we are together, and thus we have strength and courage for it.”
“Ah,” he said, hopelessly, “but this is the end! An avalanche has buried us and the cabin is destroyed!”
Terrible as was this declaration, it had no weakening effect upon his companion.
“Is that all?” she cheerily asked. “But avalanches melt away, and we have each other. And if it come to the very worst, we shall still have each other. Besides each other, we have life, and with life there is always hope, there is always the duty to hope. If we abandon hope, life itself is abandoned.”
This worked like good wine in his veins; but she knew by the way in which he still clung to her, seemingly fearful that she would leave him for a moment, that a dreadful unknown thing sat upon him. She waited patiently for him to disclose it. She knew that the shock of the catastrophe had wholly cleared his mind, and that the old terrors which he had concealed from her were working upon him with renewed activity. Still he kept silence.
“Do you know,” she presently said, “that I am glad the avalanche has come? I understand now the dread of some terrible happening that has been haunting you. Well, it has come, and we are still alive; and better than that, we have each other. Think how much more dreadful it might have been! Suppose that it had come while you were outside, and swept you away. Suppose that it had crushed us in the cabin. But here we are, safe and sound, and happy each in the presence of the other.... And I am thinking of something else. The snow stopped falling long ago. Lately we have had warm winds and some rain. This must mean, my friend, that the worst is over. And doesn’t it mean that the rain has softened the snow and loosened it to make this avalanche?”
A sudden strength, a surprised gladness, were in the pressure that he now gave her hand.
“It is true, it is true!” he softly exclaimed.
“Then,” she continued, “the winter has dealt its last blow, and our liberation is at hand; for the rains that caused the avalanche will melt the snow that it has piled upon us, and also the snow that has closed the roads. It seems to me that the best of all possible things has happened.”
“I hadn’t thought of that!” he exclaimed, with a childish eagerness that made her heart glow.
“Besides,” she continued, “how do you know that the cabin is destroyed? Let us go and see.”
Her gentle strength and courage, the seeming soundness of her reasoning, and her determination not to take a gloomy view of their state, roused him without making him aware of his weakness. Her suggestion that the cabin possibly had not been destroyed was a spur to his dulled and stunned perception.
“That is true,” he cheerfully said; “let us go and see.”
Still clinging closely to each other, they groped in the darkness for the door.
“You have matches, haven’t you?” she inquired.
“Yes,” he answered, in confusion; “but we can find the door without a light.”
That was not so easy. For the first time, now that the terrors of the moment had passed, the young woman was nursing a happiness that she had not known during all the dreary weeks of their imprisonment,—except once, in his illness, when it had been of so short duration.
Feeling thus content, she suddenly reflected that she was at last in the forbidden apartment, where she believed some fearful mystery was kept concealed from her. Their voices had been long smothered in the cramped hut. The contrast that she now found was startling; yet her thoughts might not have reverted to the fact that she was at last in the presence of the mystery had not Wilder’s embarrassed refusal to make a light rekindled her interest. The first thing in that direction that she noticed was the singular resonance of their voices, as though they were in a place of a size just short of the echoing power. More than that, it was cold, though not nearly so cold as the outer air; and she heard the musical tinkle of dripping and running water.
Wilder had evidently lost all idea of direction. In clinging to his companion as he groped, he took great care to guard her against stumbling and collision. His free hand (the other arm was about her waist) was extended. With great difficulty, increased by his eagerness, he finally found his bearings and advanced to the door. Slowly and cautiously they pushed on through the passage, and then, to their great relief, into the hut itself. This they found intact, but smoky and entirely dark,—the avalanche had smothered the chimney and shut out the light from the window. With matches they discovered that the window had not been broken and that the outer wall of the house held none of the pressure of the snow. In his peculiar fashion, however, Wilder began to foresee troubles.
“The pressure of the mass above,” he said, “will compress the snow below, and thus give our window, and perhaps the outer wall of the cabin itself, a pressure that they can’t bear. The hut is buried. We can have no more fires. The worst of all is that, having no air, we must suffocate in time.”
“Is all that necessary, my friend?” his companion asked. “We can at least try to clear away the snow and thus remove all those difficulties; and there is a chance—and a good one, don’t you think?—for the snow to melt quickly. Besides all that, we have not yet tried to dig out through the snow.”
“True, true, every word of it!” he cried, delightedly. “What a clear, strong mind you have!”
This was the first compliment that he had ever paid her, and its obvious sincerity gave it a precious value.
It was she that now led the attack upon their prison of snow. What infinite satisfaction and pride it gave her to know that at last she was the guiding spirit of the hut; with what firm but gentle tact she overcame, one by one, his objections to her worrying or working; how she watched his every movement, hung upon his every word, relieved him as much as possible of the stress that burdened him, and ministered to his comfort in all ways; with what blithe songs in her heart and cheery words on her lips she lightened the toil of that dreadful time, need only be mentioned here. But it was she that led, that inspired, that achieved, and he knew it. This was the blessed light that shone for her through it all.
A search revealed loose and easily removed snow at one end of the hut, against the face of the cliff. His work in the lead, digging and tunnelling, hers in the rear, removing the snow and keeping courage in his heart, brought them presently to the outer air. Then, for the first time, they beheld the glorious sunshine, and like children they shouted in glee to see it. Both walls of the canon were still heavily covered with snow, but numerous small slides had broken it, and the rain had softened and ploughed it. Evidently it was rapidly melting.
Another scene held them as they stood hand in hand looking down into the canon. The great avalanche that had overwhelmed them had been arrested in the bottom of the canon, and had made a large lake by damming the river. Rapidly the lake grew in size and backed up the canon. Soon at any moment the growing mass of water must break through its dam, and that would be a spectacle to behold.
They could not wait for that. With incredible labor—he no longer protesting against her full share in the work, and she heedless of her lameness and of its serious hindrance to her efforts—they together, hand in hand, clambered over the snow until they stood above the hut, and cheerily began to dig it free,—a task seemingly so far beyond their powers that something wonderful must have sustained them in assailing it. Thus they were working in the afternoon sunshine, for the first time boon companions, and as happy and light-hearted as children, when an exclamation from Wilder drew her attention to the dam. It was giving way under the pressure of water. Instantly she recognized a danger that he had overlooked.
“Back to the cliff!” she cried, seizing his hand and dragging him away, “or we’ll go down with the snow.”
They reached their tunnel and the cabin in good time; but soon afterward the dam broke, and the swirling, thundering mass of water bore it down the canon. This removed the support of the snow backed up between the river and the top of the cliff, and it went plunging down into the water, leaving the top of the hut exposed, and solving the problem of the prison of snow.