Chapter Chapter 41 · BOOK III CHAPTER XV

It was about two months later when I returned from a flying visit to

Dawson.

"Lots of mail for you two," I cried, exultantly bursting into the cabin.

"Mail? Hooray!"

Jim and the Prodigal, who were lying on their bunks, leapt up eagerly.

No one longs for his letters like your Northern exile, and for two whole

months we had not heard from the outside.

"Yes, I got over fifty letters between us three. Drew about a dozen

myself, there's half a dozen for you, Jim, and the balance for you, old

sport."

I handed the Prodigal about two dozen letters.

"Ha! now we'll have the whole evening just to browse on them. My, what a

stack! How was it you had a time getting them?"

"Well, you see, when I got into town the mail had just been sorted, and

there was a string of over three hundred men waiting at the general

delivery wicket. I took my place at the tail-end of the line, and every

newcomer fell in behind me. My! but it was such weary waiting, moving up

step by step; but I'd just about got there when closing-time came. They

wouldn't give out any more mail--after my three hours' wait, too."

"What did you do?"

"Well, it seems every one gives way to the womenfolk. So I happened to

see a girl friend of mine, and she said she would go round first thing

in the morning and enquire if there were any letters for us. She brought

me this bunch."

I indicated the pile of letters.

"I'm told lots of women in town make a business of getting letters for

men, and charge a dollar a letter. It's awful how hard it is to get

mail. Half of the clerks seem scarcely able to read the addresses on the

envelopes. It's positively sad to watch the faces of the poor wretches

who get nothing, knowing, too, that the chances are there is really

something for them sorted away in a wrong box."

"That's pretty tough."

"Yes, you should have seen them; men just ravenous to hear from their

families; a clerk carelessly shuffling through a pile of letters.

'Beachwood, did you say? Nope, nothing for you.' 'Hold on there! what's

that in your hand? Surely I know my wife's writing.' 'Beachwood--yep,

that's right. Looked like Peachwood to me. All right. Next there.' Then

the man would go off with his letter, looking half-wrathful,

half-radiant. Well, I enjoyed my trip, but I'm glad I'm home."

I threw myself on my bunk voluptuously, and began re-reading my letters.

There were some from Garry and some from Mother. While still

unreconciled to the life I was leading, they were greatly interested in

my wildly cheerful accounts of the country. They were disposed to be

less censorious, and I for my part was only too glad Mother was well

enough to write, even if she did scold me sometimes. So I was able to

open my mail without misgivings.

But I was still aglow with memories of the last few hours. Once more I

had seen Berna, spent moments with her of perfect bliss, left her with

my mind full of exaltation and bewildered gratitude. She was the perfect

answer to my heart's call, a mirror that seemed to flash back the

challenge of my joy. I saw the love mists gather in her eyes, I felt her

sweet lips mould themselves to mine, I thrilled with the sheathing

ardour of her arms. Never in my fondest imaginings had I conceived that

such a wealth of affection would ever be for me. Buoyant she was, brave,

inspiring, and always with her buoyancy so wondrous tender I felt that

willingly would I die for her.

Once again I told her of my fear, my anxiety for her safety among those

rough men in that cesspool of iniquity. Very earnestly she strove to

reassure me.

"Oh, my dear, it is in those rough men, the uncouth, big-hearted miners,

that I place my trust. They know I'm a good girl. They wouldn't say a

coarse thing before me for the world. You've no idea the chivalrous

respect they show for me, and the rougher they are the finer their

instincts seem to be. It's the others, the so-called gentlemen, who

would like to take advantage of me if they could."

She looked at me with bright, clear eyes, fearless in their scorn of

sham and pretence.

"Then there are the women. It's strange, but no matter how degraded

they are they try to shield and protect me. Only last week Kimona Kate

made a fearful scene with her escort because he said something bad

before me. I'm getting tolerant. Oh, you've no idea until you know them

what good qualities some of these women have. Often their hearts are as

big as all outdoors; they would nurse you devotedly if you were sick;

they would give you their last dollar if you were in want. Many of them

have old mothers and little children they're supporting outside, and

they would rather die than that their dear ones should know the life

they are living. It's the men, the men that are to blame."

I shook my head sadly.

"I don't like it, Berna, I don't like it at all. I hate you to know the

like of such people, such things. I just want you to be again the dear,

sweet little girl I first knew, all maidenly modesty and shuddering

aversion of evil."

"I'm afraid, dear, I shall never be that again," she said sorrowfully;

"but am I any the worse for knowing? Why should you men want to keep all

such knowledge to yourselves? Is our innocence simply to be another name

for ignorance?"

She put her arms round my neck and kissed me fervently.

"Oh, no, my dear, my dear. I have seen the vileness of things, and it

only makes me more in love with love and beauty. We'll go, you and I, to

Italy very soon, and forget, forget. Even if we have to toil like

peasants in the vineyards we'll go, far, far away."

So I felt strengthened, stimulated, gladdened, and, as I lay on my bunk

listening to the merry crackle of the wood fire, I was in a purring

lethargy of content. Then I remembered something.

"Oh, say, boys, I forgot to tell you. I met McCrimmon down the creek.

You remember him on the trail, the Halfbreed. He was asking after you

both; then all at once he said he wanted to see us on important

business. He has a proposal to make, he says, that would be greatly to

our advantage. He's coming along this evening.--What's the matter, Jim?"

Jim was staring blankly at one of the letters he had received. His face

was a picture of distress, misery, despair. Without replying, he went

and knelt down by his bed. He sighed deeply. Slowly his face grew calm

again; then I saw that he was praying. We were silent in respectful

sympathy, but when, in a little, he got up and went out, I followed him.

"Had bad news, old man?"

"I've had a letter that's upset me. I'm in a terrible position. If ever

I wanted strength and guidance, I want it now."

"Heard about that man?"

"Yes, it's him, all right; it's Mosher. I suspicioned it all along.

Here's a letter from my brother. He says there's no doubt that Mosher is

Moseley."

His eyes were stormy, his face tragic in its bitterness.

"Oh, you don't know how I worshipped that woman, trusted her, would have

banked my life on her; and when I was away making money for her she ups

and goes away with that slimy reptile. In the old days I would have torn

him to pieces, but now----"

He sighed distractedly.

"What am I to do? What am I to do? The Good Book says forgive your

enemies, but how can I forgive a wrong like that? And my poor girl--he

deserted her, drove her to the streets. Ugh! if I could kill him by slow

torture, gloat over his agony--but I can't, can I?"

"No, Jim, you can't do anything. Vengeance is the Lord's."

"Yes, I know, I know. But it's hard, it's hard. O my girl, my girl!"

Tears overran his cheeks. He sat down on a log, burying his face in his

hands.

"O God, help and sustain me in this my hour of need."

I was at a loss how to comfort him, and it was while I was waiting there

that suddenly we saw the Halfbreed coming up the trail.

"Better come in, Jim," I said, "and hear what he's got to say."