XXXII
Was this their destiny,—utter and hopeless defeat in the moment of victory? Was this the way of justice that, after all they had endured, they should yet go down to death? They had fought a mighty fight, they had waged a cruel war against cold and hardship, they had known the full terror and punishment of the snow wastes in their dreadful adventure of the past two days; and had it all come to nothing, after all? Was life no more than this,—a cruel master that tortured his slaves only to give them death? These thoughts brought their full bitterness in the instant that Bill groped his way to Virginia's side.
His hands told him she was lying huddled against the wall, a slight, pathetic figure that broke the heart within the man. "Here I am," she said again, her voice not racked with pain but only soft and tender. He knelt beside her, then groped for a match. But whether the injury was small or great he felt that the issue would be the same.
But before he struck the match he remembered his foe without; he would be quick to fire through the window if a light showed him his target. Even now he might be crouched in the snow, his rifle in his arms, waiting for just this chance. Bill snatched a blanket from the cot, shielded them with it, and lighted the match behind it. "He can't see the light through this," he told her. "If he does—I guess it doesn't much matter."
He groped for the fallen candle, lighted it, and held it close. "You'll have to look and see yourself, Virginia," he told her. "You remember—of course——"
Yes, she remembered his blindness. She looked down at the little stain of red on her left shoulder. "I can't tell," she told him. "It went in right here—give me your hand."
She took his warm hand and rested it against the wound. Someway, it comforted her. "Close to the top of the shoulder, then," he commented. Then he groped till his sensitive fingers told him he had found the egress of the bullet—on her arm just down from her shoulder. "But there's nothing I can do—it's not a wound I can dress. It's cleaner now than anything we've got to clean it with. The only thing is to lie still—so it won't bleed."
"Do you think I'll die?" she asked him quietly. There was no fear—only sorrow—in her tones. "Tell me frankly, Bill."
"I don't think the wound is serious in itself—if we could get you down to a doctor," he told her. "It isn't bleeding much now, because you are lying still, but it has been bleeding pretty freely. It's just a flesh wound, really. But you see——"
Her mind leaped at once to his thought. "You mean—it's the same, either way?" she questioned.
"It doesn't make much difference." The man spoke quietly, just as she might have expected him to speak in such a moment as this. "Oh, Virginia—we've fought so hard—it's bitter to lose now. You see, don't you—you couldn't walk with that wound—you don't know the way, so I could walk and pull you on the sled—and Harold is gone. He won't show us the way or help us now. We haven't any food here—the grizzly has been eaten by wolves. One of us blind and one of us wounded—you see—what chance we've got against the North. If we had the grizzly flesh, we could stay here till my sight returned—and still, perhaps, get you out in time to save you from the injury. If you knew the way to the settlements, I might haul you on the sled—you guiding me—and take a chance of running into some meat on the way down. But none of those things are true."
"Then what"—the girl spoke breathlessly—"does it mean?"
"It means death—that's all it means." There was no sentimentality, no tremor in his voice now. He was looking his fate in the face; he knew he could not spare the girl by keeping the truth from her. "Death as sure as we're here—from hunger and your wound—if Harold or the cold doesn't get us first. We've been cheated, Virginia. We've played with a crooked dealer. I don't care on my own account——"
"Then don't care on mine, either." All at once her hand went up and caressed his face. "Hold me, Bill, won't you?" she asked. "Hold me in your arms."
She asked it simply, like a little child. He shifted his position, then lifted her so that her breast was against his, his arms around her, her soft hair against his shoulder. The candle, dropped from his hand, was extinguished. The cold deepened outside the cabin. The white, icy moon rode in the sky.
The man's arms tightened around her. He lowered his lips close to hers. There in the shadow of death her breast pressed to his, the locks of iron that held his heart's secret were shattered, the veil of his temple was rent. "Virginia," he asked his voice throbbing, "do you want me to tell you something—the truest thing in all my life? I thought I could keep it from you, but I can't. I can't keep it any more——"
Her arm went up and encircled his neck, and she drew his head down to hers. "Yes, Bill," she told him, "I want you to tell me. I think I know what it is."
"I love you. That's it; it never was and it never can be anything else." The words, long pent-up, poured from his lips in a flood. "Virginia, I love you, love you, love you—my little girl, my little, little girl——"
She drew his head down and down until her own lips halted the flow of his words. "And I love you, Bill," she told him. "No one but you."
All the sweetness and tenderness of her glorious and newly wakened love was in the kiss that she gave him. Yet the man could not believe. The human soul, condemned to darkness, can never believe at first when the light breaks through. His heart seemed to halt in his breast in this instant of infinite suspense.
"You do?" he whispered at last, in inexpressible wonder. "Did you say that you loved me—you so beautiful, so glorious—Don't tell me that in pity——"
"I love you, Bill," she told him earnestly, then laughed softly at his disbelief. She kissed him again and again, softly as moonlight falls upon meadows. The man's heart leaped and flooded, but no more words would come to his lips. He could only sit with his strong arms ever holding her closer to his breast, kissing the lips that responded so tenderly and lingeringly, swept with a rapture undreamed of before. Ever her soft, warm arm held his lips to hers, as if she could not let him go.
The seconds, thrilled with a wonder ineffable, passed into minutes. Virginia had no sensation of pain from her wound. The fear of death oppressed her no more. She knew that she had come to her appointed place at last, a haven and shelter no less than that to which the white ship comes in from the tempestuous sea. This was her fate,—happiness and peace at last in her woodsman's arms.
They were no different from other lovers such as cling and kiss in the glory of a summer moon, in gardens far away. Their vows were the same, the mystery and the wonder no less. The savage realm into which they were cast could not oppress them now. They forgot the drifts unending, the winter forests stretching interminably from range to range about them, the pitiless cold, ever waiting just without the cabin door. Even impending death itself, in the glory of this night, could cast no shadow upon their spirit.
In the moment of their victory the North had defeated them, but in the instant of defeat they had found infinite and eternal victory. No blow that life could deal, no weapon that this North should wield against them, could crush them now. They were borne high above the reach of these. They had discovered the great Secret, the eternal Talisman against which no curse can blast or no disaster break the spirit.
They had their secret, whispered exultations, like all lovers the length and breadth of the world. Virginia told him that in her own heart she had loved him almost from the first day but how she had not realized it, in all its completeness, until now. Bill told her of the wakening of his own love, and how he had confessed it to himself the night they had played "Souvenir" in the complaint of the wind.
He tried to explain to her his doubts and fears,—how he had looked at her as a being from another world. "I could imagine my loving you, from the first," he told her, "but never you giving your love to me."
"And who is more worthy of it—of anybody's love—than you?" she replied, utilizing a sweetheart's way, much more effective than words, to stop his lips. Then she told him of his bravery, his tenderness and steadfastness; how there was no feeling of descent in giving her love to him. She told him that in fact his education was as good as hers if not superior, that his natural breeding and gentleness were the equal of that of any man that moved in her own circle. She could find protection and shelter in his strong arms, and in these months in the North she had learned that this was the most important thing of all. He could provide for her, too, with the wealth of his mine,—a point not to be forgotten. Her standards were true and sensible, she was down to the simple, primitive basis of things, and she did not forget that provision for his wife was man's first responsibility and the first duty of love.
Only once did Bill leave her,—to cover the crack of the door and build up the fire. When he returned, her warm little flood of kisses was as if he had been absent for weary hours.
But her thoughts had been busy, even in this moment. All at once she drew his ear close to her lips.
"Bill, will you listen to me a minute?" she asked.
"Listen! I'll listen to every word——"
"Some way—I've taken fresh heart since we—since we found out we loved each other. It seems to me that this love wasn't given to us, only to have us die in a few days—from this awful wound and you from hunger. We're only three days' journey—and there must be some way out."
"God knows I wish you could find one. But I can't see—and you don't know the way—and we have no food."
"But listen—this wound isn't very bad. I know I can't walk—it will start bleeding if I do—but if I can get any attention at all soon, I know it won't be serious. Bill, have you found out—you can trust me, in a pinch?"
Remembering that instant when the match had flared and her pistol had shot so remorselessly and so true, he didn't hesitate over his answer. "Sweetheart, I'd trust you to the last second."
"Then trust me now. Listen to every word I say and do what I tell you. I think I know the way—at least a fighting chance—to life and safety."