NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE
By Mary Woodbury Caswell
The short winter day of Alaska was brightening as Gertrude pushed her chair back from the breakfast table and announced that she proposed to go at once for her constitutional. Her brother placidly assented, but Keith interposed with a worried look.
“Hadn’t you better go with her, Bob? I suppose I’ve grown to be an old granny, but since Jacques told us of that outlaw who threatened to kidnap a white girl for his wife, I don’t like to have Gertrude get out of sight.”
The girl bent over him caressingly.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “Jacques had been drinking hard when he told you of this mythical exile. Besides, I am no Helen of Troy to be abducted for my beauty. I’d really much rather have Bob stay with you.”
And she kissed him, put on warm wraps, took her snowshoes and started for the daily tramp that had kept her fit ever since she had come up on the last boat, hastily summoned by a cable from Bob when her fiancé had his shoulder crushed, and it would be impossible for the young men to return to the States with their stake. She and Bob had nursed him into convalescence, but it had been a hard winter for him, and she did not wonder that he had developed some nervousness, though she considered his fear for her wholly unnecessary, as, indeed, did Bob.
When she was a half-mile from the cabin and a slight rise of ground hid it from her, she saw a dog team approaching, and smiled, thinking that Keith would surely consider that danger was near. As it met her the driver touched his cap, and she had a swift impression of a very different type than she had recently met, and one that made Jacques’s fantastic tale seem less absurd. As she involuntarily glanced back she saw, and now with alarm, that the stranger had turned and was coming toward her. He stopped the dogs close to her and inquired courteously, and with a foreign accent:
“Can you tell me, mademoiselle, how near I am to some residence?”
“Our cabin is over the hill,” she replied quietly, though with growing terror, which was justified, as he sprang toward her, swathing her in a blanket, so that she could neither speak nor struggle, and placing her on the sled.
She could not have told whether it was hours or minutes before she was lifted, carried into a cabin, and the blanket unfolded from her, while a savage-looking husky dog growled a greeting. Her captor shook off his heavy outer coat, removed his cap, and with exaggerated deference said:
“Mademoiselle, pray remove your parka and permit that I relieve you of your snowshoes. I do myself the honour, mademoiselle, to offer you marriage.”
Resolutely conquering her fear, Gertrude looked steadily at him. The man evidently was, or had been, a gentleman; but what must his life have been to bring him to this! As composedly as she could she answered:
“I must decline your offer. Pray permit me to return home.”
“Ah, no, mademoiselle. I fear I cannot allow that. As for marriage—as you please, but in any case you must remain here.”
“Not alive,” she said.
“Ah, but, mademoiselle, how not?” he asked, in mockery of courtesy more pronounced. “It is not so easy to die”—with a sudden bitter sadness.
“There are many ways,” she replied. “Here is one.”
And, seizing a dog whip lying near, she struck the husky a sharp blow and, as he furiously leaped to his feet, flung herself upon the floor before him. He fastened his teeth in her arm as his master grasped his throat, and the struggle shook the cabin. At last the man broke the dog’s hold and dragged him to the door. Gertrude’s heavy clothing had saved her arm from anything but a superficial wound, but as he bound it up she said:
“The dog will not forget, and if he fails me I can find another way.”
His face, which had paled, flushed a dark red as he hastily spoke.
“For God’s sake do not think—but why should you not? You are free, mademoiselle. Such courage shows me I am not quite the brute I fancied I had become, and also that there is one woman in the world whose ‘no’ assuredly does not mean ‘yes.’ I will take you home at once, on the faith of a Marovitch.”
She stared at him incredulously and said slowly:
“Is it possible—are you Count Boris Marovitch?”
“Yes”—in deep wonder—“that is my name, but how could you know?”
“This letter should interest you,” she said. “It is from Varinka. I was at a convent school in Paris with her.” And she watched him excitedly as he read aloud the passage she indicated.
“Do you remember my telling you of my cousin Boris, who was sent to Siberia for killing Prince —— in a duel? It was supposed that he was shot while trying to escape, but the guard has confessed that he was bribed to assist him, and he may be living. The Czar would gladly pardon him if he would return, his homicidal tendencies being valuable in the present war crisis. And Olga has steadfastly refused to marry any one else, so——”
A sharply drawn breath interrupted the reading, and the letter fell to the floor from his shaking hands as he looked at her, his face white and drawn.
“Mademoiselle, it is too much,” he gasped. “Your courage—your generosity—I insult you unforgivably and you give me back honour, love, life—I cannot say——” And he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
She went over to him and laid her hand gently on his shoulder.
“I am glad you are happy, Count,” she said, “and I am sure we shall be very good friends. Please take me home now.”
They met Bob halfway, striding along with an anxious face, his rifle over his shoulder. “This is my brother, Mr. Stacey,” said Gertrude. “Bob, this is Count Marovitch, of whom Varinka wrote. He starts to-morrow by dog train to the States on his way to Russia.”