"I know the way all right," Harold answered. "What about food?"
"It's only a half-mile out of the way to Bill's mine. There we're going to load the sled with grizzly meat."
It was in Harold's mind that their journey would be far different—down to the Twenty-three Mile cabin and to the Yuga rather than over Grizzly River. But for certain very good reasons he kept this knowledge to himself. His lips opened to tell them that the wolves and coyotes had already devoured the carcass of the bear; but he caught himself in time. It would be somewhat hard to explain how he had learned that fact, in the first place; and in the second, there was a real danger to his plot if this revelation were made. Likely they would suggest that, to conserve what little food they had, they start at once. The time had not yet come to unfold this knowledge.
He nodded. The day passed like those preceding,—simple meals, a few hours of talk around the fire, such fuel cutting as was necessary to keep the cabin snug and to provide a supply for the night. This was their last day in Clearwater,—and Virginia could hardly accept the truth.
How untrue had been her gayety! In all the white lies of her past, all the little pretenses that are as much a part of life in civilization as buildings and streets, she had never been as false to herself as now. She had never had to act a part more cruel,—that she could feel joy at the prospect of her departure.
She could deceive herself no longer. The events of the previous day had opened her eyes—in a small measure at least—and her thoughts groped in vain for a single anticipation, a single prospect that could lighten the overpowering weight of her sadness. And the one hope that came to her was that strange sister of despair,—that back in her old life, in her own city, full forgetfulness might come to her.
Wasn't it true that she would say good-by to the bitter cold and the snow wastes? Was there no joy in this? Yet these same solitudes had brought her happiness that, though now to be blasted, had been a revelation and a wonder that no words could name or no triumphs of the future could equal. The end of her adventure,—and she felt it might as well be the end of her life. Three little days of bitter hardship, Bill tramping at her side,—and then a long, dark road leading nowhere except to barren old age and death.
Never again would she know the winter forest, the silence and the mystery, and the wolf pack chanting with infinite sadness from the hill. The North Wind, a reality now, would be a forgotten myth: she would forget that she had seen the woodland caribou, quivering with irrepressible vigor against the snowfields. The thrill, the exhilaration of battle, the heat of red blood in her veins would be strangers soon: the whole adventure would seem like some happy, impossible dream. Never to hear a friendly voice wishing her good morning, never a returning step on the threshold, the touch of a strong hand in a moment of fear! She was aghast and crushed at the realization that this man was going out of her life forever. She would leave him to his forests,—their shadows hiding him forever from her gaze.
She found it hard to believe that she could fit into her old niche. Some way, this northern adventure had changed the very fiber of her soul. She could find no joy at the thought of the old gayeties she had once loved, the beauty and the warmth. Was it not true that Harold would go out beside her, the lover of her girlhood? His uncle would start him in business; her course with him would be smooth. But her hands were cold and her heart sick at the thought.
As the hours passed, the realization of her impending departure seemed to grow, like a horror, in her thoughts. She still made her pathetic effort to be gay. It would not do for these men to know the truth, so she laughed often and her words were joyous. She fought back the tears that burned in her eyelids. She could only play the game; there was no way out.