Authors: Robert W Service
"The Yukon Yorick."
"Hello," chuckled the newcomer, "how's the bunch? Don't let me stampede you.
How d'ye do,
Horace!
Glad to meet you." (He called everybody Horace.) "Just come away from a meeting
of my creditors. What's that? Have a slab of booze? Hardly that, old fellow,
hardly that. Don't tempt me, Horace, don't tempt me. Remember I'm only a poor
working-girl."
He seemed brimming over with jovial acceptance of life in all its phases. He
lit a cigar.
"Say, boys, you know old Dingbats the lawyer. Ha, yes. Well, met him on Front
Street just now. Says I: 'Horace, that was a pretty nifty spiel you gave us last
night at the Zero Club.' He looked at me all tickled up the spine. Ha, yes. He
was pleased as Punch. 'Say, Horace,' I says, 'I'm on, but I won't give you away.
I've got a book in my room with every word of that speech in it.' He looked
flabbergasted. So I haveha, yes, the dictionary."
He rolled his cigar unctuously in his mouth, with many chuckles and a
histrionic eye.
"No, don't tempt me, Horace. Remember, I'm only a poor working-girl. Thanks,
I'll just sit down on this soap-box. Knew a man once, Jobcroft was his name,
Charles Alfred Jobcroft, sat down on a custard pie at a pink tea; was so
embarrassed he wouldn't get up. Just sat on till every one else was gone. Every
one was wondering why he wouldn't budge: just sat tight."
"I guess he
cussed hard
," ventured the Prodigal.
"Oh, Horace, spare me that! Remember I'm only a poor working-girl. Hardly
that, old fellow.
Say,
hit me with a slab of booze quick. Make things sparkle, boys, make things
sparkle."
He drank urbanely of the diluted alcohol that passed for whisky.
"Hit me easy, boys, hit me easy," he said, as they refilled his glass. "I
can't hold my hootch so well as I could a few summers agoand many hard Falls.
Talking about holding your 'hooch,' the best I ever saw was a man called
Podstreak, Arthur Frederick Podstreak. You couldn't get that man going. The way
he could lap up the booze was a caution. He would drink one bunch of boys under
the table, then leave them and go on to another. He would start in early in the
morning and keep on going till the last thing at night. And he never got
hilarious even; it didn't seem to phase him; he was as sober after the twentieth
drink as when he started. Gee! but he was a wonder."
The others nodded their heads appreciatively.
"He was a fine, healthy-looking chap, too; the booze didn't seem to hurt him.
Never saw such a constitution. I often watched him, for I suspected him of
'sluffing,' but no! He always had a bigger drink than every one else, always
drank whisky, always drank it neat, and always had a chaser of water after. I
said to myself: 'What's your system?' and I got to studying him hard. Then, one
day, I found him out."
"What was it?"
"Well, one day I noticed something. I noticed he always held his glass in a
particular way when he
drank, and at the same time he pressed his stomach in the
region of the 'solar plexus.' So that night I took him aside.
"'Look here, Podstreak,' I said, 'I'm next to you.' I really wasn't, but the
bluff worked. He grew white.
"'For Heaven's sake, don't give me away,' he cried; 'the boys'll lynch
me.'
"'All right,' I said; 'if you'll promise to quit.'
"Then he made a full confession, and showed me how he did it. He had an
elastic rubber bag under his shirt, and a tube going up his arm and down his
sleeve, ending in a white nozzle inside his cuff. When he went to empty his
glass of whisky he simply pressed some air out of the rubber bag, put the nozzle
in the glass, and let it suck up all the whisky. At night he used to empty all
the liquor out of the bag and sell it to a saloon-keeper. Oh, he was a phoney
piece of work.
"'I've been a total abstainer (in private) for seven years,' he told me.
'Yes,' I said, 'and you'll become one in public for another seven.' And he
did."
Several men had dropped in to swell this Bohemian circle. Some had brought
bottles. There was a painter who had been "hung," a Mus Bac., an ex-champion
amateur pugilist, a silver-tongued orator, a man who had "suped" for Mansfield,
and half a dozen others. The little cabin was crowded, the air hazy with smoke,
the conversation animated. But mostly it was a monologue by the inimitable
Yorick.
Suddenly the
conversation turned to the immorality of the town.
"Now, I have a theory," said the Pote, "that the regeneration of Dawson is at
hand. You know Good is the daughter of Evil, Virtue the offspring of Vice. You
know how virtuous a man feels after a jag. You've got to sin to feel really
good. Consequently, Sin must be good to be the means of good, to be the raw
material of good, to be virtue in the making, mustn't it? The dance-halls are a
good foil to the gospel-halls. If we were all virtuous, there would be no virtue
in virtue, and if we were all bad no one would be bad. And because there's so
much bad in this old burg of ours, it makes the good seem unnaturally good."
The Pote had the floor.
"A friend of mine had a beautiful pond of water-lilies. They painted the
water exultantly and were a triumphant challenge to the soul. Folks came from
far and near to see them. Then, one winter, my friend thought he would clean out
his pond, so he had all the nasty, slimy mud scraped away till you could see the
silver gravel glimmering on the bottom. But the lilies, with all their haunting
loveliness, never came back."
"Well, what are you driving at, you old dreamer?"
"Oh, just this: in the nasty mud and slime of Dawson I saw a lily-girl. She
lives in a cabin by the Slide along with a Jewish couple. I only caught a
glimpse of her twice. They are unspeakable, but
she is fair and sweet and pure. I would stake my
life on her goodness. She looks like a young Madonna"
He was interrupted by a shout of cynical laughter.
"Oh, get off your foot! A Madonna in DawsonRa! Ra!"
He shut up abashed, but I had my clue. I waited until the last noisy
roisterer had gone.
"In the cabin by the Slide?" I asked.
He started, looked at me searchingly: "You know her?"
"She means a good deal to me."
"Oh, I understand. Yes, that long, queer cabin highest up the hill."
"Thanks, old chap."
"All right, good luck." He accompanied me to the door, staring at the marvel
of the glamorous Northern midnight.
"Oh, for a medium to express it all! Your pedantic poetry isn't big enough;
prose isn't big enough. What we want is something between the two, something
that will interpret life, and stir the great heart of the people.
Good-night."
Very softly I approached the cabin, for a fear of encountering her guardians
was in my heart. It was in rather a lonely place, perched at the base of that
vast mountain abrasion they call the Slide, a long, low cabin, quiet and dark,
and surrounded by rugged boulders. Carefully I reconnoitered, and soon, to my
infinite joy, I saw the Jewish couple come forth and make their way townward.
The girl was alone.
How madly beat my heart! It was a glooming kind of a night, and the cabin
looked woefully bleak and solitary. No light came through the windows, no sound
through the moss-chinked walls. I drew near.
Why this wild commotion of my being? What was it? Anxiety, joy, dread? I was
poised on the pinnacle of hope that overhangs the abyss of despair. Fearfully I
paused. I was racked with suspense, conscious of a longing so poignant that the
thought of disappointment became insufferable pain. So violent was my emotion
that a feeling almost of nausea overcame me.
I knew now that I cared for this girl more than I had ever thought to care
for woman. I knew that she was dearer to me than all the world else; I knew that
my love for her would live as long as life is long.
I knocked at the door. No answer.
"Berna," I cried in
a faltering whisper.
Came the reply: "Who is there?"
"Love, love, dear; love is waiting."
Then, at my words, the door was opened, and the girl was before me. I think
she had been lying down, for her soft hair was a little ruffled, but her eyes
were far too bright for sleep. She stood gazing at me, and a little fluttering
hand went up to her heart as if to still its beating.
"Oh, my dear, I knew you were coming."
A great radiance of joy seemed to descend on her.
"You knew?"
"I knew, yes, I knew. Something told me you were come at last. And I've
waitedhow I've waited! I've dreamed, but it's not a dream now, is it, dear;
it's you?"
"Yes, it's me. I've tried so hard to find you. Oh, my dear, my dear!"
I seized the sweet, soft hand and covered it with kisses. At that moment I
could have kissed the shadow of that little hand; I could have fallen before her
in speechless adoration; I could have made my heart a footstool for her feet; I
could have given her, O, so gladly, my paltry life to save her from a moment's
sorrowI loved her so, I loved her so!
"High and low I've sought you, beloved. Morning, noon and night you've been
in my brain, my heart, my soul. I've loved you every moment of my life. It's
been desire feeding despair, and, O, the agony of it! Thank God, I've found you,
dear! thank God! thank God!"
O Love, look down on
us and choir your harmonies! Transported was I, speaking with whirling words of
sweetest madness, tremulous, uplifted with rapture, scarce conscious of my wild,
impassioned metaphors. It was she, most precious of all creation; she, my
beloved. And there, in the doorway, she poised, white as a lily, lustrous-eyed,
and with hair soft as sunlit foam. O Divinity of Love, look down on us thy
children; fold us in thy dove-soft wings; illumine us in thy white radiance;
touch us with thy celestial hands. Bless us, Love!
How vastly alight were the grey eyes! How ineffably tender the sweet lips! A
faint glow had come into her cheeks.
"O, it's you, really, really you at last," she cried again, and there was a
tremor, the surface ripple of a sob in that clear voice. She fetched a deep
sigh: "And I thought I'd lost you forever. Wait a moment. I'll come out."
Endlessly long the moment seemed, yet wondrously irradiate. The shadow had
lifted from the world; the skies were alight with gladness; my heart was
heaven-aspiring in its ecstasy. Then, at last, she came.
She had thrown a shawl around her shoulders, and coaxed her hair into
charming waves and ripples.
"Come, let us go up the trail a little distance. They won't be back for
nearly an hour."
She led the way along that narrow path, looking over her shoulder with a
glorious smile, sometimes extending
her hand back to me as one would with a child.
Along the brow of the bluff the way wound dizzily, while far below the river
swept in a giant eddy. For a long time we spoke no word. 'Twas as if our hearts
were too full for utterance, our happiness too vast for expression. Yet, O, the
sweetness of that silence! The darkling gloom had silvered into lustrous light,
the birds were beginning again their mad midnight melodies. Then, suddenly
turning a bend in the narrow trail, a blaze of glory leapt upon our sight.
"Look, Berna," I cried.
The swelling river was a lake of saffron fire; the hills a throne of rosy
garnet; the sky a dazzling panoply of rubies, girdled with flames of gold. We
almost cringed, so gorgeous was its glow, so fierce its splendour.
Then, when we had seated ourselves on the hillside, facing the conflagration,
she turned to me.
"And so you found me, dear. I knew you would, somehow. In my heart I knew you
would not fail me. So I waited and waited. The time seemed pitilessly long. I
only thought of you once, and that was always. It was cruel we left so suddenly,
not even time to say good-bye. I can't tell you how bad I felt about it, but I
could not help myself. They dragged me away. They began to be afraid of you, and
he bade them leave at once. So in the early morning we started."
"I see, I see." I looked into the pools of her
eyes; I sheathed her white hands in my brown ones,
thrilling greatly at the contact of them.
"Tell me about it, child. Has he bothered you?"
"Oh, not so much. He thinks he has me safe enough, trapped, awaiting his
pleasure. But he's taken up with some woman of the town just now. By-and-bye
he'll turn his attention to me."
"Terrible! Terrible! Berna, you wring my heart. How can you talk of such
things in that matter-of-fact wayit maddens me."
An odd, hard look ridged the corners of her mouth.
"I don't know. Sometimes I'm surprised at myself how philosophical I'm
getting."
"But, Berna, surely nothing in this world would ever make you yield? O, it's
horrible! horrible!"
She leaned to me tenderly. She put my arms around her neck; she looked at me
till I saw my face mirrored in her eyes.
"Nothing in the world, dear, so long as I have you to love me and help me. If
ever you fail me, well, then it wouldn't matter much what became of me."
"Even then," I said, "it would be too awful for words. I would rather drag
your body from that river than see you yield to him. He's a monster. His very
touch is profanation. He could not look on a woman without cynical lust in his
heart."
"I know, my boy, I know. Believe me and trust me. I would rather throw myself
from the bluff here than let him put a hand on me. And so long as
I have your love, dear, I'm safe
enough. Don't fear. O, it's been terrible not seeing you! I've craved for you
ceaselessly. I've never been out since we came here. They wouldn't let me. They
kept in themselves. He bade them. He has them both under his thumb. But now, for
some reason, he has relaxed. They're going to open a restaurant downtown, and
I'm to wait on table."
"No, you're not!" I cried, "not if I have anything to say in the matter.
Berna, I can't bear to think of you in that garbage-heap of corruption down
there. You must marry menow."