With a glad exclamation, which coming through her habitual sedateness
showed how much she loved the young girl, Sister Ruth started to her
feet. There was something of such truth in the note she had sounded,
that the lonely girl's heart went out to her in abandoned fulness. She
held out her arms; and, as she came close to the other, fell rather than
sank at her feet. The elder woman recognised, and knew. She made no
effort to restrain her; but sinking back into her own seat laid the
girl's head in her lap, and held her hands close against her breast. 'Tell me,' she whispered. 'Won't you tell me, dear child, what troubles
you? Tell me! dear. It may bring peace!' 'Oh, I am miserable, miserable, miserable!' moaned Stephen in a low voice
whose despair made the other's heart grow cold. The Silver Lady knew
that here golden silence was the best of help; holding close the other's
hands, she waited. Stephen's breast began to heave; with an impulsive
motion she drew away her hands and put them before her burning face,
which she pressed lower still on the other's lap. Sister Ruth knew that
the trouble, whatever it was, was about to find a voice. And then came
in a low shuddering whisper a voice muffled in the folds of the dress:

'I killed a man!' In all her life the Silver Lady had never been so startled or so shocked. She had grown so to love the bright, brilliant young girl that the
whispered confession cut through the silence of the dusk as a shriek of
murder goes through the silent gloom of night. Her hands flew wide from
her breast, and the convulsive shudder which shook her all in an instant
woke Stephen through all her own deep emotion to the instinct of
protection of the other. The girl looked up, shaking her head, and said
with a sadness which stilled all the other's fear:

'Ah! Don't be frightened! It is not murder that I tell you of. Perhaps
if it were, the thought would be easier to bear! He would have been hurt
less if it had been only his body that I slew. Well I know now that his
life would have been freely given if I wished it; if it had been for my
good. But it was the best of him that I killed; his soul. His noble,
loving, trusting, unselfish soul. The bravest and truest soul that ever
had place in a man's breast! . . . ' Her speaking ended with a sob; her
body sank lower. Sister Ruth's heart began to beat more freely. She understood now, and
all the womanhood, all the wifehood, motherhood suppressed for a
lifetime, awoke to the woman's need. Gently she stroked the beautiful
head that lay so meekly on her lap; and as the girl sobbed with but
little appearance of abatement, she said to her softly:

'Tell me, dear child. Tell me all about it! See! we are alone together. Thou and I; and God! In God's dusk; with only the silent land and sea
before us! Won't thou trust me, dear one, and speak!' And then, as the shadows fell, and far-off lights at sea began to twinkle
over the waste of waters, Stephen found voice and told without reserve
the secret of her shame and her remorse. At last, when her broken voice had trailed away into gentle catchings of
the breath, the older woman, knowing that the time come for comfort, took
her in her strong arms, holding her face wet against her own, their tears
mingling. 'Cry on, dear heart!' she said as she kissed her. 'Cry on! It will do
thee good!' She was startled once again as the other seemed for an
instant to grow rigid in her arms, and raising her hands cried out in a
burst of almost hysterical passion:

'Cry! cry! Oh my God! my God!' Then becoming conscious of her wet face
she seemed to become in an instant all limp, and sank on her knees again. There was so different a note in her voice that the other's heart leaped
as she heard her say:

'God be thanked for these tears! Oh, thank God! Thank God!' Looking up
she saw through the gloom the surprise in her companion's eyes and
answered their query in words:

'Oh! you don't know! You can't know what it is to me! I have not cried
since last I saw him pass from me in the wood!' * * * * *

That time of confession seemed to have in some way cleared, purified and
satisfied Stephen's soul. Life was now easier to bear. She was able to
adapt herself, justifiably to the needs of her position; and all around
her and dependent on her began to realise that amongst them was a
controlling force, far-reaching sympathy, and a dominant resolution that
made for good. She began to shake off the gloom of her sorrows and to take her place in
her new high station. Friends there were in many, and quondam lovers by
the score. Lovers of all sorts. Fortune-hunters there were be sure, not
a few. But no need was there for baseness when the lady herself was so
desirable; so young, so fair, so lovable. That she was of great estate
and 'richly left' made all things possible to any man who had sufficient
acquisitiveness, or a good conceit of himself. In a wide circle of
country were many true-lovers who would have done aught to win her
praise. And so in the East the passing of the two years of silence and gloom
seemed to be the winning of something brighter to follow. CHAPTER XXX--THE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS


In the West the two years flew. Time seemed to go faster there, because
life was more strenuous. Harold, being mainly alone, found endless work
always before him. From daylight to dark labour never ceased; and for
his own part he never wished that it should. In the wilderness, and
especially under such conditions as held in Northern Alaska, labour is
not merely mechanical. Every hour of the day is fraught with danger in
some new form, and the head has to play its part in the strife against
nature. In such a life there is not much time for thinking or brooding. At first, when the work and his surroundings were strange to him, Harold
did many useless things and ran many unnecessary risks. But his
knowledge grew with experience. Privations he had in plenty; and all the
fibre of his body and the strength of his resolution and endurance were
now and again taxed to their utmost. But with a man of his nature and
race the breaking strain is high; and endurance and resolution are
qualities which develop with practice. Gradually his mind came back to normal level; he had won seemingly
through the pain that shadowed him. Without anguish he could now think,
remember, look forward. Then it was that the kindly wisdom of the
American came back to him, and came to stay. He began to examine himself
as to his own part of the unhappy transaction; and stray moments of
wonderment came as to whether the fault may not, at the very base, have
his own. He began to realise that it is insufficient in this strenuous
world to watch and wait; to suppress one's self; to put aside, in the
wish to benefit others, all the hopes, ambitions, cravings which make for
personal gain. Thus it was that Harold's thoughts, ever circling round Stephen, came
back with increasing insistence to his duty towards her.