The Priestly Prerogative
This is the story of a man who did not appreciate his wife; also, of awoman who did him too great an honor when she gave herself to him.Incidentally, it concerns a Jesuit priest who had never been known tolie. He was an appurtenance, and a very necessary one, to the Yukoncountry; but the presence of the other two was merely accidental. Theywere specimens of the many strange waifs which ride the breast of agold rush or come tailing along behind.
Edwin Bentham and Grace Bentham were waifs; they were also tailingalong behind, for the Klondike rush of '97 had long since swept downthe great river and subsided into the famine-stricken city of Dawson.When the Yukon shut up shop and went to sleep under a three-footice-sheet, this peripatetic couple found themselves at the Five FingerRapids, with the City of Gold still a journey of many sleeps to thenorth.
Many cattle had been butchered at this place in the fall of the year,and the offal made a goodly heap. The three fellow-voyagers of EdwinBentham and wife gazed upon this deposit, did a little mentalarithmetic, caught a certain glimpse of a bonanza, and decided toremain. And all winter they sold sacks of bones and frozen hides to thefamished dog-teams. It was a modest price they asked, a dollar a pound,just as it came. Six months later, when the sun came back and the Yukonawoke, they buckled on their heavy moneybelts and journeyed back to theSouthland, where they yet live and lie mightily about the Klondike theynever saw.
But Edwin Bentham--he was an indolent fellow, and had he not beenpossessed of a wife, would have gladly joined issued in the dog-meatspeculation. As it was, she played upon his vanity, told him how greatand strong he was, how a man such as he certainly was could overcomeall obstacles and of a surety obtain the Golden Fleece. So he squaredhis jaw, sold his share in the bones and hides for a sled and one dog,and turned his snowshoes to the north. Needless to state, GraceBentham's snowshoes never allowed his tracks to grow cold. Nay, eretheir tribulations had seen three days, it was the man who followed inthe rear, and the woman who broke trail in advance. Of course, ifanybody hove in sight, the position was instantly reversed. Thus didhis manhood remain virgin to the travelers who passed like ghosts onthe silent trail. There are such men in this world.
How such a man and such a woman came to take each other for better andfor worse is unimportant to this narrative. These things are familiarto us all, and those people who do them, or even question them tooclosely, are apt to lose a beautiful faith which is known as EternalFitness.
Edwin Bentham was a boy, thrust by mischance into a man's body,--a boywho could complacently pluck a butterfly, wing from wing, or cower inabject terror before a lean, nervy fellow, not half his size. He was aselfish cry-baby, hidden behind a man's mustache and stature, andglossed over with a skin-deep veneer of culture and conventionality.Yes; he was a clubman and a society man, the sort that grace socialfunctions and utter inanities with a charm and unction which isindescribable; the sort that talk big, and cry over a toothache; thesort that put more hell into a woman's life by marrying her than canthe most graceless libertine that ever browsed in forbidden pastures.We meet these men every day, but we rarely know them for what they are.Second to marrying them, the best way to get this knowledge is to eatout of the same pot and crawl under the same blanket with themfor--well, say a week; no greater margin is necessary.
To see Grace Bentham, was to see a slender, girlish creature; to knowher, was to know a soul which dwarfed your own, yet retained all theelements of the eternal feminine. This was the woman who urged andencouraged her husband in his Northland quest, who broke trail for himwhen no one was looking, and cried in secret over her weakling woman'sbody.
So journeyed this strangely assorted couple down to old Fort Selkirk,then through fivescore miles of dismal wilderness to Stuart River. Andwhen the short day left them, and the man lay down in the snow andblubbered, it was the woman who lashed him to the sled, bit her lipswith the pain of her aching limbs, and helped the dog haul him toMalemute Kid's cabin. Malemute Kid was not at home, but Meyers, theGerman trader, cooked great moose-steaks and shook up a bed of freshpine boughs. Lake, Langham, and Parker, were excited, and not unduly sowhen the cause was taken into account.
'Oh, Sandy! Say, can you tell a porterhouse from a round? Come out andlend us a hand, anyway!' This appeal emanated from the cache, whereLangham was vainly struggling with divers quarters of frozen moose.
'Don't you budge from those dishes!' commanded Parker.
'I say, Sandy; there's a good fellow--just run down to the MissouriCamp and borrow some cinnamon,' begged Lake.
'Oh! oh! hurry up! Why don't--' But the crash of meat and boxes, in thecache, abruptly quenched this peremptory summons.
'Come now, Sandy; it won't take a minute to go down to the Missouri--'
'You leave him alone,' interrupted Parker. 'How am I to mix thebiscuits if the table isn't cleared off?'
Sandy paused in indecision, till suddenly the fact that he wasLangham's 'man' dawned upon him. Then he apologetically threw down thegreasy dishcloth, and went to his master's rescue.
These promising scions of wealthy progenitors had come to the Northlandin search of laurels, with much money to burn, and a 'man' apiece.Luckily for their souls, the other two men were up the White River insearch of a mythical quartz-ledge; so Sandy had to grin under theresponsibility of three healthy masters, each of whom was possessed ofpeculiar cookery ideas. Twice that morning had a disruption of thewhole camp been imminent, only averted by immense concessions from oneor the other of these knights of the chafing-dish. But at last theirmutual creation, a really dainty dinner, was completed.
Then they sat down to a three-cornered game of 'cut-throat,'--aproceeding which did away with all casus belli for future hostilities,and permitted the victor to depart on a most important mission.
This fortune fell to Parker, who parted his hair in the middle, put onhis mittens and bearskin cap, and stepped over to Malemute Kid's cabin.And when he returned, it was in the company of Grace Bentham andMalemute Kid,--the former very sorry her husband could not share withher their hospitality, for he had gone up to look at the HendersonCreek mines, and the latter still a trifle stiff from breaking traildown the Stuart River.
Meyers had been asked, but had declined, being deeply engrossed in anexperiment of raising bread from hops.
Well, they could do without the husband; but a woman--why they had notseen one all winter, and the presence of this one promised a new era intheir lives.
They were college men and gentlemen, these three young fellows,yearning for the flesh-pots they had been so long denied. ProbablyGrace Bentham suffered from a similar hunger; at least, it meant muchto her, the first bright hour in many weeks of darkness.
But that wonderful first course, which claimed the versatile Lake forits parent, had no sooner been served than there came a loud knock atthe door.
'Oh! Ah! Won't you come in, Mr. Bentham?' said Parker, who had steppedto see who the newcomer might be.
'Is my wife here?' gruffly responded that worthy.
'Why, yes. We left word with Mr. Meyers.' Parker was exerting his mostdulcet tones, inwardly wondering what the deuce it all meant. 'Won'tyou come in? Expecting you at any moment, we reserved a place. And justin time for the first course, too.' 'Come in, Edwin, dear,' chirpedGrace Bentham from her seat at the table.
Parker naturally stood aside.
'I want my wife,' reiterated Bentham hoarsely, the intonation savoringdisagreeably of ownership.
Parker gasped, was within an ace of driving his fist into the face ofhis boorish visitor, but held himself awkwardly in check. Everybodyrose. Lake lost his head and caught himself on the verge of saying,'Must you go?' Then began the farrago of leave-taking. 'So nice ofyou--' 'I am awfully sorry' 'By Jove! how things did brighten--''Really now, you--'
'Thank you ever so much--' 'Nice trip to Dawson--' etc., etc.
In this wise the lamb was helped into her jacket and led to theslaughter. Then the door slammed, and they gazed woefully upon
thedeserted table.
'Damn!' Langham had suffered disadvantages in his early training, andhis oaths were weak and monotonous. 'Damn!' he repeated, vaguelyconscious of the incompleteness and vainly struggling for a more virileterm. It is a clever woman who can fill out the many weak places in aninefficient man, by her own indomitability, re-enforce his vacillatingnature, infuse her ambitious soul into his, and spur him on to greatachievements. And it is indeed a very clever and tactful woman who cando all this, and do it so subtly that the man receives all the creditand believes in his inmost heart that everything is due to him and himalone.
This is what Grace Bentham proceeded to do. Arriving in Dawson with afew pounds of flour and several letters of introduction, she at onceapplied herself to the task of pushing her big baby to the fore. It wasshe who melted the stony heart and wrung credit from the rude barbarianwho presided over the destiny of the P. C. Company; yet it was EdwinBentham to whom the concession was ostensibly granted. It was she whodragged her baby up and down creeks, over benches and divides, and on adozen wild stampedes; yet everybody remarked what an energetic fellowthat Bentham was. It was she who studied maps, and catechised miners,and hammered geography and locations into his hollow head, tilleverybody marveled at his broad grasp of the country and knowledge ofits conditions. Of course, they said the wife was a brick, and only afew wise ones appreciated and pitied the brave little woman.
She did the work; he got the credit and reward. In the NorthwestTerritory a married woman cannot stake or record a creek, bench, orquartz claim; so Edwin Bentham went down to the Gold Commissioner andfiled on Bench Claim 23, second tier, of French Hill. And when Aprilcame they were washing out a thousand dollars a day, with many, manysuch days in prospect.
At the base of French Hill lay Eldorado Creek, and on a creek claimstood the cabin of Clyde Wharton. At present he was not washing out adiurnal thousand dollars; but his dumps grew, shift by shift, and therewould come a time when those dumps would pass through his sluice-boxes,depositing in the riffles, in the course of half a dozen days, severalhundred thousand dollars. He often sat in that cabin, smoked his pipe,and dreamed beautiful little dreams,--dreams in which neither the dumpsnor the half-ton of dust in the P. C. Company's big safe, played a part.
And Grace Bentham, as she washed tin dishes in her hillside cabin,often glanced down into Eldorado Creek, and dreamed,--not of dumps nordust, however. They met frequently, as the trail to the one claimcrossed the other, and there is much to talk about in the Northlandspring; but never once, by the light of an eye nor the slip of atongue, did they speak their hearts.
This is as it was at first. But one day Edwin Bentham was brutal. Allboys are thus; besides, being a French Hill king now, he began to thinka great deal of himself and to forget all he owed to his wife. On thisday, Wharton heard of it, and waylaid Grace Bentham, and talked wildly.This made her very happy, though she would not listen, and made himpromise to not say such things again. Her hour had not come.
But the sun swept back on its northern journey, the black of midnightchanged to the steely color of dawn, the snow slipped away, the waterdashed again over the glacial drift, and the wash-up began. Day andnight the yellow clay and scraped bedrock hurried through the swiftsluices, yielding up its ransom to the strong men from the Southland.
And in that time of tumult came Grace Bentham's hour.
To all of us such hours at some time come,--that is, to us who are nottoo phlegmatic.
Some people are good, not from inherent love of virtue, but from sheerlaziness. But those of us who know weak moments may understand.
Edwin Bentham was weighing dust over the bar of the saloon at theForks--altogether too much of his dust went over that pine board--whenhis wife came down the hill and slipped into Clyde Wharton's cabin.Wharton was not expecting her, but that did not alter the case. Andmuch subsequent misery and idle waiting might have been avoided, hadnot Father Roubeau seen this and turned aside from the main creektrail. 'My child,--' 'Hold on, Father Roubeau! Though I'm not of yourfaith, I respect you; but you can't come in between this woman and me!''You know what you are doing?' 'Know! Were you God Almighty, ready tofling me into eternal fire, I'd bank my will against yours in thismatter.' Wharton had placed Grace on a stool and stood belligerentlybefore her.
'You sit down on that chair and keep quiet,' he continued, addressingthe Jesuit. 'I'll take my innings now. You can have yours after.'
Father Roubeau bowed courteously and obeyed. He was an easy-going manand had learned to bide his time. Wharton pulled a stool alongside thewoman's, smothering her hand in his.
'Then you do care for me, and will take me away?' Her face seemed toreflect the peace of this man, against whom she might draw close forshelter.
'Dear, don't you remember what I said before? Of course I-' 'But howcan you?--the wash-up?' 'Do you think that worries? Anyway, I'll givethe job to Father Roubeau, here.
'I can trust him to safely bank the dust with the company.' 'To thinkof it!--I'll never see him again.' 'A blessing!' 'And to go--O, Clyde,I can't! I can't!' 'There, there; of course you can, just let me planit.--You see, as soon as we get a few traps together, we'll start,and-' 'Suppose he comes back?' 'I'll break every-' 'No, no! Nofighting, Clyde! Promise me that.' 'All right! I'll just tell the mento throw him off the claim. They've seen how he's treated you, andhaven't much love for him.'
'You mustn't do that. You mustn't hurt him.' 'What then? Let him comeright in here and take you away before my eyes?' 'No-o,' she halfwhispered, stroking his hand softly.
'Then let me run it, and don't worry. I'll see he doesn't get hurt.Precious lot he cared whether you got hurt or not! We won't go back toDawson. I'll send word down for a couple of the boys to outfit and polea boat up the Yukon. We'll cross the divide and raft down the IndianRiver to meet them. Then--' 'And then?' Her head was on his shoulder.
Their voices sank to softer cadences, each word a caress. The Jesuitfidgeted nervously.
'And then?' she repeated.
'Why we'll pole up, and up, and up, and portage the White Horse Rapidsand the Box Canon.' 'Yes?' 'And the Sixty-Mile River; then the lakes,Chilcoot, Dyea, and Salt Water.' 'But, dear, I can't pole a boat.' 'Youlittle goose! I'll get Sitka Charley; he knows all the good water andbest camps, and he is the best traveler I ever met, if he is an Indian.All you'll have to do, is to sit in the middle of the boat, and singsongs, and play Cleopatra, and fight--no, we're in luck; too early formosquitoes.'
'And then, O my Antony?' 'And then a steamer, San Francisco, and theworld! Never to come back to this cursed hole again. Think of it! Theworld, and ours to choose from! I'll sell out. Why, we're rich! TheWaldworth Syndicate will give me half a million for what's left in theground, and I've got twice as much in the dumps and with the P. C.Company. We'll go to the Fair in Paris in 1900. We'll go to Jerusalem,if you say so.
'We'll buy an Italian palace, and you can play Cleopatra to yourheart's content. No, you shall be Lucretia, Acte, or anybody yourlittle heart sees fit to become. But you mustn't, you really mustn't-''The wife of Caesar shall be above reproach.' 'Of course, but--' 'But Iwon't be your wife, will I, dear?' 'I didn't mean that.' 'But you'lllove me just as much, and never even think--oh! I know you'll be likeother men; you'll grow tired, and--and-'
'How can you? I--' 'Promise me.' 'Yes, yes; I do promise.' 'You say itso easily, dear; but how do you know?--or I know? I have so little togive, yet it is so much, and all I have. O, Clyde! promise me youwon't?'
'There, there! You mustn't begin to doubt already. Till death do uspart, you know.'
'Think! I once said that to--to him, and now?' 'And now, littlesweetheart, you're not to bother about such things any more.
Of course, I never, never will, and--' And for the first time, lipstrembled against lips.
Father Roubeau had been watching the main trail through the window, butcould stand the strain no longer.
He cleared his throat and turned around.
'Your turn now, Father!' Wharton's fa
ce was flushed with the fire ofhis first embrace.
There was an exultant ring to his voice as he abdicated in the other'sfavor. He had no doubt as to the result. Neither had Grace, for a smileplayed about her mouth as she faced the priest.
'My child,' he began, 'my heart bleeds for you. It is a pretty dream,but it cannot be.'
'And why, Father? I have said yes.' 'You knew not what you did. You didnot think of the oath you took, before your God, to that man who isyour husband. It remains for me to make you realize the sanctity ofsuch a pledge.' 'And if I do realize, and yet refuse?'
'Then God'
'Which God? My husband has a God which I care not to worship. Theremust be many such.' 'Child! unsay those words! Ah! you do not meanthem. I understand. I, too, have had such moments.' For an instant hewas back in his native France, and a wistful, sad-eyed face came as amist between him and the woman before him.
'Then, Father, has my God forsaken me? I am not wicked above women. Mymisery with him has been great. Why should it be greater? Why shall Inot grasp at happiness? I cannot, will not, go back to him!' 'Rather isyour God forsaken. Return. Throw your burden upon Him, and the darknessshall be lifted. O my child,--' 'No; it is useless; I have made my bedand so shall I lie. I will go on. And if God punishes me, I shall bearit somehow. You do not understand. You are not a woman.' 'My mother wasa woman.'
'But--' 'And Christ was born of a woman.' She did not answer. A silencefell. Wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept an eye on thetrail. Grace leaned her elbow on the table, her face set with resolve.The smile had died away. Father Roubeau shifted his ground.
'You have children?'
'At one time I wished--but now--no. And I am thankful.' 'And a mother?''Yes.' 'She loves you?' 'Yes.' Her replies were whispers.
'And a brother?--no matter, he is a man. But a sister?' Her headdrooped a quavering 'Yes.' 'Younger? Very much?' 'Seven years.' 'Andyou have thought well about this matter? About them? About your mother?And your sister? She stands on the threshold of her woman's life, andthis wildness of yours may mean much to her. Could you go before her,look upon her fresh young face, hold her hand in yours, or touch yourcheek to hers?'
To his words, her brain formed vivid images, till she cried out,'Don't! don't!' and shrank away as do the wolf-dogs from the lash.
'But you must face all this; and better it is to do it now.' In hiseyes, which she could not see, there was a great compassion, but hisface, tense and quivering, showed no relenting.
She raised her head from the table, forced back the tears, struggledfor control.
'I shall go away. They will never see me, and come to forget me. Ishall be to them as dead. And--and I will go with Clyde--today.' Itseemed final. Wharton stepped forward, but the priest waved him back.
'You have wished for children?' A silent 'Yes.' 'And prayed for them?''Often.' 'And have you thought, if you should have children?' FatherRoubeau's eyes rested for a moment on the man by the window.
A quick light shot across her face. Then the full import dawned uponher. She raised her hand appealingly, but he went on.
'Can you picture an innocent babe in your arms? A boy? The world is notso hard upon a girl. Why, your very breast would turn to gall! And youcould be proud and happy of your boy, as you looked on otherchildren?--' 'O, have pity! Hush!' 'A scapegoat--'
'Don't! don't! I will go back!' She was at his feet.
'A child to grow up with no thought of evil, and one day the world tofling a tender name in his face. A child to look back and curse youfrom whose loins he sprang!'
'O my God! my God!' She groveled on the floor. The priest sighed andraised her to her feet.
Wharton pressed forward, but she motioned him away.
'Don't come near me, Clyde! I am going back!' The tears were coursingpitifully down her face, but she made no effort to wipe them away.
'After all this? You cannot! I will not let you!' 'Don't touch me!' Sheshivered and drew back.
'I will! You are mine! Do you hear? You are mine!' Then he whirled uponthe priest. 'O what a fool I was to ever let you wag your silly tongue!Thank your God you are not a common man, for I'd--but the priestlyprerogative must be exercised, eh? Well, you have exercised it. Now getout of my house, or I'll forget who and what you are!' Father Roubeaubowed, took her hand, and started for the door. But Wharton cut themoff.
'Grace! You said you loved me?' 'I did.' 'And you do now?' 'I do.' 'Sayit again.'
'I do love you, Clyde; I do.' 'There, you priest!' he cried. 'You haveheard it, and with those words on her lips you would send her back tolive a lie and a hell with that man?'
But Father Roubeau whisked the woman into the inner room and closed thedoor. 'No words!' he whispered to Wharton, as he struck a casualposture on a stool. 'Remember, for her sake,' he added.
The room echoed to a rough knock at the door; the latch raised andEdwin Bentham stepped in.
'Seen anything of my wife?' he asked as soon as salutations had beenexchanged.
Two heads nodded negatively.
'I saw her tracks down from the cabin,' he continued tentatively, 'andthey broke off, just opposite here, on the main trail.' His listenerslooked bored.
'And I--I thought--'
'She was here!' thundered Wharton.
The priest silenced him with a look. 'Did you see her tracks leading upto this cabin, my son?' Wily Father Roubeau--he had taken good care toobliterate them as he came up the same path an hour before.
'I didn't stop to look, I--' His eyes rested suspiciously on the doorto the other room, then interrogated the priest. The latter shook hishead; but the doubt seemed to linger.
Father Roubeau breathed a swift, silent prayer, and rose to his feet.'If you doubt me, why--' He made as though to open the door.
A priest could not lie. Edwin Bentham had heard this often, andbelieved it.
'Of course not, Father,' he interposed hurriedly. 'I was only wonderingwhere my wife had gone, and thought maybe--I guess she's up at Mrs.Stanton's on French Gulch. Nice weather, isn't it? Heard the news?Flour's gone down to forty dollars a hundred, and they say theche-cha-quas are flocking down the river in droves.
'But I must be going; so good-by.' The door slammed, and from thewindow they watched him take his guest up French Gulch. A few weekslater, just after the June high-water, two men shot a canoe intomid-stream and made fast to a derelict pine. This tightened the painterand jerked the frail craft along as would a tow-boat. Father Roubeauhad been directed to leave the Upper Country and return to his swarthychildren at Minook. The white men had come among them, and they weredevoting too little time to fishing, and too much to a certain deitywhose transient habitat was in countless black bottles.
Malemute Kid also had business in the Lower Country, so they journeyedtogether.
But one, in all the Northland, knew the man Paul Roubeau, and that manwas Malemute Kid. Before him alone did the priest cast off thesacerdotal garb and stand naked. And why not? These two men knew eachother. Had they not shared the last morsel of fish, the last pinch oftobacco, the last and inmost thought, on the barren stretches of BeringSea, in the heartbreaking mazes of the Great Delta, on the terriblewinter journey from Point Barrow to the Porcupine? Father Roubeaupuffed heavily at his trail-worn pipe, and gazed on the reddisked sun,poised somberly on the edge of the northern horizon.
Malemute Kid wound up his watch. It was midnight.
'Cheer up, old man!' The Kid was evidently gathering up a broken thread.
'God surely will forgive such a lie. Let me give you the word of a manwho strikes a true note: If She have spoken a word, remember thy lipsare sealed, And the brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secretrevealed.
If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.'
Father Roubeau removed his pipe and reflected. 'The man speaks true,but my soul is not vexed with that. The lie and the penance stand withGod; but--but--'
'What th
en? Your hands are clean.' 'Not so. Kid, I have thought much,and yet the thing remains. I knew, and made her go back.' The clearnote of a robin rang out from the wooden bank, a partridge drummed thecall in the distance, a moose lunged noisily in the eddy; but the twainsmoked on in silence.