CHAPTER XIX.

_KASBA’S SACRIFICE._

Meanwhile Roy Thursby dragged out a miserable existence in the little hut on the bank of the river. Day by day his frame of mind grew more and more despondent and morbid. Everything worth while seemed at an end. Except that at certain times there was the sound of his companions’ movements, and at others only a dreadful stillness for long days together, all “Time” was alike to him; to-day the same as yesterday and to-morrow but a repetition of to-day. He was merely a machine, going through the daily routine of getting up and lying down, eating and drinking, with automatic precision, and the outgoings and incomings of the male members of his party marked the period for each of these acts. It was one long, dreary monotony. He had long since lost count of the days. He was conscious that the occupations of his companions varied as the season wore on and that, in consequence, his diet changed from venison to fish, varied with the flesh of migratory birds, but this interested him not at all. He had long lost all pleasure in food—just eating and drinking to keep the machine going, that was all. A pathetic indifference to everything possessed him. He sat for hours without uttering a word, and when he spoke it was always in monosyllables, and an awed, unnatural silence lay over the house from morn till night, for, as if by tacit consent, the three Indians carried their conversation to the outside of the house.

Thus weeks passed. Sahanderry and David hunted or fished and did the heavier chores. Kasba dressed and smoked deerskins to make into moccasins, made and mended the clothes of herself and companions, cooked the meals and attended to a hundred and one other things.

One day the girl brought Roy his dinner as usual. It was a piece of salmon, the first they had caught. Setting the plate before him, she retired to a seat and took up a garment which required mending. Slowly, and with the indifference of a man without an appetite Roy lifted the food to his mouth, turned it on his tongue, sat a moment as if struck by a sudden thought, and then got unsteadily to his feet, dropping the fork as he arose. He stood a moment like one suddenly awakened from a deep sleep, then: “This is salmon,” he said with a slight inflection as of interest in his voice.

At the sound of his words Kasba started forward, letting the garment fall to the ground. Her lips were parted, her eyes sparkled. This sudden interest might portend a break-up in Roy’s apathy, and to the girl it was as the clear sunshine after days of dismal gloom.

“Yes, Bekothrie,” she answered as soon as emotion would permit her to speak. “We caught the first yesterday.”

“Then this is the middle of July,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said the girl, divining the trend of his thoughts.

Roy breathed hard and his lips moved; but he dropped slowly back to his seat without further speech.

The girl stood with parted lips watching him expectantly, then, finding he had nothing more to say, and that he seemed fully occupied with his thoughts, she breathed a little disappointed sigh, took up the dropped garment and went patiently on with her sewing. The stitch, stitch of her needle and the song of the busy mosquitoes were the only sounds.

From that time Roy was as one laboring under some suppressed excitement, uneasy, as if waiting for something to happen and dreading while desiring it. He became restless and impatient to a large degree and as Kasba went quietly about her household affairs, she frequently paused to blink away salt tears, called to her eyes by the sight of his misery. The once hulking big fellow was but the shadow of his former self. Great rings showed round his eyes, his face was becoming more and more haggard and drawn, his cheekbones protruded sharply. Perceiving that he was rapidly becoming ill and divining the cause, she timidly essayed a proposal. She would go back to Fort Future and by secretly watching discover when _Bekothrie nithee_ (the far-away master, in this case Mr. McLeod), came. But Roy would not hear of this, though as the time for Mr. McLeod’s arrival at Fort Future drew near he could scarcely contain himself.

He fancied the scene; the dismantled Fort, the grey-haired Chief Factor sorrowfully supporting Lena, sobbing out her heart over what she believed to be his grave. He could hear her heart-breaking cries as she bewailed his loss; hear the cold, tense voice of the Chief Factor swearing to be avenged on the perpetrator of the outrage and murder. Then Lena would be led on board and the boat would sail away. That would be the end. His mind would dwell upon this till his brain reeled, and he would put his hot hand up to his burning forehead as if to press back his thoughts.

Then one day by a process akin to telepathy he became aware that Lena was near. It was the very day Mr. McLeod’s boat was wrecked and its occupants rescued by the Eskimos, and it happened that they were landed near where Roy had, as he thought, so securely hidden himself from all communication with his own kind. At first the poor fellow believed that his mind must be wandering. But the conviction that Lena was there, close at hand, grew stronger every minute, and at last he could contain himself no longer. He felt he must send to the coast to ascertain if anyone had lately landed, or he would go mad. Unwilling to trust the garrulous Sahanderry, he must perforce send Kasba. The girl was outside attending to the fire, he could hear her talking to David. He called to her, and almost instantly she was at his side, and in a few words he explained what he wanted her to do. She smiled confidently. “Yes, Bekothrie,” she said quietly, and without another word she made her preparation and at once started off for the coast, which was about a mile distant.

Arriving at her destination, she discovered the shipwrecked voyagers. From Roy’s description she at once recognized them. The Factor was standing apart with Lena and her cousin. Overcome with feelings of bitter jealousy, she ventured dangerously near in order that she might better discern the features of her fortunate rival.

The grim expression of the Factor’s countenance bore token of a severe determination of mind. Bitter sorrow for the tragic end of his promising, inordinately ambitious young friend mingled with the wrath he felt toward the perpetrator of the tragedy. He gazed with loving solicitude upon Lena, who sat in an attitude of great sorrow. The news had been a great shock to her. The bright, sunny expression had entirely disappeared and a pained, startled expression had come into her face. Her lips trembled as her father’s hand fell lightly upon her head.

“Be brave, my little girl, for my sake,” he pleaded brokenly. Then he walked to where Acpa was sitting, surrounded by a number of Eskimos.

Left alone with his cousin, Frank was in a dilemma; he knew not what to say. Lena’s uncontrollable grief was extremely painful to witness, for he loved her.

At length he leaned over and gazed into the tear-stained features, “Lena, my darling,” he said, “do not grieve so.”

There was a strange pleading in his manly voice. “It breaks my heart to see your distress. After all, it may be, it must be, some mistake. We shall yet find Roy Thursby and find him alive and well.”

“It is kind of you to say so, Frank,” said the girl in a mournfully sweet voice, “but there is no hope, can be no hope, for poor Roy.”

“But, my dear Lena,” began Frank, then glancing behind him, “I heard something moving,” he added, partly to himself.

It was Kasba. Attracted by the sight of Lena’s grief she had drawn quite close. Crouched down among the rocks she had heard, and the poor girl’s despair made Kasba’s warm, affectionate heart ache. The sorrow she herself had suffered, was still suffering, made her tenderly solicitous for another’s misery. She stood with hands tightly clenched, battling with her own desires. She dreaded to speak, to tell Lena that her lover lived, for she well knew what the result would be. Yet she longed to comfort her.

The conflict raged fiercely. The issue at stake was all heaven and earth to her, for without Roy life would be blank indeed. Then why should she give him up? Then she remembered Roy’s misery, that in his heart he was pining for the companionship of his own kind, and the inborn truth, the native generosity and candor, that always overruled every other element in her, conquered now. Girding herself to make a great sacrifice, she stepped into the open.

“_Bekothrie nithee!_” she cried in a tremulous voice.

Mr. McLeod turned sharply. Lena sprang to her feet expectant of she knew not what.

Then, nerving herself, Kasba spoke the words which would make her forever desolate: “Mr. Thursby is alive,” she said.

With a cry of joy Lena ran swiftly to the brave girl.

“What do you mean?” she asked with feverish eagerness, holding the girl by the wrist. “Roy not dead?” Her voice broke.

“No, God performed a miracle for me.” The girl spoke simply, fully believing what she said. “Mr. Thursby was dead for many hours,” she explained, “then he came to himself. But he is—” Kasba hesitated, fearing to speak the terrible truth.

Lena noticed the girl’s hesitation and was alarmed at once. “Go on,” she cried, clutching the girl’s wrist hard. “Tell me, tell me quickly! Something has happened?” Her voice expressed the utmost anxiety.

“He is totally blind,” said Kasba sadly. She spoke in the greatest distress.

Lena’s face grew dead-white, she stood stiff and rigid, staring at the girl, quite dazed at the horror of the thing.

“Blind!” cried the Chief Factor who had come up. “How terribly horrible! Poor Roy! Ah!” He was just in time to catch his daughter, who uttered a short unnatural sound and reeled against him. But she did not lose consciousness and in a moment her strength returned.

“Let me go!” she cried, sobbing wildly and struggling in her father’s arms. “Let me go to him, or I shall die!”

“You shall go, my child,” said the Chief Factor soothingly. He glanced at Kasba, who nodded and stretched out her hand, that tiny brown hand, which small though it was, had pulled Roy out of the water.

“Come,” she said simply, “I will take you to him.”

Arriving at the hut Kasba stood aside to let Lena pass. “You will find him in there,” she said. But Lena did not hear her, for she was already through the door.

As the door opened Roy started upright in an instant, conscious of the girl’s presence in the room. Lena’s eyes opened wide with horror at the sight of him, she started and drew slightly back, struck speechless by the fearful change in the splendidly vital figure.

There was a painful silence.

Roy stood with head thrust slightly forward in an attitude of listening intently,—in that attitude of concentrated expectancy of sounds peculiar to the totally blind; holding his breath to catch the slightest sound. He trembled all over with excitement. “Lena!” he cried, in a low, tense voice, though believing it impossible that she should be there. Then he swayed unsteadily.

Lena came forward to him quickly, and with a little cry, in which there was more of anguish than joy, her arms went about his neck.

Kasba had remained outside, but she could hear their voices and for a moment her heart stopped beating and her lips set tightly. She pressed one hand to her bosom, uttering a stifled wail like a wounded animal. The sacrifice had been great. She reeled and almost fell. Then she made a great effort, straightened herself and went and leaned against the hut, on the other side, away from the door, and covered her face with her hands. Then a feeling of utter loneliness fell upon her. She felt that something had been taken from her and given to another—something that was more to her than life.

She could still hear their voices. They were happy together; while she was outside alone. And so it would always be now. They would take Roy away and leave her behind, and she would see him no more. Then she heard footfalls, and one was Sahanderry’s. He came and stood beside her. She could hear his sharp breathing. Then, in an impulse, she dropped her hands and gave them to him. “He is happy now,” she said, a little bitterly. “Take me. It was my father’s wish. I am yours.”

* * * * *

Here ends the story of Kasba, and the chronicler makes apology for all that has been amiss in the telling of the events recorded, conscious that a better man could have done it better. Whether Kasba will ever come into another story the author himself cannot tell, nor does he know whether she will be welcome if she comes.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as in the original.

Punctuation has been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below:

page 72, The fellow semed too ==> The fellow seemed too

page 92, combined fellings of ==> combined feelings of

page 95, burst into fit of ==> burst into a fit of

page 139, the few sparce spruce ==> the few sparse spruce

page 145, signs of lood luck. ==> signs of good luck.

page 153, went thoughtfullly along ==> went thoughtfully along

page 196, and throughly shaken. ==> thoroughly shaken.

page 205, brushwood camp esconsed in ==> brushwood camp ensconsed in

page 245, off his l’Assumtion belt ==> off his l’Assumption belt