The Priestly Prerogative
This is the story of a man who did notappreciate his wife; also, of a woman who did him too great anhonor when she gave herself to him. Incidentally, it concerns aJesuit priest who had never been known to lie. He was anappurtenance, and a very necessary one, to the Yukon country;but the presence of the other two was merely accidental. Theywere specimens of the many strange waifs which ride the breast ofa gold rush or come tailing along behind.Edwin Bentham and Grace Bentham were waifs; they were alsotailing along behind, for the Klondike rush of '97 had long sinceswept down the great river and subsided into the famine-strickencity of Dawson. When the Yukon shut up shop and went to sleepunder a three-foot ice-sheet, this peripatetic couple foundthemselves at the Five Finger Rapids, with the City of Gold stilla journey of many sleeps to the north.Many cattle had been butchered at this place in the fall of theyear, and the offal made a goodly heap. The three fellow-voyagersof Edwin Bentham and wife gazed upon this deposit, did a littlemental arithmetic, caught a certain glimpse of a bonanza, anddecided to remain. And all winter they sold sacks of bones andfrozen hides to the famished dog- teams. It was a modest pricethey asked, a dollar a pound, just as it came. Six months later,when the sun came back and the Yukon awoke, they buckled on theirheavy moneybelts and journeyed back to the Southland, where theyyet live and lie mightily about the Klondike they never saw.But Edwin Bentham--he was an indolent fellow, and had he not beenpossessed of a wife, would have gladly joined issued in thedog-meat speculation. As it was, she played upon his vanity, toldhim how great and strong he was, how a man such as he certainlywas could overcome all obstacles and of a surety obtain theGolden Fleece. So he squared his jaw, sold his share in the bonesand hides for a sled and one dog, and turned his snowshoes to thenorth. Needless to state, Grace Bentham's snowshoes never allowedhis tracks to grow cold. Nay, ere their tribulations had seenthree days, it was the man who followed in the rear, and thewoman who broke trail in advance. Of course, if anybody hove insight, the position was instantly reversed. Thus did his manhoodremain virgin to the travelers who passed like ghosts on thesilent trail. There are such men in this world.How such a man and such a woman came to take each other forbetter and for worse is unimportant to this narrative. Thesethings are familiar to us all, and those people who do them, oreven question them too closely, are apt to lose a beautiful faithwhich is known as Eternal Fitness.Edwin Bentham was a boy, thrust by mischance into a man'sbody,--a boy who could complacently pluck a butterfly, wing fromwing, or cower in abject terror before a lean, nervy fellow, nothalf his size. He was a selfish cry-baby, hidden behind a man'smustache and stature, and glossed over with a skin-deep veneer ofculture and conventionality. Yes; he was a clubman and a societyman,the sort that grace social functions and utter inanities witha charm and unction which is indescribable; the sort that talkbig, and cry over a toothache; the sort that put more hell into awoman's life by marrying her than can the most gracelesslibertine that ever browsed in forbidden pastures. We meet thesemen every day, but we rarely know them for what they are. Secondto 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; toknow her, was to know a soul which dwarfed your own, yet retainedall the elements of the eternal feminine. This was the woman whourged and encouraged her husband in his Northland quest, whobroke trail for him when no one was looking, and cried in secretover her weakling woman's body.So journeyed this strangely assorted couple down to old FortSelkirk, then through fivescore miles of dismal wilderness toStuart River. And when the short day left them, and the man laydown in the snow and blubbered, it was the woman who lashed himto the sled, bit her lips with the pain of her aching limbs, andhelped the dog haul him to Malemute Kid's cabin. Malemute Kidwas not at home, but Meyers, the German trader, cooked greatmoose-steaks and shook up a bed of fresh pine boughs. Lake,Langham, and Parker, were excited, and not unduly so when thecause was taken into account.'Oh, Sandy! Say, can you tell a porterhouse from a round? Comeout and lend us a hand, anyway!' This appeal emanated from thecache, where Langham was vainly struggling with divers quartersof frozen moose.'Don't you budge from those dishes!' commanded Parker.'I say, Sandy; there's a good fellow--just run down to theMissouri Camp and borrow some cinnamon,' begged Lake.'Oh! oh! hurry up! Why don't-' But the crash of meat and boxes,in the cache, abruptly quenched this peremptory summons.'Come now, Sandy; it won't take a minute to go down to theMissouri-' 'You leave him alone,' interrupted Parker. 'How am Ito mix the biscuits 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 threwdown the greasy dishcloth, and went to his master's rescue.These promising scions of wealthy progenitors had come to theNorthland in search of laurels, with much money to burn, and a'man' apiece. Luckily for their souls, the other two men were upthe White River in search of a mythical quartzledge; so Sandy hadto grin under the responsibility of three healthy masters, eachof whom was possessed of peculiar cookery ideas. Twice thatmorning had a disruption of the whole camp been imminent, onlyaverted by immense concessions from one or the other of theseknights of the chafing-dish. But at last their mutual creation, areally 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 futurehostilities, and permitted the victor to depart on a mostimportant mission.This fortune fell to Parker, who parted his hair in the middle,put on his mittens and bearskin cap, and stepped over to MalemuteKid's cabin. And when he returned, it was in the company of GraceBentham and Malemute Kid,--the former very sorry her husbandcould not share with her their hospitality, for he had gone up tolook at the Henderson Creek mines, and the latter still a triflestiff from breaking trail down the Stuart River.Meyers had been asked, but had declined, being deeply engrossedin an experiment of raising bread from hops.Well, they could do without the husband; but a woman--why theyhad not seen one all winter, and the presence of this onepromised a new era in their lives.They were college men and gentlemen, these three young fellows,yearning for the flesh- pots they had been so long denied.Probably Grace Bentham suffered from a similar hunger; at least,it meant much to her, the first bright hour in many weeks ofdarkness.But that wonderful first course, which claimed the versatile Lakefor its parent, had no sooner been served than there came a loudknock at the door.'Oh! Ah! Won't you come in, Mr. Bentham?' said Parker, who hadstepped to 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 hismost dulcet tones, inwardly wondering what the deuce it allmeant. 'Won't you come in? Expecting you at any moment, wereserved a place. And just in time for the first course, too.''Come in, Edwin, dear,' chirped Grace Bentham from her seat atthe table.Parker naturally stood aside.'I want my wife,' reiterated Bentham hoarsely, the intonationsavoring disagreeably of ownership.Parker gasped, was within an ace of driving his fist into theface of his boorish visitor, but held himself awkwardly in check.Everybody rose. Lake lost his head and caught himself on theverge of saying, 'Must you go?' Then began the farrago ofleave-taking. 'So nice of you-' '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 uponthe deserted table.'Damn!' Langham had suffered disadvantages in his early training,and his oaths were weak and monotonous. 'Damn!' he repeated,vaguely conscious of the incompleteness and vainly struggling fora more virile term. It is a clever woman who can fill out themany weak places in an inefficient man, by her ownindomitability, re-enforce his vacillating nature, infuse herambitious soul into his, and spur him on to great achievements.And it is indeed a very clever and tactful woman who can do allthis, and do it so subtly that the man receives all the creditand believes in his inmost heart that everything is due to himand him alone.This is what Grace Bentham proceeded to do. Arriving in Dawsonwith a few pounds of flour and several letters of introduction,she at once applied herself to the task of pushing her big babyto the fore. It was she who melted the stony heart and wrungcredit from the rude barbarian who presided over the destiny ofthe P. C. Company; yet it was Edwin Bentham to whom theconcession was ostensibly granted. It was she who dragged herbaby up and down creeks, over benches and divides, and on a dozenwild stampedes; yet everybody remarked what an energetic fellowthat Bentham was. It was she who studied maps, and catechisedminers, and hammered geography and locations into his hollowhead, till everybody marveled at his broad grasp of the countryand knowledge of its conditions. Of course, they said the wifewas a brick, and only a few wise ones appreciated and pitied thebrave 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,or quartz claim; so Edwin Bentham went down to the GoldCommissioner and filed on Bench Claim 23, second tier, of FrenchHill. And when April came they were washing out a thousanddollars a day, with many, many such days in prospect.At the base of French Hill lay Eldorado Creek, and on a creekclaim stood the cabin of Clyde Wharton. At present he was notwashing out a diurnal thousand dollars; but his dumps grew, shiftby shift, and there would come a time when those dumps would passthrough his sluice-boxes, depositing in the riffles, in thecourse of half a dozen days, several hundred thousand dollars. Heoften sat in that cabin, smoked his pipe, and dreamed beautifullittle dreams,--dreams in which neither the dumps nor thehalf-ton of dust in the P. C. Company's big safe, played a part.And Grace Bentham, as she washed tin dishes in her hillsidecabin, often glanced down into Eldorado Creek, and dreamed,--notof dumps nor dust, however. They met frequently, as the trail tothe one claim crossed the other, and there is much to talk aboutin the Northland spring; but never once, by the light of an eyenor the slip of a tongue, did they speak their hearts.This is as it was at first. But one day Edwin Bentham was brutal.All boys are thus; besides, being a French Hill king now, hebegan to think a great deal of himself and to forget all he owedto his wife. On this day, Wharton heard of it, and waylaid GraceBentham, and talked wildly. This made her very happy, though shewould not listen, and made him promise to not say such thingsagain. Her hour had not come.But the sun swept back on its northern journey, the black ofmidnight changed to the steely color of dawn, the snow slippedaway, the water dashed again over the glacial drift, and thewash-up began. Day and night the yellow clay and scraped bedrockhurried through the swift sluices, yielding up its ransom to thestrong 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 whoare not too phlegmatic.Some people are good, not from inherent love of virtue, but fromsheer laziness. But those of us who know weak moments mayunderstand.Edwin Bentham was weighing dust over the bar of the saloon at theForks--altogether too much of his dust went over that pineboard--when his wife came down the hill and slipped into ClydeWharton's cabin. Wharton was not expecting her, but that did notalter the case. And much subsequent misery and idle waiting mighthave been avoided, had not Father Roubeau seen this and turnedaside from the main creek trail. 'My child,-' 'Hold on, FatherRoubeau! Though I'm not of your faith, I respect you; but youcan't come in between this woman and me!' 'You know what you aredoing?' 'Know! Were you God Almighty, ready to fling me intoeternal fire, I'd bank my will against yours in this matter.'Wharton had placed Grace on a stool and stood belligerentlybefore her.'You sit down on that chair and keep quiet,' he continued,addressing the Jesuit. 'I'll take my innings now. You can haveyours after.'Father Roubeau bowed courteously and obeyed. He was an easy-goingman and had learned to bide his time. Wharton pulled a stoolalongside the woman's, smothering her hand in his.'Then you do care for me, and will take me away?' Her face seemedto reflect the peace of this man, against whom she might drawclose for shelter.'Dear, don't you remember what I said before? Of course I-' 'Buthow can you?--the wash-up?' 'Do you think that worries? Anyway,I'll give the job to Father Roubeau, here.I can trust him to safely bank the dust with the company.' 'Tothink of it!--I'll never see him again.' 'A blessing!' 'And togo--O, Clyde, I can't! I can't!' 'There, there; of course youcan. just let me plan it.--You see, as soon as we get a few trapstogether, we'll start, and-' 'Suppose he comes back?' 'I'll breakevery-' 'No, no! No fighting, Clyde! Promise me that.' 'Allright! I'll just tell the men to throw him off the claim. They'veseen how he's treated you, and haven't much love for him.''You mustn't do that. You mustn't hurt him.' 'What then? Let himcome right in here and take you away before my eyes?' 'No-o,' shehalf whispered, stroking his hand softly.'Then let me run it, and don't worry. I'll see he doesn't gethurt. Precious lot he cared whether you got hurt or not! We won'tgo back to Dawson. I'll send word down for a couple of the boysto outfit and pole a boat up the Yukon. We'll cross the divideand raft down the Indian River to meet them. Then-' 'And then?'Her head was on his shoulder.Their voices sank to softer cadences, each word a caress. TheJesuit fidgeted nervously.'And then?' she repeated.'Why we'll pole up, and up, and up, and portage the White HorseRapids and the Box Canon.' 'Yes?' 'And the Sixty-Mile River; thenthe lakes, Chilcoot, Dyea, and Salt Water.' 'But, dear, I can'tpole a boat.' 'You little goose! I'll get Sitka Charley; he knowsall the good water and best camps, and he is the best traveler Iever met, if he is an Indian. All you'll have to do, is to sit inthe middle of the boat, and sing songs, and play Cleopatra, andfight--no, we're in luck; too early for mosquitoes.''And then, O my Antony?' 'And then a steamer, San Francisco, andthe world! Never to come back to this cursed hole again. Think ofit! The world, and ours to choose from! I'll sell out. Why, we'rerich! The Waldworth Syndicate will give me half a million forwhat's left in the ground, and I've got twice as much in thedumps and with the P. C.Company. We'll go to the Fair in Paris in 1900. We'll go toJerusalem, 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 reallymustn't-' 'The wife of Caesar shall be above reproach.' 'Ofcourse, but-' 'But I won't be your wife, will I, dear?' 'I didn'tmean that.' 'But you'll love me just as much, and never eventhink--oh! I know you'll be like other men; you'll grow tired,and--and-''How can you? I-' 'Promise me.' 'Yes, yes; I do promise.' 'Yousay it so easily, dear; but how do you know?--or I know? I haveso little to give, yet it is so much, and all I have. O, Clyde!promise me you won't?''There, there! You musn't begin to doubt already. Till death dous part, 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,lips trembled against lips.Father Roubeau had been watching the main trail through thewindow, but could stand the strain no longer.He cleared his throat and turned around.'Your turn now, Father!' Wharton's face was flushed with the fireof his first embrace.There was an exultant ring to his voice as he abdicated in theother's favor. He had no doubt as to the result. Neither hadGrace, for a smile played about her mouth as she faced thepriest.'My child,' he began, 'my heart bleeds for you. It is a prettydream, but it cannot be.''And why, Father? I have said yes.' 'You knew not what you did.You did not think of the oath you took, before your God, to thatman who is your husband. It remains for me to make you realizethe sanctity of such a pledge.' 'And if I do realize, and yetrefuse?''Then God''Which God? My husband has a God which I care not to worship.There must be many such.' 'Child! unsay those words! Ah! you donot mean them. I understand. I, too, have had such moments.' Foran instant he was back in his native France, and a wistful, sad-eyed face came as a mist between him and the woman before him.'Then, Father, has my God forsaken me? I am not wicked abovewomen. My misery with him has been great. Why should it begreater? Why shall I not grasp at happiness? I cannot, will not,go back to him!' 'Rather is your God forsaken. Return. Throw yourburden upon Him, and the darkness shall be lifted. O my child,-''No; it is useless; I have made my bed and so shall I lie. I willgo on. And if God punishes me, I shall bear it somehow. You donot understand. You are not a woman.' 'My mother was a woman.''But-' 'And Christ was born of a woman.' She did not answer. Asilence fell. Wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept aneye on the trail. Grace leaned her elbow on the table, her faceset with resolve. The smile had died away. Father Roubeau shiftedhis ground.'You have children?''At one time I wished--but now--no. And I am thankful.' 'And amother?' 'Yes.' 'She loves you?' 'Yes.' Her replies werewhispers.And a brother?--no matter, he is a man. But a sister?' Her headdrooped a quavering 'Yes.' 'Younger? Very much?' 'Seven years.''And you have thought well about this matter? About them? Aboutyour mother? And your sister? She stands on the threshold of herwoman's life, and this wildness of yours may mean much to her.Could you go before her, look upon her fresh young face, hold herhand in yours, or touch your cheek 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 thelash.'But you must face all this; and better it is to do it now.' Inhis eyes, which she could not see, there was a great compassion,but his face, tense and quivering, showed no relenting.She raised her head from the table, forced back the tears,struggled for control.'I shall go away. They will never see me, and come to forget me.I shall be to them as dead. And--and I will go withClyde--today.' It seemed final. Wharton stepped forward, but thepriest waved him back.'You have wished for children?' A silent 'Yes.' 'And prayed forthem?' 'Often.' 'And have you thought, if you should havechildren?' Father Roubeau's eyes rested for a moment on the manby the window.A quick light shot across her face. Then the full import dawnedupon her. She raised her hand appealingly, but he went on.'Can you picture an innocent babe in your arms,' A boy? The worldis not so hard upon a girl. Why, your very breast would turn togall! And you could be proud and happy of your boy, as you lookedon other children?-' '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 theworld to fling a tender name in his face. A child to look backand curse you from whose loins he sprang!''O my God! my God!' She groveled on the floor. The priest sighedand raised her to her feet.Wharton pressed forward, but she motioned him away.'Don't come near me, Clyde! I am going back!' The tears werecoursing pitifully down her face, but she made no effort to wipethem away.'After all this? You cannot! I will not let you!' 'Don't touchme!' She shivered and drew back.'I will! You are mine! Do you hear? You are mine!' Then hewhirled upon the priest. 'O what a fool I was to ever let you wagyour silly tongue! Thank your God you are not a common man, forI'd--but the priestly prerogative must be exercised, eh? Well,you have exercised it. Now get out of my house, or I'll forgetwho and what you are!' Father Roubeau bowed, took her hand, andstarted for the door. But Wharton cut them off.'Grace! You said you loved me?' 'I did.' 'And you do now?' 'Ido.' 'Say it again.''I do love you, Clyde; I do.' 'There, you priest!' he cried. 'Youhave heard it, and with those words on her lips you would sendher back to live a lie and a hell with that man?'But Father Roubeau whisked the woman into the inner room andclosed the door. 'No words!' he whispered to Wharton, as hestruck a casual posture on a stool. 'Remember, for her sake,' headded.The room echoed to a rough knock at the door; the latch raisedand Edwin Bentham stepped in.'Seen anything of my wife?' he asked as soon as salutations hadbeen exchanged.Two heads nodded negatively.'I saw her tracks down from the cabin,' he continuedtentatively, 'and they broke off, just opposite here, on the maintrail.' His listeners looked bored.'And I--I thought-''She was here!' thundered Wharton.The priest silenced him with a look. 'Did you see her tracksleading up to this cabin, my son?' Wily Father Roubeau--he hadtaken good care to obliterate them as he came up the same path anhour before.'I didn't stop to look, I -' His eyes rested suspiciously on thedoor to the other room, then interrogated the priest. The lattershook his head; but the doubt seemed to linger.Father Roubeau breathed a swift, silent prayer, and rose to hisfeet. '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 onlywondering where my wife had gone, and thought maybe--I guessshe's up at Mrs. Stanton's on French Gulch. Nice weather, isn'tit? Heard the news? Flour's gone down to forty dollars a hundred,and they say the che-cha-quas are flocking down the river indroves.But I must be going; so good-by.' The door slammed, and from thewindow they watched him take his quest up French Gulch. A fewweeks later, just after the June high-water, two men shot a canoeinto mid-stream and made fast to a derelict pine. This tightenedthe painter and jerked the frail craft along as would a tow-boat.Father Roubeau had been directed to leave the Upper Country andreturn to his swarthy children at Minook. The white men had comeamong them, and they were devoting too little time to fishing,and too much to a certain deity whose transient habitat was incountless black bottles.Malemute Kid also had business in the Lower Country, so theyjourneyed together.But one, in all the Northland, knew the man Paul Roubeau, andthat man was Malemute Kid. Before him alone did the priest castoff the sacerdotal garb and stand naked. And why not? These twomen knew each other. Had they not shared the last morsel of fish,the last pinch of tobacco, the last and inmost thought, on thebarren stretches of Bering Sea, in the heartbreaking mazes of theGreat Delta, on the terrible winter journey from Point Barrow tothe Porcupine? Father Roubeau puffed heavily at his trail-wornpipe, and gazed on the reddisked sun, poised somberly on the edgeof the northern horizon.Malemute Kid wound up his watch. It was midnight.'Cheer up, old man!' The Kid was evidently gathering up a brokenthread.'God surely will forgive such a lie. Let me give you the word ofa man who strikes a true note: If She have spoken a word,remember thy lips are sealed, And the brand of the Dog is uponhim by whom is the secret revealed.If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest canclear, Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.'Father Roubeau removed his pipe and reflected. 'The man speakstrue, but my soul is not vexed with that. The lie and the penancestand with God; but--but-''What then? Your hands are clean.' 'Not so. Kid, I have thoughtmuch, and yet the thing remains. I knew, and made her go back.'The clear note of a robin rang out from the wooden bank, apartridge drummed the call in the distance, a moose lungednoisily in the eddy; but the twain smoked on in silence.
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