But he elected to play his own game, and he entered combinations only when they were generally defensive7 or offensive. Thus, though he had paid the highest wages, he joined the Mine-owners' Association, engineered the fight, and effectually curbed8 the growing insubordination of the wage-earners. Times had changed. The old days were gone forever. This was a new era, and Daylight, the wealthy mine-owner, was loyal to his class affiliations9. It was true, the old-timers who worked for him, in order to be saved from the club of the organized owners, were made foremen over the gang of chechaquos; but this, with Daylight, was a matter of heart, not head. In his heart he could not forget the old days, while with his head he played the economic game according to the latest and most practical methods.
But outside of such group-combinations of exploiters, he refused to bind10 himself to any man's game. He was playing a great lone11 hand, and he needed all his money for his own backing. The newly founded stock-exchange interested him keenly. He had never before seen such an institution, but he was quick to see its virtues12 and to utilize13 it. Most of all, it was gambling14, and on many an occasion not necessary for the advancement15 of his own schemes, he, as he called it, went the stock-exchange a flutter, out of sheer wantonness and fun.
"It sure beats faro," was his comment one day, when, after keeping the Dawson speculators in a fever for a week by alternate bulling and bearing, he showed his hand and cleaned up what would have been a fortune to any other man.
Other men, having made their strike, had headed south for the States, taking a furlough from the grim Arctic battle. But, asked when he was going Outside, Daylight always laughed and said when he had finished playing his hand. He also added that a man was a fool to quit a game just when a winning hand had been dealt him.
It was held by the thousands of hero-worshipping chechaquos that Daylight was a man absolutely without fear. But Bettles and Dan MacDonald and other sourdoughs shook their heads and laughed as they mentioned women. And they were right. He had always been afraid of them from the time, himself a lad of seventeen, when Queen Anne, of Juneau, made open and ridiculous love to him. For that matter, he never had known women. Born in a mining-camp where they were rare and mysterious, having no sisters, his mother dying while he was an infant, he had never been in contact with them. True, running away from Queen Anne, he had later encountered them on the Yukon and cultivated an acquaintance with them—the pioneer ones who crossed the passes on the trail of the men who had opened up the first diggings. But no lamb had ever walked with a wolf in greater fear and trembling than had he walked with them. It was a matter of masculine pride that he should walk with them, and he had done so in fair seeming; but women had remained to him a closed book, and he preferred a game of solo or seven-up any time.
And now, known as the King of the Klondike, carrying several other royal titles, such as Eldorado King, Bonanza17 King, the Lumber18 Baron19, and the Prince of the Stampeders, not to omit the proudest appellation20 of all, namely, the Father of the Sourdoughs, he was more afraid of women than ever. As never before they held out their arms to him, and more women were flocking into the country day by day. It mattered not whether he sat at dinner in the gold commissioner's house, called for the drinks in a dancehall, or submitted to an interview from the woman representative of the New York Sun, one and all of them held out their arms.
There was one exception, and that was Freda, the girl that danced, and to whom he had given the flour. She was the only woman in whose company he felt at ease, for she alone never reached out her arms. And yet it was from her that he was destined21 to receive next to his severest fright. It came about in the fall of 1897. He was returning from one of his dashes, this time to inspect Henderson, a creek22 that entered the Yukon just below the Stewart. Winter had come on with a rush, and he fought his way down the Yukon seventy miles in a frail23 Peterborough canoe in the midst of a run of mush-ice. Hugging the rim16-ice that had already solidly formed, he shot across the ice-spewing mouth of the Klondike just in time to see a lone man dancing excitedly on the rim and pointing into the water. Next, he saw the fur-clad body of a woman, face under, sinking in the midst of the driving mush-ice. A lane opening in the swirl24 of the current, it was a matter of seconds to drive the canoe to the spot, reach to the shoulder in the water, and draw the woman gingerly to the canoe's side. It was Freda. And all might yet have been well with him, had she not, later, when brought back to consciousness, blazed at him with angry blue eyes and demanded: "Why did you? Oh, why did you?"
This worried him. In the nights that followed, instead of sinking immediately to sleep as was his wont25, he lay awake, visioning her face and that blue blaze of wrath26, and conning27 her words over and over. They rang with sincerity28. The reproach was genuine. She had meant just what she said. And still he pondered.
The next time he encountered her she had turned away from him angrily and contemptuously. And yet again, she came to him to beg his pardon, and she dropped a hint of a man somewhere, sometime,—she said not how,—who had left her with no desire to live. Her speech was frank, but incoherent, and all he gleaned29 from it was that the event, whatever it was, had happened years before. Also, he gleaned that she had loved the man.
That was the thing—love. It caused the trouble. It was more terrible than frost or famine. Women were all very well, in themselves good to look upon and likable; but along came this thing called love, and they were seared to the bone by it, made so irrational30 that one could never guess what they would do next.
This Freda-woman was a splendid creature, full-bodied, beautiful, and nobody's fool; but love had come along and soured her on the world, driving her to the Klondike and to suicide so compellingly that she was made to hate the man that saved her life.
Well, he had escaped love so far, just as he had escaped smallpox31; yet there it was, as contagious32 as smallpox, and a whole lot worse in running its course. It made men and women do such fearful and unreasonable33 things. It was like delirium34 tremens, only worse. And if he, Daylight, caught it, he might have it as badly as any of them. It was lunacy, stark35 lunacy, and contagious on top of it all. A half dozen young fellows were crazy over Freda. They all wanted to marry her. Yet she, in turn, was crazy over that some other fellow on the other side of the world, and would have nothing to do with them.
But it was left to the Virgin36 to give him his final fright. She was found one morning dead in her cabin. A shot through the head had done it, and she had left no message, no explanation. Then came the talk. Some wit, voicing public opinion, called it a case of too much Daylight. She had killed herself because of him. Everybody knew this, and said so. The correspondents wrote it up, and once more Burning Daylight, King of the Klondike, was sensationally37 featured in the Sunday supplements of the United States. The Virgin had straightened up, so the feature-stories ran, and correctly so. Never had she entered a Dawson City dance-hall. When she first arrived from Circle City, she had earned her living by washing clothes. Next, she had bought a sewing-machine and made men's drill parkas, fur caps, and moosehide mittens38. Then she had gone as a clerk into the First Yukon Bank. All this, and more, was known and told, though one and all were agreed that Daylight, while the cause, had been the innocent cause of her untimely end.
And the worst of it was that Daylight knew it was true. Always would he remember that last night he had seen her. He had thought nothing of it at the time; but, looking back, he was haunted by every little thing that had happened. In the light of the tragic39 event, he could understand everything—her quietness, that calm certitude as if all vexing40 questions of living had been smoothed out and were gone, and that certain ethereal sweetness about all that she had said and done that had been almost maternal41. He remembered the way she had looked at him, how she had laughed when he narrated42 Mickey Dolan's mistake in staking the fraction on Skookum Gulch43. Her laughter had been lightly joyous44, while at the same time it had lacked its oldtime robustness45. Not that she had been grave or subdued46. On the contrary, she had been so patently content, so filled with peace.
She had fooled him, fool that he was. He had even thought that night that her feeling for him had passed, and he had taken delight in the thought, and caught visions of the satisfying future friendship that would be theirs with this perturbing47 love out of the way.
And then, when he stood at the door, cap in hand, and said good night. It had struck him at the time as a funny and embarrassing thing, her bending over his hand and kissing it. He had felt like a fool, but he shivered now when he looked back on it and felt again the touch of her lips on his hand. She was saying good-by, an eternal good-by, and he had never guessed. At that very moment, and for all the moments of the evening, coolly and deliberately48, as he well knew her way, she had been resolved to die. If he had only known it! Untouched by the contagious malady49 himself, nevertheless he would have married her if he had had the slightest inkling of what she contemplated50. And yet he knew, furthermore, that hers was a certain stiff-kneed pride that would not have permitted her to accept marriage as an act of philanthropy. There had really been no saving her, after all. The love-disease had fastened upon her, and she had been doomed51 from the first to perish of it.
Her one possible chance had been that he, too, should have caught it. And he had failed to catch it. Most likely, if he had, it would have been from Freda or some other woman. There was Dartworthy, the college man who had staked the rich fraction on Bonanza above Discovery. Everybody knew that old Doolittle's daughter, Bertha, was madly in love with him. Yet, when he contracted the disease, of all women, it had been with the wife of Colonel Walthstone, the great Guggenhammer mining expert. Result, three lunacy cases: Dartworthy selling out his mine for one-tenth its value; the poor woman sacrificing her respectability and sheltered nook in society to flee with him in an open boat down the Yukon; and Colonel Walthstone, breathing murder and destruction, taking out after them in another open boat. The whole impending52 tragedy had moved on down the muddy Yukon, passing Forty Mile and Circle and losing itself in the wilderness53 beyond. But there it was, love, disorganizing men's and women's lives, driving toward destruction and death, turning topsy-turvy everything that was sensible and considerate, making bawds or suicides out of virtuous54 women, and scoundrels and murderers out of men who had always been clean and square.
For the first time in his life Daylight lost his nerve. He was badly and avowedly55 frightened. Women were terrible creatures, and the love-germ was especially plentiful56 in their neighborhood.
And they were so reckless, so devoid57 of fear. THEY were not frightened by what had happened to the Virgin. They held out their arms to him more seductively than ever. Even without his fortune, reckoned as a mere58 man, just past thirty, magnificently strong and equally good-looking and good-natured, he was a prize for most normal women. But when to his natural excellences59 were added the romance that linked with his name and the enormous wealth that was his, practically every free woman he encountered measured him with an appraising60 and delighted eye, to say nothing of more than one woman who was not free. Other men might have been spoiled by this and led to lose their heads; but the only effect on him was to increase his fright. As a result he refused most invitations to houses where women might be met, and frequented bachelor boards and the Moosehorn Saloon, which had no dance-hall attached.
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1
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affiliations
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| n.联系( affiliation的名词复数 )；附属机构；亲和性；接纳 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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utilize
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| vt.使用，利用 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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bonanza
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| n.富矿带，幸运，带来好运的事 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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29
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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sensationally
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mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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40
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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41
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
gulch
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| n.深谷，峡谷 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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46
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47
perturbing
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| v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的现在分词 ) | |
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48
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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49
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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50
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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51
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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52
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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53
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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54
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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55
avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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56
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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