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The Trail of '98: A Northland Romance, a novel by Robert W. Service |
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Book 2. The Trail - Chapter 15 |
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_ BOOK II. THE TRAIL CHAPTER XV Soon I knew that Berna and I must part, and but two nights later it came. It was near midnight, yet in no ways dark, and everywhere the camp was astir. We were sitting by the river, I remember, a little way from the boats. Where the sun had set, the sky was a luminous veil of ravishing green, and in the elusive light her face seemed wanly sweet and dreamlike. A sad spirit rustled amid the shivering willows and a great sadness had come over the girl. All the happiness of the past few days seemed to have ebbed away from her and left her empty of hope. As she sat there, silent and with hands clasped, it was as if the shadows that for a little had lifted, now enshrouded her with a greater gloom. "Tell me your trouble, Berna." She shook her head, her eyes wide as if trying to read the future. "Nothing." Her voice was almost a whisper. "Yes, there is, I know. Tell me, won't you?" Again she shook her head. "What's the matter, little chum?" "It's nothing; it's only my foolishness. If I tell you, it wouldn't help me any. And then--it doesn't matter. You wouldn't care. Why should you care?" She turned away from me and seemed absorbed in bitter thought. "Care! why, yes, I would care; I do care. You know I would do anything in the world to help you. You know I would be unhappy if you were unhappy. You know----" "Then it would only worry you." She was regarding me anxiously. "Now you must tell me, Berna. It will worry me indeed if you don't." Once more she refused. I pleaded with her gently. I coaxed, I entreated. She was very reluctant, yet at last she yielded. "Well, if I must," she said; "but it's all so sordid, so mean, I hate myself; I despise myself that I should have to tell it." She kneaded a tiny handkerchief nervously in her fingers. "You know how nice Madam Winklestein's been to me lately--bought me new clothes, given me trinkets. Well, there's a reason--she's got her eye on a man for me." I gave an exclamation of surprise. "Yes; you know she's let us go together--it's all to draw him on. Oh, couldn't you see it? Didn't you suspect something? You don't know how bitterly they hate you." I bit my lip. "Who's the man?" "Jack Locasto." I started. "Have you heard of him?" she asked. "He's got a million-dollar claim on Bonanza." Had I heard of him! Who had not heard of Black Jack, his spectacular poker plays, his meteoric rise, his theatric display? "Of course he's married," she went on, "but that doesn't matter up here. There's such a thing as a Klondike marriage, and they say he behaves well to his discarded mis----" "Berna!" angry and aghast, I had stopped her. "Never let me hear you utter that word. Even to say it seems pollution." She laughed harshly, bitterly. "What's this whole life but pollution?... Well, anyway, he wants me." "But you wouldn't, surely you wouldn't?" She turned on me fiercely. "What do you take me for? Surely you know me better than that. Oh, you almost make me hate you." Suddenly she pressed the little handkerchief to her eyes. She fell to sobbing convulsively. Vainly I tried to soothe her, whispering: "Oh, my dear, tell me all about it. I'm sorry, girl, I'm sorry." She ceased crying. She went on in her fierce, excited way. "He came to the restaurant in Bennett. He used to watch me a lot. His eyes were always following me. I was afraid. I trembled when I served him. He liked to see me tremble, it gave him a feeling of power. Then he took to giving me presents, a diamond ring, a heart-shaped locket, costly gifts. I wanted to return them, but she wouldn't let me, took them from me, put them away. Then he and she had long talks. I know it was all about me. That was why I came to you that night and begged you to marry me--to save me from him. Now it's gone from bad to worse. The net's closing round me in spite of my flutterings." "But he can't get you against your will," I cried. "No! no! but he'll never give up. He'll try so long as I resist him. I'm nice to him just to humour him and gain time. I can't tell you how much I fear him. They say he always gets his way with women. He's masterly and relentless. There's a cold, sneering command in his smile. You hate him but you obey him." "He's an immoral monster, Berna. He spares neither time nor money to gratify his whims where a woman is concerned. And he has no pity." "I know, I know." "He's intensely masculine, handsome in a vivid, gipsy sort of way; big, strong and compelling, but a callous libertine." "Yes, he's all that. And can you wonder then my heart is full of fear, that I am distracted, that I asked you what I did? He is relentless and of all women he wants me. He would break me on the wheel of dishonour. Oh, God!" Her face grew almost tragic in its despair. "And everything's against me; they're all helping him. I haven't a single friend, not one to stand by me, to aid me. Once I thought of you, and you failed me. Can you wonder I'm nearly crazy with the terror of it? Can you wonder I was desperate enough to ask you to save me? I'm all alone, friendless, a poor, weak girl. No, I'm wrong. I've one friend--death; and I'll die, I'll die, I swear it, before I let him get me." Her words came forth in a torrent, half choked by sobs. It was hard to get her calmed. Never had I thought her capable of such force, such passion. I was terribly distressed and at a loss how to comfort her. "Hush, Berna," I pleaded, "please don't say such things. Remember you have a friend in me, one that would do anything in his power to help you." She looked at me a moment. "How can you help me?" I held both of her hands firmly, looking into her eyes. "By marrying you. Will you marry me, dear? Will you be my wife?" "No!" I started. "Berna!" "No! I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man left in the world," she cried vehemently. "Why?" I tried to be calm. "Why! why, you don't love me; you don't care for me." "Yes, I do, Berna. I do indeed, girl. Care for you! Well, I care so much that--I beg you to marry me." "Yes, yes, but you don't love me right, not in your great, grand way. Not in the way you told me of. Oh, I know; it's part pity, part friendship. It would be different if I cared in the same way, if--if I didn't care so very much more." "You do, Berna; you love me like that?" "How do I know? How can I tell? How can any of us tell?" "No, dear," I said, "love has no limits, no bounds, it is always holding something in reserve. There are yet heights beyond the heights, that mock our climbing, never perfection; no great love but might have been eclipsed by a greater. There's a master key to every heart, and we poor fools delude ourselves with the idea we are opening all the doors. We are on sufferance, we are only understudies in the love drama, but fortunately the star seldom appears on the scene. However, this I know----" I rose to my feet. "Since the moment I set eyes on you, I loved you. Long before I ever met you, I loved you. I was just waiting for you, waiting. At first I could not understand, I did not know what it meant, but now I do, beyond the peradventure of a doubt; there never was any but you, never will be any but you. Since the beginning of time it was all planned that I should love you. And you, how do you care?" She stood up to hear my words. She would not let me touch her, but there was a great light in her eyes. Then she spoke and her voice was vibrant with passion, all indifference gone from it. "Oh, you blind! you coward! Couldn't you see? Couldn't you feel? That day on the scow it came to me--Love. It was such as I had never dreamed of, rapture, ecstasy, anguish. Do you know what I wished as we went through the rapids? I wished that it might be the end, that in such a supreme moment we might go down clinging together, and that in death I might hold you in my arms. Oh, if you'd only been like that afterwards, met love open-armed with love. But, no! you slipped back to friendship. I feel as if there were a barrier of ice between us now. I will try never to care for you any more. Now leave me, leave me, for I never want to see you again." "Yes, you will, you must, you must, Berna. I'd sell my immortal soul to win that love from you, my dearest, my dearest; I'd crawl around the world to kiss your shadow. If you called to me I would come from the ends of the earth, through storm and darkness, to your side. I love you so, I love you so." I crushed her to me, I kissed her madly, yet she was cold. "Have you nothing more to say than fine words?" she asked. "Marry me, marry me," I repeated. "Now?" Now! I hesitated again. The suddenness of it was like a cold douche. God knows, I burned for the girl, yet somehow convention clamped me. "Now if you wish," I faltered; "but better when we get to Dawson. Better when I've made good up there. Give me one year, Berna, one year and then----" "One year!" The sudden gleam of hope vanished from her eyes. For the third time I was failing her, yet my cursed prudence overrode me. "Oh, it will pass swiftly, dear. You will be quite safe. I will be near you and watch over you." I reassured her, anxiously explaining how much better it would be if we waited a little. "One year!" she repeated, and it seemed to me her voice was toneless. Then she turned to me in a sudden spate of passion, her face pleading, furrowed, wretchedly sad. "Oh, my dear, my dear, I love you better than the whole world, but I hoped you would care enough for me to marry me now. It would have been best, believe me. I thought you would rise to the occasion, but you've failed me. Well, be it so, we'll wait one year." "Yes, believe me, trust me, dear; it will be all right. I'll work for you, slave for you, think only of you, and in twelve short months--I'll give my whole life to make you happy." "Will you, dear? Well, it doesn't matter now.... I've loved you." * * * * * All that night I wrestled with myself. I felt I ought to marry her at once to shield her from the dangers that encompassed her. She was like a lamb among a pack of wolves. I juggled with my conscience. I was young and marriage to me seemed such a terribly all-important step. Yet in the end my better nature triumphed, and ere the camp was astir I arose. I was going to marry Berna that day. A feeling of relief came over me. How had it ever seemed possible to delay? I was elated beyond measure. I hurried to tell her, I pictured her joy. I was almost breathless. Love words trembled on my tongue tip. It seemed to me I could not bear to wait a moment. Then as I reached the place where they had rested I gazed unbelievingly. A sickening sense of loss and failure crushed me. For the scow was gone. _ |
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