The Trail of 98 (15 page)

Swiftly a shadow came into the bright eyes, the sweet mouth curved
pathetically.

"Not even a beggar will seek me, a poor nameless girl travelling in the train
of dishonour ... and again, I will never love."

"Yes, you will indeed, girlinfinitely, supremely.
I know you, Berna; you'll love as few
women do. Your dearest will be all your world, his smile your heaven, his frown
your death. Love was at the fashioning of you, dear, and kissed your lips and
sent you forth, saying, 'There goeth my handmaiden.'"

I thought for a while ere I went on.

"You cared for your grandfather; you gave him your whole heart, a love full
of self-sacrifice, of renunciation. Now he is gone, you will love again, but the
next will be to the last as wine is to water. And the day will come when you
will love grandly. Yours will be a great, consuming passion that knows no limit,
no assuagement. It will be your glory and your shame. For him will your friends
be foes, your light darkness. You will go through fire and water for your
beloved's sake; your parched lips will call his name, your frail hands cling to
him in the shadow of death. Oh, I know, I know. Love has set you apart. You will
immolate yourself on his altars. You will dare, defy and die for him. I'm sorry
for you, Berna."

Her face hung down, her lips quivered. As for me, I was surprised at my words
and scarce knew what I was saying.

At last she spoke.

"If ever I loved like that, the man I loved must be a king among men, a hero,
almost a god."

"Perhaps, Berna, perhaps; but not needfully. He may be a grim man with a face
of power and passion, a virile, dominant brute, butwell, I think
he will be more of a god. Let's change
the subject."

I found she had all the sad sophistication of the lowly-born, yet with it an
invincible sense of purity, a delicate horror of the physical phases of love.
She was a finely motived creature with impossible ideals, but out of her stark
knowledge of life she was naively outspoken.

Once I asked of her:

"Berna, if you had to choose between death and dishonour, which would you
prefer?"

"Death, of course," she answered promptly.

"Death's a pretty hard proposition," I commented.

"No, it's easy; physical death, compared with the other, compared with moral
death."

She was very emphatic and angry with me for my hazarded demur. In an
atmosphere of disillusionment and moral miasma she clung undauntedly to her
ideals. Never was such a brave spirit, so determined in goodness, so upright in
purity, and I blessed her for her unfaltering words. "May such sentiments as
yours," I prayed, "be ever mine. In doubt, despair, defeat, oh Life, take not
away from me my faith in the pure heart of woman!"

Often I watched her thoughtfully, her slim, well-poised figure, her grey eyes
that were fuller of soul than any eyes I have ever seen, her brown hair wherein
the sunshine loved to pick out threads of gold, her delicate features with their
fine patrician quality. We were dreamers twain, but while my
outlook was gay with hope, hers was
dark with despair. Since the episode of the scow I had never ventured to kiss
her, but had treated her with a curious reserve, respect and courtesy.

Indeed, I was diagnosing my case, wondering if I loved her, affirming,
doubting on a very see-saw of indetermination. When with her I felt for her an
intense fondness and at times an almost irresponsible tenderness. My eyes rested
longingly on her, noting with tremulous joy the curves and shading of her face,
and finding in its very defects, beauties.

When I was away from heroh, the easeless longing that was almost pain, the
fanciful elaboration of our last talk, the hint of her graces in bird and flower
and tree! I wanted her wildly, and the thought of a world empty of her was
monstrous. I wondered how in the past we had both existed and how I had lived,
carelessly, happy and serenely indifferent. I tried to think of a time when she
should no longer have power to make my heart quicken with joy or contract with
fearand the thought of such a state was insufferable pain. Was I in love? Poor,
fatuous fool! I wanted her more than everything else in all the world, yet I
hesitated and asked myself the question.

Hundreds of boats and scows were running the rapids, and we watched them with
an untiring fascination. That was the most exciting spectacle in the whole
world. The issue was life or death, ruin or salvation, and from dawn till dark,
and with every few minutes of the day, was the breathless
climax repeated. The faces of the
actors were sick with dread and anxiety. It was curious to study the various
expressions of the human countenance unmasked and confronted with gibbering
fear. Yes, it was a vivid drama, a drama of cheers and tears, always thrilling
and often tragic. Every day were bodies dragged ashore. The rapids demanded
their tribute. The men of the trail must pay the toll. Sullen and bloated the
river disgorged its prey, and the dead, without prayer or pause, were thrown
into nameless graves.

On our first day at the rapids we met the Halfbreed. He was on the point of
starting downstream. Where was the Bank clerk? Oh, yes; they had upset coming
through; when last he had seen little Pinklove he was struggling in the water.
However, they expected to get the body every hour. He had paid two men to find
and bury it. He had no time to wait.

We did not blame him. In those wild days of headstrong hurry and
gold-delirium human life meant little. "Another floater," one would say, and
carelessly turn away. A callousness to death that was almost mediaeval was in the
air, and the friends of the dead hurried on, the richer by a partner's outfit.
It was all new, strange, sinister to me, this unveiling of life's naked
selfishness and lust.

Next morning they found the body, a poor, shapeless, sodden thing with such a
crumpled skull. My thoughts went back to the sweet-faced girl who had wept so
bitterly at his going. Even then, maybe,
she was thinking of him, fondly dreaming of his return, seeing
the glow of triumph in his boyish eyes. She would wait and hope; then she would
wait and despair; then there would be another white-faced woman saying, "He went
to the Klondike, and never came back. We don't know what became of him."

Verily, the way of the gold-trail was cruel.

Berna was with me when they buried him.

"Poor boy, poor boy!" she repeated.

"Yes, poor little beggar! He was so quiet and gentle. He was no man for the
trail. It's a funny world."

The coffin was a box of unplaned boards loosely nailed together, and the men
were for putting him into a grave on top of another coffin. I protested, so
sullenly they proceeded to dig a new grave. Berna looked very unhappy, and when
she saw that crude, shapeless pine coffin she broke down and cried bitterly.

At last she dried her tears and with a happier look in her eyes bade me wait
a little until she returned. Soon again she came back, carrying some folds of
black sateen over her arm. As she ripped at this with a pair of scissors, I
noticed there was a deep frilling to it. Also a bright blush came into her cheek
at the curious glance I gave to the somewhat skimpy lines of her skirt. But the
next instant she was busy stretching and tacking the black material over the
coffin.

The men had completed the new grave. It was only three feet deep, but the
water coming in had
prevented them from digging further. As we laid the coffin in
the hole it looked quite decent now in its black covering. It floated on the
water, but after some clods had been thrown down, it sank with many gurglings.
It was as if the dead man protested against his bitter burial. We watched the
grave-diggers throw a few more shovelsful of earth over the place, then go off
whistling. Poor little Berna! she cried steadily. At last she said:

"Let's get some flowers."

So out of briar-roses she fashioned a cross and a wreath, and we laid them
reverently on the muddy heap that marked the Bank clerk's grave.

Oh, the pitiful mockery of it!

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 thenit 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 latelybought me new
clothes, given me trinkets. Well, there's a reasonshe's got her eye on a man
for me."

I gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Yes; you know she's let us go togetherit'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 meto 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 frienddeath; 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?"