The Trail of 98 (36 page)

"Where is
here
?" I asked faintly.

"Heremy cabin. Rest, dear."

"Is that you, Berna?"

"Yes, please don't talk."

I thrilled with a sudden sweetness of joy. A flood of sunshine bathed me. It
was all over, then, the turmoil, the storm, the shipwreck. I was drifting on a
tranquil ocean of content. Blissfully I closed my eyes. Oh, I was happy,
happy!

In her cabin, with her, and she was nursing mewhat had happened? What new
turn of events had brought about this wonderful thing? As I lay there in the
quiet, trying to recall the something that went before, my poor sick brain
groped but feebly amid a murk of sinister shadows.

"Berna," I said, "I've had a bad dream."

"Yes, dear, you've
been sick, very sick. You've had an attack of fever, brain fever. But don't try
to think, just rest quietly."

So for a while longer I lay there, thrilled with a strange new joy, steeped
in the ineffable comfort of her presence, and growing better, stronger with
every breath. Memories came thronging back, memories that made me cringe and
wince, and shudder with the shame of them. Yet ever the thought that she was
with me was like a holy blessing. Surely it was all good since it had ended in
this.

Yet there was something else, some memory darker than the others, some shadow
of shadows that baffled me. Then as I battled with a growing terror and
suspense, it all came back to me, the telegram, the news, my collapse. A great
grief welled up in me, and in my agony I spoke to the girl.

"Berna, tell me, is it true? Is my Mother dead?"

"Yes, it's true, dear. You must try to bear it bravely."

I could feel her bending over me, could feel her hand holding mine, could
feel her hair brush my cheek, yet I forgot even her just then. I thought only of
Mother, of her devotion and of how little I had done to deserve it. So this was
the end: a narrow grave, a rending grief and the haunting spectre of
reproach.

I saw my Mother sitting at that window that faced the west, her hands meekly
folded on her lap, her eyes wistfully gazing over the grey sea. I knew there was
never a day of her life when she did not sit thus
and think of me. I could guess at the heartache that
gentle face would not betray, the longing those tender lips would not speak, the
grief those sweet eyes studied to conceal. As, sitting there in the strange
clouded sunset of my native land, she let her knitting drop on her lap, I knew
she prayed for me. Oh, Mother! Mother!

My sobs were choking me, and Berna was holding my hand very tightly. Yet in a
little I grew calmer.

"Berna," I said, "I've only got you now, only you, little girl. So you must
love me, you mustn't leave me."

"I'll never leave youif you want me to stay."

"God bless you, dear. I can't tell you the comfort you are to me. I'll try to
be quiet now."

I will always remember those days as I grew slowly well again. The cot in
which I lay stood in the sitting-room of the cabin, and from the window I could
overlook the city. Snow had fallen, the days were diamond bright, and the smoke
ascended sharply in the glittering air. The little room was papered with a
design of wild roses that minded me of the Whitehorse Rapids. On the walls were
some little framed pictures; the floor was carpeted in dull brown, and a little
heater gave out a pleasant warmth. Through a doorway draped with a curtain I
could see her busy in her little kitchen.

She left me much alone, alone with my thoughts. Often when all was quiet I
knew she was sitting there beyond the curtain, sitting thinking, just as I was
thinking. Quiet was the keynote of our life, quiet
and sunshine. That little cabin might have been a
hundred miles from the gold-born city, it was so quiet. Here drifted no echo of
its abandoned gaiety, its glory of demoralisation. How sweet she looked in her
spotless home attire, her neat waist, her white apron with bib and sleeves, her
general air of a little housewife. And never was there so devoted a nurse.

Sometimes she would read to me from one of the few books I had taken
everywhere on my travels, a page or two from my beloved Stevenson, a poem from
my great-hearted Henley, a luminous passage from my Thoreau. How those readings
brought back the time when, tired of flicking the tawny pools, I would sit on
the edge of the boisterous little burn and read till the grey shadows sifted
down! I was so happy then, and I did not know it. Now everything seemed changed.
Life had lost its zest. Its savour was no longer sweet. Its very success was
more bitter than failure. Would I ever get back that old-time rapture, that
youthful joy, that satisfaction with all the world?

It was sweet prolonging my convalescence, yet the time came when I could no
longer let her wait upon me. What was going to happen to us? I thought of that
at all times, and she knew I thought of it. Sometimes I could see a vivid colour
in her cheeks, an eager brightness in her eye. Was ever a stranger situation?
She slept in the little kitchen, and between us there was but that curtain. The
faintest draught stirred it. There I lay through the long,
long night in that quiet cabin. I
heard her breathing. Sometimes even I heard her murmur in her sleep. I knew she
was there, within a few yards of me. I thought of her always. I loved her beyond
all else on earth. I was gaining daily in health and strength, yet not for the
wealth of the world would I have passed that little curtain. She was as safe
there as if she were guarded with swords. And she knew it.

Once when I was in agony I called to her in the night, and she came to me.
She came with a mother's tenderness, with exquisite endearments, with the great
love shining in her eyes. She leaned over me, she kissed me. As she bent over my
bed I put my arm round her. There in the darkness were we, she and I, her kisses
warm upon my lips, her hair brushing my brow, and a great love devouring us. Oh,
it was hard, but I released her, put her from me, told her to go away.

"I'll play the game fair," I said to myself. I must be very, very careful.
Our position was full of danger. So I forced myself to be cold to her, and she
looked both surprised and pained at the change in me. Then she seemed to put
forth special efforts to please me. She changed the fashion of her hair, she
wore pretty bows of ribbon. She talked brightly and lightly in a febrile way.
She showed little coquettish tricks of manner that were charming to my mind.
Ever she looked at me with wistful concern. Her heart was innocent, and she
could not understand my sudden coldness. Yet that night had given me a lightning
glimpse of my nature that
frightened me. The girl was winsome beyond words, and I knew I
had but to say it and she would come to me. Yet I checked myself. I retreated
behind a barrier of reserve. "Play the game," I said; "play the game."

So as I grew better and stronger she seemed to lose her cheerfulness. Always
she had that anxious, wistful look. Once came a sound from the kitchen like
stifled sobbing, and again in the night I heard her cry. Then the time came when
I was well enough to get up, to go away.

I dressed, looking like the cadaverous ghost I felt myself to be. She was
there in the kitchen, sitting quietly, waiting.

"Berna," I called.

She came, with a smile lighting up her face.

"I'm going."

The smile vanished, and left her with that high proud look, yet behind it was
a lurking fear.

"You're going?" she faltered.

"Yes," I said roughly, "I'm going."

She did not speak.

"Are you ready?" I went on.

"Ready?"

"Yes, you're going, too."

"Where?"

I took her suddenly in my arms.

"Why, you dear little angel, to get married, of course. Come on, Berna, we'll
find the nearest parson. We won't lose any more precious time."

Then a great rush of
tears came into her eyes. But still she hung back. She shook her head.

"Why, Berna, what's the matter? Won't you come?"

"I think not."

"In Heaven's name, what is wrong, dear? Don't you love me?"

"Yes, I love you. It's because I love you I won't come."

"Won't you marry me?"

"No, no, I can't. You know what I said before. I haven't changed any. I'm
still the samedishonoured girl. You could never give me your name."

"You're as pure as the driven snow, little one."

"No one thinks so but you, and it's that that makes all the difference.
Everybody knows. No, I could never marry you, never take your name, never bind
you to me."

"Well, what's to be done?"

"You must go away, orstay."

"Stay?"

"Yes. You've been living alone with me for a month. I picked you up that
night in the dance-hall. I had you brought here. I nursed you. Do you think
people don't give us credit for the worst? We are as innocent as children, yet
do you think I have a shred of reputation left? Already I am supposed to be your
mistress. Everybody knows; nobody cares. There are so many living that way here.
If you told them we were innocent they would scoff at us. If you go they will
say you have discarded me."

"What shall I
do?"

"Just stay. Oh, why can't we go on as we've been doing? It's been so like
home. Don't leave me, dear. I don't want to bind you. I just want to be of some
use to you, to help you, to be with you always. Love me for a little, anyway.
Then when you're tired of me you can go, but don't go now."

I was dazed, but she went on.

"What does the ceremony matter? We love each other. Isn't that the real
marriage? It's more; it's an ideal. We'll both be free to go if we wish. There
will be no bonds but those of love. Is not that beautiful, two people cleaving
together for love's sake, living for each other, sacrificing for each other, yet
with no man-made law to tell them: 'This must ye do'? Oh, stay, stay!"

Her arms were round my neck. The grey eyes were full of pleading. The sweet
lips had the old, pathetic droop. I yielded to the empery of love.

"Well," I said, "we will go on awhile, on one conditionthat by-and-bye you
marry me."

"Yes, I will, I will; I promise. If you don't tire of me; if you are sure
beyond all doubt you will never regret it, then I will marry you with the
greatest joy in the world."

So it came about that I stayed.

In this infernal irony of an existence why do the good things of life always
come when we no longer have the same appetite to enjoy them? The year following,
in which Berna and I kept house, was not altogether a happy one. Somehow we had
both just missed something. We had suffered too much to recover our poise very
easily. We were sick, not in body, but in mind. The thought of her terrible
experience haunted her. She was as sensitive as the petal of a delicate flower,
and often would I see her lips quiver and a look of pain come into her eyes.
Then I knew of what she was thinking. I knew, and I, too, suffered.

I tried to make her forget, yet I could not succeed; and even in my most
happy moments there was always a shadow, the shadow of Locasto; there was always
a fear, the fear of his return. Yes, it seemed at times as if we were two
unfortunates, as if our happiness had come too late, as if our lives were
irretrievably shipwrecked.

Locasto! where was he? For near a year had he been gone, somewhere in that
wild country at the Back of Beyond. Somewhere amid the wilder peaks and valleys
of the Rockies he fought his desperate battle with the Wild. There had been
sinister rumours of two lone prospectors who had perished up
in that savage country, of two bodies
that lay rotting and half buried by a landslide. I had a sudden, wild hope that
one of them might be my enemy; for I hated him and I would have joyed at his
death. When I loved Berna most exquisitely, when I gazed with tender joy upon
her sweetness, when, with glad, thankful eyes, I blessed her for the sympathy
and sunshine of her presence, then between us would come a shadow, dark,
menacing and mordant. So the joy-light would vanish from my eyes and a great
sadness fall upon me.

What would I do if he returned? I wondered. Perhaps if he left us alone I
might let by-gones be by-gones; but if he ever came near her againwell, I oiled
the chambers of my Colt and heard its joyous click as it revolved. "That's for
him," I said, "that's for him, if by look, by word, or by act he ever molests
her again." And I meant it, too. Suffering had hardened me, made me dangerous. I
would have killed him.

Then, as the months went past and the suspicion of his fate deepened almost
to a certainty, I began to breathe more freely. I noticed, too, a world of
difference in Berna. She grew light-hearted. She sang and laughed a good deal.
The sunshine came back to her eyes, and the shadow seldom lingered there.
Sometimes the thought that we were not legally married troubled me, but on all
sides were men living with their Klondike wives, either openly or secretly, and
where this domestic menage was conducted in quietness there was little comment
on it. We lived
to
ourselves, and for ourselves. We left our neighbours alone. We made few friends,
and in the ferment of social life we were almost unnoticed.

Of course, the Prodigal expostulated with me in severe terms. I did not
attempt to argue with him. He would not have understood my point of view. There
are heights and depths in life to which he with his practical mind could never
attain. Yet he became very fond of Berna, and often visited us.

"Why don't you go and get churched decently, if you love her?" he
demanded.

"So I will," I answered calmly; "give me a little time. Wait till we get more
settled."

And, indeed, we were up to our necks in business these days. Our Gold Hill
property had turned out well. We had a gang of men employed there, and I made
frequent trips out to Bonanza. We had given the Halfbreed a small interest, and
installed him as manager. The Jam-wagon, too, we had employed as a sort of
assistant foreman. Jim was busy installing his hydraulic plant on Ophir Creek,
and altogether we had enough to think about. I had set my heart on making a
hundred thousand dollars, and as things were looking it seemed as if two more
years would bring me to that mark.