Authors: Robert W Service
Surely there was something of Romance left in this old world yet if one would
only go to seek it. Here I was, sun-browned, strong, healthy, having come
through many trials and still on the edge of adventure, when I might, but for my
own headstrong perversity, have yet been vegetating on the hills of Glengyle. A
great exultation welled up in me, the voice of youth and ambition, the lust to
conquer. I would succeed, I would wrest from the vast, lonely, mysterious North
some of its treasure. I would be a conqueror.
Silent and abstracted, I looked into the brooding disk of sheeny sky, my eyes
dream-troubled.
Then I felt a ghostly hand touch my arm, and with a great start of surprise,
I turned.
"Berna!"
The girl was wearing a thin black shawl around her shoulders, but in the icy
wind blowing from the lake, she trembled like a wand. Her face was pale, waxen,
almost spiritual in its expression, and she looked at me with just the most
pitiably sweet smile in the world.
"I'm sorry I startled you; but I wanted to thank you for your letter and for
your sympathy."
It was the same clear voice, with the throb of tender feeling in it.
"You see, I'm all alone now." The voice faltered, but went on bravely. "I've
got no one that cares about me any more, and I've been sick, so sick I wonder I
lived. I knew you'd forgotten me, and I don't blame you. But I've never
forgotten you, and I wanted to see you just once more."
She was speaking quite calmly and unemotionally.
"Berna!" I cried; "don't say that. Your reproach hurts me so. Indeed I did
try to find you, but it's such a vast camp. There are so many thousands of
people here. Time and again I inquired, but no one seemed to know. Then I
thought you must surely have gone back, and it's been such a busy time, building
our boat and getting ready. No, Berna, I didn't forget. Many's and many's a
night I've lain awake thinking of you, wondering, longing
to see you againbut haven't you
forgotten a little?"
I saw the sensitive lips smile almost bitterly.
"No! not even a little."
"Oh! I'm sorry, Berna. I'm sorry I've looked after you so badly. I'll never
forgive myself. You've been terribly sick, too. What a little white whisp you
are! You look as if a breeze would blow you away. You shouldn't be out this
night, girl. Put my coat around you, come now."
I wrapped her in it and saw with gladness her shivering cease. As I buttoned
it at her throat I marvelled at the thinness of her, and at the delicacy of her
face. In the opal light of the luminous sky her great grey eyes were
lustrous.
"Berna," I said again, "why did you come in here, why? You should have gone
back."
"Gone back," she repeated; "indeed I would have, oh, so gladly. But you don't
understandthey wouldn't let me. After they had got all his moneyand they
did
get it, though they swear he had nothingthey made me come on with
them. They said I owed them for his burial, and for the care and attention they
gave me when I was sick. They said I must come on with them and work for them. I
protested, I struggled. But what's the use? I can't do anything against them any
more. I'm weak, and I'm terribly afraid of her."
She shuddered, then a look of fear came into her eyes. I put my hand on her
arm and drew her close to me.
"I just slipped away
to-night. She thinks I'm asleep in the tent. She watches me like a cat, and will
scarce let me speak to any one. She's so big and strong, and I'm so slight and
weak. She would kill me in one of her rages. Then she tells every one I'm no
good, an ingrate, everything that's bad. Once when I threatened to run away, she
said she would accuse me of stealing and have me put in gaol. That's the kind of
woman she is."
"This is terrible, Berna. What have you been doing all the time?"
"Oh, I've been working, working for them. They've been running a little
restaurant and I've waited on table. I saw you several times, but you were
always too busy or too far away in dreams to see me, and I couldn't get a chance
to speak. But we're going down the lake to-morrow, so I thought I would just
slip away and say good-bye."
"Not good-bye," I faltered; "not good-bye."
Her tone was measured, her eyes closed almost.
"Yes, I'm afraid I must say it. When we get down there, it's good-bye,
good-bye. The less you have to do with me, the better."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean this. These people are not decent. They're vile. I must go with
them; I cannot get away. Already, though I'm as pure as your sister would be,
already my being with them has smirched me in everybody's eyes. I can see it by
the way the men look at me. No, go your way and leave me to whatever fate is in
store for me."
"Never!" I said
harshly. "What do you take me for, Berna?"
"My friend ... you know, after his death, when I was so sick, I wanted to
die. Then I got your letter, and I felt I must see you again forI thought a lot
of you. No man's ever been so kind to me as you have. They've all beenthe other
sort. I used to think of you a good deal, and I wanted to do some little thing
to show you I was really grateful. On the boat I used to notice you because you
were so quiet and abstracted. Then you were grandfather's room-mate and gentle
and kind to him. You looked different from the others, too; your eyes were
good"
"Oh, come, Berna, never mind that."
"Yes, I mean it. I just wanted to tell you the things a poor girl thought of
you. But now it's all nearly over. We've neither of us got to think of each
other any more ... and I just wanted to give you thisto remind you sometimes of
Berna."
It was a poor little locket and it contained a lock of her silken hair.
"It's worth nothing, I know, but just keep it for me."
"Indeed I will, Berna, keep it always, and wear it for you. But I can't let
you go like this. See here, girl, is there nothing I can do? Nothing? Surely
there must be some way. Berna, Berna, look at me, listen to me! Is there? What
can I do? Tell me, tell me, my girl."
She seemed to sway to me gently. Indeed I did
not intend it, but somehow she was in my arms. She
felt so slight and frail a thing, I feared to hurt her.
Then I felt her bosom heaving greatly, and I knew she was crying. For a
little I let her cry, but presently I lifted up the white face that lay on my
shoulder. It was wet with tears. Again and again I kissed her. She lay passively
in my arms. Never did she try to escape nor hide her face, but seemed to give
herself up to me. Her tears were salt upon my lips, yet her own lips were cold,
and she did not answer to my kisses.
At last she spoke. Her voice was like a little sigh.
"Oh, if it could only be!"
"What, Berna? Tell me what?"
"If you could only take me away from them, protect me, care for me. Oh, if
you could only
marry
me, make me your wife. I would be the best wife in
the world to you; I would work my fingers to the bone for you; I would starve
and suffer for you, and walk the world barefoot for your sake. Oh, my dear, my
dear, pity me!"
It seemed as if a sudden light had flashed upon my brain, stunning me,
bewildering me. I thought of the princess of my dreams. I thought of Garry and
of Mother. Could I take her to them?
"Berna," I said sternly, "look at me."
She obeyed.
"Berna, tell me, by all you regard as pure and holy, do you love me?"
She was silent and averted her eyes.
"No, Berna," I said,
"you don't; you're afraid. It's not the sort of love you've dreamed of. It's not
your ideal. It would be gratitude and affection, love of a kind, but never that
great dazzling light, that passion that would raise to heaven or drag to
hell."
"How do I know? Perhaps that would come in time. I care a great deal for you.
I think of you always. I would be a true, devoted wife"
"Yes, I know, Berna; but you don't love me, love me; see, dear. It's so
different. You might care and care till doomsday, but it wouldn't be the other
thing; it wouldn't be love as I have conceived of it, dreamed of it. Listen,
Berna! Here's where our difference in race comes in. You would rush blindly into
this. You would not consider, test and prove yourself. It's the most serious
matter in life to me, something to be looked at from every side, to be weighed
and balanced."
As I said this, my conscience was whispering fiercely: "Oh, fool! Coward!
Paltering, despicable coward! This girl throws herself on you, on your honour,
chivalry, manhood, and you screen yourself behind a barrier of convention."
However, I went on.
"You might come to love me in time, but we must wait a while, little girl.
Surely that is reasonable? I care for you a great, great deal, but I don't know
if I love you in the great way people should love. Can't we wait a little,
Berna? I'll look after you, dear; won't that do?"
She disengaged herself from me, sighing woefully.
"Yes, I suppose
that'll do. Oh, I'll never forgive myself for saying that to you. I shouldn't,
but I was so desperate. You don't know what it meant to me. Please forget it,
won't you?"
"No, Berna, I'll never forget it, and I'll always bless you for having said
it. Believe me, dear, it will all come right. Things aren't so bad. You're just
scared, little one. I'll watch no one harms you, and love will come to both of
us in good time, that love that means life and death, hate and adoration,
rapture and pain, the greatest thing in the world. Oh, my dear, my dear, trust
me! We have known each other such a brief space. Let us wait a little longer,
just a little longer."
"Yes, that's right, a little longer."
Her voice was faint and toneless. She disengaged herself.
"Now, good-night; they may have missed me."
Almost before I could realise it she had disappeared amid the tents, leaving
me there in the gloom with my heart full of doubt, self-reproach and pain.
Oh, despicable, paltering coward!
Spring in the Yukon! Majestic mountains crowned with immemorial snow! The mad
midnight melodies of birds! From the kindly stars to the leaves of grass that
glimmer in the wind, a world pregnant with joy, a land jewel-bright and
virgin-sweet!
After the obsession of the long, long night, Spring leaps into being with a
sudden sun-thrilled joy, a radiant uplift. The shy emerald mantles the valleys
and fledges the heights; the pussy-willows tremble by lake and stream; the wild
crocus brims the hollows with a haze of violet; trailing his last ragged
pennants of snow on the hills, winter makes his sullen retreat.
Perhaps I am over-sensitive, but I have ecstasied moments when to me it seems
the grass is greener, the sky bluer than they are to most; I surrender my heart
to wonder and joy; I am in tune with the triumphant cadence of Things; I am an
atom of praise; I live, therefore I exult.
Only in hyperbole could I express that golden Spring, as we set sail on the
sunlit waters of Lake Bennett. Never had I felt so glad. And indeed it was a
vastly merry mob that sailed with us, straining their eyes once more to the
Eldorado of their dreams. Bottled-up spirits effervesced wildly; hearts beat
bravely; hopes were high. The bitter landtrail
was forgotten. The clear, bright water leaped
laughingly at the bow; the gallant breeze was blowing behind. The strong men
bared their breasts and drank of it deeply.
Yes, they were the strong, the fit, suffered by the North to survive,
stiffened and braced and seasoned, the Chosen of the Test, the Proven of the
Trail. Songs of jubilation rang in the night air; men, eager-eyed and watchful,
roared snatches of melody as they toiled at sweep and oar; banjos, mandolins,
fiddles, flutes, mingled in maddest confusion. Once more the great invading army
of the Cheechakos moved forward tumultuously, but now with mirth and
rejoicing.
The great calm night was never dark, the great deep lakes infinitely serene,
the great mountains majestically solemn. In the lighted sky the pale ghost-moon
seemed ever apologising for itself. The world was a grand harmonious symphony
that even the advancing tide of the Argonauts could not mar.
Yet, under all the mirth and gaiety, you could feel, tense, ruthless and
dominant, the spirit of the trail. In that invincible onrush of human effort, as
the oars bent with their strokes of might, as the sail bellied before the
breeze, as the eager wave leapt at the bow, you could feel the passion that
quickened their hearts and steeled their arms. Klondike or bust! Once more the
slogan rang on bearded lips; once more the gold-lust smouldered in their eyes.
The old primal lust resurged: to win at any cost, to thrust down those in the
way, to fight fiercely, brutally,
even as wolf-dogs fight, this was the code, the terrible code
of the Gold-trail. The basic passions up-leapt, envy and hate and fear
triumphed, and with ever increasing excitement the great fleet of the
gold-hunters strained onward to the valley of the treasure.
Of all who had started out with us but a few had got this far. Of these
Mervin and Hewson were far in front, victors of the trail, qualified to rank
with the Men of the High North, the Sourdoughs of the Yukon Valley. Somewhere in
the fleet were the Bank clerk, the Halfbreed and Bullhammer, while three days'
start ahead were the Winklesteins.
"These Jews have the only system," commented the Prodigal; "they ran the
'Elight' Restaurant in Bennett and got action on their beans and flour and
bacon. The Madam cooked, the old man did the chores and the girl waited on
table. They've roped in a bunch of money, and now they've lit out for Dawson in
a nice, tight little scow with their outfits turned into wads of the long
green."
I kept a keen lookout for them and every day I hoped we would overtake their
scow, for constantly I thought of Berna. Her little face, so wistfully tender,
haunted me, and over and over in my mind I kept recalling our last meeting.