الفصل الفصل 55 · BOOK IV CHAPTER VIII

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

again--well, 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.

"Then," said I to Berna, "we'll go and travel all over the world, and do

it in style."

"Will we, dear?" she answered tenderly. "But I don't want money much

now, and I don't know that I care so much about travel either. What I

would like would be to go to your home, and settle down and live

quietly. What I want is a nice flower garden, and a pony to drive into

town, and a home to fuss about. I would embroider, and read, and play a

little, and cook things, and--just be with you."

She was greatly interested in my description of Glengyle. She never

tired of questioning me about it. Particularly was she interested in my

accounts of Garry, and rather scoffed at my enthusiastic description of

him.

"Oh, that wonderful brother of yours! One would think he was a small

god, to hear you talk. I declare I'm half afraid of him. Do you think he

would like me?"

"He would love you, little girl; any one would."

"Don't be foolish," she chided me. And then she drew my head down and

kissed me.

I think we had the prettiest little cabin in all Dawson. The big logs

were peeled smooth, and the ends squarely cut. The chinks were filled in

with mortar. The whole was painted a deep rich crimson. The roof was

covered with sheet-iron, and it, too, was painted crimson. There was a

deep porch to it. It was the snuggest, neatest little home in the world.

Windows hung with dainty lace curtains peeped through its clustering

greenery of vines, but the glory of it all was the flower garden. There

was a bewildering variety of flowers, but mostly I remember stocks and

pinks, Iceland poppies, marguerites, asters, marigolds, verbenas,

hollyhocks, pansies and petunias, growing in glorious profusion. Even

the roughest miner would stand and stare at them as he tramped past on

the board sidewalk.

They were a mosaic of glowing colour, yet the crowning triumph was the

poppies and sweet peas. Set in the centre of the lawn was a circle that

was a leaping glow of poppies. Of every shade were they, from starry

pink to luminous gold, from snowy white to passionate crimson. Like

vari-coloured lamps they swung, and wakened you to wonder and joy with

the exultant challenge of their beauty. And the sweet peas! All up the

south side of the cabin they grew, overtopping the eaves in their

riotous perfection. They rivalled the poppies in the radiant confusion

of their colour, and they were so lavish of blossom we could not pick

them fast enough. I think ours was the pioneer garden of the gold-born

city, and awakened many to the growth-giving magic of the long, long

day.

And it was the joy and pride of Berna's heart. I would sit on the porch

of a summer's evening when down the mighty Yukon a sunset of vast and

violent beauty flamed and languished, and I would watch her as she

worked among her flowers. I can see her flitting figure in a dress of

dainty white as she hovered over a beautiful blossom. I can hear her

calling me, her voice like the music of a flute, calling me to come and

see some triumph of her skill. I have a picture of her coming towards me

with her arms full of flowers, burying her face lovingly among the

velvet petals, and raising it again, the sweetest flower of all. How

radiantly outshone her eyes, and her face, delicate as a cameo, seemed

to have stolen the fairest tints of the lily and the rose.

Starry vines screened the porch, and everywhere were swinging baskets of

silver birch, brimming over with the delicate green of smilax or clouded

in an amethystine mist of lobelias. I can still see the little

sitting-room with its piano, its plenitude of cushions, its book-rack,

its Indian corner, its tasteful paper, its pictures, and always and

everywhere flowers, flowers. The air was heavy with the fragrance of

them. They glorified the crudest corner, and made our home like a nook

in fairyland.

I remember one night as I sat reading she came to me. Never did I see

her look so happy. She was almost childlike in her joy. She sat down by

my chair and looked up at me. Then she put her arms around me.

"Oh, I'm so happy," she said with a sigh.

"Are you, dearest?" I caressed the soft floss of her hair.

"Yes, I just wish we could live like this forever;" and she nestled up

to me ever so fondly.

Aye, she was happy, and I will always bless the memory of those days,

and thank God I was the means of bringing a little gladness into her

marred life. She was happy, and yet we were living in what society would

call sin. Conventionally we were not man and wife, yet never were man

and wife more devoted, more self-respecting. Never were man and wife

endowed with purer ideals, with a more exalted conception of the

sanctity of love. Yet there were many in the town not half so delicate,

so refined, so spiritual, who would have passed my little lady like a

pariah. But what cared we?

And perhaps it was the very greatness of my love for her that sometimes

made me fear; so that often in the ecstasy of a moment I would catch my

breath and wonder if it all could last. And when the poplars turned to

gold, and up the valley stole a shuddering breath of desolation, my fear

grew apace. The sky was all resplendent with the winter stars, and keen

and hard their facets sparkled. And I knew that somewhere underneath

those stars there slept Locasto. But was it the sleep of the living or

of the dead? Would he return?