Chapter Chapter 14 · BOOK II CHAPTER IV

She came to meet me, lily-white and sweet. She was but thinly wrapped,

and shivered so that I put my coat around her. We ventured forward,

climbing over a huge anchor to the very bow of the boat, and crouching

down in its peak, were sheltered from the cold breeze.

We were cutting through smooth water, and crowding in on us were haggard

mountains, with now and then the greenish horror of a glacier. Overhead,

in the desolate sky, the new moon nursed the old moon in her arms.

"Berna!"

"Yes."

"You're not happy, Berna. You're in sore trouble, little girl. I don't

know why you come up to this God-forsaken country or why you are with

those people. I don't want to know; but if there's anything I can do for

you, any way I can prove myself a true friend, tell me, won't you?"

My voice betrayed emotion. I could feel her slim form, very close to me,

all a-tremble. In the filtered silver of the crescent moon, I could see

her face, wan and faintly sweet. Gently I prisoned one of her hands in

mine.

She did not speak at once. Indeed, she was quiet for a long time, so

that it seemed as if she must be stricken dumb, or as if some feelings

were conflicting within her. Then at last, very gently, very quietly,

very sweetly, as if weighing her words, she spoke.

"No, there's nothing you can do. You've been too kind all along. You're

the only one on the boat that's been kind. Most of the others have

looked at me--well, you know how men look at a poor, unprotected girl.

But you, you're different; you're good, you're honourable, you're

sincere. I could see it in your face, in your eyes. I knew I could trust

you. You've been kindness itself to grandfather and I, and I never can

thank you enough."

"Nonsense! Don't talk of thanks, Berna. You don't know what a happiness

it's been to help you. I'm sorry I've done so little. Oh, I'm going to

be sincere and frank with you. The few hours I've had with you have made

me long for others. I'm a lonely beggar. I never had a sister, never a

girl friend. You're the first, and it's been like sudden sunshine to me.

Now, can't I be really and truly your friend, Berna; your friend that

would do much for you? Let me do something, anything, to show how

earnestly I mean it?"

"Yes, I know. Well, then, you are my dear, true friend--there, now."

"Yes,--but, Berna! To-morrow you'll go and we'll likely never see each

other again. What's the good of it all?"

"Well, what do you want? We will both have a memory, a very sweet, nice

memory, won't we? Believe me, it's better so. You don't want to have

anything to do with a girl like me. You don't know anything about me,

and you see the kind of people I'm going with. Perhaps I am just as bad

as they."

"Don't say that, Berna," I interposed sternly; "you're all that's good

and pure and sweet."

"No, I'm not, either. We're all of us pretty mixed. But I'm not so bad,

and it's nice of you to think those things.... Oh! if I had never come

on this terrible trip! I don't even know where we are going, and I'm

afraid, afraid."

"No, little girl."

"Yes, I can't tell you how afraid I am. The country's so savage and

lonely; the men are so like brute beasts; the women--well, they're

worse. And here are we in the midst of it. I don't know what's going to

become of us."

"Well, Berna, if it's like that, why don't you and your grandfather turn

back? Why go on?"

"He will never turn back. He'll go on till he dies. He only knows one

word of English and that's Klondike, Klondike. He mutters it a thousand

times a day. He has visions of gold, glittering heaps of it, and he'll

stagger and struggle on till he finds it."

"But can't you reason with him?"

"Oh, it's all no use. He's had a dream. He's like a man that's crazy. He

thinks he has been chosen, and that to him will a great treasure be

revealed. You might as well reason with a stone. All I can do is to

follow him, is to take care of him."

"What about the Winklesteins, Berna?"

"Oh, they're at the bottom of it all. It is they who have inflamed his

mind. He has a little money, the savings of a lifetime, about two

thousand dollars; and ever since he came to this country, they've been

trying to get it. They ran a little restaurant in New York. They tried

to get him to put his little store in that. Now they are using the gold

as a bait, and luring him up here. They'll rob and kill him in the end,

and the cruel part is--he's not greedy, he doesn't want it for

himself--but for me. That's what breaks my heart."

"Surely you're mistaken, Berna; they can't be so bad as that."

"Bad! I tell you they're _vile_. The man's a worm, and the woman, she's

a devil incarnate. She's so strong and so violent in her tempers that

when she gets drinking--well, it's just awful. I should know it, I lived

with them for three years."

"Where?"

"In New York. I came from the old country to them. They worked me in the

restaurant at first. Then, after a bit, I got employment in a

shirt-waist factory. I was quick and handy, and I worked early and late.

I attended a night school. I read till my eyes ached. They said I was

clever. The teacher wanted me to train and be a teacher too. But what

was the good of thinking of it? I had my living to get, so I stayed at

the factory and worked and worked. Then when I had saved a few dollars,

I sent for grandfather, and he came and we lived in the tenement and

were very happy for a while. But the Winklesteins never gave us any

peace. They knew he had a little money laid away, and they itched to get

their hands on it. The man was always telling us of get-rich-quick

schemes, and she threatened me in horrible ways. But I wasn't afraid in

New York. Up here it's different. It's all so shadowy and sinister."

I could feel her shudder.

"Oh, Berna," I said, "can't I help you?"

She shook her head sadly.

"No, you can't; you have enough trouble of your own. Besides it doesn't

matter about me. I didn't mean to tell you all this, but now, if you

want to be a true friend, just go away and forget me. You don't want to

have anything to do with me. Wait! I'll tell you something more. I'm

called Berna Wilovich. That's my grandfather's name. My mother ran away

from home. Two years later she came back--with me. Soon after she died

of consumption. She would never tell my father's name, but said he was a

Christian, and of good family. My grandfather tried to find out. He

would have killed the man. So, you see, I am nameless, a child of shame

and sorrow. And you are a gentleman, and proud of your family. Now, see

the kind of friend you've made. You don't want to make friends with such

as I."

"I want to make friends with such as need my friendship. What is going

to happen to you, Berna?"

"Happen! God knows! It doesn't matter. Oh, I've always been in trouble.

I'm used to it. I never had a really happy day in my life. I never

expect to. I'll just go on to the end, enduring patiently, and getting

what comfort I can out of things. It's what I was made for, I suppose."

She shrugged her shoulders and shivered a little.

"Let me go now, my friend. It's cold up here; I'm chilled. Don't look so

terribly downcast. I expect I'll come out all right. Something may

happen. Cheer up! Maybe you'll see me a Klondike queen yet."

I could see that her sudden brightness but hid a black abyss of

bitterness and apprehension. What she had told me had somehow stricken

me dumb. There seemed a stark sordidness in the situation that repelled

me. She had arisen and was about to step over the fluke of the great

anchor, when I aroused myself.

"Berna," I said, "what you have told me wrings my heart. I can't tell

you how terribly sorry I feel. Is there nothing I can do for you,

nothing to show I am not a mere friend of words and phrases? Oh, I hate

to let you go like this."

The moon had gone behind a cloud. We were in a great shadow. She halted,

so that, as we stood, we were touching each other. Her voice was full of

pathetic resignation.

"What can you do? If we were going in together it might be different.

When I met you at first I hoped, oh, I hoped--well, it doesn't matter

what I hoped. But, believe me, I'll be all right. You won't forget me,

will you?"

"Forget you! No, Berna, I'll never forget you. It cuts me to the heart I

can do nothing now, but we'll meet up there. We can't be divided for

long. And you'll be all right, believe me too, little girl. Be good and

sweet and true and every one will love and help you. Ah, you must go.

Well, well--God bless you, Berna."

"And I wish you happiness and success, dear friend of mine."

Her voice trembled. Something seemed to choke her. She stood a moment as

if reluctant to go.

Suddenly a great impulse of tenderness and pity came over me, and before

I knew it, my arms were around her. She struggled faintly, but her face

was uplifted, her eyes starlike. Then, for a moment of bewildering

ecstasy, her lips lay on mine, and I felt them faintly answer.

Poor yielding lips! They were cold as ice.