Bab Bab 13 · BOOK II CHAPTER III

Puget Sound was behind us and we had entered on that great sea that

stretched northward to the Arctic barrens. Misty and wet was the wind,

and cold with the kiss of many icebergs. Under a grey sky, glooming to

purple, the gelid water writhed nakedly. Spectral islands elbowed each

other, to peer at us as we flitted past. Still more wraithlike the

mainland, fringed to the sea foam with saturnine pine, faded away into

fastnesses of impregnable desolation. There was a sense of deathlike

passivity in the land, of overwhelming vastitude, of unconquerable

loneliness. It was as if I had felt for the first time the Spirit of the

Wild; the Wild where God broods amid His silence; the Wild, His infinite

solace and His sanctuary.

As we forged through the vague sea lanes, we were like a glittering

trinket on the bosom of the night. Our mad merriment scarce ever abated.

We were a blare of revelry and a blaze of light. Excitement mounted to

fever heat. In the midst of it the women with the enamelled cheeks

reaped a bountiful harvest. I marvel now that, with all the besotted

recklessness of those that were our pilots, we met with no serious

mishap.

"Don't mind you much of a Sunday-school picnic, does it?" commented the

Prodigal. "It's fierce the way the girls are prying some of these crazy

jays loose from their wads. They're all plumb batty. I'm tired trying to

wise them up. 'Go and chase yourself,' they say; 'we're all right. Don't

matter if we do loosen up a bit now, there's all kinds of easy money

waiting for us up there.' Then they talk of what they're going to do

when they've got the dough. One gazebo wants to buy a castle in the old

country; another wants a racing stable; another a steam yacht. Oh,

they're a hot bunch of sports. They're all planning to have a purple

time in the sweet by-and-bye. I don't hear any of them speak of endowing

a home for decrepit wash-ladies or pensioning off their aged

grandmothers. They make me sick. There's a cold juicy awakening coming."

He was right. In their visionary leaps to affluence they soared to giddy

heights. They strutted and bragged as if the millions were already

theirs. To hear them, you would think they had an exclusive option on

the treasure-troves of the Klondike. Yet, before and behind us, were

dozens of similar vessels, bearing just as eager a mob of

fortune-hunters, all drawn irresistibly northward by the Golden Magnet.

Nevertheless, it was hard not to be affected by the prevailing spirit of

optimism. For myself the gold had but little attraction, but the

adventure was very dear to my heart. Once more the clarion call of

Romance rang in my ears, and I leapt to its summons. And indeed, I

reflected, it was a wonderful kaleidoscope of a world, wherein I, but a

half-year back cooling my heels in a highland burn, should be now part

and parcel of this great Argonaut army. Already my native uncouthness

was a thing of the past, and the quaint mannerisms of my Scots tongue

were yielding to the racy slang of the frontier. More to the purpose,

too, I was growing in strength and wiry endurance. As I looked around me

I realised that there were many less fitted for the trail than I, and

there was none with such a store of glowing health. You may picture me

at this time, a tallish young man, with a fine colour in my cheeks,

black hair that curled crisply, and dark eyes that were either alight

with eagerness or agloom with dreams.

I have said that we were all more or less in a ferment of excitement,

but to this I must make a reservation. One there was who, amid all our

unrest, remained cold, distant and alien--the Jewish girl, Berna. Even

in the old man the gold fever betrayed itself in a visionary eye and a

tremor of the lips; but the girl was a statue of patient resignation, a

living reproof to our febrile and purblind imaginings.

The more I studied her, the more out of place she seemed in my picture,

and, almost unconsciously, I found myself weaving about her a fabric of

romance. I endowed her with a mystery that piqued and fascinated me, yet

without it I have no doubt I would have been attracted to her. I longed

to know her uncommon well, to win her regard, to do something for her

that should make her eyes rest very kindly on me. In short, as is the

way of young men, I was beginning to grope blindly for that affection

and sympathy which are the forerunners of passion and love.

The land was wintry and the wind shrilled so that the attendant gulls

flapped their wings hard in the face of it. The wolf-pack of the sea

were snarling whitely as they ran. The decks were deserted, and so many

of the brawlers were sick and lay like dead folk that it almost seemed

as if a Sabbath quiet lay on the ship. That day I had missed the old

man, and on going below, found him lying as one sore stricken. A

withered hand lay on his brow, and from his lips, which were almost

purple, thin moans issued.

"Poor old beggar," I thought; "I wonder if I cannot do anything for

him." And while I was thus debating, a timid knock came to the door. I

opened it, and there was the girl, Berna.

There was a nervous anxiety in her manner, and a mute interrogation in

her grey eyes.

"I'm afraid he's a little sick to-day," I said gently; "but come in,

won't you, and see him?"

"Thank you." Pity, tenderness and love seemed to struggle in her face as

she softly brushed past me. With some words of endearment, she fell on

her knees beside him, and her small white hand sought his thin gnarled

one. As if galvanised into life, the old man turned gratefully to her.

"Maybe he would care for some coffee," I said. "I think I could rustle

him some."

She gave me a queer, sad look of thanks.

"If you could," she answered.

When I returned she had the old man propped up with pillows. She took

the coffee from me, and held the cup to his lips; but after a few sips

he turned away wearily.

"I'm afraid he doesn't care for that," I said.

"No, I'm afraid he won't take it."

She was like an anxious nurse hovering over a patient. She thought a

while.

"Oh, if I only had some fruit!"

Then it was I bethought me of the box of grapes. I had bought them just

before leaving, thinking they would be a grateful surprise to my

companions. Obviously I had been inspired, and now I produced them in

triumph, big, plump, glossy fellows, buried in the fragrant cedar dust.

I shook clear a large bunch, and once more we tried the old man. It

seemed as if we had hit on the one thing needful, for he ate eagerly.

She watched him for a while with a growing sense of relief, and when he

had finished and was resting quietly, she turned to me.

"I don't know how I can thank you, sir, for your kindness."

"Very easily," I said quickly; "if you will yourself accept some of the

fruit, I shall be more than repaid."

She gave me a dubious look; then such a bright, merry light flashed into

her eyes that she was radiant in my sight. It was as if half a dozen

years had fallen from her, revealing a heart capable of infinite joy and

happiness.

"If you will share them with me," she said simply.

So, for the lack of chairs, we squatted on the narrow stateroom floor,

under the old man's kindly eye. The fruit minded us of sunlit vines, and

the careless rapture of the South. To me the situation was one of rare

charm. She ate daintily, and as we talked, I studied her face as if I

would etch it on my memory forever.

In particular I noticed the wistful contour of her cheek, her sensitive

mouth, and the fine modelling of her chin. She had clear, candid eyes

and sweeping lashes, too. Her ears were shell-like, and her hair soft,

wavy and warm. These things I marked minutely, thinking she was more

than beautiful--she was even pretty. I was in a state of extraordinary

elation, like a man that has found a jewel in the mire.

It must be remembered, lest I appear to be taking a too eager interest

in the girl, that up till now the world of woman had been _terra

incognita_ to me; that I had lived a singularly cloistered life, and

that first and last I was an idealist. This girl had distinction,

mystery and charm, and it is not to be wondered at that I found a joy in

her presence. I proved myself a perfect artesian well of conversation,

talking freely of the ship, of our fellow-passengers and of the chances

of the venture. I found her wonderfully quick in the uptake. Her mind

seemed nimbly to outrun mine, and she divined my words ere I had them

uttered. Yet she never spoke of herself, and when I left them together I

was full of uneasy questioning.

Next day the old man was still abed, and again the girl came to visit

him. This time I noticed that much of her timid manner was gone, and in

its stead was a shy friendliness. Once more the box of grapes proved a

mediator between us, and once more I found in her a reticent but

sympathetic audience--so much so that I was frank in telling her of

myself, my home and my kinsfolk. I thought that maybe my talk would

weary her, but she listened with a bright-eyed regard, nodding her head

eagerly at times. Yet she spoke no word of her own affairs, so that when

again I left them together I was as much in the dark as ever.

It was on the third day I found the old man up and dressed, and Berna

with him. She looked brighter and happier than I had yet seen her, and

she greeted me with a smiling face. Then, after a little, she said:

"My grandfather plays the violin. Would you mind if he played over some

of our old-country songs? It would comfort him."

"No, go ahead," I said; "I wish he would."

So she got an ancient violin, and the old man cuddled it lovingly and

played soft, weird melodies, songs of the Czech race, that made me think

of Romance, of love and hate, and passion and despair. Piece after

piece he played, as if pouring out the sadness and heart-hunger of a

burdened people, until my own heart ached in sympathy.

The wild music throbbed with passionate sweetness and despair.

Unobserved, the pale twilight stole into the little cabin. The ruggedly

fine face of the old man was like one inspired, and with clasped hands,

the girl sat, very white-faced and motionless. Then I saw a gleam on her

cheek, the soft falling of tears. Somehow, at that moment, I felt drawn

very near to those two, the music, the tears, the fervent sadness of

their faces. I felt as if I had been allowed to share with them a few

moments consecrated to their sorrow, and that they knew I understood.

That day as I was leaving, I said to her:

"Berna, this is our last night on board."

"Yes."

"To-morrow our trails divide, maybe never again to cross. Will you come

up on deck for a little while to-night? I want to talk to you."

"Talk to me?"

She looked startled, incredulous. She hesitated.

"Please, Berna, it's the last time."

"All right," she answered in a low tone.

Then she looked at me curiously.