Bab Bab 21 · BOOK II CHAPTER XI

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 again--but 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 understand--they wouldn't let me. After they had got all his

money--and they _did_ get it, though they swear he had nothing--they

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 for--I

thought a lot of you. No man's ever been so kind to me as you have.

They've all been--the 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 this--to

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!