第 五十四 章 · BOOK IV CHAPTER VII

"Where am I?"

"Here, with me."

Low and sweet and tender was the voice. I was in bed and my head was

heavily bandaged, so that the cloths weighed upon my eyelids. It was

difficult to see, and I was too weak to raise myself, but I seemed to be

in semi-darkness. A lamp burning on a small table nearby was turned low.

By my bedside some one was sitting, and a soft, gentle hand was holding

mine.

"Where is _here_?" I asked faintly.

"Here--my cabin. Rest, dear."

"Is that you, Berna?"

"Yes, please don't talk."

I thrilled with a sudden sweetness of joy. A flood of sunshine bathed

me. It was all over, then, the turmoil, the storm, the shipwreck. I was

drifting on a tranquil ocean of content. Blissfully I closed my eyes.

Oh, I was happy, happy!

In her cabin, with her, and she was nursing me--what had happened? What

new turn of events had brought about this wonderful thing? As I lay

there in the quiet, trying to recall the something that went before, my

poor sick brain groped but feebly amid a murk of sinister shadows.

"Berna," I said, "I've had a bad dream."

"Yes, dear, you've been sick, very sick. You've had an attack of fever,

brain fever. But don't try to think, just rest quietly."

So for a while longer I lay there, thrilled with a strange new joy,

steeped in the ineffable comfort of her presence, and growing better,

stronger with every breath. Memories came thronging back, memories that

made me cringe and wince, and shudder with the shame of them. Yet ever

the thought that she was with me was like a holy blessing. Surely it was

all good since it had ended in this.

Yet there was something else, some memory darker than the others, some

shadow of shadows that baffled me. Then as I battled with a growing

terror and suspense, it all came back to me, the telegram, the news, my

collapse. A great grief welled up in me, and in my agony I spoke to the

girl.

"Berna, tell me, is it true? Is my Mother dead?"

"Yes, it's true, dear. You must try to bear it bravely."

I could feel her bending over me, could feel her hand holding mine,

could feel her hair brush my cheek, yet I forgot even her just then. I

thought only of Mother, of her devotion and of how little I had done to

deserve it. So this was the end: a narrow grave, a rending grief and the

haunting spectre of reproach.

I saw my Mother sitting at that window that faced the west, her hands

meekly folded on her lap, her eyes wistfully gazing over the grey sea. I

knew there was never a day of her life when she did not sit thus and

think of me. I could guess at the heartache that gentle face would not

betray, the longing those tender lips would not speak, the grief those

sweet eyes studied to conceal. As, sitting there in the strange clouded

sunset of my native land, she let her knitting drop on her lap, I knew

she prayed for me. Oh, Mother! Mother!

My sobs were choking me, and Berna was holding my hand very tightly. Yet

in a little I grew calmer.

"Berna," I said, "I've only got you now, only you, little girl. So you

must love me, you mustn't leave me."

"I'll never leave you--if you want me to stay."

"God bless you, dear. I can't tell you the comfort you are to me. I'll

try to be quiet now."

I will always remember those days as I grew slowly well again. The cot

in which I lay stood in the sitting-room of the cabin, and from the

window I could overlook the city. Snow had fallen, the days were diamond

bright, and the smoke ascended sharply in the glittering air. The little

room was papered with a design of wild roses that minded me of the

Whitehorse Rapids. On the walls were some little framed pictures; the

floor was carpeted in dull brown, and a little heater gave out a

pleasant warmth. Through a doorway draped with a curtain I could see her

busy in her little kitchen.

She left me much alone, alone with my thoughts. Often when all was quiet

I knew she was sitting there beyond the curtain, sitting thinking, just

as I was thinking. Quiet was the keynote of our life, quiet and

sunshine. That little cabin might have been a hundred miles from the

gold-born city, it was so quiet. Here drifted no echo of its abandoned

gaiety, its glory of demoralisation. How sweet she looked in her

spotless home attire, her neat waist, her white apron with bib and

sleeves, her general air of a little housewife. And never was there so

devoted a nurse.

Sometimes she would read to me from one of the few books I had taken

everywhere on my travels, a page or two from my beloved Stevenson, a

poem from my great-hearted Henley, a luminous passage from my Thoreau.

How those readings brought back the time when, tired of flicking the

tawny pools, I would sit on the edge of the boisterous little burn and

read till the grey shadows sifted down! I was so happy then, and I did

not know it. Now everything seemed changed. Life had lost its zest. Its

savour was no longer sweet. Its very success was more bitter than

failure. Would I ever get back that old-time rapture, that youthful joy,

that satisfaction with all the world?

It was sweet prolonging my convalescence, yet the time came when I could

no longer let her wait upon me. What was going to happen to us? I

thought of that at all times, and she knew I thought of it. Sometimes I

could see a vivid colour in her cheeks, an eager brightness in her eye.

Was ever a stranger situation? She slept in the little kitchen, and

between us there was but that curtain. The faintest draught stirred it.

There I lay through the long, long night in that quiet cabin. I heard

her breathing. Sometimes even I heard her murmur in her sleep. I knew

she was there, within a few yards of me. I thought of her always. I

loved her beyond all else on earth. I was gaining daily in health and

strength, yet not for the wealth of the world would I have passed that

little curtain. She was as safe there as if she were guarded with

swords. And she knew it.

Once when I was in agony I called to her in the night, and she came to

me. She came with a mother's tenderness, with exquisite endearments,

with the great love shining in her eyes. She leaned over me, she kissed

me. As she bent over my bed I put my arm round her. There in the

darkness were we, she and I, her kisses warm upon my lips, her hair

brushing my brow, and a great love devouring us. Oh, it was hard, but I

released her, put her from me, told her to go away.

"I'll play the game fair," I said to myself. I must be very, very

careful. Our position was full of danger. So I forced myself to be cold

to her, and she looked both surprised and pained at the change in me.

Then she seemed to put forth special efforts to please me. She changed

the fashion of her hair, she wore pretty bows of ribbon. She talked

brightly and lightly in a febrile way. She showed little coquettish

tricks of manner that were charming to my mind. Ever she looked at me

with wistful concern. Her heart was innocent, and she could not

understand my sudden coldness. Yet that night had given me a lightning

glimpse of my nature that frightened me. The girl was winsome beyond

words, and I knew I had but to say it and she would come to me. Yet I

checked myself. I retreated behind a barrier of reserve. "Play the

game," I said; "play the game."

So as I grew better and stronger she seemed to lose her cheerfulness.

Always she had that anxious, wistful look. Once came a sound from the

kitchen like stifled sobbing, and again in the night I heard her cry.

Then the time came when I was well enough to get up, to go away.

I dressed, looking like the cadaverous ghost I felt myself to be. She

was there in the kitchen, sitting quietly, waiting.

"Berna," I called.

She came, with a smile lighting up her face.

"I'm going."

The smile vanished, and left her with that high proud look, yet behind

it was a lurking fear.

"You're going?" she faltered.

"Yes," I said roughly, "I'm going."

She did not speak.

"Are you ready?" I went on.

"Ready?"

"Yes, you're going, too."

"Where?"

I took her suddenly in my arms.

"Why, you dear little angel, to get married, of course. Come on, Berna,

we'll find the nearest parson. We won't lose any more precious time."

Then a great rush of tears came into her eyes. But still she hung back.

She shook her head.

"Why, Berna, what's the matter? Won't you come?"

"I think not."

"In Heaven's name, what is wrong, dear? Don't you love me?"

"Yes, I love you. It's because I love you I won't come."

"Won't you marry me?"

"No, no, I can't. You know what I said before. I haven't changed any.

I'm still the same--dishonoured girl. You could never give me your

name."

"You're as pure as the driven snow, little one."

"No one thinks so but you, and it's that that makes all the difference.

Everybody knows. No, I could never marry you, never take your name,

never bind you to me."

"Well, what's to be done?"

"You must go away, or--stay."

"Stay?"

"Yes. You've been living alone with me for a month. I picked you up that

night in the dance-hall. I had you brought here. I nursed you. Do you

think people don't give us credit for the worst? We are as innocent as

children, yet do you think I have a shred of reputation left? Already I

am supposed to be your mistress. Everybody knows; nobody cares. There

are so many living that way here. If you told them we were innocent they

would scoff at us. If you go they will say you have discarded me."

"What shall I do?"

"Just stay. Oh, why can't we go on as we've been doing? It's been so

like home. Don't leave me, dear. I don't want to bind you. I just want

to be of some use to you, to help you, to be with you always. Love me

for a little, anyway. Then when you're tired of me you can go, but don't

go now."

I was dazed, but she went on.

"What does the ceremony matter? We love each other. Isn't that the real

marriage? It's more; it's an ideal. We'll both be free to go if we wish.

There will be no bonds but those of love. Is not that beautiful, two

people cleaving together for love's sake, living for each other,

sacrificing for each other, yet with no man-made law to tell them: 'This

must ye do'? Oh, stay, stay!"

Her arms were round my neck. The grey eyes were full of pleading. The

sweet lips had the old, pathetic droop. I yielded to the empery of love.

"Well," I said, "we will go on awhile, on one condition--that by-and-bye

you marry me."

"Yes, I will, I will; I promise. If you don't tire of me; if you are

sure beyond all doubt you will never regret it, then I will marry you

with the greatest joy in the world."

So it came about that I stayed.