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Authors: Robert W Service
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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 audienceso 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.
----
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 bestricken 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
mewell, you know how men look at a poor, unprotected girl. But you, you're
different; you're good, you're
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 audienceso 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.
----
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 bestricken 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
mewell, you know how men look at a poor, unprotected girl. But you, you're
different; you're good, you're
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