The Trail of 98 (44 page)

"Yes. Garry talks of coming out. You wouldn't like him to find us living like
thiswithout benefit of the clergy?"

"Not for the world!"
she cried, in alarm.

"Well, he won't. Garry's old-fashioned and terribly conventional, but you'll
take to him at once. There's a wonderful charm about him. He's so good-looking,
yet so clever. I think he could win any woman if he tried, only he's too upright
and sincere."

"What will he think of me, I wonder, poor, ignorant me? I believe I'm afraid
of him. I wish he'd stay away and leave us alone. Yet for your sake, dear, I do
wish him to think well of me."

"Don't fear, Berna. He'll be proud of you. But there's a second reason."

"What?"

I drew her up beside me on the great Morris-chair.

"Oh, my beloved! perhaps we'll not always be alone as we are now. Perhaps,
perhaps some day there will be otherslittle onesfor their sakes."

She did not speak. I could feel her nestle closer to me. Her cheek was
pressed to mine; her hair brushed my brow and her lips were like rose-petals on
my own. So we sat there in the big, deep chair, in the glow of the open fire,
silent, dreaming, and I saw on her lashes the glimmer of a glorious tear.

"Why do you cry, beloved?"

"Because I'm so happy. I never thought I could be so happy. I want it to last
forever, I never want to leave this little cabin of ours. It will always be home
to me. I love it; oh, how I love it!every stick and stone of it! This dear
little roomthere
will
never be another like it in the world. Some day we may have a fine home, but I
think I'll always leave some of my heart here in the little cabin."

I kissed away her tears. Foolish tears! I blessed her for them. I held her
closer to me. I was wondrous happy. No longer did the shadow of the past hang
over us. Even as children forget, were we forgetting. Outside the winter's day
was waning fast. The ruddy firelight danced around us. It flickered on the
walls, the open piano, the glass front of the bookcase. It lit up the Indian
corner, the lounge with its cushions and brass reading-lamp, the rack of music,
the pictures, the lace curtains, the gleaming little bit of embroidery. Yes, to
me, too, these things were wistfully precious, for it seemed as if part of her
had passed into them. It would have been like tearing out my heart-strings to
part with the smallest of them.

"
Husband
, I'm so happy," she sighed.

"Wife, dear, dear wife, I too."

There was no need for words. Our lips met in passionate kisses, but the next
moment we started apart. Some one was coming up the garden patha tall figure of
a man. I started as if I had seen a ghost. Could it be?then I rushed to the
door.

There on the porch stood Garry.

As he stood before me once again it seemed as if the years had rolled away,
and we were boys together. A spate of tender memories came over me, memories of
the days of dreams and high resolves, when life rang true, when men were brave
and women pure. Once more I stood upon that rock-envisaged coast, while below me
the yeasty sea charged with a roar the echoing caves. The gulls were glinting in
the sunshine, and by their little brown-thatched homes the fishermen were
spreading out their nets. High on the hillside in her garden I could see my
mother idling among her flowers. It all came back to me, that sunny shore, the
whitewashed cottages, the old grey house among the birches, the lift of
sheep-starred pasture, and above it the glooming dark of the heather hills.

And it was but three years ago. How life had changed! A thousand things had
happened. Fortune had come to me, love had come to me. I had lived, I had
learned. I was no longer a callow, uncouth lad. Yet, alas! I no longer looked
futurewards with joy; the savour of life was no more sweet. It was another "me"
I saw in my mirror that day, a "me" with a face sorely lined, with hair
grey-flecked, with eyes sad and bitter. Little wonder Garry, as he stood there,
stared at me so sorrowfully.

"How you've changed,
lad!" said he at last.

"Have I, Garry? You're just about the same."

But indeed he, too, had changed, had grown finer than my fondest thoughts of
him. He seemed to bring into the room the clean, sweet breath of Glengyle, and I
looked at him with admiration in my eyes. Coming out of the cold, his colour was
dazzling as that of a woman; his deep blue eyes sparkled; his fair silky hair,
from the pressure of his cap, was moulded to the shape of his fine head. Oh, he
was handsome, this brother of mine, and I was proud, proud of him!

"By all that's wonderful, what brought you here?"

His teeth flashed in that clever, confident smile.

"The stage. I just arrived a few minutes ago, and hurried here at once.
Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Glad? Yes, indeed! I can't tell you how glad. But it's a shock to me your
coming so suddenly. You might have let me know."

"Yes, it was a sudden resolve; I should have wired you. However, I thought I
would give you a surprise. How are you, old man?"

"Meoh, I'm all right, thanks."

"Why, what's the matter with you, lad? You look ten years older. You look
older than your big brother now."

"Yes, I daresay. It's the life, it's the land. A hard life and a hard
land."

"Why don't you go out?"

"I don't know, I
don't know. I keep on planning to go out and then something turns up, and I put
it off a little longer. I suppose I ought to go, but I'm tied up with mining
interests. My partner is away in the East, and I promised to stay in and look
after things. I'm making money, you see."

"Not sacrificing your youth and health for that, are you?"

"I don't know, I don't know."

There was a puzzled look in his frank face, and for my part I was strangely
ill at ease. With all my joy at his coming, there was a sense of anxiety, even
of fear. I had not wanted him to come just then, to see me there. I was not
ready for him. I had planned otherwise.

He was fixing me with a clear, penetrating look. For a moment his eyes seemed
to bore into me, then like a flash the charm came back into his face. He laughed
that ringing laugh of his.

"Well, I was tired of roaming round the old place. Things are in good order
now. I've saved a little money and I thought I could afford to travel a little,
so I came up to see my wandering brother, and his wonderful North."

His gaze roved round the room. Suddenly it fell on the piece of embroidery.
He started slightly and I saw his eyes narrow, his mouth set. His glance shifted
to the piano with its litter of music. He looked at me again, in an odd,
bewildered way. He went on speaking, but there was a queer constraint in his
manner.

"I'm going to stay
here for a month, and then I want you to come back with me. Come back home and
get some of the old colour into your cheeks. The country doesn't agree with you,
but we'll have you all right pretty soon. We'll have you flogging the trout
pools and tramping over the heather with a gun. You remember howwhir-r-rthe
black-cock used to rise up right at one's very feet. They've been very plentiful
the last two years. Oh, we'll have the good old times over again! You'll see,
we'll soon put you right."

"It's good of you, Garry, to think so much of me; but I'm afraid, I'm afraid
I can't come just yet. I've got so much to do. I've got thirty men working for
me. I've just got to stay."

He sighed.

"Well, if you stay I'll stay, too. I don't like the way you're looking.
You're working too hard. Perhaps I can help you."

"All right; I'm afraid you'll find it rather awful, though. No one lives up
here in winter if they possibly can avoid it. But for a time it will interest
you."

"I think it will." And again his eyes stared fixedly at that piece of
embroidery on its little hoop.

"I'm terribly, glad to see you anyway, Garry. There's no use talking, words
can't express things like that between us two. You know what I mean. I'm glad to
see you, and I'll do my best to make your visit a happy one."

Between the curtains that hung over the bedroom
door I could see Berna standing motionless. I
wondered if he could see her too. His eyes followed mine. They rested on the
curtains and the strong, stern look came into his face. Yet again he banished it
with a sunny smile.

"Mother's one regret was that you were not with her when she died. Do you
know, old man, I think she was always fonder of you than of me? You were the
sentimental one of the family, and Mother was always a gentle dreamer. I took
more after Dad; dry and practical, you know. Well, Mother used to worry a good
deal about you. She missed you dreadfully, and before she died she made me
promise I'd always stand by you, and look after you if anything happened."

"There's not much need of that, Garry. But thanks all the same, old man. I've
seen a lot in the past few years. I know something of the world now. I've
changed. I'm sort of disillusioned. I seem to have lost my zest for thingsbut I
know how to handle men, how to fight and how to win."

"It's not that, lad. You know that to win is often to lose. You were never
made for the fight, my brother. It's all been a mistake. You're too sensitive,
too high-strung for a fighting-man. You have too much sentiment in you. Your
spirit urged you to fields of conquest and romance, yet by nature you were
designed for the gentler life. If you could have curbed your impulse and only
dreamed your adventures, you would have been the happier. Imagination's been a
curse to you, boy.
You've tortured yourself all these years, and now you're
paying the penalty."

"What penalty?"

"You've lost your splendid capacity for happiness; your health's undermined;
your faith in mankind is destroyed. Is it worth while? You've plunged into the
fight and you've won. What does your victory mean? Can it compare with what
you've lost? Here, I haven't a third of what you have, and yet I'm magnificently
happy. I don't envy you. I am going to enjoy every moment of my life. Oh, my
brother, you've been making a sad mistake, but it's not too late! You're young,
young. It's not too late."

Then I saw that his words were true. I saw that I had never been meant for
the fierce battle of existence. Like those high-strung horses that were the
first to break their hearts on the trail, I was unsuited for it all. Far better
would I have been living the sweet, simple life of my forefathers. My spirit had
upheld me, but now I knew there was a poison in my veins, that I was a sick man,
that I had played the game and wonat too great a cost. I was like a sprinter
that breasts the tape, only to be carried fainting from the field. Alas! I had
gained success only to find it was another name for failure.

"Now," said Garry, "you must come home. Back there on the countryside we can
find you a sweet girl to marry. You will love her, have children and forget all
this. Come."

I rose. I could no longer put it off.

"Excuse me one
moment," I said. I parted the curtains and entered the bedroom.

She was standing there, white to the lips and trembling. She looked at me
piteously.

"I'm afraid," she faltered.

"Be brave, little girl," I whispered, leading her forward. Then I threw aside
the curtain.

"Garry," I said, "this isthis is Berna."

Garry, Bernathere they stood, face to face at last. Long ago I had visioned
this meeting, planned for, yet dreaded it, and now with utter suddenness it had
come.

The girl had recovered her calm, and I must say she bore herself well. In her
clinging dress of simple white her figure was as slimly graceful as that of a
wood-nymph, her head poised as sweetly as a lily on its stem. The fair hair
rippled away in graceful lines from the fine brow, and as she gazed at my
brother there was a proud, high look in her eyes.

And Garryhis smile had vanished. His face was cold and stern. There was a
stormy antagonism in his bearing. No doubt he saw in her a creature who was
preying on me, an influence for evil, an overwhelming indictment against me of
sin and guilt. All this I read in his eyes; then Berna advanced to him with
outstretched hand.

"How do you do? I've heard so much about you I feel as if I'd known you long
ago."

She was so winning, I could see he was quite taken aback. He took the little
white hand and looked down from his splendid height to the sweet eyes that gazed
into his. He bowed with icy politeness.

"I feel flattered, I
assure you, that my brother should have mentioned me to you."

Here he shot a dark look at me.

"Sit down again, Garry," I said. "Berna and I want to talk to you."

He complied, but with an ill grace. We all three sat down and a grave
constraint was upon us. Berna broke the silence.

"What sort of a trip have you had?"

He looked at her keenly. He saw a simple girl, shy and sweet, gazing at him
with a flattering interest.

"Oh, not so bad. Travelling sixty miles a day on a jolting stage gets
monotonous, though. The road-houses were pretty decent as a rule, but some were
vile. However, it's all new and interesting to me."

"You will stay with us for a time, won't you?"

He favoured me with another grim look.

"Well, that all dependsI haven't quite decided yet. I want to take Athol
here home with me."

"Home" There was a pathetic catch in her voice. Her eyes went round the
little room that meant "home" to her.

"Yes, that will be nice," she faltered. Then, with a brave effort, she broke
into a lively conversation about the North. As she talked an inspiration seemed
to come to her. A light beaconed in her eyes. Her face, fine as a cameo, became
eager, rapt.
She was
telling him of the magical summers, of the midnight sunsets, of the glorious
largess of the flowers, of the things that meant so much to her. She was
wonderfully animated. As I watched her I thought what a perfect little lady she
was; and I felt proud of her.