The Trail of 98 (45 page)

He was listening carefully, with evident interest. Gradually his look of
stern antagonism had given way to one of attention. Yet I could see he was not
listening so much to her as he was studying her. His intent gaze never moved
from her face.

Then I talked a while. The darkness had descended upon us, but the embers in
the open fireplace lighted the room with a rosy glow. I could not see his eyes
now, but I knew he was still watching us keenly. He merely answered "yes" and
"no" to our questions, and his voice was very grave. Then, after a little, he
rose to go.

"I'll return to the hotel with you," I said.

Berna gave us a pathetically anxious little look. There was a red spot on
each cheek and her eyes were bright. I could see she wanted to cry.

"I'll be back in half an hour, dear," I said, while Garry gravely shook hands
with her.

We did not speak on the way to his room. When we reached it he switched on
the light and turned to me.

"Brother, who's this girl?"

"She'sshe's my housekeeper. That's all I can say at present, Garry."

"Married?"

"No."

"Good God!"

Stormily he paced the floor, while I watched him with a great calm. At last
he spoke.

"Tell me about her."

"Sit down, Garry; light a cigar. We may as well talk this thing over
quietly."

"All right. Who is she?"

"Berna," I said, lighting my cigar, "is a Jewess. She was born of an unwed
mother, and reared in the midst of misery and corruption."

He stared at me. His mouth hardened; his brow contracted.

"But," I went on, "I want to say this. You remember, Garry, Mother used to
tell us of our sister who died when she was a baby. I often used to dream of my
dead sister, and in my old, imaginative days I used to think she had never died
at all, but she had grown up and was with us. How we would have loved her, would
we not, Garry? Well, I tell you thisif our sister had grown up she could have
been no sweeter, purer, gentler than this girl of mine, this Berna."

He smiled ironically.

"Then," he said, "if she is so wonderful, why, in the name of Heaven, haven't
you married her?"

His manner towards her in the early part of the interview had hurt me, had
roused in me a certain perversity. I determined to stand by my guns.

"Marriage," said I,
"isn't everything; often isn't anything. Love is, and always will be, the great
reality. It existed long before marriage was ever thought of. Marriage is a good
thing. It protects the wife and the children. As a rule, it enforces constancy.
But there's a higher ideal of human companionship that is based on love alone,
love so perfect, so absolute that legal bondage insults it; love that is its own
justification. Such a love is ours."

The ironical look deepened to a sneer.

"And look you here, Garry," I went on; "I am living in Dawson in what you
would call 'shame.' Well, let me tell you, there's not ninety-nine in a hundred
legally married couples that have formed such a sweet, love-sanctified union as
we have. That girl is purest gold, a pearl of untold price. There has never been
a jar in the harmony of our lives. We love each other absolutely. We trust and
believe in each other. We would make any sacrifice for each other. And, I say it
again, our marriage is tenfold holier than ninety-nine out of a hundred of those
performed with all the pomp of surplice and sacristy."

"Oh, man! man!" he said crushingly, "what's got into you? What nonsense, what
clap-trap is this? I tell you that the old way, the way that has stood for
generations, is the best, and it's a sorry day I find a brother of mine talking
such nonsense. I'm almost glad Mother's dead. It would surely have broken her
heart to know that her son was living in sin and shame, living with a"

"Easy now, Garry," I
cautioned him. We faced each other with the table between us.

"I'm going to have my say out. I've come all this way to say it, and you've
got to hear me. You're my brother. God knows I love you. I promised I'd look
after you, and now I'm going to save you if I can."

"Garry," I broke in, "I'm younger than you, and I respect you; but in the
last few years I've grown to see things different from the way we were taught;
broader, clearer, saner, somehow. We can't always follow in the narrow path of
our forefathers. We must think and act for ourselves in these days. I see no sin
and shame in what I'm doing. We love each otherthat is our vindication. It's a
pure, white light that dims all else. If you had seen and striven and suffered
as I have done, you might think as I do. But you've got your smug old-fashioned
notions. You gaze at the trees so hard you can't see the forest. Yours is an
ideal, too; but mine is a purer, more exalted one."

"Balderdash!" he cried. "Oh, you anger me! Look here, Athol, I came all this
way to see you about this matter. It's a long way to come, but I knew my brother
was needing me and I'd have gone round the world for you. You never told me
anything of this girl in your letters. You were ashamed."

"I knew I could never make you understand."

"You might have tried. I'm not so dense in the understanding. No, you would
not tell me, and I've had letters, warning letters. It was left to other
people to tell me how you
drank and gambled and squandered your money; how you were like to a madman. They
told me you had settled down to live with one of the creatures, a woman who had
made her living in the dance-halls, and every one knows no woman ever did that
and remained straight. They warned me of the character of this girl, of your
infatuation, of your callousness to public opinion. They told me how barefaced,
how shameless you were. They begged me to try and save you. I would not believe
it, but now I've come to see for myself, and it's all true, it's all true."

He bowed his head in emotion.

"Oh, she's good!" I cried. "If you knew her you would think so, too. You,
too, would love her."

"Heaven forbid! Boy, I must save you. I must, for the honour of the old name
that's never been tarnished. I must make you come home with me."

He put both hands on my shoulders, looking commandingly into my face.

"No, no," I said, "I'll never leave her."

"It will be all right. We can pay her. It can be arranged. Think of the
honour of the old name, lad."

I shook him off. "Pay!"I laughed ironically. "Pay" in connection with the
name of Bernaagain I laughed.

"She's good," I said once again. "Wait a little till you know her. Don't
judge her yet. Wait a little."

He saw it was of no
use to waste further words on me. He sighed.

"Well, well," he said, "have it your own way. I think she's ruining you.
She's dragging you down, sapping your moral principles, lowering your standard
of pure living. She must be bad, bad, or she wouldn't live with you like that.
But have it your own way, boy; I'll wait and see."

In the crystalline days that followed I did much to bring about a friendship
between Garry and Berna. At first I had difficulty in dragging him to the house,
but in a little while he came quite willingly. The girl, too, aided me greatly.
In her sweet, shy way she did her best to win his regard, so that as the winter
advanced a great change came over him. He threw off that stern manner of his as
an actor throws off a part, and once again he was the dear old Garry I knew and
loved.

His sunny charm returned, and with it his brilliant smile, his warm,
endearing frankness. He was now twenty-eight, and if there was a handsomer man
in the Northland I had yet to see him. I often envied him for his fine figure
and his clean, vivid colour. It was a wonderfully expressive face that looked at
you, firm and manly, and, above all, clever. You found a pleasure in the
resonant sweetness of his voice. You were drawn irresistibly to the man, even as
you would have been drawn to a beautiful woman. He was winning, lovable, yet
back of all his charm there was that great quality of strength, of austere
purpose.

He made a hit with every one, and I verily believe that half the women in the
town were in love with him. However, he was quite unconscious of it, and he
stalked through the streets with the gait of
a young god. I knew there were some who for a smile
would have followed him to the ends of the earth, but Garry was always a man's
man. Never do I remember the time when he took an interest in a woman. I often
thought, if women could have the man of their choice, a few handsome ones like
Garry would monopolise them, while we common mortals would go wifeless.
Sometimes it has seemed to me that love is but a second-hand article, and that
our matings are at best only makeshifts.

I must say I tried very hard to reconcile those two. I threw them together on
every opportunity, for I wanted him to understand and to love her. I felt he had
but to know her to appreciate her at her true value, and, although he spoke no
word to me, I was soon conscious of a vast change in him. Short of brotherly
regard, he was everything that could be desired to hercordial, friendly,
charming. Once I asked Berna what she thought of him.

"I think he's splendid," she said quietly. "He's the handsomest man I've ever
seen, and he's as nice as he's good-looking. In many ways you remind me of
himand yet there's a difference."

"I remind you of himno, girl. I'm not worthy to be his valet. He's as much
above me as I am abovesay a siwash. He has all the virtues; I, all the faults.
Sometimes I look at him and I see in him my ideal self. He is all strength, all
nobility, while I am but a commonplace mortal, full of human weaknesses. He is
the self I should have been if the worst had been the best."

"Hush! you are my
sweetheart," she assured me with a caress, "and the dearest in the world."

"By the way, Berna," I said, "you remember something we talked about before
he came? Don't you think that now?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"All right." She flashed a glad, tender look at me and left the room. That
night she was strangely elated.

Every evening Garry would drop in and talk to us. Berna would look at him as
he talked and her eyes would brighten and her cheeks flush. On both of us he had
a strangely buoyant effect. How happy we could be, just we three. It was
splendid having near me the two I loved best on earth.

That was a memorable winter, mild and bright and buoyant. At last Spring came
with gracious days of sunshine. The sleighing was glorious, but I was busy, very
busy, so that I was glad to send Garry and Berna off together in a smart cutter,
and see them come home with their cheeks like roses, their eyes sparkling and
laughter in their voices. I never saw Berna looking so well and happy.

I was head over ears in work. In a mail just arrived I had a letter from the
Prodigal, and a certain paragraph in it set me pondering. Here it was:

Locasto coming! I had almost forgotten his existence. Well, I no longer cared
for him. I could afford to despise him. Surely he would never dare to molest us.
If he didhe was a broken, discredited blackguard. I could crush him.

Coming here! He must even now be on the way. I had a vision of him speeding
along that desolate trail, sitting in the sleigh wrapped in furs, and brooding,
brooding. As day after day the spell of the great and gloomy land grew on his
spirit, I could see the sombre eyes darken and deepen. I could see him in the
road-house at night, gaunt and haggard, drinking at the bar, a desperate,
degraded cripple. I could see him growing more reckless every day, every hour.
He was coming back to the scene of his ruined fortunes, and God knows with what
wild schemes of vengeance his heart was full. Decidedly I must beware.

As I sat there dreaming, a ring came to the 'phone. It was the foreman at
Gold Hill.

"The hoisting machine has broken down," he told me. "Can you come out and see
what is required?"

"All right," I
replied. "I'll leave at once."

"Berna," I said, "I'll have to go out to the Forks to-night. I'll be back
early to-morrow. Get me a bite to eat, dear, while I go round and order the
horse."

On my way I met Garry and told him I would be gone over night. "Won't you
come?" I asked.

"No, thanks, old man, I don't feel like a night drive."

"All right. Good-bye."

So I hurried off, and soon after, with a jingle of bells, I drove up to my
door. Berna had made supper. She seemed excited. Her eyes were starry bright,
her cheeks burned.

"Aren't you well, sweetheart?" I asked. "You look feverish."

"Yes, dear, I'm well. But I don't want you to go to-night. Something tells me
you shouldn't. Please don't go, dear. Please, for my sake."

"Oh, nonsense, Berna! You know I've been away before. Get one of the
neighbour's wives to sleep with you. Get in Mrs. Brooks."

"Oh, don't go, don't go, I beg you, dear. I don't want you to. I'm afraid,
I'm afraid. Won't some one else do?"

"Nonsense, girl. You mustn't be so foolish. It's only for a few hours. Here,
I'll ring up Mrs. Brooks and you can ask her."

She sighed. "No, never mind. I'll ring her up after you've gone."