_ BOOK IV. THE VORTEX
CHAPTER XIX
Garry, Berna--there 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 Garry--his 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 depends--I 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.
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's--she'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 this--if 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 other--that 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 Berna--again 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." _