Chapter Chapter 67 · BOOK IV CHAPTER XX

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 her--cordial, 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 him--and yet there's a difference."

"I remind you of him--no, girl. I'm not worthy to be his valet. He's as

much above me as I am above--say 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:

"You must look out for Locasto. He was in New York a week ago. He's

down and out. Blood-poisoning set in in his foot after he got

outside, and eventually he had to have it taken off. He's got a

false mit for the one Mac sawed off. But you should see him. He's

all shot to pieces with the 'hooch.' It's a fright the pace he's

gone. I had an interview with him, and he raved and blasphemed

horribly. Seemed to have a terrible pick at you. Seems you have

copped out his best girl, the only one he ever cared a red cent

for. Said he would get even with you if he swung for it. I think

he's dangerous, even a madman. He is leaving for the North now, so

be on your guard."

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 did--he 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."

She clung to me tightly, so that I wondered what had got into the girl.

Then gently I kissed her, disengaged her hands, and bade her good-night.

As I was rattling off through the darkness, a boy handed me a note. I

put it in my pocket, thinking I would read it when I reached Ogilvie

Bridge. Then I whipped up the horse.

The night was crisp and exhilarating. I had one of the best trotters in

the country, and the sleighing was superb. As I sped along, with a

jingle of bells, my spirits rose. Things were looking splendid. The mine

was turning out far better than we had expected. Surely we could sell

out soon, and I would have all the money I wanted. Even then the

Prodigal was putting through a deal in New York that would realise our

fortunes. My life-struggle was nearly over.

Then again, I had reconciled Garry to Berna. When I told him of a

certain secret I was hugging to my breast he would capitulate entirely.

How happy we would all be! I would buy a small estate near home, and we

would settle down. But first we would spend a few years in travel. We

would see the whole world. What good times we would have, Berna and I!

Bless her! It had all worked out beautifully.

Why was she so frightened, so loath to let me go? I wondered vaguely and

flicked up the horse so that it plunged sharply forward. The vast

blue-black sky was like an inverted gold-pan and the stars were flake

colours adhering to it. The cold snapped at me till my cheeks tingled,

and my eyes felt as if they could spark. Oh, life was sweet!

Bother! In my elation I had forgotten to get off at the Old Inn and

read my note. Never mind, I would keep it till I reached the Forks.

As I spun along, I thought of how changed it all was from the Bonanza I

first knew. How I remembered tramping along that hillside slope, packing

a sack of flour over a muddy trail, a poor miner in muddy overalls! Now

I was driving a smart horse on a fine road. I was an operator of a

first-class mine. I was a man of business, of experience. Higher and

higher my spirits rose.

How fast the horse flew! I would be at the Forks in no time. I flashed

past cabin windows. I saw the solitary oil-lamp and the miner reading

his book or filling his pipe. Never was there a finer, more intelligent

man; but his day was passing. The whole country was falling into the

hands of companies. Soon, thought I, one or two big combines would

control the whole wealth of that land. Already they had their eyes on

it. The gold-ships would float and roar where the old-time miner toiled

with pick and pan. Change! Change!

I almost fancied I could see the monster dredges ploughing up the

valley, where now men panted at the windlass. I could see vast heaps of

tailings filling the creek-bed; I could hear the crash of the steel

grizzlies; I could see the buckets scooping up the pay-dirt. I felt

strangely prophetic. My imagination ran riot in all kinds of wonders,

great power plants, quartz discoveries. Change! Change!

Yes, the stamp-mill would add its thunder to the other voices; the

country would be netted with wires, and clamorous for far and wide. Man

had sought out this land where Silence had reigned so long. He had

awakened the echoes with the shot of his rifle and the ring of his axe.

Silence had raised a startled head and poised there, listening. Then,

with crack of pick and boom of blast, man had hurled her back. Further

and further had he driven her. With his advancing horde, mad in their

lust for the loot of the valley, he had banished her. His engines had

frightened her with their canorous roar. His crashing giants had driven

her cowering to the inviolate fastnesses of her hills. And there she

broods and waits.

But Silence will return. To her was given the land that she might rule

and have dominion over it forever. And in a few years the clamour will

cease, the din will die away. In a few years the treasure will be

exhausted, and the looters will depart. The engines will lie in rust and

ruin; the wind will sweep through the empty homes; the tailing-piles lie

pallid in the moon. Then the last man will strike the last blow, and

Silence will come again into her own.

Yea, Silence will come home once more. Again will she rule despotic over

peak and plain. She is only waiting, brooding in the impregnable

desolation of her hills. To her has been given empery of the land, and

hand in hand with Darkness will she return.