Kabanata Kabanata 65 · BOOK IV CHAPTER XVIII

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?"

"Me--oh, 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 how--whir-r-r--the 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 things--but 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

won--at 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 is--this is Berna."