Kabanata Kabanata 66 · BOOK IV 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.

[Illustration: "Garry," I said, "this is--this is Berna"]

"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."