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.
* * *
CHAPTER XXI
Ha! here I had reached the Forks at last. As I drew up at the hotel, the clerk came out to meet me.
"Gent wants to speak to you at the 'phone, sir."
It was Murray of Dawson, an old-timer, and rather a friend of mine.
"Hello!"
"Hello! Say, Meldrum, this is Murray speaking. Say, just wanted to let you know there's a stage due some time before morning. Locasto's on board, and they say he's heeled for you. Thought I'd better tell you so's you can get fixed up for him."
"All right," I answered. "Thank you. I'll turn and come right back."
So I switched round the horse, and once more I drove over the glistening road. No longer did I plan and exult. Indeed a grim fear was gripping me. Of a sudden the shadow of Locasto loomed up sinister and menacing. Even now he was speeding Dawsonward with a great hatred of me in his heart. Well, I would get back and prepare for him.
There came to my mind a comic perception of the awkwardness of returning to one's own home unexpectedly, in the dead of night. At first I decided I would go to a hotel, then on second thoughts I determined to try the house, for I had a desire to be near Berna.
I knocked gently, then a little louder, then at last quite loudly. Within all was still, dark as a sepulchre. Curious! she was such a light sleeper, too. Why did she not hear me?
Once more I decided to go to the hotel; once more that vague, indefinite fear assailed me and again I knocked. And now my fear was becoming a panic. I had my latch-key in my pocket, so very quietly I opened the door.
I was in the front room, and it was dark, very dark and quiet. I could not even hear her breathe.
"Berna," I whispered.
No reply.
That dim, nameless dread was clutching at my heart, and I groped overhead in the darkness for the drop-light. How hard it was to find! A dozen times my hand circled in the air before I knocked my knuckles against it. I switched it on.
Instantly the cabin was flooded with light. In the dining-room I could see the remains of our supper lying untidily. That was not like her. She had a horror of dirty dishes. I passed into the bedroomAh! the bed had never been slept on.
What a fool I was! It flashed on me she had gone over to Mrs. Brooks' to sleep. She was afraid of being alone. Poor little girl! How surprised she would be to see me in the morning!
Well, I would go to bed. As I was pulling off my coat, I found the note that had been given to me. Blaming myself for my carelessness, I pulled it out of my pocket and opened it. As I unfolded the sheet, I noticed it was written in what looked like a disguised hand. Strange! I thought. The writing was small and faint. I rubbed my eyes and held it up to the light.
Merciful God! What was this? Oh no, it could not be! My eyes were deceiving me. It was some illusion. Feverishly I read again. Yes, they were the same words. What could they mean? Surely, surelyOh, horror on horrors! They could not mean that. Again I read them. Yes, there they were:
"If you are fool enough to believe that Berna is faithful to you visit your brother's room to-night.
"A Wellwisher."
Berna! Garry!the two I loved. Oh, it could not be! It was monstrous! It was too horrible! I would not believe it; I would not. Curse the vile wretch that wrote such words! I would kill him. Berna! my Berna! she was as good as gold, as true as steel. Garry! I would lay my life on his honour. Oh, vile calumny! what devil had put so foul a thing in words? God! it hurt me so, it hurt me so!
Dazedly I sat down. A sudden rush of heat was followed by a sweat that pricked out of me and left me cold. I trembled. I saw a ghastly vision of myself in a mirror. I felt sick, sick. Going to the decanter on the bureau, I poured myself a stiff jolt of whisky.
Again I sat down. The paper lay on the hearthrug, and I stared at it hatefully. It was unspeakably loathsome, yet I was fascinated by it. I longed to take it up, to read it again. Somehow I did not dare. I was becoming a coward.
Well, it was a lie, a black devil's lie. She was with one of the neighbours. I trusted her. I would trust her with my life. I would go to bed. In the morning she would return, and then I would unearth the wretch who had dared to write such things. I began to undress.
Slowly I unfastened my collarthat cursed paper; there it lay. Again it fascinated me. I stood glaring at it. Oh, fool! fool! go to bed.
Wearily I took off my clothesOh, that devilish note! It was burning into my brainit would drive me mad. In a frenzy of rage, I took it up as if it were some leprous thing, and dropped it in the fire.
There I lay in bed with the darkness enfolding me, and I closed my eyes to make a double darkness. Ha! right in the centre of my eyes, burned the fatal paper with its atrocious suggestion. I sprang up. It was of no use. I must settle this thing once and for all. I turned on the light and deliberately dressed again.
I was going to the hotel where Garry had his room. I would tell him I had come back unexpectedly and ask to share his room. I was not acting on the note! I did not suspect her. Heaven forbid! But the thing had unnerved me. I could not stay in this place.
The hotel was quiet. A sleepy night-clerk stared at me, and I pushed past him. Garry's rooms were on the third floor. As I climbed the long stairway, my heart was beating painfully, and when I reached his door I was sadly out of breath. Through the transom I could see his light was burning.
I knocked faintly.
There was a sudden stir.
Again I knocked.
Did my ears deceive me or did I hear a woman's startled cry? There was something familiar about itOh, my God!
I reeled. I almost fell. I clutched at the doorframe. I leaned sickly against the door for support. Heaven help me!
"I'm coming," I heard him say.
The door was unlocked, and there he stood. He was fully dressed. He looked at me with an expression on his face I could not define, but he was very calm.
"Come in," he said.
I went into his sitting-room. Everything was in order. I would have sworn I heard a woman scream, and yet no one was in sight. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. I eyed it in a fascinated way.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Garry," I said, and I was conscious how strained and queer my voice sounded. "I got back suddenly, and there's no one at home. I want to stay here with you, if you don't mind."
"Certainly, old man; only too glad to have you."
His voice was steady. I sat down on the edge of a chair. My eyes were riveted on that bedroom door.
"Had a good drive?" he went on genially. "You must be cold. Let me give you some whisky."
My teeth were chattering. I clutched the chair. Oh, that door! My eyes were fastened on it. I was convinced I heard some one in there. He rose to get the whisky.
"Say when?"
I held the glass with a shaking hand:
"When."
"What's the matter, old man? You're ill."
I clutched him by the arm.
"Garry, there's some one in that room."
"Nonsense! there's no one there."
"There is, I tell you. Listen! Don't you hear them breathing?"
He was quiet. Distinctly I could hear the panting of human breath. I was going mad, mad. I could stand it no longer.
"Garry," I gasped, "I'm going to see, I'm going to see."
"Don't"
"Yes, I must, I say. Let me go. I'll drag them out."
"Hold on"
"Leave go, man! I'm going, I say. You won't hold me. Let go, I tell you, let goNow come out, come out, whoever you areAh!"
It was a woman.
"Ha!" I cried, "I told you so, brother; a woman. I think I know her, too. Here, let me seeI thought so."
I had clutched her, pulled her to the light. It was Berna.<
br />
Her face was white as chalk, her eyes dilated with terror. She trembled. She seemed near fainting.
"I thought so."
Now that it seemed the worst was betrayed to me, I was strangely calm.
"Berna, you're faint. Let me lead you to a chair."
I made her sit down. She said no word, but looked at me with a wild pleading in her eyes. No one spoke.
There we were, the three of us: Berna faint with fear, ghastly, pitiful; I calm, yet calm with a strange, unnatural calmness, and Garryhe surprised me. He had seated himself, and with the greatest sang-froid he was lighting a cigarette.
A long tense silence. At last I broke it.
"What have you got to say for yourself, Garry?" I asked.
It was wonderful how calm he was.
"Looks pretty bad, doesn't it, brother?" he said gravely.
"Yes, it couldn't look worse."
"Looks as if I was a pretty base, despicable specimen of a man, doesn't it?"
"Yes, about as base as a man could be."
"That's so." He rose and turned up the light of a large reading-lamp, then coming to me he looked me square in the face. Abruptly his casual manner dropped. He grew sharp, forceful; his voice rang clear.
"Listen to me."
"I'm listening."
"I came out here to save you, and I'm going to save you. You wanted me to believe that this girl was good. You believed it. You were bewitched, befooled, blinded. I could see it, but I had to make you see it. I had to make you realise how worthless she was, how her love for you was a sham, a pretence to prey on you. How could I prove it? You would not listen to reason: I had to take other means. Now, hear me."
"I hear."
"I laid my plans. For three months I've tried to conquer her, to win her love, to take her from you. She was truer to you than I had bargained for; I must give her credit for that. She made a good fight, but I think I have triumphed. To-night she came to my room at my invitation."
"Well?"
"Well. You got a note. Now, I wrote that note. I planned this scene, this discovery. I planned it so that your eyes would be opened, so that you would see what she was, so that you would cast her from youunfaithful, a wanton, a"
"Hold on there," I broke in; "brother of mine or no, I won't hear you call her those names; no, not if she were ten times as unfaithful. You won't, I say. I'll choke the words in your throat. I'll kill you, if you utter a word against her. Oh, what have you done?"
"What have I done! Try to be calm, man. What have I done? Well, this is what I've done, and it's the lucky day for you I've done it. I've saved you from shame; I've freed you from sin; I've shown you the baseness of this girl."
He rose to his feet.
"Oh, my brother, I've stolen from you your mistress; that's what I've done."
"Oh, no, you haven't," I groaned. "God forgive you, Garry; God forgive you! She's not mynot what you think. She's my wife!"
* * *
CHAPTER XXII
I thought that he would faint. His face went white as paper and he shrank back. He gazed at me with wild, straining eyes.
"God forgive me! Oh, why didn't you tell me, boy? Why didn't you tell me?"
In his voice there was a note more poignant than a sob.
"You should have trusted me," he went on. "You should have told me. When were you married?"
"Just a month ago. I was keeping it as a surprise for you. I was waiting till you said you liked and thought well of her. Oh, I thought you would be pleased and glad, and I was treasuring it up to tell you."
"This is terrible, terrible!"
His voice was choked with agony. On her chair, Berna drooped wearily. Her wide, staring eyes were fixed on the floor in pitiful perplexity.
"Yes, it's terrible enough. We were so happy. We lived so joyously together. Everything was perfect, a heaven for us both. And then you came, you with your charm that would lure an angel from high heaven. You tried your power on my poor little girl, the girl that never loved but me. And I trusted you, I tried to make you and her friends. I left you together. In my blind innocence I aided you in every waya simple, loving fool. Oh, now I see!"
"Yes, yes, I know. Your words stab me. It's all true, true."
"You came like a serpent, a foul, crawling thing, to steal her from me, to wrong me. She was loving, faithful, pure. You would have dragged her in the mire. You"
"Stop, brother, stop, for Heaven's sake! You wrong me."
He held out his hand commandingly. A wonderful change had come over him. His face had regained its calm. It was proud, stern.
"You must not think I would have been guilty of that," he said quietly. "I've played a part I never thought to play; I've done a thing I never thought to have dirtied my hands in the doing, and I'm sorry and ashamed for it. But I tell you, Atholthat's all. As God's my witness, I've done you no wrong. Surely you don't think me as low as that? Surely you don't believe that of me? I did what I did for my very love for you, for your honour's sake. I asked her here that you might see what she wasbut that's all, I swear it. She's been as safe as if in a cage of steel."
"I know it," I said; "I know it. You don't need to tell me that. You brought her here to expose her, to show me what a fool I was. It didn't matter how much it hurt me, the more the better, anything to save the name. You would have broken my heart, sacrificed me on the altar of your accursed pride. Oh, I can see plainly now! There's a thousand years of prejudice and bigotry concentrated in you. Thank God, I have a human heart!"
"I thought I was acting for the best!" he cried.
I laughed scornfully.
"I know itaccording to your lights. You asked her here that I might see what she was. You tell me you have gained her love; you say she came here at your bidding; you swear she would have been unfaithful to me. Well, I tell you, brother of mine, in your teeth I tell youI don't believe you!"
Suddenly the little, drooping figure on the chair had raised itself; the white, woe-begone face with the wide, staring eyes was turned towards me; the pitiful look had gone, and in its stead was one of wild, unspeakable joy.
"It's all right, Berna," I said; "I don't believe him, and if a million others were to say the same, if they were to thunder it in my ears down all eternity, I would tell them they lied, they lied!"
A heaven-lit radiance was in the grey eyes. She made as if to come to me, but she swayed, and I caught her in my arms.
"Don't be frightened, little girl. Give me your hand. See! I'll kiss it, dear. Now, don't cry; don't, honey."
Her arms were around me. She clung to me ever so tightly.
"Garry," I said, "this is my wife. When I have lost my belief in all else, I will believe in her. You have made us both suffer. As for what you've saidyou're mistaken. She's a good, good girl. I will not believe that by thought, word or deed she has been untrue to me. She will explain everything. Now, good-bye. Come, Berna."
Suddenly she stopped me. Her hand was on my arm, and she turned towards Garry. She held herself as proudly as a queen.
"I want to explain now," she said, "before you both."
She pulled from her bosom a little crumpled note, and handed it to me. Then, as I read it, a great light burst on me. Here it was:
"Dear Berna:
"For heaven's sake be on your guard. Jack Locasto is on his way north again. I think he's crazy. I know he'll stick at nothing, and I don't want to see blood spilt. He says he means to wipe out all old scores. For your sake, and for the sake of one dear to you, be warned.
"In haste,
"Viola Lennoir."
"I got it two days ago," she said. "Oh, I've been distracted with fear. I did not like to show it to you. I've brought you nothing but trouble, and I've never spoken of him, never once. You understand, don't you?"
"Yes, little girl, I understand."
"I wanted to save you, no matter at what cost. To-night I tried to prevent you going out there, for I feared you might meet him. I knew he was very near. Then, when yo
u had gone, my fear grew and grew. There I sat, thinking over everything. Oh, if I only had a friend, I thought; some one to help me. Then, as I sat, dazed, distracted, the 'phone rang. It was your brother."
"Yes, go on, dear."
"He told me he wanted to see me; he begged me to come at once. I thought of you, of your danger, of some terrible mishap. I was terrified. I went."
She paused a moment, as if the recital was infinitely painful to her, then she went on.
"I found my way to his room. My mind was full of you, of that man, of how to save you. I did not think of myself, of my position. At first I was too agitated to speak. He bade me sit down, compose myself. His manner was quiet, grave. Again I feared for you. He asked me to excuse him for a moment, and left the room. He seemed to be gone an age, while I sat there, trying to fight down my terror. The suspense was killing me. Then he came back. He closed and locked the door. All at once I heard a step outside, a knock. 'Hush! go in there,' he said. He opened the door. I heard him speaking to some one. I waited, then you burst in on me. You know the rest."
"Yes, yes."
"As for your brother, I've tried, oh, so hard, to be nice to him for your sake. I liked him; I wanted to be to him as a sister, but never an unfaithful thought has entered my head, never a wrong feeling sullied my heart. I've been true to you. You told me once of a love that gives all and asks for nothing; a love that would turn its back on friends and kindred for the sake of its beloved. You said: 'His smile will be your rapture, his frown your anguish. For him will you dare all, bear all. To him will you cling in sorrow, suffering and poverty. Living, you would follow him round the world; dying, you would desire but him.'Well, I think I love you like that."
"Oh, my dear, my dear!"
"I want to bring you happiness, but I only bring you trouble, sorrow. Sometimes, for your sake, I wish we had never met."
She turned to Garry.
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