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The Trail of '98: A Northland Romance, a novel by Robert W. Service |
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Book 4. The Vortex - Chapter 21 |
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_ BOOK IV. THE VORTEX 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 bedroom--Ah! 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, surely--Oh, 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.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 collar--that 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 clothes--Oh, that devilish note! It was burning into my brain--it 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 it--Oh, 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 go--Now come out, come out, whoever you are--Ah!" It was a woman. "Ha!" I cried, "I told you so, brother; a woman. I think I know her, too. Here, let me see--I thought so." I had clutched her, pulled her to the light. It was Berna. 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 Garry--he 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 you--unfaithful, 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 my--not what you think. She's my wife!" _ |
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