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beyond this one. Then, in a few days, we can make a raft and float down to Dawson." This heartened us, so once more we took up our packs and started. Jim did not move. "Come on, Jim." Still no movement. "What's the matter, Jim? Come on." He turned to us a face that was grey and deathlike. "Go on,
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boys. Don't mind me. My time's up. I'm an old man. I'm only keeping you back. Without me you've got a chance; with me you've got none. Leave me here with a gun. I can shoot an' rustle grub. You boys can come back for me. You'll find old Jim spry an' chipper, awaitin' you with a smile on his
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face. Now go, boys. You'll go, won't you?" "Go be darned!" said the Prodigal. "You know we'll never leave you, Jim. You know the code of the trail. What d'ye take us for--skunks? Come on, we'll carry you if you can't walk." He shook his head pitifully, but once more he crawled after us. We ourselves were making no great
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speed. Lack of food was beginning to tell on us. Our stomachs were painfully empty and dead. "How d'ye feel?" asked the Prodigal. His face had an arrestively hollow look, but that frozen smile was set on it. "All right," I said, "only terribly weak. My head aches at times, but I've got no pain." "Neither have I. This starving
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racket's a cinch. It's dead easy. What rot they talk about the gnawing pains of hunger, an' ravenous men chewing up their boot-tops. It's easy. There's no pain. I don't even feel hungry any more." None of us did. It was as if our stomachs, in despair at not receiving any food, had sunk into apathy. Yet there was no
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doubt we were terribly weak. We only made a few miles a day now, and even that was an effort. The distance seemed to be elastic, to stretch out under our feet. Every few yards we had to help Jim over a bad place. His body was emaciated and he was getting very feeble. A hollow fire burned in his
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eyes. The Halfbreed persisted that beyond those despotic mountains lay the Yukon Valley, and at night he would rouse us up: "Say, boys, I hear the 'toot' of a steamer. Just a few more days and we'll get there." Running through the valley, we found a little river. It was muddy in colour and appeared to contain no fish. We
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ranged along it eagerly, hoping to find a few minnows, but without success. It seemed to me, as I foraged here and there for food, it was not hunger that impelled me so much as the instinct of self-preservation. I knew that if I did not get something into my stomach I would surely die. Down the river we trailed
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forlornly. For a week we had eaten nothing. Jim had held on bravely, but now he gave up. "For God's sake, leave me, boys! Don't make me feel guilty of your death. Haven't I got enough on my soul already? For God's pity, lads, save yourselves! Leave me here to die." He pleaded brokenly. His legs seemed to have become
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paralysed. Every time we stopped he would pitch forward on his face, or while walking he would fall asleep and drop. The Prodigal and I supported him, but it was truly hard to support ourselves, and sometimes we collapsed, coming down all three together in a confused and helpless heap. The Prodigal still wore that set grin. His face was
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nigh fleshless, and, through the straggling beard, it sometimes minded me of a grinning skull. Always Jim moaned and pleaded: "Leave me, dear boys, leave me!" He was like a drunken man, and his every step was agony. We threw away our packs. We no longer had the strength to bear them. The last thing to go was the Halfbreed's
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rifle. Several times it dropped out of his hand. He picked it up in a dazed way. Again and again it dropped, but at last the time came when he no longer picked it up. He looked at it for a stupid while, then staggered on without it. At night we would rest long hours round the camp-fire. Often far
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into the day would we rest. Jim lay like a dead man, moaning continually, while we, staring into each other's ghastly faces, talked in jerks. It was an effort to hunt food. It was an effort to goad ourselves to continue the journey. "Sure the river empties into the Yukon, boys," said the Halfbreed. "'Tain't so far, either. If we
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can just make a few miles more we'll be all right." At night, in my sleep, I was a prey to the strangest hallucinations. People I had known came and talked to me. They were so real that, when I awoke, I could scarce believe I had been dreaming. Berna came to me often. She came quite close, with great
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eyes of pity that looked into mine. Her lips moved. "Be brave, my boy. Don't despair," she pleaded. Always in my dreams she pleaded like that, and I think that but for her I would have given up. The Halfbreed was the most resolute of the party. He never lost his head. At times we others raved a little, or
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laughed a little, or cried a little, but the Halfbreed remained cool and grim. Ceaselessly he foraged for food. Once he found a nest of grouse eggs, and, breaking them open, discovered they contained half-formed birds. We ate them just as they were, crunched them between our swollen gums. Snails, too, we ate sometimes, and grass roots and moss which
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we scraped from the trees. But our greatest luck was the decayed grouse eggs. Early one afternoon we were all resting by a camp-fire on which was boiling some moss, when suddenly the Halfbreed pointed. There, in a glade down by the river's edge, were a cow moose and calf. They were drinking. Stupidly we gazed. I saw the Halfbreed's
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hand go out as if to clutch the rifle. Alas! his fingers closed on the empty air. So near they were we could have struck them with a stone. Taking his sheath knife in his mouth, the Halfbreed started to crawl on his belly towards them. He had gone but a few yards when they winded him. One look they
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gave, and in a few moments they were miles away. That was the only time I saw the Halfbreed put out. He fell on his face and lay there for a long time. Often we came to sloughs that we could not cross, and we had to go round them. We tried to build rafts, but we were too weak
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to navigate them. We were afraid we would roll off into the deep black water and drown feebly. So we went round, which in one case meant ten miles. Once, over a slough a few yards wide, the Halfbreed built a bridge of willows, and we crawled on hands and knees to the other side. From a certain point our
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trip seems like a nightmare to me. I can only remember parts of it here and there. We reeled like drunken men. We sobbed sometimes, and sometimes we prayed. There was no word from Jim now, not even a whimper, as we half dragged, half carried him on. Our eyes were large with fever, our hands were like claws. Long
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sickly beards grew on our faces. Our clothes were rags, and vermin overran us. We had lost all track of time. Latterly we had been travelling about half a mile a day, and we must have been twenty days without proper food. The Halfbreed had crawled ahead a mile or so, and he came back to where we lay. In
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a voice hoarse almost to a whisper he told us a bigger river joined ours down there, and on the bar was an old Indian camp. Perhaps in that place some one might find us. It seemed on the route of travel. So we made a last despairing effort and reached it. Indians had visited it quite recently. We foraged
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around and found some putrid fish bones, with which we made soup. There was a grave set high on stilts, and within it a body covered with canvas. The Halfbreed wrenched the canvas from the body, and with it he made a boat eight feet in length by six in breadth. It was too rotten to hold him up, and
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he nearly drowned trying to float it, so he left it lying on the edge of the bar. I remember this was a terrible disappointment to us, and we wept bitterly. I think that about this time we were all half-crazy. We lay on that bar like men already dead, with no longer hope of deliverance. * * * *
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* Then Jim passed in his checks. In the night he called me. "Boy," he whispered, "you an' I'se been good pals, ain't we?" "Yes, old man." "Boy, I'm in agony. I'm suffering untold pain. Get the gun, for God's sake, an' put me out of my misery." "There's no gun, Jim; we left it back on the trail." "Then
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take your knife." "No, no." "Give me your knife." "Jim, you're crazy. Where's your faith in God?" "Gone, gone; I've no longer any right to look to Him. I've killed. I've taken life He gave. 'Vengeance is mine,' He said, an' I've taken it out of His hands. God's curse is on me now. Oh, let me die, let me
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die!" I sat by him all night. He moaned in agony, and his passing was hard. It was about three in the morning when he spoke again: "Say, boy, I'm going. I'm a useless old man. I've lived in sin, an' I've repented, an' I've backslid. The Lord don't want old Jim any more. Say, kid, see that little girl
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of mine down in Dawson gets what money's comin' to me. Tell her to keep straight, an' tell her I loved her. Tell her I never let up on lovin' her all these years. You'll remember that, boy, won't you?" "I'll remember, Jim." "Oh, it's all a hoodoo, this Northern gold," he moaned. "See what it's done for all of
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us. We came to loot the land an' it's a-takin' its revenge on us. It's accursed. It's got me at last, but maybe I can help you boys to beat it yet. Call the others." I called them. "Boys," said Jim, "I'm a-goin'. I've been a long time about it. I've been dying by inches, but I guess I'll finish
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the job pretty slick this time. Well, boys, I'm in possession of all my faculties. I want you to know that. I was crazy when I started off, but that's passed away. My mind's clear. Now, pardners, I've got you into this scrape. I'm responsible, an' it seems to me I'd die happier if you'd promise me one thing. Livin',
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I can't help you; dead, I can--_you know how_. Well, I want you to promise me you'll do it. It's a reasonable proposition. Don't hesitate. Don't let sentiment stop you. I wish it. It's my dying wish. You're starvin', an' I can help you, can give you strength. Will you promise, if it comes to the last pass, you'll do
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it?" We were afraid to look each other in the face. "Oh, promise, boys, promise!" "Promise him anyway," said the Halfbreed. "He'll die easier." So we nodded our heads as we bent over him, and he turned away his face, content. 'Twas but a little after he called me again. "Boy, give me your hand. Say a prayer for me,
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won't you? Maybe it'll help some, a prayer for a poor old sinner that's backslid. I can never pray again." "Yes, try to pray, Jim, try. Come on; say it after me: 'Our Father--'" "'Our Father--'" "'Which art in Heaven--'" "'Which art in--'" His head fell forward. "Bless you, my boy. Father, forgive, forgive--" He sank back very quietly. He
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was dead. * * * * * Next morning the Halfbreed caught a minnow. We divided it into three and ate it raw. Later on he found some water-lice under a stone. We tried to cook them, but they did not help us much. Then, as night fell once more, a thought came into our minds and stuck there. It
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was a hidden thought, and yet it grew and grew. As we sat round in a circle we looked into each other's faces, and there we read the same revolting thought. Yet did it not seem so revolting after all. It was as if the spirit of the dead man was urging us to this thing, so insistent did the
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thought become. It was our only hope of life. It meant strength again, strength and energy to make a raft and float us down the river. Oh, if only--but, no! We could not do it. Better, a hundred times better, die. Yet life was sweet, and for twenty-three days we had starved. Here was a chance to live, with the
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dead man whispering in our ears to do it. You who have never starved a day in your lives, would you blame us? Life is sweet to you, too. What would you have done? The dead man was urging us, and life was sweet. But we struggled, God knows we struggled. We did not give in without agony. In our
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hopeless, staring eyes there was the anguish of the great temptation. We looked in each other's death's-head faces. We clasped skeleton hands round our rickety knees, and swayed as we tried to sit upright. Vermin crawled over us in our weakness. We were half-crazy, and muttered in our beards. It was the Halfbreed who spoke, and his voice was just
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a whisper: "It's our only chance, boys, and we've promised him. God forgive me, but I've a wife and children, and I'm a-goin' to do it." He was too weak to rise, and with his knife in his mouth he crawled to the body. * * * * * It was ready, but we had not eaten. We waited and
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waited, hoping against hope. Then, as we waited, God was merciful to us. He saved us from this thing. "Say, I guess I've got a pipe-dream, but I think I see two men coming downstream on a raft." "No, it's no dream," I said; "two men." "Shout to them; I can't," said the Prodigal. I tried to shout, but my
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voice came as a whisper. The Halfbreed, too, tried to shout. There was scarcely any sound to it. The men did not see us as we lay on that shingly bar. Faster and faster they came. In hopeless, helpless woe we watched them. We could do nothing. In a few moments they would be past. With eyes of terror we
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followed them, tried to make signals to them. O God, help us! Suddenly they caught sight of that crazy boat of ours made of canvas and willows. They poled the raft in close, then one of them saw those three strange things writhing impotently on the sand. They were skeletons, they were in rags, they were covered with vermin.-- *
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* * We were saved; thank God, we were saved! "Berna, we must get married." "Yes, dearest, whenever you wish." "Well, to-morrow." She smiled radiantly; then her face grew very serious. "What will I wear?" she asked plaintively. "Wear? Oh, anything. That white dress you've got on--I never saw you looking so sweet. You mind me of a picture I
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know of Saint Cecilia, the same delicacy of feature, the same pure colouring, the same grace of expression." "Foolish one!" she chided; but her voice was deliciously tender, and her eyes were love-lit. And indeed, as she stood by the window holding her embroidery to the failing light, you scarce could have imagined a girl more gracefully sweet. In a
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fine mood of idealising, my eyes rested on her. "Yes, fairy girl, that briar rose you are doing in the centre of your little canvas hoop is not more delicate in the tinting than are your cheeks; your hands that ply the needle so daintily are whiter than the May blossoms on its border; those coils of shining hair that
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crown your head would shame the silk you use for softness." "Don't," she sighed; "you spoil me." "Oh no, it's true, true. Sometimes I wish you were not so lovely. It makes me care so much for you that--it hurts. Sometimes I wish you were plain, then I would feel more sure of you. Sometimes I fear, fear some one
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will steal you away from me." "No, no," she cried; "no one ever will. There will never be any one but you." She came over to me, and knelt by my chair, putting her arms around me prettily. The pure, sweet face looked up into mine. "We have been happy here, haven't we, boy?" she asked. "Exquisitely happy. Yet I
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have always been afraid." "Of what, dearest?" "I don't know. Somehow it seems too good to last." "Well, to-morrow we'll be married." "Yes, we should have done that a year ago. It's all been a mistake. It didn't matter at first; nobody noticed, nobody cared. But now it's different. I can see it by the way the wives of the
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men look at us. I wonder do women resent the fact that virtue is only its own reward--they are so down on those who stray. Well, we don't care anyway. We'll marry and live our lives. But there are other reasons." "Yes?" "Yes. Garry talks of coming out. You wouldn't like him to find us living like this--without benefit of
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the clergy?" "Not for the world!" she cried, in alarm. "Well, he won't. Garry's old-fashioned and terribly conventional, but you'll take to him at once. There's a wonderful charm about him. He's so good-looking, yet so clever. I think he could win any woman if he tried, only he's too upright and sincere." "What will he think of me, I
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wonder, poor, ignorant me? I believe I'm afraid of him. I wish he'd stay away and leave us alone. Yet for your sake, dear, I do wish him to think well of me." "Don't fear, Berna. He'll be proud of you. But there's a second reason." "What?" I drew her up beside me on the great Morris-chair. "Oh, my beloved!
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perhaps we'll not always be alone as we are now. Perhaps, perhaps some day there will be others--little ones--for their sakes." She did not speak. I could feel her nestle closer to me. Her cheek was pressed to mine; her hair brushed my brow and her lips were like rose-petals on my own. So we sat there in the big,
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deep chair, in the glow of the open fire, silent, dreaming, and I saw on her lashes the glimmer of a glorious tear. "Why do you cry, beloved?" "Because I'm so happy. I never thought I could be so happy. I want it to last forever, I never want to leave this little cabin of ours. It will always be
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home to me. I love it; oh, how I love it!--every stick and stone of it! This dear little room--there will never be another like it in the world. Some day we may have a fine home, but I think I'll always leave some of my heart here in the little cabin." I kissed away her tears. Foolish tears! I
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blessed her for them. I held her closer to me. I was wondrous happy. No longer did the shadow of the past hang over us. Even as children forget, were we forgetting. Outside the winter's day was waning fast. The ruddy firelight danced around us. It flickered on the walls, the open piano, the glass front of the bookcase. It
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lit up the Indian corner, the lounge with its cushions and brass reading-lamp, the rack of music, the pictures, the lace curtains, the gleaming little bit of embroidery. Yes, to me, too, these things were wistfully precious, for it seemed as if part of her had passed into them. It would have been like tearing out my heart-strings to part
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with the smallest of them. "_Husband_, I'm so happy," she sighed. "Wife, dear, dear wife, I too." There was no need for words. Our lips met in passionate kisses, but the next moment we started apart. Some one was coming up the garden path--a tall figure of a man. I started as if I had seen a ghost. Could it
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be?--then I rushed to the door. There on the porch stood Garry. 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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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"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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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;
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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."
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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"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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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