THE TRAGEDIES OF LOVE
When the week had fled Dr. Brown could hardly persuade himself and his
hosts at Lakeside Farm that the time had come for his departure to the
coast. Not since he had settled down to the practice of his profession
at Winnipeg more than twenty years ago had such a holiday been his.
Alberta, its climate, its life of large spaces and far visions, its
hospitable people, had got hold of him by so strong a grip that in
parting he vowed that he would not await an opportunity but make one to
repeat his visit to the ranch. And so he departed with the understanding
that Jane should follow him to Banff ten days later with her friend
Nora.
The ten days were to Jane as a radiant, swiftly moving dream. Yet with
so much to gratify her, one wish had remained ungratified. Though from
early morning until late night she had ridden the ranges now with one
and now with another, but for the most part with Larry, Jane had never
“done the mine.”
“And I just know I shall go away without seeing that mine, and Winnipeg
people will be sure to ask me about it, and what shall I say? And I have
never seen that wonderful secretary, Mr. Switzer, either.”
“To-morrow,” said Larry solemnly, “no matter what happens we shall have
you see that mine and the wonderful Mr. Switzer.”
It was the seeing of Mr. Switzer that brought to Jane the only touch of
tragedy to the perfect joy of her visit to Alberta. Upon arrival at
the mine she was given over by Larry to Mr. Switzer's courteous and
intelligent guidance, and with an enthusiasm that never wearied, her
guide left nothing of the mine outside or in, to which with painstaking
minuteness he failed to call her attention. It was with no small degree
of pride that Mr. Switzer explained all that had been accomplished
during the brief ten weeks during which the mine had been under his
care. For although it was quite true that Mr. Steinberg was the manager,
Switzer left no doubt in Jane's mind, as there was none in his own, that
the mine owed its present state of development to his driving energy and
to his organising ability. Jane readily forgave him his evident pride
in himself as he exclaimed, sweeping his hand toward the little village
that lay along the coolee,
“Ten weeks ago, Miss Brown, there was nothing here but a little black
hole in the hillside over there. To-day look at it. We have a company
organised, a village built and equipped with modern improvements, water,
light, drainage, etc. We are actually digging and shipping coal. It is
all very small as yet, but it is something to feel that a beginning has
been made.”
“I think it is really quite a remarkable achievement, Mr. Switzer. And I
feel sure that I do not begin to know all that this means. They all say
that you have accomplished great things in the short time you have been
at work.”
“We are only beginning,” said Switzer again, “but I believe we shall
have a great mine. It will be a good thing--for the Gwynnes, I mean--and
that is worth while. Of course, my own money is invested here too and I
am working for myself, but I assure you that I chiefly think of them. It
is a joy, Miss Brown, to work for those you love.”
“It is,” replied Jane, slightly puzzled at this altruistic point of
view; “The Gwynnes are dear people and I am glad for their sakes. I love
them.”
“Yes,” continued Switzer, “this will be a great mine. They will be
wealthy some day.”
“That will be splendid,” said Jane. “You see I have only got to know
them well during this visit. Nine years ago I met them in Winnipeg when
I was a little girl. Of course, Kathleen was with us a great deal
last winter. I got to know her well then. She is so lovely, and she is
lovelier now than ever. She is so happy, you know.”
Switzer looked puzzled. “Happy? Because you are here?”
“No, no. Because of her engagement. Haven't you heard? I thought
everybody knew.”
Switzer stood still in his tracks. “Her engagement?” he said in a hushed
voice. “Her engagement to--to that”--he could not apparently get the
word out without a great effort--“that Englishman?”
Looking at his white face and listening to his tense voice, Jane felt
as if she were standing at the edge of a mine that might explode at any
moment.
“Yes, to Mr. Romayne,” she said, and waited, almost holding her breath.
“It is not true!” he shouted. “It's a lie. Ha, Ha.” Switzer's laugh
was full of incredulous scorn. “Engaged? And how do YOU know?” He swung
fiercely upon her, his eyes glaring out of a face ghastly white.
“I am sorry I said anything, Mr. Switzer. It was not my business to
speak of it,” said Jane quietly. “But I thought you knew.”
Gradually the thing seemed to reach his mind. “Your business?” he said.
“What difference whose business it is? It is not true. I say it is not
true. How do you know? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” He seized her by the
arm, and at each “Tell me” shook her violently.
“You are hurting me, Mr. Switzer,” said Jane.
He dropped her arm. “Then, my God, will you not tell me? How do you
know?”
“Mr. Switzer, believe me it is true,” said Jane, trying to speak
quietly, though she was shaking with excitement and terror. “Mr. Romayne
told me, they all told me, Kathleen told me. It is quite true, Mr.
Switzer.”
He stared at her as if trying to take in the meaning of her words, then
glared around him like a hunted animal seeking escape from a ring of
foes, then back at her again. There were workmen passing close to them
on the path, but he saw nothing of them. Jane was looking at his ghastly
face. She was stricken with pity for him.
“Shall we walk on this way?” she said, touching his arm.
He shook off her touch but followed her away from the busy track of
the workers, along a quieter path among the trees. Sheltered from
observation, she slowed her steps and turned towards him.
“She loves him?” he said in a low husky voice. “You say she loves him?”
“Yes, Mr. Switzer, she loves him,” said Jane. “She cannot help herself.
No one can help one's self. You must not blame her for that, Mr.
Switzer.”
“She does not love me,” said Switzer as if stunned by the utterly
inexplicable phenomenon. “But she did once,” he cried. “She did before
that schwein came.” No words could describe the hate and contempt in
his voice. He appeared to concentrate his passions struggling for
expression, love, rage, hate, wounded pride, into one single stream of
fury. Grinding his teeth, foaming, sputtering, he poured forth his words
in an impetuous torrent.
“He stole her from me! this schwein of an Englishman! He came like a
thief, like a dog and a dog's son and stole her! She was mine! She would
have been mine! She loved me! She was learning to love me. I was too
quick with her once, but she had forgiven me and was learning to love
me. But this pig!” He gnashed his teeth upon the word.
“Stop, Mr. Switzer,” said Jane, controlling her agitation and her
terror. “You must not speak to me like that. You are forgetting
yourself.”
“Forgetting myself!” he raged, his face livid blue and white.
“Forgetting myself! Yes, yes! I forget everything but one thing. That I
shall not forget. I shall not forget him nor how he stole her from
me. Gott in Himmel! Him I shall never forget. No, when these hairs
are white,” he struck his head with his clenched fist, “I shall still
remember and curse him.” Abruptly he stayed the rush of his words. Then
more deliberately but with an added intensity of passion he continued,
“But no, never shall he have her. Never. God hears me. Never. Him I
will kill, destroy.” He had wrought himself up into a paroxysm of
uncontrollable fury, his breath came in jerking gasps, his features
worked with convulsive twitchings, his jaws champed and snapped upon his
words like a dog's worrying rats.
To Jane it seemed a horrible and repulsive sight, yet she could not stay
her pity from him. She remembered it was love that had moved him to this
pitch of madness. Love after all was a terrible thing. She could not
despise him. She could only pity. Her very silence at length recalled
him. For some moments he stood struggling to regain his composure.
Gradually he became aware that her eyes were resting on his face. The
pity in her eyes touched him, subdued him, quenched the heat of his
rage.
“I have lost her,” he said, his lips quivering. “She will never change.”
“No, she will never change,” replied Jane gently. “But you can always
love her. And she will be happy.”
“She will be happy?” he exclaimed, looking at her in astonishment. “But
she will not be mine.”
“No, she will not be yours,” said Jane still very gently, “but she will
be happy, and after all, that is what you most want. You are anxious
chiefly that she shall be happy. You would give everything to make her
happy.”
“I would give my life. Oh, gladly, gladly, I would give my life, I would
give my soul, I would give everything I have on earth and heaven too.”
“Then don't grieve too much,” said Jane, putting her hand on his arm.
“She will be happy.”
“But what of me?” he cried pitifully, his voice and lips trembling like
those of a little child in distress. “Shall I be happy?”
“No, not now,” replied Jane steadily, striving to keep back her tears,
“perhaps some day. But you will think more of her happiness than of your
own. Love, you know, seeks to make happy rather than to be happy.”
For some moments the man stood as if trying to understand what she had
said. Then with a new access of grief and rage, he cried, “But my God!
My God! I want her. I cannot live without her. I could make her happy
too.”
“No, never,” said Jane. “She loves him.”
“Ach--so. Yes, she loves him, and I--hate him. He is the cause of this.
Some day I will kill him. I will kill him.”
“Then she would never be happy again,” said Jane, and her face was full
of pain and of pity.
“Go away,” he said harshly. “Go away. You know not what you say. Some
day I shall make him suffer as I suffer to-day. God hears me. Some day.”
He lifted his hands high above his head. Then with a despairing cry,
“Oh, I have lost her, I have lost her,” he turned from Jane and rushed
into the woods.
Shaken, trembling and penetrated with pity for him, Jane made her
way toward the office, near which she found Larry with the manager
discussing an engineering problem which appeared to interest them both.
“Where's Ernest?” inquired Larry.
“He has just gone,” said Jane, struggling to speak quietly. “I think we
must hurry, Larry. Come, please. Good-bye, Mr. Steinberg.” She hurried
away toward the horses, leaving Larry to follow.
“What is it, Jane?” said Larry when they were on their way.
“Why didn't you tell me, Larry, that he was fond of Kathleen?” she cried
indignantly. “I hurt him terribly, and, oh, it was awful to see a man
like that.”
“What do you say? Did he cut up rough?” said Larry.
Jane made no reply, but her face told its own story of shock and
suffering.
“He need not have let out upon you, Jane, anyway,” said Larry.
“Don't, Larry. You don't understand. He loves Kathleen. You don't know
anything about it. How can you?”
“Oh, he will get over it in time,” said Larry with a slight laugh.
Jane flashed on him a look of indignation. “Oh, how can you, Larry? It
was just terrible to see him. But you do not know,” she added with a
touch of bitterness unusual with her.
“One thing I do know,” said Larry. “I would not pour out my grief on
some one else. I would try to keep it to myself.”
But Jane refused to look at him or to speak again on the matter. Never
in her sheltered life had there been anything suggesting tragedy. Never
had she seen a strong man stricken to the heart as she knew this man to
be stricken. The shadow of that tragedy stayed with her during all the
remaining days of her visit. The sight of Kathleen's happy face never
failed to recall the face of the man who loved her distorted with agony
and that cry of despair, “I have lost her, I have lost her.”
Not that her last days at the ranch were not happy days. She was far
too healthy and wholesome, far too sane to allow herself to miss the
gladness of those last few days with her friends where every moment
offered its full measure of joy. Nora would have planned a grand picnic
for the last day on which the two households, including Jack
Romayne, who by this time was quite able to go about, were to pay a
long-talked-of visit to a famous canyon in the mountains. The party
would proceed to the canyon in the two cars, for Mr. Wakeham's car and
Mr. Wakeham's person as driver had been constantly at the service of the
Gwynnes and their guests during their stay at the farm.
“But that is our very last day, Nora,” said Jane.
“Well, that's just why,” replied Nora. “We shall wind up our festivities
in one grand, glorious finale.”
But the wise mother interposed. “It is a long ride, Nora, and you don't
want to be too tired for your journey. I think the very last day we had
better spend quietly at home.”
Jane's eyes flashed upon her a grateful look. And so it came that the
grand finale was set back to the day before the last, and proved to be
a gloriously enjoyable if exhausting outing. The last day was spent
by Nora in making preparations for her visit with Jane to Banff and
in putting the final touches to such household tasks as might help to
lessen somewhat the burden for those who would be left behind. Jane
spent the morning in a farewell visit to the Waring-Gaunts', which she
made in company with Kathleen.
“I hope, my dear Jane, you have enjoyed your stay with us here at Wolf
Willow,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt as Jane was saying good-bye.
“I have been very happy,” said Jane. “Never in my life have I had such a
happy time.”
“Now it is good of you to say that,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “You have
made us all love you.”
“Quite true,” said her husband. “Repetition of the great Caesar's
experience veni vidi vici, eh? What?”
“So say I,” said Jack Romayne. “It has been a very real pleasure to know
you, Jane. For my part, I shan't forget your visit to me, and the talks
we have had together.”
“You have all been good to me. I cannot tell you how I feel about it.”
Jane's voice was a little tremulous, but her smile was as bright as
ever. “I don't believe I shall ever have such a perfectly happy visit
again.”
“What nonsense, my dear,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “I predict many, many
very happy days for you. You have that beautiful gift of bringing your
joy with you.”
Jack accompanied them on their way to the road. “Kathleen and I are
hoping that perhaps you may be able to come to our wedding. It will be
very soon--in a few weeks.”
“Yes, could you, Jane, dear?” said Kathleen. “We should like it above
everything else. I know it is a long, long journey, but if you could.”
“When is it to be?” said Jane.
“Somewhere about the middle of October.” But Jane shook her head
disconsolately. By that time she knew she would be deep in her
university work, and with Jane work ever came before play.
“I am afraid not,” she said. “But, oh, I do wish you all the happiness
in the world. Nothing has ever made me so glad. Oh, but you will be
happy, I know. Both of you are so lovely.” A sudden rush of tears filled
the deep dark eyes as she shook hands with Jack in farewell. “But,” she
cried in sudden rapture, “why not come to us for a day on your wedding
trip?”
“That's a splendid idea.” For a moment or two Jack and Kathleen stood
looking at each other.
“Jane, we shall surely come. You may count on us,” said Jack.
In the afternoon Mrs. Gwynne sent Jane away for a ride with Larry.
“Just go quietly, Larry,” said his mother. “Don't race and don't tire
Jane.”
“I will take care of her,” said Larry, “but I won't promise that we
won't race. Jane would not stand for that, you know. Besides she is
riding Ginger, and Ginger is not exactly like old Polly. But never fear,
we shall have a good ride, Mother,” he added, waving his hand gaily as
they rode away, taking the coolee trail to the timber lot.
Larry was in high spirits. He talked of his work for the winter. He was
hoping great things from this his last year in college. For the first
time in his university career he would be able to give the full term
to study. He would be a couple of weeks late on account of Kathleen's
marriage, but he would soon make that up. He had his work well in hand
and this year he meant to do something worth while. “I should like to
take that medal home to Mother,” he said with a laugh. “I just fancy
I see her face. She would try awfully hard not to seem proud, but she
would just be running over with it.” Jane gave, as ever, a sympathetic
hearing but she had little to say, even less than was usual with her.
Her smile, however, was as quick and as bright as ever, and Larry
chattered on beside her apparently unaware of her silence. Up the coolee
and through the woods and back by the dump their trail led them. On the
way home they passed the Switzer house.
“Have you seen Mr. Switzer?” said Jane.
“No, by Jove, he hasn't been near us for a week, has he?” replied Larry.
“Poor man, I feel so sorry for him,” said Jane.
“Oh, he will be all right. He is busy with his work. He is awfully keen
about that mine of his, and once the thing is over--after Kathleen is
married, I mean--it will be different.”
Jane rode on in silence for some distance. Then she said,
“I wonder how much you know about it, Larry. I don't think you know the
very least bit.”
“Well, perhaps not,” said Larry cheerfully, “but they always get over
it.”
“Oh, do they?” said Jane. “I wonder.”
And again she rode on listening in silence to Larry's chatter.
“You will have a delightful visit at Banff, Jane. Do you know Wakeham
is going to motor up? He is to meet his father there. He asked me to go
with him,” and as he spoke Larry glanced at her face.
“That would be splendid for you, Larry,” she said, “but you couldn't
leave them at home with all the work going on, could you?”
“No,” said Larry gloomily, “I do not suppose I could. But I think you
might have let me say that.”
“But it is true, isn't it, Larry?” said Jane.
“Yes, it's true, and there's no use talking about it, and so I told him.
But,” he said, cheering up again, “I have been having a holiday these
two weeks since you have been here.”
“I know,” said Jane remorsefully, “we must have cut into your work
dreadfully.”
“Yes, I have loafed a bit, but it was worth while. What a jolly time we
have had! At least, I hope you have had, Jane.”
“You don't need to ask me, do you, Larry?”
“I don't know. You are so dreadfully secretive as to your feelings, one
never knows about you.”
“Now, you are talking nonsense,” replied Jane hotly. “You know quite
well that I have enjoyed every minute of my visit here.”
They rode in silence for some time, then Larry said, “Jane, you are the
best chum a fellow ever had. You never expect a chap to pay you special
attention or make love to you. There is none of that sort of nonsense
about you, is there?”
“No, Larry,” said Jane simply, but she kept her face turned away from
him.