In his own room, with the door closed and locked, Keith felt again that
dull, strange pain that made his heart sick and the air about him
difficult to breathe.
"IF YOU WEREN'T MY BROTHER."
The words beat in his brain. They were pounding at his heart until it
was smothered, laughing at him and taunting him and triumphing over him
just as, many times before, the raving voices of the weird wind-devils
had scourged him from out of black night and arctic storm. HER BROTHER!
His hand clenched until the nails bit into his flesh. No, he hadn't
thought of that part of the fight! And now it swept upon him in a
deluge. If he lost in the fight that was ahead of him, his life would
pay the forfeit. The law would take him, and he would hang. And if he
won--she would be his sister forever and to the end of all time! Just
that, and no more. His SISTER! And the agony of truth gripped him that
it was not as a brother that he saw the glory in her hair, the glory in
her eyes and face, and the glory in her slim little, beautiful
body--but as the lover. A merciless preordination had stacked the cards
against him again. He was Conniston, and she was Conniston's sister.
A strong man, a man in whom blood ran red, there leaped up in him for a
moment a sudden and unreasoning rage at that thing which he had called
fate. He saw the unfairness of it all, the hopelessness of it, the
cowardly subterfuge and trickery of life itself as it had played
against him, and with tightly set lips and clenched hands he called
mutely on God Almighty to play the game square. Give him a chance! Give
him just one square deal, only one; let him see a way, let him fight a
man's fight with a ray of hope ahead! In these red moments hope
emblazoned itself before his eyes as a monstrous lie. Bitterness rose
in him until he was drunk with it, and blasphemy filled his heart.
Whichever way he turned, however hard he fought, there was no chance of
winning. From the day he killed Kirkstone the cards had been stacked
against him, and they were stacked now and would be stacked until the
end. He had believed in God, he had believed in the inevitable ethics
of the final reckoning of things, and he had believed strongly that an
impersonal Something more powerful than man-made will was behind him in
his struggles. These beliefs were smashed now. Toward them he felt the
impulse of a maddened beast trampling hated things under foot. They
stood for lies--treachery--cheating--yes, contemptible cheating! It was
impossible for him to win. However he played, whichever way he turned,
he must lose. For he was Conniston, and she was Conniston's sister, AND
MUST BE TO THE END OF TIME.
Faintly, beyond the door, he heard Mary Josephine singing. Like a bit
of steel drawn to a tension his normal self snapped back into place.
His readjustment came with a lurch, a subtle sort of shock. His hands
unclenched, the tense lines in his face relaxed, and because that God
Almighty he had challenged had given to him an unquenchable humor, he
saw another thing where only smirking ghouls and hypocrites had rent
his brain with their fiendish exultations a moment before. It was
Conniston's face, suave, smiling, dying, triumphant over life, and
Conniston was saying, just as he had said up there in the cabin on the
Barren, with death reaching out a hand for him, "It's queer, old top,
devilish queer--and funny!"
Yes, it was funny if one looked at it right, and Keith found himself
swinging back into his old view-point. It was the hugest joke life had
ever played on him. His sister! He could fancy Conniston twisting his
mustaches, his cool eyes glimmering with silent laughter, looking on
his predicament, and he could fancy Conniston saying: "It's funny, old
top, devilish funny--but it'll be funnier still when some other man
comes along and carries her off!"
And he, John Keith, would have to grin and bear it because he was her
brother!
Mary Josephine was tapping at his door.
"Derwent Conniston," she called frigidly, "there's a female person on
the telephone asking for you. What shall I say?"
"Er--why--tell her you're my sister, Mary Josephine, and if it's Miss
Kirkstone, be nice to her and say I'm not able to come to the 'phone,
and that you're looking forward to meeting her, and that we'll be up to
see her some time today."
"Oh, indeed!"
"You see," said Keith, his mouth close to the door, "you see, this Miss
Kirkstone--"
But Mary Josephine was gone.
Keith grinned. His illimitable optimism was returning. Sufficient for
the day that she was there, that she loved him, that she belonged to
him, that just now he was the arbiter of her destiny! Far off in the
mountains he dreamed of, alone, just they two, what might not happen?
Some day--
With the cold chisel and the hammer he went to the chest. His task was
one that numbed his hands before the last of the three locks was
broken. He dragged the chest more into the light and opened it. He was
disappointed. At first glance he could not understand why Conniston had
locked it at all. It was almost empty, so nearly empty that he could
see the bottom of it, and the first object that met his eyes was an
insult to his expectations--an old sock with a huge hole in the toe of
it. Under the sock was an old fur cap not of the kind worn north of
Montreal. There was a chain with a dog-collar attached to it, a
hip-pocket pistol and a huge forty-five, and not less than a hundred
cartridges of indiscriminate calibers scattered loosely about. At one
end, bundled in carelessly, was a pair of riding-breeches, and under
the breeches a pair of white shoes with rubber soles. There was neither
sentiment nor reason to the collection in the chest. It was junk. Even
the big forty-five had a broken hammer, and the pistol, Keith thought,
might have stunned a fly at close range. He pawed the things over with
the cold chisel, and the last thing he came upon--buried under what
looked like a cast-off sport shirt--was a pasteboard shoe box. He
raised the cover. The box was full of papers.
Here was promise. He transported the box to Brady's table and sat down.
He examined the larger papers first. There were a couple of old game
licenses for Manitoba, half a dozen pencil-marked maps, chiefly of the
Peace River country, and a number of letters from the secretaries of
Boards of Trade pointing out the incomparable possibilities their
respective districts held for the homesteader and the buyer of land.
Last of all came a number of newspaper clippings and a packet of
letters.
Because they were loose he seized upon the clippings first, and as his
eyes fell upon the first paragraph of the first clipping his body
became suddenly tensed in the shock of unexpected discovery and amazed
interest. There were six of the clippings, all from English papers,
English in their terseness, brief as stock exchange reports, and
equally to the point. He read the six in three minutes.
They simply stated that Derwent Conniston, of the Connistons of
Darlington, was wanted for burglary--and that up to date he had not
been found.
Keith gave a gasp of incredulity. He looked again to see that his eyes
were not tricking him. And it was there in cold, implacable print.
Derwent Conniston--that phoenix among men, by whom he had come to
measure all other men, that Crichton of nerve, of calm and audacious
courage, of splendid poise--a burglar! It was cheap, farcical, an
impossible absurdity. Had it been murder, high treason, defiance of
some great law, a great crime inspired by a great passion or a great
ideal, but it was burglary, brigandage of the cheapest and most
commonplace variety, a sneaking night-coward's plagiarism of real
adventure and real crime. It was impossible. Keith gritted the words
aloud. He might have accepted Conniston as a Dick Turpin, a Claude
Duval or a Macheath, but not as a Jeremy Diddler or a Bill Sykes. The
printed lines were lies. They must be. Derwent Conniston might have
killed a dozen men, but he had never cracked a safe. To think it was to
think the inconceivable.
He turned to the letters. They were postmarked Darlington, England. His
fingers tingled as he opened the first. It was as he had expected, as
he had hoped. They were from Mary Josephine. He arranged them--nine in
all--in the sequence of their dates, which ran back nearly eight years.
All of them had been written within a period of eleven months. They
were as legible as print. And as he passed from the first to the
second, and from the second to the third, and then read on into the
others, he forgot there was such a thing as time and that Mary
Josephine was waiting for him. The clippings had told him one thing;
here, like bits of driftage to be put together, a line in this place
and half a dozen in that, in paragraphs that enlightened and in others
that puzzled, was the other side of the story, a growing thing that
rose up out of mystery and doubt in segments and fractions of segments
adding themselves together piecemeal, welding the whole into form and
substance, until there rode through Keith's veins a wild thrill of
exultation and triumph.
And then he came to the ninth and last letter. It was in a different
handwriting, brief, with a deadly specificness about it that gripped
Keith as he read.
This ninth letter he held in his hand as he rose from the table, and
out of his mouth there fell, unconsciously, Conniston's own words,
"It's devilish queer, old top--and funny!"
There was no humor in the way he spoke them. His voice was hard, his
eyes dully ablaze. He was looking back into that swirling, unutterable
loneliness of the northland, and he was seeing Conniston again.
Fiercely he caught up the clippings, struck a match, and with a grim
smile watched them as they curled up into flame and crumbled into ash.
What a lie was life, what a malformed thing was justice, what a monster
of iniquity the man-fabricated thing called law!
And again he found himself speaking, as if the dead Englishman himself
were repeating the words, "It's devilish queer, old top--and funny!"