The Long Portage
by Harold Bindloss · English · Gutenberg #25910 · 533,207 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Long Portage
Author: Harold Bindloss
Release date: June 27, 2008 [eBook #25910]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25910
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LONG PORTAGE ***
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
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[Illustration: "ALL DAY LONG THEY PADDLED UP THE GLEAMING LAKE"
--Page 290]
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THE LONG PORTAGE
By
HAROLD BINDLOSS
Author of
A Prairie Courtship,
Winston of the Prairie, etc.
With a Frontispiece in colors by
ARTHUR HUTCHINS
New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers
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Copyright, 1912, by
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian
Published in England under the title, "The Pioneer"
September, 1912
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Gladwyne Expedition 1
II. The Divide 12
III. The Cache 23
IV. A Painful Decision 35
V. Millicent Gladwyne 47
VI. Nasmyth Tells his Story 58
VII. On the Moors 68
VIII. Gladwyne Receives a Shock 81
IX. Lisle Gathers Information 92
X. Bella's Champion 102
XI. Crestwick Gives Trouble 118
XII. Mrs. Gladwyne's Appeal 129
XIII. A Futile Protest 142
XIV. Lisle Comes to the Rescue 153
XV. Bella's Defeat 165
XVI. Gladwyne Surrenders 177
XVII. A Bad Fall 189
XVIII. A Prudent Decision 200
XIX. Gladwyne Gains a Point 211
XX. Mrs. Gladwyne's Temptation 223
XXI. The Last Afternoon 233
XXII. Startling News 243
XXIII. A Forced March 254
XXIV. Millicent Summons Her Guide 265
XXV. A Reliable Man 276
XXVI. Lisle Turns Autocrat 287
XXVII. An Unpleasant Surprise 298
XXVIII. Clarence Reaches Camp 309
XXIX. A Bold Scheme 321
XXX. The End of the Pursuit 332
XXXI. Lisle Goes To England 343
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THE LONG PORTAGE
CHAPTER I
THE GLADWYNE EXPEDITION
Vernon Lisle was fishing with a determination that did not spring
altogether from love of the sport. The water of the British Columbian
river in which he stood knee-deep was icy cold; his rubber boots were
badly ripped and leaky, and he was wet with the drizzle that drove down
the lonely valley. It was difficult to reach the slack behind a boulder
some distance outshore, and the arm he strained at every cast ached from
hours of assiduous labor; but there was another ache in his left side
which was the result of insufficient food, and though the fish were shy
he persevered.
A few hundred yards away the stream came roaring down a long declivity in
a mad white rapid and then shot across the glassy green surface of the
pool below in a raised-up wedge of foam. Wet boulders and outcropping
fangs of rock hemmed in the water, and among them lay stranded logs and
stream-packed masses of whitened branches. Farther back, ragged cypresses
and cedars, half obscured by the drifting haze of spray, climbed the
sides of the gorge, and beyond rose the dim, rounded summits of treeless
hills. There were streaks of snow on some of them, for winter threatened
to close in unusually early.
With a lowering sky overhead and the daylight beginning to fade, it was a
desolate picture; one into which the lonely figure of the man in tattered
deerskin jacket and shapeless hat somehow fitted. His attire matched the
gray-white coloring of rock and boulder; his spare form and agile
movements, together with the intentness of his bronzed face and the
steadiness of his eyes, hinted at the quickness of observation, the
stubborn endurance, and the tireless activity, by which alone life can be
maintained in the savage North. He had the alertness of the wild
creatures of the waste; and it was needed.
All round him stretched a forbidding wilderness, part of the great
desolation which runs north from the warmer and more hospitable
thick-forest belt of British Columbia. Indeed, this wilderness, broken by
the more level spaces between the Rockies and Lake Winnipeg, runs right
across Canada from Labrador to the Pacific on the northern edge of the
heavy-timber line. It contains little human life--a few Hudson Bay
fur-traders and the half-breed trappers who deal with them--and it is
frozen for eight months in the year. There are only two practicable means
of traversing it--with dog sledges on the snow, or by canoe on the lakes
and rivers in the brief summer.
The water routes are difficult in British Columbia, but Lisle and his two
companions had chosen to go by canoe, partly because the question of food
is vitally important to men cut off from all source of supply except
game, and even that is scarce in places. To transport upon one's back any
weight of provisions besides tents, blankets, and other necessaries,
through a rugged country is an almost impossible task. The men,
accordingly, after relaying part of their stores, had secured an Indian
craft and had paddled and poled her laboriously across lakes and up
rivers. Now when their provisions were running short, they were
confronted with a difficult portage round a thundering rapid.
At length Lisle, securing another trout, waded ashore and glanced with a
rueful smile at the dozen this one made. They scarcely averaged half a
pound, and he had spent most of a day that could badly be spared in
catching them. Plodding back along the shingle with his load, he reached
a little level strip beneath a scarp of rock, where a fire blazed among
the boulders. A tent stood beneath two or three small, wind-stunted
spruces, and a ragged man in long river-boots lay resting on one elbow
near the blaze, regardless of the drizzle. He was a few years over
thirty, Lisle's age, and he differed from Lisle in that something in his
appearance suggested that he was not at home in the wilds. As a matter of
fact, Nasmyth was an adventurous English sportsman--which describes him
fairly in person and character.
"Not many," he commented, glancing at the trout Lisle laid down. "They'll
hardly carry us over to-morrow, and I only got a couple from the canoe
with the troll. We've gained nothing by stopping here, and time's
precious."
"A sure thing," Lisle agreed, beginning to clean the trout. "We'll tackle
the portage as soon as it's light to-morrow. Where's Jake?"
"Gone off to look for a deer," was the answer. "Said he wouldn't come
back without one if he camped on the range all night."
Lisle made no comment, but went on dexterously with his work, while
Nasmyth watched him with half-amused admiration.
"You're handy at that and at everything else you do," Nasmyth remarked at
length. "In fact, you easily beat Jake, though he's a professional packer
and, so to speak, to the manner born."
"So am I," said Lisle.
It was growing dark, but the coppery glow of the fire fell upon his face,
emphasizing the strong coloring of his weather-darkened skin. On the
whole, it was a prepossessing face, clearly cut--indeed, it was a trifle
thin--with a hint of quiet determination in the clear gray eyes and firm
mouth. He looked capable of resolute action and, when it was needed, of
Spartan self-denial. There was no suggestion of anything sensual, or even
of much regard for bodily comfort.
"If you don't mind my being a little personal, I'd better own that I
suspected the fact you mention, and it puzzled me," Nasmyth replied. "You
see, when I first met you at the Empress Hotel, in Victoria, you were
dressed and talked like the usual prosperous business man. Trafford, who
introduced us, said that you had a good deal of money in some of the
Yukon mines."
"Trafford was quite right. The point is that I took a part in locating
two of the claims. Before that I followed a good many rough occupations,
mostly in the bush. My prosperity's recent."
Nasmyth still looked curious, and Lisle smiled.
"I can guess your thoughts--I don't speak altogether like a bushman?
Well, my father was an Englishman, and my mother a lady of education from
Montreal; that was why, at the cost of some self-denial on their part, I
was sent East to school."
It was an incomplete explanation. He had inherited the Englishman's
reticence, which forbade him to point out that his father sprang from an
old family of standing and had, for some reason which his son had never
learned, quarreled bitterly with his English relatives. Coming to Canada,
he had married and taken up the bush life on a small and unremunerative
ranch, where he had died and left his widow and his son badly provided
for.
"Thank you," responded Nasmyth; and Lisle supposed it was in recognition
of the fact that he would hardly have furnished even those few
particulars to one whom he regarded as a stranger. "To reciprocate, a few
words will make clear all there is to know about me. English public
school, Oxford afterward--didn't take a degree. Spend most of my time in
the country, though I make a few sporting trips abroad when I can afford
it and have nothing better to do. That partly explains this journey. But
I haven't tried to force your confidence, nor offered you mine,
altogether casually."
"So I supposed," returned Lisle. "It strikes me that since we got near
the Gladwyne expedition's line of march we have both felt that some
explanation is needed. To go back a little, when I met you in Victoria
and you offered to join me in the trip, I agreed partly because I wanted
an intelligent companion, but I had another reason. At first I supposed
you wished to go because a journey through a rough and little-known
country seems to appeal to one kind of Englishman, but I changed my mind
when you showed your anxiety to get upon the Gladwyne party's trail."
"You were right. I knew the Gladwynes in England; the one who died was an
old and valued friend of mine. I could give you the history of their
march, though I hardly think that's needful. You seem remarkably well
acquainted with it."
Lisle's face hardened. With the exception of one man, he knew more than
anybody else about the fatal journey a party of four had made a year
earlier through the region he and Nasmyth were approaching.
"I am," he said. "There's a cause for it; but I'll ask you to tell me
what you know."
He threw more branches on the fire and a crackling blaze sprang aloft,
forcing up the ragged spruce boughs out of the surrounding gloom.
"This is the survivor's narrative. I heard it from his own lips more than
once," began Nasmyth. "I dare say most of it's a kind of story that's not
unusual in the North."
"It's one that has been repeated with local variations over and over
again. But go on."
"There were two Gladwynes--cousins. George, the elder of the two, was a man
of means and position; Clarence, the younger, had practically nothing--two
or three hundred pounds a year. They were both sportsmen--George was a bit
of a naturalist--and they made the expedition with the idea of studying the
scarcer game. Well, their provisions were insufficient; an Indian packer
deserted them; they were delayed here and there; and when they reached the
river that we are making for they were badly worn out and winter was
closing in. Knowing it was dangerous to go any farther, they started
down-stream to strike their outgoing trail, but not long afterward they
wrecked their canoe in a rapid and lost everything except a few pounds of
provisions. To make things worse, George had fallen from a slippery rock at
the last portage and badly hurt his leg. After making a few leagues with
difficulty, he found he could go no farther, and they held a council. They
were already suffering from want of food, but their guide estimated that by
a forced march overland they might reach a place where some skin-hunters
were supposed to be camped. There was a Hudson Bay post farther away. On
coming up they had cached some provisions in two places on opposite sides
of the river--they kept crossing to pole through the easiest slack. George
accordingly insisted that the others go on; each was to follow a different
bank and the first to find the provisions was to try to communicate with
the other and hurry back with food. If they were unable to locate the
caches they were to leave the river and push on in search of help. They
agreed; but deep snow had fallen and Clarence Gladwyne failed to find the
cache. He reached the hunters' camp famishing, and they went back with him.
He found his cousin dead."
"And the guide?"
"It's rather an ugly story. You must have heard it."
"I haven't heard the one Gladwyne told in England."
"The guide reached the Hudson Bay post--a longer journey than the one
Gladwyne made--in the last stage of exhaustion. He had taken very little
food with him--Gladwyne knew exactly how much--and the Hudson Bay agent
decided that it was impossible he could have covered the distance on the
minute quantity. There was only one inference."
"That he had found the cache?" Lisle's face grew very stern.
Nasmyth nodded.
"In a way, there was some slight excuse for him. Think of it--a worn-out,
famishing man, without blankets or means of making a fire, who had
struggled over icy rocks and through leagues of snow, finding a few cans
of provisions and a little moldy flour! Even when he had satisfied his
hunger, he was, no doubt, unequal to making the return journey to rejoin
a man who was probably already dead."
"If that man had found a scrap of food, he would have tried!"
Lisle's voice had a curious ring in it, and Nasmyth looked at him hard.
"You seem convinced."
"I am; I knew him well."
Nasmyth was startled and he showed it, but afterward he looked
thoughtful.
"I believe I understand," he said.
For a minute or two there was silence which was broken only by the
snapping of the branches on the fire and the hollow roar of the rapid.
The latter had a curious, irritating effect on Nasmyth, who hitherto had
scarcely noticed the insistent pulsatory clamor. At length Lisle spoke
again, laying a strong restraint upon himself.
"Our mutual friend called me Lisle at the Empress Hotel. I don't think he
mentioned my first name, Vernon; and as that was the name of Gladwyne's
guide I kept it in the background. I was anxious to take you with me; I
wanted an Englishman of some standing in the old country whose word would
be believed. What was more, I wanted an honest man who would form an
unbiased opinion. I didn't know then that you were a friend of
Gladwyne's."
Nasmyth made a slight gesture which suggested the acknowledgment of a
compliment.
"I'll try to be just--it's sometimes hard." His voice had a throb of pain
in it as he went on: "I was the friend of George Gladwyne--the one who
perished. I had a strong regard for him."
Something in his expression hinted that this regard had not been shared
by the Gladwyne who survived.
"When my father first came out to British Columbia, new to the bush
ways," Lisle resumed, "a neighbor, Vernon, was of great help to him--lent
him teams, taught him how to chop, and what cattle to raise. He died
before my father, and I was named for him; but he left a son, older than
I, who grew up like him--I believe he was the finest chopper and trailer
I have ever come across. He died, as you have heard, from exposure and
exhaustion, a few days after he reached the Hudson Bay post--before he
could clear himself."
Lisle broke off for a moment and seemed to have some difficulty in
continuing.
"When my father died, Vernon took charge of the ranch, at my mother's
request--I was rather young and she meant to launch me in some
profession. Vernon had no ambition--he loved the bush--and he tried to
give me enough to finish my education while he ran both ranches with a
hired man. I think my mother never suspected that he handed her over more
than she was entitled to, but I found it out and I've been glad ever
since that I firmly prevented his continuing the sacrifice. For all that,
I owe him in many ways more than I could ever have repaid." He clenched
one hand tight as he concluded: "I can at least clear his memory."
Nasmyth nodded in sympathy.
"You called me an honest man; you have my word--I'll see the right done."
Quietly as it was spoken, Lisle recognized that it was no light thing his
companion promised him. In the Dominion, caste stands by caste, and
Lisle, having seen and studied other Englishmen of his friend's
description, knew that the feeling was stronger in the older country. To
expose a man of one's own circle to the contempt and condemnation of
outsiders is, in any walk of life, a strangely repugnant thing.
"Well," he said, "to-morrow we'll pull out and portage across the divide
to strike the Gladwynes' trail. And now I'll fry the trout and we'll have
supper."
They let the subject drop by tacit agreement during the meal, and soon
after it was over a shout from the crest of the ridge above, followed by
a smashing of underbrush, announced that their packer was making for the
camp. Lisle answered, and a cry came down:
"Got a deer, and there are duck on the lake ahead! We'll try for some as
we go up!"
Nasmyth's smile betokened deep satisfaction.
"That's a weight off my mind," he declared. "I'll smoke one pipe, and
then I think I'll go to sleep. We'll make a start with the first loads as
soon as it's light enough."
CHAPTER II
THE DIVIDE
Dawn was late the next morning; the light crept slowly through bitter
rain, and when Lisle and his companions had breakfasted sumptuously for
the first time during several days it was with reluctance that they broke
camp. Indeed, Nasmyth would have suggested remaining under shelter only
that he had come to accept Lisle's decision as final and the latter was
eager to push on. The blacktail deer would not last them long; the trout
were getting shyer every day with the increasing cold; they were a long
distance from the nearest settlement; while winter was rapidly coming on.
Nasmyth shouldered his load with the others, and they set out across a
strip of gravel strewn with boulders. Here and there networks of stranded
branches had to be floundered through, and the ragged ends rasped their
dilapidated boots and bruised their legs. Then, where the bluff rose
almost precipitously from the water, they crept along slippery ledges, or
waded through the shallower pools, with the white rapid roaring down a
few yards outshore of them. There were places where a slip would have
meant destruction, but that was nothing unusual and time was too precious
to spend in an attempt to climb the ridge which hemmed them in.
The pack-straps hurt Nasmyth's shoulders--one of them had been rubbed raw
by previous loads and it smarted painfully until he grew warm with
exertion. He was soon wet through; in places the spray drove into his
face so that he could hardly see; but he held on with dogged
determination, trying to keep up with the others. With the exception of a
few hunting trips, his life had been smooth, and now, dressed mostly in
rags and aching in every limb, he smiled grimly as he remembered how he
had hitherto taken his pleasure. When he had shot partridges, he had, as
a rule, been driven to such stubble or turnip fields as lay at any
distance from his residence, and he had usually been provided with a pony
when he ascended the high moors in search of grouse. Money smoothed out
many small difficulties in the older land, but it was powerless in the
wilds of the new one, where one must depend on such things as native
courage, brute strength, and the capacity for dogged endurance, which are
common to all ranks of men. It was fortunate for Nasmyth that he
possessed them, but that, as he was discovering, is not quite enough.
They are great gifts in the raw, but, like most others, they need
exercise and assiduous cultivation for their full development.
On reaching the head of the rapid, they went back for another load, and
afterward Jake got into the canoe, while Lisle fixed the end of the
tracking-line about his shoulders. Aided by the line, the packer swung
the canoe across madly whirling eddies and in and out among foam-lapped
rocks, and now and then drove her, half hidden by the leaping froth, up
some tumultuous rush. At times Lisle, wading waist-deep and dragged
almost off his feet, barely held her stationary--Nasmyth could see his
chest heave and his face grow darkly flushed--but in another instant they
were going on again. That a craft could be propelled up any part of the
rapid would, Nasmyth thought, have appeared absolutely incredible to any
one who had not seen it done.
At last, however, the task became too hard for them and after dragging
her out they carried her, upside down, in turn. It was difficult for them
to see where they were going, and the craft, made from a hollowed log,
was by no means so well fitted for the work as the bark or canvas canoe
of the more eastern wilds. She was comparatively heavy, and their heads
and shoulders were inside of her. Once or twice the portager fell; and
the fall is an awkward one, as it is impossible to break it with one's
hands, which are occupied in holding the canoe. Still, they made
progress, and, launching again above the rapid, they reached a lake at
noon, by hard paddling. Here they landed, and Nasmyth dropped down upon a
boulder to look about him.
It was a cheerless prospect he saw through the haze of rain. Back into
the distance ran a stretch of slate-gray water, flecked and seamed by the
white tops of little splashing waves, for a nipping wind blew down the
lake. On either side rose low hills, dotted here and there with somber
and curiously rigid trees. They were not large, and though from a
distance they looked much the same, Nasmyth recognized some as spruce and
supposed the other ragged spires to be cedars. In one spot there were
some that resembled English larch, and these were almost bare.
Then his companions began to discuss the best means of further progress.
With a fresh breeze ahead, Jake advocated poling through the shallows
near the beach; and Lisle, with a courtesy which Nasmyth had already
noticed, turned toward him when he answered, as if his opinion might be
valuable.
"The trouble is that the beach sweeps back off the straight. We'd drive
her right up the middle to headwater with the paddle before we'd make
two-thirds of the way poling alongshore."
"It would be a good deal harder work, wouldn't it?" Nasmyth ventured, and
laughed when he saw Lisle's faint amusement. "I suppose that doesn't
count. It's not worth mentioning," he added. "Since you're anxious to get
on, what's the use of stopping for dinner? After the breakfast I had, I
can hold out some time."
"I want to get through as quickly as I can; that's why I'm not going to
rush you unless it's necessary," Lisle answered. "Try to get hold of the
fact that a man needs food regularly to keep him in efficient going
order."
"Indisputable," Nasmyth agreed. "But he can do without it and work for a
while. We've proved it."
"Not without paying," Lisle pointed out. "You can draw upon your
reserves, but it takes time and rest to make them good. We may need all
ours badly before we're through."
There was a grim hint in his last words which Nasmyth found convincing,
and when he had rested he helped to prepare the meal. It was a simple
one--cold doughy cakes baked in a frying-pan, extraordinarily tough and
stringy venison, with a pint-can each of strong green tea. Their sugar
had long ago melted and the condensed milk was exhausted.
Afterward, they shoved the canoe out and paddled doggedly into the
driving rain and the strong headwind. The spray from the splashing bows
blew into their faces, and the broken water checked them badly. Nasmyth's
hands began to blister. To make it worse, there was a raw wound on one of
them, the result of a similar day's toil; and his knees chafed sore
against the branches in the craft's bottom. There was, however, no
respite--the moment they slackened their exertions they would drift to
lee--and he held on, keeping awkward stroke with Jake, while Lisle swung
the balancing paddle astern.
They kept it up for several hours, and then, toward evening, the rain
ceased and the clouds rolled aside. A wonderful yellow light shone behind
the bordering hills, and the twisted, wind-battered cedars on their
crests stood out against it in hard, fretted tracery. The wind dropped;
the short, white waves smoothed down; the water, heaving gently, gleamed
with a coppery glare, and the paddle blades seemed to splash up liquid
fire. Then the shores closed in ahead, and, landing on a shingle beach,
they made camp in the mouth of a gap among the hills. Supper was prepared
and eaten, and afterward Jake took up his rifle.
"I saw some ducks in the next bay," he explained.
He strolled out of camp, and Nasmyth smiled at Lisle.
"Except when he advised you to pole, that's about all he has said
to-day."
This was correct. The packer was a taciturn inhabitant of the wilds who
seldom indulged in an unnecessary remark. There was, however, no
moroseness about him; the man was good-humored in his quiet way, and his
usual ruminative calm was no deterrent from apparently tireless action.
For the most part, he lived alone in the impressive stillness of the
bush, where he had a few acres of partly cleared land which failed to
provide him with a living. For that reason, he periodically left his tiny
log house and packed for some survey expedition, or went down to work for
a few months at a sawmill. Capable of most determined labor, wonderfully
proficient with his hands, he asked no more from life than a little plain
food and indifferent shelter. No luxury that civilization could offer
would have tempted him to desert the wilds.
Lisle filled his pipe with leisurely content. He shared Jake's love for
the wilderness, and he found it strangely pleasant to rest in camp after
a day's persistent toil. Besides, he usually enjoyed his evening chat
with Nasmyth, for, widely different as their training and mode of life
had been, they had much in common. Then, too, there was something in the
prospect spread out before them that impelled tranquillity. The clump of
wet cedars among which they had camped distilled a clean, aromatic smell;
and there was a freshness in the cool evening air that reinvigorated
their tired bodies. Above the low hilltops the sky glimmered with saffron
and transcendental green, and half the lake shone in ethereal splendor;
the other half was dim and bordered with the sharply-cut shadows of the
trees. Except for the lap of water upon the pebbles and the wild cry of a
loon that rang like a peal of unearthly laughter out of a darkening bay,
there was nothing to break the deep stillness of the waste.
Lisle pointed to the gap in the hills, which was filling with thin white
mist.
"That's the last big portage the Gladwynes made," he remarked. "They came
in by a creek to the west, and they were badly played out when they
struck this divide; the struggle to get through broke them up." He paused
before he added: "What kind of men were they?"
"George wasn't effusive; he was the kind of man you like better the
longer you know him. If I were told that he ever did a mean thing, I
wouldn't believe it. His last action--sending the others on--was
characteristic."
"They didn't want to go," Lisle interposed quietly.
His companion nodded.
"I believe that's true. I like to think so."
There was something curious in his tone, which Lisle noticed.
"From the beginning," Nasmyth went on, "George behaved very generously to
Clarence."
"It was Clarence that I meant to ask about more particularly."
Nasmyth looked thoughtful, and when he answered, it struck Lisle that he
was making an effort to give an unbiased opinion.
"Clarence," he said, "is more likable when you first meet him than George
used to be; a handsome man who knows how to say the right thing. Makes
friends readily, but somehow he never keeps the best of them. He's one of
the people who seem able to get whatever they want without having to
struggle for it and who rarely land in any difficulty."
Again a grudging note became apparent, as though the speaker were trying
to subdue faint suspicion or disapproval, and Lisle changed the subject.
"Had George Gladwyne any immediate relatives?"
"One sister, as like him as it's possible for a woman to be. He wasn't
greatly given to society; I don't think he'd ever have married. His death
was a crushing blow to the girl--they were wonderfully attached to each
other--but I've never seen a finer display of courage than hers when
Clarence cabled the news."
He broke off, as if he felt that he had been talking with too much
freedom, and just then the report of a rifle came ringing across the
water.
"That's a duck's head shot off. Jake doesn't miss," he said.
Lisle nodded. He could take a hint; and he had no doubt that Nasmyth was
right regarding the shot, though it is not easy to decapitate a swimming
duck with a rifle. He began to talk about the portage; and soon after
Jake returned with a single duck they went to sleep.
It was clear and bright the next morning and they spent the day carrying
their loads a few miles up the hollow which pierced the height of the
divide. Part of it was a morass, fissured with little creeks running down
from the hills whose tops rose at no great elevation above the opening.
This was bad to traverse, but it was worse when they came to a muskeg
where dwarf forest had once covered what was now a swamp. Most of the
trees had fallen as the soil, from some change in the lake's level, had
grown too wet. They had partly rotted in the slough, and willows had
afterward grown up among them.
Now and then the men laid down their loads and hewed a few of the still
standing trunks, letting them fall to serve as rude bridges where the
morass was almost impassable, but the real struggle began when they went
back for the canoe. At first they managed to carry her on their shoulders,
wading in the bog, but afterward she must be dragged through or over
innumerable tangles of small fallen trunks and networks of rotten branches
that had to be laboriously smashed. It was heroic labor--sometimes they
spent an hour making sixty yards--and Lisle's face grew anxious as well as
determined. Game had been very scarce; the deer would not last them long;
and disastrous results might follow a continuance of their present slow
progress. When, utterly worn out, they made camp on slightly firmer ground
toward four o'clock in the afternoon, Lisle strode off heavily toward the
bordering hills, while Jake pushed on to prospect ahead. Nasmyth, who was
quite unable to accompany either, prepared the supper and awaited their
reports with some anxiety.
Lisle came back first and shook his head when Nasmyth asked if he had
found a better route on higher ground.
"Not a slope we could haul along," he reported. "That way's impracticable."
It was nearly dark when Jake came in.
"It's not too bad ahead," he informed them.
They were not greatly reassured, because Jake's idea of what was really
bad was alarming. Nasmyth glanced at his companion with a smile.
"Is it any better than this?" he asked.
"A little," answered Jake. "An old trail runs in."
"Gladwyne's trail?" exclaimed Nasmyth. "The one we're looking for?"
"Why, yes," drawled Jake, as if it were scarcely worth mentioning. "I
guess it is."
Nasmyth turned to Lisle.
"I was lucky when I lighted on you as a companion for this trip. You have
been right in your predictions all along, and now you're only out in
striking the trail a day before you expected."
"I know the bush," returned Lisle. "It's been pretty easy so far--but,
for several reasons, I wish the next week or two were over."
Nasmyth looked troubled. One could have imagined that misgivings which
did not concern his personal safety were creeping into his mind.
"So do I," he confessed, and turning toward the fire he busied himself
with Jake's supper.
There was no change in the work the next morning, but in the afternoon it
became evident that another party had made that portage ahead of them.
The soil was a little drier and where the small trees grew more thickly
they could see that a passage had been laboriously cleared. In the swampy
hollows, which still occurred, trunks had here and there been flung into
the ooze. This saved them some trouble and they made better progress, but
both Lisle and Nasmyth became silent and grave as the signs of their
predecessors' march grew plainer. By nightfall they had reached the
second camping-place, which told an eloquent story of struggle with
fatigue and exhaustion. Lisle, stopping in the gathering dusk, glanced
around the old camp site.
"A good place to pitch the tent, but I think I'd rather move on a
little," he said.
Nasmyth made a sign of comprehension.
"Yes," he agreed. "I couldn't sleep soundly here. Everything about us is
too plain a reminder; I've no doubt you feel it as I do. A firm and
trusted friend lay, famishing, beside that fire, in what extremity of
weakness and suffering I dare not let myself think. It's possible he cut
those branches yonder."
Lisle's face expressed emotion sternly held in check.
"That was Vernon's work--no Englishman new to the country could have
slashed them off so cleanly. But look at this small spruce stump. He was
the better chopper, but it's significant that he used three or four
strokes where I would have taken one."
Even the laconic Jake appeared relieved when they forced their way a
little farther through the tangled undergrowth, until finding a clear
space they set up the tent.
CHAPTER III
THE CACHE
They spent the greater part of a week on the portage, crossing here and
there a little lake; and then came out one evening on a river that
flowed, green and tranquil, beneath a ridge of hills. Here they camped;
and on rising with a shiver in the raw and nipping dawn the next morning,
Nasmyth found Lisle busy at the fire. Jake was cutting wood some distance
off, for the thud of his ax rang sharply through the stillness.
"I was awake--thinking--a good deal last night; in fact, I've been
restless ever since we struck the Gladwynes' trail," Nasmyth began. "Now,
I understand that an uninterrupted journey of about sixteen days would
take us well on our way toward civilization. You say you apprehend no
difficulty after that?"
"No." Lisle waited, watching his companion in an intent fashion.
Nasmyth hesitated.
"Then, considering everything, mightn't it be better to waste no time,
and push straight on?"
"And leave the work that brought me here--I believe that brought us both
here--undone?"
"You'll forgive me if I don't express myself very fortunately. What I
feel is this--Gladwyne's story is a tragic one, but it's twelve months
old. In a way, it's forgotten; the wounds it made have healed."
"Is such a man as the one you have described forgotten in a year?" Lisle
asked with a hardening expression.
Nasmyth, being a man of simple and, for the most part, wholesome ideas,
was in a quandary. His feelings were generous, but he shrank from putting
them into words. Moreover he was just and was not wholly convinced that
the course he wished to recommend was right.
"Well," he contended, "there are faithful hearts that never quite
forget--with them the scar remains; but it's fortunate that the first
keen pain does not last. Is it decent--I almost think that's the right
word--to reopen the wound?"
He paused and spread out one hand as if in expostulation.
"Your late comrade has gone beyond your help; you told me he had left no
relatives; and you have only yourself to consider. Can you do any good by
bringing this sorrowful tale of disaster up again?"
"Are you pleading for your English friends, anxious to save them pain at
my expense? Can't you understand my longing to clear my dead partner's
name?"
A trace of color crept into Nasmyth's face.
"I suppose I deserve that, though it wasn't quite the only thing I meant.
I've an idea that you are somehow going to lay up trouble for yourself by
persevering in this search."
"I don't want to be offensive; but can't you see that by urging me to let
the thing drop you are casting grave doubts upon the honor of a man of
your own caste and kind, one with whom you are closely acquainted? Are
you afraid to investigate, to look for proofs of Clarence Gladwyne's
story?"
Nasmyth looked him steadily in the eyes.
"For the sake of one or two others, I think I am. Your belief in the
guide, Vernon, has had its effect on me."
"Then," said Lisle, "I have no fear of putting my belief to the test; I
came up here for that purpose, and I mean to call upon you as my witness.
As you said of George Gladwyne, the man I owe so much to never did a
shabby thing. That he should have deserted a starving comrade is clean
impossible!"
"I suppose there's no help for it," responded Nasmyth, with a gesture of
acquiescence. "We have said enough. Since you insist, I'll stand by my
promise."
The thudding of the ax ceased, and they heard Jake returning with the
wood. Lisle set out the simple breakfast, and when they had eaten they
launched the canoe and floated swiftly down the smooth green river all
that day. They had accomplished the worst half of the journey;
henceforward their way lay down-stream, and with moderate good fortune
they need have no apprehension about safely reaching the settlements, but
they were both silent and ill at ease. Lisle was consumed with fierce
impatience; and Nasmyth shrank from what might shortly be revealed to
him. Scarcely a word was spoken when they lay in camp that night.
The next day they came to the head of a long and furiously-running rapid.
Rocks encumbered its channel; the stream boiled fiercely over sunken
ledges, dropping several feet here and there in angry falls; and in one
place, where the banks narrowed in, a white stretch of foaming waves ran
straight down the middle. Here they unloaded and spent the day
laboriously relaying their stores and camp-gear over the boulders and
ragged ledges between a wall of rock and the water. It was a remarkably
difficult traverse. In places they had to hoist the leader up to some
slippery shelf he could not reach unassisted and to which he dragged his
companions up in turn; in others deep pools barred their way, and in
skirting them they were forced to cling to any indifferent handhold on
the rock's fissured side. As they toiled on, badly hampered by their
loads, the same thought was in the minds of two of the men--a wonder as
to how Gladwyne's exhausted party had crossed that portage, unless the
water had been lower. It was not difficult to understand how the
famishing leader had fallen and lamed himself.
When at last, toward the end of the afternoon, the stores had been
deposited on the banks of the pool below, Lisle sat down and filled his
pipe.
"It would take us most of two days to portage the canoe, and we might
damage her badly in doing so," he said. "The head of the rapid's
impossible, but with luck we might run her down the rest in about ten
minutes. The thing seems worth trying, though I wouldn't have risked it
with the stores on board."
"Suppose you swamped or upset her?" Nasmyth suggested.
"It's less likely, since she'd go light, with only two of us paddling."
Nasmyth considered. The sight of the rapid was not encouraging, but he
shrank from the intense effort that would be needed to transport the
craft by the way they had come. Eventually it was decided to leave Jake
below, ready to swim out with the tracking-line and seize the canoe if
any mishap befell, and Lisle and Nasmyth went back to the head of the
rapid. They dragged the canoe round the worst rush with infinite
difficulty; and then Nasmyth set his lips and braced himself for the mad
descent when his companion thrust her off.
A few strokes of the paddle drove them out into the stream, and then
their task consisted in holding her straight and swinging her clear of
the rocks that showed up through the leaping foam, which was difficult
enough. Seen from the water, the prospect was almost appalling, though it
was blurred and momentarily changing. Nasmyth's eyes could hardly grasp
salient details--he had only a confused impression of flying spray,
rushing green water that piled itself here and there in frothy ridges,
flitting rocks, and trees that came furiously speeding up toward him. He
had an idea that Lisle once or twice shouted sharp instructions and that
he clumsily obeyed, but he could not have told exactly what he did. He
only knew that now and then he paddled desperately, but more often he
knelt still, gazing fascinated at the mad turmoil in front of him.
At last there was an urgent cry from Lisle and he backed his paddle. The
canoe swerved, a foaming wave broke into her, and in another moment
Nasmyth was in the water. He was dragged down by the swirling stream, and
when he rose he dimly saw the canoe a few yards in front of him. He
failed to reach her--she was traveling faster than he was--and, though he
could swim well, he grew horribly afraid. It struck him that there was a
strong probability of his being driven against a boulder with force
enough to break his bones or of being drawn down and battered against the
stony bottom. Still, he struck out for a line of leaping froth between
him and the bank and was nearing it when Lisle grasped his shoulder and
thrust him straight down-stream. Scarcely able to see amid the turmoil,
confused and bewildered, he nevertheless realized that it was not
desirable to attempt a landing where he had intended. Yielding to the
guiding impulse, he floundered down-stream, until Lisle again seized him
and drove him shoreward, and a few moments later he stood up, breathless,
in a few feet of slacker water. He waded to the bank, and then turned to
Lisle, who was close behind.
"Thanks," he gasped. "I owe you something for that."
"Pshaw!" disclaimed the other. "I only pulled you back. You'd have got
badly hammered if you'd tried to cross that ledge. I'd noticed the
inshore swirl close below it when we were packing along the bank, and
remembered that we could land in it."
"But you had hold of the canoe. I saw you close beside her."
"I only wanted her to take me past the ledge," Lisle explained. "I'd no
notion of going right through with her. Now we'll make for camp."
On arriving there as darkness closed down, they found that Jake had
recovered the craft. The paddles had gone, but he could make another pair
in an hour or two. They had a few dry things to put on, and as they lay
beside the fire after supper they were sensible that the slight
constraint both had felt for the last two days had vanished. Neither
would have alluded to the feeling which had replaced it, nor, indeed,
could have clearly expressed his thoughts, but mutual liking, respect and
confidence had suddenly changed to something stronger. During the few
minutes they spent in the water a bond, indefinite, indescribable, but
not to be broken, had been forged between the two.
The next morning it was clear and cold, and they made good progress until
they landed late in the afternoon. Then, after scrambling some distance
over loose gravel, Lisle and Nasmyth stopped beside a slight hollow in a
wall of rock. A few large stones had been rudely placed on one another to
form a shelter; there were still some small spruce branches, which had
evidently been used for a roof, scattered about; and the remains of a
torn and moldering blanket lay near by. In another place was a holed
frying-pan and a battered kettle.
Nasmyth gravely took off his shapeless hat, and stood glancing about him
with a fixed expression.
"This," he said quietly, "is where my friend died--as you have heard,
they afterward took his body out. There are few men who could compare
with that one; I can't forget him."
There was nothing to be done, and little that could be said; and they
turned away from the scene of the tragedy, where a man, who to the last
had thought first of his companions, had met his lonely end. Launching
the canoe, they sped on down-river, making a few easier portages, and
four days later they landed on the bank of a turbulent reach shut in by
steep, stony slopes. There was a little brushwood here and there, but not
a tree of any kind.
"It was on this beach that Gladwyne made one cache," said Lisle. "If
there had been a cypress or a cedar near, he'd have blazed a mark on it.
As it is, we'd better look for a heap of stones."
They searched for some time without finding anything, for straight beach
and straight river presented no prominent feature which any one making a
cache would fix upon as guide. Lisle directed Nasmyth's attention to
this.
"There was deep snow when Vernon came down the gorge, on this side," he
pointed out. "It doesn't follow that he was with the others when they
buried the stores--he might have been carrying up a load--and it's
possible they couldn't give him a very exact description. If I'm right in
this, he'd have a long stretch of beach to search, and a man's senses
aren't as keen as usual when he's badly played out."
Nasmyth made no comment, but his expression suggested that he would not
be disappointed if they failed to strike the cache. Shortly afterward,
however, Jake called out, and on joining him they saw a cross scratched
on a slab of slightly projecting rock. Even with that to guide them, it
was some time before they came upon a few stones roughly piled together
and almost hidden in a bank of shingle.
"First of all, I want you to notice that this gravel has slipped down
from the bluff after the cache was made," Lisle said to Nasmyth. "With
snow on the ground and the slab yonder covered, it would be almost
impossible to locate it." He turned to Jake. "How long would you say it
was since the rain or frost brought that small stuff down?"
Jake glanced at the young brushwood growing higher up the slope. It was
shorter than that surrounding it, and evidently covered the spot which
the mass of debris had laid bare in its descent.
"Part of one summer and all the next," he answered decidedly.
"Tell us how you figured it out."
Jake climbed the bank and returned with two or three young branches which
he handed to Lisle.
"The thing's plain enough to you." He turned toward Nasmyth. "No growth
except in the summer--they'd had a few warm months to start them, but
they don't fork until the second year. See these shoots?"
"As winter was beginning when the Gladwyne party came down, that small
landslide must have taken place some time before then," declared Lisle.
They set to work and carefully moved aside the stones. First they
uncovered three cans of preserved meat, and then a small flour bag which
had rotted and now disclosed a hard and moldy mass inside. There was also
another bag which had evidently contained sugar; and a few other things.
All examined them in silence, and then sat down grave in face.
"It's unfortunate that nobody could positively state whether this cache
has been opened or not since it was made, but there are a few points to
guide us," said Lisle. "Do you know what kind of food civilized men
who've been compelled to work to exhaustion on insufficient rations,
helped out by a little fish or game, generally long for most?"
"No," answered Nasmyth, with a feeble attempt at levity. "I've now and
then remembered with regret the kind of dinner I used to get in England."
"You have scarcely felt the pinch," Lisle informed him. "The two things
are farinaceous stuff and sugar. No doubt, it will occur to you that
Vernon might have taken a can or two of meat; but that's not likely."
"If you're right about the longing for flour and sweet-stuff, it's a
strong point," Nasmyth declared. "Where did you learn the fact?"
Lisle looked at Jake, and the packer smiled in a significant manner.
"He's right," he vouched. "We know."
"Then," continued Lisle, indicating the sugar bag, which had been wrapped
in a waterproof sheet, "can you imagine a starving man, in desperate
haste, making up this package as it was when we found it?"
"No," admitted Nasmyth; "it's most improbable."
Somewhat to his astonishment, the usually taciturn Jake broke in.
"You're wasting time! Vernon never struck this cache--he told the folks
at the post so. Worked with him once trail-cutting--what that man said
goes!"
"You never told me you knew Vernon!" exclaimed Lisle.
"Quite likely," Jake drawled. "It didn't seem any use till now."
For the first time since they landed, Nasmyth laughed--he felt that
something was needed to relieve the tension.
"If people never talked unless they had something useful to say, there
would be a marvelous change," he declared.
Lisle disregarded this, but he was a little less grave when he resumed:
"There's another point to bear in mind. Two of Gladwyne's party left him;
and of those two which would be the more likely to succumb to extreme
exertion, exposure, and insufficient food?"
"Against the answer you expect, there's the fact that Vernon made the
longer journey," Nasmyth objected.
"It doesn't count for much. Was Clarence Gladwyne accustomed to roughing
it and going without his dinner? Would you expect him to survive where
you would perish, even if you had a little more to bear?"
"No," confessed Nasmyth; "he's rather a self-indulgent person."
"Then, for example, could you march through a rough, snow-covered country
on as little food as I could?"
"No, again," answered Nasmyth. "You would probably hold out two or three
days longer than I could."
"Vernon was a stronger and tougher man than I am," Lisle went on. "Now,
without finding definite proof, which I hardly expected, there is, I
think, strong presumptive evidence that Vernon's story is correct."
"Yes," agreed Nasmyth, and added gravely: "Will you ever find the proof?"
"I think there's a way--it may be difficult; but I'm going right through
with this."
"What's your next move?"
"I've willingly laid my partner's story open to the only tests we can
impose. Now I'm going to do the same with Clarence Gladwyne's."
Nothing more was said, and turning away from the cache, they went back to
the canoe.
CHAPTER IV
A PAINFUL DECISION
Two days passed uneventfully, though Nasmyth was conscious of a growing
uneasiness during them; and then one evening they landed to search
another beach. They had less difficulty here, for small cedars and
birches crept down to the waterside and Jake found an ax-blaze on one.
After that, it was easy to locate the cache, and there were signs that it
had been either very roughly made, or afterward opened and reclosed in
careless haste. Lisle had no hesitation in deciding upon the latter, and
Jake was emphatic in his brief assurance on the point.
On removing the covering stones, they found very little beneath them, but
every object was taken out and Lisle, measuring quantities and guessing
weights, carefully enumerated each in his notebook. Neither he nor
Nasmyth said anything of import then; both felt that the subject was too
grave to be lightly discussed; and walking back silently along the
shingle, they pitched the tent and prepared supper. After the meal, Jake,
prompted by an innate tact, sauntered away down the beach, and the other
two, lounging beside the fire, took out their pipes. A full moon hung
above the lonely gorge, which was filled with the roar of the river, and
the shadows of the cedars lay black upon the stones.
Some minutes passed before a word was spoken; and then Nasmyth looked up.
"Well?" he said briefly.
Lisle moved a little, so that he could see his companion's face.
"In the first place," he explained, "Clarence Gladwyne came down this
bank. One could locate the cache by the blazed tree, even with snow upon
the ground--and it has been opened. Apart from the signs of this, no
party of three men would have thought it worth while to make a cache of
the few things we found."
"Mightn't it have been opened by some Indian?"
"It's most unlikely, because he would have cleaned it out. A white
prospector would certainly have taken the tobacco."
Nasmyth knit his brows. He was deeply troubled, because there were
respects in which the matter would hardly bear discussion, though he
recognized that it must now be thrashed out.
"Well," he admitted reluctantly, "what we have discovered has its
significance; but it isn't conclusive."
His companion took out from a pocket the palm and wrist portion of a fur
glove. It was badly rotted, and the rest had either fallen away or been
gnawed by some animal, but a button with a stamp on it remained.
"Jake found that and gave it to me," he said. "There's enough left to
show that it had finger-stalls, and there are none on the mittens we use
in cold weather. The thing's English, and with a little rubbing I expect
you'll find the maker's name on that button. When the party went up it
was warm weather, but we know there was sharp frost when Gladwyne came
back. A buttoned glove doesn't drop off one's hand, and even if it had
done so Gladwyne would have noticed and picked it up. It seems to me he
took it off to open one of the provision bags and couldn't find it
afterward because he'd trodden it into the snow."
Nasmyth could doubt no longer, and his face grew red.
"The hound!" he broke out. "He had a hand frost-bitten--one finger is
different from the others yet."
Lisle said nothing; he could understand and sympathize with what was
going on in his companion's mind and the latter was filled with
bitterness and humiliation. A man of his own kind and station in life,
one with whom he fished and shot, had broken faith with his starving
comrade and with incredible cowardice had left him to perish. Even this
was not the worst; though Nasmyth had always taken the personal courage
of his friends for granted. He was not a clever man and he had his
faults, but he shaped his life in accordance with a few simple but
inflexible rules. It was difficult for him to understand how one could
yield to a fit of craven fear; but there was a fact which made Gladwyne's
transgression still blacker.
"This thing hits hard," he said at length. "The man should have gone
back, if he had known it meant certain death."
Lisle filled his pipe and smoked in silence for several minutes during
which the eery cry of a loon rang about the camp. It roused Nasmyth to an
outbreak of anger.
"I hate that unearthly noise!" he exclaimed vehemently. "The thing seems
to be gloating; it's indecent! When I think of that call it will bring
back the long portage and this ghostly river! I wish I'd never made the
journey, or that I could blot the whole thing out!"
"It can't be done," Lisle replied. "It's too late. You have learned the
truth of what has been done here--but the results will work themselves
out. Neither you nor I can stop them; they have to be faced."
"The pity of it is that the innocent must suffer; they've borne enough
already."
"There's a point I don't quite understand," declared Lisle. "Whatever the
Hudson Bay agent thought, he'd have kept it to himself if he'd been
allowed--I've met him. It was Gladwyne who laid the whole blame on
Vernon; he forced the agent to bear him out. Why should he have taken so
much trouble? His own tale would have cleared him."
Nasmyth looked irresolute; and then he answered reluctantly:
"There's a fact I haven't told you yet--Clarence came into the family
property on George's death; a fine old place, a fairly large estate. The
sister doesn't count, though she got her brother's personal property--the
land goes down in the male line."
Lisle dropped his pipe.
"Now I understand! Gladwyne profits, my dead partner bore the shame. But
do you believe the man meant to let his cousin die?"
"No," Nasmyth answered sharply, "that's unthinkable! But I blame him
almost as much as if he had done so. Besides his duty to George, he had a
duty to himself and to the family--the honorable men and women who had
kept the name clean before him. Knowing he would inherit on George's
death, there was only one way open--he should have gone back, at any
cost. Instead, to clear himself of the faintest trace of ugly suspicion,
he lays the blame upon an innocent man."
Lisle did not reply to this. He felt that had the grim choice been
imposed upon his companion, the man would have taken the course he had
indicated.
"You said that George Gladwyne was a naturalist," he remarked. "Was he a
methodical man?"
"Eminently so," replied Nasmyth, wondering where the question led. He had
already been astonished at Lisle's close reasoning and the correctness of
his deductions.
"Then he would have made notes on his journey and no doubt have kept some
kind of diary. Did the rescue party recover it?"
"They did. It was given to George's sister."
"Damaged by snow or water, badly tattered?"
"It was," assented Nasmyth. "I've had the book in my hands. I suppose
it's natural that you should guess its condition, but I don't see what it
points to."
Lisle smiled grimly.
"One wouldn't be astonished to find some leaves missing from a tattered
book."
"You're right again." Nasmyth started. "Several had gone."
"I think I can tell which part of the journey they related to. A
methodical man would make a note of the stores cached, and the lists
would be conclusive evidence if anybody afterward opened the caches and
enumerated their contents, as we have done. If everything put into the
one on the bank Vernon followed remained there, it would prove that he
couldn't have found it. On the other hand, if the one on Gladwyne's side
of the river--"
"Of course!" Nasmyth broke in. "You needn't labor the point; it's plain
enough." He stopped for a few moments before he went on again. "I'm
convinced; but without that list of Gladwyne's you still haven't proof
enough to place your account of the affair beyond dispute. What are you
going to do?"
"I'm going to England--it's my father's country, and I meant to visit it
some day. Whether I shall find out anything more there or not I don't
know."
"Then you must stay with me. That's a point I insist upon. But I must
make my situation clear--though I've been drawn into this matter against
my will, you have my promise, and if ever the time for action comes, I'll
stand by you. But I'll take no part in trapping Clarence Gladwyne into
any admission, nor will I countenance any charge against him unless some
chance supplies you with indisputable evidence."
"Thanks," said Lisle; "I'm agreeable. You stand neutral until I call on
you."
"There are two more questions, and then we'll let the subject drop. Why
didn't you make this search earlier? Why didn't Gladwyne rearrange the
caches afterward? He went back, you know."
"They're easily answered. It was some time before I heard of Vernon's
death and met the Hudson Bay man in Victoria--I'd been away in the North.
Gladwyne had the rescue party with him when he went back; he couldn't
replace the provisions in the cache on this side without their knowing
it, and I don't suppose he could have crossed the river to the other
cache. Now we'll talk of something else."
They started again the next morning, and instead of leaving the river for
the Hudson Bay post, which stood farther back into the wilderness, they
held on down-stream, though they afterward regretted this when their
provisions once more grew scanty. There was now sharp frost at nights;
fangs of ice stretched out behind the boulders and crackling sheets of it
gathered in the slacker eddies along the bank. What mattered more was
that the portages were frequent, and carrying the canoe over rock coated
with frozen spray became dangerous as well as difficult, and Nasmyth
working on short rations began to feel the strain. It was only since he
had entered that inhospitable region that he had ever been compelled to
go without his dinner; and now breakfast and supper were sternly
curtailed. When they were stopped for two days by a blinding snowstorm he
grew anxious, and his uneasiness had increased when some time afterward
they made their evening meal of a single flapjack each. He could readily
have eaten a dozen of the thin, flat cakes. The duck they had shot every
now and then since crossing the divide had gone; they had not seen a
trout since the cold set in; and there did not appear to be any salmon in
the river.
After breakfast the next morning, Lisle concluded that it would be wise
to risk a day looking for a deer, so he invited Nasmyth to take his rifle
and the two set out. It cost them some trouble to climb the low bluff
above the river through a horrible tangle of fallen trunks. The trees
were getting larger and the branches of those the wind had brought down
lay spread about them or were resting on the standing growth in networks
which Nasmyth would have thought it impossible to traverse had he been
alone. Lisle scrambled through, however, and he had no choice except to
follow. Where the timber was thinner, the slope was covered with
sharp-edged stones which further damaged his already dilapidated boots;
and when at last they came out upon a comparatively bare, rocky
tableland, a bitter wind met them in the teeth. It drove a little fine
snow before it, but Lisle plodded steadily on, explaining that any deer
which might be in the neighborhood would have gone down into the
sheltered valleys. He had no doubt they would find one of the valleys,
for they were generally numerous.
It was an hour before they reached one, and Nasmyth was conscious of an
unpleasant pain in his side and a headache which he supposed resulted
from want of food. For all that, he scrambled after his companion down an
almost impossible descent, where trees of increasing size grew up among
outcropping rock and banks of stones. When he reached the bottom he found
himself in a deep rift filled with densely-matted underbrush, through
which a swift stream flowed. Its banks promised a slightly easier road,
though now and then they had to wade through the water, which was icy
cold. Noon came and they had seen no sign of life, except two or three
willow-grouse which they failed to dislodge from cover; but Lisle held
on, his course running roughly in a line with the river.
It was toward three o'clock, and a little snow was sifting down between
the somber branches overhead, when Lisle, stopping, raised a warning hand
and pointed to an opening in the trees. The light was dim among the rows
of trunks, and for a few seconds Nasmyth gazed down the long colonnade,
seeing nothing. Then Lisle pointed again, impatiently, and he made out
something between a gray trunk and a thicket. Sportsman as he was, he had
not the bush-man's eye, and he would never have supposed that formless
object to be a deer. It moved, however; a prong of horn appeared; and
waiting for nothing further he pitched up his rifle.
It was a long shot, standing; he guessed the range in a deceptive light;
but he found himself strangely steady as he squeezed the trigger. He was
desperately hungry and weak from want of food; the deer must not escape.
Yet he was in no rash haste; for two or three seconds the tiny foresight
trembled slightly upon the mark, while the pressure on the trigger
increased. Then there was a flash; he heard no report but the smoke blew
into his eyes. Almost simultaneously, a train of red sparks leaped out
from somewhere close at his side and there was a sharp snapping in the
bush ahead.
"You got your shot in!" cried Lisle. "I think I missed him on the jump.
Come on; we must pick up the trail!"
It was easy to find; the deer had been too badly hit to bound across each
obstacle as cleanly as usual, and broken twigs and scattering withered
leaves showed which way it had gone. Besides, there were red splashes
here and there. It was, however, a difficult matter to follow the trail.
Fallen trees and dense thickets barred the way, and they had to cross the
creek every now and then. Nasmyth rapidly got breathless and before long
he was badly distressed, but he held on behind his companion. Once or
twice he was held fast for a moment or two, and breaking free, found he
had badly ripped his garments on the ragged branches. Still, it was
unthinkable that they should let the deer escape.
As he struggled forward, he remembered that the days were rapidly
shortening, and he shrank from the prospect of retracing his way to camp
in the dark. It occurred to him that it was a compliment and a mark of
very fine courtesy that Lisle had left the first shot to him. In return
for this, he must endeavor to be present to assist when he was wanted.
The deer was still invisible, but it was not very far ahead, for at times
the snapping of a stick or a rustle of disturbed underbrush came sharply
out of the woods. The light was getting dimmer and the snow was falling
more thickly.
At last the hunted creature left the valley and after a desperate
scramble the men reached the summit of the ridge above. Here the
tableland between them and the river was covered with straggling bush,
and though the undergrowth was thin they could see nothing but the long
rows of shadowy trunks. Lisle, however, picked up the trail, and they
followed it as rapidly as possible until, when Nasmyth was lagging some
distance behind, there was a shout in front of him and his companion's
rifle flashed. Making a last effort, he broke into a run and presently
came to the brink of a steep descent covered with thick brush and
scattered trees, with a wide reach of palely gleaming water at the foot
of it. It was the kind of place one would have preferred to climb down
cautiously, but there was a sharp snapping and crackling below and
Nasmyth knew that a hard-pressed deer will frequently take to the water.
If it crossed the river, it would escape; and that could not be
contemplated.
Holding his rifle up, he plunged madly down the descent, smashing through
matted bushes, stumbling over slippery stones. Once or twice he collided
with a slender tree and struck his leg against some ridge of rock; but he
held on, gasping, and the water rapidly grew nearer. He had almost
reached it when a dim shape broke out from a thicket at the bottom of the
slope. There were still some cartridges in his rifle cylinder, but he was
slipping and sliding down an almost precipitous declivity at such a rate
that it was impossible to stop and shoot. Indeed, in another moment he
fell violently into a brake and had some difficulty in smashing through
it, but when he struggled free he saw shingle and boulders in front of
him and Lisle bounding across them a few yards behind the deer. He
reached the stones, wondering why Lisle did not fire; and then he saw man
and deer plunge into the water together.
A few seconds later he was waist-deep in the swift icy current, savagely
endeavoring to drag the animal toward the bank, while Lisle stood near
him, breathing hard, with a red hunting-knife in his hand.
"Steady!" gasped Lisle. "You can't do it that way! Help me throw the
beast on his side. Now heave!"
They got the deer out, and Nasmyth sat down limply. All the power seemed
to have gone out of him; he did not want to move, though he was filled
with exultation, for they now had food. It was a minute or two before he
noticed that Lisle had left him; and then he saw him coming back with his
rifle.
"I dropped the thing," Lisle explained. "Couldn't snap a fresh shell in;
guess I bent the slide. I took the knife to finish it."
"In another moment or two you'd have been too late."
Lisle laughed.
"I don't know. It wouldn't have been decided until we'd reached the other
side."
"You would have swum across?" Nasmyth asked in astonishment.
"Sure," said Lisle simply. "Anyway, I'd have tried."
Nasmyth glanced at the river. It was broad, icy cold, and running fast,
and he could hardly imagine a worn-out and half-fed man safely swimming
it. Lisle, however, called upon him to assist in an unpleasant operation
which, when Nasmyth had killed a deer at home, had been judiciously left
to the keepers or gillies. After that, he was directed to light a fire on
a neighboring point, from which it could be seen some way up the river,
and by and by Jake arrived in the canoe. Then they made camp, and after a
feast on flesh so tough that only hungry men could have eaten more than a
few morsels of it they went to sleep.
CHAPTER V
MILLICENT GLADWYNE
In a few more days they left the river, abandoning the canoe and tent and
a portion of their gear. Ascending to higher levels, they crossed a
rugged waste, which, fortunately for them, was thinly timbered; but there
was keen frost, and snow in places, and Nasmyth suffered a good deal
during this portion of the journey. At last, however, they descended to a
sheltered valley in which the firs grew tall, and Jake agreed with Lisle
that it would form the best road to the settlements.
Nasmyth was longing for civilization when he lay awake late one night,
wrapped in a single blanket, beside the sinking fire. Dark columnar
trunks rose about him, touched with the uncertain red radiance now and
then cast upon them when little puffs of bitter wind stirred the blaze,
and he could see the filmy wreaths of smoke eddy among the branches. He
was cold and overtired; the day's march had been a long one; his
shoulders ached cruelly after carrying a heavy load, and every joint was
sore. Besides, his bed was unpleasantly hard, and he envied his
companions, who had long ago sunk into heavy slumber. For the last hour
he had been thinking over the discoveries he had made on the journey,
which he devoutly wished he had never undertaken; the thought of them had
troubled him on other bitter nights. Lisle was not the man to let the
matter drop; he was much more likely to follow it up with dogged
persistence to the end; and Nasmyth, who was to some extent pledged to
assist him, saw trouble ahead.
In spite of this, he was beginning to get drowsy when a faint and yet
strangely melodious chiming broke through the whispering of the firs. It
seemed to come from above him, falling through the air, and he roused
himself to listen, wondering if he were quite awake. The musical clash he
had first heard had ceased, but for a while he thought he could
distinguish the tolling of a single bell; then in varying notes the peal
broke out again.
There was something ethereal in the clear tones. The last time he had
heard anything like them he was sitting one Sunday morning on a shady
lawn while the call of the bells came softly up to him across the English
woods. He glanced at his comrades, but they showed no sign of hearing,
and raising himself on one elbow he lay and listened, until the music,
growing fainter and fainter, died away. Then, puzzled and half convinced
that his imagination had played him some fantastic trick, he went to
sleep.
He mentioned the occurrence diffidently at breakfast the next morning,
expecting incredulous laughter; but Lisle, without making a comment,
glanced at Jake questioningly.
"No," responded Jake. "Nothing to bring them up so far."
"You couldn't have been mistaken?" Lisle asked Nasmyth.
"I thought I must be; but the more I listened, the clearer it got."
"Go and see," Lisle said, addressing Jake, and when they had finished
breakfast the packer strode away.
"We'll wait a bit," advised Lisle. "I'm a little worried about provisions
again. It's still a long march to the nearest wagon trail."
Nasmyth failed to understand how the delay would improve their position,
but believing that his companion was somewhat dubious about his tale he
restrained his curiosity. In half an hour Jake came back and nodded to
Lisle.
"Quite a bunch of them," he reported. "I struck the fellow's trail."
"What was it I heard?" Nasmyth asked.
"Cow-bells," Lisle explained, laughing. "In this country, they generally
put them on any cattle that run loose in the timber. Some adventurous
rancher has located up here, though I hadn't expected to find one so far
north. Anyway, it's a relief; he'll no doubt be able to let us have
something to eat."
They reached the man's log house an hour later, and spent the day with
him, enjoying a much needed rest. The next morning he supplied them with
provisions and told them how to find a trail down to a wagon road; and,
setting out, they safely reached a settlement in regular communication
with the cities.
It was the settlement Lisle had expected to come to, and he found a
bundle of correspondence awaiting him there. Before he opened it,
however, he and Nasmyth supplied themselves with such clothing as they
could obtain at the local store, and then demanded a bath at the little
wooden hotel. They had some trouble in obtaining it, but Nasmyth was
firm, and eventually he sat down to supper, clad in a blue shirt with
scarlet trimmings, extremely tight-fitting clothes and daintily-pointed
shoes.
"I think I'd have done better if I'd stuck to my rags, or else bought a
pair of what that fellow called river-Jacks' boots," he commented
ruefully.
Lisle was similarly attired, but he was too busy with his meal to
sympathize with him, and some time after it was over Nasmyth, strolling
into the private room which they had obtained as a signal concession,
found him writing at a littered table. Sitting down, he watched him for a
while with some slight wonder. For a number of weeks, he had seen his
companion handling heavy loads, cooking, and hauling canoes round rapids
with the skill of a professional packer. It was hard to disassociate him
from the ranges and the bush; but now, with the pile of letters before
him, he had suddenly become a business man. Nasmyth saw him answer a
couple in a swift, decided manner which showed that he was at home in his
present occupation. It was one of the quick character-changes which,
while common in the West, are apt to bewilder the more stereotyped
Englishman.
"Are you coming to England with me?" Nasmyth asked at length.
"No; I'm sorry I can't," answered Lisle, pausing, pen in hand. "This
Gladwyne matter will probably take time and I have none to spare now.
There have been some unexpected developments in my affairs. I don't know
when I can get away."
Nasmyth was conscious of some relief. His companion would have to defer
the prosecution of plans that threatened to cause trouble in England,
which was something to be thankful for, though he had a strong sympathy
for the man.
"Has it ever struck you that you might have less difficulty if you could
be content with proving half of what you claim?" he asked. "It's the more
important part--I mean that your late comrade failed to find the cache."
"Half a truth is not much use--Gladwyne realized that. To declare you
haven't done the wrong is a good deal less effective than pointing to the
guilty man."
"I suppose that's correct," Nasmyth agreed. "But, after all, unless you
can get hold of a list of the provisions cached--and it has most likely
been destroyed--there's only one way of substantiating your views."
"Exactly. Gladwyne's confession will place the matter beyond all doubt."
"Do you think you will ever get it?"
Lisle's expression hardened.
"Well," he said, "I'm going to try."
Nasmyth abandoned all attempt to daunt or dissuade him.
"Anyway," he resumed, "when you come over you must stay with me. I'm
sorry we'll have to part company to-morrow. I start east by the first
train."
He strolled out into the moonlight and the keen frosty air. The little
wooden town was soon left behind, and sauntering down the rough wagon
road beneath towering firs, he saw the great hill summits glitter white
against the sky. It was a wonderful country; the grandest he had ever
traversed; but it demanded a good deal from the man who ventured into its
wilds, and he was not sorry that he was turning his back on it.
Then, as he thought of the land he was bound for and recalled the tragic
story of Gladwyne's journey, he once more grew troubled. He realized the
immutable sequence of cause and effect--each action had its result which
must be faced however much one repented and regretted it. The deed, once
done, could not be altered and, what was worse, its consequences reached
out to others. Then he wondered whether Clarence had ever repented, and
admitted, with a recurrence of his indignation against the man, that it
was far from probable. Clarence was one who took life lightly, and
although his means had been small until he came into his cousin's
possessions, he had somehow succeeded in getting what is often considered
the best out of it. Self-denial in any shape was unknown to him.
The next morning Nasmyth took the train for Montreal, and about a
fortnight later alighted at a little station in the north of England as
the early dusk was closing in. It was a quiet evening and the soft
moistness of his native air struck him as something pleasantly familiar
after the keener, drier atmosphere of the Dominion. He was glad to be
back again, but when he looked around, the trap waiting in the wet road
outside the railings was not his own. Neither did it belong to Clarence,
whom he had partly expected; but on the whole Nasmyth was glad of that.
He had not looked forward to the first meeting with Clarence with any
pleasure.
In another moment, a girl came along the platform through the groups of
local passengers, who respectfully made way for her. She was tall, and
her long outer garment failed to conceal her grace of movement and fine
poise, though in the fading light her face was almost invisible beneath a
large hat. The sight of her sent a thrill of satisfaction through the
man; it was seldom that Millicent Gladwyne's appearance was unwelcome to
her friends. She approached him with outstretched hand.
"I drove over for you. Clarence couldn't come; he was suddenly called up
to town," she began. "It would have been rather lonely for you to spend
the first evening by yourself at the Lodge. You will come to us?"
"Thoughtful as ever," smiled Nasmyth, with a little bow which was
respectful as well as friendly. "I needn't ask how you are; the way you
walked along the platform was a testimony to our Border air."
She laughed, softly and musically.
"It is more needful to inquire how you have stood your adventures?"
"I believe I'm thinner; but that isn't astonishing, everything
considered. I suppose Clarence is getting on pretty satisfactorily?"
"Clarence? Oh, yes!" There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice which
Nasmyth noticed. "He has been in town a good deal of late. But come
along; the horse--he's a new one--is rather restive. They'll send on your
things."
"The remnant of my outfit's contained in one small bag," laughed Nasmyth;
"the rest's scattered about the hillsides of British Columbia. I was a
picturesque scarecrow when I reached the settlements."
They moved away along the platform, and on reaching the trap he got up
beside her and handed her the reins.
"I want to look about, if you don't mind," he explained.
"I really think the prospect's worth it," she replied. "Besides, Riever's
fresh and needs humoring."
She shook the whip, and as they clattered away down the steep, twisting
road, Nasmyth glanced with satisfaction to left and right. He had seen
wilder and grander lands, but none of them appealed to him like this
high, English waste. On one hand dim black hills rose out of fleecy mist;
on the other a leafless birch wood, close by, stood out in curiously
fragile and delicate tracery against a paling saffron glow, though
overhead the sky was barred with motionless gray cloud. A sharp smell of
peat-smoke followed them as they clattered past a low white cottage with
a yellow glow in one window; and then the earthy scent of rotting leaves
replaced it as they plunged into the gloom of an oak wood beneath the
birches. A stream splashing down a hollow made faint music in the midst
of it. When they had emerged from the shadow and climbed a steep rise,
wide moors stretched away in front, rising and falling in long
undulations, streaked with belts of mist. The crying of restless plovers
came out of the gathering dimness.
"All this is remarkably nice; though I don't think I should have
appreciated it quite so much if I'd been alone," Nasmyth said at length.
Millicent laughed lightly. She had known him since her childhood and was
quite aware that he had not intended to pay her a labored compliment;
they were too good friends for that. Once, indeed, he had desired a
closer bond, but he had quietly acquiesced when with gentle firmness she
had made it clear that she was not for him. Submission had not been easy,
but he had long admitted her right to more than he could offer. In this,
however, he was to some extent mistaken, because the gifts he could
bring--a staunch honesty, faithfulness, and a genial nature--are not to
be despised.
"Well," she replied, "I love these moors and dales, as of course you
know, and I've become more of a stay-at-home than ever during the past
year." There was a slight regretfulness in her voice which had its
meaning for him. "I'm never satisfied with the drawings," she went on,
"though I've made so many of them."
Nasmyth made a sign of comprehension. She had undertaken to finish and
illustrate her brother's roughed-out work, a book on the fauna of the
Border, and she had brought to it a fine artistic skill and patience, as
well as a love of the wild creatures of the waste. It was, perhaps, a
curious occupation for a young woman, but she had devoted herself to it
with characteristic thoroughness.
"He wanted it to be as complete and accurate as possible," she added
simply.
Her companion felt compassionate. In some respects, it was almost a pity
that Millicent could not forget.
"You got my letter--the one in which I said I meant to pick up and follow
out his trail?" he asked.
"Yes. I knew it would be difficult. Indeed, I was anxious about you; the
wilderness has claimed so much from me. But did you--"
"I succeeded," Nasmyth answered quietly.
The nod she gave him was expressive. It meant that she had expected him
to succeed; he was a man who did what he said.
"I think George should never have made that journey," she resumed. "Fond
of the open as he was, he hadn't the physical stamina. He never spared
himself; he was apt to overestimate his powers."
It was spoken with a grave regretfulness that troubled Nasmyth and yet
stirred him to strong appreciation of her character. With all her love
for her brother, she could face the truth.
"I've learned that he bore everything with the fortitude one would expect
from him--doing his share always with the rest," Nasmyth said. "We got
through a little earlier, and had better weather; but I saw enough to
convince me that the difficulties George had to contend with would have
killed any ordinary man."
"They did not kill Clarence."
Nasmyth once more burned with anger against the transgressor.
"No," he replied in a strained tone; "Clarence escaped."
She flashed a sharp glance at him, and he felt glad that it was too dark
for her to see his face.
"You must tell me the whole story to-night," she requested.
Her companion made no answer. With the reserve that must be maintained on
several points, the story would be difficult to relate; and it could not
fail to be painful to her. The horror she would feel if she ever learned
that her brother might have been saved had his cousin shown more
resolution was a thing he dare not contemplate, and he wondered if the
shock the knowledge must bring could be spared her. This depended upon
Lisle, whom he had promised to assist. Nasmyth could foresee nothing but
trouble, and he was silent for a while as they drove on across the lonely
moor.
CHAPTER VI
NASMYTH TELLS HIS STORY
Dinner was over, and Millicent's elderly companion had discreetly left
them alone, when the girl led Nasmyth into her drawing-room. It was
brightly lighted and was tastefully decorated in delicate colors, and a
wood fire was burning on the hearth; but, for the first time that he
could remember, Nasmyth felt ill at ease in it. He was fresh from the
snow-covered rocks and shadowy woods and the refinement and artistic
luxury of his surroundings rather jarred on him. The story he had to
relate dealt with elemental things--hunger, toil, and death--it would
sound harsher and more ugly amid the evidences of civilization.
"You have a good deal to tell me," Millicent suggested at length.
He stood still a moment, looking at her. She had already seated herself,
and the sweeping lines of her pose suggested vigor and energy held in
quiet control. Her face was warm in coloring, bearing signs of exposure
to wind and sun, but it was chastely molded in a fine oval with the
features firmly lined. Her hair was dark, though there were bronzy gleams
in it, and her eyes, which were deeply brown, had a sparkle in them. As a
whole, her appearance indicated a sanguine, optimistic temperament, but
there was also an indefinite something which spoke of due balance and
repose. Nasmyth was more convinced than ever that he had not met any
other woman fit to compare with her. Her age, as he knew, having given
her many birthday presents, was twenty-four.
"Yes," he said, in answer to her remark, "but it's curious that I can't
fix my mind upon the subject here. The night's mild; shall we go out on
to the veranda?"
"Wait until I get a wrap. I understand."
"You always do that," Nasmyth declared.
She joined him outside in another minute and seated herself in the chair
he drew out. The house was small and irregularly built, and a glass roof
supported on light pillars stretched along part of the front. A half-moon
hung above a ridge of dark fir wood, a tarn gleamed below, and here and
there down a shadowy hollow there was a sparkle of running water. On the
other side of the dale the moors stretched away, waste and empty, toward
the half-seen hills. The loneliness of the prospect reminded Nasmyth of
Canada, and the resemblance grew more marked when the crying of plover
rose from the dim heath--it brought back the call of the loon. Still, he
did not wonder why Millicent, an orphan with ample means, lived alone
except for her elderly companion on the desolate Border.
"You don't mind, I know," he said as he lighted a cigar.
"I can make that concession willingly," she answered with a smile. "I
suppose I'm old-fashioned, because I go no farther."
"Keep so," advised Nasmyth. "Of course, that's unnecessary; but I never
could make out why women should want to smoke. From my point of view, it
isn't becoming."
He was putting off a task from which he shrank, and she indulged him.
"One retains one's prejudices in a place like this," she said. "I felt
sadly left behind when I was last in London; and the few visits I made in
the home counties a little while ago astonished me. Nobody seemed to stay
at home; the motors were continually whirling them up to town and back;
the guests kept coming and going. There was so much restlessness and
bustle that I was glad to be home again."
"It has struck me," returned Nasmyth with an air of sage reflection,
"that we who live quietly in the country are the pick of the lot. Sounds
egotistical, doesn't it? But if we don't do much good--and I'm afraid I
don't, anyway--neither do we do any harm."
"I'm not sure that that's a great deal to be proud of."
"I didn't include you," Nasmyth assured her. "There have been wholesome
changes in the village since you grew up and made your influence felt.
And that leads to a question: How does Clarence get on with his tenants
and the rank and file? George understood them, but they're difficult
folks to handle."
"He's away a good deal--I'm afraid there has been some friction now and
then." The girl's manner suddenly changed. "But that's beside the point.
Aren't you wasting time?"
"I am almost afraid to begin. You will find the story trying."
She turned toward him, and the moonlight showed her face was reassuringly
quiet.
"I expect that; but your fears are groundless. You needn't hesitate on my
account."
Nasmyth knew that she was right; Millicent was not one to flinch from
pain. With an effort, he began his story at the portage over the divide,
and, possessed by vivid memories, he made her see the desolate region
they had laboriously traversed. Because her imagination was powerful, she
could picture the brother she had loved toiling with desperate purpose
and failing strength through muskeg and morass. Then, when she quietly
insisted, he described Gladwyne's last camp. She saw that, too: the
hollow beneath the dark rock, with the straggling cedars on the ridge
above. Next he outlined the journey down the first few rapids, saying
little about the caches, and at last, with considerable relief, he came
to a stop. Millicent sat silent for several minutes, during which he did
not look at her.
"Thank you," she said at length. "I have tried often to imagine it, and
failed; but it is quite clear now. Clarence would never give me more than
the barest details--I think he hated to speak of it."
"In a way, he was wise," replied Nasmyth. He understood the man's
reluctance. "Now don't you think it would be better if you tried to drive
the thing out of your mind? It can't be altered--there's a danger in
dwelling too much upon one's grief."
She looked up at him, though her eyes were dim with tears.
"It can't be driven out. There were only the two of us; we had so much in
common--there was such trust between us."
Nasmyth nodded in comprehension and sympathy.
"Now that I've told you," he said quietly, as he rose, "I think I'll go.
I am sure you'd rather be alone."
"No," she answered, motioning to him to sit down. "Please stay." She
seemed to rouse herself with an effort. "Of course, there was only one
thing George could do when he was lamed--send them on. But Clarence, who
was with him, never made his fortitude and cheerfulness so clear as you
have done. You even mentioned the exact words he said now and then--how
did you hear of them?"
"From my companion, a young Canadian. He had the whole thing by heart;
got it from the Hudson Bay agent. George's guide told the agent."
"Did your companion also teach you how to tell the story?"
Nasmyth smiled. He saw that she was desirous of changing the subject and
he was glad of it.
"Anyway, he made me see it at the time; pointed out the full significance
of things--a broken branch, a scratch on a rock. A rather striking man in
several ways. But you shall see him; he's coming over to stay with me by
and by." He paused a moment. "I understand that Clarence has been having
some trouble."
"It hardly amounts to that. But things are not the same as they were"--in
spite of her courage she faltered--"when George held control. The tenants
don't take to Clarence; I think he was not well advised in increasing
rents here and there. Indeed, that was a little puzzling, because he was
once so liberal."
"In small matters; it's his own money now." Nasmyth could not repress
this show of bitterness.
"Whose money was it in his extravagant days?"
"That's a question I've thought over and failed to find an answer to.
I've no doubt most of what he gets is now being spent in town, though in
my opinion as much as possible ought to go back to the locality in which
it was produced. Why don't you impress that on him?"
Millicent, as he knew, could judiciously offer sound advice where it was
needed. She was young, but, having been left an orphan early, she had
long enjoyed her brother's close companionship and confidence, and the
man's wide knowledge and thoughtfulness had had its effect in molding her
character. Still, in this case, she did not respond.
"It would be better for his tenants and the neighborhood generally if
Clarence married; he can afford it now," Nasmyth went on.
Again the girl was silent, and he wondered whether he had thoughtlessly
made a serious blunder. It had been supposed among their friends that she
would marry Clarence some day, though, so far as it was known, there was
no definite understanding between them, and for a while the man's
attitude had strengthened the idea. Indeed, when he had succeeded to
George's possessions, every one had expected an announcement, which had
not been made. What Millicent thought, or what she had looked for all
along, did not appear.
"I think you are right in one thing," she said, very calmly, at length.
"If he would stay here, as George did and his neighbors do, it would be
better for everybody, including himself."
Nasmyth made a sign of agreement. Their intimate friends remained for the
greater portion of the year on their estates, understanding the needs of
their tenants and dependents and enjoying their good opinion, which was
naturally increased by the fact that their expenses were chiefly incurred
in the neighborhood. There were others who, as the small farmer
recognized, returned as little as possible to the soil, squandering
revenues raised by the stubborn labor of others in doubtful pleasures
elsewhere and, when they brought their friends home, on luxuries
despatched from town. These things made for bitterness.
An unfortunate persistence in his hobby drove Nasmyth into a second
blunder.
"We're in accord on that point," he assured her. "It's a pity the land
passed out of your hands. However, as there's no male succession, it
might, after all, come back to you."
She bore it very calmly.
"You wouldn't have me speculate on such a thing?"
Then as if to find a safer topic she went on with a thrill of anger in
her tone:
"I'll tell you of an incident I witnessed two or three days ago, which
annoyed me seriously. I'd just met old Bell--you know how lame he
is--driving some sheep along the road. It has been a wet, cold year; Bell
lost his hay, the oats are dreadfully poor, and his buildings are in very
bad repair."
"They were a disgrace to any estate when I last saw them," Nasmyth broke
in. "Besides, the sour land near the river should have been tile-drained
long ago."
"So Bell has urged; but he can't get Marple to spend a penny--I'm glad
that man's new to this part of the country and doesn't belong to us.
Well, just after I met Bell, Marple's big motor came along. He had Batley
with him and the Crestwicks, who were down before. I think you met them?"
"I did," assented Nasmyth. "In Canada they'd call them a mighty tough
crowd; they're about the limit here."
"I turned round after the car had passed," Millicent went on. "Marple was
driving, as fast as usual, and he made no attempt to pull up. Bell, who
didn't hear, tried to jump and fell into the ditch; most of the sheep
were scattered across the moor, but two or three got right in front of
the car and at the last moment Marple had to stop. One of the women
laughed, she had a very shrill voice and she explained that the old man
looked so funny in the ditch; Marple shouted to Bell--something about the
damage to his tires--and I could see the others smiling at what he said.
That was worse than the words he used. Then they went on, leaving the old
man to gather up his sheep; he hadn't a dog with him. That kind of thing
leaves its mark!"
"Distinctly so," Nasmyth agreed. "Still, Marple and his lot are
exceptions. Wasn't Clarence rather thick with them?"
"Yes," she answered. "I've been rather disturbed about him."
Nasmyth did not know what this meant. He thought she would hardly have
made such an admission had she contemplated marrying the man; and, if
not, it was somewhat difficult to see why he should cause her serious
concern. He knew, however, that Millicent could not look on unmoved when
her friends left the right path; he could think of two or three whom she
had helped and gently checked from further straying. This reflection was
a relief to him, because he was determined that she should not marry
Clarence if he could prevent it. If necessary, he would tell her the part
the man had played in Canada, though he shrank from doing so.
"Marple and his acquaintances are not the people one would have expected
Clarence to associate with," he continued. "Still, in my opinion, he's
doing worse in making a friend of that fellow Batley. I could never
understand the connection--the man strikes me as an adventurer. Has he
spent much time here since I've been away?"
"A good deal, off and on. But it's getting chilly and I half expect a
reproving lecture from Miss Hume when I go in. First, though, tell me a
little more about the young Canadian you had with you."
"I don't know much. I met him by accident--he has an interest in some
mines, I believe, but he struck me as a remarkably fine type. Clever at
woodcraft, as handy with the ax and paddle as our professional guide, but
when he talked about other things he seemed to know a good deal more than
I do." He smiled. "After all, that's not surprising. But what I liked
most was the earnestness of the fellow; he had a downright way of
grappling with things, or explaining them to you. Sensible, but direct,
not subtle."
"I've met men of that description, and I'm rather prejudiced in their
favor," declared Millicent, smiling. "But what was he like in
person--slightly rugged?"
"No; that's where you and others sometimes go wrong. There's nothing of
the barbarian about these bushmen. Physically, they're as fine a type as
we are--I might go farther--straight in the limb, clean-lined every way,
square in the shoulder. They'd make an impression at any London
gathering."
"So long as they didn't speak?"
"It wouldn't matter. Allowing for a few colloquialisms, they're worth
listening to; which is more than I'd care to say for a number of the
people one meets in this country."
Millicent laughed.
"Well, I'll be glad to see him when he comes." Her voice grew graver. "I
feel grateful to him already for what he told you about George."
They went in together and half an hour later Nasmyth walked home across
the moor. He had never thought more highly of Millicent, but somehow he
now felt sorry for her. It scarcely seemed fitting that she should live
in that lonely spot with only the company of an elderly and staid
companion, though he hardly thought she would be happier if she plunged
into a round of purposeless amusements in the cities. Still, she was
young and very attractive; he felt that she should have more than the
thinly-peopled countryside had to offer.
CHAPTER VII
ON THE MOORS
Nearly a year had passed since Nasmyth's return when Lisle at length
reached England. Soon after his arrival, he was, as Nasmyth's guest,
invited to join a shooting party, and one bright afternoon he stood
behind a bank of sods high on a grouse-moor overlooking the wastes of the
Border. The heath was stained with the bell-heather's regal purple,
interspersed with the vivid red of the more fragile ling, and where the
uplands sloped away broad blotches of the same rich colors checkered the
grass. In the foreground a river gleamed athwart the picture, and
overhead there stretched an arch of cloudless blue. There was no wind;
the day was still and hot.
A young lad whose sunburned face already bore the stamp of self-indulgence
was stationed behind the butt with Lisle, and the latter was not favorably
impressed with his appearance or conversation.
"Look out," he cautioned by and by. "You were a little slow last time.
They travel pretty fast."
Lisle picked up his gun; he had used one in the West, though he was more
accustomed to the rifle. Cutting clear against the dazzling sky, a
straggling line of dark specks was moving toward him, and a series of
sharp cracks broke out from the farther wing of the row of butts, which
stretched across the moor. Lisle watched the birds, with fingers
tightening on his gun; one cluster was coming his way, each flitting body
growing in size and distinctness with marvelous rapidity. Then there was
a flash beside him, and another crash as he pitched up his gun. Something
struck the heather with a thud not far away, and swinging the muzzle a
little, he pulled again. He was not surprised to hear a second thud, and
laying down his gun he turned to his youthful companion, while a thin
cloud of acrid vapor hung about him.
"Get anything?" he asked.
"I didn't," was the sullen answer. "Couldn't expect it with the second
barrel, after you'd filled the place with smoke. Wonder why Gladwyne's
man gave you the old black powder?"
As nearly everybody else used smokeless, this was a point that had
aroused Lisle's curiosity, though it was not a matter of much importance.
Nasmyth had provided him with cartridges, but they had somehow been left
behind, and on applying to Gladwyne's keeper he had been supplied with
ammunition which, it seemed, was out of date.
"After all, you have done well enough," his companion resumed. "We'd
better get on to our next station--it's right across the moor on the high
ridge yonder. Don't bother about the birds."
"Shall I leave them there?"
"Certainly! Do you want to carry them all the afternoon? One of the
keeper fellows will bring them along."
The lad's tone was half contemptuous; he had already shown that he
considered the Canadian what he would have called an outsider; but he was
willing to make use of him.
"You might look after Bella; she's alone in the next butt--and I've
something else to do," he said. "There's an awkward ghyll to cross and
she won't carry anything lighter than a 14-gun. See she doesn't leave the
cartridges in it."
He strode away across the heather, and Lisle turned toward the turf
shelter indicated. As he approached it, a girl appeared and glanced at
him with very obvious curiosity; but as he supposed that she was the
sister of his late companion he did not expect any diffidence from her.
She was short in stature and slight in figure, and dressed in grayish
brown; hat, coat, and remarkably short skirt all of the same material.
Her hair was of a copper color; her eyes, which were rather narrow, of a
pale grayish-green. He would have called them hard, and there was a hint
of arrogance in her expression. Yet she was piquantly pretty.
"I suppose you're Nasmyth's Canadian friend?" she began, and went on
without waiting for an answer: "As we occupy adjoining butts on the next
drive, you may take my gun. Teddy has deserted me."
"Teddy?" queried Lisle, who wondered if she were referring to her
brother. "I thought his name was Jim."
"It's Marple's stout friend with the dyed hair I mean. I told him what
would happen if he ate as he persisted in doing at lunch. It's too hot to
gormandize; I wasn't astonished when he collapsed at the steep place on
the last walk. Reflecting that it was his own fault, I left him."
Lisle was not charmed with the girl's manners, but he could not check a
smile.
"Are you tired? You oughtn't to be," she continued with another bold
glance at him.
"No," he replied; "if it's any consolation to you, I'm far from exhausted
yet."
"That's reassuring," she retorted. "You haven't taken my gun."
Having forgotten it for the moment, he flushed a little, and she watched
him with unconcealed amusement while he opened the weapon and took out
the cartridges.
"What's that for?" she asked impertinently. "It's hammerless; there's
nothing to catch."
"The pull-off's probably very light, if it's been made for a lady's use.
It's sometimes possible to jar the strikers down when they set the
springs to yield at a touch."
"Then you know something about guns?" she said, as if she had not
expected this.
"Not a great deal about the scatter kind, though I've stripped a few."
"We never do that," she informed him. "We send them to London. Still,
you're right; the gun did go off when I knocked it jumping down from a
wall."
"If you'll let me have it to-night, I'll alter that. I understand we're
going out again to-morrow."
She considered a moment.
"Well," she consented, with the air of one conferring a favor, "you may
take it when we've finished."
Lisle wondered what had prompted him to make the offer. The way she had
addressed him was not ingratiating, but he delighted in examining any
fine mechanism and he had never handled such a beautifully made weapon.
They plodded on side by side through the heather, which was long and
matted, and presently, seeing that she was breathless, he stopped on the
crest of a higher rise and once more looked about with keen appreciation.
In front of him the crimson and purple heath was rent and fissured, and
in the deep gaps washed out by heavy rains the peat gleamed a warm
chocolate-brown. Elsewhere, patches of moss shone with an emerald
brightness, and there were outcrops of rock tinted lustrous gray and
silver with lichens. Below, near the foot of the moor, ran a straight
dark line of firs, the one coldly-somber streak in the scene; but beyond
it the rolling, sunlit plain ran back, fading through ever varying and
softening colors to the hazy blue heights of Scotland.
Lisle's companion noticed his intent expression.
"It is rather fine up here," she conceded. "I sometimes feel it's almost
a pity one couldn't live among the heather. Certain things would be
easier on these high levels."
"Yes?" interrogated Lisle, slightly puzzled and astonished.
"You're obviously from the woods," she smiled. "If you had spent a few
years among my friends, you would understand. I was referring to the
cultivation of ideas and manners which seem to be considered out of date
now."
Lisle made no reply to this, but he glanced too directly at a red stain
on her hand.
"Blood," she explained. "I had a bet with Alan that I'd get a brace more
than Flo; that's why I went after a cripple running in the ling. It
wasn't dead when I picked it up--rather horrid, wasn't it?"
The man was conscious of some disgust. She looked very young and, slight
as she was, her figure was prettily rounded and she had a soft, kittenish
gracefulness; but she spoke with the assurance of a dowager. Though he
had killed and cut up many a deer, he shrank from the small red stain on
her delicate hand. She saw it and laughed, and then with a sudden change
of mood she stooped and swiftly rubbed her fingers in the heather.
"Now," she said sharply, "if you're sufficiently rested, we'll go on."
Lisle moved away, but he asked a question:
"Do many girls shoot in this country?"
"No," she answered with a mocking smile; "not so many, after all. That's
comforting, isn't it? This kind of thing is hard work, and damaging to
the complexion."
Presently they came to a wall, and Lisle stopped in some uncertainty. It
was as high as his shoulders and built of loose, rough stones.
"Get over," she ordered him. "Then pull a lot of it down."
He did so, making, though he endeavored to avoid this, a rather wide
hole.
She scrambled through agilely and then regarded him with surprise as he
proceeded to replace the stones.
"Why are you doing that?" she asked.
"There are sheep up here."
"Too many, considering that it's a grouse-moor; but what of it? They
don't belong to us."
"They belong to somebody who would rather they didn't stray," Lisle
rejoined. "In the country I come from, it's considered a serious
transgression to knock over another person's fence and not put it up
again."
He calmly went on with his task, and sitting down she took out a silver
cigarette-case. After a minute or two she looked up at him.
"You're doing that very neatly," she remarked.
"I've done something of the kind for a living," Lisle informed her.
"Oh! It's curious that you seem proud of it. In this case, I don't mind
your keeping me, because they can't drive up the birds until we have
crossed the higher moor. It will annoy Gladwyne and his keeper, and I'm
not pleased with either of them. I wanted Flo Marple's station at the
first butts."
Lisle considered this. He had wondered why she had favored him with her
company, when, although her previous companion had deserted her, she
could by hurrying a little have joined the others. The butts were not
spaced very far apart. Their late occupants had, however, now vanished
into a dip of the moor. He asked himself why a girl with her assurance
should have troubled to offer him an explanation.
When he had finished the repairs to the wall, they went on, and a little
later he heard a sharp "Cruck--cruck-curruck," to one side of him.
Swinging around, he saw a grouse skimming the heather.
"A pair of gloves to a sovereign that you miss!" cried his companion.
The bird was flying fast; Lisle had to load, and by the time he had
snapped in a cartridge it was a long range. This, however, was somewhat
in his favor, as he was better used to the rifle. There was a flash and
the bird struck the heath. The girl glanced at him in unveiled
appreciation.
"A clean kill!" she exclaimed. "You have won the gloves; and you'll
deserve them before you have heard the last of this incident. I suppose
you don't know that you shouldn't have fired a shot except from behind
the butts."
She watched his expression with open amusement.
"You don't like to ask why I tempted you," she went on. "It was to vex
the keeper; you may have turned back the birds the beaters are driving
up."
"Thanks for the information," Lisle said coolly. "Do you mind my
inquiring whether you would have taken the sovereign in case I'd missed?
As you suggested, I'm lately from the wilds."
"Of course!" she mocked. "I could have had it drilled and worn it on a
chain!"
The man made no comment as they went on. Presently they came to a deep
rift in the moor through which a stream leaped sparkling. The girl
scrambled down, waist-deep in yellow fern, but the other side was steep
and stony and she was glad of help when he held out his hand. They made
the ascent with some difficulty and on reaching the summit she looked
around, breathless.
"This is a romantic spot, if you're interested in the legends of the
Border," she told him.
"I am," Lisle said; and she sat down among the heather.
"It's an excuse for a rest," she confessed. "The old moss-troopers used
to ride this way to ravage Cumberland. It was advisable for them to
follow hidden paths among the moors, and once an interesting little
skirmish took place among those brakes down the hollow."
She pointed toward a spot where the ravine widened into a level strip of
quaggy grass and moss which glowed a brilliant emerald. On either side of
it a gnarled and stunted growth of alders and birches fringed the foot of
the steep slopes, and between them the stream spread out across a stretch
of milk-white stones. The hollow was flooded with light and filled with
the soft murmur of running water.
"It would be a strong place to hold, if the defenders had time to choose
their ground," Lisle remarked.
"So it proved," replied his companion. "Well, once upon a time, a bold
Scots reaver, riding south, saw a maid who pleased him near a Cumberland
pele. His admiration was not reciprocated, but he came again, often,
though being an armed thief by profession there was a price upon his
head. It is stated that on each occasion he returned unaccompanied by any
of the cattle belonging to his lady's relatives, which was an unusual
piece of forbearance. In those days, men must have been able to
disassociate business from their love-making."
"Don't they do so now?" Lisle inquired lazily.
She looked at him with a smile which had a hint of real bitterness in its
light mockery.
"Not often, one would imagine. Perhaps they can't be blamed--I'm afraid
we're all given to cultivating dreadfully expensive tastes. No doubt,
when it was needful, the Border chieftain of the story could live on
oatmeal and water, and instead of buying pedigree hunters he probably
stole his pony. He haunted the neighborhood of the pele until the maid
became afraid and urged her kinsmen to rid her of him. Several of them
tried and failed--which wasn't surprising."
"Love made him invulnerable?" Lisle suggested.
"No," retorted his companion. "A man with a heart constant and stout
enough to face the risks he ran would be hard to kill. When you read
between the lines, it's a moving tale. Think of the long, perilous rides
he made through an enemy's land, all for a glance at his disdainful lady!
They watched the fords in those days, but neither brawling rivers nor
well-mounted horsemen could stop him. At last, he came one night with a
dozen spears, broke in the barmkin gate and carried her off. All her
relatives rode hard after them and came up with them in this ghyll. Then
there happened what was, in one way, a rather remarkable thing--the
abducted maid firmly declined to be rescued. There was a brisk encounter,
I believe two or three were killed; but she rode off to Scotland with her
lover. I suppose I needn't point the moral?"
"I can see only the ancient one--that it's unwise to take a lady's 'No'
as conclusive," Lisle ventured.
She laughed at him in a daring manner.
"The pity is that we haven't often a chance of saying it to any one worth
while. But I'll express the moral in a prettier way--sometimes
disinterested steadfastness and real devotion count with us.
Unfortunately, they're scarce."
There was a challenge in her glance, but the man, not knowing what was
expected of him, made no answer. At first he had been almost repelled by
the girl, but he was becoming mildly interested in her. She could, he
thought, be daring to the verge of coarseness, and he did not admire her
pessimism, which was probably a pose; but there was a vein of elfish
mischief in her that appealed to him. Sitting among the heather, small,
lithe, and felinely graceful, watching him with a provocative smile in
her rather narrow eyes, she compelled his attention.
"Well," she laughed, "you're not much of a courtier. But doesn't that
story bring you back into touch with elemental things--treacherous
mosses, dark nights, flooded rivers, passion, peril, dauntlessness? Now
we're wrapped about with empty futilities."
He understood part of what was in her mind and sympathized with it. He
had lived close to nature in stern grapple with her unbridled forces.
From women he demanded no more than beauty or gentleness; but a man, he
thought, should for a time, at least, be forced to learn the stress and
joy of the tense struggle with cold and hunger, heat and thirst, on long
marches or in some dogged attack on rock and flood. He had only contempt
for the well-fed idlers who lounged through life, not always, as he
suspected, even gracefully. These, however, were ideas he had no
intention of expressing.
"There are still people who have to face realities in the newer lands;
and I dare say you have some in this country, on your railroads and in
your mines, for example," he said. "But hadn't we better be getting on?"
They left the brink of the hollow and plodded through the heather toward
where a row of butts stood beneath a lofty ridge of the moor. A man
appeared from behind one as they approached and glanced at them with
unconcealed disapproval.
"Couldn't you have got here earlier, Bella?" he asked. "In another few
minutes you'd have spoiled the drive--the birds can't be far off the dip
of the ridge. Hardly fair to the keepers or the rest of us to take these
risks, is it?"
"When I do wrong, I never confess it, Clarence," the girl replied. "You
ought to know that by now."
Lisle heard the name and became suddenly intent--this was Clarence
Gladwyne! There was no doubt that he was a handsome man. He was tall and
held himself finely; he had a light, springy figure, with dark eyes and
hair. Besides, there was a certain stamp of refinement or fastidiousness
upon him which was only slightly spoiled by the veiled hint of languid
insolence in his expression.
"I heard a shot," he resumed.
"I've no doubt you did," the girl agreed. "An old cock grouse got up in
front of us--it was irresistibly tempting."
Gladwyne turned to Lisle with a slight movement of his shoulders which
was somehow expressive of half-indulgent contempt.
"You're Nasmyth's friend from Canada? I guess you don't understand these
things, but you might have made the birds break back," he said. "However,
we must get under cover now--there's your butt. I'll see you later."
He turned away and Lisle took up his station behind the wall of turf
pointed to. He had once upon a time been forcibly rebuked for his
clumsiness at some unaccustomed task in the Canadian bush and had not
resented it, but the faint movement of Gladwyne's shoulders had brought a
warmth to his face. The girl noticed this.
"Clarence can be unpleasant when he likes, but there are excuses for
him," she said. "A day's shooting is one of the things we take seriously,
and manners are not at a higher premium here than I suppose they are in
the wilds."
Lisle made no response, and there was silence on the sun-steeped moor
until a row of small dark objects skimming the crest of the ridge above
became silhouetted against the sky. Then a gun cracked away to the right
and in another moment a dropping fusillade broke out.
CHAPTER VIII
GLADWYNE RECEIVES A SHOCK
It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and Gladwyne's somewhat noisy
guests were scattered about his house and the terrace in front of it.
Several of them had gathered in the hall, and Bella Crestwick, Lisle's
companion on the moors, stood, cigarette in hand, with one foot on the
old-fashioned hearth-irons, frankly discussing him. A few birch logs
glowed behind the bars, for on those high uplands the autumn nights were
chilly, but the wide door stood open, revealing a pale green band of
light behind the black hills, and allowing the sweet, cool air of the
moors to flow in.
The girl had gained something by the change from her outdoor attire to
the clinging evening dress, but it was with characteristic unconcern that
she disregarded the fact that the thin skirt fell well away from one
shapely ankle effectively displayed by a stocking of the finest texture.
"The man," she said, "is a bit of a Puritan. They still live over there,
don't they? His idea of English women is evidently derived from what his
father told him, or from early-Victorian literature. I'm inclined to
believe I shocked him."
"It's highly probable," laughed a man lounging near. "Still, I believe
the descendants of the folks you mention live three thousand miles from
his country, in the neighborhood of the Atlantic shore. One wouldn't
fancy that you'd like Puritans."
There was nothing offensive in the words, but his glance was a little too
bold and too familiar, and Bella looked at him with a gleam of malice in
her eyes.
"Extremes meet; it's the middle--the medium mediocrity--that's
irreconcilable with either end," she retorted. "For instance, I led a
life of severe asceticism all last Lent." There were incredulous smiles,
though the statement was perfectly correct. "It's a course I could
confidently recommend to you," she proceeded, unheeding; "of late you
have been putting on flesh with an alarming rapidity."
The man made no response and Bella resumed:
"Besides, the Puritans have their good points; they're so refreshingly
sure of themselves and their views, while the rest of us don't believe in
anything. You can't be a fanatic without being thorough, and in
renouncing the world and the flesh you may gain more than a passable
figure. Among other things, the ascetic life means straight shooting,
steady hands, and an eye you can depend upon. The overcivilized man who
does nothing to counterbalance his luxuriousness is generally a rotter."
"But what has all this to do with Nasmyth's Canadian?" somebody asked.
Bella waved her cigarette.
"Try to walk a steep moor with him and you'll see. If that's not
sufficient, take the same butt with him when the grouse are coming over."
Suddenly she straightened herself, dropping her foot from the iron and
flinging the cigarette into the fire, as a gray-haired lady entered the
hall. She had been a beauty years ago and now her fragility emphasized
the fineness of her features and the clear pallor of her skin. She was
dressed in a thin black fabric, and her beautifully shaped hands gleamed
unusually white against its somber folds.
"Where's Clarence?" she asked the group collectively, in a voice that was
singularly clear and penetrative. "I haven't seen him for the last
half-hour."
One of the men immediately went in search of him, and the lady crossed
the hall to where Millicent Gladwyne was sitting, for the time being
alone. Millicent had noticed Bella's sudden change of demeanor upon her
hostess's entrance, with something between amusement and faint disgust.
Mrs. Gladwyne was what Bella would have called early-Victorian in her
views, and she would occasionally have been disturbed by the conversation
of some of her son's guests, had she not been a little deaf.
"Sitting quiet?" she said to Millicent, who was a favorite of hers; and
her voice carried farther than she was aware of as she continued: "I
heard the laughter and it brought me down, though I want to tell Clarence
something. I like to see bright faces; but the times have changed since I
was young. We were a little more reserved and not so noisy then."
"A dear old thing! It's a pity she's quite so antediluvian," Bella
remarked to a man at her side.
"Isn't that the natural penalty of being a dear old thing?" laughed her
companion. "There's no doubt we have progressed pretty rapidly of late."
Clarence appeared shortly after this and was gently chidden by his mother
for going out without his hat, because the autumn nights were getting
chilly. A few minutes later, footsteps became audible outside the open
door and Nasmyth entered the hall with Lisle. It was spacious and
indifferently lighted; the others, standing near the hostess, concealed
her, and Lisle stopped for a word with Bella. Then Nasmyth noticed Mrs.
Gladwyne and called to his companion.
"This way, Vernon."
Clarence swung round with a start and cast a swift glance at the
stranger, and Millicent wondered why his face set hard; but the next
moment Nasmyth led up the Canadian and presented him. Mrs. Gladwyne had
risen and Lisle made a little respectful inclination over the delicate
hand she held out. Age had but slightly spoiled her beauty; she had still
a striking presence, and a manner in which a trace of stateliness was
counterbalanced by gentle good-humor. Lisle was strongly impressed, but,
as Millicent noticed, he betrayed no awkwardness.
"I seem to have heard your name before in connection with Canada," said
Mrs. Gladwyne, confusing it with his surname. "Ah, yes! Of course; it was
George's guide I was thinking of." She turned to Millicent, adding in an
audible aside: "I've a bad habit of forgetting. Forgive me, my dear."
Everything considered, it was, perhaps, the most awkward thing she could
have said; but Lisle's bronzed face was imperturbable, and Gladwyne had
promptly recovered his composure as he realized the mistake. Still, for a
moment, he had been badly startled. Nobody noticed Nasmyth, which was
fortunate, because his unnatural immobility would have betrayed him.
"I'd been expecting you both earlier; told you to come to dinner," said
his host.
Then he addressed Lisle.
"As my mother mentioned, I had once something to do with a man called
Vernon, in Canada."
Knowing what he did, Lisle fancied that Gladwyne's indifferent tone had
cost him an effort.
"It's only my Christian name, as you have heard," he explained.
"You were up in the bush with Nasmyth, were you not?"
"Yes," answered Lisle. "I met him quite by chance in a Victoria hotel
when I happened to have a few weeks at my disposal which I thought of
spending in the wilds. When he heard that I intended making a trip
through the northern part of the country and suggested that we should go
together I was glad to consent."
"Then you belong to Victoria?"
"I was located there when I met Nasmyth. Before that I was up in the
Yukon district for some time. Since leaving him I've lived in the city."
He thought Gladwyne was relieved at his answer, for the latter smiled
genially.
"Well," he said, "we must try to make your visit to this country
pleasant."
Shortly after this, the group broke up and Gladwyne, escaping from his
guests, slipped out on to the terrace and walked up and down. Nasmyth had
merely mentioned that he had a Canadian friend staying with him; somehow
a formal introduction had been omitted during the day on the moors, and
Gladwyne had been badly disconcerted when he heard the man addressed as
Vernon. The name vividly recalled a Canadian episode that he greatly
desired to forget, and he had, indeed, to some extent succeeded in doing
so. That unfortunate affair was done with, he had assured himself; for
two years it had scarcely been mentioned in his hearing, but for a
horrible moment which had taxed his courage to the utmost he had almost
fancied that it was about to be brought to light again. Lisle's answer
and manner had, however, reassured him. Nasmyth had met the man
accidentally and it was merely as the result of this that they had made
the journey through the bush together. It was evident that he had been
needlessly alarmed.
For all that, he was troubled. Living for his own pleasure, as he did, he
was nevertheless a man who valued other people's good opinion and prided
himself upon doing the correct and most graceful thing. There was no
doubt that he had once badly failed in this, but it was in a moment of
physical weakness, when he was exhausted and famishing. After all, it was
most probable that his cousin had died before he could have reached him,
and there were, he thought, few men who, if similarly situated, would
have faced the risk of the return journey. Still, the truth would have
had an ugly sound had it come out. This was why he had spread the story
of the guide's defection, which he now regretted. It might not have been
strictly necessary, but he had reached the trappers' camp on the verge of
a collapse, too far gone to reason out the matter calmly. A man in that
condition could hardly be held accountable for his action. Besides, it
was incredible that the guide's statement that he had made the journey
without replenishing his provisions could be correct.
His reflections were interrupted by Mrs. Gladwyne, who came out, wrapped
in a shawl.
"Why are you here alone?" she asked. "You look disturbed. Has anything
gone wrong?"
Gladwyne was sorry that she had joined him where the light from a window
fell on his face, but he smiled.
"No," he answered quietly, for he was always gentle with her. "I only
felt that I'd rather avoid the chatter of the others for a few minutes. I
suppose it was the man's name, together with your reference to George,
that upset me."
Mrs. Gladwyne laid her hand on his arm. She was inordinately fond and
proud of the son whom she had spoiled.
"I sometimes think you are too sensitive on that point, Clarence," she
said. "Of course, it was very tragic and we both owe George a great deal,
but you did all that anybody could have done."
The man winced, and it was fortunate that they had now left the light
behind and his mother could not see his face.
"I could have stayed and died with him," he broke out with unaffected
bitterness. "There were times at the beginning when I was sorry I let him
send me away."
Mrs. Gladwyne shook her head reproachfully. She was gracious and quietly
dignified and refined in thought, but for all that she was not one to
appreciate such a sacrifice as he had indicated.
"I'm afraid that was an undue exaggeration of a natural feeling," she
remonstrated. "How could your staying have helped him, when by going in
search of help you increased his only chance of safety? I have always
been glad you were clear-headed enough to realize it, instead of yielding
to mistaken emotional inclinations."
Gladwyne felt hot with shame. His mother had an unshaken confidence in
his honor, which was the less surprising because her perceptions had
never been very keen and she had always shrunk from the contemplation of
unpleasant things. It was an amiable weakness of hers to idealize those
she loved, and by resolutely shutting her eyes on occasions she succeeded
in accomplishing it more or less successfully. Clarence was, of course,
aware of this, and it hurt to remember that in deserting his cousin he
had been prompted chiefly by craven fear. His mother, however, quite
unconscious of what she was doing, further humiliated him.
"Of course," she continued, "if you had found the cache of provisions, it
would have been your duty to return to George at any hazard, and I have
no doubt whatever that you would have gone."
The damp stood beaded on the man's forehead. He realized that even his
lenient and indulgent mother would shrink from him if she knew that he
had abandoned his dying benefactor like a treacherous coward. He said
nothing and they had strolled to the end of the terrace before she spoke
again.
"I think it would be better to go back to the others and drive away these
morbid ideas," she advised. "It's a duty to look at the brightest side of
everything."
He made no answer, but he strove with some degree of success to recover
his usual tranquillity as they turned toward the entrance of the hall.
In the meanwhile, Lisle had been talking to Millicent. She had already
made a marked impression on him, for in the wilds the man had acquired a
swift and true insight into character. One has time to think in the
lonely places where, since life itself often depends upon their accuracy,
a man's perceptions grow keen, and though some of the minor complexities
and subtleties of modern civilization might have puzzled him he was
seldom mistaken in essentials.
He liked her direct and calmly searching gaze; he liked her voice which,
while soft and pleasant, had a trace of gravity in it. He knew that her
fine carriage was a sign of physical vigor and he recognized how it had
been gained by the clear, warm tinting of her slightly sun-darkened skin.
But, apart from this and her comeliness, which was marked, there was that
in her personality which spoke of evenness and depth of character. She
was steadfast, not lightly to be swayed from a resolve, he thought.
"Nasmyth has often spoken about you," she told him. "I understand it was
chiefly by your help that he succeeded in reaching the scene of my
brother's death. I want to thank you for that."
Her voice was quiet, but it did not betoken indifference; he knew that
she was not one to forget. He could not think of any apposite answer, but
she saw the sympathy in his eyes and it pleased her more than words would
have done.
"It was a relief to me that Nasmyth made that journey," she went on. "I
wanted to learn everything that could be known--instead of shrinking from
it. You see, I had a great faith in my brother."
"He deserved it," Lisle declared warmly. "I have gathered enough to
convince me of that!"
"Thank you! Clarence was not in a condition to notice anything very
clearly during his journey, and I think what he suffered blunted his
recollection. Besides, the subject is a distressing one to him, and it is
seldom he can be induced to speak about it. Perhaps that is a pity; I
find it does not always save one trouble in the end to avoid a little
immediate pain."
Lisle was gratified. She had spoken so unrestrainedly, though he imagined
that it was a somewhat unusual thing for her to take a stranger into her
confidence.
"Yes," he replied; "I think that's very true. It's better to face it and
get it over. The wound sooner heals."
She smiled rather wistfully and changed the subject.
"I told Nasmyth that you taught him to see."
"I suppose I did," acknowledged Lisle. "Still, it was only as far as it
concerned the things that I'm acquainted with. I'm not sure that my
meaning's very clear?"
"I understand. You knew what to expect; that carries one a long way. Were
you disappointed in finding it?"
He was a little surprised at her keenness, and rather confused. This was
a question that could not be directly answered.
"What I was more particularly referring to was the meaning of such things
as a broken branch, a gap in a thicket, or a few displaced stones," he
explained. "I taught him what to infer from those."
"Yes," she said; "I understand that you discovered nothing new--I mean
nothing that could throw any further light upon what befell my brother
after the others left him."
He was glad that he could answer her candidly.
"No; we can only suppose that the conclusions the rescue party came to
were correct. But all that we found relating to the week or two before
the separation spoke of the courageous struggle that your brother made
and his generosity in sending the others away."
She bent her head.
"That," she said quietly, "is only what one would have expected. He left
a diary; you must come over and see it."
"I should like to, if it wouldn't be painful to you."
"No," she replied; "I shall be glad to show it to you."
She left him shortly after this and strolled out on to the terrace,
thinking about him. The little she had seen of him had pleased her; he
had earnest eyes and a resolute air, and she liked the men who lived in
the open. He was direct, and perhaps a little rudimentary without being
awkward, which was in his favor, for subtlety of any kind was distasteful
to her. Still, in one respect, she was disappointed--he had in no way
amplified Nasmyth's story, and she had expected to hear a little more of
the expedition from him.
CHAPTER IX
LISLE GATHERS INFORMATION
Nasmyth's dinner was over and he lay, pipe in hand, in an easy-chair in
his smoking-room, with Lisle lounging opposite him. They had been walking
up partridges among the higher turnip fields all day, and now both were
pleasantly tired and filled with languid good-humor. Nasmyth's house was
old--it had been built out of the remains of a Border pele--and the room
was paneled to the ceiling and very simply furnished. It had an ancient
look and an ancient smell, and the few articles of plain oak furniture
harmonized with it. The window stood wide open, and the fragrance of a
grove of silver firs outside drifted in. The surroundings had their
effect on Lisle, who had not been accustomed to dwellings of that kind.
"You have been here a fortnight and must have formed a few opinions about
us," Nasmyth remarked at length. "You needn't be shy about expressing
them, and I've no doubt there are things you'd like to ask."
"As a whole, my opinion's highly favorable," Lisle announced with a
smile. "I'd be uncommonly hard to please if it weren't."
"That's flattering. But I'm not sure that I meant as a whole; I had a few
particular instances in my mind. Bella Crestwick, for example; I'm
curious to hear what you think of her. She seems quite favorably
impressed with you."
"She's interesting," Lisle replied. "A type that's new to me; the latest
development, isn't it? Anyway, I like her--whatever the admission's
worth--though I must say that I found her rather startling at first.
She's honest, I think, and that counts for a good deal."
"I suppose you're not aware that she's desirably rich?"
"I wasn't. It's not a fact of any moment to me. Besides, I've a suspicion
that it's Gladwyne's scalp she's after."
Nasmyth nodded.
"You're pretty shrewd. Though I've had much greater opportunities for
observation, that idea has only lately occurred to me. Of course, in a
general way, I shouldn't discuss my acquaintances in this casual fashion,
but as you are likely to see a good deal of us there are things you'd
better know."
"I'll explain my point of view," said Lisle, refilling his pipe. "You
have seen something of the kind of life I've led. Half my time, I
suppose, has been spent in primeval surroundings; the rest in contact
with the latest efforts of a rather unfinished civilization. Well, what
you have to show me here is vastly different. These old houses, your
smoothed-down ways, are a revelation to me. The polish on some of your
furniture has taken several hundred years to put on; that in my Victoria
quarters smells of the factory, and the board walls of other hotels I've
lived in rend into big cracks because they're fresh from the mill. I'm
full of interest; everything's new to me. But so far my curiosity's
impersonal; I'm taking no hand in anything."
His companion's face grew grave.
"The trouble is that you may not be able to avoid it later. You're here,
and some part will probably be forced on you. However, as I said, I think
you're right about Bella."
"But her money would be no great inducement to Gladwyne."
"That's not certain. Clarence has a way of squandering money, and you may
as well understand that there's very little to be derived from
agricultural property. George had his mother's money, but he left it to
Millicent; Clarence got only the land. That's what made a match between
them seem so desirable."
"Desirable!" Lisle broke out. "It's impossible! Not to be contemplated!"
"Yes," Nasmyth agreed quietly. "If necessary, it will have to be
prevented. I was only stating popular opinion."
There was something curious in his tone and Lisle looked hard at him.
Their eyes met full for a moment and the thoughts of each were clear to
the other.
"If anything must be done, it will fall to you," Nasmyth went on. "In
this case it would be particularly invidious for me to interfere. But, if
there had been nobody else, I'd have broken off the match."
Lisle made no comment, but there was comprehension and sympathy in his
expression, and Nasmyth nodded.
"Yes," he acknowledged; "it's an open secret that I would have looked for
nothing better than to marry Millicent Gladwyne." He paused with a slight
flush creeping into his bronzed face. "For all that, I knew some years
ago that I hadn't the faintest chance and never would have. I have her
confidence and friendship; that has to be enough."
"I think it's a good deal," said Lisle.
There was silence for a minute or two, and then Lisle asked a question:
"How could a girl like Millicent Gladwyne ever contemplate the
possibility of marrying Clarence?"
"It's puzzling to me. These things often are to outsiders. Still,
Clarence is a handsome man, and I think George was in favor of the match,
which would count with her. Then, in a way, she was always fond of
Clarence, and now that she has the money and he's far from prospering on
the land, the idea that she could set him firmly on his feet by sharing
her possessions with him may prove tempting. It's very much the sort of
thing that would appeal to her."
"You suggest that she isn't strongly attached to the man."
"I really believe she isn't; but, for all that, I'm sometimes afraid
she'll end by marrying him. It's very probable that she suspects some of
his faults, but I'm not sure they'd deter her. It would make her more
compassionate, believing it was her duty to help him--that kind of
thing's an old delusion. Still, to do the fellow justice, he hasn't of
late shown much eagerness to profit by his opportunities."
Lisle mused for a few moments. It struck him that Nasmyth had described a
very fine type of woman, which was quite in accordance with his own ideas
of Miss Gladwyne.
"What led Gladwyne to cultivate Marple and the Crestwicks?" he asked.
"They're different from the rest of you."
"I can't say. It's a point I've wondered about, though Marple and his
rather rowdy friends are prosperous. I can better see why they got hold
of Clarence."
"I don't see it," responded Lisle. "Remember I'm an unsophisticated
stranger in search of information. If they've means enough, can't they
associate with whom they like?"
Nasmyth smiled, but there was a trace of diffidence in his manner.
"In a way, you're right; but there are limits, more particularly in such
a place as this. The counties, I'm sometimes thankful, don't keep pace
with London. It's a little difficult to explain, but we're old-fashioned
and possibly prejudiced here. Anyhow, we exercise a certain amount of
caution in the choice of our friends."
"But Mrs. Gladwyne seems cordial to the people you object to, and one
would imagine that she's the embodiment of your best traditions, a worthy
representative of the old regime."
"Mrs. Gladwyne is a remarkably fine lady, but it's unfortunate that she's
a little deaf and--it must be owned--not particularly intelligent. A good
deal of what goes on escapes her. Besides, she has always idolized
Clarence, and that would account for her not seeing his friends'
failings."
"It's curious that Gladwyne makes so much of that young Crestwick."
"I've wondered about it," Nasmyth confessed. "The lad's vicious--and I've
an idea that the influence Clarence has over him isn't beneficial. In
fact, I'm sorry for his sister. She has been given her head too young,
but, in my opinion, the girl's the pick of a very indifferent bunch."
"But you haven't accounted for these people's desire to be on good terms
with Gladwyne."
Nasmyth hesitated.
"Oh, well, since you're so persistent, the Crestwicks have evidently been
left with ample means, acquired by their parents, not much education, and
big ambitions. They can get into certain circles, but that won't content
them, and other doors, which Gladwyne can open to them, are shut. After
all, he's a good sportsman, a man of some culture, with a manner that's
likely to impress such people. The lad's holding on to him and taking his
worst aspect for a copy, while Clarence seems willing to extend his
patronage."
"For some consideration?"
Nasmyth looked disturbed.
"It's unpleasant, but I can't help feeling that you're right. One way or
another, young Crestwick will have to pay his entrance fees." He rose and
stretched himself lazily. "I'll spoil my temper if I say any more about
it, and as we've had a long day I'm off to bed."
Lisle followed him from the room, but he was up early the next morning
and strolled down to the river while the light was creeping across the
moors and the dew lay thick upon the grass, thinking over what he had
heard on the previous night. It was his nature to be interested in almost
everything and he was curious to learn what he could of the people to
whom his father had belonged. In Canada he had, for the most part, met
only men of somewhat primitive habits and simple desires, grappling with
rock and forest, or with single purpose toiling to acquire wealth in the
new cities. What was more to the purpose, few of them were married. Now
he was thrown among a people not more intelligent--indeed, he thought
they were less endowed with practically useful knowledge--but in some
respects more complex, actuated by different and less obvious ambitions
and desires. He felt impelled to watch them, though he recognized that,
as Nasmyth had predicted, this might not be all. It was possible that
sooner or later he would be drawn into action.
He reached the stream at a spot where it flowed, still and clear, beneath
a birch wood. A few of the leaves were green, but most of them gleamed a
delicate saffron among the gray and silver stems, and the ground beneath
was flecked with yellow. Behind the trees rough, lichened rock and stony
slopes ran up to a bare ridge, silhouetted against the roseate glow of
the morning sky. The sun had not risen, the water lay in shadow; it was
very quiet and rather cold, and Lisle was surprised to see Millicent
Gladwyne picking her way cautiously over a bank of stones. It was only
her movements that betrayed her, for her neutral-tinted attire harmonized
with the background; but when she caught sight of him she left the foot
of the slope she was skirting and came directly toward him. He thought
she looked wonderfully fresh and wholesome, and he noticed that she
carried a small camera.
"I'm afraid you have spoiled my sport," she laughed. "I was after an
otter--though you mustn't tell Nasmyth that there is one about here."
"Certainly not," acquiesced Lisle. "But why?"
"He would consider it his duty to bring up the hounds the next meet.
Isn't it curious how slaughter appeals to a man? But Nasmyth isn't
unreasonable; there are reserves in which even the jays he longs to shoot
have sanctuary."
"But you were looking for an otter?"
"Yes; I wanted its picture, not its life. I've got several, but I'm not
satisfied; though I've been lucky lately. I got a dabchick--they're
growing scarce--not long ago."
"We'll try the next pool, if you'll let me come," suggested Lisle. "I'm
pretty good at trailing. But what do you want with their pictures?"
"For my book," she told him. "I have to make ever so many drawings in
color before I get them right. If you're fond of the wild creatures, I'll
show them to you."
Lisle said that he would be delighted, and they went on, keeping back
among tall brushwood where they skirted the swift stream at the head of
the pool, and then proceeding cautiously with the outline of their
figures softened by the heathy slopes behind. At length, creeping up
through a thin growth of alders, they stopped near another still reach
and the girl pointed to a few floating objects on its surface.
"You're good at trailing or they'd have taken fright," she said. "Still,
I think I will surprise you, if you will wait here."
"Mallard," Lisle commented. "Young birds--even where we seldom disturb
them, they're shy."
She slipped away through the alders and he noticed how little noise she
made, though the lower branches here and there brushed against her
gliding form. She was wonderfully light and graceful in her movements. As
she came out into the open there was a startled quack or two from the
birds. Lisle expected to see them rise from the water, but she called
softly and, to his vast astonishment, they ceased paddling away from her.
She called again and they turned and swam cautiously toward her, and when
she took a handful of something from a pocket and flung it upon the
surface of the stream, three or four heads were stretched forward to
seize the morsels.
While the birds drew nearer Lisle looked on admiring. She had roused his
interest when he had first seen her in her rich evening dress, but now he
thought she made a far more striking picture, and her sympathy with the
timid wild creatures which evidently knew and trusted her awakened
something responsive in him. Half the pool now glimmered in the rosy
light, with here and there an alder branch reflected upon its mirror-like
surface, and Millicent stood on a strip of gravel with her figure clearly
outlined against it. Dressed in closely-fitting, soft-colored tweed, tall
and finely symmetrical, she harmonized with rock and flood wonderfully
well. Lisle had occasionally seen a bush rancher's daughter, armed with
gun or fishing-rod, look very much at home in similar surroundings; but
this English lady, of culture and station, reared in civilized luxury,
appeared equally in her right place.
He afterward recollected each adjunct of the scene--the stillness, the
pale gleam of the water, and the aromatic smell of fallen leaves, but the
alluring, central figure formed the sharpest memory. By and by she
clapped her hands, the ducks rose and flew away up-stream with necks
stretched out, and she came back toward him, laughing softly.
"Sometimes they will come almost up to my feet; but I'm afraid it's
hardly fair to inspire them with an undue confidence in human nature. It
might cost them dear."
"You're wonderful!" Lisle exclaimed, expressing what he felt, for she
seemed to him endowed with every gracious quality.
"Oh," she smiled, "there's nothing really remarkable in what I showed
you. I happened to find the nest and by slow degrees disarmed the mother
bird's suspicions; mallard have been domesticated, you know, though
they're often hard to get very near. But we may as well turn back; it's
now too late to see an otter. I'm inclined to think they're the shyest of
all the British wild creatures."
They moved away down-stream side by side, and some time later she left
him where a stile-path crossed a meadow.
"Come and see my drawings whenever you like," she said on parting.
Lisle determined to go as soon as possible. Quite apart from the
drawings, the idea of going had its attractions for him, and he walked
homeward determined that this girl should never marry Clarence Gladwyne.
It was unthinkable--that was the only word for it.
CHAPTER X
BELLA'S CHAMPION
It was early in the afternoon when Lisle arrived at Millicent's house
and, after a glance at its quaint exterior, was ushered into her
drawing-room. There he sat down and looked about while he waited. The
salient tones of its decoration were white and aqueous blue, and the
effect struck him as pleasantly chaste and cool. Among the rather mixed
ornaments were a couple of marble statuettes, the figures airily poised
and very finely wrought. Next, he noticed some daintily carved objects in
ivory, and a picture in water-color of a wide, gray stretch of moor with
distance and solitude skilfully conveyed. He had risen to examine it when
Millicent entered.
"I'm glad you came, though, as you're used to the life of the woods and
rivers, I'm a little diffident about showing you my sketches," she said.
"I'm afraid I've kept you waiting."
Lisle smiled and she liked the candidly humorous gleam in his eyes.
"Nasmyth warned me that I was early--or rather he said that if I were
going to visit anybody else I would have been too soon. I'd better
confess, however, that I've been making a good use of the time. Things of
this kind"--he indicated the statuettes--"are almost new to me. They
strike me as unusually fine."
"Yes," she answered, realizing that he had an artistic eye, "they are
beautiful--and one sees so many that are not. George brought them from
Italy for me. This"--she moved toward a representation in ivory of a
Mogul gateway--"is of course a different style, but it's remarkable in
its patient elaboration of detail. The mosque's not so fine. Nasmyth sent
me the pair from India; he once made a trip to the fringe of the
Himalayas."
Lisle examined the object carefully, and she waited with some interest
for his comment.
"It's wonderful," he declared. "I suppose it's a truthful copy?"
"I'm inclined to think the man who carved that had not the gift of
imagination. He merely reproduced faithfully what he saw."
"Different peoples have strikingly different ways, haven't they?"
commented Lisle. "While they were making that small Eastern arch, we'd
fling up a thriving wooden town or build a hotel of steel and cement to
hold a thousand guests. The biggest bridges that carry our great
freight-trains across the roaring gorges in the Rockies cost less labor."
"I should imagine it. What then?"
He studied the carved ivory.
"In a dry climate the original of this would last for centuries--it has
lasted since the days of the Moguls--an object of beauty for generations
to enjoy. Perhaps those old builders used their time as well as we do.
Our works serve their purpose, but one can't call them pretty."
She was pleased with his answer.
"I think that gets the strongest hold on me," he went on, glancing toward
the picture of the moor; "it's real!"
There was a hint of diffidence in Millicent's expression.
"But you can hardly judge, can you? You have scarcely seen the English
moors."
"I've spent a while on the high Albertan plains, and you have the same
things yonder; the vast sweep of sky, the rolling waste running on
forever. It's all in that picture; how expressed, I don't know--there are
only the grades of color, scarcely a line to gage the distance by. Still,
the sense of space is vivid."
Millicent blushed.
"You're an indulgent critic; that drawing is my own."
He did not appear embarrassed, though she saw that he had not suspected
the fact. She had already noticed that when he might, perhaps, have
looked awkward he only looked serious.
"After what you have said," she resumed, "I'll show you the other things
with greater confidence. Do you know, I thought all you Western people
were grimly utilitarian?"
He sat down and considered this. The man could laugh readily, but he was
also characterized by a certain gravity, which she found refreshing by
contrast with the light glibness to which she was more accustomed.
"Well," he reasoned, "in my opinion, the white man's greatest superiority
over all other peoples is his capacity for making useful things--even if
they're only ugly sawmills or grimy locomotives. Philosophy never fed any
one or lightened anybody's toil; commerce is a convenience, but the man
who makes a big profit out of it is only levying a heavy toll on somebody
else. It seems to me that all our actual benefits come from the
constructor."
"Have you been building sawmills?" Millicent asked mischievously.
He laughed with open good-humor. "Oh, no; that's why I'm free to talk. I
happened to find a lode with some gold in it, and gold is only a handy
means of exchanging things. I'll own that I was probably doing more
useful work when I stood up to my waist in ice-water, fitting sharp
stones into a pulp-mill dam."
"Perhaps you're right," Millicent agreed, "but it sounds severe. What of
the people who never do anything directly useful at all?"
"There are a few who, by just going up and down in it, keep the world
sweet and clean. Some of the rest could very well be spared."
"Then you believe that everybody must practically justify his existence?"
"If he fails to do so with us, his existence generally ceases. The
wilderness where I found the gold is full of the bones of the unfit."
Millicent spread out some drawings. Most were in color, in some cases
several of the same object, done with patient care, and she was strangely
pleased when she saw the quick appreciation in his eyes.
"An otter; it's alive," he remarked. "You've shown it working through a
shallow, looking much less like an animal than a fish--that's right."
"I made half a dozen sketches, and I'm not satisfied yet."
"Thorough," he commented. "You get there, if you have to hammer the heart
out of whatever you're up against."
"It's my brother's book," she answered. "I'm finishing it for him. He did
other things--most of them useful, indirectly. I've only this--and I'd
like my part to be good."
He nodded sympathetically, looking troubled.
"I can understand," he said. "I had a partner--I owe him more than I
could ever have repaid, and he left a troublesome piece of work to me. It
will have to be put through. But let me see some more; they're great."
She showed him a red jay; a tiny gold-crest perched on a thorn branch; a
kingfisher gleaming with turquoise hues, poised ready for a dive upon a
froth-lapped stone. He was no cultured critic, but he knew the ways of
the wild creatures and saw that she had talent, for her representations
of them were instinct with life.
They were interrupted by a scratching at the door and when she opened it
a white setter hobbled awkwardly in and curled itself at her feet.
"He's rather a big dog for the house, but I can't keep him away from me,"
she explained. "As you see, he has lost a foot, in a trap, and he was
marked for destruction when I asked for him. Sometimes I think he knows
that I saved his life."
The dog looked up and raising a paw scraped at her hand, until she opened
it, when he thrust his chin into her palm. It was a trivial incident, but
it somehow stirred the man.
"Now I know where you got power to draw these lesser brethren," he said.
"Study alone would never have given it to you."
She let this pass. He was almost embarrassing in his directness, though
she acquitted him of any crude intention of flattering her.
"I promised to let you read my brother's diary," she reminded him. "If
you will wait a few moments, I'll get it."
The dog pattered after her, as though unwilling to remain out of her
sight, and she came back presently with a small leather case and opening
it took out a tattered notebook. Noticing how she handled it and that the
case was beautifully made, Lisle fancied that it was precious to her, in
which he was correct. Indeed, she was then wondering why she had
volunteered to show it to this stranger when only two of her intimate
friends had seen it.
"Thank you," he said, when she gave it to him; and drawing his chair
nearer the window he began to read.
Though he was already acquainted with most of it, the story gripped him.
On the surface, it was merely a plain record of a hazardous and laborious
journey; but to one gifted with understanding it was more than this--a
vivid narrative of a struggle waged against physical suffering, weakness,
and hunger, by optimistic human nature. An odd word here, a line or two
in another place, was eloquent of simple, steadfast courage and
endurance; and even when the weakening man clearly knew that his end was
near there was no outbreak of desperation or sign of faltering. He had
dragged himself onward to the last, indomitable.
Then Lisle proceeded to examine the book more closely. It showed the
effects of exposure to the weather to an unusual degree, considering that
the covers were thick and that the rescue party had recovered it shortly
after its owner's death. Moreover, Lisle did not think that George
Gladwyne would have left it in the snow. Several pages were missing, and
having been over the ground, he knew that they recorded the part of the
journey during which the two caches of provisions had been made, and he
had already decided that there would be a list of their contents. This
conclusion was confirmed by the fact that Gladwyne had enumerated the
stores they started with, and had once or twice made a reduced list when
they had afterward taken stock. The abstraction of the records was
clearly Clarence's work. Then he realized that he had spent some time in
perusing the diary and he handed it back to Millicent with something that
implied a respect for it. She noticed the sparkle in his eyes and her
heart warmed toward him.
"It's the greatest story I've ever read," he declared.
She made no answer, but he knew that she was pleased and it filled him
with a wish to tell her that she was very much like her dead brother.
More he could not have said, but remembering that he had already gone as
far as was permissible he had sense enough to repress the inclination. He
saw the girl's lips close firmly, as if she were conscious of some
emotion, but there was silence for a minute or two. He broke it at
length.
"I know that you have granted me a very great privilege, and I'm
grateful," he told her, and added, because he thought a partial change of
the subject might be considerate: "In a way, it's hard to realize that
tale in this restful place. It's easier out yonder, where what you could
call the general tone is different."
"Nasmyth once said something like that," Millicent replied. "I suppose
the change is marked."
Lisle nodded.
"Here you have order, peace, security. In the wilds, it's all battle, the
survival of the strong; frost and ice rending the solid hills, rivers
scoring out deep ravines, beast destroying beast, or struggling with
starvation. Man's not exempt either; a small blunder--a deer missed or a
flour bag lost--may cost him his life. For the difference you have to
thank the constructor, the maker of plows and spades and more complex
machines."
"That's one of your pet hobbies, isn't it?"
He once more changed the subject.
"I wish that I could show you the wilderness," he said.
Millicent looked thoughtful.
"I should like to see it. I've an idea that if this book is well received
I might, perhaps, try something a little more ambitious--the larger
beasts and wilder birds of other countries. In that case, I should choose
British Columbia."
"Then you will let me be your guide?"
She made a conditional promise, and shortly afterward he left her.
Meeting Nasmyth he walked with him toward Gladwyne's house, where they
found the guests assembled on the lawn and Mrs. Gladwyne sitting by a
tea-table. One or two young women were standing near and several men had
gathered about a mat laid upon the grass fifty yards from where a small
target had been set up. Lisle joined Bella Crestwick, who detached
herself from the others.
"What is this?" he asked. "It's a very short range."
"Miniature rifle shooting," she informed him. "It's becoming popular.
Gladwyne has been trying to form a club. My brother Jim is president of
some league. He's rather keen and there are reasons why I'm glad of it."
She added the last words confidentially and Lisle ventured to nod. It
struck him that a healthy interest in any organized work or amusement
would be beneficial to young Crestwick. The girl looked at him, as if
considering something; and then she seemed to make up her mind.
"There's one thing I don't like," she complained. "They will shoot for
high stakes. Jim isn't a bad shot, but he's too eager. I'm afraid he's
inclined to be venturesome just now."
Lisle thought that she had a request to make. There was something about
him that inspired confidence, and the girl had made a friend of him.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
She made a sign of impatience; he was too direct. "Oh," she pouted,
"aren't you taking a good deal for granted? Still, you bushmen can shoot,
can't you?"
"As a rule," Lisle answered. "I almost think I see."
"Then," she retorted, "you shouldn't have said so; you should merely have
smiled and acted."
"I'm from the wilds; you mustn't expect too much. Well, if you'll excuse
me."
She flashed a grateful glance at him, and he sauntered toward the group
of men, among whom Gladwyne stood. There was a sharp crack as he
approached them, a thin streak of smoke drifted across the figure lying
on the mat, and a man beside it lowered the glasses he held.
"High to the left," he announced. "You're not in good form, Jim. Hadn't
you better give up?"
Lisle studied the speaker, whom he had met once or twice already. He was
approaching middle-age and was inclined to corpulence, but there was
something in his pose that suggested a military training. His face was
fleshy, but the features were bold and he was coarsely handsome. As a
rule, he affected an easy good-humor, but Lisle had felt that there was
something about him which he could best describe as predatory. He
occasionally spoke of business ties, so he had an occupation, but he had
not in Lisle's hearing mentioned what it was.
Crestwick's face was hot as he answered his remark.
"Not at all, Batley. The trouble is that I'm used to the Roberts target,
and the spots on the card are puzzling after the rings. I'll get into it
presently."
"Oh, well," acquiesced the other. "As you didn't fix a time limit, we'll
go on again, though it's getting tame and I want some tea."
"I'll increase the interest again, if you like," the lad replied.
Lisle joined the group.
"What's it all about?" he asked.
"Batley's a pretty good rifle shot, but if he won't mind my saying so
he's a little opinionated," Gladwyne explained. "Crestwick questioned an
idea of his, and the end of it was that Batley offered to prove his
point--that a stiff pull-off is as good as a light one in practised
hands--by backing himself to beat the field. Crestwick took him up, and
since the rest of us were obviously out of it, the thing has resolved
itself into a match between the two. Crestwick is using an easy-triggered
rifle; Batley's has an unusually hard spring."
Lisle considered. Remembering Bella's remarks, he thought it would be
easy to lure the lad into a rash bet. He was headstrong and his manners
might have been more conciliatory, but Lisle, learning the amount of the
stakes, decided that his host should not have let the thing go so far.
"Crestwick doubled several times; he's stubborn and doesn't like to be
beaten," Gladwyne resumed. "I had the same ideas when I was as young as
he is."
"I've offered to let him off," Batley broke in. "I'd do so now only he's
kept me shooting for the last half-hour. As Gladwyne says, he's
obstinate, and it's a pity that he's wrong. If he'd trained his
wrist-tendons by using a harder trigger, he'd have made a passably good
shot."
Lisle was aware that while there was something to be said for Batley's
view, Crestwick was justified in contending that the lighter tension was
more adapted to the case of the average person; but he recognized that
the indulgent manner of the older men was calculated, he thought
intentionally, to exasperate the hot-headed lad.
"Well," he observed, addressing Batley, "you have the courage of your
convictions if you have offered to maintain them against all comers,
which I understand is what you have done."
The man nodded carelessly and Lisle went on:
"After all, since I dare say these gentlemen are more used to the
shotgun, your superiority doesn't prove very much."
Crestwick looked around at him quickly.
"Most of you Colonials can use the rifle; do you feel inclined to take
him on? You're a dark horse, but I'll double the stakes if he'll throw
you in."
This was what Lisle wanted, but he turned to the others.
"I've never had a small rifle in my hands--we use the 44-70, and I must
leave you to decide whether my shooting would be fair to Mr. Batley. In
that case, I'll put up half the stakes."
The men said there was no reason why he should not join, and Batley made
no protest, though Lisle fancied that he was not pleased. Lying down on
the mat, he took the light-springed rifle and the six cartridges handed
him and fixed his eyes on the target, which was a playing-card pinned to
a thick plank. He got the first shot off before he was quite ready--the
light pull was new to him--and somebody called that he had touched the
left top corner. The next shot was down at the bottom, and the four
following marks were scattered about the card. When he got up, Batley
looked reassured and proceeded to make a neat pattern around the center
of another card. There was no doubt that Crestwick was anxious, and when
he took his turn he shot badly. In the meanwhile, the rest of the party
on the lawn had gradually gathered round; the eager attitude of the
original spectators hinted that something out of the usual course was
going on.
Lisle was very cool when he lay down again. A swift, encouraging glance
from Bella Crestwick made him determined, and during his previous six
shots he had, he thought, learned the right tension on the trigger.
"Wipe it out for me, somebody," he said, holding up the rifle.
Bella seized it and deftly used the rod, regardless of soiled fingers.
"May it bring you luck," she wished, with a defiant glance at Batley, who
smiled at her as she returned the weapon.
Then there was a hush of expectancy. Lisle took his time; a sharp crack,
a streak of smoke, and Gladwyne raising his glasses, laughed.
"High!" he called. "Top spot!"
It was a three of hearts, and Gladwyne's smile lingered for a moment
after Lisle fired again.
"Bottom now; you're low!" he cried, and then his expression slightly
changed. Both spots were drilled out--this did not look altogether like
an accident.
"Center!" he announced after another shot, and all the faces surrounding
him became intent. The three hearts were neatly punched.
"A fresh card!" exclaimed Crestwick, looking around at Batley with an
exultant sparkle in his eyes. "You offered to let me off. Shall I return
the compliment?"
The man laughed carelessly, though Lisle thought it cost him an effort.
"No," he retorted; "I can't show myself less of a sportsman than you are;
but I think I've the option of demanding a longer range. Move the mat
back twenty-five yards and put up an ace of spades; it's the plainest.
Three shots each should suffice at the distance."
Crestwick got down and thrice touched the outside of the card; Batley did
better, for two shots broke the edge of the black and one was close above
them. It was good shooting at so small a mark, and Lisle was a little
anxious as he very deliberately stretched himself out on the mat. Having
little of the gambler's instinct in his nature, he was reluctant to lose
the money at stake, but he was more unwilling to let Batley fleece the
lad whom, as he recognized now, he had been asked to aid. He meant to do
so, if the thing were possible, and twice he paused and relaxed his grip
when his sight grew slightly blurred.
Then there was a sharp crack, and he smiled when he heard Gladwyne's
report.
"I can't see it. These are only opera-glasses."
Dead silence followed the next shot, which left no visible mark on the
target; and Lisle did not look around as he thrust his last cartridge
into the rifle. He let it lie beside him for half a minute while he
opened and shut his right hand, and then, taking it up quickly, fired.
Still there was no blur on the white surface of the card and Gladwyne
sharply shut his glasses, while two of the onlookers ran toward the
target. They came back in silence and one significantly held up the ace.
There were three small holes in the black center.
Gladwyne had turned away when Lisle got up, but Batley concealed his
feelings very well.
"Excellent!" he exclaimed. "As I can't beat that, the only thing left me
is to pay up."
Lisle turned to Crestwick, who looked hot and excited.
"You made the bet," he said. "Will you use my half in buying a
competition cup for one of your clubs?"
He saw Batley's smile and a somewhat curious look in Gladwyne's face, but
the group broke up and he strolled back across the lawn with Bella.
"I'm grateful," she said softly. "I was a little afraid at first that I
was asking too much of you."
Lisle met her glance with a good assumption of surprise.
"Grateful? Because I indulged in a rather enjoyable match?"
She laughed.
"You learn rapidly. But I'd better say in excuse that I didn't think I'd
involved you in a very serious risk. He hasn't your eyes and hands--one
couldn't expect it. You don't need pick-me-ups in the morning, do you?"
Lisle was slightly embarrassed. This girl's knowledge of life was too
extensive, and he would have preferred that she should exhibit it to
somebody else.
"Well," she concluded as they approached the tea-table, "my thanks are
yours, even if you don't value them."
"What do you expect me to say?" he asked, regarding her with some
amusement and appreciation. She was alluringly pretty in her rather
elaborate light dress.
"Yes," she smiled mockingly, disregarding his question; "these things
become me better than the tweeds, don't they? They make one look nice and
soft and fluffy; but that's deceptive. You see, I can scratch; in fact, I
felt I could have scratched Batley badly if I'd got the chance. There's
another hint for you--make what you like of it."
Then with a laugh she swung round and left him, puzzled.
CHAPTER XI
CRESTWICK GIVES TROUBLE
The little room in Marple's house, where the Crestwicks were staying, was
hot and partly filled with cigar smoke which drifted in filmy streaks
athwart the light of the green-shaded hanging-lamp. Lisle sat beneath the
lamp, studying the cards in his hand, until he leaned back in his chair
and flung a glance about the table. There were no counters on it, but
Gladwyne had just noted something in a little book and was waiting with a
languid smile upon his handsome face. Next to him sat Batley, looking
thoughtful; and Crestwick sat opposite Lisle, eager and unhealthily
flushed. His forehead showed damp in the lamplight and there was an
unpleasant glitter in his eyes. It was close on to midnight and luck had
gone hard against him during the past hour, half of which Lisle had spent
in his company. This had cost Lisle more money than he was willing to
part with.
"It's getting late," he said with a yawn. "After this hand, I'll drop
out; I dare say one of the other two will take my place. Crestwick, I
believe your sister and Miss Leslie will be waiting. You're going with
them, aren't you?"
The lad, turning in his chair, reached toward a near-by table on which
there were bottles and siphons, and took a glass from it. He had been
invited to join a shooting party at a house in the neighborhood and was
to spend the night there.
"Oh!" he exclaimed with some irritation; "Bella's always in such an
unreasonable hurry. The others can't be going yet. I think I hear Flo
Marple singing."
A voice from somewhere below reached them through the open door. It was a
good voice, but the words were a silly jingle and the humor in them could
not be considered delicate. Lisle, glancing at Gladwyne, noticed his
slight frown, but one of the two young men lounging by the second table
watching the game hummed the refrain with an appreciative smile upon his
heavy and somewhat fatuous face.
"They'll take half an hour to get ready," declared Batley. "Better play
out this round, anyhow."
They laid down their cards in turn and then Crestwick noisily thrust his
chair back.
"Another knock-out!" he exclaimed savagely. "I don't like to get up so
far behind. Shall we double on another deal?"
"As you like," returned Batley. "You're plucky, considering the cards
you've had; but if Fortune's fickle, she's supposed to favor a determined
suitor."
It was innocent enough, but Lisle fancied that there was sufficient
flattery in the speech to incite the headstrong lad, who had now emptied
the glass at his hand. He remembered that on another occasion when there
had been a good deal at stake, Batley had played on Crestwick's feelings,
though in a slightly different manner. Whether or not the young man lost
more than he could afford was, in one way, no concern of Lisle's, and he
did not find him in the least attractive; but half an hour previously
Bella had met him in the hall and had hinted, with a troubled look, that
she would appreciate it if he could get her brother away. It was this
that accounted for the Canadian's presence in the card-room.
"I'm going, anyway," he said, taking out some notes and gold and laying
them down. "There has been a smart shower and you had better remember
that Miss Leslie walked over--the roads will be wet. As you know, I
promised to take the girls back in Nasmyth's trap, and he won't thank me
if I keep his groom up."
Crestwick grumbled and hesitated, and he grew rather red in face as he
turned to Batley.
"I've only these two notes," he explained. "Expected all along I'd pull
up even. Will you arrange things? See you about it when I come back."
Batley nodded carelessly, and the lad stood up, looking irresolutely at
the table.
"Fact is," he went on, "I'd like to get straight before I go. I'm in
pretty heavy for one night; another round might do something to set me
straight."
"Gladwyne and I are quite willing to give you your chance," was Batley's
quick reply; but Lisle unceremoniously laid his hand on Crestwick's
shoulder.
"Come along," he urged, laughing. "Luck's against you; you've had quite
enough."
He had the lad out of the door in another moment, and looking back from
the landing he saw a curious look in Gladwyne's face which he thought was
one of disgust. Batley, however, was frowning openly; and the two men's
expressions had a meaning for him. He was inclined to wonder whether he
had used force too ostensibly in ejecting the lad; but, after all, that
did not very much matter--his excuse was good enough. As they went down
the stairs, Crestwick turned to him, hot and angry.
"It strikes me you're pretty officious! Never saw you until two or three
weeks ago," he muttered. "Not accustomed to being treated in that offhand
manner. It's Colonial, I suppose!"
"Sorry," Lisle apologized with a smile. "I've an idea that you'll be
grateful when you cool off. You've been going it pretty strong to-night."
"That's true," agreed the other with a show of pride. "Kept on raising
them; made things lively!"
"Found it expensive, didn't you?" Lisle suggested; and as they reached
the foot of the stairs he led his companion toward the door. "Suppose we
take a turn along the terrace before we look for your sister."
Crestwick went with him, but presently he stopped and leaned on the low
wall.
"Do you ever feel inclined for a flutter on the stock-market?" he
inquired. "There's a thing Batley put me on to--there'll be developments
in a month or two; it's going to a big premium. Let you have a hundred
shares at par. Rather in a hole, temporarily."
Lisle had no intention of buying the stock, but he asked a few questions.
It appeared that it had been issued by a new company formed to grow
coffee and rubber in the tropics.
"No," he said; "a deal of that kind is out of my line. Why not sell them
through a broker and get your full profit?"
"It would take some days," answered the other. "Besides, they won't move
up until the directors let things out at the next meeting. Something of
that kind, anyway; I forget--Batley explained it." He paused and added
irritably: "Believe I told you I'm in a hole."
"You must meet your losses and don't know how to manage it?"
Lisle was curious and had no diffidence about putting the question,
though the lad was obviously off his guard.
"I can raise the money right enough--Batley'll see to that; but I'd
sooner do it another way. The interest's high enough to make one think,
and in this case I'm paying it on money he's putting into his pocket."
There was a good deal to be inferred from this reply, but Lisle
considered before he spoke again.
"You're twenty-one, aren't you?" he asked.
"Yes," assented the lad, "but the trustees keep hold until I'm
twenty-four."
He turned with quick suspicion to the Canadian.
"I don't see what that has to do with you!"
"It isn't very obvious," Lisle agreed. "Shall we go in?"
They found Bella in the hall, and when her brother went to get-his coat
she walked out on to the terrace with Lisle.
"Thank you," she said gratefully when they were out of sight from the
hall. "It was a relief to see you had succeeded in getting him away."
"I'm sorry I was unable to do so sooner," Lisle replied.
"Ah! Then he has been losing heavily again?"
"I'm afraid so. I couldn't make my interference too marked." Obeying some
impulse, he laid his hand on her arm. "Rather a handful for you, isn't
he?"
Bella nodded, making no attempt to shake off his grasp.
"Yes," she acknowledged with some bitterness; "but I can hardly complain
that I have no control over him. It would be astonishing if I had." She
broke into a little harsh laugh. "Anyway, I manage to keep my head, and
do not deceive myself, as he does. I know what our welcome's worth and
what the few people whose opinion counts for anything think of us."
"Well," offered Lisle, "if I can be of service in any respect--"
"Thanks," she interrupted, and turned back toward the door.
When they reached the hall she glanced at her companion as the light fell
on his face.
"Your offer's genuine," she said impulsively. "I can't see what you
expect in return."
Lisle was puzzled by her expression. She was variable in her moods,
generally somewhat daring, and addicted to light mockery. He could not
tell whether she spoke in bitterness or in mischief.
"No," he replied gravely, "nor do I."
She left him with a laugh; and a little later he drove her and her
companions away and afterward returned to Nasmyth's house to find that
his host had retired. Lisle followed his example and rising early the
next morning they set off for the river, up which the sea-trout were
running. They were busy all morning and it was not until noon, when they
lay in the sunshine eating their lunch on a bank of gravel, that either
of them made any allusion to the previous evening.
"Did you enjoy yourself last night?" Nasmyth asked.
"Fairly," Lisle responded, smiling. "I've already confessed that you
people interest me. At the same time, I had my difficulties--first of all
to explain to the Marples why you didn't come. The reasons you gave
didn't sound convincing."
"They were good enough. It's probable that Marple understood them. Like
most of my neighbors, I go once or twice in a year; his subscription to
the otter hounds entitles him to that."
"We don't look at things in that way in the parts of Canada I'm
acquainted with," laughed Lisle.
"Then I've no doubt you'll come to it," Nasmyth replied with some
dryness. "They've done so already in the older cities. Now--since you're
fond of candor--you have been glad to earn a dollar or two a day by
chopping and shoveling, haven't you? Have you felt left out in the cold
at all during the little while you have spent among us?"
"Not in the least," Lisle owned.
"Then you can infer what you like from that. In this country, we take a
good deal for granted and avoid explanations. But you haven't said
anything about the proceedings at Marple's. I suppose you were invited to
take a hand at cards?"
"I invited myself; result, sixty dollars to the bad in half an hour. I
used to hold my own in our mining camps, and I hadn't the worst cards."
Nasmyth laughed with unconcealed enjoyment.
"The only fault I have to find with you Westerners is that you're rather
apt to overrate yourselves. I suppose they let young Crestwick in a good
deal deeper?"
"That," laughed Lisle, "is what you have been leading up to from the
beginning."
"I'll admit it. As I've hinted, one of the differences between an
American and an Englishman is that the former usually expresses more or
less forcibly what he thinks, unless, of course, he's a financier or a
politician; while you have often to learn by experience what the latter
means. Better use your own methods in telling me what took place."
Lisle did so, omitting any reference to Bella, and Nasmyth looked
disturbed and disgusted.
"Crestwick's as devoid of sense as he is of manners; he deserves to lose.
What I can't get over is that fellow Batley's staying in what was once
George Gladwyne's house, with Clarence standing sponsor for him."
Lisle fancied he could understand. Nasmyth had his failings, but he had
also his simple, drastic code, and it was repugnant to him that a man of
his own caste, one of a family he had long known and respected, should
countenance an outsider of Batley's kind and assist him in fleecing a
silly vicious lad.
"You have no reason to think well of Gladwyne," Lisle reminded him.
"I haven't," Nasmyth owned. "Still, though the man has made one very bad
break, I hardly expected him to exceed every limit. At present it looks
as if he might do so; he'll probably be forced to."
"I don't quite understand."
"Then I'll have to explain. It's unpleasant, but here the thing is, as I
see it--Batley's not the kind of man Clarence would willingly associate
with, and to give Clarence his dues, all his instinct must make him
recoil from the fellow's game with Crestwick. Considering that he's
apparently making no protest against it, this is proof to me that Batley
has some pretty firm hold on him."
"What's Batley's profession?"
"I suspect he's something in the smart money-lending line; one of the
fellows who deal with minors and others on post-obits."
"Post-obits?"
"Promises to pay after somebody's dead. Suppose there should be only an
invalid or an old man between you and a valuable property; you could
borrow on the strength of your expectations. Now, what Crestwick told you
shows that the person who left him his money very wisely handed it to
trustees, with instructions to pay him only an allowance until he's
twenty-four. It's a somewhat similar case to the one I've instanced--he's
drawing on a capital he can't get possession of for two or three years,
and no doubt paying an extortionate interest. So far as I know, no
respectable bank or finance broker would handle that kind of business."
"But if the boy died before he succeeded to the property?"
"Batley could cover the risk by making Crestwick take out an insurance
policy in his favor."
Lisle's face grew stern, and Nasmyth lay smoking in silence for a while.
Then he broke out again:
"It's intolerable! George Gladwyne's successor abetting that fellow in
robbing the lad, luring him into wagers and reckless play with the result
that most of the borrowed money goes straight back into the hands of the
man who lent it!"
"Have you any suspicion that Gladwyne gets a share?"
"No," replied Nasmyth, with signs of strong uneasiness; "I can't believe
he benefits in that manner--if he did, I'd feel it my duty to denounce
him. Still, I expect he wins a little now and then, incidentally."
Again there was silence for a while, broken finally by Lisle.
"When I'd been here a week or two I began to see that my task wasn't
quite so simple as it had appeared--you can't attack a man situated as
Gladwyne is without hurting innocent people. Indeed, I've spent hours
wondering how, when the time comes, I can clear Vernon's memory, with the
least possible damage--that is my business, not the punishing of
Gladwyne, though he deserves no consideration. As you say, a man may make
a bad break and pull up again, but this one has had his chance and has
gone in deeper. What he's doing now--helping to ruin that lad in
cold-blood--is almost worse than the other offense."
Nasmyth made an acquiescent gesture.
"It's true; let it go at that. I don't see how the thing can be stopped.
There's a fish rising in the slack yonder!"
Lisle saw a silvery gleam in a strip of less-troubled water behind a
boulder and taking up his rod he cast the gaudy fly across the ripple.
There was a jar, a musical clinking of the reel, and when Nasmyth waded
in with ready net all thought of Gladwyne passed out of the Canadian's
mind.
After a few minutes' keen excitement, they landed the beautiful
glistening trout; and then they set off down-stream in search of another,
scrambling over rock and gravel and wading amidst the froth in the pools.
Overhead, soft gray clouds drifted by, casting long shadows across
fern-clad hillside and far-reaching moor; and the flood flashed into
silver gleams and grew dim again.
Both of the men were well content with their surroundings, and now and
then Nasmyth wondered why Clarence could not be satisfied with the simple
pleasures that were freely offered him. He could have had the esteem of
his neighbors and the good will of his tenants, and there were healthful
tasks that would have kept him occupied--the care of his estate, the
improving of the homes and conditions of life of those who worked for
him, experiments in stock-raising, local public duties. He had once
slipped badly, so badly that the offense could hardly be contemplated;
but that was when he was weak and famishing and under the influence of an
overwhelming fear. At least, he could make some reparation by leaving the
countryside better than he found it, and in this he had friends who would
loyally assist him.
Clarence, however, had chosen another way, one that led down-hill to
further dishonor; and Nasmyth considered gloomily what the end of it all
would be. Occasionally he glanced at the lithe figure of the Canadian,
standing knee-deep amid the froth of the stream. Serious-eyed, alert,
resolute, he could be depended on to carry out any purpose he had
determined on; it was his firm hands that would hold Clarence's scourge.
CHAPTER XII
MRS. GLADWYNE'S APPEAL
Millicent was sitting in a window-seat with a paint-box beside her and a
drawing of a water-ouzel upon her knee. It was a lifelike sketch, but she
had a great capacity for painstaking and she was not altogether pleased
with the drawing. The bird stood on a stone an inch or two above a
stream, its white breast harmonizing with the flecks of snowy froth, and
the rest of its rather somber plumage of the same hue as a neighboring
patch of shadow. This was as it should be, except that, as the central
object of a picture, it was too inconspicuous. She was absorbed in
contemplating it when Mrs. Gladwyne was shown in. Clarence's mother did
not pay many visits and Millicent fancied she had some particular object
in coming.
She sat down where the sunlight fell on her gentle face and silvery hair,
her delicate white hands spread out on her dark dress.
"Busy, as usual, my dear," she said, glancing at the sketch. "That's very
pretty."
"I think it's correct," returned Millicent; "but I'm not sure it's what
it ought to be in other respects. You see, its purpose is to show people
what a water-ouzel is like and it's hard to make the creature out. Of
course, I could have drawn it against a background that would have forced
up every line, but that wouldn't have been right--these wild things were
made to fade into their surroundings." She laughed. "Truth is rigid and
uncompromising--it's difficult to make it subservient to expediency."
Her visitor did not feel inclined to discuss the matter.
"You're too fastidious," she smiled, and added with a sigh: "George was
like that. Little things keep cropping up every day to show it--I mean in
connection with his care of the property. I'm sometimes afraid that
Clarence is different."
Millicent could not deny this, but she did not see his mother's purpose
in confessing it.
"Of course," she answered, as she rang for tea, "he hasn't been in charge
very long. One can learn only by experience."
Mrs. Gladwyne looked grateful; but although she was very tranquil there
was something in her manner that hinted at uncertainty.
"You will finish the book and these pictures some day," she said. "What
will you do then?"
"I really don't know. Perhaps I shall start another. If not, there is
always something I can turn my hand to. So many things seem to need
doing--village matters alone would find me some occupation."
The elder lady considered this.
"Yes," she agreed with diffidence. "I'm now and then afraid everything's
not quite so satisfactory as it used to be. The cottages don't look so
pretty or well cared for, the people are not so content--some of them are
even inclined to be bitter and resentful. Of course, things change, our
relations with our dependents among them; but I feel that people like the
Marples, living as they do, have a bad effect. They form a text for the
dissatisfied."
Millicent contented herself with a nod. She could not explain that in
spite of the changing mode of thought it is still possible for an
old-fashioned landlord to retain almost everybody's good will. Sympathy
and tactful advice are appreciated, though not effusively, and even a
bluff, well-meant reproof is seldom resented. But when rents are
rigorously exacted by a solicitor's or banker's clerk, and repairs are
cut down, when indifference takes the place of judicious interest, it is
hardly logical to look for the cordial relations that might exist.
Nasmyth's tenants stopped and exchanged a cheery greeting or a jest with
him; most of Gladwyne's looked grim when he or his friends, the Marples,
passed.
Then tea was brought in and Millicent found pleasure in watching her
guest. Mrs. Gladwyne made a picture, she thought, sitting with the dainty
china in her beautiful hands; she possessed the grace and something of
the stateliness which is associated with the old regime.
"How quick your people are," she commented. "You rang and the things were
brought in. Our staff is large and expensive, but as a rule they keep us
waiting. Though you paint and go out so much, you have the gift of making
a home comfortable. It really is a gift; one that should not be wasted."
Millicent grew serious. It looked as if her companion were coming to the
point, and this became plainer when Mrs. Gladwyne proceeded.
"Do you think the life you contemplate--writing books on birds and
animals--is the best or most natural one for a woman?"
A little color crept into the girl's face.
"I don't know; perhaps it isn't. It is the one that seems open to me."
"The only one, my dear? You must know what I mean."
Millicent turned and faced her. She was disturbed, but she seldom avoided
a plain issue.
"I think," she said, "it would be better if you told me."
"It's difficult." Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. "You must forgive me if I go
wrong. Still, you know it was always expected that you would marry
Clarence some day. It would be so desirable."
"For which of us?" Millicent's tone was sharp. She sympathized with Mrs.
Gladwyne, but something was due to herself.
"It was Clarence that I was thinking of," admitted her visitor. "I
suppose that I am selfish; but I am his mother." She laid down her cup
and looked at the girl with pleading eyes. "I must go on, though I don't
think I could say what I wish to any one but you. Clarence has many good
qualities, but he needs guidance. An affectionate son; but it is my
misfortune that I am not wise or firm enough to advise or restrain him. I
have dropped behind the new generation; the standards are different from
what they were when I was young."
This was true, but it was incomplete, and Millicent let her finish.
"I have been a little anxious, perhaps foolishly so, about him now and
then. I cannot approve of all his friends--sometimes they jar on me--and
I do not like the views he seems to have acquired from them. They are not
the ones his father held. Of course, this is only the result of wrong
associations and of having a good-humored, careless nature; it would be
so different if he could be brought under some wholesome influence." She
smiled at Millicent. "One could trust implicitly to yours."
It was an old plea, fallacious often, but none the less effective.
Millicent was devoid of officious self-righteousness, but she was endowed
with a compassionate tenderness which prompted her to extend help to all
who needed it. She thought that Clarence did so, but in spite of that she
did not feel so responsive as she could have wished.
"There is one difficulty," she answered while the blood crept into her
face. "I'll own that I recognized what your ideas and George's were about
Clarence and myself. I may go so far. But of late there has been nothing
to show that Clarence desired to carry out those ideas."
Mrs. Gladwyne gathered her courage.
"My dear, it is rather hard to say, but the truth is that a declaration
from a man is not usually quite spontaneous. He looks for some tacit
encouragement, a sign that one is not altogether indifferent to him. Now
it has struck me that during the past year you have rather stood aloof
from my son."
Millicent started slightly; there was some truth in this statement. Mrs.
Gladwyne, however, was not wise enough to stop.
"I think that is why there is some risk of his falling into bad
hands--that Crestwick girl isn't diffident," she went on. "I know the
strong regard he has for you; but the girl sees a good deal of him, and a
man is sometimes easily led where he does not mean to go."
Millicent's cheeks burned.
"Do you wish me to compete openly for Clarence's favor with Bella
Crestwick?"
Mrs. Gladwyne spread out her hands in protest.
"Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed. "I have said the wrong thing. I warned you
that you might have to forgive me."
"But the thought must have been in your mind!"
"I only meant that you needn't repel or avoid him, as you have done of
late."
Millicent felt compassionate. After all, Mrs. Gladwyne was pleading for
what she believed would benefit her only son; but the girl was very human
and a trace of her resentment remained. It was, however, obvious that
Mrs. Gladwyne expected some response.
"I can venture to promise that I won't be openly rude," Millicent agreed
with a faint smile.
"Can't you go a little beyond that, my dear?"
The girl, seeing the look in her eyes, yielded to an impulse which
prompted her to candor.
"What there is to be said had better be spoken now," she replied. "I have
confessed that I knew what was expected--Clarence showed that he knew it,
too--and the idea was not altogether repugnant to me. But since he came
back from Canada there has been a change in both of us. How or why I
can't explain, but we have drifted apart. I don't know whether this will
go on--I don't understand myself--I only know that I am as anxious for
his welfare as I always have been. It must be left to him; there is
nothing you must urge me to do."
Mrs. Gladwyne looked regretful, but she made a sign of acquiescence and
rising came toward the girl and took her hand.
"What I could do I have done--badly perhaps," she said. "I can't blame
you. I am only sorry."
She went out in a few minutes and left Millicent in a thoughtful mood.
Looking back on the past, the girl recognized that she had been fond of
Clarence--which was the best word for it--and that she would have married
him had he urged it. He had, however, hardly been in a position to do so
then, and she remembered that she had in no way regretted the fact. This
was, she thought, significant. Then the change had gradually come about.
She saw his faults more clearly and it grew increasingly difficult to
believe that she could eradicate them. What was more, during the past few
weeks she had once or twice felt scornfully angry with him. She had tried
not to yield to the sensation, and now she wondered how it had originated
and why she was less tolerant.
As she considered the question, a shadow fell upon the sunlit lawn and
looking up she saw Lisle approaching with a creel upon his back. She
started at the sight of him and once more felt her cheeks grow hot; then
she smiled, for the half-formed suspicion that had flashed into her mind
was obviously absurd. He saw her the next moment and strode toward the
open window.
"We got a few good white trout, fresh run," he said. "It occurred to me
that you might like one or two of them."
He glanced at the long French window.
"May I come in this way?"
"I've no doubt you could do so, but out of deference to conventional
prejudices it might be better if you went round by the usual entrance."
"Charmed!" he smiled. "That's easy."
"Would you rather have it hard?"
"That wasn't the idea," he answered. "I only felt that a much greater
difficulty wouldn't stop my getting in."
Millicent laughed.
"If one of my neighbors made such speeches, they'd sound cheap. From you
they're amusing."
He affected to consider this.
"I suppose the difference is that I mean them. Anyway, I'll walk around."
She gave him some tea when he came in, and afterward admired the fish.
"They're well above the average weight," she said.
"We had two or three that would beat them," Lisle declared. "Miss
Crestwick came along and corralled the finest."
"Was the explanation essential?" Millicent inquired with a smile.
"That was a bad break of mine. So bad that I won't try to explain it
away."
"I think you are wise," Millicent retorted with a trace of dryness.
On the face of it, she was pleased with his answer, but the fact he had
mentioned caused her some irritation. Bella Crestwick, not content with
monopolizing Clarence, must also seek to include the Canadian in her
train. It was curious that for the moment that seemed the more serious
offense. The girl was insatiable and going too far, Millicent thought.
Lisle noticed her silence.
"Remember that I'm from th
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