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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 débris 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 régime."

"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 régime.

"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 the wilds," he said.

She smiled at him reassuringly.

"After all, that isn't a great drawback. Anyway, I'm grateful for the
trout." Then, somewhat to his surprise, she abruptly changed the subject.
"I wonder what you think of a tacit promise?"

His face grew thoughtful; she liked his quick change to seriousness.

"Well, I don't know that my opinion's of much value, but you may have it.
Supposing two people allow each other to assume that they're agreed upon
the same thing, it's binding upon both of them."

"But if only one actually made his wishes clear."

"In that case, the other had the option of showing that they couldn't be
acceded to. Failing that, in my view, he can't go back on it." Then his
eyes gleamed with amusement. "I don't often set up as a philosopher."

Millicent was a little vexed with herself for asking him and did not
quite understand why she had done so, unless it was because she had not
altogether recovered her usual collectedness after Mrs. Gladwyne's visit.
Why she should be interested in this man's opinion was not clear, but she
thought he was one who would act in accordance with it. She was afterward
even more astonished at her next remark, which she made impulsively.

"You have seen a good deal of Miss Crestwick, one way or another."

He considered this gravely.

"Yes," he replied. "I like her. For one thing, she's genuinely concerned
about that brother of hers."

"What do you think of him?"

"Not much," Lisle answered candidly. "I've no use for a man who needs a
woman to keep him straight and look after him. But one feels a strong
respect for the woman, even though it's obvious that she's wasting her
time."

"Is it wasting time?"

"It strikes me like that. A man of that sort is bound to come down badly
some day."

Millicent sat silent a while. The conversation had taken an unusually
serious turn, but she wondered whether he were right. She had, she
thought, allowed Clarence to assume that she would not repulse him when
he formally claimed her and that--so this man from the wilds
considered--constituted a binding obligation. She could not contest this
view; but Clarence seemed more interested in Bella Crestwick than he was
in her. Then she wondered why the girl had made so much of Lisle, unless
it was to use him for the purpose of drawing Clarence on. If that were
so, it seemed a pity that the confiding Canadian could not be warned,
though that, of course, was out of the question.

"I'm afraid I'm not very amusing to-day," she acknowledged.

He smiled.

"I'll go the moment you want to get rid of me; but, even if you don't say
anything, I like sitting here. This place rests me."

"I shouldn't have imagined you to be of a very restful nature."

"Oh," he declared, "there's a kind of quietness that braces you."

He was less reserved than the average Englishman, but he felt the charm
of his surroundings more keenly than the latter would probably have done.
Everything in the room was artistic, but its effect was deeper than mere
prettiness. It was cool, though the autumn sunshine streamed in, and the
girl had somehow impressed her personality upon it. Soft colorings,
furniture, even the rather incongruous mixture of statuettes and ivory
carvings, blended into a harmonious whole, and the girl made a most
satisfactory central figure, as she sat opposite him in her unusually
thoughtful mood. He felt the charm of her presence, though he could
hardly have analyzed it. As he said, it was not even needful that she
should talk to him.

"There are lakes in British Columbia from which you can look straight up
at the never-melting snows," he went on. "You feel that you could sit
there for hours, without wanting to move or speak, though it must be
owned that one very seldom gets the opportunity."

"Why?" Millicent inquired.

"As a rule, the people who visit such places are kept too busy chopping
big trees, hauling canoes round rapids, or handling heavy rocks. Besides,
you have your food to cook and your clothes to mend and wash."

"Then, after the day's labor, a man must do his own domestic work?"

"Of course," answered Lisle. "Now and then one comes back to camp too wet
or played out to worry, and goes to sleep without getting supper. I'm
speaking of when you're working for your own hand. In a big logging or
construction camp you reach the fringe of cooperation. This man sticks to
the saw, the other to the ax, somebody else who gets his share of the
proceeds chops the cord-wood and does the cooking."

"And if you can neither chop nor saw nor cook?"

"Then," Lisle informed her dryly, "you have to pull out pretty quick."

"It sounds severe; that's cooperation in its grimmest aspect, though it's
quite logical--everybody must do his part. I'm afraid I shouldn't be
justified if we adopted it here."

"Cooperation implies a division of tasks," Lisle pointed out. "In a
country like this, they're many and varied. So long as you draw the wild
things as you do, you'll discharge your debt."

"Do you know that that's the kind of work the community generally pays
one very little for?"

"Then it shows its wrong-headedness," Lisle answered as he glanced
meaningly round the room. "But haven't you got part of your fee already?
Of course, that's impertinent."

"I believe we would shrink from saying it, but it's quite correct,"
Millicent replied. "Still, since you have mentioned the drawings, I'd
like your opinion about this ouzel."

She took up the sketch and explained the difficulty, as she had done to
Mrs. Gladwyne.

"It's right; don't alter it," advised Lisle. "It's your business to show
people the real thing as it actually is, so they can learn, not to alter
it to suit their untrained views."

He laughed and rose somewhat reluctantly.

"After that, I'd better get along. I have to thank you for allowing me to
come in."

She let him go with a friendly smile, and then sat down to think about
him. He was rather direct, but the good-humor with which he stated his
opinions softened their positiveness. Besides, she had invited them; and
she felt that they were correct. He was such another as Nasmyth, simple
in some respects, but reliable; one who could never be guilty of anything
mean. She liked the type in general, and she admitted that she liked this
representative of it in particular.




CHAPTER XIII

A FUTILE PROTEST


It was late at night, but Gladwyne sat, cigar in hand, in his library,
while Batley lounged beside the hearth. A wood fire diffused a faint
aromatic fragrance into the great high-ceilinged room, and the light of a
single silver lamp flickered on the polished floor, which ran back like a
sheet of black ice into the shadow. Heavily-corniced bookcases rose above
it on either band, conveying an idea of space and distance by the way
they grew dimmer as they receded from the light.

The room had an air of stateliness in its severe simplicity, and its
owner, sitting just inside the ring of brightness, clad in conventional
black and white, looked in harmony with it. Something in his finely-lined
figure and cleanly-molded face stamped him as one at home in such a
place. A decanter stood near his elbow, but it was almost full. Gladwyne,
in many ways, was more of an ascetic than a sensualist, though this was
less the result of moral convictions than of a fastidious temperament.
The man had an instinctive aversion for anything that was ugly or
unpleasant. His companion, dressed with an equal precision, looked
different, more virile, coarser; he was fuller in figure and heavier in
face.

"No," declared Gladwyne with a show of firmness; "the line must be drawn.
I've already gone farther than I should have done."

"I'm sorry for you, Gladwyne--you don't seem to realize that a man can't
very well play two widely different parts at once," Batley rejoined,
smiling. "Your interfering Canadian friend would describe your attitude
as sitting upon the fence. It's an uncomfortable position, one that's not
often tenable for any length of time. Hadn't you better make up your mind
as to which side you'll get down on?"

Gladwyne looked uneasy. The choice all his instinct prompted him to make
was not open to him, except at a cost which he was hardly prepared to
face. He was known as a bold rider, he had the steady nerves that usually
result from a life spent in the open air, but, as Batley recognized, he
lacked stamina.

"You are going wide of the mark," he answered. "What I have asked you to
do is to let the lad alone. The thing's exciting comment. You"--he
hesitated--"have made enough out of him."

"I think," replied the other coolly, "I was very much to the point. If
you don't recognize this, I'll ask: Suppose I don't fall in with your
request, what then?"

Gladwyne examined his cigar. It was not in his nature to face an issue
boldly, and his companion seemed determined to force one.

"I've asked it as a favor," he finally said.

"No," corrected Batley; "I don't think you did so. You intimated your
wishes in a rather lordly style."

This was true, but Gladwyne winced at the man's cold smile. He had, in a
fit of indignation which was both honest and commendable, expressed
himself with some haughtiness; but he knew that he would be beaten if it
came to an open fight. This was unfortunate, because his intentions were
good.

"Besides," Batley continued, "I'm not in a position to grant expensive
favors. My acquaintance with young Crestwick is, of course, profitable.
What's more, I've very liberally offered you a share."

Gladwyne's face grew hot. He had acted, most reluctantly, as a decoy to
the vicious lad, but he had never benefited by it, except when now and
then some stake fell into his hands. The suggestion that he should share
in the plunder filled him with disgust, and he knew that Batley had made
it to humiliate him.

"You're taking risks," he continued. "There's legislation on the subject
of minors' debts; Crestwick began to deal with you before he was
twenty-one, and he's still in his trustees' hands. If he made trouble,
I'm inclined to think some of your transactions would look very much like
conspiracy."

"I know my man. You people would suffer a good deal, sooner than
advertise yourselves through the law courts."

"Crestwick isn't one of us," Gladwyne objected.

"Then, as he aspires to be considered one, he'll go even farther than you
would. None are so keen for the honor of the flock as those who don't
strictly belong to the fold. There's another point you overlook--a person
can't very well conspire alone, and inquiries might be made about my
confederates. That, however, is not a matter of much importance, because
I imagine Miss Crestwick would not allow any one to point to you.
Besides, her money's safe, and she's a prepossessing young lady."

Gladwyne straightened himself sharply in his chair. "Don't go too far!
There are things I won't stand!"

"Then we'll try to avoid them. All I require is that you still give the
lad the entry of this house and don't interfere with me. You see I'm
reasonable."

As Gladwyne had interfered, to acquiesce was to own defeat, which was
galling, and while he hesitated Batley watched him with an air of
indulgent amusement.

"It's a pity you were not quite straight with me at the beginning,
Gladwyne; it would have saved you trouble," he remarked at length. "I
took a sporting risk at pretty long odds--I have to do so now and then
and I pay up when I lose. But if I'd known the money was to go to Miss
Gladwyne and you would only get the land, I'd never have kept you
supplied; and in particular I wouldn't have made the last big loan
shortly before you and your cousin sailed for Canada."

"You knew it was a blind speculation--that I ran the same risk as George
did, and that he might outlive me."

"You're wrong on one point," Batley objected dryly. "I'm acquainted with
your temperament--it's not one that would lead you into avoidable
difficulties. Well, you came through and your cousin died, but you failed
to pay me off when you came into possession."

"I've explained that I couldn't foresee the trouble I have in meeting
expenses. I've paid you an extortionate interest."

"That's in arrears," retorted Batley. "You should have pinched and denied
yourself to the utmost until you had got rid of me. You couldn't bring
yourself to do so--well, it's rather a pity one can't have everything."

Approaching the table, he quietly took up the lamp. It was heavy,
standing on a massive silver pillar, but he raised it above his head so
that the light streamed far about the stately room. Then he laughed as he
set it down.

"It's something to be the owner of such a place and enjoy all that it
implies--which includes your acknowledged status and your neighbors'
respect. There would be a risk of losing the latter if it came out that,
driven by financial strain, you had been speculating on your cousin's
death."

Gladwyne made a little abrupt movement and Batley saw that his shot had
told.

"It would be enough to place you under a cloud," he went on. "People
might think that you had at least not been very reluctant to leave him to
starve. Well, I've had to wait for my money, with the interest by no
means regularly paid, and unless you can square off the account, I must
ask you to leave me a free hand to deal with Crestwick as I think fit. In
return, if it's needful, I'll see you through on reasonable terms until
you marry Miss Crestwick or somebody else with money."

On the whole, Gladwyne was conscious of relief. He had been badly
frightened for a moment or two. If Batley, who had good reasons for
distrusting him, had accepted his account of his cousin's death, it was
most unlikely that it had excited suspicion in the mind of anybody else.
Crestwick, however, must be left to his fate. It was, though he failed to
recognize this, an eventful decision that Gladwyne made.

"As you will," he answered, rising. "It's late; I'm going for my candle."

He strode out of the room, and Batley smiled as he followed him.

A day or two later Lisle stood on Gladwyne's lawn. Gladwyne entertained
freely, and though his neighbors did not approve of all of his friends,
the man had the gift of pleasing, and his mother unconsciously exerted a
charm on every one. She rarely said anything witty, but she never said
anything unkind and she would listen with a ready sympathy that sometimes
concealed a lack of comprehension.

Lisle had a strong respect for the calm, gracious lady, though she had
won it by no more than a smile or two and a few pleasant words, and he
went over to call upon her every now and then. He was interested in the
company he met at her house; it struck him as worth studying; and he had
a curious feeling that he was looking on at the preliminary stages of a
drama in which he might presently be called upon to play a leading part.
Besides, he had reasons for watching Gladwyne.

The stage was an attractive one to a man who had spent much of his time
in the wilderness--a wide sweep of sunlit sward with the tennis nets
stretched across part of it; on one side a dark fir wood; and for a
background a stretch of brown moor receding into the distance, dimmed by
an ethereal haze. A group of young men and women, picturesquely clad,
were busy about the nets; others in flannels and light draperies strolled
here and there across the grass, and a few more had gathered about the
tea-table under a spreading cedar, where Mrs. Gladwyne sat in a low
wicker-chair. Over all there throbbed the low, persistent murmur of a
stream.

Lisle was talking to Millicent near the table. He looked up as a burst of
laughter rose from beside the nets and saw Bella Crestwick walk away from
them. One or two of the others stood looking after her, and Mrs. Gladwyne
glanced from her chair inquiringly.

"They seem amused," she said.

"It was probably at one of Miss Crestwick's remarks; she's undoubtedly
original," returned Millicent. "Still, I think it was chiefly Mr.
Marple's laugh you heard."

His voice had been most in evidence--it usually carried far--but Lisle
was half amused at the disapproval in the girl's tone.

"I'm afraid I'm now and then a little boisterous, too," he ventured.

"It depends a good deal upon what you laugh at," Millicent informed him.

Mrs. Gladwyne looked up again, as if she had not heard, and the girl
smiled at her.

"What I said isn't worth repeating."

She moved away a pace or two and Lisle watched Bella, who glanced once or
twice in his direction as she crossed the lawn. Somehow he felt that he
was wanted and a little later he strolled after the girl. Millicent
noticed it with a slight frown, though she did not trouble to ask herself
why she was vexed. When Lisle reached Bella, she regarded him with
mischief in her eyes.

"As I once mentioned, you learn rapidly," she laughed. "You'll be
thankful for the instruction some day, and I promise not to teach you
anything very detrimental. But I'm a little surprised that Millicent
Gladwyne allowed you to come."

"I dare say she could spare me; I'm not a very entertaining companion,"
Lisle said humbly.

"It wasn't that," Bella explained. "I don't think she'd like you
spoiled--perhaps I should say contaminated; she has ideas on the subject
of education, too. She always calls me Miss Crestwick, which is
significant; I've no doubt she did so when Marple made himself
conspicuous by his amusement just now."

Lisle had noticed the correctness of her assumptions on other occasions,
but he said nothing, for he had noticed some bitterness in her voice. He
walked on with her and she led him into a path through a shrubbery
bordering the lawn, where she sat down on a wooden seat.

"Now," she said teasingly, "we have given the others something to think
about; but I've really no designs on you. It wouldn't be much use,
anyway. You're safe."

She looked up at him with elfish mischief in her aggressively pretty
face. Dressed in some clinging fabric of pale watery green that matched
the greenish light in her eyes and the reddish gleam in her hair, she was
very alluring; but it was borne in upon Lisle that to take up her
challenge too boldly would lower him in the girl's regard.

"I'm human," he laughed. "Perhaps I'd better mention it. But I think it's
more to the purpose to say that I'm altogether at your disposal."

"Well," she answered, "I wanted you. As you're almost a stranger, it's
curious, isn't it? But, you see, I haven't a real friend in the world."

"I wonder if that can be quite correct?"

"So far as the people here go, haven't you eyes?"

Lisle had seen the men gather about her, but it was those he thought
least of who followed her most closely, and the women stood aloof.

"There are Miss Marple and her mother, anyway; they're friends of yours,"
he pointed out.

"Just so. Flo and I are in the same class, making the same fight; but
that isn't always a reason for mutual appreciation or support. Mrs.
Marple, of course, is her daughter's partizan, though in some ways it
suits us to stand together. But I didn't bring you here to listen to my
grievances, but because you happen to be the one man I can trust."

Lisle looked embarrassed, but merely bent his head.

"It's that silly brother of mine again," she went on.

"What has he been doing now?"

"It's what he's thinking of doing that's the worst. He has been led to
believe it's easy to acquire riches on the stock exchange and that he has
the makings of a successful speculator in him. Cards and the turf I've
had to tolerate--after all, there were ways in which he got some return
for what he spent on them--but this last craze may be disastrous."

"Where did he get the idea that he's a financial genius? It wouldn't be
from you."

"No," she said seriously; "I'm his sister and most unlikely to encourage
him in such delusions. I don't think Batley had much trouble in putting
the notion into his mind." Her expression suddenly changed. "How I hate
that man!"

Lisle looked down at her with grave sympathy.

"It's quite easy to get into difficulties by speculating, unless one has
ample means. But I understood--"

Bella checked him with a gesture.

"Jim comes into money--we have a good allowance now--but it will be
nearly two years before he gets possession. I want him to start fair when
he may, perhaps, have learned a little sense, and not to find himself
burdened with debts and associates he can't get rid of. At present,
Batley's lending him money at exorbitant interest. I've pleaded, I've
stormed and told him plain truths; but it isn't the least use."

"I see. Why don't you take him away?"

"He won't come. It would be worse if I left him."

"Do you know why Gladwyne tolerates Batley?"

"I don't." Bella looked up sharply. "What has that to do with it?"

Lisle thought it had a bearing on the matter, as the lad would have seen
less of Batley without Gladwyne's connivance.

"Well," he countered, "what would you like me to do?"

"It's difficult to answer. He's obstinate and resents advice. You might,
however, talk to him when you have a chance; he's beginning to have a
respect for your opinions."

"That's gratifying," Lisle commented dryly. "He was inclined to patronize
me at first."

She spread out her hands.

"You're too big to mind it! Tell him anything you can about disastrous
mining ventures; but don't begin as if you meant to warn him--lead up to
the subject casually."

"I'm afraid I'm not very tactful," Lisle confessed. "He'll see what I'm
after."

"It's not very likely. Talk as if you considered him a man of experience.
It's fortunate that you can be of help in this case, because I think some
Canadian mining shares are to be the latest deal. From what Jim said it
looks as if Batley was to give him some information about them on
Wednesday, when Gladwyne and he are expected at Marple's. Can't you come?
I understand you have been asked."

"Yes," promised Lisle. "If I have an opportunity, I'll see what can be
done."

Bella rose and smiled at him.

"We'll go back; I'm comforted already. You're not profuse, but one feels
that you will keep a promise."

They walked across the lawn, Bella now conversing in an animated strain
about unimportant matters, though it did not occur to Lisle that this was
for the benefit of the lookers-on. On approaching the tea-table, she
adroitly secured possession of a chair which another lady who stood
higher in her hostess's esteem was making for, and sitting down chatted
cheerfully with Mrs. Gladwyne. Lisle was conscious of some amusement as
he watched her. She was clever and her courage appealed to him; but
presently he saw Millicent and strolled toward where she was standing.
She spoke to him, but he thought she was not quite so gracious as she had
been before he went away.




CHAPTER XIV

LISLE COMES TO THE RESCUE


A few days after his interview with Bella, Lisle overtook Millicent as
she was walking up a wooded dale. She looked around with a smile when he
joined her and they fell into friendly talk. There were points on which
they differed, but a sense of mutual appreciation was steadily growing
stronger between them. Presently Lisle happened to mention the Marples,
and Millicent glanced at him thoughtfully. She knew that he met Bella at
their house.

"You have seen a good deal of these people, one way or another," she
remarked.

"These people? Aren't you a little prejudiced against them?"

"I suppose I am," Millicent confessed.

"Then won't you give me the reason? Your point of view isn't always clear
to an outsider."

"I'll try to be lucid. I don't so much object to Marple as I do to what
he stands for; I mean to modern tendency."

"That's as involved as ever."

The girl showed a little good-humored impatience. She did not care to
supply the explanation--it was against her instincts--and she was
inclined to wonder why she should do so merely because the man had asked
for it.

"Well," she said, "the feudal system isn't dead, and I believe that what
is best in it need never disappear altogether. Of course, it had its
drawbacks, but I think it was better than the commercialism that is
replacing it. It recognized obligations on both sides, and there is a
danger of forgetting them; the new people often fail to realize them at
all. Marple--I'm using him as an example--bought the land for what he
could get out of it."

"About three per cent., he told me. It isn't a great inducement."

Millicent made a half-disdainful gesture.

"He gets a great deal more--sport, a status, friends and standing, and a
means of suitably entertaining them. That, I suppose, is one reason why
the return in money from purely agricultural land is so small."

"Then is it wrong for a business man to buy these things, if he can pay
for them?"

"Oh, no! But he must take up the duties attached to his purchase. When
you buy land, human lives go with it. They're still largely in the
landlord's hands. Of course, we have legislation which has curtailed the
land-owner's former powers, but it's a soulless, mechanical thing that
can never really take the place of direct personal interest."

She stopped and glanced back down the winding dale. Here and there smooth
pastures climbed the slopes that shut it in, but over part of them ranged
mighty oaks, still almost green. Beyond these, beeches tinted with brown
and crimson glowed against the dusky foliage of spruces and silver-firs.

"One needs wisdom, love of the soil and all that lives on it, and perhaps
patience most of all," she resumed. "These woods are an example. They are
not natural like your forests--every tree has been carefully planted and
as it grew the young sheltering wood about it carefully thinned out. Then
as the trunks gained in size it was necessary to choose with care and
cut. With the oaks it's a work of generations, planting for one's
great-grandchildren, and the point that is suggested most clearly is the
continuity of interest that should exist between the men who use the
spade and ax and the men who own and plan. It is not a little thing that
the third and fourth generations should complete the task, when a mutual
toleration and dependence is handed down."

Lisle was conscious of a curious stirring of his feelings as he listened
to her. She was tall and finely proportioned, endowed with a calm and
gracious dignity which was nevertheless, he thought, in keeping with a
sanguine and virile nature. This girl was one of the fairest and most
precious products of the soil she loved.

"It's a pity in many ways that the Gladwyne property didn't come to you,"
he observed.

Her expression changed and he spread out one hand deprecatingly.

"That's another blunder of mine. I haven't acquired your people's
unfailing caution yet, but I only meant--"

"Perhaps it would be better if you didn't tell me what you did mean."

Lisle nodded. He felt that he had deserved the rebuke, as the truth of
his assertion could not be admitted without disparaging Gladwyne. She
would allow nothing to the latter's discredit to be said by a stranger,
but it was unpleasant to think that she regarded him as one. He changed
the subject.

"You mentioned that landlord and laborer had a joint interest in the
soil, and that's undoubtedly right," he said. "The point where trouble
arises is, of course, over the division of the yield. The former's share
is obvious, but nowadays plowman and forester want more than their
fathers seem to have been satisfied with. I don't think you can blame
them--in Canada they get more."

"I'll give you an instance to show why one can't treat them very
liberally. When my brother got possession he spent a great deal of
money--it was left him by his mother and didn't come out of the land--in
draining, improvements, and rebuilding homesteads and cottages, besides
freely giving his time and care. For a number of years he got no return
at all, and part of the expenditure will always be unproductive. It isn't
a solitary case."

They went on together through the shadowy, crimson-tinted dale until
Millicent stopped at the gate of a field-road.

"I am going to one of the cottages yonder," she explained. "I expect
Nasmyth on Wednesday evening. Are you coming with him?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to Marple's. You see, I promised."

"Promised Marple?"

He was learning to understand her, for though she showed no marked sign
of displeasure he knew that she was not gratified.

"No," he answered; "Miss Crestwick."

She did not speak, but there was something in her manner that hinted at
disdainful amusement.

"I think you're hardly fair to her," he said.

"It's possible," Millicent replied carelessly. "Does it matter?"

"Well," he broke out with some warmth, "the girl hasn't such an easy time
among you; and one can only respect her for the way she stands by her
brother."

"Have you anything to say in his favor?"

"It would be pretty difficult," admitted Lisle. "But you can't blame his
sister for that."

"I don't think I've shown any desire to do so," she retorted.

Lisle knit his brows.

"You people are rather curious in your ideas. Now, here's a lonely girl
who's pluckily trying to look after that senseless lad, and not a one of
you can spare her a word of sympathy, because she doesn't run on the same
stereotyped lines as you do. Can you help only the people who will
conform?"

Millicent let this pass, and after an indifferent word or two she turned
away. Before she reached home, however, she met Nasmyth.

"Why don't you keep Mr. Lisle out of those Marples' hands?" she asked
him.

"In the first place, I'm not sure that I could do so; in the second, I
don't see why I should try," Nasmyth replied. "On the whole, considering
that he's a Western miner, I don't think he's running a serious risk.
Perhaps I might hint that Bella Crestwick's hardly likely to consider him
as big enough game."

"Don't be coarse!" Millicent paused. "But he spoke hotly in her defense."

"After all," responded Nasmyth, "I shouldn't wonder if she deserves it;
but it has no significance. You see, he's a rather chivalrous person."

Millicent flashed a quick glance at him, but his face was expressionless.

"What did he say?" he asked.

"I don't remember exactly: he hinted that we were narrow-minded and
uncharitable."

Nasmyth laughed.

"I almost think there's some truth in it. I've seen you a little severe
on those outside the fold."

"A man's charity is apt to be influenced by a pretty face," Millicent
retorted.

"I'll admit it," replied Nasmyth dryly. "But I can't undertake to
determine how far that fact has any bearing on this particular instance."

Millicent talked about something else, but she was annoyed with herself
when the question Nasmyth had raised once more obtruded itself on her
attention during the evening.

On Wednesday Lisle walked over to Marple's house, because he had promised
to go, though he would much rather have spent an hour or two with Nasmyth
and Millicent in the latter's drawing-room. He had no opportunity for any
private speech with Bella, but she flung him a grateful glance as he came
in. He waited patiently and followed her brother here and there, but he
could not secure a word with him alone.

Some time had passed when, escaping from a group engaged in what struck
him as particularly stupid badinage, he sauntered toward the
billiard-room, struggling with a feeling of irritation. He was generally
good-humored and tolerant rather than hypercritical, but the somewhat
senseless hilarity of Marple's guests was beginning to jar on him. A
burst of laughter which he thought had been provoked by one of Bella's
sallies followed him down the corridor, but when he quietly opened the
door the billiard-room was empty except for a group of three in one
corner. He stopped just inside the threshold, glancing at them, and it
was evident that they had not heard his approach.

Wreaths of cigar smoke drifted about the room; the light of the shaded
lamps fell upon the men seated on a lounge, and their expressions and
attitudes were significant. Gladwyne leaned back languidly graceful;
Batley, a burlier figure, was talking, his eyes fixed on Crestwick; and
the lad sat upright, looking eager. Batley appeared to be discussing the
principles of operating on the stock exchange.

"It's obvious," he said, "that there's very little to be made by waiting
until any particular stock becomes a popular favorite--the premium
equalizes the profit and sometimes does away with it. The essential thing
is to take hold at the beginning, when the shares are more or less in
disfavor and can be picked up cheap."

Lisle stood still--he was in the shadow--watching the lad, who now showed
signs of uncertainty.

"I dropped a good deal of money the last time I tried it," he protested.
"The trouble is that if you come in when the company's starting, you
can't form an accurate idea of how it ought to go."

"Exactly," replied Batley. "You can rarely be quite sure. What you need
is sound judgment, the sense to recognize a good thing when you see it,
pluck, and the sporting instinct--you must be ready to back your opinion
and take a risk. It's only the necessity for that kind of thing which
makes it a fine game."

He broke off, looking up, and as Lisle strolled forward with a glance at
Crestwick, he saw Batley's genial expression change. It was evident that
the idea of being credited with the qualities mentioned appealed to the
lad, and Lisle realized that Batley was wishing him far away. He had,
however, no intention of withdrawing, and taking out a cigar he chose a
cue and awkwardly proceeded to practise a shot.

"This," he said nonchalantly, "is an amusement I never had time to learn,
and I really came along for a quiet smoke. Don't let me disturb you."

He saw Crestwick's look and understood what was in the lad's mind. It was
incomprehensible to the latter that a man should boldly confess his
ignorance of a game of high repute. Batley, however, seeing that the
intruder intended to remain, returned to the attack, and though he spoke
in a lower voice Lisle caught part of his remarks and decided that he was
cleverly playing upon Crestwick's raw belief in himself. This roused the
Canadian to indignation, though it was directed against Gladwyne rather
than his companion. Batley, he thought, was to some extent an adventurer,
one engaged in a hazardous business at which he could not always win, and
he had some desirable qualities--good-humor, liberality, coolness and
daring. The well-bred gentleman who served as his decoy, however,
possessed none of these redeeming characteristics. His part was merely
despicable; there was only meanness beneath his polished exterior.

"It certainly looks promising," Lisle heard Crestwick say; "you have
pretty well convinced me that it can't go wrong."

"I can't see any serious risk," declared Batley. "That, in the case of
mining stock, is as far as I'd care to go. On the other hand, there's
every prospect of a surprising change in the value of the shares as soon
as the results of the first reduction of ore come out. I can only add
that I'm a holder and I got you the offer of the shares as a favor from a
friend who's behind the scenes. Don't take them unless you feel
inclined."

This was a slip, as Lisle recognized. It is not in human nature to
dispose of a commodity that will shortly increase in value. Crestwick,
however, obviously failed to notice this; Lisle thought the idea of
getting on to the inside track appealed to his vanity.

"It's a curious name they've given the mine," commented the lad,
repeating it. "What does it mean?"

Lisle started, for he recognized the name, and it offered him a lead.
Strolling toward the group, he leaned against the table.

"I can tell you that," he said. "It's an Indian word for a river gorge. I
went up it not long ago."

"Then," exclaimed Crestwick, "I suppose you know the mine?"

Lisle glanced at the others. Their eyes were fixed upon him, Batley's
steadily, Gladwyne's with a hint of uneasiness. It was, he felt, a
remarkable piece of good fortune that had given him control of the
situation.

"Yes," he answered carelessly, "I know the mine."

"I'm thinking of taking shares in it," Crestwick informed him.

"Well," said Lisle, "that wouldn't be wise."

Gladwyne leaned farther back in his seat, as if to disassociate himself
from the discussion, which was what the Canadian had expected from him;
but Batley, who was of more resolute fiber, showed fight. His appearance
became aggressive, his face hardened, and there was a snap in his eyes.

"You have made a serious allegation in a rather startling way, Mr. Lisle.
As I've an interest in the company in question, I must ask you to
explain."

"Then I'd advise you to get rid of your interest as soon as possible;
that is, so long as you don't sell out to Crestwick, who's a friend of
mine."

Batley's face began to redden, and Lisle, looking around at the sound of
a footstep, saw Marple standing a pace or two away. He was a fussy,
bustling man, and he raised his hand in expostulation.

"Was that last called for, or quite the thing, Lisle?" he asked.

Batley turned to Gladwyne, as if for support, and the latter assumed his
finest air.

"I think there can be only one opinion on that point," he declared.

Lisle's eyes gleamed with an amusement that was stronger than his
indignation. That Gladwyne should expect this gravely delivered decision
to have any marked effect tickled him.

"Well," he replied, "I'm ready to stand by what I said, and I'll add that
if I had any shares I'd give them away to anybody who would register as
their owner before the next call is made."

"I understood there wouldn't be a call for a long while," Crestwick broke
in.

"Then whoever told you so must have been misinformed," Lisle rejoined.

"Are you casting any doubt upon my honor?" Batley demanded in a bellicose
voice.

"I don't think so; anyway, so long as you don't rule out my suggestion.
Still, I'm willing to leave Gladwyne to decide the point. He seems to
understand these delicate matters."

Marple, looking distressed and irresolute, broke in before Gladwyne had a
chance to reply.

"Do you know much about mining, Lisle?"

Lisle laughed.

"I've had opportunities for learning something, as prospector, locator of
alluvial claims and holder of an interest in one or two comparatively
prosperous companies."

He leaned forward and touched Crestwick's shoulder.

"Come along, Jim, and I'll give you one or two particulars that should
decide you."

Somewhat to his astonishment, the lad rose and rather sheepishly followed
him. There was an awkward silence for a few moments after they left the
room; then Marple turned to his guests.

"I can't undertake to say whether Lisle was justified or not," he began.
"I'm sorry, however, that anything of this nature should have happened in
my house."

"So am I," said Gladwyne with gracious condescension. "There is, of
course, one obvious remedy."

Marple raised his hands in expostulation. He liked Lisle, and Gladwyne
was a distinguished guest. Batley seemed to find his confusion amusing.

"I think the only thing we can do is to let the matter drop," he
suggested. "These fellows from the wilds are primitive--one can't expect
too much. The correct feeling or delicacy of expression we'd look for
among ourselves is hardly in their line."

Marple was mollified, and he fell in with Batley's suggestion that they
should try a game.

In the meanwhile, Crestwick looked around at his companion as they went
down the corridor.

"I believe I owe you some thanks," he admitted. "I like the way you
headed off Batley--I think he meant to turn savage at first--and I
wouldn't have been willing to draw in Gladwyne, as you did. He has a way
of crushing you with a look."

"It's merely a sign that you deserve it," Lisle laughed. "You take too
many things for granted in this country. Test another man's assumption of
superiority before you agree with it, and you'll sometimes be astonished
to find out what it's really founded on. And now we'd better join those
people who're singing."




CHAPTER XV

BELLA'S DEFEAT


The afternoon was calm and hazy, and Lisle lounged with great content in
a basket-chair on Millicent's lawn. His hostess sat near by, looking
listless, a somewhat unusual thing for her, and Miss Hume, her elderly
companion, genial in spite of her precise formality, was industriously
embroidering something not far away. There was not a breath of wind
astir; a soft gray sky streaked with long bars of stronger color hung
motionless over the wide prospect. Wood and moorland ridge and distant
hill had faded to dimness of contour and quiet neutral tones. Indeed, the
whole scene seemed steeped in a profound tranquillity, intensified only
by the murmur of the river.

Lisle enjoyed it all, though he was conscious that Millicent's presence
added to its charm. He had grown to feel restful and curiously at ease in
her company. She was, he thought, so essentially natural; one felt at
home with her.

"I haven't often seen you with the unoccupied appearance you have just
now," he remarked at length.

"I have sent the book off, and after being at work on it so long, I feel
disinclined to do anything else," she said. "I've just heard from the
publishers; they don't seem enthusiastic. After all, one couldn't expect
that--the style of the thing is rather out of the usual course."

Lisle looked angry and she was pleased with his indignation on her
behalf.

"They show precious little sense!" he declared; "but you're right. It's
one of your English customs to go on from precedent to precedent until
you get an unmodifiable standard, when you slavishly conform to it. Now
your book's neither a classification nor a catalogue--it's something far
bigger. Never mind what the experts and scientists say; wait until the
people who love the wild things and want their story made real get it
into their hands!"

His confidence was gratifying, but she changed the subject.

"You Canadians haven't much respect for precedent?"

"No; we try to meet the varying need by constantly changing means.
They're often crude, but they're successful, as a rule."

"It's a system that must have a wide effect," she responded, to lead him
on. She liked to hear him talk.

"It has. You can see it in the difference between your country and mine.
This land's smooth and well trimmed; everything in it has grown up little
by little; its mellow ripeness is its charm. Ours is grand or rugged or
desolate, but it's never merely pretty. The same applies to our people;
they're bubbling over with raw, optimistic vigor, their corners are not
rubbed off. Some of them would jar on overcivilized people, but not, I
think, on any one with understanding." He spread out his hands. "You have
an example; I'm spouting at large again."

"Go on," she begged; "I'm interested. But have you ever thought that
instead of being younger than we are you're really older. I mean that you
have gone back a long way; begun again at an earlier stage, instead of
going ahead?"

"Now you get at the bottom of things!" he exclaimed. "That's always been
an idea of mine. The people of the newer countries, perhaps more
particularly those to whom I belong, are brought back to the grapple with
elemental conditions. We're on the bed-rock of nature."

"Are you too modest to go any further?"

He showed faint signs of confusion and she laughed. "No doubt, the
situation makes for pristine vigor, and we are drifting into
artificiality," she suggested. "Perhaps you, the toilers, the subduers of
the wilderness, are to serve as an anchor for the supercivilized
generations to hold on by." She paused and quoted softly: "'Pioneers; O
pioneers!'"

"What can I say to that?" he asked with half-amused embarrassment. "We're
pretty egotistical, but one can't go back on Whitman."

"No," she laughed mischievously; "I think you're loyal; and there are
situations from which it's difficult to extricate oneself. Didn't you
find it so, for example, when you declined to come here with Nasmyth,
because Miss Crestwick had pressed you to go to Marple's?"

He could think of no neat reply to this and the obvious fact pleased her,
for she guessed that he would rather have spent the evening with her.
This was true, for now, sitting in the quiet garden in her company, he
looked back on the entertainment with something like disgust. Marple's
male friends were, for the most part, characterized by a certain
grossness and sensuality; in their amusements at games of chance one or
two had displayed an open avarice. These things jarred on the man who had
toiled among the rocks and woods, where he had practised a stringent
self-denial.

"I heard that you figured in a striking little scene," Millicent went on.

"I couldn't help it." Lisle appeared annoyed. "That man Batley irritated
me; though, after all, I don't blame him the most."

This was a slip.

"Whom do you blame?" she asked sharply.

"Oh," he explained, "I wasn't the only person, present, and I hadn't
arrived at the beginning. Somebody should have stopped the fellow; the
shares he tried to work off on Crestwick were no good."

"Then Batley wanted to sell that silly lad some worthless shares--and
there were other people looking on?"

He would not tell her that Gladwyne had watched the proceedings, to some
extent acquiescing.

"I thought from what you said that you knew all about it," he answered.

"No," she replied, suspecting the truth, but seeing that it would be
difficult to extract anything definite from him. "I only heard that you
had an encounter of some kind with Batley. But why did you hint that he
was not the worst?"

"He was merely acting in accordance with his instincts; one wouldn't
expect anything else."

"The implication is that he was tacitly abetted by people of a different
kind who ought to have known better."

He was not to be drawn on this point, and she respected him for it.

"Was it only an animus against Batley that prompted you?" she asked.

"No," he admitted candidly; "I wanted to get young Crestwick out of his
clutches. I'm not sure he's worth troubling about, but I'm sorry for his
sister. As I've said before, there's something fine in the way she sticks
to him."

The chivalrous feeling did him credit, Millicent admitted, but she was
dissatisfied with it and was curious to learn if it were the only one he
cherished toward the girl.

"That's undoubtedly in her favor," she commented indifferently.

He did not respond and they talked about other matters; but Lisle was now
sensible of a slight constraint in Millicent's manner and on the whole
she was glad when he took his leave. Quick-witted, as she was, she
guessed that he disapproved of the part Clarence had played in the affair
at Marple's, and this, chiming with her own suspicions, troubled her. She
had a tenderness for Clarence, and she wondered how far her influence
might restrain and protect him if, as his mother had suggested, she
eventually married him. Another point caused her some uneasiness--Bella
Crestwick had boldly entered the field against her and was making use of
the Canadian to rouse Clarence by showing him that he had a rival. The
thought of it stirred her to indignation; she would not have Lisle
treated in that fashion. After sitting still for half an hour, she rose
with a gesture of impatience and went into the house.

On the same evening Bella Crestwick felt impelled to lecture her brother
after dinner. That was not a favorable time, for the young man's good
opinion of himself was generally strengthened by a glass or two of wine.

"I thought that matter of the shares would have taught you sense, but you
must listen to Batley again this afternoon," she scolded. "You were with
him for half an hour. I've no patience with you, Jim."

"He's not so easy to shake off, particularly as I'm in his debt,"
returned the lad. "Besides, he's an interesting fellow, the kind you
learn a good deal from. It's an education to mix with such men."

"The trouble is that it's expensive. Come away with me before he ruins
you. There's Mrs. Barnard's invitation to their place in Scotland; it
would be a good excuse."

Her brother's rather lofty manner changed.

"You're a dear, Bella. You know you don't want to go."

Having a strong reason for wishing to stay, she colored at this. Among
his other unprepossessing characteristics, Jim had a trick of saying
things he should suppress.

"Never mind me," she answered. "Will you come?"

He had an incomplete recognition of the magnitude of the sacrifice she
was ready to make, though it was not this that decided him not to fall in
with it.

"No," he said with raw self-confidence. "I'm not one to run away; but
I'll promise to keep my eye on the fellow after this and be cautious. All
his schemes aren't in the same class as those mining shares, you know."

Bella lost her temper and told him some plain truths about himself, and
this did not improve matters, for in the end she retired, defeated,
leaving Jim rather sore but on the whole satisfied with the firmness he
had displayed. The girl felt dejected and almost desperate. She could not
continually apply to Lisle for assistance, and she shrank from the only
other course that seemed open to her; but her affection for the misguided
lad impelled her to make another attempt to rescue him, and a few days
later she found her opportunity. It was a bold measure she had decided
on, one that might cost her a good deal, but she was a young woman of
courage and determination.

Mrs. Marple and her daughter drove over with her to call on Mrs.
Gladwyne. They found several other people present, and as usual there was
no ceremony; the day was fine, and the hostess sat outside, while the
guests strolled about the terrace and gardens very much as they liked.
Bella, hearing that Clarence was engaged in the library and would not be
down for a little while, slipped away in search of him. Her heart beat
painfully fast as she went up the wide staircase, but she was outwardly
very collected--a slender, attractive figure--when she entered the room.
In her dress as well as in her manner Bella was usually distinguished by
something unconventional and picturesque. She was not pleased to see
Batley standing beside the table at which Gladwyne sat, but the man
gathered up some papers when he noticed her.

"I've explained the thing, Gladwyne, and I expect Miss Crestwick will
excuse me," he said.

His manner was good-humored as he bowed to her and though she almost
hated the man she was conscious of a faint respect for him. He might have
thwarted her by remaining, for she had often made him a butt for her
bitter wit. Now, however, when she had shown that his presence was not
required, he was gallantly withdrawing. When he went out she sat down and
Gladwyne rose and stood with one hand on the mantel, waiting for her to
begin. Instead, she glanced round the room, which always impressed her.
It was lofty and spacious, the few articles of massive furniture gave it
a severe dignity, and there was no doubt that Gladwyne, with his handsome
person and highbred air, appeared at home in it.

While she looked around, he was thinking about her. She was provocatively
pretty; a fearless, passionate creature, addicted to occasional reckless
outbreaks, but nevertheless endowed with a vein of cold and calculating
sense. What was as much to the point, she was wealthy, and people were
becoming more tolerant toward her; but in the meanwhile he wondered what
she wanted.

"I came about Jim," she said at length.

"Well?"

The man's expression, which suddenly changed, was not encouraging and she
hesitated.

"You know what he's doing. I've come to ask a favor."

He avoided the issue.

"It's nothing alarming; I don't suppose he's very different from most
lads of his age. Perhaps it would be better to let him have his head."

"No," she replied decidedly. "The pace is too hot; I can't hold him.
He'll come to grief badly if he's not pulled up. You know that as well as
I do!"

Her anger became her, bringing a fine glow to her cheeks and a hint of
half-imperious dignity into her pose. It had an effect on him, but he
felt somewhat ashamed of himself.

"Well," he asked in a quiet voice, "what's the favor?"

"Shouldn't a sportsman and a man of your kind grant it unconditionally
beforehand? Must you be sure you won't get hurt when you make a venture?"

"You'd risk it," he answered, bowing. "You're admirable, Bella. Still,
you see, I'm either more cautious or less courageous."

She was badly disappointed. She knew that a good deal depended on his
answer to her request, and shrank from making it, because it would prove
the strength or weakness of her hold on him. The man attracted her, and
she had somewhat openly attempted to capture him. She longed for the
position he could give her; she would have married him for that and his
house, but she was willing to risk her success for her brother's welfare.

"I want you to tell Batley that he must keep his hands off of Jim," she
said.

He started at this.

"He can't do the lad much harm. Aren't you attaching a little too much
importance to the matter?"

"No; not in the least," she answered vehemently. "I've told you so
already. But can't you keep to the point? My brother's being ruined in
several ways besides the debts he's heaping up; and I've humbled myself
to beg your help."

"Was it so very hard?" he asked, and his voice grew soft and caressing.

She was shaken to the verge of yielding. The man was handsome,
cultivated, distinguished, she thought. Whether she actually loved him,
she did not know, but he could gratify her ambitions and she was strongly
drawn to him. He had given her a lead, an opening for a few telling words
that might go far toward the accomplishment of her wishes; but, tempted
as she was, she would not utter them. She was loyal to the headstrong
lad; Jim stood first with her.

"That is beside the point," she said with a becoming air of pride. "I
expected you would be willing to do whatever you could. To be refused
what I plead for is new to me."

He considered for a moment or two, watching her with keen appreciation.
Bella in her present mood, with her affectations cast aside, appealed to
him. She was not altogether the woman he would have chosen, but since he
must secure a rich wife, there were obvious benefits to be derived from a
match with her. He devoutly wished he could accede to her request.

"Well?" she broke out impatiently.

"I'm sorry," he said; "I'm unable to do as you desire. Of course, I wish
I could, if only to please you, though I really don't think the thing's
necessary."

"You needn't tell me that again! It's a waste of time; I'm not going to
discuss it. Face the difficulty, whatever it is. Do you mean that you
can't warn off Batley?"

Gladwyne saw that she would insist on a definite answer and in
desperation he told the truth.

"It's out of the question."

It was a shock to her. In a sudden flash of illumination she saw him as
he was, weak and irresolute, helpless in the grip of a stronger man. It
was significant that she felt no compassion for him, but only disgust and
contempt. She was no coward, and even Jim, who could so easily be
deluded, was ready enough to fight on due occasion.

"You are afraid of the fellow!" she exclaimed.

Gladwyne colored and moved abruptly. He had imagined that she was his for
the asking, but there was no mistaking her cutting scorn.

"Bella," he pleaded, "don't be bitter. You can't understand the
difficulties I'm confronted with."

"I can understand too much!" Her voice trembled, but she rose, rather
white in face, with an air of decision. "When I came I expected--but
after all that doesn't matter--I never expected this!"

He made no answer; the man had some little pride and there was nothing to
be said. He had fallen very low even in this girl's estimation and the
fact was almost intolerably galling, but he could make no effective
defense. She went from him slowly, but with a suggestive deliberation,
without looking back, and there was a hint of finality in the way she
closed the door.

Once outside, she strove to brace herself, for the interview had tried
her hard. She had had to choose between Gladwyne and her brother, but for
that she was now almost thankful. The man she had admired had changed and
become contemptible. It was as if he had suddenly collapsed and shriveled
before her startled eyes. But that was not all the trouble--she was as
far from saving Jim as ever.

It cost her an effort to rejoin the others, but she was equal to it and
during the rest of her stay her conversation was a shade more audacious
than usual.




CHAPTER XVI

GLADWYNE SURRENDERS


Evening was drawing on when Bella strolled aimlessly down the ascending
road that led to Marple's residence. On one hand of the road there was a
deep rift, filled with shadow, in which a beck murmured among the stones,
and the oaks that climbed to the ridge above flung their great branches
against the saffron glow in the western sky. Fallen leaves, glowing brown
and red, had gathered thick beneath one hedgerow and more came slowly
sailing down; but Bella brushed through them unheeding, oblivious to her
surroundings. She had suffered during the few days that had followed her
interview with Gladwyne and even the sharp encounter with Miss Marple in
which she had recently indulged had not cheered her, though it had left
her friend smarting.

Presently she looked around with interest as a figure appeared farther up
the road, and recognizing the fine poise and vigorous stride, she stopped
and waited. Lisle was a bracing person to talk to, and she wanted to see
him. He soon came up with her and she greeted him cordially. Unlike
Gladwyne, he was a real man, resolute and resourceful, with a generous
vein in him, and she did not resent the fact that he looked rather hard
at her.

"You don't seem as cheerful as usual," he observed.

"I'm not," she confessed. "In fact, I think I was very nearly crying."

"What's the trouble?" He showed both interest and sympathy.

"Oh, you needn't ask. It's Jim again. I've tried every means and I can't
do anything with him."

"He is pretty uncontrollable. Seems to have gone back to Batley again. I
wonder if it would be any good if I looked for an opportunity for making
a row with the fellow?"

"No," she answered, with appreciation, for this was very different from
Gladwyne's attitude. "It would only separate Jim from you, and I don't
want that to happen. Please keep hold of him, though I know that can't be
pleasant for you."

"He is trying now and then, but I'll do what I can. Gladwyne, however,
has more influence than I have. Did you think of asking him?"

She colored, and in her brief confusion he read his answer with strong
indignation--she had pleaded with Gladwyne and he had refused to help.

"Do you know," she said, looking up at him, "you're the only real friend
I have. There's nobody else I can trust."

"I think you're wrong in that," he declared; and acting on impulse he
laid a hand protectingly on her shoulder, for she looked very dejected
and forlorn. "Anyway, you mustn't worry. I'll do something--in fact,
something will have to be done."

"What will you do?"

He knitted his brows. There was a course, which promised to be effective,
open to him, but he was most averse to adopting it. He could give
Gladwyne a plain hint that he had better restrain his confederate, but he
could enforce compliance only by stating what he knew about the former's
desertion of his cousin. He was not ready to do that yet; it would
precipitate the climax, and once his knowledge of the matter was revealed
his power to use it in case of a stronger need might be diminished. The
temptation to leave Jim Crestwick to his fate was strong, but his pity
for the anxious girl was stronger.

"I'll have a talk with Gladwyne," he promised.

"That wouldn't be of the least use!"

"I think he'll do what I suggest," Lisle answered with a trace of
grimness. "Make your mind easy; I'll have Batley stopped."

She looked at him in surprise, filled with relief and gratitude. He was
one who would not promise more than he could perform; but how he could
force his will on Gladwyne she did not know.

"You're wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Whatever one asks you're able to do."

"And you're very staunch."

"Oh!" she said, standing very close to him, with his hand still on her
shoulder, "we won't exchange compliments--they're too empty, and you
deserve something better." She glanced round swiftly. "Shut your eyes,
tight!"

He obeyed her, and for a moment light fingers rested on his breast; then
there was a faint warm touch upon his cheek. When he looked up she was
standing a yard away, smiling mockingly.

"Don't trust your imagination too much--it might have deceived you," she
warned. "But you have sense; you wouldn't attach an undue value to
anything."

"Confidence and gratitude are precious," he answered. "I'd better point
out that I haven't earned either of them yet."

Bella was satisfied with this, but she grew graver, wondering how far she
might have delivered Gladwyne into his hands. She was angry with the man,
but she would not have him suffer.

"I don't know what power you have--but you won't make too much use of
it--I don't wish that," she begged. "After all, though, Jim must be got
out of that fellow's clutches."

"Yes," assented Lisle, "there's no doubt of it."

She left him presently and he went on down the dale, not exactly
repenting of his promise, but regretting the necessity which had led to
his making it. The task with which he had saddled himself was an
exceedingly unpleasant one and might afterward make it more difficult for
him to accomplish the purpose that had brought him to England, but he
meant to carry it out.

As it happened, he met Mrs. Gladwyne at Millicent's, where he called, and
he spent an uncomfortable half-hour in her company. She had shown in
various ways that she liked him, and calling him to her side soon after
he came in, she talked to him in an unusually genial manner. He felt like
a traitor in this gracious lady's presence and it was a relief when she
took her departure.

"You look troubled," Millicent observed.

"That's how I feel," he confessed. "After all, it isn't a very uncommon
sensation. It's sometimes difficult to see ahead."

"Often," she answered, smiling. "What do you do then--stop a little and
consider?"

"Not as a rule. The longer you consider the difficulties, the worse they
look. It's generally better to go right on."

Millicent agreed with this; and soon afterward Lisle took his departure
and walked back to Nasmyth's in an unusually serious mood. They were
sitting smoking when his host broached the subject that was occupying
him.

"It's some time since you said anything about the project that brought
you over," he remarked.

"That's so," assented Lisle. "I'm fixed much as I was when we last spoke
of it. When I was in Canada, I thought I'd only to find Gladwyne and
scare a confession out of him. Now I find that what I've undertaken isn't
by any means so simple."

"I warned you that it wouldn't be."

"You were right. There's his mother to consider--it's a privilege to know
her--she's devoted to the fellow. Then there's Millicent; in a way, she's
almost as devoted, anyhow she's a staunch friend of his. I don't know how
either of them would stand the revelation."

"It would kill Mrs. Gladwyne," Nasmyth declared.

There was silence for a while, and then Lisle spoke again.

"I'm badly worried; any move of mine would lead to endless trouble--and
yet there's the black blot on the memory of the man to whom I owe so
much; I can't bring myself to let it remain. Besides all this, there's
another complication."

"Young Crestwick's somehow connected with it," Nasmyth guessed.

Lisle did not deny it.

"That crack-brained lad seems to be the pivot on which the whole thing
turns. Curious, isn't it? I wish the responsibility hadn't been laid on
my shoulders. Just now I can't tell what I ought to do--it's harassing."

"Don't force things; wait for developments," Nasmyth advised him. "I'm
not trying to extract information; the only reason I mentioned the
subject is that a man in the home counties has asked me to come up for a
few weeks and bring you along. He's a good sort, there's fair sport, and
it's a nice place; but I don't mind in the least whether I go or not."

"Then I'd rather stay. I've a feeling that I may be wanted here."

"I'm quite satisfied, for a reason I'll explain. You have ridden that
young bay horse of mine. He comes of good stock and he's showing signs of
an excellent pace over the hurdles. Now I couldn't expect to enter him
for any first-rate event--he's hardly fast enough and it's too expensive
in various ways--but there's a little semi-private meeting to be held
before long at a place about thirty miles off. I might have a chance
there if we put him into training immediately. You know something about
horses?"

"Not much," responded Lisle. "I've made one long journey in the saddle in
Alberta; but you've seen our British Columbian trails. Our cayuses have
generally to climb, and as a rule I've used horses only for packing.
Still, I'm fond of them; I'd be interested in the thing."

Nasmyth nodded.

"One difficulty is that there's nothing in the neighborhood that I could
try him for pace against except that horse of Gladwyne's."

"He'd no doubt let you have the beast."

"It's possible," Nasmyth agreed dryly. "But I've objections to being
indebted to him; and I don't want Batley, Marple and Crestwick to take a
hand in and put their money on me. However, we'll think it over."

They retired to sleep soon afterward; and the next day Lisle walked
across to call on Gladwyne, in a quietly determined mood. Clarence was in
his library, and he looked up with some curiosity when Lisle was shown
in. Lisle came to the point at once.

"You've no doubt noticed that Jim Crestwick has been going pretty hard of
late," he said. "Bets, speculation, and that sort of thing. He can't keep
it up on a minor's allowance. It will end in a bad smash if he isn't
checked."

Gladwyne's manner became supercilious.

"I fail to see how it concerns you, or, for that matter, either of us."

"We won't go into the question--it's beside the point. What I want you to
do is to pull him up."

He spoke as if he meant to be obeyed, and Gladwyne looked at him in
incredulous astonishment.

"Do you suppose I'm able to restrain the lad?"

"You ought to be," Lisle answered coolly. "It's your friend Batley who's
leading him on to ruin; I'm making no comments on your conduct in
standing by and watching, as if you approved of it."

The man grew hot with anger.

"Thank you for your consideration." His tone changed to a sneer. "I
suppose you couldn't be expected to realize that the attitude you're
adopting is inexcusable?"

"If you don't like it, I'll try another," Lisle returned curtly. "You'll
give Batley his orders to leave the lad alone right now."

Gladwyne rose with his utmost dignity, a fine gentleman whose feelings
had been outraged by the coarse attack of a barbarian; but Lisle waved
his hand in a contemptuous manner.

"Stop where you are; that kind of thing is thrown away on me. You're
going to listen for a few minutes and afterward you're going to do what I
tell you. To begin with--why, after you'd opened it, didn't you wipe out
all trace of the cache on the reach below the last portage your cousin
made?"

The shot obviously reached its mark, for Gladwyne clutched the table
hard, and then sank back limply into his seat. He further betrayed
himself by a swift, instinctive glance toward the rows of books behind
him, and Lisle had no doubt that the missing pages from George Gladwyne's
diary were hidden among them. He waited calmly, sure of his position,
while Gladwyne with difficulty pulled himself together.

"Have you any proof that I found the cache?" he asked.

"I think so," Lisle informed him. "But we'll let that slide. You'd better
take the thing for granted. I'm not here to answer questions. I've told
you plainly what I want."

There was silence for nearly a minute during which Gladwyne sat very
still in nerveless dismay. All resistance had melted out of him, his
weakness was manifest--he could not face a crisis, there was no courage
in him.

"The miserable young idiot!" he broke out at length in impotent rage.
"This is not the first trouble in which he has involved me!"

"Just so," said Lisle. "Not long ago his sister came here, begging you to
save him, and you wouldn't. It's not my part to point what she must think
of you. But I'm in a different position; you won't refuse me."

Gladwyne leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair as if he needed
support, and his face grew haggard.

"The difficulty is that I'm helpless," he declared.

Lisle regarded him with contempt.

"Brace up," he advised him. "The fellow you're afraid of is only flesh
and blood; he has his weak point somewhere. Face him and find it, if you
can't talk him round. There's no other way open to you."

A brief silence followed; and then Gladwyne broke it.

"I'll try. But suppose I can induce him to leave Crestwick alone?"

"So much the better for you," Lisle answered with a dry smile. "I'm not
here to make a bargain. I don't want anything for myself."

He went out, consoling himself with the last reflection, for the part he
had played had been singularly disagreeable. Passing down the wide
staircase and through the great hall, he turned along the terrace with a
sense of wonder and disgust. It was a stately house; the wide sweep of lawn
where two gardeners were carefully sweeping up the leaves, the borders
beyond it, blazing with dahlias and ranks of choice chrysanthemums,
conveyed the same suggestion of order, wealth and refinement. One might, he
thought, have expected to find some qualities that matched with
these--dignity, power, a fine regard for honor--in the owner of such a
place, but he had not even common courage. An imposing figure, to outward
seeming, the Canadian regarded him as one who owed everything to a little
surface polish and his London clothes.

Lisle paused to look back when he reached the end of the terrace, from
which a path that would save him a short walk led through a shrubbery.
One wing of the building was covered with Virginia creeper that glowed
with the gorgeous hues of a fading maple leaf, the sunlight lay on the
grass, and the feeling of tranquillity that hung about the place grew
stronger. He thought that he could understand how the desire to possess
it would stir an Englishman reared in such surroundings, and yet he was
now convinced that this was not the impulse which had driven Gladwyne
into deserting his starving cousin. The man had merely yielded to craven
fear.

He heard footsteps, and looking around was a little surprised to see
Batley moving toward him.

"You have just called on Gladwyne," Batley began.

Lisle stopped. There was, so far as he knew, nothing to be said in favor
of the man, but his cool boldness was tempered by a certain geniality and
an occasional candor that the Canadian could not help appreciating. He
preferred Batley to Gladwyne.

"That's so," he agreed.

"I'm inclined to think your visit concerned me. I've noticed your
interest in young Crestwick--it's obvious--I don't know whether one could
say the same of the cause of it?"

"We won't discuss that. If you have anything to say to me, you had better
adopt a less offensive style."

Batley smiled good-humoredly.

"You're quick at resenting things. I don't see why you should expect a
longer patience from me."

"I don't expect anything from you," Lisle informed him. "In proof of it,
I'll mention that I called to tell Gladwyne he must keep you off of Jim
Crestwick."

He made a slip in the last few words, which the other quickly noticed.

"Ordered him, in fact," he said.

Lisle made no answer and Batley resumed:

"You have some kind of a hold on Gladwyne; so have I. Of course, it's no
news to you. I'm a little curious to learn what yours consists of."

"Why?"

"It struck me that we might work together."

"I'm not going in for card-sharping or anything of that kind!"

The man seemed roused by this, but he mastered his anger.

"Civility isn't expensive and sometimes it's wise," he observed. "I won't
return the compliment; in fact, I'll credit you with the most
disinterested motives. All I mean is that I might help you and you might
help me. I'm not quite what you seem to think I am, and if I can get my
money back out of Gladwyne I won't harm him."

"I don't care in the least whether you harm him or not. But I'll try to
arrange that you drop Crestwick."

Batley considered this for a moment or two.

"Well," he said, "I'm sorry we can't agree; but as regards Crestwick you
can only head me off by forcing Gladwyne to interfere. Between ourselves,
do you think he's a man who's likely to take a bold course?"

"I think so--in the present case."

"You mean if the pressure's sufficient. Now you have given me a glimpse
at your hand and I'll be candid. Gladwyne rather let me in, and there's a
risk in dealing with a lad who's to all intents and purposes a minor;
I've gone about as far with him as I consider judicious. Don't do
anything that may damage Gladwyne financially without giving me warning,
and in return I'll let Crestwick go. To some extent, I only got hold of
him as an offset to the trouble I've had with Gladwyne. Is it a bargain?
You can trust me."

"We'll let it go at that," replied Lisle. "But I'll keep my eye on you."

Batley's gesture implied that he would not object to this, and he turned
away, leaving the Canadian to walk back to Nasmyth's thoughtfully. Lisle
did not think he had done Gladwyne much harm by his tacit admissions, and
he had some degree of confidence in Batley's assurance.




CHAPTER XVII

A BAD FALL


Gladwyne spent the first few days that followed Lisle's visit in a state
of dread and indecision. He had allowed the Canadian to understand that
he would endeavor to prevent Crestwick's being further victimized, but he
had already failed to induce Batley to abandon the exploitation of the
lad and he had no cause for believing that a second attempt would be more
successful. Moreover, he shrank from making it; the man had shown him
clearly that he would brook no interference.

On the other hand, he was equally afraid of Lisle. This cool, determined
Canadian was not to be trifled with, and he knew or suspected enough
about the tragedy in British Columbia to make him dangerous. It was
certain that a revelation of Batley's speculation would go a very long
way toward establishing the truth of any damaging story Lisle thought fit
to tell. Supposing the two by any chance combined their knowledge--that
he had raised money in anticipation of his cousin's death, and afterward
left him to perish--nothing that he could say would count against the
inference. George had been a healthy man, not much older than Clarence,
when the money was borrowed, and his decease within a limited time had
appeared improbable. Nobody would believe the actual truth that Batley
with characteristic boldness had, in return for what he thought a
sufficient consideration in the shape of an exorbitant interest, taken a
serious risk. The thing would look like a conspiracy between the heir
presumptive and the speculator who lent the money; and in this, for a
bold man, there might have been a loophole for escape, but Gladwyne knew
that he had not the nerve to use the fact against his ally.

Nevertheless, Gladwyne was really guiltless in one respect--he had not
desired his cousin's death; he would have gone back to the rescue had he
not dreaded that he would share George's fate. Lack of courage had been
his bane, and it was so now, for instead of speaking to Batley he
temporized. The man had made no further attempt upon Crestwick, and
Gladwyne decided that until he did so there was no need for him to
interfere. Still, as the next few weeks passed, he was conscious of a
growing dread of the Canadian which, as sometimes happens, became tinged
with hatred. Lisle was the more serious menace, and it was ominous that
he now and then exchanged a word or two with Batley. If the two formed an
offensive alliance, he would be helpless at their hands.

In the meanwhile, Nasmyth has been training his horse for the approaching
meeting and after trying him against one belonging to a neighbor and not
finding it fast enough he had reluctantly fallen back on a chestnut owned
by Gladwyne. The animal possessed a fine speed and some jumping powers.
Its chief fault was a vicious temper; but Gladwyne was seldom troubled by
lack of nerve in the saddle. It was in time of heavy moral strain that he
failed, and he was glad to arrange with Nasmyth for a sharp gallop.

Somewhat to the latter's regret, news of his intentions had spread, and
on the morning of the trial a number of people, including the Marples and
Crestwicks and Millicent, had gathered about the course. It was a dark
day, with a moist air and a low, gray sky. The grass was wet, a strip of
plowing which could not be avoided was soft and heavy, and the ground in
front of several of the jumps was in a far from satisfactory state.
Nasmyth, who kept a very small establishment and had hitherto generally
ridden the horse, walked round part of the course with Lisle.

"It will be heavy going and there's a nasty greasy patch at the biggest
fence," he said. "I'd have waited for a better day only that it's often
wet where they have the meeting, and I want to see what he can do over
ground like this. You'll have to watch him at the jumps."

"He'd do better with you in the saddle," Lisle suggested.

"I'd rather put you up. I'm not going to ride at the meeting; I'm over
the weight they ought to give him and I want to get him used to a
stranger's hands. As it's an outside event of no importance, I haven't
fixed on my man yet."

They walked back toward the starting-point, where Gladwyne was waiting,
with Batley and Crestwick in attendance. As they approached it, Millicent
joined them.

"Are you going to ride to-day?" she asked Lisle.

"Nasmyth insists," was the answer. "I'm afraid I won't do him much
credit."

Gladwyne looked up with a slight frown.

"You won't mind?" Nasmyth asked him. "I'd penalize the horse by nearly a
stone."

"No," replied Gladwyne, shortly; "there's no reason why I should object."

This was true, but he had an unreasoning aversion to facing this
opponent. Of late, the Canadian had caused him trouble at almost every
turn, and it looked as if he could not even indulge in a morning's
amusement without being plagued with him. He was conscious of a most
uncharitable wish that Lisle would come to grief at one of the fences and
break his neck. In many ways, this would be a vast relief.

"Would anybody like to make it a sporting match?" Crestwick asked. "The
bay's my fancy; I'm ready to back it."

Bella tried to catch his eye, but he disregarded this. She, however, saw
Lisle glance at Batley and noticed the latter's smile.

"It isn't worth while betting on trials," Batley declared. "Better wait
until the meeting."

The girl was less astonished than gratified. Gladwyne was surprised and
disconcerted. He had said nothing to Batley about Crestwick, but he had
noticed Lisle's warning glance, and the other's prompt acquiescence
appeared significant. It looked as if the two had joined hands, and that
was what he most dreaded. An almost overpowering rage against the
Canadian possessed him. When he attempted to mount, the chestnut gave him
trouble by backing and plunging; but the bay was quiet and Nasmyth stood
for a few moments by Lisle's stirrup.

"Save him a bit for the second round," he advised. "Another thing, look
out when you come to the big-brushed hurdles, particularly the second
time."

Batley volunteered as starter, and when he got them off satisfactorily
the spectators scattered, one or two to watch the pace across the plowed
land, the others moving toward the stiffest jumps--the course was roughly
circular.

The trial was a new experience to Lisle, and he felt the exhilaration of
it as, remembering his instructions, he strove to hold his mount.
Gladwyne's horse was a length ahead of him, the wind lashed his face, and
the thrill of the race grew keener when he swept over the first fence,
hard upon the flying chestnut's heels. He dropped another length behind
as they crossed the next field and labored over the sticky plowing; then
there was a low fence and ditch, a narrow meadow, and then the hurdles
Nasmyth had mentioned, filling a gap in a tall thorn hedge. They were
wattled with branches which projected a foot or so above them.

It did not look an easy jump and the grass was slippery and soft, but the
chestnut accomplished it cleverly and the bay flew at the hurdles with
every sign of confidence. Then, though Lisle felt the hoofs slide as the
beast took off, they were over and flying faster than ever across a long,
wet field. As they approached the end of the first round, the chestnut
began to drop back; Lisle could let the bay go and he determined to bring
him home the winner. It was his first fast ride in England; and he had,
indeed, seldom urged a horse to its utmost pace--the British Columbian
trails, for the most part, led steeply up or down rugged hillsides, where
speed was out of the question. It was very different on these level
English meadows, though the ground was softer than usual and the fences
were troublesome. He rode with a zest and ardor he had hardly expected to
feel.

He led at the next fence and some of the onlookers shouted encouragement
when, drawing a little farther ahead, he once more reached the sticky
plowed land. Here the bay slowed a little, toiling across the clods, but
a glance over his shoulder showed his opponent still at least two lengths
behind. Gladwyne, however, now roused himself to ride in earnest.
Hitherto he had taken no great interest in the proceedings, but he had
just seen Bella wave her hand to Lisle and then Millicent's applauding
smile. He resented the fact that both should be pleased to see him beaten
by this intrusive stranger. It reawakened his rancor, and the strain of
the last week or two had shaken him rather badly. He was nervous, his
self-control was weak; but he meant to pass his rival.

He was still behind at the next fence, but pressing his horse savagely he
crept up a little as they approached the one really difficult jump; and
as they sped across the narrow meadow Lisle fancied that the bay was
making its last effort. Crestwick was standing near the hurdles, with
Nasmyth moving rapidly toward them not far away and Bella running across
a neighboring field. Crestwick watched Gladwyne intently. The man's face
was strangely eager, considering that all he had been asked to do was to
test the bay's speed, and there was a hardness in his expression that
fixed Crestwick's attention; he wondered the cause of it.

Bella was close to him, when Lisle, riding hard, rushed at the hurdles,
and Jim found it hard to repress a shout as the bay's hoofs slipped and
slid on the treacherous turf. The horse rose, however; there was a heavy
crash; wattled branches and the top bar of the hurdle smashed. Lisle
lurched in his saddle; and then the bay came down in a heap, with the man
beneath him.

It was impossible to doubt that Gladwyne had seen the accident, but the
chestnut rushed straight at the shattered hurdle, teeth bare, nostrils
dilated, head stretched forward, and Crestwick thrilled with horror. The
fallen horse was struggling, rolling upon its rider, just beyond the
fence; but Gladwyne did nothing, except sit ready for the leap. It was
incomprehensible; so was the look in the man's face, which was grimly
set, as the big chestnut rose in a graceful bound.

There was a sickening thud on the other side, a flounder of slipping
hoofs, and the staccato pounding of the gallop broke out again. The
chestnut had come down upon the fallen horse or helpless man, and was
going on, uncontrollable. Crestwick rushed madly at the hedge, and
scrambling through, badly scratched and bareheaded, found Nasmyth trying
to drag Lisle clear of the bay. The Canadian's eyes were half open, but
there was no expression in them; one arm and shoulder looked distorted,
and his face was gray. Half-way across the field Gladwyne was struggling
savagely with the plunging chestnut.

"Get hold!" ordered Nasmyth hoarsely. "Some bones broken, by the look of
him; but he'll have his brains knocked out in another moment."

Crestwick was cruelly kicked as the bay rolled in agony, striking with
its hoofs; but he stuck to his task, and with some difficulty they
dragged Lisle out of danger. When they had accomplished it, Marple came
running up with two or three others and Nasmyth called to him.

"Came in the car, didn't you? Go off for Irvine as hard as you can drive.
Drop somebody at my place to run back with a gun."

Marple swung round and set off across the field, and Crestwick understood
why the gun was wanted when he glanced at the fallen horse. Nasmyth
informed him that nothing could be done until the doctor came, and he
turned away toward where his sister was waiting. His forehead and hands
were torn and he was conscious of a bad ache in his back where a hoof had
struck, but these things scarcely troubled him. He was overwhelmed,
horror-stricken; and the shock of seeing Lisle crushed and senseless was
not the only cause of it. Bella, gasping after her run, with hair shaken
loose about her face, seemed to be suffering from the same sensation that
unnerved him.

"Is he dead?" she asked falteringly.

"No. Badly hurt, I think."

"Ah!" she exclaimed with intense relief. "I was most horribly afraid."
She paused before she resumed: "You were close by the hurdles."

Jim knew she meant that he must have seen what happened, but, shaking as
he was, he looked hard at her, wondering in a half-dazed fashion what
reply he should make. He thought her suspicions were aroused.

"You were some way back; you couldn't have seen anything plainly," he
ventured.

"I was very near--looking back toward them--when they crossed the field
before the jump. You've gone all to pieces. What did you see?"

"I can't talk about it now," Jim broke out. "He's coming back."

Gladwyne had dismounted and was with some difficulty leading the chestnut
toward the hedge. His face was white; he moved with a strong suggestion
of reluctance; and when he reached the spot where Lisle lay he seemed to
have trouble in speaking.

"Is it dangerous?" he asked.

"I can't tell," Nasmyth answered sternly. "Shoulder's smashed; don't know
if that's the worst. Why didn't you pull up the brute or send him at the
hedge to the right?"

"He's hard in the mouth--you know his temper. You couldn't have turned
him."

"I'd have tried, if I'd had to bring him down and break his neck!"

Nasmyth checked himself, for this was not the time for recriminations,
and Millicent, who had been running hard, brushed past them. She did not
stop until she bent over Lisle. Then she turned to Nasmyth with fear in
her strained expression.

"I think he'll get over it," Nasmyth told her. "I won't take the
responsibility of having him moved until the doctor arrives."

"Quite right," agreed Batley, walking up and casting a swift and
searching glance at Gladwyne.

"But you can't let him lie on the wet grass!" Millicent expostulated.

"I'm afraid we must; it's safest," said Batley. "The shock's not so much
to be dreaded with a man of his kind."

He and Nasmyth took charge of the situation, sternly refusing to listen
to all well-meant suggestions, until at last the doctor and Marple came
hurrying across the field. The former hastily examined the injured man
and then looked up at Nasmyth.

"Upper arm gone, close to the shoulder joint," he announced. "Collar-bone
too. I'll give him some brandy. Shout to those fellows with the
stretcher."

He was busy for some time, and in the meanwhile Batley picked up the
flask he had laid down and handed it to Gladwyne.

"Take a good drink and pull yourself together," he said quietly.

At length Lisle was gently lifted on to the stretcher, and as they
carried him away the report of a gun ran out. The onlookers dispersed and
Gladwyne was walking home alone when Millicent overtook him. She was
puzzled by his limp appearance and the expression of his haggard face. It
was only natural that he should keenly feel his responsibility for the
accident, but this did not quite seem to account for the man's condition.
He looked absolutely unnerved, like one who had barely escaped from some
appalling catastrophe.

"You shouldn't take it quite so much to heart," she comforted him. "I
don't think Irvine felt any great uneasiness; and nobody could blame
you."

"You're the only one who has said so," he answered moodily.

"They couldn't; you stole away. Of course, it's a great pity--I'm
distressed--but you must try to be sensible. These accidents happen."

He walked on a while in silence, and then with an effort looked around at
her.

"Millicent," he said, "you're wonderfully generous--the sight of anybody
in trouble stirs you--but I don't feel able to bear your sympathy."

"Then I'll have to offer it to Lisle," she smiled. "But I'll walk with
you to the lodge; and then you had better go in and keep quiet until you
get back your nerve."

When she left Gladwyne she went on to Nasmyth's, where she waited until
the doctor on leaving told her that he was perfectly satisfied with the
prospect for the Canadian's recovery. It would, he said, be merely a
question of lying still for a considerable time. Millicent was conscious
of a relief which puzzled her by its intensity as she heard the news, but
she asked Nasmyth to send somebody to inform Gladwyne.

"I think he's desperately anxious and feeling the thing very badly," she
concluded.

"Then he could have come over to inquire, as you have done," Nasmyth
answered. "In my opinion, he deserves to be uncomfortable."

"Why are you so hard on him?"

The man's face grew grim.

"I've had to help Irvine with Lisle, for one thing. We were satisfied
that his injuries were not caused by the bay rolling on him; he seems to
have escaped from that with a few bad bruises. The worst of the accident
might have been avoided if Clarence had had nerve enough."

"But you couldn't blame him very greatly for losing his head--he had no
warning, scarcely a moment to think. It was so sudden."

"The result's the same," retorted Nasmyth. "Lisle has to pay. But to
please you I'll send Clarence word that Irvine's not anxious about him."




CHAPTER XVIII

A PRUDENT DECISION


It had been dark some time and the night was raw, but Jim Crestwick
strolled up and down the drive to Marple's house, thinking unusually
hard. In the first place, part at least of the folly of his conduct
during the last year or two had been plainly brought home to him, and the
realization was bitter. It was galling to discover that while he had
regarded himself as a man of the world he had been systematically
victimized by the men who had encouraged him in the delusion. He felt
very sore as he remembered how much he owed Batley, but this troubled him
less than the downright abhorrence of Gladwyne which had suddenly
possessed him. He had looked up to the latter as a model and had tried to
copy his manners; and it was chiefly because Batley was a friend of
Gladwyne's that he had paid toll to him. For he had felt that whatever
the man he admired was willing to countenance must be the correct thing.
Now he saw Gladwyne as he really was--a betrayer of those who trusted
him, a counterfeit of an honorable type, one who had by the merest chance
escaped from crime.

In the second place, he was concerned about Bella. She had obviously been
attracted by Gladwyne, and it was his duty to warn her. Whether the
warning was altogether necessary he could not tell--he had watched her
face that morning--and Bella sometimes resented advice. When she did so,
she had an exasperating trick of putting him in the wrong; but he meant
to speak to her as plainly as appeared desirable. He had another duty--to
Lisle; but he was inclined to think that on the whole he had better not
saddle himself with it. His self-confidence had been rudely shaken and he
recognized the possibility of his making things worse. Moreover, he had
cultivated the pride of caste, and having with some difficulty obtained
an entry to the circle in which Gladwyne moved, he felt it incumbent on
him to guard the honor of all who belonged to it.

Presently Bella came out, as he had anticipated, and joined him.

"You have been very quiet since this morning," she began. "I saw that you
meant to slip away as soon as you could."

"Yes," he admitted; "I've had something to think about--I've been a fool,
Bella; the commonest, most easily gulled kind of imbecile!"

He had expected her to remind him that she had more than once tried to
convince him of this, but she failed to do so. Instead, she answered with
a touch of the candor that sometimes characterized her.

"You're not the only one."

This was satisfactory, for it suggested that she had been undeceived
about Gladwyne; but she had not finished.

"What did you see this morning?" she asked, and he felt that she was
speaking with keen anxiety.

"I'll tell you, but it must never go any farther. I hate to think of it!
But first of all, what makes you ask?"

She had already mentioned that she had been near when Gladwyne made his
attempt to come up with Lisle, but she had not explained that she had
seen hatred stamped in hideous plainness on his face.

"Never mind," she answered sharply. "Go on!"

"Well," said Jim, "I was standing right against the hedge, the only
person on that side, and I don't think Gladwyne saw me. Lisle's bay
fouled the top bar of the hurdle, but it held long enough to bring him
down in a heap. Gladwyne was then a length or two behind. He rode
straight at the broken hurdle, hands still--I can't get his look out of
my mind!"

"But perhaps he couldn't pull up," Bella defended him desperately, as if
she would not believe the truth she dreaded.

"There were other ways open. He could have gone at the hedge a yard or
two on one side; he could have spoiled the chestnut's take-off and made
him jump short. It might have brought him down--the hurdle was firm in
the ground--but that would have been better than riding over a fallen
man!"

"Are you sure he did nothing?"

"I wish I were not! The thing's horrible! Gladwyne must have seen that
he'd come down on Lisle or the struggling bay--he could have prevented
it--he didn't try."

Bella shivered. Her brother was right: it was almost beyond contemplation.
But that was only half of the matter.

"He must have had a reason," she argued harshly.

"Yes; one doesn't ride over a man in cold-blood for nothing. I think he
had some cause for being afraid of Lisle; several things I remember now
point to it. His chance came suddenly--nobody could have arranged it--he
only remembered that Lisle with his brains crushed out could do him no
harm."

The girl recognized that Jim had guessed correctly. When she had gone to
Lisle for help, he had allowed her to understand that he could compel
Gladwyne's compliance with his request, which was significant. Still,
convinced as she was, she would not openly acquiesce in her brother's
theory.

"Jim," she protested, "if he'd ridden at the hedge or made the chestnut
jump short, he might have broken his own neck. He must have realized
it--it would make him hesitate."

The lad laughed scornfully.

"It's quite possible, but is that any excuse? Would Nasmyth or Lisle or
Batley have shirked a risk that would mean the saving of the other
fellow? Supposing your idea's right--though it isn't--it only shows the
man as a disgusting coward."

There was no gainsaying this; and Bella was crushed and humiliated. She
had already seen Gladwyne's weakness, and after the choice she had been
compelled to make between him and her brother, she had tried to drive all
thought of him out of her mind. It had been difficult; he was fascinating
in many ways and she had set her heart upon his capture. Now she had done
with him; after the morning's revelation she shrank from him with
positive horror. Jim seemed to guess this.

"I'm sorry, Bella," he said gently. "But the fellow's impossible."

She laid her hand upon his arm.

"Jim," she replied, "we have both been mad, and I suppose we must pay for
it. I'll help you to get clear of Batley when the time comes, but you
must never have a deal of any kind with him again."

"That's promised; I've had my lesson. I think I'll ask Lisle to take me
with him when he goes back to Canada. He and Nasmyth are the only men
worth speaking of I've met for a long while. When Lisle first came here I
tried to patronize him."

Bella laughed, rather feebly, but she wanted to relieve the tension.

"It was like you. But we'll go in. This is our secret, Jim. Nobody would
believe you if you let fall a hint as to what really happened, and there
are many reasons why you shouldn't. I think you said nobody else could
have suspected?"

"Nasmyth hadn't come up when the chestnut reached the hurdles; he was the
nearest. Lisle was down with the horse upon him. He couldn't have seen
anything."

"Well," she decided, "perhaps that's fortunate. It isn't likely that
Gladwyne will get such an opportunity again, and at the worst he acted on
the spur of the moment."

The lad nodded. He had felt that silence would entail some responsibility,
but Bella accepted it without uneasiness. She seldom showed any hesitation
when she had decided on a course.

In the meanwhile, Gladwyne had spent a miserable day, alternating between
horror of himself and doubts about the future. Jim Crestwick's
description of the incident was correct--Gladwyne had ridden straight at
the broken hurdle, knowing what the consequences might be and
disregarding them. The next moment, however, the reaction had begun and
he was thankful that he had not committed a hideous crime. Indeed, the
knowledge that he had come so near to killing his opponent had left him
badly shaken. He wondered at his insensate action until he recollected
how he had once stood beside an opened cache in Canada, and then,
ignoring his manifest duty, had hurried on through the frozen wilderness.
On that occasion he had been accountable for his cousin's death, and now
Lisle had very narrowly escaped.

Yet he could with justice acquit himself of any premeditated intention in
either case; fate had thrust him into a situation he was not strong
enough to grapple with. Dreading Lisle, as he did, his chief thought had
been for his own safety when he saw the bay blunder at the leap. To save
the Canadian he must take a serious personal risk, which was foreign to
his nature, and though a recognition of the fact that the death of the
fallen man would be a great relief to him had been clearly in his mind,
it was impossible to say how far it had actuated him.

He had grown more collected when he sat in his library as dusk was
closing in, considering other aspects of the affair. He had not seen
Crestwick, and Lisle, he thought, would remember nothing except his fall.
After trying to recall the positions of the others, he felt comforted;
nobody could charge him with anything worse than reckless riding or a
failure of nerve at a critical moment. He would confess to the latter--it
was to some extent the truth--and show concern about Lisle's injury.
Awkward as it was, the incident could be smothered over; it was consoling
to remember that the people he lived among were addicted to treating
anything of an unpleasant nature as lightly as possible. There was a good
deal to be said for the sensible English custom of ignoring what it would
be disconcerting to realize.

After a while his mother came in and gently touched him.

"My dear," she urged, "you mustn't brood over it. Lisle's condition's
satisfactory. As it's some hours since we got Nasmyth's message, I sent a
man over and he has just come back."

"I'm glad you sent," Gladwyne responded. "It was thoughtful. I forgot;
but I've been badly troubled."

She sat down near him, with her hand laid caressingly on his arm.

"It's natural; I understand and feel for you. I wouldn't have liked you
to be indifferent; but you mustn't make too much of it. The man is
strong, he will soon be about again, and you couldn't have saved him.
Everybody I've seen so far has given me that impression. Of course, I
didn't need their assurances, but I was glad to see they exonerated and
sympathized with you."

Her confidence hurt him; he had still a sense of shame, and he found no
great comfort in what she told him. His mother was generally loved, and
he wondered how far his neighbors had been influenced by a desire to save
her pain.

"It looks as if Lisle deserves their commiseration more than I do," he
answered with a smile which cost him an effort.

"It is being shown. I noticed nearly everybody in the neighborhood
motoring or driving toward the house during the afternoon. Millicent's
with Nasmyth now, helping to arrange things. It's wonderful what a
favorite Lisle has become in so short a time; but I own that I find
something very likable about him."

Gladwyne moved impatiently. His hatred of the man was as strong as ever,
and his mother's attempts at consolation irritated him. Lisle was too
popular; first Bella and now Millicent had taken him in hand.

"Millicent," Mrs. Gladwyne went on, "is an exceptional woman in every
desirable respect. I think you have long been as convinced of that as I
am."

"I'm afraid she can't have an equally favorable opinion of me," he said
with a short laugh.

"One does not look for perfection in a man," his mother informed him
seriously. "He is criticized much less severely than a woman. It seems to
be the universal rule, though I have sometimes thought it wasn't
absolutely just and that it had its drawbacks. It's one of the things the
women who go out and speak are declaiming against and something one of
them lately said sticks in my mind." She sighed as she added: "The times
are changing; there was no need to consider such questions in your
father's case. He was the soul of honor--you were very young when death
parted us."

She did not always express herself clearly, but Gladwyne saw that she did
not place him in the same category as his father and he recognized her
half-formulated thought that it would have been better had he grown up
under the latter's firmer guidance.

"Wonders never cease, mother," he responded with an attempt at lightness.
"It's difficult to imagine your being influenced by the latest
propaganda. I thought you shuddered at it."

"Well," she said, "I was forgetting what I meant to talk about, drifting
away from the subject; I'm afraid it's a habit of mine. What I have long
felt is that it would be so desirable if you married suitably."

"The trouble is to define the suitability. It's a point upon which
everybody has a different opinion."

"I would choose a girl of good family and education for you, one with a
well-balanced will, who could see what was right and cling to it. Still,
she must be wise and gentle; a tactful, considerate guide; and though
means are not of first importance, they are not to be despised."

Gladwyne leaned back in his chair with a laugh that had in it a tinge of
irritation.

"Are such girls numerous? But why do you insist on a will and the power
of guiding? It looks as if you thought I needed it. Sometimes you're the
reverse of flattering."

His mother looked troubled; she would have wounded no living creature
unnecessarily.

"My dear, it's not always easy to express what one feels, and I dare say
I'm injudicious in choosing my words. But your welfare is very near to my
heart."

"I know that," he answered gently. "But you were not describing an
imaginary paragon. Hadn't you Millicent in your mind?"

"I should be very happy if I could welcome her as my daughter. I should
feel that you were safe then."

There was a thrill of regret in her voice that touched him. It hinted
that she blamed herself for omissions and lack of wisdom in his
upbringing. Besides, her confidence in any one who had won her respect,
as Millicent had done, was bestowed so generously.

"I'm afraid I've often given you trouble, and I do you little credit
now," he said. "But, as to the other matter, one can't be sure that
Millicent would welcome the idea. Of late I've had a suspicion that she
hasn't a very high opinion of me."

"You could hardly expect to gain it by devoting yourself to Miss
Crestwick."

The man smiled rather grimly.

"If it's any consolation to you, I'm inclined to think that Miss
Crestwick has let me drop. The truth's not very flattering, but I can't
hide it."

Mrs. Gladwyne's relief was obvious, but she had more to say and she
ventured upon it with some courage.

"If you would only get rid of Batley too!"

"I can hardly do that just now; he's useful in several ways. Still, of
course, if I married--"

He broke off abruptly, for his mother had occasional flashes of
discernment.

"Millicent has means," she said.

He started at this, wondering how much she had guessed, but he veiled his
embarrassment with a smile.

"Well," he acknowledged, "means, as you most wisely remarked, are not to
be despised, and mine are unfortunately small."

She saw that she had said enough and she left him sitting in the
darkening room thinking rather hard. Bella had thrown him over when he
had refused to help her brother, and there were many ways in which
Millicent appealed to him. Besides, she could free him of his debt to
Batley, which was a thing greatly to be desired. She had shown that she
did not blame him severely for the accident at the hurdles, but he
realized that in trying to comfort him she had been prompted by pity for
his dejected mood, and it was clear that the part he had played was
scarcely likely to raise him in her esteem. This was unfortunate, but he
would not dwell on it; there were other points to consider and anything
that served to divert his thoughts from the unfortunate affair was a vast
relief.

When at last he rose he had partly recovered his usual equanimity and had
decided that he would watch for some sign of Millicent's feelings toward
him. He was aware that they had somewhat changed, but this was to a large
extent his fault, and with caution and patience he thought it might be
possible to reinstate himself in her favor.




CHAPTER XIX

GLADWYNE GAINS A POINT


Some weeks had passed since the accident and Lisle was lying one
afternoon on a couch near a window of Nasmyth's sitting-room. Two or
three Canadian newspapers lay on the floor and he held a few letters in
one hand. The prospect outside was cheerless--a stretch of leaden-colored
moor running back into a lowering sky, with a sweep of fir wood that had
lost all distinctive coloring in the foreground. He was gazing at it
moodily when Millicent came in. His face brightened at the sight of her,
and he raised himself awkwardly with his uninjured arm, but she shook her
head at him in reproof.

"You had orders to keep as quiet as possible for some time yet. Lie down
again!"

"Keeping quiet is fast breaking me up," he protested. "I'm quite able to
move about."

"All the same, you're not to try."

He looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Then I suppose I'll have to give in. You're a determined person. People
do what you ask them without resenting it. You have an instance here,
though in a general way it's a very undignified thing to be ordered
about."

He resumed his former position and she seated herself.

"I don't see why you should drag my character in," she objected with a
smile. "Other people who occasionally obey me don't say such things."

"They're English; that accounts for a good deal. I'm inclined to think my
power of expressing my feelings on any point is a gift, though it's one
that's not uncommon in the West."

"Doesn't it presuppose an assurance that any one you address must be
interested in your views?"

"I deserve that," he laughed; "but you're not quite right. We say, in
effect, 'These are my sentiments, but I won't be down-hearted if you
haven't the sense to agree with them.' The last, however, doesn't apply
to you."

"Thank you for the explanation," she rejoined. "But why do you insist on
a national difference? You're really English, aren't you, in Canada?"

"No," he answered; "you and the others who talk in that strain are
mistaken. We're a brand new nation still fusing and fuming in the
melting-pot. The elements are inharmonious in some respects--French from
the Laurentian littoral, Ontario Scots, Americans, Scandinavians,
Teutons, Magyars, Slavs. The English element's barely strong enough to
temper the mixture; the land's too wide and the people too varied for
British traditions to bind. When the cooling amalgam's run out it will be
into a fresh mold."

"One made in Pennsylvania, or wherever the American foundries are?"

"They run the one you have in mind at Washington. You understand things a
good deal better than many people I've talked to here; but you're not
right yet. If Canadians deliberately chose the American mold because it
was American, a number of us would kick; but the cause is a bigger one
than that. From Texas to Athabasca, from Florida to Labrador, pretty much
the same elemental forces are fanning the melting fires. We have the same
human raw material; we've much the same problems to tackle; the
conditions are, or soon will be, pretty similar. It's only natural that
the result should be more or less identical. I've said nothing yet about
our commercial and social relations with our neighbors."

"But doesn't England count?"

"Morally, yes. It's your part to keep our respect and show us a clean
lead."

"After all," she rejoined, "you, in particular, are essentially English
by connection with the part of the country you're now staying in."

He smiled curiously.

"So you or Nasmyth have been tracing up the family!"

"No," she replied with a little sharpness. "Why should I have done so? Of
course, we knew the name; and you have relations living at no great
distance. I understand Nasmyth got a hint that they would be glad to
receive you."

"Let it go at that," he answered. "My father was cast out because he
dared to think for himself and my mother was Canadian born. I'm a unit in
the new nation; one of the rank and file."

She considered this for a moment or two. It was hardly an English point
of view, but--for his family had long been one of station--there was a
hint of pride that struck her as rather fine about this renunciation. It
was a risky thing to insist on being taken at one's intrinsic value,
stripped of all accidental associations that might enhance it, but she
thought he need not shrink from the hazard. Now and then he spoke with
slightly injudicious candor, and sometimes too vehemently, but in
essential matters he displayed an admirable delicacy of feeling and she
recognized in him a sterling sense of honor.

"I've broken loose again and you're feeling shocked," he said humorously.
"It's your own fault; you have a way of making one talk. There's no use
in discoursing to people who don't understand. However--and it's much
more important--how's the book getting on?"

"More important than my wounded susceptibilities?" Millicent laughed.
"But we won't mind them. I'm pleased to say I've heard from the
publishers that it's in strong request. Indeed, they add, rather
superfluously, that the demand is somewhat remarkable, considering the
nature of the work."

Lisle laughed at this.

"Any more reviews?"

She handed him several and he noticed the guarded, unenthusiastic tone of
the first two.

"These are the people who prefer a thing like a catalogue. This fellow
says the first portion of the book shows most care in particulars and
classification--it's what one would expect from him. That was your
brother's work, I think. He was not an imaginative person."

"No," replied Millicent. "He was eminently practical and methodical."

"There's a great deal to be said in favor of that kind of man. You can
trust him when it's a case of grappling with practical difficulties. But
I feel quite angry with the next reviewer. 'The illustrations are rather
impressionist drawings than a useful guide to identification.' The fellow
would no doubt rather have those stiff, colored plates which are about as
like the real, breathing creature as a stuffed specimen in a museum."

Millicent was pleased with his indignation, but his disgusted expression
changed as he read the next cutting.

"Now," he exclaimed, "we're arriving at the sound sense of ordinary
people, lovers of nature who're not naturalists. This man's enthusiastic;
the next review's even better!" He took up the others and there was keen
satisfaction in his eyes when he laid them down. "Great!" he ejaculated.
"I expected it. You've made your mark!"

The girl thrilled with pleasure; his delight at her success was so
genuine.

"Well," she told him, "the publishers suggest that I undertake another
and more ambitious work. I've often thought that I should like to do so.
The lonely country between the Rockies and the Pacific has a peculiar
interest to me and I've long had a desire to follow my brother's trail. I
don't think it's a morbid wish--somehow I feel impelled to go."

"It's a beautiful, wild land, and the creatures that inhabit it are among
the finest in the world. You promised to let me be your guide, and you
should take Nasmyth, too; he's a man to be depended on. You could start
in the early summer next year."

She smiled at his eagerness; but he suddenly grew thoughtful.

"It's curious how events seem to have started beside those lonely
river-reaches among the rocks," he remarked. "It was there that I got to
know Nasmyth, and through him I met you. It was there that I learned
something about your brother and Clarence Gladwyne. The drama began in
those wilds and I've a feeling that it will end among them."

"The drama?" she queried, and he was conscious that he had made a slip.

"Well," he answered, "before we crossed the big divide I wasn't aware of
your existence, and I'd only a hazy idea that I might come to England
some day. Now, if I may say it, I've joined your group of friends and
entered into their lives. One feels it can't have sprung from nothing; it
isn't blind chance."

She mused for a few moments.

"It's strange," she asserted, "but I've had something of the same
feeling. You seem to have become a part of things, a connecting link
between us all--Mrs. Gladwyne, Clarence, Nasmyth, and even young
Crestwick. One could almost fancy that some mysterious agency were
working upon us through you."

He did not wish her to pursue this train of thought too far.

"I've promised to take Jim Crestwick back with me," he said. "I'm going
as soon as I'm fit to get about."

"Going back, in a few weeks?"

"Yes. In many ways, I'm sorry; but I've had some letters that show it's
needful. Business calls."

She made no reply for some moments. There was no doubt that she would
miss him badly, and she recalled the strange and tense anxiety of which
she had been conscious when he had fallen at the hurdles.

"We have come to look upon you as one of us," she told him simply.
"Somehow we never contemplated your going away, and now it seems an
almost unnatural thing."

"It would be, if I broke off the connection with my English friends, but
I think that can't be done. We're to see more of each other; I'm to be
your guide when you come out next year."

"It's very likely that I shall come."

She left him shortly after this and walked home in a thoughtful mood,
regretting his approaching departure and pondering over what he had said.
With reflection it became clearer that she had entertained the same idea
as his. He and she and the others he mentioned were not acting and
reacting upon one another casually; it was all a part of a purpose,
leading up to something that still lay unrevealed on the knees of
destiny. Perhaps he had been right in speaking of a drama; it suggested a
sequence of prearranged events, springing from George's death. Reaching
home, she endeavored to banish these thoughts, which were vaguely
troublesome, but Miss Hume found her preoccupied and absent-minded during
the evening.

The following day she went over to see Mrs. Gladwyne and was asked to
wait until her return. Shortly afterward, Clarence entered the room where
she was sitting, and she alluded to her visit to Lisle.

"He is going back as soon as he can stand the journey," she said.

Gladwyne made an abrupt movement and she noticed with surprise and some
indignation the relief in his expression. Though the men had not been on
very cordial terms, it puzzled her.

"You don't attempt to conceal your satisfaction," she commented. "Isn't
it a little ungenerous?"

His effort to recover his composure was obvious, but he answered her
quietly.

"I'm afraid it is. After the accident--I think I was partly blamed for
that--he behaved very well; told everybody about the slippery ground and
said what he could to exonerate me."

"I didn't mean to refer to that matter," explained Millicent. She knew
that it was a painful one to him.

"Still," he resumed, "even if it's ungrateful, I am rather glad he's
going."

"'Rather glad' hardly seems to describe it; you looked overjoyed."

"Don't be severe, Millicent. Let me explain. Since Lisle came over,
nothing has been quite the same. He got hold of you and Nasmyth and the
others, and in a way alienated you from me. I don't mean he did it with
deliberate intention, but he took up your time and monopolized your
interest. I've seen much less of both of you."

"And, of late, of the Crestwicks."

"Oh," he returned in his most casual manner, "I shouldn't have had much
more of their company in any case. Jim's going to Canada and Bella to
Sussex. I understand from Marple that it will be some time before she
visits us again."

Millicent was glad to hear it, but she made no comment.

"It's unreasonable to blame Lisle," Gladwyne went on; "though he did make
some unpleasantness with Batley; but I have had so many annoyances and
troubles since he arrived. Everything has been going wrong and I can't
disassociate him from the unfortunate tendency."

He sat where the light fell upon his face, and Millicent, studying it,
was stirred to compassion, which was always ready with her. He looked
harassed and nervous, as if he had borne a heavy strain, and she knew
that the accident had preyed upon his mind. That, she thought, was to his
credit. In addition to this, she had suspected that he was threatened
with financial difficulties. The man had a dangerous gift of rousing
women's interest and sympathy.

"I'm sorry," she said with sincere feeling. "You should go away for a
time. You need a change."

"I've thought of it; but I'm afraid I've been neglecting things lately
and there's a good deal that needs straightening up--farm buildings to be
looked to, the stream to dyke in the low ground, and that draining
scheme."

It was not all acting; he had meant to give those matters some attention
when he found it convenient, and she was far from suspicious and was
quick to take the most favorable view of any one. That he recognized his
duties and intended to discharge them gratified her.

"I think," she told him, "that if you undertake these things in earnest,
you'll be better for the occupation; and they certainly need looking
after."

"I've been slack," he owned. "I seemed to lose interest and, as I said,
I've had difficulties to distract me."

He had struck the right note again. Anything of the nature of a
confession or appeal for sympathy seldom failed to stir her.

"In fact," he resumed, "I'm not clear of troubles now. If I do half that
I'm asked to do, it will nearly ruin me, and I don't know where to begin.
I haven't any great confidence in Grierson's advice; he doesn't seem to
grip things readily."

"The trouble is that he has his favorites," she said bluntly. "I don't
think he suffers from any lack of understanding."

"What do you mean?"

It was unpleasant, but she had courage and the man was doing Clarence
harm.

"Well, there are people who can get very much what they ask Grierson for,
in the shape of repairs and improvements, whether they need it or not."

"At my expense, while the rest get less than they should have?"

"A number of your tenants have got practically nothing for some years.
It's false economy; you'll have to lay out twice as much as would keep
them here satisfied, when they leave you in disgust."

She supplied him with several instances of neglect, and a few clever
suggestions, and he looked at her in admiration which was only partly
assumed.

"What an administrator you would have made!" he exclaimed. "The place
would thrive in your hands and everybody be content. It's obvious, quite
apart from his good qualities, why George was so popular."

Millicent did not suspect him of an intent to flatter her, and she
recognized that there was truth in what he said. She knew everybody on
the estate and knew their most pressing needs, and she undoubtedly
possessed the power of management. She had a keen discernment and could
arrive at a quick and just decision.

"Clarence," she said, "I shouldn't advise you to take the business
altogether out of Grierson's hands. He's honest, so far as you are
concerned, and one or two of the hardest things he did were by your
orders."

"You mean the Milburn and Grainger affair?" He showed a little
embarrassment. "Well, perhaps I was hasty then, but they would have
exasperated a much more patient man. I sometimes feel that I can't please
these people, whatever I do."

She smiled at this.

"They're not effusive, but they're loyal once you win their confidence.
But, to go back to Grierson--let him collect payments and handle the
money, but don't ask his advice as to how you will lay it out. Look
around, inquire into things, and trust your own judgment."

He turned to her beseechingly.

"I can't trust it in these matters--it hasn't been cultivated. If I'm to
keep out of further trouble and do any good, you must help me."

Millicent hesitated. It was not a little thing he asked. To guide him
aright would need thought and patient investigation. Still, there was, as
she had said, so much to be done--abuses to be abolished, houses to be
made habitable, burdens to be lifted from shoulders unable to carry them.
There was also land the yield from which could be increased by a very
moderate expenditure. She would enjoy the power to do these things which
the man's demand for help offered her, but she was more stirred by his
desire to redeem past neglect and set right his failures.

"Well," she promised, "you shall have my candid advice whenever you need
it."

He showed his gratitude, but he was conscious of a satisfaction that had
no connection with the welfare of his estate. He would have a legitimate
excuse for seeing her often; the work jointly undertaken would lead to a
closer confidence. He had always cherished a certain tenderness for her;
he must marry somebody with money before long; and though Millicent's
means were not so large as Bella's, they were not contemptible. He had
not the honesty to let these thoughts obtrude themselves, but they
nevertheless hovered at the back of his mind. It was more graceful to
reflect that Millicent possessed refinement, a degree of beauty, and many
most desirable qualities.




CHAPTER XX

MRS. GLADWYNE'S TEMPTATION


Clarence had gone away with Batley when Lisle called on Mrs. Gladwyne.
She was leaving home for a visit on the following day and he wished to
say good-by, and, if an opportunity offered, to ask her opinion upon a
matter he had at heart. She was not a clever woman, but there were points
on which he thought her judgment could be trusted. He was told that she
would be occupied for a few minutes and was shown into her drawing-room.
He sat down to wait and, though he was familiar with the house, he looked
about him with an interest for which there was a reason. The room had
always impressed him by its size and loftiness, and it did so more than
ever that afternoon.

The floor was of hardwood, polished to a glossy luster by the hands of
several generations, and the rugs scattered here and there emphasized its
extent. Most of the furniture was old, and the few articles apparently
bought in later times harmonized with it. The faded ceiling had been
painted with Cupid's trailing ribands, he judged by some artist of the
period shortly preceding the French Revolution, and two or three Arcadian
figures hinted at the same date. There were other things--a luster
chandelier, quaintly-wrought hearth-irons, a carved wood mantel--that
posited to bygone days.

It all impressed him with a sense of the continuity of English traditions
and mode of life, as applied to such families as the Gladwynes. Cradled
in a degree of luxury which nevertheless differed from modern profusion
and ostentation, steeped in a slightly austere refinement, he could
understand their shrinking from sudden chance and clinging to the customs
of the past. They were all, so far as he had seen, characterized by the
possession of high qualities, with the exception of Clarence, whom he
regarded as a reversion to a baser type; but he thought that they would
suffer if uprooted and transplanted in a less sheltered and less
cultivated soil. Inherited instincts were difficult to subdue; he was
conscious of their influence. He came from a new land where he had often
toiled for a dollar or two daily, but a love and veneration for the
ancient English homes in which his people had lived was growing strong in
him.

Mrs. Gladwyne did not appear, but he had a good deal to think of and was
content to wait. He had grown fond of the stately lady and it was,
indeed, largely for her sake that he had decided not to reveal for a
while what he knew about the tragedy in British Columbia. He could not
absolutely prove his version of the affair, and it would bring distress
upon the mother of the offender; he had already waited two years and,
though he felt that his dead comrade had a strong claim on him, he could
wait a little longer. Fate might place conclusive evidence in his hands
or remove some of his difficulties. Besides, he must go back as soon as
possible to the Canadian North, and in one respect he was very loath to
do this.

At last he heard a footstep and his hostess came in. Her dress was not of
the latest fashion, but it somehow struck him as out of place; she ought
to have been attired in the mode of a century ago, with powder in her
hair. Nevertheless, fragile as she was, with her fine carriage and her
gracious smile, she made an attractive picture in the ancient room.

"I've come on an unpleasant errand--to say good-by--and to thank you for
many favors shown to a stranger," he said.

"I think you were never that from the beginning," she told him. "By and
by we learned the reason--you really belong to us."

He made a gesture of humorous expostulation.

"I like to believe that I belong here, but not because of the explanation
you give. It doesn't seem to be much to my credit that my forefathers
lived in this part of the country; I'd rather be taken on my actual
merits, if that isn't, too egotistical."

"They did live here," she rejoined. "You can't get over that--it has its
influence."

It was the point of view he had expected her to take.

"We are very sorry you are going," she continued; "somehow we hardly
anticipated it. Have you ever thought of coming back for good?"

She was unconsciously giving him the lead he desired, but he would not
seize it precipitately; he was half afraid.

"No," he answered, smiling; "my work's out yonder. I couldn't sit idle. I
think Miss Gladwyne hit it when she told me that I was one of the
pioneers."

His hostess showed more comprehension than he had looked for.

"Yes; I set you down as one of the men who prefer heat and cold, want of
food, and toil, to the comforts they could have at home. I have met a
few, sons of my old friends, and heard of others. After all, we have a
good many of them in England."

"Troublesome people, aren't they? What do you do with them?"

"Let them go. How do we rule India and hold so much of Africa? How did we
open up Canada for you?"

He nodded.

"That's right. It doesn't matter that in respect to Canada the sons of
Highland peasants did their share; the Hudson Bay people and the
Laurentian Frenchmen showed us the way. We found out what kind of men
they were when we went in after them."

There was silence for a few moments and he glanced at her with
admiration. The honorable pride of caste she had shown strongly appealed
to him. She stood for all that was fine in the old regime, and once more
he wondered how such a woman could have borne such a son.

"I'm returning because business calls," he explained. "My means won't
keep me in idleness, and that fact has a bearing on the question as to
whether I'll ever come back again. It's a very momentous one to me."

She waited, noticing with some surprise the sudden tenseness of his
expression, until he spoke again, hesitatingly.

"You are the only person I can come to for advice. I'd be grateful for
your opinion."

"I'll try to give it carefully," she promised.

"Well," he said, "the life you people lead here has its attractions; they
must be strong to you. It would be hard to break with all its
associations, to face one that was new and different; I mean for a woman
to do so?"

"Ah!" she exclaimed, seeing the drift of his remarks at last. "You had
better tell me whom you are thinking of."

"Millicent."

She started. This was a painful surprise, though she now wondered why she
had never suspected it. He had met the girl frequently before his
accident, and she had since gone over to Nasmyth's to talk with him now
and then; yet, for some not very obvious reason, nobody seemed to have
contemplated the possibility of his falling in love with her. Mrs.
Gladwyne had undoubtedly not done so, and she was filled with alarm. It
was most desirable that Millicent should marry Clarence.

"How long have you had this in your mind?" she asked.

"That is more than I can tell you," he answered thoughtfully. "I admired
her greatly the first time I saw her; I admired her more when we made
friends, but I don't think I went much farther for a while. In Tact, I
believe it was only when I knew I must go back soon that I realized how
strong a hold she had on me, and then I fought against yielding. The
difficulties to be got over looked so serious."

"Has Millicent any suspicion of your regard for her?" It was an important
question and Mrs. Gladwyne waited in suspense for his reply.

"Not the slightest, so far as I can tell. I tried to hide my feelings
until I could come to a decision as to what I ought to do."

This was satisfactory, provided that his supposition was correct, and his
companion could imagine his exercising a good deal of self-repression.

"What is your fear?" she asked.

"Well, I'm rough and unpolished compared with Nasmyth and the rest, but
with her large mind she might overlook that. I couldn't live here as
Nasmyth and Clarence do; I'm not rich enough. My wife, if I marry, must
come out West with me, and I might have to be away from her for months
now and then. I don't know that I could even establish myself in
Victoria, where she would find something resembling your English society.
Besides, my small share of prosperity might come to an end; I'm going
back now, sooner than I expected, because there are business difficulties
to be grappled with."

Mrs. Gladwyne nodded. She could follow his thought, but after a pause he
continued.

"What troubles me most is that Millicent seems so much in harmony with
her surroundings. We have nothing like them in Canada--anyway, not in the
West. Whether ours are better or worse doesn't affect the case; they're
widely different. There is much she would have to give up; what I could
offer her in place of it would be new and strange, less finished, less
refined. Could a woman of your station stand it? Would she suffer from
being torn adrift from the associations that surround her here?"

His companion considered. Allowing for his generosity in thinking first
of Millicent, he was a little too practical and dispassionate. She did
not think he was very greatly in love with the girl as yet, and that was
consoling. What Millicent thought she did not know, but in many respects
the man was eminently likable. Mrs. Gladwyne had grown fond of him; but
that must not be allowed to stand in her son's way. Clarence came before
anybody else.

"I feel my responsibility," she said slowly. "Would you act on my
advice?"

"I think so--it might be hard. Anyway, I'd try."

She hesitated. The man had won her respect. Had she been wholly free from
extraneous influences she might, perhaps, have counseled him to make the
venture, but half-consciously she tried to see only the shadows in the
picture he had drawn.

"Well," she answered him, "until two years ago Millicent lived in this
house--that must have had its effect on her."

"Yes," he agreed; "she shows it. These old places set their stamp on
people--it's very plain on you."

Mrs. Gladwyne saw that he understood, but she felt half guilty as she
proceeded:

"You admit that you could not give her anything of this kind in Canada?"

He laughed rather grimly.

"No; our homes were built yesterday, and we move on rapidly--they'll be
pulled down again to-morrow. I'll own that our ideas and manners are in
the same unfinished, transitory stage. We haven't been able to sit down
and learn how to be graceful."

She made a sign of comprehension, though her reluctance to proceed grew
stronger. He was very honest and there was pain in his face.

"Millicent," she said, "is essentially one of us, used to what we
consider needful, bred to our ways. The endless small amenities which
make life smooth here have always surrounded her. Can you imagine her,
for instance, living with the Marples?"

"No," he replied harshly; "I can't."

"Then do you think it would be wise to take her to Canada?"

"I have thought she would not mind giving up many things she values, if
one could win her affection."

"That is very true; but it doesn't get over the difficulty. It isn't so
very hard to nerve oneself to make a sacrifice, it's the facing of the
inevitable results when the reaction sets in that tells. She would
continually miss something she had been used to and she would long for
it."

He sat silent for nearly a minute, with his face set hard, and then he
looked up.

"If Millicent were your daughter, would you let her go?"

Again Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. His confidence hurt her; she shrank from
delivering what she thought would be the final blow, but she strove to
assure herself that she was acting in Millicent's best interest.

"No," she answered, "not unless she was passionately attached to the man
who wished to take her out, and then I should do my utmost to dissuade
her."

He made no answer for a few moments. Then slowly he rose.

"Thank you," he said gravely. "I'm afraid you're right. It's generally
hard to do what one ought. Well,"--he took the hand she held out--"I'm
grateful to you in many ways and I'd like you to remember me now and
then."

She let him go, and crossing the room to a window, she watched him stride
down the drive with a swift, determined gait. He might be tried severely,
but there was little fear of this man's resolution deserting him. She
was, however, troubled by a recurrence of the unpleasant sense of guilt
when he disappeared; it was difficult to persuade herself that she had
been quite honest, and the difficulty was new to her.

In the meanwhile Lisle walked on rapidly, disregarding the ache that the
motion started in his injured arm and shoulder. In his dejected mood, the
twinge at every step was something of a welcome distraction. Since a
sacrifice must be made, it should, he resolved, be made by him; Millicent
should not suffer, though he admitted that he had no reason for supposing
that she would have been willing to do so. She had never shown him more
than confidence and friendliness, and it was only during the past few
weeks that he had ventured to think of the possibility of winning her.
Even then, the thought had roused no excess of ardent passion; much as he
desired her, a strong respect and steadfast affection were more in
keeping with his temperament. Nevertheless, had he known that she loved
him and he could confer benefits upon her in place of demanding a
sacrifice, he would have been strangely hard to deter.

On his return, Nasmyth met him at the door.

"Where have you been?" he asked with some indignation.

"To Mrs. Gladwyne's," Lisle informed him.

"You walked to the house, after what Irvine said when you insisted on his
taking the bandages off?"

"I took them off; he only protested. Anyway, I didn't break my leg."

Nasmyth noticed his gloomy expression.

"Well," he responded, "I suppose there was very little use in warning you
to keep quiet; but you look as if you had suffered for your rashness."

"That's true," answered the Canadian with a grim smile. "After all, it's
what usually happens, isn't it?"

They went in, Nasmyth a little puzzled by his companion's manner; but
Lisle offered no explanation of its cause.




CHAPTER XXI

THE LAST AFTERNOON


It was a bright day when Lisle took his leave of the Marples. They gave
him a friendly farewell and when he turned away Bella Crestwick walked
with him down the drive.

"I don't care what they think; I couldn't talk to you while they were all
trying to say something nice," she explained. "Still, to do them justice,
I believe they meant it. We are sorry to part with you."

"It's soothing to feel that," Lisle replied. "In many ways, I'm sorry to
go. I've no doubt you'll miss your brother after to-morrow."

"Yes," she said with unusual seriousness. "More than once during the last
two years I felt that it would be a relief to let somebody else have the
responsibility of looking after him, but now that the time has come I'm
sorry he's going. I can't help remembering how often I lost my temper,
and the mistakes I made."

"You stuck to your task," commended Lisle. "I dare say it was a hard one,
almost beyond you now and then."

He knew that he was not exaggerating. She was only a year older than the
wilful lad, who must at times have driven her to despair. Yet she had
never faltered in her efforts to restrain and control him; and had made a
greater sacrifice for his sake than Lisle suspected, though in the light
of a subsequent revelation of Gladwyne's character she was thankful for
this.

"Well," she replied, "I suppose that one misses a load one has grown used
to, and I feel very downcast. It's hardly fair to pass Jim on to you--but
I can trust you to take care of him."

"You can trust the work and the country," Lisle corrected her with a
trace of grimness. "He's not going out to be idle, as he'll discover.
There's nothing like short commons and steady toil for taming any one.
You'll see the effect of my prescription when I send him back again."

"He has physical pluck. I'm glad to remember it; and he has shown signs
of steadying since he found Gladwyne out."

Lisle looked at her searchingly.

"Since he found Gladwyne out?"

"Oh," she answered, seeing that she had been incautious, "he rather
idolized the man, and I suppose it was painful to discover by accident
that he wasn't quite all he thought him. Now, however, he has transferred
his homage to you--I'm afraid Jim must always have somebody to prop
him--but I've no misgivings."

Lisle laughed.

"I've seldom had the time to get into mischief; I suppose that accounts
for a good deal."

They were nearing the lodge and she stopped and held out her hand.

"It's hard to say good-by; you have helped me more than you'll ever
guess, and you won't be forgotten." Then as he held her hand with signs
of embarrassment she laughed with something of her usual mocking manner
and suddenly drew away. "Good-by," she added. "I was rather daring once
and I suppose you were shocked. I can't repeat the rashness--it would
mean more now."

She walked back toward the house, and he went on. Half an hour later he
met Millicent, who stopped to greet him.

"I was on my way to call on you for the last time," he told her.

There was something in his voice that troubled her, and, though she had
expected it, she shrank from the intimation of his departure.

"Then, will you come back with me?" she asked.

"If you're not pressed for time, I'd rather walk across the moor, the way
you once took me soon after I came. I'd like to look round the
countryside again before I leave, though it will be a melancholy
pleasure."

For no very obvious reason, she hesitated. It was, however, hard to
refuse his last request and she really wished to go.

"The views are unusually good," she said, as they started on. "Wouldn't
Nasmyth have gone with you?"

"It wouldn't have been the same," he explained. "I'm storing up memories
to take away with me and somehow Nasmyth is most clearly associated with
Canada. When I think of him, it will be as sitting in camp beside a
portage or holding the canoe paddle."

"And you can't picture my being occupied in that way?"

"No," he answered gravely; "I associate you with England--with stately
old houses, with well-cared-for woods and quiet valleys. There's no doubt
that your place is here."

He spoke as if he were making an admission that was forced from him, and
she endeavored to answer in a lighter manner.

"It's the only one I've had an opportunity for trying."

"But you love this place!"

"Yes," she said; "I love it very well. Perhaps I am prejudiced, and I've
only had a glimpse at other countries, but I feel that this is the most
beautiful land in the world."

He stopped and glanced round. From where they stood he could look out
upon leagues of lonely brown moors running back into the distance under a
cloudless sky. Beyond them the Scottish hills were softly penciled in
delicate gray. There was a sense of space and vastness in the picture,
but it was not that which spoke most plainly to him. Down on the
far-spread low ground lay such white homesteads, built to stand for
generations, as he had never seen in Canada; parks sprinkled with noble
trees, amid which the gray walls of some ancient home peeped out;
plantations made with loving care, field on field, fenced in with
well-trimmed trimmed hedges.

It was all eloquent of order, security and long-established ease; a
strong contrast to the rugged wilderness where, in the bush and on
treeless prairie, men never relaxed their battle with nature. In many
ways, his was a stern country; a land of unremitting toil from which one
desisted only long enough to eat and sleep, and he was one of the
workers. Mrs. Gladwyne had been right--it was no place for this
delicately nurtured girl with her sensitiveness and artistic faculties.

"For those who can live as you live, it would be hard to find the equal
of this part of England," he said. "But I'm not sure you can keep it very
much longer as it is."

"Why?" she asked.

It was a relief to talk of matters of minor interest, for he dare not let
his thoughts dwell too much on the subject that was nearest them.

"Well," he replied, "there's the economic pressure, for one thing; the
growth of your cities; the demand for food. I see land lying almost idle
that could be made productive at a very moderate outlay. Our people often
give nearly as much as it's worth here for no better soil."

"But how do they make it pay?"

He laughed.

"The secret is that they expect very little--enough to eat, a shack they
build with their own hands to sleep in--and they're willing to work
sixteen hours out of the twenty-four."

"They can't do so in winter."

"The hours are shorter, but where the winter's hardest--on the open
middle prairie--the work's more severe. There the little man spends a
good deal of his time hauling home stove-wood or building-logs for new
stables or barns. He has often to drive several leagues with the
thermometer well below zero before he can find a bluff with large enough
trees. In the Pacific Slope forests, where it's warmer, work goes on much
as usual. The bush rancher spends his days chopping big trees in the rain
and his nights making odd things--furniture, wagon-poles, new doors for
his outbuildings. What you would call necessary leisure is unknown."

This was not exaggeration; but he spoke of it from a desire to support
his resolution by emphasizing the sternest aspects of western life. It
had others more alluring: there were men who dwelt more or less at their
ease; but they were by no means numerous, and the toilers--in city
office, lonely bush, or sawmill--were consumed by or driven into a
feverish activity. As one of them, it was his manifest duty to leave this
English girl in her sheltered surroundings. There was, however, one
remote but alluring possibility that made this a little easier--he might,
after all, win enough to surround her with some luxury and cultured
friends in one of the cities of the Pacific coast. Though they differed
from those in England, they were beautiful, with their vistas of
snow-capped mountains and the sea.

"But you are not a farmer," she objected.

"No; mining's my vocation and it keeps me busy. In the city, I'm at work
long before they think of opening their London offices, and it's
generally midnight before I've finished worrying engineers and
contractors at their homes or hotels. In the wilds, we're more or less
continuously grappling with rock or treacherous gravel, or out on the
prospecting trail, while the northern summer lasts; it's then light most
of the night. In the winter, we sometimes sleep in the snow, with the
thermometer near the bottom of its register."

Millicent shivered a little, wondering uneasily why he had taken the
trouble to impress this upon her. It was, she thought, certainly not to
show what he was capable of.

"Are you glad to go back, or do you dread it?" she asked.

"I don't dread it--it's my life, and things may be easier by and by.
Still, I'm very loath to go."

Millicent could believe that. His troubled expression confirmed it; and
she was strangely pleased. She had never had a companion in whom she
could have so much confidence, and she had already recognized that she
was, in one sense of the word, growing fond of him. Indeed, she had begun
to be curious about the feeling and to wonder whether it stopped quite
short at liking.

"Well," she told him, "I'm glad that you asked me to come with you. I
think I was one of your first friends and I'm pleased that you should
wish to spend part of your last day in my company."

"You come first of all!"

"That's flattering," she smiled. "What about Nasmyth?"

"An unusually fine man, but he has his limits. You have none."

"I'm not sure I quite understand you."

"Then," he explained seriously, "what I think I mean is this--you're one
of the people who somehow contrive to meet any call that is made on them.
You would never sit down, helpless, in a trying situation; you'd find
some way of getting over the difficulties. It's a gift more useful than
genius."

"You're rating me too highly," she answered with some embarrassment. "You
admitted that you thought my place was here--the inference was that I
shouldn't fit into a different one."

"No," he corrected her; "you'd adapt yourself to changed conditions; but
that wouldn't prevent your suffering in the process. Indeed, I think
people of your kind often suffer more than the others."

He was to some extent correct in his estimate of her, but she shrank from
the direct personal application of his remarks.

"Aren't the virtues you have described fairly common?" she asked. "I
think that must be so, because they're so necessary."

"In a degree, I suppose they are. You see them, perhaps, most clearly in
such lands as mine. The pioneer has a good deal against him--frost and
floods, hard rock and sliding snow; he must face every discomfort, hunger
and stinging cold. The prospector crawls through tangled forests, and
packs his stores across snowy divides; shallow shafts cave in, rude dams
are swept away. A man worked to exhaustion on the trail runs out of
provisions and goes on, starving; he lames himself among the rocks, sets
his teeth and limps ahead. I've thought the capacity to do so is
humanity's greatest attribute, but after all it's not shown in its finest
light battling with material things. When the moral stress comes, the man
who would face the other often fails."

"Yes," she asserted; "there are barriers that can't be stormed. Merely to
acquiesce is the hardest thing of all, but in that lies the victory."

"It's a bitter one," he answered moodily.

There was silence for a few minutes while they strolled on through the
heather. Afterward, Millicent understood where his thoughts had led, but
now she was chiefly conscious of a slight but perplexing resentment
against the fact that he should discourse rather crude philosophy.
Indeed, the feeling almost amounted to disappointment--it was their last
walk, and though she did not know what she had expected from him, it was
something different from this. Walking by her side, with his fine poise,
his keen eyes that regarded her steadily when she spoke, and his resolute
brown face, he appealed to her physically, and in other ways she approved
of him. It was borne in upon her more clearly that she would miss him
badly, and she suspected that he would not find it easy to part from her.
In the meanwhile he recognized that she had, no doubt unconsciously,
given him a hint--when the moral difficulties were unsurmountable one
must quietly submit.

They stopped when they reached the highest strip of moor. The sun was
low, the vast sweep of country beneath them was fading to neutral color,
woods, low ridges, and river valleys losing their sharpness of contour as
the light left them. A faint cold wind sighed among the heather,
emphasizing the desolation of the moorland.

Millicent shivered.

"We'll go down," Lisle said quietly; "the brightness has gone. I've had a
great time here--something to think of as long as I live--but now it's
over."

"But you'll come back some day?" she suggested.

"I may; I can't tell," he answered. "I've schemes in view, to be worked
out in the North, that may make my return possible; but even then it
couldn't be quite the same. Things change; one mustn't expect too much."

His smile was a little forced; his mood was infectious, and an unusual
melancholy seized upon Millicent as they moved down-hill across the long,
sad-colored slopes of heather. Then they reached a bare wood where dead
leaves that rustled in the rising wind lay in drifts among the withered
fern and the slender birch trunks rose about them somberly. The light had
almost gone, the gathering gloom reacted upon both of them, and there was
in the girl's mind a sense of something left unsaid. Once or twice she
glanced at her companion; his face was graver than usual and he did not
look at her.

It was quite dark when they walked down the dale beneath the leafless
oaks, talking now with an effort about indifferent matters, until at last
Millicent stopped at the gate of the drive to her house.

"Will you come in?" she asked.

"No; Nasmyth's waiting. I'm glad you came with me, but I won't say
good-by. I'll look forward to the journey we're to make together through
British Columbia."

She held out her hand; in another moment he turned away, and she walked
on to the house with a strange sense of depression.




CHAPTER XXII

STARTLING NEWS


It was snowing in the northern wilderness and the bitter air was filled
with small, dry flakes, which whirled in filmy clouds athwart the red
glow of a fire. A clump of boulders stood outlined beside a frozen river,
and behind the boulders a growth of willows rose crusted with snow, while
beyond them, barely distinguishable, were the stunted shapes of a few
birches. So far the uncertain radiance reached when the fire leaped up,
but outside it all was shut in by a dense curtain of falling snow.

It had been dark for some time, and Lisle was getting anxious as he lay,
wrapped in a ragged skin coat, in a hollow beside a boulder. A straining
tent stood near the fire, but the big stone afforded better shelter, and
drawing hard upon his pipe, he listened eagerly. The effort to do so was
unpleasant as well as somewhat risky, for he had to turn back the old fur
cap from his tingling ears; and he shivered at every variation of the
stinging blast. There was nothing to be heard except the soft swish of
the snow as it swirled among the stones and the hollow rumble of the
river pouring down a rapid beneath a rent bridge of ice.

The man had spent the early winter, when the snow facilitates traveling,
in the auriferous regions of the North, arranging for the further
development of the mineral properties under his control. That done, he
had, returning some distance south, struck out again into the wilds to
examine some alluvial claims in which he had been asked to take an
interest. It was difficult to reach the first of them; and then he had
spent several weeks in determined toil, cutting and hauling in wood to
thaw out the frozen surface sufficiently to make investigations.
Crestwick had accompanied him, but during the last few days he had gone
down to a Hudson Bay post with the owners of the claim, who were
returning satisfied with the arrangements made. His object was to obtain
any letters that might have arrived, and Lisle, going on to look at
another group of claims, had arranged to meet him where he had camped.

It would be difficult to miss the way, for it consisted of the frozen
river, but Crestwick should have arrived early in the afternoon and Lisle
felt uneasy. On the whole, the Canadian was satisfied with the conduct of
his companion. Deprived during most of the time of any opportunity for
dissipation, scantily fed, and forced to take his share in continuous
labor, the lad's better qualities had become manifest and he had
responded pluckily to the demands on him. Abstinence and toil were
already producing their refining effect. Still, he had not come back, and
with the snow thickening, it was possible that he might not be able to
keep to the comparatively plain track of the river. There was also the
risk that by holding on too far when he saw the fire he might blunder in
among the fissured ice at the foot of the rapid.

Rising at length, Lisle walked toward the dangerous spot, guiding himself
by sound, for once he was out of the firelight there was nothing to be
seen but a white driving cloud. He knew when he had reached the
neighborhood of the rapid by the increased clamor of the stream, and he
crept on until he decided that he was abreast of the pool below. The
rapid was partly frozen, but the ice was fissured and piled up at the
tail of it.

Lisle could not remember how long he waited, beating his stiffened hands
and stumbling to and fro to keep his feet from freezing, but at last,
though he could see nothing, he heard a crunching sound, and he called
out sharply.

"I've got here!" came the answer. "Where shall I leave the ice? Seems to
be an opening in front of me!"

It was difficult to hear through the clamor of the water and the crash of
drifting ice; but Lisle caught the words and called again:

"Turn your back on the wind and walk straight ahead!"

He supposed that Crestwick was obeying him, but a few moments later he
heard a second shout:

"Brought up by another big crack!"

The voice was hoarse and anxious, and Lisle, deciding that the lad was
worn out by his journey and probably confused, bade him wait, and
hurrying down-stream a little he moved out upon the frozen pool. He
proceeded along it for a few minutes, calling to Crestwick and guiding
himself by the answers; and then he stopped abruptly with a strip of
black water close beneath his feet. On the other side was a ridge of
rugged ice; but what lay beyond it he could not see.

"I'm in among a maze of cracks; can't find any way out!" Crestwick cried,
answering his hail.

Lisle reflected rapidly as he followed up the crevasse, which showed no
sign of narrowing. The snow was thick, the bitter wind increasing, and a
plunge into icy water might prove disastrous. It was obvious that he must
extricate his companion as soon as possible, but the means of
accomplishing it was not clear. Crestwick was somewhere on the wrong side
of the crack, which seemed to lead right across the stream toward the
confusion of broken ridges and hummocks which, as Lisle remembered,
fringed the opposite bank. He must endeavor to find the place where the
lad had got across; but this was difficult, for fresh breaches and ridges
drove him back from the edge. Presently the chasm ended in a wide opening
filled with an inky flood, and Lisle, turning back a yard or two, braced
himself and jumped.

He made out a shapeless white object ahead, and coming to another crack
he scrambled to the top of an ice-block and leaped again. There was a
sharp crackle when he came down, the piece he alighted on rocked, and
Crestwick staggered.

"Look out!" he cried. "It's tilting under!"

Lisle saw water lapping in upon the snow, but it flowed back, and the
cake he had detached impinged upon the rest with a crash.

"Come on!" he shouted. "The stream will jamb it fast!"

They reached the larger mass and moved across it, but Lisle, clutching
his companion's arm, bewildered and almost blinded by the snow, doubted
if he were retracing his steps. He did not remember some of the ridges
and ragged blocks over which they stumbled, and the smaller rents seemed
more numerous. It was evident that Crestwick was badly worn out and they
must endeavor to reach the bank with as little delay as possible.

At last they came to the broad crevasse, farther up the stream, and Lisle
turned to Crestwick.

"Better take off your skin-coat. You'll have to jump."

"I can't," said the other dejectedly. "It's not nerve--the thing's clean
beyond me."

His slack pose--for he was dimly visible amid the haze of driving
snow--bore out his words. The long march he had made had brought him to
the verge of exhaustion; his overtaxed muscles would respond to no
further call on them. For a moment or two Lisle stood gazing at the dark
water in the gap.

"Then we'll look for a narrower place," he decided. "Where did you get
across?"

"I don't know. Don't remember this split, but the ice was working under
me. Perhaps the snow had covered it and now it's fallen in."

They scrambled forward, following the crevasse, but could find no means
of passing it and now and then the ice trembled ominously. At last, when
the opposite side projected a little, Lisle suddenly sprang out from the
edge and alighted safely.

"It's easy!" he called, stripping off his long skin coat and flinging one
end of it across the chasm to Crestwick. "Get hold and face the jump!"

It was not a time for hesitation; the exhausted lad dare not contemplate
the gap, lest his courage fail him, and nerving himself for an effort, he
leaped. Striking the edge on the other side, he plunged forward as Lisle
dragged at the coat, and then rolled over in the snow. He was up in a
moment, gasping hard, almost astonished to find himself in security, and
Lisle led him back to the snow-covered shingle.

"It strikes me as fortunate that I came to look for you," he observed.
"You'd probably have ended by walking into the river."

"Thanks," said Crestwick simply. "It isn't the first hole you've pulled
me out of."

They reached the camp and the lad, shaking the snow off his furs, sat
down wearily on a few branches laid close to the sheltering boulder,
while Lisle took a frying-pan and kettle off the fire, and afterward
filled his pipe again and watched his companion while he ate. Crestwick
had changed since he left England; his face was thinner, and the hint of
sensuality and empty self-assurance had faded out of it. His eyes were
less bold, but they were steadier; and, sitting in the firelight, clad in
dilapidated furs, he looked somehow more refined than he had done in
evening dress in Marple's billiard-room. When he spoke, as he did at
intervals, the confident tone which had once characterized him was no
longer evident. He had learned to place a juster estimate upon his value
in the icy North.

"I was uncommonly glad to see the fire," he said at length. "Another mile
or two would have beaten me; though I spent nearly twice as long in
coming up from the Forks as the prospectors said it would take. I was
going light, too."

"They've been doing this kind of thing most of their lives. You couldn't
expect to equal them. Where did you sleep last night?"

"In some withered stuff among a clump of willows; I scraped the snow off
it. That is, I lay down there, but as the fire wouldn't burn well, I
don't think I got much rest. Part of the time I wondered what I was
staying in this country for. I didn't seem to find any sensible answer."

"You could get out of it when the freighters go down with the dogs and
sledges," Lisle suggested. "It would be a good deal more comfortable at
Marple's, for instance."

"Do you want to get rid of me? I suppose I'm not much help."

"Oh, no!" Lisle assured him. "It only struck me that you might find the
novelty of the experience wearing off. Besides, you're improving; in a
year or two you'll make quite a reliable prospector's packer."

"That's something," replied Crestwick, grinning. "Not long ago I thought
I'd make a sportsman; one of Gladwyne's kind. The ambition doesn't so
much appeal to me now. But I want to be rather more than a looker-on.
Can't you let me put something into one of these claims?"

"Not a cent! In the first place, you'd have some trouble in raising the
money; in the second, I might be accused of playing Batley's game."

"The last's ridiculous. But if I'm not to do anything, it brings me back
to the question--why am I staying here?"

"I can't tell you that. I'll only suggest that if you hold out until you
come into your property, you'll go back much more fit in several ways to
look after it. I should imagine you'd find less occasion to emulate
people like Batley and Gladwyne then. Of course, I don't know if that's
worth waiting for."

It was the nearest approach to seriousness he considered advisable, for
precept was obnoxious to him and apt to be resented by his companion.

"Now," he added, "what about the mail?"

Crestwick produced a packet of letters which he had not opened yet and
Lisle glanced at two business communications. The boulder kept off most
of the snow, and the glare of the snapping branches, rising and falling
with the gusts, supplied sufficient light.

"Mine's from Bella; there's news in it," Crestwick remarked. "She says
Carew--I don't think you've seen him--is anxious to marry her, and if
she's convinced that I'm getting on satisfactorily, she'll probably
agree. He's--I'm quoting--about as good as she's likely to get; that's
Bella all over."

"What's he like?" Lisle asked with interest.

"To tell the truth, in one way I think she's right--the man's straight;
not the Marple crowd's style. In fact, I found him decidedly
stand-offish, though I'll own there might have been a reason for that.
Anyhow, I'm glad; she might have done a good deal worse. I suppose you
won't mind giving me a testimonial that will set her doubts at rest?"

"You shall have it. Since the man's a good one, I'm nearly as glad as you
are. I've a strong respect for your sister; she stood by you pluckily."

"That's true," asserted Crestwick. "I was a bit of an imbecile, and she's
really hard to beat. She says if the life here's too tough for me I'm to
come back and live with them. That's considerate, because in a way she
can't want me, though I haven't the least doubt she'd make Carew put up
with my company. It decides the question--I'm not going."

"A little while ago you'd have taken Carew's delight for granted,
wouldn't you?"

"I'm beginning to see things," Crestwick answered with a wave of his
hand. Then he paused and looked confused. "After all, though she says I'm
to give you the message, Bella really goes too far now and then."

"She doesn't always mean it. You may as well obey her."

"It's this--if it's any consolation, she has no intention of forgetting
you, and Arthur--that's the fellow's name--is anxious to make your
acquaintance. She says there are men who're not so unresponsive as you
are, but Arthur has never been into the North to get frozen."

Lisle laughed--it was so characteristic of Bella.

"Here's something else," Crestwick proceeded; "about Miss Gladwyne. Bella
thinks you'd be interested to hear that there's a prospect of--"

"Go on!" cried Lisle, dropping his pipe.

"I can't see," said Crestwick. "You might stir the fire."

Lisle threw on some fresh wood and poked the fire savagely with a branch,
and the lad continued, reading with difficulty while the pungent smoke
obscured the light.

"It seems that she saw Gladwyne and his mother and Millicent together in
town, and she afterward spent a week with Flo Marple at somebody's house.
Flo told her that it looks as if the long-deferred arrangement was to be
brought about at last." He laid down the letter. "If that means she's to
marry Gladwyne, it ought to be prevented!"

They looked at each other curiously, and Lisle, struggling to command
himself, noticed the lad's strained expression.

"Why?" he asked with significant shortness.

Crestwick seemed on the verge of some vehement outbreak and Lisle saw
that it was with an effort he refrained.

"Oh, well," he answered, "the man's not half good enough. He's a
dangerous rotter."

"Dangerous?"

"Yes," returned Crestwick dryly; "I think that describes it."

There was an impressive silence, while each wondered how far he might
have betrayed himself. Then Lisle spoke.

"Read the rest of the letter. See if Bella says anything further."

"No announcement made," Crestwick informed him a little later. "All the
same, Flo's satisfied that the engagement will be made known before
long." He looked up at Lisle with uncertainty and anger in his face. "It
almost makes me forget Bella's other news. What can be done?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Don't fence!" said Crestwick. "I'm not smart at it. Don't you know a
reason why Miss Gladwyne shouldn't marry the fellow?"

"Yes. It has nothing to do with you."

"Perhaps not," replied Crestwick. "I can only say that the match ought to
be broken off. It isn't to be contemplated!"

"Well," Lisle responded with forced quietness, "if it's any relief to
you, I'll write to Nasmyth the first chance I get, asking what he's
heard. Now we'll drop the subject. Is there anything else of general
interest in your letter?"

"Bella says her wedding won't be until the early summer and she's
thinking of making Carew bring her out to Banff or Glacier--he came out
shooting or climbing once before. Then she'll endeavor to look us up."

He lighted his pipe and they sat in silence for a while. Then Crestwick
rose and bringing a blanket from the tent wrapped it about him and lay
down in the lee of the boulder near the fire. A few minutes later he was
sound asleep; but Lisle sat long awake, thinking hard, while the snow
drove by above him.




CHAPTER XXIII

A FORCED MARCH


When Crestwick awakened, very cold, and cramped, a little before daylight
the next morning, it was still snowing, but Lisle was up and busy
preparing breakfast.

"That looks like marching; I thought we were going to lie off to-day,"
observed the lad.

"How do you feel?" Lisle inquired.

"Horribly stiff; but that's the worst. Why are you going on?"

"Because the freighters should leave the Hudson Bay post to-morrow with
their dog-teams. It's the only chance of sending out a letter I may get
for a long while, and I want to write to Nasmyth."

Crestwick shivered, glancing disconsolately at the snow; he shrank from
the prospect of a two days' hurried march. Had Lisle suggested this when
he first came out, the lad would have rebelled, but by degrees the stern
discipline of the wilds had had its effect on him. He was learning that
the weariness of the flesh must be disregarded when it is necessary that
anything shall be done.

"Oh, well," he acquiesced, "I'll try to make it. If I can't, you'll have
to drop me where there's some shelter."

He ate the best possible breakfast, for as wood was scarce in parts of
the country, and making a fire difficult, it was very uncertain when he
would get another meal. Then he slipped the pack-straps over his stiff
shoulders, and got ready to start with a burden he did not think he would
have been capable of carrying for a couple of hours when he left England.

"Now we'll pull out," he said. "But wait a moment: I'd better look for a
dry place to put this paper currency."

"Where did you get it? You told me at the last settlement that you had
hardly a dollar left."

Crestwick grinned.

"Oh, some of the boys offered to teach me a little game they were playing
when we thawed out that claim. I didn't find it difficult, though I must
own that I had very good luck. It was three or four months since I'd
touched a card, and there's a risk of reaction in too drastic reform.
Anyhow, I'm glad I saw that game; one fellow had a way of handling trumps
that almost took me in. If I can remember, it should come in useful."

Lisle made no comment; restraint, he thought, was likely to prove more
effective if it were not continually exercised. They started and for
several hours plodded up the white highway of the river, leaving it only
for a while when the ice grew fissured where the current ran more
swiftly. White hills rose above them, relieved here and there by a somber
clump of cedars or leafless willows and birches in a ravine. The snow
crunched beneath their feet, and scattered in a fine white powder when
they broke the crust; more of it fell at intervals, but blew away again;
and they held on with a nipping wind in their faces and a low gray sky
hanging over them.

Lisle, however, noticed little; he pushed forward with a steady and
apparently tireless stride, thinking bitterly. Since his return to
Canada, his mind had dwelt more or less continuously on Millicent. He
recognized that in leaving her with his regard for her undeclared he had
been sustained by the possibility that he might by determined effort
achieve such a success as would enable him to return and in claiming her
to offer most of the amenities of life to which she had been accustomed.
Though it had not been easy, he had to some extent accomplished this. On
reaching Victoria, he had found his business associates considering one
or two bold and risky schemes for the extension of their mining
interests, which he had carried out in the face of many difficulties. The
new claims he had taken over promised a favorable yield upon development;
he had arranged for the more profitable working of others by the aid of
costly plant; and his affairs were generally prospering.

Then, when he was satisfied with the result of his exertions, Crestwick's
news had struck him a crushing blow. He was wholly unprepared for it.
Nasmyth had spoken of a match between Millicent and Gladwyne as probable,
but the latter had devoted himself to Bella, who had openly encouraged
him. The change in the girl's demeanor had escaped Lisle's notice,
because he had been kept indoors by his injury. Now the success he had
attained counted for almost nothing; he had nobody to share it with.

The subject, however, had another aspect; he could have borne the shock
better had Millicent yielded to a worthy suitor, but it was unthinkable
that she should marry Gladwyne. She must be saved from that at any cost,
though he thought her restored liberty would promise nothing to him. Even
if her attachment to Gladwyne were free from passion, as Nasmyth had
hinted, she must cherish some degree of affection and regard for the man.
His desertion of her brother could not be forgiven, but the revelation of
his baseness would not incline her favorably toward the person who made
it, as it would seem to be merely for the purpose of separating her from
him.

Lisle set his lips as he looked back on what he now considered his
weakness in withholding the story of Gladwyne's treachery. Had he
declared it at the beginning, Mrs. Gladwyne would have suffered no more
than she must do, and it would have saved Millicent and himself from the
pain that must fall upon them. He bitterly regretted that he had, for
once, departed from his usual habit of simply and resolutely carrying out
an obvious task without counting the cost. Still, he could write to
Nasmyth, and to do that he must reach the Hudson Bay post on the morrow.
He trudged on over the snow at a pace that kept Crestwick breathless.

The bitter wind chilled them through in spite of their exertion, and it
had increased by noon, when Lisle halted for a minute or two to look
about him.

They were in the bottom of a valley walled in by barren hills; the bank
of the frozen river was marked out by snow-covered stones, but none of
them was large enough to rest behind, and one could not face the wind,
motionless, in the open. While he stood, a stinging icy powder lashed his
cheeks, and his hands grew stiff in their mittens.

"There's not even a gulch we could sit down in," he said. "We'll have to
go on; and I'm not sorry, for one reason. There's not much time to
spare."

Crestwick's eyes were smarting from the white glare; having started when
weary from a previous journey, his legs and shoulders ached; but he had
no choice between freezing and keeping himself slightly warm by steady
walking. It would, he knew, be harder by and by, when his strength began
to fail and the heat died out of his exhausted body.

"We'll have to find a shelter for the tent by nightfall, or dig a snowpit
where there's some wood," he declared. "I'll try to hold out."

They proceeded and the afternoon's march tried him severely. Aching all
over, breathing hard when they stumbled among the stones to skirt some
half-frozen rapid, he labored on, regretting the comforts he had
abandoned in England and yet not wholly sorry that he had done so. His
moral fiber was toughening, for after all his faults were largely the
result of circumstances and environment. Of no great intelligence, and
imperfectly taught, he had been neglected by his penurious father who had
been engaged in building up his commercial prosperity; his mother had
died when he was young.

One of his marked failings was an inability to estimate the true value of
things. He possessed something of the spirit of adventure and a desire to
escape from the drab monotony of his early life, but these found
expression in betting on the exploits of others on the football field and
the turf, a haunting of the music-halls, and the cultivation of
acquaintances on the lowest rung of the dramatic profession. All this
offered him some glimpses of what he did not then perceive was merely
sham romance. Later when, on the death of his father, wealth had opened a
wider field, deceived by surface appearances, he had made the same
mistake, selecting wrong models and then chiefly copying their failings.
Even his rather generous enthusiasm for those whom he admired had led him
farther into error.

Now, however, his eyes had been partly opened. Thrown among men who
pretended nothing, in a land where pretense is generally useless, he was
learning to depreciate much that he had admired. Called upon to make the
true adventure he had blindly sought for, he found that little counted
except the elemental qualities of courage and steadfastness. Dear life
was the stake in this game, and the prizes were greater things than a
repute for cheap gallantry, and pieces of money; they were the
subjugation of rock and river, the conversion of the wilderness to the
use of man. Crestwick was growing in the light he gained, and in proof of
it he stumbled forward, scourged by driving snow, throughout the bitter
afternoon, although before the end of it he could scarcely lift his weary
feet.

It was getting dark, when they found a few cedars clustered in the
shelter of a crag, and Lisle set to work hewing off the lower branches
and cutting knots of the resinous wood. Crestwick could not rouse himself
to assist, and when the fire was kindled he lay beside it, shivering
miserably.

"There's the kettle to be filled," suggested Lisle. "You could break the
ice where the stream's faster among those stones; we'd boil water quicker
than we'd melt down snow."

Crestwick got up with an effort that cost him a good deal and stumbled
away from the fire. Then a gust of wind met him, enveloping him in
snow-dust and taking the power of motion momentarily away. He shook
beneath his furs in the biting cold. Still, the river was near, and he
moved on another few yards, when the kettle slipped from his stiffened
hands and rolled down a steep slope. He stopped, wondering stupidly
whether he could get down to recover it.

"Never mind; come back!" Lisle called to him. "I'll go for the thing."

The lad turned at the summons and sank down again beside the fire.

"I think I'm done," he said wearily. "I may feel a little more fit in the
morning."

Lisle filled the kettle and prepared supper, and after eating
voraciously, Crestwick lay down in the tent. It was in comparative
shelter, but the frost grew more severe and the icy wind, eddying in
behind the rock, threatened to overturn the frail structure every now and
then. He tried to smoke, but found no comfort in it after he had with
difficulty lighted his pipe; he did not feel inclined to talk, and it was
a relief to him when Lisle sank into slumber.

Crestwick long remembered that night. His feet and hands tingled
painfully with the cold, the branches he lay upon found out the sorest
parts of his aching body, and he would have risen and walked up and down
in the lee of the rock had he felt capable of the exertion, but he was
doubtful whether he could even get upon his feet. At times thick smoke
crept into the tent, and though it set him to coughing it was really a
welcome change in his distressing sensations. He was utterly exhausted,
but he shivered too much to sleep.

At last, a little while before daybreak, Lisle got up and strode away to
the river after stirring the fire, and then, most cruel thing of all, the
lad became sensible of a soothing drowsiness when it was too late for him
to indulge in it. For a few moments he struggled hard, and then
blissfully yielded. He was awakened by his companion, who was shaking him
as he laid a plate and pannikin at his feet.

"We must be off in a few minutes," he announced.

Crestwick raised himself with one hand and blinked.

"I don't know whether I can manage it."

"Then," responded Lisle, hiding his compassion, "you'll have to decide
which of two things you'll do--you can stay here until I come back, or
you can take the trail with me. I must go on."

Crestwick shrank from the painful choice. He did not think that he could
walk; but to prolong the experience of the previous night for another
twenty-four hours or more seemed even worse. He ate his breakfast; and
then with a tense effort he got upon his feet and slipped the straps of
the pack over his shoulders. Moving unevenly, he set off, lest he should
yield to his weariness and sink down again.

"Come on!" he called back to Lisle.

He sometimes wondered afterward how he endured throughout the day. He was
half dazed; he blundered forward, numbed in body, with his mind too
dulled to be conscious of more than a despairing dejection. As he
scarcely expected to reach the post, it did not matter how soon he fell.
Yet, by instinctive effort stronger than conscious volition, the struggle
for life continued; and Lisle's keen anxiety concerning him diminished as
the hours went by. Every step brought them nearer warmth and shelter, and
made it more possible that help could be obtained if the lad collapsed.
That was the only course that would be available because they were now
crossing a lofty wind-swept elevation bare of timber.

It was afternoon when they entered a long valley, and Lisle, grasping
Crestwick's arm, partly supported him as they stumbled down the steep
descent. Stunted trees straggled up toward them as they pushed on down
the hollow, and Lisle surmised that the journey was almost over. That was
fortunate, for he had some trouble in keeping his companion upon his
feet. At length a faint howl rose from ahead and Lisle stopped and
listened intently. The sound was repeated more plainly, and was followed
by a confused snarling, the clamor of quarreling dogs.

"Malamutes; the freighters can't have started yet with their sledges," he
said to Crestwick, who was holding on to him. "I don't think they can be
more than half a mile off."

"I'll manage that somehow," replied the lad.

They went on through thickening timber, until at last a log house came
into sight. In front of it stood two sledges, and a pack of snapping,
snarling dogs were scuffling in the snow. Lisle was devoutly thankful
when he opened the door and helped the lad into a log-walled room where
four men, two of whom wore furs, were talking. The air was dry and
strongly heated, besides being heavy with tobacco smoke and Crestwick
sank limply into a chair. Gasping hard, he leaned forward, as if unable
to hold himself upright; but Lisle was not alarmed: he had suffered at
times, when exhausted, from the reaction that follows the change from the
bitter cold outside to the stuffiness of a stove-heated room.

"Played out; I'd some trouble to get him along," he explained to the men.
"We're going on to the claims at the gulch to-morrow." Then he addressed
the two in furs: "I guess you'll take me out a letter?"

"Why, of course; but you'll have to hustle," said one of them, and Lisle
turned to a man in a deerskin jacket whom he took for the agent.

"Can you give me some paper?"

"Sure! Sit down right here."

It was not easy to write with stiffened fingers or to collect his
thoughts with his head swimming from the change of temperature, but he
informed Nasmyth briefly of what he had heard and asked how much truth
there was in it. He added that he would have started for England
forthwith, only that he could not be sure that this was necessary, and to
leave his work unfinished might jeopardize the interests of people who
had staked a good deal of money on the success of his schemes.
Nevertheless he would come at once, if Nasmyth considered the match
likely to be brought about and would cable him at Victoria, from whence a
message would reach him. In the meanwhile, Nasmyth could make such use of
their knowledge of Gladwyne's treachery as he thought judicious.

Shortly after he had written the letter the two men in furs set out, and
when the sound of their departure had died away the agent addressed his
guests.

"I'll fix you some supper; you look as if you needed it. Rustle round,
Larry, and get the frying-pan on."

They ate an excellent meal and shortly afterward Crestwick crawled into a
wooden bunk, where he reveled in the unusual warmth and the softness of a
mattress filled with swamp-hay. He had never lain down to rest in England
with the delicious sense of physical comfort that now crept over his
worn-out body.




CHAPTER XXIV

MILLICENT SUMMONS HER GUIDE


Lisle was living luxuriously in Victoria when Nasmyth's answer reached
him by mail. Though it was still winter among the ranges of the North,
the seaboard city had been bathed in clear sunshine and swept by mild
west winds during the past few days, and after the bitter frost and
driving snow Lisle rejoiced in the genial warmth and brightness. There
are few more finely situated cities than Victoria, with its views across
the strait of the white heights of Mount Baker and the Olympians on the
American shore, even in the Pacific Province where the environment of all
is beautiful.

Lisle was sitting in the hotel lounge after dinner when three English
letters were handed to him. The sight of them affected him curiously, and
leaning back in his chair he glanced round the room. Like the rest of the
great building in which he had his quarters, it was sumptuously
furnished, but everything was aggressively new. There was, he felt,
little that suggested fixity of tenure and continuity in the West; the
times changed too rapidly, people came and went, alert, feverishly
bustling, optimistic. In the old land, his friends among the favored few
dwelt with marked English calm in homes that had apparently been built to
stand forever. Yet he was Western, by deliberate choice as well as by
birth; while there was much to be said for the other life which had its
seductive charm, the strenuous, eager one that he led was better.

He opened the letters--one from Bella, announcing her engagement and
inquiring about her brother; a second from Millicent, stating that it was
decided that she would visit British Columbia in the early summer; and a
third from Nasmyth, which, dreading its contents, he kept to the last.

He was, however, slightly reassured when he opened it. Nasmyth's remarks
were brief but clear enough. There was no actual engagement between
Millicent and Clarence, though Mrs. Gladwyne was doing her utmost to
bring one about and Millicent saw the man frequently. In the meanwhile,
he did not think there was anything to be done; Lisle could not
conclusively prove his story, though he could make a disastrous
sensation, which was to be avoided, and it would be wiser to defer the
disclosure until the engagement should actually be announced. Millicent's
attachment to Clarence was not likely to grow very much stronger in a
month or two. In conclusion, he urged Lisle to wait.

On the whole, Lisle agreed with him. Somehow he felt that Millicent would
never marry Gladwyne. Apart from his interference, he thought that her
instincts would, even at the last moment, cause her to recoil from the
match. Furthermore, turning to another aspect of the matter, he could not
clear his dead comrade's memory by telling a tale that was founded merely
on probabilities. There was nothing for it but to await events, though he
was still determined to start for England the moment Nasmyth's letter
made this seem advisable.

Shortly afterward, one of his business associates came in: a young man
with a breezy, restless manner who would not have been trusted in England
with the responsibilities he most efficiently discharged. In the West, a
staid and imposing air carries no great weight with it and eagerness and
even rather unguided activity are seldom accounted drawbacks. There
dulness is dreaded more than rashness.

"I've seen Walthew and Slyde," he announced. "It will be all right about
the money; we'll put the hydraulic plant proposition through at the next
Board meeting. You'll have to go back right away."

"I've only just come down; the frost's not out of me yet," Lisle
grumbled. "Besides, you seem to be going ahead rather fast here in the
city. Walthew's a little too much of a hustler; I'd rather he'd stop to
think. You're almost as bad, Garnet."

The young man laughed.

"I guess you can't help it, it's the English streak in you; but in a way
you're right. Fact is Walthew and I have hustled the rest of the crowd
most off their feet, and we mean to keep them on the jump. Last meeting
old Macalan's eyes were bulging with horror, he could hardly stammer out
his indignation--said our extravagance was sinful. Anyway, you've got to
go."

Lisle made an acquiescent grimace. His face was strongly darkened by
exposure to the frost and the glare of the snow; his hands were scarred,
with several ugly recently-healed wounds on them.

"Well," he complied with some reluctance, "if it's necessary."

"It is," Garnet explained. "Think we're going to have washing plant worth
a good many thousand dollars left lying in the bush or dropped into
rivers? You'll have to arrange for transport and break new trails. You
can do it best when the snow's still on the ground, and that plant must
start working soon after the thaw comes. We've got to justify our
expenditure while the season's open."

"You haven't got your authority to buy the plant yet."

Garnet chuckled.

"It was ordered, provisionally, the day you came down; the makers are
only waiting for a wire from the Board meeting. In fact, I shouldn't be
astonished if some of the work isn't in progress now."

Lisle was quick of thought and prompt in action, but he sometimes felt as
if Garnet took his breath away.

"If you have it all arranged, I may as well agree," he laughed. "I'll
take Crestwick back."

"That reminds me; he said something about taking an interest--asked if I
could get him shares at a moderate premium, though he owned that his
trustees might make trouble about letting him have the money."

"He's not to have them!" Lisle replied emphatically. "What's more, the
trustees won't part with a dollar unless I guarantee the project--I've
been in communication with them. Rest assured that the idea won't get my
endorsement."

"I could never get at the workings of the English mind," Garnet declared.
"Now if my relatives had any money, I'd rush them all in. This is the
safest and best-managed mining proposition on the Pacific Slope. What
kind of morality is it that gathers in the general investor and keeps
your friends out?"

"I don't know; it doesn't concern the point. I'm actuated by what you may
call a prejudice. You can't remove it."

"Well," Garnet responded good-humoredly, "it's a pretty tough country up
yonder and I suppose the lad's of some service. You're saving us a pile
of money in experts' fees and I don't see why you shouldn't put him on
the company's payroll. I mentioned the thing to Walthew; he was
agreeable."

They talked about other matters and presently Crestwick came in, smartly
dressed and looking remarkably vigorous and clear-skinned. There were
many points of difference between his appearance now and when Lisle had
first met him.

"Mr. Garnet has a proposition to make," Lisle informed him; and the
Canadian briefly stated it.

Crestwick did not seem surprised, nor did he display much appreciation.

"To tell the truth, I thought you might have mentioned the matter
before," he remarked. "Still, if you want my services, you'll have to go
up twenty dollars."

"A week?" Garnet asked ironically. "You promise well; if you stay here a
year or two you'll make a useful and enterprising citizen. We could get
an experienced boss packer for what I offered you."

"Down here, yes. When he got to where the claims are, he'd almost
certainly drop you and turn miner, and you couldn't blame him. A man
deserves a hundred dollars a day merely for living up yonder. But it's a
month I was speaking of. If you want me, you'll have to come up."

Garnet laughed.

"I guess I can fix it; but we'll get our value out of you."

"That's a compliment, if you look at it in one way," Crestwick grinned in
reply.

When Garnet had left them, he turned to Lisle.

"Thanks awfully. Of course, it was your idea."

"Garnet suggested the thing; that's more flattering, isn't it?"

Crestwick looked at him, smiling.

"I'm not to be played so easily as I was when I first met you," he said.
"Of course, in a sense, the pay's no great inducement to me; it's the
idea of being offered it. I'm going to advise old Barnes, my trustee; he
was fond of saying that I was fortunate in being left well off because
I'd never earn sixpence as long as I lived, until I stopped the thing by
offering him ten to one I'd go out and make it in a couple of hours by
carrying somebody's bag from the station. Anyhow, this is the first
move."

"Then you're going farther?"

"Quite so," was the cheerful answer. "I'll be a director of this company
before I've finished. You can't stop my buying shares when I come into my
property."

Lisle was conscious of some relief. It was a laudable ambition and
Crestwick promised to be much less of a responsibility than he had once
anticipated.

"I've a letter from Bella," Lisle told him. "She still desires to be
informed if you're getting along satisfactorily. I think I can tell her
there's no cause for uneasiness."

"Bella's a good sort," returned Crestwick. "She'll stop asking such
questions by and by. At least, I think she'll have some grounds for doing
so."

They went out into the city and a week afterward they sailed together for
the North. It was still winter in the wilds, and though that made Lisle's
work a little easier, because rivers and lakes and muskegs were frozen,
he found it sufficiently arduous. He had to survey and break new trails
suitable for the conveyance of heavy machinery, up rugged valleys and
over high divides, and to arrange for transport--canoes here, a
log-bridge there, relays of packers farther on. No man's efforts could be
wasted, for time was precious and wages are high in the wilderness. Then,
when at last the frost relaxed its grip and rock and snow and loosened
soil came thundering down the gullies in huge masses, the work grew more
difficult as he began to build a dam.

Some of the men sent up to him, artizans from the cities, sailor
deserters, dismayed by the toils of the journey and the nature of their
tasks, promptly mutinied on arrival. Others dispatched after them failed
to turn up, and Lisle never discovered what became of them. The camp-site
was a sea of puddled mire with big stones in it; tents and shacks were
almost continuously dripping; and every hollow was filled with a raging
torrent. Nobody had dry clothes, even to sleep in; the work was mostly
carried on knee-deep in water, and at first things got little better as
the days grew warmer. The hill-benches steamed and clammy mists wrapped
the camp at night; the downward rush of melting snow increased, and
several times wild floods swept away portions of the dam and half-built
flume.

In spite of it all, the work went on: foot by foot the wall of pile-bound
rock rose and the long wooden conduit curved away down the valley; and
when at length the hydraulic plant began to arrive, piecemeal, Lisle
found Crestwick eminently useful. He superintended the transport,
patrolling the trails and keeping them repaired. His skill with shovel
and ax was negligible, but he could send a man or two to mend the gap
where the path had slipped away down some gully or to fling a couple of
logs across a swollen creek that could not be forded. He got thinner and
harder from constant toil and from sleeping, often scantily fed,
unsheltered in the rain.

After a while, however, there was a pleasant change: the days grew hot,
the nights were clear and cold, and the short, vivid summer broke
suddenly upon the mountain land. Then it seldom rained, as the high
seaward barrier condensed most of the Pacific moisture, but at times the
clouds which crossed the summits unbroken descended in a copious deluge,
and it was in the midst of such a downpour that Crestwick returned to
camp one evening after a week's absence on the trail. His dripping
garments were ragged, his boots gaped open, and his soft felt hat had
fallen shapeless about his head. He found Lisle in a similar guise
sitting at his evening meal.

"Have they got the pipes and those large castings across the big ravine?"
Lisle asked.

"Yes, that has been done," Crestwick answered. "By the way, one of the
packers told me that the man who's coming up to run the plant--Carsley,
isn't it?--has arrived. There were some fittings or something wrong and
he stopped behind to investigate, but the packer seemed to think he'd get
through soon after I did. That turns us loose, doesn't it?"

"I dare say I could hand things over to him in about a week," replied
Lisle. "Then we'll clear out. I suppose you won't be sorry?"

Crestwick stretched out his feet to display his broken boots and rent
trousers.

"Well," he said, "since I left here, I've spent a good deal of my time in
an icy creek, and it's nearly a week since I had any sleep worth speaking
of. We had to make a bridge for the freighters to bring those castings
over and we'd no end of trouble to get the stringers fixed--the stream
was strong and we had to build a pier in it. Not long ago, I'd have
considered anybody who did this kind of thing without compulsion mad, but
in some mysterious way it grows on you. I don't pretend to explain it,
but it won't be with unmixed delight that I'll go back to the city."

He paused and fumbled in his pocket.

"I was forgetting your mail. I'm afraid it's rather pulpy, but I couldn't
help that. By the way, I'd a letter from Bella, written at the Frontenac,
Quebec. She's brought Carew out; they're going to Glacier very soon, and
she still intends to look me up."

Lisle opened the letters handed him and managed to read them, though
their condition fully bore out Crestwick's description. Two or three were
on business matters, but there was one from Millicent, and he started at
the first few lines.

"Miss Gladwyne and Miss Hume have sailed--they must have landed a week
ago," he announced. "She wants to go over the ground her brother
traversed--you have heard of that project. Nasmyth sailed a week earlier
to arrange matters at this end; but I don't know how Miss Hume will get
along."

"It's merely a question of transport," asserted Crestwick with the air of
an authority on the subject. "So long as you provide sufficient packers,
with relays from supply bases, you can travel in comparative comfort,
though it's expensive." Then an idea occurred to him. "They're pretty
sure to run across Bella; Miss Gladwyne knows Carew."

Lisle sat silent a few minutes, conscious of a strong satisfaction.
Millicent was in Canada, and there was no mention of Gladwyne! Then it
struck him as curious that Bella should have come over at the same time.
As Millicent knew Carew, it was very probable that Bella would insist on
joining the expedition, which Millicent might agree to, if, as seemed
likely, her rather elderly companion had to be left behind. Nasmyth had,
no doubt, already reached British Columbia; and it looked as if those
indirectly brought together by George Gladwyne's tragic death would be
reunited at the scene of it. This was, Lisle reflected, merely the result
of a natural sequence of events, but there was for all that something
strangely significant about it.

"Well," he said, "it has been arranged that I'm to act as guide, and Miss
Gladwyne says they'll wait for me. As that's the case, I don't see why I
shouldn't start as soon as Carsley gets through. I shouldn't wonder if he
brings a letter from Nasmyth. It will be a tough journey, and I'll have
to break a new trail. Are you coming, or will you head for Vancouver to
join Bella?"

"We'll stick together," replied the lad. "Bella's to stay over here some
months, and if she decides to join Miss Gladwyne she'll leave Glacier
long before I could reach the place."

Lisle rose and shook out his pipe.

"Then," he responded, "I'll take a look around, and you had better start
off the first thing to-morrow and hurry those castings on. There's a good
deal to be done if we're to get away when Carsley turns up."




CHAPTER XXV

A RELIABLE MAN


The sun had just dipped behind a black ridge of hills, and the lake lay
still, mirroring the tall cedars on its farther shore. A faint chill was
creeping into the mountain air, which was scented with resinous smoke,
and somewhere across the water a loon was calling. A cluster of tents
stood upon the shingle, and in front of the largest Millicent reclined in
a camp-chair. Near her Miss Hume sat industriously embroidering; and
Nasmyth lay upon the stones. Bella occupied another camp-chair, a young
man with a pleasant brown face sitting at her feet; and farther along the
beach a group of packers in blue shirts and duck trousers lay smoking
about a fire. By and by one rose and when he began to hack at a drift-log
the sharp thudding of his ax startled the loon which departed with a peal
of shrieking laughter.

The party had reached the fringe of the wilderness after a long stage
journey from the railroad through a rugged country. They had met with no
mishaps beyond a delay in the transport of some of their baggage, and
everything had been made comparatively easy for them; but they knew that
henceforward there might be a difference. Man must depend largely upon
his own natural resources in the wilds, where, after furnishing the
traveler with the best equipment and packers to carry it, the power of
wealth is strictly limited. A recognition of the fact hovered more or
less darkly in all their minds, but Millicent was the first to hint at
it.

"So far we have had absolutely nothing to complain of except a little
jolting in the stage," she said. "I'm beginning to understand why
adventurous sight-seers are coming out here--it's a glorious country!"

"It's my duty to point out that it won't be quite the same as we go on,"
Nasmyth remarked. "What do you say, Carew?"

"It doesn't matter; he's said it all before," Bella broke in. "I've had
to listen to appalling accounts of his previous adventures in Canada,
which were, no doubt, meant to deter me; but the reality is that the
hotels at Banff and Glacier are remarkably comfortable, and I haven't the
least fault to find with this camp. We ought to be grateful to Millicent
for letting us come, and though Arthur hinted that it would be a rather
sociable honeymoon, I said that was a safeguard. One's illusions might
get sooner shattered in a more conventional one." She stooped and ruffled
her husband's hair. "Still, he hasn't deteriorated very much on closer
acquaintance, and perhaps I'm fortunate in this."

Millicent sat silent for a few moments. She knew, to her sorrow, one man
who did not improve the more one saw of him, and that was the man she had
tacitly agreed to marry. She could not tell why she had done so--she had
somehow drifted into it. Interest, family associations, a feeling that
could best be described as liking, even pity, had played their part in
influencing her, and now she realized that she could not honorably draw
back when he formally claimed her. She laughed as one of the packers who
had a good voice broke into a song.

"That's the climax; it needs only the cockney accent to make the thing
complete," she said. "When I was last in London, one heard that silly
jingle everywhere. I suppose it's a triumph of the music-halls."

"Or of modern civilization--a rendering of distance of no account,"
suggested Carew. "There's a good deal to be said for the latter
achievement, as we are discovering."

"Distance," declared Bella, "still counts for something here. I've been
thinking about Jim all day; imagining him dragging his canoe through the
timber beyond those hills, and wondering whether he'd find us when he got
to the other side."

"She has been doing more," her husband broke in. "Though she hasn't
confessed it, she has been looking out for him ever since this morning.
In fact, I discovered that our cook is keeping a supper ready that would
satisfy four or five men."

Bella turned to Millicent with a smile.

"Do you think the meal will be wasted?" she asked.

"No; I can hardly believe it."

"Mark the assurance of that answer," commented Carew. "A man couldn't
feel it; it's irrational. Miss Gladwyne speaks with a certainty that our
guide will come, though she has nothing to base her calculations on--she
doesn't know the distance or the difficulties of the way."

"What does that matter?" Bella retorted. "She knows the man."

Carew made a grimace.

"A woman's reasoning. As we've nothing better to do, I'll try to show the
absurdity of it. A man, so far as he concerns this discussion, consists
of a certain quantity of bones, with muscles and tendons capable of
setting them in motion--"

"Be careful," Bella warned him. "It's safer to avoid these details.
Besides, you're leaving something out; I don't mean the nerve-cells, but
the inner personality, whatever it is, that commands them."

"I'm trying to show that, as a mechanical structure, he is capable of
moving his own weight and so much extra a limited distance in a given
time, so long as he can secure the necessary food and sleep. Neither the
weight nor the distance can be increased except by an effort which, if
continued, will soon reduce them below their former level."

Bella laughed.

"Yes," she said, "that's how you reason--mechanically. We're different."

"I'll take quite another line," Nasmyth interposed. "Lisle's traversing a
country new to him; he can't tell what rapids, ranges, or thick timber
may cause delay. No amount of determination will enable one, for
instance, to knock more than a few minutes off the time needed to carry a
canoe round a portage, nor by any effort can one cross a range as quickly
as one can walk up a valley. Isn't that clear, Millicent?"

There was a smile in the girl's eyes.

"Yes," she replied, "but, all the same, Lisle's supper's waiting."

"Such confidence makes one jealous," grumbled Carew. "Lisle, whom I
haven't met, is evidently a man who keeps his promise. That means a good
deal."

"A very great deal," Bella assured him. "Since one's bound to meet with
difficulties one can't foresee, it proves that one man has resource,
resolution, and many other eminently useful qualities; but all this is
getting too serious. I'd better point out that Lisle hasn't even promised
to meet us here at any particular time." She paused and laughed
mischievously. "Millicent merely sent for him, mentioning to-morrow as
the day she would like to start."

A little color crept into Millicent's face, but Bella went on:

"She called and I haven't the least doubt that our guide set out, over
ranges, up rapids, across wide lakes. One can't imagine that man taking
it easily, and there's the obvious fact that Jim will have to keep up
with him. He will find it hard, but I dare say it will do him good."

Nasmyth laughed and strolled away with Carew. The sunset green grew
dimmer behind the hills and a pale half-moon appeared above the shadowy
woods. It was very still, except for the lapping of the water upon the
stones.

Bella leaned back lazily in her chair.

"This is delightful," she exclaimed. "Didn't Clarence want to come?"

The unexpectedness of the question startled Millicent into answering:

"He didn't know."

"Ah! Then you didn't tell him? Why didn't you?"

It was difficult to reply, but there was something in Bella's voice that
disarmed Millicent's resentment. Bella had grown gentler since her
marriage and less often indulged in bitterness.

"I think," said Millicent, "I didn't want any one to distract me; I'm
going to make photographs and sketches for the book, you know."

"But you let us come!"

"Yes," assented Millicent; "you're different."

"That's true. We won't disturb you; and Nasmyth wouldn't count. He's an
unobtrusive person, only to the front when he is wanted, which is a good
deal to say for him; he doesn't expect anything. No doubt, the same
applies to Lisle."

Millicent made no answer and Bella wondered whether she had gone too far.

"But didn't Clarence hear that you were going?" she asked.

"He was in Switzerland with his mother. She had been recommended to try a
change."

Bella asked no more questions and Millicent sat wondering how far she had
been influenced by the reason she had given for leaving Clarence behind.
She had undoubtedly desired to be free to devote herself to the gathering
of material for her book, but that was not quite all. She had also
half-consciously shrunk from the close contact with Clarence which would
have been one result of their life in camp, but this she refused to
admit. It was clearer that she desired an extension of the liberty which
she must sometime relinquish. Taking it all round, she was rather
troubled in mind.

"There's one thing," remarked Bella. "He can't write you any reproachful
letters for stealing away. At least, if he does so, you won't get them."

This, as Millicent recognized, was a relief, but Miss Hume broke in upon
her reflections with some trifling request and soon afterward the men
strolled back toward the fire. The packers had already gone to sleep; the
dew was heavy, but Nasmyth lay down on the shingle and Carew took a place
beside his wife's chair. Suddenly Millicent leaned forward with her face
turned toward the lake.

"Listen!" she cried sharply. "Can't you hear something?"

No sound reached the others for a moment; and then Nasmyth jumped up.

"Yes," he exclaimed; "canoe paddles."

A measured beat stole out of the silence, increasing until it broke
sharply through the tranquil lapping of the water. Then, far up the
glittering lake, a dim black bar crept out into the moonlight and by
degrees grew plainer.

"Of course, they may be Indians," Bella suggested mischievously.

Carew included Millicent in his answering bow.

"No; I believe I'm beaten. You and Miss Gladwyne were right."

The moonlight was on Millicent's face, and Bella, watching her, read
something that roused her interest in its expression--it was stronger
than satisfaction, a deeper feeling not unmixed with pride. She had
called and the man she had summoned from the depths of the wilderness had
responded.

A few minutes later the canoe grounded noisily on the shingle and
Crestwick leaped out; Bella, regardless of the others, flung her arms
about his neck and kissed him; and then she held him off so that she
might see him. His garments were rent and tattered, his face was very
lean, and one of his hands was bleeding from continuous labor with the
paddle.

"Oh!" she cried; "you disreputable scarecrow! You're not fit for select
society. And how long is it since you had anything to eat?"

"We had a rather rough time getting through; there was thick scrub timber
in some of the valleys," Crestwick explained. "We might have made things
easier by spending another few days on the trail, but Lisle wouldn't
listen when I suggested it."

"Then you did suggest it," said Bella reproachfully. "Of course, I'm
merely your sister."

"I don't want a better one," Crestwick rejoined, grinning. "It strikes me
you're looking prettier than you did; but that's perhaps because you have
taken to wearing more ladylike clothes. As regards my appearance, I'll
venture to say that yours will be very much the same before you've
finished this journey."

Lisle had walked toward Miss Hume and had shaken hands with her before he
turned to Millicent. That pleased the girl.

"We ran it rather close, but the day isn't quite finished yet," he
laughed. "We had some little trouble once or twice which prevented our
turning up earlier."

Millicent smiled in a manner that sent a thrill through him.

"I can only say that we kept your supper; but that's significant, isn't
it?" Then she called to Nasmyth.

"Will you see if the cook's awake?"

She had no opportunity for saying anything further, for Carew came up
with Bella, who was voluble, and some time later Lisle and Crestwick sat
down to a bountiful meal, while Millicent and Bella waited on them. Lisle
was slightly embarrassed by their ministrations, but Crestwick openly
enjoyed them.

"Put the plate where I can reach it easily," he bade his sister. "Look
how you have placed that cup; if I move, it will spill!"

"You have more courage than I have, Jim," Carew remarked with a smile.

"I've needed it," the lad declared. "I've borne enough from Bella in my
time. She'll no doubt say that I deserved it, and there may be some
ground for the notion."

When the meal was finished they all gathered round the replenished fire,
Lisle lying back in the shadow because of the state of his clothes. With
the exception of Jim, the others were dressed much as they had been at
home; their conversation was light and easy, and their manner tranquil.
If he could have blotted out the background of tall straight trunks and
shadowy rocks, he could have imagined that they were lounging on a
sheltered English lawn. Double-skinned tents, camp-chairs, and other
signs of a regard for physical comfort bore out the idea in his mind.
These English people with their quiet confidence that what they
needed--and that was a good deal--would, as had always happened, somehow
be supplied, were at once exasperating and admirable. They were the same
everywhere, unmoved by change, claiming all that was choicest as by
right, and very much at ease on the fringe of the wilderness. They did
not belong to it; one could have imagined that it belonged to them. Their
journey, however, had only begun, and there were alterations that must
obviously be made on the morrow.

Then Lisle yielded to a strong sense of satisfaction. For the next month
or two he would be almost constantly in Millicent's company; her
companions were his friends, and he thought that he would not be troubled
by Gladwyne's presence. Desiring to assure himself on the latter point,
he turned to Bella.

"Nobody has mentioned Clarence. I was wondering if he would join us?"

"No," she answered, smiling at him meaningly; "he wasn't invited." Then
she moved away, leaving Lisle more deeply content.

Presently the party broke up, and when they reached the tent they jointly
occupied, Miss Hume remarked to Millicent:

"You look unusually pleased, my dear."

"I dare say I do," Millicent smiled. "It's something to feel that one's
confidence has been justified, and perhaps rather more to rest assured
that everything will now go as smoothly as possible."

"I suppose you mean since Mr. Lisle has come? Apart from his practical
abilities, I'm fond of that man. No doubt you noticed that he came first
to me, as the eldest, though he is aware that I'm only a dependent. In a
way, of course, he wasn't altogether right, Bella Carew being married and
you the actual hostess."

"I wonder if such points are of any importance in the bush," Millicent
answered, laughing. "But I'm glad Mr. Lisle's action won your good
opinion. I like my friends to be graceful."

Miss Hume, faded, gray-haired and formal, looked reflective.

"The word you used is not quite the one I should have chosen. Clarence
Gladwyne is graceful; I think this Canadian is something better. To-night
he was actuated by genuine chivalry. My esteem may not be worth much, but
it is his."

Moved by some impulse, Millicent kissed her.

"I've no doubt he'd value it. But I can't have Clarence depreciated; and
it's getting very late."

Miss Hume noticed a slight change in the girl's voice as she mentioned
Gladwyne. She put out the lamp but it was some time before she went to
sleep. She loved Millicent, and she believed there was trouble awaiting
her.




CHAPTER XXVI

LISLE TURNS AUTOCRAT


On the morning after his arrival, Lisle called the company together and
first of all addressed Millicent.

"It's your wish that I should act as guide to this expedition?"

Millicent answered in the affirmative and he went on:

"The guide must be commander-in-chief, with undisputed authority. Before
we start, I must ask if any one objects to that?"

They gave him full power, with acclamation, and he nodded.

"Well," he continued, "I'd better explain that the main difficulty
attending any expedition into an almost uninhabited region is to keep it
supplied with food and means of shelter; it's a question of transport.
There are two ways of getting over the difficulty--by reducing the
weight, or by increasing the number of packers; and the latter are useful
only when each man can transport more than will satisfy his personal
requirements. I think that's clear?"

They assented with some curiosity mixed with a slight uneasiness.

"Then," he proceeded, "I'll exercise my authority by asking you to lay
out in front of each tent everything you have brought with you."

"Including our clothes?" Bella asked.

"Assuredly," said Crestwick. "You can put them in a heap; it's the
quantity and not the cut that counts."

It was evident that the leader's first instructions were received with
little favor. Millicent looked dubious and Miss Hume alarmed; but the
orders were carried out, and Lisle accompanied by Crestwick made a tour
of inspection. Stopping in front of Bella's and Carew's tent, he pointed
to their rather imposing pile of baggage.

"Two-thirds of this will have to be left behind, though we'll try to pick
it up again. You can make your selection." He went on to Millicent's and
Miss Hume's collection. "We can't take more than half of this," he
informed them. Then he addressed the company in general. "The three
ladies must occupy Miss Gladwyne's tent, and the men Carew's; Nasmyth's
must be abandoned. Each man's outfit must be cut down to one change of
clothes and his blanket."

The announcement was received with open murmurs. They had all been
accustomed to every comfort with which a high civilization could provide
them; they had already cut down their belongings to the lowest limit at
which, in their estimation, life could be made endurable; and many of the
articles they were told must be left behind were costly and artistic. It
was a severe test of obedience and even Nasmyth, who knew the wilderness,
desiring to safeguard the women, was not inclined to yield. Lisle had
only Crestwick to support him until Bella touched his arm.

"Stand fast," she urged, somewhat to his surprise. "If you give way an
inch now, you'll be sorry."

Lisle smiled and then raised his voice.

"I'm afraid I must insist. Since you object, Carew, are you willing to
carry forty pounds upon your back while you break a trail through thick
timber, where we find it needful to leave the water?"

"Certainly not," said Carew decidedly.

"Then," Lisle advised dryly, "you had better leave as much as possible of
the weight behind; there's no likelihood of our getting more packers. You
have to choose between a camp-chair or a suitcase, for example, and your
daily dinner."

For a moment or two they hesitated. Lisle had, straining his new
authority to the utmost, asked them a very hard thing, for in their
regard some degree of luxury was less an accidental favor than a
prescriptive right. Then Bella took up a long garment and with a little
resolute gesture flung it from her.

"That," she laughed, "is the first sacrifice to the stern guardians of
the wilds. It ought to satisfy them, considering who made it and what it
cost." She seized a small valise and hurled it after the dress. "There's
the next; I'm thankful my complexion will stand the weather."

Millicent looked up at Lisle, indicating a small easel, a bulky
sketch-book, and a box of water-colors.

"Are these to go?" she asked with indignant eyes.

"No," he answered gravely; "they're the reason for the whole expedition,
and their transport is provided for. But you'll have to jettison
something else."

The selections were made and Lisle summoned one of the packers.

"Roll these things up in Mr. Nasmyth's tent, Pete," he bade him. "You'll
have to make a cache of them."

"Like burying money, isn't it?" remarked the man, regarding the pile of
sundries with a grin. "Guess they won't be worth much when they're dug up
again."

Half an hour later, three deeply-laden canoes left the beach; and all day
the party paddled up the gleaming lake and crept with poles going up a
slow, green river. Sunset was near when they landed and ate supper among
a clump of cedars; and after the meal most of them, cramped with the
canoe journey, climbed the steep hill-bench or strolled away along the
shingle. Lisle was lying, smoking, beside the fire when Millicent
sauntered toward him and sat down upon a neighboring stone.

"You were right, of course," she apologized. "Am I forgiven? It was only
a momentary revolt."

He smiled, though his bronzed coloring deepened, for there was an unusual
gentleness in her voice.

"It was very natural," he replied. "I had expected more determined
opposition; but I didn't go farther than was necessary."

"No; I think the others realize that now."

"They'll be more convinced of it later," he responded with a trace of
grimness.

"I don't think they'll give you any trouble; but since you got rid of
Nasmyth's tent, where will you and Crestwick sleep?"

"Jim and I can make a shelter of some kind; we're used to the bush."

"What have you done to the lad?" Millicent asked. "I can hardly realize
the change in him; he's a different being."

"I've merely given him a chance he would hardly have had in England. The
country has done the rest. You can ask him how much advice or
admonishment he got."

"Oh," she explained, "I shouldn't expect you to give him advice; it's
cheap!"

He made no reply, and her eyes rested with quiet approval on his rather
embarrassed face. She had no doubt that close contact with this man had
had more to do with the change in Crestwick than the influence of the
country; and then she recollected that the lad's degeneration had been
marked and rapid while he had taken Clarence for a model. It was a
troublesome thought and she banished it with an effort.

"You didn't get here without difficulty; and our journey will keep you
away from your business for some time," she observed.

"As to that, I've earned a little leisure; and I've been looking forward
to this trip ever since I left England. Now it's almost like being back
there again, only that in some ways it's even better."

So far as their surroundings might explain his satisfaction, Millicent
could frankly agree with him. The black spires of the cedars, towering
far above them, cut in rigid tracery against the splendors of the sunset
sky; one stretch of the river still shone with a saffron light; the rest,
which had grown dim, flowed through deepening shadow. Filmy mist trails
streaked the rugged hills and the hoarse clamor of a rapid quivered in
the cool air. Behind it all, there was something that set the lonely
scene apart from any other that the girl had looked upon--one could
realize that this was as yet an untamed and unsullied region. But her
companion was accustomed to the wilderness, so there must be, she
thought, another cause for his content.

"I am glad you do not grudge the time you may have to spend with us," she
said.

"Grudge it!" he exclaimed; and then, restraining himself, he broke into a
soft laugh. "You may accuse me of that feeling when you hear me grumble."

The ring in his voice had its meaning and it left her thoughtful. The
revelation was not altogether new; she had guessed his regard for her,
but she imagined that she could hold him at arm's length if it were
necessary. It was with him as it was with Nasmyth, and they were alike in
their self-restraint. Nasmyth had quietly accepted his dismissal when she
had shown him that it was irrevocable; and the Canadian would not trouble
her with futile complaints. She wondered if out of three suitors she had
not chosen the least desirable in some respects; but this could not be
admitted and she resolutely thrust the idea aside.

"There's a point I'd better mention," Lisle resumed in a matter-of-fact
tone. "I'm not going to follow the route of the first expedition from the
beginning. I've thought of a shorter and easier one; we'll strike the
other by the big portage and then follow it down."

"Are you afraid of wearing out your untried followers?"

"Well," he admitted, "I'm taking no risks that can be avoided this
journey."

She smilingly commended his caution, though she was conscious of a
desire, which must be held in check, to see what he would do if he could
be shaken out of his self-control. She approved of his restraint, because
only while it was exerted could she meet him on friendly terms; but, as
had happened on his last afternoon in England, it piqued her. She
wondered how much it cost him.

"After all," she said with a forced laugh, "it's better to keep carefully
clear of danger."

"Yes," he agreed; "but there's now and then a temptation to face the
hazard. One feels that it's worth while."

"Never mind that. I think I'd rather enjoy the wildness of this scene
than to philosophize. Tell me about the bear and deer we are likely to
come across."

He discoursed at length, and she sat listening while the light faded and
the cedars grew blacker. Then the others approached and they went back to
camp.

"Breakfast will be at seven prompt," he informed them. "The packers will
strike tents while you eat, so have everything ready. There are two
awkward portages to be tackled to-morrow."

They started in a clammy mist which clung about them until they reached
the foot of the first wild rapid, where the green and white flood came
roaring over ledges and between huge boulders, with wisps of spray
tossing over it. This was Millicent's first sight of the river in anger,
and she watched, at first almost appalled and then thrilled with strong
excitement, when Lisle and one packer took the leading canoe up the
lowest rush. They stood upright in the unloaded, unstable craft, long
pole in hand, guiding her with what seemed wonderful skill across
madly-whirling eddies and through tumbling foam, while Nasmyth and
another man, floundering deep in water, assisted them at intervals with
the tracking-line. Once Nasmyth's companion lost his footing and
disappeared, but he rose and Millicent saw that instead of clinging to
the line for safety he loosed it, and swimming down a wild white tumult,
came dripping ashore. This, she thought, was bracing work that made for
more than physical vigor; but she could not imagine Clarence indulging in
it. It was too elemental, too barbarous for him. He was fond of exertion
in the form of sport, but he required somebody to saddle and lead out his
horse and to load his second gun. There was a difference between him and
those who delighted to grapple at first hand with nature.

She was astonished to see Crestwick get a heavy flour bag upon his back
and move away with it over very rough stones, and she joined in Bella's
laugh when Carew attempted to shoulder another and dropped it.

"It's the first time he's ever tried such a thing in his life," Bella
remarked. "There's nothing like personal experience. You don't realize
that it isn't easy when you give a porter sixpence to lift your biggest
trunk at a station."

"The difference is that the porter's used to it," Carew, who was
red-faced and breathless, pointed out.

"It looks as if that would apply to you before we've finished," Bella
retorted. "If you can't do anything else, why don't you help those men in
the river?"

Carew made a gesture of resignation and resolutely plunged in.

"That," laughed Bella, to Millicent and Miss Hume, "is excellent
discipline; after a little of it, I believe he'll do me credit. I can
think of a few overfed men that I'd like to put through a drastic course
of it, only in their case I'd go in the canoe and take my heaviest
luggage with me."

"It wouldn't be wise," asserted Millicent. "When they reached broken
water they'd probably let you go."

She collected an armful of odds and ends and set off up-stream over the
portage. The men spent several hours bringing the canoes and stores
across, and there followed some laborious poling before they reached the
second rapid, which was safely passed. The party was quieter than usual
after supper that night. They had had their first glimpse of the
strenuous life of the wilderness and it had impressed them. The effect
passed off, however, as they pushed on day after day without mishap.
Millicent, in particular, delighted in all she saw--the fresh green of
the birches among the somber cedars, the lonely heights that ever
surrounded them, the gleaming lakes, the broad green flood that here and
there filled the gorges with its thunder.

She suffered no discomfort she could not laugh at; there was something
that braced her in mind and body in the mountain air; and Clarence no
longer held a leading place in her memory. She realized now that the
thought of him had hitherto occasioned her a vague uneasiness. Indeed,
she was almost glad that he was far away; liberty was unexpectedly sweet,
and though she had a few misgivings, she meant to enjoy it while it
lasted.

Then one afternoon when they were stopped by a fall, she slipped away
from the others with her sketch-book, and wandering back through
straggling bush, climbed a rocky ridge. The ascent was steep, but by
clambering up a gully she reached the summit, and after strolling along
it she sat down to sketch the gorge below. The work absorbed her
attention and some time had passed when the lengthening shadows warned
her that she would better retrace her steps to camp.

It proved difficult. She could not find the gully she had climbed up and
the side of the ridge was almost precipitous and was clothed with
brushwood. At last, however, she reached a spot from which it seemed
possible to make the descent; but after scrambling and sliding for some
distance she was suddenly stopped by a sheer drop of several yards to a
ledge. Being agile, she might have reached the ledge by lowering herself
by her hands, but it was narrow and slanted outwards, so that she feared
to slip off in alighting and fall over the crag below. She attempted to
climb back to the summit and found it impossible, for the stones she
seized were loose and came away when she disturbed them. She could only
stay where she was and call for assistance, though the clamor of the
fall, ringing up the valley, almost drowned her voice.

By and by the sunlight faded off the rocks above, the trees below grew
shadowy, and Millicent began to feel anxious and to envy the others who
would, no doubt, be sitting down to their evening meal. They would miss
her and set out in search; but they might not reach her until it was
dark, when it would be difficult to extricate her, and she had no desire
to spend the night among the rocks. She made another determined attempt
to get up, but slid back, nearly slipping over the edge, while her
sketch-book went clattering far below. Then she sat still, calling out at
intervals.

The light grew dimmer, white mists began to trail about the heights
above, and Millicent was getting cold. She was also getting angry--it
looked as if the others were too busy eating or talking to care what had
become of her; some of them ought to have come in search. She felt a
grievance against Lisle in particular. Why she should blame him more than
Nasmyth or Carew was not very clear, except that he was more used to the
country; but she felt that he ought to have come to her rescue. Then,
fearing that she would have to spend the night on the hillside, she
carefully crept toward a small level space near a jutting rock and sat
down, shivering, while dusk slowly crept across the bush.




CHAPTER XXVII

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE


Millicent had no intention of going to sleep among the rocks, but after a
while she grew drowsy, and when at length she raised her head with a
start the moon hung over the hills across the river, flooding the heights
above her with a silvery light. The trees below were sharper in form, but
everything was very still; only the thunder of the fall seemed to have
increased in depth of tone. Millicent shivered from the cold as she sent
a sharp cry ringing across the woods.

This time it was answered, and she recognized the voice. Looking down,
she could see Lisle's black figure moving cautiously along the ledge, for
although the lower rocks were wrapped in shadow it is never altogether
dark in the northern summer. Coming out into the moonlight, he examined
the slab of rock which had arrested her descent, but when he spoke she
was not quite pleased with his very matter-of-fact tone. It left
something to be desired--she thought he might have displayed more
satisfaction at finding her safe.

"Is there anything you could catch hold of at the top?" he asked. "If so,
you'd better lower yourself until I can reach you."

Anxious as she was to get down, Millicent hesitated; if she did as he
suggested she would descend into his arms. She was not unduly prudish,
and indeed, after being left alone in the impressive solitude of the
wilds, she would have been glad of the reassuring grasp of a human being.
But an obscure feeling, springing, perhaps, from primitive instincts,
made her shrink from close contact with this particular man.

"No," she answered coldly; "the rock is loose. Besides, the ledge is
narrow, and if I came down heavily, we might both fall over."

He again examined the slab, and then stood still, considering.

"Well," he decided, "there's a crack some way up that should give me a
hold, and a bit of a projection you could rest a foot on yonder. Then if
you gave me one hand, I could lower you down."

He came up, thrusting his fingers into a fissure near the summit and
finding a tiny support for his toes. Lowering herself cautiously, she
clutched the hand he extended.

"Now," he cautioned, "as gently as possible!"

Loosing her hold above, she hung for a moment or two, half afraid to let
go his hand, while his arm and body grew tense with the strain and she
could hear his labored breath. Summoning her courage she relaxed her
grasp. In another second she was safe upon the ledge, and, scrambling
down, he stood beside her with a set, flushed face, the veins protruding
on his forehead.

"I'm glad that's over; I was badly scared," he acknowledged.

She thrilled at the confession, though she thought there had been no
serious risk; his concern for her safety was strangely pleasant and the
strenuous grasp of his fingers had stirred her.

"Oh," she replied, "I believe I was quite safe after you got hold of me."

He glanced at the steep face of broken rock that ran down into the
shadow.

"If we'd gone over, we might not have brought up for a while," he said.
"But what's that resting on yonder jutting stone?"

"I'm sorry it's my sketch-book," Millicent answered unguardedly. "It's
nearly filled."

"Then wait here a little."

"You can't get it!" Millicent cried sharply. "You mustn't try!"

"It's quite easy."

Millicent could not resist the temptation to make a rather dangerous
experiment.

"And yet you were afraid a minute or two ago!"

"Yes," he answered, looking at her steadily. "But that was different."

She felt her heart-beats quicken and her face grow hot, but she laid a
restraining hand on his arm.

"I won't let you go."

"You must be reasonable," he urged, moving a pace away. "That book stands
for a good deal of high-grade work. If you lose it, you will have wasted
all the first part of your journey. Besides, I should feel very mean if I
left it lying there."

He lowered himself over the edge, and moving from cranny to cranny and
stone to stone, went cautiously down, while she watched him with her
hands closed tight. What the actual peril was she could not estimate; but
it looked appallingly dangerous, particularly when in one place he had to
descend from a slightly overhanging stone. He reached the book, however,
and came up, and when at length he stood beside her his expression was
quite normal and he was only a little breathless. Again she felt a
disconcerting thrill which was accompanied by a confused sense of pride.
What he had done was in her service, and this time he had shown no sign
of fear or strain.

"Thank you," she said. "But I'm a little angry--you shouldn't have gone.
I should never have forgiven myself if you had got hurt."

There was light enough to show that the blood crept into his face; but he
turned and glanced at the descending ledge.

"You had better put your hand on my shoulder where it's steep," he
suggested. "Still, we're not going to have much trouble in getting down."

They had reached level ground before anything more was said, and then she
turned to him with a smile.

"Why didn't you come before? You left me an unpleasantly long while among
the rocks."

"We didn't miss you until supper," he explained. "Then I set off at once,
but I didn't know which way to look and the bush was pretty thick."
Stopping in the moonlight, he indicated his rent attire. "I think this
speaks for itself," he added humorously. "There's one consolation--the
things belong to Carew."

Millicent was glad that he was not going to be serious.

"I remember that you didn't bring much of an outfit," she replied. "I
suppose you had one. What became of it?"

"I left it behind, in pieces, on the thorns and rocks along a good many
leagues of trail; but it wasn't extensive--when you travel in this
country you have often to choose between food and clothes. It was
obviously impossible to buy any more, but the day before we reached camp
I made Crestwick cut my hair. After a look at myself in Nasmyth's
pocket-glass, I'm inclined to think he was unwarrantably proud of his
success."

After that they chatted lightly, until they walked into the glow of the
camp-fire, and while Bella and Miss Hume plied Millicent with questions
and congratulations, Lisle took up Nasmyth's repeating rifle and fired it
several times.

"That will bring the boys in," he explained. "Now I'll get Miss
Gladwyne's supper."

During the meal the others came back and when they had all assembled,
looking the worse for their scramble through the bush, Crestwick, who had
occasional lapses from good behavior, addressed them collectively.

"Wasn't I right?" he asked. "I offered anybody three to one that Lisle
would be the first to find her."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of it, after the expensive way in which
your confidence in your opinions has often been shown to be mistaken,"
declared Bella. "Besides, you promised me you wouldn't waste your money
that way again!"

"This time I was backing a moral certainty," Crestwick rejoined. "That
isn't gambling; if you're not convinced, you can ask the others on what
grounds they were so unwilling to take me."

Receiving no encouragement, he addressed Millicent, who was extremely
vexed with him.

"I suppose you know that you have given us all a good deal of anxiety.
You ought to feel contrite."

"I'm not sorry if I've given you a good deal of trouble," Millicent
retorted. "You were a long time in coming to my rescue."

"That," he exclaimed, "is just the kind of thing Bella used to delight in
saying, though I'll own that she's been much more civil lately. It's
possible that Carew's patience is not so long as mine."

"Aren't you getting rather personal?" Carew hinted.

Crestwick subsided with an indulgent grimace, but when they retired to
their shelter Lisle turned upon him.

"It struck me that those jokes of yours were in what you would call
uncommonly bad form," he said. "It would be better if you didn't make any
more of them."

"Bella doesn't mind; she's used to me," Crestwick grinned.

"I wasn't referring to Bella--she has somebody to take care of her."

"And Miss Gladwyne hasn't? Still, that's her own fault, isn't it? In my
opinion, she has only to say the word." He paused, seeing his companion's
face in the moonlight, for its expression was not encouraging. "Oh,
well!" he added, "you needn't lose your temper. There are people who can
never see when a thing's humorous; I'll wind up."

In the meanwhile Millicent sat in the entrance of her tent, looking out
between the dark trunks of the cedars on the glittering river. It sluiced
by, lapping noisily upon the shingle, lined with streaks of froth, and
the roar of the neighboring fall filled the lonely gorge. The wildness of
her surroundings had its charm; she had been happier among them than she
had been at any time during the last twelve months in England, and now
she was uneasily conscious of the reason. Lisle's constant watchfulness
over her comfort, his cheery conversation, even the sight of him when he
was too busy to talk, were strangely pleasant. She realized why she had
made him take the harder way in helping her down from the rock and the
knowledge was disconcerting. She had been afraid to trust herself to the
clasp of his arms, but not because of any want of confidence in him.

Then she saw Carew kiss Bella among the cedars before she left him to
walk toward the tent, and the sight stirred her blood. It was clear that
she must be on her guard; her guide must be kept firmly at a distance,
though this promised to be difficult. She was, to all intents and
purposes, pledged to Clarence; and until Bella joined her she tried to
fix her thoughts on him, wondering where he was and what he was doing,
without being able to find much interest in the question.

As it happened, Clarence was then sitting in a luxurious parlor-car as a
big west-bound train sped through the forests of Ontario, but his face
was troubled and he felt ill at ease. A little more than a fortnight
earlier he had met Marple at a Swiss hotel, and the man had informed him
that Miss Gladwyne and Miss Hume had sailed for Canada. Nasmyth, he
added, had gone by a previous steamer, to make arrangements for some
journey they wished to undertake. This was the first intimation Clarence
had received. Millicent had written to him on the day before she sailed,
but the letter, following him to one of the Italian valleys, had not yet
reached him, and he was filled with consternation. She had stolen away,
as if she did not wish to be burdened with his company; she was going to
visit the scene of her brother's death, no doubt under the guidance of
Lisle, who had strong suspicions concerning it. He might communicate them
to Millicent; perhaps he had done so already, which would account for her
silent departure. With an effort Gladwyne roused himself to action. He
made up his mind to follow her and, if necessary, attempt some defense.
Perhaps, he thought, he could manage to destroy any evidence of his
treachery which the Canadian had discovered.

Still, he was tormented by doubts as he lounged in the parlor-car, and,
growing restless, he went out on the rear platform and lighted a cigar.
There was faint moonlight, and dim trees fled past him; the rattle of
wheels and the rush of the cool wind was soothing. He could not think
while he stood holding on by the brass rail to protect himself against
the lurching, and he found a relief in the roar as the great train swept
across a foaming river. They had been detained at a junction during the
afternoon, and the engineer was evidently bent on making up the wasted
time.

Presently the door of the next car opened, and Gladwyne started violently
as a dark figure came out on to the platform.

"Batley!" he cried. "What in the name of wonder has brought you here!"

Batley moving forward into the moonlight, regarded him with a mocking
smile.

"Nothing very remarkable; I'd several motives. For one thing, I felt I'd
like the trip--had a stroke of luck not long ago which justified the
expense. British Columbia's nowadays almost as accessible as parts of
Norway, where I've generally gone to, and I understand it's wilder."

"But how is it I haven't seen you on the train?" Gladwyne asked, in no
way reassured by the man's careless explanation.

"I only got on at the last junction." Batley's tone was significant as he
proceeded. "I was too late for your Allan boat; when I inquired about you
in London I found that you had gone; but I caught the next New York
Cunarder and came on by Buffalo. I suppose you stopped a day or two in
Montreal, which explains how I've overtaken you."

"We were held up by ice off Newfoundland."

"Well," suggested Batley, "suppose we go into the smoking end of the car.
I dare say you'd like a talk and it's rather noisy here. Besides, the
cinders are a little too plentiful."

They went in and Batley, lounging in a seat, lighted a cigar and waited
with an amused expression for the other to begin. Gladwyne was intensely
uneasy. It had been a vast relief to be free from his companion, and the
last thing he desired was that Batley, who was a remarkably keen-witted
man, should go over the track of George's expedition in company with
Lisle.

"Now," he said, "I'd be glad if you would tell me exactly why you
followed me. The reason you gave didn't seem sufficient."

"Then my other object ought to be clear. You're carrying a good deal of
my money; I felt it would be wiser to keep an eye on you. As I said, I'd
had a stroke of luck that enabled me to get away."

"I suppose that means somebody has suffered!" Gladwyne, in his
bitterness, could not help the injudicious sneer.

"Oh, no," returned Batley good-humoredly. "In this case, I'd set a man on
his feet--it's now and then as profitable as pulling one down, and my
methods aren't always destructive. The fellow was straight and I'm
inclined to believe he was grateful. I don't think he could have found
anybody else to back him, but I'm not afraid of a risk." He paused and
smiled at his companion. "Sometimes I make mistakes; I did so with you."

Gladwyne flushed, but Batley proceeded:

"I may remind you that when I financed you I was led to believe that you
would succeed to a handsome property; not one that was stripped of its
working capital. I'll give you credit for misleading me rather cleverly.
All this is to the point, because it explains my watchful attitude.
You're the kind of man I prefer to keep in sight."

Disgust, humiliation and anger possessed Gladwyne, but he knew that he
was in his companion's hands, and he did not think that Batley had stated
all of his reasons yet. It was possible that he expected to discover
something in British Columbia that would strengthen his hold on his
victim.

"Well," he replied with an attempt at calmness, "we needn't quarrel,
since it looks as if we'd have to put up with each other for some time.
Have you finished what you have to say?"

"Not quite. There's one question yet. When do you expect to marry Miss
Gladwyne?"

"What is that to you?" Clarence broke out.

"Just this--I'm anxious to form some idea as to when I'm likely to get my
money back. Since Miss Crestwick dropped you, there's only Miss Gladwyne
available, so far as I know, and you have got to marry money and do so
pretty soon. I'm willing to do anything that may help on the match."

Gladwyne's face burned, he looked savage, but Batley continued to watch
him with an ironical smile.

"I don't want to drive you too hard, but I'm only stating an obvious
fact," he concluded. "Now I'll leave you to think it over while I
interview the porter of the sleeping-car."




CHAPTER XXVIII

CLARENCE REACHES CAMP


The evening was dull and gloomy, a gray sky hung over the desolate hills,
and Millicent, sitting alone on a rocky slope, felt troubled and
depressed. Beneath her, the long hollow that crossed the big divide
stretched back, colored in cheerless neutral tints, into drifting mist.
It was sprinkled with little ponds, and banded here and there with belts
of stunted trees, small birches and willows, and ragged cedars that hid
the oozy muskegs under them.

The girl was worn with travel, for Lisle had abandoned the canoes some
time ago, and the party had followed, by what he called easy stages, the
trail he and the packers had broken, though the women had found the way
hard enough. This, he had informed them, would shorten the journey a good
deal, and he expected to fall in with some Indians, from whom canoes
could be obtained, once they had crossed the divide; failing this, they
might be compelled to retrace their steps.

It was up the forbidding hollow they had lately reached that George
Gladwyne had doggedly plodded, faint with hunger, on his last journey.
Millicent had followed his trail for the past two days and she had found
them filled with painful memories. All that Lisle had shown her had
brought back her brother and once more she mourned for him. But that was
an old wound that had partly healed and she could face the sorrowful
story of George's last struggles with a certain pride; he had endured
with unwavering courage, and the manner of his death became him. The girl
had other troubles which clouded the present and filled her with
misgivings for the future.

During her first few weeks in the wilderness, lying all day under clear
sunshine and cloudless skies, it had seemed to her an enchanted land.
Snow-peaks, and crystal lakes that mirrored ranks of climbing firs,
struck her as endowed with an almost unearthly beauty and as wonderful a
tranquillity; and when she pushed on through the savage portals of the
mountains there was something that stirred her nature in the sight of the
foaming rivers and the roar of the spray-veiled falls. Now, however, the
glamour had gone, it had been rudely banished on the night when Lisle had
helped her down the rocks. She, who had allowed Clarence to believe that
she would marry him, had found a strange delight in the company of
another man; one whom she might have loved had she been free, she tried
to convince herself, in a determined attempt to hide the fact that her
heart cried out for him.

Lisle had pushed on with a single companion on the previous night to see
if he could obtain canoes; the packers were breaking a trail, and the
others were resting in camp. Millicent was glad of this, for she wanted
to be alone. Suddenly, as she looked down the hollow, two indistinct
figures appeared out of the mist. The packers had gone up the valley, but
there was no doubt that it was two men she saw, and they were apparently
making for the camp. As the party had met nobody since entering the
wilderness, she felt curious about the strangers. There was something in
the carriage of one of them that seemed familiar; and then the uneasiness
of which she had already been conscious became intensified as she
recognized that he walked like Clarence.

A few minutes later the men were hidden by a growth of willows and she
sped back to camp, scrambling among the rocks with a haste that was born
of nervous tension. She did not see the men again--it was needful to pick
a path down the steep descent very carefully--and when she came,
breathless, upon the clump of birches among which the tents were pitched
it was evident from the hum of voices that the strangers had already
arrived. Pushing in among the trees, she stopped, with her heart beating
unpleasantly fast, face to face with Clarence.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, moving forward to meet her; "now I'm rewarded for my
journey. How fit and brown you look, Millicent!"

She stood still a moment, with an expressionless face, finding no words
to say; then with an effort she roused herself and shook hands with him.

"You must have had a trying march if you followed our trail," she said.
"But how did you get here--I mean why did you leave Switzerland?"

Crestwick chuckled.

"That's very much what we all asked him," he broke in. "In one way, it's
hardly civil; if we'd known he was coming, we'd have been better prepared
to express our delight."

The lad was not, as a rule, considerate and he suffered from want of
tact, but there was truth behind what he said. It is given to only a few
to be sure of a warm and sincere welcome when they take their friends by
surprise. Nasmyth frowned at Crestwick, who had rashly hinted at the
feeling of constraint that had seized upon the party. Millicent, however,
was looking at Gladwyne and her heart grew softer as she noticed his
weariness and his strained expression.

"Well," she said when he had answered her, "you must sit down and rest.
Nasmyth and Crestwick will get you something to eat as soon as possible."

It was not what she would have wished to say--it sounded dreadfully
commonplace--but Batley came forward with an easy laugh.

"I'm afraid our young friend"--he indicated Crestwick--"is not a
diplomatist, but on the whole his fault's a good one; he's more or less
honest. You'll forgive us for surprising you; it was quite impossible to
send you a warning."

Millicent smiled, the tension suddenly slackened, and as the packer who
cooked was away with his comrade, they all set about preparing a meal
which, thanks to Batley, was eaten amid a flow of lively conversation.
The man was weary, but he could rise to an occasion and summon to his aid
a genial wit. Clarence was glad of this; fatigue had reacted on him,
increasing his anxiety, and he had been chilled by the coldness of his
reception. Even the cordiality his companions now displayed was
suspicious, because it suggested that they wished to atone for something
that had previously been lacking. He ate, however, and talked when he
found an opportunity, and afterward acquiesced when Millicent declined to
be drawn away from the others.

When the meal was finished, they sat close together about the fire, for
coldness came with the dusk, but by degrees the conversation languished.
The increasing chill, the gloom and the desolation of their surroundings
affected them all; and nobody had been quite at ease since Gladwyne's
arrival. He was too tired to make more than spasmodic attempts to talk,
and though Millicent was sorry for him she could not help contrasting him
with Lisle. She had seen the latter almost worn out with severe labor,
but even then he had been cheerful, ready to encourage his companions
with lively badinage. He seemed to take pleasure in forcing his body to
the utmost strain it could bear.

The light had died away into the partial obscurity which would last until
sunrise when Lisle walked into camp. The fire had burned up, and
Millicent saw his start and his face set hard at the sight of Gladwyne.

"This is a surprise," he said. "When did you get here?"

"About two hours ago. We found where you left the water and followed up
your trail," Gladwyne answered.

"How many packers and what stores did you bring?"

"Two packers," replied Gladwyne. "There were no more available at the
last settlement. Batley has a list of the provisions--we cut them down as
much as possible. As we were anxious to overtake you, we traveled light."

Lisle took the list Batley gave him and examined it by the glow of the
fire.

"It looks as if you didn't mind endangering the safety of the whole
party," he broke out. "This expedition is already quite large enough, and
you add four people to it with less than half the necessary stores, so
that you could save yourself a little trouble on the journey! What's more
important, we can't make up for the shortage by better speed. Only two of
you can pack an average load, though all four must be fed."

Millicent had listened, hot with anger and a little surprised. Lisle had
his faults, including a shortness of temper, but he was now showing a
strain of what she considered primitive barbarism which he had hitherto
concealed. A cultured Englishman would have led Clarence aside or waited
for an opportunity before remonstrating with him; and then her face
burned as she wondered whether Lisle had been actuated by savage
jealousy. It was, however, insufferable that he should display it in this
fashion.

"I must point out that I organized the expedition," she said. "Everybody
here is my guest."

"Did you invite Gladwyne and Batley?"

"I did not," Millicent was compelled to own. "For all that, they are now
in the same position as the rest. I must ask you to remember it."

Lisle had some trouble in controlling himself, but he nodded. "Well," he
responded, "I'll have to alter several of our arrangements and I'll go
along and talk it over with the packers. I've got the canoes required,
and we'll take the trail at seven to-morrow."

He strode away toward the packers' fire, quite aware that he had not
behaved in a very seemly way, but still consumed with indignation against
Gladwyne. When he had disappeared, Clarence looked up.

"I'm sorry if we have given you unnecessary trouble; but does your guide
often adopt that rather hectoring tone?"

His languid contempt roused Crestwick.

"Lisle's responsible for the safety of all of us," the lad broke out,
"and you haven't shown much regard for it in making your loads as light
as you could!"

Millicent raised her hand.

"We'll talk about something else for a few minutes and then break up.
It's an early start to-morrow."

They dispersed shortly afterward, but Batley sought Lisle before retiring
to rest.

"I regret that we have added to your anxiety," he began. "Of course,
transport is a serious difficulty--I've had some little experience of
this kind of thing."

"In the field?" Lisle asked bluntly. "I've had a suspicion of it. Then
why didn't you remember?" He saw Batley's smile, for they were standing
by the packers' fire. "Oh," he added, "you needn't trouble to shield
Gladwyne. I formed my opinion of him some time ago--he's a mighty poor
specimen."

"I'm inclined to agree with you," replied Batley dryly.

They set off early the next morning, and after his forced march, Gladwyne
found the load given him sufficiently heavy. He was badly jaded, aching
all over, and disturbed in mind, when they camped near the summit of the
divide late in the afternoon without his having been able to secure a
word with Millicent alone. He felt that he must gain her consent to a
formal engagement before Lisle let fall any hint of his suspicions, which
he did not believe had been done so far. Afterward, knowing Millicent, he
thought she would staunchly refuse to listen to anything to his
discredit, and he could, if it were needful, ascribe Lisle's attack to
jealousy. He must, however, also contrive to push on ahead of the party,
on some excuse, and obliterate any remaining trace of the former
expedition's provision caches; then he would be safe.

Millicent had strolled away from the others and was standing among the
rocks when he overtook her. The signs of fatigue and tension in his face
softened her toward him. Still, it was only compassion; she felt no
thrill, but rather an involuntary shrinking and a sense of alarm. She was
to be called upon to fulfil a duty to which she had somehow pledged
herself.

"Millicent," he began, "things can't go on as they have been
doing--pleasant as it was. I have waited patiently, but you can't expect
too much. Now I have come a long way to claim my reward. I want the right
to look after you, and to tell the others so."

His abruptness and hoarseness were expressive, but she felt that there
was something lacking and she answered with a flippancy she seldom
indulged in.

"You thought it needful to bring your privy counselor with you?"

"No; he came without even asking my permission."

"Well," she said, sitting down with forced calmness, "it doesn't matter;
but are you quite sure now that you really want me?"

There was no doubt that he was desperately anxious for her formal word;
there was a feverish eagerness in his eyes. It puzzled her, but it left
her unmoved and cold.

"Want you!" he cried. "Can you ask? Haven't I constantly shown my
devotion?"

"For the last few months--I mean after Lisle went back to Canada," she
replied with gathering color. "Before then, for a time, I think one could
reasonably have doubted it."

He looked confused; that Bella had attracted him had been obvious, and
there was no way of getting over the fact gracefully.

"I'm afraid I have my weaknesses--want of balance, impulsiveness, and a
capacity for being easily piqued," he confessed. "Well, though perhaps I
deserved it, you were cold and aloof enough to madden a more patient man,
and I suppose I slackly yielded to wounded vanity. All the time, you were
the one I had chosen, the only woman who had ever really stirred or could
influence me. Nearly as long as I can remember I have loved and respected
you. Occasionally you unbent enough to show me that you recognized it."

There was some truth in this, and seeing the change in her expression, he
went on:

"You can't cast me off and fling me back upon myself--I couldn't face
that. During those last few months in England, you helped me forward far
more than you suspected--showed me my duties, enabled me to carry them
out. I can't go on alone; I'm your responsibility; having taken it up,
you can't deny it now."

Millicent smiled faintly.

"No," she admitted; "I suppose that would be hardly fair."

He would have thrown his arm about her, but she laid a hand on his
shoulder and with gentle firmness held him back.

"No," she said, with a deep color in her face; "not yet. We have been
associated as cousins; I must get used to the new position."

He had wit enough to yield, but he kissed her hands exultantly.

"It's a pledge! I may tell the others?"

"Yes," she consented quietly, "I think you may."

For a while he sat at her feet, with her hand on his shoulder, talking
about the future, and she was sensible of a certain calm satisfaction
which had in it more than a trace of resignation. She had not shirked her
duty, she was safe from temptation, and she had after all a sincere,
half-pitying tenderness for the man. Her liking for him would, she
thought, grow stronger, and the passion which Lisle had once or twice
half awakened in her was a thing to be subdued and dreaded. Though
Gladwyne saw that she was but lightly moved, he was content, and some
time had passed when they went slowly back together to the camp.

Miss Hume was the first to notice them and when Millicent smiled she went
hastily forward and kissed her. Then Bella joined them and Batley offered
his good wishes in fitting terms. When Lisle and Nasmyth came up, a word
from Bella was sufficient for them. For a moment the girl was startled by
what she read in the Canadian's face. It was, however, invisible to
Millicent. Turning suddenly round without speaking he strode away,
followed by Nasmyth. Stopping when he was hidden from the camp among the
rocks Lisle turned savagely to his companion.

"You heard what Bella said!"

"I did!" replied Nasmyth. "The hound! It must be stopped!"

"Yes," asserted Lisle, more coolly, "that's a sure thing. Still, there
are difficulties--she may not believe my story now. I almost think I'll
wait until we reach the two caches; then with something to back my
statements, I might force the truth from him."

"In that case, you had better watch him," warned Nasmyth, looking deeply
disturbed. "He may try to reach them first."

The next moment Crestwick joined them.

"What's to be done, Vernon?" he exclaimed. "Miss Gladwyne's engagement's
formally announced--it can't go on!"

"Why?" Lisle's voice was stern. "What has it to do with you?"

"Well," explained Crestwick, hesitating, "the man's not to be trusted,
he's dangerous. He simply can't be allowed to make this match!" He paused
and spread out his hands. "I'm horribly troubled about it--I'd better
tell you that I know--"

"You know nothing that need be mentioned," Lisle interrupted him. "That's
positive; you have to remember it. As to the rest, you'll leave the
matter entirely in my hands."

"Oh, well," agreed Crestwick, "if you order it. That relieves me of my
responsibility. I'm uncommonly glad to get rid of it."

Lisle abruptly strode away, and Crestwick saw that Nasmyth was regarding
him curiously.

"Lisle was quite right," Nasmyth said. "He only forestalled me in
instructions I meant to give you."

"Then you understand what I was referring to?" exclaimed Crestwick.

"I've a good idea," Nasmyth answered dryly. "In my opinion, so has
Lisle."

"But you were on the far side of the hedge on the morning we tried the
horse, and Lisle was down. He wasn't conscious when I broke through the
thorns."

"Quite correct; but it's most unlikely he lost consciousness from the
fall, and he was lying with his face turned toward the jump--it wasn't
until the chestnut came down on his shoulder that he was badly hurt. The
doctor agreed with me on that point."

"That might have struck me," Crestwick rejoined. "But you owned that you
had an idea of what happened at the jump. How did you get it? Did Lisle
tell you?"

Nasmyth smiled grimly.

"I'm firmly convinced that he'll never mention what he saw or suspects to
anybody, unless it's to Gladwyne. As to the rest, the hedge wasn't thick
enough to prevent my seeing through it."

"He's an unusual man," declared Crestwick in an admiring tone. "I haven't
met his equal. But I'll keep my eye on Gladwyne--there's risk enough at
some of the rapids--the hound shan't have another chance if I can help
it."

They turned and went back to camp, but on reaching it they sat down among
the packers, avoiding Gladwyne and Millicent.




CHAPTER XXIX

A BOLD SCHEME


The sense of security which Millicent experienced on announcing her
engagement was not permanent and in a few days the doubts that had
troubled her crept back into her mind. She had never entertained any
marked illusions about Clarence and although, now that she was
irrevocably pledged to him, she endeavored to fix her thoughts on his
most likable qualities, even these appeared in a less favorable light
than they had formerly done. The growth of the warmer attachment she had
expected to feel was strangely slow, and though it was early to indulge
in regrets her heart sometimes grew heavy as she looked forward to the
future. Clarence was considerate, attentive and deferential in a polished
way, but he lacked something one looked for in a lover. Besides, she was
anxious about him; he looked worn, his manner suggested that he was
bearing a strain, but this was in his favor, for it roused her
compassion. She fancied that the cause of it was financial, and this in a
sense was encouraging, because this was a trouble from which she could
purchase him immunity.

In the meanwhile she was stirred by mournful memories as she followed the
last stages of her brother's journey and visited the lonely spot where he
had met his end. Somehow the thought of him encouraged her--George had
quietly done his duty, regardless of the cost, and even if her burden
proved heavy, which it was premature to admit, she must bear it
cheerfully.

At length they stopped one evening at a portage, and Lisle examined the
stores.

"The food's getting short," he announced. "One or two of you had better
take out your rifles the first thing to-morrow, while the rest go
fishing. I'll tackle the portage with two packers."

He began his work at sunrise the next morning and it was toward evening
when Crestwick came back exultant with a blacktail buck. Nasmyth was
fishing near the camp and Lisle was busy with a canoe near by.

"Where are the rest? How have they got on?" Lisle asked.

"I think Batley went back to the last reach with Carew's rod," Crestwick
answered. "I met Gladwyne and one of the packers on the low range back
yonder; they'd only got a blue grouse."

"I could have done with the man here," said Lisle. "Which way were they
heading?"

"Back up-river, the way we came."

Lisle made no comment, but Crestwick thought he found the information
reassuring, and thrusting out the canoe he was swept away down the
easiest part of the rapid, while Crestwick assisted Nasmyth to land a
trout. Lisle had returned to the camp when the packer who had accompanied
Clarence came in alone, bringing a couple of grouse.

"What's become of Mr. Gladwyne?" Lisle asked him.

"Hasn't he got back?" replied the other, glancing about. "I lost him on
the far slope of the bluff about noon, but as he could see the river most
anywhere from the top I went right on. There was a deer trail I was
trying to follow."

Lisle said nothing more to the packer but walked rapidly toward where the
cook was getting supper ready. Nasmyth followed him.

"Did you give Mr. Gladwyne any lunch to carry with him when he left
camp?" Lisle asked the man.

"I was busy when he came along and I told him to look around for himself.
I think he took some canned stuff and there was quite a big loaf
missing."

"Bring the box you keep the canned goods in!"

The cook produced it.

"There's two meat cans gone, anyway," he remarked. "Looks as if Mr.
Gladwyne figured on getting mighty hungry."

Lisle nodded.

"Put me up enough bread and fish for two of us for two days."

He moved away with Nasmyth, and they had left the fire behind when he
spoke, his voice hoarse with anger.

"Gladwyne's gone to the cache! He's got half a day's clear start of us
and he knows the country. It's pretty open and he'll make quite a good
pace on a straight trail, while the river bends. Get the stuff I asked
for while I give the others a few instructions."

"You mean to start after him at once?"

"As soon as you're ready," Lisle said shortly.

He turned back toward where the others were sitting waiting for supper.

"As Gladwyne hasn't turned up, Nasmyth and I are going to look for him,"
he announced. "There's nothing to be alarmed about, but it's quite likely
we may not be back in the morning. If we don't turn up by noon, you had
better start down-river and we'll pick you up farther on. I don't want to
waste another day."

"Do you think he has got lost altogether?" Millicent asked anxiously.

"No," answered Lisle, in a reassuring manner. "Still, some of these
ridges are bad to climb and quite a lot of things may happen to delay
him."

He called to a packer and gave him definite orders to take the party
down-river and wait at a spot agreed upon; and a few minutes later he and
Nasmyth left the camp.

Shortly afterward Batley came in.

"Where are the others?" he asked.

They told him and he looked thoughtful.

"So Lisle started at once! Which way did he and Nasmyth go?"

"Up the ridge behind us, but they turned down-stream when they reached
the top," Carew replied.

Batley scented a mystery.

"Well," he said, "I think I'll go after them; I might be useful. Of
course, you'll start to-morrow as Lisle told you, and if I'm not back by
then, I'll follow the river to the rendezvous he mentioned."

He disappeared, as did Crestwick, who came in for supper later on, and as
the packers had pitched their tent lower down, there was now only Carew
left with the women in camp. They were all a little uneasy as dusk grew
near; the haste with which the men had set out one after another struck
them as ominous. Bella's mind was unusually active, for she had promptly
decided that there was something behind all this, and when at last
Millicent strolled away from the others she followed her to the edge of
the water. A ridge of rock cut them off from view of the camp and though
she fancied that Millicent was not pleased to see her, Bella sat down
upon a stone.

"In a way, the anxiety that Lisle and the rest have shown to find
Clarence is flattering," she began, expressing part of her thoughts. "I
wonder if they'd all have gone off in such a hurry if Jim had got lost."

"Your brother knows the bush," returned Millicent, hiding her fears.

Bella did not respond to this. She had decided that Millicent must not be
allowed to marry Gladwyne, but she could not bring herself to denounce
the man. If that must be done, somebody else would have to undertake the
task. At the same time, she felt it incumbent on her to give the girl
some warning, or at least to find out how far her confidence in her lover
went, in order to determine how advice could best be offered.

"I wonder if you feel quite sure you will be happy with Clarence?" she
ventured.

"You have provoked the retort--were you convinced that you would be happy
with Arthur Carew, when you made up your mind to marry him so suddenly?"

Bella's smile expressed forbearance. It was getting dark, but she could
see the hot flush in her companion's cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes.
Neither was encouraging, but Bella was not easily, daunted, and she felt
that her persistence was really meritorious, considering that until
lately Millicent had never been cordial to her.

"Perhaps I'd better answer," she said sweetly. "I was sure of Arthur, and
that means a good deal more than that I knew he was in love with me--I
don't suppose you heard that he'd proposed to me once before?"

"Why didn't you take him then?" Millicent asked coldly. "Remember you
have justified my being personal."

Bella grew rather hot--when Carew had made his first offer she had been
in eager pursuit of Gladwyne--but she sternly suppressed a desire to
retaliate.

"I don't think we need go into that," she replied. "As I said, I was sure
of Arthur--I knew his character, knew he was better than I am, that he
could be depended on. He's the kind of man one is safe with; I felt that
the more I saw of him, the more I could trust him. Perhaps the feeling's
a safer guide than passion--it stands longer wear--and now I'm getting to
like him better every day."

Her voice dropped to a tender note and Millicent felt a little
astonished, and ashamed of her harshness. This was a new Bella, one in
whose existence she could hardly have believed.

"I haven't quite finished, though I don't often talk like this," Bella
went on. "I feel that without the confidence I've tried to describe
marriage must be a terrible risk--one might find such ugly qualities in
the man; even defects you could forgive beforehand would become so much
worse when you had to suffer because of them. Of course, one can't expect
perfection, but there ought to be something--honor, a good heart, a
generous mind--that one can rely on as a sure foundation. When you have
that, you can build, and even then the building may be difficult." She
paused before she concluded: "My dear, I'm happier than I deserve to be;
I have chosen wisely."

Nothing more was said for a few minutes, but Bella, studying her
companion's face, was more or less content. Millicent's faith in Clarence
was weak, she was forcing herself to believe in him; it might be possible
to make her see her lover in his true character, though Bella had not yet
determined on the exact course she would adopt. Then Carew called from the
camp and she went back, while Millicent sat still with grave doubts in her
heart. Bella's faith in her husband was warranted, and Millicent was
enough of an optimist to believe that such men were not uncommon--there
was Lisle, for example, and Nasmyth. With them one would undoubtedly have
something to build a happy and profitable life upon--but what could be
done with one in whom there was no foundation, only the shifting sands of
impulses, or, perhaps, unsounded depths of weakness into which the
painfully-raised edifice might crumble? She stove to convince herself that
she was becoming wickedly hypercritical, thinking treasonably of her
lover, particularly in contrasting him with her guide. There must be no
more of that, and she rose and walked back to her tent with a resolution
that cost her an effort.

In the meanwhile Lisle and Nasmyth were pushing on as fast as possible
along the stony summit of the ridge. There was moonlight, which made it a
little easier, but they stumbled every now and then. Here and there they
were forced to scramble down the sides of a gully and on reaching the
bottom to plunge into water, and once they had to scramble some distance
shut in by the rocks before they could find a means of ascending. Still,
they were hard and inured to fatigue, and they never slackened the pace.
When striding along a stretch of smoother ground Nasmyth gathered breath
to speak.

"We were easily taken in," he declared; "though the thing was cunningly
planned. Gladwyne took the packer with him and headed back at first, to
divert suspicion. It would be easy enough to lose the man and turn
down-stream again; and that he intended something of the kind is proved
by his taking so much food with him. No doubt, he'd rather have avoided
that, in case it looked suspicious, but he's had one hungry march over
the same ground, and I dare say it was quite enough. Besides, he could
defy us once he'd emptied and obliterated the caches."

"You understand the way your people's minds work better than I do," Lisle
returned dryly.

"That's natural, isn't it? The idea that I'm most impressed with just now
is that Millicent might believe it her duty to stick to Clarence more
closely because of a tale that was merely damaging. She would never allow
herself or anybody else to credit it, unless she had absolutely
convincing proof."

"Yes," agreed Lisle; "I guess you're right. That's precisely why we have
got to get there first."

A thicket of thorny vines and canes barred his way, but he went straight
at the midst of it and struggled through, savagely smashing and rending
down the brush. The clothes he had borrowed from Carew looked
considerably the worse for wear when he came out; and then he recklessly
leaped across a dark cleft the bottom of which he could not see.
Presently they left the ridge and headed away from the river, which
flowed round a wide curve, and toward dawn they were brought up by a
ravine. The roar of water rose hoarsely from its depths. The moon was
getting low and the silvery light did not reach far down the opposite
side, but they could see a sheer, smooth wall of rock, and the width of
the chasm rendered any attempt to jump it out of the question.

"No way of getting across here," decided Lisle. "At the same time, it
looks as if Gladwyne must be held up on the same side that we are. We'll
follow the cañon; down-stream, I think."

The moonlight was getting dimmer, but, at some risk of falling into the
rift, they pushed on along the brink, looking down as they went. They
could see no means of descending, but at length, when rocks and trees
were getting blacker and a little more distinct in the chilly dawn, they
made out a fallen trunk with broken white branches lying upon a tall mass
of rock below.

"I've an idea that the top of that tree reached across to this side when
it first came down," Lisle said. "Have you got a match?"

Nasmyth had brought a few carefully-treasured wax matches with him, and
he lighted one. It was very still, except for the roar of the hidden
torrent, and the pale flame burned steadily in the motionless cold air.
It showed a couple of hollows, where something had rested, close to the
edge of the rift, and one or two fresh scratches on a strip of rock.
Lisle stooped down beside them.

"Hold the thing lower!" he exclaimed sharply. "It's as I suspected--this
is where Gladwyne got across; though he has better nerves than I thought
he had. The broken end of a branch or two rested right here, and he was
smart enough to heave the butt off the other bank, after he'd crawled
over. Looks to me as if it had broken off yonder stump. Guess there'll be
light enough to look for a way across in half an hour."

Sitting down he filled his pipe, and shortly afterward he raised one hand
as if listening. For a while, Nasmyth could hear nothing except the roar
of water; there was not a sound that he could catch in the thin
straggling bush behind them where few trails of mist were stretched
athwart the trees. Then he started as a faint crackling and snapping
began in the distance.

"Can it be a bear?" he asked.

"No; it's a man!"

Nasmyth was somewhat astonished. They had not seen a human being except
those of their party for a long while, and it seemed strange that they
should come across one now in the early dawn in those remote wilds.

"He's wearing boots," he said diffidently, as the crackling drew nearer.

"Yes," Lisle responded; "he's making a good deal more noise than a
bushman would."

The sound steadily approached them. Nasmyth found something mysterious
and rather eerie in it, and he was on the whole relieved when a dark
figure materialized among the trees near by. He could barely see it, but
Lisle called out sharply:

"What has brought you on our trail, Batley?"

The man came toward them with a breathless laugh and sat down.

"It isn't your trail but Gladwyne's I'm interested in, and I can't say
that I've succeeded in following that. I merely pushed on, until I struck
this cañon and as I couldn't get across, I followed it up."

"You're not easily scared," Lisle commented. "You might have got lost.
Guess you had some motive that made you take the risk."

"I felt pretty safe. You see, I knew I could strike the river, if
necessary. At the same time you were right about the motive--in fact,
there's no use in trying to hide it. I may as well confess that I'd
sooner keep Gladwyne in sight."

"Out of regard for his welfare?" Nasmyth asked.

Batley laughed.

"Not altogether. The fact is, he's carrying a good deal of my money."

"One should have imagined that you'd have had him well insured."

"That's quite correct. If he came to grief in England, I shouldn't
anticipate any trouble, but it would be different out here and,
everything considered, I'd rather avoid complications with the insurance
companies. Now that I've been candid, do you feel inclined to
reciprocate?"

"Not in the least," Lisle replied shortly. "I'm not sure I even
sympathize. But since you've turned up you'll have to stick to us; I
don't want to waste time in leading another search party. As soon as
there's a little more light, we'll try to get across the cañon."

"Thanks for the permission," smiled Batley, lighting a cigar.




CHAPTER XXX

THE END OF THE PURSUIT


By degrees the light got clearer, the scattered black cedars grew into
definite form, and a strip of foaming water showed in the depths of the
chasm. Lisle walked some distance along the edge, searching for an easier
place to cross, but the rocks were smooth and almost perpendicular except
where they overhung the torrent. He went back to where the others were
sitting and found that they had been joined by Crestwick, who briefly
explained that having set out on their trail he had been stopped by the
cañon and had followed it up until it led him to them.

"It looks worse farther along; we'll have to try it here," Lisle
announced. "Can you get down, Nasmyth?"

Nasmyth glanced into the rift. It was, he judged, nearly sixty feet in
depth, but part of the bank on which he stood had slipped down into the
stream, leaving an uneven surface by means of which an agile man might
descend. A tall slab of rock, evidently part of the fallen mass, rose in
a pinnacle from the water, and on top of it rested the branches of the
tree that Gladwyne had used as a bridge and had afterward dislodged. The
rock behind it on the opposite bank was absolutely smooth, but the
thicker end of the log, which had fallen against the face, reached to
within about nine feet of the summit.

"Yes," he said, answering Lisle's question; "but I'm very doubtful
whether I can get up the other side. The last bit looks particularly
awkward; there's an outward bulge just beneath the top."

"We might manage it by giving the leader a lift, if we got so far,"
Batley suggested, pointing to the sharp slab. "That pike should help us;
I think it would go."

"You think it would go?" queried Nasmyth meaningly. "Aren't you mixing
idioms? Pike's what we'd say round Wasdale, and your other expression's
not uncommon in Switzerland."

Batley laughed.

"I'll own that I've done some rock work in both districts, though I was
thinner then. But I've an idea that time's precious to our leader."

He lowered himself over the edge and finding foothold, went down
cautiously by crack and fissure, while the others followed with some
trouble. Alighting waist-deep in a frothing rush of water, he was driven
for a few yards down-stream, and it was only by seeking the support of
the rock that he slowly made head against the torrent. Lisle joined him
when he reached the foot of the pinnacle, where they stopped to gather
breath with a thin shower of spray whirling about them. The light was
still dim down in the bottom of the chasm, and the mass of rock ran up
above them, shadowy, black and almost smooth.

Wasting no time in examination, Lisle flung himself upon it, seeking for
a grip with elbows and knees. He had ascended a yard or two when he lost
hold and coming down with a run fell with a splash into the stream.

"I didn't think you'd manage it that way," Batley remarked. "The edge
appears a little more promising."

He went up, with Lisle following, finding hold for knees and fingers,
while Nasmyth and Crestwick, panting heavily, encouraged each other
below. On reaching the top of the pinnacle, Batley lay upon it and gave
Lisle his hand; and when he had drawn him up he pointed to the tree.

"I'll go first, for reasons that will become apparent later," he
explained. "Hold on to the log; it doesn't seem firmly fixed."

The tree was small and when Lisle shook it the butt moved against the
face of the rock, which was separated by a broad gap from the top of the
fallen mass. Batley was heavy, but he ascended cautiously, while Lisle
leaned upon the log to steady it. Then, calling Nasmyth to take his
place, Lisle went up. When he was near the top, it looked as if their
progress must abruptly cease. The butt was narrow and the summit of the
rock above it projected somewhat. There was not the smallest knob or
crevice one could grasp, and below them in the shadowy rift the torrent
boiled furiously among massy stones. It was not a place to slip in.

Batley, however, rose very carefully, with his feet upon the shattered
butt and his hands pressed against the rock, until he stood almost
upright.

"You'll have to climb up over me until you can get your fingers on the
top," he said. "Take time when you get up and feel for a good hold."

Reaching his shoulders, Lisle stood on them while Nasmyth and Crestwick
on the pinnacle beneath looked up at a somewhat impressive spectacle.
Lisle's head and shoulders were now above the edge, but he was forced to
bend backward and outward by the projecting bulge which pressed against
his breast, and his cautious movements suggested that he could find no
hold. It appeared impossible for him to descend, unless he did so
accidentally, and in that event nothing could save him from a fall to the
bottom of the ravine. For a while, they watched his tense figure moving
futilely; and then Batley, standing most precariously poised, bent his
arm and seized one of Lisle's feet. He spoke in a breathless gasp as he
thrust it upward; Lisle's legs swung free and he disappeared beyond the
edge. The two below were conscious of a vast relief. It was tempered,
however, by the knowledge that they must shortly emulate their
companion's exploit.

"Take off your pack!" Batley called to Lisle. "Split the bag, if it's
necessary, and lower the end! But be quick! This isn't a comfortable
position."

The pack in which the small bush rancher conveys his provisions from the
nearest store as a rule consists of a cotton flour bag with a pair of
suspenders fastened to its corners, and Nasmyth had provided the party
with a few receptacles of similar pattern but more strongly made before
entering the wilds. The straps, when Lisle let them down, reached several
feet from the top, and Batley bade Nasmyth and Crestwick ascend. They
managed it with assistance from Lisle, who seized them from above. Then
Batley called up to them.

"I'm going to test the tackle. Give me a hand up as soon as I'm over the
bulge!"

It was difficult to hear him, as he was still beneath the projecting
edge, and they watched the straining straps with keen anxiety until a
hand that felt for a hold upon the rock appeared. Lisle seized it, with
Nasmyth ready to assist, and Batley came up, gasping, with the
perspiration streaming from his face.

"I'd have managed it easily at one time," he said. "This is what comes of
civilization and soft living."

"You brought us across; we owe you a good deal for it," declared Lisle.

Batley smiled at him as they set off again.

"In this case, I won't be an exacting creditor. In fact, it's rather
curious how we've hit it off, considering that you wouldn't hear of a
compromise and our interests are opposed."

"I don't know what your interests are," Lisle returned dryly.

"Then, in one way, I'm ahead of you. I know your wishes, and
Nasmyth's--you don't want Clarence to marry Miss Gladwyne. It's your
motive I'm not sure about. Do you want the girl yourself?"

They were some distance in front of the others, who were too far behind
to hear them. Lisle looked at his companion steadily. The man was engaged
in a business that was regarded with general disfavor, but there was
something he liked about him and he did not resent his bluntness.

"Well," he answered, "it isn't for the reason you've given that I mean to
stop the match."

"Can you do so?"

"I'm going to try."

Batley smiled reflectively.

"And the present journey is somehow connected with the attempt? Now I
believe I might have left you held up on the wrong side of the cañon;
the idea was in my mind and you can give me credit for not yielding to
it. I suppose there would be no use in my asking you for a hint as to the
relation between my rather tricky companion's expedition and his cousin's
death?"

"None in the least," said Lisle decidedly.

Batley made a gesture of acquiescence.

"Oh, well! We must try to be friends as long as possible."

Nothing more was said about the matter, and they spent the day forcing a
passage through scrub timber, up precipitous hillsides, and across long
stony ridges.

There was no sign of Gladwyne's trail, but that did not trouble Lisle,
for he knew where the man was heading for. On the second day Batley
showed signs of distress, and Nasmyth and Crestwick were walking very
wearily, but Lisle held on at a merciless pace. It was essential that he
should reach the cache before Gladwyne could interfere with it. Toward
evening, Nasmyth made an effort and caught up with Lisle.

"How would Clarence get across to the second cache on the other side of
the water?" he asked. "It's a point I've been considering; I suppose it's
occurred to you."

"I don't know," Lisle confessed. "The Indians near the divide said there
was another party with canoes somewhere lower down; but, as the packer
who was with me didn't talk to them, so far as I noticed, I don't see how
Gladwyne could have heard of it; but that's as far as I can go. If he
destroyed the first cache, it would help to clear him, unless you can
vouch for the correctness of the list I made; but he may have some
further plan in his mind." He paused and raised his hand. "Listen! Isn't
that the river? We can't be far from the cache."

The day, like the two or three preceding it, had been hot and bright, and
now that evening was drawing on, the still air was heavy with the smell
of the cedars in a neighboring hollow. A high ridge stood out black
against a vivid green glow, and from beyond it there rose a faint, hoarse
murmur. Nasmyth welcomed it gladly as announcing the end of the march.

"The rest of the party can hardly be down until to-morrow; there's a
couple of portages," he said. "It looks as if we'll have to go without
our supper."

"I don't want to see them before morning," Lisle returned grimly.

They pushed on, the light growing dimmer as they went, until at length
the moon rose from behind the ridge; and when they had skirted the ridge
they saw the river glimmer beneath them in a flood of silvery radiance.
It filled the gorge with its deep murmur, for the hot sunshine for three
days had melted the snow, which had poured down to swell the flood by
every gully. Not far below the neck the broken surface was flecked with
white where the river swept angrily over a sharper slope of its bed, and
a black boulder or two stood out in the midst of the rushing foam.
Up-stream of this there was a strip of shingle which Nasmyth recognized
as the one where the cache had been made; he supposed that Lisle had
struck the spot by heading for the narrow rift of the neck, which was
conspicuous for some distance from both sides.

From end to end the sweep of pebbles was clearly distinct; but there was
no dark figure moving about it, and Nasmyth wondered if they had come too
late. They had marched fast, as his aching muscles testified, but they
had been delayed at the cañon and Gladwyne had had a long start. If he
had arrived and had visited the cache, their efforts might prove to have
been thrown away. There must be no shadow of doubt when Lisle told his
startling story.

They descended with caution, moving through shadow, for the ridge above
them cut off the moonlight, though it was far from dark, and they were
near the bottom when Crestwick dislodged a bank of stones which went
rattling and crashing down to the beach. A moment later a black form
sprang out from among the rocks below and ran hurriedly along the
shingle. This surprised Nasmyth because he could not doubt that the man
was Gladwyne and he failed to understand his object in making what would
probably be a futile attempt to avoid them. Lisle was some distance in
front, and his voice rang out sharply:

"Head him off from the canoe!"

Nasmyth broke into a stumbling run--it was now obvious that Gladwyne
meant to cross the river, and perhaps destroy the second cache.

Gladwyne had reached the canoe when Lisle gained the beach, and Nasmyth,
descending in reckless haste, saw him hurriedly turn it over and raise
the forward end of it. Lisle was running his hardest, almost as if he
were fresh, up the long strip of shingle; but it was evident that he
would be too late, and they would have no means of following Gladwyne
after the canoe was launched. There was a sharp rattle of stones as he
hauled it down; Lisle was still some way behind; Gladwyne sprang on board
and thrust the light craft off, and a few strokes of the paddle drove her
well out into the stream.

Lisle stopped, standing in the moonlight, and his comrade could see his
hands tightly clenched at his side; then he suddenly tore off his jacket
and flung it behind him. Noticing this, Nasmyth attempted to increase his
pace. The river was running fast, swollen with melted snow, and Lisle
must be badly worn out. If he had to be restrained by force, he should
not attempt to swim across.

Then, to Nasmyth's astonishment, Gladwyne leaned over the stern of the
craft and began to paddle desperately with one hand. This proceeding
caused Lisle to stop again, close at the water's edge.

"Come back!" he shouted.

Nasmyth ran up and Lisle turned.

"He's dropped or broken his paddle--cracked it when he shoved her out.
There are two or three ugly rocks in the rapid."

They ran along the bank together, keeping pace with the craft which was
sliding away fast with the stream. Nasmyth could feel his heart thumping
as he wondered what Clarence would do. Though he could not cross the
river, it was possible that he might propel the light canoe back to the
shingle with his hand before he reached the rapid. As he could not guide
her in the strong rush of water, there would be danger in attempting to
descend it. He made no response, however, to their warning shouts.

Batley and Crestwick overtook the others shortly before the canoe swept
into the faster stream at the head of the rapid and they watched her
eagerly. There was a narrow pass between several boulders close ahead,
which was the chief danger, and the current seemed to be carrying the
craft down on one of them. In a few moments she struck and jambed,
broadside on, across the mass of stone. White foam boiled about her; they
saw Gladwyne rise and clutch the rock, but whether to thrust her off or
to climb out did not appear. He suddenly sank down and, so far as they
could make out, the canoe rolled over.

The next moment Lisle plunged into the river. Nasmyth ran to the water's
edge, but seeing that he was too late, he sat down limply. Lisle was a
good swimmer, but it did not seem possible that any man could reach
Clarence before he was washed out at the tail of the rapid. It became
evident, however, that somebody else meant to try, for Batley, running
hard down the beach, plunged in.

"It's awful!" gasped Jim Crestwick behind Nasmyth. "It's not the risk of
drowning; they'll be smashed to bits! Anyway, we'd better make for the
slack at the tail."

Nasmyth got up. He could see nothing of Gladwyne or either of the others;
there were only black rocks, rushing water and outbreaks of foam, and he
had a sickening idea that long before they reached the quieter pool the
need for any services he could render would be past. Fortunately, the
beach was fairly smooth, and after a desperate run they reached a tongue
of rock beneath which the eddy swung. Farther on, in the shadow, Batley
stood in the water, calling to them and apparently clinging hard to a
half-seen object in the stream.

Nasmyth leaped in knee-deep, with Crestwick behind him, and gripping the
loosely-hanging arm of the body Batley was supporting, he asked hoarsely:

"Who is it?"

"Lisle!" was the breathless answer. "Help me to get him out!"

They dragged him up the beach and let him sink down. He lay upon the
shingle, silent and inert.

"Make a fire, Jim!" commanded Batley. "Lift his shoulder a bit, Nasmyth!
Turn him partly over!"

He hurriedly examined Lisle and then looked up.

"It's not a case of drowning; and his limbs look sound. Must have got the
breath knocked out of him against a boulder." He pointed to a broad red
gash on Lisle's forehead as Nasmyth eased him down again. "That explains
his unconsciousness."

"Where's Gladwyne?" Nasmyth asked.

Batley made an expressive gesture.

"Beyond our help, anyway; somewhere down-river." He appeared to brace
himself with an effort. "I'm pretty nearly finished, but there's a good
deal to be done. We'll strip Lisle, and you and Crestwick can share your
dry things with him. Then one of you had better gather cedar twigs for
him to lie on."




CHAPTER XXXI

LISLE GOES TO ENGLAND


Lisle had with some difficulty been dressed in dry clothes, and he lay
with his eyes shut on a couch of cedar sprays beside a fire, when Batley
rose and turned to Nasmyth.

"I don't think we need be anxious," he said. "The warmth is coming back
to him and he's breathing regularly. The knock on the head must have been
a bad one, and it's very likely that he got another thump or two washing
down the rapid, and the water was icy cold; but he'll feel better after a
few hours' sleep."

Nasmyth was inclined to agree with this prediction and he stood up
wearily.

"Then you won't want me for a little while," he replied, walking away
from the fire.

Having given most of his clothes to Lisle, he was very lightly clad and
the night was cold. He shivered as he plodded over the shingle, aching in
every limb, but he looked about eagerly and after a while he found the
cache. It was uncovered, but there were signs that Gladwyne had only
begun his task when he had been surprised by the arrival of the party
which had followed him.

Nasmyth did not pause to think what Lisle's wishes might be, or whether
he would resent his action. So far, he had kept his promise; but, with
physical weariness reacting on his mental faculties, he was only
conscious of a hazy idea that Gladwyne's death had released him from his
pledge. The traitor had expiated his offense; the tragic story must never
be raked up again.

Stooping over the receptacle, he dragged out the different articles in
it, and avoiding a direct glance at them or any attempt to enumerate
them, he gathered them up and striding over the shingle hurled them as
far as possible into the river. It cost him several journeys, but his
heart grew lighter with every splash. When at last the work was finished
and he had refilled the hole and scattered the stones that had covered
it, he sat down with a great sense of relief. A burden which had long
weighed upon his mind was gone; Mrs. Gladwyne and Millicent were safe at
last from the grief and shame that a revelation would have brought them.
Exhausted and confused as he was, he could not tell whether he felt any
sorrow for Gladwyne's tragic end; the man had passed beyond the reach of
human censure, one could only let his memory sink into oblivion.

Growing very cold, he went back to the fire, but he offered no
explanation of his absence. Lisle was still asleep or unconscious, but
the natural color in his face was reassuring.

"I've heard nothing about your part in the water," Nasmyth said to
Batley.

"There's not much to tell. It isn't astonishing that my memory's by no
means clear. Anyhow, I wasn't far from Gladwyne, who was swimming well,
when he was swept away from me and in among the lower boulders by the
swirl of an eddy. I suppose it didn't quite reach me, but the next moment
I was sucked into a rush of broken water and went down-stream, below the
surface part of the time, because I was surprised when I found I could
breathe and look about again. By good luck, I'd got into the smoothest,
deepest flow, which swept me straight through. After a little, I saw
somebody washing down in a slack and got hold of him. I didn't know
whether it was Gladwyne or Lisle; but I held on and a side-swing of the
current brought us both ashore. Gladwyne, of course, must have gone under
after being badly damaged among the rocks."

"There's only one place where he could have landed and I searched it
while you were away," Crestwick said gravely.

"Why did you go in after him?" Nasmyth asked Batley. "You must have seen
that you couldn't save him."

"That," Batley answered with a curious smile, "is more than I can clearly
tell you; and I might suggest that Lisle's venture is even harder to
understand. I don't honestly think I owe Gladwyne anything; but, after
all, we passed for friends, and I used to be fond of swimming. Of course,
there's a more obvious explanation--I'd lent him a good deal of money and
from what I've learned since, I may have some difficulty in enforcing my
claim on the estate. It was natural that I should make an effort to
recover the debt."

Nasmyth did not think that the man had been most strongly influenced by
that desire, but he addressed Crestwick:

"Hadn't you better gather some more branches or driftwood for the fire,
Jim?"

Crestwick disappeared, and Nasmyth filled his pipe before he turned to
Batley.

"Now," he said, "I don't want to be offensive; but there are two people
connected with this affair who must be spared any unnecessary suffering.
That's a fact you had better recognize."

"I hardly think you do me justice," returned Batley, looking amused.
"It's perfectly plain that there's a mystery behind these recent events;
one that has some relation to George Gladwyne's death. Your idea is that
an unscrupulous person of my description might find some profit in
probing it?"

"You'll never learn the truth. I've seen to that."

"The fact is, I don't mean to try."

Nasmyth was a little astonished at finding himself ready to believe this.

"Then," he asked, "what do you mean to do about your claim on Gladwyne?"

"In the first place, there's the insurance; but I discovered by accident
that the company Gladwyne had his policy on was the one that had insured
his cousin. Whether they'll be struck by the coincidence and the unusual
nature of both accidents and make trouble or not, I can't tell; but if
they pay up there'll be an end of the thing. Failing that, I'll have to
consider. My demands might be contested by the Gladwyne trustees--the
deal was a little irregular in some respects--but I parted with the money
and I'm going to make an effort to get it back."

"How much did Clarence owe you?"

Batley told him and Nasmyth looked thoughtful.

"Well," he requested, "if you meet with strong opposition, come to me
before you decide on any course, and I'll see what can be arranged. I
dare say there'll be some trouble, but I know the trustees--and, as I
said, there are people who must be saved all needless pain, at any cost."

"It's promised," agreed Batley. "I'll make things as easy as possible,
but that's as far as I can go. I'm not rich enough to be recklessly
generous."

Lisle woke soon after this and asked one or two half-intelligible
questions, but they gave him no information and he went to sleep again;
then Crestwick arrived with more fuel and Nasmyth took the first watch
while his companions rested. He was very cold, and now and then he saw
Batley, who had discarded most of his wet clothes, wake up for a few
moments and shiver. Once or twice he glanced longingly at the garments
spread out round the fire, but when he felt them they were still too wet
to put on. After a while Crestwick relieved him, and when he awakened
dawn was breaking across the black ridges and the rushing river. Batley
had left his place, and Crestwick began to stride up and down the beach,
presumably to warm himself. To Nasmyth's satisfaction and surprise, Lisle
spoke to him.

"You slept pretty sound," he said. "Didn't hear me getting some
information about what happened out of Batley."

"Then you know?"

"Yes," was the grim answer. "The thing's finished; there's nothing to be
done."

Nasmyth made a sign of agreement.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Horribly sore all over, left side particularly. Struck a big boulder,
and then drove in among a nest of stones before my senses left me. Tried
to get up a while ago, but couldn't manage it. What's as much to the
purpose, I'm feeling hungry."

"Unfortunately, there's nothing left for breakfast. One of us had better
go up-stream and look out for the canoes."

Lisle nodded.

"That's your duty--I don't envy you. Make them camp a little higher up.
It would be better, in several ways, and I'd rather be on my feet again
before they come here."

Nasmyth set off, jaded and hungry, and he was feeling very limp when, as
he plodded along a high ridge, he saw the canoes sliding down the river.
He had hard work to reach the bank and he shrank from the task before him
when the first canoe grounded upon the stones. Millicent and Bella were
in it, and Millicent gazed at the lonely man with fixed, anxious eyes. He
was ragged and looked very weary; his face was worn and haggard.

"Where are the rest?" she asked in a strained voice. "Something has
happened--what is it?"

"Three of them are some miles down the river."

"Three!" cried Millicent, in dismay. "Haven't you found Clarence yet?"

Nasmyth hesitated, regarding her compassionately, but she made a sign of
protest.

"Go on! Don't keep me in suspense!"

"Clarence," said Nasmyth quietly, "is dead. Lisle is rather badly
damaged."

Millicent left the canoe and sat down, very white in face, upon a
neighboring stone. In the meanwhile the other canoes had grounded and her
companions gathered about her. She did not speak to them and some time
passed before she turned to Nasmyth.

"Tell me all," she begged.

He briefly related what had happened, and there was an impressive silence
when he finished. Then Millicent slowly rose.

"And Lisle's badly hurt," she said. "We must go on!"

They relaunched the canoes and Nasmyth had no further speech with her,
for as they floated down-river she sat, still and silent, in another
canoe. She was conscious chiefly of an unnerving horror and a sense of
contrition. Clarence was dead, and she had been coldly hypercritical;
hardly treating him as a lover, thinking of his failings. She blamed
herself bitterly in a half-dazed fashion, but it was only afterward she
realized that she had not been troubled by any very poignant sense of
loss.

After a while Nasmyth said they would land, but Millicent roused herself
to countermand his instructions and eventually they reached Batley's
camp. Lisle had got up during the day and he now walked painfully down to
the water's edge to meet her. When she landed he gravely pressed her
hand.

"I'm sorry," he said simply. "We did what we could to save him."

"Oh, I know," she responded. "Nobody could doubt that."

Then Nasmyth landed with provisions and while the men ate two Indians
strode into the camp and addressed Lisle angrily. They were curing
salmon, they said, and had left a canoe on the shingle, in order to avoid
a portage when returning, and they had gone in another craft to set some
fish-traps in a lower rapid. To their surprise they had afterward seen
their canoe drifting down-stream full of water and badly damaged, and
they had set off at once to discover who was responsible.

Lisle offered them some silver currency, and after a little chaffering
they departed satisfied.

"Now we know how the canoe came to be lying where Gladwyne found her," he
said to Nasmyth.

Then he sought Millicent.

"I think," he told her gently, "we had better go on--to stay here would
be painful." He hesitated. "I'll leave Crestwick and an experienced
river-Jack packer to investigate. If you would rather, I'll stay with
them, though I'm afraid I can't get about much."

"Thank you," she replied in a voice which had a break in it. "You must
come with us; you don't look fit to stand."

Running the rapid, they slid away down-river, and once more Millicent sat
very still, thinking confused thoughts, until at last they made camp for
the night and she crept away to the shelter of her tent. A day or two
later Crestwick and the packer overtook them, having discovered nothing;
and then the party was animated by a strong desire to escape from the
river and reach the trail to the settlements as soon as possible. Further
search for Gladwyne was useless; the flood had swept him away and no one
would ever know where his bones lay. He had set out on his longest and
most mysterious journey, leaving only two women to mourn him, and of
these one, who had tried to love him out of duty, would by and by forget.

On the evening before they left the river, Lisle stood with Millicent
looking back up the long reach they had descended. They had reached the
taller timber, and on one bank black firs, climbing the hillside, stood
out against the fading light with a gauzy mist-curtain drawn across their
higher ranks. The flood slid by, glimmering dimly, smooth and green, and
from out of the distance came the throbbing clamor of a rapid.

"It's your last look," said Lisle. "We'll be in the bush to-morrow and I
expect to hire a wagon, or at least a horse or two, in a few days. Now
I'm sorry I ever brought you here. You'll be glad to get away."

"You mustn't blame yourself," she told him. "We have only gratitude for
you. You have no part in the painful memories."

She glanced once more up the valley; and then moved back into the shadow
of the firs.

"It's all wildly beautiful, but it's so pitiless--I shall never think of
it without a shiver."

"You have made plenty of notes and sketches for the book," suggested
Lisle, seeing her distress.

"The book? I don't know that I shall ever finish it. I feel cut adrift,
as if there were no use in working and I hadn't a purpose left. First
George went, and then Clarence--so far, there was always some one to
think of--and now I'm all alone."

She broke out into open sobbing and Lisle, feeling very sympathetic and
half dismayed, awkwardly tried to soothe her.

"I'm better," she said at last. "It was very foolish, but I couldn't help
it. I think we'll go back to the others."

He gave her his arm, for the way was rough, but as they approached the
camp she stopped a moment amid the shadow and stillness of the great fir
trunks.

"I have done with the river--I think I am afraid of it," she confessed.
"Can't we get away early to-morrow?"

Lisle said it should be arranged and she turned to him gratefully.

"One can always rely on you! You're just like George was in many ways.
It's curious that whenever I'm in trouble I think of him--"

She seemed on the verge of another breakdown, and she laid her hand in
his for a moment before she went from him hurriedly with a low, "Good
night!"

Lisle strolled back to the river and lighted his pipe. He had noticed and
thought it significant that she spoke more of the brother whom she had
lost several years ago than of the lover who had perished recently; but,
from whatever cause it sprung, her distress troubled him.

His thoughts were presently interrupted by Nasmyth.

"There's a thing I'd better tell you, Vernon," he said, sitting down near
by. "The night you were half drowned I emptied the cache and, without
making any note of what was in it, pitched everything into the river."

"So I discovered. At least, when I managed with some trouble to reach the
place, I knew it was either you or Gladwyne, and I blamed you."

"Well?"

"I've decided," Lisle said gravely, "that you did quite right. It's the
end of that story."

"Then you have abandoned the purpose you had in view?"

"I've been thinking hard, and it seems to me that if Vernon were with me
now, the last thing that would please him would be to see the two women
suffer; he was a big man in every way. There's another thing--he left no
relations to consider."

Nasmyth laid a hand on his shoulder in a very expressive way.

"I felt all along that you'd come to look at it like that!"

"But there's Batley; he has some suspicions."

"I can silence him," promised Nasmyth. "The man has his good points,
after all."

"That's so," Lisle agreed. "Still, I'll come straight across to England
and tackle him if you fail. If it's a question of money, you can count me
in--I've been prospering lately." He rose and knocked out his pipe.
"That's the last word on the matter."

They went back to camp, and starting soon after sunrise the next morning
they reached a settlement on the railroad after a comparatively easy
journey; and that evening Lisle stood with a heavy heart beside the track
while the big cars moved away, his eyes fixed on a woman's figure that
leaned out from a vestibule platform, waving a hand to him.

After that he went back to his work, with Crestwick; and nearly twelve
months had passed when he sent a cable to England and started for that
country a day after receiving the answer. Crestwick insisted on going
with him.

"You'll no doubt want my support again," he grinned. "There's an office I
mean to rob Nasmyth of, if I can."

It was evening when they drove into sight of Millicent's house. Lisle's
heart throbbed painfully fast as he got down, but he was not kept
waiting. Millicent was standing in her drawing-room, and as he came in
she held out her hand to him.

"You answered my message," he said, seizing it. "You must have guessed
what I meant when I asked if I might come across."

"Yes," she confessed softly; "I knew and I told you to come."

He still held her a little away from him as he gave a quick glance at the
refined and artistic appointments of the room.

"There's a good deal you will have to give up," he told her. "You're not
afraid of our new and rugged country? But it has something to offer--and
we need such people as you."

"It's going to be a great country before very long," she answered
gravely; "and I have no dread of it now. But--I gave my dearest--I think
it owes me something in return."

He drew her masterfully into his arms.

"It discharges all its debts. You must teach me how to pay you back in
full measure; that's my one big task. You're giving so much freely; but,
of course, I'm glad--I don't want duty."

"This isn't duty," she smiled; "it's love!"

THE END