Title: Vane of the Timberlands
Author: Bindloss, Harold, 1866-1945
Language: English
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                        Vane of The Timberlands

                           BY HAROLD BINDLOSS



CONTENTS


CHAPTER

I.        A FRIEND IN NEED
II.       A BREEZE OF WIND
III.      AN AFTERNOON ASHORE
IV.       A CHANGE OF ENVIRONMENT
V.        THE OLD COUNTRY
VI.       UPON THE HEIGHTS
VII.      STORM-STAYED
VIII.     LUCY VANE
IX.       CHISHOLM PROVES AMENABLE
X.        WITH THE OTTER HOUNDS
XI.       VANE WITHDRAWS
XII.      IN VANCOUVER
XIII.     A NEW PROJECT
XIV.      VANE SAILS NORTH
XV.       THE FIRST MISADVENTURE
XVI.      THE BUSH
XVII.     VANE POSTPONES THE SEARCH
XVIII.    JESSY CONFERS A FAVOR
XIX.      VANE FORESEES TROUBLE
XX.       THE FLOOD
XXI.      VANE YIELDS A POINT
XXII.     EVELYN GOES FOR A SAIL
XXIII.    VANE PROVES OBDURATE
XXIV.     JESSY STRIKES
XXV.      THE INTERCEPTED LETTER
XXVI.    ON THE TRAIL
XXVII.   THE END OF THE SEARCH
XXVIII.  CARROLL SEEKS HELP
XXIX.    JESSY'S CONTRITION
XXX.     CONVINCING TESTIMONY
XXXI.    VANE IS REINSTATED



VANE OF THE TIMBERLANDS



CHAPTER I

A FRIEND IN NEED


A light breeze, scented with the smell of the firs, was blowing down the
inlet, and the tiny ripples it chased across the water splashed musically
against the bows of the canoe. They met her end-on, sparkling in the warm
sunset light, gurgled about her sides, and trailed away astern in two
divergent lines as the paddles flashed and fell. There was a thud as the
blades struck the water, and the long, light hull forged onward with
slightly lifted, bird's-head prow, while the two men swung forward for
the next stroke with a rhythmic grace of motion. They knelt, facing
forward, in the bottom of the craft, and, dissimilar as they were in
features and, to some extent, in character, the likeness between them was
stronger than the difference. Both bore the unmistakable stamp of a
wholesome life spent in vigorous labor in the open. Their eyes were clear
and, like those of most bushmen, singularly steady; their skin was clean
and weather-darkened; and they were leanly muscular.

On either side of the lane of green water giant firs, cedars and balsams
crept down the rocky hills to the whitened driftwood fringe. They formed
part of the great coniferous forest which rolls west from the wet Coast
Range of Canada's Pacific Province and, overleaping the straits, spreads
across the rugged and beautiful wilderness of Vancouver Island. Ahead,
clusters of little frame houses showed up here and there in openings
among the trees, and a small sloop, toward which the canoe was heading,
lay anchored near the wharf.

The men had plied the paddle during most of that day, from inclination
rather than necessity, for they could have hired Siwash Indians to
undertake the labor for them, had they been so minded. They were,
though their appearance did not suggest it, moderately prosperous; but
their prosperity was of recent date; they had been accustomed to doing
everything for themselves, as are most of the men who dwell among the
woods and ranges of British Columbia.

Vane, who knelt nearest the bow, was twenty-seven years of age. Nine of
those years he had spent chopping trees, driving cattle, poling canoes
and assisting in the search for useful minerals among the snow-clad
ranges. He wore a wide, gray felt hat, which had lost its shape from
frequent wettings, an old shirt of the same color, and blue duck
trousers, rent in places; but the light attire revealed a fine muscular
symmetry. He had brown hair and brown eyes; and a certain warmth of
coloring which showed through the deep bronze of his skin hinted at a
sanguine and somewhat impatient temperament. As a matter of fact, the
man was resolute and usually shrewd; but there was a vein of
impulsiveness in him, and, while he possessed considerable powers of
endurance, he was on occasion troubled by a shortness of temper.

His companion, Carroll, had lighter hair and gray eyes, and his
appearance was a little less vigorous and a little more refined; though
he, too, had toiled hard and borne many privations in the wilderness. His
dress resembled Vane's, but, dilapidated as it was, it suggested a
greater fastidiousness.

The two had located a valuable mineral property some months earlier and,
though this does not invariably follow, had held their own against city
financiers during the negotiations that preceded the floating of a
company to work the mine. That they had succeeded in securing a good deal
of the stock was largely due to Vane's pertinacity and said something for
his acumen; but both had been trained in a very hard school.

As the wooden houses ahead rose higher and the sloop's gray hull grew
into sharper shape upon the clear green shining of the brine, Vane broke
into a snatch of song:

"Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly
Just for to-night to the Old Country."

He stopped and laughed.

"It's nine years since I've seen it, but I can't get those lines out of
my head. Perhaps it's because of the girl who sang them. Somehow, I felt
sorry for her. She had remarkably fine eyes."

"Sea-blue," suggested his companion. "I don't grasp the connection
between the last two remarks."

"Neither do I," admitted Vane. "I suppose there isn't one. But they
weren't sea-blue; unless you mean the depth of indigo when you are out of
soundings. They're Irish eyes."

"You're not Irish. There's not a trace of the Celt in you, except,
perhaps, your habit of getting indignant with the people who don't share
your views."

"No, sir! By birth, I'm North Country--England, I mean. Over there we're
descendants of the Saxons, Scandinavians, Danes--Teutonic stock at
bottom, anyhow; and we've inherited their unromantic virtues. We're
solid, and cautious, respectable before everything, and smart at getting
hold of anything worth having. As a matter of fact, you Ontario Scotsmen
are mighty like us."

"You certainly came out well ahead of those city men who put up the
money," agreed Carroll. "I guess it's in the blood; though I fancied once
or twice that they would take the mine from you."

Vane brought his paddle down with a thud.

"Just for to-night to the Old Country,--"

He hummed, and added:

"It sticks to one."

"What made you leave the Old Country? I don't think you ever told me."

Vane laughed.

"That's a blamed injudicious question to ask anybody, as you ought to
know; but in this particular instance you shall have an answer. There was
a row at home--I was a sentimentalist then, and just eighteen--and as a
result of it I came out to Canada." His voice changed and grew softer. "I
hadn't many relatives, and, except one sister, they're all gone now. That
reminds me--she's not going to lecture for the county education
authorities any longer."

The sloop was close ahead, and slackening the paddling they ran
alongside. Vane glanced at his watch when they had climbed on board.

"Supper will be finished at the hotel," he remarked. "You had better get
the stove lighted. It's your turn, and that rascally Siwash seems to
have gone off again. If he's not back when we're ready, we'll sail
without him."

Supper is served at the hotels in the western settlements as soon as work
ceases for the day, and the man who arrives after it is over must wait
until the next day's breakfast is ready. Carroll, accordingly, prepared
the meal; and when they had finished it they lay on deck smoking with a
content not altogether accounted for by a satisfied appetite. They had
spent several anxious months, during which they had come very near the
end of their slender resources, arranging for the exploitation of the
mine, and now at last the work was over. Vane had that day made his final
plans for the construction of a road and a wharf by which the ore could
be economically shipped for reduction, or, as an alternative to this, for
the erection of a small smelting plant. They had bought the sloop as a
convenient means of conveyance and shelter, as they could live in some
comfort on board; and now they could take their ease for a while, which
was a very unusual thing to both of them.

"I suppose you're bent on sailing this craft back?" Carroll remarked at
length. "We could hire a couple of Siwash to take her home while we rode
across the island and got the train to Victoria. Besides, there's that
steamboat coming down the coast to-night."

"Either way would cost a good deal extra."

"That's true," Carroll agreed with an amused expression; "but you could
charge it to the company."

Vane laughed.

"You and I have a big stake in the concern; and I haven't got used to
spending money unnecessarily yet, I've been mighty glad to earn a couple
dollars by working from sunup until dark, though I didn't always get it
afterward. So have you."

"How are you going to dispose of your money, then? You have a nice little
balance in cash, besides the shares."

"It has occurred to me that I might spend a few months in the Old
Country. Have you ever been over there?"

"I was across some time ago; but, if you like, I'll go along with you. We
could start as soon as we've arranged the few matters left open in
Vancouver."

Vane was glad to hear it. He knew little about Carroll's antecedents, but
his companion was obviously a man of education, and they had been staunch
comrades for the last three years. They had plodded through leagues of
rain-swept bush, had forded icy rivers, had slept in wet fern and
sometimes slushy snow, and had toiled together with pick and drill.
During that time they had learned to know and trust each other and to
bear with each other's idiosyncrasies.

Filling his pipe again as he lay in the fading sunlight, Vane looked back
on the nine years he had passed in Canada, and, allowing for the periods
of exposure to cold and wet and the almost ceaseless toil, he admitted
that he might have spent them more unpleasantly. He had a stout heart and
a muscular body, and the physical hardships had not troubled him. What
was more, he had a quick, almost instinctive, judgment and the faculty
for seizing an opportunity.

Having quarreled with his relatives and declined any favors from them, he
had come to Canada with only a few pounds and had promptly set about
earning a living with his hands. When he had been in the country several
years, a friend of the family had, however, sent him a small sum, and the
young man had made judicious use of the money. The lot he bought outside
a wooden town doubled in value, and the share he took in a new orchard
paid him well; but he had held aloof from the cities, and his only
recklessness had been his prospecting journeys into the wilderness.
Prospecting for minerals is at once an art and a gamble. Skill, acquired
by long experience or instinctive--and there are men who seem to possess
the latter--counts for much, but chance plays a leading part. Provisions,
tents and packhorses are expensive, and though a placer mine may be
worked by two partners, a reef or lode can be disposed of only to men
with means sufficient to develop it. Even in this delicate matter, in
which he had had keen wits against him, Vane had held his own; but there
was one side of life with which he was practically unacquainted.

There are no social amenities on the rangeside or in the bush, where
women are scarce. Vane had lived in Spartan simplicity, practising the
ascetic virtues, as a matter of course. He had had no time for sentiment,
his passions had remained unstirred; and now he was seven and twenty,
sound and vigorous of body, and, as a rule, level of head. At length,
however, there was to be a change. He had earned an interlude of
leisure, and he meant to enjoy it without, so he prudently determined,
making a fool of himself.

Presently Carroll took his pipe from his mouth.

"Are you going ashore again to the show to-night?"

"Yes," Vane answered. "It's a long while since I've struck an
entertainment of any kind, and that yellow-haired mite's dancing is one
of the prettiest things I've seen."

"You've been twice already," Carroll hinted. "The girl with the blue eyes
sings her first song rather well."

"I think so," Vane agreed with a significant absence of embarrassment.
"In this case a good deal depends on the singing--the interpretation,
isn't it? The thing's on the border, and I've struck places where they'd
have made it gross; but the girl only brought out the mischief. Strikes
me she didn't see there was anything else in it"

"That's curious, considering the crowd she goes about with. Aren't you
cultivating a critical faculty?"

Vane disregarded the ironical question.

"She's Irish; that accounts for a good deal."

He paused and looked thoughtful.

"If I knew how to do it, I'd like to give five or ten dollars to the
child who dances. It must be a tough life, and her mother--the woman
at the piano--looks ill. I wonder whatever brought them to a place
like this?"

"Struck a cold streak at Nanaimo, the storekeeper told me. Anyway, since
we're to start at sunup, I'm staying here." Then he smiled. "Has it
struck you that your attendance in the front seats is liable to
misconception?"

Vane rose without answering and dropped into the canoe. Thrusting her
off, he drove the light craft toward the wharf with vigorous strokes of
the paddle, and Carroll shook his head whimsically as he watched him.

"Anybody except myself would conclude that he's waking up at last," he
commented.

A minute or two later Vane swung himself up onto the wharf and strode
into the wooden settlement. There were one or two hydraulic mines and a
pulp mill in the vicinity, and, though the place was by no means
populous, a company of third-rate entertainers had arrived there a few
days earlier. On reaching the rude wooden building in which they had
given their performance and finding it closed, he accosted a lounger.

"What's become of the show?" he asked.

"Busted. Didn't take the boys' fancy. The crowd went out with the stage
this afternoon; though I heard that two of the women stayed behind.
Somebody said the hotel-keeper had trouble about his bill."

Vane turned away with a slight sense of compassion. More than once during
his first year or two in Canada he had limped footsore and weary into a
wooden town where nobody seemed willing to employ him. An experience of
the kind was unpleasant to a vigorous man, but he reflected that it must
be much more so in the case of a woman, who probably had nothing to fall
back upon. However, he dismissed the matter from his mind. Having been
kneeling in a cramped position in the canoe most of the day, he decided
to stroll along the waterside before going back to the sloop.

Great firs stretched out their somber branches over the smooth shingle,
and now that the sun had gone their clean resinous smell was heavy in the
dew-cooled air. Here and there brushwood grew among outcropping rock and
moss-grown logs lay fallen among the brambles.

Catching sight of what looked like a strip of woven fabric beneath a
brake, Vane strode toward it. Then he stopped with a start, for a young
girl lay with her face hidden from him, in an attitude of dejected
abandonment. He was about to turn away softly, when she started and
looked up at him. Her long dark lashes glistened and her eyes were wet,
but they were of the deep blue he had described to Carroll, and he
stood still.

"You really shouldn't give way like that," he said.

It was all he could think of, but he spoke without obtrusive assurance or
pronounced embarrassment; and the girl, shaking out her crumpled skirt
over one little foot, with a swift sinuous movement, choked back a sob
and favored him with a glance of keen scrutiny as she rose to a sitting
posture. She was quick at reading character--the life she led had made
that necessary--and his manner and appearance were reassuring. He was on
the whole a well-favored man--good-looking seemed the best word for
it--though what impressed her most was his expression. It indicated that
he regarded her with some pity, not as an attractive young woman, which
she knew she was, but merely as a human being. The girl, however, said
nothing; and, sitting down on a neighboring boulder, Vane took out his
pipe from force of habit.

"Well," he added, in much the same tone he would have used to a
distressed child, "what's the trouble?"

She told him, speaking on impulse.

"They've gone off and left me! The takings didn't meet expenses; there
was no treasury."

"That's bad," responded Vane gravely. "Do you mean they've left
you alone?"

"No; it's worse than that. I suppose I could go--somewhere--but there's
Mrs. Marvin and Elsie."

"The child who dances?"

The girl assented, and Vane looked thoughtful. He had already noticed
that Mrs. Marvin, whom he supposed to be the child's mother, was worn and
frail, and he did not think there was anything she could turn her hand to
in a vigorous mining community. The same applied to his companion, though
he was not greatly astonished that she had taken him into her confidence.
The reserve that characterizes the insular English is less common in the
West, where the stranger is more readily taken on trust.

"The three of you stick together?" he suggested.

"Of course! Mrs. Marvin's the only friend I have."

"Then I suppose you've no idea what to do?"

"No," she confessed, and then explained, not very clearly, that it was
the cause of her distress and that they had had bad luck of late. Vane
could understand that as he looked at her. Her dress was shabby, and he
fancied that she had not been bountifully fed.

"If you stayed here a few days you could go out with the next stage and
take the train to Victoria." He paused and continued diffidently: "It
could be arranged with the hotel-keeper."

She laughed in a half-hysterical manner, and he remembered what she had
said about the treasury, and that fares are high in that country.

"I suppose you have no money," he added with blunt directness. "I want
you to tell Mrs. Marvin that I'll lend her enough to take you all to
Victoria."

Her face crimsoned. He had not quite expected that, and he suddenly felt
embarrassed. It was a relief when she broke the brief silence.

"No," she replied; "I can't do that. For one thing, it would be too late
when we got to Victoria, I think we could get an engagement if we reached
Vancouver in time to get to Kamloops by--"

Vane knit his brows when he heard the date, and it was a moment or two
before he spoke.

"There's only one way you can do it. There's a little steamboat coming
down the coast to-night. I had half thought of intercepting her, anyway,
and handing the skipper some letters to post in Victoria. He knows
me--I'm likely to have dealings with his employers. That's my sloop
yonder, and if I put you on board the steamer, you'd reach Vancouver in
good time. We should have sailed at sunup, anyhow."

The girl hesitated and turned partly from him. He surmised that she did
not know what to make of his offer, though her need was urgent. In the
meanwhile he stood up.

"Come along and talk it over with Mrs. Marvin," he urged. "I'd better
tell you that I'm Wallace Vane, of the Clermont Mine. Of course, I know
your name, from the program."

She rose and they walked back to the hotel. Once more it struck him that
the girl was pretty and graceful, though he had already deduced from
several things that she had not been regularly trained as a singer nor
well educated. On reaching the hotel, he sat down on the veranda while
she went in, and a few minutes later Mrs. Marvin came out and looked at
him much as the girl had done. He grew hot under her gaze and repeated
his offer in the curtest terms.

"If this breeze holds, we'll put you on board the steamer soon after
daybreak," he explained.

The woman's face softened, and he recognized now that there had been
strong suspicion in it.

"Thank you," she said simply; "we'll come."

There was a moment's silence and then she added with an eloquent gesture:

"You don't know what it means to us!"

Vane merely took off his hat and turned away; but a minute or two later
he met the hotel-keeper.

"Do these people owe you anything?" he asked.

"Five dollars; they paid up part of the time. I was wondering what to do
with them. Guess they've no money. They didn't come in to supper, though
we would have stood them that. Made me think they were straight folks;
the other kind wouldn't have been bashful."

Vane handed him a bill.

"Take it out of this, and make any excuse you like. I'm going to put them
on board the steamboat."

The man made no comment, and Vane, striding down to the beach, sent a
hail ringing across the water. Carroll appeared on the sloop's deck and
answered him.

"Hallo!" he cried. "What's the trouble?"

"Get ready the best supper you can manage, for three people, as quick
as you can!"

"Supper for three people!"

Vane caught the astonished exclamation and came near losing his temper.

"For three people!" he shouted. "Don't ask any fool questions! You'll see
later on!"

Then he turned away in a hurry, wondering somewhat uneasily what Carroll
would say when he grasped the situation.



CHAPTER II

A BREEZE OF WIND


There were signs of a change in the weather when Vane walked down to the
wharf with his passengers, for a cold wind which had sprung up struck an
eerie sighing from the somber firs and sent the white mists streaming
along the hillside. There was a watery moon in the sky, and when they
reached the water's edge Vane fancied that the singer hesitated; but Mrs.
Marvin laid her hand on the girl's arm reassuringly, and she got into the
canoe. A few minutes later Vane ran the craft alongside the sloop and saw
the amazement in Carroll's face by the glow from the cabin skylight. He
fancied, however, that his comrade would rise to the occasion, and he
helped his guests up.

"My partner, Carroll. Mrs. Marvin and her daughter; Miss Kitty
Blake. You have seen them already. They're coming down with us to
catch the steamer."

Carroll bowed, and Vane thrust back the cabin slide and motioned the
others below. The place was brightly lighted by a nickeled lamp, though
it was scarcely four feet high and the centerboard trunk occupied the
middle of it. A wide cushioned locker ran along either side a foot above
the floor, and a swing-table, fixed above the trunk, filled up most of
the space between. There was no cloth on the table, but it was
invitingly laid out with canned fruit, coffee, hot flapjacks and a big
lake trout, for in the western bush most men can cook.

"You must help yourselves while we get sail upon the boat," said Vane
cheerily. "The saloon's at your disposal--my partner and I have the
forecastle. You will notice that there are blankets yonder, and as we'll
have smooth water most of the way you should get some sleep. Perhaps
you'd better keep the stove burning; and if you should like some coffee
in the early morning you'll find it in the top locker."

He withdrew, closing the slide, and went forward with Carroll to shorten
in the cable; but when they stopped beside the bitts his companion broke
into a laugh.

"Is there anything amusing you?" Vane asked curtly.

"Well," drawled Carroll, "this country, of course, isn't England; but,
for all that, it's desirable that a man who expects to make his mark in
it should exercise a certain amount of caution. It strikes me that you're
making a rather unconventional use of your new prosperity, and it might
be prudent to consider how some of your friends in Vancouver may regard
the adventure."

Vane sat down upon the bitts and took out his pipe.

"One trouble in talking to you is that I never know whether you're in
earnest or not. You trot out your cold-blooded worldly wisdom--I suppose
it is wisdom--and then you grin at it."

"It seems to me that's the only philosophic attitude," Carroll replied.
"It's possible to grow furiously indignant with the restraints
stereotyped people lay on one, but on the whole it's wiser to bow to them
and chuckle. After all, they've some foundation."

Vane looked up at him sharply.

"You've been right in the advice you have given me more than once. You
seem to know how prosperous, and what you call stereotyped, people look
at things. But you've never explained where you acquired the knowledge."

"Oh, that's quite another matter," laughed Carroll.

"Anyway, there's one remark of yours I'd like to answer. You would, no
doubt, consider that I made a legitimate use of my money when I
entertained that crowd of city people--some of whom would have plundered
me if they could have managed it--in Vancouver. I didn't grudge it, of
course, but I was a little astonished when I saw the wine and cigar bill.
It struck me that the best of them scarcely noticed what they got--I
think they'd been up against it at one time, as we have; and it would
have done the rest of the guzzlers good if they'd had to work with the
shovel all day on pork and flapjacks. But we'll let that go. What have
you and I done that we should swill in champagne, while a girl with a
face like that one below and a child who dances like a fairy haven't
enough to eat? You know what I paid for the last cigars. What confounded
hogs we are!"

Carroll laughed outright. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh
upon his comrade, who was hardened and toughened by determined labor.
With rare exceptions, which included the occasions when he had
entertained or had been entertained in Vancouver, his greatest indulgence
had been a draught of strong green tea from a blackened pannikin, though
he had at times drunk nothing but river water. The term hog appeared
singularly inappropriate as applied to him.

"Well," replied Carroll, "you'll no doubt get used to the new conditions
by and by; and in regard to your latest exploit, there's a motto on your
insignia of the Garter which might meet the case. But hadn't we better
heave her over her anchor?"

They seized the chain, and a sharp, musical rattle rang out as it ran
below, for the hollow hull flung back the metallic clinking like a
sounding-board. When the cable was short-up, they grasped the halyards
and the big gaff-mainsail rose flapping up the mast. They set it and
turned to the head-sails, for though, strictly speaking, a sloop carries
only one, the term is loosely applied in places, and as Vane had changed
her rig, there were two of them to be hoisted.

"It's a fair wind, and I dare say we'll find more weight in it lower
down," commented Carroll. "We'll let the staysail lie and run her
with the jib."

When they set the jib and broke out the anchor, Vane took the helm, and
the sloop, slanting over until her deck on one side dipped close to the
frothing brine, drove away into the darkness. The lights of the
settlement faded among the trees, and the black hills and the climbing
firs on either side slipped by, streaked by sliding vapors. A crisp,
splashing sound made by the curling ripples followed the vessel; the
canoe surged along noisily astern; and the frothing and gurgling grew
louder at the bows. They were running down one of the deep,
forest-shrouded inlets which, resembling the Norwegian fiords, pierce the
Pacific littoral of Canada; though there are no Scandinavian pines to
compare with the tremendous conifers which fill all the valleys and climb
high to the snow-line in that wild and rugged land.

There was no sound from the cabin, and Vane decided that his guests had
gone to sleep. The sloop was driving along steadily, with neither lift
nor roll, but when, increasing her speed, she piled the foam up on her
lee side and the canoe rode on a great white wave, he glanced toward his
companion.

"I wonder how the wind is outside?" he questioned.

Carroll looked around and saw the white mists stream athwart the pines on
a promontory they were skirting.

"That's more than I can tell. In these troughs among the hills, it either
blows straight up or directly down, and I dare say we'll find it
different when we reach the sound. One thing's certain--there's some
weight in it now."

Vane nodded agreement, though an idea that troubled him crept into his
mind.

"I understand that the steamboat skipper will run in to land some Siwash
he's bringing down. It will be awkward in the dark if the wind's
on-shore."

Carroll made no comment, and they drove on. As they swept around the
point, the sloop, slanting sharply, dipped her lee rail in the froth.
Ahead of them the inlet was flecked with white, and the wail of the
swaying firs came off from the shadowy beach and mingled with the
gurgling of the water.

"We'll have to tie down a reef and get the canoe on board,"
suggested Carroll.

"Here, take the tiller a minute!"

Scrambling forward Vane rapped on the cabin slide and then flung it back.
Mrs. Marvin lay upon the leeward locker with a blanket thrown over her
and with the little girl at her feet; Miss Blake sat on the weather side
with a book in her hand.

"We're going to take some sail off the boat," he explained. "You needn't
be disturbed by the noise."

"When do you expect to meet the steamer?" Miss Blake inquired.

"Not for two or three hours, anyway."

Vane fancied that the girl noticed the hint of uncertainty in his voice,
and he banged the slide to as he disappeared.

"Down helm!" he shouted to Carroll.

There was a banging and thrashing of canvas as the sloop came up into the
wind. They held her there with the jib aback while they hauled the canoe
on board, which was not an easy task; and then with difficulty they hove
down a reef in the mainsail. It was heavy work, because there was nobody
at the helm; and the craft, falling off once or twice while they leaned
out upon the boom with toes on her depressed lee rail, threatened to hurl
them into the frothing water. Neither of them was a trained sailor; but
on that coast, with its inlets and sounds and rivers, the wanderer learns
readily to handle sail and paddle and canoe-pole.

They finished their task; and when Vane seized the helm Carroll sat down
under the shelter of the coaming, out of the flying spray.

"We'll probably have some trouble putting your friends on board the
steamer, even if she runs in," he remarked. "What are you going to do if
there's no sign of her?"

"It's a question I've been shirking for the last half-hour," Vane
confessed.

"It would be very slow work beating back up this inlet; and even if we
did so there isn't a stage across the island for several days. No doubt,
you remember that you have to see that contractor on Thursday; and
there's the directors' meeting, too."

"It's uncommonly awkward," Vane answered dubiously.

Carroll laughed.

"It strikes me that your guests will have to stay where they are, whether
they like it or not; but there's one consolation--if this wind is from
the northwest, which is most likely, it will be a fast run to Victoria.
Guess I'll try to get some sleep."

He disappeared down a scuttle forward, leaving Vane somewhat disturbed in
mind. He had contemplated taking his guests for merely a few hours' run,
but to have them on board for, perhaps, several days was a very different
thing. Besides, he was far from sure that they would understand the
necessity for keeping them, and in that case the situation might become
difficult. In the meanwhile, the sloop drove on, until at last, toward
morning, the beach fell back on either hand and she met the long swell
tumbling in from the Pacific. The wind was from the northwest and blowing
moderately hard; there was no light as yet in the sky above the black
heights to the east; and the onrushing swell grew higher and steeper,
breaking white here and there. The sloop plunged over it wildly, hurling
the spray aloft; and it cost Vane a determined effort to haul in his
sheets as the wind drew ahead. Shortly afterward, the beach faded
altogether on one hand, and the sea piled up madly into foaming ridges.
It seemed most improbable that the steamer would run in to land her
Indian passengers, but Vane drove the sloop on, with showers of stinging
brine beating into her wet canvas and whirling about him.

As the Pacific opened up, he found it necessary to watch the seas that
came charging down upon her. They were long and high, and most of them
were ridged with seething foam. With a quick pull on the tiller, he edged
her over them, and a cascade swept her forward as she plunged across
their crests. Though there were driving clouds above him, it was not very
dark and he could see for some distance. The long ranks of tumbling
combers did not look encouraging, and when the plunges grew sharper and
the brine began to splash across the coaming that protected the well he
wished that they had hauled down a second reef. He could not shorten sail
unassisted, however; nor could he leave the helm to summon Carroll, who
was evidently sleeping soundly in the forecastle, without rousing his
passengers, which he did not desire to do.

A little while later he noticed that a stream of smoke was pouring from
the short funnel of the stove and soon afterward the cabin slide opened.
Miss Blake crept out and stood in the well, gazing forward while she
clutched the coaming.

Day was now breaking, and Vane could see that the girl's thin dress was
blown flat against her. There was something graceful in her pose, and it
struck him again that her figure was daintily slender. She wore no hat,
and it was evident that the wild plunging had no effect on her. He waited
uneasily until she turned and faced him.

"We are going out to sea," she said. "Where's the steamer?"

It was a question Vane had dreaded; but he answered it honestly.

"I can't tell you. It's very likely that she has gone straight on to
Victoria."

He saw the suspicion in her suddenly hardening face, but the quick anger
in it pleased him. He had not expected her to be prudish, but it was
clear that the situation did not appeal to her.

"You expected this when you asked us to come on board!" she cried.

"No," Vane replied quietly; "on my honor, I did nothing of the kind.
There was only a moderate breeze when we left, and when it freshened
enough to make it unlikely that the steamer would run in, I was as vexed
as you seem to be. As it happened, I couldn't go back; I must get on to
Victoria as soon as possible."

She looked at him searchingly, but he fancied that she was slightly
comforted.

"Can't you put us ashore?"

"It might be possible if I could find a sheltered beach farther on, but
it wouldn't be wise. You would find yourselves twenty or thirty miles
from the nearest settlement, and you could never walk so far through
the bush."

"Then what are we to do?"

There was distress in the cry, and Vane answered it in his most
matter-of-fact tone.

"So far as I can see, you can only reconcile yourselves to staying on
board. We'll have a fresh, fair wind for Victoria, once we're round the
next head, and with moderate luck we ought to get there late to-night"

"You're sure?"

Vane felt sorry for her.

"I'm afraid I can't even promise that; it depends upon the weather,"
he replied. "But you mustn't stand there in the spray. You're getting
wet through."

She still clung to the coaming, but he fancied that her misgivings were
vanishing, and he spoke again.

"How are Mrs. Marvin and the little girl? I see you have lighted
the stove."

The girl sat down, shivering, in the partial shelter of the coaming, and
at last a gleam of amusement, which he felt was partly compassionate,
shone in her eyes.

"I'm afraid they're--not well. That was why I kept the stove burning; I
wanted to make them some tea. There is some in the locker--I thought you
wouldn't mind."

"Everything's at your service, as I told you. You must make the best
breakfast you can. The nicest things are at the back of the locker."

She stood up, looking around again. The light was growing, and the
crests of the combers gleamed a livid white. Their steep breasts were
losing their grayness and changing to dusky blue and slatey green, but
their blurred coloring was atoned for by their grandeur of form. They
came on, ridge on ridge, in regularly ordered, tumbling phalanxes.

"It's glorious!" she exclaimed, to his astonishment. "Aren't you carrying
a good deal of sail?"

"We'll ease the peak down when we bring the wind farther aft. In the
meanwhile, you'd better get your breakfast, and if you come out again,
put on one of the coats you'll find below."

She disappeared, and Vane felt relieved. Though the explanation had
proved less difficult than he had anticipated, he was glad that it was
over, and the way in which she had changed the subject implied that she
was satisfied with it. Half an hour later, she appeared again, carrying a
loaded tray, and he wondered at the ease of her movements, for the sloop
was plunging viciously.

"I've brought you some breakfast. You have been up all night."

Vane laughed.

"As I can take only one hand from the helm, you will have to cut up the
bread and canned stuff for me. Draw out that box and sit down beneath the
coaming, if you mean to stay."

She did as he told her. The well was about four feet long, and the bottom
of it about half that distance below the level of the deck. As a result
of this, she sat close at his feet, while he balanced himself on the
coaming, gripping the tiller. He noticed that she had brought out an
oilskin jacket with her.

"Hadn't you better put this on first? There's a good deal of
spray," she said.

Vane struggled into the jacket with some difficulty, and she smiled as
she handed him up a slice of bread and canned meat.

"I suppose you can manage only one piece at a time," she laughed.

"Thank you. That's about as much as you could expect one to be capable
of, even allowing for the bushman's appetite. I'm a little surprised to
see you looking so fresh."

"Oh, I used to go out with the mackerel boats at home--we lived at the
ferry. It was a mile across the lough, and with the wind westerly the sea
worked in."

"The lough? I told Carroll that you were from the Green Isle."

It struck him that this was, perhaps, imprudent, as it implied that they
had been discussing her; but, on the other hand, he fancied that the
candor of the statement was in his favor.

"Have you been long out here?" he added.

The girl's face grew wistful.

"Four years. I came out with Larry--he's my brother. He was a forester at
home, and he took small contracts for clearing land. Then he married--and
_I_ left him."

Vane made a sign of comprehension.

"I see. Where's Larry now?"

"He went to Oregon. There was no answer to my last letter; I've lost
sight of him."

"And you go about with Mrs. Marvin? Is her husband living?"

Sudden anger flared up in the girl's blue eyes, though he knew that it
was not directed against him.

"Yes! It's a pity he is! Men of his kind always seem to live!"

It occurred to Vane that Miss Blake, who evidently had a spice of temper,
could be a staunch partizan, and he also noticed that now that he had
inspired her with some degree of trust in himself her conversation was
marked by an ingenuous candor.

"Another piece, or some tea?" she asked.

"Tea first, please."

They both laughed when she handed him a second slice of bread.

"These sandwiches strike me as unusually nice," he informed her. "It's
exceptionally good tea, too. I don't remember ever getting anything to
equal them at a hotel."

The blue eyes gleamed with amusement.

"You have been in the cold all night--but I was once in a restaurant."
She watched the effect of this statement on him. "You know I really can't
sing--I was never taught, anyway--though there were some of the
settlements where we did rather well."

Vane hummed a few bars of a song.

"I don't suppose you realize what one ballad of yours has done. I'd
almost forgotten the Old Country, but the night I heard you I felt I must
go back and see it again. What's more, Carroll and I are going
shortly--it's your doing."

This was a matter of fact; but Kitty Blake had produced a deeper effect
on him, although he was not yet aware of it.

"It's a shame to keep you handing me things to eat," he added
disconnectedly. "Still, I'd like another piece."

She smiled delightfully as she passed the food to him.

"You can't help yourself and steer the boat. Besides--after the
restaurant--I don't mind waiting on you."

Vane made no comment, but he watched her with satisfaction while he ate.
There was no sign of the others; they were alone on the waste of tumbling
water in the early dawn. The girl was pretty, and there was a pleasing
daintiness about her. What was more, she was a guest of his, dependent
for her safety upon his skill with the tiller. So far as he could
remember, it was a year or two since he had breakfasted in a woman's
company; it was certain that no woman had waited on him so prettily. Then
as he remembered many a lonely camp in the dark pine forest or high on
the bare rangeside, it occurred to him for the first time that he had
missed a good deal of what life had to offer. He wondered what it would
have been like if when he had dragged himself back to his tent at night,
worn with heavy toil, as he had often done, there had been somebody with
blue eyes and a delightful smile to welcome him.

Kitty Blake belonged to the people--there was no doubt of that; but then
he had a strong faith in the people, native-born and adopted, of the
Pacific Slope. It was from them that he had received the greatest
kindnesses he could remember. They were cheerful optimists; indomitable
grapplers with forest and flood, who did almost incredible things with ax
and saw and giant-powder. They lived in lonely ranch houses, tents and
rudely flung-up shacks; driving the new roads along the rangeside or
risking life and limb in wild-cat adits. They were quick to laughter, and
reckless in hospitality.

Then with an effort he brushed the hazy thoughts away. Kitty Blake was
merely a guest of his; in another day he would land her in Victoria, and
that would be the end of it. He was assuring himself of this when Carroll
crawled up through the scuttle forward and came aft to join them. In
spite of his prudent reflections, Vane was by no means certain that he
was pleased to see him.



CHAPTER III

AN AFTERNOON ASHORE


Half the day had slipped by. The breeze freshened further and the sun
broke through. The sloop was then rolling wildly as she drove along with
the peak of her mainsail lowered down before a big following sea. The
combers came up behind her, foaming and glistening blue and green, with
seamy white streaks on their hollow breasts, and broke about her with a
roar. Then they surged ahead while she sank down into the hollow with
sluicing deck and tilted stern. Vane's face was intent as he gripped the
helm; three or four miles away a head ran out from the beach he was
following, and he would have to haul the boat up to windward to get
around it. This would bring the combers upon her quarter, or, worse
still, abeam. Kitty Blake was below; and Mrs. Marvin had made no
appearance yet. Vane looked at Carroll, who was standing in the well.

"The sea's breaking more sharply, and we'd get uncommonly wet before we
hammered round yonder head. There's an inlet on this side of it where we
ought to find good shelter."

"The trouble is that if you stay there long you'll be too late for the
directors' meeting. Besides, I'm under the impression that I've seen you
run an open sea-canoe before as hard a breeze as this."

"They can't have the meeting without me, and if it's necessary they can
wait," Vane answered impatiently. "I've had to. Many an hour I've spent
cooling my heels in corridors and outer offices before the head of the
concern could find time to attend to me. No doubt it was part of the
game, done to impress me with a due sense of my unimportance."

"It's possible," Carroll laughed.

"Besides, you can drive one of those big Siwash craft as hard as you can
this sloop; that is, so long as you keep the sea astern of her."

"Yes; I dare say you can. After all, you hadn't any passengers on
the occasion I was referring to. I suppose you feel you have to
consider them?"

Vane colored slightly.

"Naturally, I'd prefer not to land Mrs. Marvin and the child in a
helpless condition; and I understand they're feeling the motion
pretty badly."

Kitty Blake made her appearance in the cabin entrance, and Vane
smiled at her.

"We're going to give you a rest," he announced. "There's an inlet close
ahead where we should find smooth water, and we'll put you all ashore for
a few hours until the wind drops."

There was no suspicion in the girl's face now. She gave him a grateful
glance before she disappeared below with the consoling news.

A quarter of an hour later Vane closed with the beach, and a break in the
hillside, which was dotted with wind-stunted pines, opened up. While the
two men struggled with the mainsheet, the big boom and the sail above it
lurched madly over. The sloop rolled down until half her deck on one side
was in the sea, but she hove herself up again and shot forward, wet and
gleaming, into a space of smooth green water behind a head. Soon
afterward, Vane luffed into a tiny bay, where she rode upright in the
sunshine, with loose canvas flapping softly in a faint breeze while the
cable rattled down. They got the canoe over, and when they had helped
Mrs. Marvin and her little girl, both of whom looked very wobegone and
the worse for the voyage, into her, Vane glanced around.

"Isn't Miss Blake coming?" he asked.

"She's changing her dress," explained Mrs. Marvin, with a smile. She
glanced at her own crumpled attire as she added: "I'm past thinking of
such things as that!"

They waited some minutes, and then Kitty appeared in the entrance to the
cabin. Vane called to her.

"Won't you look in the locker, and bring along anything you think would
be nice? We'll make a fire and have supper on the beach--if it isn't
first-rate, you'll be responsible!"

A few minutes later they paddled ashore, and Vane landed them on a
strip of shingle. Beyond it a wall of rock arose, with dark firs
clinging in the rifts and crannies. The sunshine streamed into the
hollow; the wind was cut off; and not far away a crystal stream came
splashing down a ravine.

"There's a creek at the top of the inlet," Vane told them, as he and
Carroll thrust out the canoe, "and we're going to look for a trout. You
can stroll about or rest in the sun for a couple of hours, and if the
wind drops after supper we'll make a start again."

They paddled away, with a fishing-rod and a gun in the canoe, and it
was toward six o'clock in the evening when they came back with a few
trout. Vane made a fire of resinous wood, and Carroll and Kitty
prepared a bountiful supper. When it was finished, Carroll carried the
plates away to the stream; Mrs. Marvin and the little girl followed
him; and Vane and Kitty were left beside the fire. She sat on a log of
driftwood, and he lay on the warm shingle with his pipe in his hand.
The clear green water splashed and tinkled upon the pebbles close at
his feet, and a faint, elfin sighing fell from the firs above them. It
was very old music: the song of the primeval wilderness; and though he
had heard it often, it had a strange, unsettling effect on him as he
languidly watched his companion. There was no doubt that she was
pleasant to look upon; but, although he did not clearly recognize this,
it was to a large extent an impersonal interest that he took in her.
She was not so much an attractive young woman with qualities that
pleased him as a type of something that had so far not come into his
life; something which he vaguely felt that he had missed. One could
have fancied that by some deep-sunk intuition she recognized this fact,
and felt the security of it.

"So you believe you can get an engagement if you reach Vancouver in
time?" he asked at length.

"Yes."

"How long will it last?"

"I can't tell. Perhaps a week or two. It depends upon how the boys are
pleased with the show."

Vane frowned. He felt very compassionate toward her and toward all
friendless women compelled to wander here and there, as she was forced
to do. It seemed intolerable that she should depend for daily bread
upon the manner in which a crowd of rude miners and choppers received
her song; though there was, as he knew, a vein of primitive chivalry in
most of them.

"Suppose it only lasts a fortnight, what will you do then?"

"I don't know," said Kitty simply.

"It must be a hard life," Vane broke out. "You must make very
little--scarcely enough, I suppose, to carry you on from one engagement
to another. After all, weren't you as well off at the restaurant? Didn't
they treat you properly?"

She colored a little at the question.

"Oh, yes. At least, I had no fault to find with the man who kept it or
with his wife."

Vane made a hasty sign of comprehension. He supposed that the difficulty
had arisen from the conduct of one or more of the regular customers. He
felt that he would very much like to meet the man whose undesired
attentions had driven his companion from her occupation.

"Did you never try to learn keeping accounts or typewriting?" he asked.

"I tried it once. I could manage the figures, but the mill shut down."

Vane made his next suggestion casually, though he was troubled by an
inward diffidence.

"I've an idea that I could find you a post. It looks as if I'm going to
be a person of some little influence in the future, which"--he
laughed--"is a very new thing to me."

He saw a tinge of warmer color creep into the girl's cheeks. She had, as
he had already noticed a beautifully clear skin.

"No," she said decidedly; "it wouldn't do."

Vane knit his brows, though he fancied that she was right.

"Well," he replied, "I don't want to be officious--but how can I help?"

"You can't help at all."

Vane saw that she meant it, and he broke out with quick impatience:

"I've spent nine years in this country, in the hardest kind of work; but
all the while I fancied that money meant power, that if I ever got
enough of it I could do what I liked! Now I find that I can't do the
first simple thing that would please me! What a cramped, hide-bound
world it is!"

Kitty smiled in a curious manner.

"Yes; it's a very cramped world to some of us; but complaining won't do
any good," She paused with a faint sigh. "Don't spoil this evening. You
and Mr. Carroll have been very kind. It's so quiet and calm
here--though it was pleasant on board the yacht--and soon we'll have to
go to work again."

Vane once more was stirred by a sense of pity which almost drove him to
rash and impulsive speech; but her manner restrained him.

"Then you must be fond of the sea," he suggested.

"I love it! I was born beside it--where the big, green hills drop to the
head of the water and you can hear the Atlantic rumble on the rocks all
night long."

"Ah!" exclaimed Vane; "don't you long for another sight of it now
and then?"

The girl smiled in a way that troubled him.

"I'm wearying for it always; and some day, perhaps, I'll win back for
another glimpse at the old place."

"You wouldn't go to stay?"

"That would be impossible! What would I do yonder, after this other life?
Once you leave the old land, you can never quite get back again."

Vane lay smoking in silence for a minute or two. On another occasion he
had felt the thrill of the exile's longing that spoke through the girl's
song, and now he recognized the truth of what she said. One changed in
the West, acquiring a new outlook which diverged more and more from that
held by those at home. Only a wistful tenderness for the motherland
remained. Still, alien in thought and feeling as he had become, he was
going back there for a time; and she, as she had said, must resume her
work. A feeling of anger at his impotence to alter this came upon him.

Then Carroll came up with Mrs. Marvin and Elsie, and he felt strongly
stirred when the little girl walked up to him shyly with a basket filled
with shells and bright fir-cones. He drew her down beside him with an arm
about her waist while he examined her treasures. Glancing up he met
Kitty's eyes and felt his face grow hot with an emotion he failed to
analyze. The little mite was frail and delicate; life, he surmised, had
scanty pleasure to offer her; but now she was happy.

"They're so pretty, and there are such lots of them!" she exclaimed.
"Can't we stay here just a little longer and gather some more?"

"Yes," answered Vane, conscious that Carroll, who had heard the question,
was watching him. "You shall stay and get as many as you want. I'm afraid
you don't like the sloop."

"No; I don't like it when it jumps. After I woke up, it jumped all
the time."

"Never mind, little girl. The boat will keep still to-night, and I don't
think there'll be any waves to roll her about to-morrow. We'll have you
ashore the first thing in the morning."

He talked to her for a few minutes, and then strolled along the beach
with Carroll until they could look out upon the Pacific. The breeze was
falling, though the sea still ran high.

"Why did you promise that child to stay here?" Carroll asked.

"Because I felt like doing so."

"I needn't remind you that you've an appointment with Horsfield about
the smelter; and there's a meeting of the board next day. If we
started now and caught the first steamer across, you wouldn't have
much time to spare."

"That's correct. I shall have to wire from Victoria that I've been
detained."

Carroll laughed expressively.

"Do you mean to put off the meeting and keep your directors waiting, to
please a child?"

"I suppose that's one reason. Anyway, I don't propose to hustle the
little girl and her mother on board the steamer while they're helpless
with seasickness." A gleam of humor crept into his eyes. "As I think I
told you, I've no great objections to letting the gentlemen you mentioned
await my pleasure."

"But they found you the shareholders, and set the concern on its feet."

"Just so. On the other hand, they got excellent value for their
services--and I found the mine. What's more, during the preliminary
negotiations most of them treated me very casually."

"Well?"

"There's going to be a difference now. I've a board of directors--one way
or another, I've had to pay for the privilege pretty dearly; but it's not
my intention that they should run the Clermont Mine."

Carroll glanced at him with open amusement. There had been a marked
change in Vane since he had located the mine, though it was one that did
not astonish his comrade. Carroll had long suspected him of latent
capabilities, which had suddenly sprung to life.

"You ought to see Horsfield before you meet the board," he advised him.

"I'm not sure," Vane answered. "In fact, I'm uncertain whether I'll give
Horsfield the contract, even if we decide about the smelter. He was
offensively patronizing once upon a time and tried to bluff me. Besides,
he has already a stake in the concern. I don't want a man with too firm a
hold-up against me."

"But if he put his money in partly with the idea of getting certain
pickings?"

"He didn't explain his intentions; and I made no promises. He'll get his
dividends, or he can sell his stock at a premium, and that ought to
satisfy him."

"If you submitted the whole case to a business man, he'd probably tell
you that you were going to make a hash of things."

"That's your own idea?"

Carroll grinned.

"Oh, I'll reserve my opinion. It's possible you may be right. Time
will show."

They rejoined the others, and when the white mists crept lower down from
the heights above and the chill of the dew was in the air, Vane launched
the canoe.

"It's getting late and there's a long run in front of us to-morrow," he
informed his passengers. "The sloop will lie as still as if moored in a
pond; and you'll have her all to yourselves. Carroll and I are going to
camp ashore."

He paddled them off to the boat. Coming back with some blankets, he cut a
few armfuls of spruce twigs in a ravine and spread them out beside the
fire. Then sitting down just clear of the scented smoke he lighted his
pipe and asked an abrupt question.

"What do you think of Kitty Blake?"

"She's attractive, in person and manners."

"Anybody could see that at a glance!"

"Well," Carroll added cautiously, "I must confess that I've taken some
interest in the girl--partly because you were obviously doing so. In a
general way, what I noticed rather surprised me. It wasn't what I
expected."

"You smart folks are as often wrong as the rest of us. I suppose you
looked for cold-blooded assurance, tempered by what one might call
experienced coquetry?"

"Something of the kind," Carroll agreed. "As you say, I was wrong. There
are only two ways of explaining Miss Blake, and the first's the one that
would strike most people. That is, she's acting a part, possibly with an
object; holding her natural self in check, and doing it cleverly."

Vane laughed scornfully.

"I've lived in the woods for nine years, but I wouldn't have entertained
that idea for five seconds!"

"Then, there's the other explanation. It's simply that the girl's life
hasn't affected her. Somehow, she has kept fresh and wholesome. I think
that's the correct view."

"There's no doubt of it!" declared Vane.

"You offered to help her in some way?"

"I did; I don't know how you guessed it. I said I'd find her a situation.
She wouldn't hear of it."

"She was wise. Vancouver isn't a very big place yet, and the girl has
more sense than you have. What did you say?"

"I'm afraid I lost my temper because there was nothing I could do."

Carroll grinned.

"There are limitations--even to the power of the dollar. You'll probably
run up against more of them later on."

"I suppose so," yawned Vane. "Well, I'm going to sleep."

He rolled himself up in his blanket and lay down among the soft spruce
twigs, but Carroll sat still in the darkness and smoked out his pipe.
Then he glanced at his comrade, who lay still, breathing evenly.

"No doubt you'd be considered fortunate," he said, apostrophizing him
half aloud. "You've had power and responsibility thrust upon you. What
will you make of it?"

Then he, too, lay down, and only the soft splash of the tiny ripples
broke the silence while the fire sank lower.

They sailed the next morning, and when they arrived in Victoria the boat
which crossed the straits had gone, but the breeze was fair from the
westward, and, after despatching a telegram, Vane sailed again. The sloop
made a quick passage, and most of the time her passengers lounged in the
sunshine on her gently slanted deck. It was evening when they ran through
the Narrows into Vancouver's land-locked harbor and saw the roofs of the
city rise tier on tier from the water-front. Somber forest crept down to
the skirts of it, and across the glistening water black hills ran up into
the evening sky, with the blink of towering snow to the north of them.

Half an hour later Vane landed his passengers, and it was not until he
had left them that they discovered he had thrust a roll of paper currency
into the little girl's hand. Then he and Carroll set off for the C.P.R.
hotel, although they were not accustomed to a hostelry of that sort.



CHAPTER IV

A CHANGE OF ENVIRONMENT


On the evening after his arrival in Vancouver, Vane paid a visit to one
of his directors; and, in accordance with the invitation, he and Carroll
reached the latter's dwelling some little time before the arrival of
several other guests, whose acquaintance it was considered advisable he
should make. In the business parts of most western cities iron and stone
have now replaced the native lumber, but on their outskirts wood is still
employed with admirable effect as a building material, and Nairn's house
was an example of the judicious use of the latter. It stood on a rise
above the inlet; picturesque in outline, with its artistic scroll-work,
Its wooden pillars, its lattice shutters and its balustraded verandas.
Virgin forest crept up close about it, and there was no fence to the
sweep of garden which divided it from the road.

Vane and his companion were ushered into a small room, with an uncovered
floor and simple, hardwood furniture. It was obviously a working room,
for, as a rule, the work of the western business man goes on continuously
except when he is asleep; but a somewhat portly lady with a good-humored
face reclined in a rocking chair. A gaunt, elderly man of rugged
appearance rose from his seat at a writing-table as his guests entered.

"So ye have come at last," he said. "I had ye shown in here, because this
room is mine, and I can smoke when I like. The rest of the house is Mrs.
Nairn's, and it seems that her friends do not appreciate the smell of my
cigars. I'm no sure that I can blame them."

Mrs. Nairn smiled placidly.

"Alic," she explained, "leaves them lying everywhere, and I do not
like the stubs of them on the stairs. But sit ye down and he will
give ye one."

Vane felt at home with both of them. He had met people of their kind
before, and, allowing for certain idiosyncrasies, considered them the
salt of the Dominion. Nairn had done good service to his adopted country,
developing her industries--with some profit to himself, for he was of
Scottish extraction; but, while close at a bargain, he could be generous
afterward. In the beginning, he had fought sternly for his own hand, and
it was supposed that Mrs. Nairn had helped him, not only by sound advice,
but by such practical economies as the making of his working clothes.
Those he wore on the evening in question did not fit him well, though
they were no longer the work of her capable fingers. When his guests were
seated he laid two cigar boxes on the table.

"Those," he said, pointing to one of them, "are mine. I think ye had
better try the others; they're for visitors."

Vane had already noticed the aroma of the cigar that was smoldering on a
tray and he decided that Nairn was right; so he dipped his hand into the
second box, which he passed to Carroll.

"Now," declared Nairn, "we can talk comfortably. Clara will listen.
Afterwards, it's possible she will favor me with her opinion."

Mrs. Nairn smiled at them encouragingly, and her husband proceeded.

"One or two of my colleagues were no pleased at ye for putting off
the meeting."

"The sloop was small, and it was blowing rather hard," Vane explained.

"Maybe. For all that, the tone of your message was no altogether what one
would call conciliatory. It informed us that ye would arrange for the
postponed meeting at your earliest convenience. Ye did not mention ours."

"I pointed that out to him, and he said it didn't matter," Carroll
interrupted with a laugh.

Nairn spread out his hands in expostulation, but there was dry
appreciation in his eyes.

"Young blood must have its way." He paused and looked thoughtful. "Ye
will no have said anything definite to Horsfield yet about the smelter?"

"No. So far, I'm not sure that it would pay us to put up the plant; and
the other man's terms are lower."

"Maybe," Nairn answered, and he made the single word very expressive. "Ye
have had the handling of the thing; but henceforward it will be necessary
to get the sanction of the board. However, ye will meet Horsfield
to-night. We expect him and his sister."

Vane thought he had been favored with a hint, but he fancied also that
his host was not inimical and was merely reserving his judgment with
Caledonian caution. Nairn changed the subject.

"So ye're going to England for a holiday. Ye will have friends who'll be
glad to see ye yonder?"

"I've one sister, but no other near relatives. But I expect to spend some
time with people you know. The Chisholms are old family friends, and, as
you will remember, it was through them that I first approached you."

Then, obeying one of the impulses which occasionally swayed him, he
turned to Mrs. Nairn.

"I'm grateful to them for sending me the letter of introduction to your
husband, because in many ways I'm in his debt. He didn't treat me as the
others did when I first went round this city with a few mineral
specimens."

He had expected nothing when he spoke, but there was a responsive look in
the lady's face which hinted that he had made a friend. As a matter of
fact, he owed a good deal to his host. There is a vein of human kindness
in the Scot, and he is often endowed with a keen, half-instinctive
judgment of his fellows which renders him less likely to be impressed by
outward appearances and the accidental advantages of polished speech or
tasteful dress than his southern neighbors. Vane would have had even more
trouble in floating his company had not Nairn been satisfied with him.

"So ye are meaning to stay with Chisholm!" the latter exclaimed. "We
had Evelyn here two years ago, and Clara said something about her
coming out again."

"It's nine years since I saw Evelyn."

"Then there's a surprise in store for ye. I believe they've a bonny
place--and there's no doubt Chisholm will make ye welcome."

The slight pause was expressive. It implied that Nairn, who had a
somewhat biting humor, could furnish a reason for Chisholm's hospitality
if he desired, and Vane was confirmed in this supposition when he saw the
warning look which his hostess cast at her husband.

"It's likely that we'll have Evelyn again in the fall," she said hastily.
"It's a very small world, Mr. Vane."

"It's a far cry from Vancouver to England," Vane replied. "How did you
first come to know Chisholm?"

Nairn answered him.

"Our acquaintance began with business. A concern that he was chairman of
had invested in British Columbian mining stock; and he's some kind of
connection of Colquhoun's."

Colquhoun was a man of some importance, who held a Crown appointment, and
Vane felt inclined to wonder why Chisholm had not sent him a letter to
him. Afterward, he guessed at the reason, which was not flattering to
himself or his host. Nairn and he chatted a while on business topics,
until there was a sound of voices below, and going down in company with
Mrs. Nairn they found two or three new arrivals in the entrance hall.
More came in; and when they sat down to supper, Vane was given a place
beside a young lady whom he had already met.

Jessy Horsfield was about his own age; tall and slight in figure, with
regular features, a rather colorless face, and eyes of a cold, light
blue. There was, however, something striking in her appearance, and Vane
was gratified by her graciousness to him. Her brother sat almost opposite
them: a tall, spare man, with a somewhat expressionless countenance,
except for the aggressive hardness in his eyes. Vane had noticed this
look, and it had aroused his dislike, but he had not observed it in the
eyes of Miss Horsfield, though it was present now and then. Nor did he
realize that while she chatted she was unobtrusively studying him. She
had not favored him with much notice when she was in his company on a
previous occasion; he had been a man of no importance then.

He was now dressed in ordinary attire, and the well-cut garments
displayed his lean, athletic figure. His face, Miss Horsfield decided,
was a good one: not exactly handsome, but attractive in its frankness;
and she liked the way he had of looking steadily at the person he
addressed. Though he had been, as she knew, a wandering chopper, a survey
packer, and, for a time, an unsuccessful prospector, there was no
coarsening stamp of toil on him. Indeed, the latter is not common in the
West, where as yet the division of employments is not practised to the
extent it is in older countries. Specialization has its advantages; but
it brands a man's profession upon him and renders it difficult for him to
change it. Except for the clear bronze of his skin, Vane might just have
left a Government office, or have come out from London or Montreal. He
was, moreover, a man whose acquaintance might be worth cultivating.

"I suppose you are glad you have finished your work in the bush," she
remarked presently. "It must be nice to get back to civilization."

Vane smiled as he glanced round the room. It ran right across the house,
and through the open windows came the clank of a locomotive bell down by
the wharf and the rattle of a steamer's winch. The sounds appealed to
him. They suggested organized activity, the stir of busy life; and it was
pleasant to hear them after the silence of the bush. The gleam of snowy
linen, dainty glass and silver caught his eye; and the hum of careless
voices and the light laughter were soothing.

"Yes; it's remarkably nice after living for nine years in the wilderness,
with only an occasional visit to some little wooden town."

A fresh dish was laid before him, and his companion smiled.

"You didn't get things of this kind among the pines."

"No," laughed Vane. "In fact, cookery is one of the bushman's trials;
anyway, when he's working for himself. You come back dead tired, and
often very wet, to your lonely tent, and then there's a fire to make and
supper to get before you can rest. It happens now and then that you're
too played out to trouble, and you go to sleep instead."

"Dreadful!" sympathized the girl. "But you have been in Vancouver
before?"

"Except on the last occasion, I stayed down near the water-front. We were
not provided with luxurious quarters or with suppers of this kind there."

"It's romantic; and, though you're glad it's over, there must be some
satisfaction in feeling that you owe the change to your own efforts. I
mean it must be nice to think one has captured a fair share of the good
things of life, instead of having them accidentally thrust upon one.
Doesn't it give you a feeling that in some degree you're master of your
fate? I should like that"

It was subtle flattery, and there were reasons why it appealed to the
man. He had worked for others, sometimes for inadequate wages, and had
wandered about the Province, dusty and footsore, in search of employment,
besides being beaten down at many a small bargain by richer or more
fortunately situated men. Now, however, he had resolved that there should
be a difference; instead of begging favors, he would dictate terms.

"I should have imagined it," he laughed, in answer to her last remark;
and he was right, for Jessy Horsfield was a clever woman who loved power
and influence.

Vane dropped his napkin, and was stooping to pick it up when an attendant
handed it back to him. He noticed and responded to the glimmer of
amusement in his companion's eyes.

"We are not accustomed to being waited on in the bush," he explained. "It
takes some time to get used to the change. When we wanted anything there
we got it for ourselves."

"Is that, in its wider sense, a characteristic of most bushmen?"

"I don't quite follow."

The girl laughed.

"I suppose one could divide men into two classes: those who are able to
get the things they desire for themselves--which implies the possession
of certain eminently useful qualities--and those who have them given to
them. In Canada the former are the more numerous."

"There's a third division," Vane corrected her, with a trace of grimness.
"I mean those who want a good many things and have to learn to do
without. It strikes me they're the most numerous of all."

"It's no doubt excellent discipline," retorted his companion.

She looked at him boldly, for she was interested in the man and was not
afraid of personalities.

"In any case, you have now passed out of that division."

Vane sat silent for the next few moments. Up to the age of eighteen most
of his reasonable wishes had been gratified. Then had come a startling
change, and he had discovered in the Dominion that he must lead a life of
Spartan self-denial. He had had the strength to do so, and for nine years
he had resolutely banished most natural longings. Amusements, in some of
which he excelled, the society of women, all the small amenities of life,
were things which must be foregone, and he had forced himself to be
content with food and, as a rule, very indifferent shelter. This, as his
companion suggested, had proved a wholesome discipline, since it had not
soured him. Now, though he did not overvalue them, he rejoiced in his new
surroundings, and the girl's comeliness and quickness of comprehension
had their full effect.

"It was you who located the Clermont Mine, wasn't it?" she went on.
"I read something about it in the papers--I think they said it was
copper ore."

This vagueness was misleading, for her brother had given her a good deal
of definite information about the mine.

"Yes," replied Vane, willing to take up any subject she suggested; "it's
copper ore, but there's some silver combined with it. Of course, the
value of any ore depends upon two things--the percentage of the metal,
and the cost of extracting it."

Her interest was flattering, and he added:

"In both respects, the Clermont product is promising."

After that he did not remember what they talked about; but the time
passed rapidly and he was surprised when Mrs. Nairn rose and the company
drifted away by twos and threes toward the veranda. Left by himself a
moment, he came upon Carroll sauntering down a corridor.

"I've had a chat with Horsfield," Carroll remarked.

"Well?"

"He may merely have meant to make himself agreeable, and he may have
wished to extract information about you: If the latter was his object, he
was not successful."

"Ah! Nairn's straight, anyway, and to be relied on. I like him and
his wife."

"So do I, though they differ from some of the others. There's not much
gilding on either of them."

"It's not needed; they're sterling metal."

"That's my own idea."

Carroll moved away and Vane strolled out onto the veranda, where
Horsfield joined him a few minutes later.

"I don't know whether it's a very suitable time to mention it; but may I
ask whether you are any nearer a decision about that smelter? Candidly,
I'd like the contract."

"I am not," Vane answered. "I can't make up my mind, and I may postpone
the matter indefinitely. It might prove more profitable to ship the ore
out for reduction."

Horsfield examined his cigar.

"Of course, I can't press you; but I may, perhaps, suggest that, as we'll
have to work together in other matters, I might be able to give you a
quid pro quo."

"That occurred to me. On the other hand, I don't know how much importance
I ought to attach to the consideration."

His companion laughed with apparent good-humor.

"Oh, well; I must wait until you're ready."

He strolled away, and presently joined his sister.

"How does Vane strike you?" he asked. "You seem to get on with him."

"I've an idea that you won't find him easy to influence," answered the
girl, looking at her brother pointedly.

"I'm inclined to agree with you. In spite of that, he's a man whose
acquaintance is worth cultivating."

He passed on to speak to Nairn; and shortly afterward Vane sat down
beside Jessy in a corner of a big room. Looking out across the veranda,
he could see far-off snowy heights tower in cold silver tracery against
the green of the evening sky. Voices and laughter reached him, and now
and then some of the guests strolled through the room. It was pleasant to
lounge there and feel that Miss Horsfield had taken him under her wing,
which seemed to describe her attitude toward him. She was handsome, and
he noticed how finely the soft, neutral tinting of her attire, which was
neither blue nor altogether gray, matched the azure of her eyes and
emphasized the dead-gold coloring of her hair.

"As Mrs. Nairn tells me you are going to England, I suppose we shall not
see you in Vancouver for some months," she said presently. "This city
really isn't a bad place to live in."

Vane felt gratified. She had implied that he would be an acquisition and
had included him among the number of her acquaintances.

"I fancy that I shall find it a particularly pleasant place," he
responded. "Indeed, I'm inclined to be sorry that I've made arrangements
to leave it very shortly."

"That is pure good-nature," laughed his companion.

"No; it's what I really feel."

Jessy let this pass.

"Mrs. Nairn mentioned that you know the Chisholms."

"I'd better say that I used to do so. They have probably changed out of
my knowledge, and they can scarcely remember me except by name."

"But you are going to see them?"

"I expect to spend some time with them."

Jessy changed the subject, and Vane found her conversation entertaining.
She appealed to his artistic perceptions and his intelligence, and it
must be admitted that she laid herself out to do so. She said nothing of
any consequence, but she knew how to make a glance or a changed
inflection expressive. He was sorry when she left him, but she smiled at
him before she moved away.

"If you and Mr. Carroll care to call, I am generally at home in the
afternoon," she said.

She crossed the room, and Vane joined Nairn and remained near him until
he took his departure.

Late the next afternoon, an hour or two after an Empress liner from China
and Japan had arrived, he and Carroll reached the C.P.R. station. The
Atlantic train was waiting and an unusual number of passengers were
hurrying about the cars. They were, for the most part, prosperous people:
business men, and tourists from England going home that way; and when
Vane found Mrs. Marvin and Kitty, he once more was conscious of a
stirring of compassion. The girl's dress, which had struck him as
becoming on the afternoon they spent on the beach, now looked shabby. In
Mrs. Marvin's case, the impression was more marked, and standing amid the
bustling throng with the child clinging to her hand she looked curiously
forlorn. Kitty smiled at him diffidently.

"You have been so kind," she began, and, pausing, added with a tremor in
her voice: "But the tickets--"

"Pshaw!" interrupted Vane. "If it will ease your mind, you can send me
what they cost after the first full house you draw."

"How shall we address you?"

"Clermont Mineral Exploitation. I don't want to think I'm going to lose
sight of you."

Kitty looked away from him a moment, and then looked back.

"I'm afraid you must make up your mind to that," she said.

Vane could not remember his answer, though he afterward tried; but just
then an official strode along beside the cars, calling to the passengers,
and when a bell began tolling Vane hurried the girl and her companions
onto a platform. Mrs. Marvin entered the car, Elsie held up her face to
kiss him before she disappeared, and he and Kitty were left alone. She
held out her hand, and a liquid gleam crept into her eyes.

"We can't thank you properly," she murmured, "Good-by!"

"No," Vane protested. "You mustn't say that."

"Yes," answered Kitty firmly, but with signs of effort. "It's good-by.
You'll be carried on in a moment!"

Vane gazed down at her, and afterward wondered at what he did, but she
looked so forlorn and desolate, and the pretty face was so close to his.
Stooping swiftly, he kissed her, and had a thrilling fancy that she did
not recoil; then the cars lurched forward and he swung himself down. They
slid past him, clanking, while he stood and gazed after them. Turning
around, he was by no means pleased to see that Nairn was regarding him
with quiet amusement.

"Been seeing the train away?" the latter suggested. "It's a popular
diversion with idle folk."

"I was saying good-by to somebody I met on the west coast," Vane
explained.

"Weel," chuckled Nairn, "she has bonny een."



CHAPTER V

THE OLD COUNTRY


A month after Vane said good-by to Kitty he and Carroll alighted one
evening at a little station in northern England. Brown moors stretched
about it, for the heather had not bloomed yet, rolling back in long
slopes to the high ridge which cut against leaden thunder-clouds in the
eastern sky. To the westward, they fell away; and across a wide, green
valley smooth-backed heights gave place in turn to splintered crags and
ragged pinnacles etched in gray and purple on a vivid saffron glow. The
road outside the station gleamed with water, and a few big drops of
rain came splashing down, but there was a bracing freshness in the
mountain air.

The train went on, and Vane stood still, looking about him with a
poignant recollection of how he had last waited on that platform, sick at
heart, but gathering his youthful courage for the effort that he must
make. It all came back to him--the dejection, the sense of
loneliness--for he was then going out to the Western Dominion in which he
had not a friend. Now he was returning, moderately prosperous and
successful; but once again the feeling of loneliness was with him--most
of those whom he had left behind had made a longer journey than he had
done. Then he noticed an elderly man, in rather shabby livery,
approaching, and he held out his hand with a smile of pleasure.

"You haven't changed a bit, Jim!" he exclaimed. "Have you got the young
gray in the new cart outside?"

"T' owd gray was shot twelve months since," the man replied. "Broke his
leg comin' down Hartop Bank. New car was sold off, done, two or t'ree
years ago."

"That's bad news. Anyway, you're the same."

"A bit stiffer in the joints, and maybe a bit sourer," was the answer.
Then the man's wrinkled face relaxed. "I'm main glad to see thee, Mr.
Wallace. Master wad have come, only he'd t' gan t' Manchester suddenly."

Vane helped him to place their baggage into the trap and then bade him
sit behind; and as he gathered up the reins, he glanced at the horse and
harness. The one did not show the breeding of the gray he remembered,
and there was no doubt that the other was rather the worse for wear.
They set off down the descending road, which wound, unconfined, through
the heather, where the raindrops sparkled like diamonds. Farther down,
they ran in between rough limestone walls with gleaming spar in them,
smothered here and there in trailing brambles and clumps of fern, while
the streams that poured out from black gaps in the peat and flowed
beside the road flashed with coppery gold in the evening light. It was
growing brighter ahead of them, though inky clouds still clung to the
moors behind.

By and by, ragged hedges, rent and twisted by the winds, climbed up to
meet them, and, clattering down between the straggling greenery, they
crossed a river sparkling over banks of gravel. After that, there was a
climb, for the country rolled in ridge and valley, and the crags ahead,
growing nearer, rose in more rugged grandeur against the paling glow.
Carroll gazed about him in open appreciation as they drove.

"This little compact country is really wonderful, in its way!" he
exclaimed. "There's so much squeezed into it, even leaving out your
towns. Parts of it are like Ontario---the southern strip I mean--with the
plow-land, orchards and homesteads sprinkled among the woods and rolling
ground. Then your Midlands are like the prairie, only that they're
greener--there's the same sweep of grass and the same sweep of sky, and
this"--he gazed at the rugged hills rent by winding dales--"is British
Columbia on a miniature scale."

"Yes," agreed Vane; "it isn't monotonous."

"Now you have hit it! That's the precise difference. We've three belts of
country, beginning at Labrador and running west--rock and pine scrub,
level prairie, and ranges piled on ranges beyond the Rockies. Hundreds of
leagues of each of them, and, within their limits, all the same. But this
country's mixed. You can get what you like--woods, smooth grass-land,
mountains--in a few hours' ride."

Vane smiled.

"Our people and their speech and habits are mixed, too. There's more
difference between county and county in thirty miles than there is right
across your whole continent. You're cast in the one mold."

"I'm inclined to think it's a good one," laughed Carroll. "What's more,
it has set its stamp on you. The very way your clothes hang proclaims
that you're a Westerner."

Vane laughed good-humoredly; but as they clattered through a sleepy
hamlet with its little, square-towered church overhanging a brawling
river, his face grew grave. Pulling up the horse, he handed the reins
to Carroll.

"This is the first stage of my pilgrimage. I won't keep you five
minutes."

He swung himself down, and the groom motioned to him.

"West of the tower, Mr. Wallace; just before you reach the porch."

Vane passed through the wicket in the lichened limestone wall, and
there was a troubled look in his eyes when he came back and took the
reins again.

"I went away in bitterness--and I'm sorry now," he said. "The real
trouble was unimportant; I think it was forgotten. Every now and then the
letters came; but the written word is cold. There are things that can
never be set quite right in this world."

Carroll made no comment, though he knew that if it had not been for the
bond between them his comrade would not have spoken so. They drove on in
silence for a while, and then, as they entered a deep, wooded dale, Vane
turned to him again.

"I've been taken right back into the old days to-night; days in
England, and afterward those when we worked on the branch road beneath
the range. There's not a boy among the crowd in the sleeping-shack I
can't recall--first, wild Larry, who taught me how to drill and hid my
rawness from the Construction Boss."

"He lent me his gum-boots when the muskeg stiffened into half-frozen
slush," Carroll interrupted him.

"And was smashed by the snowslide," Vane went on. "Then there was Tom,
from the boundary country. He packed me back a league to camp the day I
chopped my right foot; and went down in the lumber schooner off Flattery.
Black Pete, too, who held on to you in the rapid when we were running the
bridge-logs through. It was in firing a short fuse that he got his
discharge," He raised his free hand, with a wry smile. "Gone on--with
more of their kind after them; a goodly company. Why are we left
prosperous? What have we done?"

Carroll made no response. The question was unanswerable, and after a
while Vane abruptly began to talk about their business in British
Columbia. It passed the time; and he had resumed his usual manner when he
pulled up where a stile path led across a strip of meadow.

"You can drive round; we'll be there before you," he said to the groom as
he got down.

Carroll and he crossed the meadow. Passing around a clump of larches they
came suddenly into sight of an old gray house with a fir wood rolling
down the hillside close behind it. The building was long and low,
weather-worn and stained with lichens where the creepers and climbing
roses left the stone exposed. The bottom row of mullioned windows opened
upon a terrace, and in front of the terrace ran a low wall with a broad
coping on which were placed urns bright with geraniums. It was pierced by
an opening approached by shallow stairs on which an iridescent peacock
stood, and in front of all that stretched a sweep of lawn.

A couple of minutes later, a lady met them in the wide hall, and held out
her hand to Vane. She was middle-aged, and had once been handsome, but
now there were wrinkles about her eyes, which had a hint of hardness in
them, and her lips were thin. Carroll noticed that they closed tightly
when she was not speaking.

"Welcome home, Wallace," she said effusively. "It should not be difficult
to look upon the Dene as that--you were here so often once upon a time."

"Thank you," was the response. "I felt tempted to ask Jim to drive me
round by Low Wood; I wanted to see the place again."

"I'm glad you didn't. The house is shut up and going to pieces. It would
have been depressing to-night."

Vane presented Carroll. Mrs. Chisholm's manner was gracious, but for no
particular reason Carroll wondered whether she would have extended the
same welcome to his comrade had the latter not come back the discoverer
of a profitable mine.

"Tom was sorry he couldn't wait to meet you, but he had to leave for
Manchester on some urgent business," she apologized.

Just then a girl with disordered hair and an unusual length of stocking
displayed beneath her scanty skirt came up to them.

"This is Mabel," said Mrs. Chisholm. "I hardly think you will
remember her."

"I've carried her across the meadow."

The girl greeted the strangers demurely, and favored Vane with a
critical gaze.

"So you're Wallace Vane--who floated the Clermont Mine! Though I don't
remember you, I've heard a good deal about you lately. Very pleased to
make your acquaintance!"

Vane's eyes twinkled as he shook hands with her. Her manner was quaintly
formal, but he fancied that there was a spice of mischief hidden behind
it. Carroll, watching his hostess, surmised that her daughter's remarks
had not altogether pleased her. She chatted with them, however, until the
man who had driven them appeared with their baggage, when they were shown
their respective rooms.

Vane was the first to go down. Reaching the hall, he found nobody
there, though a clatter of dishes and a clink of silver suggested that
a meal was being laid out in an adjoining room. Sitting down near the
hearth, he looked about him. The house was old; a wide stairway with a
quaintly carved balustrade of dark oak ran up one side and led to a
landing, also fronted with ponderous oak rails. The place was shadowy,
but a stream of light from a high window struck athwart one part of it
and fell upon the stairs.

Vane's eyes rested on many objects that he recognized, but as his glance
traveled to and fro it occurred to him that much of what he saw conveyed
a hint that economy was needful. Part of the rich molding of the Jacobean
mantel had fallen away, and patches of the key pattern bordering the
panels beneath it had broken off, though he decided that a clever
cabinet-maker could have repaired the damage in a day. There were one or
two choice rugs on the floor, but they were threadbare; the heavy
hangings about the inner doors were dingy and moth-eaten; and, though all
this was in harmony with the drowsy quietness and the faint smell of
decay, it had its significance.

Presently he heard footsteps, and looking up he saw a girl descending the
stairs in the fading stream of light. She was clad in trailing white,
which gleamed against the dark oak and rustled softly as it flowed about
a tall, finely outlined and finely poised figure. She had hair of dark
brown with paler lights in its curling tendrils, gathered back from a
neck that showed a faintly warmer whiteness than the snowy fabric below
it. It was her face, though, that seized Vane's attention: the level
brows; the quiet, deep brown eyes; the straight, cleanly-cut nose; and
the subtle suggestion of steadfastness and pride which they all conveyed.
He rose with a cry that had pleasure and eagerness in it.

"Evelyn!"

She came down, moving lightly but with a rhythmic grace, and laid a firm,
cool hand in his.

"I'm glad to see you back, Wallace," she said. "How you have changed!"

"I'm not sure that's kind," smiled Vane. "In some ways, you haven't
changed at all; I would have known you anywhere!"

"Nine years is a long time to remember any one."

Vane had seen few women during that period; but he was not a fool, and he
recognized that this was no occasion for an attempt at gallantry. There
was nothing coquettish in Evelyn's words, nor was there any irony. She
had answered in the tranquil, matter-of-fact manner which, as he
remembered, usually characterized her.

"It's a little while since you landed, isn't it?" she added.

"A week. I had some business in London, and then I went on to look up
Lucy. She had just gone up to town--to a congress, I believe--and so
I missed her. I shall go up again to see her as soon as she answers
my letter."

"It won't be necessary. She's coming here for a fortnight."

"That's very kind. Whom have I to thank for suggesting it?"

"Does it matter? It was a natural thing to ask your only sister--who is a
friend of mine. There is plenty of room, and the place is quiet."

"It didn't used to be. If I remember, your mother generally had it full
part of the year."

"Things have changed," said Evelyn quietly.

Vane was baffled by something in her manner. Evelyn had never been
effusive--that was not her way---but now, while she was cordial, she did
not seem disposed to resume their acquaintance where it had been broken
off. After all, he could hardly have expected this.

"Mabel is like you, as you used to be," he observed. "It struck me as
soon as I saw her; but when she began to talk there was a difference."

Evelyn laughed softly.

"Yes; I think you're right in both respects. Mopsy has the courage of her
convictions. She's an open rebel."

There was no bitterness in her laugh. Evelyn's manner was never
pointed; but Vane fancied that she had said a meaning thing--one that
might explain what he found puzzling in her attitude, when he held the
key to it.

"Mopsy was dubious about you before you arrived, but I'm pleased to say
she seems reassured," she laughed.

Carroll came down, and a few moments later Mrs. Chisholm appeared and
they went in to dinner in a low-ceilinged room. During the general
conversation, Mabel suddenly turned to Vane.

"I suppose you have brought your pistols with you?"

"I haven't owned one since I was sixteen," Vane laughed.

The girl looked at him with an excellent assumption of incredulity.

"Then you have never shot anybody in British Columbia!"

Carroll laughed, as if this greatly pleased him, but Vane's face was
rather grave as he answered her.

"No; I'm thankful to say that I haven't. In fact, I've never seen a shot
fired, except at a grouse or a deer."

"Then the West must be getting what the Archdeacon--he's Flora's husband,
you know--calls decadent," the girl sighed.

"She's incorrigible," Mrs. Chisholm interposed with a smile.

Carroll leaned toward Mabel confidentially.

"In case you feel very badly disappointed, I'll let you into a secret.
When we feel real, real savage, we take the ax instead."

Evelyn fancied that Vane winced at this, but Mabel looked openly
regretful.

"Can either of you pick up a handkerchief going at full gallop on
horseback?" she inquired.

"I'm sorry to say that I can't; and I've never seen Wallace do so,"
Carroll laughed.

Mrs. Chisholm shook her head at her daughter.

"Miss Clifford complained of your inattention to the study of English
last quarter," she reproved severely.

Mabel made no answer, though Vane thought it would have relieved her
to grimace.

Presently the meal came to an end, and an hour afterward, Mrs. Chisholm
rose from her seat in the lamplit drawing-room.

"We keep early hours at the Dene, but you will retire when you like," she
said. "As Tom is away, I had better tell you that you will find syphons
and whisky in the smoking-room. I have had the lamp lighted."

"Thank you," Vane replied with a smile. "I'm afraid you have taken more
trouble on our account than you need have done. Except on special
occasions, we generally confine ourselves to strong green tea."

Mabel looked at him in amazement.

"Oh!" she cried. "The West is certainly decadent! You should be here when
the otter hounds are out. Why, it was only--"

She broke off abruptly beneath her mother's withering glance.

When Vane and Carroll were left alone, they strolled out, pipe in hand,
upon the terrace. They could see the fells tower darkly against the soft
sky, and a tarn that lay in the blackness of the valley beneath them was
revealed by its pale gleam. A wonderful mingling of odors stole out of
the still summer night.

"I suppose you could put in a few weeks here?" Vane remarked.

"I could," Carroll replied. "There's an atmosphere about these old houses
that appeals to me, perhaps because we have nothing like it in Canada.
The tranquillity of age is in it--it's restful, as a change. Besides, I
think your friends mean to make things pleasant."

"I'm glad you like them."

Carroll knew that his comrade would not resent a candid expression
of opinion.

"I do; the girls in particular. They interest me. The younger one's of a
type that's common in our country, though it's generally given room for
free development into something useful there. Mabel's chafing at the
curb. It remains to be seen whether she'll kick, presently, and hurt
herself in doing so."

Vane remembered that Evelyn had said something to the same effect; but
he had already discovered that Carroll possessed a keen insight in
certain matters.

"And her sister?" he suggested.

"You won't mind my saying that I'm inclined to be sorry for her? She has
learned repression--been driven into line. That girl has character, but
it's being cramped and stunted. You live in walled-in compartments in
this country."

"Doesn't the same thing apply to New York, Montreal, or Toronto?"

"Not to the same extent. We haven't had time yet to number off all the
little subdivisions and make rules for them, nor to elaborate the
niceties of an immutable system. No doubt, we'll come to it."

He paused with a deprecatory laugh.

"Mrs. Chisholm believes in the system. She has been modeled on it--it's
got into her blood; and that's why she's at variance with her daughters.
No doubt, the thing's necessary; I'm finding no fault with it. You must
remember that we're outsiders, with a different outlook; we've lived in
the new West."

Vane strolled on along the terrace thoughtfully. He was not offended; he
understood his companion's attitude. Like other men of education and good
upbringing driven by unrest or disaster to the untrammeled life of the
bush, Carroll had gained sympathy as well as knowledge. Facing facts
candidly, he seldom indulged in decided protest against any of them. On
the other hand, Vane was on occasion liable to outbreaks of indignation.

"Well," said Vane at length, "I guess it's time to go to bed."



CHAPTER VI

UPON THE HEIGHTS


Vane rose early the next morning, as he had been accustomed to do, and
taking a towel he made his way across dewy meadows and between tall
hedgerows to the tarn. Stripping where the rabbit-cropped sward met the
mossy boulders, he swam out, joyously breasting the little ripples which
splashed and sparkled beneath the breeze that had got up with the sun.
Coming back, where the water lay in shadow beneath a larchwood which as
yet had not wholly lost its vivid vernal green, he disturbed the paddling
moor-hens and put up a mallard from a clump of swaying reeds. Then he
dressed and turned homeward, glowing, beside a sluggish stream which
wound through a waste of heather where the curlew were whistling eerily.
He had no cares to trouble him, and it was delightful to feel that he had
nothing to do except to enjoy himself in what he considered the fairest
country in the world, at least in summertime.

Scrambling over a limestone wall tufted thick with parsley fern, he
noticed Mabel stooping over an object which lay among the heather where a
rough cartroad approached a wooden bridge. On joining her he saw that she
was examining a finely-built canoe with a hole in one bilge. She looked
up at him ruefully.

"It's sad, isn't it? That stupid Little did it with his clumsy cart."

"I think it could be mended," Vane replied.

"Old Beavan--he's the wheelwright--said it couldn't; and Dad said I could
hardly expect him to send the canoe back to Kingston. He bought it for me
at an exhibition."

Then a thought seemed to strike her and her eyes grew eager.

"Perhaps you had something to do with light canoes in Canada?"

"Yes; I used to pole one loaded with provisions up a river and carry the
lot round several falls. If I remember, I made eight shillings a day at
it, and I think I earned it. You're fond of paddling?"

"I love it! I used to row the fishing-punt, but it's too old to be safe;
and now that the canoe's smashed I can't go out at all."

"Well, we'll walk across and see what we can find in Beavan's shop."

He took a few measurements, making them on a stick, and they crossed the
heath to a tiny hamlet nestling in a hollow of a limestone crag. There
Vane made friends with the wheelwright, who regarded him dubiously at
first, and obtained a piece of larch board from him. The grizzled North
Countryman watched him closely as he set a plane, which is a delicate
operation, and he raised no objections when Vane made use of his
work-bench. When the board had been sawed up, Vane borrowed a few tools
and copper nails, and he and Mabel went back to the canoe. On the way she
glanced at him curiously.

"I wasn't sure old Beavan would let you have the things," she remarked.
"It isn't often he'll even lend a hammer, but he seemed to take to you; I
think it was the way you handled his plane."

"It's strange what little things win some people's good opinion,
isn't it?"

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Mabel. "That's the way the Archdeacon talks. I
thought you were different!"

The man acquiesced in the rebuke; and after an hour's labor at the canoe,
he scraped the red lead he had used off his hands and sat down beside the
craft. The sun was warm now, the dew was drying, and a lark sang
riotously overhead. Vane became conscious that his companion was
regarding him with what seemed to be approval.

"I really think you'll do, and we'll get on," she informed him. "If
you had been the wrong kind, you would have worried about your red
hands. Still, you could have rubbed them on the heather, instead of on
your socks."

"I might have thought of that," Vane laughed. "But, you see, I've been
accustomed to wearing old clothes. Anyway, you'll be able to launch the
canoe as soon as the joint's dry."

"There's one thing I should have told you," the girl replied. "Dad would
have sent the canoe away to be mended if it hadn't been so far. He's very
good when things don't ruffle him; but he hasn't been fortunate lately.
The lead mine takes a good deal of money."

Vane admired her loyalty, and he refrained from taking advantage of her
candor, though there were one or two questions he would have liked to
ask. When he was last in England, Chisholm had been generally regarded as
a man of means, though it was rumored that he was addicted to hazardous
speculations. Mabel, without noticing his silence, went on:

"I heard Stevens--he's the gamekeeper--tell Beavan that Dad should have
been a rabbit because he's so fond of burrowing. No doubt, that meant
that he couldn't keep out of mines."

Vane made no comment; and Mabel, breaking off for a moment, looked up at
the rugged fells to the west and then around at the moors which cut
against the blue of the morning sky.

"It's all very pretty, but it shuts one in!" she cried. "You feel you
want to get out and can't! I suppose you really couldn't take me back
with you to Canada?"

"I'm afraid not. If you were about ten years older, it might be
possible."

Mabel grimaced.

"Oh, don't! That's the kind of thing some of Gerald's smart friends say,
and it makes one want to slap them! Besides," she added naively, glancing
down at her curtailed skirt, "I'm by no means so young as I appear to be.
The fact is, I'm not allowed to grow up yet."

"Why?"

The girl laughed at him.

"Oh, you've lived in the woods. If you had stayed in England, you would
understand."

"I'm afraid I've been injudicious," Vane answered with a show of
humility. "But don't you think it's getting on toward breakfast time?"

"Breakfast won't be for a good while yet. We don't get up early. Evelyn
used to, but it's different now. We used to go out on the tarn every
morning, even in the wind and rain; but I suppose that's not good for
one's complexion, though bothering about such things doesn't seem to me
to be worth while. Aunt Julia couldn't do anything for Evelyn, though she
had her in London for some time. Flora is our shining light."

"What did she do?"

"She married the Archdeacon; and he isn't so very dried up. I've seen him
smile when I talked to him."

"I'm not astonished at that, Mabel," laughed Vane.

His companion looked up at him.

"My name's not Mabel--to you. I'm Mopsy to the family, but my special
friends call me Mops. You're one of the few people one can be natural
with, and I'm getting sick--you won't be shocked--of having to be the
opposite. If you'll come along, I'll show you the setter puppies."

It was half an hour later when Vane, who had seldom had to wait so long
for breakfast, sat down with an excellent appetite. The spacious room
pleased him after the cramped quarters to which he had been accustomed.
The sunlight that streamed in sparkled on choice old silver and glowed on
freshly gathered flowers; and through the open windows mingled fragrances
flowed in from the gardens. All that his gaze rested on spoke of ease and
taste and leisure. Evelyn, sitting opposite him, looked wonderfully fresh
in her white dress; Mopsy was as amusing as she dared to be; but Vane
felt drawn back to the restless world again as he glanced at his hostess
and saw the wrinkles round her eyes and a hint of cleverly hidden strain
in her expression. He fancied that a good deal could be deduced from the
fragments of information her younger daughter had given him.

It was Mabel who suggested that they should picnic upon the summit of a
lofty hill, from which there was a striking view; and as this met with
the approval of Mrs. Chisholm, who excused herself from accompanying
them, they set out an hour later. The day was bright, with glaring
sunshine, and a moderate breeze drove up wisps of ragged cloud that
dappled the hills with flitting shadow. Towering crag and shingly scree
showed blue and purple through it and then flashed again into brilliancy,
while the long, grassy slopes gleamed with silvery gray and ocher.

On leaving the head of the valley they climbed leisurely up easy slopes,
slipping on the crisp hill grass now and then. By and by they plunged
into tangled heather on a bolder ridge, rent by black gullies, down
which at times wild torrents poured. This did not trouble either of the
men, who were used to forcing a passage over more rugged hillsides and
through leagues of matted brush, but Vane was surprised at the ease with
which Evelyn threaded her way across the heath. She wore a short skirt
and stout laced boots, and he noticed the supple grace of her movements
and the delicate color the wind had brought into her face. It struck him
that she had somehow changed since they had left the valley. She seemed
to have flung off something, and her laugh had a gay ring; but, while she
smiled and chatted with him, he was still conscious of a subtle reserve
in her manner.

Climbing still, they reached the haunts of the cloudberries and brushed
through broad patches of the snowy blossoms that open their gleaming
cups among the moss and heather. Vane gathered a handful and gave them
to Evelyn.

"You should wear these. They grow only far up on the heights."

She flashed a swift glance at him, but she smiled as she drew the fragile
stalks through her belt, and he felt that had it been permissible he
could have elaborated the idea in his mind. They are stainless flowers,
passionlessly white, that grow beyond the general reach of man, where the
air is keen and pure; and, in spite of her graciousness, there was a
coldness and a calm, which instead of repelling appealed to him strongly,
about this girl. Mabel laughed mischievously.

"If you want to give me flowers, it had better be marsh-marigolds," she
said. "They grow low down where it's slushy--but they blaze."

Carroll laughed.

"Mabel," he remarked a few moments later to Vane, "is unguarded in what
she says, but she now and then shows signs of being considerably older
than her years."

They left the black peat-soil behind them, and the heather gave place to
thin and more fragile ling, beaded with its unopened buds, while fangs of
rock cropped out here and there. Then turning the flank of a steep
ascent, they reached the foot of a shingly scree, and sat down to lunch
in the warm sunshine where the wind was cut off by the peak above.
Beneath them, a great rift opened up among the rocks, and far beyond the
blue lake in the depths of it they could catch the silver gleam of the
distant sea.

The fishing creel in which the provisions had been carried was promptly
emptied; and when Mabel afterward took Carroll away to climb some
neighboring crags, Vane lay resting on one elbow not far from Evelyn. She
was looking down the long hollow, with the sunshine, which lighted a
golden sparkle in her brown eyes, falling upon her face.

"You didn't seem to mind the climb."

"I enjoyed it;" Evelyn declared, glancing at the cloudberry blossom in
her belt. "I really am fond of the mountains, and I have to thank you for
a day among them."

On the surface the words offered an opening for a complimentary
rejoinder; but Vane was too shrewd to seize it. He had made one venture,
and he surmised that a second one would not please her.

"They're almost at your door. One would imagine that you could indulge in
a scramble among them whenever it pleased you."

"There are a good many things that look so close and still are out of
reach," Evelyn answered with a smile that somehow troubled him. Then her
manner changed. "You are content with this?"

Vane gazed about him. Purple crags lay in shadow; glistening threads of
water fell among the rocks; and long slopes lay steeped in softest color
under the cloud-flecked summer sky.

"Content is scarcely the right word for it," he assured her, "If it
weren't so still and serene up here, I'd be riotously happy. There are
reasons for this quite apart from the scenery; for one, it's remarkably
pleasant to feel that I need do nothing but what I like during the next
few months."

"The sensation must be unusual. I wonder if, even in your case, it will
last so long?"

Vane laughed and stretched out one of his hands. It was lean and brown,
and she could see the marks of old scars on the knuckles.

"In my case," he answered, "it has come only once in a lifetime, and, if
it isn't too presumptuous, I think I've earned it." He indicated his
battered fingers. "That's the result of holding a wet and slippery drill;
and those aren't the only marks I carry about with me--though I've been
more fortunate than many fine comrades."

Evelyn noticed something that pleased her in his voice as he concluded.

"I suppose one must get hurt now and then," she responded. "After all, a
bruise that's only skin-deep doesn't trouble one long, and no doubt some
scars are honorable. It's slow corrosion that's the deadliest."

She broke off with a laugh.

"Moralizing's out of place on a day like this," she added; "and such days
are not frequent in the North. That's their greatest charm."

Vane nodded. He knew the sad gray skies of his native land, when its
lonely heights are blurred by driving snow-cloud or scourged by bitter
rain for weeks together, though now and then they tower serenely into the
blue heavens, steeped in ethereal splendor. Once more it struck him that
in their latter aspect his companion resembled them. Made finely, of warm
flesh and blood, she was yet ethereal too. There was something aloof and
intangible about her that seemed in harmony with the hills among which
she was born.

"Yes," he agreed. "On the face of it, the North is fickle; though to
those who know it that's a misleading term. To some of us it's always the
same, and its dark grimness makes one feel the radiance of its smile. For
all that, I think we're going to see a sudden change in the weather."

Long wisps of leaden cloud began to stream across the crags above,
intensifying, until it seemed unnatural, the glow of light and color
on the rest.

"I wonder if Mopsy is leading Mr. Carroll into any mischief? They have
been gone some time," said Evelyn. "She has a trick of getting herself
and other people into difficulties. I suppose he is an old friend of
yours, as you brought him over; unless, perhaps, he's acting as your
secretary."

Vane's eyes twinkled.

"If he came in any particular capacity, it's as bear-leader. You see,
there are a good many things I've forgotten in the bush, and, as I left
this country young, there are no doubt some that I never learned."

"And so you make Mr. Carroll your confidential adviser. How did he gain
the necessary experience?"

"That is more than I can tell you; but I'm inclined to believe he has
been at one of the universities--Toronto, most likely. Anyhow, on the
whole he acts as a judicious restraint."

"But don't you really know anything about him?"

"Only what some years of close companionship have taught me, though I
think that's enough. For the rest, I took him on trust."

Evelyn looked surprised, and he spread out his hands in a humorous
manner.

"A good many people have had to take me in that way, and they seemed
willing to do so--the thing's not uncommon in the West. Why should I be
more particular than they were?"

Just then Mabel and Carroll appeared. The latter's garments were stained
in places, as if he had been scrambling over mossy rocks, and his pockets
bulged. Mabel's skirt was torn, while a patch of white skin showed
through her stocking.

"We've found some sun-dew and two ferns I don't know, as well as all
sorts of other things," she announced.

"That's correct," vouched Carroll dryly; "I've got them. I guess they're
going to fill up most of the creel."

Mabel superintended their transfer, and then addressed the others
generally.

"I think we ought to go up the Pike now, when we have the chance. It
isn't much of a climb from here: and we'll have rain before to-morrow.
Besides, the quickest way back to the road is across the top and down the
other side."

Evelyn agreed, and they set out, following a sheep path which skirted the
screes, until they left the bank of sharp stones behind and faced a steep
ascent. Parts of it necessitated a breathless scramble, and the sunlight
faded from the hills as they climbed, while thicker wisps of cloud drove
across the ragged summit. They reached the top at length and stopped,
bracing themselves against a rush of chilly breeze, while they looked
down upon a wilderness of leaden-colored rock. Long trails of mist were
creeping in and out among the crags, and here and there masses of it
gathered round the higher slopes.

"I think the Pike's grandest in this weather," Mabel declared. "Look
below, Mr. Carroll, and you'll see the mountain's like a starfish. It has
prongs running out from it."

Carroll did as she directed him, and noticed three diverging ridges
springing off from the shoulders of the peak. Their crests, which were
narrow, led down toward the valley, but their sides fell in rent and
fissured crags to great black hollows.

"You can get down two of them," Mabel went on. "The first is the nearest
to the road, but the third's the easiest. It takes you to the
Hause--that's the gap between it and the next big hill. You must be a
climber to try the middle one."

A few big drops began to fall, and Evelyn cut her sister's
explanations short.

"It strikes me that we'd better make a start at once," she said.

They set out, Mabel and Carroll leading, and drawing farther away from
the two behind. The rain began in earnest as they descended. Rock slope
and scattered stones were slippery, and Vane found it difficult to keep
his footing on some of their lichened surfaces. He was relieved, however,
to see that his companion seldom hesitated, and they made their way
downward cautiously, until near the spot where the three ridges diverged
they walked into a belt of drifting mist. The peak above them was
suddenly blotted out, and Evelyn bade Vane hail Carroll and Mabel, who
had disappeared. He sent a shout ringing through the vapor, and caught a
faint and unintelligible answer. A flock of sheep fled past and dislodged
a rush of sliding stones. Vane heard the stones rattle far down the
hillside, and when he called again a blast of chilly wind whirled his
voice away. There was a faint echo above him and then silence.

"It looks as if they were out of hearing; and the slope ahead of us seems
uncommonly steep by the way those stones went down. Do you think Mabel
has taken Carroll down the Stanghyll ridge?"

"I can't tell," answered Evelyn. "It's comforting to remember that she
knows it better than I do. I think we ought to make for the Hause;
there's only one place that's really steep. Keep up to the left a little;
the Scale Crags must be close beneath us."

They moved on circumspectly, skirting what seemed to be a pit of profound
depth in which dim vapors whirled, while the rain, growing thicker, beat
into their faces.



CHAPTER VII

STORM-STAYED


The weather was not the only thing that troubled Vane as he stumbled on
through the mist. Any unathletic tourist from the cities could have gone
up without much difficulty by the way they had ascended, but it was
different coming down on the opposite side of the mountain. There, their
route led across banks of sharp-pointed stones that rested lightly on the
steep slope, interspersed with outcropping rocks which were growing
dangerously slippery, and a wilderness of crags pierced by three great
radiating chasms lay beneath.

After half an hour's arduous scramble, he decided that they must be close
upon the top of the last rift, and he stood still for a minute looking
about him. The mist was now so thick that he could see scarcely thirty
yards ahead, but the way it drove past him indicated that it was blowing
up a hollow. On one hand a rampart of hillside loomed dimly out of it; in
front there was a dark patch that looked like the face of a dripping
rock; and between that and the hill a boggy stretch of grass ran back
into the vapor. Vane glanced at his companion with some concern. Her
skirt was heavy with moisture and the rain dripped from the brim of her
hat, but she smiled at him reassuringly.

"It's not the first time I've got wet," she said cheeringly; "and you're
not responsible--it's Mopsy's fault."

Vane felt relieved on one account He had imagined that a woman hated to
feel draggled and untidy, and he was willing to own that in his case
fatigue usually tended toward shortness of temper. Though the scramble
had scarcely taxed his powers, he fancied that Evelyn had already done as
much as one could expect of her.

"I must prospect about a bit. Scardale's somewhere below us; but, if I
remember, it's an awkward descent to the head of it; and I'm not sure of
the right entrance to the Hause."

"I've only once been down this way, and that was a long while ago,"
Evelyn replied.

Vane left her and plodded away across the grass, sinking ankle-deep in
the spongy moss among the roots of it When he had grown scarcely
distinguishable in the haze he turned and waved his hand.

"I know where we are--almost to the head of the beck!" he called.

Evelyn joined him at the edge of a trickle of water splashing in a peaty
hollow, and they followed it down, seeing only odd strips of hillside
amid the vapor. At length the ground grew softer, and Vane, going first,
sank among the long green moss almost to his knees. It made a bubbling,
sucking sound as he drew out his feet.

"That won't do! Stand still, please! I'll try a little to the right."

He tried in one or two directions; but wherever he went he sank over his
boots. Coming back he informed his companion that they would better go
straight ahead.

"I know there's no bog worth speaking of--the Hause is a regular
tourist track."

He stopped and stripped off his jacket.

"First of all, you must put this on; I'm sorry I didn't think of
it before."

Evelyn demurred, and Vane rolled up the jacket.

"You have to choose between doing what I ask and watching me pitch
it into the beck. I'm a rather determined person. It would be a
pity to throw the thing away, particularly as the rain hasn't got
through it yet."

She yielded, and he held the jacket while she put it on.

"There's another thing," he added. "I'm going to carry you for the next
hundred yards, or possibly farther."

"No," replied Evelyn firmly. "On that point, my determination is as
strong as yours."

Vane made a sign of acquiescence.

"You may have your way for a minute; I expect that will be long enough."

He was correct. Evelyn moved forward a pace or two, and then stopped with
the skirt she had gathered up brushing the quivering emerald moss, and
her boots, which were high ones, hidden in the mire. She had some
difficulty in pulling them out. Then Vane coolly picked her up.

"All you have to do is to keep still for the next few minutes," he
informed her in a most matter-of-fact voice.

Evelyn did not move, though she recognized that had he shown any sign of
self-conscious hesitation she would at once have shaken herself loose. As
it was, the fact that he appeared perfectly at ease and unaware that he
was doing anything unusual was reassuring. Then as he plodded forward she
wondered at his steadiness, for she remembered that when she had once
fallen heavily when nailing up a clematis her father, who was a vigorous
man, had found it difficult to carry her upstairs. Vane had never carried
any woman in his arms before, but he had occasionally had to pack--as it
is termed in the West--hundred-and-forty-pound flour bags over a rocky
portage, and, though the comparison did not strike him as a happy one, he
thought the girl was not quite so heavy as that. He was conscious of a
curious thrill and a certain stirring of his blood, but this, he decided,
must be sternly ignored. His task was not an easy one, and he stumbled
once or twice, but he accomplished it and set the girl down safely on
firmer ground.

"Now," he said, "there's only the drop to the dale, but we must endeavor
to keep out of the beck."

His voice and air were unembarrassed, though he was breathless, and
Evelyn fancied that in this and the incident of the jacket he had at last
revealed the forceful, natural manners of the West. It was the first
glimpse she had had of them, and she was not displeased. The man had
merely done what was most advisable, with practical sense.

A little farther on, a shoot of falling water swept out of the mist above
and came splashing down a crag, spread out in frothing threads. It flowed
across their path, reunited in a deep gully, and then fell tumultuously
into the beck, which was now ten or twelve feet below them. They clung to
the rock as they traced it downward, stepping cautiously from ledge to
ledge and from slippery stone to stone. At times a stone plunged into the
mist beneath them, and Vane grasped the girl's arm and held out a
steadying hand, but he was never fussy nor needlessly concerned. When she
wanted help, it was offered at the right moment; but that was all. Had
she been alarmed, her companion's manner would have been more comforting
than persistent solicitude. He was, she decided, one who could be relied
upon in an emergency.

"You are sure-footed," she remarked, when they stopped a minute or two
for breath.

Vane laughed as he glanced into the vapor-rilled depths beneath. They
stood on a ledge, two or three yards in width, with a tall crag behind
them and the beck, which had rapidly grown larger, leaping half seen from
rock to rock in the rift in front.

"I was born among these fells; and I have helped to pack various kinds of
mining truck over much rougher mountains."

"Have you ever gone up as steep a place as this with a load?"

"If I remember rightly, the top of the Hause drops about three hundred
feet, and we'll probably spend half an hour in reaching the valley. There
was one western divide that it took us several days to cross, dragging a
tent, camp gear and provisions in relays. Its foot was wrapped in tangled
brush that tore most of our clothes to rags, and the last pitch was two
thousand feet of rock where the snow lay waist-deep in the hollows."

"Two thousand feet! That dwarfs our little drop to the Hause. What were
you doing so far up in the ranges?"

"Looking for a copper mine."

"And you found one?"

"No; not that time. As a rule, the mineral trail leads poor men to
greater poverty, and sometimes to a grave; but once you have set your
feet on it you follow it again. The thing becomes an obsession; you feel
forced to go."

"Even if you bring nothing back?"

Vane laughed.

"One always brings back something--frost-bite, bruises, a bag of
specimens that assayers and mineral development men smile at. They're
the palpable results, but in most cases you pick up an intangible
something else."

"And that is?"

"A thing beyond definition. A germ that lies in wait in the lonely places
and breeds fantasies when it gets into your blood. Anyway, you can never
quite get rid of it."

Evelyn was interested. The man was endowed with a trick of quaint and
almost poetical imagination, which she had not suspected him of
possessing.

"It conduces to unrest?" she suggested.

"Yes. One feels that there's a rich claim waiting beyond the thick timber
through which one can hardly scramble, across the icy rivers, or over the
snow-line."

"But you found one."

"At last I found it easily. After ranging the wildest solitudes, we
struck it in a sheltered valley near the warm west coast. Curious,
isn't it?"

"But didn't that banish the unrest and leave you satisfied?"

The man looked at her with a flicker of grim amusement in his eyes.

"As I explained, it can't be banished. There's always a richer claim
somewhere that you haven't found. Our prospectors dream of it as the
Mother Lode, and some spend half their lives in search of it; it was
called El Dorado three hundred years ago. After all, the idea's a
deeper thing than a miner's fantasy: in one shape or another it's
inherent in optimistic human nature. Are you sure the microbe hasn't
bitten you and Mopsy?"

He was too shrewd. Turning from him, she looked down at the eddying mist.
For several years she had chafed at her surroundings and the restraints
they laid upon her, with a restless longing for something wider and
better: a freer, sunnier atmosphere where her nature could expand. At
times she fancied there was only one sun which could warm it to a perfect
growth, but that sun had not risen and scarcely seemed likely to do so.

Vane broke the silence deprecatingly.

"Now that you're rested, we'd better get on. I'm sorry I've kept
you so long."

Though caution was still necessary, the rest of the descent was easier,
and after a while they reached a winding dale. They followed it
downward, splashing through water part of the time, and at length came
into sight of a cluster of little houses standing between a river and a
big fir wood.

"It must be getting on toward evening. Mopsy and Carroll probably went
down the ridge, and as it runs out lower down the valley, they'll be
almost at home."

"It's six o'clock," replied Vane, glancing at his watch. "You can't walk
home in the rain, and it's a long while since lunch. If Adam Bell and his
wife are still at the Golden Fleece, we'll get something to eat there and
borrow you some dry clothes. I've no doubt he'll drive us back
afterward."

Evelyn made no objections. She was very wet and was beginning to feel
weary, and they were some distance from home. She returned his jacket,
and a few minutes later they entered an old hostelry which, like many
others among those hills, was a farm as well as an inn. The landlady
recognized Vane with pleased surprise. When she had attended to Evelyn
she provided Vane with some of her husband's clothes. Then she lighted a
fire; and when she had laid out a meal in the guest-room, Evelyn came in,
attired in a dress of lilac print.

"It's Maggie Bell's," she explained demurely. "Her mother's things were
rather large. Adam is away at a sheep auction, and they have only the
trap he went in; but they expect him back in an hour or so."

"Then we must wait," smiled Vane. "Worse misfortunes have befallen me."

They made an excellent meal, and then Vane drew up a wicker chair to the
fire for Evelyn and sat down opposite her. The room was low and shadowy,
and partly paneled. Against one wall stood a black oak sideboard, with a
plate-rack above it, and a great chest of the same material with
ponderous hand-forged hinge-straps stood opposite it. A clock with an
engraved metal dial and a six-foot case, polished to a wonderful luster
by the hands of several generations, ticked in one corner; and here and
there the firelight flickered upon utensils of burnished copper. There
was little in the place that looked less than a century old, for there
are nooks in the North that have still escaped the ravages of the
collector. Outside, the rain dripped from the massy flagstone eaves, and
the song of the river stole in monotonous cadence into the room.

Evelyn was silent and Vane said nothing for a while. He had been in the
air all day, and though this was nothing new to him he was content to sit
lazily still and leave the opening of conversation to his companion. In
the meanwhile it was pleasant to glance toward her now and then. The
pale-tinted dress became her, and he felt that the room would have looked
less cheerful had she been away; though this by no means comprised the
whole of his sensations. After living almost entirely among men, he had
of late met three women who had impressed him in different ways, and they
had all been pleasant to look upon.

First, there was Kitty Blake, little, graceful and, in a way, alluring;
and it was she who had first roused in him a vague desire for a companion
who could be more to him than a man could be. Beyond that, pretty as she
was, she had only moved him to chivalrous pity and a wider sympathy.

Then he had met Jessy Horsfield, whom he admired. She was a clever woman
and a handsome one, but she had scarcely stirred him at all.

Last, he had met Evelyn, as well endowed with physical charm as either;
and there was no doubt that the effect she had on him was different
again. It was one that was difficult to analyze, though he lazily tried.
She appealed to him by the grace of her carriage, the poise of her head,
her delicate coloring, and the changing lights in her eyes; but behind
these points there was something stronger and deeper expressed through
them. He fancied that she possessed qualities he had not hitherto
encountered, which would become more precious when they were fully
understood. He thought of her as steadfast and wholesome in mind; one who
sought for the best; but beyond this there was an ethereal something that
could not be defined. Then a simile struck him: she was like the snow
that towered high into the empyrean in British Columbia. In this,
however, he was wrong, for there was warm human passion in the girl,
though as yet it was sleeping.

He realized suddenly that he was getting absurdly sentimental, and
instinctively he fumbled for his pipe, then stopped. Evelyn noticed this
and smiled.

"You needn't hesitate. The Dene is redolent of cigars, and Gerald smokes
everywhere when he is at home."

"Is he likely to turn up?" Vane asked. "It's ever so long since I've
seen him."

"I'm afraid not. In fact, Gerald's rather under a cloud just now. I
may as well tell you this, because you are sure to hear of it sooner
or later. He has been extravagant and, so he assures us,
extraordinarily unlucky."

"Stocks?" suggested Vane. He was acquainted with some of the family
tendencies.

Evelyn hesitated a moment.

"That would more readily have been forgiven him. I believe he has
speculated on the turf as well."

Vane was surprised. He understood that Gerald Chisholm was a barrister,
and betting on the turf was not an amusement he would have associated
with that profession.

"I must run up and see him by and by," he said thoughtfully.

Evelyn felt sorry she had spoken. Gerald needed help, which his father
was not in a position to offer. Evelyn was not censorious of other
people's faults, but it was impossible to be blind to some aspects of her
brother's character, and she would have preferred that Vane should not
meet Gerald while the latter was embarrassed by financial difficulties.
She abruptly changed the subject.

"Several of the things you have told me about your life in Canada
interest me. It must have been bracing to feel that you depended upon
your own efforts and stood on your own feet, free from the hampering
customs that are common here."

"The position has its disadvantages. You have no family influence behind
you--nothing to fall back on. If you can't make good your footing, you
must go down. It's curious that just before I came over here, a lady I
met in Vancouver expressed an opinion very much like yours. She said it
must be pleasant to feel that one is, to some extent at least, master of
one's fate."

"Then she merely explained my meaning more clearly than I have done."

"One could have imagined that she had everything she could reasonably
wish for. If I'm not transgressing, so have you. It's strange you should
both harbor the same idea."

Evelyn smiled.

"I don't think it's uncommon among young women nowadays. There's a
grandeur in the thought that one's fate lies in the hands of the high
unseen Powers; but to allow one's life to be molded by the prejudices and
preconceptions of one's--neighbors is a different matter. Besides, if
unrest and human striving were sent, was it only that they should be
repressed?"

Vane sat silent a moment or two. He had noticed the brief pause and
fancied that she had changed one of the words that followed it. He did
not think that it was the opinions of her neighbors against which she
chafed most.

"It's something that I've never experienced," he replied at length. "In a
general way, I've done what I wanted."

"Which is a privilege that is denied us."

Evelyn spoke without bitterness.

"What do women who are left to their own resources do in western Canada?"
she asked presently.

"Some of them marry; I suppose that's the most natural thing," answered
Vane, with an air of reflection that amused her. "Anyway, they have
plenty of opportunities. There's a preponderating number of unattached
young men in the newly opened parts of the Dominion."

"Things are different here; or perhaps we require more than they do
across the Atlantic. What becomes of the others?"

"They are waitresses in the hotels; they learn stenography and
typewriting, and go into offices and stores."

"And earn just enough to live upon meagerly? If their wages are high,
they must pay out more. That follows, doesn't it?"

"To some extent."

"Is there nothing better open to them?"

"No; not unless they're trained for it and become specialized. That
implies peculiar abilities and a systematic education with one end in
view. You can't enter the arena to fight for the higher prizes unless
you're properly armed. The easiest way for a woman to acquire power and
influence is by a judicious marriage. No doubt, it's the same here."

"It is," laughed Evelyn. "A man is more fortunately situated."

"Probably; but if he's poor, he's rather walled in, too. He breaks
through now and then; and in the newer countries he gets an opportunity."

Vane abstractedly examined his pipe, which he had not lighted yet. It was
clear that the girl was dissatisfied with her surroundings, and had for
some reason temporarily relaxed the restraint she generally laid upon
herself; but he felt that, if she were wise, she would force herself to
be content. She was of too fine a fiber to plunge into the struggle that
many women had to wage. Though he did not doubt her courage, she had not
been trained for it. He had noticed that among men it was the cruder and
less developed organizations that proved hardiest in adverse situations;
one needed a strain of primitive vigor. There was, it seemed, only one
means of release for Evelyn, and that was a happy marriage. But a
marriage could not be happy unless the suitor should be all that she
desired; and Evelyn would be fastidious, though her family would, no
doubt, look only for wealth and station. Vane imagined that this was
where the trouble lay, and he felt a protective pity for her. He would
wait and keep his eyes open.

Presently there was a rattle of wheels outside and the landlord came in
and greeted them with rude cordiality. Shortly afterward Vane helped
Evelyn into the rig, and Bell drove them home through the rain.



CHAPTER VIII

LUCY VANE


Bright sunshine streamed down out of a cloudless sky one afternoon
shortly after the ascent of the Pike. Vane stood talking with his sister
upon the terrace in front of the Dene. He leaned against the low wall,
frowning, for Lucy hitherto had avoided a discussion of the subject which
occupied their attention, and now, as he would have said, he could not
make her listen to reason.

She stood in front of him, with the point of her parasol pressed firmly
into the gravel and her lips set, though in her eyes there was a smile
which suggested forbearance. Lucy was tall and spare of figure; a year
younger than her brother; and of somewhat determined and essentially
practical character. She earned her living in a northern manufacturing
town by lecturing on domestic economy, for the public authorities. Vane
understood that she also received a small stipend as secretary to some
women's organization and that she took a part in suffrage propaganda. She
had a thin, forceful face, seldom characterized by repose.

"After all," Vane broke out, "what I'm urging is a very natural thing. I
don't like to think of your being forced to work as you are doing, and
I've tried to show you that it wouldn't cost me any self-denial to make
you an allowance. There's no reason why you should be at the beck and
call of those committees any longer."

Lucy's smile grew plainer.

"I don't think that quite describes my position."

"It's possible," Vane agreed with a trace of dryness. "No doubt, you
insist that the chairman or lady president give way to you; but this
doesn't affect the question. You have to work, anyway."

"But I like it; and it keeps me in some degree of comfort."

The man turned impatiently and glanced about him. The front of the old
gray house was flooded with light, and the mossy sward below the terrace
glowed luminously green. The shadows of the hollies and cypresses were
thin and unsubstantial, but where a beech overarched the grass, Evelyn
and Mrs. Chisholm. attired in light draperies, reclined in basket chairs.
Carroll, in thin gray tweed, stood near them, talking to Mabel, and
Chisholm sat on a bench with a newspaper in his hand. He looked half
asleep, and a languorous stillness pervaded the whole scene. Beyond it,
the tarn shone dazzlingly, and in the distance ranks of rugged fells
towered, dim and faintly blue. All that the eye rested on spoke of an
unbroken tranquillity.

"Wouldn't you like this kind of thing, as well?" Vane asked. "Of course,
I mean what it implies--the power to take life easy and get as much
enjoyment as possible out of it. It wouldn't be difficult, if you'd only
take what I'd be glad to give you." He indicated the languid figures in
the foreground. "You could, for instance, spend your time among people of
this sort. After all, it's what you were meant to do."

"Would that appeal to you?"

"Oh, I like it in the meantime," he evaded.

"Well," Lucy returned curtly, "I believe I'm more at home with the other
kind of people--those in poverty, squalor and ignorance. I've an idea
that they have a stronger claim on me; but that's not a point I can urge.
The fact is, I've chosen my career, and there are practical reasons why I
shouldn't abandon it. I had a good deal of trouble in getting a footing,
and if I fell out now, it would be harder still to take my place in the
ranks again."

"But you wouldn't require to do so."

"I can't be sure. I don't want to hurt you; but, after all, your success
was sudden, and one understands that it isn't wise to depend on an income
derived from mining properties."

Vane frowned.

"None of you ever did believe in me!"

"I suppose there's some truth in that. You really did give us trouble,
you know. Somehow, you were different--you wouldn't fit in; though I
believe the same thing applied to me, for that matter."

"And now you don't expect my prosperity to last?"

The girl hesitated, but she was candid by nature.

"Perhaps I'd better answer. You have it in you to work determinedly and,
when it's necessary, to do things that men with less courage would shrink
from; but I'm doubtful whether yours is the temperament that leads to
success. You haven't the huckster's instincts; you're not cold-blooded
enough; you wouldn't cajole your friends nor truckle to your enemies."

"If I adopted the latter course, it would certainly be against the
grain," Vane confessed.

Lucy laughed.

"Well, I mean to go on earning my living; but you may take me up to
London for a few days, if you want to, and buy me some hats and things.
Then I don't mind your giving something to the Emancipation Society."

"I am not sure that I believe in emancipation; but you may have
ten guineas."

"Thank you."

Lucy glanced around toward Carroll, who was approaching them with Mabel.

"I'll give you a piece of advice," she added. "Stick to that man. He's
cooler and less headstrong than you are; he'll prove a useful friend."

"What are you two talking about?" asked Carroll. "You look animated."

"Wallace has just promised me ten guineas to assist the movement for the
emancipation of women." Lucy answered pointedly. "Our society's efforts
are sadly restricted by the lack of funds."

"Vane is now and then a little inconsequential in his generosity,"
Carroll rejoined. "I didn't know he was interested in that kind of thing;
but as I don't like to be outdone by my partner, I'll subscribe the same.
By the way, why do you people reckon these things in guineas?"

"Thanks," smiled Lucy, making an entry in a notebook in a businesslike
manner. "As you said it was a subscription, you'll hear from us next
year. In answer to your question, it's an ancient custom, and it has the
advantage that you get in the extra shillings."

They strolled along the terrace together, and as they went down the steps
to the lawn Carroll turned to her with a smile.

"Have you tackled Chisholm yet?"

"I never waste powder and shot," Lucy replied tersely. "A man of his
restricted views would sooner subscribe handsomely to a movement to
put us down."

"Are you regretting the ten guineas, Vane?" Carroll questioned
laughingly. "You don't look pleased."

"The fact is, I wanted to do something that wasn't allowed. I've met with
the same disillusionment here as I did in British Columbia."

Lucy looked up at her brother.

"Did you attempt to give somebody money there?"

"I did. It's not worth discussing; and, anyway, she wouldn't
listen to me."

They strolled on, Vane frowning, while Carroll, noticing signs of
suppressed interest in Lucy's face, smiled unobserved. Neither he nor the
others thought of Mabel, who was following them.

Some time after they joined the others, Carroll lay back in a deep chair,
with his half-closed eyes turned in Lucy's direction.

"Are you asleep, or thinking hard?" Mrs. Chisholm asked him.

"Not more than half asleep," he laughed. "I was trying to remember _A
Dream of Fair Women_. It's a suitable occupation for a drowsy summer
afternoon in a place like this, but I must confess that it was Miss Vane
who put it into my head. She reminded me of one or two of the heroines
when she was championing the cause of the suffragist."

"You mustn't imagine that Englishwomen in general sympathize with her,
or that such ideas are popular at the Dene."

Carroll smiled reassuringly.

"I shouldn't have imagined the latter for a moment. But, as I said, on an
afternoon of this kind one may be excused for indulging in romantic
fancies. Don't you see what brought those old-time heroines into my mind?
I mean the elusive resemblance to their latter-day prototype?"

Mrs. Chisholm looked puzzled.

"No," she declared. "One of them was Greek, another early English, and
the finest of all was the Hebrew maid. As they couldn't have been like
one another, how could they, collectively, have borne a resemblance to
anybody else?"

"That's logical, on the surface. To digress, why do you most admire
Jephthah's daughter, the gentle Gileadite?"

His hostess affected surprise.

"Isn't it evident, when one remembers her patient sacrifice; her fine
sense of family honor?"

Carroll felt that this was much the kind of sentiment one could have
expected from her; and he did her the justice to believe that it was
genuine and that she was capable of living up to her convictions. His
glance rested on Vane for a moment, and the latter was startled as he
guessed Carroll's thought.

Evelyn sat near him, reclining languidly in a wicker chair. She had been
silent, and now that her face was in repose the signs of reserve and
repression were plainer than ever. There was, however, pride in it, and
Vane felt that she was endowed with a keener and finer sense of family
honor than her thin-lipped mother. Her brother's career was threatened
by the results of his own imprudence, and though her father could hardly
be compared with the Gileadite warrior, there was, Vane fancied, a
disturbing similarity between the two cases. It was unpleasant to
contemplate the possibility of this girl's being called upon to bear the
cost of her relatives' misfortunes or follies.

Carroll looked across at Lucy with a smile.

"You won't agree with Mrs. Chisholm?" he suggested.

"No," answered Lucy firmly. "Leaving out the instance in question, there
are too many people who transgress and then expect somebody else--a
woman, generally--to serve as a sacrifice."

"I don't agree, either," Mabel broke in. "I'd sooner have been Cleopatra,
or Joan of Arc--only she was burned, poor thing."

"That was only what she might have expected. An unpleasant fate
generally overtakes people who go about disturbing things," Mrs.
Chisholm said severely.

The speech was characteristic, and the others smiled. It would have
astonished them had Mrs. Chisholm sympathized with the rebel idealist
whose beckoning visions led to the clash of arms.

"Aren't you getting off the track," Vane asked Carroll. "I don't see the
drift of your previous remarks."

"Well," drawled Carroll, "there must be, I think, a certain distinctive
stamp upon those who belong to the leader type--I mean the people who are
capable of doing striking and heroic things. Apart from this, I've been
studying you English--I've been over here before--and it has struck me
that there's occasionally something imperious, or rather imperial, in
the faces of your women in the most northern counties. I can't define the
thing, but it's there--in the line of nose, in the mouth, and, I think,
most marked in the brows. It's not Saxon, nor Norse, nor Danish; I'd
sooner call it Roman."

Vane was slightly astonished. He had seen that look in Evelyn's face, and
now, for the first time, he recognized it in his sister's.

"Perhaps you have hit it," he said with a laugh. "You can reach the Wall
from here in a day's ride."

"The Wall?"

"The Roman Wall; Hadrian's Wall. I believe one authority states that they
had a garrison of one hundred thousand men to keep it."

Chisholm joined the group. He was a tall, rather florid-faced man, with a
formal manner, and was dressed immaculately in creaseless clothes.

"The point Wallace raises is interesting," he remarked. "While I don't
know how long it takes for a strain to die out, there must have been a
large civil population living near the Wall, and we know that the
characteristics of the Teutonic peoples who followed the Romans still
remain. On the other hand, some of the followers were vexillaries, from
the bounds of the Empire; Gauls, for example, or Iberians."

When, later on, the group broke up, Evelyn was left alone for a few
minutes with Mabel.

"Gerald should have been sent to Canada instead of to Oxford," the
younger girl declared. "Then he might have got as rich as Wallace Vane
and Mr. Carroll."

"What makes you think they're rich?" Evelyn asked with reproof in her
tone.

Mabel grimaced.

"Oh, we all knew they were rich before they came. They were giving Lucy
guineas for the suffragists an hour ago. They must have a good deal of
money to waste it like that. Besides, I think Wallace wanted her to take
some more; and he seemed quite vexed when he said he'd tried to give
money to somebody else in Canada who wouldn't have it. As he said 'she,'
it must have been a woman, but I don't think he meant to mention that. It
slipped out."

"You had no right to listen," Evelyn retorted severely; but the
information sank into her mind, and she afterward remembered it.

She rose when the sunshine, creeping farther across the grass, fell upon
her, and Vane carried her chair, as well as those of the others, who were
strolling back toward them, into the shadow. This she thought was typical
of the man. He seemed happiest when he was doing something. By and by a
chance remark of her mother's once more set Carroll to discoursing
humorously.

"After all," he contended, "it's difficult to obey a purely arbitrary
rule of conduct. Several of the philosophers seem to have decided that
the origin of virtue is utility."

"Utility?" Chisholm queried.

"Yes; utility to one's neighbors or the community at large. For
instance, I desire an apple growing on somebody else's tree--one of the
big red apples that hang over the roadside in Ontario. Now the longing
for the fruit is natural, and innocent in itself; the trouble is that
if it were indulged in and gratified by every person who passed along
the road, the farmer would abandon the cultivation of his orchard. He
would neither plant nor prune his trees, except for the expectation of
enjoying what they yield. The offense, accordingly, concerns everybody
who enjoys apples."

Mrs. Chisholm smiled assent.

"I believe that idea is the basis of our minor social and domestic
codes. Even when they're illogical in particular cases, they're
necessary in general."

Evelyn looked across at Vane, as if to invite his opinion, and he knit
his brows.

"I don't think Carroll's correct. The traditional view, which, as I
understand it, is that the sense of right is innate, ingrained in man's
nature, seems more reasonable. I'll give you two instances. There was a
man in charge of a little mine. He had had the crudest education, and no
moral training, but he was an excellent miner. Well, he was given a hint
that it was not desirable the mine should turn out much paying ore."

"But why wasn't it required to produce as much as possible?"
Evelyn asked.

"I believe that somebody wanted to break down the value of the shares and
afterward quietly buy them up. Anyway, though he knew it would result in
his dismissal, the man I mentioned drove the boys his hardest. He worked
savagely, taking risks he could have avoided by spending a little more
time in precautions, in a badly timbered tunnel. He didn't reason--he was
hardly capable of it--but he got the most out of the mine."

"It was fine of him!" Evelyn exclaimed.

"The engineer of a collier figures in the next case." Vane went on. "The
engines were clumsy and badly finished, but the man spent his care and
labor on them until I think he loved them. His only trouble was that he
was sent to sea with second-rate oils and stores. After a while they grew
so bad that he could hardly use them; and he had reasons for believing
that a person who could dismiss or promote him was getting a big
commission on the goods. He was a plain, unreasoning man; but he would
not cripple his engines; and at last he condemned the stores and made the
skipper purchase supplies he could use, at double the usual prices, in a
foreign port. There could be only one result; he was driving a pump in a
mine when I last met him."

He paused, and added quietly:

"It wasn't logic, it wasn't even conventional morality, that impelled
these men. It was something that was part of them. What's more, men of
their type are more common than the cynics believe."

Carroll smiled good-humoredly; and when the party sauntered toward the
house, he walked beside Evelyn.

"There's one point that Wallace omitted to mention in connection with his
tales," he remarked. "The things he narrated are precisely those which,
on being given the opportunity, he would have pleasure in doing himself."

"Why pleasure? I could understand his doing them, but I'd expect him to
feel some reluctance."

Carroll's eyes twinkled.

"He gets indignant now and then. Virtuous people are generally content to
resist temptation, but Wallace is apt to attack the tempter. I dare say
it isn't wise, but that's the kind of man he is."

"Ah! One couldn't find fault with the type. But I wonder why you have
taken the trouble to tell me this?"

"Really, I don't know. Somehow, I have an impression that I ought to say
what I can in Wallace's favor, if only because he brought me here, and I
feel like talking when I can get a sympathetic listener."

"I shouldn't have imagined the latter was indispensable," laughed Evelyn.
"Is this visit all you owe Wallace?"

"No, indeed. In many ways, I owe him a good deal more. He has no idea of
this, but it doesn't lessen my obligation. By the way, it struck me that
in many respects Miss Vane is rather like her brother."

"Lucy is opinionative, and now and then embarrassingly candid, but she
leads a life that most of us would shrink from. It isn't necessary that
she should do so--family friends would have arranged things
differently--and the tasks she's paid for are less than half her labors.
I believe she generally gets abuse as a reward for the rest."

Then Mabel joined them and took possession of Carroll, and Evelyn
strolled on alone, thinking of what he had told her.



CHAPTER IX

CHISHOLM PROVES AMENABLE


Vane spent a month at the Dene, with quiet satisfaction, and when at last
he left for London and Paris he gladly promised to come back for another
few weeks before he sailed for Canada. He stayed some time in Paris,
because Carroll insisted on it, but it was with eagerness that he went
north again late in the autumn. For one reason--and he laid some stress
upon this--he longed for the moorland air and the rugged fells, though he
admitted that Evelyn's society enhanced their charm for him.

At last, shortly before he set out on the journey, he took himself to
task and endeavored to determine precisely the nature of his feelings
toward her; but he signally failed to elucidate the point. It was clear
only that he was more contented in her presence, and that, apart from her
physical comeliness, she had a stimulating effect upon his mental
faculties. Then he wondered how she regarded him; and to this question he
could find no answer. She had treated him with a quiet friendliness, and
had to some extent taken him into her confidence. For the most part,
however, there was a reserve about her that he found more piquant than
deterrent, and he was conscious that, while willing to talk with him
freely, she was still holding him off at arm's length.

On the whole, he could not be absolutely sure that he desired to get
much nearer. Though he failed to recognize this clearly, his attitude
was largely one of respectful admiration, tinged with a vein of
compassion. Evelyn was unhappy, and out of harmony with her relatives;
and he could understand this more readily because their ideas
occasionally jarred on him.

One morning, about a fortnight after they returned to the Dene, Vane
and Carroll walked out of the hamlet where the wheelwright's shop
was. Sitting down on the wall of a bridge, Vane opened the telegram
in his hand.

"I think you have Nairn's code in your wallet," he said. "We'll decipher
the thing."

Carroll laid the message on a smooth stone and set to work with a pencil.

"_Situation highly satisfactory_."

He broke off, to chuckle a comment.

"It must be, if Nairn paid for an extra word--highly's not in the code."

Then he went on with the deciphering:

"_Result of reduction exceeds anticipations. Stock thirty premium. Your
presence not immediately required_."

"That's distinctly encouraging," declared Vane. "Now that they are
getting farther in, the ore must be carrying more silver."

"It strikes me as fortunate. I ran through the bank account last night,
and there's no doubt that you have spent a good deal of money. It
confirms my opinion that you have mighty expensive friends."

Vane frowned, but Carroll continued undeterred.

"You want pulling up, after the way you have been indulging in a reckless
extravagance which, I feel compelled to point out, is new to you. The
check drawn in favor of Gerald Chisholm rather astonished me. Have you
said anything about it to his relatives?"

"I haven't."

"Then, judging by the little I saw of him, I should consider it most
unlikely that he has made any allusion to the matter. The next check was
even more surprising--I mean the one you gave his father."

"They were both loans. Chisholm offered me security."

"Unsalable stock, or a mortgage on property that carries another charge!
Have you any idea of getting the money back?"

"What has that to do with you?"

Carroll spread out his hands.

"Only this: It strikes me that you need looking after. We can't stay here
indefinitely. Hadn't you better get back to Vancouver before your English
friends ruin you?"

"I'll go in three or four weeks; not before."

Carroll sat silent a minute or two, and then looked his companion
squarely in the face.

"Is it your intention to marry Evelyn Chisholm?"

"I don't know what has put that into your mind."

"I should be a good deal astonished if it hadn't suggested itself to her
family," Carroll retorted.

Vane looked thoughtful.

"I'm far from sure that it's an idea they would entertain with any great
favor. For one thing, I can't live here."

Carroll laughed.

"Try them, and see. Show them Nairn's telegram when you mention
the matter."

Vane swung himself down from the wall. During the past two weeks he had
seen a good deal of Evelyn, and his regard for her had rapidly grown
stronger. Now that news that his affairs were prospering had reached him,
he suddenly made up his mind.

"It's very possible that I may do so," he informed his comrade. "We'll
get along."

His heart beat a little more rapidly than usual as they turned back
toward the house, but he was perfectly composed when some time later he
sat down beside Chisholm, who was lounging away the morning on the lawn.

"I've been across to the village for a telegram I expected," he said,
handing Chisholm the deciphered message. "It occurred to me that you
might be interested. The news is encouraging."

Chisholm read it with inward satisfaction. When he laid it down he had
determined on the line he meant to follow.

"You're a fortunate man. There's probably no reasonable wish that you
can't gratify."

"There are things one can't buy with money," Vane replied.

"That is very true. They're often the most valuable. On the other hand,
some of them may now and then be had for the asking. Besides, when one
has a sanguine temperament and a determination, it's difficult to believe
that anything one sets one's heart on is quite unattainable."

Vane wondered whether he had been given a hint. Chisholm's manner was
suggestive, and Carroll's remarks had had an effect on him. He sat
silent, and Chisholm continued:

"If I were in your place, I should feel that I had all that I could
desire within my reach."

Vane was becoming sure that his comrade had been right. Chisholm would
not have harped on the same idea unless he had intended to convey some
particular meaning; but the man's methods roused Vane's dislike. He could
face opposition, and he would rather have been discouraged than
judiciously prompted.

"Then if I offered myself as a suitor for Evelyn, you would not think me
presumptuous?"

Chisholm was somewhat astonished at his abruptness, but he smiled
reassuringly.

"No; I can't see why I should do so. You are in a position to maintain a
wife in comfort, and I don't think anybody could take exception to your
character." He paused a moment. "I suppose you have some idea of how
Evelyn regards you?"

"Not the faintest. That's the trouble."

"Would you like Mrs. Chisholm or myself to mention the matter?"

"No," answered Vane decidedly. "In fact, I must ask you not to do
anything of the kind. I only wished to make sure of your good will, and
now that I'm satisfied on that point, I'd rather wait and speak--when it
seems judicious."

Chisholm nodded.

"I dare say that would be wisest. There is nothing to be gained by being
precipitate."

Vane thanked him, and waited. He fancied that the transaction--that
seemed the best name for it--was not completed yet; but he meant to
leave the matter to his companion; he would not help the man.

"There's something that had better be mentioned now, distasteful as it
is," Chisholm said at length. "I can settle nothing upon Evelyn. As you
must have guessed, my affairs are in a far from promising state. Indeed,
I'm afraid I may have to ask your indulgence when the loan falls due; and
I don't mind confessing that the prospect of Evelyn's making what I think
is a suitable marriage is a relief to me."

Vane's feelings were somewhat mixed, but contempt figured prominently
among them. He could find no fault with Chisholm's desire to safeguard
his daughter's future, but he was convinced that the man looked for more
than this. He felt that he had been favored with a delicate hint to which
his companion expected an answer. He was sorry for Evelyn, and was
ashamed of the position he was forced to take.

"Well," he replied curtly, "you need not be concerned about the loan; I'm
not likely to prove a pressing creditor. To go a little farther, I should
naturally take an interest in the welfare of my wife's relatives. I don't
think I can say anything more in the meanwhile."

When he saw Chisholm's smile, he felt that he might have spoken more
plainly without offense; but the elder man looked satisfied.

"Those are the views I expected you to hold," he declared. "I believe
that Mrs. Chisholm will share my gratification if you find Evelyn
disposed to listen to you."

Vane left him shortly afterward with a sense of shame. He felt that he
had bought the girl, and that, if she ever heard of it, she would find it
hard to forgive him for the course he had taken. When he met Carroll he
was frowning.

"I've had a talk with Chisholm," he said. "It has upset my temper--I feel
mean! There's no doubt that you were right."

Carroll's smile showed that he could guess what was in his
comrade's mind.

"I shouldn't worry too much about the thing. The girl probably
understands the situation. It's not altogether pleasant, but I dare say
she's more or less resigned to it. She can't help herself."

Vane gazed at him with anger.

"Does that make it any better? Is it any comfort to me?"

"Take her out of it. If she has any liking for you, she'll thank you for
doing so."

Vane strode away, and nobody saw him again for an hour or two. In the
afternoon, however, at Mrs. Chisholm's suggestion, he and Carroll set out
with the girls for a hill beyond the tarn.

It was a perfect day of late autumn. A pale golden haze softened the
rugged outlines of crag and fell, which towered in purple masses against
a sky of stainless azure. Warm sunshine flooded the valley, glowing on
the gold and crimson that flecked the lower beech sprays and turning the
leaves of the brambles to points of ruby flame. Here and there white
limestone ridges flung back the light, and the tarn gleamed like molten
silver when a faint puff of wind traced a dark blue smear athwart its
surface. The winding road was thick with dust, and a deep stillness
brooded over everything.

By and by, however, a couple of whip-cracks rose from beyond a dip of the
road and were followed by a shout in a woman's voice and a sharp clatter
of iron on stone.

"Oh!" cried Mabel, when they reached the brow of the descent, "the poor
thing can't get up! What a shame to give it such a load!"

The road fell sharply between ragged hedgerows, and near the foot of the
hill a pony was struggling vainly to move a cart. The vehicle was heavily
loaded, and while the animal strained and floundered, a woman struck it
with a whip.

"Its Mrs. Hoggarth; her husband's the carrier," Mabel explained. "Come
on! We must stop her! She mustn't beat the pony like that!"

Vane strode down the hill, and when they approached the cart Mabel called
indignantly to the woman.

"Stop! You oughtn't to do that! The load's too heavy! Where's Hoggarth?"

Vane seized one rein close up to the bit and turned the pony until
the cart was across the road. When he had done so, the woman looked
around at Mabel.

"Wheel went over his foot last night. He canna get on his boot. I'm none
fond of beating pony, but bank's steep and we mun gan up. The folks mun
have their things."

Vane glanced at the pony, which stood with lowered head and heaving
flank. It was evident that the animal could do no more.

"There's only one way out of the trouble," he said. "We must pack some of
this truck to the top. What's in those bags?"

"One's oats," answered the woman. "It's four bushel. Other one's linseed
cake. Those slates for Bell's new stable are the heaviest."

Carroll came up with Evelyn just then, and Vane spoke to him.

"Come here and help me with this bag!"

They had it ready at the back of the cart in a few moments, and Evelyn,
who knew that a four-bushel bag of oats is difficult to move, was
astonished at the ease with which they handled it. Vane got the bag upon
his back and walked up the hill with it. The veins stood out on his
forehead and his face grew red, but he plodded steadily on and came back
for another load.

"I'll take an armful of the slates this time, Carroll. You can tackle
the cake."

The cake was heavy, though the bag was not full, and when they returned,
Carroll was breathing hard and there were smears of blood on one of
Vane's hands. The old woman gazed at him in amazed admiration.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "There's not many men wad carry four bushel
up a bank like that."

Vane laughed.

"I'm used to it. Now I think that we can face the hill."

He seized the rein, and after a flounder or two the pony started the load
and struggled up the ascent. Leaving the woman at the top, voluble with
thanks, Vane came down and sauntered on again with Mabel.

"I made sure you would drop that bag until I saw how you got hold of it,
and then I knew you would manage," she informed him. "You see, I've
watched the men at Scarside mill. I didn't want you to drop it."

"I wonder why?" laughed Vane.

"If you do, you must be stupid. We're friends, aren't we? I like my
friends to be able to do anything that other folks can. That's partly why
I took to you."

Vane made her a ceremonious bow and they went on, chatting lightly. When
they came to a sweep of climbing moor, they changed companions, for Mabel
led Carroll off in search of plants and ferns. Farther on, Evelyn sat
down upon a heathy bank, and Vane found a place on a stone beside a
trickling rill.

"It's pleasant here, and I like the sun," she explained. "Besides, it's
still a good way to the top, and I generally feel discontented when I get
there. There are other peaks much higher--one wants to go on."

Vane smiled in comprehension.

"Yes," he agreed. "On and always on! It's the feeling that drives the
prospector. We seem to have the same thoughts on a good many points."

Evelyn did not answer this.

"I was glad you got that cart up the hill. What made you think of it?"

"The pony was played out, though it was a plucky beast. I suppose I felt
sorry for it. I've been driven hard myself."

The girl's eyes softened. She had seen him use his strength, though it
was, she imagined, the strength of determined will and disciplined body
rather than bulk of muscle, for the man was hard and lean. The strength
also was associated with a gentleness and a sympathy with the lower
creation that appealed to her.

"How hard were you driven?" she asked.

"Sometimes, until I could scarcely crawl back to my tent or the
sleeping-shack at night. Out yonder, construction bosses and contractors'
foremen are skilled in getting the utmost value of every dollar out of a
man. I've had my hands worn to raw wounds and half my knuckles bruised
until it was almost impossible to bend them."

"Were you compelled to work like that?"

"I thought so. It seemed to be the custom of the country; one had to get
used to it."

Evelyn hesitated a moment; though she was interested.

"But was there nothing easier? Had you no money?"

"Very little, as a rule; and what I had I tried to keep. It was to give
me a start in life. It was hard to resist the temptation to use some of
it now and then, but I held out." He laughed grimly. "After all, I
suppose it was excellent discipline."

The girl made a sign of comprehending sympathy. There was a romance in
the man's career which had its effect on her, and she could recognize the
strength of will which had held him to the laborious tasks he might have
shirked while the money lasted. Then a stain on the sleeve of his jacket
caught her eye.

"You have hurt your hand!" she exclaimed.

Vane glanced down at his hand, which was reddened all over.

"It looks like it; those slates must have cut it."

"Hadn't you better wash it and tie it up? It seems a nasty cut."

He dipped his hand into the rill, and was fumbling awkwardly with his
handkerchief when she stopped him.

"That won't do! Let me fix it for you."

Rolling up her own handkerchief, she wet it and laid it on his palm,
across which a red gash ran. He had moved close to her, stooping down,
and a disturbing thrill ran through him as she held his hand. Once more,
however, he was troubled by a sense of compunction as he recalled his
interview with Chisholm.

"Thank you," he said abruptly when she finished.

There were signs of tension in his face, and she drew a little away from
him when he sat down again. For a few moments he struggled with himself.
They were alone; he had her father's consent; and he knew that what he
had done half an hour ago had appealed to her. But he felt that he could
not plead his cause just then. With her parents on his side, she was at a
disadvantage; and he shrank from the thought that she might be forced
upon him against her will. This was not what he desired; and she might
hate him for it afterward. She was very alluring, there had been signs of
an unusual gentleness in her manner, and the light touch of her cool
fingers had stirred his blood; but he wanted time to win her favor, aided
only by such gifts as he had been endowed with. It cost him a determined
effort, but he made up his mind to wait; and it was a relief to him when
the approach of Mabel and Carroll rendered any confidential conversation
out of the question.



CHAPTER X

WITH THE OTTER HOUNDS


A week or two had slipped away since Vane cut his hand. He lounged one
morning upon the terrace, chatting with Carroll. It was a heavy, black
morning; the hills were hidden by wrappings of leaden mist, and the still
air was charged with moisture.

Suddenly a long, faint howl came up the valley and was answered by
another in a deeper note. Then a confused swelling clamor broke out,
softened by the distance, and slightly resembling the sound of chiming
bells. Carroll stopped and listened.

"What in the name of wonder is that?" he asked. "The first of it reminded
me of a coyote howling, but the rest's more like the noise the timber
wolves make in the bush at night."

"You haven't made a bad shot," Vane laughed. "It's a pack of otter hounds
hot upon the scent."

The sound ceased as suddenly as it had begun; and a few moments later
Mabel came running toward the men.

"I knew the hounds met at Patten Brig, but Jim was sure they'd go
down-stream!" she cried breathlessly. "They're coming up! I think they're
at the pool below the village! Get two poles--you'll find some in the
tool-shed--and come along at once!"

She climbed into the house through a window, calling for Evelyn, and
Carroll smiled.

"We have our orders. I suppose we'd better go."

"It's one of the popular sports up here," Vane replied. "You may as
well see it."

They set out a few minutes later, accompanied by Evelyn, while Mabel
hurried on in front and reproached them for their tardiness. Sometimes
they heard the hounds, sometimes a hoarse shouting that traveled far
through the still air, and then sometimes there was only the tremulous
song of running water. At length, after crossing several wet fields, they
came to a rushy meadow on the edge of the river, which spread out into a
wide pool, fringed with alders which had not yet lost their leaves and
the barer withes of osiers. There was a swift stream at the head of it,
and a long rippling shallow at the tail; and scattered along the bank and
in the water was a curiously mixed company.

A red-coated man with whip and horn stood in the tail outflow, and three
or four more with poles in their hands were spread out across the stream
behind him. These, and one or two in the head stream, appeared by their
dress to belong to the hunt; but the rest, among whom were a few women,
were attired in every-day garments and were of different walks in life:
artisans, laborers, people of leisure, and a late tourist or two.

Three or four big hounds were swimming aimlessly up and down the pool; a
dozen more trotted to and fro along the water's edge, stopping to sniff
and give tongue in an uncertain manner now and then; but there was no
sign of an otter.

Carroll looked round with a smile when his companions stopped.

"It strikes me there'll be very little work done in this neighborhood
to-day," he remarked. "I'd no idea there were so many people in the
valley with time to spare. The only thing that's missing is the beast
they're after."

"An otter is an almost invisible creature," Evelyn explained. "You very
seldom see one, unless it's hard pressed by the dogs. There are a good
many in the river, but even the trout fishers, who are about at sunrise
in the hot weather and wade in the dusk, rarely come across them. Are you
going to take a share in the hunt?"

"No," replied Carroll, glancing humorously at his pole. "I don't know
why I brought this thing, unless it was because Mopsy sent me for it.
I'd rather stay and watch with you. Splashing through a river after a
little beast that I don't suppose they'd let an outsider kill doesn't
interest me. I don't see why I should want to kill it, anyway. Some of
you English people have sporting ideas I can't understand. I struck a
young man the other day--a well-educated man by the looks of him--who
was spending the afternoon happily with a ferret by a corn stack,
killing rats with a club. He seemed uncommonly pleased with himself
because he'd got four of them."

"Oh," chided Mabel, "you're as bad as the silly people who call killing
things cruel! I wouldn't have thought it of you!"

Vane laughed.

"I've seen him drop a deer with a single-shot rifle when it was going
through thick brush almost as fast as a locomotive; and I believe that he
once assisted in killing a panther in a thicket where you couldn't see
two yards ahead. The point is that he meant to eat the deer--and the
panther had been taking a rancher's hogs."

"I'm sorry I brought him," Mabel pouted. "He's not a sportsman."

"I really think there's some excuse for the more vigorous sports," Evelyn
maintained. "Of course, you can't eliminate a certain amount of cruelty;
but, admitting that, isn't it just as well that men who live in a
luxurious civilization should be willing to plod through miles of heather
after grouse, risk their limbs on horseback, or spend hours in cold
water? These are bracing things; they imply some moral discipline. It
really can't be nice to ride at a dangerous fence, or to flounder down a
rapid after an otter when you're stiff with cold. The effort to do so
must be wholesome."

"A sure thing," Carroll agreed. "The only trouble is that when you've got
your fox or otter, it isn't worth anything. A good many of the people in
the newer lands, every day, have to make something of the kind of effort
you describe. In their case, the results are wagon trails, valleys
cleared for orchards, or new branch railroads. I suppose it's a matter of
opinion, but if I'd put in a season's risky work, I'd rather have a piece
of land to grow fruit on or a share in a mineral claim--you get plenty of
excitement in prospecting for that--than a fox's tail."

He strolled along the bank with Evelyn, following the hunt up-stream.
Suddenly he looked around.

"Mopsy's gone; and I don't see Vane."

"After all, he's one of us," Evelyn laughed. "If you're born in the
North Country, it's hard to keep out of the river when you hear the
otter hounds."

"But Mopsy's not going in!"

"I'm afraid I can't answer for her."

They took up their station behind a growth of alders, and for a while
the dogs went trotting by in twos and threes or swam about the pool,
but nothing else broke the surface of the leaden-colored water. Then
there was a cry, an outbreak of shouting, a confused baying, and half a
dozen hounds dashed past. More followed, heading up-stream along the
bank, with a tiny brown terrier panting behind them. Evelyn stretched
out her hand.

"Look!"

Carroll saw a small gray spot--the top of the otter's head--moving across
the slacker part of the pool, with a very slight, wedge-shaped ripple
trailing away from it. It sank the next moment; a bubble or two rose; and
then there was nothing but the smooth flow of water.

A horn called shrilly; a few whip-cracks rang out like pistol-shots; and
the dogs took the water, swimming slowly here and there. Men scrambled
along the bank. Some, entering the river, reinforced the line spread out
across the head rapid while others joined the second row wading steadily
up-stream and splashing about as they advanced with iron-tipped poles.
Nothing rewarded their efforts. The dogs suddenly turned and went
down-stream; and then everybody ran or waded toward the tail outflow. A
clamor of shouting and baying broke out; and floundering men and swimming
dogs went down the stream together in a confused mass. There was a brief
silence. The hounds came out and trotted to and fro along the bank; and
dripping men clambered after them.

Evelyn laughed as she pointed to Vane among the leading group. He looked
even wetter than the others.

"I don't suppose he meant to go in. It's in the blood."

"There's no reason why he shouldn't, if it amuses him," Carroll replied.
"When I first met him, he'd have been more careful of his clothes."

A little later the dogs were driven in again, and this time the whole of
the otter's head was visible as it swam up-stream. The animal was
flagging, and on reaching shoaler water it sprang out altogether now and
then, rising and falling in the stronger stream with a curious
serpentine motion. In fact, as head and body bent in the same sinuous
curves, it looked less like an animal than a plunging fish. The men
guarding the rapid stood ready with their poles, and more were wading
and splashing up both sides of the pool. The otter's pace was getting
slower; sometimes it seemed to stop; and now and then it vanished among
the ripples. Carroll saw that Evelyn's face was intent, though there
were signs of shrinking in it.

"I'll tell you what you are thinking," he said. "You want that poor
little beast to get away."

"I believe I do," Evelyn confessed. "And you?"

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a sportsman, in this sense."

They watched with strained attention. The girl could not help it, though
she dreaded the climax. Her sympathies were now with the hard-pressed,
exhausted creature that was making a desperate fight for its life. The
pursuers were close upon it, the swimming dogs leading them; and ahead
lay a foaming rush of water which seemed less than a foot deep, with men
spread out across it. The shouting from the bank had ceased, and
everybody waited in tense expectancy when the otter disappeared. The dogs
reached the rapid, where they were washed back a few yards before they
could make headway up-stream. Men who came splashing close upon them left
the water to scramble along the bank; and then they stopped abruptly,
while the dogs swam in an uncertain manner about the still reach beyond.
They came out in a few minutes and scampered up and down among the
stones, evidently at fault, for there was no sign of the otter anywhere.
Incredible as it seemed, the hunted creature, an animal that would
probably weigh about twenty-four pounds, had crept up the rush of water
among the feet of those who watched for it and vanished unseen into the
sheltering depths beyond.

Evelyn sighed with relief.

"I think it will escape," she said. "The river's rather full after the
rain, which is against the dogs, and there isn't another shallow for some
distance. Shall we go on?"

They strolled forward behind the dogs, which were again moving up-stream;
but they turned aside to avoid a bit of woods, and it was some time later
when they came out upon a rocky promontory dropping steeply to the river.
Just there, the water flowed through a deep gorge, down the sides of
which great oaks and ashes straggled. In front of Carroll and his
companion a ragged face of rock fell about twenty feet; but there was a
little soil among the stones below, and a dense growth of alders
interspersed with willows, fringed the water's edge. The stream swirled
in deep black eddies beneath their drooping branches, though a little
farther on it poured tumultuously between scattered boulders into the
slacker pool. The rock sloped on one side, and there was a bank of
underbrush near the foot of the descent.

The hunt was now widely scattered about the reach. Men crept along
slippery ledges above the water and moved over dangerously slanting
slopes, half hidden among the trees; a few were in the river. Three or
four of the dogs were swimming; the others, spread out in twos and
threes, trotted in and out among the undergrowth.

Presently, a figure creeping along the foot of the rock not far away
seized Carroll's attention.

"It's Mopsy!" he exclaimed. "The foothold doesn't look very safe among
those stones, and there seems to be deep water below."

He called out in warning, but the girl did not heed. The willows were
thinner at the spot she had reached, and, squeezing herself through them,
she leaned down, clinging to an alder branch.

"He's gone to holt among the roots!" she cried.

Three or four men running along the opposite bank apparently decided that
she was right, for the horn was sounded and here and there a dog broke
through the underbrush. Just as the first-comers reached the rapid, there
was a splash. It was a moment or two before Evelyn or Carroll, who had
been watching the dogs, realized what had happened; then the blood ebbed
from the girl's face. Mabel had disappeared.

Running a few paces forward, Carroll saw what looked like a bundle of
outspread garments swing round in an eddy. It washed in among the
willows, and he heard a faint cry.

"Help!--Quick! I've caught a branch!"

He could not see the girl now, but an alder branch was bending sharply,
and he flung a rapid glance around him. The summit of the rock on which
he stood rose above the trees. Had there been a better landing, he would
have faced the risky fall, but it seemed impossible to alight among the
stones without a broken leg. Even if he came down uninjured, there was a
barrier of tangled branches and densely growing withes between him and
the river, and the opening through which Mabel had fallen was some
distance away. Farther down-stream, he might reach the water by a
reckless jump, as the promontory sloped toward it there, but he would not
be able to swim back against the current. His position was a painful one;
there was nothing that he could do.

The next moment, men and dogs went scrambling and swimming down the
rapid. They were in hot pursuit of the otter, which had left its
hiding place, and it was evident that the girl, clinging to a branch
beneath the willows, had escaped their attention. Carroll shouted
savagely as his comrade appeared among the tail of the hunt below. The
others were too much occupied to heed; or perhaps they concluded that
he was urging them on.

"Help! Mabel!" Carroll shouted again and again, gesticulating wildly in
his desperation.

Vane, waist-deep in the water, seemed to catch the girl's name and
understand. In a few moments he was swimming down the pool along the edge
of the alders. Then Carroll saw that Evelyn expected him to take some
part in the rescue.

"Get down before it's too late!" she cried.

Carroll spread out his hands, as if to beg her forbearance. While every
impulse urged him to the leap, he endeavored to keep his head. He fancied
that he would be wanted later, and it was obvious that he would not be
available if he lay upon the rocks below with broken bones.

"I can't do any good just now," he tried to explain, knowing that he was
right and yet feeling horribly ashamed. "She's holding on, and Wallace
will reach her in a moment or two."

Evelyn broke out at him in an agony of fear and anger.

"You coward! Will you let her drown?"

She turned and ran forward, but Carroll, dreading that she meant to
attempt the descent, seized her shoulder and held her fast. While he
grappled with her, Vane's voice rose from below, and he let his
hands drop.

"Wallace has her. There's no more danger," he said quietly.

Evelyn suddenly recovered a small degree of calm. Even amid the stress of
her terror, she recognized the assurance in the man's tone. He had blind
confidence in his comrade's prowess, and his next words made this
impression clearer.

"Don't be afraid. He'll never let go until he brings her out."

Standing, breathless, a pace or two apart, they saw Vane and the girl
appear from beneath the willows and wash away down-stream. The man was
swimming, but he was hampered by his burden, and once he and Mabel sank
almost from sight in a whirling eddy. Carroll said nothing. Turning, he
ran along the sloping ridge until the fall was less and the trees were
thinner; then he leaped out into the air. He broke through the alders
amid a rustle of bending boughs, and disappeared; but a moment or two
later his shoulders shot out of the water close beside Vane, and the two
men went down the stream with Mabel between them.

Evelyn scrambled wildly along the ridge, and when she reached the foot of
it, Vane was helping Mabel up the sloping bank of gravel. The girl's
drenched garments clung about her, and her wet hair was streaked across
her face, but she seemed able to stand. The hunt had swept on through
shoaler water, but there was a cheer from the stragglers across the
river. Evelyn clutched her sister, half laughing, half sobbing, and
incoherently upbraided her. Mabel shook herself free, and her first
remark was characteristic.

"Oh, don't make a silly fuss! I'm only wet through. Wallace, take me
home."

She tried to shake out her dripping skirt, and Vane picked her up, as she
seemed to expect it. The others followed when he pushed through the
underbrush toward a neighboring meadow. Evelyn, however, was still a
little unnerved, and when they reached a gap in a wall she stopped and
leaned heavily against the stones.

"I think I'm more disturbed than Mopsy is," she said to Carroll. "What I
felt must be some excuse for me. You were right, of course. I'm sorry
for what I said; it was unjustifiable."

Carroll laughed lightly.

"Anyway, it was perfectly natural; but I must confess that I felt some
temptation to make a spectacular fool of myself. I might have jumped into
those alders, but it's most unlikely that I could have got out of them."

Evelyn looked at him with a new respect. He had not troubled to point
out that he had not flinched from the jump when it seemed likely to be
of service.

"How could you have the sense to think of that?" she asked.

"I suppose it's a matter of practise. One can't work among the ranges and
rivers without learning to make the right decision rapidly. When you
don't, you get badly hurt. With most of us, the thing has to be
cultivated; it's not instinctive."

Evelyn was struck by the explanation. This acquired coolness was a finer
thing, and undoubtedly more useful, than hot-headed gallantry, though she
admired the latter. She was young, and physical prowess appealed to her;
besides, it had been displayed in saving her sister's life. Carroll and
his comrade were men of varied and romantic experience; and they
possessed, she fancied, qualities not shared by all their fellows.

"Wallace was splendid in the water!" she exclaimed, uttering part of her
thoughts aloud.

"I thought rather more of him in the city," Carroll replied. "That kind
of thing was new to him, and I'm inclined to believe that I'd have let
the people he had to negotiate with have the mine for a good deal less
than he eventually got for it. But I've said something about that before;
and, after all, I'm not here to play Boswell."

The girl was surprised at the apt allusion; it was not what she would
have expected from the man. As she had not wholly recovered her
composure, she forgot what Vane had told her about him, and her comment
was an incautious one:

"How did you hear of him?"

Carroll parried this with a smile.

"You don't suppose you can keep those old fellows to yourselves--they're
international. But hadn't we better be getting on? Let me help you
through the gap."

They reached the Dene some time later, and Mabel, very much against her
wishes, was sent to bed. Shortly afterward Carroll came across Vane, who
had changed his clothes and was strolling up and down among the
shrubberies.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Vane looked embarrassed.

"For one thing, I'm keeping out of Mrs. Chisholm's way; she's inclined to
be effusive. For another, I'm trying to think out what I ought to do.
We'll have to pull out very shortly; and I had meant to have an interview
with Evelyn to-day. That's why I feel uncommonly annoyed with Mopsy for
falling in."

Carroll made a grimace.

"If that's how it strikes you, any advice I could offer would be wasted.
A sensible man would consider it a promising opportunity."

"And trade upon it? As you know, there wasn't the slightest risk,
with branches that one could get hold of, and a shelving bank almost
within reach."

"Do you really want the girl?"

"That impression's firmly in my mind," Vane said curtly.

"Then you'd better pitch your Quixotic notions overboard and tell her
so."

Vane frowned but made no answer; and Carroll, recognizing that his
comrade was not inclined to be communicative, left him pacing up and
down.



CHAPTER XI

VANE WITHDRAWS


Dusk was drawing on, but there was still a little light in the western
sky, when Vane strolled along the terrace in front of the Dene. In the
distance the ranks of fells rose black and solemn out of filmy trails of
mist, but the valley had faded to a trough of shadow. A faint breeze was
stirring, and the silence was broken by the soft patter of withered
leaves which fluttered down across the lawn. Vane noticed it all by some
involuntary action of his senses, for although, at the time, he was
oblivious to his surroundings, he afterward found that he could recall
each detail of the scene with vivid distinctness. He was preoccupied and
eager, but fully aware of the need for coolness, for it was quite
possible that he might fail in the task he had in hand.

Presently he saw Evelyn, for whom he had been waiting, cross the opposite
end of the terrace. Moving forward he joined her at the entrance to a
shrubbery walk. A big, clipped yew with a recess in which a seat had been
placed stood close by.

"I have been sitting with Mopsy," said Evelyn. "She seems very little the
worse for her adventure--thanks to you." She hesitated and her voice grew
softer. "I owe you a heavy debt--I am very fond of Mopsy."

"It's a great pity she fell in," Vane declared curtly.

Evelyn looked at him in surprise. She scarcely thought he could regret
the efforts he had made on her sister's behalf, but that was what his
words implied. He noticed her change of expression.

"The trouble is that the thing might seem to give me some claim on you;
and I don't want that," he explained. "It cost me no more than a wetting;
I hadn't the least difficulty in getting her out."

His companion was still puzzled. She could find no fault with him for
being modest about his exploit, but that he should make it clear that he
did not require her gratitude struck her as unnecessary.

"For all that, you did bring her out," she persisted. "Even if it causes
you no satisfaction, the fact is of some importance to us."

"I don't seem to be beginning very fortunately. What I mean is that I
don't want to urge my claim, if I have one. I'd rather be taken on my
merits." He paused a moment with a smile. "That's not much better, is it?
But it partly expresses what I feel. Leaving Mopsy out altogether, let me
try to explain--I don't wish you to be influenced by anything except your
own idea of me. I'm saying this because one or two points that seem in my
favor may have a contrary effect."

Evelyn made no answer, and he indicated the seat.

"Won't you sit down? I have something to say."

The girl did as he suggested, and his smile died away.

"Would you be astonished if I were to ask you to marry me?"

He leaned against the smooth wall of yew, looking down at her with an
impressive steadiness of gaze. She could imagine him facing the city men
from whom he had extorted the full value of his mine in the same fashion,
and, in a later instance, so surveying the eddies beneath the osiers,
when he had gone to Mabel's rescue. It was borne in upon her that they
would better understand each other.

"No," she answered. "If I must be candid, I am not astonished." Then the
color crept into her cheeks as she met his gaze. "I suppose it is an
honor; and it is undoubtedly a--temptation."

"A temptation?"

"Yes," said Evelyn, mustering her courage to face a crisis she had
dreaded. "It is only due you that you should hear the truth--though I
think you suspect it. Besides--I have some liking for you."

"That is what I wanted you to own!" Vane broke in.

She checked him with a gesture. Her manner was cold, and yet there was
something in it that stirred him more than her beauty.

"After all," she explained, "it does not go very far, and you must try to
understand. I want to be quite honest, and what I have to say
is--difficult. In the first place, things are far from pleasant for me
here; I was expected to make a good marriage, and I had my chance in
London. I refused to profit by it, and now I'm a failure. I wonder
whether you can realize what a temptation it is to get away?"

Vane frowned.

"Yes," he responded. "It makes me savage to think of it! I can, at least,
take you out of all this. If you hadn't had a very fine courage, you
wouldn't have told me."

Evelyn smiled, a curious wry smile.

"It has only prompted me to behave, as most people would consider,
shamelessly; but there are times when one must get above that point of
view. Besides, there's a reason for my candor--had you been a man of
different stamp, it's possible that I might have been driven into taking
the risk. We should both have suffered for a time, but we might have
reached an understanding--not to intrude on each other--through open
variance. As it is, I could not do you that injustice, and I should
shrink from marrying you with only a little cold liking."

The man held himself firmly in hand. Her calmness had infected him, and
he felt that this was not an occasion for romantic protestations, even
had he felt capable of making them, which was not the case. As a matter
of fact, such things were singularly foreign to his nature.

"Even that would go a long way with me, if I could get nothing better,"
he declared. "Besides, you might change. I could surround you with some
comfort; I think I could promise not to force my company upon you; I
believe I could be kind."

"Yes," assented Evelyn. "I shouldn't be afraid of harshness from you; but
it seems impossible that I should change. You must see that you started
handicapped from the beginning. Had I been free to choose, it might have
been different, but I have lived for some time in shame and fear, hating
the thought that some one would be forced on me."

He said nothing and she went on.

"Must I tell you? You are the man!"

His face grew hard and for a moment he set his lips tight. It would have
been a relief to express his feelings concerning his host just then.

"If you don't hate me for it now, I'm willing to take the risk," he said
at length. "It will be my fault if you hate me in the future; I'll try
not to deserve it."

He fancied that she was yielding, but she roused herself with an effort.

"No. Love on one side may go a long way, if it is strong enough--but it
must be strong to overcome the many clashes of thought and will.
Yours"--she looked at him steadily--"would not stand the strain."

Vane started.

"You are the only woman I ever wished to marry," he declared vehemently.

He paused and spread out his hands.

"What can I say to convince you?"

"I'm afraid it's impossible. If you had wanted me greatly, you would have
pressed the claim you had in saving Mopsy, and I should have forgiven you
that; you would have urged any and every claim. As it is, I suppose I am
pretty"--her lips curled scornfully--"and you find that some of your
ideas and mine agree. It isn't half enough! Shall I tell you that you are
scarcely moved as yet?"

It flashed upon Vane that he was confronted with the reality. Her beauty
had appealed to him, and her other qualities--her reserved graciousness
with its tinge of dignity, her insight and her comprehension--had also
had their effect; but they had only awakened admiration and respect. He
desired her as one desires an object for its rarity and preciousness; but
this, as she had told him, was not enough. Behind her physical and mental
attributes, and half revealed by them, there was something deeper: the
real personality of the girl. It was elusive, mystic, with a spark of
immaterial radiance which might brighten human love with its transcendent
glow; but, as he dimly realized, if he won her by force, it might recede
and vanish altogether. He could not, with strong ardor, compel its
clearer manifestation.

"I think I am moved as much as it is possible for me to be."

Evelyn shook her head.

"No; you will discover the difference some day, and then you will
thank me for leaving you your liberty. Now I beg you to leave me mine
and let me go."

Vane stood silent a minute or two, for the last appeal had stirred him to
chivalrous pity. He was shrewd enough to realize that if he persisted he
could force her to come to him. Her father and mother were with him; she
had nothing--no commonplace usefulness nor trained abilities--to fall
back on if she defied them. But it was unthinkable that he should
brutally compel her.

"Well," he yielded at length, "I must try to face the situation; I want
to assure you that it is not a pleasant one to me. But there's another
point--I'm afraid I've made things worse for you. Your people will
probably blame you for sending me away."

Evelyn did not answer this, and he broke into a grim smile.

"Well," he added, "I think I can save you any trouble on that
score--though the course I'm going to take isn't flattering, if you look
at it in one way, I want you to leave me to deal with your father."

He took her consent for granted, and leaning down laid a hand lightly on
her shoulder.

"You will try to forgive me for the anxiety I have caused you? The time
I've spent here has been very pleasant, but I'm going back to Canada in a
day or two. Perhaps you'll think of me without bitterness now and then."

He turned away; and Evelyn sat still, glad that the strain was over,
thinking earnestly. The man was gentle and considerate as well as
forceful, and to some extent she liked him. Indeed, she admitted that she
had not met any man she liked as much; but that was not going very far.
Then she began to wonder at her candor, and to consider if it had been
necessary. It was curious that this was the only man she had ever taken
into her confidence. It struck her that her next suitor would probably be
a much less promising specimen. On the other hand, since her views on the
subject differed from those her parents held, it was consoling to
remember that eligible suitors for the daughter of an impoverished
gentleman were likely to be scarce.

It had grown dark when she rose and entering the house went up to Mabel's
room. The girl looked at her sharply as she came in.

"So you have got rid of him!" she said. "I think you're very silly."

"How did you know?" Evelyn asked with a start.

"I heard him walking up and down the terrace, and I heard you go out. You
can't walk over raked gravel without making a noise. He went along to
join you, and it was a good while before you came back at different
times. I've been waiting for this the last day or two."

Evelyn sat down with a rather strained smile.

"Well, I have sent him away."

Mabel regarded her indignantly.

"You'll never get another chance like this one. If I'd been in your
place, I'd have had Wallace if it had cost me no end of trouble to get
him. He said something about its being a pity I wasn't older, one day,
and I told him that I wasn't by any means as young as I looked. If you
had only taken him, I could have worn decent frocks. Nobody could call
the last one that!"

This was a favorite grievance, and Evelyn ignored it; but Mabel had
more to say.

"I suppose," she went on, "you don't know that Wallace has been getting
Gerald out of trouble?"

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes. I'll tell you what I know. Wallace saw Gerald in London--he told us
that--and we all know that Gerald couldn't pay his debts a little while
ago. You remember he came down to Kendall and went on and stayed the next
night with the Claytons. It isn't astonishing that he didn't come here,
after the row there was on the last occasion."

"Go on," prompted Evelyn impatiently. "What has his visit to the
Clayton's to do with it?"

"Well, you don't know that I saw Gerald in the afternoon. After all, he's
the only brother I've got; and as Jim was going to the station with the
trap I made him take me. The Claytons were in the garden; we were
scattered about, and I heard Frank and Gerald, who had strolled off from
the others, talking. Gerald was telling him about some things he'd
bought--they must have been expensive, because Frank asked him where he
got the money. Gerald laughed and said he'd had an unexpected stroke of
luck that had set him straight again. Now, of course Gerald got no money
from home, and if he'd won it he would have told Frank how he did so.
Gerald always would tell a thing like that."

Evelyn was filled with confusion and hot indignation. She had little
doubt that Mabel's surmise was correct.

"I wonder whether he has told anybody; though it's scarcely likely."

Mabel laughed.

"Of course he hasn't. We all know what Gerald is. Before I came home, I
asked him what he thought of Wallace. He said he was a good sort, or
something like that, and I saw that he had a reason for saying it; but
he must go on in his patronizing style that Wallace was rather
Colonial, though he hadn't drifted too far--not beyond reclamation.
After all, Wallace was one of--us--before he went out; and if Carroll's
Colonial he's the kind of man I like. I was so angry with Gerald I
wanted to slap him!"

There was no doubt that Mabel was a staunch partizan, and Evelyn
sympathized with her. She was, of course, acquainted with her brother's
character, and she was filled with indignant contempt for him. It was
intolerable that he should have allowed Vane to discharge his debts and
then have alluded to him in terms of indulgent condescension.

"It strikes me Wallace ought to get his money back, now that you have
sent him away," Mabel added. "But of course that's most unlikely. It
wouldn't take Gerald long to waste it."

Evelyn rose and, making some excuse, left the room. She could feel her
face growing hot, and Mabel had unusually keen eyes and precocious powers
of deduction. A suspicion which had troubled her more than Gerald's
conduct had lately crept into her mind, and it now thrust itself upon her
attention; several things pointed to the fact that her father had taken
the same course her brother had done. She felt that had she heard Mabel's
information before the interview with Vane, she might have yielded to him
in an agony of humiliation. Mabel had summed up the situation with
stinging candor and crudity--Vane, who had been defrauded, was entitled
to recover his money. For a few moments Evelyn was furiously angry with
him, and then, growing calmer, she recognized that this was unreasonable.
She could not imagine any idea of a compact originating with the man, and
he had quietly acquiesced in her decision.

Soon after she left her sister, Vane walked into the room which Chisholm
reserved for his own use. It was handsomely furnished, and the big,
light-oak writing-table and glass-fronted cabinets were examples of
artistic handicraft. The sight of them jarred on Vane, who had already
surmised that it was the women of the Chisholm family who were expected
to practise self-denial. Chisholm was sitting at the table with some
papers in front of him and a cigar in his hand, and Vane drew out a chair
and lighted his pipe before he addressed him.

"I've made up my mind to sail on Saturday, instead of next week," he
said abruptly.

"You have decided rather suddenly, haven't you?" Chisholm suggested.

Vane knew that what his host wished to know was the cause of the
decision, and he meant to come to the point. He was troubled by no
consideration for the man.

"The last news I had indicated that I was wanted," he replied. "After
all, there is only one reason why I have abused Mrs. Chisholm's
hospitality so long."

"Well?"

"You will remember what I asked you some time ago. I had better say that
I retire from the position--abandon the idea."

Chisholm started and his florid face grew redder, while Vane, in place of
embarrassment, was conscious of a somewhat grim amusement. It seemed
curious that a man of Chisholm's stamp should have any pride.

"What am I to understand by that?" Chisholm asked with some asperity.

"I think that what I said explained it. Bearing in mind your and Mrs.
Chisholm's influence, I've an idea that Evelyn might have yielded, if I'd
strongly urged my suit; but that was not by any means what I wanted. I'd
naturally prefer a wife who married me because she wished to do so.
That's why, after thinking the thing over, I've decided to--withdraw."

Chisholm straightened himself in his chair in fiery indignation, which he
made no attempt to conceal.

"You mean that after asking my consent, and seeing more of Evelyn, you
have changed your mind! Can't you understand that it's an unpardonable
confession--one which I never fancied a man born and brought up in your
station could have brought himself to make?"

Vane looked at him with an impassive face.

"It strikes me as largely a question of terms--I may not have used the
right one. Now that you know how the matter stands, you can describe it
in any way that sounds nicest. In regard to your other remark, I've been
in a good many stations, and I must admit that until lately none of them
were likely to promote much delicacy of sentiment."

"So it seems!" Chisholm was almost too hot to sneer. "But can't you
realize how your action reflects upon my daughter?"

Vane held himself in hand. He had only one object: to divert Chisholm's
wrath from Evelyn to himself, and he fancied that he was succeeding in
this. For the rest, he was conscious of a strong resentment against the
man. Evelyn had told him that he had started handicapped.

"It can't reflect upon her unless you talk about it, and both you and
Mrs. Chisholm have sense enough to refrain from doing that," he answered
dryly. "I can't flatter myself that Evelyn will grieve over me." Then his
manner changed. "Now we'll get down to business. I don't purpose to call
in that loan, which will, no doubt, be a relief to you."

He rose leisurely and strolled out of the room.

Shortly afterward he met Carroll in the hall, and the latter glanced at
him sharply.

"What have you been doing?" he inquired. "There's a look in your eyes I
seem to remember."

Vane laughed.

"I suppose I've been outraging the rules of decency; but I don't feel
ashamed. I've been acting the uncivilized Westerner, though it's possible
that I rather strained the part. To come to the point, however, we pull
out for the Dominion first thing to-morrow."

Carroll asked no further questions; he did not think it would serve any
purpose. He contented himself with making arrangements for their
departure, which they took early on the morrow. Vane had a brief
interview with Mabel, and then by her contrivance he secured a word or
two with Evelyn alone.

"It is possible," he told her, "that you may hear some hard things of
me--and I count upon your not contradicting them. After all, I think you
owe me that favor. There's just another matter--now that I won't be here
to trouble you, won't you try to think of me leniently?"

He held her hand for a moment and then turned away, and a few minutes
later he and Carroll left the Dene.



CHAPTER XII

IN VANCOUVER


About a fortnight after Vane's return to Vancouver, he sat one evening on
the veranda of Nairn's house, in company with his host and Carroll,
lazily looking down upon the inlet. The days were growing shorter; the
air was clear and cool; and the snow upon the heights across the still,
blue water was creeping lower down. The clatter of a steamer's winches
rose sharply from the wharf, and the sails of two schooners gleamed
against the dark pines that overhang the Narrows.

In some respects, Vane was glad to be back in the western city. At first,
the ease and leisure at the Dene had their charm for him, but by degrees
he came to chafe at them. The green English valley, hemmed in by its
sheltering hills, was steeped in too profound a tranquillity; the stream
of busy life passed it by with scarcely an entering ripple to break its
drowsy calm. One found its atmosphere enervating, dulling to the
faculties. In the new West, however, one was forcibly thrust into contact
with a strenuous activity. Life was free and untrammeled there; it flowed
with a fierce joyousness in natural channels, and one could feel the
eager throb of it.

Yet the man was not content. He had been to the mine, and in going and
coming he had ridden far over a very rough trail, but the physical effort
had not afforded a sufficient outlet for his pent-up energies. He had
afterward lounged about the city for nearly a week, and he found this
becoming monotonous.

Nairn presently referred to one of the papers in his hand.

"Horsfield has been bringing up that smelter project again, and there's
something to be said in favor of his views," he remarked. "We're paying a
good deal for reduction."

"We couldn't keep a smelter going, at present," Vane objected.

"There are two or three low-grade mineral properties in the neighborhood
of the Clermont that have had very little development work done on them.
They can't pay freight on their raw product, but I'm thinking that we'd
encourage their owners to open up the mines, and we'd get their business,
if we had a smelter handy."

"It wouldn't amount to much," Vane replied. "Besides, there's another
objection--we haven't the money to put up a thoroughly efficient plant."

"Horsfield's ready to find part of it and to do the work."

"I know he is." Vane frowned. "It strikes me he's suspiciously anxious.
The arrangement he has in view would give him a pretty strong hold upon
the company; and there are ways in which he could squeeze us."

"It's possible. But, looking at it as a purely personal matter, there are
inducements he could offer ye. Horsfield's a man who has the handling of
other folks' money, if he has no that much of his own. It might be wise
to stand in with him."

"So he hinted," Vane answered dryly.

"Your argument was about the worst you could have used, Mr. Nairn,"
Carroll laughed.

"Weel," drawled Nairn good-humoredly, "I'm no urging it. I would not see
your partner make enemies for the want of a warning."

"He'd probably do so, in any case; it's a gift of his. On the other hand,
it's fortunate that he has a way of making friends. The two things
sometimes go together."

Vane turned to Nairn with signs of impatience.

"It might save trouble if I state that while I'm a director of the
Clermont I expect to be content with a fair profit on my stock in
the company."

"He's modest," Carroll commented. "What he means is that he doesn't
propose to augment that profit by taking advantage of his position."

"It's a creditable idea, though I'm no sure it's as common as might be
desired. While I have to thank ye for it, I would not consider the
explanation altogether necessary." Nairn's eyes twinkled for a moment,
and then he turned seriously to Vane. "Now we come to another point--the
company's a small one, the mine is doing satisfactorily, and the moment's
favorable for the floating of mineral properties. If we got an option on
the half-developed claims near the Clermont and went into the market,
it's likely that an issue of new stock would meet with the favor of
investors."

"I suppose so," Vane responded. "I'll support such a scheme when I can
see how an increased capital could be used to advantage and am convinced
about the need for a smelter. At present that's not the case."

"I mentioned it as a duty---ye'll hear more of it. For the rest, I'm
inclined to agree with ye."

A few minutes later, Nairn went into the house with Carroll, and as they
entered he glanced at his companion.

"In the present instance, Mr. Vane's views are sound," he said. "But I
see difficulties before him in his business career."

"So do I," smiled Carroll. "When he grapples with them it will be by a
frontal attack."

"A bit of compromise is judicious now and then."

"In a general way, it's not likely to appeal to Vane. When he can't get
through by direct means, there'll be something wrecked. You'd better
understand what kind of man he is."

Nairn made a sign of concurrence.

"It's no the first time I've been enlightened upon the point."

Shortly after they had disappeared, Miss Horsfield came out of another
door, and Vane rose when she approached him. He had always found her a
pleasant companion.

"Mrs. Nairn told me I would find you and the others on the veranda," she
informed him. "She said she would join you presently. It is too fine an
evening to stay in."

"I'm alone, as you see. Nairn and Carroll have just deserted me: but I
can't complain. What pleases me most about this house is that you can
do what you like in it, and--within limits--the same thing applies to
this city."

Jessy laughed as she sank gracefully into the chair he drew forward. She
was, as a rule, deliberate in her movements, and her pose was usually an
effective one.

"Yes," she replied; "I think that would please you. But how long have you
been back?"

"A fortnight, yesterday."

There was a hint of reproach in Jessy's glance.

"Then I think Mrs. Nairn might have brought you over to see us."

Vane wondered whether she meant that she was surprised that he had not
come of his own accord. He felt mildly flattered. She was interesting,
and knew how to listen sympathetically, as well as how to talk, and she
was also a lady of station in the western city.

"I was away at the mine a good deal of the time," he explained.

"I wonder if you are sorry to get back?"

Turning a little, Vane indicated the climbing city, rising tier on tier
above its water-front; and then the broad expanse of blue inlet and the
faint white line of towering snow.

"Wouldn't anything I could say in praise of Vancouver be a trifle
superfluous?" he asked.

Jessy recognized that he had parried her question neatly, but this did
not deter her. She was anxious to learn whether he had felt any regret at
leaving England, or, to be more concise, if there was anybody in that
country from whom he had reluctantly parted. She admitted that the man
attracted her. There was a breezy freshness about him which he had
brought from the rocks and woods, and though she was acquainted with a
number of young men whose conversation was characterized by snap and
sparkle, they needed toning down. This miner was set apart from them by
something which he had doubtless acquired in youth in the older land.

"That wasn't quite what I meant," she returned. "We don't always want to
be flattered. I'm in search of information. You told me that you had
been eight or nine years in this country, and life must be rather
different yonder. How did it and the people you belong to strike you
after the absence?"

"It's difficult to explain," Vane replied with an air of amused
reflection which hinted that he meant to get away from the point. "On
the whole, I think I'm more interested in the question as to how I
struck them. It's curious that whereas some people here insist on
considering me English, I've a suspicion that they looked upon me as a
typical Colonial there."

"One wouldn't like to think you resented it."

"How could I? This land sheltered me when I was an outcast; it provided
me with a living, widened my views, and set me on my feet."

"Ah!" murmured Jessy, "you are the kind we don't mind taking in. The
others go back and try to forget us, or abuse us. But you haven't given
me very much information yet."

"Well," drawled Vane, "the best comparison is supplied by my first
remark--that in this city you can do what you like. You're rather fenced
in yonder. If you're of a placid disposition, that, no doubt, is
comforting, because it shuts out unpleasant things. On the other hand, if
you happen to be restless and active, the fences are inconvenient, for
you can't always climb over--and it is not considered proper to break
them down. Still, having admitted that, I'm proud of the old land. If one
has means and will conform, it's the finest country in the world! It's
only the fences that irritate me."

"Fences would naturally be obnoxious to you. But we have some here."

"They're generally built loose, of split-rails, and not nailed. An
energetic man can pull off a bar or two and stride over. If it's
necessary, he can afterward put them up again, and there's no harm done."

"Would you do the latter?"

Vane's expression changed.

"No. I think if there were anything good on the other side, I'd widen the
gap so that the less agile and the needy could crawl through." He smiled
at her. "You see, I owe some of them a good deal. They were the only
friends I had when I first tramped, jaded and footsore, about the
Province."

Jessy was pleased with his answer. She had heard of the free hospitality
of the bush choppers, and she thought it was a graceful thing that he
should acknowledge his debt to them. She was also pleased that she could
lead him on to talk unreservedly.

"Now at last you'll be content to rest a while," she suggested. "I dare
say you deserve it."

"It's strange that you should say that, because just before you came out
of the house I was thinking that I'd sat still long enough. It's a thing
that gets monotonous. One must keep going on."

"Take care that you don't walk over a precipice some day when you have
left all the fences behind. But I've kept you from your meditations, and
I had better see if Mrs. Nairn is coming."

He was sitting alone, lighting a cigar, when he noticed a girl whose
appearance seemed familiar in the road below. Moving along the veranda,
he recognized her as Kitty, and hastily crossed the lawn toward her. She
was accompanied by a young man whom Vane had once or twice seen in the
city, and she greeted him with evident pleasure.

"Tom," she introduced, when they had exchanged a few words, "this is Mr.
Vane." Turning to Vane she added: "Mr. Drayton."

Vane liked the man's face and manner. He shook hands with him, and then
looked back at Kitty.

"What are you doing now; and how are little Elsie and her mother?"

Kitty's face clouded.

"Mrs. Marvin's dead. Elsie's with some friends at Spokane, and I think
she's well looked after. I've given up the stage. Tom"--she explained
shyly--"didn't like it. Now I'm with some people at a ranch near the
Fraser, on the Westminster road. There are two or three children, and I'm
very fond of them."

"She won't be there long," Drayton interposed. "I've wanted to meet you
for some time, Mr. Vane. They told me at the office that you were away."

Vane smiled comprehendingly.

"I suppose my congratulations will not be out of place? Won't you ask me
to the wedding?"

Kitty blushed.

"Will you come?"

"Try!"

"There's nobody we would rather see," declared Drayton. "I'm heavily in
your debt, Mr. Vane."

"Pshaw!" rejoined Vane. "Come to see me any time--to-morrow, if you can
manage it."

Drayton said that he would do so, and shortly afterward he and Kitty
moved away. Vane turned back across the lawn; but he was not aware that
Jessy Horsfield had watched the meeting from the veranda and had
recognized Kitty, whom she had once seen at the station. She had already
ascertained that the girl had arrived in Vancouver in Vane's company,
and, in view of the opinion she had formed of him, this somewhat puzzled
her; but she decided that one must endeavor to be charitable. Besides,
having closely watched the little group, she was inclined to believe from
the way Vane shook hands with the man that there was no danger to be
apprehended from Kitty.



CHAPTER XIII

A NEW PROJECT


Vane was sitting alone in the room set apart for the Clermont Company in
Nairn's office when Drayton was shown in. He took the chair Vane
indicated and lighted a cigar the latter gave him.

"Now," he began with some diffidence, "you cut me off short when I met
you the other day, and one of my reasons for coming over was to get
through with what I was saying then. It's just this--I owe you a good
deal for taking care of Kitty; she's very grateful and thinks no end of
you. I want to say I'll always feel that you have a claim on me."

Vane smiled at him. It was evident that Kitty had taken her lover into
her confidence with regard to her trip aboard the sloop, and that she had
done so said a good deal for her. He thought one might have expected a
certain amount of half-jealous resentment, or even faint suspicion, on
the man's part; but there was no sign of this. Drayton believed in Kitty,
and that was strongly in his favor.

"It didn't cost me any trouble," Vane replied. "We were coming to
Vancouver, anyway."

Drayton's embarrassment became more obvious.

"It cost you some money--there were the tickets. Now I feel that I
have to--"

"Nonsense! When you are married to Miss Blake, you can pay me back, if
it will be a relief to you. When's the wedding to be?"

"In a couple of months," answered Drayton. He saw that it would be
useless to protest. "I'm a clerk in the Winstanley mills, and as one of
the staff is going, I'll get a move up then. We are to be married as
soon as I do."

He said a little more on the same subject, and then after a few moments'
silence he added:

"I wonder if the Clermont business keeps your hands full, Mr. Vane?"

"It doesn't. It's a fact I'm beginning to regret."

Drayton appeared to consider.

"Well," he said, "people seem to regard you as a rising man with snap in
him, and there's a matter I might, perhaps, bring before you. Let me
explain. I'm a clerk on small pay, but I've taken an interest outside my
routine work in the lumber trade of this Province and its subsidiary
branches. I figured any knowledge I could pick up might stand me in some
money some day. So far"--he smiled ruefully--"it hasn't done so."

"Go on," prompted Vane. His curiosity was aroused.

"It has struck me that pulping spruce--paper spruce--is likely to be
scarce presently. The supply's not unlimited and the world's consumption
is going up by jumps."

"There's a good deal of timber you could use for pulp, in British
Columbia alone," Vane interposed.

"Sure. But there's not a very great deal that could be milled into
high-grade paper pulp; and it's getting rapidly worked out in most other
countries. Then, as a rule, it's mixed up with firs, cedars and
cypresses; and that means the cutting of logging roads to each cluster of
milling trees. There's another point--a good deal of the spruce lies back
from water or a railroad, and in some cases it would be costly to bring
in a milling plant or to pack the pulp out."

"That's obvious; anyway, where you would have to haul every pound of
freight over a breakneck divide."

Drayton leaned forward confidentially.

"Then if one struck high-grade paper spruce--a whole valley full of
it--with water power and easy access to the sea, there ought to be money
in the thing?"

"Yes," Vane answered with growing interest; "that strikes me as very
probable."

"I believe I could put you on the track of such a valley."

Vane looked at him thoughtfully.

"We'd better understand each other. Do you want to sell me your
knowledge? And have you offered it to anybody else?"

His companion answered with the candor he expected.

"Kitty and I aren't going to find it easy to get along--rents are high in
this city. I want to give her as much as I can; but I'm willing to leave
you to do the square thing. The Winstanley people have their hands full
and won't look at any outside matter, and the one or two people I've
spoken to don't seem anxious to consider it. It's mighty hard for a
little man to launch a project."

"It is," Vane agreed sympathetically.

"Then," Drayton continued, "the idea's not my own. It was a mineral
prospector--a relative of mine--who struck the valley on his last trip.
He's an old man, and he came down played out and sick. Now I guess he's
slowly dying." He paused a moment. "Would you like to see him?"

"I'll go with you now, if it's convenient," Vane replied.

Drayton said that he might spare another half-hour without getting into
trouble, and they crossed the city to where a row of squalid frame
shacks stood on its outskirts. In the one they entered, a gaunt man
with grizzled hair lay upon a rickety bed. A glance showed Vane that
the man was very frail, and the harsh cough that he broke into as the
colder air from outside flowed in made the fact clearer. Drayton,
hastily shutting the door and explaining the cause of the visit,
motioned Vane to sit down.

"I've heard of you," said the prospector, fixing his eyes on Vane.
"You're the man who located the Clermont--and put the project through.
You had the luck. I've been among the ranges half my life--and you can
see how much I've made of it! When I struck a claim that was worth
anything somebody else got the money."

Vane had reasons for believing that this was not an uncommon experience.

"Well," the man continued, "you look straight--and I've got to take some
chances. It's my last stake. We'll get down to business. I'll tell you
about that spruce."

He spoke for a few minutes, and then asked abruptly:

"What are you going to offer?"

Vane had not been certain that he would make any offer at all; but, as
had befallen him once or twice before, the swift decision flashed
instinctively into his mind.

"If I find that the timber and its location come up to your account of
it, I'll pay you so many dollars down--whatever we can agree on--when I
get my lease from the land office. Then I'll make another equal payment
the day we start the mill. But I don't bind myself to record the timber
or to put up a mill, unless I'm convinced that it's worth while."

"I'd rather take less money and have a small share in the concern; and
Drayton must stand in."

"It's a question of terms," Vane replied. "I'll consider your views."

They discussed it for a while, and when they had at length arrived at a
provisional understanding, the prospector made a sign of acquiescence.

"We'll let it go at that; but the thing will take time, and I'll
never get the money. If you exercise your option, you'll sure pay it
down to Seely?"

"Celia's his daughter," Drayton explained. "He has no one else. She's a
waitress at the ---- House." He named a hotel of no great standing in the
city. "Comes home at nights, and looks after him as best she can."

Vane glanced round the room. It was evident that Celia's earnings were
small; but he noticed several things which suggested that she had
lavished loving care upon the sick man, probably at the cost of severe
self-denial. This was what he would have expected, for he had spent most
of his nine years in Canada among the people who toil the hardest for
the least reward.

"Yes," he answered; "I'll promise that. But, as I pointed out, while we
have agreed on the two payments, I reserve the right of deciding what
share your daughter and Drayton are to have, within the limits sketched
out. I can't fix it definitely until I've seen the timber--you'll have to
trust me."

The prospector once more looked at him steadily, and then implied by a
gesture that he was satisfied. He was not in a position to dictate terms,
but his confidence had its effect on the man in whom he reposed it.

"There's another thing. You'll do all you can to find that spruce?"

"Yes," Vane promised.

The man fumbled under his pillow and produced a piece cut out from a map
of the Province, with rough pencil notes on the back of it.

"It was on my last prospecting trip I found the spruce," he said. "I'd
been looking round, and I figured I'd strike down to the coast over the
range. The creeks were full up with snow-water, and as I was held up here
and there before I could get across, provisions began to run short. Then
I fell down a gulch and hurt my knee, and as I had to leave my tent and
it rained most of the while, I lay in the wet at nights, half-fed, with
my knee getting worse. By and by I fell sick; but I had to get out of the
mountains, and I was pushing on for the straits when I struck the valley
where the spruce is. After that, I got kind of muddled in the head, but I
went down a long valley on an easy grade and struck some Siwash curing
the last of the salmon. The trouble is, I was too sick to figure exactly
where the small inlet they were camped by lies. They took me back with
them to their rancherie--you could find that--and sailed me across to
Comox. I came down on a steamboat, and the doctor told me I'd made my
last journey."

Vane could sympathize. The narrative had been crudely matter-of-fact, but
he had been out on the prospecting trail often enough to fill in the
details the sick man omitted. He had slept in the rain, very scantily
fed, and he could picture the starving man limping along in an agony of
pain and exhaustion, with an injured knee, over boulders and broken rock
and through dense tangles of underbrush strewed with mighty fallen logs.

"How far was the valley from the inlet?" he asked.

"I can't tell you. I think I was three days on the trail; but it might
have been more. I was too sick to remember. Anyway, there was a creek you
could run the logs down."

"Well, how far was the inlet from the rancherie?"

"I was in the canoe part of one night and some of the next day. I can't
get it any clearer. We had a fair breeze. Guess thirty miles wouldn't
be far out."

"That's something to go upon. How much does your daughter earn?"

It was an abrupt change of subject, but the man answered as Vane had
expected. The girl's wages might maintain her economically, but it was
difficult to see how she could provide for her sick father. The latter
seemed to guess Vane's thoughts, for he spoke again.

"If I'd known I was done for when I was up in the bush, I wouldn't have
pushed on quite so fast," he said with expressive simplicity.

Vane rose.

"If Drayton will come along with me, I'll send him back with a hundred
dollars. It's part of the first payment. Your getting it now should make
things a little easier for Celia."

"But you haven't located the spruce yet!"

"I'm going to locate it, if the thing's anyway possible." Vane shook
hands with the man. "I expect to get off up the straits very shortly."

The prospector looked at him with relief and gratitude in his eyes.

"You're white--and I guess you'd be mighty hard to beat!"

When they reached the rutted street, which was bordered on one side by
great fir stumps, Drayton glanced at Vane with open admiration.

"I'm glad I brought you across. You have a way of getting hold of
people--making them believe in you. Hartley hasn't a word in writing, but
he knows you mean to act square with him. Kitty felt the same thing--it
was why she came down in the sloop with you."

Vane smiled, though there was a trace of embarrassment in his manner.

"Now that you mention it, I don't think Hartley was wise; and you were
equally confiding. We have only arrived at a rather indefinite
understanding about your share."

"We'll leave it at that. I haven't struck anybody else in this city who
would hear about the thing. Anyway, I'd prefer a few shares in the
concern, as mentioned, instead of money. If you get the thing on foot, I
guess it will go."

"Won't they raise trouble at the mill about your staying out?" Vane
inquired. "We have still to go for that hundred dollars."

Drayton owned that it might be advisable to hurry, and they set off for
the business quarter of the city.

During the remainder of the day Vane was busy on board the sloop, but in
the evening he walked over to Horsfield's house with Mrs. Nairn and found
Jessy and her brother at home. Horsfield presently took Vane to his
smoking-room.

"About that smelter," he began. "Haven't you made up your mind yet? The
thing's been hanging fire a long while."

"Isn't it a matter for the board?" Vane asked suggestively. "There are
several directors."

Horsfield laughed.

"We'll face the fact: they'll do what you decide on."

Vane did not reply to this.

"Well," he said, "at present we couldn't keep a smelter big enough to be
economical going, and I'm doubtful whether we would get much ore from the
other properties you were talking about to Nairn."

"Did he say it was my idea?"

"He didn't; I'd reasons for assuming it. Those properties, however, are
of no account."

Horsfield made no comment but waited expectantly, and Vane went on:

"If it seems possible that we can profitably increase our output later
on, by means of further capital, we'll put up a smelter. But in that
case it might be economical to do the work ourselves."

"Who would superintend it?"

"I would, if necessary, with the assistance of an engineer used to
such plant."

Horsfield smiled in a significant manner.

"Aren't you inclined to take hold of too much? When you have plenty in
your hands, it's good policy to leave a little for somebody else.
Sometimes the person who benefits is willing to reciprocate."

The hint was plain, and Nairn had said sufficient on another occasion to
make it clearer; but Vane did not respond.

"If we gave the work out, it would be on an open tender," he declared.
"There would be no reason why you shouldn't make a bid."

Horsfield found it difficult to conceal his disgust. He had no desire to
bid on an open tender, which would prevent his obtaining anything beyond
the market price.

"The question must stand over until I come back," Vane went on. "I'm
going up the west coast shortly and may be away some time."

They left the smoking-room shortly afterward, and when they strolled back
to the others, Vane sat down near Jessy.

"I hear you are going away," she began.

"Yes. I'm going to look for pulping timber."

"But what do you want with pulping timber?"

"It can sometimes be converted into money."

"Isn't there every prospect of your obtaining a good deal already? Are
you never satisfied?"

"I suppose I'm open to take as much as I can get."

Vane answered with an air of humorous reflection. "The reason probably is
that I've had very little until lately. Still, I don't think it's
altogether the money that is driving me."

"If it's the restlessness you once spoke of, you ought to put a check on
it and try to be content. There's danger in the longing to be always
going on."

"It's a common idea that a small hazard gives a thing a spice."

Jessy shot a swift glance at him, and she had, as he noticed,
expressive eyes.

"Be careful," she advised. "After all, it's wiser to keep within safe
limits and not climb over too many fences." She paused and her voice grew
softer. "You have friends who would be sorry if you got hurt."

The man was stirred. She was alluring, physically, while something in her
voice had its effect on him. Evelyn, however, still occupied his thoughts
and he smiled at his companion.

"Thank you. I like to believe it."

Then Mrs. Nairn and Horsfield crossed the room toward them and the
conversation became general.



CHAPTER XIV

VANE SAILS NORTH


On the evening of Vane's departure he walked out of Nairn's room just as
dusk was falling. His host was with him, and when they entered an
adjacent room the elder man's face relaxed into a smile as he saw Jessy
Horsfield talking to his wife. Vane stopped a few minutes to speak to
them, and it was Jessy who gave the signal for the group to break up.

"I must go," she said to Mrs. Nairn. "I've already stayed longer than I
intended. I'll let you have those patterns back in a day or two."

"Mair patterns!" Nairn exclaimed with dry amusement. "It's the second lot
this week! Ye're surely industrious, Jessy. Women"--he addressed
Vane--"have curious notions of economy. They will spend a month knitting
a thing to give to somebody who does no want it, when they could buy it
for half a dollar, done better by machinery. I'm no saying, however, that
it does no keep them out of mischief."

Jessy laughed.

"I don't think many of us are industrious in that way now. After all,
isn't it a pity that so many of the beautiful old handicrafts are dying
out? No loom, for instance, could turn out some of the things your wife
makes. They're matchless."

"She has an aumrie--ye can translate it bureaufull of them. It's no
longer customary to scatter them over the house. If ye mean to copy the
lot, ye have a task that will take ye most a lifetime."

Mrs. Nairn's smile was half a sigh.

"There were no books and no many amusements when I was young. We sat
through the long winter forenights, counting stitches, in the old gray
house at Burnfoot, under the Scottish moors. That, my dear, was thirty
years ago."

She shook hands with Vane as he left the house with Jessy, and standing
on the stoop she watched them cross the lawn.

"I'm thinking ye'll no see so much of Jessy for the next few weeks,"
Nairn remarked dryly. "Has she shown ye any of yon knickknacks when she
has finished them?"

His wife shook her head at him reproachfully.

"Alic," she admonished, "ye're now and then hasty in jumping at
conclusions."

"Maybe. I'm no infallible, but the fault ye mention is no common in the
land where we were born. I'm no denying that Jessy has enterprise, but
how far it will carry her in this case is mair than I can tell."

He smiled as he recalled a scene at the station some time ago, and Mrs.
Nairn looked up at him.

"What is amusing you, Alic?"

"It was just a bit idea no worth the mentioning. I think it would no
count." He paused, and added with an air of reflection: "A young man's
heart is whiles inconstant and susceptible."

Mrs. Nairn, ignoring the last remark, went into the house. In the
meanwhile Jessy and Vane walked down the road, until they stopped at a
gate. Jessy held out her hand.

"I'm glad I met you to-night," she said. "You will allow me to wish you
every success?"

There was a softness in her voice which Vane wholly failed to notice,
though he was aware that she was pretty and artistically dressed. This
was possibly why she made him think of Evelyn.

"Thank you," he replied. "It's nice to feel that one has the sympathy of
one's friends."

He turned away, and Jessy stood watching him as he strode down the road,
noticing, though it was getting dark, the free vigor of his movements.
There was, she thought, something in his fine poise and swing that set
him apart from other men she knew. None of them walked or carried himself
as Vane did. She was, however, forced to recognize that although he had
answered her courteously, there had been no warmth in his words. As a
matter of fact, Vane just then was conscious of a slight relief. He
admired Jessy, and he liked Nairn and his wife; but they belonged to the
city; and he was glad, on the whole, to leave it behind. He was going
back to the shadowy woods, where men lived naturally. The lust of fresh
adventure was strong in him.

On reaching the wharf he found Kitty, with Celia Hartley, whom he had not
met hitherto, awaiting him with Carroll and Drayton. A boat lay at the
steps, and he and Carroll rowed the others off to the sloop. The moon was
just rising from behind the black firs at the inner end of the inlet, and
a little cold wind that blew down across them, faintly scented with
resinous fragrance, stirred the water into tiny ripples that flashed into
silvery radiance here and there. Lights gleamed on the forestays of
vessels whose tall spars were etched in high, black tracery against the
dusky blue of the sky, athwart which there streamed the long smoke trail
of a steamer passing out through the Narrows.

Kitty, urged by Drayton, broke into a little song with a smooth, swinging
cadence that went harmoniously with the measured splash of oars; and Vane
enjoyed it all. The city was dropping behind him; he felt himself at
liberty. Carroll was a tried comrade; the others were simple people whose
views were more or less his own. Besides, it was a glorious night and
Kitty sang charmingly.

A soft glow shone out from the skylights to welcome them as they
approached the sloop. When, laughing gaily, they clambered on board,
Carroll led the way to the tiny saloon, which just held them all. It was
brightly lighted by two nickeled lamps; flowers were fastened against the
paneling, and clusters of them stood upon the table, which was covered
with a spotless cloth. What was even more unusual, it was daintily set
out with good china and silver. Vane took the head of it, and Carroll
modestly explained that only part of the supper had been prepared by
himself. The rest he had obtained in the city, out of regard for the
guests, who, he added, had not lived in the bush. Presently Vane, who had
been busy talking to the others, turned to Celia.

"Now that we can see each other better, I think you ought to recognize
me, Miss Hartley."

The girl was young and attractive, and she blushed prettily.

"I do, of course; but I thought I'd wait until I saw whether you
remembered me."

"Why should you wait?"

Celia looked confused.

"It's two or three years since I've seen you; and I've left that place."

Vane laughed. He had made her acquaintance at a workman's hotel where she
was engaged, when he was differently situated, and he fancied that she
was diffident about recalling the fact, now that he was obviously
prosperous.

"Well," he responded, "it's only fair that I should give you supper, for
once. I've always had an idea that you brought me more dessert than I was
really entitled to."

"It was because you were--civil," Celia explained, though her expression
suggested that the word did not convey all she meant. "Still, I can't
complain of the rest of the boys."

"I wonder if you remember how astonished you were the first time you
brought me supper?"

Celia smiled and Vane turned to the others.

"I'd just come in on a schooner. We'd had wild weather, during which the
galley fire was generally washed out and the cook had some difficulty in
getting us anything to eat. Miss Hartley brought me a double supply. She
must have thought I needed it."

"There was mighty little left," the girl retorted.

The others laughed, but Vane went on, in a reminiscent manner:

"I was wearing a pair of old gum-boots with one toe torn off, and my
jacket was split right up the back. When I went up-town the next day,
people looked at me suspiciously. The trade of the Province is pretty
bad when you see men in Vancouver dressed as I was. The fact that sticks
in my mind most clearly, however, is that on the following morning, when
I'd arranged to see a man who might give me a job, Miss Hartley offered
to sew up the tear for me. I was uncommonly glad to let her."

Celia colored again, but it was evident that she was not displeased.
Kitty smiled at him, and there was appreciation in Drayton's eyes.

"Were you surprised when she offered to sew it?" Kitty inquired.

"Now, you have helped me on to what I wanted to say. I wasn't
surprised--how could I be? The kind of people I'd met out here had seldom
much money, or much of anything; but I had generally less, and they held
out a hand when I needed it and gave me what they had. It stirs me in a
way that almost hurts to think of it."

Then Carroll started the general chatter, which went on after the meal
was finished, and nobody appeared to notice that Kitty sat with her hand
in Drayton's amid the happy laughter. Even Celia, who had her grief to
grapple with, smiled bravely. Vane had given them champagne, the best in
the city, though they drank sparingly; and at last, when Celia made a
move to rise, Drayton stood up with his glass in his hand.

"We must go, but there's something to be done," he announced. "It's to
thank our host and wish him success. It's a little boat he's sailing in,
but she's carrying a big freight, if our good wishes count for anything."

They emptied the glasses, and Vane replied:

"My success is yours. You have all a stake in the venture, and that
piles up my responsibility. If the spruce is still in existence, I've
got to find it."

"And you're going to find it!" declared Drayton. "It's a sure thing!"

Vane divided the flowers between Celia and Kitty, but when they went up
on deck Kitty raised one bunch and kissed it.

"Tom won't mind," she laughed. "Take that one back from Celia and
me--for luck."

They got down into the boat, and Carroll handed them a basket of crockery
and table linen which Drayton promised to have delivered at the hotel.
Then, while the girls called back to Vane, Drayton rowed away, and the
boat was fading out of sight when Kitty's voice once more reached the men
on board. She was singing a well-known Jacobite ballad.

Carroll laughed softly.

"It strikes me as appropriate," he said. "Considering what his Highland
followers suffered on his account and what the women thought of him, some
of the virtues they credited the Young Chevalier with must have been
real." He raised his hand. "You may as well listen!"

Vane stood still a moment, with the blood hot in his face, as the refrain
rang more clearly across the sparkling water:

"Better lo'ed ye cannot be--
Will ye no come back to me?"

"I don't know whether you feel flattered, but I've an idea that Kitty and
Celia would go through fire for you; and Drayton seems to share their
confidence," Carroll went on in his most matter-of-fact tone.

"Celia mended my jacket," Vane replied. "I got a month's work as a
result of it." Then he began to shake the mainsail loose. "I believe
we both went rather far in our talk to-night; but we have got to find
the spruce!"

"So you have said already. Hadn't you better heave the boom up with the
topping lift?"

They got the mainsail onto her, broke out the anchor and set the jib; and
as the boat slipped away before a freshening breeze Vane sat at the helm
while Carroll stood on the foredeck, coiling up the gear. The moon was
higher now; the broad sail gleamed a silvery gray; the ripples, which
were getting bigger, flashed and sparkled as they streamed back from the
bows; and the lights of the city dropped fast astern. Vane was conscious
of a keen exhilaration. He had started on a new adventure. He was going
back to the bush; and he knew that, no matter how his life might change,
the wilderness would always call to him. In spite of this, however, he
was, as he had said, conscious of an unusual responsibility. Hitherto he
had fought for what he could get, for himself; but now Kitty's future
partly depended on his efforts, and his success would be of vast
importance to Celia.

He had a very friendly feeling toward both the girls. Indeed, all the
women he had met of late had attracted him, in different ways. It was
hard to believe that any of them possessed unlovable qualities, though
there was not one among them to compare with Evelyn. Whatever he liked
most in the others--intelligence, beauty, tenderness, courage--reminded
him of her. Kitty, he thought, belonged to the hearth; she personified
gentleness and solace; it would be her part to diffuse cheerful comfort
in the home. Jessy would make an ambitious man's companion; a clever
counselor, who would urge him forward if he lagged. Celia he had not
placed yet; but Evelyn stood apart from all.

She appealed less to his senses and intellect than she did to a
sublimated something in the depths of his nature; and it somehow seemed
fitting that her image should materialize before his mental vision as the
sloop drove along under the cloudless night sky while the moonlight
poured down glamour on the shining water. Evelyn harmonized with such
things as these.

It was true that she had repulsed him; but that, he felt, was what he
deserved for entering into an alliance against her with her venial
father. He was glad now that he had acquiesced in her dismissal of him,
since to have stood firm and broken her to his will would have brought
disaster upon both of them. He felt that she had not wholly escaped him,
after all; by and by he would go back and seek her favor by different
means. Then she might, perhaps, forgive him and listen.

The breeze came down fresher as they drove out through the Narrows.
Carroll had gone below; and, brushing his thoughts aside, Vane busied
himself hauling in some of the mainsheet, while the water splashed more
loudly beneath the bows. The great black firs rolled by in somber
masses over his port hand, and presently the last of the lights were
blotted out. He was alone, flitting swiftly and smoothly across the
glittering sea.



CHAPTER XV

THE FIRST MISADVENTURE


The breeze freshened fiercely with the red and fiery dawn. Vane, who had
gone below, was advised of it by being flung off the locker in the
saloon, where he sat with coffee and crackers before him. The jug,
overturning, spilled its contents upon him, and the crackers were
scattered, but he picked himself up in haste and scrambled out into the
well. He found the sloop slanted over with a good deal of her lee deck
submerged in rushing foam, and Carroll bracing himself against the strain
upon the tiller. To windward, the sea looked as if it had been strewed
with feathers, for there were flecks and blurs of white everywhere.

"I'll let her come up when you're ready!" Carroll shouted. "We'd better
get some sail off her, if we mean to hold on to the mast!"

He thrust down his helm; and the sloop, forging round to windward, rose
upright, with her heavy main-boom banging to and fro. After that, they
were desperately busy for a few minutes. Vane wished that they had
engaged a hand in Vancouver, instead of waiting to hire a Siwash
somewhere up the coast. There was the headsail to haul to windward, which
was difficult, and the mainsheet to get in; then the two men, standing on
the slippery, inclined deck, struggled hard to haul the canvas down to
the boom. The jerking spar smote them in the ribs; once or twice the
reefing tackle beneath it was torn from their hands; but they mastered
the sail, tying two reefs in it, to reduce its size; and the craft drove
away with her lee rail just awash.

"You'd better go down and get some crackers," Vane advised his comrade.
"You'll find them rolling up and down the floor. I spilled the coffee,
but perhaps the kettle's still on the stove. Anyhow, you may not have an
opportunity later."

"It looks like that," Carroll agreed. "The wind's backing northward, and
that means more of it before long. You can call, if you want me."

He disappeared below, and Vane sat at the helm with a frown on his face.
An angry coppery glare streamed down upon the white-flecked water which
gleamed in the lurid light. It was very cold, but there was a wonderful
quality that set the blood tingling in the nipping air. Even upon the
high peaks and in the trackless bush, one fails to find the bracing
freshness that comes with the dawn at sea.

Vane, however, knew that the breeze would increase and draw ahead, which
was unfortunate, because they would have to beat, fighting for every
fathom they slowly made. There was no help for it, and he buttoned his
jacket against the spray. By the time Carroll came up the sloop was
plunging sharply, pitching showers of stinging brine all over her when
the bows went down. They drove her at it stubbornly most of the day,
making but little to windward, while the seas got bigger and whiter,
until they had some trouble to keep the light boat they carried upon the
deluged deck. At last, when she came bodily aft amid a frothing cascade
which poured into the well, Vane brought the sloop round, and they
stretched away to eastward, until they could let go the anchor in smooth
water beneath a wall of rock. They were very wet, and were stiff with
cold, for winter was drawing near.

"We'll get supper," said Vane. "If the breeze drops a little at dusk,
which is likely, we'll go on again."

Having eaten little since dawn, they enjoyed the meal; and Carroll would
have been content to remain at anchor afterward. The tiny saloon was
comfortably warm, and he thought it would be pleasanter to lounge away
the evening on a locker, with his pipe, than to sit amid the bitter spray
at the helm. The breeze had fallen a little, but the firs in a valley
ashore were still wailing loudly. Vane, however, was proof against his
companion's hints.

"With a head wind, we'll be some time working up to the rancherie, and
then we have thirty miles of coast to search for the inlet Hartley
reached. After that, there's the valley to locate; he was uncertain how
far it lay from the beach."

"It couldn't be very far. You wouldn't expect a man who was sick and
badly lame to make any great pace."

"I can imagine a man, who knew he must reach the coast before he starved,
making a pretty vigorous effort. If he were worked-up and desperate, the
pain might turn him savage and drive him on, instead of stopping him. Do
you remember the time we crossed the divide in the snow?"

"I could remember it, if I wanted to," Carroll answered with a shiver.
"As it happens, that's about the last thing I'm anxious to do."

"The trouble is that there are a good many valleys in this strip of
country, and we may have to try a number before we strike the right one.
Winter's not far off, and I can't spend very much time over this search.
As soon as the man we put in charge of the mine has tried his present
system long enough to give us something to figure on, I want to see what
can be done to increase our output. We haven't marketed very much refined
metal yet."

"There's no doubt that it would be advisable," Carroll answered
thoughtfully. "As I've pointed out, you have spent a good deal of the
cash you got when you turned the Clermont over to the company. In fact,
that's one reason why I didn't try to head off this timber-hunting
scheme. You can't spend much over the search, and if the spruce comes up
to expectations, you ought to get it back. It would be a fortunate
change, after your extravagance in England."

Vane frowned.

"That's a subject I don't want to talk about. We'll go up and see what
the weather's like."

Carroll shivered when they stood in the well. It was falling dusk, and
the sky was a curious cold, shadowy blue. A nipping wind came down across
the darkening firs ashore, but there was no doubt that it had fallen
somewhat, and Carroll resigned himself when Vane began to pull the tiers
off the mainsail.

In a few minutes they were under way, the sloop heading out toward open
water with two reefs down in her mainsail, a gray and ghostly shape of
slanted canvas that swept across the dim, furrowed plain of sea. By
midnight the breeze was as strong as ever, but they had clear moonlight
and they held on; the craft plunging with flooded decks through the
white combers, while Carroll sat at the helm, battered by spray and
stung with cold.

When Vane came up, an hour or two later, the sea was breaking viciously.
Carroll would have put up his helm and run for shelter, had the decision
been left to him; but he saw his comrade's face in the moonlight and
refrained from any suggestion of that nature. There was a spice of
dogged obstinacy in Vane, which, although on the whole it made for
success, occasionally drove him into needless difficulties. They held
on; and soon after day broke, with its first red flush ominously high in
the eastern sky, they stretched in toward the land, with a somewhat
sheltered bay opening up beyond a foam-fringed point ahead of them.
Carroll glanced dubiously at the white turmoil in the midst of which
black fangs of rock appeared.

"Will she weather the point on this tack?" he asked.

"She'll have to! We'll have smoother water to work through, once we're
round, and the tide's helping her."

They drove on, though it occurred to Carroll that they were not opening
up the bay very rapidly. The light was growing, and he could now discern
the orderly phalanxes of white-topped combers that crumbled into a
chaotic spouting on the point's outer end. It struck him that the sloop
would not last long if she touched bottom there; but once more, after a
glance at Vane's face, he kept silent. After all, Vane was leader; and
when he looked as he did then, he usually resented advice. The mouth of
the bay grew wider, until Carroll could see most of the forest-girt shore
on one side of it; but the surf upon the point was growing unpleasantly
near. Wisps of spray whirled away from it and vanished among the scrubby
firs clinging to the fissured crags behind. The sloop, however, was going
to windward, for Vane was handling her with nerve and skill. She had
almost cleared the point when there was a rattle and a bang inside of
her. Carroll started.

"It's the centerboard coming up! It must have touched a boulder!"

"Then jump down and lift it before it strikes another and bends!" cried
Vane. "She's far enough to windward to keep off the beach without it."

Carroll went below and hove up the centerboard, which projected several
feet beneath the bottom of the craft; but he was not satisfied that the
sloop was far enough off the beach, as Vane seemed to be, and he got out
into the well as soon as possible.

The worst of the surf was abreast of their quarter now, and less-troubled
water stretched away ahead. Carroll had hardly noticed this, however,
when there was a second heavy crash and the sloop stopped suddenly. The
comber to windward that should have lifted her up, broke all over her,
flinging the boat on deck upon the saloon skylight and pouring inches
deep over the coaming into the well. Vane was hurled from the tiller. His
wet face was smeared with blood, from a cut on his forehead, but he
seized a big oar to shove the sloop off, when she swung upright, moved,
and struck again. The following sea hove her up; there was a third, less
violent, crash; and as Vane dropped the oar and grasped the helm, she
suddenly shot ahead.

"She'll go clear!" he shouted. "Jump below and see if she's damaged!"

Carroll got no farther than the scuttle, for the saloon floorings on the
depressed side were already awash, and he could hear an ominous splashing
and gurgling.

"It's pouring into her!" he cried.

"Then, you'll have to pump!"

"We passed an opening some miles to lee. Wouldn't it be better if you ran
back there?" Carroll suggested.

"No! I won't run a yard! There's another inlet not far ahead and we'll
stand on until we reach it. I'd put her on the beach here, only that
she'd go to pieces with the first shift of the wind to westward."

Carroll agreed with this opinion; but there is a great difference between
running to leeward with the sea behind the vessel and thrashing to
windward when it is ahead, and he hesitated.

"Get the pump started! We're going on!" Vane said impatiently.

Fortunately the pump was a powerful one, of the semi-rotary type, and
they had nearly two miles of smoother water before they stretched out of
the bay upon the other tack. When they did so, Carroll, glancing down
again through the scuttle, could not flatter himself that he had reduced
the water. It was comforting, however, to see that it had not increased,
though he did not expect that state of affairs to last. When they drove
out into broken water, he found it difficult to work the crank. The
plunges threw him against the coaming, and the sea poured in over it
continually. There are not many men who feel equal to determined toil
before their morning meal, and the physical slackness is generally more
pronounced if they have been up most of the preceding night; but Carroll
recognized that he had no choice. There was too much sea for the boat,
even if they could have launched her, and he could make out no spot on
the beach where it seemed possible to effect a landing if they ran the
sloop ashore. As a result of this, it behooved him to pump.

After half an hour of it, he was breathless and exhausted, and Vane took
his place. The sea was higher; the sloop wetter than she had been; and
there was no doubt that the water was rising fast inside of her. Carroll
wondered how far ahead the inlet lay; and the next two hours were anxious
ones to both of them. Turn about, they pumped with savage determination
and went back, gasping, to the helm to thrash the boat on. They drove her
remorselessly; and she swept through the combers, tilted and streaming,
while the spray scourged the helmsman's face as he gazed to weather. The
men's arms and shoulders ached from working in a cramped position; but
there was no help for it. They toiled on furiously, until at last the
crest of a crag for which they were heading sloped away in front of them.

A few minutes later they drove past the end of it into a broad lane of
water. The wind was suddenly cut off; the combers fell away; and the
sloop crept slowly up the inlet, which wound, green and placid, among the
hills, with long ranks of firs dropping steeply to the edge of the water.
Vane loosed the pump handle, and striding to the scuttle looked down at
the flood which splashed languidly to and fro below.

"It strikes me as fortunate that we're in," he commented. "Another
half-hour would have seen the end of her. Let her come up a little!
There's a smooth beach to yonder cove."

She slid in quietly, scarcely rippling the smooth surface of the tiny
basin, and Carroll laid her on the beach.

"Now," advised Vane, "we'll drop the boom on the shore side to keep her
from canting over; and then we'll get breakfast. We'll see where she's
damaged when the tide ebbs."

As most of their stores had lain in the flooded lockers, from which there
had been no time to extricate them, the meal was not an appetizing one.
They were, however, glad to have it; and rowing ashore afterward, they
lay on the shingle in the sunshine while the sloop was festooned with
their drying clothes. There was no wind in that deep hollow, and they
were thankful, for the weather was already getting cold.

"If she has only split a plank or two, we can patch her up," Vane
remarked. "There are all the tools we'll want in the locker."

"Where will you get new planks?" Carroll inquired. "I don't think we
have any spikes that would go through the frames."

"That is the trouble. I expect I'll have to make a trip across to Comox
for them in a sea canoe. We're sure to come across a few Siwash somewhere
in the neighborhood." Then he knit his brows. "I can't say that this
expedition is beginning fortunately."

"There's no doubt on that point," Carroll agreed.

"Well, the sloop has to be patched up; and until I find that spruce I'm
going on--anyway, as long as the provisions hold out. If we're not
through with the business then, we'll come back again."

Carroll made no comment. It was not worth while to object, when Vane was
obviously determined.



CHAPTER XVI

THE BUSH


It was a quiet evening, nearly a fortnight after the arrival of the
sloop. Pale sunshine streamed into the cove, and little glittering
ripples lapped lazily along the shingle. The placid surface of the inlet
was streaked with faint blue lines where wandering airs came down from
the heights above, and now and then an elfin sighing fell from the ragged
summits of the firs. When it died away, the silence was broken only by
the pounding of a heavy hammer and the crackle of a fire.

Carroll sat beside the latter, alternately holding a stout plank up to
the blaze and dabbling its hot surface with a dripping mop. His face was
scorched, and he coughed as the resinous-scented smoke drifted about his
head and floated in heavy, blue wisps half-way up the giant trunks behind
him. A big sea canoe lay drawn up not far away, and one of its
copper-skinned Siwash owners lounged on the shingle, stolidly watching
the white men. His comrade was then inside the sloop, holding a big stone
against one of her frames, while Vane crouched outside, swinging a
hammer. Her empty hull flung back the thud of the blows, which rang far
across the trees.

Vane was bare-armed and stripped to shirt and trousers. He had arrived
from Comox across the straits at dawn that morning. It was a long trip
and they had had wild weather on the journey, but he had set to work with
characteristic energy as soon as he landed. Now, though the sun was low,
he was working harder than ever, with the flood tide, which would shortly
compel him to desist, creeping up to his feet.

It is a difficult matter to fit a new plank into the rounded bilge of a
boat, particularly when one is provided with inadequate appliances. One
requires a good eye for curves, for the planks need much shaping. They
must also be driven into position by force. Two or three stout shores
were firmly wedged against the side of the boat, and these encumbered
Vane in the free use of his arms. His face was darkly flushed and he
panted heavily and now and then flung vitriolic instructions to the
Siwash inside the craft. Carroll, watching him with quiet amusement, was
on the whole content that the tide was rising, for his comrade had firmly
declined to stop for dinner, and he was conscious of a sharpened
appetite. It was comforting to reflect that Vane would be unable to get
the plank into place before the evening meal, for if there had been any
prospect of his doing so, he would certainly have postponed his dinner.

Presently he stopped a moment and turned to Carroll.

"If you were any use in an emergency, you'd be holding up for me, instead
of that wooden image inside! He will back the stone against any frame
except the one I'm nailing."

"The difficulty is that I can't be in two places at the same time,"
Carroll retorted good-naturedly. "Shall I leave this plank? You can't
get it in to-night."

"I'm going to try," Vane answered grimly.

He turned around to direct the Siwash and then cautiously hammered in one
of the wedges a little farther. Swinging back the hammer, he struck a
heavy blow. The result was disastrous, for there was a crash and one of
the shores shot backward, striking him on the knee. He jumped with a
savage cry, and the next moment there was a sharp snapping, and the end
of the plank sprang out. Then another shore gave way; and when the plank
fell clattering at his feet, Vane whirled the hammer round his head and
hurled it violently into the bush. This appeared to afford him some
satisfaction, and he strode up the beach, with the blood dripping from
the knuckles of one hand.

"That's the blamed Siwash's fault!" he muttered. "I couldn't get him to
back up when I put the last spike in."

"Hadn't you better tell him to come out?" Carroll suggested.

"No!" thundered Vane. "If he hasn't sense enough to see that he isn't
wanted, he can stay where he is all night! Are you going to get supper,
or must I do that, too?"

Carroll merely smiled and set about preparing the meal, which the two
Siwash partook of and afterward departed with some paper currency. Then
Vane, walking down the beach, came back with the plank. Lighting his
pipe, he pointed to one or two broken nails in it. The water was now
rippling softly about the sloop, and the splash of canoe paddles came up
out of the distance in rhythmic cadence.

"That's the cause of the trouble," he explained. "It cost me a week's
journey to get the package of galvanized spikes--I could have managed to
split a plank or two out of one of these firs. The storekeeper fellow
assured me they were specially annealed for heading up. If I knew who the
manufacturers were, I'd have pleasure in telling them what I think of
them. If they set up to make spikes, they ought to make them, and empty
every keg that won't stand the test out on to the scrap-heap."

Carroll smiled. The course his partner had indicated was the one he would
have adopted. He was characterized by a somewhat grim idea of efficiency,
and never spared his labor to attain it, though the latter fact now and
then had its inconveniences for those who cooperated with him, as Carroll
had discovered. The latter had no doubt that Vane would put the planks
in, if he spent a month over the operation.

"I wouldn't have had this trouble if you'd been handier with tools,"
Vane went on. "I can't see why you never took the trouble to learn how
to use them."

"My abilities aren't as varied as yours; and the thing strikes me as bad
economy," Carroll replied. "Skill of the kind you mention is worth about
three dollars a day."

"You were getting two dollars for shoveling in a mining ditch when I
first met you."

"I was," Carroll assented good-humoredly. "I believe another month or
two of it would have worn me out. It's considerably pleasanter and more
profitable to act as your understudy; but a fairly proficient carpenter
might have bungled the matter."

Vane looked embarrassed.

"Let it pass. I've a pernicious habit of expressing myself unfortunately.
Anyhow, we'll start again on those planks the first thing to-morrow."

He stretched out his aching limbs beside the fire, and languidly watched
the firs grow dimmer and the mists creep in ghostly trails down the
steep hillside. Presently Carroll broke the silence.

"Wallace," he advised, "wouldn't it be wiser if you met that fellow
Horsfield to some extent?"

"No," Vane answered decidedly. "I have no intention of giving way an
inch. It would only encourage the man to press me on another point, if I
did. I'm going to have trouble with him, and it seems to me that the
sooner it comes the better. There's room for only one controlling
influence in the Clermont Mine."

Carroll smoked in silence for a while. His comrade had successfully
carried out most of the small projects he had undertaken in the bush, and
though fortune had, perhaps, favored him, he had every reason to be
satisfied with the result of his efforts as a prospector. He had
afterward held his own in the city, mainly by simple unwavering
determination. Carroll, however, realized that to guard against the wiles
of a clever man like Horsfield, who was unhampered by any scruples, might
prove a very different thing.

"In that case, it might be as well to stay in Vancouver as much as
possible and keep your eye on him," he suggested.

"The same idea has struck me since we sailed. The trouble is that until
I've decided about the pulp mill he'll have to go unwatched--for the same
reason that prevented you from holding up for me and steaming the plank."

"If any unforeseen action of Horsfield's made it necessary, you could let
this pulp project drop."

"You ought to understand why that's impossible. Drayton, Kitty and
Hartley count on my exertions; the matter was put into my hands only on
the condition that I did all that I could. They're poor people and I
can't go back on them. If we can't locate the spruce, or it doesn't seem
likely to pay for working up, there's nothing to prevent my abandoning
the undertaking; but I'm not at liberty to do so just because it would be
a convenience to myself. Hartley got my promise before he told me where
to search."

Carroll changed the subject.

"It might have been better if you had made the directors' qualification
higher. You would have been more sure of Horsfield then, because he would
have been less likely to do anything that might depreciate the value of
his stock."

"I had to get a few good names to make it easier for men of standing to
join me. They wouldn't have been willing to subscribe for too many shares
until they saw how the thing would go. Anyhow, so long as he's a
director, Horsfield must hold a stipulated amount of stock. He's actually
holding a good deal."

"The limit's rather a low one. Suppose he sold out down to it; he
wouldn't mind having the value of the rest knocked down, if he could make
more than the difference by some jobbery. Of course, we're only a small
concern, and we'll have to raise more capital sooner or later. I've an
idea that Horsfield might find his opportunity then."

"If he does, we must try to be ready for him," Vane replied. "I sat up
most of last night with the spritsail sheet in my hand, and I'm going
to sleep."

He strolled away to the tent they had pitched on the edge of the bush,
but Carroll sat a while smoking beside the fire with a thoughtful face.
He was suspicious of Horsfield and foresaw trouble; more particularly now
that his comrade had undertaken a project which seemed likely to occupy a
good deal of his attention. Hitherto, Vane had owed part of his success
to his faculty of concentrating all his powers upon one object.

They rose at dawn the next morning, and by sunset had fitted the new
planks. Two days later, they sailed northward, and eventually they found
the rancherie Hartley mentioned. They had expected to hire a guide there,
but the rickety wooden building was empty. Vane decided that its Siwash
owners, who made long trips in search of fish and furs, had left it for a
time, and he pushed on again.

He had now to face an unforeseen difficulty; there were a number of
openings in that strip of coast, and Hartley's description was of no
great service in deciding which was the right one. During the next day or
two, they looked into several bights, and seeing no valleys opening out
of them, went on again. One evening, however, they ran into an inlet with
a forest-shrouded hollow at the head of it. Here they moored the sloop
close in with a sheltered beach and after a night's rest got ready their
packs for the march inland. Carroll regretted they had not hired the
Indians with whom his comrade had crossed the straits.

"We would have traveled a good deal more comfortably if you had brought
those Siwash along to pack for us," he observed.

"If you had been with them on the canoe trip, you might think
differently," Vane answered with a laugh. "Besides, they're in the
habit of going to Cornox and might put some enterprising lumber men on
our trail."

"There's one thing I'm going to insist on," Carroll declared. "We'll
leave enough provisions on board to last us until we get back to
civilization, even if we have a head wind. I've made one or two journeys
on short rations."

Vane agreed to this, and after rowing ashore and hiding the boat among
the undergrowth, they proceeded to strap their packs about them. There is
an art in this, for the weight must be carried where it will be felt and
retard one's movements least. They had a light tent without poles--which
could be cut when wanted--two blankets, an ax, and one or two cooking
utensils, besides their provisions. A new-comer from the cities would
probably not have carried his share for half a day, but in that rugged
land mineral prospector and survey packer are accustomed to travel
heavily burdened, and the men had followed both these vocations.

In front of them a deep trough opened up in the hills, but it was filled
with giant forest, through which no track led, and only those who have
traversed the dim recesses of the primeval bush can fully understand what
this implies. The west winds swept through that gateway, reaping as they
went, and here and there tremendous trees lay strewed athwart one another
with their branches spread abroad in impenetrable tangles. Some had
fallen amid the wreckage left by previous gales, which the forest had
partly made good, and there was scarcely a rod of the way that was not
obstructed by half-rotted trunks. Then there were thick bushes, and an
undergrowth of willows where the soil was damp, with thorny brakes and
matted fern in between. In places the growth was almost like a wall, and
the men, skirting the inlet, were glad to scramble forward among the
rough boulders and ragged driftwood at the water's edge for some minutes
at a time, until it was necessary to leave the beach behind.

After the first few minutes there was no sign of the gleaming water. They
had entered a region of dim green shade, where the moist air was heavy
with resinous smells. The trunks rose about them in tremendous columns,
thorns clutched their garments, and twigs and brittle branches snapped
beneath their feet. The day was cool, but the sweat of tense effort
dripped from them, and when they stopped for breath at the end of an
hour, Vane estimated that they had gone a mile.

"I'll be content if we can keep this up," he said.

"It isn't likely," Carroll replied with a trace of dryness, glancing down
at a big rent in his jacket.

A little farther on, they waded with difficulty through a large stream,
and Carroll stopped and glanced round at a deep rift in a crag on one
side of them.

"I don't know whether that could be considered a valley; but we may as
well look at it."

They scrambled forward, and reaching gravelly soil where the trees were
thinner, Vane surveyed the opening. It was very narrow and appeared to
lose itself among the rocks. The size of the creek which flowed out of it
was no guide, for those ranges are scored by running water.

"We won't waste time over that ravine," Vane concluded. "I noticed a
wider one farther on. We'll see what it's like; though Hartley led me to
understand that he came down a straight and gently sloping valley. The
one we're in answers the description."

It was two hours before they reached the second opening, and then Vane,
unstrapping his pack, clambered up the steep face of a crag. When he came
back, his face was thoughtful. He sat down and lighted his pipe.

"This search seems likely to take us longer than I expected," he said.
"To begin with, there are a number of inlets, all of them pretty much
alike, along this part of the coast, but I needn't go into the reasons
for supposing that this is the one Hartley visited. Taking it for granted
that we're right, we're up against another difficulty. So far as I could
make out from the top of that rock, there's a regular series of ravines
running back into the hills."

"Hartley told you he came straight down to tidewater, didn't he?"

"That's not much of a guide. The slope of every fissure seems to run
naturally from the inland watershed to this basin. Hartley was sick and
it was raining all the time, and coming out of any of these ravines he'd
only have to make a slight turn to reach the water. What's more, he
could only tell me that he was heading roughly west. Allowing that there
was no sun visible, that might have meant either northwest or southwest,
which gives us the choice of searching the hollows on either side of the
main valley. Now, it strikes me as most probable that he came right down
the main valley itself; but we have to face the question as to whether
we should push straight on, or search every opening that might be called
a valley?"

"What's your idea?" Carroll rejoined.

"That we ought to go into the thing systematically, and look at every
ravine we come to."

Carroll nodded agreement.

"I guess you're right."

They strapped their packs about them and struggled on again. Stopping
half an hour for dinner, they plodded all the afternoon up a long hollow,
which rose steadily in front of them. It was narrow, and in places the
bottom of it was so choked with fallen trunks that they were forced for
the sake of a clearer passage to take to the creek, where they
alternately stumbled among big boulders and splashed through shallow
pools. The water, which was mostly melted snow, was very cold.

The light was fading down in the deep rift when, winding round a spur
through a tangle of clinging underbrush, they saw the timber thin off
ahead. In a few minutes Vane stopped with an exclamation, and Carroll,
overtaking him, loosened his pack. They stood upon the edge of the
timber, but in front of them a mass of soil and stones ran up almost
vertically to a great outcrop of rock high above.

"If Hartley had come down that, he'd have remembered it," Vane
remarked grimly.

"It's obvious," Carroll agreed, sitting down with a sigh of weariness.
"We'll try the next one to-morrow; I don't move another step to-night."

Vane laughed.

"I've no wish to urge you. There's hardly a joint in my body that doesn't
ache." He flung down his pack and stretched himself with an air of
relief. "That's what comes of civilization and soft living. It would be
nice to sit still now while somebody brought me my supper."

As there was nobody to do so, he took up the ax and set about hewing
chips off a fallen trunk while Carroll made a fire. Then he cut the tent
poles and a few armfuls of twigs for a bed, and in half an hour the camp
was pitched and a meal prepared. Darkness closed down on them while they
ate, and they afterward lay a while, smoking and saying little, beside
the sinking fire, while the red light flickered upon the massy trunks and
fell away again. Then they crawled into the tent and wrapped their
blankets round them.



CHAPTER XVII

VANE POSTPONES THE SEARCH


When Vane rose early the next morning, there was frost in the air. The
firs glistened with delicate silver filigree, and thin spears of ice
stretched out from behind the boulders in the stream. The smoke of the
fire thickened the light haze that filled the hollow, and when breakfast
was ready the men ate hastily, eager for the exertion that would put a
little warmth into them.

"We've had it a good deal colder on other trips. I suppose I've been
getting luxurious, for I seem to resent it now," observed Vane. "There's
no doubt that winter's beginning earlier that I expected up here. As soon
as you can strike the tent, we'll get a move on."

Carroll made no comment He had a vivid recollection of one or two of
those other journeys, during which they had spent arduous days
floundering through slushy snow and had slept in saturated blankets, and
sometimes shelterless in bitter frost. Carroll had endured these things
without complaint, though he had never attained to the cheerfulness his
comrade usually displayed. He was willing to face hardship, when it
promised to lead to a tangible result, but he failed to understand the
curious satisfaction Vane assumed to feel in ascertaining exactly how
much weariness and discomfort he could force his flesh to bear.

Vane, however, was not singular in this respect; there are men in the
newer lands who, if they do not actually seek it, will seldom make an
effort to avoid the strain of overtaxed muscles and exposure to wild and
bitter weather. They have imbibed the pristine vigor of the wilderness,
and conflict with the natural forces braces instead of daunting them. One
recognizes them by their fixed and steady gaze, their direct and
deliberate speech, and the proficiency that most display with ax and saw
and rifle. But the effect of this Spartan training is not merely
physical; the men who leave the bush and the ranges, as a rule, come to
the forefront in commerce and industry. Endurance, swiftness of action
and stubborn tenacity are apt to carry their possessor far anywhere.

Vane and his comrade needed these qualities during the following week.
The valley grew more wild and rugged as they proceeded. In places, its
bottom was filled with muskegs, cumbered with half-submerged, decaying
trunks of fallen trees; and when they could not spring from one crumbling
log to another they sank in slime and water to the knee. Then there were
effluents of the main river to be waded through, and every now and then
they were forced back by impenetrable thickets to the hillside, where
they scrambled along a talus of frost-shattered rock. They entered
transverse valleys, and after hours of exhausting labor abandoned the
search of each in turn and plodded back to the one they had been
following. Their boots and clothing suffered; their packs were rent upon
their backs; and their provisions diminished rapidly.

At length, one lowering afternoon, they were brought to a standstill by
the river which forked into two branches, one of which came foaming out
of a cleft in the rocks. This would have mattered less, had it flowed
across the level; but just there it had scored itself out a deep hollow,
from which the roar of its turmoil rose in long reverberations. Carroll,
aching all over, stood upon the brink and gazed ahead. He surmised from
the steady ascent and the contours of the hills that the valley was dying
out and that they should reach the head of it in another day's journey.
The higher summits, however, were veiled in leaden mist, and there was a
sting in the cold breeze that blew down the hollow and set the ragged
firs to wailing. Then Carroll glanced dubiously at the dim, green water
which swirled in deep eddies and boiled in white confusion among the
fangs of rock sixty or seventy feet below. Not far away, the stream was
wider and, he supposed, in consequence, shallower, though it ran
furiously.

"It doesn't look encouraging, and we have no more food left than will
take us back to the sloop if we're economical. Do you think it's worth
while going on?"

"I haven't a doubt about it," Vane declared. "We ought to reach the head
of the valley and get back here in two or three days."

Carroll fancied they could have walked the distance in a few hours on a
graded road; but the roughness of the ground was not the chief
difficulty.

"Three days will make a big hole in the provisions," he pointed out.

"Then we'll have to put up with short rations."

Carroll nodded in rueful acquiescence.

"If you're determined, we may as well get on."

He stepped cautiously over the edge of the descent, and went down a few
yards with a run, while loosened soil and stones slipped away under him.
Then he clutched a slender tree, and proceeded as far as the next on his
hands and knees. After that it was necessary to swing himself over a
ledge, and he alighted safely on one below, from which he could scramble
down to the narrow strip of gravel between rock and water. He was
standing, breathless, looking at the latter, when Vane joined him. The
stones dipped sharply, and two or three large boulders, ringed about with
froth, rose near the middle of the stream, which seemed to be running
slacker on the other side of them.

There was nothing to show how deep it was, and Carroll did not relish the
idea of being compelled to swim burdened with his pack. No trees grew
immediately upon the brink of the chasm, and to chop a good-sized log and
get it down to the water, in order to ferry themselves across on it,
would cost more time than Vane was likely to spare for the purpose.
Seeing no other way out of it, Carroll braced himself for an effort and
sturdily plunged in.

Two steps took him up to the waist, and he had trouble in finding solid
bottom at the next, for the gravel rolled and slipped away beneath his
feet in the strong stream. The current dragged hard at his limbs, and he
set his lips tight when it crept up to his ribs. Then he lost his
footing, and was washed away, plunging and floundering, with now and then
one toe resting momentarily upon the bottom. Sweeping rapidly down the
stream he was hurled against the first of the boulders with a crash that
almost drove the little remaining breath out of his body. He clung to it
desperately, gasping hard; then, with a determined struggle, he contrived
to reach the second stone, but the stream pressed him violently against
this and he was unable to find any support for his feet. A moment later
Vane was washed down toward him and, grabbing at the boulder, held on by
it. They said nothing to each other, but they looked at the sliding water
between them and the opposite bank. Carroll was getting dangerously cold,
and he felt the power ebbing out of him. He realized that if he must swim
across he would better do it at once.

Launching himself forward, he felt the flood lap his breast, but as his
arms went in he struck something with his knee and found that he could
stand on a submerged ledge. This carried him a yard or two, but the next
moment he had stepped suddenly over the end of the ledge into deeper
water. Floundering forward, he staggered up a strip of shelving shingle
and lay there, breathless, waiting for Vane; then together they
scrambled up the slope ahead. The work warmed them slightly, and they
needed it; but as they strode on again, keeping to the foot of the
hillside, where the timber was less dense, a cold rain drove into their
faces. It grew steadily thicker; the straps began to gall their wet
shoulders, and their saturated clothing clung heavily about their limbs.
In spite of this, they struggled on until nightfall, when with
difficulty they made a fire and, after a reduced supper, found a little
humid warmth in their wet blankets.

The next day's work was much the same, only that they crossed no rivers.
It rained harder, however, and when evening came Carroll, who had burst
one boot, was limping badly. They made camp among the dripping firs which
partly sheltered them from the bitter wind, and shortly after their
meager supper Carroll fell asleep. Vane, to his annoyance, found that he
could not follow his friend's example. He was overstrung, and the
knowledge that the morrow would show whether the spruce he sought grew in
that valley made him restless. The flap of the tent was flung back and
resting on one elbow he looked out upon shadowy ranks of trunks, which
rose out of the gloom and vanished again as the firelight grew and sank.
He could smell the acrid smoke and could hear the splash of heavy drops
upon the saturated soil, while the hoarse roar of the river came up in
fitful cadence from the depths of the valley.

In place of being deadened by fatigue, his imagination seemed quickened
and set free. It carried him back to the lonely heights and the rugged
dales of his own land, and once more in vivid memory he roamed the upland
heath with Evelyn. She had attracted him strongly when he was in her
visible presence; but now he thought he understood her better than he had
ever done then. He had, he felt, not grasped the inner meaning of much
that she said. Words might convey but little in their literal sense and
yet give to a sympathetic listener an insight into the depths of the
speaker's nature, or hint at a thought too finely spun and delicate for
formal expression.

The same thing applied to her physical personality. Contours, coloring,
features, were things that could be defined and appraised; but there was
besides, in Evelyn's case, an aura that only now and then could dimly be
perceived by senses attuned to it. It enveloped her in a mystic light.
Again he remembered how he had sought her with crude longing and cold
appreciation. He had failed to comprehend her; the one creditable thing
he had done was the renouncing of his claim. Then the half-formed idea
grew plainer that she would understand and sympathize with what he was
doing now. It was to keep faith with those who trusted him that he meant
stubbornly to prosecute his search and, if the present journey failed, to
come back again. That Evelyn would ever hear of his undertaking, appeared
most improbable; but this did not matter. He knew now that it was the
remembrance of her that had largely animated him to make the venture; and
to go on in the face of all opposing difficulties was something he could
do in her honor. Then by degrees his eyes grew heavy, and when he sank
down in his wet blankets sleep came to him. Perhaps he had been
fanciful--he was undoubtedly overstrung--but, through such dreams as he
indulged in, passing glimpses of strange and splendid visions that
transfigure the toil and clamor of a material world are now and then
granted to wayfaring men.

At noon the next day they reached the head of the valley. It was still
raining, and heavy mists obscured the summits of the hills, but above the
lower slopes of rock glimmering snow ran up into the woolly vapor. There
were firs, a few balsams and hemlocks, but no sign of a spruce.

"Now," Carroll commented dryly, "perhaps you'll be satisfied."

Vane smiled. He was no nearer to owning himself defeated than he had been
when they first set out.

"We know there's no spruce in this valley--and that's something," he
replied. "When we come back again we'll try the next one."

"It has cost us a good deal to make sure of the fact"

Vane's expression changed.

"We haven't ascertained the cost just yet. As a rule, you don't make up
the bill until you're through with the undertaking; and it may be a
longer one than either of us think. Well, we might as well turn upon
our tracks."

Carroll recalled this speech afterward. Just then, however, he hitched
his burden a little higher on his aching shoulders as he plodded after
his comrade down the rain-swept hollow. They had good cause to remember
the march to the inlet. It rained most of the while and their clothes
were never dry; parts of them, indeed, flowed in tatters about their
aching limbs, and before they had covered half the distance, their boots
were dropping to pieces. What was more important, their provisions were
rapidly running out, and they marched on a few handfuls of food,
carefully apportioned, twice daily. At last they lay down hungry, with
empty bags, one night, to sleep shelterless in the rain, for they had
thrown their tent away. Carroll had some difficulty in getting on his
feet the next morning.

"I believe I can hold out until sundown, though I'm far from sure of
it," he said. "You'll have to leave me behind if we don't strike the
inlet then."

"We'll strike it in the afternoon," Vane assured him.

They reslung their packs and set out wearily. Carroll, limping and
stumbling along, was soon troubled by a distressful stitch in his side.
He managed to keep pace with Vane, however, and some time after noon a
twinkling gleam among the trees caught their eye. Then the shuffling
pace grew faster, and they were breathless when at last they stopped and
dropped their burdens beside the boat. It was only at the third or
fourth attempt that they got her down to the water, and the veins were
swollen high on Vane's flushed forehead when he sat down, panting
heavily, on her gunwale.

"We ran her up quite easily, though we had the slope to face then,"
he remarked.

"You could scarcely expect to carry boats about without trouble after a
march like the one we've made!"

They ran her in and pulled off to the sloop. When at last they sat down
in the little saloon, Vane got a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

"I knew you looked a deadbeat," he laughed, "but I'd no idea I was quite
so bad. Anyhow, we'll get the stove lighted and some dry things on. The
next question is--what shall we have for supper?"

"That's easy. Everything that's most tempting, and the whole of it."

Shortly afterward they flung their boots and rent garments overboard and
sat down to a feast. The plates were empty when they rose, and in another
hour both of them were wrapped in heavy slumber.



CHAPTER XVIII

JESSY CONFERS A FAVOR


The next morning it was blowing fresh from the southeast, which was right
ahead, and Vane's face was hard when he and Carroll got the boat on deck
and set about tying down two reefs in the mainsail.

"Bad luck seems to follow us," he grumbled.

Carroll smiled.

"There's no doubt of that; but I suppose the fact won't have much
effect on you."

"No," returned Vane decidedly, "We had our troubles in other ventures,
and somehow we got over them--I don't see why we shouldn't do the same
again. Now that we've seen the country, we ought to get some useful
information out of Hartley--we'll know what to ask him."

"I shouldn't count too much on his help," Carroll answered with a
thoughtful air.

They got sail upon the sloop and drove her out into a confused head sea,
through which she labored with flooded decks, making very little to
windward. When night came, a deluge killed the breeze, and the next day
she lay rolling wildly in a heavy calm while light mist narrowed in the
horizon and a persistent drizzle poured down upon the smoothly heaving
sea. Then they had light variable winds, and their provisions were once
more running out when they drew abreast of a little coaling port. Carroll
suggested running in and going on to Victoria by train, but they had
hardly decided to do so when the fickle breeze died away and the
tide-stream bore them past to the south. They had no longer a stitch of
dry clothing and they were again upon reduced rations.

Still bad fortune dogged them, for that night a fresh head wind sprang up
and held steadily while they thrashed her south, swept by stinging spray.
Their tempers grew shorter under the strain, and their bodies ached from
the chill of their sodden garments and from sitting hour by hour at the
helm. At last the breeze fell, and shortly afterward a trail of smoke and
a half-seen strip of hull emerged from the creeping haze astern of them.

"A lumber tug," observed Vane. "She seems to have a raft in tow, and it
will probably be for Drayton's people. If you'll edge in toward her I'll
send him word that we're on the way."

There was very little wind just then and presently the tug was close
alongside, pitching her bows out of the slow swell, while a great mass of
timber wonderfully chained together surged along astern, the dim,
slate-green sea washing over it. A shapeless oil-skinned figure stood
outside her pilot-house, balancing itself against the heave of the
bridge, which slanted and straightened.

"Winstanley?" Vane shouted.

The figure waved an arm, as if in assent, and Vane raised his
voice again.

"Report us to Mr. Drayton. We'll come along as fast as we can."

The man turned and pointed to the misty horizon astern.

"You'll get it from the north before to-morrow!"' he called.

Then the straining tug and the long wet line of working raft drew ahead
while the sloop crawled on, close-hauled toward the south. Late that
night, however, the mist melted away, and a keen rushing breeze that came
out of the north crisped the water. The vessel sprang forward when the
ripples reached her; the flapping canvas went to sleep; and while each
slack rope tightened a musical tinkle broke out at the bows. It grew
steadily louder, and when the sun swung up red above the eastern hills,
she had piled the white froth to her channels and was driving forward
merrily with little sparkling seas tumbling, foam-tipped, after her. The
wind fell light as the sun rose higher, but the swinging sloop ran on all
day, with blurred hills and forests sliding past; and the western sky was
still blazing with a wondrous green when she stole into Vancouver harbor.

Carroll gazed at the city with open appreciation. It rose, girded with
many wires and giant telegraph poles, roof above roof, up a low rise, on
the crest of which towering pines still lifted their ragged spires
against the evening sky. Lower down, big white lights were beginning to
blink, and the forests up the inlet beyond the smoke of the mills had
already faded to a belt of shadow.

"Quebec," he remarked, "looks fine from the river, clustering round
and perched upon its heights; and Montreal at the foot of its
mountain strikes your eye from most points of view; but I can't
remember ever entering either with the pleasure I've experienced in
reaching this city."

"You probably arrived at the others traveling in a Pullman or in a
luxurious side-wheel steamboat. It wouldn't be any great change from them
to a smart hotel."

"That may explain the thing," Carroll agreed with an air of humorous
reflection. "I guess the way you regard a city depends largely on the
condition you're in when you reach it and on what you expect to get out
of it. In the present case, Vancouver stands for rest and comfort and
enough to eat."

Vane laughed.

"I'm as glad to be back as you are; but you'd better make the most of any
leisure that you can get. As soon as I've arranged things here we'll go
north again."

The light faded as they crept across the inlet before a faint breeze, but
when they got the anchor over and the boat into the water, Carroll made
out two dim figures standing on the wharf.

"It's Drayton, I think," he said, waving a hand to them. "Kitty's
with him."

They pulled ashore, and Drayton and Kitty greeted them.

"I've been looking out for you since noon," Drayton told them. "What
about the spruce?"

There was eagerness in his voice, and Vane's face clouded.

"We couldn't find a trace of it."

Drayton's disappointment was obvious, though he tried to hide it.

"Well," he said resignedly, "I've no doubt you did all you could."

"Of course!" Kitty broke in. "We're quite sure of that!"

Vane thanked her with a glance. He felt sorry for her and Drayton.
They were strongly attached to each other, and he had reasons for
believing that even with the advanced salary the man expected to get
they would find it needful to study strict economy. It was easy to
understand that a small share in a prosperous enterprise would have
made things easier for them.

"I'm going to make another attempt. I expect some of our difficulties
will vanish after I've had a talk with Hartley."

"That's impossible," Kitty explained softly. "Hartley died a week ago."

Vane started. The prospector had given him very little definite
information, and it was disconcerting to recognize that he must now rely
entirely upon his own devices.

"I'm sorry", he said "How's Celia?"

"She's very ill." There was concern in Kitty's voice. "Hartley got worse
soon after you left, and she sat up all night with him, after her work
for the last few weeks. Now she's broken down, and she seems to worry for
fear they will not take her back again at the hotel."

"I must go to see her," declared Vane. "But won't you and Drayton come
with us and have dinner?"

Drayton explained that this was out of the question; Kitty's employer,
who had driven in that afternoon, was waiting with his team. They left
the wharf together, and a few minutes later Vane shook hands with the
girl and her companion.

"Don't lose heart," he said encouragingly. "We're far from beaten yet."

Some time afterward Vane, rejoicing in the unusual luxury of clean, dry
clothes, walked across to call on Nairn. The house struck him as
larger, more commodious and better lighted than it had been when he
left it, although he supposed that was only the result of his having
lived on board the sloop and in the bush. He was shown into a room
where Jessy Horsfield was sitting, and she rose with a slight start
when he came in; but her manner was reposeful and quietly friendly when
she held out her hand.

"So you have come back! Have you succeeded in your search?"

Vane was gratified. It was pleasant to feel that she was interested in
his undertaking.

"No," he confessed. "For the time being, I'm afraid I have failed."

There was reproach in Jessy's voice when she answered.

"Then you have disappointed me!"

It was delicate flattery, as she had conveyed the impression that she had
expected him to succeed, which implied that she held a high opinion of
his abilities. Still, she did not mean him to think that he had forfeited
the latter.

"After all, you must have had a good deal against you," she added
consolingly. "Won't you sit down and tell me about it? Mr. Nairn, I
understand, is writing some letters, and he sent for Mrs. Nairn just
before you came in. I don't suppose she will be back for a few minutes."

She indicated a chair beside the open hearth and Vane sat down opposite
her, where a low screen cut them off from the rest of the room. A shaded
lamp above their heads cast down a soft radiance which lighted a sparkle
in the girl's hair, and a red, wood fire glowed cheerfully in front of
them. Vane, still stiff and aching from exposure to the cold and rain,
reveled in the unusual sense of comfort. In addition to this, his
companion's pose was singularly graceful, and the ease of it and the
friendly smile with which she regarded him somehow implied that they were
on excellent terms.

"It's very nice to be here again," he said languidly.

Jessy looked up at him. He had, as she recognized, spoken as he felt, on
impulse, and this was more gratifying than an obvious desire to pay her a
compliment would have been.

"I suppose you didn't get many comforts in the bush," she suggested.

"No. Comforts of any kind are remarkably scarce up yonder. As a matter
of fact, I can't imagine a country where the contrasts between the
luxuries of civilization and--the other thing--are sharper. You can step
off a first-class car into the wilderness, where no amount of money can
buy you better fare than pork, potatoes and dried apples; and if you
want to travel you must shoulder your pack and walk. But that wasn't
exactly what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I don't know that it's worth explaining. We have rather luxurious
quarters at the hotel, but this room is somehow different. It's
restful--I think it's homely--in fact, as I said, it's nice to be here."

Jessy made no comment. She understood that he had been attempting to
analyze his feelings, and had failed clearly to recognize that her
presence contributed to the satisfaction of which he was conscious. She
had no doubt that if he were a man of average susceptibility, which
seemed to be the case, the company of a well-dressed and attractive woman
would have some effect on him after his sojourn in the wilds; but whether
she had produced any deeper effect than that or not she could not
determine. Though she was curious upon the point, it did not appear
judicious to prompt him unduly.

"But won't you tell me your adventures?" she begged.

It required a few leading questions to start him but at length he told
the story in a manner that compelled her interest.

"You see," he concluded, "it was the lack of definite knowledge as much
as the natural obstacles that brought us back--and I've been troubled
about the thing since we landed."

Jessy's manner invited his confidence.

"I wonder," she said softly, "if you would care to tell me why?"

Vane knit his brows.

"Hartley's dead, and I understand that his daughter has broken down after
nursing him. It's doubtful whether her situation can be kept open, and it
may be some time before she's strong enough to look for another." He
hesitated. "In a way, I feel responsible for her."

"You really aren't responsible in the least," Jessy declared. "Still, I
can understand the idea's troubling you."

"She's left without a cent and unable to work--and I don't know what to
do. In an affair of this kind I'm handicapped by being a man."

"Would you like me to help you?"

"I can hardly ask it, but it would be a relief to me," Vane answered with
obvious eagerness.

"Then if you'll tell me her address, I'll go to see her, and we'll
consider what can be done."

Vane leaned forward impulsively.

"You have taken a weight off my mind. It's difficult to thank you
properly."

"Oh, I don't suppose it will give me any trouble. Of course, it must be
embarrassing to you to feel that you have a helpless young woman on
your hands."

Then a thought flashed into her mind, as she remembered what she had seen
at the station some months ago.

"I wonder whether the situation is an altogether unusual one to you?"
she queried. "Have you never let your pity run away with your
judgment before?"

"You wouldn't expect me to proclaim my charities," Vane parried
with a laugh.

"I think you are trying to put me off. You haven't given me an answer."

"Well, perhaps I was able to make things easier for somebody else not
very long ago," Vane confessed reluctantly but without embarrassment. "I
now see that I might have done harm without meaning to do so. It's
sometimes extraordinarily difficult to help people--and that makes me
especially grateful for your offer."

For the next few moments Jessy sat silent. It was clear that she had
misjudged him, for although she was not one who demanded too much from
human nature, the fact that Kitty Blake had arrived in Vancouver in his
company had undoubtedly rankled in her mind. Now she acquitted him of any
blame, and it was a relief to do so. She changed the subject abruptly.

"I suppose you will make another attempt to find the timber?"

"Yes. In a week or two."

He had hardly spoken when Mrs. Nairn came in and welcomed him with her
usual friendliness.

"I'm glad to see ye, though ye're looking thin," she said. "What's the
way ye did not come straight to us, instead of going to the hotel. Ye
would have got as good a supper as they would give ye there."

"I haven't a doubt of it," Vane declared. "On the other hand, I hardly
think that even one of your suppers would quite have put right the defect
in my appearance you mentioned. You see, the cause of it has been at work
for some time."

Mrs. Nairn regarded him with half-amused compassion.

"If ye'll come over every evening, we'll soon cure that. I would have
been down sooner if Alic had not kept me. He's writing letters, and there
was a matter or two he wanted to ask my opinion on."

"I think that was very wise of him," Vane commented.

His hostess smiled.

"For one thing, we had a letter from Evelyn Chisholm this afternoon.
She'll be out to spend some time with us in about a month."

"Evelyn's coming here?" Vane exclaimed, with a sudden stirring of
his heart.

"Why should she no? I told ye some time ago that we partly expected her.
Ye were no astonished then."

She appeared to expect an explanation of the change in his attitude, and
as he volunteered none she drew him a few paces aside.

"If I'm no betraying a confidence, Evelyn writes--I'm no sure of the
exact words--that she'll be glad to get away a while. Now, I've been
wondering why she should be anxious to leave home?"

She looked at him fixedly, and, to his annoyance, he felt his face grow
hot. Mrs. Nairn had quick perceptions, and now and then she was
painfully direct.

"It struck me that Evelyn was not very comfortable there," he replied.
"She seemed out of harmony with her people--she didn't belong. The same
thing," he went on lamely, "applies to Mopsy."

Mrs. Nairn glanced at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

"It's no unlikely. The reason may serve--for the want of a better." Then
she changed her tone. "Ye'll away up to Alic; he told me to send ye."

Vane went out of the room, but he left Jessy in a thoughtful mood. She
had seen his start at the mention of Evelyn, and it struck her as
significant, for she had heard that he had spent some time with the
Chisholms. On the other hand, there was the obvious fact that he had been
astonished to hear that Evelyn was coming out, which implied that their
acquaintance had not progressed far enough to warrant the girl's
informing him. Besides, Evelyn would not arrive for a month; and Jessy
reflected that she would probably see a good deal of Vane in the
meanwhile. She now felt glad that she had promised to look after Celia
Hartley, for that, no doubt, would necessitate her consulting with him
every now and then. She endeavored to dismiss the matter from her mind,
however, and exerted herself to interest Mrs. Nairn in a description of a
function she had lately attended.



CHAPTER XIX

VANE FORESEES TROUBLE


Nairn was sitting at a writing-table when Vane entered his room, and
after a few questions about his journey he handed the younger man one of
the papers that lay in front of him.

"It's a report from the mine. Ye can read and think it over while I
finish this letter."

Vane carefully studied the document, and then waited until Nairn laid
down his pen.

"It only brings us back to our last conversation on the subject," he said
when his host glanced at him inquiringly. "We have the choice of going on
as we are doing, or extending our operations by an increase of capital.
In the latter case, our total earnings might be larger, but I hardly
believe there would be as good a return on the money actually sunk.
Taking it all round, I don't know what to think. Of course, if it
appeared that there was a moral certainty of making a satisfactory profit
on the new stock, I should consent."

Nairn chuckled.

"A moral certainty is no a very common thing in mining."

"Horsfield's in favor of the scheme. How far would you trust that man?"

"About as far as I could fling a bull by the tail. The same thing applies
to both of them."

"He has some influence. No doubt he'd find supporters."

Nairn saw that the meaning of his last remark, which implied that he had
no more confidence in Jessy than he had in her brother, had not been
grasped by his companion, but he did not consider it judicious to make it
plainer. Instead, he gave Vane another piece of information.

"He and Winter work into each other's hands."

"But Winter has no interest in the Clermont!"

Nairn smiled sourly.

"He holds no shares in the mine; but there's no much in the shape of
mineral developments yon man has no an interest in. Since ye do no seem
inclined to yield Horsfield a point or two, it might pay ye to watch the
pair of them."

Vane was aware that Winter was a person of some importance in financial
circles, and he sat thoughtfully silent for a couple of minutes.

"Now," he explained at length, "every dollar we have in the Clermont is
usefully employed and earning a satisfactory profit. Of course, if we put
the concern on the market, we might get more than it is worth from
investors; but that doesn't greatly appeal to me."

"It's unnecessary to point out that a director's interest is no
invariably the same as that of his shareholders," Nairn rejoined.

"It's an unfortunate fact. Yet I'd be no better off if I got only the
same actual return on a larger amount of what would be watered stock."

"There's sense in that. I'm no urging the scheme--there are other points
against it."

"Well, I'll go up and look round the mine, and then we'll have another
talk about the matter."

Vane walked back to his hotel in a thoughtful frame of mind. Finding
Carroll in the smoking-room, he related his conversation with Nairn.

"I'm a little troubled about the situation," he confessed. "The Clermont
finances are now on a sound basis, but it might after all prove
advantageous to raise further capital; although in such a case we would,
perhaps, lie open to attack. Nairn's inclined to be cryptic in his
remarks; but he seems to hint that it would be advisable to make
Horsfield some concession--in other words, to buy him off."

"Which is a course you have objections to?"

"Very decided ones."

"In a general way, Nairn's advice strikes me as quite sensible. Wherever
mining and other schemes are floated, there are men who make a good
living out of the operations. They're trained to the business; they've
control of the money; and when a new thing's put on the market, they
consider they've the first claim on the pickings. As a rule, that notion
seems to be justified."

"You needn't elaborate the point," Vane broke in impatiently.

"You made your appearance in this city as a poor and unknown man with a
mine to sell," Carroll went on. "Disregarding tactful hints, you laid
down your terms and stuck to them. Launching your venture without
considering their views, you did the gentlemen I've mentioned out of
their accustomed toll, and I've no doubt that some of them were
indignant. It's a thing you couldn't expect them to sanction. Now,
however, one who probably has others behind him is making overtures to
you. You ought to consider it a compliment; a recognition of ability.
The question is--do you mean to slight these advances and go on as you
have begun?"

"That's my present intention," Vane answered.

"Then you needn't be astonished if you find yourself up against a
determined opposition."

"I think my friends will stand by me."

Vane looked at him steadily, and Carroll laughed.

"Thanks. I've merely been pointing out what you may expect, and hinting
at the most judicious course--though the latter's rather against my
natural inclinations. I'd better add that I've never been particularly
prudent, and the opposite policy appeals to me. If we're forced to clear
for action, we'll nail the flag to the mast."

It was spoken lightly, because the man was serious, but Vane knew that he
had an ally who would support him with unflinching staunchness.

"I'm far from sure that it will be needful," he replied.

They talked about other matters until they strolled off to their rooms.
The next week Vane was kept occupied in the city; and then once more they
sailed for the North. They pushed inland until they were stopped by snow
among the ranges, without finding the spruce. The journey proved as
toilsome as the previous one, and both men were worn out when they
reached the coast. Vane was determined on making a third attempt, but he
decided to visit the mine before proceeding to Vancouver. They had heavy
rain during the voyage down the straits, and when, on the day after
reaching port, the jaded horses they had hired plodded up the sloppy
trail to the mine a pitiless deluge poured down on them. The light was
growing dim among the dripping firs, and a deep-toned roar came throbbing
across their shadowy ranks. Vane turned and glanced back at Carroll.

"I've never heard the river so plainly before," he said. "It must be
unusually swollen."

The mine was situated on a narrow level flat between the hillside and the
river, and Carroll understood the anxiety in his comrade's voice. Urging
the wearied horses they pressed on a little faster. It was almost dark,
however, when they reached the edge of an opening in the firs and saw a
cluster of iron-roofed, wooden buildings and a tall chimney-stack, in
front of which the unsightly ore-dump extended. Wet, chilled and worn out
as the men were, there was comfort in the sight; but Vane frowned as he
noticed that a shallow lake stretched between him and the buildings. On
one side of it there was a broad strip of tumbling foam, which rose and
fell in confused upheavals and filled the forest with the roar it made.
Vane drove his horse into the water; and dismounting among the stumps
before the ore-dump, he found a wet and soil-stained man awaiting him. A
long trail of smoke floated away from the iron stack behind him, and
through the sound of the river there broke the clank and thud of
hard-driven pumps.

"You have got a big head of steam up, Salter," he remarked.

The man nodded.

"We want it. It's a taking me all my time to keep the water out of the
workings; and the boys are over their ankles in the new drift. Leave
your horses--I'll send along for them--and I'll show you what we've been
doing, after supper."

"I'd rather go now, while I'm wet," Vane answered. "We came straight on
as soon as we landed, and I probably shouldn't feel like turning out
again when I'd had a meal."

Salter made a sign of assent, and a few minutes later they went down into
the mine. The approach to it looked like a canal, and they descended the
shallow shaft amid a thin cascade. The tunnel slanted, for the lode
dipped, and the pale lights that twinkled here and there among the
timbering showed shadowy, half-naked figures toiling in water which rose
well up their boots. Further streams of it ran in from fissures; and
Vane's face grew grave as he plodded through the flood with a lamp in his
hand. He spent an hour in the workings, asking Salter a question now and
then, and afterward went back with him to one of the iron-roofed sheds,
where he put on dry clothes and sat down to a meal.

When it was over and the table had been cleared, he lay in a canvas chair
beside the stove, listening to the resinous billets snapping and
crackling cheerfully. The little, brightly lighted room was pleasantly
warm, and Vane was filled with a languid sense of physical comfort after
long exposure to rain and bitter wind. The deluge roared upon the iron
roof; the song of the river rose and fell, filling the place with sound;
and now and then the pounding and clanking of the pumps broke in.

Vane examined the sheet of figures Salter handed him, and lighted a fresh
cigar when he had laid it down. Then he carefully turned over some of
the pieces of stone which partly covered the table.

"There's no doubt that those specimens aren't quite so promising," he
said at length; "and the cost of extraction is going up. I'll have a talk
with Nairn when I get back; but in the meanwhile it looks as if we were
going to have trouble with the water."

"It's a thing I've been afraid of for some time," Salter answered. "We
can keep down any leakage that comes in through the rock, though it
means driving the pumps hard, but an inrush from the river would beat
us. A rise of a foot or so would turn the flood into the workings." He
paused and added significantly: "Drowning out a mine's a costly matter.
My idea is that you ought to double our pumping power and cut down the
rock in the river-bed near the rapid. That would take off three or four
feet of water."

"It would mean a mighty big wages bill."

Salter nodded gravely.

"To do the thing properly would cost a pile of money; but it's an outlay
that you'll surely have to face."

Vane let the matter drop, and an hour later retired to his wooden berth.
The roar of the rain upon the vibrating roof was like the roll of a great
drum, and the sound of the river's turmoil throbbed through the frail
wooden shack; but the man had lain down at night near many a rapid and
thundering fall, and in a few minutes he was fast asleep. He was awakened
by a new shrill note, which he recognized as the whistle of the pumping
engine. It was sounding the alarm. The next moment Vane was struggling
into his clothing; then the door swung open and Salter stood in the
entrance, lantern in hand, with water trickling from him. There was keen
anxiety in his expression.

"Flood's lapping the bank top now!" he gasped. "There's a jam in the
narrow place at the head of the rapid and the water's backing up! I'm
going along with the boys."

He vanished as suddenly as he had appeared and Vane savagely jerked on
his jacket. If the mine were drowned, it would entail a heavy
expenditure in pumping plant to clear out the water, and even then
operations might be stopped for a considerable time. What was more, it
would precipitate a crisis in the affairs of the company and necessitate
an increase of its capital.

Vane was outside in less than a minute and stood still, looking about
him, while the deluge lashed his face and beat his clothing against his
limbs. He could make out only a blurred mass of climbing trees on one
side and a strip of foam cutting through the black level, which he
supposed was water, in front of him. His trained ears, however, gave him
a little information, for the clamor of the flood was broken by a sharp
snapping and crashing which he knew was made by a mass of driftwood
driving furiously against the boulders. In that region, the river banks
are encumbered here and there with great logs, partly burned by forest
fires, reaped by gales or brought down from the hillsides by falls of
frost-loosened soil. A flood higher than usual sets them floating, and on
subsiding sometimes leaves them packed in a gorge or stranded in a
shallow to wait for the next big rise. Now they were driving down and,
as Salter had said, jamming at the head of the rapid.

Suddenly a column of fierce white radiance leaped up, lower down-stream,
and Vane knew that a big compressed air-lamp had been carried to the spot
where the driftwood was gathering. Even at a distance, the brightness of
the blaze dazzled him, and he could see nothing else when he headed
toward it. He stumbled against a fir stump, and the next minute the
splashing about his feet warned him that he was entering the water.
Having no wish to walk into the main stream, he floundered to one side.
Getting nearer to the blaze, he soon made out a swarm of shadowy figures
scurrying about beneath it. Some of them had saws or axes, for he caught
the gleam of steel. He broke into a splashing run; and presently Carroll,
whom he had forgotten, came up calling to him.



CHAPTER XX

THE FLOOD


When he reached the blast-lamp, which was raised on a tall tripod, Vane
stood with his back to the pulsating gaze while he grasped the details of
a somewhat impressive scene. A little upstream of him, the river leaped
out of the darkness, breaking into foaming waves, and a wall of dripping
firs flung back the roar it made, the first rows of serried trunks
standing out hard and sharp in the fierce white light. Nearer the spot
where he stood, a projecting spur of rock narrowed in the river, which
boiled tumultuously against its foot, while about halfway across, the top
of a giant boulder rose above the flood.

Vane could just see it, because a mass of driftwood, which was
momentarily growing, stretched from bank to bank. A big log, drifting
down sidewise, had brought up against the boulder and once fixed had
seized and held fast each succeeding trunk. Some had been driven partly
out upon those that had preceded them; some had been drawn beneath and
catching the bottom had jammed; then the rest had been wedged by the
current into the gathering mass, trunks, branches and brushwood all
finding a place. When the stream is strong, a jam usually extends
downward, as well as rises, as the water it pens back increases in
depth, until it forms an almost solid barrier from surface to bed. If it
occurs during a log-drive the river is choked with valuable lumber.

Bent figures were at work with handspikes and axes at the shoreward end
of the mass; others had crawled out along the logs in search of another
point where they could advantageously be attacked; but Vane, watching
them with practised eye, decided that they were largely throwing their
toil away. Then he glanced down-stream; but, powerful as the light was,
it did not pierce far into the darkness and the rain, and the mad white
rush of the rapid vanished abruptly into the surrounding gloom. He caught
the clink of a hammer on a drill, and seeing Salter not far away, he
strode toward him.

"How are you getting to work?" he asked.

Salter pointed to the foot of the rock on which they stood.

"I reckoned that if we could put a shot in yonder we might cut out stone
enough to clear the butts of the larger logs that are keying up the jam."

"You're wasting time--starting at the wrong place."

"It's possible; but what am I to do? I'd rather split that boulder or
chop down to the king log there--but the boys can't get across."

"Have they tried?" Vane demanded. "I will, if it's necessary."

Salter expostulated.

"I want to point out that you're the boss director of this company. I
don't know what you're making out of it; but you can hire men to do that
kind of work for three dollars a day."

"We'll let the boys try it, if they're willing."

Vane raised his voice.

"Are any of you open to earn twenty dollars? I'll pay that to the man
who'll put a stick of giant-powder in yonder boulder, and another twenty
to any one who can find the king log and chop it through."

Three or four of them crept cautiously along the driftwood bridge. It
heaved and worked beneath them; the foam sluiced across it and the
stream forced the thinner tops of shattered trees above the barrier. It
was obvious that the men were risking life and limb, and there was a
cry from the others when one of them went down and momentarily
disappeared. He scrambled to his feet again, but those behind him
stopped, bracing themselves against the stream, nearly waist-deep in
rushing froth. Most of them had followed rough and dangerous
occupations in the bush; but they were not professional river-Jacks
trained to high proficiency in log-driving, and one of them, turning,
shouted to the watchers on the bank.

"This jam's not solid!" he explained above the roar of the water. "She's
working open and shutting; and you can't tell where the breaks are."

He stooped and rubbed his leg, and Vane understood him to add:

"Figured I had it smashed."

Vane swung round toward Carroll.

"We'll give them a lead!"

Salter ventured another expostulation:

"Stay where you are! How are you going to manage, if the boys can't
tackle the thing?"

"They haven't as much at stake as I have," was Vane's reply. "I'm a
director of the company, as you pointed out. Give me two sticks of
giant-powder, some fuse, and detonators!"

Salter yielded when he saw that Vane meant to be obeyed; and cramming the
blasting material into his pocket, Vane turned to Carroll.

"Are you coming with me?"

"Since I can't stop you, I suppose I'd better go."

As they sprang down the bank, Salter addressed one of the miners at
work near him.

"I've seen a few company bosses in my time, but this one's different from
the rest. I can't imagine any of the others wanting to cross that jam."

Vane crawled out on the groaning timber, with Carroll a few feet behind
him. The perilous bridge they traversed rolled beneath their feet; but
they had joined the other men before they came to any particularly
troublesome opening. Then the clustering wet figures were brought up by a
gap filled with leaping foam, in the midst of which brushwood swung to
and fro and projecting branches ground on one another. Whether there was
solid timber a foot or two beneath, or only the entrance to some cavity
by which the stream swept through the barrier, there was nothing to show;
but Vane set his lips and leaped. He alighted on something that bore him,
and when the others followed, floundering and splashing, the deliberation
which hitherto had characterized their movements suddenly deserted them.
They had reached the limit beyond which it was no longer needful.

There is courage which springs from knowledge, often painfully acquired,
of the threatened dangers and the best means of avoiding them; but it
carries its possessor only so far. Beyond that point he must face the
risk he cannot estimate and blindly trust to chance. At sea, when canvas
is still the propelling power, and in the wilderness, man at grips with
the elemental forces must now and then rise above bodily shrinking and
disregard the warnings of reason. There are tasks which cannot be
undertaken in cold blood; and when they had crossed the gap, Vane and
those behind him blundered on in hot Berserker fury. They had risen to
the demand on them, and the curious psychic change had come; now they
must achieve success or face annihilation. But in this there was nothing
unusual; it is the alternative offered many a log-driver, miner and
sailorman.

Neither Vane nor Carroll, nor any of those who assisted them, had a clear
recollection of what they did. Somehow they reached the boulder; somehow
they plied ax or iron-hooked peevy, while the unstable, foam-lapped
platform rocked beneath their feet. Every movement entailed a peril no
one could calculate; but they toiled savagely on. When Vane began to
swing a hammer above a drill, or from whom he got it, he did not know,
any more than he remembered when he had torn off and thrown away his
jacket although the sticks of giant-powder which had been in his pocket
lay near him upon the stone. Sparks leaped from the drill which Carroll
held and fell among the coils of snaky fuse; but that did not trouble
them; and it was only when Vane was breathless that he changed places
with his companion. They heard neither the turmoil of the flood nor the
crashing of the timber, and the foam that lapped their long boots whirled
unheeded by.

About them, bowed figures that breathed in stertorous gasps grappled
desperately with the grinding, smashing timber. Sometimes they were
forced up in harsh distinctness by a dazzling glare; sometimes they faded
into blurred shadows as the pulsating flame upon the bank sank a little
or was momentarily blown aside; but all the while gorged veins rose on
bronzed foreheads and toil-hardened muscles were taxed to the utmost. At
last, when a trunk rolled beneath him, Carroll missed a stroke and
realized with a shock of dismay that it was not the drill he had struck
with his hammer.

"I couldn't help it!" he gasped. "Where did I hit you?"

"Get on!" Vane cried hoarsely; "I can hold the drill."

Carroll struck for a few more minutes, and then flung down the hammer and
inserted the giant-powder into the holes sunk in the stone. He lighted
the fuse and, warning the others, they hastily recrossed the dangerous
bridge. They had reached the edge of the forest when, a flash leaped up
amid the foam and a sharp crash was followed by a deafening, drawn-out
uproar. Rending, grinding, smashing, the jam broke up. It hammered upon
the partly shattered boulder, and, carrying it away or driving over it,
washed in tremendous ruin down the rapid. When the wild clamor had
subsided, Salter gave the men some instructions; and then, as they
approached the lamp, he noticed Vane's reddened hand.

"That looks a nasty smash; you want to get it seen to," he advised.

"I'll get it dressed at the settlement; we'll make an early start
to-morrow. We were lucky in breaking the jam; but you'll have the same
trouble over again any time a heavy flood brings down an unusual quantity
of driftwood."

"It's what I'd expect."

"Then something will have to be done to prevent it. I'll go into the
matter when I reach the city."

Carroll and Vane walked back to the shack, where the latter bound up his
comrade's injured hand. When he had done so, Vane managed to light a
cigar, and lying back, still very wet, he looked thoughtful.

"We can't risk having the workings drowned; but I'm afraid the cost of
the remedy will force me into sanctioning some scheme for increasing
our capital."

"Its a very common procedure," Carroll rejoined. "I've wondered why
you had so strong an objection to it. Of course, I've heard your
business reasons."

Vane smiled.

"I have some of a different kind--we'll call them sentimental
ones--though I don't think I quite realized it until lately."

"You're not given to introspection. Go on; I think I know what's coming."

"To put the thing into words may help me to formulate my ideas; they're
rather hazy. Well, ostensibly, I left England as the result of a
difference of opinion--which I've regretted ever since--though I know now
that really it was from another cause. I wanted room, I wanted freedom;
and I got them both--freedom either to do work that nearly broke my heart
and wore the flesh off me or to starve."

"The experience is not an unusual one."

"Eventually," Vane proceeded, "I managed to get on my feet. I suppose I
got rather proud of myself when I beat the city men over the floating of
the mine, and I began to think of going back to the sphere of life in
which I was born--excuse the phrase."

"It looked nice, from a distance," Carroll suggested.

"It was tolerable in Vancouver; anyway, while I could go straight ahead
and interest myself in the development of the mine. I began to expect a
good deal from my English visit."

Carroll laughed softly before he helped him out.

"And you were bitterly disappointed. It's a very old tale. You had cut
loose--and you couldn't get back when you wanted to."

"I suppose I'd changed: the bush had got hold of me. The ways and views
of the people over yonder didn't seem to be those I remembered. They
couldn't look at things from my standpoint; I wouldn't adopt theirs. You
and I have had to face--realities."

"Hunger," corrected Carroll softly; "wet snow to sleep in; bodily
exhaustion. They probably teach one something, or, at any rate, they
alter one's point of view. When you've marched for days on half rations,
some things don't seem so important--how you put on your clothes, for
instance, or how your dinner's served. But I don't see yet what bearing
this has on your reluctance to extend the Clermont operations."

"I could act as director, with such men as Nairn, when it was a question
of running a mine; but it's doubtful if I'd make a successful financial
juggler. It's hard to keep one's hands off some of the professional
tricksters. Bluff, assumption, make-believe--Pshaw! I've had enough of
them. Better stick to the ax and cross-cut; that's what I feel to-night."

"Now that you've relieved your mind, I'll show you where you were wrong.
You said that you had changed in the wilderness--you haven't; your kind
are fore-loopers born. Your place is with the vedettes, ahead of the
massed columns. But there's a point that strikes one--is your objection
to financial scheming due to honesty or pride?"

Vane laughed.

"I suspect a good deal of it's bad temper. Anyhow, I've felt that rather
than truckle with that fellow Horsfield I'd like to pitch him down the
stairs. But all this is pretty random talk."

"It is," Carroll agreed. "You haven't said whether you intend to
authorize that extension of capital?"

"I suppose it will have to be done. And now it's very late and I'm going
to sleep."

They retired to the wooden bunks Salter had placed at their disposal; and
early the next morning they left the mine. Vane got his hand dressed when
they reached the little mining town at the head of the railroad, and on
the following day they arrived in Vancouver.



CHAPTER XXI

VANE YIELDS A POINT


The short afternoon was drawing toward its close when Vane came out
of a large building in the city. Glancing at his watch, he stopped on
the steps.

"The meeting went pretty satisfactorily, taking it all round," he
remarked to Carroll.

"I think so," agreed his companion. "But I'm far from sure that Horsfield
was pleased with the stockholders' decision."

Vane smiled in a thoughtful manner. After returning from the mine, he had
gone inland to examine a new irrigation property in which he had been
asked to take an interest, and had got back only in time for a meeting of
the Clermont shareholders, which Nairn had arranged in his absence. The
meeting, of the kind that is sometimes correctly described as
extraordinary, was just over, and though Vane had been forced to yield to
a majority on some points, he had secured the abandonment of a
proposition he considered dangerous.

"Though I don't see what the man could have gained by it, I'm inclined to
believe that if Nairn and I had been absent he'd have carried his total
reconstruction scheme. That wouldn't have pleased me."

"I thought it injudicious."

"It was only because we must raise more money that I agreed to the issue
of the new block of shares," Vane went on. "We ought to pay a fair
dividend on the moderate sum in question."

"You think you'll get it?"

"I've not much doubt."

Carroll made no reply to this. Vane was capable and forceful; but his
abilities were of a practical rather than a diplomatic order, and he was
occasionally addicted to somewhat headstrong action. Knowing that he had
a very cunning antagonist intriguing against him, his companion had
misgivings.

"Shall we walk back to the hotel?" he suggested.

"No," answered Vane; "I'll go across and see how Celia Hartley's getting
on. I'm afraid I've been forgetting her."

"Then I'll come too. You may need me; there are matters which you're not
to be trusted to deal with alone."

Just then Nairn came down the steps and waved his hand to them.

"Ye will no forget that Mrs. Nairn is expecting both of ye this evening."

He passed on, and they set off together across the city toward the
district where Celia lived. Though the quarter in question may have been
improved out of existence since, a few years ago rows of low-rented
shacks stood upon mounds of sweating sawdust which had been dumped into a
swampy hollow. Leaky, frail and fissured, they were not the kind of
places anyone who could help it would choose to live in; but Vane found
the sick girl still installed in one of the worst of them. She looked
pale and haggard; but she was busily at work upon some millinery; and the
light of a tin lamp showed Drayton and Kitty Blake sitting near her.
There were cracks in the thin, boarded walls, from which a faint resinous
odor exuded, but it failed to hide the sour smell of the wet sawdust upon
which the shack was built. The room, which was almost bare of furniture,
felt damp and unwholesome.

"You oughtn't to be at work; you don't look fit," Vane said to Celia. He
paused a moment, hesitating, before he added: "I'm sorry we couldn't find
that spruce; but, as I told Drayton, we're going back to try again."

The girl smiled bravely.

"Then you'll find it the next time. I'm glad I'm able to do a little; it
brings in a few dollars."

"But what are you doing?"

"Making hats. I did one for Miss Horsfield, and afterward some friends of
hers sent me two or three more to trim. She said she'd try to get me work
from one of the big stores."

"But you're not a milliner, are you?" asked Vane, feeling grateful to
Jessy for the practical way in which she had kept her promise to assist.

"Celia's something better," Kitty broke in. "She's a genius."

"Isn't that a slight on the profession?" Vane laughed.

He was anxious to lead the conversation away from Miss Horsfield's
action; he shrank from figuring as the benefactor who had prompted her.

"I'm not quite sure," he continued, "what genius really is."

"I don't altogether agree with the definition of it as the capacity for
taking infinite pains," Carroll, guessing his companion's thoughts,
remarked with mock sententiousness. "In Miss Hartley's case, it strikes
me as the instinctive ability to evolve a finished work of art from a few
fripperies, without the aid of technical training. Give her two or three
feathers, a yard of ribbon and a handful of mixed sundries, and she'll
magically transmute them into--this."

He took up a hat from the table and surveyed it with an air of critical
intelligence.

"It was innate genius that set this plume at the one artistic angle. Had
it been done by less capable hands, the thing would have looked like a
decorated beehive."

The others laughed, and he led them on to general chatter, under cover of
which Vane presently drew Drayton to the door.

"The girl looks far from fit," he said. "Has the doctor been over
lately?"

"Two or three days ago," answered Drayton. "We've been worried about
Celia. It's out of the question that she should go back to the hotel, and
she can only manage to work a few hours daily. There's another thing--the
clerk of the fellow who owns these shacks has just been along for his
rent. It's overdue."

"Where's he now?"

Drayton laughed, for the sounds of a vigorous altercation rose from
farther up the unlighted street.

"I guess he's yonder, having some more trouble with his collecting."

"I'll fix that matter, anyway."

Vane disappeared into the darkness, and it was some time later when
he re-entered the shack. He waited until a remark of Celia's gave
him a lead.

"You're really a partner in the lumber scheme," he told her; "I can't
see why you shouldn't draw part of your share in the proceeds
beforehand."

"The first payment isn't to be made until you find the spruce and get
your lease," the girl reminded him. "You've already paid a hundred
dollars that we had no claim on."

"That doesn't matter; I'm going to find it."

"Yes," agreed Celia, with a look of confidence, "I think you will.
But"--a flicker of color crept into her thin face--"I can't take any more
money until it is found."

Vane, failing in another attempt to shake her resolution, dropped the
subject, and soon afterward he and Carroll took their departure. They
were sitting in their hotel, waiting for dinner, when Carroll looked up
lazily from his luxurious chair.

"What are you thinking about so hard?" he inquired.

Vane glanced meaningly round the elaborately furnished room.

"There's a contrast between all this and that rotten shack. Did you
notice that Celia never stopped sewing while we were there, though she
once or twice leaned back rather heavily in her chair?"

"I did. I suppose you're going to propound another conundrum of a kind
I've heard before--why you should have so many things you don't
particularly need, while Miss Hartley must go on sewing when she's hardly
able for it in her most unpleasant shack? I don't know whether the fact
that you found a mine answers the question; but if it doesn't the thing's
beyond your philosophy."

"Come off!" Vane bade him with signs of impatience. "There are times
when your moralizing gets on one's nerves. Anyhow, I straightened out one
difficulty--I found the rent man, who'd been round worrying her, and got
rid of him."

Carroll groaned in mock dismay, which covered some genuine annoyance with
himself; but Vane frowned.

"What's the matter?" he inquired. "Do you want a drink?"

"I'll get over it," Carroll informed him. "It isn't the first time I've
suffered from the same complaint. But I'd like to point out that your
chivalrous impulses may be the ruin of you some day. Why didn't you let
Drayton settle with the man? You gave him a check, I suppose?"

"Sure. I'd only a few loose dollars with me." Vane frowned again. "Now I
see what you're driving at; and I want to say that any little reputation
I possess can pretty well take care of itself."

"Just so. No doubt it will be necessary; but it doesn't seem to have
struck you that you're not the only person concerned."

"It didn't," Vane confessed with a further show of irritation. "But who's
likely to hear or take any notice of the thing?"

"I can't tell; but you make enemies as well as friends, and you're
walking in slippery places which you're not altogether accustomed to. You
can't meet your difficulties with the ax here."

"That's true," assented Vane. "It's rather a pity. Anyhow, I'm not to be
scared out of my interest in Celia Hartley."

"What is your interest in her? It's a question that may be asked."

"As you pretend that you don't know, I'll have pleasure in telling you
again. When I first struck this city, played out and ragged, she was
waitress at a little hotel, and she brought me a double portion of the
nicest things at supper. What's more, she sewed up some of my clothes,
and I struck a job on the strength of looking comparatively decent. It's
the kind of thing you're apt to remember. One doesn't meet with too much
kindness in this blamed censorious world."

"I'd expect you to remember," Carroll smiled.

They went in to dinner and when the meal was over they walked across to
Nairn's. They were ushered into a room in which several other guests were
assembled, and Vane sat down beside Jessy Horsfield. A place on the sofa
she occupied was invitingly empty; he did not know, of course, that she
had adroitly got rid of her previous companion as soon as he came in.

"I want to thank you; I was over at Miss Hartley's this
afternoon," he began.

"I understood that you were at the mining meeting."

"So I was, your brother would tell you that--"

Vane broke off, remembering that he had defeated Horsfield; but Jessy
laughed encouragingly.

"He did so--you were opposed to him; but it doesn't follow that I share
all his views. Perhaps I ought to be a stauncher partizan."

"If you'll be just to both of us, I'll be satisfied."

Jessy reflected that while this was, no doubt, a commendable sentiment,
he might have made a better use of the opening she had given him by at
least hinting that he would value her sympathy.

"I suppose that means that you're convinced of the equity of your cause?"
she suggested.

"I dare say I deserve the rebuke; but aren't you trying to switch me off
the subject?" Vane retorted with a laugh. "It's Celia Hartley that I want
to talk about."

He did her an injustice. Jessy felt that she had earned his gratitude,
and she had no objection to his expressing it.

"It was a happy thought of yours to give her hats and things to make; I'm
ever so much obliged to you," he went on. "I felt that you could be
trusted to think of the right thing. An ingenious idea of that kind would
never have occurred to me."

Jessy smiled up at him.

"It was very simple," she said sweetly. "I noticed a hat and dress of
hers, which she admitted she had made. The girl has some talent; I'm only
sorry I can't keep her busy."

"Couldn't you give her an order for a dozen hats? I'd be glad to be
responsible."

Jessy laughed.

"The difficulty would be the disposal of them. They would be of no use to
you; and I couldn't allow you to present them to me."

"I wish I could," Vane declared. "You certainly deserve them."

This was satisfactory, so far as it went, though Jessy would have
preferred that his desire to bestow the favor should have sprung from
some other motive than a recognition of her services to Celia Hartley.
She was, however, convinced that his only feeling toward the girl was
one of compassion. Then she saw that he was looking at her with
half-humorous annoyance in his face.

"Are you really grieved because I won't take those hats?" she
asked lightly.

"I am," Vane confessed, and then proceeded to explain with rather
unnecessary ingenuousness: "I'm still more vexed with the state of things
that it's typical of--I suppose I mean the restrictedness of this
civilized life. When you want to do anything in the bush, you take the ax
and set about it; but here you're continually running up against some
quite unnecessary barrier."

"One understands that it's worse in England," Jessy returned dryly.
"But in regard to Miss Hartley, I'll recommend her to my friends, as
far as I can."

Vane made an abrupt movement, and Jessy realized by his expression that
he had suddenly become oblivious of her presence. She had no doubt about
the reason, for just then Evelyn Chisholm had entered the room. The
lamplight fell upon her as she crossed the threshold, and Jessy
recognized unwillingly that she looked surprisingly handsome. Handsome,
however, was not the word Vane would have used. He thought Evelyn looked
exotic: highly cultivated, strangely refined, as though she had grown up
in a rarefied atmosphere in which nothing rank could thrive. Exactly what
suggested this it was difficult to define; but the man felt that she had
brought along with her the clean, chill air of the heights where the
cloud-berries bloom. She was a flower of the dim and misty North, which
has nevertheless its flashes of radiant, ethereal beauty. Though Evelyn
had her faults, the impression she made on Vane was, perhaps, more or
less justifiable.

Then he remembered that the girl had been offered to him and he had
refused the gift. He wondered how he had exerted the necessary strength
of will, for he was conscious that admiration, respect, pity, had now,
changed and melted into sudden passion. His blood tingled, and he felt
strangely happy.

Laying a check upon his thoughts, he resumed a desultory conversation
with Jessy, but he betrayed himself several times during it, for no
change of his expression was lost upon the girl. At length she let him
go. It was some time, however, before he secured a place beside Evelyn, a
little apart from the others. He was now unusually quiet and
self-contained.

"Nairn promised me an astonishment this evening, but it exceeds all my
expectations," he said. "How are your people?"

Evelyn informed him that their health was satisfactory and added,
watching him the while:

"Gerald sent his best remembrances."

"Thank you," Vane responded in a casual manner; "I am glad to have them."

Evelyn was now convinced that Mabel had been correct in concluding that
he had assisted Gerald financially, though she was aware that nothing
would induce either of the men to acquaint her with the fact.

"And Mopsy?" he inquired.

"I left her in tears because she could not come. She sent you so many
confused messages that I'm afraid I've forgotten them."

Vane's face grew gentle.

"Dear little girl! It's a pity you couldn't have brought her. Mopsy and
I are great friends."

Evelyn smiled at him. The tenderness of the man appealed to her; and she
knew that to be the friend of anyone meant a good deal to him.

"You are her hero," she told him. "I don't think it is because you pulled
her out of the water, either; in fact, I think you won her regard when
you mended her canoe. You have a reputation to keep up with Mopsy."

There was no answering smile in Vane's eyes.

"Well, I shouldn't like to disappoint her; but isn't it curious what
effect some things have? A patch on Mopsy's canoe, for instance--and I've
known a piece of cold pie carry with it a big obligation."

The last was somewhat cryptic, and Evelyn looked at him with surprise,
until it dawned on her that he had merely been half-consciously
expressing a wandering thought aloud.

"I understood from Mrs. Nairn that you were away in the bush," she said.

"That was the case; and I'm shortly going off again. Perhaps it's
fortunate that I may be away some time. It will leave you more at ease."

The last remark was more of a question than an assertion. Evelyn knew
that the man could be direct; and she esteemed candor.

"No," she answered; "I shouldn't wish you to think that--and I shouldn't
like to believe that I had anything to do with driving you away."

Vane saw a faintly warmer tone show through the clear pallor of her skin,
but while his heart beat faster than usual he recognized that she meant
just what she said and nothing more. He must proceed with caution, and
this, on the whole, was foreign to him. Shortly afterward he left her.

When he had gone, Evelyn sat thinking about him. She had shrunk from the
man in rebellious alarm when her parents would have bestowed her hand on
him; but even then, and undoubtedly afterward, she had felt that there
was something in his nature which would have attracted her had she been
willing to allow it to do so. Now, though he had said nothing to rouse
it, the feeling had grown stronger. Then she remembered with a curious
smile her father's indignation when Vane had withdrawn from the field. He
had done this because she had appealed to his generosity, and she had
been grateful to him; but, unreasonable as she admitted the faint
resentment she was conscious of to be, the recollection of the fact that
he had yielded to her wishes was somehow bitter.

In the meanwhile Carroll had taken his place by Jessy's side.

"I understand that you steered your comrade satisfactorily through the
meeting to-day," she began.

"No," objected Carrol; "I can't claim any credit for doing so. In matters
of that kind Vane takes full control; and I'm willing to own that he
drove us all, including your brother, on the course he chose."

Jessy laughed good-humoredly.

"Then it's in other matters you exercise a little judicious pressure on
the helm?"

The man looked at her in well-assumed admiration of her keenness.

"I don't know how you guessed it, but I suppose it's a fact. It's an open
secret, however, that Vane's now and then unguardedly ingenuous; indeed,
there are respects in which he's a babe by comparison with, we'll say,
either of us."

"That's rather a dubious compliment. By the way, what do you think of
Miss Chisholm? I suppose you saw a good deal of her in England?"

Carroll's eyes twinkled.

"I spent a month or two in her company; so did Vane. I fancy she's rather
like him in several ways; and there are reasons for believing that he
thinks a good deal of her."

Having watched Vane carefully when Evelyn came in, Jessy was inclined to
agree with him. She glanced round the room. One or two people were moving
about and the others were talking in little groups; but there was nobody
very near, and she fancied that she and her companion were safe from
interruption.

"What are some of the reasons?" she asked boldly.

Carroll had expected some question of this description, and had decided
to answer it plainly. It seemed probable that Jessy would get the
information out of him in one way or another, anyway; and he had also
another reason, which he thought a commendable one. Jessy had obviously
taken a certain interest in Vane, but it could not have gone very far as
yet, and Vane did not reciprocate it. His comrade, however, was
impulsive, while Jessy was calculating and clever; and Carroll foresaw
that complications might follow any increase of friendliness between her
and Vane. He thought it might be wise to warn her to leave Vane alone.

"Well," he answered, "since you have asked, I'll try to tell you."

He proceeded to recount what had passed at the Dene and Jessy listened,
sitting perfectly still, with an expressionless face.

"So he gave her up--because he admired her?" she said at length.

"That's my view of it. Of course, it sounds unlikely, but I don't think
it is so in my partner's case."

Jessy made no comment, but he felt that she was hit hard, and that was
not what he had anticipated. He began to wonder whether he had acted
judiciously. He glanced about the room, as it did not seem considerate to
study her expression just then. A few moments later she turned to him
with a smile in which there was the faintest hint of strain.

"I dare say you are right; but there are one or two people to whom I
haven't spoken."

She moved away from him, and a little while afterward Mrs. Nairn came
upon Carroll standing for the moment alone.

"It's no often one sees ye looking moody," she said. "Was Jessy no
gracious?"

"That," replied Carroll, smiling, "is not the difficulty. I'm an
unsusceptible and a somewhat inconspicuous person--not worth powder and
shot, so to speak; for which I'm sometimes thankful. I believe it saves
me a good deal of trouble."

"Then is it something Vane has done that is on your mind? Doubtless, ye
feel him a responsibility."

"He's what you'd call all that," Carroll declared. "Still, you see, I've
constituted myself his guardian. I don't know why; he'd probably be very
vexed if he suspected it."

"The gods give ye a good conceit of yourself," Mrs. Nairn laughed.

"I need it. This afternoon I let him do a most injudicious thing; and now
I've done another which I fear is worse. On the whole, I think I'd better
take him away to the bush. He'd be safer there."

"Ye will no; no just now," declared his hostess firmly.

Carroll made a sign of resignation.

"Oh, well," he agreed, "if you say so. I'm quite willing to stand out and
let things alone. Too many cooks are apt to spoil the kale."

Mrs. Nairn left him, but she afterward glanced thoughtfully once or twice
at Vane and Evelyn, who had again drawn together.



CHAPTER XXII

EVELYN GOES FOR A SAIL


Vane sat in Nairn's office with a frown on his face. Specimens of ore
lately received from the mine were scattered about a table and Nairn had
some papers in his hand.

"Weel?" inquired the Scotchman when Vane, after examining two or three of
the stones, abruptly flung them down.

"The ore's running poorer. On the other hand, I partly expected this.
There's better stuff in the reef. We're a little too high, for one thing;
I look for more encouraging results when we start the lower heading."

He went into details of the new operations, and when he finished Nairn
looked up from the figures he had been jotting down.

"Yon workings will cost a good deal," he pointed out "Ye will no be able
to make a start until we're sure of the money."

"We ought to get it."

Nairn looked thoughtful.

"A month or two ago, I would have agreed with ye; but general investors
are kittle folk, and the applications for the new stock are no numerous."

"Howitson promised to subscribe largely; and Bendle pledged himself to
take a considerable block."

"I'm no denying it. But we have no been favored with their formal
applications yet."

"You had better tell me if you have anything particular in your mind,"
Vane said bluntly.

An unqualified affirmation is not strictly in accordance with the
Scottish character, and Nairn was seldom rash.

"I would have ye remember what I told ye about the average investor," he
replied. "He has no often the boldness to trust his judgment nor the
sense to ken a good thing when he sees it--he waits for a lead, and then
joins the rush when other folk are going in. What makes a mineral or
other stock a favorite for a time is now and then no easy to determine;
but we'll allow that it becomes so--ye will see men who should have mair
sense thronging to buy and running the price up. Like sheep they come in,
each following the other; and like sheep they run out, if anything scares
them. It's no difficult to start a panic."

"The plain English of it is that the mine is not so popular as it was,"
retorted Vane impatiently.

"I'm thinking something of the kind," Nairn agreed. Then he proceeded
with a cautious explanation: "The result of the first reduction and the
way ye forced the concern on the market secured ye notice. Folk put their
money on ye, looking for sensational developments, and when the latter
are no forthcoming they feel a bit sore and disappointed."

"There's nothing discouraging in our accounts. Even if the ore all ran as
poor as that,"--Vane pointed to the specimens on the table--"the mine
could be worked on a reasonably satisfactory paying basis. We have
issued no statements that could spread alarm."

"Just so. What was looked for was more than reasonable satisfaction--ye
have no come up to expectations. Forby, it's my opinion that damaging
reports have somehow leaked out from the mine. Just now I see clouds on
the horizon."

"Bendle pledged himself to take up a big block of the shares," repeated
Vane. "If Howitson does the same, as he said he would, our position would
be secure. As soon as it was known that they were largely interested,
others would follow them."

"Now ye have it in a nutshell--it would put a wet blanket on the project
if they both backed down. In the meanwhile we canna hurry them. Ye will
have to give them time."

Vane rose.

"We'll leave it at that. I've promised to take Mrs. Nairn and Miss
Chisholm for a sail."

By the time he reached the water-front he had got rid of the slight
uneasiness the interview had occasioned him. He found Mrs. Nairn and
Evelyn awaiting him with Carroll in attendance, and in a few minutes they
were rowing off to the sloop. As they approached her, the elder lady
glanced with evident approval at the craft, which swam, a gleaming ivory
shape, upon the shining green brine.

"Ye have surely been painting the boat," she exclaimed. "Was that for
us?"

Vane disregarded the question.

"She wanted it, and paint's comparatively cheap. It has been good drying
weather the last few days."

It was a little thing, but Evelyn was pleased. The girls had not been
greatly considered at the Dene, and it was flattering to recognize that
the man had thought it worth while to decorate his craft in her honor;
she supposed it had entailed a certain amount of work. She did not ask
herself if he had wished to please her; he had invited her for a sail
some days ago, and he was thorough in everything he did. He helped her
and Mrs. Nairn on board and when they sat down in the well he and Carroll
proceeded to hoist the mainsail. It looked exceedingly large as it
thrashed and fluttered above their heads, and there seemed to be a
bewildering quantity of ropes, but Evelyn was interested chiefly in
watching Vane.

He was wonderfully quick, but no movement was wasted. His face was
intent, his glances sharp, and she liked the crisp, curt way in which he
spoke to Carroll. The man's task was, in one sense, not important, but he
was absorbed in it. Then while Carroll slipped the moorings, Vane ran up
the headsails and springing aft seized the tiller as the boat, slanting
over, commenced to forge through the water. It was the first time Evelyn
had ever traveled under sail and, receptive as she was of all new
impressions she sat silent a few minutes rejoicing in the sense of swift
and easy motion. The inlet was crisped by small white ripples, and the
boat with her boom broad off on her quarter drove through them, with a
wedge of foam on her lee bow and a stream of froth sluicing past her
sides. Overhead, the great inclined sail cut, sharply white, against the
dazzling blue of the mid-morning sky.

Evelyn glanced farther around. Wharves stacked with lumber, railroad
track, clustering roofs, smoking mills, were flitting fast astern. Ahead,
a big side-wheel steamer was forging, foam-ringed, toward her, with the
tall spars of a four-master towering behind, and stately pines, that
apparently walled in the harbor, a little to one side. To starboard,
beyond the wide stretch of white-flecked water, mountains ran back in
ranks, with the chilly gleam of snow, which had crept lower since her
arrival, upon their shoulders. It was a sharp contrast: the noisy,
raw-new city and, so close at hand, the fringe of the wilderness.

They swept out through the gate of the Narrows, and Vane luffed the boat
up to a moderately fresh breeze.

"It's off the land, and we'll have fairly smooth water," he explained.
"How do you like sailing?"

Evelyn watched the white ridges, which were larger than the ripples in
the inlet, smash in swift succession upon the weather bow and hurl the
glittering spray into the straining mainsail. There was something
fascinating in the way the gently-swaying boat clove through them.

"It's glorious!" she cried, looking first ahead then back toward the
distant snow. "If anything more were wanted, there are the
mountains, too."

Vane smiled, but there was a suggestive sparkle in his eyes.

"Yes; we have them both, and that's something to be thankful for. The sea
and the mountains--the two grandest things in this world!"

"If you think that, how did you reconcile yourself to the city?"

"I'm not sure that I've done so." He indicated the gleaming heights.
"Anyway, I'm going back up yonder very soon."

Mrs. Nairn glanced at Carroll, who affected to be busy with a rope; then
she turned to Vane.

"It will no be possible with winter coming on."

"It's not really so bad then," Vane declared. "Besides, I expect to get
my work done before the hardest weather's due."

"But ye canna leave Vancouver until ye have settled about the mine!"

"I don't want to," Vane admitted. "That's not quite the same thing."

"It is with a good many people," Carroll interposed with a smile.

Evelyn fancied that there was something behind all this, but it did not
directly concern her and she made no inquiry. In the meanwhile they were
driving on to the southward, opening up the straits, with the forests to
port growing smaller and the short seas increasing in size. The breeze
was cold, but the girl was warmly clad and the easy motion in no way
troubled her. The rush of keen salt air stirred her blood, and all round
her were spread wonderful harmonies of silver-laced blue and green,
through which the straining fabric that carried her swept on. The
mountains were majestic, but except when tempests lashed their crags or
torrents swept their lower slopes they were wrapped in eternal repose;
the sea was filled with ecstatic motion.

"The hills have their fascination; it's a thing I know," she said, to
draw the helmsman out. "I think I should like the sea, too; but at first
sight it's charm isn't quite so plain."

"You have started him," interposed Carroll. "He won't refuse that
challenge."

Vane accepted it with a smile which meant more than good-humored
indulgence.

"Well," he declared, "the sea's the same everywhere, unbridled,
unchanging; a force that remains as it was in the beginning. Once you're
out of harbor, under sail, you have done with civilization. It has
possibly provided you with excellent gear, but it can do no more; you
stand alone, stripped for the struggle with the elements."

"Is it always a struggle?"

"Always. The sea's as treacherous as the winds that vex it, pitiless,
murderous. When you have only sail to trust to, you can never relax your
vigilance; you must watch the varying drift of clouds and the swing of
the certain tides. There's nothing and nobody to fall back upon when the
breeze pipes its challenge; you have sloughed off civilization and must
stand or fall by the raw natural powers with which man is born, and chief
among them is the capacity for brutal labor. The thrashing sail must be
mastered; the tackle creaking with the strain must be hauled in. Perhaps,
that's the charm of it for some of us whose lives are pretty smooth--it
takes one back, as I said, to the beginning."

"But haven't human progress and machines made life more smooth for
everybody?"

Vane laughed somewhat grimly.

"Oh, no; I think that can never be done. So far, somebody pays for the
others' ease. At sea, in the mine and in the bush man still grapples with
a rugged, naked world."

The girl was pleased. She had drawn him out, and she thought that in
speaking he had kept a fair balance between too crude a mode of
colloquial expression and poetic elaboration. There was, she knew, a vein
of poetic conception in him, and the struggle he had hinted at could be
described fittingly only in heroic language. It was in one sense a pity
that those who had the gift of it and cultivated imagination had, for the
most part, never been forced into the fight; but that was, perhaps, not a
matter of much importance. There were plenty of men, such as her
companion, endowed with steadfast endurance who, if they seldom gave
their thoughts free rein, rejoiced in the struggle; and by them the
world's sternest work was clone.

"After all," she went on, "we have the mountains in civilized England."

Vane did not respond with the same freedom this time. He was inclined to
think he had spoken too unrestrainedly.

"Yes," he agreed, smiling; "you can walk about them--where you won't
disturb the grouse--and they're grand enough; but if you look down you
can see the motor dust trails and the tourist coaches in the valleys."

"But why shouldn't people enjoy themselves in that way?"

"I can't think of any reason. No doubt most of them have earned the right
to do so. But you can't rip up those hills with giant-powder where you
feel inclined, or set to work to root out some miles of forest. The
Government encourages that kind of thing here."

"And that's the charm?"

"Yes; I suppose it is."

"I'd better explain," Carroll interposed. "Men of a certain temperament
are apt to fall a prey to fantasies in the newer lands; any common sense
they once possessed seems to desert them. After that, they're never happy
except when they're ripping things--such as big rocks and trees--to
pieces, and though they'll tell you it's only to get out minerals or to
clear a ranch, they're wrong. Once they get the mine or ranch, they don't
care about it; they set to work wrecking things again. Isn't that true,
Mrs. Nairn?"

"There are such crazy bodies," agreed the lady. "I know one or two;
but if I had my way with them, they should find one mine, or build
one sawmill."

"And then," supplied Carroll, "you would chain them up for good by
marrying them."

"I would like to try, but I'm no sure it would act in every case. I have
come across some women as bad as the men; they would drive their
husbands on."

She smiled in a half wistful manner.

"Maybe," she added, "it's as well to do something worth the remembering
when ye are young. There's a long while to sit still in afterward."

Half in banter and half in earnest, they had given Evelyn a hint of the
master passion of the true colonist, whose pride is in his burden.
Afterward, Mrs. Nairn led the conversation until Carroll laid out in the
saloon a somewhat elaborate lunch which he had brought from the hotel.
Then the others went below, leaving Vane at the helm. When they came up
again, Carroll looked at his comrade ruefully.

"I'm afraid Miss Chisholm's disappointed," he said.

"No," declared Evelyn; "that would be most ungrateful. I only expected a
more characteristic example of sea cookery. After what Mr. Vane told us,
a lunch like the one you provided, with glass and silver, struck me as
rather an anachronism."

"It's better to be broken in to sea cookery gently," Vane interposed with
some dryness.

Evelyn laughed.

"It's a poor compliment to take it for granted that we're afraid of a
little hardship. Besides, I don't think you're right."

Vane left the helm to Carroll and went below.

"He won't be long," Carroll informed the girl, with a smile. "He hasn't
got rid of all his primitive habits yet. I'll give him ten minutes."

When Vane came up, he glanced about him before he resumed the helm and
noticed that it was blowing fresher. They were also drawing out from the
land and the short seas were getting bigger; but he held on to the whole
sail, and an hour or so afterward a white iron bark, light in ballast,
with her rusty load-line high above the water, came driving up to meet
them. She made a striking picture, Evelyn thought, with the great curve
of her forecourse, which was still set, stretching high above the foam
that spouted about her bows and tier upon tier of gray canvas diminishing
aloft. With the wind upon her quarter, she rode on an even keel, and the
long iron hull, gleaming snowily in the sunshine, drove on, majestic,
through a field of white-flecked green and azure. Abreast of one
quarter, a propeller tug that barely kept pace with her belched out a
cloud of smoke.

"Her skipper's been up here before--he's no doubt coming for
salmon," Vane explained. Then he turned to Carroll. "We'd better
pass to lee of her."

Carroll let a foot or two of a rope run out and the sloop's bows swung
round a little. Her rail was just awash, and she was sailing very fast.
Then her deck slanted more sharply and the low rail became submerged in
rushing foam.

"We'll heave down a reef when we're clear of the bark," Vane said.

The vessel was now to windward and coming up rapidly; to shorten sail
they must first round up the boat, for which they no longer had room. A
few moments later a fiercer blast swept suddenly down and the water
boiled white between the bark and the sloop. The latter's deck dipped
deeper until the lower part of it was lost in streaming froth. Carroll
made an abrupt movement.

"Shall I drop the peak?"

"No. There's the propeller close to lee."

The tug was hidden by the inclined sail, but Evelyn, clinging tightly to
the coaming, understood that they were running into the gap between the
two vessels and in order to avoid collision with one or the other, must
hold on as they were through the stress of the squall. How much more the
boat would stand she did not know, but it looked as if it were going over
bodily. Then a glance at the helmsman's face reassured her. It was fixed
and expressionless, but she somehow felt that whatever was necessary
would be promptly done. He was not one to lose his nerve or vacillate in
a crisis, and his immobility appealed to her, because she knew that if
occasion arose it would be replaced by prompt decisive action.

In the meanwhile the slant of sail and deck increased. One side of the
sloop was hove high out of the sea. It was all the girl could do to hold
herself upright, and Mrs. Nairn had fallen against and was only supported
by the coaming to leeward. Then the wind was suddenly cut off and the
sloop rose with a bewildering lurch, as the tall iron hull to weather
forged by, hurling off the sea. She passed, and while Vane called out
something and Carroll scrambled forward, the sloop swayed violently down
again. Everything in her creaked; the floorings sloped away beneath
Evelyn's feet, and now the madly-whirling froth poured in across the
coaming. The veins stood out on the helmsman's forehead, his pose
betrayed the tension on his arms; but the sloop was swinging round, and
she fell off before the wind when the upper half of the great sail
collapsed.

Rising more upright, she flung the water off her deck, and for some
moments drove on at a bewildering speed; then there was a mad thrashing
as Vane brought her on the wind again. The two men, desperately busy,
mastered the fluttering sail, and in a few more minutes they were running
homeward, with the white seas splashing harmlessly astern. It was now
difficult to believe they had been in any danger, but Evelyn felt that
she had had an instance of the sea's treachery; what was more, she had
witnessed an exhibition of human nerve and skill. Vane, with his
half-formulated thoughts which yet had depth to them and his flashes of
imagination, had interested her; but now he had been revealed in his
finer capacity, as a man of action.

"I'd have kept to weather of the bark, where we'd have had room to luff,
if I'd expected that burst of wind," he explained. "Did you hurt yourself
against the coaming, Mrs. Nairn?"

The lady smiled reassuringly.

"It's no worth mentioning, and I'm no altogether unused to it. Alic once
kept a boat and would have me out with him."

The remainder of the trip proved uneventful, and as they ran homeward the
breeze gradually died away. The broad inlet lay still in the moonlight
when they crept across it with the water lapping very faintly about the
bows, and it was over a mirror-like surface they rowed ashore. Nairn was
waiting at the foot of the steps and Evelyn walked back with him,
feeling, she could not tell exactly why, that she had been drawn closer
to the sloop's helmsman.



CHAPTER XXIII

VANE PROVES OBDURATE


Vane spent two or three weeks very pleasantly in Vancouver, for Evelyn,
of whom he saw a good deal, was gracious to him. The embarrassment both
had felt on their first meeting in the western city had speedily
vanished; they had resumed their acquaintance on what was ostensibly a
purely friendly footing, and since both avoided any reference to what had
taken place in England, it had ripened into a mutual confidence and
appreciation.

This would have been less probable in the older country, where they would
have been continually reminded of what the Chisholm family expected of
them; but the past seldom counts for much in the new and changeful West,
where men look forward to the future. Indeed, there is something in its
atmosphere which banishes regret and retrospection; and when Evelyn
looked back at all, she felt inclined to wonder why she had once been so
troubled by the man's satisfaction with her company. She decided that
this could not have been the result of any aversion for him, and that it
was merely an instinctive revolt against the part her parents had wished
to force upon her. Chisholm and his wife had blundered, as such people
often do, for it is possible that had they adopted a perfectly neutral
attitude everything would have gone as they desired. Their mistake was
nevertheless a natural one. Somewhat exaggerated reports of Vane's
prosperity had reached them; but while they coveted the advantages his
wealth might offer their daughter, in their secret hearts they looked
upon him as a raw Colonial and something of a barbarian, and the opinions
he occasionally expressed in their hearing did not dispel this idea. Both
feared that Evelyn regarded him in the same light, and it accordingly
became evident that a little pressure might be required. In spite of
their prejudices, they did not shrink from applying it.

In the meanwhile, several people in Vancouver watched the increase of
friendliness between the girl and Vane. Mrs. Nairn and her husband did so
with benevolent interest, and it was by Mrs. Nairn's adroit management,
which even Evelyn did not often suspect, that they were thrown more and
more into each other's company. Jessy Horsfield, however, looked on with
bitterness. She was a strong-willed young woman who hitherto had
generally contrived to obtain whatever she had set her heart on; and she
had set it on this man. Indeed, she had fancied that he returned the
feeling, but disillusionment had come on the evening when he had
unexpectedly met Evelyn. Her smoldering resentment against the girl grew
steadily stronger, until it threatened to prove dangerous on opportunity.

There were, however, days when Vane was disturbed in mind. Winter was
coming on, and although it is rarely severe on the southern seaboard, it
is by no means the season one would choose for an adventure among the
ranges of the northern wilderness. Unless he made his search for the
spruce very shortly he might be compelled to postpone it until the
spring, at the risk of some hardy prospector's forestalling him; but
there were two reasons which detained him. He thought that he was gaining
ground in Evelyn's esteem and he feared the effect of absence, and there
was no doubt that the new issue of the Clermont shares was in very slack
demand. To leave the city might cost him a good deal in several ways, but
he had pledged himself to go.

That fact was uppermost in his mind one evening when he set off to call
on Celia Hartley. As it happened, Evelyn and Mrs. Nairn were driving past
as he turned off from a busy street toward the quarter in which she
lived. It had been dark for some time, but the street was well lighted
and Evelyn had no difficulty in recognizing him. Indeed, she watched him
for a few moments while he passed on into a more shadowy region, where
the gloom and dilapidation of the first small frame houses were
noticeable. Beyond them there was scarcely a light at all; the
neighborhood looked mysterious, and she wondered what kind of people
inhabited it. She did not think that Mrs. Nairn had noticed Vane.

"You have never taken me into the district on our left," she said.

"I'm no likely to. We're no proud of it."

Evelyn was a little astonished. She had seen no signs of squalor or
dissipation since she entered Canada, and had almost fancied that they
did not exist.

"I suppose the Chinese and other aliens live there?"

"They do," was the dry answer. "I'm no sure, however, that they're
the worst."

"But one understands that you haven't a criminal population."

"We have folk who're on the fringe of it, only we see that they live all
together. Folk who would be respectable live somewhere else, except,
maybe, a few who have to consider cheapness. There's no great difference
in human nature wherever ye find it, and I do no suppose we're very much
better than the rest of the world; but it's no a recommendation to be
seen going into yon quarter after dark."

This left Evelyn thoughtful, for she had undoubtedly seen Vane going
there. She considered herself a judge of character and generally trusted
her intuitions, and she believed that the man's visit to the neighborhood
in question admitted of some satisfactory explanation. On the other hand,
she felt that her friends should be beyond suspicion. Taking it all
round, she was rather vexed with Vane, and it cost her some trouble to
drive the matter out of her mind.

She did not see Vane the next day, but the latter called upon Nairn at
his office during the afternoon.

"Have you had any more applications for the new stock?" he asked.

"I have no. Neither Bendle nor Howitson has paid up yet, though I've seen
them about it once or twice."

"Investors are shy; that's a fact," Vane confessed. "It's unfortunate.
I've already put off my trip north as long as possible. I wanted to see
things arranged on a satisfactory basis before I went."

"A very prudent wish. I should advise ye to carry it out."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Something like this--if the money's no forthcoming, we may be compelled
to fall back upon a different plan, and unless ye're to the fore, the
decision of a shareholders' meeting might no suit ye. Considering the
position and the stock ye hold, any views ye might express would carry
more weight than mine would do in your absence."

Vane drummed with his fingers on the table.

"I suppose that's the case; but I've got to make the journey. With
moderately good fortune it shouldn't take me long."

"Ye would be running some risk if anything delayed ye and we had to call
a meeting before ye got back."

Vane frowned.

"I see that; but it can't be helped. I expect to be back before I'm
wanted. Anyway, I could leave you authority to act on my behalf."

After a further attempt to dissuade him, Nairn spread out one hand
resignedly.

"He who will to Cupar maun be left to gang," he said. "Whiles, I have
wondered why any one should be so keen on getting there, but doubtless a
douce Scottish town has mair attractions for a sensible person than the
rugged Northwest in the winter-time."

Vane smiled and shortly afterward went out and left him; and when Nairn
reached home he briefly recounted the interview to his wife over his
evening meal. Evelyn listened attentively.

"Yon man will no hear reason," Nairn concluded. "He's thrawn."

Evelyn had already noticed that her host, for whom she had a strong
liking, spoke broader Scotch when he was either amused or angry, and she
supposed that Vane's determination disturbed him.

"But why should he persist in leaving the city, when it's to his
disadvantage to do so, as you lead one to believe it is?" she asked.

"If the latter's no absolutely certain, it's very likely."

"You have answered only half my question."

Mrs. Nairn smiled.

"Alic," she explained, "is reserved by nature; but if ye're anxious for
an answer, I might tell ye."

"Anxious hardly describes it."

"Then we'll say curious. The fact is that Vane made a bargain with a sick
prospector, in which he undertook to locate some timber the man had
discovered away among the mountains. He was to pay the other a share of
its value when he got his Government license."

"Is the timber very valuable?"

"No," broke in Nairn. "One might make a fair business profit out of
pulping it, though the thing's far from certain."

"Then why is Mr. Vane so determined on finding it?"

The question gave Mrs. Nairn a lead, but she decided to say no more than
was necessary.

"The prospector died, but that bound the bargain tighter, in Vane's
opinion. The man died without a dollar, leaving a daughter worn out and
ill with nursing him. According to the arrangement, his share will go to
the girl."

"Then," said Evelyn, "Mr. Vane is really undertaking the search, which
may involve him in difficulties, in order to keep his promise to a man
who is dead? And he will not even postpone it, because if he did so
this penniless girl might, perhaps, lose her share? Isn't that rather
fine of him?"

"On the whole, ye understand the position," Nairn agreed. "If ye
desire my view of the matter, I would merely say that yon's the kind
of man he is."

Evelyn made no further comment, though the last common phrase struck her
as a most eloquent tribute. She had heard Vane confess that he did not
want to go north at present, and she now understood that to do so might
jeopardize his interests in the mine; but he was undoubtedly going. He
meant to keep his promise in its fullest and widest meaning--that was
what one would expect of him.

One mild afternoon, a few days later, he took her for a drive among the
Stanley pines, and, though she knew that she would regret his departure,
she was unusually friendly. Vane rejoiced at it, but he had already
decided that he must endeavor to proceed with caution and to content
himself in the meanwhile with the part of trusted companion. For this
reason, he chatted lightly, which he felt was safer, during most of the
drive; but once or twice, when by chance or design she asked a leading
question, he responded without reserve. He did so when they were
approaching a group of giant conifers.

"I wonder whether you ever feel any regret at having left England for
this country?" she asked.

"I did so pretty often when I first came out," he answered with a
smile. "In those days I had to work in icy water and carry massive
lumps of rock."

"I dare say regret was a natural feeling then; but that wasn't quite
what I meant."

"So I supposed," Vane confessed. "Well, I'd better own that when I'd
spent a week or two in England--at the Dene--I began to think I'd missed
a good deal by not staying at home. It struck me that the life you led
had a singular charm. Everything went so smoothly there, among the
sheltering hills. One felt that care and anxiety could not creep in.
Somehow, the place reminded me of Avalon."

"The impression was by no means correct," smiled Evelyn, "But I don't
think you have finished. Won't you go on?"

"Then if I get out of my depth, you mustn't blame me. By and by I
discovered that charm wasn't the right word--the place was permeated with
a narcotic spell."

"Narcotic? Do you think the term's more appropriate?"

"I do. Narcotics, one understands, are insidious things. If you take them
regularly, in small doses, they increase their hold on you until you
become wrapped up in dreams and unrealities. If, however, you get too big
a dose of them at the beginning, it leads to a vigorous revulsion. It's
nature's warning and remedy."

"You're not flattering; but I almost fancy you're right."

"We are told that man was made to struggle--to use all his powers. If he
rests too long beside the still backwaters of life, in fairy-like dales,
they're apt to atrophy, and he finds himself slack and nerveless when he
goes out to face the world again."

Evelyn nodded, for she had felt and striven against the insidious
influence of which he spoke. She had now and then left the drowsy dale
for a while; but the life of which she had then caught glimpses was
equally sheltered--one possible only to the favored few. Even the echoes
of the real tense struggle seldom passed its boundaries.

"But you confessed not long ago that you loved the western wilderness,"
she said. "You have spent a good deal of time in it; and you expect to
do so again. After all, isn't that only exchanging one beautiful,
tranquil region for another? The bush must be even quieter than the
English dales."

"Perhaps I haven't made the point quite clear. When one goes up into the
bush, it's not to lounge and dream there, but to make war upon it with ax
and drill."

He pulled up his team and pointed to the clump of giant trees.

"Look there! That's nature's challenge to man in this country."

Evelyn recognized that it was an impressive one. The great trunks ran up
far aloft, tremendous columns, before their brighter portions were lost
in the vaulted roof of somber greenery. They dwarfed the rig and team;
she felt herself a pygmy by comparison.

"They're a little larger than the average," her companion explained,
"Still, that's the kind of thing you run up against when you buy land to
start a ranch or clear the ground for a mine. Chopping, sawing up,
splitting those giants doesn't fill one with languorous dreams; the only
dreams that our axmen indulge in materialize. It's an unending, bracing
struggle. There are leagues and leagues of trees, shrouding the valleys
in a shadow that has lasted since the world was young; but you see the
dawn of a wonderful future breaking in as the long ranks go down."

Once more, without clearly intending it, he had stirred the girl. He had
not spoken in that rather fanciful style to impress her; she knew that,
trusting in her comprehension, he had merely given his ideas free rein.
But in doing so he had somehow made her hear the trumpet-call to action
which, for such men, rings through the roar of the river and the song of
the tall black pines.

"Ah!" she murmured, "it must be a glorious life, in many ways; but it's
bound to have its drawbacks. Doesn't the flesh shrink from them?"

"The flesh?" He laughed. "In this land the flesh takes second
place--except, perhaps, in the cities." He turned and looked at her
curiously. "Why should you talk of shrinking? The bush couldn't daunt
you; you have courage."

The girl's eyes sparkled, but not at the compliment. His words rang with
freedom; the freedom of the heights, where heroic effort was the rule, in
place of luxury. She longed now, as she had often done, to escape from
bondage; to break away.

"Ah, well," she said, smiling half wistfully; "perhaps it's fortunate
that such courage as I have may never be put to the test."

Though reticence was difficult, Vane made no comment. He had already
spoken unguardedly, and he decided that caution would be desirable.
As he started the team, an automobile came up, and he looked around
as he drove on.

"It's curious that I never heard the thing," he remarked.

"I didn't, either," replied Evelyn. "I was too much engrossed in the
trees. But I think Miss Horsfield was in it"

"Was she?" responded Vane in a very casual manner; and Evelyn, for no
reason that she was willing to recognize, was pleased.

She had not been mistaken. Jessy Horsfield was in the automobile, and she
had had a few moments in which to study Vane and his companion. The man's
look and the girl's expression had struck her as significant; and her
lips set in an ominously tight line as the car sped on. She felt that she
almost hated Vane; and there was no doubt that she entirely hated the
girl at his side. It would be soothing to humiliate her, to make her
suffer, and though the exact mode of setting about it was not very clear
just yet, she thought it might be managed. Her companion wondered why she
looked preoccupied during the rest of the journey.



CHAPTER XXIV

JESSY STRIKES


It was the afternoon before Vane's departure for the North, and Evelyn,
sitting alone for the time being in Mrs. Nairn's drawing-room, felt
disturbed by the thought of it. She sympathized with his object, as it
had been briefly related by her hostess, but she supposed there was a
certain risk attached to the journey, and that troubled her. In addition
to this, there was another point on which she was not altogether pleased.
She had twice seen him acknowledge a bow from a very pretty girl whose
general appearance suggested that she did not belong to Evelyn's own walk
in life, and that very morning she had noticed him crossing a street in
the young woman's company. Vane, as it happened, had met Kitty Blake by
accident and had asked her to accompany him on a visit to Celia. Evelyn
did not think she was of a jealous disposition, and jealousy appeared
irrational in the case of a man whom she had dismissed as a suitor; but
the thing undoubtedly rankled in her mind. While she was considering it,
Jessy Horsfield entered the room.

"I'm here by invitation, to join Mr. Vane's other old friends in giving
him a good send-off," she explained. "Only, Mrs. Nairn told me to come
over earlier."

Evelyn noticed that Jessy laid some stress upon her acquaintance with
Vane, and wondered whether she had any motive for doing so.

"I suppose you have known him for some time?"

"Oh, yes," was the careless answer. "My brother was one of the first to
take him up when he came to Vancouver."

The phrase jarred on Evelyn. It savored of patronage; besides, she did
not like to think that Vane owed anything to the Horsfields.

"Though I don't know much about it, I understood that they were opposed
to each other," she said coldly.

Jessy laughed.

"Their business interests don't coincide; but it doesn't follow that they
should disagree about anything else. My brother did all he could to
dissuade Mr. Vane from going on with his search for the timber until the
winter is over."

This was true, inasmuch as Horsfield had spoken to Vane about the
subject, though it is possible that he would not have done so had he
expected the latter to yield to his reasoning. Vane was one whom
opposition usually rendered more determined.

"I think it is rather fine of him to persist in it," Evelyn declared.

Jessy smiled, though she felt venomous just then.

"Yes," she agreed; "one undoubtedly feels that. Besides, the thing's
so characteristic of him; the man's impulsively generous and not
easily daunted. He possesses many of the rudimentary virtues, as well
as some of the corresponding weaknesses, which is very much what one
would look for."

"What do you mean by that?" Evelyn inquired with a trace of asperity.
Though she was not prepared to pose as Vane's advocate, she was
conscious of a growing antagonism toward her companion.

"It's difficult to explain, and I don't know that the subject's worth
discussing," answered Jessy. "However, what I think I meant was this--Mr.
Vane's of a type that's not uncommon in the West, and it's a type one
finds interesting. He's forcibly elementary, which is the only way I can
express it; the restraints the rest of us submit to don't bind him--he
breaks through them."

This, Evelyn fancied, was more or less correct. Indeed, the man's
fearless disregard of hampering customs had pleased her, but she
recognized that some restraints are needful. Her companion followed the
same train of thought.

"When one breaks down or gets over fences, it's necessary to
discriminate," she went on. "Men of the Berserker type, however, are more
addicted to going straight through the lot. In a way, they're
consistent--having smashed one barrier why should they respect the next?"

Jessy, as she was quite aware, was playing a dangerous game; one that
might afterward be exposed. The latter possibility, however, was of less
account, for detection would come too late if she were successful. She
was acquainted with the salient points of Evelyn's character.

"They're consistent, if not always very logical," she concluded after a
pause. "One endeavors to make allowances for men of that description."

Something in her tone roused Evelyn to sudden imperious anger. It was
intolerable that this woman should offer excuses for Vane.

"What particular allowances do you feel it needful to make in Mr. Vane's
case?" she asked haughtily.

Now that she was faced by the direct question, Jessy hesitated. As a
rule, she was subtle, but she could be ruthlessly frank, and she was
possessed by a passionate hatred of the girl beside her.

"You have forced me to an explanation," she smiled. "The fact is that
while he has a room at the hotel he has an--establishment--in a
different neighborhood. Unfortunately such places are a feature of some
western towns."

It was a shock to Evelyn; one that she found hard to face; though she was
not convinced. The last piece of information agreed with something Mrs.
Nairn had told her; but, although she had on one occasion had the
testimony of her eyes in support of it, Jessy's first statement seemed
incredible.

"It's impossible!"

Jessy smiled in a bitter manner.

"It's unpleasant, but it can't be denied. He undoubtedly pays the rent of
a shack in the neighborhood I mentioned."

Evelyn sat tensely still for a moment or two. She dare not give rein to
her feelings, for she would not betray herself; but composure was
extremely difficult.

"If that is true," she demanded, "how is it that he is received
everywhere--at your house and by Mrs. Nairn? He is coming here to-night."

Jessy shrugged her shoulders.

"People in general are more or less charitable in the case of a
successful man. Apart from that, Mr. Vane has a good many excellent
qualities. As I said, one has to make allowances."

Just then, to Evelyn's relief, Mrs. Nairn came in, and though the girl
suffered during the time, it was half an hour before she could find an
excuse for slipping away alone. Then, sitting in the gathering darkness
in her own room, she set herself to consider, as dispassionately as
possible, what she had heard. It was exceedingly difficult to believe the
charge, but Jessy's assertion was definite enough, and one which, if
incorrect, could readily be disproved. Nobody would say such a thing
unless it could be substantiated; and that led Evelyn to consider why
Jessy had given her the information. She had obviously done so with at
least a trace of malice, but it could hardly have sprung from jealousy;
Evelyn could not think that a woman would vilify a man for whom she had
any tenderness. Besides, she had seen Vane entering the part of the town
indicated, where he could not have had any legitimate business. Hateful
as the suspicion was, it could not be contemptuously dismissed. Then she
recognized that she had no right to censure the man; he was not
accountable to her for his conduct--but calm reasoning carried her no
farther. She was once more filled with intolerable disgust and burning
indignation. Somehow, she had come to believe in Vane, and he had turned
out an impostor.

About an hour later Vane and Carroll entered the house with Nairn and
proceeded to the latter's room where he offered them cigars.

"So ye're all ready to sail the morn?"

Vane nodded and handed him a paper.

"There's your authority to act in my name, if it's required. If we have
moderately fine weather, I expect to be back before there's much change
in the situation; but I'll call at Nanaimo, where you can wire me if
anything turns up during the two or three days it may take us to get
there. The wind's ahead at present."

"I suppose there's no use in my saying anything more now; but I can't
help pointing out that as head of the concern you have a certain duty to
the shareholders which you seem inclined to disregard," Carroll remarked.

Vane smiled.

"I've no doubt that their interests will be as safe in Nairn's hands as
in mine. What I stand to risk is the not getting my personal ideas
carried out, which is a different matter, though I'll own that it
wouldn't please me if they were overruled."

"I fail to see why ye could no have let the whole thing stand over until
the spring," grunted Nairn. "The spruce will no run away."

"I'd have done so, had it been a few years earlier, but the whole country
is overrun with mineral prospectors and timber righters now. Every
month's delay gives somebody else a chance for getting in ahead of me."

"Weel," responded Nairn resignedly, "I can only wish ye luck; but, should
ye be detained up yonder, if one of ye could sail across to Comox to see
if there's any mail there it would be wise to do so." He waved his hand.
"No more of that; we'll consider what tactics I had better adopt in case
of delay."

An hour had passed before they went down to join the guests who were
arriving for the evening meal. As a rule, the western business man, who
is more or less engrossed in his occupation except when he is asleep,
enjoys little privacy; and Nairn's friends sometimes compared his
dwelling to the rotunda of a hotel. The point of this was that people of
all descriptions who have nothing better to do are addicted to strolling
into the combined bazaar and lounge which is attached to many Canadian
hostelries.

Vane was placed next to Evelyn at the table; but after a quiet reply to
his first observation she turned and talked to the man at her other side.
As the latter, who was elderly and dull, had only two topics--the most
efficient means of desiccating fruit and the lack of railroad
facilities--Vane was somewhat astonished that she appeared interested in
his conversation, and by and by he tried again. He was not more
successful this time, and his face grew warm as he realized that Evelyn
was not inclined to talk to him. Being a very ordinary mortal and not
particularly patient, he was sensible of some indignation, which was not
diminished when, on looking around, Jessy Horsfield favored him with a
compassionate smile. However, he took his part in the general
conversation; and the meal was over and the guests were scattered about
the adjoining rooms when, after impatiently waiting for the opportunity,
he at last found Evelyn alone. She was standing with one hand on a table,
looking rather thoughtful.

"I've come to ask what I've done?"

Evelyn was not prepared for this blunt directness and she felt a little
disconcerted, but she broke into a chilly smile.

"The question's rather indefinite, isn't it? Do you expect me to be
acquainted with all your recent actions?"

"Then I'll put the thing in another way--do you mind telling me how I
have offended you?"

The girl almost wished that she could do so. Appearances were badly
against him, but she felt that if he declared himself innocent she could
take his word in the face of overwhelming testimony to the contrary.
Unfortunately, however, it was unthinkable that she should plainly state
the charge.

"Do you suppose I should feel warranted in forming any opinion upon your
conduct?" she retorted.

"It strikes me that you have formed one, and it isn't favorable."

The girl hesitated a moment, but she had the courage of her convictions
and she felt impelled to make some protest.

"That," she said, looking him in the eyes, "is perfectly true."

He seemed more puzzled than guilty, and once more she chafed against the
fact that she could give him no opportunity for defending himself.

"Well," he responded, "I'm sorry; but it brings us back to my first
question."

The situation was becoming painful as well as embarrassing, and Evelyn,
perhaps unreasonably, grew more angry with the man.

"I'm afraid that you either are clever at dissembling or have no
imagination."

Vane held himself in hand with an effort.

"I dare say you're right on the latter point. It's a fact I'm sometimes
thankful for. It leaves one more free to go straight ahead. Now, as I see
the dried-fruit man coming in search of you and you evidently don't mean
to answer me, I can't urge the matter."

He turned away and left her wondering why he had abandoned his usual
persistency, unless it was that an uneasy conscience had driven him from
the field. It did not occur to her that the man had under strong
provocation merely yielded to the prompting of a somewhat hasty temper.
In the meanwhile he crossed the room in an absent-minded manner and
presently found himself near Jessy, who made room for him at her side.

"It looks as if you were in disgrace to-night," she said sweetly, and
waited with concealed impatience for his answer. If Evelyn had been
sufficiently clever or bold to give him a hint as to what he was
suspected of, Jessy foresaw undesirable complications.

"I think I am," he owned without reflection. "The trouble is that, while
I may deserve it on general grounds, I'm unconscious of having done
anything very reprehensible in particular."

Jessy was sensible of considerable relief. The man was sore and
resentful; he would not press Evelyn for an explanation, and the breach
would widen. In the meanwhile she must play her cards skillfully.

"Then that fact should sustain you," she smiled. "We shall miss you after
to-morrow--more than one of us. Of course, it's too late to tell you that
you are not altogether wise in resolving to go."

"Everybody has been telling me the same thing for the last few weeks,"
he laughed.

"Then I'll only wish you every success. It's a pity that Bendle and the
other man haven't paid up yet."

She met his surprised look with an engaging smile.

"You needn't be astonished. There's not very much goes on in the city
that I don't hear about you know how men talk business here, and it's
interesting to look on, even when one can't actually take a hand in the
game. It's said that the watchers sometimes see the most of it."

"To tell the truth, it's the uncertainty as to what those two men might
do that has chiefly been worrying me."

"Of course. I believe that I understand the position--they've been
hanging fire, haven't they? But I've reasons for believing they'll come
to a decision before very long."

Vane looked troubled.

"That's interesting, but I ought to warn you that your brother--"

Jessy stopped him with a smile.

"I've no intention of giving him away; and, as a matter of fact, I think
you are a little prejudiced against him. After all, he's not your
greatest danger. There's a cabal against you among your shareholders."

The man knit his brows, but she knew by the way he looked at her that he
admired her acumen.

"Yes," he responded; "I've suspected that."

"There are two courses open to you--the first is to put off your
expedition."

The answer was to the effect she had anticipated.

"That's impossible, for several reasons."

"The other is to call at Nanaimo and wait until, we'll say, next
Thursday. If there's need for you to come back I think it will arise by
then; but it might be better if you called at Comox too--after you leave
the latter you'll be unreachable. If it seems necessary, I'll send you a
warning; if you hear nothing, you can go on."

Vane reflected hastily. Jessy, as she had told him, had opportunities for
picking up valuable information about the business done in that city, and
he had confidence in her.

"Thank you," he said. "It will be the second service you have done me,
and I appreciate it. Anyway, I promised Nairn I'd call at Nanaimo, in
case there should be a wire from him."

"It's a bargain; and now we'll talk of something else."

Jessy drew him into an exchange of badinage. Noticing, however, that
Evelyn once or twice glanced at her with some astonishment, she presently
got rid of him. She could understand Evelyn's attitude and she did not
wish her friendliness with the offender to appear unnatural after what
she had said about him.

At length the guests began to leave, and most of them had gone when Vane
rose to take his departure. His host and hostess went with him to the
door, but, though he once or twice glanced round eagerly, there was no
sign of Evelyn. He lingered a few moments on the threshold after Mrs.
Nairn had given him a kindly send-off; but nobody appeared in the lighted
hall, and after another word with Nairn he went moodily down the steps to
join Jessy and Carroll, who were waiting for him below. As the group
walked down the garden path, Mrs. Nairn looked at her husband.

"I do not know what has come over Evelyn this night," she remarked.

Nairn followed Jessy's retreating figure with distrustful eyes.

"Weel," he drawled, "I'm thinking yon besom may have had a hand in
the thing."

A few minutes later Jessy, standing where the light of a big lamp
streamed down upon her through the boughs of a leafless maple, bade Vane
farewell at her brother's gate.

"If my good wishes can bring you success, it will most certainly be
yours," she said, and there was something in her voice which faintly
stirred the man, who was feeling very sore.

"Thank you."

She did not immediately withdraw the hand she had given him. He was
grateful to her and thought she looked unusually pretty with the sympathy
shining in her eyes.

"You will not forget to wait at Nanaimo and Comox?" she reminded him.

"No. If you recall me, I'll come back at once; if not, I'll go on with a
lighter heart, knowing that I can safely stay away."

Jessy said nothing further, and he moved on. She felt that she had scored
and she knew when to stop. The man had given her his full confidence.

Soon afterward Vane entered his hotel, where he turned impatiently
upon Carroll.

"You can go into the rotunda or the smoking-room and talk to any loafer
who thinks it worth while to listen to your cryptic remarks," he said.
"As we sail as soon as it's daylight to-morrow, I'm going to sleep."



CHAPTER XXV

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER


The wind was fresh from the northwest when Vane drove the sloop out
through the Narrows in the early dawn and saw a dim stretch of
white-flecked sea in front of him. Land-locked as they are by Vancouver
Island, the long roll of the Pacific cannot enter those waters, but they
are now and then lashed into short, tumbling seas, sufficient to make
passage difficult for a craft no larger than the sloop. Carroll frowned
when a comber smote the weather bow and a shower of stinging spray
lashed his face.

"Right ahead again," he remarked. "But as I suppose you're going on, we'd
better stretch straight across on the starboard tack. We'll get smoother
water along the island shore."

They let her go and Vane sat at the helm hour after hour, drenched with
spray, hammering her mercilessly into the frothy seas. They could have
done with a second reef down, for the deck was swept and sluicing, and
most of the time the lee rail was buried deep in rushing foam; but Vane
showed no intention of shortening sail. Nor did Carroll, who saw that his
comrade was disturbed in temper, suggest it; resolute action had, he
knew, a soothing effect on Vane. As a matter of fact, Vane needed
soothing. Of late, he had felt that he was making steady progress in
Evelyn's favor, and now she had most inexplainably turned against him.
There was no doubt that, as Jessy had described it, he was in disgrace;
but rack his brain as he would, he could not discover the reason. That he
was conscious of no offense only made the position more galling.

In the meanwhile, the boat engrossed more and more of his attention, and
though he was by no means careful of her, he spared no effort to get her
to windward. It was a relief to drive her hard at some white-topped sea
and watch her bows disappear in it with a thud, while it somehow eased
his mind to see the smashed-up brine fly half the height of her drenched
mainsail. There was also satisfaction in feeling the strain on the tiller
when, swayed down by a fiercer gust, she plunged through the combers with
the froth swirling, perilously close to the coaming, along her
half-submerged deck. In all their moods, men of his kind find pleasure in
such things; the turmoil, the rush, the need for quick, resolute action
stirs the blood in them.

The day was cold; the man, who was compelled to sit almost still in a
nipping wind, was soon wet through; but this in some curious way further
tended to restore his accustomed optimism and good-humor. He had partly
recovered both when, as the sloop drove through the whiter turmoil
whipped up by a vicious squall, there was a crash forward.

"Down helm!" shouted Carroll. "The bobstay's gone!"

He scrambled toward the bowsprit, which having lost its principal support
swayed upward, in peril of being torn away by the sagging jib. Vane first
rounded up the boat into the wind and then followed him; and for several
minutes they had a savage struggle with the madly-flapping sail before
they flung it, bundled up, into the well. Then they ran in the bowsprit,
and Vane felt glad that, although the craft had been rigged in the usual
western fashion as a sloop, he had changed that by giving her a couple of
headsails in place of one.

"She'll trim with the staysail if we haul down another reef," he
suggested.

It cost them some labor, but they were warmer afterward, and when they
drove on again Vane glanced at the bowsprit.

"We'll try to get a bit of galvanized steel in Nanaimo," he said. "I
can't risk another smash."

Carroll laughed.

"You'd better be prepared for one, if you mean to drive her as you have
been doing." He flung back the saloon scuttle. "You'd have swamped her in
another hour or two--the cabin floorings are all awash."

"Then hadn't you better pump her out?" retorted Vane. "After that, you
can light the stove. It's beginning to dawn on me that it's a long while
since I had anything worth speaking of to eat. The kind of lunch you
brought along in the basket isn't sustaining."

They made a bountiful if somewhat primitive meal, in turn, sitting in the
dripping saloon which was partly filled with smoke, and Carroll sighed
for the comforts he had abandoned. He did not, however, mention his
regrets, because he did not expect his comrade's sympathy. Vane seldom
noticed what he was eating when he was on board his boat.

The craft, being under reduced sail, drove along more easily during the
rest of the afternoon, and they ran into a little colliery town late on
the following day. There Vane replaced the broken bobstay with a solid
piece of steel, and then sat down to write a letter while Carroll
stretched his cramped limbs ashore.

The letter was addressed to Evelyn, and he found it difficult to express
himself as he desired. The spoken word, as he had discovered, is now and
then awkward to use, but the written one is more evasive and complex
still, and he shook his head ruefully over the production when he laid
down his pen. This was, perhaps, unnecessary, for having grown calm he
had framed a terse and forcible appeal to the girl's sense of justice,
which would in all probability have had its effect on her had she
received it. Though he hardly realized it, the few simple words were
convincing.

Having had no news from Nairn or Jessy, they sailed again in a day or
two, bound for Comox farther along the coast, where there was a
possibility of communications overtaking them; but in the meanwhile
matters which concerned them were moving forward in Vancouver.

It was rather early one afternoon when Jessy called on one of her friends
and found her alone. Mrs. Bendle was a young and impulsive woman from one
of the eastern cities and she had not made many friends in Vancouver yet,
though her husband, whom she had lately married, was a man of some
importance there.

"I'm glad to see you," she said, greeting Jessy eagerly. "It's a week
since anybody has been in to talk to me, and Tom's away again. It's
a trying thing to be the wife of a western business man--you so
seldom see him."

Jessy made herself comfortable in an easy-chair before she referred to
one of her companion's remarks.

"Where has Mr. Bendle gone now?" she asked.

"Into the bush to look at a mine. He left this morning and it will be a
week before he's back. Then he's going across the Selkirks with that
Clavering man about some irrigation scheme."

This suggested one or two questions which Jessy desired to ask, but she
did not frame them immediately. Mrs. Bendle was incautious and
discursive, but there was nothing to be gained by being precipitate.

"It must be dull for you," she sympathized.

"I don't mean to complain. Tom's reasonable; the last time I said
anything about being left alone he bought me a pair of ponies. He said I
could have either them or an automobile, and I took the ponies. I thought
them safer."

Jessy smiled.

"You're fortunate in several ways; there are not a great many people who
can make such presents. But while everybody knows your husband has been
successful lately, I'm a little surprised that he's able to go into
Clavering's irrigation scheme. It's a very expensive one, and I
understand that they intend to confine it to a few, which means that
those interested will have to subscribe handsomely."

"Tom," explained her companion, "likes to have a number of different
things in hand. He told me it was wiser, when I said that I couldn't tell
my friends back East what he really is, because he seemed to be
everything at once. But your brother's interested in a good many things,
too, isn't he?"

"I believe so," answered Jessy. "Still, I'm pretty sure he couldn't
afford to join Clavering and at the same time take up a big block of
shares in Mr. Vane's mine."

"But Tom isn't going to do the latter now."

Jessy was startled. This was valuable information which she could
scarcely have expected to obtain so easily. There was more that she
desired to ascertain, but she had no intention of making any obvious
inquiries.

"It's generally understood that Mr. Vane and your husband are on good
terms," she said. "You know him, don't you?"

"I've met him once or twice, and I like him, but when I mention him Tom
smiles. He says it's unfortunate Mr. Vane can see only one thing at a
time, and that the one which lies right in front of his eyes. For all
that, he once owned that the man is likable."

"Then it's a pity he's unable to stand by him now."

Mrs. Bendle looked thoughtful.

"I really believe Tom's half sorry he can't do so. He said something last
night that suggested it--I can't remember exactly what it was. Of course,
I don't understand much about these matters, but Howitson was here
talking business until late."

Jessy was satisfied. Her hostess's previous incautious admission had gone
a long way, but to this was added the significant information that Bendle
was inclined to be sorry for Vane. The fact that he and Howitson had
decided on some joint action after a long private discussion implied that
there was trouble in store for the absent man, unless he could be
summoned to deal with the crisis in person. Jessy wondered whether Nairn
knew anything about the matter yet, and decided that she would call and
try to sound him. This would be difficult, because Nairn was not the man
to make any rash avowal, and he had an annoying habit of parrying an
injudicious question with an enigmatical smile. In the meanwhile she led
her companion away from the subject and they discussed millinery and such
matters until she took her departure.

It was early in the evening when she reached Nairn's house, for she
thought it better to arrive there a little before he came home. She was
told that Mrs. Nairn and Miss Chisholm were out but were expected back
shortly. Evelyn had been by no means cordial to her since their last
interview, and Mrs. Nairn's manner had been colder; but Jessy decided
to wait; and for the second time that day fortune seemed to play into
her hands.

It was dark outside, but the entrance hall was brightly lighted and Jessy
could see into it from where she sat. Highly trained domestics are
generally scarce in the West, and the maid had left the door of the room
open. Presently there was a knock at the outer door and a young lad came
in with some letters in his hand. He explained to the maid that he had
been to the post-office and had brought his employer's private mail. The
maid pointed out that the top letter looked dirty, and the lad owned that
he had dropped the bundle in the street. Then he withdrew and the maid
laid the letters carelessly on a little table and also retired, banging a
door behind her. The concussion shook down the letters, and one,
fluttering forward with the sudden draught, fell almost upon the
threshold of the room. Jessy, who was methodical in most things, rose to
pick it up and replace it with the rest.

When she reached the door, however, she stopped abruptly, for she
recognized the rather large writing on the envelope. There was no doubt
that it was from Vane and she noticed that it was addressed to Miss
Chisholm. Jessy picked it up, and when she had laid the others on the
table, she stood with Vane's letter in her hand.

"Has the man no pride?" she said half aloud.

Then she looked about her, listening, greatly tempted, and considering.
There was no sound in the house; Evelyn and Mrs. Nairn were out, and the
other occupants were cut off from her by a closed door. Nobody would know
that she had entered the hall, and if the letter were subsequently missed
it would be remembered that the lad had confessed to dropping the bundle.
It was most unlikely, however, that any question regarding its
disappearance would ever be asked. If there should be no response from
Evelyn, Vane, she thought, would not renew his appeal. Jessy had no doubt
that the letter contained an appeal of some kind which might lead to a
reconciliation, and she knew that silence is often more potent than an
outbreak of anger. She had only to destroy the letter, and the breach
between the two people whom she desired to separate would widen
automatically.

There was little risk of detection, but, standing tensely still, with set
lips and heart beating faster than usual, she shrank from the decisive
action. She could still replace the letter and look for other means of
bringing about what she wished. She was self-willed and endowed with few
troublesome principles, but until she had poisoned Evelyn's mind against
Vane she had never done anything flagrantly dishonorable. Then while she
waited, irresolute, a fresh temptation seized her in the shape of a
burning desire to learn what the man had to say. He would reveal his
feelings in the message and she could judge the strength of her rival's
influence over him. Jessy had her ideas on this point, but she could now
see them confirmed or refuted by the man's own words.

Yet she hesitated, with a half-instinctive recognition of the fact that
the decision she must make was an eventful one. She had transgressed
grievously in one recent interview with Evelyn, but, while she had no
idea of making reparation, she could at least stop short of a second
offense. She had, perhaps, not gone too far yet, but if she ventured a
little farther she might be driven on against her will and become
inextricably involved in an entanglement of dishonorable treachery.

The issue hung in the balance--the slightest thing would have turned
the scale--when she heard footsteps outside and the tinkle of a bell.
Moving with a start, she slipped back into the room just before the
maid opened the adjacent door. In another moment she thrust the
envelope inside her dress, and gathered her composure as Mrs. Nairn and
Evelyn entered the hall. The former approached the table and turned
over the handful of letters.

"Two for ye from England, Evelyn, and one or two for me," she said,
flashing a quick glance at the girl. "Nothing else; I had thought Vane
would maybe send a bit note from one of the island ports to say how he
was getting on."

Then Jessy rose, smiling, to greet her hostess. The question was
decided--it was too late to replace the letter now. She could not
remember what they talked about during the next half-hour, but she took
her part, until Nairn came in, and she contrived to have a word with him
before leaving. Mrs. Nairn had gone out to give some instructions about
supper, and when Evelyn followed her, Jessy turned to Nairn.

"Mr. Vane should be at Comox now," she began. "Have you any idea of
recalling him? Of course, I know a little about the Clermont affairs."

Nairn glanced at her with thoughtful eyes.

"I'm no acquainted with any reason that would render such a course
necessary."

Evelyn reappeared shortly after this, and Jessy excused herself from
staying for the evening meal and walked home thinking hard. It was
needful that Vane should be recalled. He had written to Evelyn, but Jessy
still meant to send him word. He would be grateful to her, and, indignant
and wounded as she was, she would not own herself beaten. She would warn
the man, and afterward perhaps allow Nairn to send him a second message.

On reaching her brother's house, she went straight to her own room and
tore open the envelope. The color receded from her face as she read, and
sinking into a chair she sat still with hands clenched. The message was
terse, but it was stirringly candid; and even where the man did not
fully reveal his feelings in his words she could read between the lines.
There was no doubt that he had given his heart unreservedly into her
rival's keeping. He might be separated from her, but Jessy knew enough
of him to realize at last that he would not turn to another. The lurid
truth was burned upon her brain--she might do what she would, but this
man was not for her.

For a while she sat still, and then stooping swiftly she seized the
letter, which she had dropped, and rent it into fragments. Her eyes had
grown hard and cruel; love of the only kind that she was capable of had
suddenly turned to hate. What was more, it was a hate that could be
gratified.

A little later Horsfield came in. Jessy was very composed now, but she
noticed that her brother looked at her in a rather unusual manner once or
twice during the meal that followed.

"You make me feel that you have something on your mind," she observed
at length.

"That's a fact."

Horsfield hesitated. He was attached to and rather proud of his sister.

"Well?" she prompted.

He leaned forward confidentially.

"See here," he said, "I've always imagined that you would go far, and I'm
anxious to see you do so. I shouldn't like you to throw yourself away."

His sister could take a hint, but there was information that she desired
and the man was speaking with unusual reserve.

"You must be plainer," she retorted with a slight show of impatience.

"Then, you have seen a good deal of Vane, and in case you have any
hankering after his scalp, I think I'd better mention that there's reason
to believe he won't be worth powder and shot before very long."

"Ah!" exclaimed Jessy with a calmness that was difficult to assume; "you
may as well understand that there is nothing between Vane and me. I
suppose you mean that Howitson and Bendle are turning against him?"

"Something like that." Horsfield's tone implied that her answer had
afforded him relief. "The man has trouble in front of him."

Jessy changed the subject. What she had gathered from Mrs. Bendle was
fully confirmed; but she had made up her mind. Evelyn's lover might wait
for the warning which could save him, but he should wait in vain.



CHAPTER XXVI

ON THE TRAIL


It was a long, wet sail up the coast with the wind ahead, and Carroll was
quite content when, on reaching Comox, Vane announced his intention of
stopping there until the mail came in. Immediately after its arrival,
Carroll went ashore, and came back empty-handed.

"Nothing," he reported. "Personally, I'm pleased. Nairn could have
advised us here if there had been any striking developments since we left
the last place."

"I wasn't expecting to hear from him," Vane replied tersely.

Carroll read keen disappointment in his face, and was not surprised,
although the absence of any message meant that it was safe for them to go
on with their project and that should have afforded his companion
satisfaction. The latter sat on deck, gazing somewhat moodily across the
ruffled water toward the snow-clad heights of the mainland range. They
towered, dimly white and majestic, above a scarcely-trodden wilderness,
and Carroll, at least, was not pleasantly impressed by the spectacle.
Though not to be expected always, the cold snaps are now and then severe
in those wilds. Indeed, at odd times a frost almost as rigorous as that
of Alaska lays its icy grip upon the mountains and the usually damp
forests at their feet.

"I wish I could have got a man to go with us, but between the coal
development and the logging, everybody's busy," he remarked.

"It doesn't matter," Vane assured him. "If we took a man along and came
back unsuccessful, there'd be a risk of his giving the thing away.
Besides, he might make trouble in other respects. A hired packer would
probably kick against what you and I may have to put up with."

Carroll was far from pleased with this hint, but he let it pass.

"Do you mean that if you don't find the spruce this time, you'll go
back again?"

"Yes, that's my intention. And now we may as well get the mainsail on
her."

They got off shortly afterward and stood out to northward with the wind
still ahead of them. It was a lowering day, and a short, tumbling sea was
running. When late in the afternoon Carroll fixed their position by the
bearing of a peak on the island, he pointed out the small progress they
had made. The sloop was then plunging close-hauled through the vicious
slate-green combers, and thin showers of spray flew all over her.

"The luck's been dead against us ever since we began this search," he
commented.

"Do you believe in that kind of foolishness?" Vane inquired.

Carroll, sitting on the coaming, considered the question. It was not one
of much importance, but the dingy sky and the dreary waste of sad-colored
water had a depressing effect on him, and as it was a solace to talk,
one topic would serve as well as another.

"I think I believe in a rhythmical recurrence of the contrary chance," he
answered. "I mean that the uncertain and adverse possibility often turns
up in succession for a time."

"Then you couldn't call it uncertain."

"You can't tell exactly when the break will come," Carroll explained.
"But if I were a gambler or had other big risks, I think I'd allow for
dangers in triplets."

"Yes," Vane responded; "you could cite the three extra big head seas,
and I've noticed that when one burned tree comes down in a brûlée, it's
quite often followed by two more, though there may be a number just
ready to fall."

He mused for a few moments, with the spray whistling about him. He had
three things at stake: Evelyn's favor; his interest in the Clermont Mine;
and the timber he expected to find. Two of them were undoubtedly
threatened, and he wondered gloomily if he might be bereft of all. Then
he drove the forebodings out of his mind.

"In the present case, anyway, our course is pretty simple," he
declared with a laugh. "We have only to hold out and go on until the
luck changes."

Carroll knew that Vane was capable of doing as he had suggested and he
was not encouraged by the prospect; but he went below to trim and bring
up the lights, and soon afterward retired to get what rest he could. The
locker cushions on which he lay felt unpleasantly damp; his blankets,
which were not much drier, smelt moldy; and there was a dismal splash
and gurgle of water among the timbers of the plunging craft. Now and
then a jet of it shot up between the joints of the flooring or spouted
through the opening made for the lifting-gear in the centerboard trunk.
When he had several times failed to plug the opening with a rag, Carroll
gave it up and shortly afterward fell into fitful slumber.

He was awakened, shivering, by hearing Vane calling him, and scrambling
out into the well, he took the helm as his comrade left it.

"What's her course?" he inquired.

"If you can keep her hammering ahead close-hauled on the port tack,
it's all I ask," Vane laughed. "You needn't call me unless the sea
gets steeper."

He crawled below; and it was a few minutes before Carroll, who was
dazzled by the change from the dim lamplight, felt himself fit for his
task. Fine spray whirled about him. It was pitch dark, but by degrees he
made out the shadowy seas which came charging up, tipped with frothing
white, upon the weather bow. By the way they broke on board it struck him
that they were steep enough already, but Vane had seen them not long ago
and there was nothing to be gained by expostulation if they caused him no
anxiety. Several hours went by, and then Carroll noticed that the faint
crimson blink which sometimes fell upon the seas to weather was no longer
visible. It was evident that the port light had either gone out or been
washed out, and it was his manifest duty to relight it. On the other
hand, he could not do so unless Vane took the helm. He was wet and
chilled through; any fresh effort was distasteful; he did not want to
move; and he decided that they were most unlikely to meet a steamer,
while it was certain that there would be no other yacht about. He left
the lamp alone, and at length Vane came up.

"What's become of the port light?" he demanded.

"That's more than I can tell you. It was burning an hour ago."

"An hour ago!" Vane broke out with disgusted indignation.

"It may have been a little longer. They've stopped the Alaska steamboats
now, but of course there's no reason why you shouldn't light that lamp
again, if it would give you any satisfaction. I'll stay up until you're
through with it."

Vane did as he suggested, and immediately afterward Carroll retired
below. He slept until a pale ray of sunshine crept in through the
skylights, and then crawling out found the sloop lurching very slowly
over a dying swell, with her deck and shaking mainsail white with frost.
The wind had fallen almost dead away, and it was very cold.

"On the whole," he complained, "this is worse than the other thing."

Vane merely told him to get breakfast; and most of that day and the next
one they drifted with the tides through narrowing waters, though now and
then for a few hours they were wafted on by light and fickle winds. At
length, they crept into the inlet where they had landed on the previous
voyage, and on the morning after their arrival they set out on the march.
There was on this occasion reason to expect more rigorous weather, and
the load each carried was an almost crushing one. Where the trees were
thinner the ground was frozen hard, and even in the densest bush the
undergrowth was white and stiff with frost, while overhead a forbidding
gray sky hung.

On approaching the rift in the hillside at which he had glanced when they
first passed that way, Vane stopped a moment.

"I looked into that place before, but it didn't seem worth while to
follow it up," he said. "If you'll wait, I'll go a little farther
along it."

Though the air was nipping, Carroll was content to remain where he was,
and he spent some time sitting upon a log before a faint shout reached
him. Then he rose and, making his way up the hollow, found his comrade
standing upon a jutting ledge.

"I thought you were never coming! Climb up; I've something to show you!"

Carroll joined him with difficulty, and Vane stretched out his hand.

"Look yonder!"

Carroll looked and started. They stood in a rocky gateway with a river
brawling down the chasm beneath them, but a valley opened up in front.
Filled with somber forest, it ran back almost straight between stupendous
walls of hills.

"It answers Hartley's description. After all, I don't think it's
extraordinary that we should have taken so much trouble to push on past
the right place."

"Why?"

Carroll sat down and filled his pipe.

"It's the natural result of possessing a temperament like yours. Somehow,
you've got it firmly fixed into your mind that everything worth doing
must be hard."

"I've generally found it so."

"I think," grinned Carroll, "you've generally made it so. There's a
marked difference between the two. If any means of doing a thing looks
easy, you at once conclude that it can't be the right one. That mode of
reasoning has never appealed to me. In my opinion, it's more sensible to
try the easiest method first."

"As a rule, that leads to your having to fall back upon the other one;
and a frontal attack on a difficulty's often quicker than considering how
you can work round its flank. In this case, I'll own we have wasted a lot
of time and taken a good deal of trouble that might have been avoided.
But are you going to sit here and smoke?"

"Until I've finished my pipe," Carroll answered firmly. "I expect we'll
find tobacco, among other things, getting pretty scarce before this
expedition ends."

He carried out his intention, and they afterward pushed on up the valley
during the remainder of the day. It grew more level as they proceeded,
and in spite of the frost, which bound the feeding snows, there was a
steady flow of water down the river, which was free from rocky barriers.
Vane now and then glanced at the river attentively, and when dusk was
drawing near he stopped and fixed his gaze on the long ranks of trees
that stretched away in front of him; fretted spires of somber greenery
lifted high above a colonnade of mighty trunks.

"Does anything in connection with this bush strike you?" he asked.

"Its stiffness, if that's what you mean," Carroll answered with a smile.
"These big conifers look as if they'd been carved, like the wooden trees
in the Swiss or German toys. They're impressive in a way, but they're
too formally artificial."

"That's not what I mean," Vane said impatiently.

"To tell the truth, I didn't suppose it was. Anyway, these trees aren't
spruce. They're red cedar; the stuff they make roofing shingles of."

"Precisely. Just now, shingles are in good demand in the Province, and
with the wooden towns springing up on the prairie, western millers can
hardly send roofing material across the Rockies fast enough. Besides
this, I haven't struck a creek more adapted for running down logs, and
the last sharp drop to tide-water would give power for a mill. I'm
only puzzled that none of the timber-lease prospectors have recorded
the place."

"That's easy to understand," laughed Carroll. "Like you, they'd no doubt
first search the most difficult spots to get at."

They went on, and when darkness fell they pitched their light tent beside
the creek. It was now freezing hard, and after supper the men lay
smoking, wrapped in blankets, with the tent between them and the stinging
wind, while a great fire of cedar branches snapped and roared in front of
them. Sometimes the red blaze shot up, flinging a lurid light on the
stately trunks and tinging the men's faces with the hue of burnished
copper; sometimes it fanned out away from them while the sparks drove
along the frozen ground and the great forest aisle, growing dim, was
filled with drifting vapor. The latter was aromatic; pungently fragrant.

"It struck me that you were disappointed when you got no mail at
Comox," Carroll remarked at length, feeling that he was making
something of a venture.

"I was," admitted Vane.

"That's strange," Carroll persisted, "because your hearing nothing
from Nairn left you free to go ahead, which, one would suppose, was
what you wanted."

Vane happened to be in a confidential mood; though usually averse to
sharing his troubles, he felt that he needed sympathy.

"I'd better confess that I wrote Miss Chisholm a few lines from Nanaimo."

"And she didn't answer you? Now, I couldn't well help noticing that you
were rather in her bad graces that night at Nairn's--the thing was pretty
obvious. No doubt you're acquainted with the reason?"

"I'm not. That's just the trouble."

Carroll reflected. He had an idea that Miss Horsfield was somehow
connected with the matter, but this was a suspicion he could not mention.

"Well," he said, "as I pointed out, you're addicted to taking the hardest
way. When we came up here before, you marched past this valley, chiefly
because it was close at hand; but I don't want to dwell on that. Has it
occurred to you that you did something of the same kind when you were at
the Dene? The way that was then offered you was easy."

Vane frowned.

"That is not the kind of subject one cares to talk about; but you ought
to know that I couldn't allow them to force Miss Chisholm upon me against
her will. It was unthinkable! Besides, looking at it in the most
cold-blooded manner, it would have been foolishness, for which we'd both
have had to pay afterward."

"I'm not so sure of that," Carroll smiled. "There were the Sabine women,
among other instances. Didn't they cut off their hair to make bowstring
for their abductors?"

His companion made no comment, and Carroll, deciding that he had ventured
as far as was prudent, talked of something else until they crept into the
little tent and soon fell asleep.

They started with the first of the daylight, but the timber grew denser
and more choked with underbrush as they proceeded and for a day or two
they wearily struggled through it and the clogging masses of tangled,
withered fern. Besides this, they were forced to clamber over mazes of
fallen trunks, when the ragged ends of the snapped-off branches caught
their loads. Their shoulders ached, their boots were ripped, their feet
were badly galled; but they held on stubbornly, plunging deeper into the
mountains all the while. It would probably overcome the average man if he
were compelled to carry all the provisions he needed for a week along a
well-kept road, but the task of the prospector and the survey packer, who
must transport also an ax, cooking utensils and whatever protection he
requires from the weather, through almost impenetrable thickets, is
infinitely more difficult.

Vane and Carroll were more or less used to it, but both of them were
badly jaded when soon after setting out one morning they climbed a
clearer hillside to look about them. High up ahead, the crest of the
white range gleamed dazzlingly against leaden clouds in a burst of
sunshine; below, dark forest, still wrapped in gloom, filled all the
valley; and in between, a belt of timber touched by the light shone with
a curious silvery luster. Though it was some distance off, probably a
day's journey allowing for the difficulty of the march, Vane gazed at it
earnestly. The trees were bare--there was no doubt of that, for the
dwindling ranks, diminished by the distance, stood out against the
snow-streaked rock like rows of thick needles set upright; their
straightness and the way they glistened suggested the resemblance.

"Ominous, isn't it?" Carroll suggested at length. "If this is the valley
Hartley came down--and everything points to that--we should be getting
near the spruce."

Vane's face grew set.

"Yes," he agreed. "There has been a big fire up yonder; but whether it
has swept the lower ground or not is more than I can tell. We'll find out
to-night or early to-morrow."

He swung round without another word, and scrambling down the hillside
they resumed the march. They pushed on all that day rather faster than
before, with the same uncertainty troubling both of them. Forest fires
are common in that region when there is a hot dry fall; and where, as
often happens, a deep valley forms a natural channel for the winds that
fan them, they travel far, stripping and charring the surface of every
tree in their way. Neither of the men thought of stopping for a noonday
meal, and during the gloomy afternoon, when dingy clouds rolled down from
the peaks, they plodded forward with growing impatience. They could see
scarcely a hundred yards in front of them; dense withering thickets
choked up the spaces between the towering trunks; and there was nothing
to indicate that they were nearing the burned area when at last they
pitched their camp as darkness fell.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE END OF THE SEARCH


The two men made a hurried breakfast in the cold dawn, and soon afterward
they were struggling through thick timber when the light suddenly grew
clearer. Carroll remarked upon the fact and Vane's face hardened.

"We're either coming to a swamp, or the track the fire has swept is close
in front," he explained.

A thicket lay before them, but they smashed savagely through the midst of
it, the undergrowth snapping and crackling about their limbs. Then there
was a network of tangled branches to be crossed, and afterward, reaching
slightly clearer ground, they broke into a run. Three or four minutes
later they stopped, breathless and ragged, with their rent boots scarcely
clinging to their feet, and gazed eagerly about.

The living forest rose behind them, an almost unbroken wall, but ahead
the trees ran up in detached and blackened spires. Their branches had
vanished; every cluster of somber-green needles and delicate spray had
gone; the great rampicks looked like shafts of charcoal. About their feet
lay crumbling masses of calcined wood, which grew more numerous where
there were open spaces farther on, and then the bare, black columns ran
on again, up the valley and the steep hill benches on either hand. It was
a weird scene of desolation; impressive to the point of being appalling
in its suggestiveness of wide-spread ruin.

For the space of a minute the men gazed at it; and then Vane, stretching
out his hand, pointed to a snow-sheeted hill.

"That's the peak Hartley mentioned," he said in a voice which was
strangely incisive. "Give me the ax!"

He took it from his comrade and striding forward attacked the nearest
rampick. Twice the keen blade sank noiselessly overhead, scattering a
black dust in the frosty air, and then there was a clear, ringing thud.
After that, Vane smote on with a determined methodical swiftness, until
Carroll grabbed his shoulder.

"Look out!" he cried. "It's going!"

Vane stepped back a few paces; the trunk reeled and rushed downward;
there was a deafening crash, and they were enveloped in a cloud of gritty
dust. Through the midst of it they dimly saw two more great trunks
collapse; and then somewhere up the valley a series of thundering shocks,
which both knew were not echoes, broke out. The sound jarred on Carroll's
nerves, as the thud of the felled rampick had not done. Vane picked up
one of the chips.

"We have found Hartley's spruce."

Carroll did not answer for a minute. After all, when defeat must be
faced, there was very little to be said, though his companion's
expression troubled him. Its grim stolidity was portentous.

"I suppose," he suggested hopefully, "nothing could be done with it?"

Vane pointed to the butt of the tree, which showed a space of clear wood
surrounded by a blackened rim.

"You can't make marketable pulp of charcoal, and the price would have to
run pretty high before it would pay for ripping most of the log away to
get at the residue.

"But there may be some unburned spruce farther on."

"It's possible. I'm going to find out."

This was a logical determination; but, in spite of his recent suggestion,
Carroll realized that he would have abandoned the search there and then,
had the choice been left to him, in which he did not think he was
singular. After all they had undergone and the risk they had run in
leaving Vancouver, the shock of the disappointment was severe. He could
have faced a failure to locate the spruce, with some degree of
philosophical calm; but to find it at last, useless, was very much worse.
He did not, however, expect his companion to turn back yet; before he
desisted, Vane would search for and examine every unburned tree. What was
more, Carroll would have to accompany him. He noticed that Vane was
waiting for him to speak, and he decided that this was a situation which
he would better endeavor to treat lightly.

"I think I'll have a smoke," he said. "I'm afraid any remarks I could
make wouldn't do justice to the occasion. Language has its limits."

He sat down on the charred log and took out his pipe.

"A brûlée's not a nice place to wander about in when there's any wind,"
he proceeded; "and I've an idea there's some coming, though it's still
enough now."

Shut in, as they were, in the deep hollow with the towering snows above
them, it was impressively still; and, in conjunction with the sight of
the black desolation, the deep silence reacted on Carroll's nerves. He
longed to escape from it, to make a noise; though this, if done
unguardedly, might bring more of the rampicks thundering down. He could
hear tiny flakes of charcoal falling from them and, though the fire had
long gone out, a faint and curious crackling, as if the dead embers were
stirring. He wondered if it were some effect of the frost; it struck him
as disturbing and weird.

"We'll work right round the brûlée," Vane decided. "Then I suppose we'd
better head back for Vancouver, though we'll look at that cedar as we
go down. Something might be made of it--I'm not sure we've thrown our
time away."

"You'd never be sure of that. It isn't in you."

Vane disregarded this. A new, constructive policy was already springing
up out of the wreck of his previous plans.

"There's a good mill site on the inlet, but as it's a long way from the
railroad we'll have to determine whether it would be cheaper to tow the
logs down or split them up on the spot. I'll talk it over with Drayton;
he'll no doubt be useful, and there's no reason why he shouldn't earn
his share."

"Do you consider that the arrangement you made with Hartley applies to
the cedar?" Carroll asked.

"Of course. I don't know that the other parties could insist on the
original terms--we can discuss that later; but, though it may be
modified, the arrangement stands."

His companion considered the matter dispassionately, as an abstract
proposition. Here was a man, who in return for certain information
respecting the whereabouts of a marketable commodity had undertaken to
find and share it with his informant. The commodity had proved to be
valueless, but during the search for it he had incidentally discovered
something else. Was he under any obligation to share the latter with his
informant's heirs?

Carroll decided that the question could be answered only in the negative;
but he had no intention of disputing his comrade's point of view. In the
first place, this would probably make Vane only more determined or would
ruffle his temper; and, in the second place, Carroll was neither a
covetous man nor an ambitious one, which, perhaps, was fortunate for him.
Ambition, the mother of steadfast industry and heroic effort, has also a
less reputable progeny.

Vane, as his partner realized, was ambitious; but in place of aspiring
after wealth or social prominence, his was a different aim: to rend the
hidden minerals from the hills, to turn forests into dressed lumber, to
make something grow. Money is often, though not always, made that way;
but, while Vane affected no contempt for it, in his case its acquisition
was undoubtedly not the end. Fortunately, he was not altogether singular
in this respect.

When he next spoke, however, there was no hint of altruistic sentiment in
his curt inquiry:

"Are you going to sit there until you freeze?"

Carroll got up and they spent the remainder of the day plodding through
the brûlée, with the result that when darkness fell Vane had abandoned
all idea of working the spruce. The next morning they set out for the
inlet, and one afternoon during the journey they came upon several fallen
logs lying athwart each other with their branches spread in an almost
impenetrable tangle. Vane proceeded to walk along one log, which was
tilted up several yards above the ground, balancing himself carefully
upon the rounded surface, and Carroll followed cautiously. Suddenly there
was a sharp snapping, and Vane plunged headlong into the tangle beneath,
while Carroll stood still and laughed. It was not an uncommon accident.

Vane, however, did not reappear; nor was there any movement among the
half-rotten boughs and withered sprays, and Carroll, moving forward
hastily, looked down into the hole. He was disagreeably surprised to see
his comrade lying, rather white in face, upon his side.

"I'm afraid you'll have to chop me out," came up hoarsely. "Get to work.
I can't move my leg."

Moving farther along the log, Carroll dropped to the ground, which was
less encumbered there, and spent the next quarter of an hour hewing a
passage to his comrade. Then as he stood beside him, hot and panting,
Vane looked up.

"It's my lower leg; the left," he explained. "Bone's broken; I
felt it snap."

Carroll turned from him for a moment in consternation. Looking out
between the branches, he could see the lonely hills tower, pitilessly
white, against the blue of the frosty sky, and the rigid firs running
back as far as his vision reached upon their lower slopes. There was no
touch of life in all the picture; everything was silent and absolutely
motionless, and its desolation came near to appalling him. When he looked
around again, Vane smiled wryly.

"If this had happened farther north, it would have been the end of me,"
he said. "As it is, it's awkward."

The word struck Carroll as singularly inexpressive, but he made an effort
to gather his courage when his companion broke off with a groan of pain.

"It's lucky we helped that doctor when he set Pete's leg at Bryant's
mill," he declared cheerily. "Can you wait a few minutes?"

Vane's face was beaded with damp now, but he tried to smile.

"It strikes me," he answered, "I'll have to wait a mighty long time."

Carroll turned and left him. He was afraid to stand still and think, and
action was a relief. It was some time before he returned with several
strips of fabric cut from the tent curtain, and the neatest splints he
could extemporize from slabs of stripped-off bark; and the next half-hour
was a trying one to both of them. Sometimes Vane assisted him with
suggestions--once he reviled his clumsiness--and sometimes he lay silent
with his face awry and his lips tight silent; but at length it was done
and Carroll stood up, breathing hard.

"I'll fasten you on to a couple of skids and pull you out. Then I'll make
camp here."

He managed it with difficulty, pitched the tent above Vane, whom he
covered with their blankets, and made a fire outside.

"Are you comfortable now?" he inquired.

Vane looked up at him with a somewhat ghastly smile.

"I suppose I'm about as comfortable as could be expected. Anyhow, I've
got to get used to the thing. Six weeks is the shortest limit, isn't it?"

Carroll confessed that he did not know, and presently Vane spoke again.

"It's lucky that the winters aren't often very cold near the coast."

The temperature struck Carroll as low enough, but he made no comment. To
his disgust, he could think of no cheering observation, for there was no
doubt that the situation was serious. They were cut off from the sloop by
leagues of tangled forest which a vigorous man would find it difficult to
traverse, and it would be weeks before Vane could use his leg; no human
assistance could be looked for; and they had only a small quantity of
provisions left. Besides this, it would not be easy to keep the sufferer
warm in rigorous weather.

"I'll get supper. You'll feel better afterward," he said at length.

"Don't be too liberal," Vane warned him.

After the meal, Vane fell into a restless doze, and it was dark when he
opened his eyes again.

"I can't sleep any more, and we may as well talk--there are things to be
arranged. In the first place, as soon as I feel a little easier you'll
have to sail across to Comox and hire some men to pack me out. When
you've sent them off, you can make for Vancouver and get a timber license
and find out how matters are going on."

"That is quite out of the question," Carroll replied firmly. "Nairn can
look after our mining interests--he's a capable man--and if the thing's
too much for him, they can go to smash. Besides, they won't give you a
timber license without full particulars of area and limits, and we've
blazed no boundaries. Anyhow, I'm staying right here."

Vane began to protest, but Carroll raised his hand.

"Argument's not conducive to recovery. You're on your back,
unfortunately, and I'll give way to you as usual as soon as you're on
your feet again, but not before."

"I'd better point out that we'll both be hungry by that time. The
provisions won't last long."

"Then I'll look for a deer as soon as I think you can be left. And now
we'll try to talk of something more amusing."

"Can you see anything humorous in the situation?"

"I can't," Carroll confessed. "Still, there may be something of that
description which I haven't noticed yet. By the way, the last time we
were at Nairn's I happened to cross the room near where you and Miss
Horsfield were sitting, and I heard her ask you to wait for something at
Nanaimo or Comox. It struck me as curious."

"She told me to wait so that she could send me word to come back, if it
should be needful."

"Ah!" ejaculated Carroll. "I won't ask why she was willing to do so--it
concerns you more than me--but I think that as regards your interests in
the Clermont a warning from her would be worth as much as one from Nairn;
that is, if she could be depended on."

"Have you any doubt upon the subject?"

Carroll made a soothing gesture.

"Don't get angry! Perhaps I've talked too much. We have to think of
your leg."

"I'm not likely to forget it," Vane informed him. "But I dare say you're
right in one respect--as an amusing companion you're a dead failure; and
talking isn't as easy as I thought."

He lay silent afterward, and though he had disclaimed any desire for
sleep, worn by the march and pain as he was, his eyes presently closed.
Carroll, however, sat long awake that night, and he afterward confessed
that he felt badly afraid. Deer are by no means numerous in some parts of
the bush--they had not seen one during the journey; and it was a long way
to the sloop.

Once or twice, for no obvious reason, he drew aside the tent flap and
looked out. The sky was cloudless and darkly blue, and a sickle moon
gleamed in it, keen and clear with frost. Below, the hills were washed in
silver, majestic, but utterly cheerless; and lower still the serrated
tops of the rigid firs cut against the dreary whiteness. After each
glimpse of them, Carroll drew his blanket tighter round him with a
shiver. Very shortly, when the little flour and pork was gone and their
few cartridges had been expended, he would be reduced to the condition of
primitive man. Cut off from all other resources, he must then wrest what
means of subsistence he could from the snowy wilderness by brute strength
and cunning and such instruments as he could make with his unassisted
hands, except that an ax of Pennsylvania steel was better than a stone
one. Civilization has its compensations, and Carroll longed for a few
more of them that night.

On rising the next morning, he found the frost keener, and he spent that
day and a number of those that followed in growing anxiety, which was
only temporarily lessened when he once succeeded in killing a deer. There
was almost a dearth of animal life in the lonely valley. Sometimes, at
first, Vane was feverish; often he was irritable; and the recollection of
the three or four weeks he spent with him afterward haunted Carroll like
a nightmare. At last, when he had spent several days in vain search for a
deer and the provisions were almost exhausted, he and his companion held
a council of emergency.

"There's no use in arguing," Vane declared. "You'll rig me a shelter of
green boughs outside the tent and close to the fire. I can move from the
waist upward and, if it's necessary, drag myself with my hands. Then you
can chop enough cord-wood to last a while, cook my share of the eatables,
and leave me while you go down to the sloop. There's half a bag of flour
on board her, and a few other things I'd be uncommonly glad to have."

Carroll expostulated; but it was evident that his companion was right,
and the next morning he started for the inlet, taking with him the
smallest possible portion of their provisions. So long as he had enough
to keep him from fainting on the way, it was all he required, because he
could renew his stores on board the sloop. The weather broke during the
march; driving snow followed him down the valley, and by and by gave
place to bitter rain. The withered underbrush was saturated, the soil was
soddened with melting snow, and after the first scanty meal or two the
man dare risk no delay. He felt himself flagging from insufficient food,
and it was obvious that he must reach the sloop before he broke down. He
had tobacco, but that failed to stay the gnawing pangs, and before the
march was done he was on the verge of exhaustion, forcing himself onward,
drenched and grim of face, scarcely able to keep upon his bleeding feet.

It was falling dusk and blowing fresh when he limped down the beach and
with a last effort launched the light dingy and pulled off to the sloop.
She rode rather deep in the water, but that did not trouble him. Most
wooden craft leak more or less, and it was a considerable time since he
had pumped her out. Clambering wearily on board, he made the dingy fast;
and then stood still a moment or two, looking about him with his hand on
the cabin slide. Thin flakes of snow drifted past him; the firs were
rustling eerily ashore, and ragged wisps of cloud drove by low down
above their tops. Little frothy ripples flecked the darkening water with
streaks of white and splashed angrily against the bows of the craft. The
prospect was oppressively dreary, and the worn-out man was glad that he
was at last in shelter and could snatch a few hours' rest.

Thrusting back the slide, he stepped below and lighted the lamp. The
brightening glow showed him that the boat's starboard side was wet high
up, and though there was a good deal of water in her, this puzzled him
until an explanation suggested itself. They had moored the craft
carefully, but he supposed she must have dragged her anchor or kedge and
swung in near enough the shore to ground toward low tide. Then as the
tide left her she would fall over on her starboard bilge, because they
had lashed the heavy boom down on that side, and the water in her would
cover the depressed portion of her interior. This reasoning was probably
correct; but he did not foresee the result until, after lighting the
stove and putting on the kettle, he opened the provision locker, which
was to starboard. Then he saw with a shock of dismay that the stock of
food they had counted on was ruined. The periodically-submerged flour-bag
had rotted and burst, and most of its contents had run out into the water
as the boat righted with the rising tide; the prepared cereals, purchased
to save cooking, had turned to moldy pulp; and the few other stores were
in much the same condition. There were only two sound cans of beef and a
few ounces of unspoiled tea in a canister.

Carroll's courage failed him as he realized it, but he felt that he must
eat and sleep before he could grapple with the situation. He would allow
himself a scanty meal and a few hours' rest. While the kettle boiled, he
crawled out and shortened in the cable and plied the pump. Then he went
below and feasted on preserved beef and tea, gaging the size of each
slice with anxious care, until he reluctantly laid the can aside. After
that, he filled his pipe and stretching his aching limbs out on the port
locker, which was comparatively dry, soon sank into heavy sleep.



CHAPTER XXVIII

CARROLL SEEKS HELP


Carroll slept for several hours before he awakened and sat up on the
locker, shivering. He had left the hatch slightly open, and a confused
uproar reached him from outside; the wail of wind-tossed trees; the
furious splash of ripples against the bows; and the drumming of the
halyards upon the mast. There was no doubt that it was blowing hard, but
the wind was off the land and the sloop in shelter.

Filling his pipe, he set himself to think, and promptly decided that it
would have been better had he gone down to the sloop in the beginning,
before the provisions had been spoiled. A natural reluctance to leave his
helpless companion had mainly prevented him from doing this, but he had
also been encouraged by the possibility of obtaining a deer now and then.
It was clear that he had made a mistake in remaining, but it was not the
first time he had done so, and the point was unimportant. The burning
question was--what should he do now.

It would obviously be useless to go back with rations that would barely
suffice for the march. Vane still had food enough to keep life in one man
for a little while, and it would not be a long run to Comox with a strong
northerly wind. If the sloop would face the sea that was running he might
return with assistance before his comrade's scanty store was exhausted.
Getting out the mildewed chart, he laid off his course, carefully trimmed
and lighted the binnacle lamp, and going up on deck hauled in the
kedge-anchor. He could not break the main one out, though he worked
savagely with a tackle, and deciding to slip it, he managed to lash three
reefs in the mainsail and hoist it with the peak left down. Then he
stopped to gather breath--for the work had been cruelly heavy--before he
let the cable run and hoisted the jib.

She paid off when he put up his helm, and the black loom of trees ashore
vanished. He thought that he could find his way out of the inlet, but he
knew that he had done so only when the angry ripples that splashed about
the boat suddenly changed to confused tumbling combers. They foamed up in
quick succession on her quarter, but he fancied she would withstand their
onslaught so long as he could prevent her from screwing up to windward
when she lifted. It would need constant care, and if he failed, the next
comber would, no doubt, break on board. His task was one that would have
taxed the vigilance of a strong, well-fed man, and Carroll had already
nearly reached the limit of his powers.

His case, however, was by no means an unusual one. The cost of the
subjugation of the wilderness is the endurance of hunger and thirst, cold
and crushing fatigue; and somebody pays, to the utmost farthing. Carroll
sitting, drenched, strung up and hungry, at the helm, was merely playing
his part in the struggle, though he found it cruelly difficult.

It was pitch dark, but he must gaze ahead and guess the track of the
pursuing seas by the angle of the spouting white ridge abreast of the
weather shrouds. He had a compass, but when his course did not coincide
with safety it must be disregarded. The one essential thing was to keep
the sloop on top, and to do so he had frequently to let her fall off
dead before the mad white combers that leaped out of the dark. By and by
his arms began to ache from the strain of the tiller, and his wet
fingers grew stiff and claw-like. The nervous strain was also telling,
but that could not be helped; he must keep the craft before the sea or
go down with her. There was one consolation; she was traveling at a
furious speed.

At length, morning broke, gray and lowering, over a leaden sea that was
seamed with white. Carroll glanced longingly at the meat can on the
locker near his feet. He could reach it by stooping, though he dare not
leave the helm, but he determined to wait until noon before he broke his
fast again. It could not be very far to Comox, but the wind might drop.
Then he began to wonder how he had escaped the perils of the night. He
had come down what was really a wide and not quite straight sound,
passing several unlighted islands. Before starting, he had decided that
he would run so far, and then change his course a point or two, but he
could not be sure that he had done so. He had a hazy recollection of
seeing surf, and once a faint loom of land, but he supposed that he had
avoided it half-consciously or that chance had favored him.

In the afternoon, the wind changed a little, backing to the northwest;
the sky grew brighter, and Carroll made out shadowy land over his
starboard quarter. Soon he recognized it with a start. It was the high
ridge north of Comox. He had run farther than he had expected, and he
must try to hoist the peak of the mainsail and haul her on the wind.
There was danger in rounding her up, but it must be faced, though a sea
foamed across her as he put down his helm. Another followed, but he
scrambled forward and struggled desperately to hoist the down-hanging
gaff. The halyards were swollen; and he could scarcely keep his footing
on the deluged deck that slanted steeply under him. He thought he could
have mastered the banging canvas had he been fresh; but worn out as he
was, drenched with spray and buffeted by the shattered tops of the seas,
the task was beyond his power. Giving it up, he staggered back,
breathless and almost nerveless, to the helm.

He could not reach Comox, which lay to windward, with the sail half set,
but it was only seventy miles or so to Nanaimo and not much farther to
Vancouver. The breeze would be fair to either, and he could charter a
launch or tug for the return journey. Letting her go before the sea
again, he ate some canned meat ravenously, tearing it with one hand.

During the afternoon, a gray mass rose out of the water to port and he
supposed it was Texada. There were mines on the island and he might be
able to engage a rescue party; but he reflected that he could not beat
the sloop back to windward unless the breeze fell, which it showed no
signs of doing. It would be more prudent to go on to Vancouver, where he
would be sure of getting a steamer; but he closed with the long island a
little, and dusk was falling when he made out a boat in the partial
shelter of a bight. Standing in closer, he saw that there were two men on
the craft, and driving down upon her he backed and ran alongside. There
was a crash as he struck the boat and an astonished and angry man
clutched the sloop's rail.

"Now what in the name of thunder--" he began and stopped, struck by
Carroll's haggard and ragged appearance.

"Can you take this sloop to Vancouver?" Carroll asked hoarsely.

"I could if it was worth while," was the cautious answer. "It will be a
mighty wet run."

"Seven dollars a day, until you're home again. A bonus, if you can sail
her with the whole reefed mainsail up--I won't stick at a few dollars.
Can your partner pull that boat ashore alone? If not, cast her adrift;
I'll buy her."

"He'll make the beach," returned the other, jumping on board. "Seven
dollars sounds a square deal. I won't put the screw on you."

"Then help me hoist the peak. After that, you can take the helm; I'm
played out."

The man shouted something to his companion and then seized the halyards,
and the sloop drove on again, furiously, with an increased spread of
canvas, while Carroll stood holding on by the coaming until the boat
dropped back.

"I'll leave you to it," he told the new helmsman, "It's twenty-four hours
since I've had more than a bite or two of food, and some weeks since I
had a decent meal."

"You look it. Been up against it somewhere?"

Carroll, without replying, crawled below and managed to light the stove
and make a kettleful of tea. He drank a good deal of it, and nearly
emptied the remaining small meat can, which he presently held out for the
helmsman's inspection, standing beneath the hatch.

"There's some tea left, but this is all there is to eat on board the
craft," he said. "You're hired to take her to Vancouver--you'd better get
there as quick as you can."

The bronzed helmsman nodded.

"She won't be long on the way if the mast holds up."

"Have you seen any papers lately?" Carroll inquired. "I've been up in the
bush and I'm interested in the Clermont Mine. It looked as if there might
be some changes in the company's prospects when I went away."

"I noticed a bit about it in the _Colonist_ a while back. The
company sold out to another concern, or amalgamated with it; I don't
remember which."

Carroll was not astonished. The news implied that he must be prepared to
face a more or less serious financial reverse, and it struck him as a
fitting climax to his misadventures.

"It's pretty much what I expected," he said. "I'm going to sleep and I
don't want to be wakened before it's necessary."

He crawled below, and he had hardly stretched himself out upon the locker
before his eyes closed. When he opened them, feeling more like his usual
self, he saw that the sun was above the horizon, and he recognized by the
boat's motion that the wind had fallen. Going out he found her driving
through the water under her whole mainsail and the helmsman sitting
stolidly at the tiller. The man stretched out a hand and pointed to the
hazy hills to port.

"We'll fetch the Narrows some time before noon. If you'll take the helm,
I guess we'll half that meat for breakfast"

His prediction proved correct, for Carroll reached his hotel about
midday, and hastily changing his clothes set off to call on Nairn. He had
not yet recovered his mental equipoise and, in spite of his long, sound
sleep, he was still badly jaded physically. On arriving at the house, he
was shown into a room where Mrs. Nairn and her husband were sitting with
Evelyn, waiting for the midday meal The elder lady rose with a start of
astonishment when he walked in.

"Man," she cried, "what's wrong? Ye're looking like a ghost."

It was not an inapt description. Carroll's face was worn and haggard, and
his clothes hung slack upon him.

"I've been feeling rather unsubstantial of late, as the result of
a restricted diet," he answered with a smile sinking into the
nearest chair.

Nairn regarded him with carefully suppressed curiosity.

"Ye're over lang in coming," he remarked. "Where left ye your partner?"

Carroll sat silent a moment or two, his eyes fixed on Evelyn. It was
evident that his sudden appearance unaccompanied by Vane, which he felt
had been undesirably dramatic, had alarmed her. At first, he felt
compassionate, and then he was suddenly possessed by hot indignation.
This girl, with her narrow prudish notions and dispassionate nature, had
presumed to condemn his comrade, unheard, for an imaginary offense. The
thing was at once ludicrous and intolerable; if his news brought her
dismay, let her suffer. His nerves, it must be remembered, were not in
their normal condition.

"Yes," he said, in answer to his host's first remark; "I've gathered that
we have failed to save the situation. But I don't know exactly what has
happened. You had better tell me."

Mrs. Nairn made a sign of protest, but her husband glanced at her
restrainingly.

"Ye will hear his news in good time," he informed her, and then turned to
Carroll. "In a few words, the capital was no subscribed--it leaked out
that the ore was running poor--and we held an emergency meeting. With
Vane away, I could put no confidence into the shareholders--they were
anxious to get from under--and Horsfield brought forward an amalgamation
scheme: A combine would take the property over, on their valuation. I and
a few others were outvoted; the scheme went through; and when the
announcement steadied the stock, which had been tumbling down, I
exercised the authority given me and sold your shares and Vane's at
considerably less than their face value. Ye can have particulars later.
What I have to ask now is--where is Vane?"

The man's voice grew sharp; the question was flung out like an
accusation; but Carroll still looked at Evelyn. He felt very bitter
against her; he would not soften the blow.

"I left him in the bush, with no more than a few days' provisions and a
broken leg," he announced.

Then, in spite of Evelyn's efforts to retain her composure, her face
blanched. Carroll's anger vanished, because the truth was clear. Vane had
triumphed through disaster; his peril and ruin had swept his offenses
away. The girl, who had condemned him in his prosperity, would not turn
from him in misfortune. In the meanwhile the others sat silent, gazing at
the bearer of evil news, until he spoke again.

"I want a tug to take me back, at once, if she can be got. I'll pick up a
few men along the waterfront."

Nairn rose and went out of the room. The tinkle of a telephone bell
reached those who remained, and a minute or two later he came back.

"I've sent Whitney round," he explained. "He'll come across if there's a
boat to be had, and now ye look as if ye needed lunch."

"It's several weeks since I had one," Carroll smiled.

The meal was brought in, but for a while he talked as well as ate,
relating his adventures in somewhat disjointed fragments, while the
others sat listening eagerly. He was also pleased to notice something
which suggested returning confidence in him in Evelyn's intent eyes as
the tale proceeded. When at last he had made the matter clear, he added:

"If I keep you waiting, you'll excuse me."

His hostess watched his subsequent efforts with candid approval, and
looking up once or twice, he saw sympathy in the girl's face, instead of
the astonishment or disgust he had half expected. When he finished, his
hostess rose and Carroll stood up, but Nairn motioned to him to resume
his place.

"I'm thinking ye had better sit still a while and smoke," he said.

Carroll was glad to do so, and they conferred together until Nairn was
called to the telephone.

"Ye can have the Brodick boat at noon to-morrow," he reported on
his return.

"That won't do," Carroll objected heavily. "Send Whitney round again; I
must sail to-night."

He had some difficulty in getting out the words, and when he rose his
eyes were half closed. Walking unsteadily, he crossed the room and sank
onto a big lounge.

"I think," he added, "if you don't mind, I'll go to sleep."

Nairn merely nodded, and when he went silently out of the room a minute
or two afterward, the worn-out man was already wrapped in profound
slumber. Nairn just then received another call by telephone and left in
haste for his office without speaking to his wife, with the result that
Mrs. Nairn and Evelyn, returning to the room in search of Carroll, found
him lying still. The elder lady raised her hand in warning as she bent
over the sleeper, and then taking up a light rug spread it gently over
him. Evelyn, too, was stirred to sudden pity, for the man's attitude was
eloquent of exhaustion. They withdrew softly and had reached the corridor
outside when Mrs. Nairn turned to the girl.

"When he first came in, ye blamed that man for deserting his
partner," she said.

Evelyn confessed it and her hostess smiled meaningly.

"Are ye no rather too ready to blame?"

"I'm afraid I am," Evelyn admitted, with the color creeping into her
face as she remembered another instance in which she had condemned a
man hastily.

"In this case, ye were very foolish. The man came down for help, and if
he could no get it, he would go back his lone, if all the way was barred
with ice and he must walk on his naked feet. Love of woman's strong and
the fear of death is keen, but ye will find now and then a faith between
man and man that neither would sever." She paused and looked at the girl
fixedly as she asked: "What of him that could inspire it?"

Evelyn did not answer. She had never seen her hostess in this mood, and
she also was stirred; but the elder lady went on again:

"The virtue of a gift lies in part, but no altogether, with the giver.
Whiles, it may be bestowed unworthily, but I'm thinking it's no often.
The bond that will drag Carroll back to the North again, to his death, if
need be, has no been spun from nothing."

Evelyn had no doubt that Mrs. Nairn was right. Loyalty, most often,
demanded a worthy object to tender service to; it sprang from implicit
confidence, mutual respect and strong appreciation. It was not without a
reason that Vane had inspired it in his comrade's breast; and this was
the man she had condemned. That fact, however, was by comparison a very
minor trouble. Vane was lying, helpless and alone, in the snowy
wilderness, in peril of his life; and she knew that she loved him. She
realized now, when it might be too late, that had he in reality been
stained with dishonor, she could have forgiven him. Indeed, it had only
been by a painful effort that she had maintained some show of composure
since Carroll had brought the disastrous news, and she felt that she
could not keep it up much longer.

What she said to Mrs. Nairn she could not remember, but escaping from
her she retired to her own room, to lie still and grapple with an agony
of fear and contrition.

It was two hours later when she went down and found Carroll, who still
looked drowsy, about to go out. His hostess had left him for a moment in
the hall, and meeting the girl's eyes, he smiled at her reassuringly.

"Don't be anxious. I'll bring him back," he said.

Then Mrs. Nairn appeared and in a few moments Carroll left without
another word to Evelyn. She did not ask herself why he had taken it for
granted that she would be anxious; she was beyond any petty regard for
appearances then. It was consoling to remember that he was Vane's tried
comrade; a man who kept his word.



CHAPTER XXIX

JESSY'S CONTRITION


After leaving Mrs. Nairn, Carroll walked toward Horsfield's residence
in a thoughtful mood, because he felt it incumbent upon him to play a
part he was not particularly fitted for in a somewhat delicate matter.
Uncongenial as his task was, it was one that could not be left to
Vane, who was even less to be trusted with the handling of such
affairs; and Carroll had resolved, as he would have described it, to
straighten out things.

His partner had somehow offended Evelyn, and though she was now obviously
disposed to forgive him, the recollection of his supposititious iniquity
might afterward rankle in her mind. Though Vane was innocent of any
conduct to which she could with reason take exception, it was first of
all needful to ascertain the exact nature of the charge against him.
Carroll, who for several reasons had preferred not to press this question
upon Evelyn, had a strong suspicion that Jessy Horsfield was at the
bottom of the trouble. There was also one clue to follow--Vane had paid
the rent of Celia Hartley's shack, and he wondered whether Jessy could by
any means have heard of it. If she had done so, the matter would be
simplified, for he had a profound distrust of her. A recent action of
hers was, he thought, sufficient to justify this attitude.

He found her at home, reclining gracefully in an easy-chair in her
drawing-room, and though she did not seem astonished to see him, he
fancied that her expression hinted at suppressed concern.

"I heard that you had arrived alone, and I intended to make inquiries
from Mrs. Nairn as soon as I thought she would be at liberty," she
informed him.

Carroll had found the direct attack effective in Evelyn's case, and he
determined to try it again.

"Then," he declared, "it says a good deal for your courage."

He never doubted that she possessed courage, and she displayed it now.

"So," she said calmly, "you have come as an enemy."

"Not exactly; it didn't seem worth while. Though there's no doubt you
betrayed us--Vane waited for the warning you could have sent--so far as
it concerns our ruined interests in the Clermont, the thing's done and
can't be mended. We'll let that question go. The most important point
is that if you had recalled us, as you promised, Vane would now be safe
and sound."

This shot told. The girl's face became less imperturbable; there was
eagerness and, he thought, a hint of fear in it.

"Then has any accident happened to him?"

"He's lying in the bush, helpless, in imminent peril of starvation."

"Go on!"

There were signs of strain clearly perceptible in the girl's voice.
Carroll was brief, but he made her understand the position; then she
turned upon him imperiously.

"Then why are you wasting your time here?"

"It's a reasonable question. I can't get a tug to take me back until noon
to-morrow."

"Ah!" murmured Jessy. "Excuse me for a minute."

She left him astonished. He had not expected her to take him at a
disadvantage, as she had done with her previous thrust, and now he did
not think that she had slipped away to hide her feelings. That did not
seem necessary in Jessy's case, though he believed she was more or less
disturbed. She came back presently, looking calm, and sat down again.

"My brother will be here in a quarter of an hour," she informed him.
"Things are rather slack, and he had half promised to take me for a
drive. I have just called him up."

Carroll did not see how this bore upon the subject of their conversation,
but he left her to take the lead.

"Did Mr. Vane tell you that I had promised to warn him?" she asked.

"To do him justice, he let it out before he quite realized what he was
saying. I'd better own that I partly surprised him into giving me the
information."

"The expedient seems a favorite one with you. I suppose no news of what
has happened here can have reached him?"

"None. If it's any consolation, he has still an unshaken confidence in
you," Carroll assured her with blunt bitterness.

The girl showed faint signs of confusion, but she sat silent for the
next few moments. During that time it flashed upon Carroll with
illuminating light that he had heard Celia Hartley say that Miss
Horsfield had found her orders for millinery. This confirmed his
previous suspicion that Jessy had discovered who had paid the rent of
Celia's shack, and that she had with deliberate malice informed Evelyn,
distorting her account so that it would tell against Vane. There were
breaks in the chain of reasoning which led him to this conclusion, but
he did not think that Jessy would shrink from such a course, and he
determined to try a chance shot.

"Vane's inclined to be trustful, and his rash generosity has once or
twice got him into trouble," he remarked, and went on as if an
explanation were needed: "It's Miss Hartley's case I'm thinking about
just now. I've an idea he asked you to look after her. Am I right?"

As soon as he had spoken he knew that he had hit the mark. Jessy did not
openly betray herself, but there are not many people who can remain
absolutely unmoved when unexpectedly asked a startling question. Besides,
the man was observant, and had all his faculties strung up for the
encounter. He saw one of her hands tighten on the arm of her chair and a
hint of uneasiness in her eyes, and that sufficed him.

"Yes," she replied; "I recommended her to some of my friends. I
understand that she is getting along satisfactorily."

Carroll felt compelled to admire her manner. He believed that she loved
his comrade but had nevertheless tried to ruin him in a fit of jealous
rage. She was, no doubt, now keenly regretting her success, but though he
thought she deserved to suffer, she was bravely facing the trying
situation. It was one that was rife with dramatic possibilities, and he
was grateful to her for avoiding them.

"You are going back to-morrow," she said after a brief silence. "I
suppose you will have to tell your partner--what you have discovered
here--as soon as you reach him?"

Carroll had not intended to spare her, but now he felt almost
compassionate, and he had one grain of comfort to offer.

"I must tell him that his shares in the Clermont have been sacrificed. I
wonder if that is all you meant?"

Jessy met his inquiring gaze with something very much like an appeal, and
then she spread out her hands in a manner that seemed to indicate that
she threw herself upon his mercy.

"It is not all I meant," she confessed.

"Then if it's any relief to you, I'll confine myself to telling him that
he has been deprived of his most valuable property. I dare say the news
will hit him hard enough. He may afterward discover other facts for
himself, but on the whole I shouldn't consider it likely. As I said, he's
confiding and slow to suspect."

He read genuine gratitude, which he had hardly expected, in the girl's
face; but he raised his hand and went on in the rather formal manner
which he felt was the only safe one to assume:

"I had, perhaps, better mention that I am going to call on Miss Hartley.
After that, I shall be uncommonly thankful to start back for the bush."
He paused and concluded with a sudden trace of humor: "I'll own that I
feel more at home with the work that awaits me there."

Jessy made a little gesture which, while it might have meant anything,
was somehow very expressive. Just then there were footsteps outside and
the next moment Horsfield walked into the room.

"So you're back!"

"Yes," Carroll replied shortly. "Beaten at both ends--there's no use in
hiding it."

Horsfield showed no sign of satisfaction, and Carroll afterward admitted
that the man behaved very considerately.

"Well," he declared, "though you may be astonished to hear it, I'm sorry.
Unfortunately, our interests clashed, and I naturally looked after mine.
Once upon a time I thought I could have worked hand in hand with Vane,
but our ideas did not coincide, and your partner is not the man to yield
a point or listen to advice."

Carroll was aware that Horsfield had by means which were far from
honorable deprived him of a considerable portion of his possessions. He
had also betrayed his fellow shareholders in the Clermont Mine, selling
their interests, doubtless for a tempting consideration, to the
directors of another company. For all that, Carroll recognized that
since he and Vane were beaten, as he had confessed, recriminations and
reproaches would be useless as well as undignified. He preferred to face
defeat calmly.

"It's the fortunes of war," he returned. "What you say about Vane is
more or less correct; but, although it is not a matter of much
importance now, it was impossible from the beginning that your views
and his ever should agree."

Horsfield smiled.

"Too great a difference of temperament? I dare say you're right. Vane
measures things by a different standard--mine's perhaps more adapted to
the market-place. But where have you left him?"

"In the bush. Miss Horsfield will, no doubt, give you particulars; I've
just told her the tale."

"She called me up at the office and asked me to come across at once. Will
you excuse us for a few minutes?"

They went out together, and Jessy presently came back alone and looked at
Carroll in a diffident manner.

"I suppose," she began, "one could hardly expect you to think of either
of us very leniently; but I must ask you to believe that I am sincerely
distressed to hear of your partner's accident. It was a thing I could
never have anticipated; but there are amends I can make. Every minute you
can save is precious, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Then I can get you a tug. My brother tells me the _Atlin_ is coming
across from Victoria and should be here early this evening. He has gone
back to the office to secure her for you, though she was fixed to go off
for a lumber boom."

"Thank you," responded Carroll. "It's a very great service. She's a
powerful boat."

Jessy hesitated.

"I think my brother would like to say a few words when he comes back. Can
I offer you some tea?"

"I think not," answered Carroll, smiling. "For one thing, if I sit still
much longer, I shall, no doubt, go to sleep again, as I did at Nairn's;
and that would be neither seemly nor convenient, if I'm to sail this
evening. Besides, now that we've arranged an armistice, it might be wiser
not to put too much strain on it."

"An armistice?"

"I think that describes it." Carroll's manner grew significant. "The word
implies a cessation of hostilities--on certain terms."

Jessy could take a hint, and his meaning was clear. Unless she forced him
to do so, he would not betray her to his comrade, who might never
discover the part she had played; but he had given her a warning, which
might be bluntly rendered as "Hands off." There was only one course open
to her--to respect it. She had brought down the man she loved, but it was
clear that he was not for her, and now that the unreasoning fury which
had driven her to strike had passed, she was troubled with contrition.
There was nothing left except to retire from the field, and it was better
to do so gracefully. For all that, there were signs of strain in her
expression as she capitulated.

"Well," she said, "I have given you proof that you have nothing to fear
from me. My brother is the only man in Vancouver who could have got you
that tug for this evening; I understand that the sawmill people are very
much in need of the lumber she was engaged to tow."

She held out her hand and Carroll took it, though he had not expected to
part from her on friendly terms.

"I owe you a good deal for that," he smiled.

His task, however, was only half completed when he left the house, and
the remaining portion was the more difficult, but he meant to finish it.
He preferred to take life lightly; he had trifled with it before disaster
had driven him out into the wilds; but there was resolution in the man,
and he could force himself to play an unpleasant part when it was
needful. Fortune also favored him, as she often does those who follow the
boldest course.

He had entered a busy street when he met Kitty and Celia. The latter
looked thin and somewhat pale, but she was moving briskly, and her face
was eager when she shook hands with him.

"We have been anxious about you," she declared; "there was no news. Is
Mr. Vane with you? How have you got on?"

"We found the spruce," answered Carroll. "It's not worth milling--a
forest fire has wiped out most of it--but we struck some shingling cedar
we may make something of."

"Where's Mr. Vane?"

"In the bush. I've a good deal to tell you about him; but we can't talk
here. I wonder if we could find a quiet place in a restaurant, or if the
park would be better."

"The park," said Kitty decidedly.

They reached it in due time, and Carroll, who had refused to say anything
about Vane on the way, found the girls a seat in a grove of giant firs
and sat down opposite to them. Though it was winter, the day, as is often
the case near Vancouver, was pleasantly mild.

"Now," he began, "my partner is a singularly unfortunate person. In the
first place, the transfer of the Clermont property, which you have no
doubt heard of, means a serious loss to him, though he is not ruined yet.
He talks of putting up a shingling mill, in which Drayton will be of
service, and if things turn out satisfactorily you will be given an
interest in it."

He added the last sentence as an experiment, and was satisfied with
the result.

"Never mind our interests," cried Kitty. "What about Mr. Vane?"

For the third time since his arrival, Carroll made the strongest appeal
he could to womanly pity, drawing, with a purpose, a vivid picture of his
comrade's peril and suffering. Nor was he disappointed, for he saw
consternation, compassion and sympathy in the girls' faces. So far, the
thing had been easy, but now he hesitated, and it was with difficulty
that he nerved himself for what must follow.

"He has been beaten out of his stock in the mine; he's broken down in
health and in danger; but, by comparison, that doesn't count for very
much with him. He has another trouble; and though I'm afraid I'm going
out of the way in mentioning it, if it could be got over, it would help
him to face the future and set him on his feet again."

Then he briefly recounted the story of Vane's regard for Evelyn, making
the most of his sacrifice in withdrawing from the field, and again he
realized that he had acted wisely. A love affair appealed to his
listeners, and there was a romance in this one that heightened the
effect of it.

"But Miss Chisholm can't mean to turn from him now," interrupted Celia.

Carroll looked at her meaningly.

"No; she turned from him before he sailed. She heard something
about him."

His companions appeared astonished.

"She couldn't have heard anything that anybody could mind," Kitty
exclaimed indignantly. "He's not that kind of man."

"It's a compliment," returned Carroll. "I think he deserves it. At the
same time, he's a little rash, and now and then a man's generosity is
open to misconception. In this case, I don't think one could altogether
blame Miss Chisholm."

Kitty glanced at him sharply and then at Celia, who looked at first
puzzled and then startled. Then the blood surged into Kitty's cheeks.

"Oh!" she gasped, as if she were breathless, "I was once afraid of
something like this. You mean we're the cause of it?"

The course he followed was hateful to Carroll, but the tangle could not
be straightened without having somebody's feelings hurt, and it was his
comrade about whom he was most concerned.

"I believe that you understand the situation," he said quietly.

He saw the fire in Kitty's eyes and noticed that Celia's face also was
flushed, but he did not think their anger was directed against him.
They knew the world they lived in, and, for that matter, he could share
their indignation. He resented the fact that a little thing should
bring swift suspicion upon them. He was, however, not required to face
any disconcerting climax. Indeed, it struck him as curious that a
difficult situation in which strong emotion was stirred up could become
so tamely prosaic merely because it was resolutely handled in a
matter-of-fact manner.

"Well," inquired Celia, "why did you tell us this?"

"I think you both owe Vane something, and you can do him a great favor
just now."

Kitty looked up at him.

"Don't ask me too much, Mr. Carroll. I'm Irish, and I feel like killing
somebody."

"It's natural," responded Carroll with a sympathetic smile. "I've now and
then felt much the same way; it's probably unavoidable in a world like
this. However, I think you ought to call on Miss Chisholm, after I've
gone, though you'd better not mention that I sent you. You can say you
came for news of Vane--and add anything that you consider necessary."

The girls looked at each other, and at length, though it obviously cost
her a struggle, Kitty said decidedly:

"We will have to go."

Then she faced round toward Carroll.

"If Miss Chisholm won't believe us, she'll be sorry we came!"

Carroll made her a slight inclination.

"She'll deserve it, if she's not convinced. But it might be better if you
didn't approach her in the mood you're in just now."

Kitty rose, motioning to Celia, and Carroll turned back with them toward
the city, feeling a certain constraint in their company and yet conscious
of a strong relief. It had grown dark when he returned to Nairn's house.

"Where have ye been?" his host inquired. "I had a clerk seeking ye all
round the city. I canna get ye a boat before the morn."

Carroll saw that Mrs. Nairn shared her husband's desire to learn how he
had been occupied. Evelyn also was in the room, and she waited
expectantly for his answer.

"There were one or two little matters that required attention and I
managed to arrange them satisfactorily," he explained. "Among other
things, I've got a tug, and I expect to sail in an hour or two. Miss
Horsfield found me the vessel."

He noticed Evelyn's interest, and was rather pleased to see it. If she
were disposed to be jealous of Jessy it could do no harm. Nairn,
however, frowned.

"I'm thinking it might have been better if ye had no troubled Jessy," he
commented.

"I'm sorry I can't agree with you," Carroll retorted. "The difference
between this evening and noon to-morrow is a big consideration."

"Weel," replied Nairn resignedly; "I can no deny the thing, if ye look at
it like that."

Carroll changed the subject; but some time later Mrs. Nairn sat down near
him in the temporary absence of her husband and Evelyn.

"We will no be disturbed for two or three minutes," she said. "Ye
answered Alic like a Scotsman before supper and put him off the track,
though that's no so easy done."

Carroll grinned. He enjoyed an encounter with Mrs. Nairn, though she was,
as a rule, more than a match for him.

"You're too complimentary," he declared. "The genuine Caledonian caution
can't be acquired by outsiders; it's a gift."

"I'll no practise it now," returned the lady. "Ye're no so proud of
yourself for nothing. What have ye been after?"

Carroll crossed his finger-tips and looked at her over them.

"Since you ask the question, I may say this--If Miss Chisholm has two
lady visitors during the next few days, you might make sure that she
sees them."

"What are their names?"

"Miss Celia Hartley, the daughter of the prospector who sent Vane off to
look for the timber, and Miss Kitty Blake, who, as you have probably
heard, once came down the west coast with him, in company with an elder
lady and myself."

Mrs. Nairn started, then she looked thoughtful, and finally she broke
into a smile of open appreciation.

"Now," she ejaculated, "I understand. I did no think it of ye. Ye're no
far from a genius!"

"Thanks. I believe I succeeded better than I could have expected, and
perhaps than I deserved."

They were interrupted then by Nairn, who came hastily into the room.

"There's one of the _Atlin_ deck-hands below," he announced. "He's come
on here from Horsfield's to say that the boat's ready with a full head of
steam up, and the packers ye hired are waiting on the wharf."

Carroll rose and became in a moment intent and eager.

"Tell him I'll be down almost as soon as he is. You'll have to excuse
me." Two minutes later he left the house, and fervent good wishes
followed him from the party on the stoop. He did not stop to acknowledge
them, but shortly afterward the blast of a whistle came ringing across
the roofs from beside the water-front.



CHAPTER XXX

CONVINCING TESTIMONY


One afternoon three or four days after Carroll had sailed, Evelyn sat
alone in Mrs. Nairn's drawing-room, a prey to confused regrets and keen
anxiety. She had recovered from the first shock caused her by Carroll's
news, but though she could face the situation more calmly, she could find
no comfort anywhere--Vane was lying, helpless and famishing, in the
frost-bound wilderness. She knew that she loved the man; indeed, she had
really known it for some time, and it was that which had made Jessy's
revelation so bitter. Now, fastidious in thought and feeling as she was,
she wondered whether she had been too hard upon him; it was becoming more
and more difficult to believe that he could have justified her disgust
and anger; but this was not what troubled her most. She had sent him away
with cold disfavor. Now he was threatened by dangers. It was horrible to
think of what might befall him before assistance arrived, and yet she
could not drive the haunting dread out of her mind.

She was in this mood when a maid announced that two visitors wished to
see her; and when they were shown in, she found it difficult to hide her
astonishment as she recognized in Kitty the very attractive girl she had
once seen in Vane's company. It was this which prompted her to assume a
chilling manner, though she asked her guests to be seated. Neither of
them appeared altogether at her ease, and there was, indeed, a rather
ominous sparkle in Kitty's blue eyes.

"Mr. Carroll was in town not long ago," Kitty began bluntly. "Have you
had any news of him since he sailed?"

Evelyn did not know what to make of the question, and she answered
coldly.

"No; we do not expect any word for some time."

"I'm sorry. We're anxious about Mr. Vane."

On the surface, the announcement appeared significant, but the girl's
boldness in coming to her for news was inexplainable to Evelyn. Puzzled
as she was, her attitude became more discouraging.

"You know him then?"

Something in her tone made Celia's cheeks burn and she drew herself up.

"Yes," she said; "we know him, both of us. I guess it's astonishing to
you. But I met him first when he was poor, and getting rich hasn't
spoiled Mr. Vane."

Evelyn was once more puzzled. The girl's manner savored less of assurance
than of wholesome pride which had been injured. Kitty then broke in:

"We had no cards to send in; but I'm Kathleen Blake, and this is Celia
Hartley--it was her father sent Mr. Vane off to look for the spruce."

"Ah!" exclaimed Evelyn, a little more gently, addressing Celia. "I
understand that your father died."

Kitty flashed a commanding glance at Celia.

"Yes," the girl replied; "that is correct. He left me ill and worn out,
without a dollar, and I don't know what I should have done if Mr. Vane
hadn't insisted on giving Drayton a little money for me; on account, he
said, because I was a partner in the venture. Then Miss Horsfield got
some work among her friends for me to do at home. Mr. Vane must have
asked her to; it would be like him."

Evelyn sat silent a few moments. Celia had given her a good deal of
information in answer to a very simple remark; but she was most impressed
by the statement that Jessy, who had prejudiced her against Vane, had
helped the girl at his request. It was difficult to believe that she
would have done so had there been any foundation for her insinuations. If
Celia spoke the truth, and Evelyn somehow felt this was the case, the
whole thing was extraordinary.

"Now," continued Celia, "it's no way astonishing that I'm grateful to Mr.
Vane and anxious to hear whether Mr. Carroll has reached him." This was
spoken with a hint of defiance, but the girl's voice changed.

"I am anxious. It's horrible to think of a man like him freezing in
the bush."

Her concern was so genuine and yet somehow so innocent that Evelyn's
heart softened.

"Yes," she asserted, "it's dreadful." Then she asked a question. "Who's
the Mr. Drayton you mentioned?"

Kitty blushed becomingly; this was her lead.

"He's a kind of partner in the lumber scheme; I'm going to marry him.
He's as firm a friend of Mr. Vane's as any one. There's a reason for
that--I was in a very tight place once, left without money in a desolate
settlement where there was nothing I could do, when Mr. Vane helped me.
But perhaps that wouldn't interest you."

For a moment her doubts still clung to their hold in Evelyn's mind, and
then she suddenly drove the last of them out, with a stinging sense of
humiliation. She could not distrust this girl; it was Jessy's suggestion
that was incredible.

"It would interest me very much," she declared.

Kitty told her story effectively, but with caution, laying most stress
upon Vane's compassion for the child and her invalid mother. She was
rather impressed by Miss Chisholm, but she supposed that she was endowed
with some of the failing common to human nature.

Evelyn listened with confused emotions and a softened face. She was
convinced of the truth of the simple tale, and the thought of Vane's
keeping his moneyed friends and directors waiting in Vancouver in order
that a tired child might rest and gather shells upon a sunny beach
stirred her deeply. It was so characteristic; exactly what she would have
expected him to do.

"Thank you," she said quietly, when Kitty had finished; and then,
flinging off the last of her reserve, she asked a number of questions
about Drayton and about Celia's affairs.

Before her visitors left, all three were on friendly terms; but Evelyn
was glad when they took their departure. She wanted to be alone to think.
In spite of the relief of which she was conscious, her thoughts were far
from pleasant. Foremost among them figured a crushing sense of shame. She
had wickedly misjudged a man who had given her many proofs of the
fineness of his character; the evil she had imputed to him was born of
her own perverted imagination. She was no better than the narrow-minded,
conventional Pharisees she detested, who were swift to condemn out of the
uncleanness of their self-righteous hearts. Then, as she began to reason,
it flashed upon her that she was, perhaps, wronging herself. Her mind had
been cunningly poisoned by an utterly unscrupulous and wholly detestable
woman, and she flamed out into a fit of imperious anger against Jessy.
She had a hazy idea that this was not altogether reasonable, for she was
to some extent fastening the blame she deserved upon another person's
shoulders; but it did not detract from the comfort the indulgence in her
indignation brought her.

When she had grown a little calmer, Mrs. Nairn came in; and Mrs. Nairn
was a discerning lady. It was not difficult to lead Evelyn on to speak of
her visitors, for the girl's pride was broken and she felt in urgent need
of sympathy; but when she had described the interview she felt impelled
to avoid any discussion of the more important issues, even with the
kindly Scotch lady.

"I was surprised at the girls' manner," she concluded. "It must have been
embarrassing to them; but they were really so delicate over it, and they
had so much courage."

Mrs. Nairn smiled.

"Although one of them has traveled with third-rate strolling companies
and the other has waited in a hotel? Weel, maybe your surprise was
natural. Ye canna all at once get rid of the ideas and prejudices ye were
brought up with."

"I suppose that was it," replied Evelyn thoughtfully.

Her companion's eyes twinkled.

"Then, if ye're to live among us happily, ye'll have to try. In the way
ye use the words, some of the leading men in this country were no brought
up at all."

"Do you imagine that I'm going to live here?"

Mrs. Nairn gathered up one or two articles she had brought into the room
with her and moved toward the door, but before she reached it she looked
back with a laugh.

"It occurred to me that the thing was no altogether impossible."

An hour afterward, Evelyn and Mrs. Nairn went down into the town, and in
one of the streets they came upon Jessy leaving a store. The latter was
not lacking in assurance and she moved toward them with a smile; but
Evelyn gazed at her with a total disregard of her presence and walked
quietly on. There was neither anger nor disdain in her attitude; to have
shown either would have been a concession she could not make. The
instincts of generations of gently-reared Englishwomen were aroused, as
well as the revulsion of an untainted nature from something unclean.

Jessy's cheeks turned crimson and a malevolent light flashed into her
eyes as she crossed the street. Mrs. Nairn noticed her expression and
smiled at her companion.

"I'm thinking it's as weel ye met Jessy after she had got the boat for
Carroll," she commented.

The remark was no doubt justified, but the fact that Jessy had been able
to offer valuable assistance failed to soften Evelyn toward her. It was
merely another offense.

In the meanwhile, the powerful tug steamed northward, towing the sloop,
which would be required, and after landing the rescue party at the inlet
steamed away again. Before she had disappeared Carroll began his march,
and his companions long remembered it. Two of them were accustomed to
packing surveyors' stores through the seldom-trodden bush and the others
had worked in logging camps and chopped new roads, but though they did
not spare themselves, they lacked their leader's animus. Carroll, with
all his love of ease, could rise to meet an emergency, and he wore out
his companions before the journey was half done. He scarcely let them
sleep; he fed them on canned stuff to save delay in lighting fires; and
he grew more feverishly impatient with every mile they made. He showed it
chiefly by the tight set of his lips and the tension of his face, though
now and then when fallen branches or thickets barred the way he fell upon
the obstacles with the ax in silent fury. For the rest, he took the lead
and kept it, and the others, following with shoulders aching from the
pack-straps and labored breath, suppressed their protests.

Like many another made in that country, it was a heroic journey; one in
which every power of mind and body was taxed to the limit. Delay might
prove fatal. The loads were heavy; fatigue seized the shrinking flesh,
but the unrelenting will, trained in such adventures, mercilessly spurred
it on. Toughened muscle is useful and in the trackless North can seldom
be dispensed with; but man's strength does not consist of that alone:
there are occasions when the stalwart fall behind and die.

In front of them, as they progressed, lay the unchanging forest,
tangled, choked with fallen wreckage, laced here and there with stabbing
thorns, appalling and almost impenetrable to the stranger. They must
cleave their passage, except where they could take to the creek for an
easier way and wade through stingingly cold water or flounder over
slippery fangs of rock and ice-encrusted stones. There was sharp frost
among the ranges and the brush through which they tore their way was
generally burdened with clogging snow. They went on, however, and on the
last day Carroll drew some distance ahead of those who followed him. It
was dark when he discovered that he had lost them, but that did not
matter, for now and then faint moonlight came filtering down and he was
leaving a plain trail behind. His shoulders were bleeding beneath the
biting straps; he was on the verge of exhaustion; but he struggled
forward, panting heavily and rending his garments to rags as he smashed
through the brakes in the darkness.

The night--it seemed a very long one--was nearly over when he recognized
the roar of a rapid that rang in louder and louder pulsations across the
snow-sprinkled bush. He was not far from the end now, and he became
conscious of an unnerving fear. The ground was ascending sharply, and
when he reached the top of the slope the question from which he shrank
would be answered for him--if there should be no blink of light among the
serried trunks, he would have come too late.

He reached the summit and his heart leaped; then he clutched at a
drooping branch to support himself, shaken by a reaction that sprang from
relief. A flicker of uncertain radiance fell upon the trees ahead, and
down the bitter wind there came the reek of pungent smoke. The bush was
slightly more open, and Carroll broke into a run. Presently he came
crashing and stumbling into the light of the fire and then stopped, too
stirred and out of breath to speak. Vane lay where the red glow fell upon
his face, smiling up at him.

"Well," he said, "you've come. I've been expecting you, but on the whole
I got along not so badly."

Carroll flung off his pack and sat down beside the fire; then he fumbled
for his pipe and began to fill it hurriedly with trembling fingers. He
lighted it and flung away the match before he spoke.

"Sorry I couldn't get through sooner," he mumbled. "The stores on board
the sloop were spoiled; I had to go on to Vancouver. But there are things
to eat in my pack."

"Hand it across. I haven't been faring sumptuously the last few days. No,
sit still! I'm supple enough from the waist up."

He proved it by the way he leaned to and fro as he opened the pack and
distributed part of its contents among the cooking utensils. Carroll
assisted him now and then but he did not care to speak. The sight of the
man's gaunt face and the eagerness in his eyes prompted him to an
outbreak of feeling rather foreign to his nature, and he did not think
his companion would appreciate it. When the meal was ready, Vane looked
up at him.

"I've no doubt this journey cost you something--partner," he said.

Then they ate cheerfully, and Carroll, watching his friend's efforts with
appreciation, told his story in broken sentences. Afterward, they lighted
their pipes, but by and by Carroll's fell from his relaxing grasp.

"I can't get over this sleepiness," he explained. "I believe I disgraced
myself in Vancouver by going off in the most unsuitable places,"

"I dare say it was quite natural. Anyway, hadn't you better hitch
yourself a little farther from the fire?"

Carroll did so and lay still afterward, but Vane kept watch during the
rest of the night, until in the dawn the packers appeared.



CHAPTER XXXI

VANE IS REINSTATED


Breakfast was over and the two men, wrapped in blankets, lay on opposite
sides of the fire, while the packers reclined in various ungainly
attitudes about another. Now that they had a supply of provisions, haste
was not a matter of importance, and there was no doubt that the rescue
party needed a rest. Carroll was aching all over and was somewhat
disturbed in mind. He had not said anything about their financial affairs
to his comrade yet, and the subject must be mentioned. It was, from every
point of view, an unpleasant one.

"What about the Clermont?" Vane asked at length. "You needn't trouble
about breaking the news--come right to the point."

"Then, to all intents and purposes, the company has gone under; it's been
taken over by Horsfield's friends. Nairn has sold our stock--at
considerably less than face value," Carroll explained, adding a brief
account of the absorption of the concern.

Vane's face set hard.

"I anticipated something of the kind last night; I saw how you kept clear
of the matter."

"But you said nothing."

"No. I'd had time to consider the thing while I lay here, and it didn't
look as if I could have got an intelligible account out of you. But you
may as well mention how much Nairn got."

He lay smoking silently for a few minutes after he learned the amount,
and Carroll was strongly moved to sympathy. He felt that it was not the
financial reverse but one indirect result of it which would hit his
comrade hardest.

"Well," Vane said grimly, "I suppose I've done what my friends would
consider a mad thing in coming up here--and I must face the reckoning."

Carroll wondered whether their conversation could be confined to the
surface of the subject, because there were depths beneath it that it
would be better to leave undisturbed.

"After all, you're far from broke," he encouraged him. "You have what
the Clermont stock brought in, and you may make something out of this
shingle scheme."

There was bitterness in Vane's laugh.

"When I left Vancouver for England I was generally supposed to be well on
the way to affluence, and there was some foundation for the idea. I had
floated the Clermont in the face of opposition; people believed in me; I
could have raised what money I required for any new undertaking. Now a
good deal of my money and all of my prestige is gone; people have very
little confidence in a man who has shown himself a failure. What's more,
I may be a cripple. My leg will probably have to be broken again."

Carroll could guess his companion's thoughts. There was a vein of
stubborn pride in him, and he had, no doubt, decided it was unfitting
that Evelyn's future should be linked to that of a ruined man. This was
an exaggerated view, because Vane was in reality far from ruined, and
even if he had been so, he had in him the ability to recover from his
misfortunes. Still, the man was obstinate and generally ready to make a
sacrifice for an idea. Carroll, however, consoled himself with the
reflection that Evelyn would probably have something to say upon the
subject if she were given an opportunity, and he felt certain that Mrs.
Nairn would contrive that she had one.

"I can't see any benefit in making things out considerably worse than
they are," he objected.

"Nor can I," Vane agreed. "After all, I was getting pretty tired of the
city, and I suppose I can raise enough to put up a small-power mill. It
will be a pleasant change to take charge for a year or two in the bush.
I'll make a start at the thing as soon as I'm able to walk."

This was significant, as it implied that he did not intend to remain in
Vancouver, where he would be able to enjoy Evelyn's company; but Carroll
made no comment, and Vane soon spoke again.

"Didn't you mention last night that it was through Miss Horsfield that
you got the tug? I was thinking about something else at the time."

"Yes. She made Horsfield put some pressure on the people who had
previously hired the boat."

"That's rather strange."

For a moment he looked puzzled, but almost immediately his face grew
impassive, and Carroll knew that he had some idea of Jessy's treachery.
He was, however, sure that any suspicions his comrade entertained would
remain locked up in his breast.

"I'm grateful to her, anyway," Vane added. "I dare say I could have held
out another day or two, but it wouldn't have been pleasant."

Carroll began to talk about the preparations for their return, which he
soon afterward set about making, and early the next morning they started
for the sloop, carrying Vane upon a stretcher they had brought with them.
Though they had to cut a passage for it every here and there, they
reached the sloop in safety, and after some trouble in getting Vane below
and onto a locker, Carroll decided to sail straight for Vancouver. They
were favored with moderate, fair winds, and though the little vessel was
uncomfortably crowded, she made a quick passage and stole in through the
Narrows as dusk was closing down one tranquil evening.

Evelyn had spent the greater part of the afternoon on the forest-crested
rise above the city, where she could look down upon the inlet. She had
visited the spot frequently during the last few days, watching eagerly
for a sail that did not appear. There had been no news of Carroll since
the skipper of the tug reported having landed him, and the girl was
tormented by doubts and anxieties. She had just come back and was
standing in Mrs. Nairn's sitting-room, when she heard the tinkle of the
telephone bell. A moment or two later her hostess entered hastily.

"It's a message from Alic," she cried. "He's heard from the
wharf--Vane's sloop's crossing the harbor. I'll away down to see Carroll
brings him here."

Evelyn turned to follow her, but Mrs. Nairn waved her back.

"No," she said firmly; "ye'll bide where ye are. See they get plenty
lights on--at the stairhead and in the passage--and the room on the left
of it ready."

She was gone in another moment, and Evelyn hastily carried out her
instructions and then waited with what patience she could assume. At last
there was a rattle of wheels outside, followed by a voice giving orders,
and then a tramp of feet. The sounds brought her a strange inward
shrinking, but she ran to the door, and saw two tattered men awkwardly
carrying a stretcher up the steps, while Carroll and another assisted
them. Then the light fell upon its burden and, half prepared as she was,
she started in dismay. Vane, whom she had last seen in vigorous health,
lay partly covered with an old blanket which had slipped off him to the
waist. His jacket looked a mass of rags, his hat had fallen aside and his
face showed hollow and worn and pinched. Then he saw her and a light
leaped into his eyes, but the next moment Carroll's shoulder hid him and
the men plodded on toward the stairs. They ascended them with difficulty
and the girl waited until Carroll came down.

"I noticed you at the door. I dare say you were a little shocked at the
change in Vane," he said. "What he has undergone has pulled him down, but
if you had seen him when I first found him, you'd have been worse
startled. He's getting on quite satisfactorily."

Evelyn was relieved to hear it; and Carroll continued:

"As soon as the doctor comes, we'll make him more presentable; he can't
be moved till then, as I'm not sure about the last bandages I put on.
Afterward, he'll no doubt hold an audience."

There was nothing to do but wait, and Evelyn again summoned her
patience. Before long, a doctor arrived, and Carroll followed him to
Vane's room. The invalid's face was very impassive, though Carroll waited
in tense suspense while the doctor stripped off the bandages and bark
supports from the injured leg. He examined it attentively, and then
looked around at Carroll.

"You fixed that limb, when it was broken in the bush?" he asked.

"Yes," Carroll answered, with a desperate attempt to treat the matter
humorously. "But I really think we both had a hand in the thing. My
partner favored me with his views; I disclaim some of the
responsibility."

"Then I guess you've been remarkably fortunate. Perhaps that's the best
way of expressing it."

Vane raised his head and fixed his eyes upon the speaker.

"It won't have to be rebroken? I'll be able to walk without a limp?"

"It's most probable."

Vane's eyes glistened and he let his head fall back.

"It's good news; better than I expected. Now if you could fix me up
again, I'd like to get dressed. I've felt like a hobo long enough."

The doctor smiled indulgently.

"We can venture to change that state of affairs, but I'll superintend the
operation."

It was some time before Vane's toilet was completed, and then Carroll
surveyed him with humorous admiration.

"It strikes me you do us credit; and now I suppose I can announce that
you'll receive?"

Nairn and his wife and Evelyn came in. Nairn, shaking hands with Vane
very heartily, looked down at him with twinkling eyes.

"I'd have been glad to see ye, however ye had come," he asserted, and
Vane fully believed him. "For a' that, this is no the way I would have
wished to welcome ye."

"When a man won't take his friends' advice, what can he expect?"
retorted Vane.

Nairn nodded, smiling.

"Let it be a warning. If the making of your mark and money is your
object, ye must stick to it and think of nothing else. Ye canna
accumulate riches by spreading yourself, and philanthropy's no lucrative,
except maybe to a few."

"It's good counsel, but I'm thinking that it's a pity," Mrs. Nairn
remarked. "What would ye say, Evelyn?"

The girl was aware that the tone of light banter had been adopted to
cover deeper feelings, which those present shrank from expressing; but
she ventured to give her thoughts free rein.

"I agree with you in one respect," she said. "But I can't believe the
object mentioned is Mr. Vane's only one. He would never be willing to pay
the necessary price."

It was a delicate compliment uttered in all sincerity, and Vane's worn
face grew warm. He was, however, conscious that it would be safer to
avoid being serious, and he smiled.

"Well," he drawled, "looking for timber rights is apt to prove
expensive, too. I had a haunting fear that I might be lame, until the
doctor banished it. I'd better own that I'd no great confidence in
Carroll's surgery."

Carroll, keeping strictly to the line the others had chosen, made him an
ironical bow; but Evelyn was not to be deterred.

"It was foolish of you to be troubled," she declared. "It isn't a fault
to be wounded in an honorable fight, and even if the mark remains, there
is no reason why one should be ashamed of it."

Mrs. Nairn glanced at the girl rather sharply, but Carroll came to his
comrade's relief.

"Strictly speaking, there wasn't a wound," he pointed out. "Fortunately,
it was what is known as a simple fracture. If it had been anything else,
I'm inclined to think I couldn't have treated it."

Nairn chuckled, as if this met with his approval; and his wife turned
around as they heard a patter of footsteps on the stairs.

"Yon bell has kept on ringing ever since we came up," she complained. "I
left word I was no to be disturbed. Weel"--as the door opened--"what is
it, Minnie?"

"The reception room's plumb full," announced the maid, who was lately
from the bush. "If any more folks come along, I sure won't know where
to put 'em."

Now that the door was open, Evelyn could hear a murmur of voices on the
floor below, and the next moment the bell rang violently again. It struck
her as a testimonial to the injured man. Vane had not spent a long time
in Vancouver, but he had the gift of making friends. Having heard of the
sloop's arrival, they had come to inquire for him, and there was
obviously a number of them.

Mrs. Nairn glanced interrogatively at Carroll.

"It does no look as if they could be got rid of by a message."

"I guess he's fit to see them," Carroll answered, "We'll hold a levee. If
he'd only let me, I'd like to pose him a bit."

Mrs. Nairn, with Evelyn's assistance, did so instead, rearranging the
cushions about the man, in spite of his confused and half-indignant
protests; and during the next half-hour the room was generally full.
People walked in, made sympathetic inquiries, or exchanged cheerful
banter, until Mrs. Nairn forcibly dismissed the last of them. After this,
she declared that Vane must go to sleep, and paying no heed to his
assertion that he had not the least wish to do so, she led her remaining
companions away.

A couple of hours had passed when she handed Evelyn a large tumbler
containing a preparation of beaten eggs and milk.

"Ye might take him this and ask if he would like anything else," she
said. "I'm weary of the stairs and I would no trust Minnie. She's
handiest at spilling things."

Carroll grinned.

"It's the third and, I'd better say firmly, the limit."

Then he assumed an aggrieved expression as Evelyn moved off with the
tray.

"I can't see why I couldn't have gone. I think I've discharged my duties
as nurse satisfactorily."

"I canna help ye thinking," Mrs. Nairn informed him. "But I would point
out that ye have now and then been wrong."

"That's a fact," Carroll confessed.

Evelyn fully shared his suspicions. Her hostess's artifice was a
transparent one, but she nevertheless fell in with it. She had seen Vane
only in the company of others; this might be the same again to-morrow;
and there was something to be said. By intuition as much as reason, she
recognized that there was something working in his mind; something that
troubled him and might trouble her. It excited her apprehension and
animated her with a desire to combat it. That she might be compelled to
follow an unconventional course did not matter. She knew this man was
hers--and she could not let him go.

She entered his room collectedly. He was lying, neatly dressed, upon a
couch with his shoulders raised against the end of it, for he had thrown
the cushions which supported him upon the floor. As she came in, he
leaned down in an attempt to recover them, and finding himself too late
looked up guiltily. The fact that he could move with so much freedom was
a comfort to the girl. She set the tray down on a table near him.

"Mrs. Nairn has sent you this," she said, and the laugh they both
indulged in drew them together.

Then her mood changed and her heart yearned over him. He had gone away
a strong, self-confident, prosperous man, and he had come back
defeated, broken in fortune and terribly worn. Her pity shone in her
softening eyes.

"Do you wish to sleep?" she asked.

"No," Vane assured her; "I'd a good deal rather talk to you."

"I want to say something," Evelyn confessed. "I'm afraid I was rather
unpleasant to you the evening before you sailed. I was sorry for it
afterward; it was flagrant injustice."

"Then I wonder why you didn't answer the letter I wrote at Nanaimo."

"The letter? I never received one."

Vane considered this for a few moments.

"After all," he declared, "it doesn't matter now. I'm acquitted?"

"Absolutely."

The man's satisfaction was obvious, but he smiled.

"Do you know," he said, "I've still no idea of my offense?"

Evelyn was exceedingly glad to hear it, but a warmth crept into her face,
and as the blood showed through the delicate skin he fixed his eyes upon
her intently.

"It was all a mistake; I'm sorry still," she murmured penitently.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in a different tone. "Don't trouble about it. The
satisfaction of being acquitted outweighs everything else. Besides, I've
made a number of rather serious mistakes myself. The search for that
spruce, for instance, is supposed to be one."

"No," returned Evelyn decidedly; "whoever thinks that, is wrong. It is a
very fine thing you have done. It doesn't matter in the least that you
were unsuccessful."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Of course. How could I believe anything else?"

The man's face changed again, and once more she read the signs. Whatever
doubts and half-formed resolutions--and she had some idea of them--had
been working in his mind were dissipating.

"Well," he continued, "I've sacrificed the best half of my possessions
and have destroyed the confidence of the people who, to serve their ends,
would have helped me on. Isn't that a serious thing?"

"No; it's really a most unimportant one. I"--the slight pause gave the
assertion force--"really mean it."

Vane partly raised himself with one arm and there was no doubting the
significance of his intent gaze.

"I believe I made another blunder--in England. I should have had
more courage and have faced the risk. But you might have turned
against me then."

"I don't think that's likely," Evelyn murmured, lowering her eyes.

The man leaned forward eagerly, but the hand he stretched out fell short,
and the trivial fact once more roused her compassion for his
helplessness.

"You can mean only one thing!" he cried. "You wouldn't be afraid to face
the future with me now?"

"I wouldn't be afraid at all."

A half-hour later Mrs. Nairn tapped at the door and smiled rather broadly
when she came in. Then she shook her head reproachfully.

"Ye should have been asleep a while since," she scolded Vane, and then
turned to Evelyn. "Is this the way ye intend to look after him?"

She waved the girl toward the door and when she joined her in the passage
she kissed her effusively.

"Ye have got the man I would have chosen ye," she declared. "It will no
be any fault of his if ye are sorry."

"I have very little fear of that," laughed Evelyn.


THE END





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