Dinner was over, and Millicent’s elderly companion had discreetly left them alone, when the girl led Nasmyth into her drawing-room. It was brightly lighted and was tastefully decorated in delicate colors, and a wood fire was burning on the hearth; but, for the first time that he could remember, Nasmyth felt ill at ease in it. He was fresh from the snow-covered rocks and shadowy woods and the refinement and artistic luxury of his surroundings rather jarred on him. The story he had to relate dealt with elemental things—hunger, toil, and death—it would sound harsher and more ugly amid the evidences of civilization.
“You have a good deal to tell me,” Millicent suggested at length.
He stood still a moment, looking at her. She had already seated herself, and the sweeping lines of her pose suggested vigor and energy held in quiet control. Her face was warm in coloring, bearing signs of exposure to wind and sun, but it was chastely molded in a fine oval with the features firmly lined. Her hair was dark, though there were bronzy gleams in it, and her eyes, which were deeply brown, had a sparkle in them. As a whole, her appearance indicated a sanguine, optimistic temperament, but there was also an indefinite something which spoke of due balance and repose. Nasmyth was more convinced than ever that he had not met any other woman fit to compare with her. Her age, as he knew, having given her many birthday presents, was twenty-four.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to her remark, “but it’s curious that I can’t fix my mind upon the subject here. The night’s mild; shall we go out on to the veranda?”
“Wait until I get a wrap. I understand.”
“You always do that,” Nasmyth declared.
She joined him outside in another minute and seated herself in the chair he drew out. The house was small and irregularly built, and a glass roof supported on light pillars stretched along part of the front. A half-moon hung above a ridge of dark fir wood, a tarn gleamed below, and here and there down a shadowy hollow there was a sparkle of running water. On the other side of the dale the moors stretched away, waste and empty, toward the half-seen hills. The loneliness of the prospect reminded Nasmyth of Canada, and the resemblance grew more marked when the crying of plover rose from the dim heath—it brought back the call of the loon. Still, he did not wonder why Millicent, an orphan with ample means, lived alone except for her elderly companion on the desolate Border.
“You don’t mind, I know,” he said as he lighted a cigar.
“I can make that concession willingly,” she answered with a smile. “I suppose I’m old-fashioned, because I go no farther.”
“Keep so,” advised Nasmyth. “Of course, that’s unnecessary; but I never could make out why women should want to smoke. From my point of view, it isn’t becoming.”
He was putting off a task from which he shrank, and she indulged him.
“One retains one’s prejudices in a place like this,” she said. “I felt sadly left behind when I was last in London; and the few visits I made in the home counties a little while ago astonished me. Nobody seemed to stay at home; the motors were continually whirling them up to town and back; the guests kept coming and going. There was so much restlessness and bustle that I was glad to be home again.”
“It has struck me,” returned Nasmyth with an air of sage reflection, “that we who live quietly in the country are the pick of the lot. Sounds egotistical, doesn’t it? But if we don’t do much good—and I’m afraid I don’t, anyway—neither do we do any harm.”
“I’m not sure that that’s a great deal to be proud of.”
“I didn’t include you,” Nasmyth assured her. “There have been wholesome changes in the village since you grew up and made your influence felt. And that leads to a question: How does Clarence get on with his tenants and the rank and file? George understood them, but they’re difficult folks to handle.”
“He’s away a good deal—I’m afraid there has been some friction now and then.” The girl’s manner suddenly changed. “But that’s beside the point. Aren’t you wasting time?”
“I am almost afraid to begin. You will find the story trying.”
She turned toward him, and the moonlight showed her face was reassuringly quiet.
“I expect that; but your fears are groundless. You needn’t hesitate on my account.”
Nasmyth knew that she was right; Millicent was not one to flinch from pain. With an effort, he began his story at the portage over the divide, and, possessed by vivid memories, he made her see the desolate region they had laboriously traversed. Because her imagination was powerful, she could picture the brother she had loved toiling with desperate purpose and failing strength through muskeg and morass. Then, when she quietly insisted, he described Gladwyne’s last camp. She saw that, too: the hollow beneath the dark rock, with the straggling cedars on the ridge above. Next he outlined the journey down the first few rapids, saying little about the caches, and at last, with considerable relief, he came to a stop. Millicent sat silent for several minutes, during which he did not look at her.
“Thank you,” she said at length. “I have tried often to imagine it, and failed; but it is quite clear now. Clarence would never give me more than the barest details—I think he hated to speak of it.”
“In a way, he was wise,” replied Nasmyth. He understood the man’s reluctance. “Now don’t you think it would be better if you tried to drive the thing out of your mind? It can’t be altered—there’s a danger in dwelling too much upon one’s grief.”
She looked up at him, though her eyes were dim with tears.
“It can’t be driven out. There were only the two of us; we had so much in common—there was such trust between us.”
Nasmyth nodded in comprehension and sympathy.
“Now that I’ve told you,” he said quietly, as he rose, “I think I’ll go. I am sure you’d rather be alone.”
“No,” she answered, motioning to him to sit down. “Please stay.” She seemed to rouse herself with an effort. “Of course, there was only one thing George could do when he was lamed—send them on. But Clarence, who was with him, never made his fortitude and cheerfulness so clear as you have done. You even mentioned the exact words he said now and then—how did you hear of them?”
“From my companion, a young Canadian. He had the whole thing by heart; got it from the Hudson Bay agent. George’s guide told the agent.”
“Did your companion also teach you how to tell the story?”
Nasmyth smiled. He saw that she was desirous of changing the subject and he was glad of it.
“Anyway, he made me see it at the time; pointed out the full significance of things—a broken branch, a scratch on a rock. A rather striking man in several ways. But you shall see him; he’s coming over to stay with me by and by.” He paused a moment. “I understand that Clarence has been having some trouble.”
“It hardly amounts to that. But things are not the same as they were”—in spite of her courage she faltered—“when George held control. The tenants don’t take to Clarence; I think he was not well advised in increasing rents here and there. Indeed, that was a little puzzling, because he was once so liberal.”
“In small matters; it’s his own money now.” Nasmyth could not repress this show of bitterness.
“Whose money was it in his extravagant days?”
“That’s a question I’ve thought over and failed to find an answer to. I’ve no doubt most of what he gets is now being spent in town, though in my opinion as much as possible ought to go back to the locality in which it was produced. Why don’t you impress that on him?”
Millicent, as he knew, could judiciously offer sound advice where it was needed. She was young, but, having been left an orphan early, she had long enjoyed her brother’s close companionship and confidence, and the man’s wide knowledge and thoughtfulness had had its effect in molding her character. Still, in this case, she did not respond.
“It would be better for his tenants and the neighborhood generally if Clarence married; he can afford it now,” Nasmyth went on.
Again the girl was silent, and he wondered whether he had thoughtlessly made a serious blunder. It had been supposed among their friends that she would marry Clarence some day, though, so far as it was known, there was no definite understanding between them, and for a while the man’s attitude had strengthened the idea. Indeed, when he had succeeded to George’s possessions, every one had expected an announcement, which had not been made. What Millicent thought, or what she had looked for all along, did not appear.
“I think you are right in one thing,” she said, very calmly, at length. “If he would stay here, as George did and his neighbors do, it would be better for everybody, including himself.”
Nasmyth made a sign of agreement. Their intimate friends remained for the greater portion of the year on their estates, understanding the needs of their tenants and dependents and enjoying their good opinion, which was naturally increased by the fact that their expenses were chiefly incurred in the neighborhood. There were others who, as the small farmer recognized, returned as little as possible to the soil, squandering revenues raised by the stubborn labor of others in doubtful pleasures elsewhere and, when they brought their friends home, on luxuries despatched from town. These things made for bitterness.
An unfortunate persistence in his hobby drove Nasmyth into a second blunder.
“We’re in accord on that point,” he assured her. “It’s a pity the land passed out of your hands. However, as there’s no male succession, it might, after all, come back to you.”
She bore it very calmly.
“You wouldn’t have me speculate on such a thing?”
Then as if to find a safer topic she went on with a thrill of anger in her tone:
“I’ll tell you of an incident I witnessed two or three days ago, which annoyed me seriously. I’d just met old Bell—you know how lame he is—driving some sheep along the road. It has been a wet, cold year; Bell lost his hay, the oats are dreadfully poor, and his buildings are in very bad repair.”
“They were a disgrace to any estate when I last saw them,” Nasmyth broke in. “Besides, the sour land near the river should have been tile-drained long ago.”
“So Bell has urged; but he can’t get Marple to spend a penny—I’m glad that man’s new to this part of the country and doesn’t belong to us. Well, just after I met Bell, Marple’s big motor came along. He had Batley with him and the Crestwicks, who were down before. I think you met them?”
“I did,” assented Nasmyth. “In Canada they’d call them a mighty tough crowd; they’re about the limit here.”
“I turned round after the car had passed,” Millicent went on. “Marple was driving, as fast as usual, and he made no attempt to pull up. Bell, who didn’t hear, tried to jump and fell into the ditch; most of the sheep were scattered across the moor, but two or three got right in front of the car and at the last moment Marple had to stop. One of the women laughed, she had a very shrill voice and she explained that the old man looked so funny in the ditch; Marple shouted to Bell—something about the damage to his tires—and I could see the others smiling at what he said. That was worse than the words he used. Then they went on, leaving the old man to gather up his sheep; he hadn’t a dog with him. That kind of thing leaves its mark!”
“Distinctly so,” Nasmyth agreed. “Still, Marple and his lot are exceptions. Wasn’t Clarence rather thick with them?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve been rather disturbed about him.”
Nasmyth did not know what this meant. He thought she would hardly have made such an admission had she contemplated marrying the man; and, if not, it was somewhat difficult to see why he should cause her serious concern. He knew, however, that Millicent could not look on unmoved when her friends left the right path; he could think of two or three whom she had helped and gently checked from further straying. This reflection was a relief to him, because he was determined that she should not marry Clarence if he could prevent it. If necessary, he would tell her the part the man had played in Canada, though he shrank from doing so.
“Marple and his acquaintances are not the people one would have expected Clarence to associate with,” he continued. “Still, in my opinion, he’s doing worse in making a friend of that fellow Batley. I could never understand the connection—the man strikes me as an adventurer. Has he spent much time here since I’ve been away?”
“A good deal, off and on. But it’s getting chilly and I half expect a reproving lecture from Miss Hume when I go in. First, though, tell me a little more about the young Canadian you had with you.”
“I don’t know much. I met him by accident—he has an interest in some mines, I believe, but he struck me as a remarkably fine type. Clever at woodcraft, as handy with the ax and paddle as our professional guide, but when he talked about other things he seemed to know a good deal more than I do.” He smiled. “After all, that’s not surprising. But what I liked most was the earnestness of the fellow; he had a downright way of grappling with things, or explaining them to you. Sensible, but direct, not subtle.”
“I’ve met men of that description, and I’m rather prejudiced in their favor,” declared Millicent, smiling. “But what was he like in person—slightly rugged?”
“No; that’s where you and others sometimes go wrong. There’s nothing of the barbarian about these bushmen. Physically, they’re as fine a type as we are—I might go farther—straight in the limb, clean-lined every way, square in the shoulder. They’d make an impression at any London gathering.”
“So long as they didn’t speak?”
“It wouldn’t matter. Allowing for a few colloquialisms, they’re worth listening to; which is more than I’d care to say for a number of the people one meets in this country.”
Millicent laughed.
“Well, I’ll be glad to see him when he comes.” Her voice grew graver. “I feel grateful to him already for what he told you about George.”
They went in together and half an hour later Nasmyth walked home across the moor. He had never thought more highly of Millicent, but somehow he now felt sorry for her. It scarcely seemed fitting that she should live in that lonely spot with only the company of an elderly and staid companion, though he hardly thought she would be happier if she plunged into a round of purposeless amusements in the cities. Still, she was young and very attractive; he felt that she should have more than the thinly-peopled countryside had to offer.
Nearly a year had passed since Nasmyth’s return when Lisle at length reached England. Soon after his arrival, he was, as Nasmyth’s guest, invited to join a shooting party, and one bright afternoon he stood behind a bank of sods high on a grouse-moor overlooking the wastes of the Border. The heath was stained with the bell-heather’s regal purple, interspersed with the vivid red of the more fragile ling, and where the uplands sloped away broad blotches of the same rich colors checkered the grass. In the foreground a river gleamed athwart the picture, and overhead there stretched an arch of cloudless blue. There was no wind; the day was still and hot.
A young lad whose sunburned face already bore the stamp of self-indulgence was stationed behind the butt with Lisle, and the latter was not favorably impressed with his appearance or conversation.
“Look out,” he cautioned by and by. “You were a little slow last time. They travel pretty fast.”
Lisle picked up his gun; he had used one in the West, though he was more accustomed to the rifle. Cutting clear against the dazzling sky, a straggling line of dark specks was moving toward him, and a series of sharp cracks broke out from the farther wing of the row of butts, which stretched across the moor. Lisle watched the birds, with fingers tightening on his gun; one cluster was coming his way, each flitting body growing in size and distinctness with marvelous rapidity. Then there was a flash beside him, and another crash as he pitched up his gun. Something struck the heather with a thud not far away, and swinging the muzzle a little, he pulled again. He was not surprised to hear a second thud, and laying down his gun he turned to his youthful companion, while a thin cloud of acrid vapor hung about him.
“Get anything?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” was the sullen answer. “Couldn’t expect it with the second barrel, after you’d filled the place with smoke. Wonder why Gladwyne’s man gave you the old black powder?”
As nearly everybody else used smokeless, this was a point that had aroused Lisle’s curiosity, though it was not a matter of much importance. Nasmyth had provided him with cartridges, but they had somehow been left behind, and on applying to Gladwyne’s keeper he had been supplied with ammunition which, it seemed, was out of date.
“After all, you have done well enough,” his companion resumed. “We’d better get on to our next station—it’s right across the moor on the high ridge yonder. Don’t bother about the birds.”
“Shall I leave them there?”
“Certainly! Do you want to carry them all the afternoon? One of the keeper fellows will bring them along.”
The lad’s tone was half contemptuous; he had already shown that he considered the Canadian what he would have called an outsider; but he was willing to make use of him.
“You might look after Bella; she’s alone in the next butt—and I’ve something else to do,” he said. “There’s an awkward ghyll to cross and she won’t carry anything lighter than a 14-gun. See she doesn’t leave the cartridges in it.”
He strode away across the heather, and Lisle turned toward the turf shelter indicated. As he approached it, a girl appeared and glanced at him with very obvious curiosity; but as he supposed that she was the sister of his late companion he did not expect any diffidence from her. She was short in stature and slight in figure, and dressed in grayish brown; hat, coat, and remarkably short skirt all of the same material. Her hair was of a copper color; her eyes, which were rather narrow, of a pale grayish-green. He would have called them hard, and there was a hint of arrogance in her expression. Yet she was piquantly pretty.
“I suppose you’re Nasmyth’s Canadian friend?” she began, and went on without waiting for an answer: “As we occupy adjoining butts on the next drive, you may take my gun. Teddy has deserted me.”
“Teddy?” queried Lisle, who wondered if she were referring to her brother. “I thought his name was Jim.”
“It’s Marple’s stout friend with the dyed hair I mean. I told him what would happen if he ate as he persisted in doing at lunch. It’s too hot to gormandize; I wasn’t astonished when he collapsed at the steep place on the last walk. Reflecting that it was his own fault, I left him.”
Lisle was not charmed with the girl’s manners, but he could not check a smile.
“Are you tired? You oughtn’t to be,” she continued with another bold glance at him.
“No,” he replied; “if it’s any consolation to you, I’m far from exhausted yet.”
“That’s reassuring,” she retorted. “You haven’t taken my gun.”
Having forgotten it for the moment, he flushed a little, and she watched him with unconcealed amusement while he opened the weapon and took out the cartridges.
“What’s that for?” she asked impertinently. “It’s hammerless; there’s nothing to catch.”
“The pull-off’s probably very light, if it’s been made for a lady’s use. It’s sometimes possible to jar the strikers down when they set the springs to yield at a touch.”
“Then you know something about guns?” she said, as if she had not expected this.
“Not a great deal about the scatter kind, though I’ve stripped a few.”
“We never do that,” she informed him. “We send them to London. Still, you’re right; the gun did go off when I knocked it jumping down from a wall.”
“If you’ll let me have it to-night, I’ll alter that. I understand we’re going out again to-morrow.”
She considered a moment.
“Well,” she consented, with the air of one conferring a favor, “you may take it when we’ve finished.”
Lisle wondered what had prompted him to make the offer. The way she had addressed him was not ingratiating, but he delighted in examining any fine mechanism and he had never handled such a beautifully made weapon.
They plodded on side by side through the heather, which was long and matted, and presently, seeing that she was breathless, he stopped on the crest of a higher rise and once more looked about with keen appreciation.
In front of him the crimson and purple heath was rent and fissured, and in the deep gaps washed out by heavy rains the peat gleamed a warm chocolate-brown. Elsewhere, patches of moss shone with an emerald brightness, and there were outcrops of rock tinted lustrous gray and silver with lichens. Below, near the foot of the moor, ran a straight dark line of firs, the one coldly-somber streak in the scene; but beyond it the rolling, sunlit plain ran back, fading through ever varying and softening colors to the hazy blue heights of Scotland.
Lisle’s companion noticed his intent expression.
“It is rather fine up here,” she conceded. “I sometimes feel it’s almost a pity one couldn’t live among the heather. Certain things would be easier on these high levels.”
“Yes?” interrogated Lisle, slightly puzzled and astonished.
“You’re obviously from the woods,” she smiled. “If you had spent a few years among my friends, you would understand. I was referring to the cultivation of ideas and manners which seem to be considered out of date now.”
Lisle made no reply to this, but he glanced too directly at a red stain on her hand.
“Blood,” she explained. “I had a bet with Alan that I’d get a brace more than Flo; that’s why I went after a cripple running in the ling. It wasn’t dead when I picked it up—rather horrid, wasn’t it?”
The man was conscious of some disgust. She looked very young and, slight as she was, her figure was prettily rounded and she had a soft, kittenish gracefulness; but she spoke with the assurance of a dowager. Though he had killed and cut up many a deer, he shrank from the small red stain on her delicate hand. She saw it and laughed, and then with a sudden change of mood she stooped and swiftly rubbed her fingers in the heather.
“Now,” she said sharply, “if you’re sufficiently rested, we’ll go on.”
Lisle moved away, but he asked a question:
“Do many girls shoot in this country?”
“No,” she answered with a mocking smile; “not so many, after all. That’s comforting, isn’t it? This kind of thing is hard work, and damaging to the complexion.”
Presently they came to a wall, and Lisle stopped in some uncertainty. It was as high as his shoulders and built of loose, rough stones.
“Get over,” she ordered him. “Then pull a lot of it down.”
He did so, making, though he endeavored to avoid this, a rather wide hole.
She scrambled through agilely and then regarded him with surprise as he proceeded to replace the stones.
“Why are you doing that?” she asked.
“There are sheep up here.”
“Too many, considering that it’s a grouse-moor; but what of it? They don’t belong to us.”
“They belong to somebody who would rather they didn’t stray,” Lisle rejoined. “In the country I come from, it’s considered a serious transgression to knock over another person’s fence and not put it up again.”
He calmly went on with his task, and sitting down she took out a silver cigarette-case. After a minute or two she looked up at him.
“You’re doing that very neatly,” she remarked.
“I’ve done something of the kind for a living,” Lisle informed her.
“Oh! It’s curious that you seem proud of it. In this case, I don’t mind your keeping me, because they can’t drive up the birds until we have crossed the higher moor. It will annoy Gladwyne and his keeper, and I’m not pleased with either of them. I wanted Flo Marple’s station at the first butts.”
Lisle considered this. He had wondered why she had favored him with her company, when, although her previous companion had deserted her, she could by hurrying a little have joined the others. The butts were not spaced very far apart. Their late occupants had, however, now vanished into a dip of the moor. He asked himself why a girl with her assurance should have troubled to offer him an explanation.
When he had finished the repairs to the wall, they went on, and a little later he heard a sharp “Cruck—cruck-curruck,” to one side of him. Swinging around, he saw a grouse skimming the heather.
“A pair of gloves to a sovereign that you miss!” cried his companion.
The bird was flying fast; Lisle had to load, and by the time he had snapped in a cartridge it was a long range. This, however, was somewhat in his favor, as he was better used to the rifle. There was a flash and the bird struck the heath. The girl glanced at him in unveiled appreciation.
“A clean kill!” she exclaimed. “You have won the gloves; and you’ll deserve them before you have heard the last of this incident. I suppose you don’t know that you shouldn’t have fired a shot except from behind the butts.”
She watched his expression with open amusement.
“You don’t like to ask why I tempted you,” she went on. “It was to vex the keeper; you may have turned back the birds the beaters are driving up.”
“Thanks for the information,” Lisle said coolly. “Do you mind my inquiring whether you would have taken the sovereign in case I’d missed? As you suggested, I’m lately from the wilds.”
“Of course!” she mocked. “I could have had it drilled and worn it on a chain!”
The man made no comment as they went on. Presently they came to a deep rift in the moor through which a stream leaped sparkling. The girl scrambled down, waist-deep in yellow fern, but the other side was steep and stony and she was glad of help when he held out his hand. They made the ascent with some difficulty and on reaching the summit she looked around, breathless.
“This is a romantic spot, if you’re interested in the legends of the Border,” she told him.
“I am,” Lisle said; and she sat down among the heather.
“It’s an excuse for a rest,” she confessed. “The old moss-troopers used to ride this way to ravage Cumberland. It was advisable for them to follow hidden paths among the moors, and once an interesting little skirmish took place among those brakes down the hollow.”
She pointed toward a spot where the ravine widened into a level strip of quaggy grass and moss which glowed a brilliant emerald. On either side of it a gnarled and stunted growth of alders and birches fringed the foot of the steep slopes, and between them the stream spread out across a stretch of milk-white stones. The hollow was flooded with light and filled with the soft murmur of running water.
“It would be a strong place to hold, if the defenders had time to choose their ground,” Lisle remarked.
“So it proved,” replied his companion. “Well, once upon a time, a bold Scots reaver, riding south, saw a maid who pleased him near a Cumberland pele. His admiration was not reciprocated, but he came again, often, though being an armed thief by profession there was a price upon his head. It is stated that on each occasion he returned unaccompanied by any of the cattle belonging to his lady’s relatives, which was an unusual piece of forbearance. In those days, men must have been able to disassociate business from their love-making.”
“Don’t they do so now?” Lisle inquired lazily.
She looked at him with a smile which had a hint of real bitterness in its light mockery.
“Not often, one would imagine. Perhaps they can’t be blamed—I’m afraid we’re all given to cultivating dreadfully expensive tastes. No doubt, when it was needful, the Border chieftain of the story could live on oatmeal and water, and instead of buying pedigree hunters he probably stole his pony. He haunted the neighborhood of the pele until the maid became afraid and urged her kinsmen to rid her of him. Several of them tried and failed—which wasn’t surprising.”
“Love made him invulnerable?” Lisle suggested.
“No,” retorted his companion. “A man with a heart constant and stout enough to face the risks he ran would be hard to kill. When you read between the lines, it’s a moving tale. Think of the long, perilous rides he made through an enemy’s land, all for a glance at his disdainful lady! They watched the fords in those days, but neither brawling rivers nor well-mounted horsemen could stop him. At last, he came one night with a dozen spears, broke in the barmkin gate and carried her off. All her relatives rode hard after them and came up with them in this ghyll. Then there happened what was, in one way, a rather remarkable thing—the abducted maid firmly declined to be rescued. There was a brisk encounter, I believe two or three were killed; but she rode off to Scotland with her lover. I suppose I needn’t point the moral?”
“I can see only the ancient one—that it’s unwise to take a lady’s ‘No’ as conclusive,” Lisle ventured.
She laughed at him in a daring manner.
“The pity is that we haven’t often a chance of saying it to any one worth while. But I’ll express the moral in a prettier way—sometimes disinterested steadfastness and real devotion count with us. Unfortunately, they’re scarce.”
There was a challenge in her glance, but the man, not knowing what was expected of him, made no answer. At first he had been almost repelled by the girl, but he was becoming mildly interested in her. She could, he thought, be daring to the verge of coarseness, and he did not admire her pessimism, which was probably a pose; but there was a vein of elfish mischief in her that appealed to him. Sitting among the heather, small, lithe, and felinely graceful, watching him with a provocative smile in her rather narrow eyes, she compelled his attention.
“Well,” she laughed, “you’re not much of a courtier. But doesn’t that story bring you back into touch with elemental things—treacherous mosses, dark nights, flooded rivers, passion, peril, dauntlessness? Now we’re wrapped about with empty futilities.”
He understood part of what was in her mind and sympathized with it. He had lived close to nature in stern grapple with her unbridled forces. From women he demanded no more than beauty or gentleness; but a man, he thought, should for a time, at least, be forced to learn the stress and joy of the tense struggle with cold and hunger, heat and thirst, on long marches or in some dogged attack on rock and flood. He had only contempt for the well-fed idlers who lounged through life, not always, as he suspected, even gracefully. These, however, were ideas he had no intention of expressing.
“There are still people who have to face realities in the newer lands; and I dare say you have some in this country, on your railroads and in your mines, for example,” he said. “But hadn’t we better be getting on?”
They left the brink of the hollow and plodded through the heather toward where a row of butts stood beneath a lofty ridge of the moor. A man appeared from behind one as they approached and glanced at them with unconcealed disapproval.
“Couldn’t you have got here earlier, Bella?” he asked. “In another few minutes you’d have spoiled the drive—the birds can’t be far off the dip of the ridge. Hardly fair to the keepers or the rest of us to take these risks, is it?”
“When I do wrong, I never confess it, Clarence,” the girl replied. “You ought to know that by now.”
Lisle heard the name and became suddenly intent—this was Clarence Gladwyne! There was no doubt that he was a handsome man. He was tall and held himself finely; he had a light, springy figure, with dark eyes and hair. Besides, there was a certain stamp of refinement or fastidiousness upon him which was only slightly spoiled by the veiled hint of languid insolence in his expression.
“I heard a shot,” he resumed.
“I’ve no doubt you did,” the girl agreed. “An old cock grouse got up in front of us—it was irresistibly tempting.”
Gladwyne turned to Lisle with a slight movement of his shoulders which was somehow expressive of half-indulgent contempt.
“You’re Nasmyth’s friend from Canada? I guess you don’t understand these things, but you might have made the birds break back,” he said. “However, we must get under cover now—there’s your butt. I’ll see you later.”
He turned away and Lisle took up his station behind the wall of turf pointed to. He had once upon a time been forcibly rebuked for his clumsiness at some unaccustomed task in the Canadian bush and had not resented it, but the faint movement of Gladwyne’s shoulders had brought a warmth to his face. The girl noticed this.
“Clarence can be unpleasant when he likes, but there are excuses for him,” she said. “A day’s shooting is one of the things we take seriously, and manners are not at a higher premium here than I suppose they are in the wilds.”
Lisle made no response, and there was silence on the sun-steeped moor until a row of small dark objects skimming the crest of the ridge above became silhouetted against the sky. Then a gun cracked away to the right and in another moment a dropping fusillade broke out.
It was about nine o’clock in the evening, and Gladwyne’s somewhat noisy guests were scattered about his house and the terrace in front of it. Several of them had gathered in the hall, and Bella Crestwick, Lisle’s companion on the moors, stood, cigarette in hand, with one foot on the old-fashioned hearth-irons, frankly discussing him. A few birch logs glowed behind the bars, for on those high uplands the autumn nights were chilly, but the wide door stood open, revealing a pale green band of light behind the black hills, and allowing the sweet, cool air of the moors to flow in.
The girl had gained something by the change from her outdoor attire to the clinging evening dress, but it was with characteristic unconcern that she disregarded the fact that the thin skirt fell well away from one shapely ankle effectively displayed by a stocking of the finest texture.
“The man,” she said, “is a bit of a Puritan. They still live over there, don’t they? His idea of English women is evidently derived from what his father told him, or from early-Victorian literature. I’m inclined to believe I shocked him.”
“It’s highly probable,” laughed a man lounging near. “Still, I believe the descendants of the folks you mention live three thousand miles from his country, in the neighborhood of the Atlantic shore. One wouldn’t fancy that you’d like Puritans.”
There was nothing offensive in the words, but his glance was a little too bold and too familiar, and Bella looked at him with a gleam of malice in her eyes.
“Extremes meet; it’s the middle—the medium mediocrity—that’s irreconcilable with either end,” she retorted. “For instance, I led a life of severe asceticism all last Lent.” There were incredulous smiles, though the statement was perfectly correct. “It’s a course I could confidently recommend to you,” she proceeded, unheeding; “of late you have been putting on flesh with an alarming rapidity.”
The man made no response and Bella resumed:
“Besides, the Puritans have their good points; they’re so refreshingly sure of themselves and their views, while the rest of us don’t believe in anything. You can’t be a fanatic without being thorough, and in renouncing the world and the flesh you may gain more than a passable figure. Among other things, the ascetic life means straight shooting, steady hands, and an eye you can depend upon. The overcivilized man who does nothing to counterbalance his luxuriousness is generally a rotter.”
“But what has all this to do with Nasmyth’s Canadian?” somebody asked.
Bella waved her cigarette.
“Try to walk a steep moor with him and you’ll see. If that’s not sufficient, take the same butt with him when the grouse are coming over.”
Suddenly she straightened herself, dropping her foot from the iron and flinging the cigarette into the fire, as a gray-haired lady entered the hall. She had been a beauty years ago and now her fragility emphasized the fineness of her features and the clear pallor of her skin. She was dressed in a thin black fabric, and her beautifully shaped hands gleamed unusually white against its somber folds.
“Where’s Clarence?” she asked the group collectively, in a voice that was singularly clear and penetrative. “I haven’t seen him for the last half-hour.”
One of the men immediately went in search of him, and the lady crossed the hall to where Millicent Gladwyne was sitting, for the time being alone. Millicent had noticed Bella’s sudden change of demeanor upon her hostess’s entrance, with something between amusement and faint disgust. Mrs. Gladwyne was what Bella would have called early-Victorian in her views, and she would occasionally have been disturbed by the conversation of some of her son’s guests, had she not been a little deaf.
“Sitting quiet?” she said to Millicent, who was a favorite of hers; and her voice carried farther than she was aware of as she continued: “I heard the laughter and it brought me down, though I want to tell Clarence something. I like to see bright faces; but the times have changed since I was young. We were a little more reserved and not so noisy then.”
“A dear old thing! It’s a pity she’s quite so antediluvian,” Bella remarked to a man at her side.
“Isn’t that the natural penalty of being a dear old thing?” laughed her companion. “There’s no doubt we have progressed pretty rapidly of late.”
Clarence appeared shortly after this and was gently chidden by his mother for going out without his hat, because the autumn nights were getting chilly. A few minutes later, footsteps became audible outside the open door and Nasmyth entered the hall with Lisle. It was spacious and indifferently lighted; the others, standing near the hostess, concealed her, and Lisle stopped for a word with Bella. Then Nasmyth noticed Mrs. Gladwyne and called to his companion.
“This way, Vernon.”
Clarence swung round with a start and cast a swift glance at the stranger, and Millicent wondered why his face set hard; but the next moment Nasmyth led up the Canadian and presented him. Mrs. Gladwyne had risen and Lisle made a little respectful inclination over the delicate hand she held out. Age had but slightly spoiled her beauty; she had still a striking presence, and a manner in which a trace of stateliness was counterbalanced by gentle good-humor. Lisle was strongly impressed, but, as Millicent noticed, he betrayed no awkwardness.
“I seem to have heard your name before in connection with Canada,” said Mrs. Gladwyne, confusing it with his surname. “Ah, yes! Of course; it was George’s guide I was thinking of.” She turned to Millicent, adding in an audible aside: “I’ve a bad habit of forgetting. Forgive me, my dear.”
Everything considered, it was, perhaps, the most awkward thing she could have said; but Lisle’s bronzed face was imperturbable, and Gladwyne had promptly recovered his composure as he realized the mistake. Still, for a moment, he had been badly startled. Nobody noticed Nasmyth, which was fortunate, because his unnatural immobility would have betrayed him.
“I’d been expecting you both earlier; told you to come to dinner,” said his host.
Then he addressed Lisle.
“As my mother mentioned, I had once something to do with a man called Vernon, in Canada.”
Knowing what he did, Lisle fancied that Gladwyne’s indifferent tone had cost him an effort.
“It’s only my Christian name, as you have heard,” he explained.
“You were up in the bush with Nasmyth, were you not?”
“Yes,” answered Lisle. “I met him quite by chance in a Victoria hotel when I happened to have a few weeks at my disposal which I thought of spending in the wilds. When he heard that I intended making a trip through the northern part of the country and suggested that we should go together I was glad to consent.”
“Then you belong to Victoria?”
“I was located there when I met Nasmyth. Before that I was up in the Yukon district for some time. Since leaving him I’ve lived in the city.”
He thought Gladwyne was relieved at his answer, for the latter smiled genially.
“Well,” he said, “we must try to make your visit to this country pleasant.”
Shortly after this, the group broke up and Gladwyne, escaping from his guests, slipped out on to the terrace and walked up and down. Nasmyth had merely mentioned that he had a Canadian friend staying with him; somehow a formal introduction had been omitted during the day on the moors, and Gladwyne had been badly disconcerted when he heard the man addressed as Vernon. The name vividly recalled a Canadian episode that he greatly desired to forget, and he had, indeed, to some extent succeeded in doing so. That unfortunate affair was done with, he had assured himself; for two years it had scarcely been mentioned in his hearing, but for a horrible moment which had taxed his courage to the utmost he had almost fancied that it was about to be brought to light again. Lisle’s answer and manner had, however, reassured him. Nasmyth had met the man accidentally and it was merely as the result of this that they had made the journey through the bush together. It was evident that he had been needlessly alarmed.
For all that, he was troubled. Living for his own pleasure, as he did, he was nevertheless a man who valued other people’s good opinion and prided himself upon doing the correct and most graceful thing. There was no doubt that he had once badly failed in this, but it was in a moment of physical weakness, when he was exhausted and famishing. After all, it was most probable that his cousin had died before he could have reached him, and there were, he thought, few men who, if similarly situated, would have faced the risk of the return journey. Still, the truth would have had an ugly sound had it come out. This was why he had spread the story of the guide’s defection, which he now regretted. It might not have been strictly necessary, but he had reached the trappers’ camp on the verge of a collapse, too far gone to reason out the matter calmly. A man in that condition could hardly be held accountable for his action. Besides, it was incredible that the guide’s statement that he had made the journey without replenishing his provisions could be correct.
His reflections were interrupted by Mrs. Gladwyne, who came out, wrapped in a shawl.
“Why are you here alone?” she asked. “You look disturbed. Has anything gone wrong?”
Gladwyne was sorry that she had joined him where the light from a window fell on his face, but he smiled.
“No,” he answered quietly, for he was always gentle with her. “I only felt that I’d rather avoid the chatter of the others for a few minutes. I suppose it was the man’s name, together with your reference to George, that upset me.”
Mrs. Gladwyne laid her hand on his arm. She was inordinately fond and proud of the son whom she had spoiled.
“I sometimes think you are too sensitive on that point, Clarence,” she said. “Of course, it was very tragic and we both owe George a great deal, but you did all that anybody could have done.”
The man winced, and it was fortunate that they had now left the light behind and his mother could not see his face.
“I could have stayed and died with him,” he broke out with unaffected bitterness. “There were times at the beginning when I was sorry I let him send me away.”
Mrs. Gladwyne shook her head reproachfully. She was gracious and quietly dignified and refined in thought, but for all that she was not one to appreciate such a sacrifice as he had indicated.
“I’m afraid that was an undue exaggeration of a natural feeling,” she remonstrated. “How could your staying have helped him, when by going in search of help you increased his only chance of safety? I have always been glad you were clear-headed enough to realize it, instead of yielding to mistaken emotional inclinations.”
Gladwyne felt hot with shame. His mother had an unshaken confidence in his honor, which was the less surprising because her perceptions had never been very keen and she had always shrunk from the contemplation of unpleasant things. It was an amiable weakness of hers to idealize those she loved, and by resolutely shutting her eyes on occasions she succeeded in accomplishing it more or less successfully. Clarence was, of course, aware of this, and it hurt to remember that in deserting his cousin he had been prompted chiefly by craven fear. His mother, however, quite unconscious of what she was doing, further humiliated him.
“Of course,” she continued, “if you had found the cache of provisions, it would have been your duty to return to George at any hazard, and I have no doubt whatever that you would have gone.”
The damp stood beaded on the man’s forehead. He realized that even his lenient and indulgent mother would shrink from him if she knew that he had abandoned his dying benefactor like a treacherous coward. He said nothing and they had strolled to the end of the terrace before she spoke again.
“I think it would be better to go back to the others and drive away these morbid ideas,” she advised. “It’s a duty to look at the brightest side of everything.”
He made no answer, but he strove with some degree of success to recover his usual tranquillity as they turned toward the entrance of the hall.
In the meanwhile, Lisle had been talking to Millicent. She had already made a marked impression on him, for in the wilds the man had acquired a swift and true insight into character. One has time to think in the lonely places where, since life itself often depends upon their accuracy, a man’s perceptions grow keen, and though some of the minor complexities and subtleties of modern civilization might have puzzled him he was seldom mistaken in essentials.
He liked her direct and calmly searching gaze; he liked her voice which, while soft and pleasant, had a trace of gravity in it. He knew that her fine carriage was a sign of physical vigor and he recognized how it had been gained by the clear, warm tinting of her slightly sun-darkened skin. But, apart from this and her comeliness, which was marked, there was that in her personality which spoke of evenness and depth of character. She was steadfast, not lightly to be swayed from a resolve, he thought.
“Nasmyth has often spoken about you,” she told him. “I understand it was chiefly by your help that he succeeded in reaching the scene of my brother’s death. I want to thank you for that.”
Her voice was quiet, but it did not betoken indifference; he knew that she was not one to forget. He could not think of any apposite answer, but she saw the sympathy in his eyes and it pleased her more than words would have done.
“It was a relief to me that Nasmyth made that journey,” she went on. “I wanted to learn everything that could be known—instead of shrinking from it. You see, I had a great faith in my brother.”
“He deserved it,” Lisle declared warmly. “I have gathered enough to convince me of that!”
“Thank you! Clarence was not in a condition to notice anything very clearly during his journey, and I think what he suffered blunted his recollection. Besides, the subject is a distressing one to him, and it is seldom he can be induced to speak about it. Perhaps that is a pity; I find it does not always save one trouble in the end to avoid a little immediate pain.”
Lisle was gratified. She had spoken so unrestrainedly, though he imagined that it was a somewhat unusual thing for her to take a stranger into her confidence.
“Yes,” he replied; “I think that’s very true. It’s better to face it and get it over. The wound sooner heals.”
She smiled rather wistfully and changed the subject.
“I told Nasmyth that you taught him to see.”
“I suppose I did,” acknowledged Lisle. “Still, it was only as far as it concerned the things that I’m acquainted with. I’m not sure that my meaning’s very clear?”
“I understand. You knew what to expect; that carries one a long way. Were you disappointed in finding it?”
He was a little surprised at her keenness, and rather confused. This was a question that could not be directly answered.
“What I was more particularly referring to was the meaning of such things as a broken branch, a gap in a thicket, or a few displaced stones,” he explained. “I taught him what to infer from those.”
“Yes,” she said; “I understand that you discovered nothing new—I mean nothing that could throw any further light upon what befell my brother after the others left him.”
He was glad that he could answer her candidly.
“No; we can only suppose that the conclusions the rescue party came to were correct. But all that we found relating to the week or two before the separation spoke of the courageous struggle that your brother made and his generosity in sending the others away.”
She bent her head.
“That,” she said quietly, “is only what one would have expected. He left a diary; you must come over and see it.”
“I should like to, if it wouldn’t be painful to you.”
“No,” she replied; “I shall be glad to show it to you.”
She left him shortly after this and strolled out on to the terrace, thinking about him. The little she had seen of him had pleased her; he had earnest eyes and a resolute air, and she liked the men who lived in the open. He was direct, and perhaps a little rudimentary without being awkward, which was in his favor, for subtlety of any kind was distasteful to her. Still, in one respect, she was disappointed—he had in no way amplified Nasmyth’s story, and she had expected to hear a little more of the expedition from him.