Millicent was sitting in a window-seat with a paint-box beside her and a drawing of a water-ouzel upon her knee. It was a lifelike sketch, but she had a great capacity for painstaking and she was not altogether pleased with the drawing. The bird stood on a stone an inch or two above a stream, its white breast harmonizing with the flecks of snowy froth, and the rest of its rather somber plumage of the same hue as a neighboring patch of shadow. This was as it should be, except that, as the central object of a picture, it was too inconspicuous. She was absorbed in contemplating it when Mrs. Gladwyne was shown in. Clarence’s mother did not pay many visits and Millicent fancied she had some particular object in coming.
She sat down where the sunlight fell on her gentle face and silvery hair, her delicate white hands spread out on her dark dress.
“Busy, as usual, my dear,” she said, glancing at the sketch. “That’s very pretty.”
“I think it’s correct,” returned Millicent; “but I’m not sure it’s what it ought to be in other respects. You see, its purpose is to show people what a water-ouzel is like and it’s hard to make the creature out. Of course, I could have drawn it against a background that would have forced up every line, but that wouldn’t have been right—these wild things were made to fade into their surroundings.” She laughed. “Truth is rigid and uncompromising—it’s difficult to make it subservient to expediency.”
Her visitor did not feel inclined to discuss the matter.
“You’re too fastidious,” she smiled, and added with a sigh: “George was like that. Little things keep cropping up every day to show it—I mean in connection with his care of the property. I’m sometimes afraid that Clarence is different.”
Millicent could not deny this, but she did not see his mother’s purpose in confessing it.
“Of course,” she answered, as she rang for tea, “he hasn’t been in charge very long. One can learn only by experience.”
Mrs. Gladwyne looked grateful; but although she was very tranquil there was something in her manner that hinted at uncertainty.
“You will finish the book and these pictures some day,” she said. “What will you do then?”
“I really don’t know. Perhaps I shall start another. If not, there is always something I can turn my hand to. So many things seem to need doing—village matters alone would find me some occupation.”
The elder lady considered this.
“Yes,” she agreed with diffidence. “I’m now and then afraid everything’s not quite so satisfactory as it used to be. The cottages don’t look so pretty or well cared for, the people are not so content—some of them are even inclined to be bitter and resentful. Of course, things change, our relations with our dependents among them; but I feel that people like the Marples, living as they do, have a bad effect. They form a text for the dissatisfied.”
Millicent contented herself with a nod. She could not explain that in spite of the changing mode of thought it is still possible for an old-fashioned landlord to retain almost everybody’s good will. Sympathy and tactful advice are appreciated, though not effusively, and even a bluff, well-meant reproof is seldom resented. But when rents are rigorously exacted by a solicitor’s or banker’s clerk, and repairs are cut down, when indifference takes the place of judicious interest, it is hardly logical to look for the cordial relations that might exist. Nasmyth’s tenants stopped and exchanged a cheery greeting or a jest with him; most of Gladwyne’s looked grim when he or his friends, the Marples, passed.
Then tea was brought in and Millicent found pleasure in watching her guest. Mrs. Gladwyne made a picture, she thought, sitting with the dainty china in her beautiful hands; she possessed the grace and something of the stateliness which is associated with the old régime.
“How quick your people are,” she commented. “You rang and the things were brought in. Our staff is large and expensive, but as a rule they keep us waiting. Though you paint and go out so much, you have the gift of making a home comfortable. It really is a gift; one that should not be wasted.”
Millicent grew serious. It looked as if her companion were coming to the point, and this became plainer when Mrs. Gladwyne proceeded.
“Do you think the life you contemplate—writing books on birds and animals—is the best or most natural one for a woman?”
A little color crept into the girl’s face.
“I don’t know; perhaps it isn’t. It is the one that seems open to me.”
“The only one, my dear? You must know what I mean.”
Millicent turned and faced her. She was disturbed, but she seldom avoided a plain issue.
“I think,” she said, “it would be better if you told me.”
“It’s difficult.” Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. “You must forgive me if I go wrong. Still, you know it was always expected that you would marry Clarence some day. It would be so desirable.”
“For which of us?” Millicent’s tone was sharp. She sympathized with Mrs. Gladwyne, but something was due to herself.
“It was Clarence that I was thinking of,” admitted her visitor. “I suppose that I am selfish; but I am his mother.” She laid down her cup and looked at the girl with pleading eyes. “I must go on, though I don’t think I could say what I wish to any one but you. Clarence has many good qualities, but he needs guidance. An affectionate son; but it is my misfortune that I am not wise or firm enough to advise or restrain him. I have dropped behind the new generation; the standards are different from what they were when I was young.”
This was true, but it was incomplete, and Millicent let her finish.
“I have been a little anxious, perhaps foolishly so, about him now and then. I cannot approve of all his friends—sometimes they jar on me—and I do not like the views he seems to have acquired from them. They are not the ones his father held. Of course, this is only the result of wrong associations and of having a good-humored, careless nature; it would be so different if he could be brought under some wholesome influence.” She smiled at Millicent. “One could trust implicitly to yours.”
It was an old plea, fallacious often, but none the less effective. Millicent was devoid of officious self-righteousness, but she was endowed with a compassionate tenderness which prompted her to extend help to all who needed it. She thought that Clarence did so, but in spite of that she did not feel so responsive as she could have wished.
“There is one difficulty,” she answered while the blood crept into her face. “I’ll own that I recognized what your ideas and George’s were about Clarence and myself. I may go so far. But of late there has been nothing to show that Clarence desired to carry out those ideas.”
Mrs. Gladwyne gathered her courage.
“My dear, it is rather hard to say, but the truth is that a declaration from a man is not usually quite spontaneous. He looks for some tacit encouragement, a sign that one is not altogether indifferent to him. Now it has struck me that during the past year you have rather stood aloof from my son.”
Millicent started slightly; there was some truth in this statement. Mrs. Gladwyne, however, was not wise enough to stop.
“I think that is why there is some risk of his falling into bad hands—that Crestwick girl isn’t diffident,” she went on. “I know the strong regard he has for you; but the girl sees a good deal of him, and a man is sometimes easily led where he does not mean to go.”
Millicent’s cheeks burned.
“Do you wish me to compete openly for Clarence’s favor with Bella Crestwick?”
Mrs. Gladwyne spread out her hands in protest.
“Oh, my dear!” she exclaimed. “I have said the wrong thing. I warned you that you might have to forgive me.”
“But the thought must have been in your mind!”
“I only meant that you needn’t repel or avoid him, as you have done of late.”
Millicent felt compassionate. After all, Mrs. Gladwyne was pleading for what she believed would benefit her only son; but the girl was very human and a trace of her resentment remained. It was, however, obvious that Mrs. Gladwyne expected some response.
“I can venture to promise that I won’t be openly rude,” Millicent agreed with a faint smile.
“Can’t you go a little beyond that, my dear?”
The girl, seeing the look in her eyes, yielded to an impulse which prompted her to candor.
“What there is to be said had better be spoken now,” she replied. “I have confessed that I knew what was expected—Clarence showed that he knew it, too—and the idea was not altogether repugnant to me. But since he came back from Canada there has been a change in both of us. How or why I can’t explain, but we have drifted apart. I don’t know whether this will go on—I don’t understand myself—I only know that I am as anxious for his welfare as I always have been. It must be left to him; there is nothing you must urge me to do.”
Mrs. Gladwyne looked regretful, but she made a sign of acquiescence and rising came toward the girl and took her hand.
“What I could do I have done—badly perhaps,” she said. “I can’t blame you. I am only sorry.”
She went out in a few minutes and left Millicent in a thoughtful mood. Looking back on the past, the girl recognized that she had been fond of Clarence—which was the best word for it—and that she would have married him had he urged it. He had, however, hardly been in a position to do so then, and she remembered that she had in no way regretted the fact. This was, she thought, significant. Then the change had gradually come about. She saw his faults more clearly and it grew increasingly difficult to believe that she could eradicate them. What was more, during the past few weeks she had once or twice felt scornfully angry with him. She had tried not to yield to the sensation, and now she wondered how it had originated and why she was less tolerant.
As she considered the question, a shadow fell upon the sunlit lawn and looking up she saw Lisle approaching with a creel upon his back. She started at the sight of him and once more felt her cheeks grow hot; then she smiled, for the half-formed suspicion that had flashed into her mind was obviously absurd. He saw her the next moment and strode toward the open window.
“We got a few good white trout, fresh run,” he said. “It occurred to me that you might like one or two of them.”
He glanced at the long French window.
“May I come in this way?”
“I’ve no doubt you could do so, but out of deference to conventional prejudices it might be better if you went round by the usual entrance.”
“Charmed!” he smiled. “That’s easy.”
“Would you rather have it hard?”
“That wasn’t the idea,” he answered. “I only felt that a much greater difficulty wouldn’t stop my getting in.”
Millicent laughed.
“If one of my neighbors made such speeches, they’d sound cheap. From you they’re amusing.”
He affected to consider this.
“I suppose the difference is that I mean them. Anyway, I’ll walk around.”
She gave him some tea when he came in, and afterward admired the fish.
“They’re well above the average weight,” she said.
“We had two or three that would beat them,” Lisle declared. “Miss Crestwick came along and corralled the finest.”
“Was the explanation essential?” Millicent inquired with a smile.
“That was a bad break of mine. So bad that I won’t try to explain it away.”
“I think you are wise,” Millicent retorted with a trace of dryness.
On the face of it, she was pleased with his answer, but the fact he had mentioned caused her some irritation. Bella Crestwick, not content with monopolizing Clarence, must also seek to include the Canadian in her train. It was curious that for the moment that seemed the more serious offense. The girl was insatiable and going too far, Millicent thought.
Lisle noticed her silence.
“Remember that I’m from the wilds,” he said.
She smiled at him reassuringly.
“After all, that isn’t a great drawback. Anyway, I’m grateful for the trout.” Then, somewhat to his surprise, she abruptly changed the subject. “I wonder what you think of a tacit promise?”
His face grew thoughtful; she liked his quick change to seriousness.
“Well, I don’t know that my opinion’s of much value, but you may have it. Supposing two people allow each other to assume that they’re agreed upon the same thing, it’s binding upon both of them.”
“But if only one actually made his wishes clear.”
“In that case, the other had the option of showing that they couldn’t be acceded to. Failing that, in my view, he can’t go back on it.” Then his eyes gleamed with amusement. “I don’t often set up as a philosopher.”
Millicent was a little vexed with herself for asking him and did not quite understand why she had done so, unless it was because she had not altogether recovered her usual collectedness after Mrs. Gladwyne’s visit. Why she should be interested in this man’s opinion was not clear, but she thought he was one who would act in accordance with it. She was afterward even more astonished at her next remark, which she made impulsively.
“You have seen a good deal of Miss Crestwick, one way or another.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I like her. For one thing, she’s genuinely concerned about that brother of hers.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Not much,” Lisle answered candidly. “I’ve no use for a man who needs a woman to keep him straight and look after him. But one feels a strong respect for the woman, even though it’s obvious that she’s wasting her time.”
“Is it wasting time?”
“It strikes me like that. A man of that sort is bound to come down badly some day.”
Millicent sat silent a while. The conversation had taken an unusually serious turn, but she wondered whether he were right. She had, she thought, allowed Clarence to assume that she would not repulse him when he formally claimed her and that—so this man from the wilds considered—constituted a binding obligation. She could not contest this view; but Clarence seemed more interested in Bella Crestwick than he was in her. Then she wondered why the girl had made so much of Lisle, unless it was to use him for the purpose of drawing Clarence on. If that were so, it seemed a pity that the confiding Canadian could not be warned, though that, of course, was out of the question.
“I’m afraid I’m not very amusing to-day,” she acknowledged.
He smiled.
“I’ll go the moment you want to get rid of me; but, even if you don’t say anything, I like sitting here. This place rests me.”
“I shouldn’t have imagined you to be of a very restful nature.”
“Oh,” he declared, “there’s a kind of quietness that braces you.”
He was less reserved than the average Englishman, but he felt the charm of his surroundings more keenly than the latter would probably have done. Everything in the room was artistic, but its effect was deeper than mere prettiness. It was cool, though the autumn sunshine streamed in, and the girl had somehow impressed her personality upon it. Soft colorings, furniture, even the rather incongruous mixture of statuettes and ivory carvings, blended into a harmonious whole, and the girl made a most satisfactory central figure, as she sat opposite him in her unusually thoughtful mood. He felt the charm of her presence, though he could hardly have analyzed it. As he said, it was not even needful that she should talk to him.
“There are lakes in British Columbia from which you can look straight up at the never-melting snows,” he went on. “You feel that you could sit there for hours, without wanting to move or speak, though it must be owned that one very seldom gets the opportunity.”
“Why?” Millicent inquired.
“As a rule, the people who visit such places are kept too busy chopping big trees, hauling canoes round rapids, or handling heavy rocks. Besides, you have your food to cook and your clothes to mend and wash.”
“Then, after the day’s labor, a man must do his own domestic work?”
“Of course,” answered Lisle. “Now and then one comes back to camp too wet or played out to worry, and goes to sleep without getting supper. I’m speaking of when you’re working for your own hand. In a big logging or construction camp you reach the fringe of cooperation. This man sticks to the saw, the other to the ax, somebody else who gets his share of the proceeds chops the cord-wood and does the cooking.”
“And if you can neither chop nor saw nor cook?”
“Then,” Lisle informed her dryly, “you have to pull out pretty quick.”
“It sounds severe; that’s cooperation in its grimmest aspect, though it’s quite logical—everybody must do his part. I’m afraid I shouldn’t be justified if we adopted it here.”
“Cooperation implies a division of tasks,” Lisle pointed out. “In a country like this, they’re many and varied. So long as you draw the wild things as you do, you’ll discharge your debt.”
“Do you know that that’s the kind of work the community generally pays one very little for?”
“Then it shows its wrong-headedness,” Lisle answered as he glanced meaningly round the room. “But haven’t you got part of your fee already? Of course, that’s impertinent.”
“I believe we would shrink from saying it, but it’s quite correct,” Millicent replied. “Still, since you have mentioned the drawings, I’d like your opinion about this ouzel.”
She took up the sketch and explained the difficulty, as she had done to Mrs. Gladwyne.
“It’s right; don’t alter it,” advised Lisle. “It’s your business to show people the real thing as it actually is, so they can learn, not to alter it to suit their untrained views.”
He laughed and rose somewhat reluctantly.
“After that, I’d better get along. I have to thank you for allowing me to come in.”
She let him go with a friendly smile, and then sat down to think about him. He was rather direct, but the good-humor with which he stated his opinions softened their positiveness. Besides, she had invited them; and she felt that they were correct. He was such another as Nasmyth, simple in some respects, but reliable; one who could never be guilty of anything mean. She liked the type in general, and she admitted that she liked this representative of it in particular.
It was late at night, but Gladwyne sat, cigar in hand, in his library, while Batley lounged beside the hearth. A wood fire diffused a faint aromatic fragrance into the great high-ceilinged room, and the light of a single silver lamp flickered on the polished floor, which ran back like a sheet of black ice into the shadow. Heavily-corniced bookcases rose above it on either band, conveying an idea of space and distance by the way they grew dimmer as they receded from the light.
The room had an air of stateliness in its severe simplicity, and its owner, sitting just inside the ring of brightness, clad in conventional black and white, looked in harmony with it. Something in his finely-lined figure and cleanly-molded face stamped him as one at home in such a place. A decanter stood near his elbow, but it was almost full. Gladwyne, in many ways, was more of an ascetic than a sensualist, though this was less the result of moral convictions than of a fastidious temperament. The man had an instinctive aversion for anything that was ugly or unpleasant. His companion, dressed with an equal precision, looked different, more virile, coarser; he was fuller in figure and heavier in face.
“No,” declared Gladwyne with a show of firmness; “the line must be drawn. I’ve already gone farther than I should have done.”
“I’m sorry for you, Gladwyne—you don’t seem to realize that a man can’t very well play two widely different parts at once,” Batley rejoined, smiling. “Your interfering Canadian friend would describe your attitude as sitting upon the fence. It’s an uncomfortable position, one that’s not often tenable for any length of time. Hadn’t you better make up your mind as to which side you’ll get down on?”
Gladwyne looked uneasy. The choice all his instinct prompted him to make was not open to him, except at a cost which he was hardly prepared to face. He was known as a bold rider, he had the steady nerves that usually result from a life spent in the open air, but, as Batley recognized, he lacked stamina.
“You are going wide of the mark,” he answered. “What I have asked you to do is to let the lad alone. The thing’s exciting comment. You”—he hesitated—“have made enough out of him.”
“I think,” replied the other coolly, “I was very much to the point. If you don’t recognize this, I’ll ask: Suppose I don’t fall in with your request, what then?”
Gladwyne examined his cigar. It was not in his nature to face an issue boldly, and his companion seemed determined to force one.
“I’ve asked it as a favor,” he finally said.
“No,” corrected Batley; “I don’t think you did so. You intimated your wishes in a rather lordly style.”
This was true, but Gladwyne winced at the man’s cold smile. He had, in a fit of indignation which was both honest and commendable, expressed himself with some haughtiness; but he knew that he would be beaten if it came to an open fight. This was unfortunate, because his intentions were good.
“Besides,” Batley continued, “I’m not in a position to grant expensive favors. My acquaintance with young Crestwick is, of course, profitable. What’s more, I’ve very liberally offered you a share.”
Gladwyne’s face grew hot. He had acted, most reluctantly, as a decoy to the vicious lad, but he had never benefited by it, except when now and then some stake fell into his hands. The suggestion that he should share in the plunder filled him with disgust, and he knew that Batley had made it to humiliate him.
“You’re taking risks,” he continued. “There’s legislation on the subject of minors’ debts; Crestwick began to deal with you before he was twenty-one, and he’s still in his trustees’ hands. If he made trouble, I’m inclined to think some of your transactions would look very much like conspiracy.”
“I know my man. You people would suffer a good deal, sooner than advertise yourselves through the law courts.”
“Crestwick isn’t one of us,” Gladwyne objected.
“Then, as he aspires to be considered one, he’ll go even farther than you would. None are so keen for the honor of the flock as those who don’t strictly belong to the fold. There’s another point you overlook—a person can’t very well conspire alone, and inquiries might be made about my confederates. That, however, is not a matter of much importance, because I imagine Miss Crestwick would not allow any one to point to you. Besides, her money’s safe, and she’s a prepossessing young lady.”
Gladwyne straightened himself sharply in his chair. “Don’t go too far! There are things I won’t stand!”
“Then we’ll try to avoid them. All I require is that you still give the lad the entry of this house and don’t interfere with me. You see I’m reasonable.”
As Gladwyne had interfered, to acquiesce was to own defeat, which was galling, and while he hesitated Batley watched him with an air of indulgent amusement.
“It’s a pity you were not quite straight with me at the beginning, Gladwyne; it would have saved you trouble,” he remarked at length. “I took a sporting risk at pretty long odds—I have to do so now and then and I pay up when I lose. But if I’d known the money was to go to Miss Gladwyne and you would only get the land, I’d never have kept you supplied; and in particular I wouldn’t have made the last big loan shortly before you and your cousin sailed for Canada.”
“You knew it was a blind speculation—that I ran the same risk as George did, and that he might outlive me.”
“You’re wrong on one point,” Batley objected dryly. “I’m acquainted with your temperament—it’s not one that would lead you into avoidable difficulties. Well, you came through and your cousin died, but you failed to pay me off when you came into possession.”
“I’ve explained that I couldn’t foresee the trouble I have in meeting expenses. I’ve paid you an extortionate interest.”
“That’s in arrears,” retorted Batley. “You should have pinched and denied yourself to the utmost until you had got rid of me. You couldn’t bring yourself to do so—well, it’s rather a pity one can’t have everything.”
Approaching the table, he quietly took up the lamp. It was heavy, standing on a massive silver pillar, but he raised it above his head so that the light streamed far about the stately room. Then he laughed as he set it down.
“It’s something to be the owner of such a place and enjoy all that it implies—which includes your acknowledged status and your neighbors’ respect. There would be a risk of losing the latter if it came out that, driven by financial strain, you had been speculating on your cousin’s death.”
Gladwyne made a little abrupt movement and Batley saw that his shot had told.
“It would be enough to place you under a cloud,” he went on. “People might think that you had at least not been very reluctant to leave him to starve. Well, I’ve had to wait for my money, with the interest by no means regularly paid, and unless you can square off the account, I must ask you to leave me a free hand to deal with Crestwick as I think fit. In return, if it’s needful, I’ll see you through on reasonable terms until you marry Miss Crestwick or somebody else with money.”
On the whole, Gladwyne was conscious of relief. He had been badly frightened for a moment or two. If Batley, who had good reasons for distrusting him, had accepted his account of his cousin’s death, it was most unlikely that it had excited suspicion in the mind of anybody else. Crestwick, however, must be left to his fate. It was, though he failed to recognize this, an eventful decision that Gladwyne made.
“As you will,” he answered, rising. “It’s late; I’m going for my candle.”
He strode out of the room, and Batley smiled as he followed him.
A day or two later Lisle stood on Gladwyne’s lawn. Gladwyne entertained freely, and though his neighbors did not approve of all of his friends, the man had the gift of pleasing, and his mother unconsciously exerted a charm on every one. She rarely said anything witty, but she never said anything unkind and she would listen with a ready sympathy that sometimes concealed a lack of comprehension.
Lisle had a strong respect for the calm, gracious lady, though she had won it by no more than a smile or two and a few pleasant words, and he went over to call upon her every now and then. He was interested in the company he met at her house; it struck him as worth studying; and he had a curious feeling that he was looking on at the preliminary stages of a drama in which he might presently be called upon to play a leading part. Besides, he had reasons for watching Gladwyne.
The stage was an attractive one to a man who had spent much of his time in the wilderness—a wide sweep of sunlit sward with the tennis nets stretched across part of it; on one side a dark fir wood; and for a background a stretch of brown moor receding into the distance, dimmed by an ethereal haze. A group of young men and women, picturesquely clad, were busy about the nets; others in flannels and light draperies strolled here and there across the grass, and a few more had gathered about the tea-table under a spreading cedar, where Mrs. Gladwyne sat in a low wicker-chair. Over all there throbbed the low, persistent murmur of a stream.
Lisle was talking to Millicent near the table. He looked up as a burst of laughter rose from beside the nets and saw Bella Crestwick walk away from them. One or two of the others stood looking after her, and Mrs. Gladwyne glanced from her chair inquiringly.
“They seem amused,” she said.
“It was probably at one of Miss Crestwick’s remarks; she’s undoubtedly original,” returned Millicent. “Still, I think it was chiefly Mr. Marple’s laugh you heard.”
His voice had been most in evidence—it usually carried far—but Lisle was half amused at the disapproval in the girl’s tone.
“I’m afraid I’m now and then a little boisterous, too,” he ventured.
“It depends a good deal upon what you laugh at,” Millicent informed him.
Mrs. Gladwyne looked up again, as if she had not heard, and the girl smiled at her.
“What I said isn’t worth repeating.”
She moved away a pace or two and Lisle watched Bella, who glanced once or twice in his direction as she crossed the lawn. Somehow he felt that he was wanted and a little later he strolled after the girl. Millicent noticed it with a slight frown, though she did not trouble to ask herself why she was vexed. When Lisle reached Bella, she regarded him with mischief in her eyes.
“As I once mentioned, you learn rapidly,” she laughed. “You’ll be thankful for the instruction some day, and I promise not to teach you anything very detrimental. But I’m a little surprised that Millicent Gladwyne allowed you to come.”
“I dare say she could spare me; I’m not a very entertaining companion,” Lisle said humbly.
“It wasn’t that,” Bella explained. “I don’t think she’d like you spoiled—perhaps I should say contaminated; she has ideas on the subject of education, too. She always calls me Miss Crestwick, which is significant; I’ve no doubt she did so when Marple made himself conspicuous by his amusement just now.”
Lisle had noticed the correctness of her assumptions on other occasions, but he said nothing, for he had noticed some bitterness in her voice. He walked on with her and she led him into a path through a shrubbery bordering the lawn, where she sat down on a wooden seat.
“Now,” she said teasingly, “we have given the others something to think about; but I’ve really no designs on you. It wouldn’t be much use, anyway. You’re safe.”
She looked up at him with elfish mischief in her aggressively pretty face. Dressed in some clinging fabric of pale watery green that matched the greenish light in her eyes and the reddish gleam in her hair, she was very alluring; but it was borne in upon Lisle that to take up her challenge too boldly would lower him in the girl’s regard.
“I’m human,” he laughed. “Perhaps I’d better mention it. But I think it’s more to the purpose to say that I’m altogether at your disposal.”
“Well,” she answered, “I wanted you. As you’re almost a stranger, it’s curious, isn’t it? But, you see, I haven’t a real friend in the world.”
“I wonder if that can be quite correct?”
“So far as the people here go, haven’t you eyes?”
Lisle had seen the men gather about her, but it was those he thought least of who followed her most closely, and the women stood aloof.
“There are Miss Marple and her mother, anyway; they’re friends of yours,” he pointed out.
“Just so. Flo and I are in the same class, making the same fight; but that isn’t always a reason for mutual appreciation or support. Mrs. Marple, of course, is her daughter’s partizan, though in some ways it suits us to stand together. But I didn’t bring you here to listen to my grievances, but because you happen to be the one man I can trust.”
Lisle looked embarrassed, but merely bent his head.
“It’s that silly brother of mine again,” she went on.
“What has he been doing now?”
“It’s what he’s thinking of doing that’s the worst. He has been led to believe it’s easy to acquire riches on the stock exchange and that he has the makings of a successful speculator in him. Cards and the turf I’ve had to tolerate—after all, there were ways in which he got some return for what he spent on them—but this last craze may be disastrous.”
“Where did he get the idea that he’s a financial genius? It wouldn’t be from you.”
“No,” she said seriously; “I’m his sister and most unlikely to encourage him in such delusions. I don’t think Batley had much trouble in putting the notion into his mind.” Her expression suddenly changed. “How I hate that man!”
Lisle looked down at her with grave sympathy.
“It’s quite easy to get into difficulties by speculating, unless one has ample means. But I understood—”
Bella checked him with a gesture.
“Jim comes into money—we have a good allowance now—but it will be nearly two years before he gets possession. I want him to start fair when he may, perhaps, have learned a little sense, and not to find himself burdened with debts and associates he can’t get rid of. At present, Batley’s lending him money at exorbitant interest. I’ve pleaded, I’ve stormed and told him plain truths; but it isn’t the least use.”
“I see. Why don’t you take him away?”
“He won’t come. It would be worse if I left him.”
“Do you know why Gladwyne tolerates Batley?”
“I don’t.” Bella looked up sharply. “What has that to do with it?”
Lisle thought it had a bearing on the matter, as the lad would have seen less of Batley without Gladwyne’s connivance.
“Well,” he countered, “what would you like me to do?”
“It’s difficult to answer. He’s obstinate and resents advice. You might, however, talk to him when you have a chance; he’s beginning to have a respect for your opinions.”
“That’s gratifying,” Lisle commented dryly. “He was inclined to patronize me at first.”
She spread out her hands.
“You’re too big to mind it! Tell him anything you can about disastrous mining ventures; but don’t begin as if you meant to warn him—lead up to the subject casually.”
“I’m afraid I’m not very tactful,” Lisle confessed. “He’ll see what I’m after.”
“It’s not very likely. Talk as if you considered him a man of experience. It’s fortunate that you can be of help in this case, because I think some Canadian mining shares are to be the latest deal. From what Jim said it looks as if Batley was to give him some information about them on Wednesday, when Gladwyne and he are expected at Marple’s. Can’t you come? I understand you have been asked.”
“Yes,” promised Lisle. “If I have an opportunity, I’ll see what can be done.”
Bella rose and smiled at him.
“We’ll go back; I’m comforted already. You’re not profuse, but one feels that you will keep a promise.”
They walked across the lawn, Bella now conversing in an animated strain about unimportant matters, though it did not occur to Lisle that this was for the benefit of the lookers-on. On approaching the tea-table, she adroitly secured possession of a chair which another lady who stood higher in her hostess’s esteem was making for, and sitting down chatted cheerfully with Mrs. Gladwyne. Lisle was conscious of some amusement as he watched her. She was clever and her courage appealed to him; but presently he saw Millicent and strolled toward where she was standing. She spoke to him, but he thought she was not quite so gracious as she had been before he went away.
A few days after his interview with Bella, Lisle overtook Millicent as she was walking up a wooded dale. She looked around with a smile when he joined her and they fell into friendly talk. There were points on which they differed, but a sense of mutual appreciation was steadily growing stronger between them. Presently Lisle happened to mention the Marples, and Millicent glanced at him thoughtfully. She knew that he met Bella at their house.
“You have seen a good deal of these people, one way or another,” she remarked.
“These people? Aren’t you a little prejudiced against them?”
“I suppose I am,” Millicent confessed.
“Then won’t you give me the reason? Your point of view isn’t always clear to an outsider.”
“I’ll try to be lucid. I don’t so much object to Marple as I do to what he stands for; I mean to modern tendency.”
“That’s as involved as ever.”
The girl showed a little good-humored impatience. She did not care to supply the explanation—it was against her instincts—and she was inclined to wonder why she should do so merely because the man had asked for it.
“Well,” she said, “the feudal system isn’t dead, and I believe that what is best in it need never disappear altogether. Of course, it had its drawbacks, but I think it was better than the commercialism that is replacing it. It recognized obligations on both sides, and there is a danger of forgetting them; the new people often fail to realize them at all. Marple—I’m using him as an example—bought the land for what he could get out of it.”
“About three per cent., he told me. It isn’t a great inducement.”
Millicent made a half-disdainful gesture.
“He gets a great deal more—sport, a status, friends and standing, and a means of suitably entertaining them. That, I suppose, is one reason why the return in money from purely agricultural land is so small.”
“Then is it wrong for a business man to buy these things, if he can pay for them?”
“Oh, no! But he must take up the duties attached to his purchase. When you buy land, human lives go with it. They’re still largely in the landlord’s hands. Of course, we have legislation which has curtailed the land-owner’s former powers, but it’s a soulless, mechanical thing that can never really take the place of direct personal interest.”
She stopped and glanced back down the winding dale. Here and there smooth pastures climbed the slopes that shut it in, but over part of them ranged mighty oaks, still almost green. Beyond these, beeches tinted with brown and crimson glowed against the dusky foliage of spruces and silver-firs.
“One needs wisdom, love of the soil and all that lives on it, and perhaps patience most of all,” she resumed. “These woods are an example. They are not natural like your forests—every tree has been carefully planted and as it grew the young sheltering wood about it carefully thinned out. Then as the trunks gained in size it was necessary to choose with care and cut. With the oaks it’s a work of generations, planting for one’s great-grandchildren, and the point that is suggested most clearly is the continuity of interest that should exist between the men who use the spade and ax and the men who own and plan. It is not a little thing that the third and fourth generations should complete the task, when a mutual toleration and dependence is handed down.”
Lisle was conscious of a curious stirring of his feelings as he listened to her. She was tall and finely proportioned, endowed with a calm and gracious dignity which was nevertheless, he thought, in keeping with a sanguine and virile nature. This girl was one of the fairest and most precious products of the soil she loved.
“It’s a pity in many ways that the Gladwyne property didn’t come to you,” he observed.
Her expression changed and he spread out one hand deprecatingly.
“That’s another blunder of mine. I haven’t acquired your people’s unfailing caution yet, but I only meant—”
“Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t tell me what you did mean.”
Lisle nodded. He felt that he had deserved the rebuke, as the truth of his assertion could not be admitted without disparaging Gladwyne. She would allow nothing to the latter’s discredit to be said by a stranger, but it was unpleasant to think that she regarded him as one. He changed the subject.
“You mentioned that landlord and laborer had a joint interest in the soil, and that’s undoubtedly right,” he said. “The point where trouble arises is, of course, over the division of the yield. The former’s share is obvious, but nowadays plowman and forester want more than their fathers seem to have been satisfied with. I don’t think you can blame them—in Canada they get more.”
“I’ll give you an instance to show why one can’t treat them very liberally. When my brother got possession he spent a great deal of money—it was left him by his mother and didn’t come out of the land—in draining, improvements, and rebuilding homesteads and cottages, besides freely giving his time and care. For a number of years he got no return at all, and part of the expenditure will always be unproductive. It isn’t a solitary case.”
They went on together through the shadowy, crimson-tinted dale until Millicent stopped at the gate of a field-road.
“I am going to one of the cottages yonder,” she explained. “I expect Nasmyth on Wednesday evening. Are you coming with him?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to Marple’s. You see, I promised.”
“Promised Marple?”
He was learning to understand her, for though she showed no marked sign of displeasure he knew that she was not gratified.
“No,” he answered; “Miss Crestwick.”
She did not speak, but there was something in her manner that hinted at disdainful amusement.
“I think you’re hardly fair to her,” he said.
“It’s possible,” Millicent replied carelessly. “Does it matter?”
“Well,” he broke out with some warmth, “the girl hasn’t such an easy time among you; and one can only respect her for the way she stands by her brother.”
“Have you anything to say in his favor?”
“It would be pretty difficult,” admitted Lisle. “But you can’t blame his sister for that.”
“I don’t think I’ve shown any desire to do so,” she retorted.
Lisle knit his brows.
“You people are rather curious in your ideas. Now, here’s a lonely girl who’s pluckily trying to look after that senseless lad, and not a one of you can spare her a word of sympathy, because she doesn’t run on the same stereotyped lines as you do. Can you help only the people who will conform?”
Millicent let this pass, and after an indifferent word or two she turned away. Before she reached home, however, she met Nasmyth.
“Why don’t you keep Mr. Lisle out of those Marples’ hands?” she asked him.
“In the first place, I’m not sure that I could do so; in the second, I don’t see why I should try,” Nasmyth replied. “On the whole, considering that he’s a Western miner, I don’t think he’s running a serious risk. Perhaps I might hint that Bella Crestwick’s hardly likely to consider him as big enough game.”
“Don’t be coarse!” Millicent paused. “But he spoke hotly in her defense.”
“After all,” responded Nasmyth, “I shouldn’t wonder if she deserves it; but it has no significance. You see, he’s a rather chivalrous person.”
Millicent flashed a quick glance at him, but his face was expressionless.
“What did he say?” he asked.
“I don’t remember exactly: he hinted that we were narrow-minded and uncharitable.”
Nasmyth laughed.
“I almost think there’s some truth in it. I’ve seen you a little severe on those outside the fold.”
“A man’s charity is apt to be influenced by a pretty face,” Millicent retorted.
“I’ll admit it,” replied Nasmyth dryly. “But I can’t undertake to determine how far that fact has any bearing on this particular instance.”
Millicent talked about something else, but she was annoyed with herself when the question Nasmyth had raised once more obtruded itself on her attention during the evening.
On Wednesday Lisle walked over to Marple’s house, because he had promised to go, though he would much rather have spent an hour or two with Nasmyth and Millicent in the latter’s drawing-room. He had no opportunity for any private speech with Bella, but she flung him a grateful glance as he came in. He waited patiently and followed her brother here and there, but he could not secure a word with him alone.
Some time had passed when, escaping from a group engaged in what struck him as particularly stupid badinage, he sauntered toward the billiard-room, struggling with a feeling of irritation. He was generally good-humored and tolerant rather than hypercritical, but the somewhat senseless hilarity of Marple’s guests was beginning to jar on him. A burst of laughter which he thought had been provoked by one of Bella’s sallies followed him down the corridor, but when he quietly opened the door the billiard-room was empty except for a group of three in one corner. He stopped just inside the threshold, glancing at them, and it was evident that they had not heard his approach.
Wreaths of cigar smoke drifted about the room; the light of the shaded lamps fell upon the men seated on a lounge, and their expressions and attitudes were significant. Gladwyne leaned back languidly graceful; Batley, a burlier figure, was talking, his eyes fixed on Crestwick; and the lad sat upright, looking eager. Batley appeared to be discussing the principles of operating on the stock exchange.
“It’s obvious,” he said, “that there’s very little to be made by waiting until any particular stock becomes a popular favorite—the premium equalizes the profit and sometimes does away with it. The essential thing is to take hold at the beginning, when the shares are more or less in disfavor and can be picked up cheap.”
Lisle stood still—he was in the shadow—watching the lad, who now showed signs of uncertainty.
“I dropped a good deal of money the last time I tried it,” he protested. “The trouble is that if you come in when the company’s starting, you can’t form an accurate idea of how it ought to go.”
“Exactly,” replied Batley. “You can rarely be quite sure. What you need is sound judgment, the sense to recognize a good thing when you see it, pluck, and the sporting instinct—you must be ready to back your opinion and take a risk. It’s only the necessity for that kind of thing which makes it a fine game.”
He broke off, looking up, and as Lisle strolled forward with a glance at Crestwick, he saw Batley’s genial expression change. It was evident that the idea of being credited with the qualities mentioned appealed to the lad, and Lisle realized that Batley was wishing him far away. He had, however, no intention of withdrawing, and taking out a cigar he chose a cue and awkwardly proceeded to practise a shot.
“This,” he said nonchalantly, “is an amusement I never had time to learn, and I really came along for a quiet smoke. Don’t let me disturb you.”
He saw Crestwick’s look and understood what was in the lad’s mind. It was incomprehensible to the latter that a man should boldly confess his ignorance of a game of high repute. Batley, however, seeing that the intruder intended to remain, returned to the attack, and though he spoke in a lower voice Lisle caught part of his remarks and decided that he was cleverly playing upon Crestwick’s raw belief in himself. This roused the Canadian to indignation, though it was directed against Gladwyne rather than his companion. Batley, he thought, was to some extent an adventurer, one engaged in a hazardous business at which he could not always win, and he had some desirable qualities—good-humor, liberality, coolness and daring. The well-bred gentleman who served as his decoy, however, possessed none of these redeeming characteristics. His part was merely despicable; there was only meanness beneath his polished exterior.
“It certainly looks promising,” Lisle heard Crestwick say; “you have pretty well convinced me that it can’t go wrong.”
“I can’t see any serious risk,” declared Batley. “That, in the case of mining stock, is as far as I’d care to go. On the other hand, there’s every prospect of a surprising change in the value of the shares as soon as the results of the first reduction of ore come out. I can only add that I’m a holder and I got you the offer of the shares as a favor from a friend who’s behind the scenes. Don’t take them unless you feel inclined.”
This was a slip, as Lisle recognized. It is not in human nature to dispose of a commodity that will shortly increase in value. Crestwick, however, obviously failed to notice this; Lisle thought the idea of getting on to the inside track appealed to his vanity.
“It’s a curious name they’ve given the mine,” commented the lad, repeating it. “What does it mean?”
Lisle started, for he recognized the name, and it offered him a lead. Strolling toward the group, he leaned against the table.
“I can tell you that,” he said. “It’s an Indian word for a river gorge. I went up it not long ago.”
“Then,” exclaimed Crestwick, “I suppose you know the mine?”
Lisle glanced at the others. Their eyes were fixed upon him, Batley’s steadily, Gladwyne’s with a hint of uneasiness. It was, he felt, a remarkable piece of good fortune that had given him control of the situation.
“Yes,” he answered carelessly, “I know the mine.”
“I’m thinking of taking shares in it,” Crestwick informed him.
“Well,” said Lisle, “that wouldn’t be wise.”
Gladwyne leaned farther back in his seat, as if to disassociate himself from the discussion, which was what the Canadian had expected from him; but Batley, who was of more resolute fiber, showed fight. His appearance became aggressive, his face hardened, and there was a snap in his eyes.
“You have made a serious allegation in a rather startling way, Mr. Lisle. As I’ve an interest in the company in question, I must ask you to explain.”
“Then I’d advise you to get rid of your interest as soon as possible; that is, so long as you don’t sell out to Crestwick, who’s a friend of mine.”
Batley’s face began to redden, and Lisle, looking around at the sound of a footstep, saw Marple standing a pace or two away. He was a fussy, bustling man, and he raised his hand in expostulation.
“Was that last called for, or quite the thing, Lisle?” he asked.
Batley turned to Gladwyne, as if for support, and the latter assumed his finest air.
“I think there can be only one opinion on that point,” he declared.
Lisle’s eyes gleamed with an amusement that was stronger than his indignation. That Gladwyne should expect this gravely delivered decision to have any marked effect tickled him.
“Well,” he replied, “I’m ready to stand by what I said, and I’ll add that if I had any shares I’d give them away to anybody who would register as their owner before the next call is made.”
“I understood there wouldn’t be a call for a long while,” Crestwick broke in.
“Then whoever told you so must have been misinformed,” Lisle rejoined.
“Are you casting any doubt upon my honor?” Batley demanded in a bellicose voice.
“I don’t think so; anyway, so long as you don’t rule out my suggestion. Still, I’m willing to leave Gladwyne to decide the point. He seems to understand these delicate matters.”
Marple, looking distressed and irresolute, broke in before Gladwyne had a chance to reply.
“Do you know much about mining, Lisle?”
Lisle laughed.
“I’ve had opportunities for learning something, as prospector, locator of alluvial claims and holder of an interest in one or two comparatively prosperous companies.”
He leaned forward and touched Crestwick’s shoulder.
“Come along, Jim, and I’ll give you one or two particulars that should decide you.”
Somewhat to his astonishment, the lad rose and rather sheepishly followed him. There was an awkward silence for a few moments after they left the room; then Marple turned to his guests.
“I can’t undertake to say whether Lisle was justified or not,” he began. “I’m sorry, however, that anything of this nature should have happened in my house.”
“So am I,” said Gladwyne with gracious condescension. “There is, of course, one obvious remedy.”
Marple raised his hands in expostulation. He liked Lisle, and Gladwyne was a distinguished guest. Batley seemed to find his confusion amusing.
“I think the only thing we can do is to let the matter drop,” he suggested. “These fellows from the wilds are primitive—one can’t expect too much. The correct feeling or delicacy of expression we’d look for among ourselves is hardly in their line.”
Marple was mollified, and he fell in with Batley’s suggestion that they should try a game.
In the meanwhile, Crestwick looked around at his companion as they went down the corridor.
“I believe I owe you some thanks,” he admitted. “I like the way you headed off Batley—I think he meant to turn savage at first—and I wouldn’t have been willing to draw in Gladwyne, as you did. He has a way of crushing you with a look.”
“It’s merely a sign that you deserve it,” Lisle laughed. “You take too many things for granted in this country. Test another man’s assumption of superiority before you agree with it, and you’ll sometimes be astonished to find out what it’s really founded on. And now we’d better join those people who’re singing.”