Chapter V—A Night's Watch
Winter began unusually soon and a blizzard raged about the shack one evening when Scott and Thirlwell sat near the stove. The small room smelt of hot-iron and the front of the stove glowed a dull red, but the men shivered as the bitter draughts swept in. Thirlwell watched the skin curtain he had nailed across the window bulge while the snow beat savagely against the glass, and then picked up a book. Presently Scott hung a bearskin on the back of his chair.
"It's a pretty good hide although the forequarter's cut away," he said. "Still I don't know that I wanted the thing and reckon the half-breed who sold it me got its value in cartridges and food. Now transport's difficult, I hope he and his Indian friends won't bring us any more of the damaged stock they can't sell to the Hudson's Bay."
Thirlwell nodded. The rivers were frozen and canoeing was stopped, while the bush was deep in fresh, loose snow. It would be a long and strenuous business to break a trail to the south, and in winter the mine was often cut off from the settlements. Provisions sometimes ran short, but Scott found it hard to refuse the starving Indians a share of his supplies.
"You bought a fine skin," he resumed. "I haven't seen the thing since. What have you done with it?"
"I sent it away," said Thirlwell. "Old Musquash said he'd try to make the settlements and took it out for me."
"He'll probably get through, though I don't think a white man could. But I didn't know you had friends in Canada."
Thirlwell did not reply. He had bought the skin for Agatha and now wondered what she would think about his present, or whether she might feel he ought not to have sent it. Still he doubted if the skin would arrive, because the old half-breed would meet with many dangers on the way. Thirlwell pictured him hauling his sledge up thinly frozen rivers, crossing wide lakes swept by icy gales, and plunging into tangled forests smothered in snow. The thought of it emphasized the sense of isolation one often felt at the mine, but while he mused there was a knock at the door.
"I expect it's an Indian come to beg for food," Scott remarked and the door swung open.
The flame of the lamp leaped up and then nearly flickered out as a shower of snow blew in. The stove roared and the room got horribly cold, and for a moment or two a shaggy, white figure, indistinct in the semi-darkness, struggled to close the door. Then there was a sudden calm and when the light got steady an Indian in ragged furs leaned against the table, breathing hard and holding out a note.
"From Father Lucien," said Scott, who took the folded paper. "He's had a sick man on his hands for three or four days and wants one of us to relieve him. I allow I'd sooner stop here. It's pretty fierce to-night."
"Who's sick?" Thirlwell asked.
"Black Steve. I don't know that he has much claim on us, but Father Lucien's a good sort. I guess we've got to help him out."
Thirlwell nodded. Father Lucien was a French-Canadian missionary who had studied medicine, and, for the most part, lived with his wandering flock. In summer, he went North with canoe and tent, but generally returned in winter to a shack near the mine. Scott and Thirlwell had found his society pleasant when they sat round the stove on long cold nights, for the priest had been trained in Europe and knew the great world as he knew the Canadian wilds. A scholar and something of a mystic, he was marked by a wide toleration and liberality of thought.
"Who's going? Shall we draw cuts for it?" Scott resumed.
Thirlwell hesitated. He felt tired, the shack was warm, and he heard the blizzard rage among the tossing pines; but he was curious about Driscoll and something urged him to go to the priest's help.
"I'll take first turn. You can come along to-morrow if you're wanted," he said, and putting on his fur coat and cap, went out with the Indian.
When the door shut he let his companion take the lead, for his eyes were filled with water and snow. He knew the bush, but imagined that nobody but an Indian could find the trail that night, and to lose it would mean death. For some moments the icy gale stopped his breathing, and he stumbled forward, seeing nothing, until he struck a pine, which he seized and leaned against. Looking round, with his back to the wind, he noted that the shack had vanished, although he thought it was only a few yards off. There was nothing visible, but when the Indian touched him he pulled himself together and struggled on again.
It was a little warmer when they plunged into the bush, but the snow was soft and deep, and they stumbled over fallen branches and fell into thickets. Torn-off twigs rained upon their lowered heads, shadowy trunks loomed up and vanished, and Thirlwell could not tell where he was going; but the Indian plodded on, his white figure showing faintly through the snow. At length, when Thirlwell was nearly exhausted, another sound mingled with the scream of the gale, and he knew it was the turmoil of the Grand Rapid, where the furious current did not freeze. They were getting near the end of the journey, and he braced himself for an effort to reach Driscoll's shack. By and by a ray of light pierced the snow, surprisingly close, and a few moments later he reached the shelter of a wall.
A door opened, somebody seized his arm, and he stumbled into a lighted room. Throwing off his snow-clogged coat, he sat down in a rude chair and blinked stupidly as he looked about. His head swam, the warmth made him dizzy, and the tingling of his frozen skin was horribly painful. Then he began to recover and saw that the Indian had gone and Father Lucien sat by a bunk fixed to the wall. The priest wore an old buckskin jacket with a tasseled fringe, and long, soft moccasins, and looked like an Indian until one studied his thin face. His forehead was lined, as if by thought or suffering, and his skin was darkened by wind and frost, but the Indian's glance is inscrutable and his was calm and frank. One got a hint of patience and dignity.
"Thank you for coming," he said. "I would not have sent for you on such a night only that I cannot trust myself to keep awake and neglect just now might cost Driscoll's life. One sleeps soundly after watching for three nights."
Thirlwell glanced at the figure rudely outlined by the dirty blue blanket on the bunk. Driscoll's face was turned to the wall, but Thirlwell saw that his black hair was damp.
"What's the matter with Steve?" he asked.
"Pneumonia. Two of my people who passed the shack in the daytime saw a light burning. They went in and found him unconscious, an empty whisky bottle on the floor, and the stove burned out. They made a fire and then came for me."
"That's something of a compliment," Thirlwell remarked. "If it had happened before you came, they'd probably have cleaned out the shack and left Steve to freeze. I don't know that he'd have been regretted, and if the rumors about his selling the Indians liquor are true, imagine he's your worst enemy."
"He's a sick man. Besides, have you often seen my people drunk?"
"No," said Thirlwell thoughtfully; "I believe only once. But Steve didn't deny the thing when one of the boys at the mine called him a whisky runner, and I thought it curious, because there's a heavy penalty. I suppose he can't hear what we say?"
"He's unconscious, but has fits of weak delirium. Three or four o'clock may mark the turning, and if he lives until daybreak I'll feel hopeful. But do you imagine he didn't deny your workman's charge because it was true?"
"I'd have expected him to deny it whether it was true or not. That's what puzzled me. It looked as if he was willing to be suspected."
"Driscoll," said Father Lucien, "is a strange, dark man, but he needs our help and one of us must watch."
"I'm fresh and will take the first turn," Thirlwell offered, and pulled his chair to the stove when Father Lucien, wrapping himself in a blanket, lay down on the floor.
He found watching dreary and got very cold. The pines roared about the shack and the lamp flickered in the draughts, but the wind was falling and between the gusts one could hear the river. Drift-ice churned in the rapid and broke with jarring crashes upon the rocks. Once or twice Thirlwell thought the sound disturbed Driscoll, because he moved and muttered brokenly. Thirlwell, however, could not hear what he said, and getting drowsy with the dry warmth of the stove, struggled to keep awake. He was not sure that he altogether succeeded, for now and then his head fell forward and he roused himself with a jerk, but did not think he really went to sleep. For all that, some hours had passed when he moved his chair and looked at his watch. It was quieter outside and the roar of the river had got distinct. Then Thirlwell heard a blanket thrown back and glanced at the bunk.
Driscoll had turned his head and the light touched his face, which glistened with sweat. His eyes were wide open, his lips moved as if he tried to speak, and Thirlwell thought his brain was clear, but saw next moment that Driscoll was not watching him. He had a curious, strained look and gazed at the door, as if somebody had come in. The strange thing was that he looked afraid.
"I couldn't stop her with the back-stroke," he said hoarsely. "She rolled over as she swung across the stream."
Thirlwell shivered, because it was obvious that the sick man was going over what had happened the night Strange was drowned. His manner hinted that he was trying to excuse himself for something he had done. Shrinking back in the bunk, he resumed in a stronger voice: "I couldn't stop her! The stream was running fast."
Then he was silent for a time and Thirlwell heard the river rolling through its ice-bound channel and the dreary wailing of the pines. He felt disturbed; something in Driscoll's voice and look had jarred his nerves, and it cost him an effort not to waken Father Lucien. It was not time yet and the priest needed sleep. Driscoll lay quiet with his eyes shut, but presently moved and began to mutter. Thirlwell, leaning forward, caught the words: "I never had the thing; he took it with him."
The strained voice broke, Driscoll drew a hard breath, and feebly turned his face from the light. After this Thirlwell, whose curiosity was excited, had less trouble to keep awake, and at length roused Father Lucien, as he had been told. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning, the fire had sunk, and the shack was very cold. The wind had fallen and the bush was silent; one could hear the loose snow dropping from the boughs.
Father Lucien crossed the floor and after standing for a time beside the bunk came back and sat down by the stove.
"You can put in fresh wood; it won't disturb him now," he said. "He's sleeping well. I think the danger's over."
The cord wood snapped and crackled, the front of the stove got red, and sitting in a corner out of the draughts, they began to talk in low voices.
"Driscoll was delirious; he talked strangely," Thirlwell remarked. "Is a sick man's raving all such stuff as dreams?"
"Ah," said Father Lucien, "we know little yet about the working of the disordered brain, but the imagination sometimes centers on and distorts things that have happened. Did you get a hint of intelligence in what Driscoll said?"
"I did. He said he never had the thing. Somebody—Strange, perhaps—took it with him."
"Why do you think he meant Strange?"
"Because his mind was obviously dwelling on the night Strange's canoe capsized. He said it was an accident—he could not stop her swinging across the stream—as if he were answering somebody who accused him. The disturbing thing was that although delirious he looked horribly afraid."
Father Lucien was silent and Thirlwell went on: "You have been with him for three nights. Has he talked like this before?"
"Yes," said Father Lucien, quietly. "You can be trusted. I think he is afraid."
"Ah!" said Thirlwell, looking hard at him. "Then I wonder why the canoe capsized. Were they drunk, or was there a quarrel? But perhaps you know and cannot tell!"
"I do not know. Driscoll is not of my flock. He is ill and it is my business to cure his sickness, but I can go no farther. If he has other troubles, he would refuse my help."
"That is so," Thirlwell agreed. "There's a mystery about the capsize, and I'm curious. You see, I met Strange's daughter and she believes in the lode."
Father Lucien hesitated, and then went to a shelf.
"I will show you something," he said, and gave Thirlwell a small Russian leather wallet. It was well made, but worn and stained as if it had been soaked in water. "I found this when I undressed Driscoll," he went on. "It is not a thing you would expect a rude prospector to carry. But I found something else."
He held out a piece of broken stone and Thirlwell as he took it moved abruptly. He knew something about ore and saw that the stone had come from the same vein as the specimen Agatha had given him.
"I think Strange found the silver," Father Lucien said quietly.
Thirlwell knitted his brows. He had dark suspicions, but after all they had no solid foundation, and he thought it best to copy the missionary's reserve.
"We know Driscoll's character, and may have been mistaken about one thing. Is it logical to imagine that such a man would feel afraid?"
"Fear sometimes comes without remorse," said Father Lucien.
"Superstitious fear, working on a brain disordered by liquor and illness?"
"We will not argue about the proper name. It may be superstition, or something greater. I believe that retribution follows the offense."
Thirlwell looked hard at the other. "Well, I doubt if we will ever know the truth about Strange's death."
"It is possible," Father Lucien agreed. "Perhaps it is not important whether we know or not. One thing is certain: if wrong has been done, it will be made right, if not by the way we would choose, by another. I think we may leave it there."
"We must," said Thirlwell dryly. "There is nothing else to do. In the meantime, if I can't be useful, I'm going to sleep."
Day was breaking when he wakened and Father Lucien told him that Driscoll was better, but would need careful nursing for a time.
"Then Scott must come to-night," Thirlwell replied. "I've had enough of watching Steve, and don't mind admitting that your charity is greater than mine."
When he reached the shack he told Scott nothing about what he had heard, because he thought Father Lucien would sooner he did not. The latter knew when to be silent and it would do no good to talk about the matter unless something happened to throw a light upon the mystery. On the whole, he was relieved when Driscoll, who soon recovered, set off up river with a half-breed and a loaded hand-sledge.
Chapter VI—Father Lucien's Adventure
The snow was firm and the rivers were frozen hard when Thirlwell left the mine with two Metis trappers to examine an outcropping reef that one of the half-breeds had told him about. He was not very hopeful, but agreed with Scott, who thought it might be worth while to look at the reef, since the specimens the Metis had brought showed traces of silver and lead. Then Father Lucien had gone to visit some of his people who had camped for their winter trapping far up in the bush, the shack was lonely, and the frost hindered the work at the mine.
Winter is not a good time for prospecting, but travel is often easier then, for the hand-sledges run smoothly on the snow that covers fallen trunks and underbrush and levels the hollows. The muskegs are frozen and one can make fast marches along the rivers and across the lakes. Thirlwell had no tent, but it is not a great hardship for a well-fed man, wrapped in furs, to sleep beside a big fire behind a bank of snow, and he had no misadventures as he pushed into the wilds. The ore proved to be worthless, and soon after he started back he met an Indian who said he had seen Father Lucien going south with a dog-team two days before, and had found the trail of another white man near the spot where he and his friends had camped.
The clear, cold weather broke when Thirlwell began his homeward march. The sky was low and leaden, and a biting wind blew from the south. It drove the snow-dust into the men's smarting faces and froze their breath on their furs. Their hands stiffened on the sledge-traces and their feet got numb. The cold got worse when snow began to fall and when they camped one night Thirlwell noted that they had used more food than he thought. The transport of provisions is perhaps the main difficulty of a winter journey in the bush, for men who brave the arctic cold must be generously fed. Thirlwell, however, expected to reach the mine before their stores ran out, and set off at daybreak next morning in heavy, driving snow.
At dusk he camped in a clump of dry willows by a river. The snow had stopped, but a bitter wind blew down the valley and the cold was intense. When he had eaten a meal Thirlwell sat with his back to a snow bank and a big fire in front, holding up a moccasin to the blaze. This was necessary because moccasins absorb moisture during a long day's march, and the man who puts them on while damp risks getting frozen feet.
He was lighting his pipe when the Metis he had sent out for wood came back with an armful of branches and said he had seen a light up the river. Thirlwell put on his half-dried moccasins and reluctantly left the camp. He had met nobody but an Indian on the trail and was curious to know who was camping in those solitudes. Besides, it was possible that he might be able to get some supplies.
As he pushed through the willows the savage wind pierced him to the bone. The dry branches rattled and the pines upon the ridge above wailed drearily. The sky was clear and the frozen river, running back, white and level, through the dusky forest, glittered in the light of a half moon. This was all that Thirlwell saw for a few minutes, and then a twinkling light in the distance fixed his attention. It flickered, got brighter, and faded, and he knew it was a fire.
After a time he and the Metis left the river and climbed the steep bank. The fire had vanished, but the pungent smell of burning wood came down the biting wind, and by and by trails of smoke drifted past the scattered pines. Then as they struggled through a brake of wild-fruit canes a blaze leaped up among the the rocks and he saw an indistinct figure crouching beside a fire. The figure got up awkwardly and a few moments later Father Lucien gave Thirlwell his hand. The light touched his thin frost-browned face, which was marked by lines that pain had drawn.
"It's lucky you came, but, if you don't mind, we'll sit down," he said.
"If you're alone, you had better come back to our camp," Thirlwell replied. "Where's your truck and the dogs?"
Father Lucien indicated the torn blue blanket that hung from his shoulder. "All gone except this! But it's a long story and I can't walk."
"Then you have nothing to eat?" said Thirlwell sharply.
"Half a small bannock; I ate the rest this morning. The worst was I had only melted snow to drink."
Thirlwell made a sympathetic gesture, for men who camp in the frozen woods consume large quantities of nearly boiling tea. Then he turned to the half-breed and sent him back for his companion and the sledge.
"We'll haul you down the river as soon as they come," he said. "By good luck, we camped in perhaps the only place from which we could have seen your fire."
"Ah," said Father Lucien with a quiet smile, "I do not know if it was luck alone that made you choose the spot."
They sat down in the hollow among the rocks, and the missionary shivered although the fire snapped and threw out clouds of smoke close by. Thirlwell gave him his tobacco pouch.
"In the meantime, you can eat your bannock and then take a smoke. I'm curious to learn how you lost your outfit and the dogs."
Father Lucien ate the morsel of hard cake, and afterwards looked up. "Perhaps I had better tell you before your men arrive. Well, I traveled about with my people as they moved their traps, and one night when very tired I slept in damp moccasins. The fire got low and next morning my foot was slightly frozen. We were forced to make long marches for some days, and I found the frost-bite had gone deeper than I thought. You can, no doubt, guess what happened."
Thirlwell nodded. A frozen foot sometimes galls into a sore that will not heal while the temperature is low.
"Well," said Father Lucien, "some time after we pitched camp, a man came in with a dog-team that belonged to the Hudson's Bay. He was not going farther but offered to lend me the dogs, if I would leave them with some friends of his who were trapping to the south."
"But can you drive dogs?" Thirlwell asked, knowing that skill is required to manage the snarling, fighting teams.
"Not well, but I have driven dogs, and was anxious to reach the mine before my foot got worse. I thought I might find somebody at the Indians' camp who would go on with me. For a day or two we made good progress, though I had trouble to harness the leader in the morning; he was a stubborn, bad tempered animal, and missed his master's firm control. Then, one evening, we came to a creek. The stream had kept the channel open here and there, and I thought the ice thin, but it was open, rocky country round about, and I saw a clump of pines in the distance where we could camp. It got dark as we followed the creek and clouds drifted over the moon, but I wanted to find shelter and pushed on. Once or twice the ice cracked ominously, but it held until we came to a spot where the stream got narrower between high, rocky banks.
"The leader stopped and growled, at the edge of an open crack. His instinct warned him of danger, but I knew I could not get up the rough bank with my lame foot, and drove him past. As I limped by his side with the whip, I thought I heard the current gurgle under the ice, but we went on, the dogs snuffing and treading cautiously. Then there was a soft thud and a splash, the team was jerked back and I saw that the sledge had vanished. I suppose it had broken through a snow-bridge that our weight had shaken.
"I scrambled back a yard or two and looked down into the dark gap—I could not run because of my galled foot. Part of the sledge was covered by fallen snow, but the fore end rested on something and I leaned down and seized my blanket. There was a bag of food beneath it that I tried to reach, but perhaps I shook the sledge, which began to slip down, and I saw the dogs roll among the traces as they were dragged towards the hole. The leader clawed desperately at the snow, howling as if he begged my help, and I felt that I must save him. You have heard a dog howl in fear or pain?"
"Yes," said Thirlwell, "it makes a strong appeal. But I suppose you remembered what you risked by leaving the food?"
"I cut the trace," Father Lucien went on. "Another mass of snow fell and the sledge sank out of sight. I imagine the stream swept it under the ice, for I could only see the dark water foam. All the food I had except a bannock in my pocket was lost. I forgot the team for a few moments and when I looked up they had gone."
He paused and Thirlwell made a sign of sympathy. "A nerve-shaking jar! But what became of the dogs?"
"I think they were afraid of the ice. If my camp had been made and a fire lighted, they might have come in for warmth, but I was not their master, and perhaps they took the back trail to the spot we started from. Well, as I could not follow, I limped on until I reached the pine clump, where I slept, and then dragged myself across the divide to this corner among the rocks. I knew I could go no farther and sat down to wait—"
Father Lucien's voice was calm and Thirlwell knew his courage had not failed. The man had often risked death when duty sent him out across the snowy wilds.
"Anyhow," said Thirlwell, "I'm glad I found you before it was too late. It's something I and others will long be thankful for."
Father Lucien smiled deprecatingly. "If I had starved, another would have filled my place. Men fall on the trail, but the work goes forward. Perhaps I have said too much about my danger, but I did so because of a curious thing that happened last night. I slept as well as usual for some hours, and then opened my eyes. I think, however, I was not quite awake, or else my brain was dull, because I felt no surprise although a man was in my camp. The fire had burned low and he stood back in the gloom where I could not see his face, but a dry branch broke into flame and the light fell on me. The way the man turned his head indicated that he was looking about the camp, and he must have seen that I had nothing but my blanket. But he was silent and did not come forward."
"An Indian?" Thirlwell asked.
"No," said Father Lucien. "He was white."
Thirlwell started. "A white man? It looks impossible. But why didn't you—?"
"I did not speak. You see, I had not heard him come, and imagine now that I thought I was dreaming and was afraid to wake and find my hope of help had gone. After a few moments, he stepped back very quietly into the shadow, and I called out. There was no answer and I got up. It took a little time—the blanket was round my legs and my foot hurt—and when I stumbled away from the fire he had vanished and there was no sound in the bush. Soon afterwards I fell down in the snow, and lay until the cold roused me to an effort and I crawled back to the fire. By and by I went to sleep again and did not waken until daybreak."
"Then," said Thirlwell, meaningly, "you could find no tracks."
"I could not," Father Lucien agreed. "That was not strange, because light snow was falling when I got up and the wind was fresh. Still I found this; it shows I was not dreaming."
He gave Thirlwell a wooden pipe with a nickel band round the stem.
"Ah!" said Thirlwell, who examined the frozen pipe and scraped out a little half-burned tobacco with his knife. "Fifty-cents, at a settlement store! Not the kind of things the Indians buy, and this is not the stuff they generally smoke. Besides, you would know an Indian, whether he spoke or not, by his figure and his pose."
Father Lucien said nothing, but looked at him with a quiet smile, and Thirlwell resumed: "Well, there was a man; a white man. But the thing's not to be understood. He knew you were starving and stole away! Then where did he come from? There's no white man except Driscoll between the Hudson's Bay post and the mine, and you saved Driscoll's life."
"When I last heard of him, Driscoll was trapping about Stony Creek, a long way to the east."
Thirlwell knitted his brows and lighted his pipe, which he had put near the fire to thaw, and there was silence until the Metis arrived with the sledge, when they took the missionary to their camp and gave him food. After he had eaten they lay down with their feet to the fire and Thirlwell said: "If the man had seen your fire and come to borrow something or find out who you were, he would have spoken. There's nobody I can think of who has not some grounds for wishing you well, but it looks as if the fellow thought you were asleep and meant to let you starve."
"It looks like that," Father Lucien agreed with a curious calm. "Perhaps we shall find out who he was some day, and if not, it does not matter."
Then he drew the blanket across his face and went to sleep.
Chapter VII—Agatha's Resolve
Agatha looked pale and tired as she sat, rather languidly, in an easy chair in Mrs. Farnam's pretty room. There was bitter frost outside, but the new wooden house, standing among the orchards of South Ontario, was warm, and furnished with a regard for comfort and artistic taste. Mrs. Farnam was proud of her house and good-humored husband, who gave way to her except about the growing of fruit. On this subject, she had told Agatha, he was extraordinarily obstinate. She had some tact and much kindly feeling, but had been a teacher and believed she had a talent for managing other people's business. In fact, she had tried to manage Agatha's, but was forced to admit without much success. Agatha, she said, was difficult.
For all that, it had given her keen satisfaction to bring the girl there when she was threatened by a nervous breakdown in consequence of over-work. Agatha had been her confidential friend when they were at school, but since Mabel married she had sometimes felt that the confidence had been rather one-sided. She had told Agatha much, but the latter had said little about her future plans.
"I don't think you're very much better yet," Mrs. Farnam said after a pause in the talk, for she was seldom silent long.
Agatha languidly looked about the room, noting the warm color of the polished floor, on which the light of the shaded lamp lay in a glistening pool, the fine skin rugs, and thick curtains. She had not an exaggerated love of comfort and her Toronto rooms were bare, but she owned that Mabel had a pretty house. Besides, she had a husband who indulged her and was always kind.
"It's very nice to be here, and I shall soon get strong," she said. "I suppose I rather overdid things, but the examination was coming and I was anxious my girls should pass well."
"From the school managers' point of view, that was a laudable aim, but I don't know that it was worth injuring your health for. You used to agree that managers often expected too much from a teacher."
"I'm afraid I had a selfish object," said Agatha, smiling. "I wanted a better post that will soon be vacant."
"Ambition sometimes deceives one. I know the post you mean and the girl who's going. It carries duties that wore her out."
"And better pay," said Agatha.
Mrs. Farnam gave her a thoughtful look. "Well, that's plausible; but I never thought you greedy. Why do you want the extra pay?"
"I have a use for it," Agatha replied with a twinkle. "I don't suppose I shall carry out my plans, and after all, they are too ridiculous to talk about. Anyhow, you would think so. You're very practical."
"People are curious," Mrs. Farnam remarked. "I'm willing to admit I'm practical, but I married and love my husband, while you look romantic and in many ways are not. You risk your health for money, and I don't think any man ever roused a tender thought in you. There's Jake, for example—"
She stopped and Agatha was silent for a few moments, although she was moved. She was tired and felt lonely and that life was hard. Instinctive longings that she had fought against awoke. She wanted somebody to shelter her and brush her troubles away. Mabel had her husband, whom she loved; but she had chosen a rocky path that she must walk alone.
"I hope Jake is getting on well in British Columbia," she said. "I suppose you hear from him?"
"He writes to us regularly and is getting on very well. Finds his work absorbing and sees a chance of promotion, but it's obvious that he's not satisfied. I don't know if you feel flattered, but he can't forget you."
Agatha stopped her. Jake was Mrs. Farnam's cousin, and had been a teacher of science until he got a post at a mine. He had helped Agatha in her studies, and she blamed herself for imagining that common interests and ambitions accounted for their friendship. In fact, it was something of a shock when, on getting his new post, Jake had asked her to marry him.
"I'm not flattered but sorry," she replied. "I liked Jake very much—one was forced to like him—but after all that doesn't go far enough. And, you see, I didn't know—"
"I believe you really didn't know. It would be ridiculous to admit this about any other girl, but, in a way, you're not quite normal. You're too absorbed in your occupation and haven't a woman's natural feelings. You took all Jake had to give and were surprised and half indignant when he asked something from you."
Agatha wondered rather drearily whether Mrs. Farnam's reproaches were not justified; but the latter went on: "Perhaps, however, your coldness is encouraging. I don't suppose you have met anybody you liked, or felt you could like, better than Jake."
"No," said Agatha, and then hesitated. Since Mabel was capable of giving her cousin a hint, she saw that frankness was needed and remembered the fortnight she had spent with Thirlwell by the lake. She had thought about him since; indeed she had done so oftener than she knew.
"I shall never marry Jake," she said. "Just now it seems unlikely that I shall marry anybody else."
Mrs. Farnam made a sign of disappointed acquiescence. "Very well! That's done with. If there's anything more to be said about your plans for the next few months, your brother will say it. I'm glad George is coming, because he's sensible and will deal with you firmly. Now I'll go and get supper."
She left Agatha thoughtful. George, whose business occasionally brought him into the neighborhood, had written to say that he was coming and would stop the night, and Agatha wondered what he wanted to talk about. He would certainly give her good advice, but they seldom saw alike and she braced herself for a struggle, although she was fond of her brother.
Supper in the bright cedar-paneled room was a cheerful function, and as she looked about and joined in the talk Agatha was conscious of a feeling that was hardly strong enough for envy or actual discontent, but had a touch of both. Mabel looked happy and modestly proud. She was obviously satisfied and in a way enjoyed all that a woman could wish for. The house was pretty; Farnam was indulgent and showed his wife a deference that Agatha liked. He owned a large orchard and had sufficient capital to cultivate it properly. George Strange was marked by a complacent, self-confident manner that his urbanity somewhat toned down. He dealt in artificial fertilizers and farming implements, and it was said that he never lost a customer and seldom made a bad debt.
In character, George was unlike his sister, because while unimaginative he generally saw where his advantage lay. For all that, he was just and often generous. He was married, and talked to Mrs. Farnam about his wife and child when he was not eating with frank enjoyment and telling humorous stories. While the others laughed and joked Agatha mused. They had commonplace aims and duties that brought them happiness; but she had been given a harder task. Still it was a task that could not be shirked; she had accepted it and must carry it out.
Some time after supper Mrs. Farnam went away, and Farnam presently made an excuse for following his wife. When they had gone George remarked: "I must pull out to-morrow, but Florence sends a message. She wants you to stop with us for two or three months."
"Florence is kind," said Agatha. "I would like to go, but you know it's impossible."
"I don't know," George rejoined in an authoritative voice. "I'm your elder brother and it's my duty to see you do what you ought. To begin with, I looked up your doctor and he told me you needed a long rest."
"It can't be got. I must go back to school when the holidays are over."
"Wait a bit! None of us is as indispensable as we sometimes think."
Agatha felt half amused and half annoyed. George often made remarks like this and imagined that they clinched his arguments. She saw that he had been meddling.
"What did you do after seeing the doctor?" she asked suspiciously.
"I went to your principal at the school. She said she would talk to the managers and had no doubt that if it was needful they would let you off for a time. Now as I can fix the thing with the doctor, there's no reason you shouldn't quit work and stop with us."
Agatha colored angrily. George meant well, but he had gone too far. She felt this worse because she was tempted to give way. She liked her brother's wife and needed a rest.
"Well," she said, "I suppose I ought to have expected something of the kind, but it's comforting to feel that your efforts are wasted. I shall be quite well in a week or two and am going back to school. For one thing, I shall need some money before very long."
George looked hard at her. "You don't say why. Still if it's money that prevents you taking the proper line, I might lend you some—" He stopped and resumed with suspicion: "But I won't give you a dollar to waste in searching for father's silver lode!"
"I am going to look for the lode," said Agatha quietly.
"I hoped you had got over that foolishness," George rejoined, throwing his cigarette on the floor, although he was generally careful about such things. "Now listen to me for a few minutes, and try to be sensible!"
"One misses much by always being sensible," Agatha remarked with a resigned smile.
"It often saves one's relations trouble. Anyhow, the blamed lode has thrown its shadow on all our lives, and I don't mean to stand off, saying nothing, and see you spoil yours."
"You escaped the shadow, because you never believed in the lode."
"I certainly didn't and don't believe in it now! For all that, I saw father's restlessness and mother's fears."
"Ah!" said Agatha, "I didn't think—"
"I allow I haven't your imagination, but I can see a thing that's obvious. Father thought he hid his feelings, but mother knew and grieved. She was afraid he would give us up and go back to the North."
"No!" said Agatha with firmness; "she was not afraid he would give us up! Father never failed in his duty."
"Then she was certainly afraid he'd die in the bush; as he did. She knew what the prospectors were up against, and though she smiled when he talked about the ore, I knew she had an anxious heart. I don't claim that the anxiety broke her down, but it made a heavy load and helped."
"Yet when she was very ill she did not ask him to promise he wouldn't go."
"She did not mind then," said George in a quiet voice. "She was dying and we had grown up. But there was nothing selfish about her acquiescence. I think she was glad to set him free, because she loved him and knew what he had borne. He was a dreamer and not a business man. She had run the store and taken care of him, and knew he would be lonely after she had gone. Besides, I sometimes feel she thought he would follow and rejoin her soon. It did not matter by what road he came."
Agatha was silent for some moments because she was surprised and moved. George had a keener imagination and saw farther than she thought. It looked as if he had known her mother best.
"You loved her well and so you understood," she said. "But the troubles she bore are done with, and now I stand alone. I have no responsibilities; my life is mine!"
George's face got red. "Well, perhaps I don't count for much, but we didn't cut loose when I married. I have a sister as well as a wife."
"I'm sorry, George," said Agatha, putting her hand on his arm. "I didn't mean to hurt."
"Very well! I'm not a sentimental fellow; let's be practical. You can't locate the ore, because it isn't there; but you may spoil your health and get soured by disappointment. Then, if you stop long, you'll lose your post and ruin your career. The blamed silver may become a fixed illusion. That's what I'm really afraid of most. In some ways, you're very like father."
"You're persuaded the silver was an illusion?"
"I am persuaded," George declared. "Men who live in the frozen woods get credulous and believe extraordinary things, and tales of wonderful lodes are common in the mining belts. Father heard something of the kind and brooded over it until he came to believe he had located the ore. He had too much imagination and wasn't practical."
"But he gave me some specimens he found and they carry rich metal."
"I allow he thought he found them; but that's a different thing."
Agatha smiled. "Perhaps your theory's plausible, but it has some weak points."
"Anyhow, if father couldn't locate the vein he claimed to have struck, I reckon there's not much chance of your doing so."
"I mean to try," said Agatha, with ominous quietness.
George saw that she was resolute, and although he was obstinate knew he was beaten. Agatha could not be moved when she looked like that.
"I can't allow that you know best, but guess I may as well quit arguing," he remarked with a resigned shrug. "You'll come along and stop with Florence before you go back to Toronto?"
"I will come for a week," Agatha agreed, and George went away to look for Farnam.
Chapter VIII—The Burglar
George went away next morning and a few days afterwards Farnam walked home with his wife and Agatha from a visit to a neighbor's homestead. When they reached the edge of Farnam's orchard they stopped and looked about. An extensive clearing had been cut out of the forest, the evening was clear and cold, and the pines threw long blue shadows on the snow. The young fruit trees ran back in orderly rows, and a frozen creek that crossed the orchard was picked out in delicate shades of gray. Farnam told Agatha that he found the creek useful for irrigation, because he had known the apples to shrivel on the trees in a dry summer.
At the edge of the bush a group of men were at work. The thud of their axes jarred on the quietness, and the rattle of a chain rang musically through the shadows as a teamster threw the links across a log. His horses stood close by, with a thin cloud of steam rising from their bodies.
"Lumber worth sawing is getting scarce, and we'll float the best logs down to the mill when the thaw comes," Farnam said to Agatha. "In the meantime, we want them off the ground before we clean up the pieces the boys have slashed. One gets at this kind of work in winter when nothing much can be done, and I must be ready to break new soil for planting in the spring."
"You are spending a good deal of money," Mrs. Farnam interrupted. "You haven't been paid for the last shipments to England yet."
"Mabel's cautious," Farnam remarked to Agatha. "She's a pretty good business woman, but doesn't understand that the more you spend on your job the more you get. Anyhow, you ought to get more, but I admit you're sometimes badly stung." Then he turned to his wife. "I must go up and see the shippers in Montreal; in fact, now you have Agatha with you, I think I'll start to-morrow."
"Very well," said Mrs. Farnam. "I hate to be left alone, particularly when the nights are long." She indicated the teamster. "I see you have hired another man; that's a fresh extravagance. How long have you had him?"
"A week or two; thought I told you when he came. He's a pretty good worker."
"You didn't tell me; I imagine you didn't want me to know! He's certainly not what the boys call a looker and his face doesn't inspire me with much confidence. Besides, he's lame."
Agatha glanced at the man, who came towards them, walking with a slight limp beside his horses as they hauled the log across the snow. He had a sullen air and did not look up as he passed.
"He is not handsome," she agreed, and asked: "Where do the men live?"
"We have fixed up this lot in the packing shed; my regular hands leave me in winter," Farnam replied, indicating a wooden building at some distance from the house. "However, we'll go home. There are some accounts I must examine before I start for Montreal."
They went on, and when after supper Mrs. Farnam grumbled at being left without a man in the house, Farnam took out an automatic pistol and explained how it was used.
"I don't know why I bought the thing, unless it was to satisfy Mabel," he said to Agatha. "It's curious, but while she could handle mutinous pupils and bluff the managers, she quakes if a door rattles on a windy night. One's rather safer in our homestead than a Montreal hotel; but Mabel has lived in the cities and the Wild West tradition dies hard. As a matter of fact, there never was a Wild West in Canada." He opened the pistol. "You put the cartridge shells in like this—"
"You can show Agatha how it works; I won't touch the thing," Mrs. Farnam declared. "She's something of a sport, but I'm a womanly woman, except when I teach school."
Farnam laughed. "On the whole, it might be better to leave the cartridges out. If somebody did break in, all you need do would be to pretend you were asleep. Everybody in the neighborhood knows where my office is and an intelligent burglar begins at the safe. There's no money in mine now."
After a little good-humored banter, Agatha took the pistol and Farnam went to his office at the other end of the house. Next day he started for Montreal, and at night Mrs. Farnam made Agatha come with her while she examined the fastenings of the doors and windows. The house was low and the roof of the veranda in front reached nearly to the second floor. Nothing disturbing happened, and on the next night Agatha sat up after Mrs. Farnam had gone to bed, reading the letters Strange had written her from the North.
There were not many, and some were marked by a careless style that obscured the meaning. This puzzled Agatha, who remembered that her father had generally talked with lucid clearness. Still they helped her to picture the life he had led in the wilds, and she read them often, trying to follow on a map his wanderings in search of the lode. They told her more about the country than the books she read, and she had read a number, because the subject had a fascination. All she could learn would be of use when she came to carry out her plans.
When she tied up the letters and looked at the clock it was later than she thought. The room felt cold and she shivered, but sat still for a few moments, musing. The house was quiet and she imagined Mrs. Farnam was asleep; but it was snowing, for she heard the flakes beat upon the window. Looking round the comfortable room, she thought of the men who braved the rigors of winter in the frozen wilds. Thirlwell, for example, was bearing such cold as was never felt in South Ontario.
She started, for there was a noise overhead, as if a door had been gently opened, but next moment pulled herself together. Mabel had not gone to sleep as she had thought, and picking up an electric torch, she put out the lamp. When she was half way up the stairs she heard somebody moving about, but it was not like Mabel's step. The movements seemed cautious, and there was something awkward about them. Agatha, who wore felt-soled slippers, stopped and listened, while her heart beat fast. She heard nothing now, but felt alarmed, and wondered what she ought to do. A call would probably bring an answer that would banish her fears; but suppose it was not Mabel she had heard? There was, however, another way of finding out, and with something of an effort she went upstairs.
Mrs. Farnam's room was on the landing, and Agatha turned the handle cautiously. The door would not open, and it was obvious that Mabel had locked herself in. Then the latch slipped back with a jar that sounded horribly loud, and she waited, trembling and trying to keep calm. Since Mabel had not heard the noise, it was plain that she was asleep and somebody else was in the house. Still Mabel, if awakened, would not be of much help, and remembering that the pistol was in her room, Agatha went down the passage.
The passage was very cold, a curtain swayed in an icy draught, and she found the door of her room open. Stopping for a moment, she thought there was somebody inside. This, however, might be a trick of her imagination, and although she wanted to steal away, she knew that if she did so she would lose her self-respect and the confidence she would need for her journey to the North. She must brave real dangers in the wilds and live among rude men. Besides, the pistol was on a table near the door.
Somebody moved as she went in, for there was a rustle and a board cracked, but her hand touched the pistol and she turned on the powerful electric torch. As the beam of light swept across the room she saw that the drawer of a small writing-table had been pulled out. Then the beam passed on and touched a man kneeling beside her open trunk. The clothes she had not unpacked were scattered on the floor, as if the man had been looking for something, and a lantern stood near his hand. She thought he had just put it out, since she noted a smell of oil.
Now she had found the intruder, she was less afraid than angry that he had pulled about her clothes with his coarse, dirty hands. She knew him, for he was the teamster she had seen in the orchard. The beam that picked him out, however, left the rest of the room in gloom, and it was hard to hold the torch steady.
"Light your lantern, but don't move from where you are," she said. "I have a pistol."
He did as he was told, using an old-fashioned sulphur match that smelt disagreeably but made no noise. The light spread and showed her standing with the pistol in her hand, but when she risked a glance about, nothing seemed to have been disturbed except the writing-table and her trunk.
"Now you may get up, but don't be rash," she said quietly and was glad to feel she could control her voice.
He got up and waited, watching her sullenly.
"What have you taken?" she asked.
"Nothing! There was nothing worth taking!"
Agatha forced a mocking smile. "Worn clothes won't sell for much and I have no jewelry." Then she raised the pistol. "Don't move! I mean you to keep still."
He stood motionless, with a kind of dull resignation, although she thought she had noted a curious shrinking when she spoke, as if something in her voice had disturbed him.
"I don't know what to do with you," she resumed. "No doubt you knew Mr. Farnam is away, but the pistol magazine is full. To begin with, you had better empty your pockets. Pull them inside out!"
He obeyed and dropped a pipe, a tobacco tin, and two or three silver coins.
"Those are mine; I've corralled nothing of yours."
"So it seems!" Agatha rejoined. "For all that, you can leave the things there. How did you get in?"
"Over the veranda roof. You hadn't fixed the shutter in the middle."
Agatha pondered for a few moments. The fellow did not look afraid, but seemed to recognize that the advantage was with her. This was lucky, because she could not keep it up long and wanted to get rid of him.
"Well," she said, "I think you had better go out by the window you opened. Walk down the passage in front of me and don't try to turn round."
He did so until he reached the window, which opened to the side. The hinges were in good order and made no noise when he pushed back the frame.
"Get out," said Agatha. "I'll shoot if you stop."
He climbed quietly over the ledge, his lantern flickered and went out, and next moment Agatha saw nothing but the driving snow. Then she closed the window and fastened the shutter in frantic haste, and afterwards leaned against the wall, trembling and breathing hard. Still the man had gone and she thought he would not come back. Pulling herself together she returned to her room.
Although she had driven the man away, she locked the door, and when she had lighted the lamp sat down to recover her calm. There was no use in wakening Mrs. Farnam, and by and by she began to look about. The papers in the writing-table had been thrown upon the floor; her trunk was empty and the clothes it had held were scattered. The man had obviously been searching for something, and this was curious, because one would not expect to find jewelry in a writing-table, and a bureau with three or four drawers had not been opened. Then she noticed her father's letters lying in a bundle on the table, and put them back in the trunk from which she had recently taken them. After this, she re-packed her clothes, and sitting down again tried to remember all that had happened.
There was something puzzling about the adventure. To begin with, she could not see why the man had come to her room and what he expected to get. A clever thief would have gone to Farnam's office. Then she thought he was not a coward; he had given way because he was cool enough to see that he was in her power and resistance would lead to his getting shot. Yet he had seemed to shrink when he heard her voice. She reflected with faint amusement that her voice was not harsh, and she had studied its control as part of her training when she began to teach. The little tricks of tone and gesture one used to overawe young girls would not frighten a man. For all that, when she first spoke there was a hint of fear in his furtive eyes.
Agatha let this go, and pondered her own feelings and the part she had played. She had, of course, been frightened, but had preserved her judgment and seen that she could control the situation so long as she kept cool. The man had not a pistol, and she could have fired three or four shots before he could seize her; but he might have tried to seize her had she not shown that she was ready to shoot. It looked as if she had the nerve and confidence to face a crisis, which was satisfactory, since she would need these qualities when she traveled through the wilds. She had, however, long trained herself for this object; in fact, as far as possible, she made her life a preparation for the adventurous journey. Then she remembered her brother's warning and wondered whether it was justified. There was, perhaps, a danger of her dwelling too much upon the lode. She must not let it possess her mind and make her deaf to other claims. One ought to keep a proper balance. In the meantime, she was tired, and feeling limp with the reaction from the strain. She got up and shortly afterwards went to bed.