“Quite so. Now, I ask you, Mr. Nicholson, is it worth while going any further with this feud? We’re not illicit distillers in the mountains trying to pot-shot each other, but two supposedly sane men; and the world is amply wide enough for both. What do you say?”
“Really, Mr. Steele, it’s rather difficult to know what to say without seeming impolite. Many things have been printed about Amalgamated Soap during the last twenty years, and so far they have never been replied to, nor have our dividends been adversely affected. A few of the articles I have read. Some were largely statistical, others of a defamatory character, others, again, contained the two qualities combined. But you, Mr. Steele, threaten to inject a most unusual and interesting quality—namely, that of an attractive young man journeying across the prairies with a beautiful and mysterious young woman. If I raised a finger to prevent the publication of a human document so well calculated to touch the better and more sentimental parts of our nature, I should consider that I was depriving my fellow-creatures of a source of pure enjoyment. I believe we sometimes unite beauty and soap in our advertisements. Attractive pictures they are. But this romance of the Black Hills——”
“How do you know it was the Black Hills?” asked Steele quickly.
“Didn’t you mention that locality?”
“I said the plains.”
“Then I beg pardon—this romance of the plains——”
“Now, stop a moment, Nicholson; just stop where you are. Do you see what a blunder you’ve made? For your own purpose, whatever it may be, you have been pretending that this human document of mine, as you call it, is a myth. Yet, in the calm and choice language with which you are describing it, you have suddenly given yourself away. You know the mine was in the Black Hills, and, of course, I knew you knew from the very first. Now, let us quit sparring. I asked you what your terms were. I am not using threats at all. I am merely trying to come to an arrangement. Suppose, on the third attack, you succeed in driving me to the wall. What good will it do you?”
“None at all, Mr. Steele, and I assure you I have not the least desire to interfere even in the remotest degree with your affairs. You evidently attribute to me more-power than I possess. The undertakings of our association are all matters of mutual arrangement between the directors, of whom I happen to be one. We meet each day at eleven o’clock, and I trust you will believe me when I say that if I proposed to my colleagues either the robbery or murder of Mr. John Steele, I should be very promptly asked to resign my position, and deservedly so. Really, Mr. Steele, if I may make an appeal to your own common sense, you must admit that the building up of the prestige of this company, its successful carrying on, its increase of business in all parts of the world, are not accomplished by such bizarre devices as you ascribe to us.”
“Do you mean to say that you did not, in my own presence, attempt to wreck the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company when you thought I would be ruined by it, and immediately go to allotment when you learned I had escaped the trap?”
“I am very glad you mentioned that, Mr. Steele, because a few simple words will show you that I am not the Machiavelli you suppose me to be. To wreck you I should have been compelled to wreck ourselves to at least an equal amount, and it is not the custom of Amalgamated Soap to purchase revenge at so excessive a price. It is one of our principles never to enter into any company put before the public unless the capital is fully subscribed. To my surprise I learned that we were a million short, therefore I could not agree to go to allotment.”
“But you went to allotment all the same when you learned I was out.”
“Pardon me, it was not learning that you were out of it which caused me to change my mind. It was knowing you had sent a letter to the papers informing the public that we were interested in the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company. The moment our good name was involved I proposed going to allotment; but before doing so I myself drew my cheque for a million dollars and bought the unsold shares. Your being in or out of the Company had nothing to do with my action.”
“You will not come to terms, then?”
“There are no terms to come to.”
“Is this your last word, Mr. Nicholson?”
“If you will pardon the liberty I take, Mr. Steele, I shall venture some last words on another subject. As I said when you came in, you are not looking well. Do you know what paranoea means?”
“I do not.”
“Then, if you take my advice, you will consult a physician and ask him about it.”
“I’ll ask you, to save the physician’s fee. What is paranoea?”
“It is a disease of the brain, and its symptom is fear. The victim imagines that someone, or everyone, is plotting against him. All the energies he possesses are directed towards the circumvention of conspiracies that are wholly imaginary. This disease, if not checked, leads to insanity or suicide.”
John Steele rose to his feet.
“Does paranoea ever lead to murder, Mr. Nicholson?”
“Quite frequently.”
“Then as I have been told that the directors of Amalgamated Soap are a most piously inclined body, please solicit their prayers that I may not be afflicted with the malady you mention. I thank you for giving me so much of your time, and now bid you ‘Good day.’”
“Good-bye, Mr. Steele,” said Nicholson, rising; then speaking in his suavest manner, he said: “If ever you entertain any project that requires more capital than you can command, I shall be most pleased to submit it to Mr. John Berrington, and perhaps we may be of assistance to you. As I told you before, I have the utmost admiration for your financial ability.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nicholson; I shall bear your kind invitation in mind. However, I may inform you that I have entirely dropped out of all speculative business. I am one of the few men who know when they have had enough. I have accumulated all the money I shall need during my lifetime, and I intend to take care of it.”
“A most sensible resolution, Mr. Steele; and once more good-bye, with many thanks for the visit.”
John Steele walked up Broadway the most depressed man in New York. His attempted compromise had proven a complete failure; his journey East a loss of time. And yet of what value was time to him, who dared not undertake the most innocent project through fear of the developments that might follow? Nicholson had said that fear was the symptom of the malady he had so graphically depicted. Could it be possible, Steele asked himself, that he was actually the victim of a disease, every indication of which he seemed to possess? Nicholson had evidently planted that thought in his brain to his further disquietude. That man, who rarely allowed a smile to lighten his face, had inwardly laughed at him, flouted him, defied him! and all done with soothing, contemptuous insults.
Steele walked slowly up Broadway until he came to its intersection with Fifth Avenue, and then he followed the latter street, aimlessly making for his hotel. Nevertheless, when he came opposite the hotel he wandered past it and on up the Avenue. Suddenly he shook himself together and denied the cowardliness which he had hitherto attributed to the design forming in his mind. He would appeal to a woman, and if he could not thus circumvent the demoniac Nicholson, he would go out of business entirely, as he had threatened, and either travel or take up some interesting recreative occupation. He made inquiries, was directed to the Berrington residence, walked up the steps of that palace, and rang the bell. A servant in gorgeous livery opened the door.
“I wish to speak with Miss Berrington,” he said.
“Not at ’ome, sir,” was the curt answer.
Steele put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a twenty-dollar bill.
“I think the lady is in,” he said quietly, handing this legal tender to the man in plush. Even in the residences of millionaires tips of this size are unusual, and the haughty menial at once melted. He pocketed the money.
“No, sir,” he said, “she is not in town at all. Speaking confidentially, sir, Miss Berrington’s that peculiar she don’t like New York. Her ladyship—I beg your pardon, sir—Miss Berrington is at her country ’ome some distance out of town, sir.”
“How far? Where is it?”
“On a lake, sir. I don’t quite remember its name. Begins with a h’S, I think, sir.”
“Lake Saratoga?” suggested Steele.
“It begins with a h’S, sir,” repeated the man thoughtfully; then with a sudden burst of inspiration: “Oh, yes, sir, Superior—Lake Superior, sir.”
“Great Heavens!” cried Steele, unable to repress a smile, “that isn’t just exactly in the environs of New York. I suppose you couldn’t tell me whether the house is on the Canadian or the United States side?”
“No, sir, I couldn’t say, sir, being it’s in Michigan, sir.”
“Oh, well, that’s near enough; I can guess the rest.” The man in plush pronounced the name of the State as if the first syllable were spelt M-i-t-c-h.
“Yes, sir, her ladyship—beg your pardon—Miss Berrington owns a large estate there, so they tell me—thousands and thousands of acres, all covered with forests, and there’s a big ’ouse full of servants; but her lady—but Miss Berrington receives nobody, sir. Not if you brought a letter from the King of Hengland, sir.”
“Ha! rather exclusive, isn’t she?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thanking the man, Steele turned away and walked down the Avenue to his hotel, resolved to let the Berring-tons or the Nicholsons do their worst. He would attempt no further parley with any of the gang, and—probably inspired by the accent of the servitor in plush—gave serious thought to the investing of all his money in British Consols, small as was the percentage granted by that celebrated security. He took it for granted that the Government of Britain was probably free from the influence of the Berrington crowd, and he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that no other sphere of human activity was.
Arriving at his hotel, he found a telegram waiting for him. It proved to be from Philip Manson, and it ran:
Congratulate me. Have just been appointed president of the Wheat Belt System. Important development. Great opening here that just suits you. Must see you immediately. If you cannot come here, telegraph me, and I will go to New York.
“Ye Gods!” cried Steele, bracing back his shoulders, while the chronic look of anxiety vanished like mist before the sun, “just at the point when I don’t know what to do, here comes my chance. I’ll bet a farm Manson is going to offer me the vice-presidency of the road. I’ll take it like a shot, and raise the freight rates on soap if Philip will let me.”
He seized a telegraph blank and wrote:
Heartiest congratulations. The right man in right place. You need not come to New York, as I am leaving for home to-night. I shall accept your opening, whatever it is.
Before two days were past, John Steele was closeted with Manson in the president’s room of the huge Wheat Belt building. The great, flat table in the centre was covered with broad maps taken from the civil engineer’s department, maps unknown to the general public.
“Now, John,” said his friend, “I’m in a position to offer you the absolute surety of doubling, trebling, or even quadrupling your money.”
“Thunder!” cried Steele in a tone of disappointment, “I thought you were going to present me with the vice-presidency of the road.”
Manson glanced up at him in surprise.
“Would you take it?” he asked.
“Take it? Of course. That’s what I thought I was engaging to do when I telegraphed from New York.”
“Why, no sooner said than done, John. I’d no idea you wished to get back into the railway business. I should think a man who can make millions outside wouldn’t be content to sit here at a salary of ten or fifteen thousand a year.”
“I am tired of making millions,” said Steele.
“You don’t mean to say,” protested Manson with something like dismay in his words, “you don’t mean to say you won’t go in with us? I took your telegram as consent, and because I could thus guarantee the bringing in of a big capitalist, I have induced others to join and secured an extra slice for myself.”
“Where there are millions to be made,” said Steele dubiously, “there is always a risk, and I had determined not to accept any more chances.”
“There is no chance about this, John; it is a sure thing, and the development of it rests entirely in my hands. You can double your money and pull out within ten days after I give the word, and I’ll give the word whenever you say so.”
“What’s your project, Mr. Manson?”
“Well, you see, the Wheat Belt Line, which has been one of the most prosperous roads in the country for some years past, is going to build a branch running two hundred and seventy miles northwest until it taps the Wisconsin Pacific. This red line shows you where the road will run. The Wheat Belt Line has secured all the timber land on each side, but the former president, whose place I have taken, and myself have an option on the prairie and the stump-lands where timber has been cut. The president resigned simply to give his whole time to this land company, and that’s why I am in his place. Now, we can get the property at prairie value just now; but the minute we begin surveying, up it will jump. You can trust me to keep my word. If you join us, I shall give the order for surveying the line the moment deeds of the land are in our possession.”
“How much money do you expect me to put up, Mr. Manson?”
“You couldn’t invest twenty millions, I suppose?”
“Twenty millions! Heavens and earth, no! It would practically clean me out to furnish nine.”
“I mentioned the bigger amount simply because I am sure you will double your money within a month, and the more you put in, the more you’re going to take out. You see, this is not a speculation, but a certainty.”
For a few minutes Steele walked up and down the room, hands deep in his pockets, as was his custom, brow wrinkled and head bent. At last he said, with the old ring of decision in his voice:
“All right, Mr. Manson, I’ll go in; but if I fail, you must give me the vice-presidency, as a sort of consolation prize.”
“I’ll give it to you now,” said Manson. “But it can’t fail. I tell you everything is in my hands. It is not as if this were any bluff. The proposed line is a road that is becoming more and more needed every day, and the land is good for the money, even if the road were never built. It’s as safe as government bonds.”
It would be going over ground already sufficiently covered to recount the history of the Western Land Syndicate. Steele had resolved not to invest more than half his fortune; but once a man is involved in an important enterprise, he rarely can predict where he will stop. A scheme grows and grows, and often the financier is compelled to involve himself more and more deeply in order to protect the money already ventured, and finally it becomes all or nothing. Besides this, every speculator is something of the gambler, and once the game has begun, the betting fever has him in its clutch. Before a month was past, Steele had not only paid over every dollar he possessed, but had also become deeply indebted to his bank. In borrowing from the bank he made his irretrievable mistake. As the president had said, the land was intrinsically worth the money paid for it; and if John Steele had merely risked his own assets, he might have been penniless for ten years, but he would ultimately have been sure of getting back what he paid, and probably a good deal more. But to borrow hundreds of thousands at sixty days, in the expectation that he would take profits enough to pay the loan before that time expired, was an action he himself, in less feverish moments, would have been the first to condemn. He felt the utmost confidence in his old friend, the new president, and it may be said at once that Manson throughout the history of what was known as the Great Land Bubble, was perfectly honest and sincere. He was merely a pawn on the board, moved by an unseen force of which he knew nothing.
On the afternoon of the day when the final payment on the land was made, the president of the Wheat Belt Line entered the room of his subordinate with a piece of paper in his hand. His face was white as chalk and he could not speak. He dropped into a chair, before John Steele’s desk, and the latter, with a premonition of what was coming, took the paper from his trembling hand. It was a telegram from New York, and ran as follows:
The Peter Berrington Estate has acquired control of the Wheat Belt system. The new Board of Directors yesterday resolved to abandon the Wisconsin Pacific Branch. If the branch is built at all, which is doubtful, it will begin a hundred and seventy miles West of the point formerly selected. You will, therefore, countermand at once any instructions previously given regarding the Wisconsin Pacific connection. The board also refuses to ratify the nomination of John Steele as vice-president of the road.—Nicholson.
“Cheer up!” said John, with a laugh that sounded just a trifle hollow. “Cheer up, old man. I know all about this, and you’re not in the least to blame. You acted in good faith throughout.”
“It’s horrible, John, horrible; but still, you know, you have the land, and before long that will realise all you’ve put in.”
“Yes, Mr. Manson, I’ve got the land; that’s one consolation.”
But he knew perfectly well he hadn’t. He knew that when the sixty days were up the bank would foreclose, which was exactly what happened. There were practically no bidders for so large a plot, and Nicholson purchased the property for the exact amount owing to the bank.
The ruin of John Steele was complete.
THE clearing in the primeval forest had been only partial, for several tall trees were left standing here and there, grouped around a log-house. The house itself, to a casual observer, resembled the dwelling of an ordinary pioneer, except that it was much larger than any residence a poor woodman ever erected. It was built of great pine logs, the ends roughly dovetailed together with a lumberman’s axe. Where log lay on log, the interstices were plastered with clay. A broad verandah ran completely round the oblong building, a luxury which the pioneer usually denied himself. A settler would also have been contented to cover his roof with split oak clapboards, but here the refinement of yellow pine shingles was used, which not only kept out the weather better than the pioneer’s economical device, but caused the tone of the broad roof to harmonise well with the hue of the bark on the logs; and as one approached the edifice from the forest, the whole structure standing out against the background of deep blue afforded by the lake and sky, formed a more pleasing colour scheme than might have been expected where contrasts were so vivid in that translucent air. Around the large log-house were grouped many other log-buildings, with no attempt at regulation and order. Each one appeared to have been put up as needed, and these ranged from an ordinary outhouse or shed to complete residences. A few hundred yards away from the verandah of the house, down a sloping lawn, lay sand of dazzling whiteness, and along these sands rippled the smallest waves of the largest lake in the world.
No such body of fresh water as Lake Superior exists anywhere else on earth. The water in bulk is blue; taken in detail, it is almost invisible; and this was strikingly illustrated by an adjunct of civilisation which no stretch of the imagination could attach to pioneer days. Anchored in the bay floated a large white steam-yacht, with two funnels and two slender, sloping masts. It seemed resting, not on the surface of the lake, but in mid-air, for the details of the twin screws, the long, level keel, and submerged part from prow to stern were as plain to the eye as the upper works or the funnels or the masts.
To the south and east and west, this little oasis of civilisation was walled in by the eternal forest. To the north, blue lake and blue sky blended together. On this day in late summer the place was a paradise of solitude. The great lake, which on occasion could raise a storm that might swamp an Atlantic liner, was now placid and on its good behaviour. The only sound was the gentle whisper of the leaves in the forest and the impatient pawing of a horse, which a groom held, saddled, by the southern verandah.
Through the open doorway there presently emerged a young woman, in a tight-fitting riding-habit, so short in the skirt that it looked like a walking dress rather than a costume for an equestrienne. The girl seemed very slight, and not as tall as the average woman. In spite of the frown on her brow, the face was redeemed from lack of amiability by some indescribable spiritual intellectuality which beamed from it. The whole figure gave an impression of gloom. The hair was black; the complexion almost that of an Italian woman. The eyes of velvet midnight could sparkle with dark anger, but at times they melted into a glance of appeal that was strangely pathetic, which partially redeemed the austerity of the other features. The costume was of unrelieved black, but the attention of a stranger invariably returned again and again to the face, puzzled by it. It seemed to stamp its owner as querulous, selfish perhaps, caring little for the feelings of others, yet nevertheless there sometimes fitted across it an expression indicating true nobility of character, that seemed to account for those many deeds of kindness, with which even a critical world credited the young woman.
She spoke with cutting sharpness to her groom, who had not placed the horse to please her. The man did his best, but the animal was restive from its long wait, and with a curt word of impatience at what she called the stupidity of the groom, the girl sprang with great dexterity into her saddle, gathered the reins in her left hand, and flecked the animal a stinging stroke on the flank with her whip. The horse snorted and reared, pawing the air, and again the whip descended. Now he tried to bolt, but she held him firmly, in spite of her apparently slight physique, and at last the frightened horse stood there trembling, but mastered.
“Shall I follow you, madam?” inquired the groom.
“Don’t ask unnecessary questions!” snapped the girl, scowling at him as if she were in half a mind to hit him as well as the horse with the whip. “If I wished you to follow me, I should have told you so.”
The cringing groom raised his forefinger to the peak of his cap and slunk away. The horse would have cantered, feeling the exhilaration of the air and the delight of the day in its supple limbs, but the girl appeared to take a grim pleasure in restraining the ardour of her steed and forcing him to a slow walk. The horsewoman certainly rode well and looked well in the saddle, but her face was marred by an expression of chronic discontent, which perhaps had a right to be there, for she was accounted the richest woman in the world, living what she supposed to be the simple life.
Constance Berrington was one of those unhappy persons whose every wish had been gratified almost before it could be expressed. Slight as she appeared, her health was excellent, and she had never yet come upon a crisis in life which money could not smooth away. It would have done her a world of good to be compelled to earn her living for a year, and meet a section of humanity she had never yet encountered, who cared not a rap whether she lived or died. But at this moment, when her ill-temper caused her to curb the eager horse to a slow walk, she was playing into the hands of the enemy in a manner that would have startled her had she but known.
Parallel with her course, a stooping man dodged from tree to tree. There was something of the stealthiness of the savage about him, and he took all the precautions of a savage to avoid observation—precautions that were unnecessary in this case, for the girl was absorbed in the conquering of her horse, and the horse’s own hoofs in the pine needles made noise enough to render inaudible the footsteps of the pursuer. For more than a mile the conscious hunter and the unconscious hunted kept their course. The ground rose perceptibly all the way, but at last became tolerably level, and then the girl shook out the reins and settled herself for a gallop. But at that instant, the wary pursuer, who day after day during the past month had been baffled by the speed of the horse, sprang out from behind a tree and seized the bridle near the bit. The complexion of the woman became a shade less swarthy with the sudden fright of this assault, and although she did not cry out or scream, her inward panic was in no way lessened by the sight of the countenance turned upon her. It was the face of one in despair, and the fierce, vengeful light of the eyes betokened a mind perilously near to insanity.
“Let go my horse!” she said in a low, tense voice.
The man tightened his grip.
“Keep quiet!” he retorted.
She raised her arm and struck the animal with all the force at her command, then with both hands jerked the reins and tried to ride down her obstructor. The horse reared and for a brief second lifted the man off his feet; but he held on, and horse and man came to the ground together.
“If you try to do a trick like that again,” he cried, “I’ll throw both you and the horse! Drop that whip!”
Instead of dropping it she raised it again, leaning forward this time to strike the man; but he sprang towards her, holding the rein in his right hand, and with his left caught the whip as it descended and wrenched it rudely from her grasp. For a moment she thought he was about to strike her, and her arm rose waveringly to protect her face.
“Will you keep still?” he demanded.
“If you want money,” she said in the quiet, semi-contemptuous tone with which she would have addressed a beggar, “you might have the sense to know that I carry none with me in the forest.”
“I want money,” he replied, “and I have the sense to know you carry none with you.”
“Then how do you expect to obtain it by this violence?”
“That I shall have the pleasure of explaining to you a little further on.”
She folded her empty hands on her knee, now that he was possessed of both whip and rein.
“I advise you, sir, to turn my horse’s head in the other direction, and warn you that you will make less by threats than by trusting to my good will.”
“I reject your advice, Miss Berrington. The philanthropy of your family is well-known and widely advertised. Your good deeds rise up and call you blessed; but I am not an object of charity, although I may look it. The sum which I demand I shall exact by coercion.”
“Oh, very well. Set about it, then. Pray do not allow me to hinder you in the least.”
“Thank you, Miss Berrington; you shall not.” Placing the riding rein over his arm, he turned his back upon her and led the horse along the level towards the west for perhaps half a mile further, when he deflected to the right until they arrived at the top of a high cliff overlooking the lake. Neither had spoken a word during the journey, and Constance Berrington sat very rigidly on her led horse, like a clothed Lady Godiva, sans the beauty. The look of discontent, however, had vanished from her face, and the expression which took its place was not unpleasing.
At the cliff her leader stopped, swung round, and said gruffly, “Get down!” without, however, making any offer to assist her.
She sprang lightly from the saddle to the ground and stood there, as if awaiting further commands.
“Seat yourself on that log.”
A fallen tree which one of the winter storms had uprooted lay with its branches far out over the chasm. The girl sat down on the trunk as she had been directed. “I am John Steele, of Chicago,” he said.
“That does not interest me,” replied the young woman. “Have you ever heard the name before?”
“No, and don’t wish to hear it again.”
“Six months ago I was worth ten millions.”
“That does not interest me, either.”
“You need not reiterate the statement, madam; I shall interest you before I am done with you.”
“I wish you were not so slow about it, then.”
“Do you know a man named Nicholson?”
“Yes.”
“Nicholson tried first to ruin me and then to murder me.”
The young man paused, as if to allow this startling sentence to produce its effect. The young woman’s eyes were upon the ground, but after a few moments of silence she glanced up at him with a languid air of indifference and said: “Is this the interesting part? Is any comment expected of me? If so, I can only say that Mr. Nicholson is usually successful in what he attempts, and I deeply regret the failure of his second project. It would have saved me from a most unpleasant encounter.”
“Quite so,” said Steele, tightening his lips. “I am glad you take it that way. Nicholson, as, of course, you know, was acting for the organisation which, I understand, contributes some fifty millions a year towards your support. In spite of your humane wish, he failed in his two attempts, but his third conspiracy succeeded.”
“Ah! you were right, Mr. Steele, you do interest me. What did he endeavour to do on the third occasion? Consign you to a lunatic asylum?”
“No. To tell you the truth, madam, I feared that would come of itself. The fact that I have not gone mad under the silent persecution I was called upon to endure leads me to suppose that I shall hereafter be proof against any malady of the mind.”
“I do not in the least doubt that. Nothing can damage a sanity already destroyed. If you are not a lunatic, you are worse—a cowardly hound who dares to offer violence to an unprotected woman.”
Slowly the colour mounted in John Steele’s pale face, and a glint of admiration came into his eyes. The little woman was absolutely at his mercy, yet she said these words with perfect serenity and turned upon him a gaze that was quite fearless. He noticed now for the first time the gloomy depths of those dark eyes, and thought how much more steadfast and beautiful they were than the blue orbs which had crazed his brain on the plains.
“Not such a coward as you think me, madam. Now that we are entirely free from any chance of molestation, when you must recognise your own helplessness, I beg to assure you that I shall treat you with the utmost courtesy.”
“Thank you. But let us get to the point. You are John Steele. You were worth ten millions. Nicholson plotted against you and ruined you. Nicholson is one of the combination in New York from which I draw my money. In spite of what you say, you are too much of a coward to face Nicholson; therefore you have endeavoured to kidnap me and terrorise me into giving you a cheque for ten million dollars. How near am I right?”
“You are exactly right, madam.”
“Very well. Although I am no admirer of Mr. Nicholson, nevertheless, it is easy to see why he defeated you. A man who takes so long to reach the kernel of his business may be all very well in Chicago, but he has no right to pit himself against a citizen of New York. I refuse to give you one penny.”
“Don’t say ‘give,’ madam, I beg of you. ‘Restore’ is the word. As I told you, I am making no appeal to the renowned philanthropy of the Berringtons. My ten millions, although lost to me, have gone into the coffers of your company. You have no more right to the money than I have to this horse. I own that amount because I made it without cheating anybody. I made it legitimately. I demand it back.”
“I have already refused. What is your next move?”
“My next move will take some little time to tell, and you are so impatient of my loquacity that I almost fear to venture——”
“Oh, pray go on!” she cried wearily.
“Does the height make you dizzy? I should like to have you look over this cliff.”
“It doesn’t make me in the least dizzy. I know the cliff very well, and have been here many times. There are five or six hundred feet of sheer precipice, then a ledge of rock, then the lake.”
“You have described it admirably, madam. Well, what I shall do is this. I possess, within a mile and a half of this place, a log cabin not so large or comfortable as your house. I intend to take you there and to hold you prisoner until I receive back what is mine.”
“Mr. Nicholson would have mapped out a more feasible plan. How long do you think I shall remain captive without being found? To-morrow there will be a hue and cry after me—to-night, indeed, if I do not return. I shall be tracked by dogs, or an Indian will be got and put on the trail. Your scheme is absurd, Mr. Steele.”
“You have forgotten the cliff, madam. I shall lead your horse to the edge of the cliff, strike him with your whip, and send him over. He will lie dashed to death on the ledge six hundred feet below. The Indian or the dog will trace the horse to this cliff. It will be naturally supposed that you have been flung into the waters of the lake, which are another six hundred feet deep. Then the search will end, madam. Lake Superior never gives up its dead, and to dredge at that depth is impossible.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said; “your plan is better than I thought. There is just the risk that the horse, poor creature, may bound from the ledge into the lake, and in that case the search would not end at the cliff.”
Saying this, she rose and walked bravely to the very brink, looking over.
“Don’t go so near!” cried John Steele, taking a step towards her. She paid no heed to him, and for a moment he held his breath in alarm as she walked along the extreme edge of the precipice. Then she turned listlessly.
“Alas!” she said, “the ledge is quite wide enough for your purpose.”
“Oh, I have planned it all out,” replied John, relief coming to his voice as she turned away from danger with her head lowered as if in deep thought. Then she took him entirely unawares. With a spring forward like that of a lynx, she jerked the reins from his unprepared hand. Striking the horse sharply with the loose leather, making him snort and shy with fear, she then smote him with her open palms on the flank, and away he galloped in a panic of fright. The face she turned to the astonished man seemed transformed. The black eyes danced with delight. She sank to the log again, shaking with laughter.
“Oh! I was wrong, Mr. Steele, when I said you didn’t interest me! You do, you do! I have never met so interesting a man before. In twenty minutes, or thereabout, the riderless horse will gallop into my courtyard. Now, Mr. John Steele, of Chicago, what is the next move?”
“Well, logically,” said John Steele, unable to repress a smile, grave as was his situation and quick his recognition of its seriousness, “logically the next move should be for me to throw you over the cliff.”
“No, that wouldn’t be logical. It seems, to the poor reason that a woman possesses, Mr. Nicholson is the man who should be thrown over.”
“I am rather inclined to agree with you, Miss Berrington; but, alas! Nicholson is in New York, and you are the only member of the company now in my power.”
“Are you quite sure I am in your power?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Frankly, I’m inclined to doubt it.”
“I haven’t laughed for years,” she said, “not since I was a girl.”
“Oh, you’re nothing more than a girl now.”
“I’m afraid I act like it,” she replied, flushing slightly, and that evidently not from displeasure. “You are mistaken about Mr. Nicholson being in New York. Did you see that white yacht in front of my house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it belongs to Mr. Nicholson.”
“Is he your guest?” asked John, the light of battle coming into his eyes.
“No, he is in Duluth. He went there a few days ago in his yacht, and sent the vessel back, in case I should wish a sail on the lake. Shall I arrange a meeting between you?”
“I suppose you will not credit me, Miss Berrington, when I tell you that I do not wish to meet Mr. Nicholson, and it is not cowardice which keeps me from the encounter. If I met him, I should kill him; then the law would hang me, and I have no desire to be executed.”
“Oh, you are quite safe in Michigan,” said the girl encouragingly; “there is no capital punishment in this State.”
“I had forgotten about that, if I ever knew it. You see, I live in Illinois, and Nicholson lives in New York. In the one State they hang, and in the other they electrocute. It may be weak in me, but I shrink from either of those ordeals, much as I detest Nicholson.”
The girl rose to her feet, put up both hands to her hair, and arranged the black tresses that had gone astray.
“How long have you possessed your log cabin, Mr. Steele?”
“About two months. One month I have spent round your house watching for you; but you have always left on a canter, or else that confounded groom of yours was following you, and I didn’t want to hurt him. In truth, I didn’t wish to hurt anybody.”
“Poor man! have you been lingering in the forest all that time? No wonder you look like an escaped convict.”
“Do I?” asked John in alarm, glancing down at his ragged garments. “I suppose I do. Since I came into the forest I have paid no attention to my personal appearance. Pray accept my apologies.”
“Oh, don’t mention it. I imagine you didn’t expect to meet a lady.”
“Well, I’ve been frustrated so often that I suppose I did not.”
“You are, then, my nearest neighbour? By the rights of etiquette I should have made the first call, being the older resident. I think, however, Mr. Steele, that your methods of teaching me politeness to a new-comer were somewhat rough. So, if you will excuse me, I shall not go with you to your log-cabin this evening. It is getting late; see how low the sun has sunk, and how gloriously he lights up the lake.”
“Yes,” said Steele dolefully, “it reminds me of the copper situation here.”
“It is copper that brings Mr. Nicholson to this district,” she replied brightly, “although I suppose I should not tell that to an opposing speculator.”
“Oh, damn Nicholson!” cried John hastily; then: “Really, I beg your pardon, madam. I have been a savage these two months past, as you very rightly remarked.”
“I was going to say,” she went on, “that if you will waive etiquette and come and dine with me to-night, I shall be very glad of your company.”
“Ah, Miss Berrington, that is heaping coals of fire on this tousled head of mine. I could not venture into a civilised household in these rags. I am sure you will excuse me.”
“Indeed I shall not. I make a bold appeal to your gallantry. I do not know my way; I am certain to get lost in the forest. You see, my horse has always been my guide, and, entirely through your fault, my horse is no longer here to lead me through the woods, so please be my pathfinder.”
“Certainly, certainly, I’ll lead you to the gates, but don’t ask me to come in. I’m very much ashamed of myself, and I assure you that if your horse were here, I should help you to mount, and allow you to depart unscathed.”
“You didn’t help me to dismount,” said the girl, glancing at him with eyes brimful of mischief, and laughing again.
With something of his old-time heartiness, Jack laughed at her readiness of repartee.
“You should not hold that against me. We were not acquainted then. It seems years ago, instead of minutes. I think if you and I had met when I first called on you, my later troubles would all have been averted.”
“Oh, they did not tell me you had called.”
“My visit was to your palace on Fifth Avenue, where I was received by a gorgeous individual with a cockney accent, whose knowledge of geography was such that he supposed Lake Saratoga and Lake Superior were neighbours and about of a size.”
“Really? You met Fletcher then? Poor man, he is quite lost now, for I have him here with me in the woods. Nicholson brought him in the yacht. I rather suspect that the quiet Mr. Nicholson wishes to acquire this man’s services; but, thank goodness, I can always outbid him, and Fletcher is peculiarly susceptible to the charms of money.”
“Fletcher seems to be in demand, then?”
“Oh, he is most useful, but I fancy—which is a word he is very fond of—that he is very unhappy, for I have compelled him to abandon the gorgeous raiment you mentioned and dress as a northern farmer. I fear I shall need to restore his plumage, for he seems to think he has lost caste entirely. I am unable to convince him that he has gained it; but perhaps when he sees you in such raiment, and learns you were worth ten millions six months ago, he will be reconciled.”
They were walking homeward through the forest, but at this remark John stopped and said ruefully: “Look here, Miss Berrington, if you are merely taking me with you to show Fletcher how badly a man may be costumed, I shall at once return to my cabin, for I have another suit there. I think that allusion to my clothes was most unkind, just as I was trying to forget them.”
“Indeed I am going to turn you over to Fletcher, who will see that you are clothed, now that you are in your right mind. I think this is the spot where I first had the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Steele.”
“Now, that’s another subject you are not to refer to.”
“Dear me, I must get you to write out a list of them,” and the sprightly little woman looked up at him with merriment sparkling in her fine eyes. No one would have recognised her as the Tartar who a short time before had browbeaten her servant and lashed her horse.
A cry rang out through the forest.
“They are looking for me,” she said. “Answer the call.”
John Steele lifted up his voice and gave utterance to a piercing scream that rent the silence like the soul-scattering screech of a locomotive.
“Bless us and keep us!” cried Constance Berrington, covering her small ears with her small hands, “is that an Indian war-whoop, that once used to resound in this wilderness?’
“No, it’s the acme of civilisation; merely a college yell. If any of your people are graduates of Chicago University they’ll recognise it.”
The people who were not graduates of anything, except the college of hard labour, hurried to meet them with anxious faces.
“No, I am not in the least hurt,” said Constance Berrington quite composedly. “I was merely compelled to dismount more rapidly than I usually do. Did the horse get home all right?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Oh, then everything is as it should be. Luckily this gentleman was near by, and I came to no harm. Fletcher!”
The dejected, crestfallen man came slowly to the front, while she advanced a few rapid steps toward him, gave him some instructions in an undertone, and the search-party left under his leadership for the house, Steele and the girl following them at their leisure.
“How true it is that fine feathers make fine birds!” said John. “I should never have recognised Fletcher, whom I once took to be the finest specimen of our race.”
“It’s a poor rule that doesn’t work both ways,” laughed the girl. “Did you notice that Fletcher failed to recognise you?”
“Oh, I will go back and get that other suit!” cried John, coming to a standstill. “Don’t wait dinner for me.”
“Nonsense!” she said, letting her hand rest for one brief moment on his arm. “I didn’t think men were so vain.”
“I’m afraid you don’t know much about them, Miss Berrington.”
“I didn’t until to-day. I’ve had my eyes opened.”
“Well, I must make one proviso. You are to return my visit.”
“Will you wear the other suit, then?”
“Yes, I will; and besides that, I have a negro cook who can prepare a meal that will surprise you, in our neck of the woods.”
“A negro cook? Dear me, I thought you were ruined!”
“Oh, well, in a manner of speaking, so I am, now you mention it; but still, let us live by the way, you know.”
When they reached the clearing, Fletcher was awaiting them on the verandah.
“If you will come with me, sir,” he said, “I shall take you to the guest-house.”
“Dinner at seven. Fletcher will show you the way to the dining-room. Until then, au revoir!” and the girl disappeared into the log-house, while Fletcher escorted Steele to a building near by and ushered him into a sumptuous bedroom facing the lake. On the bed was laid out a suit of evening clothes and all that pertained to it.
“I think you will find this about your size, sir. If not, I can get you one larger or smaller, as you wish.”
“Good gracious!” said Steele, “do you keep a clothing store out here in the backwoods?”
“Well sir, for a country ‘ouse situated as this is——”
“So far from London, eh?”
“Why, yes, sir, we are very well stocked, sir. And now sir, if you’d like a hair-cut, or your beard trimmed——”
“What! do you employ a barber, too? Thank Heaven!”
“Well, sir, you see, I used to be servant to General Sir Grundy Whitcombe, of the British Army, sir, and they do be particular.”
“Do you mean to hint you can shave me, Fletcher, and cut my hair?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Well now, Fletcher, you don’t like look an angel, but that’s exactly what you are. I’ll have the beard cut away entirely, but leave the moustache where it is; and if you give me the hair-crop of a British general, why, I’ve nothing more to ask in this life.”
“Very good, sir,” consented the admirable Fletcher.
When the task was finished, and John looked at the result in the mirror, he absent-mindedly thrust his hand into his pocket, but brought it forth empty. Fletcher was regarding him with admiration.
“By Jove!” cried the young man, “I haven’t got a sou markee on me; but I won’t forget you, Fletcher. I’ll see you later, as we say out West, and you won’t lose by it.”
“Well, sir, I think I remember you now, sir; and if I may make so bold as to say it, sir, I’m already in your debt. Her Ladyship—I mean, Miss Berrington—being as she was thrown from her horse, sir, and you ’andy to ’elp ’er, you got the right kind of introduction, after all, sir.”
“Ah, Fletcher, it seems like it, doesn’t it?”