Mr. Malcolm Piers stood before the mirror tying a white bow at the top
of an effulgent shirt bosom. It was a room in Prince George's best
hotel, and it had been his room for six weeks. His brown ruddiness had
paled a little, and his face looked harder and older than the wear of
only two months warranted. Unhappiness or perplexity, or indeed any
emotion, caused Jack to look like a hardy young villain. Only the eyes
told a tale; a profound discontent lurked in their blue depths.
He finished dressing and took down his overcoat and topper. Evening
dress became him well, and he knew it, and took a certain satisfaction
in the fact, for all that the world was going badly. His abounding
health and his hardness marked him out from the usual dancing man.
Hunching into his overcoat, he put out the light, and with the act the
night out-of-doors leaped into being. Struck by it, he went to the
window and flung it up.
The stars were like old friends suddenly brought to mind. So they
shone over his own country where there were no grosser lights to
outface them impudently; so they shone nights he had lain well-wrapped
on the prairie, counting them while he waited for sleep; so they shone
through the spruce branches in the valleys. The town of Prince George
is built on top of the bench, and his window looked into the deep
valley of the river. It brought to mind his own river, the serene
Spirit; his and Mary's; Mary's whose eyes were as deep and quiet and
healing as the stars.
Leaning against the window-frame, he lost count of time. He thought of
the nights he had careered over the prairie on horseback under the
stars. He had called his new horse Starlight, a thoroughbred. How the
beast would love the prairie! How his knees ached for him this minute,
to bear him away from all this back to _her_! How her eyes would shine
at the sight of Starlight! Never had such a horse been seen north of
the Landing. How he would love to give him to her! How fine she would
look on Starlight! He fell to picturing her under all the different
circumstances he remembered. Sweetest and most painful was the
recollection of how he had kissed her sleeping in the light of the
fire, and how her soft, warm lips had smiled enchantingly under the
touch of his.
He was brought back to earth by the ringing of the telephone bell in
the room behind him, and a summons from below. He went down stairs
cursing himself. "You fool! To let yourself get out of hand! What
good does it do?"
It was the night of the hospital ball in Prince George. The provincial
parliament had reassembled, the courts were sitting, and the little
western capital was thronged with visitors more or less distinguished.
The ball was held under the largest roof in town, that of the armory;
the band had been imported all the way from Winnipeg, and the
decorations and the gowns of the women would have done credit to
Montreal itself. To the women the particular attraction of the
occasion was the presence of an undoubted aristocrat, Lord Richard
Spurling, seeing Canada on his grand tour.
Linda was radiant, the greatest little lady there! There was nothing
here to suggest the frightened child who had left such a desperate note
for Jack. Her world had not turned its back on her; on the contrary,
she had made a grand reéntrée with the halo of adventure around her
pretty head. She was wearing a dress of rose-madder satin straight
from Paris, a marvel of graceful unexpectedness, hanging from her thin,
alluring shoulders by a hair, and clinging about her delicate ankles.
She was wearing all the pearls that had shared her adventures, besides
some new ones, and a jewelled aigrette in her dark hair. A whole
company of cavaliers dogged her footsteps, including the lordling
himself, a handsome and manly youngster, irrespective of the handle to
his name.
Jack was not one of the company that surrounded her. Jack and Linda
had been leading a kind of cat and dog life the past few weeks. Their
engagement was admitted, but had not been announced. Jack did not
shine in Linda's world; glumness is the unpardonable sin there.
Moreover, Jack was a perpetual reminder of things she was ashamed of
now. And there were so many other men! At the same time she kept a
tight hold on him by the means that such little ladies know so well how
to employ.
Jack kept out of her way until it was time for the first of the two
dances she had vouchsafed him. As he approached her she could not but
acknowledge his good looks, she was a connoisseur, but a good-looking
thundercloud! The dance was not a success; they were out of harmony;
they stepped on each other's toes!
"Let's stop," said Linda fretfully.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the crowd she opened on him:
"You haven't been near me all evening!"
"You know I'm at your disposal," Jack said stiffly. "But I will not
make one of that train of young asses that follow you around."
"You don't have to," retorted Linda. "And you needn't be rude. Follow
whoever you please around, but for heaven's sake don't stand against
the walls with a face like a hired mute!"
This stung. Nevertheless, Jack doggedly admitted the justice of it to
himself, and "took a brace," as he would have said. "I'm sorry,
Linda," he said manfully; "I'm a bit off my feed to-night. You know
I'm no good at this sort of thing."
She was merciless. "It's not only to-night. It's all the time; ever
since you've been here. It's not very flattering to me to have you go
round with me as if you were dragged against your will."
Jack pulled in his lip obstinately. He had made his apology; she had
rebuffed him; very well. Linda, glancing sideways under her lashes,
saw that she would get no more out of him in this connection. She made
another lead.
"Take me to the north end of the gallery," she drawled. "I promised to
meet Lord Richard there at the end of this dance."
Jack obeyed without comment.
"He's an awfully good sort, isn't he?" she went on, with another
sidelong glance at Jack. "I was surprised to find out how well he
dances. Englishman, you know! He likes Canada better every day, he
says. He's going to stay over for the golf tournament if I will let
him. He is looking for a ranche somewhere near town."
Jack woke up. "First-rate head," he said heartily. "We've talked a
lot about the North. He wants to make a trip with me."
Linda bit her lip.
Later Jack sought out Kate Worsley, with whom he had a dance. These
two had made great progress in intimacy.
"Shall we dance?" she said.
"No, please," said Jack. "Linda says I dance like her grandfather.
One gets rusty in five years!"
"To sit out then," said Kate. "Let's get in the first row of the
gallery, where we can hang over and watch the giddy young things!"
Their conversation did not flourish. The night outside still had Jack
by the heartstrings; loping over the prairie under the stars, the
far-off ululation of a wolf, a ruddy campfire in the dark, and beside
it, Mary!
"You're not exactly garrulous to-night," remarked Kate.
Jack turned a contrite face to her. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't be rude to
you, Kate!"
"Bless your heart! you don't have to talk unless you are moved to it.
I don't like to see a pal looking so down, that's all."
"Down?" said Jack with a laugh. "I'm living in hell, Kate!"
"Tell me about it, old man. You can, you know."
He shook his head. "I can't talk about it. I only sound like a fool.
It only makes matters worse to talk about it."
Kate knew her men. "Change the subject then," she said cheerfully.
"How are business matters going?"
"All right," said Jack. "I have sold my claim and the other one to Sir
Bryson's company for twenty-five thousand--a fair price."
"Cash or stock?" asked Kate.
"Cash. I have no talent for business. I don't want to be in the
company."
"The other claim?" she asked.
"Miss Cranston's?" he said self-consciously:
"I thought there were three."
"The third belongs to Linda."
"Well, what are you going to do now?" she asked.