IN THE MOONLIGHT
It was, as far as outward appearances went, a somewhat disreputable
company that had assembled in the little station when the whistle of
the Atlantic train came ringing up the track, and Weston would have
been just as much pleased if the agent had provided a little less
illumination. Several big lamps had just been lighted, though, there
was a bright moon in the sky, and Grenfell, who was dressed for the
most part in thorn-rent rags, sat on a pile of express freight amidst
a cluster of his new comrades discoursing maudlin philosophy. The
other man, who still clung to the hotel-keeper's ax, was recounting
with dramatic force how he had once killed a panther on Vancouver
Island with a similar weapon, and, when he swung the heavy blade round
his head, there was a momentary scattering of the crowd of loungers,
who had, as usual, gathered to see the train come in.
"Yes, sir, I split that beast right up first time," he said. "I'm a
chopper. You'd have seen the pieces fly if I'd sailed into that hotel
bar a little while ago."
Weston fancied that this was probable, for the man was dexterous, and
there was applause when he set the bright blade whirling, and passed
the haft from hand to hand. Most of the loungers could do a good deal
with the ax themselves, and the lean, muscular demonstrator made
rather a striking figure as he stood poised in statuesque symmetry
under the lamplight with the bright steel flashing about him.
In the meantime, Weston leaned on the pile of cases and packages
somewhat moodily. After paying for his ticket and Grenfell's to the
station nearest the copper-mine he had about four dollars in his
pocket, and he did not know what he should do if no employment were
offered him when he got there. He had no doubt that he could provide
for himself somehow, but Grenfell was becoming a responsibility. He
felt that he could not cast the man adrift, and it seemed scarcely
likely that anybody would be anxious to hire him. Still, Grenfell was
his comrade, and they had borne a good deal together during their
journey in the wilderness. That counted for something. There was also
another matter that somewhat troubled Weston. He was not unduly
careful about his personal appearance, but he had once been accustomed
to the smoother side of life in England, and his clothing was now
almost dropping off him. The storekeeper, whom he had interviewed that
morning, had resolutely declined to part with a single garment except
for money down; and, after an attempt to make at least part of the
damage good with needle and thread, Weston found the effort useless
and abandoned it.
Then two great locomotives came snorting out of the shadows that
wrapped the climbing track, and he grasped the shoulder of his
comrade, who did not appear disposed to get up. There was a little
pointed badinage between those who were starting for the mine and the
loungers, and in the midst of it the big cars rolled into the station.
Weston started, and his face grew darkly flushed, for two white-clad
figures leaned out over the guard-rail of one of the platforms, and
for a moment he looked into Ida Stirling's eyes. There was no doubt
that she had recognized him, and he remembered the state of his
attire, and became uneasily conscious that Grenfell, who clung to his
shoulder, was swaying on his feet. He knew that a man is usually
judged by his company, and it was clear that nothing that she might
have noticed was likely to prepossess Miss Stirling in his favor. The
car, however, swept past him, and with some difficulty he got Grenfell
into another farther along the train. Then, while his companions
exchanged more compliments with the loungers, the big locomotives
snorted and the dusty cars lurched on again.
They naturally traveled Colonist, and when Grenfell stretched himself
out on a maple board it became evident that he had forgotten his
blanket. Weston threw his own over him, and the old man blinked at his
young companion with watery eyes.
"You stood by me. You're white," he said; and added with a little
patronizing gesture, "I'm not going to desert you."
After that he apparently went to sleep, and Weston, who felt no
inclination for the company of the others, went out and sat on one of
the car platforms, glad for the time being to be rid of him.
There was a moon in the sky, and the silvery light streamed down on
towering hillside and battalions of flitting pines. The great train
swept on, clattering and clanking, and dust and fragments of ballast
whirled about the lonely man. Still, the rush of the cool night wind
was exhilarating, and his mind was busy, though his thoughts were not
altogether pleasant. The few weeks he had spent in Ida Stirling's
company had reawakened ambition in him; and that was why he had set
out with Grenfell in search of the mine. Though he had not reproached
his comrade, and had, indeed, only half believed in the quartz lead,
the failure to find it had been a blow. There was in that country, as
he knew, no great prospect of advancement for a man without a dollar;
and though he realized that it had not troubled him greatly until a
little while ago, he now shrank from the thought of remaining all his
life a wandering railroad or ranching hand. He had also a great desire
for Miss Stirling's good opinion, although he scarcely expected her to
think of him, except as one who had proved a capable guide.
He knew that he could never quite forget the night they had made the
hazardous descent together, and her courage and quiet composure under
stress and strain had had their effect on him. The imperious anger
with which she had turned on him when he forced her away from Miss
Kinnaird had also stirred him curiously. He could still, when he
chose, see her standing in the moonlight with a flash in her eyes,
questioning his authority to prevent her from snaring her companion's
peril. She was, he felt, one who would stand by her friends. He was
young, and the fact that she had seen him supporting the lurching
Grenfell at the station troubled him.
He had smoked his pipe out twice when he heard the vestibule door
click, and he started when he looked up, for Ida Stirling stood beside
him. Her light dress fluttered about her, and she stood with one hand
resting on the rail. There was no doubt that she recognized him, and
when he rose and took off his shapeless hat she looked at him steadily
for a moment or two. He wondered whether he were right in his surmises
as to why she did this; and, though his forehead grew a trifle hot, he
decided that he could not blame her. Appearances had certainly been
against him.
"I am going to join Mrs. Kinnaird. She is in the car behind the
sleeper, and that is farther along;" she said.
Weston moved so that she might step across to the adjoining car; but
she did not seem to notice this, and leaned on the rail close beside
him.
"The train is very hot with the lamps lighted," she said.
Weston understood this to mean that she was disposed to stay where she
was and talk to him awhile, which suggested that she was to some
extent reassured about his condition.
"Yes," he returned, "it is. In fact, I felt it myself. The smell of
the pines is a good deal pleasanter."
There was nothing original in the observation, and, though the roar of
wheels made it a trifle difficult to hear, he was careful as to how he
modulated his voice. Perhaps he was superfluously careful, for he saw
a smile creep into Ida's eyes.
"You seem amused," he said, and, for they stood in the moonlight, the
blood showed in his face.
"Why did you speak--like that?" his companion asked.
Weston looked at her gravely, and then made a little deprecatory
gesture.
"It was very stupid, I dare say. Still, you see, you were out on the
platform when the train came into the station."
There was something that puzzled him in Ida's expression.
"Well," she admitted, "I really had my fancies for a moment or two,
though I blamed myself afterward. I should have known better."
It was rather a big admission, but she said nothing else, and it was
Weston who broke the silence.
"I have to thank you for the prospecting outfit," he said.
The girl flashed a quick glance at him.
"It was partly Major Kinnaird's idea. You made use of it?"
Weston smiled.
"Grenfell and I did. That explains the state of my attire. You see, we
have just come down from the bush."
Then, somewhat to her astonishment, he took out his watch, and pointed
to the guard. It was of plain plaited leather, and had, she fancied,
probably cost about twenty-five cents.
"I don't know whether this could be considered part of a prospecting
outfit, but they had a bunch of them in the store," he said. "I felt I
should like some trifle that I could wear to remember our trip in the
ranges. I thought you wouldn't mind."
A momentary trace of embarrassment became visible in his companion's
face. The man was a bush packer, and she had seen him in somewhat
disreputable company, but she was ready to admit that he had aroused
her curiosity. She could be honest, and she would have admitted it as
readily had she never heard from Arabella Kinnaird of his connection
with the old hall in England. She looked at him, with a little laugh.
"Oh," she said, "everybody likes to be remembered, and I'm no
exception in that respect. There is really no reason why you shouldn't
have bought the guard."
Weston, who felt that he had gone quite far enough, merely bent his
head in a manner that, as she naturally noticed, the average bush
packer would not have adopted. It was she who first spoke again.
"You were successful in your search?" she asked.
Weston laughed.
"Do I look like a man who has just found a goldmine?"
"Well," said the girl, with a twinkle in her eyes, "I came across two
successful prospectors in Vancouver not long ago, and there was really
nothing to suggest it in their appearance. So you didn't find the
mine? Won't you tell me about your journey?"
"It's quite a story. Won't the others miss you?"
Ida turned toward him suddenly.
"Don't you mean more than that?"
"Well," admitted Weston slowly, "I think I did. Perhaps it was a
liberty."
"It was," said Ida, and, though she laughed, there was a little flash
in her eyes. "Major Kinnaird and his wife are English, and it is quite
possible that they would not be pleased to hear that I had come out to
talk with you on the platform of a car. Still, in Canada we have our
own notions as to what is fitting, and that I consider it perfectly
natural that I should do so is quite sufficient for me. I do not defer
to anybody's opinion as to how I should treat my friends. Now, unless
you have any more convincing excuses, you may tell me about the search
for the mine."
Weston did so, and, for the mere pleasure of having her near him, he
made rather a long tale of it. She stood where the vestibule of the
car in front partly sheltered her from the rush of the cold night
wind, swaying lightly to the jolting of the platform as the great
train sped on among the pines. Still, her light dress which gleamed
white in the moonlight fluttered about her and now and then flowed
against her companion. The simple tale of stress and effort borne and
made was one that went well with the snorting of the big locomotives
toiling up the climbing track and the rhythmic roar of wheels flung
back by primeval forest or towering wall of rock. The girl had
imagination enough to realize it.
"Oh," she said, "one likes to hear of such things."
Then she noticed the gauntness of his bronzed face and how lean he
was.
"Still," she added, "it has left its mark on you. You failed to find
the mine--it wasn't your fault--what are you going to do now?"
"Some day," said Weston, "I shall go back and search again."
He had made the resolution only that moment, but she saw the sudden
glint in his eyes.
"It was in the meanwhile I meant," she said.
"I am going a little way up the track with my partner to a
copper-mine."
"Ah," said the girl reflectively, "I suppose you feel that you must
take that man?"
"What else could I do with him?"
Ida's eyes softened curiously. After the scene at the station she
fancied that she understood the responsibility that he had taken upon
himself.
"And suppose they don't want you at the mine?"
"In that case we should go on again somewhere else."
"Of course your partner, who can earn nothing, will go with you."
Then she spoke almost sharply.
"How much money have you in your joint possession?"
"Three or four dollars," said Weston.
Again she turned toward him with a flush on her face.
"Now," she said, "I think you can disregard trivial conventionalities.
Won't you let me lend you some?"
"No," replied Weston quietly. "I shall not forget that you offered it,
but I'm afraid it's quite out of the question."
She knew that he meant it, and, though she greatly desired to lessen
his difficulties, she was, for no reason that was very apparent at the
moment, pleased with his answer. Then she changed the subject.
"Can your partner cook?" she asked.
"No," answered Weston, smiling, "he certainly can't. I and a good many
more of the boys know that from experience."
"Ah," said Ida reflectively, "that destroys another chance. Well, I am
glad that I have seen you, but I think I must join Mrs. Kinnaird now."
She held out the hand she had laid on the rail. It happened that as
she did it the train swung around a curve. The car slanted sharply,
and she swayed with the effort to keep her balance. In another moment
Weston's arm was around her waist. Then there was empty blackness
beneath them as the cars sped out upon a slender trestle, and the roar
of a torrent came up from below through the clash and clatter and
clamor of the wheels. There was probably no risk at all, for there
were rails on either side of them, but the girl, who had almost lost
her footing, was glad of the man's steadying hand, and did not draw
herself away until the big locomotives were speeding smoothly on
beneath the shadowy pines again. Then she drew back a pace or two.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Weston took off his battered hat, and, stepping across the platform,
opened the door of the adjoining car. When she had passed through it,
he sat down and took out his pipe, with a curious little thrill
running through him and his nerves tingling.
Ida, also, felt her face grow a trifle hot, and, though she was as
composed as usual when she joined Mrs. Kinnaird, her thoughts were
busy for some time afterward. The man, she admitted, had done no more
than was warranted, but there was no disguising the fact that his
supporting grasp had had a disconcerting effect on her. Then she
dismissed the thoughts of that, and remembered with compassion how
lean and worn he looked. There was also something that stirred her
sympathy in the idea of his saddling himself with the care of a
helpless comrade who had no real claim on him, though that was, she
decided, after all, the kind of thing one would expect from him. Then,
recognizing that this was admitting a good deal, she endeavored to
interest herself in what Mrs. Kinnaird was saying.
It was late at night when the train stopped again, and Weston did not
know that when he and his companions alighted at a little desolate
station among the ranges, the blind of one window in the big sleeper
was drawn aside. In a few moments the train went on, but Ida Stirling
did not sleep for some time afterward. She had had a momentary glimpse
of a ragged man standing with the lamplight on his lean face and a
hand laid reassuringly on the shoulder of his half-dazed companion.