A STAUNCH ALLY
On a dark November morning, when a blustering wind drove the rain
against the windows, Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favorite
gun in the room he called his study, at Hazlehurst, in Shropshire. The
shelves on the handsome paneled walls contained a few works on
agriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two racks
were filled with guns and fishing-rods and the table at which Foster
was seated had a vise clamped to its edge. He had once had a
commodious gun-room, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife,
as Hazlehurst was small and she had numerous guests, but the study was
his private retreat. A hacksaw, a few files, a wire brush, and a
bottle of Rangoon oil were spread out in front of him, the latter
standing, for the sake of cleanliness, on the cover of the _Field_.
Foster laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorous
resignation as his wife came in. Mrs. Foster was a slender, vivacious
woman, fond of society.
"Put that greasy thing away for a few minutes and listen to me," she
said, sitting down opposite him.
"I am listening; I'm inclined to think it's my normal state," Foster
answered with a smile. "The greasy thing cost forty guineas, and I
wouldn't trust it to Jenkins after young Jimmy dropped it in a ditch.
Jenkins can rear pheasants with any keeper I've met, but he's no good
at a gun."
"You shouldn't have taken Jimmy out; he's not strong enough yet."
"So it seems; he gave us some trouble in getting him back to the cart
after he collapsed in the woods. But it wasn't my fault; he was keen
on coming."
Mrs. Foster made a sign of agreement. Jimmy was her cousin, Lieutenant
Walters, lately invalided home from India.
"Perhaps you were not so much to blame; but that was not what I came to
talk about," she said.
"Then I suppose you want my approval of some new plans. Go ahead with
any arrangements you wish to make, but, as far as possible, leave me
out. Though it was a very wet spring, I never saw the pheasants more
plentiful; glad I stuck to the hand-rearing, though Jenkins wanted to
leave the birds alone in the higher woods. Of course, now we've
cleared out the vermin----"
"Oh, never mind the pheasants!" his wife broke in. "You would talk
about such things all day. The question is----"
"It strikes me it's when are we going to have the house to ourselves?
Though I don't interfere much, I've lately felt that I'm qualifying for
a hotel-keeper."
"You have been unusually patient, and I'm getting rather tired of
entertaining people, but Margaret Keith says she'd like to come down.
You don't mind her?"
"Not a bit, if she doesn't insist on bringing a menagerie. It was cats
last time, but I hear she's gone in for wild animals now. If she turns
up with her collection, we'll probably lose Pattinson; he had all he
could stand on the last occasion. Still, Meg's good fun; ready to meet
you on any ground; keen as a razor."
After a little further talk, Mrs. Foster left him; and a few days later
Mrs. Keith and Millicent arrived at Hazlehurst. Lieutenant Walters was
sitting in a recess of the big hall when Mrs. Foster went forward to
greet them. The house was old and the dark paneling formed a good
background for Millicent's delicate beauty, which was of the blond
type. Walters studied her closely. He liked the something in her face
that hinted at strength of character; and he noted her grace as she
accompanied her hostess up the broad stairs.
When Mrs. Keith and Millicent returned to the hall a half-hour later,
tea was being served.
"Colonel Challoner is eager to see you, Margaret," Mrs. Foster said,
after they had chatted a while. "He excused himself for not coming
this evening because Greythorpe is staying with him for a day or two,
but he made me promise to bring you over to-morrow."
Mrs. Keith acquiesced heartily, for she was fond of the Colonel.
The evening passed pleasantly at Hazlehurst, for Mrs. Foster made a
charming hostess. Foster, who as a rule was indifferent to women's
society, livened the party by matching wits with Margaret Keith; and
Lieutenant Walters found Mrs. Keith's pretty companion very interesting.
At Sandymere, three miles away, Colonel Challoner sat in his library
with his guest. It was a large and simply furnished room, but there
was a tone of austere harmony in all its appointments. The dark oak
table, the rows of old books in faded leather bindings, the antique
lamps, and the straight-backed chairs were in keeping with the severe
lines of the somber panels and the heavy, square molding of the
ceiling. Three wax candles in an old silver holder stood on a small
table by the wide hearth, on which a cheerful wood fire burned, but
most of the room was shadowy.
The sense of empty space and gloom, however, had no effect on the two
elderly men who sat with a cigar box and decanter in front of them,
engaged in quiet, confidential talk. Challoner was white-haired,
straight, and spare, with aquiline features and piercing eyes;
Greythorpe broad-shouldered and big, with a heavy-jawed, thoughtful
face. They had been fast friends since their first meeting a number of
years ago, when Challoner was giving evidence before a parliamentary
commission.
"So you have not heard from Blake after the day he came here,"
Greythorpe said.
"Never directly," Challoner replied. "On the whole, it is better so,
though I regret it now and then. A weakness on my part, perhaps, but I
was fond of Dick and expected much from him. However, it seems that
Bertram and Margaret Keith met him in Montreal, and she is coming here
to-morrow."
"A very sad affair." Greythorpe mused. "A promising career cut short
and a life ruined by a moment's failure of nerve. The price paid for
it was a heavy one. Still, I found the matter difficult to understand,
because, so far as I could tell, there was nothing in Blake's character
that made such a failure possible. Then it's known that personal
courage was always a characteristic of your family."
"His mother was my sister. You have seen her portrait."
Greythorpe made a sign of assent. He knew the picture of the woman
with the proud, determined face.
"And the other side? Was the strain equally virile?" he asked.
"You shall judge," said Challoner. "You and Margaret Keith are the
only people to whom I have ever spoken freely of these things. I am
sure of your discretion and sympathy."
He crossed the floor and, opening a cabinet, came back with a
photograph, which he gave to his companion.
"Dick's father. He was famous as a daring rider across an Irish,
stone-wall country, and was killed when taking a dangerous leap."
Greythorpe studied the face, which was of Irish type, with bold eyes in
which a reckless twinkle showed. On the whole, it suggested an ardent
and somewhat irresponsible temperament.
"No sign of weakness there," he said. "Though he might be careless and
headstrong, this man would ride straight and stand fire. I can't hint
at an explanation of his son's disaster, but I imagine that one might
have been found if it had been diligently searched for. My opinion is
that there's something hidden; but whether it will ever come out is
another matter. But--your nephew hasn't forfeited my liking. If I can
ever be of any service."
"Thanks; I know," responded Challoner. "It looks as if he meant to cut
loose from all of us. While I'm sorry, I can't say that he's wrong or
that it's not a proper feeling. And now I think we'll let the subject
drop."
The next afternoon was bright and mild, and soon after Mrs. Foster and
her party arrived Challoner offered to show them his winter shrubbery.
"I have lately planted a number of new specimens which you and Margaret
have not seen," he said; "and you may be interested to learn what
effects can be got by a judicious mingling of bushes remarkable for the
beauty of their berries and branch-coloring among the stereotyped
evergreens."
They went out and Millicent thought the front of the old house with its
mullioned windows, its heavy, pillared coping, and its angular chimney
stacks, made a picturesque background for the smooth-clipped yew hedges
and broad sweep of lawn. Behind it a wood of tall beeches raised their
naked boughs in pale, intricate tracery against the soft blue sky. The
shrubs proved worth inspection, for some were rich with berries of hues
that varied from crimson to lilac, and the massed twigs of others
formed blotches of strong coloring. The grass was dry and lighted by
gleams of sunshine, the air only cold enough to make movement pleasant.
When Challoner and his guests returned to the house, he showed them the
best bits of the old carved oak with which it was decorated and some
curious works of art he had picked up in India, and then he took them
to the picture gallery which ran round the big square hall. A lantern
dome admitted a cold light, but a few sunrays struck through a window
looking to the southwest and fell in long bright bars on polished floor
and somber paneling. On entering the gallery, Challoner took out a
case of miniatures and, placing it on a small table, brought a chair
for Mrs. Keith.
"You know the pictures, but this collection generally interests you,
and I have added a few examples of a good French period since you were
last here."
Mrs. Keith sat down and picked up a miniature.
"Millicent would enjoy that picture of the hills at Arrowdale," she
said. "It's near her old home in the North."
Challoner and the girl moved away down the gallery, and he showed her a
large painting of gray hills and a sullen tarn, half revealed between
folds of rolling vapor. Millicent was stirred to keen appreciation.
"It's beautiful!" she exclaimed. "And so full of life! One can see
the mist drive by and the ripples break upon the stones. Perhaps it's
because I know the tarn that I like the picture so much; but it makes
one realize the rugged grandeur and the melancholy charm of the place.
That is genius! Who is the painter?"
"My son," said the Colonel quietly.
Millicent saw that he was troubled, though she could not imagine the
reason.
"I hardly know Captain Challoner, whom I met only once; but it is
obvious that he has talent. You would rather have him a soldier?"
"Very much rather."
"But he is one! I understand that he has distinguished himself. After
all, it is perhaps a mistake to think of genius as limited to one
ability--music or painting, for example. Real genius, the power of
understanding, is more comprehensive; the man who has it ought to be
successful at whatever he undertakes."
"I'm dubious," said Challoner. "It strikes me as a rather daring
theory."
"It isn't mine," Millicent explained quickly. "It's a favorite theme
of a philosopher I'm fond of, and he insists upon it when he speaks
about great men. Perhaps I'm talking too freely, but I feel that
Captain Challoner's being able to paint well shouldn't prevent his
making a good officer."
"Great men are scarce. I'm content that my son has so far done his
duty quietly and well; all I could wish for is that if any exceptional
call should be made on him he should rise to the occasion. That is the
supreme test; men from whom one expects much sometimes fail to meet it."
Millicent guessed that he was thinking of a man who had been dear to
him, and who apparently had broken down beneath sudden stress.
"It must be hard to judge them unless one knows all the circumstances,"
she said stoutly.
"Not when a man has entered his country's service. He must carry out
his orders; what he is sent to do must be done. No excuse can justify
disobedience and failure. But we are getting too serious, and I am
boring you. There is another picture I think you would like to see."
They walked down the long gallery, chatting lightly. The Colonel drew
her attention to a few of his favorite landscapes, and then they stood
before a large painting of a scene unmistakably in British Columbia.
The Indian canoe on the rippled surface of the lake, the tall, stiff,
yet beautiful, trees that crept down to the water's edge, the furrowed
snow peaks in the background, stirred the girl's pulse as she thought
of one who even then perhaps was wandering about in that wild country.
She expressed her admiration of the painting, and then rather
hesitatingly mentioned the Colonel's nephew.
"Have you heard anything from Mr. Blake since he left Montreal?"
"Nothing," said Challoner with a trace of grimness. "He does not
correspond with me."
"Then I suppose you don't know where he is?"
"I heard that he had left a small settlement on the Western prairie and
started for the North." He gave her a sharp glance. "Are you
interested in my nephew?"
"Yes," she said frankly. "I don't know him very well, but on two
occasions he came to my assistance when I needed it. He was very
tactful and considerate."
"Then he's fortunate in gaining your good opinion. No doubt, you know
something about his history?"
"I dare say my good opinion is not worth much, but I feel that he
deserves it, in spite of what I've been told about him," she answered
with a blush. "It is very sad that he should have to give up all he
valued; and I thought there was something gallant in his
cheerfulness--he was always ready with a jest."
"Have you met his companion? I understand that he is not a man of my
nephew's stamp."
Millicent smiled.
"Hardly so, from your point of view."
"Does that mean that yours is not the same as mine?"
"I have had to earn my living; and that changes one's outlook--perhaps
I'd better not say enlarges it. However, you shall judge. Mr. Harding
is a traveler for an American paint factory, and had to begin work at
an age when your nephew was at Eton; but I think him a very fine type.
He's serious, courteous, and sanguine, and seems to have a strong
confidence in his partner."
"Ah! That is not so strange. The Blakes have a way of inspiring trust
and liking. It's a gift of theirs."
"Your nephew undoubtedly has it. He uses it unconsciously, but I think
that those who trust him are not deceived."
Challoner regarded her with a curious expression. "After all," he
said, "that may be true."
Mrs. Foster joined them, and when, soon afterward, she and her friends
left, Challoner sat alone for a long time, while the pictures faded as
dusk crept into the gallery. A man of practical abilities, with a
stern perception of his duty, he was inclined to distrust all that made
its strongest appeal to the senses. Art and music he thought were
vocations for women; in his opinion it was hardly fitting that a man
should exploit his emotions by expressing them for public exhibition.
Indeed, he regarded sentimentality of any kind as a failing; and it had
been suggested that his son possessed the dangerous gift. One of his
friends had even gone farther and hinted that Bertram should never have
been a soldier; but Challoner could not agree with that conclusion.
His lips set sternly as he went out in search of Greythorpe.