DEFEAT
A good fire burned on the hearth in the library at Sandymere, although
the mild air of an early spring morning floated in through the open
window. Challoner sat in a big leather chair, watching the flames and
thinking of his nephew, when a servant entered and handed him a card.
Challoner glanced at it.
"Clarke? I don't know any one of that name--"
He stopped abruptly as he saw the word _Sweetwater_ in small type at
the bottom of the card. He knew that that was the name of the prairie
town from which Blake had started on his quest into the wilderness.
"All right, Perkins," he said, rather eagerly; and a few minutes
afterward Clarke entered the room, with an irritating air of assurance.
"Colonel Challoner, I presume?"
Challoner bowed.
"You have brought me some news of my nephew, Richard Blake?"
This disconcerted Clarke. He had not imagined that his object would be
known, and he had counted upon Challoner's being surprised and thrown
off his guard. It looked as if the Colonel had been making inquiries
about Blake. Clarke wished that he could guess his reason, for it
might affect the situation.
"That is correct," he said. "I have a good deal to tell you, and it
may take some time."
Challoner motioned to him to be seated, and offered him a cigar; and
Clarke lighted it before he spoke.
"Your nephew," he began, "spent a week in the settlement where I live,
preparing for a journey to the North. Though his object was secret, I
believe he went in search of something to make varnish of, because he
took with him a young American traveler for a paint factory, besides
another man."
"I know all that," Challoner replied. "I heard about his American
companion; who was the other?"
"We will come to him presently. There is still something which I think
you do not know."
"Yes?" Challoner said.
He was suspicious, for his visitor's looks were not in his favor.
Clarke gave the Colonel a keen glance.
"It concerns your nephew's earlier history."
"That is of most importance to himself and me. It can't interest you."
"It interests me very much," Clarke returned, with an ironical smile.
"I must ask you to let me tell you what I know."
Challoner consented, and Clarke gave what the Colonel admitted was a
very accurate account of the action on the Indian frontier.
"Well," he concluded, "the orders were to hold on--they could send for
support if very hard pressed, but they mustn't yield a yard of ground.
It was hot work in front of the trench upon the ridge--the natives
pouring into it at one end--but the men held their ground, until--there
was an order given--in a white man's voice--and the bugle called them
off. Somebody had ventured to disobey instructions, and after that the
hill was lost. The bugler was killed, so they could learn nothing from
him."
Clarke paused a moment and narrowed his eyes. "Now," he said "it is of
vital importance to you to know who gave that order to retreat."
"That question has been answered and settled," Challoner replied
severely.
"I think incorrectly."
"Yes?" the Colonel queried again. "Perhaps you will let me have your
theory as to what occurred."
That was the opportunity for which Clarke was waiting. His argument
had been cleverly worked out, his points carefully arranged; and
Challoner's heart sank, for the damaging inference could hardly be
shirked.
"Your suggestions are plausible, but you can't seriously expect me to
attach much weight to them," Challoner said. "Besides, you seem to
have overlooked the important fact that at the regimental inquiry the
verdict was that nobody in particular was to blame."
"Oh, no!" Clarke replied with a harsh laugh. "I merely question its
validity. I imagine that reasons which would not be officially
recognized led the court to take a lenient view. But what of that?
Blake had to leave the army, a ruined man; and I've good reason for
knowing what an acquittal like his is worth." He paused a moment. "I
may as well tell you candidly, because it's probable that you'll make
inquiries about me. Well, I'd won some reputation as a medical
specialist when I became involved in a sensational police case--you may
recollect it."
Challoner started.
"So you are the man! I think nothing was actually proved against you."
"No," said Clarke dryly; "there was only a fatal suspicion. As it
happens, I was innocent; but I had to give up my profession, and my
life was spoiled. There's no reason why you should be interested in
this--I mention it merely because a similar misfortune has befallen
Richard Blake. The point, of course, is that it has done so
undeservedly. I think you must see who the real culprit is."
"You mean to infer that my son is a coward and gave the shameful
order?" Challoner's eyes glittered, though his face was colorless.
"It's unthinkable!"
"Nevertheless it's true. Why did he, without permission and abusing
his authority over the guard, spend two hours late at night with Blake,
who was under arrest? What had they to say that took so long, when
there was a risk of Captain Challoner's being discovered? Why did
Blake make no defense, unless it was because he knew that to clear
himself would throw the blame upon his friend?"
"You press me hard," said Challoner in a hoarse voice. "But that my
son should so have failed in his duty to his country and his cousin is
impossible!"
"Yet you were willing to believe your nephew guilty. Had you any cause
to doubt his courage?"
Challoner felt beaten by the man's remorseless reasoning; there was
scarcely a point he could contest. A conviction that humbled him to
the dust was being forced on him; but he would not let his rough
visitor see him shrink as the truth seared him.
"I'll admit that you have told me a rather likely tale. As you don't
speak of having been in India, may I ask who gave you the information?"
"Blake's companion, the man I've mentioned, a former Indian officer
named Benson."
"His full name, please."
Clarke gave it to him, and Challoner, crossing the floor, took a book
from a shelf and turned over the pages.
"Yes; he's here. What led him to talk of the thing to an outsider?"
"Drink. I'll confess to having taken advantage of the condition he was
often in."
Challoner sat down and coolly lighted a cigar. His position seemed a
weak one, but he had no thought of surrender.
"Well, you have given me some interesting information; but there's one
thing you haven't mentioned, and that is your reason for doing so."
"Can't you guess?"
"I shouldn't have suspected you of being so diffident, but I dare say
you thought this was a chance for earning some money easily."
"Yes," said Clarke. "For five thousand pounds, I'll undertake that no
word of what I've told you will ever pass my lip's again."
"And do you suppose I'd pay five thousand pounds to see my nephew
wronged?"
"I believe you might do so to save your son." Challoner controlled his
anger, for he wished to lead the man on and learn something about his
plans.
"Out of the question!" he said briefly.
"Then I'll make you an alternative offer--and it's worth considering.
Take, or get your friends to subscribe for ten thousand pounds' worth
of shares in a commercial syndicate I'm getting up. You'll never
regret it. If you wish, I'll make you a director, so that you can
satisfy yourself that the money will be wisely spent. You'll get it
back several times over."
Challoner laughed.
"This is to salve my feelings; to make the thing look like a business
transaction?"
"Oh, no!" Clarke declared, leaning forward and speaking eagerly. "It's
a genuine offer. I'll ask your attention for a minute or two.
Canada's an undeveloped country; we have scarcely begun to tap its
natural resources, and there's wealth ready for exploitation all over
it. We roughly know the extent of the farming land and the value of
the timber, but the minerals still to a large extent await discovery,
while perhaps the most readily and profitably handled product is oil.
Now I know a belt of country where it's oozing from the soil; and with
ten thousand pounds I'll engage to bore wells that will give a
remarkable yield."
His manner was impressive, and though Challoner had no cause to trust
him he thought the man sincere.
"One understands that in Canada all natural commodities belong to the
State, and any person discovering them can work them on certain terms,"
Challoner said. "It seems to follow that if your knowledge of the
locality is worth anything, it must belong to you alone. How is it
that nobody else suspects the belt contains oil?"
"A shrewd objection, but easily answered. The country in question is
one of the most rugged tracts in Canada--difficult to get through in
summer; in winter the man who enters it runs a serious risk. I'll
admit that what you know about me is not likely to prejudice you in my
favor; but, on your promise to keep it secret, I'll give you
information that must convince you."
"Why don't you make your offer to some company floater or stockjobber?"
Clarke smiled in a pointed manner.
"Because I've a damaging record and no friends to vouch for me. I came
here because I felt that I had some claim on you."
"You were mistaken," said Challoner curtly.
"Hear me out; try to consider my proposition on its merits. For a
number of years, I've known the existence of the oil and have tried to
prospect the country. It was difficult; to transport enough food and
tools meant a costly expedition and the attracting of undesirable
attention. I went alone, living with primitive Russian settlers and
afterward with the Indians. To gain a hold on them, I studied the
occult sciences, and learned tricks that impose upon the credulous. To
the white men I'm a crank, to the Indians something of a magician; but
my search for the oil has gone on; and now, while I already know where
boring would be commercially profitable, I'm on the brink of tapping a
remarkable flow."
"What will you do if it comes up to your expectations?" Challoner
asked, for he had grown interested in spite of his disbelief in the man.
"Turn it over to a company strong enough to exact good terms from the
American producers or, failing that, to work the wells. Then I'd go
back to London, where, with money and the standing it would buy me, I'd
take up my old profession. I believe I've kept abreast of medical
progress and could still make my mark and reinstate myself. It has
been my steadfast object ever since I became an outcast; I've schemed
and cheated to gain it, besides risking my life often in desolate
muskegs and the arctic frost. Now, I ask you to make it possible--and
you cannot refuse."
Challoner was silent for a minute or two, while Clarke smoked
impassively. The Colonel knew that he had a determined man to deal
with, and he believed, moreover, that he had spoken the truth. Still,
the fellow, although in some respects to be pitied, was obviously a
dangerous rascal, embittered and robbed of all scruples by injustice.
There was something malignant in his face that testified against him;
but, worse than all, he had come there resolved to extort money as the
price of his connivance in a wrong.
"Well?" Clarke said, breaking the pause.
"So far as I can judge, your ultimate object's creditable; but I can't
say as much for the means you are ready to employ in raising the money.
If you go on with the scheme, it must be without any help of mine."
Clarke's face grew hard, and there was something forbidding in the way
he knitted his brows.
"Have you gaged the consequences of your refusal?"
"It's more to the purpose that I've tried to estimate the importance of
your version of what happened during the night attack. It has one
fatal weakness which you seem to have overlooked."
"Ah!" said Clarke, with ironical calm. "You will no doubt mention it?"
"You suggest Blake's innocence. You cannot prove it in the face of his
own denial."
To Challoner's surprise, Clarke smiled.
"So you have seen that! The trouble is that your nephew may never have
an opportunity for denying it. He left for the North very badly
equipped, and he has not come back yet. The country he meant to cross
is rugged and covered deep with snow all winter. Food is hard to get,
and the temperature varies from forty to fifty degrees below." Then he
rose with an undisturbed air. "Well, as it seems we can't come to
terms, I needn't waste my time, and it's a long walk to the station. I
must try some other market. While I think you have made a grave
mistake, that is your affair."
When Clarke had gone, Challoner left the house in a restless mood and
paced slowly up and down among his shrubbery. He wished to be alone in
the open air. Bright sunshine fell upon him, the massed evergreens cut
off the wind, and in a sheltered border spear-like green points were
pushing through the soil in promise of the spring. Challoner knew them
all, the veined crocus blades, the tight-closed heads of the hyacinths,
and the twin shoots of the daffodils, but, fond as he was of his
garden, he gave them scanty attention.
Clarke's revelation had been a shock. With his sense of duty and
family pride, the Colonel had, when the news of the frontier disaster
first reached him, found it almost impossible to believe that his
nephew had been guilty of shameful cowardice; and now it looked as if
the disgrace might be brought still closer home. Bertram would
presently take his place and, retiring from active service, rule the
estate in accordance with Challoner traditions and perhaps exert some
influence in politics. Clarke had, however, shown him that Bertram,
from whom so much was expected, had proved himself a poltroon and, what
was even worse, had allowed an innocent man to suffer for his baseness.
Challoner remembered that Bertram had shown timidity in his younger
days--they had had some trouble in teaching him to ride--and there was
no doubt that his was a highly strung and nervous temperament. He had
not the calm which marked the Challoners in time of strain. On the
other hand, Dick Blake was recklessly generous, and loved his cousin;
it would be consistent with his character if he were willing to suffer
in Bertram's stead. Moreover, there were reasons which might have had
some effect in inducing Bertram to consent, because Challoner knew the
affection his son bore him and that he would shrink from involving him
in his disgrace. What Bertram would certainly not have done to secure
his own escape he might have done for the sake of his father and the
girl he was to marry.
Admitting all this, Challoner could not take his son's guilt for
granted. There was room for doubt. Blake must be summoned home and
forced to declare the truth.
Then Challoner's thoughts went back to the man whose tale had so
disturbed him. There had been nothing forcible or obviously
threatening in Clarke's last few remarks, but their effect was somehow
sinister. Challoner wondered whether he had done well in suggesting
that Blake's denial would prove the man's greatest difficulty. After
all, he had a strong affection for his nephew, and he knew that the
wilds of northern Canada might prove deadly to a weak party unprovided
with proper sleds and provisions. Clarke had hinted that Blake's party
was in danger. Surely, aid could reach them, even in that frozen land,
by a well-equipped expedition.
Realizing what delay might mean to his nephew, Challoner hastened
indoors and sent a cable-letter to a friend in Montreal, asking him to
spare no effort to follow Blake's trail into the northern wilds.