A MATTER OF DUTY
Sergeant Lane sat by the camp fire in a straggling bluff, a notebook in
his hand, while Emile repacked a quantity of provisions, the weight of
which they had been carefully estimating. The scattered trees were
small and let the cold wind in, for the party had now reached the edge
of the plain where the poplars began to grow. The Sergeant's brows
were knitted, for the calculations he had made were not reassuring.
"The time we lost turning back to the Stony village has made a big hole
in our grub," he said. "Guess we'll have to cut the menoo down and do
a few more miles a day."
"Our party's used to that," Blake answered with a smile. "I suggest
another plan. You have brought us a long way and Sweetwater's a bit
off your line. Suppose you give us food enough to last us on half
rations and let us push on."
"No, sir," said Lane decidedly; "we see this trip through together.
For another thing, the dogs are playing out and after the way they've
served us I want to save them. With your help at the traces we make
better time."
Blake could not deny this. The snow had been in bad condition for the
last week, and the men had relieved each other in hauling the sledge.
The police camp equipment was heavy, but it could not be thrown away,
because they preferred some degree of hunger to lying awake at nights,
half frozen. Moreover, neither Blake nor his comrades desired to leave
their new friends and once more face the rigours of the wilds alone.
"Then we'll have to make the best speed we can," he said.
They talked about the journey still before them for another hour. It
was a clear night and very cold, but with a crescent moon in the sky
and no wind stirring. The fragile twigs of the birches which shot up
among the poplars were still, and deep silence brooded over the wide
stretch of snow. By and by Emile looked up with his face towards the
south.
"Ah!" he said; "you hear somet'ing?"
They did not, though they listened hard, but the half-breed had been
born in the wilderness and they could not think him mistaken. For a
minute or two his pose suggested strained attention, and then he smiled.
"White man come from the sout'. Mais oui! He come, sure t'ing."
Lane nodded. "I guess he's right, but I can't figure on the kind of
outfit."
Then Blake heard a sound which puzzled him. It was not the quick
patter of a dog-team or the sliding fall of netted shoes. The noise
was dull and heavy, and as he knew the snow would deaden it, whoever
was coming could not be far away.
"Bob-sled!" Emile exclaimed with scorn. "V'la la belle chose! Arrive
the great horse of the plough."
"The fellow's sure a farmer since he's coming up with a Clydesdale
team," Lane said, laughing. "One wouldn't have much trouble in
following his trail."
A few minutes later three men appeared, carefully leading two big
horses through the trees.
"Saw your fire a piece back," said one, when they had hauled up a
clumsy sled. Then he caught sight of Blake. "I'm mighty glad to find
you; we were wondering how far we might have to go."
"Then you came up after me, Tom?" said Blake, who knew the man. "You
wouldn't have got much further with that team; but who sent you?"
"I don't quite know. It seems Gardner got orders from somebody that
you were to be found, and he hired me and the boys. We'd trouble in
getting here, but we allowed we could bring up more grub and blankets
on the sled and we'd send Jake back with the team when we struck the
thick bush. Then we were going to make a depot and pack along the
stuff we didn't cache. But I've a letter which may tell you something."
Blake opened it and Harding noticed that his face grew intent, but he
put the letter into his pocket and turned to the man.
"It's from a friend in England," he said. "You were lucky in finding
me and we'll go back together in the morning."
After attending to their horses, the new arrivals joined the others at
the fire and explained that at the hotelkeeper's suggestion they had
meant to head for the Indian village and make inquiries on their way up
at the logging camp. Though Blake talked to them, he had a preoccupied
look, and Harding knew he was thinking of the letter. He had, however,
no opportunity of questioning him and waited until next day, when
Emile, whom they were helping, chose a shorter way across a ravine than
that taken by the police and the men with the bob-sled. When they
reached the bottom of the hollow, Blake told the half-breed to stop,
and took his comrades aside.
"There's something I must tell you," he said. "It was Colonel
Challoner who sent the boys up from the settlement with food for us and
he begs me to come home at once. That's a point on which I'd like your
opinion, but you shall hear what he has to say." Then, sitting down
upon a log, he began to read from his letter:--
"'A man called Clarke, whom you have evidently met, lately called on me
and suggested an explanation of the Indian affair. As the price of his
keeping silence on the subject, he demanded that I should take a number
of shares in a syndicate he is forming for the exploitation of some
petroleum wells.'"
"I think it was a good offer," Harding interposed. "Clarke must have
had reason for believing he was about to make a big strike; he'd have
kept quiet until he was sure of the thing."
"'The fellow's story was plausible,' Blake continued reading. 'It
seems possible that you have been badly wronged, and I have been
troubled----' He omitted the next few lines and went on: 'As it
happens, another account of the frontier action had been given me some
time earlier by a lady who has been in India. It differed from
Clarke's in one or two details, but agreed in exonerating you; and she
also asked a price which I declined to pay. After giving the matter
careful thought, I feel that these people may have hit upon the truth.
It would, of course, afford me the keenest satisfaction to see you
cleared, but the thing must be thoroughly sifted because----'"
Blake stopped and added quietly: "He insists upon my going home."
"His difficulty is obvious," Benson remarked. "If you are blameless,
his son must be guilty. I arrived at the former conclusion some time
ago."
Blake, who did not answer, sat musing with a disturbed expression.
There was now no sign of the others, who had left the ravine, and no
sound reached the men from the plain above. Emile stood patiently
waiting some distance off, and though they were sheltered from the wind
it was bitterly cold.
"In some ways, it might be better if I went home at once," he said at
last. "I could come back and join you as soon as I saw how things were
going. The Colonel would be safe from any further persecution if I
were with him, but, all the same, I'm inclined to stay away."
"Why?" Harding asked.
"For one thing, if I were there, he might insist on taking some quite
unnecessary course that would only cause trouble."
"Now," said Harding curtly, "I'm going to give you my opinion. I take
it that your uncle is a man who tries to do the square thing?"
Blake's face relaxed and his eyes twinkled. "He's what you call white
and as obstinate as they're made. Convince him that a thing's right
and he'll see it done, no matter how many people it makes
uncomfortable. That's why I don't see my way to encourage him."
"Here's a man who's up against a point of honour; he has, I understand,
a long, clean record and now he's prepared to take a course that may
cost him dear. Are you going to play a low-down game on him; to twist
the truth so's to give him a chance of deceiving himself?"
"Aren't you and Benson taking what you mean by the truth too much for
granted?"
Harding gave him a searching look. "I haven't heard you deny it
squarely; you're a poor liar. It's your clear duty to go back to
England right away and see your uncle through with the thing he means
to do."
"After all, I'll go to England," Blake answered with significant
reserve. "However, we had better get on or we won't catch the others
until they've finished dinner."
Emile started the dogs, and when they had toiled up the ascent they saw
the rest of the party far ahead on the great white plain.
"We mayn't have another chance of a private talk until we reach the
settlement," said Blake. "What are you going to do about the
petroleum?"
"I'll come back and prospect the muskeg as soon as the frost goes."
"It will cost a good deal to do that thoroughly. We must hire
transport for a full supply of all the tools and stores we are likely
to need; one experience of the kind we've had this trip is enough. How
are you going to get the money?"
"I'm not going to the city men for it until our position's secure. The
thing must be kept quiet until we're ready to put it on the market."
"You were doubtful about taking me for a partner once," Benson
interposed. "I don't know that I could blame you, but now I mean to do
all I can to make the scheme successful, and I don't think you'll have
as much reason for being afraid that I might fail you."
"Call it a deal," said Harding. "You're the man we want."
"Well," said Blake, "I ought to be out again before you start, and if I
can raise any money in England, I'll send it over. You're satisfied
that this is a project I can recommend to my friends?"
"I believe it's such a chance as few people ever get," Harding answered
in a tone of firm conviction.
"Then we'll see what can be done. It won't be your fault if the
venture fails."
Harding smiled. "There's hard work and perhaps some trouble ahead, but
you won't regret you faced it. You'll be a rich man in another year or
two."
Then Emile urged the dogs, and they set off after the others as fast as
they could go. Sweetwater was safely reached, but on the morning after
his arrival there Blake pushed on south for the railroad with the
police and a week later caught a steamer in Montreal. On landing, he
took the first train to Shropshire, but before going on to Sandymere
called at Hazlehurst, where he had learned that Mrs. Keith was staying.
As it happened, Mrs. Keith was out with Mrs. Foster, and Millicent was
the first to welcome him. She started when he was shown into the hall,
and, dropping the book she was reading, rose with a tingle of
heightened colour, while he felt his heart beat fast. It was a clear
winter afternoon and the sunshine that entered a window fell upon the
girl. Blake thought she looked very beautiful, and, thrown off her
guard as she had been, he caught the gladness in her eyes before she
could hide it.
"I expect you are surprised at my turning up," he remarked.
"Yes," she said with a shyness she could not overcome. "Indeed I was
startled when you came in, but of course it's pleasant to see you
safely back. I knew Colonel Challoner had given orders for you to be
traced if possible, and that you had been found, but that was all Mrs.
Keith told me. I suppose she didn't know--didn't think, I mean--that I
was interested."
"I'd like to believe that was foolish of her," Blake answered with a
twinkle.
Millicent laughed; though she felt that his rejoinder did not
adequately express his feelings, his humorous manner set her at ease.
"It really was foolish," she said, smiling. "But you must have some
tea and wait until she comes. I don't think she will be long."
The tea was brought, and she studied him unobtrusively as he sat
opposite her at the small table. He had grown thin, his bronzed face
was worn, and he looked graver than he had done. Though she could not
imagine his ever becoming very solemn, it was obvious that something
had happened in Canada which had had its effect on him. Looking up
suddenly from his plate, he surprised her attentive glance.
"You have changed," she said.
"That's not astonishing," Blake replied. "We didn't get much to eat in
the wilds, and I was thinking how pleasant it is to be back again." He
examined his prettily decorated cup. "It's remarkable how many things
one can do without. In the bush, we drank our tea, when we had any,
out of a blackened can and the rest of our table equipment was to
match. But we'll take it that the change in me is an improvement?"
It was an excuse for looking at her, as if demanding a reply, but she
answered readily: "In a sense, it is."
"Then I feel encouraged to continue starving myself."
"There's a limit; extremes are to be avoided," Millicent rejoined.
"But did you starve yourselves in Canada?"
"I must confess that the thing wasn't altogether voluntary. I'm afraid
we were rather gluttonous when we got the chance."
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"No," said Blake, who saw that she was interested. "I think it was a
serious disappointment for Harding, and I was very sorry for him at
first."
"So am I," said Millicent. "It must have been very hard, after leaving
his wife alone and badly provided for and risking everything on his
success. But why did you say you _were_ sorry for him? Aren't you
sorry now?"
"Though we didn't find what we were looking for, we found something
else which Harding seems firmly convinced is quite as valuable. Of
course, he's a bit of an optimist, but it looks as if he were right
this time. Anyway, I'm plunging on his scheme."
"You mean you will stake all you have on it?"
"That's it," Blake agreed with a humorous twinkle. "It's true that
what I have doesn't amount to much, but I'm throwing in what I would
like to get, and that's a great deal."
There was something of a hint in his manner and she noticed his
expression suddenly grow serious. It seemed advisable to choose
another topic and she said: "You must have had adventures. Tell me
about them."
"Oh!" he protested, "they're really not interesting."
"Let me judge. Is it nothing to have gone where other men seldom
venture?"
He began rather awkwardly, but she prompted him with tactful questions,
and he saw that she wished to hear his story. By degrees he lost
himself in his subject and, being gifted with keen imagination, she
followed his journey into the wilds. It was not his wish to represent
himself as a hero, and now and then he spoke with deprecatory humour,
but he betrayed something of his character in doing justice to his
theme. Millicent's eyes sparkled as she listened, for she found the
story moving; he was the man she had thought him, capable of grim
endurance, determined action, and steadfast loyalty.
"So you carried your crippled comrade when you were exhausted and
starving," she said when he came to their search for the factory. "One
likes to hear of such things as that! But what would you have done if
you hadn't found the post?"
"I can't answer," he said soberly. "We durst not think of it; a
starving man's will gets weak." Then his expression grew whimsical.
"Besides, if one must be accurate, we dragged him."
"Still," said Millicent softly, "I can't think you would have left him."
He looked at her with some embarrassment and then smiled. "I'm
flattered, Miss Graham, but you really haven't very strong grounds for
your confidence in me."
Supposing he was thinking of his disgrace, she made a gesture of half
scornful impatience.
"Well," she said, "please go on with the tale."
The rest of it had its interest, though he made no reference to
Clarke's treachery, and Millicent listened with close attention. It
was growing dark, but they had forgotten to ring for lights; neither of
them heard the door open when he was near the conclusion, and Mrs.
Keith, entering quietly with Mrs. Foster, stopped a moment in surprise.
The room was shadowy, but she could see the man leaning forward with an
arm upon the table and the girl's intent face. There was something
that pleased her in the scene. Then as she moved forward Millicent
looked up quickly and Blake rose.
"So you have come back," said Mrs. Keith, giving him her hand. "How
was it you didn't go straight to Sandymere, where your uncle is eagerly
waiting you?"
"I sent him a telegram as soon as the steamer was boarded, but on
landing found there was an earlier train. As he won't expect me for
another two hours, I thought I'd like to pay my respects to you."
"It sounds plausible," Mrs. Keith rejoined with rather dry amusement.
"Well, I'm flattered, and as it happens I've something to say to you."
Then Mrs. Foster joined them, and it was some time later when Mrs.
Keith took Blake into the empty drawing-room.
"I'm glad you have come home," she said. "I think you are needed."
"That," said Blake, "is how it seemed to me."
His quietness was reassuring. Mrs. Keith knew he was to be trusted,
but she felt some misgivings about supporting him in a line of action
that would cost him much. Still, she could not be deterred by
compassionate scruples when there was an opportunity of saving her old
friend from suffering. Troubled by a certain sense of guilt but
determined, she tried to test his feelings.
"You didn't find waiting for us tedious," she remarked. "I suppose you
were telling Millicent about your adventures when we came in; playing
Othello, and she seemed to be listening as Desdemona did."
"I expect she was exercising a good deal of patience," Blake rejoined
with a laugh. "Anyway, since you compare me to the Moor, you must own
that I've never pretended to be less black that I'm painted."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Keith with marked gentleness, "you needn't pretend to
me. I have my own opinion about you, and if it doesn't agree with
other people's, so much the worse for theirs. I knew you would come
home as soon as you could be found."
"Then you must know what has been going on in my absence."
"I have a strong suspicion. Your uncle has been hard pressed by
unscrupulous people with an end to gain. How much impression they have
made on him I cannot tell, but he's fond of you, Dick, and in trouble.
It's a cruel position for an honourable man with traditions like those
of the Challoners' behind him."
"That's true; I hate to think of it. You know what I owe to him and
Bertram."
"He's old," continued Mrs. Keith. "It would be a great thing if he
could be allowed to spend his last years in quietness, but I fear
that's impossible, although, perhaps, to some extent, it lies in your
hands." Then she looked steadily at Blake. "Now you have come back,
what do you mean to do?"
"Whatever is needful; I'm for the defence. The Colonel's position
can't be stormed while I'm on guard; and this time there'll be no
retreat."
"Don't add that, Dick; it hurts me. I'm not so hard as I sometimes
pretend. I never doubted your staunchness, but I wonder whether you
quite realize what the defence may cost you. Have you thought about
your future?"
"You ought to know that the Blakes never think of the future. We're a
happy-go-lucky, irresponsible lot."
"But suppose you wished to marry?"
He smiled at her. "It's a difficulty that has already been pointed
out. If I ever marry, the girl I choose will believe in me in spite of
appearances. In fact, she'll have to; I've no medals and decorations
to bring her."
"You have much that's worth more!" Mrs. Keith exclaimed, moved by his
steadfastness. "Still, it's a severe test for any girl." Then she
laid her hand gently on his arm. "In the end, you won't regret the
course you mean to take. I have lived a long while and have lost many
pleasant illusions, but I believe that loyalty like yours has its
reward. I loved you for your mother's sake when you were a boy;
afterwards when things looked blackest I kept my faith in you, and now
I'm proud I did so."
Blake looked confused. "Confidence like yours is an embarrassing gift.
It makes one feel one must live up to it, and that isn't easy."
Mrs. Keith regarded him affectionately. "It's yours, Dick; given
without reserve. But I think there's nothing more to be said, and no
doubt you're anxious to get away. Besides, the Colonel will be
expecting you."
"He used to be seriously annoyed if he had to wait for dinner, and I've
been here some time," Blake answered, laughing, and went out to take
leave of Mrs. Foster.