A LOST GIRL
Mr. Gerald Ainley standing in the meadow outside the Post, looked
towards the river bank with smiling eyes. Where Hubert Stane's little
tent had been the willows now showed an unbroken line, and he found
that fact a source of satisfaction. Then between the willows he caught
sight of a moving figure, and after one glance at it, began to hurry
forward. A moment later the figure emerged from the willows and stood
on the edge of the meadow, revealing its identity as that of the
English girl with whom he had walked on the previous day. Without
observing him the girl turned round and began to walk towards the
Indian encampment and Ainley immediately altered his course, walking
quickly so as to intercept her. He joined her about a score of paces
from the tents and smilingly doffed his cap.
"Good morning, Miss Yardely. You are astir early."
Helen Yardely laughed lightly. "It is impossible to do anything else in
this country, where it is daylight all the time, and birds are crying
half the night. Besides we are to make a start after breakfast."
"Yes, I know; I'm going with you."
"You are going with us, Mr. Ainley!" There was a little note of
surprise in the girl's tones. "My uncle has not mentioned it!"
"No! It was only finally decided last night; though from the beginning
of the excursion it has been contemplated. Sir James is making notes of
his journey which I am to supplement. I believe he has an idea of
bringing out a book describing the journey!"
"Which you are to write, I suppose?" laughed the girl.
"Well," countered the man also laughing, "I am to act as amanuensis.
And after all you know I am in the service of the Company, whose
fortunes Sir James directs."
"He may direct them," answered the girl lightly, "but it is other men
who carry them--the men of the wilds who bring the furs to the posts,
and the traders who live in isolation from year's end to year's end.
You must not take my uncle quite so seriously as he takes himself, Mr.
Ainley."
Gerald Ainley smiled. "You forget, Miss Yardely, he can make or break a
man who is in the Company's service."
"Perhaps!" laughed the girl. "Though if I were a man I should not so
easily be made or broken by another. I should make myself and see that
none broke me." She paused as if waiting for an answer, then as her
companion continued silent, abruptly changed the topic. "By the by, I
see that your acquaintance of other days has removed himself!"
"Yes," answered Ainley, "I noticed that."
"He must have gone in the night."
"Yes," was the reply. "I suppose he folded his tent like the Arabs and
as silently stole away."
"I daresay the meeting with an old acquaintance was distasteful to
him."
"That is possible," answered Ainley. "When a man has deliberately
buried himself in this wild land he will hardly wish to be
resurrected."
"And yet he did not appear to avoid you yesterday?" said the girl
thoughtfully.
"A momentary impulse, I suppose," replied her companion easily. "I
daresay he thought I might fraternise and forget the past."
"And you couldn't?"
"Well, scarcely. One does not fraternise with gaol-birds even for old
time's sake."
They had now arrived at the tepees and as they halted, the flap of one
was thrown aside, and Miskodeed emerged. She did not see them, as the
moment she stepped into the open air her eyes turned towards the
willows where Stane's camp had been. A look of sadness clouded the wild
beauty of her face, and there was a poignant light in her eyes.
"Ah!" whispered Helen Yardely. "She knows that he has gone."
"Perhaps it is just as well for her that he has," answered Ainley
carelessly. "These marriages of the country are not always happy--for
the woman."
Miskodeed caught the sound of his voice, and, turning suddenly, became
aware of their presence. In an instant a swift change came over her
face. Its sadness vanished instantly, and as her eyes flashing fiercely
fixed themselves upon Ainley, a look of scorn came on her face
intensifying its bizarre beauty. She took a step forward as if she
would speak to the white man, then apparently changed her mind, and
swinging abruptly on her heel, re-entered the tent. Helen Yardely
glanced swiftly at her companion, and surprised a look of something
very like consternation in his eyes.
"That was very queer!" she said quickly.
"What was very queer?" asked Ainley.
"That girl's action. Did you see how she looked at you? She was going
to speak to you and changed her mind."
Ainley laughed a trifle uneasily. "Possibly she blames me for the
disappearance of her lover!"
"But why should she do that? She can hardly know of your previous
acquaintance with him."
"You forget--she saw him speak to me yesterday!"
"Ah yes," was the girl's reply. "I had forgotten that." The notes of a
bugle, clear and silvery in the still air, floated across the meadow at
that moment, and Gerald Ainley laughed.
"The breakfast bell! We must hurry, Miss Yardely. It will scarcely do
to keep your uncle waiting."
They turned and hurried back to the Post, nothing more being said in
reference to Miskodeed and Hubert Stane. And an hour later, in the
bustle of the departure, the whole matter was brushed aside by Helen
Yardely, though now and again through the day, it recurred to her mind
as a rather unpleasant episode; and she found herself wondering how so
fine a man as Stane could stoop to the folly of which many men in the
North were guilty.
At the end of that day her uncle ordered the camp to be pitched on a
little meadow backed by a sombre forest of spruce. And after the
evening meal, in company with Gerald Ainley, she walked towards the
timber where an owl was hooting dismally. The air was perfectly still,
the sky above crystal clear, and the Northern horizon filled with a
golden glow. As they reached the shadow of the spruce, and seated
themselves on a fallen trunk, a fox barked somewhere in the recess of
the wood, and from afar came the long-drawn melancholy howl of a wolf.
Helen Yardely looked down the long reach of the river and her eyes
fixed themselves on a tall bluff crowned with spruce, distant perhaps a
mile and a half away.
"I like the Wild," she said suddenly, breaking the silence that had
been between them.
"It is all right," laughed Ainley, "when you can journey through it
comfortably as we are doing."
"It must have its attractions even when comfort is not possible," said
the girl musingly, "for the men who live here live as nature meant man
to live."
"On straight moose-meat--sometimes," laughed Ainley. "With bacon and
beans and flour brought in from the outside for luxuries."
"I was not thinking of the food," answered the girl quickly. "I was
thinking of the toil, the hardship--the Homeric labours of those who
face the hazards of the North."
"Yes," agreed the man, "the labours are certainly Homeric, and there
are men who like the life well enough, who have made fortunes here and
have gone back to their kind in Montreal, New York, London, only to
find that civilization has lost its attraction for them."
"I can understand that," was the quick reply. "There is something in
the silence and wildness of vast spaces which gets into the blood. Only
yesterday I was thinking how small and tame the lawns at home would
look after this." She swept a hand in a half-circle, and then gave a
little laugh. "I believe I could enjoy living up here."
Ainley laughed with her. "A year of this," he said, lightly, "and you
would begin to hunger for parties and theatres and dances and
books--and you would look to the Southland as to Eden."
"Do you really think so?" she asked seriously.
"I am sure of it," he answered with conviction.
"But I am not so sure," she answered slowly. "Deep down there must be
something aboriginal in me, for I find myself thrilling to all sorts of
wild things. Last night I was talking with Mrs. Rodwell. Her husband
used to be the trader up at Kootlach, and she was telling me of a white
man who lived up there as a chief. He was a man of education, a
graduate of Oxford and he preferred that life to the life of
civilization. It seems he died, and was buried as a chief, wrapped in
furs, a hunting spear by his side, all the tribe chanting a wild
funeral chant! Do you know, as she described it, the dark woods, the
barbaric burying, the wild chant, I was able to vision it all--and my
sympathies were with the man, who, in spite of Oxford, had chosen to
live his own life in his own way."
Ainley laughed. "You see it in the glamour of romance," he said. "The
reality I imagine was pretty beastly."
"Well!" replied the girl quickly. "What would life be without romance?"
"A dull thing," answered Ainley, promptly, with a sudden flash of the
eyes. "I am with you there, Miss Yardely, but romance does not lie in
mere barbarism, for most men it is incarnated in a woman."
"Possibly! I suppose the mating instinct is the one elemental thing
left in the modern world."
"It is the one dominant thing," answered Ainley, with such emphasis of
conviction that the girl looked at him in quick surprise.
"Why, Mr. Ainley, one would think that you--that you----" she
hesitated, stumbled in her speech, and did not finish the sentence. Her
companion had risen suddenly to his feet. The monocle had fallen from
its place, and he was looking down at her with eyes that had a strange
glitter.
"Yes," he cried, answering her unfinished utterance. "Yes! I do know.
That is what you would say, is it not? I have known since the day Sir
James sent me to the station at Ottawa to meet you. The knowledge was
born in me as I saw you stepping from the car. The one woman--my heart
whispered it in that moment, and has shouted it ever since. Helen, I
did not mean to speak yet, but--well, you see how it is with me! Tell
me it is not altogether hopeless! You know what my position is; you
know that in two years----"
Helen Yardely rose swiftly to her feet. Her beautiful face had paled a
little. She stopped the flood of words with her lifted hand.
"Please, Mr. Ainley! There is no need to enter on such details."
"Then----"
"You have taken me by surprise," said the girl slowly. "I had no idea
that you--that you--I have never thought of it."
"But you can think now, Helen," he said urgently. "I mean every word
that I have said. I love you. You must see that--now. Let us join our
lives together, and together find the romance for which you crave."
The blood was back in the girl's cheeks now, running in rosy tides, and
there was a light in her grey eyes that made Ainley's pulse leap with
hope, since he mistook it for something else. His passion was real
enough, as the girl felt, and she was simple and elemental enough to be
thrilled by it; but she was sufficiently wise not to mistake the
response in herself for the greater thing. The grey eyes looked
steadily into his for a moment, then a thoughtful look crept into them,
and Ainley knew that for the moment he had lost.
"No," she said slowly, "no, I am not sure that would be wise. I do not
feel as I ought to feel in taking such a decision as that. And
besides----"
"Yes?" he said, urgently, as she paused. "Yes?"
"Well," she flushed a little, and her tongue stumbled among the words,
"you are not quite the man--that I--that I have thought
of--for--for----." She broke off again, laughed a little at herself and
then blurted confusedly: "You see all my life, from being a very little
girl, I have worshipped heroes."
"And I am not a hero," said Ainley with a harsh laugh. "No! I am just
the ordinary man doing the ordinary things, and my one claim to notice
is that I love you! But suppose the occasion came? Suppose I----." He
broke off and stood looking at her for a moment. Then he asked, "Would
that make no difference?"
"It might," replied the girl, the shrinking from the infliction of too
severe a blow.
"Then I live for that occasion!" cried Ainley. "And who knows? In this
wild land it may come any hour!"
As a matter of fact the occasion offered itself six days later--a
Sunday, when Sir James Yardely had insisted on a day's rest. The
various members of the party were employing their leisure according to
their inclinations, and Ainley had gone after birds for the pot, whilst
Helen Yardely, taking a small canoe, had paddled down stream to explore
a creek where, according to one of the Indians, a colony of beavers had
established itself.
When Ainley returned with a couple of brace of wood partridges it was
to find that the girl was still absent from the camp. The day wore on
towards evening and still the girl had not returned, and her uncle
became anxious, as did others of the party.
"Some one had better go to look for her, Ainley," said Sir James. "I
gather that a mile or two down the river the current quickens, and that
there are a number of islands where an inexpert canoeist may come to
grief. I should never forgive myself if anything has happened to my
niece."
"I will go myself, Sir James, and I will not return without her."
"Oh, I don't suppose anything very serious has happened," replied Sir
James, with an uneasy laugh, "but it is just as well to take
precautions."
"Yes, Sir James! I will go at once and take one of the Indians with
me--one who knows the river. And it may be as well to send upstream
also, as Miss Yardely may have changed her mind and taken that
direction."
"Possibly so!" answered Sir James, turning away to give the necessary
orders.
Gerald Ainley called one of the Indians to him, and ordered him to put
three days' supply of food into the canoe, blankets and a small folding
tent, and was just preparing to depart when Sir James drew near, and
stared with evident surprise at the load in the canoe.
"Why, Gerald," he said, "you seem to have made preparations for a long
search."
"That is only wise, Sir James. This river runs for sixty miles before
it falls into the main river, and sixty miles will take a good deal of
searching. If the search is a short one, and the food not needed, the
burden of it will matter little; on the other hand----"
"In God's name go, boy--and bring Helen back!"
"I will do my best, Sir James."
The canoe pushed off, leaping forward under the combined propulsion of
the paddles and the current, and sweeping round a tall bluff was soon
out of sight of the camp.
The Indian in the bow of the canoe, after a little time, set the course
slantingly across the current, making for the other side, and Ainley
asked a sharp question. The Indian replied over his shoulder.
"The white Klootchman go to see the beaver! Beaver there!"
He jerked his head towards a creek now opening out on the further
shore, and a look of impatience came on Ainley's face. He said nothing
however, though to any one observing him closely it must have been
abundantly clear that he had no expectation of finding the missing girl
at the place which the Indian indicated. As a matter of fact they did
not. Turning into the creek they presently caught sounds that were new
to Ainley, and he asked a question.
"It is the beavers. They smite the water with their tails!"
Two minutes later they came in sight of the dam and in the same moment
the Indian turned the canoe towards a soft bar of sand. A few seconds
later, having landed, he pointed to the sand. A canoe had been beached
there, and plain as the footprints which startled Crusoe, were the
marks of moccasined feet going from and returning to the sand bar.
"White Klootchman been here!" said the Indian. "She go away. No good
going to the beaver."
He turned to the canoe again, and Gerald Ainley turned with him,
without a word in reply. There was no sign of disappointment on his
face, nor when they struck the main current again did he even glance at
the shore on either side. But seven miles further down, when the
current visibly quickened, and a series of small spruce-clad islands
began to come in view, standing out of the water for all the world like
ships in battle line, a look of interest came on his face, and he began
to look alertly in front of him and from side to side, all his
demeanour betraying expectation.