After walking for some time, Foster heard a rumble in the distance
behind him and climbed the rocky bank of the single-line track. There
was not much room between the bank and rails, and he was glad of an
excuse for sitting down. Taking out the stranger's case, he lighted
another of the Turkish cigarettes. They were the only benefit he was
likely to derive from the adventure, and he felt some satisfaction in
making use of them.
In the meantime, the rumble grew into a roar that rolled across the
forest with a rhythmic beat, and a ray of light pierced the gloom up
the track. It was very bright and he knew it was thrown by a
locomotive headlamp. A west-bound freight train was coming and he must
wait until it passed. Freight trains were common objects, but as a
rule when Foster saw one approaching he stopped to watch. The great
size and power of the locomotive appealed to his imagination, and he
liked to think of the reckless courage of the men who drove the steel
road through eight hundred miles of rugged wilderness to Port Arthur,
and then on again through rocks and muskegs to the Western prairie. It
was a daring feat, when one remembered the obstacles and that there was
no traffic to be developed on the way.
The beam of light became a cone of dazzling radiance; the rocks
throbbed, and the gnarled pines shook as the roar swelled into a
tremendous harmony of many different notes. Then there was sudden
darkness as the locomotive leaped past, and huge box-cars rushed,
lurching and rocking, out of the thick, black smoke. Flying ballast
crashed against the rocks, and though the ground was frozen hard a hail
of small particles rattled among the trees. Then, as the tail-lights
on the caboose sped by, a deep hoot of the whistle came back from about
a quarter of a mile off, and soon afterwards the fading glimmer
vanished round a curve. It seemed to be going slower, and the rumble
died away suddenly. Foster thought there was a side-track ahead, where
the freight would wait until a train going in the other direction
crossed the switches. If he could reach the spot in time, he might
save himself a long walk.
His knee hurt as he stumbled over the gravel at the best pace he could
make, but that did not matter much, A few minutes' sharp pain could be
borne, and he set his lips as he ran, while the perspiration dripped
from him and his breath got short. This was the consequence of leading
a soft and, in a sense, luxurious life, he thought, but when he tried
to walk next day he understood the reason better. Still, he did not
mean to be left behind in the frozen bush, and as he reached the curve
was relieved to see lights flicker about the track. When he stopped a
man flashed a lantern into his face.
"Looks as if you'd made good time, but the track's pretty rough for
breaking records on," he remarked.
"That's so," Foster answered breathlessly. "I wanted to get here
before you pulled out, because I'm going on with you."
"No, sir; it's clean against the rules. You can't get a free ride now
on a C.P. freight"
"The rules apply to hobos. I've got a first-class ticket to Montreal."
"Then why in thunder are you running back to Fort William?"
"I'd have been satisfied to make the next station. You see, I fell off
the train."
Another man, who wore big gloves and grimy over-alls, had come up, and
laughed when he heard Foster's explanation.
"You sure look pretty lively after falling off the Montreal express.
Guess you must have done that kind of thing before? But our bosses are
getting blamed particular about these free rides."
Foster opened his wallet and took out a strip of paper, folded in
sections, but it was not by accident he held two or three dollar bills
against it.
"There's my ticket. I bought it at the agent's office, but I expect
you know what would have happened if I'd got it on board. Anyway,
you've heard of the drummer who beat his passage from Calgary to
Toronto at the cost of a box of cigars."
The brakesmen grinned, because the hint was plain. It is said on
Western railroads that when a conductor collects a fare he throws the
money at the car-roof and accounts to the company for as much as sticks
there.
"Well," said the first man, "I guess we'll take our chances and you can
get into the caboose. You'll find blankets, and a bunk where you can
lie down if you take off your boots. We'll dump you somewheres handy
for catching the next east-bound."
Foster found the caboose comfortably warm. There was a stove in the
middle and two or three bunks were fixed to the walls. In a few
minutes the train they waited for went roaring past, and when the
freight started one of the men gave him some supper. Then he got into
a bunk and went to sleep.
He caught the next express going east, and on reaching Ottawa, where he
had some time to wait, half expected the man he had helped would come,
or send somebody, to meet him. Although he wore the fur coat and stood
in a conspicuous place, he was not accosted, and presently bought a
newspaper. It threw no light upon the matter, and for a time he walked
up and down, considering if he would go to the police. This was
perhaps his duty, but it looked as if the owner of the coat had not
been molested. After all, the fellow might be an absconding debtor,
and if not it was obvious that he had some reason for keeping his
secret. Foster decided to let him do so, and went back to the train.
When he arrived at Montreal he went to the _Windsor_ as he had been
told, but there was no letter or telegram waiting and none came during
the day or two he stayed. On the evening before he sailed he was
sitting in the large entrance hall, which is a feature of American and
Canadian hotels, when he thought a man some distance off looked hard at
him over his newspaper. Foster only caught a momentary glimpse of his
face, because he held up the paper as if to get a better light and
people were moving about between them; but he thought the man was Daly,
and after a few moments carelessly crossed the floor.
A man sat at the spot he had marked and the chairs on both sides were
unoccupied, but when Foster sat down in the nearest he saw the fellow
was a stranger. This puzzled him, since he did not think he had been
mistaken. It was, however, possible that Daly had been there, but had
moved off quietly when Foster's view was obstructed. If so, he must
have had an object for hiding, and Foster waited some minutes before he
went to the office and examined the guestbook. Daly's name did not
appear, and he found that nobody from the West had signed the book
recently.
"I wanted to see if a man I know is staying here," he told the clerk.
"That's all right," said the other. "Quite a number of people have
been looking for friends to-day."
Foster described Daly as well as he could, and asked if he had examined
the book.
"No," said the clerk. "Nobody just like that had the register while
I've been about; but now I think of it, a man who might meet the bill
stood by while another looked at the last page." Then he indicated a
figure near the revolving door, "There! that's who he was with!"
As the man pushed the door round Foster saw his face, and knew him for
the stranger who had occupied the chair in which he had expected to
find Daly. He thanked the clerk and went back thoughtfully to his
place, because it looked as if Daly had been there and the other had
helped him to steal away. If this surmise was correct, they might be
trying to follow Featherstone; but he was, fortunately, out of their
reach, and Foster decided that he must not exaggerate the importance of
the matter. After all, Daly might have come to Montreal on business,
and the rotunda of a Canadian hotel is something of a public resort.
Still, he felt disturbed and presently gave the clerk the fur coat,
telling him to deliver it when asked for. He felt it a relief to get
rid of the thing.
Next day he sailed on an Empress liner, and on the evening after he
reached England left the train at a lonely station in the North. It
was not yet dark, and for a moment or two he stood on the platform
looking about. There had been rain, and the air had a damp freshness
that was unusual in Canada. In the east and north the sky was covered
with leaden cloud, against which rounded hilltops were faintly marked.
Rugged moors rolled in long slopes towards the west, where the horizon
was flushed with vivid saffron and delicate green. Up the middle of
the foreground ran a deep valley, with blue shadow in its bottom and
touches of orange light on its heathy sides. There were few trees,
although a line of black firs ran boldly to the crest of a neighboring
rise, and stone dykes were more common than the ragged hedges. Foster
saw no plowed land, and nothing except heather seemed to grow on the
peaty soil, which looked black as jet where the railway cutting pierced
it. Indeed, he thought the landscape as savage and desolate as any he
had seen in Canada, but as he did not like tame country this had a
certain charm.
While he looked about a man came up. He was elderly and dressed with
extreme neatness in old-fashioned dark clothes, but he had the
unmistakable look of a gentleman's servant. Though there was a small
car in the road, he was obviously not a professional chauffeur.
"You'll be Mr. Foster, sir, for the Garth?" he said.
Foster said he was and the man resumed: "Mr. Featherstone sent the car
and his apologies. He had to attend the court, being a magistrate, and
hoped you would excuse his not coming."
Then he picked up Foster's portmanteau and called a porter, who was
moving some clanging milk cans, to bring his bag.
"Never mind; I'll take it," Foster told him.
"As you like, sir, but it's perhaps not quite usual in this country,"
the other answered in a deprecatory tone.
"I suppose I ought to have remembered that," Foster agreed smiling.
They crossed the platform, and while they waited for the bag the man
said respectfully, "Might I ask if Mr. Lawrence was better when you
left, sir? It was a disappointment to us when we heard he could not
come home."
Foster liked the fellow. He was very formal, but seemed to include
himself in his master's family.
"Yes," he said. "In fact, I expect he'll be quite well in a month or
two. I suppose you were at the Garth before my partner left?"
"I've served Mr. Featherstone for thirty years, sir, and led Mr.
Lawrence's first pony and cleaned his first gun. It wasn't my regular
duty, sir, but he was the only son and I looked after him. If I may
say so, we were much upset when we heard that he was ill."
Then the bag was brought, and as the car ran across the moor Foster
noted the smooth, hard surface of the wet road. The country was wild
and desolate, but they had no roads like this in Canada, except perhaps
in one or two of the larger cities. Indeed, in Western towns he knew,
it was something of an adventure to cross the street during the spring
thaw. The light got red and angry as they dipped into the valley; the
firs on the hillcrest stood out black and sharp, and then melted into
the gray background. A river pool shone with a ruby gleam that
suddenly went out, and the dim water vanished into the shadow, brawling
among the stones.
There was smooth pasture in the valley, broken by dark squares of
turnip fields and pale stubble; but here and there the heath appeared
again and wild cotton showed faintly white above the black peat-soil.
By and by a cross, standing by itself on the lonely hillside, caught
Foster's eye, and he asked his companion about it.
"The Count's Cross, sir; a courtesy title they held in the next dale.
He was killed in a raid on a tower down the water, before the
Featherstones came."
"But did they bury him up there?"
"No, sir; they were all buried at night by the water of Langrigg, but
when they were carrying him home in the mist by the hill road the Scots
from the tower overtook them. The Count's men were wounded and their
horses foundered, but the Scots let them go when they found that he was
dead. About 1300, sir. Somebody put up the cross to commemorate it."
"They seem to have been a chivalrous lot," Foster remarked. "I wonder
if that kind of thing would happen nowadays!"
"I'm afraid one couldn't expect it, sir," the old fellow answered and
Foster smiled.
The cross faded into the hillside; it got dark and the valley narrowed.
Trees grew in sheltered spots; the faint, delicate tracery of birch
branches breaking the solid, black ranks of the firs. The road wound
along the river, which roared, half seen, in the gloom. Now and then
they ran through water, and presently the glare of the headlamps bored
through breast-high mist. There was a smell of wet soil and rotting
leaves. It was very different from the tangled pine bush of Ontario
and the stark bareness of the plains, but it was somehow familiar and
Foster felt that he was at home.
By and by the moon came out, and the mist got thinner as they ran into
an opening where the side of the glen fell back. Lights twinkled at
the foot of a hill, and as they sped on the irregular outline of a
house showed against a background of trees. It glimmered, long and
low, in the moonlight, and then Foster lost it as they ran through a
gate into the darkness of a belt of firs. A minute or two later, the
car slowed and stopped after passing round a bend.
A wide door stood hospitably open, and a figure upon the steps cut
against the light. There were two more figures inside the hall, and as
he got down Foster heard voices that sounded strangely pleasant and
refined. Then a man whom he could not see well shook hands with him
and took him in, and he stopped, half dazzled by the brightness.
The hall was large and a fire burned on a deep hearth. There were oil
lamps on tall pillars, and in the background a broad staircase ran up
to a gallery in the gloom. Foster, however, had not much time to look
about, for as soon as he had given up his hat and coat his host led him
towards the fire and two ladies came up. He knew one was his partner's
mother and the other his sister, but although they were like Lawrence
he remarked a difference that was puzzling until he understood its
origin. Mrs. Featherstone had an unmistakable stamp of dignity, but
her face was gentle and her look very friendly; her daughter was tall
and Foster thought remarkably graceful, with an air of pride and
reserve, although this vanished when she gave him a frank welcoming
smile. Featherstone, who was older than his wife, had short, gray
hair, and a lined, brown face, but looked strong and carried himself
well.
Foster, who liked them at once, wondered rather anxiously whether he
had pleased or disappointed them. But he imagined that they would
reserve their opinion. They were, of course, not the people to show
what they thought, and if he had felt any embarrassment, they would
have known how to put him at his ease. Still his type was, no doubt,
new to them and his views might jar. He did not remember what they
said, but they somehow made him feel he was not a stranger but a friend
who had a claim, and when he went to his room he knew he would enjoy
his stay with Featherstone's people.