"If I did, you'd find me dull. Now I like you exactly as you are,
except that, in one way, I'd sooner you were not so anxious about me.
That's partly why I'm not so serious as you expect I'm afraid you'd get
worse if I played up to you."
"Never mind me," said Lucy. "Only take care!"
By and by the slope grew gentler, and tall forest crept up the hill
when they came to a ravine a torrent had worn out of the mountain side.
The ravine was narrow and for a short distance below the top the banks
shelved steeply; then a wall of rock fell straight to the water that
brawled in the bottom of the deep gap. The light was dim down there,
but one could see livid flashes of foam through a haze of spray. The
trail had been made by lumbermen or prospectors, who had provided a
bridge by chopping a big fir so that it fell across the chasm.
Somebody had made the passage easier by roughly squaring its upper
surface, though it is seldom a Canadian bushman takes this precaution
with his primitive bridge. There was no reason anybody with normal
nerve should hesitate to cross, but the party stopped.
"You have gone farther than usual to-day, Featherstone, and perhaps
you'd sooner cut out the bridge," said one. "I think we could get
round the head of the canon without lengthening the distance much."
Lawrence smiled. "My object is to keep on going farther than I did
before, and I don't see why the log should bother me. It's my legs
that are weak--not my head."
"Very well," said the other. "I'll go first and Miss Chisholm will
come next."
"Am I to be encouraged or shamed into crossing?" Lawrence asked with a
laugh.
He let them go, and Lucy did not object. Lawrence was not well yet,
but she had seen him climb among the crevasses and knew his steadiness.
Then, although she did not know how much this counted, she was proud of
his courage and forgot that physical weakness sometimes affects one's
nerve. Walters could not harm him, because he was not near enough.
When the first two had gone over, Lawrence walked out upon the log.
Lucy was not afraid, but she watched and remarked that he seemed
unusually careful. After a few paces, he moved slowly, and when near
the middle stopped. She saw him clench his hands as he tried to brace
himself.
"Go on, Lawrence," she said, as quietly as she could.
He moved another pace or two uncertainly, and then stopped again, and
Lucy struggled with her terror as she tried to think. If he were well,
it would not be difficult to turn and come back, or sit upon the log,
but either would be dangerous if his nerve had gone. She had failed to
rouse him and durst not try again. If he slipped or stumbled, he would
plunge into the canon. It was horrible to reflect that she had allowed
him to make the venture. Then, throwing off the numbing fear, she
sprang to her feet.
"Stand quite still; I'm coming to help you," she said in a strained
voice and went towards the log.
Next moment she was seized from behind, and Walters ran past. She
struggled fiercely, biting her lips as she stopped the scream that
might startle her lover, and heard the man who held her breathing hard.
But he held her firmly and she stopped struggling, with a paralyzing
horror that made her muscles limp. Still, she could see and think, and
the scene fixed itself upon her brain like a photograph; long
afterwards she could remember each minute detail.
The log occupied the foreground of the picture, running boldly across
the gap in the pines, with a shadowy gulf beneath. Near the middle,
Lawrence stood slackly, with his back to her, and behind him Walters
walked across the trunk. His step was firm and agile, his figure
well-proportioned and athletic, and it was somehow obvious that he
relished the opportunity of showing his powers. Afterwards, she hated
him for his vanity.
It was plain that little physical help could be given. All that was
possible was moral support; a firm, guiding grasp that would restore
the shaken man's confidence, and the comfort of feeling there was
somebody near who was not afraid. But a very slight push the wrong
way, or even an unsteadiness in the hand that should have guided, might
be fatal. Lawrence was at the mercy of a man who had plotted to
destroy him and could do so now without risk. Lucy could not warn him,
because if he were startled, he would fall. Waiting in an agony of
suspense, she saw Walters grasp his shoulder.
"Steady, partner; we'll soon be across," he said in a quiet, reassuring
voice, and Lawrence's slack pose stiffened, as if he had gathered
confidence.
Lucy thought he did not know who had spoken, but the horrible tension
did not slacken yet, though Lawrence began to move forward. Walters
came close behind, rather guiding than supporting him, and in a few
moments they stepped down on the other side. Then Lucy gasped and logs
and pines got blurred and indistinct. She conquered the faintness and
went resolutely towards the log.
"Wait and let me help you," somebody said.
"No," she answered in a strained voice; "I'm quite steady."
She crossed the log without a tremor and running to where Lawrence sat
put her arm round him. Lawrence said nothing, but took and held her
hand.