While Ingleby and Sewell made their way back to their tent Esmond sat
thoughtfully in his comfortless room at the outpost, cigar in hand. He
felt distinctly pleased with his astuteness, but he was by no means sure
what use he would make of the information Ingleby had somewhat unwisely
supplied him. Esmond was merely a capable police officer with certain
defects in his character, and not a clever scoundrel. In fact, he had
his good points, or he would not have retrieved his credit, in a service
which demands a good deal from those who would rise in it, after
becoming involved in difficulties in England; but he was arrogant,
vindictive, and apt to be carried away by his passions.
He disliked Ingleby, and would in any circumstances have found it
difficult to forgive the miner for having twice caused him to appear at
a disadvantage, while the fact that Grace Coulthurst had shown Ingleby
some degree of favour was an almost worse offence. Esmond had the
prejudices that occasionally characterize men of his station, and it
seemed to him distinctly unfitting that the Gold Commissioner's daughter
should patronize, as he expressed it, a placer miner. He was not exactly
in love with her, though he had once come near being so, but he
cherished a tenderness for her which might in favourable circumstances
have ripened. The circumstances were not, however, favourable, for there
was a certain stain on his reputation which he fancied Major Coulthurst,
at least, remembered.
It was therefore pleasant to feel that he held the whip over the
presumptuous miner, and could apply it when advisable, though he had in
the meanwhile no very definite purpose of doing so. It was not his
business to see that Major Coulthurst carried out the mining laws, and,
in any case, Ingleby had found no gold that would render the
sequestration of his claim a matter of very much moment; besides which
Esmond reflected that it would be considerably more congenial to
humiliate him openly in person instead of inflicting a malicious injury
on him by the hand of another man. An opportunity would no doubt be
forthcoming, and he could afford to wait. With this commendable decision
he flung his cigar away, and went to bed.
However, he became a little less sure that reticence was advisable when
he saw that Ingleby and Sewell visited the Gold Commissioner every now
and then; and it happened, somewhat unfortunately, that he dismounted to
take up a stirrup leather when riding back to his outpost through the
canyon one evening. Save for the hoarse roar of the river the tremendous
hollow was very still, and the sound of voices came faintly up to him.
Turning sharply, he made out two figures among the pines, and an
expletive rose to his lips as he recognized them. One was a miner in
miry long boots and soil-stained jean, the other a girl in a light
dress.
Esmond's eyes grew a trifle vindictive as he watched them, and though he
had one foot in the stirrup he did not obey the impulse that prompted
him to swing himself to the saddle and ride away. Instead he led the
horse behind a wide-girthed cedar and stood still, with a trace of
darker colour in his face. It was unfortunate that he did not know Grace
had met Ingleby by accident and that he could not hear their
conversation when they stopped for a few minutes by the edge of the
river.
"You have not been near us for awhile," said the girl.
"I have been busy, though I am not sure that is a very good excuse,"
said Ingleby. "Besides, one feels a little diffident--in the
circumstances--about presuming too much on Major Coulthurst's kindness."
Grace laughed, though she understood the qualification. "I am, of
course, not going to press you, but come when you wish. The major, if
one might mention it, rather approves of you, and when he and Mr. Sewell
play chess there is nobody to talk to me."
Ingleby, who had sense enough to take this admission for what it was
worth, looked thoughtful.
"Sewell," he asked, "has been there without me?"
"Once or twice."
"Then he certainly never mentioned it to me."
"Does he give you an account of everything he does?" and Grace laughed.
"How is your work at the mine progressing?"
"Slowly. In fact, considering our appliances, we have had almost
overwhelming difficulties to contend with. Still, one could scarcely
expect you to be interested in them."
"I am, however," and there was a faint but subtle suggestion of sympathy
in the girl's voice that sent a thrill through him.
It cost him an effort to hold himself in hand; but Ingleby had been
taught restraint in Canada, one sign of which was that he seldom
inflicted his opinions on other people. He had decided that it would be
time to let his aspirations become apparent when he had found the gold
and made himself a position; it never occurred to him that the girl was
probably quite aware of them already. It was not an easy thing to hide
them, and, though he was growing accustomed to the discipline, the topic
she had suggested was a safe one.
"Well," he said, "the gold we expect to strike lies in what was
presumably an ancient river bed, though there is, strange to say, very
little of it in the Green River now. It was probably deposited there
thousands of years ago, and it is evident that we have struck only the
outer edge of the patch of sand and gravel containing it. We tried
tunnelling, but twice the soil came in and nearly buried Leger, and at
Tomlinson's advice we sank another shaft. All the work had to be done
again, and we often go on half the night now. It is, I think, only a
question if we can hold out long enough, for winter is coming. Still,
it--must--be done."
He had not purposed to indulge in more than a very matter-of-fact
narration, and had, in one respect, certainly not exceeded this; but
there was a curious ring in his voice; and Grace understood his thoughts
as she flashed a swift glance at him. His face, which was a trifle
haggard, had grown intent, and the little glint in his eyes had its
meaning. Grace Coulthurst recognized, as Hetty Leger had done some time
earlier, that Ingleby was toiling harder than was wise. She also knew as
well as if he had told her what purpose animated him. Still, she had no
intention of admitting it just then.
"I think," she said, "you should be careful not to do too much, and if
you are going back to work to-night you must come no farther."
Ingleby protested, but Grace was resolute, and, turning, left him
standing in the trail. She walked homewards thoughtfully with a faint
trace of colour in her face, for the man's unexpressed devotion had
stirred her. Then, in a somewhat unfortunate moment, she looked up and
saw Esmond waiting beside the trail for her. A glance at his face
sufficed to show her that he was quite aware she had not come there
alone, and roused in her a curious sense of antagonism. It had become
evident to her already that he bore no particular good will toward
Ingleby.
"The view is really worth even your attention," she said.
Esmond knew what the suggestion of hardness in her tone meant, and
smiled as he glanced, down the froth-smeared river towards the
tremendous rift in the rocks through which it thundered. Beyond it the
mists were streaming across the deep valley and crawling filmily athwart
the pines that climbed in serried battalions towards the gleaming snow.
"It is. In fact, I scarcely think I could improve on it; but it was not
the view that kept me here," he said.
"No?" and Grace's voice was a trifle harder still.
Esmond looked at her steadily. "I had," he said, "the pleasure of seeing
you coming down the canyon--a little while ago."
His meaning was very plain, but he had given her an opportunity, for
Grace had noticed that the cedar he stood near was great of girth and
the undergrowth was trampled at one side of it. The man winced as she
moved forward a little and glanced at it.
"I suppose," she asked, with quiet contempt, "that was why you thought
it necessary to lead your horse out of the trail?"
Esmond, who had not expected affairs to take this turn, fumed inwardly.
He was not quite sure why he had stayed there at all, but in his
indignation he had become possessed by a vague and very senseless notion
that a friendly remonstrance might be admissible, and, at least, afford
him an opportunity for expressing his opinion of Ingleby. He was, of
course, by no means a clever man, and angry at the time, or he would
never have made that mistake; but his purpose was not altogether a base
or selfish one. Grace Coulthurst, who was of his own station, must, he
felt, be guarded against herself, and, since there was apparently nobody
else available, he undertook the task. He became vindictive, however,
when he realized that it would be difficult to carry out his commendable
purpose.
"I think we need not go into that," he said. "Perhaps I did wrong, but
it would only lead us away from the topic I want to talk about. Has it
occurred to you that unless you put a stop to his presumption that
miner fellow might get ideas into his head?"
Grace appreciated his courage in persisting, especially in view of the
result of her previous thrust; but while she was not exactly sure of her
sentiments towards Ingleby, he was, at least, the man who loved her,
which counted a good deal in his favour. Esmond, she was quite aware,
chiefly loved himself.
"Isn't that a trifle vague? What ideas do you mean?" she asked.
Esmond stood silent a moment or two, for his task was becoming
unpleasantly difficult; but his bitterness against Ingleby rashly
determined him to go on.
"I should prefer not to be more definite--and I'm not sure that it is
necessary," he said. "Still, one might, perhaps, venture to warn you
that the miners and my troopers, who, of course, have eyes, have already
found an entertaining topic."
Grace Coulthurst's face grew a trifle colourless with anger, though she
did not quite believe him.
"So you can listen while your policemen discuss--me?" she said.
"No," said Esmond unguardedly. "I would have risked my commission by
thrashing the man I heard mention you."
A sardonic gleam crept into Grace's eyes. "Then, since you haven't done
it, it is a little difficult to understand how you could be aware of
what they are saying."
The man's embarrassment was evident, but it lasted only a moment, and he
made a little abrupt gesture.
"I'm no match for you at this game, Grace," he said. "Of course, I'm
taking a great liberty, but if you think a little you might find some
excuse for me."
"For playing the spy on me?"
Esmond's lips set tight, and the bronze in his cheeks took on a still
deeper tinge; but there was, as is usually the case, good as well as
evil in him, and he was to some extent endeavouring just then to
discharge what he considered a duty.
"I suppose I deserve it, and I am in your hands, but you can be angry
with me afterwards if you will let me speak. We are old friends, and I
feel that implies a certain responsibility. There is nobody else in this
country except the major who would concern himself about you, and he,
with all due respect to him, seldom sees beyond his nose."
There was a suggestion of genuine solicitude in his voice now, but Grace
was, unfortunately, far from being conciliated.
"And you possess the faculty of seeing very much farther?"
Esmond made a little deprecatory gesture. "In this case, at least. You
see, I know the presumption of those half-trained fellows of Ingleby's
description, and I would like to save you the unpleasantness I think you
are courting. There are times when one has to be candid. The fellow is
quite capable of fancying you are in love with him."
He stopped, for there was a red spot of anger in Grace Coulthurst's
cheek, which was otherwise curiously colourless.
"I think," she said incisively, "you had better change the topic. You
have gone quite far enough."
Esmond gazed at her with evident appreciation. She had never seemed so
alluring to him as she did just then while she stood very straight in
front of him quivering a little with ill-suppressed anger. In fact, he
felt very far from sure that he was not in love with her. Still, he
persisted.
"It would have been less preposterous had he been a man with any
education or nicety of feeling; but you have even to take his
antecedents on trust, and a good many of the men here have a somewhat
astonishing history."
Grace stopped him with a little imperious gesture. "I have heard
enough," she said. "In fact, a good deal more than I shall probably ever
forgive you. Besides, it was scarcely advisable of you to allude to
other people's antecedents. One would have fancied that you had a better
memory."
Esmond closed one of his hands, for he had almost hoped that Grace had
not heard of the little discreditable affair in England. The contempt in
her face made the fact that he had deceived himself unpleasantly plain.
"I scarcely think that is quite what one would have expected from you,"
he said. "A little charity is always advisable--and you may find it
indispensable."
He swung himself into the saddle, and Grace went on alone, well content
that he had gone, but nevertheless wondering whether she had ventured
too far on Ingleby's behalf, for she realized that the rejoinder which
had closed the discussion was not altogether excusable. She did not care
to ask herself why Esmond's insinuations should have stirred her to an
indignation that was stronger than her sense of what was fitting.
Esmond rode back to the outpost furious, and, since he could not
retaliate on the girl, decided to seize the first opportunity for
injuring the man, and he had reasons for believing that one would
shortly be offered him. It is, however, probable that he would never
have profited by it had not the girl stung him to vindictive passion. It
was, though she was not aware of it, by no means a kindness Grace
Coulthurst had done Ingleby.