A keen frost had followed the snow, but there was warmth and a
brightness in the little inner room of the Gold Commissioner's house.
Its log walls and double casements kept out the stinging cold, the stove
snapped and crackled, and a big lamp diffused a cheerful light. Ingleby,
who had just come in, sat with his back to the logs, with Coulthurst and
Grace opposite him. Grace was in the shadow, but the light shone full
upon the major's weather-darkened face.
"Grace," he said, "is, as you can see, none the worse, but it was a
fortunate thing you turned up when you did. Very much obliged to you for
taking such good care of her."
It was evident to Ingleby that Coulthurst did not know what had nearly
happened at Alison's Sault. He had, in fact, already had reasons for
surmising that Miss Coulthurst did not think it advisable to tell her
father everything.
"I'm not sure it wouldn't have been better if I had not met Miss
Coulthurst, sir," he said. "In that case she would probably have gone
back, and waited with you until daylight, which would have saved you
both a good deal of anxiety. Of course, when we made up our minds to
push on, I had no idea the snow would be so bad."
"It's questionable whether she could have found the way. I could see
nothing whatever, and scarcely fancy I would have got here if two of
the older prospectors hadn't come with me. In fact, I scarcely remember
a worse night anywhere, and one result of it is an unpleasant twinge in
the shoulder. I never used to get anything of that kind. I suppose I'm
getting old."
It occurred to Ingleby that Coulthurst was certainly looking older than
he had done in England. There was a good deal of grey in his hair, his
cheeks were hollower, and there were deepening lines about his eyes.
Ingleby felt sorry for the man, who had served his nation for so small a
reward, that after a life of hardship he must bear the burden still, and
yet the fact was in one respect encouraging. Since Coulthurst's means
were scanty, there was less probability of his objecting too strenuously
to the successful miner who aspired to his daughter's hand; and, though
not so rich as the one Ingleby had thrown away, Tomlinson's claim was
yielding well. He, however, said nothing, and Coulthurst went on again.
"A devil of a night! It would be hard on any one in the ranges. I wonder
where Tomlinson could have gone?"
"One would naturally expect him to head for the settlements," said
Ingleby indifferently.
"He left no trail behind him if he did. At least, Esmond's troopers
couldn't find any. There was, however, a good deal it is difficult to
understand about the affair. One point that would strike anybody is how
Tomlinson got away from here without being seen by Esmond, who turned up
almost as he must have gone off the veranda."
"It really is a trifle hard to understand, sir."
They looked at each other steadily for a moment or two, and then Ingleby
could have fancied that there was a twinkle in Coulthurst's eyes.
"Perhaps it was as well he got away after all," he said. "Appearances
were against him, and it might have gone hard with him; but I can't
quite bring myself to believe that Tomlinson did the thing."
Then Grace, who laughed softly, broke in. "Of course," she said, "you
tried very hard."
A moment later there was a tramp of feet outside, and the major, who
passed into the outer room, came back in a minute or two. He smiled at
Ingleby somewhat drily.
"It isn't news of Tomlinson," he said. "Noel has brought the Frenchman
over. They've been burrowing into each other's claims, and if I can't
straighten the thing out they'll probably settle their differences in
their own way with the shovel. I shall probably be half an hour over it,
but don't go."
He went out, and left Ingleby with Grace. She looked none the worse for
the journey she had made the previous night, and was dressed with
unusual simplicity. Ingleby did not know what the fabric was, or whether
the colour was blue or grey, nor did it occur to him that its severe
simplicity was the result of skill; but he noticed that it enhanced the
girl's beauty and added a suggestion of stateliness to her figure, of
which Miss Coulthurst was probably quite aware. She looked up at him
with a little smile when a murmur of excited voices rose from the
adjoining room.
"They will, of course, both be disgusted with his decision, whatever it
is," she said. "A Gold Commissioner has really a good deal to put up
with."
"Major Coulthurst's position is naturally a responsible one," said
Ingleby.
Grace laughed. "With a very disproportionate emolument--which is a point
one has to consider after all. I'm not sure it wouldn't have been better
if he had been a prospector."
Ingleby's pulse throbbed a trifle faster. He had no great knowledge of
the gentler sex; but he was not a fool, and it seemed to him that the
girl had not spoken altogether without a purpose.
"I don't think you really believe that," he said.
"Perhaps I don't," and Grace appeared to reflect. "At least, I suppose I
shouldn't have done so once, but, of course, a prospector who has done
sufficiently well for himself can take any place that pleases him in
Canada."
"Still, you don't think that right."
"It would naturally depend a good deal upon the prospector."
Ingleby sat still, almost too still, in fact, for a moment or two; but
he could not hide the little gleam in his eyes. He had, it is true,
democratic views, that is, so far as everybody but Grace Coulthurst was
concerned; but he was quite willing to admit that she was a being of a
very different and much higher order than his own. That added to the
attraction she had for him; and now she had suggested that they were,
after all, more or less on the same level. It was almost disconcerting.
He did not know what to make of it; but while he pondered over it she
flashed a quick glance at him.
"I wonder if you know how Tomlinson got away?" she asked.
It was apparently an astonishingly abrupt change of subject, but when
Ingleby, who had grown wiser in the meanwhile, afterwards recalled that
night, he was less sure that it might not have been, after all, part of
an instinctive continuity of policy. He had discovered by then that even
very charming and ingenuous women not infrequently have a policy.
"I don't mind admitting that I do--to you," he said.
Grace was pleased and showed it. It is gratifying to feel that anybody
has complete confidence in one, and the possession of a common secret of
some importance is not infrequently a bond between the two who share it.
Ingleby realized this and felt with a curious gratification that the
girl recognized it as clearly as he did. Still, she had said nothing
that could lead him to believe so.
"Then you no doubt know where he went?" she asked.
"I naturally know that, too."
Grace smiled. "That means you helped him to get away. Are you wise in
admitting that you were an accessory? Captain Esmond is a friend of
ours."
Ingleby made her a little whimsical inclination, though there was a look
in his eyes which was not quite in keeping with it.
"I am," he said, "quite safe in your hands."
It was a fortunate answer, and worth the more because he was not usually
a very tactful person, as the girl was aware. She was afflicted by a
craving for influence, and it was not the adulation of men she wanted,
but an insight into their thoughts and purposes, and the privilege of
controlling them. Thus Ingleby, who did not know it, could not have done
more wisely than he did in admitting that he had an unquestioning
confidence in her. He was, as she had discovered some time ago, in spite
of his simplicity, a man capable of bold conceptions and resolute
execution, the type of man, in fact, that usually came to the front in
Western Canada. She had the intelligence to realize and weigh all this,
and yet there was a strain of passion in her which he had awakened.
"I almost think you are," she said. "How is the new claim progressing?"
"Reasonably well. In fact, although Sewell is apparently getting rich on
the one I threw away, I can't complain. What he makes will, at least, be
spent on what he thinks is doing good, while I want mine for my own
selfish purposes."
"They are necessarily selfish?"
Ingleby laughed, though the little glow crept into his eyes again.
"Well," he said, "I suppose so. You see, a third-share in Tomlinson's
claim is not of itself of much value to me. It only provides the money
to make a start with."
Grace nodded comprehendingly. He was crude in his mode of expression,
but she understood him.
"That implies a going on?" she asked.
"It does," and Ingleby laughed. "There is room, I think, in this
Province for men who will take big risks, and boldly stake what they
have on the advancement of its prosperity. I'm not sure there is any
reason I shouldn't be one of them."
"And gather in the money? More than you are entitled to? Haven't you
been changing your opinions?"
Ingleby made a little whimsical gesture, which alone sufficed to show
that he had, as the girl expressed it to herself, expanded.
"I suppose I have--that is, I have modified them. One has to now and
then," he said. "Still, you see, the men I mean don't grind money out of
others. They create it. They take hold of the wilderness, bridge the
rivers, drive the roads through it, and the ranches and the orchards
follow. Every man who makes a new home in the waste owes a little to
them."
"Still, all that is not done easily. One must have the faith--and, as
you suggest, the money with which to make the start. Even then the
ladder is hard to climb."
Ingleby involuntarily glanced down at his hands, and the girl noticed
the scars on them, which, however, did not repel her. She also noticed
the spareness of his frame, the curious transparency of his darkened
skin, and the brightness of his eyes, all significant of an intensity of
bodily effort. The man had been purged of grossness, moral and physical,
by toil in icy water and scorching sun, and the light that shone out
through his eyes was the brighter for the hardships he had undergone. He
had gained more than vigour while he swung the shovel and gripped the
drill with hands that bled from the blundering hammer stroke, after
other men's work was done. It is possible that he had also gained more
than tenacity of will.
"Still," he said slowly, "I think I shall manage it."
Grace felt that this was likely. She realized the purpose which animated
him, and there suddenly came upon her a desire that he should tell it to
her. She knew that he would do so when he felt the time was ripe; but
she wished to hear it now, or, at least, to see how far his reticence
would carry him. She leaned forward a little and looked him steadily in
the eyes.
"It will be a struggle," she said. "Is it worth while?"
Ingleby stirred uneasily beneath her gaze, for it seemed to him that she
had brushed aside every distinction there might be between them. He did
not know how she had conveyed this impression, but he felt it. She was
also very close to him. As she moved, the hem of her skirt had touched
him, and he felt the blood tingle in his veins.
"It would be worth dying for," he said.
Grace laughed in a curious fashion. "The money, and the envy of less
fortunate men?"
Ingleby stood up suddenly, though he scarcely knew why he did so, or how
it came about that he yielded with scarcely a struggle now to the
impulse that swept him away. It is, however, possible that Grace
Coulthurst, who had only looked at him, understood the reason.
"Success would be worth nothing without another thing," he said. "Like
what I have already, the money wouldn't be mine, you see. I am not poor
now--but I should never have held on here by any strength of purpose
that was in me alone. I borrowed it from another person."
He stopped abruptly, half-afraid, wondering what had happened to him
that the truth should be wrung from him in this fashion. Then he saw the
clear rose colour creep into the girl's cheeks and the sudden softening
of her eyes, and his courage came back to him. He had ventured too far
to be silent now.
"Yes," he said, "there is somebody I owe everything to--and it's you."
Grace do longer looked at him, but sat still now with hands clasped on
her knees, and Ingleby felt the silence becoming intolerable. There was
still a murmur of voices in the adjoining room, and he could hear the
wind outside moaning among the pines.
"I suppose I have offended past forgiveness. I did not mean to tell you
this to-night," he said.
Grace looked up for a moment. "Oh," she said softly, "I think I
knew--and you see I am not blaming you."
Ingleby quivered visibly, and his face grew hot; but while the desire to
kneel beside her and seize the clasped hands was almost irresistible, he
stood still, looking gravely down upon her, which was, perhaps, not wise
of him.
"You knew?" he said.
"Is that so difficult to understand, after what happened at Alison's
Sault?"
Ingleby bent down and took one of her hands, but he did it very gently,
though the signs of the fierce restraint he laid upon himself were in
his face.
"I should never have told you, Grace--I lost my head," he said. "Still,
the one hope that has led me so far, and will, I think, lead me farther,
has been that I might--one day when the time was ripe--induce you to
listen, and not send me away. Now it must be sufficient that you are not
angry. I can take no promise from you."
"Is it worth so little?" Grace said softly.
Ingleby's grasp tightened on her hand until it grew almost painful. "It
would," he said, "be worth everything to me, but I dare not take it now.
What I am, you know--but the claim is yielding well--and I only want a
little time. Until I can ask Major Coulthurst for you boldly you must be
free."