HER PICTURE.
Wyllard stayed at the inn three days without seeing anything more of
the girl he had met beside the stream, though he diligently watched for
her. For one thing, he had long felt it was his duty to communicate
with the relatives of the lad he had befriended, and the fact that he
had found her photograph in the young Englishman's possession made it
appear highly probable that she could assist him in tracing them.
Apart from this, he could not quite analyse his motives for desiring to
see more of her, though he was conscious of the desire. Her picture
had, however, been a companion to him in his wanderings, and he had,
indeed, now and then found a certain solace in gazing at it, while now
he had seen her in the flesh he was willing to admit that he had never
met any woman who had made the same impression on him. What he meant
by that he was not quite certain; but it was in the meanwhile as far as
he would go.
It was, of course, open to him to call at the vicarage, but though he
meant to adopt that course as a last resort, there were certain
objections to it. He did not even know the girl's name, and there was
nobody to say a word for him; while, so far as his experience went, the
English were rather apt to be reticent and reserved to an unknown
stranger. It seemed to him that, although she might give him the
information he required, their acquaintance would probably terminate
then and there, which was not what he desired. She would, he decided,
be less likely to stand upon her guard if he could contrive to meet her
casually without pre-arrangement.
On the fourth day fortune favoured him, for he came upon her
endeavouring to open a tottering gate where a stony hill track led off
from the smooth white road. As it happened, he had received a letter
from Mrs. Hastings that morning, fixing the date of her departure,
which rendered it necessary for him to discharge the duty Hawtrey had
saddled him with as soon as possible. The Grange, where he understood
Miss Ismay was then staying, lay thirty miles away across the fells,
and he had already decided to start early on the morrow. That being
the case, it was clear that he must make the most of this opportunity;
but he also realised that it would be advisable to proceed
circumspectly. Saying nothing, he set his shoulder to the gate, and
lifting it on its decrepit hinges swung it open.
"Thank you," said the girl, and then, remembering that this was the
last thing she had said to him, she smiled, as she added, "It is the
second time you have turned up when I was in difficulties."
In spite of his resolution to proceed cautiously, a twinkle crept into
Wyllard's eyes, and suggested that the fact she had mentioned was not
so much of a coincidence as it probably appeared. She saw it, and was
about to pass on, when he stopped her with a gesture. He was, after
all, usually a candid person.
"The fact is, I have been looking out for you the last three days," he
said.
He fancied the girl had taken alarm at this, and spread his hands out
deprecatingly. "Won't you hear me out?" he added. "There's a matter I
must put before you, but I won't keep you long."
His companion was a little puzzled, and naturally curious. It struck
her as somewhat strange that his rather startling admission should have
roused in her very little indignation; but she felt that it would be
unreasonable to suspect this man of anything that savoured of
impertinence. His manner was reassuring, and she liked his face.
"Well?" she said inquiringly.
The man indicated a big oak trunk that lay just inside the gate.
"If you'll sit down, I'll get through as quick as I can," he said. "In
the first place, I am, as I told you, a Canadian, come over partly to
see the country, and partly to carry out one or two duties. In regard
to one of them, I believe you can help me."
His companion's face was expressive of a very natural astonishment.
"I could help you?"
Wyllard nodded. "I'll explain my reasons for believing it later on,"
he said. "In the meanwhile, I asked you a question the other night,
which I'll now try to make more explicit. Were you ever acquainted
with a young Englishman who went to Canada from this country several
years ago? He would be about twenty then, and had dark hair and eyes.
That, of course, isn't an unusual thing, but there was a rather curious
white mark on his left temple. If he was ever a friend of yours, that
scar ought to fix it."
"Oh!" said the girl, "that must have been Lance Radcliffe. I was with
him when the scar was made--ever so long ago. But you said his name
was Pattinson--and we heard that he was dead."
"I did," said Wyllard gravely. "Still, I wasn't quite sure of it, and
he's certainly dead. I buried him."
His companion made a little abrupt movement, and he saw the sudden
softening of her eyes. There was, however, only a gentle pity in them,
and nothing in her manner suggested the deeper feeling he had
half-expected. That was also a relief to him.
"Then," she said, "I am sure that his father would like to meet you.
There was some trouble between them--I don't know which was wrong--and
Lance went out to Canada, and never wrote. By and bye, Major Radcliffe
tried to trace him through a Vancouver banker, and only found that he
had died in the hands of a stranger who had done all that was possible
for him." She turned to Wyllard with a look which set his heart
beating rather faster than usual. "You are that man?"
"Yes," said Wyllard simply, "I did what I could for him. It didn't
amount to very much. He was too far gone."
Then at her request he told her the story he had told to Hawtrey, and
when he had finished her face was soft again, for it had stirred her
curiously.
"But," she said, "he had no claim on you."
Wyllard lifted one hand as if in expostulation. "He was dying in the
bush. Wasn't that enough?"
The girl made no answer for a moment or two. She had earned her living
for several years, and was, because of it, to some extent acquainted
with the grim realities of life. She did not know that while there are
certainly hard men in Canada, the small farmers and ranchers of the
West--and, perhaps above all, the fearless free lances who build
railroads and grapple with giant trees in the forests of the Pacific
slope--are, as a rule, distinguished by a splendid charity. With them
the sick or worn-out stranger is very seldom turned away. Still,
watching her companion covertly, she understood that this man whom she
had seen for the first time three days ago had done exactly what she
would have expected of him. Then she proceeded to give him the
information she supposed he desired.
"I saw a good deal of Lance Radcliffe--when I was younger," she said.
"His people still live at Garside Scar, close by Dufton Holme. I
presume you will call on them?"
Wyllard said that he proposed doing so as he had a watch and one or two
other mementoes that they might like to have, and when she told him how
to reach Dufton Holme by a very round-about railway journey he supposed
it lay somewhere in the dale to which he already purposed going. Then
she turned to him again.
"There is one point that rather puzzles me," she said. "How did you
know that I could tell you anything about him?"
The man thrust his hand into his pocket, and took out a little leather
case.
"You are by no means a stranger to me," he said, and quietly handed her
the photograph. "This is your picture; I found it among the dead lad's
things."
The girl, who started visibly, flashed a very keen glance at him.
There was, however, no doubt that he had not intended to produce any
dramatic effect. Then she flushed a little.
"I never knew he had it," she said. "Perhaps he got it from his
sister." She paused, and then, as though impelled to make the fact
quite clear, added, "I certainly never gave it him."
Wyllard smiled gravely, for he recognised that while she was clearly
grieved to hear of his death, she could have had no particular
tenderness for the unfortunate lad. He was, however, a little off his
guard just then.
"Well," he said, "perhaps he took it in the first place for the mere
beauty of it, and it afterwards became a companion--something that
connected him with the Old Country. It appealed in one of those ways
to me."
Again she flashed a sharp glance at him, but he went on unheeding:
"When I found it I meant to keep it merely as a clue, and so that it
could be given up to his relatives some day," he added. "Then I fell
into the habit of looking at it in my lonely camp in the bush at night,
and when I sat beside the stove while the snow lay deep upon the
prairie. There was something in your eyes that seemed to encourage me."
"To encourage you?"
"Yes," Wyllard assented gravely; "I think that expresses it. When I
camped in the bush of the Pacific slope we were either out on the gold
trail--and we generally came back ragged and unsuccessful after
spending several months' wages which we could badly spare--or I was
going from one wooden town to another without a dollar in my pocket and
wondering, how I was to obtain one when I got there. For a time it
wasn't much more cheerful on the prairie: twice in succession the
harvest failed. Perhaps Lance Radcliffe felt as I did."
The girl cut him short. "Why didn't you mention the photograph at
once?"
Wyllard smiled at her. "Oh," he said, "I didn't want to be
precipitate--your folks don't seem to like that; I've met them out
West. I think"--and he seemed to consider--"I wanted to make sure you
wouldn't be repelled by what might look like Colonial _brusquerie_.
You see, you have been over snow-barred divides and through great
shadowy forests with me. We've camped among the boulders by lonely
lakes, and gone down frothing rapids. I felt--I can't tell you
why--that I was bound to meet you some day."
It was, perhaps, a trifle startling, but the girl now showed neither
astonishment nor resentment. She felt curiously certain that this
stranger was not posing or speaking for effect. It did not occur to
him that he might have gone too far, and for a space he leaned against
the gate, saying nothing, while she looked at him with what he thought
of as her gracious English calm.
Pale sunshine fell upon them, though the larches beside the road were
rustling beneath a little cold wind, and the song of the river came up
brokenly out of the valley. An odour of fresh grass floated about
them, and the dry, cold smell of the English spring was in the air.
Across the valley dim ghosts of hills lighted by evanescent gleams rose
out of the east wind greyness with shadowy grandeur.
Then Wyllard seemed to rouse himself. "I wonder if I ought to write
Major Radcliffe and tell him what my object is before I call?" he said.
"It would make the thing a little easier."
The girl rose. "Yes," she assented, "that would, perhaps, be wiser."
Then she glanced at the photograph which was still in her hand. "It
has served its purpose. I scarcely think it would be of any great
interest to Major Radcliffe."
She saw his face change as she made it evident that she did not mean to
give the portrait back to him; but there was, at least, one excellent
reason why she would not have her picture in a strange man's hands.
"Thank you," she said, "for the story. I am glad we have met; but I'm
afraid I have already kept my friends waiting for me."
Then she turned away, and it occurred to Wyllard that he had made a
very indifferent use of the opportunity, since she had neither asked
his name nor told him hers. It was, however, evident that he could not
well run after her and demand it, and he decided that he could in all
probability obtain it from Major Radcliffe when he called upon him.
Still, he regretted his lack of adroitness as he walked back to the
inn, where he wrote two letters when he had consulted a map and his
landlady. Dufton Holme, he discovered, was a small village within a
mile or two of the Grange where, as Miss Rawlinson had informed him,
Agatha Ismay was then staying. One letter was addressed to her, and he
formally asked permission to call upon her with a message from Gregory
Hawtrey. The other was to Major Radcliffe, and in both he said that an
answer would reach him at the inn which his landlady had informed him
was to be found not far from either of the houses he proposed to visit.
He set out on foot next morning, and after climbing a steep pass
followed a winding track across a waste of empty moor until he struck a
smooth white road, which led past a rock-girt lake and into a deep
valley. It was six o'clock when he started, and three when he reached
the inn, where he found an answer to one of his letters awaiting him.
It was from Major Radcliffe, who desired an interview with him as soon
as possible.
Within an hour he was on his way to the Major's house, where a
grey-haired man, whose yellow skin suggested long exposure to a
tropical sun, and a little withered lady were waiting for him. They
received him graciously, but there was an indefinite something in their
manner and bearing which Wyllard, who had read a good deal, recognised,
though he had never been brought into actual contact with it until
then. He felt that he could not have expected to come across such
people anywhere but in England, unless it was at the headquarters of a
British battalion in India.
He told his story tersely, softening unpleasant details, and making
little of what he had done, and the grey-haired man listened gravely
with an unmoved face, though a trace of moisture crept into the little
lady's eyes. There was silence for a moment or two when he had
finished, and then Major Radcliffe, whose manner was very quiet, turned
to him.
"You have laid me under an obligation which I could never wipe out,
even if I wished it," he said. "It was my only son you buried out
there in Canada."
He broke off for a moment, and his quietness was more marked than ever
when he went on again.
"As you have no doubt surmised, we quarrelled," he said. "He was
extravagant and careless--at least I thought that then--but now it
seems to me that I was unduly hard on him. His mother"--and he turned
to the little lady with an inclination that pleased Wyllard
curiously--"was sure of it at the time. In any case, I took the wrong
way, and he went out to Canada. I made that, at least, easy for
him--and I have been sorry ever since."
He paused again with a little expressive gesture. "It seems due to
him, and you, that I should tell you this. When no word reached us I
had inquiries made, through a banker he called upon, who, discovering
that he had registered at a hotel as Pattinson, at length traced him to
a British Columbian silver mine. He had, however, left it shortly
before my correspondent learned that he had been employed there, and
all the latter could tell me was that an unknown prospector had nursed
him until he died."
Wyllard, who said nothing, took out a watch and the clasp of a
workman's belt from his pocket, and laid them gently on Mrs.
Radcliffe's knee. He saw her eyes fill, and turned his head away.
"I feel that you may blame me for not writing sooner, but it was only a
very little while ago that I was able to trace you, and then it was
only by a very curious--coincidence," he said presently.
This was the most apposite word that occurred to him, for he did not
consider it advisable to mention the photograph. It seemed to him that
the girl would not like it. Nor, though he was greatly tempted, did he
care to make inquiries concerning her just then. In another moment or
two the Major spoke again.
"If I can make your stay here pleasanter in any way I should be
delighted," he said. "If you will take up your quarters with us I will
send down to the inn for your things."
Wyllard excused himself, but when the lady urged him at least to dine
with them on the following evening he appeared to consider.
"The one difficulty is that I don't know yet whether I shall be engaged
then," he explained. "As it happens, I've a message for Miss Ismay,
and I wrote offering to call upon her at any convenient hour. So far I
have heard nothing from her."
"She's away," Mrs. Radcliffe informed him. "They have probably sent
your letter on to her. I had a note from her yesterday, however, and
expect her here to-morrow. You have met some friends of hers in
Canada?"
"Gregory Hawtrey," said Wyllard. "I have promised to call upon his
people, too."
He saw Major Radcliffe glance at his wife, and the faint gleam in the
latter's eyes.
"Well," she said, "if you will promise to come I will send word over to
Agatha."
Wyllard agreed to this, and went away a few minutes later. He noticed
the tact and consideration with which his new friends had refrained
from expressing any sign of the curiosity he fancied they naturally
felt, for Mrs. Radcliffe's face had suggested that she understood the
situation. The latter was, however, commencing to appear a little more
difficult to him. It was, it seemed, his task to explain to a girl
brought up among such people delicately what she must be prepared to
face as a farmer's wife in Western Canada. He was not sure that this
would be easy in itself, but it was rendered much more difficult by the
fact that Hawtrey would expect him to accomplish it without unduly
daunting her. Her letter had certainly suggested courage, but, after
all, it was as he reflected the courage of ignorance, and he had now
some notion of the life of ease and refinement her English friends led.
He was commencing to feel sorry for Agatha Ismay.