MILLICENT GLADWYNE
In a few more days they left the river, abandoning the canoe and tent and
a portion of their gear. Ascending to higher levels, they crossed a
rugged waste, which, fortunately for them, was thinly timbered; but there
was keen frost, and snow in places, and Nasmyth suffered a good deal
during this portion of the journey. At last, however, they descended to a
sheltered valley in which the firs grew tall, and Jake agreed with Lisle
that it would form the best road to the settlements.
Nasmyth was longing for civilization when he lay awake late one night,
wrapped in a single blanket, beside the sinking fire. Dark columnar
trunks rose about him, touched with the uncertain red radiance now and
then cast upon them when little puffs of bitter wind stirred the blaze,
and he could see the filmy wreaths of smoke eddy among the branches. He
was cold and overtired; the day's march had been a long one; his
shoulders ached cruelly after carrying a heavy load, and every joint was
sore. Besides, his bed was unpleasantly hard, and he envied his
companions, who had long ago sunk into heavy slumber. For the last hour
he had been thinking over the discoveries he had made on the journey,
which he devoutly wished he had never undertaken; the thought of them had
troubled him on other bitter nights. Lisle was not the man to let the
matter drop; he was much more likely to follow it up with dogged
persistence to the end; and Nasmyth, who was to some extent pledged to
assist him, saw trouble ahead.
In spite of this, he was beginning to get drowsy when a faint and yet
strangely melodious chiming broke through the whispering of the firs. It
seemed to come from above him, falling through the air, and he roused
himself to listen, wondering if he were quite awake. The musical clash he
had first heard had ceased, but for a while he thought he could
distinguish the tolling of a single bell; then in varying notes the peal
broke out again.
There was something ethereal in the clear tones. The last time he had
heard anything like them he was sitting one Sunday morning on a shady
lawn while the call of the bells came softly up to him across the English
woods. He glanced at his comrades, but they showed no sign of hearing,
and raising himself on one elbow he lay and listened, until the music,
growing fainter and fainter, died away. Then, puzzled and half convinced
that his imagination had played him some fantastic trick, he went to
sleep.
He mentioned the occurrence diffidently at breakfast the next morning,
expecting incredulous laughter; but Lisle, without making a comment,
glanced at Jake questioningly.
"No," responded Jake. "Nothing to bring them up so far."
"You couldn't have been mistaken?" Lisle asked Nasmyth.
"I thought I must be; but the more I listened, the clearer it got."
"Go and see," Lisle said, addressing Jake, and when they had finished
breakfast the packer strode away.
"We'll wait a bit," advised Lisle. "I'm a little worried about provisions
again. It's still a long march to the nearest wagon trail."
Nasmyth failed to understand how the delay would improve their position,
but believing that his companion was somewhat dubious about his tale he
restrained his curiosity. In half an hour Jake came back and nodded to
Lisle.
"Quite a bunch of them," he reported. "I struck the fellow's trail."
"What was it I heard?" Nasmyth asked.
"Cow-bells," Lisle explained, laughing. "In this country, they generally
put them on any cattle that run loose in the timber. Some adventurous
rancher has located up here, though I hadn't expected to find one so far
north. Anyway, it's a relief; he'll no doubt be able to let us have
something to eat."
They reached the man's log house an hour later, and spent the day with
him, enjoying a much needed rest. The next morning he supplied them with
provisions and told them how to find a trail down to a wagon road; and,
setting out, they safely reached a settlement in regular communication
with the cities.
It was the settlement Lisle had expected to come to, and he found a
bundle of correspondence awaiting him there. Before he opened it,
however, he and Nasmyth supplied themselves with such clothing as they
could obtain at the local store, and then demanded a bath at the little
wooden hotel. They had some trouble in obtaining it, but Nasmyth was
firm, and eventually he sat down to supper, clad in a blue shirt with
scarlet trimmings, extremely tight-fitting clothes and daintily-pointed
shoes.
"I think I'd have done better if I'd stuck to my rags, or else bought a
pair of what that fellow called river-Jacks' boots," he commented
ruefully.
Lisle was similarly attired, but he was too busy with his meal to
sympathize with him, and some time after it was over Nasmyth, strolling
into the private room which they had obtained as a signal concession,
found him writing at a littered table. Sitting down, he watched him for a
while with some slight wonder. For a number of weeks, he had seen his
companion handling heavy loads, cooking, and hauling canoes round rapids
with the skill of a professional packer. It was hard to disassociate him
from the ranges and the bush; but now, with the pile of letters before
him, he had suddenly become a business man. Nasmyth saw him answer a
couple in a swift, decided manner which showed that he was at home in his
present occupation. It was one of the quick character-changes which,
while common in the West, are apt to bewilder the more stereotyped
Englishman.
"Are you coming to England with me?" Nasmyth asked at length.
"No; I'm sorry I can't," answered Lisle, pausing, pen in hand. "This
Gladwyne matter will probably take time and I have none to spare now.
There have been some unexpected developments in my affairs. I don't know
when I can get away."
Nasmyth was conscious of some relief. His companion would have to defer
the prosecution of plans that threatened to cause trouble in England,
which was something to be thankful for, though he had a strong sympathy
for the man.
"Has it ever struck you that you might have less difficulty if you could
be content with proving half of what you claim?" he asked. "It's the more
important part--I mean that your late comrade failed to find the cache."
"Half a truth is not much use--Gladwyne realized that. To declare you
haven't done the wrong is a good deal less effective than pointing to the
guilty man."
"I suppose that's correct," Nasmyth agreed. "But, after all, unless you
can get hold of a list of the provisions cached--and it has most likely
been destroyed--there's only one way of substantiating your views."
"Exactly. Gladwyne's confession will place the matter beyond all doubt."
"Do you think you will ever get it?"
Lisle's expression hardened.
"Well," he said, "I'm going to try."
Nasmyth abandoned all attempt to daunt or dissuade him.
"Anyway," he resumed, "when you come over you must stay with me. I'm
sorry we'll have to part company to-morrow. I start east by the first
train."
He strolled out into the moonlight and the keen frosty air. The little
wooden town was soon left behind, and sauntering down the rough wagon
road beneath towering firs, he saw the great hill summits glitter white
against the sky. It was a wonderful country; the grandest he had ever
traversed; but it demanded a good deal from the man who ventured into its
wilds, and he was not sorry that he was turning his back on it.
Then, as he thought of the land he was bound for and recalled the tragic
story of Gladwyne's journey, he once more grew troubled. He realized the
immutable sequence of cause and effect--each action had its result which
must be faced however much one repented and regretted it. The deed, once
done, could not be altered and, what was worse, its consequences reached
out to others. Then he wondered whether Clarence had ever repented, and
admitted, with a recurrence of his indignation against the man, that it
was far from probable. Clarence was one who took life lightly, and
although his means had been small until he came into his cousin's
possessions, he had somehow succeeded in getting what is often considered
the best out of it. Self-denial in any shape was unknown to him.
The next morning Nasmyth took the train for Montreal, and about a
fortnight later alighted at a little station in the north of England as
the early dusk was closing in. It was a quiet evening and the soft
moistness of his native air struck him as something pleasantly familiar
after the keener, drier atmosphere of the Dominion. He was glad to be
back again, but when he looked around, the trap waiting in the wet road
outside the railings was not his own. Neither did it belong to Clarence,
whom he had partly expected; but on the whole Nasmyth was glad of that.
He had not looked forward to the first meeting with Clarence with any
pleasure.
In another moment, a girl came along the platform through the groups of
local passengers, who respectfully made way for her. She was tall, and
her long outer garment failed to conceal her grace of movement and fine
poise, though in the fading light her face was almost invisible beneath a
large hat. The sight of her sent a thrill of satisfaction through the
man; it was seldom that Millicent Gladwyne's appearance was unwelcome to
her friends. She approached him with outstretched hand.
"I drove over for you. Clarence couldn't come; he was suddenly called up
to town," she began. "It would have been rather lonely for you to spend
the first evening by yourself at the Lodge. You will come to us?"
"Thoughtful as ever," smiled Nasmyth, with a little bow which was
respectful as well as friendly. "I needn't ask how you are; the way you
walked along the platform was a testimony to our Border air."
She laughed, softly and musically.
"It is more needful to inquire how you have stood your adventures?"
"I believe I'm thinner; but that isn't astonishing, everything
considered. I suppose Clarence is getting on pretty satisfactorily?"
"Clarence? Oh, yes!" There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice which
Nasmyth noticed. "He has been in town a good deal of late. But come
along; the horse--he's a new one--is rather restive. They'll send on your
things."
"The remnant of my outfit's contained in one small bag," laughed Nasmyth;
"the rest's scattered about the hillsides of British Columbia. I was a
picturesque scarecrow when I reached the settlements."
They moved away along the platform, and on reaching the trap he got up
beside her and handed her the reins.
"I want to look about, if you don't mind," he explained.
"I really think the prospect's worth it," she replied. "Besides, Riever's
fresh and needs humoring."
She shook the whip, and as they clattered away down the steep, twisting
road, Nasmyth glanced with satisfaction to left and right. He had seen
wilder and grander lands, but none of them appealed to him like this
high, English waste. On one hand dim black hills rose out of fleecy mist;
on the other a leafless birch wood, close by, stood out in curiously
fragile and delicate tracery against a paling saffron glow, though
overhead the sky was barred with motionless gray cloud. A sharp smell of
peat-smoke followed them as they clattered past a low white cottage with
a yellow glow in one window; and then the earthy scent of rotting leaves
replaced it as they plunged into the gloom of an oak wood beneath the
birches. A stream splashing down a hollow made faint music in the midst
of it. When they had emerged from the shadow and climbed a steep rise,
wide moors stretched away in front, rising and falling in long
undulations, streaked with belts of mist. The crying of restless plovers
came out of the gathering dimness.
"All this is remarkably nice; though I don't think I should have
appreciated it quite so much if I'd been alone," Nasmyth said at length.
Millicent laughed lightly. She had known him since her childhood and was
quite aware that he had not intended to pay her a labored compliment;
they were too good friends for that. Once, indeed, he had desired a
closer bond, but he had quietly acquiesced when with gentle firmness she
had made it clear that she was not for him. Submission had not been easy,
but he had long admitted her right to more than he could offer. In this,
however, he was to some extent mistaken, because the gifts he could
bring--a staunch honesty, faithfulness, and a genial nature--are not to
be despised.
"Well," she replied, "I love these moors and dales, as of course you
know, and I've become more of a stay-at-home than ever during the past
year." There was a slight regretfulness in her voice which had its
meaning for him. "I'm never satisfied with the drawings," she went on,
"though I've made so many of them."
Nasmyth made a sign of comprehension. She had undertaken to finish and
illustrate her brother's roughed-out work, a book on the fauna of the
Border, and she had brought to it a fine artistic skill and patience, as
well as a love of the wild creatures of the waste. It was, perhaps, a
curious occupation for a young woman, but she had devoted herself to it
with characteristic thoroughness.
"He wanted it to be as complete and accurate as possible," she added
simply.
Her companion felt compassionate. In some respects, it was almost a pity
that Millicent could not forget.
"You got my letter--the one in which I said I meant to pick up and follow
out his trail?" he asked.
"Yes. I knew it would be difficult. Indeed, I was anxious about you; the
wilderness has claimed so much from me. But did you--"
"I succeeded," Nasmyth answered quietly.
The nod she gave him was expressive. It meant that she had expected him
to succeed; he was a man who did what he said.
"I think George should never have made that journey," she resumed. "Fond
of the open as he was, he hadn't the physical stamina. He never spared
himself; he was apt to overestimate his powers."
It was spoken with a grave regretfulness that troubled Nasmyth and yet
stirred him to strong appreciation of her character. With all her love
for her brother, she could face the truth.
"I've learned that he bore everything with the fortitude one would expect
from him--doing his share always with the rest," Nasmyth said. "We got
through a little earlier, and had better weather; but I saw enough to
convince me that the difficulties George had to contend with would have
killed any ordinary man."
"They did not kill Clarence."
Nasmyth once more burned with anger against the transgressor.
"No," he replied in a strained tone; "Clarence escaped."
She flashed a sharp glance at him, and he felt glad that it was too dark
for her to see his face.
"You must tell me the whole story to-night," she requested.
Her companion made no answer. With the reserve that must be maintained on
several points, the story would be difficult to relate; and it could not
fail to be painful to her. The horror she would feel if she ever learned
that her brother might have been saved had his cousin shown more
resolution was a thing he dare not contemplate, and he wondered if the
shock the knowledge must bring could be spared her. This depended upon
Lisle, whom he had promised to assist. Nasmyth could foresee nothing but
trouble, and he was silent for a while as they drove on across the lonely
moor.