AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
GERALD had often thought vaguely of the time when he would be left
alone. Between him and his father there had been an intimacy and mutual
dependence greater than usually exists between father and son. Now that
his father had passed away, a sudden feeling of desolation chilled the
boy’s spirits, and he asked himself what life had in store for him of
hope and happiness. But youth is buoyant, and Gerald was but sixteen.
He felt that he had something to live for. He would redeem his father’s
reputation, and instead of giving way to his feelings would fight
manfully the great battle of life.
But how? To what should he turn? He began to consider his resources.
First and most available was money. He emptied his pockets, and took
account of his worldly wealth. It amounted to one dollar and sixty-five
cents, all told.
“That isn’t much,” thought Gerald. “I shall have to go to work without
delay.”
He prepared supper as usual, but had small heart to sit down to it
alone. Little as he liked Bradley Wentworth he would have been glad to
have his company till he could endure the thought of solitude. But he
was not destined to eat by himself. Going to the door of the cabin just
as his simple preparations were made, he caught sight of an approaching
figure. It was that of a stranger, a strong, robust man of little more
than thirty, with a florid face and dressed like an English tourist.
“Hallo, there!” called out the stranger, as he caught sight of Gerald.
“Hallo!” responded Gerald.
“Is there any hotel round here?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“As I feared. I’ve been wandering round this confounded country till
I’ve got lost. It’s a beastly wilderness, that’s what it is.”
Gerald smiled. His experience of men was limited, and he had never met
a British tourist before.
“May I sit down awhile?” went on the newcomer.
There was a long seat built against the cabin, with the wall of the
latter for a back.
“Certainly, sir. I shall be glad of company.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes, sir. I have lived here for three years.”
“I should think you’d commit suicide, I should, upon my word. Does no
one live with you?”
“Not now,” answered Gerald gravely. “My father died two days since.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I do indeed,” said the Englishman in a tone of
sympathy. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“No, he had long been sick of consumption. I was feeling very lonely,
for he was only buried to-day.”
“I hope I don’t intrude. I wouldn’t do that on any account.”
“No; on the contrary I am glad to have company. I was about to sit down
to supper. If agreeable I shall be pleased to have you join me.”
“Supper!” repeated the tourist with sudden animation. “It is the one
thing I have been longing for. I haven’t eaten a particle of food since
morning, and didn’t know where to find any, though my pocket is full of
money.”
“I can’t offer you anything very inviting,” said Gerald, as he led the
way into the cabin. “I have some fish and potatoes, bread and coffee,
but I have neither milk nor butter.”
“Don’t apologize, my young friend,” interposed the Englishman. “It is
a feast fit for the gods. I have an appetite that will make anything
palatable. But where do you get your bread? There can’t be any bakers’
shops in this wilderness.”
“There are not. I make my own bread.”
“You don’t say so! And upon my word it is delicious.”
“It is fortunate that you are hungry,” said Gerald with a smile.
“No, ’pon honor, it isn’t that. It is really better than I often eat at
hotels. You really have talent as a cook.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t care for cooking, but have taken it up from
necessity.”
The tourist hadn’t exaggerated his appetite. He ate so heartily that
when the meal was concluded there wasn’t a crumb left. All the dishes
were empty.
“I ought to apologize for my appetite,” he said, “but I have been
rambling about ever since breakfast, and I find the air here very
stimulating.”
“Don’t think of apologizing!” returned Gerald. “I am glad you relished
my simple supper.”
“Now, if I were only sure of a bed, I should feel quite easy in mind.”
“I will gladly offer you a bed. This is the first night that I should
have been alone, and the solitude depressed me.”
“I will accept your kind offer thankfully. But you ought to know whom
you are obliging.”
The stranger drew from his pocket a card on which Gerald read the name:
THE HON. NOEL BROOKE.
“I should be glad to give you my card, Mr. Brooke,” said Gerald, “but
here in this wilderness cards are not customary. My name is Gerald
Lane.”
“I am delighted to know you, Mr. Lane,” said the tourist offering his
hand cordially.
It seemed odd to Gerald to be called “Mr. Lane.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Brooke,” he said, “please call me Gerald. I
never thought of myself as Mr. Lane.”
“I will do so with pleasure, and it will seem easy and familiar, for I
have a _Cousin_ Gerald. His name, too, is not unlike yours. He is Lord
Gerald Vane, son of the Marquis of Dunbar.”
“There is one essential difference,” said Gerald. “I am plain
Gerald—I can’t call myself a lord.”
“Oh, you are all sovereigns in America,” laughed the Englishman, “and
that is higher than the title of lord.”
“Perhaps you are a lord also?” suggested Gerald.
“No, Gerald, not at present. My father has a title, but my elder
brother will inherit that. However, that is of little importance here.”
“Have you been long in Colorado, Mr. Brooke?”
“About a month. I was told it was the Switzerland of America. So after
visiting your principal cities and having seen your famous Niagara, I
pushed on out here, but I didn’t reckon on there being no hotels, or I
might have stayed away.”
“There will be plenty of hotels in a few years. There are few
settlements as yet.”
“Just so. Excuse my saying so, but until that time comes I should
rather keep away. And you have actually lived here for three years?”
“Yes.”
“But why come here when there are plenty of places where you would have
enjoyed greater advantages?”
“We came here on account of my father’s health. He was in a
consumption, and the dry, clear air of this region is especially
favorable for any lung troubles.”
“Did he experience benefit?”
“Yes; he lived three years, when elsewhere he would probably have died
in twelve months.”
“But now you won’t stay here? _You_ haven’t got consumption.”
“Not that I am aware of,” answered Gerald with a smile.
“Have you formed any plans?”
“No; I have not had time.”
“You ought to go to New York or Chicago. There would surely be an
opening in one of those cities for a clever boy like yourself.”
“Thank you for the compliment. There is one good reason, however, why I
cannot follow your advice.”
“Name it.”
“Money is necessary, and my poor father was unable to leave me any.”
“But this cabin?”
“That indeed belongs to me and the eighty acres adjoining, but it would
be difficult to sell it, nor do I care to do so. Some day, when the
country is more settled, it may be worth much more than at present.”
“You are right, Gerald. But you are not obliged to remain here. The
cabin and the land won’t run away.”
“That’s true. I mean to leave it and go somewhere, but my plans are not
formed yet.”
“Then let me help you form them. I want to make a prolonged tour in
this country, and I find it beastly dull without a companion. Come with
me!”
“But, Mr. Brooke, I am poor. I have less than two dollars in my
possession.”
“My dear fellow, what difference does that make?”
“But I can’t travel without money.”
“I offer you a position as my—private secretary, with a salary of—I
say now, I don’t know how much to pay you. We’ll call it four pounds a
week, twenty dollars in your money, if that is satisfactory.”
“But, Mr. Brooke,” exclaimed Gerald in astonishment. “I don’t
understand the duties of a private secretary, and I can’t possibly be
worth that money.”
“You won’t find your duties difficult. I call you my secretary, but
you’ll only have to keep me company.”
“I will do that with pleasure, Mr. Brooke.”
“Then it’s all settled, Gerald. Your hand upon it!”
The two clasped hands, and Gerald felt that this new friend would be a
good offset for his powerful enemy.