At the breakfast table the next morning Douglas was talking happily of
their departure for Summit Lake.
“You’ll have to hustle the work of timber cruising,” his father
admonished. “There won’t be any time for play, as we expect to have the
road finished in a few weeks.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. This is my first real job, and I am going to make
good,” declared Douglas stoutly.
“I hope so, Douglas. As you know, I want you to work your way up on your
own merits. I’m not going to show any favouritism. We are going to put
in a larger mill at Cheakamus, and one at Summit Lake, so there will be
good opportunities for advancement for you and McLean if you show the
right spirit.
“Is Mr. McLean going with you?” interposed Janet in a casual tone.
“Yes.”
“How can he leave his business for so long?”
“He’s not actively engaged in business just at present,” explained
Douglas glibly.
“You might ask him out to dinner to-night. I am having a few friends in
for the evening.”
“You bet I will.”
Donald accepted Janet’s invitation with alacrity. Living within the four
bare walls of a room and eating in restaurants had long since palled on
his taste.
“Formal or informal?” he asked.
Douglas made a deprecatory gesture. “Formal, very formal. You don’t know
Janet or you wouldn’t ask that question. My sister is a stickler for
ceremony. How are you off for ‘soup and fish’?”
“I have the necessaries,” smiled Donald.
Donald spent more than the usual time in dressing. He stood before the
small mirror and surveyed himself with a critical eye. “Pretty soft for
you,” he apostrophized himself, “eating in ten-cent restaurants one day
and dining in a millionaire’s home the next, and on the invitation of
the most beautiful girl you have ever met.”
Douglas called for him with his car and whisked him to the palatial
Rennie residence on Shaughnessy Heights. The imposing evidence of wealth
was written in bold headlines on the whole street of beautiful homes.
Mrs. Rennie met them at the door and greeted Donald warmly. He could not
repress a start as he noted her likeness to Janet, and when she spoke
her voice held the same deep tone as her daughter’s. She led him to a
large room flanked by two enormous bays that looked out on the Avenue.
There was a spaciousness in all the rooms, a rare combination of beauty
and good taste in the furnishings, that were luxurious without being
ornate. Robert Rennie came forward and gave him a cheery welcome. Donald
heard Janet’s voice behind him and turned to gaze on a vision of
loveliness.
Janet had dressed for the occasion with unusual care. A dark red evening
gown of a filmy material showed to advantage the delicate contour of her
form and the graceful curve of her snow-white shoulders and neck. Her
lovely hair was wound in shining coils and held with a comb that
sparkled with small but brilliant diamonds. Her long dark lashes
drooped, and she flushed slightly as she met Donald’s look of
undisguised admiration.
Mrs. Rennie was an excellent hostess. Her cultured and charming
personality put Donald quite at ease. It seemed ages since he had worn a
dress-suit and been entertained in a home of luxury and refinement.
After the coarse fare of noisy restaurants which had been his, the
excellent food, the rich linen, the home-like atmosphere and the subdued
voices now gave him a pleasant thrill.
The conversation during dinner was on various subjects. At times it
swung perilously near to matters pertaining to Donald’s personal
affairs. On such occasions Douglas adroitly shifted it to other
channels.
Janet studied Donald covertly. His perfect poise, his air of refinement
and his evident lack of self-consciousness impressed her. “He is
cultured and well-bred,” she thought as she noted his well-shaped head,
his powerful shoulders and his clean-cut profile.
Near the finish of dinner, while waiting for coffee to be served, there
came a lull in the conversation which was finally broken by Janet. “Doug
tells me that you are engaged in the glove business, Mr. McLean,” she
stated.
Donald shot a quick glance at Douglas, but his friend’s face was hidden
in his handkerchief to smother a sudden attack of coughing. In spite of
Donald’s great effort at self-control, he felt a warm flush rise in his
cheeks. What had Douglas divulged? Did his sister know of his
participation in a boxing-match? He looked at Douglas appealingly. It
was evident that he would receive no aid from that quarter, as that
young man’s only assistance was a prolonged coughing that effectually
drowned immediate conversation, but would have to stop sooner or later
for lack of breath.
At this crucial moment Robert Rennie came to his assistance. “I would
like Mr. McLean to witness a sunset from our roof,” he said as he rose
from the table. “Let us have our coffee served there. The light will be
gone if we wait longer.”
As they ascended the stairs Donald gave his host a grateful look, which
Mr. Rennie returned understandingly. That moment cemented an instant
friendship in Donald’s heart for this broad-minded Western millionaire.
From the eminence of the tiny roof garden the City, sliced with streets,
lay at their feet. To the north the mountains were invested with a
mystic blue haze, through which towered the snow-clad peaks. To the west
lay the curving white sands of English Bay, and beyond, in the clear air
of the long British Columbia twilight, they could see the strong
mountainous profile of Vancouver Island.
“The topography of our City,” explained Robert Rennie, “lying between
Burrard Inlet and False Creek, is very much like that of New York on
Manhattan Island. The narrows are deep enough for the largest ship
afloat, and the Inlet—a veritable inland sea—has unlimited room for
docks.
“The name ‘Narrows’ seems a feeble word for such a magnificent spot,”
observed Donald.
“Quite true,” admitted Robert Rennie. “It was only yesterday that one of
our public-spirited citizens suggested the name ‘Lions’ Gate’.”
“Oh, Dad, that would be lovely!” exclaimed Janet, her eyes shining. “The
‘Lions’ Gate,’ with the two watchful Lions looking down on all who
enter. The name is most fitting.”
“Yes,” concurred Douglas, “Canada being one of the Lion’s whelps, what
more appropriate name than ‘Lions’ Gate,’ the western gateway to the
British Empire?”
“The Creator was wonderfully kind to us in His allotment of mountains,”
said Janet’s father; “mountains that are not only valuable for their
scenic beauty, but for their mineral-filled rocks and forest-clad sides.
Our bays, inlets and streams are filled with fish, and our climate is so
mild on the Coast that man can live in comfort amid congenial
surroundings the year round.
“Here we have the last of the Great West,” continued Mr. Rennie. “With
nearly four hundred thousand miles of territory, a coast line seven
thousand miles in length, our population for the entire Province is less
than one of the Coast cities to the south of us. Here in this vast
untouched hinterland,” swinging his arm to the north and east, “lies a
potential wealth that will support millions, a wealth that is awaiting
the magic touch of capital and settlers—capital to provide railways;
farmers to till the rich valley; miners to unlock the vast hoards of
gold and copper; and loggers to fell the virgin forests. Some day—and
that day is not far distant—all this will come to pass, and you young
folks will see a railroad from Vancouver to the Behring Sea.” The
speaker’s face was flushed and his eyes were glowing. “Who knows,” he
finished dreamily, “but what the railroad I am building will be a link
in the Alaskan road of the future?”
“Here is a family,” thought Donald, “all native-born, who have a deep
and abiding faith in the destiny of the land of their birth.”
Addressing Mr. Rennie, he said: “If the love that you and yours have for
this Province is typical of the average citizen, I see no need to fear
for the future of your country.”
“Thank you,” the older man replied gravely. “Our population is made up
of people from all parts of the world, as our native-born are few. A
cosmopolite is more or less indifferent to the future of the country in
which he resides. ‘Get the money’ is unfortunately the slogan of many of
our business men, who make no attempt to build for the future. Until
such time as there is ingrained in the hearts of our citizens a true
love for our Province; until such time as our cities and towns forget
petty bickerings and jealousies and work together and harmoniously,
then—and only then—will British Columbia become what Nature intended,
the crowning jewel of the British Empire.”
Janet’s guests arrived in groups of two and three until about twenty of
Vancouver’s younger set were scattered about the large rooms. In
introducing Donald to her friends Janet felt a warm glow of satisfaction
as she saw the many glances of keen interest directed toward her
stranger guest.
A slender girl with elaborately coiffed golden hair, looking like a
white butterfly, fluttered to Janet’s side and shook a reproving finger
in her face. “’Fess up now, Janet,” she pouted; “how long have you been
hiding this handsome man? Who is this Prince Charming?”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” was Janet’s evasive reply.
Donald had no penchant for social functions, but this lively party was a
grateful respite from a whole winter of lonely evenings, and he entered
into the spirit of the occasion wholeheartedly.
A game of whist and then the big rooms were cleared and they danced
until a late hour. At Donald’s request Janet sang for them. Her rich
contralto voice seemed to fill the room and set the air pulsing with
sweet harmony. She sang a song of love and passion that seemed to bear
Donald into another world. As he turned the final sheet and the last
liquid note travelled through the rooms he roused himself as though from
a spell. That voice! How strangely it affected him! He looked down to
find Janet’s dark eyes fixed on his.
“Will you please sing again?” he implored.
“The same?” she questioned softly.
He nodded. Donald’s gaze travelled from the flying white fingers to the
lovely face of the singer. As their eyes met Janet’s face flushed
slightly, and at the finish of the verse she changed quickly to a
rollicking song of the sea. “All join in,” she called merrily over her
shoulder.
After Janet’s other guests had departed Donald, Douglas and Janet sat
for an hour chatting by the large fireplace.
“May I go with you as far as Squamish to-morrow?” asked Janet.
“Certainly, Sis.”
“And when the railroad is through I will visit you,” she added.
Douglas looked at her curiously. Janet abhorred roughing it. Riding
around Stanley Park and an occasional game of tennis comprised the
extent of her outdoor activities. Douglas glanced at the clock and came
quickly to his feet. “I’d better hustle you home, Donald,” he said, “as
we have to be up early.”
The tinted shade of the hall light lent a soft radiance to the dark
beauty of Janet’s face and gave to her eyes a deep and languorous glow.
“I have enjoyed every moment. Thank you so much,” Donald said earnestly.
“I’m glad,” she answered in a quiet voice.
He took her hand and held it in a strong pressure. “I’ll see you in the
morning?”
“Yes,” she murmured softly.
The door closed gently and Janet heard him run down the steps to the
whirring motor. She stood immovable until the sound of the car died in
the distance, then walked meditatively to the fireplace, sank to a big
chair and stared dreamily into the dying embers. Idly she reached for
the evening paper and spread it on her knees.
“Such dignity and poise! He is wonderful!” she whispered aloud. “I must
ask Douglas more about him.”
She lowered her eyes to the paper, then came slowly to her feet, a look
of blank amazement on her face. Smiling up at her was the face of the
man of whom she had been dreaming.
“Canadian Champion
“New Canadian champion, whose spectacular defeat of Garrieau
stamps him as a master of fistiana and places him in line to
meet the world’s top-notchers.”
A pugilist! And she had proudly introduced him to her friends! Why
hadn’t Douglas told her? She threw herself into a chair and gave herself
over to a period of gloomy contemplation.
Whistling softly, Douglas shut off the hall lights and entered the room.
“Not in bed yet? You’d better——” he broke off suddenly as she turned
cold eyes upon him.
“Why didn’t you tell me that your friend is a pugilist?” she demanded as
she thrust the offending sheet in Douglas’s hand. “In the glove
business!” she went on sarcastically. “That may be your idea of a joke,
but I don’t see anything funny about it.” And without waiting for an
answer she flung herself angrily from the room.
Douglas lighted a cigarette, which he smoked with short angry puffs as
he walked the floor. He kicked viciously at an inoffensive footstool and
sent it hurtling across the room. “Damn!” Then throwing the half-smoked
cigarette in the fireplace, he switched off the light and sought his
bed.