The trail to Wainwright’s cabin was a mere path that followed the
vagaries of a small mountain stream which at times flowed with a
tranquil murmur, then suddenly plunged over ledges and shattered itself
into creamy foam on the worn rocks below.
Out of breath from the steep climb, Donald and Andy sat down as they
reached the bluff. Everywhere was the song of birds and the whispering
of gentle zephyrs laden with the fragrance of the forest.
“Whit, whit, whit, ch’ wee-e-e-e,” sounded the shrill hunting call of an
osprey, or “fish-hawk,” as he wheeled over the lake, then made his
spectacular plunge and rose on high with a fish gripped in his long,
powerful talons. Donald watched him carry it to his mate, who was
standing guard over a big nest in the top of a dead pine. Again the male
bird dropped like a bolt, struck the water with a loud splash, and
disappeared below the surface for a few seconds, then rose to scatter
spray in his struggles to lift himself clear of the water.
A bald eagle, from the vantage point of a tall fir, took instant note of
the successful fisherman, and with a majestic swoop flew under the
smaller bird. Higher and higher rose the osprey, the eagle relentlessly
pursuing, until at last the intimidated bird released its hold on the
prize. With a scream of triumph the eagle seized the glistening,
wriggling fish in mid-air and bore it away.
From the woods in their rear came the lilt of a song mingled with the
thud of flying hoofs, and around a tangle of low spruce came a piebald
cayuse at full gallop. On his bare back the girl of the woods was
standing with arms outstretched, pirouetting on her moccasined toes like
a dancing dervish. Her heavy hair streaming about her face and
shoulders, she seemed even more an elf than when poised for flight on
the edge of her fairy nest. As she neared the bluff she settled to her
seat and seized the reins.
Donald came to his feet. For a moment it seemed as if he were to be
passed unnoticed. He ran to the trail and waved his arm with a welcoming
shout. This brought him a flash of startled blue eyes, then the cayuse
with a snort of fear went straight up into the air, spinning high on his
hindlegs. A sharp word of command and a quick twist of the nut-brown
hands caused the frightened beast to half turn and lower his forelegs
gently to the ground. As he stepped to the cayuse’s head Donald noted
the lean and sinewed flanks of the animal, the strong muscled shoulders,
and the slender but powerful limbs. He stroked the shiny neck and
Pegasus made answer to such advances by rubbing his moist nose against
Donald’s shoulder.
“Nothing mythical about this steed,” observed Donald, gently prodding
the bunched muscles on the horse’s chest. “And,” he added jestingly, “I
do not see the golden bridle presented by the goddess to Bellerophon
while he slept.”
A subtle flicker danced momentarily in the corners of the blue orbs of
the rider. “I have clipped his wings, so I have no need of the magic
bridle,” she said smilingly.
The voice was gentle and mellow. The pronunciation, clear and perfect,
held a trace of English accent that was pleasing to Donald’s ears. One
could not look upon Connie without thinking of flowers, birds and
sunshine. Constant exercise had turned her muscles into cords of steel;
mountain air and sunshine had darkened her face and hands to a deep
bronze and brought to her cheeks a warm glow that showed richly through
the coat of tan.
Connie looked on this stranger as a being infinitely beyond her ken, a
part of a world of which she had no knowledge. His tall, well-knit body,
his shining black hair, dark flashing eyes, his fine clothes and his
deep resonant voice were a source of wonder and admiration to this girl,
whose knowledge of men was limited to a few lone trappers and Indians.
She was suddenly disconcerted and felt like running away.
“I was on my way to call on you. Is your father home?”
Surprised at her own boldness, Connie slipped lightly to the ground and
stood beside him.
“Yes,” she rejoined awkwardly, “he is. I’ll go with you.”
Donald spoke again, with a playful smile that caused the girl to flush
with a mixture of pleasure and confusion. “I thought when I saw you
poised on Pegasus’s back that a close inspection would disclose a pair
of transparent, gauzy wings, but,” peering at her shoulders, “evidently
the rider is clipped as well.”
As they walked up the path, Andy following, it seemed to Connie that
they were strolling through the fields of Elysium.
At first glance Donald saw that Wainwright’s log cabins had been built
by a rank novice. The walls were rakishly askew, the corners out of
plumb, and the joints showed big gaps filled with moss. The rough
construction of the dissimilar, rambling cluster of houses served to
enhance rather than mar the wild grandeur of this oasis on the rocky
mountain-side.
Into this valley poured a mountain stream which had gouged out for
itself a canyon, through which its waters swept and tumbled, as green as
jade in the sunlight, like emerald in the shadow, and snowy white in the
roaring rapids. On the other side, the towering profiles of the cliffs
were edged with stunted growths of pine and spruce, while here and there
were soft patches of green moss clinging to the damp places.
The few acres wrested from the wilderness were rich with a green carpet
of clover and timothy, and in a pasture at the corner a sleek Jersey cow
was feeding diligently. In the same enclosure a deer nibbled delicately
at the tender shoots. A flock of pure white ducks, in single file,
waddled down the hill and plunged with a subdued quacking into a small
pond. Within a yard enclosed by a fence of split cedar the lusty crow of
a rooster sounded above the cackling of his family.
The low walls of the main cabin were festooned with a mass of wild
creepers in which the wild honeysuckle predominated. Wild flowers, each
species separate, were growing in neat round plots bordered with
carefully arranged stones. Scores of birds flitted through the low
bushes, rested on fences and roofs, or hopped unafraid through the
grass. Siskins and finches there were, in gold or olive; blue jays and
their cousins, the camp-robbers; bluebirds; sparrows singing sweetly;
waxwings “zeeping” through the garden; warblers gurgling softly;
scolding grey flycatchers and numerous other species unknown to Donald.
A camp-robber flew to Connie’s outstretched arm. From the capacious
pocket of her overalls she brought a crust of bread, at which the bird
pecked hungrily. Another bird lighted on the brim of Andy’s wide hat.
The little man attempted to peer up at it without moving his head, and
the effort set his bushy eyebrows dancing. “Get off there, you
blighter!” he growled. “I don’t want any bloomin’ trimmin’s on me ’ead
gear.”
It was the first time Andy had spoken. Connie turned to him, her eyes
wide with curiosity. His droll face, the strange dialect and the lively
eyebrows caused a flock of dimples to chase each other about her pretty
lips.
Connie’s father and the Breed, working in the vegetable garden below,
glanced up and, seeing the strangers, laid down their tools and came up
the hill, the Breed moving jerkily on his crippled limb.
Raleigh Wainwright was a man of rather striking appearance. He was
slender, grey-haired, clean chiselled, and carried himself with a
military bearing. There was a certain fineness in the slight figure, a
symmetry of design, that suggested that indefinable something which is
the hall-mark of good breeding. He had a way of carrying his well-shaped
head that accentuated this aristocratic air. His grey eyes met Donald’s
with a level gaze as they shook hands.
After a cursory glance, Joe Pardon, the Breed, settled himself on a seat
against the wall of the cabin and rolled a cigarette. His face was
swarthy and sombre; coarse black hair topped his head. In repose his
features wore the impassive expression of the Indian, but when he
smiled—which rarely happened—he showed the French strain in his blood
and became almost handsome. He was of a sturdier build than the average
Siwash Indian, and as he leaned against the logs, with muscular arms
folded across his powerful chest, one would have thought him the
embodiment of all that is strong and virile in man, until the eyes
rested on the pitifully malformed leg, shrunken to one-half its normal
size.
“Won’t you come inside?” asked Wainwright politely.
“Thank you,” answered Donald, “but if you don’t mind I’d rather look at
your flower garden.”
It was quite evident that their host was pleased by this statement. “You
are interested in flowers?” he questioned eagerly.
“I am,” admitted Donald, “but unfortunately I don’t know much about
them.”
The dignified Englishman proved to be not only an intelligent, but a
most willing teacher. From plot to plot they went, the botanist glad to
talk on his hobby to an attentive audience. He gave the names of the
plants, their mode of germination, growth, nature and uses. For
half-an-hour his quiet voice went on until the lengthening shadows
deepened. As they moved toward the cabin, the Breed passed them carrying
a pail brimming with milk, at which Andy gazed with longing eyes.
“We always have a light lunch in the evening; won’t you stay?” begged
their host.
Andy nodded his blond head vigorously in a silent signal to Donald for
acceptance, and acceptance was instantly forthcoming.
The interior of the log cabin was rough in the extreme, but scrupulously
clean, with chairs, tables and beds that had never issued from a
furniture factory. The window-curtains were made of flour and sugar
sacks, on which the names of the manufacturers could still be
deciphered. On one wall were two bunks, set one above the other, on
which were spread heavy Hudson Bay blankets. No sheets were in evidence,
and the pillows were rough sacks stuffed with moss. The lower bunk
showed the feminine touch in its drapery of cheap blue print, a pathetic
attempt to brighten the coarse surroundings. Behind a small stove in the
corner hung an array of cooking utensils, spotlessly clean, but of
inferior quality. The one and only table, placed conveniently near the
stove, was as white as a ship’s deck from constant scouring.
In direct antithesis to this seeming poverty, one end of the cabin was
literally filled with books. These richly-bound volumes looked
incongruous in conjunction with the rough tables, the uncomfortable
chairs and the rude beds. Donald’s eyes roved over the books, arranged
on the shelves standing and crosswise. Most of them were in English, but
many were in German, French and Italian; some in what appeared to be
Arabic, perhaps Sanskrit; and dozens were on botany, ornithology and
natural history.
“A bookworm,” mused Donald, “a bookworm, and at the expense of his
personal comfort.” He felt ashamed of his unwarranted criticism of their
kind host.
“I built this cabin all alone,” informed Wainwright proudly.
Donald’s eyes rested on the speaker. Wainwright wore a shooting-jacket
and riding-breeches of excellent cut and of rare material, but now worn
threadbare and neatly patched. Donald knew that those rents had been
mended by a woman’s hands. Wainwright’s æsthetic face was impressive.
The marks of toil could not hide the delicacy of his thin hands with
their long, tapering fingers. The hands of a dreamer or poet, thought
Donald, not the hands to wield an axe. A quick admiration for this man’s
gameness filled his heart. “A good job,” he lied, as he surveyed the
sagging roof and bulging walls.
“As good an authority as Hillier told me that it was excellent work,”
stated their host rather boastfully.
“Bless old John’s heart!” thought Donald fervently.
It was plain that Connie had anticipated their staying for lunch, as the
table was set—with tin plates and cups—for four. She drew a pan of hot
rolls from the tiny oven, and, her face a deep red from the heat and her
exertions, she sat down to the table, using a canned goods box as a
seat. Donald noticed that the two chairs had been given up to the
guests, and he arose at once to offer his seat. Andy, not to be outdone
in gallantry, successfully prevailed on Connie to make the change.
“Bit shorter ever day,” he grinned as he sank to the box. At this Connie
lowered her head, her shoulders shaking with merriment.
Wainwright’s manner was that of the owner of a baronial estate
entertaining guests under the most luxurious surroundings. His cheeks
were flushed, and he seemed filled with a boyish happiness. “It no doubt
will seem incomprehensible to you,” he remarked with a smile, “when I
say that, with the exception of John Hillier, you are the first white
men to break bread with me under this roof. We are quite a distance from
the Pemberton trail, and therefore come in contact with but few
travellers.”
Little wonder, Donald thought, at their host’s nervous gaiety and the
child’s distress. What turn of Fate had caused this scholar to seek a
home in so lonely a spot? Misanthropes fled to the wilderness to escape
their fellow-men, but their welcome was proof that Wainwright was not of
that class. Why, then, had he voluntarily become an anchorite? Was he
obsessed by his hobby to such an extent that he had ostracized himself
to carry on the study of Nature? Was he a criminal hiding from justice?
Donald put the latter thought aside quickly. The Englishman’s delicate
features, with wide forehead, clear eyes, and tender, sensitive mouth,
were not the features of a man of criminal tendencies. At times, when in
repose, Wainwright’s face held a deep and brooding sadness. Some tragedy
had entered his life, Donald decided; some great calamity, that had
seared his very soul, had driven him to the life of a recluse.
Connie strove to appear at ease, but without success. Hoping to relieve
her embarrassment, Donald spoke to her. Although she ventured an upward
glance, his voice seemed only to heighten her confusion.
Mr. Wainwright resumed the discussion of the wild flowers of British
Columbia. With his head held sidewise, Andy listened intently to the
flow of conversation. When their host used Latin words Andy’s face would
assume a bewildered expression. With eyebrows raised inquiringly and a
humorous smile playing about his lips, he would turn to Connie and
slowly shake his head.
This odd little man, with his blithesome manner and the whimsical gleam
in his blue eyes, was extremely amusing to Connie, and it was with
difficulty that she controlled her mirth.
“I s’y,” observed Andy deferentially, “I’d like to learn about these
flowers and things; but, strike me ’andsome, the big words you use, and
some of them in the bohunk langwidge, puts more’n ’arf of it over me
bloomin’ ’ead.”
Wainwright’s laugh had a pleasant ring. “I’ll do my best to help you,
Mr. Pettray. You’ll find books here,” pointing to the shelves, “that
will be of greater assistance.”
The keen mountain air made itself felt through the poorly chinked walls
of the cabin, and the company moved their chairs nearer to the warmth of
the crackling fire. Donald offered their host a cigar, which was
accepted and smoked with evident relish.
“Start me at the beginnin’; put me in the kindergarten, where my size
belongs,” chuckled Andy.
Wainwright leaned back in the rough chair, puffing luxuriously at his
cigar, sending wreaths of fragrant smoke about his head. “I hardly know
where to begin,” he said meditatively.
The room suddenly grew dark, and they heard the soft sighing of the wind
in the branches of the trees nearby. These signs were precursors of one
of the mountain showers so common in the coast Range of the Province. A
moment later there came the intermittent patter of big raindrops on the
roof, gradually increasing until it became a strumming roar that
debarred conversation.
Connie lighted a candle, and using the neck of an empty vinegar bottle
as a candlestick, she placed it on the table, then took a seat outside
the radius of the dim light.
The door opened to admit the Breed. As he entered a rush of sweet
rain-washed air, laden with the odour of fragrant buds, filled the room.
Shaking a shower of glistening raindrops from his wide sombrero, the
Breed hobbled silently on moccasined feet to a seat in the corner.
The pelting rain dwindled to a drizzle, then stopped as abruptly as it
had begun.
For an hour Wainwright gave a disquisition of the value of plant life to
mankind. Selecting two books from the shelves, he placed them on the
table before Andy. “You will find no difficulty in understanding these
volumes, as they are written for the novice. You will also find that
there is no pursuit more conducive to health and happiness than the
study of plants. It keeps one largely in the open air, and promotes pure
and helpful thinking. For this reason parents should lead the minds of
their children to the study of plant life.”
During her father’s discourse Connie’s eyes scarcely left Donald’s face.
The Breed from the darkness of the corner noticed her rapt interest in
the tall stranger, and his dusky eyes glittered with jealousy. He limped
to the doorway, and, as he turned, Donald could not repress a start as
he caught the malignant look of hate which shot from the half-breed’s
glowing eyes.
“Constance, dear, will you play for us?” asked her father.
She moved obediently to her bunk, and from the floor beneath she drew
out a much worn violin case.
The mellow radiance from the candle and the ever-changing lights from
the open draft of the small stove cast long, wavering shadows within the
cabin. From without came the wailing of the wind, the creaking of the
trees, and the steady drip of water from the eaves.
As the bow touched the strings Connie forgot her shyness. The violin
drifted into a melody as light as a bird singing through the trees, now
joyous, anon sobbing in a deep rhythm of eerie sadness. As she played
her body swayed, almost imperceptibly, as a blossoming tree sways under
a soft spring breeze.
As the last note ascended and faded on the throbbing air, Connie’s
embarrassment returned. At Donald’s words of praise a scarlet flush dyed
her cheeks. She returned the instrument to its case, and, with eyes
downcast, resumed her seat in the darkened corner. Wainwright’s eyes
held a look of deep tenderness as he thanked her in a voice that was
like a caress.
As they said good-night Donald saw that their host’s face was again
shrouded in deep melancholy. The light of a waning moon threw ghost-like
shadows as they stumbled down the narrow trail through the aromatic
woods. Save for the drip of water, a brooding hush hung over the forest.
The trail was soft with needles, on which their feet made only a
softened beating. In the nave of huge conifers the solemnity of the
forest made speech seem almost irreverent.
Near the centre of the tunnel-like trail, where the shadows deepened,
Donald stopped short with every sense alert. Without knowing why, he
suddenly felt a quick sense of danger. A dark form rose in front of them
and slunk into the woods.
“The blinkin’ Indian,” whispered Andy.
In passing the spot where the Breed had disappeared, Donald had an
uncanny feeling that the burning eyes of Connie’s devoted guardian were
fixed on him and he felt a crinkly chill creep up his spine. It was with
a feeling of relief that they emerged from the obscurity of the timber
and caught the friendly gleam of light from their cabin window on the
lake-shore far below.