Renwick announced that Robert Rennie’s daughter and a party of girl
friends were to visit Summit Lake the following week, and carpenters
were set to work erecting cottages for their accommodation.
A few days before her arrival Donald was both surprised and pleased to
receive a cordial letter from her in which she said that she was looking
forward with pleasure to the coming holiday, and that she would deeply
appreciate anything he might do for the entertainment of her friends.
As always, her father spared no expense in providing for the comfort and
pleasure of his daughter. That week a car containing a motor-boat,
canoes and six saddle-horses was run in on a side-track at the mill.
Connie learned of the coming event through Donald as she was watching
with keen interest the unloading of the spirited animals.
“You will enjoy yourself next week, Connie,” he said gaily. “Miss Rennie
is coming with friends. We’ll have rides, picnics and dancing.”
A few minutes later Connie joined Andy, who sat on the steps of the
kitchen door enjoying a breath of fresh air.
“Is Miss Rennie rich, Andy?”
“An ’ole barrel o’ dough.”
“Is—is she beautiful?”
“I’ve ’eard so, Connie.”
A short pause ensued while she searched the pockets of her overalls and
produced several neatly folded papers. She extracted one, pressed it
smooth, then passed it to Andy.
“Does Miss Rennie dress like that?”
It was a photograph of an actress dressed for the street, taken from one
of the magazines that Donald had given her.
“I think so, Connie.”
“Oh! She must be wonderful, then!” said Connie earnestly.
She moved closer to Andy, unfolded another page, and spread it on her
knee.
Andy bent his blond head close to the one of gold. A startled look
crossed his features and his brows bobbed up and down. It was a
full-page advertisement of ladies’ lingerie. The highly coloured
illustration of a lady, partially dressed, achieved its object of
arresting the eye, while the remainder of the space was occupied by
articles of apparel similar to those adorning the lady’s graceful form.
Andy coughed. “Er—yes, Connie.”
Connie raised her eyebrows incredulously.
“All at one time?”
“Sure—sure,” mumbled Andy.
Connie stared. “Why, there must be nearly a dozen pieces. How is this
fastened?” she questioned as she pointed with a slender brown finger to
one of the engravings.
Andy took a quick glance. “Buttons.”
“And this?”
“Buttons,” replied Andy, gripping the bowl of his pipe and sending out
clouds of smoke.
“And this?”
“Strike me blind, what a ’ell of an ’ole,” thought Andy.
“Buttons,” he responded desperately without looking at the paper.
Connie raised her head. “Oh no, I don’t think so, Andy; that must slip
on,” she objected.
Andy made a pretence of studying the article in question.
“Yes, yes, sure! That’s right! that’s right!” he conceded quickly.
Andy’s pipe was now sending out billows of acrid smoke. Connie coughed
and moved beyond the smoke screen. Much to Andy’s relief, she sat for a
moment silently studying the advertisement. When she raised her golden
head there was a look of wistful yearning in her blue eyes.
“Oh, Andy,” she said dreamily, “it must be lovely to feel those soft
silky things next your skin.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Connie,” stuttered Andy, “but I ’ave a roast in the
oven—I——”
“Just a minute, Andy,” she pleaded, “there is something else I want to
ask you.” She sorted the papers for a moment.
“God ’elp me, what will it be now?” thought Andy, as he braced himself
for the next question.
“Andy, what is a camisole?”
A look of profound relief crossed the little Australian’s face.
“A camisole,” he explained with an air of wisdom, “is a fish. It’s
a——”
He was interrupted by Connie’s peal of laughter. “Oh, Andy,” she cried,
“you’re a funny man!” She turned and ran laughing down the hill.
“Strike me lucky!” exclaimed Andy as he mopped his brow. “It’s enough to
make a blighter’s ’eart bleed. The poor motherless kid comin’ to a bloke
like me to ask such questions.”
He watched Connie as she slowly ascended the trail, still studying the
magazine pages.
“But ’ow the ’ell can I ’elp ’er?”
He pondered deeply for a moment, but, seemingly unable to answer the
question, shook his head sadly and turned to his duties.
* * * * *
Fortunately for Janet’s peace of mind, none of her friends had
recognized in the photograph of the new champion of Canada the handsome
young man they had met at her home. They were puzzled by her decision to
spend a holiday in the wilds until she casually mentioned that Mr.
McLean was arranging for their entertainment, and she accepted with a
smile the sly teasing that followed.
The party arrived by special train a day earlier than originally
planned, and as Janet stepped to the platform Donald was for a moment
disconcerted by the warmth of her greeting and the softness in her eyes
as they rested on him.
That afternoon Connie came riding down the hill holding in her hand an
enormous bouquet of Alpine flowers. She leaped from her horse and ran
blithely around the corner of the big building. Andy, dressed in white
coat and hat, came smilingly forward to meet her.
“Andy, here are some rare flowers Dad sent for——” She ceased speaking
abruptly as Donald, leading Janet and her friends from a tour of the
kitchen, came through the door.
Donald’s face lighted with a glad smile as he saw Connie.
“Miss Rennie, I want you to meet Miss Wainwright.”
Connie’s face burned with embarrassment as all eyes turned toward her,
and the mass of wild flowers held crushed to her breast quivered as
though shaken by a breeze. She glanced about her quickly, strongly
tempted to flee the spot.
For a moment the society belle and the girl of the mountains eyed each
other silently. Janet stared at Connie as if she were some strange
creature unclassified by science. Connie for the first time was gazing
on a stylishly-clad member of her own sex. Janet’s dress of white silk
shimmered in the sunshine, and her broad-brimmed white hat, with lining
of pale rose, gave to her beautiful face a ruddy glow.
Connie’s eyes roved in admiring awe from the neat high-heeled shoes to
the silken hose and skirt, and then to the flowered hat set jauntily on
thick shining coils of dark hair.
There was a certain dewy freshness, a native frankness, about the girl
of the woods that made Janet appear artificial. Their eyes met, and
Connie’s lips parted in a timid smile, revealing two rows of perfect
milk-white teeth and forming two tiny dimples in her brown cheeks. Her
lonely heart longed for the friendship of this wonderful girl, but the
smile quickly faded when she saw that Janet’s eyes remained cold and
appraising.
Janet scrutinized Connie’s faded blue overalls and coarse cotton shirt,
which, even though loose and ill-fitting, could not conceal the graceful
lines of the childish figure. Confused by the cold reception, her eyes
wide and misty with a hint of pain, Connie turned quickly away.
Moving with the easy grace and freedom that an empress might envy,
Connie walked to the side of her cayuse, and with characteristic
bird-like motion sprang to his back. Her moccasined feet struck his
sides, and with ears flattened Pegasus leaped forward with a speed that
sent Connie’s hair streaming. His spurning hoofs sent a cloud of dust in
their faces, then horse and rider went tearing down the hill.
Janet stood staring after the flying rider, a look of blank astonishment
on her face.
Connie’s visits to the mill ceased, but from the highest point on the
bluff she watched the merry-makers with keen interest as, dressed in
natty riding costumes, they rode their stylish horses, disported
themselves in bathing-suits on the sandy beach, paddled the lake in
light, graceful canoes, or chugged about in the shiny white motor-boat.
For two evenings she sat with a feeling of dreary lonesomeness while
Donald and Janet floated on the placid lake in one of the tiny canoes,
their subdued voices and gentle laughter coming up faintly from below.
During the evenings she spent with Donald, Janet was assailed by
fleeting emotions in which she tried to define her attitude toward him.
She felt that the time was not far distant when some definition would be
necessary. In a number of artful ways she had tried, but without
success, to lead him to talk of himself. When she put a direct question
she saw the lines about his mouth tighten, and his reply carried a tone
of such unmistakable rebuke that her face reddened and the subject was
instantly dropped.
On the night before Janet’s departure a dance was arranged, to which the
clerical staff of the Cheakamus Mill was invited. Gillis promised a
special feature on the programme in the form of an old-fashioned
square-dance with his “redshirts” as the performers.
All that day the skies drizzled continuously; lake and mountain were
hidden under a heavy mist. The inclement weather did not dampen the
ardour of the merry crowd, who, in slickers and oilskins of every
description, gathered flowers and trees to decorate the big dining-room
that was to be used as a dance-hall.
That night, lights gleamed from every window of the big room, which had
undergone a sudden transformation. The walls were one mass of wild
flowers, and on the beams overhead small cedars and jackpines stood
upright in rows, adding a pungent odour to the air, already burdened
with the sweet smell of wild flowers. The music of the phonograph flowed
out of the open door to vibrate softly through the dripping trees.
Connie learned of the dance, and after dark she slipped quietly down
into the valley. She crouched by the open window, heedless of the rain
dripping from the eaves, her eyes glued upon the enchanting scene
within. She saw Donald and Janet gliding across the floor, and she
marvelled at the grace of their movements. The hum of talk, the constant
ripple of feminine laughter, the rustle of silken skirts, were all
foreign to Connie. She felt a touch of intense and utter loneliness,
like a stranger in a strange land.
Janet seemed to have thrown aside her cloak of reserve; she brimmed over
with an unwonted gaiety, but at times her big brown eyes held a troubled
look as they rested on Donald.
Gillis’s “redshirts” filed in to give an exhibition of old-fashioned
dancing. Half the men wore handkerchiefs tied about their arms to
indicate that they were impersonating ladies. Blackie played the violin,
while “Fightin’” Jack’s roaring voice did the “callin’ off.” Gillis
informed the company that Blackie “didn’t know a note of music from a
post-hole.” But what he lacked in technical knowledge was made up in the
immense volume of sound he produced from the instrument, and the speed
he set for the whirling dancers to follow soon had them dripping with
perspiration. There were shouts of Homeric laughter, big feet thumped
the floor as they girated through the intricate steps of the quadrille,
and above all sounded the hoarse voice of “Fightin’” Jack in the
colourful jargon of “callin’ off.”
“Birdie jump out and Jackie jump in;
Jackie jump out and give Birdie a swing.
All the men left; back to pardner;
And grand right and left.
Chickadee right and pack-rat left.
Meet your pardners and all chaw hay.
Gents sashay and put on style,
Re-sashay with a little more style,
Little more style, gents, little more style.”
At the finish the girls loudly applauded the efforts of this picturesque
crew, and after a short breathing spell they again took the floor and
danced until sheer exhaustion forced them to quit. Mopping their
dripping faces with big red bandannas, they trooped boisterously
outside.
Near midnight the rain ceased, and as Donald walked with Janet to her
cabin the moon came suddenly from behind a dark wall of clouds to set
the lake sparkling under its soft light.
“Too wonderful a night to sleep,” said Janet softly.
“Shall we walk to the lake?” asked Donald.
She nodded assent.
They stood near the edge of the lake in the light of the moon and looked
across at the towering snow-fields etched against the star-spangled sky.
There were lights still shining from the big room they had just vacated,
and the night-watchman’s lantern bobbed jerkily as he made his rounds.
Across the lake the light from the trapper’s cabin shone on the calm
surface of the water. The faint, weird call of a loon wafted to their
ears was echoed and re-echoed in soft cadences from the surrounding
hills. A faint breath of wind came out of the rain-washed forest, laden
with the sweet perfume of earth and flowers, and caressed their faces
like loving fingers. Donald took a deep breath that seemed more like a
sigh.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” He indicated with a sweep of his arm the lake, the
wooded hills and the glittering glaciers lifting their heads high to the
sparkling firmament. He turned to find his companion standing with
downcast eyes.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked, a trifle resentfully.
Janet raised her head slowly. The limpid depths of the big brown eyes
were soft and languorous in the half-light; the full red lips were dewy
and tremulous; the peaceful light of the moon shone upon her radiant
upturned face, giving it an ethereal glow.
“It is wonderful,” she breathed.
Involuntarily he moved closer. What was this inner urge?
Love—feeling—emotion, or, it might be, passion?
Laughter and voices came from the trail above. Douglas with several of
the visiting party emerged into the white light of the moon. Douglas
called his sister’s name and Janet and Donald moved up the hill to join
them.
After the sound of their footsteps died in the distance there was a
rustle in the bushes near the path as a slender, childish figure, clad
in blue overalls and cotton shirt, glided into the soft moonlight. She
stood leaning forward with the grace of some wild thing, her heavy hair
flowing about her shoulders. The big blue eyes that usually were filled
with light and happiness were now dark with passion, and two small brown
fists were pressed against a wildly-heaving breast. Tears welled from
the blue eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. Her breath came in
gasps.
“I hate you! Oh, how I hate you!” She stamped her tiny moccasined foot
passionately, then turned and ran blindly along the dark forest trail.
An owl flew like a ghostly wraith to a thick growth of firs. The
startled cheep of a flying-squirrel turned to a cry of terror, quickly
silenced by the powerful beak of the owl as it made its kill. A
song-sparrow, with her downy brood cuddled to her warm breast, heard the
death-cry, and her eyes grew round with terror.
A mallard duck, sleeping quietly on the lake, emitted a terrified quack
as it was drawn below the surface. A moment later the water was
disturbed as a mink arose, with its sharp teeth fastened in the duck’s
throat, and moved through widening ripples toward the land.
The quick “plop” of a startled muskrat sounded sharply on the night air
as the Breed rose slowly from a spot not far from where Connie had lain
in hiding. He stood with arms folded, the stolid look of the Indian on
his face, and stared toward the spot where Connie had disappeared. A
look of ineffable sadness was in his sombre eyes. Thus he stood as
immovable as a statue for an interval. Then a long-drawn sigh escaped
him. “She loves him,” he said in a dead voice.
He walked to the shore, his distorted limb causing him to sway
grotesquely in the moonlight. He drew a skilfully concealed dugout from
the bushes and launched it gently. His paddle spurned the water
noiselessly, and in a moment he was lost in a bright patch of reflected
moonlight.