At the race-course the crowd eddied excitedly about the judges’ stand,
or stood in groups talking of the wonderful performance of the spotted
cayuse that had made the erstwhile champion appear a mere tyro.
Gillis came riding slowly from the woods and was hailed by questioning
shouts from a score of throats.
“Did you get him?”
A bloody handkerchief was wrapped around the big man’s hand, and a livid
welt showed on his forehead. He smiled grimly as he dismounted, “I got
the d——d skunk,” he answered savagely.
He turned to a group of Indians. “You fellers’d better look out for him
when you go along; his eyesight’s kinda bad.”
Donald came to the front of the judges’ stand and held up his hand for
silence. Gradually the hum of voices died away and the crowd turned to
face him.
“As you know, we are to take up a collection to add to the Company’s
purse. The gentleman below,” pointing down at Andy, “will hold the hat.
We have witnessed an exhibition of matchless skill and pluck. Give as
you feel.”
The crowd cheered lustily. Then, jostling each other good-naturedly like
a lot of school-boys, they formed in a long queue.
Andy started the contribution by giving his whole roll of bills. Money
showered upon him until he was forced to call for another hat.
“Fightin’” Jack came to Donald in great perturbation. “Say! Our gang’s
all stony broke. Can we sign a due-bill?”
Donald called the time-keeper.
“Make her out for twenty bucks for each of us,” said “Fightin’” Jack.
Andy’s spirits soared as the pile rose higher.
“God bless ’er little ’eart,” he murmured, “she can ’ave an ’ole
shipload of them blinkin’ camisole things.”
An hour later, as Donald climbed the hill to deliver the prize, he met
Doctor Paul.
“How is she, Doctor?”
“She’s had a nasty shaking up, but there are no bones broken. She will
have to remain in bed for a week or so.”
Wainwright saw Donald coming and stepped outside the door to meet him.
“She’s sleeping,” he said in a low tone. He looked questioningly at
Donald as the latter passed him the package of money.
“The prize money,” Donald explained.
Wainwright peeped at the contents and his face lit up with pleased
astonishment. “I understood that the purse was to be a small one!”
When Donald told him of the collection, Wainwright’s face flushed hotly.
“Is that the custom?” he questioned sharply.
Donald nodded.
Wainwright paced nervously with hands clasped behind his back. “Pardon
my abrupt manner,” he said contritely, “I am a bit out of sorts to-day.”
Every evening Donald called at the Wainwright home, bringing little
delicacies carefully prepared by Andy. Once he spoke to Connie from
outside the door, and her answering voice gave him an odd thrill. He
pondered over this as he made his way down the hill. He was struck by a
sudden thought. His face broke into a smile and he shrugged his
shoulders. “Nonsense,” he said aloud.
Janet remained several days after her friends had returned to the city.
She had tried in vain to restore the familiar relations which formerly
existed between herself and Donald. His evening visits to the cabin on
the mountain deprived her of his company, and she, half-jestingly,
reproved him for his inattention to her. With spirits depressed and a
despondent look in her dark eyes, Janet returned to Vancouver.
One evening Wainwright gave Donald a letter to post, addressed to a big
departmental store in Vancouver. A few days later there arrived numerous
bundles and boxes, including a big trunk. Donald with the assistance of
Gillis’s crew carried them up the hill.
“I’ve brought your big trunk with the ‘bulgy top,’ Miss Wainwright,” he
called.
Connie sat up in her bunk so quickly that her head bumped the boards
above. “Miss Wainwright” he had called her! Her eyes glowed in the dusky
half-light. “Thank you so much,” she replied.
The next day Wainwright informed Donald that Connie was up and would see
him.
“Just a minute, Dad,” she cried as she heard them approaching.
Feverishly she rushed to the small mirror to glance at her reflection.
With nervous hands she fluffed the hair about her ears and smoothed
imaginary wrinkles from the collar of her dress. Then she sat down
gravely and arranged her skirts about her.
“Come in,” she called.
Donald followed Wainwright, his heart-beats peculiarly accelerated. For
an instant he could not distinguish objects in the dim interior. Then
his eyes rested on Connie, sitting demurely in the corner. She wore a
gingham dress of blue, with white collar and cuffs. A dark belt was
fastened snugly at her slender waist. Tiny high-heeled shoes peeped from
below the hem of her skirt. Her beautiful hair hung down her back in a
huge braid that fastened at the nape of her slim, round neck with a
narrow black bow. She rose and crossed the room to meet him, her high
heels making her lithe little body appear much taller. There was
something fragile about her beauty, some of the colour gone from her
cheeks, and just a hint of shadows under her eyes.
Donald held out his hand. “Good evening, I’m glad to see that you are
better,” he said awkwardly.
A slender, warm hand crept timidly into his, and his fingers closed on
it gently as on a flower. He stared down at her, thrilled by her
loveliness. She raised her eyes with their bewilderingly long lashes
slowly to his face. With a sudden leaping of his heart, Donald realized
that he was in love.
They talked desultorily while Connie sat timidly on the edge of the
uncomfortable chair. She could not feel at ease in the high, narrow
shoes and the enveloping skirts. And as she essayed to cross the rough
floor with an assumed air of ease, her ankle turned and she would have
fallen had not Donald caught her in his arms.
As he raised her to her feet she blushed furiously, and he fancied he
could feel the warm beating of her heart. With an embarrassed apology,
she slipped from him, crossed to the table and lighted a candle. And
presently he took his leave, Wainwright walking with him down the
darkening trail.
Wainwright was in one of his brooding moods. For a few minutes he was
silent. As they neared the bluff he spoke.
“After witnessing my daughter’s distress the morning of the race I am
afraid that you feel harshly toward me for allowing her to be placed in
such a humiliating position. You have been exceedingly kind to us;
therefore, I feel that I should relate the circumstances which have
placed me in my present position. As I told you that day, I have allowed
my pride to withhold from my daughter her inherited rights. I will be as
brief as possible.
“My father, who took great pride in the family name, planned a political
career for me even from the day of my birth. By natural taste and
temperament I was quite unfitted for public life. I must have been a
great trial to him, as from early boyhood I evinced a great love for the
study of botany and ornithology. He would go into a red rage when he
found me in the garden studying flowers under a microscope or stalking
birds in the shrubbery.
“At college I was not a success, either socially or in my class. Always
of a retiring nature, I did not enter social life or college sports, and
the course of study set for me by my father bored me extremely.
“During my third year at college I met Connie’s mother. Until that time
no woman had entered my life, although my father had hinted his plans
for my marriage as soon as I had finished my course.
“To me any flower shop, however small, acted as a magnet. One day I
stood gazing in the window of a tiny florist’s shop on the Strand. A
girl was kneeling among the flowers, and as she lifted her head our eyes
met. She was like a golden lily. Her hair was like Connie’s hair, and
the blue of her eyes was the blue of the pansies she held in her hand.
And her name was Constance.”
He paused for an instant.
“Her father, who had been a rector in a small parish in the south of
England, died just previous to our meeting, leaving his motherless child
without kith or kin. Lest I weary you I may say briefly that we were
married. My father would not even grant me an interview, but wrote to me
saying that marrying as I had done had barred me forever from his door.
I did not care. I was happy—completely, supremely happy. I sold a small
estate bequeathed to me by my mother, and we set out for British
Columbia.
“Ah!” he breathed softly, “that voyage! We could not afford it, but we
travelled first-class—it was our honeymoon and we were young. We had
never been to sea before, and the novelty of it all wove a spell about
us. As we walked the deck we talked joyously of our wonderful future in
the mysterious Great West.
“Our first year in Vancouver was one of blessed content. There is no
love that could be greater than ours. Clerical work was scarce, so I
took any job that offered. I would come home black with coal-dust or
white with lime, and my wife would cry out merrily as she threw herself
into my arms. We turned our hardships into jests.”
A smile of infinite tenderness played about his eyes as memory recalled
the golden days with the woman he loved.
“The next winter I was taken grievously ill. I lay helplessly on my back
while my tender wife tramped from house to house teaching painting and
music. Day after day through all kinds of weather she made her daily
rounds to keep us in the bare necessities of life, and pay the doctor’s
bills.”
Wainwright’s voice sank and almost failed him for a moment. Recovering
himself, he resumed his story.
“She would come home at night, tired and worn, to fall asleep in a chair
by my bedside, while I raved in a fever. She went without food to buy
dainties for me. She never lost her cheery smile—but it killed her! She
died giving birth to—to—Constance.”
Tears rose to his eyes, and for a moment he covered them with his hand.
With a great effort he continued.
“I became embittered, changed completely out of any semblance to my
former self. I cursed my father. I cursed the world. I would have
welcomed death, but as I looked down at the tiny mite by my dead wife’s
side, I knew that I must fight to live.
“A short time after, I received from my father a letter in which he
asked my forgiveness. I was unfitted to make my own way in the world,
yet my father had turned me brutally away. My wife had died from
overwork and lack of food. I wrote to him in a black rage a letter that
must have scorched his soul.
“For four years I eked out a miserable existence in the City. My health
broke down again, and my doctor warned me that I must get to a higher
altitude. I learned of this place, turned everything into cash, and came
here, bringing Connie with me.
“My sole income has been derived from writing articles on Nature for the
newspapers and magazines. Several times my father has advertised in the
newspapers, asking me to return. I read of his death two weeks ago. For
Constance’s sake, I am going to start for England to-morrow.”
Wainwright’s head drooped listlessly as he concluded his story. All
energy, all strength of bearing, seemed to have gone from him. The
bitter remembrances he had voiced had brought a look of mental anguish
to his face. He stood staring mutely before him.
Donald’s heart ached for this man, whose great love for his wife was as
passionate at this moment as when she was living. “How he loved her!” he
thought.
When Wainwright spoke again his voice was spiritless. “You are the first
person to whom I have spoken of my past; even Constance does not know.”
As he turned to leave Donald gripped his hand in silence, but with a
pressure eloquent of heart-felt sympathy.
Andy had noticed Donald’s increasing interest in Connie and had wisely
refrained from accompanying him on his nightly visits. On this
particular night Donald came into the kitchen whistling a lively air,
his face wreathed in smiles. He slapped Andy heartily on the back as he
asked him for a lunch. His gaiety was so pronounced that Andy studied
him closely.
“You look ’appy, Donnie,” he remarked.
“I am, Andy; I’m the happiest man in the world.”
He finished eating, then sat staring dreamily at the smoke of his
cigarette as it circled about his head. Andy discoursed lightly on
various subjects, but Donald did not seem to hear him. After he left
Andy heard him singing merrily in his cabin.
“Strike me pink, but I do ’ope Donnie has waked up! What a pair, what a
pair!” he said to himself.
In the morning Donald rode north on the gas-car to the scene of logging
operations near the upper lake. He left orders with the men to bring
Wainwright’s baggage to the station. What Connie’s absence would mean
was brought forcibly to him as he met the trapper leading Pegasus and
her pet deer down the trail to his cabin.
Two hours later Connie and her father stood on the station platform.
Connie was dressed in an inexpensive blue suit, and wore a neat blue hat
with a jaunty feather. Her golden hair was piled high in loops and coils
that held a sheen of brightness like the shine of metal where the sun
touched it. She appeared mystified and confused as the time for the
train to pull out drew near. Andy, standing by her side, cursed softly
as he saw her looking toward the mill, a look of poignant disappointment
in her eyes.
“Donald ’ad to go up the line, Connie; guess something ’as ’appened,” he
mumbled.
At that moment Donald was heaping opprobrium on a recalcitrant gas-car
that had died on his hands.
The conductor called “All aboard!” Connie turned to Andy. “Good-bye,
Andy,” she said sweetly, her eyes swimming with tears.
Andy took her gloved hand. “Good-bye, Connie,” he returned, attempting a
brave smile. “When are you coming back?”
“Maybe never.” She choked as she stumbled up the car steps.
As the train started to move Connie came to the rear platform. A small,
pathetic figure she seemed to Andy as she strained her eyes toward the
north in a vain hope that she would see Donald. Andy stood in the centre
of the track waving his hat until the flutter of Connie’s little
handkerchief vanished around a curve.
As the train roared through the cut, the last view of her loved valley
flashed before her eyes. Her face strangely white, she clung to the
brass rail and gazed with tearful eyes at the only home she had ever
known.
As they passed the trapper’s cabin, the noise of the rushing train sent
Pegasus galloping madly about the pasture. With flying hoofs that tore
up the sod he circled around the field, then came to the fence and with
his beautiful head held high on the arched neck he looked with startled
eyes at the speeding train.
With a gesture intensely eloquent, Connie flung out her arms. “Good-bye,
Peggy! Good-bye!” She found her way to a seat and covered her face with
her hands.
* * * * *
Donald flung himself from the gas-car before it had ceased moving.
“Train gone, Andy?” he shouted.
Andy stood with arms folded. “Gone?” he yelled, “of course it’s gone.
Why in ’ell wasn’t you ’ere?”
“I had to go up the line to look over some logs, and the car broke
down,” replied Donald bitterly.
“Of course,” said Andy with withering sarcasm, “the timber couldn’t ’ave
waited another day.”
“Andy,” asked Donald excitedly, ignoring the remark, “did Connie leave
you her address?”
“Why the ’ell should she give me ’er address? ’Aven’t you ’er address?”
was Andy’s unaccommodating reply.
“No, I haven’t, I know that they are going to England, and that is all.”
Donald sat down dejectedly.
Andy’s face softened. “Do you like Connie?” he queried.
“Like her? I love her!”
“In that case I don’t see ’ow she didn’t let you know where to find
’er,” puzzled Andy.
“She doesn’t know that I care for her,” said Donald gloomily.
Andy’s mouth opened. He seized Donald by the shoulder. “Do you mean to
tell me that you let that girl get away from you without letting ’er
know that you wanted ’er?” he demanded incredulously. “Strike me
’andsome,” blazed Andy, “of all the blinkin’ mutts in this ’ere
world—you—you——” Speech failed him for a moment. “You let that dear
little girl go away broken-’earted. . . .”
“Andy,” interrupted Donald eagerly, “do you think Connie cares for me?”
For a moment, as he looked into his friend’s face, Andy was tempted to
tell him of the scene after his fight with Hand. But the promise to
Connie sealed his lips.
“’Ow the ’ell should I know?” he mumbled. “But,” he added with fine
sarcasm, “if bone was ten cents a cubic foot you’d be a
multi-millionaire, you blinkin’ pie-eyed nincompoop—you—you——” He
clapped a tragic hand to his brow. “You give me a ’eadache,” and
muttering to himself, he trudged up the hill.
The next day Donald went to Vancouver. He scanned the registers in
hotels, inquired at docks and depots, but no trace of the Wainwrights
could he find. He walked the streets with a forlorn hope that he might
meet them. The hearts of many slender golden-haired girls were set
fluttering that day as a tall, handsome young man subjected them to
close scrutiny.
Two days later he returned to the lake. That night he switched off the
light and sat by the open window looking out on a night of stars, with a
new moon making a ghostly light on the lake. An owl’s mournful hoot was
answered by the uncanny cry of a heron. The faint sighing sound of
streams in distant gorges became a haunting chorus to this duet. He
thought of Connie’s cabin up the mountain, now cold and dark. How he
would miss her! What an idiot he had been not to have known long ago
that he loved her. He knew now that he had loved her from the first.
Dear little Connie!
Donald walked the floor until midnight. Once in bed, he tossed
restlessly until the early morning, then fell into a fitful sleep in
which he dreamed of a small, winsome face and big blue eyes surrounded
by a wealth of golden hair.
September with its days of mellow sunshine passed. October brought heavy
hoar frosts that covered the earth with a robe of diamonds, and formed
ice in the small pools and marshes. Winter comes early in the mountains.
In mid-winter the valleys between the peaks of the Coast Range will have
five feet of snow when, a few hundred feet below, where the warm waters
of the Pacific lap the gentle slopes, the grass is green and there is
none of the chilly whiteness that mantles the towering hills above.
There came a day in November when the air held a solemn stillness. The
firs and pines pointed straight to the sky without a quiver in their
branches. The brown earth seemed to say, “I am ready.” The cry of the
loon in it had a dreary sound, a note which seemed to say that winter
was coming. Squirrels working in the tops of big pines increased their
efforts. The cones, nipped off by their sharp teeth fell pattering to
the ground, to be garnered by these busy little workers and secreted in
their nests in hollow trees. The bear of the hillsides ate the frozen
berry or the pulp of rotten log to cleanse its stomach before starting
its long winter sleep in windfall or cave. Thus does Nature give to the
wild things of the forest an instinct unknown to man.
The rush of wings sounded high in air as wild ducks passed in swift
flight on their yearly pilgrimage to the south. Occasionally a flock
would lower in gradually narrowing circles to land with a splash in the
restful waters of the lake, then to stretch tired wings, the while
bobbing their heads and quacking contentedly. Flocks of geese passed in
wedge-shaped formation, their honking coming faintly from a dizzy
height. A flock of Arctic swans, skimming so low that the crisp rustle
of their wings could be heard, landed in the centre of the lake with a
great commotion. There with their beautiful necks proudly arched they
floated like white ghosts throughout the night. The red and yellow
leaves, like gaudy curtains draped the deciduous trees. The wild
crab-apple and high-bush cranberry hung frozen on the naked branches.
The sun was surrounded by a ring and shone weakly through a misty haze.
The unmistakable breath of the north wind was in the air.
Old John took his traps down from the loft and oiled them. A patch was
found needed on a worn moccasin, and new laces were inserted in his
snowshoes. “Winter’s comin’, ol’ timer, and we’re goin’ to have a heavy
fall of snow,” he mused to himself. For two days Nature gave warning,
then on the second night the storm came.
A roaring wind came bellowing from the north, lashing the waters of the
lake to foam, tearing at Donald’s cabin with the strength of invisible
giant hands, and howling through the forest with shrieking wails. Gust
came upon gust with increasing strength, and in the short lulls could be
heard the swish of the sleety snow against the windows.
The big trees creaked as they swayed in the gale, and with a loud groan,
as if in mortal pain, a huge forest monarch, as its roots gave way, fell
crushing down the smaller trees to smite the earth with a resounding
crash.
The wind went down through the night, but the snow fell steadily. When
Donald opened his door next morning he looked out on a new world. The
wizardry of frost and snow had given the earth a blanket of white that
was eye-blinding in its brilliancy under the bright morning sun. The
keen frost had locked the lake tight under a coating of clear ice.