With a fond hope that he would receive word of the Wainwrights, Donald
eagerly awaited the coming of each mail; but after a month of
disappointment he became less sanguine, and threw himself desperately
into work in a vain attempt to allay his heartache.
During the long winter the mill continued operations in spite of heavy
snows, the roads being kept open by the continual traffic.
Janet came twice with gay parties to enjoy the ski-ing and snowshoeing.
She found that she loved Donald, and decided that any uncertainty as to
his past was as nothing when weighed against her need of him. Bitterly
she reproached herself for allowing her pride to estrange him from her,
and with all the arts of a beautiful and cultured woman she sought to
regain the power she once held over him.
On one occasion, when Janet mentioned his “wood-sprite,” she saw a rapt
look in his eyes and caught her breath sharply. The very thought of
losing him stabbed her like a knife-thrust.
With the coming of March a change came over the earth. Winter shivered
and reluctantly loosed his hold. Gentle showers and warm winds from the
south honeycombed the ice on the lake; snowdrifts faded away, and the
frost-bound soil gave forth earthy odours to replace the keen smell of
the snow.
One morning a song-sparrow under Donald’s window sent out its sweet
“chip-chip-che-char-che-wiss-wiss,” and from the top of a swaying alder
a wren carolled his joy of living in full-throated tones that said that
spring was here. Stirred by the warmth and cleaving buds, the frogs came
from the mud, where they had lain dormant all winter, and with swelling
throats and bulging cheeks sent out their cheerful “k’tun, k’chunk.”
Mists covered the lake, and in an open spot near the mouth of the creek
a flock of ducks disported themselves happily. The sun grew higher with
every dawn, gaining strength each day until its warming energy spread
the beauty of colour and fragrance over all.
One afternoon, when the air pulsated with the song of birds, and
newly-opened buds burdened the atmosphere with perfume, Donald walked up
the hill to Wainwright’s cabin.
Scores of birds, returned from their yearly pilgrimage to the south,
flitted about the deserted buildings, but there was no golden-haired
girl with a welcoming smile to greet them. Rivulets from the melting
snows had gouged channels in the once neatly kept plots of wild flowers,
and the roof of one of the smaller huts had fallen in.
Donald pushed open the door of the main building and entered. The air
felt chill and dank. He experienced a quick depression of spirits, and
his heart ached as he surveyed the gloomy interior. He shivered as a
pack-rat scuttled across the floor and disappeared under Connie’s bunk.
With a heavy heart he returned to the bright sunshine, sat down, and
gave himself over to a period of melancholy retrospection.
His mind went back to his first meeting with Connie, then on through the
many thrilling episodes of the summer. She belonged to high mountains,
to deep forest glades, to companionship with the birds, flowers and
trees of God’s wild outdoors. She would never be content with the bad
air and the cramped conventions of cities. He suddenly remembered the
words she had used that day by the stream near her nest in the cedars.
He seemed to hear her sweet, hesitating voice with its pleasant English
accent.
“And,” she had said, “six months out of every year I’d come right here
and live in these mountains.”
“She’ll come back,” he said aloud. The thought cheered him. “She’ll come
back,” he repeated to Andy that night.
“I ’ope so, Donnie.”
A week later, Robert Rennie, accompanied by his daughter, arrived at
Summit Lake. The owner was in high spirits. “I am pleased with the
excellent work you are doing here,” he said, as he placed a hand in
friendly fashion on Donald’s arm. “The mill is a success—a huge
success—and I know who deserves the greater share of the credit!” He
smiled up at Donald. “Next week,” he went on, “an event of importance to
the lumber industry takes place. The Government is to entertain a party
of Eastern lumbermen. I will admit that I was proud when the chief
forester called at my office to tell me that this mill had been selected
as the most modern and efficient in the Province, and requested
permission to bring the Government’s guests here.
“They are to stay here a few days, but you will not be inconvenienced,
as the train will be equipped with dining and sleeping-cars, loaned for
the occasion by the C.P.R. I will come with them, but I am leaving it to
you to arrange for their entertainment and to see that everything is in
tip-top shape for their arrival.”
As Robert Rennie was leaving the next morning he turned to Donald. “By
the way,” he said casually, “I have decided to add a yearly bonus to
your salary, based on the profits of this mill. I have made it
retroactive from the time you took charge.” Before Donald had time to
express his thanks his employer swung aboard the train.
Expressing a desire to be at the lake on the arrival of the excursion,
Janet remained.
On the day set for the visit of the Eastern capitalists the sun rose in
radiant promise of a typical June day. The leaves were now fully
matured, and the willows and maples rustled under the soft, warm winds.
All the valley was clothed in a verdant, quivering, gently pulsating
life.
The long train drew slowly into the depot. Its occupants poured out
until the small platform was filled to overcrowding. Robert Rennie,
accompanied by a slender man dressed in a tweed suit and cap, pushed his
way through the crowd to Donald’s side.
Donald greeted his employer, then glanced casually at Mr. Rennie’s
companion. His eyes widened. “Mr. Wainwright!” he gasped.
Wainwright laughed happily as he wrung Donald’s hand.
“Is—is Con—Miss Wainwright with you?” stuttered Donald.
Then he saw her.
Connie had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. She stood quietly on
the steps for a moment, then slipped gracefully to the platform, Connie
herself could not have imagined how changed she was. From coiffure to
dainty French heels she was dressed as if fresh from the hands of an
expert Parisian costumer. So dazzling was she that she positively took
Donald’s breath away. It seemed to him that she had grown like a magic
rose, all at once from a tiny bud to a full blossom. No fault could be
found with the perfect oval of her face, or with the delicate white rose
skin, from which every trace of tan had gone. The long lashes that
fringed her big blue eyes had turned a shade darker than the curling
waves of her abundant golden hair.
Andy, whose small form had been hidden in the rear, moved bashfully
forward, fumbling the wide hat held in his hand. “’Ello, Connie,” he
blurted, his lips parted in a wide smile of welcome.
Instantly Connie forgot her assumed dignity and became her warm,
impulsive little self. With a glad cry she flung her arms about Andy’s
neck and kissed him.
“Strike me pink!” breathed Andy, as his hand stole up to touch the spot
where Connie’s lips had brushed his cheek.
Connie turned to face the lake. “Oh, Dad!” she cried in ecstasy, “isn’t
it good to be back here again?” She stretched her arms toward the
ice-clad peaks. A gentle breeze swept down the wooded slope to fan her
face as though in welcome. The blood surged beneath her smooth white
skin and went singing through every vein. “Ah!” she sighed happily, as
she inhaled a deep breath of air laden with the odour of pine from the
hills she loved. Donald, gazing at her hungrily, saw tears brimming
under her long lashes.
From the far end of the train a tall, grey-haired man assisted a slender
sweet-faced woman to the ground, and then walked towards the station. As
they stepped to the platform the woman’s eyes rested on Donald, who
stood with his back to her. Instantly she became rooted to the spot,
eyes wide, one hand fluttering toward her heart. With the supreme,
wondrous mother-love shining in her eyes, she held out her arms.
“Donald!” she cried passionately, “Donald!”
Donald whirled at the sound of the loved voice calling his name. His
heart throbbed wildly, his throat felt constricted and his face paled
under stress of strong emotion.
“Mother!”
His arms were around his mother, yearning, tender, hungry, after these
long months of separation. Her face upturned to his was white and drawn,
but her eyes shone with hallowed joy. He felt his hand gripped in his
father’s strong fingers, and saw his eyes shining with tears. John
McLean patted his boy’s dark head with a shaking hand.
“Donnie! My boy, Donnie!”
For some time Donald was oblivious to all save the great happiness of
meeting his parents. His mother’s embrace almost unmanned him, and it
was with difficulty that he kept back the sobs that tightened his
throat.
He led his parents to the other end of the platform and introduced them
to his friends.
Robert Rennie’s comments were simply gasps and a reiterated, “Well!
Well!”
Andy offered his usual contribution. “Strike me pink!” he said.
Connie’s eyes were filled with soft eagerness as she greeted Donald’s
mother. The glow in Donald’s face as he spoke to Connie was poignantly
significant of his deep love for her. But Connie, to his consternation
and dismay, met his ardent glances with a look of cold indifference.
Since Connie’s arrival Janet’s features held a look of disquietude, but
she acknowledged the introduction to Donald’s parents with a radiant
smile.
A moment later, Connie, with skirts held high, was running down the
railroad track.
“Going after her horse,” smiled Wainwright in answer to Donald’s
question.
“Will you have dinner with us?” invited Donald.
“Yes, thank you,” responded Wainwright. “We will sleep in the car
to-night,” he continued, “but Constance insists that we must return to
the old home as soon as possible. She has been busy drawing plans for a
chalet she intends building on the bluff.”
Connie returned with the old trapper, the latter leading Pegasus.
At dinner Connie showed no signs of her former shyness. She was as
self-possessed, calm and perfectly poised as a goddess. A glad light
filled her eyes as Gillis and his crew of “redshirts” filed into the big
dining-room. She sprang to her feet and greeted them joyfully, shaking
hands with each and everyone.
“I’m so glad to see you, Jack,” she smiled.
The big logger took her tiny hand in his. “We’re sure glad to have you
with us agin, Connie.”
“May I bring Andy in to dine with us, Mr. McLean?” she asked as she came
back to the table.
Donald nodded assent. She ran gleefully to the kitchen, and a moment
later the loggers grinned broadly as she came through the door leading
the protesting cook by the arm.
“Now,” she said as Andy sat down, “we’re all here.” She looked about her
and clasped her hands rapturously. “It seems as though I had been gone
for years. And oh, it is so nice to be home again!” She sank to a chair
between Andy and the trapper. “Do you remember, Andy, when you were
dressed as a butler and danced with John at your party?” She threw back
her golden head and her silvery laughter filled the room.
Janet was unhappy from the moment of Connie’s arrival. She had caught
the look of adoration in Donald’s eyes as Connie stepped to the station
platform. Standing there then she had quite definitely abandoned any
hope of winning him. And Janet had been so sure that once she had held a
place in his heart. A great depression, a great weariness of spirit,
settled upon her.
That evening, as Donald walked with his parents by the lake-shore, he
turned to his father. “Dad,” he said anxiously, “do you think I have
made good? Will you forgive me for—for——”
John McLean’s eyes grew suddenly misty. “Donnie,” he began gently, “Mr.
Rennie has told us all about you. And no man could speak more highly of
another.” He drew a newspaper from his pocket. “Haven’t you seen this?”
It was Vancouver’s morning paper, with a full-page devoted to the visit
of the Eastern lumbermen. There were several photographs of the Summit
Mill and one of Donald. The paper spoke of him as “the able young
engineer whose modern ideas and energy had given to British Columbia a
logging plant and mill that were a credit to the Province.”
Donald saw the proud light in his father’s eyes, and his heart was
filled with a great peace.
The next day carpenters and material arrived for the construction of
Wainwright’s new home. That afternoon Connie, clad in fashionable riding
habit, came to the mill office with her foreman to place an order for
lumber. Pegasus in silver-mounted bridle and English saddle was proudly
restive. With neck arched he curvetted and rocked while Connie sat on
his back with that complete lack of self-consciousness that is the
heritage of a born horsewoman. Before leaving she rode up the hill among
the toiling workers, her irresistible smile bringing an answering grin
from the “redshirts,” who doffed their big hats and shouted a joyous
greeting.
All day pack-horses and men struggled up the hill, staggering under the
weight of building material. But although Donald strained his eyes for a
glimpse of the golden-haired rider, he saw her no more that day.
As dusk fell over lake and mountain, Donald returned from Wainwright’s
cabin. Andy glanced up expectantly as his friend appeared, but quickly
averted his face as he saw the look of settled melancholy shrouding
Donald’s features. Donald sank disconsolately to a seat outside the
kitchen door. He had found Wainwright alone and wondered if Connie had
purposely absented herself. Her treatment of him since her return
puzzled him sorely and had filled him with a great despondency. As he
rose and walked toward his cabin, Andy gazed after the retreating
figure, eyes filled with compassion, then turned to speak to one of his
helpers in such an irritable tone that the flunkey’s mouth opened in
astonishment.
For three evenings it was the same. Donald failed to find Connie at
home; nor did she come to the mill. He regretfully decided that it was
no coincidence, but that she was deliberately avoiding him.
On a Sunday afternoon Andy saw Donald gaze yearningly toward the bluff,
then turn up the trail leading to the dam.
At Donald’s request Gillis had diverted logging operations to circle the
little oasis in the heavy timber, so that Connie’s sylvan glade still
held its primeval charm and beauty.
Donald stood for a moment gazing reflectively into the white foam at the
foot of the tiny cataract, then threw himself on the soft bed of moss
and closed his eyes. But this time the fairy spot did not bring the
usual delicious languor to his harassed spirit. Birds sang as sweetly;
flowers filled the air with the same odour; the wind sighed as softly
through the tree-tops, and the small brook still sang its rippling song.
The rapid tattoo of a woodpecker’s bill on a hollow tree jarred his
nerves and he tossed restlessly.
A cedar tip floated through the air. Blown by the wind, it fluttered in
circles, then landed gently on the hands lying on his chest. His eyes
opened, then, with trembling limbs he came to his feet.
Connie, clad in faded overalls and cotton shirt, stood on the edge of
the “nest.” Her breast was heaving, her loosened golden hair flying in
the wind. The softness in her blue eyes made Donald gasp, and his heart
thumped as though it were in his throat.
“Connie!” he cried huskily, “I love you, dear! Don’t you care for me
even a little?”
She sprang lightly to the ground and came toward him, her arms
outstretched. Tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. “Oh, Donald, Donald,
you big stupid!” she sobbed, “I have been waiting here for you every
day. I—I have loved you always.”
With a shock of incredible rapture Donald gathered her in his strong
arms, where she cuddled like a weeping child. He kissed her red lips,
her eyes, hair and throbbing throat. “My little Connie,” he said, in a
voice vibrant with feeling, “do you really love me?” He pressed his
cheek to hers and felt the flutter of her long lashes as she pressed the
softness of her own closer. The quick, exquisite indrawing of her
sobbing breath were lovely answering things, and he thrilled to hear her
whisper: “Yes, Donald! Yes, Donald!”
Andy came walking meditatively up the path, his hands clasped behind
him, his blond head bowed in deep thought. Not finding Donald at the
dam, he walked up the hill to enter the meadow just as Donald clasped
Connie in his arms. For an instant the little Australian stood rigid,
his eyes bulging, then retreated hastily to the shelter of the trees.
Anyone seeing Andy at that moment would have thought him suddenly gone
mad. He whirled about in a wild dance, hugging himself in an ecstasy of
joy. Ceasing his mad gyrations, he dashed his hand across his eyes and
bolted like a runaway down the hill.
Gillis and his “redshirts” sat sunning themselves on the steps of the
dining-room. They sprang to their feet as Andy came tearing down the
hill. Breathlessly Andy told them of the scene he had witnessed. “We’ll
give them a blinkin’ good reception when they come down,” he panted. He
issued several sharp orders and the men scurried happily to execute his
commands.
The train that was to carry the excursionists to the Coast was being
made up on the siding. While they were awaiting this, the visitors
watched with curious interest the mysterious preparations being made by
the loggers.
At this moment, hand in hand, Donald and Connie turned the corner of the
building. As they did so they came to a sudden halt and stared at the
odd scene before them. The men stood in two orderly rows. The ground
between was carpeted with wild flowers, and each logger held a mass of
blooms in his hand. At the far end of this lane of men stood Andy, a
wide smile on his droll face. Connie lowered her eyes in confusion.
Donald shook his fist at Andy. “You little beggar! You are responsible
for this.”
Andy chuckled. “Come on, Donnie, be a sport,” he coaxed.
With flushed faces Donald and Connie walked down the aisle, while the
men pelted them with flowers. The crowd of visitors clapped their hands
in appreciation of this beautiful scene. As they neared the end of the
gauntlet, Andy sprang to a stump.
“Three cheers for the ’appy couple!” he yelled. A roar of cheering
followed. “A tiger!” shouted Andy. And again the air trembled to the
hoarse shout of brawny throats.
Donald led Connie straight to his mother. “Mother,” he said bashfully,
“meet your future daughter.”
Quick tears came to his mother’s eyes as Donald made this announcement.
“My dear,” she said tenderly, as her arms folded about Connie, “you are
all love and tenderness.”
The train’s whistle screeched its warning and the crowd moved down to
the station.
“Will you be coming home to us soon, Donnie?” asked his father as he was
leaving. Donald looked down at Connie.
“We’ll visit you on our honeymoon, Dad,” responded Donald happily. He
swept his arm toward the mountains. “I could never leave this. The spell
of the Great West has entered my blood.”
Janet had spent the afternoon paddling idly on the lake. When she
received the news of Donald’s engagement she concealed the ache in her
heart by an outward air of indifference. The pretence of a headache
enabled her to keep in her cabin and she did not appear for dinner. She
wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
When the shadows lengthened, Donald and Connie moved slowly along the
path toward the bluff. As they turned a curve in the trail Janet came to
the window of her cabin and stood watching them until they disappeared
from sight.
Andy, sitting a few feet distant with his back against a tree, noted the
look of despondency on Janet’s face. He came to his feet and walked
slowly toward the kitchen. “As Methusalem said through ’is whiskers, ‘’e
who ’olds ’is ’ead too ’igh will ’t ’is blinkin’ toe.’”
As the lovers were about to turn up the mountain trail, the trapper
emerged from the woods with his old pack-horse. The cayuse was piled
high with luggage.
“Where are you going, John?” queried Donald.
“I’m hittin’ the trail, ol’ timer.”
“I hope you are not leaving us,” said Connie.
“Yes, I’m quittin’ the country.”
“Why?” questioned Donald.
“Gittin’ too thickly settled. I feel that I ain’t got room to breathe.
I’m goin’ way back into the Cariboo somewhere so’s I kin be by myself.”
The race of mediæval hermits is not dead. The spirit that led the first
pioneers into the forest guides others there to-day. There are men whose
souls long for a place untamed, who yearn to breathe the wild free air.
They want a home straight from the hands of the Creator, unspoiled by
man. They may be trappers, who brave cold and hardships to clothe milady
in warm furs; they may be prospectors, who search out the hidden gold
for others to use. Whatever they may be, these hardy men blaze the trail
for others to follow.
When Donald told the trapper of the coming wedding the old man’s eyes
softened. “I’m glad. It’s jest right. I hoped you two would git
married.” He shook hands gravely, then clucked to his horse.
“Good-bye, Connie! Good-bye, ol’ timer! God bless ye!” he shouted over
his shoulder.
Donald and Connie stood watching the patient old figure as he trudged
behind his cayuse. At a turn of the trail he stopped and for a long
interval gazed back at the log cabin by the stream, which had been his
home for so many years. He waved his hand in farewell, then horse and
man disappeared from view.
When Donald and Connie reached the bluff the sun had sunk in the crimson
west, leaving a rich afterglow that spread across the horizon from west
to east, the rich colours merging by slow degrees into that pure
pearl-grey which makes the long and lovely twilight of the British
Columbia mountains. Down on the lake mists were gathering, but in the
upper sky and on the glaciers a vivid orange glow still lingered. The
trees stood stiff and motionless in the quiet air. From afar, subdued
but clear, came the hoot of a blue-grouse, and from mountain gorges came
the faint sighing sound of distant waterfalls. Sweet and pungent odours
of wild flowers came from the woods about them. A star of silver
brilliancy sparkled suddenly out in the sky over the massive snow-clad
peaks.
“Venus,” whispered Connie.
Donald’s gaze swept from the camp, nestled at their feet, to the
darkening heavens, to the star of love, then down to the girl by his
side.
There are moments in the lives of all men—regardless of creed or
religion—when they feel the nearness of God. Such a moment came to
Donald. He uttered no sound, yet his soul was crying out its great
thankfulness.
Connie sensed his feeling. She bowed her head, her eyes misty with joy
and gratitude. “Oh, God,” she murmured softly, “we thank Thee for Thy
many blessings.”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.