In the meanwhile, Nasmyth has been training his horse for the approaching meeting and after trying him against one belonging to a neighbor and not finding it fast enough he had reluctantly fallen back on a chestnut owned by Gladwyne. The animal possessed a fine speed and some jumping powers. Its chief fault was a vicious temper; but Gladwyne was seldom troubled by lack of nerve in the saddle. It was in time of heavy moral strain that he failed, and he was glad to arrange with Nasmyth for a sharp gallop.

Somewhat to the latter's regret, news of his intentions had spread, and on the morning of the trial a number of people, including the Marples and Crestwicks and Millicent, had gathered about the course. It was a dark day, with a moist air and a low, gray sky. The grass was wet, a strip of plowing which could not be avoided was soft and heavy, and the ground in front of several of the jumps was in a far from satisfactory state. Nasmyth, who kept a very small establishment and had hitherto generally ridden the horse, walked round part of the course with Lisle.

"It will be heavy going and there's a nasty greasy patch at the biggest fence," he said. "I'd have waited for a better day only that it's often wet where they have the meeting, and I want to see what he can do over ground like this. You'll have to watch him at the jumps."

"He'd do better with you in the saddle," Lisle suggested.

"I'd rather put you up. I'm not going to ride at the meeting; I'm over the weight they ought to give him and I want to get him used to a stranger's hands. As it's an outside event of no importance, I haven't fixed on my man yet."

They walked back toward the starting-point, where Gladwyne was waiting, with Batley and Crestwick in attendance. As they approached it, Millicent joined them.

"Are you going to ride to-day?" she asked Lisle.

"Nasmyth insists," was the answer. "I'm afraid I won't do him much credit."

Gladwyne looked up with a slight frown.

"You won't mind?" Nasmyth asked him. "I'd penalize the horse by nearly a stone."

"No," replied Gladwyne, shortly; "there's no reason why I should object."

This was true, but he had an unreasoning aversion to facing this opponent. Of late, the Canadian had caused him trouble at almost every turn, and it looked as if he could not even indulge in a morning's amusement without being plagued with him. He was conscious of a most uncharitable wish that Lisle would come to grief at one of the fences and break his neck. In many ways, this would be a vast relief.

"Would anybody like to make it a sporting match?" Crestwick asked. "The bay's my fancy; I'm ready to back it."

Bella tried to catch his eye, but he disregarded this. She, however, saw Lisle glance at Batley and noticed the latter's smile.

"It isn't worth while betting on trials," Batley declared. "Better wait until the meeting."

The girl was less astonished than gratified. Gladwyne was surprised and disconcerted. He had said nothing to Batley about Crestwick, but he had noticed Lisle's warning glance, and the other's prompt acquiescence appeared significant. It looked as if the two had joined hands, and that was what he most dreaded. An almost overpowering rage against the Canadian possessed him. When he attempted to mount, the chestnut gave him trouble by backing and plunging; but the bay was quiet and Nasmyth stood for a few moments by Lisle's stirrup.

"Save him a bit for the second round," he advised. "Another thing, look out when you come to the big-brushed hurdles, particularly the second time."

Batley volunteered as starter, and when he got them off satisfactorily the spectators scattered, one or two to watch the pace across the plowed land, the others moving toward the stiffest jumps—the course was roughly circular.

The trial was a new experience to Lisle, and he felt the exhilaration of it as, remembering his instructions, he strove to hold his mount. Gladwyne's horse was a length ahead of him, the wind lashed his face, and the thrill of the race grew keener when he swept over the first fence, hard upon the flying chestnut's heels. He dropped another length behind as they crossed the next field and labored over the sticky plowing; then there was a low fence and ditch, a narrow meadow, and then the hurdles Nasmyth had mentioned, filling a gap in a tall thorn hedge. They were wattled with branches which projected a foot or so above them.

It did not look an easy jump and the grass was slippery and soft, but the chestnut accomplished it cleverly and the bay flew at the hurdles with every sign of confidence. Then, though Lisle felt the hoofs slide as the beast took off, they were over and flying faster than ever across a long, wet field. As they approached the end of the first round, the chestnut began to drop back; Lisle could let the bay go and he determined to bring him home the winner. It was his first fast ride in England; and he had, indeed, seldom urged a horse to its utmost pace—the British Columbian trails, for the most part, led steeply up or down rugged hillsides, where speed was out of the question. It was very different on these level English meadows, though the ground was softer than usual and the fences were troublesome. He rode with a zest and ardor he had hardly expected to feel.

He led at the next fence and some of the onlookers shouted encouragement when, drawing a little farther ahead, he once more reached the sticky plowed land. Here the bay slowed a little, toiling across the clods, but a glance over his shoulder showed his opponent still at least two lengths behind. Gladwyne, however, now roused himself to ride in earnest. Hitherto he had taken no great interest in the proceedings, but he had just seen Bella wave her hand to Lisle and then Millicent's applauding smile. He resented the fact that both should be pleased to see him beaten by this intrusive stranger. It reawakened his rancor, and the strain of the last week or two had shaken him rather badly. He was nervous, his self-control was weak; but he meant to pass his rival.

He was still behind at the next fence, but pressing his horse savagely he crept up a little as they approached the one really difficult jump; and as they sped across the narrow meadow Lisle fancied that the bay was making its last effort. Crestwick was standing near the hurdles, with Nasmyth moving rapidly toward them not far away and Bella running across a neighboring field. Crestwick watched Gladwyne intently. The man's face was strangely eager, considering that all he had been asked to do was to test the bay's speed, and there was a hardness in his expression that fixed Crestwick's attention; he wondered the cause of it.

Bella was close to him, when Lisle, riding hard, rushed at the hurdles, and Jim found it hard to repress a shout as the bay's hoofs slipped and slid on the treacherous turf. The horse rose, however; there was a heavy crash; wattled branches and the top bar of the hurdle smashed. Lisle lurched in his saddle; and then the bay came down in a heap, with the man beneath him.

It was impossible to doubt that Gladwyne had seen the accident, but the chestnut rushed straight at the shattered hurdle, teeth bare, nostrils dilated, head stretched forward, and Crestwick thrilled with horror. The fallen horse was struggling, rolling upon its rider, just beyond the fence; but Gladwyne did nothing, except sit ready for the leap. It was incomprehensible; so was the look in the man's face, which was grimly set, as the big chestnut rose in a graceful bound.

There was a sickening thud on the other side, a flounder of slipping hoofs, and the staccato pounding of the gallop broke out again. The chestnut had come down upon the fallen horse or helpless man, and was going on, uncontrollable. Crestwick rushed madly at the hedge, and scrambling through, badly scratched and bareheaded, found Nasmyth trying to drag Lisle clear of the bay. The Canadian's eyes were half open, but there was no expression in them; one arm and shoulder looked distorted, and his face was gray. Half-way across the field Gladwyne was struggling savagely with the plunging chestnut.

"Get hold!" ordered Nasmyth hoarsely. "Some bones broken, by the look of him; but he'll have his brains knocked out in another moment."

Crestwick was cruelly kicked as the bay rolled in agony, striking with its hoofs; but he stuck to his task, and with some difficulty they dragged Lisle out of danger. When they had accomplished it, Marple came running up with two or three others and Nasmyth called to him.

"Came in the car, didn't you? Go off for Irvine as hard as you can drive. Drop somebody at my place to run back with a gun."

Marple swung round and set off across the field, and Crestwick understood why the gun was wanted when he glanced at the fallen horse. Nasmyth informed him that nothing could be done until the doctor came, and he turned away toward where his sister was waiting. His forehead and hands were torn and he was conscious of a bad ache in his back where a hoof had struck, but these things scarcely troubled him. He was overwhelmed, horror-stricken; and the shock of seeing Lisle crushed and senseless was not the only cause of it. Bella, gasping after her run, with hair shaken loose about her face, seemed to be suffering from the same sensation that unnerved him.

"Is he dead?" she asked falteringly.

"No. Badly hurt, I think."

"Ah!" she exclaimed with intense relief. "I was most horribly afraid." She paused before she resumed: "You were close by the hurdles."

Jim knew she meant that he must have seen what happened, but, shaking as he was, he looked hard at her, wondering in a half-dazed fashion what reply he should make. He thought her suspicions were aroused.

"You were some way back; you couldn't have seen anything plainly," he ventured.

"I was very near—looking back toward them—when they crossed the field before the jump. You've gone all to pieces. What did you see?"

"I can't talk about it now," Jim broke out. "He's coming back."

Gladwyne had dismounted and was with some difficulty leading the chestnut toward the hedge. His face was white; he moved with a strong suggestion of reluctance; and when he reached the spot where Lisle lay he seemed to have trouble in speaking.

"Is it dangerous?" he asked.

"I can't tell," Nasmyth answered sternly. "Shoulder's smashed; don't know if that's the worst. Why didn't you pull up the brute or send him at the hedge to the right?"

"He's hard in the mouth—you know his temper. You couldn't have turned him."

"I'd have tried, if I'd had to bring him down and break his neck!"

Nasmyth checked himself, for this was not the time for recriminations, and Millicent, who had been running hard, brushed past them. She did not stop until she bent over Lisle. Then she turned to Nasmyth with fear in her strained expression.

"I think he'll get over it," Nasmyth told her. "I won't take the responsibility of having him moved until the doctor arrives."

"Quite right," agreed Batley, walking up and casting a swift and searching glance at Gladwyne.

"But you can't let him lie on the wet grass!" Millicent expostulated.

"I'm afraid we must; it's safest," said Batley. "The shock's not so much to be dreaded with a man of his kind."

He and Nasmyth took charge of the situation, sternly refusing to listen to all well-meant suggestions, until at last the doctor and Marple came hurrying across the field. The former hastily examined the injured man and then looked up at Nasmyth.

"Upper arm gone, close to the shoulder joint," he announced. "Collar-bone too. I'll give him some brandy. Shout to those fellows with the stretcher."

He was busy for some time, and in the meanwhile Batley picked up the flask he had laid down and handed it to Gladwyne.

"Take a good drink and pull yourself together," he said quietly.

At length Lisle was gently lifted on to the stretcher, and as they carried him away the report of a gun ran out. The onlookers dispersed and Gladwyne was walking home alone when Millicent overtook him. She was puzzled by his limp appearance and the expression of his haggard face. It was only natural that he should keenly feel his responsibility for the accident, but this did not quite seem to account for the man's condition. He looked absolutely unnerved, like one who had barely escaped from some appalling catastrophe.

"You shouldn't take it quite so much to heart," she comforted him. "I don't think Irvine felt any great uneasiness; and nobody could blame you."

"You're the only one who has said so," he answered moodily.

"They couldn't; you stole away. Of course, it's a great pity—I'm distressed—but you must try to be sensible. These accidents happen."

He walked on a while in silence, and then with an effort looked around at her.

"Millicent," he said, "you're wonderfully generous—the sight of anybody in trouble stirs you—but I don't feel able to bear your sympathy."

"Then I'll have to offer it to Lisle," she smiled. "But I'll walk with you to the lodge; and then you had better go in and keep quiet until you get back your nerve."

When she left Gladwyne she went on to Nasmyth's, where she waited until the doctor on leaving told her that he was perfectly satisfied with the prospect for the Canadian's recovery. It would, he said, be merely a question of lying still for a considerable time. Millicent was conscious of a relief which puzzled her by its intensity as she heard the news, but she asked Nasmyth to send somebody to inform Gladwyne.

"I think he's desperately anxious and feeling the thing very badly," she concluded.

"Then he could have come over to inquire, as you have done," Nasmyth answered. "In my opinion, he deserves to be uncomfortable."

"Why are you so hard on him?"

The man's face grew grim.

"I've had to help Irvine with Lisle, for one thing. We were satisfied that his injuries were not caused by the bay rolling on him; he seems to have escaped from that with a few bad bruises. The worst of the accident might have been avoided if Clarence had had nerve enough."

"But you couldn't blame him very greatly for losing his head—he had no warning, scarcely a moment to think. It was so sudden."

"The result's the same," retorted Nasmyth. "Lisle has to pay. But to please you I'll send Clarence word that Irvine's not anxious about him."



CHAPTER XVIII

A PRUDENT DECISION

It had been dark some time and the night was raw, but Jim Crestwick strolled up and down the drive to Marple's house, thinking unusually hard. In the first place, part at least of the folly of his conduct during the last year or two had been plainly brought home to him, and the realization was bitter. It was galling to discover that while he had regarded himself as a man of the world he had been systematically victimized by the men who had encouraged him in the delusion. He felt very sore as he remembered how much he owed Batley, but this troubled him less than the downright abhorrence of Gladwyne which had suddenly possessed him. He had looked up to the latter as a model and had tried to copy his manners; and it was chiefly because Batley was a friend of Gladwyne's that he had paid toll to him. For he had felt that whatever the man he admired was willing to countenance must be the correct thing. Now he saw Gladwyne as he really was—a betrayer of those who trusted him, a counterfeit of an honorable type, one who had by the merest chance escaped from crime.

In the second place, he was concerned about Bella. She had obviously been attracted by Gladwyne, and it was his duty to warn her. Whether the warning was altogether necessary he could not tell—he had watched her face that morning—and Bella sometimes resented advice. When she did so, she had an exasperating trick of putting him in the wrong; but he meant to speak to her as plainly as appeared desirable. He had another duty—to Lisle; but he was inclined to think that on the whole he had better not saddle himself with it. His self-confidence had been rudely shaken and he recognized the possibility of his making things worse. Moreover, he had cultivated the pride of caste, and having with some difficulty obtained an entry to the circle in which Gladwyne moved, he felt it incumbent on him to guard the honor of all who belonged to it.

Presently Bella came out, as he had anticipated, and joined him.

"You have been very quiet since this morning," she began. "I saw that you meant to slip away as soon as you could."

"Yes," he admitted; "I've had something to think about—I've been a fool, Bella; the commonest, most easily gulled kind of imbecile!"

He had expected her to remind him that she had more than once tried to convince him of this, but she failed to do so. Instead, she answered with a touch of the candor that sometimes characterized her.

"You're not the only one."

This was satisfactory, for it suggested that she had been undeceived about Gladwyne; but she had not finished.

"What did you see this morning?" she asked, and he felt that she was speaking with keen anxiety.

"I'll tell you, but it must never go any farther. I hate to think of it! But first of all, what makes you ask?"

She had already mentioned that she had been near when Gladwyne made his attempt to come up with Lisle, but she had not explained that she had seen hatred stamped in hideous plainness on his face.

"Never mind," she answered sharply. "Go on!"

"Well," said Jim, "I was standing right against the hedge, the only person on that side, and I don't think Gladwyne saw me. Lisle's bay fouled the top bar of the hurdle, but it held long enough to bring him down in a heap. Gladwyne was then a length or two behind. He rode straight at the broken hurdle, hands still—I can't get his look out of my mind!"

"But perhaps he couldn't pull up," Bella defended him desperately, as if she would not believe the truth she dreaded.

"There were other ways open. He could have gone at the hedge a yard or two on one side; he could have spoiled the chestnut's take-off and made him jump short. It might have brought him down—the hurdle was firm in the ground—but that would have been better than riding over a fallen man!"

"Are you sure he did nothing?"

"I wish I were not! The thing's horrible! Gladwyne must have seen that he'd come down on Lisle or the struggling bay—he could have prevented it—he didn't try."

Bella shivered. Her brother was right: it was almost beyond contemplation. But that was only half of the matter.

"He must have had a reason," she argued harshly.

"Yes; one doesn't ride over a man in cold-blood for nothing. I think he had some cause for being afraid of Lisle; several things I remember now point to it. His chance came suddenly—nobody could have arranged it—he only remembered that Lisle with his brains crushed out could do him no harm."

The girl recognized that Jim had guessed correctly. When she had gone to Lisle for help, he had allowed her to understand that he could compel Gladwyne's compliance with his request, which was significant. Still, convinced as she was, she would not openly acquiesce in her brother's theory.

"Jim," she protested, "if he'd ridden at the hedge or made the chestnut jump short, he might have broken his own neck. He must have realized it—it would make him hesitate."

The lad laughed scornfully.

"It's quite possible, but is that any excuse? Would Nasmyth or Lisle or Batley have shirked a risk that would mean the saving of the other fellow? Supposing your idea's right—though it isn't—it only shows the man as a disgusting coward."

There was no gainsaying this; and Bella was crushed and humiliated. She had already seen Gladwyne's weakness, and after the choice she had been compelled to make between him and her brother, she had tried to drive all thought of him out of her mind. It had been difficult; he was fascinating in many ways and she had set her heart upon his capture. Now she had done with him; after the morning's revelation she shrank from him with positive horror. Jim seemed to guess this.

"I'm sorry, Bella," he said gently. "But the fellow's impossible."

She laid her hand upon his arm.

"Jim," she replied, "we have both been mad, and I suppose we must pay for it. I'll help you to get clear of Batley when the time comes, but you must never have a deal of any kind with him again."

"That's promised; I've had my lesson. I think I'll ask Lisle to take me with him when he goes back to Canada. He and Nasmyth are the only men worth speaking of I've met for a long while. When Lisle first came here I tried to patronize him."

Bella laughed, rather feebly, but she wanted to relieve the tension.

"It was like you. But we'll go in. This is our secret, Jim. Nobody would believe you if you let fall a hint as to what really happened, and there are many reasons why you shouldn't. I think you said nobody else could have suspected?"

"Nasmyth hadn't come up when the chestnut reached the hurdles; he was the nearest. Lisle was down with the horse upon him. He couldn't have seen anything."

"Well," she decided, "perhaps that's fortunate. It isn't likely that Gladwyne will get such an opportunity again, and at the worst he acted on the spur of the moment."

The lad nodded. He had felt that silence would entail some responsibility, but Bella accepted it without uneasiness. She seldom showed any hesitation when she had decided on a course.

In the meanwhile, Gladwyne had spent a miserable day, alternating between horror of himself and doubts about the future. Jim Crestwick's description of the incident was correct—Gladwyne had ridden straight at the broken hurdle, knowing what the consequences might be and disregarding them. The next moment, however, the reaction had begun and he was thankful that he had not committed a hideous crime. Indeed, the knowledge that he had come so near to killing his opponent had left him badly shaken. He wondered at his insensate action until he recollected how he had once stood beside an opened cache in Canada, and then, ignoring his manifest duty, had hurried on through the frozen wilderness. On that occasion he had been accountable for his cousin's death, and now Lisle had very narrowly escaped.

Yet he could with justice acquit himself of any premeditated intention in either case; fate had thrust him into a situation he was not strong enough to grapple with. Dreading Lisle, as he did, his chief thought had been for his own safety when he saw the bay blunder at the leap. To save the Canadian he must take a serious personal risk, which was foreign to his nature, and though a recognition of the fact that the death of the fallen man would be a great relief to him had been clearly in his mind, it was impossible to say how far it had actuated him.

He had grown more collected when he sat in his library as dusk was closing in, considering other aspects of the affair. He had not seen Crestwick, and Lisle, he thought, would remember nothing except his fall. After trying to recall the positions of the others, he felt comforted; nobody could charge him with anything worse than reckless riding or a failure of nerve at a critical moment. He would confess to the latter—it was to some extent the truth—and show concern about Lisle's injury. Awkward as it was, the incident could be smothered over; it was consoling to remember that the people he lived among were addicted to treating anything of an unpleasant nature as lightly as possible. There was a good deal to be said for the sensible English custom of ignoring what it would be disconcerting to realize.

After a while his mother came in and gently touched him.

"My dear," she urged, "you mustn't brood over it. Lisle's condition's satisfactory. As it's some hours since we got Nasmyth's message, I sent a man over and he has just come back."

"I'm glad you sent," Gladwyne responded. "It was thoughtful. I forgot; but I've been badly troubled."

She sat down near him, with her hand laid caressingly on his arm.

"It's natural; I understand and feel for you. I wouldn't have liked you to be indifferent; but you mustn't make too much of it. The man is strong, he will soon be about again, and you couldn't have saved him. Everybody I've seen so far has given me that impression. Of course, I didn't need their assurances, but I was glad to see they exonerated and sympathized with you."

Her confidence hurt him; he had still a sense of shame, and he found no great comfort in what she told him. His mother was generally loved, and he wondered how far his neighbors had been influenced by a desire to save her pain.

"It looks as if Lisle deserves their commiseration more than I do," he answered with a smile which cost him an effort.

"It is being shown. I noticed nearly everybody in the neighborhood motoring or driving toward the house during the afternoon. Millicent's with Nasmyth now, helping to arrange things. It's wonderful what a favorite Lisle has become in so short a time; but I own that I find something very likable about him."

Gladwyne moved impatiently. His hatred of the man was as strong as ever, and his mother's attempts at consolation irritated him. Lisle was too popular; first Bella and now Millicent had taken him in hand.

"Millicent," Mrs. Gladwyne went on, "is an exceptional woman in every desirable respect. I think you have long been as convinced of that as I am."

"I'm afraid she can't have an equally favorable opinion of me," he said with a short laugh.

"One does not look for perfection in a man," his mother informed him seriously. "He is criticized much less severely than a woman. It seems to be the universal rule, though I have sometimes thought it wasn't absolutely just and that it had its drawbacks. It's one of the things the women who go out and speak are declaiming against and something one of them lately said sticks in my mind." She sighed as she added: "The times are changing; there was no need to consider such questions in your father's case. He was the soul of honor—you were very young when death parted us."

She did not always express herself clearly, but Gladwyne saw that she did not place him in the same category as his father and he recognized her half-formulated thought that it would have been better had he grown up under the latter's firmer guidance.

"Wonders never cease, mother," he responded with an attempt at lightness. "It's difficult to imagine your being influenced by the latest propaganda. I thought you shuddered at it."

"Well," she said, "I was forgetting what I meant to talk about, drifting away from the subject; I'm afraid it's a habit of mine. What I have long felt is that it would be so desirable if you married suitably."

"The trouble is to define the suitability. It's a point upon which everybody has a different opinion."

"I would choose a girl of good family and education for you, one with a well-balanced will, who could see what was right and cling to it. Still, she must be wise and gentle; a tactful, considerate guide; and though means are not of first importance, they are not to be despised."

Gladwyne leaned back in his chair with a laugh that had in it a tinge of irritation.

"Are such girls numerous? But why do you insist on a will and the power of guiding? It looks as if you thought I needed it. Sometimes you're the reverse of flattering."

His mother looked troubled; she would have wounded no living creature unnecessarily.

"My dear, it's not always easy to express what one feels, and I dare say I'm injudicious in choosing my words. But your welfare is very near to my heart."

"I know that," he answered gently. "But you were not describing an imaginary paragon. Hadn't you Millicent in your mind?"

"I should be very happy if I could welcome her as my daughter. I should feel that you were safe then."

There was a thrill of regret in her voice that touched him. It hinted that she blamed herself for omissions and lack of wisdom in his upbringing. Besides, her confidence in any one who had won her respect, as Millicent had done, was bestowed so generously.

"I'm afraid I've often given you trouble, and I do you little credit now," he said. "But, as to the other matter, one can't be sure that Millicent would welcome the idea. Of late I've had a suspicion that she hasn't a very high opinion of me."

"You could hardly expect to gain it by devoting yourself to Miss Crestwick."

The man smiled rather grimly.

"If it's any consolation to you, I'm inclined to think that Miss Crestwick has let me drop. The truth's not very flattering, but I can't hide it."

Mrs. Gladwyne's relief was obvious, but she had more to say and she ventured upon it with some courage.

"If you would only get rid of Batley too!"

"I can hardly do that just now; he's useful in several ways. Still, of course, if I married—"

He broke off abruptly, for his mother had occasional flashes of discernment.

"Millicent has means," she said.

He started at this, wondering how much she had guessed, but he veiled his embarrassment with a smile.

"Well," he acknowledged, "means, as you most wisely remarked, are not to be despised, and mine are unfortunately small."

She saw that she had said enough and she left him sitting in the darkening room thinking rather hard. Bella had thrown him over when he had refused to help her brother, and there were many ways in which Millicent appealed to him. Besides, she could free him of his debt to Batley, which was a thing greatly to be desired. She had shown that she did not blame him severely for the accident at the hurdles, but he realized that in trying to comfort him she had been prompted by pity for his dejected mood, and it was clear that the part he had played was scarcely likely to raise him in her esteem. This was unfortunate, but he would not dwell on it; there were other points to consider and anything that served to divert his thoughts from the unfortunate affair was a vast relief.

When at last he rose he had partly recovered his usual equanimity and had decided that he would watch for some sign of Millicent's feelings toward him. He was aware that they had somewhat changed, but this was to a large extent his fault, and with caution and patience he thought it might be possible to reinstate himself in her favor.



CHAPTER XIX

GLADWYNE GAINS A POINT

Some weeks had passed since the accident and Lisle was lying one afternoon on a couch near a window of Nasmyth's sitting-room. Two or three Canadian newspapers lay on the floor and he held a few letters in one hand. The prospect outside was cheerless—a stretch of leaden-colored moor running back into a lowering sky, with a sweep of fir wood that had lost all distinctive coloring in the foreground. He was gazing at it moodily when Millicent came in. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he raised himself awkwardly with his uninjured arm, but she shook her head at him in reproof.

"You had orders to keep as quiet as possible for some time yet. Lie down again!"

"Keeping quiet is fast breaking me up," he protested. "I'm quite able to move about."

"All the same, you're not to try."

He looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Then I suppose I'll have to give in. You're a determined person. People do what you ask them without resenting it. You have an instance here, though in a general way it's a very undignified thing to be ordered about."

He resumed his former position and she seated herself.

"I don't see why you should drag my character in," she objected with a smile. "Other people who occasionally obey me don't say such things."

"They're English; that accounts for a good deal. I'm inclined to think my power of expressing my feelings on any point is a gift, though it's one that's not uncommon in the West."

"Doesn't it presuppose an assurance that any one you address must be interested in your views?"

"I deserve that," he laughed; "but you're not quite right. We say, in effect, 'These are my sentiments, but I won't be down-hearted if you haven't the sense to agree with them.' The last, however, doesn't apply to you."

"Thank you for the explanation," she rejoined. "But why do you insist on a national difference? You're really English, aren't you, in Canada?"

"No," he answered; "you and the others who talk in that strain are mistaken. We're a brand new nation still fusing and fuming in the melting-pot. The elements are inharmonious in some respects—French from the Laurentian littoral, Ontario Scots, Americans, Scandinavians, Teutons, Magyars, Slavs. The English element's barely strong enough to temper the mixture; the land's too wide and the people too varied for British traditions to bind. When the cooling amalgam's run out it will be into a fresh mold."

"One made in Pennsylvania, or wherever the American foundries are?"

"They run the one you have in mind at Washington. You understand things a good deal better than many people I've talked to here; but you're not right yet. If Canadians deliberately chose the American mold because it was American, a number of us would kick; but the cause is a bigger one than that. From Texas to Athabasca, from Florida to Labrador, pretty much the same elemental forces are fanning the melting fires. We have the same human raw material; we've much the same problems to tackle; the conditions are, or soon will be, pretty similar. It's only natural that the result should be more or less identical. I've said nothing yet about our commercial and social relations with our neighbors."

"But doesn't England count?"

"Morally, yes. It's your part to keep our respect and show us a clean lead."

"After all," she rejoined, "you, in particular, are essentially English by connection with the part of the country you're now staying in."

He smiled curiously.

"So you or Nasmyth have been tracing up the family!"

"No," she replied with a little sharpness. "Why should I have done so? Of course, we knew the name; and you have relations living at no great distance. I understand Nasmyth got a hint that they would be glad to receive you."

"Let it go at that," he answered. "My father was cast out because he dared to think for himself and my mother was Canadian born. I'm a unit in the new nation; one of the rank and file."

She considered this for a moment or two. It was hardly an English point of view, but—for his family had long been one of station—there was a hint of pride that struck her as rather fine about this renunciation. It was a risky thing to insist on being taken at one's intrinsic value, stripped of all accidental associations that might enhance it, but she thought he need not shrink from the hazard. Now and then he spoke with slightly injudicious candor, and sometimes too vehemently, but in essential matters he displayed an admirable delicacy of feeling and she recognized in him a sterling sense of honor.

"I've broken loose again and you're feeling shocked," he said humorously. "It's your own fault; you have a way of making one talk. There's no use in discoursing to people who don't understand. However—and it's much more important—how's the book getting on?"

"More important than my wounded susceptibilities?" Millicent laughed. "But we won't mind them. I'm pleased to say I've heard from the publishers that it's in strong request. Indeed, they add, rather superfluously, that the demand is somewhat remarkable, considering the nature of the work."

Lisle laughed at this.

"Any more reviews?"

She handed him several and he noticed the guarded, unenthusiastic tone of the first two.

"These are the people who prefer a thing like a catalogue. This fellow says the first portion of the book shows most care in particulars and classification—it's what one would expect from him. That was your brother's work, I think. He was not an imaginative person."

"No," replied Millicent. "He was eminently practical and methodical."

"There's a great deal to be said in favor of that kind of man. You can trust him when it's a case of grappling with practical difficulties. But I feel quite angry with the next reviewer. 'The illustrations are rather impressionist drawings than a useful guide to identification.' The fellow would no doubt rather have those stiff, colored plates which are about as like the real, breathing creature as a stuffed specimen in a museum."

Millicent was pleased with his indignation, but his disgusted expression changed as he read the next cutting.

"Now," he exclaimed, "we're arriving at the sound sense of ordinary people, lovers of nature who're not naturalists. This man's enthusiastic; the next review's even better!" He took up the others and there was keen satisfaction in his eyes when he laid them down. "Great!" he ejaculated. "I expected it. You've made your mark!"

The girl thrilled with pleasure; his delight at her success was so genuine.

"Well," she told him, "the publishers suggest that I undertake another and more ambitious work. I've often thought that I should like to do so. The lonely country between the Rockies and the Pacific has a peculiar interest to me and I've long had a desire to follow my brother's trail. I don't think it's a morbid wish—somehow I feel impelled to go."

"It's a beautiful, wild land, and the creatures that inhabit it are among the finest in the world. You promised to let me be your guide, and you should take Nasmyth, too; he's a man to be depended on. You could start in the early summer next year."

She smiled at his eagerness; but he suddenly grew thoughtful.

"It's curious how events seem to have started beside those lonely river-reaches among the rocks," he remarked. "It was there that I got to know Nasmyth, and through him I met you. It was there that I learned something about your brother and Clarence Gladwyne. The drama began in those wilds and I've a feeling that it will end among them."

"The drama?" she queried, and he was conscious that he had made a slip.

"Well," he answered, "before we crossed the big divide I wasn't aware of your existence, and I'd only a hazy idea that I might come to England some day. Now, if I may say it, I've joined your group of friends and entered into their lives. One feels it can't have sprung from nothing; it isn't blind chance."

She mused for a few moments.

"It's strange," she asserted, "but I've had something of the same feeling. You seem to have become a part of things, a connecting link between us all—Mrs. Gladwyne, Clarence, Nasmyth, and even young Crestwick. One could almost fancy that some mysterious agency were working upon us through you."

He did not wish her to pursue this train of thought too far.

"I've promised to take Jim Crestwick back with me," he said. "I'm going as soon as I'm fit to get about."

"Going back, in a few weeks?"

"Yes. In many ways, I'm sorry; but I've had some letters that show it's needful. Business calls."

She made no reply for some moments. There was no doubt that she would miss him badly, and she recalled the strange and tense anxiety of which she had been conscious when he had fallen at the hurdles.

"We have come to look upon you as one of us," she told him simply. "Somehow we never contemplated your going away, and now it seems an almost unnatural thing."

"It would be, if I broke off the connection with my English friends, but I think that can't be done. We're to see more of each other; I'm to be your guide when you come out next year."

"It's very likely that I shall come."

She left him shortly after this and walked home in a thoughtful mood, regretting his approaching departure and pondering over what he had said. With reflection it became clearer that she had entertained the same idea as his. He and she and the others he mentioned were not acting and reacting upon one another casually; it was all a part of a purpose, leading up to something that still lay unrevealed on the knees of destiny. Perhaps he had been right in speaking of a drama; it suggested a sequence of prearranged events, springing from George's death. Reaching home, she endeavored to banish these thoughts, which were vaguely troublesome, but Miss Hume found her preoccupied and absent-minded during the evening.

The following day she went over to see Mrs. Gladwyne and was asked to wait until her return. Shortly afterward, Clarence entered the room where she was sitting, and she alluded to her visit to Lisle.

"He is going back as soon as he can stand the journey," she said.

Gladwyne made an abrupt movement and she noticed with surprise and some indignation the relief in his expression. Though the men had not been on very cordial terms, it puzzled her.

"You don't attempt to conceal your satisfaction," she commented. "Isn't it a little ungenerous?"

His effort to recover his composure was obvious, but he answered her quietly.

"I'm afraid it is. After the accident—I think I was partly blamed for that—he behaved very well; told everybody about the slippery ground and said what he could to exonerate me."

"I didn't mean to refer to that matter," explained Millicent. She knew that it was a painful one to him.

"Still," he resumed, "even if it's ungrateful, I am rather glad he's going."

"'Rather glad' hardly seems to describe it; you looked overjoyed."

"Don't be severe, Millicent. Let me explain. Since Lisle came over, nothing has been quite the same. He got hold of you and Nasmyth and the others, and in a way alienated you from me. I don't mean he did it with deliberate intention, but he took up your time and monopolized your interest. I've seen much less of both of you."

"And, of late, of the Crestwicks."

"Oh," he returned in his most casual manner, "I shouldn't have had much more of their company in any case. Jim's going to Canada and Bella to Sussex. I understand from Marple that it will be some time before she visits us again."

Millicent was glad to hear it, but she made no comment.

"It's unreasonable to blame Lisle," Gladwyne went on; "though he did make some unpleasantness with Batley; but I have had so many annoyances and troubles since he arrived. Everything has been going wrong and I can't disassociate him from the unfortunate tendency."

He sat where the light fell upon his face, and Millicent, studying it, was stirred to compassion, which was always ready with her. He looked harassed and nervous, as if he had borne a heavy strain, and she knew that the accident had preyed upon his mind. That, she thought, was to his credit. In addition to this, she had suspected that he was threatened with financial difficulties. The man had a dangerous gift of rousing women's interest and sympathy.

"I'm sorry," she said with sincere feeling. "You should go away for a time. You need a change."

"I've thought of it; but I'm afraid I've been neglecting things lately and there's a good deal that needs straightening up—farm buildings to be looked to, the stream to dyke in the low ground, and that draining scheme."

It was not all acting; he had meant to give those matters some attention when he found it convenient, and she was far from suspicious and was quick to take the most favorable view of any one. That he recognized his duties and intended to discharge them gratified her.

"I think," she told him, "that if you undertake these things in earnest, you'll be better for the occupation; and they certainly need looking after."

"I've been slack," he owned. "I seemed to lose interest and, as I said, I've had difficulties to distract me."

He had struck the right note again. Anything of the nature of a confession or appeal for sympathy seldom failed to stir her.

"In fact," he resumed, "I'm not clear of troubles now. If I do half that I'm asked to do, it will nearly ruin me, and I don't know where to begin. I haven't any great confidence in Grierson's advice; he doesn't seem to grip things readily."

"The trouble is that he has his favorites," she said bluntly. "I don't think he suffers from any lack of understanding."

"What do you mean?"

It was unpleasant, but she had courage and the man was doing Clarence harm.

"Well, there are people who can get very much what they ask Grierson for, in the shape of repairs and improvements, whether they need it or not."

"At my expense, while the rest get less than they should have?"

"A number of your tenants have got practically nothing for some years. It's false economy; you'll have to lay out twice as much as would keep them here satisfied, when they leave you in disgust."

She supplied him with several instances of neglect, and a few clever suggestions, and he looked at her in admiration which was only partly assumed.

"What an administrator you would have made!" he exclaimed. "The place would thrive in your hands and everybody be content. It's obvious, quite apart from his good qualities, why George was so popular."

Millicent did not suspect him of an intent to flatter her, and she recognized that there was truth in what he said. She knew everybody on the estate and knew their most pressing needs, and she undoubtedly possessed the power of management. She had a keen discernment and could arrive at a quick and just decision.

"Clarence," she said, "I shouldn't advise you to take the business altogether out of Grierson's hands. He's honest, so far as you are concerned, and one or two of the hardest things he did were by your orders."

"You mean the Milburn and Grainger affair?" He showed a little embarrassment. "Well, perhaps I was hasty then, but they would have exasperated a much more patient man. I sometimes feel that I can't please these people, whatever I do."

She smiled at this.

"They're not effusive, but they're loyal once you win their confidence. But, to go back to Grierson—let him collect payments and handle the money, but don't ask his advice as to how you will lay it out. Look around, inquire into things, and trust your own judgment."

He turned to her beseechingly.

"I can't trust it in these matters—it hasn't been cultivated. If I'm to keep out of further trouble and do any good, you must help me."

Millicent hesitated. It was not a little thing he asked. To guide him aright would need thought and patient investigation. Still, there was, as she had said, so much to be done—abuses to be abolished, houses to be made habitable, burdens to be lifted from shoulders unable to carry them. There was also land the yield from which could be increased by a very moderate expenditure. She would enjoy the power to do these things which the man's demand for help offered her, but she was more stirred by his desire to redeem past neglect and set right his failures.

"Well," she promised, "you shall have my candid advice whenever you need it."

He showed his gratitude, but he was conscious of a satisfaction that had no connection with the welfare of his estate. He would have a legitimate excuse for seeing her often; the work jointly undertaken would lead to a closer confidence. He had always cherished a certain tenderness for her; he must marry somebody with money before long; and though Millicent's means were not so large as Bella's, they were not contemptible. He had not the honesty to let these thoughts obtrude themselves, but they nevertheless hovered at the back of his mind. It was more graceful to reflect that Millicent possessed refinement, a degree of beauty, and many most desirable qualities.



CHAPTER XX

MRS. GLADWYNE'S TEMPTATION

Clarence had gone away with Batley when Lisle called on Mrs. Gladwyne. She was leaving home for a visit on the following day and he wished to say good-by, and, if an opportunity offered, to ask her opinion upon a matter he had at heart. She was not a clever woman, but there were points on which he thought her judgment could be trusted. He was told that she would be occupied for a few minutes and was shown into her drawing-room. He sat down to wait and, though he was familiar with the house, he looked about him with an interest for which there was a reason. The room had always impressed him by its size and loftiness, and it did so more than ever that afternoon.

The floor was of hardwood, polished to a glossy luster by the hands of several generations, and the rugs scattered here and there emphasized its extent. Most of the furniture was old, and the few articles apparently bought in later times harmonized with it. The faded ceiling had been painted with Cupid's trailing ribands, he judged by some artist of the period shortly preceding the French Revolution, and two or three Arcadian figures hinted at the same date. There were other things—a luster chandelier, quaintly-wrought hearth-irons, a carved wood mantel—that posited to bygone days.

It all impressed him with a sense of the continuity of English traditions and mode of life, as applied to such families as the Gladwynes. Cradled in a degree of luxury which nevertheless differed from modern profusion and ostentation, steeped in a slightly austere refinement, he could understand their shrinking from sudden chance and clinging to the customs of the past. They were all, so far as he had seen, characterized by the possession of high qualities, with the exception of Clarence, whom he regarded as a reversion to a baser type; but he thought that they would suffer if uprooted and transplanted in a less sheltered and less cultivated soil. Inherited instincts were difficult to subdue; he was conscious of their influence. He came from a new land where he had often toiled for a dollar or two daily, but a love and veneration for the ancient English homes in which his people had lived was growing strong in him.

Mrs. Gladwyne did not appear, but he had a good deal to think of and was content to wait. He had grown fond of the stately lady and it was, indeed, largely for her sake that he had decided not to reveal for a while what he knew about the tragedy in British Columbia. He could not absolutely prove his version of the affair, and it would bring distress upon the mother of the offender; he had already waited two years and, though he felt that his dead comrade had a strong claim on him, he could wait a little longer. Fate might place conclusive evidence in his hands or remove some of his difficulties. Besides, he must go back as soon as possible to the Canadian North, and in one respect he was very loath to do this.

At last he heard a footstep and his hostess came in. Her dress was not of the latest fashion, but it somehow struck him as out of place; she ought to have been attired in the mode of a century ago, with powder in her hair. Nevertheless, fragile as she was, with her fine carriage and her gracious smile, she made an attractive picture in the ancient room.

"I've come on an unpleasant errand—to say good-by—and to thank you for many favors shown to a stranger," he said.

"I think you were never that from the beginning," she told him. "By and by we learned the reason—you really belong to us."

He made a gesture of humorous expostulation.

"I like to believe that I belong here, but not because of the explanation you give. It doesn't seem to be much to my credit that my forefathers lived in this part of the country; I'd rather be taken on my actual merits, if that isn't, too egotistical."

"They did live here," she rejoined. "You can't get over that—it has its influence."

It was the point of view he had expected her to take.

"We are very sorry you are going," she continued; "somehow we hardly anticipated it. Have you ever thought of coming back for good?"

She was unconsciously giving him the lead he desired, but he would not seize it precipitately; he was half afraid.

"No," he answered, smiling; "my work's out yonder. I couldn't sit idle. I think Miss Gladwyne hit it when she told me that I was one of the pioneers."

His hostess showed more comprehension than he had looked for.

"Yes; I set you down as one of the men who prefer heat and cold, want of food, and toil, to the comforts they could have at home. I have met a few, sons of my old friends, and heard of others. After all, we have a good many of them in England."

"Troublesome people, aren't they? What do you do with them?"

"Let them go. How do we rule India and hold so much of Africa? How did we open up Canada for you?"

He nodded.

"That's right. It doesn't matter that in respect to Canada the sons of Highland peasants did their share; the Hudson Bay people and the Laurentian Frenchmen showed us the way. We found out what kind of men they were when we went in after them."

There was silence for a few moments and he glanced at her with admiration. The honorable pride of caste she had shown strongly appealed to him. She stood for all that was fine in the old regime, and once more he wondered how such a woman could have borne such a son.

"I'm returning because business calls," he explained. "My means won't keep me in idleness, and that fact has a bearing on the question as to whether I'll ever come back again. It's a very momentous one to me."

She waited, noticing with some surprise the sudden tenseness of his expression, until he spoke again, hesitatingly.

"You are the only person I can come to for advice. I'd be grateful for your opinion."

"I'll try to give it carefully," she promised.

"Well," he said, "the life you people lead here has its attractions; they must be strong to you. It would be hard to break with all its associations, to face one that was new and different; I mean for a woman to do so?"

"Ah!" she exclaimed, seeing the drift of his remarks at last. "You had better tell me whom you are thinking of."

"Millicent."

She started. This was a painful surprise, though she now wondered why she had never suspected it. He had met the girl frequently before his accident, and she had since gone over to Nasmyth's to talk with him now and then; yet, for some not very obvious reason, nobody seemed to have contemplated the possibility of his falling in love with her. Mrs. Gladwyne had undoubtedly not done so, and she was filled with alarm. It was most desirable that Millicent should marry Clarence.

"How long have you had this in your mind?" she asked.

"That is more than I can tell you," he answered thoughtfully. "I admired her greatly the first time I saw her; I admired her more when we made friends, but I don't think I went much farther for a while. In Tact, I believe it was only when I knew I must go back soon that I realized how strong a hold she had on me, and then I fought against yielding. The difficulties to be got over looked so serious."

"Has Millicent any suspicion of your regard for her?" It was an important question and Mrs. Gladwyne waited in suspense for his reply.

"Not the slightest, so far as I can tell. I tried to hide my feelings until I could come to a decision as to what I ought to do."

This was satisfactory, provided that his supposition was correct, and his companion could imagine his exercising a good deal of self-repression.

"What is your fear?" she asked.

"Well, I'm rough and unpolished compared with Nasmyth and the rest, but with her large mind she might overlook that. I couldn't live here as Nasmyth and Clarence do; I'm not rich enough. My wife, if I marry, must come out West with me, and I might have to be away from her for months now and then. I don't know that I could even establish myself in Victoria, where she would find something resembling your English society. Besides, my small share of prosperity might come to an end; I'm going back now, sooner than I expected, because there are business difficulties to be grappled with."

Mrs. Gladwyne nodded. She could follow his thought, but after a pause he continued.

"What troubles me most is that Millicent seems so much in harmony with her surroundings. We have nothing like them in Canada—anyway, not in the West. Whether ours are better or worse doesn't affect the case; they're widely different. There is much she would have to give up; what I could offer her in place of it would be new and strange, less finished, less refined. Could a woman of your station stand it? Would she suffer from being torn adrift from the associations that surround her here?"

His companion considered. Allowing for his generosity in thinking first of Millicent, he was a little too practical and dispassionate. She did not think he was very greatly in love with the girl as yet, and that was consoling. What Millicent thought she did not know, but in many respects the man was eminently likable. Mrs. Gladwyne had grown fond of him; but that must not be allowed to stand in her son's way. Clarence came before anybody else.

"I feel my responsibility," she said slowly. "Would you act on my advice?"

"I think so—it might be hard. Anyway, I'd try."

She hesitated. The man had won her respect. Had she been wholly free from extraneous influences she might, perhaps, have counseled him to make the venture, but half-consciously she tried to see only the shadows in the picture he had drawn.

"Well," she answered him, "until two years ago Millicent lived in this house—that must have had its effect on her."

"Yes," he agreed; "she shows it. These old places set their stamp on people—it's very plain on you."

Mrs. Gladwyne saw that he understood, but she felt half guilty as she proceeded:

"You admit that you could not give her anything of this kind in Canada?"

He laughed rather grimly.

"No; our homes were built yesterday, and we move on rapidly—they'll be pulled down again to-morrow. I'll own that our ideas and manners are in the same unfinished, transitory stage. We haven't been able to sit down and learn how to be graceful."

She made a sign of comprehension, though her reluctance to proceed grew stronger. He was very honest and there was pain in his face.

"Millicent," she said, "is essentially one of us, used to what we consider needful, bred to our ways. The endless small amenities which make life smooth here have always surrounded her. Can you imagine her, for instance, living with the Marples?"

"No," he replied harshly; "I can't."

"Then do you think it would be wise to take her to Canada?"

"I have thought she would not mind giving up many things she values, if one could win her affection."

"That is very true; but it doesn't get over the difficulty. It isn't so very hard to nerve oneself to make a sacrifice, it's the facing of the inevitable results when the reaction sets in that tells. She would continually miss something she had been used to and she would long for it."

He sat silent for nearly a minute, with his face set hard, and then he looked up.

"If Millicent were your daughter, would you let her go?"

Again Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. His confidence hurt her; she shrank from delivering what she thought would be the final blow, but she strove to assure herself that she was acting in Millicent's best interest.

"No," she answered, "not unless she was passionately attached to the man who wished to take her out, and then I should do my utmost to dissuade her."

He made no answer for a few moments. Then slowly he rose.

"Thank you," he said gravely. "I'm afraid you're right. It's generally hard to do what one ought. Well,"—he took the hand she held out—"I'm grateful to you in many ways and I'd like you to remember me now and then."

She let him go, and crossing the room to a window, she watched him stride down the drive with a swift, determined gait. He might be tried severely, but there was little fear of this man's resolution deserting him. She was, however, troubled by a recurrence of the unpleasant sense of guilt when he disappeared; it was difficult to persuade herself that she had been quite honest, and the difficulty was new to her.

In the meanwhile Lisle walked on rapidly, disregarding the ache that the motion started in his injured arm and shoulder. In his dejected mood, the twinge at every step was something of a welcome distraction. Since a sacrifice must be made, it should, he resolved, be made by him; Millicent should not suffer, though he admitted that he had no reason for supposing that she would have been willing to do so. She had never shown him more than confidence and friendliness, and it was only during the past few weeks that he had ventured to think of the possibility of winning her. Even then, the thought had roused no excess of ardent passion; much as he desired her, a strong respect and steadfast affection were more in keeping with his temperament. Nevertheless, had he known that she loved him and he could confer benefits upon her in place of demanding a sacrifice, he would have been strangely hard to deter.

On his return, Nasmyth met him at the door.

"Where have you been?" he asked with some indignation.

"To Mrs. Gladwyne's," Lisle informed him.

"You walked to the house, after what Irvine said when you insisted on his taking the bandages off?"

"I took them off; he only protested. Anyway, I didn't break my leg."

Nasmyth noticed his gloomy expression.

"Well," he responded, "I suppose there was very little use in warning you to keep quiet; but you look as if you had suffered for your rashness."

"That's true," answered the Canadian with a grim smile. "After all, it's what usually happens, isn't it?"

They went in, Nasmyth a little puzzled by his companion's manner; but Lisle offered no explanation of its cause.



CHAPTER XXI

THE LAST AFTERNOON

It was a bright day when Lisle took his leave of the Marples. They gave him a friendly farewell and when he turned away Bella Crestwick walked with him down the drive.

"I don't care what they think; I couldn't talk to you while they were all trying to say something nice," she explained. "Still, to do them justice, I believe they meant it. We are sorry to part with you."

"It's soothing to feel that," Lisle replied. "In many ways, I'm sorry to go. I've no doubt you'll miss your brother after to-morrow."

"Yes," she said with unusual seriousness. "More than once during the last two years I felt that it would be a relief to let somebody else have the responsibility of looking after him, but now that the time has come I'm sorry he's going. I can't help remembering how often I lost my temper, and the mistakes I made."

"You stuck to your task," commended Lisle. "I dare say it was a hard one, almost beyond you now and then."

He knew that he was not exaggerating. She was only a year older than the wilful lad, who must at times have driven her to despair. Yet she had never faltered in her efforts to restrain and control him; and had made a greater sacrifice for his sake than Lisle suspected, though in the light of a subsequent revelation of Gladwyne's character she was thankful for this.

"Well," she replied, "I suppose that one misses a load one has grown used to, and I feel very downcast. It's hardly fair to pass Jim on to you—but I can trust you to take care of him."

"You can trust the work and the country," Lisle corrected her with a trace of grimness. "He's not going out to be idle, as he'll discover. There's nothing like short commons and steady toil for taming any one. You'll see the effect of my prescription when I send him back again."

"He has physical pluck. I'm glad to remember it; and he has shown signs of steadying since he found Gladwyne out."

Lisle looked at her searchingly.

"Since he found Gladwyne out?"

"Oh," she answered, seeing that she had been incautious, "he rather idolized the man, and I suppose it was painful to discover by accident that he wasn't quite all he thought him. Now, however, he has transferred his homage to you—I'm afraid Jim must always have somebody to prop him—but I've no misgivings."

Lisle laughed.

"I've seldom had the time to get into mischief; I suppose that accounts for a good deal."

They were nearing the lodge and she stopped and held out her hand.

"It's hard to say good-by; you have helped me more than you'll ever guess, and you won't be forgotten." Then as he held her hand with signs of embarrassment she laughed with something of her usual mocking manner and suddenly drew away. "Good-by," she added. "I was rather daring once and I suppose you were shocked. I can't repeat the rashness—it would mean more now."

She walked back toward the house, and he went on. Half an hour later he met Millicent, who stopped to greet him.

"I was on my way to call on you for the last time," he told her.

There was something in his voice that troubled her, and, though she had expected it, she shrank from the intimation of his departure.

"Then, will you come back with me?" she asked.

"If you're not pressed for time, I'd rather walk across the moor, the way you once took me soon after I came. I'd like to look round the countryside again before I leave, though it will be a melancholy pleasure."

For no very obvious reason, she hesitated. It was, however, hard to refuse his last request and she really wished to go.

"The views are unusually good," she said, as they started on. "Wouldn't Nasmyth have gone with you?"

"It wouldn't have been the same," he explained. "I'm storing up memories to take away with me and somehow Nasmyth is most clearly associated with Canada. When I think of him, it will be as sitting in camp beside a portage or holding the canoe paddle."

"And you can't picture my being occupied in that way?"

"No," he answered gravely; "I associate you with England—with stately old houses, with well-cared-for woods and quiet valleys. There's no doubt that your place is here."

He spoke as if he were making an admission that was forced from him, and she endeavored to answer in a lighter manner.

"It's the only one I've had an opportunity for trying."

"But you love this place!"

"Yes," she said; "I love it very well. Perhaps I am prejudiced, and I've only had a glimpse at other countries, but I feel that this is the most beautiful land in the world."

He stopped and glanced round. From where they stood he could look out upon leagues of lonely brown moors running back into the distance under a cloudless sky. Beyond them the Scottish hills were softly penciled in delicate gray. There was a sense of space and vastness in the picture, but it was not that which spoke most plainly to him. Down on the far-spread low ground lay such white homesteads, built to stand for generations, as he had never seen in Canada; parks sprinkled with noble trees, amid which the gray walls of some ancient home peeped out; plantations made with loving care, field on field, fenced in with well-trimmed trimmed hedges.

It was all eloquent of order, security and long-established ease; a strong contrast to the rugged wilderness where, in the bush and on treeless prairie, men never relaxed their battle with nature. In many ways, his was a stern country; a land of unremitting toil from which one desisted only long enough to eat and sleep, and he was one of the workers. Mrs. Gladwyne had been right—it was no place for this delicately nurtured girl with her sensitiveness and artistic faculties.

"For those who can live as you live, it would be hard to find the equal of this part of England," he said. "But I'm not sure you can keep it very much longer as it is."

"Why?" she asked.

It was a relief to talk of matters of minor interest, for he dare not let his thoughts dwell too much on the subject that was nearest them.

"Well," he replied, "there's the economic pressure, for one thing; the growth of your cities; the demand for food. I see land lying almost idle that could be made productive at a very moderate outlay. Our people often give nearly as much as it's worth here for no better soil."

"But how do they make it pay?"

He laughed.

"The secret is that they expect very little—enough to eat, a shack they build with their own hands to sleep in—and they're willing to work sixteen hours out of the twenty-four."

"They can't do so in winter."

"The hours are shorter, but where the winter's hardest—on the open middle prairie—the work's more severe. There the little man spends a good deal of his time hauling home stove-wood or building-logs for new stables or barns. He has often to drive several leagues with the thermometer well below zero before he can find a bluff with large enough trees. In the Pacific Slope forests, where it's warmer, work goes on much as usual. The bush rancher spends his days chopping big trees in the rain and his nights making odd things—furniture, wagon-poles, new doors for his outbuildings. What you would call necessary leisure is unknown."

This was not exaggeration; but he spoke of it from a desire to support his resolution by emphasizing the sternest aspects of western life. It had others more alluring: there were men who dwelt more or less at their ease; but they were by no means numerous, and the toilers—in city office, lonely bush, or sawmill—were consumed by or driven into a feverish activity. As one of them, it was his manifest duty to leave this English girl in her sheltered surroundings. There was, however, one remote but alluring possibility that made this a little easier—he might, after all, win enough to surround her with some luxury and cultured friends in one of the cities of the Pacific coast. Though they differed from those in England, they were beautiful, with their vistas of snow-capped mountains and the sea.

"But you are not a farmer," she objected.

"No; mining's my vocation and it keeps me busy. In the city, I'm at work long before they think of opening their London offices, and it's generally midnight before I've finished worrying engineers and contractors at their homes or hotels. In the wilds, we're more or less continuously grappling with rock or treacherous gravel, or out on the prospecting trail, while the northern summer lasts; it's then light most of the night. In the winter, we sometimes sleep in the snow, with the thermometer near the bottom of its register."

Millicent shivered a little, wondering uneasily why he had taken the trouble to impress this upon her. It was, she thought, certainly not to show what he was capable of.

"Are you glad to go back, or do you dread it?" she asked.

"I don't dread it—it's my life, and things may be easier by and by. Still, I'm very loath to go."

Millicent could believe that. His troubled expression confirmed it; and she was strangely pleased. She had never had a companion in whom she could have so much confidence, and she had already recognized that she was, in one sense of the word, growing fond of him. Indeed, she had begun to be curious about the feeling and to wonder whether it stopped quite short at liking.

"Well," she told him, "I'm glad that you asked me to come with you. I think I was one of your first friends and I'm pleased that you should wish to spend part of your last day in my company."

"You come first of all!"

"That's flattering," she smiled. "What about Nasmyth?"

"An unusually fine man, but he has his limits. You have none."

"I'm not sure I quite understand you."

"Then," he explained seriously, "what I think I mean is this—you're one of the people who somehow contrive to meet any call that is made on them. You would never sit down, helpless, in a trying situation; you'd find some way of getting over the difficulties. It's a gift more useful than genius."

"You're rating me too highly," she answered with some embarrassment. "You admitted that you thought my place was here—the inference was that I shouldn't fit into a different one."

"No," he corrected her; "you'd adapt yourself to changed conditions; but that wouldn't prevent your suffering in the process. Indeed, I think people of your kind often suffer more than the others."

He was to some extent correct in his estimate of her, but she shrank from the direct personal application of his remarks.

"Aren't the virtues you have described fairly common?" she asked. "I think that must be so, because they're so necessary."

"In a degree, I suppose they are. You see them, perhaps, most clearly in such lands as mine. The pioneer has a good deal against him—frost and floods, hard rock and sliding snow; he must face every discomfort, hunger and stinging cold. The prospector crawls through tangled forests, and packs his stores across snowy divides; shallow shafts cave in, rude dams are swept away. A man worked to exhaustion on the trail runs out of provisions and goes on, starving; he lames himself among the rocks, sets his teeth and limps ahead. I've thought the capacity to do so is humanity's greatest attribute, but after all it's not shown in its finest light battling with material things. When the moral stress comes, the man who would face the other often fails."

"Yes," she asserted; "there are barriers that can't be stormed. Merely to acquiesce is the hardest thing of all, but in that lies the victory."

"It's a bitter one," he answered moodily.

There was silence for a few minutes while they strolled on through the heather. Afterward, Millicent understood where his thoughts had led, but now she was chiefly conscious of a slight but perplexing resentment against the fact that he should discourse rather crude philosophy. Indeed, the feeling almost amounted to disappointment—it was their last walk, and though she did not know what she had expected from him, it was something different from this. Walking by her side, with his fine poise, his keen eyes that regarded her steadily when she spoke, and his resolute brown face, he appealed to her physically, and in other ways she approved of him. It was borne in upon her more clearly that she would miss him badly, and she suspected that he would not find it easy to part from her. In the meanwhile he recognized that she had, no doubt unconsciously, given him a hint—when the moral difficulties were unsurmountable one must quietly submit.

They stopped when they reached the highest strip of moor. The sun was low, the vast sweep of country beneath them was fading to neutral color, woods, low ridges, and river valleys losing their sharpness of contour as the light left them. A faint cold wind sighed among the heather, emphasizing the desolation of the moorland.

Millicent shivered.

"We'll go down," Lisle said quietly; "the brightness has gone. I've had a great time here—something to think of as long as I live—but now it's over."

"But you'll come back some day?" she suggested.

"I may; I can't tell," he answered. "I've schemes in view, to be worked out in the North, that may make my return possible; but even then it couldn't be quite the same. Things change; one mustn't expect too much."

His smile was a little forced; his mood was infectious, and an unusual melancholy seized upon Millicent as they moved down-hill across the long, sad-colored slopes of heather. Then they reached a bare wood where dead leaves that rustled in the rising wind lay in drifts among the withered fern and the slender birch trunks rose about them somberly. The light had almost gone, the gathering gloom reacted upon both of them, and there was in the girl's mind a sense of something left unsaid. Once or twice she glanced at her companion; his face was graver than usual and he did not look at her.

It was quite dark when they walked down the dale beneath the leafless oaks, talking now with an effort about indifferent matters, until at last Millicent stopped at the gate of the drive to her house.

"Will you come in?" she asked.

"No; Nasmyth's waiting. I'm glad you came with me, but I won't say good-by. I'll look forward to the journey we're to make together through British Columbia."

She held out her hand; in another moment he turned away, and she walked on to the house with a strange sense of depression.



CHAPTER XXII

STARTLING NEWS

It was snowing in the northern wilderness and the bitter air was filled with small, dry flakes, which whirled in filmy clouds athwart the red glow of a fire. A clump of boulders stood outlined beside a frozen river, and behind the boulders a growth of willows rose crusted with snow, while beyond them, barely distinguishable, were the stunted shapes of a few birches. So far the uncertain radiance reached when the fire leaped up, but outside it all was shut in by a dense curtain of falling snow.

It had been dark for some time, and Lisle was getting anxious as he lay, wrapped in a ragged skin coat, in a hollow beside a boulder. A straining tent stood near the fire, but the big stone afforded better shelter, and drawing hard upon his pipe, he listened eagerly. The effort to do so was unpleasant as well as somewhat risky, for he had to turn back the old fur cap from his tingling ears; and he shivered at every variation of the stinging blast. There was nothing to be heard except the soft swish of the snow as it swirled among the stones and the hollow rumble of the river pouring down a rapid beneath a rent bridge of ice.

The man had spent the early winter, when the snow facilitates traveling, in the auriferous regions of the North, arranging for the further development of the mineral properties under his control. That done, he had, returning some distance south, struck out again into the wilds to examine some alluvial claims in which he had been asked to take an interest. It was difficult to reach the first of them; and then he had spent several weeks in determined toil, cutting and hauling in wood to thaw out the frozen surface sufficiently to make investigations. Crestwick had accompanied him, but during the last few days he had gone down to a Hudson Bay post with the owners of the claim, who were returning satisfied with the arrangements made. His object was to obtain any letters that might have arrived, and Lisle, going on to look at another group of claims, had arranged to meet him where he had camped.

It would be difficult to miss the way, for it consisted of the frozen river, but Crestwick should have arrived early in the afternoon and Lisle felt uneasy. On the whole, the Canadian was satisfied with the conduct of his companion. Deprived during most of the time of any opportunity for dissipation, scantily fed, and forced to take his share in continuous labor, the lad's better qualities had become manifest and he had responded pluckily to the demands on him. Abstinence and toil were already producing their refining effect. Still, he had not come back, and with the snow thickening, it was possible that he might not be able to keep to the comparatively plain track of the river. There was also the risk that by holding on too far when he saw the fire he might blunder in among the fissured ice at the foot of the rapid.

Rising at length, Lisle walked toward the dangerous spot, guiding himself by sound, for once he was out of the firelight there was nothing to be seen but a white driving cloud. He knew when he had reached the neighborhood of the rapid by the increased clamor of the stream, and he crept on until he decided that he was abreast of the pool below. The rapid was partly frozen, but the ice was fissured and piled up at the tail of it.

Lisle could not remember how long he waited, beating his stiffened hands and stumbling to and fro to keep his feet from freezing, but at last, though he could see nothing, he heard a crunching sound, and he called out sharply.

"I've got here!" came the answer. "Where shall I leave the ice? Seems to be an opening in front of me!"

It was difficult to hear through the clamor of the water and the crash of drifting ice; but Lisle caught the words and called again:

"Turn your back on the wind and walk straight ahead!"

He supposed that Crestwick was obeying him, but a few moments later he heard a second shout:

"Brought up by another big crack!"

The voice was hoarse and anxious, and Lisle, deciding that the lad was worn out by his journey and probably confused, bade him wait, and hurrying down-stream a little he moved out upon the frozen pool. He proceeded along it for a few minutes, calling to Crestwick and guiding himself by the answers; and then he stopped abruptly with a strip of black water close beneath his feet. On the other side was a ridge of rugged ice; but what lay beyond it he could not see.

"I'm in among a maze of cracks; can't find any way out!" Crestwick cried, answering his hail.

Lisle reflected rapidly as he followed up the crevasse, which showed no sign of narrowing. The snow was thick, the bitter wind increasing, and a plunge into icy water might prove disastrous. It was obvious that he must extricate his companion as soon as possible, but the means of accomplishing it was not clear. Crestwick was somewhere on the wrong side of the crack, which seemed to lead right across the stream toward the confusion of broken ridges and hummocks which, as Lisle remembered, fringed the opposite bank. He must endeavor to find the place where the lad had got across; but this was difficult, for fresh breaches and ridges drove him back from the edge. Presently the chasm ended in a wide opening filled with an inky flood, and Lisle, turning back a yard or two, braced himself and jumped.

He made out a shapeless white object ahead, and coming to another crack he scrambled to the top of an ice-block and leaped again. There was a sharp crackle when he came down, the piece he alighted on rocked, and Crestwick staggered.

"Look out!" he cried. "It's tilting under!"

Lisle saw water lapping in upon the snow, but it flowed back, and the cake he had detached impinged upon the rest with a crash.

"Come on!" he shouted. "The stream will jamb it fast!"

They reached the larger mass and moved across it, but Lisle, clutching his companion's arm, bewildered and almost blinded by the snow, doubted if he were retracing his steps. He did not remember some of the ridges and ragged blocks over which they stumbled, and the smaller rents seemed more numerous. It was evident that Crestwick was badly worn out and they must endeavor to reach the bank with as little delay as possible.

At last they came to the broad crevasse, farther up the stream, and Lisle turned to Crestwick.

"Better take off your skin-coat. You'll have to jump."

"I can't," said the other dejectedly. "It's not nerve—the thing's clean beyond me."

His slack pose—for he was dimly visible amid the haze of driving snow—bore out his words. The long march he had made had brought him to the verge of exhaustion; his overtaxed muscles would respond to no further call on them. For a moment or two Lisle stood gazing at the dark water in the gap.

"Then we'll look for a narrower place," he decided. "Where did you get across?"

"I don't know. Don't remember this split, but the ice was working under me. Perhaps the snow had covered it and now it's fallen in."

They scrambled forward, following the crevasse, but could find no means of passing it and now and then the ice trembled ominously. At last, when the opposite side projected a little, Lisle suddenly sprang out from the edge and alighted safely.

"It's easy!" he called, stripping off his long skin coat and flinging one end of it across the chasm to Crestwick. "Get hold and face the jump!"

It was not a time for hesitation; the exhausted lad dare not contemplate the gap, lest his courage fail him, and nerving himself for an effort, he leaped. Striking the edge on the other side, he plunged forward as Lisle dragged at the coat, and then rolled over in the snow. He was up in a moment, gasping hard, almost astonished to find himself in security, and Lisle led him back to the snow-covered shingle.

"It strikes me as fortunate that I came to look for you," he observed. "You'd probably have ended by walking into the river."

"Thanks," said Crestwick simply. "It isn't the first hole you've pulled me out of."

They reached the camp and the lad, shaking the snow off his furs, sat down wearily on a few branches laid close to the sheltering boulder, while Lisle took a frying-pan and kettle off the fire, and afterward filled his pipe again and watched his companion while he ate. Crestwick had changed since he left England; his face was thinner, and the hint of sensuality and empty self-assurance had faded out of it. His eyes were less bold, but they were steadier; and, sitting in the firelight, clad in dilapidated furs, he looked somehow more refined than he had done in evening dress in Marple's billiard-room. When he spoke, as he did at intervals, the confident tone which had once characterized him was no longer evident. He had learned to place a juster estimate upon his value in the icy North.

"I was uncommonly glad to see the fire," he said at length. "Another mile or two would have beaten me; though I spent nearly twice as long in coming up from the Forks as the prospectors said it would take. I was going light, too."

"They've been doing this kind of thing most of their lives. You couldn't expect to equal them. Where did you sleep last night?"

"In some withered stuff among a clump of willows; I scraped the snow off it. That is, I lay down there, but as the fire wouldn't burn well, I don't think I got much rest. Part of the time I wondered what I was staying in this country for. I didn't seem to find any sensible answer."

"You could get out of it when the freighters go down with the dogs and sledges," Lisle suggested. "It would be a good deal more comfortable at Marple's, for instance."

"Do you want to get rid of me? I suppose I'm not much help."

"Oh, no!" Lisle assured him. "It only struck me that you might find the novelty of the experience wearing off. Besides, you're improving; in a year or two you'll make quite a reliable prospector's packer."