"I'll tell you what you are thinking," he said. "You want that poor little beast to get away."

"I believe I do," Evelyn confessed. "And you?"

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a sportsman, in this sense."

They watched with strained attention. The girl could not help it, though she dreaded the climax. Her sympathies were now with the hard-pressed, exhausted creature that was making a desperate fight for its life. The pursuers were close upon it, the swimming dogs leading them; and ahead lay a foaming rush of water which seemed less than a foot deep, with men spread out across it. The shouting from the bank had ceased, and everybody waited in tense expectancy when the otter disappeared. The dogs reached the rapid, where they were washed back a few yards before they could make headway up-stream. Men who came splashing close upon them left the water to scramble along the bank; and then they stopped abruptly, while the dogs swam in an uncertain manner about the still reach beyond. They came out in a few minutes and scampered up and down among the stones, evidently at fault, for there was no sign of the otter anywhere. Incredible as it seemed, the hunted creature, an animal that would probably weigh about twenty-four pounds, had crept up the rush of water among the feet of those who watched for it and vanished unseen into the sheltering depths beyond.

Evelyn sighed with relief.

"I think it will escape," she said. "The river's rather full after the rain, which is against the dogs, and there isn't another shallow for some distance. Shall we go on?"

They strolled forward behind the dogs, which were again moving up-stream; but they turned aside to avoid a bit of woods, and it was some time later when they came out upon a rocky promontory dropping steeply to the river. Just there, the water flowed through a deep gorge, down the sides of which great oaks and ashes straggled. In front of Carroll and his companion a ragged face of rock fell about twenty feet; but there was a little soil among the stones below, and a dense growth of alders interspersed with willows, fringed the water's edge. The stream swirled in deep black eddies beneath their drooping branches, though a little farther on it poured tumultuously between scattered boulders into the slacker pool. The rock sloped on one side, and there was a bank of underbrush near the foot of the descent.

The hunt was now widely scattered about the reach. Men crept along slippery ledges above the water and moved over dangerously slanting slopes, half hidden among the trees; a few were in the river. Three or four of the dogs were swimming; the others, spread out in twos and threes, trotted in and out among the undergrowth.

Presently, a figure creeping along the foot of the rock not far away seized Carroll's attention.

"It's Mopsy!" he exclaimed. "The foothold doesn't look very safe among those stones, and there seems to be deep water below."

He called out in warning, but the girl did not heed. The willows were thinner at the spot she had reached, and, squeezing herself through them, she leaned down, clinging to an alder branch.

"He's gone to holt among the roots!" she cried.

Three or four men running along the opposite bank apparently decided that she was right, for the horn was sounded and here and there a dog broke through the underbrush. Just as the first-comers reached the rapid, there was a splash. It was a moment or two before Evelyn or Carroll, who had been watching the dogs, realized what had happened; then the blood ebbed from the girl's face. Mabel had disappeared.

Running a few paces forward, Carroll saw what looked like a bundle of outspread garments swing round in an eddy. It washed in among the willows, and he heard a faint cry.

"Help!—Quick! I've caught a branch!"

He could not see the girl now, but an alder branch was bending sharply, and he flung a rapid glance around him. The summit of the rock on which he stood rose above the trees. Had there been a better landing, he would have faced the risky fall, but it seemed impossible to alight among the stones without a broken leg. Even if he came down uninjured, there was a barrier of tangled branches and densely growing withes between him and the river, and the opening through which Mabel had fallen was some distance away. Farther down-stream, he might reach the water by a reckless jump, as the promontory sloped toward it there, but he would not be able to swim back against the current. His position was a painful one; there was nothing that he could do.

The next moment, men and dogs went scrambling and swimming down the rapid. They were in hot pursuit of the otter, which had left its hiding place, and it was evident that the girl, clinging to a branch beneath the willows, had escaped their attention. Carroll shouted savagely as his comrade appeared among the tail of the hunt below. The others were too much occupied to heed; or perhaps they concluded that he was urging them on.

"Help! Mabel!" Carroll shouted again and again, gesticulating wildly in his desperation.

Vane, waist-deep in the water, seemed to catch the girl's name and understand. In a few moments he was swimming down the pool along the edge of the alders. Then Carroll saw that Evelyn expected him to take some part in the rescue.

"Get down before it's too late!" she cried.

Carroll spread out his hands, as if to beg her forbearance. While every impulse urged him to the leap, he endeavored to keep his head. He fancied that he would be wanted later, and it was obvious that he would not be available if he lay upon the rocks below with broken bones.

"I can't do any good just now," he tried to explain, knowing that he was right and yet feeling horribly ashamed. "She's holding on, and Wallace will reach her in a moment or two."

Evelyn broke out at him in an agony of fear and anger.

"You coward! Will you let her drown?"

She turned and ran forward, but Carroll, dreading that she meant to attempt the descent, seized her shoulder and held her fast. While he grappled with her, Vane's voice rose from below, and he let his hands drop.

"Wallace has her. There's no more danger," he said quietly.

Evelyn suddenly recovered a small degree of calm. Even amid the stress of her terror, she recognized the assurance in the man's tone. He had blind confidence in his comrade's prowess, and his next words made this impression clearer.

"Don't be afraid. He'll never let go until he brings her out."

Standing, breathless, a pace or two apart, they saw Vane and the girl appear from beneath the willows and wash away down-stream. The man was swimming, but he was hampered by his burden, and once he and Mabel sank almost from sight in a whirling eddy. Carroll said nothing. Turning, he ran along the sloping ridge until the fall was less and the trees were thinner; then he leaped out into the air. He broke through the alders amid a rustle of bending boughs, and disappeared; but a moment or two later his shoulders shot out of the water close beside Vane, and the two men went down the stream with Mabel between them.

Evelyn scrambled wildly along the ridge, and when she reached the foot of it, Vane was helping Mabel up the sloping bank of gravel. The girl's drenched garments clung about her, and her wet hair was streaked across her face, but she seemed able to stand. The hunt had swept on through shoaler water, but there was a cheer from the stragglers across the river. Evelyn clutched her sister, half laughing, half sobbing, and incoherently upbraided her. Mabel shook herself free, and her first remark was characteristic.

"Oh, don't make a silly fuss! I'm only wet through. Wallace, take me home."

She tried to shake out her dripping skirt, and Vane picked her up, as she seemed to expect it. The others followed when he pushed through the underbrush toward a neighboring meadow. Evelyn, however, was still a little unnerved, and when they reached a gap in a wall she stopped and leaned heavily against the stones.

"I think I'm more disturbed than Mopsy is," she said to Carroll. "What I felt must be some excuse for me. You were right, of course. I'm sorry for what I said; it was unjustifiable."

Carroll laughed lightly.

"Anyway, it was perfectly natural; but I must confess that I felt some temptation to make a spectacular fool of myself. I might have jumped into those alders, but it's most unlikely that I could have got out of them."

Evelyn looked at him with a new respect. He had not troubled to point out that he had not flinched from the jump when it seemed likely to be of service.

"How could you have the sense to think of that?" she asked.

"I suppose it's a matter of practise. One can't work among the ranges and rivers without learning to make the right decision rapidly. When you don't, you get badly hurt. With most of us, the thing has to be cultivated; it's not instinctive."

Evelyn was struck by the explanation. This acquired coolness was a finer thing, and undoubtedly more useful, than hot-headed gallantry, though she admired the latter. She was young, and physical prowess appealed to her; besides, it had been displayed in saving her sister's life. Carroll and his comrade were men of varied and romantic experience; and they possessed, she fancied, qualities not shared by all their fellows.

"Wallace was splendid in the water!" she exclaimed, uttering part of her thoughts aloud.

"I thought rather more of him in the city," Carroll replied. "That kind of thing was new to him, and I'm inclined to believe that I'd have let the people he had to negotiate with have the mine for a good deal less than he eventually got for it. But I've said something about that before; and, after all, I'm not here to play Boswell."

The girl was surprised at the apt allusion; it was not what she would have expected from the man. As she had not wholly recovered her composure, she forgot what Vane had told her about him, and her comment was an incautious one:

"How did you hear of him?"

Carroll parried this with a smile.

"You don't suppose you can keep those old fellows to yourselves—they're international. But hadn't we better be getting on? Let me help you through the gap."

They reached the Dene some time later, and Mabel, very much against her wishes, was sent to bed. Shortly afterward Carroll came across Vane, who had changed his clothes and was strolling up and down among the shrubberies.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Vane looked embarrassed.

"For one thing, I'm keeping out of Mrs. Chisholm's way; she's inclined to be effusive. For another, I'm trying to think out what I ought to do. We'll have to pull out very shortly; and I had meant to have an interview with Evelyn to-day. That's why I feel uncommonly annoyed with Mopsy for falling in."

Carroll made a grimace.

"If that's how it strikes you, any advice I could offer would be wasted. A sensible man would consider it a promising opportunity."

"And trade upon it? As you know, there wasn't the slightest risk, with branches that one could get hold of, and a shelving bank almost within reach."

"Do you really want the girl?"

"That impression's firmly in my mind," Vane said curtly.

"Then you'd better pitch your Quixotic notions overboard and tell her so."

Vane frowned but made no answer; and Carroll, recognizing that his comrade was not inclined to be communicative, left him pacing up and down.



CHAPTER XI

VANE WITHDRAWS

Dusk was drawing on, but there was still a little light in the western sky, when Vane strolled along the terrace in front of the Dene. In the distance the ranks of fells rose black and solemn out of filmy trails of mist, but the valley had faded to a trough of shadow. A faint breeze was stirring, and the silence was broken by the soft patter of withered leaves which fluttered down across the lawn. Vane noticed it all by some involuntary action of his senses, for although, at the time, he was oblivious to his surroundings, he afterward found that he could recall each detail of the scene with vivid distinctness. He was preoccupied and eager, but fully aware of the need for coolness, for it was quite possible that he might fail in the task he had in hand.

Presently he saw Evelyn, for whom he had been waiting, cross the opposite end of the terrace. Moving forward he joined her at the entrance to a shrubbery walk. A big, clipped yew with a recess in which a seat had been placed stood close by.

"I have been sitting with Mopsy," said Evelyn. "She seems very little the worse for her adventure—thanks to you." She hesitated and her voice grew softer. "I owe you a heavy debt—I am very fond of Mopsy."

"It's a great pity she fell in," Vane declared curtly.

Evelyn looked at him in surprise. She scarcely thought he could regret the efforts he had made on her sister's behalf, but that was what his words implied. He noticed her change of expression.

"The trouble is that the thing might seem to give me some claim on you; and I don't want that," he explained. "It cost me no more than a wetting; I hadn't the least difficulty in getting her out."

His companion was still puzzled. She could find no fault with him for being modest about his exploit, but that he should make it clear that he did not require her gratitude struck her as unnecessary.

"For all that, you did bring her out," she persisted. "Even if it causes you no satisfaction, the fact is of some importance to us."

"I don't seem to be beginning very fortunately. What I mean is that I don't want to urge my claim, if I have one. I'd rather be taken on my merits." He paused a moment with a smile. "That's not much better, is it? But it partly expresses what I feel. Leaving Mopsy out altogether, let me try to explain—I don't wish you to be influenced by anything except your own idea of me. I'm saying this because one or two points that seem in my favor may have a contrary effect."

Evelyn made no answer, and he indicated the seat.

"Won't you sit down? I have something to say."

The girl did as he suggested, and his smile died away.

"Would you be astonished if I were to ask you to marry me?"

He leaned against the smooth wall of yew, looking down at her with an impressive steadiness of gaze. She could imagine him facing the city men from whom he had extorted the full value of his mine in the same fashion, and, in a later instance, so surveying the eddies beneath the osiers, when he had gone to Mabel's rescue. It was borne in upon her that they would better understand each other.

"No," she answered. "If I must be candid, I am not astonished." Then the color crept into her cheeks as she met his gaze. "I suppose it is an honor; and it is undoubtedly a—temptation."

"A temptation?"

"Yes," said Evelyn, mustering her courage to face a crisis she had dreaded. "It is only due you that you should hear the truth—though I think you suspect it. Besides—I have some liking for you."

"That is what I wanted you to own!" Vane broke in.

She checked him with a gesture. Her manner was cold, and yet there was something in it that stirred him more than her beauty.

"After all," she explained, "it does not go very far, and you must try to understand. I want to be quite honest, and what I have to say is—difficult. In the first place, things are far from pleasant for me here; I was expected to make a good marriage, and I had my chance in London. I refused to profit by it, and now I'm a failure. I wonder whether you can realize what a temptation it is to get away?"

Vane frowned.

"Yes," he responded. "It makes me savage to think of it! I can, at least, take you out of all this. If you hadn't had a very fine courage, you wouldn't have told me."

Evelyn smiled, a curious wry smile.

"It has only prompted me to behave, as most people would consider, shamelessly; but there are times when one must get above that point of view. Besides, there's a reason for my candor—had you been a man of different stamp, it's possible that I might have been driven into taking the risk. We should both have suffered for a time, but we might have reached an understanding—not to intrude on each other—through open variance. As it is, I could not do you that injustice, and I should shrink from marrying you with only a little cold liking."

The man held himself firmly in hand. Her calmness had infected him, and he felt that this was not an occasion for romantic protestations, even had he felt capable of making them, which was not the case. As a matter of fact, such things were singularly foreign to his nature.

"Even that would go a long way with me, if I could get nothing better," he declared. "Besides, you might change. I could surround you with some comfort; I think I could promise not to force my company upon you; I believe I could be kind."

"Yes," assented Evelyn. "I shouldn't be afraid of harshness from you; but it seems impossible that I should change. You must see that you started handicapped from the beginning. Had I been free to choose, it might have been different, but I have lived for some time in shame and fear, hating the thought that some one would be forced on me."

He said nothing and she went on.

"Must I tell you? You are the man!"

His face grew hard and for a moment he set his lips tight. It would have been a relief to express his feelings concerning his host just then.

"If you don't hate me for it now, I'm willing to take the risk," he said at length. "It will be my fault if you hate me in the future; I'll try not to deserve it."

He fancied that she was yielding, but she roused herself with an effort.

"No. Love on one side may go a long way, if it is strong enough—but it must be strong to overcome the many clashes of thought and will. Yours"—she looked at him steadily—"would not stand the strain."

Vane started.

"You are the only woman I ever wished to marry," he declared vehemently.

He paused and spread out his hands.

"What can I say to convince you?"

"I'm afraid it's impossible. If you had wanted me greatly, you would have pressed the claim you had in saving Mopsy, and I should have forgiven you that; you would have urged any and every claim. As it is, I suppose I am pretty"—her lips curled scornfully—"and you find that some of your ideas and mine agree. It isn't half enough! Shall I tell you that you are scarcely moved as yet?"

It flashed upon Vane that he was confronted with the reality. Her beauty had appealed to him, and her other qualities—her reserved graciousness with its tinge of dignity, her insight and her comprehension—had also had their effect; but they had only awakened admiration and respect. He desired her as one desires an object for its rarity and preciousness; but this, as she had told him, was not enough. Behind her physical and mental attributes, and half revealed by them, there was something deeper: the real personality of the girl. It was elusive, mystic, with a spark of immaterial radiance which might brighten human love with its transcendent glow; but, as he dimly realized, if he won her by force, it might recede and vanish altogether. He could not, with strong ardor, compel its clearer manifestation.

"I think I am moved as much as it is possible for me to be."

Evelyn shook her head.

"No; you will discover the difference some day, and then you will thank me for leaving you your liberty. Now I beg you to leave me mine and let me go."

Vane stood silent a minute or two, for the last appeal had stirred him to chivalrous pity. He was shrewd enough to realize that if he persisted he could force her to come to him. Her father and mother were with him; she had nothing—no commonplace usefulness nor trained abilities—to fall back on if she defied them. But it was unthinkable that he should brutally compel her.

"Well," he yielded at length, "I must try to face the situation; I want to assure you that it is not a pleasant one to me. But there's another point—I'm afraid I've made things worse for you. Your people will probably blame you for sending me away."

Evelyn did not answer this, and he broke into a grim smile.

"Well," he added, "I think I can save you any trouble on that score—though the course I'm going to take isn't flattering, if you look at it in one way, I want you to leave me to deal with your father."

He took her consent for granted, and leaning down laid a hand lightly on her shoulder.

"You will try to forgive me for the anxiety I have caused you? The time I've spent here has been very pleasant, but I'm going back to Canada in a day or two. Perhaps you'll think of me without bitterness now and then."

He turned away; and Evelyn sat still, glad that the strain was over, thinking earnestly. The man was gentle and considerate as well as forceful, and to some extent she liked him. Indeed, she admitted that she had not met any man she liked as much; but that was not going very far. Then she began to wonder at her candor, and to consider if it had been necessary. It was curious that this was the only man she had ever taken into her confidence. It struck her that her next suitor would probably be a much less promising specimen. On the other hand, since her views on the subject differed from those her parents held, it was consoling to remember that eligible suitors for the daughter of an impoverished gentleman were likely to be scarce.

It had grown dark when she rose and entering the house went up to Mabel's room. The girl looked at her sharply as she came in.

"So you have got rid of him!" she said. "I think you're very silly."

"How did you know?" Evelyn asked with a start.

"I heard him walking up and down the terrace, and I heard you go out. You can't walk over raked gravel without making a noise. He went along to join you, and it was a good while before you came back at different times. I've been waiting for this the last day or two."

Evelyn sat down with a rather strained smile.

"Well, I have sent him away."

Mabel regarded her indignantly.

"You'll never get another chance like this one. If I'd been in your place, I'd have had Wallace if it had cost me no end of trouble to get him. He said something about its being a pity I wasn't older, one day, and I told him that I wasn't by any means as young as I looked. If you had only taken him, I could have worn decent frocks. Nobody could call the last one that!"

This was a favorite grievance, and Evelyn ignored it; but Mabel had more to say.

"I suppose," she went on, "you don't know that Wallace has been getting Gerald out of trouble?"

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes. I'll tell you what I know. Wallace saw Gerald in London—he told us that—and we all know that Gerald couldn't pay his debts a little while ago. You remember he came down to Kendall and went on and stayed the next night with the Claytons. It isn't astonishing that he didn't come here, after the row there was on the last occasion."

"Go on," prompted Evelyn impatiently. "What has his visit to the Clayton's to do with it?"

"Well, you don't know that I saw Gerald in the afternoon. After all, he's the only brother I've got; and as Jim was going to the station with the trap I made him take me. The Claytons were in the garden; we were scattered about, and I heard Frank and Gerald, who had strolled off from the others, talking. Gerald was telling him about some things he'd bought—they must have been expensive, because Frank asked him where he got the money. Gerald laughed and said he'd had an unexpected stroke of luck that had set him straight again. Now, of course Gerald got no money from home, and if he'd won it he would have told Frank how he did so. Gerald always would tell a thing like that."

Evelyn was filled with confusion and hot indignation. She had little doubt that Mabel's surmise was correct.

"I wonder whether he has told anybody; though it's scarcely likely."

Mabel laughed.

"Of course he hasn't. We all know what Gerald is. Before I came home, I asked him what he thought of Wallace. He said he was a good sort, or something like that, and I saw that he had a reason for saying it; but he must go on in his patronizing style that Wallace was rather Colonial, though he hadn't drifted too far—not beyond reclamation. After all, Wallace was one of—us—before he went out; and if Carroll's Colonial he's the kind of man I like. I was so angry with Gerald I wanted to slap him!"

There was no doubt that Mabel was a staunch partizan, and Evelyn sympathized with her. She was, of course, acquainted with her brother's character, and she was filled with indignant contempt for him. It was intolerable that he should have allowed Vane to discharge his debts and then have alluded to him in terms of indulgent condescension.

"It strikes me Wallace ought to get his money back, now that you have sent him away," Mabel added. "But of course that's most unlikely. It wouldn't take Gerald long to waste it."

Evelyn rose and, making some excuse, left the room. She could feel her face growing hot, and Mabel had unusually keen eyes and precocious powers of deduction. A suspicion which had troubled her more than Gerald's conduct had lately crept into her mind, and it now thrust itself upon her attention; several things pointed to the fact that her father had taken the same course her brother had done. She felt that had she heard Mabel's information before the interview with Vane, she might have yielded to him in an agony of humiliation. Mabel had summed up the situation with stinging candor and crudity—Vane, who had been defrauded, was entitled to recover his money. For a few moments Evelyn was furiously angry with him, and then, growing calmer, she recognized that this was unreasonable. She could not imagine any idea of a compact originating with the man, and he had quietly acquiesced in her decision.

Soon after she left her sister, Vane walked into the room which Chisholm reserved for his own use. It was handsomely furnished, and the big, light-oak writing-table and glass-fronted cabinets were examples of artistic handicraft. The sight of them jarred on Vane, who had already surmised that it was the women of the Chisholm family who were expected to practise self-denial. Chisholm was sitting at the table with some papers in front of him and a cigar in his hand, and Vane drew out a chair and lighted his pipe before he addressed him.

"I've made up my mind to sail on Saturday, instead of next week," he said abruptly.

"You have decided rather suddenly, haven't you?" Chisholm suggested.

Vane knew that what his host wished to know was the cause of the decision, and he meant to come to the point. He was troubled by no consideration for the man.

"The last news I had indicated that I was wanted," he replied. "After all, there is only one reason why I have abused Mrs. Chisholm's hospitality so long."

"Well?"

"You will remember what I asked you some time ago. I had better say that I retire from the position—abandon the idea."

Chisholm started and his florid face grew redder, while Vane, in place of embarrassment, was conscious of a somewhat grim amusement. It seemed curious that a man of Chisholm's stamp should have any pride.

"What am I to understand by that?" Chisholm asked with some asperity.

"I think that what I said explained it. Bearing in mind your and Mrs. Chisholm's influence, I've an idea that Evelyn might have yielded, if I'd strongly urged my suit; but that was not by any means what I wanted. I'd naturally prefer a wife who married me because she wished to do so. That's why, after thinking the thing over, I've decided to—withdraw."

Chisholm straightened himself in his chair in fiery indignation, which he made no attempt to conceal.

"You mean that after asking my consent, and seeing more of Evelyn, you have changed your mind! Can't you understand that it's an unpardonable confession—one which I never fancied a man born and brought up in your station could have brought himself to make?"

Vane looked at him with an impassive face.

"It strikes me as largely a question of terms—I may not have used the right one. Now that you know how the matter stands, you can describe it in any way that sounds nicest. In regard to your other remark, I've been in a good many stations, and I must admit that until lately none of them were likely to promote much delicacy of sentiment."

"So it seems!" Chisholm was almost too hot to sneer. "But can't you realize how your action reflects upon my daughter?"

Vane held himself in hand. He had only one object: to divert Chisholm's wrath from Evelyn to himself, and he fancied that he was succeeding in this. For the rest, he was conscious of a strong resentment against the man. Evelyn had told him that he had started handicapped.

"It can't reflect upon her unless you talk about it, and both you and Mrs. Chisholm have sense enough to refrain from doing that," he answered dryly. "I can't flatter myself that Evelyn will grieve over me." Then his manner changed. "Now we'll get down to business. I don't purpose to call in that loan, which will, no doubt, be a relief to you."

He rose leisurely and strolled out of the room.

Shortly afterward he met Carroll in the hall, and the latter glanced at him sharply.

"What have you been doing?" he inquired. "There's a look in your eyes I seem to remember."

Vane laughed.

"I suppose I've been outraging the rules of decency; but I don't feel ashamed. I've been acting the uncivilized Westerner, though it's possible that I rather strained the part. To come to the point, however, we pull out for the Dominion first thing to-morrow."

Carroll asked no further questions; he did not think it would serve any purpose. He contented himself with making arrangements for their departure, which they took early on the morrow. Vane had a brief interview with Mabel, and then by her contrivance he secured a word or two with Evelyn alone.

"It is possible," he told her, "that you may hear some hard things of me—and I count upon your not contradicting them. After all, I think you owe me that favor. There's just another matter—now that I won't be here to trouble you, won't you try to think of me leniently?"

He held her hand for a moment and then turned away, and a few minutes later he and Carroll left the Dene.



CHAPTER XII

IN VANCOUVER

About a fortnight after Vane's return to Vancouver, he sat one evening on the veranda of Nairn's house, in company with his host and Carroll, lazily looking down upon the inlet. The days were growing shorter; the air was clear and cool; and the snow upon the heights across the still, blue water was creeping lower down. The clatter of a steamer's winches rose sharply from the wharf, and the sails of two schooners gleamed against the dark pines that overhang the Narrows.

In some respects, Vane was glad to be back in the western city. At first, the ease and leisure at the Dene had their charm for him, but by degrees he came to chafe at them. The green English valley, hemmed in by its sheltering hills, was steeped in too profound a tranquillity; the stream of busy life passed it by with scarcely an entering ripple to break its drowsy calm. One found its atmosphere enervating, dulling to the faculties. In the new West, however, one was forcibly thrust into contact with a strenuous activity. Life was free and untrammeled there; it flowed with a fierce joyousness in natural channels, and one could feel the eager throb of it.

Yet the man was not content. He had been to the mine, and in going and coming he had ridden far over a very rough trail, but the physical effort had not afforded a sufficient outlet for his pent-up energies. He had afterward lounged about the city for nearly a week, and he found this becoming monotonous.

Nairn presently referred to one of the papers in his hand.

"Horsfield has been bringing up that smelter project again, and there's something to be said in favor of his views," he remarked. "We're paying a good deal for reduction."

"We couldn't keep a smelter going, at present," Vane objected.

"There are two or three low-grade mineral properties in the neighborhood of the Clermont that have had very little development work done on them. They can't pay freight on their raw product, but I'm thinking that we'd encourage their owners to open up the mines, and we'd get their business, if we had a smelter handy."

"It wouldn't amount to much," Vane replied. "Besides, there's another objection—we haven't the money to put up a thoroughly efficient plant."

"Horsfield's ready to find part of it and to do the work."

"I know he is." Vane frowned. "It strikes me he's suspiciously anxious. The arrangement he has in view would give him a pretty strong hold upon the company; and there are ways in which he could squeeze us."

"It's possible. But, looking at it as a purely personal matter, there are inducements he could offer ye. Horsfield's a man who has the handling of other folks' money, if he has no that much of his own. It might be wise to stand in with him."

"So he hinted," Vane answered dryly.

"Your argument was about the worst you could have used, Mr. Nairn," Carroll laughed.

"Weel," drawled Nairn good-humoredly, "I'm no urging it. I would not see your partner make enemies for the want of a warning."

"He'd probably do so, in any case; it's a gift of his. On the other hand, it's fortunate that he has a way of making friends. The two things sometimes go together."

Vane turned to Nairn with signs of impatience.

"It might save trouble if I state that while I'm a director of the Clermont I expect to be content with a fair profit on my stock in the company."

"He's modest," Carroll commented. "What he means is that he doesn't propose to augment that profit by taking advantage of his position."

"It's a creditable idea, though I'm no sure it's as common as might be desired. While I have to thank ye for it, I would not consider the explanation altogether necessary." Nairn's eyes twinkled for a moment, and then he turned seriously to Vane. "Now we come to another point—the company's a small one, the mine is doing satisfactorily, and the moment's favorable for the floating of mineral properties. If we got an option on the half-developed claims near the Clermont and went into the market, it's likely that an issue of new stock would meet with the favor of investors."

"I suppose so," Vane responded. "I'll support such a scheme when I can see how an increased capital could be used to advantage and am convinced about the need for a smelter. At present that's not the case."

"I mentioned it as a duty—-ye'll hear more of it. For the rest, I'm inclined to agree with ye."

A few minutes later, Nairn went into the house with Carroll, and as they entered he glanced at his companion.

"In the present instance, Mr. Vane's views are sound," he said. "But I see difficulties before him in his business career."

"So do I," smiled Carroll. "When he grapples with them it will be by a frontal attack."

"A bit of compromise is judicious now and then."

"In a general way, it's not likely to appeal to Vane. When he can't get through by direct means, there'll be something wrecked. You'd better understand what kind of man he is."

Nairn made a sign of concurrence.

"It's no the first time I've been enlightened upon the point."

Shortly after they had disappeared, Miss Horsfield came out of another door, and Vane rose when she approached him. He had always found her a pleasant companion.

"Mrs. Nairn told me I would find you and the others on the veranda," she informed him. "She said she would join you presently. It is too fine an evening to stay in."

"I'm alone, as you see. Nairn and Carroll have just deserted me: but I can't complain. What pleases me most about this house is that you can do what you like in it, and—within limits—the same thing applies to this city."

Jessy laughed as she sank gracefully into the chair he drew forward. She was, as a rule, deliberate in her movements, and her pose was usually an effective one.

"Yes," she replied; "I think that would please you. But how long have you been back?"

"A fortnight, yesterday."

There was a hint of reproach in Jessy's glance.

"Then I think Mrs. Nairn might have brought you over to see us."

Vane wondered whether she meant that she was surprised that he had not come of his own accord. He felt mildly flattered. She was interesting, and knew how to listen sympathetically, as well as how to talk, and she was also a lady of station in the western city.

"I was away at the mine a good deal of the time," he explained.

"I wonder if you are sorry to get back?"

Turning a little, Vane indicated the climbing city, rising tier on tier above its water-front; and then the broad expanse of blue inlet and the faint white line of towering snow.

"Wouldn't anything I could say in praise of Vancouver be a trifle superfluous?" he asked.

Jessy recognized that he had parried her question neatly, but this did not deter her. She was anxious to learn whether he had felt any regret at leaving England, or, to be more concise, if there was anybody in that country from whom he had reluctantly parted. She admitted that the man attracted her. There was a breezy freshness about him which he had brought from the rocks and woods, and though she was acquainted with a number of young men whose conversation was characterized by snap and sparkle, they needed toning down. This miner was set apart from them by something which he had doubtless acquired in youth in the older land.

"That wasn't quite what I meant," she returned. "We don't always want to be flattered. I'm in search of information. You told me that you had been eight or nine years in this country, and life must be rather different yonder. How did it and the people you belong to strike you after the absence?"

"It's difficult to explain," Vane replied with an air of amused reflection which hinted that he meant to get away from the point. "On the whole, I think I'm more interested in the question as to how I struck them. It's curious that whereas some people here insist on considering me English, I've a suspicion that they looked upon me as a typical Colonial there."

"One wouldn't like to think you resented it."

"How could I? This land sheltered me when I was an outcast; it provided me with a living, widened my views, and set me on my feet."

"Ah!" murmured Jessy, "you are the kind we don't mind taking in. The others go back and try to forget us, or abuse us. But you haven't given me very much information yet."

"Well," drawled Vane, "the best comparison is supplied by my first remark—that in this city you can do what you like. You're rather fenced in yonder. If you're of a placid disposition, that, no doubt, is comforting, because it shuts out unpleasant things. On the other hand, if you happen to be restless and active, the fences are inconvenient, for you can't always climb over—and it is not considered proper to break them down. Still, having admitted that, I'm proud of the old land. If one has means and will conform, it's the finest country in the world! It's only the fences that irritate me."

"Fences would naturally be obnoxious to you. But we have some here."

"They're generally built loose, of split-rails, and not nailed. An energetic man can pull off a bar or two and stride over. If it's necessary, he can afterward put them up again, and there's no harm done."

"Would you do the latter?"

Vane's expression changed.

"No. I think if there were anything good on the other side, I'd widen the gap so that the less agile and the needy could crawl through." He smiled at her. "You see, I owe some of them a good deal. They were the only friends I had when I first tramped, jaded and footsore, about the Province."

Jessy was pleased with his answer. She had heard of the free hospitality of the bush choppers, and she thought it was a graceful thing that he should acknowledge his debt to them. She was also pleased that she could lead him on to talk unreservedly.

"Now at last you'll be content to rest a while," she suggested. "I dare say you deserve it."

"It's strange that you should say that, because just before you came out of the house I was thinking that I'd sat still long enough. It's a thing that gets monotonous. One must keep going on."

"Take care that you don't walk over a precipice some day when you have left all the fences behind. But I've kept you from your meditations, and I had better see if Mrs. Nairn is coming."

He was sitting alone, lighting a cigar, when he noticed a girl whose appearance seemed familiar in the road below. Moving along the veranda, he recognized her as Kitty, and hastily crossed the lawn toward her. She was accompanied by a young man whom Vane had once or twice seen in the city, and she greeted him with evident pleasure.

"Tom," she introduced, when they had exchanged a few words, "this is Mr. Vane." Turning to Vane she added: "Mr. Drayton."

Vane liked the man's face and manner. He shook hands with him, and then looked back at Kitty.

"What are you doing now; and how are little Elsie and her mother?"

Kitty's face clouded.

"Mrs. Marvin's dead. Elsie's with some friends at Spokane, and I think she's well looked after. I've given up the stage. Tom"—she explained shyly—"didn't like it. Now I'm with some people at a ranch near the Fraser, on the Westminster road. There are two or three children, and I'm very fond of them."

"She won't be there long," Drayton interposed. "I've wanted to meet you for some time, Mr. Vane. They told me at the office that you were away."

Vane smiled comprehendingly.

"I suppose my congratulations will not be out of place? Won't you ask me to the wedding?"

Kitty blushed.

"Will you come?"

"Try!"

"There's nobody we would rather see," declared Drayton. "I'm heavily in your debt, Mr. Vane."

"Pshaw!" rejoined Vane. "Come to see me any time—to-morrow, if you can manage it."

Drayton said that he would do so, and shortly afterward he and Kitty moved away. Vane turned back across the lawn; but he was not aware that Jessy Horsfield had watched the meeting from the veranda and had recognized Kitty, whom she had once seen at the station. She had already ascertained that the girl had arrived in Vancouver in Vane's company, and, in view of the opinion she had formed of him, this somewhat puzzled her; but she decided that one must endeavor to be charitable. Besides, having closely watched the little group, she was inclined to believe from the way Vane shook hands with the man that there was no danger to be apprehended from Kitty.



CHAPTER XIII

A NEW PROJECT

Vane was sitting alone in the room set apart for the Clermont Company in Nairn's office when Drayton was shown in. He took the chair Vane indicated and lighted a cigar the latter gave him.

"Now," he began with some diffidence, "you cut me off short when I met you the other day, and one of my reasons for coming over was to get through with what I was saying then. It's just this—I owe you a good deal for taking care of Kitty; she's very grateful and thinks no end of you. I want to say I'll always feel that you have a claim on me."

Vane smiled at him. It was evident that Kitty had taken her lover into her confidence with regard to her trip aboard the sloop, and that she had done so said a good deal for her. He thought one might have expected a certain amount of half-jealous resentment, or even faint suspicion, on the man's part; but there was no sign of this. Drayton believed in Kitty, and that was strongly in his favor.

"It didn't cost me any trouble," Vane replied. "We were coming to Vancouver, anyway."

Drayton's embarrassment became more obvious.

"It cost you some money—there were the tickets. Now I feel that I have to—"

"Nonsense! When you are married to Miss Blake, you can pay me back, if it will be a relief to you. When's the wedding to be?"

"In a couple of months," answered Drayton. He saw that it would be useless to protest. "I'm a clerk in the Winstanley mills, and as one of the staff is going, I'll get a move up then. We are to be married as soon as I do."

He said a little more on the same subject, and then after a few moments' silence he added:

"I wonder if the Clermont business keeps your hands full, Mr. Vane?"

"It doesn't. It's a fact I'm beginning to regret."

Drayton appeared to consider.

"Well," he said, "people seem to regard you as a rising man with snap in him, and there's a matter I might, perhaps, bring before you. Let me explain. I'm a clerk on small pay, but I've taken an interest outside my routine work in the lumber trade of this Province and its subsidiary branches. I figured any knowledge I could pick up might stand me in some money some day. So far"—he smiled ruefully—"it hasn't done so."

"Go on," prompted Vane. His curiosity was aroused.

"It has struck me that pulping spruce—paper spruce—is likely to be scarce presently. The supply's not unlimited and the world's consumption is going up by jumps."

"There's a good deal of timber you could use for pulp, in British Columbia alone," Vane interposed.

"Sure. But there's not a very great deal that could be milled into high-grade paper pulp; and it's getting rapidly worked out in most other countries. Then, as a rule, it's mixed up with firs, cedars and cypresses; and that means the cutting of logging roads to each cluster of milling trees. There's another point—a good deal of the spruce lies back from water or a railroad, and in some cases it would be costly to bring in a milling plant or to pack the pulp out."

"That's obvious; anyway, where you would have to haul every pound of freight over a breakneck divide."

Drayton leaned forward confidentially.

"Then if one struck high-grade paper spruce—a whole valley full of it—with water power and easy access to the sea, there ought to be money in the thing?"

"Yes," Vane answered with growing interest; "that strikes me as very probable."

"I believe I could put you on the track of such a valley."

Vane looked at him thoughtfully.

"We'd better understand each other. Do you want to sell me your knowledge? And have you offered it to anybody else?"

His companion answered with the candor he expected.

"Kitty and I aren't going to find it easy to get along—rents are high in this city. I want to give her as much as I can; but I'm willing to leave you to do the square thing. The Winstanley people have their hands full and won't look at any outside matter, and the one or two people I've spoken to don't seem anxious to consider it. It's mighty hard for a little man to launch a project."

"It is," Vane agreed sympathetically.

"Then," Drayton continued, "the idea's not my own. It was a mineral prospector—a relative of mine—who struck the valley on his last trip. He's an old man, and he came down played out and sick. Now I guess he's slowly dying." He paused a moment. "Would you like to see him?"

"I'll go with you now, if it's convenient," Vane replied.

Drayton said that he might spare another half-hour without getting into trouble, and they crossed the city to where a row of squalid frame shacks stood on its outskirts. In the one they entered, a gaunt man with grizzled hair lay upon a rickety bed. A glance showed Vane that the man was very frail, and the harsh cough that he broke into as the colder air from outside flowed in made the fact clearer. Drayton, hastily shutting the door and explaining the cause of the visit, motioned Vane to sit down.

"I've heard of you," said the prospector, fixing his eyes on Vane. "You're the man who located the Clermont—and put the project through. You had the luck. I've been among the ranges half my life—and you can see how much I've made of it! When I struck a claim that was worth anything somebody else got the money."

Vane had reasons for believing that this was not an uncommon experience.

"Well," the man continued, "you look straight—and I've got to take some chances. It's my last stake. We'll get down to business. I'll tell you about that spruce."

He spoke for a few minutes, and then asked abruptly:

"What are you going to offer?"

Vane had not been certain that he would make any offer at all; but, as had befallen him once or twice before, the swift decision flashed instinctively into his mind.

"If I find that the timber and its location come up to your account of it, I'll pay you so many dollars down—whatever we can agree on—when I get my lease from the land office. Then I'll make another equal payment the day we start the mill. But I don't bind myself to record the timber or to put up a mill, unless I'm convinced that it's worth while."

"I'd rather take less money and have a small share in the concern; and Drayton must stand in."

"It's a question of terms," Vane replied. "I'll consider your views."

They discussed it for a while, and when they had at length arrived at a provisional understanding, the prospector made a sign of acquiescence.

"We'll let it go at that; but the thing will take time, and I'll never get the money. If you exercise your option, you'll sure pay it down to Seely?"

"Celia's his daughter," Drayton explained. "He has no one else. She's a waitress at the —— House." He named a hotel of no great standing in the city. "Comes home at nights, and looks after him as best she can."

Vane glanced round the room. It was evident that Celia's earnings were small; but he noticed several things which suggested that she had lavished loving care upon the sick man, probably at the cost of severe self-denial. This was what he would have expected, for he had spent most of his nine years in Canada among the people who toil the hardest for the least reward.

"Yes," he answered; "I'll promise that. But, as I pointed out, while we have agreed on the two payments, I reserve the right of deciding what share your daughter and Drayton are to have, within the limits sketched out. I can't fix it definitely until I've seen the timber—you'll have to trust me."

The prospector once more looked at him steadily, and then implied by a gesture that he was satisfied. He was not in a position to dictate terms, but his confidence had its effect on the man in whom he reposed it.

"There's another thing. You'll do all you can to find that spruce?"

"Yes," Vane promised.

The man fumbled under his pillow and produced a piece cut out from a map of the Province, with rough pencil notes on the back of it.

"It was on my last prospecting trip I found the spruce," he said. "I'd been looking round, and I figured I'd strike down to the coast over the range. The creeks were full up with snow-water, and as I was held up here and there before I could get across, provisions began to run short. Then I fell down a gulch and hurt my knee, and as I had to leave my tent and it rained most of the while, I lay in the wet at nights, half-fed, with my knee getting worse. By and by I fell sick; but I had to get out of the mountains, and I was pushing on for the straits when I struck the valley where the spruce is. After that, I got kind of muddled in the head, but I went down a long valley on an easy grade and struck some Siwash curing the last of the salmon. The trouble is, I was too sick to figure exactly where the small inlet they were camped by lies. They took me back with them to their rancherie—you could find that—and sailed me across to Comox. I came down on a steamboat, and the doctor told me I'd made my last journey."

Vane could sympathize. The narrative had been crudely matter-of-fact, but he had been out on the prospecting trail often enough to fill in the details the sick man omitted. He had slept in the rain, very scantily fed, and he could picture the starving man limping along in an agony of pain and exhaustion, with an injured knee, over boulders and broken rock and through dense tangles of underbrush strewed with mighty fallen logs.

"How far was the valley from the inlet?" he asked.

"I can't tell you. I think I was three days on the trail; but it might have been more. I was too sick to remember. Anyway, there was a creek you could run the logs down."

"Well, how far was the inlet from the rancherie?"

"I was in the canoe part of one night and some of the next day. I can't get it any clearer. We had a fair breeze. Guess thirty miles wouldn't be far out."

"That's something to go upon. How much does your daughter earn?"

It was an abrupt change of subject, but the man answered as Vane had expected. The girl's wages might maintain her economically, but it was difficult to see how she could provide for her sick father. The latter seemed to guess Vane's thoughts, for he spoke again.

"If I'd known I was done for when I was up in the bush, I wouldn't have pushed on quite so fast," he said with expressive simplicity.

Vane rose.

"If Drayton will come along with me, I'll send him back with a hundred dollars. It's part of the first payment. Your getting it now should make things a little easier for Celia."

"But you haven't located the spruce yet!"

"I'm going to locate it, if the thing's anyway possible." Vane shook hands with the man. "I expect to get off up the straits very shortly."

The prospector looked at him with relief and gratitude in his eyes.

"You're white—and I guess you'd be mighty hard to beat!"

When they reached the rutted street, which was bordered on one side by great fir stumps, Drayton glanced at Vane with open admiration.

"I'm glad I brought you across. You have a way of getting hold of people—making them believe in you. Hartley hasn't a word in writing, but he knows you mean to act square with him. Kitty felt the same thing—it was why she came down in the sloop with you."

Vane smiled, though there was a trace of embarrassment in his manner.

"Now that you mention it, I don't think Hartley was wise; and you were equally confiding. We have only arrived at a rather indefinite understanding about your share."

"We'll leave it at that. I haven't struck anybody else in this city who would hear about the thing. Anyway, I'd prefer a few shares in the concern, as mentioned, instead of money. If you get the thing on foot, I guess it will go."

"Won't they raise trouble at the mill about your staying out?" Vane inquired. "We have still to go for that hundred dollars."

Drayton owned that it might be advisable to hurry, and they set off for the business quarter of the city.

During the remainder of the day Vane was busy on board the sloop, but in the evening he walked over to Horsfield's house with Mrs. Nairn and found Jessy and her brother at home. Horsfield presently took Vane to his smoking-room.

"About that smelter," he began. "Haven't you made up your mind yet? The thing's been hanging fire a long while."

"Isn't it a matter for the board?" Vane asked suggestively. "There are several directors."

Horsfield laughed.

"We'll face the fact: they'll do what you decide on."

Vane did not reply to this.

"Well," he said, "at present we couldn't keep a smelter big enough to be economical going, and I'm doubtful whether we would get much ore from the other properties you were talking about to Nairn."

"Did he say it was my idea?"

"He didn't; I'd reasons for assuming it. Those properties, however, are of no account."

Horsfield made no comment but waited expectantly, and Vane went on:

"If it seems possible that we can profitably increase our output later on, by means of further capital, we'll put up a smelter. But in that case it might be economical to do the work ourselves."

"Who would superintend it?"

"I would, if necessary, with the assistance of an engineer used to such plant."

Horsfield smiled in a significant manner.

"Aren't you inclined to take hold of too much? When you have plenty in your hands, it's good policy to leave a little for somebody else. Sometimes the person who benefits is willing to reciprocate."

The hint was plain, and Nairn had said sufficient on another occasion to make it clearer; but Vane did not respond.

"If we gave the work out, it would be on an open tender," he declared. "There would be no reason why you shouldn't make a bid."

Horsfield found it difficult to conceal his disgust. He had no desire to bid on an open tender, which would prevent his obtaining anything beyond the market price.

"The question must stand over until I come back," Vane went on. "I'm going up the west coast shortly and may be away some time."

They left the smoking-room shortly afterward, and when they strolled back to the others, Vane sat down near Jessy.

"I hear you are going away," she began.

"Yes. I'm going to look for pulping timber."

"But what do you want with pulping timber?"

"It can sometimes be converted into money."

"Isn't there every prospect of your obtaining a good deal already? Are you never satisfied?"

"I suppose I'm open to take as much as I can get."

Vane answered with an air of humorous reflection. "The reason probably is that I've had very little until lately. Still, I don't think it's altogether the money that is driving me."

"If it's the restlessness you once spoke of, you ought to put a check on it and try to be content. There's danger in the longing to be always going on."

"It's a common idea that a small hazard gives a thing a spice."

Jessy shot a swift glance at him, and she had, as he noticed, expressive eyes.

"Be careful," she advised. "After all, it's wiser to keep within safe limits and not climb over too many fences." She paused and her voice grew softer. "You have friends who would be sorry if you got hurt."

The man was stirred. She was alluring, physically, while something in her voice had its effect on him. Evelyn, however, still occupied his thoughts and he smiled at his companion.

"Thank you. I like to believe it."

Then Mrs. Nairn and Horsfield crossed the room toward them and the conversation became general.



CHAPTER XIV

VANE SAILS NORTH

On the evening of Vane's departure he walked out of Nairn's room just as dusk was falling. His host was with him, and when they entered an adjacent room the elder man's face relaxed into a smile as he saw Jessy Horsfield talking to his wife. Vane stopped a few minutes to speak to them, and it was Jessy who gave the signal for the group to break up.

"I must go," she said to Mrs. Nairn. "I've already stayed longer than I intended. I'll let you have those patterns back in a day or two."

"Mair patterns!" Nairn exclaimed with dry amusement. "It's the second lot this week! Ye're surely industrious, Jessy. Women"—he addressed Vane—"have curious notions of economy. They will spend a month knitting a thing to give to somebody who does no want it, when they could buy it for half a dollar, done better by machinery. I'm no saying, however, that it does no keep them out of mischief."

Jessy laughed.

"I don't think many of us are industrious in that way now. After all, isn't it a pity that so many of the beautiful old handicrafts are dying out? No loom, for instance, could turn out some of the things your wife makes. They're matchless."

"She has an aumrie—ye can translate it bureaufull of them. It's no longer customary to scatter them over the house. If ye mean to copy the lot, ye have a task that will take ye most a lifetime."

Mrs. Nairn's smile was half a sigh.

"There were no books and no many amusements when I was young. We sat through the long winter forenights, counting stitches, in the old gray house at Burnfoot, under the Scottish moors. That, my dear, was thirty years ago."

She shook hands with Vane as he left the house with Jessy, and standing on the stoop she watched them cross the lawn.

"I'm thinking ye'll no see so much of Jessy for the next few weeks," Nairn remarked dryly. "Has she shown ye any of yon knickknacks when she has finished them?"

His wife shook her head at him reproachfully.

"Alic," she admonished, "ye're now and then hasty in jumping at conclusions."

"Maybe. I'm no infallible, but the fault ye mention is no common in the land where we were born. I'm no denying that Jessy has enterprise, but how far it will carry her in this case is mair than I can tell."

He smiled as he recalled a scene at the station some time ago, and Mrs. Nairn looked up at him.

"What is amusing you, Alic?"

"It was just a bit idea no worth the mentioning. I think it would no count." He paused, and added with an air of reflection: "A young man's heart is whiles inconstant and susceptible."

Mrs. Nairn, ignoring the last remark, went into the house. In the meanwhile Jessy and Vane walked down the road, until they stopped at a gate. Jessy held out her hand.

"I'm glad I met you to-night," she said. "You will allow me to wish you every success?"

There was a softness in her voice which Vane wholly failed to notice, though he was aware that she was pretty and artistically dressed. This was possibly why she made him think of Evelyn.

"Thank you," he replied. "It's nice to feel that one has the sympathy of one's friends."

He turned away, and Jessy stood watching him as he strode down the road, noticing, though it was getting dark, the free vigor of his movements. There was, she thought, something in his fine poise and swing that set him apart from other men she knew. None of them walked or carried himself as Vane did. She was, however, forced to recognize that although he had answered her courteously, there had been no warmth in his words. As a matter of fact, Vane just then was conscious of a slight relief. He admired Jessy, and he liked Nairn and his wife; but they belonged to the city; and he was glad, on the whole, to leave it behind. He was going back to the shadowy woods, where men lived naturally. The lust of fresh adventure was strong in him.

On reaching the wharf he found Kitty, with Celia Hartley, whom he had not met hitherto, awaiting him with Carroll and Drayton. A boat lay at the steps, and he and Carroll rowed the others off to the sloop. The moon was just rising from behind the black firs at the inner end of the inlet, and a little cold wind that blew down across them, faintly scented with resinous fragrance, stirred the water into tiny ripples that flashed into silvery radiance here and there. Lights gleamed on the forestays of vessels whose tall spars were etched in high, black tracery against the dusky blue of the sky, athwart which there streamed the long smoke trail of a steamer passing out through the Narrows.

Kitty, urged by Drayton, broke into a little song with a smooth, swinging cadence that went harmoniously with the measured splash of oars; and Vane enjoyed it all. The city was dropping behind him; he felt himself at liberty. Carroll was a tried comrade; the others were simple people whose views were more or less his own. Besides, it was a glorious night and Kitty sang charmingly.

A soft glow shone out from the skylights to welcome them as they approached the sloop. When, laughing gaily, they clambered on board, Carroll led the way to the tiny saloon, which just held them all. It was brightly lighted by two nickeled lamps; flowers were fastened against the paneling, and clusters of them stood upon the table, which was covered with a spotless cloth. What was even more unusual, it was daintily set out with good china and silver. Vane took the head of it, and Carroll modestly explained that only part of the supper had been prepared by himself. The rest he had obtained in the city, out of regard for the guests, who, he added, had not lived in the bush. Presently Vane, who had been busy talking to the others, turned to Celia.

"Now that we can see each other better, I think you ought to recognize me, Miss Hartley."

The girl was young and attractive, and she blushed prettily.

"I do, of course; but I thought I'd wait until I saw whether you remembered me."

"Why should you wait?"

Celia looked confused.

"It's two or three years since I've seen you; and I've left that place."

Vane laughed. He had made her acquaintance at a workman's hotel where she was engaged, when he was differently situated, and he fancied that she was diffident about recalling the fact, now that he was obviously prosperous.

"Well," he responded, "it's only fair that I should give you supper, for once. I've always had an idea that you brought me more dessert than I was really entitled to."

"It was because you were—civil," Celia explained, though her expression suggested that the word did not convey all she meant. "Still, I can't complain of the rest of the boys."

"I wonder if you remember how astonished you were the first time you brought me supper?"

Celia smiled and Vane turned to the others.

"I'd just come in on a schooner. We'd had wild weather, during which the galley fire was generally washed out and the cook had some difficulty in getting us anything to eat. Miss Hartley brought me a double supply. She must have thought I needed it."

"There was mighty little left," the girl retorted.

The others laughed, but Vane went on, in a reminiscent manner:

"I was wearing a pair of old gum-boots with one toe torn off, and my jacket was split right up the back. When I went up-town the next day, people looked at me suspiciously. The trade of the Province is pretty bad when you see men in Vancouver dressed as I was. The fact that sticks in my mind most clearly, however, is that on the following morning, when I'd arranged to see a man who might give me a job, Miss Hartley offered to sew up the tear for me. I was uncommonly glad to let her."

Celia colored again, but it was evident that she was not displeased. Kitty smiled at him, and there was appreciation in Drayton's eyes.

"Were you surprised when she offered to sew it?" Kitty inquired.

"Now, you have helped me on to what I wanted to say. I wasn't surprised—how could I be? The kind of people I'd met out here had seldom much money, or much of anything; but I had generally less, and they held out a hand when I needed it and gave me what they had. It stirs me in a way that almost hurts to think of it."

Then Carroll started the general chatter, which went on after the meal was finished, and nobody appeared to notice that Kitty sat with her hand in Drayton's amid the happy laughter. Even Celia, who had her grief to grapple with, smiled bravely. Vane had given them champagne, the best in the city, though they drank sparingly; and at last, when Celia made a move to rise, Drayton stood up with his glass in his hand.

"We must go, but there's something to be done," he announced. "It's to thank our host and wish him success. It's a little boat he's sailing in, but she's carrying a big freight, if our good wishes count for anything."

They emptied the glasses, and Vane replied:

"My success is yours. You have all a stake in the venture, and that piles up my responsibility. If the spruce is still in existence, I've got to find it."

"And you're going to find it!" declared Drayton. "It's a sure thing!"

Vane divided the flowers between Celia and Kitty, but when they went up on deck Kitty raised one bunch and kissed it.

"Tom won't mind," she laughed. "Take that one back from Celia and me—for luck."

They got down into the boat, and Carroll handed them a basket of crockery and table linen which Drayton promised to have delivered at the hotel. Then, while the girls called back to Vane, Drayton rowed away, and the boat was fading out of sight when Kitty's voice once more reached the men on board. She was singing a well-known Jacobite ballad.

Carroll laughed softly.

"It strikes me as appropriate," he said. "Considering what his Highland followers suffered on his account and what the women thought of him, some of the virtues they credited the Young Chevalier with must have been real." He raised his hand. "You may as well listen!"

Vane stood still a moment, with the blood hot in his face, as the refrain rang more clearly across the sparkling water:

"Better lo'ed ye cannot be— Will ye no come back to me?"

"I don't know whether you feel flattered, but I've an idea that Kitty and Celia would go through fire for you; and Drayton seems to share their confidence," Carroll went on in his most matter-of-fact tone.

"Celia mended my jacket," Vane replied. "I got a month's work as a result of it." Then he began to shake the mainsail loose. "I believe we both went rather far in our talk to-night; but we have got to find the spruce!"

"So you have said already. Hadn't you better heave the boom up with the topping lift?"

They got the mainsail onto her, broke out the anchor and set the jib; and as the boat slipped away before a freshening breeze Vane sat at the helm while Carroll stood on the foredeck, coiling up the gear. The moon was higher now; the broad sail gleamed a silvery gray; the ripples, which were getting bigger, flashed and sparkled as they streamed back from the bows; and the lights of the city dropped fast astern. Vane was conscious of a keen exhilaration. He had started on a new adventure. He was going back to the bush; and he knew that, no matter how his life might change, the wilderness would always call to him. In spite of this, however, he was, as he had said, conscious of an unusual responsibility. Hitherto he had fought for what he could get, for himself; but now Kitty's future partly depended on his efforts, and his success would be of vast importance to Celia.

He had a very friendly feeling toward both the girls. Indeed, all the women he had met of late had attracted him, in different ways. It was hard to believe that any of them possessed unlovable qualities, though there was not one among them to compare with Evelyn. Whatever he liked most in the others—intelligence, beauty, tenderness, courage—reminded him of her. Kitty, he thought, belonged to the hearth; she personified gentleness and solace; it would be her part to diffuse cheerful comfort in the home. Jessy would make an ambitious man's companion; a clever counselor, who would urge him forward if he lagged. Celia he had not placed yet; but Evelyn stood apart from all.

She appealed less to his senses and intellect than she did to a sublimated something in the depths of his nature; and it somehow seemed fitting that her image should materialize before his mental vision as the sloop drove along under the cloudless night sky while the moonlight poured down glamour on the shining water. Evelyn harmonized with such things as these.

It was true that she had repulsed him; but that, he felt, was what he deserved for entering into an alliance against her with her venial father. He was glad now that he had acquiesced in her dismissal of him, since to have stood firm and broken her to his will would have brought disaster upon both of them. He felt that she had not wholly escaped him, after all; by and by he would go back and seek her favor by different means. Then she might, perhaps, forgive him and listen.

The breeze came down fresher as they drove out through the Narrows. Carroll had gone below; and, brushing his thoughts aside, Vane busied himself hauling in some of the mainsheet, while the water splashed more loudly beneath the bows. The great black firs rolled by in somber masses over his port hand, and presently the last of the lights were blotted out. He was alone, flitting swiftly and smoothly across the glittering sea.



CHAPTER XV

THE FIRST MISADVENTURE

The breeze freshened fiercely with the red and fiery dawn. Vane, who had gone below, was advised of it by being flung off the locker in the saloon, where he sat with coffee and crackers before him. The jug, overturning, spilled its contents upon him, and the crackers were scattered, but he picked himself up in haste and scrambled out into the well. He found the sloop slanted over with a good deal of her lee deck submerged in rushing foam, and Carroll bracing himself against the strain upon the tiller. To windward, the sea looked as if it had been strewed with feathers, for there were flecks and blurs of white everywhere.

"I'll let her come up when you're ready!" Carroll shouted. "We'd better get some sail off her, if we mean to hold on to the mast!"

He thrust down his helm; and the sloop, forging round to windward, rose upright, with her heavy main-boom banging to and fro. After that, they were desperately busy for a few minutes. Vane wished that they had engaged a hand in Vancouver, instead of waiting to hire a Siwash somewhere up the coast. There was the headsail to haul to windward, which was difficult, and the mainsheet to get in; then the two men, standing on the slippery, inclined deck, struggled hard to haul the canvas down to the boom. The jerking spar smote them in the ribs; once or twice the reefing tackle beneath it was torn from their hands; but they mastered the sail, tying two reefs in it, to reduce its size; and the craft drove away with her lee rail just awash.

"You'd better go down and get some crackers," Vane advised his comrade. "You'll find them rolling up and down the floor. I spilled the coffee, but perhaps the kettle's still on the stove. Anyhow, you may not have an opportunity later."

"It looks like that," Carroll agreed. "The wind's backing northward, and that means more of it before long. You can call, if you want me."

He disappeared below, and Vane sat at the helm with a frown on his face. An angry coppery glare streamed down upon the white-flecked water which gleamed in the lurid light. It was very cold, but there was a wonderful quality that set the blood tingling in the nipping air. Even upon the high peaks and in the trackless bush, one fails to find the bracing freshness that comes with the dawn at sea.

Vane, however, knew that the breeze would increase and draw ahead, which was unfortunate, because they would have to beat, fighting for every fathom they slowly made. There was no help for it, and he buttoned his jacket against the spray. By the time Carroll came up the sloop was plunging sharply, pitching showers of stinging brine all over her when the bows went down. They drove her at it stubbornly most of the day, making but little to windward, while the seas got bigger and whiter, until they had some trouble to keep the light boat they carried upon the deluged deck. At last, when she came bodily aft amid a frothing cascade which poured into the well, Vane brought the sloop round, and they stretched away to eastward, until they could let go the anchor in smooth water beneath a wall of rock. They were very wet, and were stiff with cold, for winter was drawing near.

"We'll get supper," said Vane. "If the breeze drops a little at dusk, which is likely, we'll go on again."

Having eaten little since dawn, they enjoyed the meal; and Carroll would have been content to remain at anchor afterward. The tiny saloon was comfortably warm, and he thought it would be pleasanter to lounge away the evening on a locker, with his pipe, than to sit amid the bitter spray at the helm. The breeze had fallen a little, but the firs in a valley ashore were still wailing loudly. Vane, however, was proof against his companion's hints.

"With a head wind, we'll be some time working up to the rancherie, and then we have thirty miles of coast to search for the inlet Hartley reached. After that, there's the valley to locate; he was uncertain how far it lay from the beach."

"It couldn't be very far. You wouldn't expect a man who was sick and badly lame to make any great pace."

"I can imagine a man, who knew he must reach the coast before he starved, making a pretty vigorous effort. If he were worked-up and desperate, the pain might turn him savage and drive him on, instead of stopping him. Do you remember the time we crossed the divide in the snow?"

"I could remember it, if I wanted to," Carroll answered with a shiver. "As it happens, that's about the last thing I'm anxious to do."

"The trouble is that there are a good many valleys in this strip of country, and we may have to try a number before we strike the right one. Winter's not far off, and I can't spend very much time over this search. As soon as the man we put in charge of the mine has tried his present system long enough to give us something to figure on, I want to see what can be done to increase our output. We haven't marketed very much refined metal yet."

"There's no doubt that it would be advisable," Carroll answered thoughtfully. "As I've pointed out, you have spent a good deal of the cash you got when you turned the Clermont over to the company. In fact, that's one reason why I didn't try to head off this timber-hunting scheme. You can't spend much over the search, and if the spruce comes up to expectations, you ought to get it back. It would be a fortunate change, after your extravagance in England."

Vane frowned.

"That's a subject I don't want to talk about. We'll go up and see what the weather's like."

Carroll shivered when they stood in the well. It was falling dusk, and the sky was a curious cold, shadowy blue. A nipping wind came down across the darkening firs ashore, but there was no doubt that it had fallen somewhat, and Carroll resigned himself when Vane began to pull the tiers off the mainsail.

In a few minutes they were under way, the sloop heading out toward open water with two reefs down in her mainsail, a gray and ghostly shape of slanted canvas that swept across the dim, furrowed plain of sea. By midnight the breeze was as strong as ever, but they had clear moonlight and they held on; the craft plunging with flooded decks through the white combers, while Carroll sat at the helm, battered by spray and stung with cold.

When Vane came up, an hour or two later, the sea was breaking viciously. Carroll would have put up his helm and run for shelter, had the decision been left to him; but he saw his comrade's face in the moonlight and refrained from any suggestion of that nature. There was a spice of dogged obstinacy in Vane, which, although on the whole it made for success, occasionally drove him into needless difficulties. They held on; and soon after day broke, with its first red flush ominously high in the eastern sky, they stretched in toward the land, with a somewhat sheltered bay opening up beyond a foam-fringed point ahead of them. Carroll glanced dubiously at the white turmoil in the midst of which black fangs of rock appeared.

"Will she weather the point on this tack?" he asked.

"She'll have to! We'll have smoother water to work through, once we're round, and the tide's helping her."

They drove on, though it occurred to Carroll that they were not opening up the bay very rapidly. The light was growing, and he could now discern the orderly phalanxes of white-topped combers that crumbled into a chaotic spouting on the point's outer end. It struck him that the sloop would not last long if she touched bottom there; but once more, after a glance at Vane's face, he kept silent. After all, Vane was leader; and when he looked as he did then, he usually resented advice. The mouth of the bay grew wider, until Carroll could see most of the forest-girt shore on one side of it; but the surf upon the point was growing unpleasantly near. Wisps of spray whirled away from it and vanished among the scrubby firs clinging to the fissured crags behind. The sloop, however, was going to windward, for Vane was handling her with nerve and skill. She had almost cleared the point when there was a rattle and a bang inside of her. Carroll started.

"It's the centerboard coming up! It must have touched a boulder!"

"Then jump down and lift it before it strikes another and bends!" cried Vane. "She's far enough to windward to keep off the beach without it."

Carroll went below and hove up the centerboard, which projected several feet beneath the bottom of the craft; but he was not satisfied that the sloop was far enough off the beach, as Vane seemed to be, and he got out into the well as soon as possible.

The worst of the surf was abreast of their quarter now, and less-troubled water stretched away ahead. Carroll had hardly noticed this, however, when there was a second heavy crash and the sloop stopped suddenly. The comber to windward that should have lifted her up, broke all over her, flinging the boat on deck upon the saloon skylight and pouring inches deep over the coaming into the well. Vane was hurled from the tiller. His wet face was smeared with blood, from a cut on his forehead, but he seized a big oar to shove the sloop off, when she swung upright, moved, and struck again. The following sea hove her up; there was a third, less violent, crash; and as Vane dropped the oar and grasped the helm, she suddenly shot ahead.

"She'll go clear!" he shouted. "Jump below and see if she's damaged!"

Carroll got no farther than the scuttle, for the saloon floorings on the depressed side were already awash, and he could hear an ominous splashing and gurgling.

"It's pouring into her!" he cried.

"Then, you'll have to pump!"

"We passed an opening some miles to lee. Wouldn't it be better if you ran back there?" Carroll suggested.

"No! I won't run a yard! There's another inlet not far ahead and we'll stand on until we reach it. I'd put her on the beach here, only that she'd go to pieces with the first shift of the wind to westward."

Carroll agreed with this opinion; but there is a great difference between running to leeward with the sea behind the vessel and thrashing to windward when it is ahead, and he hesitated.

"Get the pump started! We're going on!" Vane said impatiently.

Fortunately the pump was a powerful one, of the semi-rotary type, and they had nearly two miles of smoother water before they stretched out of the bay upon the other tack. When they did so, Carroll, glancing down again through the scuttle, could not flatter himself that he had reduced the water. It was comforting, however, to see that it had not increased, though he did not expect that state of affairs to last. When they drove out into broken water, he found it difficult to work the crank. The plunges threw him against the coaming, and the sea poured in over it continually. There are not many men who feel equal to determined toil before their morning meal, and the physical slackness is generally more pronounced if they have been up most of the preceding night; but Carroll recognized that he had no choice. There was too much sea for the boat, even if they could have launched her, and he could make out no spot on the beach where it seemed possible to effect a landing if they ran the sloop ashore. As a result of this, it behooved him to pump.

After half an hour of it, he was breathless and exhausted, and Vane took his place. The sea was higher; the sloop wetter than she had been; and there was no doubt that the water was rising fast inside of her. Carroll wondered how far ahead the inlet lay; and the next two hours were anxious ones to both of them. Turn about, they pumped with savage determination and went back, gasping, to the helm to thrash the boat on. They drove her remorselessly; and she swept through the combers, tilted and streaming, while the spray scourged the helmsman's face as he gazed to weather. The men's arms and shoulders ached from working in a cramped position; but there was no help for it. They toiled on furiously, until at last the crest of a crag for which they were heading sloped away in front of them.

A few minutes later they drove past the end of it into a broad lane of water. The wind was suddenly cut off; the combers fell away; and the sloop crept slowly up the inlet, which wound, green and placid, among the hills, with long ranks of firs dropping steeply to the edge of the water. Vane loosed the pump handle, and striding to the scuttle looked down at the flood which splashed languidly to and fro below.

"It strikes me as fortunate that we're in," he commented. "Another half-hour would have seen the end of her. Let her come up a little! There's a smooth beach to yonder cove."

She slid in quietly, scarcely rippling the smooth surface of the tiny basin, and Carroll laid her on the beach.

"Now," advised Vane, "we'll drop the boom on the shore side to keep her from canting over; and then we'll get breakfast. We'll see where she's damaged when the tide ebbs."

As most of their stores had lain in the flooded lockers, from which there had been no time to extricate them, the meal was not an appetizing one. They were, however, glad to have it; and rowing ashore afterward, they lay on the shingle in the sunshine while the sloop was festooned with their drying clothes. There was no wind in that deep hollow, and they were thankful, for the weather was already getting cold.