Mappin's jealousy was heightened by her interest, but he regretted his haste and meant to be cautious. Unfortunately for him, the charm Geraldine had exercised had carried him away. He could not think as clearly as usual.
"The provisions were carefully packed and sent up in charge of good men," he declared hotly. "They were properly cached; every precaution was taken."
"Were they your men?"
Mappin glanced at her sharply, but read nothing in her face. He could not evade the question without rousing suspicion.
"Yes," he said; "that's why I know they could be relied on to do their work."
Geraldine sat silent a moment, struggling to preserve her calm. She had found out what she wished to know. She understood now why Mappin had insisted on the dangers of the journey and made light of the question of food. He had, with scarcely conceivable cruelty, cut off the party's supplies. Still, he must not suspect that she knew this. With an effort she took up another piece of music.
"We are anxious for news of the expedition, and it's comforting to remember that they had an excellent guide," she said. "But I'll play you something."
Before the piece was finished, her father came in and she left him to entertain their guest. Seeking her room she sat down, feeling suddenly limp from strain. That she was humbled and ashamed did not matter; she was filled, on the one hand, with hatred and loathing for the man she had led on, and, on the other, with anxiety for Andrew.
When Mappin left, Frobisher went to his smoking-room, where he was surprised to find Geraldine waiting for him.
"I think," he said with mock severity, "it was mean of you to leave Mr. Mappin on my hands, particularly as I don't suppose his visit was made on my account."
"Did he bore you very badly?" Geraldine inquired.
"We have had guests here whom I'd rather entertain; but for your aunt's sake I try to be civil. After all, we have known the man for a long while."
"I feel that we have been very patient in putting up with him! He's insufferable!"
"Ah!" said Frobisher, taking out a cigar. "Then you didn't happen to be here by accident? Sit down and we'll have a talk."
Geraldine took the chair he indicated.
"I have something to tell you," she said with an effort. "Mappin asked me to marry him a little while ago."
"It strikes me as curious that this is the first I've heard of it."
"I was ashamed to tell you," Geraldine admitted, shyly. "I felt degraded. Besides, you must have guessed——"
"Yes. I had some idea of the man's ambitions; in my opinion, he's too cold-blooded to be influenced byany more tender sentiment. We'll take it for granted that you refused him. Nowadays it seems to be a father's business to sanction and not to interfere; but I really think if you had wanted to marry the fellow I'd have been as firm as adamant. However, this is not to the purpose. Why do you tell me about it now?"
"You'll see presently. But try to remember that he has other feelings than avarice. The man's unscrupulous and full of savage cruelty."
"Well?"
"To begin with, will you read this? It's from Ethel Hillyard, whom I met in London. You have heard me speak of her."
She gave him a letter containing sufficient information about the house of Allinson to explain why Andrew had gone to Canada. His character and his relations with Hathersage and the rest of the family were cleverly sketched. Frobisher studied it carefully before he looked up.
"All this is not exactly new to me, though Miss Hillyard, who seems to be a shrewd young lady, speaks strongly in Allinson's favor. From odd things he let fall, I'd formed a pretty good idea of the situation. Now that you have cleared the ground, you had better go on."
"Father," said Geraldine, "so far, you have done nearly everything I asked you, and that is why I'm not afraid to ask for something else. I want you to send up a party to look for Mr. Allinson. He and the others are in danger of starving in the snow."
Frobisher looked at her searchingly, and she met his gaze for a moment, though a flush crept into her face.
"Well," he said simply, "he is a straight man."
"And a friend of yours. But you will send him help at once?"
"First of all, tell me why you think it is needful."
Geraldine spent some time over the explanation and concluded:
"You must see that their safety depends on their finding the provisions, and Mappin has had the caches made at the wrong places."
For the next few minutes Frobisher sat silent, the smoke curling up from his neglected cigar, while Geraldine watched him in suspense.
"You have reasoned the matter out remarkably well," he said, "and it strikes me that you're near the truth. However, I don't understand how you led Mappin into making the dangerous admissions that gave you a clue; he's a brute, but I thought him a cunning one. Perhaps I'd better not inquire."
Geraldine's embarrassment was obvious and there were signs of amusement on her father's face.
"After all," he resumed, "when you play a game for high stakes with a man like Mappin, you can't be fastidious."
"But what about the relief party?" Geraldine asked.
"I think the situation is serious enough to need one. I'll drive over to the Landing and see about it the first thing to-morrow."
He got up, and as he reached the door Geraldine, following, put her arms about his neck and kissed him. Then she went past swiftly and vanished down the passage.
The next morning Frobisher learned that Mappin had gone east by an early train and that there was not a man capable of undertaking a difficult journey into thewilds disengaged. Mappin had hired all the available choppers and packers and sent them into the bush to cut some lumber he required for his railroad contract. Frobisher could not determine whether this had been done with the object of preventing their being employed on a relief expedition, but it looked suspicious. Being in a difficulty, he called on the owner of the sawmill and told him as much as he thought advisable.
"As it happens, I can help you," said the lumber-man. "There are two or three fellows on our pay roll whom we haven't much work for at present, though we'll need them later. They're good bushmen, and I might raise one or two more by sending up to our logging camp."
"Thanks," said Frobisher; "it will be a favor. It's lucky I thought of coming to you."
"Never mind that. I feel that I ought to help Graham out: he's an old and valued servant. But I don't see how you are interested in the thing."
Frobisher smiled.
"It's one's duty to help a fellow creature who's in serious danger. Then I believe I may call myself a friend of Allinson's."
"There's a point to be considered. The most likely place to meet the party would be in the neighborhood of the food caches. You intimate that there's a risk of Allinson's missing them; but he must have a rough idea as to about where they are. As Mappin's out of town, wouldn't it be well to wire and ask him exactly where they were to be made?"
"On the whole, I'd rather get the information from Mrs. Graham. No doubt she knows her husband's plans."
The mill-owner gave him a searching glance. He wasa shrewd man and suspected that there was a good reason for his visitor's preference.
"Yes," he said pointedly, "that might be wiser."
"There may have been some misunderstanding about the precise location of the caches," Frobisher explained. "Mrs. Graham will know where her husband meant them to be made—which of course is the most important thing."
"Just so," agreed the other. "Excuse me for a few minutes."
He went out, and returning a little later announced that three men would be ready to start up-river during the afternoon and that some more from the logging camp would follow in a few days. Frobisher left him and, after calling on Mrs. Graham, went to the store, where he ordered a quantity of provisions to be prepared. It was evening when he reached home. Finding Geraldine waiting for him, he smiled at her as he took off his furs.
"I've had a busy day, but I've got things satisfactorily fixed," he said.
"You have found men to take up provisions?" Geraldine asked eagerly.
"Better than that," replied Frobisher. "I've sent them off."
Seeing the pleasure in his daughter's face, he nodded reassuringly and left her.
The relief expedition had orders to lose no time. Two of the men, as it happened, had themselves narrowly escaped starvation in the wilds, and their experience led them to urge the pace. It was afterward admitted that they made an excellent march, which was fortunate, because a few hours meant much to the starving men.
As Andrew crouched at the side of the rock, half-dazed with fatigue and want of food, it was a moment or two before he could believe that he was not the victim of a disordered imagination as he stared at the three figures on the hillslope. But the figures moved and grew more distinct. He could not doubt that they were men, and they were coming up the hill! With his heart beating painfully fast, he staggered up and raised a wild, hoarse cry.
It was answered. One of the men waved to him. They came on faster, though he could see that they were heavily loaded, stumbling now and then in their haste. He could not imagine what had brought them into the wilds, but they were obviously well supplied, and he could purchase their provisions and recompense them for an abandoned journey. When they were close to him, the leader stopped a moment and called back to the others:
"We've struck it right! It's Mr. Allinson!"
Andrew, recognizing the man, whom he had seen at the Landing, stumbled forward and shook hands with him.
"I'm uncommonly glad to see you; but what brought you here?" he cried.
"Where's the rest of you?" the other asked.
"Carnally's down the hill somewhere; Graham's in camp beyond the gap."
The man looked relieved.
"That's good. We felt scared when we saw you were alone. Thought we might have come too late, though we hurried some."
"Then you knew we were here?"
"Sure! Frobisher sent us up with provisions for you. We made a few caches as we came along, and thereought to be three more of the boys on the trail behind us. You don't want to worry; we'll see you down."
Andrew felt shaky. Relief had come so unexpectedly; his troubles were over. But there was more than this. Frobisher had despatched the men; he might have done so at his daughter's request; at least it showed a very friendly feeling. Andrew began to wonder how Frobisher could have known he needed help; but this was a matter of much less importance, and he turned to the packers.
"If one of you would go down the next spur and look for Carnally, I'd be glad," he said. "I expect he's near the river and he's pretty hungry."
A man threw off his load and set off rapidly downhill, while Andrew climbed with the others toward the neck, scarcely able to keep on his feet. His companions slackened their pace and glanced at him compassionately. Crossing the gap, they saw the light of Graham's fire in the gathering dusk, and when they neared the belt of timber Andrew waved his hand to a dark figure that appeared in an opening among the trunks.
"No more trouble!" he cried. "Help has arrived!"
A few minutes later Graham shook hands with the newcomers, whom he knew.
"Boys," he said hoarsely, "now that I see who you are, I know you made good time; and you hadn't much to spare. When did you leave?"
One of them told him, and he and Andrew looked astonished, while the packer laughed.
"We certainly hustled," he said with a deprecatory air. "But I've been four years at the mill and never had trouble over charging my time. Your pay-sheet was square."
"That's so," agreed his companion. "They mighthave laid me off a while last summer when we ran out of logs, but Mr. Graham fixed it so I kept my job."
Andrew smiled at Graham, who looked confused.
"If you do these things, you must take the consequences; but I've met people with shorter memories."
"Anyhow, we've got here ahead of the logging crowd and I'm mighty glad," said the first packer. "Those fellows think nobody can break a trail unless he lives in the woods. Now you sit by quiet while we get supper."
Before the meal was ready Carnally arrived with the man who had gone to look for him, and the party feasted royally. When they had finished, Carnally sighed with deep content.
"I just don't want to move," he remarked. "I feel most too good to talk; but if the rest of you have anything to say, I'll try to listen."
"What's your program?" one of the men asked. "We have food enough to take us down, going easy."
"I want two days' rest," said Andrew. "Until they're up, we'll do nothing but eat and lie about the fire and smoke."
Carnally looked up lazily.
"That sounds nice, but I'm going to locate Mappin's cache before we start."
The others began to talk to Graham, but Andrew did not know how long they continued, for he was soon fast asleep.
They broke camp on the third morning and when they crossed the neck Carnally divided the party, which had been joined by the loggers. Some he told to follow down one or two ravines at a distance, which he had not searched, and then meet the others, who would work along the ridge. Toward evening a manhailed him and Andrew from a slope some way off, and when they joined him he led them into a deep hollow. In the middle of it a small, barked fir projected from a snowy mound.
"It's the kind of place you'd break a trail up if you were trying to make the neck," the packer explained.
"It looks a good road from here," Carnally assented. "We didn't get so far along, but we'll climb up a piece."
The hollow died out into a snow slope, and when they had walked on farther they lost sight of it. Then Carnally stopped and carefully looked about.
"We might have struck that gulch first shot, but the chances were against it; you can only see it from below. You want to remember that the line the fellows who made the cache would take would depend on where they left the big loop of the lower river. Mappin was smart enough to see that. Now we'll have a look at the provisions."
They proved to be sufficient in quantity and in excellent order when the cache was opened; but Carnally had expected that.
"I wonder how Mappin will feel when he sees us come marching in?" Andrew said lightly. They could laugh now.
"Not very comfortable, I'll promise you!" Carnally declared with a glint in his eyes.
Andrew reached the Landing physically exhausted and troubled by a heavy depression. The long-continued strain had left its mark on him, for, having proposed the expedition, he felt responsible for the safety of his friends; and his strength and endurance deserted him shortly after the arrival of the rescue party. Relief had been followed by a severe reaction, which left him limp and nerveless; and the homeward march proved long and toilsome. As they had food, there was no longer the same necessity for haste, but the rigor of the weather forced the men to push on as fast as possible, and Andrew found it difficult to emulate his rescuers' pace. Moreover, he was seriously troubled about Graham, whose foot appeared to be getting worse, and he was deeply disappointed with the result of his search. He had found the lode, but, so far as he had been able to test it, the ore did not promise much.
Dusk was falling when they saw the lights of the settlement, and as they passed the first house a man greeted them. After a word or two, he ran on ahead; and the party, following slowly, worn with the march, found most of the inhabitants gathering in the street. Eager helpers took their packs from them and seized the traces of the sled; questions and congratulations were showered on them, and, to Andrew's annoyance, they entered the town in a triumphal procession. Hewas plodding along, too tired and listless to notice the remarks of the curious and sympathetic crowd, when Carnally touched his arm.
"You can go straight to the hotel," he said. "I'll take Graham home."
"No," said Andrew firmly; "that's my business and it can't be shirked. You might send the doctor."
Carnally disappeared among the crowd and Andrew went on, shrinking from the meeting with his comrade's wife, though when the time came he found it less trying than he had feared. As they turned into a side street there was a shout:
"Make room; let her pass! It's Mrs. Graham!"
The men in the traces stopped and Graham spoke to them.
"You might help me up, boys."
They got him on his feet and fell back as a woman hurried toward him. She flung her arms about his neck and it was several moments before she saw Andrew.
"We have brought him back, but I'm afraid he's a little the worse for wear," he said.
"You have brought him back!" she cried. "That is the greatest thing."
Graham walked along with her for a few yards, and then stopped, his face contorted.
"If you don't mind, I'll finish the journey on the sled. My foot's rather sore."
When they reached his house, he insisted on getting up, and after telling Andrew to follow, limped in unhelped, but he sat down heavily on a couch.
"I suppose this moccasin had better come off now, though it's going to give me trouble," he said with a rueful smile.
"No," advised Andrew, "not until the doctor comes; he should be here directly. I'd like to see him, Mrs. Graham, but you'll want to talk to your husband. May I wait in the other room?"
She let him go and he spent an anxious half-hour. He heard the doctor arrive and Mrs. Graham hurry about the house—getting water and bandages, he thought. Then there was silence for a while, until the doctor entered the room where he was sitting.
"His foot's in a very bad state," he reported. "There's some risk of mortification, though I think it can be averted. I'll be able to tell you more in a day or two."
"Do you know of any surgeon in Winnipeg or Toronto you would like to bring out?"
"There's a good man in Winnipeg, which is much nearer. On the whole, it might be advisable to get his opinion."
"Then wire for him," said Andrew, "and send for a trained nurse if one can be had."
The doctor left and Andrew rose as Mrs. Graham came in.
"I'm afraid you'll find it hard to forgive me," he said.
Mrs. Graham looked troubled.
"I must try to be fair. You are really not to blame; even if he hadn't met you, he would have gone to look for the lode some day. Then I'm confident you took every care of him. But, after all——"
"I know," Andrew sympathized. "He was well and strong when I took him away, and I have brought him back disabled. That can't be got over." He paused and resumed in a diffident tone: "I feel responsible. There are things I can't put right—your distress,the pain your husband suffers, his regret at being laid up helpless while his foot gets better—but I must insist on making what amends are in my power. I think you understand."
"Yes." Mrs. Graham gave him a grateful glance. "But we'll talk of that later." Then she smiled. "He sent you a message—you are to mail the specimens to an assayer the first thing."
"I'll do so," Andrew promised, turning toward the door. "I'll come back and see how he's getting on early to-morrow."
On reaching the hotel he sought Carnally.
"Jake," he said, "you might fix things with the packers; give them any bonus you think fit over regulation wages. Then, because we owe them more than we can pay in money, you had better get up a supper and dance they could bring their wives to."
"It's a good idea! They'll like that. I'll see about it to-morrow. I need a rest to-night, and there's a job I want to be fit for in the morning."
Andrew was too weary to ask him what it was and after sending a message to Frobisher and getting supper he went off to bed. Rising late the next day, he went to Graham's and then took a sleigh drive, and by doing so missed a scene which caused some sensation in the town.
About the middle of the morning Mappin was sitting in his office, which was situated above a store opposite the second-class hotel. The hotel was full, for some loggers had come in the previous night, and a number of railroad carpenters, whose work had been interfered with by a snowstorm, were staying there. Mappin had heard of Andrew's return and he was in a thoughtful mood, though he had so far avoided meeting withany of the party. He could not, however, continue to do so, and he felt that he might as well get the interview with Allinson over as soon as possible. Even if Allinson suspected treachery, he had no proof, and the worst charge he could make would be one of carelessness. On the whole, it had been a relief to see that the man had escaped: he had acted in the heat of passion when he cut off his supplies and had afterward experienced a twinge of remorse. Mappin felt that he was a match for the fellow, and he had gone a needless length in plotting to destroy him.
He was thinking over the matter when he heard some one ask for him in the store, through which it was necessary to pass to reach his office. Then there were footsteps on the stairs and he looked up in surprise as Carnally came in. It was Allinson he had expected to see.
Carnally was smartly dressed, and though his face was thin and worn it wore a look of satisfaction that puzzled Mappin.
"Where's your boss this morning?" Mappin inquired. "I've been waiting for him."
"At Graham's," said Carnally, sitting down. "I've come instead. Mr. Allinson's got into a habit of leaving matters to me. There are things I do better than he can. I'm not so fastidious as he is."
"Then let me know what you want."
"It's about those provisions you sent up. Mr. Allinson told you where to make the caches?"
"Yes; I carefully put it down."
"Got the paper or the notebook?"
"I can't say where the notebook is, but I believe I could find it."
Carnally smiled, as if he were enjoying the situation.
"If you produce the book, it will be because it doesn't agree with what Mr. Allinson says he told you; but that wouldn't prove much. You're capable of writing down what you meant to do and not what he said. If you're not able to find it, the reason is that you thought of the trick you played us after you saw him."
"Then you didn't find the provisions I sent as easily as you expected?"
"No; you know we didn't."
Mappin had plenty of courage.
"Well, what about it?" he asked with a little smile of scorn.
"I know the hand you're playing from; it's a pretty good one. Mr. Allinson believes he gave you orders to make the caches in certain places; you contend he told you somewhere else, and there was nobody about when you were talking to decide the thing. Somehow an unfortunate mistake was made."
"It looks like that," said Mappin, feeling uneasy at the man's ready acquiescence in the situation.
"Sure thing!" Carnally cheerfully assented. "You fixed it all so neatly that you left only one way of getting after you; but I won't grumble, because it's the one I like." He rose and his expression changed. "The mistake you meant to make came mighty near starving three men to death. Stand up and answer for it, you blasted hog!"
"So that's your line?"
Mappin did not move as he rapidly considered his course. Overbearing as he was, he did not often give way to anger unless his passions were strongly roused. A brawl with Carnally could lead to no useful result, and it would attract undesirable attention.
"You have hit it first time! Got feet, haven't you?You seem to want some stirring up!" Carnally reached for an inkwell and flung it across the office at Mappin's head. "Sorry I missed," he said. "But I've spoiled your clothes."
Mappin rose with a savage frown.
"Do you mean to go on with this fooling?"
"Sure!" replied Carnally. "If I can't wake you any other way, I'll fire your office fixings out of the window. Guess that will bring the boys around and I'll be glad to tell them what the trouble's about."
A heavy account-book, deftly thrown, swept Mappin's desk, scattering pens and papers across the room. Seeing that a struggle was unavoidable, he sprang forward. Caution had hitherto held him back, but his patience had its limits, and he was the heavier man. He missed Carnally with his first two blows, but the third took effect with sledge-hammer force, flinging him back upon the office-table, and during the next few minutes Carnally gasped and dodged. He saw that he must try to wear out his antagonist, and he watched his chance before he clinched. For a while they grappled in the middle of the floor, swaying, breaking ground with heavy feet, striking when they could; and then as Mappin freed himself the door was flung open and the storekeeper and several of his customers ran in.
"Hold on!" he cried. "What's the trouble? I thought you were coming through my ceiling!"
Carnally looked around, flushed and breathless.
"Stand back! This business has to be got through, with! It's pretty well known that the fellow's smart at stealing his boys' time, but he took on too big a contract when he played a low-down trick on me." He turned to Mappin. "Are you ready, you fat swine, or must I fire you down the stairs?"
"Leave them to it," advised a big logger with an appreciative grin. "I'll put a dollar on the bushman!"
"You're wrecking the place!" objected the storekeeper, indicating the dislodged stove, from which thick smoke was pouring, and a broken chair.
"That doesn't matter," Carnally replied. "Mappin can meet the bill. He seems a bit slow in moving: they've been too liberal with the corn."
One or two of the men laughed; but Mappin looked dangerous. The struggle that occupied the next few minutes was a determined and strenuous one, and the spectators watched it with frank delight. Mappin was powerful and could use his strength, but he had lived indulgently, a prey to his appetites. Carnally lived for the most part in the wilds, and hard toil and plain fare had toughened him. Moreover, as a matter of necessity, he frequently taxed his endurance to the limit, and this stood him in good stead now. He was quicker than his enemy, and recovered sooner; when they broke away from a grapple he was the fresher.
Mappin began to show distress. He panted hard, his face grew suffused, the perspiration dripped from him. His collar had burst open, and his torn sleeve hung loose about his arm; he looked strangely brutish and his eyes had a murderous expression. By comparison, Carnally seemed cool. His thin, brown face was quietly intent, resolute without passion; he fought cautiously, avoiding his antagonist's furious rushes, breaking away from an occasional grapple. Endurance was his strongest point, and he meant to tire his man. Mappin, guessing this, saw the advisability of bringing the struggle to a speedy conclusion. He clinched again, trying to throw his agile opponent by sheer force, and for a moment or two Carnally seemed helpless in hisgrasp. He could not get free and Mappin drove him backward across the narrow floor, while the spectators, who had increased in number, looked on in tense excitement.
In the West personal combat is hampered by few of the rules of the boxing ring; but there is a rough notion of fair play and there are limits which may not be exceeded. Thus when Carnally, driven hard against the edge of the table, seemed to grow limp, there was a shout of protest as Mappin, reaching out with free right arm, seized a heavy poker from the wood-box. He was ready to strike when Carnally, realizing his peril, rallied his strength for a decisive effort. The poker struck the table with a resounding crash. Carnally secured a firm hold before Mappin recovered his shaken balance, and lifted him from his feet. He lurched forward, while the spectators scattered, and reeling through the doorway plunged down the stairs.
Mappin was undermost. He struck the steps half-way down, but it did not stop them. They rolled into the store amid a confused outcry. None of those who watched could tell whether Mappin scrambled up or Carnally lifted him from the floor, but in a moment they were on their feet, Carnally driving the other toward the door. With a last effort he hurled him backward, and Mappin went down headlong into the snow.
He got up in a half-dazed manner and Carnally leaned against the doorpost, breathing hard and regarding him with a grim smile.
"You can do what you like about it, but if you're wise, you'll keep out of my sight," he said. "It won't hurt me to let people know what made the trouble."
Carnally turned back into the store and sat down ona barrel, hot, disheveled, and generally the worse for wear.
"It's a long while since I felt so good, boys," he grinned.
Mappin slunk away to his hotel, knowing that a grave misfortune had befallen him. He was a hard master and accustomed to get more than the full equivalent of their wages out of his men, but in this his overbearing manner had assisted his cunning. In logging camps and on new roads, courage and muscular strength command respect; but now that he had been ignominiously thrown out of the store before a derisive crowd, his prestige had gone. Henceforward there would be serious risk of his mutinous subordinates following Carnally's example.
The man, however, was far from a coward. It would be pleasanter to leave the town, where he was not held in much esteem, until the matter blew over, and he had work going on in other places; but he did not mean to run away from Allinson. The latter, of course, now understood that he had been tricked over the location of the food caches, and Mappin wondered what he would do. It was, however, obvious that there was no really effective course open to Allinson. Carnally had been shrewd enough to take the only possible means of obtaining redress, but his primitive methods were not likely to be adopted by his employer.
After removing the signs of battle, so far as he could, from his clothes and person, Mappin returned to his office and spent the day there, waiting for a visit from his rival. Allinson, however, did not come; it looked as though he meant to do nothing, and this caused Mappin some uneasiness. The man was cleverer and perhaps, more to be feared than he had thought.
Geraldine Frobisher, sitting by the hearth in her drawing-room, glanced compassionately at Andrew. He looked gaunt and very weary, and she noticed a significant slackness in his pose. There was no one else in the room; the lamps were lighted and a log fire diffused a pleasant glow and an aromatic odor.
"You are quiet to-night," she said.
Andrew looked up with a deprecatory smile.
"I fear I'm disgracefully dull; but I don't seem able to think of anything except that it's very pleasant to be here again."
"You consider that a good excuse?"
"I can't judge; I felt that I needed one. In fact, I don't know what is the matter with me since I came down-river."
Geraldine had some idea; a glance at the man supplied an explanation.
"You are worn out, for one thing," she answered sympathetically.
He mused for a few moments, and the girl was not displeased. From the first she had felt on curiously confidential terms with him. He was direct and sincere and, though by no means shallow, he seldom puzzled her.
"No," he said, "it's not altogether that. We had a rather bad time before the relief party arrived, but I felt up to my work—anxious, of course, but not troubledby the slackness that has since got hold of me. All this, however, isn't of much consequence. I'm very grateful to you and your father for sending help—we were in a very tight place when it came. But I don't understand how you knew we needed it."
Geraldine looked down, to hide her confusion.
"I wonder why you associate me with my father?"
"I can't tell you clearly, but I feel that you had something to do with the matter. Indeed, it made the relief more welcome. But you haven't given me an explanation."
"Do you understand why you failed to find the food?"
"Yes," said Andrew grimly. "I've a suspicion that you know as much about it as I do, though it's hard to see how you came by the knowledge."
Geraldine looked up with a forced smile. He must not guess how she had led Mappin to betray himself.
"It is rather astonishing, isn't it? The search gave you trouble, and you have some respect for your thinking powers."
"I've more respect for Carnally's; he found the clue. But he was on the spot."
"And I was handicapped by being at home? Do you know I sometimes think I'm not altogether stupid?"
"You're exceptionally clever," said Andrew warmly. "You have a gift for seizing on the truth and sticking to it. I think it's because the truth is in you that you recognize it. That's different from smartness."
She checked him with a gesture of mocking rebuke.
"You should have learned that I don't expect you to pay me labored compliments."
"It wasn't labored; I believe it was a flash of insight," Andrew declared. He glanced at her face and laughed, looking baffled.
There was silence for the next few moments. Geraldine knew what the man thought of her, but she approved of the respectful diffidence he generally displayed. Now that he was safe, she preferred that they remain on a purely friendly footing for a time; he was hers, but she shrank with a fluttering timidity from an open surrender. It was not difficult to repulse him gently when he grew too bold. Nevertheless his wan and downcast appearance roused a deep and tender pity. She longed to hear his troubles and comfort him.
"You suddenly changed the subject we began," she said. "Were you not going to tell me why you feel depressed?"
"Something of the kind," replied Andrew. "It didn't seem a very happy topic."
"That was a mistake," declared Geraldine reproachfully. "You shouldn't have doubted my interest, and it lightens one's troubles to confide in a friend."
Andrew, in his dejected mood, felt a longing for sympathy and encouragement.
"Well," he said, "failure is hard to bear, and I've a strong suspicion that I've undertaken more than I'm able to carry out. So far, I've made a deplorable mess of things. We reached the neighborhood of the lode with no time to search the ground, and, for all the results we got, we might as well have stayed at home."
"But it's something to have proved that the lode exists."
"I'm not sure it's worth proving. The value of the ore is the most important point, because a mine could not be worked up there unless it was very rich. Then there's a risk of Graham's being lamed for life. Mappin has beaten us badly at the beginning of the fight."
"It's only a small reverse. You would not use the means he employed. They were infamous!"
"The trouble is that other opponents I shall have to meet may use similar methods, and unless I do the same, I'll be further handicapped. As it happens, I'm carrying weight enough already."
Geraldine looked thoughtful.
"In a way, you're right. I've learned something about the situation."
"If we had proved the lode to be rich, I should have had something to fall back on; but I've failed. Now I must attack strong vested interests, with the whole influence of my conservative relatives against me. My chief antagonist enjoys a high prestige, and has made an excellent profit on the money handed him." Andrew laughed in a rueful manner. "And I'm the fool of the family, who has lately taken to upsetting a very satisfactory state of affairs. Can you imagine the surprise and disgust of everybody concerned?"
"But your people are upright, aren't they?"
"Oh, yes; there's no doubt of that. But, with one or two unimportant exceptions, they're conventional and prejudiced. They believe in what they see; the prosperity of Allinson's, the dividends coming in. They distrust anything that seems out of the usual course, and they couldn't bring themselves to think there should be anything wrong with the firm. I, whom they good-naturedly look down on, have to convince them to the contrary."
"It will be hard; one can understand that. But the feeling of helplessness that troubles you now will pass. You must remember that you have borne enough to exhaust you."
"My body's tired," Andrew admitted. "One can getover that. The real difficulty is that my mind feels sick."
"Is there no connection between the two?" Geraldine smiled at him. "You make me think it's the first time you have had any serious difficulties."
"That's true. It looks as if there were some benefit in being dull. You're saved a good deal of trouble if you don't notice things."
"I didn't mean that," Geraldine objected. "You're not really dull, you know."
"Then I'm something like it. But you don't think I've been foolish in starting on this campaign?"
"No!" said Geraldine promptly. "I think you are doing what is fine! You must go on; I want you to win. The difficulties won't look so serious if you attack them one by one, and it must be worth something to have the right on your side. There is so much injustice everywhere and few people seem to mind. No doubt it's dangerous to interfere, but it's encouraging to find a man here and there who is not afraid."
She looked up at a sound and saw her father standing in the doorway.
"One here and there?" smiled Frobisher. "You're not exacting. In France, they once asked for a hundred men who knew how to die, and found them in one southern town."
Geraldine's color was higher than usual, but she laughed.
"I suppose I am a bit of a sentimentalist; but you're too cynical. I don't see why you should be proud of your detached and critical attitude. You look on as if the sight of people struggling amused you."
"I don't think I really am proud of it, but perhaps there's something to be said for the intelligent spectator who knows his limitations and is content with tryingto see fair play. However, I came to take Allinson away for a smoke. If I leave him to you, you'll be sending him off on some new chivalrous adventure."
Seeing that his host was waiting for him, Andrew rose, but as he reached the door Geraldine looked at him with a smile.
"What I said was rather crude, but I meant it."
"She generally does mean things; it's a habit that has its drawbacks," Frobisher said, as he led Andrew to his smoking-room, where he gave him a cigar and pointed to an easy-chair.
"What are you going to do about Mappin?" the American asked bluntly.
"Nothing. As he has only to deny what I told him to clear himself, there's no means of punishing him. I can't see any use in making a fuss that can have no result. It would simply show I was the weaker party."
"You're wise," Frobisher agreed. Then his eyes twinkled. "Carnally, however, seems to have seen a way out of the difficulty. You haven't heard what happened at the settlement?"
"No; I hired a sleigh and went for a drive. After that I slept until I came here. I tried to keep out of people's way."
"You missed a dramatic scene at the store. I'm told Carnally threw Mappin downstairs and out into the snow."
Andrew shook his head dubiously.
"It's a pity, but I might have been prepared for something of the kind. I can hardly grudge him any satisfaction he derived from it."
"It was a good stroke; Mappin will find it damaging."
"But I understood he was a friend of yours," Andrew said with some awkwardness.
"He came to my house. I put up with him, which I think describes it best, though I fail to see much reason for doing so any longer. But what are you going to do about the lode?"
"Go back and investigate it thoroughly. We'll wait until the spring."
"Then you mean to proceed with your scheme? I see trouble, but I mustn't discourage you. Now I guess the situation warrants some candor. Has it struck you that Mappin is working hand in hand with your brother-in-law?"
"I'm afraid it's true." Andrew's face was grave. "You can see how it complicates things."
"But you mean to go on?"
"I must," said Andrew simply.
Frobisher leaned forward and touched his arm.
"You have grit, Allinson. It will be a tough fight, but I feel that you'll make good."
He changed the subject abruptly, and they talked of other matters until they went back to the drawing-room. Some time afterward there was a knock at the door, and Geraldine, opening it, held out a telegram to Andrew.
"It's from the assayer; I left word at the settlement for the message to be sent on," he explained. "You will excuse my opening it?"
"Of course," said Geraldine. "May it bring you good news!"
Andrew tore open the envelope, and there was an exultant tone in his voice as he read out:
"Specimens unpromising."
Frobisher and Geraldine looked puzzled.
"But you seem satisfied," the girl said.
"I am. I asked the man to let me have his generalopinion as soon as he could; he's to send a regular analysis later. He has been quick, but perhaps he has some rough preliminary test."
"But he tells you they're unpromising!"
"I'm beginning to think Mr. Allinson is a bit of a genius," Frobisher observed. "No doubt he'll explain his mysterious proceedings."
"I gave the man a three-word code, reversing the meaning, and his answer puts the quality of the ore, so to speak, in the comparative degree. It shows that we have struck the edge of the lode, and careful prospecting should give us better results."
He broke off, standing still, the message in his hand and a look of marked relief in his face, and Frobisher turned to his daughter.
"It was a maxim of Napoleon's that one should use every means of misleading the enemy, and Mr. Allinson seems to know that telegrams are handled rather casually in these small places. A mineral claim doesn't belong to its discoverer until it's duly staked off and recorded; and if all the formalities are not complied with it can be jumped."
He was called away a few minutes later, and Andrew took his place by the hearth with Geraldine sitting opposite him.
"I'm very glad you got such good news," she said, with a curious softness in her voice.
"Thank you. It was you who brought it to me; but that wasn't all you did. I came here dejected, and now I'm cheerful again."
"But that isn't surprising, after the message."
"It wasn't the message. I was bracing up before it came; you and your father made me feel that I needn't despair. In fact, I was getting ashamed ofbeing downcast, after the confidence you seemed to have in me."
Geraldine smiled at him.
"Ah!" she said. "It must need a good deal of courage to lead a forlorn hope, and one could imagine that your undertaking looked like that. It must be much pleasanter to feel that you have some chance of winning. But what will you do next?"
"Go home, I think. I want to see how I stand there."
"For long?" Geraldine asked quietly.
"No; for a month or so. I shall be eager to get back." Andrew paused and asked with a hint of tension in his voice: "Will I be missed?"
"Of course!" Geraldine looked up with friendly candor. "But will you be able to make the double journey and do all that's needful in a few weeks?"
Andrew felt gently rebuffed. Geraldine had a way of checking him when he tried to draw closer to her, and her unembarrassed frankness was deterring.
"I'll try," he said doggedly.
Frobisher came in then, and they chatted about various matters until Andrew took his leave. When he reached his hotel he wrote a letter home, announcing his return, and the next morning he had a long talk with Carnally, whom he empowered to act as his deputy while he was in England. Then he went to Graham's and found the Winnipeg surgeon leaving. His report was favorable: Graham's foot could be saved, though it would be some time before he recovered the use of it.
Andrew was shown into a room where his comrade lay on a couch.
"I've heard the news and I'm very glad," he said. "I was troubled about you."
"You couldn't hide it." Graham smiled at him. "It wasn't your fault I got frost-bitten, anyway. But have you heard about the specimens?"
"Yes; the first report's encouraging. Of course, I haven't learned the full results yet."
Graham's eyes glistened, and he moved into a comfortable pose with a look of deep content.
"That's good. Now I must try to get about again as soon as possible."
"There's no hurry. As you know, you needn't go back to the mill until you're able. Then as Carnally and I know where the lode is, it isn't strictly necessary that you should come with us."
"Isn't it! I've been thinking about that lode for twenty years, and do you suppose I could let another man locate it? Besides, we must stake three claims on the best frontage."
"That would be better; but what about Mrs. Graham? Haven't you given her enough anxiety?"
Graham looked disturbed.
"I can't predict what line she'll take, but I venture to believe she'll let me go, knowing I'll be satisfied for good when I have finished my work."
Andrew told him about his trip home and the arrangements he had made with Carnally, and left soon afterward. During the next week he came in daily and spent two evenings with the Frobishers, and then he left the Landing early one morning by the Montreal express.
The Atlantic passage was short and uneventful, and late one afternoon he alighted from a local train at a wayside station among the English hills. Wannop and Hilda were waiting on the platform, and after the first greetings were over, the girl regarded her brother critically.
"Andrew," she exclaimed, "you haven't come back the same! How did you get those lines on your forehead?"
"Are there some?" Andrew asked with a smile. "I suppose I was anxious now and then. Not knowing whether you'll get enough to eat makes one think."
Hilda shook her head.
"No; that's not it. My dear boy, you have beendevelopingsince you went to Canada."
"If you're right," laughed Andrew, "it was getting time I did; but you're standing in the way of the baggage truck."
They moved on, and when they drove off in Wannop's trap Andrew sat silent for a while, looking about delightedly. It was open weather; by comparison with the Canadian cold, the air was soft and mild. A gray sky hung above the hills, but there was a glimmer of pale red and saffron low in the west, and the rugged slopes, clothed with withered fern, shone a rich, warm brown. Then they dipped into a valley which struck Andrew, accustomed to the monotonous snow-glare, as wonderfully green. The shining riband of a river wound through its midst; clover growing among the stubble and broad strips of raw-red soil where sheep, netted in, stood about the turnip-cutters, checkered the pasture land. They passed climbing woods where the leafless branches formed blurs of blue and gray; and here and there a white thread of foaming water streaked the heights above.
It was a countryside that Andrew loved, but now, while softly beautiful, it looked strangely small—a narrow green strip, shut in by lofty moors. Then there were many tall hedgerows and big stone walls; one could not wander there at will. The wide horizons andthe limitless stretch of trackless woods were missing. It was curious, Andrew thought, with what content he had once searched stubble and turnips for partridges, and stood with gun ready outside the woods from which the pheasants broke on clattering wings. Now all that seemed tame; he had lost his zest for it in a sterner chase.
Hilda broke in upon his reflections.
"You haven't spared me much attention yet," she said. "How do you think I'm looking?"
"Now that I think of it, you're growing rather pretty; though that is what I expected."
"I'm aware of it." Hilda made him the best curtsey that space allowed. "But don't you notice that I'm looking more mature and intellectual?"
"Steady!" Wannop cautioned. "You nearly knocked the whip out of my hand. Keep that kind of thing for the ballroom—it's wasted on your brother."
"The maturity didn't strike me; but you used to show signs of intelligence now and then," Andrew answered.
"Perhaps it's better to be pretty. Cleverness is open to any one who is willing to study. But did you see any girl as nice-looking as I am while you were in Canada?"
"Even at the risk of giving offense, I can think of one—though of course beauty is largely a matter of taste."
"Ah!" exclaimed Hilda delightedly. "I had my suspicions! I suppose you mean the girl who wrote to Ethel about you?"
Andrew started and Wannop laughed.
"I knew she was up to something. That is what she has been leading you on to."
"How did you hear about her?" Andrew asked. "Did Ethel tell you?"
"As a matter of fact, she wasn't very communicative, but I elicited a few scraps of information. It's surprising how one can follow up a clue."
"I suppose so," said Andrew. "Whether it leads you right or not is another matter. I'm thankful I haven't your fervid imagination."
"How he puts it off!" Hilda said to Wannop. "He's been learning diplomacy in Canada."
Wannop chuckled.
"I always knew he wasn't a fool. But I wish you would keep still. The horse is fresh and this is a steep bit of road."
Hilda changed the subject, for she had learned enough from her brother's start to give her food for thought.
"Leonard will be down to-morrow with Florence," Wannop said when they approached the house. "I suppose you'll have something to tell us. I needn't remind you that if there's any difficulty you can count on me."
Andrew gave him a grateful nod, and a few minutes later they drove up to Ghyllside.
The day after Andrew's return he was sitting in the library at Ghyllside, waiting for dinner. Though a fire burned on the hearth by which he lounged, cigarette in hand, two of the tall windows were open and the air that flowed in was soft and muggy. He had spent most of the day in shooting, and after a long walk across wet meadows and a boggy moor he now felt very comfortable and somewhat drowsy. He would have to bestir himself when the guests he expected arrived, and he was enjoying a few minutes' rest. His cigarette was, however, only half smoked when Wannop walked in.
"As I didn't see you downstairs I came up to look for you; Gertrude's with Hilda. Haven't Florence and Leonard arrived yet?"
"Train seems to be late," Andrew replied. "I suppose I should have gone to meet them, but I felt lazy."
"Was that all?"
"It wasn't my only reason. To tell the truth, I shirked the drive home with Leonard. I'm a poor dissembler and our relations are rather strained. It will be easier to meet him when there are others about."
"They'll be on his side."
"I expect so; but I'm not afraid of direct opposition. It's beating about a delicate subject and trying to keep on safe ground that bothers me."
"I know; it's embarrassing. You won't be able to broach matters of any importance to-night."
"No. We'll have one or two outside people here and I want my homecoming to be harmonious. We'll let things stand over till to-morrow."
"Feeling nervous about it?" Wannop suggested with a grin.
"I'll confess that I do. It's the preliminary tussle, and I haven't many backers."
"You needn't be downhearted. I don't know that your people are remarkably broad-minded, but they're straight—I'll say that even for Robert. They'll come round if they think you're right. But don't be apologetic; take a firm tone. Manner goes a long way and, after all, you are the head of Allinson's."
"The trouble is that I've allowed Leonard to usurp my place and he'll be hard to depose."
Andrew rose, for there were voices and footsteps below, and they went down to meet the arriving guests. The hall was large and square, with seats in recesses and one or two small tables and comfortable chairs scattered about. Mrs. Fenwood had come with Robert Allinson, who shook hands with Andrew heartily, though there was a hint of constraint in his manner afterward. He was not quite satisfied with Andrew's conduct before leaving England, and could not forget that his interference in the matter of Mrs. Olcott's house had been thwarted. He regarded Wannop, who was saying something humorous to Mrs. Fenwood, with a suspicious eye.
Then there was a rattle of wheels outside and Florence Hathersage came in with Leonard. He expressed his pleasure at Andrew's safe return and after a few friendly words hurried off to his room. When he came downagain three more guests arrived, and Andrew went eagerly to meet them. Ethel Hillyard and Mrs. Olcott were foremost, and after welcoming them Andrew turned toward a man with a lined, brown face, bearing the stamp of the soldier. It was with marked cordiality that they shook hands.
"It's good to see you, Tom," Andrew said. "I heard you had just got home, and though it's an unhealthy country, you're looking very fit."
"A little fever now and then, though I escaped fairly well," rejoined the other with a friendly smile. "I have a good deal to say to you when we get a chance." He lowered his voice as he added: "I'm deeply grateful."
The meeting had a dramatic interest to the onlookers. Every eye had been fixed on the stranger. As he had come with Mrs. Olcott his identity was obvious; and the good-will both men had shown had its significance. Then Andrew led the Olcotts forward and presented them to the elderly unmarried relative who managed his household and looked after Hilda. Mrs. Olcott's color was slightly heightened, though she smiled, for she understood the interest she had aroused and this was her triumph. She had produced the husband whose absence had excited comment and whose existence some had ventured to doubt. Moreover, he was a man to be proud of, and nobody who had witnessed their meeting could doubt that he was Andrew's trusted friend. Robert Allinson looked at him earnestly and then turned to Leonard with a frown. He was narrow and censorious, but he was just, and he felt that he had been mistaken, or perhaps misled.
They went in to dinner and Andrew sat at the head of his table, saying enough to keep conversation going, but content to give Leonard the lead. Consideringhow he stood toward his host, Hathersage showed admirable tact. He skilfully turned every topic which might prove difficult and kept the others on safe ground; he was witty in a polished manner, but if anything a little too obviously at ease. For the first time it struck one or two of the party with surprise that there was something in Andrew's bearing which his more brilliant brother-in-law lacked. The soldier from tropical Africa bore the same elusive stamp of command, sincerity and steadfastness. Ethel Hillyard, studying them carefully, decided that Leonard was, by comparison, cheap and superficial.
Still, it was largely due to his efforts that dinner was a pleasant function without an awkward pause in it; and afterward the guests dispersed through several rooms to amuse themselves. When Andrew found a place by Ethel Hillyard in a recess in the hall, she surveyed him with smiling scrutiny.
"I think you did well in going to Canada," she said. "Though I can't quite express what I mean, you look bigger."
"As a matter of fact, I'm a good deal lighter."
Ethel laughed.
"Oh, well, I don't want to make you embarrassed! I believe you had a trying time. Looking after the silver mine didn't prove as easy as you expected?"
"I don't remember what I expected, but I found it very difficult."
"So I gathered. Antony Wannop seems to think the reforms you have in view won't be popular. I suppose you have been summoned home to explain?"
"No," said Andrew; "I came. There's a difference."
"It's marked," Ethel answered. "But we are oldfriends, Andrew; follow your own bent, stick to your guns. Whatever plans you have determined on will be fair. Once before I told you not to be daunted; but it strikes me that you need less encouragement now."
"Thank you," said Andrew. "I'm sorry I can't tell you much about the matter. You see——"
"It's a family affair, and after all I have my ideas. But you made some new friends by the Lake of Shadows, didn't you?"
"Yes; staunch ones. They showed their friendship in a very practical way. That's something I owe to you; I suspect that you have been prejudicing them in my favor."
"Then you have a good opinion of Geraldine?"
Andrew colored as he met her inquiring glance.
"Yes," he said simply, "the highest I'm capable of forming."
Ethel smiled rather curiously. Two or three years earlier she had contemplated the possibility of Andrew's seeking her for his wife, but her feelings had not been deeply stirred, and when she saw that she had taken too much for granted she quietly submitted and retained a very friendly interest in him. Now, however, there was something grimly amusing in the thought that she had given him to Geraldine.
"Well," she said, "I'm sure she merits it. But to speak of something else, I'm glad you asked the Olcotts here."
"That's another matter in which I'm indebted to you. What do you think of Olcott? He sat next to you."
"A delightful man." Ethel, who was direct and fearless, looked up at her companion. "No one coulddoubt Mrs. Olcott's devotion to him, and I think it's warranted." Then she rose. "You must have a good deal to say to the others and I mustn't monopolize you."
Andrew went to the smoking-room, which proved to be unoccupied, but as he was leaving it Olcott came in.
"I stole away and followed you," he said. "Sit down a minute and light up."
"Cigars in that drawer," said Andrew, lighting a cigarette. "Drinks in the cupboard below."
Olcott took out two glasses and filled them.
"It's your house, but I feel at home."
"So you ought!"
Olcott raised his glass.
"Here's to you, old friend, and may you get with full measure, as you give! I can't wish you anything better." He put down his glass and continued: "And now we'll proceed to business. As soon as I'd had a talk with Clare I paid a check into your bank."
"Sure it's convenient?"
"Quite: I had my duties increased and, what was much less usual, a corresponding increase of pay. I'd rather have come over when you were alone, and I only got home yesterday, but Clare insisted on my appearing to-night. Can you guess the reason?"
"Yes." Andrew flushed but looked at his friend with steady eyes. "I got very savage about the matter, and wondered whether I'd been in any way to blame. Still, you left things pretty mixed when you went away—your wife needed somebody to straighten them out, and I'm not a tactful person."
"I'd only a day or two's notice, and there wasn't time to arrange matters properly. But it's hard to imagine that people who knew you could be such credulous fools. I mustn't say anything stronger of your relatives."
"I don't think being my relatives makes them any brighter," Andrew replied with a grin. "My father was the last genius in the family; talent often skips a generation. But we'll let the matter drop."
"If you find gratitude hard to put up with. It seems that your sister Hilda has told Clare something about your adventures. You had some rough experiences in Canada?"
"One or two. I shouldn't imagine they were uncommon in West Africa."
"You're right," returned Olcott grimly. "We must have a long talk; but here's the clergyman coming in search of you and he looks as if he had something important to say."
He withdrew and Robert Allinson sat down with a confused but resolute air.
"Andrew," he said, "I have come to express my regret at having wronged you by suspicions which I am now ashamed of."
"After all, perhaps you had some excuse. I wasn't as careful as I should have been; but I'm getting tired of the subject."
"It's painful, but I must go on. I knew what a mistake I had made as soon as I saw Olcott come in; but you don't understand yet how far my suspicions led me. I felt it my duty to see Judson about Mrs. Olcott's lease."
"Ah! You mean you put the screw on him? I'm glad your plot seems to have failed."
"So am I," said Robert. "I'll confess that I was disappointed at first and suspected Wannop of interfering. As you know, he's lax in his views."
"It's unfortunate the laxity you complain of isn't more common." Andrew broke into a smile. "Nodoubt Wannop was too clever for you; but I don't bear you any grudge. I believe you meant well, and good intentions seem to excuse a good deal of harshness."
"I did what I thought was my duty," Robert said with dignity, and moved away.
Shortly afterward Andrew entered the drawing-room, where he was surprised to see Robert talking to Mrs. Olcott. The clergyman looked unusually solemn and Mrs. Olcott's expression was resigned. Hilda, joining her brother, glanced toward the other two.
"Isn't he amusing?" she said with a soft laugh. "He's doing penance and feeling as awkward as he deserves. No doubt Mrs. Olcott feels horribly bored."