In Golden Crescent Bay things moved quietly, almost drowsily. There were the routine of hurried work and the long spells of comparative idleness.
As for the people over the way, I saw little of them outside of business.
I had not spoken to Mary Grant since the peremptory dismissal I had received from her during her recovery from the drowning accident.
I had not acknowledged her note by a visit, as probably I should have done; but, then,—how was I to know but that the note had been sent merely as a matter of form and common courtesy? She had no reason to think me other than what I showed myself to be,—an ordinary store-clerk; and this being so she might have considered it presumptuous had I endeavoured in any way to avail myself of the advantage I had secured in being of service to her, for, despite her endeavours, she could not disguise from me,—who was in a position to judge in a moment,—that her upbringing and her education had been such as only the richest could afford and only the best families in America and Europe could command. Yet she had a dash and wayward individualism that were all her own;—savouring of the prairies and the wilder life of the West.
To me, she was still an enigma.
Mrs. Malmsbury had been making all the purchases at the store; and, naturally, conversation with her was of a strictly business order. She seldom had a word to say that was not absolutely necessary, because, from long experience, she had gathered wisdom and knew that talking begot answering and questioning, and when these answers and questions were unheard conversation was apt to become a monologue.
She had no information to impart, no reminiscences to recount, no pet theories to voice on evolution or female suffrage, no confessions or professions to make, no prophecies to advance even regarding the weather.
As for Mary Grant,—she was seldom idle. I had seen her make her own clothes, I had seen her over the washtub with her sleeves rolled up to her fair, white shoulders, I had seen her bake and houseclean; sharing the daily duties with her elderly companion.
Yet she enjoyed to the full the delights that Golden Crescent afforded. In her spare time, she rowed on the water, bathed, roved the forests behind for wild flowers and game, read in her hammock and revelled in her music.
And she was not the only one who revelled in that glorious music, for, unknown to her, Jake and I listened with delight to her uplifting entertainment; I from the confines of my front veranda and Jake, night after night, from his favourite position on the cliffs.
He confessed to me that it was a wonderful set-off to the cravings that often beset him for the liquor which he was still fighting so nobly and victoriously.
Poor old Jake! More than once I had almost been tempted to coax him to go back to his nightly libations, for, since he had begun his fight for abstinence, he seemed to be gradually going down the hill; losing weight, losing strength, losing interest in his daily pursuits, and, with it all, ageing.
The minister had noticed the change and had expressed his concern. Rita also had talked of it to me; and her visits to the old man had become more frequent, her little attentions had grown in number and her solicitude for his bodily comfort had become almost motherly.
Rita always could manipulate Jake round her little finger. He was clay in her hands, and obeyed her even to the putting of a stocking full of hot salt round his neck one night he had a hoarseness in his throat.
"If she ever insists on me puttin' my feet in hot-water and mustard," he confessed to me once, "God knows how I shall muster up the courage to refuse."
I had sent to Vancouver for the grammar-book with which I intended starting Rita's tuition, but it had only arrived,—its coming having been delayed on account of the book-sellers not having it in stock and having to fill my requirement from the East,—but I had promised Rita, much to her pleasure, that we should start in in earnest the following evening.
I had been reading in my hammock until the daylight had failed me. And now I was lying, resting and hoping that any moment Miss Grant would commence her nightly musicale.
Jake, and his dog Mike, I presumed, were already in their accustomed places, Jake smoking his pipe and Mike biting at mosquitoes and other pestiferous insects which lodged and boarded about his warm, hairy person.
The cottage door opened and our fair entertainer stepped out.
She came across the rustic bridge and made straight for my place, humming softly to herself as she sauntered along. She was hatless as usual and her hair was done up in great, wavy coils on her well-poised head. Her hands were jammed deep into the pockets of her pale-green, silk sweater-coat. She impressed me then as being at peace with the world and perfectly at ease; much more at ease than I was, for I was puzzling myself as to what her wish with me could be, unless it were regarding some groceries that she might have overlooked during the day.
She smiled as she came forward.
I rose from the hammock.
"Now, don't let me disturb you," she said. "Lie where you are.
"I shall do splendidly right here."
She sat down on the top step of the veranda and turned half round to me.
"Do you ever feel lonely, Mr. Bremner?"
"Yes!—sometimes," I answered.
"What do you do with yourself on such occasions?"
"Oh!—smoke and read chiefly."
"But,—do you ever feel as if you had to speak to a member of the opposite sex near your own age,—or die?"
She was quite solemn about this, and seemed to wait anxiously as if the whole world's welfare depended on my answer.
"Sometimes!" I replied again, with a laugh.
"What do you do then?"
"I lie down and try to die."
"—and find you can't," she put in.
"Yes!"
"Just the same as I do. Well!—" she sighed, "I have explored all the beauties of Golden Crescent; I have fished—and caught nothing. I have hunted,—and shot nothing. I have read,—and learned nothing, or next to it, until I have nothing left to read. So now,—I have come over to you. I want to be friends."
"Are we not friends already?" I asked, sitting on the side of my hammock and filling my vision with the charming picture she presented.
She sighed and raised her eyebrows.
"Oh!—I don't know. You never let me know that you had forgiven me for my rudeness to you."
"There was nothing to forgive, Miss Grant."
"No! How kind of you to say so! And you are not angry with me any more?"
"Not a bit," I answered, wondering at the change which had come over this pretty but elusive young lady.
"Well, Mr. Bremner,—I see you reading very often. I came across to inquire if you could favour me with something in the book line to wile away an hour or so."
"With pleasure," I answered.
"Mr. Horsfal, my employer, has a well-stocked little library here and you are very welcome to read anything in it you may fancy. Will you come inside?"
She looked up shyly, then her curiosity got the mastery.
"Why, yes!" she cried, jumping up. "I shall be delighted."
I led the way into the front room, fixing the lamp and causing a flood of mellow light to suffuse the darkness in there. I went over and threw aside the curtains that hid the book-shelves.
"You have a lovely place here," she exclaimed, looking round in admiration. "I had no idea ... no idea——"
"—That a bachelor could make himself so comfortable," I put in.
"Exactly! Do you mind if I take a peek around?" she asked, laughing.
"Not a bit!"
She "peeked around" and satisfied her curiosity to the full.
"I am convinced," she said at last, "that in all this domestic artistry there is the touch of a feminine hand. Who was, or who is,—the lady?"
"I understand Mrs. Horsfal furnished and arranged this home. She lived here every summer before she died. That made it very easy for me. All I had to do was to keep everything in its place as she had left it."
Miss Grant was enraptured with the library. I thought she would never finish scanning the titles and the authors.
"This is a positive book-wormery," she exclaimed.
She chose a volume which revealed her very masculine taste in literature, although, after all, it did not astonish me greatly but merely confirmed what I already had known to be so;—that, while boys and men scorn to read girls' and women's books, yet girls and women seem to prefer the books that are written more especially for boys and men and the more those books revel and riot in sword play, impossible adventure and intrigue, the more they like them.
"Might I ask if you would be so good as to return my visit?" said my visitor at last. "You saved my life, you know, and you have some right to take a small friendly interest in me.
"If you could spare the time, I should be pleased to have you over for tea to-morrow evening and to spend a sociable hour with us afterwards;—that is, if you care for tea, sociability and—music."
I looked across at her,—so straight, so ladylike, so beautiful; almost as tall as I and so full of bubbling mischief and virile charm.
"I am a veritable drunkard with tea, and as for music—ask Jake, out there sitting on the cliffs in the darkness, if I like music. He knows. Ask me, as I lie in my hammock here, night after night, waiting for you to begin,—if Jake likes music, and the answer will satisfy you just how much both of us appreciate it.
"But, I am very sorry I shall be unable to avail myself of your kind invitation to come to-morrow evening."
My new friend could not disguise her surprise. I almost fancied I traced a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks.
"No!" was all she said, and she said it ever so quietly.
"I have a pupil coming to-morrow evening for her first real lesson in English Grammar. She has waited long for it. The book I desired to start her in with has only arrived. She would be terribly disappointed if I were now to postpone that lesson."
"Your pupil is a lady?"
"Yes!—a sweet little girl called Rita Clark, who lives at the ranch at the other side of the Crescent. She comes here often. You must have noticed her."
"What!—that pretty, olive-skinned girl, with the dark hair and dark eyes?
"Yes! I have noticed her and I have never since ceased to envy her complexion and her woodland beauty. I would give all I have to look as she does.
"You are most fortunate in your choice of a pupil?"
"Yes! Rita is a good-hearted little girl," I lauded unthinkingly.
"I spoke to her once out on the Island," said Miss Grant, "but she seemed shy. She looked me over from head to heel, then ran off without a word.
"Well,—Mr. Bremner, days and evenings are much alike to some of us in Golden Crescent. Shall we say Wednesday evening?"
"I shall be more than pleased, Miss Grant," I exclaimed, betraying the boyish eagerness I felt, "if——?"
"If?" she inquired.
"If you will return the compliment by allowing me to take you out some evening in the boat to the end of Rita's Isle there, where the sea trout are,—or away out to the passage by The Ghoul where the salmon are now running. I have seen you fishing very often and with the patience of Job, yet not once have I seen you bring home a fish. Now, Rita Clark can bring in twenty or thirty trout in less than an hour, any time she has a fancy to.
"I should like to break your bad luck, for I think the trouble can only be with the tackle you use."
Mary Grant's brown eyes danced with pleasure, and in the lamplight, I noticed for the first time, how very fair her skin was,—cream and pink roses,—tanned slightly where the sun had got at it, but without a blemish, without even a freckle, and this despite the fact that she seldom took any precautions against the depredations of Old Sol.
"I shall be glad indeed. You are very kind; for what you propose will be a treat of treats, especially if we catch some fish."
She held out her hand to me. Mine touched hers and a thrill ran and sang through my fingers, through my body to my brain; the thrill of a strange sensation I had never before experienced. I gazed at her without speaking.
She raised her eyes and mine held hers for the briefest of moments.
To me it seemed as if a world of doubt and uncertainty were being swept away and I were looking into eyes I had known through all the ages.
Then her golden lashes dropped and hid those wonderful eyes from me.
Impulsively, yet fully knowing what I did, I raised her hand and touched the back of her fingers with my lips.
She did not draw her hand away. She smiled across to me ever so sweetly and turned from me into the darkness.
Not for an hour did I wake from my reveries. The spell of new influences was upon me; the moon, climbing up among the scudding night-clouds, never seemed so bright before and the phosphorescent glow and silver streaks on the water never so beautiful.
A light travelled across the parlour over the way. I saw Miss Grant seat herself by the piano, and soon the whole air became charged with the softest, sweetest cadences,—elusive, faint and fairylike.
How I enjoyed them! How old Jake on the cliffs must have enjoyed them! What an artist the lady was, and how she excelled herself that evening!
I lay in a transport of pleasure, hoping that the music might never cease; but, alas for such vain hoping,—it whispered and died away, leaving behind it only the stillness of the night, the sighing of the wind in the tops of the tall creaking firs, the chirping of the crickets under the stones and the call of the night bird to her mate.
I raised my eyes across to the cottage.
In the lamplight, I could discern the figure of the musician. She was seated on the piano stool, with her hands clasped in front of her and gazing out through the window into the darkness of the night.
Surely it was a night when hypnotising influences were at work with all of us, for I had not yet seen Jake return; he was evidently still somewhere out on the cliffs communing with the spirits that were in the air.
Suddenly I observed a movement in the room over the way.
Miss Grant had roused herself from her dreaming. She raised her hand and put the fingers I had kissed to her own lips. Then she kissed both her hands to the outside world. She lowered the light of the lamp until only the faintest glow was visible.
She ran her fingers over the piano keys in a ripple of simple harmonies. Sweet and clear came her voice in singing. I caught the lilt of the music and I caught the words of the song:—
A maid there was in the North Coun-tree,A shy lit-tle, sweet lit-tle maid was she.She wished and she sighed for she knew-not-who,So long as he loved her ten-der-lee;And day by day as the long-ing grow,Her spin-ning-wheel whirred and the threads wove through.It whirred, It whirred, It whirred and the threads wove through.
Song fragment
Song fragment
A maid there was in the North Countree;A gay little, blythe little maid was she.Her dream of a gallant knight came true.He wooed her long and so tenderlee.And, day by day, as their fond love grew,Her spinning wheel stood with its threads askew;It stood.—It stood.—It stood with its threads askew.
A maid there was in the North Countree;A sad little, lone little maid was she.Her knight seemed fickle and all untrueAs he rode to war at the drummer's dree.And, day by day, as her sorrow grew,Her spinning wheel groaned and the threads wove through.It groaned.—It groaned.—It groaned and the threads wove through.
A maid there is in the North Countree;A coy little, glad little maid is she.Her cheeks are aglow with a rosy hue,For her knight proved true, as good knights should be.And, day by day, as their vows renew,Her spinning wheel purrs and the threads weave through;It purrs.—It purrs.—It purrs and the threads weave through.
Why she had not sung before, I could not understand, for a voice such as she had was a gift from heaven, and it was sinful to keep it hidden away. It betrayed training, but only in a slight degree; not sufficient to have spoiled the bewitching, vagrant plaintiveness which it possessed; an inexpressible allurement of tone which a few untrained singers have, trained singers never, for the rigours of the training steal away that peculiar charm as the great city does the bloom from the cheek of a country maiden.
I listened for the verses of the song which I knew should follow, but the singer's voice was still and the faint glow of the lamp was extinguished.
Rita had just had her first real lesson in English. Already,—but without giving her the reason why, except that it was incorrect,—I had taught her never to say "ain't" and "I seen"; also that "Gee," "Gosh" and "you bet your life" were hardly ladylike expressions. She now understood that two negatives made a positive and that she should govern her speech accordingly.
She was an apt pupil; so anxious to improve her way of talking that mine was not a task, it was merely the setting of two little feet on a road and saying, "This is your way home," and those two little feet never deviated from that road for a single moment, never side-stepped, never turned back to pick up the useless but attractive words she had cast from her as she travelled.
How I marvelled at the great difference the elimination of a few of the most common of her slangy and incorrect expressions and the substitution of plain phrases in their places made in her diction! Already, it seemed to me as if she understood her English and had been studying it for years.
How easy it was, after all, I fancied, as I followed my train of thought, for one, simply by elimination, to become almost learned in the sight of his fellow men!
But now Rita had been introduced to the whys and wherefores in their simplest forms, so that she should be able, finally, to construct her thoughts for herself, word by word and phrase by phrase, into rounded and completed sentences.
At the outset, I had told her how the greatest writers in English were not above reading and re-reading plain little Grammars such as she was then studying, also that the favourite book of some of the most famous men the world ever knew, a book which they perused from cover to cover, year in and year out, as they would their family Bible,—was an ordinary standard dictionary.
I gave Rita her thin little Grammar and a note book in which to copy her lessons, and she slipped these into her bosom, hugging them to her heart and laughing with pleasure.
She put out her hands and grasped mine, then, in her sweet, unpremeditated way, she threw her arms round my neck and drew my lips to hers.
Dear little girl! How very like a child she was! A creature of impulse, a toy in the hands of her own fleeting emotions!
"Say! George,—I just got to hug you sometimes," she cried, "you are so good to me."
She stood back and surveyed me as if she were trying to gauge my weight and strength.
As it so happened, that was exactly what she was doing.
"You aren't scared of our Joe,—are you?" she asked.
"No!" I laughed. "What put that funny question into your head?"
She became serious.
"Well,—if I thought you were, I wouldn't come back for any more Grammar."
"Why?" I asked.
"Joe's not very well pleased about it. Guess he thinks nobody should be able to speak better'n he can."
"Oh!—never mind Joe," I exclaimed. "He'll come round, and your grand-dad's consent is all you need anyway."
"Sure! But I know, all the same, that Joe's got it in for you. He hasn't forgot the words you and he had."
"When did you see him last, Rita?"
"He was in to-day. Wanted to know where I was going. Grand-dad told him, then Joe got mad. Says you're 'too damned interfering.' Yes! Joe said it. He said to Grand-dad, 'You ain't got no right lettin' that kid go over there. Girls ain't got any business learnin' lessons off'n men.'
"Grand-dad said, 'Aw! forget it, Joe. She's got my permission, so let that end it. George Bremner's all right.'
"The settlers are arranging for a teacher up here next summer. Why can't she wait till then and get her lessons from a reg'lar professional, and no gol-durned amatoor,' said Joe.
"'See here, Mister man!' I said, 'you're sore,—that's your trouble. But I'm not going to be bullied by you,—so there. I'm through with you, Joe Clark;—and, what's more, you needn't take any interest in me any more. I can look after myself.'
"He gripped my arm. It's black and blue yet. See!
"'You ain't goin',' said he, madder'n ever.
"'Yes! I am,' I said.
"'If you go, by God, I'll kill that son-of-a-gun. Watch me! I ain't forgot him, though maybe he's fool enough to think I have.'
"Then he got kind of soft.
"'Don't you go, Rita.'
"'Why?' I asked.
"'Because I don't want you to.'
"'That's no reason,' I said.
"I'll send you to a school in Vancouver this winter, if you'll wait,' he coaxed.
"You see, George,—Joe ain't half bad sometimes. But I was scared he might think I was givin' in.
"'Don't want your schooling. It's too late,' said I. 'I've arranged for myself, Joe Clark,—so there.'
"I ran out and left him.
"He's pretty mad, but I don't care any more, now you're goin' to help me with this grammar.
"You're sure you're not scared of Joe?" she repeated.
"I have a strong right arm," I declared, "and I have been taught to look after myself."
I went down to the boat with her, and as she was stepping in she caught me by the shirt sleeve.
"You and Joe aren't goin' to fight, George? Promise me you won't fight."
"I could not promise that, little girl, for I cannot control the future. But I promise you that I shall not seek any quarrel with Joe. But, if he insulted you, for instance, or tried to commit a bodily violence on me, I would fight him without any hesitation. Wouldn't that be the right thing to do, Rita?"
Her head nodded wistfully. "Yes! Guess it would," she whispered, as I pushed her boat out into the water where the darkness swallowed it up.
In the fulfilling of a promise, I called the following evening on Miss Grant.
It was the first of a number of such visits, for I found that the old feeling of antagonism between us had entirely disappeared and, consequently, I enjoyed the sociability refreshingly.
Our meetings, while not by any means of the 'friendly admiration' kind, were of a nature beneficial to both of us.
She learned that I was an Englishman of good family. I gathered, her mother had been a Virginian and her father an Englishman; that she loved the American Continent and always considered the United States her country as her mother had done before her. But further than this we did not get, for we were both diffident in talking of our lives prior to our coming to Golden Crescent. Still, we had many never-failing topics of conversation, many subjects to discuss in literature, music, philosophy and economics.
We travelled along in our acquaintance easily,—leisurely,—as if time were eternal and the world were standing still awaiting our good pleasure.
Late one afternoon, when I was sitting out on the rocks, near the oil barns at the end of the wharf, enjoying the cooling breezes after the trying heat of that midsummer's day, I saw Miss Grant come down the path with her fishing lines in her hand and her sweater-coat over her arm. She went to her boat and started to pull it toward the water.
I scrambled over and down the rocks, to lend a hand.
"Any room for me, Miss Grant?" I asked boldly.
"Why, yes!" she smiled eagerly, "if only you would come. You promised once, you know, but, somehow, that promise is still unfulfilled."
I handed her into the boat, pushed off and leaped in beside her. She took the oars and, with the swift easy strokes, full of power and artistic grace, which I had noticed the first time I saw her on the water, she pulled out to the west of Rita's Isle.
Her hair was hanging negligently, in loose, wavy curls, over her shoulders. Her dimpled arms and her neck were bared to the sunshine. Her mouth was parted slightly and her teeth shone ivory-like, as she plied her oars.
"Let me take a turn now," I asked, "and run out your line."
She did so, and I took her slowly round the Island without her feeling so much as a tiny nibble.
"How stupid!" I exclaimed. "What's the good of me coming out here, if I do not try to discover the cause of your continual non-success as a fisher? Pull in your line and let me have a look at the spoon."
I examined the sinker and found it of the proper weight and properly adjusted, fixed at the correct length from the bait. Next, I took the spoon in my hand. It was a small nickel spinner,—the right thing for catching sea-trout round Rita's Isle. I was puzzled for a little, until I laid the spoon and the hook flat on the palm of my hand, then I knew where the trouble was.
The barb of the hook hung fully an inch and a half too far from the spoon.
I adjusted it and handed it back to my lady-companion.
"Try that," I said with a smile.
In dropped the line and out it ran to its full length.
Miss Grant held it taut. Suddenly she gave it a jerk. She stopped in breathless excitement. Then she jerked again.
"Oh, dear me!" she cried anxiously, "there's something on."
"Pull it in," I shouted, "steady,—not too quickly."
Immediately thereafter, a fine, two-pound trout lay flopping in the bottom of the boat.
"Just think of that," cried my fair troller, "my first fish! And all by moving up a foolish little hook an inch or so."
Her eyes were agleam. She chatted on and on almost without ceasing, almost without thinking, so excited and absorbed did she become in the sport.
Back went the line, and in it came again with another wriggling, shining trout.
For an hour I rowed round the Island, and, in that hour, Mary Grant had equalled Rita's best that I knew of, for between thirty and forty fish fell a prey to the deadly bait and hook.
"How would you like to try for a salmon?" I asked at last. "They are running better now than they have done all the year so far."
"All right!" she agreed, with a sigh of pent-up excitement, pulling in her trout line and running out a thicker one with a large salmon spoon and a fairly heavy sinker.
I rowed out to the mouth of the Bay, keeping inside the Ghoul Rock; then I started crossways over to the far point.
We were half-way across, when Mary Grant screamed. The line she was holding ran with tremendous rapidity through her fingers. I jammed my foot on the wooden frame lying in the bottom of the boat and to which the line was attached. I was just in time to save it from following the rest of the line overboard.
I pulled in my oars and caught up the line.
Away, thirty yards off, a great salmon sprang out of the water high into the air, performing a half-circle and flopping back with a splash from its lashing tail.
"She is yours," I cried. "Come! play her for all you can."
But, as I turned, I saw that Miss Grant's fingers were bleeding from the sudden running-out of the line when the salmon had struck; so I settled down to fight the fish myself.
All at once, the line slacked. I hauled it in, feeling almost certain that I had lost my prize. But no! Off she went again like a fury, rising out of the water in her wild endeavours to free herself.
For a long time I played her. My companion took the oars quietly and was now doing all she could to assist me.
Next, the salmon sank sheer down and sulked far under the water. Gradually, gradually I drew her in and not a struggle did she make. She simply lay, a dead thing at the end of my line.
"She's played out, Miss Grant. She's ours," I cried gleefully, as I got a glint of her under the water as she came up at the end of my line.
But, alas! for the luck of a fisherman. When the salmon was fifteen feet from the boat, she jerked and somersaulted most unexpectedly, with all the despair of a gambler making his last throw. She shot sheer out of the water and splashed in again almost under the boat. My line, minus the spoon and the hook, ran through my fingers.
"Damn!" I exclaimed, in the keenest disappointment.
"And—that's—just—what—I—say—too," came my fair oars-woman's voice. "If that isn't the hardest kind of luck!"
Away out, we could see our salmon jump, and jump, and jump again, out of the water ten feet in the air, darting and plunging in wide circles, like the mad thing she probably was.
"It serves me rightly, Miss Grant. I professed to be able to fix your tackle and yet I did not examine that spoon before putting it into use. It has probably been lying in a rusty condition for a year or so.
"Well,—we cannot try again to-night, unless we row in for a fresh spoon-hook."
"Oh!—let us stop now. We have more fish already than we really require."
"Shall I row you in?" I asked.
"Do you wish to go in?"
"Oh, dear, no! I could remain here forever,—at least until I get hungry and sleepy," I laughed.
"All right!" she cried, "let us row up into the Bay and watch the sun go down."
I pulled along leisurely, facing my fair companion, who was now reclining in the stern, with the sinking sun shining in all its golden glory upon the golden glory of her.
Moment by moment, the changing colours in the sky were altering the colours on the smooth waters to harmonise: a lake of bright yellow gold, then the gold turned to red, a sea of blood; from red to purple, from purple to the palest shade of heliotrope; and, as the sun at last dipped in the far west, the distant mountains threw back that same attractive shade of colour.
It was an evening for kind thoughts.
We glided up the Bay, past Jake Meaghan's little home; still further up, then into the lagoon, where not a ripple disturbed that placid sheet of water: where the trees and rocks smiled down upon their own mirrored reflections.
We grew silent as the nature around us, awed by the splendours of the hushing universe upon which we had been gazing.
"It is beautiful! oh, so beautiful!" said my companion at last, awaking from her dreaming. "Let us stay here awhile. I cannot think to go home yet."
She threw her sweater-coat round her shoulders, for, even in the height of summer, the air grows chilly on the west coast as the sun goes down.
"You may smoke, Mr. Bremner. I know you are aching to do so."
I thanked her, pulled in my oars and lighted my pipe.
Mary Grant sat there, watching me in friendly interest, smiling in amusement in the charming way only she could smile.
"Do you know, I sometimes wonder," she said reflectively, "why it is that a man of your education, your prospective attainments, your ability, your physical strength and mental powers should keep to the bypaths of life, such as we find up here, when your fellows, with less intellect than you have, are in the cities, in the mining fields and on the prairies, battling with the world for power and fortune and getting, some of them, what they are battling for.
"I am not trying to probe into your privacy, but what I have put into words has often recurred to me regarding you. Somehow, you seem to have all the qualities that go to the making of a really successful business man."
"Do you really wonder why?" I smiled. "—And yet you profess to know me—a little."
It was an evening for closer friendships.
"If you promise for the future to call me George and permit me the privilege, when we are alone, of calling you Mary, I shall answer your query."
"All right,—George,—it's a bargain," she said. "Go ahead."
"Well! in the first place, I know what money is; what it can bring and what it can cause. I never cared for money any more than what could provide the plain necessities of life. As for ambition to make and accumulate money;—God forbid that I should ever have it. I leave such ambitions to the grubs and leeches."
Mary listened in undisguised interest.
"Oh! I have had opportunities galore, but I always preferred the simpler way,—the open air, the sea and the quiet, the adventure of the day and the rest after a day well spent.
"No man can eat more than three square meals a day and be happy; no man can lie upon more than one bed at a time;—so, what right have I, or any other man for the matter of that, to steal some other fellow's food and bedding?"
"But some day you may wish to marry," she put in.
"Some day,—yes! maybe. And the lady I marry must also love the open air, away from the city turmoil; she must hanker after the glories of a place such as this; otherwise, we should not agree for long.
"And,—Mary,—" I continued, "the man you would marry,—what would you demand of him?"
"The man I would marry may be a Merchant Prince or a humble tiller of the soil. A few things only I would demand of him, and these are:—that he love me with all his great loving heart; that he be honourable in all things and that his right arm be strong to protect his own and ever ready to assist his weaker brother.
"Marriages may be made in heaven, George, but they have to be lived on earth, and the one essential thing in every marriage is love."
She sat for a while in thought, then she threw out her hands as if to ward off a danger.
"Of what use me talking in this way," she cried. "Marriage, for me, with my foolish ideas, is impossible. I am destined to remain as I am."
My pulse quickened as she spoke.
"And why?" I asked;—for this evening of evenings was one for open hearts and tender feelings.
"It was arranged for me that by this time I should be the wife of a man; and,—God knows,—though I did not love him, I meant to be a true and dutiful wife to him, even when I knew my eternal soul would be bruised in the effort.
"This man was taller than you are, George. Sometimes, in your devil-may-care moods, I seem to see him again in you. I am glad to say, though, the similarity ends there.
"For all his protestations of love for me, for all his boasted ideals, his anxiety for the preservation of his honour as a gentleman, he proved himself not even faithful in that which every woman has a right to demand of the man she is about to marry, as he demands it of her.
"I would not marry him then. I could not. I would sooner have died.
"That was my reward for trying to do my duty."
Her voice broke. "Sometimes, I wonder if any man is really true and honourable."
She covered her face with her hands; she, who had always been so self-possessed.
"The shame of it! The shame of it!" she sobbed.
In my heart, I cursed the dishonour of men. Would the dreadful procession of it never cease? Deceit and dishonour! Dishonour and deceit! Here, there, everywhere,—and always the woman suffering while the man goes free!
I moved over beside her in the stern of the boat. I laid my hand upon her shoulder. In my rough, untutored way, without breaking into the agony of her thoughts, I tried to comfort her with the knowledge of my sympathetic presence.
For long we sat thus; but at last she turned to me and her hair brushed my cheek. She looked into my eyes and I know she read what was in my heart, for it was brimming over with a love for her that I had never known before, a love that overwhelmed me and left me dumb.
"George!" she whispered softly, laying her hand upon mine, "you must not, you must not."
Then she became imperious and haughty once more.
"Back to your oars, sailorman," she cried, with an astonishing effort at gaiety. "The dark is closing in and Mrs. Malmsbury will be thinking all kinds of things she would not dare say, even if she were able."
Late that night, I heard the second verse of Mary's little song. It was hardly sung; it was whispered, as if she feared that even the fairies and sprites might be eavesdropping; but, had she lilted it in her heart only, still, I think, I should have heard it.
A maid there was in the North Countree;A gay little, blythe little maid was she.Her dream of a gallant knight came true.He wooed her long and so tenderlee.And, day by day, as their fond love grew,Her spinning wheel stood with its threads askew;It stood.—It stood.—It stood with its threads askew.
The Autumn, with its shortening days and lengthening nights, was upon Golden Crescent, but still the charm and beauty of its surroundings were unimpaired.
I never tired of the scenes, for they were kaleidoscopic in their changing. Even in the night, when sleep was unable to bind me, I have risen and stood by my open window, in reverie and peaceful contemplation, and the dark has grown to dawn ere I turned back to bed.
It was on such an occasion as I speak of. I was leaning on the window ledge, looking far across the Bay. The sea was a mirror of oily calm. A crescent moon was shining fairly high in the south, laying a streak of silver along the face of the water near the far shore. It was a night when every dip of an oar would threaten to bring up the reflected moon from the liquid deep; a night of quiet when the winging of a sea-fowl, or the plop of a fish, could be heard a mile away. In the stillness could be heard the occasional tinkle, tinkle of a cow-bell from the grazing lands across the Bay.
As I listened to the night noises, I heard the distant throb of a launch out in the vicinity of the Ghoul Rock. Suddenly, the throbbing stopped and I fancied I caught the sound of deep voices. All went still again, but, soon after, my ear detected the splashing of oars and the rattle of a badly fitting rowlock.
I watched, peering out into the darkness. The moon shot swiftly from under a cloud and threw its white illuminant like a searchlight sheer upon a large rowing boat as it crept up past the wharf, some fifty yards out from the point.
I counted five figures in the boat, which was heading up the Bay.
A cloud passed over the moon again and the picture of the boat and its occupants vanished from my sight.
Strange, I thought, why these men should arrive in a launch, leave it so far out and come in with a rowing boat of such dimensions, when there was good, safe and convenient anchorage almost anywhere close in!
I listened again. The sound of the rattling row-lock ceased and I heard the grinding of a boat's bottom on the gravel somewhere in the vicinity of Jake's cove.
I stood in indecision for some minutes, then I decided that I would find out what these men were up to. I put on my clothes without haste, picked up a broken axe-handle that lay near the doorway and started noiselessly down the back path in the direction of Meaghan's shack, reaching there about half an hour after I had first detected the boat. When I came to the clearing, I saw a light in the cabin. As I drew closer, I heard the sound of hoarse voices. Stepping cautiously, I went up to the window and peered through.
I saw four strange men there. The lower parts of their faces were masked by handkerchiefs in real highwaymen fashion.
With a dirty neckcloth stuffed into his mouth, old Jake was sitting on a chair and tied securely to it by ropes. Mike, his faithful old dog, was lying at his feet in a puddle of blood.
The liquor keg in the corner had been broached, and I could see that, already, the men had been drinking. Jake's brass-bound chest had been dragged to the middle of the floor and the man who appeared to be the leader of the gang was sitting astride of it, with a cup of liquor in his hand, laughing boisterously.
My anger rose furiously.
"The low skunks," I growled, gripping my improvised club as I tip-toed quietly to the door, hoping to rush in, injure some of them and stampede the others before they would know by how many they were being attacked.
I was gently turning the handle, when something crashed down on my head. I stumbled into the shack, sprawled upon the floor, strange voices sang in my ears and everything became blurred.
It could have been only a few minutes later when I revived. I was in Jake's cabin, and was trussed with ropes, hands and feet, to one of the wooden uprights of the old Klondiker's home-made bed. I could feel something warm, oozy and clammy, making its way from my hair, down the back of my neck.
I opened my eyes wide, and reason enough came to me to close them quickly again. Then I opened them once more, cautiously and narrowly.
Five strange men were now in the cabin, which was cloudy with tobacco smoke. The carousal had increased rather than otherwise. The men were gathered round Jake, laughing and cursing in wild derision. They were not interested in me at the moment, so I stayed quiet, making pretence that the unconsciousness was still upon me, whenever any of them turned in my direction.
Through my half-opened eyelids, I fancied I recognised the leader of the crowd as a black-haired, beady-eyed, surly dog of a logger who had come in several times from Camp No. 2 to help with the taking up of their supplies,—but of his identity I was not quite certain.
As my scattered senses began to collect, I hoped against hope that these men would keep up their drinking bout until not one of them would be able to stand. But, while they drank long and drank deeply, they were too wise by far to overdo it.
Then I got to wondering what they were badgering old Jake about, for I could hear him growl and curse, his gag having fallen to the floor.
"Go to hell and take the trunk, the booze and the whole caboose with you, if you want to. I don't want none of it. I ain't hoggin' booze any more."
"Ho, ho! Hear that," yelled the big, black-haired individual, "he ain't boozin'! The old swiller ain't boozin' and him keeps a keg o' whisky under his nose.
"Ain't boozin' with common ginks like us,—that's what he means.
"Come on! We'll show him whether he ain't boozin' or not."
He got a cupful of the raw spirits and stuck it to Jake's mouth. But Jake shook his head.
"Come on! Drink it up or I'll sling it down your gullet."
Still Jake refused.
Then my blood ran cold, and boiled again. The veins stood out on my forehead with rage.
The foul-mouthed creature hit my old helper full across the mouth and a trickle of blood immediately began to flow down over Jake's chin.
I struggled silently with my ropes, but they were taut and merely cut into my flesh. But I made the discovery then, that my captors had failed to take into account that the bed to which they had tied me had been put up by Jake and, at that, not any too securely.
I felt that if I threw all my weight away from the stanchion to which I was bound, I might be able to pull the whole thing out bodily. But I knew that this was not the moment for such an attempt.
They were five men to one; they had sticks and clubs, maybe revolvers, so what chance would I have?
I decided to bear with the goading of Jake as long as it were possible.
"Guess you'll drink it now,—you old, white-livered miser," cried the dark man.
He dashed some of the liquor in Jake's face. Jake opened his mouth and gasped. The big bully then threw the remainder of the spirits, with a splash, sheer into Jake's mouth.
"He boozed that time, boys. You bet your socks!" he laughed uproariously. The others joined in the hilarity.
The Jake I looked upon after that was not the Jake I had known for the past few months.
He sat staring in front of him for a little while, then he exclaimed huskily, almost hungrily:
"Say, fellows! Give us some more. It tastes pretty good to me."
"Thought he would come to it," shouted the black-haired man triumphantly. "We ain't refusin' no booze to-night. Fetch a cup o' rye for Jake."
One of the others brought it, and it was held to the old man's lips. He let it over his throat almost at a single gulp.
"More,—more!"
More was brought, and again he drank.
Three times Jake emptied that brimming cup of raw spirits.
I shivered with abhorrence at the sight.
"More?" queried the big man.
"Yep! More," craved Jake.
"Nothin' doin'! You've had enough, you old booze-fighter.
"Say! How's that top-notcher swell Bremner comin' on?"
He turned to me.
"Let's fill him up, too."
They came over to me, but I pretended still to be unconscious. My head was limply bent over my chest.
They jerked it up by my forelock and looked into my face.
The foulness of their breath almost nauseated me, but I stood the test, keeping my eyes tightly closed and allowing my head to flop forward the moment it was released from their clutch.
"What in the hell did you hit him so hard for?" cried the leader, turning savagely to the man at his left elbow. "We ain't lookin' for any rope-collars over this. Guess we'd better beat it. Get busy with that chest some of you. Come on!"
They raised their masks from their mouths and had another drink all round, then two of them, under the big man's directions, caught up the chest, and they all crowded out and down toward their boat.
The moment after they were gone I threw my weight and growing strength away from the upright to which I was bound. It creaked and groaned. I tried again, and still again. At the third attempt, the entire fixtures fell on top of me to the floor.
I struggled clear of the débris, and the rest was easy. I slipped the ropes from the wooden post and, in their now loosened condition, I wriggled free.
I did not wait to do anything for Jake, nor yet to consider any plan of operation. My blood was up and that was all I knew.
I picked my axe-handle from the floor and dashed out after the robbers.
The five men were with the boat at the water's edge. Two were sitting at the oars in readiness, two were on the beach raising Jake's trunk to the fifth man who was standing in the stern of the boat.
I sprang upon them. I hit one, with a sickening crash, over the head. He let go his hold of the trunk and toppled limply against the side of the boat, as the trunk splashed into the shallow water.
I staggered with the impetus, and from the impact of my blow let my club drop from my jarred hand. Before I could recover, the big man,—who had been helping to raise the trunk,—bore down on me. He caught me by the throat in a horrible grip, and tried to press me backward; but, with a short-arm blow, I smashed him over the mouth with telling force, cutting my knuckles in a splutter of blood and broken teeth.
His grip loosened. He shouted to his fellows for assistance as he sprang at me once more.
But, somewhere in the darkness behind me, a pistol-shot rang out and the big man staggered, letting out a howl of pain, as his arm dropped limp to his side.
He darted for the boat and threw himself into it, seized a spare oar and pushed off frantically.
"Pull,—pull like hell," he yelled.
They needed no second bidding, for they shot out into the Bay as if a thousand devils were after them.
I turned to ascertain who my deliverer could be; and there, on the beach, only a few yards away, stood Mary Grant with a serviceable-looking revolver held firmly in her right hand.
"What? You! Mary,—Mary," I cried in an agony of thought at the awful risk she had run.
"Are you all right, George?" she inquired anxiously.
"Right as rain," I answered, hurrying to her side.
"Did they get Jake's trunk away?"
"No! The low thieves! It is lying there in the water. Do you think you could help me up with it?"
She caught up the trunk at one end, while I took the other. And we carried it back between us to Jake's cabin.
Poor old Jake! I could hardly smother a smile as I saw the dejected figure he presented. His grey hair was drooping over his forehead, every line in his face showed a droop, and his long, white moustache drooped like the tusks of a walrus, or like the American comic journals' representations of the whiskers of ancient and fossilised members of the British peerage.
He was sitting bound, as the robbers had left him.
I cut him free and he staggered to his feet.
He was sober as a jail bird, and, excepting for his broken lip and chafed wrists, he was, to all appearances, none the worse for his experiences. It surprised me to notice how little he seemed interested in the recovery of his money. All his attention and sympathy were centred on the wretched dog, Mike, who was slowly getting over the clubbing he had received and was whimpering like a discontented baby.
Mike had a long gash in his neck, evidently made by one of the robbers with Jake's bread-knife. Mary washed out the wound and I stitched it up with a needle and thread, so that, all things considered, Mike was lucky in getting out of his encounter as easily as he did.
As for the crack I had received over the head, it had made me bloody enough, but it was superficial and not worth worrying about.
I decided I would not leave Jake alone that night and that, as soon as I had seen Mary safely home, I would return and sleep in his cabin till morning.
"When you come back," said Jake gruffly, "bring ink and paper with you. I want you to do some writin' for me, George."
I laughed, for I knew what was in his mind.
As Mary and I wended our way back through the narrow path, in the dead of that moonlight night, the daring and bravery of her action caught me afresh. How I admired her! I could scarcely refrain from telling her of it, and of how I loved her. But it was neither the time nor the place for protestations of affection.
"How in the world did you happen to get down there at the right moment?" I asked.
She gave a quiet ripple of laughter.
"I couldn't sleep and I was up and standing at the window——"
"Just as I was doing," I put in.
"I saw that boat come up,—as you must have seen it, George,—I went to the door, and, in the moonlight, I saw you come out and take the back path. Later still, I heard noises and the cursing of these men.
"I became afraid that something was wrong, so I dressed, took up my little revolver and followed you.
"I was at the window of Jake's cabin all the time he was being forced to drink and while you were tied up. I had to get out of the way when they came out."
At the door of Mary's house I took her hand in mine.
"We are quits now, Mary. Those blackguards certainly would have finished me off but for you.
"Where did you learn to shoot, you wild and woolly Westerner?" I asked.
"Why! Didn't I ever tell you? For quite a while, when I was a youngster, I lived on a ranch in the Western States. Everybody could shoot down there."
"But, what would you have said had you killed that big black robber or winged me?" I asked. "We were all in a higgledy-piggledy mix-up when you fired."
She smiled.
"I can generally hit what I aim at."
I nodded my head. "Ay! And I think you can hit sometimes even when you don't aim."
"George!" she admonished, "we were referring simply to shooting with a gun,—not with a bow and arrows."