CHAPTER XVIII
Atthe race-course the crowd eddied excitedly about the judges’ stand, or stood in groups talking of the wonderful performance of the spotted cayuse that had made the erstwhile champion appear a mere tyro.
Gillis came riding slowly from the woods and was hailed by questioning shouts from a score of throats.
“Did you get him?”
A bloody handkerchief was wrapped around the big man’s hand, and a livid welt showed on his forehead. He smiled grimly as he dismounted, “I got the d——d skunk,” he answered savagely.
He turned to a group of Indians. “You fellers’d better look out for him when you go along; his eyesight’s kinda bad.”
Donald came to the front of the judges’ stand and held up his hand for silence. Gradually the hum of voices died away and the crowd turned to face him.
“As you know, we are to take up a collection to add to the Company’s purse. The gentleman below,” pointing down at Andy, “will hold the hat. We have witnessed an exhibition of matchless skill and pluck. Give as you feel.”
The crowd cheered lustily. Then, jostling each other good-naturedly like a lot of school-boys, they formed in a long queue.
Andy started the contribution by giving his whole roll of bills. Money showered upon him until he was forced to call for another hat.
“Fightin’ ” Jack came to Donald in great perturbation. “Say! Our gang’s all stony broke. Can we sign a due-bill?”
Donald called the time-keeper.
“Make her out for twenty bucks for each of us,” said “Fightin’ ” Jack.
Andy’s spirits soared as the pile rose higher.
“God bless ’er little ’eart,” he murmured, “she can ’ave an ’ole shipload of them blinkin’ camisole things.”
An hour later, as Donald climbed the hill to deliver the prize, he met Doctor Paul.
“How is she, Doctor?”
“She’s had a nasty shaking up, but there are no bones broken. She will have to remain in bed for a week or so.”
Wainwright saw Donald coming and stepped outside the door to meet him. “She’s sleeping,” he said in a low tone. He looked questioningly at Donald as the latter passed him the package of money.
“The prize money,” Donald explained.
Wainwright peeped at the contents and his face lit up with pleased astonishment. “I understood that the purse was to be a small one!”
When Donald told him of the collection, Wainwright’s face flushed hotly. “Is that the custom?” he questioned sharply.
Donald nodded.
Wainwright paced nervously with hands clasped behind his back. “Pardon my abrupt manner,” he said contritely, “I am a bit out of sorts to-day.”
Every evening Donald called at the Wainwright home, bringing little delicacies carefully prepared by Andy. Once he spoke to Connie from outside the door, and her answering voice gave him an odd thrill. He pondered over this as he made his way down the hill. He was struck by a sudden thought. His face broke into a smile and he shrugged his shoulders. “Nonsense,” he said aloud.
Janet remained several days after her friends had returned to the city. She had tried in vain to restore the familiar relations which formerly existed between herself and Donald. His evening visits to the cabin on the mountain deprived her of his company, and she, half-jestingly, reproved him for his inattention to her. With spirits depressed and a despondent look in her dark eyes, Janet returned to Vancouver.
One evening Wainwright gave Donald a letter to post, addressed to a big departmental store in Vancouver. A few days later there arrived numerous bundles and boxes, including a big trunk. Donald with the assistance of Gillis’s crew carried them up the hill.
“I’ve brought your big trunk with the ‘bulgy top,’ Miss Wainwright,” he called.
Connie sat up in her bunk so quickly that her head bumped the boards above. “Miss Wainwright” he had called her! Her eyes glowed in the dusky half-light. “Thank you so much,” she replied.
The next day Wainwright informed Donald that Connie was up and would see him.
“Just a minute, Dad,” she cried as she heard them approaching.
Feverishly she rushed to the small mirror to glance at her reflection. With nervous hands she fluffed the hair about her ears and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the collar of her dress. Then she sat down gravely and arranged her skirts about her.
“Come in,” she called.
Donald followed Wainwright, his heart-beats peculiarly accelerated. For an instant he could not distinguish objects in the dim interior. Then his eyes rested on Connie, sitting demurely in the corner. She wore a gingham dress of blue, with white collar and cuffs. A dark belt was fastened snugly at her slender waist. Tiny high-heeled shoes peeped from below the hem of her skirt. Her beautiful hair hung down her back in a huge braid that fastened at the nape of her slim, round neck with a narrow black bow. She rose and crossed the room to meet him, her high heels making her lithe little body appear much taller. There was something fragile about her beauty, some of the colour gone from her cheeks, and just a hint of shadows under her eyes.
Donald held out his hand. “Good evening, I’m glad to see that you are better,” he said awkwardly.
A slender, warm hand crept timidly into his, and his fingers closed on it gently as on a flower. He stared down at her, thrilled by her loveliness. She raised her eyes with their bewilderingly long lashes slowly to his face. With a sudden leaping of his heart, Donald realized that he was in love.
They talked desultorily while Connie sat timidly on the edge of the uncomfortable chair. She could not feel at ease in the high, narrow shoes and the enveloping skirts. And as she essayed to cross the rough floor with an assumed air of ease, her ankle turned and she would have fallen had not Donald caught her in his arms.
As he raised her to her feet she blushed furiously, and he fancied he could feel the warm beating of her heart. With an embarrassed apology, she slipped from him, crossed to the table and lighted a candle. And presently he took his leave, Wainwright walking with him down the darkening trail.
Wainwright was in one of his brooding moods. For a few minutes he was silent. As they neared the bluff he spoke.
“After witnessing my daughter’s distress the morning of the race I am afraid that you feel harshly toward me for allowing her to be placed in such a humiliating position. You have been exceedingly kind to us; therefore, I feel that I should relate the circumstances which have placed me in my present position. As I told you that day, I have allowed my pride to withhold from my daughter her inherited rights. I will be as brief as possible.
“My father, who took great pride in the family name, planned a political career for me even from the day of my birth. By natural taste and temperament I was quite unfitted for public life. I must have been a great trial to him, as from early boyhood I evinced a great love for the study of botany and ornithology. He would go into a red rage when he found me in the garden studying flowers under a microscope or stalking birds in the shrubbery.
“At college I was not a success, either socially or in my class. Always of a retiring nature, I did not enter social life or college sports, and the course of study set for me by my father bored me extremely.
“During my third year at college I met Connie’s mother. Until that time no woman had entered my life, although my father had hinted his plans for my marriage as soon as I had finished my course.
“To me any flower shop, however small, acted as a magnet. One day I stood gazing in the window of a tiny florist’s shop on the Strand. A girl was kneeling among the flowers, and as she lifted her head our eyes met. She was like a golden lily. Her hair was like Connie’s hair, and the blue of her eyes was the blue of the pansies she held in her hand. And her name was Constance.”
He paused for an instant.
“Her father, who had been a rector in a small parish in the south of England, died just previous to our meeting, leaving his motherless child without kith or kin. Lest I weary you I may say briefly that we were married. My father would not even grant me an interview, but wrote to me saying that marrying as I had done had barred me forever from his door. I did not care. I was happy—completely, supremely happy. I sold a small estate bequeathed to me by my mother, and we set out for British Columbia.
“Ah!” he breathed softly, “that voyage! We could not afford it, but we travelled first-class—it was our honeymoon and we were young. We had never been to sea before, and the novelty of it all wove a spell about us. As we walked the deck we talked joyously of our wonderful future in the mysterious Great West.
“Our first year in Vancouver was one of blessed content. There is no love that could be greater than ours. Clerical work was scarce, so I took any job that offered. I would come home black with coal-dust or white with lime, and my wife would cry out merrily as she threw herself into my arms. We turned our hardships into jests.”
A smile of infinite tenderness played about his eyes as memory recalled the golden days with the woman he loved.
“The next winter I was taken grievously ill. I lay helplessly on my back while my tender wife tramped from house to house teaching painting and music. Day after day through all kinds of weather she made her daily rounds to keep us in the bare necessities of life, and pay the doctor’s bills.”
Wainwright’s voice sank and almost failed him for a moment. Recovering himself, he resumed his story.
“She would come home at night, tired and worn, to fall asleep in a chair by my bedside, while I raved in a fever. She went without food to buy dainties for me. She never lost her cheery smile—but it killed her! She died giving birth to—to—Constance.”
Tears rose to his eyes, and for a moment he covered them with his hand. With a great effort he continued.
“I became embittered, changed completely out of any semblance to my former self. I cursed my father. I cursed the world. I would have welcomed death, but as I looked down at the tiny mite by my dead wife’s side, I knew that I must fight to live.
“A short time after, I received from my father a letter in which he asked my forgiveness. I was unfitted to make my own way in the world, yet my father had turned me brutally away. My wife had died from overwork and lack of food. I wrote to him in a black rage a letter that must have scorched his soul.
“For four years I eked out a miserable existence in the City. My health broke down again, and my doctor warned me that I must get to a higher altitude. I learned of this place, turned everything into cash, and came here, bringing Connie with me.
“My sole income has been derived from writing articles on Nature for the newspapers and magazines. Several times my father has advertised in the newspapers, asking me to return. I read of his death two weeks ago. For Constance’s sake, I am going to start for England to-morrow.”
Wainwright’s head drooped listlessly as he concluded his story. All energy, all strength of bearing, seemed to have gone from him. The bitter remembrances he had voiced had brought a look of mental anguish to his face. He stood staring mutely before him.
Donald’s heart ached for this man, whose great love for his wife was as passionate at this moment as when she was living. “How he loved her!” he thought.
When Wainwright spoke again his voice was spiritless. “You are the first person to whom I have spoken of my past; even Constance does not know.” As he turned to leave Donald gripped his hand in silence, but with a pressure eloquent of heart-felt sympathy.
Andy had noticed Donald’s increasing interest in Connie and had wisely refrained from accompanying him on his nightly visits. On this particular night Donald came into the kitchen whistling a lively air, his face wreathed in smiles. He slapped Andy heartily on the back as he asked him for a lunch. His gaiety was so pronounced that Andy studied him closely.
“You look ’appy, Donnie,” he remarked.
“I am, Andy; I’m the happiest man in the world.”
He finished eating, then sat staring dreamily at the smoke of his cigarette as it circled about his head. Andy discoursed lightly on various subjects, but Donald did not seem to hear him. After he left Andy heard him singing merrily in his cabin.
“Strike me pink, but I do ’ope Donnie has waked up! What a pair, what a pair!” he said to himself.
In the morning Donald rode north on the gas-car to the scene of logging operations near the upper lake. He left orders with the men to bring Wainwright’s baggage to the station. What Connie’s absence would mean was brought forcibly to him as he met the trapper leading Pegasus and her pet deer down the trail to his cabin.
Two hours later Connie and her father stood on the station platform. Connie was dressed in an inexpensive blue suit, and wore a neat blue hat with a jaunty feather. Her golden hair was piled high in loops and coils that held a sheen of brightness like the shine of metal where the sun touched it. She appeared mystified and confused as the time for the train to pull out drew near. Andy, standing by her side, cursed softly as he saw her looking toward the mill, a look of poignant disappointment in her eyes.
“Donald ’ad to go up the line, Connie; guess something ’as ’appened,” he mumbled.
At that moment Donald was heaping opprobrium on a recalcitrant gas-car that had died on his hands.
The conductor called “All aboard!” Connie turned to Andy. “Good-bye, Andy,” she said sweetly, her eyes swimming with tears.
Andy took her gloved hand. “Good-bye, Connie,” he returned, attempting a brave smile. “When are you coming back?”
“Maybe never.” She choked as she stumbled up the car steps.
As the train started to move Connie came to the rear platform. A small, pathetic figure she seemed to Andy as she strained her eyes toward the north in a vain hope that she would see Donald. Andy stood in the centre of the track waving his hat until the flutter of Connie’s little handkerchief vanished around a curve.
As the train roared through the cut, the last view of her loved valley flashed before her eyes. Her face strangely white, she clung to the brass rail and gazed with tearful eyes at the only home she had ever known.
As they passed the trapper’s cabin, the noise of the rushing train sent Pegasus galloping madly about the pasture. With flying hoofs that tore up the sod he circled around the field, then came to the fence and with his beautiful head held high on the arched neck he looked with startled eyes at the speeding train.
With a gesture intensely eloquent, Connie flung out her arms. “Good-bye, Peggy! Good-bye!” She found her way to a seat and covered her face with her hands.
Donald flung himself from the gas-car before it had ceased moving. “Train gone, Andy?” he shouted.
Andy stood with arms folded. “Gone?” he yelled, “of course it’s gone. Why in ’ell wasn’t you ’ere?”
“I had to go up the line to look over some logs, and the car broke down,” replied Donald bitterly.
“Of course,” said Andy with withering sarcasm, “the timber couldn’t ’ave waited another day.”
“Andy,” asked Donald excitedly, ignoring the remark, “did Connie leave you her address?”
“Why the ’ell should she give me ’er address? ’Aven’t you ’er address?” was Andy’s unaccommodating reply.
“No, I haven’t, I know that they are going to England, and that is all.”
Donald sat down dejectedly.
Andy’s face softened. “Do you like Connie?” he queried.
“Like her? I love her!”
“In that case I don’t see ’ow she didn’t let you know where to find ’er,” puzzled Andy.
“She doesn’t know that I care for her,” said Donald gloomily.
Andy’s mouth opened. He seized Donald by the shoulder. “Do you mean to tell me that you let that girl get away from you without letting ’er know that you wanted ’er?” he demanded incredulously. “Strike me ’andsome,” blazed Andy, “of all the blinkin’ mutts in this ’ere world—you—you——” Speech failed him for a moment. “You let that dear little girl go away broken-’earted. . . .”
“Andy,” interrupted Donald eagerly, “do you think Connie cares for me?”
For a moment, as he looked into his friend’s face, Andy was tempted to tell him of the scene after his fight with Hand. But the promise to Connie sealed his lips.
“ ’Ow the ’ell should I know?” he mumbled. “But,” he added with fine sarcasm, “if bone was ten cents a cubic foot you’d be a multi-millionaire, you blinkin’ pie-eyed nincompoop—you—you——” He clapped a tragic hand to his brow. “You give me a ’eadache,” and muttering to himself, he trudged up the hill.
The next day Donald went to Vancouver. He scanned the registers in hotels, inquired at docks and depots, but no trace of the Wainwrights could he find. He walked the streets with a forlorn hope that he might meet them. The hearts of many slender golden-haired girls were set fluttering that day as a tall, handsome young man subjected them to close scrutiny.
Two days later he returned to the lake. That night he switched off the light and sat by the open window looking out on a night of stars, with a new moon making a ghostly light on the lake. An owl’s mournful hoot was answered by the uncanny cry of a heron. The faint sighing sound of streams in distant gorges became a haunting chorus to this duet. He thought of Connie’s cabin up the mountain, now cold and dark. How he would miss her! What an idiot he had been not to have known long ago that he loved her. He knew now that he had loved her from the first. Dear little Connie!
Donald walked the floor until midnight. Once in bed, he tossed restlessly until the early morning, then fell into a fitful sleep in which he dreamed of a small, winsome face and big blue eyes surrounded by a wealth of golden hair.
September with its days of mellow sunshine passed. October brought heavy hoar frosts that covered the earth with a robe of diamonds, and formed ice in the small pools and marshes. Winter comes early in the mountains. In mid-winter the valleys between the peaks of the Coast Range will have five feet of snow when, a few hundred feet below, where the warm waters of the Pacific lap the gentle slopes, the grass is green and there is none of the chilly whiteness that mantles the towering hills above.
There came a day in November when the air held a solemn stillness. The firs and pines pointed straight to the sky without a quiver in their branches. The brown earth seemed to say, “I am ready.” The cry of the loon in it had a dreary sound, a note which seemed to say that winter was coming. Squirrels working in the tops of big pines increased their efforts. The cones, nipped off by their sharp teeth fell pattering to the ground, to be garnered by these busy little workers and secreted in their nests in hollow trees. The bear of the hillsides ate the frozen berry or the pulp of rotten log to cleanse its stomach before starting its long winter sleep in windfall or cave. Thus does Nature give to the wild things of the forest an instinct unknown to man.
The rush of wings sounded high in air as wild ducks passed in swift flight on their yearly pilgrimage to the south. Occasionally a flock would lower in gradually narrowing circles to land with a splash in the restful waters of the lake, then to stretch tired wings, the while bobbing their heads and quacking contentedly. Flocks of geese passed in wedge-shaped formation, their honking coming faintly from a dizzy height. A flock of Arctic swans, skimming so low that the crisp rustle of their wings could be heard, landed in the centre of the lake with a great commotion. There with their beautiful necks proudly arched they floated like white ghosts throughout the night. The red and yellow leaves, like gaudy curtains draped the deciduous trees. The wild crab-apple and high-bush cranberry hung frozen on the naked branches. The sun was surrounded by a ring and shone weakly through a misty haze. The unmistakable breath of the north wind was in the air.
Old John took his traps down from the loft and oiled them. A patch was found needed on a worn moccasin, and new laces were inserted in his snowshoes. “Winter’s comin’, ol’ timer, and we’re goin’ to have a heavy fall of snow,” he mused to himself. For two days Nature gave warning, then on the second night the storm came.
A roaring wind came bellowing from the north, lashing the waters of the lake to foam, tearing at Donald’s cabin with the strength of invisible giant hands, and howling through the forest with shrieking wails. Gust came upon gust with increasing strength, and in the short lulls could be heard the swish of the sleety snow against the windows.
The big trees creaked as they swayed in the gale, and with a loud groan, as if in mortal pain, a huge forest monarch, as its roots gave way, fell crushing down the smaller trees to smite the earth with a resounding crash.
The wind went down through the night, but the snow fell steadily. When Donald opened his door next morning he looked out on a new world. The wizardry of frost and snow had given the earth a blanket of white that was eye-blinding in its brilliancy under the bright morning sun. The keen frost had locked the lake tight under a coating of clear ice.
CHAPTER XIX
Witha fond hope that he would receive word of the Wainwrights, Donald eagerly awaited the coming of each mail; but after a month of disappointment he became less sanguine, and threw himself desperately into work in a vain attempt to allay his heartache.
During the long winter the mill continued operations in spite of heavy snows, the roads being kept open by the continual traffic.
Janet came twice with gay parties to enjoy the ski-ing and snowshoeing. She found that she loved Donald, and decided that any uncertainty as to his past was as nothing when weighed against her need of him. Bitterly she reproached herself for allowing her pride to estrange him from her, and with all the arts of a beautiful and cultured woman she sought to regain the power she once held over him.
On one occasion, when Janet mentioned his “wood-sprite,” she saw a rapt look in his eyes and caught her breath sharply. The very thought of losing him stabbed her like a knife-thrust.
With the coming of March a change came over the earth. Winter shivered and reluctantly loosed his hold. Gentle showers and warm winds from the south honeycombed the ice on the lake; snowdrifts faded away, and the frost-bound soil gave forth earthy odours to replace the keen smell of the snow.
One morning a song-sparrow under Donald’s window sent out its sweet “chip-chip-che-char-che-wiss-wiss,” and from the top of a swaying alder a wren carolled his joy of living in full-throated tones that said that spring was here. Stirred by the warmth and cleaving buds, the frogs came from the mud, where they had lain dormant all winter, and with swelling throats and bulging cheeks sent out their cheerful “k’tun, k’chunk.”
Mists covered the lake, and in an open spot near the mouth of the creek a flock of ducks disported themselves happily. The sun grew higher with every dawn, gaining strength each day until its warming energy spread the beauty of colour and fragrance over all.
One afternoon, when the air pulsated with the song of birds, and newly-opened buds burdened the atmosphere with perfume, Donald walked up the hill to Wainwright’s cabin.
Scores of birds, returned from their yearly pilgrimage to the south, flitted about the deserted buildings, but there was no golden-haired girl with a welcoming smile to greet them. Rivulets from the melting snows had gouged channels in the once neatly kept plots of wild flowers, and the roof of one of the smaller huts had fallen in.
Donald pushed open the door of the main building and entered. The air felt chill and dank. He experienced a quick depression of spirits, and his heart ached as he surveyed the gloomy interior. He shivered as a pack-rat scuttled across the floor and disappeared under Connie’s bunk. With a heavy heart he returned to the bright sunshine, sat down, and gave himself over to a period of melancholy retrospection.
His mind went back to his first meeting with Connie, then on through the many thrilling episodes of the summer. She belonged to high mountains, to deep forest glades, to companionship with the birds, flowers and trees of God’s wild outdoors. She would never be content with the bad air and the cramped conventions of cities. He suddenly remembered the words she had used that day by the stream near her nest in the cedars. He seemed to hear her sweet, hesitating voice with its pleasant English accent.
“And,” she had said, “six months out of every year I’d come right here and live in these mountains.”
“She’ll come back,” he said aloud. The thought cheered him. “She’ll come back,” he repeated to Andy that night.
“I ’ope so, Donnie.”
A week later, Robert Rennie, accompanied by his daughter, arrived at Summit Lake. The owner was in high spirits. “I am pleased with the excellent work you are doing here,” he said, as he placed a hand in friendly fashion on Donald’s arm. “The mill is a success—a huge success—and I know who deserves the greater share of the credit!” He smiled up at Donald. “Next week,” he went on, “an event of importance to the lumber industry takes place. The Government is to entertain a party of Eastern lumbermen. I will admit that I was proud when the chief forester called at my office to tell me that this mill had been selected as the most modern and efficient in the Province, and requested permission to bring the Government’s guests here.
“They are to stay here a few days, but you will not be inconvenienced, as the train will be equipped with dining and sleeping-cars, loaned for the occasion by the C.P.R. I will come with them, but I am leaving it to you to arrange for their entertainment and to see that everything is in tip-top shape for their arrival.”
As Robert Rennie was leaving the next morning he turned to Donald. “By the way,” he said casually, “I have decided to add a yearly bonus to your salary, based on the profits of this mill. I have made it retroactive from the time you took charge.” Before Donald had time to express his thanks his employer swung aboard the train.
Expressing a desire to be at the lake on the arrival of the excursion, Janet remained.
On the day set for the visit of the Eastern capitalists the sun rose in radiant promise of a typical June day. The leaves were now fully matured, and the willows and maples rustled under the soft, warm winds. All the valley was clothed in a verdant, quivering, gently pulsating life.
The long train drew slowly into the depot. Its occupants poured out until the small platform was filled to overcrowding. Robert Rennie, accompanied by a slender man dressed in a tweed suit and cap, pushed his way through the crowd to Donald’s side.
Donald greeted his employer, then glanced casually at Mr. Rennie’s companion. His eyes widened. “Mr. Wainwright!” he gasped.
Wainwright laughed happily as he wrung Donald’s hand.
“Is—is Con—Miss Wainwright with you?” stuttered Donald.
Then he saw her.
Connie had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. She stood quietly on the steps for a moment, then slipped gracefully to the platform, Connie herself could not have imagined how changed she was. From coiffure to dainty French heels she was dressed as if fresh from the hands of an expert Parisian costumer. So dazzling was she that she positively took Donald’s breath away. It seemed to him that she had grown like a magic rose, all at once from a tiny bud to a full blossom. No fault could be found with the perfect oval of her face, or with the delicate white rose skin, from which every trace of tan had gone. The long lashes that fringed her big blue eyes had turned a shade darker than the curling waves of her abundant golden hair.
Andy, whose small form had been hidden in the rear, moved bashfully forward, fumbling the wide hat held in his hand. “ ’Ello, Connie,” he blurted, his lips parted in a wide smile of welcome.
Instantly Connie forgot her assumed dignity and became her warm, impulsive little self. With a glad cry she flung her arms about Andy’s neck and kissed him.
“Strike me pink!” breathed Andy, as his hand stole up to touch the spot where Connie’s lips had brushed his cheek.
Connie turned to face the lake. “Oh, Dad!” she cried in ecstasy, “isn’t it good to be back here again?” She stretched her arms toward the ice-clad peaks. A gentle breeze swept down the wooded slope to fan her face as though in welcome. The blood surged beneath her smooth white skin and went singing through every vein. “Ah!” she sighed happily, as she inhaled a deep breath of air laden with the odour of pine from the hills she loved. Donald, gazing at her hungrily, saw tears brimming under her long lashes.
From the far end of the train a tall, grey-haired man assisted a slender sweet-faced woman to the ground, and then walked towards the station. As they stepped to the platform the woman’s eyes rested on Donald, who stood with his back to her. Instantly she became rooted to the spot, eyes wide, one hand fluttering toward her heart. With the supreme, wondrous mother-love shining in her eyes, she held out her arms.
“Donald!” she cried passionately, “Donald!”
Donald whirled at the sound of the loved voice calling his name. His heart throbbed wildly, his throat felt constricted and his face paled under stress of strong emotion.
“Mother!”
His arms were around his mother, yearning, tender, hungry, after these long months of separation. Her face upturned to his was white and drawn, but her eyes shone with hallowed joy. He felt his hand gripped in his father’s strong fingers, and saw his eyes shining with tears. John McLean patted his boy’s dark head with a shaking hand.
“Donnie! My boy, Donnie!”
For some time Donald was oblivious to all save the great happiness of meeting his parents. His mother’s embrace almost unmanned him, and it was with difficulty that he kept back the sobs that tightened his throat.
He led his parents to the other end of the platform and introduced them to his friends.
Robert Rennie’s comments were simply gasps and a reiterated, “Well! Well!”
Andy offered his usual contribution. “Strike me pink!” he said.
Connie’s eyes were filled with soft eagerness as she greeted Donald’s mother. The glow in Donald’s face as he spoke to Connie was poignantly significant of his deep love for her. But Connie, to his consternation and dismay, met his ardent glances with a look of cold indifference.
Since Connie’s arrival Janet’s features held a look of disquietude, but she acknowledged the introduction to Donald’s parents with a radiant smile.
A moment later, Connie, with skirts held high, was running down the railroad track.
“Going after her horse,” smiled Wainwright in answer to Donald’s question.
“Will you have dinner with us?” invited Donald.
“Yes, thank you,” responded Wainwright. “We will sleep in the car to-night,” he continued, “but Constance insists that we must return to the old home as soon as possible. She has been busy drawing plans for a chalet she intends building on the bluff.”
Connie returned with the old trapper, the latter leading Pegasus.
At dinner Connie showed no signs of her former shyness. She was as self-possessed, calm and perfectly poised as a goddess. A glad light filled her eyes as Gillis and his crew of “redshirts” filed into the big dining-room. She sprang to her feet and greeted them joyfully, shaking hands with each and everyone.
“I’m so glad to see you, Jack,” she smiled.
The big logger took her tiny hand in his. “We’re sure glad to have you with us agin, Connie.”
“May I bring Andy in to dine with us, Mr. McLean?” she asked as she came back to the table.
Donald nodded assent. She ran gleefully to the kitchen, and a moment later the loggers grinned broadly as she came through the door leading the protesting cook by the arm.
“Now,” she said as Andy sat down, “we’re all here.” She looked about her and clasped her hands rapturously. “It seems as though I had been gone for years. And oh, it is so nice to be home again!” She sank to a chair between Andy and the trapper. “Do you remember, Andy, when you were dressed as a butler and danced with John at your party?” She threw back her golden head and her silvery laughter filled the room.
Janet was unhappy from the moment of Connie’s arrival. She had caught the look of adoration in Donald’s eyes as Connie stepped to the station platform. Standing there then she had quite definitely abandoned any hope of winning him. And Janet had been so sure that once she had held a place in his heart. A great depression, a great weariness of spirit, settled upon her.
That evening, as Donald walked with his parents by the lake-shore, he turned to his father. “Dad,” he said anxiously, “do you think I have made good? Will you forgive me for—for——”
John McLean’s eyes grew suddenly misty. “Donnie,” he began gently, “Mr. Rennie has told us all about you. And no man could speak more highly of another.” He drew a newspaper from his pocket. “Haven’t you seen this?”
It was Vancouver’s morning paper, with a full-page devoted to the visit of the Eastern lumbermen. There were several photographs of the Summit Mill and one of Donald. The paper spoke of him as “the able young engineer whose modern ideas and energy had given to British Columbia a logging plant and mill that were a credit to the Province.”
Donald saw the proud light in his father’s eyes, and his heart was filled with a great peace.
The next day carpenters and material arrived for the construction of Wainwright’s new home. That afternoon Connie, clad in fashionable riding habit, came to the mill office with her foreman to place an order for lumber. Pegasus in silver-mounted bridle and English saddle was proudly restive. With neck arched he curvetted and rocked while Connie sat on his back with that complete lack of self-consciousness that is the heritage of a born horsewoman. Before leaving she rode up the hill among the toiling workers, her irresistible smile bringing an answering grin from the “redshirts,” who doffed their big hats and shouted a joyous greeting.
All day pack-horses and men struggled up the hill, staggering under the weight of building material. But although Donald strained his eyes for a glimpse of the golden-haired rider, he saw her no more that day.
As dusk fell over lake and mountain, Donald returned from Wainwright’s cabin. Andy glanced up expectantly as his friend appeared, but quickly averted his face as he saw the look of settled melancholy shrouding Donald’s features. Donald sank disconsolately to a seat outside the kitchen door. He had found Wainwright alone and wondered if Connie had purposely absented herself. Her treatment of him since her return puzzled him sorely and had filled him with a great despondency. As he rose and walked toward his cabin, Andy gazed after the retreating figure, eyes filled with compassion, then turned to speak to one of his helpers in such an irritable tone that the flunkey’s mouth opened in astonishment.
For three evenings it was the same. Donald failed to find Connie at home; nor did she come to the mill. He regretfully decided that it was no coincidence, but that she was deliberately avoiding him.
On a Sunday afternoon Andy saw Donald gaze yearningly toward the bluff, then turn up the trail leading to the dam.
At Donald’s request Gillis had diverted logging operations to circle the little oasis in the heavy timber, so that Connie’s sylvan glade still held its primeval charm and beauty.
Donald stood for a moment gazing reflectively into the white foam at the foot of the tiny cataract, then threw himself on the soft bed of moss and closed his eyes. But this time the fairy spot did not bring the usual delicious languor to his harassed spirit. Birds sang as sweetly; flowers filled the air with the same odour; the wind sighed as softly through the tree-tops, and the small brook still sang its rippling song. The rapid tattoo of a woodpecker’s bill on a hollow tree jarred his nerves and he tossed restlessly.
A cedar tip floated through the air. Blown by the wind, it fluttered in circles, then landed gently on the hands lying on his chest. His eyes opened, then, with trembling limbs he came to his feet.
Connie, clad in faded overalls and cotton shirt, stood on the edge of the “nest.” Her breast was heaving, her loosened golden hair flying in the wind. The softness in her blue eyes made Donald gasp, and his heart thumped as though it were in his throat.
“Connie!” he cried huskily, “I love you, dear! Don’t you care for me even a little?”
She sprang lightly to the ground and came toward him, her arms outstretched. Tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. “Oh, Donald, Donald, you big stupid!” she sobbed, “I have been waiting here for you every day. I—I have loved you always.”
With a shock of incredible rapture Donald gathered her in his strong arms, where she cuddled like a weeping child. He kissed her red lips, her eyes, hair and throbbing throat. “My little Connie,” he said, in a voice vibrant with feeling, “do you really love me?” He pressed his cheek to hers and felt the flutter of her long lashes as she pressed the softness of her own closer. The quick, exquisite indrawing of her sobbing breath were lovely answering things, and he thrilled to hear her whisper: “Yes, Donald! Yes, Donald!”
Andy came walking meditatively up the path, his hands clasped behind him, his blond head bowed in deep thought. Not finding Donald at the dam, he walked up the hill to enter the meadow just as Donald clasped Connie in his arms. For an instant the little Australian stood rigid, his eyes bulging, then retreated hastily to the shelter of the trees. Anyone seeing Andy at that moment would have thought him suddenly gone mad. He whirled about in a wild dance, hugging himself in an ecstasy of joy. Ceasing his mad gyrations, he dashed his hand across his eyes and bolted like a runaway down the hill.
Gillis and his “redshirts” sat sunning themselves on the steps of the dining-room. They sprang to their feet as Andy came tearing down the hill. Breathlessly Andy told them of the scene he had witnessed. “We’ll give them a blinkin’ good reception when they come down,” he panted. He issued several sharp orders and the men scurried happily to execute his commands.
The train that was to carry the excursionists to the Coast was being made up on the siding. While they were awaiting this, the visitors watched with curious interest the mysterious preparations being made by the loggers.
At this moment, hand in hand, Donald and Connie turned the corner of the building. As they did so they came to a sudden halt and stared at the odd scene before them. The men stood in two orderly rows. The ground between was carpeted with wild flowers, and each logger held a mass of blooms in his hand. At the far end of this lane of men stood Andy, a wide smile on his droll face. Connie lowered her eyes in confusion. Donald shook his fist at Andy. “You little beggar! You are responsible for this.”
Andy chuckled. “Come on, Donnie, be a sport,” he coaxed.
With flushed faces Donald and Connie walked down the aisle, while the men pelted them with flowers. The crowd of visitors clapped their hands in appreciation of this beautiful scene. As they neared the end of the gauntlet, Andy sprang to a stump.
“Three cheers for the ’appy couple!” he yelled. A roar of cheering followed. “A tiger!” shouted Andy. And again the air trembled to the hoarse shout of brawny throats.
Donald led Connie straight to his mother. “Mother,” he said bashfully, “meet your future daughter.”
Quick tears came to his mother’s eyes as Donald made this announcement. “My dear,” she said tenderly, as her arms folded about Connie, “you are all love and tenderness.”
The train’s whistle screeched its warning and the crowd moved down to the station.
“Will you be coming home to us soon, Donnie?” asked his father as he was leaving. Donald looked down at Connie.
“We’ll visit you on our honeymoon, Dad,” responded Donald happily. He swept his arm toward the mountains. “I could never leave this. The spell of the Great West has entered my blood.”
Janet had spent the afternoon paddling idly on the lake. When she received the news of Donald’s engagement she concealed the ache in her heart by an outward air of indifference. The pretence of a headache enabled her to keep in her cabin and she did not appear for dinner. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
When the shadows lengthened, Donald and Connie moved slowly along the path toward the bluff. As they turned a curve in the trail Janet came to the window of her cabin and stood watching them until they disappeared from sight.
Andy, sitting a few feet distant with his back against a tree, noted the look of despondency on Janet’s face. He came to his feet and walked slowly toward the kitchen. “As Methusalem said through ’is whiskers, ‘ ’e who ’olds ’is ’ead too ’igh will ’t ’is blinkin’ toe.’ ”
As the lovers were about to turn up the mountain trail, the trapper emerged from the woods with his old pack-horse. The cayuse was piled high with luggage.
“Where are you going, John?” queried Donald.
“I’m hittin’ the trail, ol’ timer.”
“I hope you are not leaving us,” said Connie.
“Yes, I’m quittin’ the country.”
“Why?” questioned Donald.
“Gittin’ too thickly settled. I feel that I ain’t got room to breathe. I’m goin’ way back into the Cariboo somewhere so’s I kin be by myself.”
The race of mediæval hermits is not dead. The spirit that led the first pioneers into the forest guides others there to-day. There are men whose souls long for a place untamed, who yearn to breathe the wild free air. They want a home straight from the hands of the Creator, unspoiled by man. They may be trappers, who brave cold and hardships to clothe milady in warm furs; they may be prospectors, who search out the hidden gold for others to use. Whatever they may be, these hardy men blaze the trail for others to follow.
When Donald told the trapper of the coming wedding the old man’s eyes softened. “I’m glad. It’s jest right. I hoped you two would git married.” He shook hands gravely, then clucked to his horse.
“Good-bye, Connie! Good-bye, ol’ timer! God bless ye!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Donald and Connie stood watching the patient old figure as he trudged behind his cayuse. At a turn of the trail he stopped and for a long interval gazed back at the log cabin by the stream, which had been his home for so many years. He waved his hand in farewell, then horse and man disappeared from view.
When Donald and Connie reached the bluff the sun had sunk in the crimson west, leaving a rich afterglow that spread across the horizon from west to east, the rich colours merging by slow degrees into that pure pearl-grey which makes the long and lovely twilight of the British Columbia mountains. Down on the lake mists were gathering, but in the upper sky and on the glaciers a vivid orange glow still lingered. The trees stood stiff and motionless in the quiet air. From afar, subdued but clear, came the hoot of a blue-grouse, and from mountain gorges came the faint sighing sound of distant waterfalls. Sweet and pungent odours of wild flowers came from the woods about them. A star of silver brilliancy sparkled suddenly out in the sky over the massive snow-clad peaks.
“Venus,” whispered Connie.
Donald’s gaze swept from the camp, nestled at their feet, to the darkening heavens, to the star of love, then down to the girl by his side.
There are moments in the lives of all men—regardless of creed or religion—when they feel the nearness of God. Such a moment came to Donald. He uttered no sound, yet his soul was crying out its great thankfulness.
Connie sensed his feeling. She bowed her head, her eyes misty with joy and gratitude. “Oh, God,” she murmured softly, “we thank Thee for Thy many blessings.”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.
A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.