Next afternoon Festing leaned his borrowed bicycle against the gate at Knott Scar and walked up the drive. He had grave misgivings, but it was too late to indulge them, and he braced himself and looked about with keen curiosity. The drive curved and a bank of shrubs on one side obstructed his view, but the Scar rose in front, with patches of heather glowing a rich crimson among the gray rocks. Beneath these, a dark beech wood rolled down the hill. On the other side there was a lawn that looked like green velvet. His trained eye could detect no unevenness; the smooth surface might have been laid with a spirit level. Festing had seen no grass like this in Canada and wondered how much labor it cost.
Then he came to the end of the shrubs and saw a small, creeper-covered house, with a low wall, pierced where shallow steps went up, along the terrace. The creeper was in full leaf and dark, but roses bloomed about the windows and bright-red geraniums in urns grew upon the wall. He heard bees humming and a faint wind in the beech tops, but the shadows scarcely moved upon the grass, and a strange, drowsy quietness brooded over the place. Indeed, the calm was daunting; he felt he belonged to another world and was intruding there, but went resolutely up the shallow steps.
Two white-haired ladies received him in a shady, old-fashioned room with a low ceiling. There was a smell of flowers, but it was faint, and he thought it harmonized with the subdued lighting of the room. A horizontal piano stood in a corner and the dark, polished rosewood had dull reflections; some music lay about, but not in disorder, and he noted the delicate modeling of the cabinet with diamond panes it had been taken from. He knew nothing about furniture, but he had an eye for line and remarked the taste that characterized the rest of the articles. There were a few landscapes in water-color, and one or two pieces of old china, of a deep blue that struck the right note of contrast with the pale-yellow wall.
Festing felt that the house had an influence; a gracious influence perhaps, but vaguely antagonistic to him. He had thought of a house as a place in which one ate and slept, but did not expect it to mold one's character. Surroundings like this were no doubt Helen Dalton's proper environment, but he came from the outside turmoil, where men sweated and struggled and took hard knocks.
In the meantime, he talked to and studied the two ladies. Although they had white hair, they were younger than he thought at first and much alike. It was as if they had faded prematurely from breathing too rarefied an atmosphere and shutting out rude but bracing blasts. Still they had a curious charm, and he had felt a hint of warmth in Mrs. Dalton's welcome that puzzled him.
“We have been expecting you. Bob told us you would come,” she said in a low, sweet voice, and added with a smile: “I wanted to meet you.”
Festing wondered what Bob had said about him, but for a time they tactfully avoided the object of his visit and asked him questions about his journey. Then Mrs. Dalton got up.
“Helen is in the garden. Shall we look for her?”
She took him across the lawn to a bench beneath a copper beech, and Festing braced himself when a girl got up. She wore white and the shadow of the leaves checkered the plain dress. He noted the unconscious grace of her pose as she turned towards him, and her warm color, which seemed to indicate a sanguine temperament. Helen Dalton was all that he had thought, and something more. He knew her level, penetrating glance, but she had a virility he had not expected. The girl was somehow stronger than he portrait.
“Perhaps I had better leave you to talk to Mr. Festing,” Mrs. Dalton said presently and moved away.
Helen waited with a calm that Festing thought must cost her much, and moving a folding chair, he sat down opposite.
“I understand Bob told you I would come,” he said. “You see, he is a friend of mine.”
“Yes,” she replied with a faint sparkle in her eyes. “He hinted that you would explain matters. I think he meant you would make some defense for him.”
Festing noted that her voice was low like her mother's, but it had a firmer note. He could be frank with her, but there was a risk that he might say too much.
“Well,” he said, “I may make mistakes. In fact, it was with much reluctance I promised to come, and if Bob hadn't insisted——” He paused and pulled himself together. “On the surface, of course, his conduct looks inexcusable, but he really has some defense, and I think you ought to hear it, for your own sake.”
“Perhaps I ought,” she agreed quietly. “Well, I am willing.”
Festing began by relating Charnock's troubles. He meant her to understand the situation and supplied rather confusing particulars about prairie farming and mortgages. For all that, the line he took was strong; he showed how Charnock's embarrassments prevented his offering her comforts she would find needful and saving her from the monotonous toil an impoverished farmer's wife must undertake. In the meantime, but unconsciously, he threw some light on Charnock's vacillating character.
When he stopped Helen mused for a few minutes. Although she had got a shock when Charnock gave her up, she knew her lover better than when she had promised to marry him. He came home once in the winter and she had remarked a change. Bob was not altogether the man she had thought; there were things that jarred, and his letters gradually made this plainer. Still she had meant to keep her promise, and his withdrawal hurt. She had borne something for his sake, because her mother and her relations had not approved the engagement. Then she roused herself and turned to Festing.
“You have done your best for your friend and Bob ought to be grateful, but you both start from a wrong point. Why do you take it for granted that I would shrink from hardship?”
“I didn't imagine you would shrink,” Festing declared. “For all that, Bob was right. The life is too hard for a girl brought up like you.” He hesitated a moment. “I mean for a girl brought up in your surroundings.”
Helen smiled and he knew it was a sign of courage, but had a vague feeling that he understood why she did so as he looked about. The sighing in the beech tops had died away and the shadows did not move upon the lawn. A heavy smell of flowers came from the borders and the house seemed to be sleeping in the hot sunshine. Everything was beautiful, well-ordered, and tranquil, but he knew if he stayed there long he would hear the cry of the black geese and the clang of flung-down rails ring through the soporific calm. Something in the girl's face indicated that she might find the calm oppressive and sympathize with him.
“What is Bob going to do now he has lost his farm?” she asked after a time.
“In one respect, he won't be much worse off. They expect a boom at the settlement, and he'll manage the hotel and store and poolroom for Keller. The old man will probably retire soon and Bob will get the business.”
“But why should the proprietor give the business to Bob?”
“He's Sadie's father,” Festing answered with some surprise.
“But who is Sadie?”
Festing looked up sharply and saw that Helen was puzzled and suspicious. Her eyes were harder and her mouth was set.
“Ah!” he said. “Don't you know?”
A wave of color flushed Helen's face, but her voice was level. “I don't know! It looks as if Bob had not told me the most important thing. Do you mean that he is going to marry Miss Keller?”
Festing felt pitiful. He saw that she had got a shock, but she bore it pluckily, and he tried to conquer his indignant rage. Charnock had let him believe he had told her; he ought to have realized that the fellow could not act straight.
“I thought you knew,” he stammered.
“That's obvious,” Helen replied with an effort for calm. “But tell me something about Miss Keller.”
“Sadie runs the hotel and helps at the store. She's rather pretty and intelligent. In fact, she's generally capable and a good manager.”
“You seem to know her well since you call her Sadie.”
“Oh,” said Festing, “everybody calls her Sadie!”
“You mean in the bar and poolroom? I understand the latter's a public billiard-saloon!”
Festing felt that he must do Sadie justice. She had her virtues, and although he was very angry with Charnock he did not want Helen to think the fellow had given her up for a worthless rival. Still he was not sure if his putting the girl in a favorable light would soften the blow or not.
“To begin with, they don't employ women in a Canadian bar. Then Sadie's quite a good sort and understands Bob—perhaps better than an English girl could. She was brought up on the plains and knows all about the life we lead.”
“You imply that she is not fastidious, and will be lenient to her husband's faults? That she will bring him down to her level?”
“Well,” said Festing, who thought Helen did not know Charnock's dissipated habits, “I imagine she'll keep him there, and that's something. I mean she won't let him sink below her level; Sadie's shrewd and determined. Then marriage is a problem to men like Bob farming the plains. Girls of the type they have been used to and would naturally choose couldn't stand the hardships.”
“So they are satisfied with a lower type? With any girl who pleases their eye?”
“I don't think that's quite fair,” Festing objected. “Besides, lower is rather vague.”
“Then would you, for example, be satisfied with a girl like Miss Keller?”
“Certainly not,” said Festing, with incautious firmness. “Anyway, not now I've seen a different kind in the Old Country.”
Helen turned her head and said nothing for a few moments. Then she got up.
“I think you have had a difficult task, Mr. Festing, and I must thank you for the way you have carried it out. We won't speak of it again; but perhaps if Muriel Gardiner——”
“She hasn't asked me any questions or hinted that she is curious.”
There was a gleam of amusement in Helen's eyes. “So you imagined she wasn't interested! Well, you can tell her about Bob's losses and farming troubles. You understand these matters, and it will save me something.”
Festing made a sign of agreement and Helen went with him to the terrace, where Mrs. Dalton told him when he would find them at home if he wished to come again. He was glad to leave because he thought the interview had been difficult for Helen, but her mother had made him feel that if he came back he would be welcome. This was not altogether conventional politeness; he imagined she wanted to see him, although she was obviously willing to let him go then.
He puzzled about it and other matters as he rode back. Helen Dalton was finer than her picture. He had, no doubt, been awkward and had hurt her by his clumsiness, while she had got a painful shock, but had borne it with unflinching pluck. Her calm had not deceived him, since he knew what it cost, and her smile had roused his pity because it was so brave. Then his anger against Charnock returned with extra force. The fellow, as usual, had shirked his duty, and left him to tell the girl he had really given her up because he meant to marry somebody else. Festing thought she was too just to blame him for Bob's fault, but he had been forced to witness her humiliation, and she would, no doubt, avoid him because of this. Well, he had done with Bob, although he would see him once on his return and tell him what he thought.
Then he heard a shout and saw a farmer trying to move a loaded cart out of his way. He had not noticed that he was riding furiously down a hill, but he sped past the cart upon the grassy margin of the road and laughed as he went on. His mood had changed and he resolved that he would go back to the creeper-covered house when Helen had had time to recover and his society would be less disturbing. After all, Mrs. Dalton had told him he might come.
In the evening he walked up and down the terrace with Muriel, and told her why he had gone to Knott Scar, although he was satisfied with relating Charnock's financial troubles and said nothing about his engagement to Sadie. He could not say that Muriel actually led him on, but he felt that she would be disappointed if he did not take her into his confidence.
“Of course I saw you knew all about it,” she said when he stopped. “Besides, I expected that Helen would give you leave to tell me. It would make things easier for her and be more authentic.”
“I should expect Miss Dalton to think of that.”
Muriel smiled. “Perhaps not. Well, I imagine it's lucky Charnock released her; Helen is much too good for him. I suppose you thought you took the proper line in laying all the stress you could upon the hardships?”
“I did. I thought she couldn't stand the strain she would have had to bear.”
“How did she take that?”
“She seemed surprised, as if she didn't think it much of a reason for Charnock letting her go.”
“Frankly, I don't think it was.”
“You haven't been to Canada. The life is hard.”
“It doesn't seem to have broken down your health or nerve.”
“That's different. A man gets used to hardships and discomfort. They're sometimes bracing.”
“A very masculine attitude! Then men alone have pluck and endurance?”
“There are two kinds of pluck,” Festing rejoined. “I dare say you surpass us in the moral kind—I'm sure Miss Dalton has more than Charnock. But there's the other; physical courage, and if you like, physical strength.”
Muriel looked amused. “And you imagine Helen is deficient there? Well, I suppose you don't know she's the best tennis player in the county and a daring rock-climber. Girls are taking to mountaineering now, you know. But are you going back to the Daltons?”
Festing thought she gave him a keen glance, but answered steadily: “I am going back, but not for some time. I want to go, but it might be kinder if I kept away.”
“Well, it's a very proper feeling and you're rather nice. But you talked about going to see the mountains for a few days. When do you start?”
“I don't know yet. Everything here is so charming, and I'm getting the habit of lazy enjoyment. It will need an effort to go away.”
“You're certainly nice,” Muriel rejoined, smiling. “However, you might tell me when you do think of starting. I don't want you to be away when we have arranged something to amuse you; and then, as I know the mountains, I can indicate an interesting tour. You might miss much if you didn't know where to go and what you ought to see.”
Festing promised, and she left him and went back to the house with a thoughtful smile that hinted that she had begun to make an amusing plan. Muriel was romantic and rather fond of managing her friends' affairs for their good.
Festing was glad to sit down when he reached the bottom of a chasm that divided the summits of two towering fells. He had crossed the higher of the two without much trouble except for a laborious scramble over large, rough stones, but the ascent of the other threatened to be difficult. It rose in front, a wall of splintered crag, seamed by deep gullies, for the strata was tilted up nearly perpendicular. All the gullies were climbed by expert mountaineers, but this needed a party and a rope, and the other way, round the shoulder of the great rock, was almost as hard. Festing knew the easiest plan was to descend a neighboring hollow, from which he would find a steep path to the top.
Lighting his pipe, he glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and having been on his feet since breakfast, he felt tired. The nails he had had driven into his light American boots hurt his feet, and the boots were much the worse for the last few days' wear. Muriel had carefully planned the trip, and then delayed his start by a week because she wanted to take him to a tennis party. Since he could not play tennis much, Festing did not see why she had done so, but agreed when she insisted.
So far, he had followed her instructions and admitted that she had directed him well, because it was hard to imagine there was anything in England finer than the country he had seen. The mountains had not the majestic grandeur of the British Columbian ranges, but they were wild enough, and pierced by dales steeped in sylvan beauty. The chasm in which he now rested had an impressive ruggedness.
Blinks of sunshine touched the lower face of the crag, and in their track the dark rock glittered with a steely luster, but trails of mist rolled among the crannies above. Below, a precipitous slope of small stones that the dalesmen call a scree ran down to a hollow strewn with broken rocks, and across this he could distinguish the blurred flat top of another height. The mountain dropped to a dale that looked profoundly deep, although he could not see its bottom.
The light was puzzling. For the most part, the sky was clear and the gleams of sun were hot, but heavy, black clouds drifted about, and a thick gray haze obscured the lower ground. Rain and mist would be dangerous obstacles, but Festing understood that he could reach the dale in about two hours' steady walking. Muriel had told him where to stop; indeed, she had been rather particular about this, and had recommended him to spend two days in the neighborhood. Luckily, there would be no crags to climb if he kept the path across the summit, for he had found it easier to reach the top of the hills than get down by a different line.
A rattle of stones made him look up, and he saw two girls silhouetted in a flash of sunshine against the face of the crag. They carried bulging rucksacks and were coming down towards him, picking their way among the tumbled rocks. He could not see the face of the first, but noticed her light poise and graceful movements as she sprang from stone to stone. The other followed cautiously and Festing thought she limped, but when the first stopped to wait for her and lifted her head he felt a curious thrill. It was Helen Dalton.
He sat still, knowing his gray clothes would be hard to distinguish among the stones, and wondering what to do. He did not want to force his society upon the girl just yet, but would be disappointed if she passed. She came on, and when her eyes rested on him he got up. A flush of embarrassment colored her face, but she stopped and greeted him with a smile.
“Mr. Festing! How did you get here?”
“I came over the Pike,” said Festing. “I'm going to the dale.”
“So are we,” said Helen, who presented him to her companion.
Festing remarked that they wore jackets that had a tanned look, unusually short skirts, and thick nailed boots. Then he thought Helen's eyes twinkled.
“You would not have expected to find me engaged in anything so strenuous as this?”
“It is rather strenuous,” Miss Jardine broke in. “You can stand if you like; I'm going to sit down.”
They found a flat stone, and when Festing leaned against another Helen resumed: “We meant to try the Stairs, but have had a hard day and Alison is lame.”
“I hurt my foot,” Miss Jardine explained. “Besides, I'm from the level Midlands and we have been walking since breakfast. That doesn't matter to Helen; she is never tired.”
Festing thought Helen looked remarkably fresh. Exertion and the mountain air had brought a fine color to her face, her eyes were bright, and there was a hint of vigor in her resting pose. Moreover, he had studied the Stairs, which led behind the shoulder of the crag to the summit. One could get up, if one was thin enough to squeeze through a gap between two rocks, but nerve and agility would be required.
“But you must climb pretty well, if you meant to get up the Stairs,” he said.
“I know the Carnarvon range, but only go there now and then, and one needs some training to keep pace with people born among the fells who walk like mountain goats.”
Had she said a mountain deer, Festing would have approved, for he had noted Helen's easy balance and fearless grace as she crossed the ragged blocks of stone. Then a rumble of distant thunder rolled among the crags and Miss Jardine resumed: “We ought to fix upon the best way down.”
“The best is a rather elastic term,” Helen rejoined. “The easiest would be to go back by the way we came.”
“It's much too far.”
“The shortest is up the crag by the Stairs or the gully on the other side. The regular track takes us down near the bottom of the next dale, and then back over the top.”
“That's unthinkable,” Miss Jardine declared.
“Well,” said Helen thoughtfully, “there's a short line down the scree and across the shoulder of the fell below, but it's steep and rough. There are some small crags, too, but they're not much of an obstacle when they're dry.”
They set off and Festing noticed Helen's confidence on the scree. The descent was safe, but looked daunting, because their figures made a sharp angle with the gravel slope, and now and then a mass of dislodged stones rushed down hill. Sometimes the girl allowed herself to slide, sometimes she ran a few yards and sprang, but she did not stumble or lose her balance. Miss Jardine was cautious, and Festing kept near her, carrying her sack.
At the bottom they came to a wide belt of massive stones, fallen from the heights above, and their progress was slow. One had to measure the gaps between the blocks and step carefully across, while the stones were ragged and had sharp corners. Festing was unable to look up and followed Helen, but after a time Miss Jardine stopped, and he saw that the crags were smothered in leaden cloud and all the sky was dark.
“I must have a few minutes' rest,” the tired girl declared.
As they sat down on the edge of a ponderous slab there was a crash of thunder that rolled from rock to rock, and a few big drops fell. Then as the echoes died away the hillside was hidden by a curtain of driving rain. One end of the slab was tilted and they crept into the hollow underneath.
“It will be awkward if this goes on,” Miss Jardine remarked.
“These thunderstorms seldom last,” said Helen. “I expect we have seen the worst, and we must start again as soon as we can see.”
Festing thought she was anxious to get down, but Miss Jardine grumbled about the rain, and then turned to him.
“It was a relief to give you my sack, and I was glad to see it didn't bother you. I suppose you are used to these mountains.”
“No,” said Festing. “This is the first time I've climbed a hill for amusement.”
“But you are a climber. You have balance, trust your feet and not your hands, and know how to step on a loose stone.”
Festing laughed. “I used to do something of the kind as a matter of business. You see, I helped mark out the line for a new railroad in British Columbia, and rocks are plentiful in that country.”
“It must be a wonderful place,” said Helen. “I have a photograph of the gorge at the foot of the glacier, where the line went through. You had stern work when you laid the rails in winter.”
Festing looked at her in surprise, for he had worked to the edge of exhaustion and run many risks at the spot, but while he wondered how she knew Helen got up.
“I think the rain is stopping and we can start,” she said.
There was not much rain, but thick mist rolled across the top of the hill they were now level with, and everything below was blotted out. Leaving the stones, they crossed a belt of boggy grass where their feet sank, but Festing felt it a relief to have done with the rocks. The narrow tableland they were crossing was comfortingly flat, and he looked forward to descending a long grassy slope. When they reached the edge, however, he got a rude disappointment, for the mist rolled up in waves with intervals between, and when a white cloud passed a gray light shone down into the gulf at his feet.
In the foreground there was a steep slope where rock ledges broke through the wet turf, and in one place a chasm cleft the hill. He could not see the bottom, for it was filled with mist, but the height of the rock wall hinted at its depth. A transverse ravine ran into the chasm, and he could hear the roar of a waterfall. Then the mist rolled up in a white smother and blotted everything out.
“We cross the beck,” said Helen. “Then we go nearly straight down, keeping this side of the big ghyll.”
“As far away as possible, I hope. I don't like its look,” Miss Jardine remarked.
Festing agreed with her. So far as he could see, the descent looked forbidding, but there was no sign of the sky's clearing, and it was obvious that they must get down. The thunder had gone, but the mist brought a curious, searching damp, and a cold wind had begun to blow. He was glad to think Helen knew the way.
She took them down a steep pitch where small rocky ledges dropped nearly vertical among patches of rotten turf and it was needful to get a good grip with one's hands as well as with one's feet. Festing helped Miss Jardine when he could, but he had an unpleasant feeling that a rash step might take him over the edge of a precipice. Sometimes he could see Helen in front, and sometimes, for a few moments, her figure was lost in the mist. He was glad to note that she was apparently going down with confidence.
After a time the slope got easier and she stopped, lifting her hand. Festing found her looking into a ravine through which water flowed. It was not very deep, but its sides were perpendicular. Seeing that Miss Jardine was some distance behind, she looked at Festing with a quiet smile.
“There is a place where one can cross without much trouble, but I don't know whether to go up or down.”
Festing felt his heart beat. It looked as if she had taken him into her confidence and asked his help.
“Not down, I think. That would take us to the big ghyll. Let's try up, and cross at the first practicable spot.”
Helen made a sign of agreement, and when Miss Jardine joined them they turned back along the edge of the ravine. By and by Helen stopped where patches of wet soil checkered the steep rock and a mountain-ash offered a hold. Almost immediately below the spot, the stream plunged over a ledge and vanished into the mist.
Festing looked at Helen. The descent would be awkward, if not dangerous, but he could trust her judgment. It was the first time he had allowed a woman to give him a lead in a difficulty, and he admitted that he would not have done so had his guide been anybody else.
“I think we can get across, and I don't want to go too far up,” she said. “If you don't mind helping Alison—”
“I'll throw the sacks across first,” Festing replied.
He swung them round by the straps and let them go, and when the last splashed into a boggy patch on the other side Miss Jardine laughed.
“I'm selfishly glad that one is yours. If Helen's had fallen a foot short, it would have gone over the fall, but I expect she had a reason for taking the risk. Where our clothes have gone we must follow.”
Helen seized a tuft of heather, and sliding down, reached a narrow shelf four or five feet below. Then a small mountain-ash gave her a fresh hold and she dropped to the top of a projecting stone. Below this there was another shelf and some boggy grass, after which a bank of earth dropped nearly straight to the stream.
“How we shall get down the last pitch isn't very obvious,” Miss Jardine remarked. “I suppose we will see when we arrive. It isn't my resolution that gives way, but my foot. You might go first.”
Festing dropped on to the first shelf, and she came down into his arms. The shock nearly flung him off, but he steadied her with an effort and seized the stem of the small tree.
“Looks like a tight-wire trick,” he said, glancing at the stone. “However, if we miss it, there's another ledge below.”
He reached the stone, and balancing on it with one foot, kicked a hole in the spongy turf. Finding this would support him he held out his hand.
“Now. As lightly as you can!”
The girl came down, struck the stone with her foot, and slipped, but Festing had time to clutch her first. He could not hold her back, but he could steady her, and for a moment felt his muscles crack and the peat tear out from the hole in the bank. Then his hands slipped and he fell, gasping and red in face, upon the shelf beside the girl.
“Thank you; you did that rather well,” she said. “It looks as if I were heavier than you thought.”
While he had been occupied Festing imagined he had heard a splash, and now looking down saw Helen standing on a boulder in the stream. She gave him an approving nod before she sprang to the next stone, and he felt a thrill of pleasure. She knew his task was difficult and was satisfied with him.
When they came to the scar where the floods had torn away the bank he hesitated. It was some distance to the water, and there was no hold upon the wall of soil, which was studded with small round stones.
“Helen slid,” his companion remarked. “I imagine she chose her time; the sitting glissade isn't elegant. But if you'll go first and wait—”
Festing leaned back with his shoulders against the bank and pushed off. He alighted in the water, and Miss Jardine, coming down, kicked his arm. He saved her from a plunge into the stream, but thought she looked something the worse for wear as they made their way from stone to stone. The other bank was easier, and for a time they had not much trouble in going down hill, but the mist was very thick, and presently the steep slope broke off close in front. Helen stopped and beckoned Festing.
Looking down, he saw the wet face of a crag drop into the rolling vapor. For eight or nine feet it was perpendicular, and afterwards ran down at a very steep slant, but immediately below there was a gully with a foot or two of level gravel at its top.
“This is not the regular track,” Helen said. “However, I think I know the gully.”
Festing pondered. The rock looked daunting, but one might get down to the patch of gravel. The trouble was that one could not see what lay below, and it might be difficult to climb back, if this was needful.
“I could get as far as the edge yonder,” he suggested.
“No,” said Helen. “You don't know the gully, and if I'm mistaken about it, you could help me up.”
“That's true. Still I'd sooner go.”
Helen shook her head, and although she did not speak, he felt there was something delightful in her consulting him. They had come to know each other on the misty hillside in a way that would not have been possible in conventional surroundings. He had seen a possibility of the girl, so to speak, shutting him out in self-defense because he had had some part in her humiliation, but he thought that risk had gone.
“Well,” he resumed, “what do you propose?”
“I'm going to see if this is the place I think. You can steady me.”
Festing lay down with his head over the edge and found a grip for his toes and knees. There were a few cracks in the rock and Helen had got half way down before she took his hands. He felt the strain and braced himself, determined that he would be pulled over before he let her fall.
“Loose me now,” she said.
“Have you got a safe hold for your foot?” Festing gasped.
“I think I have. Let go.”
“Make sure first,” he answered with a sobbing breath.
She looked up into his set face, and although the strain was heavy he thrilled as he saw her smile. The smile indicated courage and trust.
“I'm quite safe,” she said, and he let her go.
She leaned cautiously over the next edge, but after a moment or two turned and waved her hand.
“This is the way I thought. Send Alison down.”
Miss Jardine descended with some help from both, and Festing dropped safely on the gravel. He leaned against the rock to get his breath, and Helen turned to him with a twinkle.
“You doubted my nerve once. I suppose that was why you didn't let go.”
“I'm sometimes dull,” said Festing. “Just now, however, I wanted to make certain I could help you back.”
Helen laughed. “Well, I dare say you could have lifted me, but it would have been simpler to lower me your coat.”
They went down the gully, where jambed stones made rude steps, and reaching the bottom found a belt of grass that led them to the head of a dale. The mist was thinner, and presently a few scattered houses appeared across the fields. The path they followed forked, and Helen stopped at the turning.
“The hotel is yonder to the right,” she said. “We are going to the hall, where they sometimes take people in.”
Festing remembered that Muriel had indicated the hall, which he understood was a well-built farm, as his stopping place. He wanted to go there, but thought there was some risk of its looking as if he meant to force his society on the girls. He took the path Helen indicated, and when he had gone some distance, stopped, hesitated, and then went on.
The girls noted this and Miss Jardine said: “I suppose he remembered that he has my sack, or else his heart failed him.”
Helen looked at her in surprise. “Did you forget?”
“I did not,” Miss Jardine admitted. “I thought I wouldn't spoil the plot. It looked as if he wanted an excuse for meeting us again, but I think I wronged him. That sudden stop was genuine.”
“The sack is yours,” said Helen dryly. “But you will need the things inside.”
“I imagine I will get them before long, although it doesn't seem to have struck him that my clothes are damp. It's rather significant that he went on when he could have run across the field and caught us up. Have you known him long?”
“I met him once,” said Helen with an impatient frown.
“Rather a good type,” Miss Jardine remarked. “I think I should like Canadians, if they're all like that.”
“He isn't a Canadian.”
“Then he hasn't been in England for some time, and so far as my knowledge goes, men like variety. Of course, to some extent, he saw us under a disadvantage. Mountaineering clothes are comfortable, but one can't say much more.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Helen rejoined and went on across the field.
After dinner Festing walked across the fields to the farm. It was raining and a cold wind swept the dale, but a fire burned in the room into which he was shown and the curtains were drawn. Helen and Miss Jardine got up when he came in and put the rucksack on the table.
“I'm sorry I forgot this until I'd gone some distance,” he said. “Then I couldn't find anybody to send with it.”
“No doubt you wanted your dinner,” Miss Jardine suggested.
Festing saw that she wore a different dress that looked rather large.
“No,” he said, “it wasn't the dinner that stopped me. Besides, it didn't strike me that—”
“That I might need my clothes? Well, I don't suppose it would strike you; but since you have come across in the rain, won't you stop?”
Festing found an old leather chair, and sitting down, looked about with a sense of satisfaction, for the fire was cheerful after the raw cold outside. The room was large and old-fashioned, with heavy beams across the low ceiling. There was a tall clock, and a big, black oak chest; curled ram's horns and brass candlesticks twinkled on the mantel; an old copper kettle threw back red reflections near the fire. His companions occupied opposite sides of a large sheepskin rug, and he felt that both had charm, though they were different. The contrast added something to the charm.
Miss Jardine's skin was a pure white; her hair and eyes were nearly black, and she had a sparkling, and perhaps rather daring, humor. Helen's colors were rose and cream, her hair changed from warm brown to gold as it caught the light, and her eyes were calm and gray. She was younger than the other and he thought her smile delightful, but, as a rule, she was marked by a certain gravity. Her wide brows and the firm lines of her mouth and nose hinted at pride and resolution.
“I hope your foot is better,” he said to Miss Jardine.
“Yes, thanks. It mainly needed rest, and I must confess that I didn't find it altogether a drawback when we stopped at the bottom of the big crag. I should have had to go up if I hadn't been lame.”
“You were not disappointed because you couldn't reach the top?”
Miss Jardine laughed. “Helen was. She makes it a rule to accomplish what she undertakes. I wasn't disappointed then, though I am now. Perhaps one really enjoys mountaineering best afterwards. You like to think how adventurous you have been, but it's sometimes difficult while the adventure's going on.”
“That's true,” Festing agreed. “Still you feel sorry if, as we say, you are unable to put the thing over.”
Helen gave him a sympathetic smile. “Yes; one feels that.”
“It depends upon one's temperament,” Miss Jardine objected. “I know my limits, though Helen does not know hers. When I can't get what I'm out for, I'm satisfied with less. One can't always have the best.”
“It's worth trying for, anyway,” Festing replied.
He was afraid this sounded priggish. Miss Jardine got up.
“Well, I'm not much of a philosopher and had better put out some of the clothes you brought to dry, although it was thoughtful of you to throw your bag into the bog instead of mine.”
“That was an accident,” Festing declared. “I meant to throw them both across.”
Miss Jardine picked up the sack. “There's nobody else here and a wet evening's dreary. I hope you won't go before I come back.”
“I won't,” said Festing. “They have only a deaf tourist and two tired climbers, who seem sleepy and bad-tempered, at the hotel.”
Miss Jardine's eyes twinkled. “Well,” she said as she went out, “I suppose it's a fair retort.”
Festing colored and looked at Helen apologetically. “You see, I have lived in the woods.”
“I expect that has some advantages,” said Helen, who liked his frank embarrassment. “However, it was lucky I met you to-day. You didn't come back to see us, and there is something——” She hesitated and then gave him a steady glance. “You are not so much a stranger to us as you imagine.”
Festing wondered what she meant and whether she knew about the portrait, but she resumed: “As a matter of fact, my mother and I felt that we knew you rather well.”
“I don't understand.”
“Some time since, you found a young Englishmen in a Western mining town. He had been ill and things had gone against him.”
“Ah,” said Festing sharply. “Of course! I ought to have known——He looked like you. I mean I ought to have known the name. Was he a relative?”
“My brother,” Helen replied.
She was silent for a moment or two, and then went on in a tone that made Festing's heart beat: “You gave him work and helped him to make a new start. He was too proud to tell us about his difficulties.”
“It cost me nothing; there was a job waiting. Afterwards he got on by his own merits. I had nothing to do with that.”
“But you gave him his chance. We can't forget this. George was younger than me. I have no other brother, and was very fond of him. Indeed, I think we owe you much, and my mother is anxious to give you her thanks.”
“Is he all right now? I lost sight of him when they sent me to another part of the road. It was my fault—he wrote, but I'm not punctual at answering letters, and hadn't much time.”
“He is in the chief construction office,” Helen replied. “In his last letter he told us about the likelihood of his getting some new promotion.” She paused and resumed with a smile: “I don't suppose you know you were a hero of his.”
“I didn't know. As a rule, the young men we had on the road seemed to find their bosses amusing and rather patronized them. Of course, they were fresh from a scientific college or engineer's office, and, for the most part, we had learned what we knew upon the track.”
“But you knew it well. George wrote long letters about the struggle you had at the canyon. Some fight, he called it.”
“Well,” said Festing quietly, “we were up against it then. The job was worth doing.”
“I know. George told us how the snowslide came down and filled the head of the gorge with stones and broken trees, and wash-outs wrecked the line you built along its side. He said it was a job for giants; clinging to the face of the precipice while you blew out and built on—under-pinning, isn't it?—the first construction track. But he declared the leaders were fine. They were where the danger was, in the blinding rain and swirling snow—and the boys, as he called them, would always follow you.”
Festing colored, but Helen went on: “We were glad, when the worst was over, that he had had this training. It was so clean a fight.”
“We were dirty enough often,” Festing objected with an effort at humor. “When things were humming we slept in our working clothes, which were generally stained with mud and engine grease. Then I don't suppose you know how dissipated a man looks and feels when he has breathed the fumes of giant-powder.”
She stopped him with a half imperious glance. “I know it's the convention to talk of such things as a joke; but you didn't feel that in the canyon. Then it was a stubborn fight of the kind that man was meant to wage. If you win in trade and politics, somebody must lose, but a victory over Nature is a gain to all. And when your enemies are storms and floods, cheating and small cunning are not of much use.”
“That is so,” Festing agreed, smiling. “When you're sent to cut through an icy rock or re-lay the steel across the gap a snowslide has made, it's obvious if you have done the job or not. This has some drawbacks, because if you don't make good, you often get fired.”
“But that was not what drove you on. You must have had a better motive for making good.”
Festing felt embarrassed. The girl was obviously not indulging a sentimental vein. She felt what she frankly hinted at, and although he generally avoided imaginative talk, her remarks did not sound cheap or ridiculous.
“Well,” he said, “the fear of getting fired is a pretty strong incentive to do one's best, but I suppose when one gets up against big things there is something else. After all, one hates to be beaten.”
Helen's eyes sparkled and she gave him a sympathetic nod. “The hate of being beaten distinguishes man from the ape and puts him on the side of the angels.”
Then Miss Jardine came in, somewhat to the relief of Festing, who felt he could not keep up long on Helen's plane. Besides, he was not altogether sure he understood her last remark.
“I heard,” said Miss Jardine. “Helen's sometimes improving, but perhaps she was right just now. The ape is cunning but acquiescent and accepts things as they are. Man protests, and fights to make them better. At least, he ought to, though one can't say he always does.”
Festing did not reply and she sat down and resumed: “But I suppose you haven't many shirkers in Canada?”
“I imagine we have as many wastrels as there are anywhere else, but as a rule one doesn't find them in the woods and on the plains. When they leave the cities they're apt to starve.”
“You're a grim lot. Work or starve is a stern choice, particularly if one has never done either. It looks as if you hadn't much use for purely ornamental people. But what about the half-taught women who don't know how to work? What do you do with them?”
“They're not numerous. Then one can always learn, and I imagine every woman can cook and manage a house.”
“You're taking much for granted, though yours seems to be the conventional view. But how did you learn railroad building, for example?”
“By unloading ties and shoveling ballast on the track. The trouble was that I began too late.”
“What did you do before that?”
“Sometimes I worked in sawmills and sometimes packed—that means carrying things—for survey parties, and went prospecting.”
“In the wilds? It sounds interesting. Won't you tell us about it?”
Festing complied; awkwardly at first, and then with growing confidence. He did not want to make much of his exploits, but there was a charm in talking about things he knew to two clever and attractive girls, and they helped him with tactful questions. Indeed, he was surprised to find they knew something about the rugged country in which he wandered. He told them about risky journeys up lonely rivers in the spring, adventurous thrusts into the wilderness where hardship was oftener to be found than valuable minerals, and retreats with provisions running out before the Arctic winter.
Something of the charm of the empty spaces colored his narratives as he drew from memory half-finished pictures of the mad riot of primitive forces when the ice broke up and the floods hurled the thundering floes among the rocks; and of tangled woods sinking into profound silence in the stinging frost. Moreover, he unconsciously delineated his own character, and when he stopped, the others understood something of the practical resource and stubbornness that had supported him.
It was encouraging to see they were not bored, but he did not know that Miss Jardine had found him an interesting study and had skilfully led him on. He was a new type to both girls, although Helen was nearer to him than the other and sympathized where her companion was amused. Festing's ideas were clean-cut, his honesty was obvious, and she noted that he did not know much about the lighter side of life. Yet she saw that, sternly practical as he was, he had a vague feeling for romance.
“Will you stay on the railroad when it's finished?” she asked presently.
“I've left it. I hadn't the proper training to carry me far, and as the road is opening up the country I've bought a prairie farm.”
“But do you know much about farming?”
“I don't. As a matter of fact, not many of the boys do know much when they begin, but somehow they make progress. On the plains, it isn't what you know that counts, but the capacity for work and staying with your job. That's what one really needs, if you see what I mean.”
“I think I do,” Miss Jardine replied. “A Victorian philosopher, whose opinions you seem to hold, said something of the kind. He claims that genius takes many different forms, but is not different in itself. That is, if you have talent, you can do what you like. Build railroads, for example, and then succeed on a farm.”
Festing laughed good-humoredly. “It's a pretty big thing to claim, but that man was near the mark; they live up to his theories on the plains, where shams don't count and efficiency's the test. I don't mean that the boys have genius, but gift and perseverance seem to be worth as much. Anyhow, one can generally trust them to make good when they undertake a job they don't know much about.”
Helen mused. Charnock, who knew something about farming, had tried it and failed, but she thought Festing would succeed. The man looked determined and, in a way, ascetic; he could deny himself and concentrate. Knowledge was not worth as much as character. But she was content to let Miss Jardine lead the talk.
“One understands,” said the latter, “that farming's laborious and not very profitable work.”
“It's always laborious,” Festing agreed. “It may be profitable; that depends. You see——”
He went on, using plain words but with some force of imagination, to picture the wheat-grower's hopes and struggles; but he did more, for as he talked Helen was conscious of the romance that underlay the patient effort. She saw the empty, silent land rolling back to the West; the ox-teams slowly breaking the first furrow, and then the big Percheron horses and gasoline tractors taking their place. Wooden shacks dotted the white grass, the belts of green wheat widened, wagons, and afterwards automobiles, lurched along the rutted trails. Then the railroad came, brick homestead and windmills rose, and cities sprang up, as it were, in a night. Everything was fluid, there was no permanence; rules and customs altered before they got familiar, a new nation, with new thoughts and aims, was rising from the welter of tense activity.
Then Festing got up with an apologetic air. “I'm afraid I've stopped too long and talked too much. Still the big movement out there is fascinating and people in this country don't grasp its significance. I felt I'd like to make you understand. Then you didn't seem—”
“If we had been bored, it would have been our fault, but we were not bored at all,” Miss Jardine replied. “At least, I wasn't, and don't think Helen was.”
Helen added her denial and gave Festing her hand. When he had gone Miss Jardine looked at her with a smile.
“He was interesting,” she remarked. “Talks better than he knows, and I suppose we ought to feel flattered, because he took our comprehension for granted. After all, it was rash to talk about Canadian progress to two English girls.”
“You made him talk,” Helen rejoined. “It's the first time I've known you interested in geography.”
Miss Jardine laughed. “I was interested in the man. He told us a good deal about himself, although it would have embarrassed him if he'd guessed. The curious thing is that he imagines he's practical, while he's really a reckless sentimentalist.”
Helen did not answer and picked up a book, but she thought more about Festing than about what she read.