The two men made a hurried breakfast in the cold dawn and not long afterwards they were struggling through thick timber, when the light suddenly grew a little clearer. Carroll remarked upon the fact and Vane’s face hardened.
“We’re either coming to a swamp, or the track the fire has swept is close in front,” the latter said.
A thicket lay before him, but he smashed savagely through the midst of it, the undergrowth snapping and crackling about his limbs. Then there was a network of tangled branches to be crossed, and afterwards, reaching slightly clearer ground, he broke into a run. Three or four minutes later, he stopped, breathless and ragged, with his rent boots scarcely clinging to his feet; and Carroll, who came up with him, gazed eagerly about.
The living forest rose behind them, an almost unbroken wall, but ahead the trees ran up in detached and blackened spires. Their branches had vanished; every cluster of sombre-green needles and delicate spray had gone; the great rampikes, as they are called, looked like shafts of charcoal. About their feet lay crumbling masses of calcined wood which grew more and more numerous where there were open spaces farther on and then the bare, black columns ran on again, up the valley and the steep hill benches on either hand. It was a weird scene of desolation; impressive to the point of being appalling in its suggestiveness of widespread ruin.
For the space of a minute the men gazed at it; and then Vane, stretching out his hand, pointed to a snow-sheeted hill.
“That’s the peak Hartley mentioned,” he said in a voice which was strangely incisive. “Give me the axe.”
He took it from his comrade and, striding forward, attacked the nearest rampike. Twice the keen blade sank noiselessly overhead, scattering a black dust in the frosty air; and then there was a clear, ringing thud. After that, Vane smote on with a determined methodical swiftness, until Carroll grabbed his shoulder.
“Look out!” he cried. “It’s going.”
Vane stepped back a few paces; the trunk reeled and rushed downwards: there was a deafening crash, and they were enveloped in a cloud of gritty dust. Through the midst of it they dimly saw two more great trunks collapse; and then somewhere up the valley a series of thundering shocks, which both knew were not echoes, broke out. The sound jarred upon Carroll’s nerves, as the thud of the felled rampike had not done, but Vane picked up one of the chips and handed it to him.
“We have found Hartley’s spruce,” he said.
Carroll did not answer for a minute. After all, when defeat must be faced, there was very little to be said, though his companion’s expression troubled him. Its grim stolidity was portentous.
“I suppose,” he remarked at length, “nothing could be done with it?”
Vane pointed to the butt of the tree, which showed a space of clean wood surrounded by a blackened rim.
“You can’t make marketable pulp of charcoal, and the price would have to run pretty high before it would pay for ripping most of the log away to get at the residue,” he answered harshly.
“But there may be some unburned spruce farther on,” Carroll urged.
“It’s possible,” said Vane. “I’m going to find out.”
This was a logical determination; but, in spite of his recent suggestion, Carroll realised that he would have abandoned the search there and then, had the choice been left to him, in which he did not think he was singular. After all they had undergone, the shock of the disappointment was severe. He could have faced a failure to locate the spruce with some degree of philosophical calm; but to find it at last, useless, was very much worse. But he did not expect his companion to turn back yet: before he desisted, Vane would seek for and examine every unburned tree. What was more, Carroll, who thought the search could serve no purpose, would have to accompany him. Then the latter noticed that Vane was waiting for him to speak, and he decided that this was a situation which he had better endeavour to treat lightly.
“I think I’ll have a smoke,” he said. “I’m afraid any remarks I could make wouldn’t do justice to the occasion. Language has its limits.”
He sat down on the charred log and took out his pipe before he proceeded: “Abrûlée’snot a nice place to wander about in when there’s any wind, and I’ve an idea there’s some coming, though it’s quiet now.”
Shut in, as they were, in the deep hollow with the towering snows above them, it was impressively still; and in conjunction with the sight of the black desolation the deep silence reacted upon Carroll’s nerves. He longed to escape from it, to make a noise, though this, if done unguardedly, might bring more of the rampikes thundering down. He could hear tiny flakes of charcoal falling from them, and though the fire had long gone out, a faint and curious crackling, as if the dead embers were stirring. He wondered if this were some effect of the frost; it struck him as disturbing and weird.
“We’ll work right round thebrûlée,” said Vane. “Then I suppose we had better head back for Vancouver, though we’ll look at that cedar as we go down. Something might be made of it; I’m not sure we’ve thrown our time away.”
“You wouldn’t be sure of such a thing,” said Carroll. “It isn’t in you.”
Vane disregarded this. A new constructive policy was already springing up out of the wreck of his previous plans. “There’s a good mill site on the inlet, but as it’s a long way from the railroad we’ll have to determine whether it would be cheaper to tow the logs down or split them up on the spot,” he went on. “I’ll talk it over with Drayton; he’ll no doubt be useful, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t earn his share.”
“Do you believe the arrangement you made with Hartley applies to the cedar?”
“Of course,” said Vane. “I don’t know that the other parties could insist upon the original terms—we can discuss that later; but, though it may be modified, the arrangement stands.”
His companion considered the matter dispassionately, as an abstract proposition. Here was a man, who, in return for certain information respecting the whereabouts of a marketable commodity, had undertaken to find and share it with his informant. The commodity had proved to be valueless, but during the search for it he had incidentally discovered something else. Was he under any obligation to share the latter with his informant’s heirs?
Carroll decided that the question could only be answered in the negative; but he had no intention of disputing his comrade’s point of view. In the first place, this would probably only make Vane more determined or ruffle his temper; and in the second Carroll, who felt very dubious about the prospect of working the cedar profitably, was neither a covetous nor an ambitious person, which was, perhaps, on the whole, fortunate for him.
Vane, as his partner realised, was ambitious; but in place of aspiring after wealth or social prominence—the latter of which had, indeed, of late began to pall on him—his was a different aim; to rend the hidden minerals from the hills, to turn forests into dressed lumber, to make something grow. Dollars are often, though not always, made that way; but while he affected no contempt for them, in Vane’s case their acquisition was undoubtedly not the end. Fortunately, he was not altogether singular in this respect.
When he next spoke, there was, however, no hint of altruistic sentiment in his curt inquiry: “Are you going to sit there until you freeze?”
Carroll got up, and they spent the rest of the day plodding through thebrûlée, with the result that when darkness fell Vane had abandoned all idea of working the spruce. Next morning, they set out for the inlet, and one afternoon during the journey they came upon several fallen logs lying athwart each other with their branches spread in a horrible tangle between. Vane proceeded to walk along one log, which was tilted up several yards above the ground, balancing himself carefully upon the rounded surface; and Carroll followed until the end of a broken branch, which he evidently had not noticed, caught in the leader’s clothes. Next moment there was a sharp snapping, and Vane plunged down into the tangle beneath, while Carroll stood still and laughed. It was not an uncommon accident.
Vane, however, did not reappear; nor was there any movement among the half-rotten boughs and withered sprays, and Carroll, moving forward hastily, looked down into the hole. He was disagreeably surprised to see his comrade lying, rather white in face, upon his side.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to chop me out,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. “Get to work; I can’t move my leg.”
Moving farther along the log, Carroll dropped to the ground, which was less encumbered there, and spent the next quarter of an hour hewing a passage to his comrade. Then as he stood beside him, hot and panting, Vane looked up.
“It’s my lower leg; the left,” he said. “Bone’s broken; I felt it snap.”
Carroll turned from him for a moment in consternation. Looking out between the branches, he could see the lonely hills tower, pitilessly white, against the blue of the frosty sky, and the rigid firs running back as far as his vision reached upon their lower slopes. There was no touch of life in all the picture; everything was silent and motionless, and its desolation came near to appalling him. When he looked round again, Vane smiled wryly.
“If this had happened farther north, it would have been the end of me,” he said. “As it is, it’s awkward.”
The word struck Carroll as singularly inadequate, but he made an effort to gather his courage when his companion broke off with a groan of pain.
“It’s lucky we helped that doctor when he set Pete’s leg at Bryant’s mill,” he said. “Can you wait a few minutes?”
Vane’s face was beaded with damp now, but he tried to smile. “It strikes me,” he answered, “I’ll have to wait a mighty long time.”
Carroll turned and left him. He was afraid to stand still and think, but action was a relief. It was some time before he returned with several strips of fabric cut from the tent curtain, and the neatest splints he could extemporise from slabs of stripped-off bark, and the next half-hour was a trying one to both of them. Sometimes Vane assisted him with suggestions—once he reviled his clumsiness—and sometimes he lay silent with his face awry and his lips tight set; but at length it was done, and Carroll stood up, breathing hard.
“I’ll fasten you on to a couple of skids and pull you out,” he said. “Then I’ll make camp.”
He managed it with difficulty, pitched the tent above Vane, whom he covered with their blankets, and made a fire outside.
“Are you comfortable now?” he inquired.
Vane looked up at him with a somewhat ghastly grin. “I suppose I’m about as comfortable as could be expected. Anyhow, I’ve got to get used to the thing. Six weeks is the shortest limit, isn’t it?”
Carroll confessed that he did not know, and presently Vane resumed: “It’s lucky that the winters aren’t often very cold so near the coast.”
The temperature struck Carroll as low enough, but he made no answer. To his disgust, he could think of no cheering observation, for there was no doubt that the situation was serious. They were cut off from the sloop by leagues of tangled forest which a vigorous man would find it difficult to traverse, and it would be weeks before Vane could use his leg; no human assistance could be looked for, and they had only a small quantity of provisions left. Besides this, it would not be easy to keep the sufferer warm in rigorous weather.
“I’ll make supper. You’ll feel better afterwards,” he said at length.
“Then don’t be too liberal,” Vane warned him.
The latter fell into a restless doze after the meal, and it was dark when he opened his eyes again.
“I can’t sleep any more, and we may as well talk—there are things to be arranged,” he said. “In the first place, as soon as I feel a little easier, you’ll have to sail across to Comox and hire some men to pack me out. When you’ve sent them off, you’ll make for Vancouver, and get a timber licence and find out how matters are going on.”
“That,” said Carroll firmly, “is out of the question. Nairn can look after our mining interests—he’s a capable man—and if the thing’s too much for him they can go to smash. Besides, they won’t give you a timber licence without full particulars of area and limits, and we’ve blazed no boundaries. Anyhow, I’m staying right here.”
Vane began to protest, but Carroll raised his hand. “Argument’s not conducive to recovery. You’re on your back, unfortunately, and I’ll give way to you, as usual, as soon as you’re on your feet again, but not before.”
“I’d better point out that we’ll both be hungry by then. The provisions won’t last long.”
“Then I’ll look for a deer as soon as I think you can be left. And now we’ll try to talk of something more amusing.”
“Can you see anything humorous in the situation?”
“I can’t,” Carroll confessed. “Still, there may be something of that description which I haven’t noticed yet. By the way, the last time we were at Nairn’s, I happened to cross the room near where you and Miss Horsfield were sitting, and I heard her ask you to wait for something at Nanaimo or Comox. I thought it curious.”
“She told me to wait, so she could send me word to come back, if it was needful.”
“Ah!” said Carroll; “I won’t ask why she was willing to do so—it concerns you more than me—but I fancy that as regards your interests in the Clermont a warning from her would be worth as much as one from Nairn; that is, if she could be depended on.”
“Have you any doubt upon the subject?”
“Don’t get angry. Perhaps I’ve talked too much. We have to think of your injury.”
“I’m not likely to forget it,” Vane informed him. “But I dare say you’re right in one respect—as an amusing companion you’re a dead failure, and talking isn’t as easy as I imagined.”
He lay silent afterwards, and, though he had disclaimed any desire for sleep, worn by the march and pain, as he was, his eyes presently closed. Carroll, however, sat long awake, and afterwards admitted that he felt badly afraid. Deer are by no means numerous in some parts of the bush; they had not seen one during the journey; and though there was a little food left on board her, it was a long way to the sloop.
Once or twice, for no obvious reason, he drew aside the tent flap and looked out. The sky was cloudless and darkly blue, and a sickle moon gleamed in it, keen and clear with frost. Below, the hills were washed in silver, majestic, but utterly cheerless; and lower still the serrated tops of the rigid firs cut against the dreary whiteness. After each glimpse of them, Carroll drew his blanket tighter round him with a shiver. Very shortly, when the little flour and pork were gone and their few cartridges had been expended, he would be reduced to the condition of primitive man. Cut off from all other resources, he must then wrest what means of subsistence he could from the snowy wilderness by brute strength and cunning and such instruments as he could make with his unassisted hands, except that an axe of Pennsylvania steel was better than a stone one. Civilisation has its compensations, and Carroll longed for a few more of them that night.
On rising next morning, he found the frost keener, and he spent the day and a number of those that followed in growing anxiety, which was only temporarily lessened when he once succeeded in killing a deer. There was almost a dearth of animal life in the lonely valley. Sometimes at first, Vane was feverish; often he was irritable, and the recollection of the three or four weeks he spent with him afterwards haunted Carroll like a nightmare. At last, when he had spent several days in vain search for a deer and the provisions were almost exhausted, he and his companion held a council of emergency.
“There’s no use in arguing,” Vane declared. “You’ll rig me a shelter of green boughs outside the tent and close to the fire. I can move from the waist upwards, and if it’s necessary, drag myself with my hands. Then you can chop enough cord-wood to last a while, cook my share of the eatables, and leave me while you go down to the sloop. There’s half a bag of flour and a few other things I’d be uncommonly glad of on board her.”
Carroll expostulated; but it was evident that his companion was right, and next morning he started for the inlet, taking with him the smallest possible portion of their provisions. So long as he had enough to keep him from fainting on the way, it was all he required, because he could renew his stores on board the boat. The weather broke during the march; driving snow followed him down the valley, and by and by gave place to bitter rain. The withered underbush was saturated, the soil was soddened with melting snow, and after the first scanty meal or two he dare risk no delay. He felt himself flagging from insufficient food, and it was obvious that he must reach the sloop before he broke down. He had tobacco, but that failed to stay the gnawing pangs, and before the march was done he was on the verge of exhaustion; forcing himself onward, drenched, and grim of face; scarcely able to keep upon his bleeding feet.
It was falling dusk and blowing fresh when he limped down the beach and with a last effort launched the light dinghy and pulled off to the sloop. She rode rather deep in the water, but that did not trouble him. Most wooden craft leak more or less, and it was a considerable time since he had pumped her out. Clambering wearily on board, he made the dinghy fast; and then stood still a moment or two, looking about him with his hand on the cabin side. Thin flakes of snow drifted past him; the firs were rustling eerily ashore, and ragged wisps of cloud drove by low down above their tops. Little frothy ripples flecked the darkening water with streaks of white and splashed angrily against the bows of the craft. The prospect was oppressively dreary, and the worn-out man was glad that he was at last in shelter and could snatch a few hours’ rest.
Thrusting back the slide, he stepped below and lighted the lamp. The brightening glow showed him that the boat’s starboard side was wet high up, and, though there was a good deal of water in her, this puzzled him, until an explanation suggested itself. They had moored the craft carefully, but he supposed she must have dragged her anchor or kedge and swung in near enough the shore to ground towards low-tide. Then, as the tide left her, she would fall over on her starboard bilge, because they had lashed the heavy boom down on that side, and the water in her would cover the depressed portion of her interior. This reasoning was probably correct; but he did not foresee the result, until after lighting the stove and putting on the kettle, he opened the provision locker, which was to starboard. Then he saw with a shock of dismay that the stock of food they had counted on was ruined. The periodically submerged flour bag had rotted and burst, and most of its contents had run out into the water as the boat righted with the rising tide; the prepared cereals, purchased to save cooking, had turned to mouldy pulp; and the few other stores were in much the same condition. There were only two sound cans of beef, and a few ounces of unspoiled tea in a canister.
Carroll’s courage failed him as he realised it, but he felt that he must eat and sleep before he could grapple with the situation. He would allow himself a meal and a few hours’ rest; and crawling out while the kettle boiled, he shortened in the cable and plied the pump. Then he went below, and feasted on preserved beef and tea, gauging the size of each slice with anxious care, until he reluctantly laid the can aside. After that, he filled his pipe and, stretching out his aching limbs on the port locker, which was comparatively dry, soon sank into heavy sleep.
Carroll slept for several hours before he awakened and sat up on the locker, shivering. He had left the hatch slightly open, and a confused uproar reached him from outside—the wail of wind-tossed trees; the furious splash of ripples against the bows; and the drumming of the halliards upon the mast. There was no doubt that it was blowing hard; but the wind was off the land, and the sloop in shelter.
Filling his pipe, he set himself to think, and promptly decided that it would have been better had he gone down to the sloop in the beginning, before the provisions had been spoiled, instead of in the end. Reluctance to leave his helpless companion had mainly prevented him from doing this, but he had also been encouraged by the possibility of obtaining a deer now and then. It was clear that he had made a mistake in remaining, but it was not the first time he had done so, and the point was unimportant. The burning question was: What must he do now?
It would obviously be useless to go back with rations that would barely suffice for the march: Vane still had food enough to keep life in one man for a little while. On the other hand, it would not be a long sail to Comox with a strong northerly wind; and if the sloop would face the sea that was running he might return with assistance before his comrade’s scanty store was exhausted. Getting out the mildewed chart, he laid off his course, carefully trimmed and lighted the binnacle lamp, and going up on deck hauled in the kedge anchor. He could not break the main one out, though he worked savagely with a tackle, and deciding to slip it, he managed to lash three reefs in the mainsail and hoist it with the peak left down. Then he sat down to gather breath—for the work had been cruelly heavy—before he let the cable run and hoisted the jib.
She paid off when he put up his helm, and the black loom of trees ashore vanished. He thought he could find his way out of the inlet, but he only knew that he had done so when the angry ripples that splashed about the boat suddenly changed to confused tumbling combers. They foamed up in swift succession on her quarter, but he fancied she would withstand their onslaught, so long as he could prevent her from screwing up to windward when she lifted. It would need constant care, and if he failed, the next comber would, no doubt, break on board. His task was one that would have taxed the vigilance of a strong, well-fed man, and Carroll had already nearly reached the limit of his powers.
His case, however, was by no means an unusual one. The cost of the subjugation of the wilderness is the endurance of hunger and thirst, cold and crushing fatigue; and somebody pays to the uttermost farthing. Carroll, sitting drenched, strung up, and hungry, at the helm, was merely playing his part in the struggle, though he found it cruelly hard.
It was pitch dark, but he must gaze ahead and guess the track of the pursuing seas by the angle of the spouting white ridge abreast of the weather shrouds. He had a compass, but when his course did not coincide with safety it must be disregarded. The one essential thing was to keep the sloop on top, and to do so he had frequently to let her fall off dead before the mad white combers that leaped out of the dark. By and by, his arms began to ache from the strain of the tiller, and his wet fingers grew stiff and claw-like. The nervous strain was also telling, but that could not be helped; he must keep the craft before the sea or go down with her. There was one consolation—she was travelling at a furious speed.
At length, morning broke over a leaden sea that was seamed with white; and he glanced longing at the meat-can on the locker near his feet. He could reach it by stooping, though he dare not leave the helm, but he determined to wait until noon before he broke his fast again. It could not be very far to Comox, but the wind might drop. Then he began to wonder how he had escaped the perils of the night. He had come down what was really a wide and not quite straight sound passing several unlighted islands. Before starting, he had decided that he would run so long and then change his course a point or two, but he could not be sure that he had done so. He had a hazy recollection of seeing surf, and once a faint loom of land, but he supposed he had avoided it half-consciously or that chance had favoured him.
In the afternoon, the wind changed a little, backing to the north-west; the sky grew brighter, and he made out shadowy land over his starboard quarter. By and by he recognised it with a start. It was the high ridge north of Comox, and as he had run farther than he had expected, he must try to hoist the peak of the mainsail and haul her on the wind. There was danger in rounding her up, but it must be faced, though a sea foamed across her as he put down his helm. Another followed, but he scrambled forward and struggled desperately to hoist the downhanging gaff. The halliards were swollen; he could scarcely keep his footing on the deluged deck that slanted steeply under him. He thought he could have mastered the banging canvas had he been fresh; but, worn out as he was, drenched with spray, and buffeted by the shattered tops of the seas, the task was beyond his power. Giving it up, he staggered back, breathless and almost nerveless, to the helm.
He could not reach Comox, which lay to windward, with the sail half-set, but it was only seventy miles or thereabouts to Nanaimo and not very much farther to Vancouver. The breeze would be fair to either, and he could charter a launch or tug for the return journey. Letting her go before the sea again, he ate some canned meat ravenously, tearing it with one hand.
Shortly afterwards, a grey mass rose out of the water to port and he supposed it was Texada. There were mines on the island, and he might be able to engage a rescue party; but he reflected that he could not beat the sloop back to windward unless the breeze fell, which it showed no signs of doing. It would be more prudent to go on to Vancouver, where he would be sure of getting a steamer, but he closed with the long island a little, and dusk was falling when he made out a boat in the partial shelter of a bight. Standing in closer, he saw that there were two men in the craft, and driving down upon her he backed the jib and ran alongside.
There was a crash as he struck the boat, and an astonished and angry man clutched the sloop’s rail.
“Now what in the name of thunder?” he began, and stopped, struck by Carroll’s ragged appearance.
“Can you take this sloop to Vancouver?” the latter inquired.
“I could if it was worth while,” was the cautious answer. “It will be a mighty wet run.”
“Seven dollars a day, until you’re home again,” said Carroll. “A bonus if you can sail her with the whole reefed mainsail up—I won’t stick at a few dollars. Can your partner pull that boat ashore alone? If not, cast her adrift, I’ll buy her.”
“He’ll make the beach,” said the other, jumping on board. “Seven dollars sounds a square deal. I won’t put the screw on you.”
“Then help me hoist the peak,” Carroll bade him. “After that, you can take the helm; I’m played out.”
The man, who shouted something to his companion, seized the halliards; and the sloop drove on again furiously; with an increased spread of canvas, while Carroll stood holding on by the coaming while the boat dropped back.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he informed the new helmsman. “It’s twenty-four hours since I’ve had more than a bite or two of food, and some weeks since I had a decent meal.”
“You look like it,” the other informed him. “Been up against it somewhere?”
Carroll, who did not reply, crawled below and managed to light the stove and make a kettleful of tea. He drank a good deal of it, and nearly emptied the remaining small meat-can, which he presently held out for his companion’s inspection, standing beneath the hatch.
“There’s some tea left, but this is all there is to eat on board the craft,” he said. “You’re hired to take her to Vancouver—and you’d better get there as soon as you can.”
The bronzed helmsman nodded. “She won’t be long on the way if the mast holds up.”
“Have you seen any papers lately?” Carroll inquired. “I’ve been up in the bush and I’m interested in the Clermont mine. It looked as if there might be some changes in the company’s prospects when I went away.”
“I noticed a bit about it in theColonista while back,” was the answer. “They sold out to another concern, or amalgamated with it; I don’t remember which.”
Carroll was not astonished. The news, which implied that he must be prepared to face a more or less serious financial reverse struck him as a fitting climax to his misadventures.
“It’s pretty much what I expected, and I’m going to sleep,” he said. “I don’t want to be wakened before it’s necessary.”
He crawled below, and he had hardly stretched himself out upon the locker before his eyes closed. When he opened them, feeling more like his usual self, he saw that the sun was above the horizon, and recognised by the boat’s motion that the wind had fallen. Going out, he found her driving through the water under her whole mainsail and the helmsman sitting stolidly at the tiller. The man stretched out a hand and pointed to the hazy hills to port.
“We’ll fetch the Narrows some time before noon,” he said. “If you’ll take the helm, I guess we’ll halve that meat for breakfast.”
His prediction proved correct, for Carroll reached his hotel about midday, and hastily changing his clothes, set off to call on Nairn. He had not recovered his mental equipoise, and in spite of his long, sound sleep, he was still badly jaded physically. On arriving at the house, he was shown into a room where Mrs. Nairn and her husband were sitting with Evelyn, waiting for the midday meal. The elder lady rose with a start of astonishment when he walked in.
“Man,” she said, “what’s wrong? Ye’re looking like a ghost.”
It was not an inapt description. Carroll’s face was worn and haggard, and his clothes hung slack on him.
“I’ve been feeling rather unsubstantial of late, as the result of a restricted diet,” he answered with a smile, and sat down in the nearest chair, while Nairn regarded him with carefully suppressed curiosity.
“Ye’re ower lang in coming,” he remarked. “Where did ye leave your partner?”
Carroll sat silent a moment or two, his eyes fixed on Evelyn. It was evident that his sudden appearance unaccompanied by Vane, which he felt had been undesirably dramatic, had alarmed her. At first he felt compassionate, and then he was suddenly possessed by hot indignation. This girl, with her narrow prudish notions and cold-blooded nature, had presumed to condemn his comrade, unheard, for an imaginary offence. The thing was at once ludicrous and intolerable; if his news brought her dismay, let her suffer. His nerves, it must be remembered, were not in their normal condition.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to his host’s first remark; “I’ve gathered that we have failed to save the situation. But I don’t know exactly what has happened; you had better tell me.”
Mrs. Nairn made a sign of protest, but her husband glanced at her restrainingly.
“Ye will hear his news in good time,” he informed her, and turned to Carroll. “In a few words, the capital wasna subscribed; it leaked out that the ore was running poor and we held an emergency meeting. With Vane away, I could put no confidence into the shareholders—they were anxious to get from under—and Horsfield brought forward an amalgamation scheme: his friends would take the property over, on their valuation. I and a few others were outvoted; the scheme went through, and when the announcement steadied the stock, which had been tumbling down, I exercised the authority given me and sold your shares and Vane’s at considerably less than their face value. Ye can have particulars later. What I have to ask now is: Where is Vane?”
The man’s voice grew sharp; the question was flung out like an accusation, but Carroll still looked at Evelyn. He felt very bitter against her.
“I left him in the bush with no more than a few days’ provisions and a broken leg,” he said.
Then, in spite of Evelyn’s efforts to retain her composure, her face blanched; and Carroll’s anger vanished, because the truth was clear. Vane had triumphed through disaster; his peril and ruin had swept his offences away. The girl, who had condemned him in his prosperity, would not turn away from him in misfortune. In the meanwhile, the others sat silent, gazing at the bearer of evil news, until he spoke again.
“I want a tug to take me back at once, if she can be got,” he said. “I’ll pick up a few men along the water-front.”
Nairn rose and went out of the room. The tinkle of a telephone bell reached those who remained, and he came back a minute or two later.
“I’ve sent Whitney round,” he announced. “He’ll come across if there’s a boat to be had, and now ye look as if ye needed lunch.”
“It’s several weeks since I had one,” said Carroll with a smile.
The meal was brought in, but for a while he talked as well as ate; relating his adventures in somewhat disjointed fragments, while the rest sat listening. He was also pleased to notice something which suggested returning confidence in him in Evelyn’s intent eyes as the tale proceeded. When at last he had made the matter clear, he added: “If I keep you waiting, you’ll excuse me.”
His hostess watched his subsequent efforts with candid approval, and, looking up once or twice, he saw sympathy in the girl’s face, instead of the astonishment or disgust he had half expected. When he had finished, his hostess rose and Carroll stood up, but Nairn signed to him to resume his place.
“I’m thinking ye had better sit still a while and smoke,” he said.
Carroll was glad to do so, and he and Nairn conferred together, until the latter was called to the telephone.
“Ye can have the Brodick boat at noon to-morrow,” he said on his return.
“That won’t do,” Carroll objected heavily. “Send Whitney round again; I must sail to-night.”
He had some difficulty in getting out the words, and when he rose his eyes were half closed. Walking unsteadily, he crossed the room and sank into a big lounge.
“I think,” he resumed, “if you don’t mind, I’ll go to sleep.”
Nairn merely nodded, and when, after sitting silent a minute or two, he went softly out, the worn-out man was already wrapped in profound slumber. As it happened, Nairn received another call by telephone and left in haste for his office, without speaking to his wife; with the result that the latter and Evelyn, returning to the room by and by in search of Carroll, found him lying still. The elder lady raised her hand in warning as she bent over the sleeper, and then, taking up a light rug, spread it gently over him, Evelyn, too, was stirred to sudden pity, for the man’s attitude was eloquent of exhaustion.
They withdrew gently and had reached the corridor when Mrs. Nairn turned to the girl.
“When he first came in, ye blamed that man for deserting his partner,” she said.
Evelyn confessed it, and her hostess smiled meaningly. “Are ye no rather ready to blame?”
“I’m afraid I am,” said Evelyn, with the colour creeping into her face, as she remembered an instance in which she had condemned another person hastily.
“In this case,” said her companion, “ye were very foolish. The man came down for help, and if he could not get it, he would go back his lone; if all the way was barred with ice and he must walk on his naked feet. Love of woman’s strong and the fear of death is keen, but ye will find now and then a faith between man and man that neither would sever.” She paused and looked at the girl fixedly as she asked: “What of him that could inspire it?”
Evelyn did not answer. She had never seen her hostess in this mood, and she was also stirred; but the elder lady went on again: “The virtue of a gift lies in part, but no altogether, with the giver. Whiles, it may be bestowed unworthily, but I’m thinking it’s no often. The bond that will drag Carroll back to the North again, to his death if it is needful, has no been spun from nothing.”
Evelyn had no doubt that Mrs. Nairn was right. Loyalty, most often, demanded a worthy object to tender service to; it sprang from implicit confidence, mutual respect, and strong appreciation. It was not without a reason Vane had inspired it in his comrade’s breast; and this was the man she had condemned. The latter fact, however, was by comparison a very minor trouble. Vane was lying, helpless and alone, in the snowy wilderness, in peril of his life, and she knew that she loved him. She realised now, when it might be too late, that had he in reality been stained with dishonour, she could have forgiven him. Indeed, it had only been by a painful effort she had maintained some show of composure since Carroll had brought the disastrous news and she felt she could not keep it up much longer.
What she said to Mrs. Nairn she could not remember, but escaping from her, she retired to her own room, to lie still and grapple with an agony of fear and contrition.
It was two hours later when she went down and found Carroll, who still looked drowsy, about to go out. His hostess had left him for a moment in the hall, and meeting the girl’s eyes, he smiled at her reassuringly.
“Don’t be anxious; I’ll bring him back,” he said.
Then Mrs. Nairn appeared, and in a few moments Carroll went out without another word to Evelyn. She did not ask herself why he had taken it for granted that she would be anxious; she was beyond any petty regard for appearances. It was consoling to remember that he was Vane’s tried comrade; one of the men who kept their word.
After leaving Mrs. Nairn, Carroll walked towards Horsfield’s residence in a thoughtful mood, because he felt it incumbent upon him to play a part he was not particularly fitted for in a somewhat delicate matter. Uncongenial as his task was, it was one which could not be left to Vane, who was even less to be trusted with the handling of such affairs; and Carroll had resolved, as he would have described it, to straighten out things.
His partner had somehow offended Evelyn, and though she was now disposed to forgive him, the recollection of his suppositious iniquity might afterwards rankle in her mind. Though Vane was innocent of any conduct she could with reason take exception to, it was first of all needful to ascertain the exact nature of the charge against him. Carroll, who had for several reasons preferred not to press this question upon Evelyn, had a strong suspicion that Jessie Horsfield was at the bottom of the trouble. There was also a clue to follow—Vane had paid the rent of Celia Hartley’s shack; and he wondered if Jessie could by any means have heard of it. If she had done so the matter would be simplified, because he had a profound distrust of her. A recent action of hers was, he thought, sufficient to justify this attitude.
He found her at home, reclining gracefully in an easy-chair in her drawing-room, and though she did not seem astonished to see him, he fancied her expression hinted at suppressed concern.
“I heard you had arrived alone, and I intended to come over and make inquiries as soon as I thought Mrs. Nairn would be at liberty,” she informed him.
Carroll had found the direct attack effective in Evelyn’s case, and he determined to try it again. “Then,” he began, “it says a good deal for your courage.” He had never doubted that she possessed the latter quality, and she displayed it now.
“So,” she said calmly, “you have come as an enemy.”
“Not exactly; it didn’t seem worth while. Though there’s no doubt you betrayed us—Vane waited for the warning you could have sent—so far as it concerns our ruined interests in the Clermont, the thing’s done and can’t be mended. We’ll let that question go. The most important point is that if you had recalled us, as you promised, Vane would now be safe and sound.”
This shot told. The girl’s face became less imperturbable; there was eagerness and a suggestion of fear in it. “Then has any accident happened to him?” she asked sharply.
“He’s lying in the bush, helpless, in imminent peril of starvation.”
“Go on,” said the girl, with signs of strain clearly perceptible in her voice.
Carroll was brief, but he made her understand the position, after which she turned upon him imperiously. “Then why are you wasting your time here?”
“It’s a reasonable question. I can’t get a tug to take me back until noon to-morrow.”
“Ah!” said Jessie, and added: “You will excuse me for a minute.”
She left him astonished. He had not expected her to take him at a disadvantage, as she had done with her previous thrust, and now he did not think she had slipped away to hide her feelings. That did not seem necessary in Jessie’s case, though he believed she was more or less disturbed. She came back presently, looking calm, and sat down again.
“My brother will be here in a quarter of an hour,” she informed him. “Things are rather slack, and he had half promised to take me for a drive; I have called him up through the telephone.”
Carroll did not see how this bore upon the subject of their conversation, but he left her to take the lead.
“Did Vane tell you I had promised to warn him?” she asked.
“To do him justice, he let it out before he quite realised what he was saying. I’d better own that I partly surprised him into giving me the information.”
“The expedient seems a favourite one with you,” said Jessie. “I suppose no news of what has happened here can have reached him?”
“None. If it’s any consolation, he has still an unshaken confidence in you.” Carroll assured her with blunt bitterness.
The girl showed faint signs of confusion, but she sat silent for the next few moments, and during them it flashed upon her companion with illuminating light that he had heard Celia Hartley say Miss Horsfield had found her orders for millinery. This confirmed his previous suspicion that Jessie had discovered who had paid the rent of Celia’s shack, and that she had with deliberate malice informed Evelyn, distorting her account so that it would tell against Vane. There were breaks in the chain of reasoning which led him to this conclusion, but he did not think Jessie would shrink from such a course, and he determined to try a chance shot.
“Vane’s inclined to be trustful and his rash generosity has once or twice got him into trouble,” he remarked, and went on as if an explanation were needed: “It’s Miss Hartley’s case I’m thinking about just now. I’ve an idea he asked you to look after her. Am I right?”
As soon as he had spoken he knew he had hit the mark. Jessie did not openly betray herself, but there are not many people who can remain absolutely unmoved when unexpectedly asked a startling question. Besides, the man was observant, and had strung up all his faculties for the encounter. He saw one of her hands tighten on the arm of her chair and a hint of uneasiness in her eyes, and it sufficed him.
“Yes,” she said; “I recommended her to some of my friends. I understand she is getting along satisfactorily.”
Carroll felt compelled to admire her manner. He believed she loved his comrade and had nevertheless tried to ruin him in a fit of jealous rage. She was now keenly regretting her success, but though he thought she deserved to suffer, she was bravely facing the trying situation. It was one that was rife with dramatic possibilities, and he was grateful to her for avoiding them.
“You are going back to-morrow,” she said after a brief silence. “I suppose you will have to tell your partner what you have discovered here as soon as you reach him?”
Carroll had not intended to spare her, but now he felt almost compassionate, and he had one grain of comfort to offer. “I must tell him that his shares in the Clermont have been sacrificed. I wonder if that is all you meant?”
Jessie met his inquiring gaze with something very like an appeal; and then spread out her hands in a manner to indicate that she threw herself upon his mercy.
“It is not all I meant,” she confessed.
“Then, if it’s any relief to you, I’ll confine myself to telling him that he has been deprived of his most valuable property. I dare say the news will hit him hard enough; but though he may afterwards discover other facts for himself, on the whole I shouldn’t consider it likely. As I said, he’s confiding and slow to suspect.”
He read genuine gratitude, which he had hardly expected, in the girl’s face; but he raised his hand and went on in the rather formal manner which he felt was the only safe one to assume. “I had, however, better mention that I am going to call upon Miss Hartley. After that I shall be uncommonly thankful to start back for the bush.” He paused, and concluded with a sudden trace of humour: “I’ll own that I feel more at home with the work that waits me there.”
Jessie made a little gesture which, while it might have meant anything, was somehow very expressive, and just then there were footsteps outside. Next moment Horsfield walked into the room.
“So you’re back,” he said.
“Yes,” said Carroll shortly. “Beaten at both ends—there’s no use in hiding it.”
Horsfield showed no sign of satisfaction, and Carroll afterwards admitted that the man behaved very considerately.
“Well,” he said, “though you may be surprised to hear it, I’m sorry. Unfortunately, our interests clashed, and I naturally looked after mine. Once upon a time, I thought I could have worked hand in hand with Vane; but our ideas did not coincide, and your partner is not the man to yield a point or listen to advice.”
Carroll was aware that Horsfield had by means which were far from honourable deprived him of a considerable portion of his possessions. He had also betrayed his fellow shareholders in the Clermont mine, selling their interests, doubtless for some benefit to himself, to another company. For all that, Carroll recognised that since he and Vane were beaten, as he had confessed, recriminations and reproaches would be useless as well as undignified. He preferred to face defeat calmly.
“It’s the fortune of war,” he replied. “What you say about Vane is correct; but although it is not a matter of much importance now, it was impossible from the beginning that your views and his ever should agree.”
“Too great a difference of temperament? I dare say you’re right. Vane measures things by a different standard—mine’s perhaps more adapted to the market-place. But where have you left him?”
“In the bush. Miss Horsfield will, no doubt, give you particulars; I’ve just told her the tale.”
“She called me up at the office and asked me to come across at once. Will you excuse us for a few minutes?”
They went out together, and Jessie, who came back alone, sat down and looked at Carroll in a diffident manner.
“I suppose,” she said, “one could hardly expect you to think of either of us very leniently; but I must ask you to believe that I am sincerely distressed to hear of your partner’s accident. This was a thing I could never have anticipated; but there are amends I can make. Every minute you can save is precious, isn’t it?”
Carroll agreed, and she resumed: “Then I can get you a tug. My brother tells me theAtlin’scoming across from Victoria and should be here early this evening. He has gone back to the office to secure her for you, though she was fixed to go off for a log boom.”
“Thank you,” said Carroll. “It’s a great service.”
Jessie hesitated. “I think my brother would like to say a few words when he returns. Can I offer you some tea?”
“I think not,” said Carroll, smiling. “For one thing, if I sit still much longer, I shall, no doubt, go to sleep again, as I did at Nairn’s, which would be neither seemly nor convenient, if I’m to sail this evening. Besides, now we’ve arranged an armistice, it might be wiser not to put too much strain on it!”
“An armistice?”
“I think that describes it.” Carroll’s manner grew significant. “The word implies a cessation of hostilities—on certain terms.”
Jessie could take a hint, and his meaning was clear. Unless she forced him to do so, he would not betray her to his comrade, who might never discover the part she had played; but he had given her a warning, which might be bluntly rendered as, “Hands off.” There was only one course open to her—to respect it. She had brought down the man she loved, but it was clear that he was not for her, and now the unreasoning fury which had driven her to strike had passed, she was troubled with contrition. There was nothing left except to retire from the field, and it was better to do so gracefully. For all that, there were signs of strain in her expression as she capitulated.
“Well,” she said, “I have given you a proof that you have nothing to fear from me. My brother is the only man in Vancouver who could have got you that tug for this evening; I understand the saw-mill people are very much in need of the logs she was engaged to tow.”
She held out her hand and Carroll took it, though he had not expected to part from her on friendly terms.
“I owe you a deal for that,” he said and turned away.
His task, however, was only half complete when he left the house, and the remaining portion was the more difficult, but he meant to finish it. He preferred to take life lightly; he had trifled with it before disaster had driven him out into the wilds; but there was resolution in the man, and he could force himself to play an unpleasant part when it was needful. Fortune also favoured him, as she often does those who follow the boldest course.
He had entered Hastings Street when he met Kitty and Celia. The latter looked thin and somewhat pale, but she was moving briskly, and her face was eager when she shook hands with him.
“We have been anxious about you—there was no news,” she said. “Is Mr. Vane with you? How have you got on?”
“We found the spruce,” said Carroll. “It’s not worth milling—a forest fire has wiped most of it out—but we struck some shingling cedar we may make something of.”
“But where’s Mr. Vane?”
“In the bush; I’ve a good deal to tell you about him, but we can’t talk here. I wonder if we could find a quiet place in a restaurant, or if the park would be better.”
“The park,” said Kitty decidedly.
They reached it in due time and Carroll, who had refused to say anything about Vane on the way, found the girls a seat in a grove of giant firs and sat down opposite to them. Though it was winter, the day, as is often the case near Vancouver, was pleasantly mild.
“Now,” he began, “my partner is a singularly unfortunate person. In the first place, the transfer of the Clermont property, which you have no doubt heard of, means a serious loss to him, though he is not ruined yet. He talks of putting up a shingling mill, in which Drayton will be of service, and if things turn out satisfactory you will be given an interest in it.”
He added the last sentence as an experiment, and was satisfied with the result.
“Never mind our interests,” cried Kitty. “What about Mr. Vane?”
For the third time since his arrival, Carroll made the strongest appeal he could to womanly pity, drawing with a purpose a vivid picture of his comrade’s peril and suffering. Nor was he disappointed, for he saw consternation, compassion, and sympathy in the girls’ faces. So far, the thing had been easy, but now he hesitated, and it was with difficulty he nerved himself for what must follow.
“He has been beaten out of his stock in the mine; he’s broken down in health and in danger; but, by comparison, that doesn’t count for very much with him,” he continued. “He has another trouble, and though I’m afraid I’m giving things away in mentioning it, if it could be got over, it would help him to face the future and set him on his feet again.”
Then he briefly recounted the story of Vane’s regard for Evelyn, making the most of his sacrifice in withdrawing from the field, and again he realised that he had acted wisely. A love affair appealed to his listeners, and there was a romance in this one that heightened the effect of it.
“But Miss Chisholm can’t mean to turn from him now,” said Celia.
Carroll looked at her meaningly. “No; she turned from him before he sailed. She heard something about him.”
His companions appeared astonished. “But she couldn’t have heard anything that anybody could mind,” Kitty exclaimed indignantly. “He’s not that kind of man.”
“It’s a compliment,” said Carroll. “I think he deserves it. At the same time, he’s a little rash, and now and then a man’s generosity is open to misconception. In this case, I don’t think one could altogether blame Miss Chisholm.”
Kitty glanced at him sharply and then at Celia, who at first looked puzzled and afterwards startled. Then the blood surged into Kitty’s cheeks. “Oh!” she said, as if she were breathless, “I was once afraid of something like this. You mean we’re the cause of it?”
The course he followed was hateful to Carroll, but the tangle could not be straightened without somebody’s feelings being hurt, and it was his comrade he was most concerned about.
“Yes,” he said quietly; “I believe you understand the situation.”
He saw the fire in Kitty’s eyes and that Celia’s face was also flushed, but he did not think their anger was directed against him. They knew the world they lived in, and, for that matter, he could share their indignation. He resented the fact that a little thing should bring such swift suspicion upon them. He was, however, not required to face any disconcerting climax.
“Well,” said Celia, “why did you tell us this?”
“I think you both owe Vane something, and you can do him a great favour now,” Carroll informed her.
Kitty looked up at him. “Don’t ask me too much, Mr. Carroll. I’m Irish, and I feel like killing somebody.”
“It’s natural,” said Carroll, with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve now and then felt much the same thing; it’s probably unavoidable in a world like this. However, I think you ought to call upon Miss Chisholm, after I’ve gone, though you had better not mention that I sent you. You can say you came for news of Vane—and add anything you consider necessary.”
The girls looked at one another, and at length, though it obviously cost her a struggle, Kitty said to Celia firmly: “We will have to go.” Then she faced round towards Carroll. “If Miss Chisholm won’t believe us she’ll be sorry we came.”
Carroll made her a slight inclination. “She’ll deserve it, if she’s not convinced. But it might be better if you didn’t approach her in the mood you’re in just now.”
Kitty rose, signing to Celia, and he turned back with them towards the city, feeling a certain constraint in their company and yet conscious of a strong relief. It had grown dark when he returned to Nairn’s house.
“Where have ye been?” his host inquired. “I had a clerk seeking ye all round the city. I cannot get ye a boat before the morn.”
Carroll saw that Mrs. Nairn shared her husband’s desire to learn how he had been occupied. Evelyn was also in the room.
“There were one or two little matters that required attention, and I managed to arrange them satisfactorily,” he said. “Among other things, I’ve got a tug and I expect to sail in an hour or two. Miss Horsfield found me the vessel.”
He noticed Evelyn’s interest, and was rather pleased to see it. If she were disposed to be jealous of Jessie, it could do no harm. Nairn, however, frowned.
“I’m thinking it might have been better if ye had not troubled Jessie,” he commented.
“I’m sorry I can’t agree with you,” Carroll retorted. “The difference between this evening and noon to-morrow is a big consideration.”
“Weel,” said Nairn resignedly, “I canna deny that.”
Carroll changed the subject, but some time later Mrs. Nairn sat down near him in the temporary absence of her husband and Evelyn.
“We will no be disturbed for two or three minutes,” she said. “Ye answered Alec like a Scotsman before supper and put him off the track, though that’s no so easy done.”
“You’re too complimentary,” he declared. “The genuine Caledonian caution can’t be acquired by outsiders. It’s a gift.”
“I’ll no practise it now,” said the lady. “Ye’er no so proud of yourself for nothing. What have ye been after?”
Carroll crossed his finger tips and looked at her over them. “Since you ask the question, I may say this: If Miss Chisholm has two lady visitors during the next few days, you might make sure she sees them.”
“What are their names?”
“Miss Hartley, the daughter of the prospector who sent Vane off to look for the timber; Miss Blake who, as you have probably heard, once came down the west coast with him, in company with an elderly lady and myself.”
Mrs. Nairn started; then she looked thoughtful, and finally broke into a smile of open appreciation.
“Now,” she said, “I understand. I did not think it of ye. Ye’re no far from a genius.”
“Thanks,” said Carroll modestly. “I believe I succeeded better than I could have expected, and perhaps than I deserved.”
Then they were interrupted, for Nairn walked hastily into the room.
“There’s one of theAtlin’sdeck hands below,” he announced. “He’s come on here from Horsfield’s to say the boat’s ready with a full head of steam up, and the packers ye hired are waiting on the wharf.”
Carroll rose and became in a moment intent and eager. “Tell him I’ll be down almost as soon as he is,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
Two minutes later, he left the house, and fervent good wishes followed him from the party on the stoop. He did not stop to acknowledge them, but shortly afterwards the blast of a whistle came ringing across the roofs from beside the water-front.