Winter was drawing towards its close at last, when, on the evening of a day in which the result of a heavy blasting charge had exceeded his utmost expectations, Geoffrey Thurston stood beside his foreman in his workmen's mess shanty. Tin lamps hung from the beams blackened with smoke, and sturdy men were finishing their six o'clock supper beneath them. The men were the pick of the province, for, until tempted by the contractor's high wages, most of them had been engaged in laying the foundations of its future greatness by wresting new spaces for corn and cattle from the forest. They ate, as they worked, heroically. The supper was varied and bountiful, for Geoffrey, who was conscious of a thrill of pride as he glanced down the long rows of weather-beaten faces, fed his workmen well. They had served him faithfully through howling gale and long black night, under scorching sun and bitter frost, and now that the result of that day's operations had brought the end of the work in sight, there was satisfaction in the knowledge that he had led such men.
"They're a fine crowd, Tom, and I'll be sorry to part with them," he said. "It's hard to believe, after all we have struggled with, that less than three weeks will see us through, but I'd give many dollars for every hour we can reduce the time by. Send for a keg of the hardest cider and I'll tell them so."
There was applause when the keg was lifted to the table with its head knocked in. Geoffrey, who had filled a tin dipper, said: "Here's my best thanks for the way you have backed me, boys. Since they carried the railroad across Beaver Creek, few men in the province have grappled as you have with a task like this; but it's sometimes just possible to go a little better than what looks like one's best, and I'm asking as a favor from all of you that you will redouble your efforts. I estimate that we'll finish this tough section in eighteen days from now, but I want the work done in less time, and accordingly I'll promise a bonus to every man if we can fire the last big shot a fortnight from to-day."
"Stan' by!" shouted a big section foreman, as he hove himself upright. "Fill every can up an' wait until I've finished. Now, Mr. Thurston, I'm talking for the rest. You've paid us good wages, an' we've earned them, every cent, though that wasn't much to our credit, for Tom from Mattawa saw we did. Still, even dollars won't buy everything, and what you can't pay us for we're ready to give. If flesh an' blood can do it, a fortnight will see us through, an' the next contract you take, if it's to wipe out the coast range or run off the Pacific, we're coming along with you. I've nailed you to the bargain, boys, an' here's—The Boss, victorious, an' to —— with his bonus!"
The long shanty rang to the roar that followed, and, when it died away, Geoffrey, who set down his can, turned to his foreman.
"Who is the little man next to Walla Jake?" he asked.
"An old partner of his from Oregon. Came in one day when you were away, and, as Jake allowed he was a square man, I took him on. Found him worth his money, and fancied I'd told you."
"You did not," said Geoffrey. "Jake's quite trustworthy, but watch the stranger well. No doubt he's honest, but I'm getting nervous now we're so near the end."
The foreman answered reassuringly, and Geoffrey, who turned away, rode beneath the snow-sprinkled firs to Savine's ranch. It was late when he reached it, but his partner and Helen were expecting him. Savine sighed with satisfaction when Geoffrey said:
"In all probability we shall fire the decisive shot a fortnight from to-day."
"It is great news," replied Julius Savine. "As I have said already, it was a lucky day for me—and mine—when I first fell in with you. Two more anxious weeks and then the suspense will be over and I can contentedly close my career. Lord! it will be well worth the living for—the consummation of the most daring scheme ever carried out in the Mountain Province. I won't see your next triumph, Geoffrey, but it can hardly be greater than this you have won for me."
"You exaggerate, sir," said Geoffrey. "It was you who won the concession and overcame all the initial difficulties, while we would never have gone so far without your assistance. Such a task would have been far beyond me alone."
"No—though it is good of you to say so. There were times when I tried to fancy I was running the contract, but that was just a sick man's craze. You have played out the game well and bravely, Geoffrey, as only a true man could. Perhaps Helen will thank you—just now I don't feel quite equal to it."
Savine's voice broke a little, and he glanced at Helen, who sat very still with downcast eyes. Geoffrey also looked at her for a second, and his elation was tinged with bitterness. He could see that she was troubled, and, with a pang of sudden misgiving, he watched her anxiously. Without the one prize he had striven for, the victory would be barren to him. Still, he desired to save her embarrassment, and when she raised her head to obey her father, he broke in:
"Miss Savine can place me under an obligation by firing the fateful charge instead. It was her first commission which brought good luck to me, and it is only fitting she should complete the result of it by turning the firing key."
Helen's eyes expressed her gratitude, as, consenting, she turned them upon the speaker. Geoffrey rising to the occasion, said:
"Did you ever hear the story of the first contract I undertook in British Columbia, sir? May I tell it to your father, Miss Savine?"
Helen was quick to appreciate his motive, and allowed him to see it. While, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, Geoffrey told the story whimsically. Humor was not his strong point, but he was capable of brilliancy just then. Julius Savine laughed heartily, and when the tale was finished all had settled down to their normal manner. When Geoffrey took his leave, however, Helen followed him to the veranda, and held out her hand. She stood close to him with the moonlight full upon her, and it was only by an effort that the man who gripped the slender fingers, conquered his desire to draw her towards him. Helen never had looked so desirable. Then he dropped her hand, and stood impassively still, waiting for what she had to say.
"I could not thank you before my father, but neither could I let you go without a word," she said, with a quiet composure which, because she must have guessed at the struggle within him, was the badge of courage. "You have won my undying gratitude, and——"
"That is a great deal, very well worth the winning," he responded. "It will be one pleasant memory to carry away with me."
"To carry with you! You are not going away?" asked Helen, with an illogical sense of dismay, which was not, however, in the least apparent. She knew that any sign of feeling would provoke the crisis from which she shrank.
"Yes," declared Geoffrey. "Once this work is completed, I shall seek another field."
"You must not!" Though her voice was strained, Helen, who dared not do otherwise, looked him steadily in the eyes. "You must not go. Now, when, if you stay in the Province, fame and prosperity lie within your grasp you will not overwhelm me by adding to the knowledge of all I have robbed you of. It is hard for me to express myself plainly—but I dare not take this from you, too."
"Can you not guess how hard it all is for me?" He strode a few paces apart from her while the words fell from his lips. Then he halted again and turned towards her.
"I had not meant to distress you—but how can I go on seeing you so near me, hearing your voice, when every word and smile stir up a longing that at times almost maddens me? What I have done I did for you, and did it gladly, but this new command I cannot obey. Fame and prosperity! What are either worth to me when the one thing I would sell my life for is, you have told me, not to be attained?"
"I am sorry," faltered Helen, whose breath came faster. "More sorry than I can well express. I dare not ruin a bright future for you. Is there nothing I can say that will prevent you?"
"Only one thing," Geoffrey moving nearer looked down upon her until his gaze impelled Helen to lift her eyes. There was no longer any trace of passion in his face, which in spite of its firm lines had grown gentle.
"Only one thing," he repeated. "Please listen—it is necessary, even if it hurts you. I cannot blame you for my own folly, but my love is incurable. You are a dutiful daughter, with an almost exaggerated idea of justice, and I know the power circumstances give me. Still, I am so covetous that I must have all or nothing; I love you so that I dare not use the advantage chance has given me. Nevertheless, I will not despair even yet, and some day when, perhaps, absence has hidden some of my many shortcomings, I will come back and beg speech with you."
"You are very generous." The words vibrated with sincerity. "Once—always—I have cruelly wronged you——" but here Geoffrey raised his hand and looked at the girl with a wry smile that had no mirth in it.
"You have never wronged me, Miss Savine. Once you spoke with a marvelous accuracy, and I am not generous, only so unusually wise that you must have inspired me. I cannot be content with less than the best, and what that is—again, if I am brutal you must remember I cannot help my nature—I will tell you."
He stooped, and, before she realized his intentions, deftly caught Helen's hands in each of his own, tightening his grip on them masterfully, until he forced her to look up at him. Helen trembled as she met his eyes. The man had spoken no more than the truth when he said he could not help his nature, and, suddenly transformed, it was the former Geoffrey Thurston she had shrunk from who held her fast.
"Yes, I am wise. I know I could bend you to my will now, and that afterwards you would hate me for it," he told her. "I—I would not take you so, not if you came to me. Further, for we have dropped all disguises, and face the naked truth, I have striven, and starved, and suffered for you, risked my life often—and you shall not cheat me of my due, which alone is why, because my time is not come yet, I shall go away. The one reward that will satisfy me is this, that of your own will you will once more hold my hands and say, 'I love you, Geoffrey Thurston,' and I can wait with patience—for you will come to me thus some day."
He bent his head; and Helen felt her heart leap; but it was only her fingers upon which his lips burned hot. The next moment he had gone, while leaning breathless against the balustrade she gazed after him.
Geoffrey did not glance behind him until, when some distance from the ranch, he reined his horse in, and wiped his forehead. He had yielded at last to an uncontrollable impulse which was perhaps part of his inheritance from the old moss troopers, who had carried off their brides on the crupper. As he walked his horse, a muffled beat of hoofs came up the trail, and he fancied he heard a voice say: "The twentieth—I'll be ready."
Then a mounted figure appearing for a moment, vanished among the firs. Geoffrey, turning back to camp, noticed that beside the hollows the hoofs had made, there was the print of human feet in the powdery snow.
"There is nothing to bring any rancher down this way, and a man must have walked beside the rider," he speculated. "Who on earth could it be?" Dismissing the incident from his mind, he went on his way. It was only afterwards that the significance of the footprints became apparent.
There was a light in Geoffrey's quarters when at last he approached them, and the foreman met him at the door. "That blame waster, Black, has come back. Rode in quietly after dark, and none of the boys have set eyes on him," he said; and, noting his master's surprise, he added with a chuckle, "I put him in there for safety, and waited right here to take care of him."
Geoffrey went into the shanty, carefully closed the door, and turned somewhat sternly upon the visitor. Black's outer appearance suggested a degree of prosperity, but his face was anxious as he said, "I guess you're surprised to see me?"
"I am," was the answer. "In view of the fact that it is my duty to hand you over to the nearest magistrate, my surprise is hardly astonishing."
"No," agreed Black, "it is not. Still, I don't think you'll surrender me. Anyway, you've got to listen to a little story first. You didn't hear the whole of it last time. I figure I can trust you to do the square thing."
"Be quick, then." Geoffrey leaned against the table while his visitor began:
"You've heard of the Blue Bird mine, and how one of the men who relocated the lapsed claim was found in the river with a gash, which a rock might have made, in the back of his head? Of course you have. Well, it was me and Bob Morgan who located the Blue Bird. Morgan was a good prospector, but the indications were hazy, and he got drunk when he could. I knew mighty little of minerals, and we done nothing with it until the time to put in our legal improvements was nearly up. Then Morgan struck rich pay ore, and we worked night and day. But we weren't quite quick enough—one night two jumpers pulled our stakes up. Oh, yes, they had the law behind them, for says the Crown, 'Unless you've developed your claim within the legal limit, it lapses; and any free miner can relocate.'"
"Come to the point," said Thurston. "I'm sleepy."
"I'm coming," Black continued; "Morgan had no grit. He got on to the whiskey, and talked about shooting himself. I swore I'd shoot the first of the other crowd who set foot on the claim instead, and half the boys who started driving pegs all round us heard me. There was a doubt as to whether the jumpers had hit the time putting their stakes in, and the boys were most for me, but as usual the thieves had a man with money behind them. His name was Shackleby."
"Ah! I begin to understand things now," said Geoffrey.
"I was sitting alone in my tent at night when one of them jumpers came in," Black went on, unheeding. "All the rest were sleeping, and the bush was very still. He'd a roll of dollar bills to give me if I'd light out quietly. Said I'd nothing to stand on, but the man behind him didn't want to figure in the papers if it went to court. Well, I wouldn't take the money, and ran him out of my tent. When he touched his pistol, I had an ax in my hand, and it was a poor man's luck that one of the boys must come along. When he'd slouched off, I began to hanker for the money, went after the jumper to see if I could raise his price, missed him and came back again, but I struck his tracks in the mud beside a creek, with another man's hoof-marks behind them. Well, next morning that jumper was found in the river with no money in his wallet, and the boys looked black at me until I had an interview with Mr. Shackleby. He'd fixed the whole thing up good enough to hang me, and nailed me down to blame hard terms as the price of my liberty. You're getting tired—no? Shackleby got the Blue Bird, and kept his claws on me until his man, Leslie, sent me up to bust your machines; but Shackleby has worn me thin, until I'm ready to stand my trial sooner than run any more of his mean jobs for him; and now, to cut the long end off, do you believe me?"
"I think I do," replied Geoffrey. "What made you bolt from here, and what do you want from me? Is it the same promise as before?"
Black related the incidents of his abduction. He raised his right hand with a dramatic gesture as he concluded:
"As I have been a liar, this is gospel truth, s'help me. Whoever killed that jumper—and I figure Shackleby knows—it wasn't me. The night you fished me out of the river I said, 'Here's a man with sand enough to stand right up to Shackleby,' and I'll make a deal with you."
"The terms?" said Geoffrey.
"Rather better than before. On your part, a smart lawyer to take my case if Shackleby sets the police on me. On mine—with you behind me, I can tell a story that will bring two Companies down on Shackleby. What brought me to the scratch now was, that I read inThe Colonistthat you'd be through shortly, and I guessed Shackleby's insect, Leslie, would have another shot at you. I'm open to take my chances of hanging to get even with them."
The mingled fear and hatred in the speaker's face was certainly genuine, and Geoffrey said briefly: "If I thought you guilty, I'd slip irons on to you. As it is, I'm willing to close that deal. You'll have to take my word and lie quiet, until you're wanted, where I hide you."
"I guess that is good enough for me," Black declared exultantly.
"I really feel mean over it, and, of course, I will pay you back, but unless I get the money to meet the call, I shall have to sacrifice the stock," said Henry Leslie, glancing furtively at his wife across the breakfast-table.
Leslie was seldom at his best in the morning, but he seemed unusually nervous, and the coffee-cup shook in his fingers as he raised it.
"It's the last I'll ask you for," he continued, "and if you press him, Thurston will sign the check. He said he was coming, did he not?"
"Yes," was the answer. "Here is his note. It must be the last, Harry, for I have overdrawn my allowance already. You will notice that Geoffrey hesitates, and will not sign the check without seeing me. He will be here on Thursday."
Leslie took the letter with an eagerness which did not escape his wife, while, as the sum in question was small, she could not quite understand the satisfaction in his face. It had grown soddened and coarse of late, and there were times when she looked upon her husband with positive disgust. Still, she had, in spite of occasional disputes, resumed her efforts to play the part of a dutiful wife, and it was easier to pay her husband money than respect, the more so because he had usually some specious excuse, which appealed both to her ambition and her gambling instinct. At times he handed her small amounts of money, said to be her share of the profits on speculations, for which he required the loans.
"'Pressure of work, but must make an effort to see you as you suggest,'" Leslie read aloud. "H'm! 'Limit exceeded already. Will be in town, and try to call upon you on Thursday.'"
"It is very good of him," remarked Millicent. "He evidently finds every minute precious, and I am very reluctant to bring him here. I gather that, except for my request, he would have deferred his other business. Still, I suppose you must have the money, Harry?"
"I must," was the answer, and Leslie, who did not look up, busied himself with his plate. "Better write that you expect him, and I will post the note. By the way, I must remind you that we take the Eastern Fishery delegates on their steamer trip the day after to-morrow, and though there may be rather a mixed company, I want you to turn out smartly, and get hold of the best people. It would be well to see a mention of the handsome Mrs. Leslie in the newspaper report."
Millicent frowned. She was a vain woman, but she had some genuine pride, and there were limits to her forbearance. By the time her husband had induced her to withdraw her refusal to accompany him, it was too late further to discuss Thurston's visit, which was exactly what Leslie desired. Accordingly, well pleased with himself, he set out for his office, with a letter in his hand.
Mrs. Leslie had reason to remember the steamer excursion. A party of prominent persons had been invited to accompany the Fishery delegates on the maritime picnic, organized for the purpose of displaying the facilities that coast afforded for the prosecution of a new industry. It was difficult for the committee to draw a rigid line, and the company was decidedly mixed, more so than even Millicent at first surmised. Her husband, who acted as marshal, was kept busy most of the time, but she noticed a swift look of annoyance on his face when, before the steamer sailed, a tastefully-dressed young woman ascended the gangway, where he was receiving the guests. There was nothing dubious in the appearance of the lady or her elderly companion, and yet Millicent felt that Leslie was troubled by their presence, and hesitated to let them pass. The younger lady, however, smiled upon him in a manner that suggested they had met before, and Leslie stood aside when Shackleby beckoned him with what looked like an ironical grin. Then the gangway was run in, and the engines started.
It was a mild day for the season, and Millicent, who found friends, dismissed the subject from her thoughts, when she saw her husband exchange no word with his latest guests. She was sitting with a young married lady, where the sun shone pleasantly in the shelter of the great white deck-house, when a sound of voices came out, with the odor of cigar smoke, from an open window.
"You fixed it all right?" observed one voice which sounded familiar, and there was a laugh which, though muffled, was more familiar still. While, with curiosity excited, Millicent listened, a companion broke in:
"Where's Mr. Leslie? I have scarcely seen him all morning."
"Making himself useful as usual. Discoursing on fisheries and harbors, of which he knows nothing, to men who know a good deal, and no doubt doing it very neatly," said Millicent, smiling.
"Why do you let him?" asked the other, with a little gesture of pride, which became her. "Now, my husband knows better than to stay away from me, even if he wanted to. Ah, here he is, bringing good things from the sunny South piled up on a tray."
Perhaps it was the contrast, for Millicent felt both resentful and neglected when a young man approached carrying choice fruits and cakes upon a nickeled tray; but before he reached them a voice came through the window again:
"You're quite certain? That man has eyes all over him, and it won't do to take any chances with him. He must be kept right here in Vancouver all night, and the game will be in our own hands before he gets back again."
"I've done my best," was the answer, and Millicent fancied, but was not certain, that it was her husband who spoke. "I have fixed things so that he will come to Vancouver. The only worry is, can we depend upon the fellow I laid the odds with?"
"Oh, yes," responded the second voice. "I guess he knows better than fail me. By the way, you nearly made a fool of yourself over Coralie."
"Somebody inside there talking secrets," observed the younger lady. "I think it is Mr. Shackleby, and I don't like that man. Charley, set down that tray and carry my chair and Mrs. Leslie's at least a dozen yards away."
Millicent, at the risk of being guilty of eavesdropping, would have greatly preferred to stay where she was; but when the man did his wife's bidding, she could only follow and thank him. Lifting a cluster of fruit from the tray, she asked one question.
"Can you tell me, Mr. Nelson, who is Coralie?"
Nelson looked startled for a moment, and found it necessary to place another folding chair under the tray. He did not answer until his wife said:
"Didn't you hear Mrs. Leslie's question, Charley? Who is Coralie?"
"Sounds like the name of a variety actress," answered the man, by no means glibly. "Why should you ask me? I really don't know. I'm not good at conundrums. Isn't this a beautiful view? I fancied you'd have a better appetite up here than amid the crowd below."
Millicent's curiosity was further excited by the speaker's manner, but she could only possess her soul in patience, until presently it was satisfied on one point at least. She sat alone for a few minutes on the steamer's highest deck against the colored glass dome of the great white and gold saloon. Several of the brass-guarded lights were open wide, and, hearing a burst of laughter, she looked down. The young woman, who had spoken to Leslie at the gangway, sat at a corner table, partly hidden by two carved pillars below. She held a champagne glass in a lavishly jeweled hand, and there was no doubt that she was pretty, but there was that in her suggestive laugh and mocking curve of the full red lips, something which set Millicent's teeth on edge. If more were needed to increase the unpleasant impression, a rich mine promoter sat near the young woman, trying to whisper confidentially, and another man, whose name was notorious in the city, laughed as he watched them. But Millicent had seen sufficient, and turning her head, looked out to sea. There were, however, several men smoking on the opposite side of the dome, and one of them also must have looked down, for his comment was audible.
"They're having what you call a good time down there! Who and what is she?"
"Ma'mselle Coralie. Ostensibly aclairvoyante," was the dry reply.
"Clairvoyante!" repeated the first unseen speaker, who, by his clean intonation, Millicent set down as a newly-arrived Englishman. "Do you mean a professional soothsayer?"
"Something of the kind," said the other with a laugh. "We're a curious people marching in the forefront of progress, so we like to think, and yet we consult hypnotists and all kinds of fakirs, even about our business. Walk down —— Street and you'll see half-a-dozen of their name-plates. When they're young and handsome they get plenty of customers, and it's suspected that Coralie, with assistance, runs a select gambling bank of evenings. The charlatan is not tied to one profession."
"I catch on—correct phrase, isn't it?" rejoined the Englishman. "Of course, you're liberal minded and free from effete prejudice, but I hardly fancied the wives of your best citizens would care to meet such ladies."
"They wouldn't if they knew it!" was the answer. "Coralie's a newcomer; such women are birds of passage, and before she grows too famous the police will move her on. In fact, I've been wondering how she got on board to-day."
"Leslie passed her up the gangway," said another man, adding, with a suggestive laugh as he answered another question: "Why did he do it? Well, perhaps he's had his fortune told, or you can ask him. Anyway, although I think he wanted to, he dared not turn her back."
Millicent, rising, slipped away. Trembling with rage, she was glad to lean upon the steamer's rail. She had discovered long ago that her husband was not a model of virtue, but the knowledge that his shortcomings were common property was particularly bitter to her. Of late she had dutifully endeavored to live on good terms with him, and it was galling to discover that he had only, it seemed, worked upon her softer mood for the purpose of extorting money to lavish upon illicit pleasures. She felt no man could sink lower than that, and determined there should be a reckoning that very night.
"My dear Mrs. Leslie," said a voice beside her. "Why, you look quite ill. My husband brought a bottle of stuff guaranteed to cure steamboat malady. Run and get it, Charley," and Millicent turned to meet her young married friend.
"Please don't trouble, Mr. Nelson. I am not in the least sea-sick," Millicent replied. "You might, however, spread out that deck chair for me. It is a passing faintness which will leave me directly."
She remembered nothing about the rest of the voyage, except that, when the steamer reached the wharf, her husband, who helped her down the gangway, said:
"I have promised to go to the conference and afterwards dine with the delegates, Millicent, so I dare say you will excuse me. I shall not be late if I can help it, and you might wait up for me."
Millicent, who had intended to wait for him, in any case, merely nodded, and went home alone. She sat beside the English hearth all evening with an open book upside down upon her knee, and her eyes turned towards the clock, which very slowly ticked away the last hours she would spend beneath her husband's roof. There was spirit in her, and though she hardly knew why, she dressed herself for the interview carefully. When Leslie entered, his eyes expressed admiration as she rose with cold dignity and stood before him. Leslie was sober, but unfortunately for himself barely so, for the delegates had been treated with lavish Western hospitality, and there had been many toasts to honor during the dinner. He leaned against the wall with one hand on a carved bracket, looking down upon her with what seemed to be a leer of brutal pride upon his slightly-flushed face.
"You excelled yourself to-day, Millicent. I saw no end of folks admiring you," he said. "Most satisfactory day! Everything went off famously! Enjoyed yourself, eh?"
"I can hardly say I did, but that is not what you asked me to wait for," was the cold answer, and Millicent with native caution waited to hear what the man wanted before committing herself.
"No. I meant it, but it wasn't. I couldn't help saying I was proud of you." Leslie paused, doubtless satisfied, his wife thought, that he had smoothed the way sufficiently by a clumsy compliment. His abilities were not at their best just then. Millicent's thin lips curled scornfully as she listened.
"Thurston will be here on Thursday," he continued. "Never liked the man, but he has behaved decently as your trustee, and I want to be fair to him. Besides, he's a rising genius, and it's as well to be on good terms with him. Couldn't you get him to stay to dinner and talk over the way they've invested your legacy?"
"Do you think he would care to meet you?" asked Millicent, cuttingly.
"Perhaps he mightn't. You could have the Nelsons over, and press of business might detain me. Anyway, you'll have no time to settle all about that money and your English property if he goes out on the Atlantic train. You two seem to have got quite friendly again, and I'm tolerably sure he'd stay if you asked him."
Millicent's anger was rising all the time; but, because her suspicions increased every moment, she kept herself in hand. Feeling certain this was part of some plot, and that her husband was not steady enough to carry out hisrôlecleverly, she desired to discover his exact intentions before denouncing him.
"Why should I press him?"
Had it been before the dinner Leslie might have acted more discreetly. As it was, he looked at the speaker somewhat blankly. "Why? Because I want you to. Now don't ask troublesome questions or put on your tragedy air, Millicent, but just promise to keep him here until after the east-bound train starts, anyway. I'm not asking for caprice—I—I particularly want a man to see him who will not be in the city until the following day."
Then, remembering what she had heard outside the steamer's deck house, a light suddenly broke in upon the woman. The man whose keen eyes would interfere with Shackleby's plans must be Thurston, and it was evident there was a scheme on hand to wreck his work in his absence. Once she had half-willingly assisted her husband to Thurston's detriment; but much had changed since then, and remembering that she had already, without knowing it, played into the confederate's hands by writing to him, her indignation mastered her.
"I could not persuade him against his wishes, and would not do so if I could," she declared, turning full upon her husband.
"You can and must," replied Leslie, whose passion blazed up. "I'm about sick of your obstinacy and fondness for dramatic situations. You could do anything with any man you laid yourself out to inveigle, as I know to my cost, and in this case—by the Lord, I'll make you!"
"I will not!" Millicent's face was white with anger as she fixed her eyes on him. "For a few moments you shall listen to me. What you and Shackleby are planning does not concern me; but I will not move a finger to help you. Once before you said—what you have done—and if I have never forgotten it I tried to do so. This time I shall do neither. I have borne very much from you already, but, sunk almost to your level as I am, there are things I cannot stoop to countenance. For instance, the draft I am to cajole from Thurston is not intended for a speculation in mining shares, but—for Coralie."
The little carved bracket came down from the wall with a crash, and Leslie, whose face was swollen with fury, gripped the speaker's arm savagely. "After to-morrow you can do just what pleases you and go where you will," he responded in a voice shaking with rage and fear. "But in this I will make you obey me. As to Coralie, somebody has slandered me. The money is for what I told you, and nothing else."
Millicent with an effort wrenched herself free. "It is useless to protest, for I would not believe your oath," she said, looking at him steadily with contempt showing in every line of her pose. "Obey—you! As the man I, with blind folly, abandoned for you warned me, you are too abject a thing. Liar, thief, have I not said sufficient?—adulterer!"
"Quite!" cried Leslie, who yielded to the murderous fury which had been growing upon him, and leaning down struck her brutally upon the mouth. "What I am you have made me—and, by Heaven, it is time I repaid you in part."
Millicent staggered a little under the blow, which had been a heavy one, but her wits were clear, and, moving swiftly to a bell button, the pressure of her finger was answered by a tinkle below.
"I presume you do not wish to make a public scandal," she said thickly, for the lace handkerchief she removed from her smarting lips was stained with blood. Then, as their Chinese servant appeared in the doorway, "Your master wants you, John."
Before Leslie could grasp her intentions she had vanished, there was a rustle of drapery on the stairway, followed by the jar of a lock, and he was left face to face was the stolid Asiatic.
"Wantee someling, sah?" the Chinaman asked.
Leslie glared at him speechless until, with a humble little nod, the servant said:
"Linga linga bell; too much hullee, John quick come. Wantee someling. Linga linga bell."
"Go the devil. Oh, get out before I throw you," roared Leslie, and John vanished with the waft of a blue gown, while Millicent's book crashed against the door close behind his head.
The rising moon hung low above the lofty pines behind the city, when Millicent sank shivering into a chair beside the window of her bedroom. Under the impact of the blow her teeth had gashed her upper lip, but she did not feel the pain as she sat with hands clenched, looking down on the blaze of silver that grew broader across the inlet. She was faint and dizzy, incapable as yet of definite thought; but confused memories flashed through her brain, one among them more clearly than the rest. Instead of land-locked water shimmering beneath the Western pines, she saw dim English beeches with the coppery disk of the rising moon behind, and she heard a tall man speak with stinging scorn to one who cowered before him among the shadows.
"I was mad that night, and have paid for the madness ever since. Now when it is too late I know what I have lost!" she gasped with a catch of the breath that was a sob repressed.
There was a heavy step on the stairway, and Millicent shrank with the nausea of disgust as somebody tried the door. She drew a deep breath of relief, when the steps passed on unevenly.
The memories returned. They led her through a long succession of mistakes, falsehoods, slights and wrongs up to the present, and she shivered again, while a heavy drop of blood splashed warm upon her hand. Then she was mistress of herself once more, and a hazy purpose grew into definite shape. She could at least warn the man whom she had wronged, and so make partial reparation. It was not a wish for revenge upon her husband which prompted her to desire that amends might be made for her past treachery. Smarting with shame, she longed only to escape from him. After the day's revelations she could never forgive that blow.
Millicent was a woman of action, and it was a relief to consider practical details. She decided that a telegram might lie for days at the station nearest the cañon, while what distance divided one from the other she did not know. There was no train before noon the next day, and she feared that the plot might be put into execution as soon as Geoffrey left his camp. Therefore, she must reach it before he did so. Afterwards—but she would not consider the future then, and, if she could but warn him, nothing mattered greatly, neither physical peril nor the risk of her good name.
It was long before Millicent Leslie had thought all this out, but when once her way seemed clear, exhausted by conflicting emotions, she sank into heavy slumber, and the sun was high before she awakened. Leslie had gone to his office, and she ate a little, chose her thickest furs, and waited for noon in feverish suspense. Her husband might return and prevent her departure by force. She feared that, should he guess her intention, a special locomotive might be hired, even after the train had started. It was, therefore, necessary to slip away without word or sign, unless, indeed, she could mislead him, and, smiling mirthlessly, she laid an open letter inside her writing-case.
At last the time came, and she went out carrying only a little hand-bag, passed along the unfrequented water side to the station by the wharf, and ensconced herself in the corner of the car nearest the locomotive, counting the seconds until it should start. Once she trembled when she saw Shackleby hurry along the platform, but she breathed again when he hailed a man leaning out from the vestibule of a car. At last, the big bell clanged, and the Atlantic express, rolling out of the station, began its race across the continent.
It was nearly dusk when, with a scream of brakes, the cars lurched into a desolate mountain station, and Millicent shivered as she alighted in the frost-dried dust of snow. A nipping wind sighed down the valley. The tall firs on the hillside were fading into phantom battalions of climbing trees, and above them towered a dim chaos of giant peaks, weirdly awe-inspiring under the last faint glimmer of the dying day. A few lights blinked among the lower firs, and Millicent, hurrying towards them at the station agent's direction, was greeted by the odors of coarse tobacco as she pushed open the door of the New Eldorado saloon.
A group of bronze-faced men, some in jackets of fringed deerskin and some in coarse blue jean, sat about the stove, and, though Millicent involuntarily shrank from them, there was no reason why she should feel any fear in their presence. They were rude of aspect—on occasion more rude of speech—but, in all the essentials that become a man, she would have found few to surpass them in either English or Western cities. There was dead silence as she entered, and the others copied him when one of the loungers, rising, took off his shapeless hat, not ungracefully.
"I want a guide and good horse to take me to Thurston's camp in the Orchard River Cañon to-night," she said.
The men looked at one another, and the one who rose first replied: "Sorry to disappoint you, ma'am, but it's clean impossible. We'll have snow by morning, and it's steep chances a man couldn't get through in the dark now the shelf on the wagon trail's down."
"I must go. It is a matter of life and death, and I'm willing to pay whoever will guide me proportionate to the risk," insisted Millicent, shaking out on the table a roll of bills. Then, because she was a woman of quick perceptions, and noticed something in the big axeman's honest face, she added quickly, "I am in great distress, and disaster may follow every moment lost. Is there nobody in this settlement with courage enough to help me?"
This time the listeners whispered as they glanced sympathetically at the speaker. The big man said:
"If you're willing to face the risk I'll go with you. You can put back most of your money; but, because we're poor men you'll be responsible for the horses."
Millicent felt the cold strike through her with the keenness of steel when the went out into the night. Somebody lifted her to the back of a snorting horse, and a man already mounted seized its bridle. There was a shout of "Good luck!" and they had started on their adventurous journey. Loose floury snow muffled the beat of hoofs, the lights of the settlement faded behind and the two were alone in a wilderness of awful white beauty, wherein it seemed no living thing had broken the frozen silence since the world was made. Staring vacantly before her Millicent saw the shoulders of the mighty peaks looming far above her through a haze of driving snow, which did not reach the lower slopes, where even the wind was still. The steam of the horses hung in white clouds about them as they climbed, apparently for hours, past scattered vedettes of dwindling pines. After a long pull on a steep trail the man checked the horses on the brink of a chasm filled with eddying mist.
"That should have been our way, but the whole blame trail slipped down into the valley," the man said. "Let me take hold of your bridle and trust to me. We're going straight over the spur yonder until we strike the trail again."
It was no longer a ride but a scramble. Even those sure-footed horses stumbled continually, and where the wind had swept the thin snow away, the iron on the sliding hoofs clanged on ice-streaked rock, or hundredweights of loose gravel rattled down the incline. Then there was juniper to be struggled through. They came to slopes almost precipitous up which the panting guide somehow dragged the horses, but, one strong with muscular vigor and the other sustained by sheer force of will, the two riders held stubbornly on. Millicent had risen superior to physical weakness that night.
"Four hours to the big divide! We've pretty well equaled Thurston's record," said the guide, striking a match inside his hollowed palm to consult his watch. "It's all down grade now, but we'll meet the wind in the long pass and maybe the snow."
Millicent's heart almost failed her when, as the match went out, she gazed down into the gulf of darkness that opened at her feet, but she answered steadily: "Press on. I must reach the camp by daylight, whatever happens."
They went on. The pace, instead of a scramble, became in places a wild glissade, and no beast of burden but a mountain pack-horse could have kept its footing ten minutes. Dark pines rose up from beneath them and faded back of them, here and there a scarred rock or whitened boulder flitted by, and then Millicent's sight was dimmed by a whirling haze of snow. How long the descent lasted she did not know. She could see nothing through the maze of eddying flakes but that a figure, magnified by them to gigantic proportions, rode close beside her, until they left the cloud behind and wound along the face of a declivity, which dipped into empty blackness close beneath.
Suddenly her horse stumbled; there was a flounder and a shock, and Millicent felt herself sliding very swiftly down a long slope of crusted snow. Hoarse with terror, she screamed once, then something seized and held her fast, and she rose, shaking in every limb, to cling breathless to the guide.
"Hurt bad?" he gasped. "No!—I'm mighty glad. Snow slide must have gouged part of the trail out. Can you hold up a minute while I 'tend to the horse?"
"I don't think I am much hurt," stammered Millicent, whose teeth were chattering, and the man floundering back a few paces, stooped over a dark object that struggled in the snow. She fancied that he fumbled at his belt, after which there was a horrible gurgle, and he returned rubbing his fingers suggestively with a handful of snow.
"Poor brute's done for—I had to settle him," he explained. "It will cost you—but we can fix that when we get through. I'll have to change your saddle, and the sooner we get on the better. Won't keep you five minutes, ma'am."
Millicent felt very cold and sick, for the unfortunate horse still struggled feebly, while the gurgle continued, and she was devoutly thankful when they continued their journey. The traveling was, if possible, more arduous than before. At times they forced a passage through climbing forest, and again over slopes of treacherous shale where a snow slide had plowed a great hollow in the breast of the hill. The puffs of snow which once more met them grew thicker until Millicent was sheeted white all over. At last the man said:
"It can't be far off daylight and I'm mighty thankful. I've lost my bearings, but we're on a trail, which must lead to somewhere, at last. Stick tight to your saddle and I'll bring you through all right, ma'am."
Millicent was too cold to answer. A blast that whirled the drifts up met her in the face, numbing all her faculties and rendering breathing difficult. The hand that held the bridle was stiffened into uselessness. Still, while life pulsed within her, she was going on, and swaying in the saddle, she fixed her eyes ahead.
At last the trail grew level, the snow thinner. In the growing light of day a cluster of roofs loomed up before her, and she made some incoherent answer when her guide confessed:
"I struck the wrong way at the forking of the trail. Here's a ranch, however, and the camp can't be far away. Horse is used up and so am I, but you could get somebody to take Thurston a message."
Some minutes later he lifted Millicent from the saddle, and she leaned against him almost powerless as he pounded on the door. The loud knocking was answered by voices within, the door swung open, and Millicent reeled into a long hall. Two women rose from beside the stove, and, for it was broad daylight now, stared in bewilderment at the strangers.
The guide leaned wearily against the wall, while Millicent, overcome by the change of temperature, stood clutching at the table and swaying to and fro. Then her failing strength deserted her. Somebody who helped her into a chair presently held a cup of warm liquid to her lips. She gulped down a little, and, recovering command of her senses, found herself confronted by Helen Savine. It was a curious meeting, and even then Millicent remembered under what circumstances they had last seen each other. It appeared probable that Helen remembered, too, for she showed no sign of welcome, and Mrs. Thomas Savine, who picked up the fallen cup, watched them intently.
"I see you are surprised to find me here," said Millicent, with a gasp. "I left the railroad last night for Geoffrey Thurston's camp. We lost the trail and one of the horses in the snow, and just managed to reach this ranch. We can drag ourselves no further. I did not know the ranch belonged to you."
"That's about it!" the guide broke in. "This lady has made a journey that would have killed some men—it has pretty well used me up, anyway. I'll sit down in the corner if you don't mind. Can't keep myself right end up much longer."
"Please make yourself comfortable!" said Helen, with a compassionate glance in his direction. "I will tell our Chinaman to see to your horse." She turned towards Millicent, and her face was coldly impassive. "Anyone in distress is welcome to shelter here. You were going to Mr. Thurston's camp?"
Even Mrs. Savine had started at Millicent's first statement, and now she read contemptuous indignation in Helen's eyes. It was certain her niece's voice, though even, was curiously strained.
"Yes!" answered Millicent, rapidly. "I was going to Geoffrey Thurston's camp. It is only failing strength that hinders me from completing the journey. Somebody must warn him at once that he is on no account to leave for Vancouver as he promised me that he would. There is a plot to ruin him during his absence—a traitor among his workmen, I think. At any moment the warning may be too late. He was starting west to-day to call on me."
Millicent was half-dazed and perhaps did not reflect that it was possible to draw a damaging inference from her words. Nevertheless, there was that in Helen's expression which awoke a desire for retaliation.
Helen asked but one question, "You risked your life to tell him this?" and when Millicent bent her head the guide interposed, "You can bet she did, and nearly lost it."
"Then," said the girl, "the warning must not be thrown away. Unfortunately, we have nobody I could send just now. Auntie, you must see to Mrs. Leslie; I will go myself."
"I'm very sorry, miss. If you like I'll do my best, but can hardly promise that I won't fall over on the way," apologized the guide; but Helen hastened out of the room, and now that the strain was over, Millicent lay helpless in her chair. Still, she was conscious of a keen disappointment. After all she had dared and suffered, it was Helen who would deliver the warning.
Thurston was standing knee-deep in ground-up stone and mire, inside a coffer dam about which the river frothed and roared, when a man brought him word that Miss Savine waited for him. He hurried to meet her, and presently halted beside her horse—a burly figure in shapeless slouch hat, with a muddy oilskin hanging from his shoulders above the stained overalls and long boots.
Helen sat still in the saddle, a strange contrast to him, for she was neat and dainty down to the little foot in Indian dressed deerskin against the horse's flank. She showed no sign of pleasure as she returned his greeting, but watched him keenly as she said:
"Mrs. Leslie arrived this morning almost frozen at the ranch. She left the railroad last night to reach your camp, but her guide lost the trail."
The man was certainly startled, but his face betrayed no satisfaction. It's most visible expression was more akin to annoyance.
"Could she not have waited?" he asked impatiently, adding somewhat awkwardly, "Did Mrs. Leslie explain why she wanted to see me so particularly?"
"Yes," was the quick answer. "She has reason to believe that while you journeyed to Vancouver to visit her, an attempt would be made to wreck these workings. She bade me warn you that there is a traitor in your camp."
"Ah," replied Geoffrey, a flush showing through the bronze on his forehead. He thought hastily of all his men and came back to the consciousness of Helen's presence with a start. "It was very good of you to face the rough cold journey, but you cannot return without rest and refreshment," he said with a look that spoke of something more than gratitude. "I will warn my foremen, and when it seems safe will ride back with you."
If Helen had been gifted with a wider knowledge of life she might perhaps have noticed several circumstances that proved Thurston blameless. As it was she had a quick temper, and at first glance facts spoke eloquently against him.
"You cannot," was the cold answer. "The warning was very plain, and considering all that is at stake you must not leave the workings a moment. Neither are any thanks due to me. I am an interested party, and the person who has earned your gratitude is Mrs. Leslie. The day is clear and fine, and I can dispense with an escort."
"You shall not go alone," declared Thurston, doggedly. "You can choose between my company and that of my assistant. And you shall not go until you rest. Further, I must ask you a favor. Will you receive Mrs. Leslie until I have seen her and arranged for her return? There is no married rancher within some distance, and I cannot well bring her here."
"You cannot," agreed Helen averting her eyes. "If only on account of the service she has rendered, Mrs. Leslie is entitled to such shelter as we can offer her, as long as it appears necessary."
"Thanks!" said Thurston, gravely. "You relieve me of a difficulty." Then, stung by the girl's ill-concealed disdain into one of his former outbreaks, he gripped the horse's bridle, and backed the beast so that he and its rider were more fully face to face.
"Am I not harassed sufficiently? Good Lord! do you think——" he began.
"I have neither the right nor desire to inquire into your motives," responded Helen distantly. "We will, as I say, shelter Mrs. Leslie, and, since you insist, will you ask your assistant to accompany me?"
Geoffrey, raising his hat a moment, swung round upon his heel, and blew a silver whistle.
"Tom," he said to the man who came running up, "tell John to get some coffee and the nicest things he can in a hurry for Miss Savine. Straighten up my office room, and lay them out there. English Jim is to ride back with Miss Savine when she is ready. Send a mounted man to Allerton's to bring Black in, see that no man you wouldn't trust your last dollar to lay's hand on a machine. That would stop half the work in camp? It wouldn't—confound you—you know what I mean. Call in all explosives from the shot-firing gang. Nobody's to slip for a moment out of sight of his section foreman."
Helen heard the crisp sharp orders as she rode up the hill, and glanced once over her shoulder. She had often noticed how the whole strength of Geoffrey's character could rise to face a crisis. Still, appearances were terribly against him.
Geoffrey, taking breath for a moment, scowled savagely at the river.
"If ever there was an unfortunate devil—but I suppose it can't be helped. Damn the luck that dogs me!" he ejaculated as he turned to issue more specific commands.