Blake's Burden

Greythorpe thought this clever, since it was the best means of lessening the value of Challoner's opinion that she could use.

"I gather that you put too severe a strain upon his friendship."

"I'm afraid there's a breach between us now, but that is not the point."

"No," said Greythorpe. "In a general way, your reasoning is logical, but I hardly think it applicable to Challoner. He might resent your action; but it would not make him unjust. I presume the man you favour is Captain Sedgwick?"

"He's much the best of the three you have in view."

"Then you know something about the matter? We thought it was secret."

She laughed. "Secrets are not always well kept. I know the other men, and though there is nothing that can be urged against their character, they are plodders, men of routine, without much foresight or enterprise."

"Allowing that you are right, isn't there something to be said for the steady plodder?"

"I daresay he's useful," Mrs. Chudleigh agreed with a touch of scorn. "But for the vacant post you want a bold determined man who can see ahead."

"To some extent, I must agree. You believe Captain Sedgwick is such a man?"

He felt a certain tempered admiration for her. She made no secret of her aim, though he supposed she must find it embarrassing to plead for her lover, since he did not doubt that she loved Sedgwick. She had courage and cleverness and he listened with close attention while she spoke about the man's exploits and abilities. Then she looked up with an eagerness which somewhat moved him.

"Have I convinced you?" she asked.

Greythorpe smiled. "That Sedgwick is a dashing and intrepid soldier? Yes. But there are other points to take into account, and the matter does not entirely rest with me. Still, I think if he serves us well, we may find some use for him."

It was a guarded promise and by no means all that she desired, but she knew she must be content with it.

"Then I have accomplished something and will remember the consideration and patience you have shown," she said, and when some of the other guests came in moved away to join them.

In the meanwhile, Millicent had been sitting alone for a few minutes at the opposite end of the hall. Somebody was singing in the adjoining drawing-room, the door of which stood open, and she could see several people gathered about the piano, though she was herself partly secluded by a screen. By and by Lieutenant Walters came in, and as he made his way towards her after looking round she felt tempted to change her place, but could not do so without making her retreat too marked. Now and then he suffered from a relapse, and she felt compassionate as she noticed the heaviness of his movements and his pinched expression. Still his eyes had been eager as he searched the room, and this had caused her some alarm, because he had lately shown a noticeable preference for her society. When he stopped he laid his hand, as if for support, on the back of a chair and glanced towards a window that opened into the conservatory.

"I've been hanging about since dinner trying to get hold of you, but you were in too great demand," he said. "Shall we slip out to the seat among the palms yonder for a quiet talk?"

The conservatory looked inviting with the coloured lamps hanging among the flowers and screens of trailing plants throwing their shadows across warm, scented nooks. Walters, however, had framed his question injudiciously, because it implied a mutual desire to escape observation and confidential relations which did not exist.

"I think not," said Millicent. "I may be wanted."

"Mrs. Keith's talking to Challoner and won't ask for you," Walters objected. "Be good-natured; it's quiet yonder. That fellow in the drawing-room can't sing and the piano makes my head ache."

"It really oughtn't to. The girl who's accompanying him plays well, but I'm afraid you're not feeling very fit to-night."

"I'm not; I suppose it's weak, but when I seem to be going back instead of picking up, I get depressed. That's partly why I came for you; you know how to cheer one."

"I feel flattered," Millicent rejoined, smiling. "But you shouldn't be downcast. You're making excellent progress."

"Oh! well," he said irritably, "don't let us talk about my ailments; I'm tired of them. But this light's glaring. Take pity on me and come in among the flowers, where it's quiet and dim."

Millicent was tempted to agree. She liked the man and felt sorry for him; he was frank, rather handsome, and generally a pleasant companion, but she thought their friendship was ripening too fast and was not prepared to see it change to something deeper Indeed, since it was pleasant to be sought after, she feared she had allowed herself to drift too far, and now the time to pull up had come.

"No," she said, "I must stay here."

He looked at her rather hard, for there was decision in her tone and he was not dull. She was very attractive; he liked her thoughtful expression and her gentle firmness. Half-consciously he compared her with the highly polished, clever woman, who had at first fascinated him, and his appreciation of the girl grew stronger. Mrs. Chudleigh, who did not improve upon close acquaintance, had been inclined to leave him alone of late, and though he could not resent this he had an unflattering suspicion that he had somehow been made use of and had served his turn. Miss Graham was different; she was genuine, which was the word that occurred to him, and he was growing fond of her.

"As you wish, of course," he said. "Am I allowed to remain?"

She indicated a place on the corner seat and when he took it began to talk, carefully avoiding any personal topic, but after a time he interrupted her —

"I heard Mrs. Keith say she was going to the Vivians in Durham later. I suppose she will take you?"

Millicent said she believed so, and he continued: "It's possible I may turn up there."

He watched her closely, but could see nothing that suggested satisfaction.

"Do you know the people?" she inquired.

"I used to know Herbert Vivian, though I haven't seen him for some time. No doubt, if he got a hint he'd ask me down."

"It's a high, bleak place," said Millicent. "We were nearly frozen on our last visit, and I'm afraid you wouldn't find the cold good for you. Were you not recommended to stay in Devonshire?"

Walters gave her a half-indignant glance. "When that brute of a hill man knocked me out I'd no suspicion how much his shot would cost me. Anyhow, I'm not going to Devonshire, and I ventured to think you might have been glad to see me at the Vivians'."

"Why should I wish you to do an unwise thing?" Millicent asked.

"That's an evasion," he answered bluntly. "I'll be candid. This place won't be the same after you have gone."

Millicent was silent a moment. She knew he wanted a tacit admission that their acquaintance need not end with her visit to Hazlehurst, but he would be right in attaching some significance to her action if she made it. The man, who had only known her a few weeks, could go no further yet, and he was eminently likeable, but she would not lead him on.

"That," she said, "was very nice of you, but you will soon get used to the change."

"You may," he replied with rather bitter humour.

"After all," said Millicent, "one meets pleasant people here and there, and though one regrets it has to part from them."

Looking at her fixedly, he understood. Her expression was quietly resolute, and he recognized that their friendship must shortly come to an end. The girl knew her mind and had obviously made it up.

"Well," he said in a resigned tone, "you won't be forgotten. I must get back to India as soon as I can."

By and by he went away and Mrs. Keith joined Millicent.

"What have you been saying to Walters?" she asked. "I met him going out, and he looked very crestfallen."

"He hinted that he might follow us to the Vivians' and I suggested that it was too cold a place for him," Millicent answered with a blush.

"I see," remarked Mrs. Keith, who was sometimes blunt. "Well, I daresay you were wise; though I'm told he'll be captain shortly, and he has his good points, Jimmy is no catch. You certainly might do better."

Millicent turned her head, half-indignant, half-embarrassed, and Mrs. Keith laughed.

"My dear," she resumed gently, "I'm glad you have some sense. It's perhaps not impossible for the wife of a young Indian officer to live upon her husband's pay, but unless they're exceptional people it's apt to lead to disaster."

"It wasn't that," Millicent protested, unwilling to be suspected of a mercenary mind, and Mrs. Keith's eyes twinkled.

"Then what was it that influenced you?"

As the girl did not answer, she turned away and left her to face the question. It proved troublesome, for Millicent was not daunted by poverty and could find no fault with Walters; indeed, she was sensible of some esteem for him. Then, though she would not admit that this was her reason for checking his advances, her thoughts centred on another man. He was in disgrace, but she remembered how chivalrously and adroitly he had come to her rescue in London and had again been of assistance on the St. Lawrence steamer. He was prompt in action, pitiful and humorous. She remembered his gay buoyancy, she could imagine his facing his troubles with a laugh. It was characteristic of him that he had gone up into the wilds of the frozen North with an inexperienced companion on a rash search for fortune, which she gathered would probably elude him. Still, she knew that he would struggle gallantly against the perils and hardships he might have to face. Then she remembered that by sitting alone with an abstracted air she might excite curiosity, and rousing herself, went to look for her hostess.

CHAPTER XXI

A NEW PERSECUTOR

Soon after Greythorpe's visit Mrs. Chudleigh went away, leaving Challoner unpleasantly uncertain about the course she might take. He was still without news of Blake; he could not question his son, whose integrity he tried hard to believe in, and he spent a few anxious weeks. Then one evening when he came home from a neighbour's house he was told that a man who had called to see him some time earlier was in the library. Challoner glanced at the card his servant gave him.

"Clarke? I don't know anybody of that name," he said and then started as he saw the word Sweetwater in small type at the bottom of the card.

Taking off his coat he went up the staircase with some eagerness. The lamps had been lighted in the library and a good fire burned on the hearth, near which his visitor was comfortably seated in a big leather chair. He rose as Challoner entered, and the latter was not favourably impressed by him. There was a hint of grossness about the fellow which repelled the Colonel, who was of an ascetic type; besides, he was badly and carelessly dressed, and Challoner was fastidious in such matters. Also the man had an irritating air of assurance.

"Colonel Challoner, I presume?" he said.

Challoner bowed. "You have brought me some news of my nephew, Richard Blake?"

This disconcerted Clarke, who had not imagined that his object would be known and had counted upon Challoner's being surprised when he heard it and thrown off his guard. It, however, looked as if the Colonel had been making inquiries about Blake, and Clarke wished he could guess his reason, because it might affect the situation.

"That is correct," he said. "I have a good deal to tell you and it may take some time."

Signing him to be seated, Challoner rang a bell, and wine and cigars and hothouse fruit were brought in. These he offered his guest, who helped himself freely and then said, "Your nephew spent a week in the settlement where I live, preparing for a journey to the North. Though his object was secret, I believe he went in search of something to make varnish of, because he took a young American traveller for a colour factory with him, besides another man."

"I know this," Challoner replied. "I heard about his American companion; who was the other?"

"We will come to him presently. There is still something which I think you do not know."

"Then I should be glad to be informed. But, first of all, could you find Blake if it were necessary?"

"I'm doubtful; the thing would be difficult," Clarke answered in a significant tone. "He hadn't returned when I left, and the country he meant to cross is rugged and covered deep with snow all winter. Food is hard to get and the temperature varies from forty to fifty degrees below."

"I suppose it could be traversed by a properly equipped expedition?"

Though Challoner's face was calm, Clarke inferred some anxiety to find his nephew, and answered cautiously: "It would be possible, but whether a party sent up could strike the others' trail is a different matter."

"Very well," said Challoner; "we'll talk of it again. Go on with what you wished to say."

He was suspicious, for his visitor's looks were not in his favour, and the man gave him a keen glance.

"It concerns your nephew's earlier history."

"That is of most importance to himself and me. It can't interest you."

"It interests me very much," Clarke rejoined with an ironical smile. "I must ask you to let me tell you what I know."

Challoner, who thought he had better learn it, consented, and Clarke gave him what he admitted was a very accurate account of the action on the Indian frontier.

"Now," he concluded, "the question, Who gave the order to retreat? is of vital importance to you."

"In a sense, it has been answered."

"I think incorrectly."

"Then if you differ from the general opinion on the matter, you can let me have your theory of what occurred."

It took Clarke some minutes to give it and Challoner's heart sank, for the man carefully arranged his points and the damaging inference could hardly be shirked. On the whole, his account agreed with Mrs. Chudleigh's, although it was more cleverly worked out, but there was nothing to be learned from Challoner's expression. He was now not dealing with a woman who had the excuse that she was acting in her lover's interest.

"Your suggestions are plausible, but you can't seriously expect me to attach much weight to them," he remarked. "Besides, you seem to have overlooked the important fact that at the regimental inquiry the verdict was that nobody in particular was to blame.

"Oh! no," Clarke rejoined with a harsh laugh. "I merely question its validity. I imagine that reasons which would not be officially recognized led the court to take a lenient view; but what of that? Blake had to leave the army, a ruined man, and I've good reason for knowing what an acquittal like his is worth." He paused a moment. "I may as well tell you candidly, because it's probable that you'll make inquiries about me. Well, I'd won some reputation as a medical specialist when I became involved in a sensational police case – you may recollect it."

Challoner started. "Yes," he said. "So you are the man! I think nothing was actually proved against you."

"No," said Clarke drily; "there was only a fatal suspicion. As it happens, I was innocent, but I had to give up my profession and my life was spoiled. There's no reason why you should be interested in this, and I mentioned it merely because a similar misfortune has befallen Richard Blake. The point, of course, is that it has done so undeservedly. I think you must see who the real culprit is."

"I'll admit that you have told me a rather likely tale. As you don't speak of having been in India, who gave you the information?"

"Blake's companion, the man I've mentioned, a former Indian officer called Benson."

"His full name, please."

Clarke gave it him and Challoner, crossing the floor, took a book from a shelf and turned it over by a lamp.

"Yes; he's here. What led him to talk of the thing to an outsider?"

"Drink," said Clarke. "I'll own to having taken advantage of the condition he was often in."

Challoner, sitting down, coolly lighted a cigar. His position seemed a weak one, but he had no thought of surrender.

"Well, you have given me some interesting information; but there's one thing you haven't mentioned, and that is your reason for doing so."

"Can't you guess?"

"I shouldn't have suspected you of being so diffident, but I daresay you thought this was a chance of earning some money easily."

"Yes," said Clarke. "For five thousand pounds I'll undertake that no word of what I've told you will ever pass my lips again."

"You're not flattering. Do you suppose I'd pay five thousand pounds to see my nephew wronged?"

"I believe you might do so to save your son."

Challoner, who wished to lead the man on and learn something about his plans, made a negative sign.

"Out of the question."

"Then I'll make you an alternative offer, and it's worth considering. Take, or get your friends to subscribe for, ten thousand pounds worth of shares in a commercial syndicate I'm getting up, and you'll never regret it. If you wish, I'll make you a director so you can satisfy yourself that the money will be wisely spent. You'll get it back several times over."

Challoner laughed. "This is to salve my feelings; to make the thing look like a business transaction?"

"No," said Clarke, leaning forward and speaking eagerly. "It's a genuine offer, and I'll ask your attention for a minute or two. Canada's an undeveloped country; we have scarcely begun to tap its natural resources, and there's wealth ready for exploitation all over it. We roughly know the extent of the farming land and the value of the timber, but the minerals still to a large extent await discovery, while perhaps the most readily and profitably handled product is oil. Now I know a belt of country where it's oozing from the soil and with ten thousand pounds I'll engage to bore wells that will give a remarkable yield."

His manner was impressive, and though Challoner had no cause to trust him he thought the man sincere.

"One understands that in Canada all natural commodities belong to the State and any person discovering them can work them on certain terms. It seems to follow that if your knowledge of the locality is worth anything, it must belong to you alone. How is it that nobody else suspects the belt contains oil?"

"A shrewd objection, but easily answered. The country in question is one of the most rugged tracts in Canada, difficult to get through in summer, while the man who enters it in winter runs a serious risk. Now I'll allow that what you know about me is not likely to prejudice you in my favour, but on your promise to keep it secret I'll give you information that must convince you."

"Why don't you make your offer to some company floater or stockjobber?"

Clarke smiled in a pointed manner. "Because I've a damaging record and no friends to vouch for me. I came here because I felt I had some claim on you."

"You were mistaken," said Challoner drily.

"Hear me out; try to consider my proposition on its merits. For a number of years I've known the existence of the oil and have tried to prospect the country. It was difficult; to transport enough food and tools meant a costly expedition and the attracting of undesirable attention. I went alone, living with primitive Russian settlers and afterwards with the Indians. To gain a hold on them I studied the occult sciences and learned tricks that impose upon the credulous. To the white men I'm a crank, to the Indians something of a magician, but my search for the oil has gone on, and now while I already know where boring would be commercially profitable, I'm on the brink of tapping a remarkable flow."

"What will you do if it comes up to your expectations?" Challoner asked, for he had grown interested.

"Turn it over to a company strong enough to exact good terms from the American producers or, failing that, to work the wells. Then I'd go back to London where with money and the standing it would buy me I'd take up my old profession. I believe I've kept abreast of medical progress and could still make my mark and reinstate myself. It has been my steadfast object ever since I became an outcast; I've schemed and cheated to gain it, besides risking my life often in desolate muskegs and the Arctic frost. Now I ask you to make it possible, and you cannot refuse."

Challoner was silent for a minute or two while Clarke smoked impassively. The former knew he had a determined man to deal with and believed moreover that he had spoken the truth. Still, the fellow, although in some respects to be pitied, was obviously a dangerous rascal, embittered and robbed of all scruples by injustice. There was something malignant in his face that testified against him, and, worse than all, he had come there resolved to extort money as the price of his connivance in a wrong.

"Well?" Clarke said, breaking the pause.

"So far as I can judge, your ultimate object's creditable, but I can't say as much for the means you are ready to employ in raising the money. If you go on with the scheme, it must be without any help of mine."

Clarke's face grew hard, and there was something forbidding in the way he knitted his brows.

"Think! Have you gauged the consequences of your refusal?"

"It's more to the purpose that I've tried to estimate the importance of your version of what happened during the night attack. It has one fatal weakness which you seem to have overlooked."

"Ah!" said Clarke with ironical calm. "You will no doubt mention it."

"You suggest Blake's innocence, but you must be content with doing so. You cannot prove it in the face of his denial."

To Challoner's surprise, Clarke smiled.

"So you have seen that! The trouble is that your nephew may never have an opportunity of denying it. He left for the North very badly equipped, and he has not come back yet." Then he rose with an undisturbed air. "Well, as it seems we can't come to terms, I needn't waste my time, and it's a long walk to the station. I must try some other market, and while I think you have made a grave mistake that is your affair."

Challoner let him go and afterwards sat down to think. There had been nothing forcible or obviously threatening in the man's last few remarks, but their effect was somehow sinister. Challoner wondered whether he had done well in suggesting that Blake's denial would prove Clarke's greatest difficulty. After all, he had a strong affection for his nephew, who might be in danger, and knew that the wilds of Northern Canada might prove deadly to a weak party unprovided with proper sledges and stores. Still, something might, perhaps, be done, and by and by he wrote a letter to a friend who had once made an adventurous journey across the frozen land.

CHAPTER XXII

CLARKE MODIFIES HIS PLANS

A bitter wind swept the snowy prairie and the cold was Arctic when Clarke, shivering in his furs, came into sight of his homestead as he walked back from Sweetwater. He had gone there for his mail, which included an English newspaper, and had taken supper at the hotel. It was now about two hours after dark, but a full moon hung in the western sky and the cluster of wooden buildings formed a shadowy blur on the glittering plain. There was no fence, not a tree to break the white expanse that ran back to the skyline, and it struck Clarke, who had lately returned from England, that the place looked very dreary.

He walked on with the fine, dry snow the wind whipped up glistening on his furs, and on reaching the homestead went first to the stable. It was built of sod, which was cheaper and warmer than sawn lumber, and, lighting a lantern, he fed his teams. The heavy Clydesdales and lighter driving horses were all valuable, for Clarke was a successful farmer and had found that the purchase of the best animals and implements led to economy, though it was said he seldom paid the full market price for them. He had walked home because it was impossible to keep warm driving, and felt tired and morose. The man had passed his prime and was beginning to find the labour he had never shirked more irksome than it had been, while he dispensed with a hired hand in winter, when there was less to be done. Clarke neglected no opportunity of saving a dollar.

When he had finished in the stable, he crossed the snow to the house, which was dark and silent. After the bustle and stir of London where he had spent some time, it was depressing to come back to the empty dwelling, and he was glad that he had saved himself the task of getting supper. Shaking the snow from his furs, he lighted the lamp and filled up the stove before he sat down wearily. The small room was not a cheerful place in which to spend the winter nights alone, though he remembered that for a number of years he had not noticed this. Walls and floor were uncovered and roughly boarded with heat-cracked lumber; the stove was rusty and gave out a smell of warm iron, while a black distillate had dripped from its pipe. There were, however, several well-filled bookcases and one or two comfortable chairs.