Delilah of the Snows

"I don't mind admitting that I do – to you," he said.

Grace was pleased and showed it. It is gratifying to feel that anybody has complete confidence in one, and the possession of a common secret of some importance is not infrequently a bond between the two who share it. Ingleby realized this and felt with a curious gratification that the girl recognized it as clearly as he did. Still, she had said nothing that could lead him to believe so.

"Then you no doubt know where he went?" she asked.

"I naturally know that, too."

Grace smiled. "That means you helped him to get away. Are you wise in admitting that you were an accessory? Captain Esmond is a friend of ours."

Ingleby made her a little whimsical inclination, though there was a look in his eyes which was not quite in keeping with it.

"I am," he said, "quite safe in your hands."

It was a fortunate answer, and worth the more because he was not usually a very tactful person, as the girl was aware. She was afflicted by a craving for influence, and it was not the adulation of men she wanted, but an insight into their thoughts and purposes, and the privilege of controlling them. Thus Ingleby, who did not know it, could not have done more wisely than he did in admitting that he had an unquestioning confidence in her. He was, as she had discovered some time ago, in spite of his simplicity, a man capable of bold conceptions and resolute execution, the type of man, in fact, that usually came to the front in Western Canada. She had the intelligence to realize and weigh all this, and yet there was a strain of passion in her which he had awakened.

"I almost think you are," she said. "How is the new claim progressing?"

"Reasonably well. In fact, although Sewell is apparently getting rich on the one I threw away, I can't complain. What he makes will, at least, be spent on what he thinks is doing good, while I want mine for my own selfish purposes."

"They are necessarily selfish?"

Ingleby laughed, though the little glow crept into his eyes again. "Well," he said, "I suppose so. You see, a third-share in Tomlinson's claim is not of itself of much value to me. It only provides the money to make a start with."

Grace nodded comprehendingly. He was crude in his mode of expression, but she understood him.

"That implies a going on?" she asked.

"It does," and Ingleby laughed. "There is room, I think, in this Province for men who will take big risks, and boldly stake what they have on the advancement of its prosperity. I'm not sure there is any reason I shouldn't be one of them."

"And gather in the money? More than you are entitled to? Haven't you been changing your opinions?"

Ingleby made a little whimsical gesture, which alone sufficed to show that he had, as the girl expressed it to herself, expanded.

"I suppose I have – that is, I have modified them. One has to now and then," he said. "Still, you see, the men I mean don't grind money out of others. They create it. They take hold of the wilderness, bridge the rivers, drive the roads through it, and the ranches and the orchards follow. Every man who makes a new home in the waste owes a little to them."

"Still, all that is not done easily. One must have the faith – and, as you suggest, the money with which to make the start. Even then the ladder is hard to climb."

Ingleby involuntarily glanced down at his hands, and the girl noticed the scars on them, which, however, did not repel her. She also noticed the spareness of his frame, the curious transparency of his darkened skin, and the brightness of his eyes, all significant of an intensity of bodily effort. The man had been purged of grossness, moral and physical, by toil in icy water and scorching sun, and the light that shone out through his eyes was the brighter for the hardships he had undergone. He had gained more than vigour while he swung the shovel and gripped the drill with hands that bled from the blundering hammer stroke, after other men's work was done. It is possible that he had also gained more than tenacity of will.

"Still," he said slowly, "I think I shall manage it."

Grace felt that this was likely. She realized the purpose which animated him, and there suddenly came upon her a desire that he should tell it to her. She knew that he would do so when he felt the time was ripe; but she wished to hear it now, or, at least, to see how far his reticence would carry him. She leaned forward a little and looked him steadily in the eyes.

"It will be a struggle," she said. "Is it worth while?"

Ingleby stirred uneasily beneath her gaze, for it seemed to him that she had brushed aside every distinction there might be between them. He did not know how she had conveyed this impression, but he felt it. She was also very close to him. As she moved, the hem of her skirt had touched him, and he felt the blood tingle in his veins.

"It would be worth dying for," he said.

Grace laughed in a curious fashion. "The money, and the envy of less fortunate men?"

Ingleby stood up suddenly, though he scarcely knew why he did so, or how it came about that he yielded with scarcely a struggle now to the impulse that swept him away. It is, however, possible that Grace Coulthurst, who had only looked at him, understood the reason.

"Success would be worth nothing without another thing," he said. "Like what I have already, the money wouldn't be mine, you see. I am not poor now – but I should never have held on here by any strength of purpose that was in me alone. I borrowed it from another person."

He stopped abruptly, half-afraid, wondering what had happened to him that the truth should be wrung from him in this fashion. Then he saw the clear rose colour creep into the girl's cheeks and the sudden softening of her eyes, and his courage came back to him. He had ventured too far to be silent now.

"Yes," he said, "there is somebody I owe everything to – and it's you."

Grace do longer looked at him, but sat still now with hands clasped on her knees, and Ingleby felt the silence becoming intolerable. There was still a murmur of voices in the adjoining room, and he could hear the wind outside moaning among the pines.

"I suppose I have offended past forgiveness. I did not mean to tell you this to-night," he said.

Grace looked up for a moment. "Oh," she said softly, "I think I knew – and you see I am not blaming you."

Ingleby quivered visibly, and his face grew hot; but while the desire to kneel beside her and seize the clasped hands was almost irresistible, he stood still, looking gravely down upon her, which was, perhaps, not wise of him.

"You knew?" he said.

"Is that so difficult to understand, after what happened at Alison's Sault?"

Ingleby bent down and took one of her hands, but he did it very gently, though the signs of the fierce restraint he laid upon himself were in his face.

"I should never have told you, Grace – I lost my head," he said. "Still, the one hope that has led me so far, and will, I think, lead me farther, has been that I might – one day when the time was ripe – induce you to listen, and not send me away. Now it must be sufficient that you are not angry. I can take no promise from you."

"Is it worth so little?" Grace said softly.

Ingleby's grasp tightened on her hand until it grew almost painful. "It would," he said, "be worth everything to me, but I dare not take it now. What I am, you know – but the claim is yielding well – and I only want a little time. Until I can ask Major Coulthurst for you boldly you must be free."

Grace looked up at him. "And you?"

"I," said Ingleby with a little grave smile, "was your very willing bondsman ever so long ago."

The hot flush had faded from his face, and the girl swept her skirt aside, and made room for him beside her. There was, she knew, no fear of his again breaking through the restraint he had laid upon himself. She was, however, not altogether pleased at this, for while it was evident that his attitude was warranted, the self-command which now characterized it was not quite what she had expected. It scarcely appeared natural under the circumstances.

"Well," she said, "we will let it be so, and I have something to tell you. I am going to Vancouver for the winter. In fact, I should have left already but for the snow."

Ingleby started visibly. "You are going away?"

"Yes," said Grace, with a trace of dryness in her smile; "is that very dreadful? You will go away in due time, too. While you struggle for what you think will buy my favour, I must wait patiently."

"I suppose I have deserved it," and Ingleby winced. "Still, it will be horribly hard to let you go. It is a good deal to know that you are here even when I may not see you."

Grace smiled. "Well," she said, "if that would afford you any great satisfaction, is there any reason why you should not go to Vancouver too? Most of the placer miners do."

Ingleby's glance at her suggested that the notion had not occurred to him. Regular work at the mine would be out of the question until the spring came round again, and already several of the men were talking of leaving the valley. He could also readily afford to spend a few months in Vancouver now. Still, there was one insuperable obstacle.

"If I had only kept my claim!" he said. "It is horribly unfortunate I let it go."

"How does that affect the question?"

"I made a compact with Tomlinson to hold his claim for him."

Once more the colour crept into Grace's face. "You do not mean to let that stop you when there are men you could hire to do what the law requires?"

"You don't seem to understand," and there was a trace of astonishment in Ingleby's eyes. "One could not depend absolutely upon them, and I made a bargain with Tomlinson. That claim is worth everything to him and his mother – I think it is – back in Oregon."

The flush grew plainer in Grace's cheek. She was a trifle imperious, and now her will had clashed with one that was as resolute as it. She was, however, sensible that she had blundered.

"Those men could do almost as much as you could, which would, after all, be very little just now," she said. "I never meant that you should risk the claim falling in."

"They might fall sick, or get hurt."

"And that might happen to you."

"I should, at least, have kept my word to Tomlinson," said Ingleby gravely.

Grace was too proud to persist. He was right, of course, but the fact that he would sooner part from her than incur the slightest risk of breaking faith with Tomlinson had nevertheless its sting. That, however, she would not show.

"Then I suppose I must not complain," she said. "You evidently have no intention of doing so."

Ingleby made a little gesture. "It will be hard – but it can't be helped," he replied. "As you said, I must go away too one day. Still, I think that I, at least, will feel by and by that it was all worth while."

Then there was a tramp of feet in the adjoining room, and he raised the hand he held and just touched it with his lips. It was not what Grace would have expected from him, but she noticed that he did not do it awkwardly.

"That is all I ask until I have won my spurs," he said. "Just now I am only the squire of low degree."

Grace said nothing, for the door opened and the major came in.

XXIV

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

It was a bitterly cold night, and Hetty Leger sat close to the fire which crackled on the big hearth in the bakery shanty. It flung an uncertain radiance and pungent aromatic odours about the little room, but there was no other light. Kerosene is unpleasantly apt to impart its characteristic flavour to provisions when jolted for leagues in company with them on the same pack-saddle, and the bringing of stores of any kind into the Green River country was then a serious undertaking. Tom Leger sat by the little table, and Sewell lay upon a kind of ottoman ingeniously extemporized out of spruce-twigs and provision bags.

It was significant that they were assembled in what had been Hetty's private apartment, for the bakery had grown, and there were two other rooms attached to it now. Leger had also struck gold a little while ago, and there was no longer any necessity for Hetty to continue baking, though she did so. She said she had grown used to it, and would sooner have something to do; but it had seemed to Leger that while everything was done with her customary neatness and system there was a change in her, and he fancied she did her work more to keep herself occupied than because she took pleasure in it. It had not been so once. In fact, the change had only become perceptible after Ingleby left the bakery; but Leger was wise in some respects and made no sign that he noticed this.

On that particular evening Hetty had not displayed her usual tranquillity of temper, and she turned to her brother with a little shiver.

"Can't you put on some more wood? It's disgustingly cold," she said. "If I'd known they had weather like this here I'd have stayed in Vancouver."

Leger remembered that she had once professed herself perfectly contented with the Green River country, but he did not think it advisable to mention the fact. He rose and flung an armful of wood upon the fire, and then stood still smiling.

"You know you can go back there and stay through the winter, if you would like to," he said.

"That's nonsense," said Hetty. "How could I go myself? You and your friends haven't made everybody nice to everybody yet. I'm not going, anyway, and if you worry me I'll be cross."

She looked up sharply and saw that Sewell's face was unnaturally grave.

"Of course," she said, "you were grinning at Tom a moment ago. Still, I can't help it if I am a very little cross just now. It's the cold – and Tom spoiled the last batch of bread. It is cold, isn't it? If it hadn't been, we shouldn't have seen you."

"I don't know why you should seem so sure of that," said Sewell.

Hetty looked at him sharply. "Well," she said, "I am. You would have gone on to the major's. You know you would. What do you go there so often for?"

Sewell had occasionally found Hetty's questions disconcerting, but he saw that she expected an answer.

"I am rather fond of chess," he said.

Hetty smiled incredulously. "That's rubbish!"

"The major, at least, likes a game, and after pulling him back into this wicked world from the edge of a gully one naturally feel that he owes him a little."

"You didn't pull him. It was Walter. Hadn't you better try again?"

Sewell appeared a trifle embarrassed, for he saw that Leger was becoming interested.

"It is, to some extent, my business to understand the habits of the ruling classes," he said reflectively. "You see, it's almost necessary. Unless I know a little about them, how can I persuade anybody how far they are beneath us, as I'm expected to do?"

Hetty laughed. "Well," she said, "you haven't tried to do anything of that kind for a long while now. Anyway, it seems to me that you knew a good deal about them before you ever saw Major Coulthurst. Of course, it's not my business, but if I were the major I'd make you tell me exactly what you were going there for."

Sewell apparently did not relish this, though he laughed. It happens occasionally that those most concerned in what is going on are the last to notice it, and it had not occurred to Coulthurst or Ingleby that Sewell spent his evenings at the Gold Commissioner's dwelling frequently. He had, however, not often met Ingleby there, and it was significant that neither of them ever mentioned Grace Coulthurst to the other. In any case, Sewell did not answer, and while they sat silent there was a tramp of feet outside and the corporal came in. He was a taciturn and somewhat unsociable man, but he smiled as he looked at Hetty and sat down where the rude chimney Tomlinson had built was between him and the one small window.

"It's a bitter night, and there's 'most four foot of snow on the range. I figured I'd look in to tell you it will be two or three days yet before you get the flour the folks at the settlements are sending up," he said. "A trooper has just come in with the mail, and he left the freighter and his beasts held up by the snow."

He stopped a moment, and looked at Leger somewhat curiously. "Somebody has just gone away?"

"No," said Leger. "We have had nobody here. We are expecting Ingleby, but he hasn't turned up yet."

"Quite sure he's not outside there?"

"It's scarcely likely. It's a little too cold for anybody to stay outside when he needn't. Ingleby would certainly come in."

"Well," said the corporal, "I guess I didn't see anybody, after all. It was quite dark, anyway, in among the trees. Winter's shutting down on us 'most a month before it should have done. It's kind of fortunate we sent the horses out when we did. I don't know what they wanted to bring them for. Nobody has any use for horses in this country."

It was evident that the worthy corporal was bent on getting away from what he felt to be an awkward topic, and Hetty laughed outright at his quite unnecessary delicacy.

"No," she said, "you know you saw somebody, and fancied it was one of the boys waiting to see me."

The corporal appeared embarrassed, but was wise enough not to involve himself further. "Well," he said, "when I was coming along the trail I saw a man slip in behind a cedar. That kind of struck me as not the usual thing, and I went round the other way to meet him. It was quite a big tree, and when I got around he wasn't there. You keep the dust you get for the bread in the shanty, Leger?"

"Yes," said Leger. "Most of the boys who come here know where it is. I really don't think there is any reason why they shouldn't, either."

"No," said the corporal reflectively, "I guess there isn't. I'll say that for them. Still, I did see somebody."

He contrived to glance round at the faces of the rest, unnoticed by any of them except Hetty, and was satisfied that they knew no more than he did. The corporal had been a long while a policeman, and had quick perceptions. He decided to look into the matter later.

"Well," he said, "I guess it's not worth worrying over."

He drew a little closer to the fire, and nobody said anything for a minute or two, though Hetty glanced towards the little window. The room was dim except when a blaze sprang up, and turning suddenly she stirred the fire, and then, for no very apparent reason, set herself to listen. The bush outside was very still, and she could hear the frost-dried snow fall softly from a branch. Then there was a sharp snapping of resinous wood in the fire, and it was not until that died away she heard a sound again. It was very faint, and suggested a soft crunching down of powdery snow. Nobody else seemed to hear it, not even the corporal, who was apparently examining a rent in his tunic just then, and she had almost persuaded herself that she had fancied it when she glanced towards the window again. A flickering blaze was roaring up the chimney now.

Then a little shiver ran through her, and closing her hands tight she stared at the glass in horror. A face was pressed against it, a drawn, grey face that seemed awry with pain. There was, however, something that reminded her of somebody in it, and she was about to cry out when she felt a hand laid restrainingly on her arm. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that her brother was also gazing at the window, and then she knew suddenly to whom the face belonged. It had gone when she looked round again, and it was evident that neither Sewell nor the corporal had seen it. Unfortunately, it appeared very unlikely that the man outside could have seen the latter, and she knew that something must be done, or in another moment or two Prospector Tomlinson would walk into the arms of the policeman. Leger appeared incapable of suggesting anything and was gazing at her with apprehension in his eyes.

It was a singularly unpleasant moment. Hetty was aware that she and her brother owed Tomlinson a good deal, and, in any case, it would be particularly distasteful to see him arrested. She was also by no means certain that her brother and Sewell would permit it, and the corporal was a heavily-built man. It very seldom happens that a Northwest policeman lets a prisoner go; and Hetty was quite aware that the result of a struggle might be disastrous to everybody. She realized this in a flash, and then there was a sound of shuffling feet outside in the snow. They were approaching the doorway, and she knew it would be flung open in another moment or two. Then the inspiration came suddenly.

"There's somebody outside," she said, and laughed as she noticed the bewildered consternation in her brother's eyes. "If it's Ingleby I don't think I'll let him in."

Her voice was almost as steady as usual, and apparently Leger alone noticed the suggestion of strain in it, while next moment she crossed the room and threw the door open. It was narrow, however, and she stood carefully in the middle of it.

"You're not coming in, Walter, until you cut some wood," she said. "You never touched the axe the last time you came."

Hetty's nerve almost failed her during the next few moments, and she felt the throbbing of her heart while the man the others could not see blinked at her stupidly. She dare venture no plainer warning, and he was apparently dazed with cold and weariness.

"I'm not going to stand here. It's too cold," she said. "If you're too lazy to do what I tell you, I'll ask the corporal."

Then she banged the door to, and went back to her seat with a little laugh that sounded slightly hollow to her brother, at least.

"If there's one thing Walter doesn't like it's chopping wood – and that's why I wouldn't let him off," she said. "He hasn't troubled to come round and see me for a week. I'm vexed with him."

Now, the corporal was, of course, aware that throughout most of Western Canada visitors to a homestead not infrequently lighten their hostess's labour by washing the dishes or carrying wood. In the case of the miners, who were pleased to spend an hour at the bakery, chopping wood for the oven was the most obvious thing, though those specially favoured were now and then permitted to weigh out flour or knead the bread. There was thus nothing astonishing in what Hetty had apparently said to Ingleby, nor did Sewell, who provoked the corporal into an attempt to prove that the troopers' carbine was a more efficient weapon than the miners' Marlin rifle, appear to notice anything unusual, and only Leger saw that Hetty's colour was fainter than it had been and that she was quivering a little.

In the meanwhile there was a tramp of feet outside, which grew less distinct, until the ringing chunk of the axe replaced it, and Leger wondered how he could make Sewell understand that it was desirable to cut the discussion short. He could think of no means of doing it and glanced at Hetty anxiously, for how long the corporal meant to stay was becoming a somewhat momentous question. A man accustomed to the axe can split a good deal of wood in ten minutes, even when he works by moonlight; and it was evident that the one outside could not continue his chopping indefinitely without the corporal's wondering what was keeping him.

Ten minutes passed, and the regular thud of the axe rang through the forest outside, while the corporal, who was a persistent man, still discussed extractors and magazine springs. Leger felt the tension becoming intolerable. Then Hetty contrived to catch Sewell's attention, and, looking at him steadily, set her lips tight. The corporal had, as it happened, turned from the girl; but she saw a gleam of comprehension in Sewell's eyes.

"Well," he said reflectively, "I suppose you are right. I like the easier pull-off of the American rifles. One is less apt to shake the sights off the mark, but no doubt with men accustomed to the handling of rifled weapons, as the police troopers are, the little extra pull required is no great matter."

The corporal was evidently gratified. "I've shown quite a few men they were wrong on that point, and now I guess I must be getting on. You'll excuse me, Miss Leger?"

He put on his fur-coat and opened the door, but Hetty's heart throbbed again when he stopped a moment. As it happened, the fire was flashing brilliantly, and the corporal appeared to be looking down at the footprints by the threshold.

"I've seen Ingleby twice since the snow came, and he was wearing gum-boots," he said. "The man who was outside here had played-out leather ones on."