For the Allinson Honor

As there was no news of them, however, Geraldine drove to the settlement one evening and called on Mrs. Graham. She found her seriously disturbed.

"A man came down from the mine this morning, and my husband hadn't arrived," she said. "I'm afraid something has gone wrong!"

"What can have gone wrong?"

"I don't know; I've been thinking about it all the last few days and trying not to be afraid. Of course, they would be safe if they reached the food caches."

"Yes," said Geraldine; "those caches are important. But as nobody has turned up I don't think you need be alarmed. The worst would be if one came back alone."

Mrs. Graham did not seem much comforted when Geraldine left her; and the girl, driving home in the moonlight, tried to face the situation calmly. She admitted, without reserve for the first time, that she loved Andrew Allinson; and he was in danger. Something must be done to extricate him, and while she wondered how she ought to set about it her thoughts turned to Mappin. It dawned on her that he knew what peril threatened the party, and this suggested that he had either allowed the men to involve themselves in unsuspected difficulties, or had brought the difficulties about. They had depended on him in some way and he had betrayed them. Geraldine shuddered at the thought, but she roused herself, for it was obvious that if her suspicions were correct, the man's designs must be combated. Mappin was strong and cunning; but she had ready wits and her lover's safety was at stake.

The next evening Mappin came to the house, and Geraldine carefully made some changes in her dress before she entered the drawing-room, where he was talking with Mrs. Denton. He rose with a challenging smile as she came in, and Geraldine was glad to feel that she was looking her best. It was humiliating to dress to please this man, but there was a struggle before her and she must use such weapons as she had.

"You're surprised to see me?" he said.

"Oh, no! I didn't doubt your boldness."

Mappin glanced at her sharply, for there was nothing ungracious in her tone. Her manner hinted at a change of mood; but he understood that women were variable.

"Then I have your permission to remain?"

"I'm not sure that you need it, and it would be inhospitable to refuse it," Geraldine replied, as if amused.

Mrs. Denton looked from one to the other in a puzzled way, but she said nothing, and Mappin began to talk, relating scraps of news picked up at the Landing. Geraldine showed some interest, and after a while Mrs. Denton, seeing them apparently on good terms, judiciously left them. Then the girl ceased to respond to her companion's remarks, and Mappin, never a brilliant conversationalist, found it hard to go on. He began to show impatience, and Geraldine enjoyed his embarrassment. At last he glanced toward the piano.

"I wish you would play or sing something," he begged.

Geraldine rose good-humoredly and opened the piano.

"I didn't know you cared for music."

"I don't, as a rule."

"That sounds like a compliment," she answered, smiling. "It's a pity I haven't any jingling rag-time tunes."

"They're what I like – my taste isn't classical; but I don't mind your taking a shot at me. One doesn't want music to make one serious."

"You think one should be serious only where money is concerned?"

"Well," he said grimly, "I haven't found trying to get it very amusing; but I can be in earnest in other matters."

"So I suppose," responded Geraldine, turning over the music. "Here's something that might please you. Will you light the candles?"

Her amiability had cost her an effort, and it grew harder as she opened the song. It was pointed with witty coquetry, and she hesitated for a moment with a feeling of humiliation, though she meant to play out her part. Andrew and his friends were in peril in the icy wilds; somehow they were at the mercy of this cruel, gross-natured man; and, hateful as her task was, she must not shrink. She thought he could be led on to betray himself. Tingling with shame, she sang with all the fire and art she could command, and Mappin was swept off his feet.

Music had no great charm for him, but the ballad was one he could appreciate, and the girl's beauty had a stronger effect. The light of the shaded candles fell on her face, which was slightly flushed, and forced up gleams in her hair. She looked inexpressibly alluring; her fine voice and arch smile well brought out the half-tender mockery of the song. He noticed the supple shapeliness of her figure and the polished whiteness of her skin, and his heart began to throb fast and his eyes to glisten. Turning over a leaf, he came near shaking down the music, and he drew back thrilled when she made a gesture of amused rebuke. There was, he felt, something very friendly in it.

When she stopped he leaned on the piano looking down at her, and Geraldine knew that she had gone far enough. After having treated him with cold indifference, she must not be too gracious, lest his suspicions be aroused. The man was in her hands, but he was not a fool. She hated him as she saw the crude desire in his face.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, and picked out another song at random. "Won't you try this? I've never heard it."

"No," she answered firmly; "not that one."

It was the ballad which Andrew had told her helped to send him up into the wilds where his duty lay. Henceforward it was sacred – not to be sung to such a man as Mappin.

"Why?" he demanded.

"I sing that only to people who I know will appreciate it."

"And you don't think I would?"

"It strikes me as very doubtful," she said with a smile in which there was a touch of scorn.

His color deepened. She had shown signs of yielding, and how he wondered whether she had after all been amusing herself with him. Stirred as he was by passion he was in no reasoning mood; savage jealousy filled his heart.

"It's the kind of thing you keep for sentimental fools like Allinson!" he exclaimed.

Geraldine had expected some such outbreak. Indeed it was what she desired.

"Well," she said with a tenderness which was meant to disturb her companion, "I sang it to him once."

"It will be a long while before you sing it to him again!"

The voice rang harsh with exultant fierceness and Geraldine knew that she had gained her object in rousing the brute in him. She had learned the truth – for whatever danger threatened her lover this man was responsible. But there was more she must know.

"As he's a friend of ours, you're not very considerate," she said. "What makes you speak with so much certainty?"

Mappin saw that he had been rash, and he was instantly on his guard.

"It was a fool thing to go North in winter. It's no country for a raw tenderfoot, and Allinson should have taken a stronger party. I know something about transport work in the bush."

"I suppose food would be their greatest difficulty," Geraldine remarked with a thoughtful air.

"No. Fresh snow and blizzards would trouble them worse."

"Still, food would be a consideration," Geraldine persisted. "I know they thought a good deal about the matter and had some caches made. If they couldn't find them coming back, it would be serious, wouldn't it?"

Mappin's jealousy was heightened by her interest, but he regretted his haste and meant to be cautious. Unfortunately for him, the charm Geraldine had exercised had carried him away. He could not think as clearly as usual.

"The provisions were carefully packed and sent up in charge of good men," he declared hotly. "They were properly cached; every precaution was taken."

"Were they your men?"

Mappin glanced at her sharply, but read nothing in her face. He could not evade the question without rousing suspicion.

"Yes," he said; "that's why I know they could be relied on to do their work."

Geraldine sat silent a moment, struggling to preserve her calm. She had found out what she wished to know. She understood now why Mappin had insisted on the dangers of the journey and made light of the question of food. He had, with scarcely conceivable cruelty, cut off the party's supplies. Still, he must not suspect that she knew this. With an effort she took up another piece of music.

"We are anxious for news of the expedition, and it's comforting to remember that they had an excellent guide," she said. "But I'll play you something."

Before the piece was finished, her father came in and she left him to entertain their guest. Seeking her room she sat down, feeling suddenly limp from strain. That she was humbled and ashamed did not matter; she was filled, on the one hand, with hatred and loathing for the man she had led on, and, on the other, with anxiety for Andrew.

CHAPTER XX

THE RESCUE PARTY

When Mappin left, Frobisher went to his smoking-room, where he was surprised to find Geraldine waiting for him.

"I think," he said with mock severity, "it was mean of you to leave Mr. Mappin on my hands, particularly as I don't suppose his visit was made on my account."

"Did he bore you very badly?" Geraldine inquired.

"We have had guests here whom I'd rather entertain; but for your aunt's sake I try to be civil. After all, we have known the man for a long while."

"I feel that we have been very patient in putting up with him! He's insufferable!"

"Ah!" said Frobisher, taking out a cigar. "Then you didn't happen to be here by accident? Sit down and we'll have a talk."

Geraldine took the chair he indicated.

"I have something to tell you," she said with an effort. "Mappin asked me to marry him a little while ago."

"It strikes me as curious that this is the first I've heard of it."

"I was ashamed to tell you," Geraldine admitted, shyly. "I felt degraded. Besides, you must have guessed – "

"Yes. I had some idea of the man's ambitions; in my opinion, he's too cold-blooded to be influenced by any more tender sentiment. We'll take it for granted that you refused him. Nowadays it seems to be a father's business to sanction and not to interfere; but I really think if you had wanted to marry the fellow I'd have been as firm as adamant. However, this is not to the purpose. Why do you tell me about it now?"

"You'll see presently. But try to remember that he has other feelings than avarice. The man's unscrupulous and full of savage cruelty."

"Well?"

"To begin with, will you read this? It's from Ethel Hillyard, whom I met in London. You have heard me speak of her."

She gave him a letter containing sufficient information about the house of Allinson to explain why Andrew had gone to Canada. His character and his relations with Hathersage and the rest of the family were cleverly sketched. Frobisher studied it carefully before he looked up.

"All this is not exactly new to me, though Miss Hillyard, who seems to be a shrewd young lady, speaks strongly in Allinson's favor. From odd things he let fall, I'd formed a pretty good idea of the situation. Now that you have cleared the ground, you had better go on."

"Father," said Geraldine, "so far, you have done nearly everything I asked you, and that is why I'm not afraid to ask for something else. I want you to send up a party to look for Mr. Allinson. He and the others are in danger of starving in the snow."

Frobisher looked at her searchingly, and she met his gaze for a moment, though a flush crept into her face.

"Well," he said simply, "he is a straight man."

"And a friend of yours. But you will send him help at once?"

"First of all, tell me why you think it is needful."

Geraldine spent some time over the explanation and concluded:

"You must see that their safety depends on their finding the provisions, and Mappin has had the caches made at the wrong places."

For the next few minutes Frobisher sat silent, the smoke curling up from his neglected cigar, while Geraldine watched him in suspense.

"You have reasoned the matter out remarkably well," he said, "and it strikes me that you're near the truth. However, I don't understand how you led Mappin into making the dangerous admissions that gave you a clue; he's a brute, but I thought him a cunning one. Perhaps I'd better not inquire."

Geraldine's embarrassment was obvious and there were signs of amusement on her father's face.

"After all," he resumed, "when you play a game for high stakes with a man like Mappin, you can't be fastidious."

"But what about the relief party?" Geraldine asked.

"I think the situation is serious enough to need one. I'll drive over to the Landing and see about it the first thing to-morrow."

He got up, and as he reached the door Geraldine, following, put her arms about his neck and kissed him. Then she went past swiftly and vanished down the passage.

The next morning Frobisher learned that Mappin had gone east by an early train and that there was not a man capable of undertaking a difficult journey into the wilds disengaged. Mappin had hired all the available choppers and packers and sent them into the bush to cut some lumber he required for his railroad contract. Frobisher could not determine whether this had been done with the object of preventing their being employed on a relief expedition, but it looked suspicious. Being in a difficulty, he called on the owner of the sawmill and told him as much as he thought advisable.

"As it happens, I can help you," said the lumber-man. "There are two or three fellows on our pay roll whom we haven't much work for at present, though we'll need them later. They're good bushmen, and I might raise one or two more by sending up to our logging camp."

"Thanks," said Frobisher; "it will be a favor. It's lucky I thought of coming to you."

"Never mind that. I feel that I ought to help Graham out: he's an old and valued servant. But I don't see how you are interested in the thing."

Frobisher smiled.

"It's one's duty to help a fellow creature who's in serious danger. Then I believe I may call myself a friend of Allinson's."

"There's a point to be considered. The most likely place to meet the party would be in the neighborhood of the food caches. You intimate that there's a risk of Allinson's missing them; but he must have a rough idea as to about where they are. As Mappin's out of town, wouldn't it be well to wire and ask him exactly where they were to be made?"

"On the whole, I'd rather get the information from Mrs. Graham. No doubt she knows her husband's plans."

The mill-owner gave him a searching glance. He was a shrewd man and suspected that there was a good reason for his visitor's preference.

"Yes," he said pointedly, "that might be wiser."

"There may have been some misunderstanding about the precise location of the caches," Frobisher explained. "Mrs. Graham will know where her husband meant them to be made – which of course is the most important thing."

"Just so," agreed the other. "Excuse me for a few minutes."

He went out, and returning a little later announced that three men would be ready to start up-river during the afternoon and that some more from the logging camp would follow in a few days. Frobisher left him and, after calling on Mrs. Graham, went to the store, where he ordered a quantity of provisions to be prepared. It was evening when he reached home. Finding Geraldine waiting for him, he smiled at her as he took off his furs.

"I've had a busy day, but I've got things satisfactorily fixed," he said.

"You have found men to take up provisions?" Geraldine asked eagerly.

"Better than that," replied Frobisher. "I've sent them off."

Seeing the pleasure in his daughter's face, he nodded reassuringly and left her.

The relief expedition had orders to lose no time. Two of the men, as it happened, had themselves narrowly escaped starvation in the wilds, and their experience led them to urge the pace. It was afterward admitted that they made an excellent march, which was fortunate, because a few hours meant much to the starving men.

As Andrew crouched at the side of the rock, half-dazed with fatigue and want of food, it was a moment or two before he could believe that he was not the victim of a disordered imagination as he stared at the three figures on the hillslope. But the figures moved and grew more distinct. He could not doubt that they were men, and they were coming up the hill! With his heart beating painfully fast, he staggered up and raised a wild, hoarse cry.

It was answered. One of the men waved to him. They came on faster, though he could see that they were heavily loaded, stumbling now and then in their haste. He could not imagine what had brought them into the wilds, but they were obviously well supplied, and he could purchase their provisions and recompense them for an abandoned journey. When they were close to him, the leader stopped a moment and called back to the others:

"We've struck it right! It's Mr. Allinson!"

Andrew, recognizing the man, whom he had seen at the Landing, stumbled forward and shook hands with him.

"I'm uncommonly glad to see you; but what brought you here?" he cried.

"Where's the rest of you?" the other asked.

"Carnally's down the hill somewhere; Graham's in camp beyond the gap."

The man looked relieved.

"That's good. We felt scared when we saw you were alone. Thought we might have come too late, though we hurried some."

"Then you knew we were here?"

"Sure! Frobisher sent us up with provisions for you. We made a few caches as we came along, and there ought to be three more of the boys on the trail behind us. You don't want to worry; we'll see you down."

Andrew felt shaky. Relief had come so unexpectedly; his troubles were over. But there was more than this. Frobisher had despatched the men; he might have done so at his daughter's request; at least it showed a very friendly feeling. Andrew began to wonder how Frobisher could have known he needed help; but this was a matter of much less importance, and he turned to the packers.

"If one of you would go down the next spur and look for Carnally, I'd be glad," he said. "I expect he's near the river and he's pretty hungry."

A man threw off his load and set off rapidly downhill, while Andrew climbed with the others toward the neck, scarcely able to keep on his feet. His companions slackened their pace and glanced at him compassionately. Crossing the gap, they saw the light of Graham's fire in the gathering dusk, and when they neared the belt of timber Andrew waved his hand to a dark figure that appeared in an opening among the trunks.

"No more trouble!" he cried. "Help has arrived!"

A few minutes later Graham shook hands with the newcomers, whom he knew.

"Boys," he said hoarsely, "now that I see who you are, I know you made good time; and you hadn't much to spare. When did you leave?"

One of them told him, and he and Andrew looked astonished, while the packer laughed.

"We certainly hustled," he said with a deprecatory air. "But I've been four years at the mill and never had trouble over charging my time. Your pay-sheet was square."

"That's so," agreed his companion. "They might have laid me off a while last summer when we ran out of logs, but Mr. Graham fixed it so I kept my job."

Andrew smiled at Graham, who looked confused.

"If you do these things, you must take the consequences; but I've met people with shorter memories."

"Anyhow, we've got here ahead of the logging crowd and I'm mighty glad," said the first packer. "Those fellows think nobody can break a trail unless he lives in the woods. Now you sit by quiet while we get supper."

Before the meal was ready Carnally arrived with the man who had gone to look for him, and the party feasted royally. When they had finished, Carnally sighed with deep content.

"I just don't want to move," he remarked. "I feel most too good to talk; but if the rest of you have anything to say, I'll try to listen."

"What's your program?" one of the men asked. "We have food enough to take us down, going easy."

"I want two days' rest," said Andrew. "Until they're up, we'll do nothing but eat and lie about the fire and smoke."

Carnally looked up lazily.

"That sounds nice, but I'm going to locate Mappin's cache before we start."

The others began to talk to Graham, but Andrew did not know how long they continued, for he was soon fast asleep.

They broke camp on the third morning and when they crossed the neck Carnally divided the party, which had been joined by the loggers. Some he told to follow down one or two ravines at a distance, which he had not searched, and then meet the others, who would work along the ridge. Toward evening a man hailed him and Andrew from a slope some way off, and when they joined him he led them into a deep hollow. In the middle of it a small, barked fir projected from a snowy mound.

"It's the kind of place you'd break a trail up if you were trying to make the neck," the packer explained.

"It looks a good road from here," Carnally assented. "We didn't get so far along, but we'll climb up a piece."

The hollow died out into a snow slope, and when they had walked on farther they lost sight of it. Then Carnally stopped and carefully looked about.

"We might have struck that gulch first shot, but the chances were against it; you can only see it from below. You want to remember that the line the fellows who made the cache would take would depend on where they left the big loop of the lower river. Mappin was smart enough to see that. Now we'll have a look at the provisions."

They proved to be sufficient in quantity and in excellent order when the cache was opened; but Carnally had expected that.

"I wonder how Mappin will feel when he sees us come marching in?" Andrew said lightly. They could laugh now.

"Not very comfortable, I'll promise you!" Carnally declared with a glint in his eyes.

CHAPTER XXI

A BUSHMAN'S SATISFACTION

Andrew reached the Landing physically exhausted and troubled by a heavy depression. The long-continued strain had left its mark on him, for, having proposed the expedition, he felt responsible for the safety of his friends; and his strength and endurance deserted him shortly after the arrival of the rescue party. Relief had been followed by a severe reaction, which left him limp and nerveless; and the homeward march proved long and toilsome. As they had food, there was no longer the same necessity for haste, but the rigor of the weather forced the men to push on as fast as possible, and Andrew found it difficult to emulate his rescuers' pace. Moreover, he was seriously troubled about Graham, whose foot appeared to be getting worse, and he was deeply disappointed with the result of his search. He had found the lode, but, so far as he had been able to test it, the ore did not promise much.

Dusk was falling when they saw the lights of the settlement, and as they passed the first house a man greeted them. After a word or two, he ran on ahead; and the party, following slowly, worn with the march, found most of the inhabitants gathering in the street. Eager helpers took their packs from them and seized the traces of the sled; questions and congratulations were showered on them, and, to Andrew's annoyance, they entered the town in a triumphal procession. He was plodding along, too tired and listless to notice the remarks of the curious and sympathetic crowd, when Carnally touched his arm.

"You can go straight to the hotel," he said. "I'll take Graham home."

"No," said Andrew firmly; "that's my business and it can't be shirked. You might send the doctor."

Carnally disappeared among the crowd and Andrew went on, shrinking from the meeting with his comrade's wife, though when the time came he found it less trying than he had feared. As they turned into a side street there was a shout:

"Make room; let her pass! It's Mrs. Graham!"

The men in the traces stopped and Graham spoke to them.

"You might help me up, boys."

They got him on his feet and fell back as a woman hurried toward him. She flung her arms about his neck and it was several moments before she saw Andrew.

"We have brought him back, but I'm afraid he's a little the worse for wear," he said.

"You have brought him back!" she cried. "That is the greatest thing."

Graham walked along with her for a few yards, and then stopped, his face contorted.

"If you don't mind, I'll finish the journey on the sled. My foot's rather sore."