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Title: The Wilderness Mine
   [published in England as "Stayward's Vindication"]
Author: Bindloss, Harold (1866-1945)
Date of first publication: 1920
Place and date of edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Frederick A. Stokes, 1920
Date first posted: 11 May 2008
Date last updated: 11 May 2008
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #117

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones, Audrey Longhurst
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries




THE WILDERNESS MINE


BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Wyndham's Pal
Partners of the Out-Trail
The Buccaneer Farmer
The Lure of the North
The Girl from Keller's
Carmen's Messenger
Brandon of the Engineers
Johnstone of the Border
The Coast of Adventure
Harding of Allenwood
The Secret of the Reef
For the Allinson Honor
The League of the Leopard
The Intriguers
Prescott of Saskatchewan
Ranching for Sylvia
The Long Portage
Vane of the Timberlands
A Prairie Courtship
Sydney Carteret, Rancher
Masters of the Wheatlands
The Gold Trail
Thurston of Orchard Valley
The Greater Power
Thrice Armed
Lorimer of the Northwest
By Right of Purchase
Delilah of the Snows
For Jacinta
Winston of the Prairie
The Dust of Conflict
Alton of Somasco
The Cattle Baron's Daughter


[Illustration: "'TRY THE KNOB TO THE LEFT,' HE SAID. 'THEN IF YOU CAN
REACH THE CRACK--'"--_Page 255_]


THE
WILDERNESS
MINE

By HAROLD BINDLOSS

_Author of_ "Wyndham's Pal," "Partners of the Out-Trail,"
"The Buccaneer Farmer," "The Lure of the North,"
"The Girl from Keller's," "Carmen's Messenger," etc.


NEW YORK

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

PUBLISHERS


COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE "STAYWARD'S VINDICATION"

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


                              CONTENTS

                    PART I--CREIGHTON'S PATENT


CHAPTER                                             PAGE

   I Mrs. Creighton's Extravagance                     1

  II The Reckoning                                    11

 III The Spirit Tank                                  21

  IV Stayward Finds Out                               32

   V Mrs. Creighton Refuses                           41

  VI Ruth Is Moved to Anger                           49

 VII Ruth's Adventure                                 58

VIII Mrs. Creighton's Jealousy                        70

  IX Ruth Gets to Work                                81

   X Geoffrey's New Post                              92


                    PART II--THE RIDEAU MINE

   I The Bush                                        103

  II Geoffrey Engages a Cook                         112

 III Snow                                            122

  IV The Mine                                        131

   V Geoffrey Trespasses                             140

  VI Carson Experiments                              151

 VII The Dam                                         161

VIII Carson Resumes His Occupation                   172

  IX Geoffrey's Holiday                              181

   X Carson's Advice                                 191

  XI Geoffrey's Triumph                              200

 XII Carson's Last Journey                           211


                    PART III--THE STRUGGLE

   I Geoffrey's Return                               221

  II Geoffrey Meets Miss Creighton                   229

 III The Shieling                                    238

  IV The Stack                                       249

   V Ruth's Persuasion                               259

  VI The Brown Car                                   270

 VII Mrs. Creighton's Weak Moment                    281

VIII The Brown Car Stops                             289

  IX Ruth Goes to Nethercleugh                       298

   X The Portrait                                    308

  XI Ruth Rebels                                     318

 XII Mrs. Creighton Retracts                         328


THE WILDERNESS MINE

PART I

CREIGHTON'S PATENT




CHAPTER I

MRS. CREIGHTON'S EXTRAVAGANCE


The drawing-room window at Iveghyll was open, and Creighton, lounging
on the seat in the thick wall, listened while Mrs. Creighton talked.
This was his habit, for Mrs. Creighton talked much, and as a rule
expected him to agree. She was resolute and, by concentrating on her
object and disregarding consequences, had so far been able to satisfy
her rather mean ambitions. Now Creighton saw the consequences must be
faced. In fact, it was getting obvious that Janet must pull up, but he
doubted if he could persuade her.

Although Iveghyll was not a large country house, Creighton knew it
was too large for him. It occupied a green hollow at the bottom of a
dark fir-wood that rolled down the hill, and a beck brawled among gray
bowlders across the lawn. The lawn was wide and a rhythmic hum mingled
with the drowsy splash of water as the gardener's boy drove a pony
mower across the smooth grass. Behind the belt of red and white
rhododendrons, a greenhouse glittered in the last beam of sunshine
that slanted down the fell. A sweet resinous smell from the fir-wood
drifted into the room.

Creighton was fond of Iveghyll. After the smoke and ugliness of the
mining village where he spent his days, its quiet beauty was soothing.
Moreover, the old house gave its occupants some standing in the rather
lonely neighborhood, and Mrs. Creighton valued this. She was the
daughter of a small landlord, who had died in debt but had been unable
to borrow money on the property her mother had left her. Only her
lawyers knew how small the income she derived from her tied-up
inheritance really was.

For all that, Creighton might have lived at Iveghyll without much
strain, had his wife been content to study economy and had he been
firm. The trouble was, Mrs. Creighton was firm and he was weak. In a
short-sighted way, she was clever, and her main object was to keep up
the traditions of the landowning stock from which she sprang. In order
to do so, she had urged on her slack and careless husband, and by and
by meant to marry her daughter well. In the meantime, there was no
reason why Ruth should not develop her musical talent. The girl had no
social ambition and not much beauty, but now-a-days talent brought one
recognition.

"You must get me the money," she declared. "Although I cut short my
stay in town, I was forced to borrow from Christine. Then there are
many bills, and Ruth's going to Munich is an expensive business. She
must have a proper outfit and allowance. One cannot tell whom she may
meet, and my daughter must not be shabby."

"One understands students are generally poor," Creighton remarked.

"Ruth must be able to meet the other kind," Mrs. Creighton rejoined.
"She is, of course, a little unconventional, but this is, perhaps,
because she is young, and when one has talent, a touch of originality
is not a drawback. Ruth will not forget she springs from the Hassals."

Creighton yawned. He was tired of hearing about the vanished glories
of his wife's family, and after all they had not been people of much
importance. Their fame had not gone beyond the secluded North of
England dale. The last Hassal's death was, however, regretted by
numerous disappointed creditors.

"Oh, well," said Creighton. "How much do you want?"

When Mrs. Creighton told him he moved abruptly and tried to brace
himself.

"I can't get you this sum," he replied. "When I wrote the last check,
before you went to town, you declared you wouldn't bother me again for
long. For that matter, I thought you ought not to go at all."

Mrs. Creighton gave him a cold glance. "Before I married, I spent
every season in town, and now you grudge me two or three weeks! I gave
up much for your sake, but one cannot be altogether a recluse. Do you
expect me to be satisfied with three or four dull neighbors and such
amusements as one can get at this bleak, lonely spot?"

Creighton hardly thought she expected an answer and for a few moments
he mused and looked about. The drawing-room was expensively furnished,
but without much hint of taste; the lawn and garden his view commanded
were good. This was his province, although Janet had urged him to
build the new greenhouse and get help for the gardener, and he would
have been happy at Iveghyll, pottering about his grass and flowers,
had she left him alone. Still, keeping things in shape was rather a
strain; he ought not to employ a gardener, but Janet encouraged his
spending money on the grounds. She liked Iveghyll to grow the finest
flowers and earliest fruit in the dale.

He studied her rather critically. She had kept something of her
beauty, although her face and hair were getting thin. Her mouth and
eyes were good but hard, and on the whole she looked querulous and
dissatisfied. Janet was not robust and sometimes used her weak health
as a means for extorting concessions Creighton knew he ought not to
make. He had a touch of cynical philosophy and admitted his
feebleness. Now, however, he must try to be firm.

"We have been spending too much and must stop," he said. "I can't give
you the money you want. Our account at the bank is very low and it's
lucky Stayward is too occupied to look at the books. I'm rather afraid
there'll be trouble when he finds out how much I've drawn."

"You are Stayward's partner."

"That is so. As the law stands, I'm justified in using the house's
money; ethically, I'm not. I invested nothing when Stayward built the
coke ovens, and he has spent remarkably little on himself. In fact,
John uses Spartan self-denial; I don't know how the fellow lives."

"You did invest something. Stayward could not have started the coke
ovens but for your invention."

Creighton agreed. He was slack and careless, but he had a talent for
chemistry and had some time since patented an apparatus for refining
tar. It was typical that after a few disappointments he had given up
his efforts to get the invention used and had done nothing with it
until Stayward built the coke ovens. Indeed, it was then owing to Mrs.
Creighton's urging that he talked about his retorts and condensers to
Stayward, who saw the invention might be profitable and gave him a
share in the business.

"To some extent, I suppose your argument is good," he said. "The coal
in our neighborhood is not adapted for coking; the stuff's too soft to
stand a heavy load and blast-furnace owners pay us some shillings a
ton less than they give the Durham makers. If it was not for the
by-products we distill, I doubt if we could carry on. But you know
something about this----"

"It's important that Stayward knew."

"Oh, well," said Creighton. "Stayward is shrewd and obstinate. If he
had not been obstinate, we should have been forced to stop some time
since. Our experiments were expensive; we had no money behind us, and
couldn't borrow, because Stayward had mortgaged the ovens. He has
worked early and late, and spent nothing except on the new plant. You
see, the interest on the mortgage was a steady drain. Now our stuff is
getting known, and although money is very short, it begins to look as
if we would soon turn the corner. All the same we have got to use
stern economy. There's the trouble, because if we could spend a sum on
better retorts, it would help our progress."

"In the meantime, I must pay our debts and Ruth must go to Munich.
Christine needs the money she lent me and our creditors cannot be put
off."

Creighton's smile was ironically resigned. "I have preached
retrenchment, but I suppose there is no use in talking about this. We
have got the things you wanted and must try to meet the bill, although
whether they were worth the price or not is another matter. We have
outshone our neighbors when we gave a dinner; you and Ruth have gone
to London when Harrogate satisfied your friends, and our name has been
pretty near the top of local subscription lists. I don't know if it
was charity, but we gave more than we ought. Now Ruth is to go to
Munich with an allowance that will no doubt excite the other students'
envy. Well, I grudge this least, but all the same I'm bankrupt and the
bill has come in."

There was a new note in Creighton's voice and Mrs. Creighton looked at
him rather hard. He was a handsome man, but one remarked a hint of
indulgence that had not been there when he married. Then Tom had begun
to look old; there were lines on his forehead and wrinkles about his
eyes. For all that, Mrs. Creighton did not mean to be disturbed. Tom
had long talked economy, but he had left her to pinch.

"I don't think I have been extravagant," she replied. "It has been a
struggle to keep up our position with insufficient means. But I must
have the money----"

She stopped, for a small car rolled up the drive and vanished behind
the shrubs. A few moments afterwards a girl carrying a violin case
opened the glass door on to the terrace and came into the room. Ruth
Creighton was tall, with a slim, well-balanced figure and graceful
pose. Her look was frank and her gray eyes were steady; her mouth was
rather large and her skin was colorless. As a rule, strangers did not
think her attractive, but her friends declared Ruth had a charm that
gradually got stronger for people who knew her well. Perhaps the
characteristics one noted first were her frankness and honesty.

"Had you a pleasant afternoon at Carrock?" Mrs. Creighton asked.

Ruth sat down and smiled. "Yes; at least, I know the performers had,
although it's possible our friends were bored. We took ourselves
rather seriously and gave them the best music we could play. Jack
Fawcett's friend from town is, of course, one of our famous amateurs."

"He is well known," Mrs. Creighton agreed. "What did he think about
your playing?"

Ruth hesitated for a moment, as if half disturbed, and then looked up
frankly.

"He talked about it--I expect he knew why I was asked to play. Perhaps
I imagined something, but while he encouraged me I don't think he was
enthusiastic."

"You can play," Creighton declared. "Some of these fellows feel they
ought to be critical."

Ruth smiled. "I imagine he felt he ought to be kind, and this was
perhaps the worst. An artist's admiration is, so to speak, spontaneous
when he meets real talent. Of course, serious music demands all one
can give and I haven't studied hard very long. He talked most about my
technique and I liked that. One can get the mechanical training at a
good school and I ought to make rapid progress with the Munich
masters." She paused and resumed, rather anxiously: "You do mean to
let me go?"

"I understand your mother promised," Creighton replied. "The fellow
hinted you needed training in technique?"

"Yes," said Ruth, thoughtfully. "At least, I imagine so, and in a way,
it was encouraging. One can get control of wrist and fingers and
develop the proper muscles. If this is all I need, I oughtn't to be
afraid; but it means close study and proper teaching."

Creighton nodded. "You won't shirk the study. I suppose it wouldn't
carry you very far by itself?"

"Not without clever teaching," said Ruth. "One needs good masters, and
I want so much to go." She stopped for a moment and resumed in an
apologetic voice: "If I have any talent, it's for music, and since I
was a very little girl I've meant to be a player. Sometimes I think
it's possible and sometimes I doubt, but I feel if I want to make my
mark it's the best chance I've got. I'm not very pretty, I'm not a
clever talker, and I know no useful work. But this is not important; I
love music and think I could play."

Creighton was moved. He knew Ruth felt keenly. Moreover, she was
tenacious; it was not a romantic ambition she had indulged. The girl
was very dear to him and he could not refuse her.

"You must get your chance," he said. "Besides, your mother promised.
We will let you go."

Ruth gave him a grateful glance, and he went out on the terrace and
lighted his pipe. The sun had left the hillside, the woods down the
dale were getting dim, and the dew had begun to fall. A thin streak of
mist touched the highest trees, which rose from the vapor in blurred,
dark spires, and the crying of lambs came down from the moor. Except
for the splash of the beck, all was very calm, but Creighton felt
moody.

He was glad he had agreed to let Ruth go; hers was a clean ambition
and she must follow her bent. For all that, the extra expense would be
an awkward strain just now; Janet had been horribly extravagant, and
since he had no money, he had used his partner's. To some extent,
perhaps, he was justified; the invention that enabled them to start
the business was his, but the works had hardly begun to pay and their
capital was nearly exhausted. In fact, he sometimes doubted if they
could hold out until the tar-refining plant worked properly. The
alterations they were forced to make cost much.

Creighton, however, banished his disturbing thoughts. His habit was to
put things off and he began to muse about his life since he married.
He did not think the Hassal family approved him, but Janet was not
often baffled, even when she was young. Creighton remembered with
ironical amusement that he was then rather a handsome, romantic
fellow, and believed in his ability to make a career. He had taken a
degree in science and occupied a post in the laboratory of a famous
works. Moreover, he had some money; not as much as the Hassals thought
needful, but enough to relieve him from the necessity to work.

He saw the money had been a drawback, although his carelessness and
lazy good-humor to some extent accounted for his not making progress.
Janet had persuaded him to give up his post, and he had rather amused
himself by than labored at private chemical research, until he
realized with a shock that his fortune was nearly gone. After this he
abandoned his experiments, and left things to Janet, who took firm
control. Janet was clever; Creighton did not know how she had
satisfied their creditors and kept the foremost place she loved, but
for a time she had done so without much help from him. Creighton owned
that he had loafed and got the habit of indulging while his talent
rusted.

Then Stayward built the coke ovens and when he was offered a
partnership Creighton pulled himself together. At the beginning, he
was happy, but Janet soon gave up the economy she had been forced to
use and their debts got burdensome. Creighton, in a sense, had staked
all upon the success of Stayward's venture, enjoying his share of the
profit they hoped for, before it was earned, and now he wondered
whether his rashness had not made success impossible. Stayward had
been absorbed by the struggle with mechanical difficulties, and
although he was sternly parsimonious, had not studied their accounts.
Yet Creighton knew he must do so soon. It was, however, not his habit
to meet trouble until he was forced, and getting up, he went back to
the house.




CHAPTER II

THE RECKONING


A week or two after his talk with his wife, Creighton and Ruth one
morning left Iveghyll in the small car. A quantity of heavy luggage
was strapped on the back, and when Mrs. Creighton kissed her daughter
at the steps, she felt she had in an important sense done her duty to
the girl. Smart clothes meant much to Mrs. Creighton; they were a sign
of the rank that she rightfully enjoyed. Yet she would not go with her
husband to put Ruth in the train. Excitement and emotion were not good
for her, since her heart was weak, and Creighton smiled with bitter
humor when she stated why she could not come. Janet's weak heart was a
convenience now and then.

His feelings were rather mixed as he drove down the dale. He noted
that Ruth's hands trembled as she pulled up the rug, although she had
some color and her eyes sparkled. She was young and had never gone
away alone; after all, to leave her quiet home for a foreign city was
something of an adventure for a girl. Yet Ruth had pluck, and he knew
that in spite of some natural shrinking she meant to seize the chance
he had given her.

Creighton was glad he had done so, although he would miss Ruth much.
She was kind and staunch, and he turned to her for comfort when his
wife jarred on him. Ruth was not a fool; he saw she knew his
slackness but hid her disapproval. Well, he had arranged that she
should study at Munich for a year, and now, while he sympathized with
her high hopes, he wondered rather gloomily whether he had been rash.
In a sense, it had not cost him much, but he was embarrassed by
Janet's extravagance and the expense might, so to speak, be enough to
turn the scale. So far, he had somehow kept the balance even; now the
beam was obviously tilting.

By and by the car ran out of the dale and in front brown moorland and
thin pasture rolled down to the sea. The landscape was stern and
bleak. Ragged stone walls marked off the gray squares of fields, since
the starved grass was never really green. The small farmsteads were,
for the most part, tarred to keep out the rain, and bitter winds had
bent the ash-trees that grew about the walls. In the distance were
villages, surrounded by chimney stacks and colliery winding-towers,
and long trails of smoke from the furnaces blew along the shore.

"The low country's charm is not very obvious, and I doubt if its look
is deceptive," Creighton remarked. "One wonders why men were allowed
to build villages like these. Ugliness is not needful, as some people
think; I don't know if it's always cheap. If I were a free-agent, I
think I'd stay in the dale, where all's green and quiet and one is out
of the wind."

Ruth smiled. She knew her father, but she loved, and made allowances
for him.

"You don't like ugliness," she said. "Yet men do useful work, and
money's earned, at the furnaces and in the coal pits."

"Sometimes money's lost," Creighton rejoined. "Anyhow, it's horribly
hard to earn and one gets tired."

Ruth gave him a sympathetic nod. She had seen the lines on his
forehead get deeper recently.

"I know! It is not the work, but the wondering. Things would be easier
if one knew one would make good. But you and Stayward are near
success."

"Stayward believes this. John is never despondent and tired. He's
indomitable--I think it's the proper word--like your mother. I don't
know if it's unlucky we're not all like that."

"Pluck is a great thing," Ruth said thoughtfully. "One can remove many
obstacles when one is not afraid."

"But not all, I think," Creighton remarked.

Ruth knitted her straight brows. "You mustn't daunt me, father. I need
encouraging. You have been very generous, and, for your sake and mine,
I feel the venture I'm making must be justified. The trouble is, I
really have not much pluck, and now when I try to be confident, I
doubt. One can get mechanical skill, if one works hard enough; but
suppose I haven't the vital spark of genius? If there is a spark, one
can help it to burn by study, but one cannot light it. Unless it
springs up spontaneously, your art is dead and cold."

"You have the spark," Creighton declared. "I knew long since, when we
heard the boys sing in the cathedral. You were very young, but I do
not think you moved and I saw your eyes shine, as if the treble voices
called and you meant to follow. I wondered where."

"Oh!" said Ruth, "they carried me to a world where nobody ever fails
and there is nothing ugly and mean. I often think about that
evensong--the light fading behind the pillars, the glimmer of the big
red and green window, and the voices echoing along the high roof. You
taught me the beauty of music then, and now you have given me another
gift; the chance I'll always remember, if I succeed or not----"

She paused and resumed with some emotion: "I'm frank because you
always understand. I mean to be a musician, if it's possible, and you
have helped me to find out if it is. That is very much. You see, dear,
it would be dreadful to look back afterwards and feel one might have
been a great player and was not because one had never been allowed to
try one's powers. Now, if I do fail, I'll know I could not have gone
far along the path I love, and I hope I'll have the pluck to take
another."

"You have pluck," said Creighton quietly. "It's your mother's gift.
Mine was less desirable; I taught you to feel----"

He broke off, for they ran through a mining village, where children
whose clogs rattled on the stones were going to school, and soon
afterwards he stopped the car at a bleak, smoke-stained station by the
sea. They had not long to wait and when the train rolled in Ruth put
her arms round Creighton's neck and kissed him.

"I shall miss you and perhaps you will miss me. I'd rather like you
to, but you mustn't bother at all; I'm going to be absorbed in work,"
she said. "When you write, tell me about the invention and the
retorts. I expect they will make you and Stayward famous before I
come back."

The whistle blew and Creighton jumped down from the step. Ruth waved
her hand, he saw her face at the window for a moment or two, and then
the train rolled through an arch and she was gone. Creighton walked
back to his car, feeling strangely flat. He had sent her off, found
her the longed-for opportunity to try her powers, and now, when he was
lonely, he must meet the bill. The bill was not large. Indeed, it was
strange he could help Ruth at so small a cost, but as he drove to the
bank he thought bitterly about his wife's shabby ambitions and
extravagance.

The bank was small and dingy. Soot grimed the windows that shook with
the measured throb of a big mining pump. While Creighton waited at the
counter there was a harsh rattle as a loaded cage came up a
neighboring coal pit. Putting down the check he had given his wife, he
said to the clerk:

"Enter this sum to Mrs. Creighton's account, and then she can draw the
money when she likes."

"Certainly," said the clerk, who took the check and went behind a
partition, where Creighton heard him put a heavy book on a desk. Then
a door opened quietly and Creighton frowned, because he thought he
knew what this meant.

"Mr. Evans would like to see you," the clerk stated when he came back.

Creighton followed him to an adjoining room, and did not feel much
comforted when the bank manager, sitting in front of his big desk,
looked up with a friendly smile. He knew Evans, who was urbane but
firm.

"A fine morning, Mr. Creighton, although the wind is cold," he
remarked. "Well, about this little check; we will, of course, meet
Mrs. Creighton's demands to the full amount; but I expect you'll need
the usual sum for wages and the payment you generally make the
builders at the end of the month?"

"That is so," Creighton replied. "In fact, since we have been forced
to use an extra lot of fire-bricks, we'll need a larger sum."

"Oh, well," said the manager, smiling, "I expect you will soon get
your money back. To keep one's plant up to date is an excellent plan.
Still, you see, in the meantime----"

His pause was significant and Creighton tried to brace himself.
Stayward left him to look after their accounts and he had known money
was very short, but he had for some time neglected to find out exactly
where they stood. This was not altogether carelessness; he had been
half afraid to study the books. Now, however, it looked as if the
reckoning he had weakly put off had come.

"I suppose you mean we will be in the bank's debt when the wages and
the builders are paid?" he suggested.

"A little on the wrong side," the manager agreed urbanely. "The
improvements you are making are, no doubt, a sound investment. All the
same, you will need a good sum at the end of the month and the balance
is against you."

"How much?" Creighton asked anxiously.

When Evans told him he made an abrupt movement. From the beginning
Stayward and he had not had enough capital and his invention had not
worked well at first. They had been forced to alter the ovens and
distilling plant as they went on; spending on improvements money they
got for their coke. Although it had been a struggle, they had kept
going, and but for Mrs. Creighton's demands Creighton imagined they
might have continued to do so. Things, however, were worse than he had
thought, and the last check, so to speak, had tipped the beam.

"Well," he said as coolly as possible, "we are pretty good customers
and expect to get two or three large sums before very long. Our
accounts with the blast-furnace owners are sent in quarterly."

"This leaves you on the wrong side for some time. Besides, I expect
you find one's debtors don't always pay when they ought."

"That is so," Creighton agreed. "However, the people who use our stuff
are honest and generally punctual. The time is not long, and as soon
as we get paid I'll send the checks across."

Evans shook his head, regretfully. "The trouble is our directors don't
allow a manager much discretion; head-office rules are strict, you
know. Then one can't tell when a traveling auditor may arrive."

"You mean, if you are to cash our checks, you must have a guarantee
for the over-draft?"

"Something like that," said Evans, in an apologetic voice. "A matter
of form! We won't be very particular about the security; anything we
can show an auditor will meet the bill."

Creighton's forehead got wet. He had no security to offer and doubted
if Stayward had. Yet it was obvious they must find something to
pledge, or the works must stop. One could not put off the payment of
wages, and he could not give the bank a bond on the buildings and
ovens, because they were already mortgaged. But this was not all.
Stayward, concentrating on another side of the business, had left the
books to him, and he had let things go until the house was threatened
by bankruptcy. Stayward had staked his all on the venture and was very
hard. Creighton shrank when he thought about his anger. Yet, if they
could hold out for a few weeks, things might improve and Stayward need
not know.

"Then, I suppose you really cannot wait until we get some money from
our customers?" he said with a carelessness that cost him an effort.

"I'm sorry," the manager replied. "I'd have liked to help, but rules
are rules, you know. Bring me something we can use to satisfy the
auditor and we'll meet your demands."

Creighton nodded, although he was not deceived. He knew the security
he brought Evans must be sound.

"Very well! I must talk to Stayward and see what we can do."

He thought Evans looked rather hard at him, but he remarked that this
was the best plan and Creighton went out. When he reached the works he
found some spirit they distilled from the tar would not stand the
proper tests and for two or three hours he was occupied in his
laboratory. Then Stayward joined him at the plain lunch that was
brought to the office, and went off a few minutes afterwards. Stayward
was not given to talk. When he had gone, Creighton returned to the
laboratory and puzzled about the impurities in the spirit. To account
for them was an awkward problem, but Creighton knew something about
chemistry. The trouble was, he had forgotten much in the years when
he loafed, and indulgence had blunted his skill. It was sometimes
obvious he had once been a better man.

All the same, his work engrossed him and concentration was something
of a relief. When evening came he had solved the problem and began to
grapple with another that was worse. Stayward had gone off with a
colliery manager. They did not keep a clerk, and Creighton was alone
in the small office when he opened the safe.

For a time he studied books and documents, made calculations, and tore
up the papers; and then pushed back his chair and wiped his face. His
skin was wet with sweat and his brows were knit, but for some minutes
he sat still, absorbed by gloomy thought. The day laborers had gone
and the works were nearly quiet. A plume of steam went up outside the
window and big drops fell on the iron roof. Now and then a shovel
clinked and he heard the rattle of a truck.

Creighton pulled himself together. Although there was nothing he could
lawfully pledge, he must not be fastidious. Money must be got, and he
thought he saw a plan. He had long been rash and now must run another
risk. It was the worst he had run, but if things went well, he would
be on safe ground again when payment for the coke arrived.

They had stock on hand, coking coal that Evans would, no doubt, take
as guarantee for a loan. Since the coal was not paid for, Creighton
admitted that it did not really belong to them, but Evans did not know
this and before long he would be able to redeem the stock. He would
have to give Evans some kind of a formal transfer and must see him
about this in the morning. In the meantime, he was tired after a
disturbing day, and locking the office, he went for his car.




CHAPTER III

THE SPIRIT TANK


Bright sunshine and speeding shadow touched the bleak moorland. A
boisterous wind blew in from sea, but the morning was warm and
Creighton's mood was tranquil while his car ran down hill. For one
thing, Ruth was happy at Munich and declared she made good progress.
The letter Creighton had got before he started related some
compliments her masters had made her. Then Janet had not bothered him
about bills, and the coke ovens were going well. In a few weeks, he
could pay off the banker's loan and Stayward would know nothing about
the transaction.

Creighton was careless; things did not bother him long, and when he
had put off a trouble he forgot about it. Moreover, he had put a
generous dose of brandy in the coffee he had drunk while he smoked a
cigarette after breakfast. He did not know if Janet knew about this or
not, but he had got the habit when he drove to the works on bitter
winter mornings. When the condensers were not turning out good stuff
and he expected a hard day at the laboratory, he took a larger dose.

As the car ran down hill the stone walks along the road gave place to
ragged thorns. Rusty pit-rope spanned the gaps the wind had made, and
the bent trees about the farmsteads were blackened by smoke. Clouds
of dingy fumes from the blast-furnaces trailed across the sky, and
clusters of chimney stacks dotted the green sweep of corn by the
coast. The bleak landscape was stained by the grime of industry, but
the sun shone and the wind was bracing. Creighton felt cheerful as he
smoked his cigar.

When the car rolled into a mean, black village he slowed the engine.
Children played about the street, lean whippet dogs ran across, and
here and there a broken bottle threatened his tires. Some of the
strongly-built men lounging about the doorsteps gave him a nod and
some a dull glance. All knew Creighton of the coke ovens, where a
number worked, but the North-countryman is not, as a rule, remarkably
gracious to his employer, and Stayward was hard. Yet the strange thing
was, although the hands disputed with Stayward and his partner was
indulgent, they did better work for the man who generally beat them
than for Creighton. After all, Stayward sprang from their stock; he
was blunt and forceful, and they understood his philosophy. He swore,
in their own dialect, when Creighton smiled.

The car turned a corner and Creighton threw away his cigar. A high
wall ran along the road, and in one place, a streak of flame leaped up
through the smoke from the ovens. The flame ought not to be there; it
was near the tank into which spirit was pumped, and a row of small
houses fronted the wall. Creighton remembered that they had been
puzzled to find a place for the tank, and the spot on which they had
fixed did not altogether comply with the rules. He had left the thing
to Stayward and did not know how he had satisfied the local council.
Stayward's habit was to carry out his plans.

Creighton drove through a gate and stopped. Not far off, a group of
men stood about a jet of fire that shot up and broke into a shower of
blazing drops. It burned furiously, without slanting from the wind, as
if forced up by strong pressure, and smoke that had a strangely
pungent smell eddied about the neighboring tank and blew across the
wall. Some of the men had shovels and were throwing sand into the
flame, which sprang from a hollow like a crater at the top of the
pile. Creighton imagined the stop-valve that controlled the supply of
spirit to the tank was beneath the sand. The spirit was obviously
burning at the valve and he did not see how they could put it out. To
begin with, however, the blaze must not be allowed to excite alarm in
the village.

"Shut the gate," he said, and turned to a man who had wrapped a greasy
red handkerchief round his hand and wrist. "Have you stopped the pump?
How did the fire start?"

"Pump's stopped. I reckon spirit's running back from tank; she's mair
nor half full. When I com't in, fire was weel alight. Carruthers found
valve leaking in t' dark and when he was looking what was wrang she
fired from his lamp."

Creighton nodded. The vapor the spirit gave off was strongly
inflammable, but there was no use in talking about the carelessness of
the man who had used an open engineer's lamp to examine the leaky
joint.

"Have you tried to screw down the valve?" he asked.

The other held up his bandaged hand and Creighton saw his skin was
blistered above the greasy handkerchief. Moreover, he noted raw red
spots on the man's face.

"Yes; I tried 't, but couldn't get hold with spanner because of flame.
Neabody else wad gan near and I'll no' try again."

It looked as if his resolve was justified. The jet of fire broke at
its top into a shower of burning liquid; the men had buried the valve,
and in order to reach the hole from which the blaze sprang one must
stand amidst the shower. Nothing could be done to stop the leak, but
while Creighton knitted his brows Stayward and a young man ran across
the yard. Creighton imagined the young man was his partner's nephew
and they had just arrived by the office entrance. Stayward did not ask
questions; his plan was to deal with essentials first.

"We must empty tank," he said and pushed one of the men. "Gan to
station for benzol car and see you bring her; shunting engine's in the
yard." Then he turned to the others. "Tak' your shovels. We're gan t'
dig."

They followed him to the tank, and seizing a spade, he marked out a
trench. Creighton got a pick, for although he was not given to
physical effort the need was urgent and he saw Stayward's plan. The
tank was not large, but it held a quantity of explosive spirit, and
Stayward meant to run off some of the liquid. This would lessen the
risk, but it was not enough. The tank was thin and sparks rained about
its top; the spirit was volatile and the vapor it gave off could
hardly be kept in by the caulking at the joints. If the tank bursts,
the burning liquid must be turned into the trench before it could flow
about the yard and into the street.

They got to work and Creighton noted that Stayward's nephew, who had
thrown off his vest and jacket, used the shovel well. He was an
athletic young fellow and looked good-humored and frank. Fresh men
came to help, the trench got deeper, and presently a small locomotive
snorted up the line that ran into the yard, and pushed a big steel
cylinder up to the tank. Black smoke and sparks blew round the engine,
and the driver looked out.

"It's nea a varra safe job you're giving us," he said. "Hooiver, we'll
try 't if you'll fix your pipe quick."

"Two's enough to help him," Stayward remarked. "The rest of you will
dig."

Creighton, digging and watching the men at the pipe, was conscious of
keen suspense. It looked as if the steel cylinder filled very slowly,
the blaze had leaped up higher, and one could not tell when a spark
might start an explosion. There was some leakage round the joint where
the pipe was screwed to the tank. The thing was horribly risky, but
the men went on digging and nobody looked disturbed. They were slow
North-country folk and hard to move.

At length the engine whistled and rolled away with its load. Some of
the dangerous stuff was gone, the pressure was eased, and the flame
sank a little. Creighton, with a feeling of keen satisfaction, stopped
to get his breath and straighten his aching back. Next moment,
however, he dropped his spade, for there was a sharp crack, and he saw
the tank split along a joint of the plates. It opened, as if torn
apart, a heavy report shook the ovens, and a column of fire leaped up.
Then thick smoke rolled about the yard, and Creighton saw a burning
flood run across the ground. His face and hands smarted, and he
thought he noted dark spots with smoldering edges on his clothes.

The men went back for a few yards, and then stopped when Stayward
shouted. Creighton saw him run forward, into the smoke, with his
nephew close by; but for the next few minutes he was desperately
occupied. Waves of fire overflowed the trench and broke against the
bank behind, bent figures loomed in the smoke, and one heard the
furious clink of shovels. The men's job was plain; they must hold back
and, if possible, smother the fire. They needed no orders and Stayward
gave none. He worked where the fire was hottest and when he ran to
meet a fresh wave of burning spirit his nephew followed.

In the meantime, the roar of the explosion had alarmed the village.
Clogs rattled on the stones outside and shouts came from behind the
gate.

"Keep it shut," Stayward ordered. "Let nobody in."

Before long some of the men were burned and some half blinded, for the
tank had not been altogether wrecked and the spirit, expanded by the
heat, welled up from its lower part. The men not burned were
breathless and nearly exhausted, but they labored on, until a few
stopped for a moment when a bell clanged noisily in the street and
somebody beat on the gate.

"Here's fire-engine; let her in!" a man outside shouted.

"Water's nea use," Stayward replied. "They can play hose on hooses if
they're keen on a job."

There were fresh shouts, the crowd in the street began an angry
clamor, and the gate shook. It looked as if the firemen were resolved
to come in, but the gate stood the battering and Stayward's men worked
on. The fire was slowly dying out under the showers of sand and soil,
and at length only spasmodic spurts of flame leaped up from the
trench. Stayward threw down his shovel and lifted his hand.

"I reckon you have done a good job and I will not forget," he said.
"Noo we must wait until she cools and you'll gan back to ovens."

They went off. It was not Stayward's rule to say too much, and he and
Creighton went to the office. Creighton's hands and face smarted;
Stayward's coat was riddled by holes. The sleeve of the young man's
shirt was burned and his arm was stained by soot. He stopped for a
moment by the door, with the light from a window opposite in his eyes,
which hurt because he had been in the smoke.

"My nephew, Geoffrey Lisle; he has come down for a short holiday,"
Stayward remarked.

Lisle bowed to Creighton, whom he could not see distinctly. The office
was small and Creighton sat in the shadow behind the open door.

"You have had bad luck this morning," said Lisle. "It will cost you
something to re-plate the tank and I think a number of windows were
broken when the top blew off. However, I must try to get rid of this
soot and put on my jacket."

He went behind a partition where water and towels were kept and the
others heard a splash. Then he resumed, speaking across the low
partition: "Didn't you build the thing rather near the street?"

"We were cramped for room. The yard is small," Creighton replied.

"One doesn't want a tank of explosive spirit beside one's office, but
there are rules about such things. How did you satisfy the local
council?"

"I left that to your uncle. I don't know the arguments he used, but
they seem to have had some weight. The important thing is, he didn't
see a better site for the tank."

Lisle laughed. "Well, I admit he is rather hard to beat. However,
since I've burned my arm I'll go and see if the engineer can give me
some olive oil. I know my way about and expect you want to talk."

He went off by a door behind the partition, and Stayward said, "The
lad has been at the works when you were away. He's employed by a good
firm of mining engineers and, for a young man, his judgement's quick
and sound. I expect you saw he spotted the worst trouble we're going
to have?"

Creighton said he had noted this and Stayward, knitting his heavy
brows, was silent for a minute or two. He was a big, rugged
North-countryman, with steady eyes, a stern face, and touches of white
in his hair. Although he had been to a famous school, he used the
Cumbrian dialect when he was moved. The Staywards had long owned a
belt of bleak hillside and had kept it after the small _statesmen_,
driven by economic pressure, sold their farms. For the most part, they
were frugal folk, and since the weather was inhospitable and the soil
was poor, now and then invested money in mining ventures. There were
useful minerals in the hills but the cost of extraction generally
absorbed the profit.

Stayward's father, however, had sold much of the estate and lost the
money on Liverpool shipping shares. Creighton imagined his partner's
ambition was to buy back the land, and with this object he had
mortgaged his diminished inheritance and built the coke ovens. Now it
looked as if the last of the Stayward money was gone.

"What's damage going to cost us?" Stayward asked presently.

"It depends," said Creighton. "To begin with, if we're liable for the
repairs to the houses----"

"We are liable. We put tank in wrong place and must pay."

"There was nowhere else it could be put."

"Weel I ken that," said Stayward. "I took the risk; when I built ovens
it was all a risk. However, we'll say it costs five hundred pounds.
Where's money coming from?"

Creighton tried to hide his disturbance. Stayward knew they were
embarrassed, but Creighton hoped he did not know how bad the situation
really was.

"Not from the bank, I think," he answered. "There's not much use in
bothering Evans."

Somewhat to his relief, Stayward nodded. One danger was put off and
something might happen that would ease the strain. Creighton had a
hopeful temperament and never fronted trouble until he was forced. In
this Stayward was different; he studied obstacles ahead and made his
plans to move them from his path. "I see a way," Stayward said.
"Greenbank folk are blowing out a furnace and will not want their
coke, but we have a stock of soft coal good enough to make foundry
stuff. We'll put it in ovens and work off the foundry contract. They
pay end of month for all deliveries."

Creighton got a bad jolt and the hope he had begun to indulge
vanished. Stayward's plan looked good and Creighton could urge nothing
against it but the convincing argument he durst not use. The coal that
would make foundry coke was not theirs, because he had pawned it with
the bank manager.

"I don't know," he said, as carelessly as possible. "We'll soon have
to pay the colliery owners."

"Colliery must wait. Trade's slack, and we take a lot o' their coal;
they must get their interest and mayhappen will not bother us much."

"But----" said Creighton and stopped, for Stayward gave him an
impatient glance and got up.

"Have you no guts, man? Unless we take a bold line and keep it,
there's nowt but ruin for us. Weel, I'll give foreman his orders to
start on foundry coke in morning; and then I'll look at damage."

He jerked his powerful shoulders, frowned, and went off, while
Creighton sat in a slack pose and gazed moodily in front. He durst not
tell his partner the coal they were going to sell the foundry belonged
to the bank. Moreover, this was not all; there was another
irregularity he had used to persuade Evans, and Stayward was honest.
Creighton would not think about it. After all, perhaps, Stayward need
not know, and the coking of the inferior coal was enough to occupy
Creighton. To sell goods one had already pawned was obviously
dishonest, but Creighton wondered whether it was criminal fraud.
Although he did not know the law about such things, he was afraid.
However, Evans would not find out for some time, and Creighton went
off to the laboratory.




CHAPTER IV

STAYWARD FINDS OUT


Stayward promised full satisfaction for the damage the bursting tank
had caused. The promise was characteristic; Stayward was hard and
exacted all that was his, but he paid his debts. Indeed, his stern
honesty gave Creighton ground for anxious thought, because he knew
they could not hold out long and he dreaded Stayward's anger when he
found out how the reckoning had been put off.

Creighton began to see that his efforts were useless. Disaster was
getting very near, and since he generally took the easiest line, the
temptation to run away was strong. He did not go, partly because it
demanded an effort he could not rouse himself to make, and partly
because he must give his wife some explanation before he went.
Creighton shrank from enlightening Janet. He knew her well; she would
be very bitter and would not see that she was to some extent
accountable for his disgrace.

He waited, bracing himself with liquor in the morning before he
started for the works, since he half expected to find when he arrived
that Stayward knew. All the same, he kept their account books in the
safe, where they would not catch Stayward's eye, and did not talk
about their embarrassments.

For a time nothing disturbing happened, and then one afternoon
Creighton drove back moodily to the works from a neighboring mine. The
strain he had borne was wearing him, and he was bothered by a letter
from Ruth that arrived when he left home. She wrote bravely about her
studies, but the effort she made was rather obvious. In fact, she said
too much, and Creighton, understanding his daughter because he loved
her, got a hint of disillusion and anxiety that he thought she meant
to hide. He wondered whether Ruth was finding out that her talent for
music was less than she had thought.

Creighton hoped not. Ruth had got her year at Munich, but this was all
he could give her. One needed much talent to make one's mark, and if
she had not enough her disappointment would be sharp. It was plain he
could not help her to try again, and somehow one did not expect Ruth
to make a good marriage. If she gave up her hope of a musical career,
it looked as if she must resign to a life of dreary economy in the
quiet dale. Creighton reflected with a touch of rather grim amusement
that Janet might be forced to use stern economy soon.

When he stopped inside the big gate at the yard he felt a curious
dislike for the works. A tall chimney of raw yellow brick poured out
thick smoke, acrid fumes escaped from the ovens, and the yard smelt of
soot and tar. The men's wet faces were blackened, their rough clothes
were stained, and all one saw was marked by squalid ugliness.
Creighton was something of an artist, and although, except for
chemistry, he had no constructive talent, he could feel.

At the beginning, the ugliness had not jarred him much. For a time he
was absorbed by his invention. The study of the strange chemical
combinations that took place in the tar was fascinating. With a proper
plant, one could distill a remarkable number of useful essences from
the sticky mess coke ovens had not long since wasted. For all that,
when the object of one's experiments was strictly economical, the
fascination wore off; Creighton admitted he had no industrial genius.
He had gone on in order to earn the money Janet needed, and now he was
tired of it all.

Stayward was not about the yard, and when the foreman said he had gone
to the bank Creighton got a jar. He went to the office and his hand
shook as he picked up some letters the afternoon post had brought.
When he read the letters he knew why Stayward had gone to the bank and
it was ominous that the safe, where they kept their books, was open.
Creighton looked at his watch. It was nearly four o'clock. Stayward
had been shut up with the manager for some time after the bank closed
its doors and Creighton could imagine what they talked about.

Conquering an impulse to drive off before his partner's return, he sat
down. The reckoning had come and there was nothing to be gained by
putting off his interview with Stayward until the morning. He felt a
strange dullness that rather blunted the suspense. At length Stayward
came in, and sitting down, threw some documents on his desk. Although
Creighton knew his nerve was good, he looked badly shaken. His glance
wandered about the office, he moved once or twice with a curious
jerkiness, and then his face went grim and he fixed his eyes on
Creighton.

"I've seen Evans at the bank," he said. "Then I expect you got a
nasty knock," said Creighton. "I'm sorry----"

Stayward stopped him with a scornful gesture.

"You're sorry? Man, have done with cant! Though I never quite trusted
you or Janet, you have cheated me over long."

"I think we won't talk about Janet. The dispute is ours; it has
nothing to do with her."

Stayward laughed, savagely. "Keep your smooth talk for your wife's
smart friends; it will not go with me. There never was a Hassal ran
quite straight, but Janet has made her man a thief."

"This line won't take us far," said Creighton, coloring. "Let's stick
to the subject. I'm your partner and the refining plant is mine. The
coke ovens do not pay. The Durham makers get a higher price for harder
stuff; our profit's on the spirit and dyes we extract from the refuse.
The process is my invention."

"Do you claim you invented the extraction of these products from waste
tar? I imagined everybody knew a much better plant than ours has long
been working in this country and Germany. Did we not lose the last
large order because the German stuff cost less?"

"I'm not a fool. All I claim is, my process gives better results than
others when you use our poor coal. Anyhow, nobody else has found a way
of breaking up the particular chemical combinations that bother us. I
have. You must use my plan or stop the ovens."

"We'll talk about this again," said Stayward, with a grim smile that
disturbed Creighton. "In the meantime, you imagine the partnership
justified your robbing me?"

"I haven't studied the law," said Creighton, whose face got very red.
"For all that, it is understood a partner is entitled to use the money
he has helped to earn. His drawings are not limited to his share of
the profit on the sum he invested."

"How much did you invest?"

"My invention."

The veins swelled on Stayward's forehead and his eyes sparkled, but
with an effort he controlled his rage.

"You joined me when nobody else was willing to try your plan. Folks
declared our coal wouldn't pay for coking; I said it would, if I could
distill spirit in the tar. Well, I backed my judgment; how you ken.
Sold land that belonged to Staywards for three hundred years, borrowed
and mortgaged, and put into the venture aw I had----"

He stopped, as if for breath and resumed: "Noo where has it gone?
While I labored, living plainer than my workmen, stinting myself and
saving, your wife spent my money on her dinner parties and her London
clothes."

"Oh, well," said Creighton, deprecatingly, "I imagine Janet did no
more than her neighbors expected. In a way, she was forced to keep the
rules of the people to whom she belonged."

Stayward let himself go. He sprang from sturdy yeoman stock and was
proud of his ancestors. When angry, he was rude, like them, and used
their dialect.

"The Hassals?" he said with scorn. "There are old standards who mind
when t' Hassals first came to the dale. Spendthrift wastrels,
weel-kent at betting clubs and small race meetings, where one was
warned off. Folks you could trust to have a hand in the jobbery when
land was sold above its value and rents were putten up. Walling off
bits o' common and straining manor rights, so they could plant larches
on fell-foot and let the shooting. I reckon that's aw t' Hassals did
for countryside."

"I don't see what this has to do with our dispute," Creighton remarked
in a languid voice.

"Then, I'll let you see! Staywards farmed their land; they worked and
paid their debts. We were kenned and trusted lang before t' Hassals
came. But you let Janet rule you and make me party to a theft!"

"Is it theft to borrow?"

"You pawned goods that were not ours, and when, kenning nothing o'
this, I sold them, let me use the money that ought to have paid the
loan. Noo we owe their value to the colliery and the bank. But you
will not shame me again. I've done with your tricks. Our agreement
breaks to-night."

Creighton pulled himself together. He had expected something like
this, but he wondered whether Stayward knew all.

"An agreement is not easily broken, unless both parties consent."

Stayward smiled harshly and picked up a document from the bundle on
his desk.

"Partnership's one thing and _per-procuration_ another. I do not ken
the law weel, but I reckon _this_ is forgery. Although I have not
denied my hand yet, I think Evans suspects."

Creighton's mouth opened loosely and his pose got slack. He leaned
forward as if the strength to hold himself upright had gone. His
curiosity was satisfied. When Stayward began to put the documents in
the safe he got up. "If you turn me out, my patent carries
royalties----"

"We'll talk about patent in morning," said Stayward very grimly. "Noo
you'll gan and leave me to grapple with the ruin you have made."

Creighton went and Stayward clenched his fist when he heard the throb
of the car. For a time, he sat still, frowning. He was proud and
reserved and it was long since he had said so much. In a sense, he had
taken a ridiculous line; there was no use in lashing his feeble
antagonist with savage talk. His business was to break the fellow and
not to scold like an angry woman. This, however, was not important and
he had got some satisfaction from letting himself go.

Presently he called his foreman, who had come from some coke ovens
where another process for refining tar was used. Stayward talked to
the man for a time and when he sent him away searched two or three
iron boxes. At length, he found a document with the seal of the patent
office, and thought it typical that Creighton had not bothered to take
the thing away. Stayward spread out the parchment on his desk, and for
two or three hours studied the patent, comparing the specification
with some drawings Creighton had made and a sheet of chemical formul.

Stayward was not a chemist, but he was tenacious and very shrewd, and
since he started the ovens had learned something about the actions and
reactions that went on when they refined the tar. Moreover, he knew
Creighton and presently found, as he had half expected, that some of
the stated particulars were vague. In order that the holder may forbid
anybody else to copy his invention, a patent must be precise, but
Creighton, or his agent, had left an opening for dispute. Stayward,
studying the carelessly-drawn specification, began to make some plans.

When he was satisfied the plans would work he locked the office and
set off up the smoky street. His house was some distance off and he
was not young, but on the whole he liked the walk. He had no other
relaxation and thought it kept him fit. Sometimes he reflected with
dry amusement that Creighton used a car.

Dusk was falling when he reached Nethercleugh, the last of his
inheritance and recently mortgaged. The house had been built for
farmers and had sheltered many generations of Staywards who knew
nothing of luxury. The thick walls were rough-dressed slate, and rose,
without ornament, from amidst a group of bent ash trees. A dry-stone
dike surrounded the garden, where potatoes grew, for it was
characteristic that there were no flowers. Behind the house, boggy
fields rolled back to the moor, and, with a feeble blink of light from
one window, Nethercleugh looked strangely desolate. The evening was
dark and a dreary wind tossed the ash trees' groaning boughs.

Stayward opened the door in the porch and entered the slate-flagged
kitchen. They used no rugs and carpets, the furniture was old, and the
low ceiling rested on worm-eaten, crooked beams. Narrow windows
pierced the thick walls and strangers thought Nethercleugh dark and
cold. An old woman, knitting by the peat fire, turned her head when
Stayward came in. Belle Ritson and a kitchen girl were all his
household. He put his hat on the table and pulled up a chair.

"You must get rid of Nancy, Belle, and if you're wise, you'll look for
another place at hiring fair," he said.

The old woman's face was lined and reddened by the winds that wailed
about Nethercleugh. She scarcely looked up and her knitting needles
clicked steadily.

"I was here when ye were born and I'm too oad to shift," she said.

"You'll not can manage when Nancy's gone. The hoose is big."

"I'll try 't. T' lass is young and feckless. I'll no' miss her."

"Then, I don't know about your wages and our food. I'll need to cut
down the shopkeepers' bills."

"Wages can wait; I dinna spend much," said Belle, and stopping her
knitting, quietly looked up. "Is coke ovens no running weel?"

"They're running all right. Trouble is, I don't know if they and
Nethercleugh are mine."

"Then, your partner's takken your money to pleasure his lady wife?
There's some good gentry, but aw t' Hassal lot is bad. Hooiver, ye're
none easy robbed."

Stayward smiled, rather dryly. "All the same, money's gone and I've
broken partnership. I may recover; I don't know yet, but it will be a
long fight."

"Staywards is stubborn fratchers," Belle replied. "Weel, I alloo we'll
mannish. Ye'll need somebody to tent ye and I'm past boddering aboot
my meat. Noo ye'll gan to parlor and I'll bring ye yours."

"You're a leal soul, Belle," said Stayward, who was moved by her
staunchness.

"I'm oad," she said. "I'm used with Nethercleugh and I'll not can
bodder to try another place."




CHAPTER V

MRS. CREIGHTON REFUSES


After his interview with Stayward, Creighton drove home, weighing
gloomily a half-formed plan. It would be hard to tell Janet, but she
must be told and, if possible, persuaded to agree. The situation
needed a desperate cure, and he nerved himself to make a plunge. Janet
could help; in spite of her extravagance, she was clever and resolute.
If she supported him, they might make a fresh start; but he knew his
wife and doubted.

At dinner Creighton said nothing about his embarrassments, although he
noted that Mrs. Creighton now and then looked hard at him. After the
meal was over they went out on the terrace and he leaned against the
low wall, on which red geraniums flowered. Mrs. Creighton occupied a
neighboring bench.

The evening was calm, and the light was going; a smell of flowers
floated across the lawn and one heard lambs crying on the hill. The
dark firs were losing their sharpness and a little mist began to creep
about the crest of the moor. Creighton was conscious of a curious
pang. The serenity and beauty of the spot appealed to his love of
ease. He shrank from effort and struggle, but his weakness and Janet's
folly had banished him from this quiet retreat. He must go out and
front the storm, but he feared disaster if he went alone.

"You are moody," Mrs. Creighton remarked. "I suppose something has
gone wrong at the works?"

"All has gone wrong," said Creighton. "Stayward has found me out."

Mrs. Creighton moved abruptly, but next moment resumed her quiet pose,
although her glance was keen.

"You're ridiculous when you're theatrical," she said. "What has
Stayward found out?"

"That we have squandered his money and he has not enough to keep the
ovens going. As you know, I have none. He has broken our partnership."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Creighton and was silent for a moment or two. Then she
resumed: "From the beginning I disliked John Stayward. He is not our
sort, but I thought he could help you. Now it looks as if he had
cheated us."

Creighton laughed harshly. "Stayward is persuaded I have cheated him
and he has some grounds, but we'll let this go. He has turned me out
and we cannot live at Iveghyll on your income."

The color came into Mrs. Creighton's hard, pale face and her eyes
sparkled.

"I don't know if you cheated Stayward, but you cheated me. You were
not poor when I married you; you had talent and an occupation. I
thought you might go far."

"I buried my talent. You were fastidious about the use I made of it,
and when at length I dug it up it had rusted. Hard wear keeps one's
talents bright. But you look impatient and to philosophize won't help
much."

"How do you mean to help? It wouldn't be strange if you had a useful
plan."

"We won't quarrel," said Creighton, and there was an appeal in the
look he gave her. "I've been slack and perhaps your reproaching me is
justified. We'll leave it there. We must make a fresh start and I have
a plan."

Mrs. Creighton said nothing for a few moments. She had got a hard
knock, but she had pluck and the hurt braced her and made her savage.
She thought she had borne much for her husband's sake, but now the
ambitions to which she had stubbornly clung were altogether gone. She
must give up the high place she had fought for, her neighbors would no
longer own her rule, and nobody would give her the deference she felt
she was entitled to claim. A bankrupt's wife had no social claims.

"Well?" she said, coolly.

Creighton pulled himself together. He doubted if he could persuade
Janet, but he must try. This was a duty he owed both; she was his wife
and for her sake he must submit to the rules of civilization and earn
by irksome labor the means to live. After all, he was rather a good
chemist, and although his occupation had lost its charm, there was
nothing upon which he could fall back if he gave it up.

But he needed Janet's support.

"We must leave Iveghyll," he said. "Your friends will drop me when
they hear Stayward's tale; it's possible they will drop you. Your
money will not support us and I cannot be a burden on my wife. Very
well. Suppose we make a plunge, trust our luck, and start again in a
new country? One has chances of making good in, for example, South
Africa or Canada."

"What do you think of doing in South Africa?" Mrs. Creighton asked, in
an ironical voice.

"There are posts at the mines," said Creighton, vaguely. "I know
something about the analysis and refining of precious metals and would
keep the post I got. I think I have enough skill for this, and when
you have no other resources you stick to your job. In fact, I feel we
have come to a turning and the way we turn is important. I'm getting
old and can't go back when I've taken the new path."

"I think that is so," Mrs. Creighton agreed and pondered. Then she
asked: "Where does your new path lead?"

"Up hill, I must admit. I've come down rather fast, and it's plainly
time to stop. There's a rough climb in front, perhaps the struggle
will be long, but, if you help, I think we'll reach smooth ground."

"A long struggle, in a rude country! Oh, I know in some of the towns
they have big hotels, handsome offices, and modern clubs; but where
would you find the grace and refinement we value in England?"

"It's possible we value our surface refinement too high," Creighton
remarked. Then he laughed. "If we leave out your friends and people of
their sort, I don't know if we have much refinement in the North.
Stayward, for example, is as rude a type as one would expect to meet
on the back-veldt."

"The back-veldt! Some of the mines are there, long distances from even
a squalid Boer town. Life at such a place would be impossible. I
cannot see myself keeping house in an iron shanty, with a savage
Kaffir boy to help."

"No," said Creighton, smiling. "I cannot see you. Somehow, you don't
fit into the picture. Well, it looks as if you don't like my plan.
What is yours?"

"Mine provides for Ruth, whom I think you have forgotten," Mrs.
Creighton replied. "She must stay in England and go on with her music.
Perhaps she will be a famous player; it is possible she will make a
good marriage. Since we are forced to give up Iveghyll, we will go to
Beckfoot cottage. It ought to have been mine and I expect my cousin
will let me have it for a very small rent. With a few alterations,
Beckfoot might suit----"

She stopped and Creighton imagined she was thinking about enlargements
and new furniture. It was obvious that she left him out of her plans,
and on the whole he was resigned. Janet meant to go her way and he
would go his. After all, he was something of a vagabond and had long
chafed against conventional restraints and monotonous work. Perhaps he
was not too old to taste adventure and indulge vague romantic longings
he had controlled.

"Then there are your patent royalties. You must fight Stayward for
your rights," Mrs. Creighton resumed.

"I'm going to see him in the morning. For all that, it wouldn't be
prudent to reckon on the royalties."

"But we will need the money. You have none."

"I won't need much," said Creighton dryly. "Ruth must have her chance,
and my stay in this country will embarrass you. Well, I think I'll try
South Africa."

Mrs. Creighton looked hard at him and hesitated. Then she said
thoughtfully: "Perhaps the plan has some advantages. After all, if you
didn't get a good post, you could come back."

"That is so," Creighton agreed. "On the whole, I think the advantages
outweigh the drawbacks."

He got up, lighted a cigarette, and strolled off across the grass with
a feeling of half bitter amusement. Janet had chosen her path and he
must take his alone. Well, she was not romantic and perhaps she was
justified. For one thing, Ruth must have her chance. Creighton had
never loved his wife as he loved his daughter. Yet it would be a pull
to leave the dale and his thoughts were melancholy as he looked about.

The light had gone and the black moors cut against a pale green and
orange sky. The firs had faded to dusky spires; moving sheep made
blurred dots on the long slope of a hill, and the splash of the beck
came drowsily across the evening calm. The calm soothed Creighton,
although he knew he had enjoyed it too long. When he ought to have
struggled he had loafed, and now the reckoning had come. One must pay
for slackness and folly, but he did not mean to grumble. He could pay;
his languid temperament made this easier. By and by he returned to the
house and talked to Mrs. Creighton about altering Beckfoot cottage.

In the morning, she stated that she would go with him in the car to
the mining village, and although Creighton did not know her object he
agreed. It was about ten o'clock when she got down in the smoky street
and Creighton drove to the office, where Stayward was waiting. The
latter looked worn and stern and roughly signed Creighton to sit
down.

"About your patent royalties," he said. "I see we have thirty pounds,
in notes and gold, in the safe; it's all that you have left. If you
will write me a receipt, I'll pay you the sum for the use of your
invention."

"This is ridiculous!" Creighton exclaimed.

"Not at all. It's thirty pounds or nothing," said Stayward, who put a
drawing on the desk, and Creighton noted that he used his ordinary
colloquial English. When Stayward was cool and on his guard, he
dropped the Cumbrian dialect. John was ominously cool now.

Creighton picked up the drawing and started, for he thought he saw the
line Stayward meant to take. The plan showed some alterations to his
distilling apparatus, and the new arrangement of the pipes would work.

"If I'd drawn that patent, I'd have made my specification tight,"
Stayward resumed. "I reckon yours wasn't worth the fees. Anyhow, I'm
going to use it, and if you claim my modified process is an
infringement, you can put your lawyers on my track." He paused and
added with a grim smile: "Going to law's expensive. Perhaps you had
better think before you begin."

Creighton durst not go to law, but the blood came to his face.

"It's robbery!" he declared.

"If we are going to talk about robbery, I have much to say," Stayward
rejoined. "Better let it go! I'm getting old, but I've paid my debts
since I began to work. I offer you thirty pounds for the use of a
patent any man with brains can infringe. If our works had been larger
and our stuff well known, somebody would have copied your plant
before. Well, I'm ready to fight. Are you?"

It was obvious that Stayward could not be moved. Creighton knew he was
just, as far as he saw, but very hard, and there was no use in begging
for mercy that would be refused. Besides, unless he asked Janet for
money, he would need the thirty pounds.

"You know I'm in your power," he said. "I'll take the money."

"Then write a clean receipt, giving me full use of the invention until
the patent runs out."

Creighton did so, and Stayward, who examined the document carefully,
counted out the sum. Then he got up, as if to indicate that the
interview was over.

"That's done with and I've done with you," he said. "If there's
anything you're not satisfied about, send your lawyers. The foreman
will not let you through the gate again."

Creighton went out and found Mrs. Creighton waiting by the car. He saw
she carried a small handbag.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"I went to the bank," Mrs. Creighton replied. "I wanted to get there
when it opened. You see, I had not used all the sum you gave me some
time since."

"And you thought it prudent to draw the rest?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Creighton. "I imagined Stayward might be
spiteful since you had quarreled. I meant to get to the bank first."

Creighton laughed. Janet's caution was typical, and she did not need
him. One could trust Janet to secure all she thought was hers.




CHAPTER VI

RUTH IS MOVED TO ANGER


Creighton had been nearly a year in Africa when Ruth came home, and on
the evening of her arrival she sat with her mother in the cottage
drawing-room. The ornaments and some of the pictures she had known at
Iveghyll had gone, but the small room had been expensively decorated
and Ruth thought it held too much furniture. She sat by an open window
and, looking out on the garden, owned that Beckfoot had charm.

A copper beech spread its branches across the narrow lawn, flowers
filled the borders by the clipped hedge, and in the distance the high
fells lifted their rugged tops above the sweep of moor. Mountain-ashes
dotted a ravine where a beck splashed in the fern, moisture trickled
down the bright-green creeper on the wall, and although there were
gleams of sunshine, gentle rain was falling. It was a typical evening
in the misty North.

Ruth liked the smell of wet soil and the soothing murmur of the beck.
She had come home hurt and disillusioned, but she loved the fells. So
far, she had not given Mrs. Creighton all her confidence and she
studied her quietly. Her mother looked tired and dissatisfied; her
face was thin and her eyes were hard. One felt she was getting old
sooner than she ought, but Ruth could account for this. Her father
was in South Africa and her mother did not bear poverty well, although
the poverty was not very marked. Ruth was sorry she had no comfort to
bring but rather an extra load.

In the meantime, Mrs. Creighton saw her daughter had developed since
she left home. She had not thought her beautiful; Ruth had not the
charm that commands quick admiration, although her figure was graceful
and her carriage was good. Her face was grave, her eyes were too calm
and contemplative, and she had not much color. People had sometimes
thought her dull. Now she had got a touch of dignity and although she
was quiet, her smile was easy. Mrs. Creighton felt that the girl had,
so to speak, awakened and become human. She had been absorbed by her
music before.

"It must have hurt to leave Iveghyll, but I like Beckfoot," Ruth said
presently. "I want you to tell me about father's quarrel with Mr.
Stayward. You know I would have come home before he sailed, but you
urged me to stay."

"His wish was you should get your year for study," Mrs. Creighton
replied. "Then there was no time. He went by the first steamer after
he resolved to go."

She mused for a few moments. To give up Iveghyll and own that she was
poor had hurt much; moreover, she knew people blamed her husband for
her poverty. She had not indulged Creighton while he was at home, but
now she was his stanch and resolute defender. He had written to her,
from Johannesburg, and again from a Boer dorp farther west on the
Rand, but he did not tell her much, except that he had found
employment for pay that met his needs.

"I will get you his last letter," she said.

Ruth studied the letter. It was careless, but she understood her
father and thought his carelessness was forced. Things were not going
very well with him, although she doubted if Mrs. Creighton knew, and
hesitated to disturb her.

"Why did he quarrel with Stayward?" she asked.

Mrs. Creighton told her a moving tale. Enforced economy was hard, she
missed her husband more than she had thought, and she blamed Stayward
on both accounts. She was an obstinate woman with some skill for
argument and by long brooding over her misfortunes had almost
persuaded herself that Creighton was his partner's victim. It was a
relief to pour her hatred into Ruth's sympathetic ears. The tale,
however, was not altogether false. Mrs. Creighton saw when she must
avoid exaggeration and when frankness helped plausibility. Studying
her daughter, she saw the girl's eyes sparkle and the color come to
her skin. Ruth, in fact, was getting angry, but wanted to be just.

"In a sense, the money we used was Stayward's," she remarked.

"No," said Mrs. Creighton firmly, "it belonged to the house, in which,
of course, your father was a partner. This justified his using the
money he needed, particularly since there was no stipulation that he
must not do so. Then it's important that but for your father's
invention Stayward could not have started the ovens; his patent
enabled them to carry on the business. Making coke did not pay; they
earned their profit by refining the tar."

Ruth was young and Mrs. Creighton's argument looked plausible. She
allowed it to persuade her, but there was much she wanted to know,
because she doubted if her mother would be frank again.

"The invention was father's," she agreed. "Why did he not make
Stayward pay for using it after they broke the agreement?"

Mrs. Creighton saw her opportunity. She was on firm ground now.

"Ah," she said, "this is where one sees Stayward in his proper light.
Your father trusted him and his patent was not very carefully worded.
Stayward is unscrupulous and saw how he could copy the pipes and
retorts."

"But could we not have stopped him if we had gone to law?"

"Going to law is expensive, particularly in a dispute about a patent.
One must engage clever lawyers and get famous engineers to prove your
antagonist's plan is an infringement of your rights. If we had been
able to do so, we might have won, but Stayward knew your father had no
money."

"So he robbed him because he was poor!" Ruth remarked in a hard voice.

"Yes," said Mrs. Creighton. "Something like that."

Ruth's eyes sparkled and her face got hot. She hated injustice and was
moved to anger because her father, whom she loved, had suffered wrong.

"Stayward is a cruel, unscrupulous man. If we could punish him----"
she said.

"I'm afraid he cannot be punished. He is very cunning and your father
was careless," Mrs. Creighton replied.

Ruth said nothing for a few moments. Creighton's gay carelessness had
long had a charm for her. She thought him trustful and generous, and
to feel he had been victimized by his calculating partner hurt. But
she wanted to know more.

"Why did father go away?" she asked, and hesitated. "Did Stayward try
to prejudice people? I mean, did he tell them father ought not to have
used his money?"

Mrs. Creighton pondered. So far as she knew, Stayward had said nothing
about his grounds for breaking the partnership and she was puzzled by
his reserve, but she did not want to talk about this. She meant to
work on the girl's feelings until Ruth saw Stayward from her point of
view.

"I think he durst not, and people would not have believed his
statements," she replied. "After he stole the patent, we were poor. My
small income would not meet our needs, but your father was resolved
you should not give up your studies. He declared you must have your
chance of making a career."

"Then, he really went away in order that I need not come home?" said
Ruth, and tears came to her eyes. "But I knew he would do something
like this. He was very generous. It hurts; you know how he loved the
dale! Yet he went, for my sake----"

She paused and turned her head. When she turned again her look was
strained.

"Mother," she said, with forced calm, "it's horrible to feel he gave
up all he had--for nothing."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Creighton. "Why do you say _for nothing_?"

Ruth's face was very pale and the touch of red in her thick, brown
hair emphasized the whiteness of her skin. Her gray eyes were wet and
shone with changing lights as she struggled with confused emotion;
pity for her father and pity for her much-tried mother, who must get
another knock. There was not much pity for herself, because Ruth had
pluck.

"I rather dreaded telling you, but you must be told," she said. "Well,
you know my ambition. At Munich I found I could get mechanical
cleverness, but I knew before I went this was not enough. I hoped I
had the power that makes one's music live----"

She paused and with an effort forced herself to go on. "At the
beginning, I was satisfied. I worked hopefully at painful exercises
that stretch the finger muscles; I got control of the violin on the
awkward shifts. My hands and ear were trained. I could feel the
delicate shades of sound we call the _nuances_. Then I began to doubt.
To stop the notes exactly true and give the strings the smooth
vibration that thrills the wood and makes it sing is something, but
after all it is not much. One can get this by study, but perseverance
is not genius. Sometimes my masters looked thoughtful when I played
and I got anxious and disturbed. However, perhaps what I mean's not
very plain and I'm boring you?"

"No, I must try to understand."

"Well, I could develop pure tone and mark the rhythm, but I could not
seize and reproduce the passion of a theme. Somehow it eluded me. I
could not strike the spark that gives music fire. Mine was mechanical
and cold. All the same, it was long before I would own the truth. I
fought for my ambition; if I had not genius, I had resolve. I thought
it might be possible to win the gift I wanted by stubborn work."

Ruth stopped for a moment and smiled, a brave but melancholy smile.

"It was all no use. If talent is not given you, you must go without,
and at length I was forced to see. There was another girl; her hands
were not trained, her muscles were weak, and her playing was marked by
faults, but she had power. I knew work would take her where it would
not take me. Then I went to the master and told him to be frank. He
said I had taste and skill, but when I urged he owned that this was
all."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Creighton dully. "Then, your study has been wasted?
You cannot be a musician?"

"I can teach beginners. Perhaps I play well enough to get engagements
for second-class concerts. Since I have no other occupation and mean
to help you, I must try to be satisfied."

Mrs. Creighton was moved. She knew Ruth's tenacity and pictured her
obstinate struggle and the bitterness of her disappointment. Mrs.
Creighton, herself, found the disappointment hard to bear, because
they were poor and she had hoped much from the girl's talent. All the
same, she had, since Creighton went away, begun to see that her cold
selfishness had gradually separated them, and she thought he left her
without a pang. In a sense, she had lost her husband, but she did not
mean to lose her daughter. One could not altogether go without love.

"My dear!" she said, beckoning, and when Ruth advanced drew her down
and took her in her arms.

Ruth's forced calm gave way and resting her head on her mother's
neck, she indulged in healing tears. After a time she got up and
resolutely dried her eyes.

"You have helped me much; I wanted help," she said. "Now I must brace
up, but it's hard. Father's going away haunts me." She crossed the
floor and opened the long window. "The rain is stopping. I think I'll
go out."

A few minutes later she crossed the lawn and went up the wet road. She
had told her story and her mother had been kind. Ruth admitted, with a
feeling of shame, that she had hardly hoped for this; somehow she had
not expected Mrs. Creighton to sympathize. Well, the confession she
had dreaded was done with, and she thought about her father with
mournful tenderness. It hurt to feel his efforts to help her had been
thrown away. Indeed, the futility of his sacrifice tempered her pity
with a sense of humiliation. He was marked by a strange futility; he
failed at all he tried, and so, she owned, did she.

Ruth, however, durst not dwell long on this, and it was a relief to
weigh Stayward's part in their troubles and give her anger rein. Her
father had, perhaps, been careless, but his partner had profited by
his generous trust. She hated Stayward for his cunning and greed. Love
for his victim had made her hard, but she did not know her mother had
meant to work upon her grief and pity. Mrs. Creighton had, in fact,
talked better than she knew.

After a time, Ruth tried to banish her anger. She must be practical.
Since Stayward had robbed them, she must earn some money, and if she
had no talent for music, she had skill. By and by she would look for
pupils and small concert engagements, but not just yet. Keen
disappointment had shaken her and left her dull; she must rest and
gather strength to begin another struggle. Ruth was not beaten yet and
meant to fight. Although she could not hope for high triumph,
something might be won.




CHAPTER VII

RUTH'S ADVENTURE


The sun was low, the wind had dropped, and it was very hot. The moor
shone red and purple, and the long, straight road reflected dazzling
light. In the distance, rugged fells cut, faint and blue, against the
serene sky. There were no walls and the dust that trailed behind
Geoffrey Lisle's throbbing bicycle streaked the parched grass and
heather. Geoffrey drove fast, because a tire was slack and he wanted
to reach Nethercleugh before it collapsed; besides, he had traveled
far and was hot and tired. He was alone, and the side-car carried his
thick nailed boots, a Burberry jacket, and a few other things he
needed for a climbing holiday. One could reach the high rocks from
Nethercleugh and climbing was the only relaxation in which he
indulged.

Geoffrey was practical and had concentrated on fitting himself for his
occupation. His father and mother were dead, and the small inheritance
by which he had lived while he worked off his apprenticeship to a
house of mining engineers was nearly exhausted. In order to gain
further experience, he had stayed another year for very small pay, but
in a month or two he must look for a post and he knew well-paid mining
posts were not given to beginners. Although he was not clever he was
tenacious and honest and his employers trusted him. Geoffrey wondered
whether they meant to offer him an engagement, and thought he would
like to stay. So far, however, they had said nothing about their
plans.

When he got a holiday he went to Nethercleugh. For one thing nobody
bothered him there; he could start at daybreak for the fells and come
back when he liked. It was characteristic that when Geoffrey took a
climbing holiday he meant to climb and not to loaf and talk. For all
that, in the evening, when he was tired, he got some satisfaction from
his uncle's society. Stayward did not talk much, but his remarks were
shrewd and generally touched by ironical humor. Geoffrey did not know
what Stayward thought about him. The old fellow was reserved, but so
long as they agreed while he was at Nethercleugh, Geoffrey was
satisfied.

By and by the bicycle crossed the top of a hill and Geoffrey saw a
girl some distance in front. There was nobody else on the wide sweep
of moor and because she broke its loneliness he gave her a careless
glance. She carried a violin case and walked on the short grass by the
road. She was tall and although the grass was rough, he thought she
moved with an athletic grace. It was curious, because the particular
grace rather marked mountaineers and running men than girls. Yet she
was going slowly, and, if she were tired, he could not see her object
for keeping the broken and boggy edge of the moor.

For a few moments her figure was outlined against the sky, and then
was lost in the purple heath as the bicycle sped down into a hollow
where the road crossed a noisy beck. When he climbed the hill on the
other side Geoffrey saw her sitting in the dusty grass, and stopped
the engine. The bicycle rolled on for a few yards and when he pulled
up in front of the girl he wondered, half embarrassed, whether he
ought to have done so.

Now the draught that had whipped his skin had gone, it was very hot;
the girl's face was rather white, and she looked tired. Turning her
head quietly, she gave him a level glance and he noted that her gray
eyes were calm. There was something dignified about her. He thought
she was too proud to hint at her surprise.

"I saw you in front," he said. "Then I missed you and when I saw you
sitting down I wondered whether you were faint. The hill's pretty
steep and the sun's scorching."

"I am not at all faint," she replied and added with a twinkle: "It's a
nail in my boot."

"That's awkward," Geoffrey remarked feelingly. "I know something about
it. Last time I was in the neighborhood and went over Rough Screes, a
sharp clamp-nail worked through. Anyhow, it's not a day to walk and
carry a load, even if your foot were all right. How far are you
going?"

Ruth studied him, for she saw where his question led. He looked frank
and sympathetic, and she was satisfied he had stopped because he
thought she needed help. Besides, she had been a student and for the
most part her musical friends laughed at conventions.

"I am going up the dale a short distance from Newlands village," she
replied.

"That's three or four miles," said Geoffrey. "Since the car's not
occupied, wouldn't it be ridiculous if you walked. All the same, I'd
better warn you a tire's getting flat; but if it does go down before
we get to Newlands, you'll be some way farther on."

Ruth got into the car, Geoffrey started the engine, and the bicycle
ran, rather jerkily, down the hill. When they climbed the next rise
the jolting was marked. The extra weight had told upon the leaky tire
and Geoffrey pulled up.

"I'm sorry; afraid we'll have to stop," he said. "It's too far to run
to Newlands on the rim, but I'll get the tube out in a few minutes."

He removed the double-ended tube while Ruth found a seat on the
roadside bank. When he joined her, carrying the tube, he frowned.

"The hole is pretty big; thought I felt the thing stick to the cover
and I expect it's torn," he said. "I hope you don't mind waiting."

Ruth did not mind. Her foot hurt worse since she had rested and she
doubted if she could walk to the village. Moreover, she was amused by
Geoffrey's honest frown. It was obvious he did not want to stop. When
he had smeared the tube and a large patch with a smelling solution he
remarked:

"You can't make a good job in a hurry and perhaps we had better wait
until the stuff is properly set. I don't want the tire to let us down
again, and I must make an early start in the morning. I want to climb
Scarp Fell and cross the Pinnacle ridge."

"Do you know the Pinnacle?" Ruth asked with some interest, for she was
a mountaineer.

"I have been up. I went by Black-ghyll, but had some trouble at the
chock-stone and think I'll try the buttress to-morrow."

"Were you alone?"

Geoffrey said he was and Ruth gave him a keen glance. She saw he was
not boasting; it looked as if he did not know his getting over the
chock-stone was something of an exploit.

"The gully is generally climbed by two or three people who use a
rope," she said. "When they come to the stone, the second man lifts
the leader, who afterwards pulls him up."

"It is rather an awkward spot," Geoffrey agreed, and Ruth studied him
while he examined the tube.

He looked strong and one got a hint of resolution. His glance was
frank; she thought him sincere and perhaps unsophisticated but not
dull. On the whole, she approved him. Then she smiled and thought
about something else. They would resume the journey in a few minutes
and after he put her down at Newlands they would not meet again.

"I'm afraid the solution's not ready yet. Perhaps the heat stops it
hardening," he remarked apologetically. "Sorry to keep you! Have you
walked far?"

"From Carnthwaite."

"Oh, yes," said Geoffrey, glancing at the violin case. "They had a
charity entertainment at the hall. I saw something about it in a
newspaper. Tableaux and music on the lawn! No doubt, you were playing;
but why----"

He stopped and Ruth understood his touch of embarrassment; he was
going to ask why they had not driven her home. Indeed, she had felt
rather hurt about this. The Latimers of Carnthwaite were her mother's
friends and Ruth had hesitated when, using some tact, they had offered
her a fee for playing. She needed money and conquered her
fastidiousness, but she had noted a subtle difference in her hosts'
manner and had left Carnthwaite, feeling sore and angry. Although she
told herself it was foolish, their neglect hurt.

"Music is my occupation, you see," she said. "Then the cars were
occupied."

Geoffrey's glance was sympathetic and she wondered whether she had
weakly indulged her bitterness. All the same, she had seen one car
roll away with a load of girls who had not far to go, and another
start with two or three fat country gentlemen, for whom she thought a
little exercise would be good.

"Anyhow, it was too far to let you walk in the sun," Geoffrey
declared. "It's curious, but some people think when you earn a fee you
oughtn't to get tired. I'm sorry you went."

"A professional player cannot refuse an engagement."

"I expect that is so," Geoffrey agreed. "I'm an engineer and must look
for an engagement soon. The trouble is, engagements one would like
don't seem numerous. I suppose most of us must be satisfied with the
other kind."

Ruth smiled, for she approved his naive philosophy, and he picked up
the tube.

"Not hard yet! I mixed the stuff myself and I thought the tube was
bad," he resumed. "Looks as if economy doesn't always pay. However,
the solution _will_ get hard and you are in the shade."

A thorn tree threw a shadow across the road and Ruth was satisfied to
rest. A little beck bubbled in the grass and, leaping out, splashed in
sparkling threads down the bank. The noise it made was soothing and
in the distance the rugged fells cut against the sky. Ruth looked up
at a sweep of broken crags.

"Since you have come to climb, I suppose you like the fells."

"Of course. If you want space and freedom and to try your strength, I
don't think England has anything grander. One must own the North is
often bleak and dark, but sometimes it does not rain, and if you stand
on the high crags when the sun shines through the mist, you get
glimpses of a beauty you can hardly grasp. However, since you live in
the neighborhood, I expect you know how the wet rocks shine and the
moving beams light up the green of the mossy belts, though they don't
pierce the wonderful blue at the bottom of the dales."

"I do know," Ruth said quietly, for, when one loved the fells, his
enthusiasm was not extravagant. "Perhaps," she added, "its charm is
its elusiveness. Outline and color change and melt. Nothing is harshly
distinct."

Geoffrey nodded. "The beauty's dazzling; you feel it ought to be
veiled. Sometimes the veil's half lifted, and then the mist rolls down
again and all is dark. But you don't mind; you remember the glimpse
you got and are satisfied. Well, I expect great music moves you like
that?"

"Yes," said Ruth, thoughtfully, "when a master plays! Even then, you
feel the strange elusiveness--!" She paused and resumed: "I think your
notion about the veil is good. Sometimes it's thin, but it is not
lifted altogether. One's imagination reaches out to seize what lies
behind. Still one can never reach far enough."

Then she smiled. "Well, you are going to climb the Pinnacle to-morrow
by the buttress line. If you go alone, be careful when you come to the
smooth slab on the traverse. The fine weather will hold, I think. How
long have you got?"

"Three days. Then I must go back and draw mining pumps, reckon the
cost of pit-props, and occupy myself with things like that. No doubt,
they're useful things, but they're sometimes dreary."

"Useful things are dreary now and then," Ruth agreed. "However, I
expect the solution is getting dry."

Geoffrey picked up the tube and stuck on the patch. Then he stood upon
it and afterwards put a big stone on the spot.

"We must give it another minute or two," he remarked. "Perhaps I've
bored you, but one does not meet many people who know the fells.
People who look up at the rocks from the tourists' paths don't know
them at all. For all that, it's not my habit to philosophize----"

Ruth imagined he meant to apologize for his extravagance and not to
hint that she had made him talk; he was not subtle enough for this.
She wondered why some men hated to be thought romantic when the
romance was good. All the same, she knew she had made him talk and did
not see her object for doing so. Perhaps it was because they were
strangers with a common hobby and would not meet again. There was
something melancholy about this.

He put back the tube and she noted that he had strong hands and a
workman's firm touch. Then he helped her into the car, the engine
rattled, and a cool wind whipped their faces as the bicycle climbed
the hill. When they ran down from the moor ragged hedges streamed
back, pastures and small, bent trees rolled by, and presently the
bicycle sped through a white village where a beck flowed between the
houses and the road. Geoffrey stopped at a guide-post that marked a
corner.

"If you like, I'll drive you to your house," he said.

Ruth hesitated for a moment. Her foot hurt, but her arrival in the
side-car would excite Mrs. Creighton's curiosity. She did not know her
helper and her mother was conventional. Mrs. Creighton would, no
doubt, sooner have stayed on the moor all night than allow a stranger
to bring her home.

"No," she said, "thank you. I have not far to go."

She got down and, moved by some impulse, gave Geoffrey her hand.

"You have been very kind. I hope you will have a good holiday!"

Geoffrey drove on to Nethercleugh and after the frugal evening meal
was over sat in the slate porch, lazily smoking and talking to
Stayward. He thought his uncle looked old and worn, for since
Creighton left him Stayward had made a desperate up-hill struggle.
Running daunting risks, he had somehow carried on his business, but he
was making progress and hoped he had conquered the worst of his
difficulties. He did not talk about them and, for the most part,
listened to his nephew, whom he was glad to see. As a rule, Geoffrey
and Stayward agreed. In some respects, their temperaments were alike,
and when they differed each, so to speak, tolerated the other's
idiosyncrasies.

The evening was calm and the bent ash trees round the house were
still. The long fields that rolled down hill looked cold and darkly
green, and the smoke of the furnaces by the coast floated in long gray
smears across the pale-red sky. The porch was getting cool and there
was something that braced one in the air. Geoffrey liked Nethercleugh.
He had inherited a vein of the Stayward austerity and the bleak
sternness of the old house rather appealed to him.

"Do you know a music-teacher in the neighborhood?" he asked.

"I do not," said Stayward. "Man or woman?"

"A girl, and rather young."

"Pretty?" Stayward suggested. "Where d'you meet her?"

"On the moor. I don't know if she was pretty or not," Geoffrey replied
thoughtfully and mused.

Although the girl's eyes were good and he liked the warm glow in her
hair, he did not think her charm was physical. Yet she had charm and
he admitted that he would like to meet her again. There was something
about her manner; frankness tempered by a hint of dignity and pride.
One felt she was proud, but she looked tired and had let him help.
Geoffrey was curious and pitiful.

"I really don't know if she was a teacher; she said music was her
occupation," he resumed. "She had been playing at Carnthwaite and they
let her walk back. Her boot hurt and I picked her up. That's all."

"Oh, well," said Stayward. "It's something to be young, but if you're
a canny lad, you will leave musicteachers alone and think about your
job. Your apprenticeship runs out soon, doesn't it?"

Geoffrey said it did and Stayward pondered. "I doubt if I'd have much
use for you at the ovens yet."

"I don't know if I'd like to come," Geoffrey rejoined, smiling. "We're
both obstinate, and somehow one obeys orders easier when they're not
given by a relation."

Stayward nodded. "You're as stubborn as the rest of us; one can see
you're Margaret's son. We'll let it go, but if your masters do not
offer you a post, you can talk to me again."

"Thanks!" said Geoffrey. "You hinted that the ovens might soon be
busier."

"It's possible. Looks as if the trade in the new dye might be a big
thing. Cost me much, altering plant, to give my customers the stuff
they wanted, but I'm getting it right."

"I suppose you make the dye by Creighton's process?"

"Not altogether. Creighton's patent helped, but it did not take me far
enough. I mind when we once talked about trying the new stuff, he said
it could not be made. Tom was a clever chemist, but he did not see
where his invention led. His kind are easy satisfied and stop too
soon. When you feel you're on the right road, you need to trust your
luck and gan forrad."

Geoffrey nodded. To push forward was the Stayward plan.

"Where is Creighton now?" he asked.

"He went abroad. It's all I ken," Stayward replied. "Tom was soft and
shiftless; his foolish wife ruined him."

Something in Stayward's voice indicated that there was no more to be
said, but Geoffrey pondered. He had heard it hinted that Stayward had
dealt unjustly with his partner, and although he doubted this, he
sometimes wondered why Stayward did not deny the tale. All the same,
Geoffrey thought he liked his stern reserve. He began to talk about
something else and when he had smoked out his pipe they went into the
house.




CHAPTER VIII

MRS. CREIGHTON'S JEALOUSY


Ruth had gone with Mrs. Creighton to the colliery village and while
she waited for her, looked about. A winding-engine rattled as a cage
came up a neighboring pit and an ungainly tank-locomotive pushed a row
of clanking trucks across the street. Tired horses stood, with
drooping heads, beneath the wooden loading stage, and a cloud of smoke
dimmed the sunshine that made the blackened houses look uglier. Coal
dust blew about and acrid fumes came from Stayward's coke ovens. The
smoke and steam indicated that trade was brisk and Ruth noted the
group of men waiting at the big gate. Since a paper was fixed to a
post, she imagined Stayward was engaging fresh hands.

Mrs. Creighton was occupied in the general store, and Ruth, knowing
why she had been left outside, felt sympathetic but amused. Her mother
hated buying groceries and could not resign herself to traveling by
the public wagonette that ran between the village and the dale. Ruth
owned that when one had used a comfortable car it jarred to crowd into
the slow vehicle with fat countrywomen who carried heavy baskets. For
all that, since Mrs. Creighton's orders were small and her payments
irregular, tact was needed to get supplies of superior quality at the
lowest price. Mrs. Creighton had some talent for doing so, but Ruth
surmised she did not want her to note the arts she used.

By and by she came out, carrying a number of parcels, while an untidy
boy with a larger load went up the street. Her face was hot and when
she gave some of the parcels to Ruth she looked angry.

"Thwaites is getting insufferable," she remarked. "I'm sorry now we
stopped dealing with the stores in town, although, of course, their
writing to me as they did about the last bill could not be borne."

"But how has Thwaites vexed you?" Ruth asked. "I have not found him
rude."

"My dear, I hope you do not imagine a grocer would be rude to me! One
resents the fellow's greed and independence. I do not think I am
remarkably fastidious, but the bacon I buy must be good and Thwaites
has sold the piece I like to Stayward. It was the same with the
butter; he knows I only use Danish, and yet he let Stayward have the
keg. I really have some grounds for being annoyed."

Ruth tried not to smile. She knew poverty had not destroyed Mrs.
Creighton's sense of her importance.

"Why does Stayward need so much food?" she asked.

"To feed his navvies!" Mrs. Creighton replied, with a theatrical
gesture. "Men like that must have the best while we go without! The
thing is ridiculous and it gave me some satisfaction to tell Thwaites
so. He turned to get some wrapping paper, but I suspected he wanted to
laugh. Of course, I did not actually see him laugh, or I should have
been forced----"

She stopped, as if to leave the grocer's punishment to Ruth's
imagination.

"After all, we owe him rather a long bill," Ruth remarked. "Besides,
Stayward does not employ navvies."

"His advertisement asked for navvies. Thwaites told me about it," Mrs.
Creighton rejoined. "It seems Stayward is going to level that old
brickfield and enlarge his works; he has got some important orders and
is buying new machinery. There is no room for the men at the village
so he boards them in a shed. Thwaites says he pays them extra wages to
work at night, because the business for which he wants the new
machinery is going to be large. You can, without much effort,
understand my feelings about this."

Ruth understood and, to some extent, sympathized. Mrs. Creighton had
come to hate John Stayward and had watched his recent progress with
bitter jealousy. It was, in a sense, ridiculous, but Ruth imagined his
buying the bacon and butter her mother liked would aggravate her sense
of injury.

"It looks as if father broke the partnership too soon," Ruth said in a
thoughtful voice. "One feels it more because he was often too late.
Well, I expect to seize the proper time for doing things is hard, and
I'm like father. When I found out I had no real talent for music, he
had sacrificed himself for me and gone."

"Stayward broke the partnership; he cheated your father," Mrs.
Creighton declared. "I think he knew about the dyeworks' orders and
wanted all the profit. He is very cunning, and trustful people are at
the mercy of men like that. It hurts to see him prosper by using what
is ours."

Ruth said nothing. She imagined she must not indulge her mother too
much. Her jealousy might become dangerous to herself; she brooded
about her injury oftener than she ought. Ruth was relieved when they
reached the wagonette and Mrs. Creighton, packed between two
countrywomen with large baskets, could not talk.

The other passengers were not silent and when the jolting vehicle
rolled slowly up the hill Ruth noted their remarks. She knew what her
mother thought about Stayward and in the main agreed, but now she
heard the views of others whose judgment was free from prejudice, her
curiosity was excited.

"Eggs is up," said one. "Thwaites paid me twopence a dozen mair this
week. Sims as if 't new men at coke ovens is taking aw t' stuff he can
get, and Jim tell me they want mair hands at pit. Weel, it's good for
countryside when a man like Stayward sets things moving."

"They'll gan fast noo Stayward's getten started," another replied.
"He's no' the kind to let grass grow under 's feet when he taks the
road. Oad stannard and a canny dalesman. Good luck 't him!"

"Ovens was in varra low water no' lang sin," said a third, who put a
roll of oilcloth on her and Mrs. Creighton's knees. Then she turned to
the latter and remarked: "I reckon your man gave up over soon.
Mayhappen it was bad luck, but some folks is like that. If Mr.
Creighton had hodden oot, you'd be riding home in the lile green car
noo. No' that I'm fond o' cars; raising clouds o' stour and running
over hens."

Mrs. Creighton said nothing, but Ruth saw her outraged look and
imagined her feelings. It was some relief when one of the others broke
in:--

"I mind John Stayward's coming to see my man. 'I want your teams,
David, to lead fire-bricks fra Greyrigg but I canna promise when
you'll get paid,' he says; just like that.

"'Tak' horses; I'se wait,' says David, and before lang money com't.
David kenned his man. Mayhappen John has a tight fist, but you'll can
trust him. Neabody can say different. Staywards awiss pays."

Ruth mused. It was something to be trusted, for people to know one
paid one's debts. She admitted, that, as a rule, the Creightons paid
when they were forced. The countrywomen's view of Stayward's character
clashed with hers, but they knew him. He was a dalesman and, so to
speak, belonged to them. Ruth was just and tried to be logical. She
argued that one does not trust a thief, but when the passengers began
to talk about sheep and farm-servants' wages she banished her
thoughts. After all, Stayward had cheated her father, and her mother's
bitterness, although perhaps unhealthy and extravagant, was grounded
well. Moreover, Ruth had something else to ponder, because she had got
a letter at the post office.

When the wagonette stopped at the white village Mrs. Creighton and
Ruth got down and set off up the dale. The hills shut off the wind,
and the sun was hot in the deep hollow. The road was steep and rough,
and Mrs. Creighton's boots were thin. After a time she stopped where a
big stone lay beneath a sycamore.

"It's shady and I am tired," she said. "Arguing with Thwaites and
traveling in that horrible wagonette has exhausted me. I think we
will rest for a few minutes."

Ruth agreed, with a touch of amusement. She was sympathetic, but there
was something humorous about Mrs. Creighton's sitting by the roadside.
The parcels of groceries and her dusty boots did not harmonize with
her clothes and look of ruffled dignity. For herself, Ruth was
content. She liked to sit in the shadow and look out on the sunny
hills. The long slopes had gone yellow, except where threads of
shining water came down and the mossy belts were luminous green. In
the background, broken crags rose above the edge of the moor.
Sometimes the sycamore's broad leaves rustled, and then all was still.
Ruth loved the quiet dale and sighed when she took her letter.

"I have been idle for some time and Maud Chisholm makes a useful
suggestion," she said. "I think I told you she had started some music
classes at Rainsfield. Well, she is getting pupils and wants me to
join her."

"The girl you met at Munich? You know nothing about her relations?"

"I know Maud," said Ruth. "I don't think her relations are numerous.
Besides, I am not going to live with them."

Mrs. Creighton looked thoughtful. "One runs a risk by making a friend
of a girl whose people one does not know. Then Rainsfield is a
dreadful town; all shabby streets and factories, and the people are
uncouth."

"Rainsfield is ugly. I don't know if I like the people, but perhaps
that is because I have only seen them in the streets. However, it
looks as if they were prosperous. Maud says the fees they pay are
good and she could get more pupils if she taught the violin. Although
I cannot play really well, I think I could teach. Then we owe much and
I must earn some money."

"It is certainly desirable," Mrs. Creighton agreed. "If I had met Miss
Chisholm's friends, I might have felt less doubtful about letting you
go. After all, it is not necessary that you should go. Suppose we
wait----"

Ruth hesitated, for she had been arguing against herself. She was
fastidious, and in Germany had got numerous jars that her ambition
helped her to bear. Now ambition had gone and she knew music meant
dreary toil without much reward. She did not want to leave the quiet
dale, but saw she ought.

"We cannot wait," she answered firmly. "Maud declares she must know at
once because she can let the room she meant for me. It is hard to go,
mother, but I feel I must. If you think for a moment----"

"I do not like it," said Mrs. Creighton in a resigned voice. "All the
same, since you are resolved, I suppose I must agree. If, as I expect,
you find you cannot stay with Miss Chisholm, you'll be satisfied to
come back."

Ruth smiled. Although it was very possible she would get some rude
knocks, she did not think she would come back. Then Mrs. Creighton got
up and when they resumed their walk her eyes were very hard.

"If Stayward had not stolen the patent, you need not have gone," she
said. "Now, while we have nothing, he gets rich by theft."

She indulged her morbid jealousy, and Ruth let her talk. When Mrs.
Creighton concentrated on her grievance, she forgot all else, and
Ruth did not want to satisfy her curiosity about Maud Chisholm. Maud's
point of view was not Mrs. Creighton's, and she hated conventional
rules. For all that, she had some rules, which she kept staunchly.
When they got home, Ruth wrote a short note and a few days afterwards
left Beckfoot.

In the evening the train stopped at a big grimy station and when Ruth
got down a girl pushed through the crowd on the platform. Maud was
tall and thin, and her clothes were rather shabby. Her face was
flushed, as if by speed, but it was pinched and she looked jaded. She
did not kiss Ruth; it was not Maud's habit to kiss her friends. She
put her hand on the other's arm and held her back for a moment or two.

"You're not exactly pretty, but you look very fresh and calm," she
said. "Puritanically, or perhaps I mean ascetically, calm! However, I
expect the freshness will soon wear off, and marked prettiness is a
drawback for a job like ours. Then you have brought flowers. A truly
rustic touch!"

Ruth laughed. "I don't feel calm; in fact, I'm excited. I wondered
whether you would forget to come to the station; you do forget things.
But people are looking at us. Where can we get a taxi?"

"A taxi!" Maud exclaimed. "Would you squander the cost of three or
four meals on a drive? If you booked your luggage as I directed, we
will get a tram. They're cheap and not remarkably slow. Come along."

She pushed Ruth forward, and crossing the station as fast as she could
walk, stopped outside until a noisy tramcar rolled up. The evening
was hot and they went on top. When the car lurched down the street
Maud took and smelled Ruth's flowers.

"Beautiful things!" she remarked. "They talk about clean skies and
cool green lawns where people whose life goes smoothly lounge in the
shade, but beauty of form and color strikes a foreign note at
Rainsfield. It's lucky devouring industry has left us beauty of
sound."

Ruth agreed. The clouds were low and the smoke of mills and forges
hung, thick and yellow, about the roofs. The car ran through a long,
mean street, past rows of little shops with sooty fronts. One saw
stale vegetables, torn newspaper posters, and discolored signs, and
now and then from an open window there floated a smell of fish and
meat. The people on the pavement had white faces and walked slackly,
some with shoulders bent.

"Nature made England beautiful; modern commercialism made Rainsfield
what it is," said Maud. "The people take the color of their
surroundings. They look sad, but when you know them you find they are
not. Their eyes are dimmed by the smoke, but their ears are good and
nobody loves music better than the people of our ugly Northern towns.
The old English spirit's in them and they have hope. England was merry
England once and may be again. Some day these folks will see, and then
towns like Rainsfield will be swept away."

"And if it happens soon, you will help them to build on better lines?"

"Oh, no! An artist is not a bricklayer. His job is to teach the
harmonies of form and color and sound. When the others grasp them
they will build on a firm foundation, but it may be long and one gets
tired. Now let's be practical! I must call at this shop."

They got down and Ruth followed Maud into a hot and dusty shop where
swarms of flies buzzed and nothing looked fresh. Maud bought some food
and gave Ruth a greasy parcel.

"I forgot to bring a basket," she remarked. "Davies will use old
newspapers for wrapping, probably because they're cheap. Up town you
get nice greaseproof stuff, but they charge you a penny more."

"I think I'd sooner pay the extra penny," said Ruth, glancing at her
stained gloves.

"You haven't taught music at Rainsfield," Maud rejoined. "When you
have been with me for a few weeks, you will lost your fastidiousness."

Ruth thought it possible, but was not comforted, and she looked about
rather drearily as they went up the street. Not far off, a row of tall
chimneys poured out smoke that floated above the roofs in a dingy
cloud. One heard big hammers and felt the throb of ponderous rolls.
Then there was a break in the houses and Ruth, looking through an open
gate, saw a black river roll between banks of mud. A grimy building
with lattice windows stood by the water's edge and the smell
proclaimed it a tannery. Farther on, rows of small red houses
straggled across a field with broken fences of colliery rope.

"Our parish!" said Maud. "You will find our flock is rather mixed and
sometimes hard to lead, but it's growing."

She turned up a side street behind the tannery and stopped in front of
a small house. There was a yard on one side of the building, but part
of the space was occupied by an iron shed. Maud unlocked the door of
the shed and they went through to a dark, untidy kitchen. There was no
fire, but a tin kettle boiled on a ring of gas-jets that made a
horrible smell.

"Florrie has remembered the kettle," Maud said with some surprise.
"The ring smells because she spilt some grease on it and I haven't
cleaned the holes. You can go to your room while I make tea. First
door at the top of the stairs, and if it's not all you like, we'll
alter things to-morrow."

Ruth went upstairs and sat down on the shabby iron bed. The room was
very small and dusty curtains flapped in the draught at the open
window. One smelt the river and the tannery, and when Ruth looked out
her heart sank. On one side were chimneys, roofs, and soot-stained
walls; in front, fields from which the grass was worn, foul ditches,
and lines of rusty iron rope. Farther off, a railway bank, gaunt
coalpit towers, and another smoke cloud.

The contrast between the dreary view and the green hillslopes at
Beckfoot was marked. Ruth was highly strung and tired, and for a few
minutes her courage melted. She felt daunted and tears came to her
eyes. Then she pulled herself together, washed off the grime of her
journey, and went down to the kitchen where Maud was frying bacon in a
black and battered pan.




CHAPTER IX

RUTH GETS TO WORK


In the morning Ruth breakfasted on stale bread, bacon, and thick
coffee. When the meal was over Maud pushed back the greasy plates and
smoked a cigarette while she informed Ruth about her housekeeping. For
the most part, she lived on bacon, because it was easily cooked; the
drawback was, the plates were hard to wash. One must economize on hot
water when the supply of gas was controlled by the pennies one put in
the slot.

The iron shed was the music-room and had been occupied by a sculptor
of funeral monuments. Maud was forced to rent the house with the shed,
but let the rooms she did not need. Florrie and Gertie, who used them,
generally paid their rent. One girl kept a draper's books; the other
did something at the tannery. They were good sorts, but had not much
imagination. Some of Maud's pupils paid, and some did not.

"I did not know you lived like this," Ruth said, hesitatingly. "If you
had gone to a larger house farther out, would you not have got on
faster?"

Maud laughed. "My business is not to get on; I teach people who want
to learn. Then you don't know the plaster villas--they will call them
villas--along the tramline, and their dreadfully respectable
occupants. I do; I belonged to these people until I broke away. Their
code is all, _You mustn't,_ and is founded on, _What would the
neighbors think_?"

"I have known people like that," Ruth replied, with feeling. "One
tries to take the proper line, but hates to find it drawn by another's
rule. To be free is worth something."

"All the same, you must pay for freedom," Maud remarked and threw away
her cigarette. "However, you might put things straight and then come
to the music-room."

Ruth washed the plates, in a very small quantity of water, folded the
dirty tablecloth, and when she had as far as possible satisfied her
feeling for neatness sat down for a few moments and pondered. She
liked Maud, but did not approve her household management. Although
freedom was good, it did not necessarily mean bad food and general
disorder. Then Maud was strangely thin, and when she talked her face
flushed. Her movements were restless; it looked as if her fiery
enthusiasm burned her up. Yet Maud was sometimes shrewd and always
sincere. Moreover, she could play and had refused some good
engagements in order to teach. Perhaps it was extravagant, but if Maud
did not altogether feel her mission was to proclaim the gospel of
beauty where things were ugliest, Ruth imagined she felt something
like this.

Then Ruth got up and went to the iron shed. Bright sunshine shone down
through the long window in the roof, and the quivering beams searched
out the dust on the floor and the cracks in the walls. Maud occupied
the music stool, turning from the piano, on which she now and then
struck a note. Her hair was rough, and in the strong light one saw
stains on her dress that suggested careless cooking.

A man sat opposite, his violoncello resting on the floor. His clothes
were rather shabby, his shoulders were bent, and his face was pale.
Ruth saw his hands were hard and rough, and his hair was touched by
white. He looked puzzled, but while she studied him he put his bow on
the strings.

"Noo, Miss, we'll try 't again," he said.

Maud struck a few chords and the man began to play. He stopped the
notes true, and Ruth thought the tone was good, but he had no feeling
for rhythm, and after a few minutes he put down his bow and frowned.

"No," he said, "it willunt do! When the rests comes I'm late in
starting."

"A little late, Jimmy," Maud agreed. "Don't watch the score this time.
Try to _feel_ when you ought to play."

"I canna," he said dejectedly, and they began again.

Ruth sat down and listened. The music was a great composer's, but not
difficult except for the broken time. Jimmy labored through it
doggedly, with his mouth set firm, and Ruth felt sympathetic when he
missed the beat. Maud was very patient, and now and then encouraged
him with a smile. They played for half an hour, and then he got up.

"Thank you, Miss. Gans better, don't you think?" he said. "If I can
keep 't up, mayhappen bandmaster will let me in."

"I think he ought," Maud declared. "When will you come back for
another practice?"

Jimmy hesitated. "I'm takkin' your time. It's not in bargain."

"We won't bother about that," Maud said, smiling. "You must satisfy
the bandmaster. Come to-morrow afternoon."

He thanked her and when he went out she turned to Ruth.

"Well?" she said. "What do you think about him? The strings are your
department."

"His intonation's good, but he has no sense of time. Then his hands! I
suppose heavy work has stiffened them like that. Of course, he will
never play much."

"Is this all?"

"No," said Ruth thoughtfully. "You feel he's extraordinarily keen and
obstinate. He doesn't mean to be beaten. In a way, it's moving!"

Maud nodded. "It is moving. He works all night and gives up to music
much of the time he needs for sleep. His one ambition is to join the
tannery band. Perhaps it's his way of escape from crushing dreariness.
He's paid well, but he must live near the fires he watches, and,
except at the fair holiday, they never go out. Well, your job's to
help him into the band and perhaps this is worth some trouble."

She went to the door when somebody knocked, and a man came in with a
little girl who carried a violin case. His clothes were rather smart
and his manner was urbane.

"I expect you're Miss Chisholm?" he said to Maud. "Mrs. Green told me
about you; said you was painstaking. Amelia has a talent for music.
Goes in the family--I play the cornet, by ear. Thought she'd better
learn the notes, so I've brought her to you."

Maud beckoned the child, and taking her violin from the case plucked a
string.

"To begin with, it's a dreadful fiddle," she said. "Tune the thing, if
you can, Ruth," she resumed, and presently gave the child a smile.
"Now take your fiddle and try to play this with me."

She began a well-known air, and after a time looked at Ruth.

"She stopped the half-tones correctly. I think her ear is good," said
Ruth.

"Very well," Maud remarked, turning to the man. "I won't teach your
daughter pretty pieces, but perhaps I can teach her music, if she
studies hard. If this is what you want, take her to Johnston's in the
Foregate and get her a fiddle. He doesn't keep the German kind. Then
you can burn the other thing."

The man looked annoyed, and hesitated. "There's the question of hours
and fees."

"Fees?" said Maud, giving him a printed card. "You'll find all about
them here. The important thing is, the child may learn to play."

He went off with the little girl, and soon afterwards a shabby woman
came in. Maud indicated a chair and asked. "Why has Tommy stayed away
for the last two weeks?"

"That's what I've come about," the woman replied. "His brother George
has lost his job, and Lena's on half time; work's slack at mill.
Tommy'd begun new quarter, but I thowt----"

"You thought I would let him off the rest?" Maud interposed. "Well, I
won't. Don't you know your boy loves music and will make a player?"

"But t' money----" the woman began, and Maud stopped her.

"You have no sense of values. I mean money's nothing, and giving the
lad a chance to use his talent is all. If you don't send him back,
I'll come for him. I expect you'll pay me some time, and if not I
won't grumble much."

The woman's hard, lined face softened, but she looked embarrassed and
nervously twisted a fold of her dress.

"Weel!" she said and glanced about the room. "Mayhappen I might come
in noo and then and wash up place a bit. Looks as if it needed a
scrub."

"It's possible," Maud agreed. "We'll talk about this again. Sorry I
must turn you out. My class is waiting."

The woman went away with a grateful look, half a dozen small children
came in, and until they stopped for lunch Ruth was busily occupied.
The lunch was bad, the iron shed got very hot in the afternoon, and
Ruth felt jaded, but she held out until Maud sent off her last pupil
at four o'clock.

"Saturday is hardest; the children are not at school," she said. "You
had better rest for the evening, but I must go out and play for a mill
band."

When the time came Ruth let her go, and then began to put the kitchen
in order. Maud was a splendid teacher, giving with royal generosity
all the gifts she had, but her notions about the common needs of life
were rude. Ruth shrank from the blackened pots, the greasy sink, and
the litter of dirty plates and cups. She did not think she had much
talent for household work, but if she could not manage better than
Maud, they must presently give up. Food that was sometimes raw and
sometimes burned would not support one long; and although hot water
was not altogether cheap, Ruth rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
When she had finished, Maud returned and laughed as she looked about
the room.

"You don't like untidiness; you have a practical vein," she said. "All
the same, I don't imagine your reforming mood will last. Cleaning up
is, no doubt, a novelty, but it soon gets monotonous. I have tried.
One does meet musicians who are sometimes methodical. It's the steady
strain that tells."

Ruth smiled, rather sadly. "I don't know if I'm a musician or not, and
I've grounds to doubt. For all that, beauty is order. Rhythm's
important in music. You must have the measured beat."

"Oh, well!" said Maud. "You must tell me later why you wanted to
teach. The occupation has some drawbacks, but we won't bother about it
just now. One gets horribly languid on Saturday evening, and I think
I'll rest."

She picked up a book, Ruth mused, and they presently went to bed.

In the morning, Maud declared she needed fresh air. She said they
would picnic in some woods and perhaps get tea at an inn, and after
breakfast they set off, Maud carrying a straw basket of food. While
they waited for a car, a young clergyman came up, and glancing at the
basket, gave Maud a friendly smile.

"I expect we shall not see you this morning."

"No," said Maud. "We are going to loaf in the woods. Wouldn't you like
to come?"

"I would like," he admitted. "All the same, it's not expedient."

"It's not obvious that you and the vicar put expediency very high,"
Maud rejoined with a laugh. "The last Easter procession that nearly
led to a riot, for example! You had been warned that a number of your
flock who don't come to church would show their righteous disapproval.
Perhaps you would have been just a little disappointed had they not
done so."

She beckoned Ruth and when they turned away resumed: "They're human at
St. Margaret's, and one rather admires them for their obstinacy. When
I opened the school, there were grounds for imagining the vicar was
disturbed and tactful inquiries were made. Now, however, I think he's
satisfied and to some extent we are allies. In their fight with dirt
and dreariness, they use any help they can get."

"I liked the curate's face, although he looked rather haggard. Then I
thought he stooped in his walk."

"One soon gets haggard at Rainsfield," Maud replied. "Nature gave him
a weak body, and a sensitive refinement I think he finds a burden. For
all that, he has a fiery pluck that will either break him or carry him
far. Something of an example of the spirit of conquering the flesh.
The trouble is, the beaten flesh wears----"

She stopped, for a street car rolled up, and getting on board, they
ran past long rows of houses with little gardens, green railings, and
sooty plaster fronts. Cars went by, throwing up thick dust; young men
and women on bicycles toiled in the sun up the long hill. Smoke
stained the sky; the air was hot and stale. By and by the houses
vanished and the iron posts led on across scorched pasture where the
hedges were blackened, and streaked by dust. In the valley below, the
river wound in loops that shone like silver and then faded to oily
black where the shade of alders lay. Its banks made an inky smear
across the fields.

When the car stopped, Maud took a lane that turned up hill and the
country got greener. She walked fast, with something of the energy
that marked her talk, and when she stopped her face was hot and she
breathed hard. Ruth, who had climbed the rugged fells, was cool and
for a few moments looked about.

Dark firs rolled up the hillside; below was a belt of plain where
white farmsteads stood among squares of pasture and yellow fields of
corn. Then there was a long slope, dotted by the red gashes of
claypits, and from the fold beyond the top a hazy cloud of smoke
spread across the sky. The thin vapor dimmed the ridges behind, but
Ruth thought she saw chimneys and colliery towers.

"The view's wide," said Maud. "I don't know if it's beautiful, but
after the streets, it rests one's eyes and Rainsfield has nothing
better. Now I'll take you to my favorite spot."

They plunged into the wood and presently stopped at a bank by its
other edge. They lunched there and afterwards lounged among the fern,
talking and looking out across the plain. In places, slanting sunbeams
touched the straight red trunks, and there was a sweet resinous smell,
and it was cool in the shade.

"This is all I know of rural England," Maud said by and by. "Some day
you must show me your high peaks and mountain lakes."

Ruth's eyes got wistful. "I should love that, but I hardly durst
think about it yet. One could not stop at Rainsfield if one's mind
dwelt on the dales. Next year, perhaps, when the crabapple and wild
cherry bloom, we will go to Beckfoot and walk all day in the wind that
sweeps the moors. You shall have a room that looks up the ghyll where
the water twists like shining threads among the stones."

"I think not. We will stop at country inns, a different place every
night. You see, I'm something of a vagabond. Then Beckfoot is your
mother's, and I doubt if she would approve of me."

"You don't know her," Ruth rejoined, although she felt Maud's remark
was, perhaps, justified.

"You have talked about her. Anyhow, I wouldn't like to strain your
mother's hospitality, and I know where I belong. If we're rich enough
to be extravagant, we'll take a walking holiday in Spring. Now tell me
why you left the fells. You haven't been very frank about it yet."

"The story's long," Ruth said hesitatingly.

"We have nothing to do all afternoon and I'll try to be sympathetic,"
Maud replied.

Ruth told her. She trusted Maud and wanted her to understand. Besides,
Maud was shrewd and Ruth felt she would like her support for the view
she took of Creighton's wrongs. When she stopped she looked up, rather
anxiously.

"I think you made a wise choice when you left Beckfoot, but I'm not
sure you wanted to satisfy me about this," Maud observed. "You meant
to plead your father's cause, and you plead it well, although I doubt
if all the arguments are really yours. Tell me more about the man who
cheated him."

Ruth did so and Maud mused. "One feels you drew your father better
than you knew," she said presently. "It's obvious that he loved you
and you owe him much. I don't know about the other man. His portrait's
not lifelike. There are touches that don't agree."

"Ah," said Ruth, "you haven't met Stayward."

"I have been trying to see him from your point of view, but must own
it's hard."

Ruth colored and was silent for some moments. She was honest and
admitted that her point of view was her mother's. Sometimes, indeed,
she had vaguely doubted, but she banished her doubts and tried to be
stauncher afterwards. Stayward had broken the partnership, stolen her
father's patent, and driven him away. This was obvious, and it was
much.

"He is hard and cruel. I hate him!" she exclaimed.

"I think he is hard," Maud agreed. "For all that, you have not heard
his story, and a sense of injury doesn't help one to be just. Wait and
reserve your judgment. Some day, perhaps, all will be clearer. Now
we'll let it go and talk about something else."

She talked about music and her pupils until Ruth forgot her
bitterness, and when the shadows got longer they went to an inn and
drank tea in an arbor in the garden. Then they started down hill for
the trolley line, and the gas lamps were burning in the hot streets
when they reached the town.




CHAPTER X

GEOFFREY'S NEW POST


Stayward sat in the porch at Nethercleugh and quietly smoked his pipe
while Geoffrey lounged on the slate bench opposite. The sun was low,
but its level beams pierced the ragged trees about the house.
Sometimes the leaves rustled, and then the soft patter died away and
all was quiet. It was typical that the men lingered outside while the
evening got cold. They sprang from a rude stock and their ancestors
had long braved the savage winds that swept the moors. Bodily comfort
did not appeal to them, and on summer evenings, when the peat fire in
the kitchen burned low, the old house was dreary. Geoffrey, who had
been on the hills since morning, was satisfied with the hard slate
bench.

"You go back on Monday?" Stayward remarked.

"I must start at five o'clock. It will be eight when I get to the
office and I want to work out some plans by noon. I told the chief I'd
have them ready, and I go down a pit with a colliery manager after
lunch. Some trouble about ventilation, and I expect we'll have to find
a cure before we come up."

Stayward nodded. It did not strike him that to drive a motor bicycle
across England, over the high Pennine mountains, was a strenuous
preparation for a long day's work. Work had never daunted the
Staywards, and when he was young he had done things like that,
although he had used a horse and not a bicycle. Now machinery ruled,
it had turned his restless activity into fresh channels and given him
greater power. This was all.

"Have they said anything about a new job for you?" he asked.

"Not yet. I'm rather puzzled. Of course, they're not obliged to give
me a post, but the chief seemed satisfied and there's only a few weeks
to go. In fact, I've been studying the advertisements in the
engineering newspapers. So far, I see nothing to suit."

"They're cautious folk on the North-East coast," Stayward remarked.
"Mayhappen I could get you a job in Canada, if it's worth your while."

"I have not much money and mustn't be fastidious."

"Weel, you ken the Redbank Hilliards? Jim, who went to Canada, was my
friend, and some time since he wrote about a silver vein in North
Ontario. I had a little money by me then and sent him some. They
opened the mine; it's small and Jim and I hold a number of the shares.
The ore's about paid expenses, but that's aw; we never got a dividend,
and when I started the ovens I tried to sell. I got a bid of five
shillings for the five-dollar shares and told Jim I'd hold. Noo the
manager's going and I reckon Jim Hilliard would give you the job."

Geoffrey asked about the pay and pondered when Stayward stated it. For
Canada, the sum was small, and one gained nothing in reputation by
managing an unprofitable mine. All the same, he would have control and
adventure called. In the meantime, Geoffrey thought Stayward studied
him with dry amusement.

"If I can get the post, I'll take it. I'll start as soon as I'm free,"
he said.

"Then, I'll tell you what we'll do," Stayward replied. "If you earn me
a dividend, we'll share what I get." He paused and resumed with a
twinkle: "I reckon the offer will not cost me much. Anyhow, I'll write
to Jim in the morning."

He filled his pipe and smoked quietly for some minutes. Then he asked:
"Did you see the music teacher you talked about again?"

"I did not. It's strange, but nobody seemed to know her. I was told
there was not a music teacher in the dale."

"Looks as if you had been inquiring," Stayward observed.

"I have inquired," said Geoffrey, giving him a level glance. "The girl
was attractive. I've thought about her since."

Stayward's face was inscrutable, but Geoffrey imagined he pondered.
Indeed, he had a strange feeling that his uncle knew something he did
not mean to tell.

"It will be lang before you can support a wife."

"That is so," Geoffrey agreed. "All the same, if I were rich enough to
marry, I think the music teacher is the kind of girl I'd choose.
However, since I haven't yet earned your dividend, we can let it go."

Stayward said nothing. As a rule, they did not talk much, but their
half-conscious understanding of each other made for harmony. Both were
firm and, to some extent, frank. When they did not agree they did not
dispute; they knew argument would not help. If Geoffrey had not known
this, he would have urged Stayward to talk about the girl with the
violin case.

"You're busy at the ovens now?" he said.

"We're throng. I cannot give dyeworks all the stuff they're asking
for, and there's a new product I'm putting on market other folks want.
It's not standardized yet, and when I'm experimenting, I cannot mind
the works. If you were a chemist, I'd give you a good post."

"I don't know if it's unlucky I'm not a chemist; but you are not,"
Geoffrey replied. "In fact, it's rather hard to see how you make the
dyes. The fellow you have got in the laboratory doesn't look clever."

"He kens his job. That's all I want. When I get on the track of a new
combination, I tell him what's needed and let him work 't oot. The man
can analyze; he cannot invent."

Geoffrey knew his uncle could invent. Stayward had brains, but
Creighton had taught him all the chemistry he knew, and Geoffrey
sometimes wondered how much he owed to instinctive skill, and how much
to rude tenacity. Not long since he had grimly fronted ruin; now he
was prosperous and breaking new ground. If his labors did not wear him
out, he would reap the harvest, and Geoffrey knew the Staywards wore
well.

"If you had kept Creighton, it would have helped," he said.

"I think not," Stayward replied. "Tom married a foolish woman. I could
not keep him unless I kept his wife. I needed a working partner; Janet
wanted a master of otter hounds and mayhappen a Lord Lieutenant. She's
ambitious and varra obstinate, but it was not my plan to earn the
money she would use to put her man high. She pushed him on until he
clashed with me; and then Tom got broke."

He mused for a time, with knitted brows, and Geoffrey said nothing.
When Stayward looked like that, it was not hard to picture his
antagonist's defeat. Geoffrey knew his stubbornness and something
about the woman who had rashly opposed her plans to his. Yet he did
not know all; Stayward kept his stern reserve and would not tell the
tale.

By and by Stayward got up and knocked out his pipe. "I'll write Jim
Hilliard and let him know you'll come. Weel, you have had a long day
on the fells and better gan t' bed."

Geoffrey went off to his room under the flagged roof and took off his
clothes by the fading light. Old Belle was parsimonious about candles
and ruled Nethercleugh with stern frugality. Geoffrey rather imagined
his uncle was getting rich, but he had obviously not given up his
Spartan code. This was not because he was greedy. Old habits were
strong and the Staywards were primitive folk.

Geoffrey got into bed and heard the ash-leaves rustle while he
recaptured drowsily the thrills of his scramble among the crags. Then
the high rocks and dark gullies faded and his imagination pictured
another scene; a long white road that crossed a belt of crimson moor.
A girl with a violin case toiled up a hill, and as she crossed the top
her figure cut against the sky. The picture was fixed on Geoffrey's
brain; he saw it in his dreams, and sometimes when he smoked his pipe
and mused. It began to melt, however, and when the ash-leaves rustled
again he had gone to sleep. On the Monday he left Nethercleugh, and a
few days afterwards the head of his employers called him to his
private office.

"Your engagement terminates this month, and perhaps you have wondered
whether we meant to offer you a post," he said.

Geoffrey admitted that he had done so, and stopped. He knew when he
had said enough.

"We had an object for waiting," his employer resumed. "We wanted to
keep you, if you were willing, but did not see how we could best make
use of you. Now the thing is plainer. I expect you have heard about
the new colliery and coke-makers combine?"

"I have heard about it," Geoffrey replied.

"Very well. We have been appointed the Combine's consulting engineers,
and I thought your help might be useful in the new business we are
going to undertake. My partner agrees and we have decided to offer you
a three-years' engagement. There are a few stipulations, which I'll
state----"

Geoffrey listened with close attention and afterwards pondered. The
pay was good, and he imagined he could carry out his duties. The post
would help him to make better progress than he was likely to make in
Canada, and he would earn more money. On the whole, he thought
Stayward would release him, because his object for suggesting Geoffrey
should go to the silver mine was probably to find him employment. All
the same, since he had promised to go, Geoffrey hesitated about asking
for his release.

"Well?" said his employer.

"The thing needs some thought. To begin with, I expect my job would be
to consider plans for economies in getting coal; improved haulage,
lighting, and machinery?"

"Not altogether. It looks as if we shall have most to do with new
refining plant for treating the waste tar from the coke ovens. I
imagine you know this industry is extending fast, and economical
coking now depends upon the skilful use of the by-products. The
Combine will spend a large sum on experiments, and there is, in
particular, a rather unstable product they are anxious to make. If
they can get over some difficulties caused by the chemical reactions,
they can supply the dyeworks with a new fast color that will command a
very good price."

Geoffrey said nothing for a few moments. His uncle had talked about
the new color and had made a small quantity. Geoffrey knew he had long
worked at the problem, and had some hope of finding out how to get the
needed chemical stability.

"I'm sorry I must let your offer go," he replied. "For one thing, I'm
not a chemist."

"We are not chemists. Your work will be mechanical; planning retorts
and condensers."

"All the same," said Geoffrey, "I must leave it alone."

The other looked at him with some surprise. "May I ask why?"

"I'm the nephew of a man who is working on the Combine's line. He's
something of a pioneer and has spent money and labor breaking new
ground. I can't help people with a bigger capital to rob him of his
reward."

"You mean Stayward? I had forgotten he was your relation. Anyhow, he
works in a very small way."

"That's the trouble. With its command of money, the Combine may beat
him," Geoffrey rejoined.

His employer smiled. "I don't suppose you imagine your help would turn
the scale? Besides, there's a large and growing demand for all the
colors and spirits one can extract from tar. I expect Stayward will
get his share of the business."

"It's possible," Geoffrey agreed, but his glance was steady and his
mouth was firm. "I don't imagine my help's worth much and I'd have
liked your job. For all that, I'm not going to back up people who are
against my uncle."

"You're staunch," the other remarked. "Well, I'm sorry; we wanted to
keep you. But perhaps we can come to an agreement that would prevent
your interests and Stayward's clashing."

"I think not. If the Combine gets hold of the dye business, Stayward
and the other small men must let it go. It's plain I cannot work for
his antagonists. There's another thing; I ought to warn him the
Combine is on his track."

The other smiled. "Then, you needn't hesitate. The Combine's plans are
not secret, and they'll presently be stated in engineering newspapers.
However, since you won't stop with us, can we help you get another
post?"

Geoffrey thanked him and told him about the Canadian mine. "If I could
have taken your job, I'd have let the other go," he added. "Still you
see, the thing's impossible."

"I don't know if I do see, but I respect your scruples. Well, I
expect there's no use in trying to persuade you they're extravagant,
although they hint you are the kind of man we ought to keep. Since you
are resolved to go, I wish you good luck."

Geoffrey went out, and when he had finished his work returned moodily
to his lodgings across the town. He thought his duty was obvious, but
was sorry it had been forced on him. In this matter, his luck was
certainly not good. He had refused a post that ought to give him an
opportunity of winning some professional reputation and might lead to
something better. His engagement in Ontario would probably lead to
nothing; people who controlled big companies were not keen about
employing a man from a small, unprofitable claim.

Moreover, he must work with rude appliances to which he was not used,
and handle men of a new type, and no doubt bear numerous
disappointments. If the mine were closed, he would have lost valuable
time when he ought to have been making progress, and would, so to
speak, be stamped unfit for another post. He frowned as he weighed
this, but he did not hesitate. He had taken his line and must keep it.
Although it might cost him something, there was no other plan.
Stayward was his nearest relation and had been kind, and Geoffrey
could not reward his kindness by joining his antagonists. One could
not do a shabby thing like that; there was no more to be said.


PART II

THE RIDEAU MINE




CHAPTER I

THE BUSH


There were delays about Geoffrey's appointment that kept him for some
time at Montreal, and winter had begun when he stood, one evening,
outside a wooden hotel in North Ontario. The sun had set and a red
glow shone behind the pines, and Geoffrey, who had not yet got used to
the Canadian frost, shivered in his new furs. He had arrived at the
desolate spot in the afternoon, but had since been occupied and he now
looked about with some curiosity.

The pines were small and ragged, and rolled back, in somber,
straggling rows, far to the North. Beyond them lay a wilderness nobody
but fur-traders and adventurous prospectors had penetrated. For the
most part of the year, the wilds were frozen and not many of the
prospectors had found minerals worth exploiting. The land-agents who
had tried to boom the district round the settlement had lost their
money, and where a Canadian land-agent is beaten the neighborhood has
very few advantages.

For all that, a handful of settlers, with the indomitable optimism
that marks their kind, had built their homes by the track, which ran
out from the forest and plunged again into the trees. Three or four
shiplap stores and houses, roofed with shingles, and a post office,
covered with painted iron, stood near the rails, and the hotel,
farther back, was an ambitious frame building of two stories. In the
clearing, sawn-off stumps, blackened by fire, stood in broken rows
among round, outcropping rocks. The ground was frozen deep under the
thin snow, and all was very quiet. Indeed, Geoffrey wondered whether
the brooding quietness was ever broken, except when the great freight
trains roared past, and twice a day the passenger cars stopped. He
imagined the latter stopped because a water-tank stood near the
agent's shack, and not because somebody wanted to get down.

The spot was dreary, but it was characterized by something Geoffrey
had not known in England. To begin with, the air was strangely clear;
the pines stood out from the background, sharply distinct. Then the
wooden houses and split-rail fences that ran in zig-zags looked very
new. The houses were well-built, with stoops and verandas, and the
contrast between their smooth neatness and the rugged bush was marked.
Put down, as they were, in virgin forest, one felt they proclaimed
man's challenge to the wilds. The square clearing and the ugly rubbish
dumps indicated that the settlers were stern utilitarians and had no
thought for beauty. The landscape was grim, but Geoffrey rather felt
it bracing than forbidding. This country was for the resolute and
young.

The evening, however, was very cold and Geoffrey did not philosophize.
He must, if possible, resume his journey in the morning, and this
threatened to be difficult. The mine was some distance to the North,
and so far as he could learn, nobody was going there. In summer,
communication was by canoe; in winter, but not often, sledges came and
went across the snow. Now the rivers were frozen and the snow had
hardly begun to fall.

He went back to the hotel and after supper sat by the big globular
stove. Two or three other men occupied chairs, which they tilted up,
and put their feet on the pile of cordwood. They were big fellows,
with hard brown faces, and were marked by a ruminative calm. There was
no carpet; the floor was dirty and rough. A nickeled lamp hung near
the stove, but its light did not travel far and the end of the big
room was shadowy. One smelt hot iron and unseasoned lumber.

Presently the landlord joined the others, and rolling a cigarette, got
a light with a splinter of pine. Geoffrey smiled as he watched him,
for he sprang from a frugal stock and thought the thing was typical.
It looked as if one did not buy cigarettes and use unnecessary matches
in the bush.

"Is there no way of getting to Whitefish Forks?" he asked the
landlord.

"If you can wait a week, I reckon some of the Rideau boys may come
down for grub."

Geoffrey said he did not want to wait and the landlord indicated a man
whose head was bent as if he were asleep.

"Jake allows he's going up with his wagon, and if he hustles, he might
make it before the snow comes. Anyhow, you can wake him; he'll fall
off that chair."

The man opened his eyes when Geoffrey touched him, and when he heard
what he wanted asked: "Where are you going?"

"To the Rideau mine."

"What are you going to do there?"

"I'm going to take control."

"The new boss!" said the other. "Then, you can't go with me."

He shut his eyes and when he went to sleep again Geoffrey looked at
the landlord, who smiled.

"I guess you've got to let it go at that. Jake's freighter for the
Forks Company; he sure won't take you."

"The Forks claim adjoins ours, I think," Geoffrey remarked. "What has
this to do with his not taking me?"

"There was some trouble about your frontage on the mineral lode, and
when the mining office allowed your claim the Forks gang got mad. The
Rideau boys told me the last boss and Pelton of the Forks used to
watch each other all the time. Your man allowed Pelton meant to tunnel
under him."

Geoffrey knew nothing about this. "I can't see why they wanted to
tunnel under us," he said. "You probably know the Rideau ore hardly
pays for smelting. Is theirs worse?"

"I reckon it's pretty low-grade dirt, and can't figure why the Forks
Company hold on. All the same, they're spending money on development,
and so far they pay their bills."

"In the meantime, it's not important," Geoffrey replied. "I've got to
reach the mine soon. Is there nobody who can take me?"

The landlord smiled. "You came in on the afternoon train. I reckon
you've been around and made inquiries."

Geoffrey said he had been round and found two of the settlers had
teams. He added that it was strange both declared their horses were
engaged.

"Then, it looks as if you'd got to wait until some of the Rideau gang
comes along."

"I can't wait," Geoffrey declared. "I'll start soon, if I'm forced to
walk."

The other saw he was resolute, and glancing at the freighter, decided
he was asleep.

"Trouble is, you'll have to camp two or three nights on the trail, and
it's freezing pretty fierce," he said. "You'll want a tent, blankets,
and cooking truck, and a tenderfoot like you couldn't pack them all."
He lowered his voice. "Say, suppose you wait two or three days? Then,
if the snow comes, I might find you a hand-sled and an outfit. You'll
make it easier if the snow packs good."

Geoffrey thanked him and began to talk about something else. On the
whole, he thought he could trust the landlord, although he imagined
others had plotted to delay his reaching the mine. He resolved to wait
a few days and then start if the snow came or not.

The snow came before morning and blew about the hotel all day.
Geoffrey, trying to conquer his impatience, sat by the stove and
sometimes read old newspapers, and sometimes smoked and thought. He
was puzzled. Hilliard at Montreal had not told him much about the
Forks Mining Company, and Geoffrey doubted if he knew much. The
company was small, but it had obviously some power at the settlement.
Perhaps this was because it spent money there, but one could not see
why people who had money to spend bothered about a mine that turned
out worse ore than the Rideau. The Rideau had not paid its
shareholders, and they held on because nobody would buy the stock.
The thing was puzzling, and when Geoffrey tried to get some light from
the landlord his remarks were guarded.

"I keep a hotel and don't reckon I'm a mining expert," he said. "It's
possible the Fork gang are playing a clever game, but you can't count
on that. Everybody knows when you open up a mineral lode you have got
to trust your luck. You may go on, piling up a dump of rock that
doesn't pay to smelt, and then, perhaps, one day you bottom on rich
dirt. Needn't be very rich, anyhow. If it's good enough to sell the
mine to a sucker, you get your money back."

Geoffrey thought the suggestion plausible. Rather than face a certain
loss, a small company might go on working, in the hope that good luck
would help them to recover the capital they had spent. Then there were
sometimes disputes about the frontage of adjoining mines, and if the
manager of the Forks had tried to tap somewhat better ore in the
Rideau block, this would account for much antagonism. Geoffrey
resolved to think no more about it, and the day passed drearily.

Stinging draughts swept the big room, which but for a table and a row
of hard chairs was as empty as a barn. The shiplap walls creaked in
the icy blast and clouds of snow blew about the clearing. The water
froze in the tin basins that occupied a shelf in the passage, and when
Geoffrey broke the ice before dinner he found the solitary small towel
as hard as a board. Two or three railroad hands came in, shaking off
the snow, and sat down at table with grimy faces. One told Geoffrey a
sensible man had no use for washing in a frost like that.

The meal occupied about ten minutes, and Geoffrey's appetite was not
satisfied when the others got up and a haughty waitress made it plain
that she expected him to do so. So far as he could see, his companions
had no English characteristics. Their talk was direct and their
frankness remarkable. Everybody's ideas were clean-cut, and nobody
deferred to his neighbor's. Geoffrey thought their habit was to
concentrate; they had certainly concentrated on their dinner. These
were not men who hesitated or bothered about refinements. Geoffrey
imagined they did things roughly, but did much. On the whole, he
approved. His ancestors were rude, and he had inherited something of
their simplicity. Moreover, he was young and felt one needed only a
few plain rules and to fix one's eyes on one's object. One made
progress that way, along a straight path.

There was not much to interest him after the men went out. The
West-bound train rolled into the station, headed by a giant plow that
threw off waves of snow. The engines stopped at the water-tank, where
fires burned, and then vanished, with the long, white cars, into the
forest. After a time, a freight came up from the West, laboring hard.
One heard no snorting; the blizzards drowned the explosive beat of the
exhaust and the snow dulled the noise of wheels. Streaming black smoke
and showers of sparks alone indicated strain. The wheat-cars rocked,
white and ghost-like, across the switches, a plume of smoke whirled
about a gap in the trees, and the train was gone.

Geoffrey shivered and went back to the stove, feeling the strange
sense of contrast one often gets in Canada. Fifty yards in front of
him, man's modern inventions rolled along the track that linked far
East and West. Fifty yards behind the hotel, one plunged into virgin
bush, where, because the Laurentian rocks are the oldest in the world,
the tangled pines had grown since the beginning.

Soon after dark Geoffrey went to bed, and when he got up loafed away a
day of glittering, stinging frost. In the afternoon, the landlord
stated he could get him a hand-sledge.

"If you're going, you had better pull out while the snow's pretty
good," he advised. "I reckon you ought to make it in about three days,
and, if you watch out, you can't get off the trail. Now I'll tell you
what you ought to take."

Geoffrey bought the things at the store across the clearing and was
surprised by their cost. One of the guests helped him to load the
sledge and fix the traces, and soon after daybreak he set off. The
other men had gone to work, and there was nobody about but the
landlord, who wished him good luck. Geoffrey felt dull and lonely as
he crossed the clearing. After all, with the thermometer below zero,
it was something of an adventure on which he had embarked, and the
start was strangely flat.

At the edge of the trees he wanted to look back, but did not. The
cluster of wooden houses, the track, and water-tank, stood for
civilization, and he did not know the wilds. Until he left the hotel a
few minutes since, he was, so to speak, in touch with familiar things,
and the way back to the cities was open. Now all in front was strange.
Yet he was young, adventure called, and setting his mouth firm, he
plunged into the bush.

The sun rose, red and dim, in a frosty haze. The slanting beams that
touched the slender trunks had no warmth, and his breath went up like
steam in the nipping air. He thought thin vapor floated round his
body. At first, there was no feeling in his hands, which looked
monstrous in his stuffed mittens, and although he breathed hard as he
hauled the sled he was not conscious of the traces on his shoulder. He
had climbed English hills in winter, but he had not known or imagined
cold like this.

Then the bush seemed dead. There was no wind, the ragged pine branches
were motionless, his feet and the sledge-runners were silent on the
snow. One could not see an animal or bird. It looked as if everything
that could travel had gone South.

On the whole, Geoffrey was glad the sledge was heavy. Effort braced
him and banished daunting thoughts, and after a time a little warmth
crept through his body. He looked about, but there was not much to
see. A few gray clouds floated overhead. In front, the bush rolled
back as if it rolled on for ever. The pines were all alike; small,
stunted, and sometimes leaning awkwardly. The trail was rough and in
places cumbered by new growth, but where it was needful trees had been
chopped, and one could follow the sinuous line.

Geoffrey had walked far in England, over rougher ground, and resolved
he would not stop for lunch. He was anxious to shorten the distance to
the mine and wanted to make a good first day's march. Besides, he
doubted if, without a fire, he could stand the frost. Although the
trace began to gall his shoulders and his legs to ache, he pushed on.




CHAPTER II

GEOFFREY ENGAGES A COOK


It was getting dark on Geoffrey's second evening in the bush, and as
he pushed on up the frozen river he looked rather anxiously ahead. The
trail he had left at noon was rough, and he had been directed at the
settlement to follow the river until he joined the track again by a
lake. Now he looked for a spot to camp, because one needed thick bush
for shelter from the biting wind, dry wood for fuel, and a patch of
level ground, if possible behind a rock. On his first night out,
Geoffrey had tried to sleep in the tent, but wakening nearly frozen,
he pulled it down and stretching the cloth windward of his fire, used
it for a screen. For all that, he had not slept much, and now he was
very cold and tired.

The river banks were steep; the trees were small and scattered. Those
on the western ridge cut against a dim red glow that shone behind the
trunks. Those in front melted into a vague blue mass that thinned and
opened up as Geoffrey advanced. He saw no shelter and was getting
disturbed. For one thing, he could not go on very long, and to pitch
camp in the dark would be awkward. Unless he could get warm and sleep,
he doubted if he could start again in the morning. Although the sledge
ran smoothly, his shoulders ached from the strain of the trace, and
his foot was galled. The snow made walking hard.

Except for the dreary sighing of the pines all was very quiet; in
fact, there was something in the quietness that daunted one. The river
was nearly straight. Geoffrey could see some distance ahead, and the
snow-covered ice ran, smooth and level, into the gloom. It looked like
a dusty highway, and Geoffrey thought about the road that came down
across the moor to Nethercleugh.

He began to dwell upon the summer evening when his bicycle climbed the
hills. The reflected light had hurt his eyes, as the fading snow-blink
hurt them now. He pictured the long white road running on in front,
with darker belts that marked the hollows. It looked as if fatigue and
cold had sharpened his imagination, for the picture got strangely
distinct, and he saw a lonely figure against the sky on the crest of a
hill. He had seen it often, but never quite so clear, and he
recaptured without an effort the hollow where he and the girl had
waited by a beck that bubbled in the grass, her gracious calm, her
soft voice, and all that she had said. A lark was singing, and in the
distance circling plover called. Somehow he could not forget her; in
quiet moments she haunted him, and the haunting had charm.

Geoffrey stumbled and getting his balance, pulled himself together. He
was very cold, and must find a spot to camp. His hands were numbed and
unless he reached shelter soon he might not be able to make a fire. On
the first night this had bothered him. By and by the river widened and
although the light had nearly gone a blurred mass loomed ahead. It
looked like a wooded hill, and something at its foot caught
Geoffrey's eye. A small red spark twinkled in the gloom, went out, and
began to twinkle again.

He pushed on and the spark got bright. It was a fire; somebody had
camped among the trees. Geoffrey's weariness vanished and he began to
run. To find he was not alone was strangely comforting. Some minutes
afterwards he dragged his sledge between the trees and stopped. A
snapping fire threw red reflections on a ledge of rock and the
straight pine trunks, and a man, sitting on some branches, looked up.
A blue Hudson Bay blanket covered his shoulders, the hair had come off
his skin cap, and his face was lined and brown.

"Hallo!" he said. "I guess you saw my fire?"

"I was remarkably glad to see it," Geoffrey owned. "The bush gets
lonely after dark. I'd like to camp here, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," said the other, and Geoffrey noted he had a cultivated
voice. "Your coming's pretty good luck, particularly if you have
brought some food."

Geoffrey saw the blackened can and tin plate by the fire was empty and
began to unload his sledge. When he had thrown off his tent and
blankets he opened a bag of provisions.

"I'll make supper when I've thawed a bit," he said.

"Unless you're a cook, you had better leave it to me. I know something
about the job," the other remarked.

Geoffrey was glad to let him cook, and sat down by the fire. The rocks
and trunks kept off the wind, and the hollow behind the ledge was
warm. Moreover, he saw the man could cook, and the hot bannock and
fried pork and beans he presently turned out of the pan looked
appetizing.

"You'll join me, of course," he said. "You have earned a share."

The other filled his plate and ate. Then he brewed some strong, sweet
tea from Geoffrey's pack, and when he had cleaned and put back the
tins began to scrape an old pipe.

"My pipe's frozen," said Geoffrey, taking out his cigarette case. "See
if you like these."

They smoked for a time and Geoffrey imagined his companion was
studying him. He was not curious about the other. All he wanted was
human society.

"Which way are you going?" he asked.

"North, to Whitefish Forks. I started from Indian Lake six days ago,
and since my grub is finished, it looks as if my luck was good. I
ought to make some distance on a supper like this."

"Why didn't you take more food?"

"For one thing, at the bush settlements food is dear. Then the
blizzard held me up and after that the going was slow."

Geoffrey thought the others' luck had not been good recently. His
lined face and ragged coat indicated this. Moreover, he was getting
old, and Canada is a country for the young.

"The Forks is a pretty lonely spot and hard to reach," Geoffrey
remarked. "I suppose you have some business there?"

The man laughed. "Why, yes! Just now my occupation is looking for a
job, and it has brought me across from the Pacific slope by broken
stages. I belong to the army of deadbeats that's moving East. Since
trade got bad in British Columbia the tide that generally runs West
has turned, but the nearer we get to the Atlantic, the worse things
look."

He occupied himself about the fire and Geoffrey lighted another
cigarette. Supper had revived him, and the warmth was coming back to
his numbed body. The branches his companion had arranged made a
springy seat, and after a long day's march it was strangely pleasant
to loaf with his back to the rock and his feet to the snapping fire.
Thin smoke blew about, and now and then the blaze leaped up, driving
back the shadows that closed in again when it sank. Rows of small
trunks caught the reflections, and for a few moments stood out against
the gloom. Geoffrey was young and liked to feel he had well used his
muscles.

He mused about his companion. The fellow talked like an Englishman,
and Geoffrey imagined he had heard his voice before. This, however,
was improbable, because his face was strange. On the whole, he liked
the man and felt vaguely sorry for him. He wondered how far he might
venture to indulge his curiosity without being impertinent, and
reflected that in Canada one could go some distance.

"What particular job do you expect to get?" he asked.

"I heard the Rideau manager had advertised for a cook and thought I'd
try for the post."

"It looks as if you could cook. Supper was pretty good."

"Since I hadn't eaten much for two days, I'll own I made an effort.
All the same, I believe I can cook rather better than I do anything
else. When they broke up the gang at the construction camp, the boss
gave me some compliments. Other employers, and I've had a number, did
not."

"As a rule, employers use a cautious reserve," Geoffrey observed. "Had
you cooked before you went to the camp?"

"I helped in a steamer's galley, in return for my passage; that's all.
Canada's a good country for developing talents you didn't know you'd
got."

Geoffrey resolved to offer the man the post. He liked his careless
humor and, since the fellow had run some risk of starving, thought it
indicated a philosophic temperament. He, however, wanted to satisfy
his curiosity.

"England is the only country I know much about. I imagine you are
luckier," he replied.

"The luck's not very obvious; all the countries I have tried are hard.
In South Africa--I was on the Rand, and afterwards went North--malaria
knocked me out. In West Australia I got hurt at a mining accident.
Somebody stole my wad at a California opium joint. Men who could not
get work were demonstrating in B.C., and I pushed on East across the
plains. Now, since I have no money to buy food for the back trail, I
expect the long trek will end at Whitefish Fork unless I get the job."

"I'll give you the job," said Geoffrey.

The other looked at him with surprise. "Is it yours to give?"

"I imagine so. I'm the new manager."

"Well," said the other, laughing, "it's some relief to know I'm hired,
although I've got the post in a rather unusual way. I began by eating
your supper and expect you noted my extravagance. Because all the
food I carry wouldn't make one good meal, I thought I'd better seize
the chance to get some nourishment at another's cost. In fact, I doubt
if I'd have reached the mine had you not come along."

Geoffrey thought he did not exaggerate. One needs food to make a long
march in the Canadian frost. When one's body is exhausted by toiling
across the snow, nothing but plentiful nourishment will keep up the
vital warmth. Yet he remarked the other's carelessness; the fellow had
not been daunted by the risk he ran. Geoffrey wondered whether much
disappointment accounted for his philosophy, but he had not made good.

"Oh, well," he replied. "We'll finish the journey together and the
stuff in my pack ought to see us out. My name's Lisle; I don't know
yours."

The other did not hesitate, but his eyes twinkled, and Geoffrey
thought he understood his smile.

"Carson, Thomas Carson. As a rule, the boys call me old Tom."

He threw fresh wood on the fire, and after arranging his branch bed
lay down.

"I don't expect the cold will waken us for some time, and I was too
hungry last night to sleep much," he said.

Geoffrey lay down, but did not immediately go to sleep. It was not
long since supper, and he imagined the warm food and the talk had
stimulated his brain. He watched the smoke drift across the trunks and
the shadows creep back and close again about the camp. The fire
snapped and he heard the wind in the pine-tops. Sometimes he thought
about his companion, who was now asleep, and sometimes about
Nethercleugh. Perhaps it was strange, but he felt Carson had given his
thoughts this turn. He had not seen the fellow at Nethercleugh, and
did not imagine he had seen him at all. Yet there was a note in his
voice he ought to know. One sometimes remembered voices long. For all
that, Geoffrey could not remember Carson's, and after a time the rows
of pine-trunks melted and the fire got dim. He pulled his blanket
tight and went to sleep.

When he awoke it was dark and bitterly cold. The fire had sunk and one
could see the sky. In places, a few stars twinkled with a hard, steely
brightness Geoffrey had not known in England, but for the most part
black clouds rolled by above the trees. He heard the wind in the
branches, and a white dust that he thought was fine, dry snow blew
about the trunks. With some trouble, for his hands were numbed, he
pulled out his watch. It marked six o'clock, and he took his mittens
and moccasins from a branch by the fire. They were dry, and he could
put them on without risk of frostbite. When he had done so he threw
off his blanket and got up.

Although the camp was sheltered, the cold pierced him like a knife. He
gasped, as if he had plunged into icy water, and his legs shook. His
flesh shrank from the Arctic frost, but by a stern effort he conquered
his longing to creep back under the blanket. It was six o'clock, the
days were short, and he must, if possible, reach the mine by dark. He
did not mean to spend another night in the frozen wilds. His
hip-joints ached, and the thick mittens bunched his fingers together
awkwardly, but he began to move about. The fire must be replenished
and snow melted before one could make flapjack and coffee. The pork
Carson had cut for breakfast looked like marble and broke when
Geoffrey threw it into the pan. He noted that there was not much left,
but if it lasted for another meal this would meet his needs. When he
was mixing flour and hot water Carson got up and took the tin from
him.

"You can roll up the blankets. Cooking's my job," he said.

The man looked older than Geoffrey had thought, his furs were ragged,
and, standing with his shoulders bent, he shivered. Geoffrey had not
meant to rouse him yet and felt pitiful.

"I think it's mine this morning. Your new duties haven't begun."

Carson smiled. "All the same, we'll both travel better after a
breakfast one can digest. Mixing flapjacks is rather harder than it
looks, and if you stay in Canada long enough, you'll find you won't
make good time on a meal of half-raw dough."

Geoffrey let him have the tin and breakfast was soon ready. The
flapjacks were crisp and light, the pork brown and firm, and Geoffrey
thought he had enjoyed no drink like the hot sweet tea that tasted of
wood smoke. The meal gave him warmth and energy, but for some minutes
afterwards he fought a hard battle with his animal instincts. He
revolted from the effort to leave the fire and front the dark and
cold. Twice he took out his watch and persuaded himself he need not
start just yet. Then he saw Carson was watching him with a sympathetic
smile.

"You're new to the trail," the latter remarked. "Pulling out in the
morning will come easier by and by."

"I'll own it comes hard," said Geoffrey and got up with a jerk. "To
put off things doesn't help much. We'll pull out now."

He threw the sledge trace over his shoulder and they set off. The hard
strap had galled his skin, and for some minutes it hurt him cruelly.
The smart got less as he warmed to his work, and when day broke they
were some distance up the river. There was no brightness in the East
and leaden clouds covered the sky. The stiff pines were dim and a
dreary wind wailed in their tops. Geoffrey stopped for a moment and
looked about.

"I expect the point in front is where we ought to leave the ice and
rejoin the trail," he said. "The fellow who told me about it declared
one could reach the mine in about eight hours."

"Something depends on the snow," said Carson dryly. "I doubt if we'll
find the going good until dark."

Geoffrey glanced at the gloomy sky and nodded, and leaving the ice,
they plunged into the bush.




CHAPTER III

SNOW


At noon Geoffrey had not found the trail. The clouds were thick and
the light was dim. He was crossing broken country where small ridges
obstructed his view, and the landscape was strangely desolate, without
a hint of life. By and by the trees in the background faded and snow
began to fall.

Geoffrey took the sledge from Carson, who had followed the trail he
broke but was dropping behind. His shoulder began to bleed where the
trace galled, and all his muscles ached, but he pushed on with savage
obstinacy. He began to doubt if they would reach the mine, but he
durst not weigh the chances. The main thing was to keep going. To stop
was to own defeat and in the North, Nature is merciless. Anyhow,
although Carson was flagging, he meant to struggle forward until they
found the trail. He must not admit that they were lost.

When the light was going Carson found the trail. There was not much to
mark it, but some big stones had been rolled down a bank, branches had
been chopped, and a short distance farther on there was a gap in a
thicker row of pines. The signs of human effort were strangely
comforting and to follow the broken line would bring one to shelter
from frost and storm, but Geoffrey knitted his brows. He could not go
much farther and Carson was exhausted. For a very short distance,
blurred rocks and pines loomed in the snow, and then tossing flakes
closed the dreary view.

Geoffrey pondered the situation, for although Carson was older and had
been longer in the country, Geoffrey felt that he himself must take
control. This was not because he was manager; now both risked
frostbite and starvation, they were equal partners in a desperate
undertaking, but he knew he had qualities his companion had not. On
the whole he thought it rash to push on. They could not go far and had
better pitch camp before it got dark.

"We'll stop as soon as we can find a sheltered spot," he said and they
set off again.

The light had nearly gone when they reached a hollow by a frozen
creek, and Geoffrey took an axe from the sledge. The cold that numbed
his tired body dulled his brain and he shrank from the effort he knew
he must make. Indeed, while he stayed in Canada he hated the labor of
making camp after a long day's march. Yet, with the thermometer below
zero, the man who shirks this task must freeze. One must cut thin
branches for a bed, build a snow bank or a screen of logs, chop wood,
and gather resinous chips for kindling. Then the beginner whose hands
have lost their grip and sense of touch often struggles long to get
his sullen fire to burn.

Geoffrey knew little about the use of the axe, but he was young and
obstinate. Moreover, he knew it was a battle for his life between him
and Nature, and he did not mean to be beaten. In this fight
temperament counted for much. Somehow he brought down three or four
small trees and hacked off their branches. He cut the trunks and
laboriously built a wall on three sides of a square. The tent, propped
by branches, made a faulty roof and in front he made his fire. He did
not know what Carson did, although he saw his indistinct figure moving
about. Nothing was important but the splitting of enough wood to last
the night. At length, supper was ready and Geoffrey looked at Carson
when he saw the meal was good.

"There's something left for breakfast," said the other, meaningly, and
Geoffrey nodded.

In the morning he must make a stern choice, but much depended on the
weather and the choice must wait. Geoffrey did not talk. He was dull
and worn out, and for a time sat with his back against the logs. The
tent flapped and strained and a cloud of tossing flakes blew across
its top, whirled about the fire, and vanished in the streaming smoke.
The light did not travel far and when it sank the wavering white
curtain drew in. By and by Geoffrey, slipping down on the branches,
pulled his blanket over his head and went to sleep.

When he woke in the morning, snow blew about the fire. The tent
flapped, but the deep note the tossing pines struck was softer. They
had roared like the sea; now the noise was like the beat of languid
surf on a gravel beach. Carson had got out the cooking tins and turned
to Geoffrey when he saw he was awake.

"You're boss," he said. "Just now I'm satisfied to be cook. We have
enough food for a good breakfast, but that's all."

Geoffrey knitted his brows and said nothing for a minute or two. He
was boss, because he was young and resolute and he suspected that
Carson was resigned and weak. Yet he felt his responsibility. His life
and another's depended on the choice he made and he did not know the
chances against him. To begin with, he did not know how far off they
were from Whitefish Forks. Although he thought they must reach the
mine by dark or freeze, he hesitated.

His mother was a Stayward and he was rather like her than his father.
The Staywards were stubborn and cautious, but they could run risks
where risks were needful and it looked as if he must take a bold line
now. To husband food and start hungry meant a slower march and speed
was important. Yet if speed did not save them, there would be no food
left.

"The thing's a gamble," he remarked.

Carson nodded. "We know the stakes and if we lose we pay. Well, I've
been something of a gambler for long."

"If we are forced to camp again, a few morsels of food wouldn't be of
much use," Geoffrey resumed. "On the whole, I think we'll reach the
Forks to-night or not get there at all. Very well. You had better cook
all the stuff. We'll make the plunge."

"There's another thing," said Carson, after he put the last of the
pork in the pan. "The sled's a drag; hauling the load keeps us back."

Geoffrey frowned. He did not know how long he could keep going, but if
he left the sledge with the tent and blankets he would freeze soon
after he stopped. Yet, although the risk was desperate, to travel
light meant to travel fast. In the meantime, Carson waited and
Geoffrey thought he began to understand the fellow. Carson had pluck,
but it was negative, apathetic pluck; he bore things philosophically
when perhaps they need not be borne. Geoffrey saw he must choose for
both.

"I reckon we couldn't keep the trail in the dark and this means we
must finish the march while we can see," he said. "Well, since it's a
race, we won't start carrying weight."

Carson agreed and in a few minutes they set off, and almost forgot the
cold when they plunged into a drift. The fine dry snow rolled like
waves in the wind, sometimes to their knees and sometimes to their
waists. They were breathless when they struggled through, and Carson
looked at Geoffrey, who understood him although neither spoke. If
drifts like this were numerous, they would not reach the Forks.

A faint light pierced the storm clouds and for a time the trail was
better. One could follow the line, for in places a prominent tree was
blazed. Somebody had chopped a branch or sliced off a slab of bark.
For all that, their labor was heavy and about twelve o'clock Geoffrey
stopped to let Carson come up. He felt slack and his muscles ached,
but he was conscious that he was not quite doing his best. The trouble
was that although he had some power in reserve Carson had none. In a
few moments Carson joined him and, breathing hard, leaned against a
tree.

"The custom is to noon for an hour on a long hike," he said.

Geoffrey laughed, a hoarse laugh. They were crossing a thinly-wooded
tableland and the snow blew in a white cloud between the scattered
trees. Close by, a big drift tossed behind a rock. There was no
shelter and as Geoffrey braced himself against the wind another drift
began to gather about his legs.

"If we stop, I expect we'll stop for good," he said. "We'll get on
while we can."

"You go too fast," Carson grumbled. "I doubt if I can keep up."

Geoffrey gave him an impatient glance. Carson's back was against the
tree, but his head leaned forward and his eyes were half shut. He
looked spiritless and very limp.

"You must keep up," said Geoffrey, roughly.

"I don't see the advantage; I'm stopping you. If you go on, I can
follow the trail you break, at the pace that suits me best, and you
can send back some of the miners to look for me."

Geoffrey hesitated. Since he had stopped he felt half frozen, and the
snow was getting worse. Speed alone could help him to escape and
Carson's suggestion was plausible. He thought the fellow wanted to
give him a chance to finish the journey, but perhaps he shrank from
the stern effort to keep up. The temptation to agree was strong, but
Geoffrey would not. He felt if he gave way now he would always be
ashamed.

"You are coming along," he said in a hard voice. "When you can't keep
up I'll drag you."

He imagined afterwards he had struck the proper note. Carson meant
well, but as a rule, was satisfied with this; if his plans did not
work, he languidly acquiesced. When Geoffrey knew his story, he
understood his fall. All the same, he liked the fellow.

They set off and Geoffrey broke the trail. He did not remember much
about the afternoon. His brain was dull, his eyes were dazzled, and he
concentrated on getting forward. As they advanced, blurred rows of
trees moved back out of the tossing snow. Sometimes the broken line
they tried to keep bent round projecting rocks. Sometimes they
stumbled down steep pitches and struggled with straining muscles up
the other slope. They never got a long view and nothing broke the
sense of desolation. But the trail led on and they knew where it
stopped men sat by cheerful fires.

At length, when Geoffrey was exhausted, the tossing pines got dim. He
realized half consciously that he was pulling Carson along, but could
not remember when he began to do so. Indeed, he remembered nothing;
his rough calculations about speed and distance had faded from his
brain. All he knew was it was getting dark and he must keep Carson on
his feet. They would soon be unable to see the trail, but he was
strangely undisturbed by this. Conscious hope and fear had gone; blind
instinct urged him to continue the struggle.

They stopped at the bottom of a rise and Carson leaned against
Geoffrey. Billowing drifts crossed the up-hill track, the pitch was
very steep, and Carson, moving off a yard or two, sat down in the
snow.

"This hill will baffle us. I wonder whether it's the last," he said
and laughed hoarsely. "Luck plays strange tricks. When I was at
Vancouver I helped search for a man who had strolled away from a
picnic in the bush and got lost. We found him, a week after, lying
about fifty yards from a trail he couldn't see. I remember he looked
calm. Perhaps there's a point of exhaustion at which one no longer
feels much and weakness deadens pain. It looks as if we'd soon find
out----"

Geoffrey seized his arm. "Stop this drivel! Get up!"

He jerked Carson to his feet, shook him and pushed him forward, and
they began the laborious climb. Now and then they stuck for some
minutes in a drift, and before they reached the top the light had
altogether gone. Geoffrey did not know if he had kept the trail. The
wood was thin and one could not see the trunks a few yards off. Since
they might be heading away from the Forks, he doubted if there was
much use in going on, but he struggled forward, pulling Carson, until
as they crossed the summit the latter fell.

Geoffrey left him alone and tried to get his breath. His heart beat,
his head swam, and for a few moments he was conscious of nothing but
the cold and an overwhelming fatigue. Then he thought in one place
there was a glimmer in the snow. He went forward and saw it plainer.
There was a light, not far off, and the light was steady. It was not
the trembling reflection a campfire threw. Pulling himself together,
he went back for Carson.

"Get up," he said. "We have made the Forks."

Carson was dazed and slow, and Geoffrey used the little force he had
left. The light might vanish and leave them without a guide. To run a
risk now was unthinkable, and he pushed Carson forward savagely. The
light got brighter and grew into a square patch of illumination. Then
the dark bulk of a house loomed ahead and Geoffrey struck a log wall.
He followed the wall until he felt a door and when he could not find
the latch beat upon the boards.

The door opened and he plunged into a long room. A stove twinkled in
the middle, and Geoffrey got a vague impression of light and warmth
and tobacco smoke. His frozen flesh began to tingle and the blood came
to his head. The floor rocked, and, letting Carson go, he made for a
bench. He thought he heard somebody fall, but he did not stop. The
physical reaction from the Arctic cold thrilled him with pain and he
must reach the bench.

"Look after the other fellow," he said and, sitting down, leaned
against the wall and shut his eyes.




CHAPTER IV

THE MINE


The morning was keen, but Geoffrey stopped for a few moments outside
the log-house and glanced about. One end of the rude building was his
office and bedroom; the men occupied the rest of the house. Fifty
yards away, a small shack covered the pumping engine and winding gear
at the top of the shaft; then a rounded mass of rock cut off the view.
A rusty chimney stack behind the rock marked the neighboring mineral
property, the Whitefish Forks. Rows of small pine-stumps, four or five
feet high, surrounded the shaft, but the snow had covered the ugly
ore-dump.

On one side, the forest was pierced by a shallow valley, through which
the Whitefish flowed, and abreast of the mine a tributary plunged over
a high ledge. The fall was sheeted in ice, and frozen spray hung about
its front in fantastic patterns like filmy draperies. Geoffrey thought
the likeness was marked when the water covered the rocks with a
wavering embroidery of foam. No doubt the mine had been called the
Rideau after a famous curtain fall.

There was no wind. A clear sky, luminously blue, overhung the wide
sweep of snow. For the most part, the pines were white. They looked
strangely stiff and formal, but here and there a raw-green pyramid
stood out from their glittering ranks. Below the fall, where the
savage current broke the ice, the water was black as ink, and thin
mist floated above the open channel. The mist looked blue against the
snow, but where the beams of the red sun pierced it, took rainbow
hues.

Geoffrey shivered and moved on. His overalls, slickers, and rubber
boots did not keep him warm, but he felt invigorated and confident. He
was young, and in Canada the young soon get a careless optimism.
Moreover, although the mine was not important, in a sense it was his.
He meant to remodel its arrangements, cut down the working costs, and
following the vein by scientific rule, get out better ore. In fact, he
was going to make the undertaking a success and win recognition for
himself. There were difficulties, and he had studied some, but, if one
was resolute, difficulties could be conquered.

He nodded to Carson, who was chopping cordwood. The fellow used the
axe well and his cooking satisfied the men. Carson was making good and
Geoffrey felt he had not been rash when he engaged him. One liked to
know one's judgment was sound. Besides, he had saved the fellow from
freezing. One did not dwell on things like this and exaggerate their
importance, but, after all, if he had not come along, Carson could not
have reached the Forks. He felt well-disposed to Carson and meant if
possible to help him on. In the meantime, however, he had something
else to think about.

When he reached the shaft he did not bother about the winding gear but
went down a rope. Descending this way was easier than climbing the
gullies in the Cumbrian crags, and he did not mind the miners
remarking his nerve and confidence. Men rather liked a boss whose
physical strength was as good as theirs. Passing the mouth of a dark
tunnel, he went down to the end of the rope and his mood changed when
he entered an inclined gallery. Geoffrey had youthful weaknesses he
now and then indulged, but he was a miner and in his occupation was
practical and sometimes clever.

The tunnel was strongly timbered and heavy beams held up the fissured
roof. Some bent and Geoffrey gave these a thoughtful glance and
weighed the need for fresh support. It was something to feel he was
accountable for the safety of his men and could drive the tunnel where
he would. Water trickled from a number of the cracks, although the
frost stopped the surface drainage. He saw that to keep the mine dry
after the thaw began would be something of an undertaking.

By and by he stopped at the working face. His hat was wet, but the
pit-lamp on its brim had not gone out. Men were throwing broken rock
into a wheeled tub, and candles stuck about the walls gave a dim
light. A man controlled a jarring machine and Geoffrey heard its
cutters bite the rock. At Montreal he had urged that the new borer
should be sent and he was satisfied to note the thing was running
well. He meant to urge the spending of larger sums on up-to-date
machinery, but he must wait. The expense would have to be justified;
directors asked for results.

He ordered the man to try a new adjustment of the cutters, and except
for the clink of a spanner and the thud of stone in the tub there was
silence when the machine stopped. Then Geoffrey thought he heard a
muffled knocking behind the wall of rock. He beckoned the foreman and
sat down on a heap of props.

"The Forks people, I suppose?" he said. "Looks as if they were working
close to the boundary."

"Pretty close," the foreman agreed. "They've been cutting rock there
for some time."

The noise got louder and Geoffrey listened carefully.

"_Above us_, I think," he remarked.

"That's where they are."

"It's strange. The vein dips, and carries better metal the lower one
gets. I understand the stuff you raised when you pushed the top
heading back the other way to the outcrop was not worth bringing up?"

"Mean dirt," said the other. "Anyhow, I reckon the Forks crowd have
got a plan. They're not suckers."

Geoffrey knitted his brows. "Then, I don't know why they try the top
when the pay-dirt is underneath. They're suspiciously near our front.
I'd like to look at their workings."

"The last boss tried," the foreman remarked with a grin. "When he got
back he wore a bandage for a week, but there wasn't so much bad
feeling then. I allow they might shoot you up."

"Bad feeling?" said Geoffrey. "D'you mean the men, so to speak, take
sides. The dispute's not theirs."

"You give our crowd a chance and see. Treat them fair and if you want
them I reckon they'll back you good. This is a white man's country;
white men made it, but the Forks gang run their show with foreign
trash. I allow they don't make trouble about a crooked job."

Geoffrey pondered. At Montreal, Hilliard had told him Ross was honest
and Geoffrey approved the fellow. Feeling his youth and the
strangeness of the country, he had half expected some opposition when
he took control but had encountered none. The opposition might,
however, have risen had he not made it plain unconsciously that he was
just and firm.

"They've stopped," he said presently when the dull knocking ceased.
"Drilling for a shot, I think."

Ross nodded. "Looks like that, but they haven't used much powder at
our end of the tunnel. The stuff we're cutting through won't stand for
it."

They waited for a few minutes and then Geoffrey started. The rock
shook and some of the candles went out. He rather felt a dull
concussion than heard a report, but it was not the shock that brought
him to his feet. A crack opened above the boring machine, a beam bent,
and the roof bulged down. Then a big stone began to work out from the
crack.

"Get from under!" Geoffrey shouted and pushed back the man at the
machine.

Next moment the stone fell and smashed on the rock beneath. Water
dripped on Geoffrey's head, he missed the light of the pit-lamp, and,
putting up his hand, found his hat had gone. The man he pushed was
uninjured, but it was obvious that the roof was coming down.

"Another beam!" he shouted and picked up a prop.

Two men brought the beam and he jammed the prop beneath one end while
somebody fixed another prop at the opposite side of the tunnel. The
props were cut a little too long and ran obliquely between the roof
and floor, in order that when the bottom end was driven forward they
would wedge up the beam. It was plain that speed was needful. The
roof bulged, the walls worked, and water poured from the opening
cracks. Unless the timbers were fixed in the next few moments, the
gallery would fill up and all who stayed there would be buried.

Geoffrey saw this half-consciously, for his action was rather
instinctive than reasoned. To weigh the risk was to court defeat, and
he was driven by a reckless savageness. The roof must not come down
and the costly rock-borer must not be smashed. He was going to prevent
it; the trouble was that the time at his disposal was very short.

He did not doubt the men. Although the risk was theirs but not the
profit, they would follow a bold lead, and he was leader. A plain
command went some way; example went farther. While the roof cracked,
he threw himself upon the prop, using the weight of his body to help
his muscles, and somebody struck its foot with a heavy maul. Across
the tunnel, men struggled to place the second prop. Their bent figures
were indistinct, for half the lights had gone out. One heard their
labored breath and their feet shuffle in the mud.

In a sense, the struggle was unequal. Overhead, a crushing load of
rock obeyed the law of gravity; below, in the collapsing tunnel,
without proper room to move, flesh and blood, strung to desperate
tension, strove to resist. For a time, the men, like their leader,
labored with unthinking primitive fury. The new beam bent in the
middle, but it was not long, and if they could wedge the props tight,
it might not break. There was not room to swing the heavy hammers and
the men crouched in ungainly attitudes to get their arms back. Then
their bent bodies lurched forward to deliver the blow. Other men,
straining and gasping, steadied the posts while small stones and water
rained down.

Geoffrey was conscious that the struggle could not last. Unless they
won in the next few moments, all would be crushed. Yet this did not
daunt him and it did not daunt the rest. They were miners and had at
other times matched their indomitable stubbornness against Nature's
powers.

A stone fell and a man's face got red with blood, but he swung his
maul as if he did not know. The prop he struck straightened and
Geoffrey, laboring with beating heart and the veins on his forehead
swelling, forced back the post he held. Somebody struck its foot a
smashing blow, the timber groaned and stood upright. The beam was
wedged; he thought it would stand until he got another across. He had
won the time he needed and could use his brain. Now he must study
where the worst pressure came and where fresh supports ought to be
put.

Half an hour afterward he picked his trampled hat out of the mud, and
sitting down on some props, lighted his pipe. The candles were burning
and the men had resumed their work. Their figures cut against the
uncertain light that touched the nearest timbers and emphasized the
shadows between. Farther off, beams and props closed upon each other
until it looked as if the tunnel were lined with solid wood.

Geoffrey did not know if he was physically tired, but he felt slack,
for now and then it costs a leader something to front his
responsibility and lead. On the whole, Geoffrey was satisfied. He had
saved the tunnel, and although he had not consciously used much
thought, his brain, working mechanically on the studies he had made in
English mines, had well guided him. This, however, was not all. Mining
was a scientific business; one measured depths and calculated
pressures, in order to work in harmony with Nature's laws, but a time
sometimes came when one must trust human pluck and muscle. He had
stood the strain and an important consequence was that the men would
own his rule. They had seen he was not a drawing-office critic and
exacting paymaster, but flesh and blood like themselves and willing to
share their risks.

By and by Ross, who had supported him nobly, came up. Geoffrey had
liked Ross before, but now imagined the man looked at him differently.

"We cannot allow the Forks people to shake up our heading like this,"
he said. "I'll send a note across, telling them we'll hold them
accountable for the damage."

Ross grinned. "Well, I allow it's the proper plan!"

"But you don't think it will lead to much? I don't know your Canadian
laws, but I imagine the Forks Company is accountable."

"Unless your wad is pretty big, you want to leave the law alone when
you're up against a crowd like our neighbors. Arguing before a judge
costs a pile."

"You imply the Forks lot are rich?"

"Well," said Ross, dryly. "They've money behind them. They're spending
some and it's a sure thing they don't get much from the mine."

"It looks like that," Geoffrey agreed. "Anyhow, I'll send a note.
Suppose this leads to nothing, will you come with me some night and
try to get into the mine?"

The foreman gave him a glance in which Geoffrey thought there was an
approval he had not remarked before.

"Why, yes," he said. "When you want me I'll certainly come along."




CHAPTER V

GEOFFREY TRESPASSES


Geoffrey sent a note to the Forks manager and got a curt reply. The
fellow stated he had used a very small quantity of powder and was not
accountable for the damage. If the roof was weak, it was the Rideau
Company's business to put up proper timbers. Geoffrey frowned when he
read the note. Pelton was plainly working along the Rideau's frontage
and had perhaps cut into their block, although since the ore was poor,
his object was hard to see. Anyhow, since he had gained nothing by
argument, Geoffrey resolved to get into the mine and investigate.

About eleven o'clock one night Ross knocked at his door and Geoffrey
shivered as he dressed. The night was dark and very cold. A biting
wind wailed about the shack and fine snow fell. Geoffrey shrank from
the frost, and the snow would make it awkward to find the Forks shaft.
For all that, the darkness had some advantages, because to go when the
night was clear and calm might lead to his getting caught.

He put on his furs, although he knew they would embarrass him in the
mine. One could not bear the cold without some protection. Then he
hooked a pit-lamp on his hat, and trying to banish his doubts, set
off. One could not see six yards in front and he could not find the
Forks boundary post. It was with difficulty he kept clear of the
stumps that covered the clearing and he got something of a jar when
the foreman touched him and a shadowy building loomed close by.

"The Forks bunkhouse," Ross remarked.

Geoffrey stopped. It was obvious that he had lost his way, and had he
fallen over a stump the miners might have heard the noise. The bunk
house was only a few yards off, but it was dark. Geoffrey knew all the
work was done by a day shift and imagined the men were in bed. Still
the sparks and luminous vapor that streamed from the stove-pipe on the
roof indicated that somebody had not long since thrown on fresh wood.

"Where's the shaft?" he asked.

"East from the house," said Ross.

"Where's east?"

"On our left, if we're looking the way I reckon."

Geoffrey signed agreement and they went off. He doubted if they could
find the shaft, but he meant to try and knew the snow would cover
their tracks. After a time his foot struck something and he plunged
into the snow. He felt branches crack, and getting up breathlessly,
began to look about. At first he could see nothing, but presently
distinguished two or three tall white objects and a hazy mass in the
background.

"I fell on branches. We have run into the slashing," he said. "I see
the bush behind the belt they've cut. If we headed east, the shaft's
another way."

"I sure don't know where she is," Ross admitted. "I wouldn't bet much
I could find the Rideau."

"Oh, well," said Geoffrey. "If we ramble about much longer, we'll
freeze. Let's try again."

They left the edge of the bush and presently Ross stopped at the
bottom of a rough white bank.

"The ore-dump, though I don't know how we got here," he remarked. "If
we cross the top, I reckon we'll hit the shaft."

Geoffrey grumbled while they climbed the bank. Some of the broken rock
was small and slipped down under his feet; some was large and the snow
had not solidly filled the holes. He broke through the treacherous
covering and was surprised he had not hurt his legs. There seemed to
be no end to the stones, he could not tell if he was going straight,
and it was some relief to find he did not cross his tracks. He fell
once or twice and thought he made an alarming noise, but at length
Ross indicated a large, indistinct object in the blowing snow. It
looked like a building and for a few moments they stopped and
listened.

They had grounds for imagining the miners were asleep in the
bunkhouse, but this was not certain. At the Rideau extra timbers were
sometimes put up at night, in order not to interfere with the work of
the day shift. One could not take it for granted nobody was below and
to be caught might have awkward consequences. All the same, Geoffrey
was resolved to go down.

He beckoned Ross and went cautiously into the house built over the
shaft. It was very dark but all was quiet, and with numbed hands he
awkwardly lighted his pit-lamp and then gave Ross the match. The
feeble illumination touched the rough beams and the wheels overhead,
flickered about the rocky floor, and rested on the mouth of a dark
hole. Geoffrey saw the top of a rude ladder, hooked to a log that
guarded the shaft.

"I wish I'd got slickers," he remarked. "A long, thick coat's awkward
in a tunnel, but if I leave it here, I'll probably get wet. I don't
know if one man could work their ore-skip."

"I'm not going to try," said Ross. "If you're going down, I'm coming
along."

Geoffrey meant to go, but admitted that his resolve was perhaps
ridiculous. He was trespassing, and if the Forks people treated him
roughly they would be justified. Then he did not know if he expected
to find out anything important, and the dark hole looked forbidding.
However, since the adventure would not stand calm reflection, he had
better start.

The ladder shook and when he had gone down some distance the
cross-pieces were wet and slippery, but the shaft was not deep, and
when he got off at the bottom he threw the light on a compass he had
brought and noted the bearing of the tunnel he entered. Counting his
steps, he went forward cautiously and came to an opening where the ore
was worked. There was nothing remarkable. The rock was like the Rideau
rock, but he picked up some small pieces and filled his pocket.

He could do nothing more. When he went up he must try to reckon the
height he climbed and afterwards, in the daylight, get the compass
bearing of the shaft from two objects whose distance apart one could
measure. Then he could make some useful calculations. In the meantime,
he must get out of the mine as soon as possible. Ross went first, and
Geoffrey measured with his hand the gaps between two or three
cross-pieces on the ladder.

"Count your steps as you go up," he said, and waited for Ross to give
him room to climb.

It was some relief to feel that in a few moments he would reach the
clearing. Perhaps he had run some risk, and he was getting impatient,
although nothing indicated any ground for alarm. Ross was very slow,
but Geoffrey understood why he was cautious when he came to a spot
where the ladder was greasy with water and mud. The wood cracked and
shook, and he could see nothing but the faint glimmer round the
foreman's head and his heavy boots slipping on the cross-pieces where
the light of Geoffrey's pit-lamp fell. He counted the pieces and
wondered with growing impatience when Ross would get to the top. At
length the other stopped and the light on his hat moved suddenly
forward.

"Wait until I get a holt; I'm at the ledge," he said.

It looked as if he stumbled when he got up, for there was a jar in the
dark and his boots scuffled on the rock. Geoffrey wondered why he made
so much noise, and feeling for the ledge, got his feet on the last
crosspiece. When he lifted his body across the timber the movement
threw the faint beam of his lamp forward, but except for this the
shaft-house was dark. The brim of his hat confined his view to the
ground and he saw somebody's legs.

"Find the door and get it open, Ross," he said.

The foreman did not answer, but somebody seized Geoffrey's arm and
pulled him across the ledge. Next moment his hat was knocked off and
the light went out. It was obvious the legs he had seen did not belong
to Ross, and Geoffrey grappled with the man. He threw him back and
heard him fall, but another came on and it was plain that he had two
or three antagonists. The shaft-house was very dark and he could not
see how many there were. For all that, he was not going to be
captured.

He struck and the other man let go. For a moment nobody seemed to be
in front and he tried to find the door. He could not, and he durst not
move much for fear of falling down the shaft. Then, while he waited,
highly strung, trying to pierce the dark, his antagonists closed with
him. He got a blow home, but this was all. He was surrounded,
buffeted, and pulled to and fro, until he and two or three of the
others went down.

A heavy man fell upon him and he struck his head against the rock. He
was exhausted, and could not resist when the others dragged him up and
pushed him through the door. Somebody pulled his arms behind his back
and urged him forward with a kick. It was plain there was no use in
struggling and he let the men lead him away. Geoffrey imagined they
had seized Ross as he climbed across the ledge and had perhaps thrown
a coat over his head so that he could not shout. The fellows had found
out trespassers were in the mine.

After a few minutes Geoffrey saw the bunk house and one of his captors
knocked at a door. The door opened, a beam of light touched the snow,
and the miners who held Geoffrey's arms pushed him forward. He
stumbled and when he got his balance the door was shut. He stood,
confused by his struggle and the change from dark to light, in a small
room with log walls and a stove in a corner. After the cold outside,
the room felt intolerably hot.

"Sit down," said somebody and Geoffrey saw a young man occupied a
chair by the stove.

Geoffrey pulled up another chair and looked dully at the man, whom he
had not yet met. The fellow's keen glance and commanding voice
indicated that he was in control.

"I suppose you're Mr. Pelton, the manager?" Geoffrey remarked. "You,
no doubt, know me. Where's my foreman?"

"I am Pelton. Your man's in the bunk house, and since the boys are
quiet I reckon he's resigned. If he makes no trouble, they'll leave
him alone."

Geoffrey pondered. He felt savage and humiliated, but there was no use
in indulging his rage. He was caught and the advantage was with his
antagonist. It was plain Pelton was not a rude prospector; his voice
and easy manner indicated some cultivation.

"You knew we had gone down your shaft?" Geoffrey resumed.

"Why yes. One of the boys heard somebody outside the bunk house;
another declared it was snow slipping down the roof. If they'd argued
about it longer, the snow might have covered your tracks, but when
they went to the door your steps were not wiped out. We reckoned to
wait until you came up. Well, I expect I've satisfied your curiosity."

"Not altogether. I don't quite see what you're going to do about it
now."

Pelton smiled. "To begin with, I must inform my employers; their
lawyers will tell them how to get after yours. However, I won't get
their instructions for some time and thought about holding you and the
foreman for a guarantee against fresh trespassing."

"I doubt if you could hold us."

"I could try," said Pelton coolly. "The boys are a pretty hard crowd
and are rather up against your men. Our lot won't join the proper
labor unions or something like that. We employ foreigners because
they're cheap, and get a number of political freaks and anarchists,
who kick against all organized rule. One fellow suggested that the
best plan to fix you was to unhook the ladder while you were climbing
up. In the bush, men who go outside the law in a mining dispute now
and then get hurt."

Geoffrey thought he had run some risk, but he did not mean to be kept
a prisoner. For one thing, it would persuade Hilliard and the other
directors that he was not fit for his post. He imagined Pelton
understood his embarrassment, because he looked amused. While Geoffrey
pondered his reply a noise began in the adjoining bunk house and he
laughed.

"I rather think your fellows are having some trouble to hold my
foreman," he remarked.

Pelton listened, and then got up when somebody came to the door. A
beam of light shone out and Geoffrey saw one of the Forks miners and
Carson. The cook gave him a twinkling smile, and Pelton said, sharply,
"Well?"

"I bring a message from the Rideau boys," Carson replied. "I reckon
they sent me because nobody was keen to go, but one hinted that if I
was held up it wouldn't weaken the garrison much."

"Your message?" Pelton snapped.

"The boys are bothered about the boss's stopping so long. If he's not
back pretty soon, they're coming across to pull up your bunk house
and fire the pieces down the shaft."

"Thank you, Tom," said Geoffrey, who looked at Pelton. "However, I
don't expect they'll be forced to meddle."

"Tell the boys your boss and the foreman will arrive in about
half-an-hour," Pelton replied. "That's all. Get out."

Carson turned to Geoffrey, who nodded. "You can go, Tom."

When Carson had gone Pelton smiled. "You have won. There are some
toughs among my crowd, but yours is stronger and the boys are white.
After all, I'm a Canadian, and perhaps we've hit the best way out.
Well, that's done with. S'pose you take a cigar and let's talk."

Geoffrey lighted a cigar and Pelton resumed: "Your pocket looks pretty
bulky. I expect you're taking some specimens of our ore along. What d'
you think about the rock?"

"So far as I can see, it's very like ours."

"Poorer, on the whole?"

"I imagine so," Geoffrey replied.

"Then, I reckon you see why we're working close up to your front?"
Pelton remarked in a careless voice, but Geoffrey imagined his
carelessness was forced.

"I really wanted to find out if you had bored beyond our front."

"Were you satisfied?"

"My calculations are not made and we didn't take a measuring chain,"
said Geoffrey. "All the same, I was puzzled; the vein dips, but your
shaft's not deep."

Pelton looked at him rather hard. "I expect you noted how far we had
gone down. You imply we'd have struck richer dirt at the bottom of the
lode?"

"Something like that. You know, of course, that none of the ore is
rich."

"That is so," Pelton agreed and was silent for a few moments. Then he
resumed: "Managing a mine like the Rideau is not a well-paid job and
you were hired in the Old Country, where wages are low. Well, I allow
you're out for money, or you'd have stayed at home. Suppose I made you
a proposition?"

"I'd think about it," said Geoffrey cautiously.

"Very well. You went down our mine without leave and were caught. When
my employers get after yours, I reckon they won't approve your
rashness. Now I'm willing to promise they'll do nothing about the
thing and to pay you five hundred dollars if you'll let me look over
the Rideau block."

Geoffrey knitted his brows. He was honest, but he saw Pelton was keen.
This was obvious, since the other must know his offering five hundred
dollars was significant. Pelton expected to get value for the money,
although Geoffrey could not see how he meant to do so. For all that,
it was plain that if he took the bribe he would be in the other
fellow's power and must agree to his next demand. He weighed the
possibility of his leading Pelton on until he found out his plan, but
admitted that he was not clever enough for the part.

"I must refuse," he said. "My employers treat me justly and I want to
keep my job."

Pelton studied him and then observed with rather marked carelessness:
"It looks as if they were lucky! Anyhow, I won't try to persuade you.
Five hundred dollars is a good sum; I doubt if I'd get it back."

"We'll let it go," said Geoffrey, smiling. "I must get off. If I stop
much longer, the boys may come for me."

He went, but when he reached his room at the mine he sat for some time
by the stove, smoking and thinking hard.




CHAPTER VI

CARSON EXPERIMENTS


Some time after his visit to the Forks mine, Geoffrey came up one
evening from the Rideau shaft, where he had stopped to make some
measurements when the men left work. As a rule, he ate with the others
in the bunk house, but, expecting to be late, he had told Carson to
bring his supper to the office. Since he had not been occupied as long
as he had thought, he wondered whether he must wait for the meal.

When he opened the door he stopped with surprise. Carson sat in front
of the table, but he was not getting supper ready. He held Geoffrey's
powerful magnifying glass, small pieces of stone were scattered about
and a delicate balance stood beside an uncorked bottle of acid. While
Geoffrey noted this Carson turned with a start.

"I didn't expect you yet," he said awkwardly.

"It looks like that," Geoffrey rejoined. "What are you doing with
those things? You seem to know their use."

Carson was obviously embarrassed, but Geoffrey thought his eyes
twinkled. Shutting the door, he sat down and waited with some
curiosity for the other's reply. To find his cook engaged in
scientific experiment was strange and perhaps suspicious. After a
moment or two, Carson pulled round his chair and fronted him.

"I have worked in a laboratory. The specimens you brought from the
Forks were lying on the shelf. I thought I'd like to examine them,
although it's not my job."

"That's obvious," Geoffrey remarked and pondered.

He was a mining engineer, not an analyst, although he knew enough
about chemistry to make simple tests. If Carson was a chemist, his
skill might be useful. For all that, since the mining laws were rather
complicated and one's title to a mineral claim was sometimes disputed,
the fellow's curiosity might indicate that he had been bribed.
Geoffrey, however, rejected this supposition. The Forks people would
not bribe a man to analyze their ore. Then he thought Carson honest
and was generally ready to trust his judgment.

"What do you think about the specimens?" he resumed.

"I can't make a proper test; one needs apparatus you haven't got. All
the same, the percentage of silver's low."

"Lower than ours?"

"I'm the cook and don't know how much metal you get."

Geoffrey thought for a moment, and then crossing the floor took a
paper from a box.

"Here's our last assay report."

Carson studied the analysis and presently remarked: "The samples came
from the bottom of the lode?"

"Yes," said Geoffrey and Carson knitted his brows.

"Well," he said, "the ore you brought from the Forks won't assay like
this. I imagine it carries less silver and won't pay for the refining.
Then the acid gives a hint of a curious reaction I don't think your
rock would show. Is their shaft as deep as yours?"

"No," said Geoffrey. "Pelton is following the top of the vein."

He lighted his pipe because he wanted to think. To begin with, it was
rather strange he felt his giving his confidence to his cook, about
whom he did not know much, was justified. Carson, however, had now
dropped the Western colloquialism he used with the miners; he talked
like an educated man and his easy frankness struck the right note.

"The thing's puzzling," Carson remarked. "You had better send the
specimens off for assay, although I doubt if you'll get much light
then." He paused for a few moments and added: "If I could use a good
laboratory for a week----But I ought to get your supper."

"We'll let supper wait. Do you know much about chemistry?"

"I can make a working analysis, when the job only needs mechanical
accuracy. To solve a problem that demands imagination and instinctive
feeling, is another thing. Once I could use both, but that power is
gone. Well, you got a hint of my story the night we camped in the
snow. It's not for nothing I'm a miner's cook!"

Geoffrey mused, for the other had said enough. In Canada, one met men
who had wasted precious talents and lived by rude toil. The strange
thing was, he felt he had met Carson somewhere else. His voice roused
puzzling memories; Geoffrey had felt it do so before. For a few
moments he thought about Nethercleugh, the coke ovens, and the road
across the heath, but he pulled himself up. Carson had nothing to do
with Nethercleugh.

"If the company would send us proper apparatus, it might be useful now
and then to know how much silver the ore carries," he said. "Although
I don't think they'll do so, you might tell me what you want."

Carson told him and Geoffrey made some notes. Then the other cleared
the table and put some plates by the stove.

"I guess you want your supper, boss," he remarked.

When the meal was over Geoffrey packed up the specimens ready to send
off, and wrote to Hilliard, asking for the chemical appliances. A few
days afterwards, a freighter, returning to the settlement, took the
letter, but when the reply arrived it threw no light on the Forks
Company's plans. Hilliard stated he thought they wanted the mine, and
if he could get a just price, he would probably sell, but the Forks
people had not given him a serious offer. He doubted if it would be
worth while to buy the rather expensive apparatus for which Geoffrey
had asked, but he would talk about it to the other directors.

Geoffrey found the winter dreary. In North Ontario the frost is often
Arctic and there were days when he shrank from crossing the open space
between his room and the shaft. Snow as dry and fine as dust blew
about and touched one's skin with the sting of intolerable cold, and
it was a relief to plunge into the mine. Perhaps the calm nights were
worse. All was strangely quiet, except when a pine branch split; water
froze a few yards off the red-hot stove, and Geoffrey, wrapped in
furs and blankets, shivered in his bed.

Now and then he heard wolves, the savage Northern timber wolves, but
they did not come near the house and he wondered what they ate. He had
not seen an animal since he reached the Forks and the rifle he sent
for had not been used. He had practised walking on snow-shoes, but
when he went out the silence and desolation of the frozen wilds
daunted him.

The miners felt the loneliness and strain, for they now and then asked
a week's leave and went off with the freighter to the settlement.
Moreover, one or two did not return but sent word they had had enough.
On the whole, their deserting did not embarrass Geoffrey. Wages were
high, and since the frost stopped surface work, it was sometimes
difficult to keep the men usefully occupied. All the same, he did not
want more of them to go. Winter was getting over, and when the ice
broke the ore they had raised must be sent off and work that had
waited since the snow fell must be resumed.

Coming up from the mine one evening, Geoffrey went to the river bank.
After the dry biting cold that had ruled for long, he liked to feel
the damp air on his skin. There had been a shower and the snow stuck
to his long boots. Although the snow had hardly begun to melt and the
frost would, no doubt, come back for a time, spring was not far off
and he rejoiced with half-conscious gladness that winter was going.

He stopped opposite the Curtain fall and looked about. The light was
fading and a belt of smoky red shone behind the pines, which had
shaken off the snow and rose, darkly green and rigid, against the
band of color. The snow on the ice had lost something of its dazzling
whiteness; it looked dull and wrinkled, as if it had shrunk. Then the
delicate hoar-frost had melted from the frozen spray that covered the
front of the fall. The ice was ribbed, in strange harsh patterns,
where it had not long since looked like soft drapery. There were deep
cracks and Geoffrey heard the cascade roar beneath its covering. The
channel below the fall was open and loose floes shocked on the angry,
dark stream. Geoffrey had not yet seen the ice break up, but he
imagined it would be an impressive spectacle. By and by Ross joined
him.

"She'll break soon and make trouble for us," the foreman remarked,
indicating the river.

"I expect a big flood would bring the water near the shaft," Geoffrey
agreed. "The rock we're boring is loose; no doubt there'll be some
leakage through the fissures. Then we must reckon on the drainage from
the smelting soil. I asked for a larger pump some time since, but it
has not arrived."

"I don't reckon much on leakage. We'll fix that," Ross replied. "The
flood may pile up an ice-dam in the narrows below the pool, and you
can't figure how high a dam will go. Depends on the way the big blocks
come down; sometimes they climb out on the rocks and standing ice;
sometimes they drive clear. Trouble's surely coming to us, but as I
wasn't at the mine when she broke last spring, I don't know how much."

Geoffrey studied the ground. He hardly thought the gorge below the
pool would fill with ice, but if it did so, the flood would reach the
mine. Glancing at the Forks chimney stack behind the rocks, he
remembered that although their block ran down to the narrows, the
buildings stood on higher ground than his.

"Well," he said, "I suppose we can do nothing until the ice does
break. Can you cut a dam with powder?"

"You'd want some grit," Ross replied. "Might be done; depends on how
the floes pile up. If the big stuff below gets away first, the jam
mayn't be bad." Then he exclaimed angrily: "_Two_ of the boys coming
back from the settlement!"

Geoffrey looked across the clearing and saw two figures move out from
the bush. One went in front, walking in snow-shoes with a dragging
gait; the other was bent and laboriously hauled a sledge. Geoffrey and
the foreman went to meet them and the others stopped. They looked
moody and slack.

"You have come back; three or four days late!" Ross remarked. "Money
all gone and you allowed we couldn't run the mine unless you helped?
Why, I've seen liver men than you full of dope at an opium joint!
Where's the rest of the bum crowd?"

"Aw, cut it out!" growled the miner. "I was full up all right when I
hit the trail and my head's that sore now I want somebody to give me
bad talk. Last jag I got on, I threw a dandy foreman down the
ore-dump. Anyhow, the other boys aren't coming. Guess you made them
tired and they've struck a softer job."

"Go off and sleep; I'll talk to you in the morning," Ross rejoined and
turned to Carson, who had sat down on the sledge. "Is your head sore?"

"It was sore," said Carson, with a feeble grin. "Just now the
trouble's in my back and legs. However, since I'm not as big and young
as Allen, we won't swap compliments. Reckon I'll make the bunkhouse
and see if my substitute has poisoned the boys."

He went off with the sledge and the foreman laughed.

"They'll be bright in the morning and I'm glad to see them back,
although it's blame awkward we've lost the rest. Allen's a pretty good
man and old Tom can surely cook."

Geoffrey smiled as he went to his office. Carson was cultivated and
knew something about chemistry, and yet, in Canada, his strongest
recommendation was that he could cook. The thing was ironically
humorous. For all that, Geoffrey was disturbed because the others had
not returned. Help would be needed badly when the thaw began. He was
rather surprised that Carson brought him his supper and when he came
for the plates sent for Ross and put out some cigarettes. Geoffrey was
firm when this was needful, but he did not urge his authority.

"I want to know what happened at the settlement, Tom," he said.

Carson smiled. "I expect you know what does happen when men who have
been in the woods for months make the settlements. Well, there wasn't
much variety of amusement; we played pool and shook for drinks. The
drinks were pretty numerous and in two or three days our money had
gone; but when we thought about starting a stranger arrived. Said he'd
struck it lucky over a mining deal, and he liked a good card game, and
had money to burn."

"I reckon the boys helped him!" Ross observed.

"They did," said Carson. "The fellow was generous and not lucky at
cards. He burned his wad all right, but when the jag had got started
I imagined the liquor wasn't very good." Carson paused and smiled. "I
was a judge of liquor once. All the same, the stuff was liquor and the
boys were not fastidious. A prudent landlord doesn't give his best to
men who have been tanking for some time. I thought that accounted----"

"Come off!" Ross interrupted. "I reckon the crowd was crazy drunk and
you were drunker than the rest."

"It's possible," said Carson. "I'd been sober for long. For all that,
the symptoms were puzzling. There was not the familiar exhilaration,
and though the boys broke some things in the pool room they soon got
dull. One felt languid----"

"I guess you knew you were doped, but didn't mean to stop."

"Something like that," Carson agreed. "The boys thought they could
hold out as long as the stranger's wad, and by and by he began to talk
about a new job. It was a soft job; a mine in the West, where the
Chinook winds stopped the frost, and they were all to be bosses of a
sort. I can't remember if they agreed to go, but in the morning the
stranger and another fellow loaded them on the cars and they didn't
argue. When the train was pulling out Allen jumped off."

"Why did Allen jump off?" Geoffrey asked.

"He _said_ there was a cross-eyed foreman at the Rideau who'd once
told him he couldn't fix a prop. He was going back to show the sucker.
Besides, he'd forgot his pipe."

Ross grinned. "Allen's pretty good at props. Some day I'll put him in
the river, and then he'll mebbe make a useful man. But, say, why did
you come back?"

"For one thing, I don't trust plausible strangers. Then I felt myself
responsible for Mr. Lisle's health and yours. The hash the other
fellow cooks is worse than dope."

"Get out with your plates," said Ross. "The boss and I have got to
talk."

Carson went off and Ross looked thoughtful. "The boys were doped," he
remarked. "Six of them and Carson! I expect it cost that stranger
high. Why'd he burn his money?"

"Perhaps he badly needed men."

"He'd have got them cheaper from a labor agent. Trade's not good now."

"Then it looks as if he wanted to get them away from us. I don't see
his object."

"I don't see it," Ross agreed. "Well, I've put you as wise as I am.
We've got to watch out. Somebody's playing a crooked game."

He went off and Geoffrey lighted a fresh cigarette. The men's leaving
would embarrass him, because he doubted if he could engage fresh hands
for some time. They, however, had not gone to Pelton, and seeing no
light, he presently went to bed.




CHAPTER VII

THE DAM


Heavy rain swept the bush and beat upon the bunk house roof. The noise
the tossing pines made was like the roar of the sea, but Geoffrey did
not think this had wakened him. He imagined he had heard another
noise. When he lifted his head from his pillow all was dark. Since the
thermometer had gone up, he had not given the stove much draught and
the iron was black. He could hardly see the window.

Then he started, for the noise that had disturbed his sleep began
again. A detonating crackle, like huge sheets of glass breaking, came
out of the dark; there was a crash that shook the house, and he
thought he heard men jump from their beds. Then he was conscious of
nothing but an appalling roar that hurt his ears and jarred his brain.
For a few moments the din unnerved him, but he knew what it was now;
the river had burst its chains, the ice was breaking.

Geoffrey sprang to the door. The snow had not all gone, and while the
rain beat upon him he saw against the faint glimmer the figures of men
who had run out of the house. Then he heard Ross shout: "Nothing doing
to-night, boys! You can come right back!"

Then men vanished and Geoffrey returned to his bunk, but it was some
time before he slept. The solid log building trembled, and confused
echoes rolled across the woods. A tremendous noise came from the
river; he heard giant floes shock and smash, and some rend to
splinters on the rocks. By degrees, however, he got used to the din
and went to sleep.

Going out at daybreak, he saw the channel was, for the most part,
open. The ice had broken away from the fall and a muddy flood leaped
across the ledge. Big floes drove down with the current, tilted their
ends out of the water, and, plunging down the fall, vanished for a few
moments in the angry pool below. Then, shooting out from the spray,
they swept round the rocky basin, until the tail rapid seized them and
flung them down the gorge.

Geoffrey thought a shelving rock at the top of the rapid was the
danger point. So long as the floes that broke their edges on the stone
swung round and drove on, he had not much to fear, but if they stuck
and jammed, the savage current would throw the blocks that came behind
on top and the pressure would squeeze all into a solid mass. He
thought the mass would grow until it formed a dam that would hold back
the flood. The river was obviously rising fast. The floes, however,
drove past the shelf, and when Carson waved to him from the bunk house
he went to breakfast.

After breakfast, Geoffrey went down the shaft and although he came up
now and then saw no grounds for disturbance. He was short of men and
now the thaw had come work must be pushed on. His habit was to
concentrate and by degrees his occupation absorbed him. Sending for
food when the men went up for dinner, he stopped below to adjust a
boring machine, and the afternoon had nearly gone when Ross touched
his arm.

"I reckon we're wanted on top," the foreman said. "River's risen two
feet in the last hour and the ice is packing."

They went up and Geoffrey frowned when they stopped on the rocks above
the pool. The fall roared with hoarse fury and the spray blew across
the woods. Sometimes for a few moments the tossing cloud got thin and
Geoffrey saw that a white mass blocked the rapid. The ice had stuck
and was piling up, for the current pressed down the pack and threw
fresh blocks on top. Great floes leaped the fall and, shocking in the
whirlpool, swept down and hurled themselves against the barrier. It
was plain that the ice on some distant reach had broken and set free
another flood.

Geoffrey saw he must face a crisis for which his studies in English
mines had not prepared him. There one worked by rule with the help of
powerful machines, but now the rules did not apply and he had no
machines. He had some native resolution, his wits, and muscular
strength. This was all; he felt he was matched unequally against
savage Nature. Yet he must trust his luck and try to make good. If he
were beaten, he might not get another chance to prove he was fit for a
manager's post.

"Can we break the dam with giant-powder?" he asked Ross.

"We can try," said the foreman. " 'S far's I can see, the rock at the
end of the point is holding her up. If we can drill the holes, we
might fire a few shots, but you want to get busy now."

This was obvious. Rain was falling, the light would not last long, and
there was much to be done.

"I'll go for the boys and the powder," Ross resumed and vanished.

Geoffrey stopped and his thoughts were gloomy. Hilliard had not warned
him that he might have trouble when the ice broke, but perhaps he
ought to have seen this for himself and made some effort to guard
against the flood. He might have thrown up a bank to protect the
shaft; the ore last raised was not frozen and the surface of the
ground was getting soft. Still the work would have cost much labor and
men were short. It was strange somebody had bribed a number to desert
when they were needed most. There was, however, not much comfort in
thinking about this. Geoffrey had done nothing, and now it was,
perhaps, too late.

He braced himself and climbed down the rocks to examine the end of the
shelf where the floes had lodged. Something might be done there. The
rocks were wet and slippery and in places fell straight to the angry
pool. Caution was needed and it was some time before he got down to
the water-level. When he stopped he saw Pelton, in shining wet
slickers, sitting on a ledge.

"Flood's pretty fierce and rising," Pelton observed. "Looks as if
she'd top the highest-water mark. Did you come along to look at the
ice?"

"I did not. I want to see the end of the shelf."

"Where the rock's holding up the jam? What d'you mean to do there?"

"We thought we'd try to cut the ledge by a blasting shot." "Can't be
done," said Pelton. "You're on the Forks block and we can't allow you
to prospect our claim."

"You're ridiculous!" Geoffrey exclaimed. "You know we're not
prospecting! If it's possible to break the shore end of the jam, the
ice may drive away."

"We'll allow that's so," Pelton replied with an ironical smile. "I
don't care if she drives away or not. If she holds and backs up the
water, it won't touch the Forks."

Geoffrey understood and tried for control. "Do you imagine you can
prevent my making an effort to save our mine?"

"You haven't got me," Pelton rejoined. "I don't want to prevent you.
You can't start blasting on our claim; that's all." He paused and
looked hard at Geoffrey when he resumed: "You see, I'm obstinate and
don't like to be beat. Last time we met, you'd gone over the Forks
mine but wouldn't let me see yours."

Geoffrey pondered. He thought the other had two objects; he wanted to
explain his refusal to let Geoffrey break the dam, and to hint that he
was willing to bargain. It was obvious Pelton had some grounds for his
keenness to examine the Rideau workings. The explanation, however, was
not plausible and Geoffrey did not mean to bargain. Then a dislodged
stone rolled down the bank and looking up he saw Ross and some others
in the spray. When he noted that one carried an iron box he saw a
plan. The plan was rather theatrical, but it ought to work.

"Come along with the magazine," he shouted and turned to Pelton. "If
you claim we're infringing the Forks Company's rights, you can see
your lawyers. Anyhow, we mean to fire the shot."

"I reckon we'll put you off the property," Pelton replied and climbed
the bank.

"Your best driller, Ross," said Geoffrey, and Allen came forward with
a hammer and a steel bar. "What about the dynamite and the fuses?"

"I fixed the detonators in a few sticks at the shack. It's damp-proof
fuse."

Geoffrey nodded, and indicating a spot in the ledge some feet from the
ice, said to Allen:

"Get to work. Five dollars if you sink a hole that will take a stick
before the Forks gang arrive!"

Allen threw the bar to another man and glanced at the rock. "You want
the hole _right there_?"

"Yes," said Geoffrey, who knew the spot was not the best for cutting
the ledge. "Don't talk. Get busy!"

Allen swung his hammer and sparks flew from the end of the drill. His
helper turned the tool and there was a sharp crunch when the hammer
fell again. Geoffrey hoped the frost had gone out of the stone, for
the thaw had not long begun. He looked about and to some extent was
satisfied. The short, steeply-sloped ledge ran for a few yards from
the main wall of rock and then sank into the ice. It would be hard for
Peltons' men to get at his party unless they crossed the ledge. The
situation had some drawbacks, but he need not bother about these yet.
In the meantime, Allen and the other struck and turned the drill, and
by and by the first, standing upright, stretched his arms.

"I guess I've earned five dollars! Where's your powder?"

Geoffrey gave him a stick of dynamite that looked rather like yellow
candle with a piece of black cord running from it instead of a wick.
Allen carefully pressed the stick into the hole and closed the top
with soil and bits of stone. Then Geoffrey took the end of the fuse
and a mechanical lighter, and looking up saw Pelton and a number of
others scramble down the rock.

"Pick your place for the next shot; it must take two sticks," he said
to Allen. "If I shout, drop your tools and get back."

He saw Ross and the men were puzzled, but they must wait for
enlightenment, and he held up his hand as Pelton's party advanced.

"Stop!" he said sharply. "Do you see what I've got?"

The light was going and spray blew about. Pelton stopped and stared,
and the two groups of men stood, silent and curious, between the rock
and the ice. Then it looked as if Pelton saw a light.

"Oh, shucks!" he said with a forced laugh. "You're not playing for a
movie show."

"I promised I'd fire the shot," Geoffrey rejoined. He pressed the
spring of the mechanical lighter and a spark leaped out. "When the
first of your lot climbs the ledge I'll make good."

"Take my dare," said Pelton. "You haven't sand enough to touch her
off. I'm coming now!"

Geoffrey stood very straight, his mouth set hard and his eyes fixed on
the other. Perhaps it was theatrical, but in the wilds men are
primitive; Pelton had declared he would put him off the claim and the
Forks gang had no doubt been promised a reward. Geoffrey did not mean
to go. Pelton advanced a few steps, slowly and then stopped. A hoarse
laugh came from the Rideau men.

"He's beat! You've got him, boss!" cried one.

Geoffrey thrilled. The shock of a dynamite explosion does not spread
far, but the fuse was short and although his men might have got away
he imagined he would not. The thing was a stern test of nerve and he
had won. He had persuaded his antagonist he meant to fire the shot
that might destroy both. Afterwards he wondered.

He pulled himself together. Pelton was beaten, but the struggle with
the flood had not begun, and Geoffrey told Ross to get the men to
work. Allen, up to his knees in water, was trying to sink a hole for a
heavy charge in the ledge, but frozen rock is hard to cut and Geoffrey
doubted if the stone had thawed enough to yield to the tool. The
rotten ice, however, was soft, and men with bars and hammers labored
on the cracking mass.

The dam shook and worked. Wide fissures opened and shut with sharp
reports, and there were deafening crashes when the current hurled
fresh blocks against the barrier. Some leaped on top, some drove
underneath and jammed, and now and then a foaming wave swept the
broken surface. The ice struck high piercing notes that harmonized
strangely with the measured roar of the flood. It was obvious that the
job was horribly risky, but it must be carried out and Geoffrey waited
until he thought his voice would reach the men.

"A week's pay for all if we break the dam!" he shouted.

He did not know if they heard him, but they were working savagely and
he looked about. The light had nearly gone and the spray was thick.
The figures on the ice were indistinct. Pelton had vanished, but his
party was the stronger and Geoffrey, remembering something, called
Ross.

"All the boys are not here," he said. "Send a message to the mine. Two
must stop and watch the shaft; the rest must come along."

Ross nodded, and Geoffrey, finding some shelter behind a stone, sat
down. He did not think he had done with Pelton and wondered where the
fellow would make his next attack. Geoffrey imagined the Forks gang
must be reckoned on. For one thing, they were foreigners, and all
immigrants did not make good citizens. Political refugees, turned
fanatics by injustice, and criminals hating all authority, came
across. As a rule, these did not join the labor unions, unless it was
where they could lead a revolutionary section. They were fierce,
illogical individualists, whose creed was destruction.

Geoffrey did not wait long. A stone crashed upon the ledge, and
looking up, he saw blurred figures on the cliff. He moved quickly and
another heavy stone fell at his feet. A minute or two afterwards a man
was hit and dropped his drill. Then the stones came down in a shower
and another man cried out. Geoffrey stopped in the gloom by the ledge
and thought.

It was dark and spray rolled about the ice, but the Forks gang did not
need to aim. The crest of the rock commanded the dam, big stones were
dangerous, and if they were flung down freely, somebody must be hit.
The work on the ice was dangerous and Geoffrey did not mean his men to
run another risk. Signing to Ross, he collected all who could be
spared and led them up the gorge. He did not think they could be seen
from above and imagined the others were ignorant of his arrival when
he reached the top. They were occupied, gathering and throwing stones,
a short distance off, and Geoffrey's group crept quietly forward.

When they were near enough, they charged and for a few mad moments
Geoffrey let himself go. It was something to be young and feel his
strength; besides, he had borne much and Pelton had appealed to force.
The Forks gang outnumbered his, but they had not expected an attack
and hardly got together before the Rideau men came up. There was a
shock, a short, confused struggle, and the others broke. They vanished
in the dark, and Geoffrey went back, triumphant, with his head bruised
and blood on his face.

Soon after he reached the ice, Ross said the job was finished and for
a few minutes Geoffrey and the foreman were occupied with the fuses.
Then they went off, as fast as possible, and while they climbed the
bank a flash pierced the spray. A report shook the rock, other flashes
sprang up, and echoes rolled along the gorge. Broken ice crashed upon
the stones, and then a big white wave rose, shook its crest, and
vanished.

"She's gone!" Ross gasped and Geoffrey's heart beat.

He waited, exhilarated by his victory, for a minute or two, while the
broken floes shocked with tremendous noises on the flood that swept
the wreck away. Then the crashes got faint and the roar of the river
rose in a hoarse, triumphant note. Geoffrey roused himself and seeing
the others had vanished made for the bunkhouse. He was tired and his
head hurt.




CHAPTER VIII

CARSON RESUMES HIS OCCUPATION


Geoffrey awoke late in the morning. His head ached and his face was
cut, but as soon as breakfast was over he went down the shaft. There
was much to be done, because he must try to improve the drainage
before the water the thaw released reached the workings, and his new
pump had not arrived. Then he must send off a large quantity of ore
when the floods sank and the river was open for canoe transport.

Pelton's attempt to prevent his breaking the dam puzzled him. He
wanted to think about it, but was occupied all day by mechanical
problems that forced him to wait until he left the mine. After supper
he pulled a chair to the stove, put his feet on a box, and lighted his
pipe. Nobody would disturb him and, smoking languidly, he looked about
the room.

A bunk like a shelf ran along one wall; his slickers and working
clothes hung at its end, and his muddy long boots occupied a corner.
The floor was rough and cracked, and a pile of cordwood stood behind
the rusty stove. His lodging was rude, but on the whole he liked its
rudeness. The cordwood scented the room, and the resinous smell made
one sleep soundly. Then he liked the control of the mine. He had
improved its working, cut down expenses, and got out better ore. In
fact, he was making good. Yet he felt his success was threatened, and
he must think about this.

To begin with, Pelton's employers had given signs of a strange and
hostile curiosity about the Rideau. The ore they raised was not worth
much; the rock ought to have got better near the Rideau front, but did
not. It almost looked as if the Forks people were willing to work
without a profit in order to occupy the adjoining claim. One could not
see their object.

Geoffrey resolved to let this go; he had thought about it before and
seen no light. He wondered why Pelton had wanted the flood to reach
the Rideau shaft. Revenge for his rebuff when he offered a bribe
hardly accounted for his meddling, but he would, apparently, have got
nothing else had he forced the Rideau's owners to undertake the
expensive pumping that would have been needed to clear the mine.

It was plain that Geoffrey must tell Hilliard what had happened,
although he meant to make his statement very matter-of-fact. Business
men did not like romantic tales. Moreover, if one looked at it
carelessly, the thing had not much significance. There was bad feeling
between the two gangs and miners working adjoining claims sometimes
indulged in savage disputes. Then, in a sense, Pelton's excuse for
meddling was plausible; he did not mean his neighbors to fire blasting
shots on the Forks property. Geoffrey saw he must not exaggerate the
importance of the incident, although he felt it was important.
However, since there was no clue to the puzzle, he must wait and
watch.

His reflections were broken by a tramp of feet and a knocking at the
bunk house door, and a few minutes afterwards Ross came in. Two men,
sent down to the settlement to order supplies, had returned and
brought Geoffrey's mail. Geoffrey opened a letter from Hilliard.

"They're satisfied at the office with our progress," he said to Ross.
"Tell Carson I want him."

When Carson came Geoffrey indicated a chair. "I've got the assayer's
report on the specimens I took from the Forks and some ore from our
workings at the bottom of the vein. They tell me nothing fresh, but
you can look at them and let me know what you think."

Carson studied the reports and when he put down the papers his face
was thoughtful.

"Practical chemistry is not as exact a science as some people think,
and an analysis is made with one of two objects," he remarked. "The
first is utilitarian; you want to learn the proportions of useful
metal, and dross that must be got rid of by refining. The other is
different; you mean to investigate, as far as your knowledge will
allow, the complicated actions of the metal and its alloys."

"You mean the assayer is generally satisfied to look for what he
thinks it's useful for a miner to know?"

Carson agreed and picked up the reports. "These are pretty good
examples of the commercial assay. You generally note there's a small
_residue_; earthy matter, insoluble ash, and so forth. To the miner
it's not important, but the scientist finds some interesting problems
there."

"The residue is larger in the Forks specimens I got from the top of
the lode."

"It's significant. In fact, there's something curious about the
analysis. If I could work out the combinations that account for the
residue, we might get a useful hint."

"You'll get a chance," said Geoffrey, smiling. "Our people at Montreal
promise to send the apparatus you talked about."

Carson's eyes glistened. "I owe you much already, Mr. Lisle, and now
perhaps you have done more than you know. The strange thing is, when I
had time for research I got tired and slack, and in South Africa I
threw up a good post because limited experiments with commercial
objects soon get monotonous. In this country, I've lived by cooking at
mining and lumber camps, but now, when much of the skill I had is
gone, the fascination of research comes back. I'm getting old and the
rude life will soon knock me out. It's some satisfaction to know that
for a time I've got a scientific job again."

He spoke with feeling and Geoffrey understood and sympathized. It was
much to be allowed to use one's best abilities and do the work one
knew.

"All the same," he said, "we don't need an analyst and we do need a
cook."

Carson smiled and got up. "I'll make time for cooking and some study.
If the boys grumble about the food, you can stop my experiments and
fire me out. Well, I'll fix your stove before I go."

He threw on fresh wood and regulated the draught. "She'll burn until
morning," he resumed. "I'll go along and get things ready for
breakfast. Good-night, boss!"

When he had gone Geoffrey laughed. Carson had meant to indicate that
he knew his job and did not expect promotion. He was going to make the
experiments because he was a chemist and not for a reward. Yet
Geoffrey resolved that if his researches had useful consequences, some
reward should be his.

A month afterwards, Hilliard called him to Montreal, and although
Geoffrey might have traveled smoothly by canoe, he left the mine on
foot, with food and a blanket strapped upon his back. Summer comes
swiftly in the North and he wanted to be alone in the woods. Since he
reached the mine he had hardly stopped work except to sleep. Now he
could relax, and he went leisurely, enjoying the march.

The country had lost its forbidding sternness, and a soft west wind
blew. Sunshine warmed the rocks and small red trunks; here and there
hardy maples and groves of willows broke into shining green; fresh
bright-colored shoots relieved the somber monotony of the pines. The
woods were musical with the noise of running water and fragrant with
sweet smells. Geoffrey skirted lonely lakes where the ice-worn
bowlders gleamed among the reflections of the trees, and followed the
banks of swollen creeks that sparkled in the sun and plunged into soft
blue shade. He felt romantic and light-hearted and sometimes sang.
Winter had gone. Mind and body reacted after the long strain, but
Geoffrey was half conscious that in part his satisfaction sprang from
knowing the strain had been borne. He had done all he had engaged to
do and was making good.

When he reached Montreal by the afternoon train from Ottawa, Hilliard
met him at the station and took him to his house at the foot of the
Mountain. Florence Hilliard joined them at dinner, and Geoffrey, who
had met her on his last visit, wondered why he had forgotten the
attractive, animated girl. Florence was frankly modern, her clothes
were in the latest fashion, and she talked much about sports, but she
had grace and gave hints of a shrewdness Geoffrey approved. It was
plain she knew something about business and a remark of hers indicated
that she had not forgotten him. Geoffrey imagined Hilliard had talked
to her about the mine; and then felt embarrassed because he saw she
was studying him with a smile.

When Florence left them Hilliard took Geoffrey to his smoking-room and
they weighed plans for economies at the mine and enlarging the output
of ore. Geoffrey liked his post. Hilliard was just, and Geoffrey got a
hint of a kindness he thought was perhaps accounted for by the other's
friendship for Stayward. Stayward's friends were not numerous, but it
looked as if they stuck to him.

"Well," said Hilliard after a time, "in Canada, we're generally blunt,
and I must state that I and the others are satisfied with you. Since I
want you to see them, you must stop with us for a week. Ross can keep
things going and you have earned a holiday."

Geoffrey was flattered, but when he began a deprecatory reply Hilliard
smiled.

"Your uncle declared you were the man for the post, and for people who
know John Stayward his statements carry weight. Anyhow, you don't owe
us much. The post is not well paid. Are you willing to keep it?"

"I'd like to hold on until we see if it's possible to make the Rideau
pay."

Hilliard nodded. "On the whole, I think you're prudent, and since you
came we have gone some distance." He paused and added thoughtfully:
"I'd like to know if the Forks gang made much progress and where they
aim. So far as one can see, their claim is not a business proposition;
but it's obvious they have money to spend. The strange thing is, they
spend it on a mine that gives them nothing back."

"I see no light yet," said Geoffrey. "All the same, you have not got
much money back from the Rideau."

"We have paid expenses, and mining's a gamble. You may squander all
your money by holding on, and you may let go a day before the luck
turns. Anyhow, Stayward has refused to sell and the Rideau's, so to
speak, a side venture for the rest of us. So long as we don't lose
money we'll keep things going."

"I rather imagine my uncle kept his shares in order to give me a job."

"He could have given you a job at the coke ovens."

"He said I was not a chemist," Geoffrey replied with a smile. "I
agreed and hinted that anyhow I didn't think I'd take the post. We
were generally pretty frank. But you know my uncle!"

"I have known two or three Staywards; you're an obstinate lot,"
Hilliard rejoined with some dryness. "Has John written to you
recently?"

"Not for some time and he did not tell me much. We don't write often.
I really think we are good friends, but somehow we keep our own
confidence. Until he sent me to Canada, he didn't talk about my plans;
I never asked his."

Hilliard's eyes twinkled. "I reckon I understand. After all, I'm a
North-country man. Well, perhaps you know John has got over the
trouble into which his partner dragged him, and it looks as if he
might get rich. He's now making a dye-stuff that commands the highest
price on the market."

"I'm very glad; he has had a stubborn fight," said Geoffrey, with some
feeling. "Still, it's rather strange to imagine my uncle's getting
rich. He's as frugal as a hermit. I don't know how he'll spend his
money, unless he builds larger works."

"The subject ought to interest you. You are his nearest relation,"
Hilliard remarked.

Geoffrey laughed. "It doesn't really. Of course, I'm his nephew, but I
haven't thought myself his heir. In fact, I don't want to think about
the thing. The money's his, he earned it hard, and I hope he'll enjoy
it long. Besides, I rather imagine we got on because he knew I meant
to take the line I thought best."

"You mean, he knew you expected nothing from him?"

"Yes," said Geoffrey, "I think I did mean something like this."

Hilliard gave him a thoughtful glance. He saw Geoffrey's carelessness
was sincere, and because he knew John Stayward thought he knew his
nephew. Geoffrey was not as shrewd as the other, and did not calculate
so far, but he had a number of John's qualities. Hilliard approved the
young man.

"Did you know your uncle's partner?" he asked.

"I did not, although I met the fellow. A spirit tank exploded, and
when I went to the office, after helping to put out the fire, my uncle
and Creighton were talking. I believe he told Creighton I was his
nephew, but I didn't see the latter. He was sitting by the door and
my eyes were dazzled by the blaze. Then I'd burned my arm and went
behind the partition to wash. I said something across the top and
Creighton answered before I went out another way to get some oil. I
didn't meet him again, but after he went stories got about that my
uncle had not been just. Of course, I knew this wasn't so, and I
wondered why he didn't deny the tales."

Hilliard smiled. "I don't think John often bothered about what people
thought of him. Besides, it would perhaps have hurt to admit he had
been robbed."

He stopped, for Florence came in. She declared they had talked enough
and she felt neglected, and they went with her to the drawing-room.




CHAPTER IX

GEOFFREY'S HOLIDAY


In the morning Geoffrey was occupied in the city with Hilliard, who
said Florence would amuse him after lunch, and in the afternoon they
set out together.

"We'll go to St. Peter's and then to the Mountain," Florence
announced. "Montreal has some fine buildings, but, as a rule, you
can't see them for scaffold poles. Soon after we finish a handsome
block we begin to pull it down, and when we have got the last thing in
pavements fixed somebody lays a new electric main, and we move the
street-car lines about. I suppose one can't have progress without some
mess."

Geoffrey laughed. He imagined Miss Hilliard was talking discursively
in order to give him a start, and he wondered whether she found him
dull. She was very pretty, her summer clothes were fashionable, and
she wore, without its being too marked, a stamp of confidence. One
felt Miss Hilliard knew her value. Yet Geoffrey liked her and thought
she meant to be kind.

"You are progressive," he replied. "It's strange, but your
temperament's not ours. America's your model."

"It looks like that. I expect we do copy our neighbors; the long, open
frontier unites us. There's not a fort or strong camp all the way
across. But we're not American; when you get to know us, our type's
different. So far as we are British, I think we get our
characteristics from the Scots. We weigh a bargain long; while we seem
to hustle, we're really not quick to move, but when we do get started
we don't stop. Perhaps you ought to understand us. Don't you come from
the Scottish border?"

"In Cumberland, we are rather hard to move. All the same, we certainly
don't pull things down until we are forced. Our object is to make
things last; we're a frugal lot."

"Yet I imagine you, yourself, can move," Florence remarked. "For
example, didn't you get about pretty fast, the night the Forks gang
tried to put you off the claim?"

"Then you knew about that?" Geoffrey said, with surprise.

Florence gave him an amused glance. "Of course! I'm a girl and
curious. You're a man--I really think you forgot you met me. They
don't all."

"I'm afraid I'm sometimes dull, but I only talked to you for three or
four minutes. Then I was kept occupied at the mine----"

"Yes," said Florence, "one's occupation comes first! Although the
thing's not flattering, I suppose it ought. However, we'll cross the
street. St. Peter's isn't old yet, but I like it. It's calm."

When she took him into the cathedral, Geoffrey agreed. The domed
building had dignity. It was not like the ornate, Gothic, Notre Dame;
one got a sense of austere quietness and strength. They went about in
silence, trying instinctively to soften their echoing steps, and when
at length they reached the square outside Florence gave Geoffrey an
approving glance.

"St. Peter's takes one back to the great beginning," she said. "The
note it strikes drowns the little noisy quarrels of our Orangemen and
the Catholic _habitants_. Our Cathedral stands for Canada, the land of
wide plains and limitless quiet pines. A big clean, new country! One
wonders what we'll make of it!"

They crossed the square and Geoffrey indicated the steep, wooded
slopes in front.

"How does one get up the Mountain?" he asked.

"It depends on your age and temperament. There's an elevator and there
are cabs, but sensible people walk. The automobile habit's insidious.
I walk when I can."

Geoffrey noted her light step and the way she carried herself. It was
a new and pleasing experience to move in harmony with a companion like
this, and he wondered when he had walked beside an attractive girl
before. Perhaps it was strange, but he could not remember. He began to
think he had missed much. Then he looked about as they skirted the
bottom of the hill; at the fine stone houses with pillared stoops and
unfenced lawns where nickeled sprinklers threw glistening showers
across the grass; at the trees that shaded the sidewalks, and the
fresh green of climbing woods in the background.

Florence stopped in front of the shining walls of McGill, and he
admitted that the famous college stood grandly on the slope above the
town. Then they went up by roads that wound through the murmuring wood
while the warm wind shook the branches and sunshine and shadow
checkered their path. After his concentrated labor in the snowy
wilds, Geoffrey responded to the call of Spring. His blood stirred and
he felt a new exhilaration. For a time, he had done with work, and he
meant to get all the satisfaction his rare holiday could give.
Afterwards, he wondered how far Florence's society accounted for his
buoyant mood. He liked her gay laugh; her voice broke charmingly
through the rustle of the leaves. The wood had not much beauty, since
the trees were small. There were no flowers, and in places the ground
was trodden bare.

At the top they reached a platform bordering the steep edge of the
hill. Benches ran along the parapet; behind were stalls for the sale
of photographs, Indian curiosities, and enameled silver. Geoffrey
bought one or two articles blazoned with the arms of the provinces;
the Maple leaf, the Ship, the Wheat-sheaves. When he brought them
rather diffidently to Florence, she gave him a curious, smiling
glance.

"They're pretty and I like your choice. Perhaps you know this enameled
ware is rather good."

"I didn't know. The warm color on the white metal took my eye. Still
I'm glad you're pleased--you see, I hesitated."

Florence laughed. "Because you know the woods, but not our cities?
Well, perhaps your hesitation was rather nice. I wonder whether you
have often brought pretty things for a girl."

"I have not," said Geoffrey. "Now I come to think of it, I sometimes
envied men from whom girls took gifts. All the same, I really think
you didn't wonder much."

"Do you mean your temperament's obvious? Had you not friends in
England?"

"A few men," said Geoffrey, with thoughtful frankness. "They were, for
the most part, men with whom I worked. You see, I was poor and
ambitious. There was nobody who could help; I must concentrate on
making my career. But you'll soon get bored----"

He stopped and turned his head to look across the spacious landscape.
The city, dotted by green squares and rows of trees, crept up to the
Mountain's foot. It was not dingy, like English cities, for there was
no smoke, and the blocks of tall buildings, dwarfed by distance, stood
out sharply, silver-gray and red. One noted the C.P.R. station, the
dome of the cathedral, and the towers of Notre Dame. The great river,
shining like a silver belt, formed the city's boundary. On the other
side, the plain rolled back, in shades of fading color, until the
hills of Vermont, ethereally blue, cut the dim horizon. In the
foreground, a big liner moved up stream and the smoke of locomotives
drifted about the water-front.

"It's a noble view," he remarked. "Perhaps our misty hills, where the
colors change as every cloud sails past, are more beautiful; but
there's something about the Canadian landscape that ours has not got.
Something that braces you and gives you confidence. I expect your
clear skies account for this."

Florence smiled. "We were not talking about the Canadian landscape.
I'm curious. Tell me about your life in the Old Country."

Geoffrey told her; drawing with unconscious skill the ugliness of the
mining towns and the sternness of Nethercleugh. Florence thought the
tale dreary, although it seized her interest. The man had lived to
work. She was vaguely sorry for him.

"Well," she said, "it's plain you saw where you meant to go, and did
not look back. I don't think you often looked about. One gets forward
when one marches light, with eyes fixed ahead, but to travel like that
has drawbacks. Did you not feel the trail was lonely?" She paused and
gave him a direct glance. "I'm not bored at all. You're rather a new
type. I want you to talk."

"The strange thing is, I see now I was lonely; I didn't feel it then."

"But did you never meet somebody who needed companionship, or perhaps
needed help? I mean a woman----"

Geoffrey hesitated and as he looked out across the wide Laurentian
plain the shining river faded and the Vermont hills got dim. He knew
what he was going to see, and the picture came; the red heath above
Nethercleugh and a girl with a violin case toiling along the dusty
road. He wondered whether he could draw the picture for Florence, and
he tried.

"She looked lonely and somehow pathetic, and I stopped," he said. "We
talked while I mended the bicycle. It was plain that she had pluck,
but I think she found the road was long, and was getting tired." He
paused and added naively: "I don't mean she was bodily tired, though
this was obvious."

"So you stopped and helped her on?" Florence remarked in a sympathetic
voice. "Well, I suppose it was something; perhaps it was much. But was
that chance meeting all the romance you know?"

"In a way, it was not romantic. The side-car was empty; her boot
hurt. I don't know who she was and never saw her afterwards."

"But you have not forgotten? I wonder if she has----"

"Perhaps it doesn't matter much," said Geoffrey. "I don't expect we'll
meet again."

Florence smiled, a friendly smile. "You're not a sentimentalist, but a
touch of sentiment sometimes takes one far. After all, an engineer
needs imagination."

"To-day, I'm not an engineer. I left my occupation when I left the
mine. The winter's gone, the sun shines, and I feel like a boy who has
got out of school. I want to do something----"

"I think I know," Florence remarked. "Have you any particular plan?"

"None at all. It ought to be something fresh and not too sober.
Something frivolous and up-to-date, if you understand!"

"There's Dominion Park," said Florence thoughtfully. "In the evening,
it's quite up-to-date, and not remarkably sober."

"What's the Dominion Park?"

"A friend of mine calls it a pandemonium. Colored lights, side-shows,
music and noise; something like Coney Island with a subdued touch of
the _Moulin Rouge_! Anyway, it's one of our popular shows. If you
like, I'll take you. We'll go by street-car and not in the automobile.
You see, although father doesn't meddle much, he's English, and I
doubt if he'd approve."

Geoffrey pondered and Florence laughed. "Oh," she said, "I'm modern
and like adventure. You declared you had got out of school, and
to-night we'll both be truants for an hour."

Soon afterwards they left the platform and went down through the wood.
When dinner was over and the big lamps began to burn among the trees
in the avenue, they stole from the house and got a street-car at the
Grand Trunk station.

Geoffrey found Dominion Park all that Florence had said, but his
sharpest memories dwelt upon her frank enjoyment and his buoyant
spirits. He noted her gay confidence, her keen curiosity, and her
rather startling knowledge of human nature. In fact, he got
illumination, without a jar. He had not thought girls of Miss
Hilliard's stamp were like that, but his study of her persuaded him
the freedom was good.

For the rest, he was somehow moved by the glaring lights, the women's
summer dress, the music, and the noise. The shadows between the big
lamps gave a hint of mystery to the scene, and just outside the
glitter, the great river, touched by confused reflections, rolled into
the gloom. When for a few moments the noise got less, one heard the
current wash among the reeds.

Florence took him into side-shows and they shot with rifles for tinsel
prizes. In an interval, they went to the water's edge and watched a
liner forge up stream. Her long hull was pierced by innumerable
lights, set in rows that marked her flowing lines and tiers of
passenger decks. She looked like a fairy palace, not a ship. The great
funnels and boat-deck loomed, vague and mysterious, high up in the
dark. When she steamed past the deep throb of engines and measured
beat of propellers drowned the noise of the bands. Her long lines
fore-shortened, the displaced water broke in angry waves against the
bank, and Florence and Geoffrey went back to the crowd. The girl
stopped and watched the moving figures.

"They swarm like ants, but they are playing, and the ants work," she
said. "Men with brains and men with muscle built that splendid ship.
Isn't it rather fine to be an engineer?"

"Sometimes it's a strenuous, and sometimes a dreary, job," Geoffrey
replied. "Now, however, I'm out for a holiday."

They entered a noisy show and by and by left the park. The street-car
was crowded, but the journey across the town had a thrill for
Geoffrey. It was strange, he thought, but he had not before enjoyed an
evening's gay amusement with an attractive girl. Still, he must be
satisfied with his first experiment. Girls like Florence Hilliard were
not numerous, and in a few days he must resume his work in the lonely
North.

When they reached the house Florence left him outside Hilliard's
smoking-room. She said nothing, but she smiled and made a sign, and
Geoffrey, understanding, felt their stolen adventure was a tie. All
the same, it was done with, and he went in to talk to Hilliard about
silver ore.

Florence and Hilliard went with him to the station when he returned to
the mine, and the girl gave him her hand and wished him good luck.
Looking back from a lurching platform as the cars rolled out, he saw
her wave to him, and lifted his cap. Then he went to the
smoking-compartment and lighted up his pipe. He had enjoyed his
holiday, but it was over. Florence was kind; he had owned his path
was lonely, and she had cheered and sent him on his way with a lighter
heart. This was all. She was a rich man's daughter, and he was the
manager of an unprofitable mine.




CHAPTER X

CARSON'S ADVICE


Summer was going, and the sun was low, but the evening was very hot.
The Whitefish had shrunk and a few threads of water marked the front
of the Rideau fall. Its roar had dropped to a faint splash that hardly
broke the silence of the bush. Not a breath of air touched the
clearing and the pine-tops were motionless, but Geoffrey, standing by
the pool, thought he heard angry voices and put down his rod. When the
shadow crept across the eddies he had gone fishing.

He looked at his watch and saw he had been longer than he thought. It
was a few minutes after supper time and the men had stopped work. Some
had labored on the ore dump in the scorching sun, and Geoffrey
imagined he knew the grounds for their discontent. They were tired and
hungry, and supper was not served. This had happened before and
Geoffrey, feeling himself accountable, climbed the steep bank. At the
top he met Ross.

"The boys are getting riled," the foreman remarked. "They like old
Tom, but they won't stand for waiting for their hash. I've put him
wise, but maybe you'd better----"

"I'll see him about it," Geoffrey replied.

Somebody hammered an iron sheet, and while the noise rang across the
woods groups of men hurried towards the bunk house. Geoffrey joined
them at their meal; the rough tables had been carried outside, for it
was cooler in the open than in the low shack. The food was good and
plentiful, and when they had drained the last can of strong green tea
the men's annoyance had vanished. For all that, Geoffrey presently
crossed the clearing to the edge of the bush, where Carson was
occupied.

The pines threw long shadows across the rows of stumps, among which
fern and wild berries grew. Here and there a sunbeam, piercing an
opening, touched with glowing color a straight trunk, and a trail of
blue vapor, very faint and diaphanous, floated across the light. The
vapor came from a small clay furnace, in front of which Carson fanned
his charcoal fire with rude bellows. He wore an old slate-colored
shirt, such as railroad hands use, greasy overall trousers, and broken
long boots. His look was intent and he did not move when Geoffrey sat
down.

"Supper was late again, Tom, and the boys were grumbling. You mustn't
make them wait," Geoffrey remarked.

"Sorry," said Carson. "Don't talk for a few minutes, please!"

Geoffrey lighted his pipe. He meant to see that meals were punctual,
but he rather sympathized with Carson. The fellow was very keen about
his experiments. After a time, Carson took a small crucible from the
furnace and putting it aside to cool, turned to Geoffrey.

"I forgot the time. I'd got the heat I wanted, and if I hadn't used
it, might have been forced to blow for an hour after the fire got
down. Besides, if I'd kept the crucible white-hot, the stuff would
have oxidized."

"All the same, you mustn't neglect the boys' supper."

"Very well! I'm cook, not chemist. I meant to remember this, but when
you get on the track of a new combination it's strangely hard to
stop."

Geoffrey nodded, for he knew the lure of absorbing work. He thought he
was fortunate, because he could concentrate on his proper business,
but Carson could not. It was three months since his short visit to
Montreal, and sometimes he could hardly persuade himself that he had
gone. His strange, buoyant mood had vanished when he returned to the
mine, and when he looked back to the few joyous days he felt as if
somebody else had gone with Florence to Dominion Park.

"I'd have liked to give you proper time for your experiments and
better pay," he said. "In fact, I talked about it to Hilliard, but he
declared the mine was small, and when they wanted an analysis they
went to an assayer. Then he hinted that my business was to cut down
expenses."

"When you open a mine you must trust your luck and spend," Carson
rejoined. "If the Rideau does not pay, why do the directors hold on?"

"They'll hold on so long as they don't lose money."

"You mean they'll try to be satisfied with the very small profit you
earn?"

"I imagine so," Geoffrey agreed. "Hilliard said something about the
Forks people's wanting to buy our block, but at a price that would not
give the investors their money back."

Carson looked at him thoughtfully. "Your employers are a cautious
lot! They haven't the miner's pluck. Well, I expect you see the Forks
gang's inducement to keep things going is smaller than yours. Yet they
don't stop."

"Their obstinacy's puzzling," Geoffrey admitted.

"Doesn't it look as if they imagined there was some useful metal in
the vein that you don't know about?"

"The thing's obvious. You could go farther; they think there's more of
the stuff in the Rideau property than in theirs. All the same, I can't
imagine what the metal is. Can you?"

Carson was silent for a few moments and Geoffrey saw he was thinking
hard. His lined face was rather grim, and his look indicated that his
thoughts were disturbing.

"Had it been twenty years since, I believe I'd have solved the
puzzle," he said. "I've lost and squandered much. Indulgence and
hardship are blunting, and when you get old it's too late to pick up
threads you broke. Well, I don't know what the metal is; I'm trying to
find out."

Geoffrey filled his pipe again. It was getting dark and the mosquitoes
bothered him, but his work for the day was done, and the faint wind
that began to move the pine-tops was cool. He liked the smells that
drifted out of the gloom and the languid splash of the fall was
soothing. The charcoal fire glowed brighter in the shadow, and its
reflection touched Carson's face.

Something in his look roused Geoffrey's sympathy. The fellow was, no
doubt, paying for past slackness, but to pay was hard. Now he was old
he needed the talents he had carelessly squandered. Yet, although his
eyes and brain were dull and his hands had lost their delicate touch,
his occupation called. The man who had commanded the resources of
modern laboratories was working with rude and broken tools because he
felt he must.

"How far have your experiments carried you?" Geoffrey asked after a
time.

"Some distance," said Carson quietly. "I've found your assayer's
analysis roughly accurate; that is, the percentage of silver and
non-metallic elements. The problem's in the residue your man
neglects."

"Then, if the Forks people expect to find a metal there, it must be
valuable. Allowing for alloys, there's not much stuff in four or five
per cent. to pay for refining."

"That's plain," said Carson, with some dryness. "I may find a clue,
and I may not. Sometimes I feel I'm near it. The trouble is, I'm
forced to cook."

"I'm afraid you must. The directors turned down my suggestion that you
might take your proper job on business lines."

Carson smiled. "Research with a commercial object palled before."

"After all, running a mine is a business proposition," Geoffrey
rejoined. "Well, I don't know if you want a reward or not, but I think
I can promise that if you find out something useful, you will gain.
Now we'll let the thing go. You mustn't keep the boys waiting for
meals."

He knocked out his pipe and went off, but at the door of his room he
turned and saw Carson sitting motionless by his furnace. His bent
figure was outlined against the dull glow; he looked absorbed.
Geoffrey hoped he would get things ready for breakfast and went to
bed.

Breakfast was served at the proper time, and afterwards meals were
punctual. Carson was generally occupied by cooking, and Geoffrey
imagined he had lost his keenness for research. Indeed, he began to
wonder whether the fellow was not finding out that he had been the
victim of an illusion. He, however, reflected that if one took this
for granted, there was nothing to explain the Forks manager's
curiosity about the Rideau mine.

The weather soon got cold. For a week or two, great flocks of ducks
and Brant geese crossed the Whitefish, flying south, and then in the
mornings the pines glittered with frost. A little dry snow fell, ice
began to gather in the slack below the fall, and it was obvious that
Carson could not carry on his open air laboratory. Geoffrey told him
he might use his room when he went down the shaft, and Carson thanked
him but said nothing about his experiments.

Then, one day when the frost was Arctic and all the pines were white,
Geoffrey got a letter from Hilliard. In the evening, he sat by the
stove and pondered the letter.

"The Forks Company offer to buy the Rideau at a price that would give
a small profit on our investment," Hilliard stated. "We can't raise
them, and they hint we had better sell; our boundary survey and
frontage, as given in the patent, is open to dispute, and so forth. It
looks as if they want the mine, and if they have money to burn, they
might make us spend a good sum in law expenses. My partners don't like
to be bluffed, but since they see a chance of getting out with a
profit, we resolved to let you know and will weigh your views."

Geoffrey folded the letter and knitted his brows. To begin with, he
admitted that his views were not worth much. He did not want to give
up his post, but if he advised the directors to hold on and the ore
did not get much better, the responsibility for losing a favorable
chance of selling the mine would be his. It was plain that much
depended on the quality of the ore he raised in the next few months,
but he frankly owned he did not know if the rock he had not yet bored
was better than the rest. In fact, he had nothing to go upon but his
cook's rather strange persuasion that there was valuable metal in the
lode. By and by he sent for Carson and read the letter to him.

"I can't see my way," he said. "If I urge it, I think the directors
will refuse. However, the prudent line is to sell."

"You are not rash," Carson remarked. "For all that, caution's a
handicap. One can't get far unless one runs some risk."

"In this case, somebody else will run the risk. I'd gamble with my
employer's money."

"That is so. All mining's a gamble. Your uncle's a shareholder. What
line do you think he would take?"

Geoffrey looked up with surprise. So far as he could remember, he had
not told Carson about Stayward. He, however, let this go.

"My uncle certainly does not like to be bluffed. I don't imagine he'd
sell his property because the buyers threatened him. He's not that
kind of man." Carson smiled. "Very well. My advice is, stick to the
mine."

"Let's be frank. Have you found out something fresh?"

"In a sense, I have not, but I've got a very curious reaction the
tests I made before did not give, and feel I'm on the right track.
Wait another two or three weeks, and I'll engage to tell you something
that will justify your holding on."

"You'll _engage_ to tell me?"

"Yes. It's a firm promise. I don't think you'll regret you refused the
Forks Company's offer."

Geoffrey said nothing and after a few moments Carson resumed: "To make
a plunge costs something, and one understands why you hesitate. The
safe plan is to sell, and you know nothing about me except that I
claim to be a chemist. I haven't supported my claim yet, and my idea
that the vein carries a valuable metal may be an illusion. I'm a
broken man, a knockabout camp cook. To trust me enough to urge your
employers to keep the mine, because I recommend it, would be
ridiculous."

"Well," said Geoffrey, "I must admit I did argue like this."

Carson gave him a strange smile. "All the same, if you tell the
directors to hold, it will pay you. I _am_ a chemist, and although I
was a better chemist once, all my skill has not gone. Besides, I owe
you something; perhaps more than you know."

Geoffrey looked at him hard, and getting up threw fresh wood in the
stove. For a moment or two he stood motionless, knitting his brows.
Then he said, "In a sense, it is ridiculous, but I'll tell Hilliard
to keep the mine."

He let Carson go, and sitting down wrote a telegram to Montreal:--

"Hold. Wait my letter."

To take the plunge was something of a relief. It was too late to
doubt; he must go forward resolutely. For all that, Geoffrey felt he
had put off an awkward job. He had promised to write to Hilliard and
since the settlement was some distance off, his letter must go with
the telegram. In the morning he must justify the bold line he had
taken, and he did not know what arguments he could use.




CHAPTER XI

GEOFFREY'S TRIUMPH


There was no wind, the men in the bunk house were asleep, and all was
very quiet in Geoffrey's room. The stove shone dull-red and the smell
of hot iron drowned the resinous scent of the logs, but Geoffrey wore
his skin coat and shivered now and then. The table was covered with
bits of roasted ore, bottles of acid, and glass retorts, and Carson
crouched beside the open front of the stove. He said nothing, but his
look was intent as he watched a small crucible.

Geoffrey was tired and dull. It was nearly midnight, but curiosity
conquered his drowsiness. Carson had told him the experiment he was
now making would give him a clue to the puzzle that had bothered them
long. Geoffrey doubted. Carson had said something like this before.
Besides, he had not kept his promise; the stipulated time was gone,
and if he was, as he declared, on the right track, it had led him
nowhere yet. Indeed, Geoffrey wondered whether Hilliard was annoyed he
had been persuaded not to sell the mine.

All the same, it was perhaps important that Pelton had recently driven
his tunnel into the Rideau block. Geoffrey knew this by the muffled
noise that pierced the stone. The Forks gang, with strange obstinacy,
were again working the top of the lode. Geoffrey did not expostulate
about their trespassing. The ore was poor, and he waited one night
until he knew the Forks men had gone; and then, when all was quiet,
fired a heavy shot. The explosion blocked his tunnel, but this did not
matter, since he had begun to build another, and he imagined the shot
had destroyed his antagonist's.

Presently Carson took out the crucible, and skimming off some dross,
shook the rest of the material into a retort. He looked excited, and
when by and by he poured some acid on the small gray lumps his face
was strangely intent. Geoffrey, however, said nothing and tried to be
calm. He was not going to let Carson's optimism cheat him again. Yet
calmness was hard. Carson looked confident; although his hands shook
when he began the experiment, his touch was now firm. One felt the
fellow was satisfied.

For half an hour he occupied himself with his apparatus, and then
quietly put down a glass tube he had heated.

"_I have got it_," he said.

Geoffrey looked at him sharply and saw his eyes shone.

"What have you got?"

"The metal that eluded me. I knew it was there a month since, but
couldn't break up the combination. Now I've reduced it to a simple
oxide. I've made different tests and all agree."

"Ah!" said Geoffrey. "What is the metal? Will it pay to smelt? The
quantity must be small."

"It's called Millinicum. Mills, the analyst, first discovered it. The
stuff has not been found combined with silver. The price is very high;
any quantity will pay to smelt."

Geoffrey thrilled. He had heard about Millinicum and knew its
importance.

"It looks as if the Forks people knew," he said. "Now one sees why
they wanted the Rideau!"

"They did know. I think their working the top of the vein gave me the
first hint. The new metal's specific gravity and melting point are
low; one would expect to find it above heavier ore. There's another
thing; you'll get the richest stuff by abandoning the headings you've
cut, and boring the other way, where the lode is highest. In fact, an
open cut from the surface might give the best results. But this is
your business; I'm not an engineer."

"I'm not a chemist, but I think I understand," Geoffrey remarked. "A
light metal, that melts and vaporizes soon, would occupy the top of
the vein when the mass consolidated after the subterranean fire that
forced it up had cooled."

He stopped and pondered for a few moments. "The thing means a
remodeling of our working plans," he resumed. "Perhaps we'll need
fresh capital. I must see Hilliard and persuade him the venture's
warranted. Are you satisfied about your analysis?"

Carson smiled. "One is sometimes cheated, but I've recorded my
experiments and you can take my notes to somebody your directors
trust. Pay a big fee and go to the best man in Canada. If you like,
I'll give you his name. I think he'll tell you I am right."

"I'll get off in the morning," said Geoffrey quietly. He was excited,
but meant to use stern control. "I'll stop at Ottawa," he added. "Our
patent gives us the silver and any lead and copper in the alloy, but
it may be needful to file a fresh discovery claim for the new metal,
and I'll see the head of the Crown minerals office. But you're the
real discoverer."

"Oh, well," said Carson, giving him a curious glance, "I owe you
something, and didn't work for a reward. It was, so to speak, my last
opportunity to justify myself. However, if the directors offer me
shares of money, I won't refuse. I would like to send a sum to
somebody in England who loved me well."

For a moment or two he was quiet and his look got strangely gentle.
The stamp of hardship and indulgence vanished and his eyes were soft.
Then he got up and methodically put away his bottles and retorts.

"In the morning I'll give you my notes and all I think you'll need,"
he said and went out.

At daybreak Geoffrey and two miners took the trail. When his
companions were ready to start he gave Carson his hand, and the other
touched his old fur cap as the little party moved off. Geoffrey
imagined the salute was a formal recognition of his authority and was
somewhat moved. After all, his cook was an Old Country gentleman. At
the edge of the bush, Geoffrey looked back. Carson stood in the snow,
watching him. His figure was bent, his skin coat was ragged, but
somehow he had a touch of dignity. Geoffrey remembered this
afterwards.

The frost was bitter and light snow fell, but the party reached the
railroad settlement and Geoffrey stopped next day at Ottawa. Then he
went on to Montreal, and in the evening he and Hilliard talked in the
latter's smoking-room.

"You have done well," Hilliard remarked at length. "If your cook's
analysis proves accurate, we won't have much trouble to get the money
we need to remodel our mining plans and build a smelter. Stayward will
help us. When he sent you out he said we could trust you and now I
think he'll be satisfied."

Geoffrey colored. He was young and to think he had won the stern old
man's approval was something.

"Can he help?" he asked.

"I imagine so," Hilliard answered with a smile. "It looks as if John
were rich. You know about the dye he was the first to produce cheaply.
Well, the stuff is getting famous, and a big combine is negotiating to
take over his works. I understand Stayward is willing. He knows when
to buy and when to sell. However, I think Florence is waiting for us.
We'll talk about your uncle again."

They went to the drawing-room and when Hilliard was called to the
telephone Florence said to Geoffrey:

"You have made good. How does it feel to come back in triumph?"

"The triumph is not altogether won, though I think we'll put it over,"
Geoffrey replied. "On the whole, I'm half surprised we pulled it off.
Anyhow, it's the first really big thing in which I've helped, and when
one's friends are kind----"

"I think you're rather nice, and you haven't disappointed us, although
after your uncle's remarks about you, we expected much."

"It's strange. John Stayward never said much to me about his belief in
my talents."

"He is your uncle; perhaps this accounts for something. One's
relations often use a cautious reserve. They feel their approval might
lose its value if it was given frankly, and only indulge their family
pride when they talk to strangers. All the same, I expect he's glad to
own you have made good."

"I was lucky and ran some risks. For one thing, I trusted my camp
cook. He found the metal."

"One must run risks," Florence remarked "People who hesitate don't go
far. Then to know whom you can trust is something of a gift. However,
I mustn't philosophize. You have got sober in the woods and need a
holiday."

"My last holiday was glorious," Geoffrey declared. "Can't we go to
Dominion Park again?"

Florence smiled, rather curiously. "Dominion Park's a summer festival,
and summer is gone. Besides, you can't recapture a mood."

"I wonder--. Well, perhaps the thing's impossible, but that evening's
adventure was exhilarating. It made work lighter and helped me
forward."

"For a time!" said Florence, giving him a level glance. "Then the work
did not need lightening and resumed its claim. You forgot you had
neglected your occupation for a frivolous week?"

Geoffrey was honest. Moreover, he saw Florence knew him, although her
doing so was strange.

"After all, one doesn't control a mine for nothing, and one must pay
for making good," he said. "I expect it generally implies concentrated
effort."

"You were willing to concentrate and you have made good. You ought to
be satisfied," Florence rejoined. "Well, we can't go to Dominion Park,
and if we could, we'd probably find it vulgar and noisy; but I'll take
you to the toboggan slide. The amusement you'll get there is of
another kind."

Then Hilliard came back, and when Geoffrey went to his room he sat for
a time by the radiator, thinking rather hard, but not about the mine.
He liked Florence Hilliard. She was clever, bright, and kind, and he
could not forget altogether the holiday she had helped him to enjoy,
although he had forgotten for a time. Indeed, when he started for
Montreal he had looked forward with keen satisfaction to meeting her
again. All the same, it was perhaps important that he had not thought
about her much until he left the mine. The strange thing was, she
seemed to know this.

She had generously welcomed his success, and he thought her sympathy
sincere. She was friendly, but he felt an elusive difference in her
attitude. On his other visit she had been his frank, inspiring
comrade; for example, without her he would have been bored by the
noise and glitter at Dominion Park. Yet she had declared that one
could not recapture a mood and summer had gone. He wondered what she
meant, but thought he half understood.

Well, suppose their comradeship had gone as far as it could go? There
was another, closer relation. Florence was all that he approved, and
he had now begun to make his mark, and imagined he was a rich man's
heir. His drawbacks were vanishing and, from one point of view, the
advantages of his marrying Florence were plain. He began to weigh them
coolly, and then pulled himself up and smiled, for he felt his
coolness was significant. Then he looked at his watch and went to bed.

Next afternoon Florence took him to the toboggan slide on a slope of
the Mountain, and at the top brought a small sledge to the edge of the
run. The straight track, beaten in the snow, looked remarkably steep,
and near the bottom, vanished at the brow of a sharper pitch. Geoffrey
wondered how far the toboggan would plunge when it leaped the bank.

A young man and a girl, lying flat, went down on another sledge, and
Geoffrey watched their swift descent. He heard the steel runners
scream and saw fine snow curl up like foam. One got a sense of furious
speed, and then the toboggan jumped the edge below and vanished.
Geoffrey turned and saw Florence looking at him with a smile.

"The slide's pretty fast to-day," she said. "If you're ready, get on
first and give me room."

"I suppose I'm a passenger?" Geoffrey remarked.

"That's all," said Florence, with a twinkle. "I imagine you don't like
to leave control to a girl, but tobogganing's like mining. One must
learn the rules."

"I expect that's so," Geoffrey agreed. "Well, I got a thrill at
Dominion Park and expect another now. It looks as if you had some
talent for thrilling people."

"Get on board and hold fast," Florence commanded. "This thrill is
going to be different; you ought to like it better."

Lying on the tail boards, with feet in the snow, she pushed off the
sledge, and when it gathered speed Geoffrey gasped for breath. An icy
wind swept up the slide; dusty snow that stung the skin whipped his
face. He felt the sledge rock, and now and then heard the runners, but
it was difficult to imagine they traveled on the ground. One seemed to
be flying; the speed was tremendous. Yet the sledge was narrow and
would easily capsize. Geoffrey was an engineer and had half
consciously measured its width. He knew a long, narrow object going
very fast must turn over if it did not go straight.

The sledge went straight. Geoffrey could not see his companion, but he
felt her firm control. A moment's hesitation or unsteadiness and they
would be hurled off, but the light frame to which they clung sped on
without swerving. Geoffrey was confident; Florence was a girl to trust
when nerve was required. He laughed with strange excitement when they
reached the edge of the dip. A shower of snow beat his lowered head;
he heard the wind scream and the runners hiss as they hit the ice. The
snow had been ground down and beaten until it turned to ice. Then the
sledge leaped out. There was nothing beneath the runners; the thing
was flying. The cold pierced his furs, the speed cut his breath, and
then he felt they were on the ground. He could not see; it was
impossible to look ahead. All he could do was to hold fast.

The strange excitement lasted for a few moments, and then the sledge
tilted up and slowed. Geoffrey moved and tried to look about. Florence
shouted, there was a jerk, and Geoffrey, thrown forward, rolled in the
snow. He did not stop for a moment or two, and when he got on his feet
and picked up his cap Florence stood smiling at him a short distance
off.

"You should have conquered your curiosity," she remarked. "One must
trust the person who runs the machine."

"It's obvious," Geoffrey agreed. "I oughtn't to have moved, but it
wasn't from want of confidence. You see, I've got the habit of
controlling things, myself. I've generally been forced."

Florence laughed. "Then perhaps it's strange we haven't jarred, but
our business is to get back to the top. I expect you'll find coming
down was easier."

"That's often so," said Geoffrey. "Anyhow, I'll own you boss and I can
obey orders now and then. Shall I take the trace and pull?"

She nodded, and he began to haul the toboggan up the incline. There
was a track, where the snow was loose, near the slide, and he went up
with the light step and easy balance of a mountaineer. Florence walked
close by. She wore a thick blanket-dress, and the swift descent had
brought the color to her skin and a sparkle to her eyes. She looked
strangely alert and virile, and Geoffrey felt her charm. For all that,
he half-consciously resisted. The thing was puzzling, and with an
effort to banish his thoughts he looked up the hill.

The sun was setting, and in places faint rose-pink reflections touched
the snow. Outside the light, it glimmered with soft shades of blue.
The trees, bending under their white load, sparkled where a branch
caught a slanting beam, and here and there one saw the saffron sky
between their trunks. The slide was in the shadow. It ran straight up
hill, and, vanishing over the edge of an easier incline, gave one the
illusion of its being very long. Marked by the blue line of the
toboggan track, it looked like a road that led up to the sky. While
Geoffrey plodded up the illusion got stronger and his imagination
began to work. The glittering white and cold blue faded and the slope
of the Laurentian hill got dim. He knew he was going to picture
another road that ran into the sky. In another moment he would see a
lonely figure on the crest of the rise in front. He pulled himself up
and turned to Florence.

"Canada's a hard country and our winter's long," she said. "You're
thinking about England."

"I really was," he owned. "I don't know how you know."

She laughed. "Oh, well, you're rather obvious, Mr. Lisle. However,
when the Rideau mine is famous, you can, of course, go back to the
English hills and Nethercleugh."

"I wonder--I don't know yet. After all, I was sometimes lonely in
England; in Canada, I have friends."

"One meets people one likes," Florence remarked. "For a time, perhaps,
one travels in company; then the others stop or take another trail.
Sometimes one gives them a friendly greeting and that's all."

"It's much," said Geoffrey. "A friendly greeting helps the traveler.
But it's strange you knew I was thinking about a road."

"The road was in the Old Country," Florence replied. "You'll go back
and take that way again. Perhaps it won't be lonely. When you start,
your Canadian friends will wish you good-luck." She paused and, for
they had crossed the ledge, looked up to the stages where the
toboggans went off. "Now push along," she resumed. "It will soon be
dark and we're some distance from the top."

Geoffrey tugged at the sledge-trace and said nothing. Florence was
clever and he thought she had an object for her humorous philosophy.
In a sense, perhaps, she liked him, and her friendly greeting had
helped him on his way, but he imagined she meant to intimate that his
way was not hers. Well, if she left him where the trail forked, he
would remember her long.




CHAPTER XII

CARSON'S LAST JOURNEY


Darkness was creeping across the woods, the sledge ran heavily, and
the team labored over the beaten snow. The trail, however, was clearly
marked, since the traffic between the Forks and the settlement had
kept it open, and the freighter was bringing up a load of machines and
tools Geoffrey had bought at Montreal. Another lot was on board the
cars, for Hilliard had approved the spending of the rather large sum
Geoffrey thought necessary to develop the mine.

He walked beside the half-breed freighter, who urged on his tired
horses in uncouth French. Frost glittered on the men's furs and their
breath floated in a white cloud about their heads. Their hands and
feet were numb, but they expected to reach the Forks soon after dark.
Plodding forward doggedly, Geoffrey looked about and mused. The bush
was thin and a bright new moon hung in the clear sky. The snow
sparkled faintly and the pines stood out like small dark spires. One
could see far back into the shadow between the trunks.

Geoffrey dwelt upon his stop at Montreal, which he had frankly
enjoyed. After working long for small pay, it was soothing to feel
that he had made good and forced his employers to own his talent. Then
Florence's generous satisfaction had made his sense of triumph
keener. She was very kind, but he had felt she was not the girl he had
met on his first visit. Geoffrey pondered this.

Her charm was strong, but he had somehow braced himself against her
and he began to think she knew he had done so. All the same, she liked
him and perhaps, at the beginning, had he pursued her resolutely she
might have given way. But he had not pursued, and now he felt she had,
so to speak, let him go. Yet they were friends and he knew their
friendship would last. Geoffrey owned himself romantic and perhaps
ridiculous. Florence had beauty and qualities he admired, but between
him and her stood the memory of a tired girl whom he might not see
again. After all, he imagined Florence knew this. She was clever and
had declared he was rather obvious. Well, he had been honest, and if
he had been rash, the thing was done with. Florence Hilliard was not
for him.

Geoffrey began to think about Carson. In a sense, his triumph was
really Carson's. The fellow had found the metal that would make the
Rideau mine famous and was entitled to his reward. He had not
stipulated for a reward, but Geoffrey had talked about it to Hilliard,
who agreed that if much profit was earned when they refined the metal,
a part must go to its discoverer. In the meantime, one could not fix a
sum.

For all that the sum would not be small and Geoffrey wondered how
Carson would spend the money. The old fellow had long been poor; he
had lost his friends, and wore the stamp of hardship. If he went back
to the Old Country, he would be a stranger in the circle to which he
had belonged. There was something pathetic about it. One felt that
Carson had mended his broken fortune too late.

Then a pale gleam among the trunks caught Geoffrey's eye and he
touched the freighter who urged his team. The tired horses strained at
the traces and the sledge lurched forward. The gleam got brighter and
broke into separate lights, and presently the low shape of the bunk
house loomed ahead. Geoffrey left the freighter and went to his room.

The lamp was lighted, the red stove snapped, and Geoffrey, throwing
off his coat, dropped limply into a chair. The dry warmth made his
head swim and the smell of wood and hot iron was nauseating. When one
was numbed and exhausted by a long march across the snow, the reaction
was sharp. After a minute or two, a man whom Geoffrey had not seen
before came in.

"Are you fixed all right, Boss?" he asked, and went on: "Your supper's
pretty near ready. I'll bring it along."

"Who are you?"

"The new cook. Mr. Ross hired me at the settlement."

"Then where's Carson?"

"He's in the store, waiting till the freighter goes back. Ross allowed
you'd like to have him sent to the settlement. The Episcopalians have
opened a cemetery lot."

Geoffrey started. "Do you mean he's dead?"

"Sure," said the other. "Looks as if you hadn't heard about the
accident! Well, it happened before I took the job. I'll send Mr. Ross
along."

He went off and soon afterwards the foreman entered.

"I guess the cook has told you old Tom has pulled out," he said. "The
boys surely liked him and he's going to be missed, but I reckon I'd
better put you wise. Well, we wanted to fire a shot in the new heading
at the top of the lode, and the giant powder was frozen bad. Carson
allowed he'd thaw some out at the cook-stove; he was mighty keen about
the shot. I let him. He'd fixed the stuff before and knew his job."

Geoffrey nodded. Giant-powder freezes and must be gently warmed to
restore it to its semi-plastic state. As a rule, this can be done
without much danger, but the material is unstable and now and then
accidents happen.

"I left Tom with it and went to the bunk house," Ross resumed. "While
I was looking for something there was a crash, and when I ran out the
cook shack had gone. The hot stove was sizzling in the snow, smashed
posts and shiplap lay around. We found old Tom under the wreck and
knew he'd hit the trail before we got him out."

"Ah!" said Geoffrey. "Was he----?"

"No," said the foreman. "It was some relief to all of us. We liked old
Tom. Giant-powder's curious, the way she gets one thing and leaves
another. There was a bruise where a roof-tie had pinned him down; not
much else to talk about. I allow it was concussion or mebbe his heart
was bad. Well, we reckoned we'd send him to the settlement, and the
boys have fixed him for the trail. When you're ready I'll go along to
the store with you."

An hour afterwards, Geoffrey took a lantern and went with Ross.
Carson, wrapped in his skin-coat, lay on some dark fir branches that
neatly covered two boards. The old coat had been recently mended and
somebody had put in his hand the string of a little bag that held bits
of ore.

"He was sure keen on those specimens. We allowed we'd let him take
them along," remarked the foreman.

Geoffrey said nothing, for he was moved. It was plain the boys had
liked old Tom. They could not do much, but all that was possible for
rude kindness had been done. Geoffrey lifted the light, and for a
moment or two studied Carson's face. There was no mark; Carson looked
younger. The capricious explosive that sometimes mashes a hard rock to
fragments and leaves the soil a few yards off undisturbed, had not
disfigured him. The lines that had seamed his forehead were gone;
Carson was strangely dignified in his frozen calm.

Then Geoffrey began to puzzle. There was something about the quiet
face he felt he ought to know but did not. It was curious, since he
had felt he ought to know Carson's voice. He got no clue, however, and
lowering the light, signed to Ross.

"Was there anything in his pockets? Letters, for example?" he asked
when they went out.

"Nothing. We looked," said Ross. "We put his truck together and left
it for you. I'll send the things to your room."

Geoffrey carefully examined Carson's belongings; a Hudson Bay blanket,
a deerskin bag of odds and ends, and a few old clothes. There were no
letters. His pipes, metal tobacco box, and watch were not engraved.
The cheap watch was made at a Connecticut factory whose goods were
sold all over the United States and Canada. It gave no clue.

After a time Geoffrey put the things away and, lighting his pipe, sat
by the stove and mused. He remembered Carson had smiled when he gave
his name, but had not thought this curious. In Canada, one met men who
had broken ties that galled, and some who sought forgetfulness of
follies and sorrows in the past. He did not know Carson's story and
perhaps would only know its tragic end. The end was tragic, for the
man had labored long with broken tools, fronting many obstacles until
by dogged patience they were removed. He had won, but he had not
tasted his triumph and his reward would go to strangers. For all that,
he had found the new metal, and Geoffrey resolved he would go with him
to the settlement, and leave him to be buried in the Episcopal
cemetery with such honors as one could give. Then he knocked out his
pipe and went to bed.

Two or three days afterwards, Geoffrey and the freighter set out, and
the miners, with pitlamps lighted, stood in the biting cold to see
them start. Carson occupied the sledge, and day was breaking when the
horses plodded off into the gloom of the pines. Geoffrey long
remembered the march. The freighter was a taciturn half-breed who
spoke uncouth French. For the most part, both were quiet. At night
they made a fire behind a bank of snow where the pines were thick
enough to keep off the wind, but Geoffrey would not have the sledge
left outside the flickering light. He owed Carson something and was
not disturbed when the trembling reflections touched the motionless
object under the Hudson Bay blanket.

Carson had cooked for him and cleaned his room. They had talked long,
about mining chemistry and their experiments, on bitter evenings. The
man who found the metal was his friend. Geoffrey, smoking his pipe
behind the snow-bank while the shadows wavered round the sledge,
thought about him with gentle melancholy.

On the last day, a blizzard raged and they struggled, with lowered
heads and freezing bodies, beside the horses, using all the strength
they had to finish the march. Dark came before they made the
settlement and when they plodded into the beam from the hotel windows
horses and men were white and moved without noise like ghosts.

Afterwards Geoffrey went back to the mine, where there was much to be
done, and until the frost broke he was keenly occupied. A new tunnel
must be driven into the top of the vein, and as he bored back from the
old workings the ore got richer. The new metal had sought the surface
and sometimes he got excited when the assay reports arrived. The
Rideau was going to pay its owners well.

Some time after his return Geoffrey got a letter from Stayward, who
stated that he had sold his coke ovens for a "canny price." He added,
as if in excuse, that he was beginning to feel his age, and concluded:
"You have done well. Gan forrad and finish the job but come home then.
You're all the kin I've got and I may need you, lad."

Geoffrey was moved. He was not a sentimentalist and his relations with
Stayward had rather been marked by a half-humorous forbearance than
affection. It was, he thought, the first time his uncle had shown much
warmth of feeling, but Geoffrey owned he had long felt a keen respect
for the hard old man. With all his dry reserve, Stayward had been
kind, and it now looked as if his kindness was deeper than Geoffrey
had thought.

He had, however, much to think about, and the development of the mine
absorbed him, until, when the frost was breaking, the freighter
brought him a telegram from Hilliard.

"John is ill and wants you. Fix things with Ross and start. We must
let you go."

For a few minutes, Geoffrey hesitated. Spring was coming and the ore
he had raised must soon be sent off to the smelter. The prosperity of
the mine meant much to him and he had not finished his job, but
Stayward had called and Geoffrey knew he would not have done so had
his need not been strong.

He sent for Ross and at dawn next day started for the settlement
across the melting snow. He did not see Florence at Montreal; she was
with friends at Toronto, but had left him a kind note. Geoffrey talked
for long with Hilliard and next day set off to join the Liverpool boat
at Quebec.


PART III

THE STRUGGLE




CHAPTER I

GEOFFREY'S RETURN


Spring had come in England, but the evening was cold and bitter wind
wailed about Nethercleugh. The narrow windows rattled, the bare
branches of the ash trees clashed in the savage gusts. At the bottom
of the long hill, the smoke of collieries and furnaces blew along the
shore; and torn clouds sped inland before the gale.

It was getting dark and two candles flickered in the draughts that
swept an upper room. Although a small fire burned, the room was cold
and Geoffrey, sitting by a window, shivered now and then. He had
arrived from Liverpool a few hours since, and knew he had not come too
soon.

Stayward, supported by pillows, occupied the old tester bed, from
which it was characteristic the hangings had been stripped. A worn-out
rug his mother had made covered part of the dark, worm-eaten floor;
there was no unnecessary furniture. Stayward was very gaunt and his
face was pinched, but his eyes were keen. His voice was hoarse, and
when he stopped for breath and the doctor expostulated, he frowned
angrily.

"I'll be quiet long enough, and I'll talk while I can," he said. "Let
me be and git oot. You'll ken when to come back and finish your job."

The doctor shrugged and went out. He was young and had not yet
contended with a patient like this. Stayward had some time since
banished his nurse, but the doctor admitted that the old housekeeper
had tended her master with a skill and patience that did not mark all
the nurses he knew. When the door shut, Stayward beckoned Geoffrey to
his bed and began to pick up the documents scattered about.

"Put them in box," he said, indicating a padlocked deed-case.
"Nethercleugh and aw that's mine is yours; Faulder has the will. If
you want advice, you can trust him. For a lawyer, he's an honest man,
and not such a fool as some. But I would like you to live at
Nethercleugh. Margaret was aw a Stayward, the last but me, and you're
her son. Noo give me a drink."

Geoffrey went for a draught old Belle had left, and when Stayward
drained the glass and was quiet began to muse. He understood his uncle
had mended his fortune, but nothing at Nethercleugh indicated this.
All was the same and Belle used the stern economy that had long marked
her rule. Although John Stayward was sometimes hard to others, he did
not indulge himself. But Geoffrey knew his self-denial did not spring
from greed. He was something of an ascetic and his austere pride
scorned to yield much to his body's claims. A grim man, but all the
same, somehow fine.

"Did you iver hear aught o' music teacher you met long sin'?" he
asked.

"I did not," said Geoffrey, wondering where the remark led.

"Weel," resumed Stayward, "mayhappen you will marry by and by, and a
bit money cannily spent would modernize the hoose. I would not have
you alter much, but you could make it comfortable. T'oad fell-side
breed is dying oot and womenfolk are soft. You'll mind I saved and
sweated to buy the land that was Nethercleugh's."

Geoffrey signed agreement. The estate was small and the soil was
barren, but his ancestors had owned it and there were minerals that
might be mined by up-to-date methods.

"I suppose this was your object when you started the coke ovens?" he
said. "You had a struggle then."

"Up hill aw the way and Creighton kept me back. He robbed me and I
broke him; the man who robs me pays. For aw that, he kenned I was
just, and I think he bore me no grudge. If Tom and me had met again,
we'd have met like friends. But you'll find aw aboot it in box; our
agreement, some letters, and a receipt in his hand. You can read them
when I'm gone."

Geoffrey had known his uncle's pride and stern reserve. He had let
Mrs. Creighton's stories go, and now he felt his statement was enough.
He did not bother his nephew to study the proofs he had kept.

"Does Mrs. Creighton live in the neighborhood yet?" Geoffrey asked.

Stayward gave him a curious glance. "Then, you did not ken? She lives
at Beckfoot--in my hoose. I bought mortgage from her cousin's
creditors when I sold coke ovens. With the garth, a canny bit property
that rounded off mine."

He paused and smiled, rather dryly, when he saw Geoffrey's surprise.
"You'll let her stay," he resumed. "We do not fratch with women, and
if the rent's no paid varra regular, it will not cost you much."

"Does she know the house is yours?"

"She does not. For my sake, she'll hate you, lad. Weel, in t'
meantime, you can let her talk, though she has a bitter tongue; your
neighbors ken the Hassals. But, if you feel she's power to hurt you,
let her see t' papers you'll find in box."

"I don't expect Mrs. Creighton can hurt me," Geoffrey remarked.

"Mayhappen not," Stayward agreed, with a curious faint smile. "Janet's
a proud, foolish woman and drove her husband on. Tom was soft and a
fool at aw but chemistry. It's possible she's borne her grudge so long
she's forgot the truth and persuaded herself I robbed her man. There's
a daughter, Ruth, a canny lass. I met her noo and then and thought her
heart was good. Tom paid and the score's wiped out. I would not have
t' lass suffer for his sake."

"I won't disturb her or Mrs. Creighton," Geoffrey promised.

Stayward's eyes began to shut. "Let them bide," he said in a sleepy
voice. "T' lass works hard and her heart is good. Tom's daughter, and
Tom was not a cheat, but weak! His foolish wife----"

He turned his head from the light and presently Geoffrey, seeing he
was asleep, took the deed-box and stole from the room. Going to the
kitchen, he sent up the housekeeper, and sat by the hearth where a
peat fire burned. Nethercleugh was big and cold, but Belle was frugal
and had not lighted another fire. Geoffrey put the lamp on the table,
and taking the papers from the box, found those he wanted neatly tied
up and docketed.

He was keenly interested by the story the letters, bank-book, and
receipt told. Stayward was methodical, and had left out nothing that
related to his breaking the partnership, and Geoffrey was soon
convinced that his uncle was justified; Creighton had come near to
ruining the house. Stayward's using his partner's invention was,
however, another thing, and Geoffrey carefully studied the
specification of the patent and the plans of the retorts and machine
Stayward had made.

To begin with, he thought Stayward would not have been able to
manufacture the dye that had made him rich had not Creighton put him
on the right track. For all that, Creighton had not done more than
indicate the way. Stayward had taken it and pushed on with
characteristic stubbornness. He had gone farther than Creighton saw,
and on the whole Geoffrey did not think he had infringed the other's
patent. Moreover, this was really not important, since Creighton
admitted he had no legal claim and his receipt for the sum Stayward
gave him was with the other documents. The sum, of course, was
ridiculously small; but if one reflected that Creighton had squandered
his partner's capital, it looked as if the latter's not paying him
more was ethically justified. Anyhow, the receipt would satisfy a
lawyer.

Geoffrey put back the documents. The house was very quiet but for the
wind. One got a sense of loneliness and bleakness. Geoffrey, however,
had heard wilder winds break the roaring pines when the thermometer
was below zero, and had known the loneliness of the frozen North. He
began to think about Stayward with a curious tenderness; he liked his
scornful silence when the woman who hated him declared him a thief.
John Stayward could have stopped her, but he did not quarrel with
women. Then he had talked about his partner gently, as if their
dispute were done with, and had said Creighton's daughter had a good
heart.

Geoffrey felt some curiosity about Ruth Creighton. Stayward had said
she worked hard, and this seemed to indicate she was paying for her
father's fault, since had Creighton not used his partner's money, part
of Geoffrey's inheritance would have been hers. Geoffrey resolved that
if he thought he could make things easier for Miss Creighton, he would
try.

He began to get drowsy. The wind was louder and the red peats glowed
in their bed of feathery ash. The lamp burned low and wavering
reflections from the grate touched Belle's old copper pans and
twinkled on dark oak. The other end of the big kitchen was dim and the
draughts were cold, but Geoffrey was not luxurious, and
half-consciously rejoiced because he was at home. Now Nethercleugh was
going to be his, he knew he loved the house.

For some hours he slept in his chair, and then, when Belle came down
for something, sent her to bed and went back to Stayward's room.
Stayward did not talk, and slept quietly when at daybreak Belle
resumed her watch. In the evening Geoffrey sat by the window reading,
but got up when Stayward beckoned.

"It's aw yours," he said, very feebly. "You're Margaret's son; I won
it back for you. You'll guard it weel, like a canny lad."

Geoffrey promised and Stayward said no more. At midnight the doctor
came in and stopped for a time. The wind had dropped and the night was
cold and calm. The window was open and now and then Geoffrey thought
he heard the distant rattle of colliery winding-gear. At daybreak the
dry bent-grass began to rustle and the dark ash-branches moved. The
candles flickered and the doctor went to Stayward's bed. He signed to
Geoffrey, who picked up a candle and crossed the floor.

Stayward's eyes were open and Geoffrey thought he knew him, but in a
few moments the wrinkled lids shut. The doctor stooped and soon
afterwards touched Geoffrey's arm. Geoffrey shivered and went out with
head bent. He felt desolate, although he knew Nethercleugh was his.

While he sat by the kitchen fire Belle came in. Her eyes were dry, for
the dalesfolk are not emotional, but she looked very old and sat down
slackly.

"I kenned he would go by morning; he waited for you," she said. "It
will be lang or you meet anodder like him; but noo you're master
you'll do weel to tak' his road."

Geoffrey agreed that his uncle's road was straight. There was
something fine about his bluntness; Stayward feared nobody and never
used a shabby trick. Geoffrey had long known him just, but it soon
began to look as if many had found him generous.

He was buried with his ancestors at a ruined church on the fell-side,
and Geoffrey wondered when he saw the crowd that came to his funeral.
Old servants who now worked for another master had lost a day's pay
to join the procession; men with whom Stayward had grimly disputed
left furnaces and pits; and rugged sheep-farmers drove from the lonely
dales. Geoffrey stood at the gate and gave his hand to all who
entered, although there were many he had not seen before. He was moved
and conscious of a touch of pride. After all, he was half a Stayward,
and it was something to feel the respect the men from mines and dales
bore the head of his house.

When the funeral started it began to rain, but nobody left the long
procession that moved up the hill. Mist rolled about the fell-tops
above the hollow in the moor where the crowd gathered round the broken
walls of the lonely church. A beck brawled in a wooded ghyll, and now
and then drowned the voice of the clergyman. Geoffrey, standing by a
clump of ragged firs, saw rows of quiet faces against a background of
mist and rain.

Afterwards he went back to Nethercleugh, and for a time talked with
his lawyer. He knew one phase of his life was finished and another had
begun. He had long known poverty and now he was richer than he had
thought. But his wealth brought responsibility; he must use it as
Stayward had meant it to be used, and to begin with, he had promised
to live at Nethercleugh. When the lawyer drove off he pondered long.




CHAPTER II

GEOFFREY MEETS MISS CREIGHTON


A month after his return, Geoffrey stood one morning in the garden of
a white hotel by a river of the North. The river was swollen, for it
had rained at night, and the tops of the hills across the slopes were
deep blue, and when the faint gleams of sunshine that picked out wet
rocks and wooded hollows passed, looked forbiddingly dark. Geoffrey
thought the rain would return, but this did not bother him much,
although he meant to cross the mountains to Nethercleugh. He knew the
rocks and, because he knew the weather, wore old clothes he had used
at the Rideau mine.

For a month after the reading of Stayward's will, he had been rather
closely occupied informing himself about his inheritance. It was
larger than he had thought, for Stayward had got a high price for his
works and had made a number of lucky speculations, besides buying back
land that had belonged to the family. On the latter were limestone
quarries, beds of sand steelworkers used, and a thin vein of lead that
might perhaps be mined. When he had examined all, Geoffrey took a few
days' holiday and went across the fells.

Stopping in the evening for dinner at the hotel by the waterside, he
opened the visitors' book. If the house were full, he meant to go on
to a village up the valley. There were not many guests, but an entry
recorded the arrival of a party the day before and he noted with keen
curiosity the name Ruth Creighton. Geoffrey did not sign the book,
although he asked for a room, and when he made cautious inquiries a
waitress told him that Miss Creighton and Miss Chisholm had gone to a
friend's house and would not return for dinner.

Geoffrey ordered an early breakfast, and since the waitress said the
party was going across the hills, waited to see it start. He was
curious about Miss Creighton and sorry for her. Had her father been
honest, she would have enjoyed a share of the prosperity that had
rewarded Stayward's efforts, but she and her mother were poor. Then
Mrs. Creighton declared that Stayward had robbed her husband, and the
girl, no doubt, imagined Geoffrey had inherited money that ought to be
theirs. If he met her, he must be cautious.

By and by a young clergyman and another young man came out of the
hotel. They carried sticks and rucksacks, and, lighting pipes, leaned
against a mossy wall and looked up at the hills.

"If we are going, we ought to get off," the clergyman remarked. "Where
are the girls?"

"They're waiting for our lunch. Of course we're going," the other
replied.

"The landlord tells me we'll have a rough climb, and the mist is often
baffling," said the clergyman. "Miss Chisholm's keen, but not very
strong. I suppose you're confident you can find the way, Jim?"

"I went over the ground some years since. Nothing to bother a healthy
person, and Maud will keep up all right. People who want a guide for a
summer walk across the hills are ridiculous."

The men were obviously from the cities, but Geoffrey knew a number of
good cragsmen were lawyers and professors. He kept in the background
and presently three girls came out.

"Are you ready, Maud? Where's Ruth?" the man called Jim asked.

"She's getting some sandwiches," the girl replied, and Geoffrey
imagined she was Miss Chisholm. He agreed with the clergyman: she
hardly looked strong enough for a laborious walk in bad weather.

"Here's Ruth!" she exclaimed next moment, and Geoffrey's heart beat.

Another girl came out of the porch. She was tall and wore a rather
short and shabby gray cloth dress. A rucksack and a mackintosh were
strapped on her shoulders and Geoffrey noted her firm step and thick
boots. This girl was a mountaineer. She did not see him, but he knew
her calm look and graceful pose. Her face had haunted him when he
mused by the stove at the Rideau mine. Ruth Creighton was the girl he
had long since driven across the moor.

"The padre's doubtful about starting," Jim remarked. "You know the
fells, don't you? You'd better persuade him."

"I know the other side best," said Ruth. "There's some very rough
ground before you get to the top ridge and drop down to Netherdale,
and I think it's going to rain. However, we ought to get across."

"Summer rain!" scoffed Jim. "We have a good map, a compass, and lots
of food. Let's chance it and start!"

Geoffrey thought the clergyman and Miss Chisholm hesitated, and
lifting his cap, he advanced.

"I am going to Netherdale and know the way," he said. "If it's some
help, I could see you across the one or two awkward spots."

He imagined the clergyman was relieved. His clothes were rough and
shabby, and his skin was very brown; no doubt he looked like a small
sheep-farmer. Then Miss Creighton turned and Geoffrey thrilled, for he
saw she had not forgotten him. Her glance was frank and gracious, but
he thought a faint touch of color came to her skin.

"Of course it would help," she said. "If we will not bother you and
keep you back!"

Geoffrey replied politely and they started. The road was wet, and when
they crossed a rough pasture the boggy soil was soft. Then they
followed a beck up a stony valley, and Geoffrey noted with amusement
that Jim went in front and picked out the landmarks he had obviously
noted in a guidebook. Once when the fellow gave the others some
directions Geoffrey looked at Ruth, who smiled.

As they climbed out of the valley thick mist gathered about the
heights, and by and by Geoffrey, firmly passing Jim, led the party
along a narrow ridge. One could not see much. On one side, across a
belt of vapor, dark rocks loomed faintly against driving cloud. On the
other side, one looked down on rough wet screes and the mist that hid
the bottom of a forbidding gulf. The stones the party disturbed rolled
away with a harsh tinkle, and now and then a bank slipped down and
one heard a roar below. Presently they came to a row of massive
blocks, and Jim jumped into a gap.

"Some shelter here," he remarked. "We have come along pretty fast.
What d' you say? Shall we stop for lunch?"

Geoffrey knew heavy rain was coming and wanted to get the party off
the ridge. There was an awkward spot farther on.

"I think not," he said. "Anyhow, if you want to stop, you had better
get off the high ground and drop down to the crossing by the tarn."

Jim gave him a rather supercilious look. "That's three or four miles
farther and the book states there's a stiff climb out of the dale.
Besides, the rule is never to lose height you must make up again. I
won't take the girls round."

"Then you had better push on," said Geoffrey, and Ruth agreed.

They went on, and although it was perhaps not important, Geoffrey was
strangely gratified by Ruth's support. For a time, she walked near
him, and he studied her quietly. Her face was thin and her color
faint; it was plain that she worked hard and her work was tiring. For
all that, he noted her easy movements and her confidence on the
slippery rocks. Her skin was smooth and delicate; she had wavy brown
hair with an elusive touch of red, and he liked the sparkle in her
eyes. The sparkle was somehow joyous; one saw she loved the hills and
was not daunted by the dark and cold.

When the ground allowed them to walk together, she talked to him
frankly about the rocks, and Geoffrey was relieved to note she did
not yet know who he was. He thought Ruth Creighton had a high spirit
and her will was firm. The strange thing was, something about her
recalled somebody he had known, but he could not remember whom.

After they crossed the ridge and clambered, over large sharp stones,
round the bottom of a crag, Geoffrey found a hollow in the rocks and
they stopped and ate some sandwiches. It had begun to rain and the
wind was getting strong, but they lingered over the meal, and
afterwards nobody looked anxious to start. When they did get off
Geoffrey remarked that Ruth's mackintosh was old and worn. He doubted
if it would long keep out the rain, and this disturbed him. She was
poor and, in a sense, he had gained much by her poverty.

For a time their path led across a wind-swept summit, and then, going
down over a boggy heath, they stopped at a hollow between two crags,
and Jim looked about. All were wet and the clergyman and Miss Chisholm
looked tired. One saw indistinct wet rocks perhaps a hundred yards
off, but this was all, except that on one side of the faint track a
beck plunged into a ravine. The ravine was deep and its banks were
gravel and wet soil. A shelf of peat and heather, about a foot wide,
ran obliquely some way down and then broke off.

"Red Ghyll," said Jim. "We go down here."

Geoffrey looked at Ruth, who knitted her brows as if she were in
doubt.

"I imagine we had better go up and cross by the Gap," he said.

"Why?" said Jim. "It's another five hundred feet and the girls have
had enough. The Ghyll's nearer, and all you have to do is to follow
the beck."

"To follow a mountain beck is not always as easy as it looks,"
Geoffrey rejoined and turned to Ruth. "What do you think, Miss
Creighton?"

Ruth hesitated. "It's long since I went down, but I know the banks
wash out. For all that, I don't want to take Maud farther than I must.
The ghyll is shorter."

"Very well," said Geoffrey, and Jim went down the narrow shelf.

He dropped from its end and slid down the nearly precipitous bank
below; then he held up his hands and steadied the girl who followed
him. The clergyman went next, and Geoffrey gave Miss Chisholm some
support. After a few moments he felt the boggy soil give way, and
leaning against the bank, pushed her back. The shelf broke off and
turf and stones plunged into the beck. Geoffrey, bracing his feet
against a few inches of muddy earth, held the girl, who looked down
and saw stones and angry water below. His face was tense and he
breathed hard.

"Both hands on my shoulder; then get your foot on the rocky knob and
creep back," he said.

Maud did so, but when he joined her at the end of the shelf she
trembled and the others had vanished round a corner.

"You were very steady," she gasped. "If you had not held me fast----"

"It's not much of a fall," said Geoffrey, smiling. "You might have got
your boots wet."

Maud looked down and shivered. "I don't think that would have been
all. But the others have gone. If they come back for us, they can't
get up."

"It looks like that," said Geoffrey. "I don't think your friend Jim
would try; he meant to go by the ghyll. Anyhow, it would be awkward
for us to get down."

"I'm not going down," Maud declared.

Geoffrey turned to Ruth. "We'll start for the Gap. I don't expect the
beck at the dale head will be flooded yet."

They resumed their journey, and presently followed up a little stream
that splashed through a hollow and made pools among the stones and
fern. The hollow narrowed and got steeper, until it ended at a bank of
large rough stones. The top was hidden by tossing mist.

"Must we go up there?" Maud asked.

"I'm afraid you must," said Geoffrey. "It's the last stiff climb."

He went first, turning where the blocks were nearly perpendicular to
help the tired girl. Her mackintosh was dark with rain, and he saw
that Ruth's was torn, and did not keep out the water. The wind was
cold and wailed angrily in the crags overhead. Miss Chisholm was
obviously flagging, Ruth's look was rather strained, and Geoffrey
began to get disturbed. It was raining very hard and he durst not let
his companions stop on the bleak hillside.

Yet he was a little comforted by Ruth's firmness. Although she was
tired, she encouraged the other and joked when they stumbled. He
thought Miss Chisholm would remember the struggle to the top, but they
were getting up, and at length he stopped among broken rocks. One
could see nothing but the waves of mist that rolled up out of the dale
in front, and the vast, dark pit seemed filled with the noise of
elemental tumult. The wind roared, stones crashed down hidden screes,
and the splash of water rose faintly from forbidding depths.

"Can you find the Green Tongue?" Ruth asked.

"I'll try," he said and took them across a slippery scree.

The stones stopped at the top of a grassy ridge, broken by strange
round rocks, running down into the mist.

"I think our troubles are over," he remarked. "If it's necessary, we
can stop and rest at the shieling near the dale head."

They went down through the vapor and at length reached the bottom of
the dale, where banks of gravel were pierced by small ravines. There
was no grass and one saw how the floods had tossed the stones about.
The valley was wildly desolate and the rocks that walled its sides
were torn by storms. Geoffrey went to the bank of the largest ravine.
A savage torrent brawled across broken ledges and fifty yards off
plunged over a fall. He could see no farther and for a few moments
knitted his brows.

"The track's on the other side," he said. "We can't cross, but there's
a better spot lower down. Might be awkward to find while the mist and
rain are thick. I think we'll make for the shieling."

Ruth agreed and they set off across the stones.




CHAPTER III

THE SHIELING


After a few minutes Geoffrey brought the others to a small hut, rudely
built of stones from the beck. There was no window and the door had
fallen, but the roof of rushes and heather looked good. The spot was
wild and lonely. Steep gravel screes, and stony slopes where moss and
bent-grass grew, ran up into the mist, and on the open side the dale
was filled by leaden cloud. One heard the roar of water and wail of
wind.

"We'll wait," said Geoffrey. "I don't think the rain will last."

They went in. The hut was cold, but a pile of dry fern and dead
branches occupied a corner, there was a chimney, and in a few minutes
Geoffrey lighted a fire. The girls took off their dripping
mackintoshes and sat down near the blaze.

"It's a relief to get into shelter," Miss Chisholm remarked when her
wet clothes began to steam. "But why did somebody build the hut in
this desolate spot?"

"In spring the shepherds come up at night to see the rock foxes don't
carry off the lambs," Geoffrey replied. "There is some orthodox
hunting, although on the fells, we follow hounds on foot, but a number
of the foxes are shot."

"You seem to know the dalesfolk's habits," said Ruth, who noted that
he said we. "Didn't you tell me, another time, you were an engineer?"

"I am an engineer," Geoffrey answered, feeling strangely gratified
that she had not forgotten. "All the same, I belong to the dales."

"But when one gets back from the coast, there are no mines and works
to give you an occupation."

"That is so," Geoffrey agreed. "My last mining job was in Canada;
developing a silver vein in the Ontario wilds."

"Did you find much silver?"

"We found another valuable metal, but I don't know if it was due to my
efforts. My cook really found the stuff."

"Your cook?" Ruth remarked.

"Yes," said Geoffrey. "A strange old fellow! He was a good cook, but
he knew more than I knew about mining chemistry."

Ruth thought about her father, and he wondered why her look got
gentle. It was puzzling, but not important, and he resumed:

"We didn't finish all our lunch. I have some sandwiches left."

"So have I," said Miss Chisholm. "Ruth has got some cake. Suppose we
pool?"

They divided the food and Geoffrey owned that it was long since he had
so enjoyed a meal. The hut was getting warm and the reflections of the
leaping flames played about the girls. Their society gave the rude
shieling a strange homelike touch, they wore the stamp of high
cultivation, and it was something to share his crushed sandwiches with
Ruth. When the last was eaten he threw fresh branches on the fire and
Ruth, leaning forward, held her hands to the blaze. Geoffrey noted
they were thin and nervous but finely shaped.

"It's nice to get warm again," she said. "However, perhaps you
oughtn't to be extravagant. Somebody has brought the fuel a long way
on his plow-sledge."

"We needn't bother about that," Geoffrey replied. "I don't expect the
farmer would mind my burning his wood."

Ruth gave him a quick glance, and seeing she was puzzled, he resolved
to be cautious. She would, of course, soon find out he was Stayward's
nephew, but he did not want her to find out yet. He had grounds for
imagining Mrs. Creighton had transferred to him the grudge she had
borne his uncle.

"Anyhow, you and Miss Chisholm were cold," he resumed. "You looked
tired and wet clothes are dangerous when one is fatigued."

"I am tired," Miss Chisholm declared. "It's my first adventure on the
fells, and Ruth has not climbed for long. Still, I don't understand
how you knew me."

"Your name was in the visitors' book," Geoffrey said and paused. "You
see, when one thinks about stopping at a tourist hotel, one wants to
know if the house is full."

"Exactly," Miss Chisholm agreed, with a twinkle that rather annoyed
him. "But how do you think the rest of our party has got on?"

"If your friend Jim keeps the proper side of the beck, I expect he'll
bring the others down all right," Geoffrey said and turned to Ruth.
"It's some time since you were on the fells?"

"Yes. I found the climb to-day harder than I thought," Ruth replied.
"You soon get slack in town, and I have only come home for a week or
two because my mother is ill----" She paused and resumed with a smile:
"Perhaps it's strange, but when I needed help another time you
arrived. Do you go about helping people?"

"I can't claim the habit. In fact, I hesitated that other time,
although I saw you some distance off, and imagined it hurt you to
walk. The sky was full of yellow light and as you went up the hill
your figure cut against the sunset. You were going resolutely, but you
kept on the heather, and there was something about your pose; one
knows when another's tired. Then the evening was very hot, the road
was dusty, and when you were forced to stop I thought I might
venture----"

Geoffrey imagined Miss Chisholm studied him and wondered whether he
had said too much. Ruth was looking at the fire, but she turned.

"I was grateful. One is grateful for a kindness one feels is sincere,"
she said, and added with a laugh: "But your hesitation was obvious.
You were very apologetic because the tire went down and took some time
to mend. In fact, you were rather unnecessarily embarrassed. I didn't
doubt that the tire leaked."

"After all, you hadn't much ground for your confidence."

"Oh, well! Perhaps one trusts by instinct. Then at the beginning, when
the bicycle began to jolt, you frowned and I think you growled. It
was plain you were annoyed!"

Geoffrey admitted this and wondered why Miss Chisholm was amused. He
thrilled to note Ruth had remembered so much, and then it dawned on
him that he had shown his memory was strangely good.

"How are we to get home?" Miss Chisholm asked.

Geoffrey went to the door. The mist was not so thick and one could see
farther down the dale.

"I expect the rain will soon stop. If it does not, I must try to cross
the beck and hire ponies at a farm I know. However, since this is your
first climbing excursion, what do you think about our hills?"

"In the mist, they're forbidding, but I'm glad Ruth planned the trip.
All I know of rural England is the smoky country round the towns where
the tram-lines and tarred roads run; a tame country of dusty hedges
and rows of telegraph poles, with groups of new, plastered houses
where there is a pretty spot. Ruth has shown me an England I didn't
know was mine; a stern wilderness that one feels is as rugged as it
was at the beginning. All the same, I think its enjoyment needs
cultivation."

"That is so," said Ruth. "The North is bleak and bracing. Let's hope
the mountains will remain a wilderness where adventurous people can
try nerve and muscle and front the rain and wind. England needs a
playground like this."

Half an hour afterwards, Geoffrey went back to the door and beckoned
the others. There was no rain, the wind had dropped, and the mist was
rolling up the long rough slopes. Dim crags loomed in the thin vapour
and wet rocks glistened with faint reflected light.

They crossed the stones to the ravine and when they had gone some
distance stopped where the stream narrowed above a dark pool. Big
smooth stones ran out into the flood, and on the other side a slender
mountain-ash stretched its branches across the water that plunged, a
few yards away, into a chasm between the rocks. The bank was
precipitous, and the roar of the fall was daunting.

Geoffrey, going down cautiously, gave his hand to Miss Chisholm; he
saw Ruth did not need his help. She had a mountaineer's steady balance
and knew how to tread on stones that slipped and rolled. The big
blocks at the bottom of the bank were level with the flood and he
waited for a moment to get his breath before he leaped across. Then he
turned and holding on by the mountain-ash beckoned Miss Chisholm.

"Not much of a jump and a pretty good path goes down this side.
There's nothing to bother you after you get across."

The girl advanced to the edge of the stones and drew back with a
shiver.

"I can't," she said, despairingly.

Geoffrey leaned forward as far as he could and held out his hand, but
Ruth signed to him that he was not to help and sprang across. He saw
she meant to encourage her companion, and admitted that the spot was
daunting for a beginner. To jump short, or slip back, after alighting,
meant that one would be swept down the fall. Then he frowned as he saw
Miss Chisholm's doubts were not yet banished and Ruth was going back.
It was plain that she had pluck, but her face was rather white and
her look was strained. She jumped and reached the block.

"Brace up, Maud," she said. "It's only a rather long step, and one
can't get down this side. You wouldn't like to scramble over rocks and
awkward screes."

Miss Chisholm made an effort. Geoffrey saw her thin figure stiffen and
her mouth set. She sprang across, and Geoffrey pushed her up a yard or
two of the steep bank. Then he turned and saw Ruth balance herself on
the other side. The ground was lower there, and he thought she had
done too much.

"Wait a moment and get breath," he said. "I can nearly reach across
and won't let you go."

She jumped and he seized her as she came down. Her foot touched the
edge, but the stone was wet and rounded, and she slipped back.
Geoffrey gasped, the mountain-ash bent and cracked, and he felt his
fingers slide across the bark. The veins swelled on his forehead, he
doubted if he could lift the girl to firm ground, but he would not let
go. For a moment he saw Ruth's face, white and tense, but somehow
confident; and then the strain slackened. He pulled forward and they
fell against the bank.

"You ought not to have gone back," he said hoarsely.

Ruth looked slack and shaken, but she smiled. "If I hadn't gone, Maud
would have stopped on the other side."

They followed Miss Chisholm, who was awkwardly climbing the slope in
front, and soon afterwards found a green track that led down from the
stony waste to rough pastures. The girls were quiet and Geoffrey did
not talk. He thought the hour or two by the shieling fire and their
adventure at the crossing had brought him nearer Ruth Creighton than
he might have got had he known her long. When the strain had come she
trusted him and he trusted her. Yet, in a sense, the strain had not
been needed; she was all he had thought, and she had not forgotten
their first meeting. When she came into the hotel garden they were not
strangers.

He left the girls at a cross-road, and while he went on to
Nethercleugh they took a field path to Beckfoot. Some time after they
arrived Maud and Ruth sat by the fire in the small drawing-room. Maud
lounged in an easy chair, with her feet on the hearth brasses.

"I hope I haven't scratched those things and burned your slippers,"
she presently remarked. "I'm not much used to drawing-rooms, and
to-day's adventures have left me creepy and cold. Mountaineering's a
strenuous hobby and I doubt if I'm up to it. But I wonder where Jim
has taken the others. Jim was not his best after your engineering
friend arrived; he likes to lead."

"They probably got down the ghyll and there's an inn not far from the
bottom. The landlady's kind; I expect she would dry their clothes."

"We needn't bother about Jim and Gertie," Maud resumed. "Jim's pose is
a Spartan athlete and Gertie's as hardy as a mule, but Peter's not
like that. I don't imagine getting wet on your bleak mountains is the
kind of change he needs. In fact, I tried to persuade him not to join
our party."

Peter was the clergyman; a curate from the Rainsfield church, and
Ruth said, "I thought you liked him much."

"If you like a man, you feel you ought to take care of him," Maud
replied. "Anyhow, I feel I want to take care of Peter. A motherly
instinct I can't lawfully indulge otherwise, perhaps! Besides, Peter's
nearly all spirit, and what flesh he has is weak. I mean physically
weak, because everybody knows Peter's morals are austere."

Ruth said nothing. She imagined Peter had asked Maud to marry him, and
she had refused. Sometimes Maud was moody and sometimes it looked as
if her rather ironical carelessness were forced.

"If your mother's not coming down, I'm going to smoke," Maud resumed,
taking out a cigarette case. "She will, of course, smell the smoke,
but the jolt will be less than finding me with the unwomanly
abomination in my mouth. Anyhow, she has been spared one jar. In a
sense, I'm probably enough, but suppose your climate had forced us all
to take refuge at Beckfoot?"

"Oh, well," said Ruth, smiling, "for my sake she'd have tried to be
kind. You must remember my mother is old-fashioned and has not enjoyed
your advantages."

"I expect she'd call them drawbacks. However, she's lucky. Think of
the strain she might have had to bear! Peter would pass; he's
obviously your sort and a clergyman. When she'd found out something
about him, she'd tell him your virtues. But Jim from the Co-op store,
and tanyard Gertie----"

Ruth colored and stopped the other by a glance. As a rule, one made
allowance for Maud, but sometimes she was remarkably perverse. This
often happened after she had enjoyed Peter's society, and Ruth was
sorry for her. She thought Maud felt the galling force of social
conventions, and now and then rebelled. It looked as if she had
resolved, at some cost to herself, that she would not spoil her
lover's career.

"Suppose we talk about something else," Ruth said quietly.

"Very well. I liked your engineer. A well-balanced man. Brains enough,
I think, but perhaps not too much, and a vigorous, disciplined body.
Soft, indulgent men don't wear his clean, alert look. Then I noted
that he saw we got the most part of his lunch. A small thing, but some
small things count. Anyhow, I ate and was thankful. A man like that
could walk all day without needing food; I can't. Why didn't you
present him properly?"

"I don't know him. I met him once, some time since."

"On the road, when the sky was yellow and your figure cut against the
light! One can see the picture. It's strange and perhaps significant
he remembers so much. I imagined you remembered something, too."

Ruth colored, but forced a smile. "Oh, well, he was kind and I rather
approved his honest awkwardness when he stopped his bicycle and asked
if he could help. Then I was tired and moody after finding out that
friends don't bother about you when you're poor. To feel somebody was
willing to help was soothing. That's all, and it's not important. I
doubt if I shall meet him again."

"I don't doubt. The young man's resolute, although his resolution's
not aggressive, like Jim's," Maud rejoined. Then seeing Ruth's eyes
sparkle she laughed and went on: "Yet, if you use a firm hand, Jim is
a good sort."

"It's hard to see why Jim and Peter are friends," Ruth remarked.

Maud smiled gently. "Peter's romantic and believes in the real
brotherhood of man. At the beginning, Jim jarred him, but Peter
welcomes jars like that. He imagines they're healthy discipline and
help him to conquer his prejudices. The poor fellow hates to feel he
shrinks from honest rudeness, and when he does shrink he tries to find
redeeming qualities in the offender. I think he does find them; people
play up to him."

"He's a dear!" Ruth declared with frank enthusiasm.

Then the drawing-room door opened and Maud threw her cigarette into
the grate as Mrs. Creighton entered. Her face was haggard and she
looked ill.

"Dinner will not be long. I hope your fatigue is wearing off," she
said to Maud, and crossing the floor slowly, opened the window.




CHAPTER IV

THE STACK


At noon one day soon after his walk across the hills, Geoffrey packed
up his fishing-rod by a tarn among the rocks, and sitting on the
smooth gravel took out his lunch. A soft, south-west wind was blowing
and the water sparkled in the sun, and faded as the shadows trailed
across the hills. Two or three small trout lay behind a stone, and
although the fish were not rising well, Geoffrey did not want to go.
The air was balmy and the changing lights touched the landscape with
melting color. Sometimes the rocks shone and sometimes got dim. The
white bent-grass was flecked by delicate ochre when it rippled in the
wind; the fresh ferns and mossy belts gleamed with gold and luminous
green.

Geoffrey wanted to loaf and muse about Ruth Creighton, but knew he
ought not. He had left his motor bicycle at a farm in the dale, and
had meant to transact some business with a lawyer at a mining town
some distance off. Then an architect, with whom he had planned the
rebuilding of a farmstead, would probably arrive soon after he got
home. Geoffrey did not put things off; although he now owned
Nethercleugh and much besides, he was as punctual as when he worked
for others at the Rideau mine.

For all that, he frowned when he rolled up his sandwich papers and
looked at his watch. In the North, summer is short and fine weather is
not the rule. Then since he had met Ruth Creighton business had lost
its charm. He wanted to think about her among the mountains, to which
he felt she belonged. He pictured her going back, pale but confident,
across the beck at the edge of the fall, and sitting by the fire while
the rain beat upon the lonely shieling. She had pluck and her smile
was bright, but she was often quiet and he liked her calm. Her charm
was, so to speak, elusive; strong but somehow vague, like the elusive
beauty of the fells when mist and sun came and went.

Geoffrey pulled himself up. He must not indulge his romantic
imagination and neglect his business. There was time for a pipe and
then he would start. Before the pipe was smoked out, however, he
looked across the tarn and suddenly forgot the lawyer and the
architect. A row of small figures came down the hill and he thought he
knew the clergyman and Jim. Behind them were three girls, and Geoffrey
would have known Ruth Creighton much farther off. She had grace and a
mountaineer's balance; nobody walked like her.

When the party reached the tarn Geoffrey got up and for some minutes
the others stopped and talked. They had finished their holiday and
were making for a station; Ruth had led them across the hills but was
going home. Miss Chisholm told Geoffrey this.

"Now we can see our line, we don't need a guide," she said. "We have
brought Ruth some distance, and it's lucky she need not go back
alone."

Geoffrey looked at Ruth, who smiled. "If one crosses the scree by the
Stack, it is really not far," she said. Then she indicated the little
shining trout. "Besides, one doesn't like to be disturbed when one is
catching fish."

"I'm not catching fish; two hours have gone since the last rose,"
Geoffrey replied. "Then, if they were rising, the fish in this tarn
are not worth bothering about."

"It sounds like a lawyer's argument," Miss Chisholm remarked. "Anyhow,
Ruth has come far enough."

For a minute or two the girls talked and Geoffrey gave the men some
directions about the path. Jim heard him without impatience and
Geoffrey thought his trust in his map and compass was shaken.

"We were sorry afterwards we didn't stick to you," he said. "Landmarks
that look plain in a guidebook are puzzling in the mist, and I imagine
we went the wrong side of the Red Ghyll beck. Washed-down banks,
little crags with mossy ledges, and patches of flooded bog are awkward
to cross. When we got to the bottom we were tired out."

Geoffrey laughed and let him go, and when the party took the path
below the tarn, Ruth and he went back up the hill. An hour afterwards,
they stopped on a narrow sheep path that crossed a great bank of
gravel. For some distance the stones ran down at so steep an angle
that now and then the gusts of wind disturbed their equilibrium and
they rolled away. Across the bog at the bottom of the bank, the
shoulder of a mountain rose in a broken line and ended in a huge rock
buttress that cut off the view. In places, where the water trickled
down, the crag glimmered, but for the most part, the rocks looked dark
and mysterious in the shadow. They were seamed by gullies, and the
broken, tilted strata gave them a rude likeness to steps.

"The Stack looks very grand from here," Ruth remarked while her dress
fluttered and her hair blew about the edge of her soft cap. "Not a
first-class climb, of course, but there are awkward pitches! Have you
gone up the Buttress?"

"I have not," said Geoffrey. "I'd rather like to go! Let's sit down
for a few minutes and plan the line we'd take if we were going.
There's a fascination about looking for your route up a fresh bit of
rock. But perhaps you know the way?"

"I went up once. Four of us on a rope, and the first two were good
cragsmen. That rather spoiled the thing, because they pulled me up
like a bale of goods."

"You're an individualist, I expect, but to feel one must follow
somebody else does spoil things," Geoffrey said with a laugh. "Well, I
don't know the way and perhaps you don't remember much. This ought to
give the climb a touch of adventure. Suppose we try?"

Ruth pondered. The rocks called, but she hesitated. For one thing, she
ought to have returned sooner and Mrs. Creighton would be curious.
Then she did not know Geoffrey, and although she had meant to find out
who he was she had shrunk from talking about him to her mother.
Beckfoot was lonely, Mrs. Creighton and Maud kept her occupied, and
she had not been to the village. Besides, Maud had hinted something
and Ruth, looking at Geoffrey sideways, felt vaguely disturbed. He
attracted her and she had thought about him rather often since their
journey across the hills. However, she had not lived with Maud at
Rainsfield for nothing, and she was tempted to be rash.

"It's a glorious afternoon. The wind's not too strong and the rocks
are dry," Geoffrey resumed.

"Very well," she said, and he thought the wind had brought the touch
of color to her skin. Her eyes sparkled and when they went down the
screes her step was light.

Geoffrey got a thrilling sense of adventure. He remembered his going
with Florence to Dominion Park and his boyish enjoyment of the stolen
excursion, but he was really not strongly moved then. To begin with,
the stage, so to speak, was different. At Dominion Park, all was
theatrical; colored lights, over-dressed crowds, noise, and popular
music; here one had the serene grandeur of the mountains and the wild
harmonies of the wind in the rocks. Then, although Florence was kind
and clever, she was not the girl he had dreamed about on bitter
evenings when the snow lay deep round the lonely mine.

Half an hour after they set off they stopped for breath at the bottom
of a gully in the crag. The pitch was steep and big stones blocked the
gully here and there. A few ferns grew in crannies and belts of rock
were slippery with moss.

"Somebody else and a rope would be useful," Ruth remarked. "However,
we ought to get up if the rest's not worse than this."

They went up for some distance without much effort, and then paused by
a little pool where a block rested on the edge of a three or four foot
fall. In order to get round the pool, one must step upon the block,
and to slip might mean a plunge to the bottom of the gully.

"I think that stone will move," said Ruth.

"Try it," said Geoffrey, "I'll steady you. There's a good hold on the
ledge when you get across."

The stone rocked when Ruth sprang across, but it did not fall, and
Geoffrey cautiously prepared to follow. He was heavier and did not
like the block. While he balanced himself it rolled under his foot and
he stumbled. He must, if possible, fall into the pool, but he doubted
if he could; if he struck the rock and fell back, he might not stop
until he reached the bottom of the crag. Then Ruth, leaning out from
the ledge, seized his arm, and next moment he stood, gasping, at her
side. They heard the stone plunge down the gully and smash.

"Thanks!" he said. "One can trust you! If you hadn't helped, I'd
hardly have got across."

"You'd have gone into the pool," Ruth declared with a laugh.

"I doubt----" he said and stopped, for Ruth had struck the right note.
There must be no hint of strain, and when one climbed with a companion
incidents like this were not unusual. One ran risks, counting on the
help the other gave. Much help was not needed; a steadying touch was
often enough. All the same, he was moved and turned his head, for fear
Ruth saw and understood. She was a little breathless, her eyes
sparkled, and the blood had come to her skin. Her head was lifted and
her unconscious pose was beautiful.

They left the gully and made a traverse across the crag. The rock
slanted and the hold was good. Perhaps it was not a traverse for a
beginner, but there was not much risk and one could look about. White
clouds sailed across, and sometimes touched, the broken summits; the
great crag flashed like silver, and the hollow they had left looked
profoundly deep and was colored a soft misty blue. Then they came to
an awkward corner, where for a few yards the rock was nearly vertical.
Ruth was in front and when she paused to feel for a hold her figure
was outlined against the sky. Her shabby dress blew away from her, her
hair streamed about her cap, and Geoffrey noted that her boots were
old and torn by the stones. Yet as she clung to the gray slab, calmly
confident, he thought her wonderful. With the sky behind her and the
deep gulf below, she rather seemed a spirit of the mountains than
flesh and blood. But Geoffrey pulled himself up; his business was to
see she got round the corner safe.

"Try the knob to the left," he said. "Then if you can reach the
crack----"

Ruth nodded and went round, but when she vanished Geoffrey thought the
great rock looked desolate and the view had lost its charm. He
followed, and for a time they climbed across broken slabs that ran up
rather like a flight of stairs. There was no danger if one looked for
a firm hold before one moved, but it was different when they came to
the steep, rounded side of the summit. Shallow wet soil and heather
covered the rock, and the small ledges that broke the surface were
smooth. One's feet slipped in the bog and the heather gave way.

By and by Ruth seized a clump that came out with its roots. She
slipped back a few feet, until Geoffrey, bracing himself against the
slope, stopped her. It was something of a shock, but his hold was
good, and Ruth laughed when she clambered up. Then they found a
precipitous channel from which the rain had washed away the soil. Here
there was a better grip for foot and hand, and a few minutes' effort
brought them to the top.

The top was a peaty dome, broken by little pools that reflected the
sky and darkened when the white clouds rolled past. They sat down in
the boisterous wind, and for a time looked about; across scarred
peaks, sullen tarns among the rocks, and a sparkling lake in a deep
dale, to the faint silver band that marked the sea. Now and then,
however, Geoffrey looked at Ruth and his heart beat.

She was his equal in pluck and steadiness; indeed she was his equal in
all except perhaps muscular strength, and when he was slow she was
quick. He did not know if her face was beautiful by classical rules,
but this did not matter; Ruth had a charm that was hers alone. Now and
then, however, a look or a note in her voice puzzled him. He felt he
ought to know the humorous smile and quick drop to a lower tone, but
he did not. Although he had felt this before, he saw no light yet.

"It was a glorious scramble," she said, by and by. "Perhaps I enjoyed
it better because we, ourselves, found the way. On the famous climbs,
others have long since discovered how you can best get round the
obstacles and you use their rules."

"To feel you're a pioneer is something," Geoffrey agreed.

"Then, I suppose generosity made you let me choose our line?"

"It didn't cost much, anyhow. Perhaps it's human to grumble when
you're forced to follow another's path, but when somebody else knows
the job as well as I know it, I don't mind the second place."

"Really? You don't want to lead?"

"On the whole, I don't think so," Geoffrey replied. "At the mine in
Ontario, two of us engaged to solve a puzzle. I was manager, the other
fellow was my cook, but I was satisfied to let him take the lead. It
was plain he knew more. However, this is not important; I mustn't bore
you----"

He stopped. Somehow his talking about the mine seemed to give him a
clue to the puzzling note in Ruth's voice, but when he tried to seize
the clue it broke.

"Oh, well," said Ruth, "if you had not come, I could not have climbed
the Stack, and in the North, days like this are not numerous. It will
be something to remember when I am back in town."

"Then, you must go back soon?"

"I must," said Ruth rather drearily. "I wonder whether you know
Rainsfield; it's a little dirtier and uglier than other manufacturing
towns. Of course, to work is not a hardship, and if your work absorbs
you, it doesn't matter where you live. But, when one meant to be a
pioneer and is forced to struggle with the crowd along the beaten
track----"

She stopped. To talk like this to a man she did not know was
ridiculous.

"All the same," she resumed, "I must wait until my mother is better,
and I may perhaps get on the hills again, although I doubt. I came
to-day because Maud was going, but I ought to have turned back sooner.
When we stopped on the scree the Stack looked tempting. You see, it's
long since I got up among the big rocks."

Geoffrey sympathized. She loved the rocks, but was forced to labor in
the town, and her tired look and shabby clothes indicated that her
reward was small. Yet he could not help and must be cautious.

"I understand," he said. "A stolen holiday's better than a number
you're entitled to enjoy! All the same, we're not going down the
Buttress and the tourist path runs a long way round. I'm afraid you'll
hardly get home for dinner."

Ruth glanced at her wrist-watch and got up. "We must start! It's later
than I thought."

"I've a notion. My bicycle and side-car are at Ritson's in the dale.
If you'll come with me again, you ought to reach home in half-an-hour
after we leave the farm."

She hesitated for a moment, and then smiled. In a sense, she had been
rash to climb the Stack with him, but rashness had a charm and she
would keep it up. Besides, Mrs. Creighton needed her and might be
alarmed if she did not return soon.

"Thank you," she said. "It's strange, but when I'm in a difficulty you
and the bicycle arrive. However, I think some people are like that."

"A number of us have motor bicycles, if that is what you mean,"
Geoffrey remarked.

Ruth laughed. "You're very matter-of-fact. I think I meant it's
something when people feel you're generally where you are wanted."




CHAPTER V

RUTH'S PERSUASION


The doctor was leaving Beckfoot, and stopping at the gate, looked
thoughtfully at Ruth, who had gone with him across the garden.

"I'm bothered about your mother," he said. "Her heart, of course, is
weak, but to some extent her illness is mental; nervous, if you like.
She needs a change; fresh interests and associations as much as fresh
surroundings. Can you take her away?"

"I'm afraid it's impossible," Ruth replied.

The doctor nodded. He knew something about Mrs. Creighton's affairs.
"Then you must try to keep her cheerful and banish her rather morbid
gloominess. She ought to go out, and although she must be amused and
now and then indulged, you must use some firmness. Medicine won't do
all that's needed; much depends on you."

He went off and Ruth felt disturbed. It looked as if she must stay at
Beckfoot and this would be awkward, although she loved the dale and
her work at Rainsfield often jarred. Maud and she were making
progress, her help was useful, and Maud would be embarrassed if she
left her. Besides, the small sums she earned were needed. Then Ruth
had been at Beckfoot for some time, and had now and then found her
mother's moods hard to bear. Yet her duty looked plain, and she went
back to the house trying to be resigned.

Mrs. Creighton reclined in a long chair with tray and book rests, for
which she had sent to London. Her face was thin and her eyes were
dull, but weakness had not given her patience. She looked bitter and
dissatisfied. The window was open and the afternoon was warm, but a
fire burned in the small drawing-room. Mrs. Creighton liked a fire and
Ruth agreed, although she knew the cost of bringing coal up the long,
steep hill to the dale.

"Dr. Teasdale is strangely unsympathetic," Mrs. Creighton grumbled.
"He said I ought to rouse myself, go out more, and undertake some
light work in the garden. The thing is ridiculous! I might go out now
and then if I could drive. Besides, old James would not allow me to
touch his borders. Sometimes I'm tempted to send for the Mellerby
doctor."

There was an obvious reason why Mrs. Creighton should not dismiss
Teasdale, but Ruth said, "I don't see why James comes so often. The
garden is small."

"You know I like flowers. Your father was generous and parsimony is
not a fault of the Hassals. I don't know where you got yours."

Ruth smiled. She had been forced to study economy at Rainsfield, and
since Maud's classes got larger had sent Mrs. Creighton the most part
of the fees she earned.

"However, I imagine Miss Chisholm's example and society have had an
unfortunate influence," Mrs. Creighton resumed. "It is a relief the
girl has gone. She jarred me and I am glad you will not be able to
rejoin her for some time. No doubt Teasdale stated that I shall need
you."

"Maud is my friend," Ruth replied, rather sharply, but stopped. Her
mother was ill and must be indulged. "But let's be practical," she
added. "Can I stay at Beckfoot? We owe a number of people money and
the rent has not been paid."

"You are not kind. You know talking about these things brings on my
headache. Then it does not matter about the rent. Beckfoot is my
cousin's and Jack is not greedy. When I came here he promised----"

"I don't understand," she said. "Jack Hassal was in debt and his
promise would not bind his creditors."

"You do not understand business," Mrs. Creighton rejoined. "But I
wanted to talk about something else, and now I cannot. You argued and
my headache is very bad----"

Ruth left her and when she returned by and by Mrs. Creighton said,
"While you were out in the morning George came."

"Ah!" said Ruth and her heart beat, for George Hassal was a lawyer and
had been making inquiries abroad about Creighton.

"He is persuaded your father died in Canada," Mrs. Creighton went on.
"Although I had long given up hope, the shock was great." She paused
and let her voice drop to a low note. "It was worse because George
found out that when your father left Calgary he had been ill and was
very poor."

Ruth was very quiet for a minute or two. She had for some time feared
her father was dead, but it was harrowing to think he had died among
strangers, perhaps neglected, and without the help and comforts sick
people needed. In fact, she durst not think about it, and with an
effort she roused herself to ask what grounds the lawyer had for his
belief.

Mrs. Creighton told her and Ruth admitted there was not much room for
doubt. Then Mrs. Creighton added: "It is long since your father wrote
to us, but I knew he was not prospering. He was generous and meant to
hide his poverty. One must try to be resigned, but the sense of loss
is keen----"

She wept with an abandonment that disturbed Ruth. For all that, the
girl was puzzled; she remembered that her parents had jarred and Mrs.
Creighton had not been gentle to her husband. Indeed, Ruth had often
pitied her father and tried to comfort him. It was not until he had
gone her mother talked about him with tenderness and appreciation.
Although Ruth was sympathetic, she felt her mother's grief was somehow
artificial, but she tried to banish the uncharitable thought.
Presently Mrs. Creighton got calm.

"In a sense, we were both prepared," she said. "Perhaps this has saved
us some pain, but now we are left alone, we must try to draw closer
and trust each other." She was quiet for a time and then, while Ruth
indulged her grief, resumed: "Miss Chisholm talked about a man who
went with you across the hills."

Ruth started. Maud had talked about Geoffrey, one morning in the
garden, but Ruth had thought her mother was in the house.

"Well," she said, "we met a man at the hotel who knew the hills and
were rather glad when he told us he was going our way. Soon after we
started it began to rain and the mist was thick. If he had not
helped, we might not have got down that night."

"One would not expect a stranger to be a useful guide. You imply you
do not know him."

"I do not know him," Ruth declared, and Mrs. Creighton gave her a keen
glance.

"What was the man like?" she asked.

Ruth told her and she smiled, rather cruelly. "I imagine the man knew
you, although his object for joining your party is not very plain. He
is Stayward's nephew, Geoffrey Lisle."

The blood came to Ruth's skin and her pose stiffened, for she felt she
must brace herself. She had thought much about Geoffrey since she met
him on the moor, and he had come to stand for all the romance she
knew. When she met him again, in the garden at the hotel, it was
rather like a reunion with a trusted friend. He was strong and frank
and honest, and she owned that she had tempted him to suggest that
they should climb the Stack, for the pleasure of adventuring in his
society. And she had enjoyed every thrilling moment of the climb.

Now it looked as if she must let him go, but she rebelled, for her
acquiescence had been strained. She had found her fears about her
father were justified, and the last hope that he was alive had
vanished; she had seen that she must give up Maud and the career in
which she had made some laborious progress. It was obvious that her
mother needed her and she had tried to resign herself; but she felt
she had borne enough. Her look hardened and her mouth set firm.

"Stayward, not his nephew, injured us," she said.

"All the same, Lisle is his nephew and enjoys the reward of the
other's cunning and dishonesty. Much of the money he inherited was
your father's; the invention Stayward stole made him rich. But your
father, broken by hardship and poverty, died among strangers, and we
do not know where is his grave. Can you picture his wandering about
Canada, hopeless, ill, unable to work?"

"Stop!" said Ruth, hoarsely. "I durst not think about it."

"Very well," said Mrs. Creighton. "Teasdale told you I ought to go
away, and I knew long since the loneliness and dreariness at Beckfoot
were wearing me out. I cannot go; I must give up all hope of getting
well, and Stayward is accountable for this. His nephew squanders the
money he stole; our money, for which your father labored. Well, we
must pay for trusting a rogue, but it is unthinkable his heir and
nephew should be my daughter's friend. A small part of his riches
might have kept your father alive."

Ruth clenched her hand. She had loved her father, the news of his
death, although long expected, had moved her strongly, and her grief
turned to passionate anger. She did not see that Mrs. Creighton's
arguments were not altogether logical; she saw nothing but her father,
wandering, sick and desolate, in a stern country. Afterwards, when she
pondered the interview, she thought it strange Mrs. Creighton had
talked about Maud and Lisle; one would have expected the news the
lawyer brought to absorb her thoughts. Then her appeal against Lisle
had been made at a curiously fortunate time; Ruth wondered whether her
mother had known this.

"Now I do know who the man is, I shall know the line to take if we
meet again," she said, and her eyes sparkled when she got up.

Then, feeling she must be alone, she went to the garden and Mrs.
Creighton let her go. She knew Ruth's staunchness. Moreover the girl
was not a romantic fool and would do what she ought.

A week afterwards, Geoffrey went one evening to the village and
stopped for a few minutes on the wooden bridge outside the thatched
post office. The spot was sheltered by the hills and a row of old
sycamores checkered with moving shadow the belt of grass between the
small white houses and the road. The gardens ran down to a beck and
from each a plank bridge led to the green. While Geoffrey lighted his
pipe he saw a figure some distance off on the road. It was the girl
who wore a big shady hat, and although he could not see her face he
knew her pose and step. Dropping the match, he put away his pipe, and
went back quickly across the post office garden to a field path.

Five minutes afterwards, he rejoined the road outside the village and
sat down under the last of the sycamores. His look was resolute and
although his heart beat he meant to be cool. Since he climbed the
Stack with Miss Creighton he had seen her in the distance and imagined
she had seen him. If she had done so, it was significant that she had
gone another way. He had known she would soon find out he was
Stayward's nephew, and his uncle had warned him he must reckon on her
mother's antagonism. Now it looked as if Mrs. Creighton had worked
upon her daughter's feelings.

For all that, Geoffrey did not mean to acquiesce without an effort.
Ruth had gone to the post office, she could not see him in the shadow,
and if he waited, he would meet her coming back. He had chosen a quiet
spot because the village people were curious and to persuade Ruth
their friendship need not be broken might be difficult. The girl was
spirited and Geoffrey thought she could be firm. He must try to show
her she was illogical.

After a few minutes, he saw her coming up the road. She went slowly,
as if in thought, and her languid step and disturbed look indicated
that her thoughts were not cheerful. Geoffrey got up resolutely when
she advanced, and noted that she hesitated, as if doubtful whether she
would stop. There was some color in her face, but he could not tell if
it sprang from anger or embarrassment. He admitted that he ought to
have let her pass, but did not mean to do so.

"I saw you from the post office," he said.

"Then, you must have crossed the field!"

"I did so. I didn't want to miss you again."

Ruth's eyes sparkled. "You imply that you would not have met me, had I
seen you?"

"Something like that," Geoffrey admitted.

"Then, although you imagined I would sooner be alone, you meant to
force me to stop?"

"Yes. I expect I ought to have let you go, and perhaps you have some
grounds for feeling annoyed, but now and then one can't be fastidious.
Besides, you must remember I'm John Stayward's nephew and his
bluntness was well known. You see, we're rather an obstinate lot."

Ruth gave him a glance of cold surprise. She was angry, but all the
same she liked his pluck. It was obvious he knew his relationship to
Stayward was his drawback and refused to pretend he did not. Indeed,
she thought he wanted to force her to argue about it, and since she
meant to let him go, he was perhaps entitled to know the grounds for
her resolve.

"I do remember you are Stayward's nephew," she rejoined. "You must see
we cannot be friends."

"I do not see," Geoffrey declared. "I want you to see you're not
logical. I've met you three or four times, and until now you were
gracious, or might one call it kind? Anyhow, you didn't make me feel
I'd done some wrong and must be avoided."

Ruth admitted that he had come to her help when she needed help, and
had been her companion in the most exhilarating adventure on the rocks
she had known.

"You knew me," she said. "I think you were careful I did not know you.
This is important."

"When I overtook you on the moor road I did not know," Geoffrey
rejoined. "At the hotel I saw your name in the visitors' book, but
until you came into the garden, I did not know you were the girl I had
met before and had often thought about. Well, perhaps I ought to have
stated that I was Stayward's nephew, but I did not. For one thing, it
would have looked as if I felt you ought to be warned----"

He saw Ruth's eyes sparkle, and stopped. "I mean, of course, I
wouldn't own my being Stayward's relation was an obstacle," he added.

"All the same, it is an obstacle. Your uncle robbed my father."

"He quarrelled with your father. There was a dispute about the
patent. This was some time since. What has it to do with us?"

"Ah," said Ruth, "it has much to do with me! My father was forced to
go abroad and died from disappointment and hardship, while his
invention made your uncle rich. Poverty has broken my mother's health;
but you know our story! It is well known and you have been at
Nethercleugh some time."

"I know your mother's story," Geoffrey replied, and when he saw Ruth's
color rise went on gravely: "I don't mean to hint she knows it's
inaccurate, but the grudge she bore my uncle accounts for something.
When you brood over an injury, you exaggerate----"

"She could not exaggerate this injury," Ruth interrupted, and her face
got very stern. "My father invented the distilling retorts and died in
poverty. Stayward got the reward. Could he have done so, had he not
been cunning and unscrupulous?"

Geoffrey pondered. He saw the girl was strongly moved by the wrong she
thought Creighton had suffered. To argue that she did not know the
truth and enlighten her would not help, but if he said nothing, his
silence would imply that he agreed. Geoffrey was staunch and owed
Stayward much.

"There was a quarrel and the partnership was broken," he said quietly.
"You have heard one side, but not the other. Perhaps it's natural for
the loser to think he has been cheated, and Stayward was sometimes
hard. For all that, it's well known about the countryside that he was
just. People trusted him with goods when he owned he could not pay;
men who had been his antagonists came to his funeral----"

He paused and resumed with an apologetic gesture: "We'll let it go! I
had nothing to do with the dispute. You cannot hold me accountable."

Ruth's resolve was somewhat shaken. After all, he was not accountable
and she approved his staunchness, for she had noted he would not try
to placate her shabbily at his uncle's cost. It was plain he did
believe Stayward just, and the strange thing was, a number of the
dalesfolk had trusted the man. Mrs. Creighton, however, had worked
upon her love and pity, and Geoffrey had inherited wealth that was her
father's and would have enabled him to live a happy, useful life. One
could not forget this.

"All the same, we cannot be friends," she said firmly. "It's
impossible; there is too much in the way."

Geoffrey bowed. "If you are satisfied about this, I must agree in the
meantime. But I don't agree without some reserve. When you find out
you misjudged John Stayward----"

He saw Ruth's mouth get firm, and stopping for a moment, resumed:
"There's another thing. We are neighbors and must meet now and then
when people are about. What line are we to take?"

Ruth smiled coldly.

"I think you can leave me to indicate the proper line," she said and
went off up the hill.

When she turned a corner her step got slow and she felt dejected. She
had not shrunk from her duty, but the reflection gave her no comfort
and duty was hard. She thought, rather bitterly, her mother ought to
be satisfied.




CHAPTER VI

THE BROWN CAR


Geoffrey was occupied with a drill at a bench in the small motor shop
at the mining village. Stayward, shortly before he fell ill, had
bought a car, which Geoffrey had brought to the garage for some
repairs. When he went back the work was not finished, and finding
nobody but a boy about, he began to bore a hole for a bolt. While he
was engaged the proprietor came in.

"I'm sorry you have had to wait," said the man. "We didn't get all the
new parts until a few days since."

"It doesn't matter; I don't need the car," Geoffrey replied. "However,
I see you have had her out."

"A trial run. We wanted to put the magneto right before we got at the
other job. She wasn't firing well."

"You drove her yourself?"

"For most of the time."

"You ought to be a good driver," Geoffrey remarked. "All the same, I
see a dinge on the off-side guard. Looks as if you'd taken a corner
too fine!"

The man hesitated, and then noting Geoffrey's twinkle, said with some
embarrassment, "Miss Creighton touched the gatepost; as we turned up
the Moor Park lonning a dog ran across the road. Reckon I oughtn't to
have used your car, but I wanted to try the magneto and when Miss
Creighton sent a message mine was out."

"That's all right," said Geoffrey. "Why did Miss Creighton want the
car?"

"The doctor told her she must take Mrs. Creighton out and Leadbitter
wouldn't let them have his digby. Said his pony was lame, but I reckon
it's some time since he was paid."

Geoffrey lighted a cigarette. He had taken off his coat and sat on the
bench. His habit was to make friends and he liked men who used
engineering tools. Moreover, he knew the dalesfolk talked about
everybody's affairs.

"Then, Miss Creighton has some trouble to get a trap or car!" he
remarked. "Does she drive well?"

"She will soon. She's steady and has good hands and feet. Then she's
keen. Said she'd very much like to hire a little knockabout for a few
weeks while the warm weather lasts, but it would cost too much. If I'd
had an old thing I hadn't much use for, I'd have let her have it
cheap."

"Ah," said Geoffrey thoughtfully, and pondered.

He imagined the other knew all about Stayward's quarrel with
Creighton; everybody in the neighborhood knew Mrs. Creighton. To carry
out his plan might excite some curiosity, but he thought he could
trust the motor dealer.

"I expect you know I've a workshop at Nethercleugh," he said. "Well,
I've planned a few useful jobs for the winter evenings; a windmill
pump for watering Belle's cattle, a turbine to drive some farming
gear, and so forth. However, I've no big tools and thought about
getting you to machine the castings when you're slack."

"I'd be glad of the job in winter," the other admitted.

"Very well," said Geoffrey, looking at him hard. "So long as my
bicycle runs well, I've no use for the car. Put her right and lend her
to Miss Creighton, but she mustn't know the car is mine. Mrs.
Creighton mightn't like it--I daresay you understand. Then, although
you'll have to state your charge, I don't want them to pay the hire.
This will be your business."

The mechanic smiled discreetly. He liked Geoffrey's frankness and
imagined he scented a romance, but it was obvious his imaginings must
not be talked about.

"I can manage it all right. Mrs. Creighton pays for nothing until you
bother her about the bill."

Geoffrey put on his coat and went off, wondering whether he had been
rash. Ruth would be very angry if she found out the plot, but he
resolved to trust his luck. A week or two afterwards, when he was
going up a hill in the dale one afternoon, he heard a horn and his
small brown car ran round a bend. Ruth drove and he thought the sweep
she took at the curve was nicely judged. The speed had brought some
color to her face; she looked confident and happy, as if she enjoyed
her occupation.

Then Geoffrey, stepping on the grass by the roadside, saw her look up
and imagined she hesitated. The sweep the car made got wider and he
wondered whether her grasp had unconsciously tightened on the wheel.
Next moment, however, she looked straight in front, and Mrs.
Creighton, turning her head with a languid movement, gave him a stony
glance. Since he did not doubt she knew him, he thought her insolent
carelessness was rather well done--Geoffrey felt insolent was the
proper word. Her look indicated that he was not important enough for
active dislike. Yet he was persuaded she hated him for his uncle's
sake.

For all that, he smiled when the car vanished and the dust that
streamed about the hedges blew away. He was not going to bother about
Mrs. Creighton; he had promised Stayward to leave her alone, and Ruth
looked happy. He hoped her meeting him had not spoiled her
satisfaction, and, since he was modest, thought it had not. Going on
up the hill, he resolved he would try to make some plan that would
enable her to use the car as long as she wanted, without her knowing
she owed it to him.

So far as he could inform himself in the next three or four weeks,
Mrs. Creighton did not get much better; and then a farmer who took
milk to Beckfoot stated that she was worse. Geoffrey was sorry for
Ruth, but did not see how he could help. In the meantime, the fine
weather had gone. In the northern dales, summer is short and when rain
begins it rains hard and long. Water flowed down the hillslopes,
foamed in the ghylls, and soaked the bogs; the corn sprouted in the
fields, and swollen becks brawled across the roads. Here and there in
the hollows, the walls were broad and flagged on top, to make a
causeway through the floods; at other spots narrow wooden bridges and
big stones helped foot-passengers across.

Geoffrey, going to the village one stormy evening, thought he heard
somebody behind him, and after a time stopped and looked around. In
one place, the sky had cleared and a belt of angry saffron shone
above a hill, but leaden clouds with torn edges rolled up from the
west and the light was dim. Dark trees shook down big drops on the
road, and he heard the noise of falling water. He was rather tired,
after a long day with a sheep farmer on the wet moor, and wanted to
get back to Nethercleugh. Moreover, he knew the rain would soon begin.
Then an indistinct figure came out of the gloom and stopped not far
off. It was a servant from Beckfoot.

"What do you want?" he asked, because it looked as if she hesitated to
advance.

"I heard somebody on the road," she said. "The beck's rising and I
thought it might be over the stones at the water-splash."

A water-splash is a channel across a road, and Geoffrey, imagining she
was afraid the flood was deep, told her to come on and he would help
her over. After a few minutes, they stopped at the water-splash. The
stepping-stones near the hedge were covered by an angry flood. It was
getting dark and heavy rain began to fall. The girl looked at the
water, and when Geoffrey asked if she must go to the village told him
she had been sent with a message. Mrs. Creighton was very ill and
Teasdale had said another doctor must be brought from a small town
some distance off. Miss Creighton had tried to start her car but it
would not go, and the girl hoped to borrow a bicycle at the village
and bring a man from the garage. Geoffrey thought for a few moments
and then saw a plan.

"You can't get across," he said firmly. "Besides it's nearly dark and
blowing hard, and the garage is a long way off. Go back to Mrs.
Creighton's and I'll send somebody to start the car." The girl went,
and Geoffrey, returning to Nethercleugh, put on his bicycling
overalls. Then he looked for a big oilskin cap that would cover much
of his face and pulling it down as far as possible, started for
Beckfoot. The night was very dark, heavy rain beat upon him, and he
heard the streams roar in the gloom.

Ringing the bell at Beckfoot, he stood back out of the light, and said
to the servant, "I've come to drive Miss Creighton's car. Tell her
I'll put the engine right while she gets ready."

He knew where the car was kept and when he had lighted the lamps it
looked as if his luck was good, for after a few experiments with the
magneto and sparking plugs he got the engine to go. It was throbbing
loudly when Ruth entered the shed, but he let it run, and bent down,
pretending to do something with a spanner. Ruth would not know his
voice while the noise went on.

"A rough night, Miss," he said. "Better give me t' message and let me
go."

"I must go myself," she answered. "You seem to have mended the engine.
I suppose you can take me to Mellerby?"

Geoffrey said the engine would run, but the roads were bad and some of
the bridges might be under water. Ruth stopped him impatiently.

"Time's important and we must start. Take the shorter road by the
Pike."

She got into the car and Geoffrey drove out of the shed. It was very
dark and the rain slanted across the beam of the lamps, but he saw the
gateposts and turned up the hill, although he would sooner have gone
the other way. The road by the Pike was shorter, but it was rough and
steep, and he knew the floods were raging down the ghylls. For all
that, he must not argue with Ruth; she was obviously determined and if
he talked much she might know his voice. He was satisfied to sit
beside her and feel her arm touch his when the car jolted.

Now and then a blurred tree leaped out of the gloom and vanished,
glistening wet thorns rolled past and presently gave place to rough
stone walls. This was all one could distinguish, but when the pace got
faster Geoffrey knew they were running down into a hollow where a beck
crossed the road. He thought he heard water and began to slacken
speed.

"Let her go," said Ruth, and the car rushed on.

Flying water beat upon the screen, obscuring the lamps, and Geoffrey
could not see the bridge. He felt the wheels skid among loose gravel,
there was a violent splashing, and the car rocked horribly. Somehow he
kept her straight and the splashing stopped. He had crossed the first
bridge, but the becks were numerous and he did not know about the
next. There was an awkward spot at the bottom of a deep ghyll when one
got near Mellerby, and he resolved to take a road that turned off some
miles ahead and cross by a better bridge. After a time he began to
look out for the other road. Speed was perhaps important, but he meant
to take care of Ruth. By and by he saw the turning, close in front,
and the car had begun to swerve when Ruth touched him.

"No!" she said, sharply. "Go by the Pike!"

Geoffrey's mouth set, for he wanted to rebel but durst not. She
thought him a motor driver and it was not a driver's business to argue
that she was rash. Then although he liked her pluck her obstinacy
annoyed him, and he had hardly time to get the car round. The car
tilted as the wheels took the grass, he touched something that broke
across the front guard, and then they were speeding on again.

He could not see much. The rain poured down the screen and beat into
his face; mud leaped up in showers and some stuck to the lamps. Where
the road was straight the walls were faintly distinguishable, but the
walls stopped on an open moor and sometimes he took the grass. The car
lurched and tilted, and when Ruth was flung against him he thrilled.
For all that, he knew he must concentrate on keeping the road, and it
was a keen relief to feel the wheels on the stones.

He wondered whether Ruth felt much strain, because she gave no sign.
Her dim figure swayed when they went over lumps and into holes; her
head was bent as if she tried to follow the road. For the most part,
she was silent, and when she spoke he hardly heard her voice. He was
highly strung and now they were on bleak, open ground, the wind
screamed about the car.

At length, they began to run down hill. The road dipped to a ravine,
through which a large stream flowed, and Geoffrey, thinking he heard
water, presently slackened speed. Ruth said something, but he was
occupied with the controls and fixed his eyes ahead. After a minute or
two, the beam of the lamps touched an angry flood and he stopped. He
could not see the bridge and it was plain the water ran for some
distance across the road. Ruth got up and looked about.

"The bridge wall is very low. It's not important if it's covered,"
she said. "Besides, you may see the top when you get near."

"I doubt the water'll get on to engine," Geoffrey replied. "We ought
to gan back and take t'other road."

"No," said Ruth firmly. "You must go on."

Geoffrey got down and waded into the water until it reached his knees.
The bottom was firm and he knew the flood had not washed the metal
away. This was something, but when one crossed the bridge there was a
ditch on both sides, and if the magneto went under water the engine
might stop. He went back thoughtfully, pulled different ways; he
sympathized with Ruth and understood her anxiety to get on, but to try
the bridge might be dangerous.

"Well?" she said.

"I doubt if we can get across."

"You must! My mother's very ill and the doctor must be brought."

Geoffrey could hardly see her in the rain, but her voice had an
imperious note. He felt he ought to be firm, but Ruth obviously meant
to go on, and he started the car.

"Hold fast," he said. "Stick to me if she stops."

They plunged forward, at top speed, and took the water. It leaped
about the wheels and splashed from the guard, deluging the glass and
lamps. Geoffrey could not see; he must trust his luck and try to feel
if the wheels left the road. The bridge was short, and if the metal
were washed away on the other side, he would go into the ditch. Yet
the rash adventure had a thrill. Ruth was with him and he was carrying
out her orders. Ahead water tossed in the wavering beam of the lamps,
he thought the car was pressed sideways by the flood, and then he felt
the rise to the bridge. He was over, but the road dropped a little
now, and for a few moments he held his breath. Then the water sank and
the throb of the engine got regular. He changed the gear and they
began to climb out of the ghyll, but presently the wheel wrenched his
hand and the car swerved. Putting on the brakes, he plowed across some
yards of heather and Ruth fell against him when they stopped.

"Front tire's burst," he said. "I hope you're not shaken. We must fix
the spare rim."

Ruth got down and stood close by when he took a lamp and examined the
tire. Its top was badly torn.

"An old fence post with broken nails sticking out, washed across the
road by the flood, I expect," he remarked. "I'll get the spare rim and
the jack."

He thought she looked at him rather hard, but his head was bent and he
had pulled down his oilskin cap.

"Let me help," she said when he returned.

Geoffrey nodded and for a time they were occupied. His hands were wet
and slippery, the rain whipped his face, and his soaked coat
embarrassed him. He imagined Ruth was wet and chilled, but it was
obvious she was not daunted. The light touched her hands and he noted
she did not shrink when they got soiled. Then she had something of a
workman's firm grasp; Geoffrey knew when one had proper control of
one's muscles. Yet although he thrilled to watch her, he said nothing.
Now the engine had stopped, he must not talk.

They fixed the spare wheel, he turned the crank, and gave Ruth his
hand when she got into the car. Then as he backed across the road he
smiled and wondered whether the small courtesy harmonized with the
part he had tried to play. Moreover, a girl who could climb the Stack
did not need his help.

"Drive fast," she said and the engine throbbed hard as they rolled up
the hill.




CHAPTER VII

MRS. CREIGHTON'S WEAK MOMENT


When Geoffrey got back to Beckfoot he put the car in the shed and took
off the engine bonnet and part of the floor. Although he had returned
by a better road, the run had been hard and he suspected some strain
on brakes and steering gear. While he was occupied Ruth came in and
stopped, as if dazzled by the light. Geoffrey got up and stood between
her and the lamps. He was glad to note she did not look disturbed, and
hoped the doctor had given her good news.

"You drive well," she said. "I hardly think I would have reached
Mellerby had Jopson sent another man."

"She's a good car, Miss, and you were stiddy," he replied. "It's not
as if I'd had a nervous passenger."

"Well," she said, "you drove us through the floods and although you
did hesitate, I think it was on my account. But you are wet and it is
very late. If you will come in, we will give you some supper."

Geoffrey refused politely. He thought it typical that Ruth had come
herself, and not sent a servant, but he was embarrassed. She was
looking at him rather hard and he durst not move. He must stay where
he was, with his back to the light.

"Then, you cannot refuse a little present you have very well earned,"
she said, and moving a pace or two, held out a coin.

He hesitated, but advanced to meet her and used some control when she
gave him a half-sovereign. The poverty that ruled at Beckfoot was
known and he felt he robbed her of money she needed. For all that, he
must play his part.

"Thank you, Miss," he said. "Mayhappen I might ask how Mrs.
Creighton's doing?"

"We don't know yet, but I understand she is not as ill as I thought.
The Mellerby doctor has helped her to sleep, and we both owe you much
for bringing him."

Geoffrey doubted if Mrs. Creighton would own the debt, but Ruth went
on:

"I told Jopson we would not need the car now the weather's getting
cold. Had you not better take it back?"

"I think not, Miss. If you don't mind, I'll leave her with you. T'
garage is small and our cars are not out much."

"But I mustn't run up a longer bill."

"That's aw right, Miss," said Geoffrey, who wanted Ruth to use the
car. "We haven't much room and mayhappen it wouldn't bodder you to
keep her for us. If you went for a run on a fine day, it would do no
harm."

Ruth hesitated and then said, "Very well. But if you leave the car,
how will you get home?"

"I've a bicycle," Geoffrey replied. "Car's ready for a run when you
want her." He paused and imagining she looked at him curiously, added:
"I must get off." "Of course," said Ruth. "Thank you. It's lucky Mr.
Jopson sent so good a driver!"

Geoffrey touched his cap and put out the lamps. It was something of a
relief to know Ruth could not see and when he heard her steps on the
gravel he shut the door and started down the drive. He was strangely
satisfied; Ruth was all he had thought. Although he knew her poverty,
she had given him a generous reward. Then she had wanted to give him
supper and had thought about his walking back in the storm. She did
not send him off like a hired man whose master paid him for his work;
he was rather a man who had helped her and to whom she was grateful.
Ruth was kind to strangers, and his heart beat as he speculated about
her kindness to people she loved.

Then his satisfaction began to cool. He had no grounds for imagining
Ruth loved him, and, from her point of view, he had important
drawbacks. Moreover, Mrs. Creighton was his enemy and was not likely
to be scrupulous. Geoffrey frowned and then braced himself up as he
felt for the half-sovereign and put it in a pocket by itself. He was
used to meeting and removing obstacles, and did not mean to be
daunted. After all, he liked Ruth's staunchness; his business was to
persuade her it was illogical and he was not accountable for her
father's sufferings. Geoffrey saw he must be satisfied with this. It
would not help if Ruth were forced to own that Creighton had robbed
his partner and been justly punished.

All the same, he would not hesitate about enlightening Mrs. Creighton,
should she compel him. Indeed, he had some time since resolved to do
so if he found out that she was circulating fresh stories about his
uncle's dishonesty. He had documents, in Creighton's hand, that would
silence her. Geoffrey let it go when he came to the water-splash. The
beck had risen and the flood looked awkwardly deep. The hedges were
covered to half their height and a belt of foam marked the opening
left for the stream. When he plunged in, small gravel beat against his
legs. It was something of a struggle to get across and he went on to
Nethercleugh breathless but exhilarated. Belle had put dry clothes
ready and left him some food, and when he had eaten he sat for a time,
smoking, by the kitchen fire.

The crumbling peats glowed red and shadows crept across the floor as
the candle wavered in the draughts. He heard the wind and rain, but
the noise was soothing. Nethercleugh was seldom altogether quiet; the
ash leaves pattered and dry boards cracked. The old house was bleak
but not forbidding. Its austerity was somehow bracing, and he had not
yet altered Stayward's frugal rule. He was rich enough to do so, but
he meant to wait.

Geoffrey smoked and weighed his plans. One must let in some light;
with wide casement windows, the wainscoted parlor would make a noble
dining-room. On the south side one could plant a garden; the east wall
kept off the moorland winds. If one cut a round arch and left the old
black beams, one could turn the kitchen into a spacious hall; the
stairs at one end were broad and the newel posts quaintly carved.
Nethercleugh could be beautified, without spoiling its old-fashioned
simplicity.

Yet he could not begin until he knew if Ruth approved. She must bring
fresh life and joyousness into the brooding calm. Her voice would
enliven but not banish the ancient tranquillity; he pictured her
graceful figure and soft-colored clothes cutting harmoniously against
the dark paneling; her light step in the echoing passages. Then he got
up and knocked out his pipe. He had some way to go before he brought
Ruth to Nethercleugh and there were obstacles in his path.

A week or two afterwards, Mrs. Creighton lay one evening on a couch in
the drawing-room at Beckfoot and thought about Geoffrey. She was
getting better and Ruth, who had been playing for her, had shut the
piano and picked up a book. Mrs. Creighton studied the girl, and got a
hint of strain; she thought Ruth's recent calm was rather forced. It
looked as if she felt the reaction after an effort. Perhaps it was
something of an effort when she agreed that her friendship for
Stayward's nephew must be broken off. Mrs. Creighton had demanded
this, but now she wondered.

After the Mellerby doctor's visit, Teasdale had been frank. If she
were prudent and tranquil, she might live a number of years, but there
was a risk. Mental strain and excitement, for example, were dangerous,
and Teasdale thought Ruth had better stay at home. Mrs. Creighton
weighed this. It meant Ruth must give up her career, and if she did
so, she might be unable to start again. For one thing, she must break
her partnership with Miss Chisholm, whose help was worth much.

Then George, her lawyer cousin, had called and talked about business.
Things were worse than Mrs. Creighton had thought; the dividends on
her small investments were getting less, and one could not sell the
shares except at a loss; her landed property was mortgaged and, when
one allowed for taxes and repairs, hardly paid the interest. Moreover
there were debts.

Mrs. Creighton was disturbed. She had hoped to leave Ruth something,
even if it were not much, but George had banished the hope; when she
died, the girl must support herself. After all, Geoffrey Lisle was
rich, and it looked as if Ruth attracted him. In the dale, one could
gather news and Mrs. Creighton had informed herself about his haunting
the village; indeed, she knew more about him than Ruth and he
imagined.

She gave the girl a thoughtful glance. Ruth was reading quietly and
her pose was languid. She looked thin and rather worn. Mrs. Creighton
knew her work at Rainsfield was hard and it was some comfort to
remember she was not going back; but if she gave up her occupation,
how was she to live? One could hardly expect her to make a good
marriage. For one thing, there were no rich young men in the
neighborhood and Mrs. Creighton's friends in town had forgotten her.
Besides, Ruth was reserved and proud; she did not use her charm.

Mrs. Creighton frowned and made a rather painful effort to be logical.
If she took it for granted that Lisle was attracted, the marriage, in
one sense, would be good. The young man's advantages were obvious and
she imagined Ruth liked him. Mrs. Creighton tried hard to approve, but
found she could not. In fact, there was no use in trying; her morbid
bitterness against Stayward extended to his heir. She moved angrily
and the shawl round her shoulder slipped down. Ruth looked up and shut
her book.

"Does your head ache again? Is there anything I can get you?" she
asked.

"No," said Mrs. Creighton sharply. "I want to be quiet. Move the lamp
a little and leave me alone."

Ruth put the lamp on another table and Mrs. Creighton resumed her
gloomy pondering. For a few weak moments she had vacillated, but her
passionate hate was an obsession and could not be conquered. Although
Ruth might miss much, she should not marry Lisle. Stayward had brought
Ruth and her to poverty and was accountable for her husband's death.

There were, however, other grounds for Mrs. Creighton's relentless
grudge. She had not always hated Stayward. She had had some beauty and
in the days of the Hassals' supposititious prosperity had been courted
and indulged. For all that, she had not met among her father's friends
a man who pleased her eye like the rather grim young dalesman with his
tall, athletic figure and the face of a soldier-monk; Mrs. Creighton
had a romantic imagination then. She was an important landlord's
daughter and Stayward was poor, but she tried to hint she might be
tempted to forget the difference in their social rank. Yet she had not
meant to marry Stayward. The obstacles were too numerous. She wanted
to move him and enjoy the thrill of a romantic adventure.

Stayward was not moved. She saw she left him cold. He had something of
a monk's temperament. Yet he was not a fool; she knew he had seen her
invitation and refused, perhaps with the dry amusement he now and then
indulged. The sting that still rankled was there. It was long since,
but Mrs. Creighton was a daleswoman and dalesfolk do not forget. Her
health and fortune were broken and, in one respect, her mental balance
was disturbed. Her illogical hate dominated a brain that had lost
something of its power from long brooding. Her weak moment was gone
and she would not vacillate again. Worldly prudence and love for her
daughter did not count. Ruth must carry on the quarrel with her
enemy's house. For all that, the struggle had shaken her and she got
up feebly.

"I'm tired and think I'll go to bed," she said, and frowned when Ruth
put down her book.

"Don't bother," she added. "Ring for Jane. She will give me all the
help I want."




CHAPTER VIII

THE BROWN CAR STOPS


Long shadows streaked the hillside and Geoffrey pushed on as fast as
possible across the stones and tangled fern. He had been occupied
since morning building a derrick at a limestone quarry he had opened,
and now wanted to get home. The evening was fine, and the hill
commanded a wide view of peaks that cut against a yellow sky, and the
shining sea. The green in the valley below him gently melted to blue
and he saw far down the road that wound like a white riband along the
foot of the hills.

When he got near the bottom, a moving object came round a bend. Its
speed indicated that it was a car, but after a minute or two he saw
that it was not really going fast. Then the throb that rolled up the
slope had an uneven beat and got ominously jerky when the car climbed
an incline. Near the top it stopped, and when a girl got down Geoffrey
quickened his pace. The light was dim in the valley, but he thought he
knew the girl, and if he did so, he knew the car and why it had
stopped. All the same, he meant to be cautious and was glad his gray
clothes melted into the background of stones and withering fern.

Because of a wet bog he could not reach the road directly opposite the
car and he was a short distance off when he climbed a wall and jumped
down on the grass. Ruth looked round and then bent over the crank,
and her movements indicated that she made a determined effort to start
the engine. Her luck was not good, and when she got up as Geoffrey
advanced her face was red, but on the whole he was satisfied. He
thought he would sooner see her angry than stonily calm, and since she
generally was calm, her disturbance implied much.

"I can't make the engine go," she said.

"That's obvious. It looks as if you were trying pretty hard," Geoffrey
remarked.

She gave him a quick glance and he smiled.

"Well, perhaps I can help. That is, of course, if you are willing!"

"I'd be ridiculous if I refused! But do you know much about obstinate
cars?"

"I imagine I can start this car," he replied confidently.

Ruth looked surprised and he wondered whether he had been rash.

"You see, I know the type of engine," he resumed. "However, we'll
begin at the beginning----"

He tapped the tank and Ruth's eyes sparkled.

"I'm not really stupid. There is enough petrol."

"That's something; it clears the ground," Geoffrey remarked and after
taking off the engine cover lighted his pipe. "I may have to
experiment," he went on. "Suppose you sit on the step while I get to
work?"

"If you don't mind, I'd sooner watch. To know what to do might be
useful another time."

Geoffrey hesitated. He thought he could start the engine in a few
moments, but this was not his plan. He had been lucky and meant to
make the most of his good fortune.

"Very well," he agreed and put down his pipe. "If I'm to explain
things, we must, so to speak, proclaim a truce. Of course, it needn't
bind you after the engine begins to run."

"Then perhaps you had better smoke. You meant to do so."

"Thank you! When you attack a knotty problem, smoking helps, and one
doesn't like to waste tobacco. For a long time I was forced to use
economy, and habits stick."

"After the need for economy is over!" Ruth rejoined.

Geoffrey gave her a level glance. "I don't think you ought to be
annoyed because I'm no longer poor. The strange thing is, when I was
poor you were friendly. I don't know why you take another line now,
and hardly think you're logical."

"You really do know," Ruth said coldly.

"Oh, well, we agreed upon a truce," Geoffrey replied. "Suppose we talk
about the engine? To begin with, the magneto's often a cause of
trouble----"

He got to work and slackened and tightened nuts that did not need
adjustment. Indicating covered wires, he told her where they led, and
talked about electric currents and circuits. Then he experimented with
the valves and after a time leaned against the guard.

"Do you imagine you could start the car if she stops again?" he asked.

"I certainly could not," Ruth rejoined. "Very well. I must think how
I can make the job plainer."

Ruth sat down on the step and he looked about. The sun had set and
shadow crept up the dale. All was very calm; one heard the lambs on
the hillside and the soft splash of water. Geoffrey wanted to linger.
It might be long before he talked to Ruth again and the truce they had
not altogether kept had charm. Yet he had found out why the car
stopped and fresh experiments might be risky. Beckfoot was some
distance off. After a time, Ruth looked up.

"Since you don't seem able to explain what one ought to do, hadn't you
better start the engine?"

"I don't know if you're kind," said Geoffrey coolly. "However----"

He turned the crank, the engine rattled, and he opened the door for
Ruth.

"Shall I drive you to the village?" she asked.

"I think not," said Geoffrey, smiling. "We must stick to our
agreement. The truce was to last until the engine ran."

Ruth turned as she seized the wheel. "Very well! You are fastidiously
scrupulous. However, you have started the engine, and perhaps my
thanks will not embarrass you!"

Geoffrey bowed and gave her a steady look. "I've been trying to carry
out your orders, but it's harder than I thought."

"For all that, you must keep it up," Ruth rejoined and the car rolled
off.

When it vanished in the gloom Geoffrey resumed his walk and imagined
he had struck the right note. There was no use in urging Ruth yet.
Mrs. Creighton's power was strong, but Ruth was independent and by
and by a reaction might begin. He must wait and use firmness at the
proper time. After all, if he were forced, he could break Mrs.
Creighton's antagonism. Ruth's romantic loyalty was the worst obstacle
because he must not try to overcome it by proving her father a thief.

In the morning Geoffrey's thoughts were turned into another channel.
He had promised Stayward he would live at Nethercleugh, and since it
irked him to be idle had soon found an outlet for his energy. There
was limestone on the small estate and he was building kilns, and
opening quarries to supply the blast furnaces. Then he had examined
the lead vein and begun to sink an experimental shaft. Water-power was
running to waste and he meant to put up turbines to drive farm
machinery.

His plans had kept him usefully employed, and now a letter that
promised another occupation had arrived, but he knitted his brows
while he weighed the suggestion it contained. To begin with, the
industries in the neighborhood, mines, coke ovens, and quarries, were
prospering; prices for sheep and wool were high, and large profits
were earned. With good trade had come a general desire for
improvement, and thoughtful people demanded an extension of public
cooperation and control.

The letter invited Geoffrey to contest a seat on the County Council
and stated that a deputation would call upon him in the evening. On
the whole, he approved the writer's views and agreed that there was
much that ought to be done by public effort. All the same, the job
would not be easy. The agricultural landlords were old-fashioned
country gentlemen and some seemed to imagine the Council's main duty
was to make roads that would put up the value of their estates.

Geoffrey put the letter in his desk and went off to his quarry. He
resolved to wait until he had seen the deputation and in the meantime
he had his new derricks to think about. Soon after he came home, three
gentlemen arrived and he took them to the wainscoted room. One was a
sheep-farmer from the moors, another owned a brickworks, and the third
occupied a post at a colliery. Geoffrey gave them cigars and sat down
at the top of the table when they began to talk and smoke.

"I doubt if I'm the proper man to represent you," he said when the
brickmaker stopped. "You want somebody well known."

"You're oad John's nivew; everybody kenned him," the flockmaster
replied.

"Mr. Bell has given a good reason for our choosing you," the colliery
clerk added. "Although we call ourselves Progressives, we like the old
standards and don't trust strangers."

"I imagine a number of the old standards are on the other side,"
Geoffrey said, smiling.

"T'Hassals and such?" Bell remarked scornfully. "Weel, Hassals is gone
down and dinnot count. Some of t'others is honest, and some is not,
but they're aw for oad ways and willunt try t'new. Then Bells,
Staywards, Lisles, and Ritsons was Statesmen lang before gentry came."

Geoffrey knew this was so. The _Statesmen_ had owned the land they
cultivated, but, for the most part, were not rich enough to keep up
with agricultural development and sold their farms. A few were left
and among the dalesfolk to spring from Statesman stock counted for
something. The strange thing was, the men who meant to fight for
modern methods respected ancient traditions.

Then the colliery clerk began to talk. The opposite party had, he
said, a road-making plan they hoped to carry out if they could elect
their representative. The thing, however, was a piece of jobbery, and
must be stopped.

"Roads and bridges are useful," Geoffrey remarked.

"This road's nea use to anybody but two or three small farmers and
landlords," Bell declared. "T' others weel ken that, but they'll put
t' through and expect their friends t' do as much for them."

Geoffrey said he imagined reciprocity of the sort was not altogether
unusual and the brickmaker smiled.

"Oh, well," he said, "one helps one's friends, but the roads we want
will carry motor lorries and develop industrial traffic. It's
important that the moor road, which we're against, will unite the
opposition in a solid block; not because all like the plan, but
because we're getting stronger and they feel their right to rule is
threatened. In fact, they won't stop at much to keep out our man.
However, we have canvassed the voters quietly and imagine if you'll
take office you'll get much support. Although this is, to some extent,
for your uncle's sake, I expect folks will soon back you for yours."

After the others had used some fresh arguments, Geoffrey agreed and
the colliery clerk remarked: "So far as we can reckon, the miners and
furnace-men are all for us, but the village and dalesfolk hold about
half the votes and generally follow the landlords' lead; the latter
are for the opposition. Although we mean to put you in, we'll have a
stiff fight." He hesitated for a moment and then resumed: "Mrs.
Creighton will certainly support the other side."

"It's possible," said Geoffrey dryly. "Has she much influence?"

"She's oad Hassal's dowter and that counts," Bell replied. "Some of
her friends has dropped her, but t'others hasn't. It's weel kenned
Janet Creighton's a manishing woman and tarrible obstinate."

"Bell means she's unscrupulous," the brickmaker interposed. "She'd
help our antagonists, anyhow, because she belongs to the old school,
but in this particular contest she'll use all her power."

"Mrs. Creighton commands one vote," said Geoffrey.

The brickmaker looked at him rather hard. "I've got to be frank. We
all know Creighton and Stayward broke their partnership. Mrs.
Creighton tells an awkward story."

"Do you believe her story?" Geoffrey asked, turning from one to the
other.

"I'd niver believe it," Bell declared, and the colliery clerk nodded.

"He speaks for the rest of us and all who knew John Stayward well. But
what are you going to do about it, if Mrs. Creighton tells the tale
again?"

"I don't know yet. You must leave her to me. My uncle's dispute with
his partner has nothing to do with my election."

"It may have much to do with it," the brickmaker rejoined. "You've
got to remember you're our man, the party's man."

"All the same, I will not engage in a public quarrel with Mrs.
Creighton," said Geoffrey firmly. "If she tries to use a shabby plan,
you must not meddle. I will stop her."

The others hesitated, until he smiled and added: "I think I can!"

They went off soon afterwards and Geoffrey lighted his pipe. He sat
for some time with his brows knit, but when he got up his look was
resolute.




CHAPTER IX

RUTH GOES TO NETHERCLEUGH


A few days after he received the deputation, Geoffrey got to work and
on the whole found his candidature absorbing. He was not much of a
politician, but he had something of the constructive talent that had
marked John Stayward, and saw that much could be done for the
prosperity of the neighborhood by organized effort. New industries had
sprung up, roads for heavy traffic were needed, and bridges must be
built. These were subjects he knew something about, and he meant to
leave educational and political quarrels to others, but soon found
that politics must be reckoned on.

There were two parties, the old school and the new; one standing for
the preservation of individual rights, and the other for cooperative
progress. Geoffrey's staunchest antagonists belonged to the first. In
the mining villages, he was promised support, and a number of the
farmers received him well for Stayward's sake. Others were obviously
on his antagonist's side, and he thought the struggle would be hard.
If he won, he would not win by many votes.

Coming home one evening, he saw with some surprise the brown car at
his gate. It had begun to rain and the dark clouds that rolled across
the hilltops threatened a heavy fall, but he did not think Ruth would
stop for shelter at Nethercleugh. Yet he knew the car, and his heart
beat as he went in through the porch.

The big kitchen was shadowy, but he saw two girls sitting by the fire
and talking to old Belle. They got up and one advanced and gave him
her hand.

"I wonder whether you have forgotten me?" she said.

"Certainly not, Miss Chisholm," Geoffrey replied. "It's not long since
we crossed the fells and stopped at the shieling. For all that----"

Maud laughed. "You did not expect to meet me at Nethercleugh? Well,
I'm something of an invalid and when Ruth urged me to try your
mountain air I came to Beckfoot for a week or two."

Ruth stood quietly in the shadow and Geoffrey bowed. She acknowledged
his salute without speaking, and Geoffrey tried to control his
curiosity.

"Ruth wanted to see you, and your housekeeper told us you would not be
long," Maud resumed. "I hope it will not rain very hard before we get
home."

She stopped and they heard the rain on the ash trees. The windows got
dark and a deluge beat upon the walls.

"You must wait," said Geoffrey. "I'll put the car in the barn."

He went out and did not return for a few minutes. Miss Chisholm's
coming had relieved a rather awkward meeting and he thought she had
meant to do so, but he was conscious of keen excitement and wanted to
be cool. Something important had brought Ruth to Nethercleugh. When he
came back he took the girls to the parlor and indicated chairs. The
dark clouds had passed and although the rain came down in slanted
lines the light was stronger. One saw the brown panels, the big
dark-green rug, and the old blue china on the wall. Tall brass
candlesticks occupied the mantel and a copper lamp hung by heavy
chains from a beam. The narrow window commanded a view of a wooded
ghyll that seamed the brow of the moor. Miss Chisholm looked about
with frank curiosity.

"I like Nethercleugh and this is a noble room," she remarked. "One
gets a sense of spaciousness and quiet that's soothing after
Rainsfield. Your old fell-side houses are dignified but rather stern.
Some people imagine one's house reflects one's character!"

Geoffrey smiled. It looked as if Miss Chisholm meant to smooth the way
for Ruth and he must play up.

"I'm not accountable for my house; I inherited it," he said. "All I've
added to this room is the green rug. An old rag carpet satisfied its
last owner and Belle protested when the thing was thrown away. You
see, we're a frugal and rather primitive lot."

"It's something to know when you ought to leave things alone," Maud
replied. "But Ruth wants to talk to you and I'll go back to your
housekeeper. It seems she once spent a thrilling week at Rainsfield
with some relations and has a strange admiration for the dreary town."

She went out and Geoffrey waited, looking at Ruth. She was quiet and
since she sat between him and the window he could not see her face.

"You did not expect me," she said after a few moments. "In a way, it
was an impulse that made me stop the car; Maud and I were driving
home and the rain began. However, I really think I meant to come. I
felt I ought."

She paused and resumed with something of an effort: "You are standing
for the County Council and your antagonist is a friend of ours. Last
evening two or three of his supporters met at Beckfoot. I expect you
know my mother has promised to help them."

"I imagined she would help," Geoffrey replied.

"At the meeting, they made some plans. You must remember the people
who came are not our _friends_; they are men on committees, who know
about elections and persuade others how to vote----"

Geoffrey smiled. "I think I understand! You mean one is not fastidious
about one's acquaintances when an election's getting near? Well, these
men have some influence and they made a plan!"

"Yes, I felt you ought to know----" said Ruth and stopped for a
moment. Then she forced herself to go on: "They owned they could not
tell who would win. The balance was very even, but if something were
done that cost you a few votes----"

"Ah!" said Geoffrey in a sharp voice, "I begin to see! Mrs. Creighton
promised to help my antagonist! They're going to circulate the tale
about my uncle's robbing your father? After all, however, this has
nothing to do with me."

"But it has much to do with you. Suppose it was suggested you were
enjoying money that belonged to somebody else? That you knew about,
and consented to, its being stolen?"

"The money was not stolen, but we'll let this go. If I were willing
to give up part of my fortune, would Mrs. Creighton accept?"

"You know she would not," Ruth declared. "She would take nothing that
was Stayward's and now is yours. Nor would I!"

"Then we have cleared some ground, but I don't understand why you
warned me about the committee's plan."

"I want you to withdraw and let your friends choose another candidate.
You ought to see you must withdraw!"

"I don't see," Geoffrey rejoined. "In fact, your friends won't get rid
of me like that; I have promised to fight this election. Did the
people in the plot imagine I'd drop out if you gave me a hint?"

Ruth stopped him. Her face got rather white but she looked very proud.

"Then, you believe my object was to frighten you! Do you think I would
let the others use me to force your consent? That I'd let them send me
to extort something like a blackmail? I told you it was an impulse.
Nobody knows I came."

"I really didn't think so; I know you would do nothing shabby,"
Geoffrey replied with some embarrassment. "The trouble is, my temper's
hot, but Mrs. Creighton's vindictiveness is rather hard to bear,
because it isn't justified. However, if you didn't want to force me to
give up the contest, I don't understand why you did come."

"But I do want you to give up."

"Then, I'm puzzled," said Geoffrey. "I see no light at all!"

Ruth hesitated and he thought she blushed. "For one thing, it would
be better to withdraw now than wait until your committee asks you to
go," she replied after a few moments. "This would be awkward for you
and them."

"You mean it would be awkward if Mrs. Creighton got somebody to use
the story about my uncle's robbing your father? Well, I doubt if my
supporters would ask me to go when they heard the story; but in the
meantime it is not important. You, yourself, don't want to injure me?"

"I do not; that is, not _now_," said Ruth with rather strange calm,
and then turned and gave him a level glance. "When I heard the plot, I
nearly resolved to say nothing and let the others carry it out, though
I knew the thing was shabby. When we met at the hotel, you ought to
have told me you were Geoffrey Lisle, but you did not; and then again,
when we climbed the Stack----"

Geoffrey was quiet for a moment. He remembered Ruth's keen enjoyment
of the adventure on the rocks, her frankness and her cheerfulness, but
he did not see all that she implied. Since she did not know him then,
he thought she had no grounds to blame herself for being gracious.

"Perhaps I ought to have told you," he admitted. "For all that, and
although you're angry because I cheated you, you felt you couldn't let
your friends put me to shame? You don't hate me like your mother. In
fact, if I were not Stayward's nephew, we might be friends?"

"It's possible," Ruth agreed and colored. "But you are Stayward's
nephew."

"I don't know if I'd like to be somebody else," Geoffrey remarked.
"But I want to understand properly. Did you come because you wanted to
save me from getting hurt?"

"Not altogether."

"Then, I'm as puzzled as I was at the beginning. You had better tell
me. I feel it's important we should be frank."

"Very well," said Ruth in a hard voice. "I warned you because I hoped
to save my mother. She has long been ill and feels her poverty. Then
she broods about my father. Trouble like this unbalances one. She
could not see the thing she meant to do was shabby; but it was shabby,
and I wanted----"

Geoffrey made a sign of agreement. "Yes. It's plain now."

He pondered for a few moments, because he was moved and saw he must
use some control. He was sorry for Ruth, and sorry he had forced her
to confess her object. It was obvious that he had forced her. She had
splendid pluck and was all he had thought, but he must be cautious.

"It would help if I retired, but I cannot," he said. "I promised to
fight the election and my committee tell me I'm the strongest
candidate they could get. It's necessary for me to state this. Very
well, I can't disappoint them now when they have not time to get
another man. It would be ridiculous to do so and let the opposition
win because Mrs. Creighton is illogical."

"Yet if you don't retire, she'll carry out her plan," Ruth declared
with a look that indicated she was desperate.

"I think not. I must stop her."

"Can you stop her?" Ruth asked with surprise. "It's very possible.
Anyhow, I'll go to Beckfoot and try."

"But then she will know I told you."

"She will not know," said Geoffrey. "I mean to talk to her about
something else than the election; I think it will account for my going
and bringing up the old dispute."

Ruth looked at him rather hard and he saw she was puzzled. Indeed, he
imagined she was vaguely disturbed.

"You must trust me," he resumed. "Nobody but Miss Chisholm will know
you came to Nethercleugh."

"In a way, I ought not to have come," said Ruth, and delicate color
touched her skin. "One ought to do things openly. I don't like
secrets."

"Do you mean, you don't like to share a secret with me?" Geoffrey
asked with some dryness.

Ruth looked embarrassed, but gave him a steady glance. "Perhaps I did
mean something like that. Well, I must trust you." She paused and
added: "After all, I think I can."

Then she got up and Geoffrey saw the rain was stopping. He brought the
car to the gate and Ruth and Miss Chisholm drove off. When they had
gone he returned to the parlor and gave himself to careful thought.

To begin with, he knew Ruth's effort had cost her much. She had seen
the proper line and had taken it boldly, but he had known her pluck.
Then, except where love for her father led her away, she was just, and
hated shabbiness. It was impossible for her to approve of Mrs.
Creighton's plan. This accounted for much, but Geoffrey wondered
whether it accounted for all. Perhaps she had, half-consciously,
meant to save him from getting hurt.

He let it go. Mrs. Creighton must be stopped, but she must not know
Ruth had warned him. He would have to state some grounds for his going
to see her that would not implicate the girl, and he could do so,
although it would embarrass him. He meant to marry Ruth if she were
willing and had begun to hope he might persuade her if her mother's
opposition could be broken. It was plain that Mrs. Creighton had
worked upon her feelings. He had, however, seen that he must use
patience. Ruth was clever and although she had been carried away by
her mother's arguments he thought she would presently find out they
had no real weight. All the same, he must see Mrs. Creighton and
account for his doing so by stating that he wanted to marry Ruth.

Mrs. Creighton would, of course, refuse, and her refusal would enable
him to talk about Creighton's patent. He could soon convince her it
would be prudent to leave the old dispute alone and perhaps to own
publicly that she had misjudged Stayward. For all that, Geoffrey
imagined she really knew Stayward had not injured her and he could not
overcome her unjustified bitterness. She might cunningly work against
him and use her weak health for an argument to force Ruth to agree.

He must appeal to Ruth and urge his cause as strongly as he could,
although he doubted if she were ready yet. He wanted to wait, but
could not. In a day or two Mrs. Creighton might begin to circulate her
tale, and if he made known the truth, Ruth would be involved in her
mother's humiliation. It was obvious that he must do something
promptly and trust his luck.

When he got up he was resolved. He must find out how Mrs. Creighton
was, and, if she were well enough, demand to see her as soon as she
would receive him.




CHAPTER X

THE PORTRAIT


In the morning, Geoffrey, going to the quarry, met Miss Chisholm in a
pasture on the hill. She occupied the step of a slate stile, and since
she did not get up when he advanced Geoffrey imagined she wanted to
talk to him. He noted that she looked thin and rather worn.

"I came out to get some mushrooms, but they don't seem to be
plentiful," she remarked, indicating an empty basket. "However, I'm
satisfied to sit in the sun and look at the hills."

Geoffrey nodded. The sun was on the fell-side and belts of moss shone
like emeralds. Withered fern made patches of soft red and the dry
bent-grass was touched with silver. In the background, rugged hills
rose above a ridge of moor and the broken crags were darkly blue.

"I hope the mountain air will soon brace you up," he said.

"One gets slack at Rainsfield and I rather needed bracing," Maud
replied. "Then Ruth urged me to come. I expect you know we are old
friends and work together?"

"I understood something like this. Well, the moorland winds are
invigorating and Beckfoot's a pretty, quiet spot."

Maud smiled. "Remarkably quiet; but I have not known much calm and
there is a well-regulated quietness that jars. In fact, it's now and
then a relief to go out and hear the becks brawl. You may have
remarked that I'm looking for mushrooms where they are not to be
found!"

"If you want some mushrooms----"

"I don't," said Maud. "I want the wind and sun. Beckfoot's rather
stuffy. I don't mean they keep the windows shut; they're opened by
rule."

Geoffrey thought he saw what she did mean and wondered where she was
leading.

    *    *    *    *    *

"Well," he said, "Miss Creighton's your friend and I suppose you fixed
on our neighborhood for your holiday because you wanted to see her."

"This really was my object. I wasn't satisfied about Ruth."

"She's well, I think," said Geoffrey. "Anyhow, when we climbed the
Stack she was remarkably steady on the rocks and looked fresh when we
reached the top." He paused and resumed with a touch of anxiety: "But,
of course, it's some time since."

"Ruth is physically strong, but her letters gave a hint of strain. To
begin with, I think she felt being forced to let me go and give up her
work. She did so for her mother's sake. After all, however, perhaps I
oughtn't to be sorry she's not coming back."

"You imply that teaching music is not Miss Creighton's proper line?"

"Yes," said Maud, "I'm bothered about the thing, because I brought her
to Rainsfield. Ruth is a good teacher, but you feel the work's an
effort and she goes on because she's obstinate. She hasn't the
missionary spirit; a real teacher, you know, is something of a
missionary. Some of us preach the worship of beauty because we must.
It's, so to speak, our vocation, but it isn't Ruth's."

"I think I understand," Geoffrey remarked.

"There are men and women with romantic creeds they're forced to
preach. Sometimes we wear ourselves out and don't accomplish much
beyond bothering people who would sooner be left alone, but we're
satisfied to spend our labor. Ruth is not like that. She tries to hide
it, but teaching does not satisfy her. The women whom it does satisfy
are not numerous. Then Ruth's talent for music is really not very
marked. Nature meant her for domestic life. Her work's to rule a
home."

"Yet you hint she is not happy at Beckfoot."

"It's plain she is not," Maud declared. "In fact, this mainly accounts
for my coming to the dale. To begin with, I expect you know Mrs.
Creighton?"

"I doubt if Mrs. Creighton would confess to knowing me," Geoffrey
replied with a twinkle. "For all that, in a sense, I think I know her
rather well. However, we were talking about Ruth----" He stopped and
gave Maud a steady look when he went on: "I'd hate to feel she was
unhappy."

Maud's smile was sympathetic and implied understanding.

"Beckfoot jars me; I think it jars Ruth," she said. "Mrs. Creighton's
demands are numerous and the house has a morbid, depressing influence.
There are houses like that; you feel they're unwholesome! Then Mrs.
Creighton's brooding jealousy is poisonous. Ruth ought not to stay.
Yet I wouldn't persuade her to rejoin me at Rainsfield."

"I expect you know I'm the subject of Mrs. Creighton's jealousy,"
Geoffrey remarked in a thoughtful voice. "It's plain she's trying to
work on Ruth."

"Ruth is just," Maud declared. "She has been taught your uncle ruined
Creighton, and her mother's influence is strong, but sometimes she
rebels. I think she's pulled two ways----"

Geoffrey studied her quietly. Then he said, "Thank you! I must see
Mrs. Creighton; I'll go to-day!"

"Then you must be firm," said Maud. "I wish you luck!"

She got up, to allow him to climb the stile, and he resumed his walk.
It was obvious that Miss Chisholm knew when to stop, but he admitted
that she had said enough. Moreover, although romantic, she was not a
fool; he thought she would not have meddled unless she felt her
meddling was justified. He was strongly encouraged, but would not let
himself be carried away. After all, Mrs. Creighton was a clever
antagonist and stubbornly obstinate.

In the afternoon, Geoffrey went to Beckfoot and was shown into the
small, lavishly-decorated drawing-room. He noted its rather cheap
conventional prettiness and thought he knew what Miss Chisholm meant
when she said Beckfoot was stuffy. She had at another time remarked
that a house reflected its occupant's character. Geoffrey was
persuaded the drawing-room did not reflect Ruth's.

After a few minutes, Ruth came in. She did not sit down and Geoffrey
noted that she had a touch of color. He thought her curious and
perhaps disturbed, although it was obvious that she meant to be calm.

"My mother cannot see you," she said.

"I rather expected her refusal," Geoffrey replied. "All the same, I
must see her in the next few days. It's important."

"You are not easily daunted," Ruth observed with a faint smile.

For a moment or two Geoffrey knitted his brows. Then he said, "Will
you carry my message? If Mrs. Creighton does not feel able to see me
to-day, I must submit, but the interview can't be put off very long
and I must ask her to fix a time. It's necessary, not for my sake so
much as hers. In the meantime, I must warn her to say nothing about
the Creighton patent."

Ruth looked at him as if she were puzzled. "Then, you mean to talk
about the patent? You have found out something fresh?"

"Nothing fresh," said Geoffrey. "I was satisfied about the patent some
time since, but I imagine your mother doesn't know how much I know.
She may tell you afterwards. Until I have seen her, I cannot."

He waited, but Ruth did not reply. Her look was cold and her mouth was
firm. She was very still and her pose had a touch of pride. It was
plain that she expected him to go. He began to cross the floor, and
then, as he reached a small table that carried a bowl of flowers and
some framed photographs, stopped abruptly. Leaning over the flowers,
he took a portrait from its silver stand. Ruth turned and gave him a
surprised and rather haughty glance.

"Who is this gentleman?" he asked.

"My father," said Ruth.

Geoffrey started, but made an effort for control. He looked at Ruth,
and then for a moment or two studied the portrait. He saw it had been
taken long since, when the man was young and handsome, and much that
had puzzled him was plain. Now he understood why he had seen an
elusive likeness to somebody he knew when he looked at his camp cook.
The fellow was Creighton. Geoffrey saw how this altered things and his
heart beat. In the meantime, Ruth waited, trying to control her
curiosity.

"Why are you surprised?" she asked. "It's strange you did not know my
father. You sometimes went to the coke ovens."

"I ought to have known him, but I did not. The day we met, he was
sitting in the shadow by the office door. Then, of course, he wore
different clothes in Canada, and the frost had browned his skin----"

"In Canada?" Ruth interrupted.

"In the Ontario bush," said Geoffrey. "I met him in the snow. But
you're curious and I have much to tell you." He paused, and looking
about the room, went to the long window. "It's ridiculous, but I can't
talk about Canada here. Let's go out."

Ruth saw he was excited and his abruptness did not jar. She knew she
was going to hear something strange, and tried to be calm. She took
him across the narrow lawn to a bench behind some cypresses. Mrs.
Creighton would soon know where they had gone and would be angry, but
Ruth did not care. Somehow she felt Geoffrey was going to justify the
confidence she had once given him. She sat down and he leaned against
the rail of the bench, fixing his eyes on her face.

"To begin with, when I met you first on the moor, you were friendly
and trusted me," he said. "Afterwards, when we climbed the Stack one
glorious day you were frank and kind. We helped each other on the
rocks; we were comrades. Is that not so?"

"I think it was so," Ruth admitted with forced quietness, and obeying
an impulse, added: "It was a glorious day!"

Geoffrey signed agreement. "Afterwards, things were different," he
resumed. "You found out I was Stayward's nephew and Mrs. Creighton
talked to you. She urged that Stayward had wronged your father and I
had inherited money that ought to have been hers. If you loved your
father, you must let me go."

"She did urge something like this," said Ruth, giving him a disturbed
glance. "I agreed. But why did you start when you saw the portrait?"

"I'll tell you in a moment; I've been clearing the ground. For your
father's sake, you tried to hate me. The thing's ridiculous! He was my
friend!"

"Your friend?" said Ruth with a puzzled look. "One feels it's
impossible!"

"All the same, it's true. You may remember, when we stopped at the
shieling, I told you about our cook, the chemist, who found the
valuable metal. Well, this is his portrait."

"Ah!" said Ruth and hesitated, as if she were afraid. Then, with an
effort, she resumed: "George Hassal, my mother's cousin, told us he
was dead. Was he your cook when you left the mine?"

Geoffrey gave her a sympathetic glance. "No. He died some time before
this, when I was at Montreal. On my return, I took him to the
settlement for burial."

She turned her head and was quiet for some moments. Then she looked up
and Geoffrey saw her eyes were wet.

"It is strange you should do this," she said gently.

"It really is not strange. I told you your father was my friend."

"George Hassal made inquiries and was persuaded he was dead," said
Ruth. "We tried to resign ourselves, but after all, I hoped--and now
the hope is gone." She paused and began again in a shaking voice: "All
the same, I think I really knew I cheated myself. But there is much I
want to know."

Geoffrey saw her antagonism had vanished. She no longer thought him
her enemy; she was the girl he had met on the moor road and with whom
he had climbed the Stack.

He began his story at the camp by the frozen river, where he found
Carson in the snow, and told her how the miners approved his giving
him the cook's post. Although he doubted if he had much skill for
drawing character, he made an effort and his touch got firm and true.
He depicted Carson's whimsical good-humor, his habits, and the liking
the miners had for him. Then he sketched the background; the rude
cook-shack and log-house, the stiff white pines and the frozen
waterfall. Ruth sat very still and her look was grave but gentle. When
Geoffrey stopped, she signed agreement.

"He was like that! Even if I had doubted, you would have satisfied me;
but I did not doubt. You could not have made so good a sketch unless
you were his friend."

"I had time for study," Geoffrey replied. "On bitter winter evenings,
when the stove was red hot, we worked together in my shack, weighing
and melting down specimens----"

He went on with his tale and related Creighton's laborious
experiments, making Ruth realize the man's tenacity and unshakable
confidence. He thought she saw something of the pathos of her father's
last effort to use his wasted talent, but Geoffrey touched this as
lightly as he could. Then he told her about the accident and his
journey to the settlement with Creighton's body. He drew the start;
the silent men standing with their hats off in the snow, the horses
surrounded by a steamy haze, and the dawn breaking behind the pines.
He saw she followed the long march, and pictured the sledge and its
load drawn close to the campfires in the frozen wilds. When he stopped
she was crying frankly.

By and by she looked up. "Thank you! I really knew he was dead, but he
was happier than I thought; he found kind friends. Your story has
comforted me."

"Then I'm satisfied," Geoffrey answered and waited for a few moments.
"There's another thing," he said when Ruth was calmer. "Your father
was entitled to a reward for his discovery and you are his heir. I
must write to the directors; they're honest people."

Ruth looked up at him with a faint smile. "In the first place, I think
my mother will inherit. Will your sense of justice force you to claim
the reward for her?"

"I'll own that Mrs. Creighton's getting the reward rather blunts my
satisfaction," Geoffrey admitted. "However, I hope I am just. I will
write to Montreal."

Ruth got up and gave him her hand. "Thank you again! I must go."

He kept her hand for a moment. "It was on your father's account you
felt you ought to dislike me?"

"Yes," said Ruth, but did not look up.

"Very well. Now there is no obstacle to our being friends."

"No," she said and gave him a quick glance. "There is no real
obstacle. You were kind to my father. But I think my mother will not
be satisfied yet."

Geoffrey smiled. "I'm going to see Mrs. Creighton and expect to
persuade her. Will this be some relief to you?"

The color came to Ruth's face and her glance got shy and soft.

"It will be some relief," she said. "I will carry your message.
Perhaps she will see you."




CHAPTER XI

RUTH REBELS


After Mrs. Creighton heard Ruth's story she went to her room and gave
orders that she must not be disturbed. She declared she needed
quietness; the news had been a shock, and she must be left alone while
she tried to recover. Ruth was sympathetic, although she knew Mrs.
Creighton had for some time been convinced her husband was dead.
Moreover, although she stated she could not come down for dinner, Ruth
found the cook had been instructed to send an appetizing meal to her
room.

When it was getting dark Ruth and Maud walked in the garden, and Maud
stopped at the bench among the cypresses. The evening was calm and
thin mist drifted about the fields and streaked the dark firs behind
the house. One heard the beck and the lambs bleating on the hill.

"Let's sit down," said Maud. "I want to talk and can't arrange my
thoughts while you move restlessly about. You are restless. Lisle's
calling has disturbed you."

"Is that strange?" Ruth asked.

"You knew your father was dead. In fact, you had given up hope before
your lawyer relation told you about his inquiries. There's something
else."

Ruth said nothing and Maud went on: "Your mother is getting better. By
and by she won't need you, and I doubt if you ought to rejoin me at
Rainsfield. Your usual calm's deceptive; you're highly strung and
teaching would wear you out. It's not your job. Nature gave you
another."

"Do you mean you won't take me back?"

"It's possible. Suppose I'm unselfish enough to refuse? What are you
going to do?"

"I don't know," Ruth replied drearily.

"What you ought to do is obvious."

Ruth blushed but looked up sharply. "You don't altogether understand
and must not meddle!"

"Meddling's my business. I'm something of a missionary and a fanatic.
I rage against ugliness, conventional shams, and waste of Nature's
gifts. Well, although you have a soberness and balance I haven't got,
I've taught you something. I've given you the modern young woman's
point of view and made you think for yourself. You're as honest as
things allow."

"I don't see where this leads us," Ruth remarked.

"Then you are duller than I thought and I'm going to be frank. To
begin with, you cannot stay long at Beckfoot. You and your mother
would jar. I can see you rebelling against the strain of forced
agreement and conventional pretense. Long since your mother's ambition
destroyed your father's happiness; if you stay, her jealousy will
destroy yours. Stayward is not accountable for your misfortunes.
Bitterness like your mother's is poisonous to everybody about. You
can't stay at Beckfoot. It's frankly impossible!"

Ruth was very quiet. Anger would have brought some relief, but she
could not be angry; she felt that Maud had not exaggerated much. She
had for some time doubted if Mrs. Creighton's jealousy were
altogether justified and now she knew it was not. Yet, so long as her
mother needed her, her duty was plain.

Maud waited for a few moments, and then resumed: "Your life is yours;
a platitude but true. Don't cheat yourself by the illusion that you're
necessary to Mrs. Creighton. If you're very resolute and patient, you
may bear with her for some time, but the clash must come. When it does
come, you may find it comes too late; after you have thrown away a
chance of happiness you may not get again----"

"You must stop," Ruth said with quiet firmness, although her face was
red.

"I will stop soon. Lisle loves you. He's resolute, modest, honest, and
although I doubt if he's clever, he's not a fool. Physically, he's
strong, athletic, and rather handsome. What else do you want? Then
perhaps it was not for nothing you met him, when you were tired, on
the moorland road. One goes far and fronts the hills cheerfully with
somebody one can love and trust. It's much if when at length the road
runs down into the dark, one does not go alone. Now I'll stop and
leave you to weigh my remarks."

Maud got up and went off, but Ruth sat still and mused. It was plain
that Geoffrey loved her, and she had not met another whom it would be
so easy to love. Moreover, when she had recently glanced ahead, the
road she meant to take looked rough and long. Sometimes she felt
daunted and sometimes lonely. She might find it lonelier than she had
thought and, when the evening came, be forced to own that she had
missed the joy of the day. For all that, her mother's claim was strong
and there were obstacles in the way of her marrying Lisle. She
wondered how he thought to satisfy her mother, but saw no light, and
when she felt the dew went back to the house.

In the morning, Mrs. Creighton came down to the drawing-room and
ordered her invalid's chair to be put near the window. Then she had
her cushions and shawls carefully arranged, and when she was satisfied
sent for Ruth. When Ruth came she studied her and thought she was pale
and looked rather strained. All the same, her mouth was firm and her
glance was steady. Mrs. Creighton knew her daughter and wondered
whether she was going to be obstinate.

"I have been weighing the story Lisle told you," she said. "In some
respects, it is plausible."

"I feel it's true," Ruth rejoined. "There were particulars he could
not have invented; the things were characteristic. He knew my father!"

"This is obvious," Mrs. Creighton agreed. "All the same, his knowing
your father does not guarantee the accuracy of the rest of the tale.
But suppose we admit it is accurate? It looks as if Lisle had copied
his uncle. Stayward stole your father's patent; Lisle encourages him
to use his skill and then takes his reward! Indeed, he admits he has
done so."

Ruth's eyes sparkled. Maud had argued better than she knew and Mrs.
Creighton had taken the wrong line. Ruth began to feel her jealousy
was poisonous. For all that, she tried to be patient.

"Until Mr. Lisle saw the portrait, he did not know his cook was my
father," she rejoined.

"Is this probable? You are not a child and one must use one's
knowledge of human nature. So long as Lisle could pretend ignorance,
he would not be forced to divide the profit. It counts for much that
he is Stayward's sister's son. Margaret Stayward was very like her
brother, I knew her long since."

"Oh," said Ruth, "one cannot think everybody is shabby and dishonest!
It would be horrible. Besides, the dalesfolk declare Stayward was
just. They often talk about him. He was rough but leal, they say.
After all, perhaps, your grudge carries you too far."

Mrs. Creighton gave her a look of scornful amusement. "I have lived
some time and one soon loses one's romantic generosity. Then I knew
John Stayward rather well. However, Lisle admits that my husband,
after long and patient experiments, found the metal."

"I think," said Ruth with a touch of passion, "father did not bother
about the reward. He was not greedy, and Mr. Lisle declares no bargain
was made. He experimented because he was a chemist and felt he must.
Can't you see the pathos of it? He was old and had forgotten much; he
had no proper apparatus and had lost his skill. Yet it was his
vocation; he worked for love----"

"If he did not stipulate about a reward, he was rash and did not take
much thought for us," Mrs. Creighton remarked dryly. "All the same, I
doubt."

"But you doubt everybody! If Mr. Lisle were dishonest, he would have
said nothing. He has promised to write to the directors and see we get
a share in the profits of the mine. You cannot refuse this."

"I do not mean to refuse, but before I agree I must know the sum the
directors are willing to give and talk to George. He will see I am not
cheated."

Ruth knitted her brows and made an effort for control. She felt she
had not really known her mother until then, and she shrank from the
illumination. She saw she must not expect her to be just.

"Mr. Lisle sent a message demanding an interview," Mrs. Creighton
resumed. "Do you know what he means to talk about?"

"Not altogether," Ruth replied. "I think he is afraid you might use
your influence against his election."

"I shall certainly do so. Lisle is not the man to speak for us at the
council. I will give him his interview and make it plain that he must
withdraw."

"But you cannot force him to withdraw."

"I have grounds for thinking I have the power."

"Oh," said Ruth, in desperation, "if I could persuade you to give it
up! You cannot tell people about father's dispute with Stayward. You
must see it's unthinkable!"

"Do you imply I must not carry out my duty to my neighbors, because I
need Lisle's help to get money my husband earned? The owners of the
mine cannot refuse my claim, and if they tried, George would compel
them to pay. Isn't it obvious Lisle offered his help as a bribe?"

Ruth said nothing for a moment, although she was horribly jarred. It
looked as if Mrs. Creighton could not realize that her revengeful plan
degraded her. In fact, there was no use in arguing. Long brooding had
made her mother blind and she could not be helped to see. For all
that, Ruth felt she must protest.

"Mr. Lisle's offer was not a bribe. He wanted to help because he's
kind."

Mrs. Creighton smiled, a rather cruel smile. "He has a staunch
champion. Do you love the man?"

Ruth lifted her head and although her color was high gave her mother a
level glance.

"I do not know. He deserves to be loved."

"Then, I expect you know he loves you?"

Ruth did not answer. She was very quiet, but her mouth was ominously
firm.

"All the same," Mrs. Creighton went on, "you must let him go. It's
impossible for you to marry Geoffrey Lisle. His uncle is accountable
for your father's ruin and the hardships that caused his death. Lisle
knew, and took the profit Stayward got by theft. You cannot share the
fortune stolen from your father. When you meet Lisle, you must make
him understand that you and he are strangers."

"I will not," said Ruth and got up, trembling with mixed emotion.

Her mother's hate, founded on an illusion, had grown to something like
a mania. While she nursed her supposititious injuries, Mrs. Creighton
had lost her mental balance. But Ruth remembered Maud's warning. She
was resolved her mother's illusion should not destroy her happiness.
She had some right to happiness and she rebelled.

"Mr. Lisle has not asked me to marry him," she resumed. "If he does
ask, I do not yet know what I shall say. But so long as he values my
friendship, it is his. I will not let him go."

"You may be forced," Mrs. Creighton rejoined.

Ruth looked at her for a moment. Her eyes sparkled and her hand
trembled, but with an effort she turned quietly, crossed the floor,
and went out. When she had gone, Mrs. Creighton rang for her maid and
then sank back in her chair. She was not beaten yet, but her
confidence was shaken. Moreover, she had borne some strain. Ruth's
selfish obstinacy and ingratitude had hurt; Mrs. Creighton would not
own that to be baffled hurt worse. Her disturbance reacted on her
physically, and her maid suffered much for Ruth's sake while she
helped her mistress to bed. Then she went upstairs and packed her box.
She had had enough, she told the cook.

In the morning, Ruth went to the village post office. The
post-mistress sold groceries and general goods, the shop was small and
dark, and since three or four people were waiting to be served, Ruth
stopped at the open door. The others were gossiping and did not see
Ruth. After a few moments, one said something that puzzled her and
when another replied she started and half-consciously clenched her
hand. Her errand was not important, and stealing away, embarrassed,
she set off for Beckfoot and met Geoffrey outside the village. When he
came round a corner by the water-splash she stopped.

"Whose is the car we have been using?" she asked.

Geoffrey gave her a quick glance. Her eyes sparkled, and she held her
head high. He saw he must be frank.

"The car is mine."

"Did Jopson rent it from you?"

"He did not."

"Then you plotted with the man to cheat me?"

"I suppose I did do something like that," Geoffrey owned.

Ruth studied him. She was angry, because she felt humiliated, but he
did not look embarrassed. Although his sunburned face was redder than
usual, his glance was direct and kind.

"You are honest now," she remarked. "Why did you cheat me?"

"I wanted you to use the car. I heard that Mrs. Creighton must be
driven about and you couldn't get a trap. I think that's all. Anyhow,
since I thought you wouldn't know, it's plain I wouldn't get much by
cheating you. If I'd asked you to use the car, you would have refused,
but I don't know if this makes the thing better."

"It does not," said Ruth severely, although she was beginning to
relent. He had not thought to gain much; his unselfishness was
obvious.

Then she remembered something else that had puzzled her and she
thrilled with mixed emotion.

"Oh!" she said, "you drove the car, the night I went to Mellerby for
the doctor?"

"I did drive," Geoffrey admitted. "It looked as if you could get
nobody else and the need was urgent. Mrs. Creighton was ill."

Ruth's anger vanished and she no longer felt humiliated, although
there was much for which she was sorry.

"But I expect you know what my mother thinks about you?"

"It's pretty obvious," Geoffrey replied with a twinkle. "For all that,
her not liking me wasn't important. She was ill and you were bothered
about her."

Ruth turned her head and when she looked up again her eyes were
gentle.

"You were generous when we were unjust and harsh," she said. "I wonder
why----"

She stopped and blushed. She had spoken impulsively because she was
moved, but she saw she had been rash. Geoffrey gave her a steady
glance.

"I think you _know_. If not, I'll tell you when I have seen your
mother. She has sent me a note fixing the time."

"She did not tell me this," Ruth replied, turning her head and trying
to be calm. "Well, I have kept you and must go."

She went off and Geoffrey started for the village. He meant to be very
firm when he saw Mrs. Creighton.




CHAPTER XII

MRS. CREIGHTON RETRACTS


The evening was getting cold, the shadows had crept across the dale,
and when a light began to twinkle among the trees ahead Geoffrey
looked at his watch. Mrs. Creighton had fixed a time for him to call
and he meant to be punctual. So long as he was occupied, he thought he
could be cool, but he did not want to wait for the interview.

Geoffrey resolved to take a bold line. He had been patient and tried
to avoid a conflict, but Mrs. Creighton's hostility had not got less.
She was an unscrupulous antagonist and might work on Ruth's feelings,
as she had done before. It was plain her consent to his marrying Ruth
must be forced and Geoffrey saw he could not be fastidious. Moreover,
she had long slandered his uncle. He tried not to feel revengeful, but
Mrs. Creighton could not be allowed to circulate fresh stories about
Stayward's dishonesty. She had compelled him to quarrel and he smiled
rather grimly as he reflected that she did not know his power.

Lights shone in the windows at Beckfoot when he went up the path. A
servant took him to the drawing-room and somewhat to his relief he saw
he would not be kept waiting. Mrs. Creighton occupied her invalid's
chair and coldly acknowledged his bow. Her face was rather pinched,
but she did not look ill. A shaded lamp on a brass pillar stood near
the hearth and a man sat in front of a small table. Geoffrey had met
Hassal at a public function and knew he was a lawyer.

"I asked Mr. Hassal to meet you because he is my cousin and sometimes
advises me," Mrs. Creighton said and indicated a chair.

Geoffrey sat down and thought his chair had been purposely put where
it was. The party occupied the corners of a triangle and since the
room was small the light was good. He could see the others and
imagined they had meant to study him.

"You demanded an interview," Mrs. Creighton resumed. "I can give you a
quarter of an hour."

"This is enough for me," Geoffrey replied. "If you should want to
lengthen the time, mine is at your command."

He stopped for a moment. It was rather strange to see Hassal. Since
the fellow was a lawyer, he would hardly approve Mrs. Creighton's
plan, but perhaps she had not told him. On the whole, Geoffrey did not
think Hassal knew.

"You know I met Mr. Creighton in Canada," he said. "Since I saw Miss
Creighton I have written to the directors of the mining company and
urged that his labors deserved some recompense. When their reply
arrives I will inform you."

"I suppose you are satisfied the man was Creighton?" Hassal
interposed.

"It's impossible to doubt," said Geoffrey, picking up Creighton's
photograph, which stood where he had seen it. "However, you can get
some copies of the portrait and send them to the mine. I will give
you the address."

"When your directors reply we will think about their offer," Mrs.
Creighton remarked. "Since my husband's discovery was valuable, his
reward must be just."

Geoffrey smiled. "The directors are just, but they will not give you
an offer to think about. If they agree to fix a sum, they'll expect
you to be satisfied. In a sense, you have no claim. Mr. Creighton did
not stipulate he must be paid."

"We have only your statement for this," Hassal interrupted.

"That is so," Geoffrey agreed. "If you doubt me, you must prove a
bargain was made. Then, all rests on my statement. The directors knew
nothing about Creighton's experiments that I did not tell them. If I'm
not trustworthy, Mrs. Creighton's claim falls through."

Hassal made a sign of agreement and Geoffrey went on: "We must wait
until I get a reply from Montreal." He turned to Mrs. Creighton. "Now
I want to talk about something that does not directly interest Mr.
Hassal."

"My cousin will remain."

"Very well," said Geoffrey. "It's my duty to state that I mean to ask
Miss Creighton to marry me. I hope you approve."

Mrs. Creighton gave him a steady look. "Does Ruth know this was your
object when you demanded an interview?"

"She does not."

"Have you grounds for imagining she will agree?"

"I have none," Geoffrey owned. "I'm taking what I understand is the
proper line."

Mrs. Creighton smiled, but her straight, thin lips were firmly set and
he got a hint of cruel satisfaction.

"You are honest now; you were not always honest," she said. "At the
beginning you cheated my daughter. Afterwards you thought you could
persuade her to cheat me!"

Geoffrey colored. In a sense, he had cheated Ruth, but his
embarrassment turned to anger. Mrs. Creighton had known more than he
thought, and had meant to let him get entangled and then forbid him to
see Ruth again. The plot was cruel and risky; so long as he was
punished, he did not think she would be much disturbed if she hurt her
daughter. Then, from her point of view, he had advantages, and since
they did not weigh, her malignant prejudice was stronger than her
greed. It was plain that he must be firm.

"You imply that you don't approve my marrying Ruth?" he said.

"I do not approve. Such a marriage is impossible!"

"I must ask why you declare it's impossible," Geoffrey rejoined.

He saw the lawyer glance at Mrs. Creighton and hoped she would not
control her bitterness. He had given her a lead, but if she were
cautious she might embarrass him. In fact, unless she talked about her
husband's supposititious wrongs, he did not see how he could begin the
argument he meant to use. Mrs. Creighton was clever, but she did not
know how much he knew and revengeful passion carried her away.

"Your uncle cheated my husband, ruined him in fortune and reputation,
and drove him abroad," she said in a voice that shook. "He died in
consequence of the hardships he was forced to bear, and John Stayward
was accountable for his death. You have inherited Stayward's stolen
property; you were his heir, and it's possible you knew and consented
to the theft. That Ruth should marry the man her father's ruin has
enriched is obviously impossible!"

Geoffrey saw she had given herself into his power. There was no reason
for his being merciful, but he must be cool.

"You take it for granted my uncle stole Creighton's invention. All
turns on this," he said and looked at Hassal. "I'll admit the
invention was useful and Creighton sold it for a trifling sum. Would
he have done so unless he was forced? Isn't it plain that some rash
action, dishonesty to his partner for example, accounted for his not
refusing to sell?"

"You imply too much," said Hassal. "Suggestions like this are
dangerous. If made publicly, they may cost you something."

"I'll be content if Mrs. Creighton admits they're justified. Since her
husband was my friend, I much dislike the line she compels me to take.
Well, when Creighton joined Stayward he had nothing but his patent.
The specification was bad and did not protect the patent from
infringement; in fact it was afterwards infringed by other parties.
Then the invention, so to speak, was not complete, and the process
Stayward used was a development he worked out after Creighton left
him."

"Your unsupported statements would probably be disputed by a patent
lawyer," Hassal remarked.

"It's possible," said Geoffrey, who took out some documents. "I have
plans you can submit to a technical expert, if you like. In the
meantime, we'll let it go. Creighton was extravagant and used his
partner's money, until Stayward found it was nearly gone. Since he
could not trust Creighton, he broke the partnership."

"Creighton was Stayward's partner, and if he did use the house's
money, his doing so was not unlawful," Hassal remarked.

"It was ethically dishonest," Geoffrey declared. "I don't know the
law, but there were circumstances that made Creighton's later drawings
very like fraud. Stayward imagined he could have forced him to refund,
but since Mrs. Creighton had spent the money, he used another
plan----"

Mrs. Creighton stopped him. Her face was red and she sat upright, with
her eyes fixed on Geoffrey. They shone with hate, but he thought she
began to be afraid.

"This is slander," she said. "My cousin will advise me how to punish
you."

Hassal gave her a warning glance. "I think we will let Mr. Lisle
finish his argument."

"Mrs. Creighton's accusation made me my uncle's champion, and the part
gives me some advantages," Geoffrey resumed. "Well, I have documents
to prove all I state----"

He paused, and putting some papers on the table, began again: "At
length Creighton could get no more money from the bank, but money was
needed to hide his extravagance. It looks as if Mrs. Creighton had
persuaded him to take out a sum that, had it been left, might have
helped him to carry on for a time."

Geoffrey turned to Mrs. Creighton. She leaned forward and her look was
fixed and strained. He saw she was waiting with keen suspense.

"Well, there was no more money, and Creighton pledged a quantity of
coal that was not theirs. Stayward's agreement was needed and
Creighton, who durst not ask for it, used his partner's name. Stayward
found out and broke the partnership, but paid Creighton a small sum
for his patent. I think that's all."

He got up and gave Hassal the documents. "You are used to weighing
evidence, and I think you will find my story is well borne out.
Anyhow, you'll see Creighton's admission, in his own hand, that he got
justice."

He sat down and gave Mrs. Creighton a quick glance. She had sunk back
in her chair and he saw she was horribly afraid. He wondered how much
she had known, and thought she had known something, if not all.

For some minutes they were very quiet, and nothing broke the strain,
except when a paper Hassal picked up rustled. Then the lawyer turned
to Mrs. Creighton.

"A closer study of the documents might give some grounds for disputing
part of Mr. Lisle's argument," he remarked. "The disputable part,
however, is not important. My advice is, agree with Mr. Lisle if he is
willing."

Mrs. Creighton looked at Geoffrey. Her face was pinched and white; her
hands trembled and her pose was slack. It was obvious that she knew
she was beaten.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"I want you to admit that you misjudged John Stayward and are now
satisfied he did not injure your husband."

"I must admit it. I was deceived; circumstances led me to think----
But is this enough? Must I tell people I was misled?"

"Perhaps it's hardly needful," Geoffrey replied with some dryness. "I
imagine nobody really believed my uncle stole the patent. Then I won't
bother you for a promise not to talk about the invention again. For
one thing, you know the truth; for another, I mean to keep the
documents."

He took the papers from Hassal and Mrs. Creighton looked keenly
relieved.

"I suppose you meant to force my consent to your marrying Ruth?" she
said.

"I meant to justify my uncle and have carried out my plan. Then I
asked your consent to my marrying Ruth, and you stated the obstacle.
The obstacle has been removed and you have no grounds for refusing."

Hassal looked up with a twinkle. "You are taking a very proper line,
Mr. Lisle."

"Are you going to tell Ruth all?" Mrs. Creighton asked anxiously.

Geoffrey knitted his brows. "I must tell her something, but I think
not all. Anyhow, not yet. Still she is clever; some day she will
know----" He paused and added: "I imagine I can leave you to clear the
ground."

"Very well," said Mrs. Creighton. "If Ruth agrees to marry you, I
cannot refuse my approval. However, I have borne some strain and I am
not very strong."

Geoffrey went off, but Hassal went with him and stopped at the gate.

"In a sense, I'm the head of the family, Mr. Lisle," he said. "If you
get Ruth, you will be fortunate; she has virtues that I must own do
not mark all her relations. From one point of view, the marriage is
good, but it is not altogether because of this I wish you luck.
However, it might be prudent to see Ruth soon. To-night Mrs. Creighton
is resigned--but I imagine you know my cousin!"

"Thank you. I will come in the morning," Geoffrey replied.

In the morning he returned to Beckfoot and found Ruth in the garden.
By and by they went to the bench among the cypresses and Geoffrey
leaned against the rail and fixed his eyes on Ruth. He waited, and
after a moment or two she looked up with a blush.

"When you had gone my mother talked to me," she said. "She did not
really tell me much, but I saw I had been unkind and unjust."

"You were staunch and I liked you for your loyalty," Geoffrey
declared. "All the same, it's done with, and since Mrs. Creighton is
satisfied, there is nothing to keep you from me now."

"Are you satisfied about this?" Ruth asked, giving him a level glance.

Geoffrey laughed, a joyous laugh. "My dear! Since I first met you on
the moor I wanted you. You haunted me in Canada, and thinking about
you inspired all my efforts; I meant to come back and look for you
when I had made good. Well, I was lucky and did come back, but there
was another battle to be won at home."

"George talked to me," said Ruth. "He said your fight was very fair."

Geoffrey took her hand. "At the beginning I was not very frank, but
afterwards I saw I must not use a shabby trick when I fought for you."
He lifted his head with a triumphant gesture. "Well, it looks as if I
had won!"

"If you really want me----" said Ruth, giving him a shy glance, and he
took her in his arms.

[End of _The Wilderness Mine_ by Harold Bindloss]