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Title: The Lone Hand
U.K. title: The Firm Hand
Author: Bindloss, Harold (1866-1945)
Date of first publication: 1928
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Frederick A. Stokes, 1928
Date first posted: 26 September 2012
Date last updated: 26 September 2012
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #994

This ebook was produced by
David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






                       The LONE HAND

                     BY HAROLD BINDLOSS


    NEW YORK
    FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
    MCMXXVIII

    _Copyright, 1928, by_
    Frederick A. Stokes Company

    _All rights reserved_

    _Printed in the United States of America_




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                              PAGE

        I. SEA FOG                          1

       II. THE SPRING TIDE                 11

      III. THE MILLHOUSE                   23

       IV. ISAAC HESITATES                 33

        V. USEFUL FRIENDS                  43

       VI. MARK FOLLOWS HIS BENT           53

      VII. THE FLOOD                       62

     VIII. AN AMATEUR FIREMAN              72

       IX. MARK FINISHES HIS JOB           83

        X. THE DOMINANT PARTNER            92

       XI. MARK SEES HIS LINE             102

      XII. TRANQUILLITY                   112

     XIII. THE SAWMILL                    120

      XIV. MISS WELLWIN INVESTIGATES      128

       XV. THE BURST TUBE                 139

      XVI. PICTURES OF THE WOODS          148

     XVII. MARK GOES NORTH                157

    XVIII. THE WOODS                      167

      XIX. MARK FINDS HIS MAN             177

       XX. TURNBULL'S STORY               186

      XXI. MARK FOLLOWS THE CLUE          195

     XXII. ISAAC'S SOFT SPOT              202

    XXIII. ISAAC'S LUCK TURNS             213

     XXIV. A DALESWOMAN                   222

      XXV. REACTION                       232

     XXVI. FLORA MEDDLES                  240

    XXVII. THE BREAKING STRAIN            249

   XXVIII. A MODERN STOIC                 258

     XXIX. THE LAST INTERVIEW             266

      XXX. THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE          275

     XXXI. MARK'S INHERITANCE             286




THE LONE HAND




CHAPTER I

SEA FOG


Dusk had begun to fall, but for February the evening was mild. A gentle
southwest wind blew across the Solway flats, and Mark Crozier's long
rubber boots, thick clothes, and fishing mackintosh embarrassed him. The
road was soft and he carried a heavy gun, cartridges, some sandwiches, a
vacuum flask, and pajamas in his waterproof game-bag. Moreover, if the
lag geese were on the marshes, he might carry his load all night. If
not, he hoped to reach an inn he knew before the landlord went to bed.
In the morning, he must look over the Howbarrow sheep.

The flock was his uncle's, Isaac Crozier's; Mark himself was an
engineer, and at present out of a job. All the same, he sprang from
yeoman stock and Howbarrow, twenty miles off, was for long his father's.
The old house occupied a hollow in the bleak Border hills, where even
the hardy black-faced sheep got thin in winter, and Mark had engaged to
see how the flock had thriven on the salt-marsh grass.

Two or three miles off, dark woods cut the long flats rolling back to
the Scottish hills; in front, the plain was level as the sea and melted
into the blurred horizon. Water glimmered in the flooded ditch along
the road, the sky was gray, and a gray trail of smoke floated across the
boggy field from a stack of burning thorns. The landscape was colorless
and dreary, but Mark was young, and after the throbbing workshop, he
liked the spaciousness and calm. Then, he carried a good gun, and
loneliness and gloom do not bother a dalesman.

The Croziers owned the soil they cultivated in the uplands where
Northumbria and Scotland join, but they were not gentlemen farmers. The
eldest son took Howbarrow; the younger sons got a small sum, and as a
rule, prospered in the market towns. It was typical that they engaged in
trade and carried scriptural names. They were shopkeepers, auctioneers,
cattle-salesmen, and so forth, and although they went to good schools,
none was remarkably cultivated.

For the most part, the Croziers were strongly built, stubborn,
laborious, and frugal. None was keen to dispute, but they did not
forgive an injury, and they held tenaciously all that was theirs. In the
towns they used colloquial English; in the hills their talk was marked
by words Danish and Frisian pirates had carried across the North Sea.
After a thousand years, the Border dalesmen are frankly Vikings.

By contrast with his relations' sober frugality, Mark's father, Thomas
Crozier, was characterized by a humorous extravagance that his elder son
inherited. Both were dead, and Thomas's half-brother, Isaac, now ruled
at Howbarrow. Mark had got three or four hundred pounds, which had
melted during his apprenticeship at a Newcastle foundry. Now the foundry
was shut and he looked about for a post.

In the meantime, he hoped to shoot a goose, and when he passed a cluster
of white houses he pulled out his watch. Six o'clock, and the night was
going to be dark! Well, if he did not find the geese in two or three
hours, he must come back to the inn, where a fire burned cheerfully
behind the curtains.

The village melted in the gloom, the light wind touched the naked
branches in a wood, and Mark, pushing on, threw back the gate at the end
of a muddy lane. In front, as far as he could see, level grass, pierced
by a wide river-channel, rolled back into the growing dark. In the
distance, he heard plover and black-backed gulls call.

For a time he plowed through belts of rushes, and then splashed across
the short salt-grass. Sheep, with draggled wool, scattered before his
advance, and flitting redshanks screamed. The grass was boggy, and one
could not go straight, because a salt marsh is drained by miry creeks,
and their tributary _runners_ loop and twist. Some were spanned by rude,
sod-covered bridges, but since two converging rivers bordered the green
flat, Mark's plan was, as far as possible, to keep the watershed.

At length, by a pool, he saw feathers and the marks of broad webbed
feet. The geese had fed there recently and might come back, and the bank
of a neighboring creek was a good spot to hide. Mark took a square of
oilcloth from his bag, and pulling a turf from the bank, sat down; the
gun on his knee, and his rubber boots in the mud. If his luck were good,
he might get a shot, but he might wait for daybreak and not see a goose.
Indeed, since the moon was new, he must rather use his ears than his
eyes. The gray lag is a noisy bird and the creak of its broad wings
carries far.

For a time, all was quiet. Thin vapor, moving from the southwest,
floated across the sky, and Mark saw the flats got blurred. Fog might be
awkward, but when the tide flowed across the sands a breeze ought to
spring up and the night would clear. He lighted his pipe and began to
muse.

On a February night ten years since, his father and a herd went out to
move some sheep. A snowstorm raged across the moors, but Crozier had
long fronted the hardest weather England knows. Although he was forced
to cross a flooded burn and was entangled in the drifts, he saved most
of his flock, and crawling home half-frozen in the bitter morning, died
two days afterwards. When his widow died, Mark went to the Newcastle
foundry, and Jim took the farm. Jim was by five years the older son, but
he was young for the load he carried. Although they had thought their
father prosperous, he had speculated rashly in cattle and owed his
half-brother, Isaac, much.

Jim, however, was hopeful, and since Isaac promised he would not
embarrass him, engaged to put all straight. For the most part, Mark was
at Newcastle, but Isaac and his wife were much at Howbarrow. He declared
that he was not a hard creditor, but his nephew was young, and he
wanted, if possible, to get his money back. So far as Mark knew, where
Isaac meddled the line he indicated was economically sound, but it began
to look as if the job Jim had undertaken was harder than he thought.

Four years since, Jim one February evening started across the moor to
shoot ducks at Blackshaw tarn. At nine o'clock he called at the
Packhorse Inn, and admitted he had not got a shot and was cramped and
cold. He got some hot drink; the landlord declared he could not state
how much, and Turnbull, the Howbarrow cowman, did not remember, although
he reckoned Mr. Crozier had had enough. At the bottom of Mark's trunk
was a market town newspaper, in which the report of the inquest occupied
a column.

Jim refused to wait for Turnbull, who had driven some cattle up the
dale. He set off in the fog across the moor, and in the morning a herd
found him, broken by the fall, in a limestone quarry half a mile from
Howbarrow.

It looked as if that was all anybody knew, and the coroner was
satisfied, but somehow Mark was not. For one thing, of the three or four
men at the Packhorse only Turnbull thought his master had perhaps used
too much liquor. Well, Jim was not altogether abstemious, but Mark had
not known him drunk. Then, Isaac and his wife were at the farm, and when
the coroner inquired why he waited for morning, he replied, as if
unwillingly, that his nephew sometimes was away at night.

Mark doubted. When Jim was not at Howbarrow everybody knew he was at the
cattle sales in the market town and he stopped at the George. Yet the
replies accounted for the accident and for his lying where he fell until
daybreak. When the trustees investigated, Mark got a fresh knock. The
debt Jim inherited had got larger, and they agreed for Isaac to take the
farm. Their lawyer imagined one could not dispute his claim and advised
Mark to take the small sum he offered. Mark did not like his uncle's
tight-lipped, parsimonious wife; but when he got a holiday Howbarrow was
home. Anyhow, it was done with four years since, and he must concentrate
on getting a job.

Curlew called. The flock was flying low and fast; one heard the fanning
wings, but when Mark jumped up they circled and were gone. Now he was on
his feet, he saw the mist got thicker. All was very quiet, but in the
distance something throbbed like a train on a bridge. Mark pulled out
his watch and rubbed a match. He imagined the southwest wind blew fresh
in the Irish Sea and pushed the surf across the Solway shoals, seven or
eight miles off. For him to hear the tide's advance was ominous, and in
about two hours it would reach the marsh. Solway tides flow savagely,
the moon was new, and when the current ran _up_ the creeks he must not
be on the marsh. Sometimes, before a gale reached the firth, the water
rose several feet above its calculated level.

For a few minutes he pondered. He was on the watershed, and nearer an
inn on the north shore than the village he had passed. His plan was to
find the river on the north side of the marsh, and since he fronted
west, he must follow the first large creek running down on his right
hand.

After five or ten minutes, he plunged from a rotten bank and found a
creek before he thought. The sticky mud held his boots, and, snapping
the cartridges from his gun, he used the butt to help him up the slope.
He began to doubt if he would get a shot, but if he did so, a clot of
mud at the muzzle might tear the barrel. Crawling out, rather shaken and
breathing hard, he followed the creek, although every hundred yards he
was forced to circle round a crooked tributary.

At length, he reached the marsh-top and looked down on a belt of sand.
He had thought to see water shine, but he did not. The mist flowed past
him and since the wind was in his face, he fronted southwest. He,
however, ought to have fronted north. Baffled by the fog, instead of
crossing the marsh, he had come back to the side from which he started.
He might follow the bank to the end of the peninsula, and then keep the
other side, but he thought the end two or three miles off, the creeks
were numerous, and where they crossed the sands the bottom was
treacherous. Besides, the wind was freshening.

Mark swore. The moon was new, and the wind helped the tide. By and by
the current would flow across the lower belts of marsh. Well, when the
salt-grass melted in the flood he must not be there; and, trying to keep
the wind on his left shoulder, he steered north. For a time, the ground
was firm and level; and then he stopped by a gully three or four feet
deep. It looked as if he had reached the head of another creek and the
creek went north. The trouble was, if he tried to follow it to the
sands, he must cross the network of runners that fed the main channel.
All the same, he must not stop and ponder. The throb too of the
advancing tide had got ominously loud, and February was not a lucky
month for the Croziers.

He jumped two or three runners; and then a rotten bank broke and,
sliding down a steep incline, he plunged into a foot of water and
holding mud. When he scrambled up the other side he was frankly anxious.
He was now entangled among the creek's numerous forks, but since it went
to the north sands, he must push across its basin. Jumping, and wading
where he was forced, he savagely plowed ahead. His thick clothes
embarrassed him and his skin was wet by sweat, but speed was important,
and when he reached firm ground he began to run.

After a few minutes, his advanced foot got no support, and he plunged
down into the dark. When he stopped with an awkward jolt, water
splashed, and since he could not reach the top, he knew he was in the
main creek's channel. The mud, however, was not remarkably soft, and he
had stuck to his gun. He doubted if he could get up the bank, and he
kept the channel. By and by the marsh rolled back and wet sand shone in
front.

Mark had crossed the peninsula, but that was all he knew, and he must
yet cross the creek. Although he doubted if the water was a foot deep,
the sand the current flowed across was treacherous, and sometimes cattle
were mired. For a hundred yards, he followed the water; and then set his
mouth and pushed across. His long boots sank in the yielding bottom, his
legs got cold, and he knew the water had run over the top of one boot.
Then his other leg got cold, and although he floundered savagely, the
quicksand held his feet. If he stopped a few moments longer, he might
stop for good, and, leaning forward, he pushed down the gun. The flat
heel-plate gave him some support; he pulled his boots from the clinging
stuff, found firmer bottom, and splashed ahead. When he stopped, on
hard, ribbed sand, his heart thumped and to get his breath hurt.

The wind was strong and the fog rolled across the flats in waves, but
Mark saw a belt of sky. He heard geese; a gaggle was flying up the
firth. Then oyster-catchers screamed, redshanks whistled, and wings beat
in the dark. Something had disturbed the feeding birds, and two or three
hundred yards off a gun exploded. Mark heard two quick shots and then
another. If the sportsman had tried to stop a cripple, he would not get
a third shot. Somebody on the sands was lost, and signaled for help.

Mark shouted, and after a time an indistinct object loomed in the fog.
The queer thing was, now he knew the fog baffled another, his anxiety
began to go.

"Hallo!" said the stranger. "To hear a shout was some relief. I want to
make the waterfoot. Am I heading right?"

"On the whole, I think not," Mark replied. "I imagine you are steering
down the firth for Scotland."

"Then, you know where you are?"

"To some extent, although I would not bet on it," said Mark. "Anyhow,
the waterfoot inn's my object, and if you are a stranger----"

"I certainly am; I'm stopping at the inn, and when a shepherd fellow
reckoned the geese were about, the landlord loaned me a gun. Back home,
I've hunted brant geese on the sloos. Well, I started across the sands
and the fog swallowed me."

Mark knew the other was young and thought him American.

"Oh, well," he said, "I know where the marsh-top is and hope before very
long to reach firm ground."

For the most part, they kept the marsh-top, although they were forced to
flounder through some creeks. The wind was getting stronger, the fog got
thin, and at length a misty flickering beam pierced the gloom.

"A motor-bus," said Mark and felt the rushes under his feet. "We ought
soon to see a fence."

The fence was on the other side of a wide ditch where tall reeds grew,
but Mark knew where he was and found a plank bridge. They crossed some
fields in the melting fog, and when they reached a wet lane a motor's
lights flashed behind the trees not far ahead.




CHAPTER II

THE SPRING TIDE


A waitress carried off the plates and Mark went to an easy-chair. A
cheerful fire snapped in the old-fashioned grate, and across the
hearth-rug the stranger he had met on the sands rolled a cigarette. Red
curtains covered the windows, and the furniture was old, for the inn was
built when mail-coaches and post-chaises took the road for Scotland
along the Solway shore. Now swift road-borne traffic again rolled by its
gate. Mark heard wheels and a motor-bus's horn.

Since he had satisfied his appetite, he studied his companion. The other
was an athletic young fellow, tall but not heavily built, and his glance
was alert and frank. Mark thought his boots and clothes American. Mark
had not a change of clothes, but he had borrowed the landlord's
slippers, and he stretched his legs to the fire. After a strenuous
evening, he was entitled to go slack.

"Will you take a ready-made cigarette?" he asked. "No, thanks," said the
other. "When I was in the woods I rolled all I used, and the habit
sticks." He balanced the neatly rolled cigarette. "Pretty good! Can you
beat it?"

"I could not," Mark admitted. "You're American?"

The young fellow gave him a twinkling glance.

"The next thing. I'm Canadian; although you might not spot it, there's a
difference. Anyhow, reserve is not our habit, and if I had not met up
with you, I might have roamed about the sands until the tide got me. I
guess I have a card--"

He found a card, and Mark read:

        _Robert Wellwin_
    _Duquesne Lumber Company_
        _Export Products_

"Thank you," he said. "I'm Mark Crozier, until recently of Newcastle,
but now at Howbarrow, about twenty miles off. Are you in this country
for business?"

Wellwin studied him. Crozier was large, but he was not, like some large
men, slow; Wellwin had crossed the treacherous sands with him. His look
was calm, and when he fronted one he tilted his head a little and
squarely met one's glance. But for his twinkle, Wellwin might have
thought him dull. He talked in a quiet voice. Not a Canadian type; but
somehow Wellwin knew him a good sort.

"When I pulled out from Glasgow my business was put across, and the old
man cabled I might take a holiday. He's the Duquesne Company's
president. When I graduated at Toronto I went to the woods, and studied
slashing and hauling logs at the winter camps. Then I was at the mill,
where we rip the stuff for lumber, and now I'm working through the
salesman gang. Well, my mother's folk were Borderers, and I thought I'd
see the Solway and the Roman wall. The country's interesting, although
it's surely wet. Anyhow, I mustn't bore you. Are you a farmer?"

"Not long since I was an engineer's draughtsman, but the foundry shut
down and the heavy machinery trade is bad. I'd thought about starting a
car repair-shop; but I don't yet know. One needs some capital and money
is hard to get."

"Sure thing!" Wellwin agreed. "But have you thought about the Dominion?
If you have not, you might. So long as you are willing to sweat, it's a
pretty good country."

"I'll wait," said Mark. "On the English Border, we are not an impulsive
lot, and I doubt if the Scots are very rash."

For a few minutes they smoked. The river brawled and they heard the wind
in the trees. A motor-lorry clanged across a bridge, and when the roll
of wheels got faint a fresh noise throbbed about the inn. Wellwin went
to the window and pushed the casement back. A dull rumble, something
like a roll of drums, pulsated in the dark.

"An aeroplane? Or a big express freight laboring up-grade?"

"The Solway tide, pushed up the firth by a western gale! Sometimes it
advances in a breaking wave two or three feet high."

Wellwin fastened the window and stretched his legs to the fire.

"I'm content to be where I am. When you heard my gun I was lucky. But
there is no gale."

"The gale will arrive by morning and lift the tide three or four feet.
In fact, after breakfast I must see that the herds move my uncle's
sheep. I don't know if you would be interested, but our dogs are
clever."

"So long as the job is on dry ground, I'd like to watch; I'm not going
on the sands," said Wellwin, firmly.

For a time they smoked and talked. Although their types were different,
each was conscious of a queer attraction. For the most part, youth is
trustful and friendship springs fast.

"When I know the sheep are safe, I must get back to Howbarrow," Mark
said by and by. "Hadrian's wall is not far off, and if you'd like the
excursion, we might visit a spot where the Picts broke through, and a
famous camp. Then I could show you an older rampart that puzzles the
antiquaries. The bogs, however, are numerous, and the inns are not
remarkably good."

Wellwin laughed and got up.

"When you have lived at a loggers' camp and mushed along the river
trails in the melting snow, you're not fastidious. We'll fix things in
the morning. I guess it's time for bed."

Breakfast was served at daybreak, and soon afterwards Mark and Wellwin
left the inn and plowed across the wet fields. The morning was gray, the
light was dim, and a savage wind drove low-flying scud across the sky.
When Mark pulled out his watch behind a battered hedge, it was nine
o'clock, but two or three miles off all was indistinct.

The marsh, a tapering, sage-green peninsula, pierced the vague sands.
The sands were colorless, but in some places their wet surface glimmered
with faint reflected light. Whistling curlew sped inland before the
gale. A flock of clamorous gulls got up from a pool, circled on wings
that for a moment were white and distinct, and then melted in the gloom.
About a mile in front, patches of dingy color dotted the marsh. The
patches moved, and in the background Mark saw two or three speeding
objects.

"The herds have got to work," he said. "Since the sheep are down on the
low end, the men have rather an awkward job. Our lot's about two
hundred, but I imagine there's a thousand on the marsh. However, the
tide will not reach the sands for two hours, and I dare say we can
help."

"How much is a sheep worth?" Wellwin inquired.

"Round about two pounds, for the small hill sorts."

Wellwin calculated. "Two thousand dollars. A useful wad, and straight
reckoning! Pounds, shillings, and pence; hundredweights, quarters, and
pounds, and then some, leave a Canadian to guess. At Glasgow I was
forced to buy me a schooboy's arithmetic book--But I expect you want to
get busy."

They crossed the low marsh, and stopped where two men sheltered from the
wind behind a broken bank. The herds were big, lean fellows and their
clothes had faded to the color of dry soil. One, like Mark, was frankly
Saxon; the other, although his eyes were gray, was the old, thin-faced
Cumbrian type. His pointed chin and long head were perhaps inherited
from the Picts. The herds looked at Mark inquiringly, and he told them
who he was.

In front, three or four hundred small sheep slowly followed the bank of
a circling creek. The wind blew back their stained fleeces, and where
the clean wool showed it looked as if they were flayed. The flock was
compact, for a dog turned back stragglers. Other sheep were scattered
about the marsh, and at one spot a number plunged into a hollow by a
creek and vanished. A dog jumped on some broken turf and fronted the
herds, as if it waited for an order.

"Get away back, Nell!" one shouted, and the dog went off at top speed.

"You are gathering them up," said Mark.

"T' black-faces ho'd togedder; yan can han'le them. T' d--Herdwicks are
as wild as hawks."

"How many were there in the bunch that took the creek?"

"A score and tyan, I doot they'll scatter," the herd replied. He
whistled and shouted: "Fetch on, Nell!"

"I'd have guessed a dozen. They were over the bank like a flash,"
Wellwin remarked.

A dog barked and the sheep leaped from a gully. The other herd waved his
arms, and two dogs sped across the grass and vanished in broken ground.
By and by they reappeared, circling round a straggling gray-faced flock.
The herd began to count, and Wellwin looked up with surprise.

"You are pretty obviously British, but for all I can distinguish, the
fellow might calculate in Chinese," he said to Mark.

"We reckon by scores. I believe the numerals are Scandinavian."

"But who in thunder taught you to count like that?"

"Hakon, King of Norway, or perhaps Hardicanute," Mark replied with a
laugh. "At all events, the first Herdwicks were Viking sheep."

"You are a queer crowd," Wellwin remarked. "You stay put for a thousand
years!"

"Oh, well," said Mark, "your _gotten_ and I'll _get me_ were Elizabethan
English. Then in some American towns I believe the mayor is a _reeve_."

The gray-faced Herdwicks jointed the larger flock, but did not mix, and
Mark and Wellwin took posts to hold them in the bow of the creek. The
herds went the other way, and for a time barking dogs and speeding
groups of sheep scoured the marsh. Wellwin remarked that the groups got
larger, until at length a compact mass, pushed on by the herds and
flanked by circling dogs, rolled into the loop. Mark pulled out his
watch.

"Ten o'clock! We must be across the hollow spot in an hour."

"Just that," the herd agreed, and whistled. "Gan forrad, Bob! Fetch on,
Beauty!"

Six hundred sheep rolled along the watershed, where the ground was
firmest and the creeks were small; the black-faces together, the
Herdwicks straggling on their flank. Splashing in pools and jumping
channels, the men directed their advance, and the dogs stopped the
groups that tried to break away. So far, all went smoothly, but
sometimes Mark turned his head and looked about.

All he saw behind the marsh-top was the dreary sands, through which a
river-channel curved. The water broke in angry waves and foam like
soapsuds blew along the bank. The current yet went down the firth, but
the tide was not far off, and Mark imagined the savage gale drowned the
noise of its advance. Moreover, in front the ground sloped to a hollow
where the river at one time had pierced the marsh. A large creek,
opening to the sands at both ends, drained the hollow, and although the
creek was bridged, tributary channels curved about the slopes. When the
party reached the top, gray scum in the grass indicated that the tide
had recently swept the basin. The channels bothered the sheep. Buffeted
by the gale, they stopped, and rolling together in a bleating mass,
fronted the dogs. Then a herd in advance of the groups signaled by
tossing arms, and began to run.

"Tide's broken low bridge," said the other. "We must shift them to north
end and there's nut much time."

The sheep were frightened and stubborn, and the Herdwicks broke.

"Can ye hold black-faces?" the herd inquired.

"I don't know," said Mark. "So long as they're afraid to cross the
creek, we'll try."

Wellwin touched him and he looked round. The river-channel in the sands
was smooth, as if the current now ran with the wind; but not far off a
white-topped wave stretched from bank to bank. The wave rolled up the
channel, and where it passed, the sands melted in a surging flood.
Before long the flood would sweep the hollow, and Isaac's sheep were yet
scattered about the marsh.

Mark sent Wellwin where he thought he ought to go. The creek the animals
dared not cross was behind the compact black-faced flock; for the most
part, the sheep were quiet, but now and then a number surged
irresolutely about. In the meantime, the herds were occupied, and when
for a few moments Wellwin could watch the dogs, he thought the swift
animals reasoned like men. A whistle and sometimes a signal from a
lifted arm was all the command they got, but the clusters of sheep got
larger. The scores soon were fifties and the fifties hundreds, and at
length a solid mass of woolly bodies rolled back tumultuously to the
other flock.

The sands, however, had vanished and the tide went up the creek. The low
marsh would soon be an island, and the island would melt. The north
bridge was a mile off, and Mark doubted if they could get there before
the flood. Yet, with the deep creek on one side, the sheep, in order to
break away, must pass the row of men; and pushed by the dogs, the flock
began to surge along the bank.

One dared not stop for the tributaries; where one could not jump, men
and draggled animals plowed through the mud. Wellwin's face was red and
his breath was labored. Mark's skin was wet by sweat, and when he dared
he glanced at the creek. The current leaped up the bank, and where but a
few minutes since the flock had passed water shone in the grass. Dogs
barked, one heard the surf beat the marsh-top and mud-crusted fleeces
shake. After a time, a herd signed Mark.

"Ye'll get in front and turn them t'other side o' brig. Maybe we'll win
over."

Mark called Wellwin, and, circling widely round the flock, they came
back to the creek. The north bridge stood; but the flood was nearly
level with the small birch trunks, there was not a rail, and the turfs
that covered the poles were trampled to sticky slime. Mark and Wellwin
took their posts a dozen yards behind the bridge, and for a few moments
the flock stopped. Then the Herdwicks saw their line across, and by
scores and fifties started down the slope.

"Let them gan!" shouted a herd.

The leaders leaped across the bridge, and Mark got his breath. The
black-faces were starting, and where one went all would go. But there
was the trouble. The bridge was about five feet wide, and six or seven
hundred sheep rolled down the incline on a twenty-yard front. The flock
charged for the bridge and all could not get across. Moreover, a sheep
swims but poorly.

Shouting for Wellwin, Mark jumped into the creek. The current reached
his waist, and he thought it would pull his legs from under him.
Wellwin, two or three yards off, took the plunge and gave Mark a smile.

"Nothing very fresh, partner; I have handled logs in the rivers of the
North. But watch out. We are for it."

The sheep spilled from the crowded bridge and went up the creek with the
flood. None must pass, for the bank farther on was steep; but in front a
muddy incline dipped to the water. The swimming animals steered for the
spot. Some were carried by, and more fell from the bridge. Struggling
stupidly, they collided with Mark, who seized their wool and pushed them
across. Fresh sheep, urged by the press behind, took the water, and the
herds plunged in. The creek was blocked by struggling animals, held
back, as yet, from destruction by four tired men. Three, however, were
six-foot Cumbrians, and Wellwin had steered crashing logs down Canadian
rapids.

All were savage and breathless. The bottom was treacherous and the flood
rose fast. Braced against the current, they somehow kept their feet,
shoved back the drifting sheep, and dragged the brutes across. Sometimes
the thin-faced herd pulled one from the water, and with a swing of his
big shoulders tossed it on the others' backs.

When Mark imagined they were beaten, two cowmen from a farm across the
flats arrived. Six men were now in the water, and where live-stock must
be controlled four were experts. By degrees the pressure slackened and
the flock got thin. The bridge would carry the sheep, and since the most
part were on the other side, Mark floundered across. Wellwin pulled him
onto the mud and when they climbed the bank the flock streamed up the
sage-green slope.

Half an hour afterward, the group stopped where prickly whinns dotted
rising ground.

"We'll mannish noo," a herd remarked, and studied the gloomy sky. "The
tide is by the top, and if wind drops, she'll be doon three-fit to-neet.
Weel but for the Greenrigg lads, I thowt we were beat at brig."

Wellwin looked back. The hollow was a lake, and all he saw of the low
marsh was a small island, washed by angry surf.

"I reckon I have had enough, and I want a bath," he said. "My hands are
gummed up by sticky grease and my slicker coat smells like--perhaps a
tannery is the nearest thing. Anyhow, your relation is two thousand
dollars' worth of mutton to the good."

Mark smiled. "One likes to be modest, but I imagine our help tipped the
beam and my uncle owes me something. However, I have not much grounds to
hope he will meet the bill, and in the meantime we'll steer for the
inn."




CHAPTER III

THE MILLHOUSE


Where a limestone block broke the keen wind Wellwin threw his mackintosh
in the heath, and, sitting down, lighted a cigarette. Since they lunched
by a lonely tarn he and Mark had plowed across the high watershed from
which the rivers run to the Solway and the North Sea. Now the sun was
low, Wellwin was satisfied to rest and looked about.

As far as one could see, the moors rolled east, and the sunset touched
their tops with pale gold and silver-gray. In the keen spring evening,
the landscape struck the note of austerity one senses in the North. In
front, a narrow valley pierced the hills, and where the heath and
bent-grass rolled down the long slope the brown and gray melted into
elusive purple. In the dale the light was blue, and the silver
birch-trunks and a long limewashed house by the glimmering river were
not altogether white. By contrast with the yellow reflections on the
moor-tops, the dim blue hollow was strangely beautiful.

For three days, Wellwin, steered by Mark across moors and bogs, had
studied the Emperor Hadrian's wall, and a rampart the Picts had
supposititiously built. Looking down from a huge earth fort, he had
watched the rain slant across a valley through which for two hundred
years the Scots invasions had flowed and ebbed. He had seen the
legions' mile-castles, broken hypocausts, and gate-tower pavements
scored by chariot wheels.

Bob was interested. He liked the Old Country, and began to revise his
views about the inhabitants. It looked as if they were not the back
numbers he had at one time thought. Their methods were not the methods
one used in North America, but after a few transactions with the Glasgow
Scots, he admitted they got results. Then he liked the big, quiet
English Borderers. Where a Canadian boosted his town and his
possessions, they apologized. It looked as if they would sooner listen
than talk, but sometimes their slow smile was illuminating. To move them
might be hard, but when they got going Bob imagined they went all the
way. Mark Crozier was perhaps a good example.

Although Mark was franker than some, Bob sensed a sort of solidity of
character; perhaps he meant steadfastness. One felt that his word went
and as a rule was not rashly given. Yet sometimes he was humorous and
the twinkle in his gray eyes was like the sudden sparkle of a calm pool.
In fact, Mark was a regular fellow and Bob would be sorry to let him go.
Well, he was entitled to take a holiday and for a few days he might stop
at the Packhorse Inn.

By and by Mark pulled out his watch and got up.

"Your inn is three or four miles off, but we'll stop at the Millhouse.
If the doctor is not about, the girls will give us tea."

"Perhaps I ought not to bother your friends," said Bob.

"They will not be bothered," Mark rejoined. "In winter, at all events,
strangers are not numerous, and to meet a Canadian will be something
fresh."

They went down across dry bents and bright-green mossy belts, but at the
top of a long scree Mark braced his legs and pushed off. The sharp
stones flowed in noisy waves about his feet, and where the pitch was
steepest he dragged his stick for a brake. Wellwin, following awkwardly,
sat down in the stones, rolled across a mossy slab, and when another
brought him up crawled to firmer ground. Forty yards below, Mark looked
up with a twinkle.

"I expected you to keep the heather," he remarked.

"Oh, well, you went down," said Bob. "I expect you see the implication?"

Mark laughed. "The first time, I went down on my stomach, and I have
plowed a channel with my head. On the whole, I think your luck was
good."

"I wonder--" said Bob. "The stones are sharp, my clothes were not made
in England, and I cannot see my back. Since we are visiting with your
friends, you might inspect----"

"You are not notably the worse for wear," Mark reported. "Anyhow, we are
not dining at the Frontenac, and if it's some comfort, we are rather a
frugal than a fashionable lot. A dalesman reckons his clothes should
last for three or four years."

"In Canada, we'd think him dippy," Wellwin rejoined, and studied the
steep slope. "Looks impossible; but you shot the grade all standing, and
although I did not, I did come down. Since the important thing's to
arrive in one piece, how d'you judge the pitch?"

"Where stones will lie an active man may go; but before you start you
ought to find out if they are held up by the top of a precipice.
However, we'll shove on for the Millhouse."

Brushing through dead fern, they reached a fence, and crossed a mossy
pasture to the road. Behind a dry-stone wall and naked alders, a river
brawled; and then silver birches clustered round the white Millhouse.
The flagged roof was stained ochre, gray, and green by moss and
house-leeks, and for a background the thin, purple birch-twigs cut the
sky. The big wheel was gone, but water splashed across the top of the
broken weir. Wellwin smelt burning wood and heard sheep bleat. Where he
had gone in Canada, all that man had made was new; in the Border dale he
felt that time was put back two hundred years.

Mark, pushing open the thick, low door, steered him along a flagged
passage to a spacious room. The furniture was dark and old and the wall
was paneled, but Wellwin knew the modern decorator had nothing to do
with it. Crooked beams crossed the ceiling; the floor was dark polished
oak. In the big hollow fireplace ash blocks snapped among smoldering
peat. Bob noted the peat's aromatic smell, and, for a casement window
was open, the harsh freshness that marks spring in the North.

A girl got up from a low chair and gave Mark her hand. She was tall and
nobly built. Her eyes were calm and gray; but in the meantime that was
all Bob knew. He was presented to Miss Forsyth, and she said:

"If you were Mark's walking companion, I expect you will need some
food. Tea and scones are waiting. We saw you on the scree."

"I had hoped you did not," Bob rejoined. "You are probably not
interested, but I'd like to state the experiment was my first."

Another girl advanced and he was presented to Miss Flora Scot.

"When one goes with Mark one must reckon on queer adventures," she said.
"Was your plunge down the scree the only chance you took?"

Bob gave her a twinkle. "You are keen, Miss Scot. Am I very obviously
North American? If so, did you spot my clothes, or me?"

"I might enlighten you again. In the meantime I inquired about your
adventures."

"Then, I recently helped push and throw two hundred sheep across a
flooded creek, but I don't know if it was properly an adventure. Mark
and the herds rather implied it was the sort of exploit an Englishman
undertakes for exercise."

Miss Forsyth looked up.

"Isaac's black-faces, Mark? The flock was cut off by a spring tide?"

"Something like that; his two hundred were on the low marsh. However,
since Wellwin is modest, I must state that he's a useful man."

Bob thought Miss Forsyth's look got thoughtful, but she crossed the
floor.

"I will go for tea. Flora, you might see Mr. Wellwin is not bored."

They went off, and Miss Scot remarked: "At the Millhouse one does not
order tea; one goes, oneself, for it. In Canada, I suppose you take
supper at a large and very efficiently run hotel?"

"Something depends on where you are and your occupation. We have not yet
done with domestic life, and I have got my supper at a bunkhouse in the
woods; pork and beans and a slab of pie, every evening for six months.
However, I don't imagine it's important, and perhaps the queer thing is
you seem to know much about us."

"Oh, well, one sees the moving pictures, and since our barren hills will
not support us all, for the most part we have relations across the
Atlantic. Unconsciously perhaps, they carry on propaganda, and we begin
to enjoy some American advantages; for example saxophones and
mosquitoes. I don't know how the mosquitoes get across, but the jazz
musicians arrive by first-class liners and rendezvous at famous London
hotels."

"And that's all? I am, of course, Canadian; but I imagine our neighbors
export some finer stuff."

"Ah," said Flora, "imitative people do not discriminate; they are
satisfied to follow the latest fashion. The drawback is obvious, because
there are American rules we might with some advantage use but rather
leave alone. When you have a foreign model you perhaps copy its
exaggerations. I expect it's easier. However, Madge declared you must
not be bored."

Wellwin was not at all bored and he politely stated something like that.
Miss Scot was keen, and although she had not Miss Forsyth's calm and
touch of dignity, she was attractive. She was lightly built and somehow
alert; her skin was browned by the weather, her lines were like a
graceful boy's, and her quick glance was humorous. Bob was willing for
her to banter him; but she had indicated that she had had enough, and he
must play up.

"I know nothing about old English houses, but yours is beautiful," he
said.

"In the northern dales old houses are numerous, but perhaps the Mill is
a good example. At one time, it was the manor; and then, a hundred years
since, somebody used it for a water-mill. Now it's a country doctor's
home, and although its disadvantages are evident, they were reckoned on
when the purchase was fixed."

For all the signs of cultivation, Bob had imagined the doctor was not
rich. The rugs on the polished boards were threadbare, and articles a
Canadian would have thrown away were carefully mended. He did not know
much about women's clothes, but he imagined the material the girls had
used was not expensive. Yet Bob knew his hosts thoroughbred.

"Is Mark's home like yours?" he asked.

"Not at all," said Flora. "Howbarrow is a queer, grim old house; the
Croziers are hard folk. I suppose one mustn't be romantic, but the
dalesmen call them the unlucky Croziers and it looks as if they were
haunted by misfortune. Mark's father was lost in the snowdrifts and died
a day or two afterwards; his brother plunged down a limestone quarry,
and his cousin was fatally hurt at a football match----"

"Oh, well, I am going to the inn."

"Howbarrow is not Mark's," said Flora, as if she apologized. "I myself
would much sooner be at the Packhorse, and as a rule, when my uncle is
not engaged in the evenings, Mark is at the Mill."

"Then, you are Miss Forsyth's cousin?"

"That is so. I have other relations, but for the most part the Millhouse
is my home."

"It's a charming spot," said Bob. "I believe you stated something about
one's reckoning on adventures if one went with Mark. As a rule, I expect
your adventures depend on your temperament, but I do not think him
rash."

"Something depends on your luck, and, so far, Mark's has not been good.
It perhaps accounts for his queer soberness. Some people get things
easily, but some must fight for the little that is theirs. I think Mark
must fight and half-consciously he knows."

"Does one know one's luck?" Bob inquired.

"I wonder--Perhaps, to some extent, it's possible," Flora replied, and
got up, for the others came in.

Tea was a cheerful function, and when it was over and the light began to
go the reflections of the log fire flickered on shining brass and old
polished oak. Bob heard the river's tranquil throb, and fronting the
window, saw the thin birch-branches melt and the sunset fade from the
moors. He sensed the old room's charm and hoped Miss Forsyth would not
get a light.

"Jerry was with us for two days and I believe his letter's at
Howbarrow," she said to Mark. "He can get the yard and workshop he
wanted at Chester, and thought it the proper spot for a garage."

Miss Scot and Wellwin were on the other side of the fireplace, and she
explained:

"Jerry is my brother, and they talk about a partnership."

"Then, I must get to work," said Mark. "To borrow five hundred pounds is
an awkward job, but there are perhaps one or two people on whom I have a
claim----"

He brooded, and Bob remarked Miss Forsyth's sympathetic glance. Bob knew
Mark was her lover, and, for all her gentle calm, he imagined her
disturbed.

"Your uncle Isaac?" she said in a quiet voice.

Mark smiled, a rather dreary smile.

"Isaac ought perhaps to indulge me, particularly since Wellwin and I
helped to save sheep of his worth four hundred pounds. If he'd guarantee
the loan at his bank, I'd be satisfied; but I doubt----"

"Madge doubts," Flora remarked to Wellwin. "If you are a dalesman's
friend, you may use his horses and implements; you may borrow his
plowmen, but he will not give you money."

"You are entitled to ask," Madge said to Mark.

Mark looked up, rather quickly. Miss Forsyth's glance was calm, but Bob
imagined something she implied bothered Mark and she understood. Bob had
begun to allow for British reserve, although he thought, if he were
forced to weigh things, to consult with a girl like Miss Forsyth would
be some relief. In the meantime, it had nothing to do with him, and he
looked the other way.

"I rather think that is so, but I'm not hopeful," Mark said quietly.

Bob gave Miss Scot a meaning glance, and she got up.

"Mr. Wellwin and I are going to the river," she remarked and steered Bob
through the house and across the garden.

They stopped by a mossy wall. On the other side, water splashed across
the weir and pale stars were reflected in a quiet pool.

"Is it important for Mark to get the money?" Bob inquired.

"Very important. Just now for an engineer to get a post is almost
impossible, and Mark and my brother planned to start a motor workshop.
He declares there is no use in doing so unless they can buy the proper
tools. I don't know if Jerry is too hopeful, but he imagines he can get
half the sum they need. Mark's business is to get the other. If he
cannot, he must emigrate."

"Thank you," said Bob. "I'm a stranger and since I don't know your
rules, you perhaps will see me out. Well, I have known Mark for six or
seven days, but I'd bet my arm on his making good. Do you think I might
help him put up the wad?"

"You might offer. For him to know you were willing might be some
comfort; but he will refuse. We do not exploit our friends."

"Oh, well, I think my object was good. I was not entitled to consult
you, and I hope you're not annoyed."

Flora looked up, and although the light was almost gone, Bob saw her
smile.

"I am rather moved. Trust like yours is bracing," she replied.

They started for the house, and soon afterwards Mark and Bob took the
road up the dale.




CHAPTER IV

ISAAC HESITATES


Pale sunshine touched the gray wall at Howbarrow, but the morning was
keen and the withered grass on the hillside rippled in a nipping wind.
Two battered sycamores tossed their branches above the courtyard arch,
and for a few minutes Mark leaned against the gate and looked about.

The spacious yard was clean; the mewsteads, byres, and stables round its
sides were large and strongly built of whinnstone blocks. The house
fronted the cart-bay, and near the door water splashed in a stone
trough. Shining milk-tankards occupied a mossy slab, and the water went
through the dairy where a separator droned. The mullioned windows were
narrow, and at the top of the first row a broken molding went along the
wall. Howbarrow was planned to resist winter storms, but the gloomy
rooms were cold. Peat is not a hot fuel, and Isaac hated to send his
horses eight miles for expensive coal.

Yet Mark admitted all he saw implied calculated efficiency, and when his
father and brother ruled, it was perhaps not like that. Turning his
head, he glanced down the green hollow of the ghyll, where the cart-road
went and mountain-ashes grew beside the noisy beck. At the bottom, black
and white belted cattle, released from steaming byres, frolicked
uncouthly about a pasture. Behind the dry-stoned dyke, a plow team
labored across a field. The soil was purple-red and shining gulls
searched the furrow. The team was good, and chain and clevis and buckle
sparkled in the sun. Across the dale, long rows of sheep climbed the
hill, and Mark heard lambs bleat.

All stood for sound planning and competent control. Isaac Crozier used
business methods and declared that the best farmer he knew was a draper
who had sold his shop. Isaac himself was for long an auctioneer, but he
sprang from yeoman stock and had perhaps inherited some talent for
husbandry. At all events, since he seized control Howbarrow had
prospered.

Mark frowned. His uncle knew where to spend, but he expected a profit,
and he knew where to use stern economy. Mark doubted if he could
persuade him to run some risk, and when he went to the house he
unconsciously braced up.

Isaac was in his office. His keeping books and calculating costs was
typical, for he maintained that a farmer did not get rich by cleaning
the byre. The room was bleak, and in the keen spring morning the grate
was empty. A seedsman's almanac, a plan of a separator, and some
Ministry of Agriculture notices occupied the walls. When Mark came in,
Isaac Crozier looked up from a large office desk.

He was a big man and began to get fat. His shoulders were rather bent,
his face was red, and his eyes were watery. His mouth was large and
loose. At a market-day dinner, one might mistake him for a jolly fellow,
and sometimes he was broadly humorous; his debtors knew him another man.
When he consulted with his lawyer and banker, his English was good,
but, as a rule at Howbarrow he used Cumbrian.

"I have loafed for some time and feel I ought to get a job," said Mark.
"All the same, shipbuilding is dull, ironworks and foundries are
stopping, and nobody seems to have much use for an engineer."

"Bob Wallace o' Langwath got a good post at a South-African mine, and
they tell me Tom Hewett's lad is a foreman at Melbourne. Well, I would
not see my nivew beat for a steamship-ticket."

Mark cogitated. He imagined he knew his uncle, and he certainly knew his
parsimonious aunt. They wanted to be rid of him, and he was willing to
indulge them, but he was not going to Australia, unless he were forced.

"I had thought about Chester. Scot wants me to join him and start a
small garage and repair-shop. He can get the workshop and is negotiating
for one or two agencies. In fact, I believe the plan is good. The
awkward part is to get the money."

"To get money is awkward," Isaac agreed. "Hooiver, what is the sum ye
want?"

"Five hundred pounds ought to see me out," said Mark. "We'd pay current
interest and give a mortgage on tools and stock."

Isaac shook his head. "Money at bank is idle money, and mine is walking
aboot farm. Until I sell lambs and bullocks, I'll not can get it back;
but sooner than refuse you, I might rob a sheep-fold and risk a hundred
pound."

Mark smiled. His uncle's argument, although plausible for a poor man,
was ridiculous for Isaac Crozier. Yet Mark had expected him to refuse
outright.

"There is no use in your _risking_ a hundred pounds," he replied. "I
want a fair chance to get on my feet and pay my debt. I believe I could
engage to do so, and I feel you ought to indulge me."

Isaac gave him a queer, swift glance, and then his watery eyes shifted.

"You might state your grounds," he said in the sort of English he used
at the bank.

"I'll try," said Mark. "You wanted to be a farmer, and you have
obviously some talent for the job. Well, you have got the best farm in
the dale, and the Howbarrow black-faces are the best sheep on the hills.
The farm and sheep were my father's, and but for your transactions with
Jim would not have been yours----"

He stopped with a touch of surprise. For all his frankness, Isaac was
not annoyed. If he moved at all, Mark thought his emotion relief.

"Was the flock famous when I got Howbarrow? Did the farm carry the
first-class herd I feed?"

"I think not," Mark admitted, for he wanted to be just.

"Very well. Sometimes your father was embarrassed, and sometimes I
helped Jim. I risked my money, and they knew I did not help for nothing.
If they'd thought I wasn't just, they might tried t' bank. I think Jim
did try, but manager wanted a mortgage. Then I reckon your lawyer was
satisfied."

"That was so," Mark agreed.

"Then, where's your ground for thinking I ought to humor you?"

Mark was baffled. Isaac was sternly logical, but Mark was not satisfied,
and because somehow he doubted, he would not urge their relationship.

"Oh, well," he said dully, "I suppose we must let it go."

For a few moments Isaac said nothing and knitted his heavy brows. He
wanted to help the lad, and although he was shrewdly practical, he felt
that for him to agree might pay. Yet the sum was large, and he had
sweated for all he had got. He hesitated, but greed tipped the beam.

"Would two hundred pounds see ye oot?"

"I think not," said Mark. "Since you don't know much about our
speculation, you are kind--Still, I expect we'd lose a small sum, which
would not buy the tools we need; and there's no use in my bothering
you."

He went to the door. Isaac hesitated, but let him go. He rather hoped
the lad might stop, but Mark did not. Isaac heard his steps in the
passage, and when all was quiet his wife came in.

Mrs. Crozier was tall and thin; a competent, firm-mouthed, parsimonious
woman. Her relations were farmers, but they did not visit at Howbarrow,
and her friends were not numerous. Ellen Crozier's habit was to be
usefully occupied. She did not squander time and effort in hospitality.

"What did Mark want?" she asked.

Isaac told her and she nodded, as if she had expected something like
that.

"You refused and sent him off?"

"I let him go," Isaac rejoined. "I might have chanced two hundred
pounds. It wasn't enough for Mark."

Mrs. Crozier gave him a scornful glance.

"You're soft; sometimes you're a fool. His father and Jim were
squanderers. You'd niver have got a penny back."

As a rule, Isaac's wife dominated him, but his loose mouth got firm.

"Mark's another sort, and five hundred pounds would not have broken us.
If I'm soft, I reckon neabody has noticed it but you. Anyhow, I'll tell
you something--if the boy had stopped and bothered me, he might have got
t' lot. The queer thing is, I felt t' proper plan was t' give it him.
And I gey nearly did."

Mrs. Crozier's surprise was obvious, but she smiled, a hard,
contemptuous smile.

"Your nerve's not very good. You dinnot ken where you must fix and keep
your line. You refused Mark t' money he wanted; and then you offered a
sum that was nea use to him--How much did Rob Turnbull get?"

"A hundred pounds," Isaac replied, in an apologetic voice. "I was forced
to pay. He knew I met Jim on moor t' neet the lad went over quarry."

"He heard you fratch?" said Mrs. Crozier, and her voice was hard.

"Niver a blow was struck; you're not to think it! Jim had taken liquor,
and he was annoyed because I'd sold t' bullocks. He began to shout, and
Trum'll was in path by quarry fence. But you ken aw aboot it. I've told
you before----"

Mrs. Crozier's mouth was tight and her glance was fixed on Isaac's face.
She saw he sweated and his hand shook. Well, she knew he indulged and
imagined he had begun to smuggle liquor into the house. Although he
admitted he and Jim disputed, she believed he yet kept something back.
Her sign implied that it was done with.

"Trum'll wanted more?"

"He got nea mair," Isaac rejoined. "He wrote from Canadian sawmill and I
said I'd send letter to my lawyers."

"Durst you have sent the letter?" Mrs. Crozier inquired.

"Looks as if Rob thowt I might, for I didn't get another," said Isaac
dryly, and, looking up, fronted his wife. "Sure as deith, Ellen, I've
nea reason to be afraid!"

He did not know if she were satisfied, for all she said was, "You gave
Rob a hundred pounds!"

For a moment or two she pondered, her glance yet searching the other's
face; and then she resumed:

"You cannot front two ways, Isaac, and you must choose--Mark begins to
weigh things, and he is not a fool, like Jim. Do you want him at
Chester, and at Howbarrow for his holidays?"

"I do not," said Isaac, in an embarrassed voice.

"Very well. So long as you are firm, Scot and he cannot start the
motor-shop. The doctor will nut help them, he has not five pounds to
lend. Mark will emigrate. I saw some books he got from steamship agents
in his room, and when we have done with him I'll be happier.
Howbarrow's ours, my man, and aw that's ours we keep."

Isaac's slack gesture implied that he agreed, but when Mrs. Crozier went
out he knitted his brows.

He had plotted and pinched for the farm, and by all the rules he knew,
it was his. When he looked back, he admitted that he was jealous of his
half-brother. Tom's mother, the first wife, had money; Isaac's mother
had not. Then he knew he was the better farmer, and he loved the soil,
but he took his small inheritance and started for the market town.
Although he prospered, he was not satisfied; he wanted Howbarrow, and by
and by he saw a plan. Tom had not his talent for using money and was
trustful. He consulted with Isaac about his speculations in young stock
and sheep, and when he was embarrassed asked him to negotiate a loan.

Tom was not fortunate, and when Jim inherited, the young fellow was
Isaac's debtor for a large sum. His plans had worked, but to some extent
the plans were Ellen's. At all events, he admitted she had supplied the
driving-force that carried him along. Now Jim was dead and Turnbull had
grounds to think Isaac had something to do with it. Isaac clenched his
fist. He had not pushed his nephew over the quarry bank, but he dared
not dwell upon the dispute in the fog, and he pondered something else.

Had Ellen not been firm, he might have helped Mark. He did not want the
boy at Howbarrow, but if he went to Chester, his occupation might absorb
him and when he married the doctor's girl he'd be willing to leave the
past alone. Ellen, however, did not agree, and where she was resolved
there was nothing to be said. Isaac was sorry. After all, he might have
risked five hundred pounds--But he must order seed oats and so forth,
and he got to work.

In the meantime, Mark took a green road across the hills. He had not
reckoned on his uncle's support, but all the same he had got a knock and
he wanted to be alone. Coming back across the moor in the afternoon, he
sat down where a limestone ridge broke the wind. Behind the stones, the
sun was warm and Mark lighted his pipe.

The brown slope rolled down to the hollow Howbarrow occupied. Mark saw
the tops of the sycamores and thin blue smoke. Six or seven hundred
yards from the house, the quarry, like a white scar, cut the heath. Four
years since, his brother, crossing the moor in the dark, went through
the rotten fence, although it implied his leaving the path and plowing
through tangled heather. Jim knew the moor, and in the dark a dalesman
trusts his feet to keep a path. Then, if Jim had left the Packhorse when
Turnbull and the landlord stated, he ought to have reached Howbarrow
twenty minutes before he plunged down the quarry. His watch had stopped
and fixed the time, although at the inquest nobody seemed to have
remarked his slowness.

Since Turnbull started soon after Jim, he might, had he left the road
where a path went obliquely to the ghyll, have passed the spot when Jim
was there. All the same, Mark had no grounds to doubt Turnbull. He was
moody and obstinate, but a first-class cowman, and Jim trusted him.
Anyhow, he emigrated soon after the accident and nobody knew where he
was.

The strange thing was, Isaac, who was at Howbarrow, was not disturbed
when Jim did not come back. About the time his nephew reached the
quarry, he had gone out in the fog because two horses had strayed from
the pasture and the quarry fence was bad. Isaac saw nobody. Yet Jim's
habit was not to be away at night.

Mark, as he had done before, let it go. In the evening he must tell
Madge about Isaac's refusal, and his resolve to emigrate. Although he
knew her pluck, he did not like his job. Yet, since he could not get a
post in England, he thought she would agree. Madge would not want him to
loaf. All the same, to go was hard, and he started moodily for the
farm.




CHAPTER V

USEFUL FRIENDS


Snow glimmered on the moor-tops, and where a dark cloud broke, the bleak
slopes melted in a gray smear of sleet. The sun, however, was on the
Millhouse, and by the pool a few pale primroses pushed through the dead
leaves. A robin sang on a bare oak-branch, and water throbbed across the
weir.

Flora Scot, steadying herself by a willow-branch, leaned out over the
pool. The bank was precipitous and the water deep, and when the branch
began to bend Wellwin seized Flora's arm and strongly pulled her back.
When he let her go his heart beat and faint color stained her skin. Bob
remarked that her brows were knit in a sort of puzzled frown, as if his
touch had somehow disturbed her, but when she was conscious of his study
the frown melted. She was not going to admit she was annoyed, and he
imagined her carelessness, so to speak, was defensive.

"You perhaps do not know I'm a mountaineer," she said. "A mountaineer
trusts his feet and his balance, and the stones on which I stood were
firm."

"Looks as if you trusted a willow-branch. When the sap runs in spring, a
willow-branch is soft and treacherous."

"Then, you have willows in Canada?"

"Sure we have," said Bob. "Willows and oaks and birches, besides the
pines and firs. All the trees you have in the Old Country, and then
some."

"In aw t' fells there's nea _heaf_ like oor heaf, bleats Herdwick sheep.
Perhaps you see the implication?"

"We are both bi-lingual?" Bob suggested with a grin. "Well, although
boosting is not allowed, we have trout in Canada, and the fish you
spotted behind the stone was a big fellow."

Their habit was to indulge in humorous banter and Flora remarked; "Since
you were farther off, your eyes are pretty keen."

"The explanation is, I know where a trout ought to be."

"Then, you are a fisherman?"

Bob nodded. "One tries to be modest, but I imagine you haven't yet found
out all my talents. For example, although I did not carry a rope and a
long, pointed stick, I have crawled about on snowy rocks."

"A mountaineer does not carry a pointed stick," Flora rejoined. "What
was your load?"

"Sometimes a surveyor's chain and two blankets, but I have carried a
seventy-pound bag of flour."

Flora thought it possible. Wellwin was athletic and his balance was
good. His statement interested her; she rather imagined he meant it to
do so and she might be frank.

"But you are a lumber company's salesman. In England when one moves
heavy stuff one engages a porter."

"At present, I am a salesman, but I have stacked boards at a sawmill and
hauled logs in the snow. Then, you see, I expect to get a more important
post, and a good lumber man knows all about his job. I mustn't bore
you, but sometimes I have an object for talking at large."

"I wondered----" said Flora. "You will perhaps satisfy my curiosity?"

"Mark's my pal, and I'm a meddlesome fellow, as you perhaps remarked
when I pulled you from the bank. If you were annoyed, I'm sorry,
although I don't know if _annoyed_ is quite the proper word. Classical
English is not my medium."

Flora looked up, rather sharply. He was keener than she had thought.

"It is not at all important. Suppose you go ahead?"

"Very well. I'd like to give Mark a boost, and I feel I ought to account
for my haunting the Millhouse. When I think about it, I have rather
haunted you."

"I hope you do not imagine we were bored," said Flora politely. "For one
thing, you are a fresh type."

"If you were bored, I would not know," Bob rejoined with a twinkle. "At
home, I wouldn't be left to guess, because when you make a Canadian
tired he firmly fires you out. After all, the plan has some advantages.
But, since you don't yet see where I'm steering you, Mark is your pal."

"That is so. Then, he is Madge's lover, and she is the best friend I've
got."

Bob thrilled. Flora's smile was careless, but he rather thought she
wanted him to know Mark was not her lover.

"Now we can go ahead," he resumed. "Mark cannot finance his garage plan,
but I'm not allowed to help. He doubts if he can get a post in the Old
Country and he hates to loaf. Well, since we are his pals, we are
entitled to think for him. In a way, the drawback is, we must think for
Miss Forsyth, because although I could get Mark a post in Canada, she
might not approve."

"You are a very good sort," said Flora, in a quiet voice.

"To some extent, I'm selfish. So long as we are both resolved to give
Mark a fighting chance, I am entitled to consult with my confederate. I
admit the Millhouse is a charming spot."

Flora looked up. Bob's eyes twinkled, but he gave her a level glance,
and she knew he did not altogether joke.

"But you cannot stop. The lumber company, no doubt, needs its salesman."

"There's the trouble," Bob agreed. "I hate to think about it. However,
when the old man wants me he must get busy at the cable. In the
meantime, I've got a week or two, and I hope you'll help me forget----"

Big drops splashed the flagged path, and Flora shivered. The sun was
gone, the birch-branches tossed, and sleet blew down the dale. Then she
saw Madge signaled at the door and she touched Bob.

"Tea waits," said Madge. "I expected you sooner. The wind is cold."

"We were talking about Mark," said Flora. "Mr. Wellwin thinks you might
weigh his proposition."

Madge gave Bob a keen glance, and he smiled.

"I am studying Old Country English, and Miss Scot knows some Canadian.
We, so to speak, pool our talents----But I have a proposition."

"You are kind. After tea we will talk about it," Madge replied.

Bob waited and when the plates were carried off they went to the big
fireplace, Bob opposite Madge across the rug, and Flora between them.
Hail beat the windows, one heard the wind in the birches, and the room
got dark, but the big fire snapped cheerfully and the leaping
reflections flickered on shining oak.

"Miss Scot is umpire, although I hope we are not antagonists," said Bob.
"Well, Mark reckoned if he did not start the garage, he might emigrate."

"I am afraid he must," said Madge.

Bob liked her frankness. One could talk to Madge Forsyth as one talked
to a man. Yet she was fastidious and cultivated, and the house she ruled
was beautiful, although Bob doubted if the doctor earned as much as a
Canadian locomotive engineer. The big, quiet dalesfolk were a queer lot,
but they had the sort of qualities that in Canada commanded some reward.

"Very well. Mark talked about Australia, but if you fix on a spot
half-way round the world, you must stop where you locate----"

Madge Forsyth's look got thoughtful, but that was all. She had weighed
the long separation from her lover, and, for his sake, was willing to
let him go. When he sent for her, Bob imagined she would cheerfully join
him, although to leave all she knew might hurt.

"Quebec is not quite three thousand miles off and you can get there in
six days," he resumed. "My proposition is, Mark locates in Canada,
because, if you approve, I believe I might help him go ahead. The
drawback is, in the Dominion, one does not get rich quick. One must
sweat and hustle for all one wants."

"That is so in Cumberland," Madge remarked with a smile. "As a rule,
when one has hustled one's reward is small."

"When Flora and I talked about it by the pool I tried to put her wise,"
said Bob, and turned to Flora. "When I told you I'd stacked boards and
so forth I did not talk at large----"

He wondered whether Miss Forsyth's smile implied that she had noted he
called her cousin Flora. The queer thing was, he dared not have done so
by the pool; but by the fireplace in the homelike room she was somehow
domestic and altogether friendly. Bob admitted his explanations did not
advance fast. In the Old Country speed was not important, and he was
satisfied to discourse by the Millhouse fire for as long as he was
allowed.

"You stated you had an object," Flora remarked. "Perhaps you are modest,
but the object is not yet very obvious."

"I'm getting there," Bob rejoined, and turned to Madge. "My father is
the Duquesne Company's president, but when I joined him I started at the
mill and went to the camps in the woods. There's my plan for Mark. Our
engineers' pay is pretty good, but as long as they stop with us they are
engine-tenders and that's all. Although the company has a job for a
useful man, the man we want must know his job from the beginning. Well,
the start is hard, and before Mark made much progress some time might
go. For example, I stacked boards in summer and was two winters in the
woods. I camped and ate with roughneck choppers, and my pay was a
workman's pay. Now I reckon most any lumber house in Canada would give
me a post."

Madge thought it possible. Wellwin had graduated at a Canadian
University. One sensed his keen intelligence and driving-force. Then,
although he was rather lightly built, labor with the axe had hardened
his muscles and given him the woodsman's balance. His body, brain, and
nerve were firmly disciplined and sound. Yet Madge thought all he did,
Mark, when he was trained, could do.

"I understand you have not yet told Mark about your plan," she said.

"I have not," said Bob, and gave her an apologetic glance. "I reckon
Mark's my sort and I might perhaps work on him and carry him away; but,
unless you are willing, I mustn't experiment. You see, while I begin to
know Mark's qualities, something depends on his luck, and I, so to
speak, can't fix a date for his making good."

"In fact, you feel you ought to think for me? It might be long before
Mark could give me the home you imagine I ought to have! And, of course,
in the meantime, I must let him go."

"Yes; I did argue like that. Sometimes perhaps I am not remarkably
bright."

"You are very kind," said Madge. "I believe you considered another
plan----"

The blood came to Wellwin's skin, but Madge gave him a smile and went
on:

"The plan would not work; Flora's advice was good, but you and she are
useful friends. However, I am not as fastidious as you think and at the
Millhouse we use economy. If Mark believes he can mend his fortunes in
Canada, I am willing for him to try."

"I like your pluck," said Bob. "I believe he has a fighting chance he
might not get in the Old Country."

"Then he must seize the chance," said Madge. "Where you can help I know
you will help, and if Mark's advance is slower than he thinks, we will
not make you accountable."

She began to talk about something else, but Bob was satisfied. Miss
Forsyth was his friend; moreover she was Flora's cousin and confidante.
He imagined the dalesfolk did not forget.

After some time Forsyth arrived. The doctor was tall, his hair was
touched by white, and his type was the thin-faced Cumbrian type. Bob got
up.

"You will be ready for supper, sir, and I must shove off."

"I am home sooner than my household expected and must wait for my food,"
Forsyth replied. "Since the girls will be occupied, you might stop with
me."

He gave Bob a cigarette, filled his pipe, and stretched his legs to the
fire.

"The wind is keen and I have finished a sixteen-mile ride on a borrowed
horse across moors and bogs where a car cannot go. The patients I visit
are a queer, primitive lot. Sometime when I can use my little car, to go
round with me might interest you. Will you be at the inn for long?"

"I mean to stop as long as I'm allowed," said Bob. "By and by the old
man will cable for me, but I'm coming across another time."

Forsyth imagined the young fellow felt he ought to be frank, and he
admitted he liked his honesty.

"I suppose the lumber house transacts some business at Glasgow? Well, if
you take another holiday on the Border, you must look us up. In our
quiet dales young folks are not numerous. The ambitious start for the
towns, and we who are left soon get old-fashioned. To make contact with
the modern world is bracing, and one imagines North American youth is
very much up-to-date."

"Perhaps I'm not a very good example, sir. Anyhow, I was happy in the
frozen woods, and the old-time calm at the Millhouse is altogether
delightful."

"When you wish to enjoy it, it is yours," said Forsyth with a smile. "I
myself like calm, but you see my hair is white, and I know the golden
days are gone. Yours are yet in front, and youth is keen to push ahead.
You do not advance by the roads we know, but one admits you get
somewhere fast."

"One does not know where," said Bob. "I expect it's important, but one
must be satisfied to shove along hopefully. Anyhow, in all that's
fundamental, I reckon the old rules stand."

"Then, you do not believe a young man's main business is to express
himself?"

Bob smiled. "In Canada, his main occupation is to supply himself with
food and clothes. We have, of course, psycho-analysts and
complex-hunters; but if you live by industry you can't be independent.
When you go with the crowd, you must think for the crowd, and where you
take the other fellow's dollars you must give him the goods for which he
pays. There is no use in stating he ought to want another sort, and in
Canada the inferiority-complex is pretty scarce. He gets annoyed and
inquires why you reckon he knows less than you."

Plates rattled in the passage and Bob got on his feet.

"I am not much of a philosopher and you want your food. Any time you
invite me to join your excursions I'll be glad to do so, sir."

He went off, and when Flora carried in supper Forsyth laughed.

"I like Mark's friend. Physically, he's a fine example of the
transplanted English type, and on the whole, I think his views about
life and conduct as sound as his well-trained body."




CHAPTER VI

MARK FOLLOWS HIS BENT


Wellwin stated his plan to Mark, who promised to consider it, but asked
Bob to wait. For one thing, a small, private syndicate had resolved to
reopen an old wolfram mine and engaged him to start the rusty
pumping-engine. Although he doubted if the engagement would stand for
long, he took the post, and one evening went down a ladder to the
drainage-sump.

A bucket and rake dangled at the end of a rope, and a small flat lamp
was hooked to Mark's greasy hat. The dim illumination touched dripping
rock and the water at his feet. A big armored hose palpitated, and at
each pulsation the water sank in a gurgling hollow; then the hollow
filled, the surface got level, and bubbles broke. The pump, however, did
not pull as she ought. Something was under a valve-clack, or perhaps
rubbish choked the suction-grid. Mark struck the bucket with his rake.

A chain tackle rattled and the big hose curved. When its end got nearer
the surface the water foamed, and rotten sticks and rubbish tossed
about. Mark, pushing down his rake, felt for the suction-box, and
dragged away the stuff that blocked the grid.

"Have ye cleared her?" somebody shouted. "Whistle's blowing."

Mark threw the waterlogged rubbish in the bucket and raked off a fresh
lot. He did not want to crawl down the sump another time, and his habit
was to finish a job. For a few minutes his helper must wait. When he was
satisfied, he signaled the other to lower the hose and went up the
ladder.

"Whistle's gone three or four minutes," grumbled the man at the top.

They followed an inclined tunnel, where water trickled from the rock and
tram-lines rusted in the mud. Rotting props and beams supported the
roof, but in some places fresh fir-trunks were stacked against the wall.
For some time the mine had not been worked, and before the timbering was
renewed and the water pumped out Mark imagined three or four weeks would
go.

The tunnel opened to the hillside. A biting wind swept the heather, and
the long moor-tops were streaked by snow. The light had begun to melt,
and in the cold spring evening the landscape was desolate and bleak. A
group, putting on their coats by the iron boiler-house, gave Mark
good-night and started down the stony path. Their homes were three or
four miles off, but they were going home, and when they vanished in the
heath Mark unconsciously frowned.

For the most part, his youth was lonely. His Tyneside lodgings were
dreary and cheap, and since his aunt had ruled at Howbarrow he was not
there much. In fact, for long the Millhouse was all the home he had
known. Anyhow, he had left Howbarrow, and he was not going back.

Hailstones beat his hat and the white bents on the hillside tossed in
the keen wind. The light was nearly gone, and Mark shivered and went to
the boiler-house. A young fellow, sitting in a coal-barrow, studied a
newspaper. Mark glanced at the pressure gauge and water-glass and gave
him a nod.

"Trying to spot a winner, Frank? Well, you have got all the steam the
old tubes and flues can carry. If you want me, knock on my window, but I
may come in for a smoke."

He took a kettle from the furnace door and went to an iron hut, where he
kicked off his wet boots and got his frugal supper. Then he pulled an
old book from his kit-bag, and carried a chair to the rusty stove. A
camp bed occupied a corner of the hut, the walls were corrugated iron,
and the roof cracked in the wind. The pump clanged; Mark heard water
splash and a beck brawl down the hill.

His pay was not good and his engagement might not last, but he was glad
to get a post, and although Wellwin wanted him to go to Canada, he
thought he would refuse. Anyhow, he would not start with Bob. At
Howbarrow he used a room that was once his brother's, and when he packed
his bag and moved some clothes from an old trunk he found an office
diary. The book was planned for a farmer's use, and Mark knew Jim's
hand. In fact, it looked as if Jim were more businesslike than he had
thought, and he brought the book away.

Sitting by the stove, he studied the entries. One near the beginning
recorded Jim's purchasing a block of one-pound shares in a
cattle-auction company, and noted that Isaac had supplied most of the
sum. Mark thought it queer. At one time, Isaac had something to do with
the company, which prospered until the trade by which it throve was
diverted to another market. Then the company was wound up, and Mark
doubted if Jim had got five shillings for his shares. He wondered
whether the shares were Isaac's; they might be transferred through a
third party. Anyhow, although Isaac knew the company was embarrassed, he
had allowed his nephew to speculate.

There was another speculation. Although the Howbarrow flock was good,
Jim, with money supplied by Isaac, had bought lambs of a heavier but
less hardy sort. After renting pasture and turnips, he was forced to
sell the flock in a falling market, and he had noted the sum he lost.

Mark wanted to be just. Sometimes Jim was obstinate, but Isaac was a
live-stock auctioneer and ought to have known prices would go down. Yet
he certainly had not stopped his nephew. It was obvious he did not know
the diary recording the transaction was under some old books in Jim's
trunk.

Lighting his pipe, Mark turned the pages. When Jim sold sheep and cattle
he noted the sum he got, and as a rule stated in a fresh line: _I. C.
cheque._ It looked as if Isaac were an exacting creditor. Sometimes Mark
pulled out his pencil and calculated. He knew more or less how much one
ought to spend at Howbarrow and he pictured Jim's sinking deeper in a
morass of debt.

Other payments were recorded; sums marked _Cash_, at irregular
intervals. They were not large, but in twelve months they mounted up,
and Mark did not see what they were for. Near the end of the book, Jim
noted cheques received from _I. C._ and the interest he agreed to pay.
Mark knew the interest was above the current rate, but he imagined Jim,
by that time, could not borrow from a bank.

Putting up the diary, he looked straight in front. Jim's notes were
illuminating. He had inherited large debts; Mark saw him struggling
savagely, and perhaps recklessly, to put all straight. Isaac, whose
business was to advise and control his nephew, had rather encouraged him
and worked on his extravagance. In fact, he had planned to seize
Howbarrow! An auctioneer was not important, but in the northern dales a
statesman (yeoman farmer) so to speak is an aristocrat. Anyhow, Isaac's
plans had worked, for Jim, at length, had given him a mortgage on the
farm.

Mark clenched his fist. Isaac, for all his greed and cunning, had some
scruples, and Mark pictured his tight-mouthed, parsimonious aunt pushing
on her husband. Perhaps at the beginning she was ambitious for her son;
Mark had liked his cousin, who was a Newcastle architect's pupil, but
Frank was hurt at a football-match and died soon afterward. When one
thought about it, tragedy seemed to haunt the Croziers, and the
dalesfolk declared their house unlucky.

Well, Frank, like Jim, was gone and Isaac ruled at Howbarrow. Mark dared
not imagine him accountable for his nephew's plunge from the quarry
bank, but he felt Isaac knew something about it that others did not.
Moreover, Mark was persuaded his aunt knew. She had not wanted him at
the farm, and he had sensed a queer, suspicious antagonism.

Anyhow, it was done with some years since, and until the foundry
stopped, Mark had concentrated on his occupation. Now Wellwin wanted him
to go to Canada, and Madge was willing; but since he had found Jim's
diary he was not keen. He ought perhaps to go. Bob was a useful friend
and engaged to see him out. At the mine his pay was small and, for
Madge's sake, he must push ahead. Yet Jim was his brother, and although
he might find out nothing, Mark was not satisfied. He frankly did not
want to meddle, but until he knew why his brother went down the quarry,
he must not think for himself.

He looked up. His pipe was out and the stove burned low. The room was
cold, and when he pulled out his watch it was ten o'clock. Mark resolved
he would talk to Forsyth. One could trust the doctor and he knew all
Mark knew about the accident. He put the diary in his bag, stretched his
arms, and went to bed.

About eight o'clock next evening, he occupied an easy-chair in the
doctor's surgery. Forsyth, on the other side of the fireplace, studied
the diary and some notes Mark had made. At length he put up the book.

"The tale's a moving tale. Jim was rash and trustful, but he made a good
fight."

"That was so," said Mark. "I expect you see Isaac exploited his
trustfulness? To some extent, I imagine he exploited my father's."

"It's possible," Forsyth agreed in a thoughtful voice. "Your father was
my friend, and I suspected he was embarrassed. Then, we know Isaac's
greediness, and your aunt's ambition for her son. All the same, the
money Isaac supplied was his, and, at the beginning, anyhow, he could
not force your brother to borrow from him. I think he did plan his
entanglement, but that was all, Mark."

Mark nodded. "It's much; but Isaac knows something he has not yet told.
To begin with, Jim ought to have been at Howbarrow twenty minutes before
he reached the quarry bank; his watch's stopping fixed the time.
Turnbull implied that the liquor he got at the Packhorse might account
for his losing his way, but nobody supported him. The other explanation
is unthinkable. Jim was not the sort to throw himself down the bank."

"It is unthinkable," Forsyth agreed. "I believe we shall never know all
about the accident, and there is not much use in your inquiring. In
fact, I feel, rather strongly, that you ought to leave the thing alone."

"I would sooner leave it alone. There's the trouble, sir, because I'm
somehow persuaded I must try to find out. My brother was not a drunkard,
and for all his embarrassments, he was not a suicide."

Forsyth was moved to sympathy. Mark was young and ought to look
hopefully in front. His shrinking from the load he perhaps felt unkind
Fate had given him was natural, and in a sense healthy. Yet the Croziers
were marked by a stubborn vein and could take hard knocks. The doctor
knew them all, and he pictured Isaac's slow, laborious plotting, and
Jim's steadfastly fighting a sort of forlorn hope. Mark might shrink,
but where he thought duty called he would go.

"For some time I had hoped you were willing, or perhaps resigned, for
the accident to be forgotten. Your resolve to investigate is something
fresh."

Mark's face got red. "In a way, that is so, sir. Isaac's refusal to lend
me the sum I wanted had something to do with it; but I'm not revengeful,
and I want you to understand--Isaac is parsimonious, but had I engaged
to start for Australia, I think I might have persuaded him; in fact, if
I went to Chester, he was willing to risk two hundred pounds. The
implication is, although it would cost him something, he wanted to be
rid of me. Then Wellwin talked about his getting me a post, and I found
the diary. If I went to Canada, I could find out nothing, and I was
forced to choose----"

"In the meantime, you have got a post."

"The job is a workman's job, and a journeyman engineer gets less pay
than the fellows who clean the streets in town. All the same, it helps
me hold on, and so long as I am in Cumberland, I might find a clue."

Forsyth saw the young fellow was resolved, and said nothing. Mark
resumed:

"You knew Turnbull. All I remember is, he was a queer, sullen fellow;
but he started from the Packhorse soon after Jim."

"I attended him when he was hurt by a bull. He was obstinate and moody,
but a good cattleman, although I believe he was properly a forester, and
came to Howbarrow from a Scottish estate. The story is, he threw a
meddlesome bailiff out of the sawmill."

"He vanished soon after the inquest. Do you know where he went?"

"I did know," said Forsyth, and knitted his brows. "Oh, yes, when
Robertson of Greensyke went to Canada with the pedigree stock he ran
into the fellow at Montreal."

Mark looked up, and Forsyth imagined his reply was rash.

"Turnbull was a forester! He'd no doubt get a job in the lumber
industry."

"That does not help you. Canadian lumber is cut in the forests of Quebec
and on the Pacific slope, three thousand miles off. Then, I believe
there are sawmills in the pine belt north of the great plains. To search
for the fellow would be ridiculous, and he'd probably tell you nothing
you did not know. Leave it alone, Mark. You are young and ought not to
brood about a tragedy that's better forgotten. If you did solve the
puzzle, you might not be happier."

For a few moments Mark was quiet. He frowned and his mouth was firm.
Then he said:

"Your object's good; but if the job is mine, I ought not to hesitate
because I might get hurt. There's another thing: I am engaged to marry
Madge, and she is staunch. If she knew I brooded over a job I turned
down, she would not be happy. I think she'd sooner I carried my proper
load, and, for her sake, when I marry I must have earned my freedom.
All, so to speak, is vague, sir, and I don't yet see my line. I must try
to weigh things--But, you have been on your rounds since breakfast, and
I must start for my shanty."

Forsyth let him go. Madge was at a neighbor's house, and the mine was
five miles off across the moors. The doctor approved his daughter's
lover, but he was sorry for the young fellow.




CHAPTER VII

THE FLOOD


Wellwin pulled off his coat and stretched his legs to Mark's stove. For
all the sunshine, the morning was cold, and snow sparkled on the moors
the shanty windows commanded. Bob had plowed through tangled heather and
his boots were wet. Mark's boiler-suit was greasy, and before he pulled
out some cigarettes he rubbed his hands.

"A woodsman is not fastidious, and a little machine oil in my tobacco is
nothing very new," said Bob. "However, what have you fixed about going
across with me?"

"I might go, but not yet. I suppose an English forester could reckon on
an engagement at a Canadian lumber camp?"

Bob cogitated. He had talked to Madge and Doctor Forsyth, and to some
extent knew Mark's grounds for hesitating. All the same, he did not see
where his question led.

"A good chopper would certainly be hired, but to locate him might be
awkward. Our forests run from Labrador to the Pacific."

"Oh, well," said Mark, carelessly, "when do you start for Montreal?"

"In his last letter, the old man wanted to know, but until he uses the
cable I reckon to wait. Your dales and dalesfolk interest me, and the
Millhouse is a charming spot."

"That is so," Mark agreed, rather dryly. "Perhaps I'm not entitled to
meddle and the ground is awkward, but the Millhouse people have been my
friends for as long as I remember."

"Sure," said Bob. "Flora's your friend, and you ought to be flattered
because you have got a pal like that. She reasons like a man; in fact,
she's more logical than some I know. You can bet on her taking the
proper line, and when we talked about my plans for you----"

Mark looked up. "You consulted with Flora? Well, I suppose your object
was good; but we were talking about something else. Your holiday will
soon be over and your occupation and interests are across the Atlantic.
In the circumstances, I doubt if you ought to be at the Millhouse every
evening."

"Three evenings last week; one must be accurate," said Bob. "However,
from my point of view, the important thing is, I'm coming back."

"You don't know. The company might not send you to Scotland another
time."

"Then they'd certainly lose some trade," Bob rejoined. "But what about
it? Suppose I was fired because I refused to stop? I believe I command
the sort of post I want, and I can buy a steamship-ticket. Fast liners
run from Montreal to Liverpool. Now do you get me?"

The dalesfolk are not theatrical, but Mark gave him his hand.

"I'm sorry, Bob; I hope you will persuade Flora."

Wellwin smiled. "You're old-fashioned, Mark. An up-to-date girl is not
persuaded; she knows her own mind. My drawbacks are pretty numerous, but
Flora's pluck is good and perhaps she'll not be daunted----"

He stopped, for a workman came in.

"Lend us your sledge-hammer. Jack's brocken his maul."

"The hammer's in the boiler-shed," said Mark. "Have you got up the props
at the wet spot?"

"Two-a-three is fixed; but Jack's boddered. Roof's gey loose and water's
running through. We ought to have dug a channel to carry beck down
t'other side o' crag."

"The company is not extravagant. Frank will give you the hammer."

The miner went off, and Mark pondered.

"Economy's the rule at Dalehead, but I'd have dug the ditch. Some time
since a stream broke into a coal-pit across the hills and very few men
in the bottom level reached the shaft. Now and then, where the strata is
horizontal, one taps an underground reservoir; but at Dalehead the rocks
are tilted----"

He scored two or three oblique lines on the boards, and resumed: "The
mine is wet, and it's possible water from the beck goes down a crack,
and following the inclined top of a layer, might break through where the
stone is pierced. My particular business is to drive the pump, but I
want to see the weak spot. Would you like to go?"

Bob nodded, and when Mark gave him an old mackintosh and a small flat
lamp they stumbled along the slanted tunnel. Where they stopped, candles
bedded in clay were stuck to the wall. The flames wavered and the
uncertain light touched the dripping stone and the half-naked bodies of
three or four men. A large crack had opened in the roof and water
splashed the floor. So far as Bob could distinguish, the rock was soft
and loose.

A fresh, thick beam, supported by fir-trunks, crossed the roof by the
ominous crack, and two gasping men labored to straighten the slightly
oblique prop at its end. The prop was a little longer than the space
between roof and floor, so that, when driven upright, it would firmly
wedge the beam.

"She'll gan noo! Stiddy her!" said one.

His muscular body swung, and while his straining mate pushed against the
top, a massive wooden maul crashed on the post. Its foot went forward an
inch or two, and then the thick timber trembled under a fresh blow.
Water streamed from the crack, and small stones fell.

"They are hefty fellows, but I doubt if he'll drive her home," Wellwin
remarked. "Anyhow, she has got to be plumb upright. Sound lumber will
stand for some compression, but if you get a bending strain, she'll
shear."

A little farther along the tunnel, another group was at work, and
Wellwin, watching their efforts, was moved to admiration. Until he
transacted business at Glasgow, he had imagined the Old Country folk a
rather decadent lot; but he frankly admitted Canada did not breed men
like these. In fact, but for some Australians, the largest and strongest
British are the men of Viking stock who inhabit the bleak hills where
England and Scotland join.

For all that, the post went forward slowly, and one miner's face was
dark with blood. The veins on his forehead swelled and his wide chest
heaved. The roof cracked ominously and water spirted from the fissures.
Bob knew nothing about mining, but unless the timbers soon were fixed,
he imagined roof and walls would crash and block the tunnel. He could
use an axe, and, as a rule, in the Canadian woods two men chopped a
tree. Pulling off his mackintosh, he seized Mark's sledge-hammer.

"Stroke for stroke," he said. "We'll put her where you want."

The big maul jarred the quivering prop, and when the miner swung back,
Bob's hammer struck the spot; when one chops one must drop the axe
exactly in the notch. The miner was perhaps surprised, but when a
dalesman is occupied he does not talk. In the narrow tunnel, he and Bob
were cramped for room, but maul and hammer went where they aimed, and
the post went home. The miner jumped for a fresh beam. Mark shouted and
threw Wellwin back.

A beam groaned and buckled, and a great stone crushed the splintering
wood. The block and an avalanche of smaller stuff came down, and a muddy
flood poured from the hole.

"I want Jack and Tyson!" Mark shouted, and ran like a deer along the
tunnel. Bob had not imagined an Englishman could move so fast, and when
he reached the boiler-shed Mark was already occupied with a tallow
swab. The furnace door was open and the fireman savagely shoveled coal.

"Watch your water-glass, Frank," said Mark. "The flues are old, but we
must risk something, and you'll raise all the steam the pump can use.
For an hour or two I may not be about----"

Two wet and breathless men came in, and he said to one:

"I suppose you cannot stop the water, Jack?"

"Neabody could stop it," gasped the miner. "I'll pull oot gang and start
them cutting trench across top o' crag; but I reckon mine will be
drowned before we've turned t' beck."

"It's possible. If the mine is drowned, I expect the company will wind
up, and we will lose our jobs. I'm not captain; my business is to pump,
and since the machines I've got won't stop the flood, I'm going for the
pulsometer at Tanhead quarry."

"T' old boiler will not give you steam."

"That's so. We'll move the small crane boiler at the quarry. When you
have started your men at the trench, you might follow us. I expect we'll
be bothered to put the boiler on the stone lorry and haul our load up
the bank. In the meantime, I want Tyson."

"Verra weel," said the other and went off.

Wellwin was interested. When they were forced, the Old Country folk
could hustle. Moreover, they did not get rattled. So far as Bob
remembered, when the roof crashed nobody was much disturbed, and now
Mark in three or four sentences, clearly outlined his plan. The miner
agreed and got to work. That was all!

"Start for Nethersceugh and get Watson's plow team," Mark said to the
other. "We want him and his herds; the company will pay. Then Headley
has two good Shire horses. Send him and his cowman to the quarry. I'll
meet you there."

The fellow nodded, and when his boots rattled on the stones Wellwin
said:

"Have you got a job for me? I'm not a miner, but I have helped manhandle
awkward logs."

"To begin with, there's your load," Mark replied, and threw some tools
in a greasy bag. "Wheel out Frank's bicycle while I get a pipe-wrench."

The motorcycle was a small English model, and Bob contrasted it with the
big red machine he had driven in Canada. Then he glanced at the road by
the beck and pondered. Some pitches were nearly precipitious, the
surface was torn by wheels, and strewn with treacherous gravel floods
had carried down. For all that, Mark started the motorcycle, and Bob,
carrying the bag, jumped on the carrier.

They plunged down the hill. Water and gravel leaped about the wheels,
and at a corner Mark took the boggy heath. Bob thought they went down a
rock slab to the road, but he was mainly occupied by holding on, and
when they got to the bottom he was frankly happier.

The stony moorland road was not fenced and sheep sped across. At one
spot, the track went down, like a roof, to a water-splash, but Mark
drove all out. The little machine rocked, skidded on stones in the
stream, and nobly took the hill on the other side. At the top they
plowed through sand and bog, and when the track stopped by a wall Bob
pulled out his watch.

Since the beck broke into the tunnel half an hour had hardly gone, but
Mark had all planned to fight the flood. He opened a gate, and they
followed an incline to the bottom of the quarry. In front, pale
sandstone, broken by darker-colored streaks, dropped like a smooth wall
to a deep, green pool. The stuff was the soft building-stone Cumbrians
call chalk.

A crane with an upright boiler occupied the bank, and a big hose,
attached to a rounded iron casting went into the pool. The casting was a
pulsometer: a chambered pump, modeled something like a human heart,
which works by vacuum. The boiler was made for removal from the
bed-plate, but the bolts were rusted, and for some time the pipe
couplings refused to turn.

Mark hammered and sweated, and when at length the fastenings were loose
Bob rather ruefully studied his shooting-clothes. He had had the suit
made at Glasgow, of fine Scottish cloth, for use at his country club,
but he doubted if the grease and rust could be removed. His hands were
bruised and his face was smeared by soot. All the same, he was happy.

"I reckon you won't beat the flood for three or four days," he said. "If
you can loan me some overalls, I'd like to stop with you."

"Very well," said Mark. "I can give you a boiler-suit. But why do you
want to stop?"

Bob laughed and gave him a cigarette.

"For one thing, I'm not yet fat and stiff, and maybe the old man
miscalculated when he sent me to the woods. When he was a boy he helped
around the lumber camps, and his father pre-empted a small bush ranch.
Now, perhaps, you get me?"

"Sometimes I'm dull," Mark rejoined.

"Oh, well, I'm a lumber salesman, and on the whole, I like my job; but
now and then I want to swing the axe and ride a log downstream. When the
sun is on the woods and the pines begin to smell, who'd hustle round
city offices if he could get busy by the river?"

"I don't know, but I would not," said Mark. "However, I understand young
Canada is pulling out from the back blocks for the United States."

"That is so. Still, I have not much use for soft-handed slobs. Man was
built to use his muscles; his body is his servant and ought to be as
hard and disciplined as a hunting animal's. You don't get that sort of
hardness by jazz and golf; but when it's yours, you rather like to try
your nerve and let yourself go all out."

Mark's eyes twinkled. He did not philosophize about his impulses, but
although Bob was humorously apologetic, he knew him sincere.

"I imagine Canadian cities supply some opportunities for letting oneself
go."

"Opportunities of a sort," said Bob, smiling. "Liquor and betting, and
up-to-date young women whose code is self-expression and d---- the bill.
Since raw youth is keen to investigate, I have experimented, and on the
whole was bored. Maybe I'm queer, but to lose fifty dollars does not
thrill me much and a whisky throat in the morning is a thing I can go
without. Then, if you're fastidious, a girl who changes her lovers as
she might change her boots, leaves you cold. You're willing for her to
charm the other fellow. At Glasgow, a timber merchant carried me off to
a high-speed night club. The place smelt of doped cigarettes, whisky and
scent; the girls were not attractive, and the music was bad. In an hour
we had had enough, and the fellow admitted he was not properly a _dog_,
but he thought I'd like it. Anyhow, I'd sooner help you move your
boiler."

Mark nodded. Bob's philosophy was his. Their talents were utilitarian,
and although Romance called, they vaguely knew cabarets and night clubs
were not her proper home. She rather haunted the tranquil Millhouse
where the thin birches grew beside the pool and the first primroses
sprang. In the meantime, for all the keen wind, they sat in the stones
and smoked and waited for the teams.




CHAPTER VIII

AN AMATEUR FIREMAN


A bitter shower blew across the heath, and dark ravines and brown slopes
melted in the rain. On the scree behind the mine the wet stones
glistened, and when they reached the path up the crag Mark and Bob used
some caution. For three or four hours, during which men and horses were
strenuously occupied, they had hauled the quarry boiler to the mine. The
fire was lighted, but steam was not yet up, and Mark thought himself
entitled to look about.

At the top of the crag, a green tongue went up between two ghylls. Down
one the beck leaped to its plunge across the rocks; the other was nearly
dry and joined a ravine behind the hill, although it was rather
obviously at one time the channel for the stream.

The light had begun to go and the evening was cold, but a row of men dug
steadily in the rain. They were hardy moorland folk and did not bother
to put on their coats. The peat was soft, and where the trench crossed
the middle of the tongue its spongy, dripping sides were timbered like a
mine. Three or four men at the bottom scooped up the mud, and swinging
their long shovels threw out the stuff between the beams. Mark stopped a
miner at the end of the row.

"The peat's wet. Where you cut the neck you must go down some distance.
Will the water bother you?"

"Big stanes is worse," said the other, indicating a block that weighed a
hundred pounds. "Jack reckons he'll mannish, and we'll be back at
daybreak. In half an hour we'll not can see."

"If they sweat, they might get through by sundown tomorrow, but I
doubt," Bob remarked. "Anyhow, for twenty-four hours you are up against
it. D'you think the mine will drown?"

"I don't know," Mark replied, in a thoughtful voice. "My job is to pump,
and if the beck is all, we might keep down the water. Since the rock
layers are inclined, I imagine we are not draining an underground pool.
Frankly, all I do know is, I'd hate to be beaten. Let's see where the
flood is in the sump."

They crawled along the tunnel. The break in the roof was stopped by
cement bags and planks, supported by strong beams, but the spot was like
a waterfall, and two or three men, fixing fresh timbers, splashed about
in a noisy stream. Mark waded to the top of the drainage pit, and
although the water rose he knew the old pump pulled nobly.

"If the boiler carries her load, we may win, but I am running some
risk," he said. "When the pulsometer starts I might be able to
calculate, and in the meantime, we'll get some food."

He cooked canned meat and bacon in a frying-pan and brewed strong
coffee. They had gone without their lunch, and Bob's appetite was keen.

"Ten minutes for a smoke," said Mark. "I don't know when the next stop
is."

"Whose is the mine?" Bob inquired.

"The owner is a sporting gentleman. Some time since a company paid him
royalties, and then threw up their lease. The ore is wolfram, from which
you can smelt a stuff that's used for hardening steel. Manganese
tungstate is now in some demand, and the owner recently persuaded a few
friends to speculate. I believe his object is to float a public company,
but none of the group knows much about mining."

They lighted their pipes, and for a few minutes were quiet. Mark's
responsibility weighed. After moving the boiler, Bob's muscles ached and
his back hurt. He imagined they had done all flesh and blood could do,
but the age was a mechanical age, and when steam was up the machines
would fight for them. By and by Mark touched him, and he jumped up with
a start.

Dark had fallen, and when they went out red sparks glimmered in the
smoke that streamed from the quarry boiler's short funnel. A small lamp
burned between the steam and water-gauges, and bright reflections leaped
from the furnace door. Then the door clanged and Mark turned to the
fireman.

"Let her go, Frank. Mr. Wellwin will help you stoke."

"Sure," said Bob. "Give me a shovel and watch me move some coal; but
when I take a fireman's post I'm Bob for short."

Frank turned a valve-wheel and the steam-pipe shook and knocked. Then
something frothed and spluttered like a giant soda-water siphon, and
water began to splash.

"She's pulling," said Mark, and plunged into the tunnel.

Pale candle flames pierced the dark, indistinct bent figures dragged
about props and beams, and where one swung a heavy maul Mark flattened
himself against the rock. The man said nothing, and until the water
stopped him he pushed on. The flood advanced up the tunnel and one could
not see where the sump was, but at one spot the surface pulsed, as if
something labored in the depths. On the whole, Mark was satisfied. The
pumps were drawing, and the water was not as high as he had thought. If
he could hold on until the men cut the new channel for the beck, they
ought to win, and he must hold on. Although he was but the company's
servant, in the meantime the mine was his.

When he got back to the boiler-shed Bob tipped a barrow-load of coal on
the floor and, swinging a big hammer, began to smash the blocks.

"We want steam," he gasped. "You can use the small stuff another time; I
like the fire-bars clean."

"He kens," the grinning stoker remarked. "For a gentleman amateur, he
shapes verra weel."

"An amateur?" shouted Bob. "If you had kept steam with wood at a
Canadian sawmill when the bosses speed her up, you might talk about
firing! In the Dominion we don't aim for safety first; we reckon to make
our cut. But quit talking and let me get to work!"

"He don't like to talk," Frank remarked, and, balancing his shovel, shot
the coal thinly and evenly across the furnace bars.

Mark seized an oilcan and a tallow swab and crossed the floor. The
engine was old; he believed she was bought from a Sheffield scrap-heap,
but the makers had used good stuff and he imagined she would carry her
load. He did not know about the boiler. The big cylinder throbbed; Mark
sensed its straining on the bolts, and felt the thick bed-plate tremble.
One knows when a steam-engine labors to the limit of its strength. When
the stroke was reversed and the pump clanged, the iron roof rattled in
harmony.

He touched a gland, and feeling the crosshead, rubbed his swab along the
shining slides. Nothing was dangerously hot, but the oil got thin and
the cups drained fast. He used his can and felt the valve-gear.

Bob, stopping for breath, watched his friend. Mark was cool and
deliberate; he knew where the load was and where the grease might burn.
He pushed his fingers confidently under and between the flashing steel,
but when the metal clanged his hand was gone. Well, so long as one, so
to speak, felt the engine's pulse and moved in harmony with the beat,
the risk was not great. All the same, Bob admitted he himself might
hesitate--However, since he had looked at the quarry boiler-gauge some
time had gone, and he plunged into the windy dark.

On the high moor, the night was cold, and Bob's overalls were thin. He
shivered and glancing at the water-glass started the feed-pump. The
quarry boiler was small and the pulsometer used much steam. Then he
threw back the furnace door and awkwardly balanced his loaded shovel. At
a Canadian sawmill one burns wood, and Bob's target was a shining hole,
about a foot across. Moreover, the coal ought to spread evenly on the
bars.

Bob swung and let go, but most of the coal crashed against the furnace
front. He swore, but the next shovelful went into the hole; and then,
although he knew himself ridiculous, he began to pick up the lumps that
had fallen in the mud. The heat scorched his face, but he must have
light, and since he had undertaken to stoke the boiler, there was no use
in throwing the fuel in the peat. Moreover, he pictured the professional
stoker's grin.

When he got back to the boiler-shed the pile of coal on the floor was
small, and pushing an iron barrow, he went for a fresh supply. The
ground was boggy and did not carry the wheel. Bob reflected that in
Canada one would put down a plank, and at a modern plant dump the coal
in a hopper. It looked as if Englishmen imagined parsimonious methods
paid, and rather liked an awkward road. They'd crawl over an obstacle
every time; a Canadian would buy some dynamite and remove the thing. Bob
slipped in the mud, and when the iron barrow jarred his leg he swore
like a lumberman. For all that, he pushed his load into the shed, and
Mark looked up with a twinkle.

"Something annoyed you?"

"I was annoyed. I called the night to witness that Britishers are slow.
When King Solomon mined gold in Ophir----"

"I believe he did not," Mark said.

"What's it matter? He hired the Tyre-Sidonian gang. My point is, King
Hiram, or the other fellow, used better plant than yours. He graded
roads to his ore-dumps; but a track that would scare a mule is good
enough for you. My hat! If I'd fifty thousand dollars, I'd show the
Britisher how to run a plant."

"I believe one or two North Americans, with similar ambitions, risked
larger sums and demonstrated mainly that dollars melt. We hate to be
hustled, Bob, and we're hard to convince. However, you'll find some
coffee by the fire-box."

"You don't get het-up; I like your calm," said Bob. "But give me the
hammer and watch me smash that coal."

"I think I'll go to the sump," Mark rejoined.

Crawling along the tunnel, he took a candle from its clay socket. The
water, at all events, was not rising much, but the rock was wet and he
could not mark its exact advance. The surface heaved and sometimes for a
few moments a whirlpool revolved where the drowned sump was. The pumps
were doing good work, and when the trench was cut Mark imagined they
would beat the flood.

He pulled out his watch. Day broke about seven o'clock, and before the
men began to dig nine hours must go. In the dark, one could not fix the
timbers to hold back the boggy peat. Had the mine been properly
equipped, he would have carried an electric cable up the crag; anyhow,
had he but one or two blast-lamps, he could illuminate the trench.

The reopening of the old tunnel, however, was a cheap experiment.
Up-to-date plant was expensive, and utilitarian economy implied the
command of capital. A poor man must use the tools he had, although much
of his labor went for nothing.

Mark pictured his impoverished brother's struggle. From the beginning
Jim's fight was a forlorn hope; for all his stubborn efforts, his debts
conquered him. Yet he certainly did not throw himself over the quarry
bank. Mark set his mouth. He was engaged to marry Madge, and she was
stanch and would not let him go. His business was to mend his fortunes,
but until he could account of Jim's taking the fatal plunge, he could
not concentrate. He imagined Isaac knew something about it, and Turnbull
knew. The fellow was in Canada, where Bob urged Mark to try his luck;
but Isaac was at the farm he had plotted to seize.

Well, Mark had pondered it all before, and in the meantime he must see
the mine did not drown. While he cogitated the oil-cups were draining
and journals might get hot. He banished his moody thoughts and crawled
back along the tunnel.

When he reached the boiler-shed, the fireman was asleep in the
coal-barrow, and Bob smoked a cigarette, but the throb of a blow-off
valve implied that pressure was high. Mark went to the engine. A
crosshead pin was rather hot, and steam blew from a gland. When he
fastened his spanner on the nuts the leak did not stop. All the same, he
dared not be fastidious. So long as the engine drove the pump she must
run. By and by Bob pushed the fireman from the barrow and went for coal.

The wind got fresh and the relief valve on the quarry boiler blew. The
fires burned strongly, but Bob needed light, and when he went out he
fastened back the door. Bitter draughts swept the shed and Mark's skin
was wet by sweat. Sometimes he crawled down the tunnel, and when he got
back to the engine his clothes steamed. On the whole, he thought the
water did not advance. The pump clanged, the engine throbbed, and now
and then a shower beat the iron roof.

At length, boots rattled on the stones, and Mark went to the door. He
was tired and greasy, and he shivered in the biting wind. Day was
breaking, and a row of men climbed the muddy track.

"Are ye ho'ding her?" one inquired.

Mark nodded. He did not want to talk.

"Then, flood's beat," said the other. "We'll cut through to ghyll by
dark."

The men floundered by and Bob leaned against the door and smiled. Their
stolidity tickled him; but they certainly could dig, and since the boss
had engaged to cut the trench by dark he reckoned they would make good.
Dark, however, was about twelve hours off, and in the meantime Mark and
Frank and he must keep down the flood.

"What about breakfast?" he inquired.

Mark cooked ham and Bob brewed coffee, and soon after breakfast was over
two gentlemen climbed the hill.

"When your message arrived I was at Hexham, and I did not get back until
late in the evening," one said to Mark. "However, the telegraph-office
will soon be open, and my car waits in the road. If you can suggest
something----"

"The suggestion must not imply much expense," the other observed. "The
experiment has cost us a larger sum than we reckoned, and our object is
to get something back----"

"Perhaps you would like to see the drainage trench the men are cutting,
and go down the tunnel?" said Mark. "The fireman will look for the
captain."

The group went off and Bob gave Mark a smile.

"He waited for morning! Well, he was at Hexham, and I expect an Old
Country gentleman does not hustle after dinner. You are a queer lot."

"You have stated something like that before," Mark retorted. "If I were
a country landlord with a large rent-roll, I might cultivate
tranquillity."

"I think not," said Bob. "Some folk are born to labor, and when you
study them you know the stamp. Poverty is not the driving-force, and
some don't bother to get rich. Their temperament's industrial, and
they've got to work. There is another sort. In Canada, they sit on the
porches at cheap hotels, and tell you how the country ought to be
run.... But the blasted steam is going down. I'd better fetch some
coal."

In half an hour the gentlemen returned, and Bob was rather amused to
note their clothes and boots were wet.

"We are satisfied that you and Tomlinson have taken the proper line,"
said one. "We are not keen to engage expensive expert help; but if you
think it needful, we might telegraph for a consulting engineer."

"I do not think there is much use in your telegraphing," Mark replied.
"If the pumps cannot stop the water, the mine will drown; but Tomlinson
believes his trench will carry most of it off. By dark we will know.
However, you might get me an engine-man from Red Band Colliery; I
understand the Number Two pit is shut."

They promised to inquire, and Mark got to work with his oilcan and swab.
The engine-man might not arrive, and in the meantime the pump must not
stop.




CHAPTER IX

MARK FINISHES HIS JOB


At six o'clock in the evening Mark took the path up the crag. The rocks
were wet and melting hailstones sparkled in the stones. A dark cloud,
trailing feathery streamers, floated across the sky, but behind its
ragged edge the angry sunset shone and touched the moor-tops with gold.
On the high waste, the wind was keen and Mark's greasy clothes were wet.

For all that, he went slowly. Since the flood broke into the tunnel he
had been occupied and dared not sleep. His eyes were heavy and his head
ached, but he labored up the crag and through tangled heather. A bank of
chocolate-colored soil crossed the tongue, and at the end by the ghyll,
men he could not see flung fresh peat from the trench. When Mark reached
the spot, he found they had but three or four yards to go, and looking
back across the crag, he thought two small indistinct objects climbed
the hill.

Sitting down behind the bank, he waited, and by and by a big muddy
fellow jumped from the trench, and signaled.

"Jack will break out stops at t'other end," he said. "By the time
water's here, Tom will cut last shad."

"Aw's clear," said another, a few minutes afterwards. "An awkward job at
some bits, but it's deun!"

Mark nodded. A dalesman does not exaggerate, and he noted the great
limestone blocks the fellows had torn from the holding peat. They had no
tackle but a crowbar and their spades, and he doubted if any other men
in England could have lifted the stones to the top. Then muddy water
began to trickle along the trench and swelled to a brown flood. The gang
had kept the fall even, and the mound on the bank was straight. Mark
knew the trench would turn the beck, and he started downhill. The men
put on their coats, scraped their muddy boots, and followed him quietly.

At the boiler-shed Mark found an engine-tender and a fireman from the
coal-pit had arrived, and Frank was gone. Bob, sitting in the coals,
smoked his pipe and watched the fireman push his loaded barrow. His face
and overalls were smeared by grease and soot, but his look was cheerful.
For some time Mark and the other man moved about the pump and engine.
Then he touched Bob.

"The men have turned the beck. I'm going down the mine."

"They're a bully gang," said Bob. "There's something to our politicians'
talk about peopling Canada from Nordic stock, and if the boys were
choppers, I'd ship the lot across. However, I want to see if the water's
going down."

At the door he stopped. The muddy diggers straggled quietly down the
path.

"Looks as if nobody but me was interested," he resumed. "The boys are
not shouting; all they want is to get home."

"They cut the trench."

"Sure," said Bob. "I admit it's the important thing. Well, I mustn't
repeat myself, but I'd like to state that you certainly are not a
theatrical bunch."

Crawling along the tunnel, where a few men were yet at work, they
stopped by the water. Mark gave Bob his candle, and examined a spot
where he had scratched the rock. The water was below the scratch.

"She's down a quarter of an inch," he said.

Bob laughed. "You feel you must be accurate? The gang turned the beck
half an hour since, and if you allow for the water yet draining through
the rock, it looks as if you had won. I guess it's not going to move
you, but I have had enough, and I'll take supper at my inn."

Mark was moved, but he said in a quiet voice: "You helped."

"I believe that is so," Bob agreed. "If at some time I am up against it
in the woods, I hope you'll be there to pull me through. I reckon we'd
make a strong combine."

He went off, and Mark tried to calculate. If the water dropped a quarter
of an inch in thirty minutes--The sum ought not to baffle him, but his
brain was dull, and going back to the boiler-shed he sat down in the
barrow. The pump's measured clang and the even splash from the
discharge-pipe implied that the engine labored steadily. Mark imagined
he could trust the coal-pit men.

"You can let down steam by about ten pounds," he said. "If you want me,
knock on the shanty door."

He went to the office, pulled off his wet clothes in the dark, and in
five minutes was asleep.

A day or two afterwards, Madge and he stopped one afternoon on a
footbridge near the Millhouse. Snow shone on the high moors, but in the
dale the sun was warm. The river sparkled and a joyous thrush sang.
Under the silver birches primroses pushed through the dead leaves; a
larch gently shook slender sprays tasseled by vivid green. One smelt
fresh grass and rising sap.

"For all the cold, spring in the dales is beautiful," said Mark.
"Sometimes at Newcastle I pictured the lambs leaping about the high
fields, and I wanted to be back. Now, I'm an engineer, and on the whole
I like my occupation, but our folks were farmers, and although
Howbarrow's a grim old house, I'd have been happy there."

The ground was awkward, for Madge was persuaded Mark ought to have got
the farm. When he gave her his confidence she indulged him, but to know
he brooded hurt.

"In the wet North, farming has some drawbacks, and the important thing
is, you are a good engineer. The men declare you saved the mine. I
suppose the water no longer bothers you?"

"In a few days we'll drain the tunnel. So long as both pumps are at work
the colliery man will stop. It accounts for my taking two or three hours
off."

"Mr. Allardyce and his partners ought to be grateful. Have you seen him
since you stopped the flood?"

"He looked me up and was rather complimentary. After some polite
remarks, he hoped I would accept a little token of appreciation--the
phrase is his--and gave me an envelope. When he'd gone I found it
covered five treasury notes."

The blood leaped to Madge's skin. Mark nodded.

"Yes; I felt like that. In fact, my impulse was to put the envelope in
the stove. A Cumbrian, however, does not burn money, and I thought I'd
soothe myself by posting it to Allardyce and composing a short note.
Then I reflected that the fellow ought to pay, and the doctor might use
the notes for his cothouse patients."

Madge's pride was jarred, but her habit was not to be carried away, and
she must think for her lover.

"After all, we are poor, Mark, and I think nobody on Father's round is
really in want. Then suppose Allardyce had put a cheque, for a larger
sum, in the envelope?"

"Oh, well," said Mark, smiling, "you are logical and perhaps I am not.
An engineer may take a cheque; a gamekeeper, for example, a treasury
note. When one thinks about it, the thing's ridiculous! All the same,
I'm not going to keep Allardyce's present."

He pulled out the envelope and stretched his arm across the footbridge
rail.

"Is the doctor to use the money? Or must I drop it overboard?"

"Dare you, Mark?" Madge inquired.

"Try me! To be royally extravagant would be something fresh. The notes
are going--going----"

Madge seized the envelope.

"You mustn't! After all, I expect Father's patients sometimes go without
comforts sick people ought to have. You are generous, my dear. But did
Mr. Allardyce say nothing about his plans for the mine?"

"I imagine I'm something of an independent fool. All the same, I am your
lover, and you are the stanchest, kindest, and most attractive young
woman in Cumberland. Yet when spring is in the dale and a jolly thrush
is singing, you expect me to talk like a blighted economist."

"Sometimes economy's hateful, but it must be studied," Madge replied.
"The people who can indulge their extravagant emotions are not very
numerous, and I don't know if one ought to envy them. At all events,
ordinary folk are forced to work and pinch. But did Allardyce talk about
the mine?"

Mark was moved. Madge was cultivated and instinctively fastidious. One
knew her thoroughbred, but she was the doctor's frugal housekeeper. She
ought to marry a rich man, and Mark's mouth went tight.

"If you are ordinary, the dalesfolk have some grounds to boast; but I
know your firmness--Well, the syndicate is negotiating in London, and
when we reach the vein we are boring for, they hope to sell the mine.
The new company would use modern plant, and Allardyce reckoned I'd have
a better post. On the whole, I doubt. I might get a little higher pay,
but all they really want is a competent engine-man. An engineer is
another thing."

He turned his head. Across the river, Wellwin came down the path. Bob
stopped on the bridge, and although he gave Madge a smile his look was
preoccupied.

"I suppose Flora's at the house?" he said. "I've got my cable; the old
man's riled, and I must start by the first boat. Are you going out with
me, Mark?"

"In the meantime, I'm stopping at the mine. I might join you by and by."

"One can't hustle a Borderer. How much does the syndicate pay you?
Maybe I'm blunt, Miss Forsyth, but I want to know."

Mark told him, and Bob turned to Madge.

"Eighteen dollars--a week? There's my argument! In Canada, talents like
Mark's command good pay. Send him along, and when he knows something
about lumber I'll engage he gets his chance. The company is
concentrating on British Columbia, the grandest country in the world,
and I see him building a wooden house for you by a Pacific slope inlet
where the warm Chinook blows."

"You are very kind," said Madge in a quiet voice. "You, however, must
persuade Mark, and he is obstinate."

Bob smiled. "Don't I know? I'm not yet baffled; but just now I have a
harder job, and I can't pretend I'm not thinking for myself."

He crossed the bridge and steered for the Millhouse. Mark's eyes
twinkled.

"I almost believe Bob's daunted. He wants to marry Flora."

For a moment or two Madge was quiet. Although her look was gentle, Mark
knew she pondered. Then she said:

"He is generous and one trusts him. I do not think he boasts, and he
urges you to go."

"Ah," said Mark, "but for one thing, I'd agree. For your sake, I ought
to get rich, and in Canada it might be possible. Yet I don't know, and
until the mine is sold, I'd sooner stick to my post."

"You are thinking about your brother? It's done with, Mark. For some
time I hoped you had forgotten."

"I hate to think about it, but when I found Jim's diary I was forced.
Isaac exploited and entangled him; I believe he cheated my father. Jim
was a good brother, and he indulged me. Now I frankly cannot see my
line. Isaac is at Howbarrow, and Turnbull's in Canada. I doubt if I
could find him, but I'm satisfied he knows something I ought to know.
I'm sorry, Madge; you ought to have had a happier lover."

"I am satisfied, Mark. Happiness is not all," said Madge in a quiet
voice. "Then if you felt you had not done all you ought to do, we would
not be happy."

Mark noted her calm. He knew Madge loved him, but he knew her
unselfishness. Where he thought duty called she would let him go.

"There's the trouble," he agreed. "You talked about ordinary people, and
I, at all events, am an ordinary man. I don't think I'm romantic, and I
hate to be theatrical. All I want is to marry you and concentrate on my
career. In fact, when it looked as if I must first undertake another
job, I rebelled. I argued, like your father, that the thing was done
with, and if I meddled, I might get a fresh knock. Then I was not
justified to entangle you. I must banish the morbid illusion that
something was wrong. Round and round in a circle to the spot from which
I pushed off: Jim was my brother and I mustn't let him down."

Madge knew she fronted a crisis and she knitted her brows. Mark was not
at all morbid, and she had begun to doubt if he were, indeed, moved by
an illusion. Then, although she was young, she believed a man could not
for long run away from a task he thought was his. She pictured some
famous examples whom forsaken duty relentlessly pursued. At all events,
she knew her lover. If Mark now took the easy road, he might forever be
ashamed. When she turned to him her brows were straight and the sense of
strain was gone.

"My dear, it's possible you cheat yourself. I do not know, and in a way,
it does not matter. You must try to find out; I do not see another plan.
To know your suspicion was justified might hurt less than to feel you
were afraid to know the truth."

Mark kissed her. "You are fine stuff, Madge. Well, until the mine is
sold, I must keep my post and hope for a clue. If I'm baffled, I'll
start for Canada and search for Turnbull at the logging camps. It's
possible I may not hit his track, but I'll know I tried. That's fixed.
The sun is on the wood and the grass smells. Let's gather primroses."




CHAPTER X

THE DOMINANT PARTNER


Wellwin pushed back the door of the long room at the Millhouse, and
Flora put up her sewing. Bob's look was purposeful and her heart beat.

"My luck's good," he remarked. "I was afraid the spring might have
called you out. In the Old Country you don't get much sunshine."

"We do not get Arctic blizzards," Flora rejoined. "Then, in Cumberland,
one must mend one's old clothes. I believe you throw yours away."

"One on me!" said Bob. "I have mended stuff in camp; but if I had hands
like yours, I wouldn't stab them with a needle. There's a mark where you
did so. Give me your handkerchief."

Flora firmly removed her hand. She had pricked her finger, and since
Bob's arrival accounted for her awkwardness she was rather annoyed.

"At the Millhouse one must use one's hands, but I do not think mine are
much the worse."

"They are beautiful hands. If I'm allowed to say so, I like your
clothes."

"You are allowed. Since I made the clothes, your approval's flattering.
I don't know if it's informed."

"Oh, well," said Bob with a twinkle, "your talents are manifest, but,
unless it amuses you, perhaps you oughtn't to squander them on
dress-making. You ought to get the things you need from London, Paris,
_or Montreal_."

Flora looked up, rather sharply, and Bob pulled out a telegraph
envelope.

"But I am not going to Montreal!"

"You have the option," Bob rejoined, and gave her the telegram.

"Ah," said Flora, "I am sorry----"

"That is something. In five days a C.P. liner starts from Liverpool and
I'm ordered to be on board. When the old man squanders several dollars
on a cablegram, what he states goes. However, five days is perhaps
rather soon, and when he saw my grounds for stopping I reckon he'd
approve. In the circumstances, I'll risk it, but I must telegraph when
we will start."

Flora laughed, but the blood came to her skin.

"Now you are ridiculous! Am I to understand that you soberly propose to
marry me?"

"Sure," said Bob. "I'm remarkably sober, and although I admit my nerve
is good, from my point of view, the proposition is the soundest I have
yet tried to put across. I hope you will, at least think about it, my
dear."

"Although I like your rashness, you are rash," Flora remarked in a quiet
voice. "For example, how long have you known me, Bob?"

"Three weeks and two days. If you like, I'll state the minutes. We got
to the Millhouse at five o'clock. At six o'clock I resolved I'd stay at
the Packhorse until the company wired for me. Now, unless you will fix
the date when we start together, I have got to quit."

Flora was moved, but since it looked as if she must think for both, she
refused to be carried away. Bob was a handsome, athletic young fellow,
and she knew him generous and sincere. The trouble was, she did not know
his relations.

"I see some drawbacks. For one thing, my fortune is fifty pounds a year,
but I am not shabbily ambitious, and you, I believe, are rich."

"Although I try to be modest, I might perhaps claim some other
advantages."

"Your advantages are rather evident, Bob. You are kind and you're
honest; I like your impulsiveness and your joyous confidence. One,
however, cannot know people in three weeks, and since you have not met
other English girls, I am a fresh type. That perhaps accounts for
something. It looks as if I'm horribly calculating, but one must ponder.
You see, if I married you, I'd be yours for life."

"There's the plan's main attraction."

Flora smiled and tried for calm.

"Sometimes I'm rather imperious, and I think you are firm. The rules you
use in Canada are not our rules; we look at things from different points
of view. You are patriotically Canadian. I'm an English daleswoman."

"In a way we are different," Bob agreed. "What's it matter? In all but
my occupation, your word would go."

"Ah," said Flora, "you'd indulge me! But suppose I felt it cost you
something? On the whole we are tolerant, and when strangers imply that
we are dull and old-fashioned we are amused. Yet if my husband did so,
it might hurt. Then you must think for your relations; I expect you owe
them much. I don't boast I'm English, Bob, but I'm proud, and I would
not pretend. Suppose your relations thought you had married a prejudiced
Britisher, who did not know her luck? You would, of course, support me,
but it would bother you."

Bob frowned. Flora thought him honest and he dared not cheat. His folk
were patriotic and firmly believed the Canadian model the best that one
could use. In fact, when he thought about it, he himself did so.

"For a time, I suppose something of the sort must be fronted; but your
charm would conquer, and you certainly could reckon on my support. Your
pluck is good, and if you love me, as I love you, we might take the
chances."

"If I was sure I loved you--but I don't yet know. There's the real
drawback, Bob."

Bob turned impulsively and crossed the floor. Coming back, he took
Flora's hand and pulled her to her feet.

"You don't hate me, and I'm obstinate. What are we going to do about
it?"

"Ah," said Flora, "to allow you to carry me away would not be hard; but
I must be firm. I am not sure, and you do not know me. But, if in twelve
months you were still resolved----"

"Very well," said Bob. "In twelve months I am coming back, and if I
cannot persuade you then, I'll be back another time. In fact, until you
are persuaded, I expect to keep it up. That's all, my dear."

Steps echoed in the passage. He kissed her hand and let her go as Madge
and Mark came in.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three or four days afterwards, Isaac Crozier got down one evening rather
unsteadily from his high, old-fashioned gig. The market town was some
distance off, but a car was expensive, and he could use the horse on the
farm. At Howbarrow the front door was opened only for weddings and
funerals, and Isaac went in by the spacious kitchen. The flags were
freshly scoured, and covered by corn-sacks where the plowman and
shepherds sat round the big fireplace. Old-fashioned china, brass, and
pewter shone, for Mrs. Crozier was a competent housekeeper. Since she
hated to waste fuel, the fire in the grate was small, although the
evening was cold. The servants had gone to bed and she was alone.

A plaid shawl covered her thin shoulders, and when Isaac came in she
gave him a keen glance. So long as he was an auctioneer his occasional
lapses from sobriety had not disturbed her much. Sometimes liquor helped
business, but habitual indulgence was another thing. Since they got
Howbarrow she imagined he kept a secret stock, and when he arrived in
the dark from the market his horse brought him home.

Now his eyes were watery and when he pulled off his boots the laces
bothered him. He, however, knew his wife was interested and he gave her
an apologetic look.

"I was at King's Arms with Lomas and Tyson, and we bowt old tileworks at
Cleughmire."

"Who bought the tileworks?" Mrs. Crozier inquired.

"Tyson and me," Isaac replied with a chuckle. "Allardyce's bailiff met
us, and when he heard t'price they asked Tom Lomas cried off. He'd had a
glass or two, and he wadn't be ruined for Mr. Allardyce; the man who'd
give sum they wanted was a d---- feule! It went with bailiff. He's a
young fellow, but he kenned Tom was not pretending, and we jaloosed
Allardyce was keen to sell; he's spent some money over the wolfram mine.
Anyhow, when Lomas went, we got t' lad to cut price a hundred and fifty
pound."

Mrs. Crozier nodded. She saw Isaac and his confederate work upon the
bailiff. He was the public-school type and had but recently got his
post. The young fellow was perhaps rather scornfully polite, but he did
not know his antagonists, who had used Lomas's genuine timidity in order
to baffle him. Ellen approved their cleverness. All the same, the sum
agreed upon was large, and, for the most part, the tileworks
manufactured field-drain pipes.

"You'll need to keep the works going," she remarked. "A standing works
is like an idle horse. They cost something to keep."

"We reckon we can. Clay's good and we are buying some new machines. Then
I'm going to drain bottom pastures and plowland, and I'll get pipes at
cost. When I start, I'll make a job, and Howbarrow will take some
stuff."

"When you drain, you bury money you'll not get back for long. We are not
young, Isaac, and the boy is gone."

"Money's there, in t' land, my lass, and it's paying interest by larger
crops. If it was at bank, I reckon we'd not could carry much away."

Mrs. Crozier nodded. On the whole she was satisfied, for, like her
husband, she was greedy for land. Moreover, she was willing to pinch and
labor, and properly use the soil. In the circumstances, Isaac's farming
paid.

"If you put up new machines, you'll need a good engine-man."

"I ken the man. Mark was at first-class foundry and he's cliver."

Mrs. Crozier looked up and her glance was disturbed.

"You're drunk, Isaac."

"Maybe I'm not varra sober; we'd got to put Lomas in right fettle to
talk. Aw t' same, I ken what I'm aboot, and I beat bailiff by a hundred
and fifty pound. Mark's the man for us, and if we paid him a pound a
week more than he has from Allardyce, we'd get him cheap. We do not want
an engine-man; we want somebody to help us remodel old works."

Mrs. Crozier's nerve was good, but she was daunted. If Isaac did not see
his folly, he was drunker than she had thought.

"It will not do," she said. "If Mark is long at tileworks, he might find
out----"

"He'll not be at Howbarrow and works is eight miles off. Then I do not
see what he might find out."

"Do you not?" said Mrs. Crozier, in a queer, hard voice. "Maybe you have
forgotten Turnbull and Willie Stoddart witnessed Jim's hand to an
agreement two days after the lad was dead?"

Isaac had forgotten, and he braced up. When he was forced, he could to
some extent banish the effects of liquor, and as he got sober his
English improved.

"Jim had got the money and Turnbull's in Canada. He'd witnessed my hand
before and old Willie did not know what he signed. Anyhow, the trustee
was satisfied, and if document's not burned, it's tied up with old
papers in the box at lawyer's office, where I reckon it will stop for
good."

"You niver know," said Mrs. Crozier meaningly. "You might cheat Mr. Grey
and his lawyer, but Mark kens his brother's hand."

For a few moments Isaac pondered. After all, he had not cheated the
trustee much. To some extent, the supposititious agreement was for value
received, although without it he might have had trouble to prove his
claim. Anyhow, he thought he might reckon on Mark's never seeing the
document. He had no remorse for entangling Jim; in any circumstances,
the stubborn, careless fellow would have gone broke, but the queer thing
was, he was sorry for cheating Mark. In fact, the boy should have the
tileworks job.

"It's long since, and I'm not going to bother," he said.

"If lawyers knew Jim's hand was copied, you might go to jail; but that's
not the worst risk you run," Mrs. Crozier rejoined. "Turnbull knows you
and Jim fratched by quarry bank, and if one thing was weighed with
t'other----"

Isaac looked at her as if he were afraid; and then passion sparkled in
his watery eyes.

"After aw I've said, d'you think I put my nephew over the bank? Jim was
as strong as a bullock and I'm twenty years past my best."

Mrs. Crozier's hard glance searched her husband's face.

"My thinking's not important. If others had something to go on, it might
be awkward."

For a few moments both were quiet. Greed had carried them farther than
they had perhaps at one time thought to go, but Isaac felt he was not
altogether accountable. Ellen was harder stuff, and she had pushed him
on. Yet the thing was done with, and to give Mark a post was perhaps a
useful plan. Besides, he was his nephew and he had robbed the lad. For
him to bother was ridiculous, but he did bother. Getting up unsteadily,
he crossed the floor and came back.

"I've told you I had nowt to do with Jim's going over bank."

Mrs. Crozier's glance was fixed. Isaac felt she argued as a lawyer would
argue, and he pictured his fronting a crowded court. The picture daunted
him.

"Oh, yes," she said, "you've told me, but I'm your wife. If all was
known, and you tried to convince strangers, your tale might not carry
much weight."

Isaac's loose mouth got firm. He was not going to be bullied, and Ellen
had pushed him on.

"Turnbull's in Canada; neabody has heard from him and he's maybe dead.
Then I fixed with Tyson for Mark to go to tileworks, and he mustn't
think the lad and I have fratched. He is going to tileworks, and when I
was at King's Arms I wrote him a note. Now I wonder----"

Mrs. Crozier shrugged. She knew her husband grasping and unscrupulous,
but he had not her logical firmness and sometimes he was soft. All the
same, if her domination was obvious, he might rebel.

"If you make Mark your engineer, I hope you'll not be sorry, my man!"

"Aweel, there's no use in fratching," Isaac remarked. "I'se see if Bill
has rubbed down horse, and then I'll gan to bed."

He went to the stable, and climbed to the haymow where his liquor supply
was hidden. Ellen's remarks had disturbed him and he needed another
drink. By and by Mrs. Crozier heard his steps in the passage, and when
all was quiet she searched his driving-coat. In the pocket was an
envelope, which she put in the fire. Isaac would probably imagine he had
posted the letter, but if he inquired about it, she reckoned to persuade
him he must leave Mark alone.




CHAPTER XI

MARK SEES HIS LINE


Mark, in his hut behind the engine-house, lighted his pipe and pulled
his chair to the stove. Although spring advanced, the morning was cold;
he had finished his frugal lunch, and for half an hour was entitled to
go slack.

Wellwin was at Montreal and Mark had got a letter urging him to come
out, but he hesitated. So long as he was justified, he wanted to stop
where Madge was. Then, if Allardyce floated a company and the mine were
properly worked, he might get a better post. In the meantime, helped by
Jim's diary, he began to reconstruct his brother's fight at Howbarrow.
Inquiring where he thought his questions would not excite suspicion, he
got particulars that sometimes vaguely enlightened and sometimes
disturbed him. The picture, however, was indistinct. All he really knew
was, Isaac had exploited Jim's trustfulness.

In the circumstances, if the new company did not need him, he would join
Wellwin in Canada. Since Turnbull was at one time a forester, he had, no
doubt, got an engagement at a lumber camp, which ought to help Mark's
search. Anyhow, he must try his luck, and, if he did find the fellow, by
some means force him to tell all he knew. In fact, when the company was
floated he would see his line, and he understood Allardyce soon
expected news. He looked up, for the fireman came in.

"A car's stopped at ghyllfoot and a gentleman got down. Looks like Mr.
Allardyce, and I thowt you'd like to know."

A few minutes afterwards, Allardyce arrived, and, pulling off his big
gloves, sat down by the stove.

"I was in town for four or five days, and got back early this morning,"
he said. "We have at length concluded our negotiations and the company
will soon be floated--"

He supplied some particulars, and Mark waited in suspense. Then with a
touch of embarrassment Allardyce resumed:

"There is another thing. Since I take a block of shares, I had hoped I
might induce the company to engage you. The new directors, however, had
already agreed with a consulting engineer to superintend the
developments we plan. I interviewed him, but he declared he had a
competent staff. I'm sorry, Crozier, but I don't see a post for you."

"I must thank you for your efforts, sir."

"Oh, well," said Allardyce, "they led to nothing. We will, of course,
give you a first-class recommendation, and if you apply for another
post, you must use me. Where my help is possible, it's yours, you know."

He began to talk about the new company's plans for extending the mine,
and when he went off Mark got up with something like relief. For some
time he had pondered and hesitated, trying to convince himself he did
not see his line. Now, however, his line was fixed for him. He must join
Wellwin and search the Canadian woods for the man who, he imagined,
knew how his brother went through the quarry fence.

In the evening he took the road to the Millhouse. The doctor and Flora
were visiting at a farm, and Mark joined Madge in the long room. The
light was going, but when he came in he fronted the window, and Madge
saw his look was resolute. He must, however, not know she was disturbed,
and when she gave him her hand her manner was calm.

Mark kissed her. Where argument could not help, Madge was not the sort
to argue. Her pluck was good, and since she knew he must go, she would
not reproach him for leaving her. Yet now he soon must start he wanted
ardently to stop.

"At length you have got some news," she said.

"Allardyce was across in the morning. The mine is sold and the directors
have no use for me."

Madge signed him to a chair by the fireplace, and for a moment or two
she mused. Then she said:

"You will go to Wellwin?"

Mark nodded. As a rule, the dalesfolk do not indulge their emotions, and
he had reckoned on Madge's calm.

"I do not see another plan. Foundries, machine-shops, and shipyards are
running slack or shut, and engineers walk the streets. In Canada, Bob
engages to get me a post."

"Is that all, Mark?" Madge inquired.

"I expect you know my other object. I must try for a post where the pay
is good; but I must find Turnbull."

"Canada is three thousand miles across. You may search for long, and the
man might be dead."

"It's possible," Mark agreed, and, hesitating as if he were embarrassed,
resumed: "Still, so long as I know I have searched--One hates to talk
about one's clumsy efforts to do things one ought. To analyze oneself,
so to speak, is not decent. Besides, nobody is interested."

Madge smiled a gentle, sympathetic smile.

"You are rather old-fashioned, Mark; but I am interested."

"Very well. So far, my luck has not been good. The Croziers are an
unlucky lot, but I'm not daunted. You are stanch, and somehow I feel I
can mend my fortunes. The trouble's not there. You are young and
beautiful, and you ought to be happy. So long as I brooded and looked
back, I dared not marry you. Your husband ought to look in front and
joyously shove ahead. I'm getting romantic, but you ordered me to talk."

"I want you to talk," said Madge in a quiet voice. "To some extent, I
understand, but perhaps I'm justified to know all you feel."

"To explain is awkward. Now I think about it, a long time went before I
honestly fronted the trouble. At the beginning, I was a boy, and when I
got over the knock, all I felt was that somehow people were not just.
Jim was a kind brother, but a sort of shadow rested on his memory. I
knew liquor had nothing to do with his going over the quarry bank and he
did not go because he meant. Yet the police and the coroner were
satisfied, and I had no grounds to meddle.

"At the foundry I almost forgot, and when I went to the drawing-office
you engaged to marry me. For a time, I did forget; and then I felt the
shadow--I don't know a better word--was creeping back and touched me.
Somehow I knew all was not right and I ought to vindicate my brother. In
a way, I fought for my freedom; the thing was done with and I mustn't be
haunted by a morbid illusion. I wanted to believe it an illusion, but I
could not.

"Then Bob urged me to join him and I found Jim's diary. Isaac had
exploited him; he had planned to seize Howbarrow, and at length it was
his."

"Did your losing the farm hurt?" Madge inquired.

"The old house is gloomy, but I loved it," Mark replied in a thoughtful
voice. "Then a house perhaps reflects its occupants' moods. Isaac is
queer and one feels he broods; his parsimonious wife is sour. Had Jim
kept control I'd have been satisfied, but I feel Ellen Crozier ought not
to be where my mother ruled."

"Yes," said Madge, "Ellen is hard and calculating. But when you found
the diary you got a jar?"

"I saw Isaac had robbed Jim, and I began to wonder whether that was all;
but I shrank from trying to find out. He was my father's half-brother,
and my business was to concentrate on getting a post that would justify
my marrying you. Perhaps I was afraid; anyhow, I hated to meddle. But
I'm back where I started. You have heard it all before."

For a few moments Madge was quiet. The light was not quite gone, and
Mark fronted the window. His face was thin, and now his mouth was set,
Madge thought it pinched. He admitted he had fought for his freedom,
and she knew the fight he could not win was hard, for she herself had
rebelled. When one was young and had a lover, one was entitled to
happiness, although it looked as if the Howbarrow Croziers were a tragic
lot.

Madge braced up. She was not a romantic heroine. She and Mark were
ordinary sober people; but since tragedy haunted all flesh and blood
there was no use in rebelling. Mark must carry his load; moreover, she
did not really want him to refuse.

"All that touches you touches me," she said. "In the North, we hide our
emotions, but we are not as Spartan as we think, and sometimes our
reserve breaks. Perhaps, if you had not found the diary--But I do not
know. We cannot cheat life, and you are not the sort to run away."

"In a sense, I tried. All the same, I knew that if I cheated, I must
some time pay. When I marry you I mustn't be ashamed. But I've let
myself go and I'd sooner be practical. I may not find Turnbull, and Bob
engages to help me get ahead. By and by I hope to come back for you. Yet
you love the dale, and I don't suppose there is in Canada a house with
the Millhouse's charm."

Madge smiled. "There is no use in pretending, Mark; but poor people must
not be fastidious, and if I am where you are, I will not grumble. Then
ours is the strongest stock in England; the dalesfolk don't stop for
obstacles, and I feel we are going to conquer."

"That's the stuff," said Mark. "By George, I'll try!"

"When you try, you win," Madge resumed. "If one holds on, one's luck
must turn, and you have taken some hard knocks."

She thought she did not exaggerate. Although Mark was strongly built, he
was thin, and his look was somehow ascetic. Madge felt the shadow he
talked about yet brooded over him. Then he had known poverty, and the
dreary, humiliating search for an occupation by which he could live. But
he was not beaten; Mark was good stuff. He had useful talents, and in
Canada the gloom would melt. To know he had tried to vindicate his
brother would give him back peace of mind, and something of the youthful
joyousness that was properly his. In fact, Mark must buy his freedom and
she must let him go.

The separation weighed, but for a time she talked cheerfully and Mark
played up. The effort, however, was hard, and on the whole the arrival
of the doctor and Flora was something of a relief. Soon afterward Mark
took the road for the mine, and Flora, waiting in the passage for
Madge's return from the gate, put her arm round her.

"I don't know if it's much comfort, but I altogether approve Mark's
resolve. He'll come back in triumph, and, I believe, cured."

"Cured is perhaps not the word," said Madge. "Still, I suppose I do hope
for something like that, although to indulge him hurts. I want my lover,
but all I can do is to wait."

"Brace up, my dear. I, at all events, am not Victorian, and when I want
something I get to work. For a beginning, I am going to write to Bob.
Since he undertook to humor me, he shall have a chance."

"But ought you to use him?"

"I have not your scruples, and where it would help my friends I'd use
anybody. Besides, I expect Bob is willing."

"Are you going to marry Mr. Wellwin?"

"It's possible," said Flora. "Something depends on Bob. If his resolve
doesn't weaken in twelve months, I might agree. When one is poor and
one's lover is rich, one must not be rash. You know Mark; in almost any
circumstances, the line he'd take is obvious. Perhaps it's an advantage,
but I doubt. Anyhow, I don't yet know Bob, and he must make good. If he
does not, I might be sorry. In the meantime, I must think about my
letter."

She kissed Madge, and, since the evening was cold, went to the kitchen
where blocks of oak and peat burned in the big fireplace. Lighting two
candles in old-fashioned pewter sticks, she got to work. By and by some
ink from the fountain-pen splashed the paper, and she smiled.

"Bob would swear. When he's annoyed I rather like him," she remarked. "A
man swears and forgets it; a woman is nasty to the next person she
meets. However, I must try to strike just the proper note----"

She knitted her brows and began a fresh line:

"In ten days Mark pulls out for Canada, and my pleasure is that you
boost him where a judicious boost is possible. You declared you were my
servant, but for all my imperiousness, I'd sooner think you my
confederate in a benevolent plot. For me, the part is something fresh
and carries a sort of thrill, although it does not imply much effort,
since I command and you get busy. You, in fact, are the working partner.

"Madge and Mark frankly need our help. For all their youth, their rules
are out-of-date. The old rules were stern. One's main business was not
to express (and indulge) oneself; where duty called one went
steadfastly, and one paid one's debts. A Spartan code; but can you beat
it?

"Ours is the pursuit of happiness--I believe the phrase is classical
American. So long as we don't cheat and are not remarkably shabby, we're
entitled to a binge. It certainly carries one where Madge's code does
not; but sometimes I wonder.--However, but for me, Mark might not have
weighed your proposition, and I feel I'm responsible for his joining
you. When one begins to meddle one gets involved, and to know one cannot
stop is disturbing.

"Anyhow, I'm frankly bothered, Bob; but the plan was yours and I know
you will not let me down. Mark's excellent object is to find the means
to support a wife, but he has another, about which I expect he will not
talk. He means to find the man who knows how and why Jim Crozier plunged
down the quarry. On the whole, I think you must humor him. To some
extent, Mark is primitive, his brother was his hero, and until he's
satisfied, he will not stop. Yet you might use some caution where he
would not. I have given you my confidence and perhaps I have bored you,
but you are Mark's friend and mine, and you engaged to help. I imagine
your engagements stand----"

Flora stopped and pondered. The letter was not all she wanted, but its
composition was harder than she had thought. Then she smiled and
resolved to let it go. Eight days afterwards Madge gave her a telegram.

"_Getting busy. Bob._"




CHAPTER XII

TRANQUILLITY


The _Frontenac's_ whistle echoed in the rocks and her big side-wheels
revolved with a slacker beat. Mark had got on board at Quebec, and since
he expected to land in a few minutes, he looked about with some
curiosity. Although the ice had but recently broken, the noble river
sparkled in the hot sun, and sweet resinous smells floated on the gentle
breeze. Behind the dim southern shore, blue mountains rolled back; on
the north bank a rocky tableland dropped to the flats along the
waterside.

In the meantime, the steamer forged ahead, a point where pines climbed
the stony slopes slipped by, and a bay opened up. A shining church-spire
occupied the foreground; in lower Canada, some wooden churches are yet
covered by tin-plate. Small wooden houses straggled along the
water-front. Some beyond the church were farms, for very long and narrow
fields, divided by queer rail fences, stretched back from the road. At
the other end of the little town were yellow sawdust-dumps and
lumber-piles. An old sailing ship rode behind the point and a wooden
steamer was moored to the wharf. Her winches rattled, and Mark saw men
carrying fresh white boards.

The _Frontenac's_ engines stopped, ropes were thrown, and Mark had
arrived at St. Jerome. For a minute or two it looked as if nobody was
interested; and then a young fellow crossed the wharf and scrutinized
the landing passengers. He signaled Mark, and when he went down the
gangway gave him his hand.

"Mr. Crozier, I expect? Pleased to meet you."

"I am pleased to be met," said Mark. "I don't know if your spotting me
was remarkable."

"Oh, well, the passengers are _habitants_, French-Canadians," the other
replied with a twinkle. "I'm Travis, from the mill, and Bob Wellwin
asked me to see you fixed. We were together at Toronto."

Mark imagined he meant the university; he thought he liked Travis.

"You are kind. Perhaps I ought to get my trunk."

"It's coming," said the other. "Watch out!"

The trunk plunged down an inclined plank, and for four or five yards
shot across the wharf. When it stopped, Mark ruefully examined the split
top.

"The old trunk was my father's and survived twenty years' use in
England. In Canada, I suppose three or four journeys is the limit? Your
steamboat and railroad men do not handle baggage tenderly."

"That is so. When they cannot smash a trunk with their hands and boots,
they use a hammer. The boys hate to be beat. Then we reckon an article
twenty years old ought to be in a museum. But a fellow I have sent will
bring your stuff. Come on uptown."

They took the quiet street, where small frame houses with green lattice
shutters fronted the shining river. Mark saw one or two battered cars
and a narrow, high-wheeled wagon. But for a few leisurely foot
passengers, that was all, and he admitted his rather vague notions
about Canadian activity must be revised. St. Jerome was marked by
something of the tranquil charm that broods over the quiet towns by the
Scottish border.

The names on the shops were French and the goods were stated to be
_sur-choix_ and _au bon march_. For the most part, wooden shingles
covered the roofs, but on some, flat, painted sheet-iron--the old Canada
plate--was fastened. The little town was clean, and shade-trees,
breaking into leaf, spread their branches across the board sidewalk.

"After Montreal, I expect St. Jerome is not typically Canadian," said
Mark.

"The town is French-Canadian; there's a difference," Travis agreed. "The
_habitants_ are useful citizens. Their proper home is the Province of
Quebec, and although at Montreal we live harmoniously side by side, we
do not mix. Our rules are North American; theirs are the rules Frontenac
and Montcalm carried across from Catholic France before the revolution.
For all that, they are laborious, keen, and frugal, and now they are
pushing west for the wheat-belt, some people think they may push us out.
The Northwest is a stern country; the _habitants_ are small, independent
cultivators, and to some extent primitive. I reckon they'd thrive and
multiply where city-bred men would starve."

"The peasant stock is a strong stock," Mark agreed. "All the same, we in
the Old Country imagine you produce some hardy pioneers."

"We don't stay with it. The pioneers' sons pull out for the towns. They
have had enough. To watch a machine is a softer job than to use the axe,
and at the office the janitor loads up the basement stove. On the
plains, if you don't cut cordwood you must freeze. Co-operative industry
has advantages, but in the woods, the man who makes good is the man who
can go without."

Mark nodded. Since he himself had gone without, Travis's philosophy was
his. Moreover, he was independent and willing to go alone. He hated to
feel another fixed his path and ordered him to push along.

"Where are we steering for?" he asked.

"I have got a room for you at Marcelle Leroux's. Her son is at the mill,
and a clerk we had stopped with them. The usual plan is to board at the
hotel, but the house is crowded and the service is not first-class.
However, if you don't like your lodgings, you can quit."

Mark said he expected to be satisfied, and when they stopped at Madame
Leroux's he imagined his statement was not rash. After the noisy hotel
at Montreal, the small frame house was homelike, and Mark's room on one
side of the porch fronted the river across the street. The furniture was
plain North American hardwood, and the rather bad religious pictures
added a touch of austerity he on the whole approved. Then he thought he
liked his fat and very polite French-Canadian landlady. She said Mark's
supper would soon be served and he and Travis went to the sunny porch.

"For a time, you are fixed," said Travis. "So long as you are at the
mill you are a mill-hand. I expect you get me!"

"I am one of the gang? My being Bob Wellwin's pal is altogether another
thing. In fact, I'd sooner nobody but you knew."

Travis nodded. "You will want some overalls, and if we start you
stacking boards, maybe some leather palms. They fasten round your wrist,
and you might get them at the Colbert _magazin_."

"My hands are engineer's hands, and I have two or three boiler-suits,"
said Mark. "Is that all I need? Bob perhaps asked you to put me wise."

"You are pretty keen," Travis remarked with a twinkle. "To begin with,
we are patriotic. A good Canadian is convinced that Canada leads the
world, and if you want us to like you, you must agree. Your coming from
the Old Country will not help you much; and, for the land's sake, don't
study us as if you were amused! Some Englishmen ask for trouble, and as
a rule, it comes to them."

"I think I see," said Mark. "My line's to admit I'm a raw stranger, but
willing to learn?"

"You'll make good, friend. Where it doesn't hurt, play up to the boys.
On the whole, they're a first-class bunch."

"But what about the mill? I frankly want to learn."

"The plant is not up-to-date. The company runs modern mills where the
big trees grow, but we are working over second-cut, small stuff. For a
time we and the Americans squandered our timber, and recklessly sold off
all we could haul to a river. Twenty years since, sailing ships, waiting
for a load, swarmed on the St. Lawrence and giant lumber rafts floated
downstream. Now they're gone, and in Quebec we are cleaning up corners
and pockets we did not exploit before. When the price goes up, you can
shove farther back from the waterways. Well, at St. Jerome our plant is
not first-class, but the best lumberman is the fellow who used his brain
and muscle before he used machines. The finest tool a workman has got is
his hand. So long as you are young, the play's a man's play; and now
I've done with it, sometimes I'm sorry. When the ice breaks and the logs
drive down the freshets, I'm homesick for the woods."

Mark reflected that Bob had stated something like that.

"Then you went to the logging camps? I rather imagined you were at the
University."

"That is so. Our graduates don't claim first option on the soft jobs,
and a number earn their college fees. They have got something the
roughnecks have not, but they are willing to use it in business and our
mechanical industries. For example, I had to hustle for the means to
live, but I could not stand for clerking at a store. I wanted to use my
body and try my nerve at harder play than a football game. The gang boss
saw I did so, and sometimes when the logs jambed on a spring flood, I
allow I was scared----"

A girl came up the steps. Her clothes were fashionable and she carried
herself gracefully. She was young and Mark thought her attractive.
Seeing she carried a parcel, he was first on his feet and pushed back
the door. She looked up, as if she were rather surprised by his
politeness, and giving him a smile went along the passage.

"Who is she?" Mark inquired.

"Angelique Leroux, your landlady's daughter. A saleswoman at the
_Magazin des Modes_, and rather obviously French-Canadian. You see
troops of her sort in Montreal; all attractive and wearing charming
clothes, which I imagine they themselves make. Anyhow, they're clever
milliners and good housewives. Yet they don't marry us, and as a rule
get nowhere. I expect the _veuve_ Leroux was prettier than Angelique,
but she married a river-jack and is satisfied at St. Jerome. Well, I
must shove off. When the whistle blows in the morning you'll be along."

Travis went down the steps, and by and by Madame Leroux came for Mark.
He approved his Canadian supper--steak, fried potatoes, and a slab of
fruit pie,--although it looked as if the bill of fare was not varied
much for breakfast and dinner. When his appetite was satisfied, he
returned to the porch and began to muse.

A hundred yards off, languid ripples splashed the beach; behind the town
a rapid throbbed, and he heard cowbells chime. The sun got low and the
hills across the shining river were dark blue, but the evening was not
cold. Mark pictured Madge at the quiet Millhouse, and the mist creeping
down the black moor-tops. To go had cost him much, and for a few moments
he set his mouth; but now he was in Canada he had begun to feel a queer
tranquillity.

He had not wanted to follow Turnbull; all he had wanted was to be left
alone, but some strange power or influence had pushed him on. He did not
know if the impulse was from outside, or within himself, but he felt Jim
called him from the dark quarry. Well, at length, he was in Canada,
where Turnbull was, unless the fellow were dead. In a way, Mark admitted
his search was ridiculous. The timber-belt rolled across the country for
three thousand miles; since he could not use the axe, nobody would
engage him at a lumber camp, and his money was nearly gone.

Speed, however, was not important. The main thing was, he had started;
hesitation and doubt were done with, and he must trust his luck. In the
meantime, he had gone as far as it was possible for him to go, and the
power that had forced him from England must supply the fresh clue. Mark
admitted he was not logical; he was perhaps superstitious, but he felt
that somehow the clue would be supplied. He was a dalesman and had
inherited a queer primitive vein.

Anyhow, he was satisfied. If he stopped with the Duquesne Company, he
would presently be a useful lumberman and might command a post at a
logging camp. His pay was good, and he was not at all daunted by the
labor he knew he must undertake. At the beginning he might be exhausted,
but his muscles were hard, and all another could do he could do.
Moreover, although he was not keen to dispute, if a roughneck Canadian
tried to bully him, he thought the fellow would get a jar. Cumberland
folk are famous wrestlers, and at Newcastle he had joined a boxing club.

The sun set, a cold wind blew down the river, and Mark went tranquilly
to bed.




CHAPTER XIII

THE SAWMILL


In the fresh morning Mark took the road along the water-front. He had
pulled a boiler-suit over his oldest clothes and carried a dinner-pail,
since his landlady imagined at the beginning he would sooner not walk
home at noon. Mark, remembering his first week at the foundry, thought
it possible.

Other workmen hurried along the street, and the plank sidewalk echoed
the tramp of heavy boots. One or two gave him a careless glance, but
that was all, and Mark was bothered by something of the loneliness he
had known when he first went to a big English school. He felt he, so to
speak, had lost his individuality and was but one of the gang. Then, in
order to keep his post, he must prove himself equal to men whose
business was to labor. Mark had no illusions; for a time it was going to
be hard.

Smoke rolled from the rusty stacks; steam floated about the open-fronted
sheds and splashed in shining drops. Mark picked his way across the tram
rails and at the office was ordered to wait in the mill. When he reached
the shed the whistle blew and panting engines began to turn. Their
labored stroke got fast, belts ran over rumbling wheels, and a savage
uproar suddenly broke out.

A circular saw screamed on a high, shrill note. One could not see the
bright steel revolve, but where a log advanced against it yellow dust
leaped. Gang-saws clanged; their parallel blades ripping vertically
through gummy wood. Chains rattled, and noisy wire-ropes hauled fresh
logs up an incline to the saws. White planks shot from the benches; the
dust got thick, and sometimes the swift-moving picture was blurred.

Mark smelt resin and burning wood. His glance was alert and his muscles
braced. Speed and action thrilled him; he felt as if he waited before a
race, and for the starter to let him go would be some relief. By and by
the foreman's hand closed on his shoulder, and since there was not much
use in talking, he allowed the fellow to steer him through the turmoil
to a stack of boards on the dump across the shed. The foreman indicated
how their ends were locked.

"You'll pile them like that. I'll show you where you get them. Come on."

They went back into the mill, and the foreman pushed Mark to a bench,
shouted something, and vanished. At the end of the bench a rotary
planing-machine spun. Mark saw it was a _miller_ and knew how it worked.
A man pushed the end of a rough board against the machine, which pulled
it in and threw it out on the other side with its surface smoothly
cleaned. Fine chips and dust tossed about the cutters, and when the man,
following the board, advanced, the gritty shower beat his lowered head.
His face and clothes were gray, but stopping for a moment to rub the
stuff from his eyes, he gave Mark a friendly grin, and indicated the
growing pile of dressed lumber.

"_En aura tousjou plus._ I lak not the d---- stuff bury me."

Mark seized a board, but the other shook his head, and it looked as if
he must carry two. Two fourteen-feet boards are an awkward load to steer
across a crowded mill; particularly when one's end goes up and the
other's goes down. Moreover, Mark must cross an incline where fresh logs
ran, and plow through slab ends and small rubbish. He stacked the
boards, but when he got back the French-Canadian gesticulated, and Mark,
seeing the pile had got larger, knew he was not fast enough. In the
crowded mill, the gangway must not be blocked; his business was to move
the lumber as fast as it was planed.

For the most part, he did so, but the effort cost him much. His side and
his back hurt, his breath got short, and the board's sharp edges galled
his hands. Moreover, the sun was on the roof, and after an hour or two
the heat and dust and noise began to get intolerable. Mark gasped and
sweated, and sometimes when the pile by the planer grew fast, he seized
his load and ran. All the same, he imagined the job was the sort of job
a sawmill laborer cheerfully undertook. In fact, when one thought about
it, rude, common jobs that nevertheless implied the use of moral force
were not scarce. Mechanical dexterity helped, but when a point was
passed, one rather held on by pluck than muscle. One's body was one's
servant, but sometimes, unless control were firm, a servant rebelled.

Mark's boot slipped in the sawdust, and his tilting load struck a man
who swore good-humoredly. He had begun to note the gang's patience. The
job was cooperative; one moved the stuff another cut, and unless the
slabs and ragged ends were carried off, the sawyers were embarrassed.
Moreover, the company knew each machine's high-speed capacity, and the
machinist knew if he could not make good, he must quit. Yet where a
comrade was slow and the stuff piled up they did not grumble much.
B'tise and Lucien, like them, were forced to sweat, and would come along
as soon as possible.

Mark imagined the mill's output was fixed near the highest point flesh
and blood could reach; but the gang did not rebel. The queer thing was,
in conservative Britain, it looked as if organized workmen used a power
democratic Canadians had not. All the same, by contrast with English
standards, the pay was generous. One certainly sweated for all one got,
but the company got production.

Although Mark vaguely philosophized, he carried the boards. Mechanical
labor rather stimulated his brain, and when he watched his lathe at
Newcastle his habit was to ponder subjects that had nothing to do with
engineering. For all that, a slab on the dump by and by entangled his
feet and he and the boards crashed in the sawdust. When he got up he
knew he was shaken, and his mouth was parched. The grit from the planer
had got into his throat and nose. His impulse was to hurl the boards
into the log pond, but he braced up and laughed. To let oneself go was
expensive, and if he were a fool, Madge and Bob must pay.

At noon he carried his dinner-pail to a corner outside the shed. To walk
half a mile to his lodging was unthinkable, and resting his back against
the boards, he lay in the sawdust. After a few minutes, the Ontario
foreman came from the mill. He was big and gaunt and hard, and used the
company's men, as he used the machines, to the limit of their power; but
he studied the tired young fellow with a humorous twinkle.

"You feel as if you'd had some?"

"That is so," Mark agreed. "When we stop in the evening, I'll no doubt
feel I've had enough. For a beginner to keep your pace is awkward, but
in a day or two I hope to find my stride."

The foreman nodded. The boy was a mixer, and did not talk as if talking
hurt. Moreover, although he was obviously nearly beaten, he did not mean
to quit.

"Well, for the afternoon you might cut slabs for the boiler. I don't
claim the job is soft, but it's different."

Mark wondered whether Travis had hinted that the fellow might handle him
tenderly. The workmen, however, were the foreman's tools, and he must be
allowed to use them where their use was most economical. Favoritism did
not pay. Besides, Mark hated to acknowledge himself a feebler type than
the roughneck Canadians.

"I must go where I'm sent," he said. "All the same, if you think me the
proper man to stack the boards, I believe I can carry on."

"In the morning you'll be sorry you did," said the other and went to the
office.

Mark lay in the sawdust and languidly looked about. A river curved down
the valley, and in a wide pool by the mill battered logs floated behind
a chained boom. Mark understood the logs were driven downstream from
the thinned forests that yet rolled north across the Laurentian
tableland. For the most part, the trunks were not large; the trees had
grown since the woods first were cut.

The sparkling water gently splashed the bottom of the sawdust-dump, and
across the pool, pastures with crooked fences climbed the slopes. In one
or two, springing fern encircled the tall, rotten stumps. Since the soil
was good, Mark wondered why somebody had not pulled up the stumps; but
he had begun to think French Canada touched by an old-fashioned tranquil
charm.

The whistle called, and Mark got up and stretched his arms. He was
horribly tired, and the boards' sharp edges had begun to cut his
blistered hands. Yet until the engines stopped he must speed across the
sheds with his awkward load. The lumber must not pile up about the
bench; in a sense, the swift, noisy planer was his antagonist. If the
ruthless machine beat him, he felt the knockout might be for good. His
engaging for a sawmill-hand was rash, and his pride in his strength and
stubbornness was his main support. If his pride were broken, he was done
for. Somehow he must stick it.

A breeze sprang up and fanned the boiler fires. Smoke and steam blew
about the sheds, and dust leaped from the throbbing floor. Sometimes the
bent, toiling figures melted and Mark was bothered to see where he went.
The engines' stroke got fast, the saws' scream was sharper, and the
planer's jarring hum swelled to a high, angry note.

Mark knew the wind helped the stokers; the mill was speeding up, and
the foreman meant to let her go. He would proudly record in his stock
book the extra lumber she had cut, and the gang must bear the strain.
Well, they were hardened to their work, but Mark was not, and he felt
the wind and the pitiless machines conspired to break him.

The boards leaped from the planer, and the fellow who shoved the stuff
along the bench was rather an automatic part of the noisy plant than a
man. But for the wet circles round his eyes, his face was a gray mask;
and the woolly dust stuck to Mark's skin and sifted through his clothes.
Sometimes when the wind swept the sheds he could not see the workmen,
but he knew he must not risk a collision with the logs shooting up the
incline. The boards he carried flapped, and when he staggered through
the big door tossed him about. Sometimes one went up and the other's
lowered end jambed against the ground.

Half-superstitious obstinacy saw him out. The first day was the real
test, and if he were beaten, he would know he had not the proper
qualities for the business he undertook. He rather feared his nervous
reaction from defeat than bodily exhaustion. Then, since the dalesfolk
to some extent are primitive, where he did not see his way he, so to
speak, waited for a sign. For example, he had found Jim's diary, and
then Allardyce had indicated that the new company had not a post for
him. Now, if he could not do all a Canadian laborer could do, there was
no use in his searching the logging camps for Turnbull.

His hands were wet by blood; where his clothes rubbed, the planer grit
galled his skin, his heart beat and his side hurt; but when the whistle
blew all the boards were stacked.

To get to his lodging was awkward, and street-cars did not run at St.
Jerome. When the widow Leroux, carrying his supper, pushed back the
door, he rashly got up and took the loaded tray. He had not thought the
effort would embarrass him, but his mouth got tight, and when he reached
the table the tray jarred on the boards. Mark gave his landlady an
apologetic smile, and gently lowered himself into his chair.

"I expect the beginning is the worst. _N'il y a que le premier
pas_--Something like that, isn't it?"

"_Le pauvre gars!_" said Madame Leroux. "The first day is the bad day,
but I have a liniment of a marvellous excellence. I go bring the bottle,
and if you lak', I rub the spot."

"You're very kind, but the spots are rather numerous," Mark replied.

Madame gave him the bottle and he began his supper. His appetite was not
gone, and that was something.




CHAPTER XIV

MISS WELLWIN INVESTIGATES


Mark, lying in the sawdust, languidly smoked his pipe. The sun was hot
and he smelt resinous wood and engine oil; he fronted the St. Lawrence,
and the noble river shimmered like glass with reflected light. Summer
advanced swiftly, and after Mark's efforts in the noisy mill, to stretch
his legs in the warm dust and hear the tranquil water splash was some
relief. A shining plume floating across the mill roof indicated that
steam had not gone down, and for half an hour he could relax.

Yet Mark was not much tired. After three or four strenuous weeks, he had
found his proper speed, and he had recently got a fresh job. He did not
know if the job was softer, for a fireman who feeds a sawmill furnace
with cut slabs and refuse must move actively. The small stuff melts in
the flame, and the laboring engines are greedy for steam. Mark's
overalls and skin were stained by grease and ash, but he admitted he had
perhaps not much grounds to grumble.

In fact, since he got to work at St. Jerome he had indulged a queer
tranquillity. The doubts that had bothered him in England were gone; he
had, at all events, begun his search for Turnbull. Then he began to
think Bob had not exaggerated; in Canada there was perhaps a chance for
him he might not have got in the Old Country. At Montreal he was for
about ten minutes interviewed by the Duquesne Company's president,
Wellwin's questions were embarrassing, and Mark did not see where some
led, but he felt he must be frank. The old fellow's glance was searching
and he carried the stamp of command. Mark felt the other weighed him
accurately, and somehow imagined he was satisfied.

Wellwin sent him to the St. Jerome mill. He was certainly not indulged;
he had perhaps got the hardest work one could give a beginner, but Mark
was persuaded Travis had some orders about him and, so to speak, tried
him out. In the meantime, it was all he wanted. He did not know where
his search for Turnbull would carry him and where he must begin. In a
sense, it was not important. When the time for him to start arrived, he
felt he would know. The force that had conquered his hesitation and
driven him across the sea would supply the clue. Although the
supposition was perhaps rather romantic than logical, he was willing to
wait.

The foreman came from the mill and stopped when he saw Mark.

"In twenty minutes you'll have Travis's canoe at the landing-steps and
wait for your passenger. I reckon he's going fishing and you'll stop as
long as he wants you."

"Very well," said Mark. "Who is the passenger?"

"Search me," said the foreman. "Old man Wellwin's at the office, and
maybe brought a city sport along. Anyhow, you're all right for the
afternoon."

Mark agreed. The sunshine called, and he would frankly sooner paddle a
canoe across the sparkling water than feed a furnace in the clanging
mill. All the same, time did not allow his getting fresh clothes. His
overalls were greasy, but since he did not wear much else, he could not
pull them off. Then all Wellwin's friend wanted was a man to paddle him
upriver.

He carried down and sponged the canoe. She was the Canadian model,
lightly built at an Ontario factory and sewn by copper wire. Mark
brought her to the steps and waited.

A girl carrying a fishing-rod came down the bank. Her summer clothes
were fashionable, but Mark noted her careless, graceful balance on the
high, uneven steps. He thought her attractive, although her glance was
perhaps rather imperious. The queer thing was, he saw nobody else; but
he doubted if the canoe would carry two passengers. She refused the hand
he held out to steady her, and jumped on board. A Canadian canoe is not
remarkably stable, and had she been awkward, Mark imagined they might
have capsized; but he had not expected her to be awkward. He pushed off
and waited for an order.

"Upriver," she said carelessly.

Mark, balancing in the stern, dipped the single paddle. He was not an
expert boatman, but sometimes in the evening he went on the river, and
his reach was long. Then his muscles were hard, and he had the athlete's
feeling for rhythmic movement. The powerful stroke was measured and the
canoe went upstream fast.

The girl was occupied by her fishing-rod, but sometimes she studied
Mark, and he began to be embarrassed by his greasy overalls. She saw a
rather large young man whose look was frank and yet not altogether
youthful. She sensed force, quiet force, and control; the young fellow's
habit was not to let himself go. When, once or twice, he met her glance,
his was level and steady. Well, she had reckoned on his being like that.

"Do you think I could catch a trout?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Mark. "If you like, I'll fix your rod."

The girl laughed. "You are not rash. I believe I am a pretty good
fisherman."

"I did not doubt your cleverness," Mark replied politely. "Large fish
are pretty scarce, and the sun is bright."

"After your dark hills, that perhaps is something fresh?"

"On the whole, the North is dark," Mark agreed. "It looks as if you knew
my home is in the Old Country."

"That is so, Mr. Crozier. When I wanted a boatman I asked Travis for
you. You see, I am Constance Wellwin, Bob's sister."

Mark had thought it possible, but since Miss Wellwin was an important
lady, he had not seen his line. When she stated she was Bob's sister she
had perhaps meant to give him his cue.

"Some business called my father to the mill, and I thought I'd like the
journey downriver on board the _Frontenac_," she resumed with a twinkle.
"He is occupied at the office, and Travis said the fishing sometimes is
good. Now perhaps I have properly accounted for the excursion. I hope
you do not mind my engaging you for boatman?"

"On a summer afternoon, the river has attractions the mill has not, and
I'd sooner paddle a canoe than stoke a boiler," Mark replied. "But don't
you want to catch a trout?"

Constance gave him a thoughtful glance. She wondered whether his remark
was humorous; but perhaps he did not know if he might play up.

"I'm not very keen to fish, and you think the sun too bright. If you are
not tired, you might paddle upstream."

Mark's stroke got faster and the sparkling current splashed against the
bows. Stump-dotted fields and scattered pines rolled by. Resinous scents
floated on the warm wind, and in the distance cowbells chimed. Mark
liked their queer metallic note; perhaps it was strange, but he had
liked the locomotive bells at Montreal. In the meantime, he waited. If
Miss Wellwin had an object for her excursion, to indicate it was her
part.

The river widened and the current ran slackly along the curving bank.
The sawmill-stacks had vanished; in front were small, dark pines and
quiet, sloping fields. By and by Constance turned to Mark.

"You might paddle slowly. I do not want you to labor like a machine, and
this is a charming spot. Well, I stated I am Bob's sister, and when he
talked about you I rather think he drew an accurate portrait."

"To know his remarks might help. Since he's a very good sort, I'd try
not to let him down."

Constance smiled. "For one thing, he declared you were modest, and at
first your reserve was rather baffling. I believe he did not exaggerate.
Then, like other Britishers, you hated to hustle, but when you were
forced you could get a move on, and he had known you move surprisingly
fast. In fact, as a rule, he reckoned you got where you wanted to go.
The phraseology, which you perhaps recognize, is Bob's."

"Our folks are slow," Mark agreed. "We weigh things, and sometimes when
we're satisfied, the time to start is gone. However, I don't expect
you're interested, and you ought to allow for some reserve. In a sense,
I'm a foreigner, and don't yet know my ground."

"In the Old Country a mill-hand is--a mill-hand? You imagined it a
drawback?"

"I suppose I did imagine something like that."

"Then, I don't know if you are nice! The important thing is, you are
Bob's pal. I have no other brother, and I like to know his friends.
Where it's possible, they are my friends. Perhaps you see the
implication?"

"Bob is trustful," Mark observed. "Sometimes I think his enthusiasm
carries him away. Since I believe your judgment's cooler, you ought to
sympathize with my embarrassment."

Constance smiled. She approved Mark's quiet humor, and in some respects
she really thought her judgment better than Bob's, but her smile was
kind.

"Well, I frankly wanted to study you, but that was not all. You perhaps
know Bob is resolved to marry your relation?"

Mark saw light, and admitted Miss Wellwin's interest was justified.

"So far, I rather think Flora has not agreed; but she is not my
relation."

"Then, she is, perhaps, Miss Forsyth's relation?"

"Flora is Madge's cousin. When I was a boy at Howbarrow, she was at the
Millhouse, and she has been my friend ever since. I imagine she is all
Bob pictured her."

"One must make allowance for a lover's enthusiasm, and the picture was
splendidly vague. Since I acknowledge my curiosity, you might supply a
few particulars. To begin with, is Miss Scot like you?"

"Not at all," said Mark with a twinkle. "Flora is small and light. I
stand for the old type; she is up-to-date. By contrast with my cautious
soberness, she is keen, and confident, and, so to speak, joyously alert.
In fact, she's rather your Canadian type. Yet she has inherited
qualities from Border yeomen. She's stanch--leal is our word--and very
proud. You could not force her to be shabby, and I believe she never was
afraid."

"Your portrait is attractive. Why does she hesitate to marry Bob?"

"I don't know. However, Bob is rich."

"Does one refuse a lover because he is rich?"

"Flora might," Mark replied. "We are a queer, independent lot. Flora's
as poor as I am. It's possible she feels Bob must ponder."

"To argue like that is not altogether up-to-date. It implies some
balance and control. You talked about inherited qualities! Were Miss
Scot's ancestors like yours?"

Mark nodded. "We were farmers, shepherds, and quarrymen. We slept at our
bleak, dark homesteads, but lived in the rain and wind. However, I don't
see why I should bore you----"

"I am not bored," Constance rejoined. "After all, one inherits much and
Miss Scot might yet marry my brother. Well, you claim to stand for the
old type, but one imagines the old Borderers romantic swash-bucklers.
Bob made an excursion to a moorland churchyard, marked by a headless
cross, where the crumbling tombstones carry only women's names."

Mark laughed. "The men were killed in the mosses, and hanged at
Carlisle! The tradition's not at all accurate, as some inscriptions
prove. Still, they probably were a grim lot. The country's the sternest
in England and weak folk would starve."

"Bob saw your name."

"Yes," said Mark, and his smile vanished. "The stone is old. My father
and brother were the last--and their luck was not good. But one mustn't
be gloomy. Shall I rig the fishing-rod?"

"The trout are not feeding," said Constance. "I would sooner talk."

For a minute or two she was quiet and Mark leisurely swung the paddle.
The water shone in the sun, and where the current rippled round a point
its throb was musical. Mark was not romantic, but on a summer afternoon
to float across the quiet pool with an attractive girl had some charm.
Then Miss Wellwin was Bob's sister, and he knew her friendly.

Constance mused. She had wanted to find out as much as possible about
Miss Scot, but Mark interested her. He was rather a handsome, athletic
fellow, and she sensed his sincerity. Then she knew his story, and
somebody Bob had met had talked about the unlucky Croziers. When one
studied Mark, one saw he had not the happy carelessness that went with
youth. He had stated his folk were a grim lot, and Constance did not see
him take the easy road. His stained overalls and broken nails were
perhaps significant.

He moved her to pity. She must not admit he attracted her, and she knew
about Miss Forsyth. Constance rather liked to meddle and she felt he
ought not to allow his brother's tragedy to haunt him. His business was
to concentrate on his career. The ground perhaps was awkward, but her
object was good.

"I hope you are happy at the mill," she said.

"Why, yes," said Mark. "On the whole, I like the gang and Travis is
kind. I might, of course, get an easier post, but I understand I'm not
there for good."

"You are being put through it, and weighed. I don't claim to be
discreet, but, if it's some comfort, I believe the company's president
is satisfied."

Mark looked up with a twinkle, for he recaptured his queer interview
with the rather daunting old fellow.

"Mr. Wellwin saw me for about ten minutes."

"I have not known him cheated," Constance rejoined. "One mustn't boast;
but where he trusts he's generous. Then the company is powerful, and a
man who satisfies Duquesne's can get the post he likes. Well, by and by
you are going to the woods, and if you can stand for it, I think the
chance to get ahead is yours."

"You are kind," said Mark, with a touch of embarrassment. "I suppose I
reckoned on the chance. Bob is a useful pal."

"He is keen to help. However, in order to make good, you must
concentrate. You must stay with your job and think for your job. In
fact, you cannot think about another."

Mark looked up and unconsciously frowned.

"Ah," he said, "now I begin to see where you lead!"

"I am not entitled to meddle, but Bob's friends are my friends, and if
you let him down he would be hurt," Constance rejoined. "I believe you
cannot find the man you want, and if you did find him, it might not
banish your doubts. Then Bob states you are engaged to marry a charming
girl. Don't you think you ought to let all that's done with go?"

"Perhaps it's strange, but I do not, and Madge agrees," said Mark in a
quiet voice. "However, if I find my brooding interferes with my
occupation, I'll give up my post."

"I was not thinking for the company," said Constance with a touch of
haughtiness. "Bob declares you are not a fool, and I hoped you would
ponder--To turn down a career in which you might make your mark, in
order to follow an illusion, is ridiculous."

"If I start, I follow a man, and since he's flesh and blood, where he
goes I can go. All the same, it's possible I may never hit his track,
and if I do not, I expect to be resigned."

Constance's look was puzzled. Mark smiled.

"You see, I do not like my part, and if I'm allowed, I'd be happy to
leave the thing alone. But I expect you have had enough. Let's talk
about something else."

Constance indulged him, and for a time they pushed upstream. The shadows
behind the pines got longer, and by and by Mark turned the canoe. When
they stopped at the landing-steps Constance gave him her hand.

"You are obstinate, but after all I like your pluck," she said.




CHAPTER XV

THE BURST TUBE


The morning was hot and Mark sat in his wheelbarrow in front of the mill
boiler. Behind him was a stack of sawed-up slabs, ragged board-ends, and
knotty resinous stuff; but the pressure was near the danger-line and for
a minute or two he was justified to rest. A few yards off, the engineer
was occupied with a tallow swab and Mark thought him bothered. The
engine carried a heavy load and a crosshead-shoe was hot. The company's
president, however, was about and the saws must not stop.

Mark had nothing to do with the engine. His business was to supply the
steam, but he thought the bosses rather recklessly speeded up the mill.
An important customer pressed for the material he had ordered, and
although the plant was old, machines and men must labor to the limit of
their powers. The men did not grumble. Mark admitted the Canadians
cheerfully ran risks one did not front in England.

By and by he got up. The foreman crossed the floor, glanced at the
pressure-gauge and nodded.

"Keep her there! When Wellwin's through at the office he'll take a look
round. He likes to hear things hum, and since he knows Maysons have got
after Travis about their stuff, I'm letting the old plant rip."

The man was friendly, and Mark said, "If the mill were mine, I'd
lighten steam by twenty pounds. Anyhow, I doubt if you can cut the stuff
in the time fixed."

"We got to try," the other rejoined with a grin. "The Duquesne Company's
engagements stand. Yes, sir, when you trade with us, you get the goods
you order and you get them right on time. Office gang's talk; but when
Wellwin says so, we got to make good. You watch your gauges; unless I
book a record cut, somebody will be fired."

Mark threw back the furnace door. Flame curled about the hole, and
turning his head from the heat, he flung in fresh wood. The fire roared,
and when the door clanged, by contrast with the dazzling reflections,
the mill was dark. In the gloom, a circular saw, spinning so fast that
one did not know it moved, glimmered dully, and when a log was forced
against its teeth, its shrill scream pierced the crash of parted fiber.
The gang-saws plunged up and down, and their thin, high-strung blades
struck a queer harmonic note. Rollers rattled, wire-ropes on the
feed-ways clanged.

The mill was like an orchestra. The turmoil was measured, and the
engines' labored stroke marked the rhythm. The machines' parts
harmonized, and sometimes one, so to speak, rested for a bar, but if the
proper beat were missed, an engineer would know. Bent figures moved
among the sliding logs and vanished where showers of dust leaped up. All
strained and sweated, and since speed was important, sometimes risked
hand and leg.

Mark admitted a sort of thrill. He was young and high speed moved him.
In Canada one certainly got action, and he liked to use all his power.
Then the mill was not his, and if a machine crashed, he was not
accountable. In England, where engineers used caution, he had known a
driving-wheel go through the roof.

In the meantime, his business was to stoke, and the boiler was the
locomotive pattern, in which numerous tubes carry the flame from the
furnace to the back end. A locomotive boiler steams fast, but has some
disadvantages, particularly where the water used corrodes the thin
tubes.

By and by Mark saw Travis and Wellwin in the mill. Wellwin was tall and
his clothes were city clothes, but somehow he was not conspicuous. Mark
felt rather vaguely that the old fellow harmonized with the turmoil. He
knew where to stop, and where to move fast; in fact, the president went
about the mill like a workman. Sometimes he touched Travis, who nodded.
Wellwin did not meddle, but his glance searched the noisy sheds, and
where it rested one felt the strain get harder.

Then Mark thought Wellwin studied him, and he jumped for the pile of
wood. If the president was interested, he must get busy, but when he had
moved a few slab-ends he stopped. For two or three minutes he need not
feed the hungry furnace, and he was not going to pretend. He imagined
the old fellow had noted his jump, and was dryly amused, but his glance
passed Mark and he followed Travis across the floor.

For some time Mark was occupied, and then he saw the trembling
pressure-index swing back. Steam had suddenly dropped, and he threw open
the furnace door. Flame blew out and licked the boiler front, and
although Mark jumped, his clothes and face were scorched. He heard a
queer roaring noise in the fire-box, and knew a tube had burst. A
scalding deluge might blow across the shed and he must get the door
back. The door clanged, and steam curled about the boiler's back end,
where the smokebox is.

For a few moments Mark had labored mechanically, but now his brain began
to work. The turmoil in the mill died away, puzzled workmen turned their
heads, and the engineer scrambled across the rubbish-stack. The fellow
had stopped the engines, although, if left alone, they would carry off
some steam from the damaged boiler. If he knew where the trouble was, he
did not know his job. When the water blew down, the uncovered tubes
would burn and collapse. Mark stopped the man.

"Get back and open the throttle. A tube is gone. I think you have got
some patent stoppers in the store?"

"We don't have to use them," said the other dully. "Can you fix the
things?"

"It oughtn't to bother me," Mark rejoined. "Start your engine; and then
wait by the back end."

He jumped a saw-bench and sped across the shed. Wellwin and Travis saw
him go, but he did not stop for Travis's shout, and they started for the
boiler. A few moments after they arrived, Mark pushed through the groups
that gathered round the spot. He carried some sacks and two log rods
with circular plugs fixed to their ends.

Steam blew from the joints of the smokebox door and floated to the roof
in a thick white cloud. Hot drops splashed the men, and a muffled,
roaring noise throbbed inside the boiler.

"I guess you can't draw the fire," Wellwin remarked.

"She might drown out; I don't know--" said the engineer. "Maybe we can
stop the tube; but I haven't used this fixing. Anyhow, we'll try."

Mark threw a sack on his head, and pulling another round his chest,
asked a man for his belt. When he fastened the sack he turned to
Wellwin.

"Before the fire drowns some fresh tubes may go, sir, and you might be
held up for a week. I expect to fix the plugs."

"Get to it," said Wellwin, and signed the others back.

Mark pulled the fastening lever, and jumped when the door swung. Steam
and scalding water blew from the opening. The broken tube throbbed like
a machine-gun and a hot cloud tossed about the boiler end. Mark, on his
knees in the wet dust, beckoned the engineer. His head was bent, and a
foot or two above it the scalding blast pierced the vapor. To see and
breathe was hard, but somehow he steered the end of the bar into the
spouting tube.

Then he thought he was beaten. Crouched under the sacks, he could not
properly use his arms, but he dared not get up. Although the stopper was
not yet expanded, it looked as if the steam would blow back the
obstacle. Mark labored mechanically. He had forgotten Wellwin was about,
and he certainly did not think for his employer. All he really knew was,
the tube must be stopped. Fire and steam were man's servants and must
not conquer him.

For the most part, he and the engineer were hidden by the tossing
cloud. Mark had thought the fellow did not know his job, but his pluck,
at all events, was good, and he helped nobly. Mark's heart beat; the
steam and fumes began to choke him, but the resistance was less, and if
he could hold on, they might win. Then he knew the plug had passed the
leak; the pressure now carried it forward, and the rod went easily.

"Another foot!" he gasped. "Steady the back disc in! We are through!"

The expanding plugs blocked the tube's ends, and the cloud got thin and
melted; Mark got up, rather shakily, and threw off the steaming sacks.
Perhaps it was strange, but although his wet hands smarted, he thought
he was not scalded much. Hoping his maneuver would not be noted, he
pushed the engineer, who joined Wellwin.

"She's fixed, sir. I reckon she'll stand for an easy load, and we might
finish the Mayson stuff."

"Then start her up and get a fresh fireman," said Wellwin, and when the
engines began to turn, beckoned Mark. "Come on to the office."

They went to Travis's office, and Wellwin indicated a chair.

"Now we can talk. Are you hurt?"

Mark's hands were blistered, but he said he thought the burns would not
bother him. Wellwin nodded. He was tall; his clothes were slack, and not
at all fashionable, and his heavy shoulders were rather bent. His face
was lined and his hands were large and powerful. "Do you think those
plugs will hold?" he asked.

"They ought to hold for a time, sir, but I'd reduce steam."

"Why did the tube blow in? Travis tells me they didn't see much scale
when they opened the boiler."

"That might account for something. The feed-water's clean, but some
water has a puzzling corrosive action on steel."

"Looks as if you knew something about steel."

"I was at a first-class foundry, sir."

Wellwin nodded. His brain worked fast, and he liked a short reply.

"Why did you push the engineer?"

"Oh, well," said Mark with a touch of embarrassment, "in a way, perhaps,
I'd meddled. Then, he's rather a good sort, and a good engine-man."

He noted Wellwin's twinkle, but the old fellow said, "Although he was
rattled, you were not. I suppose an Old Country boiler sometimes
explodes and you have got up against trouble of the sort before?"

"No, sir. At the foundry we built boilers. I never had anything to do
with a really awkward explosion."

"Bob talks," Wellwin remarked. "He helped you pump a mine tunnel when a
flood broke in. I hope you got some reward."

Mark imagined he must not state he got five pounds, and he smiled.

"The mine was sold and I was fired. It explains my starting for
Montreal."

Wellwin pondered. His rather inscrutable glance was fixed on Mark, who
knew he was weighed. Nothing he had said was of much consequence, but he
imagined all the old fellow had wanted was to see him. He hoped Wellwin
was satisfied, for he certainly did not know.

"I might give you a post as engine-man; I don't know if we want a
first-class engineer. Then Bob reckoned you were willing to study up the
lumber business. Well, the company goes ahead, and I see some chances
for a useful man. If you like it at the mill, you might stay with us."

"Thank you, sir," said Mark. "I expect you are occupied, and I ought to
be back."

Wellwin smiled. "You'll go along to a drugstore and get your hands
dressed. Then for a day or two you can superintend. Your business is to
keep the boiler under steam until Travis has cut the Mayson stuff.
Another fellow will throw in the wood. That's all, I guess."

Mark went to the drugstore, and when the _Frontenac_ in the evening
steamed upriver Wellwin and Constance walked about the promenade deck.

"You had Bob's friend for a boatman," Wellwin remarked. "Sometimes your
brother takes a shine to folks."

Constance laughed. "Yes; I argued like that. On the whole, however, I
think Bob did not exaggerate; but, of course, my judgment is not as
informed as yours."

"Sometimes it's sound," Wellwin rejoined with a twinkle. "The young
fellow's straight. Although he helped us keep the machines going, he
refused to let down the engineer. Then when the tube blew in, he sort of
seized control naturally and without much effort. Well, I'd thought him
slow, but when he's up against an awkward job I reckon he uses qualities
he doesn't yet know he's got."

"You are rather keen," Constance agreed. "When Crozier is moved I think
he's another man. However, he is Bob's pal, and it has nothing to do
with me."




CHAPTER XVI

PICTURES OF THE WOODS


A wedge-shaped ripple trailed behind the canoe, and where it passed, the
pines' reflections broke. In the sun the lake shone like glass, but by
the island the shadows got long, and their soft gray and green melted in
the paddle's eddying splash. The air was cooling, for Indian summer had
begun, but Bob Wellwin's stroke was slow. He had since breakfast carried
a gun about the woods, and now he languidly enjoyed the evening calm.
Mark, in the bottom of the canoe, smoked a cigarette.

"I feel as if it was supper-time. What about getting a move on, Bob?" he
said.

"Oh, well, if the hash burns, Constance might be mad. The convention is,
young women have not our gross appetite. It's possible, but they
certainly don't like to wait. However, my habit is to take supper at
hotels where you hear the elevators slam and trolley-cars clang by. All
the loafers in town walk about the rotunda, and, as a rule, an electric
organ runs full-blast at a cheap restaurant across the street. I don't
claim much culture, but I'd sooner be on the lake, and I'm not going to
hustle for Constance and you."

Mark laughed and pulled a cushion under his head. The mill had stopped
for a week, and he had joined Bob at the Wellwin cottage on the Ontario
lake. Throughout the hot summer he had labored in the noisy sheds, but
on the whole he admitted he had not much grounds to grumble. His muscles
were hard, and the work was not monotonous, for the foreman had moved
him about.

Now cool, bracing Indian summer had begun, he was at a saw-bench, and
Travis weighed his plans for improving the roller-gear and guides. Mark
felt he made some progress, although he now and then imagined he was
being pushed along.

Perhaps he ought to be modest, but the mill was run for a profit, and if
his advance were not economically justified, he reckoned it would stop.
The Duquesne Company's servants must earn their pay, and since Mark
rather obviously did so, it did not look as if his comrades were
jealous. In Canada, promotion rather goes by competence than by rule.
Then, he was a good mixer, and although the men's humor was not
fastidious, when the joke was at his cost he grinned. Yet one or two
knew the Englishman, if forced, could use his fists.

In fact, Mark was satisfied. His pay was good, and for all his bodily
fatigue he enjoyed a queer tranquillity he had not known in England. For
four or five days he and Bob had roamed the woods and paddled about the
lake, and he admitted he had had a glorious holiday.

Stretching his legs, he looked over the canoe's side. Nine or ten yards
off, a small shining ripple outlined the dusky beach; in front, the calm
water reflected smooth gray rocks and dim red trunks. One smelt the
resin in the pines, and where the sunset glimmered behind the island a
loon called. The noise was like a drunken laugh.

"The loon is not a friendly bird; you feel he jeers at you," said Bob.
"In the Old Country, the nearest humorist you have got to him is a
peacock. Now, I don't know if I'm a romantic, but I like to think about
the Millhouse in your Border dale. In the evenings you hear the lambs,
and the thrushes sing. Yellow primroses grow by the pool. Aren't you
homesick?"

"There's not much use in being homesick," Mark rejoined. "Besides, the
primroses and the spring are gone, and the lambs have grown. All is
different, and I expect rain blows down the dale."

"It's possible," said Bob in a thoughtful voice. "Only your folks don't
alter. You are a steadfast lot. Well, I myself am obstinate, and when
winter is over I am going back."

His paddle splashed faster; smooth rocks and misty trunks slipped back
into the gloom, and by and by a cove opened up. At the plank landing
Constance Wellwin and a man with one arm waited. The man was Wellwin's
pensioner, and his wife was cook at the summer house. A circular saw had
removed his arm and a log had crushed his leg. When the young men landed
he limped across the planks, but Bob signed him back.

"You don't need to help us, Malcolm; but you might rub out the guns.
When I can't pack a canoe across the beach, I'll quit paddling."

He balanced the canoe, upside down, on his bent shoulders and extended
arms, and went off. Mark gave the man their guns and picked up a duck
and two willow grouse.

"In some respects," said Constance, "Bob is boyish. He doesn't like to
hide his talents, and he'd sooner be thought a good woodsman than the
best salesman the company employs. But are the birds all you have shot?"

Bob, returning rather breathless, gave her an ironical grin.

"For a social leader, you don't use much tact. Mark is tired and hungry,
and you want to know if a noble duck and two fine grouse is all he's
got! When you have a husband, you'll find out that the proper time for
such inquiries is after supper. Any healthy young fellow would sooner be
thought a sport than a successful business man."

They went to the small wooden house, and in the veranda Bob gave Malcolm
the duck and grouse.

"That is the lot; Mrs. Malcolm mustn't be extravagant," he said, and,
leaning against a post, resumed: "Sometimes I feel the golden days are
gone. Twenty years since, when you went hunting you shot up all the
stuff you could carry. Game swarmed in the woods, and the rivers swarmed
with fish. Now the woods are melting, and where we dump our sawdust the
trout must quit or die."

"Twenty years since," said Constance, "you could not carry a gun. Then I
expect the Duquesne Company is accountable for some poisoned fish.
However, you stated that Mark was hungry."

Mrs. Malcolm served a first-class supper, and although the house was but
for summer holidays, the glass and china and silver were good. Since
the evenings got cold, pine logs snapped in the open grate, and when the
plates were carried off the group gathered round the fire.

"A good Canadian boosts his country, but Bob declares the golden days
are gone," Constance remarked.

"Just now," said Bob, "I'm a commercial drummer, but I love the quiet
woods, and I have not much use for the raw new settlements and their
garbage-dumps. Then I know two or three ambitious towns I would like to
burn. The transition-stage is an ugly stage, but ugliness is not
essential, and Canada goes ahead. By and by we'll replant the forests we
destroy; we will not pollute our rivers, as they are polluted now, and
we'll build noble, clean cities along the big railroad-tracks. The
Laurentian rocks and Alberta foothills will be quiet national parks. A
better time is coming, and may come in our time."

"I wonder whether we will be satisfied when it arrives. Are you going to
Ottawa to help the change along?"

"Not on my life!" said Bob. "Maybe they need some honest men, but my
talents are not for politics and graft. For the old man's sake, I'm in
business, and I hope to make good, but when I reckon I have done so I'll
buy me a farm."

"Bob's program is fixed, and that's something," Constance remarked. "He
is perhaps not very ambitious, but when Father sent him to the woods, I
think he did not know all he did."

Mark said nothing. Constance's habit was to banter Bob, and although he
declared he indulged his father, he was a competent salesman. Well,
Mark himself was by instinct and birth a farmer, and he loved the green
dale in the bleak English moors. It was, however, not important. Where a
man could not choose his job, he must like the job he had.

"Talking about the woods, you haven't yet seen my pictures," Bob
resumed. "At one time, I used a camera, and I dare say Constance knows
where the collection is. I don't claim it's good, but you'll get some
notion where you are soon going."

Constance went to a bookcase and gave him a small portfolio. Bob pulled
out a photograph and moved the lamp.

"The bunkhouse, Number Three camp, in winter! Our layout is not
altogether up to date. In some circumstances, the hand-lumbering plan is
economical."

The picture was good; Mark thought all Bob did was done efficiently. He
saw a long wooden shed against which snow was piled, and pines whose
branches bent under their white load. In front of the house, steam
floated about two horses and a sledge loaded with logs. Steely light
seemed to sparkle behind the trees, but the branches were motionless.
Mark sensed daunting quiet and Arctic frost.

"The cold is pretty fierce," Bob remarked. "Sometimes all's so still at
nights that you jump when a frozen tree cracks. In the next picture, you
get action!"

A plank, six feet above the ground, was notched into a rather large
tree, and a man balancing at its end, swung his axe. His arms, extended
backwards, were in a line with the long shaft; one saw his muscular
body rather followed than directed the circling axe's sweep. The nobly
poised figure carried the stamp of dynamic force.

"Lucien could chop," said Bob. "When the logs piled up at St. Joseph, he
was crushed in the jamb. The other picture is Johanson. Something like a
rodeo stunt, but he rides a log."

The trunk, tilted at one end from the water, plunged down a rapid, and a
man on its treacherous, rounded top carried a long pole. Breaking waves
and angry whirlpools indicated speed. In the background were rocks and
trees. Johanson's pole was pointed like a spear at another trunk; his
knee was bent and his foot lifted, as if he danced. When one disturbs
its equilibrium, a floating log rolls. Mark knew, because he had
experimented behind the boom at St. Jerome, and, as a rule, went
overboard.

"The river-jacks are physically a splendid lot," Constance remarked. "In
fact, modern Canada produces a roughneck type as fine as the classical
sculptors' models. However, I suppose it will vanish and our men will
get fat. Where we now use muscle, we'll soon use machines."

"Machines do not altogether banish strain," said Mark. "Sometimes flesh
and blood must keep the engines' pace. In England, we make stipulations
and fix the output. So far as I know, in Canada, the workmen must speed
up."

"They learn," said Bob, rather dryly. "You don't need to put them wise.
To a limit, they are willing. Where you cut your output they know you
must cut the pay. Anyhow, here's my best shot: _The Wrestler_. I
believe he was English, but in a sort of rough-house rodeo he knocked
out our best men."

Mark took the picture carelessly. Stiff, dark pines rolled back from a
belt of trampled snow, and small groups occupied a row of logs; their
figures uncouth and bulky in blankets and ragged skin coats. In the
foreground, a man, nearly naked for all the cold, stretched his arms and
waited for another to get up from the snow. His body was large and
powerful, his pose somehow truculent. Mark's carelessness vanished, and
he carried the photograph to the lamp.

"Was the wrestler your man?" he asked.

"No," said Bob. "The Phelps-Martineau boundary touches the river a few
miles below our camp, and he came over with their gang. Our lot had
fixed up some sports for Christmas day, and the others brought their
champion. You see, when two companies run logs down a river disputes
begin, and the boys played for their side. The show was a rough-house
and, I admit, we were beaten."

Constance touched her brother. Mark's glance was fixed on the photograph
and his brows were firmly knit. Constance wanted to seize the picture;
she would have liked to destroy it, but she did not see a plan. Besides,
she was too late. Bob had given Mark the clue both had hoped he would
not get.

"Do you know the fellow's name?" he asked.

"Lewis, Levison? Law, I think! It's nearly two years since," said Bob,
and stopped, for he began to see a light. "You know him?" he resumed.

"Yes," said Mark. "In the Old Country, he was Turnbull, but he is the
man I want. If you don't mind, I'll keep his portrait."

"Perhaps you ought not," said Constance. "Two years will soon have gone
since he was at the camp, and lumbermen move about. He might be in the
woods beyond Edmonton, two thousand miles off, and he might have crossed
the Rockies. Then, if you did find him and he knew something about the
accident at the quarry, you could not force him to enlighten you."

"I hope to try," said Mark, in a quiet voice.

Constance knew she was baffled. Mark's mouth set tight. Although the
search might cost him much, he could not be moved.

"Oh, well, I'm sorry. But if you are resolved to follow the man, I
suppose you must. Bob perhaps can help."

"I don't want to help," Bob rejoined. "If I'd imagined I was going to
put Mark on the track, I'd have burned the photograph. All the same, I
know his stubbornness, and I have got to see him out."

"We will talk about it again," said Mark. "Bob's holidays, like mine,
are pretty scarce, and after a splendid day in the woods, we are not
going to bother about disturbing things."

Bob put up the pictures, and Constance went to the piano. She was sorry
for Mark and doubted if music would banish his moody thoughts, but so
long as she played and sang he would not feel he was forced to talk.




CHAPTER XVII

MARK GOES NORTH


Two days after his shooting excursion, Mark occupied a corner of a
second-class smoking compartment on board the Montreal express. The
train rolled smoothly along the bank of a broad river. Rail-joints
clicked and the wheels throbbed with a soothing rhythm; pale sunshine
touched the water; speeding pines and wooden homesteads cut the tranquil
evening sky. For all the quiet landscape's charm, Mark's brows were
knit.

His holiday was over and he would soon be back at his saw-bench in the
mill. In a way, it did not bother him. He was willing to labor, and now
the calm he had known was broken, he admitted he was happy at St.
Jerome. Moreover, he made progress; Wellwin, perhaps for Bob's sake, had
agreed to try him out, but he had some grounds to think the keen old
fellow satisfied. In fact, had he doubted, Bob's frank approval, and one
or two discreet remarks of Constance's would have reassured him. Mark
pictured the hopeful letters he had written Madge.

He had begun to think Turnbull had vanished for good and perhaps was
dead; his using a fresh name had baffled the inquiries Mark had
persuaded Travis to make. The fellow, however, was alive and active two
years since, and Mark admitted he got a knock when he saw his picture.
After all, he was ambitious, and for Madge's sake, he wanted to seize
the chance Bob had given him to mend his fortunes. There was the
trouble, because he must follow the clue he had begun to imagine, and
perhaps to hope, he might not get. Yet he knew Madge's pluck and she had
agreed that he must not run away from his duty. Well, there was no use
in brooding; he was back at the point he had reached before.

In the early dusk the train rolled into Montreal. Mark walked down St.
James, put his bag in a hotel, and started for Dominion Park. He might
not get another holiday for long, and the noise and lights and fireworks
might banish moody thought. They did not altogether do so, and when he
got back to the hotel his sleep was disturbed. Before day broke, he
heard music in the cathedral float across the quiet streets. To get up
was some relief, and taking the carriage-road up the mountain, he saw
the sun rise. When the first train for Quebec started he was on board.

In the morning, he got to work at the mill. Travis declared Law was not,
and had not been at any time, on the company's pay-sheet. Angelique
Leroux did not know the man, but she took the portrait. Her numerous
relations were river-jacks and she promised to inquire. Mark knew she
would do so. Angelique was a good sort, and he imagined she sometimes
mended his clothes. The _habitants_ inherit a vein of the French
peasant's industrious frugality.

When Mark thought about it, Angelique Leroux, like Constance Wellwin,
was an attractive girl. He imagined they knew he was not attracted;
Angelique at all events knew Madge's portrait was in his room, and
Madame had remarked that the belle Anglaise had a serious air.

Yet both were friendly, and Mark was persuaded that where Bob schemed
for his advantage Constance was his confederate.

All the same, Angelique's inquiries did not help. Nobody she knew knew
Law, and it looked as if the frail clue broke. Mark, however, was not
cheated; somehow he was convinced he would find another clue, he had not
for nothing been steered to the Wellwin summer cottage and given the
photograph.

Indian summer melted, and in the keen mornings gold and crimson
maple-leaves strewed the plank sidewalks. The logs had vanished from the
pond behind the boom and the river froze. For a time, Travis's reserves
fed the saws, and the men he did not need went to the woods. Then snow
fell, the frost got keen, and the engines stopped.

Travis gave Mark his orders. He was to go to a camp on the
height-of-land, where the rivers that run south to the St. Lawrence
spring. Until the ice broke, he must help the choppers and teamsters.
Travis hoped Mark would like it, but rather implied that he doubted.
Mark packed his waterproof kit-bag and in the bitter morning, when the
moon was yet bright, the clumsy bob-sledges plunged down the river-bank.

Thin smoke began to float about the roofs of St. Jerome, lights sprang
up behind double windows, but the mill on the sawdust bluff was dark.
The smoke plumes had vanished and the tall stacks nakedly cut the sky.
At length, the saws were quiet, and the rapid that brawled in summer was
frozen.

For a few moments Mark indulged a queer hesitation. At the mill, he had
begun to be ambitious, and looking forward hopefully, to calculate his
progress. Now all in front was dark; he was going to the woods Turnbull
had haunted, but the road on which he had started might carry him far.
In fact, he admitted, with a vague, half-superstitious shrinking, that
he might not come back. However, to brood about it would not help, and
when one fronted the biting frost at dawn one's nerve was not firm. Mark
beat his numbed hands and went down the bank.

Other parties had gone upriver and the trail was wide. The sledges ran
smoothly on the beaten snow, and the steam from the horses, floating
back like a silver cloud, froze on the loads. Nobody wanted to loiter,
and the pace was fast. They nooned and brewed tea by a fire at the
bottom of a bluff where the sun was on the pines. Mark was warm, but he
saw the snow a yard or two from the fire did not melt.

When dark fell and hands and feet began to tingle, they got a Homeric
supper at a _habitant_ farm, but for all his efforts in the frost, Mark
did not soon sleep. His kit-bag was an awkward bed, and when he
stretched his stiff legs the coarse blue blanket slipped from his body.
The windows were double, but a searching draught crept under the door.
The big stove burned wood, and Mark smelt hot iron and heard the wind
rumble in the pipe. Sometimes big drops of tar splashed from the joint
in the roof. The red iron glimmered, and the reflections from the partly
opened register flickered across uncouth, huddled forms. The men slept
noisily, and sometimes one, disturbed by the cold, turned on his other
side and swore.

But for two or three, the gang was French-Canadian. Warned by tales
about lumber camps Mark had reckoned on something like a brutal vein in
his companions, but so far the brutality was not at all conspicuous, and
when the men left St. Jerome most of them were sober. Although the
_habitant_ lumbermen perhaps were primitive, they were marked by some
primitive virtues.

In Canada the two races, speaking different languages, lived more or
less harmoniously side by side, but did not mix. One vaguely sensed a
dividing-line neither dared cross. Quebec was as French as Normandy;
Ontario was Scottish. For the most part, the British sprang from
Presbyterian stock; the _habitants_ were staunchly Catholic. All the
same, they and their priests were loyal citizens. In Canada, religious
orders enjoyed a security that was not theirs in Catholic France. But it
had nothing to do with Mark. The red stove and huddled figures melted,
and he was asleep.

At daybreak he got up and braced himself to front the cold. As long as
he was in the woods, he hated the morning start. On the trail, one slept
in the clothes one wore all day, and one did not wash. In fact, at the
camps, to wash was sometimes a rash adventure.

Breakfast vanished in about ten minutes. Teamsters, buckling harness
with numbed hands, swore; the sledges lurched ahead, and the gang took
the road. The snow got looser, and the sledge-shoes dragged in the soft
stuff. At some places, water had flooded the ice and the frozen crust
was treacherous. Then men's rubber boots were long, and Mark had stuffed
his with hay, but when he plowed through the pasty slush he imagined he
risked frozen feet. Sometimes an open rapid forced them to climb the
bank, and the party's advance was not fast.

Where the snow was dry, the trail curved like a pale-blue ribbon across
the dazzling surface, and for all the cold, the bright reflections
burned Mark's skin. His face smarted, and his eyes ached; although his
fur mittens were thick, his hands got numb. In the northern woods, one
does not wear gloves with separate fingers.

At dusk they pulled off the ice into a grove of small pines where the
horses might shelter, and, building a large fire, camped in the snow.
Mark was warned to pull off his rubber boots, but although sometimes he
burned his feet, his body was cold. He wondered whether the others
slept, for he himself did not, and to start in the morning cost him
much.

In the afternoon the party stopped at a spot where for some distance
wide dark-colored patches checkered the snow. The river pierced high
ground, and it looked as if the swift current had broken and flooded the
ice. Tangled pines grew in the rocks and the banks were steep. When one
crossed the dark belts one's boots broke the crust, and the ice under
the freezing slush cracked ominously.

The teamsters refused to risk it, and for some time disputed in uncouth
French. One must wait for the ice to harden; but one might wait for a
week. To cut a road up the bank was the proper plan, but for three or
four miles one could not get back to the river, and the tableland on
top was broken by rocks and trees. In effect, there was not another such
pig of a river in Quebec. Name of a pipe! Only fools roam the woods in
winter.

Two men, sitting on the sledge, quietly smoked their pipes, but at
length Olsen, the Dane, got up.

"I do not like to freeze," he said. "The road mus' be cut."

Long Murdoch nodded. He was an Ontario Scot and used some authority.

"Noo ye're through talking, ye might begin to chop," he said and turned
to Mark. "Victor and ye will start for the camp. If the foreman has a
team he disnot want, he might send it along. Ye'll tak' the hand-sled
and the two bags for the cook."

Mark pulled the light sledge from the load, but he imagined each bag
weighed sixty or seventy pounds. He got into the traces, the young
French-Canadian pushed, and they floundered awkwardly through wet snow
and across cracking ice. The slush that stuck to Mark's boots froze on
the rubber, and he was anxious about his feet, but Victor stated that as
long as he knew they were cold he need not bother. When one felt as if
one's toes were wooden, the trouble began.

On the firm snow, the sledge, for all its load, ran smoothly, and while
the light was good their advance was fast. When dusk fell Mark began to
feel he had had enough, but before they stopped, Victor was resolved to
find a proper spot to camp, and in the dark they pulled the sledge up a
bank where small pines and thick junipers grew. For some time after the
fire was built they were occupied. Branches must be cut for beds and
the snow scraped back. Wood must be stacked for the night, tea brewed,
and frozen pork warmed and sliced. Since they had carried fresh bread
from St. Jerome, they were not forced to cook flapjacks in the
frying-pan.

Mark, tired by his march, hated the labor, but he dared not risk being
slack. In the North, the camper who does not use proper caution freezes.
Yet a man needs much, and studying the blankets, axe, food supply, and
cooking tins, he speculated about the Pioneers, who, sometimes for three
or four hundred miles, carried their loads across snowy rocks and
through forests where a sledge could not be used.

He had not thought to sleep, but when Victor touched him day was
breaking. Although Mark was numbed, he shrank from getting up; he felt
he would sooner freeze than make the effort to cook breakfast. All the
same, Victor had got to work, and he must not acknowledge himself softer
stuff than the French-Canadian.

When they were three or four miles from camp the sun pierced the frosty
haze. The river curved between rocks and woods; but for the blurred
trail, its surface was smooth and level, like a broad white road. In the
shadow, snow and pines were blue; where the sun struck, their ragged
white tops sparkled and the red trunks shone against the background of
dusky green. The lines were sharp and the color was strong, and for all
its austerity Mark thought the landscape beautiful. The quiet, however,
was daunting, and he concentrated on pushing ahead. He was resolved he
would not camp for another night in the woods.

At noon they stopped for half an hour and brewed some tea. The sledge
traces galled Mark's chest and his long boots galled his feet. The snow
got loose, and sometimes for a mile or two he labored past open rapids,
across rocky slopes. Mark set his mouth, and when they plunged down to
the ice, went faster. The landscape did not interest him and he fixed
his eyes on the trail. So long as he could follow the river, he was not
going to sleep in the frost.

At dusk Victor reckoned the lumber camp was two or three hours' march
off. They might make it, but he did not know.

"We have got to make it," Mark rejoined. "Keep going. _Ma boule en
roulant, roulant_--Anyhow, come on."

Victor laughed. The Anglaise was harder than he had thought, but he
himself sprang from the old _coureurs_. A stranger must not beat him,
and when he took the traces the sledge forged ahead. There was no moon,
but the river was smooth and level and the camp was not very far in
front. Yet, since they might not reach it, they dared not leave the
sledge, and although the shift in the traces got shorter they labored
on.

At length, a light pierced the snowy trees, and Victor steered for the
bank. To climb the slope cost Mark something, but at the top he saw a
long wooden shed. Luminous smoke curled from a stove-funnel, and
throwing down the traces he pushed back the door.

A table went down the middle of the room, and at the other end men with
frost-burned faces clustered round the stove. Mark smelt cooking, hot
iron, blankets, and rank tobacco, and after the biting freshness of the
night, his head swam. He felt the bunkhouse was suffocating, but the
important thing was he had got there, and he steered for a bench along
the wall.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE WOODS


Mark dully imagined he heard cowbells chime. The noise got louder, as if
an advancing locomotive carried the bell, and he knew somebody beat a
suspended iron bar. Half-dressed men crawled from their beds on a shelf
along the wall and pulled on clothes and boots. A big lamp hung from the
roof, the stove was red, and by contrast with Mark's snowy camps, the
bunkhouse was warm.

He smelt cooking, stale tobacco-smoke and greasy blankets. At a lumber
camp one is not fastidious; the important thing is keep out the Arctic
frost. He did not want to get up. His joints, particularly his
hip-joint, ached, his muscles were stiff, and his brain was dull; but he
must not admit he was exhausted, and he jumped from his bunk. There was
no use in looking for water, and he pulled on his coat and long boots,
and waited for breakfast.

The plates were tin, and the thick, nickeled knives were dull. The food
was good; bacon and greasy beans, fresh bread, and slabs of fruit pie,
but Mark imagined the bill-of-fare might get monotonous. The lumbermen
ate like wolves. In a few minutes the piles of food had melted, and the
Ontario foreman called Mark.

"Ye will be a chopper?" he said, and Mark replied, apologetically, that
he was not.

"Maybe ye can load up a log sledge?"

Mark said he doubted, particularly if the load were high. There was no
use in boasting, since the other had but to experiment. Logs that are
not properly stacked fall down.

"Ye're a modest lad! D'ye ken aucht about lumbering?"

"I don't know much," Mark admitted. "I'm keen to learn."

"Well, that's something," remarked the foreman, and signed a teamster.
"Ye need help. Put him through it."

The teamster was a large and rather silent Scandinavian, but when Mark
helped him harness his horses he nodded as if he approved. The bunkhouse
was near the river-bank, and they followed a trail that curved about
between tall stumps to the standing woods. Where the hollow track
stopped, the trunks lay in rows, and Mark noted that none had fallen
across the next. The rows were roughly even, and it looked as if the
chopper had dropped the trees exactly where he meant them to go.

While Mark strained on his handspike, the teamster hooked a chain round
the nearest log and, starting his horses, hauled the sliding trunk to
the sledge-road. In the meantime Mark dragged the cut branches out of
the way and piled the stuff where it might be burned. Sometimes he must
move the end of a log for a few yards. He used a peevie, a wooden bar
with a hinged iron claw, and imagined he would not freeze. The teamster
must not wait for him to clear the road, and the foreman, no doubt, knew
how many logs they ought to move.

After Mark's march upriver, the labor was exhausting, but when they
stopped at dusk his companion did not grumble, and Mark slept until the
clanging bar called him to resume his efforts in the bitter dawn. For a
week or two he helped the teamster; and then he was sent where an extra
man was needed about camp. He piled logs by the bank; straining with his
handspike while the trunks rolled up the skids in the looped rope the
horses hauled on the other side. He pulled a big saw through gummy wood,
and where the trunks were not yet stripped he cut branches. For the most
part, he was not sent to chop. The axe is not a beginner's tool, and
when he experimented he slashed his boots and cut his foot. To lie in
his bunk for a week was some relief.

An engineer, however, is a handy man, and Mark could file a saw, grind
an axe and harden a soft blade. His strength and intelligence were
useful, and the foreman admitted he earned his pay. For four or five
months he lived, rather like an animal, with men who were satisfied to
labor and eat and sleep. Sometimes the calm frost was Arctic, and
sometimes a savage blizzard drove the gang from the woods to the dark
bunkhouse. Snow piled against the small windows and blocked the door;
the long shed smelt like a kennel, and by contrast the rank smoke of
Quebec tobacco was bracing and clean.

When the sun shone, the reflected light was almost intolerable. Mark's
skin was burned; his fur cap galled his forehead and his red eyes hurt.
Sometimes, when the thermometer was below zero, he welcomed a chance to
occupy himself in the shade. In fact, he imagined he and his companions
bore all flesh and blood could bear; and he now and then wondered
whether there was, so to speak, in the scheme of things, an object for
his stern endurance. It looked as if wanton chance had sent him to the
snowy woods, where all he could get was the bodily hardness that stamps
the lumberman. Mark did not know. He was in the woods, and somehow he
must stick it.

At length the sun got faintly warm and rain honey-combed the snow. The
sledge-roads softened, and men and teams floundered in melting slush
that froze again at night. The ice cracked with a noise like
rifle-shots, and broke. The thick floes crashed and shocked in a flood
from the height-of-land. Large blocks were flung upon the stones;
confused echoes rolled across the woods, and when a floe struck a
boulder the shrill note the splintering ice struck pierced the hoarse
turmoil.

When the ice was gone, the gang broke the piles on the bank. The stacks
dissolved with a rumble like thunder, and the logs, plunging down the
skids, vanished for a few moments in yeasty foam. They came up, jarring
and grinding, and sometimes lifting their heavy tops, charged
triumphantly downstream.

At a point where the current was slack along a salient curve, men
carrying long pike-poles took the water. The logs must not strand, and
when two or three collided a river-jack jumped on the treacherous bark
and steered the mass into the stream. Sometimes one balanced across an
island rock, and a man or two labored savagely. If the butt took the
bank downstream, the top would hold the other logs and a jamb might form
and block the channel. The water, for the most part, was recently melted
snow, the men risked being crushed by the grinding timber, and sometimes
must swim.

The mill waited supplies, and the foreman unloaded while the water was
high. Since the logs must be _driven_ to the pond, picked men were sent
ahead to watch the rapids and awkward points, but for some time Mark was
kept at the camp. Then, one morning, the foreman sent for him.

"Ye are wanted at the big bend below St. Martin's forks," he said. "The
cook will put ye up some grub."

"Who wants me? And how do I get there?" Mark inquired.

"I dinna ken," said the foreman. "Mr. Travis sent word for ye to start.
If ye follow the river, ye'll hit the boys' camps, and ye canna miss the
forks. When a canoe goes down, we'll send your turkey to the mill. We'll
not see ye back, I'm thinking, and maybe I have not hazed ye much."

Mark gave him his hand. The fellow had not bullied him and must justify
his wages bill.

"If I'm sent to the woods another time, I hope the camp will be yours. A
beginner is rather an embarrassment."

"I've handled worse," said the foreman and let him go.

Mark was not sorry to be off. He wondered who wanted him, but it was not
important. He had perhaps made good at the camp, and spring was in the
woods. The pines smelt fresh and the sun was warm. He slept at camps by
awkward curves and rapids, and one afternoon passed the pool where the
St. Martin's river joins the larger stream. In the evening he saw smoke
curl about the rocks, and soon afterward a factory-built canoe on the
white gravel. At length, he thought he knew who had sent for him.

When he reached the camp, Bob Wellwin and a man from the mill were
cooking supper. Bob joyously gave Mark his hand.

"You stuck it out all right? That's fine," he said. "I don't know if
you're bigger, but you look tough as rock elm and you walk like a
lumberman. I myself am getting soft, but in two or three months I'm for
the British Columbian woods and you will come along. However, the pork
is cooked. Let's get busy."

Supper was soon over, and Bob, giving Mark his tobacco-pouch, lighted
his pipe.

"The stuff is different from the Quebec cigar-dust I expect you got in
camp. Now we can talk. To begin with, can you chop?"

"I cannot," said Mark. "When speed is not important, I can fell a tree.
That, however, is another thing."

Bob nodded. "Still, I expect you know the trees it pays to cut? You can
lay out a job; fix the line for logging-roads, reckon the number of men
and horses you ought to use, and so forth?"

"I know something about it; but that's all."

"Anyhow, you're a draughtsman. If you were given a measured base-line
and compass-bearings, you could reckon up areas and draw a plan to
scale?"

"Since we used the protractor, it oughtn't to be very difficult,
although I have not studied surveying."

"That's fine," said Bob, and gave Mark a friendly grin. "Your English
habit is to imply things; in Canada we're frank. Well, I reckoned on the
old man's taking a shine to you, and he certainly did. When you fixed
those tubes at the mill, you got him all right. Then Travis reported you
a useful man, and although the camp boss hates beginners, he did not
grumble."

"His statement was, he'd handled worse," Mark observed.

"In short," Bob resumed, "your _dossier_ is good, and so long as you are
willing to stop with us, we have work for you. Now we'll go ahead. I'm
for British Columbia, to study up fresh _limits_ for which we hold the
lease, and survey another block. The timber's giant timber, and when you
handle big stuff you use modern mechanical plant. You see why I want
you? I guess we can fix your pay so you'll be satisfied, and we'll camp
for the summer on the Pacific Slope. The country's the sort of country
an artist might dream about--snow mountains, deep woods, blue lakes, and
rivers. Bears in the rocks, fish-eagles watching the shallows, and soft
Chinook winds blowing up the valleys. Now, I allow we are boosters, but
the Canadian Pacific Slope can't be beat on this earth. Anyhow, when I'm
back from Scotland we are going there."

Allowing for Bob's enthusiasm, the picture attracted Mark, and he was
glad to know his pay would go up.

"Then, you are not keeping your salesman's post?" he said.

Bob smiled. "I took the post because the old man reckoned I must know
the company's business from end to end; I stayed with it. All the same,
to bother folks to buy goods they sometimes do not want, is not my
proper line, and at length I'm through. My last trip as drummer is to
Glasgow."

Mark thought Bob's undertaking to study an occupation he frankly
disliked typical. Moreover, since he was young, it perhaps implied some
rather unusual qualities.

"Do you start soon?" he asked.

"In two or three weeks. You see, I know the Scots. The drummer's talk
that goes in North America leaves them cold. They listen and say
nothing. You don't know if they're interested, and your inspiration
melts. You begin to talk like a schoolboy and sometimes you get mad.
Well, I stood for it and studied them until I found out the inducements
they would weigh. Anyhow, I sold them stuff and they want some more.
There's the argument that persuaded the old man; but when I am in
Scotland I'm going to the Millhouse."

"I hope your luck is good," said Mark, in a sympathetic voice.

"I don't know, Mark. Sometimes I wonder; but if Flora refuses, I'll go
back another time. Maybe when she sees I'm firm----"

Mark said nothing. The ground was awkward and he himself did not know;
but Bob was a very good sort and Flora was not a fool. For a minute or
two Bob smoked his pipe, and then he looked up.

"We will let it go. There's another thing, and it explains my sending
for you. We are not getting all the logs the foreman unloads. One allows
for some loss by stranding and so forth, but our tally's short, and so
far as I have gone upstream, the stranded logs are not on the bank.
Well, sound milling lumber is worth something."

"But there is no other mill at St. Jerome."

"Transport by water is cheap; a small tug can move a large log raft. In
fact, the Phelps-Martineau logs are towed upriver. Their lease is on the
St. Martin, and we have had disputes with them."

"Do you imagine they steal your lumber?"

"Phelps is not scrupulous," Bob replied in a thoughtful voice. "I doubt
if he'd risk a big sweep, but if a little first-class stuff was now and
then slipped into his lot, he'd stand for fifty dollars and refuse to
investigate. Some folks are like that. They'd steal a postage-stamp, and
to spot them is awkward."

"Where do you think they seize the logs?"

"At the big pool below the forks. The river is not ours, and when two
combines are running logs disputes begin, but if the other folks are
straight, you can fix things. Phelps-Martineau are not remarkably
straight, but if the unloading gang do not crowd us, we now and then
hold up some logs at the pool and let them get their drive away."

"The pool is boomed," said Mark.

Bob nodded. "If I go up, I'll be spotted for a stranger and somebody
will find out who I am. Nobody will bother about you; you are one of the
gang. In the dark you'll lurk about the pool."

"Then I ought to start soon."

"You'll start tomorrow. The Phelps boys are driving a big lot and they
might run down some of ours. In the morning we'll move the tent and
canoe back into the brush and loaf about. When dusk falls you'll take
the trail up the bank."




CHAPTER XIX

MARK FINDS HIS MAN


Sometimes the moon vanished behind a cloud and Mark, pushing upstream
along the uneven bank, went cautiously. Smooth rocks dropped to deep
water, and where shelving gravel bordered the swift current, battered
branches and white driftwood strewed the beach. The night was calm and
in some places thin mist floated about the pines. Sweet resinous scents
floated across the valley, and a rapid beat like a drum.

A fresh breeze swelled the St. Martin, and when the moon was bright Mark
saw revolving eddies trailed dark muddy stains along the other bank. On
his side, the current for some distance was smooth and clear, as if the
rivers kept their separate channels. The Phelps-Martineau gang obviously
meant to use the flood. Logs circled in the whirlpools, collided with
dull shocks, and were swept downstream. So far, Mark saw nobody, but
since the logs were running, people were about. He imagined they watched
the shallows where the trunks might strand, and rocks on which a jamb
might form.

Anyhow, the night was the sort of night when an unscrupulous foreman
might risk driving logs that were not his, and the Duquesne Company had
stopped some lumber at the pool. A boom of chained logs crossed the
slack, but to push out some of the trunks it enclosed would not bother a
river-jack, and the stream would swiftly carry the stuff away with the
other lot. Mark reckoned the thieves had a confederate in the Duquesne
gang, and he meant to watch the pool. If he were seen, his being there
would not excite suspicion. In the meantime, Bob and the mill-hand,
keeping the gloom along the bank, would paddle upstream and wait his
signal.

After an awkward scramble, Mark reached the pool, and sat down behind a
rock. Although he thought nobody could see him, the spot commanded the
river, and he resigned himself to keep his dreary watch. The drawback
was, he could not hear. The rapid throbbed, logs crashed, and the St.
Martin rolled noisily round the rocks on the other side.

Clouds floated across the moon, but when they passed the water sparkled
and wet stones shone. After a time, one or two indistinct objects moved
along the other bank. They vanished, and Mark's glance searched the bank
he occupied. Although he imagined the Duquesne lumber was guarded, he
saw nobody.

Where the boom touched a rocky point, the water was deep and went rather
fast. Behind the boom, the stream was slack, and the imprisoned logs
floated quietly. Since Mark arrived none had come downstream. The
foreman was not unloading; although their competitors were not
scrupulous, the Duquesne Company's agreement stood. They had driven a
large quantity of stuff, and now the others were entitled to use the
fresh.

An hour went drearily, and Mark got cramped and cold. If his watching
were to be useful, he must not walk about; but he doubted if it would be
useful and he wanted to get back to his camp bed. Yet, if Bob's
supposition were accurate, all the circumstances favored the thieves.
The Phelps-Martineau logs were running, Duquesne lumber worth something
floated behind the boom, and Bob imagined the guard was bribed. The
stuff could not be tallied until it reached the pond at the mill, and
nobody knew the quantity at any particular spot.

A dark object swung out from a whirlpool at the St. Martin's mouth, and
when a light cloud melted wet paddles sparkled in the moon. The canoe,
stemming the current obliquely, steered for the boom, and Mark reflected
that the thieves were bold. To pole a log across ought not to be
impossible, and since the river-jacks are hardy, he had rather thought
one or two might swim. Then he saw their using a canoe implied that the
company's watchman was their accomplice.

Two men were on board, but a cloud rolled across the moon, and they
vanished in the gloom by the high bank. Mark thought they had landed
behind the boom, and he began to crawl through the brush. He must, if
possible, get near enough to see who the fellows were, in order that he
might know them another time, and if he went for help they might be gone
before Bob arrived. The turmoil of the flood ought to cover his cautious
advance.

Silver light pierced the clouds and he saw three men behind the boom;
the thieves had joined their confederate. All were expert river-jacks,
for they walked about the treacherous, rolling lumber, and pushed the
logs with their pike-poles, as if they selected their booty.

Then the light went, and Mark swore. A large cloud rolled across the sky
and he thought the moon would be covered for some time. All the same,
the dark would hide him and he must get nearer. Pushing laboriously
through wet brush and crawling across driftwood, he reached the rocks at
the end of the boom. He must wait for illumination, and he crawled into
a pothole where the floods had worn the stone.

By and by a bright beam touched the river and he saw a row of logs float
by. The fellows had worked cleverly and fast. Then, as the swift light
spread, he saw two men on the boom. The third had vanished, but the
others advanced toward the rocks, stepping, and sometimes jumping, from
log to log. Although their boots, no doubt, were studded by
creeper-spikes, only a first-class lumberman could take their road. For
all that, their advance was fast, and Mark knew the first man.

The fellow was a Duquesne man, and had been bribed to rob the company.
That was something; but Mark wanted to study the other, in order to pick
him out at the Phelps-Martineau camp. The pothole, however, was not deep
and the moon was bright. Mark's advantage was, the fellows did not know
he was about.

The Duquesne man landed. He was but three or four yards from Mark, who
dared not lift his head. By and by the other's spike boots rattled on
the stones.

"Do you see Steve?" he asked. "We must shove off."

Mark's heart beat. If the fellow were forced to wait, he might see the
pothole was occupied. Moreover, Mark imagined he ought to know his
voice. He had not reckoned on the fellows' stopping.

"I think I hear Steve's paddle," said the Duquesne man. "Will you be
back for another lot?"

The stranger laughed.

"Something depends on the quantity your boss unloads. The Duquesne boys
are not very bright, but if I'm greedy, they might begin to wonder where
the logs have gone. Anyhow, I'll be at my tent, a mile back up the St.
Martin, and if you get some good news, you might shove across. But where
is Steve?"

His boots jarred on the stones, as if he climbed the rock for a wider
view. Then he stopped at the edge of the pothole.

"Who in----?"

Mark jumped up. The Duquesne man knew him, and plunging from the rock,
vanished like an otter under the logs in the pool. Mark knew the other
and he thrilled triumphantly, for a yard or two off Turnbull fronted
him. The moon was bright, and it looked as if the fellow had got a
knock. His mouth was hard, but his glance was not steady. He carried a
short, thick cant-pole, and Mark thought his hand shook. The canoe was
yet some distance off and nobody was about.

"Mark Crozier!" said Turnbull, bracing up. "You knew I was on the river?
Now you have spotted me, do you think you can get away with it?"

He stepped back. A cant-pole is three or four feet long and fitted at
the thick end with an iron claw. Mark knew he needed room to swing the
tool, and he jumped for him. All he wanted was to seize the fellow. He
was hard and athletic, but the other was cool and quick. The pole swung,
Mark took a smashing knock, reeled back, and went down the bank. He
rolled into icy water, and for some time that was all he knew.

When he pushed a thick blanket from his chest, he was in a tent and it
looked as if day had broken, for dim light pierced the canvas. His head
hurt; he felt a wet bandage on his forehead, and although his clothes
were gone the blankets in which he lay were hot.

"Hallo!" he said, in a feeble voice. "Is somebody about?"

Bob lifted the door-flap and sat down on a box.

"Beginning to look round, partner? That's fine!"

"I'm not fine; my head hurts horribly," Mark rejoined. "Where did you
pick me up?"

"On the stones by the gravel point. Your legs were in the water."

Mark puzzled about it. The gravel bank was some distance from the pool,
but the current went fast. Perhaps he had unconsciously used some
mechanical effort, and, anyhow, in a fast stream a man who allowed the
current to carry him along ought not to drown. It was when one lifted
one's head and arms one went underneath--

"Anyhow, it's not important," Bob resumed soothingly. "You had stopped
for some time, and Pete and I landed to investigate. What we found you,
you were unconscious. Cold and shock, I reckon; your head was battered.
We got you on board, made a fire by the tent, rubbed you over, and put
hot stones at your feet."

Mark felt about under the blanket and drew back his leg.

"The stones are there, all right. I knew I was horribly hot. Pull out
the things. I don't want to be boiled."

Bob laughed and cautiously removed a large stone.

"You'll soon be fit, old son. One cannot knock out a dalesman; you are a
hardy gang. All the same, it looks as if somebody had tried. Do you know
the man?"

"You have got his picture. The wrestling fellow, Law. In the Old Country
he was Turnbull."

Bob looked up sharply, and Mark thought he frowned.

"We'll talk about it again. In the meantime, you mustn't bother."

"I'm perfectly able to talk," Mark declared. "The brute was stealing
your lumber at the pool."

"You are going to sleep," said Bob firmly. "I am going to see about
breakfast, but I'll fix your blanket. If you push it off another time,
we'll peg it down."

He went off. Although Mark had not thought to sleep, his brain was dull,
and when he looked up the sun was hot. Bob brought him tea and
flapjacks, and after breakfast he asked for his clothes, but to dress
was harder than he had imagined and for a time he was content to lie on
his branch bed.

"You are satisfied Law knew you?" said Bob, when Mark had narrated his
adventures.

"He used my name. In fact, I believe his knowing me accounts for his
resolve to knock me out. Although he might hesitate to kill a man who
had caught him stealing, to finish with Mark Crozier was worth some
risk. I expect you see the implication?"

Bob nodded. Mark was hurt, and but for his splendid youth might not have
recovered from the knock and his icy plunge. He had, indeed, not
altogether done so.

"Why, yes; your argument is logical," he agreed. "All the same, I'm
sorry, Mark. I'd hoped, perhaps I'd half believed, you might find you
followed an illusion."

Mark smiled, a queer grim smile.

"Turnbull was about a yard off, and the moon was bright. For a moment, I
think both were quiet. All we felt was perhaps surprise. Then I knew the
brute was afraid, and since he was afraid, he was dangerous. Anyhow, he
swung the peevie, and I jumped for him."

"Well, let's be practical! Where were the others?"

"When they saw me, your man dived under some logs. Turnbull's partner
was paddling around the other end of the boom. In fact, when I went down
the rock nobody was near the spot. Turnbull probably thinks me drowned,
but I don't see him starting for the woods."

"I expect he'll stay put. His confederates do not know you fought, and
if somebody found you, he'd be justified to think your cut head would
not excite much suspicion. A man who went down a rapid might carry a
mark like that. If, however, he pulled out, the police might
investigate. I believe we can reckon on his stopping. What are you going
to do about it?"

"He knows much I want to know," Mark replied in a quiet voice. "I have
followed him to Canada, and he is going to satisfy my curiosity. When
he has done so, you can seize him for stealing your lumber. Since he
thinks me drowned, we might wait for dark and crawl up to his tent on
the St. Martin. When I pull back the canvas, I expect he'll get a jar.
It's possible he'll think I have come back to haunt him. Anyhow, your
man, Pete, is a hefty fellow and after a quiet day, I ought to be pretty
fresh."




CHAPTER XX

TURNBULL'S STORY


Bob's tent was hidden by the rocks and trees, and when the canoe was
pulled into the brush he imagined nobody going downriver would remark
his camp. Moreover, since the Duquesne logs were not running, the
company's men would not pass the boom, and the Martineau gang, following
their lumber down the St. Martin, would keep the other bank. He and
Mark, however, must wait for dark. If they steered for Law's tent in
daylight, the fellow would see their canoe on the river and might take
alarm. If he stole away into the woods, to follow him would be
difficult; but he might send for help, and Bob knew the river-jacks, as
a rule, frankly enjoy a fight.

Mark agreed. He was resolved to capture Turnbull. The fellow knew much
about Jim's plunge down the quarry, and although Mark was not
consciously superstitious, it looked as if he had been steered to the
spot. At all events, if accident were accountable, his luck was
remarkably good. He had, so to speak, blindly followed Turnbull to
Canada, and although his chance of finding the man was ridiculously
small, he had found him. Anyhow, now his obstinacy might be rewarded, he
must not hesitate.

There was another thing. Turnbull was a queer, moody fellow, and, in a
sense, primitive; Mark did not know a better word. When he got up from
the pothole, the other, for a moment or two, was afraid. Now he thought
Mark at the bottom of the river, if one could steal into his tent after
night fell, to work upon his surprise and alarm might be possible. A man
who has got a nervous jolt, sometimes forgets his caution. If the
circumstances were favorable, Mark thought he would experiment.

In the afternoon, Pete, the mill-hand, sent out to pick up news, came
back with his report. He had met one or two of the Martineau gang, and
nooned by their fire. Pete reckoned they knew nothing about the Duquesne
logs, and only Law and his helper had gone to the boom. They talked
about the man, and declared he was a good river boss, although he used
liquor and sometimes was savage. Once when the logs jambed, and the man
responsible risked some back-talk, he grabbed the fellow and threw him
over his head. A cracker jack of a wrestler! Law, however, although he
had driven logs on the St. Martin before, had not been with them long.
The boys understood the bosses had sent him from an Ontario camp, in
consequence of some trouble in which a mutinous chopper was hurt.

"I expect the tale is accurate," Bob remarked, when Pete went off.
"Phelps-Martineau have a lease in Ontario, and supply lumber to the new
mining towns in the North. It explains your not getting on Law's track."

"It throws some light on the fellow's temperament," said Mark. "He hurt
a man at the Phelps camp, and he tried to kill me. In England he and my
brother jarred. The argument is obvious."

Bob cogitated. When Mark was resolved, one could not move him, but Bob
thought he might get a worse knock than he had recently taken.

"I feel you ought to leave the thing alone. The English police and the
coroner were satisfied, and their business is to investigate. But if you
did find out something they did not know, you might not be happier."

"Forsyth talked like that. I wanted to agree, but I could not," said
Mark. "Until I know all, I cannot fix my mind on my proper job, and I
ought not to marry Madge--Besides, the company has been robbed, and
since I have spotted the thief, you mustn't let him go."

"I don't propose to let him go," said Bob. "We must wait for dark and
steal up to his tent. If he saw us, I expect he'd beat it for the
woods."

The evening was cool, and when the sun set, thin mist drifted across the
water. About ten o'clock, Bob launched the canoe, and since three
passengers were an awkward load, they poled cautiously up the slack
along the bank. Law's tent was about a mile from the mouth of the St.
Martin. It looked as if he might for a day or two superintend at the
confluence, and Bob doubted if they would find him alone. Mark did not.
He had begun to think where one trusted one's luck, one's luck, in the
end, was good.

Pushing across the river, they poled as noiselessly as possible up the
St. Martin. No logs were running, and for a time the woods along the
bank were dark. At length, a light shone indistinctly in the trees and
Mark threw down his pole. He knew the lamp burned behind damp canvas,
and he pulled the bandage from his head.

"I am going overboard," he said. "When you land bring the bundle of
clothes. If the Phelps boys are about, I'll signal."

He dropped noiselessly into the water, the canoe rocked, and he vanished
in the gloom of the trees. Bob was frankly anxious, but on the whole he
thought Mark's swimming for the beach was prudent. They must not risk a
fight with the Phelps-Martineau men, and Mark, going alone, would find
out who was at the tent.

"Steer for the slack behind the rock," Bob said to his companion. "If we
don't get a signal in ten minutes, we'll land."

The water was chilled by melted snow, and Mark was yet shaken by his
recent adventure and embarrassed by his clothes. All the same, he was a
strong swimmer, and he had not far to go. To pull a canoe up a stony
bank without making some noise is difficult, and when the others landed
the tent door must be blocked.

Crawling up a slab, he followed the lumbermen's trail along the bank,
and when he was three or four yards from the tent, crouched in the
brush. But for the rapid's turmoil, all was quiet, and only the
glimmering light indicated that somebody was about. The canvas, wet by
dew, strained on the guy-ropes, and an uncouth dark shadow moved across
its tight surface. Then Mark heard a match rubbed and his heart beat.
Turnbull had got up for a light for his pipe, and he was alone. In a few
moments the fellow was going to tell him all he knew.

Mark thought his step was noiseless, for the shadow did not move. He
reached the tent door, and, pulling the flap open, stepped inside.
Turnbull jumped back, struck the canvas wall, and seized the ridge-pole,
as if for support. Mark saw the blood had left his skin and his legs
shook. A whisky-bottle was capsized on the ground and the tent smelt of
the spirit. An axe and a small sharpening-stone were by the branch bed.

There was no use in running a fresh risk, and Mark advanced until he was
between Turnbull and the tool. A red cut crossed his forehead, his face
was wet and pinched by cold, and water drained from his clothes. The
whisky perhaps implied that Turnbull's nerve was shaken, and when Mark
fronted him he shrank. He had some grounds to doubt if the other were
flesh and blood.

"You need not bodder me aboot Jim. I'd nowt t'do wi' his going down
quarry," he said.

Perhaps it was strange, but Mark believed the statement accurate. The
brute was not altogether sober, and his talking like a dalesman was
significant. He had got a nasty jolt and, carried away, as he was, by
superstitious terror, he dared not cheat. For a few moments one might
work on his fear.

"When you knocked me out with the cant-pole, you thought you had got rid
of me. Well, I've come back, and if you bluff, I'll drag you down the
rapid where I went. You were at the quarry. Who did you see there?"

"Your uncle Isaac; nobody but him and Jim. For aw that, I had nowt----"
said Turnbull, and stopped.

Mark wondered whether the shock the other had got was going, and he put
his boot on the axe. It began to look as if Turnbull braced up. Anyhow,
he was hard stuff and would soon find out his illusion. Moreover, Mark
knew the most important thing: Isaac was at the quarry.

"You cannot break through the canvas and I will see you do not get the
axe," he said. "Sit on the box by the bed and tell me all you saw and
heard the night in the fog."

He thought Turnbull's predominant emotion was something like relief.
Anyhow, the brute was beaten; recent indulgence had left him slack, and
his brain was dull. In fact, Mark doubted if he was yet altogether
satisfied he faced a living man.

"I was at Packhorse Inn; I'd driven blue-gray bullocks to Miresceugh,
and Jim was annoyed. I think he knew nowt aboot their being sold until
they were gone----"

A stick cracked, and Mark heard steps in the path. He commanded the tent
door and he said:

"Come in, Bob! Pete must wait."

Bob advanced, moved the axe, and sat down on the bed.

"Turnbull is going to give us his confidence and I want you to note his
tale," Mark resumed. "He was at the inn when my brother arrived, and
admits that Jim was angry. Isaac, without consulting him, had sold some
cattle which Turnbull drove to the buyer's farm----" He glanced at
Turnbull. "You quarreled about it?"

"We did not. I said one wouldn't know who was boss, and I'd got Isaac's
orders."

"It looks as if you meant to be nasty. But go on."

"T'others knew Jim was annoyed. He got some liquor. Hot rum, I think; I
mind Braithwaite cut a lemon. I'm not saying he was drunk, but when he
went off he was not overstiddy, and he put on his game-bag wrong side in
front. He went by Blackshaw moor; I did not want t' fratch with him, and
I waited five-a-ten minutes, and then took dale road----"

For a few moments Turnbull brooded. Mark imagined he weighed the tale he
meant to tell. Somehow he did not doubt the fellow. At Howbarrow
Turnbull was rather sullen than plausible. In fact, Mark thought the
hesitating narrative rather eased his mind.

"The night was cold and I went fast," Turnbull resumed and began to use
colloquial English. "By and by I took the path that cuts the corner at
the ghyll, and when I was near the quarry I heard voices in the fog. I
reckoned the others didn't know I was there, and I stopped, maybe thirty
yards off. Jim was talking loud: Howbarra' was his, and when stock was
sold, he'd sell the beasts. Isaac was too d---- meddlesome. Isaac
laughed. The farm belonged to the man who held the mortgage and paid the
bills----"

Mark thought the talk did go something like that. As a rule, a North
country dalesman's memory is tenacious, and Jim's blood was red. He had
perhaps begun to find out Isaac cheated him; at all events, he rebelled
against the other's control.

"Was that all you heard?" he asked.

Turnbull gave him a queer, malignant glance.

"Isaac said he meant to meddle. He was going to see the slut at Hexham
did not get money that was needed for the farm."

"If you are lying, you'll be sorry," said Mark in a stern voice.

Turnbull smiled, but his smile implied that he knew the other was hurt.

"I'm telling you what Isaac said. If you doubt, you can ask him why he
gave me a hundred pounds. There never was a Crozier gave you much for
nowt."

"I expect to ask him," Mark rejoined. "Get on with your tale."

"Jim shouted he'd use his money as he liked; Isaac got his interest, and
if he was wise, he wouldn't try to bully him. I moved and a stone rolled
down the bank. Maybe they heard, for the talking stopped, and I stole
off in the fog. When I got to the field dyke, I thought something
smashed; but until morning I didn't know it was the rotten fence at
quarry top. By and by Isaac, going fast, came up the path, and when he
stopped he was breathing hard. He said a horse had broken dyke and
strayed on the moor. The horse had broken the dyke, and gone up the
lonning. Isaac and me went to the kitchen and I went to bed. In the
morning the herd found Jim Crozier on the stones by the quarry pit."

"What about the bribe you state you got?"

"When the doctor had gone, Isaac stopped me in the field. He knew no
more than I knew about Jim's going through the fence, but only him and
me was on the moor and I must be careful what I said. There was going to
be an inquest and he reckoned the coroner would send for me. If I was
wise, I'd go abroad. I told him if I got a hundred pounds, I'd start
for Montreal, _after the inquest_, and he gave me the money in treasury
notes."

"You were modest; you might have got two-hundred pounds," said Mark.
"Why did you stop for the inquest?"

"I knew Isaac Crozier," Turnbull replied in a meaning voice. "Only he
and I knew where t'other was, and his word might go where the coroner
would doubt a cowman. But if you ask me if he and Jim fought, I cannot
tell."

Mark said nothing. The fellow's statement must be pondered, and in the
meantime his clothes were wet and the night was cold. Bob got up, and
when he had shouted for his man he said to Turnbull:

"Pack your turkey for a run downriver. At St. Jerome I'll hand you to
the police for stealing the company's logs. You will probably go to the
pen, and Mr. Crozier will have some time to investigate your tale."

In a few minutes Turnbull's pack was made, and Bob gave Mark the dry
clothes he had brought.

"The canoe will not carry four, and when we have ferried the fellow
across one of us will pick you up at the river mouth," he said.

He pushed Turnbull from the tent, and Mark began to pull off his wet
clothes.




CHAPTER XXI

MARK FOLLOWS THE CLUE


At daybreak Mark and Bob and Turnbull started for St. Jerome. The
mill-hand went upriver and, getting another canoe and a man from the
lumber gang, rejoined them at a camp downstream. Since the
Phelps-Martineau men might try to rescue the prisoner, Bob was resolved
to run no risk. Nobody, however, meddled, and it looked as if Turnbull
were moodily resigned.

As a rule, he said nothing, and it was not until the evening before they
reached St. Jerome he broke his sullen reserve. Bob had gone to catch a
trout and when Turnbull, sitting in front of the tent, beckoned Mark he
sent off the man on guard.

"You'll make the settlement by noon tomorrow," Turnbull remarked. "Are
you going to put the trouble at Howbarrow on me?"

"I think not," said Mark. "Since I expect you will go to jail for
stealing logs, if we want you, we'll know where you are. In the
meantime, I am going to England, to try out your tale."

Turnbull nodded, as if he were not much disturbed.

"All I said was right, and if Isaac Crozier tells you different, you can
ask him about the hundred pounds. When I landed I'd a hundred and twenty
pounds in my belt, and I showed the Immigration officers the notes.
Maybe they file their records. Where would a cowman get the money?"

Mark thought the argument sound and he noted that Turnbull was willing
for him to inquire. All third-class passengers were rigorously examined
and must satisfy the Immigration Bureau that they could support
themselves until they found employment.

"The queer thing is, when you took the sum you did not see people might
think your stealing off significant."

Turnbull smiled, but his smile was rather grim than humorous.

"I'm not a fool, and so long as I was in England I was not safe. The
police might find out something, and I didn't trust your uncle. He's as
clever as he's crooked, and the mistress would stop for nowt. Since I'd
got to go, I reckoned he ought to pay and he would not be keen for the
police to know I'd got the sum from him."

"But why did you risk trying to knock me out at the boom?"

"I was rattled. I thought you had come for me. Since I took Isaac's
notes I'd felt I cheated Jim. Not that I liked your brother: he was a
hot-headed fool. I'd had enough of the Croziers, and I thought I'd be
done with one. Then, you see, I'd used some liquor."

Mark nodded. He thought he knew his man. Turnbull was a sullen,
resentful brute, and perhaps felt Isaac had entangled him. Although Mark
had not much to go upon, he was on the whole satisfied of the other's
innocence.

"Very well, if you are convicted for stealing, we will not bother about
your trying to murder me. Since I'll soon be at Howbarrow, to bluff will
not help. Do you believe Isaac threw my brother down the bank?"

"I don't know. Sometimes it has bothered me," Turnbull replied. "Jim was
a hefty young fellow, and Isaac's fat and soft, but at one time he could
move a two-hundred-pound sack of oats. He was nasty and Jim was
savage--But, all I know is, I thought I heard the old fence smash."

Mark saw he was sincere. The fellow doubted, but he did not know. Then
Bob and Pete pulled up the canoe, and they cooked supper.

Turnbull was tried for stealing logs. He used his fictitious name and
declared himself not guilty. Since Mark was the only useful witness
against him, it looked as if he might escape, but he was tried in a
lumber country by lumbermen, and sometimes Canadian justice is rather
practically than fastidiously just. In the circumstances, Law went to
jail, and soon after the trial Bob and Mark, one evening, occupied a
bench on Dufferin Terrace which commands the St. Lawrence and the city
of Quebec.

The evening was calm; the ice had not long since broken, and the noble
river rolled majestically by the rocks Wolfe climbed. On the other side,
the houses on the bluff at Levis shone in the setting sun, and a white
ferry steamer obliquely stemmed the current. A rusty ocean tramp, her
funnel gray with salt, labored up midstream. Locomotive-bells chimed by
the wharf, where the river boats began to congregate. The sky was green:
the transparent, luminous green that comes at sunset in northern
Canada.

For some time Mark was quiet. He was by long inheritance an English
dalesman, but he was young and had begun to love the woods where men yet
lived by more or less heroic labor. Then somehow in Canada one looked
forward and hopefully pushed ahead; in England one soon found out there
were obstacles that only genius could pass. Moreover, since Mark was
shrewdly practical, he knew he turned down an occupation in which he
might go far. He was starting for Howbarrow and he might not come back.

By and by Bob knocked out his pipe.

"We have got Law where you can find him if he's wanted, although I doubt
if he'd help you much. He certainly hates your uncle, but since he took
his bribe, he refused to implicate him. In fact, I feel his tale is
accurate."

"I rather think he hated us all," said Mark.

"Oh, well," said Bob, "my notion is you haunted him before you stole
into his tent. I don't suppose he's scrupulous, but his sort are
superstitious. Anyhow, there's no use in speculating. You'll soon be on
board your steamer, and I'm sorry you are forced to go."

Mark looked about. The sun was near the horizon and shadow touched the
old city at the bottom of the rock. In the evening calm, one heard the
river, and Mark felt it called him west. The company held timber leases
beyond the Rockies, and he had thought to mend his fortunes in the
majestic forests of the Pacific Slope. Now he waited for the steamer to
carry him the other way.

"I am sorry," he rejoined, in a quiet voice.

"Then, if you don't want to let me down, you'll get back as soon as
possible. You see, I rather worked on the old man, and at the beginning
I expect he thought to humor me would not cost him much. Then he saw you
and was interested. Anyhow, Travis got orders to put you through it and
study up your reactions, and I rather think he sounded Constance. She
knows something about young fellows. Well, I allow the old man's habit
is not to be rash."

Mark smiled. "The president of an important lumber company must use some
caution."

"You got the old man," Bob resumed. "When he was at the mill you stopped
the boiler-tube; and then you helped us jail the fellow who ran off our
logs. Maybe your luck was good, but you were willing to risk scalding
and face Law's cant-pole. Travis and Constance fell for you; in fact,
you conquered right along. Now, I know your modesty, but sometimes I
have a reason for my random talk, and it's possible you begin to see
where I lead."

"After all, I am not remarkably dull."

Bob gave him a friendly grin.

"I'm a drummer. My business is to talk, and if you want to move an
Englishman, you must hit him with a club. Very well! The company's
business develops fast, we hold valuable leases, and options on more. I
believe the Duquesne gang is going right ahead, and if you stop with us,
we'll carry you along. We know you will pull your weight, and we want
you to stop. There's another thing. You are engaged to marry a charming
girl and you ought to be ambitious. Since you're resolved to start for
Howbarrow, I suppose you must, and you'll perhaps be happier to know you
went. But I think that's all, Mark. Some entanglements cannot be put
straight. Your line's to look in front and hit the trail for the
horizon. I hope it will carry you where you'd like to be."

"You are a stanch pal," said Mark. "When I met you in the fog I was
lucky. However, I feel I _must_ follow the clue I've got."

Bob pulled out his watch.

"Let's go see if the transfer people have moved your baggage. The big
boats leave Montreal at daybreak, the river's running fast, and the
_Athabascan_ will arrive on time. She won't stop, and when she whistles
for her tug you must be on the wharf. Well, I reckon I'm soon going
east, and when I'm at Glasgow I'll wire the Millhouse folk."

They got up, and following the noble terrace, went down by steep streets
to their hotel. Dark crept across the St. Lawrence; the bright spring
day was over, and Mark wondered whether he would spend another on
Canadian soil.

An hour afterward, when they walked about the wharf, a sonorous whistle
echoed in the rocks and the _Athabascan_ swung round the point. From
waterline to boat-deck, tiers of lights pierced her vague hull; she
shone like a fairy palace on the dark river; but one heard the bow wave
break and the deep screws beat. A blue flame leaped up by the first dim
funnel and changed to fiery red, a bell rang, and the tug's whistle
called. Mark gave Bob his hand and went on board.

For a few minutes the tug and liner dropped side by side downstream; and
then ropes splashed and the big engines throbbed. Mark, leaning on the
rails by the gangway, heard faint shouts and water surge along the
quivering hull. The propeller's beat got faster and he felt the liner
leap ahead. Then the lights astern got indistinct and went out. All he
saw was sliding water, streaked by dim foam.

In a week, he would be where Madge was in the Border dale. He pictured
her welcome, and yet he was sorry. When he went back he had thought to
claim Madge and triumphantly carry her off. In Canada he had sweated and
frozen; his food in camp was coarse, and he had borne crushing fatigue.
All the same, in Canada he had a chance to make good he had not known in
the Old Country. A fighting chance was all he wanted, but it looked as
if he must go without. He was bound for England and the hills he loved.
Yet the hills were bleak, and for a poor man might be dreary. Mark
leaned against the rails and frowned.




CHAPTER XXII

ISAAC'S SOFT SPOT


Shy spring had reached the northern dales, and Madge Forsyth, taking the
road to Howbarrow, rejoiced in the sunshine. The larches' tassels shone
luminously green, and by the waterside the willows shook their silver
plumes in the dry, cold wind. Lambs bleated in the low pastures where
the fresh grass began to spring, and a curlew, circling across the
valley, called on a high, joyous note.

Although Madge did not like her errand, her mood was touched by a
cheerfulness that harmonized with the spring, for two or three days
since she had got a hopeful letter from Mark. Winter at length was
breaking, and now the strain was nearly over, he admitted he would be
glad to leave the lumber camp. Yet he had learned much that might be
useful, and believed he made some progress.

In about two months, Bob and he were going for the summer to the forests
on the glorious Pacific Slope. Anyhow, Bob declared British Columbia was
glorious, and their surveying, exploring excursion would be a splendid
holiday. Then Mark had earned a useful sum, and his pay was going up.
Bob hinted that his advance might be fast; the time when he could build
a wooden house for Madge might be nearer than they had thought. And so
forth--

Madge smiled. Mark was rather a constant than a romantic lover, but she
liked his soberness. Then he stated, briefly, that he had found out
nothing fresh about Turnbull, who had two years since vanished in the
woods. Madge hoped the fellow had vanished for good; but she knew Mark.
If chance helped him mend the broken clue, he would follow it
stubbornly. Yet, on a spring morning, she must not indulge disturbing
thoughts.

She was going to Howbarrow, in the hope that she might persuade Isaac to
be merciful. The tileworks he bought had prospered. Isaac's speculations
did prosper, and Madge admitted that bold planning and shrewd management
as a rule were, and perhaps ought to be, rewarded, although it looked as
if frugal industry was not. Isaac, however, had dismissed his engine-man
for taking bribes, and Forsyth understood he meant to prosecute the
fellow.

The engine-man's child was Forsyth's patient, and his wife had begged
the doctor to intercede for them. Mrs. Bell was not a competent
housekeeper and two other children were delicate. Forsyth was pitiful,
but he refused. He knew he could not move Isaac, and he admitted his
temper sometimes was hot. On the whole his sympathy was with the fellow
who had robbed the greedy brute, but for him to let himself go would not
help Bell. Yet if the engine-man went to jail, his wife and bairns must
pay, and if Madge were willing, she might intercede.

Madge was not altogether willing, but she went. Bell did not deny his
offense, and the doctor thought a recent Act of Parliament provided for
his punishment. The child might be a cripple and the others were
rickety.

The day was market-day, and Madge had thought to reach Howbarrow before
Isaac started for the town; but by and by she heard a horse's feet on
the stony road. Isaac's high gig swung round a bend and she signaled him
to stop.

Since cars were expensive, Isaac stuck to his old gig, but he had no use
for light hackneys and the horse was a powerful animal that could pull a
loaded float. When he went to market his clothes were good, and his
high, light-colored hat was the sort some betting men wear. Madge had no
grounds to like Isaac, but his wife was at his side and she frankly
hated Ellen Crozier.

He stood for successful cunning and greed; he was fat and had begun to
carry the stamp of indulgence. When he was humorous his humor was not at
all cultivated. Madge felt the man was gross, but for all her jarred
fastidiousness, she vaguely sensed in him a softer vein. She felt he, so
to speak, might be human; at all events, where humanity did not cost him
much.

His wife was another type. In a sense, she was, unconsciously, a
Puritan. All the shabbier utilitarian virtues were hers, but she was
greedier than Isaac and altogether pitiless. Madge was young and
generous, and she shrank from the thin, tight-mouthed woman. All the
same, she stepped into the road and Isaac pulled up his big horse and
remarked that it was a fine day. Mrs. Crozier said nothing. She studied
the girl with a sort of antagonistic curiosity.

"You are going to see the head constable about prosecuting Bell?" said
Madge.

Isaac nodded. "He helped the rogues who supplied us at tileworks to rob
me. I've paid top price for third-class stuff and got short measure."

"Bell did not supply the goods. I believe it is not very unusual for a
servant to take a commission from tradesmen."

"Do you claim it's right?" Isaac inquired.

"Not at all," said Madge. "You were entitled to discharge Bell; he
acknowledges he did take a bribe, and the sum was not very small----"

She hesitated. Isaac's glance was interested, and the doctor had stated
that Bell was not altogether repentant.

"Weel?" said Isaac.

"Since you have discharged him, you ought perhaps to be merciful. If he
goes to jail, you really punish his wife and the children, who have not
hurt you."

"If the mistress is an extravagant slut, it has nowt t'do with me. Her
sort are always wanting, but they will not work."

"Where the man's a wastrel the woman's responsible for a lot," Mrs.
Crozier remarked. "A proper wife would see he mended his ways."

"After all, when people are sick money melts," said Madge. "Medicine,
special food, and so forth, are expensive. The boy is a cripple; my
father doubts if the girl will ever be healthy."

"Tinned stuff is not for bairns, but it saves the bother of cooking,"
said Mrs. Crozier, and Isaac studied Madge with a dry twinkle.

"D'you reckon Bell will iver pay doctor for his medicine?"

Madge frankly did not, and she knew her father would refuse to claim the
debt. Although the debtor's wife might be extravagant, she herself must
be frugal. In fact, from a sternly practical point of view, the Bells
were not the sort one could help; but Madge hated the logical economy
for which the Croziers stood.

"Anyhow, but for Mark's independence, I'd have got an engineer who would
not rob me," Isaac resumed.

"Mark is independent, but he could not take a post that was not offered
him."

"He got my offer and said nowt. The evening we bought tileworks, I wrote
him at King's Arms."

Madge looked up in surprise.

"Then your letter did not arrive. I suppose you put it in the post?"

"I mind I fastened the envelope and asked waitress for a stamp," said
Isaac, as if he pondered. "Noo I think aboot it, I do not mind if I went
to post."

Madge glanced at Mrs. Crozier. The older woman's look was inscrutable,
but Madge knew why the letter had not arrived, and imagined Isaac knew.
Ellen Crozier hated Mark. Madge admitted she was not much of a champion.
She had not helped the Bells, and the big horse began to stamp the road.
She expected Isaac to drive on, but he soothed the horse.

"Folks tell doctor their troubles," he remarked. "D'you know how much
Bell did get from mill-supply folks."

"If you knew, you would use it against him," Madge rejoined. "Your
inquiring, of course, implies that you do not."

"You're a cliver lass," said Isaac with a smile. "If I give my word to
let Bell go, will you tell me?" He turned to Mrs. Crozier. "You will not
meddle, Ellen."

Madge told him. She thought she might trust him, and she did not see
another plan.

"Bell has nowt t' fear from me," said Isaac.

He used the whip, the big horse's feet beat the stones, and Madge went
thoughtfully back to the Millhouse. Mrs. Crozier had stopped Mark's
letter, but it was not very important. Mark made progress in Quebec, and
he began to hope he might soon come back for her.

When the horse climbed a hill, Isaac gave his wife a meaning glance.

"Mark's not getting my note is queer!"

"You were drunk, my man."

"It's possible. For aw that I beat Allardyce's bailiff by a hundred and
fifty pound."

"Bell ought to be prosecuted. He robbed you, and I expect he'll rob
another," Mrs. Crozier resumed. "You have a soft spot, Isaac. You'd have
kept Mark in England, and you let Miss Forsyth talk you round. She's
Mark's lass and she hates us. Some day your softness will ruin you."

"You niver know! In the meantime, I'll chance it," Isaac remarked with a
chuckle and cracked his whip. "Git up, Bob! What's ta stopping for?"

At the market town he went to the cattle sales and Mrs. Crozier lunched
frugally at a tea-shop. Then, carefully comparing different grocers'
qualities and prices, she ordered supplies for Howbarrow, and spent an
hour or two at an auction-room, where she bought two pans and a damaged
meat safe. Ellen Crozier's holidays were not expensive, and she was
willing to labor seven days in the week.

Isaac was less frugal, but when he spent three or four shillings for
liquor he expected to get back a pound, which at the town where he
transacted business, is something of an exploit. In the evening, he, his
tileworks partner, Tyson, another who had recently joined them, and a
young clerk from a neighboring coal-pit, occupied a room at the King's
Arms.

The inn was famous when pack-horses and mail-coaches crossed the Border
hills, but the small, old-fashioned room was now used for an office by
commercial travelers. Red curtains covered the small-paned, bow window
and the oak floor was pierced by worms; but gassy coal flamed in a
modern fireplace and the light was electric. A copper kettle occupied
the hob, three or four glasses and a steaming bowl the battered mahogany
table.

The coal-pit clerk gave Isaac one or two documents. He was a good
accountant, and in return for a small sum went to the tileworks on
Saturday afternoons and wrote up the books. The group had heard him read
the balance-sheet, and he thought they ought to be satisfied.

"For the first year's work," said Isaac, "the results are pretty good.
We have written down old machines and allowed for wear of new. The
buildings are valued below the price we gave, but if we were a public
company, the money at bank would pay a good dividend. Well, I've got
drainpipes for my profit, but t'others can draw against the sum in hand
in proportions we agreed. Grey wants his, and if you'll put your hand to
the balance-sheet, I'll countersign his check."

They did so, and noted that he left the check-book on the table.

"If the chairman had paid market price, results would ha' been better,"
Grey remarked. "Then you have written off nowt for bad debts. Tom
Branth'et owes us fifty pound. D'you think you'll get it?"

"If I dinnot, Tom will be sorry; you can reckon the debt is good," Isaac
rejoined. "I bowt works in order to get pipes cheap, but the price
covers cost of manufacture and all charges overhead. We keep works
running, and where I get my stuff cheap the customers pay."

The clerk turned his head and smiled; Grey knitted his brows.

"Looks all right, but when you come to think--Ye see, _I'm_ not using
drainpipes."

"Then dinnot think, but tak' your check," said Tyson, grinning. "If
you'd left money at bank, you'd ha' got two-a-three per cent. If you'd
speculated in black-face lambs, you'd likely have got nowt. Anyhow, the
last ewes you bought went down with fluke."

"I lost near half t'flock," said the other. "For aw that, it looks as if
I was paying for Isaac's pipes--But the mistress waits at ironmonger's
and I must be going."

He drained his glass and went off. Isaac let the clerk go, and Tyson
laughed.

"Some folks are never satisfied, and Joe will worry for a week. But
what are you going to do about engine-man?"

Isaac put a document on the table and pulled out his watch.

"We'll not bother the police. I've sent for Brown, the mill-supply
company's agent. He'll be here in five minutes."

Brown arrived. He was a clever salesman, and as a rule his manner was
urbanely confident. By contrast with the men he fronted, he had a touch
of cultivation, but when he met Isaac's glance his confidence melted.
Isaac gave him the document on the table.

"You heard we sacked the engine-man for taking your bribe. Since he went
I've studied your bill and asked the fresh man what he thought about the
goods you sent. He told me. Since you looked him up, you ought t'have
done so at _first_."

The agent's embarrassment was obvious.

"Commissions are given, you know," he replied in apologetic voice. "The
amount is small and comes off sellers' profit."

"Some goes onto buyer's bill, and some comes off t' goods. You get it
back both ways," Tyson remarked. "Hooiver, I believe there is a Corrupt
Practices Act."

Isaac stopped him and turned to Brown.

"If the bribe came out of profit, your profit is larger than we are
willing t' pay; but I doubt. The amount was not small."

"Then, you know how much Bell got?" Brown said with surprise.

Isaac stated the sum. "I was going t' see lawyers about it, but I thowt
I'd send for you. If we prosecuted Bell, the case would not help your
business with the collieries. Then the police might reckon you ought to
be tried with your confederate--I haven't been t' lawyer's yet."

Brown saw, and was daunted. Crozier could break him. He might go to
jail; anyhow, after the sort of advertisement he had given them, his
employers would not have much use for him.

For a few moments Isaac waited, and then resumed:

"Well, your bill is here, and you have supplied a lot of shoddy stuff:
engine-oil burns on journals, files are soft and badly cut, rubber and
asbestos packing is not proper quality and weight. I don't know about
the big pumps and main driving-belt."

"The belt carries the manufacturers' stamp and they fix the price," said
Brown. "The pumps are from a first-class foundry."

"They are in the bill and our man got his commission. When you bribe an
engineer, what's your rule?"

Brown began to see where the other led, and he pondered.

"Generally we divide, on a fifty-fifty basis."

Tyson grinned. "I reckon not! In Cumberland the rule is, yan for you and
two for me. Well, we ken the sum Bell got!"

"There's my offer," said Isaac. "We don't want to break you. Write a
fresh bill, taking off three times your bribe, and we'll let Bell go. My
check-book's on table, and you'll have got a stamp for the receipt."

The sum was large, but Brown dared not refuse. The farmer had beaten him
and he pulled out his fountain-pen. For five minutes he was occupied,
and then Isaac wrote a check. When the agent went off, he laughed.

"We got the stuff cheap and some is not varra bad. Not long since,
mistress reckoned I was soft."




CHAPTER XXIII

ISAAC'S LUCK TURNS


Isaac got his hat and coat. Tyson had gone and he must meet Ellen, but
for a few minutes he sat by the fireplace and cogitated. The evening was
cold and after a rather strenuous day, he felt he was entitled to savor
his triumph. When he thought about it, he had triumphed. He was the son
of a second wife; his half-brother's mother had had some money, but
Isaac's had none, and when he started his business his father had
grumbled about giving him three hundred pounds. Isaac, looking back, saw
he had from the beginning been jealous of Tom. The dull fellow had got
the farm, which Isaac knew he could work to greater advantage.

Well, Tom was gone, and Jim, his son, was gone. Mark was in Canada and
Howbarrow was Isaac's. Moreover, the tileworks was his, and until an
hour or two since he had not altogether known how good his speculation
was. He had, of course, known the venture prospered, but for all his
talent for business he was not an accountant. Where he wanted expert
help, he engaged a bookkeeper, and when the fellow began to think
himself important got a fresh man.

Anyhow, the balance-sheet was something of an illumination. The derelict
works he had bought was now a valuable property, and Isaac saw it
developing. Then, although the sum was not very large, he had beaten
the agent who had thought to rob him. He had taken the fellow's goods
for less than their just price; in fact, he had got something for
nothing. All went smoothly, as he had reckoned it would go. But he had
engaged to meet Ellen, and starting for the inn yard, he ordered the
stable man to harness his horse.

The light was nearly gone and a raw wind blew along the street, but
Isaac was warmed by liquor and he pushed importantly through the groups
on the pavement. Mrs. Crozier waited at the tea-shop. She was not
consciously a hypocrite, and she perhaps rather hated liquor and
gambling on economical than moral grounds, but she would not use an inn,
and Isaac's lapses from sobriety troubled her.

When he reached the tea-shop, she was alone at the end of the long room.
As a rule, Ellen Crozier was alone. She was tall and very thin; her
clothes were old-fashioned, and her face was lined. Yet she had a sort
of dignity, and when she looked up, without a smile, Isaac was moved by
a queer tenderness for the hard, tired woman. He had rather wanted to
order a feast for her at the Automobile Hotel, but he knew Ellen would
not agree.

"You were long," she said. "When all was properly reckoned up, were you
pleased?"

"The reckoning was better than I thowt, and if my plans for next year
work, our profit's going up. Farmers' Association president took some
pipes last back end. I met him in street and he said ours were the best
he'd iver had. If price is right, they'll buy all they want from us.
Then I sent for Brown."

"He came?" said Mrs. Crozier, with interest. "What did you fix about
Bell?"

Isaac told her, and she nodded.

"Well, the money's useful, and Brown deserved to pay."

At one time, her calm might have jarred, but Isaac did not expect Ellen
to applaud his cleverness. She was not like that.

"We are sending Newcastle builders two trucks of our new roof-cap and
have made a good start at architect's moulding blocks. Pipes are our
stand-by, but t' profit's in fancy goods, and our clay bears firing and
holds its color."

"Are you sure the red clay will not run out? Tyson talked about a belt
of roach."

_Roach_ is sandy gravel, sometimes partly solidified into stuff that
turns the pick; but Isaac smiled.

"When Allardyce sold us works he knew the roach was there. He did not
know the vein was thin and the good clay went underneath. I sent for a
Newcastle contractor, and when we want he'll engage to shift the stuff
with his machines and stack a month's supply of clay beside our
pugging-mill."

"We have not had a better spring for lambs and the dairy herd's in good
fettle," Mrs. Crozier remarked. "All goes right, and we have won out,
but we're getting old. If the boy had but lived----"

Isaac refused to dwell upon it. They had pinched and sweated, and now
the reward, for a time, was theirs. But the time was limited. Ellen's
hair, like his, was white, and soon a stranger might waste their goods.

"The trouble we've borne is by with. When I met you lang since I was
lucky. We took a hard road and did not stop for risks, but it's carried
us to the top of the hill."

A young waitress crossed the floor. She saw a gaunt woman whose face was
pinched, but whose look was hard, and a large, uncouth, fat man. She
hoped she and her lover would not at length, look like that, and she
left them alone. The waitress knew their sort; when they went she would
not find a tip.

For a minute or two Ellen Crozier brooded. She was greedy, but somehow
Isaac's triumph left her cold, and she wondered whether, after all, he
was lucky. For all his talents, she had steered him; where he hesitated
she did not. The trouble was, she perhaps had pushed him farther than
she at one time had thought. Yet she dared not talk about it. Gazing
straight in front, her brows knitted in a frown, she was not like the
wife of a man who, by her help, had won all he had hoped to get. Her
strong, lined face was touched by melancholy; one sensed the shadow the
dalesfolk thought haunted the unlucky Croziers.

Isaac pulled out his watch.

"You have a parcel at Jordan's, and I don't want horse to stand."

They went to the street, and at the ironmongers where she got her parcel
he examined a gig-lamp.

"How much do you want for the pair?" he asked.

"Thirty shillings," said the salesman. "They were two pounds, but
carriage-lamps are not in much demand. The body's brass, the reflector
is heavily plated, and the spring is specially made to push the candle
firmly up the tube. As the wax burns away, the common spring loses
power, and sometimes the short candle end jolts back from the cap. This
pattern ensures you a steady light."

Isaac nodded. His lamps were old, the plating was rubbed off the
reflectors, and the spring in one was weak.

"Twenty five shillings for the pair!" he said, and, unscrewing the tube,
turned to his wife apologetically. "You see it burns candle down to end.
Ours with the cracked glass does not push up the last bit."

Mrs. Crozier hesitated. She saw Isaac wanted the handsome lamp, but one
must not be extravagant.

"You can get a new spring for sixpence. However, if he will take twenty
five shillings----"

The salesman refused, and Mrs. Crozier, touching her husband, left the
shop. When they got to the inn the horse and gig were in the yard. The
lamps were burning, and the ostler said, "I was ready for you ten
minutes since."

"Then, you might have waited for us before you lighted up. The candles
are not very long," Isaac rejoined.

He helped Mrs. Crozier on board and got up. The big horse's feet rattled
on the stones, the high gig lurched round a corner, and they were in the
street.

For a few minutes, lights touched the groups on the pavements and
windows shone. Then trees loomed behind iron rails, vague walls melted
in the gloom, and the last lamp-posts vanished. The wide, black road
dimly reflected the candles' trembling light, and when a cloud rolled
away from the half-moon the black moor-tops cut the sky in front.

The night was cold and Isaac let the horse go. He saw bare woods and
pastures rise to high, broken ground. A motor-bus dazzled him and
plunged by, and sometimes a river shone. He crossed a bridge and heard
the current brawl around the piers; and then the lonely road he took
began to climb. The woods got thinner and dark moors closed on the dale.
Sometimes mist drifted across the slopes and for a few minutes thin rain
fell. Steam floated about the horse, but the animal pluckily fronted the
long climb. Its feet beat a soothing rhythm, Mrs. Crozier was quiet, and
Isaac began to muse.

All went well for him, and when he was at the bank the manager's
politeness was flattering. Millburn implied that he knew a good customer
and, in Isaac's case, he would not stick to the rules the bank used for
others. In fact, when he saw a good speculation in cattle, or if he
thought about enlarging the tileworks, they would not bother him much
for security--

Well, he was richer than he had, at one time, hoped. His neighbors said,
for a Crozier, he, at all events, was lucky; but Isaac knew them fools.
Luck had nothing to do with it. He was willing to sweat, and judgment
and his wife's help had put him where he was. She had pinched and
managed, and he had labored. A man's temperament made, and sometimes
broke, him. That was all. The talk about the Croziers' luck was
_blethers_. Anyhow, he owed Ellen much; but she might perhaps have let
him give thirty shillings for the lamps. With a carefulness he had not
used for long, he pulled the rug around her.

"The wind has an edge. Are you cold, Ellen?"

"I'm not very cold, but when we are at the bank-top you might drive
fast. Servants are careless, and I must put all straight in kitchen and
dairy before I go to bed."

At the top of the hill Isaac used his whip and the horse plunged down a
long incline. A shower blew across the dale and the dry wall by the
roadside melted in the rain. The flickering reflections on the wet
stones got indistinct, and for a few minutes Isaac concentrated on his
driving. Then the rain stopped and he saw the lamp on the off side had
jolted out.

"Candle's done," he said. "I thowt it would have seen us home, but t'old
spring won't push up last bit. Well, off side is where we want a light,
and I'll shift t'other lamp across."

The lamp was hot and Isaac's hands were wet. In order to reach the
cooler bottom below the socket-band, he must lean forward awkwardly, and
when he did so the horse plunged into a pothole and the jolt threw him
back.

"Unless we stop and I get down, I doubt I'll not can move the thing," he
said. "Hooiver, we haven't far to go, and neabody will be on road
tonight."

As a rule, after dark fell, nobody was on the moorland road; but in the
afternoon a motor tourist, starting from Jedburgh, got entangled in the
Border hills. A burst tire further delayed him, and when he at length
found out where he was, he knew he must drive fast in order to reach
Carlisle before the hotel servants went to bed.

Isaac's horse was keen to get home, and at the bottom of the hill swung
round a curve where a larch wood grew between the river and the road.
The noisy current perhaps drowned the rattle of wheels, and Isaac
certainly did not hear a horn. For a moment the larch-trunks were
touched by silver light; and then a dazzling beam beat into his eyes.

"Hold tight, Ellen!" he shouted, and pulled to the left.

Glass crashed and the gig rocked. Isaac was thrown against the seat
rail, but Bob was yet on his feet. It looked as if he did not feel the
bit, for, mad with fear, and perhaps hurt, he leaped ahead. Isaac,
bracing his legs against the front board, tried for a purchase. Somehow
he must hold the brute; he thought they went across the road, and the
dry wall was loose.

He felt a shock, as if a shaft broke, and stones fell noisily. The horse
was across the wall and the gig tilted. Isaac seized his wife, and tried
to seize the rail, but the seat went upright, and they were in the road.

He got up, shaken and bleeding, and dully looked about. Ellen was in the
wet grass near the bottom of the wall. The moon shone and Isaac saw her
face was very white, but her eyes were not shut. Kneeling in the stones,
he put his arm round her.

"I cannot get up. Doctor's house is but two miles," she said.

Isaac knew her coolness. She had got a nasty knock, but she saw the
proper line. All the same, the Millhouse was two miles off, and he
imagined Bob was dead. Then, about fifty yards off, he saw a car across
the road, and he ran for the spot. The shield was smashed, the hood was
crumpled, and it looked as if a wheel had collapsed. A dazed tourist,
cut by glass, sat on the running-board, and Isaac pulled him roughly to
his feet.

"Can you start your d---- machine?"

"I cannot," said the other dully. "Don't know how I hit you. When I saw
your light I was coming round the curve. Since it was near the other
wall, I ought to get past. Then I saw the horse, on top of the
engine--But is somebody hurt?"

"I doubt somebody's dying," said Isaac, and pointed up the dale. "The
doctor's house is two miles off; the first on the right. If he's not at
home, tell Miss Forsyth."

The tourist went off and Isaac put his folded coat under his wife's head
and got the rug from the gig. When he tried to pull it under her she
signed him to stop, and then shut her eyes. Isaac sat in the stones and
waited. Ellen was very quiet and her skin was cold. At length he heard a
motor-engine, and getting up awkwardly he shouted.

Five minutes afterward Forsyth's small car started up the dale and Isaac
occupied the running-board. Ellen was not dead, but that was all the
doctor knew.




CHAPTER XXIV

A DALESWOMAN


Ellen Crozier was carried to the Millhouse, and in the morning Forsyth
telegraphed for an Edinburgh doctor. When his patient knew he had done
so she grumbled.

"He'll not tak' less than a hundred guineas, and it's not as if he could
cure me," she said. "I'm past mending, as well you know."

"I do not know," said Forsyth. "One might almost boast that nothing is
impossible to a first-class modern surgeon. Then, your husband insisted
on my sending for the famous man."

It was all he dared say; there was no use in his trying to cheat Ellen
Crozier. For a moment or two she studied him, and although her body was
broken her glance was calm.

"Isaac will soon be his lone and to ken he did all one could do might be
some comfort," she said. "Then yan can carry nowt away."

Forsyth saw the effort tired her. He himself was tired, and when her
eyes shut he stole off to an easy-chair by the long-room fireplace.
Nobody at the Millhouse had got much sleep, and Madge was occupied, for
a nurse from Carlisle would soon arrive. When Forsyth was getting
drowsy, Madge brought him some tea.

"Flora is with Mrs. Crozier, and you ought to go to bed for two or
three hours. I might give Isaac a message for you."

"I must see him," said Forsyth. "If he's not here soon, I'll go across
in the car."

"Then you're not at all hopeful?"

Forsyth shook his head.

"Moncrieff may be able to do something, but I doubt, and I believe our
patient knows. Ellen Crozier is hard stuff. I cannot state if she's
resigned, but she's certainly not afraid."

"She's a daleswoman," Madge rejoined. "We are perhaps a hard lot, but
our nerve is firm."

"I'm not altogether satisfied about Isaac," Forsyth remarked. "He is a
heavy man, and the gig was high. It's possible he was worse shaken than
he thinks, but when I dressed his cuts he would not allow me to examine
him. However, if he can get on a horse, I expect him presently."

"Although the motorist was cut, he was the luckiest of the group," said
Madge. "How does he explain the collision?"

"I think he does not know much about it. He admits he drove fast, and
since he was swinging round a left-hand curve, his speed probably threw
him across to the side a vehicle meeting him would keep. Then the trees
cut his view, and to some extent he saw Isaac's light across the curve.
He rather thinks he saw but one light, and imagined he could pass; and
then the horse was in front of the engine and the shield smashed about
his head. Isaac's narrative is vague, but I did not bother him."

Isaac arrived on horseback, and returned in the evening when the
Edinburgh doctor was in Mrs. Crozier's room. The double journey had
shaken him, and when he got into an easy-chair in the surgery his breath
was labored. He knew he had got a nasty jolt, but in the meantime he was
not going to bother.

A board cracked and steps echoed in the passage. For some time that was
all, and Isaac felt the old house was furtively quiet. He heard the
river and the wind in the trees. The surgery smelt of drugs, and somehow
the smell was ominous. Isaac had not had much to do with doctors and
hated their stuff. Now their supposititious cleverness was his forlorn
hope.

To wait in suspense was dreary, and he began to muse. Since he married
Ellen thirty years had gone. He admitted she was not a bonny lass, but
he had sensed a balance and competence that attracted him. Isaac did
not, so to speak, fall in love. There where lasses he knew would have
met him half-way. Ellen cooly refused to advance. Isaac knew she weighed
him and if she were satisfied they would be a strong combine.

They were not romantic, and in a sense their marriage was a commercial
partnership. Isaac had wanted a housekeeper; he afterwards knew Ellen
wanted a man she could use to carry out her ambitions. Well, he had got
the cleverest housekeeper in Cumberland, and Ellen had put him where he
could not have gone alone.

She had never moved him to passion; Ellen was instinctively cold, and
not at any time affectionate. Isaac did not know if affectionate was the
word he wanted, but it was something like that. Yet long association and
the labors and risks they had borne had knit them together. Ellen was
stanch, and hard as steel. She had pinched for him, and when he
hesitated had firmly urged him on. He acknowledged her dauntless
steadfastness and her loyalty. Although she had not loved him, he knew
from the beginning she would never let him down. Now he knew if she went
he would be altogether desolate.

He pulled out his watch. Nine o'clock, and no news yet! The doctor was
very long, but he must use control, and he pondered the accident. The
motoring swine drove recklessly round the curve, but Isaac's lamp had
jolted out because the candle-spring was bad. The lamp that burned was
on the near side; the gig's off side was dark. Well, one reckoned on six
feet, and the margin might have carried the fellow past. Had he but
given thirty shillings for lamps that did not jolt out! It looked as if
Ellen and he must pay for their frugality.

In a room at the end of the passage, Mrs. Crozier looked up at the
Edinburgh doctor.

"I'll niver be on my feet again?" she said.

Her voice was faint but level, and the doctor met her searching glance.
Forsyth had told him much about her, her firmness and courage were
evident, and he answered frankly.

"Oh, well," she said, "my job is finished, but I would not be a helpless
burden on other folks. How long have I got?"

"I do not know," the doctor replied in a quiet voice.

Ellen turned her head, and he signed Forsyth and went out. Ten minutes
afterward, Isaac, treading with a cautious step, crossed the floor. He
carried his large bulk stiffly, but when he stopped by the bed his
knees were slack.

"My poor lass!" he said. "If I'd but bowt the lamps----"

Ellen touched his hand and he felt her skin was cold.

"Maybe the lights had nothing to do with it. I'm long past my best and
there's no use in bothering. But you went over gig when I went, and
you're heavier----"

"The cut's all, I think," said Isaac.

He had some grounds to doubt, but Ellen thought for him and must not be
disturbed. Although they had taken some hard knocks, one never knew if
she was hurt.

"You'll come back when I can talk," she said. "Noo I'm tired, and my
brain will nut work."

The nurse signaled; Isaac went and Mrs. Crozier shut her eyes.

In the morning she was fresher and she asked for Madge.

"If it would not be much bother, I'd like you to let me stop," she said.
"Isaac would send Watson's lass to wait on nurse, and Bell Pape might
come in to red up kitchen and help you cook. My man would put all right
with doctor."

Madge smiled. She was willing to humor the sick woman, but for all her
hurt, Ellen Crozier followed her bent. If she conquered her weakness,
she would soon rule the Millhouse.

"You will not bother us. But would you not sooner be at Howbarrow?"

Mrs. Crozier shook her head.

"Your house is a kind house. Ours is cold."

In the Scots and Border idiom, kind stands for something like friendly
and lovable, and Madge agreed. At all events, Howbarrow was not a
friendly house. Then, as if she apologized for a sentimental weakness,
Mrs. Crozier resumed:

"I doubt if ambulance could get up bank by ghyll. When road is soft the
baker leaves his van at beck foot. I might go on a stretcher, but they'd
need to carry me half a mile."

"You shall stop with us," said Madge, in a soothing voice.

She joined Forsyth in his surgery. The doctor was forced to mix the
medicines he prescribed, and when Madge narrated the interview he
weighed some drugs.

"I suppose you could not refuse," he said. "The queer thing is, she
wanted to stop. The Croziers are independent."

"To talk about Ellen Crozier's being afraid is rather ridiculous, but
somehow I felt she shrank from Howbarrow."

Forsyth cogitated; his glance fixed on his daughter. On the whole, he
thought his patient's shrinking did not puzzle Madge.

"After all, I dare say she ought not to be moved, and for her to stay
would enable me to keep a closer watch. The extra strain is yours, and
Mark's aunt was not his friend; but I suppose it is not important. Then,
of course----"

"Yes," said Madge. "I don't think the argument carried much weight, and
I hope it did not. Still I knew Moncrieff agreed with you."

"He would not risk a firm prediction. All the same, he imagined the time
might be very short," the doctor replied.

Madge went off quietly. She had not thought she could, in any
circumstances, be sorry for Mrs. Crozier, but she was sorry, and in a
few days she knew the sick woman liked her to be about. Mrs. Crozier did
not like the nurse. The young woman was firm, and she herself had for
long ruled her husband and the farm. Moreover, Madge was interested. Her
patient bore bodily pain with Spartan endurance, but Madge began to see
her mind disturbed.

When dusk fell one evening she beckoned Madge. The evening was bleak;
the river brawled noisily, and sometimes rain beat the windows.

"Isaac reckoned he'd be back. They are cross-plowing long field and the
sheep must be tallied; but they must stop for dark, and I want to see
him."

Madge said the doctor had arrived and she could use the car. She went to
the surgery and Forsyth went to Mrs. Crozier's room. When he rejoined
Madge he nodded.

"I think you ought to go for Isaac. I must mix some stuff for Ivison's
wife; his herd will soon be here."

Half an hour afterward, Isaac,--moving, for a large man, lightly,--came
into the room, and Mrs. Crozier turned to the nurse.

"You'll leave us alone. When you are wanted, we will send for you."

The nurse knew her patient and she went. Isaac sat down by the bed. When
Madge's car stopped by the sheep-pens he had hurried up the hill to
Howbarrow for a clean coat and boots, and he imagined his haste was
rash, for his side hurt, and his heart beat. He thought Ellen's face had
got thinner since morning and her skin was as white as the sheets on the
bed, but she gave him a steady glance.

"My time is short, and soon perhaps I'll not can talk," she said.

She stopped for breath. Isaac knew something bothered her.

"You are a good farmer and you know how money should be used," she went
on. "For aw that, you have some soft spots, and you're cautious. You'd
not have got Howbarra' but for me."

Isaac admitted it was so. His judgment was sound, but Ellen had supplied
the driving-force. When she was gone he would miss her and his house
would be desolate. Yet for his sort and hers to express the gentler
emotions is almost impossible, and all he did was to touch her hand
awkwardly. His face was red, but his mouth was firm. Now that he wanted
to, he could not let himself go.

"You and Jim were on the moor that night in the fog. When all was quiate
at Howbarrow I'd sit and wonder--and now I've the long day for brooding
my mind will not rest. Turnbull heard you and Jim fratch--_Was that
all_, my man?"

Isaac's mouth went slack and his skin was wet by sweat. For long years
his wife had thought he killed his nephew! Yet she had stuck to him and
helped him carry out his plans. Ellen was just; she knew, if he were
guilty, his guilt, to some extent, was hers. All the same, the horrible
suspicion hurt.

"But I told you----" he said.

"Yes, you told me! When you talked about it, you'll mind I did not say
much. I'm not easy daunted, Isaac; but I durstn't ask--Noo, when I'll
soon talk no more, I feel I must know."

His wife's fixed glance embarrassed Isaac. To move was some relief, and
getting up he leaned against the bedpost. Somehow he must persuade her,
but if she doubted, his fresh statement might not carry conviction. At
the auction market his broadly humorous talk was famous; now he was
stopped for words.

"I'll tell you all, from the beginning," he said, and tried to brace up.
"If it's not the truth, and nowt but truth, may I niver speak again!"

The tale was not altogether the tale he had told before. At some points,
it was perhaps not consistent, but Ellen Crozier knew her husband and
she knew his nephew. She saw Isaac, at length, was honest; had he but
had pluck like this long since, she might have carried an easier load.
His cheating her was ironically humorous; because his tale was plausible
she had not believed.

By and by she beckoned him to stop, and for a few moments both were
quiet. Rain beat the windows, trees tossed noisily, and the river
brawled.

"That's aw," said Isaac hoarsely. "If you're not persuaded, I can say
nea mair."

For Ellen Crozier to smile was something fresh, but she did smile.

"You'll not need; at last my mind's at rest--" She beckoned him nearer
and feebly touched his arm. "Some day Mark will ask you, and you'll tell
him, like a man, aw you've just told me. Because I was afraid, I hated
the lad, but he's not a fool like Jim. He'll not waste the gear and
money we have gathered----"

She stopped for breath, but Isaac saw where she led, and he signed that
he agreed. Then, while strange emotions moved him, the doctor came in.




CHAPTER XXV

REACTION


Since the doctors agreed that she would never leave her bed, Ellen
Crozier had not much will to live. For long she had ruled at Howbarrow
and to see another use control and waste where she had saved would jar
intolerably. Moreover, if to live was to lie and brood, an object for
her nurses' careless pity, she was resigned to go. Yet, although her
body was broken, she sprang from hardy stock and life ebbed slowly.

On the morning after her talk with Isaac she sent for Madge. Her face
was pinched and her skin was colorless, but Madge thought her look
different, as if some haunting care at length had vanished.

"For Mark's sake, you hated me, but you're a kind lass," she said in a
slow, labored voice. "When you went for my man in the rain, you did not
know all you did; but if I'd waited, I might have waited over-lang, and
I try to pay my debts."

"If I did hate you, I am sorry, but Mark is my lover."

"He's a canny lad," said Mrs. Crozier, and in Cumberland _canny_ implies
finer qualities than cunning. "Noo you think I cannot hurt him, you'll
be pitiful! My dear, I dinnot want to hurt the lad! Aw that's by with:
but there's another thing----"

"You ought not to talk," said Madge.

Mrs. Crozier smiled, a dreary smile.

"I'll be a long time quiate. Isaac will give you a locket on a thin gold
chain. It's old-fashioned and was ours for over a hundred years, but a
Newcastle jeweler reckoned the stones were good. If Mark is willing,
you'll wear it noo and then?"

Madge promised to do so, but she was puzzled. When Mrs. Crozier declared
she tried to pay her debts, she did not think about the locket. In the
meantime, however, she must let it go, and seeing the other was
exhausted, she stole away. When she thought about the interview
afterward, she imagined Ellen Crozier's last conscious effort was to
talk with her.

Flora was sewing in the long room, and when Madge came in she gave her
an interested glance.

"Well?" she said. "You have not much grounds to be sympathetic, but your
look is moved."

"I am moved," said Madge. "One feels Ellen Crozier is horribly lonely,
and her life was bleak. She cannot have loved her husband: Isaac is not
the sort one loves. Then at the end she is nursed by strangers. In all
that matters, we are strangers; she declared I had hated her, and
perhaps I did--Yet Isaac will give me a locket she wants me to wear. One
feels all her effort was for nothing. When she is gone, she is
altogether gone. But perhaps for Isaac, nobody will be sorry, and in a
few weeks nobody will think about her. To vanish and be forgotten is
rather horrible!"

Flora knitted her brows. Madge was a gentle sentimentalist; Flora was
not.

"I wonder--Love is not for all, and Ellen's effort was not for nothing.
Howbarrow is her apology. She made her husband rich and they made the
farm a model farm. In our dark hills, where the rain begins when the
frost stops, it's something of an exploit. She was hard; I don't see her
scrupulous, and Mark declares she was not; but she was competent. All
she undertook to do she did. If you contrast her with the women who are
satisfied to be mannequins on whom infatuated men may hang expensive
clothes, she stands for conquering force."

"Oh, well," said Madge, "I suppose my philosophy is out of date; but at
the end, qualities like Ellen's do not help one much. I'd sooner my
apology was, my husband and children were sorry to let me go."

She went to the kitchen. The doctor's household was larger and she must
superintend.

For a day or two Madge, when she had leisure, was in the sick woman's
room. Mrs. Crozier did not know her husband, but sometimes her dull
glance followed Madge, and the nurse declared she liked her to be about.
When she died, farmers, shepherds, and cothouse folk went to her
funeral, and for a mile, battered cars, old gigs and Digby's, and foot
passengers straggled across the moors. None had loved Ellen Crozier, but
she was a notable woman, and in a sense her triumph at Howbarrow was a
triumph for the dale.

"A tribute to success!" Flora remarked to Forsyth when they watched the
long procession start.

"To some extent," said the doctor. "None in the crowd is a mourner, and
few are Isaac's friends; but their coming is not shabby. We are
practical folk, and something competently done commands our respect."

The procession rolled ahead, and he started his car, but after the
funeral he stopped Isaac.

"Will you look me up at the surgery in the morning?" he asked.

"I will not," Isaac rejoined. "I have got a useful job, and when I
needed doctors most they could do nowt for me."

"Very well. You are entitled to refuse; but I'll give you some advice
for nothing, and I think it sound. You are a heavy man, and when you
were thrown from the gig you got an awkward jolt; then you got another
with which a doctor perhaps cannot deal. For a time you must use
caution, and go soberly."

Forsyth started for the Millhouse. He did not claim to be much of a
psychologist; a general practitioner must concentrate on curing his
patients' bodies; but he thought his warning justified. Isaac started
for Howbarrow and at the beck foot sent off his hired car. Since the
collision he had stubbornly braced up, but now a reaction began. He was
physically slack and his brain was dull.

The churchyard was a long distance off across the moors, and when he
climbed the cart-road the sun had sunk behind the hills. Marsh marigolds
shone like polished brass by the boggy waterside, and primroses pushed
through the dead fern; but all Isaac saw was a long dark smear on the
pale-green sky. In the morning his shepherds had fired the heather, and
after two or three dry days, the moor-burn went well. When warm rain
came, tender shoots and fresh grass would spring from the blackened
soil.

He heard his lambs; the ewes were moving back to their high _heaf_, and
in the low pastures green plover called. A circling curlew's vibrant
note throbbed across the long slopes like a shake on a violin. Two or
three plover followed Isaac up the hill; their wings fanned noisily
behind his head and their screams were petulant. In the spring, the
birds were bold, but since he had robbed a plover's nest forty years had
gone.

By and by he stopped. It was but twelve months last Candlemas, when a
shaft broke and the cart cowped, he and Mark carried a load of
linseed-cake up the track by the ghyll. Now, although he went slowly,
his side hurt and his legs shook. Well, Forsyth talked about his using
caution, the doctor was not a fool. Isaac sat down on a broken wall. The
scattered stones annoyed him. Doll, the big, clumsy Clydesdale, was at
her tricks again; but Jack Welsh could not mend a dyke, though he
claimed to be a waller and got five shillings for the job.

Isaac looked about. In the big field by the river, belts of
chocolate-brown streaked the springing green. The plowmen were at the
funeral, but tomorrow the last rigs must be turned: the peaty clods
ought to dry out before the harrows got to work. Then he'd like to start
on the hill field, where the turnips would go. For stiff land to weather
down in the rain and sun helped the cross-plowing; but the teams were
wanted, and the work must wait. Half the great manure-stack was not yet
moved, and Doll was lame. She'd soon have something better to do than
breaking walls at five shillings a time. In spring, the jobs piled up,
and one's men refused to work as their fathers did. Isaac himself was
strangely slack; for once, he shrank from the effort he must use until
the fields were sown.

A redshank perched on the wall in front and, flicking its tail angrily,
screamed in harsh defiance; a noisy lapwing circled round his head.
Isaac struck at the bird and swore. Since a peaswheep bothered him, his
nerve must be going. Howbarrow was his, for as long as he could hold it;
but in the North the weather was a stern antagonist, and the fight was
hard. Isaac felt he got old, and his main support was gone.

Well, he was not extravagant, and he had got enough. In fact, but for
liquor, all he wanted did not cost much, and for some time Ellen and he
were not forced to pinch. It looked as if frugality and effort became a
mechanical habit. To reckon one's profits was perhaps all the reward one
got; but Isaac felt his wife, so to speak, had stood behind him,
calculating, scheming, and urging him to fresh effort.

She had thought he killed his nephew! Yet she had said nothing, but had
cooly seized the advantage Jim's death gave them. In a way, her nerve
was daunting, and when she admitted her suspicion Isaac had frankly got
a shock. To know she, at length, had found out she misjudged him was
some relief. Isaac saw why she had schemed to banish Mark; she was
afraid the boy might find a clue--Well, Mark yet might do so, but it did
not matter much. All that really mattered was, Ellen was gone. The
dominant partner had vanished, and now he was old he knew himself
horribly alone.

The rest, however, had steadied him, and he climbed the hill. At the
gate under the sycamores he stopped. The light had begun to go, and
somehow the gray house was cold and desolate. Water splashed drearily in
the stone trough, but the milk tankards were not on the slab, and Isaac
went to the diary. As he had thought, the separator was not yet cleaned
and the cream had not been put to cool. The lazy hussies knew the
mistress was no longer about and had begun to waste his goods.

Isaac quietly pushed back the kitchen door. The flagstones were dusty
and stained by soil from the plowmen's boots. By the big fireplace where
wood and peat was piled, his servants engaged in careless talk. He drove
them out to byre and dairy, and went to the bleak parlor. The grate was
cold and blocked by ash, and the quiet bothered him.

He must find an occupation, and going to his office, he opened a
cupboard. A drink might brace him up, and when he had, two or three
times, drained his glass, he carried an account-book to his desk. He had
already studied the newspaper market reports; politics did not interest
him, and he knew nothing about sport. The farm had for long absorbed
him. But for the tileworks, it was, in an important sense, all he had
got, and now his profits would be squandered by his servants'
extravagance.

Somehow he could not concentrate. Rows of figures went crooked and his
calculations were obviously wrong. Then a little pulse throbbed in his
ears and all got indistinct. His hands slipped forward across the book
and his head sank.

He thought somebody called and he awkwardly straightened his back. His
cramped shoulders ached and the room was cold. The lamp had burned low
and all was quiet, but for a few moments Isaac waited. Then a shrill
scream echoed in the courtyard walls, and he got up. An owl hunted mice
in the cart bay where the chickens fed--There was another thing. Ellen
had cared for the poultry, and he did not know how many hens he had, but
when one grew the corn they used, poultry paid. Yet one could not trust
a servant to search the mewsteads for the eggs and see the rats did not
carry off the chickens.

Isaac frowned. In the small things, as in the large, Ellen had seen him
out; but he was cold and shaky and must get another drink before he went
to bed. This time he drained the bottle, and breaking the candle when he
tried to get a light, he staggered noisily upstairs.




CHAPTER XXVI

FLORA MEDDLES


Not long after breakfast Flora one morning climbed the cart-road up the
ghyll. The sun shone on spring grass, red fern, and yellow moss. A lark
sang, plover called, and Flora went across the sharp stones like a
mountaineer. In the keen spring morning her color was fresh, and her
out-of-door clothes were in a comparatively recent fashion. Since she
had crossed some boggy fields, her rather thin legs were gaitered and
her boots were thick.

Flora hoped to interview Isaac and wondered whether she was wise. When
she started from the Millhouse she had not altogether meant to go, but
she stopped the postman, who gave her a letter from Bob, and after
studying his remarks she steered for Howbarrow. As a rule, when Flora
thought she saw a plan she got to work.

Half-way up the hill, where a boulder broke the wind, she sat down and
pulled out the envelope. She noted the firm, rapid hand and smiled. Bob
wrote and talked fast, and Flora admitted she liked his joyous
swiftness.

"Since you have no use for romantic sentiment, we'll cut out the stuff,"
he said. "I'm just starting for the woods, to look up Mark, and you
might like to know he goes soberly ahead. He has captured the company's
president, the mill boss, and most of the gang. Mark, in fact, is a
winner, and I expect Madge will soon get a note from him reporting fresh
progress. Since the clue my picture gave him led him nowhere, all he has
got to do is to stay with us and I imagine he'll presently be given a
first-class post.

"There's another thing I hope may interest you. When I'm back from the
woods, I pull out for Scotland. Before getting busy at Glasgow I shall
be at the Millhouse and my motive is pretty obvious. If you yet
hesitate, after the company's business is transacted I'll look you up
again. Two shots in one excursion, and the excursion's annual! Something
for you to ponder, since my resolve is fixed----"

Flora put up the letter, and her look got gentle. Bob's constancy moved
her, but in the meantime she was not going to think about him; she must
try to think for Madge. When Bob urged Mark to join him, Flora approved.
Since he could not get a post in England, she thought he ought to
emigrate, and his progress in Quebec justified her.

The drawback was, if he stopped for two or three years, he must stop for
good and Madge was essentially an English daleswoman. Flora doubted if
she would be happy in Canada. Then, for some time, Madge must wait, and
to wait was dreary. Flora, of course, had seen the drawback before, but
when Mark went to Quebec his aunt ruled Howbarrow. Now she was dead and
Mark was Isaac's heir.

Flora believed Isaac had cheated his brother and nephew, but she had not
imagined he killed Jim. When he could get all he wanted by waiting, he
would not use force, and Flora did not see him carried away by savage
passion. Anyhow, she was going to interview Isaac, and if her meddling
did not help much, her purpose, at all events, was good.

When she reached Howbarrow, Isaac was in his office. He turned and Flora
studied him with fastidious dislike. The cold room smelt of liquor, and
Isaac's red face was mottled by a sort of bluish tinge, as if small
veins shone through his skin. His eyes watered and his mouth was loose.
Flora's mouth was firm. The large, gross fellow had entangled and broken
two better men; moreover, in consequence of his unscrupulousness, Mark
was poor. Flora admitted her trying to reconcile uncle and nephew was,
on the surface, rash. Yet Mark's real antagonist had been Mrs. Crozier,
and, after all, Isaac had some human qualities. Then, if Mark did join
his uncle, the partnership might not stand for long. Flora knew the
doctor thought Isaac shaken, and he carried the stamp of alcohol. Soon
the control he used must pass to younger hands. The trouble was, Flora
must indicate something like that. In the meantime, she thought him
dryly amused.

"You wanted me?" he said.

"I think I wanted to sympathize. After all, you are our neighbor, and to
manage a house is awkward for a man who must superintend a large farm."

Isaac agreed. The besom did not like him and had not yet stated her
object, but since she had arrived, she might be useful. He gave her his
shopkeepers' books.

"You're not extravagant at doctor's, and you know my household. When my
wife was mistress, I did not meddle. Neabody could cheat Ellen, but noo
I get the bills, it looks as if tradesmen thowt to rob me."

"I wonder--you are not famous for trustfulness," said Flora, and when
she had studied the books, resumed: "However, it certainly looks as if
somebody at Howbarrow was fastidious. The goods you are charged for are
the best supplied."

"Where'd you begin to cut the bills?"

Flora told him. She was not keen to help the parsimonious fellow ration
his servants, but she wanted a sort of text for her discourse. Isaac
made some notes, and gave her an ironically approving glance.

"When Robertson's man calls for orders, he'll get a jolt. You dress like
the hussies at a race-course, but you're a manager."

"Sometimes clothes are an ambitious young woman's working capital, but
mine are not expensive. Their largest cost was the planning and labor
they forced me to use. However, I'd sooner talk about your
embarrassments. The farm is large and one person cannot superintend
everything. Then, in the dales, a superintendent to some extent is a
movable extra man, and where a sheep-walk runs, like yours, across the
hills, must move rather fast. Do you expect to carry on?"

"I've got to try," said Isaac grimly. "I've lost my best help, and I'll
not risk marrying another time. You can shift your housekeeper, but you
have got to keep your wife."

"The rule is no longer absolute. Still, if you do discharge a wife, I
believe she can force you to support her, which, of course, is
unthinkable!"

Isaac laughed. He liked the baggage's humor, and her jibe about his
frugality did not annoy him. Fronting him in the straight wooden chair,
her look was carelessly scornful. Sometimes youth is hard, and when one
tried to persuade Isaac, Flora imagined politeness would not help one
much.

"Howbarrow is a dreary house and you get old," she resumed. "The
dreariness might not bother you, but to see your control going and know
the farm and flock went down would be hateful. Servants soon get
extravagant and sometimes dishonest; for example, these shopkeepers'
bills. Your watchfulness and your wife's economy made you rich, but you
cannot for long follow your sheep across the moors in a winter's
snowstorm, and you cannot be about at night in the rain and frost in
spring. However, I expect you see my argument?"

Isaac saw; in fact, he saw difficulties she did not. For one thing, he
lost speed, and sometimes could not be where he wanted at the proper
time; then he began to forget small but important jobs, about which
Ellen had reminded him. Yet to engage a bailiff would be to admit his
incompetence, and the fellow's pay would cut the profits.

"When I'm forced, I could sell the farm," he said.

"You would hate to do so, and you are not the sort to loaf," Flora
rejoined and gave him a level glance. "Where I'm trying to lead you is
plain. Why don't you send for Mark?"

"The lad is independent; I doubt he might refuse. But you know him----"

"I do not know if he would consent, but it's possible, and he is the
proper man. You see, I never imagined you put Jim Crozier over the
quarry bank."

Isaac's chair jarred on the boards, and his slack pose got braced, but
he was moved to something like admiration. The baggage's nerve was good.

"I did not," he said. "But I don't know if Mark is sure about it.
There's yan difficulty, and I see some more----"

He frowned and cogitated. On the whole, he thought the girl had not
tried to entangle him. Her cousin certainly had not sent her; the
doctor's folk were proud. Yet her statement implied that although she
did not think him guilty, others might.

"If you want Mark, your business is to inquire," she said. "Then, of
course, Howbarrow is not yours for good. All you have got is a life
interest, which must presently run out. Are you going to give the farm
to Mrs. Crozier's relations?"

"None o't' lot will get a penny."

Flora got up. Her argument was stated and she did not wish to stop on a
sober note.

"Oh, well, I imagine you do not cultivate your relations; but charitable
institutions are numerous, and, no doubt, deserving. You might, for
example, like to support a foreign mission, or a temperance society.
Anyhow, you might consider the other plan."

Isaac let her go and for a time looked straight in front. The baggage
had argued shrewdly, and her plan had advantages. Ellen had declared
Mark was not a squanderer, but Isaac clenched his fist. The boy was not
a fool; he might perhaps satisfy him he was not accountable for the
accident in the fog; but to satisfy him he had dealt justly with his
brother was another thing. Isaac began to think Mark's suspicion was
excited and when he started for Quebec he hoped to get on Turnbull's
track. In fact, he felt he dared not risk it.

He pulled out his watch. The shepherd reported some sheep were on their
knees, and since he did not want foot-rot in his flock, he must walk two
miles across the hills in order to examine the cripples. Then the
Border-Leicesters in the low pasture ought to be moved. They had been
there three weeks, and sheep must not occupy a field for long, but fresh
grass was scarce. He must see if there was food for them at the
dalehead, and if he went fast, he might be back for dinner. Then he
ought to look at the Stanerigg fields, and at two o'clock he must meet
the bouilder's man at Threaplands, across the moor. Four or five miles
to walk, and afterwards he'd be busy until dark.

Isaac frowned. All the days were like that, and he knew he could not
keep it up for long. He had recently got very slack. Then Forsyth warned
him he must go slow and soberly. Isaac got his stick and hat. Liquor had
never hurt him, and so long as he held on to Howbarrow he must move
fast.

When Flora arrived at the Millhouse she knew Madge had got some news.
Her look was preoccupied, and when she unloaded a box of groceries she
put two or three articles where they ought not to go. As a rule, Madge
was fastidiously methodical.

"Why are you disturbed?" Flora asked.

"Soon after you went I got a telegram. Mark is coming back!"

"I don't yet see a light. If Mark was my lover, I certainly would not be
annoyed because he was coming home."

"Mark has not got a holiday; his message rather implies he was forced to
start," said Madge and gave Flora the telegram. "I expect he has found
Turnbull and it frankly bothers me."

Flora nodded and knitted her brows.

"Yes, it's awkward, my dear; but we don't know what the fellow told him,
and to speculate about it will not carry us far. Then, somehow I believe
Isaac Crozier had nothing much to do with the accident at the quarry.
His aunt was really Mark's worst antagonist----"

"Oh, well," said Madge, "we must wait until he arrives. Eight or nine
days, I suppose, and when you are anxious time goes slowly. But where
were you?"

In the circumstances, Flora did not think she ought to talk about her
interview with Isaac.

"I went up the dale," she said. "You really mustn't bother, Madge. In a
way, Turnbull is interested; he was on the moor that foggy night, one
might doubt his statement. In fact, if somebody was accountable for Jim
Crozier's plunge, I'd rather suspect Turnbull than Isaac. He stole away
after the inquest. The other stopped. All the same, I believe the
tragedy was an accident."

Madge let her go and pondered. After all, Flora's opinion might be
logical. She recaptured the evening she went to Howbarrow for Isaac;
Mrs. Crozier had urgently wanted him and after he had gone was happier.
Madge imagined something he told his wife had put her mind at rest.
However, there was no use in brooding about it. She must wait, as
stoically as possible, for Mark's arrival.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE BREAKING STRAIN


Sunshine touched the courtyard wall at Howbarrow and hoar frost melted
from the thick roof flags. The house was in the shadow, and by contrast
with the yellow light, its gray front was cold. By the gate, the
sycamores opened their tight buds, but the tender leaves were bitten by
the frost and limp.

Isaac stopped by the slab on which the milk tankards stood. In the dairy
a separator droned, and its throbbing note pierced the splash of water
in the stone trough. Somehow the noise was dreary. Behind the arch
opposite him the moors rolled back, and in the distance their dark-blue
tops cut a gleam of silver light. Isaac knew the day would not be fine.
Frost in spring was good for nowt. By noon, the watery brightness would
melt in mist and rain.

His boots were wet and his breath was short. Since six o'clock he had
searched the moor for some sheep, and when he came down the rough path
the jolts had shaken him. Before he went to the house for breakfast, he
must pull himself together. Sometimes in the morning he was not very
steady on his legs, but the servants must not know. He pictured their
spiteful gossip; the master was not the man he used to be! The trouble
was, the statement would be true.

Since Ellen went he had got slack. He did not want to bother, and
muscular effort jarred. Then small obstacles made him savage and to use
control was hard. The house was dreary, and although the bills went up,
the food he got was not good. Anyhow, he had got up at six o'clock, and
by dinner he ought to carry out all he had planned to do. In the
afternoon, when the rain began, he could get to work at the office and
he'd be glad to sit down.

He went to the parlor where a sullen peat fire burned, and frowned when
the kitchen girl carried in the plates. His breakfast was not the sort
of breakfast Ellen served. A little rum, however, would help the thick
coffee, and since he must soon start for the fields, he began to eat.

After a few minutes, he thought an engine panted and heavy wheels rolled
in the stones by the ghyll. Then smoke floated up behind the sycamores,
and Isaac swore. The oats in the granary would carry him on until the
grass was good, but since corn was going up, the stack or two in the
rickyard must be thrashed and sold. To keep the stuff was to lock up
money and risk damage by storm and rats. All the same, Isaac had not yet
expected the thrashers; the owner had engaged to let him know when the
mill would arrive. The man he had sent to the railway for coal would not
be back for four or five hours. Another had fallen from a cart and hurt
his arm.

Isaac left his breakfast and went out. The engine and big separating
mill were at the gate, and two greasy men bantered the dairy maid.

"Leave t' las alone," said Isaac. "Her job's to scald t' churn. I
reckoned your master would send me word----"

"We were at Mireside yisterday, and thowt we'd thrash your lot when we
were in neighborhood," the engine-man replied. "If that's not right,
you'll need to wait. For two-a-three weeks we're hauling stones for road
surveyor, and we must be off by dark."

Isaac cogitated. Although he wanted to send the fellows away, the corn
must be thrashed. Not long since their independence would not have
bothered him, but his temper was getting hot.

"If you start, you must finish," he said. "Come along to the rickyard."

The engine-man went and looked at the stacks.

"I reckon we can do 't; but I doubt we'll not get engine through t'
gate. You'll need to break your stacks, and feed t' mill from cart."

Isaac refused, firmly and not politely. The road was soft by the gate,
but to carry the corn to the mill implied much extra labor and he was
two men short. In consequence, when the thrashers went some corn might
be left, to stand perhaps for weeks, with a rick cover for a thatch.

"The road will carry you in," he added. "If the wheels do sink a bit,
we'll load some stones at beck and mend soft spots before you haul away
the mill."

The other knew Isaac, and he smiled.

"You will nut, Mr. Crozier. If you want us in yard, you'll make road
good before we start."

Isaac was forced to agree and he sent for his men. He might get help
from a neighbor, but he must pay, in money, or labor when Strachan was
pushed, and Strachan's habit was to claim more than he gave. Then Bell,
the kitchen girl, could handle sheaves like a man, and he himself would
show folks if he was done with.

Stones were laid in the soft gateway and engine and mill rolled ahead.
The iron wheels sank ominously, but the machines reached the stacks, and
Isaac reflected that when the thrashing was over to haul his load away
was the engine-man's business.

They got to work, and Isaac pulled off his coat. Two on the stack
pitched the sheaves across to the noisy separator; others carried off
the beaten straw _bottles_, and moved the loaded corn-sacks to the
granary. Teams plowed, backward and forward, through the mire; smoke and
chaff and dust blew about. The engine clanked, and the separator
throbbed on a sharp, trembling note.

At the beginning Isaac imagined he could not bear the strain. He was a
large, heavy man, and to balance on the broken stack was awkward;
moreover, the sheaves lifted on a fork, must be thrown fast and
accurately to the mill. The dust fogged his eyes, and when he was slow,
his fork and the other's clashed. The work went with a swinging rhythm
and the engine marked the time. Although one's muscles ached and one's
breath was labored, one's movements must synchronize.

By and by Isaac got down from the stack. At the end of the separator the
thrashed corn ran into sacks, which must be fastened and moved to the
granary. The yellow stream trickled fast, and if a fresh bag were not
ready, would splash to waste in the trampled mud. Sound oats are heavy,
and the large bags must be lifted across a stick by two men and tilted
into a cart.

Isaac's muscles were strong, but he was fat and intemperance had made
him soft. His side hurt, sometimes his head swam, and he was bothered by
a queer shakiness. It looked as if he were a fool to start, but to stop
was to acknowledge his servants better men than him, and for as long as
possible he would sooner they imagined that all he ordered them to do he
himself could do. Then, by refusing to ask his neighbor's help, he saved
two men's pay. The sum was not large, but only by stern economy was
farming profitable. The shillings one did not squander soon were pounds.

After a time the disturbing slackness went and Isaac's confidence
returned. He had not recently handled corn-sacks; that was all. Forsyth
exaggerated; he perhaps wanted a fresh patient. Isaac chuckled. He'd
cheat the doctor, and he was not really much the worse for his fall from
the gig. Anyhow, the stack was melting, and they'd be done before dark.

The man who helped him move the sacks remarked that his face was not, as
usual, red. His skin was mottled by gray patches in which the netted
veins were distinct and blue. When the gang stopped for lunch, the
fellow told another the o'd man looked queer.

About twelve o'clock, the moor-tops vanished in mist, and fine rain
rolled across the heath. Big drops began to fall from the bare ash-trees
behind the stacks and the smoke did not go up. Heavy rain would stop the
thrashing, but, so far, the mill pulled in the sheaves before the straw
was wet. Isaac noted that where the loaded carts went through the
gateway his big Clydesdales' feet broke the softening road and the
stones began to vanish in the mire. To haul the mill away would be
awkward, but it had nothing to do with him.

He had not much appetite for dinner. His mouth was parched and the dust
had got into his throat. Well, he knew a cure for that, and when he
returned to the stack-yard he was braced by liquor. In fact, he felt he
conquered. The rain was stopping, and in three or four hours the corn
would be thrashed.

The wind dropped and the sky was dark. A sooty cloud floated about the
stack, and chaff and dust stuck to the men's wet skins. The pitchers'
hands slipped on the forks, and the grit got into Isaac's blood-shot
eyes. He imagined it accounted for his not seeing where the needle went
when he sewed up the bags, but somehow his fingers did not properly
control the curved steel. All the same, to lift the bags did not bother
him very much. Effort had become mechanical; he was really fresher than
when he started. So long as he must, he could keep going, but he began
to wonder what would happen when he stopped.

In the meantime, the last stack was melting, and when the clouds again
broke in a drenching shower the engine-man drove the separator hard. The
hum of the spinning flywheel rose to a higher pitch, belts slapped, the
mill clanked, men gasped, and straining horses trampled in the mud. When
Isaac followed the cart to the granary, his boots sank, and he saw the
wheel-tracks were deep, but not many loads of corn and straw were left,
and the road would carry his carts.

When they unloaded, a lad allowed a bag to slip from the row and the
sackcloth burst. Some corn was spilled, and Isaac gave the boy an
ironical glance.

"Gan for needle and we'll sew 't up," he said. "If you'll not can carry
needle, we'll try you for kitchen maid."

The lad grinned and shambled off. He was willing but awkward, and had
not long since stuck his fork in a pitcher's leg. In fact, Isaac would
sooner teach a strong girl than a lad who had not yet found his proper
speed and balance. Boys did not think, and when they were keen, sprawled
like puppies and got in people's way. He mended the bag and went to the
mewstead. The thrashed straw was near the roof, and he called to the man
on the cart.

"Pitch 't up and get back. Two more loads will see you oot."

When he reached the yard it looked as if the rain would fall all night,
but the stack had dwindled to a few tiers of sheaves. To stop now was
unthinkable; the grain-bags were thick, and the straw could be moved to
the stead before much got wet. Isaac shouted to the engine-man, and the
tired gang worked faster.

At length, the flywheel's hum sank and the separator's clanking slowed
and stopped. The loaded carts rolled away, and the pitchers put on their
coats, but the engine-man studied the torn road.

"You'll need to put down mair stanes. We have got to shift, and I'll not
risk engine on ghyll road in t' dark."

"If you want stones, you must wait for the carts to unload," Isaac
rejoined. "I might give you some railway sleepers to put in the soft
spots."

Old sleepers, which may be bought for about a shilling, are useful at a
farm. Isaac broke the pile, and when the men laid the timber in the
holes leaned against the gate. He was hot and dizzy, but he had not yet
put on his coat, and to feel the rain on his skin was soothing.

By and by he signaled the engine-man. The flywheel revolved and steam
blew about. A drawbar groaned, the separator lurched, and the engine
rolled ponderously ahead. At the gate, gravel and sleepers vanished
under the iron wheels, but for a few moments the timber carried its
load. Then the big driving-wheels went down, and while the engine rocked
and labored, churned in the mire. Somebody thrust a fresh beam into the
hole, a wheel mounted on its end, and the other got hold. Mud and rotten
wood were thrown back, but the engine forged ahead, and the boy who had
dropped the bag at the granary jumped to throw a sleeper in front of the
advancing mill.

He was rather willing than useful, for a wheel plunged into the slough
where the beam was not. The engine, however, was on firm ground, and the
driver did not stop. The mill tilted ominously, and rolled on, and Isaac
thought it must fall against the stone gate-post. At the bottom of the
post, the boy tried to force a fresh timber under the sinking wheel.

Then it looked as if he saw he might be crushed, for he jumped up and
braced his arms against the inclined mill. The effort was perhaps
mechanical, for sometimes his sort do not reason. Since the mill was
going over, he must steady the machine.

"Let go, you d---- feule!" shouted Isaac, and jumped for the spot.

The boy was strongly built, and for a moment he held on stupidly to the
mill. Then Isaac threw him back for two or three yards, and, staggering,
fell against the gate. The separator struck the stone post, but did not
stop. The sinking wheel had mounted a sleeper and the iron drawbar held.
Lurching upright, the machine rolled through the gate.

The boy got on his feet. Isaac, slipping down the gate, sat in the torn
gravel. He did not think the separator touched him, but the effort he
had used was violent and somehow he dared not move.

"Ground's wet," said his cowman. "Can you not get up?"

"If you help, I might try," said Isaac, and when the other pulled him to
his feet, leaned against the man for support.

"I'm not hurt; the mill went by a yard off," he declared in a dull
voice. "For aw that, I'm tired, and I think I'll gan t' bed."

The cowman and a shepherd steadied him to the house and up the awkward
stairs. One pulled off Isaac's wet boots, and the housekeeper sent the
other for Forsyth.




CHAPTER XXVIII

A MODERN STOIC


Two days after the corn was thrashed, Isaac, in his big four-poster bed,
studied the doctor's face. When he was carried to the house the muscles
on one side of his body to some extent were powerless. Now he could move
his arm and he imagined he would soon be able to move his leg. All the
same, Forsyth's look was sober, and Isaac knew he was not hopeful.

"I'll niver again be much use on farm?" he said.

"You might perhaps get out of bed, but I doubt if you will get
downstairs."

"Aweel," said Isaac, "I thowt I was done for, but since I started at
Howbarra' I have not spared myself, and wet and cold and labor niver
hurt me. Noo I might as weel know why I am knocked out."

Forsyth told him frankly. Isaac was entitled to know, and his nerve was
firm.

"The trouble is, you did not spare yourself; the consequences of strain,
so to speak, are cumulative," he went on. "Then when you were thrown
from the gig you got a nasty fall, and had your body not been hurt,
there was the other shock. The cure was quiet and stern soberness, but
you refused to use it and when you thrashed the corn you had reached the
danger-point. I imagine your effort to pull the lad from the gate broke
you."

Isaac nodded, with a touch of grim humor.

"I dinnot claim I'm generous. It's first and last time I've meddled
where meddling did not pay. But I reckon I'd better begin to put aw
straight?"

"It might be wise," Forsyth agreed.

"Verra weel," said Isaac calmly, "to write would bother me. You might
send my lawyer--Hardcastle, at Hexham--word I'd like him to come across.
Then my liquor's running low and sometimes you're in Carlisle. For once,
I might be extravagant, but I'm not used with champagne, and port is
heavy stuff. I think I'll stick to whisky and you might order a dozen.
The case will see me out."

Forsyth liked his stoic pluck, but he shook his head.

"Although you will probably get the liquor, I will not carry it home for
you. If you'd agree to be rationed--but I expect you would not stop at
two or three glasses, and more would be dangerous."

"Soberness will not cure me, as weel you know. Ellen is gone, and the
farm will soon be another's. Liquor's all I've got, and I'll not be
robbed of that."

The doctor admitted Isaac was drearily logical. He had achieved much,
and perhaps achievement was some satisfaction, for he had not in any
other way enjoyed the reward for his labors, and he knew nobody would
grieve when he was gone. Now he was helpless, hired strangers must care
for him, and whisky was his only comforter. Yet it looked as if he were
resigned. Isaac was stern stuff, and where grumbling would not help he
did not grumble.

"You perhaps know Mark is coming back? We expect him in five or six
days," the doctor said with pretended carelessness.

Isaac looked up, but not as if he were disturbed.

"Yours is first news I've got. I'll not can run away," he said with dry
humor.

Forsyth was rather embarrassed. Isaac saw he knew all Mark's return
implied; Forsyth had perhaps indicated that he did so. The old fellow,
no doubt, knew his helplessness was his best defense.

"You will be my executor?" he resumed.

"I think not," said the doctor. "A trustee ought to be independent and
without prejudice, but since your nephew will marry my daughter, I am
interested. Besides, Mark is my friend, and since I'm altogether human,
I might not approve your will."

"Neabody but lawyer will ken my will before he reads it to you," said
Isaac cooly. "However, you'll send word to him?"

Forsyth engaged to do so and went off. In the kitchen he gave the nurse
some orders; and then hesitated. He ought perhaps to stop Isaac's
whisky, but if he tried, the fellow would baffle him. Then soberness
would not help much; there was not a cure, and the end was not far off.
After all, a few more days were not important, and liquor might be some
consolation. Forsyth shrugged and started down the hill. He was perhaps
a sentimentalist, but he hoped his end would not be as lonely as
Crozier's.

When he was engaged in his surgery Madge came in.

"You were at Howbarrow?" she said.

Forsyth agreed. Madge's look was anxious, and he understood her anxiety.

"Isaac regains some muscular control, and may get out of bed. He cannot
recover--A week or two I think."

"Then you expect Mark will see him?"

"Yes. I rather experimented, but Isaac, at all events, was not afraid.
When I stated that Mark would soon arrive his reply was, he could not
run away."

"Ah," said Madge, "I'm bothered! Flora believes Jim's falling into the
quarry was an accident. I myself don't know, and Mark did not, but he's
resolved to find out. If it's by any means possible, he must find out.
You see, it looks as if he has let his career in Quebec go, and if he is
baffled, he might brood about the tragedy all his life. When he went to
Quebec he had begun to think he had let his brother down, and had waited
until the proper time was gone. Since he is coming back, he has found
Turnbull and got some sort of clue. All the same, for him to force a
dying man to confess would be frankly horrible. Yet Isaac is stubborn
and Mark must use force."

Forsyth knew his daughter and he sympathized. He doubted if she could
persuade her lover to be pitiful, but if she thought she ought, she
would try. For her to see the proper line was hard. Although she
admitted Mark must solve the puzzle, she would hate to think he used
harsh cruelty.

"After all, I imagine Isaac will not refuse to enlighten Mark," he said.
"For one thing, honesty cannot cost him much. Then, perhaps it's queer,
but, for all his cunning, in a way, he is just."

"Just?" said Madge. "The statement's ridiculous!"

"I cannot logically claim he was scrupulous, and I believe he exploited
Mark's father's trust and Jim's rawness. He probably meant to take the
farm, but they got the money another might not have lent. When one
transacted business with Isaac the profit was his. All the same, his
bills were met and his engagements stood. A queer, greedy, scheming
fellow, but he had some qualities--He was not revengeful and he was
never cruel."

"He hurt Mark," said Madge. "Your charity is wider than mine."

She went off and Forsyth smiled. He did not claim to be very charitable,
but he had studied men and women for thirty more years than Madge and in
consequence was perhaps more easily satisfied. Anyhow, the old fellow at
Howbarrow had qualities, and fronted his end with stoic pluck. Hard,
undaunted, and frankly pagan! Well, the dalesmen's ancestors were North
Sea pirates, moss-troopers and cattle-thieves. A grim lot, but English;
the Viking strain was not yet run out.

At Howbarrow Isaac beckoned his nurse. She was a competent young woman
and her will was firm, but she knew her patient's firmer.

"It's time I took my medicine; I don't mean Forsyth's stuff," he said.

"But the doctor warned you intemperance might be rash."

"I'm not going to be intemperate, lass. Until I've seen my nivew I'll
gan canny; and then I'll tak' a proper dose."

"In that case, it is fortunate there is not much whisky."

"Then, we'll send for another lot," Isaac rejoined with a twinkle. "When
you bring my dinner you'll tell Frank to yoke t' pony; I've got a job
for him. I'll order half a dozen. I'd thowt I'd get a case, but ten
glasses go to the bottle, and since you have talked to doctor, you can
calculate----"

The nurse reflected. The calculation was not the sort of calculation
sick people for the most part were willing to make. Doctor Forsyth had
not ordered her to ration her patient and she frankly doubted if she
could control him. Then she saw he studied her with a smile.

"You're bonnier when your brow and mouth are straight, my lass. Get t'
bottle and some hot water. The lemon you cut yesterday will do again."

The punch was brewed and Isaac slowly drained his glass. He must wait
until dinner for the next lot, and be satisfied with another in the
evening. Five or six days, Forsyth thought, before Mark arrived. Well,
he must use some caution, but when he had seen the lad he'd let himself
go. There was no use in his taking the doctor's stuff, and whisky was
nicer.

In the meantime the power to move returned and his leg no longer felt as
if it were made of wood; the shock was going, and that was something. In
the morning perhaps he'd persuade nurse to help him up. When Mark
arrived he must be out of bed. It was queer, but he admitted the
interview with his nephew began to preoccupy him. Until Mark came he
must hold on.

Isaac did not get up in the morning. His leg was yet weak and the nurse
firmly refused her help. Isaac knew when he was beaten, and in the
afternoon his lawyer arrived. The day was cold and Hardcastle had driven
across the moors. Isaac felt his visit justified some hospitality and he
ordered the nurse to brew a double supply of punch.

"The stuff is better than you get at Kings' Arms, and Miss Drayson kens
she has got to humor me," he said. "If you should need a nurse, she's a
canny lass; but she might leave us alone until I call."

Miss Drayson went. Hardcastle thought her competent, but he hoped he
would not need her help. Studying his client, he imagined Isaac's
sending for him was prudent, and his talking like a dalesman was perhaps
ominous. At the Hexham office, Isaac's English, as a rule, was good.

"Since I reckoned on my wife's inheriting, you'll write a fresh will;
but to begin with, we'll put aw right for my executors," he said.

He talked for five or ten minutes. Shares and cattle must be sold, sums
owing to him be collected, and the money be used as he directed.
Hardcastle noted his orders. A market-town lawyer, as a rule, is
something of a financier, but he doubted if he could have better handled
his client's property.

"Noo," said Isaac, "you will write the will. You and Forsyth are
executors. It's first job you've done for me for which you'll not send
in your bill. If doctor refuses, he'll maybe help you find another man.
Weel, I got money my wife had saved, and although her relations did not
like her marrying me, they'll expect some. They'll get nowt, and but
for Tom Braith't's widow, mine have got enough. Two hundred pounds
apiece to her boys, James and Frederick Braithwaite, to help them learn
a useful trade. Twenty pounds to my horseman, shepherds, and cowman, and
ten pounds to Bell t' kitchen lass. An untidy slut in house, but she
worked on corn-stack like a man. You'll draw't up with proper names, and
sea forth; leading on to the important legacies----"

"The tileworks?" said Hardcastle.

"My share to Tyson. He undertakes aw liabilities and receives t'profits.
Noo we come to Howbarra'----"

Hardcastle looked up. Isaac's eyes twinkled, as if he thought the climax
he had planned something of a joke.

"After t' aforesaid legacies are paid, I give aw that's mine--Weel
two-a-three I ken may get a knock, and I reckon t'proper man's emotions
will at first be mixed. Can you spot him?"

Hardcastle said it was not his business, but when Isaac supplied the
name he remarked:

"In all circumstances, I think the will is a very just and proper will."

Isaac gave him a searching glance and nodded.

"Aweel, your business is to make it tight and fast."




CHAPTER XXIX

THE LAST INTERVIEW


The evening was gloomy, and Madge, sitting by a window in the long room,
tried to concentrate on her sewing. In the morning a telegram had
arrived from Mark at Liverpool. His train was gone and he imagined he
would be forced to stop at Carlisle for the night. Madge had studied the
doctor's time-table, but since his household seldom used the train, the
guide was three or four months out of date. By and by Flora, at the
other end of the room, turned her head.

"I thought I heard a car."

"It's possible," said Madge. "As a rule, we are not bothered by much
traffic, but in about forty minutes I have jumped up for the butcher,
the fish-man, and a seed-merchant who thought he was at Redsyke.
However, the grocery-van is due and you might take the parcel."

Flora gave her a sympathetic nod. To expect one's lover and confront the
butcher was annoying. In the meantime, the car had stopped and she went
along the passage. Madge resumed her sewing, but she did not see where
the needle went, and when she heard the car turn she waited. Robertson's
man soon was gone.

"A parcel for you!" Flora called.

Madge's heart beat. She jumped up and started for the door. Somebody
advanced along the passage, and Mark took her in his arms.

After a time Flora joined them. Mark was thin, but she thought him
bigger. His skin was darkened by the reflections from the snow, his look
was calm, and he had somehow a balance and gravity she had not remarked
before. Flora studied him with open curiosity.

"You have lost nothing in Canada but a touch of boyishness," she said.
"In fact, you have got rather attractive, and I suppose I'll presently
be your relation."

Mark smiled and kissed her.

"You are a stanch friend. I, however, felt I ought not to rob my pal."

"Ah," said Flora, "Bob's claim is not yet admitted, but he's very
obstinate. We got a cablegram yesterday and he'll be here in ten days.
When you started I expect he did not know--I suppose you and Madge have
not begun to talk about your plans?"

"My plans are not fixed. As soon as the doctor gets home, I am going to
Howbarrow."

Flora sat down and gave him a thoughtful look.

"Well, I suppose you must go. I certainly did not imagine I should be
Isaac Crozier's champion; but I begin to doubt if he is altogether the
greedy, cunning brute I sometimes thought. Then, I believe he had really
not much to do with Jim's accident. And he's very ill."

"Yes," said Mark, "my luck is out. In a way, I have let down Bob, and my
excursion may cost me my post. I risked it because at length I thought I
might find out the truth--However, I suppose one cannot bully a sick and
helpless man."

"You, at all events, cannot, Mark," Madge said quietly. "You hate to be
cruel and I never knew you shabbily revengeful. Yet you are entitled to
know the truth."

"Isaac may be franker than you think," Flora remarked. "When he could
get something by trickery I expect he was not fastidious. Now, however,
all he has got will not long be his, and although I don't think he is
daunted, he might try to be just."

"There's your line, Mark," said Madge. "You are stubborn folk and you
must not force your uncle to be obstinate."

They let it go, and talked about Bob's and Mark's adventures in Quebec.
By and by Forsyth joined them, and when Madge stated Mark was going to
Howbarrow and she wanted the car the doctor agreed.

"Very well. I think Isaac will be willing to see Mark, and to wait might
be risky."

Madge left the car at the beck foot, and they climbed the hill in the
dark. When they reached the house, Mark went to Isaac's room, and Madge
waited in the kitchen. She noted that the fire was large, and where
corn-sacks had covered the flags there was a carpet. A good lamp,
perhaps from the parlor, gave a cheerful light, and she thought
something of the austerity that had long marked the house was gone.

When Mark went into Isaac's room, the sick man, in a big chair,
languidly turned his head. The room was warm, but a rug covered his
legs, and his large body was slack in the curve of the chair. His mouth
was loose, and small blue veins mottled his shrunken skin. His glance
rested on his nephew as if he were rather dryly amused.

"I expected you'd soon be across. Will you take a drink?" he said.

Mark refused. There was no use in pretending and Isaac had implied that
he knew the object for his visit. He pulled the cover from a book he had
carried from the Millhouse.

"My brother's farming diary!" he said. "I found it in an old trunk and
the notes he made are interesting. I'd like to read you four or five."

"You'll not need," Isaac rejoined. "If you move the lamp and put book on
little table, I'se mannish."

For a few minutes he studied the diary; and then he said:

"The lad was cliverer than I thowt. If I'd kenned book was in his trunk,
you'd not have found it."

"I imagined something like that," said Mark. "However, I expect you see
where Jim's notes lead?"

"I'm not duller than t' next man; but if I'm defendant, you must state
your case."

"Very well. Since my father might have borrowed from a bank, I don't
know why he trusted you; but your motive for financing him is rather
plain. Jim was perhaps entrapped easily; he was young and had inherited
an awkward debt. Although you might have cautioned him, you encouraged
his rash efforts to break his embarrassments. Where he speculated, he
lost; you reckoned on his losing and hoped to seize Howbarrow for your
son. But you dared not have told him how you got the farm. Frank was a
good sort."

"He's dead," said Isaac. "His mother and me got a sad blow. But you're
clever. Your father had not much of a head for business and Jim was a
rash feule. I was second wife's son, but I would not see farm I could
weel use wasted. I did want Howbarra' for Frank; but the debts I claimed
were money your brother got."

"Now and then Jim paid a sum he marked _Cash in notes_. Do you know
where the notes went?"

"None went to me. I ken where 't did go, and you'll not be happier when
you find out; but if you must be humored--Hooiver, for two-a-three
minutes we'll let it bide. I allow I schemed to seize the farm. Is that
aw t' charge?"

Mark studied his uncle. Isaac was not embarrassed; nothing indicated any
particular emotion. His pose was very slack and his body had sunk
farther down in the big chair, but his glance was steady and his voice,
although slow, was calm. Mark, however, had not expected him to be
bothered by remorse.

"It is not all," he said. "In Canada I met Turnbull; when I started I
meant to find him. He declares you bribed him to emigrate. Why did you
do so?"

Isaac smiled. "He got a hundred pounds. I was afraid of Trum'll, and he
was afraid of me. Since yan could implicate t'other, I'd sooner he went
abroad."

"Then you admit you met Jim on the hill in the fog?"

"You're a keen lad. When I heard you'd started back, I knew you had
found Trum'll and reckoning was come, but I was willing. You were
entitled to know aw I could tell, and I wad soon be gone."

Mark thought the conclusion logical. Since man's justice could not
follow Isaac, he might at length be candid. Bracing up awkwardly, he
beckoned Mark nearer.

"When Jim started for Blackshaw tarn, he'd but come back from Garner's
sale, and in afternoon I'd sent Trum'll to dalehead with some young
stock Jardine had bid for. Jim was for refusing his bid; the beasts
shaped weel, but my notion was he thowt them better than they were.
Anyhow, Jardine offered a fair price, some bills must be met, and I'd
supplied Jim with aw t' money I was willing to risk. Until your brother
met Trum'll at Packhorse, he did not know I had agreed to sell.

"In the evening the horses broke the infield dyke, and I went out on
moor. Fog was thick, and I was glad to find sheep path that goes by
quarry. Somebody was in t' path, and when Jim shouted I stopped, not far
from fence. You mind the brow is steep."

Mark nodded. The quarry was cut in the sloping moor, and the fence
crossed the sharp pitch a few yards from the edge. On the other side,
the turf was undermined by rabbit-holes.

"Jim was savage," Isaac continued. "He'd taken some drink at Packhorse
and he wanted to know if Howbarra' was his or mine. I said t' man was
master who held the mortgage and met t' bills; but the slut at Hexham
wad get nea mair o' t' money that was wanted for farm----"

Mark stopped him. Turnbull's statement and Isaac's tale agreed; but he
said he must be convinced his uncle's retort was well grounded.

"Then you can ask the lass," said Isaac, and told him where she lived.
"After the funeral she was here and wanted t' see me. She saw Ellen, and
she did not come again. Noo you ken where t' cash Jim entered in his
diary went."

Mark's doubts melted; he imagined the experiment Isaac suggested would
banish them for good. Moreover, his uncle had assigned a reason for the
bitterness of the dispute.

"Jim went wild," he resumed. "Howbarra' wasn't mine yet, and he'd had
enough! From t' beginning, I'd schemed to rob him; but he'd baffle me
and stick to what was his!"

A gust of passion came near to carry Mark away. He saw his brother,
broken and desperate, front his triumphant creditor. Then Isaac's
horrible coolness jarred. It looked as if he were not moved, and
although his voice got faint, the faintness was due to his infirmity.
Yet Mark felt his tale was accurate.

"You disputed about the girl. Go on," he said.

"Yan thing led to t' other, and Jim stormed about quarry fence. He'd
ordered larch posts and some reels o' barbed wire; I'd sent word we
didn't want the stuff. I said o'd fence would stand for some time yet,
but if we cut an ash-tree, he could split posts and rails for nowt. Jim
declared t' lot was rotten; he'd had enough o' my pinching, and he'd
make a proper job. D---- fence wouldn't stop a bullock; a man could
shov't down. I was a stubborn o'd skinflint, but he'd show me----"

For a moment Isaac hesitated, and for the first time, Mark sensed a sort
of shrinking when he resumed:

"Jim threw himself against t' fence, and rails smashed. I reckon he hit
weakest spot, for t' rest was not varra bad. He went through, and maybe
broken rail entangled his leg--I dinnot ken, but he plunged forrad and
did not stop. The fog was thick, and quarry bank is steep. When I heard
rotten turf break and stones go, I turned and ran up path. Trum'll was
waiting at gate."

"You left Jim in the quarry?" said Mark in a stern voice.

"When I was rid o' Trum'll, I went back. Jim was dead; from quarry brow
to pit at bottom is seventy feet. Nowt could be done before morning, and
neabody but Trum'll knew I was aboot. I stole back to house and went to
bed."

Mark tried for calm. After all, horrible as the thing was, he had feared
it might be worse, and he was persuaded he at length knew the truth.
When one allowed for his uncle's temperament, the line he took was
logical. Had the coroner had grounds to doubt him and inquired into his
transactions with his nephew, he might have run an awkward risk, but
only Turnbull knew he was at the quarry. Well, it was done with, and, on
the whole, Mark was conscious of relief.

"You exploited Jim, and in a sense you cheated Madge and me," he said.
"The dreadful, haunting doubt robbed us of the happiness we ought to
have had."

"Then you thowt I put your brother over the bank?"

"Now I know you did not, I cannot admit you're altogether innocent,"
Mark rejoined. "When Jim hit the rotten rails, it looked like Croziers'
luck; but he had some grounds to be savage, and his dispute with you
urged him to the rash experiment----"

He got up, and fronted the other with knitted brows.

"Anyhow, there's no use in talking. You are my father's half-brother,
and if I were revengeful, I could not punish you. All the same, I cannot
pretend----"

Isaac nodded, and for a moment his fixed look softened, as if he smiled.

"We're stubborn folk. Maybe you're the best o' t' bunch, Mark. Good-by,
my lad."

Mark went out. Madge waited in the kitchen, and when they crossed the
yard she put her hand gently on his arm.

"I have seen Isaac for the last time," he said. "I ought to have given
him my hand, but I could not, and if I had done so, he'd have thought me
theatrical. He declared we are a stubborn lot. He broke my brother,
although it was, in a sense, by accident that Jim met his death."




CHAPTER XXX

THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE


Forsyth stirred the sinking fire and gave Mark a cigarette. The doctor's
small surgery rather smelt of tobacco than drugs, and after the lumber
camps, Mark thought it homelike. Since he landed at Liverpool he had
been occupied and highly strung, and now he felt himself entitled to
slack.

"Are you going to rejoin the lumber company?" Forsyth asked.

"I don't know; I warned Bob I might not," Mark replied. "In a way, I
turned down my job, and I feel I ought not to use my pal--However, I
haven't yet really thought about it."

Forsyth nodded. He had some grounds to imagine Mark might stop in
England.

"Oh, well, until Bob arrives, you mustn't bother, and Flora expects him
soon. I suppose you are satisfied with your uncle's statement?"

"I am satisfied," said Mark, in a thoughtful voice. "Since I could not
punish him, there was no object for his trying to baffle me, and his
tale, so to speak, holds together. I believe Jim had begun to find out
Isaac's treachery, and when he was annoyed his habit was to let himself
go. Then the climax of the dispute was typical. Isaac parsimoniously
refused to use a reel of wire; Jim smashed the fence because the other
declared the rails would stand."

"One follows one's bent and bears the consequences," Forsyth agreed. "I
imagine Isaac's using a broken gig-lamp explains his collision with the
car and cost his wife her life. In fact, his collapse at the stack-yard
was the consequence of the shock he got."

"I got something of a jolt," said Mark. "I'd thought Jim sober and
absorbed by the farm. Did you know about the Hexham girl?"

"Some stories reached me. To investigate was not my business. I doubt if
it is yours."

"I must find out, although I frankly hate to inquire. Isaac's tale was
convincing; but I can, at all events, put this particular statement to
the test, and if it is accurate, I'll know the others stand. Then the
girl was perhaps entitled to Jim's help, and we do not disown our debts.
Unless she had good grounds, she would not have gone to Howbarrow."

"I imagine you are not rich, Mark," said the doctor dryly.

"If I go back to Quebec, I'll be bothered to buy my steamship-ticket.
All the same, I am going to Hexham."

"In the circumstances I rather like your pluck," Forsyth rejoined.
"However, since you are resolved, if you can wait for Thursday, I might
go with you."

Mark waited, and on Thursday the doctor's car climbed the stony road at
the dalehead, and sped, by scattered birch-clumps, and flooded
peat-hags, across the lonely moors. After a time, they joined a black
trunk-road and followed a river through pasture and plowland until a
gray abbey rose behind the trees. Then a battlemented tower dominated
the clustering roofs, the car rolled across an ancient market-place,
and Mark got down.

Half an hour afterward he entered the hotel smoking-room where Forsyth
waited. His look was rather grim and unconsciously he frowned. Forsyth
indicated an easy-chair and signed a waitress. Amusement tempered his
sympathy. Mark, as his habit was, had tried to carry out an awkward job,
because he thought the job was his.

"I expect you need a drink," he said.

Mark agreed, and when the waitress carried off the tray he smiled, an
apologetic smile.

"Now I think about it, my nerve was rather good, but when I found the
house I wanted to run away. However, I got up the steps, and although I
hoped nobody was at home, I was shown in. In some emergencies, sir,
youth is a handicap, but, so far as I could distinguish, she was from
the beginning less embarrassed than I----"

Forsyth thought it possible. He noted that Mark seemed so unwilling to
use the girl's name.

"Well?" he said.

"She is not cultivated, but, after all, we are not. The strange thing
was, I did not think her attractive--I had not, of course, expected her
to be friendly, but until we had talked for a few minutes, her attitude,
so to speak, was openly antagonistic."

The doctor nodded. Two or three Croziers he had known were frankly
primitive. He rather sympathized with the young woman, but he pictured
Mark's sincerity breaking her reserve.

"Oh, well, her seeing Mrs. Crozier when she looked up Isaac might
account for something."

"The awkward thing was to account for the visit. She knew I thought it
important and speculated about her not coming another time--You see
where we were led?"

"The illusion she perhaps entertained is not altogether uncommon," the
doctor remarked. "You admit you were the worse embarrassed, and in some
circumstances a woman uses less reserve than a man. Well, I expect she
indicated that your supposition was not accurate? It's possible she
added that she wanted nothing from the Croziers."

Mark gave him a surprised glance.

"It did go something like that. She hoped she would never see one of us
again! She had a good post and might, if she liked, be married, but she
doubted if she would risk it. Men were shabby and selfish. It almost
looked as if I myself meant well, but if she met me in the street, she
would not know me; and so forth. I said I was sorry and I went."

Forsyth nodded. Although Mark hated his errand, the qualities that urged
him to search Canada for Turnbull had carried him to Hexham.

"I hope, at length you're content."

"I have some grounds to be content," Mark rejoined. "I know Isaac's tale
is accurate and the tragedy at the quarry was an accident. Today's
excursion has removed another load. All that's past is done with, and I
can look in front. Before we push off let's ring for another drink."

When the car rolled up the dale dusk was falling and Madge waited at the
Millhouse gate.

"Perhaps you ought not to stop," she said to Forsyth. "About an hour
since the nurse sent a message. You are wanted at Howbarrow."

"Will you get down?" the doctor asked Mark.

"I'm going," Mark said firmly, and the car sped up the dale.

He waited for some time in the kitchen, and then the doctor came in and
pulled on his coat.

"Isaac's unconscious and I do not think he will again be sensible," he
said. "Nothing in my surgery can help him much, but one must seize the
smallest chance and I must go for some stuff. There is no use in your
stopping."

They started for the Millhouse and Forsyth went back. In the morning he
sent for Mark.

"You are now the head of the house, and since somebody for a few days
must take control, you ought to look up your uncle's lawyer. I shall not
want the car, and Madge, who knows where Hardcastle's office is, will go
with you."

Madge was soon ready, and when they arrived Mark was for some time
occupied with the lawyer. He thought the old fellow polite and helpful.
The funeral must be a public funeral, but Hardcastle would superintend
all arrangements, and since Mark's name must be used, he hoped he would
approve the list of the people one ought to ask. Hardcastle believed he
knew his lamented client's wishes, but Mark's must be consulted, and so
forth.

When Mark rejoined Madge at a tea-shop his look was puzzled.

"For three or four days, I am much more important than I ever thought to
be," he said. "I'm calling everybody of note in the countryside to
Howbarrow, and nothing is to be done unless I approve."

"But you really are important," Madge replied. "In the dales, you know,
a funeral is something of an event and, as a rule, is celebrated by a
feast. Then the Croziers are _old-stannart_ yeomen, and since Mrs.
Crozier's relations are barred by a sort of Salic law, you stand for the
ruling line."

"Oh, well," said Mark, smiling, "if they want a temporary figurehead, I
suppose I must play up, but when the function's over I'll be glad to
abdicate. My taking the post, however, is something of a joke, and it's
lucky Hardcastle will meet the bills. If I were forced to do so, I'd go
broke."

Madge gave him a sympathetic glance, but her look was thoughtful.

"Howbarrow ought to have been yours, Mark. I wonder who inherits. In the
North, our superstition is, a will must not be known before the
funeral."

"If I remember correctly, Hardcastle stated Isaac wished him to follow
the custom. Anyhow, it has nothing to do with us. I expect to labor for
all I get, and I hope Bob will persuade the company to take me back. For
all that, he'd be entitled to think my turning him down was shabby."

Madge smiled, a kind, indulgent smile. Sometimes Mark was dull. He did
not seem to see his willingness to let his occupation go was rather
fine; and he did not see another thing--In the meantime, she ought
perhaps not to enlighten him, and she got up.

"I must call at a shop for a parcel; and then we must start."

Two days afterwards, Flora got a telegram from Liverpool and borrowed
Forsyth's car. Mark heard the engine throb and ran for the gate, but
when he got there the car vanished behind the trees. He turned and saw
Madge at the door.

"You plunged along the passage, and in trying to stop you, I knocked
down some plates," she said. "Two that broke were, of course, the best
we have got. You see, I thought we ought to make a feast for Bob."

"Sorry," said Mark. "Until I heard the engine, I didn't think Flora was
ready to start, and I'd meant to go."

Madge smiled. "I imagine Flora knew. Perhaps it's strange, but I expect
she was not keen for your society. Yet, of course, she'd sooner not
refuse."

"I begin to see a light. Anyhow, if she had indicated she was happier
with Bob, I'd have walked home."

"Oh, Mark, you are dull!" Madge rejoined. "However, if it's some
comfort, as a rule, your object's good."

Flora left her car at the top of the station hill, and on the footbridge
across the line compared her watch with the clock. She had timed the run
accurately and the train was punctual. Well, she admitted she did not
want to wait. Bob was keener than Mark and he would see all that her
meeting him implied. When she went down the steps her heart beat and
warm color touched her skin.

The line pierced the moors where the Pennines roll down to the high
tableland. Torn clouds tossed about the sky and sun and speeding shadow
checkered the heath. In the Border wilds spring is boisterous, and when
the train steamed round the curve Bob saw a light, braced figure in the
island platform. Flora's glance searched the windows and her clothes
blew on the wind. Before the jarring wheels had stopped Bob leaped from
the step, and triumphantly put his arm round her waist.

"You reckoned you'd meet me; that's fine!" he said. "Since they landed
us, I wondered--but sometimes I'm modest, and I knew I had to wait."

He hurried her to the footbridge, and fat commercial travelers and hard
moorland farmers smiled. The girl and her laughing, athletic lover were
an attractive picture. Flora, however, did not like to be conspicuous
and she stopped Bob.

"The train goes on," she said. "What about your luggage?"

Bob whirled round. "I plumb forgot the stuff! In Canada, you give the
transfer-man your checks. Guess I better get it. They're starting the
cars."

His small trunk was on the platform, and he seized his bag.

"Bit of a load, sir," remarked a porter. "If you stop a minute, I'll get
a truck."

"I don't want to stop," said Bob. "Maybe you can pack the trunk across.
To move the lot would not bother me."

The porter seized the trunk and when he put it on board the doctor's car
was surprised by his reward. A passenger who was willing to carry his
luggage but gave tips like that was something fresh; at all events, in
the North. Bob jumped on board, and Flora laughed.

"Your mood is rather theatrical. I was afraid you were going to
undertake a strong-man exploit."

"I wasn't going to wait," said Bob. "Your engine's started and I'll fix
the door. Step on it and let her rip!"

The car sped down the hill, across a wide market-place, and along an
old-fashioned street. Then the white houses and gardens rolled back and
the road began to climb the moors. At a corner where larches, touched by
shining green, cut the wind Bob touched Flora's arm.

"We'll stop for two or three minutes. Run her on the grass."

Flora did so and for a moment looked about. Behind the mossy wall, heath
and gray bent-grass sloped to a valley where a sparkling river ran.
Across the dale, two or three white farmsteads shone; and then the long
moors, melting from brown to blue, rolled back into the sky. In the
serene evening light, the landscape was austerely beautiful.

"A hard, bracing country!" Bob remarked. "Somehow it holds one. You feel
it's yours, my dear?"

"I'm English; Border English, Bob. I'm proud and hard, and sometimes I'm
prejudiced. The country is mine. Yet I could leave it----"

"When I saw you on the platform, I knew. Well, I mustn't hustle you--But
when will you go?"

"Ah," said Flora, "let's be practical! For a month, you will be in
Scotland, and when you get back to Montreal you must start for British
Columbia. You will be in the mountains until the snow falls?"

"That is so," Bob agreed soberly. "If I were married, I might claim
another post and stay at Montreal, but I'm the company's servant and the
old man begins to reckon on my help. In fact, I feel I mustn't refuse."

"You must not," said Flora. "I expect your people are kind, Bob, but,
after all, you are marrying a _foreigner_, and for a time they will
weigh all I do. Since you are stanch, I might fight them, and by and by
they'd be glad to leave me alone--But, it is not my plan. I must capture
your father and sister; I want them to love me."

Bob firmly kissed her.

"They are going to love you. The old man imagined a girl who could hold
me for twelve months and draw me back three thousand miles was the sort
of wife I ought to get. I told him I had got neater compliments; but he
talks like that."

"You don't yet see my argument," Flora resumed. "When I marry, I want my
husband, but in Canada I must make good. To begin by forcing you to
think for me when you ought to concentrate on the company's plans would
not help. Well, I think you see--The company's servant must stay with
his proper job!"

For a moment or two Bob cogitated, and Flora saw his brows were knit.
Then he put his arm round her waist.

"You're as firm as you're wise and beautiful; I see you conquering--I
certainly hate to wait, but it looks as if I must. Anyhow, we'll be
through in British Columbia in the fall, and when I come back for you
the excursion will be my last. That's something, because until you
surrendered I was going to keep it up."

Flora started the car and he inquired about Mark. She told him all she
knew and he pondered.

"Mark's good stuff, and now he can think for himself and shove ahead,
he'll make some progress."

"I believe he rather doubts if he ought to rejoin you."

"Then, he's plumb ridiculous! The old man wants him, and I calculated on
his seeing me out on the Pacific Slope."

"All the same, he may not go," said Flora, in a thoughtful voice. "In
fact, until the funeral is over, you ought not to bother him."

"We'll talk about it again," said Bob. "In the meantime, the important
thing is, you have engaged----"

Flora firmly pushed back his arm.

"The road curves and we are going fast. The important thing is, not to
hit the wall."




CHAPTER XXXI

MARK'S INHERITANCE


Isaac's funeral was over, and the Digbys, high, old-fashioned gigs, and
modern cars were scattered across the hills. All, however, had not
steered for home, and at the bottom of the Howbarrow cart-road a
limousine and two or three battered Fords were parked. Strange horses
fed in the stable, and a mixed company occupied the spacious kitchen.

The whinstone flags were marked by muddy boots and rain beat the narrow
windows, but the reflections from the big fireplace leaped about the
gloomy room. At one end, a long table carried sliced cold meat, and
liquor. The supply was generous, and one smelt raw spirit and damp
woolen clothes. Women were almost as numerous as men, and some groups
were rather obviously from the market town. One knew the moor-folk by
their steadier glance and their brown, wrinkled skin.

Their emotions were mixed. None grieved much for Isaac Crozier. A few
perhaps hoped to inherit something; most of them did not, and were
rather moved by suspicious jealousy. Some were merely curious; Isaac was
rich and they wanted to know where his fortune went. Yet since all were
Borderers, they waited with inscrutable calm.

Mark's look was as blank as the others'. His part was host and chief
mourner, and he played up, but he felt his getting the part was rather
an ironical joke. His uncle had seized the farm he was perhaps entitled
to think was his, and he was a laborer at a Canadian lumber camp. Well,
in half an hour the folks would go, and when he left Howbarrow, he went
for good. Mark frowned. He had thought something like that before, but
he was back at the old house. All the same, he was not going to be
superstitious.

His head ached, and he was strangely dull. Where the farm and Isaac's
money went had nothing to do with him. All he wanted was to steal away
and talk to Bob. The queer thing was, Bob had said nothing about their
excursion to British Columbia. For all Mark's moodiness, he carried
himself with a touch of dignity. His body was athletic and the strain he
had borne had given him balance and control. The dalesfolk thought him a
canny lad, and some, picturing his father, knew he carried the Crozier
stamp.

Hardcastle sat down at a small table, and pulled out a document. He was
tall and thin and old, but his voice carried.

"My business is now to read your lamented relation's and my respected
client's will. I imagine nobody yet knows its provisions; he wished me
to follow old-fashioned custom, and as a rule I believe Isaac Crozier's
wishes were carried out. However, I must not tire you by my
preamble----"

Hardcastle coughed, fixed his spectacles, and began to read, and after a
few moments Mark was interested.

"_I appoint for my executors William Hardcastle, and Thomas Forsyth._"

Forsyth looked up, rather sharply, but Hardcastle gave him a meaning
glance.

"_In the event of the last-named's refusing, I request and authorise
him, in consultation with the aforesaid Hardcastle, to appoint another
whom both approve----_"

"Are you going to refuse?" Mark inquired in a low voice.

"When I know the will, I'll decide," said the doctor rather dryly.

"_I give to my horseman, Arnison, my cowman, Coulthard, and my shepherd,
Stoddart, each the sum of twenty pounds; and to Bell Underwood,
kitchen-maid, ten pounds_," Hardcastle continued.

"Yon's but just. I reckon they earned it," a brown-skinned man remarked.

The lawyer, in a level, monotonous voice, enumerated other small
legacies. Nobody was much interested, and Mark, dully looking about,
knew the audience waited. Some perhaps were anxious and he imagined two
or three bore keen suspense, but their faces were inscrutable. Rain beat
the windows and the lawyer's voice rose and fell monotonously. Mark
hoped it would soon be over and he could steal away.

Then he sensed a sort of tension. The groups were very quiet and
Hardcastle's voice got slower. Perhaps the reading tired him, but Mark
rather thought his slowness indicated that he approached the dramatic
climax. At all events, it looked as if the others felt a climax
advanced.

"_To the sons of the late Thomas Braithwaite, James and Frederick
Braithwaite, each two hundred pounds, to be used at their mother's
discretion for their apprenticeship----_"

A woman in widow's clothes turned her head and Mark thought tears shone
in her eyes. A faint murmur, as if the audience approved, went round the
room.

"_My share and interest in the Cleughmire tileworks, to my partner,
William Tyson._"

Tyson was not far from Mark and his face got rather red. Mark imagined
surprise was for the moment his predominant emotion.

"_When the legacies enumerated are paid, I give the residue of my
personal estate, and my house and farm at Howbarrow, together with my
furniture, live stock, and farming implements, to my nephew, Mark
Crozier----_"

The blood leaped to Mark's skin. He heard a noise, and although he was
not conscious that he moved, it looked as if his chair jarred on the
flags. Then he felt Forsyth's steadying touch on his arm.

"_The bequest is not conditional, but my hope is my nephew will occupy
the house and carry on the farm_," Hardcastle resumed.

After a moment or two he stopped, and, glancing at Forsyth, pushed the
document into a large envelope. People got up; some began to talk in low
voices, and an old man crossed the floor.

"In yan respec' the will's a varra proper will," he said and gave Mark
his hand. "Although I ken a few who're disappointed, Howbarra's yours by
right. I wish you luck, my lad."

Mark braced up. The people were going and the house was his; but the
politeness he used cost him something, and when the gigs began to roll
down the hill he looked for the lawyer.

"I am not forced to take my legacy," he said. "At all events, if I did
so, I could divide the property between my disappointed relations?"

Hardcastle studied him with a touch of humor. The young fellow's look
was ingenuously disturbed.

"The gift was not conditional," he remarked. "To some extent, however,
your uncle's wish is a stipulation, and for long the farm has gone to
the nearest of kin. But I suggest your talking about it to the other
trustee."

"Then the doctor is willing to act?"

"He stated he was glad to do so," Hardcastle replied. "But, you will
perhaps look me up as soon as possible. Sometimes calm reflection
helps."

He joined another, and when the last group vanished Isaac's horseman
crossed the yard. He was a big, brown-skinned fellow and moved awkwardly
in his Sunday boots and dark clothes.

"Rain's takin' off," he said. "I thowt we might harrow lang field in
morning. Soil's in pretty good fettle and we could plew turnip stiches
seune."

"I don't know--" said Mark. "The south rigg's not yet ready for the
potatoes. However, to get the turnips started while the soil is damp
helps them cheat the fly. Come on. We'll look at the long field."

Forsyth had stopped two or three yards off, and he smiled. Mark's
ancestors were yeomen, and until he went to the foundry the farm was his
home. His talent was constructive and, perhaps unconsciously, he began
to seize control.

When Mark reached the field, he broke two or three moist clods with his
boot; and then studied the plow on the sledge by the dry wall.

"The soil will break down and you can get to work," he said. "I don't
know if I like the old stich plow; in land as stiff as ours, the draught
is heavy. The Canadians have a better model. Their moldboard gives a
smoother delivery. I must look round the implement-stores when I'm at
Carlisle."

He went off across the fields and when the plowman joined the group in
the farm kitchen he grinned.

"You'll need to see aw's right in byre and dairy. T' young 'un kens his
job."

Mark, taking the road down the ghyll, saw the doctor's car had gone, but
to be alone was some relief. He must try to weigh things, for he had not
at any time imagined he might be Isaac's heir, and now his inheritance
humiliated him. He was willing to labor for all he got and he wanted to
refuse his uncle's gift. The drawback was, he must think for Madge. A
woman needed much a man did not.

At supper, nobody at the Millhouse talked about the will, but when the
plates were carried off and the group sat by the fireplace, Mark turned
to Forsyth.

"I understand you agreed to act as trustee, sir?"

"That is so, Mark."

"Then, I expect you know I wanted to refuse my inheritance?"

"To some extent, I sympathized, but I thought you rash. However,
perhaps you'd like to state your grounds----"

"Madge is interested, and since I expect Flora is, I hope they'll stop,"
said Mark. "Well, to begin with, I for some time imagined Isaac had
killed my brother. At our last interview, he admitted he exploited my
father and Jim; exploited is perhaps the word, because, although he
worked on their trustfulness, the money he claimed was, no doubt, his.
For all that, he broke Jim, and I refused to acknowledge him my
relation."

"Isaac was not at all a sentimentalist," Forsyth observed. "I don't
suppose he was much hurt."

"Nothing indicated that he was disturbed, sir. He said we were stubborn
folk, and let me go. I think he did not exaggerate, and now I'm sorry;
but I could not pretend. Well, one does not take a present from a man
one has hated."

"Howbarrow was not a present," said Madge. "When your uncle gave you the
farm, he but paid a debt. It's important, Mark. Had he lived and you
thought you might win, you would have fought him for the farm."

"I could not win. Howbarrow was his; he'd schemed for it, but all was
done cleverly, and I could not use force. He gave me the farm. There's
the drawback."

Flora looked up and smiled. "The real drawback is your pride, and
perhaps a sort of compunction because when your uncle was willing you
refused to be friends. Well, I admit you had some grounds; but Madge's
is the proper argument--Howbarrow was your father's and ought to be
yours. Then there's another thing. Although Isaac perhaps wanted to
make amends, and I rather think he did want, he loved Howbarrow. The
statement looks romantic, but some men do love the object of their
ambition, as they could not love a man or a woman."

Forsyth nodded. "Yes. I believe Isaac was like that. Go on, Flora."

"He hated to think where he had saved another might squander; to picture
the flock's going down or the land's going sour would hurt. We are a
tenacious lot, and I expect he wanted to feel that after he was dead
he'd yet guard all he had won. Well, he knew Mark's talents and he knew
his industry. Mark was the proper man, and before he was hurt at the
stack-yard, he thought he'd send for him."

Mark turned with keen surprise, and Flora smiled.

"I was your champion at Howbarrow, and your uncle was rather frank.
Ellen Crozier was your real antagonist."

She got up, and inquiring about something in the kitchen, went off.
Forsyth thought he had forgotten a job in his surgery, and Mark crossed
the floor and stopped by Madge. She gave him a calm, searching glance.

"Howbarrow is yours by right, Mark. I think I know all you feel, and
perhaps you were justified not to be friendly; but if to remember you
refused bothers you, to carry out your uncle's wishes is the best
amends."

"I'm beaten," said Mark, and kissed her. "After all, I suppose my
hesitation did spring from rather boyish pride. And I think from the
beginning, I wanted the farm for us."

Madge smiled, a quiet, happy smile.

"You are honest, Mark. Well, I had thought to be happy in Canada; but we
are dalesfolk and I'll be happier at Howbarrow. Although the house is
dark, an architect might help to banish the material gloom. We ourselves
must banish the other."

Three or four days afterward Mark and Madge went with a young architect
to the door at Howbarrow. The afternoon was a typical spring afternoon
in the North. The gray walls were wet, and lead-colored clouds rolled
about the sky, but the rain had stopped and behind the courtyard arch
the long moors shone in dazzling light. When the architect went, Bob and
Flora joined the others.

"The alterations will not be very expensive, and he'll begin at once,"
said Mark. "For about three hundred pounds we can make the old house
homelike."

"That's Madge's job and yours," said Bob. "If, as some people think,
houses carry their occupants' stamp, Howbarrow is going to be brighter
than it has been for long. So long as you give folks a square deal,
nobody hates you; but I guess his uncle got one on Mark. To _give_ him
the farm he could not claim was the sort of joke he'd like. Now we
reckon on his making good, as he made good in Canada, and I reckon Madge
will change the Crozier luck. Well, I've spoken my piece. Come on,
Flora."

They crossed the yard and when they went down the ghyll he said:

"Madge and Mark will be happy. They're fixed for good in the moors they
love; but you take a big plunge, and sometimes I'm disturbed for you."

"You're a good sort, Bob. Since you are kind and steadfast, I am not
afraid," Flora rejoined.


THE END


       *       *       *       *       *



_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_


    THE DARK ROAD
    THE GHOST OF HEMLOCK CANYON
    THE BROKEN TRAIL
    PINE CREEK RANCH
    PRAIRIE GOLD
    CROSS TRAILS
    CARSON OF RED RIVER
    GREEN TIMBER
    THE WILDERNESS PATROL
    THE BUSH-RANCHER
    NORTHWEST!
    THE MAN FROM THE WILDS
    KIT MUSGRAVE'S LUCK
    LISTER'S GREAT ADVENTURE
    THE WILDERNESS MINE
    WYNDHAM'S PAL
    THE BUCCANEER FARMER
    THE LURE OF THE NORTH
    HARDING OF ALLENWOOD
    THE INTRIGUERS
    A PRAIRIE COURTSHIP
    THURSTON OF ORCHARD VALLEY
    THE GREATER POWER
    THRICE ARMED
    DELILAH OF THE SNOWS
    THE DUST OF CONFLICT
    THE CATTLE BARON'S DAUGHTER
    ALTON OF SOMASCO




[End of The Lone Hand, by Harold Bindloss]
