Part 29 (1/2)
”Not a cent,” Geoffrey replied. ”The poor devils who risk their lives daily fully earn their money.”
”Do you know their wages equal the figure the strikers demanded and you refused to pay? Summers told me about that dispute, sir,” ventured English Jim.
”The strikers were not prepared to earn higher pay--and that one word, 'demanded,' makes a big difference. h.e.l.lo! who is the stranger?”
Mattawa Tom was directing a horseman towards the shanty, and Geoffrey, who watched the newcomer with growing interest, found something familiar in his face and figure, until he rose up in astonishment when the man rode nearer.
”Halliday, by all that's wonderful!” he cried. ”Uncommonly glad to see you; but whatever brought you back to this far-off land again?”
”Several things,” was the answer, as Halliday, shaking the snow from his furs, dismounted stiffly. ”Strain of overwork necessitated a change, my doctor told me. Trust estate I'm winding up comprised doubtful British Columbian mining interests, and last, but not least, to see you, Geoffrey.”
The man's fur coat was open now, and Geoffrey, who glanced at the black coat beneath it, said:
”I'm glad you wanted to see me, anyway, but come in. Here, Jake, take the horse to the stable. Are my sympathies needed, Halliday--any of my new friends over yonder dead?”
Halliday stared at him blankly. ”Haven't you read the letter I sent you? Do you get no English papers?” he questioned.
”No, to both. I fancy very few people over yonder trouble themselves as to whether I'm living. How did you address your letter?”
”Orchard City, or was it Orchardville? Mrs. Leslie told me the name of the postoffice, and I looked it up on a map.”
Geoffrey thrust his guest into a chair.
”That explains it. This is Orchard Valley; the other place is away across the province, a forlorn hamlet, and some ox-driving postmaster has no doubt returned your letter. Do you bring bad news? Don't keep me in suspense.”
”Anthony Thurston's dead. Died in your old place, partly the result of a gun accident,” answered Halliday, and Geoffrey sat silent for a moment.
”I'm sorry--yes, sincerely,” he said at last. ”I can say it freely, because, as I daresay you know, I disappointed him, and can in no way benefit by his death. In fact, he had the power to refuse me what was morally my right, and no doubt he exercised it. Still, now it's too late, I feel ashamed that I never tried to patch up the quarrel. Poor old Anthony!”
Halliday smiled. ”You are a better fellow than you often lead folks to suppose, Geoffrey--and I quite believe you. Such regrets are, however, generally useless, are they not? In this case especially so, for Anthony Thurston forgot the quarrel before he died, and sent you his very good wishes. I see I have a surprise in store. You are a beneficiary. He has bequeathed you considerably more than your moral share in the property.”
Thurston strode up and down the shanty before he halted.
”I'm glad that, though perhaps I deserved it, he didn't carry the bitterness into the grave with him,” he declared with earnestness. ”We were too much like each other to get on well, but there was a time when he was a good friend to me. It's no use pretending I'm not pleased at what you tell me--it means a great deal to me. But you must be tired and hungry, and I want to talk by the hour to you.”
Halliday did full justice to the meal which the camp cook produced, and afterwards the two men sat talking until the short winter afternoon had drawn to a close and the first stars were blinking down on untrodden snows. Answering a question Halliday said:
”Your share--I'll show you a complete list when I unpack my things--will, if left invested, provide you with a moderate income for a single man. Indeed, with your Spartan tastes, you might live in what you would consider luxury. As usual, however, in such cases, the securities are not readily marketable, and your interest in some ventures could hardly be summarily realized at any sacrifice. The whole is left to you unconditionally, but my advice is decidedly that you hold on.”
”I am sorry,” Geoffrey replied, ”because even at a sacrifice I intend to sell. If you're not too tired to listen a little longer, I'll try to explain why.”
Halliday listened gravely. Then he commented:
”As Anthony Thurston said, it is characteristic of you, and it's possible that he would have approved of what on the surface looks like folly. He stated that he hoped the bequest would help you to confound your enemies. But you must act as a business man. You say that, if you go deeper, your firm might still wind up just solvent; then why not abandon the apparently hopeless project, and withdraw? Follow your profession if you must work, or live upon your income. This drainage scheme looks tolerably desperate on your own showing, and if, selling at a sacrifice you sink all your new possessions in it, you may be left utterly cleaned out, a beggar. You have no other relatives likely to leave you another competence, Geoffrey.”
”It can't be helped--or rather I don't want to help it. I've pledged my word and honor to see this undertaking through, and I mean to redeem it if it ruins me. Now what were you telling me about Mrs. Leslie?”
Halliday explained for some minutes before he said:
”You are on the spot, and it's your duty to join us. Anthony Thurston was always eccentric, and has left us a very troublesome charge. Her husband is not to get at the money, and this discrimination between man and wife is going to be confoundedly awkward. However, as I'm going to stay some little time, and if possible shoot a mountain sheep, we can discuss it at leisure.”
Thomas Savine, who came up in a day or two, speedily became good friends with Halliday. Geoffrey had his work to superintend, and was suspicious that Halliday seized the opportunity his absence afforded to explain what appeared to him a sacrifice of Anthony Thurston's legacy.