Part 7 (1/2)

CHAPTER VI

HER PICTURE

Wyllard stayed at the inn three days without seeing anything more of the girl whom he had met beside the stream, although he diligently watched for her. He had long felt it was his duty to communicate with the relatives of the lad that he had befriended, and the fact that he had found the girl's photograph in the young Englishman's possession made it appear highly probable that she could a.s.sist him in tracing the family.

Apart from this, he could not quite a.n.a.lyze his motives for desiring to see more of the Englishwoman, though he was conscious of the desire. Her picture had been a companion to him in his wanderings, and now and then he had found a certain solace in gazing at it. Now that he had seen her in the flesh he was willing to admit that he had never met any woman who had made such an impression on him.

It was, of course, possible for him to call at the vicarage, but though he meant to adopt that course as a last resort, there were certain objections to it. He did not know the girl's name, and there was n.o.body to say a word for him. So far as his experience went, the English were apt to be reticent and reserved to a stranger. It seemed to him that, although the girl might give him the information which he required, their acquaintance probably would terminate then and there. She would, he decided, be less likely to stand upon her guard if he could contrive to meet her casually without prearrangement.

On the fourth day fortune favored him, for he came upon her endeavoring to open a tottering gate where a stony hill track led off from the smooth white road. As it happened, he had received a letter from Mrs.

Hastings that morning, fixing the date of her departure, and it was necessary for him to discharge the duty with which Hawtrey had saddled him as soon as possible. The Grange, where he understood Miss Ismay was then staying, lay thirty miles away across the fells, and he had decided to start early on the morrow. That being the case, it was clear that he must make the most of this opportunity; but he realized that it would be advisable to proceed circ.u.mspectly. Saying nothing, he set his shoulder to the gate, and lifting it on its decrepit hinges swung it open.

”Thank you,” said the girl. Remembering that the words were the last that she had said to him, she smiled, as she added: ”It is the second time you have appeared when I was in difficulties.”

In spite of his resolution to proceed cautiously, a twinkle crept into Wyllard's eyes, and suggested that the fact she had mentioned was not so much of a coincidence as it probably appeared. She saw the look that told her what he was thinking, and was about to pa.s.s on, when he stopped her with a gesture.

”The fact is, I have been looking out for you the last three days,” he confessed.

He feared the girl had taken alarm at this candid statement, and spread his hands out deprecatingly. ”Won't you hear me out?” he added. ”There's a matter I must put before you, but I won't keep you long.”

The girl was a little puzzled, and naturally curious. It struck her as strange that his admission should have aroused in her very little indignation; but she felt that it would be unreasonable to suspect this man of anything that savored of impertinence. His manner was rea.s.suring, and she liked his face.

”Well?” she said inquiringly.

Wyllard waved his hand toward a big oak trunk that lay just inside the gate.

”If you'll sit down, I'll get through as quick as I can,” he promised.

”In the first place, I am, as I told you, a Canadian, who has come over partly to see the country, and partly to carry out one or two missions.

In regard to one of them I believe you can help me.”

The girl's face expressed a natural astonishment.

”I could help you?”

Wyllard nodded. ”I'll explain my reasons for believing it later on,” he said. ”In the meanwhile, I asked you a question the other night, which I'll now try to make more explicit. Were you ever acquainted with a young Englishman, who went to Canada from this country several years ago? He was about twenty then, and had dark hair and dark eyes. That, of course, isn't an unusual thing, but there was a rather curious white mark on his left temple. If he was ever a friend of yours, that scar ought to fix it.”

”Oh!” cried the girl, ”that must have been Lance Radcliffe. I was with him when the scar was made--ever so long ago. We heard that he was dead.

But you said his name was Pattinson.”

”I did,” declared Wyllard gravely. ”Still, I wasn't quite sure about the name being right. He's certainly dead. I buried him.”

His companion made an abrupt movement, and he saw the sudden softening of her eyes. There was, however, only a gentle pity in her face, and nothing in her manner suggested the deeper feeling that he had half expected.

”Then,” she said, ”I am sure that his father would like to meet you.

There was some trouble between them--I don't know which was wrong--and Lance went out to Canada, and never wrote. Major Radcliffe tried to trace him through a Vancouver banker, and only found that he had died in the hands of a stranger who had done all that was possible for him.” She turned to Wyllard with a look which set his heart beating faster than usual. ”You are that man?”

”Yes,” said Wyllard simply, ”I did what I could for him. It didn't amount to very much. He was too far gone.”