Part 42 (1/2)

”Ah!” said Stirling, with a barely perceptible trace of dryness. ”You don't want to go just now?”

Ida flashed another glance at him, and noticed the faint twinkle in his eyes. She felt almost disconcerted, for it suggested comprehension, and she certainly did not want to go. She could, it seemed, do nothing to help the man she loved, and, for that matter, she could scarcely encourage or sympathize with him openly, but she would not seek pleasure elsewhere while he fought out the unequal struggle alone.

”No,” she said, ”I should much rather stay here.”

”As you like,” said Stirling, who shortly afterward departed for the city.

Mrs. Frisingham was a rich widow and a distant connection of Stirling's. She arrived that day, and on the following day contrived to spend a few minutes alone with Stirling when he came home from business.

”I wanted to take Ida back with me, and I'm a little astonished that she won't hear of it,” she said.

”In that case, I'm afraid the notion can't be carried out,” said Stirling.

”Isn't it rather a pity?” suggested the lady.

Stirling seemed to consider this. The two were old friends, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Frisingham, who now and then spent a few weeks in Montreal, had made several determined attempts to regulate the contractor's domestic affairs. She described him to her friends as pig-headed, and added that if it had not been for his daughter she would have given up all idea of making him listen to reason. Stirling, on his part, said that she no doubt had excellent intentions, but so had a good many people who contrived to make a considerable amount of unnecessary trouble.

”I wonder why you want her at New York?” he asked.

He had, as his companion was aware, a somewhat Unpleasant habit of going straight to the point, but on this occasion she was disposed to meet him.

”Do you mind telling me what you mean to do with the girl?”

”No,” said Stirling. ”I want to keep her with me just as long as she's willing to stay; but I suppose I can stand it if she marries somebody by and by.”

”That,” said the lady, ”is just the point. You would naturally prefer him to be an eligible person. Now, if you let me have her for a while I could promise that she would meet n.o.body who didn't answer that description.”

Stirling laughed. He had suspected her intention all along, and surmised that her offer was prompted partly by good-nature and partly by a recognition of the fact that the presence of a young woman of considerable wealth, who was beautiful as well as otherwise gifted, would increase the popularity of the receptions over which she was fond of presiding.

”I'm not quite sure her views and yours would coincide,” he said.

”Anyway, she has been in New York before--and in England, for that matter.”

Mrs. Frisingham adroitly s.h.i.+fted her point of attack, and it almost appeared, though Stirling could not tell how, that she had heard of the camp-packer.

”Don't you think there's a certain danger of her going through the wood and choosing the crooked stick after all?” she asked.

Stirling smiled. ”I don't know that you could call New York or London a wood. A hothouse would be nearer it,” he said with an air of reflection. ”Still, to fall in with the simile, there are no doubt plenty of sticks in both places, just as there are right here in this city. In fact,” and his eyes twinkled suspiciously, ”I'm not quite sure that isn't an excellent name for them. Quite a few are nicely varnished, and in a general way they've hall-marked gold or silver tops. The hallmark, however, guarantees only the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, and from one or two specimens that I've come across I've a suspicion that in some cases the timber's rotten. When you choose a stick you want a sound one--one that you can lean on when you face a hill, and I guess that's a thing my girl will have to do now and then.”

His tone had grown a trifle graver as he went on, but his companion waited, feeling that he had a little more to say, and that he might offer her a hint of some kind, as, in fact, he presently did.

”The sound sticks don't grow in stove-warmed houses, but out in the wind and sun,” he said.

That was sufficient for Mrs. Frisingham, who had rather more than a suspicion that Stirling already had in his mind somebody who had not been bred in the city. An unknown man who built new railroad bridges in the wilderness, or a bush rancher, it seemed most probable.

”Well,” she said, ”I might perhaps warn you that the right choice is a rather serious matter, and that, after all, it's wiser to consider the opinions--call them prejudices if you like--of your own order.”

”When my daughter chooses,” said the contractor, smiling, ”she'll choose wisely, and I'm going to be satisfied. I've had the pleasure of rea.s.suring another lady on that point already. As to the other matter, the opinions of people of the station to which I now belong don't count for much with me. For quite a long while they were dead against my getting here at all; but I did work that this country wanted done, and I'm where I am. You don't expect me to alter my views out of deference to them?”

He broke off for a moment, and nodded to her pleasantly as he went on again.