Part 42 (2/2)

”Then we'll say curious. The fact is that Vane made a bargain with a sick prospector, in which he undertook to locate some timber the man had discovered away among the mountains. He was to pay the other a share of its value when he got his Government license.”

”Is the timber very valuable?”

”No,” broke in Nairn. ”One might make a fair business profit out of pulping it, though the thing's far from certain.”

”Then why is Mr. Vane so determined on finding it?”

The question gave Mrs. Nairn a lead, but she decided to say no more than was necessary.

”The prospector died, but that bound the bargain tighter, in Vane's opinion. The man died without a dollar, leaving a daughter worn out and ill with nursing him. According to the arrangement, his share will go to the girl.”

”Then,” said Evelyn, ”Mr. Vane is really undertaking the search, which may involve him in difficulties, in order to keep his promise to a man who is dead? And he will not even postpone it, because if he did so this penniless girl might, perhaps, lose her share? Isn't that rather fine of him?”

”On the whole, ye understand the position,” Nairn agreed. ”If ye desire my view of the matter, I would merely say that yon's the kind of man he is.”

Evelyn made no further comment, though the last common phrase struck her as a most eloquent tribute. She had heard Vane confess that he did not want to go north at present, and she now understood that to do so might jeopardize his interests in the mine; but he was undoubtedly going. He meant to keep his promise in its fullest and widest meaning--that was what one would expect of him.

One mild afternoon, a few days later, he took her for a drive among the Stanley pines, and, though she knew that she would regret his departure, she was unusually friendly. Vane rejoiced at it, but he had already decided that he must endeavor to proceed with caution and to content himself in the meanwhile with the part of trusted companion. For this reason, he chatted lightly, which he felt was safer, during most of the drive; but once or twice, when by chance or design she asked a leading question, he responded without reserve. He did so when they were approaching a group of giant conifers.

”I wonder whether you ever feel any regret at having left England for this country?” she asked.

”I did so pretty often when I first came out,” he answered with a smile. ”In those days I had to work in icy water and carry ma.s.sive lumps of rock.”

”I dare say regret was a natural feeling then; but that wasn't quite what I meant.”

”So I supposed,” Vane confessed. ”Well, I'd better own that when I'd spent a week or two in England--at the Dene--I began to think I'd missed a good deal by not staying at home. It struck me that the life you led had a singular charm. Everything went so smoothly there, among the sheltering hills. One felt that care and anxiety could not creep in.

Somehow, the place reminded me of Avalon.”

”The impression was by no means correct,” smiled Evelyn, ”But I don't think you have finished. Won't you go on?”

”Then if I get out of my depth, you mustn't blame me. By and by I discovered that charm wasn't the right word--the place was permeated with a narcotic spell.”

”Narcotic? Do you think the term's more appropriate?”

”I do. Narcotics, one understands, are insidious things. If you take them regularly, in small doses, they increase their hold on you until you become wrapped up in dreams and unrealities. If, however, you get too big a dose of them at the beginning, it leads to a vigorous revulsion. It's nature's warning and remedy.”

”You're not flattering; but I almost fancy you're right.”

”We are told that man was made to struggle--to use all his powers. If he rests too long beside the still backwaters of life, in fairy-like dales, they're apt to atrophy, and he finds himself slack and nerveless when he goes out to face the world again.”

Evelyn nodded, for she had felt and striven against the insidious influence of which he spoke. She had now and then left the drowsy dale for a while; but the life of which she had then caught glimpses was equally sheltered--one possible only to the favored few. Even the echoes of the real tense struggle seldom pa.s.sed its boundaries.

”But you confessed not long ago that you loved the western wilderness,”

she said. ”You have spent a good deal of time in it; and you expect to do so again. After all, isn't that only exchanging one beautiful, tranquil region for another? The bush must be even quieter than the English dales.”

”Perhaps I haven't made the point quite clear. When one goes up into the bush, it's not to lounge and dream there, but to make war upon it with ax and drill.”

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