Part 22 (1/2)

”Yes, we stand together. We march together. But Canada will have her own history; and you must not try to make it for her.”

Their eyes met; in hers exaltion, in his a touch of sternness, a moment's revelation of the Covenanter in his soul.

Then as the delightful vision of her among the flowers, in her white dress, the mountains behind and around her, imprinted itself on his senses, he was conscious of a moment of intolerable pain. Between her and him--as it were--the abyss opened. The trembling waves of colour in the gra.s.s, the n.o.ble procession of the clouds, the gleaming of the snows, the shadow of the valleys--they were all wiped out. He saw instead a small unsavoury room--the cunning eyes and coa.r.s.e mouth of his father. He saw his own future as it must now be; weighted with this burden, this secret; if indeed it were still to be a secret; if it were not rather the wiser and the manlier plan to have done with secrecy.

Elizabeth rose with a little s.h.i.+ver. The wind had begun to blow cold from the northwest.

”How soon can we run down? I hope Mr. Arthur will have sent Philip indoors.”

Anderson left Lake Louise about eight o'clock, and hurried down the Laggan road. His mind was divided between the bitter-sweet of these last hours with Elizabeth Merton, and anxieties, small practical anxieties, about his father. There were arrangements still to make. He was not himself going to Vancouver. McEwen had lately shown a strong and petulant wish to preserve his incognito, or what was left of it. He would not have his son's escort. George might come and see him at Vancouver; and that would be time enough to settle up for the winter.

So Ginnell, owner of the boarding house, a stalwart Irishman of six foot three, had been appointed to see him through his journey, settle him with his new protectors, and pay all necessary expenses.

Anderson knocked at his father's door and was allowed to enter. He found McEwen walking up and down his room, with the aid of a stick, irritably pus.h.i.+ng chairs and clothes out of his way. The room was in squalid disorder, and its inmate had a flushed, exasperated look that did not escape Anderson's notice. He thought it probable that his father was already repenting his consent to go to Vancouver, and he avoided general conversation as much as possible.

McEwen complained of having been left alone; abused Mrs. Ginnell; vowed she had starved and ill-treated him; and then, to Anderson's surprise, broke out against his son for having refused to provide him with the money he wanted for the mine, and so ruined his last chance. Anderson hardly replied; but what he did say was as soothing as possible; and at last the old man flung himself on his bed, excitement dying away in a sulky taciturnity.

Before Anderson left his room, Ginnell came in, bringing his accounts for certain small expenses. Anderson, standing with his back to his father, took out a pocketbook full of bills. At Calgary the day before a friend had repaid him a loan of a thousand dollars. He gave Ginnell a certain sum; talked to him in a low voice for a time, thinking his father had dropped asleep; and then dismissed him, putting the money in his pocket.

”Good night, father,” he said, standing beside the bed.

McEwen opened his eyes.

”Eh?”

The eyes into which Anderson looked had no sleep in them. They were wild and bloodshot, and again Anderson felt a pang of helpless pity for a dishonoured and miserable old age.

”I'm sure you'll get on at Vancouver, father,” he said gently. ”And I shall be there next week.”

His father growled some unintelligible answer. As Anderson went to the door he again called after him angrily: ”You were a d---- fool, George, not to find those dibs.”

”What, for the mine?” Anderson laughed. ”Oh, we'll go into that again at Vancouver.”

McEwen made no reply, and Anderson left him.

Anderson woke before seven. The long evening had pa.s.sed into the dawn with scarcely any darkness, and the sun was now high. He sprang up, and dressed hastily. Going into the pa.s.sage he saw to his astonishment that while the door of the Ginnells' room was still closed, his father's was wide open. He walked in. The room and the bed were empty. The contents of a box carefully packed by Ginnell--mostly with new clothes--the night before, were lying strewn about the room. But McEwen's old clothes were gone, his gun and revolver, also his pipes and tobacco.

Anderson roused Ginnell, and they searched the house and its neighbourhood in vain. On going back into his own room, Anderson noticed an open drawer. He had placed his pocketbook there the night before, but without locking the drawer. It was gone, and in its place was a dirty sc.r.a.p of paper.

”Don't you try chivvying me, George, for you won't get any good of it.

You let me alone, and I'll let you. You were a stingy fellow about that money, so I've took some of it. Good-bye.”

Sick at heart, Anderson resumed the search, further afield. He sent Ginnell along the line to make confidential inquiries. He telegraphed to persons known to him at Golden, Revelstoke, Kamloops, Ashcroft, all to no purpose. Twenty-four--thirty-six hours pa.s.sed and nothing had been heard of the fugitive.

He felt himself baffled and tricked, with certain deep instincts and yearnings wounded to the death. The brutal manner of his father's escape--the robbery--the letter--had struck him hard.

When Friday night came, and still no news, Anderson found himself at the C.P.R. Hotel at Field. He was stupid with fatigue and depression. But he had been in telephonic communication all the afternoon with Delaine and Lady Merton at Lake Louise, as to their departure for the Pacific.

They knew nothing and should know nothing of his own catastrophe; their plans should not suffer.