Part 20 (1/2)

”Oh,” he declared, ”there's a kind of quietness that braces you.”

He was less reserved than the average Englishman, but he felt the charm of his surroundings more keenly than the latter would probably have done.

Everything in the room was artistic, but its effect was deeper than mere prettiness. It was cool, though the autumn suns.h.i.+ne streamed in, and the girl had somehow impressed her personality upon it. Soft colorings, furniture, even the rather incongruous mixture of statuettes and ivory carvings, blended into a harmonious whole, and the girl made a most satisfactory central figure, as she sat opposite him in her unusually thoughtful mood. He felt the charm of her presence, though he could hardly have a.n.a.lyzed it. As he said, it was not even needful that she should talk to him.

”There are lakes in British Columbia from which you can look straight up at the never-melting snows,” he went on. ”You feel that you could sit there for hours, without wanting to move or speak, though it must be owned that one very seldom gets the opportunity.”

”Why?” Millicent inquired.

”As a rule, the people who visit such places are kept too busy chopping big trees, hauling canoes round rapids, or handling heavy rocks. Besides, you have your food to cook and your clothes to mend and wash.”

”Then, after the day's labor, a man must do his own domestic work?”

”Of course,” answered Lisle. ”Now and then one comes back to camp too wet or played out to worry, and goes to sleep without getting supper. I'm speaking of when you're working for your own hand. In a big logging or construction camp you reach the fringe of cooperation. This man sticks to the saw, the other to the ax, somebody else who gets his share of the proceeds chops the cord-wood and does the cooking.”

”And if you can neither chop nor saw nor cook?”

”Then,” Lisle informed her dryly, ”you have to pull out pretty quick.”

”It sounds severe; that's cooperation in its grimmest aspect, though it's quite logical--everybody must do his part. I'm afraid I shouldn't be justified if we adopted it here.”

”Cooperation implies a division of tasks,” Lisle pointed out. ”In a country like this, they're many and varied. So long as you draw the wild things as you do, you'll discharge your debt.”

”Do you know that that's the kind of work the community generally pays one very little for?”

”Then it shows its wrong-headedness,” Lisle answered as he glanced meaningly round the room. ”But haven't you got part of your fee already?

Of course, that's impertinent.”

”I believe we would shrink from saying it, but it's quite correct,”

Millicent replied. ”Still, since you have mentioned the drawings, I'd like your opinion about this ouzel.”

She took up the sketch and explained the difficulty, as she had done to Mrs. Gladwyne.

”It's right; don't alter it,” advised Lisle. ”It's your business to show people the real thing as it actually is, so they can learn, not to alter it to suit their untrained views.”

He laughed and rose somewhat reluctantly.

”After that, I'd better get along. I have to thank you for allowing me to come in.”

She let him go with a friendly smile, and then sat down to think about him. He was rather direct, but the good-humor with which he stated his opinions softened their positiveness. Besides, she had invited them; and she felt that they were correct. He was such another as Nasmyth, simple in some respects, but reliable; one who could never be guilty of anything mean. She liked the type in general, and she admitted that she liked this representative of it in particular.

CHAPTER XIII

A FUTILE PROTEST

It was late at night, but Gladwyne sat, cigar in hand, in his library, while Batley lounged beside the hearth. A wood fire diffused a faint aromatic fragrance into the great high-ceilinged room, and the light of a single silver lamp flickered on the polished floor, which ran back like a sheet of black ice into the shadow. Heavily-corniced bookcases rose above it on either band, conveying an idea of s.p.a.ce and distance by the way they grew dimmer as they receded from the light.

The room had an air of stateliness in its severe simplicity, and its owner, sitting just inside the ring of brightness, clad in conventional black and white, looked in harmony with it. Something in his finely-lined figure and cleanly-molded face stamped him as one at home in such a place. A decanter stood near his elbow, but it was almost full. Gladwyne, in many ways, was more of an ascetic than a sensualist, though this was less the result of moral convictions than of a fastidious temperament.

The man had an instinctive aversion for anything that was ugly or unpleasant. His companion, dressed with an equal precision, looked different, more virile, coa.r.s.er; he was fuller in figure and heavier in face.