Part 39 (2/2)

Grace looked up at him. ”And you?”

”I,” said Ingleby with a little grave smile, ”was your very willing bondsman ever so long ago.”

The hot flush had faded from his face, and the girl swept her skirt aside, and made room for him beside her. There was, she knew, no fear of his again breaking through the restraint he had laid upon himself. She was, however, not altogether pleased at this, for while it was evident that his att.i.tude was warranted, the self-command which now characterized it was not quite what she had expected. It scarcely appeared natural under the circ.u.mstances.

”Well,” she said, ”we will let it be so, and I have something to tell you. I am going to Vancouver for the winter. In fact, I should have left already but for the snow.”

Ingleby started visibly. ”You are going away?”

”Yes,” said Grace, with a trace of dryness in her smile; ”is that very dreadful? You will go away in due time, too. While you struggle for what you think will buy my favour, _I_ must wait patiently.”

”I suppose I have deserved it,” and Ingleby winced. ”Still, it will be horribly hard to let you go. It is a good deal to know that you are here even when I may not see you.”

Grace smiled. ”Well,” she said, ”if that would afford you any great satisfaction, is there any reason why you should not go to Vancouver too? Most of the placer miners do.”

Ingleby's glance at her suggested that the notion had not occurred to him. Regular work at the mine would be out of the question until the spring came round again, and already several of the men were talking of leaving the valley. He could also readily afford to spend a few months in Vancouver now. Still, there was one insuperable obstacle.

”If I had only kept my claim!” he said. ”It is horribly unfortunate I let it go.”

”How does that affect the question?”

”I made a compact with Tomlinson to hold his claim for him.”

Once more the colour crept into Grace's face. ”You do not mean to let that stop you when there are men you could hire to do what the law requires?”

”You don't seem to understand,” and there was a trace of astonishment in Ingleby's eyes. ”One could not depend absolutely upon them, and I made a bargain with Tomlinson. That claim is worth everything to him and his mother--I think it is--back in Oregon.”

The flush grew plainer in Grace's cheek. She was a trifle imperious, and now her will had clashed with one that was as resolute as it. She was, however, sensible that she had blundered.

”Those men could do almost as much as you could, which would, after all, be very little just now,” she said. ”I never meant that you should risk the claim falling in.”

”They might fall sick, or get hurt.”

”And that might happen to you.”

”I should, at least, have kept my word to Tomlinson,” said Ingleby gravely.

Grace was too proud to persist. He was right, of course, but the fact that he would sooner part from her than incur the slightest risk of breaking faith with Tomlinson had nevertheless its sting. That, however, she would not show.

”Then I suppose I must not complain,” she said. ”You evidently have no intention of doing so.”

Ingleby made a little gesture. ”It will be hard--but it can't be helped,” he replied. ”As you said, I must go away too one day. Still, I think that I, at least, will feel by and by that it was all worth while.”

Then there was a tramp of feet in the adjoining room, and he raised the hand he held and just touched it with his lips. It was not what Grace would have expected from him, but she noticed that he did not do it awkwardly.

”That is all I ask until I have won my spurs,” he said. ”Just now I am only the squire of low degree.”

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