XXV.
BARBARA IS MERCILESS.
It was about eight o'clock in the evening when Brooke stopped a momentas he entered the verandah of Devine's house, which stood girt about bysombre pines on a low rise divided by a waste of blackened stumps andbranches from the outskirts of Vancouver city. Beneath him rose theclustering roofs and big electric lights, and a little lower still abroad track of silver radiance, athwart which a great ship rode withevery spar silhouetted black as ebony, streaked the inlet. Though thefrost was arctic in the ranges he had left a few days ago, it was almostwarm down there, and he felt that he would have preferred to linger onthe verandah, or even go back to his hotel, for the front of the woodenhouse was brilliantly lighted, and he could hear the chords of a piano.
It was evident that Mrs. Devine was entertaining, and standing there,draped from neck to ankles in an old fur coat, he felt that he with hisfrost-nipped face and hard, scarred hands would be distinctly out ofplace amidst an assembly of prosperous citizens, while he was by nomeans certain how Mrs. Devine or Barbara would receive him. Often as hehad thought of the latter, since he made his confession, he feltscarcely equal to meeting her just then. Still, it was necessary that heshould see Devine, who was away at the neighboring city of NewWestminster, when Brooke called at his office soon after the Pacificexpress arrived that afternoon, but had left word that he would be athome in the evening and would expect him; and flinging his cigar away hemoved towards the door.
A Chinese house boy took his coat from him in the hall, and as he stoodunder the big lamp it happened that Barbara came out of an adjacent doorwith two companions. Brooke felt his heart throb, though he did notmove, and the girl, who turned her head a moment in his direction,crossed the hall, and vanished through another door. Then he smiled verygrimly, for, though she made no sign of being aware of his presence, hefelt that she had seen him. This was no more than he had expected, butit hurt nevertheless. In the meanwhile the house boy had also vanished,and it was a minute or two later when Mrs. Devine appeared, but Brookecould not then or afterwards decide whether she had heard the truthconcerning him, for, though this seemed very probable, he knew thatBarbara could be reticent, and surmised that Devine did not tell hiswife everything. In any case, she did not shake hands with him.
"My husband, who has just come home, is waiting for you in hissmoking-room," she said. "It is the second door down the corridor."
Brooke fancied that she could have been a trifle more cordial, but thefact that she sent nobody to show him the way, at least, was readilyaccounted for in a country where servants of any kind are remarkablyscarce. It also happened that while he proceeded along the corridor oneof Barbara's companions turned to her.
"Did you see the man in the hall as we passed through?" she said. "Ididn't seem to recognize him."
Barbara was not aware that her face hardened a trifle, but her companionnoticed that it did. She had certainly seen the man, and had felt hiseyes upon her, while it also occurred to her that he looked worn andhaggard, and she had almost been stirred to compassion. He had made noclaim to recognition, but his face had not been quite expressionless,and she had seen the wistfulness in it. There was, in fact, a certainforlornness about his attitude which had its effect on her, and it was,perhaps, because of this she had suddenly hardened herself against him.
"He is a Mr. Brooke--from the mine," she said.
"Brooke!" said her companion. "The man from the Dayspring? I should liketo talk to him."
Barbara made a little gesture, the meaning of which was not especiallyplain. She had read the sensational account of the journey Brooke andthe doctor had made through the ranges, which had by some means beensupplied the press. It made it plain to her that the man was doing andenduring a good deal, and she was not disposed to be unduly severe upona repentant offender, even though she fancied that nothing he could dowould ever reinstate him in the place he once held in her estimation.The difficulty, however, was that she could not be sure he was contriteat all, or had not sent that story to the press himself with a purpose,though she realized that the last course was a trifle unlikely in hiscase.
"Since Grant Devine will probably bring him in you may get your wish,"she said, indifferently.
Devine in the meanwhile was gravely turning over several pieces ofbroken rock which Brooke had handed him.
"Yes," he said, "that's most certainly galena, and carrying good metalby the weight of it. How much of it's lead and how much silver Inaturally don't know yet, but, anyway, it ought to leave a good marginon the smelting. You haven't proved the vein?"
"No," said Brooke, "I fancy we are only on the edge of it, but it wouldhave cost me two or three weeks' work to break out enough of rock toform any very clear opinion alone, and I was scarcely up to it. Itoccurred to me that I had better come down and get the necessary men,though I'm not sure we can contrive to feed them or induce them tocome."
Devine nodded. "You must have had the toughest kind of time!" he said."Well, we'll bid double wages, and you can offer that freight contractorhis own figure to bring provisions in."
He stopped abruptly with a glance at Brooke's haggard face. "I guess youcan hold out another month or two."
"Of course," said Brooke, quietly.
"It's worth while. Allonby was quite dead when you got back to him?"
"Yes, I and the doctor buried him. We used giant powder."
Devine laid down his cigar. "It was a little rough on Allonby, for itwas his notion that the ore was there, and now, when it seems we'vestruck it, it's not going to be any use to him. I guess that man put agood deal more than dollars into the mine."
Brooke, who had lived with Allonby, knew that this was true, but Devinemade a little abrupt gesture which seemed to imply that after all thataspect of the question did not greatly concern them.
"I'll send you every man we can raise," he said. "I've got quite a bigcredit through from London, and we can cut expenses by letting up alittle on the Canopus."
"But you expected a good deal from that mine."
"No," said Devine, drily, "I can't say I did. It's quite a while sincewe got a good clean up out of it."
Brooke sat silent, apparently regarding his cigar, for a moment or two."Are you sure it's wise to tell me so much?" he said. "There are men inthis city who would make good use of any information I might furnishthem with."
Devine smiled in a curious fashion. "Well," he said, reflectively, "Iguess it is. You've had about enough of playing Saxton's game, and,though I don't know that everybody would do it, I'm going to trust you."
"Thank you," said Brooke, quietly.
Devine, who took up his cigar again, made a little movement with hishand. "We'll let that slide. Now when I got the specimen and your notewhich the doctor sent on I figured I'd increase my holding, and cabled abuying order to London, but I had to pay more for the stock than Iexpected. It appears that a man, called Cruttenden, had been quietlytaking any that was put on the market up."
Brooke knew that his trustee had, as directed, been buying the Dayspringshares, but he desired to ascertain how far Devine's confidence in himwent.
"That didn't suggest anything to you?" he said.
"No," said Devine, drily, "it didn't--and I've answered your questiononce. Besides, the man who snapped up every thing that was offeredhadn't waited until you struck the ore. Still, I'd very much like toknow what he was buying that stock for."
Brooke did not tell him. Indeed, he was not exactly sure what hadinduced him to cable Cruttenden to buy. He had acted on impulse withBarbara's scornful words ringing in his ears, and a vague feeling thatto share the risks of the man he had plotted against would be some smallsolace to him, for he had not at the time the slightest notion that thehasty act of self-imposed penance was to prove remarkably profitable.
"I scarcely think it is worth while worrying over that point," he said."There are folks in our country with more money than sense, or a goodmany foreign mines would never be floated, and it is just as lik
ely thatthe man did not exactly know why he was doing it himself."
Devine laughed. "Well," he said, "we'll go along now and see what therest are doing."
Brooke would considerably sooner have gone back to his hotel, but Devinepersisted, and he was one who usually carried out his purpose. Brookewas accordingly presented to a good many people whom he had never seenbefore, and did not find remarkably entertaining, though he fancied thatmost of them appeared a trifle interested when they heard his name. Thereason for this did not, however, become apparent until he stopped closeby a girl who looked up at him. She was young, but evidently by nomeans diffident.
"You are Brooke of the Dayspring, are you not?" she said, making roomfor him beside her.
"I certainly come from that mine," said Brooke, and the girl turned toone of her companions.
"You wouldn't believe he was the man," she said.
Brooke was not altogether unaccustomed to the directness of the West,but he felt a trifle embarrassed when two pairs of eyes were fixed uponhim in what seemed to be an appreciative scrutiny.
"One would almost fancy that you had heard of me," he said.
The girl laughed. "Well," she said, "most of the folks in this provincewho read newspapers have. There was a column about you and your sickpartner and the doctor. You carried him across the range when he was tooplayed out to walk, didn't you?"
"No," said Brooke, a trifle astonished. "I certainly did not. He was agood deal too heavy, as a matter of fact, and I was not very fit to dragmyself. But when did this quite unwarranted narrative come out, and whatshape did it take?"
They told him as nearly as they could remember, and added runningcomments and questions both at once.
"You had almost nothing to eat for a week when you started across therange to bring the doctor out. That must have been horrid--and what didit feel like?" said one.
Brooke shook his head. "I really don't know," he said. "I shouldrecommend you to try it."
"And then the poor man was dead when you got there--I 'most cried overhim. There was a good deal about it. It must have been creepy comingupon him lying in the dark."
Brooke, who understood a little about Western journalism, waited untilthey stopped, for the thing was becoming comprehensible to him.
"Now," he said, "I know how the story got out. I didn't think the doctorwould be guilty of anything of that kind, but no doubt he told thelittle schoolmaster at the settlement, who is a friend of his, and, Ibelieve, addicted to misusing ink. Still, you see, the thing isevidently inaccurate. Do I look as if I could do without anything to eatfor a week?"
One of the girls again favored him with a scrutinizing glance. "Well,"she said, with a little twinkle in her eyes, "you certainly look asthough square meals were scarce at the Dayspring."
Brooke laughed, and then glancing round saw Barbara approaching. Hefancied that she could not well have avoided seeing him unless shewished to, but she passed so close that her skirt almost touched him,and then stopped, apparently smiling down on a matronly lady a few yardsaway. Brooke felt his face grow warm, and was glad that his companions'questions covered his confusion.
"Who'd you get to do the funeral? There wouldn't be any kind ofclergyman up there."
"No," said Brooke, grimly. "We had to manage it ourselves--that is, thedoctor did. I'm afraid it wasn't very ceremonious--and it was snowinghard at the time."
He sat silent a moment while a little shiver ran through him as heremembered the bitter blast that had whirled the white flakes about thetwo lonely men, and shaken a mournful wailing from the thrashing pines.
"How dreadful!" said one of his companions. "The story only mentionedthe big glacier, and the forest lying black all round."
Brooke fancied he understood the narrator's reticence, for there weredetails the doctor was not likely to be communicative about.
"The big glacier was, at least, three miles away, and nobody could haveseen it from where we stood," he said, evasively.
Just then, and somewhat to his relief, Mrs. Devine came up to him."There are two or three people here who heard you play at the concert,and I have been asked to try to persuade you to do so again," she said."Clarice Marvin would be delighted to lend you her violin."
Seeing that it was expected of him, Brooke agreed, and there was abrief discussion during the choosing of the music, in which two or threeyoung women took part. Then it was discovered that the piano part of thepiece fixed upon was unusually difficult, and the girl who had offeredBrooke the violin said, "You must ask Barbara, Mrs. Devine."
Barbara, being summoned, made excuses when she heard what was requiredof her, until the lady violinist looked at her in wonder.
"Now," she said, "you know you can play it if you want to. You wentright through it with me only a week ago."
A faint tinge of color crept into Barbara's cheek, but saying nothingfurther, she took her place at the piano, and Brooke bent down towardsher when he asked for the note.
"It really doesn't commit you to anything," he said. "Still, I canobviate the difficulty by breaking a string."
Barbara met his questioning gaze with a little cold smile.
"It is scarcely worth while," she said.
Then she commenced the prelude, and there was silence in the big roomwhen the violin joined in. Nor were those who listened satisfied withone sonata, and Barbara had finished the second before she once moreremembered whom she was playing for. Then there was a faint sparkle inher eyes as she looked up at him.
"It is unfortunate that you did not choose music as a career," she said.
Brooke laughed, though his face was a trifle grim.
"The inference is tolerably plain," he said. "I really think I shouldhave been more successful than I was at claim-jumping."
Barbara turned away from the piano, and Brooke, who laid down theviolin, took the vacant place beside her.
"Still, I'm almost afraid it's out of the question now," he said,looking down at his scarred hands. "The kind of thing I have been doingthe past few years spoils one's wrist. You no doubt noticed how slow Iwas in part of the shifting."
The girl noticed the leanness of his hands and the broken nails, andthen glanced covertly at his face. It was gaunt and hollow, and she wassensible that there was a suggestion of weariness in his pose, whichhad, so far as she could remember, not been there before. Again a littlethrill of compassion ran through her, and she felt, perhaps illogically,as she had done during the sonata, that no man could be wholly bad whoplayed the violin as he did. Still, the last thing she intended doingwas admitting it.
"Why did you stay at the Dayspring through the winter?" she asked,abruptly.
"Well," said Brooke, reflectively, "I really don't know. No doubt it wasan unwarranted fancy, but I think I felt that after what I had purposedat the Canopus I was doing a little _per contra_, that is, somethingthat might count in balancing the score against me, though, of course,I'm far from certain that it could be balanced at all. You see, it was alittle lonely up there, especially after Allonby died, as well as atrifle cold."
Barbara would have smiled at any other time, for she knew what theranges were in winter, but, as it was, her face was expressionless andher voice unusually even.
"I think I understand," she said. "It was probably the same idea thatonce led your knights and barons to set out on pilgrimages with peas intheir shoes, though it is not recorded that they did the more sensiblething by restoring their plundered neighbors' possessions."
Brooke laughed. "Still, my stay at the Dayspring served a purpose, for,although somebody else would no doubt have done so eventually, I foundthe galena, and I didn't go quite so far as the gentlemen you mentionafter all. No doubt it is very reprehensible to steal a mine, or, infact, anything, but I don't know that charitable people would considerthat feeling tempted to do so was quite the same thing."
Barbara started a little, and there was a distinct trace of color in herface.
"I never quite grasped that point before," she said.
"You certainlystopped short of----?
"The actual theft," said Brooke. "I don't, however, mind admitting thatthe thing never occurred to me until this moment, but I can give you myword, whatever it may be worth, that I never glanced at the papers afteryou handed them to me."
There was a trace of wonder in Barbara's face, though she was quiteaware that it could not be flattering to any man to show unnecessaryastonishment when informed that he had, after all, some slight sense ofhonor.
"Then I really think I did you a wrong, but we are, I fancy, neither ofus very good at ethics," she said, languidly, though she was nowsensible of a curious relief. The man had, it seemed, at least, notabused her confidence altogether, for, while there was no evident reasonwhy she should do so, she believed his assertion that he had not glancedat the papers.
"Hair-splitting," said Brooke, reflectively, "is an art very few peoplereally excel in, and I find the splitting of rocks and pines a good dealeasier and more profitable. You were, of course, in spite of your lastadmission, quite warranted in not seeing me twice to-night."
"I think I was," and Barbara looked at him steadily. "You see, Ibelieved in you. In fact, you made me, and it was that I found sodifficult to forgive you."
It was a very comprehensive admission, and Brooke, whose heart throbbedas he heard it, sat silent awhile.
"Then," he said, very slowly, "it would be useless to expect thatanything I could do would ever induce you to once more have anyconfidence in me?"
Barbara's eyes were still upon him, though they were not quite so steadyas usual.
"Yes," she said, quietly, "I am afraid it is."
Brooke made her a little inclination. "Well," he said, "I scarcely thinkanybody acquainted with the circumstances would blame you for thatdecision. And now I fancy Mrs. Devine is waiting for you."