CHAPTER XIII
A STAUNCH ALLY
On a dark November morning, when a blustering wind drove the rainagainst the windows, Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favoritegun in the room he called his study, at Hazlehurst, in Shropshire. Theshelves on the handsome paneled walls contained a few works onagriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two rackswere filled with guns and fishing-rods and the table at which Fosterwas seated had a vise clamped to its edge. He had once had acommodious gun-room, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife,as Hazlehurst was small and she had numerous guests, but the study washis private retreat. A hacksaw, a few files, a wire brush, and abottle of Rangoon oil were spread out in front of him, the latterstanding, for the sake of cleanliness, on the cover of the _Field_.
Foster laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorousresignation as his wife came in. Mrs. Foster was a slender, vivaciouswoman, fond of society.
"Put that greasy thing away for a few minutes and listen to me," shesaid, sitting down opposite him.
"I am listening; I'm inclined to think it's my normal state," Fosteranswered with a smile. "The greasy thing cost forty guineas, and Iwouldn't trust it to Jenkins after young Jimmy dropped it in a ditch.Jenkins can rear pheasants with any keeper I've met, but he's no goodat a gun."
"You shouldn't have taken Jimmy out; he's not strong enough yet."
"So it seems; he gave us some trouble in getting him back to the cartafter he collapsed in the woods. But it wasn't my fault; he was keenon coming."
Mrs. Foster made a sign of agreement. Jimmy was her cousin, LieutenantWalters, lately invalided home from India.
"Perhaps you were not so much to blame; but that was not what I came totalk about," she said.
"Then I suppose you want my approval of some new plans. Go ahead withany arrangements you wish to make, but, as far as possible, leave meout. Though it was a very wet spring, I never saw the pheasants moreplentiful; glad I stuck to the hand-rearing, though Jenkins wanted toleave the birds alone in the higher woods. Of course, now we'vecleared out the vermin----"
"Oh, never mind the pheasants!" his wife broke in. "You would talkabout such things all day. The question is----"
"It strikes me it's when are we going to have the house to ourselves?Though I don't interfere much, I've lately felt that I'm qualifying fora hotel-keeper."
"You have been unusually patient, and I'm getting rather tired ofentertaining people, but Margaret Keith says she'd like to come down.You don't mind her?"
"Not a bit, if she doesn't insist on bringing a menagerie. It was catslast time, but I hear she's gone in for wild animals now. If she turnsup with her collection, we'll probably lose Pattinson; he had all hecould stand on the last occasion. Still, Meg's good fun; ready to meetyou on any ground; keen as a razor."
After a little further talk, Mrs. Foster left him; and a few days laterMrs. Keith and Millicent arrived at Hazlehurst. Lieutenant Walters wassitting in a recess of the big hall when Mrs. Foster went forward togreet them. The house was old and the dark paneling formed a goodbackground for Millicent's delicate beauty, which was of the blondtype. Walters studied her closely. He liked the something in her facethat hinted at strength of character; and he noted her grace as sheaccompanied her hostess up the broad stairs.
When Mrs. Keith and Millicent returned to the hall a half-hour later,tea was being served.
"Colonel Challoner is eager to see you, Margaret," Mrs. Foster said,after they had chatted a while. "He excused himself for not comingthis evening because Greythorpe is staying with him for a day or two,but he made me promise to bring you over to-morrow."
Mrs. Keith acquiesced heartily, for she was fond of the Colonel.
The evening passed pleasantly at Hazlehurst, for Mrs. Foster made acharming hostess. Foster, who as a rule was indifferent to women'ssociety, livened the party by matching wits with Margaret Keith; andLieutenant Walters found Mrs. Keith's pretty companion very interesting.
At Sandymere, three miles away, Colonel Challoner sat in his librarywith his guest. It was a large and simply furnished room, but therewas a tone of austere harmony in all its appointments. The dark oaktable, the rows of old books in faded leather bindings, the antiquelamps, and the straight-backed chairs were in keeping with the severelines of the somber panels and the heavy, square molding of theceiling. Three wax candles in an old silver holder stood on a smalltable by the wide hearth, on which a cheerful wood fire burned, butmost of the room was shadowy.
The sense of empty space and gloom, however, had no effect on the twoelderly men who sat with a cigar box and decanter in front of them,engaged in quiet, confidential talk. Challoner was white-haired,straight, and spare, with aquiline features and piercing eyes;Greythorpe broad-shouldered and big, with a heavy-jawed, thoughtfulface. They had been fast friends since their first meeting a number ofyears ago, when Challoner was giving evidence before a parliamentarycommission.
"So you have not heard from Blake after the day he came here,"Greythorpe said.
"Never directly," Challoner replied. "On the whole, it is better so,though I regret it now and then. A weakness on my part, perhaps, but Iwas fond of Dick and expected much from him. However, it seems thatBertram and Margaret Keith met him in Montreal, and she is coming hereto-morrow."
"A very sad affair." Greythorpe mused. "A promising career cut shortand a life ruined by a moment's failure of nerve. The price paid forit was a heavy one. Still, I found the matter difficult to understand,because, so far as I could tell, there was nothing in Blake's characterthat made such a failure possible. Then it's known that personalcourage was always a characteristic of your family."
"His mother was my sister. You have seen her portrait."
Greythorpe made a sign of assent. He knew the picture of the womanwith the proud, determined face.
"And the other side? Was the strain equally virile?" he asked.
"You shall judge," said Challoner. "You and Margaret Keith are theonly people to whom I have ever spoken freely of these things. I amsure of your discretion and sympathy."
He crossed the floor and, opening a cabinet, came back with aphotograph, which he gave to his companion.
"Dick's father. He was famous as a daring rider across an Irish,stone-wall country, and was killed when taking a dangerous leap."
Greythorpe studied the face, which was of Irish type, with bold eyes inwhich a reckless twinkle showed. On the whole, it suggested an ardentand somewhat irresponsible temperament.
"No sign of weakness there," he said. "Though he might be careless andheadstrong, this man would ride straight and stand fire. I can't hintat an explanation of his son's disaster, but I imagine that one mighthave been found if it had been diligently searched for. My opinion isthat there's something hidden; but whether it will ever come out isanother matter. But--your nephew hasn't forfeited my liking. If I canever be of any service."
"Thanks; I know," responded Challoner. "It looks as if he meant to cutloose from all of us. While I'm sorry, I can't say that he's wrong orthat it's not a proper feeling. And now I think we'll let the subjectdrop."
The next afternoon was bright and mild, and soon after Mrs. Foster andher party arrived Challoner offered to show them his winter shrubbery.
"I have lately planted a number of new specimens which you and Margarethave not seen," he said; "and you may be interested to learn whateffects can be got by a judicious mingling of bushes remarkable for thebeauty of their berries and branch-coloring among the stereotypedevergreens."
They went out and Millicent thought the front of the old house with itsmullioned windows, its heavy, pillared coping, and its angular chimneystacks, made a picturesque background for the smooth-clipped yew hedgesand broad sweep of lawn. Behind it a wood of tall beeches raised theirnaked boughs in pale, intricate tracery against the soft blue sky. Theshrubs proved worth inspection, for some were rich with berries of huesthat varied from crimson t
o lilac, and the massed twigs of othersformed blotches of strong coloring. The grass was dry and lighted bygleams of sunshine, the air only cold enough to make movement pleasant.
When Challoner and his guests returned to the house, he showed them thebest bits of the old carved oak with which it was decorated and somecurious works of art he had picked up in India, and then he took themto the picture gallery which ran round the big square hall. A lanterndome admitted a cold light, but a few sunrays struck through a windowlooking to the southwest and fell in long bright bars on polished floorand somber paneling. On entering the gallery, Challoner took out acase of miniatures and, placing it on a small table, brought a chairfor Mrs. Keith.
"You know the pictures, but this collection generally interests you,and I have added a few examples of a good French period since you werelast here."
Mrs. Keith sat down and picked up a miniature.
"Millicent would enjoy that picture of the hills at Arrowdale," shesaid. "It's near her old home in the North."
Challoner and the girl moved away down the gallery, and he showed her alarge painting of gray hills and a sullen tarn, half revealed betweenfolds of rolling vapor. Millicent was stirred to keen appreciation.
"It's beautiful!" she exclaimed. "And so full of life! One can seethe mist drive by and the ripples break upon the stones. Perhaps it'sbecause I know the tarn that I like the picture so much; but it makesone realize the rugged grandeur and the melancholy charm of the place.That is genius! Who is the painter?"
"My son," said the Colonel quietly.
Millicent saw that he was troubled, though she could not imagine thereason.
"I hardly know Captain Challoner, whom I met only once; but it isobvious that he has talent. You would rather have him a soldier?"
"Very much rather."
"But he is one! I understand that he has distinguished himself. Afterall, it is perhaps a mistake to think of genius as limited to oneability--music or painting, for example. Real genius, the power ofunderstanding, is more comprehensive; the man who has it ought to besuccessful at whatever he undertakes."
"I'm dubious," said Challoner. "It strikes me as a rather daringtheory."
"It isn't mine," Millicent explained quickly. "It's a favorite themeof a philosopher I'm fond of, and he insists upon it when he speaksabout great men. Perhaps I'm talking too freely, but I feel thatCaptain Challoner's being able to paint well shouldn't prevent hismaking a good officer."
"Great men are scarce. I'm content that my son has so far done hisduty quietly and well; all I could wish for is that if any exceptionalcall should be made on him he should rise to the occasion. That is thesupreme test; men from whom one expects much sometimes fail to meet it."
Millicent guessed that he was thinking of a man who had been dear tohim, and who apparently had broken down beneath sudden stress.
"It must be hard to judge them unless one knows all the circumstances,"she said stoutly.
"Not when a man has entered his country's service. He must carry outhis orders; what he is sent to do must be done. No excuse can justifydisobedience and failure. But we are getting too serious, and I amboring you. There is another picture I think you would like to see."
They walked down the long gallery, chatting lightly. The Colonel drewher attention to a few of his favorite landscapes, and then they stoodbefore a large painting of a scene unmistakably in British Columbia.The Indian canoe on the rippled surface of the lake, the tall, stiff,yet beautiful, trees that crept down to the water's edge, the furrowedsnow peaks in the background, stirred the girl's pulse as she thoughtof one who even then perhaps was wandering about in that wild country.She expressed her admiration of the painting, and then ratherhesitatingly mentioned the Colonel's nephew.
"Have you heard anything from Mr. Blake since he left Montreal?"
"Nothing," said Challoner with a trace of grimness. "He does notcorrespond with me."
"Then I suppose you don't know where he is?"
"I heard that he had left a small settlement on the Western prairie andstarted for the North." He gave her a sharp glance. "Are youinterested in my nephew?"
"Yes," she said frankly. "I don't know him very well, but on twooccasions he came to my assistance when I needed it. He was verytactful and considerate."
"Then he's fortunate in gaining your good opinion. No doubt, you knowsomething about his history?"
"I dare say my good opinion is not worth much, but I feel that hedeserves it, in spite of what I've been told about him," she answeredwith a blush. "It is very sad that he should have to give up all hevalued; and I thought there was something gallant in hischeerfulness--he was always ready with a jest."
"Have you met his companion? I understand that he is not a man of mynephew's stamp."
Millicent smiled.
"Hardly so, from your point of view."
"Does that mean that yours is not the same as mine?"
"I have had to earn my living; and that changes one's outlook--perhapsI'd better not say enlarges it. However, you shall judge. Mr. Hardingis a traveler for an American paint factory, and had to begin work atan age when your nephew was at Eton; but I think him a very fine type.He's serious, courteous, and sanguine, and seems to have a strongconfidence in his partner."
"Ah! That is not so strange. The Blakes have a way of inspiring trustand liking. It's a gift of theirs."
"Your nephew undoubtedly has it. He uses it unconsciously, but I thinkthat those who trust him are not deceived."
Challoner regarded her with a curious expression. "After all," hesaid, "that may be true."
Mrs. Foster joined them, and when, soon afterward, she and her friendsleft, Challoner sat alone for a long time, while the pictures faded asdusk crept into the gallery. A man of practical abilities, with astern perception of his duty, he was inclined to distrust all that madeits strongest appeal to the senses. Art and music he thought werevocations for women; in his opinion it was hardly fitting that a manshould exploit his emotions by expressing them for public exhibition.Indeed, he regarded sentimentality of any kind as a failing; and it hadbeen suggested that his son possessed the dangerous gift. One of hisfriends had even gone farther and hinted that Bertram should never havebeen a soldier; but Challoner could not agree with that conclusion.His lips set sternly as he went out in search of Greythorpe.