The Long Portage Part 14

"You're an indulgent critic; that drawing is my own."

He did not appear embarra.s.sed, though she saw that he had not suspected the fact. She had already noticed that when he might, perhaps, have looked awkward he only looked serious.

"After what you have said," she resumed, "I'll show you the other things with greater confidence. Do you know, I thought all you Western people were grimly utilitarian?"

He sat down and considered this. The man could laugh readily, but he was also characterized by a certain gravity, which she found refreshing by contrast with the light glibness to which she was more accustomed.

"Well," he reasoned, "in my opinion, the white man's greatest superiority over all other peoples is his capacity for making useful things--even if they're only ugly sawmills or grimy locomotives. Philosophy never fed any one or lightened anybody's toil; commerce is a convenience, but the man who makes a big profit out of it is only levying a heavy toll on somebody else. It seems to me that all our actual benefits come from the constructor."

"Have you been building sawmills?" Millicent asked mischievously.

He laughed with open good-humor. "Oh, no; that's why I'm free to talk. I happened to find a lode with some gold in it, and gold is only a handy means of exchanging things. I'll own that I was probably doing more useful work when I stood up to my waist in ice-water, fitting sharp stones into a pulp-mill dam."

"Perhaps you're right," Millicent agreed, "but it sounds severe. What of the people who never do anything directly useful at all?"

"There are a few who, by just going up and down in it, keep the world sweet and clean. Some of the rest could very well be spared."

"Then you believe that everybody must practically justify his existence?"

"If he fails to do so with us, his existence generally ceases. The wilderness where I found the gold is full of the bones of the unfit."

Millicent spread out some drawings. Most were in color, in some cases several of the same object, done with patient care, and she was strangely pleased when she saw the quick appreciation in his eyes.

"An otter; it's alive," he remarked. "You've shown it working through a shallow, looking much less like an animal than a fish--that's right."

"I made half a dozen sketches, and I'm not satisfied yet."

"Thorough," he commented. "You get there, if you have to hammer the heart out of whatever you're up against."

"It's my brother's book," she answered. "I'm finishing it for him. He did other things--most of them useful, indirectly. I've only this--and I'd like my part to be good."

He nodded sympathetically, looking troubled.

"I can understand," he said. "I had a partner--I owe him more than I could ever have repaid, and he left a troublesome piece of work to me. It will have to be put through. But let me see some more; they're great."

She showed him a red jay; a tiny gold-crest perched on a thorn branch; a kingfisher gleaming with turquoise hues, poised ready for a dive upon a froth-lapped stone. He was no cultured critic, but he knew the ways of the wild creatures and saw that she had talent, for her representations of them were instinct with life.

They were interrupted by a scratching at the door and when she opened it a white setter hobbled awkwardly in and curled itself at her feet.

"He's rather a big dog for the house, but I can't keep him away from me,"

she explained. "As you see, he has lost a foot, in a trap, and he was marked for destruction when I asked for him. Sometimes I think he knows that I saved his life."

The dog looked up and raising a paw sc.r.a.ped at her hand, until she opened it, when he thrust his chin into her palm. It was a trivial incident, but it somehow stirred the man.

"Now I know where you got power to draw these lesser brethren," he said.

"Study alone would never have given it to you."

She let this pa.s.s. He was almost embarra.s.sing in his directness, though she acquitted him of any crude intention of flattering her.

"I promised to let you read my brother's diary," she reminded him. "If you will wait a few moments, I'll get it."

The dog pattered after her, as though unwilling to remain out of her sight, and she came back presently with a small leather case and opening it took out a tattered notebook. Noticing how she handled it and that the case was beautifully made, Lisle fancied that it was precious to her, in which he was correct. Indeed, she was then wondering why she had volunteered to show it to this stranger when only two of her intimate friends had seen it.

"Thank you," he said, when she gave it to him; and drawing his chair nearer the window he began to read.

Though he was already acquainted with most of it, the story gripped him.

On the surface, it was merely a plain record of a hazardous and laborious journey; but to one gifted with understanding it was more than this--a vivid narrative of a struggle waged against physical suffering, weakness, and hunger, by optimistic human nature. An odd word here, a line or two in another place, was eloquent of simple, steadfast courage and endurance; and even when the weakening man clearly knew that his end was near there was no outbreak of desperation or sign of faltering. He had dragged himself onward to the last, indomitable.

Then Lisle proceeded to examine the book more closely. It showed the effects of exposure to the weather to an unusual degree, considering that the covers were thick and that the rescue party had recovered it shortly after its owner's death. Moreover, Lisle did not think that George Gladwyne would have left it in the snow. Several pages were missing, and having been over the ground, he knew that they recorded the part of the journey during which the two caches of provisions had been made, and he had already decided that there would be a list of their contents. This conclusion was confirmed by the fact that Gladwyne had enumerated the stores they started with, and had once or twice made a reduced list when they had afterward taken stock. The abstraction of the records was clearly Clarence's work. Then he realized that he had spent some time in perusing the diary and he handed it back to Millicent with something that implied a respect for it. She noticed the sparkle in his eyes and her heart warmed toward him.

"It's the greatest story I've ever read," he declared.

She made no answer, but he knew that she was pleased and it filled him with a wish to tell her that she was very much like her dead brother.

More he could not have said, but remembering that he had already gone as far as was permissible he had sense enough to repress the inclination. He saw the girl's lips close firmly, as if she were conscious of some emotion, but there was silence for a minute or two. He broke it at length.

"I know that you have granted me a very great privilege, and I'm grateful," he told her, and added, because he thought a partial change of the subject might be considerate: "In a way, it's hard to realize that tale in this restful place. It's easier out yonder, where what you could call the general tone is different."

"Nasmyth once said something like that," Millicent replied. "I suppose the change is marked."

Lisle nodded.

"Here you have order, peace, security. In the wilds, it's all battle, the survival of the strong; frost and ice rending the solid hills, rivers scoring out deep ravines, beast destroying beast, or struggling with starvation. Man's not exempt either; a small blunder--a deer missed or a flour bag lost--may cost him his life. For the difference you have to thank the constructor, the maker of plows and spades and more complex machines."

"That's one of your pet hobbies, isn't it?"

He once more changed the subject.

"I wish that I could show you the wilderness," he said.

Millicent looked thoughtful.

"I should like to see it. I've an idea that if this book is well received I might, perhaps, try something a little more ambitious--the larger beasts and wilder birds of other countries. In that case, I should choose British Columbia."

"Then you will let me be your guide?"

She made a conditional promise, and shortly afterward he left her.

Meeting Nasmyth he walked with him toward Gladwyne's house, where they found the guests a.s.sembled on the lawn and Mrs. Gladwyne sitting by a tea-table. One or two young women were standing near and several men had gathered about a mat laid upon the gra.s.s fifty yards from where a small target had been set up. Lisle joined Bella Crestwick, who detached herself from the others.

"What is this?" he asked. "It's a very short range."

"Miniature rifle shooting," she informed him. "It's becoming popular.

Gladwyne has been trying to form a club. My brother Jim is president of some league. He's rather keen and there are reasons why I'm glad of it."

She added the last words confidentially and Lisle ventured to nod. It struck him that a healthy interest in any organized work or amus.e.m.e.nt would be beneficial to young Crestwick. The girl looked at him, as if considering something; and then she seemed to make up her mind.

"There's one thing I don't like," she complained. "They will shoot for high stakes. Jim isn't a bad shot, but he's too eager. I'm afraid he's inclined to be venturesome just now."

Lisle thought that she had a request to make. There was something about him that inspired confidence, and the girl had made a friend of him.