Kitabı oku: «Blake's Burden», sayfa 16

CHAPTER XXVIII
A MATTER OF DUTY

Sergeant Lane sat by the camp fire in a straggling bluff, a notebook in his hand, while Emile repacked a quantity of provisions, the weight of which they had been carefully estimating. The scattered trees were small and let the cold wind in, for the party had now reached the edge of the plain where the poplars began to grow. The Sergeant's brows were knitted, for the calculations he had made were not reassuring.

"The time we lost turning back to the Stony village has made a big hole in our grub," he said. "Guess we'll have to cut the menoo down and do a few more miles a day."

"Our party's used to that," Blake answered with a smile. "I suggest another plan. You have brought us a long way and Sweetwater's a bit off your line. Suppose you give us food enough to last us on half rations and let us push on."

"No, sir," said Lane decidedly; "we see this trip through together. For another thing, the dogs are playing out and after the way they've served us I want to save them. With your help at the traces we make better time."

Blake could not deny this. The snow had been in bad condition for the last week, and the men had relieved each other in hauling the sledge. The police camp equipment was heavy, but it could not be thrown away, because they preferred some degree of hunger to lying awake at nights, half frozen. Moreover, neither Blake nor his comrades desired to leave their new friends and once more face the rigours of the wilds alone.

"Then we'll have to make the best speed we can," he said.

They talked about the journey still before them for another hour. It was a clear night and very cold, but with a crescent moon in the sky and no wind stirring. The fragile twigs of the birches which shot up among the poplars were still, and deep silence brooded over the wide stretch of snow. By and by Emile looked up with his face towards the south.

"Ah!" he said; "you hear somet'ing?"

They did not, though they listened hard, but the half-breed had been born in the wilderness and they could not think him mistaken. For a minute or two his pose suggested strained attention, and then he smiled.

"White man come from the sout'. Mais oui! He come, sure t'ing."

Lane nodded. "I guess he's right, but I can't figure on the kind of outfit."

Then Blake heard a sound which puzzled him. It was not the quick patter of a dog-team or the sliding fall of netted shoes. The noise was dull and heavy, and as he knew the snow would deaden it, whoever was coming could not be far away.

"Bob-sled!" Emile exclaimed with scorn. "V'la la belle chose! Arrive the great horse of the plough."

"The fellow's sure a farmer since he's coming up with a Clydesdale team," Lane said, laughing. "One wouldn't have much trouble in following his trail."

A few minutes later three men appeared, carefully leading two big horses through the trees.

"Saw your fire a piece back," said one, when they had hauled up a clumsy sled. Then he caught sight of Blake. "I'm mighty glad to find you; we were wondering how far we might have to go."

"Then you came up after me, Tom?" said Blake, who knew the man. "You wouldn't have got much further with that team; but who sent you?"

"I don't quite know. It seems Gardner got orders from somebody that you were to be found, and he hired me and the boys. We'd trouble in getting here, but we allowed we could bring up more grub and blankets on the sled and we'd send Jake back with the team when we struck the thick bush. Then we were going to make a depot and pack along the stuff we didn't cache. But I've a letter which may tell you something."

Blake opened it and Harding noticed that his face grew intent, but he put the letter into his pocket and turned to the man.

"It's from a friend in England," he said. "You were lucky in finding me and we'll go back together in the morning."

After attending to their horses, the new arrivals joined the others at the fire and explained that at the hotelkeeper's suggestion they had meant to head for the Indian village and make inquiries on their way up at the logging camp. Though Blake talked to them, he had a preoccupied look, and Harding knew he was thinking of the letter. He had, however, no opportunity of questioning him and waited until next day, when Emile, whom they were helping, chose a shorter way across a ravine than that taken by the police and the men with the bob-sled. When they reached the bottom of the hollow, Blake told the half-breed to stop, and took his comrades aside.

"There's something I must tell you," he said. "It was Colonel Challoner who sent the boys up from the settlement with food for us and he begs me to come home at once. That's a point on which I'd like your opinion, but you shall hear what he has to say." Then, sitting down upon a log, he began to read from his letter: —

"'A man called Clarke, whom you have evidently met, lately called on me and suggested an explanation of the Indian affair. As the price of his keeping silence on the subject, he demanded that I should take a number of shares in a syndicate he is forming for the exploitation of some petroleum wells.'"

"I think it was a good offer," Harding interposed. "Clarke must have had reason for believing he was about to make a big strike; he'd have kept quiet until he was sure of the thing."

"'The fellow's story was plausible,' Blake continued reading. 'It seems possible that you have been badly wronged, and I have been troubled – ' He omitted the next few lines and went on: 'As it happens, another account of the frontier action had been given me some time earlier by a lady who has been in India. It differed from Clarke's in one or two details, but agreed in exonerating you; and she also asked a price which I declined to pay. After giving the matter careful thought, I feel that these people may have hit upon the truth. It would, of course, afford me the keenest satisfaction to see you cleared, but the thing must be thoroughly sifted because – '"

Blake stopped and added quietly: "He insists upon my going home."

"His difficulty is obvious," Benson remarked. "If you are blameless, his son must be guilty. I arrived at the former conclusion some time ago."

Blake, who did not answer, sat musing with a disturbed expression. There was now no sign of the others, who had left the ravine, and no sound reached the men from the plain above. Emile stood patiently waiting some distance off, and though they were sheltered from the wind it was bitterly cold.

"In some ways, it might be better if I went home at once," he said at last. "I could come back and join you as soon as I saw how things were going. The Colonel would be safe from any further persecution if I were with him, but, all the same, I'm inclined to stay away."

"Why?" Harding asked.

"For one thing, if I were there, he might insist on taking some quite unnecessary course that would only cause trouble."

"Now," said Harding curtly, "I'm going to give you my opinion. I take it that your uncle is a man who tries to do the square thing?"

Blake's face relaxed and his eyes twinkled. "He's what you call white and as obstinate as they're made. Convince him that a thing's right and he'll see it done, no matter how many people it makes uncomfortable. That's why I don't see my way to encourage him."

"Here's a man who's up against a point of honour; he has, I understand, a long, clean record and now he's prepared to take a course that may cost him dear. Are you going to play a low-down game on him; to twist the truth so's to give him a chance of deceiving himself?"

"Aren't you and Benson taking what you mean by the truth too much for granted?"

Harding gave him a searching look. "I haven't heard you deny it squarely; you're a poor liar. It's your clear duty to go back to England right away and see your uncle through with the thing he means to do."

"After all, I'll go to England," Blake answered with significant reserve. "However, we had better get on or we won't catch the others until they've finished dinner."

Emile started the dogs, and when they had toiled up the ascent they saw the rest of the party far ahead on the great white plain.

"We mayn't have another chance of a private talk until we reach the settlement," said Blake. "What are you going to do about the petroleum?"

"I'll come back and prospect the muskeg as soon as the frost goes."

"It will cost a good deal to do that thoroughly. We must hire transport for a full supply of all the tools and stores we are likely to need; one experience of the kind we've had this trip is enough. How are you going to get the money?"

"I'm not going to the city men for it until our position's secure. The thing must be kept quiet until we're ready to put it on the market."

"You were doubtful about taking me for a partner once," Benson interposed. "I don't know that I could blame you, but now I mean to do all I can to make the scheme successful, and I don't think you'll have as much reason for being afraid that I might fail you."

"Call it a deal," said Harding. "You're the man we want."

"Well," said Blake, "I ought to be out again before you start, and if I can raise any money in England, I'll send it over. You're satisfied that this is a project I can recommend to my friends?"

"I believe it's such a chance as few people ever get," Harding answered in a tone of firm conviction.

"Then we'll see what can be done. It won't be your fault if the venture fails."

Harding smiled. "There's hard work and perhaps some trouble ahead, but you won't regret you faced it. You'll be a rich man in another year or two."

Then Emile urged the dogs, and they set off after the others as fast as they could go. Sweetwater was safely reached, but on the morning after his arrival there Blake pushed on south for the railroad with the police and a week later caught a steamer in Montreal. On landing, he took the first train to Shropshire, but before going on to Sandymere called at Hazlehurst, where he had learned that Mrs. Keith was staying.

As it happened, Mrs. Keith was out with Mrs. Foster, and Millicent was the first to welcome him. She started when he was shown into the hall, and, dropping the book she was reading, rose with a tingle of heightened colour, while he felt his heart beat fast. It was a clear winter afternoon and the sunshine that entered a window fell upon the girl. Blake thought she looked very beautiful, and, thrown off her guard as she had been, he caught the gladness in her eyes before she could hide it.

"I expect you are surprised at my turning up," he remarked.

"Yes," she said with a shyness she could not overcome. "Indeed I was startled when you came in, but of course it's pleasant to see you safely back. I knew Colonel Challoner had given orders for you to be traced if possible, and that you had been found, but that was all Mrs. Keith told me. I suppose she didn't know – didn't think, I mean – that I was interested."

"I'd like to believe that was foolish of her," Blake answered with a twinkle.

Millicent laughed; though she felt that his rejoinder did not adequately express his feelings, his humorous manner set her at ease.

"It really was foolish," she said, smiling. "But you must have some tea and wait until she comes. I don't think she will be long."

The tea was brought, and she studied him unobtrusively as he sat opposite her at the small table. He had grown thin, his bronzed face was worn, and he looked graver than he had done. Though she could not imagine his ever becoming very solemn, it was obvious that something had happened in Canada which had had its effect on him. Looking up suddenly from his plate, he surprised her attentive glance.

"You have changed," she said.

"That's not astonishing," Blake replied. "We didn't get much to eat in the wilds, and I was thinking how pleasant it is to be back again." He examined his prettily decorated cup. "It's remarkable how many things one can do without. In the bush, we drank our tea, when we had any, out of a blackened can and the rest of our table equipment was to match. But we'll take it that the change in me is an improvement?"

It was an excuse for looking at her, as if demanding a reply, but she answered readily: "In a sense, it is."

"Then I feel encouraged to continue starving myself."

"There's a limit; extremes are to be avoided," Millicent rejoined. "But did you starve yourselves in Canada?"

"I must confess that the thing wasn't altogether voluntary. I'm afraid we were rather gluttonous when we got the chance."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"No," said Blake, who saw that she was interested. "I think it was a serious disappointment for Harding, and I was very sorry for him at first."

"So am I," said Millicent. "It must have been very hard, after leaving his wife alone and badly provided for and risking everything on his success. But why did you say you were sorry for him? Aren't you sorry now?"

"Though we didn't find what we were looking for, we found something else which Harding seems firmly convinced is quite as valuable. Of course, he's a bit of an optimist, but it looks as if he were right this time. Anyway, I'm plunging on his scheme."

"You mean you will stake all you have on it?"

"That's it," Blake agreed with a humorous twinkle. "It's true that what I have doesn't amount to much, but I'm throwing in what I would like to get, and that's a great deal."

There was something of a hint in his manner and she noticed his expression suddenly grow serious. It seemed advisable to choose another topic and she said: "You must have had adventures. Tell me about them."

"Oh!" he protested, "they're really not interesting."

"Let me judge. Is it nothing to have gone where other men seldom venture?"

He began rather awkwardly, but she prompted him with tactful questions, and he saw that she wished to hear his story. By degrees he lost himself in his subject and, being gifted with keen imagination, she followed his journey into the wilds. It was not his wish to represent himself as a hero, and now and then he spoke with deprecatory humour, but he betrayed something of his character in doing justice to his theme. Millicent's eyes sparkled as she listened, for she found the story moving; he was the man she had thought him, capable of grim endurance, determined action, and steadfast loyalty.

"So you carried your crippled comrade when you were exhausted and starving," she said when he came to their search for the factory. "One likes to hear of such things as that! But what would you have done if you hadn't found the post?"

"I can't answer," he said soberly. "We durst not think of it; a starving man's will gets weak." Then his expression grew whimsical. "Besides, if one must be accurate, we dragged him."

"Still," said Millicent softly, "I can't think you would have left him."

He looked at her with some embarrassment and then smiled. "I'm flattered, Miss Graham, but you really haven't very strong grounds for your confidence in me."

Supposing he was thinking of his disgrace, she made a gesture of half scornful impatience.

"Well," she said, "please go on with the tale."

The rest of it had its interest, though he made no reference to Clarke's treachery, and Millicent listened with close attention. It was growing dark, but they had forgotten to ring for lights; neither of them heard the door open when he was near the conclusion, and Mrs. Keith, entering quietly with Mrs. Foster, stopped a moment in surprise. The room was shadowy, but she could see the man leaning forward with an arm upon the table and the girl's intent face. There was something that pleased her in the scene. Then as she moved forward Millicent looked up quickly and Blake rose.

"So you have come back," said Mrs. Keith, giving him her hand. "How was it you didn't go straight to Sandymere, where your uncle is eagerly waiting you?"

"I sent him a telegram as soon as the steamer was boarded, but on landing found there was an earlier train. As he won't expect me for another two hours, I thought I'd like to pay my respects to you."

"It sounds plausible," Mrs. Keith rejoined with rather dry amusement. "Well, I'm flattered, and as it happens I've something to say to you."

Then Mrs. Foster joined them, and it was some time later when Mrs. Keith took Blake into the empty drawing-room.

"I'm glad you have come home," she said. "I think you are needed."

"That," said Blake, "is how it seemed to me."

His quietness was reassuring. Mrs. Keith knew he was to be trusted, but she felt some misgivings about supporting him in a line of action that would cost him much. Still, she could not be deterred by compassionate scruples when there was an opportunity of saving her old friend from suffering. Troubled by a certain sense of guilt but determined, she tried to test his feelings.

"You didn't find waiting for us tedious," she remarked. "I suppose you were telling Millicent about your adventures when we came in; playing Othello, and she seemed to be listening as Desdemona did."

"I expect she was exercising a good deal of patience," Blake rejoined with a laugh. "Anyway, since you compare me to the Moor, you must own that I've never pretended to be less black that I'm painted."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Keith with marked gentleness, "you needn't pretend to me. I have my own opinion about you, and if it doesn't agree with other people's, so much the worse for theirs. I knew you would come home as soon as you could be found."

"Then you must know what has been going on in my absence."

"I have a strong suspicion. Your uncle has been hard pressed by unscrupulous people with an end to gain. How much impression they have made on him I cannot tell, but he's fond of you, Dick, and in trouble. It's a cruel position for an honourable man with traditions like those of the Challoners' behind him."

"That's true; I hate to think of it. You know what I owe to him and Bertram."

"He's old," continued Mrs. Keith. "It would be a great thing if he could be allowed to spend his last years in quietness, but I fear that's impossible, although, perhaps, to some extent, it lies in your hands." Then she looked steadily at Blake. "Now you have come back, what do you mean to do?"

"Whatever is needful; I'm for the defence. The Colonel's position can't be stormed while I'm on guard; and this time there'll be no retreat."

"Don't add that, Dick; it hurts me. I'm not so hard as I sometimes pretend. I never doubted your staunchness, but I wonder whether you quite realize what the defence may cost you. Have you thought about your future?"

"You ought to know that the Blakes never think of the future. We're a happy-go-lucky, irresponsible lot."

"But suppose you wished to marry?"

He smiled at her. "It's a difficulty that has already been pointed out. If I ever marry, the girl I choose will believe in me in spite of appearances. In fact, she'll have to; I've no medals and decorations to bring her."

"You have much that's worth more!" Mrs. Keith exclaimed, moved by his steadfastness. "Still, it's a severe test for any girl." Then she laid her hand gently on his arm. "In the end, you won't regret the course you mean to take. I have lived a long while and have lost many pleasant illusions, but I believe that loyalty like yours has its reward. I loved you for your mother's sake when you were a boy; afterwards when things looked blackest I kept my faith in you, and now I'm proud I did so."

Blake looked confused. "Confidence like yours is an embarrassing gift. It makes one feel one must live up to it, and that isn't easy."

Mrs. Keith regarded him affectionately. "It's yours, Dick; given without reserve. But I think there's nothing more to be said, and no doubt you're anxious to get away. Besides, the Colonel will be expecting you."

"He used to be seriously annoyed if he had to wait for dinner, and I've been here some time," Blake answered, laughing, and went out to take leave of Mrs. Foster.

CHAPTER XXIX
BLAKE HOLDS HIS GROUND

Dinner was finished at Sandymere, Miss Challoner had gone out, and, in accordance with ancient custom, the cloth had been removed from the great mahogany table. Its glistening surface was only broken by a decanter, two choice wine-glasses, and a tall silver candlestick. There were lamps in other parts of the room, but Challoner liked candles. Lighting a cigar, Blake looked about while he braced himself for the ordeal that must be faced.

He knew the big room well, but its air of solemnity, with which the heavy Georgian furniture was in keeping, impressed him. The ceiling had been decorated by a French artist of the eighteenth century and the faded delicacy of the design, bearing as it did the stamp of its period, helped to give the place a look of age. Challoner could trace his descent much further than his house and furniture suggested, but the family had first come to the front in the East India Company's wars, and while maintaining its position afterwards had escaped the modernizing influence of the country's awakening in the early Victorian days. It seemed to Blake, fresh from the new and democratic West, that his uncle, shrewd and well-informed man as he was, was very much of the type of Wellington's officers. For all that he pitied him. Challoner looked old and worn, and there were wrinkles that hinted at anxious thought round his eyes. His life was lonely, and his unmarried sister, who spent much of her time in visits, was the only relative who shared his home. Now that age was limiting his activities and interests, he had one great source of gratification; the career of the soldier son who was worthily following in his steps. His nephew determined that this should be saved for him, as he remembered the benefits he had received at his hands.

By and by Challoner filled the glasses. "Dick," he said, "I'm very glad to see you home. I should like to think you have come to stay."

"Thank you, sir. I'll stay as long as you need me."

"I feel I need you altogether. It's now doubtful whether Bertram will leave India after all. His regiment has been ordered into the hills where there's serious trouble brewing, and he has asked permission to remain. Even if he comes home, he will have many duties, and I have nobody left."

Blake did not answer immediately, and his uncle studied him. Dick had grown thin, but he looked very hard, and the evening dress set off his fine, muscular figure. His face was still somewhat pinched, but its deep bronze and the steadiness of his eyes and firmness of his lips gave him a very soldierly look and a certain air of distinction. There was no doubt that he was true to the Challoner type.

Then Blake said slowly, "I must go back sooner or later, sir; there is an engagement I am bound to keep. Besides, your pressing me to stay raises a question. The last time we met you acquiesced in my decision that I had better keep out of the country, and I see no reason for changing it."

"The question must certainly be raised; that is why I sent for you. You can understand my anxiety to learn what truth there is in the stories I have heard."

"It might be better if you told me all about it."

"Very well; the task is painful, but it can't be shirked. We'll take the woman's tale first." Challoner carefully outlined Mrs. Chudleigh's theory of what had happened during the night attack and Blake listened quietly.

"Now," he said, "you might give me Clarke's account."

Challoner did so and concluded: "Both these people have an obvious end to serve, and I daresay they're capable of misrepresenting things to suit it. I'll confess I found the thought comforting; but I want the truth, Dick. I must do what's right."

"In the first place, Clarke, who once approached me about the matter, will never trouble either of us again. I helped to bury him up in the wilds."

"Dead!" exclaimed Challoner.

"Frozen. In fact, it was not his fault we escaped his fate. He set a trap for us, intending that we should starve."

"But why?"

"His motive was obvious," Blake rejoined. "There was a man with us whose farm and stock would, in the event of his death, fall into Clarke's hands, and it's clear that I was a serious obstacle in his way. Can't you see that he couldn't use his absurd story to bleed you unless I supported it?"

Challoner felt the force of this. He was a shrewd man, but just then he was too disturbed to reason closely and failed to perceive that his nephew's refusal to confirm the story did not necessarily disprove it. That Clarke had thought it worth while to attempt his life bulked most largely in his uncle's eye.

"He urged me to take some shares in a petroleum syndicate," he remarked.

"Then I believe you missed a good thing, sir." Blake seized upon the change of topic. "The shares would probably have paid you well."

"I thought he proposed it to make the thing look better; in fact, to give me something to salve my conscience with."

"Anyway, he found the oil and put us on the track of it, though I don't suppose he had any wish to do the latter. We expect to make a good deal out of the discovery."

"It looks like justice," said Challoner. "But we are getting away from the point. I'd better tell you that after my talk with the man I felt he might be dangerous and that I must send for you."

"Why didn't you send for Bertram?"

Challoner hesitated. "When I cabled out instructions to find you, there was no word of his leaving India; then you must see how hard it would have been to hint at my suspicions. This would have opened a breach between us that could never be closed."

"Yes," said Blake, leaning forward on the table and speaking earnestly, "your reluctance was very natural. I'm afraid of presuming too far, but I can't understand how you could believe this thing of your only son."

"It lies between my son and my nephew, Dick."

There was emotion in the Colonel's voice. "I had a great liking for your father and I brought you up. Then I took a keen pride in you; there were respects in which I found you truer to our type than Bertram."

"You heaped favours on me," Blake replied. "That I bitterly disappointed you has been my deepest shame; in fact, it's the one thing that counts. For the rest, I can't regret the friends who turned their backs on me, and poverty never troubled the Blakes."

"But the taint – the stain upon your name!"

"I have the advantage of bearing it alone, and, to tell the truth, it doesn't bother me much. That a man should go straight in the present is all they ask in Canada, and homeless adventurers with no possessions, which is the kind of comrades I've generally met, are charitable. As a rule, it wouldn't become them to be fastidious. Anyhow, sir, you must see the absurdity of believing that Bertram could have failed in his duty in the way these tales suggest."

"I once felt that strongly; the trouble is that the objection applies with equal force to you. Your mother had a resolute character; your father was a daring man."

Blake coloured as he answered: "I'm glad you mentioned this; my parents can't be held responsible for my faults. You must know that rather surprising variations are apt to appear in a family strain. It's possible I'm what gardeners call a sport; a throwback to some inferior type. There may have been a weakling even among the Challoners."

"I have dreaded that there was one in the present generation," the Colonel answered with stern gravity. "But we get no farther. Do you deny the stories these people have told me?"

Blake felt that his task was hard. He had to convict himself and must do so logically, since Challoner was by no means a fool. As he nerved himself to the effort he was conscious of a rather grim amusement.

"I think it would be better if I tried to show you how the attack was made. Is the old set of Indian chessmen still in the drawer?"

"I believe so. It must be twenty years since they were taken out. It's strange you should remember them."

A stirring of half-painful emotions troubled Blake.

He loved the old house and all that it contained and had a deep-seated pride in the Challoner traditions. Now he must show that he was a degenerate scion of the honoured stock and could have no part in them.

"I have forgotten nothing at Sandymere, but we must stick to the subject." Crossing the floor he came back with the chessmen, which he carefully arranged, setting up the white pawns in two separate ranks to represent bodies of infantry, with the knights and bishops for officers. The coloured pieces he placed in an irregular mass.

"Now," he continued, "this represents the disposition of our force pretty well, and I've good reason for remembering it. I was here, at the top of the ravine" – he laid a cigar on the table to indicate the spot – "Bertram on the ridge yonder. This bunch of red pawns stands for the Ghazee rush."

"It agrees with what I've heard," said Challoner, surveying the roughly marked scene of battle with critical eyes. "You were weak in numbers, but your position was strong. It could have been held."

"We'll take Mrs. Chudleigh's suggestion first." Blake began to move the pieces. "The Ghazees rolled straight over our first line; my mine, which might have checked them, wouldn't go off; a broken circuit in the firing wires, I suppose. We were hustled out of the trenches; it was too dark for effective rifle fire."

"The trench the second detachment held should have been difficult to rush."

"Oh! well," said Blake, "you must remember that the beggars were Ghazees; they're hard to stop. Then our men were worn out and had been sniped every night for the last week or two. However, the bugler's the key to my explanation; I'll put this dab of cigar ash here to represent him. This bishop's Bertram, and you can judge by the distance whether the fellow could have heard the order to blow, 'Cease fire,' through the row that was going on."

He resumed his quick moving of the chessmen, accompanying it by a running commentary. "Here's another weak point in the woman's tale, which must be obvious to any one who has handled troops; these fellows couldn't have gained a footing in this hollow because it was raked by our fire. There was no cover and the range was short. Then you see the folly of believing that the section with which the bugler was could have moved along the ridge; they couldn't have crossed between the Ghazees and the trench. They'd have been exposed to our own fire in the rear."