"How do you know all this?"

"She told mother everything."

"And your mother told you. Why?"

"Because--say, mum, you remember the thing your husband called Bull Durham?"

"Brooke."

"Fancy Brooke, the thing which Polly kept like a pet lap-dog. The thing which turned state's evidence to hang my poor old dad. Brooke's come to Spite House as Polly's manager. Yes, now you know why mother's got no more use for Polly--told me I'd best come to you and give you warning.

That thing is at Spite House, and mother's gone."

"I see it all now. But one last question. How did you get to England?"

"Do you remember, mum, that my poor dad just thought the world of Jesse?"

"I remember, a legacy for you,--some ponies."

"Well, Jesse found out somehow that I was at Spite House. He sent me the value of them ponies, with only a receipt for me to sign. I reckon, mum, that ruined and well-nigh starving, he rode a hundred and sixty miles through the black pines, because he's honest. That's why I spent the money comin' to you. I wants to help."

CHAPTER II

THE IMPATIENT CHAPTER

_Kate's Narrative_

This chapter is so difficult to start. It deals with a time when life had become impossible unless one could jump from here to Wednesday next, and thence to Monday fortnight. Of course the book is only meant for Jesse, for David, for me, and for those to come who may revere us as their ancestors. Thank goodness, I am not a novelist! Think of the fate of the professional writer whose hosts of "characters," the bodiless papery creatures of his brain, will rise up in judgment to accuse their petty creator, to gibber at him, to make his dreams a nightmare. What novelist would escape that condemnation? d.i.c.kens might be saved, perhaps Balzac. Tourguenieff maybe, even Kipling, but in Heaven the writers will not be overcrowded.

My characters are ready to hand, and my events are real, but how can I possibly weld the notes in waiting, to make an harmonious, sane, restful chapter, whose very motif is worry? I give it up, for what am I that I should do this thing?

To three-fourths' pound of artistic temperament, add one cup Celtic blood; stir in a tablespoon of best Italian melody, add humor and laziness to taste; then fry in moonlight over a slow anthem, and there you are. That's me!

As a little girl I would prefer a hobgoblin I couldn't see, to a real doll stuffed with the best sawdust. If there happened to be any day-dreams about, visions or reveries, I would play hostess and be well amused; but fend me from accounts, from business men, and from all the things you catch, such as trains and influenza. Hateful practical affairs have to be faced, but I rush them to get through quick.

Have you noticed that artists who vend feelings as a grocer sells sugar, are always accused of being callous? I sent David with his nurse to stay with Father Jared, so mother called me a cold-blooded wretch. I abandoned my part at the opera to a weird ravening female who can't sing, so my manager called me an atheist. My maids had to pack and run to escape storage with the furniture at the "Pecking and Tootham Emporiums"; my little home pa.s.sed to a gentleman with mourning nails, diamonds, and a lisp; my bits and sc.r.a.ps of stock were sold and the proceeds banked with the Hudson's Bay Company. Then came casual farewells to baby and Father Jared, and, just as the train pulled out, the district nurse threw a bunch of violets. So I broke down and howled, wondering damply why. Even then I longed for my dear wilderness where every wind blows clean, for the glamour of an austere land braving the naked eternities, the heart of a lonely man who dared to do his duty, all, all that was real and great in life, calling me, calling me home.

The keenest pleasure which ever money gave me came when Billy and I helped in the drafting of a cable order from the Hudson's Bay Company in London to that bland magnifico who manages their branch palace at Vancouver. One always feels that if one happened to want a Paris hat, a bag of nuts, and a monkey, this Vancouver potentate would make a parcel of them without the slightest fear of their getting mixed. As to surprising the company, one might as well tickle the Alps. So here is the telegram:--

"Provide three sleighs, each with two horses; engage two reliable bush teamsters; six months' guaranteed bonus for secrecy and fidelity.

"Referring to previous requirements of Jesse Smith, load No. 1 sleigh to capacity with provisions, luxuries, ammunition, books, consigned to him via bush trail from 59 Mile House, Cariboo Road.

Referring to Captain Taylor's past requirements and present sickness, load No. 2 sleigh with stores invalid comforts, consigned 100 Mile House. Each driver to present load, rig and team, with personal services, and to forward consignee's receipt.

"Hire third sleigh with team one month, furnish furs on approval, equipment, comforts suitable to bush travel and residence of a lady. Place in charge of young competent civil engineer, bringing instruments and a.s.sistant to report to Madame Scotson, arriving Ashcroft Pacific Limited 20 inst.

"Absolute secrecy required. Charge Scotson."

So far the impulse had moved me to be quick before I repented, and the journey gave time for that. Leaving the sweet majesty and serene order of the English landscape, I made the usual pa.s.sage by _S.S. Charon_ across the Styx to New York, where I caught a stuffy train for the transit of an untidy continent. And so, in the starry middle of a night, I was met at Ashcroft.

The civil engineer sent by the Hudson's Bay Company was Mr. Sacrifice T.

Eure. He stood uncovered, and while his ears froze, spelled his name to me, explaining that there were two syllables in "Eure" with accent on the first. He seemed to convey an offer of protection, to claim my friendship, to take charge of my affairs, and with perfect modesty to let me know that he was competent. Mud-colored hair hung dank over a fine bloodless face with eyes like steel, jaws like iron, accounting, perhaps, for the magnetic charm of his smile. His English was that spoken by gentlefolk, which has the clearness of water, the sparkle of champagne. His accent? How puzzling that is in a stranger's voice!

Except when we play Shakespearean drama, we all speak with an accent, American say, or British. This gentleman lacked the primitive manliness which stamps the men of the Dominions. Afterward Mr. Eure confessed himself a native of New England.

He presented his a.s.sistant, led me to the sleigh, showed Billy where to stow the luggage, tucked me into some warm furs, congratulated me on escaping the local hotels, then bidding my man and his own to jump in, took the reins and asked which way we were going. I served as pilot along a trail of poignant memories. Once as we climbed the great steeps northward, I caught the scent of the bull pines, and would have cried but for the cold, which made it much wiser to sniff. Tears freeze.

We slept that night at Hat Creek station, where Tearful George proved a most kindly host. He told me of a loaded sleigh which had pa.s.sed last week on the way to Jesse's ranch. The teamster was Iron Dale. So far I had wondered whether my name was changing letter by letter from Madame Scotson into Mrs. Grumble, but now the scent of the pines brought ease of mind, and in the great calm of the wilderness one is ashamed to fret.

Our next march brought us rather late for the midday dinner to Fifty-Nine Mile House, which marks the summit of the long climb from Ashcroft to the edge of the black pines. The light was beginning to wane when we set out into that land of silent menace, where black forests cast blue shadows over deathly snow, and the cold was that of the s.p.a.ce between the stars. Once we had to pull up to adjust a trace, and in that instant the trees seemed suddenly to have paused from dreadful motion. A snow-covered boulder faced us as though in challenge: "You think I moved?" A deadfall log seemed to ask us: "Did I moan?" A hollow tree became rigid as though it had been swaying, a gaunt pine leaned as though stopped in the act of falling upon our sleigh. All of them, alert and full of menace, watched us. The trees were dead, the water was all frozen, the snow was but a shroud which seemed to lift and creep. What were we doing here in the land of the dead? The shadows closed upon us, a mist rose, flooding over us, and far off the cold split a tree asunder with loud report as of some minute gun.

We drove on, freezing, and right glad I was to be welcomed with all the ruddy warmth and kindly cheer of Eighty Mile House. There we had tea, and secured fresh horses for the last stage of our journey. I learned also that the driver intrusted by the Hudson's Bay Company with provisions for Hundred Mile House had gone off with the team, leaving his sleigh still loaded in Captain Taylor's yard.

The malign bush seemed cowed by sheer immensity of glittering starlight as we drove on. Only once I ventured to speak, asking Mr. Eure to look out for Ninety-Nine Mile House. Horses accustomed to bait there would try to stop. I did not want to stop.

He nodded a.s.sent, and, crouched down beside him, I waited until a brave red warmth shone out across the snow from all the lighted windows of Spite House. Mr. Eure lashed his horses, and in a moment more we had pa.s.sed into the night again. Presently we crossed the little shaky bridge over Hundred Mile Creek, then swung to the left into Captain Taylor's yard. I could see on the right the loom of the old barns, on the left the low house, and at the end one window dimly lighted, which told me my friend still lived. While Tom, the a.s.sistant, stabled the team, Mr. Eure and Billy got snow shovels from the barn, and hewed out a way to the deep drifted door at the near end of the building. Presently the Chinese servant let us in, and I made my way through the barroom and dining-hall to that far door on the right. How changed was the grand old Hundred since the days, only five years ago, of pompous a.s.sizes, banquets, dances, when these rooms overflowed with light, warmth, and comfort, now dark, in Arctic cold, in haunted silence! I crept into the captain's room, where, in an arm-chair beside the stove, the old man lay. I knelt beside him, taking his dreadfully swollen hand.

"Dear wife," he muttered, whose wife must have been dead full forty years, "this hulk is going to be laid up soon, in Rotten Row. Can't all of us founder in action."

I ran away. But then there was much to be done, fires, lights, supper, beds, and the unloading of the sleigh full of hospital comforts, which would set my patient a great deal more at ease.

When I left my patient, very late that night, supposing all lucky people to be in bed, I found Mr. Eure making himself some tea. Gladly I joined him beside the kitchen stove, ever so pleased with its warmth and the tea, for I was weary, past all hope of any sleep. Besides, the poor man was just dying with curiosity as to our journey and his engagement as my engineer. So, for that one and only time I told the story of Jesse's fate, and mine. The creature would stop me at times to check the p.r.o.nunciation of words, or note the English manner of placing accents, his own odd way of showing sympathy.

And then I tried to explain the scheme which needed his services as an engineer.

"Let's see," he checked my rambling statement. "Try if I've got all that correct. This Cariboo wagon road runs from Ashcroft to Quesnelle, due north, except at one point where the government wouldn't pay for a bridge across the Hundred Mile gorge.

"So at the ninety-five-mile post the road swings eastward five miles, pa.s.sing Spite House to the head of the gorge, where it crosses Hundred Mile Creek, right here.

"From here the road turns west again on the north side of the gorge, and after one mile on the level, drops down the Hundred Mile Hill, which is three miles high, and a terror to navigation.

"At the bottom the road turns north again for Quesnelle, at a cabin called the One Hundred and Four where old Pete Mathson lives, a hairy little person, like a Skye terrier with a faithful heart.

"And said Mathson has blazed a cut-off, crossing the foot of the gorge, then climbing by an easy grade to the ninety-five-mile post. The said cut-off is five miles long. Made into a wagon road, it would give a better gradient for traffic, save four miles, employ local labor at a season when money is scant, and be an all-round blessing to mankind. At the foot of the gorge we'd locate the new Hundred Mile House.

"Incidentally, Spite House would be side-tracked, left in the hungry woods four miles from nowhere."

"Tell me," I urged, "what you think."

"My dear madam, when I've made a survey you shall have dates and figures for a temporary snow road, a permanent way, and a house."

"It can be done?"

"Why, certainly."

"You approve?"