Chapter XII: Jack Finds Out

Dinner-time came and went at Camp Trangmar without any one's feeling much interested except the four Indian lads who ate largely, to the accompaniment of chatter and laughter by their own fire. It was nothing to them what high words were passed, and what tears were shed in the big tent. They were making the most of such a time of plenty as had never come their way before, and was not likely to be repeated.

By the cook-fire Humpy Jull exerted himself to tempt his hero's appetite--not wholly without success, it must be said; for what had happened could not check the coursing of the blood through Jack's veins. Twenty-five years old must be fed though the heavens fall. Gabriel's trumpet had better not be sounded for the young until after dinner. Jack ate silently and scowlingly. To one of his nature it was galling when there was so much to be overcome, not to be up and doing, not to be able to strike a blow.

Afterward the trees up the trail suffered for his wrath. Having eased his breast a little, he sat down to find a way out. Here, being a hewer instead of a thinker, he was at a disadvantage. He was conscious of an anomaly somewhere. He was in perfect condition; to fill his chest, and to stretch his muscles afforded him a keen sting of pleasure, but wind and limb availed him nothing against the subtle moral complications that beset him. It was one thing to defy the government of Athabasca in a bold voice, and another thing to find a vulnerable spot to hit the creature.

He was sitting with his chin in his palms, considering this, when Kate Worsley approached him from behind, and spoke his name. He sprang up, scowling. Linda was waiting a little way off. "Good heavens!" he thought. "Another scene to go through with!"

Mrs. Worsley was always simple in manner, and direct of speech. "Jack," she said at once, "Linda has told me everything that has happened between you, and I do not blame you as much as I did at first."

"Thanks," he said, looking away, and speaking gruffly as he was obliged to do when he was moved. "I value your good opinion, Mrs. Worsley. I don't think of you like the others."

"I am taking you into my confidence," she went on. "I am in a difficult position. Linda is terribly distressed by what has happened. She begged so to be allowed to see you for a moment, that I was afraid if I refused--well, I have brought her on my own responsibility. You will not say anything to her to make me sorry I brought her, will you?"

"You needn't be afraid," said Jack. "Nor Sir Bryson. I can't say it properly, but I shall not have anything to do with her until I can come out in the open."

"I knew you felt that way," she said quietly. "Of course it's no use telling Sir Bryson in his present state of mind."

"He hates me," said Jack frowning. "His kind always does. He won't give me a chance, and I say things that only make matters worse." He rubbed his furrowed forehead with his knuckle. "It's a rotten, mixed-up mess, isn't it?" he said with an appealing look.

Her eyes softened. His strength and his weakness appealed alike to the woman in her. Her hand went out impulsively. "You boy!" she said. "It's no wonder!"

Jack, wondering what was no wonder, grabbed her hand, and pressed it until she winced.

"If I can help you, come to me," she said.

"Thanks, anyway," he said. "But nobody can, I suspect."

"Now talk to Linda," she said. "Be gentle with her."

Jack frowned. "I told her not to say anything," he began.

"I know, I know," she said cajolingly. "But you are strong; be merciful with her weakness. Make allowances for women's nerves and emotions. It was a terrible scene on us all; most of all on her. She was foolish; but there was a kind of bravery, too, in avowing you before them all. Think of that!"

"If she only had your sense," said Jack.

Kate smiled and turned away. "What do you expect?" she said over her shoulder. "I'm thirty-eight years old, and I was always plain! Linda!" she called. "Three minutes only, remember." She walked away.

Linda came running, and cast herself in Jack's arms, weeping, protesting, scarcely coherent. "Oh, Jack! I had to see you! I was terrified, thinking of your anger! That woman enrages me so! I can't think! What did you give her a mining-claim for? If you'd only love me more, I wouldn't be so jealous of her. I didn't mean to injure you! You know I'd never do that! Don't be angry with me. I've disgraced myself forever with them, and if you go back on me too, what will I do?"

What was he to do with the helpless, contrite little thing but comfort her? His arms closed around her. "Who says I'm going back on you?" he muttered gruffly.

"It's no more than I deserve after disobeying you," she went on. "I was such a fool! I'm so sorry! Say you forgive me, Jack. I'll do better after this!"

"I can't forgive you right away," he said with his awkward honesty. "But I'm not going back on anything. Don't distress yourself like this. Everything will come right."

"But love me a little," she begged, lifting her tear-stained face.

He put her away not ungently. "We mustn't," he said.

"Why?" she asked, gripping his arm.

"I promised Mrs. Worsley."

"What did you promise?"

"Oh, you know," he said uncomfortably. "Don't you see that if there is any--well, love-making between us, it makes me out a villain to them?"

"No, I don't see it," she said. "Not if I make you."

Jack began to sense that father and daughter had an exasperating trait in common, the inability to see a thing they did not wish to see. "I should be blamed, anyway," he said.

"But I'll tell everybody the truth," she said. "I'm not ashamed of you. They shall see that I have chosen you of my own free will."

"You have done harm enough," said Jack grimly. "Better not say anything more."

"I don't care," she whimpered. "I've got to love you."

Jack's face became hard. "I do care," he said. "Understand, we have got to cut all this out. No one, not even a woman, can make me do what I don't choose to do."

"Jack, don't speak to me like that," she murmured terrified.

"You brought it on yourself," he said miserably. "You always seem to make me stubborn and hateful."

"But you do love me?" she said desperately.

He inwardly groaned. "I'm not going back on anything," he said lamely.

"That's not enough," she said, beginning to tremble again. "It would kill me if you didn't. They'll never have anything to do with me again. I have no one but you. You must love me. You do love me, don't you?"

"Of course I love you," he said with a strange sinking of the heart.

"Then I'll do whatever you tell me," she said submissively.

"No more talks off by ourselves," said Jack. "And around camp you must treat me exactly the same as the other men."

"But if you shouldn't succeed in proving----" she began.

"I will," said Jack.

"Time's up, Linda," said Kate, coming back.

Linda kissed him in spite of himself, and hurried away. Jack breathed a sigh of relief, and took up his axe again.

At the top of the bench a few hundred yards from where Jack was working, the trail from over the portage divided. One branch came down to Camp Trangmar and the river; the other turned west along the edge of the bench, and became the Fort Erskine trail. A mile or two up the valley the latter was joined by the trail that led directly west from Camp Trangmar.

As Jack stood breathing himself after a spell of chopping, he became aware of the sound of horses' footfalls coming along the Fort Erskine trail. There was no sound of a bell. Struck by this fact, he bent his head to listen attentively. It is exceptional for the horses to stray away from the one of their number who is belled. Moreover, to Jack's experienced ears, these had the sound of laden horses. He could not guess who it might be, but Indians or whites, they would hardly ride so near to Camp Trangmar without coming in, unless they had a reason to avoid observation. He therefore dropped his axe, and ran up the hill to intercept whoever was coming, and make them account for themselves.

At the forks of the trail to his astonishment he came face to face with Mary and Davy mounted, and leading their two pack-horses. The bell of the leading horse had been silenced with a wisp of grass. At the sight of Jack they pulled up in obvious embarrassment. Jack's heart went down like a stone in deep water.

"You're pulling out?" he faltered.

"What else was there for us to do?" said Mary coldly.

"Without telling me?" cried Jack reproachfully.

"_I_ didn't want to," put in Davy eagerly. "Mary said we had to."

Pride, indignation, and exquisite discomfort struggled in Mary's face. "It seemed easier," she said. "I'm sorry we met you. There's nothing to say!"

"But Mary--Mary!" urged Jack, scarcely knowing what he said, but filled with his need of her. "Not like this! Wait until to-morrow. Who knows what may happen to-morrow!"

"What can happen?" said Mary. "More humiliating scenes?"

Jack caught her bridle rein. "I swear to you," he said, "if Sir Bryson or any of the men----"

"I'm not thinking of them," Mary interrupted. "You can't stop her tongue. You've given her the right to speak that way."

Jack hung his head. Like a man under the circumstances he muttered: "You're pretty hard on a fellow."

"Hard?" cried Mary sharply. "What do you think I----" She checked herself with an odd smile.

Jack was determined to be aggrieved. "It's unfriendly," he burst out; "stealing out of camp by a roundabout way like this and even muffling your bell."

"That's what I said!" put in Davy.

Mary flashed a hurt look at Davy that forgave him while she accused. That he should take sides against her at such a moment--but of course he was only a child. She was silent. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looked away over the little valley and the river for support. All three of them looked at the lovely scene below them, softened and silvered in the creeping twilight, each wondering miserably what had happened to the joy of life.

At last Mary said quietly: "It wasn't easy to decide what to do. I have to think of myself. I have to think of father, what he would like. There is nothing else. I am sorry. You and I cannot be friends. We might as well make up our minds to it."

"Why can't we be?" demanded Jack.

"Because you have chosen a girl that will not allow you to have another woman for a friend," she said.

This was unanswerable. Jack could only hang his head again.

"I will not be friends with you secretly," Mary went on. "Nor can I lay myself open to her abuse. So we must not see each other any more."

"I need you!" Jack blurted out. His pride was hauled down. It was the first appeal for help that had passed his lips.

"I--I'm sorry," she faltered, but without relenting. "Watch Jean Paul well," she went on. "He can't keep the man hypnotized always. Get Garrod away from him if you can."

Jack scarcely heard. "I'm under arrest," he said. "You're leaving me without a friend in camp."

"You have her," said Mary softly, with an indescribable look; compassion, reproach or disdain--or all three.

"Mary!" he burst out.

She jerked her bridle rein out of his hand, and clapped heels to her horse's ribs. "This does no good," she muttered. "And it hurts! Come, Davy." She loped out of sight among the trees.

Davy lingered. Leaning out of the saddle he put his arm around Jack's shoulders. The boy was near tears. "Jack, what's the matter?" he begged to know. "I want to stay. I feel so bad about it. I don't understand. Why can't we be friends like we were before? Mary won't tell me anything. We think such a heap of you, Jack. The other girl--she's nothing to you, is she? Mary's worth a dozen of her. There's nobody like Mary. Why can't you and Mary----"

This was like a knife turned in Jack's breast. "Get along with you!" he said harshly. "You don't know what you're talking about." Disengaging himself from the boy's arm, he clapped the horse's haunch, and the animal sprang ahead. The pack-horses lumped after.

When they were out of sight Jack flung himself full length in the grass with his face in his arms. Now he knew. This pain in his breast was the thing they called love. Blind fool that he had been, he had dismissed her with the light term "native girl," and had not seen that it was a woman in a thousand, the woman his manhood had always been unconsciously yearning for, generous, true and lovely. She rode away, dragging his heart after her. He was tied fast. The pain of it was insupportable.

"Good God! how did I ever get into it!" he groaned. "What a price to pay for a kiss in the dark!"