CHAPTER I

JIM COMES HOME

The car ran out from the tall hedgerows that bordered the narrow road and at length Jim could look about. He had not been able to see much on his way from the station where Mordaunt had met him, and now he had an unbroken view he studied the English landscape with keen curiosity. On one side, rugged mountains rose against the lowering sky, but a moving ray of sunshine touched the plain below. In front, the road ran across a marsh, between deep ditches where tall sedges grew. Beyond the marsh, wet sands stretched back to the blurred woods across a bay, and farther off, low hills loomed indistinctly in the mist.

Jim noted that the landscape had not the monotony he had sometimes felt in Canada. The fields behind the marsh looked ridiculously small, but some were smooth and green and some dotted by yellow stocks of corn. Then there was a play of color that changed from cold blues and grays to silver and ochre as the light came and went. White farmsteads, standing among dark trees, were scattered about, but the country was not tame. The hills and wide belt of sands gave it a rugged touch. There had been some rain and the wind was cold.

As the car jolted along the straight road between the ditches, Jim began to muse. He had felt a stranger in London, where he had stopped a week. He knew the Canadian cities, but London was different. Yet since he left the station the feeling of strangeness had gone; it was as if he had reached a country that he knew. He wondered whether he unconsciously remembered his father's talk, or if the curious sense of familiarity was, so to speak, atavistic. This, however, was not important, and he glanced at Carrie, who sat behind with Mrs. Winter and Jake.

Carrie had frankly enjoyed her holiday; indeed, Jim thought she had felt more at home than he when they were in town. Somehow she did not look exotic among the Englishwomen at the hotel, and when Mordaunt met them at the station she had, with a kind of natural tact, struck the proper note. She knew Mordaunt was a relation of Jim's, but she met him without reserve or an obvious wish to please. If either were conscious of surprise or embarrassment, Jim thought it was Mordaunt. Presently the latter indicated a low ridge that broke the level marsh. It rose against the background of misty hills, and a creek that caught the light and shone wound past it to the sands. In one place, a gray wall appeared among stunted trees.

"Langrigg," he said. "We'll arrive in a few minutes."

He blew the horn, a boy ran to open a gate, and as they climbed the hill Jim saw a stripped cornfield, a belt of dark-green turnips, a smooth pasture, and a hedge. Then a lawn with bright flower-borders opened up, and on the other side a house rose from a terrace. Its straight front was broken by a small square tower, pierced by an arch, and old trees spread their ragged branches across the low roof. The building was of a type not uncommon in the North of England and had grown up about the peel tower that had been a stronghold in the Scottish wars. There were barns and byres in the background, and it was hard to tell if Langrigg was a well-kept farm or a country house.

The strange thing was, Jim knew it well. He felt as if he had come to a spot he often visited; in fact, he had a puzzled feeling that he had come home. Then he saw people on the terrace and the car stopped. He jumped out and after helping Mrs. Winter down got something of a shock, for as the group advanced he saw the girl he had met at the Montreal restaurant. For a moment he forgot Mrs. Winter and fixed his eyes on the girl. She moved with the grace he remembered, and her white dress outlined her figure against the creeper on the wall. She was rather tall and finely, but slenderly, proportioned, and when she looked up he knew she was as beautiful as he had thought. Then he roused himself and went forward with his friends.

Mordaunt presented him to Mrs. Halliday, who gave him her hand with a gracious smile.

"I knew you when the car came up the drive. You look a Dearham," she said. "Since Bernard is unwell, we thought we ought to come and welcome you." Then she beckoned the others. "My daughter, Evelyn, and my son, Dick."

The girl glanced at Jim curiously, as if puzzled, but her brother laughed.

"This is something of a romantic surprise!" he said. "Perhaps it's curious, but I've thought about you since the night of the blizzard when we came to your shack."

Jim indicated his party. "I want you to know my Canadian friends; I owe them much. Mrs. and Miss Winter from Vancouver city, and my partner, Jake."

Mrs. Halliday had studied the group, but she gave them another glance. She thought Mrs. Winter was not important. The thin, tired woman was of a common type and had obviously come from a rude Canadian town: Mrs. Halliday did not know much about Vancouver. The girl, however, had individuality and a touch of beauty; Mrs. Halliday felt she must be reckoned on. The young man puzzled her, because she could not place him. In some ways, he looked like a rather superior workman, but he was unembarrassed, and although he waited calmly, she imagined he was amused. On the whole, they were not the guests one generally received at an English country house, but Mrs. Halliday knew her duty and welcomed them with a gracious air.

They went in and Jim heard with satisfaction that the others meant to dine with him, because he wanted to talk with Evelyn. He came down as soon as he could, hoping he might find her in the hall, but nobody was there and for some minutes he looked about. The hall occupied the lower story of the tower. It was square, and roughly-hewn beams, slightly curved, crossed the ceiling. The spaces between were paneled with dark wood and an oak wainscot ran round the wall. Half of one side was occupied by a big fireplace and its old, hand-forged irons. The carved frame and mantel were Jacobean and obviously newer than the rest. The old windows, however, had been enlarged and a wide casement admitted a cold light.

By and by, Mordaunt came in. The latter was thin and dark; his face was rather inscrutable, but he had a superficial urbanity. Jim wondered what lay beneath this, and imagined it might be long before he found out. Until he got down from the train, they had not met since Mordaunt came to the telegraph shack, and Jim did not know if he liked the fellow or not. After a time, there was a step on the stairs that went up the wall, and Jim looked up, half expecting to see Evelyn. At first he was conscious of some disappointment, for Carrie was coming down.

"By George!" said Mordaunt, softly.

Jim understood the exclamation, for he had not until now realized that Carrie was beautiful. Her color was rather high and her face looked strangely clean-cut against the background of dull brown oak. Her eyes were a curious gray that changed to sparkling hazel-brown with the light; her hair was brown with a coppery gleam, and her dress a soft green. Jim had not seen the dress before and did not know if it was the latest fashion, but he felt that Carrie's choice was good. It was not that the harmonious color gave her beauty; the effect was deeper. The girl had a touch of dignity that was rather natural than cultivated.

She lifted her head and smiled as she went up to Jim, and asked, as if Mordaunt was not there: "How do you like me?"

"In a way, you're wonderful," Jim replied. "Of course, I knew that before—when you nursed me, and in the woods—but somehow I hadn't expected this! When did you get the dress?"

"When we were in London. I hadn't long, but I wanted to be just right," Carrie answered with a blush. Then she laughed. "You're very nice, Jim; but do I really fit in?"

"Marvelously," Mordaunt interposed. "If my opinion is worth much, you look as if you belonged to Langrigg. That is, you go back, beyond our times, to the folks who built the peel to keep out the Scots."

Jim nodded. Mordaunt had said what he himself had vaguely thought. The fellow was sensitive and had felt the girl's virility. Jim was a little surprised that Carrie, who knew nothing about the Border wars, seemed to understand, for she gave Mordaunt a quiet but rather piercing look.

"Well," she said. "I have been up against Nature, where she's raw and savage, in the woods."

"Perhaps that accounts for it," Mordaunt replied, smiling. "Nature is savage in the frozen North; perhaps Jim told you I have been there. But I imagine you made good."

"Jim made good. I like to think I helped."

"I expect your help was worth much!" said Mordaunt.

Carrie's glance rested on him calmly and he felt that she needed study. She did not speak, however, and Mrs. Halliday and the others came in. After a few minutes they went to the paneled dining-room and Jim forgot Carrie when he sat down by Evelyn. Her color was subdued, her skin, for the most part, ivory white, and she had black eyes and hair. Although rather tall, she looked fragile, but she was marked by a fastidious grace and calm that Jim thought patrician. This was not the word he wanted, but he did not know another.

"It's curious, but I seem to know you," she said, presently.

"I don't think it is very curious," Jim replied. "You see, I met you at the restaurant near the post-office in Montreal."

"Yes," said Evelyn, with a puzzled look, "I remember our going there, but we didn't talk to anybody."

"I brought your lunch," said Jim, fixing his eyes on her face.

"Then you were the waiter?" she remarked, tranquilly.

Jim smiled. He felt that she had passed a rather awkward test and he was satisfied.

"Since you must have waited on a large number of people, it is strange you remembered me," she resumed.

"No," he said. "I hadn't met an English woman of your kind before, and, for that matter, I haven't met one since." He paused and added: "I expect this accounts for it."

Evelyn's eyes twinkled. He was obviously sincere and she felt amused. He was a new and rather good type, she thought. His figure was athletic: his face was thin and brown, his glance was steady but searching, and she liked his quiet manner.

"But you had other occupations besides waiting, hadn't you?" she asked.

"I was a miner in the North for some time."

"That must have been interesting. Were you successful?"

"I found a copper vein and was lucky enough to sell it rather well."

"Then, is it difficult to sell a mine?"

"As a rule, it's much harder than finding one," Jim answered, with a smile. "In general, the miner struggles with half-thawn gravel that often fills up his shallow shaft, and sometimes nearly starves in the tundra bogs, while the man with money enough to work the vein gets the profit. It cost us something to hold on until we got a just price."

Evelyn did not know much about the Canadian North, but she could imagine his holding on. "I expect you will find Langrigg different from the British Columbian wilds," she said. "Do you feel strange here?"

Jim looked about. The long room was paneled, the ceiling was low, and the wide casement commanded a view of the level marsh and shining sands. It was different from the dark pine forests and snowy peaks of British Columbia. The fine old china and silver, tall candlesticks, and the flowers on the table were in marked contrast with the rude furniture of camp and shack.

"No," he said, thoughtfully. "When one has wandered about a new country, meeting all kinds of people and doing all kinds of jobs, I imagine one would not feel very strange anywhere. Besides, I've a curious notion that I have come home."

"After all, you are a Dearham; perhaps this accounts for something," Evelyn remarked and glanced at Carrie. "Did you meet your friends when you were at Montreal?"

"Jim met us in Vancouver. Jake brought him to the store when he was ill," Mrs. Winter replied.

"The store?" said Evelyn.

"Mrs. Winter means a shop," Mordaunt explained.

"Oh," said Evelyn, "that is interesting! What did you sell?"

"Most everything people wanted. Dry goods, groceries, sweet biscuits—you'd call it cake—and we had quite a trade in Sundaes."

"What is a Sunday?"

Mordaunt laughed. "A little delicacy you consume on the spot. I imagine it's sometimes an ice and sometimes a sweetmeat, or a cleverly mixed drink. Perhaps it's oftenest enjoyed on Sundays and holidays, but they don't spell it with a y."

"I must try to remember. But who made these nice things?"

"Carrie," said Mrs. Winter, with a look of pride. "She baked the biscuit, too."

"I don't think I should like baking. One must get so hot," Evelyn remarked, and turned to Carrie. "Was it hard work?"

Carrie was talking to Dick Halliday, but she looked up and laughed, although there was a touch of color in her face.

"Oh, no," she said. "Anyhow, it was not as hard as cooking for the boys in the woods. I did all the cooking, and they liked the hash I put up."

Jim thought Carrie's western accent was rather marked and wondered why she had said hash. Evelyn's questions had been asked with languid good humor, as if she meant to draw Carrie into the talk, but somehow Jim got a hint of antagonism between the girls. This puzzled him and he was glad when Mrs. Halliday began to talk about something else. Evelyn did not support her much, but Mrs. Halliday was firm.

"You must tell us about your adventures," Evelyn said, as they got up, but when they went on the terrace Jim followed Carrie. Although he wanted to talk to Evelyn, Carrie must not feel neglected. She gave him a rather curious smile when he stopped by the stone bench she occupied.

"I allow your English relations have first claim on you to-night," she remarked. "You can talk to me when you like."

"A new claim doesn't wipe out older ones," Jim replied.

"I suppose that is so," Carrie agreed. "You're rather obvious, Jim, but you mean well."

Then she got up and joined Dick Halliday, and Jim felt puzzled.

CHAPTER II

JIM'S GUESTS

After breakfast next morning Jim and his friends went out on the terrace. The tide was full and the woods across the bay looked like islands. A line of white surf marked the edge of the marsh, which ran back, broken by winding creeks, to the foot of the rising ground. Sometimes a gleam of sunshine touched the lonely flats and they flashed into luminous green, silver, and yellow. Then the color faded and the light moving on forced up for a few moments the rugged blue hills against their misty background. The landscape had not the sharp distinctness common in Canada; it was dim and marked by an elusive charm.

Jim began to think about Evelyn. She was somehow like the country. Her charm was strong but not obtrusive. One could not, so to speak, realize Evelyn at a glance; she was marked by subtle refinements and delicacies that one rather felt than saw. Her English reserve was fascinating, because it hinted at the reward one might get if one could break it down. Carrie, too, was thinking about Evelyn, Mrs. Winter was sewing, and Jake occupied himself by cleaning an old pipe.

"It's some time since we broke camp on the telegraph line," Carrie remarked. "Do you find having nothing to do comes easy, Jim?"

"I don't expect to be idle long. It's prudent to consider before you begin to move."

Carrie felt that Jim was getting English. He had, of course, been to McGill, but since they reached the Old Country he was dropping his Western colloquialisms. She thought it significant that he did so unconsciously.

"Perhaps I'd better tell you how things are, so far as I understand them," he went on. "To begin with, running a house like Langrigg is expensive, and I doubt if I am rich enough to loaf in proper style."

"If you want to loaf in proper style, you must be born and raised for the job," Jake observed.

"That's true, to some extent," Jim agreed. "I was brought up to work and have got the habit. Well, my farm rents amount to something, but when you have paid taxes and repaired the homesteads they don't leave very much. It seems there are people in England willing to pay for owning land; but that plan's not sound."

"Then, you have another?"

"It's not worked out. The leases of two good farms soon fall in and I may manage them myself. Then I own the marsh, which feeds some sheep and cattle in summer. The soil's good alluvial, like the gumbo on the Manitoba plains, and would grow heavy crops if one could keep out the water. Well, we have seen small homesteaders draining Canadian muskegs, a long haul from a railroad, while we have a good market for all farming truck in two hours' ride. The proposition, however, needs some thought. It might cost me all I've got."

Jake's eyes twinkled. "I reckon that wouldn't stop you if you resolved to dyke the marsh. You didn't get much money when you got the estate?"

"I did not. I understand Joseph Dearham was not rich, and when he found his health was breaking down he gave some money to his relations. People here try to get out of the inheritance duties like that; besides, he had not meant to give my father much. However, I have a rich relation, from whom I want nothing, but whom the others think I ought to satisfy."

"Bernard Dearham? Dick Halliday talked about him."

Jim nodded. "Bernard is my grandfather Joseph's brother. Joseph was satisfied to live quietly at Langrigg like a small country gentleman; Bernard got rich by opening some iron mines not far off. Joseph married twice, and Mrs. Halliday and Mordaunt's mother were his second wife's daughters. She was a widow with two children when she married Joseph. So you see, Mrs. Halliday is not my aunt."

"Then, Evelyn Halliday is not your cousin," Carrie remarked.

"I suppose she's not," said Jim. "Anyhow, since I'm a Dearham, a descendant in the male line, it seems I've a stronger claim on Bernard than the others. I don't mean to urge the claim. He didn't give me Langrigg, he left my father alone, and if I keep the place, I'm going to run it as I like."

"Do you mean to keep Langrigg?" Carrie asked.

Jim looked thoughtful. "I imagine so; I don't know yet. There are drawbacks, but something pulls. I'll wait a bit before I decide." He got up and beckoned Jake. "Let's go and see the farms."

They went off and Carrie turned to Mrs. Winter. "He'll stay; we'll lose him soon. I think I knew we would lose him when you found the advertisement———"

She paused and Mrs. Winter remembered that when she had shown the girl the old newspaper Carrie had hesitated for a moment or two. She, however, said nothing and Carrie resumed:

"Well, I wanted to see the Old Country and you needed a rest. The life they live here is fuller than ours; it's something to enjoy it for a time, but we won't stay long, although Jim is kind."

Mrs. Winter gave her a keen glance, but Carrie's face was calm. Then she picked up her sewing and Carrie studied the old house. Langrigg meant much to Jim and she thought would presently mean more. She vaguely understood his feelings and tried to sympathize, although the effort cost her something.

In the meantime, Jim went to see his tenants. He dined with one at noon in an old farm kitchen and afterwards occupied himself by examining horses, buildings, and agricultural machines. On the whole, he puzzled the small farmers, to whom a landlord of his type was new, although they liked his frankness and answered his direct questions, since it was obvious that this was a man who knew how things were done. Some of the tenants who had known his grandfather talked about Jim afterwards and agreed that he had not much in common with the country gentleman; he was like Bernard Dearham, who opened the famous iron mines.

When they returned in the afternoon across the small turnip and stubble fields, Jim said to Jake, "I've seen enough of the plow land. Let's go across the marsh."

Jake agreed, and by and by Jim, leaning against a gate, indicated the long rows of hedges that ran down the slope and melted into an indistinct mass on the level plain.

"There's nothing much to be done here in the meantime. These folks are wasting labor and money plowing their little fields, but I reckon they're slow and stubborn. It wouldn't pay to hustle them yet."

"No," said Jake, with a twinkle. "I expect it hurts to feel you must keep your hands off, but you seem to know when you've got to allow for the idiosyncrasies of human nature. It's harder to use men properly than horses and machines."

"Some day, perhaps, I'll grub out these hedges and make room for the tractors to rip a furrow right across the farms. I've no use for wasting land on weeds and thorns."

"You think so now," Jake rejoined. "You haven't been here very long and there's something insidious about the country; its old-time customs get hold of one. Then I don't know if the tractor's picturesque, and cutting down trees and hedges might spoil the landscape. It wouldn't be quite so English after you had done."

Jim looked at him rather hard. "Sometimes you're pretty smart. Anyhow, I can't spoil the marsh by covering it with good grass and corn, and if the thing could be done economically, it ought to pay."

"It's possible. Are you keen about the profit? Or do you want a new big job?"

"I'm not going to philosophize; that's your proper line," Jim answered with a laugh. "Let's see if the creeks could be dyked."

They went down the hill and plunged into a belt of tall dry grass, crossed a broad tract of smooth green turf, dotted by thrift and silver weed, and pushed on to the lower flats where the sea-lavender and samphire grew. Then they skirted miry creeks that gradually filled with weeds as they neared dry ground, and went home to Langrigg by the causeway road. Jim was muddy, but happy; although he told himself he had not decided yet, half-formed plans floated through his brain.

A day or two afterwards, Dick Halliday and Mordaunt came over to Langrigg and were shown into the hall. Jim was not there, but his pipe and some books lay about and the others sat down. Presently Dick picked up a book and saw it was the old French romance from which Mordaunt had read a passage at the telegraph shack. He opened it carelessly and then started when he saw, Franklin Dearham, written in faded ink, on the first blank page. He looked across at Mordaunt and hesitated, with a vague suspicion in his mind. It was possible the latter had seen the writing when he opened the book at the shack, and if he had——

"You look as if you have found something interesting," Mordaunt remarked.

"It is interesting," said Dick, and felt relieved when he heard a step in the passage. He did not think Mordaunt, sitting some distance off, knew the book.

Next moment Jim came in and stated that he was alone. Mordaunt lighted a cigarette Jim gave him and asked if his friends were staying long.

"I don't know," said Jim. "We have made no plans yet, but I imagine I shall keep Langrigg."

"Do you mean you had thought about selling the estate?" Mordaunt asked, rather sharply.

"I did think about it, but don't know if I went much farther. The matter's complicated."

"Langrigg is rather an expensive house to manage and the farm rents are low," Mordaunt answered in a thoughtful voice. "Have you any money? Perhaps I'm blunt, but I'm a relative."

"I have some. Not enough to help me do all I want."

"You mean to do something, then?"

"If I stay, I'm going to put up the farm rents, though I mean to help my tenants pay. I'm going to enlarge the small fields, alter boundaries, and fix things so the land can be worked on the economical Canadian plan. The drawback is it may cost me much and I must wait for the return."

Dick laughed. "There are other drawbacks and it may cost you more than you know. In this country you can't do what you like, and we resent experiments. If you meddle with old-fashioned customs, you'll raise the neighborhood against you. In a sense, the trees and hedgerows you'd cut down are your neighbors."

"I believe they're mine," Jim rejoined dryly. "However, I don't suppose I'd bother anybody if I dyked and drained the marsh."

"Drain the marsh!" Mordaunt exclaimed. "That's frankly ridiculous! It's a favorite haunt of the Lag geese and, in a dry autumn, I don't know a better spot for snipe."

"There you are, you see!" Dick interposed, with a twinkle. "Perhaps you don't understand that it's a serious matter to disturb a few sportsmen."

"Looks as if I might disturb a number of people before I'm through," Jim replied. "Anyhow, I haven't made my calculations yet and don't know if my money will go round."

"I wonder whether you understand that you are Bernard Dearham's nearest relation and his approval is important?" Mordaunt remarked.

Jim pondered. He liked Dick and thought he trusted him, but he was not certain if he trusted Mordaunt. On the whole, he thought the fellow meant to give him good advice, but he was a type Jim did not know much about. Although he was highly cultivated, Jim thought he had conservative prejudices and an exaggerated pride. The pride was, of course, not obtrusive, but it was there.

"The lawyers hinted something like that and Mrs. Halliday made it plainer," he answered cautiously.

Mordaunt saw he would say nothing more and they were silent for a few moments until Dick got up and said he would ask the gardener for some plants the man had promised his mother. He wanted the plants, but he wanted to think, for he was curious about the French romance. If Lance had seen Franklin Dearham's name, he must have known Jim was his son, and had meant to let him stay in Canada. Lance's manner when they talked about Jim at the shack to some extent justified the supposition. Moreover, while Lance had gone to Langrigg with the object of giving Jim good advice there was something curious about his tone. He was urbane, but one noted a hint of superiority, or perhaps patronage, that the other might resent. All the same, it was not Dick's business and he went to look for the gardener.

In the meantime, Mordaunt said to Jim: "You suggested that your Canadian friends might make a long visit."

"I did; I'd like them to stay for good."

"Do you think it's prudent?" Mordaunt asked quietly.

Jim looked hard at him, with a touch of haughty surprise, and Mordaunt resumed in a conciliatory voice: "Perhaps I'm getting on dangerous ground, but I mean well and if you don't see——. To begin with, have you thought about marrying Miss Winter?"

"I have not. I'm certain she has not thought about marrying me!"

"No doubt, you know," Mordaunt agreed with some dryness. "For all that, my inquiry was perhaps justified. The girl is unformed, but she's beautiful and I think she's clever."

"You can leave Miss Winter out. Now I suppose you have cleared the ground and there's something else?"

Mordaunt made a deprecatory gesture. "I'll be frank, because I don't want you to make mistakes. If you are going to stay at Langrigg, you owe something to the family and yourself. A country gentleman has social duties and much depends on what your neighbors think about you at first. Very well. Your Canadian friends wear the stamp of the rank to which they belong; it was hardly necessary for Mrs. Winter to state that she had kept a small store. These are not the kind of people your neighbors would like to receive. Then Bernard Dearham's family pride is known: I imagine he largely persuaded your grandfather to alter his will."

Jim got up and his face was quietly stern.

"Langrigg is mine; my grandfather gave it to me without my asking for the gift," he said. "I owe my relations nothing and don't acknowledge Bernard Dearham's rule. None of you bothered about my father; you were glad to leave him and me alone. I had no claim on my Canadian friends and they had nothing to gain; but they nursed me when I was ill and my partner stood by me in the blizzards and cold of the North. Now you ask me to turn them down, because they're not the people neighbors I don't know would like to meet! Do you think I will agree?"

Mordaunt shrugged and forced a smile. "Oh, well, in a sense I suppose your attitude is correct. There is obviously nothing more to be said."

Dick came in soon afterwards and Mordaunt went off with him, but he had given Jim a jar and the latter walked about the terrace until Mrs. Winter and the others returned from a drive. Carrie gave Jim a quick glance as she advanced. She knew his moods and saw he was disturbed. The drive had brought the color to her skin; she looked very fresh and her step was light. Jim felt savage as he remembered Mordaunt's patronizing remark. Carrie was beautiful.

"Has something been bothering you, Jim?" she asked.

"It is not important," he replied. "If you own land in this country, it seems you must submit to a number of ridiculous rules and folks won't leave you alone. However, did you like the town?"

"We were charmed. It's a quaint old place and the country round is so green and quiet. Everything's smooth and well-kept; the trees look as if somebody had taught them how they ought to grow. You feel as if all the rough work had been done long since and folks have only to take care of things. I like it all."

"Then, you will be satisfied to stay at Langrigg?"

"For a time. If you want us."

"I'd be happy if you'd stay for good!"

Carrie said nothing for a moment and then smiled.

"That's impossible, though you're very nice. We'll make the most of our holiday; but it's only a holiday."

She turned, rather quickly, and joined Mrs. Winter, who was going into the house.

CHAPTER III

MORDAUNT PONDERS

It was raining and Mordaunt stood by an open window in Mrs. Halliday's drawing-room at Whitelees. A smell of stocks came in, and across the lawn, rows of dahlias, phlox, and autumn lilies made a belt of glowing color against a dark yew hedge. The hedge was neatly clipped and the turf was very smooth. By and by Mordaunt turned and glanced about the room, which he knew well. Whitelees was modern, and although Mrs. Halliday sometimes grumbled about her poverty, its furniture and decoration indicated extravagance. Mordaunt, however, thought there was too much ornament and doubted if some of the pottery was genuine. The room was pretty, but he was a connoisseur and was not satisfied with prettiness. He liked Langrigg better than Whitelees. Langrigg was austere and dignified.

Mordaunt was not at all austere, although he was not effeminate or luxurious. He was a good sportsman, something of an artist, and a traveler. He had talent, and might perhaps have made his mark, if he had not had just enough money to meet his needs and exaggerated dislike for competitive struggle. It had been a bitter disappointment that he had inherited very little of Joseph Dearham's property, although none of his relations suspected this, for Mordaunt knew how to hide his feelings. He was stubbornly conservative and held tenaciously the traditions of his class.

Presently Mrs. Halliday came in. Mordaunt, who knew his aunt well, thought she harmonized with her room. She was a handsome, gracious woman, but one felt now and then that her charm was forced and artificial. After telling Mordaunt to sit down, she remarked:

"I understand you went to Langrigg."

"I did go," said Mordaunt. "My visit was not a success."

"Perhaps it's curious, but Evelyn's judgment was better than ours. She doubted if you would succeed."

"I believe she said you ought to go, because the thing needed a lighter touch than mine."

Mrs. Halliday smiled. "Your touch is not often clumsy, Lance. But what line did Jim take? I suppose we must call him Jim."

"A significant concession, but he certainly shows the Dearham vein! He used some warmth and indulged a little raw sentiment. Expediency doesn't count for much with him."

"You mean his Canadian friends are going to remain?"

"Yes," said Mordaunt. "As long as they like! I imagine they will stay some time."

Mrs. Halliday waited for a moment. She thought Lance understood there was something else she wanted to know, but he was silent and she remarked:

"After all, they might be left in the background. Besides, the girl's mother is there."

"It is hard to keep a Canadian in the background and Jim won't try. Still he made an interesting statement; he has not thought about marrying the daughter!"

"That is some relief. Well, something depends on Bernard."

Mordaunt agreed. Much depended on Bernard. The old man was rich and Mordaunt had much less money than he would like; indeed he had long reckoned on an improvement in his fortune when Bernard died. His claim, however, was not as strong as Jim's, and Bernard was eccentric. But Mrs. Halliday resumed:

"Is Jim able to keep up Langrigg properly?"

"He was not remarkably frank about this. He stated he might not be able to do all he would like."

"Well, I have no doubt you gave him good advice, and your trying to persuade him was generous."

Mordaunt thought he had been generous, because if he had persuaded Jim to rule in a way Bernard approved and the latter made him his heir, all that Jim got would be taken from the others. To some extent, he had been sincere, but he could not claim that he had done his best. A feeling of antagonism had sprung up and perhaps he had let this influence him.

"It's unfortunate Jim was obstinate," Mrs. Halliday went on. "His keeping these people is awkward, but after all it will cost him most, and he is one of us——."

"Jim has Langrigg," said Mordaunt, smiling. "Our duty is to acknowledge and, if needful, indulge him."

"I don't like you when you're ironical," Mrs. Halliday rejoined, and looking up saw that Evelyn had come in. She wondered how long the girl had been there.

"You don't look as if you were satisfied with your visit to Langrigg, Lance," Evelyn said as she sat down.

"I'm resigned."

"That's different from being satisfied. But you were plucky. The matter must have needed tactful management; Miss Winter is attractive."

"Jim is not going to marry her, if that is what you mean; he stated he had not thought about it," Mordaunt said bluntly.

Evelyn laughed. "Then, it's probably true. If he had meant to marry Miss Winter, he would have said so, even if he thought you disapproved. Jim is very much of a Dearham."

"Is this an advantage or a drawback?"

"I don't know," said Evelyn. "It marks the difference between him and us. We're fastidious and complex; the Dearhams are simple and firm."

"A cruder type?"

"Not altogether. Strength and simplicity are dignified. You're an artist and know the value of bold, austere line."

"My notion is, Jim is not as simple as he looks."

"That's rather cheap," Evelyn remarked. "I meant the simplicity of the old Greeks."

"Theirs was cultivated; Jim's is not."

"There are things one does better by instinct than study," said Evelyn, smiling. "But I'm getting bored. Let's talk about something else."

Soon afterwards, Mordaunt drove back to Dryholm, where Bernard had built his ambitious house. Mordaunt had no occupation and generally stopped at Dryholm. There was plenty of room and although the old man was often ironical Mordaunt imagined he liked to have him about. The rain had stopped, the wet road was smooth, and as the car ran past the yellow stubble fields he gave himself to thought.

It was plain that Mrs. Halliday meant to make a friend of Jim and her object was not hard to see since Langrigg gave its owner some importance. Evelyn was curious about Jim; Mordaunt did not know if he attracted her, but the possibility of ruling at Langrigg had no doubt some charm. She would toy with the idea.

Mordaunt was not in love with Evelyn, but they agreed in many ways, and he had for some time weighed the advantages his marrying her would bring. She was his cousin, but cousins did marry now and then, and since the marriage would consolidate family interests, he imagined their relations would approve. In fact, he had imagined Mrs. Halliday knew his views and he could count on her support. Now, however, he suspected she had gone over to Jim.

For all that, Mordaunt's dissatisfaction was not quite selfish. Jim was something of a savage and meant to manage the estate on business lines. The fellow was going to farm and make his farming pay. If he had been a sportsman and made experiments in agriculture when he had nothing else to do, it would have been different; but this was not Jim's plan. The strange thing was, Jim's notion of dyking the marsh annoyed him more than all; the annoyance was perhaps illogical, but he could not conquer it. Mordaunt was a naturalist and a wildfowler, and did not think there was in England such a haunt of the Lag and black geese as Langrigg marsh. Now Jim, with rude utilitarian ideas, was going to drive the geese away.

The car lurched on the grass by the roadside as it took a corner and Mordaunt, roused by the jolt, concentrated on his driving. When he reached Dryholm he crossed the lawn and stopped by a wheeled chair, in which Bernard Dearham sat with his foot propped up. The old man was tall and strongly made, but had got thin, and his pinched face was marked by deep lines. He had worked with consuming energy and sometimes indulged, for Bernard had nothing of the fastidiousness that marked his relatives. Now his strength was broken and he was bothered by gout.

He dismissed the man who had pushed the chair and gave Mordaunt a quick glance. Bernard's brows were white, but his eyes were keen.

"Take me to the bench out of the wind," he said, and looked down when Mordaunt began to move the chair. "It will give Creighton a job to roll out these marks. The fellow grows fat and lazy and I hate the crunching gravel."

Mordaunt thought the remark was characteristic. The wheel-tracks could hardly be seen on the fine turf, but Bernard disliked untidiness. When they reached the sheltered bench and Mordaunt sat down Bernard looked up and asked: "Where have you been?"

"I was at Whitelees."

"I expect you had something to talk about just now. You and Janet Halliday understand each other well. I don't know if you are confidants or accomplices."

"Perhaps we have made a few innocent plots," Mordaunt admitted with a smile. "However, I imagine it has generally been for the advantage of the family."

Bernard nodded. "Well, I suppose your objects are sometimes good, as far as you see, though I doubt if you always see far enough. But I wondered whether you had gone to Langrigg. It's possible Janet has made some plot for Jim's advantage."

"I hardly imagine him a promising subject for experiments."

"You mean he's not compliant? What else?"

"I haven't known him very long and would sooner reserve my judgment."

Bernard gave him an ironical smile. "You don't want to prejudice me against him? Well, you're always tactful and it's comforting to feel you're sometimes just. However, I want to form an opinion. Write and ask him to come."

"He has friends at Langrigg. Perhaps you know?"

"I do know. Ask his friends. You may state that I'm an old man and am unable to go to him. I can leave you to strike the right note; you have some talent for that kind of thing."

Mordaunt said he would write. He was used to Bernard's bitter humor and on the whole thought it advisable that he should see Jim's friends. It was possible he would get a jar, but one could not tell. The old man was capricious and hard to understand.

"Didn't Evelyn join the party that went to welcome Jim?" Bernard resumed. "Rather a happy thought of Janet's! Do you know how he impressed Evelyn?"

"I do not. She did not give me her confidence," said Mordaunt, as shortly as he durst.

Bernard's eyes twinkled. "Was it necessary? With your talent, one ought not to find it difficult to read a girl's mind."

"I haven't always found it easy," Mordaunt rejoined.

"Well, I suppose Evelyn is really a woman now; when one gets old one forgets that the young grow up," Bernard remarked. "Besides, she has an admirable model in Janet. But take me in; I soon get cramped in this confounded chair."

Mordaunt set off and on his way to the house carefully skirted a spot where a tree had been uprooted and the turf relaid. To his surprise Bernard made an impatient sign.

"Go straight across!"

They crossed the freshly-sodded belt and when Mordaunt stopped on the terrace Bernard said: "It will not be your job to roll out our tracks."

"I thought it would bother you if I went across," Mordaunt replied.

Bernard gave him a sour smile. "I well know my relations' views about my character and in the main they're just; but they sometimes go wrong when they imagine their rules are mine. Probably you have not felt it would be a relief to plow through things, without bothering about the marks you left."

"No," said Mordaunt, "I don't think I have felt this."

"You're a logical fellow," Bernard rejoined. "Well, for the most part, I have been a slave to my notions of efficiency and order since I was a boy; but at times other feelings rebelled. Then I, so to speak, ran loose and broke things, like the rest of mankind. Moreover, I'm not repentant when I look back on the short-lived outbreaks. They gave me some satisfaction; after all, the Dearham blood is what Canadian Jim would probably call red. I don't know what color yours is, unless you like to think it blue."

Mordaunt said nothing. Bernard was often bitter, particularly when he had gout. When a servant came to help the old man in, Mordaunt went to the library where he wrote a note to Jim. He paused once or twice during its composition. Now he had time to ponder, he began to doubt if it was advisable to let Jim visit Dryholm and imagined he could so turn a polished phrase that it would keep him away. Mordaunt was clever at delicate implication and Jim's blood was red. Perhaps, however, it was not prudent to use his talent, since Bernard might want to see the note.

CHAPTER IV

AN OLD MAN'S CAPRICE

Jim went to Dryholm, although when he opened Mordaunt's note he meant to refuse. A line added in a shaky hand persuaded him, for Bernard had written, "I am lame and cannot come to you." Besides, the invitation was extended to his party and Jim wanted Bernard to see the Winters. They were his friends and he rather hoped Mrs. Winter would talk about the store.

The evening was calm and the sun setting when the car rolled past a lodge half hidden by tall evergreens. A screen of ironwork cut in fine black tracery against the light, and Jake remarked: "That's a noble gate."

"Hand-forged in Belgium, I believe," Jim replied, and they rolled on down an avenue where sunshine and shadow checkered the smooth grass.

The avenue had been planted before the new house at Dryholm was built. The spreading oaks were darkly green, but the beeches had begun to turn and their pale trunks glimmered among splashes of orange and red. On the hillside above the hollow, the birches hung sprays of shining yellow against a background of somber firs. All was very quiet and Carrie sensed a calm she had not remarked in the forests of Canada. There one heard the Chinook in the pine-tops and the rapids brawl.

They sped past a tarn where swans floated among the colored reflections of ancient trees, and then Dryholm broke upon their view across its wide lawn. For a moment, Carrie was vaguely disturbed. She had seen Montreal and London, but the buildings there were crowded with occupants and this was one man's home. Jim, whose clothes she had mended, belonged to people who built such houses. She glanced at him, but his face was inscrutable until he seemed to feel her gaze and gave her a smile. Carrie felt braced. In some ways, Jim had got strangely English, but he was, for all that, the Jim she knew; and she studied the house with a pleasant thrill, as if she were embarking on a new adventure.

Dryholm was very large and modern, but it had dignity and glimmered in the sunset between shadowy woods. The stone was creamy white, with touches of soft pink and gray. Cornices and pillars broke the long, straight front, and there were towers at the ends. Carrie knew nothing about architecture, but she got a hint of strength and solidity. Somehow, she felt relieved; Mordaunt and Mrs. Halliday would not have built such a house. On the whole, she distrusted them, but it looked as if the head of the family was different.

"It's very fine, Jim," she said. "There's something of Langrigg about it; something you don't feel at Whitelees. The stone is curious."

"I believe it was brought from a distance, but, in a sense, Bernard Dearham built Dryholm of iron."

"Somehow it looks like that," Carrie remarked.

The car stopped in front of a plain arch and Bernard received the party in the hall, where they found Mrs. Halliday, Evelyn, Mordaunt, and some others. Bernard gave Jim his hand and for a minute or two kept Mrs. Winter and Carrie by him. When they went to dinner Mrs. Winter was put next to Bernard, and Carrie, sitting near, looked about with frank curiosity. The room was lofty and spacious. She had not seen such a room except when she dined at a big Montreal hotel, but it had not the lavish decoration she had noted there. At Dryholm, one got a sense of space and calm; nothing glittered and forced itself on one's glance. Carrie thought it was somehow like a church, but rather the big quiet cathedral than the ornate Notre Dame. She had only seen big churches in Montreal.

The west window commanded distant hills that rose, colored dark-blue, against the yellow sky. Shining water touched their feet and one could hear the sea. It was getting dark, however, and soon electric lights began to glow on the paneled ceiling and along the deep cornice. The lamps were placed among the moldings and one scarcely noticed them until the soft light they threw on the table got stronger.

Then Carrie remarked that Mrs. Winter was talking, and Bernard laughed. She had wondered whether she ought to give her mother a hint, and might have done so, for Jim's sake, although it would have hurt her pride; but she was glad she had not. Bernard Dearham did not smile politely, as Mrs. Mordaunt smiled; he laughed because he was amused. Carrie did not know much about English people, but the dinner was obviously a formal acknowledgment of the new owner of Langrigg; and she studied her host. She had at first remarked a puzzling likeness to somebody she knew, and now she saw it was Jim. The likeness was rather in Bernard's voice and manner than his face, although she found it there. Then he looked up and asked:

"Do you like Dryholm?"

"Oh, yes," said Carrie. "Almost as much as I like Langrigg."

Bernard smiled and nodded. "Langrigg has a touch that only time can give. A house matures slowly."

"I think that is so," Carrie agreed. "One feels it in England. A house matures by being used; the people who live there give it a stamp, and perhaps when they go they leave an influence. It's different in Canada. When our houses get out of date, we pull them down."

Bernard looked at her rather keenly. He was a shrewd judge of men and women and saw that she could think.

"You are something of a sentimentalist; I don't know if you are right or not. When I built Dryholm we tried to get the feeling Langrigg gives one, as far as it could be expressed by line. But do you like Whitelees?"

"Whitelees is pretty," Carrie replied with caution.

Bernard's eyes twinkled. "Very pretty. Something new, in fact, after Canada?"

"Yes," said Carrie, who saw he wanted her to talk. She knew he was studying her, but he was not antagonistic like Mordaunt and Mrs. Halliday. "This is why I'd sooner have Langrigg, because I don't find Langrigg new in the way you mean," she resumed. "One gets the feeling you talk about in Canada; not in our houses but in the woods. They're different from the woods you have planted and trimmed. The big black pines grow as they want; sometimes they're charred by fire and smashed by gales. When it's quiet you hear the rivers and now and then a snowslide rolling down the hills."

"Rugged and stern? Well, I imagine the men who built Langrigg long since were rather like your pioneers."

Carrie thought Bernard had something of the spirit of the pioneers; this was why he was like Jim. She felt his strength and tenacity, but he did not daunt her.

"Why did you make Dryholm so big?" she asked.

"You don't think an old man needs so large a house?" he said. "Well, I built for others whom I thought might come after me, but that is done with." He paused and looked down the table at Mordaunt and Evelyn; and then Carrie imagined his eyes rested on Jim, as he added: "Sometimes I am lonely."

He began to talk to Mrs. Winter, who presently remarked: "Oh, yes, I like it in England. I knew it would be fierce in the jolting cars and on the steamer, but Jim insisted, and now I'm glad I let him persuade me."

"Then Jim insisted on your coming?"

"Why, yes. I meant to stay at home."

"Ah," said Bernard, "I think Jim took the proper line."

"Anyhow, I needed a holiday," Mrs. Winter resumed. "It's quiet and calm at Langrigg and I've worked hard. You folks don't get busy all the time, like us in Canada."

Bernard laughed. "There are a large number of busy people in this country, and for a long time I, myself, worked rather hard." He paused and looked down the table with ironical humor. "I was thought eccentric and my relations did not altogether forgive me until I got my reward. All approved then."

Mordaunt's face was inscrutable, but Mrs. Halliday smiled and Evelyn looked at Jim with faint amusement.

"I imagine he meant mother; they sometimes clash," she said. "You don't know Bernard yet. When you do, you will try to make allowances, like the rest of us."

"In the meantime, it does not seem needful. He is kind——"

"Remarkably kind," Evelyn agreed. "In fact, his kindness is puzzling. How far would you go to keep his favor?"

"It would depend," said Jim. "Upon how much I liked him, for one thing. Of course, I would go no distance if he tried to drive."

Evelyn smiled. "Well, I suppose you can take a bold line. If one has pluck, it sometimes pays. At all events, it's flattering to feel one can be oneself. No doubt, you all develop your individuality in Canada."

"We are rather an independent, obstinate lot," Jim owned. "I expect this comes from living in a new country. When you leave the cities, you have nobody to fall back on. You have got to make good by your own powers and trust yourself."

"Ah," said Evelyn, "one would like to trust oneself! To follow one's bent, or perhaps, one's heart, and not bother about the consequences." She was silent a moment and then resumed with a soft laugh: "But unless one is very brave, it's not often possible; there are so many rules."

Jim felt sympathetic. She had laughed, but he thought the laugh hid some feeling. She was generous and strangely refined; Mrs. Halliday was conventional and calculating, and the girl rebelled.

"I expect our host broke a number of the rules," he remarked.

"He did and he paid. Bernard was not rich and when he opened the Brunstock mines nobody would help him. When he sold his farms to buy pumps and engines there was a quarrel with your grandfather and perhaps Bernard has some grounds for bitterness. I don't know if it's strange, but while Joseph Dearham was a plain country gentleman, Bernard, after getting rich in business, wears the stamp of the old school."

Jim agreed. Bernard was obviously not fastidious, like his relatives, but he had the grand manner. This was not altogether what Jim meant, but perhaps it got nearest.

"I think it's because he's fearless—one sees that," he said. "Shabbiness and awkwardness come when one's afraid."

"It's possible," Evelyn answered, with a curious smile. "One hates to be shabby but sometimes one is forced. Pluck costs much."

Then Mrs. Halliday got up, and some of the party went to the drawing-room and some to the terrace. Jim stayed in the hall and mused while he smoked a cigarette. Evelyn had stirred his imagination by a hint that she was dissatisfied and struggled for free development. Well, he had seen Whitelees and was getting to know Mrs. Halliday. To some extent, he liked her, but he could understand the girl's rebellion. However, it was strange she had given him a hint, unless, of course, she had done so unconsciously. When the cigarette was finished he went to the terrace.

The evening was warm and a faint glow lingered in the west. All was very quiet except when a herd of cattle moved about a pasture across the lawn. The party had broken up into small groups and Jim joined Evelyn. Bernard got up stiffly when Carrie came near his bench.

"Tell me about wild Canada. I understand you were in the woods," he said.

"Yes," said Carrie, sitting down. "I went North with Jim and my brother and the boys, when the ice broke up."

"The boys?"

"The rock-cutters and choppers," Carrie explained.

"I see," said Bernard. "Was there no other woman? What did you do?"

"The nearest woman was a hundred miles off. I cooked and looked after the stores. Sometimes I mended the clothes."

"And how were the others occupied?"

Carrie hesitated. Although Bernard had asked her to tell him about Canada, she imagined he wanted to hear about Jim, but after a few moments she began to relate the story of their cutting the telegraph line. She could not have told it to Mrs. Halliday, but she felt Bernard would understand, and he helped her by tactful questions. She wanted him to know what kind of man Jim was and she made something of an epic of the simple tale; man's struggle against Nature and his victory. Indeed, for Bernard was very shrewd, she told him more than she thought.

"But, when you were nearly beaten, you could have sold the copper vein you talked about and used the money," he remarked.

"In a way, we couldn't sell. Baumstein was putting the screw to us; he meant to buy for very much less than the claim was worth. We would have starved before we let him, and for a time we hadn't as much food as we liked."

"After all, you might have been beaten but for the contractor. Why did he help? No doubt, he knew it was a rash speculation."

"Oh, well," said Carrie, "I think he liked Jim. But we wouldn't have been beaten. We'd have made good somehow."

"Still it looks as if the contractor was a useful friend. Did he stop at Vancouver? Does he write to you?"

Carrie hesitated, because she imagined she saw where Bernard's questions led.

"We won't forget him, but he doesn't write and I don't know where he is," she said; and added with a touch of dignity: "I don't see what this has to do with the rest."

"Perhaps it has nothing to do with it," Bernard replied. "Thank you for telling me a rather moving tale."

He let her go and when she passed a bench where Mrs. Halliday and Mordaunt sat the former looked at her companion.

"I suppose you have remarked that Bernard has been unusually gracious to the girl and her mother. Is it his notion of a host's duty? Or is it something else?"

"I imagine it's something else," Mordaunt replied.

"But what? Does he want to annoy us?"

"It's possible he thought he might do so. Are you annoyed?"

"I am certainly surprised."

"Oh, well," said Mordaunt; "perhaps he had another object. I don't know. He's rather inscrutable."

Mrs. Halliday got up. "I thought we could be frank, Lance. After all, our habit is to take Bernard's cleverness for granted. He has a bitter humor and the thing may only be an old man's caprice."

She went off and when soon afterwards the party began to break up Bernard gave Jim a cigar in the hall.

"I note that you and your young relations are already friends," he said. "Dick's a fine lad; he's generous and honest, although I doubt if he will go far. Evelyn, of course, has no rival in this neighborhood."

"That hardly needs stating," Jim replied.

Bernard twinkled and his glance rested on a beautiful painted vase. "Your taste is artistic; it looks as if you had an eye for color and line. In a sense, Evelyn is like this ornament. She's made of choice stuff; costly but fragile. Common clay stands rude jars best."

Jim was puzzled and half-annoyed, because he could not tell what Bernard meant; but the latter began to talk about something else.

"You were a miner for a time, I think," he presently remarked. "One would expect you to know gold when you see it."

"It's sometimes difficult," said Jim. "As a rule, gold is pure. It doesn't form chemical alloys, but it's often mixed with other substances."

"So that the uninstructed pass it by!" Bernard rejoined. "One might make an epigram of that, but perhaps it would be cheap. Well, I must wish the others good night. I hope you'll come back soon and bring your friends."

Jim put his party in the car and drove off, feeling strangely satisfied. Evelyn had been gracious and although he did not altogether understand Bernard he liked him better than he had thought.

CHAPTER V

SHANKS' DABBIN

Shortly after his visit to Dryholm, Jim returned, one morning, from the market town, where he had gone to see his lawyer and banker. When he reached Langrigg he found Jake on the terrace.

"Doing nothing makes me tired," the latter remarked. "I know you want to keep us, and mother and Carrie like it here, but we can't stay for good."

"Your mother and sister can stay until they have had enough, and I hope that won't be soon; but I know you, Jake, and think you're mean. Anyhow, you can get rid of your scruples, because I'm going to give you a job. I've decided to drain the marsh."

"Labor's cheap in this country, but I reckon it's some job. However, now there's something doing——"

"You'll stay and see me out?" Jim suggested. "Thank you, partner! Doesn't seem much use in stating that what is mine is yours, but I wish you'd get it. Another thing; this draining is a business proposition and we're partners in that sense, too. Now we'll tell your mother."

They told Mrs. Winter at lunch, and Jim saw that she hesitated and looked at Carrie. The girl's face was, however, inscrutable, and she gave no sign. Jim felt puzzled. He thought Mrs. Winter liked Langrigg and she had developed since she came. She was not so thin, she had lost her careworn look and gained a certain ease of manner. At the store, she had been highly-strung and restless; now she was happily calm. Moreover, she was making her influence felt and quietly taking control. Jim had noted that things were done better and cost him less. He wanted her to stay, because he thought she needed a rest and he would miss her if she went.

"Well," she said, doubtfully, "if you are all satisfied——"

"I am satisfied," Jim declared. "I imagine Jake is, but Carrie hasn't told us yet."

Carrie gave him a quick glance and he thought her color was rather high.

"You are kind," she said. "Mother looks younger than she has looked for long and perhaps we had better accept. But it is a big undertaking to drain the marsh. When do you begin?"

"I thought we might begin this afternoon. However, I don't expect to drain it all right off. There's a pretty dry piece where I mean to start. I reckon I've money enough for the experiment, and can develop my plans afterwards when I see what the first lot costs."

Carrie laughed and the hint of strain all had felt vanished. "You are certainly the hustling Jim we knew," she said. "I feel as if we were back in the woods."

After lunch Jim crossed the marsh with Jake and stopped where a ridge of higher ground broke off at the edge of a muddy creek. In the corner, partly sheltered by a bank of gorse, stood a small white house with a roof of rusty iron where the thatch had been. The whitewash had fallen off in places, exposing a rough, granulated wall, for the house was a dabbin, built of puddled clay. A window was broken and the door hung crookedly. Except for a few rows of withered potatoes, the garden was occupied by weeds. Three or four shellducks, hatched from wild birds' eggs, paddled about the creek.

"Shanks' dabbin; his father squatted here," Jim remarked. "I reckon I'm going to have trouble with the fellow."

He opened the broken gate and two men came out. One was bent and moved awkwardly, but Jake imagined that rheumatism rather than age had stiffened his joints. He looked at Jim with sullen suspicion. The other was young and strongly made.

"I've come to give you an offer, Shanks," Jim began. "This house is not fit to live in; I want you to use the cottage at Bank-end instead. There's a good piece of garden and a row of fruit trees."

"Dabbin's bad, but it's mine," said Shanks. "You canna put me oot."

"I don't want to put you out; I want you to go. Anyhow, the dabbin isn't yours. You have no title to the ground and I understand have been warned off, but we won't bother about that. Bank-end cottage is dry and comfortable and you can have it for your lifetime."

"I willun't gan."

Jim turned to the younger man. "This place is damp and falling down. Can't you persuade your father?"

"I'm none for trying. He has t' right o' it."

There was silence for a few moments and then Shanks asked: "What for do you want the bit hoose?"

"I want to pull it down. The dyke I'm going to build starts here and the new cut for the creek must go through your garden."

Shanks looked at his son and remarked with dull surprise: "He's gan t' dyke marsh!"

The other said nothing and Shanks turned to Jim. "If you were letten dry out marsh, t' wild geese and ducks wad gan."

"It's possible. We'll raise good grass and corn instead. Dairy cows are worth more than shellducks."

"But you'll niver be letten," Shanks replied doggedly.

"Shucks!" said Jim. "The marsh is mine. Although you have no claim to this place, I'll give you Bank-end, the garden, and if needful the small field. You and your son can make pretty good pay there if you like to work. If you'd sooner loaf and shoot, there's the creek and sands."

"'T' lag geese follow marsh," Shanks insisted.

Jim pondered and Jake studied the others. He had not seen men like these in Canada, where some of the Indians owned good farms and those who hunted had first-rate guns and canoes. Shanks and his son were ragged and dirty. They slouched and looked slack and dull, although now and then the younger man's eyes gleamed cunningly. Then Jim said:

"We won't argue about it. The dabbin must come down and when you're ready to move to Bank-end you can tell my teamster to take your household fixings along. If this doesn't meet the bill, I'll give you a hundred pounds and you can go where you like."

Shanks said nothing and Jim went off. When they were out of hearing Jake remarked: "I allow you had to be firm, but I don't like it, Jim. Those fellows are what we call bad men."

"I imagine we have been up against worse."

"That's so. All the same, I wish you had been able to leave them alone."

"I can't leave them alone, because the dyke must cross that corner of the creek. They're about the meanest whites I've met, and I certainly don't want them at Bank-end. I'd sooner they took the hundred pounds and quit."

"How do they live?"

"By wildfowling and fishing, though I'm told they snare rabbits and poach pheasants."

"Well, I suppose you're giving Shanks his chance of making good. The trouble is, he's forced to take the chance, whether he wants or not. Some folks would sooner live like dogs than decent citizens."

"Do you think one ought to indulge their prejudice?"

"I don't," Jake admitted. "It would be bad economy. For all that I'd watch the fellows."

They let it go and talked about Jim's plans as they crossed the short grass where the silver-weed spread its carpet of yellow flowers. They trampled through belts of withered thrift and skirted winding creeks where tall reeds shook their bent leaves in the searching wind. Light and shadow sped across the marsh, and a flock of plover, shining white and black, circled above the sands. Jake got a sense of space and loneliness he had not expected to feel in England, but he smiled as he noted Jim's brisk step and the sparkle in his eyes. He knew his comrade and saw he was happy. The marsh was something to conquer and the struggle would absorb his energies.

Next day Jim returned to the market town. He was occupied for some time ordering tools, and driving back in the afternoon, hesitated as he got near the cross road that led to Whitelees. He wanted to see Evelyn, and Mrs. Halliday had told him to come when he liked, but it was perhaps significant that he wanted also to get on with his draining plans. Seeing Evelyn was a satisfaction he unconsciously reserved for his leisure; she was not, like Carrie, to some extent his working partner and critic. He took the road to Whitelees and smiled. Perhaps Carrie was patient when he thought her keen: it was possible that she was sometimes bored.

Mrs. Halliday received him in a room that looked full of ornaments and flowers, and gave him tea in beautiful china. He was half-afraid to handle the fragile cup and plate and hesitated about eating his slice of dainty cake. He had been examining machines and thought his clothes smelt of oil; somehow he felt big and awkward. By and by Mrs. Halliday asked what had occupied him in town, and he told her about his plans. Evelyn looked interested.

"If you begin your dyke where you propose, won't Shanks' dabbin be in the way?"

"The dabbin must come down," Jim replied.

A question from Mrs. Halliday led to his relating his interview with Shanks, and Evelyn said, "Could you not have left the old man his cottage? After all, it is picturesque."

"It isn't picturesque when you are near. Does beauty go with dirt and neglect?"

"Perhaps it does not. I suppose the old Greeks gave us our standard of beauty and they attained it by careful cultivation. For all that, they rather conventionalized their type and one likes people with pluck enough to strike an independent note. To some extent, one can sympathize with Shanks, because he won't be clean by rule."

Jim unconsciously looked about the room, and Evelyn laughed. "Oh," she said, "we don't copy the Greeks! Their model was austere simplicity, the bold, flowing line: but we are luxuriously modern. However, it would have been a graceful plan to leave Shanks alone."

"It wouldn't have been sound. You can't neglect a job that ought to be put over, because you'd like to be graceful."

"You're not Greek," said Evelyn. "You're Roman."

"Then, if I get your meaning, Shanks is a barbarian, and the barbarians who stood up against Roman order and efficiency were crushed. It's probably lucky for Europe the legions marched over them."

"I suppose one must agree. It looks as if I must try again. What about the king who coveted the vineyard?"

"To begin with, the other man owned the vineyard, but the ground Shanks occupies is mine. Then it was a vineyard, while the Shanks homestead is a hovel in a weed-choked garden lot. Anyhow, if you'd like it, I'll see if it is possible to leave his place alone."

Evelyn was flattered. She enjoyed the sense of power, but she hesitated. Jim was easy to understand and had gone farther than she had thought. To let him make a concession that might cost him extra work would give him a claim, and she did not want him for a creditor yet.

"Oh, no," she said carelessly, "you mustn't change your plans! I was indulging a romantic sentiment and expect you know what you ought to do. But you were nice when you were willing to think about the thing."

Then Mrs. Halliday began to talk and presently Jim got up.

"I must go," he said. "I didn't know I had stayed so long."

Evelyn gave him her hand and smiled. "I expect you will be occupied, but if you have time to come back you will find us at home."

"Thank you," said Jim. "I was half-afraid I'd bored you. I'll certainly have time."

He went out and Mrs. Halliday looked at Evelyn thoughtfully. "On the whole, I imagine you were tactful. I expect you saw Jim's offer to leave Shanks alone was not made without an effort."

"I did see," Evelyn admitted. "I don't know if it was flattering or not." She paused and resumed with a touch of color: "For all that, I did not refuse because I was tactful; one sometimes gets tired of acting. Besides, it would be thrown away on Jim. He's not accomplished and critical like Lance; he's frank and strong."

"He is worth cultivating," Mrs. Halliday remarked, picking up a book. She knew when to stop and Evelyn now and then developed a rebellious mood.

For a week Jim was occupied bringing tools and materials from the town and clearing the ground. Shanks gave no sign that he meant to move, until one morning Jim's teamster asked: "Am I to gan t' dabbin and tak' a load to Bank-end?"

Jim told him to go and turned to Jake. "That's fixed! I've been holding back for a day or two and now we can push ahead. The dabbin must come down before we stop to-night."

In the evening, Jake and Carrie went with him across the marsh. The workmen had gone but wheelbarrows, spades, and planks lay about, and a bank of fresh soil touched the edge of the neglected garden. Gray clouds drifted across the gloomy sky, a cold wind tossed the reeds, and the dabbin looked strangely forlorn in the fading light. Carrie shivered as she entered with Jim, who carried a coil of fuse and a tin box. The clay walls were stained by damp and the broken window was grimed by dirt. A few peats occupied a corner, and a pile of ashes, on which tea-leaves and scraps of food had been thrown, stretched across the floor from the rusty grate. Jim went to the window and began to cut the fuse.

"I've got things ready and might have waited until to-morrow but the job's been bothering me and I want to put it over," he said. "Do you think I'm harsh?"

"No," said Carrie, firmly. "Shanks is white trash and lives like a hog. They wouldn't have stood for him a month at our settlements. But how do you think he'll use Bank-end?"

Jim smiled. "I expect I'll have to burn down the cottage when he has done with it; his son is certainly not going to stop there afterwards. I don't know if a rich man is justified in loafing or not. We'll leave that to the economists, but I've frankly no use for the fellow who wants to loaf at other folk's expense. However, I'll fix the powder and we'll pull out. I don't like the job."

Carrie nodded. "You are a builder, Jim, but before one builds one must clear the ground. Things must be pulled down."

"You're a staunch friend," said Jim. "You always understand and generally approve."

"Perhaps it's because we often agree; but if I were really staunch, I'd tell you when I thought you wrong. This needs some pluck."

"I'd weigh what you told me."

Carrie was silent for a moment, thinking about Evelyn. The girl had, so to speak, dazzled Jim. Carrie did not approve, but could not meddle.

"I wonder!" she remarked. "Anyhow you must hustle. It's getting dark."

After a few minutes Jim lighted the fuse and they went out and stood some distance off. The light had nearly gone, and the dabbin loomed dark and desolate against a belt of tossing reeds. Jim thought an indistinct figure stole through the gloom of the hedge, and he shouted a warning.

The figure vanished. There was a flash behind the broken window and the shock of an explosion. For a moment the hovel was filled with light; then it tottered and a cloud of smoke rolled about the falling walls. Blocks of hard clay splashed in the creek and fell about the marsh. The smoke cleared and Carrie saw the dabbin had gone. A pile of rubbish, round which thin vapor drifted, marked the spot it had occupied. A man stood on the end of the ridge of high ground, his bent figure outlined against the sky, holding up his arms as if in protest. Then he vanished, and Jim and the others started silently for Langrigg.

CHAPTER VI

THE THORN HEDGE

Mist drifted about the hollows and the new moon shone between the motionless light clouds. The air was damp and Jim buttoned his driving-coat as he talked to Bernard on the steps at Dryholm. His small car stood near the arch, with its lights glistening on the dewy lawn.

"Your lamps are dim," said Bernard. "If you will wait a minute, I'll send them to the garage."

Jim said he knew the road and the lamps would burn until he got home; and Bernard resumed: "I expect you know that what you are doing at the marsh won't make you popular."

"Lance Mordaunt hinted something like that, but I don't see why people should grumble," Jim replied. "The marsh is mine."

"Your title's good," Bernard agreed. "Since the ground is not enclosed, Joseph didn't bother about sporting rights and your neighbors took it for granted they could shoot a few ducks and snipe when they liked. The sport's rough for men who shoot hand-reared pheasants, but there's some satisfaction in killing birds that are really wild."

"There is some satisfaction. The game I've shot was certainly wild; in fact, I sometimes took steep chances when I missed. When you get after a bull moose or a cinnamon bear it's prudent to hold straight. Well, I'd sooner my neighbors liked me, but don't mean to keep my land waste for them to play on."

Bernard nodded. "You are not afraid of unpopularity? However, I think I'd have got rid of Shanks, instead of sending him to Bank-end. The fellow's cunning and there's some ground for believing him revengeful."

"It doesn't look as if he could injure me."

"It might pay to watch him," Bernard rejoined. "Some time since, Jones, my gamekeeper, caught Tom Shanks and another netting partridges. It was obvious that old Shanks had helped, but there was some difficulty about the evidence." Bernard paused, and smiled as he resumed: "I imagine my friends on the Bench used their best efforts to convict, but folk seemed to think it prudent not to tell all they knew, and while Tom Shanks went to jail his father got off. Afterwards Jones had a remarkable run of bad luck. The young pheasants died about the coops, his own ferret killed his hens, and he lost a fine setter he was training. Then he had an adventure one night in a shooting-punt that ought not to have leaked."

"I'll watch out," said Jim, as he started his car.

He did not think about Shanks as he drove up the avenue, where the leaves were falling, and down a long hill. In the distance he saw the Whitelees lights and now and then, farther off, the faint shining of the sea. Mist that melted and gathered again drifted about the low ground. Jim's thoughts sometimes dwelt on Evelyn and sometimes on the marsh. Evelyn was friendly and he had undertaken a big job that he liked. He was carrying out a duty, honoring a claim his inheritance made on him; he wanted to leave Langrigg better than he found it. Jim sprang from a land-owning stock, and felt that since he had got the estate for nothing he must justify his ownership and prove he was worthy of the gift and the woman he hoped to marry.

When he ran out upon the low ground the mist got thicker and rolled in low belts across the fields. The carbide in his lamps was exhausted and the feeble beam that leaped up with the jolts flickered puzzlingly. He knew where he was, however, when he reached the marsh road that ran like a causeway across the boggy ground. Tall, stiff reeds bordered the straight track. The lights were sinking fast and since he must reach Langrigg before they went out he let the engine go.

The fog streamed past him, the wind whipped his face, and he clenched the wheel as he rocked with the jolts. He was not far from home now and looked for the curve where his road branched off. The curve was sharp and ran between two rows of old thorn trees; Jim remembered that he had meant to cut them down. There was a deep ditch between the trees and a belt of rough grass, then the narrow road, and a ditch on the other side. After a few minutes a dark mass loomed in the haze and Jim knew it would be prudent to slacken speed, but his lamps were nearly out, and a little farther on he must avoid an awkward gatepost.

A shadowy tree came out of the fog and he felt the wheels sink in boggy soil. He was obviously taking too wide a sweep, and he turned inwards. The damp road was indistinct, but he could see the white reeds that grew along its edge, and the trunks of the thorns across the ditch. He was going round the corner, looking for a triangular patch of grass, when he felt a violent jolt and fell forward on the wheel. The car swerved and the front wheels plunged into the soft ground between the road and ditch.

Jim was badly shaken, but he got the car straight while she plowed up the grass. Then the wheel was torn from his grasp, the car swerved the other way, and he jambed [Transcriber's note: jammed?] on the brakes, knowing it was too late. He felt her run across the road; she rocked as she took the grass, and then he was thrown out and knew nothing more.

In the meantime, Jake and Carrie stood on the steps at Langrigg, talking to Halliday and Mordaunt. The latter had brought a car from Dryholm and it stood close by with its lamps burning. The night was calm, the noise of the sea came out of the distance, and presently they heard the throb of a car running across the marsh.

"That's Jim," Carrie said to Dick. "Since you wanted to see him, you had better come in again."

Dick hesitated. He had not come to see Jim, and Carrie noted his irresolution with some amusement.

"After all, it's not important and I want to get home for dinner," he said, and turned to Mordaunt. "Start your engine, Lance."

As Mordaunt went down the steps the throb of the other car stopped suddenly and they heard a faint crash.

"Hallo!" Dick exclaimed. "What was that?"

"I imagine Jim has cut the corner too fine," said Mordaunt. "Come on!"

He ran down the steps and as he started the car the others jumped up. Mordaunt had not meant to take Carrie, but he did not stop and the car sped away. He let her go full-speed down the hill, dashed through the awkward gateway, touching the post, and drove furiously to the bend where the road ran on to the marsh. Then there was a violent jerk as he put on the brakes, and the beam of the head-lamps touched and stopped upon a tilted car that lay with the wheels on one side in the ditch.

"Bring a lamp," said Mordaunt coolly, and next moment they were all out of the car and running across the grass.

A soft hat lay in the road, and broken glass was scattered about, but for a minute or two they could not see Jim. He was not in the car and the grass and rushes were long. Then Jake stooped down, holding out the lamp.

"This way!" he shouted. "He's in the ditch!"

The others gathered round him as the light searched the ditch. Jim lay with his legs in the water and the upper part of his body pressed against the bank by the front wheel of the car. His eyes were shut, his face was white and stained by blood. Jake's hand shook so that he could hardly hold the lamp.

"We must get him out right now," he said hoarsely. "The wheel's on his chest. If she slips down, she'll break his ribs."

For a few moments they hesitated, standing in the strong illumination of the lamp on Mordaunt's car that picked out their faces against the dark. Jake wore an American dinner-jacket, Carrie a thin evening dress, and she had no hat. Dick noted that her hands were clenched and her mouth worked. She had, of course, got a shock; Winter ought not to have let her see Jim, but the keenness of her distress was significant. Dick, however, could not dwell on this just then. They must get Jim out and it was going to be difficult. The car rested insecurely on the edge of the bank and the broken branches of the thorns. If they disturbed it rashly, it might slip down and crush the unconscious man. Mordaunt was the first to see a way and jumped into the ditch.

"Come down and get your backs under the axle," he said.

They obeyed and, standing in the water, tried to lift the car. For a few moments it looked impossible, because the weight above forced their feet into the mud; then, while they gasped and strained, the wheel rose an inch or two from Jim's chest.

"Lift him, Carrie! Lift him now!" Jake shouted in a breathless voice.

Carrie seized Jim's coat and tried to drag him up. He was heavy; she choked with the tense effort and did not know afterwards how it was made. For all that, she dragged him up a foot and then to one side. The strain was horrible, but she held on and thought she saw the car tilt and the back wheel tear the peaty soil from the top of the bank.

Jake shouted something, Dick fell back, and she saw that Jim was clear of the wheel. For a moment, Mordaunt's face stood out against the gloom. It was dark with blood, his teeth shone between his drawn-back lips, and the veins on his forehead were horribly swollen. Then there was a crash among the thorns, and the car seemed to go right over. Mordaunt staggered and fell, and somebody helped her to drag Jim up; Carrie did not know if it was Dick or Jake. Next moment Mordaunt crawled out of the ditch and joined them. He gasped and the water ran from his clothes.

"Are you hurt?" Carrie asked. "You got all the weight at the last."

Mordaunt smiled. It looked as if he could not speak, and while Carrie wiped Jim's face Jake beckoned Dick.

"Bring your car. We must get him home."

Dick turned the car and they put Jim on the floor with his head against Carrie's knee. When they started she bent and held his shoulders, and in a few minutes they rolled up the drive. Then Carrie pulled herself together, gave orders, and took control; and when they had carried Jim to his room gave Mordaunt her hand.

"You saved him," she said. "We won't forget!"

"I happened to see a plan before the others; that's all," Mordaunt replied. "I'll get off now and send a doctor."

He ran downstairs and Carrie heard his car start while she stood with her mother by Jim's bed. Her face was white, but it flushed when Jim opened his eyes.

"What's the matter? Where am I?" he asked.

"You're at home," said Carrie. "You mustn't talk."

"I don't want to talk. Things are all going round," Jim rejoined and shut his eyes.

After a time he began to breathe regularly and Mrs. Winter bent over him.

"He's stunned; something hit his head. I don't think it's worse than that," she remarked. "I guess we can't do much until the doctor comes."

Mordaunt sent a doctor from the town and when he had seen him start went with Dick into the smoking-room at a quiet hotel. There was nobody else about until a waiter came, and Mordaunt sat down by the fire.

"I feel we need a drink," he said. "It was a near thing when the car went over. I can hardly bend my back, and it will, no doubt, be worse in the morning."

"You held her long enough for Miss Winter to pull Jim out," Dick replied. "It's lucky you were able. My feet slipped, and although Winter is pretty strong I imagine he was beaten. All the weight came on you; I don't understand how you held on."

"One can sometimes borrow a little extra strength from keen excitement and I remembered that if I let go the wheel would come down again on Jim's chest. He might not have stood another shock."

"He was badly knocked out," Dick agreed. "I expect you saved his life."

Mordaunt smiled. "Now I'm cool, I begin to think I was rash."

"Rot!" Dick exclaimed. "You don't mean this and it's a bad joke!"

"We don't owe Jim much; if he had stopped in Canada, Langrigg would have been yours and mine. Then it begins to look as if Bernard approved the fellow, and I'm willing to admit I had rather counted on getting a good share of his money. You and Evelyn would have got the rest."

"After all, Bernard's money is his. He's just, and I don't imagine he'll leave us out. We're not rich, but if he does give Jim some of my share, I won't miss it very much."

"I shall miss mine," Mordaunt rejoined.

Dick was quiet for a minute or two, and then looked up. "You remember reading the French romance the night we reached the telegraph shack! Did you see Franklin Dearham's name in the book?"

"Yes," said Mordaunt very coolly, "I did see it." He paused, looking hard at Dick, and went on: "Of course, I know what this implies. There was some doubt, but the probability was the telegraph linesman was our relation and the owner of Langrigg. Well, I thought he was not the man to have the estate, and might be happier if we left him in the woods. It was not altogether because I wanted my share of what was his."

Dick did not doubt Lance's sincerity, but he had got a jar. In a way, Lance had tried to rob Jim.

"What do you think about him now?" he asked with some awkwardness.

"What I thought then; he is not the man to own Langrigg and ought to have stayed in Canada. I'd have been resigned, had you got the estate, but this fellow will make us a joke. He has the utilitarian ideals of a Western lumberman."

"Bernard is the head of the house and I doubt if he'd agree. You admitted he approved Jim."

"I did; I don't like his approving."

"Oh, well," said Dick. "Since you held up the car, I suppose you're entitled to criticize Jim. If you hadn't made an effort, he would probably have been killed. You can grumble about him as much as you like; we'll remember what you did!"

Mordaunt smiled rather curiously and drained his glass.

"We are late for dinner and my clothes are wet," he remarked.

They went out; and both were quiet as they drove to Whitelees.

CHAPTER VII

THE FENCING WIRE

Next morning Carrie, getting up early because she had not slept much, heard Jim's step in the passage outside her room. He went rather unsteadily downstairs and a few minutes afterwards she found him sitting on the terrace wall. He was pale and his face was cut; but he had taken off the bandage.

"You oughtn't to be out," she said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"You were badly shaken. The doctor said we must keep you quiet."

"He probably didn't state how long, and I've been quiet all night. I certainly got a knock; imagine my head went through the glass, but I feel my proper self again, and don't see any reason for staying in bed."

Carrie gave it up. She knew Jim pretty well and asked where he was going.

"I want to look at the car," he said. "I don't know why she left the road. But how did you find me and bring me home?"

Carrie told him, and he looked thoughtful.

"I was in the ditch with the wheel on me? This accounts for my side's feeling sore. How did you lift the car?"

"The others got into the ditch. A wheel began to slip and I thought the weight would overpower them; but Lance Mordaunt made a tremendous effort and held up the axle until we pulled you out."

Jim knitted his brows and looked across the lawn while he mechanically felt for his pipe. The morning was clear with scattered clouds and the grass was silvered by dew. The hills were sharp and belts of light and shadow checkered the marsh. In the distance, the sea sparkled.

"If Jake or Dick had held her up, I could have understood," he said.

"It was Lance," Carrie insisted. "Why are you puzzled?"

"For one thing, I imagine he doesn't like me," Jim replied and indicated by a gesture the old house, and the sweep of smooth pasture and yellow stubble that rolled down the hill. "Perhaps it's not strange. I have taken all this from him!"

"But you took it as much from Dick."

"That is so," Jim agreed. "Dick's different. He's careless; I don't think he feels things. However, I must thank Lance." He paused and resumed: "The boys were in the ditch and I was under the car. Who pulled me out?"

"I did," said Carrie, blushing. "There was nobody else."

Jim took her hand. "My dear! When I needed help before, you were about. But that ditch is four feet deep and I'm heavy."

Carrie pulled her hand from his and smiled. "You are heavy, Jim, and it was something of a strain. However, I'll come with you, if you are going down the hill."

"To take care of me?" said Jim, with a twinkle. "If you don't mind, I'd sooner go alone."

He got up, and seeing that his step was firm, she let him go. It was not a caprice that he would not take her, but when she returned to the house she sent Jake after him.

As he went down the hill Jim thought about Mordaunt. The man was something of a puzzle, and Jim admitted that he had, perhaps, not been just when he accounted for his antagonism. Lance, no doubt, felt that he ought to have got Langrigg, but he was not altogether moved by disappointed greed. Their antagonism went deeper than that. Lance was a conventionalist; he clung instinctively to traditions that were getting out of date. In fact, Jim thought he would have been a very fine country gentleman had he inherited Langrigg sixty years since. Lance was what horse-ranchers called a throw-back; in a sense, he belonged to an older generation.

There was another thing. Jim imagined Lance felt Evelyn's charm, and although they were cousins, he understood cousins sometimes married, with their relatives' approval, when the marriage would advance the interests of the family. It was possible that he might hurt Lance worse than by robbing him of Langrigg.

Yet Lance had held up the car for him and run some risk of being killed. After all, this did not clash with Jim's notion of his character. Lance might dislike the man he rescued, but he had the instincts of an English gentleman. Then Jim stopped and looked about, for he had reached the thorn hedge.

A belt of peat, checkered by white tufts of wild cotton, ran back from the road, and a wire fence joined the hedge at a right angle. Some of the posts had fallen and lengths of wire lay about. Jim looked at the wire thoughtfully, and then went on to the spot where broken glass and torn up soil marked the scene of the accident. Then he stopped again and lighted his pipe. In the Canadian woods he had now and then trusted to his rifle to supply his food, and tracking large game trains one's observation. One must guess an animal's movements by very small signs. A broken twig or a disturbed stone tells one much. Jim looked for some such clew that might help him, so to speak, to reconstruct the accident.

He remembered a sudden jolt and the front wheels skidding. They had obviously struck something, and when he got the car straight had skidded again the other way. The marks the tires had made indicated this, and he examined the neighboring ground. The silverweed that covered the peaty soil between the road and ditch was not much crushed. He had, as he remembered, not gone far on that side before he, for a moment, recovered control of the car. The real trouble began when it swerved again and ran across the road. Something had caught the wheels and interfered with the steering.

Jim looked for a big stone, but could find none; besides, it was improbable that he had hit the stone twice, and sitting down by the overturned car he thoughtfully finished his pipe. The car must be got out of the ditch, but this was not important, and he dwelt upon the fencing wire; he had a hazy notion that the obstacle he had struck was flexible. By and by he heard a step, and Jake came up.

"I don't know if you ought to be about," the latter said. "It will be an awkward job to get the car into the road."

"I'm not bothering about the car," Jim replied. "I want to find out why she ran into the ditch."

"You don't know, then?"

Jim indicated the wheel-marks and told Jake about the skidding. "She went off at an angle and I couldn't pull her round," he concluded.

"Do you expect to find the steering-gear broken?"

"Not unless it broke after she skidded."

Jake gave him a keen glance. "I begin to see! Well, people sometimes find trouble coming to them when they won't leave things alone. But what kind of a clew do you expect to get?"

"A mark on a thorn trunk; we'll look for one," said Jim. "Suppose you take the other side!"

He walked a few yards along the ditch, examining the bottom of the trunks, and presently stopped and put his foot on the other bank. Then he beckoned Jake and indicated a few scratches on the bark of a thorn. The rough stem was tufted with dry moss and for an inch or two this was crushed.

"I reckon something has been fastened to this tree," he said. "If we can find another mark on the opposite row, I'll be satisfied."

They went across and after a few moments Jake said, "Here it is!"

Jim studied the mark and nodded. "Very well! I think we'll get into the field and look at the old fence wire. I want a piece seven or eight yards long."

After pulling about the wire that lay in the grass, they found a piece. One end was bent into a rough hook, and although the other was nearly straight Jim noted a spot where the galvanizing was cracked.

"It has been bent here twice," he said. "Pulled over into a hook and then pulled back. You can see how the zinc has flaked."

They sat down on a bank and Jake remarked: "I think you ought to be satisfied. But what are you going to do about it?"

"Lie low and watch out. That's all in the meantime. I want the man who fixed the wire across the road to give himself away."

"Don't you know who he is?"

"I think I know. It's not quite enough."

"Perhaps it's not," Jake agreed. "You want to be able to show other folks he did the thing? The trouble is, he may try again!"

"Then it will be my fault if he gets me. I've had fair warning."

"Your nerve is pretty good; I knew this before," Jake remarked. "Well, I suppose nothing's to be said about it until you have some proof? Now we'll go back to breakfast."

They returned to Langrigg, and after breakfast Jim went to the marsh, where the men he had engaged were at work. Soon after he had gone, a car from Dryholm came up the drive and Carrie met Bernard Dearham on the steps.

"I came to ask how Jim is. Lance told me about the accident," he said. "I expect you won't let me see him yet?"

"You might see him if you crossed the marsh. He is getting busy there," Carrie replied.

"But he was unconscious when Lance left."

Carrie smiled. "Yes. He got up at seven o'clock this morning and went out. That's the kind of man he is!"

"Then we needn't be disturbed about him," Bernard replied and indicated a stone bench in the sun. "I cannot walk far and there is no road across the marsh. Can you spare a few minutes to talk to me?"

"Why, of course," said Carrie, and Bernard waited until she sat down. Although he thought she knew his importance, she was not anxious to please him; but she did not assert her independence. The girl had an ease of manner he approved and, if she remained at Langrigg, would soon acquire the touch of polish she needed. But he pulled himself up. In the meantime, he was going too fast.

"I understand you nursed Jim once before," he said. "Did you not use your authority to keep him in the house this morning?"

"I did not," Carrie replied, with a twinkle. "Looks as if you didn't know Jim yet! Besides, if you have some authority, you don't want to strain it."

"That is no doubt true," Bernard agreed. None of his relations had so far disputed his firm rule, but he knew when it was prudent not to exercise his power. "You are a philosopher," he went on. "It is sometimes an advantage to use a light hand."

"Jim can be led."

Bernard bowed. "I imagine you have led him where he ought to go."

"I wonder!" said Carrie, with thoughtful frankness. "The trouble is, I don't know much and only understand simple things. Still, perhaps, I did lead him in the woods. The right way was generally plain there. But at Langrigg——"

"You're sometimes puzzled?" Bernard suggested. "Well, we are all puzzled now and then, and perhaps to trust your instincts is a good plan. This, however, is not advice I would give to everybody."

Carrie said nothing. She liked Bernard and was not afraid of him. He talked to her with the politeness of the old school and when he looked amused she thought his amusement was good-humored.

"Jim was under the car when you got to the spot, I think," he resumed. "You had some trouble to lift it."

"Lance really lifted the car at the dangerous moment, though the others helped. He saw the wheel was slipping; they were all in the ditch."

"Then who pulled Jim out?"

"I did," said Carrie, with a touch of embarrassment.

Bernard pondered. Lance had not told him about this and it was possible he had an object for not doing so.

"Well," he said, "I expect Jim has had other accidents; as you remarked, he is that kind of man. Did he get hurt when you were with him in the woods?"

"He took some chances now and then, but he did not get hurt much."

"Although he came near it? I heard something about your going to his rescue one night with a gun."

Carrie blushed and Bernard fixed his eyes on her face as he went on: "Did you mean to use the gun?"

She lifted her head, her mouth went hard, and her glance got steady. "Yes. If I'd thought the other fellow could reach Jim with his ax, I would have shot him!"

Bernard nodded. "Sometimes the primitive plan is the only plan. One can see that you have pluck enough to meet a crisis. But I have kept you and have some other calls."

He got up and when she went with him down the steps gave her his hand. "May I come back another day?"

"Of course, but unless he knows you're coming, Jim will be occupied at the marsh."

"I won't mind if Jim is occupied."

"Then come when you like," said Carrie, smiling. "I think you mean to be nice."

In the meantime, Jim had got to work and under his superintendence a gang of men piled barrowsful of peat soil on the wreck of the dabbin. By noon a bank had advanced across the piles of broken clay and a cut that was to make a new channel for the creek began to open. Once or twice Jake imagined an indistinct figure lurked among some clumps of gorse, as if watching the work, but he was not certain and said nothing.

Jim and he did not go home for lunch and when the men stopped at noon found a sheltered hollow and opened a basket of food Jim had sent for. The day was bright, but a cold wind flecked the advancing tide with foam and swept the empty flats. Dry reeds rustled in the creek and a flock of circling plover gleamed against a cloud that trailed its shadow across the marsh. For all that, the sun was warm in the corner where they ate their lunch.

"Did Shanks send you notice that he had gone to the cottage?" Jake asked presently.

"He told the teamster to come for his truck. I expect he thought this enough."

"Wouldn't own up that he'd given in!" Jake remarked. "The fellow's a blamed obstinate old tough. I wonder whether he felt curious if you were hurt."

"I reckon he knew," said Jim. "However, I thought this morning there was somebody about——"

He stopped abruptly, and Jake heard a step. They were quiet for a few moments, and then Tom Shanks came round a corner of the bank and stood looking at them. Jim's face was cut and rather white, but the stains on his clothes indicated that he had been working among wet soil. Jake gave Shanks a keen glance and thought he looked surprised, as if he had not expected to see Jim there.

"Do you want a job?" the latter asked.

"I want nowt fra you. You can give your job to them as will ca' you maister," Shanks rejoined and went off.

"A sullen hog!" Jake remarked. "I'd like to know when he or the old man moved the wire."

"So would I. It's rather important," said Jim. "If he was hanging about and came for the thing as soon as the car took the ditch, he probably saw me under the wheel and meant to leave me there. How long were you in making the spot after you heard the smash?"

"Perhaps five minutes. Mordaunt's car was at the steps and we jumped on board while he started her."

"If you had lost much time, I imagine you'd have found me dead."

"Then why did you offer Shanks a job?"

Jim smiled. "In order to have him where he could be watched. A fellow like that is dangerous when he's out of sight."

"Shanks and his son are bad men," Jake agreed. "We have sand-baggers and gun-men in Canada, but they get after you for money and their methods are up to date. Shanks' savageness is half-instinctive, like the Indian's. I can't, so to speak, locate him; he goes too far back."

Jim got up. "It's not important just now. Tell the teamster to bring his horses and we'll get busy."

CHAPTER VIII

JIM'S RELAPSE

Jim made progress at the dyke until it began to rain. For some weeks a strong west wind drove dark clouds across the sea, the hills were wrapped in mist, the creeks swelled and the tides rose high. Floods spread about the marsh and the floundering teams could hardly drag their loads through the bog. Sometimes Jim felt anxious, for the undertaking threatened to cost much more than he had thought.

Then came two fine days when, although the sun shone, heavy clouds rolled about the hills. Jim, knowing the fine weather would not last, drove his men hard, since there was work he must push forward before the next flood. The new bank had reached a creek where he must build a strong sluice-gate and hold back the water by a rude coffer-dam while he dug for the foundation.

He came up from the dam one afternoon and stood on the slope of the bank, looking down into the hole. His long boots, shirt, and trousers were stained by mud that had also splashed his face and hands; for since the work was risky he had helped the men. Now he was rather highly-strung. Below him, the water spirited [Transcriber's note: spurted?] through the joints in a wall of thick planks and ran into the excavation, where a few men, sunk nearly to the knees in mud, were working. A forge stood on the top of the bank and the smith leaned on the crank of the blower. He was a short, strongly-built man, and looked sulky.

"There's too much water blowing through; pressure's heavier than I reckoned and I don't like the way that brace sags," Jim remarked, as a shower of mud and water fell into the hole. Then he shouted to the men: "Get a thick plank across and wedge her up."

"Looks as if the fastenings of the brace had slipped," said Jake.

"They oughtn't to slip. The plate and nut on the iron were meant to keep the beam in place."

"I don't think I saw a nut when the boys fixed the thing."

Jim beckoned the smith. Although the fellow was a good workman, he was obstinate and Jim had not bothered him much until he needed some irons for the dam, when he made careful sketches and insisted on the other's working to his plans. This had caused some trouble and Jim now meant to be firm.

"I reckon I told you to screw the ends of the bar and make nuts to turn back against the plates," he said. "Did you screw the ends?"

"I did not," said the other. "There was nae use for nuts. I punched hole for pin that wad stop her pulling oot."

"Pulling out!" Jim exclaimed. "Did you imagine I wanted to hold the frames together?"

"If yon wasn't what you wanted, you should have said."

Jim had meant to be calm, but the men had run some risk from the fellow's obstinacy, and he lost his control.

"I told you to screw the ends. Confound you! The dam's in compression; there's no pull at all. Put a new bar in the vise and I'll stand by while you cut the thread."

"Stan', if you like. I'll not touch bar while you're aboot. Are you gan t' teach me my job?"

"It's plain you don't know your job. Get out of my way and I'll cut the thread myself."

The smith stood square in front with a frown on his face. "You'll not touch my tools. Vise and forge is yours; screwing stocks is mine."

"Oh, shucks!" said Jim. "Get out of the way. We want the bar right now."

The smith did not move, and although nobody afterwards remembered how the struggle began, Jake, interfering a moment too late, imagined Jim tried to get past the smith and jostled him. They grappled, and while they rocked to and fro the men in the pit stopped work. At first, Jim would have been satisfied to throw his antagonist back, but after a moment or two he doubted if this would be enough. The fellow had defied him, they had begun to fight, and in Canada a boss who could not enforce his authority lost his right to rule. Jim imagined it was so in England and did not mean to stop until the smith was ready to submit. Yet the fellow was powerful and fought with dogged pluck.

While they floundered about, striking, and trying for a throwing hold, Jake heard steps and looked up. He was half-embarrassed and half-amused, for it was obvious Jim did not know Mrs. Halliday, Evelyn, and Bernard Dearham stood on the top of the bank. He could not separate the men and did not think Jim would hear if he shouted; besides, to shout a warning would make the thing ridiculous.

There was nothing to do but wait, and after a few moments Jim lifted his antagonist and threw him down the bank. It looked as if the sulky smith was not a favorite, for some of the men laughed and some growled hoarse applause. Jim's muddy shirt was torn and his face was bruised; he was looking down into the hole and did not see Bernard's party until he turned to go to the forge. Then he stopped and stood with his head held back, while Jake studied the others. He thought Bernard was quietly amused, but Mrs. Halliday looked pained, and Evelyn's delicate face was flushed.

"We thought we would come to see how you were getting on," said Mrs. Halliday. "It was an adventure; your new road is very bad and the car nearly upset."

"There is not much to see and I did not expect you," Jim replied.

"That is obvious," Bernard remarked with a twinkle. "I imagine you don't know much about Cumberland wrestling, but you are very quick. When you threw him, the other fellow was getting a hold that would have put you in his power."

"You gave him a bad fall, anyhow. I suppose you are used to this sort of thing in Canada," said Mordaunt, who came from behind the others and glanced at Evelyn.

Jake was interested; he sensed something of a drama, of which he thought his comrade was unconscious. There was a hint of a sneer in Mordaunt's voice and Jake thought his remark was meant for the girl. Her eyes were fixed on Jim, and she looked disturbed. It was plain that Mordaunt noted this. Mrs. Halliday was rather ostentatiously careless, Bernard quietly looked on, but Jim gave no sign of embarrassment.

"Why, no," he answered Mordaunt. "On the whole, I didn't have much trouble with the boys in Canada. This fellow wouldn't do his job as I wanted, and through his stupidity we ran some risk of the dam's caving in. I'll show you——"

They went with him, glad of something to banish the strain, and he indicated the men working in the mud behind the wall of planks.

"If the timbering gave way, the water would break through and perhaps drown the gang. I'm boss and accountable. I take no chances about the safety of my men."

Mordaunt smiled as he glanced at Evelyn and Jake imagined he knew what the smile implied. Jim was breaking conventions, his bold statement had a theatrical touch that no doubt jarred; reserved Englishmen did not talk like that. Moreover, he was wet and muddy, and his tense pose had not relaxed. Standing with head held back and body highly-strung, he looked a stranger. Jim did not belong to the others' circle, he came from outside.

"Yours is a good rule and force is useful now and then," Bernard observed. "However, we came to take you to Dryholm. I was feeling dull, and the others have promised to help me through the evening. If you can come, we will go on to Langrigg for Mrs. Winter."

Jim wanted to go, because Evelyn was going, but he gave her an apologetic glance as he answered Bernard: "I'm sorry; I can't leave my job."

Evelyn said nothing, although her color was rather high, and Mrs. Halliday interposed: "After all, you would not lose much time. It will soon be dark."

"Dark generally comes before one's ready, but I have some plans to make for the morning when I get home," said Jim, who turned to Bernard. "We must push on before the water gets too high. If you wouldn't mind taking Mrs. Winter and Carrie, I think they'd like it."

Mrs. Halliday's look hinted that she was trying to hide her annoyance and Evelyn turned her head.

"Very well," said Bernard and beckoned the others.

When they had gone Jake laughed. "I imagine you have given your relations a jolt."

"I felt something like that. I didn't mean to jolt them," Jim said with a frown. "Why didn't they come a few minutes earlier, or later?"

"I wasn't altogether thinking of your throwing the smith down the bank. You have got rather English, but sometimes you break away; I think I mean break back."

"Perhaps that is so; I forget," Jim agreed. "I was a miner and linesman before I was a landlord."

"Confusing for your friends, isn't it? They don't know which they have to reckon on—the Canadian sourdough or the country gentleman. Anyhow, I expect your suggestion that they should take mother and Carrie didn't help much. Were you talking like a sourdough or an English landlord then?"

"You have a confoundedly mischievous humor," Jim rejoined, with a twinkle. "Do you want me to state that it's a country gentleman's duty to insist on the proper acknowledgment of his guests? Bernard likes your people and I don't know if Mrs. Halliday and Lance Mordaunt count."

"I was not thinking about Mrs. Halliday——" Jake began, but stopped when his comrade looked hard at him, and a few moments afterwards the smith came up the bank.

"Well?" said Jim, sharply. "What do you want?"

"Noo I see how bar's meant to gan, mayhappen it wad be better screwed. If you'll wait while I gan for dies, I'll do't for you."

"All right. You can get busy," said Jim.

When the smith went off he smiled and remarked: "I don't know if I expected this, but the man will make no more trouble. However, we have lost some time and must push ahead."

They got to work, and in the meantime Bernard drove to Langrigg and picked up Mrs. Winter and Carrie. The party at Dryholm broke up soon, but when Evelyn returned to Whitelees she felt that the evening had been too long. For one thing, she had been kept occupied and she wanted to think. Now she sat, rather languidly, in an easy-chair and knitted her brows. She had got a jar in the afternoon and she tried to recapture the scene on the bank—the smith scowling at the bottom, and Jim's bruised face, savage frown, and muddy clothes.

Jim was a new type, and she admitted that he attracted her, but his attraction was largely physical and sometimes she felt repelled. He was handsome and forceful; she liked his steady look, his athletic figure, and his clean brown skin. Then she liked the respect he showed her and his obvious wish to please. This was flattering and his strength and candor made an appeal, but she was highly cultivated and he was not rude. Indeed, when he stood on the bank, hot and triumphant after the fight, there was something barbarous about him. His virility moved her, but to live with him would demand some pluck; Evelyn knew he could not, so to speak, be tamed. His refusal to come to Dryholm, when he knew she was going, was a proof. It was significant that the dam he was building made a stronger claim. Evelyn was drawn in different ways and, on the whole, it was a relief when Mrs. Halliday came in.

"Jim was not his best this afternoon," the latter said. "However, he has not been long in England and no doubt the risk of such outbreaks will presently vanish. In the meantime one must make some allowances."

"For the owner of Langrigg?"

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Halliday, "I suppose I did mean this, but perhaps not altogether in the way you think. There is a rude vein in the Dearhams that comes to the surface now and then. One hardly noted it in Joseph, but in Bernard it's rather marked. I imagine he has some sympathy for Jim's extravagances. This may have its influence."

"Bernard is inscrutable," Evelyn rejoined. "One cannot foretell what he will do."

Mrs. Halliday saw that Evelyn understood; she had, in fact, expected her to understand, and her voice was thoughtful as she resumed: "After all, his approval is not essential. You have some money; I do not know about Jim, but he is spending much."

"It may be all he has; he is not afraid of a risk," said Evelyn, with a touch of color, for she was fastidious and her mother was blunt.

Then for a moment or two she mused. She was afraid of a risk; this was the trouble. Adventure, romance, and to some extent passion urged, but caution deterred. The romance would vanish and Jim might jar.

"Langrigg gives its owner a firm position," Mrs. Halliday resumed. "Even if he were poor, his wife would take a leading place in the Holm country. People pretend to scoff at such things, but they count."

"Much would depend on the owner. If he broke the family traditions, defied our conventions, and made himself a joke——"

"Much would be forgiven him because he is a Dearham," Mrs. Halliday rejoined. "Still, of course, there is a limit and I see a risk. Jim needs guidance for a time and it's possible his Canadian friends encourage his un-English idiosyncrasies. The girl has some beauty; I would sooner she did not stay long. If Jim could be advised——"

Evelyn smiled. "I cannot advise him. Besides, he's very staunch and owes these people much."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Halliday. "In such a matter, one cannot meddle unless it is certain one's advice would be well received. We must let it go. Perhaps the Winters do not mean to remain very long."

"I think Jake means to stay until the marsh is drained, and I don't suppose the others will go until he is ready."

Mrs. Halliday frowned. "Jim is rather annoying. Sometimes he vexes me, but in a sense it is our duty to protect him. It has been a disturbing day; I think I'll go to bed."

CHAPTER IX

JIM IS LEFT OUT

The sun shone on the terrace at Dryholm, the house kept off the wind, and a creeper made a glowing background for the group about the tea-table. A row of dahlias close by hung their heads after a night's frost, a gardener was sweeping dead leaves from the grass, and the beeches round the tarn were nearly bare.

Bernard took a cup from Mrs. Halliday and glancing at the long shadows that stretched across the lawn, indicated a sundial on a pillar.

"In another few minutes its usefulness will be gone and it warns me that mine is going," he said, and quoted a tag of Latin.

"I wonder why they carve such melancholy lines on sundials," somebody remarked.

"Perhaps there is a certain futility about the custom. You, for whom the sun is rising, don't heed the warning, and we others in the shadow know our day is done. I do not think I am a sentimentalist, but the news we got this morning proves the Latin motto true. Then it is hardly possible we shall have tea outside again, and we cannot tell if all will gather round the table when summer comes back."

Mrs. Halliday began to talk about a neighbor who had died the day before. "Alan Raine will be missed; he was a good and useful English type," she said. "Conscientious and public-spirited. One could depend on him for a subscription and a graceful speech. I have not known his equal for opening a village club or a flower show. Then the hunt ball was always a success since he managed it, and we have not had so good a master of otter-hounds."

"It is something to be remembered for these things. Alan will be missed," Bernard agreed and turned to Carrie. "You have heard our notion of an English gentleman's duty. What do you think about it?"

"It is not my notion. If I were a man, and rich, I should like to leave a deeper mark."

"Ah," said Bernard, "you come from a strenuous country that breeds another type. Your men fight with blizzards on the snowy trail and drive their shafts through ground the sun never melts. Sometimes they come to England and teach us to hustle by altering the landscape and destroying our old landmarks. Perhaps there is something to be said for the others who carry out quiet duties conscientiously."

"Oh, yes," said Carrie, with a sparkle in her eyes. "But I'd sooner have cornfields running across a drained marsh than a hunt ball for my monument."

"You have a good apologist," Bernard said to Jim.

The others laughed, and Mrs. Halliday, not liking the turn Bernard had given the talk, asked: "Who will take the otter-hounds?"

"The matter's important and cannot be decided rashly," Bernard replied with some dryness, and addressed Mordaunt. "I imagine Jim might fill the post. What do you think, Lance?"

"The choice lies between Langrigg and Dryholm, sir. The Dearhams have a kind of traditional right to keep the hounds. Joseph did so."

"I am too old."

"Then Jim ought to make a good master. That is, if he doesn't think otter-hunting an idle man's game."

Bernard turned to Jim, who laughed. "Lance's shot was fair. When I first came over I had some prejudices, but they are going and I don't see why I shouldn't play now and then." He paused and his look was serious when he resumed: "In a way, it's strange, but your English customs have a grip; they get hold of one. In fact, I'm getting English fast, but perhaps that is not quite right. I begin to feel I am English."

Mrs. Halliday gave him an approving smile. "You inherited more than Langrigg from the Dearhams, Jim. I like to see you realize you got some duties when you got the estate."

"I don't know if keeping the hounds is a duty," Jim rejoined. "Perhaps Lance was nearest when he called it a game. All the same, I think I'd like the job."

They began to talk about the advisability of moving the kennels and Carrie, sitting quiet, studied the others. She saw Mrs. Halliday was pleased and thought she understood this. Mordaunt puzzled her. His rather dark face was hard to read, but she had got a hint of disappointment when he said the choice lay between Langrigg and Dryholm and Bernard declared he was too old. Then she suspected a touch of bitterness in his next remark. The others had noted nothing, except perhaps Bernard, who had looked at Mordaunt hard. Carrie did not like Mordaunt; he sometimes sneered politely at Jim.

"It is something to know Jim is willing, but the post is not my gift," Bernard resumed. "A meeting will no doubt be held to weigh the matter and if Jim is chosen, I should not be surprised."

Then he got up and shivered as the creeping shadow touched the bench he occupied. Some of the others went off along the terrace and Jim and Evelyn crossed the lawn. They were talking animatedly and Carrie felt a pang when Jim's laugh came back to her. In the woods she had cheered him and he laughed at her jokes. Now he was always kind but he forgot her when Evelyn was about. She turned rather moodily towards the arch and saw Bernard standing in the gloom. His eyes were fixed on the figures on the lawn and Carrie thought he looked annoyed, but he smiled when he heard her step.

"They have left you alone?" he said. "Well, we must amuse each other, and there are some flowers in the hot-house that I don't think you have seen."

Carrie went with him thoughtfully. Bernard's remarks were often oracular; he left one to guess what he meant, but she imagined his glance was sympathetic. Although this was to some extent embarrassing, she began to talk; and when they reached the hot-house he answered her questions about the flowers with old-fashioned politeness. By and by he glanced at a thermometer and pulling down a skylight turned to Carrie, who was looking at the patches of glowing color that broke the long banks of green.

"Beautiful things but fragile, and they have no smell," he said. "I suppose we grow them because they cost us much. The flowers of the bleak North are sweet."

By and by Jim came in and after a glance about exclaimed: "These are very fine!"

"You have an eye for color," Bernard remarked. "Their beauty's almost insolent; I don't know if it's strange that they are foul-feeders and thrive on rottenness. Sometimes I think I'd give them all for the cloudberry bloom I trampled on the moors when I was young. It feeds on the melting snow and opens its chaste white cup nearest the sky."

"You declared you were not a sentimentalist," said Jim.

"Oh, well," said Bernard, "you must make allowances for an old man's inconsistency." He turned as a car began to throb, and smiled at Carrie. "One mustn't keep the engine running and I expect the others are waiting. Come back soon and cheer me up."

He went with them to the steps, and when they drove off Jim was thoughtful for a few minutes. He was glad Bernard liked Carrie, but perhaps it was strange he had not urged Evelyn to come back. Bernard, however, was puzzling; one could not understand his moods. Then Jim forgot about it as Mrs. Winter began to talk.

A week later, four gentlemen sat one evening in the smoking-room at a house on the rolling ground where the hills dip to the seaboard plain. Three were rather fat, gray-haired, and solemn, and one was young. The latter indicated a siphon and decanter on the table when Mordaunt came in.

"Help yourself," he said. "Where's Dick?"

"I arranged to pick him up at the cross-roads, but he wasn't there," Mordaunt replied. "Dick's a careless fellow and I didn't want to be late."

He filled a glass and when he sat down one of the others remarked: "Alan Raine has gone and it is our melancholy duty to fill his post. This will not be easy; Alan was a keen sportsman and a man of tact. He commanded the farmers' respect and had the interest of the hunt at heart. For all that, the hunt is a useful institution and must be kept up. Fish are getting scarce; modern field drainage sends down the water in sudden floods and when, between times, the rivers run low the trout and salmon are the otter's easy prey. It is our duty to preserve the fisheries, and help, as far as we are able, a bracing English sport."

He drained his glass while the others signed approval. Hodson had cleared the ground neatly and the business could begin.

"Our choice is somewhat limited," said another. "I think we have all found it a drawback to keep the hounds near the hills, since the meets are generally held by the deep water in the flat holms. In fact, one feels the hounds ought to go to Dryholm or Langrigg."

Mordaunt quietly lighted a cigarette and then replied: "I'm afraid you must rule out Dryholm. Bernard declares he is too old to take the hounds."

"But what about yourself?"

"I am too poor," said Mordaunt, smiling.

The others hesitated. They were cautious and did not want to venture on dangerous ground, but there was something to be said, and Herries, the youngest man, remarked: "After all, an offer of the hounds is a compliment and its acceptance, to some extent, a public duty. If this view were put before Bernard Dearham, some arrangement could perhaps be made."

"You mean I might fill the post and Bernard provide the money?" Mordaunt suggested. "Bernard, however, does not seem to see the advantage of the plan."

Herries gave him a keen glance. Mordaunt's face was calm; but the other imagined he had felt some disappointment.

"Then we must fall back on Langrigg. The new owner is your relation. What do you think about our asking him?"

"I imagine you couldn't find a better site for the kennels," Mordaunt replied. "Langrigg is near the deep water where the big fish lie and you can generally find an otter——"

He stopped, and Herries said, "Yes, of course! But this is not altogether what we mean. Do you think Dearham would take the post?"

"It's possible," said Mordaunt, very dryly. "Have you decided to ask him?"

The others were quiet for a moment or two. They felt they had got a hint, but the hint was vague. Somebody must take the hounds and they could not. They resolved to leave the thing to Herries; he was young and his remarks would not carry so much weight. Besides, he knew Mordaunt well.

"Let's be frank," he said, hiding some embarrassment by a twinkle meant for Mordaunt alone. "Choosing a master of hounds is an important job. Would Dearham fill the post properly?"

"I think not," Mordaunt answered in a quiet voice.

"Oh, well," remarked another. "I suppose there is no more to be said."

Mordaunt lighted a fresh cigarette. "I want you to understand. Jim Dearham is my relation, but I feel my responsibility. He is a good sort and I am not stating much to his disadvantage when I admit that he is not the proper man to take the hounds. He has not yet cultivated our sense of sport and his notions are utilitarian. I'm afraid he'd grumble about broken fences and trampled crops. Then, for example, he's dyking the marsh."

"Exactly!" said one. "I imagine we do understand. Well, we must ask Watson of Red Bank. He's rich enough and ambitious, although he's not altogether the man I'd like."

They agreed, and soon afterwards Dick came in and asked Mordaunt: "Why didn't you stop for me, as you promised?"

"I did stop. I waited some minutes."

"Then you must have come before the time."

"Look at your watch," said Mordaunt, who took out his. "I got the time at the station this afternoon."

Dick said it did not matter much and asked whom they meant to make the master of hounds.

"Watson, of Red Bank," one replied, and began to talk about something else when he had filled a glass for Dick. The latter was young and sometimes indiscreet; it was better he should not know what Mordaunt had said.

By and by two or three went off to the billiard-room and Herries said to Mordaunt: "Sorry I had to urge you; but I knew the others hadn't pluck enough and meant to leave the thing to me. Their notion was I didn't count and you wouldn't resent my remarks. Rather an awkward job, but we felt we could trust you. All the same, I like Jim, and expect he'll be popular when we get to know him. In fact, I imagine I'd have let him take the hounds."

"He'd have jolted the others badly," Mordaunt rejoined. "They belong to the old school; he belongs to the new."

"One or two rather need a jolt, but we'll let it go. I want to watch Dick's game; he's been playing well and using a new stroke."

They went to the billiard-room and stayed until the party broke up. Then, as the Dryholm car rolled up to the steps, Dick said to Mordaunt: "You got the wrong time, after all. I compared my watch with Hodson's. His was a presentation from the farmers' club, you know; the latest thing in watches, and he declares it's accurate."

"It's not very important."

"In a way, it is important," Dick objected. "If I'd been here soon enough, I'd have urged their choosing Jim." He paused and looked at Mordaunt hard. "It's curious, but I imagined Hodson was embarrassed when he said they meant to ask Watson. Why should they ask the fellow? He's not our sort."

"After all, Jim is not our sort."

"Rot!" exclaimed Dick. "Bernard is satisfied and I'd sooner trust him than Hodson. In fact, Bernard's a better judge than anybody in Hodson's stodgy lot."

Mordaunt shrugged, but was glad the rattle of the engine covered his silence and the driver looked up as if to see if he were coming. He got into the car and pondered as he drove back to Dryholm. Dick's manner was curious and his annoyance was plain Mordaunt wondered whether he suspected something. Still, except perhaps for Herries, the hunt committee were tactful; he did not think they would enlighten Dick.

CHAPTER X

BERNARD PONDERS

It was getting dark in the hall at Langrigg and Jim, who had just returned from the marsh, sat in the hollow of the big fireplace. Rain beat upon the windows, outside which the trees tossed their naked branches against the lowering sky, and a cold wind wailed about the ancient walls. Oak logs snapped in the grate and Carrie sat on the rug in the flickering light. She was toasting muffins, and a silver teapot and some cups stood on the low table in front of Mrs. Winter. Now the days were getting cold and short, tea by the hearth was a popular function. Carrie buttered a muffin and gave it Jim on the end of the fork.

"Jake must wait for the next. I can't toast the things fast enough for him," she said. "They're quite nice if you eat them hot, but they're not like the flapjacks I made in the woods. After all, we had some pretty good times on the new line; hadn't we, Jim? Mother doesn't know; she wasn't there."

"I was not," said Mrs. Winter. "If you had taken me along, I wouldn't be with you now. A roof that keeps out the rain, a warm room, and a comfortable chair are good enough for me."

"You'd have said for mine, not long since. Looks as if we were all getting English," Carrie replied. "Jim was very nice when he got you the chair. It's up against all the other things. If I was Jim, I'd hate to have it around."

Jim laughed. He had sent to London for the American spring rocking-chair that clashed with the old oak in the hall, but it was a pattern Mrs. Winter liked and he was satisfied. He ate his muffin silently, for he was tired, and Carrie's remarks had wakened memories of other fires that burned among the tall straight trunks in the Canadian wilds; he thought he could hear the snow-fed river brawl, and smell the smoke that drifted in blue wreaths about the lonely camp. Carrie had laughed and bantered him then and he had been happy. He was happy now and hoped to be happier yet, but Carrie was often quiet and he had a puzzling feeling that he had lost something he could not recapture.

Presently she picked up a local newspaper and lighted a candle with a shade. The light only spread a yard or two, but it touched the page she folded back and sparkled in her hair.

"They have got a master for the otter-hounds!" she exclaimed, and then her color rose and her eyes went hard. "I don't know the committee, but if the others are like Hodson, they're solemn old fools."

"I'd rather have liked the post, but it doesn't matter much," said Jim, and added, with a smile: "Now you're like the Carrie who went North with us."

"Bernard meant you to have the hounds; he's a dear, although some stupid people are afraid of him," Carrie went on. "He'd certainly have fixed it if he hadn't got lame again. But I remember—Dick went to their old meeting and was mad about something afterwards. I think it was something about Lance Mordaunt—now I begin to see!"

"I don't think it's worth while your bothering about the thing."

"Don't interrupt!" said Carrie. "I'm going to talk. Lance doesn't like you, and I imagine Dick doesn't trust him. Dick is smart sometimes and knows Lance is mean. He is mean; he has a yellow streak——"

She stopped, for she saw Jim's frown. He was not vexed with her, but her statement chimed with some vague doubts of his. She got up and made him a formal curtsy.

"I'm sorry, Jim. That was the Carrie you knew in the woods. If you don't want her, you oughtn't to burn logs and sit by the fire when it's getting dark, as we used to do. But she has gone back to the shadows that creep among the pines, and I don't think she will come out again."

She pulled up an easy-chair, and when she sat down and shielded her face from the fire with her hand Jake's eyes twinkled. He wondered whether Jim saw she was cleverly imitating Evelyn's graceful languidness. After a few moments she indicated the dark oak paneling and old furniture.

"That's your proper background, Jim, when you frown. It's plain that you belong to Langrigg. When you fought the Scots and hunted wolves I expect you often looked like you looked just now."

"But I didn't fight the Scots," Jim objected.

"Your people did," said Carrie. "Sometimes you're very dull."

Jim laughed and glanced at her. Flames leaped up round the logs and the red light played about her face. Her color was rather marked, she looked strangely alert and forceful, and something about her dress gave her a touch of stateliness, for Carrie had well chosen her English clothes. Jim knew her to be staunch and fearless, and although her humor was sometimes puzzling he felt her charm.

"By George!" he said impulsively, "I think you belong to the old days as much as I belong. One could have trusted you to hold the tower against all comers when your man went off to hunt."

Carrie held her hand to her face a moment, as if the fire were hot, and then smiled as she looked up.

"If my man had gone off often, I would have taken the wolf-spear and gone with him."

Mrs. Winter, who had quietly studied both, began to talk about something else, and presently a servant brought in some letters. Jim moved the shaded candle and opened his, but after a time put one down and looked straight in front, knitting his brows.

"What is it, partner?" Jake asked.

"I have got a knock. I told my Vancouver agent to sell some shares and send along a check. He says I'd better wait; the market's very flat."

"Then you bought the Bench-lands Irrigation stock?"

"I did. I have invested most of the money I got for the Bluebird mine."

"All ours is at the Merchants' Bank," Carrie remarked. "Jake wanted to buy Irrigation stock, but I wouldn't let him. However, the company ought to make good."

"I hope so. Jeffreys is doubtful. I bought because I know the Bench country and Martin was interested in the scheme. It seems they are having trouble about their water rights and an order has been granted to stop the ditches. Jeffreys says nobody wants the stock just now and imagines the lawsuit may go against them."

"Will this make things awkward for you?"

"To some extent. Langrigg costs much to run and the dykes are expensive. I'll get my farm rents soon, but they won't go very far. For all that, the dykes must be finished; it's the only way to get back the money I have spent."

"Besides, you want to finish them," Carrie suggested.

"That is so," Jim agreed. "You can't leave a job half done."

He began to ponder and struggle with a disturbing doubt. If the Irrigation Company failed, he must use economy, because the farm rents would not enable him to live at Langrigg like a country gentleman. For himself, this did not matter much; he did not want a number of servants and gardeners. But Evelyn was used to the extravagance at Whitelees, and he knew Mrs. Halliday's views.

"Well," said Carrie, "to begin with, the dykes must be finished. When your money runs out you will use ours."

"Carrie speaks for the rest of us," Jake declared. "What she says goes."

Jim hardly understood the emotion by which he was moved and said awkwardly: "Thanks! You're generous, but I can't let you pay for my mistakes."

"We are partners, Jim," said Carrie. "Until you break the partnership, all that's ours is yours. Go on with the dykes and when you need money, ask Jake for a check."

"Give him the book," said Mrs. Winter. "Jake can sign some forms."

Jim hesitated and smiled to hide his embarrassment. "We'll wait. I'm not broken yet, and since Martin is backing the scheme things can't go very wrong. However, it's lucky they didn't make me master of hounds."

In the evening he went to Dryholm and dined with Bernard at a small table in the spacious room. Afterwards they sat by the fire talking quietly. Flickering reflections played about the carved marble and bright steel; electric lights, half-hidden by the cornice, threw down a soft light, and Bernard looked old and worn as he leaned back languidly in his big chair.

"Since you have begun to drain the marsh, we may take it for granted you are going to stay at Langrigg," he said.

"Yes, I mean to stay."

"Then it's obvious that you ought to marry."

"I don't know if it's obvious or not," Jim rejoined. "However, since you are the head of the house, I dare say you are entitled to feel some curiosity."

Bernard smiled. "Suppose you think about me as an old man who would like to be your friend."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Jim. "We're an independent lot in Canada and I've fought for my own hand since I was a boy. Anyhow, I mean to marry Evelyn, if she is willing."

"It looks as if you had not asked her yet."

"I have not; I'm half-afraid. In one way, it would be a rash plunge for a girl like Evelyn. Though I've inherited Langrigg, I'm a Western adventurer; I've lived with rough men in the wilds. She's refined and cultivated. Well, I've gone slow, trying to persuade myself I was justified before I persuaded her. Then I wanted her, so to speak, to get used to me."

"You are modest," Bernard remarked. "You imply that Evelyn does not know."

"I don't think she knows. I have been cautious. If I hinted at my hopes too soon, she might get disturbed and alarmed."

Bernard smiled. "Well, perhaps you have taken a prudent line. But do you imagine your reserve has deceived Janet Halliday?"

"Perhaps it has not; Mrs. Halliday is clever. I think she is my friend."

"It's possible," Bernard agreed, with a touch of ironical humor. "How long do you think you must give Evelyn, in order to avoid the jar she might get if you prematurely revealed your hopes?"

Jim knitted his brows. He was used to Bernard's cynical dryness and trusted him. "It will be longer than I thought," he answered, grimly. "I have had a bad set-back."

He told Bernard about the risk of his losing his money, and the latter was silent for a minute or two. Then he remarked: "I suppose you see that if I thought it a good plan I could help you out."

"That is not why I told you," said Jim. "I could not take your help."

"I imagined you would not. Well, perhaps your frankness accounts for our friendship. You are unembarrassed because you have no grounds for indulging my caprices and expect nothing from me."

Jim made a little abrupt movement. He had once said something like that; to Mordaunt, he thought.

"Very well," Bernard resumed. "If you think I can help, I am willing; but I will not insist."

"Thank you," said Jim, "I must trust my own efforts."

Bernard lighted a cigar and pondered. He was satisfied and somewhat amused. It would not have cost him much to banish Jim's difficulties and he would have liked to earn his gratitude, but was glad the other had refused. It was better that Jim's troubles about money should not be banished yet. He was something of a romantic fool; but Bernard knew Evelyn was not. By and by he led Jim into confidential talk about his investments in Canada and his plans for developing his new estate, and then let him go.

When Jim had gone, he sat by the fire, thinking hard, and after a time sent a servant to the library for a bundle of architect's drawings. The drawings gave the plans and elevation of a new hospital and Bernard thought the plain, straight front, looked mean. Knowing something about building, he saw how it could be altered and ornamented, and the hospital enlarged, if funds permitted. He was one of the founders and thought it might be advisable to augment his gift.

Next day he went to Whitelees and was received by Mrs. Halliday in her drawing-room, which always annoyed him. He felt he wanted to clear out Janet's room and furnish it on another plan. Bernard hated sensual prettiness and liked bold, clean lines and subdued color. Besides, his gout was rather bad, the fragile chair was uncomfortable, and he could not rest his foot. When the pain gripped him he frowned, and Mrs. Halliday remarked that he was not looking well.

"I am getting old and have recently felt my age," he replied. "One must pay for a strenuous youth, and it's becoming plain that I ought to straighten my affairs while the opportunity is mine."

Mrs. Halliday looked sympathetic and felt curious. She had wondered when Bernard would give her his confidence. "Well," she said, "I suppose this is one's duty, although I hope you have no particular grounds for imagining it needful just now."

"One cannot tell," Bernard remarked. "Anyhow, I have responsibilities that must not be shirked. Well, Evelyn and Lance will get a share of my property; in fact, I have made some provision for them."

"I expect you have been generous," said Mrs. Halliday, who wondered how far she durst go. "But what about Jim?"

"His claim will need some thought. For that matter, he has hinted that he is satisfied with Langrigg. Independence like his is not common and perhaps ought to be indulged."

Mrs. Halliday was disturbed, but Bernard did not seem to be curious about her feelings and resumed: "In the meantime, I've been thinking about the new Brunstock hospital and am going to see the committee. Since you promised us a donation, I have brought the plans." He unrolled the elevation and gave it her. "This is not the kind of building we want and I mean to propose some alterations."

He indicated the alterations, and Mrs. Halliday said: "But it will cost a very large sum."

"I expect so. My money came from the iron mines; the Brunstock pitmen and furnace men earned the most part for me. A number get hurt and it is just that I should give them something back. Then if we called it the Dearham hospital, as the committee suggest, the building would keep my memory green, and I am vain enough to prefer a handsome monument."

"In some ways it is a good ambition," Mrs. Halliday agreed, although she was puzzled, for she thought Bernard had an object he had not stated. He certainly was not vain.

"Of course," he went on, "one must be just to one's relations, and it would be harsh to leave out Jim altogether. Still, you see, he's rash; we have an example in his dyking plan, and I would not like my money squandered. I expect you know he has lost much of his in a Canadian speculation?"

Mrs. Halliday did not know and got something of a jar. She gave Bernard a quick and rather anxious glance.

"But if he has lost his, your gift would be more needful."

Bernard made a sign of disagreement. "The drawback is, Jim might use it as rashly as he has used the rest."

"They sometimes waste money at hospitals."

"That is so, but if I carry out my plans, there will not be much waste at Brunstock. I have been pondering some stipulations, and if I give them a proper endowment, the trustees must consent."

"Do you mean to endow the new wards? We understood you would be satisfied with giving part of what they needed for the original building."

"Of course," said Bernard. "Since I'm going to urge the extension, I must find the money. The hospital is getting a hobby of mine and I may make the endowment much larger than I meant." He got up. "It's a long drive and I must not keep the committee."

He went off and Mrs. Halliday tried to brace herself. She had grounds for disturbance, but she must think. If Bernard carried out his plans, it was obvious that she must change hers.

CHAPTER XI

EVELYN'S ADVENTURE

After Bernard had gone, Mrs. Halliday talked to Evelyn. At first she was cautious and rather implied than stated her meaning, but by degrees she threw off her reserve. Although Evelyn and her mother generally agreed, Mrs. Halliday felt she was antagonistic, and this disturbed her. Evelyn was not romantic; as a rule, her judgment was cool and sound, but she was human, and it began to look as if she were strongly attracted by Jim Dearham.

"On the whole, it would be better if you did not go to Langrigg to-morrow," Mrs. Halliday concluded. "You can make an excuse."

"I think not," said Evelyn. "You urged me not to disappoint Jim the last time we went, but we will let this go. Now he has had bad luck, it would look significant if you suddenly withdrew your approval. He knew it was his not long since."

"In a way, I am forced to withdraw it. I like Jim——"

"But you do not like him to be poor," Evelyn interrupted with a smile. "Well, it seems to me a proper and tactful line for his friends to rally round him when he is in trouble."

"One can, of course, be sympathetic if one meets him."

Evelyn laughed. "But one need not go too far?" She paused and gave her mother a steady look. "Langrigg is a fine old house, I don't suppose Jim is ruined, and I have some money. Then you have taught me to expect that I may get some more."

"Bernard is capricious. He has a bitter humor and may disappoint us all. You have come to think refinement needful; you are extravagant and could not live with an impoverished husband. Let me beg you not to be obstinate and rash."

"Ah," said Evelyn, "I sometimes felt I would like to be rash, but was not brave enough. I do not know if I have much courage now."

Mrs. Halliday got up. Perhaps she had said enough and after all one could trust Evelyn when she was cool. It looked as if the girl's disappointment had been sharp, and the wise plan was to leave her alone. Yet she was puzzled; Evelyn had given signs of a recklessness her mother thought new.

When Mrs. Halliday went out Evelyn tried to formulate her thoughts. To begin with, her mother's calculating caution repelled her; it had made her feel shabby. Then she had, no doubt, taken much for granted. Jim had, perhaps, had bad luck, but this did not mean that he was impoverished, and after all there were many expensive things one could go without. She was not as greedy as some people thought. Indeed, it would be rather fine to make a plunge; to let cold caution go and play a romantic part.

She mused about Jim. He was marked by a certain roughness, but he had dignity. He gave one pleasant thrills—there was the scene on the dyke when she was half-shocked and yet strangely moved. His physical fineness appealed; his figure was like an old Greek athlete's, his face was sharply cut and somehow ascetic. He was hot-blooded, but one knew he was not gross. His was a clean virility.

Evelyn thought she loved him, as much as she could love anybody, for she had not been touched by passion, and it counted for something that he loved her. The reserve he thought he used was, of course, ridiculous. Evelyn resolved she would go to Langrigg and sympathize with Jim. Then she would wait and by and by her feelings might get stronger and she would see her way. She would not admit that the possibility of learning whether Jim would get over his difficulties had some influence.

Next evening she went to Langrigg, without Mrs. Halliday, who made an excuse. Jim called for her with his car, and, for the most part, she was quiet and he did not talk much. There were steep hills and awkward corners as they ran down from the rolling country to the plain. The evening was calm and the noise of the sea came softly out of the distance. Now and then plover and curlew cried, a half-moon hung in the west, and the black hills rose out of fleecy mist. Evelyn was imaginative and liked the drive across the flat holms in the dark. It was romantic ground, rich with traditions of the old Border raids, and now as she watched Jim, sitting, absorbed, with his hands on the wheel, she felt he, so to speak, dated back. He drove the powerful modern car with ease and skill, but somehow she imagined him wearing steel cap and leather jack and guiding a shaggy pony. Perhaps it was the picture in a hall she knew that haunted her. One saw the shadowy horsemen and glitter of spears in the moonlight.

Meanwhile, she gave herself to irresolute thought. Jim had some advantages and some drawbacks; Evelyn saw the drawbacks plainly. He attracted her; it would be exciting to let him carry her away and embark with him on a romantic adventure. She knew he had recently used a stern control, but he was hot-blooded and his reserve might be undermined. Yet there was a risk; she must give up much. She was drawn in different ways by romance and worldly caution and it looked as if caution would win.

Soon after she reached Langrigg Mordaunt arrived with Dick. The latter declared that Jim was a very good sort, and Evelyn knew his feeling was sincere, but she imagined Dick liked Carrie and was sometimes disturbed. For all that, she had been relieved to note that Carrie liked Dick.

Dinner was a cheerful function, but when they went back to the hall Evelyn was quiet. Joseph Dearham and others had made some renovations in the hall, but they harmonized with the crooked roof-beams and dark oak. There were one or two tall lamps and another that hung by iron chains, but Jim generally used candles in old silver stands. Evelyn wondered how Jim knew that candles were right. It was strange that he often, unconsciously, she thought, struck the proper note.

She studied him and Jake while she talked to Mrs. Winter. Jim seldom wore conventional evening clothes, but he had put on an American dinner-jacket. He and his comrade were strangely agile; their movements were quick, their step was light, like a cat's, and she noted how they lifted their feet. She did not know the prospector gets the habit by walking through tangled bush and across rough stones. They had a suppleness that came from using the long ax, and toil in the wilds had given them a fine-drawn look. In some ways both were modern, but in some they belonged to the past, when the fortress peels were built and the marsh-men fought the Scots.

Jim crossed the floor, and when he began to talk to Carrie, Evelyn felt a jealous pang. The girl had been in the woods with Jim; she had beauty and a curious primitive strength. Jim leaned forward, smiling as he talked to her; they talked confidentially, like tried comrades. Evelyn was moved to something near anger and went to the old grand piano Jim had brought from the drawing-room when he found that Carrie could play ragtime airs. Evelyn had a talent for music and meant to make an experiment. If Jim was what she thought, he would respond.

"If somebody will light the candles, I will sing," she said.

The candles had pale-yellow shades and when Jim struck a match the colored light touched her face and dress. Except for this, the corner was somewhat dark. Amber was Evelyn's color. She struck a few chords that seemed to echo in the distance and then, glancing at Jim, began a prelude with a measured beat. His face was intent; he seemed to search for something in the music that sounded as if it were getting nearer. She wondered whether he heard the call of trumpets and horses' feet drumming in the dark. Somehow she thought he did.

Perhaps she was debasing her talent; this kind of thing was rather a theatrical trick than music. For all that, it needed feeling, and she knew the old Border ballads and their almost forgotten airs. Jim was very still when she began to sing, for her voice and the music moved him strongly. The air was wild, the rude words rang with something one felt when one battled with floods and snowslides. They told how the moss-troopers rode down Ettrick water long ago; but human nature did not change and hard-bitten men now went out on the snowy trail, carrying shovels and axes instead of spears. But how did Evelyn, surrounded by luxurious refinements, understand?

"It's fine!" he exclaimed when she stopped. "You have got it just right; horses' feet, and harness jingling. But you go back of that to the feeling one has when one braces up and sets one's mouth tight."

Evelyn laughed and looked at Mordaunt, who frowned. "Perhaps you are easily satisfied, Jim, but music, critical folks contemptuously call descriptive, needs some talent." She paused and beat out a few bars imitating a horse's gallop. "It really does go back of this."

"Never mind critical folks," said Jim. "Sing another—the song of Flodden."

"I'm not sure the song you mean has really much to do with Flodden, but I know one that has. It's old and rude, like the Borderers. You know a band would not fight, but were too proud to run away. They stood fast, by themselves, and were shot down by the archers while the loyal Scots fell round their wounded king. This, however, is shocking art; it's like writing what you are meant to see at the top of a picture. I know it annoys Lance."

"I can endure much from you," Mordaunt rejoined.

Evelyn struck the keys and began to sing. Words and air had a strange barbaric force, and Jim pictured the stern Scots spearmen closing round their fallen monarch and their hate for the stubborn mutineers. The blood came to his skin when the music stopped and the girl's voice flung out a dying soldier's curse. The curse was strangely modern; one heard it often in the West.

"Thank you! You have not sung like this before," he said, and turned to Jake. "How does it strike you, partner?"

"It hits me where I feel it, and hits me hard. I reckon the men who fought that old battle meant to make good. I don't know how Miss Halliday knows what a man with red blood feels when he's got to put over a big hard job, but she does know."

"I'm afraid you would make me vain," said Evelyn.

She turned as she left the piano and gave Carrie a quick glance. A sharp jealousy seized her, for while she could imagine what a strong man felt, Carrie really knew. She had fronted danger with Jim; she had watched and helped his struggle in the lonely North. Evelyn was suddenly afraid of Carrie. She was a powerful rival.

The party went to the billiard-room, but Evelyn would not play and sat in a corner, thinking hard. She was highly-strung, and her hesitation had vanished. Jim loved her and nobody else should claim him. Perhaps she was rash, but she had begun to feel passion, and saw she must embark upon her great adventure now, when Jim had had reverses and was smarting from the blow. He must see that she had pluck and was willing to bear his troubles. After all, to have done with caution was exhilarating. Yet she knew her lover. He would not ask her to make a sacrifice for him; unless his luck changed he would keep up his reserve. Well, she must break it down, and she knew her power. Then she turned as Mordaunt stopped by the bench she occupied.

"I think you did not like my song," she said.

"You know I did not," Mordaunt rejoined. "Anyhow, I didn't like your exaggerated rendering of a ballad that is probably genuine, though one authority states it was written about an ancient football match. They played football before the Scottish wars in the Border towns."

"Is this important?"

"It is not. I thought you were putting your talent to a shabby use."

"Art is imitation," Evelyn remarked with a mocking smile. "Why should one not imitate the drumming of horses' feet? or, for example, a storm at sea? I believe that kind of thing is popular at cheap concerts."

Mordaunt frowned. "You well know what your gift is worth. It's too fine to be used in order to rouse crude emotions in a handsome savage like Jim."

"Ah," said Evelyn, with a sparkle in her eyes, "are the great emotions crude? Courage and loyalty that led to deeds that live four hundred years? I don't know if our refinements would stand comparison with the big primitive things."

"Jim is certainly primitive," Mordaunt sneered.

"And he's big! So big that he makes other men look small! I was disturbed when I saw him, bruised and muddy, that day at the marsh; but I begin to understand I was ridiculous. He fought the smith because he was accountable for his men."

"Oh, well; I expect he would value your approval," said Mordaunt, who saw Jim go out. "It looks as if he were getting bored."

Evelyn smiled. "He keeps some dyking plans in the hall. I don't think he will be bored if I join him." She got up languidly. "Since you are not very amusing, I will go."

She went off and found Jim opening a drawer. "You can study your plans; I won't disturb you," she said, sitting down by the fire. "I really don't care for billiards."

He shut the drawer and leaned against a table opposite. "You were not playing billiards; you were talking to Lance. That was why I went away."

"You flatter me," said Evelyn. "But don't leave the plans. I expect they are important."

"They are important. The rain is giving us trouble, and although I began the job to occupy my leisure, I'm going to finish it because I must."

"I think I understand. I am sorry you have had bad luck in Canada."

"Thank you. How did you know?"

"Bernard told us."

"I wonder why," Jim remarked, thoughtfully. "Although it doesn't matter much, I didn't expect him to tell."

Evelyn pondered. Bernard had, no doubt, had an object, but she could solve the puzzle afterwards. She was alone with Jim, and in a few minutes the others might return.

"I was rather hurt when I found you had given Bernard your confidence and left me out," she said. "But does this reverse in Canada hit you hard?"

"It was a nasty knock. I expect to get over it, but it will be some time before I recover the ground I've lost. Things will be better when we plow the land I'm reclaiming from the marsh."

"In the meantime, you will have to struggle?"

"Yes," said Jim, rather grimly, "it will be a struggle. But that is not all——"

He pulled himself up. There was a risk that he might say too much, and while he hesitated Evelyn listened. The door was open and the house was quiet, but she could not hear the click of the billiard balls. It looked as if Dick and Carrie had finished their game, there was no time for clever maneuvering; she must be frank. She gave Jim a quick glance and then looked away.

"Jim," she said, "I am not poor."

He started, and his face got red. Evelyn's meaning was obvious, but he could hardly persuade himself that he had grasped it.

"Much of my money has gone and I may not get it back," he said, with forced quietness. "In one way, this does not matter; I'm not greedy, but I'm proud. I must farm the reclaimed land and make my farming profitable; I can't keep up Langrigg as my friends expect. I've got to live and work as I lived and worked in Canada."

"People do live in the woods and on the plains. Do you think your countrywomen have less pluck than these others? Are we dull and weak, afraid of hardship and only willing to be amused?"

Jim lifted his head and laughed. "All this is ridiculous! I haven't met many English girls, but you are the finest thing in a woman's shape I have known. I've thought about you always since that day at Montreal. When they told me Langrigg was mine I would have sold it had I not thought I might find you in the Old Country."

"Then you didn't know I was here?"

"I did not," said Jim, who forgot his reserve and let himself go. "When I saw you on the terrace, I got a thrill and a sense of triumph I'd never known before. But to find you was not enough; I had got to claim, and keep you. I'd got to have something to offer; I had to justify myself. Well, that's why I began to drain the marsh——"

Evelyn stopped him. "I wasn't worth it, Jim," she said, with half-ashamed sincerity. "But I understand; you are too proud to take, you want to give. Although you're foolish, I like your pride."

For a moment Jim was silent and his face got hard. "It's done with," he said, rather hoarsely. "I meant to make good before I claimed you, and this loss has set me back. I'm not beaten, but I must wait until I can give you all you ought to have. You're so fine and highly-tempered that you're fragile; rough jolts and jars are not for such as you. I've got to work——"

She got up and looked at him shyly, with color in her face and her eyes shining.

"And until you make good, you mean to leave me out? Will it cost you nothing, Jim?"

"It will cost me much," he said, grimly. "More than I durst reckon, but I must brace up and pay."

"But suppose I will not let you leave me out? Am I to give nothing?" Evelyn asked. "Besides, it's my right to choose, and you meant to rob me of my right. If I didn't know you well, I should be angry. Langrigg is yours; but if you had nothing, do you think I'd keep our extravagance at Whitelees and let you go?" She turned her head and then looked up, stretching out her hands. "I can't let you go! I want to help."

Jim took her hands and next moment she was in his arms. Then there were steps in the passage and she gently pushed him back.

"You must tell nobody just yet," she said.

The others came in and Mordaunt looked at Evelyn rather hard, but she went to the piano and opening a music-book, beckoned Dick.

"You know this," she said. "I'll play it for you."

CHAPTER XII

THE SHOOTING PUNT

On the morning after her interview with Jim, Evelyn sat in front of a writing-table by a window at Whitelees. She had meant to tell a friend about her lover, but now did not know if she would or not. For one thing, the morning was cold and dreary and she felt dull. Composition was difficult; the glowing phrases she had thought to use would not come. It was raining outside, the lawn was strewn with wet dead leaves, and the bare trees tossed their branches in the wind. Shallow pools spread about the terrace and the hills were blurred by mist. Winter had begun and Evelyn did not like winter in the country.

She put down her pen. Last night's thrill had gone and she was languid. When she had broken his reserve, Jim was the ardent and romantic lover she had thought; but she had been forced to break down his reserve and this carried a sting. For some hours she had been dazzled by the glamor of romance and had rejoiced in her rashness, but the light was getting dim. Things looked different in the morning.

Jim loved her and she was flattered by his exaggerated notion of her worth. She had meant to justify his confidence, but she knew this would be hard, because she knew herself. In a sense, Jim was not her kind, and by and by they might jar. She had self-control, but she was not patient. Moreover, it looked as if Jim were poor, and although she had some money she was not rich. Thrilled by keen excitement and half-consciously acting, she had told him that poverty did not daunt her, but when she came to think, it would be hard to go without the expensive refinements she enjoyed.

With something of an effort, she banished her disturbing thoughts. She was going to marry Jim. Perhaps she could mold him a little. Yet she did not know; she did not want to conventionalize him; there was something rather fine about his ruggedness. Then she began to wonder why she had asked him to tell nobody yet. Girls she knew had found an obvious satisfaction in exhibiting their lovers, but she had felt a need for concealment. This was not because she feared her mother's disapproval; it looked as if she had unconsciously tried to leave open a way of escape. By and by a car rolled up the drive and Mordaunt came in.

"I am going to the town and wondered whether you wanted anything I could get for you," he said.

Evelyn said he might call for some goods her mother had ordered, and he was silent for a moment or two. Then he asked: "Were you and Jim quarreling in the hall last evening?"

"No," she said, smiling. "Why do you imagine this?"

"Jim was preoccupied. I asked him for matches and he gave me his cigarette case."

"He is often preoccupied," Evelyn rejoined, with a careless laugh. "I expect he was thinking about his dykes; he talked about the marsh."

Mordaunt studied her. She was calm and looked amused by his curiosity. Moreover, her suggestion was plausible.

"Jim is not always happy in his choice of subjects, but I won't sympathize with you," he said. "You could have stopped him if you had liked. You often stop me."

"I suppose that is so," Evelyn agreed. "For one thing, it is not much trouble. You know when one is bored."

"Your tastes are mine; we belong to the same school. It makes for understanding."

"After all," said Evelyn, "one likes something new."

Mordaunt laughed and said he must go, and when his car rolled away Evelyn mused. Lance's remark was justified; they did belong to the same school, and in the main their views agreed. This had some drawbacks, but it had advantages. Novelty was stimulating for a time, but soon lost its charm; one was safe if one held fast by the things one knew and valued, even if one's standard of value was not altogether just. Evelyn admitted her cynically philosophic mood was strange, but the dreary day accounted for something, and perhaps a reaction from last night's thrill had begun. A few minutes afterwards Mrs. Halliday came in and they talked about household matters.

In the meantime, Mordaunt drove to the town and stopped at a lawyer's office. There were three partners in the firm which managed Bernard Dearham's business; two sober, white-haired gentlemen, and one who was young. The others gave the house weight and respectability, but Holbrook supplied the driving force and Mordaunt imagined his partners did not know where he was leading them. Holbrook's room, in a tall old house that looked across a quiet square, was handsomely furnished, and Mordaunt sat down in a comfortable chair.

"I want to borrow some money for about six months," he said.

"How much do you want?" Holbrook asked, and when Mordaunt told him, looked thoughtful. Mordaunt had borrowed before and had punctually repaid principal and interest.

"We are not money-lenders, you know," he said. "I negotiated the last loan rather as a favor than a matter of business."

Mordaunt smiled indulgently. "For all that, you lend money; your clients', I suppose. I don't know if your legal business would keep you going long."

"If we invest in anything outside the regular high-class securities, we run some risk."

"I don't think the risk is great," Mordaunt replied. "I sometimes speculate, and you have grounds for knowing I'm generally lucky. Well, some friends floated a small private company to develop a West Indian estate and we have spent much of our capital on new plantations. The value of our produce is rising, but we need funds to carry us on until the crop is shipped and have agreed to a fresh levy. I must pay my share."

"The sum is large."

"You lent me nearly as much before."

"I did," said Holbrook. "Things were different then——"

He stopped, and Mordaunt gave him a keen glance. Holbrook's hesitation was curious.

"How are things different?" Mordaunt asked.

"You bought shares that seldom fluctuate much. You risked losing a small margin; now you may lose the principal."

"The loss would be mine. I have always paid."

"That is so. The trouble is, if this venture went wrong you might not be able to pay."

Mordaunt was silent for a few moments. Holbrook had been willing to negotiate the other loans; it looked as if the fellow had now less grounds for trusting him, although it was not his honesty but his power to pay he doubted. Why did Holbrook think his power had got less?

"Am I to understand you refuse to lend?" he asked.

"I would sooner not. However, if a smaller sum——"

"A smaller sum would not help," Mordaunt replied with a touch of haughtiness. "Well, I will not urge you and dare say you are occupied."

The lawyer let him go and Mordaunt thought hard as he drove home. Holbrook had formerly been accommodating, as if he wanted to satisfy a client whose business might by and by be valuable, but his attitude was now different. There was no traffic on the road that went up a long hill, and Mordaunt could concentrate on the puzzle. When he was half-way up he began to see a light. Bernard had gone to town and had stayed some time; he had probably called on the lawyers who had made his will. The light got clearer and when Mordaunt reached the top he thought he understood.

Bernard had altered his will and Mordaunt would not get as much as he, and no doubt Holbrook, had thought possible. The hospital would cost a large sum, but this did not account for everything. Although Bernard often used the formal manners of the old school, he had a rude vein; he had broken down stubborn opposition and beaten determined strikers while he developed the famous iron mines. No doubt, he saw in Jim qualities like his and now meant to leave him the most part of his estate. All Jim got would be taken from the others, and Mordaunt thought Holbrook's caution indicated that his share had been severely cut down. Jim was going to get money Mordaunt had imagined was his.

He let the engine go, the car leaped forward, and he drove furiously until he reached the Dryholm lodge, for he wanted to find out if his supposition was correct. When he put the car into the garage a man was cleaning a limousine.

"I'm afraid I have given you another job," Mordaunt said. "You haven't got the big car properly polished yet."

"She got very wet when I took Mr. Dearham to town."

"It was a bad day. Did he keep you waiting in the rain?"

"I was outside the lawyers' office for an hour," the man replied.

Mordaunt frowned as he went to the house. The reason for Holbrook's caution was plain, and if Janet Halliday imagined Bernard meant to leave Jim nothing, she was much deceived. Bernard had probably meant to deceive her, but Mordaunt thought he would not meddle. He went to his room and stopped for some time, smoking and pondering.

A few days afterwards, Jim and Jake, wearing long waders and yellow oilskins, crept up a hollow in the sands. It was about nine o'clock in the evening, they were a mile from land, and light mist drifted about the bay, but the moon shone through. The tide was flowing, the water rippled noisily in the channel, and flakes of muddy foam and trailing weed floated past. The harsh cry of a black-backed gull rang across the flats and small wading birds whistled about the water's edge. Farther off, the clanging call of black geese came out of the mist.

Jim carried a heavy ten-bore gun and his feet sank in the mud as he crept quietly up the hollow. He liked this rough shooting, and now and then Jake and he went out at nights. When one had hunted fierce game in Canada, shooting driven pheasants was tame sport, and the beaters found the birds; but on the sands one must match one's intelligence against the instinctive cunning of the ducks and geese. Besides, there was some risk that gave the thing a spice. Belts of sand were dangerously soft and the tides were treacherous. Sometimes they rose faster than one reckoned.

"The brant-geese can't be far off," he remarked presently. "It's a pretty big gaggle and I expect some of the fat gray-lag are feeding with them."

Jake looked at the water. "If you want a shot, I guess you'll go on; but if I'd been alone, I'd have started home some time since. The tide's rising fast."

"We have a quarter of an hour yet," said Jim. "Anyhow, we'll shove on for the next bend."

They went on. Their waders and oilskins scarcely showed against the sand, and the murmur of the current drowned the noise they made. As they came near the bend the calling of the geese got louder, there was a creaking beat of wings and some of the harsh cries had a different note.

"Grey-lag," said Jim. "Another lot is coming up. They'll fly across to the marsh when the tide moves them."

"It will move us soon," Jake rejoined.

When they reached the corner Jim was a short distance in front. The geese were obviously restless and he crouched as low as he could get. Jake found a hollow in the bank where the sand, undermined by the current, had fallen down, and stood with the water creeping to his feet. He imagined it would nearly reach his waist in mid-channel, and they must soon get across. The beat of wings began again and harsh cries echoed in the mist. The geese were moving and Jake balanced his gun when Jim rose half-upright. The bank behind Jim was low and his bent figure was outlined against the glimmering reflection of the tide.

Then, although he did not know if he had heard a noise or not, Jake looked round and saw a long gray object slide out of the mist. It was indistinct and very low in the water, but he knew it was a shooting punt. It drifted up the channel towards him; a faint ripple indicating that somebody was steering it with a short paddle. A blurred figure lay in the well behind a bunch of reeds, and the only bold line was the barrel of the big punt-gun that would throw a pound of shot. Jim could not see the punt, because he was looking the other way, but it was obvious that the gunner could see him, although Jake thought he himself was invisible against the bank.

As a rule, one cannot aim a punt-gun; one must turn the punt, and Jake noted that the craft swerved. The long barrel was now in line with Jim, and although the man on board was probably steering towards the bank for concealment, Jake thought there was something sinister about his quiet approach. He remembered that Shanks owned the only punt on the lower bay. He waited a few moments, unwilling to call out, lest he should spoil his comrade's shot, but feeling disturbed. The punt was about fifty yards from Jim and the heavy shot would not spread much; Jake admitted that his disturbance was perhaps illogical, but he did not like the way the big gun pointed.

When the punt was level with him he stepped out from the bank. The indistinct figure on board did not move, but the craft swerved again and the gun pointed straight up the channel. Jake did not know if this was significant or not, because the current eddied, but he imagined the fellow had seen him. Then Jim threw his gun to his shoulder and a red flash leaped from the muzzle. There was a splash, but next moment Jake saw a dark object overhead and pulled the trigger. The goose came down, whirling over with long neck hanging limp, until it struck the other bank, and Jake plunged into the channel.

"Pick up your bird and get across," he shouted, while the current rippled about his legs.

For the next minute or two they were occupied. The tide ran fast, the bottom was soft, and Jim's goose drifted away. He reached it, however, and they came out on the other bank. Jake could see nothing but the glimmering water and a narrow belt of wet sand. The geese had flown off and the punt had vanished in the fog.

"We stopped long enough, but we've got a brant and a gray-lag. You ought to be satisfied," he said.

"I'd have got another if you hadn't been so anxious to get across," Jim rejoined. "Wasn't there a punt about? I thought I saw something as I threw up my gun."

"Yes," said Jake, dryly, "Shanks' punt!"

"Of course! Nobody else keeps a punt on the low marsh. Well, we spoiled his shot and I expect he'll feel he has a fresh grievance. That is, if he knew who I was."

"I reckon he knew all right," Jake remarked. "Nobody else has been on the sands for some weeks."

Jim looked at him rather hard. "Anyhow, it doesn't matter. Let's get home. There's a hole in my wader and the water has leaked through. This sport is pretty good, but you need a punt. I'll order one from the fellow across the bay."

They set off and Jake could not tell if he had excited his comrade's suspicions. Jim was sometimes reserved. Jake admitted that his own suspicions might not be justified, but he wondered what would have happened had he not moved out from the bank.

CHAPTER XIII

MORDAUNT'S REPULSE

Shortly after his visit to the lawyer, Mordaunt walked over to Whitelees. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and it would soon be dark, but although he had some distance to go he did not walk fast. Tea was served early at Whitelees and, as a rule, Mrs. Halliday afterwards went to sleep. Mordaunt wanted to arrive when she had done so, and his leisurely progress gave him time to think.

He meant to ask Evelyn to marry him. He liked her and they generally agreed, but he was not sure he would have thought about marriage had he been rich. For all that, he knew no other girl who would suit him so well, and it would be an advantage to consolidate the family property, since both would inherit some part of Bernard's estate. Mordaunt knew Mrs. Halliday saw this, for she had been his friend until Jim came on the scene. It now looked as if she thought Jim would get little or nothing, and Mordaunt did not mean to enlighten her.

The loss of his West Indian investment forced him to make a prudent marriage, but he did not feel that he was doing a shabby thing. Evelyn understood him and was rather calculating than romantic. It was disturbing that she had obviously been attracted by Jim, but Mordaunt thought the attraction was not very strong. He did not mean to let Jim rob him of his inheritance and the girl he hoped would be his wife.

It was getting dark when he reached Whitelees and found Evelyn sitting by the fire in the drawing-room. The lamps were not lighted and the room was shadowy except for the reflection from the grate. Evelyn did not get up and he stood opposite, talking quietly while she rested her chin in her hollowed hand and listened. He did not pretend passion, but she thought he struck the right note. He was sincere, as far as he went, and she admitted that he made the best of a not very strong appeal. One could trust Lance to be graceful.

"If you had asked me before, I might have married you. It is now too late," she said.

Mordaunt moved abruptly, but used some control. "Ah," he said, in a rather strained voice, "I suppose this means Jim has claimed you first?"

"Yes," she said, calmly, "I have promised to marry Jim. So far, nobody else knows."

He was silent for a moment or two, knitting his brows, and then looked up.

"I'm sorry, and although your refusal hurts, don't think I'm altogether selfish. Jim is a good sort, but he's not the man for you."

Evelyn colored and her eyes sparkled, and then the firelight left her face.

"To some extent that is so, Lance. I expect Jim has drawbacks, but he's flesh and blood; red blood, I think they say in Canada. You know what you and I are; we have cultivated out our vulgar passions. At least, I thought I had!"

"Has Jim persuaded you that you were mistaken?"

"He may persuade me. After all, there is some satisfaction in being human."

Mordaunt made a sign of vague agreement. "I thought I was a philosopher, but I'm frankly savage now. However, I don't imagine you will let passion guide you very long." He paused, and after a few moments resumed: "If you find you were deceived and romance gets stale, you will find me waiting. I think you know this, and there is no more to be said."

"There is no use in waiting, Lance," Evelyn replied. "I have made the plunge. It cost me an effort, but I feel braced. Jim is bracing; like cold water or a boisterous wind. You would have kept me in an enervating calm. Well, I'm tired of artificial tranquillity; I'm going to try my luck in the struggle of life with Jim."

She let him go and he started for Dryholm in a thoughtful mood. Her refusal had hurt him, but he would not dwell on this. He was half-afraid to do so and wanted to think about her. She was pluckier than he had imagined and was obviously sincere, since she did not know Jim would be rich, but he doubted if she could keep it up. Jim was rude and tempestuous, and she would not be satisfied with him long. The trouble was the romantic impulse might sustain her until it was too late, for Jim would, no doubt, urge an early marriage.

Mordaunt's face got hard as he thought about this, and he was rather surprised by the anger that fired his blood. He had cultivated a philosophic selfishness, but it no longer supported him. He hated Jim, and felt troubled about Evelyn. Luck was with the headstrong fool; he had swept her off her feet, but she would recover her balance and then she would pay. Mordaunt clenched his fist and raged with helpless savageness. It was long since he had indulged his passions, and now his control had gone the reaction was sharp.

He got cooler and began to look about. There was a moon, the evening was calm, and the dew sparkled on the grass by the hedgerows. A thick wood bordered one side of the road, which went up a long hill, and pale birch trunks that caught the light stood out against dusky firs. Now and then a rabbit ran across the road and plunged into the grass, and presently there was a sharp rattle of wings. A flock of wood-pigeons circled round in the moonlight and flew back into the frees. Then a cock-pheasant crowed.

Mordaunt stopped in the gloom where a nut-bush hung over the gate of a ride. Somebody had disturbed the birds; one could trust the pigeons to give the alarm when an enemy was about. Mordaunt was a sportsman and a good shot, but he waited because he wanted to find some relief from his tormenting thoughts. He was just inside the Langrigg boundary and imagined the gamekeeper began his round at the other end of the estate. By and by dry underbrush rustled and there was a noise like a briar dragging across somebody's clothes. Afterwards all was quiet for a few moments, until a dark figure came out of the gloom close to the gate.

Mordaunt let the man get over and then touched his arm. The other started, and stepping back, struck the gate. The blow was soft as if something had eased the shock and the fellow's shape was bulky about his hips. Mordaunt knew a poacher has generally a large pocket in the lower lining of his coat. As the fellow lifted a short, knotted stick, he turned his face to the light and Mordaunt saw it was Tom Shanks, the old marshman's son.

"You can put down the stick," he said, coolly. "I expect you have been smoking pheasants, but they're Langrigg bird's, not ours."

Shanks leaned against the gate and looked at him with dull suspicion. Although his face was coarse and heavy, his eyes were cunning; he slouched, but when he moved his step was light.

"There's nowt that's not Langrigg's," he growled, grasping his stick. "Gentry stands by yan anodder. Are you gan t' tell?"

Mordaunt pondered. They were alone and he knew Shanks's sullen ferocity. On the whole, he thought he was in some danger unless he could satisfy the fellow. Shanks did not mean to let him seize the heavy stick.

"I've not much ground for standing by Mr. Dearham and it's not my business to protect his game," he said.

"If I thowt you'd send keeper after me——"

"Put down your stick," said Mordaunt, with haughty impatience. "If I wanted to send the keeper, I'd certainly do so. But how many pheasants did you get?"

"Nobbut two. T' birds is varra scarce."

"Then I don't see why you ran the risk of stealing Langrigg pheasants when there are plenty in Red Bank woods."

Shanks was silent for a moment or two, and then replied, as if Mordaunt's carelessness had banished his doubts: "Mr. Dearham put us oot o' dabbin and blew 't up."

"It's possible he'll put you out of Bank-end cottage soon."

"Do you ken that?" Shanks asked with a start.

"I heard something of the kind. Dearham meant to let your father have the cottage, but said nothing about your getting it, and he's tired of you both. You are letting Bank-end go to ruin and people complain about your poaching."

Shanks's sullen look changed to a savage frown.

"If he puts us oot, there's nea place we'll can gan."

Mordaunt hesitated. He imagined Shanks had had something to do with the accident to Jim's car, and it was obvious that the fellow was bitterly revengeful. At the beginning, Mordaunt had not meant to work upon his vindictive feelings; he had done so half-consciously, but now he meant to go on.

"Nobody in the neighborhood would let you have a cottage. You might get a laborer's job in the town, but you would have to work hard, and I don't know about your father. He's rheumatic and old. None of the farmers would engage you."

"T'oad man wouldn't could live away from marsh, and I'm none for takin' a job in town; I'd sicken among t'hooses," Shanks replied.

Mordaunt thought the fellow did not exaggerate. Shanks and his father would find no place in organized industry. They belonged to the open spaces, the wide marsh and the wet sands.

"Then it's lucky I and not the gamekeeper caught you to-night," he said. "Mr. Dearham is waiting for an excuse to turn you out. I Imagine you will soon give him one."

Shanks did not reply. Seizing the top of the gate, he jumped over and vanished in the wood. For a few moments all was quiet, and then Mordaunt heard steps in the road. He left the gate and when he had gone a few yards met Dick Halliday, who stopped and looked at him with surprise.

"I thought I saw two people," Dick remarked.

"You did see two," Mordaunt agreed. "It's curious the other fellow didn't hear you farther off, because I imagine his ears are very good. Were you trying to get near us?"

"Not at first. They're mending the road up the hill and I walked on the grass. When I saw you at the gate I suspected poachers and came on quietly. Who was the other fellow?"

"Tom Shanks. I caught him coming out of the wood with some pheasants and warned him he'd have to leave Bank-end if Jim knew."

"Do you mean you promised not to tell Jim?"

"I imagined he understood something like that. He is a powerful fellow, and carried a heavy stick. Still, my satisfying him doesn't bind you."

"I don't know; perhaps it does bind me, in a way," Dick replied. "All the same, Shanks is a loafing thief; I'd have turned him out of the neighborhood."

Mordaunt hesitated. He would have liked Dick to tell Jim, since this might lead the latter to take the cottage from Shanks. For all that, he did not see how he could persuade Dick to do so, because he did not want him to think he had an object.

"Well, I must get on," he said. "Bernard grumbles when I'm late for dinner."

He felt rather angry with himself when he went off. Luck had given him an opportunity and he had used it in a manner of which he was half-ashamed. The thing was done, however, and he was not sure he was sorry. Shanks was a savage brute and had already borne Jim a grudge. One or two of the farmers and country gentlemen had had grounds to regret they had not left him alone. He would not hesitate much if he saw a way to prevent Jim's turning him out, but Mordaunt shrank from wondering how far he would go. After all, he had merely warned Shanks about the consequence of his poaching.

When dinner was over he told Bernard he had been to Whitelees, and added: "I imagine Evelyn would not like it publicly announced just yet, but she has promised to marry Jim."

Bernard was silent for a few moments, and his face was inscrutable. "Then, she is pluckier than I thought," he said, dryly. "But why does she not want people to know?"

"It's something of a puzzle. Perhaps she felt telling people would bind her to her promise."

"Jim is a handsome fellow; I suppose the flesh is willing but the calculating brain weighs the drawbacks that may after all tip the beam," Bernard remarked, and added with a sneer: "You ought to have married Evelyn; you would have got on with her. In fact, if she had been willing, I'd have seen that her prudence was properly rewarded. The curious thing is, I imagine you both knew this."

"I don't think either of us deserves the taunt, sir," Mordaunt rejoined. "Anyhow, I doubt if your generous plan altogether sprang from good will to us."

"You're clever," said Bernard, with dry humor. "Much cleverer than Jim; but he'll go far while you stand still. Hustling is new to Evelyn and at first she may find it exciting, but I doubt if she'll enjoy the effort to keep up with her husband when the novelty wears off."

He mused when Mordaunt went away. For a time at least, his plot had failed and he was keenly disappointed. Evelyn was not the wife for Jim; he ought to have married the girl from Canada. Carrie was frankly flesh and blood, and although she had not much polish yet, this would come; she had a natural dignity and was staunch and fearless. She would keep pace with Jim, fronting troubles with her steady glance; Bernard smiled as he pictured Evelyn's stumbling gait when Jim, so to speak, took a rough, steep hill. The thought, however, did not amuse him much, and he resigned himself moodily to wait.

CHAPTER XIV

FOOTSTEPS IN THE SAND

Jim had a shooting-punt built, and now and then when the tide served at night, paddled up the creeks and shot a goose or duck, although he did not use a big punt-gun. He liked to pick out his birds and not throw a pound of shot into a flock. In the meantime, he pushed on the draining of the marsh, and although he spent anxious hours counting the cost, resolved to hold out until the job was done. As a rule, he was preoccupied and quiet, and Evelyn often found him dull. His talk about dykes and sluices did not amuse her.

By and by he found it needful to engage some drain-cutters, and one afternoon Jake, taking Carrie with him, started for a village on the other side of the bay. It was a long way round the sands and when they were near the village the car stopped and Jake found a valve had broken. He engaged the men he wanted and afterwards resolved to leave the car and walk back across the sands. The few cottages were very small and their occupants had no room for strangers, but the bay got narrow near its mouth and the distance across the sands was scarcely three miles. Jake did not expect to find much water in the channels, and when he had borrowed a pair of fishermen's waders for Carrie, and they had got a meal at a cottage, they set off.

It was dark and fog drifted in from sea, but the moon shone between slowly-moving clouds. The throb of the surf was unusually loud and a fisherman told Jake to get across as soon as he could. He said there was wind outside and the tide often turned before its proper time when a fresh breeze was coming.

When dusk fell Jim returned from the marsh and found Mrs. Winter in the hall. There was nobody else about, and he thought the hall looked lonely. He was tired after a day's hard work and sat down in an easy-chair when Mrs. Winter asked if he would like some tea.

"I'll wait until Carrie comes," he said. "Jake ought to have brought her back by now. The house feels empty when they're not here."

Mrs. Winter mused. Although Jim had rather unwillingly agreed when Evelyn insisted that nobody should be told about their engagement, he took much for granted when he imagined that nobody knew. Mrs. Winter was not deceived by his silence and knew that Carrie understood.

"When do you reckon you'll finish the dykes, Jim?" she asked presently.

"I don't know," he said. "It looks like a long job and money's getting short. Anyhow, I have got to put it over, because I can't stand for losing the sum I've already spent. But why do you ask?"

"Because we must go back when you have no more use for Jake."

"Oh," said Jim, smiling, "I'll always have some use for Jake, and Langrigg wouldn't be the same if he took you away. You and Carrie make the old house feel like home."

Mrs. Winter felt troubled. Jim was obviously sincere, and she had liked him from the beginning. She had been happy at Langrigg; after the strain of hard work and poverty, it was nice to rest and control the well-ordered English household. Carrie, too, had been happy, but Mrs. Winter imagined she was not happy now. Although the girl had grit and would play her part well, Mrs. Winter did not mean to let her wait for Jim's wedding.

"You know we can't stay very long," she said.

"I don't see why it's impossible."

"You may get married."

"Well?" said Jim. "Suppose I do? There's plenty of room at Langrigg and my wife would be kind to my friends when she knew how much I owe them."

"The plan wouldn't work. When you marry, your wife will have first claim on you. I reckon she'll have all the claim there is and won't want to share it with anybody else."

Jim frowned. Perhaps Mrs. Winter was justified. Now he came to think of it, he had once or twice got a hint that Evelyn did not altogether understand his friendship for Carrie.

"I hate to think of your going," he declared. "Anyhow, you must stay for some time yet. Jake promised to help me finish the draining scheme, and I may go broke. Then I'd need him more."

He got up and was silent for a few moments. If he lost his money, his engagement to Evelyn must be broken off. This was obvious, but if he had, for example, meant to marry Carrie, his embarrassments would not, in one sense, matter much. Carrie would meet their troubles with a smile and help him to make good. Still he must not indulge thoughts like this.

"I think I'll take the punt and paddle up the big creek," he said. "You can tell Carrie she ought to have come back to give me tea. Since she hasn't come, I'll wait for dinner."

He went off and Mrs. Winter mused. Jim generally knew what he wanted, but his attitude was puzzling now. Although he meant to marry Evelyn and imagined he loved her, Mrs. Winter doubted. She wondered whether Evelyn had, so to speak, dazzled him by her grace and beauty. Jim was resolute and practical, but not clever. Mrs. Winter sighed and imagined she had been foolish to let Carrie stay so long, but she could not see her way. Jim would not be married until he had drained the marsh and Jake would not go before the work was finished. Mrs. Winter admitted that he could not go.

In the meantime, Jim launched his shooting-punt in a muddy creek. The punt would carry two people and measured about eighteen feet long and nearly three feet wide. She was decked, except for a short well, and when loaded floated a few inches above the water. A bundle of reeds was fastened across the head-ledge of the well to hide the occupant when he lay down and used the short paddle.

Jim stood on the after-deck and drove the punt down the creek with a pole. He could see across the bank, and the wet marsh, glistening faintly in the moonlight, ran back into thin mist. In front, the creek got wider until it melted into the expanse of sands. Here and there a belt of smooth mud caught a silvery reflection, but for the most part the sands were dark. The night was calm and the advancing surf rumbled in the distance like a heavy train. It was a good night for shooting and Jim wondered whether anybody else was about. Mordaunt and Dick now and then went after the geese, and Shanks, in his shooting punt, generally haunted the channels when the gaggles came down to feed.

It was some time after low-water when Jim reached the main channel and stopped to listen. He thought the surf was unusually loud, but he could not hear the geese. The wild cry of a curlew came out of the dark and red-shanks were whistling in the distance. The water, so far as he could see, was still, and this meant the tide had not yet entered the channel. He thought he ought to have an hour before it did so, but the current would run fast then. Tides rise high when high-water comes at twelve o'clock with a full moon.

After a few minutes he set off again. There was no need for him to lie down and he stood on deck, using the pole. It sank about a foot, but presently the water shoaled and when the punt touched bottom he got over and dragged her by a line. He wore a yellow oilskin, long waders, and thin canvas shoes. At length, the punt would float no farther, and putting her on rollers, he pulled her a short distance up the bank and afterwards carried a small anchor as far as the line would allow. He was a mile and a half from land, the tide would soon flow, and if the geese were about, he might be away some time. Then, picking up his gun, he set off up the nearly dry channel. There was a salt-water lake, bordered by a weedy scar, not far off, and he might find some brant geese or ducks.

In the meantime, Dick Halliday called at Langrigg, and was received by Mrs. Winter.

"Are you all alone?" he asked.

Mrs. Winter told him where Jake and Carrie had gone, and that Jim was shooting. Dick inquired when Jake had started and looked thoughtful when Mrs. Winter replied.

"They ought to have been back some time since," he remarked. "The road is very bad where it runs across the head of the bay and high tides cover the causeway for an hour or two. I don't think Jake would wait until dark; the car has probably broken down."

"Then they would have to stop all night?"

"I doubt if anybody could take them in. There are only a few cottages and the mussel-gatherers and farm-hands have swarms of children. I rather imagine Jake would walk across the sands——"

He stopped and looked at the tall clock, and then crossing the floor, pulled back the window-curtains and opened a light. Mrs. Winter noted that his movements were quick and thought him anxious. Dick came rather often to Langrigg and she imagined Carrie attracted him, although she knew the girl had not meant to use her charm.

"It's nearly full-moon," he remarked when he came back. "I don't think Jim will mind if I borrow one of his guns. I know where they are. Don't bother to ring."

"Are you going to shoot?" Mrs. Winter asked.

"I might get a shot," Dick replied carelessly. "Anyhow, I'll walk across the sands. I may find Jim, or perhaps meet Jake and Carrie coming back."

He went to the gun-room and took down a heavy ten-bore, that would make a loud report, for the fog he had seen from the window was getting thick. Then he put some cartridges in his pocket, and finding a pair of waders, went back and smiled when he met Mrs. Winter's curious glance.

"Carrie may be glad of the waders," he said. "There's sometimes a little water in the hollows, and I don't expect Jake knows the driest way. Now I'll get off."

Mrs. Winter let him go. She was beginning to feel alarmed, but Dick's quick, resolute movements comforted her. He had been careful not to hint there was a risk, but if there was, he would know the best way of meeting it. Dick did not hurry when he went down the freshly-raked gravel drive, but when he reached the road he walked as fast as the heavy gun would let him. Carrie was on the sands, it was past low-water, and Jake did not know much about the gutters through which the tide ran up the bay. Dick did know, and had sometimes seen a white-topped bore roll like a wall of foam across the flats when the moon was full. To-night, when wind was coming, the tide would rise fast.

It was rough walking across the marsh, where he was forced to jump ditches and wind about among deep holes, and he was glad to reach the sands. Stopping for a few moments, he took off his boots. The sand was cold, but he meant to strike the shortest line across the bay and in places the mud was soft. He knew one can pull one's naked foot loose where one's boots would stick; moreover, Carrie would like the waders dry.

Dick began to think about Carrie as he set out across the flats. He liked her much, and admitted that it cost him an effort not to fall in love with her; Carrie had made him feel that this could not be allowed. Sometimes he wondered why, and sometimes he thought he knew; but then he suspected that Jim would marry Evelyn. Dick approved Jim, but doubted if he was altogether the man for Evelyn. Perhaps, however, when he came to think about it, he really meant that Evelyn was not the girl for Jim. There was a difference——.

He pulled himself up. He was fond of Evelyn, although he knew her faults; besides, the fog was thick and he must keep his proper course. He ought to strike the big gutter soon and was anxious about the tide: it would soon run up the hollows in the flats. He wondered where Mordaunt was, because Lance had told him he was going out on the sands and he had not heard his gun.

Shortly afterwards, Dick went down the bank of the gutter and began to wade across. The water did not come much above his ankles; but it was moving; slowly yet, although it would soon run fast. He got across and saw Jim's punt on the muddy sand. The fog was low and drifted about in belts, clearing now and then, and when he stopped by the punt the moon shone through.

Dick was puzzled. The punt had been moved since Jim pulled her up the bank. It was prudent to leave her where one could get on board when the tide rose, but Dick could not see why Jim had afterwards moved her down. He had, however, done so, because the rollers he used had made a rut in the sand in advance of her present position. Then the anchor had been carried up to higher ground, for one could see where the line had dragged, although it now lay close to the punt. Dick began to examine the footsteps about the spot. He was something of a naturalist and a good wildfowler and had studied the tracks of animals and birds.

Jim had obviously come up the gutter and another man had joined him. The other was barefooted and the marks seemed to indicate that he had helped Jim to run down the punt. Then a third man had arrived and Dick thought this was Lance, because he wore nailed fishing brogues. Lance often used brogues; he was cautious and did not like soft mud. Dick imagined Lance had reached the spot after the others and was somewhere about; he would not go far from the gutter when the tide was rising. The thing was strange, but since Jim had moved the punt back, there was no reason why Dick should meddle. Jim had probably gone to the scar and no doubt knew how long he could stay. Moreover, Dick's business was to find Carrie, and he set off again.

He followed a small creek that joined the big gutter. Its channel was narrow and cut rather deep into the sand. Although a belt of fog rolled up he could see fifty or sixty yards, and presently distinguished a hazy figure near a bend of the creek. He thought it was about Lance's height, and shouted; but the fellow did not answer and vanished next moment. It looked as if the fog had rolled nearer and hidden him, although he might have gone down into the creek. Dick went to the edge, but saw nobody, although he crossed a row of steps. This was puzzling. He imagined the other had heard his shout and was in the hollow, where his shooting-clothes would melt into the background. The sand, however, was soft and the marks had begun to fill up. Dick did not see why he should follow them, since the man might have meant to hide until the geese flew over. He gave it up and pushed on.

The fog crept towards him and did not look as if it would soon roll away. For all that, he knew the sands and had the noise of the advancing surf for a guide, which was lucky because speed was important. A stream ran through the flats near the other shore, and if Carrie and Jake had started they would have crossed its channel and now be on the long peninsula of sand that went up the middle of the bay. When the water rose they could not get across the main gutter, and it would be hard to reach the land from the end of the peninsula because it was traversed by a number of little creeks, up which the tide forced its way.

After a time, Dick stopped and fired the gun. He heard nothing but the echoes that rolled across the waste and the roar of the sea. The latter was ominously loud and he began to run. When he had gone some distance, he tried another shot and disturbed two black-backed gulls that made a noise like hoarse laughter as they flew overhead. This was all, and he felt that the gulls were mocking him. He was getting anxious, and ran on until he was forced to stop for breath, as the fog began to lift. It rolled back before a little puff of wind, the moon shone through, and he saw glittering water in front.

Dick began to run the other way. He could do no more, and it looked as if Jake and Carrie were not on the middle sand. After all, he had not much ground for imagining they had meant to cross the bay; if there was no room at the village, they might have walked to a station four or five miles off and gone to the market town. He must save himself, and since he hardly thought he could reach Jim's punt before she floated, he headed up the middle sand. One could cross the gutter farther on, if one knew the right spot, but it would mean wading some distance and he must be quick. He got through, and then ran back along the edge of the channel. He wanted to see if Jim had returned to the punt.

CHAPTER XV

JIM'S ENLIGHTENMENT

Jim waited for some time behind a bowlder by the salt-water pond, and then shot a duck. The report echoed among the belts of fog and after the noise died away the roar of the advancing tide was ominously loud, but Jim thought he heard something else. He listened, and in a few moments a cry came faintly across the sands. Somebody was calling for help, and Jim began to run. He might have to go some distance and his punt would soon float.

After a few minutes he plunged into a belt of mist. The sand was soft and his waders and heavy gun embarrassed him, but he heard the call again and thought he knew the voice. He labored on, breathing hard, until by and by the tog melted and he saw two figures not far off.

"Jake!" he shouted. "Is it you and Carrie?"

Jake answered, and Jim was conscious of a relief that shook him when the others came up. Carrie was splashed by mud and breathless with haste.

"What are you doing on the sands?" he asked.

"Car broke down; we tried to get across," Jake replied. "Saw the Langrigg hill when we started and then the fog came on. They told us to head for some stake-nets, but we couldn't find them. Then we met the water and reckoned we were lost. Is your punt about?"

"She is not far off," said Jim, who turned to Carrie. "We must hustle. Can you run?"

Carrie said she would try and they set off, but when they had gone a few hundred yards a wave of thick fog rolled up, blotting out the moonlight.

"This is awkward," Jim gasped, taking Carrie's arm and helping her on. "Still, if we keep going, we'll soon strike the gutter."

The roar of the surf gave him some guidance, but sound is puzzling in a fog; there was very little wind, and he could not see the moon. He knew the tide was now running up the channel and hoped he was heading the right way. Shortly afterwards a dull report rolled across the sands.

"A ten-bore!" he exclaimed. "Mordaunt uses a twelve. I expect Dick's shooting, and since the water's rising, he's on the shore flat. Where do you locate the shot?"

"A little to the left," said Jake.

They swerved and presently heard the gun again.

"That's for us," gasped Jim. "Dick has found the punt; I reckon she's afloat."

"Let me go, Jim," said Carrie. "Hurry on and get the punt."

Jim pressed her arm and urged her forward. "I'm going to stick to you until you're safe on board."

"Water!" shouted Jake, from a few yards in front; and something glimmered in the fog, which was getting thin again.

They could see for a short distance, but when they stopped at the edge of the channel the punt was not about. She was, however, painted an inconspicuous gray, and Jim thought she was not far off. While he hesitated, wondering which way to turn, a heavy report came out of the melting fog.

"Hallo!" Jake shouted. "Where's our punt?"

"On your side," somebody answered. "Saw her five minutes since and then the water drove me back."

The voice came from their left and after running a short distance they stopped. A low, indistinct object floated about thirty yards off, and Jim, dropping Carrie's arm, stood for a moment with his hands clenched. The wave-lined sand was level, and this meant much, because the bank of the gutter was steep. The tide had filled the hollow and he could not see across. He was not disturbed about the depth, but the current rippled across the sand, carrying along clumps of weed and flakes of foam that showed how fast it went.

"Give me your knife," he said to Jake, as he pulled off his oilskin. "I've got to swim. You must stay with Carrie; I swim better."

He slit the waders and tore them off with his canvas shoes; then he ran along the sand, heading up stream, and when he judged he had gone far enough plunged in. After he had taken a few steps the water frothed about his waist, and next moment swept him off his feet. He swam savagely, swinging his left arm out and steering obliquely against the current that carried him along. The water was horribly cold and cut his breathing and cramped his muscles, but if he missed the punt he might be swept some distance up the channel before he could land. He must not miss the punt, because he would be too exhausted to try again and did not think Jake could reach her.

After a minute or two he saw the punt; she was swinging about in the rush of tide and seemed to forge towards him. A rippling line marked her painter. He stopped swimming and let himself drift. He must not be carried past; and presently he made a quick stroke and felt a triumphant thrill when his numbed fingers clutched the craft's low side. For all that, he had not conquered yet. He was tired, and it is hard to get on board a floating punt.

The current swept his legs under the boat, and when he tried to lift himself she rolled down with his weight and threatened to capsize. But he must not be beaten. He was fighting for Carrie's life, and remembering this gave him extra strength. Sliding his hands along the side of the punt, he let the current take him aft, and then with a desperate effort lifted the upper of his body above the pointed stern. Next moment, he fell forward on the deck and crawled to the well. He had won. He tried to shout, but could not. His heart beat like a hammer and he choked.

Pulling himself together, he seized the line at the bow, and in a few moments the anchor was on board and he picked up the pole. The punt drifted fast up channel while he headed for the bank, but he saw Jake running along the sand and presently threw the light anchor as far as he could. Jake caught the line and Jim, springing overboard, ran through the water and picked up Carrie.

He felt her tremble and kissed her as she put her arms round his neck. It did not matter it Jake saw or not. After putting her on board he jumped in and grasped the pole.

"Shove us off," he said to Jake. "I'll come back for you."

They lost the bank in the fog, and soon the pole did not touch bottom and Jim used the paddle. After a few minutes, he saw an indistinct figure, apparently in the water; and then his paddle struck sand. Jumping over, he held out his arms and did not put Carrie down until he had carried her some distance from the channel. He had afterwards a hazy notion that he kissed her again. When he turned back Dick was pushing off the punt.

"I'll bring Jake; you have had enough," he said.

Jim shoved him back. "It's my job; he's my partner. Look after Carrie. Start for the marsh."

He got on board and when the punt vanished in the fog Dick turned to Carrie. "They may be ten minutes; the tide's running fast. You are wet and perhaps we had better get off."

"No," said Carrie. "I won't move until they're safe across."

Dick gave her a quick glance. She looked resolute; her voice had a strange exultant note. He was anxious to start, since he thought they might find some water in a gutter between them and land, but it was obvious that Carrie could not be persuaded. Presently the punt came across and the others got out.

"Have you been here long?" Jim asked when he had driven the anchor into the sand.

"No," said Dick. "I fired the gun as soon as I arrived. The punt was on your side, I imagined you were about, and I can't swim much. I'd seen the punt before. I went to meet Jake and Carrie, but met the water. No doubt, they crossed the channel that stopped me, farther up."

Jim nodded. "Looks like that. It was a big relief when we heard you shoot. But I'm puzzled: the punt was some distance from the bank and the anchor was covered. I thought I'd carried it far enough back."

"Then you didn't move her after you pulled her up?"

"Certainly not," Jim rejoined, with some surprise. "If I'd wanted her to float, I wouldn't have bothered to drag her up over the steep mud."

"Oh, well, we must get off," said Dick, who did not want to talk about the punt. "The tide's running fast across the flats; I think we'll make for the shell ridge."

Although the fog was thick, they reached the marsh, where Dick left them. He was wet and it was some distance to Whitelees, but he would not go to Langrigg and put on dry clothes. When Jim got calm he might feel curious about the punt. Dick was not ready to satisfy his curiosity yet. He was disturbed and wanted to get away.

The others went on, and when they came down to dinner nobody looked much the worse. Jim, however, was quiet and although Carrie talked and sometimes laughed, he imagined her cheerfulness was forced. Jake alone seemed to have a good appetite and Jim was annoyed when Mrs. Winter remarked that he did not eat much. She declared the dinner was pretty good, although it had been served an hour or two late. When it was over, Jim looked at the clock and proposed that they should play cards. He would sooner have gone off to the library by himself, but Jake might speculate about this and so long as they were occupied he need not talk. The others would go to bed soon, and then he could grapple with an awkward situation.

At length, Jake put down his cards. "I can't make it; you have beaten us," he said, and pushed back his chair. "If you want to see the men start to-morrow we had better go to bed."

He brought Mrs. Winter a candle and they left the hall; but Carrie stopped to pick up the cards, and Jim waited. He heard Jake say good night to his mother on the landing, and their steps died away. It was very quiet in the hall, except for the snapping of the fire; and Jim's hand trembled as he struck a match and lighted Carrie's candle. She heard him move and looked up. There was some color in her face, which cut sharply against the dark oak. Jim put the candle on the carved newel-post at the bottom of the stairs.

"I was badly scared when we found the water was round the punt," he said. "In fact, I rather lost my control."

"You were not scared for yourself and were very cool and quick," Carrie replied and forced a smile. "Perhaps some people do lose control when they are strongly moved, but you are not that kind."

Jim gave her a keen glance. It looked as if she meant to persuade him that he had acted normally, but this was ridiculous. Perhaps she meant to hint that his rashness must not be talked about. Coolness was hard, but he was honest and there was something to be said.

"I wonder whether you know I am going to marry Evelyn?" he remarked.

She met his glance. "Yes, Jim; I knew some time since. It doesn't matter that you told nobody. Well, she's beautiful and very charming." She moved, and taking the candle from the post, calmly looked back at him. "Of course, you're going to marry Evelyn! But the others have gone, and I'm tired. Good night."

He let her go, and when she went up the shallow stairs, crossed the floor to the hearth. There was a looking-glass close by and he started as he saw his face. His brows were knitted and his mouth was set. Carrie was clever and while he talked to her he had looked like that! He began to see what she had meant when she said he was, of course, going to marry Evelyn.

He sat down and gazed savagely at the sinking fire. What a fool he had been! Evelyn had moved him to romantic admiration. Her beauty, her high cultivation and refinement had made a strong appeal, but he had not known that they appealed mainly to his intellect, and it counted for much that she was the first Englishwoman of her type he had met. He knew now, and saw he had deceived himself. Enlightenment had come when Carrie ran some risk of being drowned and he had taken her in his arms.

Evelyn was, so to speak, a model of perfection, worthy to be admired, but really out of his reach. In a sense, she left him cold; but Carrie was warm and loving flesh and blood. She had worked with him and cheered him in the lonely North; her small failings had a curious charm. She appealed to all that was human in him; it was ridiculous that he had imagined his love for her was brotherly.

He began to think about their last interview, when he had lighted the candle. She had said little, but she had meant much. His kissing her must be forgotten and he must marry Evelyn. Carrie wanted him to understand that she saw this and was jealous for his honor. If he drew back and broke his faith with Evelyn, she would have nothing to do with him. Moreover, it was unthinkable that he should draw back. He sat still for some time with his hands clenched and then got up abruptly and went out.

The wind the surf had threatened had come and blown back the fog. Its rude buffet braced him, the roar of the sea and wail of the trees that rolled down the slope were soothing. The moon was bright and when he saw the foam glitter in the bay his sense of rebellion began to melt. Carrie was safe; he had saved her and she had shown him his duty. Well, he was going to carry it out, and after all Evelyn's charm was strong. He had been a fool, but only Carrie knew, and Evelyn must not pay. By and by he went back to the house, calmed but not much comforted.

In the meantime, Dick reached Whitelees and did not say much about his adventure. When he had got some food he went to the smoking-room and looked for paper and a pencil. He wanted to refresh his memory of the footsteps about the punt and the marks left by the anchor line. It was important that he should do so, but although he sat for an hour, drawing rough plans of the spot, he was not satisfied. Unluckily, he could not go back to the sands in the morning and study the ground, because he had promised to join some friends in town for a week. All the same, it was some relief to put off the matter and go to bed, but he did not sleep much and felt moody when he got an early breakfast and started for the station.

CHAPTER XVI

EVELYN'S RESOLUTION FAILS

Disturbing thoughts spoiled Dick's visit to town and one morning soon after his return he went out on the sands when the tide was low. He took a note-book and a compass, and before he went walked up and down a measured distance on the lawn until he thought he knew the length of his stride. Since he was going to make some investigations that he tried to hope would banish his doubts, it was necessary to be accurate. He found the spot where Jim had left his punt; there was a little runlet of water down the bank that fixed it, and he stepped off the distance to the level sand above. Then he smoked a pipe while he tried to recapture the footsteps as he had seen them in the moonlight, and when he was roughly satisfied, went across to the creek that ran into the main channel.

He counted his steps until he reached the spot where the shadowy figure had vanished in the fog. The creek bent just there; he remembered the bend, which he had cut across, and the bank was steep. If Lance, wearing light-colored shooting clothes, had gone into the hollow, nobody could have seen him a few yards off. Dick made some notes and marked the distances, and then went back to Whitelees, feeling strangely troubled. His doubts had not vanished; they had changed to certainties.

Dick was young and often careless, but now a sense of responsibility weighed upon him. He had a liking for Jim and an affection for Carrie that might have ripened to a stronger feeling had she allowed it, and both had run some risk of being drowned. For all that, Dick could not see his way. The honor of the house must be guarded, and although he knew himself a coward he hesitated for a miserable week.

Then Jim came to Whitelees one evening when Mrs. Halliday and Dick were dining somewhere else. He stopped for two or three hours, and unluckily Evelyn was bored when he arrived and Jim was dull. He had had a disappointing day, for a sluice-gate had fallen down, a workman had got hurt, and a valuable horse had broken its leg. Jim talked about his troubles at some length while Evelyn tried to look sympathetic, and afterwards stated, with numerous particulars, his projects for improving the estate, although he carefully explained that his losing his money might prevent their being carried out. While he sketched his plans he unconsciously delineated his character, and when he went away Evelyn felt daunted.

Pulling a chair to the fire, she sat for a time trying to face a crisis she had begun to fear must come. She had thought she understood Jim and had known that when she married him she must give up much; but now she saw him as he really was. He cared nothing for amusements and not much for music and art; in fact, he had no use for the refinements and amenities that smoothed the life she enjoyed. Langrigg could not be made a center of pleasant social intercourse and perhaps political influence; Jim's wife must study economy and help to manage his farms. It was not that he was selfish. All his habits were utilitarian and he would not change. Well, she could not marry a farmer and devote herself to strenuous work. She must be amused; the life Jim had planned for her was frankly impossible. Getting up before Mrs. Halliday returned, she left word that she had a headache and went to bed.

Next morning Mordaunt came to Whitelees and found Evelyn alone. He sat down opposite with a careless smile and she noted his smooth urbanity and easy pose. Jim as a rule was restless, and highly-strung.

"Seeing Dick and your mother in the car encouraged me to call," he said. "Dick and I were staunch friends, but I didn't want to meet him. He has recently been strange."

"He has been moody since he came from town, although he was not in very good spirits the morning he left," Evelyn agreed in a thoughtful voice. "I imagine something that might account for it happened the night Jim's friends were lost on the sands."

Mordaunt felt disturbed, but Evelyn's remark stiffened his resolution. She had noted Dick's moodiness, and since the lad was suspicious he must act quickly. He might have trouble afterwards, but he would meet it when it came.

"It's possible," he said, "Dick's temperament is nervous and perhaps he had some grounds for feeling a strain. I expect you have noted that he is attracted by Miss Winter?"

"I have noted it," Evelyn admitted with an unconscious frown. "It will lead to nothing. Dick's romantic, but he is not a fool."

"He is headstrong and his own master. Miss Winter has beauty."

"For all that, it's ridiculous to imagine Dick would marry her."

"I don't know," said Mordaunt, coolly. "You are going to marry Jim."

Evelyn colored, because she knew what he meant. For the most part, the objections that could be urged against Carrie applied to Jim.

"I don't know if I'm going to marry Jim or not," she said.

Mordaunt looked hard at her and his eyes sparkled. "Ah," he said, "I imagined something like this would happen; in fact, I have waited for it. It was plain that Jim would pall. He has his virtues, but he is not the man for you."

"He has many virtues; he's big and strong and honest. It would be easier if he had some of our shabby faults. Jim's code is as rude as himself, but it's stern and he lives up to it. I don't know if I can."

"I know," said Mordaunt, smiling; "you could not! Jim is something of a savage, but all the same, he belongs to the old school and his rudeness is austere. We are modern and live on another plane. But how did you come to see the truth I've seen all along?"

"Jim showed me," Evelyn replied with some feeling. "Unconsciously, of course. He was here last evening and talked about his plans. They are good plans. Had I been different, I might have helped, but they left me out. I don't like to be left out. Am I the girl to satisfy a man who lives to farm and dig marsh drains? You know me, Lance."

"The thing is ridiculous," Mordaunt declared, and was silent for a moment or two. He did know Evelyn, and her frankness meant much. It was plain that she meant to break with Jim but felt she needed help.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said drearily. "I can't go on."

Mordaunt made a sign of sympathetic agreement. "You cannot; but there is a way out. I think you see the way. Durst I hope you'll take it with me?"

Evelyn said nothing and turned her head, and he went on: "I'm not utilitarian, and my rule is yours. We understand each other. My talents will be used to amuse you and not to dig drains." He got up and stood by her chair. "You have pluck, Evelyn. Tell Jim you have found you cheated yourself and let him go."

"I haven't much pluck," she said, quietly. "Jim rather carried me away. He stood for romance, struggle, and adventure; things I haven't known. He's a man, a plain, hot-blooded fighting man, and I was tired of conventional languidness. But I began to doubt and see I wasn't strong enough to live his life. I had wrapped myself up in flimsy artificialities until they got needful and I couldn't break loose." She paused and looked up. "Well, you are my kind, Lance, and if you want me, I am willing. I'll tell Jim, but I shrink. He may not understand, and it will hurt us both."

Mordaunt thought for a moment. It might be better if Evelyn did not tell Jim, and he was afraid Dick would meddle. He took and kissed her hand.

"My dear!" he said. "But you must not get hurt, and I have a plan. Hasn't Florence urged you to stop with her in town? Well, suppose you go and I join you there? We can be married by license and go to France or Italy. Before we come back Jim's disappointment will have cooled and our friends have got over their surprise."

Evelyn saw the plan had advantages. It would obviate the need for awkward apologies, and when she and Lance came back it would be too late for people to disapprove. She agreed and submitted without emotion when Mordaunt put his arm round her, but in spite of some regrets she was firm. Romance had been a treacherous guide; she had found this out and was logical again. When Mordaunt went away all had been arranged, and when she sat down to write to Florence in London her hand was steady and composition easy. After the note was written she hesitated for a moment, and then resolutely fastened the envelope.

A few days after Evelyn went to town, Dick, coming back from shooting one afternoon, met Tom Shanks on the marsh. When he saw the fellow his anger flared up, for he had felt his responsibility and wondered with keen disturbance what he ought to do. Although Lance was on the sands the night Carrie was nearly drowned and knew much about the matter, Dick had grounds for believing Shanks moved the punt. He had meant to be cautious and wait until he saw his way, but something in the fellow's furtive, sullen look, banished his control.

He stopped Shanks and found it a relief to let himself go. The other was cool and hinted darkly that Dick had better leave things alone. He said Dick had nothing to go upon; he had not seen Shanks near the punt, and if he went to the police about it, might get somebody else into trouble. Shanks knew what he knew, and if he were forced would tell. Dick then used tact, scoffing at the other's hints until Shanks abandoned some of his reserve, and when the stormy interview was over Dick went home moodily. The plan he had made of the marks by the punt was accurate, but the line he ought to take not yet plain. Lance was his relation.

In the evening he drove Mrs. Halliday to Dryholm, where Jim and his friends had been asked to dine. They had not arrived, and while Bernard talked to Mrs. Halliday, Dick went to the library to look at a book about sport. When he opened the door Mordaunt was writing and there was a letter, to which he seemed to be replying, on the table. He nodded and went on writing, and Dick was glad he did not want to talk. After a few minutes a car rolled up the drive and when Mordaunt fastened the envelope they heard Jim's party in the hall.

Mordaunt went down stairs and Dick, coming after, saw an envelope on the floor. Imagining Mordaunt had dropped it, he picked it up and frowned as he recognized Evelyn's hand. Mordaunt was talking to Mrs. Winter and Dick did not want to disturb them; besides, he would sooner give Lance the letter when they were alone. Then Bernard beckoned him and before long dinner was served.

Dick did not enjoy the meal. He could hardly rouse himself to talk to Carrie and when she turned to Mordaunt, the latter's careless smile as he began to joke moved him to almost uncontrollable rage. Dick was in a black mood, for the secret he carried had worn his nerves, and he did not like Evelyn's writing to Lance. He was resolved that his sister should have nothing to do with the fellow. When dinner was over he said to Mordaunt, "I'd like to see the gun you bought."

"Very well," said Mordaunt and they went to the gun-room.

The room was small. A glass case, holding guns and fishing rods, ran along one wall; a bench occupied the other. There was a plain table, stained by oil, and a fire burned in a stove with an open front, for the night was damp. A flickering glow played about the walls and shone on the greasy guns. Dick stopped Mordaunt, who put his hand on the electric-light switch.

"Never mind the light," he said, throwing a letter on the table. "You dropped this."

"I did," said Mordaunt, turning to Dick, who leaned against the table. "Imagined I'd put it in my pocket. Thank you for picking it up."

Dick thought it significant that he had not opened the case to get the new gun. Lance's voice was calm but his glance was quick. He seemed to be waiting.

"What was Evelyn writing to you about?" Dick asked.

The light from the stove touched Mordaunt's face, which hardened.

"Then, you have not read the letter?"

"You know I have not," Dick rejoined, for his control gave way at the other's taunt. Lance wanted to make him angry and find out how much he knew. Well, he should find out and Dick thought he would get a jar. "Anyhow, you must stop writing to Evelyn," he resumed. "I'd sooner you kept away from Whitelees when she comes home."

"You bore with my visits not long since. Are you afraid to state why you want them to stop?"

"Not at all," said Dick, seeing the other meant to force him to be frank; he knew Lance had pluck. "You are a clever philanderer, but Evelyn's going to marry Jim."

Mordaunt smiled, imprudently, since his smile infuriated Dick.

"Looks as if you wanted to quarrel! I imagine I shall not write to Evelyn again for some time. This ought to satisfy you. Perhaps I'm dull, but I don't know why our friendship should break off."

"You well know!" Dick exclaimed. "You meant to let Jim drown not long since!"

"You're a theatrical fool," Mordaunt remarked, coolly, although his voice was rather hoarse. "Anyhow, I think you're sober and you have made a statement that must be justified."

"I'm willing to justify it, if you force me," Dick declared. "But I'd sooner you admitted the thing and left the neighborhood, without an awkward explanation. If you go at once and don't come back, it's perhaps not needful the others should know why you went. You can live in town; I don't care where you live, so long as you don't see Evelyn again."

He stopped and his face got very red, for the door opened and Mrs. Halliday and Bernard came in.

"I imagined we would find you here, but it looks as if you were quarreling," Bernard remarked.

"We were quarreling," Dick admitted with strange calm, for he was relieved that a chance to get rid of his load had come. It was his duty to tell Jim and Bernard and he had been afraid. Now he could leave matters to the head of the house.

"You are hot-blooded, Dick, but I don't imagine you would get angry about nothing. May I inquire the grounds for the dispute?"

"I'll tell you if you will send for Jim. The thing touches him."

Bernard pressed an electric bell and Mordaunt said: "You will be very sorry for this, Dick."

The bell rang and when a servant came Bernard said, "Tell Mr. Dearham we would like to see him here."

CHAPTER XVII

DICK'S ACCUSATION

The party in the gun-room were silent while they waited for Jim. Mrs. Halliday glanced at the others curiously and got a sense of strain. Dick, looking disturbed but resolute, leaned against the table opposite Mordaunt, whose face was rather white; Bernard occupied the bench by the wall and his look was inscrutable. All was very quiet except for the snapping of the stove and the occasional rattle of a cinder falling through the bars. It was something of a relief when Jim came in and Bernard turned on the light.

"Sit down, Jim," he said. "Dick has something to tell us that he thinks you ought to hear. He hints that it is important."

"It is important," Dick replied. "The thing has weighed on me for some time. In fact, the load is too heavy and I feel I must get rid of it. I want to hand over my responsibility, and you are the head of the house, sir."

"Very well," said Bernard. "The post has drawbacks. You had better go on."

"Then I'll begin some time since; the night Lance and I met Jim at the telegraph shack. We talked about England and Jim asked if we knew Langrigg. There was an old French romance on a shelf and Lance read a passage. He studied the book when Jim left the shack, and I found out afterwards that Franklin Dearham's name was written across the front page. You see what this implies, sir?"

"You mean Lance knew who Jim was, although you did not. When did you find out?"

"I picked up the book one day at Langrigg. Lance was there. He admitted that he had seen the writing at the telegraph shack."

Jim turned to Mordaunt sharply. "Then, you meant to let me stay in Canada!"

"I did," said Mordaunt, who addressed Bernard. "I thought it would be better for Jim and us if he did not know Langrigg was his. I have not changed my views about it since."

"That has been rather obvious," Bernard remarked and asked Dick: "Why did you keep the thing dark?"

"I was afraid to meddle; the matter was awkward. Besides, until recently, I trusted Lance. I thought his antagonism sprang from an honest prejudice."

"Perhaps it was honest! Are you willing to state the grounds you had for trying to keep Jim out of the country, Lance?"

"No grounds would justify his robbing Jim of his inheritance," Mrs. Halliday interposed.

Mordaunt smiled. "I was not scrupulous but imagine my plot is condemned mainly because it failed. I did not think Jim was the man to own Langrigg. His education, character, and the life he had led, did not fit him for the position; it was plain that he would rule Langrigg like a Canadian industrialist and break all our traditions. Right or wrong, I took some thought for the honor of the house."

"I am the head of the house and was an industrialist," said Bernard dryly. "You talk as if you belonged to the old school, but you do not go far enough back. The men who built Langrigg were plain fighting farmers." He signed to Dick. "Go on!"

"When Jim's car was upset I suspected Shanks was somehow accountable for the accident."

"He was accountable," Jim said grimly; "I didn't know you knew this. But one must be just. Lance lifted the wheel off my body at some risk to himself."

"That is so," Dick agreed. "I think he took advantage of it afterwards; I mean he knew we would remember he had saved your life. It was a generous impulse, but that was all."

"I imagine Lance's character is too complex for your study," Bernard remarked. "Tell us about his deeds."

"Not long since, I was coming home in the dark when I found Lance talking to Tom Shanks in the wood. Lance said he had caught the fellow poaching, and I thought it strange they should talk quietly. I suspected he wanted me to tell Jim, but I did not. His grudge against Jim had been getting worse."

"When did you find Lance talking to Shanks?" Bernard asked, and smiled rather curiously when Dick replied, for he remembered his visit to the lawyer. Lance had known about the visit.

"Ah," he said, "I begin to see a light! But go on, Dick; I expect you have now cleared the ground."

"Dick has missed his vocation; he ought to have been a barrister," Mordaunt remarked.

"I'm trying to be just to you and Jim," Dick resumed. "I have shirked my duty; I trusted you, Lance, and when I found you out it hurt."

"You trusted me until you found Jim was the better man! Well, it looks as if others had copied your example," Mordaunt rejoined.

Bernard made an impatient sign and Dick resumed: "I've been leading to the night Jim and Carrie were nearly drowned. You all know I was on the sands. Well, I came to Jim's punt when he had left her and gone to look for the geese." Dick paused and taking out a plan that he put on the table, addressed Jim: "You dragged the punt up the bank and carried out the anchor. Is this sketch of the spot accurate?"

Mordaunt moved abruptly, but controlled himself and stood very quiet; Jim picked up the paper and his face got dark.

"So far as I remember, it is accurate."

"Did you pull the punt down again, or move the anchor?"

"I did not. I was puzzled when I found her floating and the anchor covered."

Dick gave Bernard the plan. "The punt ought not to have floated before Jim got back. You will note the rows of dots. They stand for footsteps. The first was Jim's; then Shanks came and pulled the punt back into the channel—I saw the mark of the rollers, leading up and down. It is plain he wanted to leave Jim on the middle sand when the tide rose."

"How did you know the steps were Shanks'?" Bernard asked.

"The night was very cold, sir, but he was bare-footed."

"Your surmise is, no doubt, right. Anybody else would have worn boots or waders. But there are three rows of tracks."

Dick hesitated, then answered quietly: "The last were Lance's. He passed the punt close; I don't know if he touched her, but it was plain that she would soon float and Jim was not about."

"This is frankly unthinkable, Dick!" Mrs. Halliday exclaimed.

For a moment or two the others were silent and their attitudes indicated that the strain was heavy. Mrs. Halliday's face was flushed, Jim's was very stern, and Bernard knitted his brows. Dick and Mordaunt stood motionless but tense at opposite ends of the table.

"Your statement is very grave, Dick," Bernard remarked. "Are you persuaded the steps were Lance's?"

"I knew the marks of his fishing brogues, and saw him a short distance off. I think he saw me, because he vanished; he went down into the hollow of the creek, where I have drawn a ring. I went afterwards and carefully examined the ground. I think that is all, sir."

"It is enough," said Bernard, very dryly. "You imply that Lance knew Jim might be cut off by the tide and refused to meddle? But you take something for granted. Why do you imagine Jim's danger was plain to Lance, if it was not then plain to you? You went away."

"I knew Carrie and Jake were farther out on the sands, and came back as soon as possible. I fired my gun to warn Jim. Lance did nothing but went off; he tried to hide from me."

Bernard made a sign of agreement and then inquired: "Why have you been frank about it now, after saying nothing for some time?"

"I'd sooner not reply, sir. The thing mainly touches Lance and me."

"His horrible treachery touches us all," Mrs. Halliday declared. "If it were known, we should be forced to leave the neighborhood. We could not face a scandal like this."

"I imagine it will not be known," Bernard remarked with an ironical smile, and turned to Mordaunt. "Have you anything to state?"

"I might urge that I risked getting badly hurt when I lifted the car off Jim, and that I did not move his punt."

"You consented to its being moved," Dick broke in.

Bernard stopped him and Mordaunt resumed: "It is plain that you have judged me. Dick brings no proof of his statements; but we will let this go. There is obviously no use in my denying his tale. Suppose I admit that it's correct?"

"Jim is the injured party. He must choose our line."

"There is only one line," Jim replied. "This thing cannot be talked about. Lance knows we know I cannot punish him in any lawful way; but if he stops at Dryholm, I'll use the backwoods plan. Well, I give him a week to go."

Bernard nodded and looked at his watch. "A week is too long! If you pack quickly, Lance, you can get the express to town. Anyhow, you will leave Dryholm as soon as the car is ready. But I must be just, and since you might have made your mark in a useful profession had I not allowed you to think you would inherit part of my estate, I will tell my lawyers to pay you a sum quarterly. If you come back to Cumberland, the payments will stop."

Mordaunt made a sign of agreement, and glanced at Dick.

"You have won, but I doubt if you have much ground for satisfaction," he said and went out.

Dick was vaguely puzzled, but when the door shut the others were conscious of keen relief. They waited until Mordaunt's steps died away and then Bernard got up.

"What has happened to-night is done with; I think you understand," he said, and turned to Mrs. Halliday. "We will join our friends, and if they wonder why we have been absent so long, we will leave you to satisfy their curiosity."

They found the others in the drawing-room, but although Mrs. Halliday began to talk and Bernard was now and then ironically humorous, Dick was quiet and Jim rather stern. All were ready to go when Mrs. Halliday got up, but Bernard kept Carrie a moment when the Langrigg car throbbed at the steps.

"This house is big and empty, my dear," he said. "If Jim is not very much occupied, you will bring him now and then."

Carrie wondered when the car rolled off. Bernard had pressed her hand and his voice was gentle. She blushed, for his imagining she could persuade Jim was significant, but it was puzzling. He knew Jim was going to marry Evelyn.

Presently Jim stopped the car, and getting down beckoned Jake.

"You can drive home, Carrie," he said. "There's something we must look after but we won't be long."

Carrie started the car and when it rolled away Jake looked at his comrade. Jim wore thin shoes and a light coat over his dinner jacket; the road was wet and the low ground dotted by shining pools. It was some time after high-water and a gentle breeze blew across the marsh. A half-moon shone between slowly-drifting clouds.

"I suppose you mean to see Shanks," Jake remarked. "On the whole, it might be wiser to send him notice to quit. You can't put the police on his track."

"I'm going to see him. If I hadn't been able to swim well, Carrie would have been drowned."

"For that matter, we would all have been drowned," Jake said dryly.

"It's a curious argument for leaving Shanks alone. I suspected we took some chances when we blew up the dabbin."

"You blew up the dabbin," Jake rejoined.

"Anyhow, Carrie had nothing to do with the thing, and she ran the worst risk when we were on the sands. It was hard to hold myself when I thought about it. I was forced to let Mordaunt go, but my grounds for sparing him don't apply to Shanks."

"You haven't even a stick and the fellow has a gun."

"I've got my hands," said Jim. "If I can get hold of Tom Shanks, I won't need a gun. But I've no use for talking. Come along!"

They made for a ridge of high ground that dropped to the marsh, and presently stopped outside the Bank-end Cottage. All was dark and nobody moved when Jim beat on the door.

"Shanks is sleeping pretty sound if that doesn't waken him," he said. "Bring the net-beam. We'll break in."

Jake picked up a thick wooden bar, and when the door gave way they plunged into the kitchen and Jim struck a match. The house was horribly dirty, and old clothes, empty cartridges, brass snares, and fishing lines lay about, as if Shanks had hurriedly sorted his belongings and left those he did not want. They found nobody when they went upstairs.

"Lance has been here before us," Jim remarked. "The curious thing is, Shanks had two big duck-guns and has moved some truck although he couldn't get a cart."

"He had his shooting punt and the tide hasn't left the creek yet," said Jake, and they ran across the marsh.

When they stopped at a muddy pool the punt had gone, but there were fresh footmarks on the bank; and Jim set off again.

"The creek winds and he must shove her across the mud in places," he said. "My punt's on the sands. If we are quick, we might head him off."

They stumbled among reeds and rushes, and fell into pools, and were wet when they reached a hollow at the edge of the sands. The bank was steep, but the tide had not left the channel, and Jim, plunging in, pulled up the punt's anchor. Then he stood on deck, using the pole, while Jake paddled. The tide was running out and they drove the punt furiously past belts of mud and sandy shoals, but the bank was high and they could not see across. Shanks, however, was not in front; Jim imagined he had come down another gutter that joined the channel farther on. They must try to get there first.

"Keep it up!" he shouted, as he bent over the pole. "In five minutes we'll be round the bend and can see the bay."

Jake braced himself for an effort and the water foamed about the punt's low bow. Floating weed and scum sped past; the bank was dropping to the level of the flats and its wet slope sparkled in the moonlight. Jake saw the sandy point that marked the bend and resolved to hold out until they reached the spot.

They shot round the bend, and Jim threw down his pole. In front lay a broad expanse of sand, broken by belts of shining water. A flock of oyster-catchers, screaming noisily, circled about the foreground; but this was all.

"Shove her in!" Jim shouted. "I reckon Shanks hasn't made the meeting of the channels. We'll strike across the flat."

The sand was soft and they labored hard. When they were halt-way across, a low, dark object rose above the edge of the bank. It was roughly triangular and moving fast.

"Shanks's punt!" said Jake. "He has set the little black lugsail and the wind's fair. You can't head him off."

"I'm going to try," said Jim, who was now some yards in front; and they pushed on.

They were exhausted when they stopped beside a belt of sparkling water, and Jim cried out hoarsely and clenched his fist. The channel was wider than he had thought, and near the other bank a punt was running down with the tide. One could hardly see her low, gray hull, but the tanned lugsail cut sharply against the bank, and its slant and the splash of foam at the bows indicated speed. Shooting punts are not built to carry canvas, but they sail fast in smooth water when the wind is fair.

"We're too late; I don't know if I'm sorry," Jake remarked with labored breath. "My notion is, Shanks has pulled out for good, and nobody is going to miss him much. Wind's off the land, water's smooth, and the tide will run west for three or four hours. He'll be a long way down the coast before it turns. In the meantime, we're some distance from Langrigg and it looks as if you had lost your shoe."

"So I have!" said Jim. "Guess it came off when I was plowing through the mud. Well, let's get home. Shanks has gone and he'll find trouble waiting if he comes back."

They set off. Both were wet and dirty, and when they reached Langrigg Jim's foot was sore.

CHAPTER XVIII

JIM'S RELEASE

On the morning after his pursuit of Shanks, Jim was conscious of a flat reaction. Dick's story and the excitement of the chase had helped him to forget his troubles, but now he was cool they returned. He had promised to marry Evelyn and found out, too late, that he loved another. There was no use in railing at his folly, although this was great, and it was futile to wonder how he had so grossly misunderstood his feelings. Evelyn was all he thought her, but romantic admiration and respect for her fine qualities were not love. The important thing was that she held his promise and he must make it good.

There was no other way. Carrie knew he loved her, but she had shown him his duty. If he drew back and broke with Evelyn, he would earn her contempt; Carrie was very staunch and put honor first. Anyhow, he was going to draw back; he had been a fool, but he could pay. The trouble was, Evelyn was clever and might find him out. His face went grim as he thought about it; the strain of pretending, the effort to be kind. For all that, the effort must be made, and perhaps by and by things would be easier.

For a week he was quiet and moody and tried to occupy himself at the dyke. The evenings were the worst, because it soon got dark and he must talk to Jake and Carrie and try to look calm. Then he was puzzled about other things. Evelyn had gone to London and had not written to him. A few days afterwards, Dick, too, went to town, and Mrs. Halliday did not know why he had gone. Jim thought this strange, but it was not important.

Coming home one evening from the marsh, he found Dick with the others in the hall. It was nearly dark, but there was a bright fire and Carrie was making tea. Dick kneeled on the rug, toasting muffins on a long fork, and laughed when Carrie bantered him about being afraid to scorch his hands. Jim envied Dick, and remembered with poignant regret the days when he had helped Carrie by the camp-fire in the woods. Then Dick looked up and Jim thought him embarrassed.

"Hallo, Dick!" he said. "When did you get back?"

Dick said he arrived in the morning, and Jim asked if he had met Evelyn in town.

"I did," Dick replied. "She was pretty well, but it's two or three days since. She said she'd write to you."

Jim nodded. Dick's voice was careless, but Jim thought his carelessness was forced. Then he turned to Carrie. "Did the postman call?"

"Yes," said Carrie. "Your mail is on the table."

Jim got the letters and lighting a lamp sat down in an easy-chair. The envelope with the London postmark was from Evelyn, but he would sooner read her note when he was alone. He opened another and presently looked up.

"Martin has written to me from Vancouver. The Irrigation Company has won the lawsuit and proved its claim to the water-rights. The shares are going up again, and Martin's hopeful about the future. I can sell out for face value, but he urges me to hold."

"Ah," said Carrie, "that's good news! You can trust Martin. I expect the company has straightened up because they made him a director."

"It's very possible. He sends your mother and you greetings and hopes you haven't forgotten him."

"One doesn't forget men like that," Carrie replied. "Martin's all white; clever and strong and straight. But doesn't this mean you have got over your troubles?"

"I suppose I can go ahead with the dykes," said Jim.

He was quiet afterwards and let the others talk, until Carrie got up and went away with Mrs. Winter and Jake. When the door shut Dick looked up.

"Has Evelyn written to you?"

"Yes," said Jim. "I haven't read her note yet."

"I don't know if that is strange or not, but perhaps you had better read it. I expect it will clear the ground for me and I have something to say."

Jim opened the envelope and braced himself, for he was half-ashamed of the satisfaction he got from the first few lines; moreover, he did not want Dick to know what he felt. Evelyn was apologetic, but she set him free.

"I thought I loved you, Jim," she said. "I wanted to be brave and simple, but found it would cost too much. Now I hope you won't be hurt, and by and by perhaps you will be glad I let you go. You will go far, Jim, with your large stride, fronting the storms you love; but I could not have taken your path. Mine must be sheltered and smooth——"

There was more, for Evelyn wrote with some feeling in a romantic strain, but Jim had read enough. His look was puzzled as he turned to Dick.

"Your sister has turned me down," he said. "The grounds she gives are good enough. I imagine you knew?"

"I did know. I suspected for some time that she would do so, but she did not tell me until I was in town."

"Then I don't understand——"

Dick hesitated before he replied: "Lance said something at Dryholm that I thought ominous. He declared I'd be sorry, and I bothered about it for a day or two. Then I saw a light and got the next train to town. He meant that he was going to marry Evelyn."

"That's unthinkable! Besides, Evelyn was then pledged to marry me."

"It looks as if you didn't know Lance yet; I'm not sure you altogether know Evelyn. Anyhow, I saw her and stopped the thing. I think she got a bad jolt when I told her about the punt."

Jim looked at the date on the note. "When did you see her?"

Dick told him and he pondered. Then he said, "She wrote to me after she knew about the punt, although you imply that she agreed to marry Lance before. It's puzzling."

"I've got to be frank," Dick replied. "Evelyn is not like Carrie; she takes the easiest line. I Imagine she meant to say nothing until she had quietly married Lance. Then we'd have been forced to accept the situation." He paused and his face got red as he resumed: "I'm thankful I was not too late, but I'm sorry I could not find Lance."

Jim was silent for a time. He had believed in Evelyn after illumination had come on the sands. Although he knew his imagination had cheated him, he owned her charm and his respect for her was strong. Now he had got a jar. Evelyn was not the girl he had thought; it looked as if she were calculating, unscrupulous, and weak. If she had let him go before she had agreed to marry Lance, he could have forgiven her much. He was savage with himself. It was for Evelyn's sake he had lost Carrie, who was tender, brave, and staunch.

By and by he roused himself and asked: "Have you told your mother?"

"I have not. I felt I was forced to tell you, but it would be better that nobody else should know. Florence, with whom Evelyn stayed, will not talk."

Jim nodded. "You can trust me, Dick. The statements in this letter are enough; Evelyn imagined she could not be happy with me, and she was, no doubt, right!"

"You're a good sort, Jim," said Dick with some embarrassment. "It's not strange you feel sore. It cost me something to be frank; apologizing for one's sister is hard."

"It's done with," Jim said quietly, and as Dick got up a servant came in with a pink envelope.

"A telegram for Mr. Halliday," she said. "As Mrs. Halliday was not at home, the gardener brought it on."

The servant went out and Dick laughed harshly when he read the telegram.

"Evelyn was married this morning, but not to Lance," he said. "Well, I expect mother will be satisfied. From one point of view, the marriage is good."

"Then, you know the man?" said Jim, who sympathized with Dick's' bitterness.

"I do," said Dick, very dryly. "He's rich and getting fat, but on the whole, I imagine he's as good a husband as Evelyn deserves. I sometimes thought he wanted her and she quietly held him off; it looks as if she had lost no time now." He paused and the blood came to his skin as he resumed: "I'm breaking rules, this is rotten bad form, but you ought to be thankful you hadn't the misfortune to marry into our family."

Jim put his hand on the other's arm. "Stop it, Dick! You have been honest and we are friends. But I think you have said enough."

"Then give me a drink and let me go. I need bracing; the thing has knocked me off my balance."

"Here you are," said Jim, who went to a cupboard, and Dick lifted his glass.

"Good luck, Jim! You are lucky, you know. But if you're not a fool, you'll marry Carrie Winter."

He went out and Jim sat down again, looking straight in front, with knitted brows. He did not know how long he mused, but he got up abruptly when Carrie came in. She glanced at him curiously when he indicated a chair, and for a few moments he stood opposite, irresolute and frowning. Then he gave her Evelyn's note.

"After all, there is no reason you shouldn't read this," he said.

Carrie took the note and Jim thought her hand trembled when she returned it.

"I'm sorry, Jim!"

"I don't want you to be sorry; I want you to understand. Evelyn married somebody else this morning. Dick got a telegram."

"Ah," said Carrie, "I suppose it hurt?"

"Let's be frank! It couldn't hurt my vanity, because I had none left. For all that, I got a knock. You see, I trusted Evelyn, and after the night on the sands felt myself a shabby cur; but I meant to keep my promise."

Carrie's face flushed delicately, although her voice was calm as she said, "I did not trust Evelyn. The trouble was, I couldn't warn you."

"Yet you wanted to warn me? Oh, I know! You have stood between me and trouble before, but this job was too big. It was not your pluck that failed; you knew my obstinacy——"

He stopped and Carrie was silent. He moved a few paces and came back.

"Can't you speak?" he asked.

"What am I to say, Jim?"

"Well," he said hoarsely, "if you won't talk, you can listen. You have borne with my moods and I've got to let myself go now or be quiet for good; I'm something of a savage, but I've had to fight for all I wanted and winning made me proud. It gave me a ridiculous confidence. Well, I expect I reached the top of my folly when I got Evelyn. Then our adventure on the sands knocked me flat; I knew myself a despicable fool. I'd taken the best you had to give; let you nurse me when I was sick, and cook for me in the woods. I knew your worth and chose Evelyn! Then, when I'd promised to marry her, I took you in my arms and kissed you!"

"Yet you meant to marry her; that was rather fine, Jim," said Carrie quietly.

"I don't know if it was fine or not; it might have made bad worse. Besides, you showed me you would be firm, although you knew I loved you."

"Yes; I did know. You made good in Canada; I wanted you to make good at Langrigg."

Jim thrilled with strong emotion. "Oh, my dear! My staunch and generous dear! But I'm going to put your generosity to another test. I ought to have gone away and made things easier for you; I ought to have waited, to save your pride, but it would have been too hard. Well, I'm taking a horribly wrong line, but I want you, and you know me for what I am. If you think I'm too mean, I'll sell Langrigg and go away for good."

Carrie got up and looked at him with steady eyes. Then her face softened and she gave him a tender smile.

"You are rather foolish, Jim, but you mean well and I am satisfied."

He stood still for a moment, as if he doubted what he had heard, and she said quietly, "If my pride needed saving, it would be very small."

"My dear!" he said, and took her in his arms.

A few minutes afterwards, Jake and Mrs. Winter came in and Jim remarked: "You have owned you like the Old Country and I've urged you to stay."

"When the dykes are finished we must go," Mrs. Winter replied. "You are kind, but we know where we belong——"

She stopped and looked sharply at Carrie, who stood by Jim and smiled. Her color was high and her face and pale-green dress cut against the background of somber oak. Her pose was graceful but proud. Jim remembered her coming down the stairs on her first evening in the house; she had looked like that then. Somehow one felt she was there by right.

"If you go, you must leave me," she said. "I belong to Langrigg and Jim."

Mrs. Winter advanced and kissed her and Jake gave Jim his hand. "For a time, it looked as if we were going to lose you, partner. Still I felt you would come back to us."

"I don't know if I've come back or gone forward," Jim rejoined. "All that's important is, Carrie and I go on together."

For half an hour they engaged in happy talk and when, after dinner, Carrie and Jim were again alone, she said, "You have forgotten something. Oughtn't we to tell Bernard?"

"Of course," Jim agreed. "Somehow I think he'd like it if you wrote the note."

Carrie sent him for a pen and soon after he came back fastened and gave him the envelope.

"I suppose I ought to feel nervous, but I don't," she said. "I was never afraid of Bernard."

Next evening Bernard came to dinner. Jim and his party met him in the hall, but he signed the others back when Carrie gave him her hand.

"I am the head of the house and claim my right," he said and kissed her. "Some day Jim will take my place and I think he will fill it well."

Carrie blushed, but Jim noted with a thrill of pride that she carried herself finely. He thought she understood that Bernard had formally acknowledged her. It was strange to know this was the girl who had made his bread and mended his clothes in the woods, but after all, the difference was only in her surroundings. Carrie had not changed.

"I don't mind confessing I plotted for this," Bernard resumed with a twinkle, and took a leather box from his pocket. He opened the box and a row of green jewels set in rough gold sparkled in the light.

"My wife last wore them; they were my grandmother's, and date farther back," he said. "Now they are yours, and I would like you to put them on."

Carrie stood quiet for a moment, with the jewels in her hand, while her color came and went. For all that, she looked calm and rather proud. She remembered that Bernard had not given the necklace to Evelyn.

"I have not worn such things, and I am the first of my kind to put on these stones," she said.

Bernard bowed. "Brave and good women have worn them. I have studied human nature and give them to you. This is not altogether because you are going to marry Jim."

Carrie drew the stones round her neck and fastened the clasp. The blood came to her skin and she looked strangely vivid, but in a moment or two her glance became soft.

"You are kind and your trust means much," she said. "For one thing, it means I must make good. Jim's inheritance must be managed well. We will try to rule at Langrigg as his people ruled."

THE END