Next morning Festing got breakfast early and set off down the dale. This was not the way Muriel had indicated, but he thought it better to avoid temptation. The girls had received him graciously at the farm and had perhaps listened with unusual patience, but if he overtook them in the morning the thing might look too marked. Besides, he doubted if it was advisable that Helen should see him again so soon, since he might remind her of matters she wished to forget.

The self-denial cost him something, and he went down the dale irresolutely, stopping once or twice to look back. It was annoying to feel himself so weak, because he had seldom vacillated in Canada, but had chosen the proper line and then stuck to it. As a matter of fact, he had generally had a definite object and definite plans for its attainment. Although he had an object now, he was otherwise at a loss.

He meant to marry Helen. Life was strenuous on the plains, and at first there might be hardships, but if she loved him she would not flinch. Her portrait had not done her justice; he dwelt upon her fearless confidence as she came down the screes, her light, sure step, and agile pose. These things indicated strength of mind and body, and he knew, if the need came, she would make good use of both.

By and by he thought of Charnock with keener anger than he had yet felt. Bob was a weak fool and something worse. He had broken the promise and then tricked his friend. The fellow's character was warped; he could not go straight, but tried to escape the consequences of his folly in a maze of crooked ways. The worst was that consequences could not be shirked. If the real offender avoided them, they fell upon somebody else, and now Festing had to pay. Bob had prejudiced him with Helen. She would probably never quite forget that he knew what she had suffered.

Then he remembered that he had meant to spend a week or two in London, and made his way towards a valley through which a railway ran. Although he wanted to see Helen, he was half afraid, and imagined that the longer he waited the less risk he would run of his society jarring. Next day he left the hills, but did not greatly enjoy his visit to town. London was much like Montreal, where the buildings were as fine, only they did not dig up so many streets and fill the air with cement from the towering blocks of new offices. The English liked permanence, while the Canadians altered their cities from day to day. Besides he wanted to go back to the North as soon as it was prudent.

On the evening of his return it rained hard and he talked to Muriel in her drawing-room. He liked Muriel Gardiner and she frankly enjoyed his society. It did not matter that she sometimes seemed to find him amusing when he was serious. A fire burned in the grate, for the summer evening was cold, his low chair was comfortable, and Muriel, holding a fan to shield her face, sat opposite in the soft light of a shaded lamp that left much of the room in shadow. The circle of subdued illumination gave one a pleasant feeling of seclusion and made for mutual confidence, but Festing was silent for a time, thinking rather hard.

He was getting used to English comforts, which did not seem so enervating as he had imagined, but he could give them up, and would, indeed, be forced to do so when he occupied his prairie homestead. A man could go without much that people in England required, and be the better for the self-denial, but it might be different for a girl. Long habit might make comfort and artistic surroundings actual necessities. It was, however, encouraging to remember Helen's cheerfulness as she led him among the crags in the rain. She had pluck and could bear fatigue and hardship. Besides, there need not be much hardship after all.

Presently Muriel gave him a careless glance. “Helen told me she met you in the hills and you came over to the hall where she and Alison Jardine stopped. Now you have had an opportunity of correcting your first impression, what do you think of her?”

“What I have always thought,” Festing replied.

Muriel looked at him with surprise, and then laughed. “Oh, yes; I remember you saw her portrait first. Well, you have more imagination than I thought. But I understand you didn't see Helen again, although she and Alison went over part of the route I marked out for you.”

Festing thought her manner was too careless, and felt suspicious, but he said: “I changed my plans. I thought it might look significant if I overtook the girls. One doesn't expect an accident to happen twice.”

“Perhaps you did the proper thing. But did you want to overtake them?”

“I did,” said Festing quietly. “Still I felt I'd better not.”

Muriel was silent for a few moments, and then remarked: “Self-denial such as you practised deserves a reward, and I met Mrs. Dalton while you were away. She asked me to bring you over when you came back. I suppose you know what she wants?”

“Yes,” said Festing, who looked disturbed. “Do you?”

“Mrs. Dalton told me. You helped George when he needed help, although he had no particular claim.”

“He was ill and unfit for hard work.”

“Was that the only difficulty?”

“I don't see what you mean,” said Festing, with some embarrassment.

“Then I'll be frank. In what kind of company did you find the lad? You see, I know something about him.”

“If you insist, he'd got into bad hands.”

“That was what I suspected, and I think Mrs. Dalton knows. George was not very steady when he was at home and got into some trouble before he left the office of a civil engineer. In fact, this was why he went to Canada.”

“But I don't see what it has to do with me.”

“I wonder whether you are as dull as you pretend. George is Mrs. Dalton's only son; although he had faults she and Helen are very fond of him. Now it would have been something if you had merely helped him out of a difficulty, but you did much more. You gave him his chance of making up for past follies. He has been steady ever since, and I understand is now getting on very well. It looks as if you had used some moral influence.”

“I didn't try,” said Festing dryly, “I gave him his job and told him I'd have him fired if he shirked.”

“You didn't consciously try, but it's possible to influence people without knowing. However, as Mrs. Dalton has too much tact to overwhelm you by her gratitude, you needn't be afraid of going to the Scar with me, although you seem to hesitate about meeting Helen.”

Festing, who pondered for a few moments, felt that the girl was studying him. She had shown a rather embarrassing curiosity, but he though she meant to be his friend.

“Did you know Miss Dalton was in the mountains when you planned my walking tour?” he asked.

“I did know,” said Muriel with a direct glance. “Perhaps I was rash, but if so, I'm not afraid to own my fault. I suppose you understand why I sent you where I did?”

“In one way, your object's plain. For all that, I'm puzzled.”

Muriel smiled. “As Helen is my friend, you ought to be flattered. Doesn't it look as if I was satisfied with you?”

“We'll let that go. You took something for granted. I suppose you see you might have been mistaken about my feelings?”

“Then no harm would have been done,” Muriel rejoined, and putting down her fan, gave him a steady look. “Was I mistaken?”

“You were not,” said Festing quietly. “I mean to marry Miss Dalton if she is willing. I'm anxious to know what chance I've got.”

“I can't tell you that. Perhaps I have gone far enough; but George's reformation is a good certificate of your character, and Helen and her mother owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Festing colored rather angrily. “My helping the lad was, so to speak, an accident; I don't want to be judged by this, and won't urge the debt. Miss Dalton must take me on my merits.”

“You have pluck; it's a bold claim,” said Muriel in a dry tone, and then got up as Gardiner and the curate came in.

Next day Festing went to the Scar, and when Mrs. Dalton received him she put her hand gently on his arm. She said enough, but not too much, and he was moved as he saw the moisture glisten in her eyes.

“I don't deserve this,” he answered awkwardly. “I found the lad in some trouble, but hadn't to make much effort to help him out. In fact, it was the kind of thing one does without thinking and forgets.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Dalton, “the consequences of one's deeds follow one, whether they're good or bad.” Then she gave him a very friendly smile. “But perhaps we had better join the rest outside.”

Festing found Helen in the garden with her aunt and some friends, but the others left them by and by, and they walked alone among the flowers. The day was calm, the light clear, and the shadow of the dark beeches on the hill crept slowly across the lawn. Beyond a low hedge, woods, smooth pastures, and fields of ripening corn rolled back and melted into the blue shadow beneath the rugged fells. It seemed to Festing that the peaceful sylvan landscape was touched by a glamour that centered in the fresh beauty of the girl. Sometimes they were silent, and sometimes they talked about the mountains, but when they went back to the house he thought they had got nearer.

He returned to the Scar without Muriel a week later, and went again, and one evening stood with Helen on the terrace. Gentle rain had fallen for most of the day, but it had stopped, and a band of pale-saffron glimmered under heavy clouds in the West. Moisture dripped from the motionless branches and the air was hot. The lamps had just been lighted in the house and a yellow glow streamed out.

“I've stayed longer than I meant and forgot my lamp,” Festing remarked. “However, this has happened before, and I hope I haven't stayed longer than I ought.”

“We will let you go now,” said Helen. “For one thing, I must get up early.”

“Eight o'clock?” Festing suggested.

“No,” said Helen, smiling. “I am always up before, but it will be six o'clock to-morrow. I want to gather some mushrooms; they ought to be plentiful after a day like this.”

“Is six o'clock a particularly suitable time?”

“Five o'clock might be better. If you don't go early, you often find that somebody has been round the fields first.”

Festing asked where she expected to find the mushrooms, and when she told him said, “Very well; I'll meet you. It only means half an hour's journey on your fine English road; that is, if the bicycle holds up.”

“But why do you want to gather mushrooms?”

“I don't want to gather mushrooms. I really want to see you where I think you belong.”

“In the fields?” Helen suggested humorously.

“No,” said Festing. “I don't mean in the fields. I've seen you in the afternoon when the sun's on the ripening corn and the leaves are dark and thick, but they stand for fulfilment, and that's not your proper setting. Once or twice I've stopped until evening, but you don't belong to the dusk.”

“Then where do I belong?”

“To the sunrise, when the earth is fresh and the day is getting bright. Promise is your sign; fulfilment hasn't come.”

Helen colored, and as she turned her head it struck her as portentous that she glanced towards the saffron streak that glimmered in the West. When she looked back, however, her face was calm.

“Ah!” she said, “I wonder how and where the fulfilment will come! Sometimes I think of it and feel afraid; my life has been so smooth.”

“You won't flinch if you have to bear some strain.”

Helen gave him her hand. “Well, you must go now. I will expect you to-morrow.”

She stood looking towards the fading light for some time after his figure melted into the shadows on the drive. Her heart beat and she felt a thrill, for she admitted that the man had power to move her. As yet she would not ask herself how far his power went, but she knew the question must be answered soon. Other men had flattered her, and she had smiled, knowing what their compliments were worth, but she could not smile now. Then she roused herself and went in quietly.

Festing met her next morning while the sun rose above the rounded masses of the beech wood, and entering a dewy pasture they skirted a fence half-smothered in briars. Both felt invigorated by the freshness of the morning and brushed across the sparkling grass, engaged in careless talk. By and by as Helen stooped to pick a mushroom a shrill scream came from beyond the fence, and she rose with an angry color in her face.

“Oh!” she said; “that spoils everything!”

“What is it?” Festing asked as the pitiful scream rose again.

“A rabbit, choking, in a snare,” she answered with a look of horror.

Festing leaped across a ditch and plunged into the briars. Helen heard the rotten fence-rails smash and he vanished behind the thorny branches that closed across the gap. She was glad he had gone so quickly; partly because it was her wish, and partly because she saw the cry of pain had moved him. She liked to think he was compassionate.

As a matter of fact, Festing's pity was soon mixed with rage as he came upon a scene of barbarous cruelty. Three or four rabbits lay quiet upon the grass, but there were others that struggled feebly at his approach; their eyes protruding and strangling wires cutting into their throats. He thought they were past his help, but one rolled round with half-choked screams and he ran to it first. It was difficult to hold the struggling animal while he opened the thin brass noose, but he set it free, and it lay paralyzed with fear for a few moments before it ran off.

Then he released the others as gently as he could. Their dew-draggled bodies felt cold and limp and the wire had bitten deep into the swollen flesh. Two, however, feebly crawled away and he carried another to the mouth of a burrow, after which he wiped the dew and blood from his hands, while his lips set in a firm line. He hoped he was not a sentimentalist, and admitted that man must kill to eat; moreover he had used the rifle in the Northern wilds. Once a hungry cinnamon bear had raided the camp, and he remembered a certain big bull moose. That was clean sport, for a man who faced such antagonists must shoot quick and straight, but this torturing of small defenseless creatures revolted him. Still he admitted that it might not have done so quite so much but for the pain it caused the girl.

Helen glanced at him with some surprise when he went back to the fence. She had not seen him look like that.

“I've let them go, but two or three are dead,” he remarked. “I suppose they've been lying there all night.”

“I'm afraid so. They come out to feed at dusk. It's horribly cruel.”

“It's devilish! Why don't you stop it? Is the field yours?”

“It goes with the house, and when we let the grazing I stipulated that no snares should be laid, but there was some mistake and the tenant claimed the rabbits. We said he could shoot them, and I understand he's disputing with the agent. But where are you going?”

“I'm going back to finish the job; these particular snares won't be used again. If you like, I'll come over every evening and pull the blamed things up.”

“I don't think that will be necessary,” Helen answered with a strained laugh.

She felt disturbed and excited when Festing turned away. Her life had been smooth and she did not think she had seen a man seized by savage anger; certainly not a man she knew. Festing was angry, and no doubt justly, but at the Scar the primitive vein in human nature was decently hidden. Now she did not know if she were jarred or not. Then she heard voices, and going nearer the fence, tried to see through the briars.

Festing, with a pocket-knife and some brass wire in his hand, confronted a big slouching man who carried a heavy stick and a net bag. Bits of fur stuck to the fellow's clothes and there was blood on his dirty hands. A half-grown lad with another stick waited, rather uneasily, in the background.

“What might you be doing?” the man inquired.

“I'm cutting up your snares,” Festing replied. “What have you got to say about it?”

The other gave him a slow, sullen look. “Only that you'd better leave the snares alone. How many rabbits?”

“Four,” said Festing, pulling up another snare and cutting the noose.

“Then that will be five shillings. I'll say nothing about the snares; wire's cheap.”

Festing laughed. “It's a dead bluff. Light out of this field before I put you off.”

The man hesitated, his eyes fixed on Festing's hardset face. Perhaps a way out might have been found, but the lad precipitated matters. Running to the mouth of the burrow, he picked up a half-dead rabbit that was trying to crawl away, and leered at Festing as he raised his stick. The blow was not struck, for Festing leaped across the grass and next moment the boy fell beside the burrow. He was unhurt, but too surprised to move, because he had never seen anybody move as fast as the man who threw him down.

Then Festing heard steps behind, and turned in time to guard his head with his right arm. It felt numb and he was half dazed by a shock of pain, but he struck savagely with his left hand and his knuckles jarred on bone. The other's stick dropped, and when they grappled Festing was relieved to feel his arm was not broken. His muscles were hard and well trained, his blood was hot, and a struggle of the kind was not altogether a novelty. When liquor is smuggled into a construction camp, a section boss must sometimes use physical force or relinquish his command.

He staggered and nearly fell as his leg was seized. It looked as if the lad had come to his master's help; but one could not be fastidious, and a savage backward kick got rid of the new antagonist. The other was powerful and stubborn, and Festing spent a strenuous few minutes before he threw him into the sand beside the burrow.

“I'm pretty fresh and ready to start again if you are,” he said. “Still I reckon you have had enough.”

The fellow got up scowling and told the lad to bring his bag.

“You'll hear more about this,” he rejoined and slouched off.

Festing went back, and Helen started when he jumped across the ditch. His jacket was torn, his lip was cut, and his face was bruised. He looked dishevelled, but not at all embarrassed. In fact, there was a gleam of half-humorous satisfaction in his eyes.

“The snares are all cut up,” he said. “I broke the fellow's stick and threw away the pegs.”

Helen felt a strange desire to laugh. There was something ridiculous in his naÏve triumph, but she was not really amused. In fact, her confused sensations were puzzling.

“Did you hurt him?” she asked.

“I hope so,” said Festing. “I rather think I did and don't expect he'll come back while I'm about. However, as I can't come here as often as I'd like, it might be better to see your agent. In the meantime, we'll look for some mushrooms.”

“But don't you want to bathe your face?”

“I forgot that I probably look the worse for wear,” said Festing, who wiped his cut lip. “Still if I met your mother, she might get a shock, and now I come to think of it, I'm no doubt jarring you, so I'll go off and see your agent if you'll tell me where he lives.”

“It's some distance, and we don't do things so quickly here. I must talk to my mother first. Besides, the agent may not have got up.”

“Then I'll sit on the doorstep. But what is there to talk about? You don't want your rabbits tortured so that somebody may make thirty cents apiece. It has got to be stopped, and why not stop it now? Where does the fellow live?”

Helen told him, and added: “But you can't go like that.”

“No; I suppose not,” said Festing doubtfully. “It won't make a long round if I call at Gardiner's. I'll come back later and tell you how I've fixed things up.”

He lifted his badly crushed hat, and when he turned away Helen laughed, a half-hysterical laugh. His fierce energy had, so to speak, left her breathless; she was shaken by confused emotions. It was for her sake he had plunged into the quarrel, but she felt disturbed by his savageness. For all that, something in her approved, and it was really this that troubled her. Picking up the basket, she crossed the field with a very thoughtful look.