"I do not know," answered Stane thoughtfully. "My chief captor said it was an order, but that may have been a lie; and such wildly possible reasons that I can think of are so inherently improbable that it is difficult to entertain any of them. And yet--"
He broke off, and an absent look came in his eyes. The girl waited, hoping that he would continue, and whilst she did so for one moment visioned Miskodeed in all her wild barbaric beauty and her mind, recalling Ainley's words upon the matter of the girl's relation to the man before her, wondered if there lay the reason. Stane still remained silent, showing no disposition to complete his thought; and it was the girl who broke the silence.
"You say you were waiting for a man when you were seized, Mr. Stane; tell me, was the man Gerald Ainley?"
The young man was a little startled by her question, as his manner showed; but he answered frankly: "Yes! But how did you guess that?"
Helen Yardely smiled. "Oh, that was quite easy. You were the topic of conversation at the dinner-table on the very night that you disappeared; and I gathered that to the factor you were something of a mystery, whilst no one except Mr. Ainley knew anything whatever about you. As you and he were old acquaintances, what more natural than that you should be waiting for him? I suppose he did not come?"
"If he did, I never saw him-and I waited for him two nights!"
"Two!" cried Helen. "Then he could not have wanted to come."
"I rather fancy he did not," replied Stane with a bitter laugh.
"You wished to see him very much?" asked the girl quickly. "It was important that you should?"
"I wished to question him upon a matter that was important to me."
"Ah!" said the girl in a tone that was full of significance. Stane looked at her sharply, and then asked a question:
"What are you thinking, Miss Yardely?"
"Oh, I was just thinking that I had guessed one of your wildly possible reasons, Mr. Stane; and to tell the truth, if Mr. Ainley was really anxious to avoid answering your questions, it does not seem to me so inherently improbable as you appear to think."
"What convinces you of that, Miss Yardely?"
"Well," she replied quickly, "you say the Indian told you that it was an order. I ask myself-whose order? There were very few people at Fort Malsun to give orders. I think of them in turn. The factor? You were a stranger to him! My uncle? He never heard of you except in gossip over the dinner-table the night you were deported. Gerald Ainley? He knew you! He had made appointments with you that he twice failed to keep-which, quite evidently, he had no intention of keeping. He had-may I guess?-some strong reason for avoiding you; and he is a man of some authority in the Company and moving to still greater. He would not know the Indians who actually carried you away; but Factor Rodwell would, and factors are only human, and sooner or later Gerald Ainley will be able to considerably influence Mr. Rodwell's future. Therefore-well, Q.E.D.! Do you not agree with me?"
"I find your argument convincing," answered Stane, grimly. Then he lapsed into thoughtful silence, whilst the girl watched him, wondering what was in his mind. Presently she knew, for most unexpectedly the young man gave vent to a short laugh.
"What a fool the man is!" he declared. "He must know that we shall meet again some time!... But, Miss Yardely, I am keeping you from your rest! We must start betimes in the morning if I am to take you back to your uncle."
"If you take me back--?"
"There is no question of that," he answered promptly. "I could not dream of leaving you here."
"I was about to say you would very likely meet Gerald Ainley. He has joined my uncle's party."
"So much the better," cried Stane. "I shall certainly go."
There was a flash in his blue eyes, a grim look in his face, and instinctively Helen Yardely knew that the matter which lay between this man and Gerald Ainley was something much more serious than forced deportation. What it was she could not guess, and though after she had retired to the tent she lay awake thinking of the matter, when she fell asleep she was as far off as ever from anything that offered a solution of the question which troubled her. And outside, staring into the fire, his strong face the index of dark thoughts, Hubert Stane sat through the short night of the Northland summer, never once feeling the need of sleep, reviewing from a different angle the same question as that which had perplexed the mind of the girl in the tent.
At the first hint of dawn, Stane rose from his seat, gathered up the girl's now dry raiment, and put it in a heap at the tent door, then procuring a canvas bucket of water he set that beside the clothes and busied himself with preparing breakfast. After a little time Helen emerged from the tent. Her eyes were bright, her beautiful face was radiant with health, and it was clear that she was no worse for her experience of the day before.
"Good morning, Mr. Stane," she said in gay salutation, "you are the early bird. I hope you slept well."
"May I reciprocate the hope, Miss Yardely?"
"Never better, thank you. I think hunger and adventure must be healthful. I slept like the Seven Sleepers rolled into one; I feel as fresh as the morning, and as hungry as-well, you will see," she ended with a laugh.
"Then fall to," he said, joining in the laughter. "The sooner the breakfast is over the sooner we shall start."
"I warn you I am in no hurry," she retorted gaily. "I quite like this. It is the real thing; whilst my uncle's camps are just civilization imposing itself on the wilderness."
"But your uncle! You must think of him, Miss Yardely. You have now been away an afternoon and a night. He will be very anxious."
"Yes!" she said, "that's the pity of it. If it were not for that--" She broke off suddenly, gave a little laugh, and for no apparent reason her face flushed rosily. "But you must restore me to the bosom of my family soon!"
"More's the pity!" said Stane to himself under his breath; his heart-beats quickening as he looked at her radiant face and laughing eyes; whilst openly he said: "I will do my best. You will be able to help me to paddle against the current, and no doubt in a little time we shall meet a search-party coming to look for you."
"Then my little jaunt will be over! But you must not surrender me until you have seen my uncle, Mr. Stane."
Stane laughed. "I will hold you against the world until then, Miss Yardely."
"And perhaps you will see Gerald Ainley, as you wish," she said, glancing at him to watch the effect of her words.
The laughter died swiftly from his face, and a stern light came into his eyes. "Yes," he said grimly, "perhaps I shall. Indeed that is my hope."
Helen Yardely did not pursue the matter further. Again she glimpsed depths that she did not understand, and as she ate her breakfast, she glanced from time to time at her companion, wondering what was between him and Ainley, and wondering in vain.
Breakfast finished, they struck camp, launched the canoe and began to paddle upstream. The current was strong, and their progress slow, but after some three hours they arrived at the junction of the two rivers. Then Stane asked a question.
"Which way did you come, Miss Yardely? Down the main stream or the other one?"
The girl looked towards the meeting of the waters doubtfully. "I do not know," she said. "I certainly do not remember coming through that rough water."
"Your uncle's party had of course travelled some way since I left Fort Malsun?"
"Oh yes; we had made long journeys each day and we were well on our way to-wait a moment. I shall remember the name-to-to old Fort Winagog."
"Winagog?" said Stane.
"Yes! That is the name. I remember my uncle mentioning it yesterday."
"Then you came down the main stream for a certainty, for the old fort stands on a lake that finds an outlet into this river, though it is rather a long way from here. We will keep straight on. No doubt we shall strike either your uncle's camp or some search party presently."
As it happened the conclusion he reached was based on a miscalculation. The only waterway to old Fort Winagog that
he knew was from the main river and up the stream that formed the outlet for the lake. But there was another that was reached by a short portage through the woods from the subsidiary stream from which he turned aside, a waterway which fed the lake, and which cut off at least a hundred and twenty miles. Knowing nothing of this shorter route he naturally concluded that Helen Yardely's canoe had come down the main stream, and took the wrong course in the perfect assurance that it was the right one.
So hugging the left bank they passed the junction of the rivers, and a little further on crossed to the other side to seek shelter from a rising wind, under the high bank. And less than an hour later the canoe, carrying Gerald Ainley and his Indian, swept out of the tributary stream into the broader current, and they drove downstream, unconscious that every stroke of the paddle was taking them further from the girl whom they sought.
* * *
It was six weeks later. The dawn came less early, and nightfall perceptibly sooner.
There was a new crispness in the air, and the leaves on the trees were losing their greenness and taking on every possible shade, from pale yellow to old gold, and from that to dusky red. Both Stane and Helen Yardely noticed the signs. Autumn was upon them and they were still in their camp by the lake, though now Stane was able to hobble about with a pair of crutches made from a couple of forked sticks, padded with moss at the forks for his arms, and covered with caribou skin. Helen herself was busy from dawn to sunset. From words that he had dropped she knew that they had lost in the race with the seasons, and that winter would be on them before he would be able to take the trail. She faced the dreary prospect light-heartedly, but under his instruction omitted no precautions that would make a winter sojourn in the wild land tolerable. Fish were caught and dried, rabbits and hares snared, not merely for meat, but for their skins, which when a sufficient number had been accumulated were fashioned into parkas and blankets against the Arctic cold which was surely marching on them.
The leaves began to fall, light frosts were succeeded by heavier ones, and one morning they awoke to find a thin film of ice on the surface of the still water of the little bay where their camp was located. Stane viewed the ice with ominous eyes. He was incapable of any heavy physical exertion as yet, and knowing the North in all its inimical aspects, he was afraid for his companion, and though he rejoiced in her frank comradeship, he regretted that she had let Ainley and the Indian depart without knowledge of her presence. Guessing that the lake was some sort of waterway between two points, daily, almost hourly, in the frequent absences of the girl, he scanned it for any sign of human presences, but in vain. The lake's surface was unbroken by the movement of canoe or boat; its shores showed no tell-tale column of smoke. They were indeed alone in the wilderness.
But one afternoon the girl returned from a hunting expedition with excitement shining in her grey eyes.
"I have found something," she announced abruptly.
"What is it?"
"There is a cabin up the lake, about three miles away."
"A cabin?"
"Yes, and a very nice one, logs with a stone chimney and a parchment window. There was no one about, and the door was only held by a hasp and a wooden peg, so I ventured to look in. It has a stove, a rough table, a bunk and a couple of logs plainly meant for chairs."
Stane considered her news for a moment and then gave an obvious explanation. "It is some trapper's hut. He is away, and will probably return for the trapping season."
"Yes," she answered with a nod. "I thought that was the explanation. But there is nothing to prevent us taking possession until the owner returns, if he ever does, is there?"
"No," he answered slowly.
"Then tomorrow we will remove house," she said with a little laugh. "It's the only sensible thing to do. The place is clean and warm and comfortable; and if we take possession of it we shall be under no temptation to take the trail before you are really fit."
"But--"
"But me no buts," she cried in mock reproval. "You know that it is the really wise thing to do, for if the weather turns bad, where are we-with a canvas tent and a rather leaky birch-bark tepee? It would be the very rankest folly not to take advantage of my discovery and you know it."
Stane was compelled to admit that she was right, and said so.
"Then tomorrow I will raft you up to our new abode," she answered cheerfully. "There is no wind, and has been none for days. It will be easy to pole the raft along the shore."
Having announced this decision she began to busy herself about the camp, singing softly to herself; and Stane watched her with appreciative eyes. She was thinner than when they had first met, her face was bronzed, her chestnut hair in its outer folds bleached almost golden by the strong sunlight of the past summer. She radiated health and vitality, and though she was dressed masculinely, femininity was the dominant note about her. In the weeks that had passed since he had saved her from the river she had developed amazingly. Apparently there was nothing of the softness of the over-civilized left in her. That had been eliminated by the harsh necessity of labour which circumstances had thrust upon her; and the life of the wilderness had developed in her elemental powers. She was now the strong mate-woman, quick in judgment, resourceful in action, and of swift courage in danger. His eyes glowed as he watched her, and a soft look came on his face. As it happened Helen turned and saw it.
"What is it?" she asked quickly, a look of expectancy in her eyes.
He hesitated. That look challenged him. He knew that if he said all that he felt she would respond. But the unfairness of such action prevented him from doing so, and though he was strongly tempted he turned aside.
"Nothing that I can tell you," he said in answer to her question.
"Oh!" she retorted, "you are a most tantalizing person. Why cannot you tell me? If the matter is secret you have no cause to be afraid. To whom could I whisper it in this wilderness?"
She waved a hand half-round the compass as she spoke, and stood there looking at him, still with the look of expectancy in her eyes, and with a little dash of colour in her bronzed cheeks.
"I am not afraid of your whispering it to any one," replied Stane, with a poor attempt at laughter.
"Then why not tell me?" she urged.
"Because--" began the man, and then stopped. The temptation surged up anew within him, the stress of it almost broke down his resolution. Then he cried, almost violently, "No! I cannot tell you-now."
"Now!" she said, in tremulous laughter. "Now! 'Behold now is the accepted time and now is the day of salvation.' Unless the religious education of your youth was sadly neglected you ought to know that. The present is the only time. But if you will not tell me this tantalizing secret now, you will some time?"
"Some time!" he answered.
"It is a promise," she insisted and now there was no laughing note in her voice, and her face was very serious.
"Yes," he answered, "it is a promise."
"Then I write it on the tablets of my mind. I shall hold you to it, and some day I shall demand its fulfilment."
She turned and resumed her work and singing at the same time, and Stane lay there looking at her with the love shining plainly in his eyes. He had no doubt that she divined that which he would not speak; that indeed it was no secret to her, and that she was glad in the knowledge he could hardly question. Her bearing as well as her singing told him that; and he knew that in the last few minutes they had travelled a very long way towards full revelation of each other; and that the day when he should speak would bring to her nothing that was not already within the sphere of her knowledge.
The next day was spent in removal to the cabin further up the lake, both of them working at poling the raft with all their stores. The cabin was well situated on a small bay, where a fair-sized stream emptied into the lake, and behind it stretched the forest, dark and impenetrable. As he hobbled through the open door, Stane looked round, and under the bunk discovered a number of steel-traps which the girl on her first visit
had overlooked. Also on a peg in a dark corner he found a set of dogs' harness hung just as the owner had left it, probably months before. He pointed the traps out to the girl.
"As I guessed, it is a trapper's cabin, Miss Yardely. Any day may bring the owner back."
"Possession is nine points of the law," she laughed. "What is the term the gold-seekers use, Jump?-yes, we will jump the claim, for the present at any rate."
"The owner may come back while there is open water, or he may wait for the ice."
"But we are tenants of the furnished cabin meanwhile," she answered cheerfully, "and may as well make ourselves at home. I'm going to light the stove."
Inside the cabin there was a little wood-pile, and with a few well-chosen logs and dried sticks she soon had the stove roaring, and then began to bestow their possessions tidily. By the time that was accomplished the shadows were creeping across the lake and deepening in the woods, and it was time for the evening meal, and when it was ready they ate it at the rough table, with a sense of safety and comfort that had long been lacking. "This place is quite cosy," said Helen, looking round the firelit cabin. "Tomorrow I shall make a curtain for the doorway out of caribous skins."
"Tomorrow," laughed Stane, "the owner may return."
"But he will not turn us out," cried Helen. "The men of the wilds are all hospitable."
"That is true," agreed Stane, "and I have no doubt that we should be allowed to winter here if we chose. But if the man comes there is a better way. We shall be able to engage him to take us to Fort Malsun, and so to safety and civilization."
"Oh!" laughed the girl, "are you so anxious to go back to civilization?"
Stane's face suddenly clouded, and the old hardness came back to it.
"There is no going back for me-yet," he answered bitterly.
"But you will return, some day," she answered quietly. "I have no doubt of that at all. But I was not thinking of that when I spoke, I was wondering whether you were tired of this primitive life. For my part I quite enjoy it. It is really exhilarating to know that one has to depend upon one's self, and to find unexpected qualities revealing themselves at the call of circumstances. I think I shall never be the same again, my old life seems contemptibly poor and tame when I look back upon it."
A Mating In The Wilds Page 3