"Oh," he declared, "there's a kind of quietness that braces you."

He was less reserved than the average Englishman, but he felt the charm of his surroundings more keenly than the latter would probably have done.

Everything in the room was artistic, but its effect was deeper than mere prettiness. It was cool, though the autumn sunshine streamed in, and the girl had somehow impressed her personality upon it. Soft colorings, furniture, even the rather incongruous mixture of statuettes and ivory carvings, blended into a harmonious whole, and the girl made a most satisfactory central figure, as she sat opposite him in her unusually thoughtful mood. He felt the charm of her presence, though he could hardly have a.n.a.lyzed it. As he said, it was not even needful that she should talk to him.

"There are lakes in British Columbia from which you can look straight up at the never-melting snows," he went on. "You feel that you could sit there for hours, without wanting to move or speak, though it must be owned that one very seldom gets the opportunity."

"Why?" Millicent inquired.

"As a rule, the people who visit such places are kept too busy chopping big trees, hauling canoes round rapids, or handling heavy rocks. Besides, you have your food to cook and your clothes to mend and wash."

"Then, after the day's labor, a man must do his own domestic work?"

"Of course," answered Lisle. "Now and then one comes back to camp too wet or played out to worry, and goes to sleep without getting supper. I'm speaking of when you're working for your own hand. In a big logging or construction camp you reach the fringe of cooperation. This man sticks to the saw, the other to the ax, somebody else who gets his share of the proceeds chops the cord-wood and does the cooking."

"And if you can neither chop nor saw nor cook?"

"Then," Lisle informed her dryly, "you have to pull out pretty quick."

"It sounds severe; that's cooperation in its grimmest aspect, though it's quite logical--everybody must do his part. I'm afraid I shouldn't be justified if we adopted it here."

"Cooperation implies a division of tasks," Lisle pointed out. "In a country like this, they're many and varied. So long as you draw the wild things as you do, you'll discharge your debt."

"Do you know that that's the kind of work the community generally pays one very little for?"

"Then it shows its wrong-headedness," Lisle answered as he glanced meaningly round the room. "But haven't you got part of your fee already?

Of course, that's impertinent."

"I believe we would shrink from saying it, but it's quite correct,"

Millicent replied. "Still, since you have mentioned the drawings, I'd like your opinion about this ouzel."

She took up the sketch and explained the difficulty, as she had done to Mrs. Gladwyne.

"It's right; don't alter it," advised Lisle. "It's your business to show people the real thing as it actually is, so they can learn, not to alter it to suit their untrained views."

He laughed and rose somewhat reluctantly.

"After that, I'd better get along. I have to thank you for allowing me to come in."

She let him go with a friendly smile, and then sat down to think about him. He was rather direct, but the good-humor with which he stated his opinions softened their positiveness. Besides, she had invited them; and she felt that they were correct. He was such another as Nasmyth, simple in some respects, but reliable; one who could never be guilty of anything mean. She liked the type in general, and she admitted that she liked this representative of it in particular.

CHAPTER XIII

A FUTILE PROTEST

It was late at night, but Gladwyne sat, cigar in hand, in his library, while Batley lounged beside the hearth. A wood fire diffused a faint aromatic fragrance into the great high-ceilinged room, and the light of a single silver lamp flickered on the polished floor, which ran back like a sheet of black ice into the shadow. Heavily-corniced bookcases rose above it on either band, conveying an idea of s.p.a.ce and distance by the way they grew dimmer as they receded from the light.

The room had an air of stateliness in its severe simplicity, and its owner, sitting just inside the ring of brightness, clad in conventional black and white, looked in harmony with it. Something in his finely-lined figure and cleanly-molded face stamped him as one at home in such a place. A decanter stood near his elbow, but it was almost full. Gladwyne, in many ways, was more of an ascetic than a sensualist, though this was less the result of moral convictions than of a fastidious temperament.

The man had an instinctive aversion for anything that was ugly or unpleasant. His companion, dressed with an equal precision, looked different, more virile, coa.r.s.er; he was fuller in figure and heavier in face.

"No," declared Gladwyne with a show of firmness; "the line must be drawn.

I've already gone farther than I should have done."

"I'm sorry for you, Gladwyne--you don't seem to realize that a man can't very well play two widely different parts at once," Batley rejoined, smiling. "Your interfering Canadian friend would describe your att.i.tude as sitting upon the fence. It's an uncomfortable position, one that's not often tenable for any length of time. Hadn't you better make up your mind as to which side you'll get down on?"

Gladwyne looked uneasy. The choice all his instinct prompted him to make was not open to him, except at a cost which he was hardly prepared to face. He was known as a bold rider, he had the steady nerves that usually result from a life spent in the open air, but, as Batley recognized, he lacked stamina.

"You are going wide of the mark," he answered. "What I have asked you to do is to let the lad alone. The thing's exciting comment. You"--he hesitated--"have made enough out of him."

"I think," replied the other coolly, "I was very much to the point. If you don't recognize this, I'll ask: Suppose I don't fall in with your request, what then?"

Gladwyne examined his cigar. It was not in his nature to face an issue boldly, and his companion seemed determined to force one.

"I've asked it as a favor," he finally said.

"No," corrected Batley; "I don't think you did so. You intimated your wishes in a rather lordly style."

This was true, but Gladwyne winced at the man's cold smile. He had, in a fit of indignation which was both honest and commendable, expressed himself with some haughtiness; but he knew that he would be beaten if it came to an open fight. This was unfortunate, because his intentions were good.

"Besides," Batley continued, "I'm not in a position to grant expensive favors. My acquaintance with young Crestwick is, of course, profitable.

What's more, I've very liberally offered you a share."

Gladwyne's face grew hot. He had acted, most reluctantly, as a decoy to the vicious lad, but he had never benefited by it, except when now and then some stake fell into his hands. The suggestion that he should share in the plunder filled him with disgust, and he knew that Batley had made it to humiliate him.

"You're taking risks," he continued. "There's legislation on the subject of minors' debts; Crestwick began to deal with you before he was twenty-one, and he's still in his trustees' hands. If he made trouble, I'm inclined to think some of your transactions would look very much like conspiracy."

"I know my man. You people would suffer a good deal, sooner than advertise yourselves through the law courts."

"Crestwick isn't one of us," Gladwyne objected.

"Then, as he aspires to be considered one, he'll go even farther than you would. None are so keen for the honor of the flock as those who don't strictly belong to the fold. There's another point you overlook--a person can't very well conspire alone, and inquiries might be made about my confederates. That, however, is not a matter of much importance, because I imagine Miss Crestwick would not allow any one to point to you.

Besides, her money's safe, and she's a prepossessing young lady."

Gladwyne straightened himself sharply in his chair. "Don't go too far!

There are things I won't stand!"

"Then we'll try to avoid them. All I require is that you still give the lad the entry of this house and don't interfere with me. You see I'm reasonable."

As Gladwyne had interfered, to acquiesce was to own defeat, which was galling, and while he hesitated Batley watched him with an air of indulgent amus.e.m.e.nt.

"It's a pity you were not quite straight with me at the beginning, Gladwyne; it would have saved you trouble," he remarked at length. "I took a sporting risk at pretty long odds--I have to do so now and then and I pay up when I lose. But if I'd known the money was to go to Miss Gladwyne and you would only get the land, I'd never have kept you supplied; and in particular I wouldn't have made the last big loan shortly before you and your cousin sailed for Canada."

"You knew it was a blind speculation--that I ran the same risk as George did, and that he might outlive me."

"You're wrong on one point," Batley objected dryly. "I'm acquainted with your temperament--it's not one that would lead you into avoidable difficulties. Well, you came through and your cousin died, but you failed to pay me off when you came into possession."