CHAPTER IX
The trail to Wainwright’s cabin was a mere path that followed the vagaries of a small mountain stream which at times flowed with a tranquil murmur, then suddenly plunged over ledges and shattered itself into creamy foam on the worn rocks below.
Out of breath from the steep climb, Donald and Andy sat down as they reached the bluff. Everywhere was the song of birds and the whispering of gentle zephyrs laden with the fragrance of the forest.
“Whit, whit, whit, ch’ wee-e-e-e,” sounded the shrill hunting call of an osprey, or “fish-hawk,” as he wheeled over the lake, then made his spectacular plunge and rose on high with a fish gripped in his long, powerful talons. Donald watched him carry it to his mate, who was standing guard over a big nest in the top of a dead pine. Again the male bird dropped like a bolt, struck the water with a loud splash, and disappeared below the surface for a few seconds, then rose to scatter spray in his struggles to lift himself clear of the water.
A bald eagle, from the vantage point of a tall fir, took instant note of the successful fisherman, and with a majestic swoop flew under the smaller bird. Higher and higher rose the osprey, the eagle relentlessly pursuing, until at last the intimidated bird released its hold on the prize. With a scream of triumph the eagle seized the glistening, wriggling fish in mid-air and bore it away.
From the woods in their rear came the lilt of a song mingled with the thud of flying hoofs, and around a tangle of low spruce came a piebald cayuse at full gallop. On his bare back the girl of the woods was standing with arms outstretched, pirouetting on her moccasined toes like a dancing dervish. Her heavy hair streaming about her face and shoulders, she seemed even more an elf than when poised for flight on the edge of her fairy nest. As she neared the bluff she settled to her seat and seized the reins.
Donald came to his feet. For a moment it seemed as if he were to be passed unnoticed. He ran to the trail and waved his arm with a welcoming shout. This brought him a flash of startled blue eyes, then the cayuse with a snort of fear went straight up into the air, spinning high on his hindlegs. A sharp word of command and a quick twist of the nut-brown hands caused the frightened beast to half turn and lower his forelegs gently to the ground. As he stepped to the cayuse’s head Donald noted the lean and sinewed flanks of the animal, the strong muscled shoulders, and the slender but powerful limbs. He stroked the shiny neck and Pegasus made answer to such advances by rubbing his moist nose against Donald’s shoulder.
“Nothing mythical about this steed,” observed Donald, gently prodding the bunched muscles on the horse’s chest. “And,” he added jestingly, “I do not see the golden bridle presented by the goddess to Bellerophon while he slept.”
A subtle flicker danced momentarily in the corners of the blue orbs of the rider. “I have clipped his wings, so I have no need of the magic bridle,” she said smilingly.
The voice was gentle and mellow. The pronunciation, clear and perfect, held a trace of English accent that was pleasing to Donald’s ears. One could not look upon Connie without thinking of flowers, birds and sunshine. Constant exercise had turned her muscles into cords of steel; mountain air and sunshine had darkened her face and hands to a deep bronze and brought to her cheeks a warm glow that showed richly through the coat of tan.
Connie looked on this stranger as a being infinitely beyond her ken, a part of a world of which she had no knowledge. His tall, well-knit body, his shining black hair, dark flashing eyes, his fine clothes and his deep resonant voice were a source of wonder and admiration to this girl, whose knowledge of men was limited to a few lone trappers and Indians. She was suddenly disconcerted and felt like running away.
“I was on my way to call on you. Is your father home?”
Surprised at her own boldness, Connie slipped lightly to the ground and stood beside him.
“Yes,” she rejoined awkwardly, “he is. I’ll go with you.”
Donald spoke again, with a playful smile that caused the girl to flush with a mixture of pleasure and confusion. “I thought when I saw you poised on Pegasus’s back that a close inspection would disclose a pair of transparent, gauzy wings, but,” peering at her shoulders, “evidently the rider is clipped as well.”
As they walked up the path, Andy following, it seemed to Connie that they were strolling through the fields of Elysium.
At first glance Donald saw that Wainwright’s log cabins had been built by a rank novice. The walls were rakishly askew, the corners out of plumb, and the joints showed big gaps filled with moss. The rough construction of the dissimilar, rambling cluster of houses served to enhance rather than mar the wild grandeur of this oasis on the rocky mountain-side.
Into this valley poured a mountain stream which had gouged out for itself a canyon, through which its waters swept and tumbled, as green as jade in the sunlight, like emerald in the shadow, and snowy white in the roaring rapids. On the other side, the towering profiles of the cliffs were edged with stunted growths of pine and spruce, while here and there were soft patches of green moss clinging to the damp places.
The few acres wrested from the wilderness were rich with a green carpet of clover and timothy, and in a pasture at the corner a sleek Jersey cow was feeding diligently. In the same enclosure a deer nibbled delicately at the tender shoots. A flock of pure white ducks, in single file, waddled down the hill and plunged with a subdued quacking into a small pond. Within a yard enclosed by a fence of split cedar the lusty crow of a rooster sounded above the cackling of his family.
The low walls of the main cabin were festooned with a mass of wild creepers in which the wild honeysuckle predominated. Wild flowers, each species separate, were growing in neat round plots bordered with carefully arranged stones. Scores of birds flitted through the low bushes, rested on fences and roofs, or hopped unafraid through the grass. Siskins and finches there were, in gold or olive; blue jays and their cousins, the camp-robbers; bluebirds; sparrows singing sweetly; waxwings “zeeping” through the garden; warblers gurgling softly; scolding grey flycatchers and numerous other species unknown to Donald.
A camp-robber flew to Connie’s outstretched arm. From the capacious pocket of her overalls she brought a crust of bread, at which the bird pecked hungrily. Another bird lighted on the brim of Andy’s wide hat. The little man attempted to peer up at it without moving his head, and the effort set his bushy eyebrows dancing. “Get off there, you blighter!” he growled. “I don’t want any bloomin’ trimmin’s on me ’ead gear.”
It was the first time Andy had spoken. Connie turned to him, her eyes wide with curiosity. His droll face, the strange dialect and the lively eyebrows caused a flock of dimples to chase each other about her pretty lips.
Connie’s father and the Breed, working in the vegetable garden below, glanced up and, seeing the strangers, laid down their tools and came up the hill, the Breed moving jerkily on his crippled limb.
Raleigh Wainwright was a man of rather striking appearance. He was slender, grey-haired, clean chiselled, and carried himself with a military bearing. There was a certain fineness in the slight figure, a symmetry of design, that suggested that indefinable something which is the hall-mark of good breeding. He had a way of carrying his well-shaped head that accentuated this aristocratic air. His grey eyes met Donald’s with a level gaze as they shook hands.
After a cursory glance, Joe Pardon, the Breed, settled himself on a seat against the wall of the cabin and rolled a cigarette. His face was swarthy and sombre; coarse black hair topped his head. In repose his features wore the impassive expression of the Indian, but when he smiled—which rarely happened—he showed the French strain in his blood and became almost handsome. He was of a sturdier build than the average Siwash Indian, and as he leaned against the logs, with muscular arms folded across his powerful chest, one would have thought him the embodiment of all that is strong and virile in man, until the eyes rested on the pitifully malformed leg, shrunken to one-half its normal size.
“Won’t you come inside?” asked Wainwright politely.
“Thank you,” answered Donald, “but if you don’t mind I’d rather look at your flower garden.”
It was quite evident that their host was pleased by this statement. “You are interested in flowers?” he questioned eagerly.
“I am,” admitted Donald, “but unfortunately I don’t know much about them.”
The dignified Englishman proved to be not only an intelligent, but a most willing teacher. From plot to plot they went, the botanist glad to talk on his hobby to an attentive audience. He gave the names of the plants, their mode of germination, growth, nature and uses. For half-an-hour his quiet voice went on until the lengthening shadows deepened. As they moved toward the cabin, the Breed passed them carrying a pail brimming with milk, at which Andy gazed with longing eyes.
“We always have a light lunch in the evening; won’t you stay?” begged their host.
Andy nodded his blond head vigorously in a silent signal to Donald for acceptance, and acceptance was instantly forthcoming.
The interior of the log cabin was rough in the extreme, but scrupulously clean, with chairs, tables and beds that had never issued from a furniture factory. The window-curtains were made of flour and sugar sacks, on which the names of the manufacturers could still be deciphered. On one wall were two bunks, set one above the other, on which were spread heavy Hudson Bay blankets. No sheets were in evidence, and the pillows were rough sacks stuffed with moss. The lower bunk showed the feminine touch in its drapery of cheap blue print, a pathetic attempt to brighten the coarse surroundings. Behind a small stove in the corner hung an array of cooking utensils, spotlessly clean, but of inferior quality. The one and only table, placed conveniently near the stove, was as white as a ship’s deck from constant scouring.
In direct antithesis to this seeming poverty, one end of the cabin was literally filled with books. These richly-bound volumes looked incongruous in conjunction with the rough tables, the uncomfortable chairs and the rude beds. Donald’s eyes roved over the books, arranged on the shelves standing and crosswise. Most of them were in English, but many were in German, French and Italian; some in what appeared to be Arabic, perhaps Sanskrit; and dozens were on botany, ornithology and natural history.
“A bookworm,” mused Donald, “a bookworm, and at the expense of his personal comfort.” He felt ashamed of his unwarranted criticism of their kind host.
“I built this cabin all alone,” informed Wainwright proudly.
Donald’s eyes rested on the speaker. Wainwright wore a shooting-jacket and riding-breeches of excellent cut and of rare material, but now worn threadbare and neatly patched. Donald knew that those rents had been mended by a woman’s hands. Wainwright’s æsthetic face was impressive. The marks of toil could not hide the delicacy of his thin hands with their long, tapering fingers. The hands of a dreamer or poet, thought Donald, not the hands to wield an axe. A quick admiration for this man’s gameness filled his heart. “A good job,” he lied, as he surveyed the sagging roof and bulging walls.
“As good an authority as Hillier told me that it was excellent work,” stated their host rather boastfully.
“Bless old John’s heart!” thought Donald fervently.
It was plain that Connie had anticipated their staying for lunch, as the table was set—with tin plates and cups—for four. She drew a pan of hot rolls from the tiny oven, and, her face a deep red from the heat and her exertions, she sat down to the table, using a canned goods box as a seat. Donald noticed that the two chairs had been given up to the guests, and he arose at once to offer his seat. Andy, not to be outdone in gallantry, successfully prevailed on Connie to make the change.
“Bit shorter ever day,” he grinned as he sank to the box. At this Connie lowered her head, her shoulders shaking with merriment.
Wainwright’s manner was that of the owner of a baronial estate entertaining guests under the most luxurious surroundings. His cheeks were flushed, and he seemed filled with a boyish happiness. “It no doubt will seem incomprehensible to you,” he remarked with a smile, “when I say that, with the exception of John Hillier, you are the first white men to break bread with me under this roof. We are quite a distance from the Pemberton trail, and therefore come in contact with but few travellers.”
Little wonder, Donald thought, at their host’s nervous gaiety and the child’s distress. What turn of Fate had caused this scholar to seek a home in so lonely a spot? Misanthropes fled to the wilderness to escape their fellow-men, but their welcome was proof that Wainwright was not of that class. Why, then, had he voluntarily become an anchorite? Was he obsessed by his hobby to such an extent that he had ostracized himself to carry on the study of Nature? Was he a criminal hiding from justice? Donald put the latter thought aside quickly. The Englishman’s delicate features, with wide forehead, clear eyes, and tender, sensitive mouth, were not the features of a man of criminal tendencies. At times, when in repose, Wainwright’s face held a deep and brooding sadness. Some tragedy had entered his life, Donald decided; some great calamity, that had seared his very soul, had driven him to the life of a recluse.
Connie strove to appear at ease, but without success. Hoping to relieve her embarrassment, Donald spoke to her. Although she ventured an upward glance, his voice seemed only to heighten her confusion.
Mr. Wainwright resumed the discussion of the wild flowers of British Columbia. With his head held sidewise, Andy listened intently to the flow of conversation. When their host used Latin words Andy’s face would assume a bewildered expression. With eyebrows raised inquiringly and a humorous smile playing about his lips, he would turn to Connie and slowly shake his head.
This odd little man, with his blithesome manner and the whimsical gleam in his blue eyes, was extremely amusing to Connie, and it was with difficulty that she controlled her mirth.
“I s’y,” observed Andy deferentially, “I’d like to learn about these flowers and things; but, strike me ’andsome, the big words you use, and some of them in the bohunk langwidge, puts more’n ’arf of it over me bloomin’ ’ead.”
Wainwright’s laugh had a pleasant ring. “I’ll do my best to help you, Mr. Pettray. You’ll find books here,” pointing to the shelves, “that will be of greater assistance.”
The keen mountain air made itself felt through the poorly chinked walls of the cabin, and the company moved their chairs nearer to the warmth of the crackling fire. Donald offered their host a cigar, which was accepted and smoked with evident relish.
“Start me at the beginnin’; put me in the kindergarten, where my size belongs,” chuckled Andy.
Wainwright leaned back in the rough chair, puffing luxuriously at his cigar, sending wreaths of fragrant smoke about his head. “I hardly know where to begin,” he said meditatively.
The room suddenly grew dark, and they heard the soft sighing of the wind in the branches of the trees nearby. These signs were precursors of one of the mountain showers so common in the coast Range of the Province. A moment later there came the intermittent patter of big raindrops on the roof, gradually increasing until it became a strumming roar that debarred conversation.
Connie lighted a candle, and using the neck of an empty vinegar bottle as a candlestick, she placed it on the table, then took a seat outside the radius of the dim light.
The door opened to admit the Breed. As he entered a rush of sweet rain-washed air, laden with the odour of fragrant buds, filled the room. Shaking a shower of glistening raindrops from his wide sombrero, the Breed hobbled silently on moccasined feet to a seat in the corner.
The pelting rain dwindled to a drizzle, then stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
For an hour Wainwright gave a disquisition of the value of plant life to mankind. Selecting two books from the shelves, he placed them on the table before Andy. “You will find no difficulty in understanding these volumes, as they are written for the novice. You will also find that there is no pursuit more conducive to health and happiness than the study of plants. It keeps one largely in the open air, and promotes pure and helpful thinking. For this reason parents should lead the minds of their children to the study of plant life.”
During her father’s discourse Connie’s eyes scarcely left Donald’s face. The Breed from the darkness of the corner noticed her rapt interest in the tall stranger, and his dusky eyes glittered with jealousy. He limped to the doorway, and, as he turned, Donald could not repress a start as he caught the malignant look of hate which shot from the half-breed’s glowing eyes.
“Constance, dear, will you play for us?” asked her father.
She moved obediently to her bunk, and from the floor beneath she drew out a much worn violin case.
The mellow radiance from the candle and the ever-changing lights from the open draft of the small stove cast long, wavering shadows within the cabin. From without came the wailing of the wind, the creaking of the trees, and the steady drip of water from the eaves.
As the bow touched the strings Connie forgot her shyness. The violin drifted into a melody as light as a bird singing through the trees, now joyous, anon sobbing in a deep rhythm of eerie sadness. As she played her body swayed, almost imperceptibly, as a blossoming tree sways under a soft spring breeze.
As the last note ascended and faded on the throbbing air, Connie’s embarrassment returned. At Donald’s words of praise a scarlet flush dyed her cheeks. She returned the instrument to its case, and, with eyes downcast, resumed her seat in the darkened corner. Wainwright’s eyes held a look of deep tenderness as he thanked her in a voice that was like a caress.
As they said good-night Donald saw that their host’s face was again shrouded in deep melancholy. The light of a waning moon threw ghost-like shadows as they stumbled down the narrow trail through the aromatic woods. Save for the drip of water, a brooding hush hung over the forest. The trail was soft with needles, on which their feet made only a softened beating. In the nave of huge conifers the solemnity of the forest made speech seem almost irreverent.
Near the centre of the tunnel-like trail, where the shadows deepened, Donald stopped short with every sense alert. Without knowing why, he suddenly felt a quick sense of danger. A dark form rose in front of them and slunk into the woods.
“The blinkin’ Indian,” whispered Andy.
In passing the spot where the Breed had disappeared, Donald had an uncanny feeling that the burning eyes of Connie’s devoted guardian were fixed on him and he felt a crinkly chill creep up his spine. It was with a feeling of relief that they emerged from the obscurity of the timber and caught the friendly gleam of light from their cabin window on the lake-shore far below.