CHAPTER VI
At the breakfast table the next morning Douglas was talking happily of their departure for Summit Lake.
“You’ll have to hustle the work of timber cruising,” his father admonished. “There won’t be any time for play, as we expect to have the road finished in a few weeks.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. This is my first real job, and I am going to make good,” declared Douglas stoutly.
“I hope so, Douglas. As you know, I want you to work your way up on your own merits. I’m not going to show any favouritism. We are going to put in a larger mill at Cheakamus, and one at Summit Lake, so there will be good opportunities for advancement for you and McLean if you show the right spirit.
“Is Mr. McLean going with you?” interposed Janet in a casual tone.
“Yes.”
“How can he leave his business for so long?”
“He’s not actively engaged in business just at present,” explained Douglas glibly.
“You might ask him out to dinner to-night. I am having a few friends in for the evening.”
“You bet I will.”
Donald accepted Janet’s invitation with alacrity. Living within the four bare walls of a room and eating in restaurants had long since palled on his taste.
“Formal or informal?” he asked.
Douglas made a deprecatory gesture. “Formal, very formal. You don’t know Janet or you wouldn’t ask that question. My sister is a stickler for ceremony. How are you off for ‘soup and fish’?”
“I have the necessaries,” smiled Donald.
Donald spent more than the usual time in dressing. He stood before the small mirror and surveyed himself with a critical eye. “Pretty soft for you,” he apostrophized himself, “eating in ten-cent restaurants one day and dining in a millionaire’s home the next, and on the invitation of the most beautiful girl you have ever met.”
Douglas called for him with his car and whisked him to the palatial Rennie residence on Shaughnessy Heights. The imposing evidence of wealth was written in bold headlines on the whole street of beautiful homes.
Mrs. Rennie met them at the door and greeted Donald warmly. He could not repress a start as he noted her likeness to Janet, and when she spoke her voice held the same deep tone as her daughter’s. She led him to a large room flanked by two enormous bays that looked out on the Avenue. There was a spaciousness in all the rooms, a rare combination of beauty and good taste in the furnishings, that were luxurious without being ornate. Robert Rennie came forward and gave him a cheery welcome. Donald heard Janet’s voice behind him and turned to gaze on a vision of loveliness.
Janet had dressed for the occasion with unusual care. A dark red evening gown of a filmy material showed to advantage the delicate contour of her form and the graceful curve of her snow-white shoulders and neck. Her lovely hair was wound in shining coils and held with a comb that sparkled with small but brilliant diamonds. Her long dark lashes drooped, and she flushed slightly as she met Donald’s look of undisguised admiration.
Mrs. Rennie was an excellent hostess. Her cultured and charming personality put Donald quite at ease. It seemed ages since he had worn a dress-suit and been entertained in a home of luxury and refinement. After the coarse fare of noisy restaurants which had been his, the excellent food, the rich linen, the home-like atmosphere and the subdued voices now gave him a pleasant thrill.
The conversation during dinner was on various subjects. At times it swung perilously near to matters pertaining to Donald’s personal affairs. On such occasions Douglas adroitly shifted it to other channels.
Janet studied Donald covertly. His perfect poise, his air of refinement and his evident lack of self-consciousness impressed her. “He is cultured and well-bred,” she thought as she noted his well-shaped head, his powerful shoulders and his clean-cut profile.
Near the finish of dinner, while waiting for coffee to be served, there came a lull in the conversation which was finally broken by Janet. “Doug tells me that you are engaged in the glove business, Mr. McLean,” she stated.
Donald shot a quick glance at Douglas, but his friend’s face was hidden in his handkerchief to smother a sudden attack of coughing. In spite of Donald’s great effort at self-control, he felt a warm flush rise in his cheeks. What had Douglas divulged? Did his sister know of his participation in a boxing-match? He looked at Douglas appealingly. It was evident that he would receive no aid from that quarter, as that young man’s only assistance was a prolonged coughing that effectually drowned immediate conversation, but would have to stop sooner or later for lack of breath.
At this crucial moment Robert Rennie came to his assistance. “I would like Mr. McLean to witness a sunset from our roof,” he said as he rose from the table. “Let us have our coffee served there. The light will be gone if we wait longer.”
As they ascended the stairs Donald gave his host a grateful look, which Mr. Rennie returned understandingly. That moment cemented an instant friendship in Donald’s heart for this broad-minded Western millionaire.
From the eminence of the tiny roof garden the City, sliced with streets, lay at their feet. To the north the mountains were invested with a mystic blue haze, through which towered the snow-clad peaks. To the west lay the curving white sands of English Bay, and beyond, in the clear air of the long British Columbia twilight, they could see the strong mountainous profile of Vancouver Island.
“The topography of our City,” explained Robert Rennie, “lying between Burrard Inlet and False Creek, is very much like that of New York on Manhattan Island. The narrows are deep enough for the largest ship afloat, and the Inlet—a veritable inland sea—has unlimited room for docks.
“The name ‘Narrows’ seems a feeble word for such a magnificent spot,” observed Donald.
“Quite true,” admitted Robert Rennie. “It was only yesterday that one of our public-spirited citizens suggested the name ‘Lions’ Gate’.”
“Oh, Dad, that would be lovely!” exclaimed Janet, her eyes shining. “The ‘Lions’ Gate,’ with the two watchful Lions looking down on all who enter. The name is most fitting.”
“Yes,” concurred Douglas, “Canada being one of the Lion’s whelps, what more appropriate name than ‘Lions’ Gate,’ the western gateway to the British Empire?”
“The Creator was wonderfully kind to us in His allotment of mountains,” said Janet’s father; “mountains that are not only valuable for their scenic beauty, but for their mineral-filled rocks and forest-clad sides. Our bays, inlets and streams are filled with fish, and our climate is so mild on the Coast that man can live in comfort amid congenial surroundings the year round.
“Here we have the last of the Great West,” continued Mr. Rennie. “With nearly four hundred thousand miles of territory, a coast line seven thousand miles in length, our population for the entire Province is less than one of the Coast cities to the south of us. Here in this vast untouched hinterland,” swinging his arm to the north and east, “lies a potential wealth that will support millions, a wealth that is awaiting the magic touch of capital and settlers—capital to provide railways; farmers to till the rich valley; miners to unlock the vast hoards of gold and copper; and loggers to fell the virgin forests. Some day—and that day is not far distant—all this will come to pass, and you young folks will see a railroad from Vancouver to the Behring Sea.” The speaker’s face was flushed and his eyes were glowing. “Who knows,” he finished dreamily, “but what the railroad I am building will be a link in the Alaskan road of the future?”
“Here is a family,” thought Donald, “all native-born, who have a deep and abiding faith in the destiny of the land of their birth.”
Addressing Mr. Rennie, he said: “If the love that you and yours have for this Province is typical of the average citizen, I see no need to fear for the future of your country.”
“Thank you,” the older man replied gravely. “Our population is made up of people from all parts of the world, as our native-born are few. A cosmopolite is more or less indifferent to the future of the country in which he resides. ‘Get the money’ is unfortunately the slogan of many of our business men, who make no attempt to build for the future. Until such time as there is ingrained in the hearts of our citizens a true love for our Province; until such time as our cities and towns forget petty bickerings and jealousies and work together and harmoniously, then—and only then—will British Columbia become what Nature intended, the crowning jewel of the British Empire.”
Janet’s guests arrived in groups of two and three until about twenty of Vancouver’s younger set were scattered about the large rooms. In introducing Donald to her friends Janet felt a warm glow of satisfaction as she saw the many glances of keen interest directed toward her stranger guest.
A slender girl with elaborately coiffed golden hair, looking like a white butterfly, fluttered to Janet’s side and shook a reproving finger in her face. “ ’Fess up now, Janet,” she pouted; “how long have you been hiding this handsome man? Who is this Prince Charming?”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” was Janet’s evasive reply.
Donald had no penchant for social functions, but this lively party was a grateful respite from a whole winter of lonely evenings, and he entered into the spirit of the occasion wholeheartedly.
A game of whist and then the big rooms were cleared and they danced until a late hour. At Donald’s request Janet sang for them. Her rich contralto voice seemed to fill the room and set the air pulsing with sweet harmony. She sang a song of love and passion that seemed to bear Donald into another world. As he turned the final sheet and the last liquid note travelled through the rooms he roused himself as though from a spell. That voice! How strangely it affected him! He looked down to find Janet’s dark eyes fixed on his.
“Will you please sing again?” he implored.
“The same?” she questioned softly.
He nodded. Donald’s gaze travelled from the flying white fingers to the lovely face of the singer. As their eyes met Janet’s face flushed slightly, and at the finish of the verse she changed quickly to a rollicking song of the sea. “All join in,” she called merrily over her shoulder.
After Janet’s other guests had departed Donald, Douglas and Janet sat for an hour chatting by the large fireplace.
“May I go with you as far as Squamish to-morrow?” asked Janet.
“Certainly, Sis.”
“And when the railroad is through I will visit you,” she added.
Douglas looked at her curiously. Janet abhorred roughing it. Riding around Stanley Park and an occasional game of tennis comprised the extent of her outdoor activities. Douglas glanced at the clock and came quickly to his feet. “I’d better hustle you home, Donald,” he said, “as we have to be up early.”
The tinted shade of the hall light lent a soft radiance to the dark beauty of Janet’s face and gave to her eyes a deep and languorous glow.
“I have enjoyed every moment. Thank you so much,” Donald said earnestly.
“I’m glad,” she answered in a quiet voice.
He took her hand and held it in a strong pressure. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Yes,” she murmured softly.
The door closed gently and Janet heard him run down the steps to the whirring motor. She stood immovable until the sound of the car died in the distance, then walked meditatively to the fireplace, sank to a big chair and stared dreamily into the dying embers. Idly she reached for the evening paper and spread it on her knees.
“Such dignity and poise! He is wonderful!” she whispered aloud. “I must ask Douglas more about him.”
She lowered her eyes to the paper, then came slowly to her feet, a look of blank amazement on her face. Smiling up at her was the face of the man of whom she had been dreaming.
“Canadian Champion
“New Canadian champion, whose spectacular defeat of Garrieau stamps him as a master of fistiana and places him in line to meet the world’s top-notchers.”
A pugilist! And she had proudly introduced him to her friends! Why hadn’t Douglas told her? She threw herself into a chair and gave herself over to a period of gloomy contemplation.
Whistling softly, Douglas shut off the hall lights and entered the room. “Not in bed yet? You’d better——” he broke off suddenly as she turned cold eyes upon him.
“Why didn’t you tell me that your friend is a pugilist?” she demanded as she thrust the offending sheet in Douglas’s hand. “In the glove business!” she went on sarcastically. “That may be your idea of a joke, but I don’t see anything funny about it.” And without waiting for an answer she flung herself angrily from the room.
Douglas lighted a cigarette, which he smoked with short angry puffs as he walked the floor. He kicked viciously at an inoffensive footstool and sent it hurtling across the room. “Damn!” Then throwing the half-smoked cigarette in the fireplace, he switched off the light and sought his bed.