BELLA’S CHAMPION
It was early in the afternoon when Lisle arrived at Millicent’s house and, after a glance at its quaint exterior, was ushered into her drawing-room. There he sat down and looked about while he waited. The salient tones of its decoration were white and aqueous blue, and the effect struck him as pleasantly chaste and cool. Among the rather mixed ornaments were a couple of marble statuettes, the figures airily poised and very finely wrought. Next, he noticed some daintily carved objects in ivory, and a picture in water-color of a wide, gray stretch of moor with distance and solitude skilfully conveyed. He had risen to examine it when Millicent entered.
“I’m glad you came, though, as you’re used to the life of the woods and rivers, I’m a little diffident about showing you my sketches,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting.”
Lisle smiled and she liked the candidly humorous gleam in his eyes.
“Nasmyth warned me that I was early—or rather he said that if I were going to visit anybody else I would have been too soon. I’d better confess, however, that I’ve been making a good use of the time. Things of this kind”—he indicated the statuettes—“are almost new to me. They strike me as unusually fine.”
“Yes,” she answered, realizing that he had an artistic eye, “they are beautiful—and one sees so many that are not. George brought them from Italy for me. This”—she moved toward a representation in ivory of a Mogul gateway—“is of course a different style, but it’s remarkable in its patient elaboration of detail. The mosque’s not so fine. Nasmyth sent me the pair from India; he once made a trip to the fringe of the Himalayas.”
Lisle examined the object carefully, and she waited with some interest for his comment.
“It’s wonderful,” he declared. “I suppose it’s a truthful copy?”
“I’m inclined to think the man who carved that had not the gift of imagination. He merely reproduced faithfully what he saw.”
“Different peoples have strikingly different ways, haven’t they?” commented Lisle. “While they were making that small Eastern arch, we’d fling up a thriving wooden town or build a hotel of steel and cement to hold a thousand guests. The biggest bridges that carry our great freight-trains across the roaring gorges in the Rockies cost less labor.”
“I should imagine it. What then?”
He studied the carved ivory.
“In a dry climate the original of this would last for centuries—it has lasted since the days of the Moguls—an object of beauty for generations to enjoy. Perhaps those old builders used their time as well as we do. Our works serve their purpose, but one can’t call them pretty.”
She was pleased with his answer.
“I think that gets the strongest hold on me,” he went on, glancing toward the picture of the moor; “it’s real!”
There was a hint of diffidence in Millicent’s expression.
“But you can hardly judge, can you? You have scarcely seen the English moors.”
“I’ve spent a while on the high Albertan plains, and you have the same things yonder; the vast sweep of sky, the rolling waste running on forever. It’s all in that picture; how expressed, I don’t know—there are only the grades of color, scarcely a line to gage the distance by. Still, the sense of space is vivid.”
Millicent blushed.
“You’re an indulgent critic; that drawing is my own.”
He did not appear embarrassed, though she saw that he had not suspected the fact. She had already noticed that when he might, perhaps, have looked awkward he only looked serious.
“After what you have said,” she resumed, “I’ll show you the other things with greater confidence. Do you know, I thought all you Western people were grimly utilitarian?”
He sat down and considered this. The man could laugh readily, but he was also characterized by a certain gravity, which she found refreshing by contrast with the light glibness to which she was more accustomed.
“Well,” he reasoned, “in my opinion, the white man’s greatest superiority over all other peoples is his capacity for making useful things—even if they’re only ugly sawmills or grimy locomotives. Philosophy never fed any one or lightened anybody’s toil; commerce is a convenience, but the man who makes a big profit out of it is only levying a heavy toll on somebody else. It seems to me that all our actual benefits come from the constructor.”
“Have you been building sawmills?” Millicent asked mischievously.
He laughed with open good-humor. “Oh, no; that’s why I’m free to talk. I happened to find a lode with some gold in it, and gold is only a handy means of exchanging things. I’ll own that I was probably doing more useful work when I stood up to my waist in ice-water, fitting sharp stones into a pulp-mill dam.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Millicent agreed, “but it sounds severe. What of the people who never do anything directly useful at all?”
“There are a few who, by just going up and down in it, keep the world sweet and clean. Some of the rest could very well be spared.”
“Then you believe that everybody must practically justify his existence?”
“If he fails to do so with us, his existence generally ceases. The wilderness where I found the gold is full of the bones of the unfit.”
Millicent spread out some drawings. Most were in color, in some cases several of the same object, done with patient care, and she was strangely pleased when she saw the quick appreciation in his eyes.
“An otter; it’s alive,” he remarked. “You’ve shown it working through a shallow, looking much less like an animal than a fish—that’s right.”
“I made half a dozen sketches, and I’m not satisfied yet.”
“Thorough,” he commented. “You get there, if you have to hammer the heart out of whatever you’re up against.”
“It’s my brother’s book,” she answered. “I’m finishing it for him. He did other things—most of them useful, indirectly. I’ve only this—and I’d like my part to be good.”
He nodded sympathetically, looking troubled.
“I can understand,” he said. “I had a partner—I owe him more than I could ever have repaid, and he left a troublesome piece of work to me. It will have to be put through. But let me see some more; they’re great.”
She showed him a red jay; a tiny gold-crest perched on a thorn branch; a kingfisher gleaming with turquoise hues, poised ready for a dive upon a froth-lapped stone. He was no cultured critic, but he knew the ways of the wild creatures and saw that she had talent, for her representations of them were instinct with life.
They were interrupted by a scratching at the door and when she opened it a white setter hobbled awkwardly in and curled itself at her feet.
“He’s rather a big dog for the house, but I can’t keep him away from me,” she explained. “As you see, he has lost a foot, in a trap, and he was marked for destruction when I asked for him. Sometimes I think he knows that I saved his life.”
The dog looked up and raising a paw scraped at her hand, until she opened it, when he thrust his chin into her palm. It was a trivial incident, but it somehow stirred the man.
“Now I know where you got power to draw these lesser brethren,” he said. “Study alone would never have given it to you.”
She let this pass. He was almost embarrassing in his directness, though she acquitted him of any crude intention of flattering her.
“I promised to let you read my brother’s diary,” she reminded him. “If you will wait a few moments, I’ll get it.”
The dog pattered after her, as though unwilling to remain out of her sight, and she came back presently with a small leather case and opening it took out a tattered notebook. Noticing how she handled it and that the case was beautifully made, Lisle fancied that it was precious to her, in which he was correct. Indeed, she was then wondering why she had volunteered to show it to this stranger when only two of her intimate friends had seen it.
“Thank you,” he said, when she gave it to him; and drawing his chair nearer the window he began to read.
Though he was already acquainted with most of it, the story gripped him. On the surface, it was merely a plain record of a hazardous and laborious journey; but to one gifted with understanding it was more than this—a vivid narrative of a struggle waged against physical suffering, weakness, and hunger, by optimistic human nature. An odd word here, a line or two in another place, was eloquent of simple, steadfast courage and endurance; and even when the weakening man clearly knew that his end was near there was no outbreak of desperation or sign of faltering. He had dragged himself onward to the last, indomitable.
Then Lisle proceeded to examine the book more closely. It showed the effects of exposure to the weather to an unusual degree, considering that the covers were thick and that the rescue party had recovered it shortly after its owner’s death. Moreover, Lisle did not think that George Gladwyne would have left it in the snow. Several pages were missing, and having been over the ground, he knew that they recorded the part of the journey during which the two caches of provisions had been made, and he had already decided that there would be a list of their contents. This conclusion was confirmed by the fact that Gladwyne had enumerated the stores they started with, and had once or twice made a reduced list when they had afterward taken stock. The abstraction of the records was clearly Clarence’s work. Then he realized that he had spent some time in perusing the diary and he handed it back to Millicent with something that implied a respect for it. She noticed the sparkle in his eyes and her heart warmed toward him.
“It’s the greatest story I’ve ever read,” he declared.
She made no answer, but he knew that she was pleased and it filled him with a wish to tell her that she was very much like her dead brother. More he could not have said, but remembering that he had already gone as far as was permissible he had sense enough to repress the inclination. He saw the girl’s lips close firmly, as if she were conscious of some emotion, but there was silence for a minute or two. He broke it at length.
“I know that you have granted me a very great privilege, and I’m grateful,” he told her, and added, because he thought a partial change of the subject might be considerate: “In a way, it’s hard to realize that tale in this restful place. It’s easier out yonder, where what you could call the general tone is different.”
“Nasmyth once said something like that,” Millicent replied. “I suppose the change is marked.”
Lisle nodded.
“Here you have order, peace, security. In the wilds, it’s all battle, the survival of the strong; frost and ice rending the solid hills, rivers scoring out deep ravines, beast destroying beast, or struggling with starvation. Man’s not exempt either; a small blunder—a deer missed or a flour bag lost—may cost him his life. For the difference you have to thank the constructor, the maker of plows and spades and more complex machines.”
“That’s one of your pet hobbies, isn’t it?”
He once more changed the subject.
“I wish that I could show you the wilderness,” he said.
Millicent looked thoughtful.
“I should like to see it. I’ve an idea that if this book is well received I might, perhaps, try something a little more ambitious—the larger beasts and wilder birds of other countries. In that case, I should choose British Columbia.”
“Then you will let me be your guide?”
She made a conditional promise, and shortly afterward he left her. Meeting Nasmyth he walked with him toward Gladwyne’s house, where they found the guests assembled on the lawn and Mrs. Gladwyne sitting by a tea-table. One or two young women were standing near and several men had gathered about a mat laid upon the grass fifty yards from where a small target had been set up. Lisle joined Bella Crestwick, who detached herself from the others.
“What is this?” he asked. “It’s a very short range.”
“Miniature rifle shooting,” she informed him. “It’s becoming popular. Gladwyne has been trying to form a club. My brother Jim is president of some league. He’s rather keen and there are reasons why I’m glad of it.”
She added the last words confidentially and Lisle ventured to nod. It struck him that a healthy interest in any organized work or amusement would be beneficial to young Crestwick. The girl looked at him, as if considering something; and then she seemed to make up her mind.
“There’s one thing I don’t like,” she complained. “They will shoot for high stakes. Jim isn’t a bad shot, but he’s too eager. I’m afraid he’s inclined to be venturesome just now.”
Lisle thought that she had a request to make. There was something about him that inspired confidence, and the girl had made a friend of him.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
She made a sign of impatience; he was too direct. “Oh,” she pouted, “aren’t you taking a good deal for granted? Still, you bushmen can shoot, can’t you?”
“As a rule,” Lisle answered. “I almost think I see.”
“Then,” she retorted, “you shouldn’t have said so; you should merely have smiled and acted.”
“I’m from the wilds; you mustn’t expect too much. Well, if you’ll excuse me.”
She flashed a grateful glance at him, and he sauntered toward the group of men, among whom Gladwyne stood. There was a sharp crack as he approached them, a thin streak of smoke drifted across the figure lying on the mat, and a man beside it lowered the glasses he held.
“High to the left,” he announced. “You’re not in good form, Jim. Hadn’t you better give up?”
Lisle studied the speaker, whom he had met once or twice already. He was approaching middle-age and was inclined to corpulence, but there was something in his pose that suggested a military training. His face was fleshy, but the features were bold and he was coarsely handsome. As a rule, he affected an easy good-humor, but Lisle had felt that there was something about him which he could best describe as predatory. He occasionally spoke of business ties, so he had an occupation, but he had not in Lisle’s hearing mentioned what it was.
Crestwick’s face was hot as he answered his remark.
“Not at all, Batley. The trouble is that I’m used to the Roberts target, and the spots on the card are puzzling after the rings. I’ll get into it presently.”
“Oh, well,” acquiesced the other. “As you didn’t fix a time limit, we’ll go on again, though it’s getting tame and I want some tea.”
“I’ll increase the interest again, if you like,” the lad replied.
Lisle joined the group.
“What’s it all about?” he asked.
“Batley’s a pretty good rifle shot, but if he won’t mind my saying so he’s a little opinionated,” Gladwyne explained. “Crestwick questioned an idea of his, and the end of it was that Batley offered to prove his point—that a stiff pull-off is as good as a light one in practised hands—by backing himself to beat the field. Crestwick took him up, and since the rest of us were obviously out of it, the thing has resolved itself into a match between the two. Crestwick is using an easy-triggered rifle; Batley’s has an unusually hard spring.”
Lisle considered. Remembering Bella’s remarks, he thought it would be easy to lure the lad into a rash bet. He was headstrong and his manners might have been more conciliatory, but Lisle, learning the amount of the stakes, decided that his host should not have let the thing go so far.
“Crestwick doubled several times; he’s stubborn and doesn’t like to be beaten,” Gladwyne resumed. “I had the same ideas when I was as young as he is.”
“I’ve offered to let him off,” Batley broke in. “I’d do so now only he’s kept me shooting for the last half-hour. As Gladwyne says, he’s obstinate, and it’s a pity that he’s wrong. If he’d trained his wrist-tendons by using a harder trigger, he’d have made a passably good shot.”
Lisle was aware that while there was something to be said for Batley’s view, Crestwick was justified in contending that the lighter tension was more adapted to the case of the average person; but he recognized that the indulgent manner of the older men was calculated, he thought intentionally, to exasperate the hot-headed lad.
“Well,” he observed, addressing Batley, “you have the courage of your convictions if you have offered to maintain them against all comers, which I understand is what you have done.”
The man nodded carelessly and Lisle went on:
“After all, since I dare say these gentlemen are more used to the shotgun, your superiority doesn’t prove very much.”
Crestwick looked around at him quickly.
“Most of you Colonials can use the rifle; do you feel inclined to take him on? You’re a dark horse, but I’ll double the stakes if he’ll throw you in.”
This was what Lisle wanted, but he turned to the others.
“I’ve never had a small rifle in my hands—we use the 44-70, and I must leave you to decide whether my shooting would be fair to Mr. Batley. In that case, I’ll put up half the stakes.”
The men said there was no reason why he should not join, and Batley made no protest, though Lisle fancied that he was not pleased. Lying down on the mat, he took the light-springed rifle and the six cartridges handed him and fixed his eyes on the target, which was a playing-card pinned to a thick plank. He got the first shot off before he was quite ready—the light pull was new to him—and somebody called that he had touched the left top corner. The next shot was down at the bottom, and the four following marks were scattered about the card. When he got up, Batley looked reassured and proceeded to make a neat pattern around the center of another card. There was no doubt that Crestwick was anxious, and when he took his turn he shot badly. In the meanwhile, the rest of the party on the lawn had gradually gathered round; the eager attitude of the original spectators hinted that something out of the usual course was going on.
Lisle was very cool when he lay down again. A swift, encouraging glance from Bella Crestwick made him determined, and during his previous six shots he had, he thought, learned the right tension on the trigger.
“Wipe it out for me, somebody,” he said, holding up the rifle.
Bella seized it and deftly used the rod, regardless of soiled fingers.
“May it bring you luck,” she wished, with a defiant glance at Batley, who smiled at her as she returned the weapon.
Then there was a hush of expectancy. Lisle took his time; a sharp crack, a streak of smoke, and Gladwyne raising his glasses, laughed.
“High!” he called. “Top spot!”
It was a three of hearts, and Gladwyne’s smile lingered for a moment after Lisle fired again.
“Bottom now; you’re low!” he cried, and then his expression slightly changed. Both spots were drilled out—this did not look altogether like an accident.
“Center!” he announced after another shot, and all the faces surrounding him became intent. The three hearts were neatly punched.
“A fresh card!” exclaimed Crestwick, looking around at Batley with an exultant sparkle in his eyes. “You offered to let me off. Shall I return the compliment?”
The man laughed carelessly, though Lisle thought it cost him an effort.
“No,” he retorted; “I can’t show myself less of a sportsman than you are; but I think I’ve the option of demanding a longer range. Move the mat back twenty-five yards and put up an ace of spades; it’s the plainest. Three shots each should suffice at the distance.”
Crestwick got down and thrice touched the outside of the card; Batley did better, for two shots broke the edge of the black and one was close above them. It was good shooting at so small a mark, and Lisle was a little anxious as he very deliberately stretched himself out on the mat. Having little of the gambler’s instinct in his nature, he was reluctant to lose the money at stake, but he was more unwilling to let Batley fleece the lad whom, as he recognized now, he had been asked to aid. He meant to do so, if the thing were possible, and twice he paused and relaxed his grip when his sight grew slightly blurred.
Then there was a sharp crack, and he smiled when he heard Gladwyne’s report.
“I can’t see it. These are only opera-glasses.”
Dead silence followed the next shot, which left no visible mark on the target; and Lisle did not look around as he thrust his last cartridge into the rifle. He let it lie beside him for half a minute while he opened and shut his right hand, and then, taking it up quickly, fired. Still there was no blur on the white surface of the card and Gladwyne sharply shut his glasses, while two of the onlookers ran toward the target. They came back in silence and one significantly held up the ace. There were three small holes in the black center.
Gladwyne had turned away when Lisle got up, but Batley concealed his feelings very well.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “As I can’t beat that, the only thing left me is to pay up.”
Lisle turned to Crestwick, who looked hot and excited.
“You made the bet,” he said. “Will you use my half in buying a competition cup for one of your clubs?”
He saw Batley’s smile and a somewhat curious look in Gladwyne’s face, but the group broke up and he strolled back across the lawn with Bella.
“I’m grateful,” she said softly. “I was a little afraid at first that I was asking too much of you.”
Lisle met her glance with a good assumption of surprise.
“Grateful? Because I indulged in a rather enjoyable match?”
She laughed.
“You learn rapidly. But I’d better say in excuse that I didn’t think I’d involved you in a very serious risk. He hasn’t your eyes and hands—one couldn’t expect it. You don’t need pick-me-ups in the morning, do you?”
Lisle was slightly embarrassed. This girl’s knowledge of life was too extensive, and he would have preferred that she should exhibit it to somebody else.
“Well,” she concluded as they approached the tea-table, “my thanks are yours, even if you don’t value them.”
“What do you expect me to say?” he asked, regarding her with some amusement and appreciation. She was alluringly pretty in her rather elaborate light dress.
“Yes,” she smiled mockingly, disregarding his question; “these things become me better than the tweeds, don’t they? They make one look nice and soft and fluffy; but that’s deceptive. You see, I can scratch; in fact, I felt I could have scratched Batley badly if I’d got the chance. There’s another hint for you—make what you like of it.”
Then with a laugh she swung round and left him, puzzled.