She handed him the weapon, keen as a razor, and watched him tramp up the steep bank. A slight breeze shifted the mist from the sprawling, muddy river and the sun clove through. An isolated mass of ice swirled along, melting as it went. A small island in the center of the stream was gashed and scoured by the recent ice-flow. 149 Trees along the bank had been shorn clear by the enormous pressure of the bergs as they fought their way to freedom. She was sitting thinking of the inscrutable future when a canoe hove into sight. The occupants—two Indians and a white man—were driving it up-stream at amazing speed, considering the fact that the down current was running at a speed of at least five knots. They were passing her, scarcely a dozen yards distant, when she gave a cry of astonishment.
“D’Arcy!”
The white man ceased paddling and looked up sharply. He turned to the Indians and rapped out an order. The canoe drifted in towards Angela’s craft and D’Arcy held out his hand, with absolute wonder written in his eyes.
“Angela Featherstone, by all that’s holy! What are you doing here?”
“I’m with my husband,” she replied bitterly.
“But I thought—I read that you were giving house parties, attending race-meetings, and all that sort of thing. I came to Canada the week before you were married. I read about it and wondered who the happy man was.”
Angela’s hand played with the running water. 150 D’Arcy was scarcely more than an acquaintance, but at least he was one of her own set. Like a lot of other men, D’Arcy had made love to her and been repulsed.
“Look here, I don’t understand this,” rejoined D’Arcy. “You—you aren’t prospecting?”
She nodded.
“Great Scott! It’s bad enough for men, but for a woman——!” He looked round. “Is your husband about?”