“No,” said Weston resolutely, “it wouldn’t have been safe.”
There was silence for a minute or two, and then Ida spoke again.
“I must admit that I knew the portage would be a little difficult when you were by yourself, but I didn’t think it would give you quite as much trouble as it has,” she said. “Still, I think you should have told me. After all”—and she seemed to have some difficulty in finding the right words—“we have never asked you to do anything unreasonable.”
Weston understood that what she meant was that she, at least, had not treated him as a mere camp-packer, and, as she was quick to notice, the blood crept into his face. Her manner, which was not conciliatory, had, also, an unsteadying effect on him.
“Well,” he said, with a little laugh, “there are naturally two or three of my duties which I don’t find particularly agreeable, but that’s a very common thing, and you wouldn’t expect me to point it out. They’re all in the bargain—and the others make up for them.”
She noticed his swift change of expression, and did not urge him to explain what he meant.
“Anyway, what I have to do is a good deal nicer than handling heavy rails,” he added, with a rather grim smile.
Ida fancied that this was a clumsy attempt to qualify his previous statement, and she said nothing further until they reached the camp. Mrs. Kinnaird kept her occupied for the next hour or two; and that evening when she was sitting on the veranda she heard Grenfell speaking to his comrade not far away.
“Why did you bring that canoe down?” he asked.
“Miss Stirling wanted it,” said Weston.