Then, when he was satisfied with the result of his exertions, Crestwick’s news had struck him a crushing blow. He was wholly unprepared for it. Nasmyth had spoken of a match between Millicent and Gladwyne as probable, but the latter had devoted himself to Bella, who had openly encouraged him. The change in the girl’s demeanor had escaped Lisle’s notice, because he had been kept indoors by his injury. Now the success he had attained counted for almost nothing; he had nobody to share it with.
The subject, however, had another aspect; he could have borne the shock better had Millicent yielded to a worthy suitor, but it was unthinkable that she should marry Gladwyne. She must be saved from that at any cost, though he thought her restored liberty would promise nothing to him. Even if her attachment to Gladwyne were free from passion, as Nasmyth had hinted, she must cherish some degree of affection and regard for the man. His desertion of her brother could not be forgiven, but the revelation of his baseness would not incline her favorably toward the person who made it, as it would seem to be merely for the purpose of separating her from him.
Lisle set his lips as he looked back on what he now considered his weakness in withholding the story of Gladwyne’s treachery. Had he declared it at the beginning, Mrs. Gladwyne would have suffered no more than she must do, and it would have saved Millicent and himself from the pain that must fall upon them. He bitterly regretted that he had, for once, departed from his usual habit of simply and resolutely carrying out an obvious task without counting the cost. Still, he could write to Nasmyth, and to do that he must reach the Hudson Bay post on the morrow. He trudged on over the snow at a pace that kept Crestwick breathless.
The bitter wind chilled them through in spite of their exertion, and it had increased by noon, when Lisle halted for a minute or two to look about him.
They were in the bottom of a valley walled in by barren hills; the bank of the frozen river was marked out by snow-covered stones, but none of them was large enough to rest behind, and one could not face the wind, motionless, in the open. While he stood, a stinging icy powder lashed his cheeks, and his hands grew stiff in their mittens.
“There’s not even a gulch we could sit down in,” he said. “We’ll have to go on; and I’m not sorry, for one reason. There’s not much time to spare.”
Crestwick’s eyes were smarting from the white glare; having started when weary from a previous journey, his legs and shoulders ached; but he had no choice between freezing and keeping himself slightly warm by steady walking. It would, he knew, be harder by and by, when his strength began to fail and the heat died out of his exhausted body.
“We’ll have to find a shelter for the tent by nightfall, or dig a snowpit where there’s some wood,” he declared. “I’ll try to hold out.”
They proceeded and the afternoon’s march tried him severely. Aching all over, breathing hard when they stumbled among the stones to skirt some half-frozen rapid, he labored on, regretting the comforts he had abandoned in England and yet not wholly sorry that he had done so. His moral fiber was toughening, for after all his faults were largely the result of circumstances and environment. Of no great intelligence, and imperfectly taught, he had been neglected by his penurious father who had been engaged in building up his commercial prosperity; his mother had died when he was young.
One of his marked failings was an inability to estimate the true value of things. He possessed something of the spirit of adventure and a desire to escape from the drab monotony of his early life, but these found expression in betting on the exploits of others on the football field and the turf, a haunting of the music-halls, and the cultivation of acquaintances on the lowest rung of the dramatic profession. All this offered him some glimpses of what he did not then perceive was merely sham romance. Later when, on the death of his father, wealth had opened a wider field, deceived by surface appearances, he had made the same mistake, selecting wrong models and then chiefly copying their failings. Even his rather generous enthusiasm for those whom he admired had led him farther into error.