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.