Lisle broke off for a moment and seemed to have some difficulty in continuing.
“When my father died, Vernon took charge of the ranch, at my mother’s request—I was rather young and she meant to launch me in some profession. Vernon had no ambition—he loved the bush—and he tried to give me enough to finish my education while he ran both ranches with a hired man. I think my mother never suspected that he handed her over more than she was entitled to, but I found it out and I’ve been glad ever since that I firmly prevented his continuing the sacrifice. For all that, I owe him in many ways more than I could ever have repaid.” He clenched one hand tight as he concluded: “I can at least clear his memory.”
Nasmyth nodded in sympathy.
“You called me an honest man; you have my word—I’ll see the right done.”
Quietly as it was spoken, Lisle recognized that it was no light thing his companion promised him. In the Dominion, caste stands by caste, and Lisle, having seen and studied other Englishmen of his friend’s description, knew that the feeling was stronger in the older country. To expose a man of one’s own circle to the contempt and condemnation of outsiders is, in any walk of life, a strangely repugnant thing.
“Well,” he said, “to-morrow we’ll pull out and portage across the divide to strike the Gladwynes’ trail. And now I’ll fry the trout and we’ll have supper.”
They let the subject drop by tacit agreement during the meal, and soon after it was over a shout from the crest of the ridge above, followed by a smashing of underbrush, announced that their packer was making for the camp. Lisle answered, and a cry came down:
“Got a deer, and there are duck on the lake ahead! We’ll try for some as we go up!”
Nasmyth’s smile betokened deep satisfaction.
“That’s a weight off my mind,” he declared. “I’ll smoke one pipe, and then I think I’ll go to sleep. We’ll make a start with the first loads as soon as it’s light enough.”