"Not in a way; Steve's too primitive. On the whole, I think he explained the thing best when he said it was his job. A fellow of his kind doesn't reason like you; perhaps he did once, but lost the habit in the bush. He's, so to speak, atavistic; moved by instincts, like the Indians and animals."
"But I don't see—"
"Perhaps it isn't very obvious," Scott admitted. "For all that, the Indian's instinctive obstinacy carries him far. Steve had undertaken to look after our timbering, he's used to danger, and the risk didn't count. I expect he was moved by the feeling the bushman gets when he's up against Nature; he knows he'll be crushed if he can't make good. Anyhow, I've moralized long enough. Will you see what they're doing with that rock-borer?"
Thirlwell left him and went to the machine, which made a jarring noise. He spent some time adjusting the cutters, and afterwards stood for a few minutes thinking about what his comrade had said. Scott's argument was involved, but Thirlwell thought he saw what he meant. Driscoll's bemused mind could not grasp the thought of duty that demanded self-sacrifice, but he had animal courage and stubbornness. He would carry out what he had undertaken. Moreover, he might have animal cunning without having cultivated intelligence, and his strength and resolution made him dangerous. Thirlwell did not like Driscoll better than before, but it looked as if the fellow had saved his life, and although he might not have meant to do so, this counted for something. Going back to the shaft presently, he climbed up and sat down in the sun.
A warm wind blew across the pine woods, the sun was getting hot, and the wet grounds about the shaft-head was drying fast. The river had risen as the lakes in the wilds it came from overflowed with melted snow, and raged, level with its banks, in angry flood, rolling broken trees down stream and strewing ledges and shingle with battered branches. Its hoarse roar echoed across the bush, and Thirlwell felt that there was something daunting in the deep-toned sound. One could understand that a man like Driscoll, whose brain was dulled by liquor, might let it fill him with vague terrors when the woods were still at night.
But listening to the river presently led Thirlwell to think about Strange. There was something pathetic about the story of his life, for Agatha had made Thirlwell understand her father's long patience, gentleness, and self-sacrifice. His duty to his family had cost him much, but he had cheerfully paid. It looked as if he had done best at the task he most disliked—managing the humble store in the small wooden town. One could not think of him as having failed there. His wife and children loved him, though all but one had smiled when he talked about the lode.
His daughter, who knew him best, had inherited his confidence, and Thirlwell owned that this had some weight. She was perhaps influenced by tender sentiment, but there was nothing romantic about Driscoll and Stormont, and it looked as if they shared her belief that the lode could be found. Scott, too, thought it possible, and his judgment was often sound. Thirlwell had imagined the lode an illusion of Strange's, but his disbelief was giving way.
Then he forgot the others and thought about Agatha. In some ways she was like Strange, but she was made of finer and stronger stuff. She had his patience, but her brain was keener, and her resolution was backed by moral force. Moreover, she was a very charming girl and Thirlwell admitted that he looked forward with eagerness to their journey. She would come in summer, when the rivers and lakes were open and the woods were filled with resinous smells. The sun was hot in the North then, the days were often calm, and there was a wonderful bracing freshness when the lingering twilight glimmered behind the pines.
It would be strangely pleasant to listen to the girl's soft voice while the canoes glided smoothly across sparkling lakes, and perhaps to tell her stories of the wilds when the smoke of the camp-fire drifted by and the cry of the loon came out of the shadows. For all that, there was not much risk of his falling in love with her. He was not a sentimentalist, and she had told him that her vocation was science. Her journey was a duty, and when the duty was carried out she would concentrate on her studies, and as she had talent presently make her mark. He did not think she would find the lode, but when she was persuaded it could not be found he would no longer be useful and they would go their different ways. Well, he supposed he must acquiesce. He was a poor engineer, and such happiness as marriage could offer was not for him.
Then he glanced at his watch and got up with an impatient shrug. He had forgotten his work while he thought about the girl, and there was much to be done. For one thing, he had come up to see if the smith had tempered some boring tools; and then he must send the Metis river-jacks to float a raft of props down to the mine. Pulling himself together, he set about the work with characteristic energy, but as he walked through the murmuring woods he unconsciously began to sing a romantic ballad he had learned when a boy. Presently, however, he stopped and smiled. It looked as if he were getting sentimental, and one must guard against that kind of thing.