It was perhaps hardly wise of Geoffrey Thurston to suddenly promote English Jim from the position of camp cook to that of amanuensis. Geoffrey, however, found himself hard pressed when it became necessary to divide his time between Vancouver and the scene of practical operations, and he remembered that the man he had promoted had been Helen's protégé. James Gillow was a fair draughtsman, also, and, if not remarkable otherwise for mental capacity, wielded a facile pen, and Geoffrey found it a relief to turn his rapidly-increasing correspondence over to him. It was for this reason Gillow accompanied him on a business trip to Victoria.
English Jim enjoyed the visit, the more so because he found one or two acquaintances who had achieved some degree of prosperity in that fair city. He was entertained so well that on the morning of Geoffrey's return he boarded the steamer contented with himself and the world in general. He was perfectly sober, so he afterwards decided, or on board a rolling vessel he could never have succeeded in working out quantities from rough sketches Thurston gave him. But he had breakfasted with his friends, just before sailing, and the valedictory potations had increased, instead of assuaging, his thirst.
The steamer was a fast one. The day was pleasant with the first warmth of Spring, and Geoffrey sat under the lee of a deckhouse languidly enjoying a cigar and looking out across the sparkling sea. Gillow, who came up now and then for a breath of air, envied him each time he returned to pore over papers that rose and fell perplexingly on one end of the saloon table. It was hard to get his scale exactly on the lines of the drawings; the sunrays that beat in through the skylights dazzled his eyes, and his sight did not become much keener after each visit to the bar. Nevertheless, few persons would have suspected English Jim of alcoholic indulgence as he jotted down weights and quantities in his pocket-book.
Meantime, Thurston began to find the view of the snow-clad Olympians grow monotonous. It is true that every pinnacle was silhouetted, a spire of unsullied whiteness, against softest azure. The peaks towered, a sight to entrance the vision—ethereally majestic above a cerulean sea—but Geoffrey had seen rather too much snow unpleasantly close at hand within the last few months. Therefore, he opened the newspaper beside him, and frowned to see certain rumors he had heard in Victoria embodied in an article on the Crown lands policy. Anyone with sufficient knowledge to read between the lines could identify the writer's instances of how gross injustice might be done the community with certain conditional grants made to Savine.
"That man has been well posted. He may have been influenced by a mistaken public spirit or quite possibly by a less praiseworthy motive; but if we have any more bad breakdowns I can foresee trouble," Geoffrey said to himself.
Then he turned his eyes towards the groups of passengers, and presently started at the sight of a lady carrying a camp chair, a book, and a bundle of wrappings along the heaving deck. It was Millicent Leslie, and there was no doubt that she had recognized him, for she had set down her burden and was waiting for his assistance. Geoffrey was at her side in a moment and presently ensconced her snugly under the lee of the deckhouse, where he waited, by no means wholly pleased at the meeting. He had spent most of the previous night with certain men interested in finance and provincial politics, and being new to the gentle art of wire-pulling had not quite recovered his serenity. He regretted the good cigar he had thrown away, and scarcely felt equal to sustaining the semi-sentimental trend of conversation Millicent had affected whenever he met her, but she was alone, and cut off all hope of escape by saying:
"You will not desert me. One never feels solitude so much as when left to one's own resources among a crowd of strangers."
"Certainly not, if you can put up with my company; but where is your husband?" Geoffrey responded. Millicent looked up at him with a chastened expression.
"Enjoying himself. Some gentlemen, whose good-will is worth gaining, asked him to go inland for a few days' fishing, and he said it was necessary he should accept the invitation. Accordingly, I am as usual left to my own company while I make a solitary journey down the Sound. It is hardly pleasant, but I suppose all men are much the same, and we poor women must not complain."
Millicent managed to convey a great deal more than she said, and her sigh suggested that she often suffered keenly from loneliness; but while Geoffrey felt sorry for her, he was occupied by another thought just then, and did not at first answer.