John Barrett, looking into a face which recalled the face of the daughter whom he loved and cherished in his city home, felt one throb of strange emotion, and then realized in all his selfish nature that affection is more a matter of habit and cultivation than an affair of instinct. After one thrill his soul shrank from her. He had not expected the girl to be so like. He caught himself wishing that he had not made the compact with the inexorable Britt, and listened for the noise of the men-pack with shame and some regret. On the other hand, this girl, unkempt for all her beauty, insolent with the insolence of ignorance, staring at him from under her knitted brows, was impossible, he reflected, as an asset of a man with a reputation to preserve and an ambition to fulfil. Instead of feeling the instinct of tenderness, he looked at this wild young thing of the woods with uneasy fear in his shifting eyes.
With honest resentment, Wade noted the baron’s reluctance to make his word good.
“You think I’m a meddler, Mr. Barrett,” he said, coming close to the other, “but don’t think that I’m satisfying any personal grudge when I ask that you care for this poor girl! Perhaps you would have done so anyway, without my suggestion. I hope so.”
“I think I could arrange my own business without any outside help,” said Barrett, dryly. He began to feel that he could get out of the situation better if he aroused his own resentment.
“Mr. Barrett, it was chance that put the girl in my way and taught me her story. I’ve been Don Quixote enough to see her through this thing. I’m sorry it happens to be you on the other side. I’m afraid you don’t give me credit for unselfishness.”
“I’ll allow you all the credit you deserve,” said “Stumpage John,” sullenly. “I understand, without your telling me, that you are gentleman enough to keep this matter behind your teeth on account of my family. I thank you, Wade. I’ll take charge of the girl from now on.”
He looked back up the trail anxiously, and the young man’s gaze followed. A man loafed into sight from among stubs blackened by fire.
“There’s Newell Sockbeson,” remarked old Christopher. “I heard him making his last blaze a few minutes ago.”
“I don’t know just what your plan is, Mr. Barrett,” said Wade, the red in his cheeks. “I’ve been hoping that you trusted me to act the gentleman, even if I couldn’t act the friend. Mr. Straight and I stand here as witnesses that you have taken charge of this girl.” He now spoke low. “But you haven’t told me that you indorse the little plan I adopted to relieve you from any explanations and to make the thing seem natural to her.”
Wade’s face showed that he expected a frank promise.