LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSJDi
 
 Lady Merton, Colonist
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Amiel's Journal (translated) 
 
 Miss Bretherton 
 
 Robert Elsmere 
 
 The History of David Grieve 
 
 Marcella 
 
 Sir George Tressady 
 
 Helbeck of Bannisdale 
 
 Eleanor 
 
 Lady Rose's Daughter 
 
 The Marriage of William Ashe 
 
 Agatha 
 
 MiLLY AND OlLY 
 
 The Testing of Diana Mallory 
 Marriage a la Mode
 
 LADY MERTON 
 COLONIST 
 
 n 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 
 
 FRONTISPIECE 
 
 BY ALBERT STERNER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. 
 
 1910
 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
 INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY MRS. HXIMPHRY WARD 
 PUBLISHED, APRIL, I910 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1909, 1910, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE, " CANADIAN BORN "
 
 A FOREWORD 
 
 Towards the end of this story the readers of it 
 will find an account of an "unknown lake" in the 
 northern Rockies, together with a picture of its 
 broad expanse, its glorious mountains, and of a 
 white explorers' tent pitched beside it. Strictly 
 speaking, " Lake Elizabeth " is a lake of dream. 
 But it has an original on this real earth, which 
 bears another and a real name, and was discovered 
 two years ago by my friend Mrs. SchafFer, of Phil- 
 adelphia, to whose enchanting narratives of travel 
 and exploration in these untrodden regions I list- 
 ened with delight at Field, British Columbia, in 
 June, 1908. She has given me leave to use her 
 own photograph of the " unknown lake," and 
 some details from her record of it, for my own 
 purposes ; and I can only hope that in the sum- 
 mers to come she may unlock yet other secrets, 
 unravel yet other mysteries, in that noble unvis- 
 ited country which lies north and northeast of the 
 Bow Valley and the Kicking Horse Pass. 
 
 Mary A. Ward.
 
 Lady Merton, Colonist
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 **I CALL this part of the hne beastly depressing." 
 
 The speaker tossed his cigarette-end away as 
 he spoke. It fell on the railway line, and the tiny 
 smoke from it curled up for a moment against the 
 heavy background of spruce as the train receded. 
 
 "All the same, this is going to be one of the 
 most exciting parts of Canada before long," said 
 Lady Merton, looking up from her guide-book. 
 "I can tell you all about it." 
 
 "For heaven's sake, don't!" said her companion 
 hastily. " My dear Elizabeth, I really must warn 
 you. You're losing your head." 
 
 "I lost it long ago. To-day I am a bore — 
 to-morrow I shall be a nuisance. Make up your 
 mind to it." 
 
 "I thought you were a reasonable person! — 
 you used to be. Now look at that view, Elizabeth. 
 We've seen the same thing for twelve hours, and if 
 it wasn't soon going to be dark we should see the 
 same thinj? for twelve hours more. What is
 
 4 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 there to go mad over in that?" Her brother 
 waved his hand indignantly from right to left 
 across the disappearing scene. "As for me, I 
 am only sustained by the prospect of the good 
 dinner that I know Yerkes means to give us in 
 a quarter of an hour. I won't be a minute late 
 for it! Go and get ready, EHzabeth " 
 
 "Another lake!" cried Lady Merton, with g 
 jump. "Oh, what a darling! That's the 
 twentieth since tea. Look at the reflections — 
 and that delicious island! And oh! what are 
 those birds V 
 
 She leant over the side of the observation plat- 
 form, attached to the private car in which she and 
 her brother were travelling, at the rear of the heavy 
 Canadian Pacific train. To the left of the train 
 a small blue lake had come into view, a lake much 
 indented with small bays running up among the 
 woods, and a couple of islands covered with scrub 
 of beech and spruce, set sharply on the clear water. 
 On one side of the lake, the forest was a hideous 
 waste of burnt trunks, where the gaunt stems — 
 charred or singed, snapped or twisted, or flayed — 
 of the trees which remained standing rose dread- 
 fully into the May sunshine, above a chaos of 
 black ruin below. But except for this blemish — 
 the only sign of man — the little lake was a gem 
 of beauty. The spring green clothed its rocky
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 5 
 
 sides; the white spring clouds floated above it, and 
 within it; and small beaches of white pebbles 
 seemed to invite the human feet which had 
 scarcely yet come near them. 
 
 "What does it matter?" yawned her brother. 
 " I don't want to shoot them. And why you 
 make such a fuss about the lakes, when, as you 
 say yourself, there are about two a mile, and none 
 of them has got a name to its back, and they're 
 all exactly alike, and all full of beastly mosquitoes 
 in the summer — it beats me! I wish Yerkes 
 would hurry up." He leant back sleepily against 
 the door of the car and closed his eyes. 
 
 "It's because they haven't got a name — and 
 they're so endless! — and the place is so big! — 
 and the people so few! — and the chances are so 
 many — and so queer!" said Elizabeth Merton 
 laughing. 
 
 "What sort of chances .f"' 
 
 "Chances of the future." 
 
 "Hasn't got any chances!" said Philip Gaddes- 
 den, keeping his hands in his pockets. 
 
 "Hasn't it.? Owl!" Lady Merton neatly 
 pinched the arm nearest to her. "As I've 
 explained to you many times before, this is the 
 Hinterland of Ontario — and it's only been 
 surveyed, except just along the railway, a few 
 years ago — and it's as rich as rich "
 
 6 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 " I say, I wish you wouldn't reel out the guide- 
 book like that!" grumbled the somnolent person 
 beside her. "As if I didn't know all about the 
 Cobalt mines, and that kind of stuff." 
 
 "Did you make any money out of them, Phil ?" 
 
 "No — but the other fellows did. That's my 
 luck." 
 
 "Never mind, there'll be heaps more directly — 
 hundreds." She stretched out her hand vaguely 
 towards an enchanting distance — hill beyond 
 hill, wood beyond wood; everywhere the glimmer 
 of water in the hollows; everywhere the sparkle 
 of fresh leaf, the shining of the birch trunks 
 among the firs, the greys and purples of limestone 
 rock; everywhere, too, the disfiguring stain of fire, 
 fire new or old, written, now on the mouldering 
 stumps of trees felled thirty years ago when the 
 railway was making, now on the young stems 
 of yesterday. 
 
 " I want to see it all in a moment of time/* 
 Elizabeth continued, still above herself. "An air- 
 ship, you know, Philip — and we should see it all 
 in a day, from here to James Bay. A thousand 
 miles of it — stretched below us — just waiting 
 for man! And we'd drop down into an undis- 
 covered lake, and give it a name — one of our 
 names — and leave a letter under a stone. And 
 then in a hundred years, when the settlers come.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 7 
 
 they'd find it, and your name — or mine — would 
 live forever." 
 
 "I forbid you to take any liberties with my 
 name, Elizabeth! I've something better to do 
 with it than waste it on a lake in — what do you 
 call it? — the 'Hinterland of Ontario.'" The 
 young man mocked his sister's tone. 
 
 Elizabeth laughed and was silent. 
 
 The train sped on, at its steady pace of some 
 thirty miles an hour. The spring day was alter- 
 nately sunny and cloudy; the temperature was 
 warm, and the leaves were rushing out. Elizabeth 
 Merton felt the spring in her veins, an indefinable 
 joyousness and expectancy; but she was conscious 
 also of another intoxication — a heat of romantic 
 perception kindled in her by this vast new country 
 through which she was passing. She was a 
 person of much travel, and many experiences; 
 and had it been prophesied to her a year before 
 this date that she could feel as she was now feeling, 
 she would not have believed it. She was then in 
 Rome, steeped in, ravished by the past — assisted 
 by what is, in its way, the most agreeable society 
 in Europe. Here she was absorbed in a rushing 
 present; held by the vision of a colossal future; 
 and society had dropped out of her ken. Quebec, 
 Montreal and Ottawa had indeed made them- 
 selves pleasant to her; she had enjoyed them all.
 
 8 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 But it was in the wilderness that the spell had 
 come upon her; in these vast spaces, some day 
 to be the home of a new race; in these lakes, the 
 playground of the Canada of the future; in these 
 fur stations and scattered log cabins; above all in 
 the great railway linking east and west, that she 
 and her brother had come out to see. 
 
 For they had a peculiar relation to it. Their 
 father had been one of its earliest and largest 
 shareholders, might indeed be reckoned among 
 its founders. He had been one, also, of a small 
 group of very rich men who had stood by the 
 line in one of the many crises of its early history, 
 when there was often not enough money in the 
 coffers of the company to pay the weekly wages 
 of the navvies working on the great iron road. 
 He was dead now, and his property in the line 
 had been divided among his children. But his 
 name and services were not forgotten at Montreal, 
 and when his son and widowed daughter let it be 
 known that they desired to cross from Quebec 
 to Vancouver, and inquired what the cost of a 
 private car might be for the journey, the authorities 
 at Montreal insisted on placing one of the official 
 cars at their disposal. So that they were now 
 travelling as the guests of the C. P. R.; and the 
 good will of one of the most powerful of modern 
 corporations went with them.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 9 
 
 They had left Toronto, on a May evening, 
 when the orchards ran, one flush of white and 
 pink, from the great lake to the gorge of Niagara, 
 and all along the line northwards the white trilliums 
 shone on the grassy banks in the shadow of the 
 woods; while the pleasant Ontario farms flitted by, 
 so mellowed and homelike already, midway 
 between the old life of Quebec, and this new, 
 raw West to which they were going. They had 
 passed, also — but at night and under the 
 moon — through the lake country which is the 
 playground of Toronto, as well known, and as 
 plentifully be-named as Westmoreland; and then 
 at North Bay with the sunrise they had plunged 
 into the wilderness, — into the thousand miles 
 of forest and lake that lie between Old Ontario 
 and Winnipeg. 
 
 And here it was that Elizabeth's enthusiasm 
 had become in her brother's eyes a folly; that 
 something wild had stirred in her blood, and sitting 
 there in her shady hat at the rear of the train, 
 her eyes pursuing the great track which her father 
 had helped to bring into being, she shook Europe 
 from her, and felt through her pulses the tremor 
 of one who watches at a birth, and looks forward 
 to a life to be 
 
 "Dinner is ready, my lady 
 
 j>
 
 10 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Thank Heaven!" cried Philip Gaddesden, 
 springing up. "Get some champagne, please, 
 Yerkes." 
 
 "Philip! " said his sister reprovingly, "it is not 
 good for you to have champagne every night." 
 
 Philip threw back his curly head, and 
 grinned. 
 
 " I'll see if I can do w^ithout it to-morrow. 
 Come along, Elizabeth." 
 
 They passed through the outer saloon, with 
 its chintz-covered sofas and chairs, past the two 
 little bedrooms of the car, and the tiny kitchen 
 to the dining-room at the further end. Here 
 stood a man in steward's livery ready to serve, 
 while from the door of the kitchen another older 
 man, thin and tanned, in a cook's white cap and 
 apron, looked benevolently out. 
 
 "Smells good, Yerkes!" said Gaddesden as he 
 passed. 
 
 The cook nodded. 
 
 "If only her ladyship '11 find something she 
 likes," he said, not without a slight tone of 
 reproach. 
 
 "You hear that, Elizabeth.?" said her brother 
 as they sat down to the well-spread board. 
 
 Elizabeth looked plaintive. It was one of her 
 chief weaknesses to wish to be liked — adored, 
 perhaps, is the better word — by her servants
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST ii 
 
 and she generally accomplished it. But the price 
 of Yerkes's affections was too high. 
 
 "It seems to me that we have only just finished 
 luncheon, not to speak of tea," she said, looking 
 in dismay at the menu before her. " Phil, do 
 you wish to see me return home like Mrs. Mel- 
 huish ?" 
 
 Phil surveyed his sister. Mrs. Melhuish was 
 the wife of their local clergyman in Hampshire; 
 a poor lady plagued by abnormal weight, and 
 a heart disease. 
 
 "You might borrow pounds from Mrs. Mel- 
 huish, and nobody would ever know. You really 
 are too thin, Lisa — a perfect scarecrow. Of 
 course Yerkes sees that he could do a lot for you. 
 All the same, that's a pretty gown you've got on 
 — an awfully pretty gown," he repeated with 
 emphasis, adding immediately afterwards in 
 another tone — "Lisa! — I say! — you're not 
 going to wear black any more ?" 
 
 "No" — said Lady Merton, "no — I am not 
 going to wear black any more." The words 
 came lingeringly out, and as the servant removed 
 her plate, Elizabeth turned to look out of the 
 window at the endless woods, a shadow on her 
 beautiful eyes. 
 
 She was slenderly made, with a small face and 
 head round which the abundant hair was very
 
 12 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 smoothly and closely wound. The hair was of 
 a delicate brown, the complexion clear, but 
 rather colourless. Among other young and hand- 
 some women, Elizabeth Merton made little effect; 
 like a fine pencil drawing, she required an atten- 
 tive eye. The modelling of the features, of the 
 brow, the cheeks, the throat, was singularly 
 refined, though without a touch of severity; her 
 hands, with their very long and slender fingers, 
 conveyed the same impression. Her dress, though 
 dainty, was simple and inconspicuous, and her 
 movements, light, graceful, self-controlled, seemed 
 to show a person of equable temperament, without 
 any strong emotions. In her light cheerfulness, 
 her perpetual interest in the things about her, 
 she might have reminded a spectator of some of 
 the smaller sea-birds that flit endlessly from 
 wave to wave, for whom the business of life 
 appears to be summed up in flitting and poising. 
 The comparison would have been an inadequate 
 one. But Elizabeth Merton's secrets were not 
 easily known. She could rave of Canada; she 
 rarely talked of herself. She had married, at 
 the age of nineteen, a young Cavalry oflRcer, 
 Sir Francis Merton, who had died of fever within 
 a year of their wedding, on a small West African 
 expedition for which he had eagerly offered himself. 
 Out of the ten months of their marriage, they had
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 13 
 
 spent four together. Elizabeth was now twenty- 
 seven, and her married Hfe had become to her an 
 insubstantial memory. She had been happy, 
 but in the depths of the mind she knew that she 
 might not have been happy very long. Her 
 husband's piteous death had stamped upon her, 
 indeed, a few sharp memories; she saw him always, 
 — as the report of a brother officer, present at 
 his funeral, had described him — wrapped in the 
 Flag, and so lowered to his grave, in a desert 
 land. This image effaced everything else; the 
 weaknesses she knew, and those she had begun 
 to guess at. But at the same time she had not 
 been crushed by the tragedy; she had often 
 scourged herself in secret for the rapidity with 
 which, after it, life had once more become 
 agreeable to her. She knew that many people 
 thought her incapable of deep feeling. She 
 supposed it must be true. And yet there were 
 moments when a self within herself surprised and 
 startled her; not so much, as yet, in connection 
 with persons, as with ideas, causes — oppressions, 
 injustices, helpless suffering; or, as now, with a 
 new nation, visibly striking its "being into bounds." 
 During her widowhood she had lived much 
 with her mother, and had devoted herself particu- 
 larly to this only brother, a delicate lad — 
 lovable, self-indulgent and provoking — for whom
 
 14 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 the unquestioning devotion of two women 
 had not been the best of schools. An attack of 
 rheumatic fever which had seized him on leaving 
 Christchurch had scared both mother and sister. 
 He had recovered, but his health was not yet 
 what it had been; and as at home it was impossible 
 to keep him from playing golf all day, and bridge 
 all night, the family doctor, in despair, recom- 
 mended travel, and Elizabeth had offered to take 
 charge of him. It was not an easy task, for 
 although Philip was extremely fond of his sister, 
 as the male head of the family since his father's 
 death he held strong convictions with regard to 
 the natural supremacy of man, and would probably 
 never "double Cape Turk." In another year's 
 time, at the age of four and twenty, he would 
 inherit the family estate, and his mother's guardian- 
 ship would come to an end. He then intended 
 to be done with petticoat government, and to 
 show these two dear women a thing or two. 
 
 The dinner was good, as usual; in Elizabeth's 
 eyes, monstrously good. There was to her 
 something repellent in such luxurious fare enjoyed 
 by strangers, on this tourist-flight through a 
 country so eloquent of man's hard wrestle with 
 rock and soil, with winter and the vdlderness. 
 The bhnds of the car towards the next carriage
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 15 
 
 were rigorously closed, that no one might interfere 
 with the privacy of the rich; but Ehzabeth had 
 drawn up the bHnd beside her, and looked occa- 
 sionally into the evening, and that endless medley 
 of rock and forest and lake which lay there outside, 
 under the sunset. Once she gazed out upon a 
 great gorge, through which ran a noble river, 
 bathed in crimson light; on its way, no doubt, 
 to Lake Superior, the vast, crescent-shaped lake 
 she had dreamed of in her school-room days, 
 over her geography lessons, and was soon to see 
 with her own eyes. She thought of the uncom- 
 panioned beauty of the streams, as it would be 
 when the thunder of the train had gone by, of 
 its distant sources in the wild, and the loneliness 
 of its long, long journey. A little shiver stole upon 
 her, the old tremor of man in presence of a nature 
 not yet tamed to his needs, not yet identified 
 with his feelings, still full therefore of stealthy and 
 hostile powers, creeping unawares upon his life. 
 "This champagne is not nearly as good as 
 last night," said Philip discontentedly. "Yerkes 
 must really try for something better at Winnipeg. 
 When do we arrive .?" 
 
 "Oh, some time to-morrow evening." 
 "What a blessing we're going to bed!" said the 
 boy, lighting his cigarette. "You won't be able 
 to bother me about lakes, Lisa."
 
 i6 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 But he smiled at her as he spoke, and Elizabeth 
 was so enchanted to notice the gradual passing 
 away of the look of illness, the brightening of the 
 eye, and slight filling out of the face, that he 
 might tease her as he pleased. 
 
 Within an hour Philip Gaddesden was stretched 
 on a comfortable bed sound asleep. The two 
 servants had made up berths in the dining-room; 
 Elizabeth's maid slept in the saloon. Elizabeth 
 herself, wrapped in a large cloak, sat awhile 
 outside, waiting for the first sight of Lake Superior. 
 
 It came at last. A gleam of silver on the left — 
 a line of purple islands — frowning headlands 
 in front — and out of the interminable shadow 
 of the forests, they swept into a broad moonlight. 
 Over high bridges and the roar of rivers, threading 
 innumerable bays, burrowing through headlands 
 and peninsulas, now hanging over the cold 
 shining of the water, now lost again in the woods, 
 the train sped on its wonderful way. Elizabeth 
 on her platform at its rear was conscious of no 
 other living creature. She seemed to be alone 
 with the night and the vastness of the lake, the 
 awfulness of its black and purple coast. As far 
 as she could see, the trees on its shores were still 
 bare; they had temporarily left the spring behind; 
 the North seemed to have rushed upon her in its 
 terror and desolation. She found herself imagin-
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 17 
 
 ing the storms that sweep the lake in winter, 
 measuring her frail Hfe against the lonehness and 
 boundlessness around her. No sign of man, 
 save in the few lights of these scattered stations; 
 and yet, for long, her main impression was one 
 of exultation in man's power and skill, which bore 
 her on and on, safe, through the conquered 
 wilderness. 
 
 Gradually, however, this note of feeling slid 
 down into something much softer and sadder. 
 She became conscious of herself, and her personal 
 life; and little by little her exultation passed into 
 yearning; her eyes grew wet. For she had no 
 one beside her with whom to share these secret 
 thoughts and passions — these fresh contacts 
 with life and nature. Was it always to be so ? 
 There was in her a longing, a "sehnsucht," for 
 she knew not what. 
 
 She could marry, of course, if she wished. 
 There was a possibility in front of her, of which 
 she sometimes thought. She thought of it now, 
 wistfully and kindly; but it scarcely availed 
 against the sudden melancholy, the passion of 
 indefinite yearning which had assailed her. 
 
 The night began to cloud rapidly. The moon- 
 light died from the lake and the coast. Soon a 
 wind sprang up, lashing the young spruce and 
 birch growing among the charred wreck of the older
 
 1 8 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 forest, through which the railway had been driven. 
 Ehzabeth went within, and she was no sooner 
 in bed than the rain came pelting on her window. 
 She lay sleepless for a long time, thinking now, 
 not of the world outside, or of herself, but of the 
 long train in front of her, and its freight of lives; 
 especially of the two emigrant cars, full, as she 
 had seen at North Bay, of Galicians and Russian 
 Poles. She remembered the women's faces, and 
 the babies at their breasts. Were they all asleep, 
 tired out perhaps by long journeying, and soothed 
 by the noise of the train ? Or were there hearts 
 among them aching for some poor hovel left 
 behind, for a dead child in a Carpathian grave- 
 yard ^ — for a lover f — a father ? — some bowed 
 and wrinkled Galician peasant whom the next 
 winter would kill ? And were the strong, swarthy 
 men dreaming of wealth, of the broad land waiting, 
 the free country, and the equal laws ? 
 
 Elizabeth awoke. It was light in her little 
 room. The train was at a standstill. Winnipeg ? 
 
 A subtle sense of something wrong stole upon her. 
 Why this murmur of voices round the train ? She 
 pushed aside a corner of the blind beside her. Out- 
 side a railway cutting, filled with misty rain — many 
 persons walking up and down, and a babel of talk — 
 
 Bewildered, she rang for her maid, an elderly
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 19 
 
 and precise person who had accompanied her on 
 many wanderings. 
 
 "Simpson, what's the matter? Are we near 
 Winnipeg ?" 
 
 "We've been standing here for the last two 
 hours, my lady. I've been expecting to hear 
 you ring long ago." 
 
 Simpson's tone implied that her mistress had 
 been somewhat crassly sleeping while more 
 sensitive persons had been awake and suffering. 
 
 Elizabeth rubbed her eyes. " But what's wrong, 
 Simpson, and where are we?" 
 
 "Goodness knows, my lady. We're hours away 
 from Winnipeg — that's all I know — and we're 
 likely to stay here, by what Yerkes says." 
 
 "Has there been an accident?" 
 
 Simpson replied — sombrely — that something 
 had happened, she didn't know what — that- 
 Yerkes put it down to "the sink-hole," which 
 according to him was "always doing it" — that 
 there were two trains in front of them at a standstill, 
 and trains coming up every minute behind them. 
 
 "My dear Simpson! — that must be an exag- 
 geration. There aren't trains every minute on 
 the C. P. R. Is Mr. Philip awake?" 
 
 "Not yet, my lady." 
 
 "And what on earth is a sink-hole?" asked 
 Elizabeth.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Elizabeth had ample time during the ensuing 
 sixteen hours for inquiry as to the nature of sink- 
 holes. 
 
 When she emerged, dressed, into the saloon — 
 she found Yerkes looking out of the window in a 
 brown study. He was armed with a dusting 
 brush and a white apron, but it did not seem to 
 her that he had been making much use of them. 
 
 "Whatever is the matter, Yerkes.'' What is 
 a sink-hole ?'* 
 
 Yerkes looked round. 
 
 "A sink-hole, my lady?" he said slowly — 
 "A sink-hole, well, it's as you may say — a 
 muskeg." 
 
 "A whatP'* 
 
 **A place where you can't find no bottom, my 
 lady. This one's a vixen, she is! What she's 
 cost the C. P. R. !" — he threw up his hands. 
 "And there's no contenting her — the more you 
 give her the more she wants. They give her ten 
 trainloads of stuff a couple of months ago. No 
 good! A bit of moist weather and there she is 
 
 20
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 21 
 
 at It again. Let an engine and two carriages 
 through last night — ten o'clock!" 
 
 "Gracious! Was anybody hurt? What — a 
 kind of bog ? — a quicksand ?" 
 
 "Well," said Yerkes, resuming his dusting, 
 and speaking with polite obstinacy, "muskegs is 
 what they call 'em in these parts. They'll have 
 to divert the line. I tell 'em so, scores of times. 
 She was at this game last year. Held me up 
 twenty-one hours last fall." 
 
 When Yerkes was travelling he spoke in a 
 representative capacity. He was the line. 
 
 "How many trains ahead of us are there* 
 Yerkes ?" 
 
 "Two as I know on — may be more." 
 
 "And behind?" 
 
 "Three or four, my lady." 
 
 "And how long are we likely to be kept?" 
 
 "Can't say. They've been at her ten hours. 
 She don't generally let anyone over her under a 
 good twenty — or twenty-four." 
 
 "Yerkes! — what will Mr. Gaddesden say? 
 And it's so damp and horrid." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at the outside prospect in 
 dismay. The rain was drizzling down. The 
 passengers walking up and down the line were 
 in heavy overcoats with their collars turned up. 
 To the left of the line there was a misty glimpse
 
 22 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 of water over a foreground of charred stumps. 
 On the other side rose a bank of scrubby wood, 
 broken by a patch of clearing, which held a rude 
 log-cabin. What was she to do with Philip 
 all day ? 
 
 Suddenly a cow appeared on the patch of grass 
 round the log hut. With a sound of jubilation, 
 Yerkes threw down his dusting brush and rushed 
 out of the car. Elizabeth watched him pursue the 
 cow, and disappear round a corner. What on 
 earth was he about ^ 
 
 Philip had apparently not yet been called. He 
 was asleep, and Yerkes had let well alone. But 
 he must soon awake to the- situation, and the 
 problem of his entertainment would begin. Eliza- 
 beth took up the guide-book and with difficulty 
 made out that they were about a hundred miles 
 from Winnipeg. Somewhere near Rainy Lake 
 apparently. What a foolishly appropriate name! 
 
 -Hi! — hi! " 
 
 The shout startled her. Looking out she saw 
 a group of passengers grinning, and Yerkes 
 running hard for the car, holding something in 
 his hand, and pursued by a man in a slouch hat, 
 who seemed to be swearing. Yerkes dashed into 
 the car, deposited his booty in the kitchen, and 
 standing in the doorway faced the enemy. A 
 terrific babel arose.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 23 
 
 Elizabeth appeared in the passage and 
 demanded to know what had happened. 
 
 "Ail right, my lady," said Yerkes, mopping 
 his forehead. "I've only been and milked his 
 cow. No saying where I'd have got any milk 
 this side of Winnipeg if I hadn't." 
 
 " But, Yerkes, he doesn't seem to like it." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, my lady." 
 
 But the settler was now on the steps of the car 
 gesticulating and scolding, in what Elizabeth 
 guessed to be a Scandinavian tongue. He was 
 indeed a gigantic Swede, furiously angry, and 
 Elizabeth had thoughts of bearding him herself 
 and restoring the milk, when some mysterious 
 transaction involving coin passed suddenly 
 between the two men. The Swede stopped 
 short in the midst of a sentence, pocketed some- 
 thing, and made off sulkily for the log hut. 
 Yerkes, with a smile, and a wink to the bystanders, 
 retired triumphant on his prey. 
 
 Elizabeth, standing at the door of the kitchen, 
 inquired if supplies were likely to run short. 
 
 "Not in this car," said Yerkes, with emphasis. 
 "What they II do" — a jerk of his thumb towards 
 the rest of the train in front — "can't say." 
 
 "Of course we shall have to give them food!" 
 cried Lady Merton, delighted at the thought of 
 getting rid of some of their superfluities.
 
 24 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Yerkes showed a stolid face. 
 
 "The C. P. R.'U have to feed 'em — must. 
 That's the regulation. Accident — free meals. 
 That hasn't nothing to do with me. They don't 
 come poaching on my ground. I say, look out! 
 Do yer call that bacon, or bufiFaler steaks .?" 
 
 And Yerkes rushed upon his subordinate, 
 Bettany, who was cutting the breakfast bacon 
 with undue thickness, and took the thing in hand 
 himself. The crushed Bettany, who was never 
 allowed to finish anything, disappeared hastily 
 in order to answer the electric bell which was 
 ringing madly from Philip Gaddesden's berth. 
 
 "Conductor!" cried a voice from the inner 
 platform outside the dining-room and next the 
 train. 
 
 "And what might you be wanting, sir.?" said 
 Bettany jauntily, opening the door to the visitor. 
 Bettany was a small man, with thin harrassed 
 features and a fragment of beard, glib of speech 
 towards everybody but Yerkes. 
 
 "Your conductor got some milk, I think, from 
 that cabin." 
 
 "He did — but only enough for ourselves. 
 Sorry we can't oblige you." 
 
 "All the same, I am going to beg some of it. 
 May I speak to the gentleman ?"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 25 
 
 "Mr. Gaddesden, sir, is dressing. The steward 
 will attend to you." 
 
 And Bettany retired ceremoniously in favour 
 of Yerkes, who hearing voices had come out of 
 his den. 
 
 " I have come to ask for some fresh milk for a 
 baby in the emigrant car," said the stranger, 
 "Looks sick, and the mother's been crying. 
 They've only got tinned milk in the restaurant 
 and the child won't touch it." 
 
 "Sorry it's that particular, sir. But I've got 
 only what I want." 
 
 "Yerkes!" cried Elizabeth Merton, in the 
 background. "Of course the baby must have 
 it. Give it to the gentleman, please, at 
 
 once." 
 
 The stranger removed his hat and stepped into 
 the tiny dining-room where Elizabeth was 
 standing. He was tall and fair-skinned, with a 
 blonde moustache, and very blue eyes. He spoke 
 — for an English ear — with the slight accent 
 which on the Canadian side of the border still 
 proclaims the neighbourhood of the States. 
 
 "I am sorry to trouble you, madam," he said, 
 with deference. " But the child seems very 
 weakly, and the mother herself has nothing to 
 give it. It was the conductor of the restaurant 
 car who sent me here."
 
 26 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "We shall be delighted," said Lady Merton, 
 eagerly. "May I come with you, if you are going 
 to take it ? Perhaps I could do something for 
 the mother," 
 
 The stranger hesitated a moment. 
 
 "An emigrant car full of Galicians is rather a 
 rough sort of place — especially at this early 
 hour in the morning. But if you don't mind " 
 
 "I don't mind anything. Yerkes, is that all 
 the milk V 
 
 "All to speak of, my lady, "said Yerkes, nimbly 
 retreating to his den. 
 
 Elizabeth shook her head as she looked at the 
 milk. But her visitor laughed. 
 
 "The baby won't get through that to-day. 
 It's a regular little scarecrow. I shouldn't think 
 the mother'll rear it." 
 
 They stepped out on to the line. The drizzle 
 descended on Lady Merton's bare head and 
 grey travelling dress. 
 
 "You ought to have an umbrella," said the 
 Canadian, looking at her in some embarrassment. 
 And he ran back to the car for one. Then, 
 while she carried the milk carefully in both hands, 
 he held the umbrella over her, and they passed 
 through the groups of passengers who were 
 strolling disconsolately up and down the line in 
 spite of the wet, or exchanging lamentations with
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 27 
 
 others from two more stranded trains, one drawn 
 up alongside, the other behind. 
 
 Many glances were levelled at the slight English- 
 woman, with the delicately pale face, and at the 
 man escorting her. Elizabeth meanwhile was 
 putting questions. How long would they be 
 detained ,? Her brother with whom she was 
 travelling was not at all strong. Unconsciously, 
 perhaps, her voice took a note of complaint. 
 
 " Well, we can't any of us cross — can we ? — 
 till they come to some bottom in the sink-hole,'* 
 said the Canadian, interrupting her a trifle bluntly. 
 
 Elizabeth laughed. "We may be here then 
 till night." 
 
 "Possibly. But you'll be the first over." 
 
 " How .? There are some trains in front." 
 
 "That doesn't matter. They'll move you up. 
 They're very vexed it should have happened to 
 you." 
 
 Elizabeth felt a trifle uncomfortable. Was 
 the dear young man tilting at the idle rich — and 
 the corrupt Old World ? She stole a glance at 
 him, but perceived only that in his own tanned 
 and sunburnt way he was a remarkably handsome 
 well-made fellow, built on a rather larger scale than 
 the Canadians she had so far seen. A farmer .'* 
 His manners were not countrified. But a farmer in 
 Canada or the States may be of all social grades.
 
 28 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 By this time they had reached the emigrant 
 car, the conductor of which was standing on the 
 steps. He was loth to allow Lady Merton to 
 enter, but Elizabeth persisted. Her companion 
 led the way, pushing through a smoking group of 
 dark-faced men hanging round the entrance. 
 
 Inside, the car was thick, indeed, with smoke 
 and the heavy exhalations of the night. Men and 
 women were sitting on the wooden benches; some 
 women were cooking in the tiny stove-room 
 attached to the car; children, half naked and 
 unw^ashed, were playing on the floor; here and 
 there a man was still asleep; while one old man 
 was painfully conning a paper of "Homestead 
 Regulations" which had been given him at Mon- 
 treal, a lad of eighteen helping him; and close 
 by another lad was writing a letter, his eyes passing 
 dreamily from the paper to the Canadian landscape 
 outside, of which he was clearly not conscious. 
 In a corner, surrounded by three or four other 
 women, was the mother they had come to seek. 
 She held a wailing baby of about a year old in 
 her arms. At the sight of Elizabeth, the child 
 stopped its wailing, and lay breathing fast and 
 feebly, its large bright eyes fixed on the new-comer. 
 The mother turned away abruptly. It was not 
 unusual for persons from the parlour-cars to ask 
 leave to walk through the emigrants*.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 29 
 
 But Elizabeth's companion said a few words 
 to her, apparently in Russian, and Elizabeth, 
 stooping over her, held out the milk. Then a 
 dark face reluctantly showed itself, and great 
 black eyes, in deep, lined sockets; eyes rather of 
 a race than a person, hardly conscious, hardly 
 individualised, yet most poignant, expressing 
 some feeling, remote and inarticulate, that roused 
 Elizabeth's. She called to the conductor for a 
 cup and a spoon; she made her way into the 
 malodorous kitchen, and got some warm water 
 and sugar; then kneeling by the child, she put a 
 spoonful of the diluted and sweetened milk into 
 the mother's hand. 
 
 "Was it foolish of me to offer her that money ?" 
 said Elizabeth with flushed cheeks as they walked 
 back through the rain. "They looked so terribly 
 poor." 
 
 The Canadian smiled. 
 
 "I daresay it didn't do any harm," he said 
 indulgently. " But they are probably not poor 
 at all. The Galicians generally bring in quite 
 a fair sum. And after a year or two they begin 
 to be rich. They never spend a farthing they can 
 help. It costs money — or time — to be clean, 
 so they remain dirty. Perhaps we shall teach 
 them — after a bit."
 
 30 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 His companion looked at him with a shy but 
 friendly curiosity. 
 
 "How did you come to know Russian ?" 
 "When I was a child there were some Russian 
 Poles on the next farm to us. I used to play with 
 the boys, and learnt a little. The conductor 
 called me in this morning to interpret. These 
 people come from the Russian side of the Carpa- 
 thians." 
 
 "Then you are a Canadian yourself.? — from 
 the West.?" 
 
 "I was born in Manitoba." 
 "I am quite in love with your country!'* 
 Elizabeth paused beside the steps leading to 
 their car. As she spoke, her brown eyes lit up, and 
 all her small features ran over, suddenly, with 
 life and charm. 
 
 "Yes, it's a good country," said the Canadian, 
 rather drily. "It's going to be a great country. 
 Is this your first visit.?" 
 
 But the conversation was interrupted by a 
 reproachful appeal from Yerkes. 
 
 " Breakfast, my lady, has been hotted twice." 
 The Canadian looked at Elizabeth curiously, 
 lifted his hat, and went away. 
 
 "Well, if this doesn't take the cake!" said 
 Philip Gaddesden, throwing himself disconsolately 
 into an armchair. "I bet you, Elizabeth, we
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 31 
 
 shall be here forty-eight hours. And this damp 
 goes through one." 
 
 The young man shivered, as he looked petulantly 
 out through the open doorway of the car to the 
 wet woods beyond. Elizabeth surveyed him with 
 some anxiety. Like herself he was small, and 
 lightly built. But his features were much less 
 regular than hers; the chin and nose were child- 
 ishly tilted, the eyes too prominent. His bright 
 colour, however — (mother and sister could well 
 have dispensed with that touch of vivid red on the 
 cheeks!) — his curly hair, and his boyish ways 
 made him personally attractive; while in his 
 moments of physical weakness, his evident resent- 
 ment of Nature's treatment of him, and angry 
 determination to get the best of her, had a touch 
 of something that was pathetic — that appealed. 
 
 Elizabeth brought a rug and wrapped it round 
 him. But she did not try to console him; she looked 
 round for something or someone to amuse him. 
 
 On the line, just beyond the railed platform 
 of the car, a group of men were lounging and 
 smoking. One of them was her acquaintance of 
 the morning. Elizabeth, standing on the plat- 
 form waited till he turned in her direction — 
 caught his eye, and beckoned. He came with 
 alacrity. She stooped over the rail to speak to 
 him.
 
 32 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll think it very absurd" — 
 her shy smile broke again — "but do you think 
 there's anyone in this train who plays bridge?" 
 
 He laughed, 
 
 "Certainly. There is a game going on at this 
 moment in the car behind you." 
 
 "Is it — is it anybody — we could ask to 
 luncheon ? — who'd come, I mean," she added, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "I should think they'd come — I should think 
 they'd be glad. Your cook, Yerkes, is famous 
 on the line. I know two of the people playing. 
 They are Members of Parliament." 
 
 "Oh! then perhaps I know them too," cried 
 Eliza-beth, brightening. 
 
 He laughed again. 
 
 "The Dominion Parliament, I mean." He 
 named two towns in Manitoba, while Lady 
 Merton's pink flush showed her conscious of 
 having betrayed her English insularity. "Shall 
 I introduce you .?" 
 
 "Please! — if you find an opportunity. It's 
 for my brother. He's recovering from an illness." 
 
 "And you want to cheer him up. Of course. 
 Well, he'll want it to-day." The young man 
 looked round him, at the line strewn with unsightly 
 debris, the ugly cutting which blocked the view, 
 and the mists up-curling from the woods; then at
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST -^^ 
 
 the slight figure beside him. The corners of his 
 mouth tried not to laugh. "I am afraid you 
 are not going to like Canada, if it treats you 
 like this." 
 
 "IVe liked every minute of it up till now," 
 said Elizabeth warmly. "Can you tell me — 
 I should like to know — who all these people 
 are?" She waved her hand towards the groups 
 walking up and down. 
 
 "Well, you see," said the Canadian after a 
 moment's hesitation, "Canada's a big place!'* 
 
 He looked round on her with a smile so broad 
 and sudden that Elizabeth felt a heat rising in her 
 cheeks. Her question had no doubt been a 
 little naive. 
 
 But the young man hurried on, composing his 
 face quickly. 
 
 "Some of them, of course, are tourists like 
 yourselves. But I do know a few of them. That 
 man in the clerical coat, and the round collar, is 
 Father Henty — a Jesuit well known in Winnipeg 
 — a great man among the Catholics here.'* 
 
 " But a disappointed one," said Lady Merton. 
 
 The Canadian looked surprised. Elizabeth, 
 proud of her knowledge, went on: 
 
 "Isn't it true the Catholics hoped to conquer 
 the Northwest — and so — with Ouebec — to 
 govern you all t And now the English and Amer-
 
 34 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 ican immigration has spoilt all their chances — 
 poor things!" 
 
 "That's about it. Did they tell you that in 
 Toronto ? '* 
 
 Elizabeth stiffened. The slight persistent tone 
 of mockery in the young man's voice was beginning 
 to offend her. 
 
 "And the others?" she said, without noticing 
 his question. 
 
 It was the Canadian's turn to redden. He 
 changed his tone. 
 
 " — The man next him is a professor at the 
 Manitoba University. The gentleman in the 
 brown suit is going to Vancouver to look after some 
 big lumber leases he took out last year. And that 
 little man in the Panama hat has been keeping 
 us all alive. He's been prospecting for silver 
 in New Ontario — thinks he's going to make 
 his fortune in a week." 
 
 "Oh, but that will do exactly for my brother!" 
 cried Elizabeth, delighted. "Please introduce 
 
 us. 
 
 And hurrying back into the car she burst upon 
 the discontented gentleman within. Philip, who 
 was just about to sally forth into the damp, 
 against the entreaties of his servant, and take 
 his turn at shying stones at a bottle on the line, 
 was appeased by her report, and was soon seated.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 35 
 
 talking toy speculation, with a bronzed and brawny 
 person, who watched the young Englishman, as 
 they chatted, out of a pair of humorous eyes. 
 Philip believed himself a great financier, but was 
 not in truth either very shrewd or very daring, 
 and his various coups or losses generally left his 
 exchequer at the end of the year pretty much 
 what it had been the year before. But the stranger, 
 who seemed to have staked out claims at one 
 time or another, across the whole face of the 
 continent, from Klondyke to Nova Scotia, kept 
 up a mining talk that held him enthralled; and 
 Elizabeth breathed freely. 
 
 She returned to the platform. The scene was 
 triste, but the rain had for the moment stopped. 
 She hailed an official passing by, and asked if 
 there w^as any chance of their soon going on. 
 The man smiled and shook his head. 
 
 Her Canadian acquaintance, who was standing 
 near, came up to the car as he heard her question. 
 
 "I have just seen a divisional superintendent. 
 We may get on about nine o'clock to-night.'* 
 
 "And it is now eleven o'clock in the morning," 
 sighed Lady Merton. "Well! — I think a little 
 exercise would be a good thing." 
 
 And she descended the steps of the car. The 
 Canadian hesitated. 
 
 "Would you allow me to walk with you?" he
 
 36 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 said, with formality. "I might perhaps be able 
 to tell you a few things. I belong to the railway." 
 
 "I shall be greatly obliged," said Elizabeth, 
 cordially. "Do you mean that you are an 
 official ?" 
 
 "I am an engineer — in charge of some con- 
 struction work in the Rockies." 
 
 Lady Merton's face brightened. 
 
 "Indeed! I think that must be one of the 
 most interesting things in the world to be." 
 
 The Canadian's eyebrows lifted a little. 
 
 "I don't know that I ever thought of it like 
 that," he said, half smiling. "It's good work — 
 but I've done things a good deal livelier in my 
 
 time. 
 
 "You've not always been an engineer?" 
 "Very few people are always 'anything' in 
 Canada," he said, laughing. " It's like the States. 
 One tries a lot of things. Oh, I was trained as 
 an engineer — at Montreal. But directly I had 
 finished with that I went off to Klondyke. I made 
 a bit of money — came back — and lost it all, 
 in a milling business — over there" — he pointed 
 eastwards — "on the Lake of the Woods. My 
 partner cheated me. Then I went exploring to 
 the north, and took a Government job at the same 
 time — paying treaty money to the Indians. 
 Then, five years ago, I got work for the C. P. R.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST ^-j 
 
 But I shall cut it before long. I've saved some 
 money again. I shall take up land, and go into 
 politics." 
 
 "Politics?" repeated Elizabeth, vv^ishing she 
 might some day know what politics meant in 
 Canada. "You're not married.?" she added 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "I am not married." 
 
 "And may I ask your name.^*" 
 
 His name, it seemed, was George Anderson, and 
 presently as they walked up and down he became 
 somewhat communicative about himself, though 
 always within the limits, as it seemed to her, 
 of a natural dignity, which developed indeed as 
 their acquaintance progressed. He told her tales, 
 especially, of his Indian journeys through the 
 wilds about the Athabasca and Mackenzie rivers, 
 in search of remote Indian settlements — that 
 the word of England to the red man might be 
 kept; and his graphic talk called up before her 
 the vision of a northern wilderness, even wilder 
 and remoter than that she had just passed through, 
 where yet the earth teemed with lakes and timber 
 and trout-bearing streams, and where — "we 
 shall grow corn some day," as he presently 
 informed her. "In twenty years they will have 
 developed seed that will ripen three weeks earlier 
 than wheat does now in Manitoba. Then we
 
 38 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 shall settle that country — right away! — to the 
 far north.'* His tone stirred and deepened. 
 A little while before, it had seemed to her that 
 her tourist enthusiasm amused him. Yet by 
 flashes, she began to feel in him something, beside 
 which her own raptures fell silent. Had she, 
 after all, hit upon a man — a practical man — 
 who was yet conscious of the romance of Canada ? 
 
 Presently she asked him if there was no one 
 dependent on him — no mother ^ — or sisters .? 
 
 "I have two brothers — in the Government 
 service at Ottawa. I had four sisters.** 
 
 "Are they married V* 
 
 "They are dead," he said, slowly. "They and 
 my mother were burnt to death.'* 
 
 She exclaimed. Her brown eyes turned upon 
 him — all sudden horror and compassion. 
 
 "It was a farmhouse where we were living — 
 and it took fire. Mother and sisters had no time 
 to escape. It was early morning. I was a boy 
 of eighteen, and was out on the farm doing my 
 chores. When I saw smoke and came back, the 
 house was a burning mass, and — it was all over.'* 
 
 "Where was your father ?'* 
 
 "My father is dead." 
 
 "But he was there — at the time of the fire .'*'* 
 
 "Yes. He was there." 
 
 He had suddenly ceased to be communicative,
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 39 
 
 and she instinctively asked no more questions, 
 except as to the cause of the conflagration. 
 
 "Probably an explosion of coal-oil. It was 
 sometimes used to light the fire with in the morning." 
 
 "How very, very terrible!" she said gently, 
 after a moment, as though she felt it. " Did you 
 stay on at the farm .?" 
 
 "I brought up my two brothers. They were 
 on a visit to some neighbours at the time of the 
 fire. We stayed on three years." 
 
 "With your father.?" 
 
 "No; we three alone." 
 
 She felt vaguely puzzled; but before she could 
 turn to another subject, he had added — 
 
 "There was nothing else for us to do. We had 
 no money and no relations — nothing but the 
 land. So we had to work it — and we managed. 
 But after three years we'd saved a little money, 
 and we wanted to get a bit more education. So 
 we sold the land and moved up to Montreal." 
 
 " How old were the brothers when you took on 
 the farm ?" 
 
 "Thirteen — and fifteen." 
 
 "Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "You must be 
 proud." 
 
 He laughed out. 
 
 "Why, that kind of thing's done every day in 
 this country! You can't idle in Canada."
 
 40 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 They had turned back towards the train. In 
 the doorway of the car sat Philip Gaddesden 
 lounging and smoking, enveloped in a fur coat, 
 his knees covered with a magnificent fur rug. A 
 whisky and soda had just been placed at his 
 right hand. Elizabeth thought — "He said that 
 because he had seen Philip." But when she 
 looked at him, she withdrew her supposition. 
 His eyes were not on the car, and he was evidently 
 thinking of something else. 
 
 "I hope your brother will take no harm," he 
 said to her, as they approached the car. "Can 
 I be of any service to you in Winnipeg ?" 
 
 "Oh, thank you. We have some introduc- 
 tions " 
 
 » 
 
 " Of course. But if I can — let me know. 
 
 An official came along the line, with a packet 
 in his hand. At sight of Elizabeth he stopped and 
 raised his hat. 
 
 "Am I speaking to Lady Merton .? I have 
 some letters here, that have been waiting for 
 you at Winnipeg, and they've sent them out to 
 you." 
 
 He placed the packet in her hand. The Cana- 
 dian moved away, but not before Elizabeth had 
 seen again the veiled amusement in his eyes. It 
 seemed to him comic, no doubt, that the idlers of 
 the world should be so royally treated. But
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 41 
 
 after all — she drew herself up — her father 
 had been no idler. 
 
 She hastened to her brother; and they fell upon 
 their letters. 
 
 "Oh, Philip!'* — she said presently, looking 
 up — "Philip! Arthur Delaine meets us at Win- 
 nipeg.'* 
 
 " Does he ? Does he ? " repeated the young man, 
 laughing. "I say, Lisa! " 
 
 Elizabeth took no notice of her brother's 
 teasing tone. Nor did her voice, as she proceeded 
 to read him the letter she held in her hand, throw 
 any light upon her own feelings with regard to it. 
 
 The weary day passed. The emigrants were 
 consoled by free meals; and the delicate baby 
 throve on the Swede's ravished milk. For the 
 rest, the people in the various trains made rapid 
 acquaintance with each other; bridge went merrily 
 in more than one car, and the general inconveni- 
 ence was borne with much philosophy, even by 
 Gaddesden. At last, when darkness had long 
 fallen, the train to which the private car was 
 attached moved slowly forward amid cheers of 
 the bystanders. 
 
 Elizabeth and her brother were on the observa- 
 tion platform, with the Canadian, whom with 
 some difficulty they had persuaded to share their 
 dinner.
 
 42 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "I told you" — said Anderson — "that you 
 would be passed over first." He pointed to two 
 other trains in front that had been shunted to 
 make room for them. 
 
 Elizabeth turned to him a little proudly. 
 
 " But I should like to say — it's not for our 
 own sakes — not in the least! — it is for my 
 father, that they are so polite to us." 
 
 "I know — of course I know!" was the quick 
 response. "I have been talking to some of our 
 staff," he went on, smiling. "They would do 
 anything for you. Perhaps you don't understand. 
 You are the guests of the railway. And I too 
 belong to the railway. I am a very humble person, 
 but " 
 
 "You also would do anything for us?" asked 
 Elizabeth, with her soft laugh. "How kind you 
 all are!" 
 
 She looked charming as she said it — her face 
 and head lit up by the line of flaring lights through 
 which they were slowly passing. The line was 
 crowded with dark-faced navvies, watching the 
 passage of the train as it crept forward. 
 
 One of the officials in command leapt up on 
 the platform of the car, and introduced himself. 
 He was worn out with the day's labour, but 
 triumphant. " It's all right now — but, my word ! 
 the stuff we've thrown in ! "
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 43 
 
 He and Anderson began some rapid technical 
 talk. Slowly, they passed over the quicksand 
 which in the morning had engulfed half a train; 
 amid the flare of torches, and the murmur of 
 strange speech, from the Galician and Italian 
 labourers, who rested on their picks and stared 
 and laughed, as they went safely by. 
 
 "How I love adventures!" cried Elizabeth, 
 clasping her hands. 
 
 "Even little ones ?" said the Canadian, smiling. 
 But this time she was not conscious of any note 
 of irony in his manner, rather of a kind protecting- 
 ness — more pronounced, perhaps, than it would 
 have been in an Englishman, at the same stage 
 of acquaintance. But Elizabeth liked it; she 
 liked, too, the fine bare head that the torchlight 
 revealed; and the general impression of varied life 
 that the man's personality produced upon her. 
 Her sympathies, her imagination were all tremb- 
 ling towards the Canadians, no less than towards 
 their country.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 "Mr. Delaine, sir?" 
 
 The gentleman so addressed turned to see the 
 substantial form of Simpson at his elbow. They 
 were both standing in the spacious hall of the 
 C. P. R. Hotel adjoining the station at Winnipeg. 
 
 "Her ladyship, sir, asked me to tell you she 
 would be down directly. And would you please 
 wait for her, and take her to see the place where 
 the emigrants come. She doesn't think Mr. 
 Gaddesden will be down till luncheon-time." 
 
 Arthur Delaine thanked the speaker for her 
 information, and then sat down in a comfortable 
 corner. Times in hand, to wait for Lady 
 Merton. 
 
 She and her brother had arrived, he understood, 
 in the early hours at Winnipeg, after the agitations 
 and perils of the sink-hole. Philip had gone at 
 once to bed and to slumber. Lady Merton would 
 soon, it seemed, be ready for anything that Winni- 
 peg might have to show her. 
 
 The new-comer had time, however, to realise 
 and enjoy a pleasant expectancy before she 
 
 44
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 45 
 
 appeared. He was apparently occupied with the 
 Times, but in reality he was very conscious all the 
 time of his own affairs and of a certain crisis to 
 which, in his own belief, he had now brought 
 them. In the first place, he could not get over 
 his astonishment at finding himself where he was. 
 The very aspect of the Winnipeg hotel, as he 
 looked curiously round it, seemed to prove to 
 him both the seriousness of certain plans and 
 intentions of his own, and the unusual decision 
 with which he had been pursuing them. 
 
 For undoubtedly, of his own accord, and for 
 mere travellers' reasons, he would not at this 
 moment be travelling in Canada. The old world 
 was enough for him; and neither in the States 
 nor in Canada had he so far seen anything which 
 would of itself have drawn him away from his 
 Cumberland house, his classical library, his pets, 
 his friends and correspondents, his old servants 
 and all the other items in a comely and dignified 
 way of life. 
 
 He was just forty and unmarried, a man of old 
 family, easy disposition, and classical tastes. He 
 had been for a time Member of Parliament for 
 one of the old Universities, and he was now 
 engaged on a verse translation of certain books 
 of the Odyssey. That this particular labour had 
 been undertaken before did not trouble him. It
 
 46 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 was in fact his delight to feel himself a link in the 
 chain of tradition — at once the successor and 
 progenitor of scholars. Not that his scholarship 
 was anything illustrious or profound. Neither 
 as poet nor Hellenist would he ever leave any 
 great mark behind him; but where other men 
 talk of "the household of faith," he might have 
 talked rather of "the household of letters," and 
 would have seen himself as a warm and 
 familiar sitter by its hearth. A new edition of 
 some favourite classic; his weekly Athenceum', 
 occasional correspondence with a French or 
 Italian scholar — (he did not read German, and 
 disliked the race) — these were his pleasures. 
 For the rest he was the landlord of a considerable 
 estate, as much of a sportsman as his position 
 required, and his Conservative politics did not 
 include any sympathy for the more revolutionary 
 doctrines — economic or social — which seemed 
 to him to be corrupting his party. In his youth, 
 before the death of an elder brother, he had been 
 trained as a doctor, and had spent some time in a 
 London hospital. In no case would he ever have 
 practised. Before his training was over he had 
 revolted against the profession, and against the 
 "ugliness," as it seemed to him, of the matters 
 and topics with which a doctor must perforce be 
 connected. His elder brother's death, which.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 47 
 
 however, he sincerely regretted, had in truth 
 solved many difficulties. 
 
 In person he was moderately tall, with dark 
 grizzled hair, agreeable features and a moustache. 
 Among his aristocratic relations whom he met in 
 London, the men thought him a little dishevelled 
 and old - fashioned ; the women pronounced 
 him interesting and "a dear." His manners 
 were generally admired, except by captious 
 persons who held that such a fact was of itself 
 enough to condemn them; and he was welcome 
 in many English and some foreign circles. For 
 he travelled every spring, and was well acquainted 
 with the famous places of Europe. It need only 
 be added that he had a somewhat severe taste in 
 music, and could render both Bach and Handel 
 on the piano with success. 
 
 His property was only some six miles distant 
 from Martindale Park, the Gaddesdens* home. 
 During the preceding winter he had become a 
 frequent visitor at Martindale, while Elizabeth 
 Merton was staying with her mother and brother, 
 and a little ripple of talk had begun to flow 
 through the district. Delaine, very fastidious 
 where personal dignity was concerned, could not 
 make up his mind either to be watched or laughed 
 at. He would have liked to woo — always 
 supposing that wooing there was to be — with
 
 48 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 a maximum of dignity and privacy, surrounded 
 by a friendly but not a forcing atmosphere. But 
 Elizabeth Merton was a great favourite in her own 
 neighbourhood, and people became impatient. 
 Was it to be a marriage or was it not ? 
 
 As soon as he felt this enquiry in the air, Mr. 
 Delaine went abroad ■ — abruptly — about a month 
 before Elizabeth and her brother started for 
 Canada. It was said that he had gone to Italy; 
 but some few persons knew that it was his inten- 
 tion to start from Genoa for the United States, in 
 order that he might attend a celebration at Harvard 
 University in honour of a famous French Hellenist, 
 who had covered himself with glory in Delaine's 
 eyes by identifying a number of real sites with 
 places mentioned in the Odyssey. Nobody, how- 
 ever, knew but himself, that, when that was done, 
 he meant to join the brother and sister on part of 
 their Canadian journey, and that he hoped thereby 
 to become better acquainted with Elizabeth 
 Merton than was possible — for a man at least 
 of his sensitiveness — under the eyes of an inquisi- 
 tive neighbourhood. 
 
 For this step Lady Merton's consent was of 
 course necessary. 'He had accordingly written 
 from Boston to ask if it would be agreeable to 
 them that he should go with them through the 
 Rockies. The proposal was most natural. The
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 49 
 
 Delaines and Gaddesdens had been friends for 
 many years, and Arthur Delaine enjoyed a special 
 fame as a travelling companion — easy, accom- 
 plished and well-informed. 
 
 Nevertheless, he waited at Boston in some 
 anxiety for Elizabeth's answer. When it came, 
 it was all cordiality. By all means let him go 
 with them to the Rockies. They could not 
 unfortunately offer him sleeping room in the car. 
 But by day Lady Merton hoped he would be their 
 guest, and share all their facilities and splendours. 
 " I shall be so glad of a companion for Philip, who 
 is rapidly getting strong enough to give me a great 
 deal of trouble." 
 
 That was how she put it — how she must put 
 it, of course. He perfectly understood her. 
 
 And now here he was, sitting in the C. P. R. 
 Hotel at Winnipeg, at a time of year when he was 
 generally in Paris or Rome, investigating the latest 
 Greek acquisitions of the Louvre, or the last 
 excavation in the Forum; picnicking in the Cam- 
 pagna; making expeditions to Assisi or Subiaco; 
 and in the evenings frequenting the drawing- 
 rooms of ministers and ambassadors. 
 
 He looked up presently from the Times, and at 
 the street outside; the new and raw street, with 
 its large commercial buildings of the American 
 type, its tramcars and crowded sidewalks. The
 
 50 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 muddy roadway, the gaps and irregularities in 
 the street facade, the windows of a great store 
 opposite, displeased his eye. The whole scene 
 seemed to him to have no atmosphere. As far as he 
 was concerned, it said nothing, it touched nothing. 
 What was it he was to be taken to see ? Emi- 
 gration offices ? He resigned himself, with a 
 smile. The prospect made him all the more 
 pleasantly conscious that one feeling, and one 
 feeling only, could possibly have brought him here. 
 
 "Ah! there you are." 
 
 A light figure hurried toward him, and he rose 
 in haste. 
 
 But Lady Merton was intercepted midway 
 by a tall man, quite unknown to Delaine. 
 
 "I have arranged everything for three o'clock," 
 said the interloper. "You are sure that will suit 
 you : 
 
 "Perfectly! And the guests?" 
 
 "Half a dozen, about, are coming." George 
 Anderson ran through the list, and Elizabeth 
 laughed merrily, while extending her hand to 
 Delaine. 
 
 "How amusing! A party — and I don't know 
 a soul in Winnipeg. Arrived this morning — 
 and going this evening! So glad to see you, Mr. 
 Arthur. You are coming, of course.?"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 51 
 
 "Where?" said Delaine, bewildered. 
 
 "To my tea, this afternoon. Mr. Anderson — 
 Mr. Delaine. Mr. Anderson has most kindly 
 arranged a perfectly delightful party! — in our car 
 this afternoon. We are to go and see a great farm 
 belonging to some friend of his, about twenty 
 miles out — prize cattle and horses — that kind of 
 thing. Isn't it good of him?" 
 
 "Charming!" murmured Delaine. "Charm- 
 ing!" His gaze ran over the figure of the 
 Canadian. 
 
 " Yerkes of course will give us tea," said Eliza- 
 beth. " His cakes are a strong point"; she turned 
 to Anderson. " And we may really have an engine ? " 
 
 "Certainly. We shall run you out in forty 
 minutes. You still wish to go on to-night?" 
 
 " Philip does. Can we ?" 
 
 "You can do anything you wish,'* said Ander- 
 son, smiling. 
 
 Elizabeth thanked him, and they chatted a 
 little more about the arrangements and guests 
 for the afternoon, while Delaine listened. Who 
 on earth was this new acquaintance of Lady 
 Merton's ? Some person she had met in the train 
 apparently, and connected with the C. P. R. A 
 good-looking fellow, a little too sure of himself; but 
 that of course was the Colonial fault. 
 
 "One of the persons coming this afternoon is
 
 52 LADY MERTON", COLONIST 
 
 an old Montreal fellow-student of mine," the 
 Canadian was saying. "He is going to be a great 
 man some day. But if you get him to talk, you 
 won't like his opinions — I thought I'd better 
 warn you.'* 
 
 "How very interesting!" put in Delaine, with 
 perhaps excessive politeness. "What sort of 
 opinions.? Do you grow any Socialists here?" 
 
 Anderson examined the speaker, as it were for 
 the first time. 
 
 "The man I was speaking of is a French- 
 Canadian," he said, rather shortly, "and a 
 Catholic." 
 
 "The very man I want to see," cried Elizabeth. 
 ""I suppose he hates us?" 
 
 "Who? — England? Not at all. He loves 
 England — or says he does — and hates the 
 
 mpire. 
 
 "'Love me, love my Empire!*" said Elizabeth. 
 *' But, I see — I am not to talk to him about the 
 Boer War, or contributing to the Navy?'* 
 
 "Better not," laughed Anderson. "I am sure 
 he will want to behave himself; but he sometimes 
 loses his head." 
 
 Elizabeth sincerely hoped he might lose it at her 
 party. 
 
 "We want as much Canada as possible, don't 
 we?" She appealed to Delaine.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 53 
 
 "To see, in fact, the 'young barbarians — 
 all at play!'" said Anderson. The note of sar- 
 casm had returned to his clear voice. He stood, 
 one hand on his hip, looking down on Lady 
 Merton. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Elizabeth, protesting; while 
 Delaine was conscious of surprise that anyone 
 in the New World should quote anything. 
 
 Anderson hastily resumed: "No, no. I know 
 you are most kind, in wishing to see everything 
 you can." 
 
 "Why else should one come to the Colonies.?'* 
 put in Delaine. Again his smile, as he spoke, was 
 a little overdone. 
 
 "Oh, we mustn't talk of Colonies," cried Eliza- 
 beth, looking at Anderson; "Canada, Mr. Arthur, 
 doesn't like to be called a colony." 
 
 "What is she, then?" asked Delaine, with an 
 amused shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 "She is a nation!" said the Canadian, abruptly. 
 Then, turning to Lady Merton, he rapidly went 
 through some other business arrangements with 
 her. 
 
 " Three o'clock then for the car. For this morn- 
 ing you are provided?" He glanced at Delaine. 
 
 Lady Merton replied that Mr. Delaine would 
 take her round; and Anderson bowed and 
 departed.
 
 54 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 " Who Is he, and how did you come across him ? " 
 asked Delaine, as they stepped into the street. 
 
 Elizabeth explained, dwelling with enthusiasm 
 on the kindness and ability with which the young 
 man, since their acquaintance began, had made 
 himself their courier. "Philip, you know, is no 
 use at all. But Mr. Anderson seems to know 
 everybody — gets everything done. Instead of 
 sending my letters round this morning he 
 telephoned to everybody for me. And every- 
 body is coming. Isn't it too kind .? You know it 
 is for Papa's sake" — she explained eagerly — 
 *' because Canada thinks she owes him some- 
 thing." 
 
 Delaine suggested that perhaps life in Winni- 
 peg was monotonous, and its inhabitants might 
 be glad of distractions. He also begged — with 
 a slight touch of acerbity — that now that he had 
 joined them he too might be made use of. 
 
 "Ah! but you don't know the country," said 
 Lady Merton gently. "Don't you feel that we 
 must get the natives to guide us — to put us in the 
 way ? It is only they who can really feel the 
 poetry of it all.'* 
 
 Her face kindled. Arthur Delaine, who thought 
 that her remark was one of the foolish exaggera- 
 tions of nice women, was none the less conscious 
 as she made it, that her appearance was charming
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 55 
 
 — all indeed that a man could desire in a wife. 
 Her simple dress of white linen, her black hat, 
 her lovely eyes, and little pointed chin, the bunch 
 of white trilliums at her belt, which a child in the 
 emigrant car had gathered and given her the day 
 before — all her personal possessions and acces- 
 sories seemed to him perfection. Yes! — but 
 he meant to go slowly, for both their sakes. It 
 seemed fitting and right, however, at this point 
 that he should express his great pleasure and 
 gratitude in being allowed to join them. Eliza- 
 beth replied simply, without any embarrassment 
 that could be seen. Yet secretly both were con- 
 scious that something was on its trial, and that 
 more was in front of them than a mere journey 
 through the Rockies. He was an old friend 
 both of herself and her family. She believed him 
 to be honourable, upright, affectionate. He was 
 of the same world and tradition as herself, well 
 endowed, a scholar and a gentleman. He would 
 make a good brother for Philip. And heretofore 
 she had seen him on ground which had shown 
 him to advantage; either at home or abroad, 
 during a winter at Rome — a spring at Florence. 
 Indeed, as they strolled about Winnipeg, he 
 talked to her incessantly about persons and 
 incidents connected with the spring of the year 
 before, when they had both been in Rome.
 
 56 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "You remember that delicious day at Castel 
 Gandolfo ? — on the terrace of the Villa Barberini ? 
 And the expedition to Horace's farm ? You 
 recollect the little girl there — the daughter of 
 the Dutch Minister ? She's married an American 
 — a very good fellow. They've bought an old 
 villa on Monte Mario," 
 
 And so on, and so on. The dear Italian names 
 rolled out, and the speaker grew more and more 
 animated and agreeable. 
 
 Only, unfortunately, Elizabeth's attention failed 
 him. A motor car had been lent them in the 
 hospitable Canadian way; and as they sped 
 through and about the city, up the business streets, 
 round the park, and the residential suburb rising 
 along the Assiniboine, as they plunged through 
 seas of black mud to look at the little old-fashioned 
 Cathedral of St. John, with its graveyard recalling 
 the earliest days of the settlement. Lady Merton 
 gradually ceased even to pretend to listen to her 
 companion. 
 
 "They have found some extremely jolly things 
 lately at Porto D'Anzio — a fine torso — quite 
 Greek." 
 
 Have they?" said Elizabeth, absently — 
 Have they ? — And to think that in 1870, just a 
 year or two before my father and mother married, 
 there was nothing here but an outpost in the 
 
 it
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 57 
 
 wilderness! — a few scores of people! One just 
 hears this country grow." She turned pensively 
 away from the tombstone of an old Scottish 
 settler in the shady graveyard of St. John. 
 
 "Ah! but what will it grow to?" said Delaine, 
 drily. " Is Winnipeg going to be interesting ^ 
 — is it going to matter?" 
 
 "Come and look at the Emigration Offices/* 
 laughed Elizabeth for answer. 
 
 And he found himself dragged through room 
 after room of the great building, and standing by 
 while Elizabeth, guided by an official who seemed. 
 to hide a more than Franciscan brotherliness 
 under the aspects of a canny Scot, and helped by 
 an interpreter, made her way into the groups of 
 home-seekers crowding round the clerks and 
 counters of the lower room — English, Americans, 
 Swedes, Dutchmen, Galicians, French Canadians. 
 Some men, indeed, who were actually hanging 
 over maps, listening to the directions and infor- 
 mation of the officials, were far too busy to talk 
 to tourists, but there were others who had finished 
 their business, or were still waiting their turn, and 
 among them, as also among the women, the little 
 English lady found many willing to talk to her. 
 
 And what courage, what vivacity she threw 
 into the business! Delaine, who had seen her 
 till now as a person whose natural reserve was
 
 58 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 rather displayed than concealed by her light 
 agreeable manner, who had often indeed had 
 cause to wonder where and what might be the 
 real woman, followed her from group to group in 
 a silent astonishment. Between these people 
 — belonging to the primitive earth-life — and 
 herself, there seemed to be some sudden intuitive 
 sympathy which bewildered him; whether she 
 talked to some Yankee farmer from the Dakotas, 
 long-limbed, lantern-jawed, all the moisture dried 
 out of him by hot summers, hard winters, and 
 long toil, who had come over the border with a 
 pocket full of money, the proceeds of prairie- 
 farming in a republic, to sink it all joyfully in a 
 new venture under another flag; or to some 
 broad-shouldered English youth from her own 
 north country; or to some hunted Russian from 
 the Steppes, in whose eyes had begun to dawn the 
 first lights of liberty; or to the dark-faced Italians 
 and Frenchmen, to whom she chattered in their 
 own tongues. 
 
 An Indian reserve of good land had just been 
 thrown open to settlers. The room was thronged. 
 But Elizabeth was afraid of no one; and no one 
 repulsed her. The high official who took them 
 through, lingered over the process, busy as the 
 morning was, all for the beaux yeux of Elizabeth; 
 and they left him pondering by what legerdemain
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 59 
 
 he could possibly so manipulate his engagements 
 that afternoon as to join Lady Merton's tea-party. 
 
 "Well, that was quite interesting!" said Delaine 
 as they emerged. 
 
 Elizabeth, however, would certainly have 
 detected the perfunctoriness of the tone, and the 
 hypocrisy of the speech, had she had any thoughts 
 to spare. 
 
 But her face showed her absorbed. 
 
 "Isn't it amazing!" Her tone was quiet, her 
 eyes on the ground. 
 
 "Yet, after all, the world has seen a good many 
 emigrations in its day!" remarked Delaine, not 
 without irritation. 
 
 She lifted her eyes. 
 
 "Ah — but nothing like this! One hears of 
 how the young nations came down and peopled 
 the Roman Empire. But that lasted so long. 
 One person — with one life — could only see a 
 bit of it. And here one sees it all — all, at once! 
 — as a great march — the march of a new people 
 to its home. Fifty years ago, wolves and bears, 
 and buffaloes — twelve years ago even, the great 
 movement had not begun — and now, every week, 
 a new town! — the new nation spreading, spread- 
 ing over the open land, irresistibly, silently; no 
 one setting bounds to it, no one knowing what 
 will come of it!"
 
 6o LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 She checked herself. Her voice had been sub- 
 dued, but there was a tremor in it. Delaine 
 caught her up, rather helplessly. 
 
 "Ah! isn't that the point? What will come 
 of it ? Numbers and size aren't everything. 
 Where is it all tending?" 
 
 She looked up at him, still exalted, still flushed, 
 and said softly, as though she could not help it, 
 "'On to the bound of the waste — on to the 
 City of God!' " 
 
 He gazed at her in discomfort. Here was an 
 Elizabeth Merton he had yet to know. No trace 
 of her in the ordinary life of an English country 
 house! 
 
 "You are Canadian!" he said with a smile. 
 
 "No, no!" said Elizabeth eagerly, recovering 
 herself, "I am only a spectator. We see the 
 drama — we feel it — much more than they can 
 who are in it. At least" — she wavered — 
 "Well! — I have met one man who seems to 
 feel it!" 
 
 "Your Canadian friend?" 
 
 Elizabeth nodded. 
 
 "He sees the vision — he dreams the dream!" 
 she said brightly. "So few do. But I think he 
 does. Oh, dear — dear] — how time flies! I must 
 go and see what Philip is after." 
 
 Delaine was left discontented. He had come
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 6i 
 
 to press his suit, and he found a lady preoccupied. 
 Canada, it seemed, was to be his rival! Would 
 he ever be allow^ed to get in a word edgewise ? 
 
 Was there ever anything so absurd, so dis- 
 concerting ? He looked forward gloomily to a 
 dull afternoon, in quest of fat cattle, with a car- 
 full of unknown Canadians.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 At three o'clock, in the wide Winnipeg station, 
 there gathered on the platform beside Lady Mer- 
 ton's car a merry and motley group of people. 
 A Chief Justice from Alberta, one of the Senators 
 for Manitoba, a rich lumberman from British 
 Columbia, a Toronto manufacturer — owner of 
 the model farm which the party was to inspect, 
 two or three ladies, among them a little English 
 girl with fine eyes, whom Philip Gaddesden at 
 once marked for approval; and a tall, dark- 
 complexioned man with hollow cheeks, large 
 ears, and a long chin, who was introduced, with 
 particular emphasis, to Elizabeth by Anderson, 
 as " Mr. Felix Mariette" — Member of Parliament, 
 apparently, for some constituency in the Province 
 of Quebec. 
 
 The small crowd of persons collected, all 
 eminent in the Canadian world, and some beyond 
 it, examined their hostess of the afternoon with a 
 kindly amusement. Elizabeth had sent round 
 letters; Anderson, who was well known, it 
 appeared, in Winnipeg, had done a good deal of 
 
 62
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 63 
 
 telephoning. And by the letters and the tele- 
 phoning this group of busy people had allowed 
 itself to be gathered; simply because Elizabeth 
 was her father's daughter, and it was worth while 
 to put such people in the right way, and to send 
 them home with some rational notions of the 
 country they had come to see. 
 
 And she, who at home never went out of her 
 way to make a new acquaintance, was here the 
 centre of the situation, grasping the identities of 
 all these strangers with wonderful quickness, 
 flitting about from one to another, making friends 
 with them all, and constraining Philip to do the 
 same. Anderson followed her closely, evidently 
 feeling a responsibility for the party only second 
 to her own. 
 
 He found time, however, to whisper to Marietta, 
 as they were all about to mount the car: 
 
 "Eh bien?" 
 
 "Mais oui — tres gracieuse!" said the other, 
 but without a smile, and with a shrug of the 
 shoulders. He was only there to please Ander- 
 son. What did the aristocratic Englishwoman 
 on tour — with all her little Jingoisms and 
 Imperialisms about her — matter to him, or he 
 to her .? 
 
 While the stream of guests was slowly making 
 its way into the car, while Yerkes at the further
 
 64 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 end, resplendent in a buttonhole and a white cap 
 and apron, was watching the scene, and the 
 special engine, like an impatient horse, was 
 puffing and hissing to be ofF, a man, who had 
 entered the cloak-room of the station to deposit 
 a bundle just as the car-party arrived, approached 
 the cloak-room door from the inside, and looked 
 through the glazed upper half. His stealthy 
 movements and his strange appearance passed 
 unnoticed. There was a noisy emigrant party in 
 the cloak-room, taking out luggage deposited the 
 night before; they were absorbed in their own 
 affairs, and in some wrangle with the officials 
 which involved a good deal of lost temper on both 
 sides. 
 
 The man was old and grey. His face,, large- 
 featured and originally comely in outline, wore 
 the unmistakable look of the outcast. His eyes 
 were bloodshot, his mouth trembled, so did his 
 limbs as he stood peering by the door. His clothes 
 were squalid, and both they and his person 
 diffused the odours of the drinking bar from which 
 he had just come. The porter in charge of the 
 cloak-room had run a hostile eye over him as he 
 deposited his bundle. But now no one observed 
 him; while he, gathered up and concentrated, like 
 some old wolf upon a trail, followed every move- 
 ment of the party entering the Gaddesden car.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 65 
 
 George Anderson and his French Canadian 
 friend left the platform last. As Anderson 
 reached the door of the car he turned back to 
 speak to Mariette, and his face and figure were 
 clearly visible to the watcher behind the barred 
 cloak-room door. A gleam of savage excitement 
 passed over the old man's face; his limbs trembled 
 more violently. 
 
 Through the side windows of the car the party 
 could be seen distributing themselves over the 
 comfortable seats, laughing and talking in groups. 
 In the dining-room, the white tablecloth spread 
 for tea, w4th the china and silver upon it, made a 
 pleasant show. And now two high officials of 
 the railway came hurrying up, one to shake hands 
 with Lady Merton and see that all was right, the 
 other to accompany the party. 
 
 Elizabeth Merton came out in her white dress, 
 and leant over the railing, talking, with smiles, 
 to the official left behind. He raised his hat, the 
 car moved slowly off", and in the group imme- 
 diately behind Lady Merton the handsome face 
 and thick fair hair of George Anderson showed 
 conspicuous as long as the special train remained 
 
 in sight. 
 
 The old man raised himself and noiselessly 
 went out upon the platform. Outside the station 
 he fell in with a younger man, who had been appar-
 
 66 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 ently waiting for him; a strong, picturesque fellow, 
 with the skin and countenance of a half-breed. 
 
 "Well?" said the younger, impatiently. 
 "Thought you was goin' to take a bunk there.'* 
 
 "Couldn't get out before. It's all right." 
 
 "Don't care if it is,'* said the other sulkily. 
 "Don't care a damn button not for you nor any- 
 thin* you're after! But you give me my two 
 dollars sharp, and don't keep me another half- 
 hour waitin'. That's what I reckoned for, an* 
 I*m goin* to have it.'* He held out his 
 hand. 
 
 The old man fumbled slowly in an inner pocket 
 of his filthy overcoat. 
 
 "You say the car's going on to-night.^'* 
 
 "It is, old bloke, and Mr. George Anderson 
 sam.e train — number ninety-seven — as ever is. 
 Car shunted at Calgary to-morrow night. So 
 none of your nonsense — fork out! I had a lot 
 o* trouble gettin* you the tip." 
 
 The old man put some silver into his palm with 
 shaking fingers. The youth, who was a bar- 
 tender from a small saloon in the neighbourhood 
 of the station, looked at him with contempt. 
 
 "Wonder when you was sober last .^ Think 
 you'd better clean yourself a bit, or they'll not let 
 you on the train." 
 
 "Who told you I wanted to go on the train }"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 67 
 
 said the old man sharply. "I'm staying at 
 Winnipeg." 
 
 "Oh! you are, are you ?" said the other mock- 
 ingly. "We shouldn't cry our eyes out if you 
 was sayin' good-bye. Ta-ta!" And with the 
 dollars in his hand, head downwards, he went off 
 like the wind. 
 
 The old man waited till the lad was out of 
 sight, then went back into the station and bought 
 an emigrant ticket to Calgary for the night train. 
 He emerged again, and walked up the main street 
 of Winnipeg, which on this bright afternoon was 
 crowded with people and traffic. He passed the 
 door of a solicitor's office, where a small sum of 
 money, the proceeds of a legacy, had been paid 
 him the day before, and he finally made his way 
 into the free library of Winnipeg, and took down 
 a file of the Winnipeg Chronicle. 
 
 He turned some pages laboriously, yet not 
 vaguely. His eyes were dim and his hands palsied, 
 but he knew what he was looking for. He found 
 it at last, and sat pondering it — the paragraph 
 which, when he had hit upon it by chance in the 
 same place twenty-four hours earlier, had changed 
 the whole current of his thoughts. 
 
 "Donaldminster, Sask., May 6th. — We are 
 delighted to hear from this prosperous and go- 
 ahead town that, with regard to the vacant seat
 
 68 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 the Liberals of the city have secured as a candidate 
 Mr. George Anderson, who achieved such an 
 important success last year for the C. P. R. by 
 his settlement on their behalf of the dangerous 
 strike w^hich had arisen in the Rocky Mountains 
 section of the line, and which threatened not only 
 to affect all the construction camps in the district 
 but to spread to the railway workers proper and 
 to the whole Winnipeg section. Mr. Anderson 
 seems to have a remarkable hold on the railway 
 men, and he is besides a speaker of great force. 
 He is said to have addressed twenty-three meet- 
 ings, and to have scarcely eaten or slept for a 
 fortnight. He was shrewd and fair in negotiation, 
 as well as eloquent in speech. The result was 
 an amicable settlement, satisfactory to all parties. 
 And the farmers of the West owe Mr. Anderson 
 a good deal. So does the C. P. R. For if the 
 strike had broken out last October, just as the 
 movement of the fall crops eastward was at its 
 height, the farmers and the railway, and Canada 
 in general would have been at its mercy. We 
 wish Mr. Anderson a prosperous election (it is 
 said, indeed, that he is not to be opposed) and 
 every success in his political career. He is, we 
 believe, Canadian born — sprung from a farm 
 in Manitoba — so that he has grown up with the 
 Northwest, and shares all its hopes and ambitions."
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 69 
 
 The old man, with both elbows on the table, 
 crouched over the newspaper, incoherent pictures 
 of the past coursing through his mind, which was 
 still dazed and stupid from the drink of the night 
 before. 
 
 Meanwhile, the special train sped along the 
 noble Red River and out into the country. All 
 over the prairie the wheat was up in a smooth green 
 carpet, broken here and there by the fields of 
 timothy and clover, or the patches of summer 
 fallow, or the white homestead buildings. The 
 June sun shone down upon the teeming earth, 
 and a mirage, born of sun and moisture, spread 
 along the edge of the horizon, so that Elizabeth, 
 the lake-lover, could only imagine in her bewilder- 
 ment that Lake Winnipeg or Lake Manitoba had 
 come dancing south and east to meet her, so 
 clearly did the houses and trees, far away behind 
 them, and on either side, seem to be standing at 
 the edge of blue water, in which the white clouds 
 overhead were mirrored, and reed-beds stretched 
 along the shore. But as the train receded, the 
 mirage followed them; the dream-water lapped up 
 the trees and the fields, and even the line they had 
 just passed over seemed to be standing in water. 
 
 How foreign to an English eye was the flat, 
 hedgeless landscape! with its vast satin-smooth 
 fields of bluish-green wheat; its farmhouses with
 
 70 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 their ploughed fireguards and shelter-belts of 
 young trees; its rare villages, each stretching 
 in one long straggling line of wooden houses along 
 the level earth; its scattered, treeless lakes, from 
 which the duck rose as the train passed! Was it 
 this mere foreignness, this likeness in difference, 
 that made it strike so sharply, with such a pleasant 
 pungency on Elizabeth's senses ? Or was it 
 something else — some perception of an opening 
 future, not only for Canada but for herself, ming- 
 ling with the broad light, the keen air, the lovely 
 strangeness of the scene ? 
 
 Yet she scarcely spoke to Arthur Delaine, with 
 whom one might have supposed this hidden feel- 
 ing connected. She was indeed aware of him all the 
 time. She watched him secretly; watching herself, 
 too, in the characteristic modern way. But out- 
 wardly she was absorbed in talking with the guests. 
 
 The Chief Justice, roundly modelled, with a 
 pink ball of a face set in white hair, had been half 
 a century in Canada, and had watched the North- 
 west grow from babyhood. He had passed his 
 seventieth year, but Elizabeth noticed in the old 
 men of Canada a strained expectancy, a buoyant 
 hope, scarcely inferior to that of the younger 
 generation. There was in Sir Michael's talk no 
 hint of a Nunc Dimittis; rather a passionate 
 regret that life was ebbing, and the veil falling
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 71 
 
 over a national spectacle so enthralling, so 
 dramatic. 
 
 " Before this century is out we shall be a people 
 of eighty millions, and within measurable time 
 this plain of a thousand miles from here to the 
 Rockies will be as thickly peopled as the plain 
 of Lombardy.'* 
 
 "Well, and what then?'* said a harsh voice 
 in a French accent, interrupting the Chief Justice. 
 
 Arthur Delaine's face, turning towards the 
 speaker, suddenly lightened, as though its owner 
 said, "Ah! precisely." 
 
 "The plain of Lombardy is not a Paradise," 
 continued Mariette, with a laugh that had in it a 
 touch of impatience. 
 
 "Not far off it," murmured Delaine, as he 
 looked out on the vast field of wheat they were 
 passing — a field two miles long, flat and green 
 and bare as a billiard-table — and remembered 
 the chestnuts and the looping vines, the patches 
 of silky corn and spiky maize, and all the inter- 
 lacing richness and broidering of the Italian plain. 
 His soul rebelled against this naked new earth, 
 and its bare new fortunes. All very well for those 
 who must live in it and make it. "Yet is there 
 better than it!" — lands steeped in a magic that 
 has been woven for them by the mere life of 
 immemorial generations.
 
 72 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 He murmured this to Elizabeth, who smiled. 
 
 "Their shroud ?" she said, to tease him. "But 
 Canada has on her wedding garment!" 
 
 Again he asked himself what had come to her. 
 She looked years younger than when he had 
 parted from her in England. The delicious 
 thought shot through him that his advent might 
 have something to do with it. 
 
 He stooped towards her. 
 
 "Willy-nilly, your friends must like Canada!" 
 he said, in her ear; "if it makes you so happy." 
 
 He had no art of compliment, but the words 
 were simple and sincere, and Elizabeth grew 
 suddenly rosy, to her own great annoyance. 
 Before she could reply, however, the Chief Justice 
 had insisted on bringing her back into the general 
 conversation. 
 
 "Come and keep the peace, Lady Merton! 
 Here is my friend Mariette playing the devil's 
 advocate as usual. Anderson tells me you are 
 inclined to think well of us; so perhaps you ought 
 to hear it." 
 
 Mariette smiled and bowed a trifle sombrely. 
 He was plain and gaunt, but he had the air of a 
 grand seigneuTy and was in fact a member of one 
 of the old seigneurial families of Quebec. 
 
 "I have been enquiring of Sir Michael, madam, 
 whether he is quite happy in his mind as to
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 73 
 
 these Yankees that are now pouring into the new 
 provinces. He, Hke everyone else, prophesies 
 great things for Canada; but suppose it is an 
 American Canada?" 
 
 "Let them come," said Anderson, with a touch 
 of scorn. "Excellent stuff! We can absorb 
 them. We are doing it fast." 
 
 "Can you ? They are pouring all over the new 
 districts as fast as the survey is completed and the 
 railways planned. They bring capital, which 
 your Englishman doesn't. They bring knowledge 
 of the prairie and the climate, which your English- 
 men haven't got. As for capital, America is 
 doing everything; financing the railways, the 
 mines, buying up the lands, and leasing the forests. 
 British Columbia is only nominally yours; Ameri- 
 can capital and business have got their grip firm 
 on the very vitals of the province." 
 
 "Perfectly true!" — put in the lumberman 
 from Vancouver — "They have three-fourths of 
 the forests in their hands." 
 
 "No matter!" said Anderson, kindling. 
 "There was a moment of danger — twenty years 
 ago. It is gone. Canada will no more be 
 American than she will be Catholic — with 
 apologies to Mariette. These Yankees come 
 in — they turn Englishmen in six months — they 
 celebrate Dominion Day on the first of July, and
 
 74 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Independence Day, for old sake's sake, on the 
 fourth; and their children will be as loyal as 
 Toronto." 
 
 "Aye, and as dull!" said Mariette fiercely. 
 
 The conversation dissolved in protesting 
 laughter. The Chief Justice, Anderson, and the 
 lumberman fell upon another subject. Philip 
 and the pretty English girl were flirting on the 
 platform outside, Mariette dropped into a seat 
 beside Elizabeth. 
 
 "You know my friend, Mr. Anderson, 
 madam ?" 
 
 " I made acquaintance with him on the journey 
 yesterday. He has been most kind to us." 
 
 "He is a very remarkable man. When he gets 
 into the House, he will be heard of. He will 
 perhaps make his mark on Canada." 
 
 "You and he are old friends ?" 
 
 "Since our student days. I v/as of course at 
 the French College — and he at McGill. But 
 we sav/ a great deal of each other. He used to 
 come home with me in his holidays." 
 
 "He told me something of his early life." 
 
 "Did he ? It is a sad history, and I fear we — 
 my family, that is, who are so attached to him 
 — have only made it sadder. Three years ago he 
 was engaged to my sister. Then the Archbishop 
 forbade mixed marriages. My sister broke it oflF,
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 75 
 
 and now she is a nun in the UrsuUne Convent at 
 Quebec." 
 
 "Oh, poor things!" cried EHzabeth, her eye on 
 Anderson's distant face. 
 
 "My sister is quite happy," said Mariette 
 sharply. "She did her duty. But my poor 
 friend suffered. However, now he has got over it. 
 And I hope he will marry. He is very dear to me, 
 though we have not a single opinion in the world 
 
 in common." 
 
 Elizabeth kept him talking. The picture of 
 Anderson drawn for her by the admiring but 
 always critical affection of his friend, touched and 
 stirred her. His influence at college, the efforts 
 by which he had placed his brothers in the world, 
 the sensitive and generous temperament w^hich 
 had won him friends among the French Canadian 
 students, he remaining all the time English of the 
 English; the tendency to melancholy — a personal 
 and private melancholy — which mingled in him 
 with a passionate enthusiasm for Canada, and 
 Canada's future; Mariette drew these things for 
 her, in a stately yet pungent French that affected 
 her strangely, as though the French of Saint Simon 
 — or something like it — breathed again from 
 a Canadian mouth. Anderson meanwhile was 
 standing outside with the Chief Justice. She 
 threw a glance at him now and then, wondering
 
 76 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 about his love affair. Had he really got over it ? 
 — or was that M. Mariette's delusion ? She 
 liked, on the contrary, to think of him as constant 
 and broken-hearted! 
 
 The car stopped, as it seemed, on the green 
 prairie, thirty miles from Winnipeg. Elizabeth 
 was given up to the owner of the great farm — 
 one of the rich men of Canada for whom experi- 
 ment in the public interest becomes a passion; 
 and Anderson walked on her other hand. 
 
 Delaine endured a wearisome half-hour. He 
 got no speech with Elizabeth, and prize cattle 
 were his abomination. When the half-hour was 
 done, he slipped away, unnoticed, from the party. 
 He had marked a small lake or "slough" at the 
 rear of the house, with wide reed-beds and a clump 
 of Cottonwood. He betook himself to the cotton- 
 wood, took out his pocket Homer and a notebook, 
 and fell to his task. He was in the thirteenth book : 
 
 eb? B* or avrip Sopiroio XiXaieraL, m re Train] fiap 
 vetbv av eXicrjrov ySo'e oXvoire irrjKTov dporpov . . . 
 
 "As when a man longeth for supper, for whom, 
 the livelong day, two wine-coloured oxen have 
 dragged the fitted plough through the fallow, and 
 joyful to such an one is the going down of the sun 
 that sends him to his meal, for his knees tremble
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST -j-j 
 
 as he goes — so welcome to Odysseus was the 
 setting of the sun": .... 
 
 He lost himself in familiar joy — the joy of the 
 Greek itself, of the images of the Greek life. 
 He walked with the Greek ploughman, he smelt 
 the Greek earth, his thoughts caressed the dark 
 oxen under the yoke. These for him had savour 
 and delight; the wide Canadian fields had none. 
 
 Philip Gaddesden meanwhile could not be 
 induced to leave the car. While the others were 
 going through the splendid stables and cowsheds, 
 kept like a queen's parlour, he and the pretty 
 girl were playing at bob-cherry in the saloon, to 
 the scandal of Yerkes, who, with the honour of 
 the car and the C. P. R. and Canada itself on his 
 shoulders, could not bear that any of his charges 
 should shuffle out of the main item in the official 
 programme. 
 
 But Elizabeth, as before, saw everything trans- 
 figured; the splendid Shire horses; the famous 
 bull, progenitor of a coming race; the sheds full 
 of glistening cow^s and mottled calves. These 
 smooth, sleek creatures, housed there for the 
 profit of Canada and her farm life, seemed to 
 Elizabeth no less poetic than the cattle of Helios 
 to Delaine. She loved the horses, and the patient, 
 sweet-breathed kine; she found even a sympathetic 
 mind for the pigs.
 
 78 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Presently when her host, the owner, left her to 
 explain some of his experiments to the rest of the 
 party, she fell to Anderson alone. And as she 
 strolled at his side, Anderson found the June 
 afternoon pass with extraordinary rapidity. Yet 
 he was not really as forthcoming or as frank as 
 he had been the day before. The more he liked 
 his companion, the more he was conscious of 
 differences between them which his pride exag- 
 gerated. He himself had never crossed the 
 Atlantic; but he understood that she and her 
 people were "swells" — well-born in the English 
 sense, and rich. Secretly he credited them with 
 those defects of English society of which the New 
 World talks — its vulgar standards and prejudices. 
 There was not a sign of them certainly in Lady 
 Merton's conversation. But it is easy to be 
 gracious in a new country; and the brother was 
 sometimes inclined to give himself airs. Ander- 
 son drew in his tentacles a little; ready indeed to 
 be wroth with himself that he had talked so much 
 of his own affairs to this little lady the day before. 
 What possible interest could she have taken in 
 them ! 
 
 All the same, he could not tear himself from her 
 side. Whenever Delaine left his seat by the lake, 
 and strolled round the corner of the wood to 
 reconnoitre, the result was always the same. If
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 79 
 
 Anderson and Lady Merton were in sight at all, 
 near or far, they were together. He returned, 
 disconsolate, to Homer and the reeds. 
 
 As they went back to Winnipeg, some chance 
 word revealed to Elizabeth that Anderson also 
 was taking the night train for Calgary. 
 
 "Oh! then to-morrow you will come and talk 
 to us!" cried Elizabeth, delighted. 
 
 Her cordial look, the pretty gesture of her head, 
 evoked in Anderson a start of pleasure. He was 
 not, however, the only spectator of them. Arthur 
 Delaine, standing by, thought for the first time 
 in his life that Elizabeth's manner was really a 
 little excessive. 
 
 The car left Winnipeg that night for the Rockies. 
 An old man, in a crowded emigrant car, with a 
 bundle under his arm, watched the arrival of the 
 Gaddesden party. He saw Anderson accost 
 them on the platform, and then make his way 
 to his own coach just ahead of them. 
 
 The train sped westwards through the Manitoba 
 farms and villages. Anderson slept intermittently, 
 haunted by various important affairs that were on 
 his mind, and by recollections of the afternoon. 
 Meanwhile, in the front of the train, the paragraph 
 from the Winnipeg Chronicle lay carefully 
 folded in an old tramp's waistcoat pocket.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 (( 
 
 I SAY, Elizabeth, you're not going to sit out 
 there all day, and get your death of cold ? Why 
 don't you come in and read a novel like a sensible 
 woman ?" 
 
 "Because I can read a novel at home — and I 
 can't see Canada." 
 
 "See Canada! What is there to see?" The 
 youth with the scornful voice came to lean against 
 the doorway beside her. "A patch of corn — 
 miles and miles of some withered stuff that calls 
 itself grass, all of it as flat as your hand — oh! 
 and, by Jove! a little brown fellow — gopher, is 
 that their silly name ? — scootling along the line. 
 Go it, young 'un!" Philip shied the round end 
 of a biscuit tin after the disappearing brown thing. 
 "A boggy lake with a kind of salt fringe — un- 
 healthy and horrid and beastly — a wretched 
 farm building — et cetera, et cetera!" 
 
 "Oh! look there, Philip — here is a school!" 
 
 Elizabeth bent forward eagerly. On the bare 
 prairie stood a small white house, like the house 
 that children draw on their slates: a chimney in 
 
 80
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 8i 
 
 the middle, a door, a window on either side. Out- 
 side, about twenty children playing and dancing. 
 Inside, through the wide-open doorway a vision 
 of desks and a few bending heads. 
 
 Philip's patience was put to it. Had she supposed 
 that children went without schools in Canada .? 
 
 But she took no heed of him. 
 
 "Look how lovely the children are, and how 
 happy! What'U Canada be when they are old ? 
 And not another sign of habitation anywhere — 
 nothing — but the little house — on the bare 
 wide earth! And there they dance, as though 
 the world belonged to them. So it does!" 
 
 "And my sister to a lunatic asylum!" said 
 Philip, exasperated. "I say, why doesn't that 
 man Anderson come and see us r' 
 
 "He promised to come in and lunch." 
 
 " He's an awfully decent kind of fellow," said 
 the boy warmly. 
 
 Elizabeth opened her eyes. 
 
 "I didn't know you had taken any notice of 
 him, Philip." 
 
 "No more I did," was the candid reply. "But 
 did you see what he brought me this morning?" 
 He pointed to the seat behind him, littered with 
 novels, which Elizabeth recognized as new addi- 
 tions to their travelling store. " He begged or 
 borrowed them somewhere from his friends or
 
 82 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 people in the hotel; told me frankly he knew I 
 should be bored to-day, and might want them. 
 Rather 'cute of him, wasn't it ?" 
 
 Elizabeth was touched. Philip had certainly 
 shown rather scant civility to Mr. Anderson, 
 and this trait of thoughtfulness for a sickly and 
 capricious traveller appealed to her. 
 
 "I suppose Delaine will be here directly.?" 
 Philip went on. 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 Philip let himself down into the seat beside her. 
 
 "Look here, Elizabeth," lowering his voice; 
 "I don't think Delaine is any more excited about 
 Canada than I am. He told me last night he 
 thought the country about Winnipeg perfectly 
 hideous." 
 
 ''Oh!'' cried Elizabeth, as though someone had 
 flipped her. 
 
 "You'll have to pay him for this journey, 
 Elizabeth. Why did you ask him to come ?" 
 
 "I didnt ask him, PhiHp. He asked himself." 
 
 "Ah! but you let him come," said the youth 
 shrewdly. " I think, Elizabeth, you're not behav- 
 ing quite nicely." 
 
 "How am I not behaving nicely?" 
 
 "Well, you don't pay any attention to him. 
 Do you know what he was doing vs^hile you were 
 looking at the cows yesterday.?"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 83 
 
 Elizabeth reluctantly confessed that she had 
 no idea. 
 
 "Well, he was sitting by a lake — a kind of 
 swamp — at the back of the house, reading a 
 book." Philip went off into a fit of laughter. 
 
 "Poor Mr. Delaine!" cried EHzabeth, though 
 she too laughed. "It was probably Greek," she 
 added pensively. 
 
 "Well, that's funnier still. You know, Eliza- 
 beth, he could read Greek at home. It's because 
 you were neglecting him." 
 
 "Don't rub it in, Philip," said Elizabeth, flush- 
 ing. Then she moved up to him and laid a coax- 
 ing hand on his arm. "Do you know that I have 
 been awake half the night .?" 
 
 "All along of Delaine .? Shall I tell him .?" 
 
 "Philip, I just want you to be a dear, and hold 
 your tongue," said Lady Merton entreatingly. 
 "When there's anything to tell, I'll tell you. 
 And if I have " 
 
 "Have what.?" 
 
 " Behaved like a fool, you'll have to stand by 
 me." An expression of pain passed over her 
 face. 
 
 "Oh, I'll stand by you. I don't know that I 
 want Mr. Arthur for an extra bear-leader, if 
 that's what you mean. You and mother are quite 
 enough. PIullo! Here he is."
 
 §4 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 A little later Delaine and Elizabeth were sit- 
 ting side by side on the garden chairs, four of 
 which could just be fitted into the little railed 
 platform at the rear of the car. Elizabeth was 
 making herself agreeable, and doing it, for a time, 
 with energy. Nothing also could have been 
 more energetic than Delaine's attempts to meet 
 her. He had been studying Baedeker, and he 
 made intelligent travellers' remarks on the subject 
 of Southern Saskatchewan. He discussed the 
 American "trek" into the province from the 
 adjoining States. He understood the new public 
 buildings of Regina were to be really fine, only to be 
 surpassed by those at Edmonton. He admired the 
 effects of light and shadow on the wide expanse; 
 and noticed the peculiarities of the alkaline lakes. 
 
 Meanwhile, as he became more expansive, 
 Elizabeth contracted. One would have thought 
 soon that Canada had ceased to interest her at 
 all. She led him slyly on to other topics, and 
 presently the real Arthur Delaine emerged. Had 
 she heard of the most recent Etruscan excavations 
 at Grosseto .f* Wonderful! A whole host of new 
 clues! Boni — Lanciani — the whole learned 
 world in commotion. A fragment of what might 
 very possibly turn out to be a bi-lingual inscrip- 
 tion was the last find. Were we at last on the 
 brink of solving the old, the eternal enigma ?
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 85 
 
 He threw himself back in his chair, transformed 
 once more into the talkative, agreeable person 
 that Europe knew. His black and grizzled hair, 
 falling perpetually forward in strong waves, made 
 a fine frame for his grey eyes and large, well-cut 
 features. He had a slight stammer, which increased 
 when he was animated, and a trick of forever 
 pushing back the troublesome front locks of hair. 
 
 Elizabeth listened for a long, long time, and 
 at last — could have cried like a baby because she 
 was missing so much! There was a chance, she 
 knew, all along this portion of the line, of seeing 
 antelope and coyotes, if only one kept one's eyes 
 open; not to speak of the gophers — enchanting 
 little fellows, quite new to such travellers as she — 
 who seemed to choose the very railway line itself, 
 by preference, for their burrowings and their 
 social gatherings. Then, as she saw, the wheat 
 country was nearly done; a great change was 
 in progress; her curiosity sprang to meet it. 
 Droves of horses and cattle began to appear at 
 rare intervals on the vast expanse. No white, 
 tree-sheltered farms here, like the farms in Mani- 
 toba; but scattered at long distances, near the 
 railway or on the horizon, the first primitive 
 dwellings of the new settlers — the rude "shack" 
 of the first year — beginnings of villages — 
 sketches of towns.
 
 86 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "I have always thought the Etruscan problem 
 the most fascinating in the whole world," cried 
 Delaine, with pleasant enthusiasm. "When you 
 consider all its bearings, linguistic and his- 
 torical " 
 
 "Oh! do you see," exclaimed Elizabeth, point- 
 ing — "Jo you see all those lines and posts, far out 
 to the horizon ? Do you know that all these 
 lonely farms are connected with each other and 
 the railway by telephones ? Mr. Anderson told 
 me so; that some farmers actually make their 
 fences into telephone lines, and that from that 
 little hut over there you can speak to Montreal 
 when you please .? And just before I left London 
 I was staying in a big country house, thirty miles 
 from Hyde Park Corner, and you couldn't tele- 
 phone to London except by driving five miles to 
 the nearest town!" 
 
 "I wonder why that should strike you so much 
 — the telephones, I mean ?" 
 
 Delaine's tone was stiff. He had thrown him- 
 self back in his chair with folded arms, and a 
 slight look of patience. "After all, you know, 
 it may only be one dull person telephoning to 
 another dull person — on subjects that don't 
 matter!" 
 
 Elizabeth laughed and coloured. 
 
 "Oh! it isn't telephones in themselves.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 87 
 
 It's " She hesitated, and began again, try- 
 ing to express herself, "When one thinks of 
 all the haphazard of history — how nations have 
 tumbled up, or been dragged up, through cen- 
 turies of blind horror and mistake, how wonderful 
 to see a nation made consciously! — before your 
 eyes — by science and inteUigence — everything 
 thought of, everything foreseen! First of all, 
 this wonderful railway, driven across these deserts, 
 against opposition, against unbelief, by a handful 
 of men, who risked everything, and have — per- 
 haps — changed the face of the world!" 
 
 She stopped smiling. In truth, her new capa- 
 city for dithyramb was no less surprising to herself 
 than to Delaine. 
 
 "I return to my point" — he made it not with- 
 out tartness — "will the new men be adequate to 
 the new state V' 
 
 "Won't they.?" He fancied a certain pride 
 in her bearing. "They explained to me the 
 other day at Winnipeg what the Government do 
 for the emigrants — how they guide and help 
 them — take care of them in sickness and in 
 trouble, through the first years — protect them, 
 really, even from themselves. And one thinks 
 how Governments have taxed, and tortured, and 
 robbed, and fleeced — Oh, surely, surely, the 
 world improves!" She clasped her hands tightly
 
 SS LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 on her knee, as though trying by the physical 
 action to restrain the feehng within, "And to 
 see here the actual foundations of a great state 
 laid under your eyes, deep and strong, by men 
 who know what it is they are doing — to see his- 
 tory begun on a blank page, by men who know 
 what they are writing — isn't it wonderful, 
 wonderful!" 
 
 "Dear lady!" said Delaine, smiling, "America 
 has been dealing with emigrants for generations; 
 and there are people who say that corruption is 
 rife in Canada." 
 
 But Elizabeth would not be quenched. 
 
 "We come after America — we climb on her 
 great shoulders to see the way. But is there 
 anything in America to equal the suddenness of 
 this ^ Twelve years ago even — in all this North- 
 west — practically nothing. And then God said: 
 'Let there be a nation!' — and there was a nation 
 — in a night and a morning." She waved her 
 hand towards the great expanse of prairie. "And 
 as for corruption " 
 
 "Well?" He waited maliciously. 
 
 "There is no great brew without a scum," she 
 said laughing. " But find me a brew anywhere 
 in the world, of such power, with so little." 
 
 "Mr. Anderson would, I think, be pleased with 
 you," said Delaine, drily.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 89 
 
 Elizabeth frowned a little. 
 
 " Do you think I learnt it from him ? I assure 
 you he never rhapsodises." 
 
 "No; but he gives you the material for rhap- 
 les. 
 
 "And why not?" said Elizabeth indignantly. 
 "If he didn't love the country and believe in it 
 he wouldn't be going into its public life. You 
 can feel that he is Canadian through and through." 
 
 "A farmer's son, I think, from Manitoba .?" 
 
 "Yes." Elizabeth's tone was a little defensive. 
 
 "Will you not sometimes — if you watch his 
 career — regret that, with his ability, he has not 
 the environment — and the audience — of the 
 Old World?" 
 
 "No, never! He will be one of the shapers of 
 the new." 
 
 Delaine looked at her with a certain passion. 
 
 "All very well, but you don't belong to it. We 
 can't spare you from the old." 
 
 "Oh, as for me, I'm full of vicious and cor- 
 rupt habits!" put in Elizabeth hurriedly. "I 
 am not nearly good enough for the new!" 
 
 "Thank goodness for that!" said Delaine fer- 
 vently, and, bending forward, he tried to see her 
 face. But Elizabeth did not allow it. She could 
 not help flushing; but as she bent over the side of 
 the platform looking ahead, she announced in
 
 90 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 her gayest voice that there was a town to be seen, 
 and it was probably Regina. 
 
 The station at Regina, when they steamed into 
 it, was crowded with folk, and gay with flags. 
 Anderson, after a conversation with the station- 
 master, came to the car to say that the Governor- 
 General, Lord Wrekin, who had been addressing 
 a meeting at Regina, was expected immediately, 
 to take the East-bound train; which was indeed 
 already lying, with its steam up, on the further 
 side of the station, the Viceregal car in its rear. 
 
 "But there are complications. Look there!" 
 
 He pointed to a procession coming along the 
 platform. Six men bore a coffin covered with 
 white flowers. Behind it came persons in black, 
 a group of men, and one woman; then others, 
 mostly young men, also in mourning, and bare- 
 headed. 
 
 As the procession passed the car, Anderson and 
 Delaine uncovered. 
 
 Elizabeth turned a questioning look on 
 Anderson. 
 
 "A young man from Ontario," he explained, 
 "quite a lad. He had come here out West to a 
 farm — to work his way — a good, harmless 
 little fellow — the son of a widow. A week ago 
 a vicious horse kicked him in the stable. He died
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 91 
 
 yesterday morning. They are taking him back to 
 Ontario to be buried. The friends of his chapel 
 subscribed to do it, and they brought his mother 
 here to nurse him. She arrived just in time. 
 That is she." 
 
 He pointed to the bowed figure, hidden in a long 
 crape veil. Elizabeth's eyes filled. 
 
 "But it comes awkwardly," Anderson went on, 
 looking back along the platform — " for the Gov- 
 ernor-General is expected this very moment. 
 The funeral ought to have been here half an hour 
 ago. They seem to have been delayed. Ah! 
 here he is!" 
 
 "Elizabeth! — his Excellency!" cried Philip, 
 emerging from the car. 
 
 "Hush!" Elizabeth put her finger to her lip. 
 The young man looked at the funeral procession 
 in astonishment, which was just reaching the side 
 of the empty van on the East-bound train which 
 was waiting, with wide-open doors, to receive the 
 body. The bearers let down the coffin gently to 
 the ground, and stood waiting in hesitation. But 
 there were no railway employes to help them. 
 A flurried station-master and his staff were receiv- 
 ing the official party. Suddenly someone started 
 the revival hymn, "Shall We Gather at the River ?" 
 It was taken up vigorously by the thirty or forty 
 young men who had followed the coffin, and tlieir
 
 92 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 voices, rising and falling in a familiar lilting 
 melody, filled the station: 
 
 Yes, we'll gather at the river, 
 The beautiful, beautiful river — 
 Gather with the saints at the river, 
 That flows by the throne of God! 
 
 Elizabeth looked towards the entrance of the 
 station, A tall and slender man had just stepped 
 on to the platform. It was the Governor-General, 
 with a small staff behind him. The staff and the 
 station officials stood hat in hand. A few English 
 tourists from the West-bound train hurried up; 
 the men uncovered, the ladies curtsied. A group 
 of settlers' wives newly arrived from Minnesota, 
 who were standing near the entrance, watched the 
 arrival with curiosity. Lord Wrekin, seeing 
 women in his path, saluted them; and they replied 
 with a friendly and democratic nod. Then sud- 
 denly the Governor-General heard the singing, 
 and perceived the black distant crowd. He 
 inquired of the persons near him, and then passed 
 on through the groups which had begun to gather 
 round himself, raising his hand for silence. The 
 passengers of the West-bound train had by now 
 mostly descended, and pressed after him. Bare- 
 headed, he stood behind the mourners while the 
 hymn proceeded, and the coffin was lifted and 
 placed in the car with the wreaths round it. The
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 93 
 
 mother clung a moment to the side of the door, 
 unconsciously resisting those who tried to lead 
 her away. The kind grey eyes of the Governor- 
 General rested upon her, but he made no effort 
 to approach or speak to her. Only his stillness 
 kept the crowd still. 
 
 Elizabeth at her window watched the scene — 
 the tall figure of his Excellency — the bowed 
 woman — the throng of officials and of mourners. 
 Over the head of the Governor-General a couple 
 of flags swelled in a light breeze — the Union 
 Jack and the Maple Leaf; beyond the heads of 
 the crowd there was a distant glimpse of the bar- 
 racks of the Mounted Police; and then boundless 
 prairie and floating cloud. 
 
 At last the mother yielded, and was led to the 
 carriage behind the coffin. Gently, with bent 
 head, Lord Wrekin made his way to her. But 
 no one heard what passed between them. Then, 
 silently, the funeral crowed dispersed, and another 
 crowd — of officials and business men — claimed 
 the Governor-General. Standing in its midst, he 
 turned for a moment to scan the West-bound train. 
 
 **Ah, Lady Merton!'* He had perceived the 
 car and Elizabeth's face at the window, and he 
 hastened across to speak to her. They were old 
 friends in England, and they had already met in 
 Ottawa.
 
 94 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "So I find you on your travels! Well ?'* 
 
 His look, gay and vivacious as a boy's, interro- 
 gated hers. Elizabeth stammered a few words in 
 praise of Canada. But her eyes were still wet, 
 and the Governor-General perceived it. 
 
 "That was touching.?'* he said. "To die in 
 your teens in this country! — just as the curtain 
 is up and the play begins — hard! Hullo, 
 Anderson!'* 
 
 The great man extended a cordial hand, chaffed 
 Philip a little, gave Lady Merton some hurried 
 but very precise directions as to what she was to 
 see — and whom — at Vancouver and Pretoria. 
 "You must see So-and-so and So-and-so — great 
 
 friends of mine. D '11 tell you all about the 
 
 lumbering. Get somebody to show you the 
 Chinese quarter. And there's a splendid old 
 fellow — a C.P.R. man — did some of the pros- 
 pecting for the railway up North, toward the 
 Yellowhead. Never heard such tales; I could 
 have sat up all night." He hastily scribbled a 
 name on a card and gave it to EHzabeth. " Good- 
 bye — good-bye ! " 
 
 He hastened off, but they saw him standing a 
 few moments longer on the platform, the centre of 
 a group of provincial politicians, farmers, railway 
 superintendents, and others — his hat on the back 
 of his head, his pleasant laugh ringing every now
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 95 
 
 and then above the clatter of talk. Then came 
 departure, and at the last moment he jumped into 
 his carriage, talking and talked to, almost till it 
 had left the platform. 
 
 Anderson hailed a farming acquaintance. 
 
 "\Vell? What has the Governor-General been 
 doing ?" 
 
 "Speaking at a Farmers' Conference. Awful 
 shindy yesterday! — between the farmers and the 
 millers. Row about the elevators. The farmers 
 want the Dominion to own 'em — vow they're 
 cheated and bullied, and all the rest of it. Row 
 about the railway, too. Shortage of cars; you 
 know the old story. A regular wasp's nest, the 
 whole thing! Well, the Governor-General came 
 this morning, and everything's blown over! Can't 
 remember what he said, but we're all sure some- 
 body's going to do something. Hope you know 
 how he does it! — I don't." 
 
 Anderson laughed as he sat down beside Eliz- 
 abeth, and the train began to move. 
 
 "We seem to send you the right men!" she 
 said, smiling — with a little English conceit that 
 became her. 
 
 The train left the station. As it did so, an old 
 man in the first emigrant car, who, during the wait 
 at Regina, had appeared to be asleep in a corner, 
 with a battered slouch hat drawn down over his
 
 96 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 eyes and face, stealthily moved to the window, 
 and looked back upon the now empty platform. 
 
 Some hours later Anderson was still sitting 
 beside Elizabeth. They were in Southern Alberta. 
 The June day had darkened. And for the first 
 time Elizabeth felt the chill and loneliness of the 
 prairies, where as yet she had only felt their 
 exhilaration. A fierce wind was sweeping over 
 the boundless land, with showers in its train. The 
 signs of habitation became scantier, the farms 
 fewer. Bunches of horses and herds of cattle 
 widely scattered over the endless grassy plains — 
 the brown lines of the ploughed fire-guards run- 
 ning beside the railway — the bents of winter 
 grass, white in the storm-light, bleaching the roll- 
 ing surface of the ground, till the darkness of some 
 cloud-shadow absorbed them; these things breathed 
 — of a sudden — wildness and desolation. It 
 seemed as though man could no longer cope with 
 the mere vastness of the earth — an earth without 
 rivers or trees, too visibly naked and measureless. 
 
 *'At last I am afraid of it!" said Elizabeth, 
 shivering in her fur coat, with a little motion of her 
 hand toward the plain. "And what must it be 
 in winter!" 
 
 Anderson laughed. 
 
 "The winter is much milder here than in
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 97 
 
 Manitoba! Radiant sunshine day after day — 
 and the warm chinook-wind. And it is precisely 
 here that the railway lands are selling at a higher 
 price for the moment than anywhere else, and that 
 settlers are rushing in. Look there! " 
 
 Elizabeth peered through the gloom, and saw 
 the gleam of water. The train ran along beside 
 it for a minute or two, then the gathering dark- 
 ness seemed to swallow it up. 
 
 "A river?" 
 
 "No, a canal, fed from the Bow River — far 
 ahead of us. We are in the irrigation belt — and 
 in the next few years thousands of people will settle 
 here. Give the land water — the wheat follows! 
 South and North, even now, the wheat is spread- 
 ing and driving out the ranchers. Irrigation is the 
 secret. We are mastering it! And you thought" 
 — he looked at her with amusement and a kind of 
 triumph — "that the country had mastered us ?" 
 
 There was something in his voice and eyes, as 
 though not he spoke, but a nation through him. 
 "Splendid!" was the word that rose in Elizabeth's 
 mind; and a thrill ran with it. 
 
 The gloom of the afternoon deepened. The 
 showers increased. But Elizabeth could not be 
 prevailed upon to go in. In the car Delaine 
 and Philip were playing dominoes, in despair of 
 anything more amusing. Yerkes was giving his
 
 98 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 great mind to the dinner which was to be the 
 consolation of Philip's day. 
 
 Meanwhile Elizabeth kept Anderson talking. 
 That was her great gift. She was the best of lis- 
 teners. Thus led on he could not help himself, 
 any more than he had been able to help himself 
 on the afternoon of the sink-hole. He had meant 
 to hold himself strictly in hand with this too attrac- 
 tive Englishwoman. On the contrary, he had 
 never yet poured out so frankly to mortal ear the 
 inmost dreams and hopes which fill the ablest 
 minds of Canada — dreams half imagination, half 
 science; and hopes which, yesterday romance, 
 become reality to-morrow. 
 
 He showed her, for instance, the great Govern- 
 ment farms as they passed them, standing white 
 and trim upon the prairie, and bade her think of the 
 busy brains at work there — magicians conjuring 
 new wheats that will ripen before the earliest 
 frosts, and so draw onward the warm tide of 
 human life over vast regions now desolate; or 
 trees that will stand firm against the prairie winds, 
 and in the centuries to come turn this bare and 
 boundless earth, this sea-floor of a primeval ocean, 
 which is now Western Canada, into a garden of 
 the Lord. Or from the epic of the soil, he would 
 slip on to the human epic bound up with it — 
 tale after tale of life in the ranching country,
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 99 
 
 and of the emigration now pouring into Alberta — 
 witched out of him by this dehcately eager face, 
 these lovely listening eyes. And here, in spite of 
 his blunt, simple speech, came out the deeper 
 notes of feeling, feeling richly steeped in those 
 "mortal things" — earthy, tender, humorous, 
 or terrible — which make up human fate. 
 
 Had he talked like this to the Catholic girl in 
 Quebec ? And yet she had renounced him ? 
 She had never loved him, of course! To love 
 this man would be to cleave to him. 
 
 Once, in a lifting of the shadows of the prairie, 
 Elizabeth saw a group of antelope standing only 
 a few hundred yards from the train, tranquilly 
 indifferent, their branching horns clear in a pallid 
 ray of light; and once a prairie-wolf, solitary and 
 motionless; and once, as the train moved off after 
 a stoppage, an old badger leisurely shambling off 
 the line itself. And once, too, amid a driving 
 storm-shower, and what seemed to her unbroken 
 formless solitudes, suddenly, a tent by the railway 
 side, and the blaze of a fire; and as the train slowly 
 passed, three men — lads rather — emerging to 
 laugh and beckon to it. The tent, the fire, the 
 gay challenge of the young faces and the English 
 voices, ringed by darkness and wild weather, 
 brought the tears back to Elizabeth's eyes, she 
 scarcely knew why.
 
 100 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Settlers, in their first year," said Anderson, 
 smiling, as he waved back again. 
 
 But, to Elizabeth, it seemed a parable of the new 
 Canada. 
 
 An hour later, amid a lightening of the clouds 
 over the West, that spread a watery gold over the 
 prairie, Anderson sprang to his feet. 
 
 "The Rockies!" 
 
 And there, a hundred miles away, peering over 
 the edge of the land, ran from north to south a vast 
 chain of snow peaks, and Elizabeth saw at last that 
 €ven the prairies have an end. 
 
 The car was shunted at Calgary, in order that 
 its occupants might enjoy a peaceful night. When 
 she found herself alone in her tiny room, Elizabeth 
 stood for a while before her reflection in the glass. 
 Her eyes were frowning and distressed; her cheeks 
 glowed. Arthur Delaine, her old friend, had 
 bade her a cold good night, and she knew well 
 enough that — from him — she deserved it. "Yet 
 I gave him the whole morning," she pleaded with 
 herself. "I did my best. But oh, why, why did 
 I ever let him come!" 
 
 And even in the comparative quiet of the car 
 at rest, she could not sleep; so quickened were all 
 her pulses, and so vivid the memories of the day.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Arthur Delaine was strolling and smoking 
 on the broad wooden balcony, which in the rear 
 of the hotel at Banff overlooks a wide scene of 
 alp and water. The splendid Bow River comes 
 swirling past the hotel, on its rush from the high 
 mountains to the plains of Saskatchewan. Craggy 
 mountains drop almost to the river's edge on one 
 side; on the other, pine woods mask the railway 
 and the hills; while in the distance shine the snow- 
 peaks of the Rockies. It is the gateway of the 
 mountains, fair and widely spaced, as becomes 
 their dignity. 
 
 Delaine, however, was not observing the scenery. 
 He was entirely absorbed by reflection on his own 
 affairs. The party had now been stationary for 
 three or four days at Banff, enjoying the comforts 
 of hotel life. The travelling companion on whom 
 Delaine had not calculated in joining Lady Merton 
 and her brother — Mr. George Anderson — had 
 taken his leave, temporarily, at Calgary. In 
 thirty-six hours, however, he had reappeared. 
 It seemed that the construction work in which 
 
 lOI
 
 102 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 he was engaged in the C valley did not 
 
 urgently require his presence; that his position 
 towards the railway, with which he was about to 
 sever his official connection, was one of great free- 
 dom and influence, owing, no doubt, to the ser- 
 vices he had been able to render it the year before. 
 He was, in fact, master of his time, and meant to 
 spend it apparently in making Lady Merton's 
 tour agreeable. 
 
 For himself, Delaine could only feel that the 
 advent of this stranger had spoilt the whole situa- 
 tion. It seemed now as though Elizabeth and her 
 brother could not get on without him. As he leant 
 over the railing of the balcony, Delaine could see 
 far below, in the wood, the flutter of a white dress. 
 It belonged to Lady Merton, and the man beside 
 her was George Anderson. He had been arrang- 
 ing their walks and expeditions for the last four 
 days, and was now about to accompany the 
 English travellers on a special journey with a 
 special engine through the Kicking Horse Pass 
 and back, a pleasure suggested by the kindness of 
 the railway authorities. 
 
 It was true that he had at one time been actively 
 engaged on the important engineering work now 
 in progress in the pass; and Lady Merton could 
 not, therefore, have found a better showman. 
 But why any showman at all I What did she
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 103 
 
 know about this man who had sprung so rapidly 
 into intimacy with herself and her brother ? 
 Yet Delaine could not honestly accuse him of 
 presuming on a chance acquaintance, since it 
 was not to be denied that it was Philip Gaddesden 
 himself, who had taken an invalid's capricious 
 liking to the tall, fair-haired fellow, and had 
 urgently requested — almost forced him to come 
 back to them. 
 
 Delaine was not a little bruised in spirit, and 
 beginning to be angry. During the solitary day 
 he had been alone with them Elizabeth had been 
 kindness and complaisance itself. But instead 
 of that closer acquaintance, that opportunity for 
 a gradual and delightful courtship on which he 
 had reckoned, when the restraint of watching eyes 
 and neighbourly tongues should be removed, he 
 was conscious that he had never been so remote 
 from her during the preceding winter at home, 
 as he was now that he had journeyed six thousand 
 miles simply and solely on the chance of pro- 
 posing to her. He could not understand how any- 
 thing so disastrous, and apparently so final, could 
 have happened to him in one short week! Lady 
 Merton — he saw quite plainly — did not mean 
 him to propose to her, if she could possibly avoid 
 it. She kept Philip with her, and gave no oppor- 
 tunities. And always, as before, she was pos-
 
 104 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 sessed and bewitched by Canada! Moreover, 
 the Chief Justice and the French Canadian, 
 Mariette, had turned up at the hotel two days 
 before, on their way to Vancouver. EHzabeth 
 had been sitting, figuratively, at the feet of both 
 of them ever since; and both had accepted an 
 invitation to join in the Kicking Horse party, 
 and were delaying their journey West accordingly. 
 Instead of solitude, therefore. Delaine was 
 aware of a most troublesome amount of society. 
 Aware also, deep down, that some test he resented 
 but could not escape had been applied to him on 
 this journey, by fortune — and Elizabeth! — 
 and that he was not standing it well. And the 
 worst of it was that as his discouragement in the 
 matter of Lady Merton increased, so also did his 
 distaste for this raw, new country, without asso- 
 ciations, without art, without antiquities, in which 
 he should never, never have chosen to spend one 
 of his summers of this short life, but for the 
 charms of Elizabeth! And the more boredom 
 he was conscious of, the less congenial and sym- 
 pathetic, naturally, did he become as a companion 
 for Lady Merton. Of this he was dismally aware. 
 Well! he hoped, bitterly, that she knew what she 
 was about, and could take care of herself. This 
 man she had made friends with was good-looking 
 and, by his record, possessed ability. He had
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 105 
 
 fairly gentlemanly manners, also; though, in 
 Delaine's opinion, he was too self-confident on his 
 own account, and too boastful on Canada's. 
 But he was a man of humble origin, son of a farmer 
 who seemed, by the way, to be dead; and grandson, 
 so Delaine had heard him say, through his mother, 
 of one of the Selkirk settlers of 18 12 — no doubt 
 of some Scotch gillie or shepherd. Such a person, 
 in England, would have no claim whatever to the 
 intimate society of Elizabeth Merton. Yet here 
 she was alone, really without protection — for 
 what use was this young, scatter-brained brother ? 
 — herself only twenty-seven, and so charming! 
 so much prettier than she had ever seemed to be 
 at home. It was a dangerous situation — a situa- 
 tion to which she ought not to have been exposed. 
 Delaine had always believed her sensitive and 
 fastidious; and in his belief all women should be 
 sensitive and fastidious, especially as to who are, 
 and who are not, their social equals. But it was 
 clear he had not quite understood her. And 
 this man whom they had picked up was undoubt- 
 edly handsome, strong and masterful, of the kind 
 that the natural woman admires. But then he — 
 Delaine — had never thought of Elizabeth Mer- 
 ton as the natural woman. There lay the dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 What was his own course to be .? He believed
 
 io6 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 himself defeated, but to show any angry con- 
 sciousness of it would be to make life very uncom- 
 fortable in future, seeing that he and the Gaddes- 
 dens were inevitably neighbours and old friends. 
 After all, he had not committed himself beyond 
 repair. Why not resume the friendly relation 
 which had meant so much to him before other 
 ideas had entered in? Ah! it was no longer 
 easy. The distress of which he was conscious 
 had some deep roots. He must marry — the 
 estate demanded it. But his temperament was 
 invincibly cautious; his mind moved slowly. 
 How was he to begin upon any fresh quest ^ 
 His quiet pursuit of Elizabeth had come about 
 naturally and by degrees. Propinquity had done 
 it. And now that his hopes were dashed, he could 
 not imagine how he was to find any other chance; 
 for, as a rule, he was timid and hesitating with 
 women. As he hung, in his depression, over the 
 river, this man of forty envisaged — suddenly and 
 not so far away — old age and loneliness. A 
 keen and peevish resentment took possession of 
 him. 
 
 Lady Merton and Anderson began to ascend 
 a long flight of steps leading from the garden 
 path below to the balcony where Delaine stood. 
 
 Elizabeth waved to him with smiles, and he
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 107 
 
 must perforce watch her as she mounted side by 
 side with the fair-haired Canadian. 
 
 "Oh! such dehghtful plans!" she said, as she 
 sank out of breath into a seat. " We have ordered 
 the engine for two o'clock. Please observe, Mr. 
 Arthur. Never again in this mortal life shall I 
 be able to 'order' an engine for two o'clock! — 
 and one of these C. P. R. engines, too, great splen- 
 did fellows! We go down the pass, and take tea 
 at Field; and come up the pass again this even- 
 ing, to dine and sleep at Laggan. As we descend, 
 the engine goes in front to hold us back; and when 
 we ascend, it goes behind to push us up; and I 
 understand that the hill is even steeper" — she 
 bent forward, laughing, to Delaine, appealing to 
 their common North Country recollections — 
 **than the Shap incline!" 
 
 "Too steep, I gather," said Delaine, "to be 
 altogether safe." His tone was sharp. He stood 
 with his back to the view, looking from Eliza- 
 beth to her companion. 
 
 Anderson turned. 
 
 "As we manage it, it is perfectly safe! But it 
 costs us too much to make it safe. That's the 
 reason for the new bit of hne." 
 
 Elizabeth turned away uncomfortably, con- 
 scious again, as she had often been before, of the 
 jarring between the two men.
 
 io8 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 At two o'clock the car and the engine were 
 ready, and Yerkes received them at the station 
 beaming with smiles. According to him, the 
 privilege allowed them was all his doing, and 
 he was exceedingly jealous of any claim of Ander- 
 son's in the matter. 
 
 "You come to me, my lady, if you want any- 
 thing. Last year I ran a Russian princess 
 through — official. 'You take care of the 
 Grand Duchess, Yerkes,' they says to me at Mon- 
 treal; for they know there isn't anybody on the 
 line they can trust with a lady as they can me. 
 Of course, I couldn't help her faintin' at the high 
 bridges, going up Rogers Pass; that wasn't none 
 of my fault!" 
 
 "Faint — at bridges!" said Elizabeth with 
 scorn. "I never heard of anybody doing such a 
 thing, Yerkes." 
 
 "Ah! you wait till you see *em, my lady," said 
 Yerkes, grinning. 
 
 The day was radiant, and even Philip, as they 
 started from Banff station, was in a Canadian 
 mood. So far he had been quite cheerful and 
 good-tempered, though not, to Elizabeth's anx- 
 ious eye, much more robust yet than when they 
 had left England. He smoked far too much, and 
 Elizabeth wished devoutly that Yerkes would not 
 supply him so liberally with whisky and cham-
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 109 
 
 pagne. But Philip was not easily controlled. 
 The very decided fancy, however, which he had 
 lately taken for George Anderson had enabled 
 Elizabeth, in one or two instances, to manage him 
 more effectively. The night they arrived at 
 Calgary, the lad had had a wild desire to go off 
 on a moonlight drive across the prairies to a ranch 
 worked by an old Cambridge friend of his. The 
 night was cold, and he was evidently tired by the 
 long journey from Winnipeg. Elizabeth was in 
 despair, but could not move him at all. Then 
 Anderson had intervened; had found somehow 
 and somew^here a trapper just in from the moun- 
 tains with a wonderful "catch" of fox and mar- 
 ten; and in the amusement of turning over a bun- 
 dle of magnificent furs, and of buying something 
 straight from the hunter for his mother, the youth 
 had forgotten his waywardness. Behind his 
 back, Elizabeth had warmly thanked her 
 lieutenant. 
 
 " He only wanted a little distraction,'* Anderson 
 had said, with a shy smile, as though he both 
 liked and disliked her thanks. And then, impul- 
 sively, she had told him a good deal about Philip 
 and his illness, and their mother, and the old 
 house in Cumberland. She, of all persons, to be 
 so communicative about the family affairs to a 
 stranger! Was it that two days in a private car
 
 no LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 in Canada went as far as a month's acquaintance 
 elsewhere ? 
 
 Another passenger had been introduced to Lady 
 Merton by Anderson, an hour before the depart- 
 ure of the car, and had made such a pleasant 
 impression on her that he also had been asked 
 to join the party, and had very gladly consented. 
 This was the American, Mr. Val Morton, now the 
 official receiver, so Elizabeth understood, of a 
 great railway system in the middle west of the 
 United States. The railway had been handed 
 over to him in a bankrupt condition. His energy 
 and probity were engaged in puUing it through. 
 More connections between it and the Albertan 
 railways were required; and he was in Canada 
 looking round and negotiating. He was already 
 known to the Chief Justice and Mariette, and 
 Elizabeth fell quickly in love with his white hair, 
 his black eyes, his rapier-like slenderness and 
 keenness, and that pleasant mingling in him 
 — so common in the men of his race — of the dry 
 shrewdness of the financier with a kind of head- 
 long courtesy to women. 
 
 On sped the car through the gate of the Rockies. 
 The mountains grew deeper, the snows deeper 
 against the blue, the air more dazzling, the forests 
 closer, breathing balm into the sunshine.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST iii 
 
 Suddenly the car slackened and stopped. No 
 sign of a station. Only a rustic archway, on 
 which was written "The Great Divide," and 
 beneath the archway two small brooklets issuing, 
 one flowing to the right, the other to the left. 
 
 They all left the car and stood round the tiny 
 streams. They were on the watershed. The 
 water in the one streamlet flowed to the Atlantic, 
 that in its fellow to the Pacific. 
 
 Eternal parable of small beginnings and vast 
 fates ! But in this setting of untrodden moun- 
 tains, and beside this railway which now for a 
 few short years had been running its parlour and 
 dining cars, its telegraphs and electric lights and 
 hotels, a winding thread of life and civilisation, 
 through the lonely and savage splendours of snow- 
 peak and rock, transforming day by day the des- 
 tinies of Canada — the parable became a truth, 
 proved upon the pulses of men. 
 
 The party sat down on the grass beside the 
 bright, rippling water, and Yerkes brought them 
 coffee. While they were taking it, the two engine- 
 drivers descended from the cab of the engine 
 and began to gather a few flowers and twigs 
 from spring bushes that grew near. They put 
 them together and off'ered them to Lady Merton. 
 She, going to speak to them, found that they were 
 English and North Country.
 
 112 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 " Philip ! — Mr. Arthur ! — they come from our 
 side of CarHsle!" 
 
 Philip looked up with a careless nod and smile. 
 Delaine rose and went to join her. A lively 
 conversation sprang up between her and the two 
 men. They were, it seemed, a stalwart pair of 
 friends, kinsmen indeed, who generally worked 
 together, and were now entrusted with some 
 of the most important work on the most difficult 
 sections of the line. But they were not going to 
 spend all their days on the line — not they! 
 Like everybody in the West, they had their eyes 
 on the land. Upon a particular district of it, 
 moreover, in Northern Alberta, not yet surveyed 
 or settled. But they were watching it, and as 
 soon as the "steel gang" of a projected railway 
 came within measurable distance they meant 
 to claim their sections and work their land 
 together. 
 
 When the conversation came to an end and 
 Elizabeth, who with her companions had been 
 strolling along the line a little in front of the train, 
 turned back towards her party, Delaine looked 
 down upon her, at once anxious to strike the right 
 note, and moodily despondent of doing it. 
 
 "Evidently, two very good fellows!" he said 
 in his rich, ponderous voice. "You gave them a 
 great pleasure by going to talk to them."
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 113 
 
 "I?" cried Elizabeth. "They are a perfect 
 pair of gentlemen! — and it is very kind of them 
 to drive us!" 
 
 Delaine laughed uneasily, 
 
 "The gradations here are bewildering — or 
 rather the absence of gradations." 
 
 "One gets down to the real thing," said Eliz- 
 abeth, rather hotly. 
 
 Delaine laughed again, with a touch of bitter- 
 ness, 
 
 "The real thing? What kind of reality? 
 There are all sorts," 
 
 Elizabeth was suddenly conscious of a sore- 
 ness in his tone. She tried to walk warily. 
 
 "I was only thinking," she protested, "of 
 the chances a man gets in this country of show- 
 ing what is in him." 
 
 " Remember, too," said Delaine, with spirit, 
 "the chances that he misses!" 
 
 "The chances that belong only to the old 
 countries? I am rather bored with them!" said 
 Elizabeth flippantly 
 
 Delaine forced a smile. 
 
 " Poor Old World ! I wonder if you will ever 
 be fair to it again, or — or to the people bound 
 up with it!" 
 
 She looked at him, a little discomposed, and said, 
 smiling:
 
 114 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 " Wait till you meet me next in Rome !'* 
 
 "Shall I ever meet you again in Rome?'* 
 he replied, under his breath, as though involun- 
 tarily. 
 
 As he spoke he made a determined pause, a 
 stone's throw from the rippling stream that 
 marks the watershed; and Elizabeth must needs 
 pause with him. Beyond the stream, Philip sat 
 lounging among rugs and cushions brought from 
 the car, Anderson and the American beside him. 
 Anderson's fair, uncovered head and broad shoul- 
 ders were strongly thrown out against the glisten- 
 ing snows of the background. Upon the three 
 typical figures — the frail English boy — the 
 Canadian — the spare New Yorker — there shone 
 an indescribable brilliance of light. The energy 
 of the mountain sunshine and the mountain air 
 seemed to throb and quiver through the persons 
 talking — through Anderson's face, and his eyes 
 fixed upon Elizabeth — through the sunlit water 
 — the sparkling grasses — the shimmering spec- 
 tacle of mountain and summer cloud that begirt 
 them. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Arthur, of course we shall meet 
 again in Rome!" said Elizabeth, rosy, and not 
 knowing in truth what to say. "This place has 
 turned my head a little!'* — she looked round her, 
 raising her hand to the spectacle as though in pretty
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 115 
 
 appeal to him to share her own exhilaration — 
 " but it will be all over so soon — and you know 
 I don't forget old friends — ■ or old pleasures." 
 
 Her voice wavered a little. He looked at her, 
 with parted lips, and a rather hostile, heated 
 expression; then drew back, alarmed at his own 
 temerity. 
 
 "Of course I know it! You must forgive a 
 bookworm his grumble. Shall I help you over 
 the stream ?" 
 
 But she stepped across the tiny streamlet with- 
 out giving him her hand. 
 
 As they later rejoined the party, Morton, 
 the Chief Justice, and Mariette returned from a 
 saunter in the course of which they too had been 
 chatting to the engine-drivers. 
 
 "I know the part of the country those men 
 want," the American was saying. "I was all 
 over Alberta last fall — part of it in a motor car. 
 We jumped about those stubble-fields in a way to 
 make a leopard jealous! Every bone in my body 
 was sore for weeks afterwards. But it was worth 
 while. That's a country!" — he threw up his 
 hands. " I was at Edmonton on the day when the 
 last Government lands, the odd numbers, were 
 thrown open. I saw the siege of the land offices, 
 the rush of the new population. Ah, well, of 
 course, we're used to such scenes in the States.
 
 ii6 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 There's a great trek going on now in our own 
 Southwest. But when that's over, our free land 
 is done. Canada will have the handling of the 
 last batch on this planet." 
 
 "If Canada by that time is not America," said 
 Mariette, drily. 
 
 The American digested the remark. 
 
 "Well," he said, at last, with a smile, "if I 
 were a Canadian, perhaps I should be a bit 
 nervous." 
 
 Thereupon, Mariette with great animation 
 developed his theme of the "American invasion." 
 Winnipeg was one danger spot, British Columbia 
 another. The " peaceful penetration," both of 
 men and capital, was going on so rapidly that a 
 movement for annexation, were it once started in 
 certain districts of Canada, might be irresistible. 
 The harsh and powerful face of the speaker 
 became transfigured; one divined in him some 
 hidden motive which was driving him to contest 
 and belittle the main currents and sympathies 
 about him. He spoke as a prophet, but the 
 faith which envenomed the prophecy lay far out 
 of sight. 
 
 Anderson took it quietly. The Chief Justice 
 smiled. 
 
 "It might have been," he said, "it might have 
 been! This railroad has made the difference."
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 117 
 
 He stretched out his hand towards the line and the 
 pass. "Twenty years ago, I came over this 
 ground with the first party that ever pushed 
 through Rogers Pass and down the Illecillewaet 
 Valley to the Pacific. We camped just about here 
 for the night. And in the evening I v/as sitting 
 by myself on the slopes of that mountain opposite" 
 — he raised his hand — ''looking at the railway 
 camps below me, and the first rough line that 
 had been cut through the forests. And I thought 
 of the day when the trains would be going back- 
 wards and forwards, and these nameless valleys 
 and peaks would become the playground of 
 Canada and America. But what I didn't see 
 was the shade of England looking on! — England, 
 whose greater destiny was being decided by those 
 gangs of workmen below me, and the thousands 
 of workmen behind me, busy night and day in 
 bridging the gap between east and w^est. Traffic 
 from north and south" — he turned towards the 
 American — "that meant, for your Northwest, 
 fusion w^ith our Northwest; traffic from east to 
 west — that meant England, and the English 
 Sisterhood of States! And that, for the moment, 
 I didn't see." 
 
 "Shall I quote you something I found in an 
 Edmonton paper the other day ?" said Anderson, 
 raising his head from where he lay, looking down
 
 ii8 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 into the grass. And with his smiling, intent gaze 
 fixed on the American, he recited: 
 
 Land of the sweeping eagle, your goal is not our goal I 
 
 For the ages have taught that the North and the South breed 
 
 difference of soul. 
 We toiled for years in the snow and the night, because we 
 
 believed in the spring, 
 And the mother who cheered us first, shall be first at the 
 
 banquetting ! 
 The grey old mother, the dear old mother, who taught us the 
 
 note we sing ! 
 
 The American laughed. 
 
 "A bit raw, like some of your prairie towns; 
 but it hits the nail. I dare say we have missed 
 our bargain. What matter! Our own chunk 
 is as big as we can chew." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Elizabeth's 
 eyes were shining; even Philip sat open-mouthed 
 and dumb, staring at Anderson. 
 
 In the background Delaine waited, grudgingly 
 expectant, for the turn of Elizabeth's head, and 
 the spark of consciousness passing between the 
 two faces which he had learnt to watch. It came 
 — a flash of some high sympathy — involuntary, 
 lasting but a moment. Then Mariette threw out: 
 
 "And in the end, what are you going to make 
 of it? A replica of Europe, or America? — a 
 money-grubbing civilisation with no faith but the
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 119 
 
 dollar ? If so, we shall have had the great chance 
 of history — and lost it!" 
 
 "We shan't lose it," said Anderson, "unless 
 the gods mock us." 
 
 "Why not ?" said Mariette sombrely. "Nations 
 have gone mad before now^." 
 
 "Ah! — prophesy, prophesy!" said the Chief 
 Justice sadly. "All very well for you young men, 
 but for us, who are passing away! Here we are 
 at the birth. Shall we never, in any state of 
 being, know the end .? I have never felt so bitterly 
 as I do now the limitations of our knowledge and 
 our life." 
 
 No one answered him. But Elizabeth looking 
 up saw the aspect of Mariette — the aspect of a 
 thinker and a mystic — slowly relax. Its harsh- 
 ness became serenity, its bitterness peace. And 
 with her quick feeling she guessed that the lament 
 of the Chief Justice had only awakened in the 
 religious mind the typical religious cry, " Thouy 
 Lord, art the Eternal, and Thy years shall not 
 fail." 
 
 At Field, where a most friendly inn shelters 
 under the great shoulders of Mount Stephen, 
 they left the car a while, took tea in the hotel, and 
 wandered through the woods below it. All the 
 afternoon, Elizabeth had shown a most delicate
 
 120 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 and friendly consideration for Delaine. She had 
 turned the conversation often in his direction and 
 on his subjects, had placed him by her side at tea, 
 and in general had more than done her duty by 
 him. To no purpose. Delaine saw himself as 
 the condemned man to whom indulo-ences are 
 granted before execution. She would probably 
 have done none of these things if there had been 
 any real chance for him. 
 
 But in the walk after tea, Anderson and Lady 
 Merton drifted together. There had been so far 
 a curious effort on both their parts to avoid each 
 other's company. But now the Chief Justice 
 and Delaine had foregathered; Philip was loung- 
 ing and smoking on the balcony of the hotel with 
 a visitor there, an old Etonian fishing and climb- 
 ing in the Rockies for health, whom they had 
 chanced upon at tea. Mariette, after one glance 
 at the company, especially at Elizabeth and 
 Anderson, had turned aside into the woods by 
 himself. 
 
 They crossed the river and strolled up the road 
 to Emerald Lake. Over the superb valley to 
 their left hung the great snowy mass, glistening 
 and sunlit, of Mount Stephen; far to the West the 
 jagged peaks of the Van Home range shot up into 
 the golden air; on the flat beside the river vivid 
 patches of some crimson flower, new to Elizabeth's
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 121 
 
 eyes, caught the sloping light; and the voice of a 
 swollen river pursued them. 
 
 They began to talk, this time of England. 
 Anderson asked many questions as to English 
 politics and personalities. And she, to please him, 
 chattered of great people and events, of scenes and 
 leaders in Parliament, of diplomats and royalties; 
 all the gossip of the moment, in fact, fluttering 
 round the principal figures of English and Euro- 
 pean politics. It v^as the talk most natural to her; 
 the talk of the w^orld she knew best; and as Eliza- 
 beth was full of shrewdness and natural salt, 
 without a trace of malice, no more at least than a 
 woman should have — to borrow the saying about 
 Wilkes and his squint — her chatter was generally 
 in request, and she knew it. 
 
 But Anderson, though he had led up to it, did 
 not apparently enjoy it; on the contrary, she felt 
 him gradually withdrawing and cooling, becom- 
 ing a little dry and caustic, even satirical, as on 
 the first afternoon of their acquaintance. So 
 that after a while her gossip flagged; since the 
 game wants two to play it. Then Anderson 
 walked on with a furrowed brow, and raised 
 colour; and she could not imagine what had been 
 done or said to annoy him. 
 
 She could only try to lead him back to Canada. 
 But she got little or no response.
 
 122 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Our politics must seem to you splashes in a 
 water-butt," he said impatiently, "after London 
 and Europe." 
 
 "A pretty big water-butt!'* 
 
 "Size makes no difference." Elizabeth's lips 
 twitched as she remembered Arthur Delaine's 
 similar protests; but she kept her countenance, 
 and merely worked the harder to pull her com- 
 panion out of this odd pit of ill-humour into which 
 he had fallen. And in the end she succeeded; 
 he repented, and let her manage him as she 
 would. And whether it was the influence of 
 this hidden action and reaction between their 
 minds, or of the perfumed June day breathing 
 on them from the pines, or of the giant splendour 
 of Mount Burgess, rising sheer in front of them 
 out of the dark avenue of the forest, cannot be told; 
 but, at least, they became more intimate than they 
 had yet been, more deeply interesting each to 
 the other. In his thoughts and ideals she found 
 increasing fascination; her curiosity, her friendly 
 and womanly curiosity, grew with satisfaction. 
 His view of life was often harsh or melancholy; 
 but there was never a false nor a mean note. 
 
 Yet before the walk was done he had startled 
 her. As they turned back towards Field, and were 
 in the shadows of the pines, he said, with abrupt 
 decision:
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 123 
 
 "Will you forgive me if I say something?" 
 
 She looked up surprised. 
 
 "Don't let your brother drink so much cham- 
 pagne! 
 
 The colour rushed into Elizabeth's face. She 
 drew herself up, conscious of sharp pain, but also 
 of anger. A stranger, who had not yet known 
 them ten days! But she met an expression on 
 his face, timid and yet passionately resolved, 
 which arrested her. 
 
 "I really don't know what you mean, Mr. 
 Anderson!" she said proudly. 
 
 " I thought I had seen you anxious. I should 
 be anxious if I were you," he went on hurriedly. 
 "He has been ill, and is not quite master of 
 himself. That is always the critical moment. 
 He is a charming fellow — you must be devoted 
 to him. For God's sake, don't let him ruin him- 
 self body and soul!" 
 
 Elizabeth was dumbfounded. The tears rushed 
 into her eyes, her voice choked in her throat. 
 She must, she would defend her brother. Then 
 she thought of the dinner of the night before, and 
 the night before that — of the wine bill at Win- 
 nipeg and Toronto. Her colour faded away; 
 her heart sank; but it still seemed to her an outrage 
 that he should have dared to speak of it. He 
 spoke, however, before she could.
 
 124 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Forgive me," he said, recovering his self- 
 control. **I know it must seem mere insolence 
 on my part. But I can't help it — I can't look 
 on at such a thing, silently. May I explain ? 
 Please permit me! I told you" — his voice 
 changed — "my mother and sisters had been 
 burnt to death. I adored my mother. She was 
 everything to me. She brought us up with 
 infinite courage, though she was a very frail 
 woman. In those days a farm in Manitoba was 
 a much harder struggle than it is now. Yet she 
 never complained; she was always cheerful; 
 always at work. But — my father drank! It 
 came upon him as a young man — after an illness. 
 It got worse as he grew older. Every bit of 
 prosperity that came to us, he drank away; he 
 would have ruined us again and again, but for 
 my mother. And at last he murdered her — 
 her and my poor sisters!" 
 
 Elizabeth made a sound of horror. 
 
 " Oh, there was no intention to murder," said 
 Anderson bitterly. "He merely sat up drinking 
 one winter night with a couple of whisky bottles 
 beside him. Then in the morning he was awak- 
 ened by the cold; the fire had gone out. He 
 stumbled out to get the can of coal-oil from the 
 stable, still dazed with drink, brought it in and 
 poured some on the wood. Some more wood was
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 125 
 
 wanted. He went out to fetch It, leaving his 
 candle alight, a broken end in a rickety candlestick, 
 on the floor beside the coal-oil. When he got to 
 the stable it was warm and comfortable; he 
 forgot what he had come for, fell down on a bundle 
 of straw, and went into a dead sleep. The candle 
 must have fallen over into the oil, the oil exploded, 
 and in a few seconds the wooden house was in 
 flames. By the time I came rushing back from the 
 slough where I had been breaking the ice for 
 water, the roof had already fallen in. My poor 
 mother and two of the children had evidently 
 tried to escape by the stairway and had perished 
 there; the two others were burnt in their 
 beds." 
 
 "And your father?" murmured Elizabeth, 
 unable to take her eyes from the speaker. 
 
 *'I woke him in the stable, and told him what 
 had happened. Bit by bit I got out of him what 
 he'd done. And then I said to him, * Now choose ! — 
 either you go, or we. After the funeral, the boys 
 and I have done with you. You can't force us 
 to go on living with you. We will kill ourselves 
 first. Either you stay here, and we go into Winni- 
 peg; or you can sell the stock, take the money, 
 and go. We'll work the farm.* He swore at 
 me, but I told him he'd find we'd made up our 
 minds. And a week later, he disappeared. He
 
 126 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 had sold the stock, and left us the burnt walls and 
 the land." 
 
 "And you've never seen him since?'* 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "You believe him dead.?" 
 
 "I know that he died — in the first Yukon 
 rush of ten years ago. I tracked him there, 
 shortly afterwards. He was probably killed in 
 a scuffle with some miners as drunken as himself." 
 
 There was a silence, which he broke very 
 humbly. 
 
 " Do you forgive me ? I know I am not sane 
 on this point. I believe I have spoilt your day." 
 
 She looked up, her eyes swimming in tears, 
 and held out her hand. 
 
 "It's nothing, you know," she said, trying to 
 smile — "in our case. Philip is such a baby." 
 
 "I know; but look after him!" he said earnestly, 
 as he grasped it. 
 
 The trees thinned, and voices approached. 
 They emerged from the forest, and found them- 
 selves hailed by the Chief Justice. 
 
 The journey up the pass was even more wonder- 
 ful than the journey down. Sunset lights lay on the 
 forests, on the glorious lonely mountains, and on 
 the valley of the Yoho, roadless and houseless 
 now, but soon to be as famous through the world
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 127 
 
 as Grindelwald or Chamounix. They dismounted 
 and explored the great camps of workmen in the 
 pass; they watched the boihng of the stream, 
 which had carved the path of the railway; they 
 gathered white dogwood, and yellow snow-Hlies, 
 and red painter's-brush. 
 
 Elizabeth and Anderson hardly spoke to each 
 other. She talked a great deal with Delaine, 
 and Mariette held a somewhat acid dispute 
 with her on modern French books — Loti, 
 Anatole France, Zola — authors whom his soul 
 loathed. 
 
 But the day had forged a lasting bond between 
 Anderson and Elizabeth, and they knew it. 
 
 The night rose clear and cold, with stars shining 
 on the snow. Delaine, who with Anderson had 
 found quarters in one of Laggan's handful of 
 houses, went out to stroll and smoke alone, before 
 turning into bed. He walked along the railway 
 line towards Banff, in bitterness of soul, debating 
 with himself whether he could possibly leave the 
 party at once. 
 
 When he was well out of sig-ht of the station 
 and the houses, he became aware of a man per- 
 sistently following him, and not without a hasty 
 grip on the stout stick he carried, he turned at 
 last to confront him.
 
 128 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "What do you want with me? You seem to 
 be following me." 
 
 "Are you Mr. Arthur Delaine.'"' said a thick 
 voice. 
 
 "That is my name. What do you want ?" 
 
 "And you be lodging to-night in the same house 
 with Mr. George Anderson .?" 
 
 "I am. What's that to you .?" 
 
 "Well, I want twenty minutes' talk with you,'* 
 said the voice, after a pause. The accent was 
 Scotch. In the darkness Delaine dimly perceived 
 an old and bent man standing before him, who 
 seemed to sway and totter as he leant upon his stick. 
 
 "I cannot imagine, sir, why you should want 
 anything of the kind." And he turned to pursue 
 his walk. The old man kept up with him, and 
 presently said something which brought Delaine 
 to a sudden stop of astonishment. He stood 
 there listening for a few minutes, transfixed, and 
 finally, turning round, he allowed his strange 
 companion to walk slowly beside him back to 
 Laggan.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Oh ! the freshness of the morning on Lake Louise ! 
 It was barely eight o'clock, yet EHzabeth Merton 
 had already taken her coffee on the hotel verandah, 
 and was out wandering by herself. The hotel, 
 which is nearly six thousand feet above the sea, 
 had only just been opened for its summer guests, 
 and Elizabeth and her party were its first inmates, 
 Anderson indeed had arranged their coming, 
 and was to have brought them hither himself. 
 But on the night of the party's return to Laggan 
 he had been hastily summoned by telegraph to 
 a consultation of engineers on a difficult matter 
 of railway grading in the Kootenay district. 
 Delaine, knocking at his door in the morning, 
 had found him flown. A note for Lady Merton 
 explained his flight, gave all directions for the 
 drive to Lake Louise, and expressed his hope to 
 be with them again as expeditiously as possible. 
 Three days had now elapsed since he had left 
 them. Delaine, rather to Elizabeth's astonish- 
 ment, had once or twice inquired when he might 
 be expected to return. 
 
 129
 
 130 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Elizabeth found a little path by the lake shore, 
 and pursued it a short way; but presently the 
 splendour and the beauty overpowered her; her feet 
 paused of themselves. She sat down on a jutting 
 promontory of rock, and lost herself in the forms 
 and hues of the morning. In front of her rose a 
 wall of glacier sheer out of the water and thousands 
 of i^eet above the lake, into the clear brilliance 
 of the sky. On either side of its dazzling white- 
 ness, mountains of rose-coloured rock, fledged 
 with pine, fell steeply to the water's edge, enclosing 
 and holding up the glacier; and vast rock pin- 
 nacles of a paler rose, melting into gold, broke, 
 here and there, the gleaming splendour of the 
 ice. The sun, just topping the great basin, 
 kindled the ice surfaces, and all the glistening 
 pinks and yellows, the pale purples and blood- 
 crimsons of the rocks, to flame and splendour; 
 while the shadows of the coolest azure still held 
 the hollows and caves of the glacier. Deep in 
 the motionless lake, the shining snows repeated 
 themselves, so also the rose-red rocks, the blue 
 shadows, the dark buttressing crags with their 
 pines. Height beyond height, glory beyond glory 
 — from the reality above, the eye descended to 
 its lovelier image below, which lay there, enchanted 
 and insubstantial, Nature's dream of itself. 
 
 The sky was pure light; the air pure fragrance.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 131 
 
 Heavy dews dripped from the pines and the moss, 
 and sparkled in the sun. Beside Ehzabeth, 
 under a group of pines, lay a bed of snow-lilies, 
 their golden heads dew-drenched, waiting for the 
 touch of the morning, waiting, too — so she 
 thought — for that Canadian poet who will yet 
 place them in English verse beside the daffodils 
 of Westmoreland. 
 
 She could hardly breathe for delight. The Alps, 
 whether in their Swiss or Italian aspects, were 
 dear and familiar to her. She climbed nimbly 
 and well; and her senses knew the magic of 
 high places. But never surely had even travelled 
 eyes beheld a nobler fantasy of Nature than that 
 composed by these snows and forests of Lake 
 Louise; such rocks of opal and pearl; such dark 
 gradations of splendour in calm water; such 
 balanced intricacy and harmony in the building 
 of this ice-palace that reared its majesty above 
 the lake; such a beauty of subordinate and con- 
 verging outline in the supporting mountains on 
 either hand; as though the Earth Spirit had 
 lingered on his work, finishing and caressing it 
 in conscious joy. 
 
 And in Elizabeth's heart, too, there was a fresh- 
 ness of spring; an overflow of something elemental 
 and irresistible. 
 
 Yet, strangely enough, it was at that moment
 
 132 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 expressing itself in regret and compunction. 
 Since the dawn, that morning, she had been 
 unable to sleep. The strong light, the pricking 
 air, had kept her wakeful; and she had been 
 employing her time in writing to her mother, who 
 was also her friend. 
 
 " . . . Dear little mother — You will say 
 I have been unkind — I say it to myself. But 
 would it really have been fairer if I had forbidden 
 him to join us ? There was just a chance — it 
 seems ridiculous now — but there was — I con- 
 fess it! And by my letter from Toronto — 
 though really my little note might have been 
 written to anybody — I as good as said so to him, 
 * Come and throw the dice and — let us see what 
 falls out!' Practically, that is what it amounted 
 to — I admit it in sackcloth and ashes. Well! 
 — we have thrown the dice — and it won't do! 
 No, it won't, it won't do! And it is somehow all 
 my fault — which is abominable. But I see now, 
 what I never saw at home or in Italy, that he is 
 a thousand years older than I — that I should 
 weary and jar upon him at every turn, were I to 
 marry him. Also I have discovered — out here — 
 I believe, darling, you have known it all along! — 
 that there is at the very root of me a kind of 
 savage — a creature that hates fish-knives and 
 finger-glasses and dressing for dinner — the things
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 133 
 
 I have done all my life, and Arthur Delaine will 
 go on doing all his. Also that I never want to 
 see a museum again — at least, not for a long 
 time; and that I don't care twopence whether 
 Herculaneum is excavated or not! 
 
 ** Isn't it shocking ? I can't explain myself; 
 and poor Mr. Arthur evidently can't make head 
 or tail of me, and thinks me a little mad. So I 
 am, in a sense. I am suffering from a new kind 
 of folie des grandeurs. The world has suddenly 
 grown so big; everything in the human story — 
 all its simple fundamental things at least — is 
 writ so large here. Hope and ambition — love 
 and courage — the man wrestling with the earth — 
 the woman who bears and brings up children 
 — it is as though I had never felt, never seen 
 them before. They rise out of the dust and mist 
 of our modern life — great shapes warm from 
 the breast of Nature — and I hold my breath. 
 Behind them, for landscape, all the dumb age- 
 long past of these plains and mountains; and in 
 front, the future on the loom, and the young 
 radiant nation, shuttle in hand, moving to and 
 fro at her unfolding task! 
 
 " How unfair to Mr. Arthur that this queer 
 intoxication of mine should have altered him so 
 in my foolish eyes — as though one had scrubbed 
 all the golden varnish from an old picture, and
 
 134 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 left it crude and charmless. It is not his fault — 
 it is mine. In Europe we loved the same things; 
 his pleasure kindled mine. But here he enjoys 
 nothing that I enjoy; he is longing for a tiresome 
 day to end, when my heart is just singing for 
 delight. For it is not only Canada in the large 
 that holds me, but all its dear, human, dusty, 
 incoherent detail — all its clatter of new towns 
 and spreading farms — of pushing railways and 
 young parHaments — of roadmaking and bridge- 
 making — of saw-mills and lumber camps — 
 detail so different from anything I have ever dis- 
 cussed with Arthur Delaine before. Some of it 
 is ugly, I know — I don't care! It is like a Rem- 
 brandt ugliness — that only helps and ministers 
 to a stronger beauty, the beauty of prairie and 
 sky, and the beauty of the human battle, the 
 battle of blood and brain, with the earth and her 
 forces. 
 
 ^^^ Enter these enchanted woodsy ye who dare!* 
 "There is a man here — a Mr. George Ander- 
 son, of whom I told you something in my last 
 letter — who seems to embody the very life of 
 this country, to be the prairie, and the railway, and 
 the forest — their very spirit and avatar. Person- 
 ally, he is often sad; his own life has been hard; 
 and yet the heart of him is all hope and courage, 
 all delight too in the daily planning and wrestling.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 135 
 
 the contrivance and the cleverness, the rifling 
 and outwitting of Nature — that makes a Cana- 
 dian — at any rate a Western Canadian. 1 
 suppose he doesn't know anything about art. 
 Mr. Arthur seems to have nothing in common 
 with him; but there is in him that rush and energy 
 of Hfe, from which, surely, art and poetry spring, 
 when the time is ripe. 
 
 "Don't of course imagine anything absurd! 
 He is just a young Scotch engineer, who seems 
 to have made some money as people do make 
 money here — quickly and honestly — and is 
 shortly going into Parliament. They say that he 
 is sure to be a great man. To us — to Philip 
 and me, he has been extremely kind. I only 
 meant that he seems to be in place here — or 
 anywhere, indeed, where the world is moving; 
 while Mr. Arthur, in Canada, is a walking ana- 
 chronism. He is out of perspective; he doesn't fit. 
 
 "You will say, that if I married him, it would 
 not be to live in Canada, and once at home again, 
 the old estimates and * values' would reassert 
 themselves. But in a sense — don't be alarmed — 
 I shall always live in Canada. Or, rather, I 
 shall never be quite the same again; and Mr. 
 Arthur would find me a restless, impracticable, 
 discontented woman. 
 
 " Would it not really be kinder if I suggested
 
 136 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 to him to go home by California, while we come 
 back again through the Rockies ? Don't you 
 think it would ? I feel that I have begun to get 
 on his nerves — as he on mine. If you were 
 only here! But, I assure you, he doesn't look 
 miserable; and I think he will bear up very well. 
 And if it will be any comfort to you to be told 
 that I know what is meant by the gnawing of the 
 little worm, Compunction, then be comforted, 
 dearest; for it gnaws horribly, and out of all 
 proportion — I vow — to my crimes. 
 
 " Philip is better on the whole, and has taken 
 an enormous fancy to Mr. Anderson. But, as 
 I have told you all along, he is not so much better 
 as you and I hoped he would be. I take every 
 care of him that I can, but you know that he is 
 not wax, when it comes to managing. However, 
 Mr. Anderson has been a great help." 
 
 Recollections of this letter, and other thoughts 
 besides, coming from much deeper strata of the 
 mind than she had been willing to reveal to her 
 mother, kept slipping at intervals through Eliza- 
 beth's consciousness, as she sat beside the lake. 
 
 A step beside her startled her, and she looked 
 up to see Delaine approaching. 
 
 "Out already, Mr. Arthur! But / have had 
 breakfast!"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 137 
 
 "So have L What a place!" 
 
 EHzabeth did not answer, but her smiling eyes 
 swept the glorious circle of the lake. 
 
 " How soon will it all be spoilt and vulgarised ?" 
 said Delaine, with a shrug. "Next year, I sup- 
 pose, a funicular, to the top of the glacier." 
 
 Elizabeth cried out. 
 
 "Why not.f*" he asked her, as he rather coolly 
 and deliberately took his seat beside her. "You 
 applaud telephones on the prairies; why not 
 funiculars here ?" 
 
 "The one serves, the other spoils," said Eliza- 
 beth eagerly. 
 
 "Serves whom.? Spoils what?" The voice 
 was cold. "All travellers are not like yourself." 
 
 "I am not afraid. The Canadians will guard 
 their heritage." 
 
 " How dull England will seem to you when you 
 go back to it!" he said to her, after a moment. 
 His tone had an under-note of bitterness which 
 Elizabeth uncomfortably recognised. 
 
 "Oh! I have a way of liking what I must 
 like," she said, hurriedly. "Just now, certainly, 
 I am in love with deserts — flat or mountainous — 
 tempered by a private car." 
 
 He laughed perfunctorily. And suddenly it 
 seemed to her that he had come out to seek her 
 with a purpose, and that a critical moment might
 
 138 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 be approaching. Her cheeks flushed, and to 
 hide them she leant over the water's edge and 
 began to trail her finger in its clear wave. 
 
 He, however, sat in hesitation, looking at her, 
 the prey of thoughts to which she had no clue. 
 He could not make up his mind, though he had 
 just spent an almost sleepless night on the attempt 
 to do it. 
 
 The silence became embarrassing. Then, if he 
 still groped, she seemed to see her way, and took it. 
 
 " It was very good of you to come out and join 
 our wanderings," she said suddenly. Her voice 
 was clear and kind. He started. 
 
 "You know I could ask for nothing better," 
 was his slow reply, not without dignity. "It 
 has been an immense privilege to see you like 
 this, day by day." 
 
 Elizabeth's pulse quickened. 
 
 "How can I manage it?" she desperately 
 thought. "But I must " 
 
 "That's very sweet of you," she said aloud, 
 "when I have bored you so with my raptures. 
 And now it's coming to an end, like all nice things. 
 Philip and I think of staying a little in Vancouver. 
 And the Governor has asked us to go over to 
 Victoria for a few days. You, I suppose, will 
 be doing the proper round, and going back by 
 Seattle and San Francisco ?"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 139 
 
 Delaine received the blow — and understood 
 it. There had been no definite plans ahead. 
 Tacitly, it had been assumed, he thought, that 
 he was to return with them to Montreal and 
 England. This gentle question, then, was Eliza- 
 beth's way of telling him that his hopes were 
 vain and his journey fruitless. 
 
 He had not often been crossed in his life, and 
 a flood of resentment surged up in a very per- 
 plexed mind. 
 
 "Thank you. Yes — I shall go home by 
 San Francisco." 
 
 The touch of haughtiness in his manner, the 
 manner of one accustomed all his life to be a 
 prominent and considered person in the world, 
 did not disguise from Elizabeth the soreness 
 underneath. It was hard to hurt her old friend. 
 But she could only sit as though she felt nothing — 
 meant nothing — of any importance. 
 
 And she achieved it to perfection. Delaine, 
 through all his tumult of feeling, was sharply 
 conscious of her grace, her reticence, her soft 
 dignity. They were exactly what he coveted in 
 a wife — what he hoped he had captured in Eliza- 
 beth. How was it they had been snatched from 
 him .? He turned blindly on the obstacle that had 
 risen in his path, and the secret he had not yet 
 decided how to handle began to run away with him.
 
 HO LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 He bent forward, with a slightly heightened 
 colour. 
 
 "Lady Merton — we might not have another 
 opportunity — will you allov/ me a few frank 
 words with you — the privilege of an old friend ?" 
 
 Elizabeth turned her face to him, and a pair 
 of startled eyes that tried not to waver. 
 
 "Of course, Mr. Arthur," she said smiling. 
 "Have I been doing anything dreadful .?" 
 
 "May I ask what you personally know of this 
 Mr. Anderson.?" 
 
 He saw — or thought he saw — her brace her- 
 self under the sudden surprise of the name, and 
 her momentary discomfiture pleased him. 
 
 " What I know of Mr. Anderson ? " she repeated 
 wondering. "Why, no more than we all know. 
 What do you mean, Mr. Arthur .? Ah, yes, I 
 remember, you first met him in Winnipeg- 
 we made acquaintance with him the day 
 before." 
 
 " For the first time t But you are now seeing 
 a great deal of him. Are you quite sure — for- 
 give me if I seem impertinent — that he is — quite 
 the person to be admitted to your daily compan- 
 ionship .?" 
 
 He spoke slowly and harshly. The effort 
 required before a naturally amiable and nervous 
 man could bring himself to put such an uncom-
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 141 
 
 fortable question made it appear particularly 
 offensive. 
 
 *'Our daily companionship?" repeated Eliza- 
 beth in bewilderment. "What can you mean, 
 Mr. Arthur ? What is wrong with Mr. Anderson } 
 You saw that everybody at Winnipeg seemed to 
 know him and respect him; people like the Chief 
 Justice, and the Senator — what was his name ? — 
 and Monsieur Mariette. I don't understand why 
 you ask me such a thing. Why should we suppose 
 there are any mysteries about Mr. Anderson.?" 
 
 Unconsciously her slight figure had stiffened, 
 her voice had changed. 
 
 Delaine felt an admonitory qualm. He would 
 have drawn back; but it was too late. He went 
 on doggedly — 
 
 "Were not all these persons you named 
 acquainted with Mr. Anderson in his public 
 capacity ? His success in the strike of last year 
 brought him a great notoriety. But his private 
 history — his family and antecedents — have you 
 gathered anything at all about them ?" 
 
 Something that he could not decipher flashed 
 through Elizabeth's expression. It was a strange 
 and thrilling sense that what she had gathered 
 she would not reveal for — a kingdom! 
 
 " Monsieur Mariette told me all that anyone 
 need want to know!" she cried, breathing quick.
 
 142 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Ask him what he thinks — what he feels! But 
 it you ask me, I think Mr. Anderson carries his 
 history in his face." 
 
 Delaine pondered a moment, while Elizabeth 
 waited, challenging, expectant, her brown eyes 
 all vivacity. 
 
 "Well — some facts have come to my knowl- 
 edge," he said, at last, "which have made me 
 ask you these questions. My only object — you 
 must, you will admit that! — is to save you possible 
 pain — a possible shock." 
 
 "Mr. Arthur!" the voice was peremptory — 
 " If you have learned anything about Mr. Ander- 
 son's private history — by chance — without his 
 knowledge — that perhaps he would rather we 
 did not know — I beg you will not tell me — 
 indeed — please — I forbid you to tell me. We 
 owe him much kindness these last few weeks. 
 I cannot gossip about him behind his back." 
 
 All her fine slenderness of form, her small 
 delicacy of feature, seemed to him tense and 
 vibrating, like some precise and perfect instrument 
 strained to express a human feeling or intention. 
 But what feeling .? While he divined it, was she 
 herself unconscious of it ? His bitterness grew. 
 
 "Dear Lady Merton — can you not trust an 
 old friend?" 
 
 She did not soften.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 143 
 
 "I do trust him. But" — her smile flashed — 
 "even new acquaintances have their rights." 
 
 "You will not understand," he said, earnestly. 
 "What is in my mind came to me, through no 
 wish or will of mine. You cannot suppose that 
 I have been prying into Mr. Anderson's affairs! 
 But now that the information is mine, I feel 
 a great responsibility towards you." 
 
 "Don't feel it. I am a wilful woman." 
 
 "A rather perplexing one! May I at least be 
 sure that" — he hesitated — "that you will be 
 on your guard ?" 
 
 "On my guard .^" she lifted her eyebrows 
 proudly — " and against what .^ " 
 
 "That is precisely what you won't let me tell 
 you. 
 
 She laughed — a little fiercely. 
 
 "There we are ; no forrarder. But please 
 remember, Mr, Arthur, how soon we shall all 
 be separating. Nothing very dreadful can happen 
 in these few days — can it ^" 
 
 For the first time there was a touch of malice 
 in her smile. 
 
 Delaine rose, took one or two turns along the 
 path in front of her, and then suddenly stopped 
 beside her. 
 
 "I think" — he said, with emphasis, "that 
 Mr. Anderson will probably find himself sum-
 
 144 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 moned away — immediately — before you get 
 to Vancouver. But that I will discuss with him. 
 You could give me no address, so I have not yet 
 been able to communicate with him." 
 
 Again Elizabeth's eyebrows went up. She rose. 
 
 "Of course you will do what you think best. 
 Shall we go back to the hotel ?" 
 
 They walked along in silence. He saw that 
 she was excited, and that he had completely missed 
 his stroke; but he did not see how to mend the 
 
 situation. 
 << 
 
 Oh! there is Philip, going to fish," said Eliza- 
 beth at last, as though nothing had happened. 
 "I wondered what could possibly have got him 
 up so early." 
 
 Philip waved to her as she spoke, shouting 
 something which the mountain echoes absorbed. 
 He was accompanied by a young man, who seemed 
 to be attached to the hotel as guide, fisherman, 
 hunter — at the pleasure of visitors. But Eliza- 
 beth had already discovered that he had the 
 speech of a gentleman, and attended the University 
 of Manitoba during the winter. In the absence 
 of Anderson, PhiHp had no doubt annexed him 
 for the morning. 
 
 There was a pile of logs lying on the lake side. 
 Philip, rod in hand, began to scramble over them 
 to a point where several large trunks overhung
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 145 
 
 deep water. His companion meanwhile was 
 seated on the moss, busy with some preparations. 
 
 "I hope PhiHp will be careful," said Delaine, 
 suddenly. "There is nothing so slippery as logs." 
 
 Elizabeth, who had been dreaming, looked 
 up anxiously. As she did so Philip, high perched 
 on the furthest logs, turned again to shout to his 
 sister, his light figure clear against the sunlit dis- 
 tance. Then the figure wavered, there was a 
 sound of crashing wood, and Philip fell head- 
 foremost into the lake before him. 
 
 The young man on the bank looked up, threw 
 away his rod and his coat, and was just plunging 
 into the lake when he was anticipated by another 
 man who had come running down the bank of 
 the hotel, and was already in the water. Eliza- 
 beth, as she rushed along the edge, recognized 
 Anderson. Philip seemed to have disappeared; 
 but Anderson dived, and presently emerged with 
 a limp burden. The guide was now aiding him, 
 and between them they brought young Gaddesden 
 to land. The whole thing passed so rapidly that 
 Delaine and Elizabeth, running at full speed, 
 had hardly reached the spot before Anderson was 
 on the shore, bearing the lad in his arms. 
 
 Elizabeth bent over him with a moan of anguish. 
 He seemed to her dead. 
 
 "He has only fainted," said Anderson peremp-
 
 146 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 torily. "We must get him in." And he hurried 
 on, refusing Delaine's help, carrying the thin 
 body apparently with ease along the path and 
 up the steps to the hotel. The guide had already 
 been sent flying ahead to warn the house- 
 hold. 
 
 Thus, by one of the commonplace accidents 
 of travel, the whole scene was changed for this 
 group of travellers. Philip Gaddesden would 
 have taken small harm from his tumble into the 
 lake, but for the fact that the effects of rheumatic 
 fever were still upon him. As it was, a certain 
 amount of fever, and some heart-symptoms that 
 it was thought had been overcome, reappeared, 
 and within a few hours of the accident it became 
 plain that, although he was in no danger, they 
 would be detained at least ten days, perhaps a 
 fortnight, at Lake Louise. Elizabeth sat down 
 in deep despondency to write to her mother, and 
 then lingered awhile with the letter before her, 
 her head in her hands, pondering with emotion 
 what she and Philip owed to George Anderson, 
 who had, it seemed, arrived by a night train, and 
 walked up to the hotel, in the very nick of time. 
 As to the accident itself, no doubt the guide, a fine 
 swimmer and coureur de bois, would have been 
 sufficient, unaided, to save her brother. But 
 after all, it was Anderson's strong arms that had
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 147 
 
 drawn him from the icy depths of the lake, and 
 carried him to safety! And since? Never had 
 telephone and railway, and general knowledge 
 of the resources at command, been worked more 
 skilfully than by him, and the kind people of the 
 hotel. "Don't be the least anxious" — she had 
 written to her mother — "we have a capital 
 doctor — all the chemist's stuff we want — and 
 we could have a nurse at any moment. Mr. 
 Anderson has only to order one up from the camp 
 hospital in the pass. But for the present, Simp- 
 son and I are enough for the nursing." 
 
 She heard voices in the next room; a faint 
 question from Philip, Anderson replying. What 
 an influence this man of strong character had 
 already obtained over her wilful, self-indulgent 
 brother! She saw the signs of it in many direc- 
 tions; and she was passionately grateful for it. 
 Her thoughts went wandering back over the past 
 three weeks — over the whole gradual unveiling 
 of Anderson's personality. She recalled her first 
 impressions of him the day of the "sink-hole." 
 An ordinary, strong, capable, ambitious young 
 man, full of practical interests, with brusque 
 manners, and a visible lack of some of the outer 
 wrappings to which she was accustomed — it 
 was so that she had first envisaged him. Then 
 at Winnipeg — through Mariette and others —
 
 148 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 she had seen him as other men saw him, his seniors 
 and contemporaries, the men engaged with him 
 in the making of this vast country. She had 
 appreciated his character in what might be 
 hereafter, apparently, its public aspects; the 
 character of one for whom the world surrounding 
 him was eagerly prophesying a future and a 
 career. His profound loyalty to Canada, and 
 to certain unspoken ideals behind, which were 
 really the source of the loyalty; the atmosphere 
 at once democratic and imperial in which his 
 thoughts and desires moved, which had more 
 than once communicated its passion to her; a 
 touch of poetry, of melancholy, of greatness even 
 — all this she had gradually perceived. Winnie 
 peg and the prairie journey had developed him 
 thus before her. 
 
 So much for the second stage in her knowledge 
 of him. There was a third; she was in the midst 
 of it. Her face flooded with colour against her 
 will. "Out of the strong shall come forth sweet- 
 ness." The words rushed into her mind. She 
 hoped, as one who wished him well, that he would 
 marry soon and happily. And the woman who 
 married him would find it no tame future. 
 
 Suddenly Delaine's warnings occurred to her. 
 She laughed, a little hysterically. 
 
 Could anyone have shown himself more help-
 
 LADY MERTOxN, COLONIST 149 
 
 less, useless, incompetent, than Arthur Delaine 
 since the accident ? Yet he was still on the spot. 
 She realised, indeed, that it was hardly possible 
 for their old friend to desert them under the 
 circumstances. But he merely represented an 
 additional burden. 
 
 A knock at the sitting-room door disturbed 
 her. Anderson appeared. 
 
 "I am off to Banff, Lady Merton," he said 
 from the threshold. "I think I have all your 
 commissions. Is your letter ready?" 
 
 She sealed it and gave it to him. Then she 
 looked up at him; and for the first time he saw 
 her tremulous and shaken; not for her brother, 
 but for himself. 
 
 " I don't know how to thank you." She offered 
 her hand; and one of those beautiful looks — 
 generous, friendly, sincere — of which she had 
 the secret. 
 
 He, too, flushed, his eyes held a moment by 
 hers. Then he, somewhat brusquely, disengaged 
 himself. 
 
 "Why, I did nothing! He was in no danger; 
 the guide would have had him out in a twinkle. 
 I wish" — he frowned — "you wouldn't look 
 so done up over it." 
 
 "Oh! I am all right.'* 
 
 **I brought you a book this morning. Merci-
 
 150 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 fully I left it in the drawing-room, so it hasn't 
 been in the lake." 
 
 He drew it from his pocket. It was a French 
 novel she had expressed a wish to read. 
 
 She exclaimed, 
 
 " How did you get it ?" 
 
 "I found Mariette had it with him. He sends 
 it me from Vancouver. Will you promise to 
 read it — and rest ?" 
 
 He drew a sofa towards the window. The 
 June sunset was blazing on the glacier without. 
 Would he next offer to put a shawl over her, 
 and tuck her up ? She retreated hastily to the 
 writing-table, one hand upon it. He saw the lines 
 of her gray dress, her small neck and head; the 
 Quakerish smoothness of her brown hair, against 
 the light. The little figure was grace, refinement, 
 embodied. But it was a grace that implied an 
 environment — the cosmopolitan, luxurious 
 environment, in which such women naturallv 
 move. 
 
 His look clouded. He said a hasty good-bye 
 and departed. Elizabeth was left breathing quick, 
 one hand on her breast. It was as though she had 
 escaped something — or missed something. 
 
 As he left the hotel, Anderson found himself 
 intercepted by Delaine in the garden, and paused 
 at once to give him the latest news.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 151 
 
 "The report is really good, everything con- 
 sidered," he said, with a cordiality born of their 
 common anxiety; and he repeated the doctor's 
 last words to himself. 
 
 "Excellent!" said Delaine; then, clearing his 
 throat, "Mr. Anderson, may I have some con- 
 versation with you ?" 
 
 Anderson looked surprised, threw him a keen 
 glance, and invited him to accompany him part 
 of the way to Laggan. They turned into a sol- 
 itary road, running between the woods. It was 
 late evening, and the sun was striking through 
 the Laggan valley beneath them in low shafts 
 of gold and purple. 
 
 "I am afraid what I have to say will be dis- 
 agreeable to you," began Delaine, abruptly. 
 " And on this particular day — when we owe you 
 so much — it is more than disagreeable to myself. 
 But I have no choice. By some extraordinary 
 chance, with which I beg you to believe my own 
 will has had nothing to do, I have become 
 acquainted with something — something that con- 
 cerns you privately — something that I fear will 
 be a great shock to you." 
 
 Anderson stood still. 
 
 "What can you possibly mean.?" he said, in 
 growing amazement. 
 
 " 1 was accosted the night before last, as I was
 
 152 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 strolling along the railway line, by a man I had 
 never seen before, a man who — pardon me, it 
 is most painful to me to seem to be interfering 
 with anyone's private affairs — who announced 
 himself as" — the speaker's nervous stammer 
 intervened before he jerked out the words — " as 
 your father!" 
 
 "As my father? Somebody must be mad!" 
 said Anderson quietly. " My father has been 
 dead ten years." 
 
 "I am afraid there is a mistake. The man 
 who spoke to me is aware that you suppose him 
 dead — he had his own reasons, he declares, for 
 allowing you to remain under a misconception; 
 he now wishes to reopen communications with 
 you, and to my great regret, to my indignation, 
 I may say he chose me — an entire stranger — 
 as his intermediary. He seems to have watched 
 our party all the way from Winnipeg, where he 
 first saw you, casually, in the street. Naturally 
 I tried to escape from him — to refer him to you. 
 But I could not possibly escape from him, at night, 
 with no road for either of us but the railway line. 
 I was at his mercy." 
 
 "What was his reason for not coming direct to 
 me?" 
 
 They were still pausing in the road. Delaine 
 could see in the failing light that Anderson had
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 153 
 
 grown pale. But he perceived also an expression 
 of scornful impatience in the blue eyes fixed upon 
 him. 
 
 "He has professed to be afraid " 
 
 "That I should murder him?" said Anderson 
 with a laugh. "And he told you some sort of 
 a story ?" 
 
 "A long one, I regret to say.'* 
 
 "And not to my credit V 
 
 "The tone of it was certainly hostile. I would 
 rather not repeat it." 
 
 "I should not dream of asking you to do so. 
 And where is this precious individual to be found ?" 
 
 Delaine named the address which had been 
 given him — of a lodging mainly for railway men 
 near Laggan. 
 
 "I will look him up," said Anderson briefly. 
 "The whole story of course is a mere attempt to 
 get money — for what reason I do not know; 
 but I will look into it." 
 
 Delaine was silent. Anderson divined from 
 his manner that he believed the story true. In 
 the minds of both the thought of Lady Merton 
 emerged. Anderson scorned to ask, "Have you 
 said anything to them?" and Delaine was con- 
 scious of a nervous fear lest he should ask it. In 
 the light of the countenance beside him, no less 
 than of the event of the day, his behaviour of the
 
 154 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 morning began to seem to him more than disput- 
 able. In the morning he had seemed to himself 
 the defender of Elizabeth and the class to which 
 they both belonged against low-born adventurers 
 with disreputable pasts. But as he stood there, 
 confronting the "adventurer," his conscience as 
 a gentleman — which was his main and typical 
 conscience — pricked him. 
 
 The inward qualm, however, only stiffened 
 his manner. And Anderson asked nothing. He 
 turned towards Laggan. 
 
 *'Good night. I will let you know the result 
 of my investigations." And, with the shortest 
 of nods, he went oif at a swinging pace down the 
 road. 
 
 "I have only done my duty," argued Delaine 
 with himself as he returned to the hotel. "It 
 was uncommonly difficult to do it at such a 
 moment! But to him I have no obligations 
 whatever; my obligations are to Lady Merton 
 and her family."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 It was dark when Anderson reached Laggan, if 
 that can be called darkness which was rather a 
 starry twihght, interfused with the whiteness of 
 snow-field and glacier. He first of all despatched 
 a message to Banff for Elizabeth's commissions. 
 Then he made straight for the ugly frame house of 
 which Delaine had given him the address. It was 
 kept by a couple well known to him, an Irishman 
 and his wife who made their living partly by odd 
 jobs on the railway, partly by lodging men in 
 search of work in the various construction camps 
 of the line. To all such persons Anderson was 
 a familiar figure, especially since the great strike 
 of the year before. 
 
 The house stood by itself in a plot of cleared 
 ground, some two or three hundred yards from 
 the railway station. A rough road through the 
 pine wood led up to it. 
 
 Anderson knocked, and Mrs. Ginnell came to 
 the door, a tired, and apparently sulky woman. 
 
 "I hear you have a lodger here, Mrs. Ginnell," 
 said Anderson, standing in the doorway, "a man 
 
 155
 
 156 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 called McEwen; and that he wants to see me on 
 some business or other." 
 
 Mrs. Ginnell's countenance darkened. 
 
 "We have an old man here, Mr. Anderson, 
 as answers to that name, but you'll get no business 
 out of him — and I don't believe he have any 
 business with any decent crater. When he arrived 
 two days ago he was worse for liquor, took on at 
 Calgary. I made my husband look after him 
 that night to see he didn't get at nothing, but 
 yesterday he slipped us both, an' I believe he's 
 now in that there outhouse, a-sleeping it off. 
 Old men like him should be sent somewhere safe, 
 an' kep' there." 
 
 "I'll go and see if he's awake, Mrs. Ginnell. 
 Don't you trouble to come. Any other lodgers .?" 
 
 "No, sir. There was a bunch of 'em left this 
 morning — got work on the Crow's Nest." 
 
 Anderson made his way to the little "shack,'* 
 Ginnell's house of the first year, now used as a 
 kind of general receptacle for tools, rubbish and 
 stores. 
 
 He looked in. On a heap of straw in the corner 
 lay a huddled figure, a kind of human rag. Ander- 
 son paused a moment, then entered, hung the 
 lamp he had brought with him on a peg, and 
 closed the door behind him. 
 
 He stood looking down at the sleeper, who
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 157 
 
 was in the restless stage before waking. McEwen 
 threw himself from side to side, muttered, and 
 stretched. 
 
 Slowly a deep colour flooded Anderson's cheeks 
 and brow; his hands hanging beside him clenched; 
 he checked a groan that was also a shudder. The 
 abjectness of the figure, the terrible identification 
 proceeding in his mind, the memories it evoked, 
 were rending and blinding him. The winter 
 morning on the snow-strewn prairie, the smell 
 of smoke blown towards him on the wind, the 
 flames of the burning house, the horror of the 
 search among the ruins, his father's confession, 
 and his own rage and despair — deep in the 
 tissues of life these images were stamped. The 
 anguish of them ran once more through his being. 
 
 How had he been deceived ? And what was 
 to be done ? He sat down on a heap of rubbish 
 beside the straw, looking at his father. He had 
 last seen him as a man of fifty, vigorous, red-haired, 
 coarsely handsome, though already undermined 
 by drink. The man lying on the straw was 
 approaching seventy, and might have been much 
 older. His matted hair was nearly white, 
 face blotched and cavernous; and the relaxation 
 of sleep emphasised the mean cunning of the 
 mouth. His clothing was torn and filth}', the 
 hands repulsive.
 
 158 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Anderson could only bear a few minutes of 
 this spectacle. A natural shame intervened. He 
 bent over his father and called him. 
 
 ** Robert Anderson!" 
 
 A sudden shock passed through the sleeper. 
 He started up, and Anderson saw his hand dart for 
 something lying beside him, no doubt a revolver. 
 
 But Anderson grasped the arm. 
 
 "Don't be afraid; you're quite safe." 
 
 McEwen, still bewildered by sleep and drink, 
 tried to shake off the grasp, to see who it was 
 standing over him. Anderson released him, and 
 moved so that the lamplight fell upon himself. 
 
 Slowly McEwen's faculties came together, began 
 to work. The lamplight showed him his son 
 George — the fair-haired, broad-shouldered fellov/ 
 he had been tracking all these days — and he 
 understood. 
 
 He straightened himself, with an attempt at 
 dignity. 
 
 *'So it's you, George.? You might have given 
 
 me notice." 
 
 "Where have you been all these years.?" said 
 Anderson, indistinctly. "And why did you let 
 me believe you dead.?" 
 
 "Well, I had my reasons, George. But I don't 
 mean to go into 'em. All that's dead and gone. 
 There was a pack of fellows then on my shoulders
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 159 
 
 — I was plumb tired of 'em. I had to get rid 
 of — I did get rid of 'em — and you, too. I 
 knew you were inquiring after me, and I didn't 
 want inquiries. They didn't suit me. You may 
 conclude what you like. I tell you those times 
 are dead and gone. But it seemed to me that 
 Robert Anderson was best put away for a bit. 
 So I took measures according." 
 
 "You knew I was deceived." 
 
 "Yes, I knew," said the other composedly. 
 "Couldn't be helped." 
 
 "And where have you been since .?" 
 
 " In Nevada, George — Comstock — silver- 
 mining. Rough lot, but you get a stroke of luck 
 sometimes. I've got a chance on now — me and 
 a friend of mine — that's first-rate." 
 
 "What brought you back to Canada ?" 
 
 "Well, it was your aunt, Mrs. Harriet Sykes. 
 Ever hear of her, George ?" 
 
 Anderson shook his head. 
 
 "You must have heard of her when you were 
 a little chap. When I left Ayrshire in 1840 she 
 was a lass of sixteen; never saw her since. But 
 she married a man well-to-do, and was left a wid- 
 der with no children. And when she died t'other 
 day, she'd left me something in her will, and told 
 the lawyers to advertise over here, in Canada 
 and the States — both. And I happened on the
 
 i6o LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 advertisement in a Chicago paper. Told yer to 
 call on Smith & Dawkins, Winnipeg. So that 
 was how I came to see Winnipeg again." 
 
 "When were you there ?" 
 
 "Just when you was," said the old man, with 
 a triumphant look, which for the moment effaced 
 the squalor of his aspect. "I was coming out of 
 Smith & Dawkins's with the money in my pocket, 
 when I saw you opposite, just going into a shop. 
 You could ha' knocked me down easy, I warrant 
 ye. Didn't expect to come on yer tracks as fast 
 as all that. But there you were, and when you 
 came out and went down t' street, I just followed 
 you at a safe distance, and saw you go into the 
 hotel. Afterwards, I went into the Free Library 
 to think a bit, and then I saw the piece in the paper 
 about you and that Saskatchewan place; and I 
 got hold of a young man in a saloon who found 
 out all about you and those English swells you've 
 been hanging round with; and that same night, 
 when you boarded the train, I boarded it, too. 
 See .? Only I am not a swell like you. And 
 here we are. See .? " 
 
 The last speech was delivered with a mixture 
 of bravado, cunning, and sinister triumph. Ander- 
 son sat with his head in his hands, his eyes on 
 the mud floor, listening. When it was over he 
 looked up.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST i6i 
 
 "Why didn't you come and speak to me at 
 once r 
 
 The other hesitated. 
 
 "Well, I wasn't a beauty to look at. Not 
 much of a credit to you, am I ? Didn't think 
 you'd own me. And I don't like towns — too 
 many people about. Thought I'd catch you 
 somewhere on the quiet. Heard you was going 
 to the Rockies. Thought I might as well go 
 round by Seattle home. See?" 
 
 "You have had plenty of chances since Winni- 
 peg of making yourself known to me," said Ander- 
 son sombrely. "Why did you speak to a stranger 
 instead of coming direct to me ^" 
 
 McEwen hesitated a moment. 
 
 "Well, I wasn't sure of you. I didn't know 
 how you'd take it. And I'd lost my nerve, damn 
 it! the last few years. Thought you might just 
 kick me out, or set the police on me." 
 
 Anderson studied the speaker. His fair skin 
 was deeply flushed; his brow frowned uncon- 
 sciously, reflecting the travail of thought behind it. 
 
 "What did you say to that gentleman the other 
 night.?" 
 
 McEw^n smiled a shifty smile, and began to 
 pluck some pieces of straw from his sleeve. 
 
 "Don't remember just what I did say. Noth- 
 ing to do you no harm, anyway. I might have
 
 i62 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 said you were never an easy chap to get on with. 
 I might have said that, or I mightn't. Think 
 I did. Don't remember." 
 
 The eyes of the two men met for a moment, 
 Anderson's bright and fixed. He divined per- 
 fectly what had been said to the EngHshman, 
 Lady Merton's friend and travelHng companion. 
 A father overborne by misfortunes and poverty, 
 disowned by a prosperous and Pharisaical son — 
 admitting a few peccadilloes, such as most men 
 forgive, in order to weigh them against virtues, 
 such as all men hate. Old age and infirmity on 
 the one hand; mean hardness and cruelty on the 
 other. Was Elizabeth already contemplating the 
 picture ? 
 
 And yet — No! unless perhaps under the 
 shelter of darkness, it could never have been 
 possible for this figure before him to play the part 
 of innocent misfortune, at all events. Could 
 debauch, could ruin of body and soul be put 
 more plainly .? Could they express themselves 
 more clearly than through this face and form ? 
 
 A shudder ran through Anderson, a cry against 
 fate, a sick wondering as to his own past responsi- 
 bility, a horror of the future. Then his will 
 strengthened, and he set himself quietly to see 
 what could be done. 
 
 "We can't talk here," he said to his father.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 163 
 
 "Come back into the house. There are some 
 rooms vacant. Lll take them for you." 
 
 McEwen rose with difficulty, groaning as he 
 put his right foot to the ground. Anderson then 
 perceived that the right foot and ankle were 
 wrapped round with a bloodstained rag, and was 
 told that the night before their owner had stumbled 
 over a jug in Mrs. Ginnell's kitchen, breaking 
 the jug and inflicting some deep cuts on his own 
 foot and ankle. McEwen, indeed, could only 
 limp along, with mingled curses and lamentations, 
 supported by Anderson. In the excitement of 
 his son's appearance he had forgotten his injury. 
 The pain and annoyance of it returned upon him 
 now with added sharpness, and Anderson realised 
 that here was yet another complication as they 
 moved across the yard. 
 
 A few words to the astonished Mrs. Ginnell 
 sufficed to secure all her vacant rooms, four in 
 number. Anderson put his father in one on the 
 ground floor, then shut the door on him and w^ent 
 back to the woman of the house. She stood 
 looking at him, flushed, in a bewildered silence. 
 But she and her husband owed various kind- 
 nesses to Anderson, and he quickly made up his 
 mind. 
 
 In a very few words he quietly told her the 
 real facts, confiding them both to her self-interest
 
 i64 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 and her humanity. McEwen was to be her only 
 lodger till the next step could be determined. 
 She was to wait on him, to keep drink from him, 
 to get him clothes. Her husband was to go out 
 with him, if he should insist on going out; but 
 Anderson thought his injur}'' would keep him 
 quiet for a day or two. Meanwhile, no babbling 
 to anybody. And, of course, generous payment 
 for all that was asked of them. 
 
 But Mrs. Ginnell understood that she was 
 being appealed to not only commercially, but as 
 a woman with a heart in her body and a good 
 share of Irish wit. That moved and secured her. 
 She threw herself nobly into the business. Ander- 
 son might command her as he pleased, and she 
 answered for her man. Renewed groans from 
 the room next door disturbed them. Mrs. Ginnell 
 went in to answer them, and came out demanding 
 a doctor. The patient was in much pain, the 
 wounds looked bad, and she suspected fever. 
 
 *'Yo can't especk places to heal with such as 
 him," she said, grimly. 
 
 With doggedness, Anderson resigned himself. 
 He went to the station and sent a wire to Field 
 for a doctor. What would happen when he 
 arrived he did not know. He had made no com- 
 pact with his father. If the old man chose to 
 announce himself, so be it. Anderson did not
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 165 
 
 mean to bargain or sue. Other men have had 
 to bear such burdens in the face of the world. 
 Should it fall to him to be forced to take his up 
 in like manner, let him set his teeth and shoulder 
 it, sore and shaken as he was. He felt a fierce 
 confidence that could still make the world respect 
 him. 
 
 An hour passed away. An answer came from 
 Field to the effect that a doctor would be sent up 
 on a freight train just starting, and might be 
 expected shortly. 
 
 While Mrs. Ginnell was still attending on her 
 lodger, Anderson went out into the starlight to 
 try and think out the situation. The night was 
 clear and balmy. The high snows glimmered 
 through the lingering twilight, and in the air 
 there was at last a promise of "midsummer 
 pomps." Pine woods and streams breathed fresh- 
 ness, and when in his walk along the railway line — 
 since there is no other road through the Kicking 
 Horse Pass — he reached a point whence the 
 great Yoho valley became visible to the right, 
 he checked the rapid movement which had 
 brought him a kind of physical comfort, and set 
 himself — in face of that far-stretching and splen- 
 did solitude — to wrestle with calamity. 
 
 First of all there was the Englishman — Delaine 
 -—and the letter that must be written him. But
 
 i66 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 there, also, no evasions, no suppliancy. Delaine 
 must be told that the story was true, and would 
 no doubt think himself entitled to act upon it. 
 The protest on behalf of Lady Merton implied 
 already in his manner that afternoon was humili- 
 ating enough. The smart of it was still tingling 
 through Anderson's being. He had till now felt 
 a kind of Instinctive contempt for Delaine as a 
 fine gentleman with a useless education, inclined 
 to patronise " colonists." The two men had 
 jarred from the beginning, and at Banff, Anderson 
 had both divined in him the possible suitor of 
 Lady Merton, and had also become aware that 
 Delaine resented his own intrusion upon the 
 party, and the rapid Intimacy which had grown 
 up berv\'een him and the brother and sister. Well, 
 let him use his chance! If it so pleased him. No 
 promise whatever should be asked of him; there 
 should be no suggestion even of a line of action. 
 The bare fact which he had become possessed of 
 should be admitted, and he should be left to deal 
 with It. Upon his next step would depend Ander- 
 son's; that was all. 
 
 But Lady Merton ? 
 
 Anderson stared across the near valley, up the 
 darkness beyond, where lay the forests of the 
 Yoho, and to those ethereal summits whence a 
 man might behold on one side the smoke-wreaths
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 167 
 
 of the great railway, and on the other side the still 
 virgin peaks of the northern Rockies, untamed, 
 untrodden. But his eyes were holden; he saw 
 neither snow, nor forests, and the roar of the 
 stream dashing at his feet was unheard. 
 
 Three weeks, was it, since he had first seen that 
 delicately oval face, and those clear eyes ? The 
 strong man — accustomed to hold himself in 
 check, to guard his own strength as the instrument, 
 firm and indispensable, of an iron wall — recoiled 
 from the truth he was at last compelled to recog- 
 nise. In this daily companionship with a sensitive 
 and charming woman, endowed beneath her 
 light reserve with all the sweetness of unspoilt 
 feeling, while yet commanding through her long 
 training in an old society a thousand delicacies 
 and subtleties, which played on Anderson's fresh 
 senses like the breeze on young leaves — whither 
 had he been drifting — to the brink of what 
 precipice had he brought himself, unknowing ? 
 
 He stood there indefinitely, among the charred 
 tree-trunks that bordered the line, his arms 
 folded, looking straight before him, motionless. 
 
 Supposing to-day had been yesterday, need 
 he — together with this sting of passion — have 
 felt also this impotent and angry despair .? Before 
 his eyes had seen that figure lying on the straw 
 of Mrs. Ginnell's outhouse, could he ever have
 
 i68 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 dreamed it possible that Elizabeth Merton should 
 marry him ? 
 
 Yes! He thought, trembling from head to 
 foot, of that expression in her eyes he had seen 
 that very afternoon. Again and again he had 
 checked his feeling by the harsh reminder of her 
 social advantages. But, at this moment of crisis, 
 the man in him stood up, confident and rebellious. 
 He knew himself sound, intellectually and morally. 
 There was a career before him, to which a cool 
 and reasonable ambition looked forward without 
 any paralysing doubts. In this growing Canada, 
 measuring himself against the other men of the 
 moment, he calmly foresaw his own growing 
 place. As to money, he would make it; he was 
 in process of making it, honourably and suffi- 
 ciently. 
 
 He was well aware indeed that in the case of 
 many women sprung from the English governing 
 class, the ties that bind them to their own world, 
 its traditions, and its outlook, are so strong that 
 to try and break them would be merely to invite 
 disaster. But then from such women his own 
 pride — his pride in his country — would have 
 warned his passion. It was to Elizabeth's lovely 
 sympathy, her generous detachment, her free kind- 
 ling mind — that his life had gone out. She 
 would, surely, never be deterred from marrying
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 169 
 
 a Canadian — if he pleased her — because it 
 would cut her off from London and Paris, and 
 all the ripe antiquities and traditions of English 
 or European life ? Even in the sparsely peopled 
 Northwest, with which his own future was 
 bound up, how many English women are there — 
 fresh, some of them, from luxurious and fastidious 
 homes — on ranches, on prairie farms, in the 
 Okanagan valley! "This Northwest is no longer 
 a wilderness!" he proudly thought; "it is no 
 longer a leap in the dark to bring a woman of 
 delicate nurture and cultivation to the prairies." 
 
 So, only a few hours before, he might have 
 flattered the tyranny of longing and desire which 
 had taken hold upon him. 
 
 But now! All his life seemed besmirched. 
 His passion had been no sooner born than, Hke 
 a wounded bird, it fluttered to the ground. Bring 
 upon such a woman as Elizabeth Merton the 
 most distant responsibility for such a being as 
 he had left behind him in the log-hut at Laggan ? 
 Link her life in however remote a fashion with 
 that life.? Treachery and sacrilege, indeed! No 
 need for Delaine to tell him that! His father as 
 a grim memory of the past — that Lady Merton 
 knew. His own origins — his own story — as to 
 that she had nothing to discover. But the man 
 who might have dared to love her, up to that
 
 170 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 moment in the hut, was now a slave, bound to a 
 corpse — 
 
 Fints! 
 
 And then as the anguish of the thought swept 
 through him, and by a natural transmission of 
 ideas, there rose in Anderson the sore and sudden 
 memory of old, unhappy things, of the tender 
 voices and faces of his first youth. The ugly 
 vision of his degraded father had brought back 
 upon him, through a thousand channels of asso- 
 ciation, the recollection of his mother. He saw 
 her now — the worn, roughened face, the sweet 
 swimming eyes; he felt her arms around him, 
 the tears of her long agony on his face. She had 
 endured — he too must endure. Close, close — 
 he pressed her to his heart. As the radiant image 
 of EHzabeth vanished from him in the darkness, 
 his mother — broken, despairing, murdered in 
 her youth — came to him and strengthened him. 
 Let him do his duty to this poor outcast, as she 
 would have done it — and put high thoughts 
 from him. 
 
 He tore himself resolutely from his trance of 
 thought, and began to walk back along the line. 
 All the same, he would go up to Lake Louise, 
 as he had promised, on the following morning. 
 As far as his own intention was concerned, he 
 would not cease to look after Lady Merton and her
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 171 
 
 brother; Philip Gaddesden would soon have to be 
 moved, and he meant to escort them to Vancouver. 
 
 Sounds approached, from the distance — the 
 ''freight," with the doctor, cHmbing the steep 
 pass. He stepped on briskly to a signal-man's 
 cabin and made arrangements to stop the train. 
 
 It was towards midnight when he and the 
 doctor emerged from the Ginnell's cabin. 
 
 "Oh, I daresay we'll heal those cuts," said the 
 doctor. "I've told Mrs. Ginnell what to do; 
 but the old fellow's in a pretty cranky state. I 
 doubt whether he'll trouble the world very long." 
 
 Anderson started. With his eyes on the ground 
 and his hands in his pockets, he inquired the 
 reason for this opinion. 
 
 "Arteries — first and foremost. It's a wonder 
 they've held out so long, and then — a score oi 
 other things. What can you expect?" 
 
 The speaker went into some details, dis- 
 cussing the case with gusto. A miner from 
 Nevada ? Queer hells often, those mining camps, 
 whether on the Canadian or the American side 
 of the border. 
 
 "You were acquainted with his family ? Cana- 
 dian, to begin with, I understand ?" 
 
 "Yes. He applied to me for help. Did he 
 tell you much about himself?" 
 
 "No. He boasted a lot about some mine in
 
 172 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 the Comstock district which is to make his fortune, 
 if he can raise the money to buy it up. If he can 
 raise fifteen thousand dollars, he says, he wouldn't 
 care to call Rockefeller his lincle!" 
 
 "That's what he wants, is it ?" said Anderson, 
 absently, "fifteen thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Apparently. Wish he may get it!" laughed 
 the doctor. "Well, keep him from drink, if you 
 can. But I doubt if you'll cheat the undertaker 
 very long. Good night. There'll be a train 
 along soon that'll pick me up." 
 
 Anderson went back to the cabin, found that 
 his father had dropped asleep, left money and 
 directions with Mrs. Ginnell, and then returned 
 to his own lodgings. 
 
 He sat down to write to Delaine. It was clear 
 that, so far, that gentleman and Mrs. Ginnell 
 were the only other participants in the secret of 
 McEwen's identity. The old man had not 
 revealed himself to the doctor. Did that mean 
 that — in spite of his first reckless interview with 
 the Englishman — he had still some notion of a 
 bargain with his son, on the basis of the fifteen 
 thousand dollars ? 
 
 Possibly. But that son had still to determine 
 his own fine of action. When at last he began to 
 write, he wrote steadily and without a pause. 
 Nor was the letter long.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 On the morning following his conversation with 
 Anderson on the Laggan road, Delaine impa- 
 tiently awaited the arrival of the morning mail 
 from Laggan. When it came, he recognised 
 Anderson's handwriting on one of the envelopes 
 put into his hand. Elizabeth, having kept him 
 company at breakfast, had gone up to sit with 
 Philip. Nevertheless, he took the precaution of 
 carrying the letter out of doors to read it. 
 It ran as follows: 
 
 "Dear Mr. Delaine — You were rightly 
 informed, and the man you saw is my father. I 
 was intentionally deceived ten years ago by a 
 false report of his death. Into that, however, 
 I need not enter. If you talked with him, as I 
 understand you did, for half an hour, you will, I 
 think, have gathered that his life has been unfor- 
 tunately of little advantage either to himself or 
 others. But that also is my personal affair — 
 and his. And although in a moment of caprice, 
 and for reasons not yet plain to me, he revealed 
 
 173
 
 174 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 himself to you, he appears still to wish to preserve 
 the assumed name and identity that he set up 
 shortly after leaving Manitoba, seventeen years 
 ago. As far as I am concerned, I am inclined to 
 indulge him. But you will, of course, take your 
 own Hne, and will no doubt communicate it to 
 me. I do not imagine that my private affairs or 
 my father's can be of any interest to you, but 
 perhaps I may say that he is at present for a few 
 days in the doctor's hands and that I propose as 
 soon as his health is re-established to arrange 
 for his return to the States, where his home has 
 been for so long. I am, of course, ready to make 
 any arrangements for his benefit that seem wise, 
 and that he will accept. I hope to come up to 
 Lake Louise to-morrow, and shall bring with me 
 one or two things that Lady Merton asked me to 
 get for her. Next week I hope she may be able 
 and inclined to take one or two of the usual 
 excursions from the hotel, if Mr. Gaddesden goes 
 on as well as we all expect. I could easily make 
 the necessary arrangements for ponies, guides, &c. 
 "Yours faithfully, 
 
 "George Anderson." 
 
 "Upon my word, a cool hand! a very cool 
 hand!" muttered Delaine in some perplexity, as 
 he thrust the letter into his pocket, and strolled on
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 175 
 
 toward the lake. His mind went back to the 
 strange nocturnal encounter which had led to the 
 development of this most annoying relation 
 between himself and Anderson. He recalled the 
 repulsive old man, his uneducated speech, the 
 signs about him of low cunning and drunken 
 living, his rambling embittered charges against 
 his son, who, according to him, had turned his 
 father out of the Manitoba farm in consequence 
 of a family quarrel, and had never cared since 
 to find out whether he was alive or dead. "Sorry 
 to trouble you, sir, I'm sure — a genelman like 
 you" — obsequious old ruffian! — "but my sons 
 were always kittle-cattle, and George the worst 
 of 'em all. If you would be so kind, sir, as to 
 gie 'im a word o' preparation " 
 
 Delaine could hear his own impatient reply: 
 "I have nothing whatever, sir, to do with your 
 business! Approach Mr. Anderson yourself if 
 you have any claim to make." Whereupon a 
 half-sly, half-threatening hint from the old fellow 
 that he might be disagreeable unless well handled; 
 that perhaps "the lady" would listen to him and 
 plead for him with his son. 
 
 Lady Alerton! Good heavens! Delaine had 
 been immediately ready to promise anything in 
 order to protect her. 
 
 Yet even now the situation was extremely
 
 176 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 annoying and improper. Here was this man, 
 Anderson, still coming up to the hotel, on the 
 most friendly terms with Lady Merton and her 
 brother, managing for them, laying them under 
 obligations, and all the time, unknown to Eliza- 
 beth, with this drunken old scamp of a father 
 in the background, who had already half- 
 threatened to molest her, and would be quite 
 capable, if thwarted, of blackmaihng his son 
 through his English friends! 
 
 "What can I do?" he said to himself, in dis- 
 gust. " I have no right whatever to betray this 
 man's private affairs; at the same time I should 
 never forgive myself — Mrs. Gaddesden would 
 never forgive me — if I were to allow Lady Merton 
 to run any risk of some sordid scandal which 
 might get into the papers. Of course this young 
 man ought to take himself off! If he had any 
 proper feeling whatever he would see how alto- 
 gether unfitting it is that he, with his antecedents, 
 should be associating in this very friendly way 
 with such persons as Elizabeth Merton and her 
 brother!" 
 
 Unfortunately the "association" had included 
 the rescue of Philip from the water of Lake Louise, 
 and the provision of help to Elizabeth, in a strange 
 country, which she could have ill done without. 
 Philip's unlucky tumble had been, certainly,
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 177 
 
 doubly unlucky, if it was to be the means of 
 entangling his sister further in an intimacy which 
 ought never to have been begun. 
 
 And yet how to break through this spider's web ? 
 Delaine racked his brain, and could think of 
 nothing better than delay and a pusillanimous 
 waiting on Providence. Who knew what mad 
 view Elizabeth might take of the whole thing, in 
 this overstrained sentimental mood which had 
 possessed her throughout this Canadian journey .'' 
 The young man's troubles might positively recom- 
 mend him in her eyes! 
 
 No! there was nothing for it but to stay on as 
 an old friend and watchdog, responsible, at least 
 
 — if EHzabeth would have none of his counsels 
 
 — to her mother and kinsfolk at home, who 
 had so clearly approved his advances in the 
 winter, and would certainly blame Elizabeth, 
 on her return, for the fact that his long journey 
 had been fruitless. He magnanimously resolved 
 that Lady Merton should not be blamed if he 
 could help it, by anyone except himself. And 
 he had no intention at all of playing the rejected 
 lover. The proud, well-born, fastidious English- 
 man stiffened as he walked. It was wounding to 
 his self-love to stay where he was; since it was 
 quite plain that Elizabeth could do without him, 
 and would not regret his departure; but it was
 
 178 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 no less wounding to be dismissed, as it were, by 
 Anderson. He would not be dismissed; he would 
 hold his own. He too would go with them to 
 Vancouver; and not till they were safely in charge 
 of the Lieutenant-Governor at Victoria, would he 
 desert his post. 
 
 As to any further communication to Elizabeth, 
 he realised that the hints into which he had been 
 so far betrayed had profited neither himself nor 
 her. She had resented them, and it was most 
 unlikely that she would ask him for any further 
 explanations; and that being so he had better 
 henceforward hold his peace. Unless of course 
 any further annoyance were threatened. 
 
 The hotel cart going down to Laggan for 
 supplies at midday brought Anderson his answer: 
 
 "Dear Mr. Anderson — Your letter gave me 
 great concern. I deeply sympathise with your 
 situation. As far as I am concerned, I must 
 necessarily look at the matter entirely from the 
 point of view of my fellow-travellers. Lady 
 Merton must not be distressed or molested. So 
 long, however, as this is secured, I shall not feel 
 myself at liberty to reveal a private matter which 
 has accidentally come to my knowledge. I 
 understand, of course, that your father will not
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 179 
 
 attempt any further communication with me, and 
 I propose to treat the interview as though it had 
 not happened. 
 
 "I will give Lady Merton your message. It 
 seems to me doubtful whether she will be ready 
 for excursions next week. But you are no doubt 
 aware that the hotel makes what are apparently 
 very excellent and complete arrangements for 
 such things. I am sure Lady Merton would be 
 sorry to give you avoidable trouble. However, we 
 shall see you to-morrow, and shall of course be 
 very glad of your counsels. 
 
 "Yours faithfully, 
 "Arthur Mandeville Delaine." 
 
 Anderson's fair skin flushed scarlet as he read 
 this letter. He thrust it into his pocket and con- 
 tinued to pace up and down in the patch of half- 
 cleared ground at the back of the Ginnells' house. 
 He perfectly understood that Delaine's letter was 
 meant to warn him not to be too officious in Lady 
 Merton's service. "Don't suppose yourself indis- 
 pensable — and don't at any time forget your 
 undesirable antecedents, and compromising situa- 
 ation. On those conditions, I hold my tongue." 
 
 "Pompous ass!" Anderson found it a hard 
 task to keep his own pride in check. It was of 
 a different variety from Delaine's, but not a whit
 
 i8o LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 less clamorous. Yet for Lady Merton's sake 
 it was desirable, perhaps imperative, that he 
 should keep on civil terms with this member of 
 her party. A hot impulse swept through him to 
 tell her everything, to have done with secrecy. 
 But he stifled it. What right had he to intrude 
 his personal history upon her ? — least of all this 
 ugly and unsavoury development of it ? Pride 
 spoke again, and self-respect. If it humiliated 
 him to feel himself in Delaine's power, he must 
 bear it. The only other alternatives were either 
 to cut himself off^ at once from his English friends 
 — that, of course, was what Delaine wished — 
 or to appeal to Lady Merton's sympathy and 
 pity. Well, he would do neither — and Delaine 
 might go hang! 
 
 Mrs. Ginnell, with her apron over her head 
 to shield her from a blazing sun, appeared at the 
 corner of the house. 
 
 "You're wanted, sir!" Her tone was sulky. 
 
 "Anything wrong?" Anderson turned 
 apprehensively. 
 
 "Nothing more than 'is temper, sir. He won't 
 let yer rest, do what you will for 'im." 
 
 Anderson went into the house. His father was 
 sitting up in bed. Mrs. Ginnell had been endeav- 
 ouring during the past hour to make her patient 
 clean and comfortable, and to tidy his room; but
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST i8i 
 
 had been at last obliged to desist, owing to the 
 mixture of ill-humour and bad language with 
 which he assailed her. 
 
 "Can I do anything for you?" Anderson 
 inquired, standing beside him. 
 
 "Get me out of this blasted hole as soon as 
 possible! That's about all you can do! I've 
 told that woman to get me my things, and help 
 me into the other room — but she's in your pay, 
 I suppose. She won't do anything I tell her, drat 
 her!" 
 
 "The doctor left orders you were to keep quiet 
 to-day." 
 
 McEwen vowed he would do nothing of the 
 kind. He had no time to be lolling in bed like a 
 fine lady. He had business to do, and must get 
 home. 
 
 "If you get up, with this fever on you, and the 
 leg in that state, you will have blood-poisoning," 
 said Anderson quietly, "which will either kill 
 you or detain you here for weeks. You say you 
 want to talk business with me. Well, here I am. 
 In an hour's time I must go to Calgary for 
 an appointment. Suppose you take this 
 opportunity." 
 
 McEwen stared at his son. His blue eyes, 
 frowning in their wrinkled sockets, gave little or 
 no index, however, to the mind behind them.
 
 i82 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 The straggling white locks falling round his 
 blotched and feverish face caught Anderson's 
 attention. Looking back thirty years he could 
 remember his father vividly — a handsome man, 
 solidly built, with a shock of fair hair. As a 
 little lad he had been proud to sit high-perched 
 beside him on the wagon which in summer drove 
 them, every other Sunday, to a meeting-house 
 fifteen miles away. He could see his mother at 
 the back of the wagon with the little girls, her grey 
 alpaca dress and cotton gloves, her patient look. 
 His throat swelled. Nor was the pang of intoler- 
 able pity for his mother only. Deep in the melan- 
 choly of his nature and strengthened by that 
 hateful tie of blood from which he could not escape, 
 was a bitter, silent compassion for this outcast 
 also. All the machinery of life set in motion and 
 maintaining itself in the clash of circumstance for 
 seventy years to produce this, at the end! Dismal 
 questionings ran through his mind. Ought he 
 to have acted as he had done seventeen years 
 before .? How would his mother have judged 
 him .? Was he not in some small degree 
 responsible } 
 
 Meanwhile his father began to talk fast and 
 querulously, with plentiful oaths from time to 
 time, and using a local miner's slang which was 
 not always intelligible to Anderson. It seemed it
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 183 
 
 was a question of an old silver mine on a mountain- 
 side in Idaho, deserted some ten years before 
 when the river gravels had been exhausted, and 
 now to be reopened, Hke many others in the same 
 neighbourhood, with improved methods and 
 machinery, tunnelHng instead of washing. Silver 
 enough to pave Montreal! Ten thousand dollars 
 for plant, five thousand for the claim, and the 
 thing was done. 
 
 He became incoherently eloquent, spoke of the 
 ease and rapidity with which the thing could be 
 resold to a syndicate at an enormous profit, 
 should his "pardners" and he not care to develop 
 it themselves. If George would find the money 
 — why, George should make his fortune, like the 
 rest, though he had behaved so scurvily all these 
 years. 
 
 Anderson watched the speaker intently. Pres- 
 ently he began to put questions — close, technical 
 questions. His father's eyes — till then eager 
 and greedy — began to flicker. Anderson per- 
 ceived an unwelcome surprise — annoyance — 
 
 "You knew, of course, that I was a mining 
 engineer.'*" he said at last, pulling up in his 
 examination. 
 
 "Well, I heard of you that onst at Dawson 
 City," was the slow reply. " I supposed you were 
 nosin' round like the rest."
 
 i84 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Why, I didn't go as a mere prospector! I'd 
 had my training at Montreal." And Anderson 
 resumed his questions. 
 
 But McEwen presently took no pains to answer 
 them. He grew indeed less and less communica- 
 tive. The exact locality of the mine, the names 
 of the partners, the precise machinery required — 
 Anderson, in the end, could get at neither the one 
 nor the other. And before many more minutes 
 had passed he had convinced himself that he was 
 wasting his time. That there was some swindling 
 plot in his father's mind he was certain; he was 
 probably the tool of some shrewder confederates, 
 who had no doubt sent him to Montreal after his 
 legacy, and would fleece him on his return. 
 
 *' By the way. Aunt Sykes's money, how much 
 was it.?" Anderson asked him suddenly. "I 
 suppose you could draw on that?" 
 
 McEwen could not be got to give a plain answer. 
 It wasn't near enough, anyhov/; not near. The 
 evasion seemed to Anderson purposeless; the 
 mere shifting and doubling that comes of long 
 years of dishonest living. And again the ques- 
 tion stabbed his consciousness — were his children 
 justified in casting him so inexorably adrift ? 
 
 "Well, I'd better run down and have a look," 
 he said at last. " If it's a good thing I dare say 
 I can find you the dollars."
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 185 
 
 "Run down — where?" asked McEwen 
 sharply. 
 
 "To the mine, of course. I might spare the 
 time next week." 
 
 "No need to trouble yourself. My pardners 
 wouldn't thank me for betraying their secrets." 
 
 "Well, you couldn't expect me to provide the 
 money without knowing a bit more about the 
 property, could you .? — without a regular survey r" 
 said Anderson, with a laugh. 
 
 "You trust me with three or four thousand 
 dollars,'* said McEwen doggedly — " because I'm 
 your father and I give you my word. And if not, 
 you can let it alone. I don't want any prying 
 into my affairs." 
 
 Anderson was silent a moment. 
 
 Then he raised his eyes. 
 
 "Are you sure it's all square ^'* The tone had 
 sharpened. 
 
 "Square? Of course it is. What are you 
 aiming at ? You'll believe any villainy of your 
 old father, I suppose, just the same as you always 
 used to. I've not had your opportunities, George. 
 I'm not a fine j^entleman — on the trail with a 
 parcel of English swells. I'm a poor old broken- 
 down miner, who wants to hole-up somewhere, 
 and get comfortable for his old age; and if you 
 had a heart in your body, you'd lend a helping
 
 1 86 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 hand. When I saw you at Winnipeg" — the 
 tone became a trifle plaintive and sHppery — 
 "I ses to myself, George used to be a nice chap, 
 with a good heart. If there's anyone ought to 
 help me it's my own son. And so I boarded that 
 train. But I'm a broken man, George, and you've 
 used me hard." 
 
 *' Better not talk like that," interrupted Ander- 
 son in a clear, resolute voice. "It won't do any 
 good. Look here, father! Suppose you give up 
 this kind of life, and settle down. I'm ready to 
 give you an allowance, and look after you. Your 
 health is bad. To speak the truth, this mine 
 business sounds to me pretty shady. Cut it all! 
 I'll put you with decent people, who'll look after 
 you. 
 
 The eyes of the two men met; Anderson's 
 insistently bright, McEwen's wavering and frown- 
 ing. The June sunshine came into the small 
 room through a striped and battered blind, 
 illuminating the rough planks of which it was 
 built, the "cuts" from illustrated papers that 
 were pinned upon them, the scanty furniture, and 
 the untidy bed. Anderson's head and shoulders 
 were in a full mellowed light; he held himself with 
 an unconscious energy, answering to a certain 
 force of feeling within; a proud strength and 
 sincerity expressed itself through every detail of
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 187 
 
 attitude and gesture; yet perhaps the delicacy, 
 or rather sensibiHty, mingling with the pride, 
 would have been no less evident to a seeing eye. 
 There was Highland blood in him, and a touch 
 therefore of the Celtic responsiveness, the Celtic 
 magnetism. The old man opposite to him in 
 shadow, with his back to the light, had a 
 crouching dangerous look. It was as though he 
 recognised something in his son for ever lost to 
 himself; and repulsed it, half enviously, half 
 malignantly. 
 
 But he did not apparently resent Anderson's 
 proposal. He said sulkily: "Oh, I dessay you'd 
 like to put me away. But I'm not doddering 
 yet. 
 
 All the same he listened in silence to the plan 
 that Anderson developed, puffing the while at the 
 pipe which he had made Mrs. Ginnell give him. 
 
 "I shan't stay on this side," he said, at last, 
 decidedly. "There's a thing or two that might 
 turn up agin me — and fellows as 'ud do me a 
 bad turn if they come across me — dudes, as I used 
 to know in Dawson City. I shan't stay in Canada. 
 You can make up your mind to that. Besides, the 
 winter 'ud kill me!" 
 
 Anderson accordingly proposed San Francisco, 
 or Los Angeles. Would his father go for a time 
 to a Salvation Army colony near Los Angeles ?
 
 i88 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Anderson knew the chief officials — capital men, 
 with no cant about them. Fruit farming — a 
 beautiful climate — care in sickness — no drink 
 
 — as much work or as little as he liked — and all 
 expenses paid. 
 
 McEwen laughed out — a short sharp laugh 
 
 — at the mention of the Salvation Army. But he 
 listened patiently, and at the end even professed 
 to think there might be something in it. As to his 
 own scheme, he dropped all mention of it. Yet 
 Anderson was under no illusion; there it lay 
 sparkling, as it were, at the back of his sly wolfish 
 eyes. 
 
 "How in blazes could you take me down?" 
 muttered McEwen — "Thought you was took up 
 with these English swells." 
 
 "I'm not taken up with anything that would 
 prevent my looking after you," said Anderson 
 rising. "You let Mrs. Ginnell attend to you — 
 get the leg well — and we'll see." 
 
 McEwen eyed him — his good looks and his 
 dress, his gentleman's refinement; and the shaggy 
 white brows of the old miner drew closer together. 
 
 "What did you cast me off like that for, 
 George .?" he asked. 
 
 Anderson turned away. 
 
 "Don't rake up the past. Better not." 
 
 "Where are my other sons, George.'*"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 189 
 
 "In Montreal, doing well." Anderson gave 
 the details of their appointments and salaries. 
 
 "And never a thought of their old father, I'll 
 be bound!" said McEwen, at the end, with slow 
 vindictiveness. 
 
 "You forget that it was your own doing; we 
 believed you dead." 
 
 "Aye! — you hadn't left a man much to come 
 home for! — and all for an accident! — a thing 
 as might ha' happened to any man." 
 
 The speaker's voice had grown louder. He 
 stared sombrely, defiantly at his companion. 
 
 Anderson stood with his hands on his sides, 
 looking through the further window. Then slowly 
 he put his hand into his pocket and withdrew 
 from it a large pocket-book. Out of the pocket- 
 book he took a delicately made leather case, hold- 
 ing it in his hand a moment, and glancing uncer- 
 tainly at the figure in the bed. 
 
 "What ha' you got there V' growled McEwen. 
 
 Anderson crossed the room. His own face had 
 lost its colour. As he reached his father, he 
 touched a spring, and held out his hand with the 
 case lying open within it. 
 
 It contained a miniature — of a young woman 
 in the midst of a group of children. 
 
 "Do you remember that photograph that was 
 done of them — in a tent — when you took us all
 
 I90 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 into Winnipeg for the first agricultural show?" 
 he said hoarsely. "I had a copy — that wasn't 
 burnt. At Montreal, there was a French artist one 
 year, that did these things. I got him to do this." 
 
 McEwen stared at the miniature — the sweet- 
 faced Scotch woman, the bunch of children. 
 Then with a brusque movement he turned his 
 face to the wall, and closed his eyes. 
 
 Anderson's lips opened once or twice as though 
 to speak. Some imperious emotion seemed to 
 be trying to force its way. But he could not 
 find words; and at last he returned the miniature 
 to his pocket, walked quietly to the door, and 
 went out of the room. 
 
 The sound of the closing door brought immense 
 relief to McEwen. He turned again in bed, and 
 relit his pipe, shaking off the impression left by 
 the miniature as quickly as possible. What 
 business had George to upset him like that } 
 He was down enough on his luck as it was. 
 
 He smoked away, gloomily thinking over the 
 conversation. It didn't look like getting any 
 money out of this close-fisted Puritanical son of 
 his. Survey indeed! McEwen found himself 
 shaken by a kind of internal convulsion as he 
 thought of the revelations that would come out. 
 George was a fool.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 191 
 
 In his feverish reverie, many lines of thought 
 crossed and danced in his brain; and every now 
 and then he v^^as tormented by the craving for 
 alcohol. The Salvation Army proposal half 
 amused, half infuriated him. He knew all about 
 their colonies. Trust him! Your own master 
 for seventeen years — mixed up in a lot of jobs 
 it wouldn't do to go blabbing to the Mounted 
 Police — and then to finish up with those hymn- 
 singing fellows! — George was most certainly a 
 fool! Yet dollars ought to be screwed out of him 
 - — somehow. 
 
 Presently, to get rid of some unpleasant reflec- 
 tions, the old man stretched out his hand for a 
 copy of the Vancouver Sentinel that was lying on 
 the bed, and began to read it idly. As he did so, 
 a paragraph drew his attention. He gripped 
 the paper, and, springing up in bed, read it twice, 
 peering into it, his features quivering with eager- 
 ness. The passage described the "hold up" of a 
 Northern Pacific train, at a point between Seattle 
 and the Canadian border. By the help of masks, 
 and a few sticks of dynamite, the thing had been 
 very smartly done — a whole train terrorised, the 
 mail van broken open and a large "swag" cap- 
 tured. Billy Symonds, the notorious train robber 
 from Montana, was suspected, and there was 
 a hue and cry through the whole border after him
 
 192 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 and his accomplices, amongst whom, so it was 
 said, was a band from the Canadian side — foreign 
 miners mixed up in some of the acts of violence 
 which had marked the strike of the year before. 
 
 Bill Symonds! — McEwen threw himself 
 excitedly from side to side, unable to keep still. 
 He knew Symonds — a chap and a half! Why 
 didn't he come and try it on this side of the line .? 
 Heaps of money going backwards and forwards 
 over the railway! All these thousands of dollars 
 paid out in wages week by week to these con- 
 struction camps — must come from somewhere 
 in cash — Winnipeg or Montreal. He began 
 to play with the notion, elaborating and refining 
 it; till presently a whole epic of attack and capture 
 was rushing through his half-crazy brain. 
 
 He had dropped the paper, and was staring 
 abstractedly through the foot of open window 
 close beside him, which the torn blind did not 
 cover. Outside, through the clearing with its 
 stumps of jack-pine, ran a path, a short cut, con- 
 necting the station at Laggan with a section- 
 house further up the line. 
 
 As McEwen's eyes followed it, he began to be 
 aware of a group of men emerging from the trees 
 on the Laggan side, and walking in single file 
 along the path. Navvies apparently — carrying 
 bundles and picks. The path came within a
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 193 
 
 few yards of the window, and of the little stream 
 that supplied the house with water. 
 
 Suddenly, McEwen sprang up in bed. The 
 two foremost men paused beside the water, 
 mopped their hot faces, and taking drinking cups 
 out of their pockets stooped down to the stream. 
 The old man in the cabin bed watched them with 
 fierce intentness; and as they straightened them- 
 selves and were about to follow their companions 
 who were already out of sight, he gave a low call. 
 
 The two started and looked round them. Their 
 hands went to their pockets. McEwen swung 
 himself round so as to reach the window better, 
 and repeated his call — this time with a different 
 inflection. The men exchanged a few hurried 
 words. Carefully scrutinising the house, they 
 noticed a newspaper waving cautiously in an open 
 window. One of them came forward, the other 
 remained by the stream bathing his feet and ankles 
 in the water. 
 
 No one else was in sight. Mrs. Ginnell was 
 cookinjr on the other side of the house. Anderson 
 had gone oflF to catch his train. For twenty min- 
 utes, the man outside leant against the window- 
 sash apparently lounging and smoking. Nothing 
 could be seen from the path, but a battered blind 
 flapping in the June breeze, and a dark space 
 of room beyond.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The days passed on. Philip in the comfortable 
 hotel at Lake Louise was recovering steadily, 
 though not rapidly, from the general shock of 
 immersion. Elizabeth, while nursing him tenderly, 
 could yet find time to walk and climb, plung- 
 ing spirit and sense in the beauty of the 
 Rockies. 
 
 On these excursions Delaine generally accom- 
 panied her; and she bore it well. Secretly she 
 cherished some astonishment and chagrin that 
 Anderson could be with them so little on these 
 bright afternoons among the forest trails and 
 upper lakes, although she generally found that 
 the plans of the day had been suggested and 
 organised by him, by telephone from Laggan, 
 to the kind and competent Scotch lady who was 
 the manager of the hotel. It seemed to her that 
 he had promised his company; whereas, as a 
 rule, now he withheld it; and her pride was put 
 to it, on her own part, not to betray any sign of 
 discontent. He spoke vaguely of "business," 
 and on one occasion, apparently had gone off 
 
 194
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 195 
 
 for three days to Saskatchewan on matters con- 
 nected with the coming general election. 
 
 From the newspaper, or the talk of visitors 
 in the hotel, or the railway officials who occasion- 
 ally found their way to Lake Louise to make 
 courteous inquiries after the English party, Eliza- 
 beth became, indeed, more and more fully aware 
 of the estimation in which Anderson was beginning 
 to be held. He was already a personage in the 
 Northwest; was said to be sure of success in his 
 contest at Donaldminster, and of an immediate 
 Parliamentary career at Ottawa. These proph- 
 ecies seemed to depend more upon the man's 
 character than his actual achievements; though, 
 indeed, the story of the great strike, as she had 
 gathered it once or twice from the lips of eye- 
 witnesses, was a fine one. For weeks he had 
 carried his life in his hand among thousands of 
 infuriated navvies and miners — since the miners 
 had made common cause with the railwaymen — 
 with a cheerfulness, daring, and resource which 
 in the end had wrung success from an apparently 
 hopeless situation; a success attended, when all 
 was over, by an amazing effusion of good will 
 among both masters and men, especially towards 
 Anderson himself, and a general improvement in 
 the industrial temper and atmosphere of the 
 Northwest.
 
 196 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 The recital of these things stirred Elizabeth's 
 pulses. But why did she never hear them from 
 himself? Surely he had offered her friendship, 
 and the rights of friendship. How else could 
 he justify the scene at Field, when he had so 
 brusquely probed her secret anxieties for Philip ,? 
 Her pride rebelled when she thought of it, when 
 she recalled her wet eyes, her outstretched hand. 
 Mere humiliation! — in the case of a casual or 
 indifferent acquaintance. No; on that day, 
 certainly, he had claimed the utmost privileges, 
 had even strained the rights, of a friend, a real 
 friend. But his behaviour since had almost 
 revived her first natural resentment. 
 
 Thoughts like these ran in her mind, and occa- 
 sionally affected her manner when they did meet. 
 Anderson found her more reserved, and noticed 
 that she did not so often ask him for small services 
 as of old. He suffered under the change; but 
 it was, he knew, his own doing, and he did not 
 alter his course. 
 
 Whenever he did come, he sat mostly with 
 Philip, over whom he had gradually established 
 a remarkable influence, not by any definite acts 
 or speeches, but rather by the stoicism of his own 
 mode of life, coupled with a proud or laughing 
 contempt for certain vices and self-indulgences 
 to which it was evident that he himself felt no
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 197 
 
 temptation. As soon as Philip felt himself suffi- 
 ciently at home with the Canadian to begin to 
 jibe at his teetotalism, Anderson seldom took the 
 trouble to defend himself; yet the passion of 
 moral independence in his nature, of loathing 
 for any habit that weakens and enslaves the will, 
 infected the English lad whether he would or no. 
 "There's lots of things he's stick-stock mad on," 
 Philip would say impatiently to his sister. But 
 the madness told. And the madman was all 
 the while consolingly rich in other, and, to Philip, 
 more attractive kinds of madness — the follies 
 of the hunter and climber, of the man who holds 
 his neck as dross in comparison with the satis- 
 faction of certain wild instincts that the Rockies 
 excite in him. Anderson had enjoyed his full 
 share of adventures with goat and bear. Such 
 things are the customary amusements, it seemed, 
 of a young engineer in the Rockies. Beside them, 
 English covert-shooting is a sport for babes; and 
 Philip ceased to boast of his own prowess in that 
 direction. He would listen, indeed, open-mouthed, 
 to Anderson's yarns, lying on his long chair on 
 the verandah — a graceful languid figure — with 
 a coyote rug heaped about him. It was clear to 
 Elizabeth that Anderson on his side had become 
 very fond of the boy. There was no trouble he 
 would not take for him. And gradually, silently.
 
 igS LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 proudly, she allowed him to take less and less 
 for herself. 
 
 Once or twice Arthur Delaine's clumsy hints 
 occurred to her. Was there, indeed, some private 
 matter weighing on the young man's mind I She 
 would not allow herself to speculate upon it; 
 though she could not help watching the relation 
 between the two men with some curiosity. It 
 was polite enough; but there was certainly no 
 cordiality in it; and once or twice she suspected 
 a hidden understanding. 
 
 Delaine meanwhile felt a kind of dull satis- 
 faction in the turn of events. The intimacy 
 between Anderson and Lady Merton had clearly 
 been checked, or was at least not advancing. 
 Whether it was due to his own hints to Elizabeth, 
 or to Anderson's chivalrous feeling, he did not 
 know. But he wrote every mail to Mrs. Gaddes- 
 den, discreetly, yet not without giving her some 
 significant information; he did whatever small 
 services were possible in the case of a man who 
 went about Canada as a Johnny Head-in-air, 
 with his mind in another hemisphere; and it was 
 understood that he was to leave them at Van- 
 couver. In the forced association of their walks 
 and rides, Elizabeth showed herself gay, kind, 
 companionable; although often, and generally 
 for no reason that he could discover, something
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 199 
 
 sharp and icy in her would momentarily make 
 itself felt, and he would find himself driven back 
 within bounds that he had perhaps been tempted 
 to transgress. And the result of it all was that 
 he fell day by day more tormentingly in love with 
 her. Those placid matrimonial ambitions with 
 which he had left England had been all swept 
 away; and as he followed her — she on pony- 
 back, he on foot — along the mountain trails, 
 watching the lightness of her small figure against 
 the splendid background of peak and pine, he 
 became a troubled, introspective person; con- 
 centrating upon himself and his disagreeable 
 plight the attention he had hitherto given to a 
 delightful outer world, sown with the caches of 
 antiquity, in order to amuse him. 
 
 Meanwhile the situation in the cabin at Laggan 
 appeared to be steadily improving. McEwen 
 had abruptly ceased to be a rebellious and difficult 
 patient. The doctor's orders had been obeyed; 
 the leg had healed rapidly; and he no longer 
 threatened or cajoled Mrs. Ginnell on the subject 
 of liquor. As far as Anderson was concerned, 
 he was generally sulky and uncommunicative. 
 But Anderson got enough out of him by degrees 
 to be able to form a fairly complete idea of his 
 father's course of life since the false report of his 
 death in the Yukon. He realised an existence
 
 200 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 on the fringe of civilisation, with its strokes of 
 luck neutralised by drink, and its desperate, and 
 probably criminal, moments. And as soon as 
 his father got well enough to limp along the trails 
 of the Laggan valley, the son noticed incidents 
 which appeared to show that the old man, while 
 playing the part of the helpless stranger, was by 
 no means without acquaintance among the motley 
 host of workmen that were constantly passing 
 through. The links of international trades union- 
 ism no doubt accounted for it. But in McEwen's 
 case, the fraternity to which he belonged seemed 
 to apply only to the looser and more disreputable 
 elements among the emigrant throng. 
 
 But at the same time he had shown surprising 
 docility in the matter of Anderson's counsels. 
 All talk of the Idaho mine had dropped between 
 them, as though by common consent. Anderson 
 had laid hands upon a young man, a Salvation 
 Army officer in Vancouver, with whom his father 
 consented to lodge for the next six weeks; and 
 further arrangements were to be postponed till 
 the end of that period. Anderson hoped, indeed, 
 to get his father settled there before Lady Merton 
 moved from Lake Louise. For in a few days 
 now, the private car was to return from the coast, 
 in order to take up the English party. 
 
 McEwen's unexpected complaisance led to a
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 2or 
 
 great softening in Anderson's feeling towards his 
 father. All those inner compunctions that haunt 
 a just and scrupulous nature came freely into 
 play. And his evangelical religion — for he was 
 a devout though liberal-minded Presbyterian — 
 also entered in. Was it possible that he might 
 be the agent of his father's redemption ? The 
 idea, the hope, produced in him occasional hidden 
 exaltations — flights of prayer — mystical memo- 
 ries of his mother — which lightened what was 
 otherwise a time of bitter renunciation, and 
 determined wrestling with himself. 
 
 During the latter days of this fortnight, indeed, 
 he could not do enough for his^father. He had made 
 all the Vancouver arrangements; he had supplied 
 him amply with clothes and other personal neces- 
 saries; and he came home early at night in order 
 to sit and smoke with him. Mrs. Ginnell, looking 
 in of an evening, beheld what seemed to her a 
 touching sight, though one far beyond the deserts 
 of such creatures as McEwen — the son reading 
 the newspaper aloud, or playing dominoes with 
 his father, or just smoking and chatting. Her 
 hard common sense as a working-woman suggested 
 to her that Anderson w^as nursing illusions; and 
 she scornfully though silently hoped that the 
 "old rip" would soon, one way or another, be 
 off his shoulders.
 
 202 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 But the illusions, for the moment, were Ander- 
 son's sustenance. His imagination, denied a 
 more personal and passionate food, gave itself 
 with fire to the redeeming of an outlaw, and the 
 paying of a spiritual debt. 
 
 It was Wednesday. After a couple of drizzling 
 days the weather was again fair. The trains 
 rolling through the pass began with these early 
 days of July to bring a first crop of holiday- 
 makers from Eastern Canada and the States; 
 the hotels were filling up. On the morrow 
 McEwen was to start for Vancouver. And a 
 letter from Philip Gaddesden, delivered at Laggan 
 in the morning, had bitterly reproached Anderson 
 for neglecting them, and leaving him, in particular, 
 to be bored to death by glaciers and tourists. 
 
 Early in the afternoon Anderson took his way 
 up the mountain road to Lake Louise. He found 
 the English travellers established among the pines 
 by the lake-side, Philip half asleep in a hammock 
 strung between two pines, while Delaine was 
 reading to Elizabeth from an article in an arch- 
 aeological review on "Some Fresh Light on the 
 Cippus of Palestrina." 
 
 Lady Merton was embroidering; it seemed to 
 Anderson that she was tired or depressed. 
 Delaine's booming voice, and the frequent Latin 
 passages interspersed with stammering transla-
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 203 
 
 tions of his own, in which he appeared to be 
 interminably tangled, would be enough — the 
 Canadian thought — to account for a subdued 
 demeanour; and there was, moreover, a sudden 
 thunderous heat in the afternoon. 
 
 Elizabeth received him a little stiffly, and Philip 
 roused himself from sleep only to complain: 
 "You've been four mortal days without coming 
 
 near us!" 
 
 "I had to go away. I have been to Regina." 
 
 "On politics?" asked Delaine. 
 
 "Yes. We had a couple of meetings and a 
 
 row." 
 
 "Jolly for you!" grumbled Philip. "Butwe've 
 had a beastly time. Ask Elizabeth." 
 
 "Nothing but the weather!" said Elizabeth 
 carelessly. "We couldn't even see the moun- 
 tarns. 
 
 But why, as she spoke, should the delicate 
 cheek change colour, suddenly and brightly t 
 The answering blood leapt in Anderson. She 
 had missed him, though she would not show it. 
 
 Delaine began to question him about Sas- 
 katchewan. The Englishman's forms of con 
 versation were apt to be tediously inquisitive, 
 and Anderson had often resented them. To-day, 
 however, he let himself be catechised patiently 
 enough, while all the time conscious, from head
 
 204 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 to foot, of one person only — one near and yet 
 distant person. 
 
 Elizabeth wore a dress of white linen, and a 
 broad hat of soft blue. The combination of the 
 white and blue with her brown hair, and the pale 
 refinement of her face, seemed to him ravishing, 
 enchanting. So were the movements of her hands 
 at work, and all the devices of her light self- 
 command; more attractive, infinitely, to his 
 mature sense than the involuntary tremor of 
 girlhood. 
 
 "Hallo! What does Stewart want.?" said 
 Philip, raising himself in his hammock. The 
 hunter who had been the companion of his first 
 unlucky attempt at fishing was coming towards 
 them. The boy sprang to the ground, and, 
 vowing that he would fish the following morning 
 whatever Elizabeth might say, went off to con- 
 sult. 
 
 She looked after him with a smile and a 
 sigh. 
 
 "Better give him his head!" laughed Ander- 
 son. Then, from where he stood, he studied her 
 a moment, unseen, except by Delaine, who was 
 sitting among the moss a few yards away, and 
 had temporarily forgotten the Cippus of Pales- 
 trina. 
 
 Suddenly the Canadian came forward.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 205 
 
 "Have you explored that path yet, over the 
 shoulder?" he said to Lady Merton, pointing 
 to the fine promontory of purple piny rock which 
 jutted out in front of the glacier on the southern 
 side of the lake. 
 
 She shook her head; but v^as it not still too 
 early and too hot to walk ? Anderson persisted. 
 The path was in shade, and would repay climbing. 
 She hesitated — and yielded; making a show of 
 asking Delaine to come with them. Delaine also 
 hesitated, and refrained; making a show of pre- 
 ferring the "Archaeological Review." He was 
 left to watch them mount the first stretches of 
 the trail; while Philip strolled along the lake 
 with his companion in the slouch hat and leggings, 
 deep in tales of bass and trout. 
 
 Elizabeth and Anderson climbed a long sloping 
 ascent through the pines. The air was warm 
 and scented; the heat of the sun on the moistened 
 earth was releasing all its virtues and fragrances, 
 overpowering in the open places, and stealing 
 even through the shadows. When the trees 
 broke or receded, the full splendour of the glacier 
 was upon them to their left; and then for a space 
 they must divine it as a presence behind the actual, 
 faintly gleaming and flashing through the serried 
 ranks of the forest. There were heaths and 
 mosses under the pines; but otherwise for a while
 
 2o6 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 the path was flowerless; and Elizabeth discon- 
 tentedly remarked it. Anderson smiled. 
 
 "Wait a little — or you'll have to apologise to 
 the Rockies." 
 
 He looked down upon her, and saw that her 
 small face had bloomed into a vivacity and charm 
 that startled him. Was it only the physical 
 eflPort and pleasure of the climb ? As for himself, 
 it took all the power of a strong will to check 
 the happy tumult in his heart. 
 
 Elizabeth asked him of his Saskatchewan 
 journey. He described to her the growing town 
 he hoped to represent — the rush of its new life. 
 
 "On one Sunday morning there was nothing 
 — the bare prairie; by the next — so to speak — 
 there was a town all complete, with a hotel, an 
 elevator, a bank, and a church. That w^as ten 
 years ago. Then the railway came; I saw the 
 first train come in, garlanded and wreathed with 
 flowers. Now there are eight thousand people. 
 They have reserved land for a park along the 
 river, and sent for a landscape gardener from 
 England to lay it out; they have made trees grow 
 on the prairie; they have built a high school and 
 a concert hall; the municipality is full of ambitions; 
 and all round the town, settlers are pouring in. 
 On market day you find yourself in a crowd of 
 men, talking cattle and crops, the last thing in
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 207 
 
 binders and threshers, as farmers do all over the 
 world. But yet you couldn't match that crowd 
 in the old world." 
 
 "Which you don't know," put in Elizabeth, 
 with her sly smile. 
 
 "Which I don't know," repeated Anderson 
 meekly. "But I guess. And I am thinking of 
 sayings of yours. Where in Europe can you 
 match the sense of boundlessness we have here — 
 boundless space, boundless opportunity .'* It often 
 makes fools of us: it intoxicates, turns our heads. 
 There is a germ of madness in this Northwest. 
 I have seen men destroyed by it. But it is Nature 
 who is the witch. She brews the cup." 
 
 "All very well for the men," Elizabeth said, 
 musing — "and the strong men. About the 
 women in this country I can't make up my mind." 
 
 "You think of the drudgery, the domestic 
 hardships ?" 
 
 "There are some ladies in the hotel, from 
 British Columbia. They are in easy circum- 
 stances — and the daughter is dying of overwork! 
 The husband has a large fruit farm, but they can 
 get no service; the fruit rots on the ground; and 
 the two women are worn to death." 
 
 "Aye," said Anderson gravely. "This country 
 breeds life, but it also devours it." 
 
 " I asked these two women — Englishwomen —
 
 2o8 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 if they wanted to go home, and give it up. They 
 fell upon me with scorn." 
 
 "And you.?" 
 
 Elizabeth sighed. 
 
 "I admired them. But could I imitate them? 
 I thought of the house at home; of the old servants; 
 how it runs on wheels; hov/ pretty and — and 
 dignified it all is; everybody at their post; no 
 drudgery, no disorder," 
 
 "It is a dignity that costs you dear," said 
 Anderson almost roughly, and with a change of 
 countenance. "You sacrifice to it things a 
 thousand times more real, more human." 
 
 "Do we.?" said Elizabeth; and then, with a 
 drop in her voice: "Dear, dear England!" She 
 paused to take breath, and as she leant resting 
 against a tree he saw her expression change, as 
 though a struggle passed through her. 
 
 The trees had opened behind them, and they 
 looked back over the lake, the hotel, and the wide 
 Laggan valley beyond. In all that valley, not a 
 sign of human life, but the line of the railwa}^ 
 Not a house, not a village to be seen; and at this 
 distance the forest appeared continuous, till it 
 died against the rock and snow of the higher 
 peaks. 
 
 For the first time, Elizabeth was home-sick; 
 for the first time she shrank from a raw, untamed
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 209 
 
 land where the House of Life is only now rearing 
 its walls and its roof-timbers, and all its warm 
 furnishings, its ornaments and hangings are still 
 to add. She thought of the English landscapes, 
 of the woods and uplands round her Cumberland 
 home; of the old church, the embowered cottages, 
 the lichened farms; the generations of lives that 
 have died into the soil, like the summer leaves of 
 the trees; of the ghosts to be felt in the air — ghosts 
 of squire and labourer and farmer, alive still in 
 men and women of the present, as they too will 
 live in the unborn. Her heart went out to England; 
 fled back to it over the seas, as though renewing, 
 in penitence, an allegiance that had wavered. 
 And Anderson divined it, in the yearning of her 
 just-parted lips, in the quivering, restrained 
 sweetness of her look. 
 
 His own heart sank. They resumed their walk, 
 and presently the path grew steeper. Some of 
 it was rough-hewn in the rock, and encumbered 
 by roots of trees. Anderson held out a helping 
 hand; her fingers slipped willingly into it; her 
 light weight hung upon him, and every step was 
 to him a mingled delight and bitterness. 
 
 "Hard work!" he said presently, with his 
 encouraging smile; "but you'll be paid. 
 
 The pines grew closer, and then suddenly 
 lightened. A few more steps, and Elizabeth gave
 
 210 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 a cry of pleasure. They were on the edge of an 
 alpine meadow, encircled by dense forest, and 
 sloping down beneath their feet to a lake that 
 lay half in black shadow, half blazing in the after- 
 noon sun. Beyond was a tossed wilderness of 
 peaks to west and south. Light masses of cumu- 
 lus cloud were rushing over the sky, and driving 
 v»^aves of blue and purple colour across the moun- 
 tain masses and the forest slopes. Golden was 
 the sinking light and the sunlit half of the lake; 
 golden the western faces and edges of the mountain 
 world; while beyond the valley, where ran the 
 white smoke of a train, there hung in the northern 
 sky a dream-world of undiscovered snows, range, 
 it seemed, beyond range, remote, ethereal; a 
 Valhalla of the old gods of this vast land, where 
 one might guess them still throned at bay, majes- 
 tic, inviolate. 
 
 But it was the flowers that held Elizabeth mute. 
 Anderson had brought her to a wild garden of 
 incredible beauty. Scarlet and blue, purple and 
 pearl and opal, rose-pink and lavender-grey 
 the flower-field ran about her, as though Perse- 
 phone herself had just risen from the shadow 
 of this nameless northern lake, and the new 
 earth had broken into eager flame at her feet. 
 Painter's brush, harebell, speedwell, golden-brown 
 gaillardias, silvery hawkweed, columbines yellow
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 211 
 
 and blue, heaths, and lush grasses — Elizabeth sank 
 down among them in speechless joy. Anderson 
 gathered handfuls of columbine and vetch, of 
 harebell and heath, and filled her lap with them, 
 till she gently stopped him. 
 
 "No! Let me only look!" 
 
 And with her hands around her knees she sat 
 motionless and still. Anderson threw himself 
 down beside her. Fragrance, colour, warmth; 
 the stir of an endless self-sufficient life; the fruit- 
 fulness and bounty of the earth; these things wove 
 their ancient spells about them. Every little rush 
 of the breeze seemed an invitation and a caress. 
 
 Presently she thanked him for having brought 
 her there, and said something of remembering 
 it in England. 
 
 "As one who will never see it again .f*'* He 
 turned and faced her smiling. But behind his 
 frank, pleasant look there was something from 
 which she shrank. 
 
 "I shall hardly see it, again," she said hesi- 
 tating. " Perhaps that makes it the more — 
 the more touching. One clings to it the more — 
 the impression — because it is so fugitive — will 
 be so soon gone.'* 
 
 He was silent a moment, then said abruptly: 
 
 "And the upshot of all this is, that you could 
 not imagine living in Canada .?"
 
 212 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 She started. 
 
 "I never said so. Of course I could imagine 
 living in Canada!'* 
 
 " But you think, for women, the life up here — 
 in the Northwest — is too hard." 
 
 She looked at him timidly. 
 
 "That's because I look at it from my English 
 point of view. I am afraid English life makes 
 weaklings of us." 
 
 "No — not of you!" he said, almost scorn- 
 fully. "Any life that seemed to you worth while 
 would find you strong enough for it. I am sure 
 of that." 
 
 Elizabeth smiled and shrugged her shoulders. 
 He went on — almost as though pleading with her. 
 
 "And as to our Western life — which you will 
 soon have left so far behind — it strains and tests 
 the women — true — but it rewards them. They 
 have a great place among us. It is like the women 
 of the early races. We listen to them in the 
 house, and on the land; we depend on them 
 indoors and out; their husbands and their sons 
 worship them!" 
 
 Elizabeth flushed involuntarily; but she met 
 him gaily. 
 
 "In England too! Come and see!" 
 
 "I shall probably be in England next spring." 
 
 Elizabeth made a sudden movement.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 213 
 
 "I thought you would be in political life here!" 
 
 " I have had an offer — an exciting and flattering 
 offer. May I tell you?" 
 
 He turned to her eagerly; and she smiled her 
 sympathy, her curiosity. Whereupon he took 
 a letter from his pocket — a letter from the 
 Dominion Prime Minister, offering him a mission 
 of inquiry to England, on some important matters 
 connected with labour and emigration. The 
 letter was remarkable, addressed to a man so 
 young, and on the threshold of his political career. 
 
 Elizabeth congratulated him warmly. 
 
 "Of course you will come to stay with us!" 
 
 It was his turn to redden. 
 
 "You are very kind," he said formally. "As 
 you know, I shall have everything to learn." 
 
 "I will show you our farms!" cried Elizabeth^ 
 "and all our dear decrepit life — our little chess- 
 board of an England." 
 
 "How proud you are, you Englishwomen!" 
 he said, half frowning. "You run yourselves 
 down — and at bottom there is a pride hke Luci- 
 ler s. 
 
 "But it is not my pride," she said, hurt, "any 
 more than yours. We are yours — and you are 
 ours. One state — one country." 
 
 "No, don't let us sentimentalise. We have 
 our own future. It is not yours."
 
 214 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "But you are loyal!'* The note was one of 
 pain. 
 
 "Are we? Foolish word! Yes, we are loyal, 
 as you are — loyal to a common ideal, a common 
 mission in the world." 
 
 "To blood also — and to history ?" Her voice 
 was almost entreating. What he had said seemed 
 to jar with other and earlier sayings of his, which 
 had stirred in her a patriotic pleasure. 
 
 He smiled at her emotion — her implied 
 reproach. 
 
 "Yes, we stand together. We march together. 
 But Canada will have her own history; and you 
 must not try to make it for her.'* 
 
 Their eyes met; in hers exaltion, in his a touch 
 of sternness, a moment's revelation of the Cov- 
 enanter in his soul. 
 
 Then as the delightful vision of her among the 
 flowers, in her white dress, the mountains behind 
 and around her, imprinted itself on his senses, 
 he was conscious of a moment of intolerable 
 pain. Between her and him — as it were — the 
 abyss opened. The trembling waves of colour 
 in the grass, the noble procession of the clouds, 
 the gleaming of the snows, the shadow of the 
 valleys — they were all wiped out. He saw 
 instead a small unsavoury room — the cunning 
 eyes and coarse mouth of his father. He saw
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 215 
 
 his own future as it must now be; weighted with 
 this burden, this secret; if indeed it were still 
 to be a secret; if it were not rather the wiser and 
 the manlier plan to have done with secrecy. 
 
 Elizabeth rose with a little shiver. The wind 
 had begun to blow cold from the northwest. 
 
 " How soon can we run down ^ I hope Mr. 
 Arthur will have sent Philip indoors." 
 
 Anderson left Lake Louise about eight o'clock, 
 and hurried down the Laggan road. His mind 
 was divided between the bitter-sweet of these 
 last hours with Elizabeth Merton, and anxieties, 
 small practical anxieties, about his father. There 
 were arrangements still to make. He was not 
 himself going to Vancouver. McEwen had lately 
 shown a strong and petulant wish to preserve 
 his incognito, or what was left of it. He would 
 not have his son's escort. George might come 
 and see him at Vancouver; and that would be 
 time enough to settle up for the winter. 
 
 So Ginnell, owner of the boarding house, a 
 stalwart Irishman of six foot three, had been 
 appointed to see him through his journey, settle 
 him with his new protectors, and pay all necessary 
 expenses. 
 
 Anderson knocked at his father's door and was 
 allowed to enter. He found McEwen walking
 
 :ii6 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 up and down his room, with the aid of a stick, 
 irritably pushing chairs and clothes out of his 
 way. The room was in squalid disorder, and its 
 inmate had a flushed, exasperated look that did 
 not escape Anderson's notice. He thought it 
 probable that his father was already repenting 
 his consent to go to Vancouver, and he avoided 
 general conversation as much as possible. 
 
 McEwen complained of having been left alone; 
 abused Mrs, Ginnell; vowed she had starved and 
 ill-treated him; and then, to Anderson's surprise, 
 broke out against his son for having refused to 
 provide him with the money he wanted for the 
 mine, and so ruined his last chance. Anderson 
 hardly replied; but what he did say was as sooth- 
 ing as possible; and at last the old man flung 
 himself on his bed, excitement dying away in a 
 sulky taciturnity. 
 
 Before Anderson left his room, Ginnell came 
 in, bringing his accounts for certain small ex- 
 penses. Anderson, standing with his back to his 
 father, took out a pocketbook full of bills. At 
 Calgary the day before a friend had repaid him 
 a loan of a thousand dollars. He gave Ginnell 
 a certain sum; talked to him in a low voice for 
 a time, thinking his father had dropped asleep; 
 and then dismissed him, putting the money in 
 his pocket.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 217 
 
 "Good night, father," he said, standing beside 
 the bed. 
 
 McEwen opened his eyes. 
 
 "Eh.?" 
 
 The eyes into which Anderson looked <had no 
 sleep in them. They were wild and bloodshot, 
 and again Anderson felt a pang of helpless pity 
 for a dishonoured and miserable old age. 
 
 "Tm sure you'll get on at Vancouver, father," 
 he said gently. "And I shall be there next week." 
 
 His father growled some unintelligible answer. 
 As Anderson went to the door he again called 
 
 after him angrily: "You were a d fool, 
 
 George, not to find those dibs." 
 
 "What, for the mine?" Anderson laughed. 
 "Oh, we'll go into that again at Vancouver."' 
 
 McEwen made no reply, and Anderson left him. 
 
 Anderson woke before seven. The long even- 
 ing had passed into the dawn with scarcely any 
 darkness, and the sun was now high. He sprang 
 up, and dressed hastily. Going into the passage 
 he saw to his astonishment that while the door 
 of the Ginnells' room was still closed, his father's 
 was wide open. He walked in. The room and 
 the bed were empty. The contents of a box 
 carefully packed by Ginnell — mostly with new 
 clothes — the night before, were lying strewn
 
 2i8 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 about the room. But McEwen's old clothes 
 were gone, his gun and revolver, also his pipes 
 and tobacco. 
 
 Anderson roused Ginnell, and thev searched 
 the house and its neighbourhood in vain. On 
 going back into his own room, Anderson noticed 
 an open drawer. He had placed his pocket- 
 book there the night before, but without locking 
 the drawer. It was gone, and in its place was a 
 dirty scrap of paper. 
 
 "Don't you try chivvying me, George, for you 
 won't get any good of it. You let me alone, and 
 I'll let you. You were a stingy fellow about that 
 money, so I've took some of it. Good-bye." 
 
 Sick at heart, Anderson resumed the search, 
 further afield. He sent Ginnell along the line 
 to make confidential inquiries. He telegraphed 
 to persons known to him at Golden, Revelstoke, 
 Kamloops, Ashcroft, all to no purpose. Twenty- 
 four — thirty-six hours passed and nothing had 
 been heard of the fugitive. 
 
 He felt himself baffled and tricked, with certain 
 deep instincts and yearnings wounded to the 
 death. The brutal manner of his father's escape 
 — the robbery — the letter — had struck him 
 hard. 
 
 When Friday night came, and still no news, 
 Anderson found himself at the C. P. R. Hotel
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 219 
 
 at Field. He was stupid with fatigue and depres- 
 sion. But he had been in telephonic communi- 
 cation all the afternoon with Delaine and Lady 
 Merton at Lake Louise, as to their departure 
 for the Pacific. They knew nothing and should 
 know nothing of his own catastrophe; their plans 
 should not suffer. 
 
 He went out into the summer night to take 
 breath, and commune with himself. The night 
 was balmy; the stars glorious. On a siding 
 near the hotel stood the private car which had 
 arrived that evening from Vancouver, and was 
 to go to Laggan the following morning to fetch 
 the English party. They were to pick him up, 
 on the return, at Field. 
 
 He had failed to save his father, and his honest 
 effort had been made in vain. Humiliation and 
 disappointment overshadowed him. Passion- 
 ately, his whole soul turned to Elizabeth. He 
 did not yet grasp all the bearings of what had 
 happened. But he began to count the hours 
 to the time when he should see her.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A DAY of showers and breaking clouds — of 
 sudden sunlight, and broad clefts of blue; a day 
 when shreds of mist are lightly looped and meshed 
 about the higher peaks of the Rockies and the 
 Selkirks, dividing the forest world from the ice 
 world above. . . . 
 
 The car was slowly descending the Kicking 
 Horse Pass, at the rear of a heavy train. Elizabeth, 
 on her platform, was feasting her eyes once more 
 on the great savage landscape, on these peaks 
 and valleys that have never till now known man, 
 save as the hunter, treading them once or twice 
 perhaps in a century. Dreamily her mind con- 
 trasted them w^ith the Alps, where from all time 
 man has laboured and sheltered, blending his 
 life, his births and deaths, his loves and hates 
 with the glaciers and the forests, wresting his 
 food from the valleys, creeping height over height 
 to the snow line, writing his will on the country, 
 so that in our thought of it he stands first, and 
 Nature second. The Swiss mountains and 
 streams breathe a "mighty voice," lent to them 
 
 220
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 221 
 
 by the free passion and aspiration of man; they 
 are interfused and interwoven forever with human 
 fate. But in the Rockies and the Selkirks man 
 counts for nothing in their past; and, except as 
 wayfarer and playfellow, it is probable that he 
 will count for nothing in their future. They will 
 never be the familiar companions of his work 
 and prayer and love; a couple of railways, indeed, 
 will soon be driving through them, linking the 
 life of the prairies to the life of the Pacific; but, 
 except for this conquest of them as barriers in his 
 path, when his summer camps in them are struck, 
 they, sheeted in a winter inaccessible and superb, 
 know him and his puny deeds no more, till again 
 the lakes melt and the trees bud. This it is that 
 gives them their strange majesty, and clothes their 
 brief summer, their laughing fields of flowers, 
 their thickets of red raspberry and slopes of 
 strawberry, their infinity of gleaming lakes and 
 foaming rivers — rivers that turn no mill and 
 light no town — with a charm, half magical, half 
 mocking. 
 
 And yet, though the travelled intelligence made 
 comparisons of this kind, it was not with the moun- 
 tains that Elizabeth's deepest mind was busy. 
 She took really keener note of the railway itself, 
 and its appurtenances. For here man had 
 expressed himself; had pitched his battle with
 
 222 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 a fierce nature and won it; as no doubt he will 
 wMn other similar battles in the coming years. 
 Through Anderson this battle had become real 
 to her. She looked eagerly at the construction 
 camps in the pass; at the new line that is soon to 
 supersede the old; at the bridges and tunnels 
 and snow-sheds, by which contriving man had 
 made his purpose prevail over the physical forces 
 of this wild world. The great railway spoke to 
 her in terms of human life; and because she had 
 known Anderson she understood its message. 
 
 Secretly and sorely her thoughts clung to him. 
 Just as, insensibly, her vision of Canada had 
 changed, so had her vision of Anderson. Canada 
 was no longer mere fairy tale and romance; 
 Anderson was no longer merely its picturesque 
 exponent or representative. She had come to 
 realise him as a man, with a man's cares and 
 passions; and her feelings about him had begun 
 to change her life. 
 
 Arthur Delaine, she supposed, had meant to 
 warn her that Mr. Anderson was falling in love 
 with her and that she had no right to encourage 
 it. Her thoughts went back intently over the 
 last fortnight — Anderson's absences — his par- 
 tial withdrawal from the intimacy which had grown 
 up between himself and her — their last walk 
 at Lake Louise. The delight of that walk was
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 223 
 
 still in her veins, and at last she was frank with 
 herself about it! In his attitude towards her, 
 now that she forced herself to face the truth, she 
 must needs recognise a passionate eagerness, 
 restrained no less passionately; a profound impulse, 
 strongly felt, and strongly held back. By mere 
 despair of attainment ? — or by the scruple of an 
 honourable self-control ? 
 
 Could she — could she marry a Canadian ? 
 There was the central question, out at last! — 
 irrevocable! — writ large on the mountains and 
 the forests, as she sped through them. Could 
 she, possessed by inheritance of all that is most 
 desirable and delightful in English society, linked 
 with its sreat interests and its dominant class, and 
 through them with the rich cosmopolitan life 01 
 cultivated Europe — could she tear herself from 
 that old soil, and that dear familiar environment ? 
 Had the plant vitality enough to bear trans- 
 planting ? She did not put her question in these 
 terms; but that was what her sudden tumult 
 and distress of mind really meant. 
 
 Looking up, she saw Delaine beside her. Well, 
 there was Europe, and at her feet! For the last 
 month she had been occupied in scorning it. 
 English country-house life, artistic society and 
 pursuits, London in the season, Paris and Rome in 
 the spring, English social and political influence —
 
 224 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 there they were beside her. She had only to 
 stretch out her hand. 
 
 A chill, uncomfortable laughter seemed to fill 
 the inner mind through which the debate passed, 
 while all the time she was apparently looking at 
 the landscape, and chatting with her brother or 
 Delaine. She fell into an angry contempt for 
 that mood of imaginative delight in which she 
 had journeyed through Canada so far. What! 
 treat a great nation in the birth as though it were 
 there for her mere pleasure and entertainment ? 
 Make of it a mere spectacle and pageant, and 
 turn with disgust from the notion that you, too, 
 could ever throw in your lot with it, fight as a 
 foot-soldier in its ranks, on equal terms, for life 
 and death! 
 
 She despised herself. And yet — and yet! 
 She thought of her mother — her frail, refined, 
 artistic mother; of a hundred subtleties and charms 
 and claims, in that world she understood, in which 
 she had been reared; of all that she must leave 
 behind, were she asked, and did she consent, to 
 share the life of a Canadian of Anderson's type. 
 What would it be to fail in such a venture! To 
 dare it, and then to find life sinking in sands of 
 cowardice and weakness! Very often, and some- 
 times as though by design, Anderson had spoken 
 to her of the part to be played by women
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 225 
 
 in Canada; not in the defensiv^e, optimistic tone 
 of their last walk together, but forbiddingly, 
 with a kind of rough insistence. Substantial com- 
 fort, a large amount of applied science — that 
 could be got. But the elegancies and refinements 
 of English rich life in a prairie farm — impossible! 
 A woman who marries a Canadian farmer, large 
 or small, must put her own hands to the drudgery 
 of life, to the cooking, sewing, baking, that keep 
 man — animal man — alive. A certain amount 
 of rude service money can command in the 
 Northwest; but it is a service which only the 
 housewife's personal cooperation can make toler- 
 able. Life returns, in fact, to the old primitive 
 pattern; and a woman counts on the prairie 
 according as "she looketh well to the ways of 
 her household and eateth not the bread of 
 idleness.'* 
 
 Suddenly Elizabeth perceived her own hands 
 lying on her lap. Useless bejewelled things! 
 When had they ever fed a man or nursed a child .? 
 
 Under her gauze veil she coloured fiercely. If 
 the housewife, in her primitive meaning and 
 ofBce, is vital to Canada, still more is the house- 
 mother. "Bear me sons and daughters; people 
 my wastes!" seems to be the cry of the land itself. 
 Deep in Elizabeth's being there stirred instincts 
 and yearnings which life had so far stifled in her.
 
 226 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 She shivered as though some voice, passionate and 
 yet austere, spoke to her from this great spectacle 
 of mountain and water through v^hich she was 
 passing. 
 
 "There he is!'* cried PhiHp, craning his head 
 to look ahead along the train. 
 
 Anderson stood waiting for them on the Field 
 platform. Very soon he was seated beside her, 
 outside the car, while Philip lounged in the door- 
 way, and Delaine inside, having done his duty to 
 the Kicking Horse Pass, was devoting himself 
 to a belated number of the "Athenaeum" which 
 had just reached him. 
 
 Philip had stored up a string of questions as 
 to the hunting of goat in the Rockies, and impa- 
 tiently produced them. Anderson replied, but, 
 as Elizabeth immediately perceived, with a 
 complete lack of his usual animation. He spoke 
 with effort, occasionally stumbling over his words. 
 She could not help looking at him curiously, and 
 presently even Philip noticed something wrong. 
 
 "I say, Anderson! — what have you been doing 
 to yourself.'' You look as though you had been 
 knocking up." 
 
 "I have been a bit driven this week," said 
 Anderson, with a start. "Oh, nothing! You 
 must look at this piece of line."
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 227 
 
 And as they ran down the long ravine from 
 Field to Golden, beside a river which all the 
 way seems to threaten the gliding train by the 
 savage force of its descent, he played the show- 
 man. The epic of the C. P. R. — no one knew 
 it better, and no one could recite it more vividly 
 than he. 
 
 So also, as they left the Rockies behind; as they 
 sped along the Columbia between the Rockies 
 to their right and the Selkirks to their left; or as 
 they turned away from the Columbia, and, on 
 the flanks of the Selkirks, began to mount that 
 forest valley which leads to Roger's Pass, he 
 talked freely and well, exerting himself to the 
 utmost. The hopes and despairs, the endurances 
 and ambitions of the first explorers w^ho ever 
 broke into that fierce solitude, he could reproduce 
 them; for, though himself of a younger generation, 
 yet by sympathy he had lived them. And if he 
 had not been one of the builders of the line, in 
 the incessant guardianship which preserves it 
 from day to day, he had at one time played a 
 prominent part, battling with Nature for it, sum- 
 mer and winter. 
 
 Delaine, at last, came out to listen. Philip 
 in the grip of his first hero-worship, lay silent and 
 absorbed, watching the face and gestures of the 
 speaker. Elizabeth sat with her eyes turned
 
 228 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 away from Anderson towards the wild valley, 
 as they rose and rose above it. She listened; 
 but her heart was full of new anxieties. What 
 had happened to him .? She felt him changed. 
 He was talking for their pleasure, by a strong 
 effort of will; that she realised. When could she 
 get him alone .f* — her friend! — who was clearly 
 in distress. 
 
 They approached the famous bridges on the 
 long ascent. Yerkes came running through the 
 car to point out with pride the place where the 
 Grand Duchess had fainted beneath the terrors 
 of the line. With only the railing of their little 
 platform between them and the abyss, they ran 
 over ravines hundreds of feet deep — the valley, 
 a thousand feet sheer, below. And in that valley 
 not a sign of house, of path; only black impene- 
 trable forest — huge cedars and Douglas pines, 
 filling up the bottoms, choking the river with their 
 debris, climbing up the further sides, towards the 
 gleaming line of peaks. 
 
 "It is a nightmare!" said Delaine involuntarily, 
 looking round him. 
 
 Elizabeth laughed, a bright colour in her cheeks. 
 Again the wilderness ran through her blood, 
 answering the challenge of Nature. Faint! — 
 she was more inclined to sing or shout. And 
 with the exhilaration, physical and mental, that
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 229 
 
 stole upon her, there mingled secretly, the first 
 thrill of passion she had ever known. Anderson 
 sat beside her, once more silent after his burst 
 of talk. She was vividly conscious of him — of 
 his bare curly head — of certain lines of fatigue 
 and suffering in the bronzed face. And it was 
 conveyed to her that, although he was clearly pre- 
 occupied and sad, he was yet conscious of her in the 
 same way. Once, as they were passing the highest 
 bridge of all, where, carried on a great steel arch, 
 that has replaced the older trestles, the rails run 
 naked and gleaming, without the smallest shred 
 of wall or parapet, across a gash in the mountain 
 up which they were creeping, and at a terrific 
 height above the valley, Elizabeth, who was sitting 
 with her back to the engine, bent suddenly to one 
 side, leaning over the little railing and looking 
 ahead — that she might if possible get a clearer 
 sight of Mount Macdonald, the giant at whose 
 feet lies Roger's Pass. Suddenly, as her weight 
 pressed against the ironwork where only that 
 morning a fastening had been mended, she felt 
 a grip on her arm. She drew back, startled. 
 
 "I beg your pardon!" said Anderson, smiling, 
 but a trifle paler than before. "I'm not troubled 
 with nerves for myself, but " 
 
 He did not complete the sentence, and Elizabeth 
 could find nothing to say.
 
 230 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Why, Elizabeth's not afraid!" cried Philip, 
 scornfully. 
 
 "This is Roger's Pass, and here we are at the 
 top of the Selkirks," said Anderson, rising. "The 
 train will wait here some twenty minutes. 
 Perhaps you would like to walk about." 
 
 They descended, all but Philip, who grumbled 
 at the cold, wrapped himself in a rug inside the 
 car, and summoned Yerkes to bring him a cup of 
 coffee. 
 
 On this height indeed, and beneath the preci- 
 pices of Mount Macdonald, which rise some five 
 thousand feet perpendicularly above the railway, 
 the air was chill and the clouds had gathered. 
 On the right, ran a line of glacier-laden 
 peaks, calling to their fellows across the pass. 
 The ravine itself, darkly magnificent, made a 
 gulf of shadow out of which rose glacier and snow 
 slope, now veiled and now revealed by scudding 
 cloud. Heavy rain had not long since fallen on 
 the pass; the small stream, winding and looping 
 through the narrow strip of desolate ground 
 which marks the summit, roared in flood through 
 marshy growths of dank weed and stunted shrub; 
 and the noise reverberated from the mountain 
 walls, pressing straight and close on either hand. 
 
 "Hark!" cried Elizabeth, standing still, her 
 face and her light dress beaten by the wind.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 231 
 
 A sound which was neither thunder nor the 
 voice of the stream rose and swelled and filled the 
 pass. Another followed it. Anderson pointed 
 to the snowy crags of Mount Macdonald, and 
 there, leaping from ledge to ledge, they saw the 
 summer avalanches descend, roaring as they came, 
 till they sank engulfed in a vaporous whirl of snow. 
 
 Delaine tried to persuade Elizabeth to return 
 to the car — in vain. He himself returned thither 
 for a warmer coat, and she and Anderson walked 
 on alone. 
 
 "The Rockies were fine! — but the Selkirks 
 are superb!" 
 
 She smiled at him as she spoke, as though she 
 thanked him personally for the grandeur round 
 them. Her slender form seemed to have grown 
 in stature and in energy. The mountain rain 
 was on her fresh cheek and her hair; a blue veil 
 eddying round her head and face framed the 
 brilliance of her eyes. Those who had known 
 Elizabeth in Europe would hardly have recog- 
 nised her here. The spirit of earth's wild and 
 virgin places had mingled with her spirit, and as 
 she had grown in sympathy, so also she had grown 
 in beauty. Anderson looked at her from time 
 to time in enchantment, grudging every minute 
 that passed. The temptation strengthened to 
 tell her his trouble. But how, or when ^
 
 232 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 As he turned to her he saw that she, too, was 
 gazing at him with an anxious, wistful expression, 
 her Hps parted as though to speak. 
 
 He bent over her, 
 
 "What was that ?" exclaimed Elizabeth, looking 
 round her. 
 
 They had passed beyond the station where 
 the train was at rest. But the sound of shouts 
 pursued them. Anderson distinguished his own 
 name. A couple of railway officials had left 
 the station and were hurrying towards them. 
 
 A sudden thought struck Anderson. He held 
 up his hand with a gesture as though to ask Lady 
 Merton not to follow, and himself ran back to 
 the station. 
 
 Elizabeth, from where she stood, saw the 
 passengers all pouring out of the train on to the 
 platform. Even Philip emerged and waved to 
 her. She slowly returned, and meanwhile Ander- 
 son had disappeared. 
 
 She found an excited crowd of travellers and a 
 babel of noise. Delaine hurried to her. 
 
 It appeared that an extraordinary thing had 
 happened. The train immediately in front of 
 them, carrying mail and express cars but no 
 passengers, had been "held up" by a gang of 
 train-robbers, at a spot between Sicamous junction 
 and Kamloops. In order to break open the mail
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 233 
 
 van the robbers had employed a charge of dyna- 
 mite, which had wrecked the car and caused some 
 damage to the Hne; enough to block the permanent 
 way for some hours. 
 
 "And Philip has just opened this telegram 
 for you.'* 
 
 Delaine handed it to her. It was from the 
 District Superintendent, expressing great regret 
 for the interruption to their journey, and suggesting 
 that they should spend the night at the hotel at 
 Glacier. 
 
 "Which I understand is only four miles off, 
 the other side of the pass," said Delaine. "Was 
 there ever anything more annoying!" 
 
 Elizabeth's face expressed an utter bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 "A train held up in Canada — and on the 
 C. P. R.— impossible!" 
 
 An elderly man in front of her heard what she 
 said, and turned upon her a face purple with 
 wrath. 
 
 "You may well say that, madam! We are a 
 law-abiding nation. We don't put up with the 
 pranks they play in Montana. They say the 
 scoundrels have got oflP. If we don't catch them, 
 Canada's disgraced." 
 
 "I say, Elizabeth," cried Philip, pushing his 
 way to her through the crowd, "there's been a lot
 
 234 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 of shooting. There's some Mounted PoHce here, 
 we picked up at Reveistoke, on their way to help 
 catch these fellows. I've been talking to them. 
 The police from Kamloops came upon them just 
 as they were making off with a pretty pile — 
 boxes full of money for some of the banks in 
 Vancouver. The police fired, so did the robbers. 
 One of the police was killed, and one of the thieves. 
 Then the rest got off. I say, let's go and help 
 hunt them!" 
 
 The boy's eyes danced with the joy of adventure. 
 
 "If they've any sense they'll send bloodhounds 
 after them," said the elderly man, fiercely. "I 
 helped catch a murderer with my own hands that 
 way, last summer, near the Arrow Lakes." 
 
 "Where is Mr. Anderson.?" 
 
 The question escaped Elizabeth involuntarily. 
 She had not meant to put it. But it was curious 
 that he should have left them in the lurch at this 
 particular moment. 
 
 "Take your seats!" cried the station-master, 
 making his way through the crowded platform. 
 "This train goes as far as Sicamous Junction 
 only. Any passenger who wishes to break his 
 journey will find accommodation at Glacier — 
 
 next station." 
 
 The English travellers were hurried back into 
 their car. Still no sign of Anderson. Yerkes
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 235 
 
 was only able to tell them that he had seen Ander- 
 son go into the station-master's private room with 
 a couple of the Mounted Police. He might have 
 come out again, or he might not. Yerkes had been 
 too well occupied in exciting gossip with all his 
 many acquaintances in the train and the station 
 to notice. 
 
 The conductor went along through the train. 
 Yerkes, standing on the inside platform, called to 
 him: 
 
 "Have you seen Mr. Anderson .?'* 
 
 The man shook his head, but another standing 
 by, evidently an official of some kind, looked round 
 and ran up to the car. 
 
 *'I'm sorry, madam," he said, addressing 
 Elizabeth, who was standing in the doorway, " but 
 Mr. Anderson isn't at liberty just now. He'll 
 be travelling with the police." 
 
 And as he spoke a door in the station building 
 opened, and Anderson came out, accompanied 
 by two constables of the Mounted Police and two 
 or three officials. They walked hurriedly along 
 the train and got into an empty compartment 
 together. Immediately afterwards the train 
 moved off. 
 
 "Well, I wonder what's up now!" said Philip 
 in astonishment. "Do you suppose Anderson's 
 got some clue to the men.'^"
 
 236 LADY MERTOX, COLOMST 
 
 Delaine looked uncomtortably at Elizabeth. 
 As an old adviser and servant of the railway, 
 extensively acquainted moreover with the popula- 
 tion — settled or occasional — of the district 
 it was very natural that Anderson should be con- 
 sulted on such an event. And yet — Delaine had 
 caught a glimpse of his aspect on his way along 
 the platform, and had noticed that he never 
 looked towards the car. Some odd conjectures 
 ran through his miind. 
 
 Elizabeth sat silent, looking back on the grim 
 defile the train was just leaving. It was evident 
 that they had passed the water-shed, and the train 
 was descending. In a few minutes they would 
 be at Glacier. 
 
 She roused herself to hold a rapid consultation 
 over plans. 
 
 They must of course do as they were advised, 
 and spend the night at Glacier. 
 
 The train drew up. 
 
 "Well, of all the nuisances!" — cried Philip, 
 disgusted, as they prepared to leave the car. 
 
 Yerkes, like the showman that he was, began to 
 descant volubly on the advantages and charms 
 of the hotel, its Swiss guides, and the distinguished 
 travellers who stayed there; dragging rugs and 
 bags meanwhile out of the car. Nobody listened
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 237 
 
 to him. Everybody in the Httle party, as they 
 stood forlornly on the platform, was in truth search- 
 ing for Anderson. 
 
 And at last he came — hurrying along towards 
 them. His face, set, strained, and colourless, 
 bore the stamp of calamity. But he gave them 
 no time to question him. 
 
 "I am going on," he said hastily to Elizabeth; 
 "they will look after you here. I will arrange 
 everything for you as soon as possible, and if we 
 don't meet before, perhaps — in Vancouver " 
 
 "I say, are you going to hunt the robbers?" 
 asked Philip, catching his arm. 
 
 Anderson made no reply. He turned to Delaine, 
 drew him aside a moment, and put a letter into his 
 hand. 
 
 " My father was one of them," he said, without 
 emotion, **and is dead. I have asked you to tell 
 Lady Merton." 
 
 There was a call for him. The train was 
 already moving. He jumped into it, and was 
 gone.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 The station and hotel at Sicamous Junction, 
 overlooking the lovely Mara lake, were full of 
 people — busy officials of diflPerent kinds, or 
 excited on-lookers — when Anderson reached 
 them. The long summer day was just passing 
 into a night that was rather twilight than dark- 
 ness, and in the lower country the heat was great. 
 Far away to the north stretched the wide and 
 straggling waters of another and larger lake. 
 Woods of poplar and cottonwood grew along its 
 swampy shore, and hills, forest clad, held it in 
 a shallow cup flooded with the mingled light of 
 sunset and moonlight. 
 
 Anderson was met by a district superintendent, 
 of the name of Dixon, as he descended from the 
 train. The young man, with whom he was 
 slightly acquainted, looked at him with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "This is a precious bad business! If you can 
 throw any light upon it, Mr. Anderson, we shall 
 be uncommonly obliged to you " 
 
 Anderson interrupted him. 
 
 2Zii
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 239 
 
 "Is the inquest to be held here ?" 
 
 "Certainly. The bodies were brought in a 
 few hours ago." 
 
 His companion pointed to a shed beyond the 
 station. They walked thither, the Superintend- 
 ent describing in detail the attack on the train 
 and the measures taken for the capture of the 
 marauders, Anderson listening in silence. The 
 affair had taken place early that morning, but the 
 telegraph wires had been cut in several places 
 on both sides of the damaged line, so that no 
 precise news of what had happened had reached 
 either Vancouver on the west, or Golden on the 
 east, till the afternoon. The whole countryside 
 was now in movement, and a vigorous man-hunt 
 was proceeding on both sides of the line. 
 
 " There is no doubt the whole thing was planned 
 by a couple of men from Montana, one of whom 
 was certainly concerned in the hold-up there a 
 few months ago and got clean away. But there 
 were six or seven of them altogether and most 
 of the rest — we suspect — from this side of the 
 boundary. The old man who was killed" — 
 Anderson raised his eyes abruptly to the speaker 
 — "seems to have come from Nevada. There 
 were some cuttings from a Nevada newspaper 
 feund upon him, besides the envelope addressed 
 to you, of which I sent you word at Roger's Pass.
 
 240 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Could you recognise anything in my description 
 of the man ? There was one thing I forgot to say. 
 He had evidently been in the doctor's hands lately. 
 There is a surgical bandage on the right ankle.'* 
 
 "Was there nothing in the envelope?" asked 
 Anderson, putting the question aside, in spite 
 of the evident eagerness of the questioner. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "And where is kV 
 
 "It was given to the Kamloops coroner, who 
 has just arrived." Anderson said nothing more. 
 They had reached the shed, which his companion 
 unlocked. Inside were two rough tables on 
 trestles and lying on them two sheeted forms. 
 
 Dixon uncovered the first, and Anderson looked 
 steadily down at the face underneath. Death 
 had wrought its strange ironic miracle once more, 
 and out of the face of an outcast had made the 
 face of a sage. There was little disfigurement; 
 the eyes were closed with dignity; the mouth 
 seemed to have unlearnt its coarseness. Silently 
 the tension of Anderson's inner being gave way; 
 he was conscious of a passionate acceptance of 
 the mere stillness and dumbness of death. 
 
 "Where was the wound?" he asked, stooping 
 over the body. 
 
 "Ah, that was the strange thing! He didn't 
 die of his wound at all! It was a mere graze
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 241 
 
 on the arm." The Superintendent pointed to a 
 rent on the coat-sleeve. " He died of something: 
 quite different — perhaps excitement and a weak 
 heart. There may have to be a post-mortem." 
 
 "I doubt whether that will be necessary," said 
 Anderson. 
 
 The other looked at him with undisguised 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Then you do recognise him.?" 
 *' I will tell the coroner what I know." 
 Anderson drew back from his close examination 
 of the dead face, and began in his turn to question 
 the Superintendent. Was it certain that this 
 man had been himself concerned in the hold-up 
 and in the struggle with the police ? 
 
 Dixon could not see how there could be any 
 doubt of it. The constables who had rushed in 
 upon the gang while they were still looting the 
 express car — the brakesman having managed to 
 get away and convey the alarm to Kamloops — 
 remembered seeing an old man with white hair, 
 apparently lame, at the rear of the more active 
 thieves, and posted as sentinel. He had been the 
 first to give w^arning of the police approach, and 
 had levelled his revolver at the foremost constable 
 but had missed his shot. In the free firing which 
 had followed nobody exactly knew what had hap- 
 pened. One of the attacking force, Constable
 
 242 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Brown, had fallen, and while his comrades were 
 attempting to save him, the thieves had dropped 
 down the steep bank of the river close by, into a 
 boat waiting for them, and got off. The constable 
 was left dead upon the ground, and not far from 
 him lay the old man, also lifeless. But when they 
 came to examine the bodies, while the constable 
 was shot through the head, the other had received 
 nothing but the trifling wound Dixon had already 
 pointed out. 
 
 Anderson Hstened to the story in silence. Then 
 with a last long look at the rigid features below 
 him, he replaced the covering. Passing on to the 
 other table, he raised the sheet from the face of 
 a splendid young Englishman, whom he had last 
 seen the week before at Regina; an English public- 
 school boy of the manliest type, full of hope for 
 himself, and of enthusiasm, both for Canada and 
 for the fine body of men in Vs^hich he had been just 
 promoted. For the first time a stifled groan 
 escaped from Anderson's lips. What hand had 
 done this murder ? 
 
 They left the shed. Anderson inquired what 
 doctor had been sent for. He recognised the 
 name given as that of a Kamloops man whom he 
 knew and respected; and he went on to look for 
 him at the hotel. 
 
 For some time he and the doctor paced a trail
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 243 
 
 beside the line together. Among other facts that 
 Anderson got from this conversation, he learnt 
 that the American authorities had been tele- 
 graphed to, and that a couple of deputy sheriffs 
 were coming to assist the Canadian pohce. They 
 were expected the following morning, when also 
 the coroner's inquest would be held. 
 
 As to Anderson's own share in the interview, 
 when the two men parted, with a silent grasp of 
 the hand, the Doctor had nothing to say to the 
 bystanders, except that Mr. Anderson would have 
 some evidence to give on the morrow, and that, 
 for himself, he was not at liberty to divulge what 
 had passed between them. 
 
 It was by this time late. Anderson shut himself 
 up in his room at the hotel; but among the groups 
 lounging at the bar or in the neighbourhood of 
 the station excitement and discussion ran high. 
 The envelope addressed to Anderson, Anderson's 
 own demeanour since his arrival on the scene — 
 with the meaning of both conjecture was busy. 
 
 Towards midnight a train arrived from Field. 
 A messenger from the station knocked at Ander- 
 son's door with a train letter. Anderson locked 
 the door again behind the man who had brought 
 it, and stood looking at it a moment in silence. 
 It was from Lady Merton. He opened it slowly,
 
 244 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 took It to the small deal table, which held a paraffin 
 lamp, and sat down to read it. 
 
 "Dear Mr. Anderson — Mr. Delaine has given 
 me your message and read me some of your letter 
 to him. He has also told me what he knew before 
 this happened — we understood that you wished 
 it. Oh! I cannot say how very sorry we are, 
 Philip and I, for your great trouble. It makes 
 me sore at heart to think that all the time you have 
 been looking after us so kindly, taking this infinite 
 pains for us, you have had this heavy anxiety 
 on your mind. Oh, why didn't you tell me! I 
 thought we were to be friends. And now this 
 tragedy! It is terrible — terrible! Your father 
 has been his own worst enemy — and at last 
 death has come — and he has escaped himself. 
 Is there not some comfort in that ^ And you 
 tried to save him. I can imagine all that you have 
 been doing and planning for him. It is not lost, 
 dear Mr. Anderson. No love and pity are ever 
 lost. They are undying — for they are God's 
 life in us. They are the pledge — the sign — 
 to which He is eternally bound. He will surely, 
 surely, redeem — and fulfil. 
 
 "I write incoherently, for they are waiting for 
 my letter. I want you to write to me, if you will. 
 And when will you come back to us ^ We shall, 
 I think, be two or three days here, for Philip has
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 245 
 
 made friends with a man we have met here — a 
 surveyor, who has been camping high up, and 
 shooting wild goat. He is determined to go for 
 an expedition with him, and I had to telegraph 
 to the Lieutenant-Governor to ask him not to 
 expect us till Thursday. So if you were to come 
 back here before then you would still find us. 
 I don't know that I could be of any use to you, or 
 any consolation to you. But, indeed, I would try. 
 
 "To-morrow I am told will be the inquest. 
 My thoughts will be with you constantly. By 
 now you will have determined on your line of 
 action. I only know that it will be noble and 
 upright — like yourself. 
 
 "I remain, yours most sincerely, 
 "Elizabeth Merton." 
 
 Anderson pressed the letter to his lips. Its 
 tender philosophising found no echo in his own 
 mind. But it soothed, because it came from her. 
 
 He lay dressed and wakeful on his bed through 
 the night, and at nine next morning the inquest 
 opened, in the coffee-room of the hotel. 
 
 The body of the young constable was first 
 identified. As to the hand which had fired the 
 shot that killed him, there was no certain evidence; 
 one of the police had seen the lame man with the 
 white hair level his revolver again after the first 
 miss; but there was much shooting going on,
 
 246 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 and no one could be sure from what quarter the 
 fatal bullet had come. 
 
 The court then proceeded to the identification 
 of the dead robber. The coroner, a rancher who 
 bred the best horses in the district, called first 
 upon two strangers in plain clothes, who had 
 arrived by the first train from the South that 
 morning. They proved to be the two officers 
 from Nevada. They had already examined the 
 body, and they gave clear and unhesitating 
 evidence, identifying the old man as one Alex- 
 ander McEwen, well known to the police of the 
 silver-mining State as a lawless and dangerous 
 character. He had been twice in jail, and had 
 been the associate of the notorious Bill Symonds 
 in one or two criminal affairs connected with 
 "faked" claims and the like. The elder of the 
 two officers in particular drew a vivid and 
 damning picture of the man's life and personality, 
 of the cunning with which he had evaded the law, 
 and the ruthlessness with which he had avenged 
 one or two private grudges. 
 
 "We have reason to suppose," said the American 
 officer finally, "that McEwen was not originally 
 a native of the States. We believe that he came 
 from Dawson City or the neighbourhood about 
 ten years ago, and that he crossed the border in 
 consequence of a mysterious affair — which has
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 247 
 
 never been cleared up — in which a rich German 
 gentleman, Baron von Aeschenbach, disappeared, 
 and has not been heard of since. Of that, how- 
 ever, we have no proof, and we cannot supply 
 the court with any information as to the man's 
 real origin and early history. But we are prepared 
 to swear that the body we have seen this morning 
 is that of Alexander McEwen, who for some years 
 past has been well known to us, now in one camp, 
 now in another, of the Comstock district." 
 
 The American police officer resumed his seat. 
 George Anderson, who was to the right of the 
 coroner, had sat, all through this witness's evi- 
 dence, bending forward, his eyes on the ground, 
 his hands clasped between his knees. There 
 was something in the rigidity of his attitude, 
 which gradually compelled the attention of the 
 onlookers, as though the perception gained ground 
 that here — in that stillness — those bowed 
 shoulders — lay the real interest of this sordid 
 outrage, which had so affronted the pride of 
 Canada's great railway. 
 
 The coroner rose. He briefly expressed the 
 thanks of the court to the Nevada State authorities 
 for having so promptly supplied the information 
 in their possession in regard to this man 
 McEwen. He would now ask Mr. George Ander- 
 son, of the C. P. R., whether he could in any
 
 248 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 way assist the court in this investigation. An 
 empty envelope, fully addressed to Mr. George 
 Anderson, Ginnell's Boarding House, Laggan, 
 Alberta, had, strangely enough, been found in 
 McEwen's pocket. Could Mr. Anderson throw 
 any light upon the matter ? 
 
 Anderson stood up as the coroner handed him 
 the envelope. He took it, looked at it, and slowly 
 put it down on the table before him. He was 
 perfectly composed, but there was that in his 
 aspect which instantly hushed all sounds in the 
 crowded room, and drew the eyes of everybody 
 in it upon him. The Kamloops doctor looked at 
 him from a distance with a sudden twitching 
 smile — the smile of a reticent man in whom 
 strong feeling must somehow find a physical 
 expression. Dixon, the young Superintendent, 
 bent forward eagerly. At the back of the room 
 a group of Japanese railway workers, with their 
 round, yellow faces and half-opened eyes stared 
 impassively at the tall figure of the fair-haired 
 Canadian; and through windows and doors, 
 thrown open to the heat, shimmered lake and 
 forest, the eternal background of Canada. 
 
 "Mr. Coroner," said Anderson, straightening 
 himself to his full height, "the name of the man 
 into whose death you are inquiring is not Alexan- 
 der McEwen. He came from Scotland to Mani-
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 249 
 
 toba in 1 869. His real name was Robert Anderson, 
 and I — am his son." 
 
 The coroner gave an involuntary "Ah!" of 
 amazement, which was echoed, it seemed, through- 
 out the room. 
 
 On one of the small deal tables belonging to 
 the coffee-room, which had been pushed aside 
 to make room for the sitting of the court, lay the 
 newspapers of the morning — the Vancouver 
 Sentinel and the Montreal Star. Both con- 
 tained short and flattering articles on the important 
 Commission entrusted to Mr. George Anderson by 
 the Prime Minister. "A great compliment to so 
 young a man," said the Star, "but one amply 
 deserved by Mr. Anderson's record. We look 
 forward on his behalf to a brilliant career, honour- 
 able both to himself and to Canada." 
 
 Several persons had already knocked at 
 Anderson's door early that morning in order to 
 congratulate him; but without finding him. 
 And this honoured and fortunate person ^. 
 
 Men pushed each other forward in their eager- 
 ness not to lose a word, or a shade of expression on 
 the pale face which confronted them. 
 
 Anderson, after a short pause, as though to 
 collect himself, gave the outlines of his father's 
 early history, of the farm in Manitoba, the fire 
 and its consequences, the breach between Robert
 
 250 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Anderson and his sons. He described the struggle 
 of the three boys on the farm, their migration to 
 Montreal in search of education, and his own later 
 sojourn in the Yukon, with the evidence which 
 had convinced him of his father's death. 
 
 "Then, only a fortnight ago, he appeared at 
 Laggan and made himself known to me, having 
 followed me apparently from Winnipeg. He 
 seemed to be in great poverty, and in bad health. 
 If he had wished it, I was prepared to acknow- 
 ledge him; but he seemed not to wish it; there 
 were no doubt reasons why he preferred to keep 
 his assumed name. I did what I could for him, 
 and arrangements had been made to put him 
 with decent people at Vancouver. But last 
 Wednesday night he disappeared from the board- 
 ing house where he and I were both lodging, and 
 various persons here will know" — he glanced at 
 one or two faces in the ring before him — "that 
 I have been making inquiries since, with no result. 
 As to what or who led him into this horrible 
 business, I know nothing. The Nevada deputies 
 have told you that he was acquainted with 
 Symonds — a fact unknown to me — and I 
 noticed on one or two occasions that he seemed 
 to have acquaintances among the men tramping 
 west to the Kootenay district. I can only imagine 
 that after his success in Montana last year.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 251 
 
 Symonds made up his mind to try the same game 
 on the C. P. R., and that during the last fortnight 
 he came somehow into communication with my 
 father. My father must have been aware of 
 Symonds's plans — and may have been unable at 
 the last to resist the temptation to join in the 
 scheme. As to all that I am entirely in the dark." 
 
 I^e paused, and then, looking down, he added, 
 under his breath, as though involuntarily — 
 *' I pray — that he may not have been concerned 
 in the murder of poor Brown. But there is — I 
 think — no evidence to connect him with it. I 
 shall be glad to answer to the best of my power 
 any questions that the court may wish to put." 
 
 He sat down heavily, very pale, but entirely 
 collected. The room watched him a moment, 
 and then a friendly, encouraging murmur seemed 
 to rise from the crowd — to pass from them to 
 Anderson. 
 
 The coroner, who was an old friend of Ander- 
 son's, fidgeted a little and in silence. He took 
 off" his glasses and put them on again. His 
 tanned face, long and slightly twisted, with square 
 harsh brows, and powerful jaw set in a white 
 fringe of whisker, showed an unusual amount of 
 disturbance. At last he said, clearing his throat: 
 "We are much obliged to you, Mr. Anderson, 
 for your frankness towards this court. There's
 
 252 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 not a man here that don't feel for you, and* don't 
 wish to offer you his respectful sympathy. We 
 know you — and I reckon we know what to think 
 about you. Gentlemen," he spoke with nasal 
 deliberation, looking round the court, "I think 
 that's so ?" 
 
 A shout of consent — the shout of men deeply 
 moved — went up. Anderson, who had resumed 
 his former attitude, appeared to take no notice, and 
 the coroner resumed. 
 
 "I will now call on Mrs. Ginnell to give her 
 evidence." 
 
 The Irishwoman rose with alacrity — what she 
 had to say held the audience. The surly yet 
 good-hearted creature was divided between her 
 wish to do justice to the demerits of McEwen, 
 whom she had detested, and her fear of hurting 
 Anderson's feelings in public. Beneath her rough 
 exterior, she carried some of the delicacies of Celtic 
 feeling, and she had no sooner given some fact 
 that showed the coarse dishonesty of the father, 
 than she veered off in haste to describe the pathetic 
 efforts of the son. Her homely talk told; the 
 picture grew. 
 
 Meanwhile Anderson sat impatient or benumbed, 
 annoyed with Mrs. Ginnell's garrulity, and longing 
 for the whole thing to end. He had a letter to 
 write to Ottawa before post-time.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 253 
 
 When the verdicts had been given, the doctor 
 and he walked away from the court together. The 
 necessary formahties were carried through, a 
 coffin ordered, and provision made for the burial 
 of Robert Anderson. As the two men passed 
 once or twice through the groups now lounging 
 and smoking as before outside the hotel, all con- 
 versation ceased, and all eyes follow^ed Anderson. 
 Sincere pity was felt for him; and at the same time 
 men asked each other anxiously how the revelation 
 would affect his political and other chances. 
 
 Late in the same evening; the burial of McEwen 
 took place. A congregational minister at the 
 graveside said a prayer for mercy on the sinner. 
 Anderson had not asked him to do it, and felt a 
 dull resentment of the man's officiousness, and 
 the unctious length of his prayer. Half an hour 
 later he was on the platform, waiting for the train 
 to Glacier. 
 
 He arrived there in the first glorious dawn of 
 a summer morning. Over the vast Illecillowaet 
 glacier rosy feather-clouds were floating in a crystal 
 air, beneath a dome of pale blue. Light mists 
 rose from the forests and the course of the river, 
 and above them shone the dazzling snows, the 
 hanging glaciers, and glistening rock faces, ledge 
 piled on ledge, of the Selkirk giants — Hermit
 
 254 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 and Tupper, Avalanche and Sir Donald — with 
 that cleft of the pass between. 
 
 The pleasant hotel, built to offer as much shelter 
 and comfort as possible to the tired traveller and 
 climber, was scarcely awake. A sleepy-eyed 
 Japanese showed Anderson to his room. He 
 threw himself on the bed, longing for sleep, yet 
 incapable of it. He was once more under the 
 same roof with Elizabeth Merton — and for the 
 last time! He longed for her presence, her look, 
 her touch; and yet with equal intensity he shrank 
 from seeing her. That very morning through the 
 length of Canada and the States would go out the 
 news of the train-robbery on the main line of 
 the C. P. R., and with it the "dramatic" story 
 of himself and his father, made more dramatic by 
 a score of reporters. And as the news of his 
 appointment, in the papers of the day before, 
 had made him a public person, and had been no 
 doubt telegraphed to London and Europe, so 
 also would it be with the news of the " hold-up," 
 and his own connection with it; partly because it 
 had happened on the C. P. R.; still more because 
 of the prominence given to his name the day before. 
 
 He felt himself a disgraced man; and he had 
 already put from him all thought of a public 
 career. Yet he wondered, not without self-con- 
 tempt, as he lay there in the broadening light,
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 255 
 
 what it was in truth that made the enormous 
 difference between this Monday and the Monday 
 before. His father was dead, and had died in 
 the very commission of a criminal act. But all or 
 nearly all that Anderson knew now about his char- 
 acter he had known before this happened. The 
 details given by the Nevada officers were indeed 
 new to him; but he had shrewdly suspected all 
 alono- that the record, did he know it, would be 
 something like that. If such a parentage in itself 
 involves stain and degradation, the stain and 
 degradation had been always there, and the 
 situation, looked at philosophically, was no 
 worse for the catastrophe which had intervened 
 between this week and last. 
 
 And yet it was of course immeasurably worse! 
 Such is the "bubble reputation" — the difference 
 betv/een the known and the unknown. 
 
 At nine o'clock a note was brought to his room: 
 
 "Will you breakfast with me in half an hour? 
 You will find me alone. 
 
 "E. M." 
 
 Before the clock struck the half-hour, Elizabeth 
 was already waiting for her guest, listening for every 
 sound. She too had been awake half the night. 
 
 When he came in she went up to him, with her 
 quick-tripping step, holding out both her hands; 
 and he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
 
 256 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "I am so — so sorry!" was all she could say. 
 He looked into her eyes, and as her hands lay in 
 his he stooped suddenly and kissed them. There 
 was a great piteousness in his expression, and she 
 felt through every nerve the humihation and the 
 moral weariness which oppressed him. Suddenly 
 she recalled that first moment of intimacy between 
 them when he had so brusquely warned her about 
 Philip, and she had been wounded by his mere 
 strength and fearlessness; and it hurt her to realise 
 the contrast between that strength and this weak- 
 ness. 
 
 She made him sit down beside her in the broad 
 window of her little sitting-room, which over- 
 looked the winding valley with the famous loops of 
 the descending railway, and the moving light and 
 shade on the forest; and very gently and tenderly 
 she made him tell her all the story from first to last. 
 
 His shrinking passed away, soothed by her 
 sweetness, her restrained emotion, and after a 
 little he talked with freedom, gradually recovering 
 his normal steadiness and clearness of mind. 
 
 At the same time she perceived some great 
 change in him. The hidden spring of melancholy 
 in his nature, which, amid all his practical energies 
 and activities, she had always discerned, seemed 
 to have overleaped its barriers, and to be invading 
 the landmarks of character.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 257 
 
 At the end of his narrative he said something 
 in a hurried, low voice which gave her a clue. 
 
 *'I did what I could to help him — but my 
 father hated me. He died hating me. Nothing 
 I could do altered him. Had he reason ^ When 
 my brother and I in our anger thought we were 
 avensing: our mother's death, were we in truth 
 destroying him also — driving him into wickedness 
 beyond hope ? Were we — was I — for I was 
 the eldest — responsible ? Does his death, moral 
 and physical, lie at my door.?" 
 
 He raised his eyes to her — his tired appealing 
 eyes — and Elizabeth realised sharply how deep 
 a hold such questionings take on such a man. 
 She tried to argue with and comfort him — and 
 he seemed to absorb, to listen — but in the middle 
 of it, he said abruptly, as though to change the 
 subject: 
 
 "And I confess the publicity has hit me hard. 
 It may be cowardly, but I can't face it for a while. 
 I think I told you I owned some land in Saskatch- 
 ewan. I shall eo and settle down on it at 
 
 to 
 
 once." 
 
 "And give up your appointment — your public 
 life ?" she cried in dismay. 
 
 He smiled at her faintly, as though trying to 
 console her. 
 
 "Yes; I shan't be missed, and I shall do better
 
 258 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 by myself. I understand the wheat and the land. 
 They are friends that don't fail one." 
 
 Elizabeth flushed. 
 
 "Mr. Anderson! — you mustn't give up your 
 work. Canada asks it of you." 
 
 " I shall only be changing my work. A man 
 can do nothing better for Canada than break up 
 land." 
 
 "You can do that — and other things besides. 
 Please — please — do nothing rash!" 
 
 She bent over to him, her brown eyes full of 
 entreaty, her hand laid gently, timidly on his. 
 
 He could not bear to distress her — but he must. 
 
 "I sent in my resignation yesterday to the 
 Prime Minister." 
 
 The delicate face beside him clouded. 
 
 "He won't accept it." 
 
 Anderson shook his head. "I think he must." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at him in despair. 
 
 "Oh! no. You oughtn't to do this — indeed, 
 indeed you oughtn't. It is covv^^ardly — forgive 
 me! — unworthy of you. Oh! can't you see how 
 the sympathy of everybody who knows — every- 
 body whose opinion you care for " 
 
 She stopped a moment, colouring deeply, 
 checked indeed by the thought of a conversation 
 between herself and Philip of the night before. 
 Anderson interrupted her:
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 259 
 
 " The sympathy of one person," he said hoarsely, 
 "is very precious to me. But even for her " 
 
 She held out her hands to him again implor- 
 ingly — 
 
 "Even for her? " 
 
 But instead of taking the hands he rose and 
 went out on the balcony a moment, as though to 
 look at the great view. Then he returned, and 
 stood over her. 
 
 "Lady Merton, I am afraid — it's no use. 
 We are not — we can't be — friends." 
 
 "Not friends.'"' she said, her lip quivering. 
 "I thought I " 
 
 He looked down steadily on her upturned face. 
 His own spoke eloquently enough. Turning her 
 head away, with fluttering breath, she began to 
 speak fast and brokenly: 
 
 "I, too, have been very lonely. I want a friend 
 whom I might help — who would help me. Why 
 should you refuse ? We are not either of us quite 
 young; what we undertook we could carry through. 
 Since my husband's death I — I have been playing 
 at life. I have always been hungry, dissatisfied, 
 discontented. There were such splendid things 
 going on in the world, and I — I was just marking 
 time. Nothing to do! — as much money as I 
 could possibly want — society of course — travel- 
 ling — and visiting — and amusing myself — but
 
 26o LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 oh! so tired all the time. And somehow Canada 
 has been a great revelation of real, strong, living 
 things — this great Northwest — and you, who 
 seemed to explain it to me " 
 
 "Dear Lady Merton!" His tone was low and 
 full of emotion. And this time it was he who 
 stooped and took her unresisting hands in his. 
 She went on in the same soft, pleading tone — 
 
 " I felt what it might be — to help in the 
 building up a better human life — in this vast 
 new country. God has given to you this task — 
 such a noble task! — and through your friendship, 
 I too seemed to have a little part in it, if only by 
 sympathy. Oh, no! you mustn't turn back — 
 you mustn't shrink — because of what has hap- 
 pened to you. And let me, from a distance, 
 watch and help. It will ennoble my life, too. 
 Let me!" — she smiled — "I shall make a good 
 friend, you'll see. I shall write very often. I 
 shall argue — and criticise — and want a great 
 deal of explaining. And you'll come over to us, 
 and do splendid work, and make many English 
 friends. Your strength will all come back to you." 
 
 He pressed the hands he held more closely. 
 
 "It is like you to say all this — but — don't 
 let us deceive ourselves. I could not be your 
 friend, Lady Merton. I must not come and see 
 you."
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 261 
 
 She was silent, very pale, her eyes on his — 
 and he went on: 
 
 "It is strange to say it in this way, at such a 
 moment; but it seems as though I had better say 
 it. I have had the audacity, you see — to fall 
 in love with you. And if it was audacity a week 
 ago, you can guess what it is now — now when — 
 Ask your mother and brother what they would 
 think of it!" he said abruptly, almost fiercely. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. All conscious- 
 ness, all feeling in each of these two human beings 
 had come to be — with the irrevocable swiftness 
 of love — a consciousness of the other. Under 
 the sombre renouncing passion of his look, her 
 own eyes filled slowly — beautifully — with tears. 
 And through all his perplexity and pain there 
 shot a thrill of joy, of triumph even, sharp and 
 wonderful. He understood. All this might have 
 been his — this delicate beauty, this quick will, 
 this rare intelligence — and yet the surrender in 
 her aspect was not the simple surrender of love; 
 he knew before she spoke that she did not pretend 
 to ignore the obstacles between them; that she 
 was not going to throw herself upon his renuncia- 
 tion, trying vehemently to break it down, in a mere 
 blind girlish impulsiveness. He realised at once 
 her heart, and her common sense; and was grateful 
 to her for both.
 
 262 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Gently she drew herself away, drawing a long 
 breath. " My mother and brother would not 
 decide those things for me — oh, never! — I 
 should decide them for myself. But we are not 
 going to talk of them to-day. We are not going 
 to make any — any rash promises to each other. 
 It is you we must think for — your future — 
 your life. And then — if you won't give me a 
 friend's right to speak — you will be unkind — 
 and I shall respect you less." 
 
 She threw back her little head with vivacity. 
 In the gesture he saw the strength of her will and 
 his own wavered. 
 
 "How can it be unkind V he protested. "You 
 ought not to be troubled with me any more." 
 
 " Let me be judge of that. If you will persist 
 in giving up this appointment, promise me at 
 least to come to England. That will break this 
 spell of this — this terrible thing, and give you 
 courage — again. Promise me!" 
 
 "No, no! — you are too good to me — too 
 good; — let it end here. It is much, much 
 better so." 
 
 Then she broke down a little. 
 
 She looked round her, like some hurt creature 
 seeking a means of escape. Her lips trembled. 
 She gave a low cry. "And I have loved Canada 
 so! I have been so happy here."
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 263 
 
 "And now I have hurt you? — I have spoilt 
 everything?" 
 
 "It is your unhapplness does that — and that 
 you will spoil your Hfe. Promise me only this one 
 thing — to come to England! Promise me!" 
 
 He sat down in a quiet despair that she would 
 urge him so. A long argument followed between 
 them, and at last she wore him down. She dared 
 say nothing more of the Commissionership; but 
 he promised her to come to England some time 
 in the following winter; and with that she had to 
 be content. 
 
 Then she gave him breakfast. During their 
 conversation, which Elizabeth guided as far as 
 possible to indifferent topics, the name of Mariette 
 was mentioned. He was still, it seemed, at Van- 
 couver. Elizabeth gave Anderson a sudden look, 
 and casually, without his noticing, she possessed 
 herself of the name of Mariette's hotel. 
 
 At breakfast also she described, with a smile and 
 sigh, her brother's first and last attempt to shoot 
 wild goat in the Rockies, an expedition which 
 had ended in a wetting and a chill — "luckily 
 nothing much; but poor Phihp won't be out of 
 his room to-day." 
 
 "I will go and see him," said Anderson, rising. 
 
 Elizabeth looked up, her colour fluttering.
 
 264 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Mr. Anderson, Philip is only a boy, and 
 sometimes a foolish boy " 
 
 "I understand," said Anderson quietly, after 
 a moment. "Philip thinks his sister has been 
 running risks. Who warned him.?" 
 
 Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders without reply- 
 ing. He saw a touch of scorn in her face that was 
 new to him. 
 
 "I think I guess," he said. "Why not.? It was 
 the natural thing. So Mr. Delaine is still here ?" 
 
 "Till to-morrow." 
 
 "I am glad. I shall like to assure him that his 
 name was not mentioned — he was not involved 
 at all!" 
 
 Elizabeth's lip curled a little, but she said 
 nothing. During the preceding forty-eight hours 
 there had been passages between herself and 
 Delaine that she did not intend Anderson to 
 know anything about. In his finical repug- 
 nance to soiling his hands with matters so dis- 
 tasteful. Delaine had carried out the embassy 
 which Anderson had perforce entrusted to him 
 in such a manner as to rouse in Elizabeth a maxi- 
 mum of pride on her own account, and of indigna- 
 tion on Anderson's. She was not even sorry 
 for him any more; being, of course, therein a 
 little unjust to him, as was natural to a high- 
 spirited and warm-hearted woman.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 265 
 
 Anderson, meanwhile, went off to knock at 
 Philip's door, and Philip's sister was left behind 
 to wonder nervously how Philip would behave 
 and what he would say. She was still smarting 
 under the boy's furious outburst of the night 
 before when, through a calculated indiscretion 
 of Delaine's, the notion that Anderson had pre- 
 sumed and might still presume to set his ambitions 
 on Elizabeth had been presented to him for the 
 first time. 
 
 **My sister marry a mining engineer! — with 
 a drunken old robber for a father! By Jove! 
 Anybody talking nonsense of that kind will jolly 
 well have to reckon with me! Elizabeth! — 
 you may say what you like, but I am the head of 
 the family!" 
 
 Anderson found the head of the family in bed, 
 surrounded by novels, and a dozen books on 
 big-game shooting in the Rockies. Philip received 
 him with an evident and ungracious embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 " I am awfully sorry — beastly business. Hard 
 lines on you, of course — very. Hope they'll 
 get the men." 
 
 "Thank you. They are doing their best." 
 
 Anderson sat down beside the lad. The 
 fragility of his look struck him painfully, and
 
 266 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 the pathetic contrast between it and the fretting 
 spirit — the books of travel and adventure heaped 
 round him. 
 
 "Have you been ill again?" he asked in his 
 kind, deep voice. 
 
 "Oh, just a beastly chill. Elizabeth would 
 make me take too many wraps. Everyone knows 
 you oughtn't to get overheated walking/' 
 
 " Do you want to stay on here longer V* 
 
 "Not I! What do I care about glaciers and 
 mountains and that sort of stuff if I can't hunt ? 
 But Elizabeth's got at the doctor somehow, and 
 he won't let me go for three or four days unless I 
 kick over the traces. I daresay I shall." 
 
 "No you won't — for your sister*s sake. I'll 
 see all arrangements are made." 
 
 Philip made no direct reply. He lay staring 
 at the ceiling — till at last he said — 
 
 "Delaine's going. He's going to-morrow. He 
 gets on Elizabeth's nerves." 
 
 "Did he say anything to you about me?" 
 said Anderson. 
 
 Philip flushed. 
 
 "Well, I daresay he did." 
 
 "Make your mind easy, Gaddesden. A man 
 with my story is not going to ask your sister to 
 marry him." 
 
 Philip looked up. Anderson sat composedly
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 267 
 
 erect, the traces of his nights of sleeplessness and 
 revolt marked on every feature, but as much 
 master of himself and his life — so Gaddesden 
 intuitively felt — as he had ever been. A move- 
 ment of remorse and affection stirred in the young 
 man mingled with the strength of other inherited 
 things. 
 
 "Awfully sorry, you know," he said clumsily, 
 but this time sincerely. "I don't suppose it 
 makes any difference to you that your father — 
 well, rd better not talk about it. But you see — 
 Elizabeth might marry anybody. She might 
 have married heaps of times since Merton died, 
 if she hadn't been such an icicle. She's got lots 
 of money, and — well, I don't want to be snobbish 
 ^ — but at home — we — our family " 
 
 "I understand," said Anderson, perhaps a 
 little impatiently — "you are great people. I 
 understood that all along." 
 
 Family pride cried out in Philip, "Then why 
 
 the deuce " But he said aloud in some 
 
 confusion, "I suppose that sounded disgusting" — 
 then floundering deeper — "but you see — well, 
 I'm very fond of Elizabeth!" 
 
 Anderson rose and walked to the window which 
 commanded a view of the railway line. 
 
 " I see the car outside. I'll go and have a few 
 words with Yerkes.'*
 
 268 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 The boy let him go in silence — conscious on 
 the one hand that he had himself played a mean 
 part in their conversation, and on the other that 
 Anderson, under this onset of sordid misfortune, 
 was somehow more of a hero in his eyes, and no 
 doubt in other people's, than ever. 
 
 On his way downstairs Anderson ran into 
 Delaine, who was ascending with an armful of 
 books and pamphlets. 
 
 "Oh, how do you do.? Had only just heard 
 you were here. May I have a word with you .?" 
 
 Anderson remounted the stairs in silence, and 
 the two men paused, seeing no one in sight, in 
 the corridor beyond. 
 
 "I have just read the report of the inquest, 
 and should like to offer you my sincere sympathy 
 and congratulations on your very straightforward 
 
 behaviour '* Anderson made a movement. 
 
 Delaine went on hurriedly — 
 
 "I should like also to thank you for having kept 
 my name out of it." 
 
 "There was no need to bring it in," said Ander- 
 son coldly. 
 
 "No of course not — of course not! I have 
 also seen the news of your appointment. I trust 
 nothing will interfere with that." 
 
 Anderson turned towards the stairs again. He
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 269 
 
 was conscious of a keen antipathy — the antipathy 
 of tired nerves — to the speaker's mere aspect, 
 his long hair, his too picturesque dress, the antique 
 on his little finger, the effeminate stammer in 
 his voice. 
 
 "Are you going to-day? What train?" he 
 said, in a careless voice as he moved away. 
 
 Delaine drew back, made a curt reply, and the 
 two men parted. 
 
 "Oh, he'll get over it; there will very likely be 
 nothing to get over," Delaine reflected tartly, 
 as he made his way to his room. "A new country 
 like this can't be too particular." He was thank- 
 ful, at any rate, that he would have an opportunity 
 before long — for he was going straight home 
 and to Cumberland — of putting Mrs. Gaddesden 
 on her guard. " I may be thought ofl&cious; Lady 
 Merton let me see very plainly that she thinks me 
 so — but I shall do my duty nevertheless." 
 
 And as he stood over his packing, bewildering 
 his valet with a number of precise and old-maidish 
 directions, his sore mind ran alternately on the 
 fiasco of his own journey and on the incredible 
 folly of nice women. 
 
 Delaine departed; and for two days Elizabeth 
 ministered to Anderson. She herself went 
 strangely through it, feeling between them, as
 
 270 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 it were, the bared sword of his ascetic will — no 
 less than her own terrors and hesitations. But 
 she set herself to lift him from the depths; and 
 as they walked about the mountains and the 
 forests, in a glory of summer sunshine, the sanity 
 and sweetness of her nature made for him a spirit- 
 ual atmosphere akin in its healing power to the 
 influence of pine and glacier upon his physical 
 weariness. 
 
 On the second evening, Mariette walked into the 
 hotel. Anderson, who had just concluded all 
 arrangements for the departure of the car with 
 its party within forty-eight hours, received him 
 with astonishment. 
 
 "What brings you here.?'* 
 
 Mariette's harsh face smiled at him gravely. 
 
 " The conviction that if I didn't come, you would 
 be committing a folly." 
 
 "What do you mean.?" 
 
 "Giving up your Commissionership, or some 
 nonsense of that sort." 
 
 "I have given it up." 
 
 " H'm! Anything from Ottawa yet .?" 
 
 It was impossible, Anderson pointed out, that 
 there should be any letter for another three days. 
 But he had written finally and did not mean to 
 be over-persuaded. 
 
 Mariette at once carried him off for a walk and
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 271 
 
 attacked him vigorously. "Your private affairs 
 have nothing whatever to do with your public work. 
 Canada wants you — you must go." 
 
 "Canada can easily get hold of a Commissioner 
 who would do her more credit," was the bitter 
 reply. "A man's personal circumstances are 
 part of his equipment. They must not be such 
 as to injure his mission." 
 
 Mariette argued in vain. 
 
 As they were both dining in the evening with 
 Elizabeth and Philip, a telegram was brought in 
 for Anderson from the Prime Minister. It 
 contained a peremptory and flattering refusal to 
 accept his resignation. "Nothing has occurred 
 which affects your public or private character. 
 My confidence quite unchanged. Work is best 
 for yourself, and the public expects it of you. 
 Take time to consider, and wire me in two days." 
 
 Anderson thrust it into his pocket, and was only 
 vnth difficulty persuaded to show it to Mariette. 
 
 But in the course of the evening many letters 
 arrived — letters of sympathy from old friends 
 in Quebec and Manitoba, from colleagues and 
 officials, from navvies and railwaymen, even, 
 on the C. P. R., from his future constituents in 
 Saskatchewan — drawn out by the newspaper 
 reports of the inquest and of Anderson's evidence. 
 For once the world rallied to a good man in
 
 272 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 distress! and Anderson was strangely touched and 
 overwhelmed by it. 
 
 He passed an almost sleepless night, and in the 
 morning as he met Elizabeth on her balcony he 
 said to her, half reproachfully, pointing to Marietta 
 below — 
 
 "It was you sent for him." 
 
 Elizabeth smiled. 
 
 "A woman knows her limitations! It is harder 
 to refuse two than one." 
 
 For twenty-four hours the issue remained 
 uncertain. Letters continued to pour in; Marietta 
 applied the plain-spoken, half-scornful arguments 
 natural to a man holding a purely spiritual stand- 
 ard of life; and EHzabeth pleaded more by look 
 and manner than by words. 
 
 Anderson held out as long as he could. He was 
 assaulted by that dark midway hour of manhood, 
 that distrust of life and his own powers, which 
 disables so many of the world's best men in these 
 heightened, hurrying days. But in the end his 
 two friends saved him — as by fire. 
 
 Mariette himself dictated the telegram to the 
 Prime Minister in which Anderson withdrew 
 his resignation; and then, while Anderson, with 
 a fallen countenance, carried it to the post, the 
 French Canadian and Elizabeth looked at each 
 other — in a common exhaustion and relief.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 273 
 
 "I feel a wreck," said Elizabeth. "Monsieur, 
 you are an excellent ally." And she held out her 
 hand to her colleague. Mariette took it, and 
 bowed over it with the air of a grand seigneur of 
 1680. 
 
 "The next step must be yours, madam — 
 if you really take an interest in our friend." 
 
 Elizabeth rather nervously inquired what it 
 might be. 
 
 "Find him a w4fe! — a good wife. He was 
 not made to live alone." 
 
 His penetrating eyes in his ugly well-bred face 
 searched the features of his companion. Eliza- 
 beth bore it smiling, without flinching. 
 
 A fortnight passed — and Elizabeth and Philip 
 were on their way home through the heat of July. 
 Once more the railway which had become their 
 kind familiar friend sped them through the 
 prairies, already whitening to the harvest, through 
 the Ontarian forests and the Ottawa valley. The 
 wheat was standing thick on the illimitable earth; 
 the plains in their green or golden dress seemed 
 to laugh and sing under the hot dome of sky. 
 Again the great Canadian spectacle unrolled itself 
 from west to east, and the heart Elizabeth brought 
 to it was no longer the heart of a stranger. The 
 teeming Canadian life had become interwoven 
 with her life; and when Anderson came to bid
 
 274 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 her a hurried farewell on the platform at Regina, 
 she carried the passionate memory of his face 
 with her, as the embodiment and symbol of all 
 that she had seen and felt. 
 
 Then her thoughts turned to England, and the 
 struggle before her. She braced herself against 
 the Old World as against an enemy. But her 
 spirit failed her when she remembered that in 
 Anderson himself she was like to find her chiefest 
 foe.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 "What about the shooters, Wilson? I suppose 
 they'll be in directly?" 
 
 "They're just finishing the last beat, ma'am. 
 Shall I bring in tea?" 
 
 Mrs. Gaddesden assented, and then leaving 
 her seat by the fire she moved to the window to 
 see if she could discover any signs in the wintry 
 landscape outside of Philip and his shooting 
 party. As she did so she heard a rattle of distant 
 shots coming from a point to her right beyond 
 the girdling trees of the garden. But she saw 
 none of the shooters — only two persons, walking 
 up and down the stone terrace outside, in the 
 glow of the November sunset. One was Eliza- 
 beth, the other a tall, ungainly, yet remarkable 
 figure, was a Canadian friend of Elizabeth's, who 
 had only arrived that forenoon — M. Felix Mari- 
 ette, of Quebec. According to Elizabeth, he had 
 come over to attend a Catholic Congress in 
 London. Mrs. Gaddesden understood that he 
 was an Ultramontane, and that she was not to 
 mention to him the word "Empire." She knew 
 
 275
 
 276 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 also that Elizabeth had made arrangements with 
 a neighbouring landowner, who was also a Catho- 
 Hc, that he should be motored fifteen miles to 
 Mass on the following morning, which was Sun- 
 day; and her own easy-going Anglican temper, 
 which carried her to the parish church about 
 twelve times a year, had been thereby a good 
 deal impressed. 
 
 How well those furs became Elizabeth! It 
 was a chill frosty evening, and EHzabeth's sHght 
 form was wrapped in the sables which had been 
 one of poor Merton's earhest gifts to her. The 
 mother's eye dwelt with an habitual pride on the 
 daughter's grace of movement and carriage. 
 "She is always so distinguished," she thought, 
 and then checked herself by the remembrance 
 that she was applying to Elizabeth an adjective that 
 Ehzabeth particularly disliked. Nevertheless, 
 Mrs. Gaddesden knew very well what she herself 
 meant by it. She meant something — some qual- 
 ity in Ehzabeth, which was always provoking 
 in her mother's mind despairing comparisons 
 between what she might make of her life and what 
 she was actually making, or threatening to make 
 of it. 
 
 Alas, for that Canadian journey — that disas- 
 trous Canadian journey! Mrs. Gaddesden's 
 thoughts, as she watched the two strollers outside.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 277 
 
 were carried back to the moment in early August 
 when Arthur Delaine had reappeared in her 
 drawing-room, three weeks before Elizabeth's 
 return, and she had gathered from his cautious 
 and stammering revelations what kind of man 
 it was who seemed to have established this strange 
 hold on her daughter. Delaine, she thought, 
 had spoken most generously of Elizabeth and his 
 own disappointment, and most kindly of this 
 Mr. Anderson. 
 
 " I know nothing against him personally — 
 nothing! No doubt a very estimable young fellow, 
 with just the kind of ability that will help him 
 in Canada. Lady Merton, I imagine, will have 
 told you of the sad events in which we found him 
 involved ?" 
 
 Mrs. Gaddesden had replied that certainly 
 Elizabeth had told her the whole story, so far as 
 it concerned Mr. Anderson. She pointed to the 
 letters beside her. 
 
 **But you cannot suppose," had been her 
 further indignant remark, "that Elizabeth would 
 ever dream of marrying him!" 
 
 "That, my dear old friend, is for her mother to 
 find out," Delaine had replied, not without a 
 touch of venom. "I can certainly assure you 
 that Lady Merton is deeply interested in this 
 young man, and he in her."
 
 278 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Elizabeth — exiling herself in Canada — 
 burying herself on the prairies — when she might 
 have everything here — the best of everything — 
 at her feet. It is inconceivable!" 
 
 Delaine had agreed that it was inconceivable, 
 and they had mourned together over the grotesque 
 possibilities of life. "But you will save her," he 
 had said at last. "You will save her! You will 
 point out to her all she would be giving up — 
 the absurdity, the really criminal waste of it!" 
 
 On which he had gloomily taken his departure 
 for an archaeological congress at Berlin, and an 
 autumn in Italy; and a few weeks later she had 
 recovered her darling Elizabeth, paler and thinner 
 than before — and quite, quite incomprehensible! 
 
 As for "saving" her, Mrs. Gaddesden had not 
 been allowed to attempt it. In the first place, 
 Elizabeth had stoutly denied that there was any- 
 thing to save her from. " Don't beheve anything 
 at all, dear Mummy, that Arthur Delaine may 
 have said to you! I have made a great friend — 
 of a very interesting man; and I am going to 
 correspond with him. He is coming to London 
 in November, and I have asked him to stay here. 
 And you must be very kind to him, darling — 
 just as kind as you can be — for he has had a 
 hard time — he saved Philip's life — and he is 
 an uncommonly fine fellow!"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 279 
 
 And with that — great readiness to talk about 
 everything except just what Mrs. Gaddesden 
 most wanted to know. Elizabeth sitting on her 
 mother's bed at night, crooning about Canada — 
 her soft brov/n hair over her shoulders, and her 
 eyes sparkling with patriotic enthusiasm, was 
 a charming figure. But let Mrs. Gaddesden 
 attempt to probe and penetrate beyond a certain 
 point, and the way was resolutely barred. Eliza- 
 beth would kiss her mother tenderly — it was 
 as though her own reticence hurt her — but would 
 say nothing. Mrs. Gaddesden could only feel 
 sorely that a great change had come over the 
 being she loved best in the world, and that she was 
 not to know the whys and wherefores of it. 
 
 And Philip — alack! had been of very little 
 use to her in the matter! 
 
 " Don't you bother your head, Mother ! Ander- 
 son's an awfully good chap — but he's not going 
 to marry Elizabeth. Told me he knew he wasn't 
 the kind. And of course he isn't — must draw 
 the line somewhere — hang it! But he's an 
 awfully decent fellow. He's not going to push 
 himself in where he isn't w^anted. You let Eliza- 
 beth alone, Mummy — it'll work off. And of 
 course we must be civil to him when he comes 
 over — I should jolly well think we must — 
 considering he saved my life!"
 
 28o LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Certainly they must be civil! News of Ander- 
 son's sailing and arrival had been anxiously 
 looked for. He had reached London three days 
 before this date, had presented his credentials 
 at the Board of Trade and the Colonial Office, 
 and after var.ious preliminary interviews with 
 ministers, was now coming down to Martindale 
 for a week-end before the assembling of the small 
 conference of English and colonial representatives 
 to which he had been sent. 
 
 Mrs. Gaddesden saw from the various notices 
 of his arrival in the English papers that even in 
 England, among the initiated he was understood 
 to be a man of mark. She was all impatience to 
 see him, and had shown it outwardly much more 
 plainly than Elizabeth. How quiet Elizabeth 
 had been these last days! moving about the house 
 so silently, with vaguely smiling eyes, like one 
 husbanding her strength before an ordeal. 
 
 V/hat was going to happen ,? Mrs. Gaddesden 
 was conscious in her own mind of a strained hush 
 of expectation. But she had never ventured to 
 say a word to Elizabeth. In half an hour — or 
 less — he would be here. A motor had been 
 sent to meet the express train at the country town 
 fifteen miles off. Mrs. Gaddesden looked round 
 her in the warm dusk, as though trying to fore- 
 cast how Martindale and its inmates would look
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 281 
 
 to the new-comer. She saw a room of medium 
 size, which from the end of the sixteenth century- 
 had been known as the Red Drawing Room — a 
 room panelled in stamped Cordovan leather, and 
 filled with rare and beautiful things; with ebony 
 cabinets, and fine lacquer; w4th the rarest of ori- 
 ental carpets, with carved chairs, and luxurious 
 sofas. Set here and there, sparingly, among the 
 shadows, as though in scorn of any vulgar pro- 
 fusion, the eye caught the gleam of old silver, 
 or rock crystal, or agate; bibelots collected a 
 hundred and fifty years ago by a Gaddesden of 
 taste, and still in their original places. Overhead, 
 the uneven stucco ceiling showed a pattern of 
 Tudor roses; opposite to Mrs. Gaddesden the 
 wall w^as divided between a round mirror, in vv^hose 
 depths she saw herself reflected and a fine Holbein 
 portrait of a man, in a flat velvet hat on a green 
 background. Over the carved mantelpiece with 
 its date of 1586, there reigned a Romney portrait 
 — one of the most famous in existence — of a 
 young girl in black, Elizabeth Merton bore a 
 curious resemblance to it. Chrysanthemums, 
 white, yellow and purple, gleamed amid the rich- 
 ness of the room; while the light of the solitary lamp 
 beside which Mrs. Gaddesden had been sitting with 
 her embroidery, blended with the orange glow from 
 outside now streaming in through the unshuttered
 
 282 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 windows, to deepen a colour effect of extraordi- 
 nary beauty, produced partly by time, partly 
 by the conscious effort of a dozen generations. 
 
 And from the window, under the winter sunset, 
 Mrs. Gaddesden could see, at right angles to her 
 , on either side, the northern and southern wings 
 of the great house; the sloping lawns; the river 
 winding through the park; the ivy-grown church 
 among the trees; the distant woods and planta- 
 tions; the purple outlines of the fells. Just as 
 in the room within, so the scene without was fused 
 into a perfect harmony and keeping by the mel- 
 lowing light. There was in it not a jarring note, 
 a ragged line — age and dignity, wealth and 
 undisputed place: Martindale expressed them 
 all. The Gaddesdens had twice refused a peerage; 
 and with contempt. In their belief, to be Mr. 
 Gaddesden of Martindale was enough; a duke- 
 dom could not have bettered it. And the whole 
 country-side in which they had been rooted for 
 centuries agreed with them. There had even 
 been a certain disapproval of the financial suc- 
 cesses of Philip Gaddesden's father. It was true 
 that the Gaddesden rents had gone down. But 
 the country, however commercialised itself, looked 
 with jealousy on any intrusion of "commer- 
 cialism" into the guarded and venerable pre- 
 cincts of Martindale.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 283 
 
 The little lady who was now, till Philip's 
 majority and marriage, mistress of Martindale, 
 was a small, soft, tremulous person, without the 
 intelligence of her daughter, but by no means 
 without character. Secretly she had often felt 
 oppressed by her surroundings. Whenever Philip 
 married, she would find it no hardship at all to 
 retire to the dower house at the edge of the park. 
 Meanwhile she did her best to uphold the ancient 
 ways. But if she sometimes found Martindale 
 oppressive — too old, too large, too rich, too 
 perfect — how was it going to strike a young 
 Canadian, fresh from the prairies, who had never 
 been in England before .? 
 
 A sudden sound of many footsteps in the hall. 
 The drawing-room door was thrown open by PhiHp, 
 and a troop of men entered. A fresh-coloured 
 man with grizzled hair led the van. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Gaddesden, here w^e all are. 
 Philip has given us a capital day!" 
 
 A group of men followed him; the agent of 
 the property, two small neighbouring squires, 
 a broad-browed burly man in knickerbockers, 
 who was apparently a clergyman, to judge from 
 his white tie, the adjutant of the local regiment, 
 and a couple of good-looking youths, Etonian 
 friends of Philip. Elizabeth and Mariette came
 
 284 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 in from the garden, and a young cousin of the 
 Gaddesdens, a Miss Lucas, slipped into the room 
 under EHzabeth's wing. She was a pretty girl, 
 dressed in an elaborate demi-toilette of w^hite 
 chiffon, and the younger men of the party in their 
 shooting dress — with Philip at their head — were 
 presently clustered thick about her, like bees 
 after pollen. It was clear, indeed, that Phihp 
 was paying her considerable attention, and as 
 he laughed and sparred with her, the transient 
 colour that exercise had given him disappeared, 
 and a pale look of excitement took its place. 
 
 Mariette glanced from one to another with a 
 scarcely disguised curiosity. This was only his 
 third visit to England and he felt himself in a 
 foreign country. That was a pasteur he supposed, 
 in the gaiters — grotesque! And why was the 
 young lady in evening dress, w^hile Lady Merton, 
 now that she had thrown off her furs, appeared in 
 the severest of tweed coats and skirts ? The rosy 
 old fellow beside Mrs. Gaddesden was, he under- 
 stood from Lady Merton, the Lord Lieutenant 
 of the county. 
 
 But at that moment his hostess laid hands upon 
 him to present him to her neighbour. "Mon- 
 sieur Mariette — Lord Waynflete." 
 
 "Delighted to see you," said the great man 
 affably, holding out his hand. "What a fine
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 285 
 
 place Canada is getting! I am thinking of sending 
 my third son there." 
 
 Mariette bowed. 
 
 "There will be room for him." 
 
 "I am afraid he hasn't brains enough to do 
 much here — but perhaps in a new country — " 
 
 *' He will not require them ? Yes, it is a com- 
 mon opinion," said Mariette, with composure. 
 Lord Waynflete stared a little, and returned to 
 his hostess. Mariette betook himself to Eliza- 
 beth for tea, and she introduced him to the girl 
 in white, who looked at him with enthusiasm, 
 and at once threw over her bevy of young men, 
 in favour of the spectacled and lean-faced stranger. 
 
 "You are a Catholic, Monsieur?" she asked 
 him, fervently. "How I envy you! I adore the 
 Oratory! When we are in town I always go 
 there to Benediction — unless Mamma wants me 
 at home to pour out tea. Do you know Cardinal 
 C .?" 
 
 She named a Cardinal Archbishop, then pre- 
 siding over the diocese of Westminster. 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle, I know him quite well. 
 I have just been staying with him." 
 
 She clasped her hands eagerly. 
 
 "How very interesting! I know him a little. 
 Isn't he nice ?" 
 
 "No," said Mariette resolutely. "He is mag-
 
 286 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 nificent — a saint — a scholar — everything — 
 but not nice!" 
 
 The girl looked a little puzzled, then angry, 
 and after a few minutes' more conversation she 
 returned to her young men, conspicuously turning 
 her back on Mariette. 
 
 He threw a deprecating, half-penitent look at 
 Elizabeth, whose faced twitched with amusement, 
 and sat down in a corner behind her that he 
 might observe without talking. His quick intel- 
 ligence sorted the people about him almost at 
 once — the two yeoman-squires, who were not 
 quite at home in Mrs. Gaddesden's drawing- 
 room, were awkward with their tea-cups, and 
 talked to each other in subdued voices, till Eliza- 
 beth found them out, summoned them to her 
 side, and made them happy; the agent who was 
 helping Lady Merton with tea, making himself 
 generally useful; Philip and another gilded youth, 
 the son, he understood, of a neighbouring peer, 
 who were flirting with the girl in white; and yet 
 a third fastidious Etonian, who was clearly bored 
 by the ladies, and was amusing himself viath the 
 adjutant and a cigarette in a distant corner. His 
 eyes came back at last to the pasteur. An able face 
 after all; cool, shrewd, and not unspiritual. Very 
 soon, he, the parson — whose name was Everett — 
 and Elizabeth were drawn into conversation,
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 287 
 
 and Mariette under Everett's good-humoured 
 glance found himself observed as well as observer. 
 
 "You are trying to decipher us ?" said Everett, 
 at last, with a smile. "Well, we are not easy." 
 
 "Could you be a great nation if you were.'"' 
 
 "Perhaps not. England just now is a palimp- 
 sest — the new writing everywhere on top of the 
 old. Yet it is the same parchment, and the old 
 is there. Now you are writing on a fresh skin." 
 
 "But with the old ideas!" said Mariette, a 
 flash in his dark eyes. "Church — State — 
 family! — there is nothing else to write with." 
 
 The two men drew closer together, and plunged 
 into conversation. Elizabeth was left solitary 
 a moment, behind the tea-things. The buzz of 
 the room, the hearty laugh of the Lord Lieuten- 
 ant, reached the outer ear. But every deeper 
 sense was strained to catch a voice — a step — 
 that must soon be here. And presently across 
 the room, her eyes met her mother's, and their 
 two expectancies touched. 
 
 "Mother! — here is Mr. Anderson!" 
 
 Philip entered joyously, escorting his guest. 
 
 To Anderson's half-dazzled sight, the room, 
 
 which was now fully lit by lamplight and fire, 
 
 seemed crowded. He found himself greeted by 
 
 a gentle grey-haired lady of fifty-five, with a
 
 288 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 strong likeness to a face he knew; and then his 
 hand touched Elizabeth's. Various commonplaces 
 passed between him and her, as to his journey, 
 the new motor which had brought him to the 
 house, the frosty evening. Mariette gave him a 
 nod and smile, and he was introduced to various 
 men who bowed without any change of expression, 
 and to a girl, who smiled carelessly, and turned 
 immediately towards Philip, hanging over the 
 back of her chair. 
 
 Elizabeth pointed to a seat beside her, and 
 gave him tea. They talked of London a little, 
 and his first impressions. All the time he was 
 trying to grasp the identity of the woman speaking 
 with the woman he had parted from in Canada. 
 Something surely had gone ? This restrained and 
 rather cold person was not the Elizabeth of the 
 Rockies. He watched her when she turned 
 from him to her other guests; her light imper- 
 sonal manner towards the younger men, with 
 its occasional touch of satire; the friendly relation 
 between her and the parson; the kindly deference 
 she showed the old Lord Lieutenant. Evidently 
 she was mistress here, much more than her 
 mother. Everything seemed to be referred to 
 her, to circle round her. 
 
 Presently there was a stir in the room. Lord 
 Waynflete asked for his carriage.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 289 
 
 "Don't forget, my dear lady, that you open 
 the new Town Hall next Wednesday," he said, 
 as he made his way to Elizabeth. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "But you make the speech!'* 
 
 "Not at all. They only want to hear you. 
 And there'll be a great crowd." 
 
 "Elizabeth can't speak worth a cent!" said 
 Philip, with brotherly candour. " Can you, Lisa ? " 
 
 "I don't believe it," said Lord Waynflete, 
 "but it don't matter. All they want is that a 
 Gaddesden should say something. Ah, Mrs. 
 Gaddesden — how glorious the Romney looks 
 to-night!" He turned to the fireplace, admiring 
 the illuminated picture, his hands on his sides. 
 
 "Is it an ancestress?" Mariette addressed 
 the question to Elizabeth. 
 
 "Yes. She had three husbands, and is supposed 
 to have murdered the fourth," said Elizabeth drily. 
 
 "All the same she's an extremely handsome 
 woman," put in Lord Waynflete. "And as you're 
 the image of her, Lady Merton, you'd better not 
 run her down." Elizabeth joined in the laugh 
 against herself and the speaker turned to Anderson. 
 
 "You'll find this place a perfect treasure-house, 
 Mr. Anderson, and I advise you to study it — 
 for the Radicals won't leave any of us anything, 
 before many years are out. You're from Mani-
 
 290 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 toba ? Ah, you're not troubled with any of these 
 SociaHst fellows yet! But you'll get 'em — you'll 
 get 'em — like rats in the corn. They'll pull 
 the old flag down if they can. But you'll help 
 us to keep it flying. The Colonies are our hope — 
 we look to the Colonies!" 
 
 The handsome old man raised an oratorical 
 hand, and looked round on his audience, like one 
 to whom public speaking was second nature. 
 
 Anderson made a gesture of assent; he was 
 not really expected to say anything. Mariette 
 in the background observed the speaker with 
 an amused and critical detachment. 
 
 "Your carriage will be round directly, Lord 
 Waynflete," said Philip, "but I don't see why 
 you should go." 
 
 " My dear fellow — I have to catch the night 
 train. There is a most important debate in the 
 House of Lords to-morrow." He turned to the 
 Canadian politely. "Of course you know there 
 is an autumn session on. With these Radical 
 Governments we shall soon have one every year." 
 
 "What! the Education Bill again to-morrow.?" 
 said Everett. " What are you going to do with it .? " 
 
 Lord Waynflete looked at the speaker with 
 some distaste. He did not much approve of 
 sporting parsons, and Everett's opinions were 
 too Liberal to please him. But he let himself
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 291 
 
 be drawn, and soon the whole room was in eager 
 debate on some of the old hot issues between 
 Church and Dissent. Lord Waynflete ceased 
 to be merely fatuous and kindly. His talk 
 became shrewd, statesmanlike even; he was the 
 typical English aristocrat and Anglican Church- 
 man, discussing topics with which he had been 
 familiar from his cradle, and in a manner and 
 tone which every man in the room — save the 
 two Canadians — accepted without question. He 
 was the natural leader of these men of the land- 
 owning or military class; they liked to hear him 
 harangue; and harangue he did, till the striking 
 of a clock suddenly checked him. 
 
 "I must be off! Well, Mrs. Gaddesden, it's 
 the Church — the Church we have to think of! — 
 the Church we have to fight for! What would 
 England be without the Church — let's ask our- 
 selves that. Good-bye — good-bye!" 
 
 "Is he talking of the Anglican establishment ?" 
 muttered Mariette. "Quel drole de vieillard!'' 
 
 The parson heard him, and, with a twinkle 
 in his eyes, turned and proposed to show the 
 French Canadian the famous library of the house. 
 
 The party melted away. Even Ehzabeth had 
 been summoned for some last word with Lord 
 Waynflete on the subject of the opening of the 
 Town Hall. Anderson was left alone.
 
 292 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 He looked around him, at the room, the pictures, 
 the panelled walls, and then moving to the window 
 which was still unshuttered, he gazed out into 
 the starlit dusk, and the dim, stately landscape. 
 There were Hghts in the church showing the 
 stained glass of the perpendicular windows, and 
 a flight of rooks was circling round the old tower. 
 
 As he stood there, somebody came back into 
 the room. It was the adjutant, looking for his hat. 
 
 "Jolly old place, isn't it?" said the young 
 man civilly, seeing that the stranger was studying 
 the view. "It's to be hoped that PhiHp will 
 keep it up properly." 
 
 "He seems fond of it," said Anderson. 
 
 "Oh, yes! But you've got to be a big man to 
 fill the position. However, there's money enough. 
 They're all rich — and they marry money." 
 
 Anderson murmured something inaudible, and 
 the young man departed. 
 
 A little later Anderson and Elizabeth were 
 seated together in the Red Drawing Room. Mrs. 
 Gaddesden, after a little perfunctory conversation 
 with the new-comer, had disappeared on the plea 
 of letters to write. The girl in white, the centre 
 of a large party in the hall, was flirting to her 
 heart's content. Philip would have dearly liked 
 to stay and flirt with her himself; but his mother,
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 293 
 
 terrified by his pallor and fatigue after the exertion 
 of the shoot, had hurried him off to take a warm 
 bath and rest before dinner. So that Anderson 
 and Elizabeth were alone. 
 
 Conversation between them did not move easily. 
 Elizabeth was conscious of an oppression against 
 which it seemed vain to fight. Up to the moment 
 of his sailing from Canada his letters had been 
 frank and full, the letters of a deeply attached 
 friend, though with no trace in them of the lan- 
 guage of love. What change was it that the touch 
 of English ground — the sight of Martindale — 
 had wrought ? He talked with some readiness 
 of the early stages of his mission — of the kindness 
 shown to him by English public men, and the 
 impressions of a first night in the House of Com- 
 mons. But his manner was constrained; anything 
 that he said might have been heard by all the 
 world; and as their talk progressed, Elizabeth 
 felt a miserable paralysis descending on her own 
 will. She grew whiter and v,hiter. This old 
 house in which they sat, with its splendours and 
 treasures, this environment of the past all about 
 them seemed to engulf and entomb them both. 
 She had looked forward with a girlish pleasure — 
 and yet with a certain tremor — to showing 
 Anderson her old home, the things she loved and 
 had inherited. And now it was as though she
 
 294 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 were vulgarly conscious of wealth and ancestry 
 as dividing her from him. The wildness within 
 her which found its scope and its voice in Canada 
 was here like an imprisoned stream, chafing in 
 caverns underground. Ah! it had been easy to 
 defy the Old World in Canada, its myriad voices 
 and claims — the many-fingered magic with 
 which an old society plays on those born into it! 
 
 "I shall be here perhaps a month," said Ander- 
 son, "but then I shall be wanted at Ottawa." 
 
 And he began to describe a new matter in which 
 he had been lately engaged — a large develop- 
 ment scheme applying to some of the great Peace 
 River region north of Edmonton. And as he 
 told her of his August journey through this noble 
 country, with its superb rivers, its shining lakes 
 and forests, and its scattered settlers, waiting for 
 a Government which was their servant and not 
 their tyrant, to come and help their first steps in 
 ordered civilisation; to bring steamers to their 
 waters, railways to link their settlements, and 
 fresh settlers to let loose the fertile forces of their 
 earth — she suddenly saw in him his old self — 
 the Anderson who had sat beside her in the cross- 
 ing of the prairies, who had looked into her eyes 
 the day of Roger's Pass. He had grown older 
 and thinner; his hair was even lightly touched 
 with grey. But the traces in him of endurance
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 295 
 
 and of pain were like the weathering of a fine 
 building; mellowing had come, and strength 
 had not been lost. 
 
 Yet still no word of feeling, of intimacy even. 
 Her soul cried out within her, but there was no 
 answer. Then, when it was time to dress, and 
 she led him through the hall, to the inlaid stair- 
 case w4th its famous balustrading — early English 
 ironwork of extraordinary delicacy — and through 
 the endless corridors upstairs, old and dim, but 
 crowded with portraits and fine furniture, Ander- 
 son looked round him in amazement. 
 
 "What a wonderful place!" 
 
 "It is too old!" cried Elizabeth, petulantly; 
 then with a touch of repentance — "Yet of course 
 we love it. We are not so stifled here as you 
 would be." 
 
 He smiled and did not reply. 
 
 "Confess you have been stifled — ever since 
 you came to England." 
 
 He drew a long breath, throwing back his 
 head with a gesture which made Elizabeth smile. 
 He smiled in return. 
 
 "It was you who warned me how small it 
 would all seem. Such little fields — such little 
 rivers — such tiny journeys! And these immense 
 towns treading on each other's heels. Don't 
 you feel crowded up ? "
 
 296 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "You are home-sick already?'* 
 
 He laughed — "No, no!" But the gleam in 
 his eyes admitted it. And Elizabeth's heart 
 sank — down and down. 
 
 A few more guests arrived for Sunday — a 
 couple of politicians, a journalist, a poet, one or 
 two agreeable women, a young Lord S., who had 
 just succeeded to one of the oldest of English 
 marquisates, and so on. 
 
 Elizabeth had chosen the party to give Ander- 
 son pleasure, and as a guest he did not disappoint 
 her pride in him. He talked well and modestly, 
 and the feeling towards Canada and the Canadians 
 in English society had been of late years so friendly 
 that although there was often colossal ignorance, 
 there was no coolness in the atmosphere about 
 him. Lord S. confused Lake Superior with Lake 
 Ontario, and was of opinion that the Mackenzie 
 River flowed into the Ottawa. But he was kind 
 enough to say that he would far sooner go to 
 Canada than any of "those beastly places abroad" 
 — and as he was just a simple handsome youth, 
 Anderson took to him, as he had taken to Philip 
 at Lake Louise, and by the afternoon of Sunday 
 was talking sport and big game in a manner to 
 hold the smoking-room enthralled. 
 
 Only unfortunately Philip was not there to hear.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 297 
 
 He had been over-tired by the shoot, and had 
 caught a chill beside. The doctor was in the 
 house, and Mrs. Gaddesden had very little mind 
 to give to her Sunday party. Elizabeth felt a 
 thrill of something like comfort as she noticed 
 how in the course of the day Anderson uncon- 
 sciously slipped back into the old Canadian 
 position; sitting with Philip, amusing him and 
 "chaffing" him; inducing him to obey his doctor; 
 cheering his mother, and in general producing 
 in Martindale itself the same impression of mas- 
 culine help and support which he had produced on 
 Elizabeth, five months before, in a Canadian hotel. 
 By Sunday evening Mrs. Gaddesden, instead 
 of a watchful enemy, had become his firm friend; 
 and in her timid, confused way she asked him to 
 come for a walk with her in the November dusk. 
 Then, to his astonishment, she poured out her 
 heart to him about her son, whose health, together 
 with his recklessness, his determination to live 
 like other and sound men, was making the two 
 women who loved him more and more anxious. 
 Anderson was very sorry for the little lady, and 
 genuinely alarmed himself with regard to Philip, 
 whose physical condition seemed to him to have 
 changed considerably for the worse since the 
 Canadian journey. His kindness, his real con- 
 cern, melted Mrs. Gaddesden's heart.
 
 298 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "1 hope we shall find you in town when we 
 come up!" she said, eagerly, as they turned back 
 to the house, forgetting, in her maternal egotism, 
 everything but her boy. "Our man here wants 
 a consultation. We shall go up next week for 
 a short time before Christmas." 
 
 Anderson hesitated a moment. 
 
 "Yes," he said, slowly, but in a changed voice, 
 "Yes, I shall still be there." 
 
 Whereupon, with perturbation, Mrs. Gaddes- 
 den at last remembered there were other lions 
 in the path. They had not said a single word — 
 however conventional — of Ehzabeth. But she 
 quickly consoled herself by the reflection that he 
 must have seen by now, poor fellow, how hopeless 
 it was; and that being so, what was there to be 
 said against admitting him to their circle, as a 
 real friend of all the family — Philip's friend, 
 Elizabeth's, and her own ? 
 
 That night Mrs. Gaddesden was awakened 
 by her maid between twelve and one. Mr. 
 Gaddesden wanted a certain medicine that he 
 thought was in his mother's room. Mrs. Gaddes- 
 den threw on her dressing-gown and looked for 
 it anxiously in vain. Perhaps Ehzabeth might 
 remember where it was last seen. She hurried 
 to her. Elizabeth had a sitting-room and bedroom
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 299 
 
 at the end of the corridor, and Mrs. Gaddesden 
 went into the sitting-room first, as quietly as 
 possible, so as not to startle her daughter. 
 
 She had hardly entered and closed the door 
 behind her, guided by the light of a still flickering 
 fire, when a sound from the inner room arrested her. 
 
 Elizabeth — Elizabeth in distress ^ 
 
 The mother stood rooted to the spot, in a sudden 
 anguish. Elizabeth — sobbing .? Only once in 
 her life had Mrs. Gaddesden heard that sound 
 before — the night that the news of Francis 
 Merton's death reached Martindale, and Eliza- 
 beth had wept, as her mother believed, more 
 for what her young husband might have been 
 to her, than for what he had been. Elizabeth's 
 eyes filled readily with tears answering to pity 
 or high feeling; but this fierce stifled emotion — 
 this abandonment of pain! 
 
 Mrs. Gaddesden stood trembling and motion- 
 less, the tears on her own cheeks. Conjecture 
 hurried through her mind. She seemed to be 
 learning her daughter, her gay and tender Eliza- 
 beth, afresh. At last she turned and crept out 
 of the room, noiselessly shutting the door. After 
 lingering a while in the passage, she knocked, 
 with an uncertain hand, and waited till Elizabeth 
 came — Elizabeth, hardly visible in the firelight, 
 her brown hair fallino- like a veil round her face. 
 
 to
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A FEW days later the Gaddesdens were in town, 
 settled in a house in Portman Square. Philip 
 was increasingly ill, and moreover shrouded in 
 a bitterness of spirit which wrung his mother's 
 heart. She suspected a new cause for it in the 
 fancy that he had lately taken for Alice Lucas, 
 the girl in the white chiffon, who had piped to 
 Mariette in vain. Not that he ever now wanted 
 to see her. He had passed into a phase indeed 
 of refusing all society — except that of George 
 Anderson. A floor of the Portman Square house 
 was given up to him. Various treatments were 
 being tried, and as soon as he was strong enough 
 his mother was to take him to the South. Mean- 
 while his only pleasure seemed to lie in Anderson's 
 visits, which however could not be frequent, 
 for the business of the Conference was heavy, 
 and after the daily sittings were over, the inter- 
 views and correspondence connected with them 
 took much time. 
 
 On these occasions, whether early in the morning 
 before the business of the day began, or in the hour 
 
 300
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 301 
 
 before dinner — sometimes even late at night — 
 Anderson after his chat with the invahd would 
 descend from PhiHp's room to the drawing-room 
 below, only allowing himself a few minutes, and 
 glancing always with a quickening of the pulse 
 through the shadows of the large room, to see 
 whether it held two persons or one. Mrs. Gad- 
 desden was invariably there; a small, faded woman 
 in trailing lace dresses, who would sit waiting 
 for him, her embroidery on her knee, and when 
 he appeared would hurry across the floor to meet 
 him, dropping silks, scissors, handkerchief on 
 the way. This dropping of all her incidental 
 possessions — a performance repeated night after 
 night, and followed always by her soft fluttering 
 apologies — soon came to be symbolic, in Ander- 
 son's eyes. She moved on the impulse of the 
 moment, without thinking what she might scatter 
 by the way. Yet the impulse was always a loving 
 impulse — and the regrets were sincere. 
 
 As to the relation to Anderson, Philip was here 
 the pivot of the situation exactly as he had been 
 in Canada. Just as his physical weakness, and 
 the demands he founded upon it had bound the 
 Canadian to their chariot wheels in the Rockies, 
 so now — mutatis mutandis — in London. Mrs. 
 Gaddesden before a week was over had become 
 pitifully dependent upon him, simply because
 
 302 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Philip was pleased to desire his society, and 
 showed a flicker of cheerfulness whenever he 
 appeared. She was torn indeed between her 
 memory of Elizabeth's sobbing, and her hunger 
 to give Philip the moon out of the sky, should he 
 happen to want it. Sons must come first, 
 daughters second; such has been the philosophy 
 of mothers from the beginning. She feared — 
 desperately feared — that Elizabeth had given 
 her heart away. And as she agreed with Philip 
 that it would not be a seemly or tolerable marriage 
 for Elizabeth, she would, in the natural course 
 of things, both for Elizabeth's sake and the 
 family's, have tried to keep the unseemly suitor 
 at a distance. But here he was, planted somehow 
 in the very midst of their life, and she, making 
 feeble efforts day after day to induce him to root 
 himself there still more firmly. Sometimes indeed 
 she would try to press alternatives on PhiHp. 
 But Philip would not have them. What vnth 
 the physical and moral force that seemed to radi- 
 ate from Anderson, and bring stimulus with them 
 to the weaker life — and what with the lad's 
 sick alienation for the moment from his ordinary 
 friends and occupations, Anderson reigned 
 supreme, often clearly to his own trouble and 
 embarrassment. Had it not been for Philip, 
 Portman Square would have seen him but seldom.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 303 
 
 That Elizabeth knew with a sharp certainty, dim 
 though it might be to her mother. But as it 
 was, the boy's tragic clinging to his new friend 
 governed all else, simply because at the bottom 
 of each heart, unrecognised and unexpressed, 
 lurked the same foreboding, the same fear of 
 fears. 
 
 The tragic clinging was also, alack, a tragic 
 selfishness. Philip had a substantial share of 
 that quick perception which in Elizabeth became 
 something exquisite and impersonal, the source 
 of all high emotions. When Delaine had first 
 suggested to him "an attachment" between Ander- 
 son and his sister, a hundred impressions of his 
 own had emerged to verify the statement and 
 aggravate his wrath; and when Anderson had 
 said " a man of my history is not going to ask 
 your sister to marry him," Philip perfectly under- 
 stood that but for the history the attempt would 
 have been made. Anderson was therefore — 
 most unreasonably and presumptuously — in 
 love with Elizabeth; and as to Elizabeth, the 
 indications here also were not lost upon Philip. It 
 was all very amazing, and he wished, to use his 
 phrase to his mother, that it would "work off." 
 But whether or no, he could not do without Ander- 
 son — if Anderson was to be had. He threw 
 him and Elizabeth together, recklessly; trusting
 
 304 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 to Anderson's word, and unable to resist his own 
 craving for comfort and distraction. 
 
 The days passed on, days so charged with 
 feehng for EHzabeth that they could only be met 
 at all by a kind of resolute stillness and self- 
 control. Philip was very dependent on the gossip 
 his mother and sister brought him from the 
 world outside. Elizabeth therefore, to please 
 him, went into society as usual, and forgot her 
 heartaches, for her brother and for herself, as 
 best she could. Outwardly she was much occu- 
 pied in doing all that could be done — socially 
 and even politically — for Anderson and Mariette. 
 She had power and she used it. The two friends 
 found themselves the object of one of those 
 sudden cordialities that open all doors, even the 
 most difficult, and run like a warm wave through 
 London society. Mariette remained throughout 
 the ironic spectator — friendly on his own terms, 
 but entirely rejecting, often, the terms offered 
 him tacitly or openly, by his English acquain- 
 tance. 
 
 "Your ways are not mine — your ideals are 
 not mine, God forbid they should be!'* — he seemed 
 to be constantly saying. "But we happen to 
 be oxen bound under the same yoke, and dragging 
 the same plough. No gush, please — but at the 
 same time no ill-will ! Loyal ? — to your loyalties ?
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 305 
 
 Oh yes — quite sufficiently — so long as you don't 
 ask us to let it interfere with our loyalty to our 
 own! Don't be such fools as to expect us to 
 take much interest in your Imperial orgies. But 
 we're all right! Only let us alone — we're 
 all right!" 
 
 Such seemed to be the voice of this queer, 
 kindly, satiric personality. London generally falls 
 into the arms of those who flout her; and Mariette, 
 with his militant Catholicism, and his contempt 
 for our governing ideals, became the fashion. 
 As for Anderson, the contact with English Minis- 
 ters and men of affairs had but carried on the 
 generous process of development that Nature 
 had designed for a strong man. Whereas in 
 Mariette the vigorous, self-confident English 
 world — based on the Protestant idea — pro- 
 duced a bitter and profound irritation, Anderson 
 seemed to find in that world something ripening 
 and favouring that brought out all the powers — 
 the intellectual powers at least — of his nature. 
 He did his work admirably; left the impression 
 of a "coming man" on a great many leading 
 persons interested in the relations between Eng- 
 land and Canada; and when as often happened 
 Elizabeth and he found themselves at the same 
 dinner-table, she would watch the changes in 
 him that a larger experience was bringing about.
 
 3o6 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 with a heart half proud, half miserable. As for 
 his story, which was very commonly known, in 
 general society, it only added to his attractions. 
 Mothers who were under no anxieties lest he might 
 want to marry their daughters, murmured the 
 facts of his unlucky provenance to each other, 
 and then the more eagerly asked him to dinner. 
 
 Meanwhile, for Elizabeth life was one long 
 debate, which left her often at night exhausted 
 and spiritless. The shock of their first meeting 
 at Martindale, when all her pent-up yearning 
 and vague expectation had been met and crushed 
 by the silent force of the man's unaltered will, 
 had passed away. She understood him better. 
 The woman who is beloved penetrates to the 
 fact through all the disguises that a lover may 
 attempt. Elizabeth knew well that Anderson 
 had tones and expressions for her that no other 
 woman could win from him; and looking back to 
 their conversation at the Glacier House, she 
 realised, night after night, in the silence of wake- 
 ful hours, the fulness of his confession, together 
 with the strength of his recoil from any preten- 
 sion to marry her. 
 
 Yes, he loved her, and his mere anxiety — now, 
 and as things stood — to avoid any extension or 
 even repetition of their short-lived intimacy, only 
 betrayed the fact the more eloquently. Moreover,
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 307 
 
 he had reason, good reason, to think, as she often 
 passionately reminded herself, that he had touched 
 her heart, and that had the course been clear, 
 he might have won her. 
 
 But — the course was not clear. From many 
 signs, she understood how deeply the humilia- 
 tion of the scene at Sicamous had entered into a 
 proud man's blood. Others might forget; he 
 remembered. Moreover, that sense of responsi- 
 bility — partial responsibility at least — for his 
 father's guilt and degradation, of which he had 
 spoken to her at Glacier, had, she perceived, 
 gone deep with him. It had strengthened a 
 stern and melancholy view of life, inclining him 
 to turn away from personal joy, to an exclusive 
 concern with public duties and responsibilities. 
 
 And this whole temper had no doubt been 
 increased by his perception of the Gaddesdens' 
 place in English society. He dared not — he would 
 not — ask a woman so reared in the best that 
 England had to give, now that he understood 
 what that best might be, to renounce it all in 
 favour of what he had to offer. He realised 
 that there was a generous weakness in her own 
 heart on which he might have played. But he 
 would not play; his fixed intention was to dis- 
 appear as soon as possible from her life; and it 
 was his honest hope that she would marry in her
 
 3o8 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 own world and forget him. In fact he was the 
 prey of a kind of moral terror that here also, as 
 in the case of his father, he might make some 
 ghastly mistake, pursuing his own will under the 
 guise of love, as he had once pursued it under 
 the guise of retribution — to Elizabeth's hurt 
 and his own remorse. 
 
 All this Elizabeth understood, more or less 
 plainly. Then came the question — granted the 
 situation, how was she to deal with it ? Just 
 as he surmised that he could win her if he would, 
 she too believed that were she merely to set her- 
 self to prove her own love and evoke his, she 
 could probably break down his resistance. A 
 woman knows her own power. Feverishly, 
 Elizabeth was sometimes on the point of putting 
 it out, of so provoking and appealing to the pas- 
 sion she divined, as to bring him, whether he 
 would or no, to her feet. 
 
 But she hesitated. She too felt the responsi- 
 bility of his life, as of hers. Could she really 
 do this thing — not only begin it, but carry it 
 through without repentance, and without recoil ? 
 
 She made herself look steadily at this English 
 spectacle with its luxurious complexity, its con- 
 centration within a small space of all the delicacies 
 of sense and soul, its command of a rich European 
 tradition, in which art and literature are hving
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 309 
 
 streams springing from fathomless depths of Hfe. 
 Could she, whose every fibre responded so per- 
 fectly to the stimulus of this environment, who up 
 till now — but for moments of revolt — had been 
 so happy and at ease in it, could she wrench her- 
 self from it — put it behind her — and adapt 
 herself to quite another, without, so to speak, 
 losing herself, and half her value, whatever that 
 might be, as a human being ? 
 
 As we know, she had already asked herself 
 the question in some fashion, under the shadow 
 of the Rockies. But to handle it in London was 
 a more pressing and poignant affair. It was partly 
 the characteristic question of the modern woman, 
 jealous, as women have never been before in the 
 world's history, on behalf of her own individuality. 
 But Elizabeth put it still more in the interests 
 of her pure and passionate feeling for Anderson. 
 He must not — he should not — run any risks 
 in loving her! 
 
 On a certain night early in December, Eliza- 
 beth had been dining at one of the great houses 
 of London. Anderson too had been there. The 
 dinner party, held in a famous room panelled with 
 full-length Vandycks, had been of the kind that 
 only London can show; since only in England 
 is society at once homogeneous enough and open 
 enough to provide it. In this house, also, the
 
 310 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 best traditions of an older regime still prevailed, 
 and its gatherings recalled — not without some 
 conscious effort on the part of the hostess — the 
 days of Holland House, and Lady Palmerston. 
 To its smaller dinner parties, which w^ere the object 
 of so many social ambitions, nobody was admitted 
 who could not bring a personal contribution. 
 Dukes had no more claim than other people, 
 but as most of the twenty-eight were blood-rela- 
 tions of the house, and some Dukes are agreeable, 
 they took their turn. Cabinet Ministers, Viceroys, 
 Ambassadors, mingled with the men of letters 
 and affairs. There was indeed a certain old- 
 fashioned measure in it all. To be merely noto- 
 rious — even though you were amusing — was 
 not passport enough. The hostess — a beautiful 
 tall woman, with the brow of a child, a quick 
 intellect, and an amazing experience of life — 
 created round her an atmosphere that was really 
 the expression of her own personality; fastidious, 
 and yet eager; cold, and yet steeped in intellectual 
 curiosities and passions. Under the mingled 
 stimulus and restraint of it, men and women 
 brought out the best that was in them. The talk 
 was good, and nothing — neither the last violinist, 
 nor the latest danseuse — was allowed to interfere 
 with it. And while the dress and jewels of the 
 women were generally what a luxurious capital
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 311 
 
 expects and provides, you might often find some 
 little girl in a dyed frock — with courage, charm 
 and breeding — the centre of the scene. 
 
 Elizabeth in white, and wearing some fine 
 jewels which had been her mother's, had found 
 herself placed on the left of her host, with an 
 ex-Viceroy of India on her other hand. Ander- 
 son, who was on the opposite side of the table, 
 watched her animation, and the homage that was 
 eagerly paid her by the men around her. Those 
 indeed who had known her of old were of opinion 
 that whereas she had always been an agreeable 
 companion. Lady Merton had now for some 
 mysterious reason blossomed into a beauty. 
 Some kindling change had passed over the small 
 features. Delicacy and reserve were still there, 
 but interfused now with a shimmering and trans- 
 forming brightness, as though some flame within 
 leapt intermittently to sight. 
 
 Elizabeth more than held her own with the 
 ex-Viceroy, who w^as a person of brilliant parts, 
 accustomed to be flattered by women. She did 
 not flatter him, and he was reduced in the end 
 to making those eff'orts for himself, which he 
 generally expected other people to make for him. 
 Elizabeth's success with him drew the attention 
 of several other persons at the table besides 
 Anderson. The ex-Viceroy was a bachelor, and
 
 312 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 one of the great partis of the day. What could 
 be more fitting than that Elizabeth Merton should 
 carry him off, to the discomfiture of innumerable 
 intriguers ? 
 
 After dinner, Elizabeth waited for Anderson 
 in the magnificent gallery upstairs where the 
 guests of the evening party were beginning to 
 gather, and the musicians were arriving. When 
 he came she played her usual fairy godmother's 
 part; introducing him to this person and that, 
 creatino; an interest in him and in his work, wher- 
 ever it might be useful to him. It was understood 
 that she had met him in Canada, and that he had 
 been useful to the poor delicate brother. No 
 other idea entered in. That she could have any 
 interest in him for herself would have seemed 
 incredible to this world looking on. 
 
 "I must slip away," said Anderson, presently, 
 in her ear; "I promised to look in on Philip if 
 possible. And to-morrow I fear I shall be too 
 busy.'* 
 
 And he went on to tell her his own news of the 
 day — that the Conference would be over sooner 
 than he supposed, and that he must get back to 
 Ottawa without delay to report to the Canadian 
 Ministry. That afternoon he had written to 
 take his passage for the following week. 
 
 It seemed to her that he faltered in telling her;
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 313 
 
 and, as for her, the crowd of uniformed or jewelled 
 figures around them became to her, as he spoke, 
 a mere meaningless confusion. She was only 
 conscious of him, and of the emotion which at 
 last he could not hide. 
 
 She quietly said that she would soon follow 
 him to Portman Square, and he went away. A 
 few minutes afterwards, Elizabeth said good- 
 night to her hostess, and emerged upon the gallery 
 running round the fine Italianate hall which occu- 
 pied the centre of the house. Hundreds of people 
 were hanging over the balustrading of the gallery, 
 watching the guests coming and going on the 
 marble staircase w^hich occupied the centre of 
 the hall. 
 
 Elizabeth's slight figure slowly descended. 
 
 "Pretty creature!" said one old General, 
 looking down upon her. "You remember — 
 she was a Gaddesden of Martindale. She has 
 been a widow a long time now. Why doesn't 
 someone carry her off?'* 
 
 Meanwhile Elizabeth, as she went down, 
 dreamily, from step to step, her eyes bent appar- 
 rently upon the crowd which filled all the spaces 
 of the great pictorial house, was conscious of one 
 of those transforming impressions which represent 
 the sudden uprush and consummation in the mind 
 of some obscure and long-continued process.
 
 314 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 One moment, she saw the restless scene below 
 her, the diamonds, the uniforms, the blaze of 
 electric light, the tapestries on the walls, the 
 handsome faces of men and women; the next, 
 it had been wiped out; the prairies unrolled 
 before her; she beheld a green, boundless land 
 invaded by a mirage of sunny water; scattered 
 through it, the white farms; above it, a vast 
 dome of sky, with summer clouds in glistening 
 ranks climbing the steep of blue; and at the 
 horizon's edge, a line of snow-peaks. Her soul 
 leapt within her. It was as though she felt the 
 freshness of the prairie wind upon her cheek, 
 while the call of that distant land — Anderson's 
 country — its simpler life, its undetermined fates, 
 beat through her heart. 
 
 And as she answered to it, there was no sense of 
 renunciation. She was denying no old affection, 
 deserting no ancient loyalty. Old and new; 
 she seemed to be the child of both — gathering 
 them both to her breast. 
 
 Yet, practically, what was going to happen 
 to her, she did not know. She did not say to 
 herself, "It is all clear, and I am going to marry 
 George Anderson!" But what she knew at last 
 was that there was no dull hindrance in herself, 
 no cowardice in her own will; she was ready, 
 when life and Anderson should call her.
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 315 
 
 At the foot of the stairs Mariette's gaunt and 
 spectacled face broke in upon her trance. He 
 had just arrived as she was departing. 
 
 "You are off — so early.?" he asked her, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 "I want to see PhiHp before he settles for the 
 night." 
 
 "Anderson, too, meant to look in upon your 
 brother." 
 
 "Yes.f*" said Elizabeth vaguely, conscious of 
 her own reddening, and of Mariette's glance. 
 
 "You have heard his news.?" He drew her a 
 little apart into the shelter of a stand of flowers. 
 "We both go next week. You — Lady Merton 
 — have been our good angel — our providence. 
 Has he been saying that to you ? All the same — 
 ma collegue — I am disappointed in you!" 
 
 Elizabeth's eye wavered under his. 
 
 "We agreed, did we not — at Glacier — on 
 what was to be done next to our friend.? Oh! 
 don't dispute! I laid it down — and you accepted 
 it. As for me, I have done nothing but pursue 
 that object ever since — in my own way. And 
 you, Madam ?" 
 
 As he stood over her, a lean Don Quixotish 
 figure, his long arms akimbo, Elizabeth's fluttering 
 laugh broke out. 
 
 "Inquisitor! Goodnight!"
 
 3i6 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Good night — but — just a word! Anderson 
 has done well here. Your public men say agree- 
 able things of him. He will play your English 
 game — your EngHsh Imperialist game — which 
 I can't play. But only, if he is happy — if the 
 fire in him is fed. Consider! Is it not a patri- 
 otic duty to feed it .?" 
 
 And grasping her hand, he looked at her with 
 a gentle mockery that passed immediately into 
 that sudden seriousness — that unconscious air 
 of command — of which the man of interior life 
 holds the secret. In his jests even, he is still, 
 by natural gift, the confessor, the director, since 
 he sees everything as the mystic sees it, sub specie 
 {Bternitatis. 
 
 Elizabeth's soft colour came and went. But 
 she made no reply — except it were through an 
 imperceptible pressure of the hand holding her 
 own. 
 
 At that moment the ex- Viceroy, resplendent in 
 his ribbon of the Garter, who was passing through 
 the hall, perceived her, pounced upon her, and 
 insisted on seeing her to her carriage. Mariette, 
 as he mounted the staircase, watched the two 
 figures disappear — smiling to himself. 
 
 But on the way home the cloud of sisterly grief 
 descended on Elizabeth. How could she think 
 of herself — when Philip was ill — suffering —
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 317 
 
 threatened ? And how would he bear the news 
 of Anderson's hastened departure ? 
 
 As soon as she reached home, she was told by 
 the sleepy butler that Mrs. Gaddesden was in 
 the drawing-room, and that Mr. Anderson was 
 still upstairs w4th Philip. 
 
 As she entered the drawing-room, her mother 
 came running towards her with a stifled cry: 
 
 "Oh, Lisa, Lisa!" 
 
 In terror, Elizabeth caught her mother in her 
 arms. 
 
 "Mother — is he worse ?'* 
 
 "No! At least Barnett declares to me there 
 is no real change. But he has made up his mind, 
 to-day, that he will never get better. He told me 
 so this evening, just after you had gone; and 
 Barnett could not satisfy him. He has sent for 
 Mr. Robson." Robson was the family lawyer. 
 
 The two women looked at one another in a pale 
 despair. They had reached the moment when, 
 in dealing with a sick man, the fictions of love 
 drop aw^ay, and the inexorable appears. 
 
 "And now he'll break his heart over Mr. Ander- 
 son's going!" murmured the mother, in an 
 anguish. "I didn't want him to see Philip 
 to-night — but Philip heard his ring — and sent 
 down for him." 
 
 They sat looking at each other, hand in hand — ■
 
 3i8 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 waiting — and listening. Mrs. Gaddesden mur- 
 mured a broken report of the few words of conver- 
 sation which rose now, like a blank wall, between 
 all the past, and this present; and Elizabeth 
 listened, the diamonds in her hair and the folds of 
 her satin dress glistening among the shadows of the 
 half-lit room, the slow tears on her cheeks. 
 
 At last a step descended. Anderson entered 
 the room. 
 
 " He wants you," he said, to Elizabeth, as the two 
 women rose. " I am afraid you must go to him.'* 
 
 The electric light immediately above him 
 showed his frowning, shaken look. 
 
 "He is so distressed by your going?" asked 
 Elizabeth, trembling. 
 
 Anderson did not answer, except to repeat 
 insistently — 
 
 "You must go to him. I don't myself think 
 he is any worse — but — " 
 
 Elizabeth hurried away. Anderson sat down 
 beside Mrs. Gaddesden, and began to talk to her. 
 
 When his sister entered his room, Philip was 
 sitting up in an arm-chair near the fire; looking 
 so hectic, so death-doomed, so young, that his 
 sister ran to him in an agony — "Darling Philip 
 — my precious Philip — why did you want me ? 
 Why aren't you asleep ?"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 319 
 
 She bent over him and kissed his forehead, 
 and then taking his hand she laid it against her 
 cheek, caressing it tenderly. 
 
 "I'm not asleep — because I've had to think 
 of a great many things," said the boy in a firm 
 tone. "Sit down, please, Elizabeth. For a few 
 days past, I've been pretty certain about myself — 
 and to-night I screwed it out of Barnett. I haven't 
 said anything to you and mother, but — well, 
 the long and short of it is, Lisa, I'm not going to 
 recover — that's all nonsense — my heart's too 
 dicky — I'm going to die." 
 
 She protested with tears, but he impatiently 
 asked her to be calm. "I've got to say something 
 
 — something important — and don't you make 
 it harder, Elizabeth! I'm not going to get well, 
 I tell you — and though I'm not of age — legally 
 
 — yet I do represent father — I am the head of 
 the family — and I have a right to think for you 
 and mother. Haven't I .?" 
 
 The contrast between the authoritative voice, 
 the echo of things in him, ancestral and instinctive, 
 and the poor lad's tremulous fragility, was mov- 
 ing indeed. But he would not let her caress him. 
 
 "Well, these last weeks, I've been thinking a 
 great deal, I can tell you, and I wasn't going to 
 say anything to you and m.other till I'd got it 
 straight. But now, all of a sudden, Anderson
 
 320 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 comes and says that he's going back. Look here, 
 Elizabeth — I've just been speaking to Anderson. 
 You know that he's in love with you — of course 
 you do!" 
 
 With a great effort, Elizabeth controlled herself. 
 She lifted her face to her brother's as she sat on a low 
 chair beside him. "Yes, dear Philip, I know." 
 
 "And did you know too that he had promised 
 me not to ask you to marry him ? " 
 
 Elizabeth started. 
 
 " No — not exactly. But perhaps — I guessed." 
 
 "He did then!" said Philip, wearily. "Of 
 course I told him what I thought of his wanting 
 to marry you, in the Rockies; and he behaved 
 awfully decently. He'd never have said a word, 
 I think, without my leave. Well — now I've 
 changed my mind!" 
 
 Elizabeth could not help smiling through her 
 tears. With what merry scorn would she have 
 met this assertion of the patria potestas from the 
 mouth of a sound brother! Her poor Philip! 
 
 "Dear old boy! — what have you been saying 
 to Mr. Anderson ?" 
 
 "Well!"— the boy choked a little — "I've 
 been telling him that — well, never mind! — he 
 knows what I think about him. Perhaps if I'd 
 known him years ago — I'd have been different. 
 That don't matter. But I want to settle things
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 321 
 
 up for you and him. Because you know, Eliza- 
 beth, you're pretty gone on him, too!" 
 
 Elizabeth hid her face against his knee — with- 
 out speaking. The boy resumed : 
 
 "And so I've been teUing him that now I 
 thought differently — I hoped he would ask you 
 to marry him — and I knew that you cared for 
 him — but that he mustn't dream of taking you 
 to Canada. That was all nonsense — couldn't 
 be thought of! He must settle here. You've 
 lots of money — and — well, when I'm gone — 
 you'll have more. Of course Martindale will go 
 away from us, and I know he will look after mother 
 as well as you." 
 
 There was silence — till EHzabeth murmured — 
 
 "And what did he say .?" 
 
 The lad drew himself away from her with an 
 angry movement. 
 
 "He refused!" 
 
 Elizabeth lifted herself, a gleam of something 
 splendid and passionate lighting up her small face. 
 
 "And what else, dear Philip, did you expect?" 
 
 "I expected him to look at it reasonably!'* 
 cried the boy. "How can he ask a woman like 
 you to go and live with him on the prairies ? It's 
 ridiculous! He can go into English politics, if 
 he wants politics. Why shouldn't he live on your 
 money.'' Everybody does it!"
 
 322 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 " Did you really understand what you were 
 asking him to do, Phihp ?" 
 
 "Of course I did! Why, what's Canada com- 
 pared to England ? Jolly good thing for him. 
 Why he might be anything here! And as if I 
 wouldn't rather be a dustman in England 
 than a — " 
 
 "Philip, my dear boy! do rest — do go to 
 bed," cried his mother imploringly, coming into 
 the room with her soft hurrying step. "It's 
 going on for one o'clock, Elizabeth mustn't 
 keep you talking like this!" 
 
 She smiled at him with uplifted finger, trying 
 to hide from him all traces of emotion. 
 
 But her son looked at her steadily. 
 
 "Mother, is Anderson gone?" 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Gaddesden, with hesitation. 
 " But he doesn't want you to talk any more to-night 
 — he begs you not. Please — Philip!" 
 
 "Ask him to come here!" said Philip, peremp- 
 torily. "I want to talk to him and Elizabeth." 
 
 Mrs. Gaddesden protested in vain. The mother 
 and daughter looked at each other with flushed 
 faces, holding a kind of mute dialogue. Then 
 Elizabeth rose from her seat by the fire. 
 
 "I will call Mr. Anderson, Phihp. But if we 
 convince you that what you ask is quite impossible, 
 will you promise to go quietly to bed and try to
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 323 
 
 sleep ? It breaks mother's heart, you know, to 
 see you straining yourself like this." 
 
 Philip nodded — a crimson spot in each cheek, 
 his frail hands twining and untwining as he tried 
 to compose himself. 
 
 Elizabeth went half-way down the stairs and 
 called. Anderson hurried out of the drawing- 
 room, and saw her bending to him from the shad- 
 ows, very white and calm. 
 
 "Will you come back to Philip a moment?" 
 she said, gently. *' Philip has told me what he 
 proposed to you." 
 
 Anderson could not find a word to say. In a 
 blind tumult of feeling he caught her hand, and 
 pressed his lips to it, as though appealing to her 
 dumbly to understand him. 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 "It will be all right," she whispered. "My 
 poor Phihp!" and she led him back to the sick 
 room. 
 
 "George — I wanted you to come back, to 
 talk this thing out," said Philip, turning to him 
 as he entered, with the tyranny of weakness. 
 " There's no time to waste. You know — every- 
 body knows — I may get worse — and there'll 
 be nothing settled. It's my duty to settle — " 
 
 Elizabeth interrupted him. 
 
 "Phihp darUng!— "
 
 324 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 She was hanging over his chair, while Ander- 
 son stood a few feet away, leaning against the 
 mantelpiece, his face turned from the brother 
 and sister. The intimacy — solemnity almost — 
 of the sick-room, the midnight hour, seemed 
 to strike through Elizabeth's being, deepening 
 and yet liberating emotion. 
 
 "Dear Philip! It is not for Mr. Anderson to 
 answer you — it is for me. If he could give up 
 his country — for happiness — even for love — 
 I should never marry him — for — I should not 
 love him any more." 
 
 Anderson turned to look at her. She had 
 moved, and was now standing in front of Philip, 
 her head thrown back a little, her hands lightly 
 clasped in front of her. Her youth, her dress, her 
 diamonds, combined strangely with the touch of 
 high passion in her shining eyes, her resolute voice. 
 
 "You see, dear PhiHp, I love George Ander- 
 son — 
 
 Anderson gave a low cry — and, moving to 
 her side, he grasped her hand. She gave it to 
 him, smiling — and went on: 
 
 "I love him — partly — because he is so true 
 to his own people — because I saw him first — 
 and knew him first — among them. No! dear 
 Philip, he has his work to do in Canada — in 
 that great, great nation that is to be. He has
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 325 
 
 been trained for it — no one else can do it but he — 
 and neither you nor I must tempt him from it." 
 
 The eyes of the brother and sister met. Ehza- 
 beth tried for a hghter tone. 
 
 " But as neither of us couU tempt him from it — 
 it is no use talking — is it .?" 
 
 Philip looked from her to Anderson in a frown- 
 ing silence. No one spoke for a little while. 
 Then it seemed to them as though the young 
 man recognised that his effort had failed, and 
 his physical weakness shrank from renewing it. 
 But he still resisted his mother's attempt to put 
 an end to the scene. 
 
 "That's all very well, Lisa," he said at last, 
 "but what are you going to do ?" 
 
 Elizabeth withdrew her hand from Anderson's. 
 
 "What am I going to do f Wait — just that!" 
 
 But her lip trembled. And to hide it she sank 
 down again in the low chair in front of her brother, 
 propping her face in both hands. 
 
 "Wait.?" repeated Philip, scornfully — " and 
 what for .?" 
 
 "Till you and mother — come to my way of 
 thinking — and " — she faltered — " till Mr. 
 Anderson — " 
 
 Her voice failed her a moment. Anderson 
 stood motionless, bending towards her, hanging 
 upon her every gesture and tone.
 
 326 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "Till Mr. Anderson — "she resumed, "is — 
 well! — is brave enough to — trust a woman! 
 and — oh! good Heavens!" — she dashed the 
 tears from her eyes, half laughing, as her self- 
 control broke down — "clever enough to save her 
 from proposing to him in this abominable way!" 
 
 She sprang to her feet impatiently. Anderson 
 would have caught her in his arms; but with a 
 flashing look, she put him aside. A wail broke 
 from Mrs. Gaddesden: 
 
 " Lisa — you won't leave us ! " 
 
 "Never, darling — unless you send me! — or 
 come with me! And now, don't you think, PhiHp 
 dearest, you might let us all go to bed .? You are 
 really not worse, you know; and Mother and I are 
 going to carry you off south — very, very soon." 
 
 She bent to him and kissed his brow. Philip's 
 face gradually changed beneath her look, from 
 the tension and gloom with which he had begun 
 the scene to a kind of boyish relief — a touch of 
 pleasure — of mischief even. His high, majesti- 
 cal pretensions vanished away; a light and volatile 
 mind thought no more of them; and he turned 
 eagerly to another idea. 
 
 "Elizabeth, do you know that you have pro- 
 posed to Anderson ?" 
 
 " If I have, it was your fault." 
 
 "He hasn't said Yes?"
 
 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 327 
 
 Elizabeth was silent. Anderson came forward 
 
 — but Philip stopped him with a gesture. 
 
 "He can't say Yes — till I give him back his 
 promise," said the boy, triumphantly. "Well, 
 George, I do give it you back — on one condition 
 
 — that you put off going for a week, and that you 
 come back as soon as you can. By Jove, I think 
 you owe me that!" 
 
 Anderson's difficult smile answered him. 
 
 "And now you've got rid of your beastly Con- 
 ference, you can come in, and talk business with 
 me to-morrow — next day — every day!" Philip 
 resumed, "can't he, Elizabeth .? If you're going 
 to be my brother, I'll jolly well get you to tackle 
 the lawyers instead of me — boring old idiots! 
 I say — I'm going to take it easy now!" 
 
 He settled himself in his chair with a long breath, 
 and his eyelids fell. He was speaking, as they 
 all knew, of the making of his will. Mrs. Gad- 
 desden stooped piteously and kissed him. Eliza- 
 beth's face quivered. She put her arm round her 
 mother and led her away. Anderson went to 
 summon Philip's servant. 
 
 A little later Anderson again descended the dark 
 staircase, leaving Philip in high spirits and appar- 
 ently much better. 
 
 In the doorway of the drawing-room, stood a 
 white form. Then the man's passion, so long
 
 328 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 dyked and barriered, had its way. He sprang 
 towards her. She retreated, catching her breath; 
 and in the shadows of the empty room she sank 
 into his arms. In the crucible of that embrace 
 all things melted and changed. His hesitations 
 and doubts, all that hampered his free will and 
 purpose, whether it were the sorrows and humili- 
 ations of the past — or the compunctions and 
 demurs of the present — dropped away from him, 
 as unworthy not of himself, but of Elizabeth. 
 She had made him master of herself, and her 
 fate; and he boldly and loyally took up the part. 
 He had refused to become the mere appanage of 
 her life, because he was already pledged to that 
 great idea he called his country. She loved him 
 the more for it; and now he had only to abound 
 in the same sense, in order to hold and keep the 
 nature which had answered so finely to his own. 
 He had so borne himself as to wipe out all the 
 social and external inequalities between them. 
 What she had given him, she had had to sue him 
 to take. But now that he had taken it, she knew 
 herself a weak woman on his breast, and she 
 realised with a happy tremor that he would 
 make her no more apologies for his love, or for 
 his story. Rather, he stood upon that dignity 
 she herself had given him — her lover, and the 
 captain of her life!
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 About nine months later than the events told in 
 the last chapter, the August sun, as it descended 
 upon a lake in that middle region of the northern 
 Rockies which is known as yet only to the Indian 
 trapper, and — on certain tracks — to a handful 
 of white explorers, shone on a boat containing 
 two persons — Anderson and Elizabeth. It was 
 but twenty-four hours since they had reached the 
 lake, in the course of a long camping expedition 
 involving the company of two guides, a couple 
 of half-breed voyageurs, and a string of sixteen 
 horses. No white foot had ever before trodden 
 the slender beaches of the lake; its beauty of 
 forest and water, of peak and crag, of sun and 
 shadow, the terror of its storms, the loveliness of 
 its summer — only some stray Indian hunter, 
 once or twice in a century perhaps, throughout 
 all the aeons of human history, had ever beheld 
 them. 
 
 But now, here were Anderson and Elizabeth! — 
 first invaders of an inviolate nature, pioneers of 
 a long future line of travellers and worshippers. 
 
 329
 
 330 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 They had spent the day of summer sunshine 
 in canoeing on the broad waters, exploring the 
 green bays, and venturing a long way up a beautiful 
 winding arm which seemed to lose itself in the 
 bosom of superb forest-skirted mountains, whence 
 glaciers descended, and cataracts leapt sheer into 
 the glistening water. Now they were floating 
 slowly towards the little promontory where their 
 two guides had raised a couple of white tents, and 
 the smoke of a fire was rising into the evening air. 
 
 Sunset was on the jagged and snow-clad heights 
 that shut in the lake to the eastward. The rose 
 of the sky had been caught by the water and 
 interwoven with its own lustrous browns and cool 
 blues; while fathom-deep beneath the shining 
 web of colour gleamed the reflected snows and 
 the forest slopes sliding downwards to infinity. 
 A few bird-notes were in the air — the scream of 
 an eagle, the note of a whip-poor-will, and far 
 away across the lake a dense flight of wild duck 
 rose above a reedy river-mouth, black against a 
 pale band of sky. 
 
 They were close now to the shore, and to a spot 
 where lightning and storm had ravaged the pines 
 and left a few open spaces for the sun to work. 
 Elizabeth, in delight, pointed to the beds of wild 
 strawberries crimsoning the slopes, intermingled 
 with stretches of bilberry, and streaks of blue
 
 EPILOGUE 331 
 
 and purple asters. But a wilder life was there. 
 Far away the antlers of a swimming moose could 
 be seen above the quiet lake. Anderson, sweeping 
 the side with his field glass, pointed to the ripped 
 tree-trunks, which showed where the brown 
 bear or the grizzly had been, and to the tracks of 
 lynx or fox on the firm yellow sand. And as they 
 rounded the point of a little cove they came upon 
 a group of deer that had come down to drink. 
 
 The gentle creatures were not alarmed at their 
 approach; they raised their heads in the red light, 
 seeing man perhaps for the first time, but they 
 did not fly. Anderson stayed the boat — and 
 he and Elizabeth watched them with enchant- 
 ment — their slender bodies and proud necks, 
 the bright sand at their feet, the brown water in 
 front, the forest behind. 
 
 Elizabeth drew a long breath of joy — looking 
 back again at the dying glory of the lake, and 
 the great thunder-clouds piled above the forest. 
 
 "Where are we exactly.?" she said. "Give 
 me our bearings." 
 
 "We are about seventy miles north of the main 
 line of the C. P. R., and about forty or fifty miles 
 from the projected line of the Grand Trunk 
 Pacific," said Anderson. "Make haste, dearest, 
 and name your lake! — for where we come, 
 others will follow."
 
 332 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 So Elizabeth named it — Lake George — after 
 her husband; seeing that it was his topographical 
 divination, his tracking of the lake through the 
 ingenious unravelling of a score of Indian clues 
 which had led them at last to that Pisgah height 
 whence the silver splendour of it had first been 
 seen. But the name was so hotly repudiated by 
 Anderson on the ground of there being already 
 a famous and an historical Lake George on the 
 American continent, that the probability is, when 
 that noble sheet of water comes to be generally 
 visited of mankind, it will be known rather as 
 Lake Elizabeth; and so those early ambitions of 
 Elizabeth which she had expressed to Philip in 
 the first days of her Canadian journeying, will 
 be fulfilled. 
 
 Alas! — poor Philip! Elizabeth's black serge 
 dress, and the black ribbon on her white sun-hat 
 were the outward tokens of a grief, cherished 
 deep in her protesting, pitiful heart. Her brother 
 had lived for some four months after her engage- 
 ment to Anderson; always, in spite of encouraging 
 doctors, under the same sharp premonition of 
 death which had dictated his sudden change of 
 attitude towards his Canadian friend. In the 
 January of the new year, Anderson had joined 
 them at Bordighera, and there, after many 
 alternating hopes and fears, a sudden attack of

 
 EPILOGUE 3SS 
 
 pneumonia had slit the thin-spun life. A few 
 weeks later, at Mrs. Gaddesden's urgent desire, 
 and while she was in the care of a younger sister 
 to whom she was tenderly attached, there had been 
 a quiet wedding at Genoa, and a very pale and 
 sad Elizabeth had been carried by her Anderson to 
 some of the beloved Italian towns, where for so 
 long she had reaped a yearly harvest of delight. 
 In Rome, Florence, and Venice she must needs 
 rouse herself, if only to show the keen novice 
 eyes beside her what to look at, and to grapple 
 with the unexpected remarks which the spectacle 
 evoked from Anderson. He looked in respectful 
 silence at Bellini and Tintoret; but the industrial 
 growth of the north, the strikes of hraccianti on 
 the central plains, and the poverty of Sicily and 
 the south — in these problems he was soon deeply 
 plunged, teaching himself ItaHan in order to 
 understand them. 
 
 Then they had returned to Mrs. Gaddesden, 
 and to the surrender of Martindale to its new 
 master. For the estate went to a cousin, and 
 when the beauty and the burden of it were finally 
 gone, Philip's gentle ineffectual mother departed 
 with relief to the moss-grown dower-house beside 
 Bassenthwaite lake, there to sorrow for her only 
 son, and to find in the expansion of Elizabeth's 
 life, in Elizabeth's letters, and the prospects of
 
 334 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 Elizabeth's visits, the chief means left of courage 
 and resignation. Philip's love for Anderson, his 
 actual death in those strong arms, had strengthened 
 immeasurably the latter's claim upon her; and in 
 March she parted with him and Elizabeth, promis- 
 ing them boldly that she w^ould come to them in 
 the fall, and spend a Canadian winter with them. 
 Then Anderson and Elizabeth journeyed West 
 in hot haste to face a general election, Anderson 
 was returned, and during three or four months 
 at Ottawa, Elizabeth was introduced to Canadian 
 poHtics, and to the swing and beat of those young 
 interests and developing national hopes which, 
 even after London, and for the Londoner, lend 
 romance and significance to the simpler life of 
 Canada's nascent capital. But through it all 
 both she and Anderson pined for the West, and 
 when Parliament rose in early July, they fled first 
 to their rising farm-buildings on one of the 
 tributaries of the Saskatchewan, and then, till 
 the homestead was ready, and the fall ploughing 
 in sight, they had gone to the Rockies, in order 
 that they might gratify a passionate wish of 
 Elizabeth's — to get for once beyond beaten 
 tracks, and surprise the unknown. She pleaded 
 for it as their real honeymoon. It might never 
 be possible again; for the toils of life would soon 
 have snared them.
 
 EPILOGUE 335 
 
 And so, after a month's wandering beyond all 
 reach of civilisation, they were here in the wild 
 heart of Manitou's wild land, and the red and 
 white of Elizabeth's cheek, the fire in her eyes 
 showed how the god's spell had worked. . . . 
 
 The evening came. Their frugal meal, prepared 
 by one of the Indian half-breeds, and eaten in a 
 merry community among beds of orchids and vetch, 
 was soon done; and the husband and wife pushed 
 off again in the boat — for the densely wooded 
 shores of the lake were impassable on foot — to 
 watch the moon rise on this mysterious land. 
 
 And as they floated there, often hand in hand, 
 talking a little, but dreaming more — Anderson's 
 secret thoughts reviewed the past year, and the 
 incredible fortune which had given him Elizabeth. 
 
 Deep in his nature was still the old pessimism, 
 the old sadness. Could he make her happy .? In 
 the close contact of marriage he realised all that 
 had gone to the making of her subtle and delicate 
 being — the influences of a culture and tradition 
 of which he was mostly ignorant, though her love 
 was opening many gates to him. He felt himself in 
 many respects her inferior — and there were dark 
 moments when it seemed to him inevitable that 
 she must tire of him. But whenever they over- 
 shadowed him, the natural reaction of a vigorous
 
 336 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 manhood was not far off. Patriotism and passion 
 — a profound and simple pride — stood up and 
 wrestled with his doubt. She was not less, but 
 more, than he had imagined her. What was in 
 truth his safeguard and hers, was the fact that, 
 at the very root of her, Elizabeth was a poet! She 
 had seen Canada and Anderson from the beginning 
 in the light of imagination; and that light was 
 not going to fail her now. For it sprang from 
 the truth and glow of her own nature; by the help 
 of it she made her world; and Canada and Ander- 
 son moved under it, nobly seen and nobly felt. 
 
 This he half shrinkingly understood, and he 
 repaid her with adoration, and a wisely yielding 
 mind. For her sake he was ready to do a hundred 
 things he had never yet thought of, reading, 
 inquiring, observing, in wider circles and over 
 an ampler range. For as the New World, through 
 Anderson, worked on Elizabeth — so Europe, 
 through Elizabeth, worked on Anderson. And 
 thus, from life to life, goes on the great inter- 
 penetrating, intermingling flux of things! 
 
 It seemed as though the golden light could not 
 die from the lake, though midsummer was long 
 past. And presently up into its midst floated the 
 moon, and as they watched the changing of the 
 light upon the northern snow-peaks, they talked
 
 EPILOGUE ^ 337 
 
 of the vast undiscovered regions beyond, of the 
 valleys and lakes that no survey has ever mapped, 
 and the rivers that from the beginning of time 
 have spread their pageant of beauty for the 
 heavens alone; then, of that sudden stir and 
 uproar of human life — prospectors, navvies, 
 lumbermen — that is now beginning to be heard 
 along that narrow strip where the new line of the 
 Grand Trunk Pacific is soon to pierce the wilder- 
 ness — yet another link in the girdling of the 
 world. And further yet, their fancy followed, 
 ever northward — solitude beyond solitude, desert 
 beyond desert — till, in the Yukon, it lit upon 
 gold-seeking man, dominating, at last, a terrible 
 and hostile earth, which had starved and tortured 
 and slain him in his thousands, before he could 
 tame her to his will. 
 
 And last — by happy reaction — it was the 
 prairies again — their fruitful infinity — and the 
 emigrant rush from East and South. 
 
 "When we are old" — said Elizabeth softly, 
 slipping her hand into Anderson's — "will all 
 this courage die out of us ^ Now — nothing of 
 all this vastness, this mystery frightens me. I 
 feel a kind of insolent, superhuman strength! — 
 as if I — even I — could guide a plough, reap corn, 
 shoot rapids, 'catch a wild goat by the hair — and 
 hurl my lances at the sun!'"
 
 338 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 "With this hand?" said Anderson, looking 
 at it with a face of amusement. But Elizabeth 
 took no heed — except to slip the other hand after 
 it — both into the same shelter. 
 
 She pursued her thought, murmuring the 
 words, the white lids falling over her eyes: 
 
 " But when one is feeble and dying, will it all 
 grow awful to me .? Suddenly — shall I long 
 to creep into some old, old corner of England or 
 Jtaly — and feel round me close walls, and dim 
 small rooms, and dear, stuffy, familiar streets 
 that thousands and thousands of feet have worn 
 before mine V 
 
 Anderson smiled at her. He had guided their 
 boat into a green cove where there was a little 
 strip of open ground between the water and the 
 forest. They made fast the boat, and Anderson 
 found a mossy seat under a tall pine from which 
 the lightning of a recent storm had stripped a' 
 great limb, leaving a crimson gash in the trunk. 
 And there Elizabeth nestled to him, and he with 
 his arm about her, and the intoxication of her 
 slender beauty mastering his senses, tried to answer 
 her as a plain man may. The commonplaces of 
 passion — its foolish promises — its blind con- 
 fidence — its trembling joy — there is no other 
 path for love to travel by, and Elizabeth and 
 Anderson trod it like their fellows.
 
 EPILOGUE 339 
 
 Six months later on a clear winter evening 
 Elizabeth was standing in the sitting-room of 
 a Saskatchewan farmhouse. She looked out 
 upon a dazzling world of snow, lying thinly under 
 a pale greenish sky in which the sunset clouds 
 were just beginning to gather. The land before 
 her sloped to a broad frozen river up which a 
 wagon and a team of horses was plodding its 
 way — the steam rising in clouds round the 
 bodies of the horses and men. On a track 
 leading to the river a sledge was running — 
 the bells jingling in the still, light air. To her 
 left were the great barns of the homestead, and 
 beyond, the long low cowshed, with a group of 
 Shorthorns and Herefords standing beside the 
 open door. Her eyes delighted in the whiteness 
 of the snow, or the touches of orange and scarlet 
 in the clumps of bush, in a note of crimson here 
 and there, among the withered reeds pushing 
 through the snow, or in the thin background of 
 a few taller trees — the "shelter-belt" of the 
 farm — rising brown and sharp against the blue. 
 
 Within the farmhouse sitting-room flamed a 
 great w^ood fire, which shed its glow on the white 
 walls, on the prints and photographs and books 
 which were still Elizabeth's companions in the 
 heart of the prairies, as they had been at Martin- 
 dale. The room was simplicity itself, yet full
 
 340 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 of charm, with its blue druggetting, its pale green 
 chairs and hangings. At its further end, a curtain 
 half drawn aside showed another room, a dining- 
 room, also firelit — with a long table spread for 
 tea, a bare floor of polished woodblocks, and a 
 few prints on the walls. 
 
 The wagon she had seen on the river 
 approached the homestead. The man who was 
 driving it — a strong-limbed, fair-haired fellow — 
 lifted his cap when he saw Elizabeth at the 
 window. She nodded and smiled at him. He 
 was Edward Tyson, one of the two engine-drivers 
 who had taken her and Philip through the Kicking 
 Horse Pass. His friend also could be seen stand- 
 ing among the cattle gathered in the farmyard. 
 They had become Anderson's foremen and 
 partners on his farm of twelve hundred acres, of 
 which only some three hundred acres had been 
 as yet brought under plough. The rest was still 
 virgin prairie, pasturing a large mixed herd of 
 cattle and horses. The two North-Countrymen 
 had been managing it all in Anderson's Parliamen- 
 tary absences, and were quite as determined as he 
 to make it a centre of science and progress for 
 a still remote and sparely peopled district. One 
 of the kinsmen was married, and lived in a small 
 frame house, a stone's throw from the main 
 buildings of the farm. The other was the head
 
 EPILOGUE 341 
 
 of the "bothy" or boarding-house for hired men, 
 a long low building, with cheerful white-curtained 
 windows, which could be seen just beyond the 
 cow-house. 
 
 As she looked over the broad whiteness of the 
 farmlands, above which the sunset clouds were 
 now tossing in climbing lines of crimson and gold, 
 rising steeply to a zenith of splendour, and opening 
 here and there, amid their tumult, to show a 
 further heaven of untroubled blue — Elizabeth 
 thought with lamentation that their days on the 
 farm were almost done. The following week 
 could see them at Ottawa for the opening of the 
 session. Anderson was full of Parliamentary 
 projects; important work for the Province had 
 been entrusted to him; and in the general labour 
 policy of the Dominion he would find himself 
 driven to take a prominent part. But all the 
 while his heart and Elizabeth's were in the land 
 and its problems; for them the true, the entrancing 
 Canada was in the wilds. And for Anderson, 
 who through so many years, as an explorer and 
 engineer, had met Nature face to face, his will 
 against hers, in a direct and simple conflict, the 
 tedious and tortuous methods of modern politics 
 were not easy to learn. He must indeed learn 
 them — he was learning them; and the future 
 had probably great things in store for him, as a
 
 342 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 politician. But he came back to the Saskatchewan 
 farm with joy, and he would leave it reluctantly. 
 
 "If only I wasn't so rich!" thought Elizabeth, 
 with compunction. For she often looked with 
 envy on her neighbours who had gone through 
 the real hardships of the country; who had bought 
 their Canadian citizenship with the toil and frugal- 
 ity of years. It seemed to her sometimes that 
 she was step-child rather than daughter of the 
 dear new land, in spite of her yearning towards it. 
 
 And yet money had brought its own romance. 
 It had enabled Anderson to embark on this ample 
 farm of nearly two square miles, to staff it with the 
 best labour to be got, on a basis of copartnership, 
 to bring herds of magnificent cattle into these 
 park-like prairies, to set up horse-breeding, and 
 to establish on the borders of the farm a large 
 creamery which was already proving an attraction 
 for settlers. It was going to put into Elizabeth's 
 hands the power of helping the young University 
 of Strathcona just across the Albertan border, 
 and perhaps of founding in their own provincial 
 capital of Regina a training college for farm- 
 students — girls and boys — which might repro- 
 duce for the West the college of St. Anne's, that 
 wonderful home of all the useful arts, which an 
 ever-generous wealth has given to the Province 
 of Quebec. Already she had in her mind a cottage
 
 EPILOGUE 343 
 
 hospital — sorely wanted — for the little town of 
 Donaldminster, wherein the weaklings of this 
 great emigrant army now pouring into the country 
 might find help. 
 
 Her heart, indeed, was full of schemes for help. 
 Here she was, a woman of high education, and 
 much wealth, in the midst of this nascent com- 
 munity. Her thoughts pondered the life of these 
 scattered farms — of the hard-working women 
 in them — the lively rosy-cheeked children. It 
 was her ambition so to live among them that 
 they might love her — trust her — use her. 
 
 Meanwhile their own home was a "temple of 
 industrious peace." Elizabeth was a prairie 
 housewife like her neighbours. She had indeed 
 brought out with her from Cumberland one of 
 the Martindale gardeners and his young wife and 
 sister; and the two North-Countrywomen shared 
 with the farm mistress the work of the house, 
 till such time as Anderson should help the husband 
 to a quarter-section of his own, and take someone 
 else to train in his place. But the atmosphere of 
 the house was one of friendly equality. Elizabeth 
 — who had herself gone into training for a few 
 weeks at St. Anne's — prided herself on her 
 dairy, her bread, her poultry. One might have 
 seen her, on this winter afternoon, in her black 
 serge dress with white cap and apron, slipping into
 
 344 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 the kitchen behind the dining-room, testing the 
 scones in the oven, looking to the preparations 
 for dinner, putting away stores, and chatting to 
 the two clear-eyed women who loved her, and 
 would not for the world have let her try her 
 strength too much! For she who was so eagerly 
 planning the help of others must now be guarded 
 and cherished herself — lest ill befall! 
 
 But now she was at the window watching for 
 Anderson. 
 
 The trail from Donaldminster to Battleford 
 passed in front of the house, dividing the farm. 
 Presently there came slowly along it a covered 
 wagon drawn by a pair of sorry horses and piled 
 at the back with household possessions. In 
 front sat a man of slouching carriage, and in the 
 interior of the wagon another figure could be 
 dimly seen. The whole turn-out gave an impres- 
 sion of poverty and misfortune; and Elizabeth 
 looked at it curiously. 
 
 Suddenly, the wagon drew up with a jerk 
 at the gate of the farm, and the man descended, 
 with difficulty, his limbs being evidently numb 
 with cold. 
 
 EHzabeth caught up a fur cloak and ran to the 
 
 door. 
 
 "Could you give us a bit of shelter for the 
 night V said the man sheepishly. "We'd thought
 
 EPILOGUE 345 
 
 of getting on to Battleford, but the little un's bad — 
 and the missus perished with cold. We'd give you 
 no trouble if we might warm ourselves a bit." 
 
 And he looked under his eyebrows at Elizabeth, 
 at the bright fire behind her, and all the comfort 
 of the new farmhouse. Yet under his shuffling 
 manner there was a certain note of confidence. 
 He was appealing to that Homeric hospitality 
 which prevails throughout the farms of the North- 
 west. 
 
 And in five minutes, the horses were in the barn, 
 the man sitting by the kitchen fire, while 
 Elizabeth was ministering to the woman and child. 
 The new-comers made a forlorn trio. They came 
 from a district some fifty miles further south, and 
 were travelling north in order to take shelter for 
 a time with relations. The mother was a girl of 
 twenty, worn with hardship and privation. The 
 father, an English labourer, had taken up free 
 land, but in spite of much help from a paternal 
 Government, had not been able to fulfil his statu- 
 tory obligation, and had now forfeited his farm. 
 There was a history of typhoid fever, and as Eliza- 
 beth soon suspected, an incipient history of drink. 
 In the first two years of his Canadian life the man 
 worked for a farmer during the summer, and 
 loafed in Winnipeg during the winter. There 
 demoralisation had begun, and as Elizabeth
 
 346 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 listened, the shadow of the Old World seemed 
 to be creeping across the radiant Canadian land- 
 scape. The same woes ? — the same weak- 
 nesses ? — the same problems of an unsound urban 
 Hfe ? 
 
 Her heart sank for a moment — only to provoke 
 an instant reaction of cheerfulness. No! — in 
 Canada the human will has still room to work, and 
 is not yet choked by a jungle growth of interests. 
 
 She waited for Anderson to come in, and mean- 
 while she warmed and comforted the mother. 
 The poor girl looked round her in amazement 
 at the pretty spacious room, as she spread her 
 hands, knotted and coarsened by work, to the 
 blaze. Elizabeth held her sickly babe, rocking 
 it and crooning to it, while upstairs one of 
 kind-eyed Cumberland women was getting a 
 warm bath ready, and lighting a fire in the guest- 
 room. 
 
 "How old Is it?" she asked. 
 
 "Thirteen months." 
 
 "You ought to give up nursing it. It would 
 be better for you both." 
 
 " I tried giving it a bit o' what we had ourselves," 
 said the mother, dully — "But I nearly lost her." 
 
 "I should think so!" laughed Elizabeth indig- 
 nantly; and she began to preach rational ways 
 of feeding and caring for the child, while the
 
 EPILOGUE 347 
 
 mother sat by, despondent, and too crushed and 
 hopeless to take much notice. Presently EHza- 
 beth gave her back the babe, and went to fetch 
 hot tea and bread and butter. 
 
 "Shall I come and get it in the kitchen .?" said 
 the woman, rising. 
 
 "No, no — stay where you are!" cried Elizabeth. 
 And she was just carrying back a laden tray from 
 the dining-room when Anderson caught her. 
 
 "Darling! — that's too heavy for you! — what 
 are you about ?" 
 
 "There's a woman in there who's got to be 
 fed — and there's a man in there" — she pointed 
 to the kitchen — "who's got to be talked to. 
 Hopeless case! — so you'd better go and see 
 about it!" 
 
 She laughed happily in his face, and he snatched 
 a kiss from her as he carried off the tray. 
 
 The woman by the fire rose again in amaze- 
 ment as she saw the broad-shouldered handsome 
 man who was bringing in the tea. Anderson 
 had been tramping through the thin-lying snow 
 all day, inquiring into the water-supply of a 
 distant portion of the farm. He was ruddy with 
 exercise, and the physical strength that seemed 
 to radiate from him intimidated the wanderer. 
 
 "Where are you bound to.^" he said kindly, 
 as he put down the tea beside her.
 
 348 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 The'woman, falteringly, told her story. Ander- 
 son frowned a little. 
 
 "Well, I'd better go and talk to your husband. 
 Mrs. Anderson will look after you." 
 
 And EHzabeth held the baby, while the woman 
 fed languidly — too tired and spiritless indeed 
 to eat. 
 
 When she could be coaxed no further, Elizabeth 
 took her and the babe upstairs. 
 
 "I never saw anything like this in these parts!" 
 cried the girl, looking round her at the white-tiled 
 bathroom. 
 
 "Oh, they're getting quite common!" laughed 
 Elizabeth. "See how nice and warm the water 
 is! Shall we bathe the baby ?" And presently the 
 child lay warm and swaddled in its mother's 
 arms, dressed in some baby-clothes produced 
 by Elizabeth from a kind of travellers' cupboard 
 at the top of the stairs. Then the mother was 
 induced to try a bath for herself, while Elizabeth 
 tried her hand at spoon-feeding the baby; and in 
 half an hour she had them both in bed, in the 
 bright spare-room — the young mother's reddish 
 hair unbound lying a splendid mass on the white 
 pillows, and a strange expression — as of some long 
 tension giving way — on her pinched face. 
 
 "We'll not know how to thank you" — she 
 said brokenly. "We were just at the last. Tom
 
 EPILOGUE 349 
 
 wouldn't ask no one to help us before. But we'd 
 only a few shillings left — we thought at Battle- 
 ford, we'd sell our bits of things — perhaps that'd 
 take us through." She looked piteously at 
 Elizabeth, the tears gathering in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh! well, we'll see about that!" said Elizabeth, 
 as she tucked the blankets round her. "Nobody 
 need starve in this country! Mr. Anderson '11 
 be able perhaps to think of something. Now 
 you go to sleep, and we'll look after your husband." 
 
 Anderson joined his wife in the sitting-room, 
 with a perplexed countenance. The man was 
 a poor creature — and the beginnings of the 
 drink-craving were evident. 
 
 "Give him a chance," said Elizabeth. "You 
 want one more man in the bothy." 
 
 She sat down beside him, while Anderson 
 pondered, his legs stretched to the fire. A train 
 of thought ran through his mind, embittered by 
 the memory of his father. 
 
 He was roused from it by the perception that 
 Elizabeth was looking tired. Instantly he was 
 all tenderness, and anxious misgiving. He made 
 her He down on the sofa by the fire, and brought 
 her some important letters from Ottawa to read, 
 and the English newspapers. 
 
 From the elementary human need with which 
 their minds had just been busy, their talk passed
 
 350 LADY MERTON, COLONIST 
 
 on to National and Imperial affairs. They dis- 
 cussed them as equals and comrades, each 
 bringing their own contribution. 
 
 "In a fortnight we shall be in Ottawa!" sighed 
 Elizabeth, at last. 
 
 Anderson smiled at her plaintive voice. 
 
 "Darling! — is it such a tragedy.?" 
 
 "No, I shall be as keen as anybody else when 
 we get there. But — we are so happy here!" 
 
 "Is that really, really true.?" asked Anderson, 
 taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. 
 
 "Yes" — she murmured — "yes — but it will 
 be truer still next year!" 
 
 They looked at each other tenderly. Anderson 
 stooped and kissed her, long and closely. 
 
 He was called away to give some directions 
 to his men, and Elizabeth lay dreaming in the 
 firelight of the past and the future, her hands 
 clasped on her breast, her eyes filling with soft 
 tears. Upstairs, in the room above her, the 
 emigrant mother and baby lay sleeping in the 
 warmth and shelter gathered round them by 
 Elizabeth. But in tending them, she had been 
 also feeding her own yearning, quickening her 
 own hope. She had given herself to a man whom 
 she adored, and she carried his child on her 
 heart. Many and various strands would have 
 gone to the weaving of that little soul; she trembled
 
 EPILOGUE 351 
 
 sometimes to think of them. But no fear with 
 her lasted long. It was soon lost in the deep 
 poetic faith that Anderson's child in her arms 
 would be the heir of two worlds, the pledge of 
 a sympathy, a union, begun long before her 
 marriage in the depths of the spirit, when her 
 heart first went out to Canada — to the beauty 
 of the Canadian land, and the freedom of the 
 Canadian life. 
 
 THE END
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
 
 
 PRINTED IN U S A.
 
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