The Long Portage Part 18

After a few minutes' keen excitement, they landed the beautiful glistening trout; and then they set off down-stream in search of another, scrambling over rock and gravel and wading amidst the froth in the pools.

Overhead, soft gray clouds drifted by, casting long shadows across fern-clad hillside and far-reaching moor; and the flood flashed into silver gleams and grew dim again.

Both of the men were well content with their surroundings, and now and then Nasmyth wondered why Clarence could not be satisfied with the simple pleasures that were freely offered him. He could have had the esteem of his neighbors and the good will of his tenants, and there were healthful tasks that would have kept him occupied--the care of his estate, the improving of the homes and conditions of life of those who worked for him, experiments in stock-raising, local public duties. He had once slipped badly, so badly that the offense could hardly be contemplated; but that was when he was weak and famis.h.i.+ng and under the influence of an overwhelming fear. At least, he could make some reparation by leaving the countryside better than he found it, and in this he had friends who would loyally a.s.sist him.

Clarence, however, had chosen another way, one that led down-hill to further dishonor; and Nasmyth considered gloomily what the end of it all would be. Occasionally he glanced at the lithe figure of the Canadian, standing knee-deep amid the froth of the stream. Serious-eyed, alert, resolute, he could be depended on to carry out any purpose he had determined on; it was his firm hands that would hold Clarence's scourge.

CHAPTER XII

MRS. GLADWYNE'S APPEAL

Millicent was sitting in a window-seat with a paint-box beside her and a drawing of a water-ouzel upon her knee. It was a lifelike sketch, but she had a great capacity for painstaking and she was not altogether pleased with the drawing. The bird stood on a stone an inch or two above a stream, its white breast harmonizing with the flecks of snowy froth, and the rest of its rather somber plumage of the same hue as a neighboring patch of shadow. This was as it should be, except that, as the central object of a picture, it was too inconspicuous. She was absorbed in contemplating it when Mrs. Gladwyne was shown in. Clarence's mother did not pay many visits and Millicent fancied she had some particular object in coming.

She sat down where the sunlight fell on her gentle face and silvery hair, her delicate white hands spread out on her dark dress.

"Busy, as usual, my dear," she said, glancing at the sketch. "That's very pretty."

"I think it's correct," returned Millicent; "but I'm not sure it's what it ought to be in other respects. You see, its purpose is to show people what a water-ouzel is like and it's hard to make the creature out. Of course, I could have drawn it against a background that would have forced up every line, but that wouldn't have been right--these wild things were made to fade into their surroundings." She laughed. "Truth is rigid and uncompromising--it's difficult to make it subservient to expediency."

Her visitor did not feel inclined to discuss the matter.

"You're too fastidious," she smiled, and added with a sigh: "George was like that. Little things keep cropping up every day to show it--I mean in connection with his care of the property. I'm sometimes afraid that Clarence is different."

Millicent could not deny this, but she did not see his mother's purpose in confessing it.

"Of course," she answered, as she rang for tea, "he hasn't been in charge very long. One can learn only by experience."

Mrs. Gladwyne looked grateful; but although she was very tranquil there was something in her manner that hinted at uncertainty.

"You will finish the book and these pictures some day," she said. "What will you do then?"

"I really don't know. Perhaps I shall start another. If not, there is always something I can turn my hand to. So many things seem to need doing--village matters alone would find me some occupation."

The elder lady considered this.

"Yes," she agreed with diffidence. "I'm now and then afraid everything's not quite so satisfactory as it used to be. The cottages don't look so pretty or well cared for, the people are not so content--some of them are even inclined to be bitter and resentful. Of course, things change, our relations with our dependents among them; but I feel that people like the Marples, living as they do, have a bad effect. They form a text for the dissatisfied."

Millicent contented herself with a nod. She could not explain that in spite of the changing mode of thought it is still possible for an old-fas.h.i.+oned landlord to retain almost everybody's good will. Sympathy and tactful advice are appreciated, though not effusively, and even a bluff, well-meant reproof is seldom resented. But when rents are rigorously exacted by a solicitor's or banker's clerk, and repairs are cut down, when indifference takes the place of judicious interest, it is hardly logical to look for the cordial relations that might exist.

Nasmyth's tenants stopped and exchanged a cheery greeting or a jest with him; most of Gladwyne's looked grim when he or his friends, the Marples, pa.s.sed.

Then tea was brought in and Millicent found pleasure in watching her guest. Mrs. Gladwyne made a picture, she thought, sitting with the dainty china in her beautiful hands; she possessed the grace and something of the stateliness which is a.s.sociated with the old regime.

"How quick your people are," she commented. "You rang and the things were brought in. Our staff is large and expensive, but as a rule they keep us waiting. Though you paint and go out so much, you have the gift of making a home comfortable. It really is a gift; one that should not be wasted."

Millicent grew serious. It looked as if her companion were coming to the point, and this became plainer when Mrs. Gladwyne proceeded.

"Do you think the life you contemplate--writing books on birds and animals--is the best or most natural one for a woman?"

A little color crept into the girl's face.

"I don't know; perhaps it isn't. It is the one that seems open to me."

"The only one, my dear? You must know what I mean."

Millicent turned and faced her. She was disturbed, but she seldom avoided a plain issue.

"I think," she said, "it would be better if you told me."

"It's difficult." Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. "You must forgive me if I go wrong. Still, you know it was always expected that you would marry Clarence some day. It would be so desirable."

"For which of us?" Millicent's tone was sharp. She sympathized with Mrs.

Gladwyne, but something was due to herself.

"It was Clarence that I was thinking of," admitted her visitor. "I suppose that I am selfish; but I am his mother." She laid down her cup and looked at the girl with pleading eyes. "I must go on, though I don't think I could say what I wish to any one but you. Clarence has many good qualities, but he needs guidance. An affectionate son; but it is my misfortune that I am not wise or firm enough to advise or restrain him. I have dropped behind the new generation; the standards are different from what they were when I was young."

This was true, but it was incomplete, and Millicent let her finish.

"I have been a little anxious, perhaps foolishly so, about him now and then. I cannot approve of all his friends--sometimes they jar on me--and I do not like the views he seems to have acquired from them. They are not the ones his father held. Of course, this is only the result of wrong a.s.sociations and of having a good-humored, careless nature; it would be so different if he could be brought under some wholesome influence." She smiled at Millicent. "One could trust implicitly to yours."

It was an old plea, fallacious often, but none the less effective.

Millicent was devoid of officious self-righteousness, but she was endowed with a compa.s.sionate tenderness which prompted her to extend help to all who needed it. She thought that Clarence did so, but in spite of that she did not feel so responsive as she could have wished.

"There is one difficulty," she answered while the blood crept into her face. "I'll own that I recognized what your ideas and George's were about Clarence and myself. I may go so far. But of late there has been nothing to show that Clarence desired to carry out those ideas."

Mrs. Gladwyne gathered her courage.

"My dear, it is rather hard to say, but the truth is that a declaration from a man is not usually quite spontaneous. He looks for some tacit encouragement, a sign that one is not altogether indifferent to him. Now it has struck me that during the past year you have rather stood aloof from my son."

Millicent started slightly; there was some truth in this statement. Mrs.

Gladwyne, however, was not wise enough to stop.

"I think that is why there is some risk of his falling into bad hands--that Crestwick girl isn't diffident," she went on. "I know the strong regard he has for you; but the girl sees a good deal of him, and a man is sometimes easily led where he does not mean to go."

Millicent's cheeks burned.

"Do you wish me to compete openly for Clarence's favor with Bella Crestwick?"

Mrs. Gladwyne spread out her hands in protest.

"Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed. "I have said the wrong thing. I warned you that you might have to forgive me."

"But the thought must have been in your mind!"

"I only meant that you needn't repel or avoid him, as you have done of late."

Millicent felt compa.s.sionate. After all, Mrs. Gladwyne was pleading for what she believed would benefit her only son; but the girl was very human and a trace of her resentment remained. It was, however, obvious that Mrs. Gladwyne expected some response.