appearance went, for his strength had fully come back to him, and, as he lay among the wineberries in an easy pose, his thin duck garments displayed the fine proportions of a figure that had been trained almost to muscular perfection by strenuous labour. The light of the paling sunset was on his bronzed face, and it revealed the elusive delicacy that characterized it. Nasmyth was certainly a well-favoured man, but there were respects in which his companion was not altogether satisfied with him. She had, as she admitted, restored him to bodily health, but, after all, that was only going so far, and she felt it was possible that she might accomplish a little more, though there was no very evident reason why she should wish to do so. Still, she was conscious of the wish.
“I was wondering,” she said, “how long you would be content to stay.”
Nasmyth gazed at her in evident astonishment. “Stay!” he exclaimed. “Oh, you can call it twenty years, if one must be precise.”
“Ah!” replied Laura, “in one sense, that is an admission I’m not exactly pleased that you should make.”
The man raised himself slowly, and his face became intent as he strove to grasp her meaning. He was not in the least astonished that she should speak to him as she did, for there are few distinctions drawn between the hired man and those who employ him on the Pacific slope, and he had discovered already that the girl was at least his equal in intelligence and education. In fact, he had now and then a suspicion that her views of life were broader than his. In the meanwhile it was in one respect gratifying to feel that she could be displeased at anything he might think or do.
“I’m not quite sure I see the drift of that,” he said.
“You would be content to continue a ranch-hand indefinitely?”
“Why not?” Nasmyth asked, with a smile.
Laura once more looked at him with an almost disconcerting steadiness, and she had, as he was already aware, very fine eyes. She, however, noticed the suggestive delicacy of his face, which had, as it happened, more than once somewhat displeased her, and a certain languidness of expression, with which she had also grown almost impatient. This man, she had decided, was too readily acquiescent.
“That,” she continued, “is rather a big question, isn’t it?”
“Ah!” said Nasmyth reflectively. “Now I begin to understand. Well, I don’t mind admitting that I once had ambitions and the means of gratifying them, as well as an optimistic belief in myself. That, however, was rudely shattered when the means were withdrawn, and a man very soon learns of how little account he is in Western Canada. Why shouldn’t I be content to live as the ranch-hands do, especially when it’s tolerably evident that I can’t do anything else?”
“You are forgetting that most of them were born to it. That counts for a good deal. Have you noticed how far some of the others drift?” A faint trace of heightened colour crept into her cheeks. “Perhaps one couldn’t blame them when they have once acquired the whisky habit and a Siwash wife.”
Nasmyth lay very still for a few moments, resting on one elbow among the wineberries, for she had, after all, only suggested a question that had once or twice troubled him. It was, however, characteristic of him that he had temporized, and, though he knew it must be answered some day, had thrust it aside.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “you want to send me away. Now, I had almost fancied I had made things easier in various ways for you, and we have been good comrades, haven’t we? One could call it that?”
“Yes,” agreed Laura slowly; “I think one could call it that.”
“Then,” returned Nasmyth, “why do you want me to go?”
It was difficult to answer, and, to begin with, Laura did not exactly know she desired him to leave the ranch–in fact, she was willing to admit that there were several reasons why she wished him to stay. Still, perhaps because she had watched over him in his sickness, and, so Gordon said, had snatched him back to life again, she had a certain pride in him, and vaguely felt that. In one sense, he belonged to her. She would not have him throw away the life she had saved, and she had recognized, as many of his English friends had not, the perilously acquiescent side of his character. He was, she feared, one who had an unfortunate aptitude for drifting.
“That,” she said, “is rather more than I could explain either to myself or to you, but I will tell you something. They are going to build the pulp-mill down the valley, and they are now asking for tenders for the construction of the dam. The thing, I have heard, is not big enough to interest contractors from the cities, and most of the men round here have their hands full with their ranches.”
Nasmyth became a trifle more intent. “Still,” he remarked, “I have never built a dam.”
“You told me you were rather a good chopper, and I think you are. You have made roads, too, and know how to handle giant-powder in the rock-cutting, and how to use the drill.”
“There are shoals of men in this country who know considerably more about those things than I do.”
Laura made a little impatient gesture. “Yes,” she admitted, “there are, but they are simple Bushmen for the most part; and does intellect count for nothing at all? Are a trained understanding and a quick comprehension of no use when one builds a dam?”
Nasmyth frowned, though she saw a little glow kindle in his eyes. “I’m by no means sure that I possess any of those desirable qualities. Besides, there’s a rather serious objection–that of finance.”
Then Laura Waynefleet made it clear that she had considered the question, and she favoured the man with a glimpse of the practical side of her character.
“The stores give long credit, and partial payments are generally made as a work of that kind goes on. Then it is not a very unusual thing for workmen to wait for their wages until the contract is carried through.”
Nasmyth lay still for at least another minute. He had gradually lost his ambition during the few years he had wandered through the Bush of British Columbia. The aimless life was often hard, but it had its compensations, and he had learned to value its freedom from responsibility and care. When he did not like a task he had undertaken, he simply left it and went on again. Still, he had had misgivings now and then when he noticed how far some of his comrades had drifted. Presently he rose slowly to his feet.
“Well,” he said, “you’re right, I think, and, if I’m given an opportunity, I’ll undertake the thing. The credit will be yours if I’m successful.”
The girl rose. “Then,” she admonished, with a faint smile, “don’t tell me that you have failed.”
She turned away and left him somewhat abruptly, but Nasmyth did not resume his fishing, though he could hear the big trout splashing in the pool as the sunset light faded off the water. He lay down among the wineberries, which were scattered among the glossy leaves like little drops of blood, to think harder than he had thought for a considerable time. An hour ago, as he had told Laura Waynefleet, he would have been well content to stay on at the ranch, and, though she had roused him, he knew that it would cost him an effort to leave it. He was not, he fancied, in love with her. Indeed, he now and then admitted that she would probably look for more from the man who won her favour than there was in him, but the camaraderie–he could think of no better word for it–that had existed between them had been very pleasant to him.
He realized that he was in one sense hers to dispose of. She had, in all probability, saved his life, and now she was endeavouring to arouse his moral responsibility. She was sending him out to play a man’s part in the
