Canada, though Rossiter showed him how impossible that was, both in point of time and of geography as well. He had brought them together within the first few days, and Jim, silent, gloomy, morose, even surly, had eyed him like an enemy. Old Rossiter, the milk of human kindness as thick in his veins as cream, had taken no offence. Grizzled veteran of the wilds, he had served his full term with the Company and now enjoyed his well-earned pension. He was fullof stories, reminiscences, adventures of every sort and kind; he knew men and values, had seen strange things that only the true wilderness delivers, and he loved nothing better than to tell them over a glass. He talked with Jim so genially and affably that little response was called for luckily, for Jim was glum and unresponsive almost to rudeness. Old Rossiter noticed nothing. What Tom noticed was, chiefly perhaps, his brother's acute uneasiness. Between his desire to help, his attachment to Rossiter, and his keen personal distress, he knew not what to do or say. The situation was becoming too much for him.
The two families, besides--Peace and Rossiter--had been neighbours for generations, had intermarried freely, and were related in various degrees. He was too fond of his brother to feel ashamed, but he was glad when the visit was over and they were out of their host's house. Jim had even declined to drink with him.
"They're good fellows on the island," said Tom on their way home, "but not specially entertaining, perhaps. We all stick together though. You can trust 'em mostly."
"I never was a talker, Tom," came the gruff reply. "You know that." And Tom, understanding more than[13] he understood, accepted the apology and made generous allowances.
"John likes to talk," he helped him. "He appreciates a good listener."
"It's the kind of talk I'm finished with," was the rejoinder. "The Company and their goings-on don't interest me any more. I've had
enough."
Tom noticed other things as well with those affectionate eyes of his that did not want to see yet would not close. As the days drew in, for instance, Jim seemed reluctant to leave the house towards evening. Once the full light of day had passed, he kept indoors. He was eager and ready enough to shoot in the early morning, no matter at what hour he had to get up, but he refused point blank to go with his brother to the lake for an evening flight. No excuse was offered; he simply declined to go.
The gap between them thus widened and deepened, while yet in another sense it grew less formidable. Both knew, that is, that a
secret lay between them for the first time in their lives, yet both knew also that at the right and proper moment it would be revealed.
6
Jim only waited till the proper moment came. And Tom understood. His deep, simple love was equal to all emergencies. He respected his brother's reserve. The obvious desire of John Rossiter to talk and ask questions, for instance, he resisted staunchly as far as he was able. Only when he could help and protect his brother did he yield a little. The talk was brief, even monosyllabic; neither the old Hudson Bay fellow nor the Orkney farmer ran to many words:
"He ain't right with himself," offered John, taking his pipe out of his mouth and leaning forward. "That's what I don't like to see." He put a skinny hand on Tom's knee, and looked earnestly into his face as he said it.
"Jim!" replied the other. "Jim ill, you mean!" It sounded ridiculous.[14]
"His mind is sick."
"I don't understand," Tom said, though the truth bit like rough-edged steel into the brother's heart. "His soul, then, if you like that better."
Tom fought with himself a moment, then asked him to be more explicit.
"More'n I can say," rejoined the laconic old backwoodsman. "I don't know myself. The woods heal some men and make others sick." "Maybe, John, maybe." Tom fought back his resentment. "You've lived, like him, in lonely places. You ought to know." His mouth
shut with a snap, as though he had said too much. Loyalty to his suffering brother caught him strongly. Already his heart ached for Jim. He felt angry with Rossiter for his divination, but perceived, too, that the old fellow meant well and was trying to help him. If he lost Jim, he lost the world--his all.
A considerable pause followed, during which both men puffed their pipes with reckless energy. Both, that is, were a bit excited. Yet both had their code, a code they would not exceed for worlds.
"Jim," added Tom presently, making an effort to meet the sympathy half way, "ain't quite up to the mark, I'll admit that." There was another long pause, while Rossiter kept his eyes on his companion steadily, though without a trace of expression in
them--a habit that the woods had taught him.
"Jim," he said at length, with an obvious effort, "is skeered. And it's the soul in him that's skeered."
Tom wavered dreadfully then. He saw that old Rossiter, experienced backwoodsman and taught by the Company as he was, knew where the secret lay, if he did not yet know its exact terms. It was easy enough to put the question, yet he hesitated, because loyalty forbade.
"It's a dirty outfit somewheres," the old man mumbled to himself.[15]
Tom sprang to his feet, "If you talk that way," he exclaimed angrily, "you're no friend of mine--or his." His anger gained upon him as he said it. "Say that again," he cried, "and I'll knock your teeth----"
He sat back, stunned a moment.
"Forgive me, John," he faltered, shamed yet still angry. "It's pain to me, it's pain. Jim," he went on, after a long breath and a pull at
his glass, "Jim is scared, I know it." He waited a moment, hunting for the words that he could use without disloyalty. "But it's nothing he's done himself," he said, "nothing to his discredit. I know that."
Old Rossiter looked up, a strange light in his eyes. "No offence," he said quietly.
"Tell me what you know," cried Tom suddenly, standing up again.
The old factor met his eye squarely, steadfastly. He laid his pipe aside.
7
"D'ye really want to hear?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Because, if you don't--why, say so right now. I'm all for justice," he added, "and always was."
"Tell me," said Tom, his heart in his mouth. "Maybe, if I knew--I might help him." The old man's words woke fear in him. He well knew his passionate, remorseless sense of justice.
"Help him," repeated the other. "For a man skeered in his soul there ain't no help. But--if you want to hear--I'll tell you." "Tell me," cried Tom. "I will help him," while rising anger fought back rising fear.
John took another pull at his glass. "Jest between you and me like."
"Between you and me," said Tom. "Get on with it."
There was a deep silence in the little room. Only the sound of the sea came in, the wind behind it. "The Wolves," whispered old Rossiter. "The Wolves of God."
Tom sat still in his chair, as though struck in the[16] face. He shivered. He kept silent and the silence seemed to him long and curious. His heart was throbbing, the blood in his veins played strange tricks. All he remembered was that old Rossiter had gone on talking. The voice, however, sounded far away and distant. It was all unreal, he felt, as he went homewards across the bleak, wind-swept upland, the sound of the sea for ever in his ears....
