Harold Bindloss - The Protector

Vane, who remembered that Evelyn had said something to the same effect, had already discovered that Carroll possessed a keen insight in certain matters.

“And her sister?” he suggested.

“You won’t mind my saying that I’m inclined to be sorry for her? She has learned repression – been driven into line. That girl has character, but it’s being cramped and stunted. You live in walled-in compartments in this country.”

Vane strolled along the terrace thoughtfully. He was not offended, and he understood his companion’s attitude. Like other men of education and good upbringing, driven by unrest or disaster to the untrammelled life of the bush, Carroll had gained sympathy as well as knowledge. Facing facts candidly, he seldom indulged in decided protest against any of them. On the other hand, Vane was on occasion liable to outbreaks of indignation.

“Well,” said the latter at length, “I guess it’s time to go to bed.”

Vane rose early next morning, as he had been accustomed to do, and taking a towel with him made his way across dewy meadows and between tall hedgerows to the tarn. Stripping where the rabbit-cropped sward met the mossy boulders, he swam out joyously, breasting the little ripples which splashed and sparkled beneath the breeze that had got up with the sun. Coming back where the water lay in shadow beneath a larch wood, which as yet had not wholly lost its vivid green, he disturbed the paddling moor-hens and put up a mallard from a clump of swaying reeds. Then he dressed and turned homewards.

Scrambling over a limestone wall tufted thick with parsley fern, he noticed Mabel stooping down over an object which lay among the heather where a rough cartroad approached a wooden bridge. On joining her, he saw that it was a finely-built canoe with a hole in one bilge she was examining. She looked up at him ruefully, as she said, “Very sad, isn’t it? That stupid Little did it with his clumsy cart.”

“I think it could be mended,” Vane replied.

“Old Beavan – he’s the wheelwright – said it couldn’t, and dad said I could hardly expect him to send the canoe back to Kingston. He bought it for me at an exhibition.” Then a thought seemed to strike her. “Perhaps you had something to do with canoes in Canada?”

“I used to pole one loaded with provisions up a river, and carry the lot round several falls. You’re fond of paddling.”

“I love it. I used to row the fishing-punt, but it’s too old to be safe, and now the canoe’s smashed I can’t go out.”

“Well,” said Vane, “we’ll walk across and see what we can find in Beavan’s shop.”

They crossed the heath to a tiny hamlet nestling in a hollow of a limestone crag. There Vane made friends with the wheelwright, who regarded him dubiously at first, and obtained a piece of larch board from him. The grizzled North countryman watched him closely as he set a plane, which is a delicate operation, and then raised no objection when Vane made use of his work bench. After that, Vane, who had sawn up the board, borrowed a few tools and copper nails, and he and Mabel went back to the canoe. On the way she glanced at him curiously.

“I wasn’t sure old Beavan would let you have the things,” she remarked. “It isn’t often he’ll lend even a hammer, but he seemed to take to you; I think it was the way you handled his plane.”

“It’s strange what little things win some people’s good opinion, isn’t it?”

“Oh! don’t,” she exclaimed. “That’s how the Archdeacon talks. I thought you were different.”

The man acquiesced in the rebuke, and after an hour’s labour at the canoe, scraped the red lead he had used off his hands, and sat down beside the craft. By and by he became conscious that his companion was regarding him with what seemed to be approval.

“I really think you’ll do, and we’ll get on,” she informed him. “If you had been the wrong kind you would have worried about your red hands. Still, you could have rubbed them on the heather, instead of on your socks.”

“I might have thought of that,” Vane agreed. “But, you see, I’ve been accustomed to wearing old clothes. Anyway, you’ll be able to launch the canoe as soon as the joint’s dry.”

“There’s one thing I should have told you,” the girl replied. “Dad would have sent the canoe away to be mended if it hadn’t been so far. He’s very good when things don’t ruffle him; but he hasn’t been fortunate lately. The lead mine takes a good deal of money.”

Vane admired her loyalty, and refrained from taking advantage of her candour, though there were one or two questions he would have liked to ask. When he was last in England, Chisholm had been generally regarded as a man of means, though it was rumoured that he was addicted to hazardous speculations. Mabel, who did not seem to mind his silence, went on:

“I heard Stevens – he’s the gamekeeper – tell Beavan that dad should have been a rabbit because he’s so fond of burrowing. No doubt, that meant he couldn’t keep out of mines.”

Vane made no comment, and to change the subject, reminded her: “Don’t you think it’s getting on for breakfast time?”

“It won’t be for a good while yet. We don’t get up early, and though Evelyn used to, it’s different now. We went out on the tarn every morning, even in the rain; but I suppose that’s not good for one’s complexion, though bothering about such things doesn’t seem to be worth while. Aunt Julia couldn’t do anything for Evelyn, though she had her in London for some time. Flora is our shining light.”

“What did she do?” Vane inquired.

“She married the Archdeacon, and he isn’t so very dried up. I’ve seen him smile when I talked to him.”

“I’m not astonished at that, Mabel.”

His companion looked up at him demurely. “My name’s not Mabel – to you. I’m Mopsy to the family, but my special friends call me Mops. You’re one of the few people one can be natural with, and I’m getting sick – you won’t be shocked at that – of having to be the opposite.”

Half an hour later, Vane, who had seldom had to wait so long for it, sat down to breakfast. All he saw spoke of ease and taste and leisure. Evelyn, who sat opposite him, looked wonderfully fresh in her white dress. Mopsy was as amusing as she dared to be; but he felt drawn back to the restless world again as he glanced at his hostess and saw the wrinkles round her eyes and a hint of cleverly-hidden strain in her expression. He fancied a good deal could be inferred from the fragments of information her youngest daughter had let drop.

It was the latter who suggested that they should picnic upon the summit of a lofty hill, from which there was a striking view; and as this met with the approval of Mrs. Chisholm, who excused herself from accompanying them, they set out an hour later. The day was bright, with glaring sunshine, and a moderate breeze drove up wisps of ragged cloud that dappled the hills with flitting shadow.

Vane carried the provisions in a fishing-creel, and on leaving the head of the valley they climbed leisurely up easy slopes, slipping on the crisp hill grass now and then. By and by they plunged into tangled heather on a bolder ridge, which was rent by black gullies, down which at times wild torrents poured. This did not trouble either of the men, but Vane was surprised at the ease with which Evelyn threaded her way across the heath. She wore a short skirt, and he noticed the supple grace of her movements and the delicate colour the wind had brought into her face. She had changed since they left the valley. She seemed to have flung off something, and her laugh had a gayer ring; but while she chatted with him he was still conscious of a subtle reserve in her manner.