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Silent Battle

<h2>XXVIII THE LODESTAR</h2></div> April dissolved in mist and rain and the flowers of May were blossoming. Nellie Pennington, who had not yet despaired, and Nina Jaffray, who had, were driving in the Park in Mrs. Pennington’s victoria. For two months Mrs. Pennington had been paying Nina more than usual attention. To begin with she liked her immensely as she had always done. Nina’s faults she believed to be the inevitable result of her education and environment, for Nina was the daughter of a Trust, and was its only indulgence. The habit of getting what she wanted was in her blood and she simply couldn’t understand being balked in anything. But Nina was beginning slowly and with some difficulty to grasp the essentials of Philip Gallatin’s character and the permanence of his reconstruction; and with the passage of time and event Nina had a glimmering of the true caliber of his mind, all of which brought out with unflattering definiteness her own frivolity and gave a touch of farce-comedy, with which she had in her heart been far from investing it, to her unconventional wooing. Nellie Pennington understood her, and noted with no little satisfaction the evidence of the chastening of her spirit. She knew now beyond all doubt that had it not been for Nina, the reconciliation of Jane and Phil Gallatin would have been effected. She knew, too, that Nina had not played fair, and guessed by what means Jane had been victimized. Indeed,[339] Jane’s indifference to Nina bore all tokens of intolerance, the intolerance of the pure for the contaminated, the contemptuous pity of the innocent for the guilty. But Mrs. Pennington had not lived in vain, and a talent for living her own life according to an accepted code, had given her a kindly insight into the lives of others. Whatever Nina’s faults, she had never merited Jane’s pity or contempt. Jane was a fool, of course, but so was Nina, each in her own way—a fool; but of the two it now seemed that Nina was the lesser. Nellie Pennington had already noticed signs that Nina was tired of the game and knew that if Larry Kane played his own trumps with care, he might still win the odd trick, which was Nina. But as far as Jane was concerned, Nellie also knew that Nina was ready to die at her guns, for a dislike once born in Nina’s breast was not speedily dispelled. Mrs. Pennington looked up at the obelisk as though in the hope that some of the wisdom of its centuries might suddenly be imparted to her. Then she asked, “Nina, why don’t you marry Larry Kane?” Nina Jaffray smiled. “And confess defeat? Why?” “Better confess it now than later.” “Why confess it at all?” “You’ll have to some day. You’re not going to marry Phil, you know.” “No, I’m not going to marry Phil. I know that now. I haven’t proposed to him for at least a month—and then he was quite impolite—rude, in fact.” She sighed. “Oh, I don’t care, but I don’t want Jane Loring to marry him.” “She’s not likely to. She’s as hopelessly stubborn as you are.” Nellie Pennington waited a moment, and then with a laugh, “Nina, you’ve enjoyed yourself immensely, haven’t[340] you? Jane is such an innocent. I’d give worlds to know what you said to her!” Nina laughed. “Would you?” “Yes, do tell me.” “I will. It’s very amusing. She expected me to lie, of course. So I simply told her the truth.” “And she believed——” “The opposite.” “Of course.” Nellie Pennington laughed up at the passing tree tops. “How clever of you, Nina! You’re wasting your time single. A girl of your talents needs an atmosphere in which to display them.” “And you suggest matrimony,” said Nina scornfully. “There’s always your husband, you know.” “But Larry isn’t an atmosphere. He’s too tangible.” “All men are. It’s their chief charm.” “H-m. I’ve never thought so. I shouldn’t have wanted to marry Phil if he had been tangible.” “Then suppose he had—er—accepted you?” Nina shrugged and crossed her knees. “I should probably have hated him cordially.” The conversation changed, then lagged, and by the time Nina’s home was reached both women were silent, Nina because she was bored, Nellie because she was thinking. “Good-by, dear,” laughed Nina, as she got down at her door. “Don’t be surprised at anything you hear. I’m quite desperate, so desperate that I may even take your advice. You’ll see me off at the pier, won’t you?” Nellie Pennington nodded. She was quite sure that it was better for everybody that Miss Jaffray should be upon the other side of the water. The week following, quite by chance she met Henry[341] K. Loring one afternoon in the gallery at the Metropolitan where the ceramics were. An emissary from the office was opening the cases for him and with rare delight he was examining their contents with a pocket glass. She watched him for a while and when the great man relinquished the last piece of Lang-Yao sang de bœuf and the case was closed and locked, she intercepted him and led him off to a bench in a quiet corner where she laid before him the result of a week of deliberation. He had begun by being bored, for there was a case of the tea-dust glazes which he had still planned to look over, but in a moment he had warmed to her proposals and was discussing them with animation. Yes, he had already planned to go to the Canadian woods again this summer. Mrs. Loring wanted to go abroad this year. Mrs. Loring didn’t like the woods unless he rented a permanent camp, the kind of place that he and Jane despised. The plan had been discussed and Jane had expressed a willingness to go. But at Mrs. Loring’s opposition the matter had been dropped. But Loring had not given up the idea. It would do Jane a lot of good, he admitted. Mrs. Pennington’s was a great plan, a brave plan, a beautiful plan, one that did credit to her sympathies and one that must in the end be successful. He would manage it. He would take the matter up at once and arrange for the same guides and outfit he had had last year. Would Mr. and Mrs. Pennington come as his guests? Of course. Who else—Mr. Worthington and Colonel Broadhurst? But could Mr. Kenyon be relied upon to do his share? Very well. He would leave that to Mrs. Pennington. The next afternoon, at Mrs. Pennington’s request, John Kenyon called at her house in Stuyvesant Square, and his share in the arrangement was explained to him.[342] He was willing to do anything for Phil Gallatin’s happiness that he could, of course, but it amused him to learn how the agreeable lady had taken that willingness for granted, and how she waved aside the difficulties which, as Kenyon suggested, might be encountered. Phil might have other plans. He could be obstinate at times. It might not be easy, either, to get Phil’s old guide for the pilgrimage. He needed a rest himself, and would go with Phil himself, if by doing so he could be of any assistance. It was now the first week in May. He would see Phil and report in a few days. It was the next morning at the office when Kenyon broached the matter to his young partner. He was surprised that Phil fell in with the plan at once. “Funny,” said Phil. “I was thinking of that yesterday. I am tired. The woods will do me a lot of good, but do you think that Hood can get along without us until August?” “We’ll manage in some way. You deserve a rest, and I’m going to take one whether I deserve it or not. Could you get that guide you had last year, what’s his name—Joe——?” “Keegón. I could try. We’d need two, but Joe can get another man. I have the address. I’ll write to-day.” Gallatin got up and walked across the room to the door, where he stopped. “I suppose I can fix matters with Mr. Loring——” “Yes, I think so,” replied Kenyon guardedly. “But you’d better be sure of it. He’s coming here to-morrow, isn’t he?” Gallatin nodded gravely, and then thoughtfully went out. That night John Kenyon dutifully reported in Stuyvesant Square. Mr. Loring also dutifully reported there,[343] and the three persons completed the details of the conspiracy. So it happened that toward the middle of June, Phil Gallatin and John Kenyon reached the “jumping-off place” in the Canadian wilds. No two “jumping-off places” are alike, but this one consisted of three or four frame dwellings and a store, all squatted on the high bank of a small river, which came crystal-clear from the mystery of the deep woods above. John Kenyon got down from the stage that had driven them the ten miles from the nearest railroad station and stood on the plank walk in front of the store, a touch of color in his yellow cheeks, sniffing eagerly at the smell of the pine balsam. Gallatin glanced around at the familiar scene. Nothing was changed—the canoes drawn up along the bank, the black setter dog, the Indian packers lounging in the shade, the smell of their black tobacco, and the cool welcome of the trader who came out of the store to greet them. Joe Keegón and another Indian, whose name turned out to be Charlie Knapp, got the valises out of the wagon. Gallatin offered Joe his hand, and the Indian took it with the steady-eyed taciturnity of the wilderness people. Joe was no waster of words or of emotion. He led the way into the store of the trader, and they went over the outfit together—blankets, ammunition, tea, pork, flour, tents, and all the rest of it, while John Kenyon sat on a flour barrel, swinging his legs, smoking a corncob pipe and listening. That night, after Phil had turned in, he sent a letter and a telegram to a Canadian address and gave them to the teamster with some money. Then he, too, went to bed—dreaming of Arcadia. <hr class="tb" /> They had been in the woods for three weeks now.[344] They weren’t traveling as light as Phil had done the year before and the outfit included two canoes, well loaded. So they went slowly northward by easy stages, fishing the small streams and camping early. Gallatin had at first been in some doubt as to his partner’s physical fitness for severe work, but he soon found that he need have given himself no concern, for with every day a year seemed to be slipping away from John Kenyon, who insisted on taking his share of the burdens with a will that set Phil Gallatin’s mind at rest. And as they went farther into the wilderness, they made almost camp for camp the ones that Phil had made the year before. John Kenyon had hoped that Phil would take him into the Kawagama country. He wanted very much to see that waterfall on the south fork of the Birch River that Phil had spoken of. Kenyon had an eye for the beautiful. For some time he had been wondering what course of action he would take if Phil refused to fall in with his plans, and had already begun to think that it was time to take Joe into his confidence; but he soon found that subterfuge was unnecessary, for Gallatin was directing their course with an unerring definiteness to his own farthest camp among the hills. John Kenyon guessed something of what was passing in the mind of the younger man, and over the camp-fire watched him furtively. The sun and wind had tanned him and the vigorous exercise had brought an appetite that had filled the hollows of his cheeks; but in spite of the glow of health and youth and the delight of their old friendship, a shadow still hung in Phil Gallatin’s eyes, which even the joy of the present could not dispel. Kenyon smoked quietly and asked subtle questions about their further pilgrimage. “To-morrow we’ll reach the permanent camp, eh, Joe?” said Gallatin. [345] Keegón nodded. “We’ll stay there for a while—fish and explore.” As the time approached for his dénouement, Kenyon had a guilty sense of intrusion which tempered his delight in the possible success of the venture. But he remembered that he had had little to do in shaping the course of events or the direction of their voyage, except to modify the speed of their journeys so that Phil might reach the spot intended at the appointed time. Phil seemed drawn forward as though by a lodestar to his destination, as though some force greater than his own will was impelling him. Kenyon had taken pains to keep a record by the calendar. It was the twenty-eighth of June. The next day Kenyon changed places with Phil and went in Joe’s canoe, when he took the old Indian into his confidence. “We will camp to-night. To-morrow Phil will want to go fishing alone. You must keep him in camp until the next day. Then you must go with him in the morning, and lead him to the camp in the hills where the deer was killed. Comprenez?” Joe had learned to understand this grave, quiet man from the city, who did his share of the work and who never complained, and he recognized, by its contrast to this docility and willingness, the sudden voice of authority. He nodded. “A’right,” he said, with a nod. “I take heem.” Joe’s loquacity was flattering. It was the first time on their pilgrimage that Kenyon had heard Joe utter more than one word at a time. The woods had seemed so vast, so interminable that Kenyon had often wondered whether it would be possible to find a spot so lacking in identity as the one they were seeking. But Joe’s nod and smile completely reassured[346] him. In his unfamiliarity with the wilderness he had forgotten that here was Joe Keegón’s city, its trails, portages and streams as clearly mapped in his mind as the streets of John Kenyon’s New York. The Indian would find the place where the deer was killed. Kenyon breathed a sigh of relief. The wheel of Destiny was spinning now and Kenyon had nothing to do but sit and watch. He had done his share. That night there was much to do, but Keegón seemed in no hurry. When Gallatin, who seemed tireless was for making a permanent camp at once, Joe shook his head and went on cleaning fish. “To-morrow,” he said. When the morrow came, Gallatin was off in the underbrush hunting firewood before the others were awake. From his place by the fire Joe watched him lazily. “Aren’t you going to get to work, Joe?” “Soon,” the Indian grunted, but made no movement to get up. “I want to fish.” “To-morrow.” “Why not to-day?” “Make camp.” “It won’t take all day to make camp.” “Rest,” said Joe. And that was all that Gallatin could get out of him, so he said no more, for he knew by experience that when Joe’s mind had decided a question of policy, mere words made no impression on him. John Kenyon listened from the flap of the tent, with a sleepy eye on the rising sun. “Don’t try to combat the forces of nature, my son,” he laughed. “Joe’s right! I for one am going to take things easy.” And he rolled himself in his blanket, sank back on his balsam couch and closed his eyes again. [347] There was nothing for Phil but to bow to the inevitable. That day he worked harder even than the guides and it seemed to John Kenyon that some inward force was driving him at the top of his bent. He spoke little, laughed not at all and late in the afternoon went off upstream alone with his rod and creel, returning later gloomy and morose. “No fish,” said Joe, looking at the empty creel. “Fish to-morrow!” Joe actually smiled and Gallatin laughed in spite of himself. “Beeg fish—to-morrow,” repeated Joe. “I show—um.” The next day Kenyon stayed in camp with Charlie Knapp, and watched Phil’s departure upstream. Joe had full instructions and as he followed Gallatin’s broad shoulders into the brush he turned toward the fire and nodded to Kenyon. There was a pact between them and Kenyon understood. The sun was high before Joe left the stream and cut into the underbrush. His employer hadn’t even taken his rod from its case, and his creel was empty. Early in the morning he had asked his guide to take him to the little stream where the deer was killed, and he followed the swift noiseless steps of the old Indian, his shoulders bent, his eyes peering through the thicket in search of landmarks. It was midday before the two men reached the familiar water and Phil identified the two bowlders above his old camping-place. Here Keegón halted, eying the pool below. “Fish,” said he. Gallatin fingered at the fastenings of his rod case, looking downstream, while Joe sat on a rock and munched a biscuit. [348] “I’m going downstream, Joe. You follow.” The Indian nodded and Gallatin moved down among the rocks in the bed of the stream. Pools invited him, but he did not fish. He had not even jointed his rod. He was moving rapidly now, like a man with a mission, a mission with which fishing had nothing in common, splashing through the shallow water, jumping from rock to rock, or where the going was good along the shore, through the underbrush. There was a trail to follow now, a faint trail scarcely defined, but in which he saw the faint marks of last year’s footprints. His own they must be, heavy from the weight of the deer he had carried through the mud and wet. They were the symbols of his regeneration. Since then he had brought other burdens to camp and had thrown them at her feet, for what? Later on, in a moist spot, he stopped and peered at the ground curiously. Other footprints had emerged from somewhere and joined his own, fresh footprints, one made by the in-turned toe of an Indian, the other smaller, the heel of which cut deep into the mud and moss. He bent forward following them eagerly. What could a woman be doing here? Suddenly Gallatin straightened and sniffed the air. The smoke of a camp fire! The smell of cooking fish! Some one had preceded him. He moved forward cautiously, his heart beating with suppressed excitement, his mind for the first time aware that unusual impulses had dominated him all the morning. He also knew that the smell of those cooking fish was delicious. In a moment he recognized the glade, the two beech trees and the rock, saw the bulk of the shack that he had built, the glow of the fire and a small figure sitting on a log before it, cooking fish on a spit. He stopped[349] and passed a hand before his eyes. Had a year passed? Or was it—yesterday? Who was the girl that sat familiarly at his fire, hatless, her brown hair tawny in the sunlight, her slender neck bent forward? He rubbed his eyes and peered again. There was no mistake. It was Jane. <hr class="chap" /> [350] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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