The first winter snows found O'Neil's track laid to the bridge site and the structure itself well begun. He had moved his office out to the front, and now saw little of Eliza, who was busied in writing her book. She had finished her magazine articles, and they had been accepted, but she had given him no hint as to their character.
One afternoon "Happy Tom" burst in upon his chief, having hastened out from Omar on a construction-train. Drawing a Seattle paper from his pocket, he began excitedly:
"Well, the fat's in the fire, Murray! Somebody has belched up the whole North Pass story."
O'Neil seized the newspaper and scanned it hurriedly. He looked up, scowling.
"Who gave this out?" he inquired, in a harsh voice.
Slater shrugged. "It's in the Cortez Courier too, so I s'pose it came from Gordon. Blessings come from one source, and Gordon's the fountain of all evil. I'm getting so I blame him for everything unpleasant. Sometimes I think he gave me the smallpox."
"Where did he learn the inside of Illis's deal? By God! There's a leak somewhere!"
"Maybe he uncovered it back there in the States."
Murray shook his head. "Nobody knows anything about it except you boys." He seized the telephone at his elbow and called Dr. Gray, while Tom listened with his shining forehead puckered anxiously. O'Neil hung up with a black face.
"Appleton!" he said.
Tom looked, if possible, a shade gloomier than usual. "I wouldn't be too sure it was Dan if I was you," he ventured, doubtfully.
"Where is he?" O'Neil ground out the words between his teeth.
"Surveying the town-site addition. If he let anything slip it was by mistake—"
"Mistake! I won't employ people who make mistakes of that kind. This story may bring the Canadian Government down on Illis and forfeit his North Pass charter—to say nothing of our authorities. That would finish us." He rose, went to the door, and ordered the recently arrived engine uncoupled. Flinging himself into his fur coat, he growled: "I'd rather have a crook under me than a fool. Appleton told us he talked too much."
Tom pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Gordon got it through the Gerard girl, I s'pose."
"Gordon! Gordon! Will there never be an end to Gordon?" His frown deepened. "He's in the way, Tom. If he balks this deal I'm afraid I'll—have to change ghosts."
"It would be a pious act," Slater declared. "And his ghost wouldn't ha'nt you none, either. It would put on its asbestos overshoes and go out among the other shades selling stock in electric fans or 'Gordon's Arctic Toboggan Slide.' He'd promote a Purgatory Development Company and underwrite the Bottomless Pit for its sulphur. I—I'd hate to think this came from Dan."
The locomotive had been switched out by this time, and O'Neil hurried to board it. On his way to Omar he had time thoroughly to weigh the results of this unexpected complication. His present desire was merely to verify his suspicion that Appleton had told his secret to Natalie; beyond that he did not care to think, for there was but one course open.
His anger reached the blazing-point after his arrival. As he stepped down from the engine-cab Gray silently handed him a code message from London which had arrived a few moments before. When its contents had been deciphered, O'Neil cursed and he was furious as he stumbled through the dark toward the green bungalow on the hill.
Swinging round the corner of the house, he came into a bright radiance which streamed forth from Eliza's window, and he could not help seeing the interior of the room. She was there, writing busily, and he saw that she was clad in the elaborate kimono which he had given her; yet it was not her personal appearance which arrested his angry eyes and caused his step to halt; it was, instead, her surroundings.
He had grown to accept her prim simplicity as a matter of course, and never associated her in his thoughts with anything feminine, but the room as it lay before him now was a revelation of daintiness and artful decoration. Tasteful water-colors hung on the walls, a warm rug was on the floor, and everywhere were rosy touches of color. The plain white bed had been transformed into a couch of Oriental luxury; a lace spread of weblike texture covered it, the pillows were hidden beneath billowing masses of ruffles and ribbons. He saw a typical woman's cozy corner piled high with cushions; there was a jar of burning incense sticks near it—everything, in fact, was utterly at variance with his notions of the owner. Even the girl herself seemed transfigured for her hair was brought forward around her face in some loose mysterious fashion which gave her a bewilderingly girlish appearance. As he looked in upon her she raised her face so that the light shone full upon it; her brows were puckered, she nibbled at the end of her pencil, in the midst of some creative puzzle.
O'Neil's eyes photographed all this in a single surprised glance as he passed; the next moment he was mounting the steps to the porch.
Dan flung open the door, but his words of greeting froze, his smile of welcome vanished at sight of his chief's forbidding visage.
Murray was in no mood to waste words; he began roughly:
"Did you tell Miss Gerard that Poultney Illis is backing me?"
Dan stammered. "I—perhaps—I—What has gone wrong, Chief?"
"Did you tell her the inside—the story of his agreement with the steamboat people?"
Dan paled beneath his tan, but his eyes met Murray's without flinching. "I think I did—tell her something. I don't quite remember. But anything I may have said was in confi—"
"I thought so. I merely wished to make certain. Well, the whole thing is in the papers."
Appleton laid his hand upon the table to steady himself.
"Then it—didn't come from her. She wouldn't—"
"Gordon has spread the story broadcast. It couldn't have come from any other source; it couldn't have reached him in any other way, for none of my boys has breathed a word." His voice rose despite his effort at self-control. "Illis's agreement was ILLEGAL," he said, savagely; "it will probably forfeit the charter of the North Pass or land him in court. I suppose you realize that! I discovered his secret and assured him it was safe with me; now you peddle it to Gordon, and the whole thing is public. Here's the first result." He shook the London cablegram in Dan's face, and his own was distorted with rage. There was a stir in Eliza's room which neither noticed. Appleton wiped his face with uncertain hand; he moistened his lips to say:
"I—I'm terribly sorry! But I'm sure Natalie wouldn't spy—I don't remember what I told her, or how I came to know about the affair. Doc Gray told me, I think, in the first excitement, but—God! She—wouldn't knowingly—"
"Gordon fired you for talking too much. I thought you had learned your lesson, but it seems you hadn't. Don't blame Miss Gerard for pumping you—her loyalty belongs to Gordon now. But I require loyalty, too. Since you lack it you can go."
O'Neil turned as Eliza's door opened; she stood before him, pale, frightened, trembling.
"I couldn't help hearing," she said. "You discharge us?"
He nodded. "I'm sorry! I've trusted my 'boys' so implicitly that the thought of betrayal by them never occurred to me. I can't have men close to me who make such mistakes as this."
"Perhaps there was—an excuse, or the shadow of one, at least. When a man is in love, you know—"
Murray wheeled upon Dan and demanded sharply:
"What's this?" Then in a noticeably altered tone he asked, "Do you love—Natalie?"
"Yes."
"Does she love you?"
"No, sir!"
O'Neil turned back to the girl, saying: "I told Dan, when I hired him, that he would be called upon to dare much, to suffer much, and that my interests must be his. He has disregarded them, and he must go. That's all. There's little difference between treachery and carelessness."
"It's—too bad," said the girl, faintly. Dan stood stiff and silent, wholly dazed by the sudden collapse of his fortunes.
"I'm not ungrateful for what you've done, Appleton," O'Neil went on. "I intend to pay you well for the help you gave me. You took a chance at the Canon and at Gordon's Crossing. You'll get a check."
"I don't want your damned money," the other gulped. "I've drawn my wages."
"Nevertheless, I shall pay you well. It's highly probable that you've wrecked the S. R. & N. and ruined me, but I don't intend to forget my obligations to you. It's unfortunate. Call on the cashier in the morning. Good night."
He left them standing there unhappily, dumb and stiff with shame. Once outside the house, he plunged down the hill as if fleeing from the scene of some crime. He rushed through the night blindly, for he had loved his assistant engineer, and the memory of that chalk-faced, startled girl hurt him abominably.
When he came to the company office he was walking slowly, heavily. He found Gray inside and dropped into a chair: his face was grimly set, and he listened dully to the physician's rambling talk.
"I fired Appleton!" he broke out, at last. Gray looked up quickly. "He acknowledged that he—did it. I had no choice. It came hard, though. He's a good boy."
"He did some great work, Chief!"
"I know! That affair at the Crossing—I intend to pay him well, if he'll accept. It's not that—I like those kids, Stanley. Eliza took it harder than he. It wasn't easy for me, either," he sighed, wearily. "I'd give ten thousand dollars if it hadn't happened. She looked as if I'd struck her."
"What did they say?"
"Nothing. He has been careless, disloyal—"
"You told them so?"
O'Neil nodded.
"And they said nothing?"
"Nothing! What could they say?"
Gray answered gruffly: "They might have said a good deal. They might have told you how they paid off your men and saved a walk-out when I had no money."
O'Neil stared incredulously. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.
When he had the facts he rose with an exclamation of dismay.
"God! Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't they speak out? I—I—why, that's loyalty of the finest kind. All the money they had saved, too—when they thought I had failed! Jove! That was fine. Oh, I'm sorry! I wonder what they think of me? I can't let Dan go after that. I—" He seized his cap and hurried out of the building.
"It's hardly right—when things were going so well, too!" said Dan. He was sitting crumpled up in a chair, Eliza's arm encircling his shoulders. "I didn't mean to give up any secrets, but—I'm not myself when I'm with Natalie."
"We must take our medicine," his sister told him, gravely. "We deserve it, for this story may spoil all he's done. I didn't think it of her, though."
Dan groaned and bowed his head in his hands. "I don't know which hurts worse," he said—"his anger or her action. She—couldn't do such a thing, Sis; she just couldn't!"
"She probably didn't realize—she hasn't much sense, you know. But after all he's suffered, to think that we should injure him! I could cry. I think I shall."
The door opened before a rough hand, and O'Neil strode into the room, huge, shaggy in his coonskin coat. They rose, startled, but he came to them swiftly, a look of mingled shame and gladness in his face.
"I've come back to apologize," he cried. "I couldn't wait. I've learned what you children did while I was gone, and I've come to beg forgiveness. It's all right—it's all right."
"I don't know what you mean," Dan gasped.
"Doc told me how you paid those men. That was real friendship; it was splendid. It touched me, and I—I want to apologize. You see, I hurried right back."
They saw that his eyes were moist, and at the sight Eliza gave a quivering cry, then turned swiftly to hide her face. She felt O'Neil's fur-clad arm about her shoulder; his hand was patting her, and he was saying gently: "You are a dear child. It was tremendously good of you both, and I—ought to be shot for acting as I did. I wonder if you can accept a wretched apology as bravely as you accepted a wrong accusation."
"It wasn't wrong; it was right," she sobbed. "Dan told her, and she told Gordon."
"There, there! I was to blame, after all, for letting any one know, and if Dan made a mistake he has more than offset it by his unselfishness—his sacrifices. It seems I forgot how much I really owe him."
"That affair with the shift bosses wasn't anything," said Dan, hastily, "and it was all Eliza's idea. I refused at first, but when she started to pay them herself I weakened." He stuttered awkwardly, for his sister was motioning him desperately to be silent; but he ran on: "Oh, he ought to know the whole truth and how rotten I acted, Sis. I deserve to be discharged."
"Please don't make this any harder for me than it is," Murray smiled. "I'm terribly embarrassed, for I'm not used to apologies. I can't afford to be unjust; I—have so few friends that I want to cherish them. I'm sorry you saw me in such a temper. Anger is a treacherous thing, and it always betrays me. Let's forget that I was here before and pretend that I just came to thank you for what you did." He drew Dan into the shelter of his other arm and pressed the two young people to him. "I didn't realize how deeply you kids care for each other and for me."
"Then I'm not fired?" Dan queried, doubtfully.
"Of course not. When I take time to think about discharging a man I invariably end by raising his salary."
"Dan isn't worth half what you're paying him," came Eliza's muffled voice. She freed herself from Murray's embrace and rearranged her hair with tremulous fingers. Surreptitiously she wiped her eyes. "You gave us an awful fright; it's terrible to be evicted in winter-time." She tried to laugh, but the attempt failed miserably.
"Just the same, when a man contemplates marriage he must have money."
"I don't want your blamed money," Dan blurted, "and it doesn't cost anything to contemplate marriage. That's all I'm doing—just looking at it from a distance."
"Perhaps I can help you to prevail on Miss Natalie to change her mind. That would be a real service, wouldn't it?" Under his grave glance Dan's heart leaped. "I can't believe she's indifferent to you, my boy. You're suited to each other, and there's no reason on earth why you shouldn't marry. Perhaps she doesn't know her own mind."
"You're mighty good, but—" The lover shook his head.
Murray smiled again. "I think you're too timid. Don't plead and beg—just carry her off. Be firm and masterful. Be rough—"
"The idea!" exclaimed Eliza. "She's no cave-woman!"
"Exactly. If she were, Dan would need to court her and send her bouquets of wild violets. She's over-civilized, and therefore he needs to be primitive."
Dan blushed and faltered. "I can't be firm with her, Murray; I turn to jelly whenever she looks at me." There was something so friendly and kind in his employer's attitude that the young fellow was tempted to pour out all his vexations; he had never felt so close to O'Neil as now; but his masculine reserve could not be overcome all in a moment, and he held his tongue.
When Murray had put the two young people fully at their ease he rose to go, but Eliza's eager voice made him turn with his hand on the door-knob.
"What can we do about this unfortunate Illis affair?" she asked. "Dan must try to—"
"Leave that to me. I'll straighten it out somehow. It is all my fault, and I'll have to meet it." He pressed their hands warmly.
When he had gone Dan heaved a great sigh of relief.
"I'm glad it happened just as it did, Sis," he announced. "He knows my secret now, and I can see that he never cared for Natalie. It's a load off my mind to know the track is clear."
"What a simpleton you are!" she told him. "Don't you see he's merely paying his debt?"
"I wonder—" Dan eyed her in amazement.
"Gee! If that's so he is a prince, isn't he?"
The same ship which had brought the ominous news to O'Neil also brought Curtis Gordon north. He had remained in Seattle only long enough to see the Illis story in print, and then had hastened back to the front. But his satisfaction over the mischief he had done received a rude jolt when at his first moment of leisure he looked over the late magazines which he had bought before taking leave. In one which had appeared on the news-stands that very day he found, to his amazement, an article by Miss Eliza Appleton, in which his own picture appeared. He pounced upon it eagerly; and then, as he read, his eyes narrowed and his jaw stiffened. There, spread out to the public gaze, was his own record in full, including his initial venture into the Kyak coal-fields, his abandonment of that project in favor of Hope Consolidated, and an account of his connection with the latter enterprise. Eliza had not hesitated to call the mine worthless, and she showed how he, knowing its worthlessness from the first, had used it as a lure to investors. Then followed the story of his efforts to gain a foothold in the railroad struggle, his defeat at the Salmon River Canon, his rout at the delta crossing, and his final death-blow at Kyak. His career stood out boldly in all its fraudulent colors; failure was written across every one of his undertakings. The naked facts showed him visionary, incompetent, unscrupulous.
Thus far he had succeeded in keeping a large part of his stock-holders in ignorance of the true condition of Hope Consolidated, but he quailed at the inevitable result of this article, which had been flung far and wide into every city and village in the land. He dared not think of its effect upon his present enterprise, now so auspiciously launched. He had made a ringing appeal to the public, and its support would hinge upon its confidence in him as a man of affairs. Once that trust was destroyed the Cortez Home Railway would crumble as swiftly as had all his other schemes.
The worst of it was that he knew himself shut off from the world for five days as effectually as if he were locked in a dungeon. There was no wireless equipment on the ship, he could not start the machinery of his press bureau, and with every hour this damnable story was bound to gain momentum. He cursed the luck which had set him on this quest for vengeance and bound his hands.
Once he had gathered his wits, he occupied himself in the only possible way—by preparing a story of his own for the wire. But for the first time in his experience he found himself upon the defensive and opposing a force against which no bland persuasiveness, no personal magnetism could prevail. In the scattered nature of his support lay his greatest weakness, for it made the task of self-justification extremely difficult. Perhaps it was well for his peace of mind that he could not measure the full effect of those forces which Eliza Appleton's pen had set in motion.
In Omar, of course, the article excited lively interest. O'Neil felt a warm thrill of satisfaction as he read it on the morning after his scene with Eliza and Dan. But it deepened his feeling of obligation almost painfully; for, like all who are thoughtlessly prodigal of their own favors, he was deeply sensible of any kindness done himself. Eliza's dignified exposition of Alaskan affairs, and particularly the agreeable things she had written about him, were sure to be of great practical assistance, he knew, and he longed to make some real return. But so far as she was concerned there seemed to be nothing that he could do. With Dan, of course, it was quite different. Mere money or advancement, he admitted seemed paltry, but there was a possibility of another kind of service.
Meanwhile Dan was struggling with his problem in his own way. The possibility that Natalie had voluntarily betrayed him was a racking torture, and the remembrance of Eliza's words added to his suffering. He tried to gain some hint of his chief's feeling, but Murray's frank and friendly attitude baffled him.
When at last he received a brief note from Natalie asking him to call, he raced to Hope afraid, yet eager to hear what she might say. She met him on the dock as he left the S. R. & N. motorboat and led him directly to the house.
Natalie went straight to the point. "I'm in dreadful trouble," she said, "and I sent for you to tell you that I had no idea of betraying confidences."
Dan uttered some inane platitude, but his eyes lighted with relief.
"When I saw in the papers what a stir that North Pass & Yukon story had made I was afraid I had done something dreadful. Tell me, is it so? Did I make trouble?"
"You certainly did. O'Neil was furious, and nobody knows yet what the result will be. It—it nearly cost me my head."
"Does he blame me?"
"N-no! He says you're on Gordon's side now. He blames me, or did, until he generously took it on himself."
"What does it all mean? I'm nearly distracted." Natalie's eyes were pleading. "Did you think I spied on you?"
Dan glowed with embarrassment and something more. "I didn't know what to think," he said. "I was wretchedly miserable, for I was afraid. And yet I knew you couldn't do such a thing. I told O'Neil I wasn't responsible for what I did or said when with you."
"Mr. Gordon sent me to Omar purposely. He sent me twice. It was I who brought him word that the road was saved. I told all I'd learned because I believed he no longer hated Mr. O'Neil. I was happy to tell all I knew, for he deceived me as he deceives every one. I learned the truth too late."
"Why do you stay here?" Dan demanded, hotly.
"Why? I—don't know. Perhaps because I'm afraid to leave. I'm alone—you see mother believes in him: she's completely under his sway, and I can't tell her the sort of man he is. She's happy, and her happiness is worth more to me than my own. But—I SHALL go away. I can't stand it here much longer."
"Where will you go?"
"Back to my old home, perhaps. Somewhere—anywhere away from Alaska."
"I suppose you know I can't get along without you."
"Please don't! You have been very good and sweet to me, but—" She shook her dark head. "You couldn't marry me—even if I cared for you in that way."
"Why? I intend to marry you whether you want to or not."
"Oh, Dan, it wouldn't do. You know—about—mother. I've nearly died of shame, and—it would be sure to come up. Somebody would speak of it, sometime."
Dan's blue eyes went cold and smoky as he said:
"It would take a pretty brave person to mention the subject in my presence. I don't care a whoop for anything Gordon or your family may say or do. I—"
There was a stir in the hall outside, and the speaker turned to behold Curtis Gordon himself in the doorway. The latter in passing had been drawn by the sound of voices and had looked into the library. Recognizing Natalie's caller, he frowned.
"What is this?" he inquired, coldly. "A proposal? Do I interrupt?"
"You do," said Dan; then, after a pause, "I'll finish it when you leave."
Gordon entered, and spoke to his stepdaughter.
"What is this man doing in my house?"
"He is here at my invitation," she replied.
"Tell him to leave. I won't have him here."
"Why don't YOU tell me?" cried Dan. "I don't need an interpreter."
"Young man, don't be rash. There is a limit to my patience. If you have the indecency to come here after what you have done, and after what your sister has said about me, I shall certainly—"
Dan broke in roughly: "I didn't come to see you, Gordon. You may be an agreeable sight to some people, but you're no golden sunset in my eyes. Eliza flattered you."
Natalie gave a little terrified cry, for the men were glaring at each other savagely. Neither seemed to hear her.
"Did you read that article?"
"Read it? I wrote it!"
Gordon's face flamed suddenly with rage; he pointed to the door with trembling fingers, and shouted:
"Get out! I'll not have you here. I discharged you once. Get out!" His utterance was rapid and thick.
Dan smiled mirthlessly, dangerously. In a soft voice he said:
"I haven't finished proposing. I expect to be accepted. You'll pardon me, I know."
"Will you go, you—"
Dan turned to the girl, who, after that first outcry, had stood as if spellbound, her face pale, her eyes shining.
"Natalie dear," he said, earnestly, "you can't live in the same house with this beast. He's a cheat and a scoundrel. He's done his best to spoil your life, and he'll succeed if you stay, so come with me now. Eliza loves you and wants you, and I'll never cease loving you with all my heart. Marry me, and we'll go—"
Gordon uttered an inarticulate sound and came forward with his hands working hungrily.
"Don't interrupt!" warned Dan, over his shoulder, and his white teeth gleamed in sudden contrast with his tan. "No man could love you as I do, dear—" Gordon's clutch fell upon him and tightened. Dan stiffened, and his words ceased. Then the touch upon his flesh became unbearable. Whirling, he wrenched himself free. He was like a wild animal now; body and spirit had leaped into rebellion at contact with Gordon. His long resentment burst its bounds; his lean muscles quivered. His frame trembled as if it restrained some tremendous pressure from within.
"Don't do that!" he cried, hoarsely, and brushed the sleeve where his enemy's fingers had rested, as if it had been soiled.
Gordon snarled, and stretched out his hand a second time; but the younger man raised his fist and struck. Once, twice, again and again he flung his bony knuckles into that purple, distorted face, which he loathed as a thing unclean. He battered down the big man's guard: right and left he rained blows, stepping forward as his victim fell back. Gordon reeled, he pawed wildly, he swung his arms, but they encountered nothing. Yet he was a heavy man, and, although half stunned by the sudden onslaught, he managed to retain his feet until he brought up against the heavy mahogany reading-table in the center of the room. His retreat ended there; another blow and his knees buckled, his arms sagged. Then Dan summoned all his strength and swung. Gordon groaned, lurched forward, and sprawled upon the warm red velvet carpet, face down, with his limbs twisted under him.
His vanquisher stood over him for an instant, then turned upon Natalie a face that was now keen and cruel and predatory.
"Come! We'll be married to-day," he said; and, crossing swiftly, he took her two hands in his. His voice was harsh and imperative. "He's down and out, so don't be frightened. Now hurry! I've had enough of this damned nonsense."
"I—I'm not frightened," she said, dazedly. "But—I—" Her eyes roved past him as if in quest of something.
"Here! This'll do for a wrap." Dan whipped his fur overcoat from a chair and flung it about her. "My hat, too!" He crushed his gray Stetson over her dark hair and, slipping his arm about her shoulders, urged her toward the hall.
"Mother! She'll never—"
"We'll call on her together. I'll do the talking for both of us." He jerked the front door open with a force that threatened to wrench it from its hinges and thrust his companion out into the bracing cold. Then, as Gordon's Japanese butler came running from the rear of the house, he turned.
"Hey, you!" he cried, sharply. "The boss has gone on a little visit. Don't stumble over him. And tell Mrs. Gordon that Mr. and Mrs. Appleton will call on her in a few days—Mr. and Mrs. Dan Appleton, of Omar!"
It was but a few steps to the pier; Dan felt that he was treading on air, for the fierce, unreasoning joy of possession was surging through his veins. His old indecision and doubt was gone, and the men he met recoiled before his hostile glance, staring after him in bewilderment.
But as he lifted Natalie down into the launch he felt her shaking violently, and of a sudden his selfish exultation gave way to a tender solicitude.
"There, there!" he said, gently. "Don't cry, honey. It's all right. It's all right!"
She raised her face to his, and his head swam, for he saw that she was radiant.
"I'm not crying; I'm laughing. I—I'm mad—insane with happiness."
He crushed her to him, he buried his face in her neck, mumbling her name over and over: and neither of them knew that he was rapturously kissing the coonskin collar of his own greatcoat. The launchman, motor crank in hand, paused, staring; he was still open-mouthed when Dan, catching sight of him, shouted:
"What's the matter, idiot? Is your back broken?"
"Yes—No, sir!" The fellow spun the fly-wheel vigorously; the little craft began to vibrate and quiver and then swung out from shore.
A moment later and the engineman yelled. He came stumbling forward and seized the steering-wheel as the boat grazed a buoy.
"That's right, you steer," Dan laughed, relaxing his hold. To Natalie he said, "There's a sky-pilot in Omar," and pressed her to him.
"It's a long way to Omar," she answered, then hid her face against his breast and said, meekly, "There's one in Cortez, too, and he's much nearer."
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