Читать книгу Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery - Theodore Goodridge Roberts - Страница 9

Table of Contents

Jim Harley decided, before morning, that he must tell the tragic story to Rayton. He also decided that there was no need, at present, of telling either Nell or his wife of the mysterious advent of the two red marks into Samson's Mill Settlement.

Young David Marsh spent a restless night, going over and over all that Jim had told him. He came to the conclusion, at last, that the red crosses themselves were harmless, and utterly foolish, and that the real danger and tragedy lay in the human fate that had always inspired their appearance. Then his active mind quested far and near in search of an enemy of his own to correspond with the Spanish count of the first tragedy, and with young Jackson of the second—and not only that, but he must find an enemy who was in love with Nell Harley, and who knew the story of the red crosses. He thought of every man he had ever met, young and middle-aged; but he soon saw that this was too wide a field to explore. He could only bring to mind one man who, to his certain knowledge, had paid any attention to Nell Harley—and this was Dick Goodine. Likewise, he could think of only one man in the community with whom he was not on fairly friendly terms—and this, too, was Goodine.

Goodine had French blood in his veins, and was known to be eccentric; but he had never been considered dangerous in any way. He was a good-looking young woodsman who spent his summers in idleness, and his winters in trapping furs. Sometimes he did a little business in David Marsh's own chosen field, and guided "sports" into the wilderness after moose and caribou. But this was not often, for Dick Goodine's pride was even quicker than his temper. "It's not white men's work," he had said to David, not long before, in the course of the very argument that had caused the coolness that now existed between them. "It's Injun's work—or nigger's. The guidin' is good enough; but when it comes to cookin' for them, and pullin' off their wet boots at night—oh, t' hell with it! It may suit you, but it don't suit me."

But how should Dick Goodine know anything about the story of the red crosses, even if the state of his feelings had become sufficiently violent to incite him to make use of them? And he had not been at Rayton's, last night. How could he have marked the card? So David dismissed the trapper from his mind, for the time, and turned elsewhere for a solution of the mystery.

There was young Rayton, the Englishman. The thing had happened in his house, and the marked card belonged to him. He was a stranger to the settlement, for he had been only six months in the place. He seemed honest and harmless—but that was not enough to clear him. The dazzling smile, clear, gray eyes, and ready haw-haw might cover an unscrupulous and vicious nature. What was known in Samson's Mill Settlement of his past? Nothing but a few unlikely sounding anecdotes of his own telling. He had traveled in other parts of the province, looking for a farm that suited both his tastes and his purse, so he might very easily have heard something of the fate of Jim Harley's father.

So far, so good! But was he in love with Nell Harley? He had shown no signs of it, certainly; and yet if he took an interest in any young woman in the settlement, or within ten miles of it in any direction, it would naturally be in Nell Harley. She was well educated—and so was the Englishman, seemingly. No one had ever denied her quiet beauty. Any one with half an eye could see that she and Jim came of a stock that was pretty special. That would attract the Englishman, no doubt, for he, too, looked and talked like something extra in the way of breed. But, in spite of all this, David had to admit to himself that he had neither heard nor seen anything to lead him to suppose that Rayton was his rival.

Well, who else, then? What about Doctor Nash? Nash was a bachelor, and a great hand at making himself agreeable with the women. But David knew that Nell did not like Nash; but, of course, a little thing like that wouldn't bother Nash if he had taken a fancy in that direction. Yes, the doctor might be the man. The idea was worth keeping in sight. David could not bring any other suspect to mind. Benjamin Samson and old Wigmore had been there when the marked card made its appearance, 'tis true; but, in spite of his anxiety to solve the mystery, David put these two harmless gentlemen from his thoughts with a chuckle.

At last David Marsh was on the verge of sleep when a sudden, galling question flashed into his mind and prodded him wide awake again. Why should anybody who might be in love with Nell Harley look upon him—upon David Marsh—as a dangerous rival? Why, indeed! He was sweet on Nell, there was no denying it, and had been for the past three years or more, and no doubt there had been talk about his frequent calls at Jim's house; but had she ever treated him as anything but just a good friend? Not once. He was honest enough with himself to admit this, but it hurt his vanity. And had he ever told her that he loved her? No. He had meant to, over and over again; but, somehow, things had never seemed to be exactly in line for the confession. The fact is, there was something in the young woman's frank manner with him, and in the straightforward glance of her eyes, that always made him feel that next time would do. He had never even found sufficient courage to try to hold her hand.

"I guess she likes me, though," he murmured. "I'll go to-morrow and tell her how I feel toward her. Yes, by thunder! I'll show the fellow who fixed that card trick on me that I ain't scared of him—nor of her, neither. Why should I be scared of her? I'm honest—and I'm making good money—and Jim likes me, all right. That card trick settles it, by ginger! I'll go and tell her to-morrow. I'll give that skunk a run for his money, whoever he may be."

As much in the dark as ever about the mystery of the marked card, but fully determined on his course of action as regards Miss Harley, David Marsh fell asleep at last. His alarm clock had been set for six, however, as he had a busy day before him; so he was soon awake again. He sat up, grumbling, and lit the little oil lamp that stood on a chair beside his bed. There was no turning over and going to sleep again for him, for he had to get a load of provisions and some kit in to his camp on Teakettle Brook before night; for he was expecting a sportsman from the States along in a few days. From the nearer camp he would have to portage a lot of grub across a half mile of bad trail and take it up, by canoe, to his shack on the headwaters of Dan's River.

"I've got to hustle!" he exclaimed, and jumped courageously out of his warm bed; but the instant his feet struck the cold floor, the queer happenings and stories of the previous night flashed into his mind. "Hell!" he exclaimed. "I must see Nell, I guess—but I've simply got to get that jay of stuff in to the Teakettle by dark."

He grumbled steadily while he dressed. Dawn was breaking, and the world outside looked depressingly cold and rough. He had a hard day before him and a hard to-morrow after that; but he must snatch a half hour for his interview with Nell. He shaved in cold water, with a razor that needed honing—and this did not lighten his spirits. "The devil take that foolishness!" he grumbled. "Why can't things leave me alone?" He went downstairs in his sock feet, pulled on his heavy boots in the kitchen, and lit the fire. He was a handy young fellow—as a guide and woodsman needs to be—and set briskly to work to cook his own breakfast. He was sitting up to his tea and bacon, close to the crackling stove, and the world outside was looking considerably brighter, when his mother entered the room.

"What is worryin' you, Davy?" she inquired anxiously. "I heard you tossin' and turnin' last night."

"Nothing much," he replied. "I was just planning things. I've a heap to do before Mr. Banks lands here with his patent range finders, and seventeen different kinds of rifles. He's not the kind to kick at hard hunting, and he's generous; but he likes to have everything tidy and handy."

"I'm sure he'll have nothin' to complain of, Davy, so long as you look after him," returned Mrs. Marsh. "But what kept you out so late last night?"

"I was talking to Jim Harley."

"Oh, you were at the Harleys' place, were you? You seem to be gettin' along fine in that quarter, Davy."

The young man blushed. "I wasn't at the house, mother," he said. "I met Jim over at Rayton's, and we went for a walk together. He had a regular talking fit on, I can tell you."

"I didn't know Jim was ever took that way," returned the mother. "So you saw young Mr. Rayton, did you? And how is he?"

"He's all right, I guess."

"He's a very polite, agreeable young man."

"Oh, yes, he's polite enough."

Mrs. Marsh looked at him sharply.

"What have you got against Mr. Rayton?" she demanded.

"Nothing," replied David. "Nothing at all, mother. I don't know anything about him, good or bad. But it's easy enough to be polite, I guess—and it don't cost anything."

The mother sighed and smiled at the same time. "If it's so easy," she said, "then I wish more folks about here would try it."

David drained his cup, and got to his feet. "Well, I must hustle along, mother," he said. "I've got to run over to Harley's before I load up for Teakettle Brook."

"Jim goin' with you?"

"No. Oh, no!"

"You wouldn't go callin' on a young lady this time in the morning, surely?"

"Oh, quit your fooling, mother! I've simply got to speak to Nell this morning."

The moment the door had shut behind David, Mrs. Marsh went to the foot of the stairs. "Wake up, pa!" she called.

"Wake up!" repeated a voice from above bitterly. "Bless my soul, I've been awake an hour and up this last fifteen minutes; but I'm stuck for want of my pants! D'ye expect me to chase 'round in the mud in my Sunday-go-to-meetin's, ma?"

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Marsh. "I was patchin' them last night and left them in the sittin' room." She ran and got her husband's required garments, and threw them, flapping ungracefully, up the narrow back staircase to him.

Soon after that old Davy appeared. "Where's the boy?" he asked.

"He's had his breakfast, and now he's run over to see Nell Harley," replied Mrs. Marsh, beaming.

"Then the more fool him!" said old Davy. "It's time he cut that out. Ain't he got an eye in his head? He's got no more chance of marryin' her than I'd have if I was into the game."

"D'ye mean that she don't think him good enough for her?" asked the other sharply.

"I guess she don't think anything about him at all, from what I can see. He's good enough for any girl—but he ain't got the character to catch Nell Harley. That's it—he ain't got the character."

"He's got as good a character as any young man in the province—as good as you had, at his age, David Marsh!"

The old man shook his head, smiling. "He's a good lad. I've nothin' to say against our youngest son, ma. But he's all for his sportsmen and his savings-bank account—all for himself. He's smart and he's honest—but he's all for Number One. To catch a girl like Nell Harley a man would want to jump right into the job with both feet, hell bent for election, holusbolus and hokus-pokus and never say die—like I done when I went a-courtin' you, ma."

Mrs. Marsh's face recovered its usual expression of good humor. "Maybe you're right, pa," she said. "He don't seem to give his hull mind to his courtin', I must say."

In the meantime, young David had tramped the half mile of road that lay between the Marsh farm and Jim Harley's place. The sun had come up white and clean in a clear sky, promising a fine day. A few vivid red and yellow leaves still hung in the maples and birches, and the frost sparkled like diamonds in the stubble, and shone like powdered glass along the fence rails. The air went tingling to heart and head like a wine of an immortal vintage. David felt fairly reckless under the influence of it; but when he came face to face with Nell Harley, in the kitchen door, his recklessness turned to confusion.

"You are out early, Davy," said the young woman, smiling pleasantly. "Do you want to see Jim?"

"Well—yes, I guess I do, Nell."

"Nothing the matter over at your house, I hope?"

"No. Everything's all right."

"Come in. We've finished breakfast, but Jim is not down yet. He was out until late, last night, and I don't think he slept well."

David followed her as far as the dining-room door, but there he halted.

"I guess I won't trouble him, Nell," he said. "I'm in a hurry, too. I have to get a load in to my camp on the Teakettle to-day."

"Can I give him a message?"

"Oh, no! It ain't important. Good morning, Nell."

He was halfway home, thoroughly disgusted with himself, when a voice hailed him. Looking up, he saw old Captain Wigmore approaching.

"Good morning to you, David," said the captain, halting in front of him. "Did James Harley explain his extraordinary behavior to you, last night?"

"Yes."

"Ah! And what was the explanation?"

"You'd better ask him yourself, cap. He told me not to tell."

The old man drew himself up and rapped his stick on the ground. "Confound his impertinence!" he exclaimed. "I shall ask him, certainly. He owes me an explanation. Queer way to behave before a man of my age and position! And he called me an old idiot!"