CHAPTER XXV

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

The wind was fresh from the north-west when Vane drove the sloop out through the Narrows in the early dawn and saw a dim stretch of white-flecked sea in front of him. Landlocked as they are by Vancouver Island, the long roll of the Pacific cannot enter those waters; but they are now and then lashed into short, tumbling seas, sufficient to make their passage difficult for a craft no larger than the sloop. Carroll frowned when a comber struck the weather bow and a shower of stinging spray whipped his face.

"Right ahead again," he remarked. "But as I suppose you're going on, we'd better stretch straight across on the starboard tack; we'll get smoother water along the island shore."

They let her go, and Vane sat at the helm, hour after hour, drenched with spray, hammering her mercilessly into the frothy seas. They could have done with a second reef down, for the deck was swept and sluicing, and most of the time the lee rail was buried deep in rushing foam; but Vane showed no intention of shortening sail. Nor did Carroll, who saw that his comrade was disturbed in temper, suggest it: resolute action had, he knew, a soothing effect on Vane. As a matter of fact, the latter needed soothing. Of late, he had felt that he was making steady progress in Evelyn's favour, and now she had most unexplainably turned against him; but, rack his brain as he would, he could not discover the reason. That he was conscious of no offence only made the position more galling.

In the meanwhile, the boat engrossed more and more of his attention. It was a relief to drive her hard at some white-topped sea, and watch her bows disappear in it with a thud, while it somehow eased his mind to see the smashed-up brine fly half the height of her drenched mainsail. There was also satisfaction in feeling the strain on the tiller when, swayed down by a fiercer gust, she plunged through the combers with the froth swirling, perilously close to the coaming, along her half-submerged deck.

The day was cold; the man, who was compelled to sit almost still in a nipping wind, was soon wet through, but this in some curious way further tended to restore his accustomed optimism and good-humour. He had partly recovered both, when, as the sloop drove through the whiter turmoil whipped up by a vicious squall, there was a crash forward.

"Down helm!" shouted Carroll. "The bobstay's gone."

He scrambled towards the bowsprit, which, having lost its principal support, swayed upward, in peril of being torn away by the sagging jib. Vane, who first rounded up the boat into the wind, followed him; and for several minutes they had a struggle with the madly-flapping sail, before they flung it, bundled up, into the well. Then they ran in the bowsprit, and Vane felt glad that, although the craft had been rigged in the usual Western fashion, he had changed that by giving her a couple of headsails in place of one.

"She'll trim with the staysail, if we haul another reef down," he said.

It cost them some labour, but they were warmer afterwards, and when they went on again Vane glanced at the bowsprit.

"We'll try to get a bit of galvanised steel in Nanaimo," he said. "I can't risk another smash."

"You had better be prepared for one, if you mean to drive her as you have been doing." Carroll flung back the saloon scuttle. "You'd have swamped her in another hour or two; the cabin floorings are all awash."

"Then hadn't you better pump her out?" retorted Vane. "After that, you can light the stove. It's beginning to dawn on me that it's a long while since I had anything to eat."

By and by they made a bountiful if somewhat primitive meal, in turn, sitting in the dripping saloon, which was partly filled with smoke, and Carroll sighed for the comforts he had abandoned. He did not, however, mention his regrets, because he did not expect his comrade's sympathy.

The craft, being under reduced sail, drove along more easily during the rest of the afternoon, and they ran into a little colliery town on the following day. There Vane replaced the broken bobstay with a solid piece of steel, and then sat down to write a letter, while Carroll stretched his cramped limbs ashore.

The letter was addressed to Evelyn, and he found it difficult to express himself as he desired. The spoken word, as he had discovered, is now and then awkward to use, but the written one is more evasive still, and he shook his head ruefully over the production when he laid down his pen. This was, perhaps, unnecessary, for, having grown calm, he had framed a terse and forcible appeal to the girl's sense of justice, which would in all probability have had its effect on her had she received it. Though he hardly realised it, the few simple words were convincing.

Having received no news from Nairn or Jessie, they sailed again in a day or two, bound for Comox, farther along the coast, where there was a possibility of communications overtaking them; but in the meanwhile matters which concerned them were moving forward in Vancouver.

It was rather early one afternoon when Jessie called upon a friend of hers and found her alone. Mrs. Bendle was a young and impulsive woman from one of the eastern cities, and she had not made many friends in Vancouver yet, though her husband, whom she had lately married, was a man of some importance there.

"I'm glad to see you," she said, greeting Jessie eagerly. "It's a week since anybody has been in to talk to me and Tom's away again."

Jessie made herself comfortable in an easy-chair, before she referred to one of her companion's remarks.

"Where has Mr. Bendle gone now?" she asked.

"Into the bush to look at a mine. He left this morning, and it will be a week before he's back. Then he's going across the Selkirks with that Clavering man about some irrigation scheme."

This suggested one or two questions, which Jessie desired to ask, but she did not frame them immediately. "It must be dull for you," she said sympathetically.

"I don't mean to complain," her companion informed her. "Tom's reasonable; the last time I said anything about being left alone he bought me the pair of ponies."

"You're fortunate in several ways; there are not a great many people who can make such presents. But while everybody knows how your husband has been successful lately, I'm a little surprised that he's able to go into Clavering's irrigation scheme. It's an expensive one; but I understand, they intend to confine it to a few, which means that those interested will have to subscribe handsomely."

"Tom," said her companion, "likes to have a number of different things in hand. He told me it was wiser when I said I couldn't tell my friends back East what he really is, because he seemed to be everything at once. But your brother's interested in a good many things too, isn't he?"

"I believe so," answered Jessie. "Still, I'm pretty sure he couldn't afford to join Clavering and at the same time take up a big block of shares in Mr. Vane's mine."

"But Tom isn't going to do the latter now."

Jessie was almost startled; this was valuable information which she could scarcely have expected to obtain so easily. There was more she desired to ascertain, but she had no intention of making any obvious inquiries.

"It's generally understood that Mr. Vane and your husband are on good terms," she said. "You know him, don't you?"

"I've met him at one or two places, and I like him, but when I mention him, Tom smiles. He says it's unfortunate Mr. Vane can only see one thing at once, and that the one which lies right in front of his eyes. For all that I've heard him own that the man is likeable."

"Then it's a pity he's unable to stand by him now."

"I really believe Tom was half sorry he couldn't do so last night. He said something that suggested it. I don't understand much about these matters, but Howitson was here, talking business, until late."

Jessie was satisfied. Her hostess's previous incautious admission had gone a long way, but to this was added the significant information that Bendle was inclined to be sorry for Vane. The fact that he and Howitson had decided on some joint action after a long private discussion implied that there was trouble in store for the absent man, unless he could be summoned to deal with the crisis in person. Jessie wondered if Nairn knew anything about the matter yet, and decided that she would try to sound him. In the meanwhile, she led her companion away from the subject, and they discussed millinery and such matters until she took her departure.

It was early in the evening when she reached Nairn's house, which she had thought it better to arrive at a little before he came home, and was told that Mrs. Nairn and Miss Chisholm were out but were expected back shortly. Evelyn had been by no means cordial to her since their last interview, and Mrs. Nairn's manner had been colder; but Jessie decided to wait, and for the second time that day fortune seemed to play into her hands.

It was dark outside, but the entrance hall was brightly lighted, and she could see into it from where she sat. Highly-trained domestics are generally scarce in the West, and the maid had left the door of the room open. By and by there was a knock at the outer door and a young lad came in with some letters in his hand. He explained to the maid that he had been to the post office and had brought his employer's private mail. Then he withdrew, and the maid, who first laid the letters carelessly on a little table, also retired, banging a door behind her. The concussion shook down the letters, and several, fluttering forward with the sudden draught, fell near the threshold of the room. Jessie rose to replace them.

When she reached the door, she stopped abruptly, for she recognised the writing on one envelope. There was no doubt it was from Vane, and she noticed that it was addressed to Miss Chisholm. Jessie picked it up, and when she had laid the others upon the table stood with it in her hand.

"Has the man no pride?" she said, half aloud.

Then she looked about her, listening, greatly tempted, and considering. There was no sound in the house; Evelyn and Mrs. Nairn were out, and she was cut off from its other occupants by a closed door. Nobody would know that she had entered the hall, and if the letter were subsequently missed it would be unlikely that any question regarding its disappearance would ever be asked. If there was no response from Evelyn, Vane, she thought, would not renew his appeal. Jessie had no doubt that the letter contained an appeal of some kind, which might lead to a reconciliation, and she knew that silence is often more potent than an outbreak of anger. She had only to destroy the letter, and the breach between the two people whom she desired to separate would widen automatically.

There was little risk of detection, but standing tensely still, with set lips and her heart beating faster than usual, she shrank from the decisive action. She could still replace the letter, and look for other means of bringing about what she wished. She was self-willed, and endowed with few troublesome principles, but until she had poisoned Evelyn's mind against Vane she had never done anything flagrantly dishonourable. Then, while she waited, irresolute, a fresh temptation seized her in the shape of a burning desire to learn what the man had to say. He would reveal his feelings in the message, and she could judge the strength of her rival's influence over him.

Yet she hesitated, with a half-instinctive recognition of the fact that the decision she must make was an eventful one. She had transgressed grievously in one recent interview with Evelyn, but, while she had no idea of making reparation, she could, at least, stop short of a second offence. She had perhaps, not gone too far yet, but if she ventured a little farther, she might be driven on against her will and become inextricably involved in an entanglement of dishonourable treachery.

The issue hung in the balance--the slightest thing would have turned the scale--when she heard footsteps outside and the tinkle of a bell. Moving with a start, she slipped back into the room just before the maid opened the adjacent door. In another moment or two, she thrust the envelope inside her dress, and gathered her composure as Mrs. Nairn and Evelyn entered the hall. The former approached the table and turned over the handful of letters.

"Two for ye from England, Evelyn, and one or two for me," she said, and, as Jessie noticed, flashed a quick glance at her companion. "Nothing else," she added. "I had thought Vane would maybe send a bit note from one of the Island ports to say how he was getting on."

Then Jessie rose to greet her hostess. The question was decided; it was too late to replace the letter now. She could not remember what they talked about during the next half-hour, but she took her part until Nairn came in, and contrived to have a word with him before leaving. Mrs. Nairn had gone out to give some instructions about supper and, when Evelyn followed her, Jessie turned to Nairn.

"Mr. Vane would be at Comox now," she said. "Have you any idea of recalling him? Of course, I know a little about the Clermont affairs."

Nairn glanced at her with thoughtful eyes. "I'm no acquainted with any reason that would render such a course necessary."

Evelyn reappeared shortly after this, and on the whole Jessie was glad of it, but she excused herself from staying for the evening meal, and walked home thinking hard. It was needful that Vane should be recalled, and though he had written to Evelyn, she still meant to send him word. He would be grateful to her, and, indignant and wounded as she was, she would not own herself beaten. She would warn the man, and afterwards, perhaps allow Nairn to send him a second message.

On reaching her brother's house she went straight to her own room and tore open the envelope. The colour receded from her face as she read, and sinking into a chair she sat still with hands clenched. The message was terse, but it was stirringly candid, and even where the man did not fully reveal his feelings in his words she could read between the lines. There was no doubt that he had given his heart unreservedly into her rival's keeping.

For a while she sat still, and then, stooping swiftly, seized the letter, which she had dropped, and rent it into fragments. Her eyes had grown hard and cruel; love of the only kind she was capable of had suddenly turned to hate. What was more, it was a hate that could be gratified.

A little later, Horsfield came in, and though she was very composed now, she noticed that he looked at her in an unusual manner once or twice during the meal that followed.

"You make me feel you have something on your mind," she said at length.

"That's a fact," Horsfield confessed. The man was attached to and rather proud of his sister.

"Well?"

Horsfield leaned forward confidentially. "See here," he said, "I've always imagined that you would go far, and I'm anxious to see you do so. I wouldn't like you to throw yourself away."

His sister could take a hint, but there was information she desired, and the man was speaking with unusual reserve.

"Oh!" she said, with a slight show of impatience, "you must be plainer."

"Then you have seen a good deal of Vane, and, in case you have any hankering after his scalp, I think I'd better mention that there's reason to believe he won't be worth powder and shot before very long."

"Ah!" said Jessie, with a calmness which was difficult to assume, "you may as well understand that there is nothing between Vane and me. I suppose you mean that Howitson and Bendle are turning against him?"

"Something like that," Horsfield agreed in a tone which implied that her answer had afforded him relief. "The man has trouble in front of him."

Jessie changed the subject. What she had gathered from Mrs. Bendle was fully confirmed, but she had made up her mind. Evelyn's lover might wait for the warning which could save him, but he should wait in vain.