A Mating in the Wilds | Page 4

to Dartmoor," Stane laughed again his cold, mirthless
laugh. "There is no need to mince matters, Ainley. All the world knows
I went there, and you need not go to any trouble to spare my feelings.
When a man has been through hell nothing else matters, you know."

Gerald Ainley did not reply. He stood there with an embarrassed look
on his face, obviously ill at ease, and the other continued: "You do not
seem pleased to see me--an old friend--you cut me just now. Why?"
"Well--er--really, Stane you--you ought to--er--be able to guess!"
"Perhaps I can," answered Stane ruthlessly. "Things are different now. I
am a discharged convict, down and out, and old friendship counts for
nothing. Is that it?"
"Well," replied Ainley, half-apologetically, "you can scarcely expect
that it sould be otherwise. I suppose that, really, that is why you left
England. It would have been impossible for you to resume your old life
among the men you knew----"
"You are the first of them that I have encountered--with one
exception."
"Indeed," asked the other politely, "who was the exception?"
"It was Kingsley. You remember him? He came to see me just before I
left Dartmoor. He believed in my innocence, and he wanted me to stay
in England and clear my name. He also told me something that set me
thinking, and latterly I have been rather wanting to meet you, because
there is a question I want answering."
The sound of the bugle playing a gay fanfare broke in on the silence
that followed his words, and this was followed by a rather scattered
cheer. Ainley started.
"Really, Stane, you must excuse me just now; I must go down to the
wharf--it is my duty to do so. At--er--a more fitting opportunity I shall
be glad for the sake of old times, to answer any question that you may
wish to ask me. But I really must go now. That is one of the governors
of the company arriving. He will be expecting to see me!"
He took a step towards the door, but the other blocked the way.

"I'm not going to be fobbed off with a mere excuse, Ainley. I want to
talk with you; and if I can't have it now, I must know when I can."
"Where are you staying?" asked the other shakily.
"My camp is just outside the post here."
"Then I will come to you tonight, Stane. I shall be late--midnight as
like as not."
"I shall wait for you," answered Stane, and stepped aside.
Ainley made a hurried exit, and the man whom he had left, moving to
the door, watched him running towards the wharf, where a large
Peterboro' canoe had just swung alongside. There were several others
making for the wharf, and as Stane watched, one by one they drew up,
and discharged their complement of passengers. From his vantage place
on the rising ground the watcher saw a rather short man moving up
from the wharf accompanied by the obsequious factor, and behind him
two other men and four ladies, with the factor's wife and Gerald Ainley.
The sound of feminine laughter drifted up the Square, and as it reached
him Stane stepped out from the store and hurried away in the opposite
direction.
CHAPTER II
AN ATTACK AT MIDNIGHT
It was near midnight, but far from dark. In the northern heavens a rosy
glow proclaimed the midnight sun. Somewhere in the willows a robin
was chirping, and from the wide bosom of the river, like the thin howl
of a wolf, came the mocking cry of a loon still pursuing its finny prey.
And in his little canvas tent, sitting just inside, so as to catch the smoke
of the fire that afforded protection from the mosquitoes, Hubert Stane
still watched and waited for the coming of his promised visitor. He was
smoking, and from the look upon his face it was clear that he was
absorbed in thoughts that were far from pleasant. His pipe went out,
and still he sat there, thinking, thinking. Half an hour passed and the

robin making the discovery that it was really bed-time, ceased its
chirping; the loon no longer mocked the wolf, but still the man sat
behind his smoke-smudge, tireless, unsleeping, waiting. Another
half-hour crept by with leaden feet, then a new sound broke the stillness
of the wild, the tinkling of a piano, sadly out of tune, followed by a
chorus of voices lifted up in the homeland song.
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot And days o' lang syne?"
As the simple melody progressed, a look of bitterness came on Stane's
face, for the song brought to him memories of other times and scenes
which he had