Big Timber | Page 9

suitcases off the burdened hood of his
machine. From out the tonneau clambered a large, smooth-faced young

man. He wore an expansive smile in addition to a blue serge suit, white
Panama, and polished tan Oxfords, and he bestowed a hearty greeting
upon Charlie Benton. But his smile suffered eclipse, and a faint flush
rose in his round cheeks, when his eyes fell upon Benton's sister.
CHAPTER III
HALFWAY POINT
Miss Benton's cool, impersonal manner seemed rather to heighten the
young man's embarrassment. Benton, apparently observing nothing
amiss, introduced them in an offhand fashion.
"Mr. Abbey--my sister."
Mr. Abbey bowed and murmured something that passed for
acknowledgment. The three turned up the wharf toward where Sam
Davis had once more got up steam. As they walked, Mr. Abbey's
habitual assurance returned, and he directed part of his genial flow of
conversation to Miss Benton. To Stella's inner amusement, however, he
did not make any reference to their having been fellow travelers for a
day and a half.
Presently they were embarked and under way. Charlie fixed a seat for
her on the after deck, and went forward to steer, whither he was
straightway joined by Paul Abbey. Miss Benton was as well pleased to
be alone. She was not sure she should approve of young men who made
such crude efforts to scrape acquaintance with women on trains. She
was accustomed to a certain amount of formality in such matters. It
might perhaps be laid to the "breezy Western manner" of which she had
heard, except that Paul Abbey did not impress her as a Westerner. He
seemed more like a type of young man she had encountered frequently
in her own circle. At any rate, she was relieved when he did not remain
beside her to emit polite commonplaces. She was quite satisfied to sit
by herself and look over the panorama of woods and lake--and wonder
more than a little what Destiny had in store for her along those silent
shores.

The Springs fell far behind, became a few white spots against the
background of dusky green. Except for the ripples spread by their wake,
the water laid oily smooth. Now, a little past four in the afternoon, she
began to sense by comparison the great bulk of the western
mountains,--locally, the Chehalis Range,--for the sun was dipping
behind the ragged peaks already, and deep shadows stole out from the
shore to port. Beneath her feet the screw throbbed, pulsing like an
overdriven heart, and Sam Davis poked his sweaty face now and then
through a window to catch a breath of cool air denied him in the small
inferno where he stoked the fire box.
The Chickamin cleared Echo Island, and a greater sweep of lake
opened out. Here the afternoon wind sprang up, shooting gustily
through a gap between the Springs and Hopyard and ruffling the lake
out of its noonday siesta. Ripples, chop, and a growing swell followed
each other with that marvellous rapidity common to large bodies of
fresh water. It broke the monotony of steady cleaving through dead
calm. Stella was a good sailor, and she rather enjoyed it when the
Chickamin began to lift and yaw off before the following seas that ran
up under her fantail stern.
After about an hour's run, with the south wind beginning to whip the
crests of the short seas into white foam, the boat bore in to a landing
behind a low point. Here Abbey disembarked, after taking the trouble
to come aft and shake hands with polite farewell. Standing on the float,
hat in hand, he bowed his sleek blond head to Stella.
"I hope you'll like Roaring Lake, Miss Benton," he said, as Benton
jingled the go-ahead bell. "I tried to persuade Charlie to stop over
awhile, so you could meet my mother and sister, but he's in too big a
hurry. Hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again soon."
Miss Benton parried courteously, a little at a loss to fathom this bland
friendliness, and presently the widening space cut off their talk. As the
boat drew offshore, she saw two women in white come down toward
the float, meet Abbey, and turn back. And a little farther out through an
opening in the woods, she saw a white and green bungalow, low and
rambling, wide-verandahed, set on a hillock three hundred yards back

from shore. There was an encircling area of smooth lawn, a place
restfully inviting.
Watching that, seeing a figure or two moving about, she was smitten
with a recurrence of that poignant loneliness which had assailed her
fitfully in the last four days. And while the Chickamin was still plowing
the inshore waters on an even keel, she walked the guard rail alongside
and joined her brother in the pilot