The Highgrader | Page 7

that she had taken a fancy to
him? His imagination soared.
For a moment her deep pansy eyes rested in his. He felt a sudden
intoxication of the senses. Almost with a swagger he drew up a chair
and seated himself beside her. Already he was the conquering male in
headlong pursuit. Nor was he disturbed by the least suspicion of having
been filled with the sensations and the impulses that she had contrived.
Miss Seldon had that morning incidentally overheard Lady Farquhar
tell her husband that Dobyans Verinder's fortune must be nearer two
million pounds than one million. It was the first intimation she had
been given that he was such a tremendous catch.
CHAPTER III
NIGHT FISHING
Jack Kilmeny crossed the river by the rope ferry and followed the trail
that ran up. He took the water above the Narrows, about a mile and a
half from camp. The mosquitoes were pretty bad near the willows
along the shore, but as he got out farther they annoyed him less and
with the coming of darkness they ceased to trouble.
The fish were feeding and he had a few strikes. Half a dozen eight and
nine-inch trout went into his creel, but though he was fishing along the
edge of the deep water, the big fellows would not be tempted. His
watch showed a quarter to ten by the moon when at last he hooked one
worth while.
He was now down by the riffles not far from the Lodge. A long cast

brought him what fishermen along the Gunnison call a bump. Quietly
he dropped his fly in exactly the same spot. There was a tug, a flash of
white above the water, and, like an arrow, the trout was off. The reel
whirred as the line unwound. Kilmeny knew by the pressure that he had
hooked a good one and he played it carefully, keeping the line taut but
not allowing too much strain on it. After a short sharp fight he drew the
fish close enough to net the struggler. Of the Lochleven variety, he
judged the weight of the trout to be about two pounds.
He would have liked to try another cast, but it was ten o'clock, the limit
set by law. He waded ashore, resolved to fish the riffles again
to-morrow.
Next day brought Kilmeny the office of camp cook, which was taken in
turn by each of the men. Only two meals a day were eaten in camp, so
that he had several hours of leisure after the breakfast things were
cleared away. In a desultory fashion he did an hour or two of fishing,
though his mind was occupied with other things.
The arrival of the party at the Lodge brought back to him vividly some
chapters of his life that had long been buried. His father, Archibald
Kilmeny, had married the daughter of a small cattleman some years
after he had come to Colorado. Though she had died while he was still
a child, Jack still held warmly in his heart some vivid memories of the
passionate uncurbed woman who had been his mother.
She had been a belle in the cow country, charming in her way, beautiful
to the day of her death, but without education or restraint. Her husband
had made the mistake of taking her back to Ireland on a visit to his
people. The result had been unfortunate. She was unconquerably
provincial, entirely democratic, as uncultured as her native columbine.
Moreover, her temper was of the whirlwind variety. The staid life of
the old country, with its well-ordered distinctions of class and rutted
conventions, did not suit her at all. At traditions which she could not
understand the young wife scoffed openly. Before she left, veiled
dislike became almost open war. The visit had never been repeated, nor,
indeed, had she ever been invited again. This she had bitterly resented
and she had instilled into Jack the antagonism she herself felt. When he

was eight years old Jack's father had insisted on taking him back to
meet his relatives. Immediately upon his return the youngster's mother
had set about undermining any fondness he might have felt for his
British kindred. Three years later she had died.
She had been a doting mother, with fierce gusts of passionate adoration
for her boy. Jack remembered these after he forgot her less amiable
qualities. He had grown up with an unreasonable feeling of dislike
toward those of his father's family who had failed to get along with her.
Some instinct of loyalty which he could hardly define set him
unconsciously in antagonism to his cousins at the Lodge. He had
decided not to make himself known to them. In a few days their paths
would diverge again for all time.
Dusk