Two shall be born

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Return 1

II. The Last Town 14

CHAPTER I THE KETURISr

Mr. David Westley had been graduated from the army of successful toilers for the period of two generations of men. He was wealthy and fashionable — and seemingly useless. Had he been an Englishman, with the wealth, ability, and masterful spirit that were his, he would doubtless have been in command of some huge and barbaric district somewhere on some frontier of that sprawling empire. But he was an American, of New York, bom to wealth, with no taste for the trade of his fathers or the politics of his countrymen. He knew the world as his father had known Wall Street; and stories of his prowess as a slayer of big game were told at many campfires, in the billiard-rooms of English houses, in city clubs, and on the decks of ships. He was popular with his friends, but not with mere acquaintances.

Westley was just home from Scotland, where he had been deer-stalking with the MacLeam, an impecunious chieftain. Though only thirty years of age, he found that he had outgrown the somewhat mild excitement of stalking highland deer.

Somewhat low in spirits, he had made his homeward voyage aboard a small and unfashionable vessel sailing from a Scotch port. During the voyage he had heard some talk that had not improved his humor. There were a couple of young fellows aboard whom he did not know, but who evidently knew a good deal about him and his friends. He overheard fragments of their conversation in the deck smoking-room.

"Joice is a mighty decent chap," said one. "Oh, yes, he has nerve. But why shouldn't he cut in? Dorothy Gordon is not such a huge catch, after all, barring her looks. Joice's people in Yorkshire could buy up old Gordon to-morrow without having to sell any of their farms or dismiss any of their servants.''

"But that Yorkshire property isn't Walter Joice's," objected the other young man, producing a fat cigarette from a fat case.

"A good half of it shall be his some day," returned his friend. "But what has that to do with it, anyway? If he is keen on the girl, and Westley isn't, and the girl chooses to change her mind, surely he has a right to make the most of it."

"Well, it's all the same to me. I don't want to marry her. We saw a good deal of her in

London, and of Joice, too. What sort is Westley? I saw Mm once or twice before this trip; but he is older than I am, and having about ten millions more than my old man, circles some five degrees higher in the social blue of New York."

"I don't know any more about him than you do. Why should I? I've heard that he is a good shot, can carry a forty-pound pack all day in a rough country, and is possessed of more ability than his circumstances call for. I have heard some talk of his extraordinary courage, too. Self-contained sort of Johnny, I gather. He is certainly keeping to himself this trip."

Westley, who had been lighting his pipe close to the open door of the smoking-room, on the lee side of the ship, turned and walked away. He felt more depressed than ever, angry, and ashamed. The Dorothy Gordon of whom the young men had spoken was the woman he loved. For the past two years they had been engaged. Captain Walter Joice, D.S.O., late of the Yorkshire Light Infantry, was an English soldier and explorer whom he had met in several parts of the world.

He began to brood over what he had heard concerning Dorothy and Joice. The more he brooded the gloomier he became. All that the young men had said about Joice was undoubtedly true. The Englishman would be rich enough some day ; and his position in Yorkshire and the world at large — independent of money and partly of his own making and partly inherited from generations of distinguished ancestors— ^was a thing millions could not buy.

Westley knew this. He reflected that he should have been in London; that he should have forced Dorothy to fix a date for the wedding; that he should have made surer of her love before taking too much for granted. He had underestimated Captain Joice's attractions. But after all, ten to one there was nothing to worry about. This thing he had heard in the smoking-room was, very likely, a pipe-dream.

He made himself unusually agreeable to the two youths whose conversation he had overheard, and had the satisfaction of seeing that they had altered their impression of him for the better. But his homeward trip to New York was a dreary affair.

Dorothy Gordon and her mother reached New York ten days ahead of David Westley. Captain Joice crossed with the Gordons ; but Westley did not know this. Westley did not know that Joice was in New York until he met him at one of his clubs on the afternoon of the day of his arrival. It was nearly a year since the two men had last met. They shook hands and looked steadily, with veiled inquiry, into one another's eyes. Westley remarked that this was an unexpected pleasure.

"Same here,'' said Joice. "I heard that you were in Scotland, with the MacLeam. It used to be MacLearn's boast that he never let a lowlander escape from his mountain fastnesses before Christmas."

Westley laughed pleasantly and replied that he had given the chief the slip easily enough. He then excused himself to the Englishman, and telephoned to Dorothy. He failed to detect anything in the tone of her voice to indicate a guilty conscience. She said, quite naturally, that she was delighted to know that he was home again.

He asked if he might call immediately, and she replied that she would be delighted to see him. Westley's car was waiting for him in front of the club. On his way to it, half-way down the steps of the clubhouse, he became the victim of one of those amazing blind throws of chance which so frequently make and mar the lives of men. He came face to face with a gentleman ascending the steps. A side-glance awoke old memories in him. He halted.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter with the Sultan?"

The other grasped Westley's hand and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Bless my soul, it's Dave Westley !" he cried. "Well, this is luck. Eight years since I last set eyes on yon, Dave. Oh, the Sultan is all right; though he doesn't happen to be the same Sultan whom I commenced doing business with. I'm taking a holiday — ^the first for eight years. On my way across from Liverpool it made me feel quite ill to hear that you were in Scotland, Dave. But this is luck!"

"It's a treat to see you, Dick," replied Westley. "I'm in a rush now; but will you dine with me to-night. Meet me here at eight o'clock."

"Right you are," returned Mr. Richard Starr, the power behind a certain third-rate Eastern throne.

"By the way, Dick, who told you that I had been in Scotland?"

"I heard it aboard the boat. Do you remember the girl we were both after when we were youngsters — Dorothy Gordon?"

"Yes, I remember her very well."

"She told me. She was aboard with her aunt. And there was a mighty decent chap called Joice aboard, too, who seems to have cut us both out. Gad, she has more than fulfilled her promises. She's a queen! If I hadn't this dashed Sultan on my shoulders I'd settle right down here and try to put the kibosh on the Englishman."

"Eight o'clock," said "Westley, and ran down the wide steps.

For a minute David Westley leaned back in his rushing car, faint and dazed. Then his injured pride asserted itself, clouded his grief, and steadied him.

He lit a cigarette and tried to think calmly. He was cut to the quick, heart and spirit, and the houses and people of the city swept behind him on either hand in a blur of stupid windows and silly, mocking faces. He remembered that there had been another before him — a man whom he knew only slightly, less wealthy, and weaker than himself. He had also loved Dorothy.

He drove to Mr. Gordon's house, and had not long to wait for Dorothy. She entered the room with both hands extended, but with a light of inquiry, rather than of welcome, in her eyes. There was something half furtive, half fearful, in her look. At sight of his pale cheeks and set jaw, her beautiful, small face flushed pink.

Westley stood up. He did not advance, and he ignored her hands. She halted within a yard of him and let her hands drop to her sides.

"You might have let me know/' he said, his voice very low and even more toneless than usual. "I think you owed that much to me as well as to yourself. It is hard on a man's pride, to say the least, to discover the fact that he has been thrown over from the talk of public places. I think I may even venture to say that it is hardly fair to my successor. Captain J oice."

Dorothy trembled, and many poignant and conflicting emotions were flashed and shadowed in her face. She replied, with an evident effort to control her voice.

"I understand," she said. "It is you who do not understand — ^who have always failed to understand. You speak of your pride ; but it seems that you have never credited me with the same virtue. By what social or moral canon is it compulsory that I should notify you whenever I meet a friend or happen to cross the Atlantic in the same ship with one? Have you kept me so well informed concerning the incidents of your sojourns in Asia, in Africa, in Scotland? Surely if you were so jealous of my actions you might have forsaken your sport in Scotland for a little while and visited us in London.'*

Westley laughed unpleasantly.

"I am not blind to the fact that I have been a fool," he said.

"I have not said so," returned the girl. "You are too self-centered — too confident — too careless about the feelings of others. If I have taught you a lesson in the consideration of others, I am glad."

"A lesson?" queried Westley. "I am in no mood to shy at a name. The substance of the lesson is what matters — and you have certainly taught me most successfully to despise both you and myself — ^you for your heartlessness and worldly wisdom and myself for my stupidity. I have now the honor to inform you that I consider myself removed from the sphere of your instructions."

The girl's face went white as paper at this.

"Are you so utterly blind 1" she whispered. And then^ "But think a moment — think. What do you really mean!"

"No amount of thought can make my meaning clearer," he replied. "I retire, shaken but enlightened, before Captain Joice's higher bid, having already offered to the limit of my resources."

"Coward !" cried the girl in a choked voice.

"Hardly that, I think," said Westley. "You forget your young brother."

He bowed and left the room and the house.

Dorothy stood for a minute, her hands clenched, her eyes ablaze, white with anger and outraged pride, remorse, and self-pity. Misunderstood and misjudged — surely her cup was full. But to be named an adventuress — to be insulted so in her father's house — and by David Westley! Fear shook her, for if he loved her he should have known. Love is blind only in that it sees with the eyes of the loved one. A wave of disgust with herself went through her, hotter than fire in her veins.

She swayed, groping blindly for support. She had called him a coward — and yet he had risked his life for Tom's two years ago in Africa. Gray and black shadows enwound her; the chimes of a thousand distant belfries struck faint and thin, but with infinite confusion, upon her ears. She fell close beside and beneath the little table, the legs of which terminated in knuckled claws of brass.

And so her maid found her ten minutes later, colorless, motionless, with a purple bruise above her left temple.

There was a rumpus in the house of John Angus Gordon. If John Angus was a hard man, he was also a hot one. In his veins coursed his racy Scotch blood.

J ohn Angus had known of Westley's visit ; and now, in the first wave of hubbub and excitement which convulsed the house of Gordon, he was confronted by the unmistakable mark of a blow upon his daughter's brow. For a minute there was murder in his eye, but Dorothy, reviving quickly under cold water, sat up and read the intention in his eye. She dismissed the servants, then arose, crossed the room unsteadily and locked the door.

"I fainted, daddy," she said. "I fell over there and must have hit my head against the foot of the table, but now I feel quite well."

She sank weakly into a chair. Her eyes became suddenly moist. She laughed a little and held a hand to her eyes. Her father glared down at her, his hard face twisted with concern and rage.

"Where's that pup?" he demanded. "Cleared out, you may be sure! Fainted, you say? — and fell against the table ? D'ye think I don't know the mark of a coward's knuckle, my girl? Oh, I knew there'd be a rumpus, the way you carried on with the Englishman, but may the fiend take me if I thought David Westley would lift his fist to a woman ! Let him pitch into the Englishman if he feels so mad — and get his own face punched, by Heaven! Where is he now? I'll fix him. Big and young as he is, and worth ten millions to my one, I'll show him that the man who strikes my girl had better order his coffin first."

"Daddy, you are crazy," exclaimed Dorothy. "David did not strike me. I fainted and hurt myself — as I have told you. My dear daddy, do you honestly think that men like David would strike any woman? And do I ever tell untruths? You have a very hot, foolish temper, dear. You forget that David is a man. You forget what you owe him."

Gordon glared around him uneasily.

"No, I don't forget that," he said. "But that gives him no right to — to think that he can treat you — like this. I'll not stand for it ! What was the row about?"

"It was not worth calling a row," replied Dorothy. "He was angry about Captain Joice — as I had intended him to be — and we had a little spat. That is all, daddy. He has learned a lesson."

"This concerns me," said John Angus. "I am still your father — ^yes, and I've done my best to be a mother to you as well, ever since you were ten years old. I've done my best, Dot. I've been a good father ; but, as God knows, a poor mother ! I'll call on Westley now. I'll have a little fatherly talk with him."

Dorothy stood up and put her hands on his shoulders.

"You have always been the kindest and dearest of fathers," she said, "and now you will not do anything to hurt me. Please, please say nothing to David about his visit. He has done nothing that calls — for you to talk to him. We were both angry. It was nothing but a spat, daddy. Think of my feelings — and of your own pride."

"And what about young Joice's feelings?" asked Gordon. "I like that fellow; and, by Heaven, it makes me sore to hear that he has been used to teach any man a lesson. I suppose that's what you used him for? My girl, that's a low game. No woman has any right to make use of a straight, simple, clean-bred chap like Walter J oice."

"But he understands," returned the girl, in distress. "We — ^we are nothing but very good friends, daddy. It — it is unkind of you to speak as if I had done something — something dishonorable. Captain Joice understands. We are only good friends. He knows that I am engaged to David — and he is a friend of David."

"So you think," said her father. "He's that kind, of course; he'd just grin and stand for anything. But I know more about men than you do, my girl. There, there, don't cry. I'll leave David alone. I'll let him get over his tantrums the best way he can. I am sorry for Joice."

Chapter II The Last Town

David Westley returned to his club, nodded to half a dozen men whom he knew, mechanically gave up his hat and coat and thrust the metal check in his pocket, sat down in his favorite chair in his favorite room, and unfolded the paper that happened to lie nearest to his hand.

He read for fifteen minutes, blindly, with his eyes only. Suddenly he laid aside the paper and rang a bell at his elbow. He ordered a Scotch-and-soda and a C. P. R. time-table. After a minute's examination of the time-table he sprang to his feet and left the room, and the drink untouched. His own car had been dismissed. A taxi was summoned. He jumped in and gave the address of his own house, a grotesque tower of a place which, though only thirty years old, bulged upon the thoroughfare with Moorish doorways and Gothic windows, Norman battlements and Roman porches.

David did not admire the architectural qualities of the house which his father had built ; but on this occasion he ran up the imposing steps and rang the bell without a glance to right or left. He was too intent on getting inside immediately even to search through his pockets for his latch-key. The ornate door was opened promptly by Hush, his valet. Hush was a middle-aged person, entirely correct and clean-shaven, and perfectly in tune with his name. He opened the door because he was the only servant in the great house. He and his master were the only occupants of the house, for that matter. During the greater part of every year the house was as empty as a drum. Only four of the vast and shapeless rooms were furnished.

"You must pack a couple of boxes," said Westley. "I'll help you. Hush; for I want a selection, and am in a hurry."

"Very good, sir," replied Hush in a voice scarcely stronger than a whisper.

Westley went up a flight of stairs four steps at a time. The valet followed at a swift but respectful gait. The leather trunks, so recently come to rest from their Atlantic crossing, stood in a row in the dressing-room, already unstrapped and unpacked.

But Hush had not yet had time to sort and put away his master's elaborate outfit. Garments of every variety lay about in heaps. Dozens of boots and shoes, each with a tree of yellow wood, stood on the floor, toeing this way and that, like a disembodied militia company in line. Westley pointed to two cabin trunks.

"Those trwo boxes will bold all that I'll need out of this kit," he said. "You pack, Hush, as I name the articles I want."

The work progressed for ten minutes in silence.

"I must leave you, Hush," said Westley. "I have to dine with a friend. I'll be back by ten, in time to catch the ten-thirty express for Boston. Keep right on with the packing. Don't put in anything that I won't need — and don't forget my guns."

"Very good, sir," replied the valet. "But may I ask where you are going, sir, so as to have some idea of what articles you may require?"

Westley was already undressing, preparatory to changing into evening clothes. For several seconds he stood with his shirt half off, at a loss for an answer.

"Into the woods," he said at last.

"Yes, sir. North or south, sir?"

"North — though it does not matter. Yes, I am going north. Hush — a long way north."

"Very good, sir ; I'll have your things and my own all ready by ten o'clock, sir, and the car ordered to take us to the station."

"But I'm not taking you this trip, Hush. You must stay here and keep house. There'll be a good many things for you to attend to for me^ as I had not intended to leave New York so soon until — until a few hours ago."

"Very good, sir/' replied Hush. "Nothing has gone wrong with your affairs, sir, I hope?"

"Nothing, Hush, I assure you," answered Westley, with a slow and somewhat labored smile. "My affairs are in the pink of condition."

"Thank Heaven for that !" breathed Hush. He loved David Westley — ^with cause.

Westley completed his toilet quickly. He found Starr awaiting him at the club. During the dinner Starr's talk was reminiscent and slightly sentimental. With the coffee, however, his eyes brightened and his manner became brisker,

"My rest-cure is at an end," said he. "I sail again to-morrow."

"What's the trouble?" asked Westley.

"I've received a cable from my Sultan. The poor chap thinks that some of his faithful subjects are working up a little game on him with the object in view of depriving him of his throne. He wants me to come back quick and hold him down in his seat."

"Dick, you are a remarkable man," said Westley. "You talk of making Sultans as I might talk of making — ^well, mistakes. Mistakes are the only things I've ever made, I think."

"My first Sultan was a mistake," said Starr.

Westley smiled. "I'm off, too," he said. "Pm going north •to-night."

"North? What for?"

"Oh, sport! It must be three years since I shot my last moose."

"Moose," repeated Starr, shaking his head. "David, I am sorry for you. Moose are all very well, in their way, and the shooting of them is fair sport; but, as the sole occupation of a lifetime, I think mighty little of it. You do not confine your attention to moose, I know; but elephants and lions do not save you. Sport is sport, my boy — and a man's work in life is quite another thing. It is in you. By the way, didn't you save a man from drowning once, on the Thames — and very nearly croak yourself?"

Westley smiled. "You are right, Dick," he said. "Heaven knows I am not proud of myself. Dozens of chaps I know are better sportsmen than I am ; and yet they find time and energy to rule provinces, command regiments, and write books on the side. As to saving a man from drowning — well, that only requires ability to swim. The chap I pulled out of the Thames was James Hush. He is now my valet."

"Come with me," invited Starr. "You are just the man I need for a partner."

David shook his head. "Unmaking Sultans would be more to my taste than making them, I fear," he said. "No, Dick ; I'm going north now.

I have never yet forsaken a trip that I have planned. That characteristic is something to my credit, I suppose."

They parted half an hour later. Westley returned to his house, and found the boxes and gun-cases packed and standing in the lower hall and the car waiting. Half an hour later he was off on the first stage of his northward journey. From Quebec he despatched a wire to the postmaster of the last town to the north. Twenty hours later he reached the last town, sent his boxes and gun-cases to the best hotel, and called on the postmaster.

"I've found the right man for you,'' said the official. "Pierre MacKim is his name, an' he hails from the Smoky River country, to the nor'- east. He come to town to make a dicker with old Ferguson for his nex' season's take of furs. Just happened to catch him. He was intendin' to start back this mornin' ; but I got him to wait for you. You'll find him at Bert's Hotel this minute, I guess. Lookin' over timber lands, I take it, mister?"

"No; moose," replied Westley.

"Well, sir," replied the other, "the moose will fair tromp on you in the Smoky River country. Much obliged. You'll find Pierre Mackim a smart feller."

David Westley found Bert's Hotel to be an obscure tavern on a back street of the town. The wall of the house, beneath the narrow roof of the front veranda, was decorated with the antlers and heads of moose, caribou, and deer.

A dozen men sat on the veranda, their chairs tipped backward and their feet up against the posts which supported the roof. Some smoked while others "chawed." Some wore blanket jumpers, and others sat in their shirt-sleeves. From within, through a window to the left of the front door, came a hum of voices, and at times a weedy effort at song.

"Can you tell me if Pierre MacKim is in this house?" asked David.

The men on the veranda stared at him lazily for a few seconds in silence. Several of them spat elaborately.

"Maybe ye'll find him inside," said one down the stem of his pipe.

Westley entered the house and opened the door on the left. He found himself in a foul-smelling, crowded, dingy room. The floor was speckled and spattered with tobacco-juice. The eyes of the inmates were glaring, lower jaws were hanging, feet were scuffling belligerently on the filthy floor, and curses and oaths were flying and settling like a swarm of flies. And it was no later than mid-afternoon. Westley read the signs of the place at a glance.

"Is Pierre MacKim here?" he asked loud enough to carry above the racket, even to the farthest corner of the room.

The tumult ebbed to half its volume. A score of heated, weather-stained faces were turned to the newcomer. Those employed there looked up from their work with that in their eyes suggestive of savage dogs looking up from half-gnawed bones.

"He ain't here/' said one of these. "Left an hour ago."

"Here I am, mister," came a faint voice from the midst of the crowd at the farther end of the room.

Then the tumult flooded up again, full tide. Westley had heard the faint and somewhat muffled voice. He moved toward it, returning the furious glaring of the manager with a chilly stare.

"Are you there, MacKimf he demanded. "Come out. I want to speak to you."

Westley made his way through the throng with difficulty. Several opposed his passage. He laid them flat, with face set and pale.

"Git out of here, you!" yelled the manager. "We don't allow no fightin' an' rough-house here. Git out an' mind yer own business !"

The knot of men at the end of the room from which the faint voice had sounded was now heaving and twisting like a bootball scrimmage.

Westley ignored the words of the manager, reached the crowd, and tore it apart. He found the core to consist of a slender young man in the grasp of two stalwart ruffians. The young man's face was thin and swarthy, but strangely attractive. He struggled desperately, though his arms were pinned to his sides, and a thin trickle of blood crept down from a wound above his right eyebrow.

"Help, mister — ^help!'' he cried.

Though David Westley had played all his life, he had played at games demanding strength, skill, and endurance — ^yes, and courage. And beneath a calm surface and quiet manner his temper was hot and quick. At college he had been the strongest man in his year ; but he was stronger now.

He jumped forward, gripped one of the men who held MacKim, and yanked him away so violently that he reeled across the room and brought up against the wall with a thump. At that a threatening roar went up, and a dozen men hurled themselves unsteadily at Westley. They were unarmed, however. Westley, cool, big, powerful, and skilled in boxing, sent them spinning and sprawling by twos and threes. He kept a sharp lookout for knives; but the few that were drawn proved harmless in the uncertain grasp of their tipsy owners.

The manager and clerk were sober, however.

They came up and rushed at David. Both reached him, one bringing his jaw in contact with the stranger's right fist, and the other his eye in contact with the stranger's left. One struggled to his feet; but a kick from a Frenchman, intended for David, encountered him in the middle of his waistcoat and put him out of business for the balance of the day.

David Westley and Pierre MacKim left the scene of confusion at the earliest opportunity. The woodsman staggered as he walked.

"So you are MacKim, the man who is going to take me into the Smoky Eiver country?" said David, glancing keenly at his companion and sucking a skinned knuckle before replacing his glove.

"Yes, mister, I'm Pierre MacKim, a trapper for Two Moose House, up in that big country," replied the other. "You come along 'bout the right time, mister, for Pierre MacKim. I thanks you."

"You seemed to be in a bad way, certainly," said the New Yorker. "What were you fighting about? How did you come by that cut on the head?"