The Highgrader

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "And what is 'bucking a sample'?" India wanted to know after one of his stories.

  "You just pound some rock up and mix it to get a sample. Once when I was drag-driver of a herd in a round-up...."

  Moya heard no more. She turned her attention resolutely to her companion and tried to detach her mind from the man in front. She might as well have tried to keep her heart from beating.

  After they had arrived at the mill Jack quietly took charge of the disposition of the party. Verinder and Joyce were sent up in the first bucket. When this was halfway up to the mine the cable stopped to let another couple enter a bucket. Joyce, fifty feet up in the air, waved her hand to those below.

  "You next, India," ordered her cousin.

  The young woman stepped into the bucket. "I'm 'fraid," she announced promptly.

  "No need to be. Captain, your turn."

  The eyes of the two men met. Ned Kilmeny guessed instantly that the other had arranged this so as to get a few minutes alone with Moya. He took a place beside his sister immediately.

  The cable did not stop again until the second pair of passengers had reached the mine.

  Moya, followed by Jack, stepped into the basket, which began to rise steadily as it moved across the valley.

  Kilmeny did not lose a minute.

  "Why don't you let me see you alone? Why do you run away from me?" he demanded.

  Little patches of color burned beneath the shadows of her eyes. A sound as of a distant surf began to beat in her ears.

  "What nonsense! Why should I run from you?" she asked, meeting with difficulty the attack of his masterful gaze.

  "Because you're afraid to let me tell you that I love you," he charged.

  "Thought it was Joyce you ... fancied," she retorted quietly, her pulse hammering.

  "So it was. I fancied her. I love you. I'm asking you to marry me."

  "You don't have to ask me to marry you because you exaggerate the service I did you."

  "I ask you because I love you."

  "Thank you very much for the compliment. Sorry I must decline." She did not dare look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the mill far below.

  "Why must you—since you love me?"

  The telltale pink stained her cheeks. "You take that for granted, do you?"

  "It's true, I believe. How can I make love to you as other men do? Lady Farquhar won't let me see you alone—even if you were willing to give me a chance. In two days you are going out of my life. I must speak the truth ... bluntly. I love you. It has been that way with me ever since you came into my life again, little Moya. But I was blind and didn't see it till ... till I was alone in the mine with death."

  "I ... am sorry."

  "That is not enough. I'm going to have the truth. You saved my life. What for? It is yours ... if you will take it."

  She looked straight at him. "I can't marry you."

  "Why can't you? Can you say that you don't love me?"

  In the full-charged silence that followed a stifling emotion raced through her blood. The excitement in her set a pulse beating in her throat. Womanlike, she evaded the issue.

  "The cable has stopped. What has happened?"

  "Nothing has happened. It has stopped because I arranged with the engineer at the hoist to have it stop. When I give the signal it will start again."

  "But...."

  He brushed aside her futile protest. "I'm going to have this out with you. Dare you tell me that you don't love me, Moya?"

  He forced her to meet his eyes, and in that moment she felt weak and faint. The throb of passion beat tumultuously against her will.

  "Please ... be generous. What will they think? Let us start," she begged.

  "They will think something is wrong with the machinery. But it doesn't matter in the least what they think. It's my last chance, and I'll not give it up. You've got to answer me."

  The point where the bucket had stopped was a hundred feet above the ground below. She looked down, and shuddered.

  "It's so far down ... please."

  "Then don't look down. Look at me, Moya. It won't take you a moment to answer me."

  "I have. I said I couldn't marry you."

  "Tell me that you don't love me and I'll give the signal."

  "I ... don't."

  "Look straight at me and say it."

  She tried to look at him and repeat it, but her eyes betrayed the secret she was fighting to keep from him. The long lashes fell to the hot cheeks an instant too late.

  His hand found hers. "My little Irish wild rose, all sweetness and thorns," he murmured.

  Above the tumult of her heart she heard her voice say, as if it were that of a stranger, "It's no use ... I can't ... marry you."

  "Because I'm a highgrader?"

  She nodded.

  "Do you think I'm worse than other men? Down in the bottom of your heart do you believe that?"

  She smiled wanly. "Other men are not ... making love to me."

  "Am I nothing but a thief to you?"

  "I have told you that you are the man I ... love. Isn't that a good deal?"

  The desire of her, pure as a flame, swept through him. "It's the greatest thing that ever came into my life. Do you think I'm going to let it end there? I'm going to fight for our happiness. I'm going to beat down the things that come between us."

  "You can't. It's too late," she cried wistfully.

  "It's never too late for love so long as we're both alive."

  "Not for love, but...."

  "You've got to see this as I see it, sweetheart. I'm a man—primitive, if you like. I've done wild and evil things—plenty of them. What of that? I slough them off and trample them down. The heart of me is clean, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  To look at him was enough to clear away all doubt. He had the faults that go with full-blooded elemental life, but at bottom this virile American was sound.

  "Well! Isn't that enough?"

  The little movement of her hands toward him seemed to beg for pity. "Jack! I can't help it. Maybe I'm a little prig, but ... mustn't we guide our lives by principle and not by impulse?"

  "Do I guide mine by impulse?"

  "Don't you?" She hurried on to contradict, or at least to modify, her reluctant charge. "Oh, I know you are a great influence here. You're known all over the state. Men follow you wherever you lead. Why should I criticize you—I, who have done nothing all my life but lean on others?"

  "Go ahead. When I ask you to marry me I invite your criticism."

  "I have to take little steps and to keep in well-worn paths. I can't make laws for myself as you do. Those that have been made may be wrong, but I must obey them."

  "Why? Why should you? If they're wrong, fight against them."

  "I can't argue with you ... dear. But I know what I think right. I want to think as you do. Oh, you don't know how I long to throw my Puritan conscience overboard and just trust your judgment. I ... admire you tremendously. But I can't give in ... I can't."

  The muscles stood out on his lean cheeks as he set his teeth. "You've got to, Moya. Our love has been foreordained. Do you think it is for nothing that we met again after all these years? You're mine—the one woman in the world I want and am going to have."

  She shook her head sadly. "No ... no!"

  "Is it the money I have made highgrading? Is that what stands between us? If I were able to come to you without a dollar but with clean hands—would you marry me then?"

  He leaned toward her, eager, ardent, passionate, the color in his cheeks burning to a dull brick tint beneath the tan. Body and soul she swayed toward him. All her vital love of life, of things beautiful and good and true, fused in a crescendo of emotion.

  "My dear ... my dear, I'm only a girl—and I love you." Somehow her hands were buried in the strong grip of his. "But ... I can't live on the profits of what I think is wrong. If it weren't for that ... Jack, I'd marry you if you were a pauper—and thank God for the chance."

  He faced her doggedly.
"I'm not a pauper. I've fought for my share of the spoils. You've been brought up in a hot-house. Out in the world a man wins because he's strong. Do you think it's all been play with me? By God, no! I've ridden night herd in a blizzard when the temperature was below zero. I've done my shift on the twelfth level of the Never Quit many a month. I've mushed in Alaska and fought against Castro in Venezuela. Do you think I'm going to give up my stake now I've won it at last?"

  She looked at him tremulously. "I don't ask you to give it up. You'll have to decide that for yourself."

  "Don't you see I can't give it up? If I do, I lose you. How can I take care of you without money?"

  "I'd do my best, Jack."

  "You don't understand. It would be for years—until I had made another start. I wouldn't let you give up everything unless I had something to offer. I wouldn't consider it."

  "Isn't that putting pride before love, Jack? You know I have a little money of my own. We could live—in very decent poverty. I would love to feel that we were fighting ... together. We both know you'll win in the end. Wouldn't it be fine to work out your success in partnership? Dear, I'd rather marry you while you're still a poor man."

  For a moment the vision of it tempted him, but he put the dream away. "No. It won't do. Of course I'm going to win out in the end, but it might take a dozen years to set me on Easy street. For a woman brought up as you have been poverty is hell."

  "Then you think I'm only a doll," she flashed. "You want to put me back in that hot-house you mentioned. I'm just an ornament to dress up and look at and play with."

  "I think you're a little tinder-box," he said, smiling ruefully.

  "Don't you see how it is with me, Jack? I've always craved life. I've wanted to take hold of it with both hands and without gloves. But they would never let me. I've got my chance now ... if you really love me more than you do your pride and your money. I want to live close to the people—as you do."

  "What did that suit cost you?" he asked abruptly.

  "Don't remember. Twenty-five pounds, maybe. Why?"

  "One hundred twenty dollars, say. And you need dozens of dresses in a season. I'll make a guess that it takes five thousand a year to clothe you. That is nearly twice as much as I'll earn altogether next year if I throw away my stake."

  She waved his argument aside. "Stupid boy! I have dresses enough to last me for five years—if you'll let me be that poor man's wife. I can make them over myself later and still be the best dressed woman in camp."

  From above came Captain Kilmeny's shout. "We telephoned down. The engineer has the trouble arranged."

  The cable began to move.

  "When shall I see you alone again, Moya?" Jack demanded.

  "I don't know."

  "I'm going to see you. We've got to fight this out. I'll not let Lady Farquhar keep me from seeing you alone. It's serious business."

  "Yes," she admitted. "I'll tell Lady Jim. But ... there's no use in letting you think I'll give up. I can't."

  "You've got to give up. That's all there is to it." His jaw was set like a vise.

  The party above fell upon them as they landed.

  "Were you frightened, Moya?" exclaimed Joyce above the chorus of questions.

  "Just for a moment." Moya did not look at Jack. "Mr. Kilmeny told me it would be all right."

  Jack's eyes danced. "I told her we would work out of the difficulty if she would trust me."

  Moya blushed. It happened that Captain Kilmeny was looking directly at her when his cousin spoke.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXV

  HOMING HEARTS

  Jack Kilmeny had not been brought up in the dry sunbaked West for nothing. The winds of the Rockies had entered into his character as well as into his physique. He was a willful man, with a good deal of granite in his make-up. A fighter from his youth, he did not find it easy to yield the point upon which he differed from Moya. There was in her so much of impulsive generosity that he had expected to overpower her scruples. But she stood like a rock planted in the soil.

  It came to him as he walked home after a long fight with her that in his heart he did not want her to yield. She was the Moya Dwight he loved because she would not compromise with her conviction. Yet, though he wanted her to stand firm, he hated the thought of giving way himself. It galled his pride that he must come to her without a penny, knowing that she had the means to keep them both modestly. Nor could he, without a pang, think of surrendering the twenty-eight thousand dollars he had fought for and won. He was no visionary. The value of money he understood perfectly. It stood for power, place, honor, the things that were worth having. Given what he had, Jack knew he could double it in Goldbanks within the year. There were legitimate opportunities for investment that were bound to make rich returns. But without a dollar he would be like Samson shorn of his locks.

  All through the night he was joined in battle with himself, but when at early dawn he stood on the top of Son-of-a-Gun hill and faced a sky faintly pink with the warning of a coming sun his decision had been made.

  On his way back he met Moya and Miss Seldon. Joyce pounced upon him with a grievance.

  "You haven't told me yet how much you're going to give for the new hospital, Mr. Kilmeny. You know we're leaving to-morrow, and you'll have to decide at once. Be generous, please. You said yourself it was a good cause."

  He nodded agreement. "The most worthy charity I know. I've often wondered why some Andrew Carnegie didn't set the fashion of endowing hospitals by wholesale. They ought to be free to all poor folks out of health. When a man is losing his wages and his family is scrimping he ought not to be facing a thirty-dollar-a-week hospital charge. Yes, I'm for the new hospital, Miss Seldon."

  "How strong are you for it?" Joyce asked, laughing at her newly acquired American slang. "Mr. Verinder has promised to give me two dollars for every one I can raise among my other friends. So don't be a—a——"

  "A tightwad," supplied Moya with a smile. She could do a little in the native slang herself.

  Jack went into his pocket for a checkbook and a fountain pen. He wrote for a few seconds, tore the check from the stub, and handed it to Joyce.

  That young woman gasped.

  "Why—you don't really mean—it's for twenty-eight thousand two hundred and fourteen dollars," she cried.

  "And seventeen cents. Please don't forget that," he added.

  "But—what on earth do you mean?"

  Jack was looking at Moya, and she at him with shining eyes in which joy swam.

  "It's a little thank offering, Miss Seldon."

  "Because you were rescued from the mine, I suppose. Still...."

  "Because I'm engaged to be married to the best woman in the world," he corrected.

  Joyce whirled upon Moya with instant divination. "You little wretch, and you never told me."

  If Miss Dwight had not known it herself till this moment she gave no sign to that effect. "We're telling you now, dear," she explained.

  "How long have you been engaged? Was it yesterday in the bucket?"

  Jack laughed. "Nothing so romantic. We've been engaged a little less than half a minute. You get the first chance to wish Moya joy on having won so great a catch. She's marrying a pauper, you know."

  "I think we're very rich," differed his sweetheart shyly.

  Joyce looked from one to the other suspiciously. "I haven't a notion what either of you mean, but I know I'm going to hang on to this check, Mr. Millionaire Pauper."

  Imps of mischief sparkled in the highgrader's eyes. "Don't forget that Verinder has to write one for twice as much."

  Miss Seldon could not help laughing. "I'll see to that. He's not a welcher, but ... I wonder how he'll look when I tell him."

  "You ought to tell him as soon as you can," Jack hinted boldly.

  "Oh, ought I? Did you say you had been engaged less than a minute, Mr. Kilmeny? How much will you give me to go down now and tell him?"

  "I've nothing left to give—except my gratitude."


  "You're the first man who ever was so ungallant as to tell me he would be grateful to have me leave him."

  "I'm the first who ever proposed to another girl in your presence. The circumstance is unusual," he flung back gayly.

  "I didn't hear you propose. All you did was to announce it," she replied saucily.

  "That's true too," admitted Kilmeny. "Well, I'm going to propose now if it isn't too late. You may stay if you like."

  "Thanks, no." Joyce kissed her friend. "I hope you'll be very happy, dear. I ... I believe you will."

  Moya choked on her words. "I know I shall, Joy."

  Miss Seldon looked at Jack with an expression in which embarrassment and audacity were blended. "I've always rather liked your pauper," she confided aloud to Moya.

  Her confidences had their limits. She omitted to mention what had just popped into her mind, that within the fortnight he had proposed to her too on the same spot.

  Jack bowed with exaggerated deference when she shook hands with him. He was just now riding the seventh wave of happiness and felt friendly to the whole world.

  "Thanks very much. You're a good scout, Joyce."

  "Good gracious! What may that be? Some more of your American slang, I suppose." She broke away from persiflage to add seriously: "You're right about one thing, though. You've got the best girl in the world. Be good to her, Jack Kilmeny."

  With that she turned and walked down the hill.

  The other two walked up.

  "I'm so proud of you, Jack, boy," whispered one of them.

  He laughed happily. "I'm proud of myself. I've done the best day's work I ever did for myself when I won Moya Dwight."

  "You know what I mean, Jack. What other man would have thrown away a small fortune—all he had—just for me?"

  "I can name one other," suggested Kilmeny.

  "Ned! But he's a saint."