The Long Portage. Harold Bindloss

I knew it would be difficult. Indeed, I was anxious about you; the wilderness has claimed so much from me. But did you—”

      “I succeeded,” Nasmyth answered quietly.

      The nod she gave him was expressive. It meant that she had expected him to succeed; he was a man who did what he said.

      “I think George should never have made that journey,” she resumed. “Fond of the open as he was, he hadn’t the physical stamina. He never spared himself; he was apt to overestimate his powers.”

      It was spoken with a grave regretfulness that troubled Nasmyth and yet stirred him to strong appreciation of her character. With all her love for her brother, she could face the truth.

      “I’ve learned that he bore everything with the fortitude one would expect from him—doing his share always with the rest,” Nasmyth said. “We got through a little earlier, and had better weather; but I saw enough to convince me that the difficulties George had to contend with would have killed any ordinary man.”

      “They did not kill Clarence.”

      Nasmyth once more burned with anger against the transgressor.

      “No,” he replied in a strained tone; “Clarence escaped.”

      She flashed a sharp glance at him, and he felt glad that it was too dark for her to see his face.

      “You must tell me the whole story to-night,” she requested.

      Her companion made no answer. With the reserve that must be maintained on several points, the story would be difficult to relate; and it could not fail to be painful to her. The horror she would feel if she ever learned that her brother might have been saved had his cousin shown more resolution was a thing he dare not contemplate, and he wondered if the shock the knowledge must bring could be spared her. This depended upon Lisle, whom he had promised to assist. Nasmyth could foresee nothing but trouble, and he was silent for a while as they drove on across the lonely moor.