ILLIAM CROOKS, the old lumberman who had been the friend of the elder Kent, was big and broad and burly, and before the years had silvered his mane it was as red as any danger flag that ever wagged athwart steel rails. He held strong opinions, he used strong language, he was swift to anger, he feared no man on earth, and he knew the logging business from stump to market.
He inhabited a huge, square, brick structure that would have given an architect chronic nightmare. Twenty odd years before he had called to him one Dorsey, by trade a builder. “Dorsey,” said Crooks, “I want you to build me a house.”
Dorsey, who was a practical man, removed his pipe, scratched his head and asked: “What of?”
“Red brick,” said Crooks. He held out a sheet of foolscap. “Here's the number of rooms and the sizes of them.”
Dorsey scanned the paper. “What do you want her to cost?”
“What she's worth, and a fair profit to you,” said Crooks. “Get at her and finish her by frost. I'll want to move in by then.”
“All right,” said Dorsey. “She'll be ready for you.”
By frost “she” was finished, and Crooks moved in. There he had lived ever since; and there he intended to live as long as he could. Kindly time had partially concealed the weird creation of Dorsey's brain by trees and creepers; here and there an added veranda or bow window was offered in mitigation of the original crime; but its stark, ungraceful outline remained a continual offence to the eye. That was outside. Inside it was different. The rooms were big and airy and well lighted. There was an abundance of open fireplaces, as became the residence of a man whose life had been spent in devastating forests, and the furniture and furnishings were practical and comfortable, for Bill Crooks hated “frills.”
In that house his children were born, and there three of them and his wife died. There Jean, his youngest girl, grew to womanhood, a straight, lithe, slender, dark-haired young tyrant, with his own fearlessness and directness of speech. She was known to her intimates as “Jack,” and she and Joe Kent had been friends all their young lives.
Since coming home Kent had seen little of her. He was very busy mastering details of the business, and either went back to his office in the evenings or spent them quietly at the club. But on the day of his interview with Mr. Ackerman it occurred to him that he should call upon Jack Crooks.
When he opened the gate that evening he saw that the wide veranda was well occupied. Four young men were making exceedingly light conversation to two young women. William Crooks was nowhere visible. Miss Crooks came down the walk to meet him, and held out two slim hands in welcome.
“I'm so glad to see you, Joe. I've been looking for you for days.”
“You see, I've been busy,” said Kent. “And then, naturally, I haven't been going out much.”
She nodded sympathetic comprehension. “I understand, of course. Come up and be presented. I have a very charming visitor.”
“Any one I know?”
“Edith Garwood. She's my guest for a few weeks. Have you met her?”
Joe had never met Miss Garwood. He decided as he shook hands with her that this was his distinct loss. Edith Garwood was tall and fair and blue eyed, with the dainty bloom and colouring of a flower. Her smile was simply distracting. Her voice was low and musical, and her laughter carried a little trill that stuck in the memory like the first bird notes of spring. She seemed to be one of those rare girls who are made to be loved by everybody, madly adored by several, and finally captured by some undeservingly lucky man.
At that moment she was holding a little court. Mallane, a young lawyer; Drew, of Drew & Son; Leadly, whose chief occupation was the dissemination of his father's money, which he had almost accomplished; and young Jolly, who honoured a bank with his presence by day, clustered around her closely. Each was quite positive that her glances and laughter held a meaning for him which the others did not share. The charmed circle, momentarily broken by the entrance of Kent, closed again. They talked at Miss Garwood, they postured at her, and when, now and then, they remembered the existence of their young hostess and included her in the conversation, it was evidently as a matter of duty only. Just then Edith Garwood was the only star in all the heavens.
Joe drew chairs for himself and Miss Jack just outside the group.
“Well?” she asked.
“Quite, thank you.”
“I didn't mean that. Is it love at first sight with you, too?”
“No chance for me,” laughed Joe. “Competition is too keen. Besides, Jack, I've been in love with you for years.”