Mr Verinder Complains

: The Highgrader

Jack Kilmeny followed the pathway which wound through the woods along

the bank of the river. Occasionally he pushed through a thick growth of

young willows or ducked beneath the top strand of a neglected wire

fence.



Beyond the trees lay a clearing. At the back of this, facing the river,

was a large fishing lodge built of logs and finished artistically in

rustic style. It was a two-story building spread ov
r a good deal of

ground space. A wide porch ran round the front and both sides. Upon the

porch were a man in an armchair and a girl seated on the top step with

her head against the corner post.



A voice hailed Kilmeny. "I say, my man."



The fisherman turned, discovered that he was the party addressed, and

waited.



"Come here, you!" The man in the armchair had taken the cigar from his

mouth and was beckoning to him.



"Meaning me?" inquired Kilmeny.



"Of course I mean you. Who else could I mean?"



The fisherman drew near. In his eyes sparkled a light that belied his

acquiescence.



"Do you belong to the party camped below?" inquired he of the rocking

chair, one eyeglass fixed in the complacent face.



The guilty man confessed.



"Then I want to know what the deuce you meant by kicking up such an

infernal row last night. I couldn't sleep a wink for hours--not for

hours, dash it. It's an outrage--a beastly outrage. What!"



The man with the monocle was smug with the self-satisfaction of his

tribe. His thin hair was parted in the middle and a faint straw-colored

mustache decorated his upper lip. Altogether, he might measure five feet

five in his boots. The miner looked at him gravely. No faintest hint of

humor came into the sea-blue eyes. They took in the dapper Britisher as

if he had been a natural history specimen.



"So kindly tell them not to do it again," Dobyans Verinder ordered in

conclusion.



"If you please, sir," added the young woman quietly.



Kilmeny's steady gaze passed for the first time to her. He saw a slight

dark girl with amazingly live eyes and a lift to the piquant chin that

was arresting. His hat came off promptly.



"We didn't know anybody was at the Lodge," he explained.



"You wouldn't, of course," she nodded, and by way of explanation: "Lady

Farquhar is rather nervous. Of course we don't want to interfere with

your fun, but----"



"There will be no more fireworks at night. One of the boys had a

birthday and we were ventilating our enthusiasm. If we had known----"



"Kindly make sure it doesn't happen again, my good fellow," cut in

Verinder.



Kilmeny looked at him, then back at the girl. The dapper little man had

been weighed and found wanting. Henceforth, Verinder was not on the map.



"Did you think we were wild Utes broke loose from the reservation? I

reckon we were some noisy. When the boys get to going good they don't

quite know when to stop."



The eyes of the young woman sparkled. The fisherman thought he had never

seen a face more vivid. Such charm as it held was too irregular for

beauty, but the spirit that broke through interested by reason of its

hint of freedom. She might be a caged bird, but her wings beat for the

open spaces.



"Were they going good last night?" she mocked prettily.



"Not real good, ma'am. You see, we had no town to shoot up, so we just

punctured the scenery. If we had known you were here----"



"You would have come and shot us up," she charged gayly.



Kilmeny laughed. "You're a good one, neighbor. But you don't need to

worry." He let his eyes admire her lazily. "Young ladies are too seldom

in this neck of the woods for the boys to hurt any. Give them a chance

and they would be real good to you, ma'am."



His audacity delighted Moya Dwight. "Do you think they would?"



"In our own barbaric way, of course."



"Do you ever scalp people?" she asked with innocent impudence.



"It's a young country," he explained genially.



"It has that reputation."



"You've been reading stories about us," he charged. "Now we'll be on our

good behavior just to show you."



"Thank you--if it isn't too hard."



"They're good boys, though they do forget it sometimes."



"I'm glad they do. They wouldn't interest me if they were too good.

What's the use of coming to Colorado if it is going to be as civilized

as England?"



Verinder, properly scandalized at this free give and take with a

haphazard savage of the wilds, interrupted in the interest of

propriety. "I'll not detain you any longer, my man. You may get at your

fishing."



The Westerner paid not the least attention to him. "My gracious, ma'am,

we think we're a heap more civilized than England. We ain't got any

militant suffragettes in this country--at least, I've never met up with

any."



"They're a sign of civilization," the young woman laughed. "They prove

we're still alive, even if we are asleep."



"We've got you beat there, then. All the women vote here. What's the

matter with you staying and running for governor?"



"Could I--really?" she beamed.



"Really and truly. Trouble with us is that we're so civilized we bend

over backward with it. You're going to find us mighty tame. The

melodramatic romance of the West is mostly in storybooks. What there was

of it has gone out with the cowpuncher."



"What's a cowpuncher?"



"He rides the range after cattle."



"Oh--a cowboy. But aren't there any cowboys?"



"They're getting seldom. The barb wire fence has put them out of

business. Mostly they're working for the moving picture companies now,"

he smiled.



Mr. Verinder prefaced with a formal little cough a second attempt to

drive away this very assured native. "As I was saying, Miss Dwight, I

wouldn't mind going into Parliament, you know, if it weren't for the

bally labor members. I'm rather strong on speaking--that sort of thing,

you know. Used to be a dab at it. But I couldn't stand the bounders that

get in nowadays. Really, I couldn't."



"And I had so counted on the cowboys. I'm going to be disappointed, I

think," Miss Dwight said to the Westerner quietly.



Verinder had sense enough to know that he was being punished. He had

tried to put the Westerner out of the picture and found himself

eliminated instead. An angry flush rose to his cheeks.



"That's the mistake you all make," Kilmeny told her. "The true romance

of the West isn't in its clothes and its trappings."



"Where is it?" she asked.



"In its spirit--in the hope and the courage born of the wide plains and

the clean hills--in its big democracy and its freedom from convention.

The West is a condition of mind."



Miss Dwight was surprised. She had not expected a philosophy of this

nature from her chance barbarian. He had the hands of a working man,

brown and sinewy but untorn; yet there was the mark of distinction in

the lean head set so royally on splendid shoulders. His body, spare of

flesh and narrow of flank, had the lithe grace of a panther. She had

seen before that look of competence, of easy self-reliance. Some of the

men of her class had it--Ned Kilmeny, for instance. But Ned was an

officer in a fighting regiment which had seen much service. Where had

this tanned fisherman won the manner that inheres only in a leader of

men?



"And how long does it take to belong to your West?" asked the young

woman, with the inflection of derision.



But her mockery was a fraud. In both voice and face was a vivid

eagerness not to be missed.



"Time hasn't a thing to do with it. Men live all their lives here and

are never Westerners. Others are of us in a day. I think you would

qualify early."



She knew that she ought to snub his excursion into the personal, but she

was by nature unconventional.



"How do you know?" she demanded quickly.



"That's just a guess of mine," he smiled.



A musical voice called from within the house. "Have you seen my

Graphic, Moya?"



A young woman stood in the doorway, a golden-white beauty with soft

smiling eyes that showed a little surprise at sight of the fisherman. A

faint murmur of apology for the interruption escaped her lips.



Kilmeny could not keep his eyes from her. What a superb young creature

she was, what perfection in the animal grace of the long lines of the

soft rounded body! Her movements had a light buoyancy that was charming.

And where under heaven could a man hope to see anything lovelier than

this pale face with its crown of burnished hair so lustrous and

abundant?



Miss Dwight turned to her friend. "I haven't seen the Graphic, Joyce,

dear."



"Isn't it in the billiard room? Thought I saw it there. I'll look,"

Verinder volunteered.



"Good of you," Miss Joyce nodded, her eyes on the stranger who had

turned to leave.



Kilmeny was going because he knew that he might easily outwear his

welcome. He had punished Verinder, and that was enough. The miner had

met too many like him not to know that the man belonged to the family of

common or garden snob. No doubt he rolled in wealth made by his father.

The fellow had studied carefully the shibboleths of the society with

which he wished to be intimate and was probably letter-perfect. None the

less, he was a bounder, a rank outsider tolerated only for his money. He

might do for the husband of some penniless society girl, but he would

never in the world be accepted by her as a friend or an equal. The

thought of him stirred the gorge of the fisherman. Very likely the man

might capture for a wife the slim dark girl with the quick eyes, or

even her friend, Joyce, choicest flower in a garden of maidens. Nowadays

money would do anything socially.



"Cheekiest beggar I ever saw," fumed Verinder. "Don't see why you let

the fellow stay, Miss Dwight."



The girl's scornful eyes came round to meet his. She had never before

known how cordially she disliked him.



"Don't you?"



She rose and walked quickly into the house.



Verinder bit his mustache angrily. He had been cherishing a fiction that

he was in love with Miss Dwight and more than once he had smarted

beneath the lash of her contempt.



Joyce sank gracefully into the easiest chair and flashed a dazzling

smile at him. "Has Moya been very unkind, Mr. Verinder?"



He had joined the party a few days before at Chicago and this was the

first sign of interest Miss Seldon had shown in him. Verinder was

grateful.



"Dashed if I understand Miss Dwight at all. She blows hot and cold," he

confided in a burst of frankness.



"That's just her way. We all have our moods, don't we? I mean we poor

women. Don't all the poets credit us with inconstancy?" The least

ripple of amusement at her sex swelled in her throat and died away.



"Oh, by Jove, if that's all! I say, do you have moods too, Miss Joyce?"



Her long thick lashes fluttered down to the cheeks. Was she embarrassed

at his question? He felt a sudden lift of the heart, an access of

newborn confidence. Dobyans Verinder had never dared to lift his hopes

as high as the famous beauty Joyce Seldon. Now for the first time his

vanity stirred. Somehow--quite unexpectedly to him--the bars between

them were down. Was it possible 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.



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