In a very few words he quietly told her the real facts, confiding them both to her self-interest and her humanity.  McEwen was to be her only lodger till the next step could be determined.  She was to wait on him, to keep drink from him, to get him clothes.  Her husband was to go out with him, if he should insist on going out; but Anderson thought his injury would keep him quiet for a day or two.  Meanwhile, no babbling to anybody.  And, of course, generous payment for all that was asked of them.

But Mrs. Ginnell understood that she was being appealed to not only commercially, but as a woman with a heart in her body and a good share of Irish wit.  That moved and secured her.  She threw herself nobly into the business.  Anderson might command her as he pleased, and she answered for her man.  Renewed groans from the room next door disturbed them.  Mrs. Ginnell went in to answer them, and came out demanding a doctor.  The patient was in much pain, the wounds looked bad, and she suspected fever.

“Yo can’t especk places to heal with such as him,” she said, grimly.

With doggedness, Anderson resigned himself.  He went to the station and sent a wire to Field for a doctor.  What would happen when he arrived he did not know.  He had made no compact with his father.  If the old man chose to announce himself, so be it.  Anderson did not mean to bargain or sue.  Other men have had to bear such burdens in the face of the world.  Should it fall to him to be forced to take his up in like manner, let him set his teeth and shoulder it, sore and shaken as he was.  He felt a fierce confidence that could still make the world respect him.

An hour passed away.  An answer came from Field to the effect that a doctor would be sent up on a freight train just starting, and might be expected shortly.

While Mrs. Ginnell was still attending on her lodger, Anderson went out into the starlight to try and think out the situation.  The night was clear and balmy.  The high snows glimmered through the lingering twilight, and in the air there was at last a promise of “midsummer pomps.”  Pine woods and streams breathed freshness, and when in his walk along the railway line—­since there is no other road through the Kicking Horse Pass—­he reached a point whence the great Yoho valley became visible to the right, he checked the rapid movement which had brought him a kind of physical comfort, and set himself—­in face of that far-stretching and splendid solitude—­to wrestle with calamity.

First of all there was the Englishman—­Delaine—­and the letter that must be written him.  But there, also, no evasions, no suppliancy.  Delaine must be told that the story was true, and would no doubt think himself entitled to act upon it.  The protest on behalf of Lady Merton implied already in his manner that afternoon was humiliating enough.  The smart of it was still tingling through Anderson’s being.  He had till now felt a kind of instinctive contempt