His business there was
at an end. But he considered with reluctance a return to Vancouver.
He was not happy. He was merely passive. It did not matter to anyone
where he went. It did not matter much to himself. He was as well here
as elsewhere until some substantial reason or some inner spur rowelled
him into action.
Here there was no one to look askance at his disfigurement. He was
less alone than he would be in town, for he found a subtle sense of
companionship in this solitude, as if the dusky woods and those grim,
aloof peaks accepted him for what he was, discounting all that
misfortune which had visited him in the train of war. He knew that was
sheer fantasy, but a fantasy that lent him comfort.
So he stayed. He had plenty of material resources, a tight warm house,
food. He had reckoned on staying perhaps a month. He found now that
his estimate of a month's staples was away over the mark. He could
subsist two months. With care he could stretch it to three, for there
was game on that southern slope,--deer and the white mountain goat and
birds.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84