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The Girl from Keller's

by Harold Bindloss · English · Gutenberg #3663 · 549,012 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Girl from Keller's

Author: Harold Bindloss


        
Release date: April 13, 2006 [eBook #3663]
                Most recently updated: March 15, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3663

Credits: Produced by Dagny;John Bickers; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL FROM KELLER'S ***




Produced by Dagny;John Bickers; David Widger





THE GIRL FROM KELLER'S


By Harold Bindloss




ORIGINAL PREPARER'S NOTE

This text was prepared from an edition, published by Frederick A. Stokes
Company, New York, 1917. It was published in England under the title
“Sadie's Conquest.”





THE GIRL FROM KELLER'S



CHAPTER I

THE PORTRAIT

It was getting dark when Festing stopped at the edge of a ravine on the
Saskatchewan prairie. The trail that led up through the leafless
birches was steep, and he had walked fast since he left his work at
the half-finished railroad bridge. Besides, he felt thoughtful, for
something had happened during the visit of a Montreal superintendent
engineer that had given him a hint. It was not exactly disturbing,
because Festing had, to some extent, foreseen the line the
superintendent would take; but a post to which he thought he had a claim
had been offered to somebody else. The post was not remarkably
well paid, but since he was passed over now, he would, no doubt, be
disappointed when he applied for the next, and it was significant that
as he stood at the top of the ravine he first looked back and then
ahead.

In the distance, a dull red glow marked the bridge, where the glare of
the throbbing blast-lamps flickered across a muddy river, swollen by
melting snow. He heard the ring of the riveters' hammers and the clang
of flung-down rails. The whistle of a gravel train came faintly across
the grass, and he knew that for a long distance gangs of men were
smoothing the roughly graded track.

In front, everything was quiet. The pale-green sky was streaked along
the horizon by a band of smoky red, and the gray prairie rolled into the
foreground, checkered by clumps of birches and patches of melting snow.
In one place, the figures of a man and horses moved slowly across the
fading light; but except for this, the wide landscape was without life
and desolate. Festing, however, knew it would not long remain a silent
waste. A change was coming with the railroad; in a few years, the
wilderness would be covered with wheat; and noisy gasoline tractors
would displace the plowman's teams. Moreover, a change was coming to
him; he felt that he had reached the trail fork and now must choose his
path.

He was thirty years of age and a railroad builder, though he hardly
thought he had much talent for his profession. Hard work and stubborn
perseverance had carried him on up to the present, but it looked as
if he could not go much farther. It was eight years since he began by
joining a shovel gang, and he felt the lack of scientific training. He
might continue to fill subordinate posts, but the men who came to the
front had been taught by famous engineers and held certificates.

Yet Festing was ambitious and had abilities that sprang rather from
character than technical knowledge, and now wondered whether he should
leave the railroad and join the breakers of virgin soil. He knew
something about prairie farming and believed that success was largely a
matter of temperament. One must be able to hold on if one meant to win.
Then he dismissed the matter for a time, and set off again with a firm
and vigorous tread.

Spring had come suddenly, as it does on the high Saskatchewan plains,
and he was conscious of a strange, bracing but vaguely disturbing
quality in the keen air. One felt moved to adventure and a longing for
something new. Men with brain and muscle were needed in the wide, silent
land that would soon waken to busy life; but one must not give way to
romantic impulses. Stern experience had taught Festing caution, his
views were utilitarian, and he distrusted sentiment. Still, looking back
on years of strenuous effort that aimed at practical objects, he felt
that there was something he had missed. One must work to live, but
perhaps life had more to offer than the money one earned by toil.

The red glow on the horizon faded and an unbroken arch of dusky blue
stretched above the plain. He passed a poplar bluff where the dead
branches cut against the sky. The undergrowth had withered down and
the wood was very quiet, with the snow-bleached grass growing about its
edge, but he seemed to feel the pulse of returning life. The damp sod
that the frost had lately left had a different smell. Then a faint
measured throbbing came out of the distance, and he knew the beat of
wings before a harsh, clanging call fell from the sky.

He stopped and watched a crescent of small dark bodies plane down on
outstretched wings. The black geese were breaking their long journey
to the marshes by the Arctic Sea; they would rest for a few days in the
prairie sloos and then push on again. Their harsh clamor had a note
of unrest and rang through the dark like a trumpet call, stirring the
blood. The brant and bernicle beat their way North against the roaring
winds, and man with a different instinct pressed on towards the West.

It was a rich land that rolled back before him towards the setting sun.
Birch and poplar bluffs broke the wide expanse; there was good water in
the winding creeks, a black soil that the wheat plant loved lay beneath
the sod, and the hollows held shallow lakes that seldom quite dried up.
Soon the land would be covered with grain; already there were scattered
patches on which the small homesteaders labored to free themselves from
debt. For the most part, their means and tools were inadequate, the
haul to the elevators was long, and many would fall an easy prey to the
mortgage robber. But things would soon be different; the railroad had
come. For all that, Festing resolved that he would not be rash. His pay
was good in the meantime, and he would wait.

By and by a cluster of buildings rose out of the grass. A light or two
twinkled; a frame house, a sod stable, and straw-covered wheat bins that
looked like huge beehives grew into shape. The homestead was good, as
homesteads in the back townships went, but Festing knew the land was
badly worked. Charnock had begun well, with money in the bank, but luck
had been against him and he had got slack. Indeed this was Charnock's
trouble; when a job got difficult, he did not stay with it.

Festing crossed the fall back-set, where the loam from the frost-split
clods stuck to his boots, passed the sod stable, noting that one end was
falling down, and was met on the veranda by Charnock's dogs. They sprang
upon him with welcoming barks, and pushing through them, he entered
the untidy living-room. Charnock sat at a table strewn with papers that
looked like bills, and there was a smear of ink on his chin.

“Hallo!” he said. “Sit down and take a smoke while I get through with
these.”

Festing pulled a chair into his favorite corner by the stove and looked
about when he had lighted his pipe. The room was comfortless and bare,
with cracked, board walls, from which beads of resin exuded. A moose
head hung above a rack of expensive English guns, a piano stood in
a corner, and lumps of the _gumbo_ soil that lay about the floor had
gathered among its legs. Greasy supper plates occupied the end of the
table, and the boards round the stove were blackened by the distillate
that dripped from the joint where the pipe went through the ceiling.
These things were significant, particularly the last, since one need not
burn green wood, which had caused the tarry stain, and the joint could
have been made tight.

Then Festing glanced at Charnock. The latter was a handsome man of about
Festing's age. He had a high color and an easy smile, but he had, so
to speak, degenerated since he came to Canada. Festing remembered
his keenness and careless good-humor when he began to farm, but
disappointment had blunted the first, though his carelessness remained.
He had been fastidious, but one now got a hint of a coarse streak and
there was something about his face that indicated dissipation. Yet
Festing admitted that he had charm.

“You don't look happy,” he remarked.

“I don't feel particularly happy,” Charnock replied. “In fact, the
reckoning I've just made looks very like a notice to quit.” He threw
Festing a paper and swept the others into a drawer. “You might examine
the calculations and see if they're right. I'm not fond of figures.”

“That was obvious long since. However, if you'll keep quiet for a few
minutes----”

Festing studied the paper, which contained a rough statement of
Charnock's affairs. The balance was against him, but Festing thought
it might be wiped off, or at least pulled down, by economy and
well-directed effort. The trouble was that Charnock disliked economy,
and of late had declined to make a fight. Festing doubted if he could be
roused, but meant to try.

“I see an error of a hundred dollars, but that doesn't make much
difference. Things look pretty bad, but I imagine they could be
straightened out.”

“How long would it take you to put them straight?”

“Three years,” said Festing, when he had made a rough calculation. “That
is, if I got moderately good crops, but I'd cut out drinks, the pool
game, and some other extravagances. You want to keep away from the
settlement.”

“You'd cut out all that makes life bearable,” Charnock replied, and
added while his face went hard: “Besides, three years is too long.”

Festing thought he understood. The portrait of an English girl hung on
the wall behind the stove, and Charnock had already been some time in
Canada.

“Anyhow,” the latter resumed, “you take much for granted if you count
upon a moderately good crop; I haven't got one yet. We're told this is
a great country for the small farmer, and perhaps it is, so long as he
escapes a dry June, summer hail, rust, and autumn frost. As a matter of
fact, I've suffered from the lot!”

“So have others, but they're making good.”

“At a price! They sweat, when it's light long enough, sixteen hours a
day, deny themselves everything a man can go without, and when the grain
is sold the storekeeper or implement dealer takes all they get. When the
fellow's sure of their honesty he carried them on, for the sake of the
interest, until, if they're unusually lucky, a bonanza crop helps them
to wipe off the debt. But do you imagine any slave in the old days ever
worked so hard?”

Festing knitted his brows. He felt that Charnock must be answered, and
he was not a philosopher.

“Canada's a pretty hard country, and the man without much capital who
undertakes to break new soil must have nerve. But he has a chance of
making good, and a few years of self-denial do a man no harm. In fact, I
expect he's better for it afterwards. A fool can take life easily and do
himself well while his dollars last.”

Charnock smiled sourly. “I've heard something of this kind before!
You're a Spartan; but suppose we admit that a man might stand the
strain, what about a woman?”

“That complicates the thing. I suppose you mean an Englishwoman?”

“I do. An Englishwoman of the kind you used to know at home, for
example. Could she live on rancid pork, molasses, and damaged flour? You
know the stuff the storekeepers supply their debtors. Would you expect
a delicately brought-up girl to cook for you, and mend and wash your
clothes, besides making hers? To struggle with chores that never end,
and be content, for months, with your society?”

Festing pondered. Life on a small prairie farm was certainly hard for
a woman; for a man it was bracing, although it needed pluck and
resolution. Festing had both qualities, perhaps in an unusual degree,
and his point of view was essentially practical. He had grappled with so
many difficulties that he regarded them as problems to be solved and
not troubles to complain about. He believed that what was necessary or
desirable must be done, no matter how hard it was. One considered only
the best way of removing an obstacle, not the effort of mind and body
it cost. Still, he could not explain this to Charnock; he was not a
moralizer or clever at argument.

Then half-consciously he fixed his eyes on the portrait which he had
often studied when the talk flagged. The girl was young, but there was
something in the poise of her head that have her an air of distinction.
Festing did not know if distinction was quite what he meant, but could
not think of a better term. She looked at one with steady eyes; her gaze
was frank and fearless, as if she had confidence in herself. Yet it
was not an aggressive confidence, but rather a calm that sprang from
pride--the right kind of pride. In a way, he knew nothing about her, but
he was sure she would disdain anything that was shabby and mean. He was
not a judge of beauty, but thought the arch of her brows and the lines
of nose and mouth were good. She was pretty, but in admitting this one
did not go far enough. The pleasure he got from studying her picture was
his only romantic weakness, and he could indulge it safely because if he
ever saw her it would be when she had married his friend.

The curious thing was that she had promised to marry Charnock. Bob was a
good sort, but he was not on this girl's level, and if she raised him to
it, would probably feel uncomfortable there. He was slack and took the
easiest way, while a hint of coarseness had recently got more marked.
Festing was not fastidious, but he lived with clear-eyed, wiry men who
could do all that one could expect from flesh and blood. They quarreled
about their wages and sometimes struck a domineering boss, but they did
their work, in spite of scorching heat and biting frost. Raging floods,
snowslides, and rocks that rolled down the mountain side and smashed
the track never daunted them. Their character had something of the clean
hardness of finely tempered steel. But Charnock was different.

“So you think of quitting?” Festing said at length.

“I'm forced to quit; I'm in too deep to get straight. It's possible that
the man I owe most money might give me time, but it would only mean that
I'd slave for another year or two and come down after all. I don't
see why I should sweat and deny myself for somebody else's benefit,
particularly as I'm not fond of doing so for my own.”

“Then you have made a plan?”

Charnock laughed. “I'd a notion of applying for a railroad job. The
pay's pretty good, and I daresay you could put me on the track.”

“I could. The trouble is that somebody else might afterwards put you
off. However, if you'd like to try--”

“I'll wait a bit. I don't know that it's prudent to plunge into things.”

“It is, if you plunge in and stop in until you struggle out with what
you want. Come up to the track and ask for me when you decide to let the
farm go.”

“On the whole, I think not,” said Charnock, whose look got somewhat
strained. “You see, I expect an offer of another post though nothing's
been fixed yet. We'll let the matter drop in the meantime. Are you going
to the Long Lake picnic?”

Festing looked at him with surprise. “Certainly not! Did you ever know
me leave my job to go to a picnic?”

“It might be better if you did! My opinion is you think too much about
your job.”

“You think too little about yours,” Festing rejoined. “Anyhow, what
amusement do you think I'd get from lounging round Long Lake all day?”

“The ducks ought to be plentiful and I'd lend you a gun. In fact, I'll
lend you my second team, if you'll drive the Marvin girls over.”

“No, thanks,” said Festing firmly. “Somebody left Flora Marvin on my
hands at the supper, and I imagine she got very tired. She certainly
looked tired; the girls about the settlement don't hide their feelings.
But who's going with you, since you want the other team?”

“I promised to take Sadie Keller.”

“Sadie Keller?” Festing exclaimed and paused, rather awkwardly. “Well,
of course, I don't see why you shouldn't take her, if she wants to go.”

Charnock looked at him with amusement. “As she's the chief organizer
of the picnic, Sadie does want to go. For that matter, it was her
suggestion that I should bring you.”

“I won't be there; for one thing, I'm too busy,” Festing declared, and
soon afterwards got up. “It's time I started back to camp.”

Leaving the homestead, he walked thoughtfully across the plain. Charnock
had his faults, but he was his friend and was now in trouble. However,
as he had not the pluck to face his difficulties, Festing did not see
how he could help. Then he did not like Bob's taking Miss Keller to the
picnic, because he had met and thought her dangerous. It was not that
she had tried to flirt with him, although she had done so; he felt that
if he had played up, it might have been difficult afterwards to let the
matter drop. Sadie was not a silly coquette. She had a calculating bent,
ambition, and a resolute character. She would not flirt with anybody who
was, so to speak, not worth powder and shot.

Festing did not know how Miss Keller rated his value, but he was
satisfied to remain a bachelor, and had perhaps allowed her to
understand this, because she had since treated him with cold politeness.
Now it looked as if she had thrown Bob some favor, which was ominous,
because Sadie had generally an object. Of course, if Bob were free and
content to marry a girl from the settlement, Sadie would not be a bad
choice. She certainly had some virtues. But Bob was not free, and it was
unthinkable that a man who had won the love of the girl whose portrait
Festing knew should be satisfied with another of Sadie's type.

Then Festing pulled himself up. He could not warn Bob to be cautious,
or interfere with the girl's plans, supposing that she had made some.
Besides, it was Charnock's affair, not his. By and by he dismissed the
matter and thought about a troublesome job that must be undertaken in
the morning.



CHAPTER II

THE PICNIC

The picnic at Long Lake was an annual function, held as soon as the
weather got warm enough, to celebrate the return of spring. Winter is
long and tedious on the high Western plains, where the frost is often
Arctic and little work can be done, and after sitting by the red-hot
stove through the dark, cold months, the inhabitants of the scattered
homesteads come out with joyful hearts to greet the sunshine. There is,
however, no slow transition. Rushing winds from the North-west sweep
the sky, the snow vanishes, and after a week or two, during which the
prairie trails are impassable, the bleached grass dries and green blades
and flowers spring from the steaming sod.

Moreover, the country round Long Lake has some beauty. To the east,
it runs back, bare and level, with scarcely a tree to break the vast
expanse; but to the west low undulations rise to the edge of the next
tableland. Sandhills mark the summits, but the slopes are checkered with
birches and poplars, and creeks of clear water flow through the hollows
in the shadow of thick bluffs. There are many ponds, and here and there
a shallow lake shines amidst the sweep of grass. The clear air and the
distance the view commands give the landscape a distinctive charm. One
has a sense of space and freedom; all the eye rests upon is clean-cut.

It was a bright morning when Charnock drove up to the door of Keller's
hotel. The street was one-sided, and for the most part of its length,
small, ship-lap-board houses boldly fronted the prairie. A few had
shallow verandas that relieved their bareness, but the rest were frankly
ugly, and in some the front was carried up level with the roof-ridge,
giving them a harsh squareness of outline. A plank sidewalk, raised a
foot or two above the ground, ran along the street, where the black soil
was torn by wagon wheels.

There was nothing attractive about the settlement, and Charnock had once
been repelled by its dreariness. He, however, liked society, and as the
settlement was the only center of human intercourse, had acquired the
habit of spending time there that ought to have been devoted to his
farm. He enjoyed a game of pool, and to sit on the hotel veranda,
bantering the loungers, was a pleasant change from driving the plow or
plodding through the dust that rolled about the harrows. For all that,
he knitted his brows as his light wagon lurched past the Chinese laundry
and the poolroom in the next block. The place looked mean and shabby in
the strong sunlight, and, with feelings he had thought dead re-awaking,
he was conscious of a sharp distaste. There was a choice he must shortly
make, and he knew what it would cost to take the line that might be
forced on him.

It was with a certain shrinking he stopped his team in front of the
hotel. The bare windows were open and the door was hooked back, so that
one could see into the hall, where a row of tin wash-basins stood on
a shelf. Dirty towels were scattered about, and the boarded floor was
splashed. The veranda, on to which the hall opened, was strewn with
cigar-ends and burnt matches, and occupied by a row of cheap wooden
chairs. Above the door was painted _The Keller House_. The grocery in
the next block, and the poolroom, bore the same owner's name.

When Charnock stopped, a man without a coat and with the sleeves of his
fine white shirt rolled up came out. He as rather an old man and
his movements were slack; his face was hard, but on the whole
expressionless.

“Hallo!” he said. “Late again! The others have pulled out a quarter of
an hour since.”

“I saw them,” Charnock answered with a languid hint of meaning. “Didn't
want to join the procession and thought they might load up my rig if I
got here on time.”

Keller looked hard at him, as if he understood, and then asked: “Want a
drink before you start?”

“No, thanks,” said Charnock, with an effort; and Keller, going to the
door, shouted: “Sadie!”

A girl came out on the veranda. She was a handsome girl, smartly dressed
in white, with a fashionable hat that had a tall plume. Her hair and
eyes were black, the latter marked by a rather hard sparkle; her nose
was prominent and her mouth firm. Her face was colorless, but her skin
had the clean smoothness of silk. She had a firmly lined, round figure,
and her manner was easy and confident. Sadie Keller was then twenty-one
years of age.

“I thought you had forgotten to come, Bob,” she said with a smile.

“Then you were very foolish; you ought to have known me better,”
 Charnock replied, and helped her into the wagon.

“Well, you do forget things,” she resumed as he started the team.

“Not those I want to remember. Besides, if you really thought I had
forgotten, you'd have been angry.”

“How d'you know I'm not angry now?”

Charnock laughed. “When you're angry everybody in the neighborhood
knows.”

This was true. Sadie was young, but there was something imperious about
her. She had a strong will, and when it was thwarted was subject to
fits of rage. Reserve was not among her virtues, and Charnock's languid
carelessness sometimes attracted and sometimes annoyed her. It marked
him as different from the young men she knew and gave him what she
called tone, but it had drawbacks.

“Let me have the reins; I want to drive,” she said, and added as the
horses trotted across the grass beside the torn-up trail: “You keep a
smart team, but they're too light for much work about the farm.”

“That's so. Still, you see, I like fast horses.”

“They have to be paid for,” Sadie rejoined.

“Very true, but I don't want to talk about such matters now. Then
I've given up trying to make the farm pay. When you find a thing's
impossible, it's better to let it go.”

Sadie did not reply. She meant to talk about this later, but preferred
to choose her time. Her education had been rudimentary, but she was
naturally clever. She liked admiration, but was not to be led into
foolishness by vanity. Sadie knew her value. It had for some time been
obvious that a number of the young farmers who dealt at the store and
frequented the hotel did so for her sake, and she was willing to extend
her father's trade. In fact, she helped to manage both businesses as
cleverly as she managed the customers. Her charm was largely physical,
but she used it with caution. One might indulge in banter, and Sadie had
a ringing laugh that young men liked, but there were limits that few who
knew her overstepped. One or two had done so, but had been rebuked in
a way they wished to forget. Sadie had the tricks of an accomplished
coquette, but something of the heart of a prude.

The settlement got indistinct, and crossing a low rise, they drove past
a birch bluff where the twigs were breaking into tiny points of green.
Then they forded a creek and skirted a shallow lake, from which a flock
of ducks rose and flew North in a straggling wedge. Sandhills gleamed
on the ridges, tall cranes stalked about the hollows, and when the team,
laboring through the loose soil, crossed an elevation one could see the
plain roll back into the far distance. It was sharp-cut to the horizon;
only the varying color that changed from soft blue to white and yellow
in the foreground helped the eye to gage its vast extent. The snow had
bleached the grass, which glittered like silver in the strong sunlight.

A boisterous wind from the North-west drove white-edged clouds across
the sky, but the air was soft with a genial warmth that drew earthy
smells from the drying sod. In places, an emerald flush had begun to
spread across the withered grass and small flowers like crocuses were
pushing through. The freshness and hint of returning life reacted on
Charnock, and stirred his blood when he glanced at his companion. He
felt her physical allurement as he had not felt it before, but now and
then he resolutely looked away. Sadie had shown him marked favor, but
there was much he might lose.

She would not have charmed him when he first came to the prairie with
romantic hopes and vague ambitions. He had been fastidious then, and the
image of a very different girl occupied his heart. Even now he knew
the other stood for all that was best in life; for tender romances, and
sweetness, and high purpose. Helen had gracious qualities he had once
half-reverently admired. She loved pictures and books and music, and was
marked by a calm serenity that was very different from Sadie's restless
force. But it looked as if he had lost her, and Sadie, who could break
a horse and manage a hotel, was nearer his level. Yet he hesitated;
he must choose one of two paths, and when he had chosen could not turn
back.

“You don't talk much,” Sadie remarked at length. “Guess you must be
thinking about your mortgage.”

“I was, in a way. It was rather useless and very rude. However, I won't
think of it again until somebody makes me.”

“That's a way of yours. You think too late.”

“I'm afraid I sometimes do so,” Charnock admitted. “Anyhow, to-day, I'm
not going to think at all.”

Sadie noted the reckless humor with which he began to talk, but she led
him on, and they engaged in cheerful banter until Long Lake began to
gleam among the woods ahead. Charnock skirted the trees and pulled up
where a number of picketed teams and rigs stood near the water's edge.
Farther along, a merry party was gathering wood to build a fire, and
Charnock did not find Sadie alone again for some hours after he helped
her down.

In summer, Long Lake has no great beauty and shrinks, leaving a
white saline crust on its wide margin of sun-baked mud, but it is a
picturesque stretch of water when the snow melts in spring and the
reflections of the birches quiver on the smooth belt along its windward
edge. Farther out, the shadows of flying clouds chase each other across
the flashing surface. Two or three leaky canoes generally lie among the
trees, and in the afternoon Charnock dragged one down, and helping Sadie
on board, paddled up the lake.

As they crept round a point flocks of ducks left the water and the air
throbbed with a beat of wings that gradually died away. The fire, round
which the others sat, was out of sight, and the rustle of the tossing
birches emphasized the quietness. Charnock let the canoe drift, and
Sadie looked up at him from her low seat among the wagon robes he had
brought.

“What are you going to do about your farm?” she asked.

“I don't know yet, and don't see why I should bore you with my
troubles.”

“Pshaw!” said Sadie. “You want to put the thing off; but you know you
can't.”

Charnock made a gesture of humorous resignation. “Very well! I expect I
won't be able to carry on the farm.”

“No,” said Sadie, thoughtfully, “I don't think you could. There are men
who would be able, but not you.”

“I dare say you're right, but you're not flattering,” Charnock rejoined
with a smile.

Sadie gave him a steady look. “Your trouble is you laugh when you ought
to set your lips and get busy. One has got to hustle in Canada.”

“I have hustled. In fact, it's hustling that has brought me low. If I
hadn't spent my money trying to break fresh land, I wouldn't have been
so deep in debt.”

“And you'd have had more time to loaf about the settlement?”

“On the whole, I don't think that's kind. If I hadn't come to the
settlement, I wouldn't have seen you, and that's about the only comfort
I have left.”

A touch of color crept into Sadie's face, but her thoughtful look did
not change.

“Well,” she said, “I'd surely have liked you to make good, and don't
know that we mightn't have got the mortgage held over; but it wouldn't
have been much use. You'd have started again and then got tired and not
have stayed with it.” She spread out her hands impatiently. “That's the
kind of man you are!”

“I'm afraid it's true,” Charnock admitted. “But I hope you like me all
the same.”

Sadie was silent for a few moments, but her color was higher and
Charnock mused. He supposed she meant she could have persuaded her
father to come to his help, and it looked as if she well knew his
failings. Still he felt rather amused than resentful.

“We'll let that go,” she resumed. “I want you to quit joking and listen.
We're going to have a boom at the settlement as soon as the railroad's
opened, and I and the old man can hardly manage the store and hotel.
We've got to have help; somebody the boys like and we can trust. Well,
if you took hold the right way----”

She stopped, but Charnock understood. Keller was often ill and was
getting old. He could not carry on his rapidly extending business much
longer, and Charnock might presently take his place. But this was not
all, and he hesitated.

“Do you think I'm fit for the job?” he asked.

“You could do it if you tried.”

Charnock smiled. “It's comforting to feel somebody trusts me, and I see
advantages in the plan. You keep the books, I think. It's very nice in
the little back office when the lamps are lit and the store is shut. We
could make up the bills together.”

Sadie blushed, and he thought he had not seen her look so attractive.
She was remarkably pretty, although there was now something about her
that puzzled him. It was something elusive that acted like a barrier,
keeping him away. Yet he knew the girl was fond of him; if he wanted
her, he had but to ask, and it was not on this account he hesitated. He
thought of a creeper-covered house in England; a house that had an air
of quiet dignity. He remembered the old silver, the flowers in the shady
rooms, and the pictures. The girl who moved about the rooms harmonized
with her surroundings; her voice was low and clear, she had a touch of
stateliness. Well, he was ruined, and she was far away, but Sadie was
close by, waiting for him. For a moment he set his lips, and then, while
his nerves tingled, banished the disturbing doubts.

Dropping the paddle, he leaned forward, put his hand on the girl's
waist, and drew her towards him. He felt her yield, and heard her draw
a fluttering breath. Her head drooped so that he could not see her face;
she was slipping into his arms, and then, in the moment of surrender, he
felt her body stiffen. She put her hands on his shoulder and pushed him
back; the canoe lurched and he had some trouble to prevent a capsize.
The water splashed against the rocking craft, and Sadie, drawing away,
fixed her eyes on him. She was breathless, but rather from emotion than
effort.

“Don't do that again!” she said.

Charnock saw she meant it, which was strange. Sadie knew and sometimes
used her power of attraction, but it was obvious that she was angry. It
looked as if he had chosen the wrong moment, and he felt worse baffled
and disappointed than he had thought possible.

“I won't,” he said as carelessly as he could. “You nearly threw us both
into the water.”

“I guess that's what I meant to do,” she answered fiercely.

“Well, I expect I'd have been able to pull you out. Suppose I ought to
say I'm sorry; but I'm not. In fact, Sadie, I don't quite understand--”

“No,” she said, “you don't understand at all! That's the trouble.”

Charnock took out his tobacco pouch and began to make a cigarette.
Sadie's cold dignity was something new and he thought she could not keep
it up. If she did not break out in passionate anger, she would soon
come round. As he finished the cigarette she turned to him with flashing
eyes.

“Put that tobacco away or I'll throw it in the lake! Do you think you
can kiss me when you like?”

“I wish I could,” said Charnock. “As a matter of fact, I haven't kissed
you yet. But I'm sorry if you're vexed.”

For a moment Sadie hesitated and then fixed him with a fierce, scornful
gaze.

“Oh,” she said, “you're cheap, and you'd make me as cheap as you! You
want things for nothing; they must be given, where other men would work
and fight. But you can't amuse yourself by making love to me.”

Charnock felt humiliated. If he had really offended her, she could have
rebuked him with a look or sign. Her unnecessary frankness jarred.

“Very well; I must ask you to forget it. Of course, I was wrong, but
I'll try not to vex you again. What are we going to do now?”

“Paddle back to the others as quick as you can.”

Throwing his cigarette into the water, Charnock turned the canoe. It was
a relief to be energetic, because Sadie's demand for speed stung him. He
glanced at her now and then, but she gave no sign of relenting; her face
was whiter than usual and her look was strained. Getting angry, he drove
the canoe down the lake with a curling wave at her bow, until the paddle
snapped in a savage stroke and he flung the haft away. For a moment, he
hoped Sadie would laugh, but she did not.

“Now you'll have to paddle with your hands until you pick up the broken
blade,” she said.

Charnock did so and afterwards awkwardly propelled the craft towards
the camp fire. He thought Sadie might have suggested their landing and
walking back, but she was silent and calmly watched his clumsy efforts.
He was glad when they reached the beach where the others were and he
helped her out. An hour or two later he drove her home, but she did
not talk. Her anger had gone, but she seemed strangely distant. After
helping her down at the hotel he waited a moment.

“Can't we make this up and be friends again?” he asked.

She gave him a curious steady glance. “Not now. It looks as if you
didn't know me yet.”

Then she left him, and Charnock drove home in a thoughtful mood. He
had some idea about what she meant and had been rather surprised by the
pride she had shown. Sadie had certainly led him on; but she was not
altogether the girl he had thought.



CHAPTER III

KELLER INTERFERES

For two or three weeks after the picnic Charnock did not meet Sadie. The
rebuff he had got did not rankle much, and was rather provocative than
daunting, but he understood why she had told him he made her cheap. She
meant to keep her caresses for her husband or declared lover, and if he
wanted her, he must pay the regular price. This was very proper, from
her point of view, but from his the price was high.

Sadie was pretty, capable, and amusing, but he was not sure he would
like to see her every day, in his house and at his table. Besides, the
house would really be hers, and Sadie would not forget this. She was
determined and liked her own way. He had promised to marry another girl,
of a very different stamp, but his conscience was clear on that point.
It was better for Helen's sake that he should give her up, because he
was on the edge of ruin and she was much too good for him. Irresolution,
however, was perhaps his greatest failing, and now he must decide, he
wavered and thought about what he had lost.

There were days when he would not admit that all was lost, and
harnessing his team in the early morning, drove the gang-plow through
the soil until the red sunset faded off the plain. In his heart, he
knew the fight was hopeless; Festing, for example, in his place, might
perhaps make good, but he had not the stamina for the long struggle.
All the same, he worked with savage energy until his mood changed and
he went off to hunt sandhill cranes. He would sooner have gone to the
poolroom, but there was a risk of his meeting Sadie at the settlement.

In the meantime the days got warmer and a flush of vivid green spread
across the grass. The roaring wind that swept the tableland drove clouds
that never broke across the dazzling sky, and where there were belts
of plowed land the harrows clanked across the furrows amidst a haze of
blowing dust. The ducks and geese had gone, and red lilies began to sway
above the rolling waves of grass. Farmer and hired man worked with tense
activity, but Charnock's efforts were spasmodic and often slack.

In the meantime, trade was brisk at the settlement, and Keller found his
business made demands on him that he could hardly meet. It was rapidly
growing, and his strength got less. Indeed, he would have sold out but
for Sadie. The girl was clever and had tone; he wanted her to find life
smooth and taste pleasure her mother had not enjoyed. The latter had
helped him in a hard fight when dollars were very scarce, and died, worn
out, just before the tide turned. Since then he had schemed and sweated
to make her child's future safe.

Now he thought he had done so, but it had been a struggle, and he knew
he had held on too long. Keeping store in a wheat-growing district was
not a simple matter of selling groceries; one was in reality a banker.
Bills were not often paid until the crop was harvested, farmers began
without much money, and one must know whom to trust. Indeed, one often
financed a hustler who had no capital, and kept an honest man who had
lost a crop on his feet; but the risk was great, and one felt the strain
when there was rust and autumn frost.

One bright afternoon Keller stood on the sidewalk in front of the store.
He was not old, but his hair was gray and his face was pinched. It
was rather a hard face, for Keller's glance was keen and his lips were
generally firmly set. Yet he was liked by his customers. Now he was
breathing hard because he had helped a farmer to put a heavy bag of
flour in his wagon. The farmer drove away and a cloud of dust the team
stirred up blew down the street. The fronts of the wooden houses were
cracking in the hot sun; there was not a tree to relieve the bare
ugliness of the place, and the glare was dazzling. Keller at first
imagined this was why he could not see the wagon well, but after a few
moments he knew better.

He went into the store with a staggering step, and the rank smell of
cheese and salt-pork nauseated him. The room felt very hot and was full
of flies that buzzed in a tormenting cloud round his head. He wanted
quietness and made his way to the dark back office, where he dropped
into a chair.

“Go to the hotel,” he ordered the clerk who entered after him. “Tell
Jake to give you a big glass of the special whisky. Be quick, but don't
run and spill the stuff.”

The clerk came back in a few minutes, and Keller pulled himself together
when he had drained the glass, though his forehead was damp with sweat.

“Now where's the list of the truck Gascoyne got?” he said. “I'll look it
up.”

“Sure you feel all right?” the clerk inquired.

“Get the list,” said Keller. “Take that glass away.”

He picked up a pen, but put it down when he found his hand shook, and
told the clerk to charge the goods. When the latter had gone, he sat
still for some minutes and then opened a book of accounts. He had
had another warning, sharper than the last, and had better put things
straight while he could. With this object he worked later than usual,
and when he returned to the hotel called Sadie into his private room.
The girl sat down, and he studied her, leaning his elbow heavily on the
table.

Sadie had a strained look and had been quiet for the last week or two
except when she was angry. This indicated that her nerves were on edge,
and Keller thought he knew why.

“I guess we've got to have a talk,” he said. “I've put it off, but now's
the time.”

Sadie waited calmly. She had courage and knew she must be frank with
her father. He did not, as a rule, say much, but he noted things and
understood.

“Well,” he resumed, “I've built up a pretty good business here, but I'll
have to quit and leave you some day, and reckon you won't be satisfied
to stop at the hotel all your life. You're smart and a looker, and I
guess you want to go out and see the world. That's all right, and you'll
be able, as far as dollars count; but I can't go with you and you can't
go alone.”

Sadie shivered. Keller's face was pinched, and she knew his health was
not good, although she did not know how bad it really was.

“I couldn't leave you, anyway, and hope you'll be with me a long time
yet.”

“It's possible,” said Keller. “All the same, I can't keep my grip on
the business long and want a man to help. But I'm not going to trust a
stranger or a hired man. You see where this leads?”

Sadie saw and made a vague gesture, though her glance was level.

“Very well. The man who carries on my business must be your husband.
Now there are three or four of the boys in the settlement who could
be taught to run the store and hotel, but I allow you don't want me to
choose from them. Have I got that right?”

“Yes,” said Sadie with quiet calm, although her heart beat. “None of
them would suit.”

Keller knitted his brows and his look was grave. “They're good boys, and
if you had taken one of that bunch, I'd have been satisfied. I reckon
the trouble is they're my kind and belong where I do, while you mean
to go higher. Well, that's right; I've put up the dollars to give you a
good time, but you can't get where you want on your own feet.” He paused
with a dry smile. “I allow you're smart enough to figure this out.”

“I have,” said Sadie. “There's much I don't know and couldn't learn
here. If I'm to move up, my husband must help.”

“Then I only know two men round the settlement who could help. Festing's
my choice.”

A wave of color flushed Sadie's white skin, but her voice was quiet. “He
isn't mine. I allow, in some ways, he's the better man, but that doesn't
count.”

Keller looked hard at her. “I used to think your head would guide you,
not your heart; but it seems you're like the rest--well, I was a very
poor man when your mother married me! Now I like Charnock and he has
tone; but if you take him, there's a risk--”

“I know the risk.”

“It's plain! I'd stop the thing right now if you were a different girl,
but you know what you want and how to keep it when it's got. It looks as
if you had made up your mind?”

Sadie's hands moved nervously. She made a sign of agreement, but did not
speak, and Keller went on:

“Anyhow, you'd better understand what you're up against. Sometimes
you'll have to hustle Charnock and sometimes hold him tight. You must
keep him off the liquor, and maybe stop him getting after other girls.
Then when you sell out the business, you'll hold the dollars.”

For a moment Sadie turned her head and then got up and stood by her
father's chair. Her look was strained but resolute as she put her hand
on his arm.

“I know all that! Bob has plenty of faults, but he's the man I love.”

Keller took and pressed her hand. He had some misgivings, but he knew
his daughter.

“We all like Charnock, and though I wouldn't trust him far, I can trust
you. I think you've got that right and won't forget. Very well, since
you want Charnock I'll get him for you.”

Sadie stooped and kissed him and then went out. She was moved, but there
was nothing to be said. Her father was not a sentimentalist, but he had
never failed her and would not do so now. When she sat down in her room,
however, her face was grave. Her courage was high, but she felt
half afraid. Although she loved Bob Charnock, life with him might be
difficult. He was older than she and knew much more, but she must lead
him and be firm where he was weak. It was a hard task for an ignorant
girl, but she resolved to carry it out.

Next morning Keller went down the street and entered a wooden building
filled with gaudily painted mowers and plows. He was not the man to
waste time when he had made a plan, and moreover felt that he had not
much time to lose. Finding the implement dealer in his office, he sat
down, breathing rather hard.

“You don't look very spry this morning,” the dealer remarked.

“I don't feel so bright. The boys have been rushing me the last week or
two. Say, trade is booming now!”

“It surely is. I could sell more machines than I've got, but I've got
a lot of money standing out, and after the bad harvest last fall, don't
know who to trust.”

They compared notes about their customers, and presently the dealer
remarked: “Charnock was in a few days ago, asking about a new wagon, a
mower, and some small tools.”

“Ah!” said Keller, rather sharply. “Then it looks as if he meant to hold
on! He reckoned, not long since, that he'd have to quit. But what did
you tell him?”

“To come again. I'd like to keep Bob Charnock up, but guess it's
dangerous. Owes me a pile. How does he stand with you?”

Keller supplied the information, and the other looked thoughtful.
“Didn't know it was quite so bad as that. I allow I'd better not let him
have the goods.”

“Well, I reckon he's trying the new man at Concord. Smith said he met
him there yesterday.”

The dealer frowned. He hated to think of a customer going to somebody
else. In fact, this was, for a debtor, an unpardonable offense.

“Charnock's trouble is that he's not quite straight. Ought to have
stayed with me, told me how he was fixed, and let me see what I could
do. If he's going to deal with the new man, I'd better pull him up and
try to get my money back.”

“You can't get it,” said Keller dryly. “He can't pay now, and if you let
him go on until harvest, you'll have a crowd of others with long bills
fighting for what's left.”

“Looks like that,” the dealer agreed. “Well, I'd have liked to keep him
going if he'd stayed with me, but I can't stand for losing the dollars
he owes. What are we going to do about the thing?”

Keller explained his plans, and after some argument the other agreed.
The decision they came to would bring Charnock's farming to an end,
but Keller left the office with some doubts. His scheme was going to
succeed, but he wondered whether he had indulged Sadie too far. Much
depended on her firmness, and she might find the job harder than she
thought; but on the whole he imagined she would be equal to the strain.

A week later, Charnock sat, one afternoon, in the saddle of his
gang-plow, tearing a row of furrows through the dusty sod. The sweating
horses moved leisurely, and he did not urge them as he moodily watched
the tangled grass part before the shares and vanish beneath the polished
surface of the turned-up clods. He was breaking new soil, doing work
that would be paid for in the future, and knew the reward of his labor
might never be his. When he reached the end of the plowing he stopped
and let the horses rest while he looked about.

One side of the long furrows gleamed in the strong light, and another
team was moving towards him from the opposite end. The sun was hot, but
the wind was fresh, and thin clouds of dust blew across the plain. Still
the belt he was plowing was good soil; the firm black _gumbo_ that holds
the moisture the wheat plant needs. There was something exhilarating in
the rushing breeze and glow of light, but Charnock frowned and wondered
why he had worked so long. He had no real hope, and admitted that he had
continued his spasmodic efforts because he could not face defeat.

For all that, he had not been fighting entirely for his farm. He
wanted to keep his freedom; to break through trammels that were getting
tighter, and try to regain something that he had lost. Sometimes he felt
desperate, but now and then saw an elusive ray of hope. If he could hold
out until harvest and reap a record crop----

Then his hired man, driving the other plow, waved his arm, and Charnock
saw a rig lurch across a rise amidst a cloud of sand. It was the
mail-carrier going his round, but he would not have come that way unless
he had letters, and Charnock waited until the man arrived.

“Here's your lot,” he said, taking out three or four envelopes.

Charnock's hand shook as he opened the first, it was large and had an
official look, and he found a number of unpaid accounts inside. Besides
these, there was a lawyer's letter, stating that certain dealers had
instructed him to recover payment of the debts Charnock owed. He crushed
the letter in his clenched hand and the veins stood out on his forehead,
while his face got red. The blow he feared had fallen and he was
ruined; but when the shock began to pass he felt a faint relief. It
was something to be free from doubt and anxiety, and there were
consolations. Now he was beaten, the line he must take was plain, and it
had some advantages.

“You can quit plowing and put the teams in the stable,” he said to the
hired man.

“Quit now!” exclaimed the other. “What about the machines?”

“Let them stop,” said Charnock. “It seems they belong to my creditors,
who can look after them. I'm going to Concord and don't know when I'll
be back.”

He went off towards the homestead and half an hour later drove away
across the plain.



CHAPTER IV

FESTING COMMITS THEFT

The air was sharp and wonderfully invigorating when Festing stopped
for a few moments, one evening, outside Charnock's homestead. A row of
sandhills glimmered faintly against the blue haze in the east, but the
western edge of the plain ran in a hard black line beneath a blaze
of smoky red. It was not dark, but the house was shadowy, and Festing
noticed a smell of burning as he entered.

The top was off the stove in Charnock's room, and the flame that
licked about the hole showed that the floor was strewn with torn paper.
Charnock was busy picking up the pieces, and when he threw a handful
into the stove a blaze streamed out and the light shone upon the wall.
Festing noted that the portrait that had hung there had gone, and
looking round in search of it, saw a piece of the broken frame lying on
the stove. It was half burned and a thin streak of smoke rose from its
glowing end. Festing remarked this with a sense of anger.

“What are you doing, Bob?” he asked.

“Cleaning up,” Charnock answered, with a hoarse laugh, as he sat down
among the litter. “Proper thing when you mean to make a fresh start!
Suppose you take a drink and help.”

A whisky bottle and a glass stood on the table, and Festing thought
Charnock had taken some liquor, although he was not drunk. Stooping
down, he began to pick up the papers, which, for the most part, looked
like bills. There were, however, a few letters in a woman's hand, and
by and by he found a bit of riband, a glove, and a locket that seemed to
have been trampled on.

“Are these to be burned?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Charnock. “Don't want them about to remind me----Burn the
lot.”

Festing, with some reluctance, threw them into the stove. He was not,
as a rule, romantic, but it jarred him to see the things destroyed. They
had, no doubt, once been valued for the giver's sake; dainty hands had
touched them; the locket had rested on somebody's white skin. They
were pledges of trust and affection, and he had found them, trampled by
Charnock's heavy boots, among the dust and rubbish.

“You'd get on faster if you used a brush,” he suggested.

“Can't find the brush. Confounded thing's hidden itself somewhere. Can't
remember where I put anything to-night. Suppose you don't see a small
lace handkerchief about?”

Festing said he did not, and Charnock made a gesture of resignation.
“Looks as if I'd burned it with the other truck, but I got that from
Sadie, and there'll be trouble if she wants to know where it's gone. She
may want to know some time. Sadie doesn't forget.”

“Did Sadie give you the locket?”

“She did not,” said Charnock. “You're a tactless brute. But there's
something else I want, and I don't know where it can have got.”

He upset a chair as he turned over some rubbish near the table, under
which he presently crawled, while Festing looking about, noted a small
white square laying half hidden by the stove. Picking it up, he saw
it was the portrait of the English girl, and resolved with a thrill
of indignation that Charnock should not burn this. He felt that its
destruction would be something of an outrage.

He glanced at Charnock, but the latter's legs alone stuck out from under
the table, and as it was obvious that he could not see, Festing dusted
the portrait and put it in his pocket. By and by Charnock crept out and
got upon his feet. It was dark now, but the glow of the burning paper
flickered about the room and touched his face. His hair was ruffled, his
eyes were dull, and his mouth had a slack droop. Festing felt some pity
for the man, though he was also sensible of scornful impatience. The
smell of burned paper disturbed him with its hint of vanished romance.
Putting the lid on the stove, he took the lamp from Charnock's unsteady
hand, and, when he had lighted it, found a brush and set to work.
Presently Charnock made a vague sign of relief as he looked at the swept
floor.

“All gone!” he remarked. “There was something I couldn't find. Suppose I
burned it, though I don't remember.”

“There's nothing left,” said Festing, who felt guilty. “Why did you
destroy the things?”

Charnock sat down and awkwardly lighted his pipe. “Wanted to begin again
with what they call a clean slate. Besides, the stove's the best place
for bills that bother you.”

“You can't get rid of the debts by burning the bills.”

“That's true,” said Charnock with a grin. “Unfortunately obvious, in
fact! However, I cut up my account book.”

“I don't see how that would help.”

“My creditors can now amuse themselves by finding out how I stand.”

Festing frowned impatiently. “A rather childish trick! It doesn't strike
me as humorous.”

“You're a disgustingly serious fellow,” Charnock rejoined. “But you
might be a bit sympathetic, because I've had a nasty knock. My creditors
have come down on me, and I'm going to be married.”

Festing smiled. He had some sense of humor, and Charnock's manner seemed
to indicate that he felt he was confronted with two misfortunes.

“You must have known your creditors would pull you up unless you came
to terms with them, but one would expect you to please yourself about
getting married.”

“I'm not sure your joke's in good taste,” Charnock answered sullenly.
“But in a way, one thing depended on the other. Perhaps I oughtn't to
have said so, but I'm upset to-night. Though I did expect to be pulled
up, it was a knock.”

“No doubt. Are you going to marry Sadie?”

“I am. Have you any reason to disapprove?”

“Certainly not,” said Festing. “Sadie's rather a friend of mine.”

In a sense, this was true. When Festing first came to the prairie from
a mountain construction camp, where he had not seen a woman for twelve
months, he had felt Sadie's charm. Moreover, he imagined that the
girl liked him and consciously used her power, although with a certain
reserve and modesty. For all that, he fought against his inclination and
conquered without much effort. Marriage had not much attraction for him,
but if he did marry, he meant to choose a wife of a different type.

“Sadie's a very good sort,” Charnock resumed. “She knows what we are,
and doesn't expect too much; not the kind of girl to make ridiculous
demands. In fact, Sadie can make allowances.”

Festing thought this was doubtful praise, although it bore out his
opinion of the girl. For all that, Sadie might not be so willing to
make allowances for her husband as for a lover of whom she was not quite
sure.

“Perhaps that kind of thing has advantages,” he said. “But I don't
know--”

“I do know,” said Charnock; “I've tried the other way. The feeling that
you're expected to keep on a high plane soon gets tiresome; besides, it
isn't natural. It's better to be taken for what you are.”

“I suppose so,” Festing assented. “Anyway, if Sadie's satisfied----”

Charnock grinned, although there was a touch of color in his face.

“You're not given to flattery, but might use a little tact. I've had a
knock and am not quite sober, so I can't argue the point. Then it isn't
your business if Sadie's satisfied or not.”

“That's so. But what are you going to do when your creditors turn you
out?”

“Everything's arranged. I'm going to help Keller at the hotel and
store.”

Festing got up. “Well, I've stopped longer than I meant. I wish you good
luck!”

“We'll have a drink,” said Charnock, reaching for the bottle with an
unsteady hand. Then he paused and gave Festing a suspicious look. “It's
curious about that portrait! I used to see you gazing at it, and don't
remember that I picked it up.”

“No, thanks,” said Festing, refusing the glass. “I think you've had
enough. In fact, it might have been better when you were wiping the
slate clean if you had put the bottle in the stove.”

He went out and walked back to the camp in the moonlight, thinking hard.
He was angry with Charnock, but vaguely sorry. Bob had some virtues and
was throwing himself away, although, when one came to think of it, this
was only true to some extent. What one meant was that he was throwing
away his opportunities of rising to a higher plane; while Bob was
satisfied with his present level Sadie was good enough for him, perhaps
too good. Life together might be hard for both, and there was a touch of
pathos in his burning all the tender tokens that bound him to the past,
though it was ominous that he kept the whisky. He could, however, get as
much liquor as he wanted at the hotel; that is, if Sadie allowed it, but
there was some comfort in the thought that the girl was clever and firm.

Festing dismissed the matter, and when he reached his shack at the
bridge put the portrait on the table and sat down opposite. He felt that
he knew this girl, whom he had never met, very well. Something in her
look had cheered him when he had difficulties to overcome; he felt that
they were friends. She was calm and fearless and would face trouble with
the level glance he knew, although now and then, when the lamp flickered
in the draught, he had thought she smiled. They had been companions
on evenings when Charnock wanted to read the newspaper or the talk
had flagged. Sometimes the window and door were open and the smell of
parched grass came in; sometimes the stove was red-hot and the house
shook in the icy blast. Festing admitted that it was not altogether for
Charnock's society he had visited the homestead.

Then he began to puzzle about a likeness to somebody he knew. He
had remarked this before, but the likeness was faint and eluded him.
Lighting his pipe, he tried to concentrate his thoughts, and by and by
made an abrupt movement. He had it! When he was in British Columbia,
engaged on the construction of a section of the railroad that was
being built among the mountains, he met a young Englishman at a mining
settlement. The lad had been ill and was not strong enough to undertake
manual labor, which was the only occupation to be found in the
neighborhood. Moreover, he had lost his money, in consequence, Festing
gathered, of his trusting dangerous companions.

Festing, finding that he had been well educated and articled to a civil
engineer, got him a post on the railroad, where he helped the surveyors.
Dalton did well and showed himself grateful, but when Festing went to
the prairie he lost touch with the lad. The latter wrote to him once or
twice, but he was too busy to keep up the correspondence. Now he knew
it was something in Dalton's face he found familiar in the portrait.
The girl had a steady level glance, and the lad looked at one like that.
Indeed, it was his air of frankness that had persuaded Festing to get
him the post.

But this led him nowhere. He did not know the girl's name, and if it
was the same as the lad's, it would not prove that they were related. He
pushed back his chair and got up. It looked as if he was in some danger
of becoming a romantic fool, but he put the portrait carefully away,
Soon after he had done so a man came in, and sitting down, lighted a
cigarette.

“I wanted to see you, Festing, but hadn't a chance all day,” he said.
“Probably you haven't heard that I've got orders where to send the staff
when the bridge is finished, as it will be soon.”

Festing looked up sharply. Kerr was his superior in the company's
service, but they were on good terms.

“I haven't heard. I'm anxious to know.”

Kerr told him, and Festing's face hardened.

“So Marvin and I go on to the next prairie section! Since they want the
best men on the difficult work in the mountains, it means that we're
passed over.”

“It does, in a sense,” Kerr agreed.

“Then I think I know why you came,” said Festing, who pondered for a
few moments. He had courage and decision, and it was his habit to face
a crisis boldly. “Now,” he resumed, “I'm going to ask your opinion of my
prospects if I stay on the road?”

“Your record's good. You're sure of a post, so long as there's any
construction work going on.”

“A post of a kind! Not the best kind, where a man would have a chance of
making his mark?”

“Well,” said Kerr, “I think that's what I meant. The headquarters
bosses don't know us personally, and judge by a man's training and the
certificates he's got. Of course, in spite of this, talent will find its
way, and sometimes one gets there by a stroke of luck.”

Festing smiled, rather bitterly. “I have no marked talent, and haven't
found it pay to trust to luck. In fact, my only recommendations are a
kind of practical ability and a capacity for hard work. I got on the
road by doing chores and fought my way up.”

“You are practical,” Kerr agreed. “It's your strong point, but I've
thought it sometimes kept you back.”

He paused when Festing looked at him with surprise, but resumed in a
thoughtful voice: “When your job's in front of you, you see what must be
done, and do it well; there's not a man on my section does that kind of
thing better. Still, I'm not sure you always see quite far enough. You
miss what lies ahead and sometimes, so to speak, what's lying all round.
Concentration's good, but one can concentrate too much. However, I
didn't come to find fault, but to let you know how matters are.”

“Thanks. I'm going to look ahead and all round now, and the situation
strikes me as much like this: If I'm content with a second or third best
post, I can stop; if I want to go as far as my power of concentration
may take me and find a place where I can use my independent judgment,
I'd better quit. Have I got that right?”

“It's what I tried to hint. You can count on my recommendation when
it's likely to be of use, but you said something that was rather
illuminating. You want to use your judgment?”

Festing laughed. “I don't know that I've thought much about these
matters, but I am an individualist. You get up against useless rules,
empty formalities, and much general stupidity in organized effort, and
good work is often wasted. When you see things that demand to be done,
you want to begin right there and get at the job. If you wait to see if
it's yours or somebody else's, you're apt not to start at all.”

“Your plan has drawbacks now and then,” Kerr remarked. “But what are you
going to do about the other matter?”

Festing was silent for a few moments. He had to make a momentous choice,
but had known that he must do so and did not hesitate.

“I'm going to quit and try farming. After all, I don't know very much
about railroad building; up to now I've got on rather by determination
than knowledge. Then, if I stop with you, I'll come up against a locked
door whenever I try to push ahead.”

“There are locked doors in other professions.”

“That's so; but in a big organization you must knock and ask somebody
to let you through, and unless you have a properly stamped ticket, they
turn you back. When the job's your own you beat down the door.”

“I've seen farmers who tried that plan left outside with badly jarred
hands. Frost and rust and driving sand are difficult obstacles.”

“Oh, yes,” said Festing. “But they're natural obstacles; you know what
you're up against and can overcome them, if you're stubborn enough.
What I really mean is, you don't trust to somebody else's good opinion;
whether you fail or not depends upon yourself.”

“Well,” said Kerr, getting up, “I think you're making the right choice,
but hope you won't forget me when you leave us. You'll have a friend in
the company's service as long as I'm on the road.”

He went out and Festing lighted his pipe. Now he had come to a decision,
there was much that needed thought; but, to begin with, he knew of a
suitable piece of land. Living in camp, he had saved the most part of
his pay, and had inherited a small sum from an English relative. In
consequence, he could buy the land, build a comfortable wooden house,
and have something over to carry him on until he sold his first crop.

He resolved to buy the land and set the carpenters to work, but could
not leave the railroad for a month, when it would be rather late to make
a start. Then he had worked without a break for twelve years, for the
most part at camps where no amusement was possible, and resolved to
take a holiday. He would go back to England, where he had a few friends,
although his relatives were dead. This was, of course, an extravagance;
but after the self-denial he had practised there was some satisfaction
in being rash. Lighting another pipe, he abandoned himself to pleasant
dreams of his first holiday.



CHAPTER V

A RASH PROMISE

A few days before he started for England, Festing went over to
Charnock's homestead, which was shortly to be sold. The evenings were
getting light, and although Festing had finished his day's work before
he left the bridge, the glow of sunset flooded Charnock's living-room.
The strong red light searched out the signs of neglect and dilapidation,
the broken boots and harness that needed mending, the dust sticking to
the resin-stains on the cracked walls, and the _gumbo_ soil on the dirty
floor. As Charnock glanced up a level ray touched his face and showed
a certain sensual coarseness that one missed when the light was normal.
Festing, however, knew the look, and although he had not remarked it
when he first met Charnock, thought it had always been there.

The change he had noted in his friend was only on the surface. Charnock
had not really deteriorated in Canada; the qualities that had brought
him down had been overlaid by a spurious grace and charm, but it now
looked as if moral slackness might develop into active vice. On the
whole, he thought Sadie would have trouble with Bob, but this was not
his business.

“I've come to say good-bye,” he remarked. “I won't see you again until
my return, and expect you'll be married then.”

“Yes,” said Charnock, shortly. “I suppose you have made some plans for
your trip. Where are you going to stop in England?”

Festing told him and he looked surprised. “I didn't know you had friends
in that neighborhood. Will you be with them some time?”

“A month, anyway. Then I may come and go.”

Charnock pushed his chair back out of the light. “Well, this makes it
easier; there's something I want to ask. We are friends and I've let you
give me good advice, though I haven't always acted on it. I don't know
if this gives me a claim.”

“If there's anything I can do----”

“There is,” said Charnock, who hesitated for a few moments. “I want you
to go and see Helen Dalton. She's the girl I ought to have married, and
doesn't live very far from your friends.”

“Ah!” said Festing with a start. “It was her portrait you meant to
burn?”

Charnock gave him a sharp glance. “Just so. I imagine I did burn it,
because I couldn't find it afterwards.”

There was silence for a few moments while Festing wondered whether the
other suspected him. Bob had an air of frankness, but was sometimes
cunning. This, however, was not important, and Festing was strongly
moved by the thought that he might see the girl.

“Why do you want me to go?” he asked.

“In order that you can tell her how I was situated. I want her to know
why I was forced to give her up.”

“But you have written and stated your reasons.”

“Of course. But I've no talent for explanation, and in a letter you say
too little or too much; probably I didn't say enough. Then you can't
tell how far the person written to will understand, and questions rise.
But will you go?”

Festing wanted to go, although he saw his task might be embarrassing. He
had been some time in Western Canada, where people are frank and do not
shrink from dealing with delicate matters. Then Charnock was his friend.

“It will be an awkward job, but you can indicate the line you think I
ought to take.”

“The line is plain. You will tell Helen what it means to lose one's
crop, and try to make her understand the struggle I've had--how the
weather was against me, and the debts kept piling up until I was ruined.
You can describe the havoc made by drought, and frost, and cutting sand.
Then there's the other side of the matter; the hardships a woman must
bear on the plains when money's scarce. The loneliness, the monotonous
drudgery, the heat, the Arctic cold.”

“Miss Dalton looks as if she had pluck. She wouldn't be easily daunted.”

“Do you think I don't know? But when you meet her you'll see that the
life we lead is impossible for a girl like that.”

“It looks as if you wanted me to be your advocate,” Festing remarked
rather dryly. “I'm to make all the excuses for you I can, and prove that
you were justified in breaking your engagement. I doubt if I'm clever
enough--”

Charnock stopped him. “No! Perhaps I used excuses, but my object is not
to clear myself.” He paused and colored. “We'll admit that Helen lost
nothing when I gave her up; but a girl, particularly a young, romantic
girl, feels that kind of thing, and it might hurt worse if she thought
she had loved a wastrel. I want her to feel that I broke my engagement
for her sake, when nothing else was possible. That might soften the
blow, and I really think it's true.”

“How much of it is true?” Festing asked bluntly.

“Ah,” said Charnock, “you're an uncompromising fellow. You meant that if
you'd had my debts and difficulties, you could have made good?”

“I might; but we both know two or three other men whom I'd have backed
to do so.”

“For all that, you'll admit that the thing was impossible for me?”

Festing knitted his brows. “I believe you could have overcome your
difficulties; that is, if you had really made an effort and faced the
situation earlier. But since you hadn't nerve enough, I dare say it was
impossible.”

“You forget one thing; I hadn't time. At the best, it would have
taken me three or four years to get straight, and as you haven't much
imagination, I suppose you don't realize what Helen's trials would have
been in the meanwhile. An engaged girl's situation isn't easy when her
lover is away. She stands apart, forbidden much others may enjoy, and
Helen would have had to bear her friends' contemptuous pity for being
bound to a man who had turned out a failure or worse.”

“I expect that's true,” Festing agreed. “However, there's another
difficulty. Suppose I persuade Miss Dalton that you made a plucky fight
and only gave her up when you were beaten? She may refuse to let you go,
and insist on coming out to help.”

Charnock started, but with a rather obvious effort recovered his calm.
“You must see your suggestion's stupid. Helen can't come out; I'm going
to marry Sadie.”

“I forgot,” said Festing. “Well, since you urge me, I'll do what I can,
although I don't like the job.”

He left the homestead shortly afterwards, but felt puzzled as he walked
across the plain. When he suggested that Miss Dalton might resolve to
join and help her lover, Charnock had looked alarmed. This was strange,
because although Festing had, for a moment, forgotten Sadie, it was
ridiculous to imagine that Bob had done so. Then why had he started.
There were, however, one or two other things that disturbed Festing, who
felt that he had made a rash promise. But the promise had been made, and
he must do his best to carry it out.

He had a fine voyage, and a week after his arrival in the Old Country
walked up and down the terrace of a house among the hills in the North
of England. His host was an old friend of the family who had shown
Festing some kindness when he was young, and his daughter, Muriel,
approved her father's guest. She liked the rather frank, brown-skinned,
athletic man, whom she had joined on the terrace. He was a new and
interesting type; but although she was two or three years the younger
and attractive, their growing friendship was free from possible
complications. Muriel, as Festing had learned, was going to marry the
curate.

After the roar of activity at the bridge, where the hammers rang all day
and often far into the night, he found his new surroundings strangely
pleasant. In Canada, he had lived in the wilds; on the vast bare plains,
and among snowy mountains where man grappled with Nature in her sternest
mood. Thundering snowslides swept away one's work, icy rocks must be cut
through, and savage green floods threatened the half-built track when
the glaciers began to melt. Every day had brought a fresh anxiety, and
now he welcomed the slackening of the strain. The struggle had left
its mark on him; one saw it in his lean, muscular symmetry, his quiet
alertness, and self-confidence. But he could relax, and found the
English countryside had a soothing charm.

The sun was low and rugged hills cut against the pale-saffron sky. The
valley between was filled with blue shadow, but in the foreground a
river twinkled in the fading light. Feathery larches grew close up to
the house, and a beck splashed in the gloom among their trunks. Farther
off, a dog barked, and there was a confused bleating of sheep, but this
seemed to emphasize the peaceful calm.

“It's wonderfully quiet,” Festing remarked. “I can't get used to the
stillness; I feel as if I was dreaming and would wake up to hear the din
of the rivers and the ballast roaring off the gravel cars. However, I
have some business to do to-morrow that I'm not keen about. Can one see
Knott Scar from here?”

“It's the blue ridge, about six miles off. The dark patch on its slope
is a big beech wood.”

“Then do you know the Daltons?”

“Oh, yes,” said Muriel. “Helen Dalton is a friend of mine. Although the
Scar's some way off, I see her now and then. But are you going there?”

“I am; I wish it wasn't needful,” Festing answered rather gloomily.

“Ah!” said Muriel, giving him a sharp glance. “Helen was to have married
a man in Canada, but the engagement was broken off. Do you know him?”

“I do. That's why I'm going to the Scar. I've promised to explain
matters as far as I can.”

Muriel studied his disturbed face with a twinkle of amusement. “Well,
I'm sorry for Helen; it must have been a shock. For all that, I thought
the engagement a mistake.”

“Then you have seen Charnock?”

“Once. He's a friend of some people Helen used to stay with in the
South, but I met him at the Scar. Handsome, and charming, in a way, but
I thought him weak.”

“What are Miss Dalton's people like?”

“Don't you want to know what Helen is like?”

“No,” said Festing. “I know her already; that is, I've seen her
picture.”

Muriel, glancing at him keenly, did not understand his look, but
replied: “Helen lives with her mother and aunt, but it's hard to
describe them. They are not old, but seem to date back to other times.
In fact, they're rather unique nowadays. Like very dainty old china;
you'd expect them to break if they were rudely jarred. You feel they
ought to smell of orris and lavender.”

“Ah,” said Festing. “I was a fool to promise Charnock. I've never met
people like that, and am afraid they'll get a jar to-morrow.”

“I don't think you need be afraid,” Muriel replied. “They're not really
prudish or censorious, though they are fastidious.”

“And is Miss Dalton like her mother and aunt?”

“In a way. Helen has their refinement, but she's made of harder stuff.
She would wear better among strains and shocks.”

Festing shook his head. “Girls like her ought to be sheltered and kept
from shocks. After all, there's something to be said for Charnock's
point of view. Your delicate English grace and bloom ought to be
protected and not rubbed off by the rough cares of life.”

“I don't know if you're nice or not,” Muriel rejoined with a laugh.
“Anyway, you don't know many English girls, and your ideas about us are
old-fashioned. We are not kept in lavender now. Besides, it isn't the
surface bloom that matters, and fine stuff does not wear out. It takes
a keener edge and brighter polish from strenuous use. And Helen is fine
stuff.”

“So I thought,” said Festing quietly, and stopped at the end of the
terrace. The bleating of sheep had died away, and except for the splash
of the beck a deep silence brooded over the dale. The sun had set and
the landscape was steeped in soft blues and grays, into which woods and
hills slowly melted.

“It's remarkably pleasant here,” he said. “Not a sign of strain and
hurry; things seem to run on well-oiled wheels! Perhaps the greatest
change is to feel that one has nothing to do.”

“But you had holidays now and then in Canada.”

“No,” said Festing. “Anyhow I've had none for a very long time. Of
course there are lonely places, and in winter the homesteads on the
plains are deadly quiet, but I was always where some big job was rushed
along. Hauling logs across the snow, driving them down rivers, and after
I joined the railroad, checking calculations, and track-grading in the
rain. It was a fierce hustle from sunrise to dark, with all your senses
highly strung and your efforts speeded up.”

“Then one can understand why it's a relief to lounge. But would that
satisfy you long?”

Festing laughed. “It would certainly satisfy me for a time, but after
that I don't know. It's a busy world, and there's much to be done.”

Muriel studied him as they walked back along the terrace. He wore no
hat, and she liked the way he held his head and his light, springy step,
though she smiled as she noted that he pulled himself up to keep pace
with her. It was obvious that he was not used to moving leisurely. Then
his figure, although spare, was well proportioned, and his rather
thin face was frank. He had what she called a fined-down look,
but concentrated effort of mind and body had given him a hint of
distinction. He was a man who did things, and she wondered what Helen,
who was something of a romantic dreamer, would think of him. Then she
reflected with a touch of amusement that he would probably find the
errand his friend had given him embarrassing.

“You don't look forward to seeing the Daltons to-morrow,” she remarked.

“That's so,” Festing admitted. “I didn't quite know what I'd undertaken
when I gave my promise. The thing looks worse in England. In fact, it
looks very nearly impossible just now.”

“But you are going?”

Festing spread out his hands. “Certainly. What can I do? Charnock
hustled me into it; he has a way of getting somebody else to do the
things he shirks. But I gave him my word.”

“And that's binding!” remarked Muriel, who was half amused by his
indignation. She thought Charnock deserved it, but Festing could be
trusted.

“I wish I could ask your advice,” he resumed. “You could tell me what to
say; but as I don't know if Charnock would approve, it mightn't be the
proper thing.”

Muriel was keenly curious to learn the truth about her friend's love
affair, but she resisted the temptation. Because she liked Festing, she
would not persuade him to do something for which he might afterwards
reproach himself.

“No,” she said, “perhaps you oughtn't to tell me. But I don't think you
need be nervous. If you have the right feeling, you will take the proper
line.”

Then they went into the house where the curate was talking to Gardiner.



CHAPTER VI

FESTING KEEPS HIS WORD

Next afternoon Festing leaned his borrowed bicycle against the gate at
Knott Scar and walked up the drive. He had grave misgivings, but it was
too late to indulge them, and he braced himself and looked about with
keen curiosity. The drive curved and a bank of shrubs on one side
obstructed his view, but the Scar rose in front, with patches of heather
glowing a rich crimson among the gray rocks. Beneath these, a dark
beech wood rolled down the hill. On the other side there was a lawn that
looked like green velvet. His trained eye could detect no unevenness;
the smooth surface might have been laid with a spirit level. Festing had
seen no grass like this in Canada and wondered how much labor it cost.

Then he came to the end of the shrubs and saw a small, creeper-covered
house, with a low wall, pierced where shallow steps went up, along the
terrace. The creeper was in full leaf and dark, but roses bloomed about
the windows and bright-red geraniums in urns grew upon the wall. He
heard bees humming and a faint wind in the beech tops, but the shadows
scarcely moved upon the grass, and a strange, drowsy quietness brooded
over the place. Indeed, the calm was daunting; he felt he belonged
to another world and was intruding there, but went resolutely up the
shallow steps.

Two white-haired ladies received him in a shady, old-fashioned room with
a low ceiling. There was a smell of flowers, but it was faint, and
he thought it harmonized with the subdued lighting of the room. A
horizontal piano stood in a corner and the dark, polished rosewood had
dull reflections; some music lay about, but not in disorder, and he
noted the delicate modeling of the cabinet with diamond panes it had
been taken from. He knew nothing about furniture, but he had an eye for
line and remarked the taste that characterized the rest of the articles.
There were a few landscapes in water-color, and one or two pieces of old
china, of a deep blue that struck the right note of contrast with the
pale-yellow wall.

Festing felt that the house had an influence; a gracious influence
perhaps, but vaguely antagonistic to him. He had thought of a house as
a place in which one ate and slept, but did not expect it to mold one's
character. Surroundings like this were no doubt Helen Dalton's proper
environment, but he came from the outside turmoil, where men sweated and
struggled and took hard knocks.

In the meantime, he talked to and studied the two ladies. Although they
had white hair, they were younger than he thought at first and much
alike. It was as if they had faded prematurely from breathing too
rarefied an atmosphere and shutting out rude but bracing blasts. Still
they had a curious charm, and he had felt a hint of warmth in Mrs.
Dalton's welcome that puzzled him.

“We have been expecting you. Bob told us you would come,” she said in a
low, sweet voice, and added with a smile: “I wanted to meet you.”

Festing wondered what Bob had said about him, but for a time they
tactfully avoided the object of his visit and asked him questions about
his journey. Then Mrs. Dalton got up.

“Helen is in the garden. Shall we look for her?”

She took him across the lawn to a bench beneath a copper beech, and
Festing braced himself when a girl got up. She wore white and the shadow
of the leaves checkered the plain dress. He noted the unconscious grace
of her pose as she turned towards him, and her warm color, which seemed
to indicate a sanguine temperament. Helen Dalton was all that he had
thought, and something more. He knew her level, penetrating glance, but
she had a virility he had not expected. The girl was somehow stronger
than he portrait.

“Perhaps I had better leave you to talk to Mr. Festing,” Mrs. Dalton
said presently and moved away.

Helen waited with a calm that Festing thought must cost her much, and
moving a folding chair, he sat down opposite.

“I understand Bob told you I would come,” he said. “You see, he is a
friend of mine.”

“Yes,” she replied with a faint sparkle in her eyes. “He hinted that you
would explain matters. I think he meant you would make some defense for
him.”

Festing noted that her voice was low like her mother's, but it had a
firmer note. He could be frank with her, but there was a risk that he
might say too much.

“Well,” he said, “I may make mistakes. In fact, it was with much
reluctance I promised to come, and if Bob hadn't insisted----” He paused
and pulled himself together. “On the surface, of course, his conduct
looks inexcusable, but he really has some defense, and I think you ought
to hear it, for your own sake.”

“Perhaps I ought,” she agreed quietly. “Well, I am willing.”

Festing began by relating Charnock's troubles. He meant her to
understand the situation and supplied rather confusing particulars
about prairie farming and mortgages. For all that, the line he took was
strong; he showed how Charnock's embarrassments prevented his offering
her comforts she would find needful and saving her from the monotonous
toil an impoverished farmer's wife must undertake. In the meantime, but
unconsciously, he threw some light on Charnock's vacillating character.

When he stopped Helen mused for a few minutes. Although she had got a
shock when Charnock gave her up, she knew her lover better than when she
had promised to marry him. He came home once in the winter and she had
remarked a change. Bob was not altogether the man she had thought; there
were things that jarred, and his letters gradually made this plainer.
Still she had meant to keep her promise, and his withdrawal hurt. She
had borne something for his sake, because her mother and her relations
had not approved the engagement. Then she roused herself and turned to
Festing.

“You have done your best for your friend and Bob ought to be grateful,
but you both start from a wrong point. Why do you take it for granted
that I would shrink from hardship?”

“I didn't imagine you would shrink,” Festing declared. “For all that,
Bob was right. The life is too hard for a girl brought up like you.” He
hesitated a moment. “I mean for a girl brought up in your surroundings.”

Helen smiled and he knew it was a sign of courage, but had a vague
feeling that he understood why she did so as he looked about. The
sighing in the beech tops had died away and the shadows did not move
upon the lawn. A heavy smell of flowers came from the borders and
the house seemed to be sleeping in the hot sunshine. Everything was
beautiful, well-ordered, and tranquil, but he knew if he stayed
there long he would hear the cry of the black geese and the clang of
flung-down rails ring through the soporific calm. Something in the
girl's face indicated that she might find the calm oppressive and
sympathize with him.

“What is Bob going to do now he has lost his farm?” she asked after a
time.

“In one respect, he won't be much worse off. They expect a boom at
the settlement, and he'll manage the hotel and store and poolroom for
Keller. The old man will probably retire soon and Bob will get the
business.”

“But why should the proprietor give the business to Bob?”

“He's Sadie's father,” Festing answered with some surprise.

“But who is Sadie?”

Festing looked up sharply and saw that Helen was puzzled and suspicious.
Her eyes were harder and her mouth was set.

“Ah!” he said. “Don't you know?”

A wave of color flushed Helen's face, but her voice was level. “I don't
know! It looks as if Bob had not told me the most important thing. Do
you mean that he is going to marry Miss Keller?”

Festing felt pitiful. He saw that she had got a shock, but she bore it
pluckily, and he tried to conquer his indignant rage. Charnock had let
him believe he had told her; he ought to have realized that the fellow
could not act straight.

“I thought you knew,” he stammered.

“That's obvious,” Helen replied with an effort for calm. “But tell me
something about Miss Keller.”

“Sadie runs the hotel and helps at the store. She's rather pretty and
intelligent. In fact, she's generally capable and a good manager.”

“You seem to know her well since you call her Sadie.”

“Oh,” said Festing, “everybody calls her Sadie!”

“You mean in the bar and poolroom? I understand the latter's a public
billiard-saloon!”

Festing felt that he must do Sadie justice. She had her virtues, and
although he was very angry with Charnock he did not want Helen to think
the fellow had given her up for a worthless rival. Still he was not sure
if his putting the girl in a favorable light would soften the blow or
not.

“To begin with, they don't employ women in a Canadian bar. Then Sadie's
quite a good sort and understands Bob--perhaps better than an English
girl could. She was brought up on the plains and knows all about the
life we lead.”

“You imply that she is not fastidious, and will be lenient to her
husband's faults? That she will bring him down to her level?”

“Well,” said Festing, who thought Helen did not know Charnock's
dissipated habits, “I imagine she'll keep him there, and that's
something. I mean she won't let him sink below her level; Sadie's shrewd
and determined. Then marriage is a problem to men like Bob farming the
plains. Girls of the type they have been used to and would naturally
choose couldn't stand the hardships.”

“So they are satisfied with a lower type? With any girl who pleases
their eye?”

“I don't think that's quite fair,” Festing objected. “Besides, lower is
rather vague.”

“Then would you, for example, be satisfied with a girl like Miss
Keller?”

“Certainly not,” said Festing, with incautious firmness. “Anyway, not
now I've seen a different kind in the Old Country.”

Helen turned her head and said nothing for a few moments. Then she got
up.

“I think you have had a difficult task, Mr. Festing, and I must thank
you for the way you have carried it out. We won't speak of it again; but
perhaps if Muriel Gardiner----”

“She hasn't asked me any questions or hinted that she is curious.”

There was a gleam of amusement in Helen's eyes. “So you imagined she
wasn't interested! Well, you can tell her about Bob's losses and farming
troubles. You understand these matters, and it will save me something.”

Festing made a sign of agreement and Helen went with him to the terrace,
where Mrs. Dalton told him when he would find them at home if he wished
to come again. He was glad to leave because he thought the interview had
been difficult for Helen, but her mother had made him feel that if he
came back he would be welcome. This was not altogether conventional
politeness; he imagined she wanted to see him, although she was
obviously willing to let him go then.

He puzzled about it and other matters as he rode back. Helen Dalton was
finer than her picture. He had, no doubt, been awkward and had hurt her
by his clumsiness, while she had got a painful shock, but had borne it
with unflinching pluck. Her calm had not deceived him, since he knew
what it cost, and her smile had roused his pity because it was so brave.
Then his anger against Charnock returned with extra force. The fellow,
as usual, had shirked his duty, and left him to tell the girl he had
really given her up because he meant to marry somebody else. Festing
thought she was too just to blame him for Bob's fault, but he had been
forced to witness her humiliation, and she would, no doubt, avoid him
because of this. Well, he had done with Bob, although he would see him
once on his return and tell him what he thought.

Then he heard a shout and saw a farmer trying to move a loaded cart out
of his way. He had not noticed that he was riding furiously down a hill,
but he sped past the cart upon the grassy margin of the road and laughed
as he went on. His mood had changed and he resolved that he would go
back to the creeper-covered house when Helen had had time to recover and
his society would be less disturbing. After all, Mrs. Dalton had told
him he might come.

In the evening he walked up and down the terrace with Muriel, and
told her why he had gone to Knott Scar, although he was satisfied
with relating Charnock's financial troubles and said nothing about his
engagement to Sadie. He could not say that Muriel actually led him on,
but he felt that she would be disappointed if he did not take her into
his confidence.

“Of course I saw you knew all about it,” she said when he stopped.
“Besides, I expected that Helen would give you leave to tell me. It
would make things easier for her and be more authentic.”

“I should expect Miss Dalton to think of that.”

Muriel smiled. “Perhaps not. Well, I imagine it's lucky Charnock
released her; Helen is much too good for him. I suppose you thought
you took the proper line in laying all the stress you could upon the
hardships?”

“I did. I thought she couldn't stand the strain she would have had to
bear.”

“How did she take that?”

“She seemed surprised, as if she didn't think it much of a reason for
Charnock letting her go.”

“Frankly, I don't think it was.”

“You haven't been to Canada. The life is hard.”

“It doesn't seem to have broken down your health or nerve.”

“That's different. A man gets used to hardships and discomfort. They're
sometimes bracing.”

“A very masculine attitude! Then men alone have pluck and endurance?”

“There are two kinds of pluck,” Festing rejoined. “I dare say you
surpass us in the moral kind--I'm sure Miss Dalton has more than
Charnock. But there's the other; physical courage, and if you like,
physical strength.”

Muriel looked amused. “And you imagine Helen is deficient there? Well, I
suppose you don't know she's the best tennis player in the county and a
daring rock-climber. Girls are taking to mountaineering now, you know.
But are you going back to the Daltons?”

Festing thought she gave him a keen glance, but answered steadily: “I am
going back, but not for some time. I want to go, but it might be kinder
if I kept away.”

“Well, it's a very proper feeling and you're rather nice. But you talked
about going to see the mountains for a few days. When do you start?”

“I don't know yet. Everything here is so charming, and I'm getting the
habit of lazy enjoyment. It will need an effort to go away.”

“You're certainly nice,” Muriel rejoined, smiling. “However, you might
tell me when you do think of starting. I don't want you to be away
when we have arranged something to amuse you; and then, as I know the
mountains, I can indicate an interesting tour. You might miss much if
you didn't know where to go and what you ought to see.”

Festing promised, and she left him and went back to the house with a
thoughtful smile that hinted that she had begun to make an amusing plan.
Muriel was romantic and rather fond of managing her friends' affairs for
their good.



CHAPTER VII

HELEN TAKES THE LEAD

Festing was glad to sit down when he reached the bottom of a chasm that
divided the summits of two towering fells. He had crossed the higher of
the two without much trouble except for a laborious scramble over large,
rough stones, but the ascent of the other threatened to be difficult.
It rose in front, a wall of splintered crag, seamed by deep gullies,
for the strata was tilted up nearly perpendicular. All the gullies were
climbed by expert mountaineers, but this needed a party and a rope, and
the other way, round the shoulder of the great rock, was almost as hard.
Festing knew the easiest plan was to descend a neighboring hollow, from
which he would find a steep path to the top.

Lighting his pipe, he glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock in the
afternoon, and having been on his feet since breakfast, he felt tired.
The nails he had had driven into his light American boots hurt his feet,
and the boots were much the worse for the last few days' wear. Muriel
had carefully planned the trip, and then delayed his start by a week
because she wanted to take him to a tennis party. Since he could not
play tennis much, Festing did not see why she had done so, but agreed
when she insisted.

So far, he had followed her instructions and admitted that she had
directed him well, because it was hard to imagine there was anything in
England finer than the country he had seen. The mountains had not the
majestic grandeur of the British Columbian ranges, but they were wild
enough, and pierced by dales steeped in sylvan beauty. The chasm in
which he now rested had an impressive ruggedness.

Blinks of sunshine touched the lower face of the crag, and in their
track the dark rock glittered with a steely luster, but trails of mist
rolled among the crannies above. Below, a precipitous slope of small
stones that the dalesmen call a scree ran down to a hollow strewn with
broken rocks, and across this he could distinguish the blurred flat top
of another height. The mountain dropped to a dale that looked profoundly
deep, although he could not see its bottom.

The light was puzzling. For the most part, the sky was clear and the
gleams of sun were hot, but heavy, black clouds drifted about, and
a thick gray haze obscured the lower ground. Rain and mist would be
dangerous obstacles, but Festing understood that he could reach the dale
in about two hours' steady walking. Muriel had told him where to stop;
indeed, she had been rather particular about this, and had recommended
him to spend two days in the neighborhood. Luckily, there would be no
crags to climb if he kept the path across the summit, for he had found
it easier to reach the top of the hills than get down by a different
line.

A rattle of stones made him look up, and he saw two girls silhouetted in
a flash of sunshine against the face of the crag. They carried bulging
rucksacks and were coming down towards him, picking their way among the
tumbled rocks. He could not see the face of the first, but noticed her
light poise and graceful movements as she sprang from stone to stone.
The other followed cautiously and Festing thought she limped, but when
the first stopped to wait for her and lifted her head he felt a curious
thrill. It was Helen Dalton.

He sat still, knowing his gray clothes would be hard to distinguish
among the stones, and wondering what to do. He did not want to force his
society upon the girl just yet, but would be disappointed if she passed.
She came on, and when her eyes rested on him he got up. A flush of
embarrassment colored her face, but she stopped and greeted him with a
smile.

“Mr. Festing! How did you get here?”

“I came over the Pike,” said Festing. “I'm going to the dale.”

“So are we,” said Helen, who presented him to her companion.

Festing remarked that they wore jackets that had a tanned look,
unusually short skirts, and thick nailed boots. Then he thought Helen's
eyes twinkled.

“You would not have expected to find me engaged in anything so strenuous
as this?”

“It is rather strenuous,” Miss Jardine broke in. “You can stand if you
like; I'm going to sit down.”

They found a flat stone, and when Festing leaned against another Helen
resumed: “We meant to try the Stairs, but have had a hard day and Alison
is lame.”

“I hurt my foot,” Miss Jardine explained. “Besides, I'm from the level
Midlands and we have been walking since breakfast. That doesn't matter
to Helen; she is never tired.”

Festing thought Helen looked remarkably fresh. Exertion and the mountain
air had brought a fine color to her face, her eyes were bright, and
there was a hint of vigor in her resting pose. Moreover, he had studied
the Stairs, which led behind the shoulder of the crag to the summit. One
could get up, if one was thin enough to squeeze through a gap between
two rocks, but nerve and agility would be required.

“But you must climb pretty well, if you meant to get up the Stairs,” he
said.

“I know the Carnarvon range, but only go there now and then, and one
needs some training to keep pace with people born among the fells who
walk like mountain goats.”

Had she said a mountain deer, Festing would have approved, for he had
noted Helen's easy balance and fearless grace as she crossed the ragged
blocks of stone. Then a rumble of distant thunder rolled among the crags
and Miss Jardine resumed: “We ought to fix upon the best way down.”

“The best is a rather elastic term,” Helen rejoined. “The easiest would
be to go back by the way we came.”

“It's much too far.”

“The shortest is up the crag by the Stairs or the gully on the other
side. The regular track takes us down near the bottom of the next dale,
and then back over the top.”

“That's unthinkable,” Miss Jardine declared.

“Well,” said Helen thoughtfully, “there's a short line down the scree
and across the shoulder of the fell below, but it's steep and rough.
There are some small crags, too, but they're not much of an obstacle
when they're dry.”

They set off and Festing noticed Helen's confidence on the scree. The
descent was safe, but looked daunting, because their figures made a
sharp angle with the gravel slope, and now and then a mass of dislodged
stones rushed down hill. Sometimes the girl allowed herself to slide,
sometimes she ran a few yards and sprang, but she did not stumble or
lose her balance. Miss Jardine was cautious, and Festing kept near her,
carrying her sack.

At the bottom they came to a wide belt of massive stones, fallen from
the heights above, and their progress was slow. One had to measure the
gaps between the blocks and step carefully across, while the stones were
ragged and had sharp corners. Festing was unable to look up and followed
Helen, but after a time Miss Jardine stopped, and he saw that the crags
were smothered in leaden cloud and all the sky was dark.

“I must have a few minutes' rest,” the tired girl declared.

As they sat down on the edge of a ponderous slab there was a crash of
thunder that rolled from rock to rock, and a few big drops fell. Then
as the echoes died away the hillside was hidden by a curtain of driving
rain. One end of the slab was tilted and they crept into the hollow
underneath.

“It will be awkward if this goes on,” Miss Jardine remarked.

“These thunderstorms seldom last,” said Helen. “I expect we have seen
the worst, and we must start again as soon as we can see.”

Festing thought she was anxious to get down, but Miss Jardine grumbled
about the rain, and then turned to him.

“It was a relief to give you my sack, and I was glad to see it didn't
bother you. I suppose you are used to these mountains.”

“No,” said Festing. “This is the first time I've climbed a hill for
amusement.”

“But you are a climber. You have balance, trust your feet and not your
hands, and know how to step on a loose stone.”

Festing laughed. “I used to do something of the kind as a matter of
business. You see, I helped mark out the line for a new railroad in
British Columbia, and rocks are plentiful in that country.”

“It must be a wonderful place,” said Helen. “I have a photograph of the
gorge at the foot of the glacier, where the line went through. You had
stern work when you laid the rails in winter.”

Festing looked at her in surprise, for he had worked to the edge of
exhaustion and run many risks at the spot, but while he wondered how she
knew Helen got up.

“I think the rain is stopping and we can start,” she said.

There was not much rain, but thick mist rolled across the top of the
hill they were now level with, and everything below was blotted out.
Leaving the stones, they crossed a belt of boggy grass where their feet
sank, but Festing felt it a relief to have done with the rocks. The
narrow tableland they were crossing was comfortingly flat, and he looked
forward to descending a long grassy slope. When they reached the edge,
however, he got a rude disappointment, for the mist rolled up in waves
with intervals between, and when a white cloud passed a gray light shone
down into the gulf at his feet.

In the foreground there was a steep slope where rock ledges broke
through the wet turf, and in one place a chasm cleft the hill. He could
not see the bottom, for it was filled with mist, but the height of the
rock wall hinted at its depth. A transverse ravine ran into the chasm,
and he could hear the roar of a waterfall. Then the mist rolled up in a
white smother and blotted everything out.

“We cross the beck,” said Helen. “Then we go nearly straight down,
keeping this side of the big ghyll.”

“As far away as possible, I hope. I don't like its look,” Miss Jardine
remarked.

Festing agreed with her. So far as he could see, the descent looked
forbidding, but there was no sign of the sky's clearing, and it was
obvious that they must get down. The thunder had gone, but the mist
brought a curious, searching damp, and a cold wind had begun to blow. He
was glad to think Helen knew the way.

She took them down a steep pitch where small rocky ledges dropped nearly
vertical among patches of rotten turf and it was needful to get a good
grip with one's hands as well as with one's feet. Festing helped Miss
Jardine when he could, but he had an unpleasant feeling that a rash
step might take him over the edge of a precipice. Sometimes he could see
Helen in front, and sometimes, for a few moments, her figure was lost
in the mist. He was glad to note that she was apparently going down with
confidence.

After a time the slope got easier and she stopped, lifting her hand.
Festing found her looking into a ravine through which water flowed. It
was not very deep, but its sides were perpendicular. Seeing that Miss
Jardine was some distance behind, she looked at Festing with a quiet
smile.

“There is a place where one can cross without much trouble, but I don't
know whether to go up or down.”

Festing felt his heart beat. It looked as if she had taken him into her
confidence and asked his help.

“Not down, I think. That would take us to the big ghyll. Let's try up,
and cross at the first practicable spot.”

Helen made a sign of agreement, and when Miss Jardine joined them they
turned back along the edge of the ravine. By and by Helen stopped where
patches of wet soil checkered the steep rock and a mountain-ash offered
a hold. Almost immediately below the spot, the stream plunged over a
ledge and vanished into the mist.

Festing looked at Helen. The descent would be awkward, if not dangerous,
but he could trust her judgment. It was the first time he had allowed a
woman to give him a lead in a difficulty, and he admitted that he would
not have done so had his guide been anybody else.

“I think we can get across, and I don't want to go too far up,” she
said. “If you don't mind helping Alison--”

“I'll throw the sacks across first,” Festing replied.

He swung them round by the straps and let them go, and when the last
splashed into a boggy patch on the other side Miss Jardine laughed.

“I'm selfishly glad that one is yours. If Helen's had fallen a foot
short, it would have gone over the fall, but I expect she had a reason
for taking the risk. Where our clothes have gone we must follow.”

Helen seized a tuft of heather, and sliding down, reached a narrow shelf
four or five feet below. Then a small mountain-ash gave her a fresh hold
and she dropped to the top of a projecting stone. Below this there was
another shelf and some boggy grass, after which a bank of earth dropped
nearly straight to the stream.

“How we shall get down the last pitch isn't very obvious,” Miss Jardine
remarked. “I suppose we will see when we arrive. It isn't my resolution
that gives way, but my foot. You might go first.”

Festing dropped on to the first shelf, and she came down into his arms.
The shock nearly flung him off, but he steadied her with an effort and
seized the stem of the small tree.

“Looks like a tight-wire trick,” he said, glancing at the stone.
“However, if we miss it, there's another ledge below.”

He reached the stone, and balancing on it with one foot, kicked a hole
in the spongy turf. Finding this would support him he held out his hand.

“Now. As lightly as you can!”

The girl came down, struck the stone with her foot, and slipped, but
Festing had time to clutch her first. He could not hold her back, but he
could steady her, and for a moment felt his muscles crack and the peat
tear out from the hole in the bank. Then his hands slipped and he fell,
gasping and red in face, upon the shelf beside the girl.

“Thank you; you did that rather well,” she said. “It looks as if I were
heavier than you thought.”

While he had been occupied Festing imagined he had heard a splash, and
now looking down saw Helen standing on a boulder in the stream. She gave
him an approving nod before she sprang to the next stone, and he felt
a thrill of pleasure. She knew his task was difficult and was satisfied
with him.

When they came to the scar where the floods had torn away the bank he
hesitated. It was some distance to the water, and there was no hold upon
the wall of soil, which was studded with small round stones.

“Helen slid,” his companion remarked. “I imagine she chose her time; the
sitting glissade isn't elegant. But if you'll go first and wait--”

Festing leaned back with his shoulders against the bank and pushed off.
He alighted in the water, and Miss Jardine, coming down, kicked his
arm. He saved her from a plunge into the stream, but thought she looked
something the worse for wear as they made their way from stone to stone.
The other bank was easier, and for a time they had not much trouble in
going down hill, but the mist was very thick, and presently the steep
slope broke off close in front. Helen stopped and beckoned Festing.

Looking down, he saw the wet face of a crag drop into the rolling vapor.
For eight or nine feet it was perpendicular, and afterwards ran down at
a very steep slant, but immediately below there was a gully with a foot
or two of level gravel at its top.

“This is not the regular track,” Helen said. “However, I think I know
the gully.”

Festing pondered. The rock looked daunting, but one might get down to
the patch of gravel. The trouble was that one could not see what lay
below, and it might be difficult to climb back, if this was needful.

“I could get as far as the edge yonder,” he suggested.

“No,” said Helen. “You don't know the gully, and if I'm mistaken about
it, you could help me up.”

“That's true. Still I'd sooner go.”

Helen shook her head, and although she did not speak, he felt there was
something delightful in her consulting him. They had come to know each
other on the misty hillside in a way that would not have been possible
in conventional surroundings. He had seen a possibility of the girl, so
to speak, shutting him out in self-defense because he had had some part
in her humiliation, but he thought that risk had gone.

“Well,” he resumed, “what do you propose?”

“I'm going to see if this is the place I think. You can steady me.”

Festing lay down with his head over the edge and found a grip for his
toes and knees. There were a few cracks in the rock and Helen had got
half way down before she took his hands. He felt the strain and braced
himself, determined that he would be pulled over before he let her fall.

“Loose me now,” she said.

“Have you got a safe hold for your foot?” Festing gasped.

“I think I have. Let go.”

“Make sure first,” he answered with a sobbing breath.

She looked up into his set face, and although the strain was heavy he
thrilled as he saw her smile. The smile indicated courage and trust.

“I'm quite safe,” she said, and he let her go.

She leaned cautiously over the next edge, but after a moment or two
turned and waved her hand.

“This is the way I thought. Send Alison down.”

Miss Jardine descended with some help from both, and Festing dropped
safely on the gravel. He leaned against the rock to get his breath, and
Helen turned to him with a twinkle.

“You doubted my nerve once. I suppose that was why you didn't let go.”

“I'm sometimes dull,” said Festing. “Just now, however, I wanted to make
certain I could help you back.”

Helen laughed. “Well, I dare say you could have lifted me, but it would
have been simpler to lower me your coat.”

They went down the gully, where jambed stones made rude steps, and
reaching the bottom found a belt of grass that led them to the head of
a dale. The mist was thinner, and presently a few scattered houses
appeared across the fields. The path they followed forked, and Helen
stopped at the turning.

“The hotel is yonder to the right,” she said. “We are going to the hall,
where they sometimes take people in.”

Festing remembered that Muriel had indicated the hall, which he
understood was a well-built farm, as his stopping place. He wanted to go
there, but thought there was some risk of its looking as if he meant to
force his society on the girls. He took the path Helen indicated, and
when he had gone some distance, stopped, hesitated, and then went on.

The girls noted this and Miss Jardine said: “I suppose he remembered
that he has my sack, or else his heart failed him.”

Helen looked at her in surprise. “Did you forget?”

“I did not,” Miss Jardine admitted. “I thought I wouldn't spoil the
plot. It looked as if he wanted an excuse for meeting us again, but I
think I wronged him. That sudden stop was genuine.”

“The sack is yours,” said Helen dryly. “But you will need the things
inside.”

“I imagine I will get them before long, although it doesn't seem to have
struck him that my clothes are damp. It's rather significant that he
went on when he could have run across the field and caught us up. Have
you known him long?”

“I met him once,” said Helen with an impatient frown.

“Rather a good type,” Miss Jardine remarked. “I think I should like
Canadians, if they're all like that.”

“He isn't a Canadian.”

“Then he hasn't been in England for some time, and so far as my
knowledge goes, men like variety. Of course, to some extent, he saw us
under a disadvantage. Mountaineering clothes are comfortable, but one
can't say much more.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Helen rejoined and went on across the field.



CHAPTER VIII

A DEBT OF GRATITUDE

After dinner Festing walked across the fields to the farm. It was
raining and a cold wind swept the dale, but a fire burned in the room
into which he was shown and the curtains were drawn. Helen and Miss
Jardine got up when he came in and put the rucksack on the table.

“I'm sorry I forgot this until I'd gone some distance,” he said. “Then I
couldn't find anybody to send with it.”

“No doubt you wanted your dinner,” Miss Jardine suggested.

Festing saw that she wore a different dress that looked rather large.

“No,” he said, “it wasn't the dinner that stopped me. Besides, it didn't
strike me that--”

“That I might need my clothes? Well, I don't suppose it would strike
you; but since you have come across in the rain, won't you stop?”

Festing found an old leather chair, and sitting down, looked about with
a sense of satisfaction, for the fire was cheerful after the raw cold
outside. The room was large and old-fashioned, with heavy beams across
the low ceiling. There was a tall clock, and a big, black oak chest;
curled ram's horns and brass candlesticks twinkled on the mantel; an old
copper kettle threw back red reflections near the fire. His companions
occupied opposite sides of a large sheepskin rug, and he felt that both
had charm, though they were different. The contrast added something to
the charm.

Miss Jardine's skin was a pure white; her hair and eyes were nearly
black, and she had a sparkling, and perhaps rather daring, humor.
Helen's colors were rose and cream, her hair changed from warm brown to
gold as it caught the light, and her eyes were calm and gray. She was
younger than the other and he thought her smile delightful, but, as a
rule, she was marked by a certain gravity. Her wide brows and the firm
lines of her mouth and nose hinted at pride and resolution.

“I hope your foot is better,” he said to Miss Jardine.

“Yes, thanks. It mainly needed rest, and I must confess that I didn't
find it altogether a drawback when we stopped at the bottom of the big
crag. I should have had to go up if I hadn't been lame.”

“You were not disappointed because you couldn't reach the top?”

Miss Jardine laughed. “Helen was. She makes it a rule to accomplish what
she undertakes. I wasn't disappointed then, though I am now. Perhaps
one really enjoys mountaineering best afterwards. You like to think
how adventurous you have been, but it's sometimes difficult while the
adventure's going on.”

“That's true,” Festing agreed. “Still you feel sorry if, as we say, you
are unable to put the thing over.”

Helen gave him a sympathetic smile. “Yes; one feels that.”

“It depends upon one's temperament,” Miss Jardine objected. “I know my
limits, though Helen does not know hers. When I can't get what I'm out
for, I'm satisfied with less. One can't always have the best.”

“It's worth trying for, anyway,” Festing replied.

He was afraid this sounded priggish. Miss Jardine got up.

“Well, I'm not much of a philosopher and had better put out some of the
clothes you brought to dry, although it was thoughtful of you to throw
your bag into the bog instead of mine.”

“That was an accident,” Festing declared. “I meant to throw them both
across.”

Miss Jardine picked up the sack. “There's nobody else here and a wet
evening's dreary. I hope you won't go before I come back.”

“I won't,” said Festing. “They have only a deaf tourist and two tired
climbers, who seem sleepy and bad-tempered, at the hotel.”

Miss Jardine's eyes twinkled. “Well,” she said as she went out, “I
suppose it's a fair retort.”

Festing colored and looked at Helen apologetically. “You see, I have
lived in the woods.”

“I expect that has some advantages,” said Helen, who liked his frank
embarrassment. “However, it was lucky I met you to-day. You didn't come
back to see us, and there is something----” She hesitated and then
gave him a steady glance. “You are not so much a stranger to us as you
imagine.”

Festing wondered what she meant and whether she knew about the portrait,
but she resumed: “As a matter of fact, my mother and I felt that we knew
you rather well.”

“I don't understand.”

“Some time since, you found a young Englishmen in a Western mining town.
He had been ill and things had gone against him.”

“Ah,” said Festing sharply. “Of course! I ought to have known----He
looked like you. I mean I ought to have known the name. Was he a
relative?”

“My brother,” Helen replied.

She was silent for a moment or two, and then went on in a tone that made
Festing's heart beat: “You gave him work and helped him to make a new
start. He was too proud to tell us about his difficulties.”

“It cost me nothing; there was a job waiting. Afterwards he got on by
his own merits. I had nothing to do with that.”

“But you gave him his chance. We can't forget this. George was younger
than me. I have no other brother, and was very fond of him. Indeed, I
think we owe you much, and my mother is anxious to give you her thanks.”

“Is he all right now? I lost sight of him when they sent me to another
part of the road. It was my fault--he wrote, but I'm not punctual at
answering letters, and hadn't much time.”

“He is in the chief construction office,” Helen replied. “In his
last letter he told us about the likelihood of his getting some new
promotion.” She paused and resumed with a smile: “I don't suppose you
know you were a hero of his.”

“I didn't know. As a rule, the young men we had on the road seemed to
find their bosses amusing and rather patronized them. Of course, they
were fresh from a scientific college or engineer's office, and, for the
most part, we had learned what we knew upon the track.”

“But you knew it well. George wrote long letters about the struggle you
had at the canyon. Some fight, he called it.”

“Well,” said Festing quietly, “we were up against it then. The job was
worth doing.”

“I know. George told us how the snowslide came down and filled the head
of the gorge with stones and broken trees, and wash-outs wrecked the
line you built along its side. He said it was a job for giants;
clinging to the face of the precipice while you blew out and built
on--under-pinning, isn't it?--the first construction track. But he
declared the leaders were fine. They were where the danger was, in the
blinding rain and swirling snow--and the boys, as he called them, would
always follow you.”

Festing colored, but Helen went on: “We were glad, when the worst was
over, that he had had this training. It was so clean a fight.”

“We were dirty enough often,” Festing objected with an effort at humor.
“When things were humming we slept in our working clothes, which were
generally stained with mud and engine grease. Then I don't suppose you
know how dissipated a man looks and feels when he has breathed the fumes
of giant-powder.”

She stopped him with a half imperious glance. “I know it's the
convention to talk of such things as a joke; but you didn't feel that in
the canyon. Then it was a stubborn fight of the kind that man was meant
to wage. If you win in trade and politics, somebody must lose, but a
victory over Nature is a gain to all. And when your enemies are storms
and floods, cheating and small cunning are not of much use.”

“That is so,” Festing agreed, smiling. “When you're sent to cut through
an icy rock or re-lay the steel across the gap a snowslide has made,
it's obvious if you have done the job or not. This has some drawbacks,
because if you don't make good, you often get fired.”

“But that was not what drove you on. You must have had a better motive
for making good.”

Festing felt embarrassed. The girl was obviously not indulging a
sentimental vein. She felt what she frankly hinted at, and although he
generally avoided imaginative talk, her remarks did not sound cheap or
ridiculous.

“Well,” he said, “the fear of getting fired is a pretty strong incentive
to do one's best, but I suppose when one gets up against big things
there is something else. After all, one hates to be beaten.”

Helen's eyes sparkled and she gave him a sympathetic nod. “The hate of
being beaten distinguishes man from the ape and puts him on the side of
the angels.”

Then Miss Jardine came in, somewhat to the relief of Festing, who
felt he could not keep up long on Helen's plane. Besides, he was not
altogether sure he understood her last remark.

“I heard,” said Miss Jardine. “Helen's sometimes improving, but perhaps
she was right just now. The ape is cunning but acquiescent and accepts
things as they are. Man protests, and fights to make them better. At
least, he ought to, though one can't say he always does.”

Festing did not reply and she sat down and resumed: “But I suppose you
haven't many shirkers in Canada?”

“I imagine we have as many wastrels as there are anywhere else, but as
a rule one doesn't find them in the woods and on the plains. When they
leave the cities they're apt to starve.”

“You're a grim lot. Work or starve is a stern choice, particularly if
one has never done either. It looks as if you hadn't much use for purely
ornamental people. But what about the half-taught women who don't know
how to work? What do you do with them?”

“They're not numerous. Then one can always learn, and I imagine every
woman can cook and manage a house.”

“You're taking much for granted, though yours seems to be the
conventional view. But how did you learn railroad building, for
example?”

“By unloading ties and shoveling ballast on the track. The trouble was
that I began too late.”

“What did you do before that?”

“Sometimes I worked in sawmills and sometimes packed--that means
carrying things--for survey parties, and went prospecting.”

“In the wilds? It sounds interesting. Won't you tell us about it?”

Festing complied; awkwardly at first, and then with growing confidence.
He did not want to make much of his exploits, but there was a charm in
talking about things he knew to two clever and attractive girls, and
they helped him with tactful questions. Indeed, he was surprised to find
they knew something about the rugged country in which he wandered.
He told them about risky journeys up lonely rivers in the spring,
adventurous thrusts into the wilderness where hardship was oftener to be
found than valuable minerals, and retreats with provisions running out
before the Arctic winter.

Something of the charm of the empty spaces colored his narratives as
he drew from memory half-finished pictures of the mad riot of primitive
forces when the ice broke up and the floods hurled the thundering floes
among the rocks; and of tangled woods sinking into profound silence
in the stinging frost. Moreover, he unconsciously delineated his own
character, and when he stopped, the others understood something of the
practical resource and stubbornness that had supported him.

It was encouraging to see they were not bored, but he did not know that
Miss Jardine had found him an interesting study and had skilfully led
him on. He was a new type to both girls, although Helen was nearer
to him than the other and sympathized where her companion was amused.
Festing's ideas were clean-cut, his honesty was obvious, and she noted
that he did not know much about the lighter side of life. Yet she saw
that, sternly practical as he was, he had a vague feeling for romance.

“Will you stay on the railroad when it's finished?” she asked presently.

“I've left it. I hadn't the proper training to carry me far, and as the
road is opening up the country I've bought a prairie farm.”

“But do you know much about farming?”

“I don't. As a matter of fact, not many of the boys do know much when
they begin, but somehow they make progress. On the plains, it isn't what
you know that counts, but the capacity for work and staying with your
job. That's what one really needs, if you see what I mean.”

“I think I do,” Miss Jardine replied. “A Victorian philosopher, whose
opinions you seem to hold, said something of the kind. He claims that
genius takes many different forms, but is not different in itself. That
is, if you have talent, you can do what you like. Build railroads, for
example, and then succeed on a farm.”

Festing laughed good-humoredly. “It's a pretty big thing to claim, but
that man was near the mark; they live up to his theories on the plains,
where shams don't count and efficiency's the test. I don't mean that the
boys have genius, but gift and perseverance seem to be worth as much.
Anyhow, one can generally trust them to make good when they undertake a
job they don't know much about.”

Helen mused. Charnock, who knew something about farming, had tried
it and failed, but she thought Festing would succeed. The man
looked determined and, in a way, ascetic; he could deny himself and
concentrate. Knowledge was not worth as much as character. But she was
content to let Miss Jardine lead the talk.

“One understands,” said the latter, “that farming's laborious and not
very profitable work.”

“It's always laborious,” Festing agreed. “It may be profitable; that
depends. You see----”

He went on, using plain words but with some force of imagination, to
picture the wheat-grower's hopes and struggles; but he did more, for as
he talked Helen was conscious of the romance that underlay the patient
effort. She saw the empty, silent land rolling back to the West; the
ox-teams slowly breaking the first furrow, and then the big Percheron
horses and gasoline tractors taking their place. Wooden shacks
dotted the white grass, the belts of green wheat widened, wagons,
and afterwards automobiles, lurched along the rutted trails. Then the
railroad came, brick homestead and windmills rose, and cities sprang up,
as it were, in a night. Everything was fluid, there was no permanence;
rules and customs altered before they got familiar, a new nation, with
new thoughts and aims, was rising from the welter of tense activity.

Then Festing got up with an apologetic air. “I'm afraid I've stopped
too long and talked too much. Still the big movement out there is
fascinating and people in this country don't grasp its significance. I
felt I'd like to make you understand. Then you didn't seem--”

“If we had been bored, it would have been our fault, but we were not
bored at all,” Miss Jardine replied. “At least, I wasn't, and don't
think Helen was.”

Helen added her denial and gave Festing her hand. When he had gone Miss
Jardine looked at her with a smile.

“He was interesting,” she remarked. “Talks better than he knows, and I
suppose we ought to feel flattered, because he took our comprehension
for granted. After all, it was rash to talk about Canadian progress to
two English girls.”

“You made him talk,” Helen rejoined. “It's the first time I've known you
interested in geography.”

Miss Jardine laughed. “I was interested in the man. He told us a good
deal about himself, although it would have embarrassed him if he'd
guessed. The curious thing is that he imagines he's practical, while
he's really a reckless sentimentalist.”

Helen did not answer and picked up a book, but she thought more about
Festing than about what she read.



CHAPTER IX

FESTING LOSES HIS TEMPER

Next morning Festing got breakfast early and set off down the dale. This
was not the way Muriel had indicated, but he thought it better to avoid
temptation. The girls had received him graciously at the farm and had
perhaps listened with unusual patience, but if he overtook them in the
morning the thing might look too marked. Besides, he doubted if it was
advisable that Helen should see him again so soon, since he might remind
her of matters she wished to forget.

The self-denial cost him something, and he went down the dale
irresolutely, stopping once or twice to look back. It was annoying to
feel himself so weak, because he had seldom vacillated in Canada, but
had chosen the proper line and then stuck to it. As a matter of fact,
he had generally had a definite object and definite plans for its
attainment. Although he had an object now, he was otherwise at a loss.

He meant to marry Helen. Life was strenuous on the plains, and at first
there might be hardships, but if she loved him she would not flinch. Her
portrait had not done her justice; he dwelt upon her fearless confidence
as she came down the screes, her light, sure step, and agile pose. These
things indicated strength of mind and body, and he knew, if the need
came, she would make good use of both.

By and by he thought of Charnock with keener anger than he had yet felt.
Bob was a weak fool and something worse. He had broken the promise and
then tricked his friend. The fellow's character was warped; he could not
go straight, but tried to escape the consequences of his folly in a maze
of crooked ways. The worst was that consequences could not be shirked.
If the real offender avoided them, they fell upon somebody else, and
now Festing had to pay. Bob had prejudiced him with Helen. She would
probably never quite forget that he knew what she had suffered.

Then he remembered that he had meant to spend a week or two in London,
and made his way towards a valley through which a railway ran. Although
he wanted to see Helen, he was half afraid, and imagined that the longer
he waited the less risk he would run of his society jarring. Next day he
left the hills, but did not greatly enjoy his visit to town. London was
much like Montreal, where the buildings were as fine, only they did not
dig up so many streets and fill the air with cement from the towering
blocks of new offices. The English liked permanence, while the Canadians
altered their cities from day to day. Besides he wanted to go back to
the North as soon as it was prudent.

On the evening of his return it rained hard and he talked to Muriel in
her drawing-room. He liked Muriel Gardiner and she frankly enjoyed his
society. It did not matter that she sometimes seemed to find him amusing
when he was serious. A fire burned in the grate, for the summer evening
was cold, his low chair was comfortable, and Muriel, holding a fan to
shield her face, sat opposite in the soft light of a shaded lamp that
left much of the room in shadow. The circle of subdued illumination gave
one a pleasant feeling of seclusion and made for mutual confidence, but
Festing was silent for a time, thinking rather hard.

He was getting used to English comforts, which did not seem so
enervating as he had imagined, but he could give them up, and would,
indeed, be forced to do so when he occupied his prairie homestead. A man
could go without much that people in England required, and be the better
for the self-denial, but it might be different for a girl. Long habit
might make comfort and artistic surroundings actual necessities. It was,
however, encouraging to remember Helen's cheerfulness as she led him
among the crags in the rain. She had pluck and could bear fatigue and
hardship. Besides, there need not be much hardship after all.

Presently Muriel gave him a careless glance. “Helen told me she met you
in the hills and you came over to the hall where she and Alison Jardine
stopped. Now you have had an opportunity of correcting your first
impression, what do you think of her?”

“What I have always thought,” Festing replied.

Muriel looked at him with surprise, and then laughed. “Oh, yes; I
remember you saw her portrait first. Well, you have more imagination
than I thought. But I understand you didn't see Helen again, although
she and Alison went over part of the route I marked out for you.”

Festing thought her manner was too careless, and felt suspicious, but
he said: “I changed my plans. I thought it might look significant if I
overtook the girls. One doesn't expect an accident to happen twice.”

“Perhaps you did the proper thing. But did you want to overtake them?”

“I did,” said Festing quietly. “Still I felt I'd better not.”

Muriel was silent for a few moments, and then remarked: “Self-denial
such as you practised deserves a reward, and I met Mrs. Dalton while you
were away. She asked me to bring you over when you came back. I suppose
you know what she wants?”

“Yes,” said Festing, who looked disturbed. “Do you?”

“Mrs. Dalton told me. You helped George when he needed help, although he
had no particular claim.”

“He was ill and unfit for hard work.”

“Was that the only difficulty?”

“I don't see what you mean,” said Festing, with some embarrassment.

“Then I'll be frank. In what kind of company did you find the lad? You
see, I know something about him.”

“If you insist, he'd got into bad hands.”

“That was what I suspected, and I think Mrs. Dalton knows. George was
not very steady when he was at home and got into some trouble before he
left the office of a civil engineer. In fact, this was why he went to
Canada.”

“But I don't see what it has to do with me.”

“I wonder whether you are as dull as you pretend. George is Mrs.
Dalton's only son; although he had faults she and Helen are very fond of
him. Now it would have been something if you had merely helped him
out of a difficulty, but you did much more. You gave him his chance
of making up for past follies. He has been steady ever since, and I
understand is now getting on very well. It looks as if you had used some
moral influence.”

“I didn't try,” said Festing dryly, “I gave him his job and told him I'd
have him fired if he shirked.”

“You didn't consciously try, but it's possible to influence people
without knowing. However, as Mrs. Dalton has too much tact to overwhelm
you by her gratitude, you needn't be afraid of going to the Scar with
me, although you seem to hesitate about meeting Helen.”

Festing, who pondered for a few moments, felt that the girl was studying
him. She had shown a rather embarrassing curiosity, but he though she
meant to be his friend.

“Did you know Miss Dalton was in the mountains when you planned my
walking tour?” he asked.

“I did know,” said Muriel with a direct glance. “Perhaps I was rash, but
if so, I'm not afraid to own my fault. I suppose you understand why I
sent you where I did?”

“In one way, your object's plain. For all that, I'm puzzled.”

Muriel smiled. “As Helen is my friend, you ought to be flattered.
Doesn't it look as if I was satisfied with you?”

“We'll let that go. You took something for granted. I suppose you see
you might have been mistaken about my feelings?”

“Then no harm would have been done,” Muriel rejoined, and putting down
her fan, gave him a steady look. “Was I mistaken?”

“You were not,” said Festing quietly. “I mean to marry Miss Dalton if
she is willing. I'm anxious to know what chance I've got.”

“I can't tell you that. Perhaps I have gone far enough; but George's
reformation is a good certificate of your character, and Helen and her
mother owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Festing colored rather angrily. “My helping the lad was, so to speak,
an accident; I don't want to be judged by this, and won't urge the debt.
Miss Dalton must take me on my merits.”

“You have pluck; it's a bold claim,” said Muriel in a dry tone, and then
got up as Gardiner and the curate came in.

Next day Festing went to the Scar, and when Mrs. Dalton received him she
put her hand gently on his arm. She said enough, but not too much, and
he was moved as he saw the moisture glisten in her eyes.

“I don't deserve this,” he answered awkwardly. “I found the lad in some
trouble, but hadn't to make much effort to help him out. In fact, it was
the kind of thing one does without thinking and forgets.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Dalton, “the consequences of one's deeds follow one,
whether they're good or bad.” Then she gave him a very friendly smile.
“But perhaps we had better join the rest outside.”

Festing found Helen in the garden with her aunt and some friends, but
the others left them by and by, and they walked alone among the flowers.
The day was calm, the light clear, and the shadow of the dark beeches on
the hill crept slowly across the lawn. Beyond a low hedge, woods, smooth
pastures, and fields of ripening corn rolled back and melted into the
blue shadow beneath the rugged fells. It seemed to Festing that the
peaceful sylvan landscape was touched by a glamour that centered in the
fresh beauty of the girl. Sometimes they were silent, and sometimes
they talked about the mountains, but when they went back to the house he
thought they had got nearer.

He returned to the Scar without Muriel a week later, and went again, and
one evening stood with Helen on the terrace. Gentle rain had fallen
for most of the day, but it had stopped, and a band of pale-saffron
glimmered under heavy clouds in the West. Moisture dripped from the
motionless branches and the air was hot. The lamps had just been lighted
in the house and a yellow glow streamed out.

“I've stayed longer than I meant and forgot my lamp,” Festing remarked.
“However, this has happened before, and I hope I haven't stayed longer
than I ought.”

“We will let you go now,” said Helen. “For one thing, I must get up
early.”

“Eight o'clock?” Festing suggested.

“No,” said Helen, smiling. “I am always up before, but it will be six
o'clock to-morrow. I want to gather some mushrooms; they ought to be
plentiful after a day like this.”

“Is six o'clock a particularly suitable time?”

“Five o'clock might be better. If you don't go early, you often find
that somebody has been round the fields first.”

Festing asked where she expected to find the mushrooms, and when she
told him said, “Very well; I'll meet you. It only means half an hour's
journey on your fine English road; that is, if the bicycle holds up.”

“But why do you want to gather mushrooms?”

“I don't want to gather mushrooms. I really want to see you where I
think you belong.”

“In the fields?” Helen suggested humorously.

“No,” said Festing. “I don't mean in the fields. I've seen you in the
afternoon when the sun's on the ripening corn and the leaves are dark
and thick, but they stand for fulfilment, and that's not your proper
setting. Once or twice I've stopped until evening, but you don't belong
to the dusk.”

“Then where do I belong?”

“To the sunrise, when the earth is fresh and the day is getting bright.
Promise is your sign; fulfilment hasn't come.”

Helen colored, and as she turned her head it struck her as portentous
that she glanced towards the saffron streak that glimmered in the West.
When she looked back, however, her face was calm.

“Ah!” she said, “I wonder how and where the fulfilment will come!
Sometimes I think of it and feel afraid; my life has been so smooth.”

“You won't flinch if you have to bear some strain.”

Helen gave him her hand. “Well, you must go now. I will expect you
to-morrow.”

She stood looking towards the fading light for some time after his
figure melted into the shadows on the drive. Her heart beat and she felt
a thrill, for she admitted that the man had power to move her. As yet
she would not ask herself how far his power went, but she knew the
question must be answered soon. Other men had flattered her, and she
had smiled, knowing what their compliments were worth, but she could not
smile now. Then she roused herself and went in quietly.

Festing met her next morning while the sun rose above the rounded masses
of the beech wood, and entering a dewy pasture they skirted a fence
half-smothered in briars. Both felt invigorated by the freshness of
the morning and brushed across the sparkling grass, engaged in careless
talk. By and by as Helen stooped to pick a mushroom a shrill scream came
from beyond the fence, and she rose with an angry color in her face.

“Oh!” she said; “that spoils everything!”

“What is it?” Festing asked as the pitiful scream rose again.

“A rabbit, choking, in a snare,” she answered with a look of horror.

Festing leaped across a ditch and plunged into the briars. Helen heard
the rotten fence-rails smash and he vanished behind the thorny branches
that closed across the gap. She was glad he had gone so quickly; partly
because it was her wish, and partly because she saw the cry of pain had
moved him. She liked to think he was compassionate.

As a matter of fact, Festing's pity was soon mixed with rage as he came
upon a scene of barbarous cruelty. Three or four rabbits lay quiet upon
the grass, but there were others that struggled feebly at his approach;
their eyes protruding and strangling wires cutting into their
throats. He thought they were past his help, but one rolled round with
half-choked screams and he ran to it first. It was difficult to hold the
struggling animal while he opened the thin brass noose, but he set it
free, and it lay paralyzed with fear for a few moments before it ran
off.

Then he released the others as gently as he could. Their dew-draggled
bodies felt cold and limp and the wire had bitten deep into the swollen
flesh. Two, however, feebly crawled away and he carried another to
the mouth of a burrow, after which he wiped the dew and blood from
his hands, while his lips set in a firm line. He hoped he was not a
sentimentalist, and admitted that man must kill to eat; moreover he had
used the rifle in the Northern wilds. Once a hungry cinnamon bear had
raided the camp, and he remembered a certain big bull moose. That was
clean sport, for a man who faced such antagonists must shoot quick and
straight, but this torturing of small defenseless creatures revolted
him. Still he admitted that it might not have done so quite so much but
for the pain it caused the girl.

Helen glanced at him with some surprise when he went back to the fence.
She had not seen him look like that.

“I've let them go, but two or three are dead,” he remarked. “I suppose
they've been lying there all night.”

“I'm afraid so. They come out to feed at dusk. It's horribly cruel.”

“It's devilish! Why don't you stop it? Is the field yours?”

“It goes with the house, and when we let the grazing I stipulated that
no snares should be laid, but there was some mistake and the tenant
claimed the rabbits. We said he could shoot them, and I understand he's
disputing with the agent. But where are you going?”

“I'm going back to finish the job; these particular snares won't be used
again. If you like, I'll come over every evening and pull the blamed
things up.”

“I don't think that will be necessary,” Helen answered with a strained
laugh.

She felt disturbed and excited when Festing turned away. Her life had
been smooth and she did not think she had seen a man seized by savage
anger; certainly not a man she knew. Festing was angry, and no doubt
justly, but at the Scar the primitive vein in human nature was decently
hidden. Now she did not know if she were jarred or not. Then she heard
voices, and going nearer the fence, tried to see through the briars.

Festing, with a pocket-knife and some brass wire in his hand, confronted
a big slouching man who carried a heavy stick and a net bag. Bits of fur
stuck to the fellow's clothes and there was blood on his dirty hands.
A half-grown lad with another stick waited, rather uneasily, in the
background.

“What might you be doing?” the man inquired.

“I'm cutting up your snares,” Festing replied. “What have you got to say
about it?”

The other gave him a slow, sullen look. “Only that you'd better leave
the snares alone. How many rabbits?”

“Four,” said Festing, pulling up another snare and cutting the noose.

“Then that will be five shillings. I'll say nothing about the snares;
wire's cheap.”

Festing laughed. “It's a dead bluff. Light out of this field before I
put you off.”

The man hesitated, his eyes fixed on Festing's hardset face. Perhaps a
way out might have been found, but the lad precipitated matters. Running
to the mouth of the burrow, he picked up a half-dead rabbit that was
trying to crawl away, and leered at Festing as he raised his stick. The
blow was not struck, for Festing leaped across the grass and next moment
the boy fell beside the burrow. He was unhurt, but too surprised to
move, because he had never seen anybody move as fast as the man who
threw him down.

Then Festing heard steps behind, and turned in time to guard his head
with his right arm. It felt numb and he was half dazed by a shock of
pain, but he struck savagely with his left hand and his knuckles jarred
on bone. The other's stick dropped, and when they grappled Festing was
relieved to feel his arm was not broken. His muscles were hard and
well trained, his blood was hot, and a struggle of the kind was not
altogether a novelty. When liquor is smuggled into a construction camp,
a section boss must sometimes use physical force or relinquish his
command.

He staggered and nearly fell as his leg was seized. It looked as if the
lad had come to his master's help; but one could not be fastidious,
and a savage backward kick got rid of the new antagonist. The other was
powerful and stubborn, and Festing spent a strenuous few minutes before
he threw him into the sand beside the burrow.

“I'm pretty fresh and ready to start again if you are,” he said. “Still
I reckon you have had enough.”

The fellow got up scowling and told the lad to bring his bag.

“You'll hear more about this,” he rejoined and slouched off.

Festing went back, and Helen started when he jumped across the ditch.
His jacket was torn, his lip was cut, and his face was bruised. He
looked dishevelled, but not at all embarrassed. In fact, there was a
gleam of half-humorous satisfaction in his eyes.

“The snares are all cut up,” he said. “I broke the fellow's stick and
threw away the pegs.”

Helen felt a strange desire to laugh. There was something ridiculous in
his naïve triumph, but she was not really amused. In fact, her confused
sensations were puzzling.

“Did you hurt him?” she asked.

“I hope so,” said Festing. “I rather think I did and don't expect he'll
come back while I'm about. However, as I can't come here as often as I'd
like, it might be better to see your agent. In the meantime, we'll look
for some mushrooms.”

“But don't you want to bathe your face?”

“I forgot that I probably look the worse for wear,” said Festing, who
wiped his cut lip. “Still if I met your mother, she might get a shock,
and now I come to think of it, I'm no doubt jarring you, so I'll go off
and see your agent if you'll tell me where he lives.”

“It's some distance, and we don't do things so quickly here. I must talk
to my mother first. Besides, the agent may not have got up.”

“Then I'll sit on the doorstep. But what is there to talk about? You
don't want your rabbits tortured so that somebody may make thirty cents
apiece. It has got to be stopped, and why not stop it now? Where does
the fellow live?”

Helen told him, and added: “But you can't go like that.”

“No; I suppose not,” said Festing doubtfully. “It won't make a long
round if I call at Gardiner's. I'll come back later and tell you how
I've fixed things up.”

He lifted his badly crushed hat, and when he turned away Helen laughed,
a half-hysterical laugh. His fierce energy had, so to speak, left her
breathless; she was shaken by confused emotions. It was for her sake he
had plunged into the quarrel, but she felt disturbed by his savageness.
For all that, something in her approved, and it was really this that
troubled her. Picking up the basket, she crossed the field with a very
thoughtful look.



CHAPTER X

HELEN DECIDES

Some weeks had passed since Festing went to gather mushrooms when he
sat, one evening, on the terrace in front of Gardiner's house. His brows
were knit and he had in his had a letter from Kerr at the construction
camp. The back of the letter was covered with penciled calculations, but
he presently put it down and looked moodily about.

The larches that sheltered the house had been in full leaf when he came,
but now they were getting bare. One could see the hills through a fine
network of twigs, dotted with minute tassels of gold. The beeches and
oaks looked solid yet, but the former shone warm brown and red against
the others' fading green. Withered leaves fluttered down, and the smell
of a burning heap hung in the damp air.

The touches of brown and gold in the landscape hinted that time was
passing. Winter was already advancing across the wastes of Northern
Canada and the geese and ducks were flying south. Festing heard in fancy
the brant's changing cry that always filled him with unrest, but the
letter in his hand was a clearer call. Kerr had offered him a contract
for hauling a quantity of telegraph posts and logs across the snow,
and his calculations indicated that the work ought to be profitable.
It would keep him occupied all winter; one could buy horses cheap when
harvest was over and sell them advantageously when plowing began in the
spring. Besides, the money he earned would help him to stock his farm
and furnish his homestead well.

He had loitered in England long enough. He would never forget this
holiday, for he had learned what happiness life might have in store;
but it was a happiness that could not be attained by romantic dreams. He
must earn it by tense effort, and was willing to pay the price; this was
the reason he must get back to work. For all that, he had doubts, and
was glad when Muriel came along the terrace and sat down on the bench.

“You look unusually thoughtful,” she said.

“I have something to think about. I find I must go back to Canada very
soon.”

Muriel made an abrupt movement. “You are going away! But we thought--”
 She paused and resumed: “Does Helen know?”

“Not yet; I must tell her. It will cost me something to leave, but I've
got to go. Perhaps you had better see what Kerr has to say.”

He gave her the letter, and after waiting until she had read it, went
on: “I can't let this chance pass; I want the money.”

“I think I understand,” said Muriel. “Still you haven't told me much.”

He was silent for a few moments and looked very grave, but she had for
some time imagined that he was bearing a strain.

“Well,” he said, “I'm up against things and can't see my way. That is, I
do see where I mean to go, but don't know if I ought.”

“The problem's not exactly new. However, if you will state it clearly.”

“I'll try,” said Festing. “One can trust you; in fact, I wanted to tell
you before.”

He explained his difficulties, practical and moral, and when he finished
Muriel said: “It comes to this--You are in love with Helen and mean
to marry her, but hesitate because you fear she may find the life too
hard.”

“It's a big risk for an English girl. She must give up everything, while
I have all to gain.”

“But suppose she were willing?”

“The trouble is that she doesn't know what she may have to bear.”

Muriel smiled. “It's a risk that many girls must run. But after all it
depends upon what she values most.”

“Comfort, leisure, refined friends, and other things you enjoy here are
worth much to a girl.”

“All this is true,” Muriel agreed, and pausing, continued with a blush:
“Still these things don't satisfy every need, and perhaps my example may
be some encouragement. Fred isn't very clever and will probably never be
rich, but I'd sooner face poverty with him than marry a prince.”

Festing bowed. “Thank you for that! Fred's a very good sort. I knew you
had pluck.”

“I really think Helen is pluckier and stronger than me. But I imagine
you have already made up your mind.”

“I have; for all that, I'm afraid. If I have bad luck, Helen will have
to pay. I know she was willing to marry Charnock, but she was very young
then and he was rich compared with me.”

“Then I suppose a little money would be a useful help?”

“It would, in one way,” Festing agreed. “The trouble is that I haven't
much; only enough to make a fair start if I'm economical.”

For a moment Muriel looked amused, but her seriousness returned. “We'll
let that go. You seem to forget that you don't stand alone. I should
have found it hard to forgive Fred if he had decided whether he ought
to marry or not, without consulting me. It's a girl's right, not her
lover's, to say what she values most and how much she is willing to
bear. If Helen loves you, she's entitled to be given the choice.”

“Ah,” said Festing, “I don't know if she loves me yet!”

Muriel's eyes twinkled. “That is something you must find out for
yourself. But perhaps I have said enough.”

She went back to the house and Festing sat still in the gathering dark.
He had made up his mind and felt encouraged, but he saw difficulties
that must be met.

Next day he went to the Scar and found that Helen was not at home, but
Mrs. Dalton and her sister received him, and for a time he talked about
things that did not matter. It was dull and damp outside, and a bright
wood fire burned in the grate. The low-ceilinged room was very warm,
its comfort seemed enervating, and he felt braced as he thought of the
windswept prairie. Then he knew his remarks were vague and disconnected.
It was a relief to plunge into the business he had come about.

“I had better tell you that I am going to ask Helen to marry me,” he
said.

Mrs. Dalton did not look surprised, and he thought Miss Graham smiled.
Perhaps he had been abrupt, but he did not care.

“You have done what is proper in warning my sister first,” Miss Graham
remarked; but Mrs. Dalton was silent for a few moments.

“You imply that Helen doesn't know,” she said.

“She does not; I've been careful not to give her a hint,” Festing
declared. “I was afraid to alarm her by, so to speak, rushing things.
You're not used to it in England.”

Miss Graham's amusement was plainer. “The caution you exercised must
have cost you something.”

“After all, you haven't known Helen long,” Mrs. Dalton resumed.

“That's so, in a way, but five minutes was long enough. I knew I'd never
marry anybody else when I saw her in the garden the first day I came.”

He thought Miss Graham gave him an approving look, but he turned to Mrs.
Dalton.

“I hope you will give your consent; but, of course, if you object, or
there's anything you want to ask----”

Mrs. Dalton roused herself. She felt breathless, as if she had been
carried along at an unusual pace.

“To begin with,” she said quietly, “I cannot object to you. We know
something about your character; you helped my son, helped him more than
you perhaps thought. But there is something I must ask.” She hesitated
and then resumed: “You have seen the life Helen leads with us. She
has never had to use much self-denial. What have you to offer her in
Canada?”

“Not much. In fact, that's partly why I came first to you. I felt you
should be warned; that's really what I meant.”

“You are honest,” Miss Graham interposed. “You want my sister's
approval, but don't think it essential.”

Festing looked at Mrs. Dalton. “If you refused, I wouldn't be altogether
daunted. I might wait, but that is all. This is a matter Helen must
decide.”

“Yes. All the same, it is my duty to guard her from a possible mistake.”

“Very well; I'll make matters as plain as I can. To begin with, I
haven't much money, and although I'm building a good homestead, a
Western farm is very different from the Scar. There's none of the
refinement you have round you; a man must work from sunrise until it's
dark, and there are many demands upon a woman. For all that, I can
guard against Helen suffering actual hardship. In fact, she shall suffer
nothing I can save her from. It's the pressure of things one can't
control and her own character that may cause the strain. If I know her,
she won't stand by and watch when there's much that ought to be done.”

“She would not. But how long do you expect the strain to last?”

“Not very long. Two years, three years; I can't tell. When you break new
land you work hard and wait. The railroad throws out branches, elevators
are built, small towns spring up, and while you improve your holding
comfort and often prosperity comes to you.”

“But in the meantime a little capital would help?”

“Of course,” said Festing. “The trouble is I haven't much, but I think I
have enough to provide all that's strictly necessary.”

He thought Mrs. Dalton gave her sister a warning glance, but she said:
“Well, you have my consent to ask Helen; but if she is willing to run
the risk, there is a stipulation I must make.”

“So long as you consent, I'll agree to anything,” Festing declared. “I
can't repay you for your trust, but I'll try to deserve it.”

Mrs. Dalton told him where Helen had gone, and setting off to meet her,
he presently saw her come round a bend in a lane. The sun had set and
tall oaks, growing along the hedgerows, darkened the lane, but a faint
crimson glow from the west shone between the trunks. To the east,
the quiet countryside rolled back into deepening shadow. For a moment
Festing hesitated as he watched the girl advance. It was rash to uproot
this fair bloom of the sheltered English garden and transplant it
in virgin soil, swept by the rushing winds. Then he went forward
resolutely.

Helen gave him her hand and moved on with disturbed feelings, for there
was something different in his look.

“If you don't mind, we'll stop a minute; I have something to say. To
begin with, I'm going back to Canada.”

She looked up sharply and then waited with forced calm until he resumed:
“That precipitates matters, because I must learn if I've hoped for
too much before I go. I was a stranger when I came here, and you were
kind--”

“You were not a stranger,” Helen said quietly. “George told us about
you, and for his sake--”

“I don't want you to be kind for George's sake, but my own. I'd sooner
you liked me for what I am, with all my faults.”

“If it's any comfort, I think I really do like you,” Helen admitted with
a strained smile.

“Well enough to marry me?”

Helen colored, but gave him a level glance. “Ah,” she said, “aren't you
rash? You hardly know me yet.”

“I'm not rash at all; I knew you long ago. Your portrait hung in
Charnock's house and I used to study it on winter nights. It told me
what you were, and when I saw you under the copper beech I knew you very
well. Still now I have seen you, your picture had lost its charm.”

“Then you have it?” Helen asked.

Festing gave her a Russia leather case and her face flushed red.

“Did Bob give you this?”

“No,” said Festing quietly; “I stole it.”

“And the case?”

“The case was made in Montreal. I went to Winnipeg, but could get
nothing good enough.”

Helen turned her head. It was a long way to Winnipeg from the prairie
bridge, and she was moved that he had made the journey to find a proper
covering for her picture.

“You must have valued the portrait,” she remarked shyly.

“I did, but it won't satisfy me now. As soon as I met you I fell in love
with you. Somehow I think you must have seen--”

“Yes,” said Helen quietly, “I did see.”

Festing summoned his self-control. “You must know what you decide. I
must live in Canada; my homestead may seem rude and bare after your
mother's beautiful house, and I tried to show you what a prairie farm is
like.”

“I think I know,” Helen said, and gave him a quick tender look. “Still,
such things don't really matter----”

Then Festing stepped forward and took her in his arms.

An hour later he sat talking to Mrs. Dalton and Miss Graham in the
drawing-room.

“I am glad you have agreed to wait and come back for Helen in the
spring, but I ought to tell you something now, because it may make a
difference in your plans,” Mrs. Dalton remarked “You admitted that some
of the difficulties you and Helen would have to meet might be avoided if
you had a little more capital.”

“It would certainly make a difference, but I have got no more.”

“Helen has some money,” Mrs. Dalton replied.

Festing knitted his brows. “I didn't suspect this!”

“That is obvious,” Miss Graham interposed.

Festing got up, moved a pace or two, and stopped. “How much has she
got?”

Mrs. Dalton told him and he frowned. “Then she had better keep it. I'd
sooner you tied it up.”

“Isn't that unreasonable?” Miss Graham asked.

“It's a man's business to support his wife. I don't want to live on
Helen's money. Besides, I've made my plans.”

“I don't think you quite understand,” Mrs. Dalton rejoined. “After all,
it is not a large sum and can be used for Helen's benefit. It may save
her from some discomfort and give her advantages you could not provide.”

Festing pondered for a few moments, and then answered thoughtfully:
“Yes, I see this, and can't refuse. Well, perhaps the safest way would
be to transfer the land I bought to Helen and record it in her name.
It's bound to go up in value and couldn't be taken from her unless she
borrowed on a mortgage. The arrangement would set free my capital and
enable us to run the homestead on more comfortable lines.” Then he
paused and asked: “Did Charnock know about the money?”

“He did not,” said Mrs. Dalton. “We thought it better not to tell him;
but we can trust you.”

“Thank you,” said Festing, who was silent for a time.

He had wondered whether he had misjudged Charnock in one respect, but
saw that he had not. The fellow was a cur and would not have married
Sadie if he had known about Helen's money. But this did not matter.

“Well,” he resumed, “if you agree to my proposition, we'll get a lawyer
to fix it up. In a way, it's some relief to know Helen has enough, and
now I'm going to talk to her.”

He found her in the next room and she gave him a smile. “I expect mother
has told you I'm not as poor as you thought. Are you pleased or not?”

“I'm pleased for your sake, because there's not much risk of your
finding things too hard, but I'd have been proud to marry you if you had
nothing at all.”

“Not even a certain prettiness?” Helen asked.

“Your beauty's something to be thankful for; but after all it's, so to
speak, an accident, like your money. It wasn't your beauty, but you, I
fell in love with.”

Helen blushed. “Ah!” she said, “now you're very nice indeed!”



CHAPTER XI

SADIE USES PRESSURE

It was getting cold in the small back office when Sadie put down her pen
and went into the store. She was cramped with sitting, for she had been
occupied with accounts for several hours and the stove had burned low.

“You can quit now, Steve,” she said to the clerk. “Put out the lights,
but don't lock up. I'm going to wait until the boss comes.”

The clerk turned his head to hide a smile; because he knew where
Charnock was, and thought Mrs. Charnock might have to wait some time;
but he did as he was told, and when he went out Sadie stood shivering
at the door. She had married Charnock late in the fall and now it was
March, but there was no sign yet of returning spring. The sky was dark
and a bitter wind from the prairie blew down the empty street. Blocks of
square-fronted houses stood out harshly against the snow, which sparkled
here and there in a ray of light. The settlement looked ugly and very
desolate, and Sadie studied it with a feeling of weariness and disgust.
It seemed strange that she had once thought it a lively place, but this
was before she met Charnock, who had taught her much.

Shutting the door, she returned to the office and glanced critically at
her reflection in a mirror on the wall. She had been ill, in consequence
of the strain she had borne while her father was sick, and looked older.
Her face was thin and she felt tired, but her skin had not lost its
silky whiteness, and her black dress hung in becoming lines. It was a
well-cut dress, for Sadie was extravagant in such matters and knew how
to choose her clothes. She had lost the freshness that had marked her,
but had gained something: a touch of dignity that she thought of as
style.

Sitting down at the desk, she began to muse. Keller had fallen ill soon
after her wedding. It was a painful illness, and as skilled help was
scarce, she had nursed him until he died. He was a plain storekeeper,
but she knew he was, in many ways, a bigger and better man than Bob. He
demanded all that was his, but he kept his word, and when he undertook a
thing put it over, which Bob seldom did. Shortly before he died he gave
Sadie good advice.

“You got the man you wanted, and now it's your job to look after him.
head him off the liquor, and keep your hands on the dollars. I've fixed
things so's they belong to you.”

Another time he asked for certain accounts, and after studying them
remarked: “You want to watch the business and run it all it's worth.
You have a husband to work for now, and I guess a man like Bob comes
expensive. Still, if you can guild him right, he's not all a fool.”

Sadie had not resented this. She knew it was true, and her father had
not meant to sneer. He was a blunt man and generally talked like that,
and Sadie sometimes did so. Well, she had not been cheated, because
she knew what Bob was before they married; and although ambition had
something to do with it, she loved him. For all that, she had got some
rude jars, and now passion was dying, her love was colored by a certain
half-maternal protection. Bob must be watched and guarded.

Her ambition, however, remained. She had beauty and intelligence and
wanted to win a place in cultured society. Bob could help her, and she
was tired of the dreary settlement. But she was practical. Money would
be needed if they were to move to one of the cities, and although trade
was good, gathering dollars was slow work when one had an extravagant
husband. While she had been ill Bob was left in charge of the business,
and on recovering her first task had been to find out how he had
managed. Now she had found out and got something of a shock.

The room got colder, but Bob had made some entries in a cash-book she
could not understand, and opening the book again, she spent some time
in calculations that threw no fresh light on the matter. Then she heard
steps and turned as Charnock came in.

He took off his fur-coat and Sadie frowned as he dropped it into a dusty
corner. It was an expensive coat, but one could not teach Bob to take
care of things. Then he kissed her and sat down on the edge of the
table.

“You're getting prettier, Sadie; that thoughtful look of yours is
particularly fetching. But I can see you're tired. Put those books away
and let's get home.”

Sadie knew what his compliments were worth, although they had not lost
their charm. He wanted to put things off, but she must be firm.

“You make me tired, and I haven't finished with the books. We've got to
have a talk.”

“I like you best when you don't talk; you sometimes say too much,”
 Charnock replied. “Besides a girl like you ought to be satisfied with
being seen. You're worth looking at.”

Sadie gave him a quick glance. He had recently become fastidious about
his clothes and she did not grudge the dollars he spent on them. His
taste was good, and he looked very graceful as he turned to her with
a smile on his face. The hint of dissipation it had worn was not so
marked, for she had some power over him and used it well, but she
thought he had been indulging. There was, however, no use in getting
angry with Bob.

“You were at Wilkinson's again,” she said. “You promised you'd stop off
going there. I suppose he set up the whisky!”

“I didn't take much. It wasn't good whisky; not like ours. That reminds
me--I'm not much of a business man, but I've had a happy thought. My
notion is we give the boys better liquor than they want. They wouldn't
know the difference if we kept cheaper stuff.”

Sadie frowned, because she had accepted her father's business code. His
charges were high, but it had been his boast that Keller's delivered the
goods one paid for. Then she realized that Bob had nearly succeeded in
putting off the threatened talk.

“No,” she said, “that's bad business in the end. When you'd had some
whisky, Wilkinson got out the cards?”

“Oh, well, you know you stopped me playing a quiet game at home, and
three or four of the boys were there. Then a Brandon real-estate man
asked for the cards.”

“How much were you out when you finished the game?”

“Not much,” said Charnock with some hesitation.

“How much?”

“If you insist, about ten dollars.”

Sadie made a gesture of impatience, but after all he might have had a
heavier loss.

“Ten dollars and a headache next morning for an evening's card game.
You surely don't know much, Bob! But look at this statement and tell me
where the money's gone.”

Charnock took the paper she gave him and colored.

“I never thought it was as much as that. Upon my word, I didn't!”

“Where's it gone?” Sadie demanded.

“I've been unlucky,” said Charnock, who began a confused explanation.

He had heard of a building lot on the outskirts of Winnipeg, to which he
had been told a new street line would run. He had paid for a time
option on the site, and now it appeared that the trolley scheme had been
abandoned. Then somebody had given him a hint about a deal in grain that
the speculators could not put over. It looked a safe snap and he had
sold down, but the market had gone up and his margin was exhausted.
When he stopped, Sadie's eyes flashed scornfully, but she controlled her
anger.

“You're a fool, Bob; you never learn,” she said wearily. “Anyhow, you
have got to cut out this kind of thing; the business won't stand for it
long. Well, as you can't be trusted with dollars, I'll have to put you
on an allowance. I hate to be mean, but if you waste what I give you,
you'll get no more.”

Charnock's face got red. “This is rather a nasty knock. Not that I want
your money, but the thing's humiliating.”

“Do you think it isn't humiliating to me?”

“Perhaps it is,” said Charnock, with a half-ashamed look. “I admit I
have been something of an ass, but you are mean, in a sense. What are
you going to do with your money, if you don't intend to spend it?”

“Use if for making more; anyhow, until I get enough.”

“When will you have enough?”

“When I can sell out the business and live where I want; give you the
friends you ought to have instead of low-down gamblers and whisky-tanks.
If you'd take hold and work, Bob, we'd be rich in a few years. The boys
like you, you could do all the trade, and the boom that's beginning
will make this settlement a big place. But I guess there's no use in
talking--and I'm ill and tired.”

Sadie's pose got slack and she leaned her arms on the table with her
face in her hands. Charnock, feeling penitent, tried to comfort her.

“You're a very good sort, Sadie, and mean well; I'll go steady and try
not to bother you again. But we won't say any more about it now. Are
those new letters? The mail hadn't come when I left.”

She gave him two envelopes, and after reading part of the first letter
he started and the paper rustled in his hand.

“What's the matter?” she asked. “Have you lost some money I don't know
about?”

“I haven't,” Charnock answered with a hoarse laugh. “The letter's from
some English friends. You head that Festing had gone back to the Old
Country. Well, he's going to be married soon and will bring his wife
out.”

“Do you know her? Who is she?”

“Yes; I know her very well. She's Helen Dalton.”

“The girl you ought to have married!” Sadie exclaimed. “What's she like?
I guess you have her picture, though you haven't shown it me.”

“I had one, but haven't now. I meant to burn the thing, but suspect that
Festing stole it. Confound him!”

Sadie was silent for a few moments and then gave Charnock a searching
look. “Anyhow, I don't see why that should make you mad. You let her go
and took me instead. Do you reckon she'd have been as patient with you
as I am?”

“No,” said Charnock, rather drearily. “Helen isn't patient, and I dare
say I'd have broken her heart. You have done your best for me, and
I expect you find it a hopeless job. For all that, I never thought
Festing----”

“It's done with,” Sadie rejoined quietly, although there was some color
in her face. “If the girl likes Festing, what has it to do with you?
Besides, as he has located some way back from the settlement, there's
no reason you should meet him or his wife.” Then she frowned and got up.
“But the place is very cold; we'll go home.”

Charnock put out the light and locked the door, but he was silent as
they walked across the snow to the hotel, and Sadie wondered what he
thought. There was no doubt he was disturbed, or he would have tried to
coax her into abandoning her resolution to put him on an allowance. She
meant to be firm about this.

For the next two or three weeks Charnock occupied himself with his
duties and everything went smoothly at the store and hotel. He was
popular in the neighborhood, since his weaknesses were rather attractive
than repellent to people who did not suffer from them. Men who drove
long distances from their lonely farms liked a cheerful talk and to hear
the latest joke; others enjoyed a game of cards in the back office when
Mrs. Charnock was not about. Besides, it was known that Keller's was
straight; one got full weight and value when one dealt there.

Trade, moreover, was unusually good. Settlers looking for land filled
the hotel, and now elevators were to be built, farmers hired extra
labor and broke new soil. Household supplies were purchased on an
unprecedented scale, and when snow melted the hotel stables were
occupied by rough-coated teams, while wagons, foul with the mud of the
prairie trails, waited for their loads in front of the store. Sadie felt
cheered and encouraged, and although Bob sometimes spent in careless
talk an hour or two that might have been better employed, she was
willing to make up for his neglect by extra work in the office at night.
He was doing well and she began to be hopeful.

One evening, however, when there were goods to be entered and bills
written out, he went home for supper and did not come back. Sadie
stopped in the office long after the clerk had gone, but when she put
down her pen the stove was out and she was surprised to find how late it
was. She felt tired and annoyed, for she had been busily occupied since
morning, and suspected that Bob was telling amusing stories while
she did his work. Then in shutting up the store she forgot her rubber
over-shoes, and the sidewalk was plastered with sticky mud. She wore
rather expensive slippers and thought they would be spoiled.

Charnock was not about when she entered the hotel, and the guests seemed
to have gone to bed. The light was out in the office, and the big
lounge room, where lumps of half-dry mud lay upon the board floor, was
unoccupied. The bell-boy, who was using a brush amidst a cloud of
dust, said he did not think the boss had gone upstairs, and with
sudden suspicion Sadie entered a dark passage that led to a room where
commercial travelers showed their goods. She opened the door and stopped
just inside, her head tilted back and an angry sparkle in her eyes.

The room was very hot and smelt of liquor, tobacco, and kerosene;
the lamp had been turned too high and its cracked chimney was black.
Charnock and three others sat round a table on which stood a bottle
and four glasses. One of the glasses had upset and there was a pool,
bordered by soaked cigar-ash, on the boards. The men were playing cards,
and a pile of paper money indicated that the stakes were high.
Sadie knew them all and deeply distrusted one, whom she suspected of
practising on her husband's weaknesses; she disliked another, and the
third did not count. She looked up rather awkwardly, and she saw that
Charnock had taken too much liquor.

“Good evening, boys,” she said. “I want to lock the doors, and guess you
don't know how late it is.”

Wilkinson, the man she distrusted, took out his watch. He had a horse
ranch some distance off, and the farmers called him a sport. As a matter
of fact, he was a successful petty gambler, but generally lost his
winnings by speculating in real-estate and wheat.

“It's surely late, Mrs. Charnock,” he agreed. “Still, I dare say you can
give us a quarter of an hour.”

“Five minutes,” Sadie answered. “You can cut the game you're playing
when you like. I'm tired, but I'll wait.”

Wilkinson looked at Charnock, but stopped arranging his cards. “Well,
I'm ready to quit. Bob's made a scoop the last few deals, and I reckon
I've not much chance of getting my money back.”

“Go 'way, Sadie; go 'way right now!” Charnock interrupted. “You gotta
put up a fair game, and I can't stop when I've all the boys' dollars in
my pocket.”

Sadie was sometimes tactful, but her anger was quick, and she disliked
to hear her husband use Western idioms. Moreover she expected him to be
polite.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that's a change; your dollars are generally
in their wallets. But this game has to stop.”

Mossup, the man she did not like, turned in his chair. He was not sober
and his manners were not polished at the best of times. He sold small
tools and hardware for a Winnipeg wholesale firm.

“Say, you might call a bell-boy. That whisky's rank; I want a different
drink.”

Charnock got up with an awkward movement, but Sadie did not want his
help.

“Drinks are served in the bar and the bar is shut,” she said.

“I'm stopping here; I hired this room, and as long as I pay it's mine.
We're not in Manitoba, and I guess the law--”

Sadie silenced him imperiously. She understood his reference to
Manitoba, where regulations dealing with liquor are strictly enforced.

“I make the law at Keller's, and this hotel is not a gambling saloon.
Mr. Wilkinson, cork that bottle and put it on the shelf.”

As Wilkinson obeyed, Mossup put his hand on his arm to hold him back,
but Charnock interfered:

“You sit down right now. Understand, everybody, what Mrs. Charnock says
goes.”

“Certainly,” Wilkinson agreed. “Get off to bed Mossup; you'll have a
swelled head all right to-morrow, as it is. I'll put out the light, Mrs.
Charnock; guess I'll do it better than Bob.”

“Think I can't put out a common old lamp?” Charnock inquired. “Destroy
the blamed thing 'fore I let it beat me.”

“You're not going to try,” said Wilkinson, who hustled him and Mossup
out of the room and then held the door open for Sadie.

She thanked him, but felt that if she had ground to fear resentment, it
was not Mossup's but his. Wilkinson had manners, but she knew he did not
like to be robbed of an easy victim, and it was possible that he had
let Bob win until he was drunk enough to be fleeced. She waited a few
moments to let the others go, and then went upstairs and stopped in a
passage that led to her room. Her face was hot and she breathed fast,
for her part in the scene had cost her something. It would have been
different had Charnock not been there; she could have dealt with the
others, but he had made her ashamed. Then she heard his step and turned
with passionate anger as he came along the passage. He stopped and
looked at her with drunken admiration.

“By George, you're a fine thing, Sadie! Handsomest and pluckiest woman
in the township!”

Sadie said nothing, but her pose stiffened and her lips set tight.

“Look your best when you're angry,” Charnock went on. “Not quite so
'tractive, too pale and want animation, when you're calm.”

She did not answer, but felt a quiver of repulsion. His voice was thick,
his eyes had a stupid amorous look, and he smelt of whisky. Sadie was
not remarkably fastidious; she had, for several years, managed a hotel,
and had used her physical charm to attract the man, but she was jarred.
As yet, she made no appeal to the better side of Bob's nature, if it had
a better side, and his sensual admiration revolted her.

Charnock felt puzzled and somewhat daunted, but tried to put his arm
round her waist. Sadie seized his shoulders and pushed him violently
back.

“Don't you touch me, you drunken hog!” she said.

He gazed at her in dull surprise and then braced himself. Sadie had
moods, but generally came round if he made love to her. Besides,
although she was in one of her rages, her attitude was irresistibly
inciting.

“I'm your husband anyhow. Now don't be a silly little fool----”

She drew back as he advanced and picked up a mop. It was used for
polishing board floors and had a long handle.

“You're my husband when you're sober; I didn't marry a whisky-tank. If
you touch me, Bob, I'll knock you down!”

Charnock stopped. When Sadie spoke like that she meant what she said.
She looked at him steadily for a moment or two, and then put down the
mop and turned away. He durst not follow, and when she entered a room
close by, he shrugged with half-bewildered resignation and stumbled off.

Sadie, leaning with labored breath against the rail of her bed, heard
him fall down the three or four steps in the middle of the passage
and afterwards get up and go on again. Then she laughed, a strained,
hysterical laugh.



CHAPTER XII

THE SACRIFICE

Charnock hesitated about meeting Sadie at breakfast, but found her calm
and apparently good-humored. He felt embarrassed and his head ached, but
she made him some strong coffee in a way he liked. Sadie did not often
sulk, and he was grateful because she said nothing about what had
happened on the previous night. Indeed, he was on the point of telling
her so, but her careless manner discouraged him and he resolved instead
that he would stop gambling and keep as steady as he could. After all,
Sadie was really treating him well; she might, for example, have stopped
his getting liquor. He meant to brace up and give her no more trouble.

He kept his resolve for a fortnight, and then, one morning, a man
brought him a note from Wilkinson, asking him to drive over to the
range. Charnock told the man he could not go, but presently put down his
pen and looked out of the open window of the office of the store. The
last of the snow had vanished some time since, and round white clouds
drifted across the sky. Flying shadows streaked the wide plain, which
gleamed like silver in the sunshine, and the bleached grass rolled in
long waves before the breeze. There was something strangely exhilarating
in the air and the dusty office smelt of salt-pork and cheese. It was a
glorious day for a drive, he need not stay long at Wilkinson's, and the
team needed exercise. Moreover, Sadie was not about and would not come
home until afternoon; he might get back before her. He hesitated for a
few minutes and then sent an order to the stable.

At midnight he had not returned, and Sadie sat in the office at the
hotel, making futile efforts to fix her attention on a newspaper. The
guests had gone to bed and the building was very quiet, but she had kept
the ostler up. He might be needed and she could trust him not to talk.

At length she heard the sound she listened for. A beat of hoofs and
rattle of wheels came down the street. It was their team, she knew their
trot, but she wondered anxiously whether Bob was driving. When the rig
stopped she went to the door, where the ostler stood with a lantern, and
caught her breath as Wilkinson got down. There was nobody else on the
seat of the light wagon, and Charnock had set off with a different rig.

“Where's Bob?” she asked in a strained voice.

“We put him inside,” said Wilkinson. “He wasn't quite able to sit up.
I'd have kept him all night only that I reckoned you might be scared.”

Sadie, putting her foot on the wheel when the ostler held up the light,
saw Charnock lying on a bundle of sacks. He was in a drunken stupor.

“Help Bill bring him, in,” she said with stony calm.

Wilkinson and the other lifted the unconscious man, and staggering along
a passage, awkwardly climbed the stairs. They put him on his bed and
were going out when Sadie stopped them.

“Thank you, Bill; hold the team for a few minutes,” she said and turned
to Wilkinson. “I want you to wait in the office.”

Then she shut the door, and after unfastening Charnock's collar and vest
stood looking at him for a minute or two. He had not wakened, but she
had seen him like this before and was not alarmed. His face was flushed
and the veins on his forehead were prominent; his clothes were crumpled
and sprinkled with bits of hay. Sadie studied him with a feeling of
helplessness that changed to contemptuous pity. Her romantic dreams and
ambitions had vanished and left her this----

As she turned away her mood changed again. After all, he was her husband
and she had schemed to marry him. She was honest with herself about this
and admitted that Bob had not really loved her much. But he needed her
and she must not fail him. There was some comfort in remembering that he
had sought no other woman; her rivals were cards and liquor, and she did
not mean that they should win. Obeying a sudden impulse, she turned back
and kissed his hot face, and then, noting the smell of whisky, flushed
and went out with a firm step.

When she entered the office, however, her face was hard and white. She
did not sit down, but leaned against a desk opposite Wilkinson.

“Why did you ask Bob out to the range?”

Wilkinson did not like her look. It hinted that she was in a dangerous
mood, but he answered good-humoredly: “I thought he wanted a change. You
hold him too tight, Mrs. Charnock. Bob won't stand for being kept busy
indoors all day; he won't make a clerk.”

“He won't,” said Sadie. “I'm beginning to see it now. But you don't care
a straw for Bob. You wanted a pick on me because I made you cut out your
game that night.”

“No,” said Wilkinson, with a gesture of protest. “I certainly thought
you were too smart, although it was not my business. Anyhow, if you let
him have a quiet game with his friends at home--”

“Pshaw! I know you, Jake Wilkinson, better than Bob does. You meant to
make him drunk this evening and empty his wallet, and I guess you didn't
find it hard.”

Wilkinson's face got red, but he saw he would gain nothing by denial.
Besides, there was a matter he was anxious about.

“It wasn't hard to empty his wallet, because he had only a few small
bills.”

“Yes; I fixed that. How much did you win from him when he was drunk?”

“He got drunk afterwards,” Wilkinson objected. “Then I didn't win it
all; there were three or four others.”

Sadie smiled rather grimly. “How much?”

She got a jar when Wilkinson told her, but she fixed him with steady
eyes.

“You knew what he had in his wallet, but let him go on? You thought
Keller's would stand for the debt?”

“Yes,” said Wilkinson, with some alarm; “we certainly thought so.”

“Very well. Keller's makes good. Take the pen and right out a bill like
this--R. Charnock, debtor in losses on a card game.”

“You know it's never done.”

“It's going to be done now, or you won't get your cheque. I know what
I'm up against in you and your gang.”

Wilkinson hesitated, but he needed the money and made out the bill.
After examining it, Sadie wrote a cheque.

“I've paid you once, for Keller's sake, but you had better stop the card
games after this. Bob's not my partner in the business, and no more of
my dollars will go on gambling.”

“Ah!” said Wilkinson sharply, “you're smarter than I thought!”

Sadie gave him a searching glance and he noted an ominous tenseness in
her pose and her drawn-back lips. He said afterwards that she looked
like a wild cat.

“Anyhow, I think I have you fixed. There's nothing doing in making Bob
drunk again, but you had better understand what's going to happen if
you try. The next time you drive over to the settlement after my husband
I'll whip you in the street with a riding quirt.”

Wilkinson put the cheque in his pocket and picked up his hat.

“On the whole, I guess I'd better not risk it,” he said and went out.

Sadie let him go, and then went limply upstairs. She felt worn out and
her brain was dull. She could not think, and a problem that demanded
solving must wait until the morning. After looking into the room where
Charnock lay and seeing that he was sleeping heavily, she went to bed.

Next morning she shut herself in the office at the store and gave the
clerks strict orders that she was not to be disturbed. Opening a drawer,
she took out a rough balance sheet, which showed that the business was
profitable and expanding fast. Things were going very well, in spite of
Bob's extravagance, and she thought she had prevented his wasting any
more money. In three or four years she could sell the hotel and store
for a large sum and, as she thought of it, give herself a chance.

She was young, clever, and attractive, and had recently tried to
cultivate her mind. It was laborious work and she had not much time, but
the clergyman of the little Episcopal church gave her some guidance and
she made progress. For one thing, she was beginning to talk like Bob
and thought he noticed this, although she had not told him about her
studies. She meant to be ready to take her part in a wider and brighter
life when she left the settlement. Knowing little about large towns, she
exaggerated the pleasures they could offer. Montreal, for example, was
a city of delight. She had been there twice and had seen the Ice Palace
glitter against the frosty sky, the covered skating rinks, the jingling
sleighs, and the toboggans rushing down the long, white slides. Then
she remembered afternoon drives in summer on the wooded slopes of the
Mountain, and evenings spent among the garish splendors of Dominion
Park, where myriads of lights threw their colored reflections upon
the river. Since then, however, her taste had got refined, and she now
admitted that if she lived at Montreal it might be better to cut out
Dominion Park.

But she pulled herself up. It looked as if these delights were not for
her. She could enjoy them, if she wanted, in a few years' time, but the
risk was great. Bob might go to pieces while she earned the money that
would open the gate of fairyland. Although she had checked the pace a
little, he was going the wrong way fast. Sadie knitted her dark brows as
she nerved herself to make a momentous choice.

On the one hand there was everything she longed for; on the other much
that she disliked--monotonous work, the loneliness of the frozen prairie
in the bitter winter, the society, at very long intervals, of farmers
who talked about nothing but their crops, and the unslackening strain
of activity in the hot summer. Sadie thought of it with shrinking; she
would soon get old and faded, and Bob, for whose sake she had done so,
might turn from her. Yet there was danger for him if they stayed at the
settlement. He had too many friends and whisky was always about. She
must save him from the constant temptation and must do so now.

For all that, she struggled. There were specious arguments for taking
the other course. Bob had failed as a farmer and would certainly fail
again if left to himself; but farming was the only occupation on the
lonely prairie. Loneliness was essential, because he must be kept away
from the settlements. But she saw the weak point in this reasoning,
because Bob need not be left to himself. She would, so to speak, stand
over him and see he did his work. Well, it looked as if she must let
her ambitions go, and she got up, straightening her body with a little
resolute jerk.

“Tell the boss I want him,” she said to the clerk.

Charnock came in, looking haggard and somewhat ashamed, and Sadie knew
she had made the right choice when he sat down where the light touched
his face. For a moment he blinked and frowned.

“I wish you'd pull down that blind,” he said. “The sun's in my eyes, and
I can't get round the desk.”

Sadie did so, and then silently gave him Wilkinson's bill. He gazed at
the paper with surprise, and colored.

“I'd no idea I lost so much. Why did you pay him?”

“Because you can't,” said Sadie. “He thought you had a share in the
business when he risked his dollars.”

“I suppose that means you told him I wasn't your partner?”

“It does.”

“I see,” said Charnock, with some dryness. “You thought he'd leave me
alone if he knew I wasn't worth powder and shot? Well, I believe
it's very possible.” Then he paused and smiled. “I can imagine his
astonishment when you asked for a bill, and must admit that you're a
sport. All the same, it's humiliating to have my friends told you don't
trust me with money.”

“The trouble is I can't trust you. Now you listen, Bob. This tanking and
gambling has got to be stopped.”

“I'm afraid I've given you some bother,” Charnock answered penitently.
“For all that, I'm not so bad as I was. In fact, I really think I'm
steadying down by degrees, and since you have paid my debts I don't mind
promising--”

“By degrees won't do; you have got to stop right off. Besides, you know
how much your promises are worth.”

Charnock colored. “That's rather cruel, Sadie, but I suppose it's
deserved.”

“I don't mean what you think; not your promise to Miss Dalton,” Sadie
answered with some embarrassment. “You told me you wouldn't drive over
to Wilkinson's again, and the first time I wasn't about you went. Very
well. Since I can't trust you round the settlement, we're going to quit.
I've decided to sell out the business as soon as I can get the price I
want.”

“Sell the store and hotel!” Charnock exclaimed. “I suppose you know
you'd get three or four times as much if you held on for a few years.”

“That's so. But what's going to happen to you while I wait?”

Charnock turned his head for a moment, and then looked up with a
contrite air.

“By George, Sadie, you are fine! But I can't allow this sacrifice.”

“You won't be asked,” Sadie rejoined with forced quietness. She was
moved by Charnock's exclamation, but durst not trust him or herself.
There was a risk of his persuading her to abandon the plan if he knew
how deeply she was stirred.

“Well,” he said, “what do you propose to do?”

“Take a farm far enough from town to make it hard for you to drive in
and out. Donaldson's place would suit; he quits in the fall, you know,
and we hold his mortgage.”

Charnock got up and walked about the floor. Then he stopped opposite his
wife.

“You mean well, Sadie, and you're very generous,” he said with some
emotion. “Still you ought to see the plan won't work. I had a good farm
and made a horrible mess of things.”

“You won't do that now. I'll be there,” Sadie rejoined.

Charnock did not answer, but gave her a curious look, and she pondered
for a moment or two. He was obviously moved, but one could not tell
how far his emotions went, and she knew he did not want to listen. She
understood her husband and knew he sometimes deceived himself.

“No!” He resumed; “it's too big a sacrifice! You like people about you
and would see nobody but me and the hired man, while I admit I'm enough
to jar a woman's nerves. Then think of the work; the manual work. You
couldn't live as the bachelors live among dust and dirt, and it's a big
undertaking to keep a homestead clean when you can't get proper help.
Besides, there's the baking, cooking, and washing, while you have done
nothing but superintend. I'd hate to see you worn and tired, and you
know you're not so patient then. I get slack if things go wrong, and if
I slouched about, brooding, when I ought to be at work, it would make
you worse.”

Sadie smiled. “That's very nice, Bob; but how much are you thinking
about me and how much about yourself?”

“To tell the truth, I don't know,” Charnock replied with naïve honesty.
“Anyhow, I am thinking about you.”

“That is what I like, but there's no use in talking. Since I can make
this business go I can run a farm, and see no other way. My plan's made
and I'm going to put it over.”

Charnock was silent for some moments and then turned to her with a look
in his face she had not seen.

“I don't want to farm, but if you can stand it for my sake, I must try.
You will need some patience, Sadie--I may break out at times if the
strain gets too hard. One can't help running away when one is something
of a cur. But I'll come back, ashamed and sorry, and pitch in again.
Since you mean to stand by me, perhaps I'll win out in the end.”

Bending down suddenly, he kissed her and then went to the door. She
heard it shut, and sat still, but her eyes filled with tears. Bob had
not promised much, but she thought he meant to keep his word now,
and doubts that had troubled her melted away. She did not grudge the
sacrifice she had made, for a ray of hope had begun to shine. It was,
however, characteristic that after musing for a minute or two she took
out some notepaper and began to write. Since the business must be sold,
there was nothing to be gained by delay, and she gave a Winnipeg agent
clear instructions. Then she went out and hid her annoyance when she saw
Charnock sitting languidly on the hotel veranda.

“Has Wilkinson sent back our rig?” she asked.

“He has, but the team has done enough. Where are you going?”

“To look at Donaldson's farm. I want you to come along. Go across and
ask Martin if he'll let you have his team.”

Charnock got up with a resigned shrug. “You are a hustler, Sadie. It's
not many minutes since you decided about the thing.”

“I don't see what I'd get by waiting, and you may as well

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