Читать книгу The Saint of the Speedway - Cullum Ridgwell - Страница 8

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THE mother was sitting over her cookstove. She was almost crouching over it. With her hands tightly clasped she seemed as though she was striving with every resource of her being to support herself under the crushing weight of the great grief with which she was beset. Her widely gazing eyes were straining with the mental anguish behind them. And they were utterly unseeing for all they stared into the ruddy heart of the fire shining between the upright bars. Stony misery looked out of them, that dreadful expression of heartbreak which seems to leave a woman powerless, helpless.

The living room about her was neat, and of its usual orderliness. It lacked nothing of the housewifely care that was usually bestowed upon it. For all the poverty of its furnishing, it was a place of comfort, which, even under Rebecca Carver’s suddenly imposed grief, had not been allowed to suffer. Her daughter Claire had seen to that. For the time her mother was submerged in her trouble, and the girl herself was no less stricken, but will and youth in the latter had overridden every weakness of the moment.

Thus the mother had sat for many hours. And the transformation which had taken place in her in twenty-four hours was something almost horrifying to the devoted daughter.

During the long hours of night the still, silent figure had nursed her despair. Claire, no less sleepless, had discovered her in precisely the same position each time she had left her bed in an adjoining room. She had prayed her mother, she had sought to persuade her by every means in her power, to seek her bed, and such peace as sleep might afford her. But it had all been useless. Each time her mother had obeyed her submissively, meekly, almost mechanically, only to return again to her vigil at the fireside the moment she had been left alone.

The grey afternoon was far advanced when Claire returned from the creek below with her arms full of a snowy laundry. Work! It had been the same all day with her. It was her only defence. She pushed her way in through the half-open door, and one swift glance and the sound of rustling paper as she deposited her burden on the well-worn table, told her of the unchanged mental attitude of her mother.

Just for a moment she stood regarding the bowed figure with troubled eye. She saw the crumpled news-sheet, one of the papers which Ivor had left with them the day before. It was crushed under her arms as they rested in her lap. And she understood. Her mother had been reading again, perhaps for the hundredth time, that brief newspaper story which was the source of the nightmare of disaster which had fallen upon them.

The girl was tired and utterly dispirited. Somehow her tall, graceful figure seemed slightly bowed out of its usual courageous bearing. Her pretty eyes were ringed about, as though, in the absence of observation, she had yielded to her woman’s expression of grief. But now, at the sight of the silent, tearless figure at the stove, she summoned every ounce of her youthful courage to her aid. She moved across the room quickly, and deliberately removed the paper from beneath the yielding arms.

“Must you, mother?” she said quietly, but with a sharpness she was wholly unaware of. Then she added as she smoothed out the paper, “Will it do any good? You’ve read the story till—till you’re nigh sick. You’ve read it till I just can’t bear seeing you read it any longer. I guess I’ll need to burn it if I don’t want to have you set crazy.”

But she made no attempt to burn the paper, and all her courage seemed to fade completely out as her mother raised to hers a pair of eyes that were filled with a world of piteousness.

The latter shook her greying head.

“I won’t go crazy, child,” she said in a low, monotonous voice. “Give me time, dear. You see, he was my boy—my Jim. He was everything to me—my son, and—and he’s gone.”

Something stirred in the girl—something suddenly spurred her. It was an expression of youthful hope, which, in calmer moments, she would have realised was ill-enough founded.

“But has he?” she demanded, almost vehemently. “You don’t know—we don’t know! You’ve read that story till you can’t read it right. Our judgment’s been snowed under in the scare of it. That’s so, sure! What is it? Why, it’s just a news story,” she cried, flinging scornful emphasis into her tone. “It’s a fool news story they love to scare folks with, an’ later they’ll contradict it without pity for the worry and grief it’s caused to the folks who’ve read it. I’ve thought and thought and I tell you it’s—it’s not real. I don’t believe he’s dead. Here, I’ll show you. I’ll read it. You sit there and just listen. Will you? Then you’ll see.”

She smoothed the paper again and moved away to the open doorway. Then she read in a strident voice and commented as she read:

“‘Disaster at Sea? Urgent SOS.’

“That’s the headline, mum dear, and there’s a question marked against it,” she cried. “You get that? Even the paper asks the question.”

The girl had looked up. She was urgently regarding the figure at the stove. She was seeking a sign and seemed to find it in the fact that her mother had sat up.

“Listen,” she went on quickly. “You need to get the words just as they are.

“‘The S. S. Arbuthnot of Liverpool, bound for Sydney, N.S.W., picked up the following wireless on the morning of 27th inst.: “Sailing-ship Imperial, Bristol. Steering gear carried away. Cargo shifted. Plates badly sprung. Sinking. Send help. Possibly last twenty-four hours.”’”

Again the girl looked up.

“Then there’s figgers I don’t understand,” she said. “Maybe they’re her position. But you see she’s going to last twenty-four hours. Anything, I guess, could happen in that time. There’s the boats. Maybe if there’s storm, it’ll let up. We’ve seen it storm nigh a hurricane on the sea back of here and flatten out in twelve hours——”

The mother shook her head despairingly. “I’ve thought all that,” she said, in a low voice. Then she seemed to pull herself together for a supreme effort. “It’s kind of you, Claire, to—to—say all this. I know, my dear. You’re feeling just as badly, and you’re trying to help us both. But I feel it right here,” she went on, clasping her bosom with both hands. “He’s gone—our Jim. It just wasn’t meant for him to get back with——”

“That’s fool talk, mother, and I won’t listen,” Claire broke in roughly. “You’ve thought yourself into that. But there’s the rest.

“‘The Arbuthnot, steamed at once to the rescue. She arrived on the scene at the position indicated, and, though the weather had improved, no trace of the Imperial was discovered.’

“You see, mum? The weather had improved.

“‘Similarly, the Argonaut, bound from Shanghai to New Zealand, picked up the Imperial’s message and hurried to the rescue. She apparently arrived at the given position some hours later. She reports no better success. There was no trace of the distressed vessel, and it is presumed she must have foundered. The best hope lies in the fact that, with the storm abating and twenty-four hours’ grace, the crew of the foundering vessel was able to get away in the boats, although as yet none of these are reported having been picked up.

“‘The Imperial of Bristol is a full-rigged ship of three thousand tons engaged in a West Australian coasting trade. She carried a crew of eighteen or twenty.’

“No, no, mum, dear,” Claire cried, forcing a smile to her tired eyes. “We mustn’t lose hope. We surely mustn’t. Why, even the paper reckons the crew must have got away. Just think. Twenty-four hours and the storm quitting. You know Jim. I reckon he isn’t the boy to lie around waiting to drown. I’d bet our last cent they got the boats out, and——”

“What then, Claire?” cried the mother, in a sudden passionate outburst. “I’ve looked up those figgers on the map. That boat, with our Jim on it, was right out in mid-ocean, thousands of miles from land. Think of it, girl, and don’t talk foolish. Mid-ocean! Open boats that couldn’t stand half a gale! And they’re not reported picked up. I tell you——”

But the girl had turned to the doorway. A horse-man had just ridden up and flung out of the saddle. It was Jake Forner, Bad Booker’s clerk, and he came straight to the doorway where Claire was standing.

It was a moment of complete reaction. The sight of the broad shoulders of the real estate man’s clerk, with his dark, mild eyes and mild, almost gentle manner, did that for the troubled women which no effort of their own could have achieved. The pressure of despairing thought was flung into the background in face of the urgency of the thing which this man’s arrival heralded. Even, perhaps, because of the enormity of the trouble which had befallen, this man’s coming was of greater significance.

The mother remained unmoving. But Claire bravely faced the newcomer with a smile that had no inspiration from any pleasurable emotion.

“How do, Mr. Forner,” she said, with a cheerfulness that had seemed impossible seconds ago. “Guess you’ve come along for my mother’s answer? Will you come right in?”

Then she turned swiftly to the woman at the stove. She moved over to her and stood close beside her as though to protect her as the man obeyed her invitation.

“I’m kind of sorry, dear,” she said quickly. “I didn’t tell you about it before because—because—Mr. Booker offered you two thousand dollars for that city block he has a mortgage on. Guess Mr. Forner has ridden out for his answer.”

Then she looked straight into the man’s dark eyes while she went on speaking to her mother.

“It’s a real tough proposition,” she said slowly, and with all the biting emphasis she could fling into the words. “It’s so tough I feel like telling Booker the things a girl ’ud hate to say. The block is worth ten thousand dollars on the market to-day, which means eight thousand dollars to him, and he wants to hand you two thousand dollars for it. Are you going to take the money or starve—which is Booker’s pleasant alternative? I guess we need to decide right away.”

“Ther’s no need for a decision on those figgers, Miss Claire,” Jake said quickly, his usually impassive face flushing under the sting of this beautiful girl’s words.

“How d’you mean?”

Claire’s demand came sharply. It came in that startled fashion which suggested apprehension lest Booker had withdrawn even his usurious offer.

Jake’s flush had faded out. He stood just within the doorway, a curiously ungainly figure in his simple city tweed suit which seemed to belong to another world than that of this primitive log home built by folks who had lived their lives in the golden wilderness of the North. His fine eyes were smiling kindly in the manner of one who feels himself to be something in the nature of a ministering, beneficent angel rather than the executioner of the will of an unscrupulous usurer.

“Why, he’s reconsidered his proposal,” he said quietly, his smile communicating itself to the rest of his face. “I guess he’s sounded the market and feels he wants to treat you right. Maybe he didn’t just remember the exact position of that swell corner block when he made his offer to you yesterday. He knows about it now,” he went on drily, “and fancies handing you eight thousand dollars for complete reversion. I kind of think that’s a square deal, Mrs. Carver. Here’s his ‘brief’ to that effect and the cash, in dollars, is enclosed. You’ll just need to sign the deed I’ll hand you as a preliminary, and the transfer can go through next time you’re along in town. Do you feel like closing?”

There was much more in the man’s simply spoken statement than he realised. There was much more, too, in his manner, and somehow the unexpectedness of Booker’s change of attitude held Claire silent while she regarded the smiling face of the man who brought the pleasant news.

Rebecca Carver’s interest, however, had fallen back before the mother grief which had only been deposed from its supremacy for a few moments. She made no attempt to reply in any form, while her gaze was turned once more to her stove.

Claire suddenly urged her.

“You’ll accept, mother?” she said quickly, and the other nodded.

Then the girl turned again to the waiting man who had withdrawn a letter and the document that must be signed, from an inner pocket.

Claire forced a laugh to her lips.

“It seems queer, Mr. Forner,” she said shrewdly. “Yes, surely we’ll accept, and mother’ll sign. But I’m kind of glad you came, and I’m real glad to hear you say that piece, especially seeing Booker and I discussed the market value of the block and he was fully aware of its position. I’d made a guess you’ve somehow had a deal to do with changing his mind. It isn’t easy for a decent man to sit around while his boss is trying to rob a helpless woman. I’ll just get a pen—oh, you’ve a fountain pen. Well, mother’ll sign right away, and our blessing’ll surely follow you on your way right back to the city.”

Jake Forner had departed and his coming had done more for the two bereft women than either of them was aware of. The paralysing effect of the newspaper story had given place to the reality of things. Grief was still driving them hard, but its pressure had somehow become less devastating, less numbing—more particularly was this the case with Claire.

She was still standing in the open doorway gazing out into the grey light of the dying fall day whence she had passed her “God-speed” to the man who had executed his mission with so much obvious goodwill and pleasure.

Had the girl possessed half the woman’s vanity to which she was entitled, she might have understood something of the ungainly man’s feelings in visiting her home. But Claire had not as yet discovered in herself that dormant self-appreciation which is so essentially an expression of all human nature. She had learned little or nothing from the faithful, if inadequate, mirror in her small lean-to sleeping quarters. Her wide blue eyes were simply a feature with which to witness the wonders of the world about her, just as her mass of ruddy hair was a something to brush laboriously and to fret over. Her slim, girlish figure she had only learned to deplore in the arduous labours which her life entailed, and its effect upon the men with whom she came into contact concerned her not at all. As yet her woman’s charm was a negative factor in her life.

But she was thinking hard as she gazed out upon the grey and russet of the fall world about her. Her gaze was upon the familiar, wood-clad slopes beyond the creek, on which was situated their spent gold claim. The slowly meandering waters that murmured their ceaseless song on the still air helped to impress the loneliness that for the first time in her life had suddenly made itself felt. And somehow, it set up an almost irresistible longing to flee from the sound of it.

For all her brave effort to help her mother she knew her beloved brother had been completely swept out of their lives. The hungry, merciless waters had swallowed him up. She would never, never, never see him again, or listen to his quiet, confident words. Never again would she witness those unobtrusive little acts of devotion which had been so unfailing in their home life with him. No, he was gone out of their lives completely, utterly. It was the end of a long chapter of youthful dreaming. And ahead lay an impenetrable future in which care and responsibility must be shouldered, and hers must be the burden of it.

For a moment something like panic surged in her heart. Before, only grief had stirred her. But, of a sudden now, grief receded into the background, a depressing shadow always threatening, whilst a wholly new emotion took possession of her. Her moment of panic passed. Her thought cleared of all confusion and a swift, keen resolution descended upon her and brought her calmness of spirit.

Claire had far more in common with her dead father than with the gentle woman behind her. In looks, in build, in spirit she was essentially her father’s child. Never before had the dead man’s qualities had reason to display themselves in her. But now it was different. In her realisation of her sudden responsibilities, the flood-tide of the reckless gambling spirit of her parent poured forth. Her brother Jim, in the same spirit, had fared forth to the uttermost ends of the earth on a bare—almost ridiculous—chance to help them in their need. He had achieved. And only the merciless waves had robbed him and them of the full fruits of his gambler’s adventure. Could she sit down under the misfortune that had robbed them of a well-loved brother and the fortune he had won for them? No. For all the fall day was closing, with their fortunes at a lesser ebb than the dawn had found them, their need was still urgent. And the spirit of her father was awake and burning strongly in her as she contemplated its reality.

She turned abruptly into the darkening room. Her gaze took in the figure of her mother still bowed under her load of grief. Then it passed to the thick packet of notes lying where she had left them on the table. They represented the limits of their worldly fortune. They were all that stood between them and the starvation Booker had originally designed for them. Her eyes lit, and her spirit suddenly buoyed.

But she turned away and passed quickly into the lean-to sleeping room that was hers. What was her purpose was of little concern. Her woman’s mind was working swiftly, almost feverishly. She stood for a while contemplating the trifling wardrobe of gowns hanging under a cotton curtain. She examined each garment quickly, urgently. Then, with a gesture that was half impatient, she permitted the curtain to fall back over them and she moved across to the small mirror before which she was accustomed to brush her hair.

Here she stood for a while studying the features it reflected. The message it passed her was for her ears alone. Maybe it told her some of those things which everybody but she was fully aware of. Maybe she only obtained a measure of reassurance. Whatever happened in those long, silent moments she turned away at last, and something seemed to have transformed her. Her eyes were alight. Her shapely lips were firmly set, and she passed into the living-room beyond. Her whole manner was that of one whose mind is irrevocably made up.

She came to her mother’s side and laid a gentle hand on her bowed shoulder.

“Mum, dear,” she said deliberately, “we’re going to move right into Beacon. It’ll set you crazy and me too, to stop around out here. There’s things this place won’t ever let us forget, an’ we’ve got to forget. Maybe we’re mostly feeling dead now. That’s the way grief hits us. But we’re both alive and need to go right on living. If Jim was here he’d decide for us the thing we need to do. He isn’t. So—so I’ve got to think for us both and push it through. We got eight thousand dollars to feed, an’ clothe, an’ shelter us. Maybe it would do for a while. But after—what then?”

The mother looked up. It was the questioning of one incapable of anything else.

“What do you mean, Claire? What’re you going to do?”

There was no inspiration, there was even no interest in the questions.

“Do? Do?” Claire’s reiteration was thrilling with live purpose and something like leaping excitement. “Do? Why, do as father would have done. Do as he did time and again.”

Her strong young fingers unconsciously gripped the soft flesh of her mother’s shoulders. Suddenly she dropped on her knees beside the other’s chair, while she took possession of the work-worn hands lying in the lap before her. She raised them both to her young lips and covered them with warm kisses of real devotion. Then she held them tightly.

“Mum, dear, we haven’t a thing but that eight thousand. Not a thing but that. But there’s money—money in plenty in Beacon at the Speedway. Father always reckoned so when things were bad. And he most always found it. I’m going to find it, too, all we want. You know what father used to say. He taught Jim and me the poker game he played, and he taught us good. And in the end, do you mind how I took his, and Jim’s, spare cash when they had it? Do you? I do. And do you remember the thing father always said? He said I’d the poker face, and the poker head, and the only luck in the world he was scared to buck. It’s that luck we’re going to buck, dear. We’re going right into Beacon with our dollars. And I’m going to buck the game for all that’s in me. Ther’s not a thing else for us. True, ther’ isn’t. Jim’s gone. Our Jim! You know it. And, for all I’ve said, I know it, too. We’ve no one but ourselves and my luck to save us from starving in a fierce, relentless world. Are you game, dear? I may do it? Sure I may. I can see it in your poor, sad, tired eyes. Yes. It’s that, sure, dear, and you can trust me.”

The girl reached up suddenly. It was a moment of supreme emotion. She yielded to it. She caught and held her mother’s body in her strong young arms. And then came the flood of tears for the grief that weighed so heavily on both their devoted hearts.