Читать книгу The Heart of Cherry McBain (Douglas Durkin) (Literary Thoughts Edition) - Douglas Durkin - Страница 5

In a country where women are seldom seen, the presence of a pretty girl of twenty-one is a matter worthy of record – even if she is the daughter of a railway construction boss. For Keith McBain, reticent, profane to a frankly amazing degree on those rare occasions when he did speak to his men, was a seasoned old man of his class. Silent and unapproachable – as is the manner of camp bosses – Keith McBain seemed at times the least human of them all. "Old Silent" the men called him, partly on account of an instinctive grudge they all bore him for his mode of hard dealing, and partly, too, on account of a kind of unreasoned affection which they cherished for him because of his rough-handed honesty and his indomitable will. When Old Silent spoke no man spoke back. Not that he was a man to fear physically – he was a small, dyspeptic, nervous man whom anyone of his deep-chested camp-followers could have brushed aside with one hand. It was rather the man's face that they feared, with its black piercing eyes that never shifted their glance when he spoke, and its black sardonic smile that made an impenetrable mask for a soul that no man had ever seen revealed. His men all feared him – some of them hated him – and yet they never left him, once their names had been placed on the pay-roll.

Once only in the memory of those who worked for him had the hope ever arisen that the old contractor's manner might soften and his hard face relax in the presence of the men. Just a year ago, nearly a hundred miles back along the line, Keith McBain had lost his wife after a long illness. She had lingered for weeks in a pathetic fight for life, and the old camp boss had watched by her bedside almost continuously, leaving the oversight of the work wholly in the hands of his foremen. Never had a gang of men worked so hard as those men had worked day after day while Old Silent was absent from his place, not only out of deference to the frail woman who was struggling gamely against too great odds, but out of sheer respect for their old boss whose burden of sorrow was daily growing heavier. And when at last the word came that the struggle was over, the men had sat about very late into the night and had spoken in whispers. Keith McBain had made the grave with his own hands, just off the right-of-way, and had marked the spot with a pile of stones and a rough-hewn cross. Then in the days that followed he had been more silent than ever, more unremitting in his dealing with the men, and, if possible, more profane. And yet every last one of his men could not help knowing that Keith McBain's heart was breaking. His light had burned late into the night – and every night – for months following the day that had brought him his great sorrow.

Cherry McBain had come unannounced into the camp. In fact the men had not known of her existence until she rode into camp one afternoon a couple of weeks before the death of Mrs. McBain. Only a few of the more fortunate among them had had a glimpse of her as she came up the trail escorted by McBain's timekeeper, who had gone out to meet her and bring her to the camp. But the few that had seen her knew at once that she was the daughter of the woman who was dying in Keith McBain's cabin – so striking was the resemblance between mother and daughter.

During the days that immediately followed her arrival Cherry was never seen abroad except late in the evenings when she walked out with her father and came back with her arms laden with wild flowers and fern. But when Keith McBain turned again to resume his duties after the darkest episode of his life had been closed, Cherry McBain wandered alone along the new grade or saddled her horse and explored the trails wherever they led in both directions from the camp.

Men who work a whole season in the woods or on a right-of-way, and at the end of the season fling their total earnings away in one hilarious week or two in the nearest city, are likely to classify women roughly and perhaps quickly, even if for ten months out of every twelve they never hear the sound of a woman's voice. They may sometimes make errors in their classifications, but not often. The first morning that Cherry McBain strolled along the edge of the works and paused here and there to watch the men as they swung their teams round in the ever moving circle that carried the earth away from both sides of the right-of-way to the centre where it was graded up into the first rough form of a road-bed – that morning the men registered their own judgments concerning the daughter of Old Silent. In her dark eyes there was the fearless look of her father, the look that pierced through the surface and saw through the veneer to what lay behind. In her smile there was the essence of her mother's gentle nature – a nature before which men down through the centuries have bowed in silent worship.

But there was something more, something that was her own. Men saw it in her lightning glance and in the quick toss she gave her head when she shook back her wind-blown, dark-brown hair. Not one of the men had been able to tell exactly what it was that was there, but all alike were convinced that while Keith McBain might command obedience in his men and squelch even his foreman with a look or an explosive word or two, he had no look that could have served him in a contest with the will of Cherry McBain.

It was six o'clock by the time King reached McBain's camp on his return trip. In the distance he saw the men leaving the grade and making their way towards the camp, the sound of their voices coming to him with heartening effect after his long silent trip, during which his mind had gone back irresistibly to the days when he and his brother had romped together as boys.

When he came to where the path led from the trail to McBain's cabin he turned abruptly, and getting down from the saddle allowed his horse to follow him while he made his way on foot along the narrow path. The little cabin was built of logs and stood well back from the trail, in the protecting shade of a clump of tamaracs.

Keith McBain was sitting by the doorway, his pipe in his mouth, his eyes turned to the hills that rose up, scraggly and covered with fallen and charred timbers, to the south of the cabin.

King's first feeling was one of pity. The old man who sat there smoking his pipe and musing was a broken man, and every line on his face showed it. There was in his eyes the look of a man whose power of will was almost gone. There was a look of fear in them, a fear lest he should reveal his weakness to others. He had an odd trick of glancing quickly about him as if he wished to assure himself that no one was coming upon him unannounced. His mouth was tight-lipped, his face covered with a short-clipped beard that once had been black but now showed gray and pale against the bloodless cheeks.

And yet, for all the face showed of weakness, King was at once struck by the intensity and the unswerving directness of his gaze when Keith McBain turned to look at him. At first there seemed to be a shadow of suspicion in the grizzled old face, but King could not help observing the slow change to something almost kindly that showed deep in the old man's eyes as he got up and extended his hand.

"Come and sit down," he said. "The girl told me you were coming. She's off somewhere in the hills after berries – come and sit down."

When they had talked a little King was so much moved by the note of pathos that crept into the voice of Keith McBain that he determined at once to share with him the news that he had received only the night before. Evidently Old Silent was in a pensive mood, and King inwardly longed for someone to whom he could speak concerning what had lain heavily on his heart all day.

For a long time after King had spoken, Keith McBain sat without uttering a word.

"Aye, boy, you've suffered a great loss," he said at last, and his gaze was straight before him towards the hill-tops in the distance. As he continued he seemed to be talking to himself rather than to King. "It's hard for men to know what a thing like this means until they have tasted it themselves. For years I have gone out in the morning with men when the light was scarce showing through the swamp and have come in again at night tired after the work of the day to sleep – and make ready for the next day. And I've watched them – all ready for the 'roll out' when the call came at daybreak. And I've marvelled at their punctuality – and their willingness. And then a day would come when one of them wouldn't be in his place. He'd heard the call but couldn't go out. And later – perhaps a few days just – he didn't hear it – and the rest of us were quieter for a while – a little less given to talking; and then things went on very much as usual and we forgot. It's very good to forget."

King was pleased with the complete freedom from restraint that now marked the old man's manner. He talked well, with the merest trace of Scotch accent recognizable in the way he rolled his r's. He paused a moment and King made no attempt to interrupt. Finally he began again.

"Aye – it's good to forget – when you can. But there are times when a man can't forget – not altogether. You and I know that, my boy – we know it too well. And we won't talk about it either – except to mention it in passing. And in passing I want to say that I am very sorry. Where's the use trying to say more – a man can't."

He tapped his pipe gently against his hand and went leisurely about the task of filling it again.

"A straight man – and a clean man," he said gently, "is a rare enough article. As men go, I haven't seen many that could answer to that description. The world is full of good women, my boy – I've seen a few they told me weren't straight and weren't clean, but I've never known any such myself – though I've known a lot of women, too. But the men I've known – "

He paused as if in contemplation of how he should express most effectively what was on his mind. In the interval of silence there was a sound of excited voices and hurried footsteps coming down the path towards the cabin. Looking up King recognized the two men approaching as the camp cook and his assistant. Their differences had apparently reached a head, and they were coming to thresh the matter out before the boss.

In an instant Keith McBain was himself again. Leaping up before the men had come within speaking distance he met them in the pathway and fell upon them with a flow of profanity that not only reduced the two to impotent silence but sent them back along the pathway and up the trail to the camp, the picture of mute dejection and defeat.

When the old contractor returned and took his seat again, he lighted his pipe in bad mood and puffed at it vigorously without speaking a word. It required only a glance at his face to realize that a change had come over him. Keith McBain was Old Silent again and nothing would bring him out of his surly mood.

King got up slowly and started down the footpath that led to the hills back of the cabin. Somewhere back in the shambles of pitched timbers and broken tree-trunks was Cherry McBain. When he came finally to where the path was so dimly marked that he could follow it no farther he climbed to the top of a little knoll and looked in every direction along the face of the hill to see if Cherry were anywhere in sight. Finally, when he had looked for some time in vain, he called and waited until the echoes died away in silence. There was no reply. Getting down from the knoll he scrambled further up the hill. He had seen a patch of grey ground away to the west where the fires of the year before had swept the hills clear of vegetation. In ten minutes he emerged from the cover of the evergreens and looked across the tangled mass of half-burned and fallen timbers. The climb had not been an easy one, and it was only with slight hope that he gave his call again and stood tense and motionless as he listened for a reply. From every side the echoes came back and gradually died away in faint waves that finally settled into stillness. He was about to turn back again and make for the camp, but just once more he called and waited.

Almost immediately and from a surprisingly short distance away Cherry's voice came clear to him across the patch of grey. Turning at once in the direction of the voice he looked and saw her waving her hand to him. In a few moments he was beside her, where she was seated on the ground picking twigs and leaves out of the small pail of berries she held in her lap. She looked up at him and laughed roguishly, then offered him a large red berry which she held up to him between stained finger and thumb.

"Didn't you hear me call the first time?" he asked her.

She dropped her eyes and seemed very intent upon rolling the berries about in a vain search for more leaves. He waited for her answer. Ordinarily he would not have asked the question seriously. Even now he had no thought of accusing her. When she finally spoke he was at a loss to know what was in her mind.

"I – heard – you," she said, very slowly, and the tone of her voice was strange to King.

He waited, not knowing what to say in return, and hoping, too, that she might say something without his prompting her. When he saw that she was not going to speak, he asked another question as directly as he had asked the first.

"Why didn't you answer?"

The next moment he wished with all his heart that he had not spoken. The look she gave him was one in which appeal and disappointment were so deeply mingled that he cursed himself inwardly for his own clumsiness.

"Don't ask me why," she said. Then as she saw the grave look in King's eyes she got up and placed her hand on his arm. "Oh, it has nothing to do with you," she said in a voice that was all softness. "I – I didn't know at first that – that it was you."

Suddenly her manner changed.

"Let's go down now," she said quickly, picking up her pail of berries. "We're going to have tea."

Almost as she spoke the words she was off down the hill at a pace that made King exert himself to keep up with her. She ran along the smooth round timbers and leaped from one to another of the fallen logs so lightly and gracefully that King was put to it to save himself from being completely outstripped. She carried her berries in one hand and her hat in the other, and her hair, blown loose by the breeze, shone in the sunlight – transparent gold against a mass of black.

As he watched her, something of the wonder of their first meeting came back to him. He had never seen a girl so lithe, so wild, so beautiful. There was exultation in her every movement, and her laugh rippled musically as she leaped and climbed and ran along over the most difficult ground. Sometimes she looked back at him as if to make sure that he was following, and he saw her face radiant with life and youth. Once she waited till he came up to her before venturing along a dizzy bit of footing that required care in passing. When he came to her she placed her hand in his and together they went on.

From the look she gave him he scarcely knew whether she wanted help herself or wished to help him. But the clasp of her hand was so firm, so throbbing with vitality, that he wished he might still hold those fingers closed within his own after they had come to level footing. The thought of it sent the blood coursing through his veins, and an impulse started up within him – an impulse that came out of the very depths of his being and made him forget for the time being everything in the world except this moment on a wild hillside with beauty and grace and youth within his reach.

When they reached the evergreens Cherry bounded ahead and left him to follow. The ground was level and soft underfoot and carpeted with cones and needles. Once she stopped suddenly in a little space open to the sky, and stooping down picked a wildflower and held it up to him.

"Not often you find them growing in a place so sheltered as this," she remarked as she gave him the flower.

He took it and looked from the flower, pure, white and soft, to her face. Unconsciously his gaze shifted to her throat, as pure and white and soft as the flower he held in his hand. Then she turned quickly and hurried off again into the cover of the evergreens.

Once she stopped so suddenly and turned so unexpectedly to meet him that he had almost run into her before he could check himself. Then as he stood in questioning attitude she shook her hair back from her face and with a ripple of a laugh was away again before he could speak.

As King followed her an unpleasant thought came suddenly to him. There was one thing he had always dreaded in women. He had never been quite unconscious of the subtle power they exerted – but he had always been suspicious of their motives. There was something so free, so healthful, so simple in Cherry's manner that he was almost disarmed of suspicion. And yet she was so coy, so wilful, so roguish that instinctively he felt himself assuming the defensive – a defensive, too, against himself and the impulses that arose within him and clamored for expression.

Suddenly she stopped and looked down at a small pool of cool fresh water fed from a little spring that bubbled out of the earth just a few yards away. A half dozen large stones lay touching the edge of the water, and before King realized what she was about, she had dropped her berries and hat and was on her knees with her two hands resting on a small boulder, her lips touching the surface of the water. As he looked at her he could not help thinking what a child she was – and how very much older he was. Nor could he think it any less when in a moment she raised her head and glanced up at him with a rare flush in her cheeks.

"Oh, this is good," she cried. "Look – there's a stone for you!"

He smiled slowly, but her spirit was irresistible. He got down beside her, his hands upon a boulder almost touching the stone upon which she was leaning for support.

When they had both drunk from the pool, instead of getting up immediately, they remained where they were, their hands upon the boulders, their eyes fixed upon the smooth surface of the water beneath them. For a moment only they looked, a moment in which both felt a power like a spell that held them gazing into the far depths that lay mirrored in the quiet pool. They were gazing like two children deep down into the depths of the blue skies reflected far below where the white clouds floated beyond the downward pointing tops of evergreens.

All at once, however, King glanced at the face of the girl where it was smiling up at him from the water – and in a moment he was conscious of a change. Though her face was smiling it was grave too, grave even as his, and he knew that in the look each gave the other there were depths that were more unfathomable than the skies – the depths of life itself in all its mystery and serious meaning.

They got up and walked off down the path towards the cabin, strangely silent, both of them. As they emerged from the cover of the woods and came within sight of the cabin only a few yards ahead of them, Cherry stopped and laid her hand quickly upon King's arm. King glanced at her, and then turned in the direction indicated by her eyes. A man was just leaving the doorway of the cabin where old Keith McBain was still sitting. It was McCartney.

For a moment Cherry stood silently watching him, her hand still upon King's arm. Then she started slowly towards the cabin, her eyes still following the movements of the big foreman as he walked down the path that led from the cabin to the camp.

"You wanted to know why I didn't answer when first you called me to-day," she said, almost in a whisper. "Well – I wasn't sure that it was you – I thought it might be him."

There came into her eyes a look of appeal which changed quickly to the look that King had seen there the night before when she had asked him if he could fight. She seemed on the point of speaking, but with an impatient toss of her head she hurried down the pathway, King following closely behind her.