Читать книгу Prescott of Saskatchewan - Harold Bindloss - Страница 10

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It was pleasantly cool in the shadow of Jernyngham’s wooden barn, where Prescott sat, talking to its owner. Outside the strip of shade, the sun fell hot upon the parched grass, and the tall wheat that ran close up to the homestead swayed in waves of changing color before the rush of breeze. The whitened, weather-worn boards of the house, which faced the men, seemed steeped in glowing light, and sounds of confused activity issued from the doorway that was guarded by mosquito-netting. A clatter of domestic utensils indicated that Ellice was baking, and she made more noise than she usually did when she was out of temper. Jernyngham listened with faint amusement as he filled his pipe.

“Sorry I can’t ask you in, Jack,” he said. “The kitchen is a pretty large one, but when Ellice starts bread-making, there isn’t a spot one can sit down in. Of course, we’ve another living-room—I furnished it rather nicely—but for some reason we seldom use it.”

The mosquito door swung back with a crash and Ellice appeared in the entrance with a hot, angry face, and hands smeared with dough, her hair hanging partly loose in disorder about her neck, her skirt ungracefully kilted up.

“Ain’t you goin’ to bring that water? Have I got to wait another hour?” she cried, ignoring Prescott.

Jernyngham rose and moved away. Returning, he disappeared into the kitchen with a dripping pail and Ellice’s voice was raised in harsh upbraiding. Then the man came out, looking a trifle weary, though he sat down by Prescott with a smile.

“These things should be a warning, Jack,” he said. “Still, one has to make allowances; this hot weather’s trying, and Ellice got a letter that disturbed her by the last mail. I didn’t hear what was in it, but I suspect it was a bill.”

Prescott nodded, because he did not know what to say. Mrs. Jernyngham had, he gathered, been unusually fractious for the last week or two, and Cyril was invariably forbearing. Indeed, Prescott sometimes wondered at his patience, for he imagined that his comrade had outgrown what love he had borne her. The man had his virtues: he was rash, but he seldom failed to face the consequences with whimsical good-humor.

“Your friends are going to-morrow,” Prescott told him. “They understand that you will write home and explain your reasons for remaining.”

“I suppose I’ll have to do so, though it will be difficult. You see, to give the reasons that count most would be cruel. If it’s any comfort to my folks to think favorably of me, I’d rather let them. I’ve made a horrible mess of things, but that’s no reason why others should suffer.”

Prescott glanced round at the dilapidated house, the untidy stable, the door of which was falling to pieces, and the wagon standing with a broken wheel. There was no doubt that Jernyngham was right in one respect.

“Jack,” Cyril resumed, “your manner gives me the impression that you’ll be sorry to lose your visitors.”

“I shall be sorry. I pressed them to stay and I think they’d have done so, only that Mrs. Colston was against it.”

“Ah! That strikes me as significant. You see, I can make a good guess at her motives; I’ve suffered from that kind of thing. She evidently considers you dangerous. Don’t you feel flattered?”

“Mrs. Colston has no cause for uneasiness; I could wish she had.”

“Then I’m glad my friends are going. It will save you trouble, Jack. A match between Miss Hurst and you is out of the question.”

“I’ve felt that, so far as my merits go, which is the best way I can put it,” said Prescott gravely. “You speak as if there were stronger reasons.”

“There are; I’m a little surprised you don’t see them. Your merits—I suppose you mean your character and appearance—should go a long way; we’ll admit that you’re a man who might have some attraction for even such a girl as Miss Hurst seems to be, if she didn’t pause to think. Unfortunately for you, however, it’s her duty to her relatives to make a brilliant match and I’ve no doubt she recognizes it. Girls of her station—you had better face the truth, Jack—never marry beneath them.”

“But a man may.”

“A fair shot,” laughed Jernyngham. “I can’t resent it. But the man generally suffers, and the price is a heavier one when the girl has to pay. There’s a penalty for breaking caste.”

“You seem to tolerate worse things in the old country.”

“Not often, after all—you hear of the flagrant offenders, and though I dare say there are others who are not found out, the bulk against whom there’s no reproach, excite no attention. But we’ll let that go. I want you to understand. You’re right, Jack; it’s your position that’s all wrong. Girls of the kind we’re considering are brought up in luxury, taught every accomplishment that’s economically useless, led to believe that every comfort they need will somehow be supplied. They’re charming in their proper environment, but it’s a cruelty to take them out of it. They’d be helpless in this grim country, where you must work for all you want and do without many things even then. Can you imagine Miss Hurst standing over a hot stove all day and spending her evenings mending your worn-out shirts?”

Prescott looked up, his face set hard.

“You have said enough.”

There was silence after this, until a big man dressed in old brown overalls stopped his horse near-by.

“I’ve fixed up with Farrer to send over his gasoline tractor to do the fall breaking,” he said. “Saw the telephone construction people yesterday and told them I’d let them have two teams to haul in their poles. It’s going to pay us better than keeping them for plowing.”

“Quite right, Wandle,” replied Jernyngham, and the fellow nodded to Prescott and rode away.

He lived on the next half-section and assisted Jernyngham in the management of his ranch, besides sharing the cost of labor, implements and horses with him, though Prescott had cause for believing that the arrangement was not to his friend’s benefit.

“You’d be better off if you didn’t work with that man,” he said.

“It’s possible,” Jernyngham agreed. “I know he robs me, but he saves me bother. Besides, if we decided to separate and came to a settlement, I dare say he would claim that I was in his debt; and he might be right. I’m no good at business. Ranching I don’t mind, but I could never learn how to buy and sell.”

“It’s a very useful ability,” Prescott rejoined with some dryness. “But as I want to be home for supper, I must get on.”

He unhitched his horse and mounted, and Jernyngham walked with him to the gate in the wire fence.

“You’ll remember what I told you, Jack,” he said meaningly.

“Yes,” Prescott answered with a stern face. “I suppose I ought to thank you. I’m not likely to forget.”

He rode home and arriving in time for supper took his place at the table with mixed feelings, foremost among which was keen regret. Except for the company of his Scandinavian hired man and the latter’s hard-featured wife, he had lived alone in Spartan simplicity, thinking of nothing but his farm; and his guests’ arrival had revealed to him the narrowness of his life. They had brought him new desires and thoughts, besides recalling ideas he had long forgotten, and among other things had made the evening meal a pleasant function to be looked forward to, instead of an opportunity for hurriedly consuming needed food.

The spotless cloth and the flowers on the table were novelties, but they pleased his eye. Colston with his cheerful, well-bred air and fastidiousness in dress, talked interestingly; Mrs. Colston with her gracious dignity, and Muriel, who was wholly alluring, seemed to fill the room with charm. It was perhaps all the more enjoyable because Prescott had been accustomed to pleasant society in Montreal, before he abandoned it with other amenities and went out to a life of stern toil and frugality in the grim Northwest.

He said little, though it was the last time they would gather tranquilly round his board—they were to leave for the railroad early on the morrow. A heavy melancholy oppressed him, though bright sunlight streamed into the room and an invigorating breeze swept in through the open window, outside which tall wheat and blue flax rolled away. He could not force himself to talk, though he laughed at Colston’s anecdotes, and it was a relief when the meal was over. Half an hour later he overtook Muriel strolling along the edge of the wheat.

“Have you recovered yet?” she asked. “You looked very downcast.”

“That’s how I feel. It strikes me as perfectly natural. I’ll be alone to-morrow.”

“But you were alone before we came.”

“Very true; I didn’t seem to mind it then. I was happy thinking how I could put in a bigger crop or raise another bunch of stock. My mind was fixed on the plow. But you have lifted me out of the furrow. I guess it’s weak, but somehow I hate the thought of going back to the clods.”

Remembering Jernyngham’s remarks, it struck him that this was not the line he should have taken, and for a moment or two Muriel turned her head. Then she looked at him, smiling.

“I shall be very sorry to leave, and I believe Florence and Harry feel the same.”

“But you are going to British Columbia and down the Pacific Coast. You will revel in new experiences and interesting sights.”

“I suppose so,” she answered, rather listlessly. “We shall get a glimpse of a new country, but that will be all. On the steamers we’ll meet much the kind of people we are accustomed to, and no doubt we’ll stay at hotels built especially for luxurious tourists. You see, we take our usual environment along with us.”

“But isn’t that what you like?”

“I don’t know; perhaps it ought to be.” Muriel paused and looked up at him with candid eyes. “You hinted that we had given you a new and wider outlook—or brought back the one you used to have, which is what you must have meant. You don’t seem to realize that you have done much the same thing to me.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It shouldn’t be difficult. You know the kind of people I have hitherto met, and how we spend our time in a round of amusements that lead to nothing, with all that could jar on one carefully kept away. This is the first time I’ve come into touch with strenuous, normal life.”

“And it doesn’t seem to have frightened you?”

“No,” she said with a smile; “I’m not in the least afraid—why should I be? I must have more courage than you think, but does one need a great deal of it to live here?”

He looked at her in grave admiration. There was a hint of pride in her pose, and her eyes were calm.

“I believe if ever a time of stress came, you wouldn’t shrink. But this is a pretty hard and lonely country, especially in winter.”

Muriel changed the subject.

“For all that, I feel you are right in staying, Cyril. Have you written to your people?”

Prescott felt embarrassed and guilty, as he generally did when, in confidential moments, she called him by Jernyngham’s name. Somehow he could not imagine her saying Jack.

“No,” he rejoined slowly. “Of course, they must be written to.”

Muriel did not answer. The turn their conversation had taken had filled her with a vague unrest as she looked back at the life she had led. Three or four years ago it had seemed filled with glamour and excitement, and she had entered on its pleasures with eager zest, but of late she had begun to find them wearisome. They no longer satisfied her. If this were the result of a few years’ experience, what would she feel when she had grown jaded with time and everything was stale? Then her glimpse of the simple, healthful western life had come as a revelation. It was real, a bracing struggle, in which no effort was wasted but produced tangible results: broad stretches of splendid wheat, sweeps of azure flax.

But this was not all. She felt drawn to her brown-faced companion, who had obviously redeemed whatever errors he had been guilty of in the past. She had known him for only about a fortnight, but she had seen his admiration for her with a satisfaction that was slightly tempered by misgivings. She could not tell exactly what she expected from him, but she had at least looked for some expression of a wish that their acquaintance should not end abruptly on the morrow. She did not think she would have resented a carefully modified display of the gallantry Cyril Jernyngham must be capable of, if reports were true. Considering what his past was supposed to have been, the grave man who watched her with troubled eyes was hard to understand.

“Cyril,” she asked, “has Harry given you our address at Glacier and Banff?”

He supposed that this implied permission to write to her, but he could not do so as Jack Prescott and he already bitterly regretted that he had allowed her to think of him as Jernyngham.

“Yes,” he said, with a carelessness which cost him an effort. “But I’m afraid I’m not a good correspondent. I’m too busy, for one thing.”

“Too busy?” she mocked, with a stronger color in her face. “Can’t you spare half an hour from your plowing to write to your friends?”

“Well,” he answered with forced coolness, “it’s difficult, except, of course, in the winter and you’ll be back in England then, with so many festivities on hand that you won’t be anxious to hear about Canada.”

She looked at him for a moment, puzzled and a little angry, and he guessed her thoughts. He was behaving like a boor; but it was better that she should think him one.

“How very un-English you have become!” she said.

“You mean I’m very Canadian? Anyway, I try to be sensible—I’ve done some wretchedly foolish things and I’ve got to pay for them. Of course, this visit’s only an episode to you; something that’s soon over and forgotten.”

There was trouble in his voice, though he strove to speak with indifference, and after a swift glance at him she answered coldly:

“I suppose it is. One impression rubs out another, and no doubt we shall see something novel and interesting farther on. However, we won’t stay in Canada very long and we shall see your father and sister as soon as we get home. It’s curious that you have scarcely mentioned them.”

“Oh, well,” he evaded awkwardly, “Harry has told me a good deal.”

He turned his head, dreading her curious eyes. His last evening in her company was proving more trying than he had expected; though usually tolerant and good-humored, the strain made him bitter. To-morrow he must put this girl out of his mind. After all, it was to Cyril Jernyngham, rake and wastrel, but a man of her own station, that she had been gracious and charming; had she known he was Jack Prescott, she would, no doubt, have treated him very differently; but in this supposition he did her wrong.

Puzzled by his lack of responsiveness and with wounded pride, she stopped and looked out toward the northwest across the prairie. Steeped in strong coloring, it seemed to run back into immeasurable distance, though a wonderful blaze of crimson marked its rim. The faint, cool air that flowed across it was charged with a curious exhilarating quality; there was a subtle fragrance of herbs in the grass.

“It’s getting late,” she said; “I must go in. This is the last sunset I shall watch on the prairie, and in several ways I’m sorry. You have made our stay here very pleasant.”