Читать книгу Prescott of Saskatchewan - Harold Bindloss - Страница 6

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The sunlight was fading off the prairie when a party of three sat in a first-class car as the local train went jolting westward. Henry Colston leaned back in his seat with a Winnipeg paper on his knee; and his appearance stamped him as a well-bred Englishman traveling for pleasure. He was thirty-four; his dress, though dusty, was fastidiously neat; his expression was pleasant, but there was an air of formality about him. One would not have expected him to do anything startling or extravagant, even under stress of emotion. Mrs. Colston resembled him in this respect. She was a handsome woman, a little reserved in manner, and was tastefully dressed in traveling tweed, which she had found too hot for the Canadian summer. Muriel, her sister, was twenty-four, and though the two were alike, the girl’s face was fresher, more ingenuous and perhaps more intelligent. It was an attractive face, crowned with red-gold hair; broad brows, straight nose and firm mouth hinted at some force of character, but her eyes of deep violet were unusually merry, and her warm coloring suggested a sanguine temperament.

So far, Muriel Hurst had taken life lightly and had foiled Mrs. Colston’s attempts to make a suitable match for her. The daughter of a man of taste who had died in difficulties, she had not a penny beyond the allowance provided by her sister’s generosity. Nevertheless, she was happy and had a strong liking and respect for her prosperous brother-in-law, though his restricted views sometimes irritated her.

She was now trying to arrange her impressions of Canada, which were mixed. She had looked down on Montreal with its great bridge and broad river from the wooded mountain, and from there it had struck her as a beautiful city. Then she had seen the handsome stone houses with their lawns at the foot of the hill, and afterward the magnificent commercial buildings round the postoffice. These could scarcely be equaled in London, but the rest of the town had not impressed her. It was strewn with sand and cement-dust: they seemed to be pulling down and putting up buildings and tearing open the streets all over it.

Afterward the Western Express had swept her through a thousand miles of wilderness, a vast tract of forest filled with rocks and lakes and rivers; and then she had spent two days in Winnipeg on the verge of the prairie. This city she found perplexing. The station hall was palatial, part of wide Main Street and Portage Avenue with their stately banks and offices could hardly be too much admired, and there were pretty wooden houses running back to the river among groves of trees. But apart from this, the place was somehow primitive. There were numerous hard-faced men hanging about the streets, and it jarred on her to see the rows of well-dressed loungers in the hotels lolling in wooden chairs close against the great windows, a foot or two from the street. It gave her a hint of western characteristics; the people were abrupt, good-naturedly so, perhaps, but devoid of delicacy.

Last had come the prairie—the land of promise—which seemed to run on forever, flooded with brilliant sunshine under a sky of dazzling blue. Banded with miles of wheat, flecked with crimson flowers, it stretched back, brightly green, until it grew gray and blue on the far horizon. It was relieved by the neutral purple of poplar bluffs, and little gleaming lakes; its vastness and openness filled the girl with a sense of liberty. Narrow restraints, cramping prejudices, must vanish in this wide country; one’s nature could expand and become optimistic here.

Then Colston began to talk.

“We should arrive in the next half-hour and I’ll confess to a keen curiosity about Cyril Jernyngham. He was an amusing and eccentric scapegrace when I last saw him, though that is a very long time ago.”

“You object to eccentricity, don’t you?” laughed Muriel.

“Oh, no! Call it originality, and I’ll admit that a certain amount is useful; but it should be kept in check. Indulged in freely, it’s apt to rouse suspicion.”

“Which is rather unfair.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Colston broke in. “Considered all round, it’s an excellent rule that if you won’t do what everybody in your station does, you must take the consequences.”

Colston nodded.

“I agree. One must think of the results to society as a whole.”

“Cyril Jernyngham seems to have taken the consequences,” Muriel pointed out. “Isn’t there something to be said for the person who does so uncomplainingly? I understand he never recanted or asked for help.”

Mrs. Colston shot a quick glance at her. She did not wish her sister’s sympathy to be enlisted on the black sheep’s behalf.

“I believe that’s true,” she replied. “Perhaps it’s hardly to his credit. His father is an old man who had expected great things of him. If he had come home, he would have been forgiven and reinstated.”

“Yes,” said Colston, “though Jernyngham seldom shows his feelings, I know he has grieved over his son. There can be no question that Cyril should have returned; I’ve told him so in my letters.”

“I suppose they’d have insisted on a full and abject surrender?”

“Not an abject one,” answered Colston. “He would have been expected to fall in with the family ideas and plans.”

“And he wouldn’t?” suggested Muriel with a mischievous smile. “I think he was right.” Reading disapproval in her sister’s expression, she continued: “You dear virtuous people are a little narrow in your ideas; you can’t understand that there’s room for the greatest difference of opinion even in a harmonious family, and that it’s very silly to drive the nonconformer into rebellion. Variety’s a law of nature and tends to life.”

Colston glanced meaningly at his wife. He was not a hypercritical person, but it did not please him that his sister-in-law, of whom he was fond, should champion Jernyngham.

“I don’t wish to be severe on Cyril,” he rejoined. “As a matter of fact, I know nothing good or bad about his Canadian life; but he must be regarded as, so to speak, on probation until he has proved that he deserves our confidence.”

Muriel made no answer. She was looking out of the window toward the west, and the glow on the vast plain’s rim seized her attention. The sunset flush had faded, but the sky shone a transcendent green. The air was very clear; every wavy line of bluff was picked out in a wonderful deep blue. Muriel thought she had never seen such strength and vividness of color. Then she glanced round the long car. It was comfortable except for the jolting; the silvery gray of its cane-backed seats contrasted with the paneling of deep brown. The big lamps and metal fittings gleamed with nickel. All the girl saw connected her with luxurious civilization, and she wondered with a stirring of curiosity what awaited her in the wilds, where man still grappled with nature in primitive fashion.

“Sebastian in three or four minutes!” announced the conductor; and while Muriel and Mrs. Colston gathered together a few odds and ends a scream of the whistle broke out.

Prescott heard it on the station platform and with strong misgivings braced himself for his task. A bright light was speeding down the track, blending with that flung out by a freight locomotive crossing the switches. Then amid the clangor of the bell the long cars rolled in and he saw a man standing on the platform of one. There was no doubt that he was an Englishman and Prescott hurried toward the car.

“Mr. Henry Colston?” he asked.

The man held out his hand.

“I think Harry is sufficient. Come and speak to Florence; she has been looking forward to meeting you with interest.” He turned. “My dear, this is Cyril.”

Prescott shook hands with the lady on the car platform, and then looked past her in confused surprise. A girl stood in the vestibule, clad in garments of pale lilac tint which fell about her figure in long sweeping lines, emphasizing its fine contour against the dark brown paneling. She had a large hat of the same color, and it enhanced the attractiveness of her face, which wore a friendly smile. She was obviously one of the party, though Jernyngham had not mentioned her, and Prescott pulled himself together when Colston presented him.

“My sister-in-law, Muriel Hurst,” he added.

When they had alighted, Prescott asked for the checks and moved toward the baggage car. While he waited, watching the trunks being flung out, Ellice passed him talking to a smartly dressed man. This struck Prescott as curious, but he knew the man as a traveling salesman for an American cream-separator, and as he must have called at Jernyngham’s homestead on his round and was no doubt leaving by the train, there was no reason why Ellice should not speak to him. He thought no more of the matter and proceeded to carry several trunks and valises across the platform to his wagon, while his new friends watched him with some surprise. It was a novel experience in their walk of life to see their host carrying their baggage, and when Prescott lifted the heaviest trunk Colston hurried forward to protest.

“Stand aside, please,” said the rancher, walking firmly across the boards with the big trunk on his shoulders. When he had placed it in the wagon he turned to the ladies with a smile.

“I had thought of putting you up for the night at the hotel, but they’re full, and with good luck we ought to make my place in about three hours. I dare say this isn’t the kind of rig you have been accustomed to driving in; and somebody will have to sit on a trunk. There’s only room for three on the driving-seat.”

Mrs. Colston surveyed the vehicle with misgivings. It was a long, shallow box set on four tall and very light wheels, and crossed by a seat raised on springs. Two rough-coated horses were harnessed to it with a pole between them. She saw this by the glare of the freight locomotive’s head-lamp when the train moved out, and noticed that her husband was looking at their host in surprise.

“I’ll take the trunk,” said Colston. “We had dinner down the line not long ago.”

Prescott helped the ladies up and seating himself next to the younger started his horses. They set off at a rapid trot and the wagon jolted unpleasantly as it crossed the track. Then the horses broke into a gallop, raising a dust-cloud in the rutted street, while the light vehicle rocked in an alarming fashion, and Prescott had some trouble in restraining them when they ran out on to the dim waste of prairie. Then the wonderful keen air, faintly scented with wild peppermint, reacted upon the girl with a curious exhilarating effect. She felt stirred and excited, expectant of new experiences, perhaps adventures. The wild barley brushed about the wheels with a silky rustle; the beat of hoofs rang in a sharp staccato through the deep silence; and the touch of the faint night wind brought warmth into Muriel’s face.

“They’re pretty fresh; been in the stable of a farm near here most of the day,” Prescott explained. “Not long off the range, anyhow, and they’re bad to hold.”

There was a shrill scream from a dusky shape flitting through the air as they skirted a marshy pool, and the team again broke into a furious gallop. The trail was grown with short scrub which smashed beneath the hoofs, and the vehicle lurched sharply when the wheels left the ruts and ran through tall, tangled grass. Prescott with some diffidence slipped his arm round Muriel’s waist, while Colston jolted up and down with his trunk.

“You have still the same taste in horses, Cyril,” he remarked. “I suppose you remember Wildfire?”

“Wildfire?” queried Prescott, and then, having the impression that young English lads were sometimes given a pony, ventured: “Quite a cute little beast.”

“Little!” exclaimed Colston. “How many hands make a big horse in this country? I’m speaking of the hunter you cajoled the second groom into saddling when your father was away. Can’t you remember how you insisted on putting her at the Newby brook?”

“I don’t seem to place it somehow,” said Prescott in alarm, seeing that if he were called upon to share any more reminiscences it might lead him into difficulties. “You know I’ve been out here a while.”

“Long enough to forget, it seems.”

Prescott made a bold venture.

“That’s so; perhaps it’s better. This is a brand new country. One starts afresh here, looking forward instead of back.”

Muriel considered this. The idea was, she thought, appropriate, but the man’s tone and air were not what one would have expected of a reformed rake. There was no hint of contrition; he spoke with optimistic cheerfulness.

“Of course,” Colston agreed. “I wonder if I might say that you have grown more Canadian than I expected to find you?”

“More Canadian?” Prescott checked himself in time and laughed. “Is it surprising? You drive and starve out many a good man who dares to be original—I’ve met a number of them. Can you wonder that when they’re welcomed here they’re willing to forget you and become one with the people who took them in?”

“In a way, that’s a pity,” said Mrs. Colston. “We like to think we haven’t lost you altogether.”

Disregarding his horses, Prescott turned toward her with a bow.

“Face the truth, ma’am. If you’re ever in a tight place, we’ll send you what help we can, hard men, such as can’t be raised in your cities, to keep the flag flying, but we stop there. Don’t think we belong to you—we stand firm on our own feet, a new free nation. I”—he paused in an impressive manner—“am a Canadian.”

Muriel felt a responsive thrill. His ideas were certainly not English, nor was his mode of expressing them, but his boldness appealed to her. Her companions were frankly astonished and rather hurt, which he seemed to realize, for he resumed with a laugh:

“But we won’t talk politics. Things I’ve heard English people say out here make one tired.”

Then he turned toward the girl, adding softly:

“Was that a very bad break I made?”

“I think it could be forgiven,” she told him.

“The years you have spent in Canada seem to have had their full effect on you,” Colston remarked dryly.

Prescott turned his attention to his team, slightly checking their pace.

“What did you mean when you said we should reach your ranch in three hours, if we had good luck?” Muriel asked.

“Oh,” he said, “there are badger burrows about, and a little beast called a gopher makes almost as bad a hole; they’re fond of digging up the trail. If a horse steps into one of those holes, it’s apt to bring him down. Besides, we trust a good deal to our luck in this country—one has to run risks that can’t be estimated: harvest frost, rust, dry seasons, winds that blow destroying sand about. I’ve lost two crops in the eight years I’ve been here.”

“Can it be eight?” Colston broke in. “If I remember right, you spent three years in Manitoba.”

“It’s the same kind of country and the same climate,” Prescott rejoined, conscious that he had nearly betrayed himself again. He felt angry with Jernyngham for giving him such a difficult part to play.

After this, he carefully avoided any personal topic and talked about Canadian farming, sitting silent when he could, while Muriel gazed about with pleasurable curiosity. It is never quite dark on those wide levels in summertime, and, for there was no moon, the prairie stretched away before them shadowy, silent, and mysterious. Now they passed a sheet of water, gleaming wanly among thin willows; then they plunged into the deep gloom of a poplar bluff; and later, lurching down a steep declivity, swept through a shallow creek. The air was filled with the smell of dew-damped soil and unknown aromatic scents, the loneliness was impressive, the half-obscurity emphasized the strangeness of everything. Muriel felt as if she had left all that was stereotyped and matter-of-fact far behind. It was the unexpected and romantic that ought to happen in this virgin land.

Then, worn by several days’ journey in the jolting cars, she grew drowsy. The steady drumming of hoofs, the slapping of the traces, and the rattle of wheels were strangely soothing. She fancied that once or twice when they sped furiously down an incline, the driver held her fast, but she did not resent the support of his arm: it was a steady, reassuring grasp. At last, as they swung round a poplar bluff, she roused herself, for dim black buildings loomed up ahead, and one which had lighted windows took the shape of a small house. The team stopped, there were voices speaking with a curious accent which reminded her of Norway, and the rancher helped her down.

Afterward she followed her sister into a simply furnished, pine-boarded room with a big stove at one end of it, where a middle-aged woman set food and coffee before them. She spoke English haltingly, but her lined face lighted up when Muriel thanked her in Norse. Then there followed a flow of eager words, a few of which the girl caught, until the woman broke off when their host came in. He was silent, for the most part, during the meal, and shortly afterward Muriel was shown into a small room where she went to sleep in a few minutes.