Читать книгу Prescott of Saskatchewan - Harold Bindloss - Страница 8

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Prescott’s guests had spent a week at his homestead with content when Colston and his wife sat talking one morning.

“I’m frankly puzzled,” said Colston, opening his cigar case; “I can’t make Cyril out. He’s frugal, remarkably industrious—I think the description’s warranted—and, from all that one can gather, as steady as a rock. This, of course, is gratifying, but it’s by no means what I expected.”

“He certainly doesn’t fit in with the picture his sister Gertrude drew me, though she conveyed the impression that she was softening things down. There can be no doubt that he was wild. That might, perhaps, be forgiven, but one or two of the stories I’ve heard about him filled me with disgust.”

Her husband looked thoughtful. He had not noticed that Muriel was sitting just outside the open window, though Mrs. Colston, being in a different position, had done so. She thought their voices would reach the girl, and if anything strongly in Cyril’s disfavor cropped up during the conversation it might be as well that she should hear it. Mrs. Colston was willing that he should be reconciled to his relatives, but a reformed rake was not the kind of man to whom she wished her sister to be attracted. One could not tell whether the reformation would prove permanent.

“After all, I never heard any really serious offense proved against him,” Colston rejoined. “It’s sometimes easy to acquire a reputation without doing anything in particular to deserve it. People are apt to jump at conclusions.”

“When there’s a general concurrence of opinion it’s wiser to fall in with it. But what did he say about his father’s suggestion that he should go home?”

“Asked for a day or two to think it over; I fancied that he wished to consult somebody. Then he promised to give me an answer.”

“On the whole, I think they need have no hesitation about taking him back now,” Mrs. Colston responded; and Muriel agreed with her. “There’s another point,” she added. “How long shall we stay here?”

“I don’t know. I’ve a growing liking for Cyril, the place is pleasant, and though things are rather rudimentary, the air’s wonderfully bracing. He urged me to stay some little time, and I felt that he wished it.”

Mrs. Colston considered. She was enjoying her visit; everything was delightfully novel and she felt more cheerful and more vigorous than she had done for some time. But Muriel seemed to find the prairie pleasant, and there was a possibility of danger there.

“We might, perhaps, remain another week,” she suggested.

As it happened, Colston’s suspicion that his host wished to consult somebody was correct, for Prescott was then driving in to the settlement to lay his visitor’s message before the man it most concerned. He found him lounging in the hotel bar, and, drawing him into the general-room, he sat down opposite him in a hard wooden chair. The apartment had no floor covering and was cheerless and dirty; there was not even a table in it; and only a railroad time-table and advertisements of land sales hung on its rough pine walls. Jernyngham, however, looked in keeping with his surroundings. The dirty bandage still covered his forehead, his clothes were stained and untidy, and he had an unkempt, dissipated air.

“Well,” he asked with a grin, “how are you getting on with your new friends?”

“I don’t know; I’m curious about what they think of me. Anyway, I found the thing harder than I expected. Why didn’t you tell me Mrs. Colston was bringing her sister?”

“If I ever heard she had one, I forgot it; suppose I couldn’t have read the letter properly. What’s she like?”

“Herself,” said Prescott. “I can’t think of anybody we know I could compare her with.”

He had endeavored to speak carelessly, but something in his voice betrayed him and Jernyngham laughed.

“That’s not surprising. If you want to play your part properly, you had better make love to her. It’s what would be expected of me, and it couldn’t do any harm, because these people would very soon head you off. Harry Colston’s sister-in-law would look for an assured position and at least five thousand dollars a year. When are they going?”

“I’ve asked them to stay a little longer and I think they’ll agree. But that is not what I came to see you about. Colston laid a proposition before me—you’re formally invited to return home.”

“On what terms?”

Prescott detailed them, watching his companion. The latter sat silent for a minute or two, and then he said slowly:

“It’s a handsome offer, but it was made under a mistake. There’s no doubt that Colston was trusted with powers of discretion. He must be satisfied with you—don’t you feel complimented, Jack?”

“What I feel is outside the question.”

“Well,” continued Jernyngham thoughtfully, “I suppose if I indulged in a spell of hard work in the open and practised strict abstinence it might improve my appearance, and I could, perhaps, keep out of Colston’s way, or if needful, own up to the trick. The old man would hold to his bargain: he’s that kind. It’s a strong temptation—you see what I’d stand to gain—a liberal allowance, a life that’s wildly luxurious by comparison with the one I’m leading, the society of people of the stamp I’ve been brought up among. Jack, I feel driven to the point of yielding. But it’s a pity this offer has come too late.”

“Is it too late?”

“Think! Would it be fair to go? For a month or two I might keep straight, then—I’ve tried to describe my people—you can imagine their feelings at the inevitable outbreak. Besides, there’s a more serious difficulty.” Jernyngham’s tense face relaxed into a grim smile. “Can you imagine Ellice an inmate of an English country house, patronizing local charities, presiding over prim garden parties? The idea’s preposterous! And that’s not all.”

Prescott knew little about England, but he could imagine her making an undesirable sensation in Montreal or Toronto.

“You force me to ask something. Is she Mrs. Jernyngham?” he said, hesitatingly.

“I used to think so; there’s a doubt about the matter now.”

“One would have imagined that was a point you would have been sure about.”

“I understood her husband was dead when we were married in Manitoba. She was a waitress in a second-rate hotel; the brute had ill-used and deserted her. But there’s now some reason to believe he’s farming in Alberta. I haven’t made inquiries: I didn’t think it would improve matters.”

Prescott said nothing. In face of such a situation, any remarks that he could make would be superfluous. There was a long silence; and then Jernyngham spoke again, slowly, but resolutely.

“You see how it is, Jack—where my interest lies. Against that, there’s the feelings of my father and sister to consider. Then my reinstatement would have to be bought by casting off the woman who has borne with my failings and stuck to me pluckily. I haven’t sunk quite so far as that. You’ll have to tell Colston that I’m staying here!”

He got up and Prescott laid a hand on his arm.

“It’s hard; but you’re doing the square thing, Cyril.”

Jernyngham shook off his hand.

“Don’t let us talk in that strain. Come and see Ellice and try to amuse her. Don’t know what’s wrong with the woman; she has been moody of late.”

“I must get back as soon as I can and I’ve some business to do.”

“Oh, well,” acquiesced Jernyngham, walking with him to the bar, which was the quickest way of leaving.

On reaching it he turned and glanced about sardonically. The room was dark, filled with flies, and evil smelling, as well as thick with smoke; half a dozen, untidy men leaned against the counter.

“What a set of loafing swine you are!” he coolly remarked. “It’s not to the point that I’m no better, but if any of you feel insulted, I’ll be happy to make what I’ve said good.”

“Cut it out, Cyril! Can’t have a circus here!” exclaimed the bar-tender.

“You needn’t be afraid. They look pretty tame,” Jernyngham rejoined, and going on to the door, shook hands with Prescott.

“Tell Colston he has my last word,” he said.

Turning away, he proceeded to the untidy parlor where he found Ellice dawdling over a paper. Her white summer dress was stained in places and open at the neck, where a button had come off. The short skirt displayed a hole in one stocking and a shoe from which a strap had been torn. Jernyngham leaned on the table regarding her with a curious smile.

“What’s Jack come about?” she asked.

“To say my fastidious relatives want me to go home, which would mean leaving you behind.”

She looked at him searchingly, and then laughed.

“And you won’t go?”

“That’s the message I sent.”

Ellice’s face softened, though there was a hint of indecision in it.

“You’re all right, Cyril, only a bit of a fool.”

“A bit?” he said dryly. “I’m the whole blamed hog. But enough of that. We’ll pull out for the homestead to-morrow. I expect Wandle is robbing me.”

“He’s been robbin’ you ever since you bought the ranch. I don’t know why you stopped me from gettin’ after him.”

“He saves me trouble,” explained Jernyngham, and they discussed the arrangements for their return.

Prescott, arriving home, had a brief private interview with Colston, who realized with some disappointment that his errand had failed. Then the rancher harnessed a fresh team and proceeded to a sloo where his Scandinavian hired man was cutting prairie hay. An hour or two later Muriel went out on the prairie and walked toward a poplar bluff, in the shadow of which she gathered ripe red saskatoons, and then sat down to look about.

The dazzling blue of the sky was broken by rounded masses of silver-edged clouds that drove along before a fresh northwest breeze. Streaked by their speeding shadows, the great plain stretched away, checkered by ranks of marigolds and tall crimson flowers of the lily kind that swayed as the rippling grasses changed color in the wind. A mile or two distant stood the trim wooden homestead, with a tall windmill frame near by, girt by broad sweeps of dark-green wheat and oats. These were interspersed with stretches of uncovered soil, glowing a deep chocolate-brown, which Muriel knew was the summer fallow resting after a cereal crop. Beyond the last strip of rich color, there spread, shining delicately blue, a great field of flax; and then the dusky green of alfalfa and alsike for the Hereford cattle, standing knee-deep in a flashing lake. The prairie, she thought, was beautiful in summer; its wideness was bracing, one was stirred into cheerfulness and bodily vigor by the rush of its fresh winds. She felt that she could remain contentedly at the homestead for a long time; and then her thoughts centered on its owner.

This was perhaps why she rose and strolled on toward the sloo, though she would not acknowledge that she actually wished to meet him. The man was something of an enigma and therefore roused in her an interest which was stronger because of some of the things she had heard to his discredit. Following the rows of wheelmarks, she brushed through the wild barley, whose spiky heads whipped her dress, passed a chain of glistening ponds, a bluff wrapped in blue shadow, and finally descended a long slope to the basin at its foot where the melting snow had run in spring. Now it had dried and was covered with tall grass which held many flowers and fragrant wild peppermint.

A team of horses and a tinkling mower moved through its midst, and at one edge Prescott was loading the grass into a wagon. Engrossed as he was in his task, he did not notice her, and she stood a while watching him. He wore no jacket; the thin yellow shirt, flung open at the neck and tightly belted at the waist, and the brown duck trousers, showed the lithe grace of his athletic figure. His poise and swing were admirable, and he was working with determined energy, his face and uncovered arms the warm color of the soil.

Muriel drew a little closer and he stopped on seeing her. His brown skin was singularly clean, his eyes were clear and steady, though they often gave a humorous twinkle. If this man had ever been a rake, his reformation must have been drastic and complete, because although she had a very limited acquaintance with people of that sort, it was reasonable to conclude that they must bear some sign of indulgence or sensuality. The rancher had no stamp of either.

He showed his pleasure at her appearance.

“You have had quite a walk,” he said. “If you will wait while I put up the load, I’ll take you back.”

Muriel sat down and watched him fling the grass in heavy forkfuls on to the growing pile, until at last he clambered up upon the frame supporting it and, pulling some out and ramming the rest back, proceeded to excavate a hollow.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Making a nest for you,” he told her with a laugh. “Now, if you’ll get up.”

While she mounted by the wheel he stood on the edge of the wagon, leaning down toward her. There did not seem to be much foothold, the grass looked slippery, and the hollow he had made was beyond her reach, but she seized the hand he held out and he swung her up. For a moment his fingers pressed tightly upon her waist, and then she was safe in the hollow, smiling at him as he found a precarious seat on the rack.

“You couldn’t see how you were going to get up, but you didn’t hesitate,” he said with a soft laugh, when he had started his team.

“No,” she smiled back at him. “Somehow you inspire one with confidence. I didn’t think you would let me fall.”

“Curious, isn’t it?”

She reclined in the recess among the grass, which yielded to her limbs in a way that gave her a sense of voluptuous ease. Her pose, although scarcely a conventional one, showed to advantage the fine contour of her form; and the lilac-tinted dress that flowed in classic lines about her made a patch of cool restful color on the warm ocher of her surroundings. It was easy to read the man’s admiration in his glance, and she became suddenly filled with mischievous daring.

“Cyril,” she said, “you are either an excellent actor, or else—”

“I have been maligned. Is that what you meant?”

“I think I did mean something of the kind.”

“Then I’m a very poor actor. That should settle the question.”

“I’ve wondered how you became so very Canadian,” she said thoughtfully.

“What’s the matter with the Canadians?”

“Nothing. I haven’t met very many yet, but on the whole I’m favorably impressed by them. They’re direct, blunt, perhaps less complex than we are.”

“No trimmings,” he suggested. “They don’t muss up good material so that it can hardly be recognized. You can tell what a man is when you see him or hear him talk.”

“I don’t know,” Muriel argued. “I’ve an idea that it might be difficult, even in Canada.”

He let this pass.

“What do you think of the country?” he asked.

She glanced round. It was late in the afternoon and somewhat cooler than it had been. Half the plain lay in shadow, but the light was curiously sharp. A clump of ragged jack-pines stood on a sandhill miles away, and a lake twinkled in the remote distance. The powerful Clydesdale horses plodded through short crackling scrub; a fine scent of wild peppermint floated about.

“Oh,” she responded, “it’s delightful! And everybody’s so energetic! You move with a spring and verve; and I don’t hear any grumbling, though there seems to be so much to do!”

“And to bear now and then: crops wiped out—I’ve lost two of them. The work never slackens, except in winter, when you sit shivering beside the stove, if you’re not hauling in building logs or cordwood through the arctic frost. At night it’s deadly silent, unless there’s a blizzard howling; the plains are very lonely when the snow lies deep. Don’t you think you’re better off in England, taking it all ’round?”

He laid respectful fingers on the hem of her skirt, touching the fine material, as if appraising its worth.

“Our wheat-growers’ wives and daughters are lucky if they’ve a couple of moderately smart dresses, but I suppose you have several trunks full of things like this. That and the kind of life it implies must count for something.”

“I believe I have,” said Muriel with candor, answering his steady inquiring glance. “Still, I’ve felt that we drift along from amusement to amusement in a purposeless way, doing nothing that’s worth while. There might come a time when one would grow very tired of it.”

“It must come and bring trouble then. Here one goes on from task to task, each one bigger and more venturesome than the last; acre added to acre, a gasoline tractor to the horse-plow, another quarter-section broken. Mind and body taxed all day and often half the night. One can’t sit down and mope.”

This was, she thought, a curious speech for a man who had been described as careless, extravagant, and dissolute; but he was getting too serious, and she laughed.

“You were energetic enough in England, if reports are true. I’ve often thought of your right-of-way adventure. It must have been very dramatic when you appeared at the garden party covered with fresh tar.”

“Sounds like that, doesn’t it?” he cautiously agreed. “How do they tell the tale?”

“Something like this—you were at the Hall with Geoffrey when the townspeople were clamoring about Sir Gilbert’s closing the path through the wood, and for some reason you assisted them in attacking the barricade. It had been well tarred as a defensive measure, hadn’t it? Then you returned, triumphant, black from head to foot, when you thought the guests had gone, and plunged into the middle of the last of them—Maud always laughs when she talks about it. Sir Gilbert was somewhere out of sight when you related the rabble’s brilliant victory, but he dashed out red in face when he understood and never stopped until he jumped into his motor. I don’t think Geoffrey’s wife has forgiven you.”

Prescott smiled.

“Well,” he said, “I must have grown very staid since then.”

Muriel changed the subject, but they talked with much good-humor until they reached the homestead, where the man alighted and held out his arms to her. She hesitated a moment, and then was seized by him and swung gently to the ground, but she left him with a trace of heightened color in her face and went quietly into the house.