Читать книгу How Hartman Won. A Story of Old Ontario - John Price-Brown - Страница 4

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All through the sixties, Linbrook was a bustling and thriving village, although it did not contain more than three or four hundred inhabitants. It was situated within the margin of a considerable belt of pine forest; and the energy of its two or three business men, who combined the double interests of merchants and lumbermen, turned its natural advantages to the best account.

The village itself was picturesquely situated on the banks of the Powan river, which wound in a semi-circular manner through the valley. On each side were hills, and except for the clearings, which here and there made a wide cut through the forest, they were still covered with tall pines.

As in many other parts of Upper Canada at that time, nearly all the settlers for many miles around devoted their winters to lumbering. These winters were usually long and steady; and when the mantle of snow dropped on mother earth in December, it often remained without a break, notwithstanding the February thaw, until the snow-birds took their flight to make way for April blossoms.

Good sleighing was an all-important thing in those early days; and the settlers around Linbrook counted on its coming and staying, with even more confidence than they did upon the crop of fall wheat from amongst the stumps of their scattered clearings.

What was more, this sleighing was their life. True, the lumbermen gave but small prices for their saw-logs, and even that was in trade; but these little gains, by their gradual accumulation through the winter, enabled them to secure comforts as well as necessaries, which the clearings themselves could not produce. The people were satisfied; and, after all, is not satisfaction the half of living?

The Powan river, slow and narrow in the summer-time, fed only by the springs and marshes of the upper flats, and presenting during the winter a uniformly frozen surface, had a widely different aspect when the annual flood came. Then the little river became a mighty torrent, swollen wide and deep by the melting of the snows of winter; and it bore onward to the lake the innumerable piles of saw-logs which had accumulated upon its banks during the months of the sleighing season.

Our story opens in January, 186—. The morning is bright with a clear frosty air, and a temperature not much above zero. The sun shines down on the dazzling snow with keen brilliancy, the white sheeting extending everywhere, over housetops and hill and valley, hiding even the ice on the river from view.

Strings of teams, both oxen and horses, are descending from the uplands to the different rollways along the river bank, each hurrying in its burden of saw-logs from the forest. Sometimes a huge single stick, three or four feet in thickness, makes the load; or a pair, or even a trio, bound together with chains, are piled on the bobs and drawn by the one team.

But there is much excitement as they whirl one after another down the long slopes to the river. The occasional slipping of a break; the difficulty in controlling either the cattle or the horses, borne on over the smoothly packed snow, by the heavy loads behind them; the shouting of the drivers; the peals of laughter and the bonhomie of the men themselves; capped at intervals by the booming of the timbers, as they bound down over the skidway for a hundred feet or more, to be piled amid the ice on the river: all fill the air with music.

Young Robert Thornton was a busy man that morning. An expert and accurate measureman, he had for two years been tallyman for the Cartright Brothers, the big lumbermen of the village. This winter, however, his father had added lumbering to his general store business, and, as a consequence, Robert had withdrawn from the employment of the larger firm to become manager for themselves.

"That's a splendid log, Hugh," he exclaimed to a young man who had just driven to the rollway with a huge white pine butt.

"Yes," was the answer. "We never had a better in our bush. There are four more in the same tree; and the top one will be more than a 'standard'."

"Trees like that will pay both of us," said Robert with a laugh, as he tallied it with a hammer bearing his father's initials, "T. T.," for Theodore Thornton. "It measures four feet four inches at the small end."

The pair of bob-sleighs stood at a slight incline close to the skidway; and having loosened the binding pole and chains, the log was rolled off with a cant-hook. Gathering impetus from its weight, it rolled down the smooth skids, and bounding over the smaller logs, nearly buried itself in the ice toward the middle of the river dam.

The children out for intermission from the neighbouring school-house ran down to the opposite bank to witness the scene, and greeted it with a chorus of wild whoops.

Hugh readjusted his gearing, and drove on to make way for another team.

"Be sure to bring your sister to the toboggan slide to-night," Robert shouted after him. "And remember the hour, eight o'clock sharp. It will be a grand night, with a full moon."

"I will, if it's possible," was the answer. "It all depends on Winifred. Her school exhibition does not come off until Friday, so I expect we can come."

The logs came in large numbers to all the skidways that day; but Robert Thornton got his share, even if his father was a new buyer, and, but for the rising moon, it would have been dark before he had measured his last log. He finally pocketed his log-roll, and, throwing his hammer over his shoulder, returned to the store.

This was one of the old-fashioned kind, so commonly found at that period in the villages of Canada. It was a long two-storied frame building, with gable to the street; and served the double purpose of store and post-office, as well as family residence on the upper flat.

Mr. Thornton was busy with his books when Robert entered. A younger son was piling goods, while a tall young man, who in no way resembled the Thorntons, was waiting upon customers. The merchant himself was past middle life and not very robust in appearance. He had a gentle but worried expression of face; and his nervous, irresolute mouth was too characteristic to remain unnoticed by any keen observer. In these points he differed from his son, who, although bearing some resemblance in features, was cast in a different mould. Robert was above medium height, with well-poised head planted firmly on square shoulders. His blue eyes were less restless than his father's, while there was a firmness about the mouth which added strength to resolution, probably inherited from his mother. Robert was not a bad-looking fellow. He had a pleasant word for everybody, and carried his two-and-twenty years with free, unconscious self-assurance.

Taking in the situation as Robert entered, a word or two might be said in reference to the clerk already mentioned. Thomas Pettigrew, who had been in Mr. Thornton's employ for years, was past thirty, tall and wiry, dark in feature, with long narrow head, and deep gray eyes, placed close together. He had a habit of alertness that seemed as perpetual as the smile that wreathed his face like a mask. Added to this was the fact that his persuasive manner had won him many friends among the customers; and, as one of the eligible young men of Linbrook, many a fair and rosy maiden trimmed her hat and smiled serenely, with an eye to a possible future.

"You have had a busy day," remarked Thornton, as his son came up behind the counter to the desk.

"Yes," was the cheery answer. "A lot of logs came in. Some of them splendid fellows—clear stuff, white pines. A couple brought in by Hugh Finlayson were A, 1, the finest we've had since we started."

Pettigrew, who was at the opposite side of the counter, looked up at the mention of the name, fastened his eyes intently upon Robert for a moment, and then dropped them again.

"That's good news," commented Mr. Thornton; and lowering his voice he continued—"I wish everything else was as satisfactory."

Robert's face became grave. His look was an interrogation.

"We will talk about it afterwards," said his father. Robert turned to help his brother replace some goods, and it being the tea hour, the three went upstairs, leaving the clerk in charge.

The living-rooms of the Thorntons were neatly and pleasantly arranged. Mrs. Thornton, perhaps ten years the junior of her husband, was an active and thrifty housewife, and in features bore a striking resemblance to Robert. Beside her were the two daughters, only one of them entering her teens, and both busy with their studies. Greetings of pleasure welcomed the entrance of the male members of the family; and Ethel and Alice, putting away their books, drew up the chairs to the table.

"Tea is just ready," said Mrs. Thornton with a bright smile. "I hope your head is better, Theodore?"

"Perhaps it is, Mary," was the answer, his face lighting up as he smelled the roast chicken. "How delicious!"

"Yes, and the scones are as good as I can make them."

"They are always that." Whatever his other defects might be, Theodore did not believe in letting a word of approval die on his lips unuttered.

In a few minutes they were all seated. A bright lamp encased in a handsome shade hung over the centre of the table, while spotless linen and pretty bits of china gave a beauty and charm not always seen in Canadian village life in those early days. Gradually the shadow, which seemed as the day closed to have fallen upon Mr. Thornton's mind, was lifted away; and before tea was over, they were all merrily discussing the prospective meeting of the young people's toboggan club.

"Yes, there will be a lot of us," said Robert. "I expect about fifty, boys and girls together."

"The slide is very steep," interposed Mrs. Thornton, "and as James is one of the youngest members, you must look after him well."

"I'll see to that, mother," rejoined Robert. "He has known the run for years, and the hours are only from eight to ten. Other boys will be there, too. It would never do to use James's bobs, and not have him with us."

While the mother and daughters were clearing the table, Mr. Thornton and Robert adjourned for a few minutes to the little parlour, James having gone to the store to release Pettigrew for his evening meal.

"You said you had something to tell me," said Robert as he closed the door. "What is it, father?"

"It is our wretched financial position," he replied, his worried expression returning. "You know that note of Grantham and Scott's, of Hamilton, for five hundred dollars. It was renewed two months ago, and will be due again on Saturday. That only leaves five days; and now they write that it must be met. Moreton, the drygoods man of Montreal, has two notes, both maturing inside of two weeks; and for the life of me I don't see how I can meet them. These are the most pressing, but not the only claims by a long way."

"Why did you not tell me more fully about this before?" Robert asked, his brow contracting, as the seriousness of the position became apparent. It had only been during the last few months that the father had taken his son into his confidence over financial matters at all. While engaged with the Cartrights, he had led his own life and, hearing no complaints, had supposed that everything was all right.

"I didn't see the use of it," was the answer, "and I expected to weather through somehow, as I have often done before. Now, I suppose it's too late."

The light fell upon Mr. Thornton's face, and Robert noticed its haggard expression.

"But I don't think it is," said Robert more cheerily, his heart going out in sympathy to the father, who had kept him at college in days when he really should have been his right-hand man. "They all told you that they would wait until you could realise upon your logs in the spring."

"So they did; but you see I had to buy more goods to keep the people supplied. This is something I did not count on when the bargain was made; and grain this year being a failure, I hadn't the cash to pay for anything."

"Oh, father, did you not explain all this to the wholesale men before we started lumbering?"

"I did in a general way; but I was never so astonished in my life as when I found how much we owed, and how little we had to show for it. I can't understand it. There's something rotten somewhere, but where it is I don't know."

Robert did not like to blame his father, although he winced severely at the position they were in, and which he felt sure might have been avoided.

"What do you propose to do?" he asked.

"Try and raise another thousand some way," Mr. Thornton answered, burying his face in his hands and resting his elbows on the table.

"I don't like that plan," said Robert. "It would only be postponing the evil day. The place is already fully mortgaged, and I don't see what available security you have to offer."

"Why not mortgage the saw-logs?"

"That, too, would be bad policy; and under the circumstances might be difficult to effect."

"Then there's no alternative. We shall be ruined and lose everything."

"Perhaps not, father. Have you talked it over with mother?"

"She knows everything but of the two letters I got this afternoon."

"Suppose we all talk it over when I get back to-night," suggested Robert. "I don't feel a bit like going to the slide after what you have said; but I specially asked some people from the country, and, as captain of the club, I am needed to see that no accident occurs."

His father nodded assent, and the two went downstairs.

Mr. Pettigrew soon returned from supper, and commenced preparing the mail for the morrow. Robert went to the desk to make his log entries for the day. One or two other customers and several loungers dropped in, whiling away the time in a desultory manner until the closing hour of eight o'clock.

Then Robert and James, well wrapped, for the night was sharp, left for the toboggan slide; the last loiterer called out "good-night," as he closed the door; and Mr. Thornton and his clerk were alone. The latter, as usual, after raking the embers in the stove, shoved in a large log to keep the fire alive for the night; and putting on his overcoat, stopped in front of Mr. Thornton on his road to the door.

"Are you going?" asked the latter, looking up from his writing.

"Yes," was the answer. "Everything is all right I guess. But do you know, Mr. Thornton, I would like to get away for a couple of days. I had a letter from Hamilton to-night. My uncle is very ill and would like to see me at once."

"That's unfortunate!" exclaimed Mr. Thornton with a start. "I am sorry to hear it, but can't you postpone the visit for a day or two. To-morrow, Tuesday, is always a busy day with us."

"I don't think I can," was the answer. "The call is urgent. Probably I could get Thompson in my place for a couple of days, if that would suit?"

Pettigrew knew very well that Thompson would not be accepted; but the offer was a plea in his favour.

"No, no," said Mr. Thornton. "If you must go, you must, and we will get on as best we can. There could not be a worse time, though. You will be sure to return by Wednesday night?"

"Quite sure, but it will take all my time."

"Good-night," said Mr. Thornton.

"Good-night," rejoined Pettigrew.

And as the clerk took his departure, Thornton soliloquised—"Everything is all right, eh? Much he knows about it, or much he cares either!"