Читать книгу The Black Creek Stopping-House and Other Stories - Nellie Letitia McClung - Страница 7

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The tender green of the early summer deepened and ripened into the golden tinge of autumn as over the Black Creek Valley the mantle of harvest was spread.

Only a small portion of the valley was under cultivation, for the oldest settler had been in only for three years; but it seemed as if every grain sowed had fallen upon good soil and gave promise of the hundredfold.

Across John Corbett’s ten acres of wheat and forty acres of oats the wind ran waves of shadow all day long, and the pride of the land-owner thrilled Maggie Corbett’s heart over and over again.

Not that the lady of the Stopping-House took the time to stand around and enjoy the sensation, for the busy time was coming on and many travellers were moving about and must be fed. But while she scraped the new potatoes with lightning speed, or shelled the green peas, all of her own garden, her thoughts were full of that peace and reverent gratitude that comes to those who plant the seed and see it grow.

It was a glittering day in early August; a light shower the night before had washed the valley clean of dust, and now the hot harvest sun poured down his ripening rays over the pulsating earth. To the south the Brandon Hills shimmered in a pale gray mirage. Over the trees which sheltered the Stopping-House a flock of black crows circled in the blue air, croaking and complaining that the harvest was going to be late. On the wire-fence that circled the haystack sat a row of red-winged blackbirds like a string of jet beads, patiently waiting for the oats to ripen and indulging in low-spoken but pleasant gossip about all the other birds in the valley.

Within doors Mrs. Corbett served dinner to a long line of stoppers. Many of the “boys” she had not seen since the winter before, and while she worked she discussed neighborhood matters with them, the pleasing sizzle of eggs frying on a hot pan making a running accompaniment to her words.

The guests at Mrs. Corbett’s table were a typical pioneer group—homesteaders, speculators, machine men journeying through the country to sell machinery to harvest the grain not yet grown; the farmer has ever been well endowed with hope, and the machine business flourishes.

Mrs. Corbett could talk and work at the same time, her sudden disappearances from the room as she replenished the table merely serving as punctuation marks, and not interfering with the thread of the story at all.

When she was compelled by the exigencies of the case to be present in the kitchen, and therefore absent in the dining-room, she merely elevated her voice to overcome distance, and dropped no stitch in the conversation.

“New neighbor, is it, you are sayin’, Tom? ’Deed and I have, and her the purtiest little trick you ever saw—diamond rings on her, and silk skirts, and plumes on her hat, and hair as yalla as gold.”

“When she comes over here I can’t be doin’ my work for lookin’ at her. She was brought up with slathers of money.” This came back from the “cheek of the dure”, where Mrs. Corbett was emptying the tea leaves from the teapot. “But the old man, beyant, ain’t been pleased with her since she married this Fred chap—he wouldn’t ever look at Fred, nor let him come to the house, and so she ran away with him, and no one could blame her either for that, and now her and the old man don’t write at all, at all—reach me the bread plate in front of you there, Jim—and there’s bad blood between them. I can see, though, her and the old man are fond o’ one another!”

“Is her man anything like the twin pirates?” asked Sam Moggey from Oak Creek; “because if he is I don’t blame the old man for being mad about it.” Sam was helping himself to another quarter of vinegar pie as he spoke.

Mrs. Corbett could not reply for a minute, for she was putting a new bandage on Jimmy MacCaulay’s finger, and she had the needle and thread in her mouth.

“Not a bit like them, Sam,” she said, as soon as she had the bandage in place, and as she put in quick stitches; “no more like them than day is like night—he’s only a half-brother, and a lot younger. He’s a different sort altogether from them two murderin’ villains that sits in the house all day playin’ cards. He’s a good, smart fellow, and has done a lot of breakin’ and cleanin’ up since he came. What he thinks of the other two lads I don’t know—she never says, but I’d like fine to know.”

“Sure, you’ll soon know then, Maggie,” said “Da” Corbett, bringing in another platter of bacon and eggs and refilling the men’s plates. “Don’t worry.”

In the laugh that followed Maggie Corbett joined as heartily as any of them.

“Go ’long with you, Da!” she cried; “sure you’re just as anxious as I am to know. We all think a lot of Fred and Mrs. Fred,” she went on, bringing in two big dishes of potatoes; “and if you could see that poor, precious lamb trying to cook pork and beans with a little wisp of an apron on, all lace and ribbons, and big diamonds on her fingers, you’d be sorry for her, and you’d say, ‘What kind of an old tyrant is the old man down beyant, and why don’t he take her and Fred back?’ It’s not wrastlin’ round black pots she should be, and she’s never been any place all summer only over here, for they’ve only the oxen, and altho’ she never says anything, I’ll bet you she’d like a bit of a drive, or to get out to some kind of a-doin’s, or the like of that.”

While Mrs. Corbett gaily rattled on there was one man at her table who apparently took no notice of what she said.

He was a different type of man from all the others. Dark complexioned, with swarthy skin and compelling black eyes, he would be noticeable in any company. He was dressed in the well-cut clothes of a city man, and carried himself with a certain air of distinction.

Happening to notice the expression on his face, Mrs. Corbett suddenly changed the conversation, and during the remainder of the meal watched him closely with a puzzled and distrustful look.

When the men had gone that day and John Corbett came in to have his afternoon rest on the lounge in the kitchen, he found Maggie in a self-reproachful mood.

“Da,” she began, “the devil must have had a fine laugh to himself when he saw the Lord puttin’ a tongue in a woman’s head. Did ye hear me to-day, talking along about that purty young thing beyant, and Rance Belmont takin’ in every word of it? Sure and I never thought of him bein’ here until I noticed the look on that ugly mug of his, and mind you, Da, there’s people that call him good-lookin’ with that heavy jowl of his and the hair on him growin’ the wrong way on his head, and them black eyes of his the color of the dirt in the road. They do say he’s just got a bunch of money from the old country, and he’s cuttin’ a wide swath with it. If I’d kept me mouth shut he’d have gone on to Brandon and never knowed a word about there being a purty young thing near. But I watched him hitchin’ up, and didn’t he drive right over there; and I tell you, Da, he means no good.”

“Don’t worry, Maggie,” John Corbett said, soothingly. “He can’t pick her up and run off with her. Mrs. Fred’s no fool.”

“He’s a divil!” Maggie declared with conviction. “Mind you, Da, there ain’t many that can put the comaudher on me, but Rance Belmont done it once.”

Mr. Corbett looked up with interest and waited for her to speak.

“It was about the card-playin’. You know I’ve never allowed a card in me house since I had a house, and never intended to, but the last day Rance Belmont was here—that was away last spring, when you were away—he begins to play with one of the boys that was in for dinner. Right in there on the sewin’-machine in plain sight of all of us I saw them, and I wiped me hands and tied up me apron, and I walked in, and says I, ‘I’ll be obliged to you, Mr. Belmont, to put them by,’ and I looked at him, stiff as pork. ‘Why, certainly, Mrs. Corbett,’ says he, smilin’ at me as if I had said somethin’ pleasant. I felt a little bit ashamed, and went on to sort of explain about bein’ brought up in the Army and all that, and he talked so nice about the Army that you would have thought it was old Major Morris come back again from the dead, and pretty soon he had me talkin’ away to him and likin’ him; and says he, ‘I was just going to show Jimmy here a funny trick that can be done with cards, but,’ says he, ‘if Mrs. Corbett objects I wouldn’t offend her for the world!’ Now here’s the part that scares me, Da—me, Maggie Murphy, that hates cards like I do the divil; says I to him, ‘Oh, go on, Mr. Belmont; I don’t mind at all!’ Now what do you think of that, Da?”

John Corbett sat thinking, but he was not thinking of what Maggie thought he was thinking. He was wondering what trick it was that Rance Belmont had showed Jimmy Peters!