Prescott of Saskatchewan Part 14

PRESCOTT MAKES A PROMISE

The fortnight that followed Gertrude's drive to Sebastian pa.s.sed uneventfully, though the minds of three of the occupants of the homestead were filled with disturbing thoughts. Prescott spent the time working hard at his harvest, but he wished that something might relieve him of his guests, whose presence he found embarra.s.sing, since it forced him to be continually on his guard. In spite of this, he was conscious of strong sympathy for them and did what he could to ensure their comfort. He was getting uneasy, for he saw that Cyril Jernyngham had involved him in a maze of complications from which there seemed to be no escape. It was obvious that appearances were against him; the evidence that Curtis had obtained pointed to his being implicated in the death of his friend, and the painstaking corporal might discover something more damaging. Prescott fancied that one or two of his acquaintances who now and then rode across his farm on different errands returned his greeting with a new and significant coldness.

Jernyngham spent much of his time at the muskeg, encouraging the men who searched it and often a.s.sisting in the work. The whole mora.s.s was being systematically turned over with the spade, but no further discoveries had been made. In addition to this, Jernyngham rode to and fro about the prairie, talking to the farmers whom he met on the trail or found at work in the fields. They were all sorry for him, but there was something deterrent in his sternness and his formal English manner, and they were less communicative than they might have been. This was why he failed to learn that the Colstons had stayed at Prescott's homestead, though, for that matter, the fact was not generally known. The man could not rest; tormented by regrets for his past harshness, he was bent on making the only amend he could by hunting down the slayer of his son. His whole mind was fixed on the task, and he brooded over it in a manner that aroused his daughter's concern. She dreaded the effect a continuance of the strain might have.

Gertrude, however, was relieved of a more pressing anxiety. Though her father steadfastly refused to entertain it, she shared Prescott's belief that her brother was not dead. For one thing, Cyril was not the man to come badly to grief; he had done many reckless things and somehow escaped the worst results. Illogical as the idea was, she felt that his luck was good. It was a comforting reflection and she was sensible of a growing confidence in the farmer, who encouraged her to cling to it.

One afternoon she left the house and strolled across the harvest fields, which had greatly changed in appearance since she had first seen them.

The oats were all stooked and stood in silvery sheaves, ready for the thrasher; the great stretch of wheat had melted down to a narrow oblong, round which the binders were working. Gertrude stopped to watch them. The plodding horses, the bent figures of the men, the play of light on falling grain, and the revolving arms of the machines fixed her eyes; the rustle of sheaves, the crackle of stubble, and the musical tinkle of metal, fell pleasantly on her ears. The mornings and evenings were cold now, but the days were hot and bright, and the scene was steeped in vivid hues: ocher, lemon, and coppery red below, dazzling blue above.

Prescott drove the leading binder and when it drew nearer she followed his movements with careful scrutiny. She admitted that the man aroused her interest. He was wonderfully virile, sanguine, and hopeful, with a trace of what she thought of as the primitive strain; which tended toward physical perfection; his vigor and muscular symmetry had their effect on her. Though her father was a man of means and influence, her circle of acquaintances had been restricted by the narrowness of his views; and the men with whom she had been brought into contact were, for the most part, distinguished rather by unexceptional morals and sound opinions than by bodily grace and original thought.

By disposition as well as training Gertrude was a formalist and a prude, but she was human and she unconsciously obeyed a law of nature which ordains the union of the dissimilar. This was why, having met only men of her own kind hitherto, she had escaped the touch of pa.s.sion and now felt drawn toward one who greatly differed from her.

After a while Prescott stopped his binder and opened a box attached to it. He closed it sharply, as if annoyed, called to one of the men gathering up the sheaves, and then walked toward the house.

"Run out of twine; I'll have to get some," he explained to Gertrude.

"You look tired," she said, stopping him. "You have been working very hard."

"I don't feel quite as bright as usual," he confessed. "It's the heat, I think, but I've turned out at four o'clock every morning since harvest began."

"Then why not take a few minutes' rest? I'll make you a cup of tea; I was going in to get some ready. It's an English custom."

He indicated his attire.

"I'd be glad, but I haven't time to make myself presentable."

"I'll excuse that." Gertrude smiled and added with unusual boldness: "You don't seem to know that your dress is really most artistic. It suits you."

He bowed to her.

"I'm flattered. This costume was adopted with a view to economy and comfort. The worst of a man's wearing smart clothes is that whenever he wants to do anything useful he has to take them off."

"Is that a great trouble?"

"It takes a lot of valuable time," he answered with a smile.

They turned toward the house, and after getting the twine he joined her in a cool, shadowy room. Gertrude was watching a silver spirit-lamp; near which two dainty cups and plates were laid out.

"That's a very pretty outfit," he remarked. "Is it English?"

"No; I bought it at a big store in Winnipeg--on Portage Avenue, I think."

"I know the place. So they're selling this kind of thing there! It's significant. A few years ago they'd have got n.o.body to buy such truck."

He picked up a cup and held it to the light after examining the chaste color, design, and stamp. "Anyway, it's English; the genuine article. I believe the biscuit can't be imitated."

Gertrude had not expected him to understand artistic china.

"I've read about these things," he explained with a good-humored laugh; "and I've a way of remembering. We have time in winter, and one is glad to study anything that comes along. Still, I'll allow that I found five-cent cans quite good enough when I first came out."

This was not a point of much importance, but it fixed Gertrude's attention. She was in the habit of roughly sorting people into different groups; there were, for example, those who appreciated beautiful things and had been endowed with them as a reward of merit, and those of coa.r.s.er nature on whom they would be wasted, which was, no doubt, why they had none. Yet here was a man with artistic taste, who was nevertheless engaged in hard manual labor and had drunk contentedly out of common cans. It did not fit in with her theories.

"I suppose this country has its influence on one?" she said, searching for an explanation.

"That's so; the influence is strong and good, on the whole."

She considered this, quietly studying him. It was the first time she had entertained at table a man in outdoor working attire; Prescott, out of deference to his guests, had made some preparation for the meals they shared. Still, the simple dress became him; he was, as she vaguely thought of it, admirable, in a way. His hands and wrists were well-shaped, though scarred and roughened by the rasp of the hot straw.

The warmth of the sun seemed to cling to his brown face; a joyous vitality emanated from him, and he had mental gifts. She felt lightly thrilled by his propinquity.

"But everything out here is still very crude," she said.

"That's where our strength lies; we're a new people, raised on virgin soil out in the rus.h.i.+ng winds. We haven't simmered down yet; we're charged with unexhausted energies, which show themselves in novel ways.

In our cities you'll find semibarbarous rawness side by side with splendor and art, and complicated machines run by men who haven't much regard for the fastidious niceties of civilization, though they're unexcelled in their engineering skill. We undertake big works in an unconsidered manner that would scare your cautious English minds, make wild blunders, and go ahead without counting the damage. We come down pretty hard often, but it never brings us to a stop."

He saw that she did not grasp all he meant to convey, and he leaned back in his chair with a laugh.

"This is the kind of fool talk you would expect from a boastful Westerner, isn't it?"

"No," she replied somewhat formally; "that isn't what I thought. I find everything I see and hear interesting, but there's much I can't understand. One has to feel for its meaning."

"It's a very proper att.i.tude," he rejoined with amus.e.m.e.nt. "So long as you don't bring over a ready-made standard to measure our shortcomings by, we'll explain all we can. In fact, it's a thing we're fond of doing."

Then his tone grew grave. "But I haven't seen your father since this morning. Is he at the muskeg?"

"Yes. I'm getting anxious about him; the trouble is preying on his mind.

Grief, of course, is a natural feeling, but he thinks of nothing except revenge. He's growing haggard and losing his judgment. I'm almost afraid to think what may happen if he finds anything that looks like a clue. The shock has shaken him terribly."

"And you?"

"I feel half guilty because I've been so calm since I came here, but I can't believe the worst. You have rea.s.sured me." She paused and added softly: "And I'm very grateful."

"I'm glad." Prescott's tone was sympathetic. "But I can imagine what your father feels. From a few things he has told me, he seems to have led a smooth, well-ordered life; no doubt he made too much of the trouble your brother caused him."

"Yes; I think so now."

"Perhaps he half-consciously formed an idea that things would always go tranquilly with him, and when it came without warning the shock of Cyril's disappearance was too strong. And yet I firmly believe he's mistaken in his fears."

Gertrude made a sign of agreement.

"Nothing I can say calms him. One can only wait."

"And that's always hard," Prescott said gently.

She roused him to strong compa.s.sion. She had, he thought, no great depth of character, but her development had been checked by many restraints.

Her father had curbed each natural impulse, until the little originality in her withered and died; she had grown up cold and colorless, with narrow views, and petty, if quite blameless, aims. Prescott, however, was wrong in crediting Jernyngham with too great a success. Gertrude's nature had not been utterly repressed and stunted, and now, in time of stress, it was expanding.

Romance had come late to her, but she was dimly conscious of it at last.