CHAPTER IXPRESCOTT MAKES A PROMISE
The fortnight that followed Gertrude’s drive to Sebastian passed 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 embarrassing, 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 assisting in the work. The whole morass 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 allsorry 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 morningsand 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 passion 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 nobody 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 coarser 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 rushing winds. We haven’tsimmered 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 attitude,” he rejoined with amusement. “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 Icame here, but I can’t believe the worst. You have reassured 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 compassion. 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. Her senses were stirring and she felt a half-guilty pleasure at seeing the bronzed rancher’s eyes bent on her tenderly. To think of him except as her host for a few weeks was, of course, folly; but there was a fascination in the gentleness he showed her. Shewas beginning to understand and sympathize with Cyril’s rash daring and contempt for restraints. She felt tempted to follow her impulses; her frigid reserve was melting.
“Will you have more tea?” she asked, shrinking back to safe ground.
“Thank you,” he said, holding out the dainty cup.
“Hot water? It’s rather strong.”
“Before I had a housekeeper we made it black and drank it by the kettleful.”
“But the effect on your nerves!”
“Nerves?” he laughed. “We don’t cultivate them in this country. Mine make no trouble.”
“You’re to be envied,” she said, and looked up sharply at a sound of footsteps as her father came in.
His clothes were dusty and creased; the neatness which had characterized him on his arrival had gone. His face had grown brown, but it was haggard, hotly flushed, and beaded with perspiration; his lips were tightly set, his eyes had an ominous glitter. Throwing down a riding quirt he carried, he sat down; resting his arms on the table, in an attitude of blank dejection.
“Nothing yet,” he said listlessly. “It’s hard to bear.”
“There’s a suggestion I want to make.” Prescott spoke quietly. “The offer of a reward here has led to nothing; send another round to the Alberta and British Columbia papers, with a description of your son, saying you’ll pay a hundred dollars for trustworthy information about him. I believe it will bring you good news.”
Jernyngham turned to him in keen impatience.
“It would be useless—my son is dead! The police have proved that beyond a doubt, and I cannot understand why you should persist in denying it!” His eyesgrew hard with sudden suspicion. “It looks as if you had some motive.”
“I’m afraid you’re hardly just,” Gertrude broke in. “Mr. Prescott only wishes to lessen your anxiety, but he’s convinced of what he says.”
It was a rare thing for her to oppose him, but Jernyngham was too preoccupied to be surprised at her boldness, and he made a gesture of deprecation.
“You must forgive me, Mr. Prescott—my daughter’s right. But to offer me assurances that must prove false is rank cruelty. I have faced the worst; I’m not strong enough to bear a second blow, which is what must follow if I listen to you. As it is, the strain is merciless.”
His voice and bearing showed it. Indeed, one could have imagined that it would have been better had he yielded a little more, but his eyes expressed a grim, vengeful determination. He was not the man to weaken, he would hold out until he broke down; but his daughter and Prescott were filled with fears for him.
“I’m sorry,” said the rancher. “Has Curtis thought of anything new?”
“No,” Jernyngham answered harshly. “The police can entertain only one idea at a time; they can read the meaning of footprints and there their ability ends. They have no power of organization; I can’t force them to make investigations on a proper scale, and I’m helpless until harvest’s over. Then, when men can be hired, I’ll have every bluff and ravine in the country searched. If I spend the rest of my life here, I’ll find the guilty man!”
He said nothing further, and there was a strained silence while he sat, leaning forward limply, with bent head, and a thin hand clenched hard upon the table. Rousing himself by and by, he took the cup of tea Gertrude passedto him, and set it down without drinking. It made a sharp clatter, but he left it setting near him as if he had forgotten it. Unable to bear the sight of his distress, Prescott went quietly out, and when he was leaving the house Gertrude joined him.
“Perhaps I should have stayed with him, but I was afraid to speak,” she said. “Besides, there was nothing to be said.”
“This can’t go on,” Prescott declared. “It’s too much for him. I can’t leave here until the harvest’s over, and then the grain ought to be hauled in, but I’ve thought of making a tour of inquiry along the new railroad and round the Alberta ranches and the mines in British Columbia.”
Gertrude looked grateful.
“It would be a great relief to feel that something was being done. But—” she added hesitatingly, “your time is valuable and there would be expense. I have some means, Mr. Prescott, and though I dare not speak to my father about it, you must draw on me.”
“We’ll talk about it later. I wish I could go now, but that’s impossible, and there’s no use in suggesting that Mr. Jernyngham should send somebody else. Besides, I believe I’d have the best chance of picking up the right trail. You won’t mind my saying that I’m very sorry for you?”
Her eyes grew soft and her whole expression gentle. It was an attractive face Prescott looked into.
“I value your sympathy,” she said softly. “Indeed, I can’t tell you what a comfort you have been. But you will undertake this search as soon as possible, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Prescott replied firmly; “you can count on that. If I’ve made things easier for you, I’m very glad.”
Then he turned away and hurried back to the binder.
CHAPTER XA NEW CLUE
It was a clear, cool morning and Prescott was busily engaged throwing sheaves into his wagon. He had finished his harvest and, in accordance with western custom, had immediately begun the thrashing. Part of the great field was already stripped to a belt of tall stubble, though long ranks of stooks still stretched across the rest, and dusty men were hard at work among them. Wagons rolled through the crackling straw—going slowly, piled high with rustling loads; returning light, jolting wildly, as fast as the teams could trot, for the thrashers were paid by the bushel and would brook no delay. In the background stood their big machine, pouring out a cloud of smoke that stretched in a gray trail across the prairie, and filling the air with its harsh clatter.
It was a scene of strenuous activity, filled with hurriedly moving figures, but its coloring had lost something of its former vividness. The blue of the sky was softer, the light less strong; the varying hues of lemon and copper and ocher had become subdued; the shadows were no longer darkly blue but a cool restful gray. The rushing winds that had swept the wide plain all summer had come to rest; the air was sharp and still.
The last week or two, however, had brought no change to the inmates of the homestead. Jernyngham still brooded over his loss and worried the police, his daughterlooked to her host for comfort, and Prescott did what he could to cheer her. Gertrude, indeed, was sensible of a rapidly growing confidence in him and of the abandonment of many long-held ideas. The man was not of her station: he was a working farmer, his views at first had jarred on her; and yet the attraction he had for her was steadily increasing. She made a feeble fight against it. In England she had stood on safe ground, hedged in by conventions, ruled by the opinions of a narrow circle of friends. Now all was different; she had lost these supports and restraints and she was helpless without them. Passion was beginning to touch her and she mistook the rancher’s gentleness and sympathy.
When Prescott had loaded his wagon she joined him as he led his team between the ranks of stooks, but while she walked by his side he thought of another Englishwoman whom he had once brought home with the prairie hay. He remembered how Muriel Hurst had nestled among the yielding grass, with something delightful in every line of her figure. He recalled her bright good-humor, the music of her laugh, the soft tones of her voice, the hint of courage he had seen in her eyes; and there was pain in the recollection. Gertrude Jernyngham was powerless to move him as Muriel had done, but he was sorry for Cyril’s sister and very considerate of her.
“We’ll have the crop off the ground before long,” he said. “Then I’ll start for Alberta, as I promised.”
“You will be away some time?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s a big province, though there are not a great many settlements in it yet; and I may have to cross over into British Columbia.”
Gertrude looked down.
“It is very generous of you to go, but I shall miss you. I shall feel as if I had lost my chief support.”
“So far, I’ve done nothing but talk; and talk is cheap,” he laughed.
“You have given me courage,” she said with shy hesitation. “And sympathy is worth a good deal.”
He did not respond as she thought he might have done, and she continued:
“If my father had been less obstinate, you need not have gone; he could have hired a professional inquiry agent. But you had better not say anything about your object to him—it must be a secret between us.”
“Yes,” assented Prescott thoughtfully, “I guess that would be wiser. You want to keep his mind at rest as far as you can. Of course, there’s a big chance that I may fail.”
Gertrude turned to him with a smile.
“Oh, no! You are not one to fail!”
Prescott was slightly embarrassed. He had a feeling that he was being gently led on toward a closer acquaintance with his companion. She was dropping the reserve she had at first displayed and seemed to invite him tacitly into her confidence. He admitted that this idea might be incorrect, but it had troubled him once or twice before.
“I expect you’ll be comfortable enough while I’m away,” he said. “Mrs. Svendsen’s trustworthy, and everything will be quiet after the harvesters have gone.”
Gertrude did not answer, and they went on in silence to the noisy separator. Perspiring men, stripped of their heavier garments, were tossing the sheaves amid a cloud of dust; cleaned grain poured out into open bags, and as each was filled two panting toilers flung itinto a wagon. Near-by stood a great and growing pile of bags, over which the short straw would be spread a number of feet thick, to form a granary. Gertrude joined her father, who was standing near the machine, moodily looking on, and before Prescott had unloaded his wagon Curtis rode up with Private Stanton.
“Nothing new at the muskeg, sir,” he reported to Jernyngham rather curtly, and walked his horse toward Prescott.
“We were passing,” he told him, and indicated the pile of grain. “You’re not selling right away?”
“No; I’m not ready to haul the crop in to the elevators yet. I’ve one or two more pressing things to do.”
“Mayn’t you miss a chance? Prices are pretty good.”
Prescott was on his guard; he felt that Curtis suspected him.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I guess they won’t fall much.”
“Your neighbors mean to sell, though it’s quite likely that’s to meet their bills, and you always tried to get in on the first of the market until this year. It must have cost you a pile to put in that big crop.”
“It did.”
“Then how have you got so prosperous since last fall?”
It was a pointed question, because everybody in the district knew that Prescott had sold only a few head of cattle and a horse or two, while he would shortly have his accounts to meet.
“It’s a matter of management,” he replied. “I’ve been working on a different system this spring, and I find it pays.” Then he looked steadily at the corporal, “Besides, running Jernyngham’s place along with mine made it easier to cut expenses.”
“It’s a great crop. But we must be getting on.”
He rode off and when they had left the stubble, Private Stanton looked at him.
“His being able to hold his wheat; which he couldn’t do last year, is a pretty strong count against the man. You gave him his chance for explaining and he made a mighty bad show. Looks as if he’d got some money he couldn’t account for since last fall.”
“Not proved,” returned Curtis. “There’s something in what he said. Anyway, he isn’t afraid of us, since he’s putting up his grain.”
“I don’t quite catch on.”
Curtis smiled.
“You’re young. A guilty man would have rushed his crop into the elevators and had his money ready to light out with. If Prescott pulls out suddenly, he’ll have to leave his property behind.”
“The thing’s between him and Wandle,” Stanton persisted.
“Looks like that. Anyway, as the Austrian’s at the settlement, we’ll have a good look round his homestead. It’s possible that we’ll find something.”
“What made you think of searching the place again? Anything in the last instructions you got from Regina? You didn’t show them to me.”
“That’s so. It isn’t a part of my duty to consult you, and you’re a bit of a hustler. However, this is what I heard—a land agent in Navarino sent for the district sergeant; told him he’d run across a man from Sebastian at the hotel and the fellow got talking about Jernyngham. It was the first the land agent had heard of the matter; but he was struck by the date on which Jernyngham disappeared, because he’d had a deal with him three days later.”
“That’s mighty strange. If he’s right, Jernyngham couldn’t have been killed.”
“Don’t hustle!” said Curtis. “The fellow showed the sergeant the sale record, but he described Jernyngham as a big, rather stout man with light hair.”
“Wandle!” exclaimed Stanton. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“Not yet. We might get him sent up for fraud and forgery, but if he had anything to do with knocking Jernyngham out, he’ll be more likely to give us a clue of some kind while he’s at large.”
They rode on and reaching Wandle’s farm searched the house carefully, replacing everything exactly as they found it. They discovered nothing of importance, but as they went out Curtis glanced at the ash and refuse heap.
“We might have thought of that earlier,” he said. “I’ve heard of people trying to burn up things it might be dangerous to leave about.”
Setting to work with a fork and shovel, they presently unearthed a rusty iron object which Stanton picked up.
“Looks like a big meat can,” he remarked. “Kind of curious that Wandle should double it over this way and flatten it down.”
Curtis took it from him and examined it carefully.
“It isn’t a meat can; top edges are turned over a wire—here’s a bit sticking out—and it’s had a handle. There’s a hinge in another place. The thing has been a box—a cash-box, I guess—one of the rubbishy kind they sell for about a dollar.”
“But what would make a man smash up his cash-box?”
“I don’t know; guess it doesn’t apply. I could understand his wanting to get rid of one that belonged tosomebody else, after he’d cleaned it out. Aren’t you beginning to understand?”
“Sure,” said Stanton eagerly. “The box was Jernyngham’s—we’ll find out when he bought it at the hardware store. Then we’ll get after Wandle.”
“You hustle too much!” Curtis rebuked him, and then sat down with knitted brows. “Now see here—in a general way, it’s convictions we’re out for; you want to count on your verdict before you arrest a man. It comes to this: he’s tried first by us, and if he’s to be let off, it saves trouble if we decide the thing, instead of leaving it to the jury. They won’t tell you that at Regina, but, in practise, you’ll find that a police trooper is expected to use some judgment. Still, there are exceptions to what I’ve said about holding back. In the interests of justice, one might have to corral an innocent man.”
“How’s that going to serve the interests of justice?”
The corporal’s eyes twinkled with dry amusement.
“For one thing, it might lead the fellow we were really after to think we hadn’t struck his trail. But that’s not the point. How much ash would you figure Wandle takes out of his stove each time he lights it?”
“About a bucketful, burning wood.”
“Not quite, but there’s a bucket yonder. See how many times you can fill it with the stuff we shoveled off, while I take a smoke. Build up the pile to look as if we hadn’t disturbed it.”
Stanton did as he was bidden, counting each bucketful he replaced, and then Curtis sent him to clean out the stove and estimate the quantity of ash before he put it back. Then he made a calculation.
“Allowing for some of the ash slipping down the pile and for our having moved a little that was there beforeWandle threw the cash-box in, it fixes the time he did so pretty close to Jernyngham’s disappearance,” he remarked. “Looks bad against the Austrian, doesn’t it?”
“You have quite as much against Prescott.”
“Yes,” Curtis admitted regretfully; “that’s the trouble. It isn’t quite so easy being a policeman as folks seem to think. Now we’ll ride along and call on the hardware man.”
They mounted and soon afterward saw a buggy emerge from the short pines on the crest of a distant rise, whereupon Curtis rode hard for a poplar bluff, which he kept between himself and the vehicle.
“Looks like Wandle coming back,” he said to Stanton, who had followed him. “I can’t see any reason he should know we’ve been prospecting round his place.”
Reaching the settlement they visited the hardware dealer, who remembered having sold Jernyngham a small cheap cash-box about twelve months earlier. On being shown the bent-up iron, he expressed his belief that it was the article in question.
A day or two after the corporal’s discovery, the mail-carrier left some letters at the Prescott homestead, and when it was getting dusk Gertrude strolled out on the prairie, thinking of one she had received. After a while Prescott joined her and she greeted him with a smile.
“My team was looking a bit played out and the boys will be able to keep the separator gang going as long as they can see,” he said.
“Do you feel that you have to make excuses for stopping work, after twelve hours of it?” Gertrude asked.
“Yes,” he laughed; “I do feel something of the kind. There’s so much to do and the days are getting shorter fast.”
He glanced at her with appreciation. She wore a thin, black dress made after the latest London mode, which showed to advantage the graceful lines of her tall figure; the Jernynghams, who seldom departed from an established custom, changed their attire every evening. Gertrude had on no hat, and the fading light shone into her face. It was finely cut but cold, the features unusually good. She was a handsome woman, but she lacked warmth and softness.
“I’m in a difficulty,” she told him. “Perhaps you can help—you’re a man of many resources.”
“I’ll be glad to do what I can.”
“We are expecting a visit from three old friends of ours who heard in America of the trouble we are in and want to see us. What can we do with them?”
“I haven’t room,” Prescott answered. “But let me think—Leslie has quite a big house, and it’s only three miles from here. Now that he will have got rid of the harvesters, he might be willing to take your friends in. He and his wife are pleasant people; but I think you met her.”
“Yes. I knew you wouldn’t fail us,” Gertrude said gratefully. “But, after all, I feel inclined to wish they were not coming.”
There was an elusive something in her tone which did not escape Prescott’s notice.
“Why do you wish that?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s difficult to explain, but we have got used to the mode of life here: the few people we meet seem to understand our feelings, and we have learned to trust them. Strangers would rather spoil it all; in a sense, their visit would be an intrusion.”
Prescott realized that this was complimentary to him.She had made it clear that he was not a stranger, but one of the people she trusted. The effect was to render him somewhat embarrassed, but Gertrude resumed:
“I think we owe you a good deal. I don’t know what we should have done had we fallen into less considerate hands.”
“I’m yours to command,” he replied; and they walked on in silence for a while, Gertrude glancing at him unobtrusively now and then.
She did not believe her brother dead—Prescott had reassured her; and now she felt strongly attracted by the rancher. She had thrown off the restraints in which she had long acquiesced; she was driven by a passion which was rapidly overpowering her.
“You don’t suggest that the Leslies should take us all,” she said.
“No,” Prescott answered gravely; “I’d rather keep you and your father here.”
“Then you’re no longer anxious to get rid of us?”
He colored.
“That’s true. I begin to feel I’m one of the party. Then, you see, Leslie’s pretty talkative and agrees with Curtis. He might have a bad effect on your father; he might even shake your confidence.”
“Oh,” she begged, “don’t labor the explanation. You are one of the party and our friend.”
Prescott bowed.
“I’ll try to make that good. I’m going off to look for your brother in a few more days, but it will cost me something to leave the homestead now.”
He had spoken the truth. Until lately the man had been bereft of all the amenities of life, but he had now grown to appreciate the society of cultured people; thetask of cheering and encouraging his guests had become familiar; he might even have been drawn to the beautiful woman he had comforted had not his heart been filled with the image of Muriel.
“But after the summer’s hard monotonous work, a change must be nice,” she suggested.
“Yes; in a way. The trouble is that I must leave my guests.”
Gertrude’s eyes grew soft as they rested on him.
“We shall miss you,” she murmured. “But you must go and find out all you can; I’m afraid the mystery and suspense are breaking my father down.”
They walked on in silence for a while, and then Svendsen appeared near the homestead, waving his arm.
“Looks as if I were wanted,” Prescott remarked; “I believe there’s a wagon to be fixed. Will you excuse me? I’ll ride over and have a talk with Leslie in the morning.”
CHAPTER XIA REVELATION
The sun had just dipped, leaving a rim of flaring color on the edge of the vast plain, when Prescott sat smoking on the stoop of the Leslie homestead a week after his evening walk with Gertrude. Leslie and his wife were simple people from Ontario, who had prospered in the last few years. Their crops had escaped rust and hail and autumn frost, and as a result of this, the rancher had replaced his rude frame dwelling with a commodious house, built, with lower walls of brick and wood above, in a somewhat ornate style copied from the small villas which are springing up on the outskirts of the western towns.
Leslie, an elderly, brown-faced man, sat near Prescott; the Jernynghams, who had driven over to welcome his friends, were inside, talking to Mrs. Leslie.
“Guess you don’t know much about the English people we’re expecting?” Leslie asked.
“No,” said Prescott; “only that they’re friends of the Jernynghams. I don’t think I’ve even heard their names yet.”
“Mrs. Leslie knows,” rejoined the farmer; “I forget it. I feel kind of sorry now that she agreed to take them in, but you made a point of it, and if the man’s not so blamed stand-offish, I’ll have somebody to talk to.”
“I wouldn’t talk too much about Cyril Jernyngham.”
Leslie looked hard at him.
“There’s one point, Jack, where I can’t agree with you—you’re the only man in this district who doesn’t believe Jernyngham’s dead. It strikes me that you know more about the thing than you have told anybody yet.”
“Let it go at that,” said Prescott awkwardly, “All I could say would only bring more trouble on his people, and they’ve had quite enough.”
“Sure,” agreed Leslie, raising his hand in warning. “Sh-h! They’re coming out.”
The next moment Gertrude and her father joined the men, and after a few words with them stood still, listening. A long bluff, through which the trail from the settlement led, ran close up to the homestead, cutting against the pale green glow of the sky. For a few minutes there was a deep silence, intensified by the musical clash of cowbells in the distance, and then a measured, drumming sound rose softly from behind the trees.
“Guess that’s your friends,” Leslie said to Jernyngham. “Jim’s made pretty good time.”
The beat of hoofs grew nearer until the listeners could hear the rattle of wheels. Then a light, four-wheeled vehicle came lurching out of the bluff and Jernyngham hurried down the steps. Prescott had entered the house to tell Mrs. Leslie, and he came out as the driver pulled up his team. The occupants of the wagon, which had run a little past the door, had their backs to him, but seeing a girl about to alight he sprang forward. Her head was turned away from him at first, but she glanced round when he offered to assist her; and he forgot what the consequences of the meeting must be as he looked into the eyes of Muriel Hurst. He was conscious of an overwhelming delight, which showed itself in his shiningeyes and the warm color that suddenly flushed his face; Gertrude Jernyngham, standing beside him, read what was in his heart.
The effect on Muriel was as marked. He had seized her hand and as she was standing precariously poised, ready to descend, he swung her down. Then she recoiled from him, startled, but with strong relief in her expression.
“Cyril!” she cried in a strained voice. “Why didn’t you write and tell us that it was all a mistake? We heard that you were dead!”
Then Prescott remembered and his heart sank, but he strove to gather his courage, for there was a crisis to be faced. He stood silent, with one hand clenched tight, while Gertrude watched him with hard, unwavering eyes. Jernyngham, however, had heard Muriel’s startled exclamation and hurried toward her.
“What’s this?” he asked harshly. “You called my son’s name!”
The girl looked at Prescott; troubled and surprised by the confused emotions his face betrayed. There was obviously something wrong, but she could not imagine what it was.
“Yes,” she said, “I called him Cyril. Why shouldn’t I?”
Colston and his wife joined the group, while the driver looked on from the wagon and the Leslies from the stoop. Prescott and the girl stood a little distance apart and Muriel was sensible of a nervous shiver. When Prescott had first held up his hand to her, she had seen his keen pleasure and her heart had responded to it; now, however, she was filled with dismay.
Jernyngham answered her in curt, stern tones:
“There’s one very good reason—this is not my son!”
“Not Cyril!” Colston broke in. “But he made us believe he was; he’s the man we stayed with!” He made a puzzled gesture. “I can’t understand the thing.”
“Nor I,” replied Jernyngham. “Is this the man you wrote to us about?”
“Of course!” said Colston stupidly. “I thought he was Cyril; so did we all. We had no cause to doubt it.”
Jernyngham turned in fury to the Leslies.
“Who is the fellow?” he demanded.
Prescott braced himself.
“I’ll answer that—Jack Prescott. Mr. Colston stayed at my homestead.”
“And you personated my son? I suppose you had some motive for doing so and must see that we are entitled to an explanation?”
“Yes,” Prescott returned quietly. “This isn’t the place to make it. Hadn’t you better take your friends in?”
They entered the house, which was getting dark, and while the hired man carried in the baggage Leslie lighted a lamp in his sitting-room. It was spacious, roughly paneled in cedar, with an uncovered floor. There were a few chairs scattered about and a plain pine table. Jernyngham sat by the table and the others found seats here and there, except Prescott, who stood quietly opposite the old man. At a curt sign from Jernyngham, Leslie and his wife left the room.
“Mr. Prescott,” Jernyngham began, “you have deceived my friends here and I think they should remain to hear what you have to say, but I will dismiss them if you prefer it. You are responsible to me and I must ask for a full account of your conduct.”
Prescott glanced round the room, which reminded him of a court. Gertrude Jernyngham’s eyes were fixed on him, and there was a hardness that hinted at cruelty in them; she looked very dignified and cold. Mrs. Colston he could not see, but her husband seemed disturbed and uneasy. Muriel leaned forward in her chair, with wonder, apprehension, and pity curiously mingled in her expression. All of them were very still, the silence was disconcerting, but Prescott roused himself to make what defense he could.
“I passed for Cyril Jernyngham at his request,” he said.
“An extraordinary statement!” Jernyngham remarked with ironical incredulity. “May one ask if he gave any reasons for wishing you to do so?”
Prescott hesitated, which counted against him.
“Well,” he said, “Cyril had got hurt in a row at the settlement a few hours before Mr. Colston’s arrival. His head was badly cut; he thought it might make a bad impression.”
“That doesn’t sound very convincing. Had he no better reason?”
The rancher paused to think. He would not explain that his friend’s mode of life would not have borne a critical examination, but he had a duty to himself and something must be urged.
“I think he meant to hide the fact that he was married. He did not wish your friends to meet his wife.”
Colston started and it was obvious that the others were keenly interested, but Jernyngham’s face grew darker and marked by signs of pain, for he had learned a little about Ellice. He was struggling with an overwhelming humiliation.
“We’ll let that pass,” he said. “It’s a matter that cannot be discussed. Was Mr. Colston’s visit the only time you personated my son?”
“Certainly! Nothing would induce me to play the part again.”
“Then you will be surprised to hear that shortly after Cyril’s disappearance a man sold some land of his at a town farther along the line?”
“I am surprised, but I believe it must have been Cyril.”
“Then his handwriting must have totally changed, which I believe is a very unusual thing,” Jernyngham rejoined sarcastically. “I have been shown some documents which he is supposed to have filled in.”
Prescott began to realize that appearances were very strongly against him. He had admitted having once impersonated his friend and it would be difficult to convince those who had heard his confession that he had not done so again, when there was a strong motive for it in the price of the land.
“Well,” he said firmly; “if the handwriting wasn’t Cyril’s, I can’t tell whose it was; it certainly wasn’t mine. There’s one thing I’m convinced of—your son is not dead.”
Jernyngham looked at him; with the veins on his forehead swollen and his face tense with anger, but he held himself in hand.
“You have said so often. I did not believe you; I do not believe you now; but your object in making the statement is easy to understand. I’ve no doubt you realize that you lie open to a very ugly suspicion.”
“No!” a strained voice broke in. “That is not just!”
Looking up, Prescott saw that it was Muriel who hadspoken. Her eyes were bright with indignation and her face was hot, but none of the others showed him any sympathy. Colston’s face was grave and troubled, his wife’s expressionless; Gertrude Jernyngham looked more determined and more merciless than her father. She sat very still, coldly watching him.
“Thank you,” he said to Muriel. “It’s comforting to find one person who does not think the worst of me.”
“Silence, sir!” Jernyngham exclaimed with the air of a judge rebuking a prisoner of whose guilt he is convinced. “You cannot be permitted to speak to this lady.”
“I think that is a point for Mrs. Colston to decide, but we’ll let it drop. Out of consideration for you, I’ve answered your questions; but you have gone too far, and this must end.” Prescott’s expression grew as stern as the old man’s and he looked about with pride. “I tell you it must stop! What right have you to fling these infamous hints at me?”
Jernyngham broke into a harsh laugh.
“The part of an innocent man is too much for you to play; we won’t force you into it. It will be a favor if you will have our baggage sent across here; needless to say, neither my daughter nor I can re-enter your house.” Then his self-control deserted him and he broke out in hot fury: “I firmly believe you are the man who killed my son, and you shall not escape!”
“I think,” said Colston quietly, “that is going too far.”
Making no answer, Prescott left them; and he was harnessing his horse outside when, somewhat to his astonishment, Muriel came toward him. A half-moon hung low above the bluff and the silvery light shone into her face, showing her warmth of color and the sparkle in her eyes. He thought she looked wonderfully attractiveand his heart throbbed faster, but he knew he must hold himself in hand.
“Hadn’t you better go back?” he asked. “You have heard what your friends think of me.”
“What does that matter?” she exclaimed with feeling. “I’m very angry with them. I can’t let you go without saying that I know you could not have done what you have been wickedly accused of.”
“I’m glad. Thank you. It’s a big relief to feel that you believe in me. So long as I have that assurance nothing else counts.”
“Harry Colston’s not convinced; I believe he’s trying to keep an open mind.”
“Is that so?” said Prescott. “I don’t expect much from him. He’s the kind of man who’s guided by appearances and seldom does anything out of the common.”
Muriel disregarded this.
“But you were very foolish in deceiving us. I can’t understand yet why you did so.”
“I can only tell you that it was for Cyril’s sake.”
“Oh,” she cried, “it could not have been because of any benefit that you would get! That would never have tempted you.”
He read unshaken confidence in her eyes and it cost him a stern effort to refrain from reckless speech. Muriel was beautiful, but that was not all: she was generous and fearless, a loyal friend and a staunch partizan.
“Well,” Prescott confessed, “when I explained, I was more afraid of you than of Jernyngham. I wanted to keep your good opinion, and I wondered whether you had only given it to me because you thought I was Cyril Jernyngham. From your friends’ point of view Jack Prescott is a very different kind of person.”
Muriel blushed.
“Is it unpardonable that I was angry when I first found out the mistake? Try to imagine with what ideas I have been brought up. But the feeling left me when I saw how merciless Jernyngham was; his hard words turned it into sympathy.”
“That is something to be thankful for, though it doesn’t content me. I think you would be sorry for any one, even an enemy, who was in trouble and getting hurt.”
She grasped his meaning and looked at him steadily with an air of pride.
“Then must I tell you that I have as much faith in Jack Prescott as I had in the man whom I supposed to be Cyril Jernyngham? But you must justify my confidence. You have been wrongly and cruelly accused; don’t you see the duty that lies on you?”
“Yes,” Prescott answered gravely; “I have to clear myself. If there were no other reason than the one you have given, it would have to be done. It’s going to be a tough proposition, but I’ll get about it very soon.”
“You know that I wish you all success,” she told him softly.
Then she held out her hand and turned away. When she had gone Prescott went on with his work and after buckling the last strap he found that he had forgotten a parcel Mrs. Leslie had asked him to deliver. Hurrying back to the house for it, he met Gertrude Jernyngham in the hall and she stopped where the light fell on her, instead of avoiding him as he had expected. There was suspicion in her eyes.
“I see you agree with your father,” he said boldly.
“Yes,” she replied in a scornful tone. “You can pose rather cleverly—you tricked me into trusting you, butyour ability is limited, after all. When the strain comes, you break down. Could anything have been feebler than the defense you made?”
“It was pretty lame, but every word was true.”
“Oh,” she cried with disgust and impatience, “one wouldn’t expect you to say it was false! You don’t seem to have anything more convincing to add.”
“I’m going to add nothing. It isn’t very long since you were willing to take my word.”
“I’m afraid I was easily deceived,” Gertrude said bitterly. “I didn’t know you had twice passed yourself off as my brother, and you can’t complain if we see an obvious motive for your doing so the second time.”
“You mean that I stole the price of Cyril’s land?” Prescott asked sternly.
“Yes,” she said, watching him with cruel eyes. “That, however, is not the worst.” She struggled with rising passion before she resumed: “I believe——”
Prescott raised his hand commandingly.
“Stop! I’m going away to find your brother.”
“One can understand your going away!” she flung back at him as she passed on down the hall.
Prescott drove home at a reckless pace. Facing the situation boldly, he recognized that the outlook was very dark.