The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPrescott of SaskatchewanThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Prescott of SaskatchewanAuthor: Harold BindlossIllustrator: W. Herbert DuntonRelease date: June 28, 2008 [eBook #25916]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Prescott of SaskatchewanAuthor: Harold BindlossIllustrator: W. Herbert DuntonRelease date: June 28, 2008 [eBook #25916]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net
Title: Prescott of Saskatchewan
Author: Harold BindlossIllustrator: W. Herbert Dunton
Author: Harold Bindloss
Illustrator: W. Herbert Dunton
Release date: June 28, 2008 [eBook #25916]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN ***
PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN
PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN
“IT SEEMED PRUDENT TO PLACE AS LONG A DISTANCE AS POSSIBLEBETWEEN THEM AND THE SETTLEMENT”—Page 158
“IT SEEMED PRUDENT TO PLACE AS LONG A DISTANCE AS POSSIBLEBETWEEN THEM AND THE SETTLEMENT”—Page 158
PRESCOTT OFSASKATCHEWANBYHAROLD BINDLOSSAUTHOR OFTHE LONG PORTAGE,RANCHING FOR SYLVIA,WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE, ETC.WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BYW. HERBERT DUNTON
PRESCOTT OF
SASKATCHEWAN
BY
HAROLD BINDLOSS
AUTHOR OF
THE LONG PORTAGE,
RANCHING FOR SYLVIA,
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE, ETC.
WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY
W. HERBERT DUNTON
GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATIONINTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIANCOPYRIGHT, 1913, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANYPUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE, “THE WASTREL”August, 1913
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE, “THE WASTREL”
August, 1913
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
Prescott, of Saskatchewan
Prescott, of Saskatchewan
CHAPTER IJERNYNGHAM’S HAPPY THOUGHT
The air was cooling down toward evening at Sebastian, where an unpicturesque collection of wooden houses stand upon a branch line on the Canadian prairie. The place is not attractive during the earlier portion of the short northern summer, when for the greater part of every week it lies sweltering in heat, in spite of the strong west winds that drive dust-clouds through its rutted streets. As a rule, during the remaining day or two the temperature sharply falls, thunder crashes between downpours of heavy rain, and the wet plank sidewalks provide a badly-needed refuge from the cement-like “gumbo” mire.
The day, however, had been cloudless and unusually hot. Prescott had driven in from his wheat farm at some distance from the settlement, and he now walked toward the hotel. He was twenty-eight years old, of average height and rather spare figure; his face, which had been deeply bronzed by frost and sun, was what is called open, his gray eyes were clear and steady, the set of his lips and mould of chin firm. He looked honest and good-natured, but one who could, when necessary, sturdily hold his own. His attire was simple: a widegray hat, a saffron-colored shirt with flannel collar, and a light tweed suit, something the worse for wear.
As he passed along the sidewalk he looked about. The small, frame houses were destitute of paint and any pretense of beauty, a number of them had raised, square fronts which hid the shingled roofs; but beyond the end of the street there was the prairie stretching back to the horizon. In the foreground it was a sweep of fading green and pale ocher; farther off it was tinged with gray and purple; and where it cut the glow of green and pink on the skyline a long birch bluff ran in a cold blue smear. To the left of the opening rose three grain elevators: huge wooden towers with their tops narrowed in and devices of stars and flour-bags painted on them. At their feet ran the railroad track, encumbered with a string of freight-cars; a tall water-tank, a grimy stage for unloading coal, and a small office shack marked the station.
Prescott, however, did not notice much of this; he was more interested in the signs of conflict on the persons of the men he met. Some looked as if they had been violently rolled in the dust; others wore torn jackets; and the faces of several were disfigured by bruises. Empty bottles, which make handy clubs, were suggestively scattered about the road. All this was unusual, but Prescott supposed some allowance must be made for the fact that it was the anniversary of the famous victory of the Boyne. Moreover, there was a community of foreign immigrants, mixed with some Irishmen and French Canadians, but all professing the Romish faith, engaged in some railroad work not far away.
In front of the hotel ran a veranda supported on wooden pillars, and a row of chairs was set out on the match-strewn sidewalk beneath it. Most of them were occupiedby after-supper loungers, and several of the men bore scars. Prescott stopped and lighted his pipe.
“Things seem to have been pretty lively here,” he remarked. “I came in to see the implement man and found he couldn’t talk straight, with half his teeth knocked out. It’s lucky the Northwest troopers have stopped your carrying pistols.”
One of the men laughed.
“We’ve had a great day, sure. Quite a few of the Dagos had knives, and Jernyngham had a sword. Guess he’d be in trouble now, only it wasn’t one you could cut with.”
“How did he get the sword?”
“It was King Billy’s,” explained another man. “Fellow who was acting him got knocked out with a bottle in his eye. Jernyngham got up on the horse instead and led the last charge, when we whipped them across the track.”
“Where’s the Protestant Old Guard now?”
“Some of it’s in Clayton’s surgery; rest’s gone home. When it looked as if the stores would be wrecked, Reeve Marvin butted in. Telephoned the railroad boss to send up gravel cars for his boys; told the other crowd he’d bring the troopers in if they didn’t quit. Ordered all strangers off on the West-bound, and now we’re simmering down.”
“Where’s Jernyngham?”
The man jerked his hand toward the hotel.
“In his room, a bit the worse for wear. Mrs. Jernyngham’s nursing him.”
Pushing open the wire-mesh mosquito door, Prescott entered the building. Its interior was shadowy and filled with cigar smoke; flies buzzed everywhere, and the smellof warm resinous boards pervaded the rank atmosphere. The place was destitute of floor covering or drapery, and the passage Prescott walked down was sloppy with soap and water from a row of wash-basins, near which hung one small wet towel. Ascending the stairs, he entered a little and very scantily furnished room with walls of uncovered pine. It contained a bed with a ragged quilt and a couple of plain wooden chairs, in one of which a man leaned back. He was about thirty years old and he roughly resembled Prescott, only that his face, which was a rather handsome one, bore the stamp of indulgence. His forehead was covered by a dirty bandage, there was dust on his clothes, and Prescott thought he was not quite sober. In the other chair sat a young woman with fine dark eyes and glossy black hair, whose appearance would have been prepossessing had it not been spoiled by her slatternliness and cheap finery. She smiled at the visitor as he walked in.
“If you’d come sooner, we might have kep’ him out o’ trouble,” she said. “He got away from me when things begun to hum.”
Her slight accent suggested the French Canadian strain, though Prescott imagined that there was a trace of Indian blood in her. Her manners were unfinished, her character was primitive, but Prescott thought she was as good a consort as Jernyngham deserved. The latter had a small wheat farm lying back on the prairie, but his erratic temperament prevented his successfully working it. Prescott was not a censorious person, and he had a liking and some pity for the man.
“Well,” he said, in answer to the woman’s remark, “that was certainly foolish of him. But what had he to do with the row, anyway?”
“Have a drink, and I’ll try to explain,” said Jernyngham. “A big cool drink might clear my head, and I feel it needs it.”
“You kin have soda, but nothin’ else!” the woman broke in. “I’ll send it up; and now that I kin leave you, I’m goin’ to the store.” She turned to Prescott. “Nothin’ but soda; and see he don’t git out!”
She left them and Jernyngham laughed.
“Ellice’s a good sort; I sometimes wonder how she puts up with me. Anyhow, I’m glad you came, because I’m in what might be called a dilemma.”
As this was not a novelty to his companion, Prescott made no comment, and by and by two tumblers containing iced liquid were brought in. Jernyngham drained his thirstily and looked up with a grin.
“It isn’t exhilarating, but it’s cool,” he said. “Now, however, you’re curious about my honorable scars—I got them from a bottle. It broke, you see, but there’s some satisfaction in remembering that I knocked out the other fellow with the flat of the Immortal William’s sword.”
“You’ll get worse hurt some day,” Prescott rebuked him severely.
“It’s possible, but you’re wandering from the point. I’m trying to remember what led me into the fray in the incongruous company of certain Hardshell Baptists, Ontario Methodists, and Belfast Presbyterians. As a young man, my sympathies were with the advanced Anglicans, perhaps because my people were sternly Evangelical. Then the whole thing’s unreasonable—what have I to do, for instance, with the Protestant succession?”
“It isn’t very plain,” said Prescott. “Still, everybody knows what kind of fool you are.”
“I live,” declared Jernyngham. “You steady, industrious fellows grow. The row began at the ball-game—disputed base, I think—and our lot had got badly whipped at the first round when I stood on the veranda and sang them, ‘No Surrender.’ That was enough for the Ulster boys, and three or four of them go a long way in this kind of scrimmage.”
Prescott had no sympathy with Jernyngham’s vagaries, but one could not be angry with him: the man was irresponsible. In a few moments, however, Jernyngham’s face grew graver.
“Jack,” he resumed, “I’m in a hole. Never troubled to ask for my letters until late in the afternoon, and now I don’t know what to do unless you can help me.”
“You had better tell me what the trouble is.”
“To make you understand, I’ll have to go back some time. Everybody round this place knows what I am now, but I believe I was rather a promising youngster before I left the old country, a bit of a rebel though, and inclined to kick against the ultra-conventional. In fact, I think honesty was my ruin, Jack; I kicked openly.”
“Is there any other way? I can’t see that there’s much use in kicking unless the opposition feels it.”
“Don’t interrupt,” scowled Jernyngham. “This is rather deep for you, but I’ll try to explain. If you want to get on in the old country, you must conform to the standard; though you can do what you like at times and places where people of your proper circle aren’t supposed to see you. I didn’t recognize the benefits of the system then—and I suffered for it.”
He paused with a curious, half-tender look in his face.
“There was a girl, Jack, good as they’re made, I still believe, though not in our station. Well, I meant to marry her—thought I was strong enough to defy the system—and she, not knowing what manner of life I was meant for, was fond of me.”
“What manner of life were you meant for?”
Jernyngham laughed harshly.
“The Bar, for a beginning; I’d got my degree. The House later—there was strong family influence—to assist in propagating the Imperial idea. Strikes one as amusing, Jack.”
Prescott thought his companion would not have spoken so freely had he been wholly sober, but he had long noticed the purity of the man’s intonation and the refinement that occasionally showed in his manners.
“You’re making quite a tale of it,” he said.
“Well,” resumed Jernyngham, “I didn’t know what I was up against; the system broke me. When the stress came, I hadn’t nerve enough to hold out, and for that I’ve been punished. My sister—she meant well—got hold of the girl, persuaded her to give me up—for my sake, Jack. Wouldn’t see me, sent back my letters, and I came to Canada, beaten.”
He paused.
“There’s a reason why you must try to realize my father and sister. He’s unflinchingly upright, conventional to a degree; Gertrude’s a feebler copy, as just, but perhaps not quite so hard. Well, I’ve never written to either, but I’ve heard from friends and the conclusion seems to be that as I’ve never asked for money I must have reformed. There’s a desire for a reconciliation; my father’s getting old, and I believe, in their reservedway, they were fond of me. Don’t be impatient; I’m coming to the point at last. I’d a letter to-day from Colston—though the man’s a relative, I haven’t seen him since I left school. He and his wife are passing through on their way to British Columbia and the idea seems to be that he should see me and report.”
Prescott made a sign of understanding. Jernyngham, stamped with dissipation and injured in a brawl, and his small homestead where everything was in disorder and out of repair, were hardly likely to create a favorable impression on his English relatives. Besides, there was Mrs. Jernyngham. The effect of her appearance and conversation might be disastrous.
“Now,” continued Jernyngham, “you see how I’m fixed. I haven’t much to thank my people for, but I want to spare them a shock. If it would make things easier for them, I don’t mind their thinking better of me than I deserve.”
His companion pondered this. It was crudely put, but it showed a rather fine consideration, Prescott thought, for the people who were in part responsible for the man’s downfall; perhaps, too, a certain sense of shame and contrition. Jernyngham’s desire could not be found fault with.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Jernyngham with a reckless laugh. “You’ll do all that’s needed; I mean to leave my friends to you. Strikes me as a brilliant idea, though not exactly novel; made a number of excellent comedies. Did you ever see ‘Charley’s Aunt’?”
Prescott frowned.
“I don’t deal.”
“Think! You’re not unlike me and we’re about thesame age; Colston, hasn’t seen me for fourteen years; his wife never!”
“No,” objected Prescott. “It can’t be done!”
“It’s hardly good form to remind you of it, Jack, but there was a time when we took a grading contract on the line and you got into trouble close in front of the ballast train.”
Prescott’s determined expression changed.
“Yes,” he conceded; “it gives you a pull on me—I can’t go back on that.” He spread out his hands. “Well, if you insist.”
“For the old man’s sake,” said Jernyngham. “I want you to take the Colstons out to your place and entertain them for a day or two; they won’t stay long. They’re coming in by the West-bound this evening.”
“Then,” exclaimed Prescott, “they’ll be here in half an hour, if the train’s on time! If there are any points you can give me about your family history, you had better be quick!”
“In the first place, I was rather a wild youngster, with an original turn of mind and was supposed to be a bit of a rake, though that wasn’t correct—my eccentricities were harmless then. Your word ‘maverick’ describes me pretty well: I didn’t belong to the herd; I wouldn’t be rounded up with the others and let them put the brand on. That’s no doubt why they credited me with vices I didn’t possess.” Jernyngham laughed. “Still, you mustn’t overdo the thing; you want delicately to convey the idea that you’re now reformed. The part requires some skill; it’s a pity you’re not smarter. Jack. But let me think——”
He went into a few details about his family, and then Prescott left him and, after giving an order to have histeam ready, proceeded to the station. It was getting dark, but the western sky was still a sheet of wonderful pale green, against which the tall elevators stood out black and sharp. The head-lamp of a freight locomotive flooded track and station with a dazzling electric glare, the rails that ran straight and level across the waste gleaming far back in the silvery radiance. This helped Prescott to overcome his repugnance to his task, as he remembered another summer night when he had attempted to hurry his team across the track before a ballast train came up. Startled by the blaze of the head-lamp and the scream of the whistle, one of the horses plunged and kicked; a wheel of the wagon, sinking in the loose ballast, skidded against a tie; and Prescott stood between the rails, struggling to extricate the beasts, while the great locomotive rushed down on them. There was a vein of stubborn tenacity in him and it looked as if he and the horses would perish together when Jernyngham came running to the rescue. How they escaped neither of them could afterward remember, but a moment later they stood beside the track while the train went banging by, covering them with dust and fragments of gravel. Prescott admitted that he owed Jernyngham something for that.
Nevertheless there was no doubt that the part he had undertaken to play would be difficult. He could see its humorous side, but he had not been a prodigal; indeed he was by temperament and habit steady-going and industrious. The son of a small business man in Montreal, he had after an excellent education abandoned city life and gone west, where he had prospered by frugality and hard work. He was by no means rich, but he was content and inclined to be optimistic about the future.
When he reached the station, he found that the usual crowd of loungers had gathered to watch the train come in. Lighting his pipe, he walked up and down the low platform, wondering uneasily how he would get through the next few days. Jernyngham, he felt, had placed him in a singularly embarrassing position.
CHAPTER IIMURIEL SEES THE WEST
The sunlight was fading off the prairie when a party of three sat in a first-class car as the local train went jolting westward. Henry Colston leaned back in his seat with a Winnipeg paper on his knee; and his appearance stamped him as a well-bred Englishman traveling for pleasure. He was thirty-four; his dress, though dusty, was fastidiously neat; his expression was pleasant, but there was an air of formality about him. One would not have expected him to do anything startling or extravagant, even under stress of emotion. Mrs. Colston resembled him in this respect. She was a handsome woman, a little reserved in manner, and was tastefully dressed in traveling tweed, which she had found too hot for the Canadian summer. Muriel, her sister, was twenty-four, and though the two were alike, the girl’s face was fresher, more ingenuous and perhaps more intelligent. It was an attractive face, crowned with red-gold hair; broad brows, straight nose and firm mouth hinted at some force of character, but her eyes of deep violet were unusually merry, and her warm coloring suggested a sanguine temperament.
So far, Muriel Hurst had taken life lightly and had foiled Mrs. Colston’s attempts to make a suitable match for her. The daughter of a man of taste who had died in difficulties, she had not a penny beyond the allowance provided by her sister’s generosity. Nevertheless, shewas happy and had a strong liking and respect for her prosperous brother-in-law, though his restricted views sometimes irritated her.
She was now trying to arrange her impressions of Canada, which were mixed. She had looked down on Montreal with its great bridge and broad river from the wooded mountain, and from there it had struck her as a beautiful city. Then she had seen the handsome stone houses with their lawns at the foot of the hill, and afterward the magnificent commercial buildings round the postoffice. These could scarcely be equaled in London, but the rest of the town had not impressed her. It was strewn with sand and cement-dust: they seemed to be pulling down and putting up buildings and tearing open the streets all over it.
Afterward the Western Express had swept her through a thousand miles of wilderness, a vast tract of forest filled with rocks and lakes and rivers; and then she had spent two days in Winnipeg on the verge of the prairie. This city she found perplexing. The station hall was palatial, part of wide Main Street and Portage Avenue with their stately banks and offices could hardly be too much admired, and there were pretty wooden houses running back to the river among groves of trees. But apart from this, the place was somehow primitive. There were numerous hard-faced men hanging about the streets, and it jarred on her to see the rows of well-dressed loungers in the hotels lolling in wooden chairs close against the great windows, a foot or two from the street. It gave her a hint of western characteristics; the people were abrupt, good-naturedly so, perhaps, but devoid of delicacy.
Last had come the prairie—the land of promise—whichseemed to run on forever, flooded with brilliant sunshine under a sky of dazzling blue. Banded with miles of wheat, flecked with crimson flowers, it stretched back, brightly green, until it grew gray and blue on the far horizon. It was relieved by the neutral purple of poplar bluffs, and little gleaming lakes; its vastness and openness filled the girl with a sense of liberty. Narrow restraints, cramping prejudices, must vanish in this wide country; one’s nature could expand and become optimistic here.
Then Colston began to talk.
“We should arrive in the next half-hour and I’ll confess to a keen curiosity about Cyril Jernyngham. He was an amusing and eccentric scapegrace when I last saw him, though that is a very long time ago.”
“You object to eccentricity, don’t you?” laughed Muriel.
“Oh, no! Call it originality, and I’ll admit that a certain amount is useful; but it should be kept in check. Indulged in freely, it’s apt to rouse suspicion.”
“Which is rather unfair.”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Colston broke in. “Considered all round, it’s an excellent rule that if you won’t do what everybody in your station does, you must take the consequences.”
Colston nodded.
“I agree. One must think of the results to society as a whole.”
“Cyril Jernyngham seems to have taken the consequences,” Muriel pointed out. “Isn’t there something to be said for the person who does so uncomplainingly? I understand he never recanted or asked for help.”
Mrs. Colston shot a quick glance at her. She did notwish her sister’s sympathy to be enlisted on the black sheep’s behalf.
“I believe that’s true,” she replied. “Perhaps it’s hardly to his credit. His father is an old man who had expected great things of him. If he had come home, he would have been forgiven and reinstated.”
“Yes,” said Colston, “though Jernyngham seldom shows his feelings, I know he has grieved over his son. There can be no question that Cyril should have returned; I’ve told him so in my letters.”
“I suppose they’d have insisted on a full and abject surrender?”
“Not an abject one,” answered Colston. “He would have been expected to fall in with the family ideas and plans.”
“And he wouldn’t?” suggested Muriel with a mischievous smile. “I think he was right.” Reading disapproval in her sister’s expression, she continued: “You dear virtuous people are a little narrow in your ideas; you can’t understand that there’s room for the greatest difference of opinion even in a harmonious family, and that it’s very silly to drive the nonconformer into rebellion. Variety’s a law of nature and tends to life.”
Colston glanced meaningly at his wife. He was not a hypercritical person, but it did not please him that his sister-in-law, of whom he was fond, should champion Jernyngham.
“I don’t wish to be severe on Cyril,” he rejoined. “As a matter of fact, I know nothing good or bad about his Canadian life; but he must be regarded as, so to speak, on probation until he has proved that he deserves our confidence.”
Muriel made no answer. She was looking out of thewindow toward the west, and the glow on the vast plain’s rim seized her attention. The sunset flush had faded, but the sky shone a transcendent green. The air was very clear; every wavy line of bluff was picked out in a wonderful deep blue. Muriel thought she had never seen such strength and vividness of color. Then she glanced round the long car. It was comfortable except for the jolting; the silvery gray of its cane-backed seats contrasted with the paneling of deep brown. The big lamps and metal fittings gleamed with nickel. All the girl saw connected her with luxurious civilization, and she wondered with a stirring of curiosity what awaited her in the wilds, where man still grappled with nature in primitive fashion.
“Sebastian in three or four minutes!” announced the conductor; and while Muriel and Mrs. Colston gathered together a few odds and ends a scream of the whistle broke out.
Prescott heard it on the station platform and with strong misgivings braced himself for his task. A bright light was speeding down the track, blending with that flung out by a freight locomotive crossing the switches. Then amid the clangor of the bell the long cars rolled in and he saw a man standing on the platform of one. There was no doubt that he was an Englishman and Prescott hurried toward the car.
“Mr. Henry Colston?” he asked.
The man held out his hand.
“I think Harry is sufficient. Come and speak to Florence; she has been looking forward to meeting you with interest.” He turned. “My dear, this is Cyril.”
Prescott shook hands with the lady on the car platform, and then looked past her in confused surprise. A girl stood in the vestibule, clad in garments of pale lilac tintwhich fell about her figure in long sweeping lines, emphasizing its fine contour against the dark brown paneling. She had a large hat of the same color, and it enhanced the attractiveness of her face, which wore a friendly smile. She was obviously one of the party, though Jernyngham had not mentioned her, and Prescott pulled himself together when Colston presented him.
“My sister-in-law, Muriel Hurst,” he added.
When they had alighted, Prescott asked for the checks and moved toward the baggage car. While he waited, watching the trunks being flung out, Ellice passed him talking to a smartly dressed man. This struck Prescott as curious, but he knew the man as a traveling salesman for an American cream-separator, and as he must have called at Jernyngham’s homestead on his round and was no doubt leaving by the train, there was no reason why Ellice should not speak to him. He thought no more of the matter and proceeded to carry several trunks and valises across the platform to his wagon, while his new friends watched him with some surprise. It was a novel experience in their walk of life to see their host carrying their baggage, and when Prescott lifted the heaviest trunk Colston hurried forward to protest.
“Stand aside, please,” said the rancher, walking firmly across the boards with the big trunk on his shoulders. When he had placed it in the wagon he turned to the ladies with a smile.
“I had thought of putting you up for the night at the hotel, but they’re full, and with good luck we ought to make my place in about three hours. I dare say this isn’t the kind of rig you have been accustomed to driving in; and somebody will have to sit on a trunk. There’s only room for three on the driving-seat.”
Mrs. Colston surveyed the vehicle with misgivings. It was a long, shallow box set on four tall and very light wheels, and crossed by a seat raised on springs. Two rough-coated horses were harnessed to it with a pole between them. She saw this by the glare of the freight locomotive’s head-lamp when the train moved out, and noticed that her husband was looking at their host in surprise.
“I’ll take the trunk,” said Colston. “We had dinner down the line not long ago.”
Prescott helped the ladies up and seating himself next to the younger started his horses. They set off at a rapid trot and the wagon jolted unpleasantly as it crossed the track. Then the horses broke into a gallop, raising a dust-cloud in the rutted street, while the light vehicle rocked in an alarming fashion, and Prescott had some trouble in restraining them when they ran out on to the dim waste of prairie. Then the wonderful keen air, faintly scented with wild peppermint, reacted upon the girl with a curious exhilarating effect. She felt stirred and excited, expectant of new experiences, perhaps adventures. The wild barley brushed about the wheels with a silky rustle; the beat of hoofs rang in a sharp staccato through the deep silence; and the touch of the faint night wind brought warmth into Muriel’s face.
“They’re pretty fresh; been in the stable of a farm near here most of the day,” Prescott explained. “Not long off the range, anyhow, and they’re bad to hold.”
There was a shrill scream from a dusky shape flitting through the air as they skirted a marshy pool, and the team again broke into a furious gallop. The trail was grown with short scrub which smashed beneath the hoofs, and the vehicle lurched sharply when the wheels left theruts and ran through tall, tangled grass. Prescott with some diffidence slipped his arm round Muriel’s waist, while Colston jolted up and down with his trunk.
“You have still the same taste in horses, Cyril,” he remarked. “I suppose you remember Wildfire?”
“Wildfire?” queried Prescott, and then, having the impression that young English lads were sometimes given a pony, ventured: “Quite a cute little beast.”
“Little!” exclaimed Colston. “How many hands make a big horse in this country? I’m speaking of the hunter you cajoled the second groom into saddling when your father was away. Can’t you remember how you insisted on putting her at the Newby brook?”
“I don’t seem to place it somehow,” said Prescott in alarm, seeing that if he were called upon to share any more reminiscences it might lead him into difficulties. “You know I’ve been out here a while.”
“Long enough to forget, it seems.”
Prescott made a bold venture.
“That’s so; perhaps it’s better. This is a brand new country. One starts afresh here, looking forward instead of back.”
Muriel considered this. The idea was, she thought, appropriate, but the man’s tone and air were not what one would have expected of a reformed rake. There was no hint of contrition; he spoke with optimistic cheerfulness.
“Of course,” Colston agreed. “I wonder if I might say that you have grown more Canadian than I expected to find you?”
“More Canadian?” Prescott checked himself in time and laughed. “Is it surprising? You drive and starve out many a good man who dares to be original—I’vemet a number of them. Can you wonder that when they’re welcomed here they’re willing to forget you and become one with the people who took them in?”
“In a way, that’s a pity,” said Mrs. Colston. “We like to think we haven’t lost you altogether.”
Disregarding his horses, Prescott turned toward her with a bow.
“Face the truth, ma’am. If you’re ever in a tight place, we’ll send you what help we can, hard men, such as can’t be raised in your cities, to keep the flag flying, but we stop there. Don’t think we belong to you—we stand firm on our own feet, a new free nation. I”—he paused in an impressive manner—“am a Canadian.”
Muriel felt a responsive thrill. His ideas were certainly not English, nor was his mode of expressing them, but his boldness appealed to her. Her companions were frankly astonished and rather hurt, which he seemed to realize, for he resumed with a laugh:
“But we won’t talk politics. Things I’ve heard English people say out here make one tired.”
Then he turned toward the girl, adding softly:
“Was that a very bad break I made?”
“I think it could be forgiven,” she told him.
“The years you have spent in Canada seem to have had their full effect on you,” Colston remarked dryly.
Prescott turned his attention to his team, slightly checking their pace.
“What did you mean when you said we should reach your ranch in three hours, if we had good luck?” Muriel asked.
“Oh,” he said, “there are badger burrows about, and a little beast called a gopher makes almost as bad a hole; they’re fond of digging up the trail. If a horse stepsinto one of those holes, it’s apt to bring him down. Besides, we trust a good deal to our luck in this country—one has to run risks that can’t be estimated: harvest frost, rust, dry seasons, winds that blow destroying sand about. I’ve lost two crops in the eight years I’ve been here.”
“Can it be eight?” Colston broke in. “If I remember right, you spent three years in Manitoba.”
“It’s the same kind of country and the same climate,” Prescott rejoined, conscious that he had nearly betrayed himself again. He felt angry with Jernyngham for giving him such a difficult part to play.
After this, he carefully avoided any personal topic and talked about Canadian farming, sitting silent when he could, while Muriel gazed about with pleasurable curiosity. It is never quite dark on those wide levels in summertime, and, for there was no moon, the prairie stretched away before them shadowy, silent, and mysterious. Now they passed a sheet of water, gleaming wanly among thin willows; then they plunged into the deep gloom of a poplar bluff; and later, lurching down a steep declivity, swept through a shallow creek. The air was filled with the smell of dew-damped soil and unknown aromatic scents, the loneliness was impressive, the half-obscurity emphasized the strangeness of everything. Muriel felt as if she had left all that was stereotyped and matter-of-fact far behind. It was the unexpected and romantic that ought to happen in this virgin land.
Then, worn by several days’ journey in the jolting cars, she grew drowsy. The steady drumming of hoofs, the slapping of the traces, and the rattle of wheels were strangely soothing. She fancied that once or twice when they sped furiously down an incline, the driver held her fast, but she did not resent the support of his arm: it wasa steady, reassuring grasp. At last, as they swung round a poplar bluff, she roused herself, for dim black buildings loomed up ahead, and one which had lighted windows took the shape of a small house. The team stopped, there were voices speaking with a curious accent which reminded her of Norway, and the rancher helped her down.
Afterward she followed her sister into a simply furnished, pine-boarded room with a big stove at one end of it, where a middle-aged woman set food and coffee before them. She spoke English haltingly, but her lined face lighted up when Muriel thanked her in Norse. Then there followed a flow of eager words, a few of which the girl caught, until the woman broke off when their host came in. He was silent, for the most part, during the meal, and shortly afterward Muriel was shown into a small room where she went to sleep in a few minutes.