For two or three weeks after the picnic Charnock did not meet Sadie. The rebuff he had got did not rankle much, and was rather provocative than daunting, but he understood why she had told him he made her cheap. She meant to keep her caresses for her husband or declared lover, and if he wanted her, he must pay the regular price. This was very proper, from her point of view, but from his the price was high.
Sadie was pretty, capable, and amusing, but he was not sure he would like to see her every day, in his house and at his table. Besides, the house would really be hers, and Sadie would not forget this. She was determined and liked her own way. He had promised to marry another girl, of a very different stamp, but his conscience was clear on that point. It was better for Helen's sake that he should give her up, because he was on the edge of ruin and she was much too good for him. Irresolution, however, was perhaps his greatest failing, and now he must decide, he wavered and thought about what he had lost.
There were days when he would not admit that all was lost, and harnessing his team in the early morning, drove the gang-plow through the soil until the red sunset faded off the plain. In his heart, he knew the fight was hopeless; Festing, for example, in his place, might perhaps make good, but he had not the stamina for the long struggle. All the same, he worked with savage energy until his mood changed and he went off to hunt sandhill cranes. He would sooner have gone to the poolroom, but there was a risk of his meeting Sadie at the settlement.
In the meantime the days got warmer and a flush of vivid green spread across the grass. The roaring wind that swept the tableland drove clouds that never broke across the dazzling sky, and where there were belts of plowed land the harrows clanked across the furrows amidst a haze of blowing dust. The ducks and geese had gone, and red lilies began to sway above the rolling waves of grass. Farmer and hired man worked with tense activity, but Charnock's efforts were spasmodic and often slack.
In the meantime, trade was brisk at the settlement, and Keller found his business made demands on him that he could hardly meet. It was rapidly growing, and his strength got less. Indeed, he would have sold out but for Sadie. The girl was clever and had tone; he wanted her to find life smooth and taste pleasure her mother had not enjoyed. The latter had helped him in a hard fight when dollars were very scarce, and died, worn out, just before the tide turned. Since then he had schemed and sweated to make her child's future safe.
Now he thought he had done so, but it had been a struggle, and he knew he had held on too long. Keeping store in a wheat-growing district was not a simple matter of selling groceries; one was in reality a banker. Bills were not often paid until the crop was harvested, farmers began without much money, and one must know whom to trust. Indeed, one often financed a hustler who had no capital, and kept an honest man who had lost a crop on his feet; but the risk was great, and one felt the strain when there was rust and autumn frost.
One bright afternoon Keller stood on the sidewalk in front of the store. He was not old, but his hair was gray and his face was pinched. It was rather a hard face, for Keller's glance was keen and his lips were generally firmly set. Yet he was liked by his customers. Now he was breathing hard because he had helped a farmer to put a heavy bag of flour in his wagon. The farmer drove away and a cloud of dust the team stirred up blew down the street. The fronts of the wooden houses were cracking in the hot sun; there was not a tree to relieve the bare ugliness of the place, and the glare was dazzling. Keller at first imagined this was why he could not see the wagon well, but after a few moments he knew better.
He went into the store with a staggering step, and the rank smell of cheese and salt-pork nauseated him. The room felt very hot and was full of flies that buzzed in a tormenting cloud round his head. He wanted quietness and made his way to the dark back office, where he dropped into a chair.
“Go to the hotel,” he ordered the clerk who entered after him. “Tell Jake to give you a big glass of the special whisky. Be quick, but don't run and spill the stuff.”
The clerk came back in a few minutes, and Keller pulled himself together when he had drained the glass, though his forehead was damp with sweat.
“Now where's the list of the truck Gascoyne got?” he said. “I'll look it up.”
“Sure you feel all right?” the clerk inquired.
“Get the list,” said Keller. “Take that glass away.”
He picked up a pen, but put it down when he found his hand shook, and told the clerk to charge the goods. When the latter had gone, he sat still for some minutes and then opened a book of accounts. He had had another warning, sharper than the last, and had better put things straight while he could. With this object he worked later than usual, and when he returned to the hotel called Sadie into his private room. The girl sat down, and he studied her, leaning his elbow heavily on the table.
Sadie had a strained look and had been quiet for the last week or two except when she was angry. This indicated that her nerves were on edge, and Keller thought he knew why.
“I guess we've got to have a talk,” he said. “I've put it off, but now's the time.”
Sadie waited calmly. She had courage and knew she must be frank with her father. He did not, as a rule, say much, but he noted things and understood.
“Well,” he resumed, “I've built up a pretty good business here, but I'll have to quit and leave you some day, and reckon you won't be satisfied to stop at the hotel all your life. You're smart and a looker, and I guess you want to go out and see the world. That's all right, and you'll be able, as far as dollars count; but I can't go with you and you can't go alone.”
Sadie shivered. Keller's face was pinched, and she knew his health was not good, although she did not know how bad it really was.
“I couldn't leave you, anyway, and hope you'll be with me a long time yet.”
“It's possible,” said Keller. “All the same, I can't keep my grip on the business long and want a man to help. But I'm not going to trust a stranger or a hired man. You see where this leads?”
Sadie saw and made a vague gesture, though her glance was level.
“Very well. The man who carries on my business must be your husband. Now there are three or four of the boys in the settlement who could be taught to run the store and hotel, but I allow you don't want me to choose from them. Have I got that right?”
“Yes,” said Sadie with quiet calm, although her heart beat. “None of them would suit.”
Keller knitted his brows and his look was grave. “They're good boys, and if you had taken one of that bunch, I'd have been satisfied. I reckon the trouble is they're my kind and belong where I do, while you mean to go higher. Well, that's right; I've put up the dollars to give you a good time, but you can't get where you want on your own feet.” He paused with a dry smile. “I allow you're smart enough to figure this out.”
“I have,” said Sadie. “There's much I don't know and couldn't learn here. If I'm to move up, my husband must help.”
“Then I only know two men round the settlement who could help. Festing's my choice.”
A wave of color flushed Sadie's white skin, but her voice was quiet. “He isn't mine. I allow, in some ways, he's the better man, but that doesn't count.”
Keller looked hard at her. “I used to think your head would guide you, not your heart; but it seems you're like the rest—well, I was a very poor man when your mother married me! Now I like Charnock and he has tone; but if you take him, there's a risk—”
“I know the risk.”
“It's plain! I'd stop the thing right now if you were a different girl, but you know what you want and how to keep it when it's got. It looks as if you had made up your mind?”
Sadie's hands moved nervously. She made a sign of agreement, but did not speak, and Keller went on:
“Anyhow, you'd better understand what you're up against. Sometimes you'll have to hustle Charnock and sometimes hold him tight. You must keep him off the liquor, and maybe stop him getting after other girls. Then when you sell out the business, you'll hold the dollars.”
For a moment Sadie turned her head and then got up and stood by her father's chair. Her look was strained but resolute as she put her hand on his arm.
“I know all that! Bob has plenty of faults, but he's the man I love.”
Keller took and pressed her hand. He had some misgivings, but he knew his daughter.
“We all like Charnock, and though I wouldn't trust him far, I can trust you. I think you've got that right and won't forget. Very well, since you want Charnock I'll get him for you.”
Sadie stooped and kissed him and then went out. She was moved, but there was nothing to be said. Her father was not a sentimentalist, but he had never failed her and would not do so now. When she sat down in her room, however, her face was grave. Her courage was high, but she felt half afraid. Although she loved Bob Charnock, life with him might be difficult. He was older than she and knew much more, but she must lead him and be firm where he was weak. It was a hard task for an ignorant girl, but she resolved to carry it out.
Next morning Keller went down the street and entered a wooden building filled with gaudily painted mowers and plows. He was not the man to waste time when he had made a plan, and moreover felt that he had not much time to lose. Finding the implement dealer in his office, he sat down, breathing rather hard.
“You don't look very spry this morning,” the dealer remarked.
“I don't feel so bright. The boys have been rushing me the last week or two. Say, trade is booming now!”
“It surely is. I could sell more machines than I've got, but I've got a lot of money standing out, and after the bad harvest last fall, don't know who to trust.”
They compared notes about their customers, and presently the dealer remarked: “Charnock was in a few days ago, asking about a new wagon, a mower, and some small tools.”
“Ah!” said Keller, rather sharply. “Then it looks as if he meant to hold on! He reckoned, not long since, that he'd have to quit. But what did you tell him?”
“To come again. I'd like to keep Bob Charnock up, but guess it's dangerous. Owes me a pile. How does he stand with you?”
Keller supplied the information, and the other looked thoughtful. “Didn't know it was quite so bad as that. I allow I'd better not let him have the goods.”
“Well, I reckon he's trying the new man at Concord. Smith said he met him there yesterday.”
The dealer frowned. He hated to think of a customer going to somebody else. In fact, this was, for a debtor, an unpardonable offense.
“Charnock's trouble is that he's not quite straight. Ought to have stayed with me, told me how he was fixed, and let me see what I could do. If he's going to deal with the new man, I'd better pull him up and try to get my money back.”
“You can't get it,” said Keller dryly. “He can't pay now, and if you let him go on until harvest, you'll have a crowd of others with long bills fighting for what's left.”
“Looks like that,” the dealer agreed. “Well, I'd have liked to keep him going if he'd stayed with me, but I can't stand for losing the dollars he owes. What are we going to do about the thing?”
Keller explained his plans, and after some argument the other agreed. The decision they came to would bring Charnock's farming to an end, but Keller left the office with some doubts. His scheme was going to succeed, but he wondered whether he had indulged Sadie too far. Much depended on her firmness, and she might find the job harder than she thought; but on the whole he imagined she would be equal to the strain.
A week later, Charnock sat, one afternoon, in the saddle of his gang-plow, tearing a row of furrows through the dusty sod. The sweating horses moved leisurely, and he did not urge them as he moodily watched the tangled grass part before the shares and vanish beneath the polished surface of the turned-up clods. He was breaking new soil, doing work that would be paid for in the future, and knew the reward of his labor might never be his. When he reached the end of the plowing he stopped and let the horses rest while he looked about.
One side of the long furrows gleamed in the strong light, and another team was moving towards him from the opposite end. The sun was hot, but the wind was fresh, and thin clouds of dust blew across the plain. Still the belt he was plowing was good soil; the firm blackgumbothat holds the moisture the wheat plant needs. There was something exhilarating in the rushing breeze and glow of light, but Charnock frowned and wondered why he had worked so long. He had no real hope, and admitted that he had continued his spasmodic efforts because he could not face defeat.
For all that, he had not been fighting entirely for his farm. He wanted to keep his freedom; to break through trammels that were getting tighter, and try to regain something that he had lost. Sometimes he felt desperate, but now and then saw an elusive ray of hope. If he could hold out until harvest and reap a record crop——
Then his hired man, driving the other plow, waved his arm, and Charnock saw a rig lurch across a rise amidst a cloud of sand. It was the mail-carrier going his round, but he would not have come that way unless he had letters, and Charnock waited until the man arrived.
“Here's your lot,” he said, taking out three or four envelopes.
Charnock's hand shook as he opened the first, it was large and had an official look, and he found a number of unpaid accounts inside. Besides these, there was a lawyer's letter, stating that certain dealers had instructed him to recover payment of the debts Charnock owed. He crushed the letter in his clenched hand and the veins stood out on his forehead, while his face got red. The blow he feared had fallen and he was ruined; but when the shock began to pass he felt a faint relief. It was something to be free from doubt and anxiety, and there were consolations. Now he was beaten, the line he must take was plain, and it had some advantages.
“You can quit plowing and put the teams in the stable,” he said to the hired man.
“Quit now!” exclaimed the other. “What about the machines?”
“Let them stop,” said Charnock. “It seems they belong to my creditors, who can look after them. I'm going to Concord and don't know when I'll be back.”
He went off towards the homestead and half an hour later drove away across the plain.
The air was sharp and wonderfully invigorating when Festing stopped for a few moments, one evening, outside Charnock's homestead. A row of sandhills glimmered faintly against the blue haze in the east, but the western edge of the plain ran in a hard black line beneath a blaze of smoky red. It was not dark, but the house was shadowy, and Festing noticed a smell of burning as he entered.
The top was off the stove in Charnock's room, and the flame that licked about the hole showed that the floor was strewn with torn paper. Charnock was busy picking up the pieces, and when he threw a handful into the stove a blaze streamed out and the light shone upon the wall. Festing noted that the portrait that had hung there had gone, and looking round in search of it, saw a piece of the broken frame lying on the stove. It was half burned and a thin streak of smoke rose from its glowing end. Festing remarked this with a sense of anger.
“What are you doing, Bob?” he asked.
“Cleaning up,” Charnock answered, with a hoarse laugh, as he sat down among the litter. “Proper thing when you mean to make a fresh start! Suppose you take a drink and help.”
A whisky bottle and a glass stood on the table, and Festing thought Charnock had taken some liquor, although he was not drunk. Stooping down, he began to pick up the papers, which, for the most part, looked like bills. There were, however, a few letters in a woman's hand, and by and by he found a bit of riband, a glove, and a locket that seemed to have been trampled on.
“Are these to be burned?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Charnock. “Don't want them about to remind me——Burn the lot.”
Festing, with some reluctance, threw them into the stove. He was not, as a rule, romantic, but it jarred him to see the things destroyed. They had, no doubt, once been valued for the giver's sake; dainty hands had touched them; the locket had rested on somebody's white skin. They were pledges of trust and affection, and he had found them, trampled by Charnock's heavy boots, among the dust and rubbish.
“You'd get on faster if you used a brush,” he suggested.
“Can't find the brush. Confounded thing's hidden itself somewhere. Can't remember where I put anything to-night. Suppose you don't see a small lace handkerchief about?”
Festing said he did not, and Charnock made a gesture of resignation. “Looks as if I'd burned it with the other truck, but I got that from Sadie, and there'll be trouble if she wants to know where it's gone. She may want to know some time. Sadie doesn't forget.”
“Did Sadie give you the locket?”
“She did not,” said Charnock. “You're a tactless brute. But there's something else I want, and I don't know where it can have got.”
He upset a chair as he turned over some rubbish near the table, under which he presently crawled, while Festing looking about, noted a small white square laying half hidden by the stove. Picking it up, he saw it was the portrait of the English girl, and resolved with a thrill of indignation that Charnock should not burn this. He felt that its destruction would be something of an outrage.
He glanced at Charnock, but the latter's legs alone stuck out from under the table, and as it was obvious that he could not see, Festing dusted the portrait and put it in his pocket. By and by Charnock crept out and got upon his feet. It was dark now, but the glow of the burning paper flickered about the room and touched his face. His hair was ruffled, his eyes were dull, and his mouth had a slack droop. Festing felt some pity for the man, though he was also sensible of scornful impatience. The smell of burned paper disturbed him with its hint of vanished romance. Putting the lid on the stove, he took the lamp from Charnock's unsteady hand, and, when he had lighted it, found a brush and set to work. Presently Charnock made a vague sign of relief as he looked at the swept floor.
“All gone!” he remarked. “There was something I couldn't find. Suppose I burned it, though I don't remember.”
“There's nothing left,” said Festing, who felt guilty. “Why did you destroy the things?”
Charnock sat down and awkwardly lighted his pipe. “Wanted to begin again with what they call a clean slate. Besides, the stove's the best place for bills that bother you.”
“You can't get rid of the debts by burning the bills.”
“That's true,” said Charnock with a grin. “Unfortunately obvious, in fact! However, I cut up my account book.”
“I don't see how that would help.”
“My creditors can now amuse themselves by finding out how I stand.”
Festing frowned impatiently. “A rather childish trick! It doesn't strike me as humorous.”
“You're a disgustingly serious fellow,” Charnock rejoined. “But you might be a bit sympathetic, because I've had a nasty knock. My creditors have come down on me, and I'm going to be married.”
Festing smiled. He had some sense of humor, and Charnock's manner seemed to indicate that he felt he was confronted with two misfortunes.
“You must have known your creditors would pull you up unless you came to terms with them, but one would expect you to please yourself about getting married.”
“I'm not sure your joke's in good taste,” Charnock answered sullenly. “But in a way, one thing depended on the other. Perhaps I oughtn't to have said so, but I'm upset to-night. Though I did expect to be pulled up, it was a knock.”
“No doubt. Are you going to marry Sadie?”
“I am. Have you any reason to disapprove?”
“Certainly not,” said Festing. “Sadie's rather a friend of mine.”
In a sense, this was true. When Festing first came to the prairie from a mountain construction camp, where he had not seen a woman for twelve months, he had felt Sadie's charm. Moreover, he imagined that the girl liked him and consciously used her power, although with a certain reserve and modesty. For all that, he fought against his inclination and conquered without much effort. Marriage had not much attraction for him, but if he did marry, he meant to choose a wife of a different type.
“Sadie's a very good sort,” Charnock resumed. “She knows what we are, and doesn't expect too much; not the kind of girl to make ridiculous demands. In fact, Sadie can make allowances.”
Festing thought this was doubtful praise, although it bore out his opinion of the girl. For all that, Sadie might not be so willing to make allowances for her husband as for a lover of whom she was not quite sure.
“Perhaps that kind of thing has advantages,” he said. “But I don't know—”
“I do know,” said Charnock; “I've tried the other way. The feeling that you're expected to keep on a high plane soon gets tiresome; besides, it isn't natural. It's better to be taken for what you are.”
“I suppose so,” Festing assented. “Anyway, if Sadie's satisfied——”
Charnock grinned, although there was a touch of color in his face.
“You're not given to flattery, but might use a little tact. I've had a knock and am not quite sober, so I can't argue the point. Then it isn't your business if Sadie's satisfied or not.”
“That's so. But what are you going to do when your creditors turn you out?”
“Everything's arranged. I'm going to help Keller at the hotel and store.”
Festing got up. “Well, I've stopped longer than I meant. I wish you good luck!”
“We'll have a drink,” said Charnock, reaching for the bottle with an unsteady hand. Then he paused and gave Festing a suspicious look. “It's curious about that portrait! I used to see you gazing at it, and don't remember that I picked it up.”
“No, thanks,” said Festing, refusing the glass. “I think you've had enough. In fact, it might have been better when you were wiping the slate clean if you had put the bottle in the stove.”
He went out and walked back to the camp in the moonlight, thinking hard. He was angry with Charnock, but vaguely sorry. Bob had some virtues and was throwing himself away, although, when one came to think of it, this was only true to some extent. What one meant was that he was throwing away his opportunities of rising to a higher plane; while Bob was satisfied with his present level Sadie was good enough for him, perhaps too good. Life together might be hard for both, and there was a touch of pathos in his burning all the tender tokens that bound him to the past, though it was ominous that he kept the whisky. He could, however, get as much liquor as he wanted at the hotel; that is, if Sadie allowed it, but there was some comfort in the thought that the girl was clever and firm.
Festing dismissed the matter, and when he reached his shack at the bridge put the portrait on the table and sat down opposite. He felt that he knew this girl, whom he had never met, very well. Something in her look had cheered him when he had difficulties to overcome; he felt that they were friends. She was calm and fearless and would face trouble with the level glance he knew, although now and then, when the lamp flickered in the draught, he had thought she smiled. They had been companions on evenings when Charnock wanted to read the newspaper or the talk had flagged. Sometimes the window and door were open and the smell of parched grass came in; sometimes the stove was red-hot and the house shook in the icy blast. Festing admitted that it was not altogether for Charnock's society he had visited the homestead.
Then he began to puzzle about a likeness to somebody he knew. He had remarked this before, but the likeness was faint and eluded him. Lighting his pipe, he tried to concentrate his thoughts, and by and by made an abrupt movement. He had it! When he was in British Columbia, engaged on the construction of a section of the railroad that was being built among the mountains, he met a young Englishman at a mining settlement. The lad had been ill and was not strong enough to undertake manual labor, which was the only occupation to be found in the neighborhood. Moreover, he had lost his money, in consequence, Festing gathered, of his trusting dangerous companions.
Festing, finding that he had been well educated and articled to a civil engineer, got him a post on the railroad, where he helped the surveyors. Dalton did well and showed himself grateful, but when Festing went to the prairie he lost touch with the lad. The latter wrote to him once or twice, but he was too busy to keep up the correspondence. Now he knew it was something in Dalton's face he found familiar in the portrait. The girl had a steady level glance, and the lad looked at one like that. Indeed, it was his air of frankness that had persuaded Festing to get him the post.
But this led him nowhere. He did not know the girl's name, and if it was the same as the lad's, it would not prove that they were related. He pushed back his chair and got up. It looked as if he was in some danger of becoming a romantic fool, but he put the portrait carefully away, Soon after he had done so a man came in, and sitting down, lighted a cigarette.
“I wanted to see you, Festing, but hadn't a chance all day,” he said. “Probably you haven't heard that I've got orders where to send the staff when the bridge is finished, as it will be soon.”
Festing looked up sharply. Kerr was his superior in the company's service, but they were on good terms.
“I haven't heard. I'm anxious to know.”
Kerr told him, and Festing's face hardened.
“So Marvin and I go on to the next prairie section! Since they want the best men on the difficult work in the mountains, it means that we're passed over.”
“It does, in a sense,” Kerr agreed.
“Then I think I know why you came,” said Festing, who pondered for a few moments. He had courage and decision, and it was his habit to face a crisis boldly. “Now,” he resumed, “I'm going to ask your opinion of my prospects if I stay on the road?”
“Your record's good. You're sure of a post, so long as there's any construction work going on.”
“A post of a kind! Not the best kind, where a man would have a chance of making his mark?”
“Well,” said Kerr, “I think that's what I meant. The headquarters bosses don't know us personally, and judge by a man's training and the certificates he's got. Of course, in spite of this, talent will find its way, and sometimes one gets there by a stroke of luck.”
Festing smiled, rather bitterly. “I have no marked talent, and haven't found it pay to trust to luck. In fact, my only recommendations are a kind of practical ability and a capacity for hard work. I got on the road by doing chores and fought my way up.”
“You are practical,” Kerr agreed. “It's your strong point, but I've thought it sometimes kept you back.”
He paused when Festing looked at him with surprise, but resumed in a thoughtful voice: “When your job's in front of you, you see what must be done, and do it well; there's not a man on my section does that kind of thing better. Still, I'm not sure you always see quite far enough. You miss what lies ahead and sometimes, so to speak, what's lying all round. Concentration's good, but one can concentrate too much. However, I didn't come to find fault, but to let you know how matters are.”
“Thanks. I'm going to look ahead and all round now, and the situation strikes me as much like this: If I'm content with a second or third best post, I can stop; if I want to go as far as my power of concentration may take me and find a place where I can use my independent judgment, I'd better quit. Have I got that right?”
“It's what I tried to hint. You can count on my recommendation when it's likely to be of use, but you said something that was rather illuminating. You want to use your judgment?”
Festing laughed. “I don't know that I've thought much about these matters, but I am an individualist. You get up against useless rules, empty formalities, and much general stupidity in organized effort, and good work is often wasted. When you see things that demand to be done, you want to begin right there and get at the job. If you wait to see if it's yours or somebody else's, you're apt not to start at all.”
“Your plan has drawbacks now and then,” Kerr remarked. “But what are you going to do about the other matter?”
Festing was silent for a few moments. He had to make a momentous choice, but had known that he must do so and did not hesitate.
“I'm going to quit and try farming. After all, I don't know very much about railroad building; up to now I've got on rather by determination than knowledge. Then, if I stop with you, I'll come up against a locked door whenever I try to push ahead.”
“There are locked doors in other professions.”
“That's so; but in a big organization you must knock and ask somebody to let you through, and unless you have a properly stamped ticket, they turn you back. When the job's your own you beat down the door.”
“I've seen farmers who tried that plan left outside with badly jarred hands. Frost and rust and driving sand are difficult obstacles.”
“Oh, yes,” said Festing. “But they're natural obstacles; you know what you're up against and can overcome them, if you're stubborn enough. What I really mean is, you don't trust to somebody else's good opinion; whether you fail or not depends upon yourself.”
“Well,” said Kerr, getting up, “I think you're making the right choice, but hope you won't forget me when you leave us. You'll have a friend in the company's service as long as I'm on the road.”
He went out and Festing lighted his pipe. Now he had come to a decision, there was much that needed thought; but, to begin with, he knew of a suitable piece of land. Living in camp, he had saved the most part of his pay, and had inherited a small sum from an English relative. In consequence, he could buy the land, build a comfortable wooden house, and have something over to carry him on until he sold his first crop.
He resolved to buy the land and set the carpenters to work, but could not leave the railroad for a month, when it would be rather late to make a start. Then he had worked without a break for twelve years, for the most part at camps where no amusement was possible, and resolved to take a holiday. He would go back to England, where he had a few friends, although his relatives were dead. This was, of course, an extravagance; but after the self-denial he had practised there was some satisfaction in being rash. Lighting another pipe, he abandoned himself to pleasant dreams of his first holiday.
A few days before he started for England, Festing went over to Charnock's homestead, which was shortly to be sold. The evenings were getting light, and although Festing had finished his day's work before he left the bridge, the glow of sunset flooded Charnock's living-room. The strong red light searched out the signs of neglect and dilapidation, the broken boots and harness that needed mending, the dust sticking to the resin-stains on the cracked walls, and thegumbosoil on the dirty floor. As Charnock glanced up a level ray touched his face and showed a certain sensual coarseness that one missed when the light was normal. Festing, however, knew the look, and although he had not remarked it when he first met Charnock, thought it had always been there.
The change he had noted in his friend was only on the surface. Charnock had not really deteriorated in Canada; the qualities that had brought him down had been overlaid by a spurious grace and charm, but it now looked as if moral slackness might develop into active vice. On the whole, he thought Sadie would have trouble with Bob, but this was not his business.
“I've come to say good-bye,” he remarked. “I won't see you again until my return, and expect you'll be married then.”
“Yes,” said Charnock, shortly. “I suppose you have made some plans for your trip. Where are you going to stop in England?”
Festing told him and he looked surprised. “I didn't know you had friends in that neighborhood. Will you be with them some time?”
“A month, anyway. Then I may come and go.”
Charnock pushed his chair back out of the light. “Well, this makes it easier; there's something I want to ask. We are friends and I've let you give me good advice, though I haven't always acted on it. I don't know if this gives me a claim.”
“If there's anything I can do——”
“There is,” said Charnock, who hesitated for a few moments. “I want you to go and see Helen Dalton. She's the girl I ought to have married, and doesn't live very far from your friends.”
“Ah!” said Festing with a start. “It was her portrait you meant to burn?”
Charnock gave him a sharp glance. “Just so. I imagine I did burn it, because I couldn't find it afterwards.”
There was silence for a few moments while Festing wondered whether the other suspected him. Bob had an air of frankness, but was sometimes cunning. This, however, was not important, and Festing was strongly moved by the thought that he might see the girl.
“Why do you want me to go?” he asked.
“In order that you can tell her how I was situated. I want her to know why I was forced to give her up.”
“But you have written and stated your reasons.”
“Of course. But I've no talent for explanation, and in a letter you say too little or too much; probably I didn't say enough. Then you can't tell how far the person written to will understand, and questions rise. But will you go?”
Festing wanted to go, although he saw his task might be embarrassing. He had been some time in Western Canada, where people are frank and do not shrink from dealing with delicate matters. Then Charnock was his friend.
“It will be an awkward job, but you can indicate the line you think I ought to take.”
“The line is plain. You will tell Helen what it means to lose one's crop, and try to make her understand the struggle I've had—how the weather was against me, and the debts kept piling up until I was ruined. You can describe the havoc made by drought, and frost, and cutting sand. Then there's the other side of the matter; the hardships a woman must bear on the plains when money's scarce. The loneliness, the monotonous drudgery, the heat, the Arctic cold.”
“Miss Dalton looks as if she had pluck. She wouldn't be easily daunted.”
“Do you think I don't know? But when you meet her you'll see that the life we lead is impossible for a girl like that.”
“It looks as if you wanted me to be your advocate,” Festing remarked rather dryly. “I'm to make all the excuses for you I can, and prove that you were justified in breaking your engagement. I doubt if I'm clever enough—”
Charnock stopped him. “No! Perhaps I used excuses, but my object is not to clear myself.” He paused and colored. “We'll admit that Helen lost nothing when I gave her up; but a girl, particularly a young, romantic girl, feels that kind of thing, and it might hurt worse if she thought she had loved a wastrel. I want her to feel that I broke my engagement for her sake, when nothing else was possible. That might soften the blow, and I really think it's true.”
“How much of it is true?” Festing asked bluntly.
“Ah,” said Charnock, “you're an uncompromising fellow. You meant that if you'd had my debts and difficulties, you could have made good?”
“I might; but we both know two or three other men whom I'd have backed to do so.”
“For all that, you'll admit that the thing was impossible for me?”
Festing knitted his brows. “I believe you could have overcome your difficulties; that is, if you had really made an effort and faced the situation earlier. But since you hadn't nerve enough, I dare say it was impossible.”
“You forget one thing; I hadn't time. At the best, it would have taken me three or four years to get straight, and as you haven't much imagination, I suppose you don't realize what Helen's trials would have been in the meanwhile. An engaged girl's situation isn't easy when her lover is away. She stands apart, forbidden much others may enjoy, and Helen would have had to bear her friends' contemptuous pity for being bound to a man who had turned out a failure or worse.”
“I expect that's true,” Festing agreed. “However, there's another difficulty. Suppose I persuade Miss Dalton that you made a plucky fight and only gave her up when you were beaten? She may refuse to let you go, and insist on coming out to help.”
Charnock started, but with a rather obvious effort recovered his calm. “You must see your suggestion's stupid. Helen can't come out; I'm going to marry Sadie.”
“I forgot,” said Festing. “Well, since you urge me, I'll do what I can, although I don't like the job.”
He left the homestead shortly afterwards, but felt puzzled as he walked across the plain. When he suggested that Miss Dalton might resolve to join and help her lover, Charnock had looked alarmed. This was strange, because although Festing had, for a moment, forgotten Sadie, it was ridiculous to imagine that Bob had done so. Then why had he started. There were, however, one or two other things that disturbed Festing, who felt that he had made a rash promise. But the promise had been made, and he must do his best to carry it out.
He had a fine voyage, and a week after his arrival in the Old Country walked up and down the terrace of a house among the hills in the North of England. His host was an old friend of the family who had shown Festing some kindness when he was young, and his daughter, Muriel, approved her father's guest. She liked the rather frank, brown-skinned, athletic man, whom she had joined on the terrace. He was a new and interesting type; but although she was two or three years the younger and attractive, their growing friendship was free from possible complications. Muriel, as Festing had learned, was going to marry the curate.
After the roar of activity at the bridge, where the hammers rang all day and often far into the night, he found his new surroundings strangely pleasant. In Canada, he had lived in the wilds; on the vast bare plains, and among snowy mountains where man grappled with Nature in her sternest mood. Thundering snowslides swept away one's work, icy rocks must be cut through, and savage green floods threatened the half-built track when the glaciers began to melt. Every day had brought a fresh anxiety, and now he welcomed the slackening of the strain. The struggle had left its mark on him; one saw it in his lean, muscular symmetry, his quiet alertness, and self-confidence. But he could relax, and found the English countryside had a soothing charm.
The sun was low and rugged hills cut against the pale-saffron sky. The valley between was filled with blue shadow, but in the foreground a river twinkled in the fading light. Feathery larches grew close up to the house, and a beck splashed in the gloom among their trunks. Farther off, a dog barked, and there was a confused bleating of sheep, but this seemed to emphasize the peaceful calm.
“It's wonderfully quiet,” Festing remarked. “I can't get used to the stillness; I feel as if I was dreaming and would wake up to hear the din of the rivers and the ballast roaring off the gravel cars. However, I have some business to do to-morrow that I'm not keen about. Can one see Knott Scar from here?”
“It's the blue ridge, about six miles off. The dark patch on its slope is a big beech wood.”
“Then do you know the Daltons?”
“Oh, yes,” said Muriel. “Helen Dalton is a friend of mine. Although the Scar's some way off, I see her now and then. But are you going there?”
“I am; I wish it wasn't needful,” Festing answered rather gloomily.
“Ah!” said Muriel, giving him a sharp glance. “Helen was to have married a man in Canada, but the engagement was broken off. Do you know him?”
“I do. That's why I'm going to the Scar. I've promised to explain matters as far as I can.”
Muriel studied his disturbed face with a twinkle of amusement. “Well, I'm sorry for Helen; it must have been a shock. For all that, I thought the engagement a mistake.”
“Then you have seen Charnock?”
“Once. He's a friend of some people Helen used to stay with in the South, but I met him at the Scar. Handsome, and charming, in a way, but I thought him weak.”
“What are Miss Dalton's people like?”
“Don't you want to know what Helen is like?”
“No,” said Festing. “I know her already; that is, I've seen her picture.”
Muriel, glancing at him keenly, did not understand his look, but replied: “Helen lives with her mother and aunt, but it's hard to describe them. They are not old, but seem to date back to other times. In fact, they're rather unique nowadays. Like very dainty old china; you'd expect them to break if they were rudely jarred. You feel they ought to smell of orris and lavender.”
“Ah,” said Festing. “I was a fool to promise Charnock. I've never met people like that, and am afraid they'll get a jar to-morrow.”
“I don't think you need be afraid,” Muriel replied. “They're not really prudish or censorious, though they are fastidious.”
“And is Miss Dalton like her mother and aunt?”
“In a way. Helen has their refinement, but she's made of harder stuff. She would wear better among strains and shocks.”
Festing shook his head. “Girls like her ought to be sheltered and kept from shocks. After all, there's something to be said for Charnock's point of view. Your delicate English grace and bloom ought to be protected and not rubbed off by the rough cares of life.”
“I don't know if you're nice or not,” Muriel rejoined with a laugh. “Anyway, you don't know many English girls, and your ideas about us are old-fashioned. We are not kept in lavender now. Besides, it isn't the surface bloom that matters, and fine stuff does not wear out. It takes a keener edge and brighter polish from strenuous use. And Helen is fine stuff.”
“So I thought,” said Festing quietly, and stopped at the end of the terrace. The bleating of sheep had died away, and except for the splash of the beck a deep silence brooded over the dale. The sun had set and the landscape was steeped in soft blues and grays, into which woods and hills slowly melted.
“It's remarkably pleasant here,” he said. “Not a sign of strain and hurry; things seem to run on well-oiled wheels! Perhaps the greatest change is to feel that one has nothing to do.”
“But you had holidays now and then in Canada.”
“No,” said Festing. “Anyhow I've had none for a very long time. Of course there are lonely places, and in winter the homesteads on the plains are deadly quiet, but I was always where some big job was rushed along. Hauling logs across the snow, driving them down rivers, and after I joined the railroad, checking calculations, and track-grading in the rain. It was a fierce hustle from sunrise to dark, with all your senses highly strung and your efforts speeded up.”
“Then one can understand why it's a relief to lounge. But would that satisfy you long?”
Festing laughed. “It would certainly satisfy me for a time, but after that I don't know. It's a busy world, and there's much to be done.”
Muriel studied him as they walked back along the terrace. He wore no hat, and she liked the way he held his head and his light, springy step, though she smiled as she noted that he pulled himself up to keep pace with her. It was obvious that he was not used to moving leisurely. Then his figure, although spare, was well proportioned, and his rather thin face was frank. He had what she called a fined-down look, but concentrated effort of mind and body had given him a hint of distinction. He was a man who did things, and she wondered what Helen, who was something of a romantic dreamer, would think of him. Then she reflected with a touch of amusement that he would probably find the errand his friend had given him embarrassing.
“You don't look forward to seeing the Daltons to-morrow,” she remarked.
“That's so,” Festing admitted. “I didn't quite know what I'd undertaken when I gave my promise. The thing looks worse in England. In fact, it looks very nearly impossible just now.”
“But you are going?”
Festing spread out his hands. “Certainly. What can I do? Charnock hustled me into it; he has a way of getting somebody else to do the things he shirks. But I gave him my word.”
“And that's binding!” remarked Muriel, who was half amused by his indignation. She thought Charnock deserved it, but Festing could be trusted.
“I wish I could ask your advice,” he resumed. “You could tell me what to say; but as I don't know if Charnock would approve, it mightn't be the proper thing.”
Muriel was keenly curious to learn the truth about her friend's love affair, but she resisted the temptation. Because she liked Festing, she would not persuade him to do something for which he might afterwards reproach himself.
“No,” she said, “perhaps you oughtn't to tell me. But I don't think you need be nervous. If you have the right feeling, you will take the proper line.”
Then they went into the house where the curate was talking to Gardiner.