When Festing had changed his clothes he entered the small sitting-room with an effort at cheerfulness. The room was unusually comfortable for a prairie homestead. The floor was stained, rugs were spread on the polished boards, and Helen had drawn the curtains, which harmonized in color with the big easy chairs. There were books in well-made cases, and two or three good pictures on the painted walls, while a tall brass lamp with a deep shade threw down a soft light. Helen had put a meal on the table, and Festing sat down with a feeling that was half uneasiness and half content.
While he ate he glanced at his wife. She wore a pretty and rather fashionable dress that she kept for evenings. She looked fresh and vigorous, although the summer had been hot and she worked hard; the numerous petty difficulties she had to contend with had left no mark. Her courage had always been evident, but she had shown a resolution that Festing had not quite expected. He admired it, in a way, but it was sometimes awkward when they took a different point of view.
There was a charm in coming back to a home like this when he was tired and disappointed, but its taste and comfort were now disturbing. For one thing, he had perhaps not made the best use of his privileges, and, for another, Helen might have to be satisfied with a simpler mode of life. It hurt him to think of this, because he had hoped to beautify the house still further, so that she should miss nothing she had been used to in the Old Country. It was obvious that she understood something of his misfortune, for her look was sympathetic; but she let him finish his supper before she began to talk.
“Your jacket is badly torn, Stephen,” she remarked when he lighted his pipe. “And how did you cut your face?”
“The hail was pretty fierce.”
“It was terrible. We never had storms like that in England. I was frightened when I thought of your being out on the prairie. But I don't mean the small bruises. How did you cut your forehead?”
“Oh, that!” said Festing awkwardly. “I did it when I fell over a stove at the settlement. The pipe came down and I imagine the edge struck me.”
“You would have known if it hit you nor not.”
“Well, it might have been the top of the stove. The molding was sharp.”
“But how did you fall against the stove?” Helen persisted.
Festing did not want to tell her about the fight with Wilkinson. He had resolved to say nothing about the matter until morning.
“I tripped. There was a chair in the way and it caught my foot.”
Helen did not look altogether satisfied, but let the matter go.
“Has the hail done much damage to the wheat?”
“Yes,” said Festing, with grim quietness. “I imagine it has done all the damage that was possible. So far as I could see, the crop's wiped out.”
They were sitting near together, and Helen, leaning forward, put her hand on his arm with a gesture of sympathy.
“Poor Stephen! I'm dreadfully sorry. It must have been a blow.”
Festing's hard look softened. “It was. When I stopped beside the wreck I felt knocked out, but getting home braced me up. I begin to feel I might have had a worse misfortune and mustn't exaggerate the importance of the loss.”
Helen was silent for a few minutes, but she was sensible of a certain relief. She was sorry for her husband, but there was some compensation, since it looked as if a ray of light had dawned on him. Although she had struggled against the feeling, she was jealous of the farm that had kept him away from her.
“I think you sowed too large a crop, and you could not have gone on working as you have done,” she said. “It would have worn you out.”
Festing put down his pipe and looked at her with surprise. “You don't seem to understand that I'll have to work harder than before.”
“I don't understand,” said Helen, taking away her hand. “To begin with, it's impossible; then I'd hoped the loss of money, serious as it is, would have made you cautious and, in a sense, more content.”
“You hoped the loss of the money—!” Festing exclaimed. “Did you ever know losing money make anybody content? The thing's absurd!”
Helen made a gesture of protest. “Stephen, dear, try to see what I mean. You have been doing too much, running too big risks, and fixing all your thought upon the farm. It has made you irritable and impatient, and the strain is telling on your health. This could not go on long, and although I'm truly sorry the wheat is spoiled, it's some relief to know you will be forced to be less ambitious. Besides, it's foolish to be disturbed. Neither of us is greedy, and we have enough. In fact, we have much that I hardly think you value as you ought.”
“I haven't enough; that's the trouble.”
“Oh,” said Helen, “you know that all I have belongs to both.”
“It doesn't,” Festing answered in a stubborn tone. “You don't seem to realize yet that I can't change my views about this matter. I've lost most of my money, but that's no reason I should lose my wife's. Besides, since you bought the farm, you haven't a large sum left.” He paused and indicated the handsome rugs and furniture. “Then it costs a good deal to live up to this kind of thing.”
“We can change that; I can manage with less help and be more economical. There is much that we can go without. I wouldn't mind at all, Stephen, if it would help you to take things easily.”
Festing colored. “No. I can't let you suffer for my rashness. It's my business to give you all the comforts you need.”
“Ah,” said Helen, “I like you to think of me. But something's due to pride. I wonder how much?”
“I don't know,” said Festing, rather wearily. “I'm what I am and haven't much time to improve myself. For that matter, I'll have less time now.”
“Then what do you mean to do?”
“Make the most of what I have left. I'd hoped to give you a change this winter—take you to Montreal and go skating and tobogganing, but that's done with. I believe I have money enough to begin again in a small way and work up. It may take me two or three years to get back to where I was, but somehow I will get back.”
“Then you are going on as before; concentrating all your mind upon the farm, taking no rest, denying yourself every pleasure you might have had?”
“I'm afraid that's the only way. It's a pretty grim outlook, but I think I can stand the strain.”
“Then I suppose I must try,” said Helen, very quietly.
She was silent afterwards, and Festing lit his pipe. Something stood between them, and she felt that it was not less dangerous because their motives were good. Had they differed from selfishness, agreement might have been easier, but an estrangement that sprang from principle was hard to overcome. She wanted to help her husband and keep him to herself; he meant to save her hardship and carry out a task that was properly his. But perhaps their motives were not so fine as they looked. Suppose there was shabby jealousy on her side, and false pride on his? Well, Stephen was tired and could not see things in the proper light, and it was some relief when he got up and went out. Helen picked up a book, in the hope of banishing her uneasy thoughts.
Next morning Festing came in for breakfast, feeling gloomy and preoccupied. He had not slept much and got up early to examine the damaged grain. It looked worse than he had thought and, for the most part, must be burned off the ground. There were patches that might, with difficulty, be cut, but he hardly imagined the stooks would pay for thrashing. Moreover, he had bought and fed a number of expensive Percheron horses, which ought to have been used for harvesting and hauling the grain to the railroad, and had engaged men at lower wages than usual, on the understanding that he kept them through the winter. Now there was nothing for both to do, although their maintenance would cost as much as before.
He read Kerr's letter again. If he had not been married, it would have given him a chance of overcoming his difficulties. A man and a team of horses could do all that was required on the farm in winter, and he could have taken the others to British Columbia. Kerr would arrange for free transport, and, if he was lucky, he might earn enough on the railroad to cover part of his loss. But this was impossible. He could not leave Helen.
Then there was the other matter. He had not yet told her what Wilkinson had said, but she must be told, and Bob's visits must stop. The trouble was that he had already vexed her by refusing her help, and this would not make his delicate task easier. Besides, he was not in the mood to use much tact. His nerves were raw; the shock he had got had left him savage and physically tired. For all that, the thing could not be put off.
He said nothing until breakfast was over, and then, asking Helen to come with him, went on to the veranda. The sun was hot, the sky clear, and thin steam drifted across the drenched plain. Had the storm come without the hail a few weeks sooner, it would have saved his crop; but now the vivifying moisture seemed to mock him. It had come too late; the wheat had gone. Struggling with a feeling of depression, he turned to his wife.
“There's something we must talk about; and I hope you'll be patient with me if you get a jar.”
He leaned against the balustrade, nervously fingering his pipe, and Helen sat down opposite. She felt curious and disturbed.
“Well?” she said.
“To begin with, I'll tell you what happened at the settlement yesterday. You must remember that the statements are Wilkinson's.”
Helen's color rose, and when he stopped her face was flushed and her eyes were very bright.
“Ah,” she said in a strained voice. “But what did you do?”
Festing smiled rather grimly. “I dragged the brute about the floor and threw him into the street. I don't know that it was a logical denial of the slander, but it was what the others expected and I had to indulge them.”
“And that was how you cut your forehead?”
“Yes,” said Festing, and for a few moments Helen tried to regulate her thoughts.
She felt shocked and disgusted, but did not mean to let her anger master her, because there were matters that must be carefully weighed. Indeed, it was something of a relief to dwell upon the first. To hear of Festing's thrashing her traducer had given her a pleasant thrill, but all the same she vaguely disapproved. He had not taken a dignified line and had really made things worse. It was humiliating to feel that she had been the subject of a vulgar poolroom brawl.
“Could you not have found a better way to silence him?” she asked.
“I could not. I was afraid you wouldn't like it, but you must try to understand that I was forced to play up to local sentiment. English notions of what is becoming don't hold good here; you can't stop a man like Wilkinson with a supercilious look. If I'd let the thing go, the boys would have thought his statements true, and the tale is bad enough to deal with.”
Helen gave him a steady look, but her color was high and her face was hard.
“But you know it isn't true!”
“Of course,” said Festing, with quiet scorn. “All that the brute insinuated is absolutely false. Bob's a fool, but he knows you, and I'm beginning to think he's a little in love with his wife.”
“Ah,” said Helen, “I knew you knew. But I felt I must hear you say so.”
Festing hesitated. One difficulty had vanished, but there was another, and he hoped Helen would see his point of view.
“For all that, in a way, there was some truth in the story; enough, in fact, to make it dangerous, and I think you have been rash. Bob has been here too often, and you will remember I objected to his coming.”
“You did,” said Helen. “You were rather disagreeable about it; but you objected because he liked to talk and kept you from your work.”
“He certainly talked. General conversation is all right in English country houses where nobody had much to do, but casual chatterers who insist on talking when you're busy are a disgusting nuisance in Canada. However, I don't think that's worth arguing about.”
“It is not,” said Helen, with a smile. “Besides, I know your opinions about that point. What do you wish me to do?”
“Warn Sadie to keep Bob at home. There's no reason she shouldn't visit you, but you can't go there.”
The color returned to Helen's face and she got up. She looked stately with her air of injured pride.
“Do you mean that I should rule my conduct to suit the ideas of the drunken loafers at the settlement poolroom?”
“Oh!” said Festing impatiently, “try to be sensible! You have done a foolish thing, but you needn't make it worse. The trouble is that those loafers' opinions will be reflected all round the neighborhood. Wilkinson won't say anything more; at least, he won't when I'm about; but I can't keep on throwing out people who agree with him.”
“That is plain. If you were not so angry, the remark would be humorous.”
“I'm not angry,” Festing rejoined.
“Well, I am,” said Helen. “And I think I have some grounds. Must I let those tipsy gossips dictate when I may see my friends?”
“Does it matter if you see them or not? You don't really care for Bob.”
“No,” said Helen, trying to be calm. “In a way, I don't care for Bob; that is, I'm glad I didn't marry him. But I don't see why I should stop him coming here when Sadie wants to bring him. She's my friend, and she knows it does Bob good. I'm too angry to flatter you, Stephen, but you have some influence—”
Festing laughed. “All the influence I've got won't go far with Bob. I don't say the fellow's vicious, but he's an extravagant slacker and a fool, which is perhaps as bad. Anyhow, if he can be reformed at all, it's Sadie's business, and I've no doubt she finds it an arduous job. There's no use in an outsider meddling, and your anxiety for his improvement might be misunderstood. In fact, it has been seriously misunderstood.”
“You seem to have made up your mind about the matter,” Helen remarked with a curious look.
“I have. Perhaps the easiest way would be for you to give Sadie a hint.”
“Suppose I refuse?”
“Then I shall have to talk to Bob. After all, that might be better.”
Helen flushed, but her color faded and her face got white. “You are willing to let this scurrilous gossip influence you as far as that? Do you mean to forbid my friends coming to see me?”
“I won't have Bob hanging round my house. The wastrel has done you harm enough.”
“You forget something,” Helen rejoined in a strained, cold voice. “The house is mine.”
She knew her mistake as she saw the change in Festing's look, and weakly turned her head. When she looked back it was too late. His hands were clenched and his gaze was fixed.
“I—I didn't quite mean that,” she faltered.
“Anyhow, it's true,” said Festing quietly. “The farm is yours as well, and I admit you have no grounds for being satisfied with the way I've managed your property. You won't have much trouble in getting a better steward.”
Helen glanced at him, with a hint of fear. “But I don't want anybody else. Do you mean to give up the farm?”
“Yes. As soon as I can arrange things for you I'm going to British Columbia for a time. I've been offered a railroad contract, and as it's a job I know something about, I mayn't fail at that.”
“And you will leave me alone to face this slander?”
“The remedy's in your hands. I'm powerless if you won't use it. I can't forbid Bob coming here; you can.”
Helen hesitated. It was unfortunate that both were in an abnormal mood. They had borne some strain, and the shock of the disaster to the crop had left them with jangled nerves. This clouded Helen's judgment, but reenforced her pride. She had meant well when she tried to help Sadie with Bob, and could not give way to her husband's unreasonable prejudice. This was a matter of principle. She could help Bob and must not be daunted by vulgar gossip.
“No,” she said; “I can't break my promise to Sadie for the reasons you give. You must do what you think best.”
Festing made a sign of acquiescence and went down the steps, while Helen bit her lip. She wanted to call him back, but somehow could not. It might be easier if he would look round, but he went on across the grass and his step was resolute, although his head was bent. Then she got up, and going to her room, sat down trembling. She had let her best chance go; Stephen's resolve would stiffen, for when he had made a choice he was hard to move. Besides, he had wounded her deeply. He did not seem to understand that if he went away he would give people ground for thinking the slander true. He ought to have seen this if he had thought about her. Perhaps he had seen it and refused to let it influence him. Well, if he wanted a reconciliation, he must make the first offer.
In the meantime, Festing went to look for the foreman, whom he could trust. After some talk, the man agreed to manage the farm for the winter on the terms Festing indicated. Then the latter asked if the other men would go with him to the Pacific Slope, and finding them willing, went back to his office and carefully studied his accounts. He was glad to think that Helen had sufficient help and that the staid Scottish housekeeper would take care of her. By and by he wrote a note and then drove off to the settlement. He did not come back until next morning, but his plans were made and he only waited a telegram from Kerr. Three or four days later the telegram arrived.
“All fixed,” it ran. “Pass for transport mailed. Come along soon as possible.”
Soon after Festing started for British Columbia Sadie drove over to the farm; because she had heard about the fight in the poolroom and suspected why he had gone. At first she found it difficult to break down Helen's reserve, but the latter could not resist her frank sympathy, and softening by degrees, allowed herself to be led into confidential talk. Sadie waited until she thought she understood the matter, and then remarked:
“So you stuck to your promise that you'd help me with Bob, although you saw what it would cost? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if you hated us.”
“It wasn't altogether the promise,” Helen replied. “We were both highly strung, and I thought Stephen hard and prejudiced; it seemed ridiculous that he should care what the loafers said. But I don't hate you. The fault was really mine, and I want a friend.”
“Well,” said Sadie, “I feel I've got to help put this trouble right, if I can.” She paused and asked with some hesitation: “Will Steve be away long?”
“I don't know,” Helen answered dejectedly. “He hinted that he might not come until spring; I think he means to stop until he has earned enough to make him independent. That's partly my fault—I said something rash. If I hadn't had more money than him, it wouldn't have happened.”
Sadie smiled. “My having more money won't make trouble between me and Bob; he doesn't mind how much I've got. But I suppose you want Steve back?”
“Of course! It's all I want, but the matter is not as simple as it looks. I don't think he will come back as long as he's poor, and if he does, he won't use my capital, and things will be as before. If he earns some money, I should feel hurt because he was obstinate and wouldn't let me help. That's why I don't know what to do. I wish I'd never had the money!”
Sadie thought Helen had some ground she had not mentioned yet for her distress. Moreover, it looked as if she still felt she had a grievance against Festing, and their clashing ideas about the money did not altogether account for this.
“I guess you're keeping something back.”
Helen's reserve had broken down. She was half ashamed because she had lost it, but she felt the need of sympathy, and Sadie could be trusted.
“He didn't see, or didn't mind, that his going away would bear out the wicked story!” she exclaimed with sparkling eyes. “I feel that was the worst.”
“I don't know that it looks quite as bad as you think. It's a common thing for a farmer who has lost his crop to go off and work on a new railroad, particularly if he has teams the construction boss can use. Anyhow, I guess the thing will come right, and I'll help if I can. But I want to see my way before I move.”
Helen did not answer, and soon afterwards Sadie left the homestead. She said nothing to Charnock about her visit, but started for the settlement next morning and informed herself about what had happened at the poolroom and what people thought. Then she drove home, and getting back at dusk, sat down opposite Charnock, who lounged in a basket chair with a pipe in his mouth. Her eyes twinkled with rather grim humor.
“You don't look as if anything bothered you,” she said.
“It's possible,” Charnock agreed. “I suppose I'm lucky because I have nothing much to bother about.”
“You wouldn't bother about it, anyhow. You leave that kind of thing to me.”
Charnock gave her a quick glance. She was not angry, which was something of a relief, because Sadie was difficult when she let herself go. Besides, he was not conscious of having done anything to vex her since he gave Wilkinson the cheque. But she looked resolute.
“I've a good excuse,” he answered. “I've got a remarkably capable wife.”
“We'll cut out the compliments. I don't think you have seen any of the boys from the settlement since Festing left.”
Charnock said he had not done so, and she gave him a thoughtful look.
“I suppose you can't remember when you last did something useful; something that would help somebody else?”
“It's a painful confession, but I can't remember. Still I've some experience of being helped along a way I didn't want to go, which leads me to believe it's often kinder to leave folks alone.”
“Anyhow, you have done some harm.”
“I'm afraid that's true. I don't know that I meant to do much harm, but it's generally easier than doing good. For example, I've given you some trouble; but at the moment I can't think of a new offense.”
“You can quit joking and put down that newspaper. It looks as if you didn't know why Festing left?”
Charnock said he could not guess, and got up abruptly when Sadie told him. He kicked the newspaper out of his way and crossed the floor with angry strides. His face was red when he stopped in front of his wife.
“You don't believe the lying tale!”
“No,” said Sadie, calmly. “If I had believed it, I wouldn't have talked to you like this.”
“Thank you! Now we have cleared the ground, I'm certainly going to do something. I'll begin by driving over to Wilkinson's to-morrow, and I'll take a whip.”
“Festing 'tended to that matter before he left, and making another circus won't help. Besides, Wilkinson has got to quit. You'll see notices about his sale soon; I fixed that up.”
Charnock laughed. “You're a marvel, Sadie, but the brute deserves it. Well, if I mustn't thrash him, what's your plan?”
“You'll go to British Columbia and bring Festing back.”
“I will, by George!” said Charnock. “We owe him and Helen much, and the job is obviously mine—by joining Festing I give Wilkinson the lie. You're clever, and I expect you saw this. Anyhow, I'll start; but Festing's an obstinate fellow. Suppose he won't come back?”
“He mayn't at first. If so, you'll have to wait.”
Charnock turned away and walked about the floor while Sadie watched him, pleased but curious. Bob was rather hard to move, but he was moved now. He came back, and sitting down, looked at her thoughtfully.
“I imagine you are giving me a bigger job than you know. If Festing has taken the railroad contract, he'll probably stop until he had carried it out. Now I don't imagine I'd find it amusing to loaf about and watch him work; for one thing, it's pretty cold in the ranges after the snow comes.”
“Well?” said Sadie.
Charnock leaned forward with an apologetic smile. “I'd like to take a share in the contract and help him through; that is, of course, if he won't come back at once. But there's a difficulty; I haven't the cash.”
“You want me to give you some?”
“Yes. I shouldn't feel much surprised if you refused. I've squandered your money before, but this time I mean business. Can't you see that I have, so to speak, got my chance at last?”
“I don't quite see. You have had many chances.”
“I have,” Charnock agreed; but there was a new note in his voice and a look in his eyes that Sadie had not often seen. “I've been a fool, but perhaps it doesn't follow that I'm incapable of change. However, let's be practical. The crop is spoiled, we have no grain to haul in, and there'll be nothing doing here while the snow is on the ground. Well, if Festing can get some of his money back, why can't I? I've wasted yours long enough, and now, if I can't bring him home, I'll stop with him until we both make good.”
“You mean that, Bob?”
“I do. Give me a chance to prove it.”
Sadie got up, and putting her hands on his shoulders, kissed him. “Very well. You shall have all the money you want.”
Then she went back to her chair and turned her head. She had borne with her husband's follies and fought hard for him, sometimes with hope and sometimes in desperation, but always with unflinching courage. Now it looked as if she had won. Victory was insecure yet, and there was a risk that it might turn to defeat, but Sadie never shrank from a daring venture. For a moment she could not speak; her heart was full.
“Hallo!” said Charnock, who got up and came towards her. “Crying, Sadie? Will you miss me as much as that?”
Sadie hastily wiped her eyes. “Yes, Bob; I'll miss you all the time. But if you'll come back the man you are now, I'll wait as long as you like.”
“I'll try,” said Charnock simply. “I'm not going to protest, but you deserve a much better husband than you've got. If I can't come back better fit to live with you, I won't come back at all.”
“I wouldn't like that,” Sadie answered, smiling uncertainly. “But I guess I know what you mean. I'll wait, dear, because I know you are going to make good.”
Then, feeling that she had said enough, she began to make plans. Something might be saved from the ruined crop and she had better keep a heavy team, but Charnock could have the other horses if they were required. She could carry on whatever work was possible after the frost set in, and would pay off one of the hired men. Charnock approved, and after a time Sadie leaned back in her chair.
“It's all fixed, but perhaps we mayn't need these plans,” she said. “Remember you're really going there to bring Festing home.”
“That's understood. However, I don't think he'll come, and if so, it will be Helen's money that prevents him. If he's foolish enough to doubt her, I can put him right, which will be something.”
“Yes,” said Sadie, with a sigh. “Well, if he won't come, you must stop and do the best you can.”
In the meantime, Festing reached the railroad camp. It was raining when the construction train rolled noisily through a mountain gorge, and he stood at the door of the caboose, looking out. Three or four hundred feet below, a green river, streaked with muddy foam, brawled among the rocks, for the track had been dug out of a steep hillside. Festing knew this was difficult work; one could deal with rock, although it cost much to cut, but it was another matter to bed the rails in treacherous gravel, and the fan-shaped mounds of shale and soil that ran down to the water's edge showed how loose the ground was and the abruptness of the slope. Above, the silver mist drifted about the black firs that clung to the side of the mountain, and in the distance there was a gleam of snow. Some of the trees had fallen, and it was significant that, for the most part, they did not lie where they fell. They had slipped down hill, and the channels in the ground indicated that the shock had been enough to start a miniature avalanche which had carried them away. The pitch was near the slant engineers call the angle of rest, but Festing thought there was rock not far beneath, which prevented the solidification of the superincumbent soil. It looked as if his contract would be difficult and he would earn his pay.
As the cars passed he saw the ballast creep about the ends of the ties, which reached to the edge of the descent, and in places small streams of gravel had run down, leaving hollows round the timber. The harsh jolting indicated the consequences, but he knew that in the West railroads are built as fast as possible and made safe afterwards. For that matter, he had often run risks that would have daunted engineers used to conservative English methods. In the meantime, the speed was slackening, and by and by the harsh tolling of the locomotive bell echoed among the pines. Tents, iron huts, and rude log shacks slipped past; men in muddy slickers drew back against the bank, and then the train stopped.
Festing got down into the water that flowed among the ties, and Kerr came forward in dripping slickers.
“If you want help to get the teams out, I'll send some of the boys,” he said. “If not, you had better come along and I'll show you your shack. I told our cook to fix your supper, and I'll be glad to sit down for a time out of the wet.”
Festing followed him along the descending track, which presently ended at a ledge of rock sixty or seventy feet above the river. Wire ropes spanned the gap between the banks, and near the middle a rock islet broke the surface of the savage flood. Here men were pouring cement into holes among the foundations of an iron frame, while suspended trollies clanged across the wires. On the other bank was a small flat where shacks of log and bark stood among dripping tents. The roar of the river filled the gorge, but its deep note was broken by the rattle of hammers, clash of shovels, and clang of thrown-down rails.
The sounds of keen activity stirred Festing's blood. He had a touch of constructive genius, but lack of specialized training had forced him into the ranks of the pioneers. Others must add the artistic finish and divide the prizes of ultimate victory; his part was to rough out the work and clear the way. But he was satisfied with this, and something in him thrilled as he heard in the crash of a blasting charge man's bold challenge to the wilderness. Kerr waited with a twinkle of understanding amusement while Festing looked about, and then took him up the hill.
“You have come back,” he remarked. “Well, I guessed you would come. After all, this is your job; it's here you belong.”
“That is so, in a sense,” Festing dryly agreed. “It looks as if my job was to get tired and wet and dirty while others got the dollars; but it's a job with different sides. Farming's as much a part of it as this, and has very similar disadvantages.”
“There's an altruistic theory that the dollars don't count; but it's easier to believe when you draw your wages regularly, and I've known it break down when an engineer was offered a more lucrative post. Anyhow, I reckon it's our business to make good, even if our pay isn't equal to our desserts, which happens pretty often when you work on the railroad.”
“If you work on a farm, you often don't get paid at all.”
Kerr laughed and indicated the pines that rolled up the hill in somber spires.
“Well, there's your raw material, and you won't have much trouble to bring the logs down, though you may find stopping them from plunging into the river a harder thing. However, you have some notion of what you're up against, and I'll show you the plans and specifications when we get out of the rain.”
He stopped in front of a small log shack, and opening the door, beckoned Festing in. There was an earth floor, and a bunk, filled with swamp-hay, was fixed to the wall; two or three camp-chairs stood about, and a fire of scented cedar logs burned on the clay hearth. A Chinaman, dressed in very clean blue clothes, was putting a meal on the table. Festing hung up his wet slickers and sat down with a vague sense of satisfaction. It was plain that he must go without many comforts he had enjoyed at the farm, but he felt strangely at home.
Kerr took supper with him, and afterwards threw some papers on the table and lighted his pipe. Half an hour later Festing looked up.
“I imagine I've got the hang of things, and I'll make a start to-morrow. Your way of underpinning the track is pretty good, but I don't like that plan. You can't hold up the road long with lumber; the work won't stand.”
“I don't know if your objection springs from artistic delight in a good job or British caution. Anyhow, you ought to know that in this country we don't want work to stand; our aim is to get it finished. If the track holds up until we can start the freight traffic running, it's as much as we expect. We'll improve it afterwards as the dollars come in.”
“A freight train in a Canadian river isn't a very uncommon object,” Festing rejoined. “However, it's my business to cut the logs and do the underpinning as well as I can. On the whole, and barring accidents, I see some profit on the job. I'm grateful to you for putting it in my way.”
“Your thanks are really due to somebody else. The head contractor is not allowed to sub-let work without our approval, and although I recommended your being given a chance, the decision rested with another man.”
“Who's that?”
“He'll probably look you up to-night,” Kerr replied with a twinkle. “They sent him from headquarters to see how we're getting on. But I'll leave you the plans. We're working nights with the blast-lamps, and I've got to be about when the new shift makes a start.”
He went away and Festing studied the drawings. He had undertaken to cut and dress to size the heavy logs required for the lower posts of trestles and foundation piles. So far, he did not apprehend much difficulty, but he would run some risk over the underpinning of part of the track. In order to make a secure and permanent road-bed, it would have been necessary to cut back the hillside for some distance and then distribute the spoil about the slope below, but the engineers had chosen a quicker and cheaper plan. Heavy timbers would be driven into the face of the hill to make a foundation for the track, which would be partly dug out of, and partly built on to, the declivity. Where the main piles reached the rock the plan would be safe, but where they were bedded in gravel there was danger of their giving way under a heavy load. Festing knew he must share the risk of this happening with the head contractor.
By and by somebody knocked at the door, and he got up abruptly as a man came in.
“Dalton!” he exclaimed.
The other smiled and threw off his wet slickers. It was getting dark, but the firelight touched his face and Festing studied him with surprise. The lad, whom he had not seen for some years, had grown into a man, and had moreover a look of quiet authority. He had made rapid progress if he had, as Kerr had stated, been sent to report upon the latter's work.
“You don't seem to have expected me, though, to some extent, I'm responsible for your being here,” he said. “However, I'm remarkably glad we have met again.”
Festing, awkwardly conscious that his welcome was somewhat cold, indicated a chair, and sitting down opposite began to fill his pipe. Dalton sometimes wrote to Helen, but had not mentioned his being sent to British Columbia.
“Well,” he said, “I was glad to hear you had got a move up once or twice, but it looks as if you had gone farther than I thought.”
“I had the advantage of a proper training, and the reputation of the engineer who gave it me counted for something, although I might never have got my chance in this country but for you. Now I'm happy if I've been able to show my gratitude. When Kerr brought your name forward I told him to see you got the contract.”
“You did more than you knew,” said Festing. “It looks as if you hadn't heard from Helen.”
“Not for a time; I hope she's well. I'd thought about coming West to see you, but couldn't get away, and she talked about your going to Montreal this winter.”
“That's off, of course. It's plain you don't know that Helen and I have quarreled.”
Dalton looked up sharply, but was silent for a moment or two.
“This is a nasty knock,” he said. “I don't know if my relation to you justifies my venturing on dangerous ground, but do you feel at liberty to tell me what you quarreled about?”
Festing decided that Charnock's part in the matter must be kept dark. It was unthinkable that Dalton should imagine he suspected his wife.
“To put it roughly, we differed about what you might call a principle, although Helen's money had something to do with the thing. You see, I lost my crop and she was hurt because I wouldn't use her capital.”
“I don't see altogether,” Dalton rejoined. “In fact, your objection seems unusual.”
He pondered for a minute or two, and Festing marked the change in him. Dalton had a reserve and thoughtfulness he had not expected. He had grown very like Helen.
“A quarrel about a principle is apt to be dangerous,” he resumed. “Although you are probably both wrong, you can persuade yourselves you are right. Then while I was glad to hear about your wedding, I'll admit that I saw some difficulties. Helen has a strong will and is sometimes rather exacting, while you're an obstinate fellow and a little too practical. I must wait until I know more than I do now, but might be of some use as a peacemaker. Isn't it possible to compromise? Can't you meet half way?”
“Not in the meantime. I can't go home until I'm able to run the farm without your sister's help. There's some risk of her despising me if I did go.”
“You may be right; I can't judge,” Dalton thoughtfully agreed. “Now I could, of course, find an excuse for getting you dismissed, but I know you both too well to imagine that plan would work. You would go somewhere else, while though Helen is generous there's a hard streak in her. I really think she'd like you better afterwards if you carried your intentions out.”
He paused and smiled. “She got the money you object to in a very curious way—by refusing to indulge the wishes of our only rich relation. I was more compliant because his plans met my views, and he paid for my education, but when he died we found Helen had got her share and mine. I understand he told his lawyer that he still thought her wrong; but if she thought she was right, she was justified in refusing, and he admired her pluck.”
“She has pluck,” said Festing. “On the whole I don't think that makes things much better for me. Anyhow, I've taken this contract and I've got to stay with it.”
“I'll help you as far as I can,” said Dalton, who soon afterwards left the shack.