"Frost? You are surely mistaken? See how sunny it is!"
Shaking his head, he laid a forefinger on the thermometer. "Six o'clock,
and the silver is down to thirty-five."
At dusk it had lowered another degree, and throughout the northland a
hundred thousand farmers were watching, with Carter, its slow recession.
On the fertile wheat plains of southern Manitoba, through the vast gloom
of the Dakotas, to the uttermost limits of Minnesota, the mercury
focussed the interest of half a million trembling souls whose fire-fly
lanterns dusted the continental gloom. Prayers, women's tears, men's
agonized curses marked its decline, that, like an etching tool, graved
deep lines on haggard faces in Chicago, Liverpool, and London far away.
At thirty-two Carter lit the smudges of wet straw, and simultaneously
the vast spread of night flamed out in smoke and fire. "I don't go much
on it," he told Helen. "But some believe in it, and I ain't agoing to
miss a chance."
He was right. Pale thief, the frost stole in under the reek and
breathed his cold breath on the wheat. Holding his instrument, at ten
o'clock, in the thickest smoke, Carter saw that it registered
twenty-seven. Five degrees of frost and the cold of dawn still to come!
Raising the glass, he dashed it to pieces at his feet.
It was done. Reverberating through the land, the smash of his glass
typified the shattering of innumerable fortunes, the crash of business
houses. The pistol-shot that wound up the affairs of some desperate
gambler was but one echo. Surging wildly, the calamity would affect far
more than the growers of wheat. Iron-workers, miners, operatives in a
hundred branches of industry would shiver under the cold breath of the
frost. For now the farmer would buy less cotton, the operative pay more
for his flour, the miner earn a scantier wage.
True, the balance swings ever even. This year ryots of India, Argentine
peons, Egyptian fellaheen would reap where they had not sown, gather
where they had not strawed. Another year a Russian blight, Nile drouth,
hot wind of Argentine would swing prices in favor of the northland. But
in this was small comfort for the stricken people.
"All gone!" Carter exclaimed at midnight. "The feathers are frozen
offen them bonnets."
Helen sensed the bitterness under his lightness. "Never mind, dear," she
comforted. "I really don't care. You did your best."
_He had done his best_! To a strong man the phrase stabs, signifying
the victory of conditions. He winced, as from an offered blow. It was
the last drop in his cup, the signal of his defeat. It marked the
destruction of this his last plan for her. He had not, in the
beginning, intended that she should ever set her hand to drudgery. His
love was to come between her and all that was sordid, squalid. If the
railroad contract had materialized, she should have had a little home in
Winnipeg where she might enjoy the advantages of her early life. He had
planned for a servant--two, if she could use them--and all that he asked
in return was that she should bring beauty into his life, adorn his
home, sweeten his days with the aroma of her delicate presence. In this
small castle of Spain he had installed his beauty of the sweet mouth,
golden hair, pretty profile; and now, out of his own disappointment, he
read reproach in the hazel eyes that looked out from the ruins.
Long after her sleep-breathing freighted the dusk of their bedroom, he
lay gazing wide-eyed into the black future. A sudden light would have
shown his eyes blank, expressionless, for his spirit was afar, questing
for other material with which to rebuild his castle. In thought he was
travelling Silver Creek, from its headwaters in the timber limits to its
source where it flowed into the mighty Assiniboin. It was a small
stream--too small to drive logs except for a month on the snow waters.
But with a dam here--another there--a third on the flats--rough
structures of logs with a stone and gravel filling, yet sufficient to
conserve the falling waters! The drive could then be sent down from dam
to dam! During the night he travelled every yard of the stream, placing
his dams, and at dawn rose, content in his eyes.
Slipping quietly from the house, he saddled the Devil and led him
quietly by while Helen still slept, and an hour later rode up to
Bender's cabin. The Cougar was also there, and from dubious
head-waggings the two relapsed into thoughtful acquiescence as Carter
unfolded his plans.
"She'll go down like an eel on ice!" Bender enthusiastically agreed.
"All you want now is backing. Funny, ain't it, that nobody ever thought
o' that before? Say"--he regarded Carter with open admiration--"you're
particular hell when it comes to thinking. If I'd a headpiece like
yourn--"
"You hain't," the Cougar coldly interrupted, "so don't waste no time
telling us what you might ha' done. Get down to business. I know a
man"--he thoughtfully surveyed Carter--"that financed half a dozen big
lumbering contrac's on the Superior construction work. He'll sire
anything that looks like ten per cent. an' this of yourn will sure turn
fifty. Come inside an' I'll write you a letter."
What of the Cougar's inexperience with the pen, the morning was well on
when Carter rode back to his cabin. If Helen had looked closely she
might have seen the new resolution that inhered in his smile, but she
had been concerned with her own reflections. Somehow, things had not
appeared this morning as they did last night. Crude daylight shows
events, like tired faces, in all their haggardness, and their complexion
was not improved by the steam from her wash-tub. Time and again she had
paused to survey her hands, creased and wrinkled by cooking in hot
water. Her bare arms recalled her first party-dress, and set her again
in the sweet past. Beside it the present seemed infinitely hopeless,
squalid, dreary. As she rubbed and scrubbed on her wash-board, life
resolved itself into an endless procession of wash-days, and tears had
mingled with the sweat that fell from her face to her bosom.
Noting her red eyes, Carter was tempted to disclose his new hope, but
remembered the failure of previous plans and refrained. As yet nothing
was certain. He would not expose her to the risk of another
disappointment. He rightly interpreted her sigh when he told her that he
would have to go down to Winnipeg on business about the timber limits,
and his heart smote him when, looking back, he saw her standing in the
door. Dejection resided in the parting wave of her hand, utter
hopelessness.
That lonely figure in the log doorway stuck in his consciousness
throughout his negotiations, causing him to hustle matters in a way that
simply scandalized the Cougar's man, a banker of the old school. Yet
his hurry served rather than hurt his cause. While the very novelty of
it made him gasp, the banker was impressed. In private he informed his
moneyed partners that such a chance and such a man rarely came together.
"He's a hustler, and the profit is there," he said, in consultation. "A
big profit. We can cut lumber ten per cent under the railroad price and
yet clear twenty-five cents on the dollar."
That settled it. Half a day later Carter was on his homeward way,
bearing with him the power to draw on Winnipeg or Montreal for moneys
necessary for supplies, men, and teams. Running home from Lone Tree, he
whiled away the miles with thoughts of Helen's joy. He pictured her,
radiant, flushed, listening to his news, and, quickening to the thought,
he raced, full gallop, the last mile up to his door.
His face burst into sunshine as, in response to his call, he heard her
cross the floor. Then his smile died, and he stared at Mrs. Leslie.
With the exception of an occasional glimpse as they met and passed on
trail, it was the first he had seen of her since the soft summer evening
when she laid illicit love at his feet. But no hint of that bitter
memory inhered in her greeting.
"How are you, Mr. Carter?" she cried, in her old, gay way. "I think you
are the meanest man in Silver Creek. Married a year, and neither you nor
Helen have set foot in our house. You are a regular Blue beard. But
you needn't think that you can hide from us forever. I just pocketed my
pride, ignored your snub, and made my third call. Yes"--she
emphatically nodded her pretty head--"the _third_, sir. But I forgive
you; come in and have some tea. Helen is down at the stables hunting
eggs to beat up a cake."
Covering his vexation with some light answer, he drove on to the
stables, the life and light gone out of him, his face the heaviest that
Helen had ever seen. "She called," she answered his abrupt question,
"and I have to entertain her." Then, piqued by his coldness, she went
on: "For matter of that, I do not see why you should try to cut me off
from her companionship! She is the only woman I care for in the
settlements!"
If he had only told her! But causes light as the falling of a leaf are
sufficient to deflect the entire current of a life, and it was perfectly
natural that, in his bitter disappointment, he also should give way to a
feeling of pique. The reason trembled to his lips, and there paused,
stayed by the resentment in her eyes.
"As you see fit," he answered. "Now I have to drive over to see Bender,
on business."
"Won't you wait for some tea?"
"No. And don't wait supper. I may be late."
Hurt, she watched him drive away; then, as he suddenly reined in, she
dashed the tears from her eyes. "Here's a letter for you," he called.
"Got it from the office as I came by."
He nodded in answer to Mrs. Leslie's cheery wave as he rolled by the
cabin. It was more than cold, yet, sitting chin on hands, that lady
smiled cheerfully when Helen came up from the stable. "Don't apologize,
my dear," she laughed. "Men are _such_ fools. Always doing something
to hurt their own happiness. Just banish that rueful expression and
read your letter."
"What's the matter?" The question was called forth by Helen's sudden
cry of dismay. She glanced at the wedding-cards that Helen offered.
"Hum! Old flame of yours, eh? These regrets will assail one."
However, she knit her straight brows over the enclosure. In part, it
ran: "We were so pleased to hear of your wonderful marriage from your
auntie Crandall. It was just like you to announce the bare fact, but
she told us all about it. A railroad king! Just fancy! He must be
nice or our delicate Helen would never consent to bury herself in the
wilderness. Do you know I have been just _dying_ to see him, and now I
shall, for we are passing through your country on our way to the Orient.
Which is your station?" Followed sixteen pages of questions,
description of trousseau, and other feminine matters which Helen
reserved for future consumption.
Could she have laid tongue, just then, on Auntie Crandall, that lady had
surely regretted her enlargements on Helen's modest statement of her
husband's prospects. Lacking that easement of feeling, she cried. This
visit capped her misery, brought the long record of misfortune,
discomfort, disaster to a fitting climax.
"Poor child!" Mrs. Leslie patted her shoulder. "But why did you tell
her such crammers? It was the good auntie?" She tilted her nose. "For
the honor of the family, we lie, eh? Heaven help us! Your
friend--what's her name?--Mrs. Ravell--she's rich, of course? Thought
so--couldn't be otherwise--trust the malignant fates for that. Well--"
She glanced meditatively about the cabin. Instead of lime-washing the
logs, settler fashion, Helen had left them to darken with age,
ornamenting them with a pair of magnificent moose horns and other
woodland trophies. Tanned bear-skins covered a big lounge that ran
across one end; buffalo robes and other skins took the place of mats on
the floor. Mrs. Leslie nodded approval. "Not bad. Quite wild-westy,
in fact. You will simply have to live up to it. You have given up your
town-house for the present and are rusticating while your hubby directs
some of his splendid schemes for the regeneration of this section--"
"Oh!" Helen burst in. "I couldn't say that. It would be--"
"Lying? Nonsense, child! Have you a town-house? No! Well, what are
you kicking about?" Mrs. Leslie's descent to the vernacular was as
forcible as confusing. Before Helen had time to differentiate between
the status involved by "not having a town-house" and giving one up her
temptress ran on. "That is it. You are rusticating. Now, I can lend
you some of my things--glass, china, and so on. When do they arrive?"
She consulted the letter. "Hooray! Your husband will be gone all next
week, and they come--let me see: one, two, three--next Friday. Couldn't
be better."