YOU FORGOT ME
The Lakeside House, substantially built of logs, with “frame” kitchen
attached, stood cosily among the clump of trees, poplar and spruce,
locally described as a bluff. The bluff ran down to the little lake
a hundred yards away, itself an expansion of Wolf Willow Creek. The
whitewashed walls gleaming through its festoons of Virginia creeper,
a little lawn bordered with beds filled with hollyhocks, larkspur,
sweet-william and other old-fashioned flowers and flanked by a heavy
border of gorgeous towering sunflowers, gave a general air, not only
of comfort and thrift, but of refinement as well, too seldom found in
connection with the raw homesteads of the new western country.
At a little distance from the house, at the end of a lane leading
through the bluff, were visible the stables, granary and other
outhouses, with corral attached.
Within, the house fulfilled the promise of its external appearance
and surroundings. There was dignity without stiffness, comfort without
luxury, simplicity without any suggestion of the poverty that painfully
obtrudes itself.
At the open window whose vine shade at once softened the light and
invited the summer airs, sat Mrs. Gwynne, with her basket of mending
at her side. Eight years of life on an Alberta ranch had set their mark
upon her. The summers' suns and winters' frosts and the eternal summer
and winter winds had burned and browned the soft, fair skin of her
earlier days. The anxieties inevitable to the struggle with poverty had
lined her face and whitened her hair. But her eyes shone still with the
serene light of a soul that carries within it the secret of triumph over
the carking cares of life.
Seated beside her was her eldest daughter Kathleen, sewing; and
stretched upon the floor lay Nora, frankly idle and half asleep,
listening to the talk of the other two. Their talk turned upon the theme
never long absent from their thought--that of ways and means.
“Tell you what, Mummie,” droned Nora, lazily extending her lithe young
body to its utmost limits, “there is a simple way out of our never
ending worries, namely, a man, a rich man, if handsome, so much the
better, but rich he must be, for Kathleen. They say they are hanging
round the Gateway City of the West in bunches. How about it, Kate?”
“My dear Nora,” gently chided her mother, “I wish you would not talk in
that way. It is not quite nice. In my young days--”
“In your young days I know just exactly what happened, Mother. There
was always a long queue of eligible young men dangling after the awfully
lovely young Miss Meredith, and before she was well out of her teens the
gallant young Gwynne carried her off.”
“We never talked about those things, my dear,” said her mother, shaking
her head at her.
“You didn't need to, Mother.”
“Well, if it comes to that, Nora,” said her sister, “I don't think you
need to, very much, either. You have only got to look at--”
“Halt!” cried Nora, springing to her feet. “But seriously, Mother dear,
I think we can weather this winter right enough. Our food supply is
practically visible. We have oats enough for man and beast, a couple of
pigs to kill, a steer also, not to speak of chickens and ducks. We shall
have some cattle to sell, and if our crops are good we ought to be able
to pay off those notes. Oh, why will Dad buy machinery?”
“My dear,” said her mother with gentle reproach, “your father says
machinery is cheaper than men and we really cannot do without machines.”
“That's all right, Mother. I'm not criticising father. He is a perfect
dear and I am awfully glad he has got that Inspectorship.”
“Yes,” replied her mother, “your father is suited to his new work and
likes it. And Larry will be finishing his college this year, I think.
And he has earned it too,” continued the mother. “When I think of all
he has done and how generously he has turned his salary into the family
fund, and how often he has been disappointed--” Here her voice trembled
a little.
Nora dropped quickly to her knees, taking her mother in her arms. “Don't
we all know, Mother, what he has done? Shall I ever forget those first
two awful years, the winter mornings when he had to get up before
daylight to get the house warm, and that awful school. Every day he had
to face it, rain, sleet, or forty below. How often I have watched him
in the school, always so white and tired. But he never gave up. He just
would not give up. And when those big boys were unruly--I could have
killed those boys--he would always keep his temper and joke and jolly
them into good order. And all the time I knew how terribly his head was
aching. What are you sniffling about, Kate?”
“I think it was splendid, just splendid, Nora,” cried Kathleen, swiftly
wiping away her tears. “But I can't help crying, it was all so terrible.
He never thought of himself, and year after year he gave up his money--”
“Hello!” cried a voice at the door. “Who gave up his money and to whom
and is there any more around?” His eye glanced around the group. “What's
up, people? Mummie, are these girls behaving badly? Let me catch them at
it!” The youth stood smiling down upon them. His years in the West had
done much for him. He was still slight, but though his face was pale
and his body thin, his movements suggested muscular strength and sound
health. He had not grown handsome. His features were irregular, mouth
wide, cheek bones prominent, ears large; yet withal there was a singular
attractiveness about his appearance and manner. His eyes were good;
grey-blue, humorous, straight-looking eyes they were, deep set under
overhanging brows, and with a whimsical humour ever lingering about
them; over the eyes a fore-head, broad, suggesting intellect, and set
off by heavy, waving, dark hair.
“Who gave his money? I insist upon knowing. No reply, eh? I have
evidently come upon a deep and deadly plot. Mother?--no use asking you.
Kathleen, out with it.”
“You gave your money,” burst forth Nora in a kind of passion as she flew
at him, “and everything else. But now that's all over. You are going to
finish your college course this year, that's what.”
“Oh, that's it, eh? I knew there was some women's scheme afloat.
Well, children,” said the youth, waving his hand over them in paternal
benediction, “since this thing is up we might as well settle it 'right
here and n-a-o-w,' as our American friend, Mr. Ralph Waldo Farwell,
would say, and a decent sort he is too. I have thought this all out.
Why should not a man gifted with a truly great brain replete with grey
matter (again in the style of the aforesaid Farwell) do the thinking
for his wimmin folk? Why not? Hence the problem is already solved. The
result is hereby submitted, not for discussion but for acceptance, for
acceptance you understand, to-wit and namely, as Dad's J. P. law books
have it: I shall continue the school another year.”
“You shan't,” shouted Nora, seizing him by the arm and shaking him with
all the strength of her vigorous young body.
“Larry, dear!” said his mother.
“Oh, Larry!” exclaimed Kathleen.
“We shall then be able to pay off all our indebtedness,” continued
Larry, ignoring their protests, “and that is a most important
achievement. This new job of Dad's means an addition to our income. The
farm management will remain in the present capable hands. No, Miss Nora,
I am not thinking of the boss, but of the head, the general manager.”
He waved his hand toward his mother. “The only change will be in the
foreman. A new appointment will be made, one who will bring to her task
not only experience and with it a practical knowledge, but the advantage
of intellectual discipline recently acquired at a famous educational
centre; and the whole concern will go on with its usual verve, swing,
snap, toward another year's success. Then next year me for the giddy
lights of the metropolitan city and the sacred halls of learning.”
“And me,” said Nora, “what does your high mightiness plan for me this
winter, pray?”
“Not quite so much truculence, young lady,” replied her brother. “For
you, the wide, wide world, a visit to the seat of light and learning
already referred to, namely, Winnipeg.”
For one single moment Nora looked at him. Then, throwing back her head,
she said with unsteady voice: “Not this time, old boy. One man can lead
a horse to water but ten cannot make him drink, and you may as well
understand now as later that this continual postponement of your college
career is about to cease. We have settled it otherwise. Kathleen will
take your school--an awful drop for the kids, but what joy for the big
boys. She and I will read together in the evenings. The farm will go on.
Sam and Joe are really very good and steady; Joe at least, and Sam most
of the time. Dad's new work will not take him from home so much,
he says. And next year me for the fine arts and the white lights of
Winnipeg. That's all that needs to be said.”
“I think, dear,” said the mother, looking at her son, “Nora is right.”
“Now, Mother,” exclaimed Larry, “I don't like to hear your foot come
down just yet. I know that tone of finality, but listen--”
“We have listened,” said Kathleen, “and we know we are right. I shall
take the school, Mr. Farwell--”
“Mr. Farwell, eh?--” exclaimed Nora significantly.
“Mr. Farwell has promised me,” continued Kathleen, “indeed has offered
me, the school. Nora and I can study together. I shall keep up my music.
Nora will keep things going outside, mother will look after every thing
as usual, Dad will help us outside and in. So that's settled.”
“Settled!” cried her brother. “You are all terribly settling. It seems
to me that you apparently forget--”
Once more the mother interposed. “Larry, dear, Kathleen has put it very
well. Your father and I have talked it over”--the young people glanced
at each other and smiled at this ancient and well-worn phrase--“we
have agreed that it is better that you should finish your college this
winter. Of course we know you would suggest delay, but we are anxious
that you should complete your course.”
“But, Mother, listen--” began Larry.
“Nonsense, Larry, 'children, obey your parents' is still valid,” said
Nora. “What are you but a child after all, though with your teaching and
your choral society conducting, and your nigger show business, and
your preaching in the church, and your popularity, you are getting so
uplifted that there's no holding you. Just make up your mind to do your
duty, do you hear? Your duty. Give up this selfish determination to have
your own way, this selfish pleasing of yourself.” Abruptly she paused,
rushed at him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “You
darling old humbug,” she said with a very unsteady voice. “There, I will
be blubbering in a minute. I am off for the timber lot. What do you say,
Katty? It's cooler now. We'll go up the cool road. Are you coming?”
“Yes; wait until I change.”
“All right, I will saddle up. You coming, Larry?”
“No, I'll catch up later.”
“Now, Mother,” warned Nora, “I know his ways and wiles. Remember your
duty to your children. You are also inclined to be horribly selfish. Be
firm. Hurry up, Kate.”
Left alone with his mother, Larry went deliberately to work with her.
Well he knew the immovable quality of her resolution when once her mind
was made up. Patiently, quietly, steadily, he argued with her, urging
Nora's claims for a year at college.
“She needs a change after her years of hard work.”
Her education was incomplete; the ground work was sound enough, but
she had come to the age when she must have those finishing touches that
girls require to fit them for their place in life. “She is a splendid
girl, but in some ways still a child needing discipline; in other ways
mature, too mature. She ought to have her chance and ought to have it
now.” One never knew what would happen in the case of girls.
His mother sighed. “Poor Nora, she has had discipline enough of a kind,
and hard discipline it has been indeed for you all.”
“Nonsense, Mother, we have had a perfectly fine time together, all of
us. God knows if any one has had a hard time it is not the children in
this home. I do not like to think of those awful winters, Mother, and of
the hard time you had with us all.”
“A hard time!” exclaimed his mother. “I, a hard time, and with you all
here beside me, and all so well and strong? What more could I want?” The
amazed surprise in her face stirred in her son a quick rush of emotion.
“Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother,” he whispered in her ear. “There is no one
like you. Did you ever in all your life seek one thing for yourself,
one thing, one little thing? Away back there in Ontario you slaved and
slaved and went without things yourself that all the rest of us might
get them. Here it has been just the same. Haven't I seen your face
and your hands, your poor hands,”--here the boy's voice broke with an
indignant passion--“blue with the cold when you could not get furs to
protect them? Never, never shall I forget those days.” The boy stopped
abruptly, unable to go on.
Quickly the mother drew her son toward her. “Larry, my son, my son, you
must never think that a hard time. Did ever a woman have such joy as I?
When I think of other mothers and of other children, and then think of
you all here, I thank God every day and many times a day that he has
given us each other. And, Larry, my son, let me say this, and you will
remember it afterwards. You have been a continual joy to me, always,
always. You have never given me a moment's anxiety or pain. Remember
that. I continually thank God for you. You have made my life very
happy.”
The boy put his face down on her lap with his arms tight around her
waist. Never in their life together had they been able to open these
deep, sacred chambers in their souls to each other's gaze. For some
moments he remained thus, then lifting up his face, he kissed her again
and again, her forehead, her eyes, her lips. Then rising to his feet, he
stood with his usual smile about his lips. “You always beat me. But will
you not think this all over again carefully, and we will do what you
say? But will you promise, Mother, to think it over again and look at my
side of it too?”
“Yes, Larry, I promise,” said his mother. “Now run after the girls, and
I shall have tea ready for you.”
As Larry rode down the lane he saw the young German, Ernest Switzer, and
his sister riding down the trail and gave them a call. They pulled up
and waited.
“Hello, Ernest; whither bound? How are you, Dorothea?”
“Home,” said the young man, “and you?”
“Going up by the timber lot, around by the cool road. The girls are on
before.”
“Ah, so?” said the young man, evidently waiting for an invitation.
“Do you care to come? It's not much longer that way,” said Larry.
“I might,” said the young man. Then looking doubtfully at his sister,
“You cannot come very well, Dorothea, can you?”
“No, that is, I'm afraid not,” she replied. She was a pretty girl with
masses of yellow hair, light blue eyes, a plump, kindly face and a timid
manner. As she spoke she, true to her German training, evidently waited
for an indication of her brother's desire.
“There are the cows, you know,” continued her brother.
“Yes, there are the cows,” her face clouding as she spoke.
“Oh, rot!” said Larry, “you don't milk until evening, and we get back
before tea. Come along.”
Still the girl hesitated. “Well,” said her brother brusquely, “do you
want to come?”
She glanced timidly at his rather set face and then at Larry. “I don't
know. I am afraid that--”
“Oh, come along, Dorothea, do you hear me telling you? You will be in
plenty of time and your brother will help you with the milking.”
“Ernest help! Oh, no!”
“Not on your life!” said that young man. “I never milk. I haven't for
years. Well, come along then,” he added in a grudging voice.
“That is fine,” said Larry. “But, Dorothea, you ought to make him learn
to milk. Why shouldn't he? The lazy beggar. Do you mean to say that he
never helps with the milking?”
“Oh, never,” said Dorothea.
“Our men don't do women's work,” said Ernest. “It is not the German way.
It is not fitting.”
“And what about women doing men's work?” said Larry. “It seems to me I
have seen German women at work in the fields up in the Settlement.”
“I have no doubt you have,” replied Ernest stiffly. “It is the German
custom.”
“You make me tired,” said Larry, “the German custom indeed! Does that
make it right?”
“For us, yes,” replied Ernest calmly.
“But you are Canadians, are you not? Are there to be different standards
in Canada for different nationalities?”
“Oh, the Germans will follow the German way. Because it is German, and
demonstrated through experience to be the best. Look at our people. Look
at our prosperity at home, at our growth in population, at our wealth,
at our expansion in industry and commerce abroad. Look at our social
conditions and compare them with those in this country or in any other
country in the world. Who will dare to say that German methods and
German customs are not best, at least for Germans? But let us move a
little faster, otherwise we shall never catch up with them.” He touched
his splendid broncho into a sharp gallop, the other horses following
more slowly behind.
“He is very German, my brother,” said Dorothea. “He thinks he is
Canadian, but he is not the same since he went over Home. He is talking
all the time about Germany, Germany, Germany. I hate it.” Her blue
eyes flashed fire and her usually timid voice vibrated with an intense
feeling. Larry gazed at her in astonishment.
“You may look at me, Larry,” she cried. “I am German but I do not like
the German ways. I like the Canadian ways. The Germans treat their
women like their cows. They feed them well, they keep them warm
because--because--they have calves--I mean the cows--and the women have
kids. I hate the German ways. Look at my mother. What is she in that
house? Day and night she has worked, day and night, saving money--and
what for? For Ernest. Running to wait on him and on Father and they
never know it. It's women's work with us to wait on men, and that is the
way in the Settlement up there. Look at your mother and you. Mein Gott!
I could kill them, those men!”
“Why, Dorothea, you amaze me. What's up with you? I never heard you talk
like this. I never knew that you felt like this.”
“No, how could you know? Who would tell you? Not Ernest,” she replied
bitterly.
“But, Dorothea, you are happy, are you not?”
“Happy, I was until I knew better, till two years ago when I saw your
mother and you with her. Then Ernest came back thinking himself a German
officer--he is an officer, you know--and the way he treated our mother
and me!”
“Treated your mother! Surely he is not unkind to your mother?” Larry
had a vision of a meek, round-faced, kindly, contented woman, who was
obviously proud of her only son.
“Kind, kind,” cried Dorothea, “he is kind as German sons are kind. But
you cannot understand. Why did I speak to you of this? Yes, I will
tell you why,” she added, apparently taking a sudden resolve. “Let's go
slowly. Ernest is gone anyway. I will tell you why. Before Ernest went
away he was more like a Canadian boy. He was good to his mother. He is
good enough still but--oh, it is so hard to show you. I have seen you
and your mother. You would not let your mother brush your boots for you,
you would not sit smoking and let her carry in wood in the winter time,
you would not stand leaning over the fence and watch your mother milk
the cow. Mein Gott! Ernest, since he came back--the women are only good
for waiting on him, for working in the house or on the farm. His wife,
she will not work in the fields; Ernest is too rich for that. But she
will not be like”--here the girl paused abruptly, a vivid colour dyeing
her fair skin--“like your wife. I would die sooner than marry a German
man.”
“But Ernest is not like that, Dorothea. He is not like that with my
sisters. Why, he is rather the other way, awfully polite and all that
sort of thing, you know.”
“Yes, that's the way with young German gentlemen to young ladies, that
is, other people's ladies. But to their own, no. And I must tell you.
Oh, I am afraid to tell you,” she added breathlessly. “But I will tell
you, you have been so kind, so good to me. You are my friend, and you
will not tell. Promise me you will never tell.” The girl's usually red
face was pale, her voice was hoarse and trembling.
“What is the matter, Dorothea? Of course I won't tell.”
“Ernest wants to marry your sister, Kathleen. He is just mad to get her,
and he always gets his way too. I would not like to see your sister his
wife. He would break her heart and,” she added in a lower voice, “yours
too. But remember you are not to tell. You are not to let him know I
told you.” A real terror shone in her eyes. “Do you hear me?” she cried.
“He would beat me with his whip. He would, he would.”
“Beat you, beat you?” Larry pulled up his horse short. “Beat you in this
country--oh, Dorothea!”
“They do. Our men do beat their women, and Ernest would too. The women
do not think the same way about it as your women. You will not tell?”
she urged.
“What do you think I am, Dorothea? And as for beating you, let me catch
him. By George, I'd, I'd--”
“What?” said Dorothea, turning her eyes full upon him, her pale face
flushing.
Larry laughed. “Well, he's a big chap, but I'd try to knock his block
off. But it's nonsense. Ernest is not that kind. He's an awfully good
sort.”
“He is, he is a good sort, but he is also a German officer and, ah, you
cannot understand, but do not let him have your sister. I have told you.
Come, let us go quickly.”
They rode on in silence, but did not overtake the others until they
reached the timber lot where they found the party waiting. With what
Dorothea had just told him in his mind, Larry could not help a keen
searching of Kathleen's face. She was quietly chatting with the young
German, with face serene and quite untouched with anything but the
slightest animation. “She is not worrying over anything,” said Larry to
himself. Then he turned and looked upon the face of the young man at
her side. A shock of surprise, of consternation, thrilled him. The young
man's face was alight with an intensity of eagerness, of desire, that
startled Larry and filled him with a new feeling of anxiety, indeed of
dismay.
“Oh, you people are slow,” cried Nora. “What is keeping you? Come along
or we shall be late. Shall we go through the woods straight to the dump,
or shall we go around?”
“Let's go around,” cried Kathleen. “Do you know I have not been around
for ever so long?”
“Yes,” said Larry, “let's go around by Nora's mine.”
“Nora's mine!” exclaimed Ernest. “Do you know I've heard about that mine
a great deal but I have never seen Nora's mine?”
“Come along, then,” said Nora, “but there's almost no trail and we shall
have to hurry while we can. There's only a cow track.”
“Move along then,” said her brother; “show us the way and we will
follow. Go on, Ernest.”
But Ernest apparently had difficulty with his broncho so that he was
found at the rear of the line with Kathleen immediately in front of him.
The cow trail led out of the coolee over a shoulder of a wooded hill
and down into a ravine whose sharp sides made the riding even to those
experienced westerners a matter of difficulty, in places of danger. At
the bottom of the ravine a little torrent boiled and foamed on its way
to join Wolf Willow Creek a mile further down. After an hour's struggle
with the brushwood and fallen timber the party was halted by a huge
spruce tree which had fallen fair across the trail.
“Where now, boss?” cried Larry to Nora, who from her superior knowledge
of the ground, had been leading the party.
“This is something new,” answered Nora. “I think we should cross the
water and try to break through to the left around the top of the tree.”
“No,” said Ernest, “the right looks better to me, around the root here.
It is something of a scramble, but it is better than the left.”
“Come along,” said Nora; “this is the way of the trail, and we can get
through the brush of that top all right.”
“I am for the right. Come, let's try it, Kathleen, shall we?” said
Ernest.
Kathleen hesitated. “Come, we'll beat them out. Right turn, march.”
The commanding tones of the young man appeared to dominate the girl.
She set her horse to the steep hillside, following her companion to the
right. A steep climb through a tangle of underbrush brought them into
the cleared woods, where they paused to breathe their animals.
“Ah, that was splendidly done. You are a good horsewoman,” said Ernest.
“If you only had a horse as good as mine we could go anywhere together.
You deserve a better horse, too. I wonder if you know how fine you
look.”
“My dear old Kitty is not very quick nor very beautiful, but she is very
faithful, and so kind,” said Kathleen, reaching down and patting her
mare on the nose. “Shall we go on?”
“We need not hurry,” replied her companion. “We have beaten them
already. I love the woods here, and, Kathleen, I have not seen you for
ever so long, for nine long months. And since your return fifteen days
ago I have seen you only once, only once.”
“I am sorry,” said Kathleen, hurrying her horse a little. “We happened
to be out every time you called.”
“Other people have seen you,” continued the young man with a note almost
of anger in his voice. “Everywhere I hear of you, but I cannot see you.
At church--I go to church to see you--but that, that Englishman is with
you. He walks with you, you go in his motor car, he is in your house
every day.”
“What are you talking about, Ernest? Mr. Romayne? Of course. Mother
likes him so much, and we all like him.”
“Your mother, ah!” Ernest's tone was full of scorn.
“Yes, my mother--we all like him, and his sister, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt,
you know. They are our nearest neighbours, and we have come to know them
very well. Shall we go on?”
“Kathleen, listen to me,” said the young man.
At this point a long call came across the ravine.
“Ah, there they are,” cried the girl. “Let's hurry, please do.” She
brought her whip down unexpectedly on Kitty's shoulders. The mare,
surprised at such unusual treatment from her mistress, sprang forward,
slipped on the moss-covered sloping rock, plunged, recovered herself,
slipped again, and fell over on her side. At her first slip, the young
man was off his horse, and before the mare finally pitched forward was
at her head, and had caught the girl from the saddle into his arms. For
a moment she lay there white and breathing hard.
“My God, Kathleen!” he cried. “You are hurt? You might have been
killed.” His eyes burned like two blazing lights, his voice was husky,
his face white. Suddenly crushing her to him, he kissed her on the cheek
and again on her lips. The girl struggled to get free.
“Oh, let me go, let me go,” she cried. “How can you, how can you?”
But his arms were like steel about her, and again and again he continued
to kiss her, until, suddenly relaxing, she lay white and shuddering in
his arms.
“Kathleen,” he said, his voice hoarse with passion, “I love you, I love
you. I want you. Gott in Himmel, I want you. Open your eyes, Kathleen,
my darling. Speak to me. Open your eyes. Look at me. Tell me you love
me.” But still she lay white and shuddering. Suddenly he released her
and set her on her feet. She stood looking at him with quiet, searching
eyes.
“You love me,” she said, her voice low and quivering with a passionate
scorn, “and you treat me so? Let us go.” She moved toward her horse.
“Kathleen, hear me,” he entreated. “You must hear me. You shall hear
me.” He caught her once more by the arm. “I forgot myself. I saw you
lying there so white. How could I help it? I meant no harm. I have loved
you since you were a little girl, since that day I saw you first herding
the cattle. You had a blue dress and long braids. I loved you then. I
have loved you every day since. I think of you and I dream of you. The
world is full of you. I am offering you marriage. I want you to be my
wife.” The hands that clutched her arm were shaking, his voice was thick
and broken. But still she stood with her face turned from him, quietly
trying to break from his grasp. But no word did she speak.
“Kathleen, I forgot myself,” he said, letting go of her arm. “I was
wrong, but, my God, Kathleen, I am not stone, and when I felt your heart
beat against mine--”
“Oh,” she cried, shuddering and drawing further away from him.
“--and your face so white, your dear face so near mine, I forgot
myself.”
“No,” said the girl, turning her face toward him and searching him with
her quiet, steady, but contemptuous eyes, “you forgot me.”