Three weeks had passed with inconceivable rapidity, leaving Nora with
the dazed feeling that one has sometimes when waking from a fantastic
dream.
There were moments when she was overwhelmed with the utter hopelessness
of ever being able to adapt herself to a mode of life so foreign to all
her traditions. She had, she told herself, been prepared to find
everything different from life at home; and, while she had smiled--on
that day such ages ago when young Hornby had called on her at Tunbridge
Wells to announce his impending departure from the land of his birth--at
his airy theory that the life of the Canadian farmer was largely
occupied with riding, hunting, dancing and tennis, she found to her
dismay that her own mental picture of her brother's existence had been
nearly as far from the reality.
On the drive over from the station, Eddie had vaguely remarked that he
had a great surprise for her when she reached the house. Nora had paid
but little attention at the moment, thinking that he probably meant the
house itself. What had been her astonishment--when once her rage at
being lifted bodily from the sled by the man called Frank had permitted
of her feeling any other emotion--to find Reginald Hornby himself an
inmate of her brother's household. There was but little trace of the
ultra smart young Londoner, beyond his still carefully kept hair and
mustache. The only difference between his costume and that of the others
was that his overalls were newer and that his flannel shirt was plainly
a Piccadilly product.
Nora had known gentlemen farmers in England who worked hard, riding
about their estates every day supervising and directing everything, and
who seemed, from their conversation, to take it all seriously enough.
She had made all allowance for the rougher life in a new and unsettled
country. There was something picturesque and romantic about the
frontiersman which had always appealed to her imagination. She had read
a little of him and had seen a play in London the night she recognized
Reggie from afar, where the scene was laid in the Far West. On returning
to the hotel she had looked with new interest at Eddie's photograph and
tried to picture him in the costume worn by the leading man.
But to find that her own brother, a man of education and refinement,
actually worked with his own hands like a common laborer and--what to
Nora's mind was infinitely more incomprehensible--on a footing of
perfect equality with his hired men, calling them familiarly by their
given names and being called "Ed" in turn, was a distinctly disagreeable
revelation. That they should be familiar with Gertie was quite another
matter. Probably they were acquaintances of long standing dating back to
her old hotel days.
Her sister-in-law, too, was absolutely different from the type she had
imagined. Always she had seen her as one of those vapid, pretty little
creatures who had become old long before her time; peevish, spoiled,
inclined to be flirtatious, refusing to give up her youth, still living
in the recollection of her little day of triumph.
Gertie fulfilled only one of these conditions. She was a small woman,
not nearly so tall as Nora herself. In all else she was as different as
possible from what she had imagined. There could never have been
anything of the 'clinging vine' about Gertie. As a girl she might have
been handsome in an almost masculine way; pretty, in the generally
accepted sense, she could never have been.
Her one coquetry seemed to be in the matter of shoes. Her feet were
unbelievably small. Nora divined that she was inordinately proud of
them. While always scrupulously neat, she was apparently indifferent to
clothes so long as they were clean and not absolutely shabby. But her
high-heeled shoes were the smartest that could be had from Winnipeg.
And as for her being soft and spoiled! Never was there a more tireless
and hard-working creature. From early morning till late at night she was
never idle. She was a perfect human dynamo of force and energy. The
cooking and washing for the 'family' which, now that Nora was here,
consisted of six persons, four of whom were men with the appetites which
naturally come with a long day's work in the open air, in itself was no
light task. But, by way of recreation, after the supper dishes had been
washed up, Gertie darned socks, mended shirts, patched trousers for the
men folk or sewed on some garment for herself. Nora longed to see her
sit with folded hands just once.
That she was as devoted to her husband as he to her there could be no
doubt. All other men were a matter of complete indifference to her. Were
they good workers or shirkers? That was the only thing about them of any
interest. But she was not the sort of woman to show tenderness or
affection.
Eddie had apparently the greatest respect for her judgment in all
matters pertaining to the running of the farm. Frequently in the
evenings they sat together in the far corner of the living room, Eddie
talking in a low voice, while Gertie, always at her eternal sewing,
listened with close attention, often nodding her head in approval, but
occasionally shaking it vehemently when any project failed to meet with
her approbation. Occasionally her sharp bird-like glance flashed over
the other occupants of the room: at the three men yarning lazily by the
big stove or playing cards at the dining table and at Nora making a
pretense of reading a six-months-old magazine, or writing, her portfolio
on her knee. Always, when Nora encountered that glance, she understood
its exultant message.
"Look, you," it said as plainly as if it had been couched in actual
words, "look at me ruling over my little court, advising, as a queen
might, with her prime minister. You think yourself my superior, you with
your fine-lady's airs and graces! A pretty pass your education and
accomplishments have brought you to. Of what use are you to anyone?"
There was no blinking the fact: the antagonism between the two women was
too instinctive, too deep ever to be more than superficially covered
over. They each recognized it. And yet neither was wholly to blame. It
had its roots in conditions that were far more significant than mere
personal feeling.
Nora, for her part, had come to her brother's house with the sincere
intention of doing everything in her power to win her sister-in-law's
good will if not affection. She had believed that their common fondness
for Eddie would be a sure foundation on which to build. But from the
first, without being at all conscious of it, her manner breathed
patronage and disapproval of a mode of life so foreign to all her
experience. She had made the resolution to remember nothing of Gertie's
humble origin, to treat her in every way with the deference due her
brother's wife.
Gertie, too, had made good resolutions. She was at heart the more
generous nature of the two. She was prepared to find her husband's
sister unskilled to the point of incompetency in all the housewifely
lore of which she was past mistress; for she, too, had her traditions.
She would have laughed at the idea that it was possible for her to be
jealous of anybody. But secretly she knew that there was one thing which
aroused in her a frenzy of jealous rage; that was those years of her
husband's life in which she had neither part nor lot. Any reference to
his old life 'at home' fairly maddened her.
And deep down in her heart, each woman nursed a grievance. With Gertie
it was the remembrance of the angry letter of protest which Nora had
written her brother when she learned of his approaching marriage and
which he had been indiscreet enough to show her; with Nora, it was the
recollection of Gertie's laugh the night of her arrival when her
brother's hired servant had dared to take her for a moment in his arms.
Still, any open rupture might have been avoided or at least delayed for
several months longer, if either could have been persuaded to exercise a
little more patience and self-control. Each of them, in her different
way, had known adversity. Both of them had had to learn to control
tempers naturally high while they were still dependent. But it never
occurred to either of them that the obligation to do so still existed.
From Gertie's point of view, Nora was just as much a dependent as in the
days when she was a hired companion to a rich woman. It was her house in
law and in fact, for her husband had made it over to her. It was her
bread that she ate, her bed she slept in. It behooved her, therefore, to
be a little less lofty and condescending. She had always known how it
would be, and it was only because the project seemed so near her
husband's heart that she had consented to such an experiment.
In simple justice it must be said that such a thought had never entered
Nora's head. She had accepted gladly her brother's invitation to make
her home with him. What more natural that he should offer it, now that
he was able to do so? In return she was perfectly willing to do
everything she could to help in all the woman's work about the house as
far as her ignorance would permit. It could hardly be expected that she
would be as proficient in household work as a person who had done it all
her life. She was more than willing to concede her sister-in-law's
superiority in all such matters. And she was perfectly ready to learn
all that Gertie would teach her. She had, in everything, been prepared
to meet her half-way; further she would not go. For the rest, it was her
brother's place to protect her.
Sadly Nora confessed to herself that Eddie had deteriorated in a degree
that she could not have believed possible. The first shock had come when
they sat down to supper the night of her arrival. To her amazed disgust,
they had all eaten at the same table, hired men and all. And then, to
see her brother, a gentleman by birth, breeding, and training, sitting
down at his own table in his shirt-sleeves!
Her own seat was on the right of her sister-in-law, next Reginald
Hornby. All the men except Eddie wore overalls. He had replaced his with
an old black waistcoat and a pair of grubby dark trousers. Nora wondered
sarcastically if his more formal costume was in honor of her arrival,
but quickly remembered that he had had to drive to Dyer. It was cold
outside; probably these festive garments were warmer. She found herself
speculating as to whether any of the men owned anything but outer coats.
There hadn't been much general conversation at that first meal.
Naturally, Eddie had had many questions to ask about old acquaintances
in England. Nora had given her first impressions of travel in the New
World, addressing many of her remarks to Gertie, who had been noticeably
silent. Through all her bright talk the thought would obtrude itself:
"What can Reggie Hornby think of my brother?"
She had an angry consciousness, too, that she was unwittingly furnishing
much amusement to that objectionable person opposite, whose name she
learned was Frank Taylor. She meant to speak to Eddie about him later.
He was an entirely new type to her. His fellow servant, whose name was
Trotter, on the contrary, could be seen about London any day, an
ordinary, ignorant Cockney. He, at least, had the merit of seeming to
know his place and how to conduct himself in the presence of his
betters, and except when asking for more syrup, of which he seemed
inordinately fond, kept discreetly silent.
But the idea that there was any difference in their stations was not
betrayed in Taylor's look or manner. He commented humorously from time
to time on Nora's various experiences coming overland, quite oblivious,
to all appearances, that she pointedly ignored him. Nora had arrived at
that point in her gay recital when she had had qualms that her brother
had failed to meet her.
"You can fancy how I felt getting down at a perfectly strange
station----"
She was interrupted by Gertie's irritating little laugh.
"But what have I said? What is it?"
It was Taylor who replied.
"Well, you see out here in the wilderness we don't call it a station,
_we_ call it a depot."
"Do you really?" asked Nora with exaggerated surprise, looking at her
brother.
"Custom of the country," he said smilingly.
"But a depot is a place where stores are kept."
"Of course I don't know what you call it in England," said Gertie
aggressively, "but while you're in _this_ country, I guess you'd better
call it what other folks do."
"It would be rather absurd for me to call it that when it's wrong," said
Nora, flushing with annoyance.
Gertie's thin lips tightened.
"Of course I don't pretend to have had _very_ much schooling, but it
seems to me I've read something somewhere about doing as the Romans do
when you're livin' with them. At any rate, I'm sure of one thing: it's
considered the polite thing to do in _any_ country."
The feeling that she had been put in the wrong, even if not very
tactfully, did not tend to lessen Nora's annoyance. She looked
appealingly at her brother, but he, leaning back in his chair and seeing
that his wife's eyes were bent on her plate, shook his head at her,
smiling slightly.
"If everyone has finished," said Gertie after an awkward pause, "if
you'll all move your chairs away I'll clear away the things."
"May I help you?" said Nora with an effort at conciliation.
"No, thanks."
"No, no. You're company to-night," said her brother with a man's relief
at finding an unpleasant situation at an end. "But I daresay to-morrow
Gertie'll find plenty for you to do. We'll all be out till dinner time.
You girls will have a lot to talk over while you're getting acquainted."
Hornby groaned dismally.
"It doesn't make any difference what the weather is in this blessed
country," he said dismally to Nora, "you have to go out whether there's
really anything to do or not."
"That's so," laughed Taylor; "still I think you'll admit the Boss always
manages to find something to fill up the time."
"That he does," said Hornby with another hollow groan.
"The last time I saw you," said Nora, "you were calling poor old England
all sorts of dreadful names. Isn't farming in Canada all your fancy
painted it?"
Gertie paused in the act of pouring water from the kettle into the
dishpan. "Not a bit like it," she said dryly. "He's like most of the
English I've run up against. They think all you've got to do is just to
sit down and have afternoon tea and watch the crops grow by themselves."
"Oh, come now, Gertie. You've never had to accuse me of loafing, and I'm
an Englishman," said her husband good-naturedly.
"I said 'most.'"
"And as for afternoon tea," broke in Hornby, "I don't believe they have
that sacred institution in the whole blessed country."
"You have tea with all your meals. Men out here have something else to
do but sit indoors afternoons and eat between meals."
"Do you know," said Nora after a pause, "it isn't nearly so cold as I
expected to find it. Don't you usually have it much colder than this?"
"It's rarely colder until later in the season. But Frank, here, who's
our champion weather prophet, says it's going to be an exceptional
season with hardly any snow at all."
Nora had been conscious all through the evening that Taylor had hardly
once taken his eyes from her face. She looked directly at him for the
first time, to find him watching her with a look of quiet amusement.
"That would indeed be an exceptional season, if all one hears of the
rigors of the climate be true," she said coldly.
"Every season in this country is exceptional," he said humorously; "if
it isn't exceptional one way, it's sure to be exceptional the other."
"Fetch me those pants of yours," said Gertie to Trotter.
He left the room, to return shortly with the desired articles,
exhibiting a yawning tear in one of the knees. Gertie at once set about
mending them in the same workmanlike manner that she did everything.
"Doesn't she ever rest?" asked Nora in an undertone of Hornby.
"Never," he whispered. "Her one recreation is abusing me. I fancy you'll
come in for a little of the same medicine. She's planning an amusing
winter, I can see that already."
"I think, if I may, I'll ask you to excuse me," said Nora, rising
abruptly. "I'm a little tired after my long journey. Oh, how good it'll
be to find oneself in a real bed again."
"I'm sure you must be," said her brother. "Nora knows where her room
is?" he said, turning to his wife.
"She was up before supper; she can't very well have forgotten the way.
The house is small after what she's been accustomed to, I dare say."
"Thank you, I can find it again easily," said Nora hastily. "I'll see
you at breakfast, Eddie?" She crossed over to where Gertie was sewing
busily. "Good night--Gertie. I hope you will not find me too stupid
about learning things. You'll find me willing, anyway," she said almost
humbly.
Gertie looked up at her with real kindness.
"Wllling's half the battle," she said in softened tone.
As Nora was leaving the room, satisfied at having done her part as far
as Gertie was concerned, she was recalled by Taylor's drawling tone.
"Oh, Miss Nora, you're forgetting something."
"Am I? What?"
"You're forgetting to say 'good night' to me."
"Why, so I am!"
She could hear them laugh as she left the room. And so ended the first
day in her brother's house.
Breakfast the next morning was of the most hurried description. Gertie
herself did not sit down until the men had gone, being chiefly occupied
with baking some sort of hot cakes which were new to Nora, who confined
herself to an egg and some tea. She secretly longed for some toast; but
as no one else seemed to have any, she refrained from making her wants
known. Perhaps later, when she was more familiar with the ways of this
strange household, she would be permitted to make some for herself when
she wanted it.
While her sister-in-law was eating her breakfast, Nora stood looking out
of the window at the vast expanse of snow-covered country with never a
house in sight. Already there were signs that Taylor's prophecy would be
fulfilled. The sun, which had been up only a few hours, shone brightly,
and already the air had lost much of its sharpness. It was distinctly
warmer than it had been the day before.
At the first sign that Gertie had finished her breakfast, Nora began to
gather the things together for washing, wisely not waiting to ask
permission. If possible, Gertie seemed to be less inclined for
conversation in the early morning than at night. They finished the task
in unbroken silence. When the last dish had been put away, Gertie spoke:
"Can you bake?"
"I have baked cakes."
"How about bread and biscuits?"
"I've never tried them."
"Umph!"
"I should be glad to learn, if you would be good enough to teach me."
"I have little time for teaching," said Gertie ungraciously. "But you
can watch how I do it and maybe you'll learn something."
"Can you wash and iron?" said Gertie while she was kneading her dough.
"Of course I can iron and I can wash lace."
"People round here wear more flannel shirts than lace. I suppose you
never washed any flannels?"
"No, never."
"Have you ever done any scrubbing?"
"Of course not." Nora was beginning to find this catechism a little
trying.
"Not work for a lady, I suppose. Just what does a companion do?"
"It depends. She does whatever her employer requires; reads aloud, acts
as secretary, goes riding and shopping with the lady she lives with,
arranges the flowers, everything of that sort."
"Oh. But nothing really useful."
Nora gave an angry laugh. "It's clear that some people consider a
companion's work useful, since they employ them."
"You take pay for it; after all, it's much the same as being a servant."
"It's not at all the same."
"Ed tells me that sometimes when Miss Wickers, Wickham--whatever her
name was----"
"Miss Wickham."
"That when Miss Wickham had company for dinner, you had to have your
dinner alone."
"That is true."
"Then she considered you sort of a servant," said Gertie triumphantly.
Nora was silent. Gertie having cut her dough into small round pieces
with a tin cutter and put them into her pans, went toward the oven.
"And yet you object to eating at the same table with the hired men."
Having satisfied herself that the oven was at the proper heat, she shut
the door with a bang.
"I've said nothing about it."
"You didn't need to."
"But I most certainly do object to it and I can't for the life of me see
the necessity of it."
"I was what you call a servant for years; I suppose you object to eating
at the table with me."
"What perfect nonsense! It's not at all the same thing. You're my
brother's wife and the mistress of his house."
"Yes, I'm the mistress of the house all right," said Gertie grimly.
"Frank Taylor's an uncommonly handsome man, isn't he?"
"I really haven't noticed."
"What perfect nonsense!" mimicked Gertie. "Of course you've noticed. Any
woman would notice him."
"Then I must be different from other women."
"Oh, no, you're not; you only think you are. At bottom women are all
alike, take it from me, and I've known a few."
"If I can be of no help to you here, I think I'll go and unpack my box,"
said Nora. She felt as if she had borne all she possibly could.
"As you like."
Once in her own room, Nora found it hard to keep back her angry tears.
Only the thought that her reddened eyes would betray her to Gertie at
dinner kept her from having a good cry.