'YELLOW BOOMING--SLUMP IN GREY'
The days are long since gone when the name of the midland territory of
the great Canadian world, Manitoba, suggested to the uninitiated
nothing but Red Indians, buffalo and desperadoes of every sort and
condition. Now-a-days it is well known, even in remote parts of the
world, as one of the earth's greatest granaries; a land of rolling
pastures, golden cornfields and prosperous, simple farm folk. In a
short space of time, little more than a quarter of a century, this
section of the country has been elevated from the profound obscurity
of a lawless wilderness to one of the most thriving provinces of a
great dominion. The old Fort Garry, one of the oldest factories of the
Hudson's Bay Company, has given place to the magnificent city of
Winnipeg, with its own University, its own governing assembly, its own
clubs, hotels, its own world-wide commercial interests, besides being
the great centre of railway traffic in the country. All these things,
and many other indications of splendid prosperity too numerous to
mention, have grown up in a little over twenty-five years. And with
this growth the buffalo has gone, the red-man has been herded on to a
limited reservation, and the "Bad-man" is almost an unknown quantity.
Such is the Manitoba of to-day.
But during the stages of Manitoba's transition its history is
interesting. The fight between law and lawlessness was long and
arduous, the pitched battles many and frequent. Buffalo could be
killed off quickly, the red-man was but a poor thing after the
collapse of the Riel rebellion, but the "Bad-man" died hard.
This is the period in the history of Manitoba which at present
interests us. When Winnipeg was building with a rapidity almost
rivalling that of the second Chicago, and the army of older farmers in
the land was being hastily augmented by recruits from the mother
country. When the military police had withdrawn their forces to the
North-West Territories, leaving only detachments to hold the American
border against the desperadoes which both countries were equally
anxious to be rid of.
In the remote south-eastern corner of the province, forty-five
miles from the nearest town--which happened to be the village of
Ainsley--dumped down on the crest of a far-reaching ocean-like swell
of rolling prairie, bare to the blast of the four winds except for
the insignificant shelter of a small bluff on its northeastern side,
stood a large farm-house surrounded by a small village of barns and
outbuildings. It was a typical Canadian farm of the older, western
type. One of those places which had grown by degrees from the one
central hut of logs, clay and thatch to the more pretentious
proportions of the modern frame building of red pine weather-boarding,
with shingled roofing to match, and the whole coloured with paint
of a deep, port-wine hue, the points and angles being picked out
with a dazzling white. It was a farm, let there be no mistake, and
not merely a homestead.
There were abundant signs of prosperity in the trim, well-groomed
appearance of the place. The unmistakable hall-mark was to be found in
the presence of a steam-thresher, buried beneath a covering of
tarpaulin and snow, in the array of farming machinery, and in the maze
of pastures enclosed by top-railed, barbed-wire fencing. All these
things, and the extent of the buildings, told of years of ceaseless
industry and thrift, of able management and a proper pride in the
vocation of its owner.
Nor were these outward signs in any way misleading. Silas Malling in
his lifetime had been one of those sound-minded men, unimaginative and
practical, the dominant note of whose creed had always been to do his
duty in that state of life in which he found himself. The son of an
early pioneer he had been born to the life of a farmer, and, having
the good fortune to follow in the footsteps of a thrifty father, he
had lived long enough to see his farm grow to an extent many times
larger and more prosperous than that of any neighbour within a radius
of a hundred miles. But at the time of our story he had been gathered
to his forefathers for nearly three years, and his worthy spouse,
Hephzibah Malling, reigned in his stead. She ruled with an equally
practical hand, and fortune had continued to smile upon her. Her bank
balance had grown by leaps and bounds, and she was known to be one of
the richest women in Southern Manitoba, and her only daughter,
Prudence, to be heiress to no inconsiderable fortune. There was a son
in the family, but he had eschewed the farm life, and passing out of
the home circle, as some sons will, had gone into the world to seek
his own way--his own experiences of life.
In spite of the wealth of the owners of Loon Dyke Farm they were
very simple, unpretentious folk. They lived the life they had always
known, abiding by the customs of childhood and the country to which
they belonged with the whole-hearted regard which is now becoming so
regrettably rare. Their world was a wholesome one which provided them
with all they needed for thought, labour and recreation. To
journey to Winnipeg, a distance of a hundred and twenty-six miles,
was an event which required two days' preparation and as many weeks of
consideration. Ainsley, one of those little border villages which
dot the international boundary dividing Canada from the United
States, was a place rarely visited by them, and when undertaken
the trip was regarded as a notable jaunt.
Just now Mrs. Malling was a prey to the wildest excitement. An event
was about to happen which disturbed her to a degree. It is doubtful as
to what feeling was uppermost in her motherly bosom. She was torn
between many conflicting emotions--joy, grief, pleasurable excitement.
Her daughter, her only child, as she was wont to confide to her
matronly friends--for her boy, whom she loved as only a mother can
love a son, she believed she would never see again--was about to be
married.
No visit to town, not even a sea voyage across the ocean could
possibly compare with this. It was a more significant event in her
life even than when she went into Winnipeg to choose the monument
which was to be erected over the grave of her departed Silas. That she
had always had in her mind's eye, not because she looked forward to
his demise, but because she hoped some day to share with him its
sheltering canopy. But somehow this forthcoming marriage of her
daughter was in the nature of a shock to her. She was not mercenary,
far from it, she was above any such motive as that, but she had hoped,
when the time came for such matters to be considered, that Prudence
would have married a certain rancher who lived out by the Lake of the
Woods, a man of great wealth, and a man whom Mrs. Malling considered
desirable in every way. Instead of that Prudence had chosen for
herself amongst her many suitors, and worst of all she had chosen an
insignificant official in the Customs department. That to Hephzibah
Malling was the worst blow of all. With proper motherly pride she had
hoped that "her girl" would have married a "some one" in her own
world.
The winter evening shadows--it was the middle of January and winter
still held sway upon the prairie--were falling, and the parlour at the
farm was enveloped in a grey dusk. The room was large, low-ceiled, and
of irregular shape.
It was furnished to serve many purposes, principally with a view to
solid comfort. There was no blatant display of wealth, and every
article of furniture bore signs of long though careful use. The
spotless boarded floor was bare of carpet, but was strewn with
rough-cured skins, timber-wolf, antelope, coyote and bear, and here
and there rugs of undoubted home make; these latter of the patchwork
order. The centre table was of wide proportions and of solid mahogany,
and told of the many services of the apartment; the small chairs were
old-fashioned mahogany pieces with horse-hair seats, while the
easy-chairs--and there were several of these--were capacious and of
divers descriptions. A well-worn sofa was stowed away in an obscure
angle, and a piano with a rose-silk front and fretwork occupied
another of the many dark corners which the room possessed.
The whole atmosphere of the place was of extreme comfort. The bare
description of furniture conveys nothing, but the comfort was there
and showed out in the odds and ends of family possessions which were
in evidence everywhere--the grandfather's clock, the sewing-machine,
the quaint old oil-lamps upon the mantel-board over the place where
the fire should have been but was not; the soft hangings and curious
old family pictures and discoloured engravings; the perfect femininity
of the room. In all respects it was a Canadian farm "best parlour."
There were four occupants of the room. Two old ladies, rotund, and
garbed in modest raiment of some sort of dark, clinging material, were
gathered about the monster self-feeding stove, seated in arm-chairs in
keeping with their ample proportions. One was the widow of the late
Silas Malling, and the other was the school-ma'am from the Leonville
school-house. This good lady rejoiced in the name of Gurridge, and
Mrs. Gurridge was the oldest friend of Hephzibah Malling, a fact which
spoke highly for the former good dame's many excellent qualities.
Hephzibah was not a woman to set her affections on her sex without
good reason. Her moral standard was high, and though she was ever
ready to show kindliness to her fellow-creatures, she was far too
practical and honest herself to take to her motherly bosom any one who
was not worthy of regard.
As was natural, they were talking of the forthcoming marriage, and the
tone of their lowered voices indicated that their remarks were in the
nature of confidences. Mrs. Malling was sitting bolt upright, and her
plump, rather rough hands were folded in her broad lap. Mrs. Gurridge
was leaning towards the stove, gazing into the fire through the mica
sides of the fire-box.
"I trust they will be happy," said Mrs. Gurridge, with a sigh. Then as
an afterthought: "He seems all right."
"Yes," Mrs. Malling said, with a responsive exhalation, "I think
so. He has few faults. But he is not the man to follow my Silas on
this farm. I truly believe, Sarah, that he couldn't tell the
difference between a cabbage-field and a potato-patch. These
what-d'you-call-'ems, Civil servants, are only fit to tot up
figures and play around with a woman's wardrobe every time she
crosses the border. Thank goodness I'm not of the travelling kind;
I'm sure I should hide my face for very shame every time I saw a
Customs officer."
The round, rosy face of the farm-wife assumed a deeper hue, and her
still comely lips were pursed into an indignant _moue_. Her smooth
grey head, adorned by a black lace cap trimmed with pearl beads, was
turned in the direction of the two other occupants of the room, who
were more or less buried in the obscurity of a distant corner.
For a moment she gazed at the dimly-outlined figure of a man who was
seated on one of the horse-hair chairs, leaning towards the sofa on
which reclined the form of her daughter, Prudence. His elbows were
resting on his knees and his chin was supported upon his two clenched
fists. He was talking earnestly. Mrs. Malling watched him for some
moments, then her eyes drifted to the girl, the object of her
solicitude.
Although the latter was in the shadow her features were, even at this
distance, plainly discernible. There was a strong resemblance between
mother and daughter. They were both of medium dark complexion, with
strong colouring. Both were possessed of delightfully sweet brown
eyes, and mouths and chins firm but shapely. The one remarkable
difference between them was in the nasal organ. While the mother's was
short, well-rounded, and what one would call pretty though ordinary,
the girl's was prominent and aquiline with a decided bridge. This
feature gave the younger woman a remarkable amount of character to her
face. Altogether hers was a face which, wherever she went, would
inevitably attract admiring attention. Just now she was evidently
teasing the man before her, and the mother turned back to the stove
with a merry twinkle in her eyes.
"I think Prudence will teach him a few lessons," she murmured to her
friend.
"What--about the farm?"
"Well, I wasn't just thinking of the farm."
The two ladies smiled into each other's faces.
"She is a good child," observed Mrs. Gurridge affectionately, after
awhile.
"Or she wouldn't be her father's child."
"Or your daughter, Hephzibah," said Sarah Gurridge sincerely.
The two relapsed into silence. The glowing coals in the stove shook
lower and received augmentation from the supply above. Darkness was
drawing on.
Prudence was holding the _Free Press_ out towards the dying light and
the man was protesting. The latter is already known to us. His name
was Leslie Grey, now an under-official of the Customs department at
the border village of Ainsley.
"Don't strain your eyes in this light, dear," he was saying. "Besides,
I want to talk to you." He laid his hand upon the paper to take it
from her. But the girl quickly withdrew it out of his reach.
"You must let me look at the personal column, Leslie," she said
teasingly, "I just love it. What do you call it? The 'Agony' column,
isn't it?"
"Yes," the man answered, with some show of irritation. "But I
want----"
"Of course you do," the girl interrupted. "You want to talk to
me--very right and proper. But listen to this."
Grey bit his lip. Prudence bent her face close to the paper and read
in a solemn whisper--
"'Yellow booming--slump in Grey'! Now I wonder what that means? Do you
think it's a disguised love message to some forlorn damsel in the
east, or does it conceal the heartrending cry of a lost soul to some
fond but angry parent?" Then, as the man did not immediately answer,
she went on with a pucker of thought upon her brow. "'Yellow'--that
might mean gold. 'Booming'--ah, yes, the Kootenai mines, or the Yukon.
There is going to be a rush there this year, isn't there? Oh, I
forgot," with real contrition, "I mustn't mention the Yukon, must I?
That is where your disaster occurred that caused you to be banished to
the one-horsed station of Ainsley."
"Not forgetting the reduction of my salary to the princely sum of two
thousand dollars per annum," Grey added bitterly.
"Never mind, old boy, it brought us together, and dollars aren't
likely to trouble us any. But let me get on with my puzzle. 'Slump in
Grey.' That's funny, isn't it? 'Slump' certainly has to do with
business. I've seen 'Slump' in the finance columns of the Toronto
_Globe_. And then 'Grey.' That's your name."
"I believe so."
"Um. Guess I can't make much of it. Seems to me it must be some
business message. I call it real disappointing."
"Perhaps not so disappointing as you think, sweetheart," Grey said
thoughtfully.
"What, do you understand it?" The girl at once became all interest.
"Yes," slowly, "I understand it, but I don't know that I ought to tell
you."
"Of course you must. I'm just dying of curiosity. Besides," she went
on coaxingly, "we are going to be married, and it wouldn't be right to
have any secrets from me. Dear old Gurridge never lost an opportunity
of firing sage maxims at us when I used to go to her school. I think
the one to suit this occasion ran something like this--
'Secrets withheld 'twixt man and wife,
Infallibly end in connubial strife.'
"She always made her rhymes up as she went along. She's a sweet old
dear, but so funny."
But Grey was not heeding the girl's chatter. His face was serious and
his obstinate mouth was tight-shut. He was gazing with introspective
eyes at the paper which was now lying in the girl's lap. Suddenly he
leaned further forward and spoke almost in a whisper.
"Look here, Prue, I want you to listen seriously to what I have to
say. I'm not a man given to undue hopefulness. I generally take my own
way in things and see it through, whether that way is right or wrong.
So far I've had some successes and more failures. If I were given to
dreaming or repining I should say Fate was dead against me. That last
smasher I came in the mountains, when I lost the Government bullion,
nearly settled me altogether, but, in spite of it all, I haven't given
up hope yet, and what is more, I anticipate making a big coup shortly
which will reinstate me in favour with the heads of my department. My
coup is in connection with the notice you have just read out from the
'Agony' column."
The girl nodded. She was quite serious now. Grey paused, and the
ticking of the grandfather's clock on the other side of the room
pounded heavily in the twilight The murmur of the old ladies' voices
occasionally reached the lovers, but it did not interrupt them or
divert their attention from their own affairs.
"That notice," Grey went on, "has appeared at regular intervals in the
paper, and is a message to certain agents from a certain man, to say
that certain illicit work has been carried out. I have discovered who
this man is and the nature of his work. It does not matter who he is
or what the work; in fact, it would be dangerous to mention either,
even here; the point is that I have discovered the secret, and I,
alone, am going to benefit by my discovery. I am not going to let any
one share the reward with me. I want to reinstate myself with the
authorities, and so regain my lost position, then no one will be able
to say things about my marriage with you."
"No one had better say anything against you in my hearing, anyway,
Leslie," the girl put in quickly. "Because I happen to be rich--or
shall be--is nothing to do with any one but myself. As far as I can
see it will be a blessing. Go on."
"No doubt it is as you say, dear," the man pursued; "but there are
plenty of people unkind enough to believe that I am marrying you for
your money. However, I am going to get this man red-handed, and, I
tell you, it will be the greatest coup of my life."
"I hope you will succeed, Leslie," the girl said, her brown eyes fixed
in admiration upon her lover. "Do you know, I never thought you were
such a determined fellow," she added impulsively. "Why, I can almost
believe that you'd learn to farm if you took the notion."
Grey's sense of humour was not equal to the occasion, and he took her
remark quite seriously.
"A man must be a fool if he can't run a farm," he said roughly.
"Many folks labour under that mistake," the girl replied. Then: "Say,
when are you going to do this thing?"
"Strangely enough, the critical moment will come two days after our
marriage. Let's see. This is Monday. We are to be married to-morrow
week. That will make it Thursday week."
The girl sat herself up on the sofa, and her young face expressed
dismay.
"Right in the middle of our honeymoon. Oh, Leslie!"
"It can't be helped, dearest. I shall only be away from you for that
afternoon and the night. Think of what it means to me. Everything."
"Ah, yes." She sank back again upon the sofa. There was the faintest
glimmer of a smile in the depths of her dark eyes. "I forgot what it
meant to you."
The unconscious irony of her words fell upon stony ground.
Prudence Malling was deeply in love with Leslie Grey. How few men
fully appreciate the priceless treasure of a good woman's regard.
"If I bring this off it means immediate promotion," Grey went on, in
his blindly selfish way. "I must succeed. I hate failure."
"They will take you off the border, then," said the girl musingly.
"That will mean--leaving here."
"Which also means a big step up."
"Of course--it will mean a big step up."
The girl sighed. She loved the farm; that home which she had always
known. She changed the subject suddenly.
"It must be nearly tea-time. We are going to have tea early, Leslie,
so that we can get through with it comfortably before the people
come."
"Oh yes, I forgot you are having a 'Progressive Euchre' party
to-night. What time does it begin? I mean the party."
"Seven o'clock. But you are going to stay to tea?"
Grey glanced up at the yellow face of the grandfather's clock and
shook his head.
"Afraid not, little girl. I've got some work to do in connection with
Thursday week. I will drop in about nine o'clock. Who're coming?"
"Is it really necessary, this work?" There was a touch of bitterness
in Prudence's voice. But the next moment she went on cheerfully.
She would not allow herself to stand in her lover's way. "The usual
people are coming. It will be just our monthly gathering of
neighbouring--moss-backs," with a laugh. "The Turners, the
Furrers--Peter Furrers, of course; he still hopes to cut you
out--and the girls; old Gleichen and his two sons, Harry and Tim.
And the Ganthorns from Rosebank and their cousins the Covills of
Lakeville. And--I almost forgot him--mother's flame, George Iredale
of Lonely Ranch."
"Is Iredale coming? It's too bad of you to have him here, Prue. Your
mother's flame--um, I like that. Why, he's been after you for over
three years. It's not right to ask him when I am here, besides----"
Grey broke off abruptly. Darkness hid the angry flush which had spread
over his face. The girl knew he was angry. His tone was raised, and
there was no mistaking Leslie Grey's anger. He was very nearly a
gentleman, but not quite.
"I think I have a perfect right to ask him, Leslie," she answered
seriously. "His coming can make no possible difference to you.
Frankly, I like him, but that makes no difference to my love for you.
Why, you dear, silly thing, if he asked me from now till Doomsday I
wouldn't marry him. He's just a real good friend. But still, if it
will please you, I don't mind admitting that mother insisted on his
coming, and that I had nothing to do with it. That is why I call him
mother's flame. Now, then, take that ugly frown off your face and say
you're sorry."
Grey showed no sign of obedience; he was very angry. It was believed
and put about by the busy-bodies of the district, that George Iredale
had sought Prudence Malling in marriage ever since she had grown up.
He was a bachelor of close upon forty. One of those quiet, determined
men, slow of speech, even clumsy, but quick to make up their minds,
and endowed with a great tenacity of purpose. A man who rarely said he
was going to do a thing, but generally did it. These known features in
a man who, up to the time of the announcement of Prudence's engagement
to Grey, had been a frequent visitor to the farm, and who was also
well known to be wealthy and more than approved of by Mrs. Malling, no
doubt, gave a certain amount of colour to the belief of those who
chose to pry into their neighbours' affairs.
"Anyway I don't think there is room for both Iredale and myself in
the house," Grey went on heatedly. "If you didn't want him you should
have put your foot down on your mother's suggestion. I don't think I
shall come to-night."
For one moment the girl looked squarely into her lover's face and her
pretty lips drew sharply together. Then she spoke quite coldly.
"You will--or I'll never speak to you again. You are very foolish to
make such a fuss."
There was along silence between the lovers. Then Grey drew out his
watch, opened it, glanced at the time, and snapped it closed again.
"I must go," he said shortly.
Prudence had risen from the sofa. She no longer seemed to heed her
lover. She was looking across the darkened room at the homely picture
round the glowing stove.
"Very well," she said. And she moved away from the man's side.
The two old ladies pausing in their conversation heard Grey's
announcement and the answer Prudence made. Sarah Gurridge leaned
towards her companion with a confidential movement of the head. The
two grey heads came close together.
The school-ma'am whispered impressively--
"'Maid who angers faithful swain
Will shed more tears and know mere pain
Than she who loves and loves in vain.'"
Hephzibah laughed tolerantly. Sarah's earnestness never failed to
amuse her.
"My dear," the girl's mother murmured back, when her comfortable laugh
had gurgled itself out, "young folks must skit-skat and bicker, or
where would be the making up? La, I'm sure when I was a girl I used to
tweak my poor Silas's nose for the love of making him angry--Silas had
a long nose, my dear, as you may remember. Men hate to be tweaked,
especially on their weak points. My Silas was always silly about his
nose. And we never had less than half-an-hour's making up. I wonder
how Prudence has tweaked Mr. Grey--I can't bring myself to call him
Leslie, my dear."
Prudence had reached her mother's side. The two old heads parted with
guilty suddenness.
"Oh, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Malling, "how you did startle me."
"I'm sorry, mother," the girl said, "but I wanted to tell you that
Leslie is not coming to-night." Prudence turned a mischievous face
towards her lover.
Mrs. Malling wrinkled up her smooth forehead. She assumed an air of
surprise.
"Why not, my child?"
"Oh, because you have asked Mr. Iredale. Leslie says it isn't right."
Prudence was still looking in her lover's direction. He had his back
turned. He was more angry than ever now.
"My dears," said her mother with an indulgent smile, "you are a pair
of silly noodles. But Mr. Grey--I mean Leslie--must please himself.
George Iredale is coming because I have asked him. This house is yours
to come and go as you like--er--Leslie. George Iredale has promised to
come to the cards to-night. Did I hear you say you were going now? I
should have taken it homely if you would have stayed to tea. The
party begins at seven, don't forget."
Three pairs of quizzical eyes were fixed upon Grey's good-looking but
angry face. His anger was against Prudence entirely now. She had made
him look foolish before these two ladies, and that was not easily to
be forgiven. Grey's lack of humour made him view things in a ponderous
light. He felt most uncomfortable under the laughing gaze of those
three ladies.
However, he would not give way an inch.
"Yes, I must go now," he said ungraciously. "But not on account of
George Iredale," he added blunderingly. "I have some important work to
do----"
He was interrupted by a suppressed laugh from Prudence. He turned upon
her suddenly, glared, then walked abruptly to the door.
"Good-bye," he exclaimed shortly, and the door closed sharply behind
him.
"Why, Prudence," said Mrs. Malling, turning her round laughing face to
her daughter and indicating the door. "Aren't you----"
"No, I'm not, mother dear," the girl answered with a forced laugh.
Sarah Gurridge patted her late pupil's shoulder affectionately. But
her head shook gravely as though a weight of worldly wisdom was hers.
"I don't think he'll stay away," said the mother, with a tender glance
in the girl's direction.
"He hasn't chin enough," said Sarah, who prided herself upon her
understanding of physiognomy.
"Indeed he has," retorted Prudence, who heard the remark.
Mrs. Malling was right, Leslie Grey was not going to stay away. He had
no intention of doing so. But his reasons were quite apart from those
Hephzibah Malling attributed to him. He wished to see George Iredale,
and because of the man's coming Grey would forego his angry desire to
retaliate upon Prudence. He quite ignored what he was pleased to call
his own pride in the matter. He would come because he had what he
considered excellent reasons for so doing.
Prudence lit the lamps and laid the table for tea. Her mother ambled
off to the great kitchen as fast as her bulk would allow her. There
were many things in that wonderful place to see to for the supper, and
on these occasions Mrs. Malling would not trust their supervision even
to Prudence, much less to the hired girl, Mary. Sarah Gurridge
remained in her seat by the stove watching the glowing coals dreamily,
her mind galloping ahead through fanciful scenes of her own
imagination. Had she been asked she would probably have stated that
she was looking forward into the future of the pair who were so soon
to be married.
Prudence went on quietly and nimbly with her work. Presently Sarah
turned, and after a moment's intent gaze at the trim, rounded figure,
said in her profoundest tone--
"'Harvest your wheat ere the August frost;
One breath of cold and the crop is lost.'"
"Oh, bother--there, I've set a place for Leslie," exclaimed Prudence
in a tone of vexation. "What is that about 'frost' and 'lost'?"
"Nothing, dear, I was only thinking aloud." And Sarah Gurridge
relapsed into silence, and continued to bask in the warm glow of the
stove.