A USEFUL FRIEND
Thorne drove away after dinner and, for it must be admitted that he
preferred other people's cookery to his own, he contrived to reach the
Hunter homestead just as supper was being laid out one evening some days
later. During the meal he announced his intention of staying all night,
but he did not explain what had brought him there until he sat with his
host and hostess on the veranda while dusk crept up across the prairie.
He felt inclined to wonder why Mrs. Hunter had favored them with her
company, for he supposed that it was not altogether for the sake of
enjoying the cool evening air. This surmise, as it happened, was quite
correct. She had another purpose in her mind, for since Alison's visit
she had taken a certain interest in the man.
"Is there anything keeping you about the bluff?" she asked at length. "I
hear you have been in the neighborhood several days."
"Four," said Thorne, "if one must be precise. For one thing, there
seemed to be a good demand for gramophones; for another, I wanted a talk
with Elcot, and somebody said he was in at the railroad yesterday."
"I suppose you want to borrow a team from him again?"
"No," Thorne replied tranquilly; "in this case my object is to borrow
money--or, at least, I want to raise it in such a way that if I don't
meet my obligations your husband will be liable."
He turned toward his host.
"Do you think you could guarantee me to the extent of, say, a thousand
dollars?"
"If it's merely a question of ability, I believe I could. Whether it
would be judicious is quite another matter. What are you going to do
with the money?"
Thorne explained his purpose much as he had done to Farquhar and Hunter
listened with quiet amusement.
"The whim might last a month, and then there'd probably be an auction of
your stock and implements, and we would get word that you had gone off
on the trail again," he said. "A quiet life wouldn't suit you. You tried
it once with Bishop and it's generally understood that you turned his
house inside out one day during the winter you spent with him."
"There's just a little truth in that," Thorne confessed. "Bishop's a
nice man, but he has the most exasperating ways, and one would need more
patience than I have to stand them. Try to imagine it--three months of
improving conversation and undeviating regularity. Breakfast to the
minute; the kettle to stand always on the same spot on the stove; the
potato pan on another. Your boots must be put in exactly the same
corner."
"It's unthinkable," laughed Mrs. Hunter. "We once had him here for a day
or two. But what was the particular cause of trouble?"
Her husband smiled.
"House cleaning, I believe. Bishop undertakes it systematically once a
month in the winter."
"Oftener," interjected Thorne. "That is, when the temperature's high
enough for him to wash the floor."
"It wasn't high enough on the day in question," Hunter proceeded; "but I
understand that he insisted on putting his furniture outside so that he
could brush the place thoroughly, and Thorne told him to get the door
open and stand carefully clear."
"Well?" Mrs. Hunter prompted.
"Thorne fired the things, you see, as quick as he could lift them; first
the chairs and table, then the whole outfit of plates and cups and pots
and pans. When he got half-way through, Bishop, who was horror-struck,
made a protest. Thorne told him he would have the things put out, and
out they were going."
Mrs. Hunter laughed and addressed her guest.
"Did you get a bump on your forehead on that occasion? Still, I suppose
one could manage it by falling out of a wagon."
"I didn't," replied Thorne. "For any further particulars about this one
I'm afraid you must apply at the settlement; but it seems to me that the
subject I'm most anxious to talk about is being tactfully avoided."
"When you have so many friends up and down the prairie, why did you come
to Elcot?"
"Your husband," explained Thorne unblushingly, "has the most money. Each
will, however, be provided with an opportunity for contributing
according to his ability. I'll borrow a team from one and a plow from
another; the man who can't spare either can lend me a mower. In addition
to this I'll have to arrange a second loan."
"Do you mean to stay with it?" Hunter asked.
"Give me a show and I'll convince you," Thorne assured him with a sudden
intentness in his eyes. "I'm dead serious now."
Hunter looked at him quietly for a minute or two before he answered.
"Then," he said, "I'll guarantee you for a thousand dollars, payable
after harvest."
Thorne thanked him and presently strolled away to get something out of
his wagon. When he disappeared Florence turned to her husband.
"Elcot," she protested, "you are going to throw every dollar of that
money away."
"I'm far from sure of it," returned Hunter quietly.
"In any case, it's only a few days since you told me you couldn't face
the expense when I said that I wanted to spend a month in Toronto this
spring."
"I should like to point out that you spent a good deal of the winter in
Montreal."
"Would you expect me to live here altogether?"
Hunter made a gesture of weariness.
"I did expect something of that kind once upon a time; I'm sorry you
have made it clear that I was wrong."
Florence favored him with a mocking smile.
"After all, you have stood it rather well. It's only during the last few
months you have been getting bitter; but that's beside the question. Why
are you so willing to waste on that man the money you can't spare for
me?"
"To begin with, I'm by no means certain that I'll have to pay it.
There's good stuff in him, and I want to give him an opportunity for
becoming a useful citizen. In the next place, the line must be drawn
somewhere, and the crop I'm putting in wouldn't stand the cost of a
spring in Toronto, if it's to be anything like the winter in Montreal."
Florence saw that he meant it and changed the subject, for there were
times when she realized that it was not advisable to drive her husband
too far. After a while he strolled away toward the stables in search of
Thorne, and a few minutes later they sat down together on the summit of
a low rise. Hunter lighted his pipe and, resting one elbow in the grass,
lay smoking thoughtfully for a while before he spoke to his companion.
"Mavy," he said, "you are going to do what would be the wisest thing in
the case of the average man--but I'm not wholly sure it would be that in
yours. After all, there's a good deal to be said for the life you lead."
"It will hurt a little to give it up," Thorne acknowledged. "But isn't
there something to be said for--the other kind?"
Hunter pointed with his pipe to where the rise ran into the birches.
"I spent my first summer as a farmer in a tent yonder, and in several
ways it was the happiest one I've ever known. I couldn't cook, and as a
rule when I unyoked my oxen after the day's work I was too played out to
light a fire. I lived on messes that would probably kill me now, and my
clothes went to bits before the summer was half-way through, but I was
bubbling over with aspirations and a whole-hearted optimism then. I had
scarcely a dollar, but I had what seemed better--an unwavering belief in
the future. It was just as good then to lie down, healthily tired, and
listen to the little leaves whispering in the cool of the dusk as it was
to get up with the dawn without a care, fit and ready for what must be
done."
"Oh, yes," assented Thorne, "I know. They never cast a stove in a
foundry that would give you the same warmth as the red fire in the birch
bluff, and the finest tea that goes to Russia wouldn't taste as good as
what you drink flavored with wood smoke out of a blackened can. Then
there's the empty prairie with the long trail leading on to something
you feel will be better still beyond the horizon. Silence, space,
liberty. How they get hold of you!"
"Then, what do you expect instead of them when you give them up?"
"It strikes me that you should be able to tell me."
Hunter smiled in a rather weary fashion and glanced back toward his
house.
"Well," he said, "I've a place that's generally supposed to be the
smartest one within sixty miles, and some status in the country,
whatever it may be worth--my wife sees to that. The Grits would make me
a leader if I cared for politics."
"Then why don't you? Your wife would like it."
"I think you ought to know. We both escaped from the cities, and while
you drive your wagon I follow the plow. Men like you and I have nothing
to do with wire-pullers' tricks, juggling committees, and shouting
crowds. It's my part to make a little more wheat grow."
Thorne looked at him with a thoughtful face.
"I wonder," he said, "why you want to prevent me from doing the same?"
"I don't. I only want to warn you that if you make a success of it you
can't own a house and land and teams without facing the cost."
"And that is?"
"Unconditional surrender. In a little while they'll own you. It's
probable that you'll add a wife to them, and then, unless she's a woman
of unusual courage, you'll find yourself shackled down to half the
formulas you have run away from."
"Still, you get something in return."
"Yes," assented Hunter slowly. "I'm optimist enough to believe that--but
it's an elusive quantity. I suppose it depends largely on what you
expect."
He stood up and emptied his pipe.
"It's getting late and I have to start again at six to-morrow."
They went back to the house together and Thorne drove away early the
next morning. Soon after midday Hunter set out for Graham's Bluff, where
he had some business. When he had gone Florence carried a bundle of
papers out to a little table placed in the shadow on the veranda, and
sitting down before it looked at them with a frown. Most of them were
bills, which she had once half thought of showing to her husband, though
she had not done so, chiefly because the bankbook which she had recently
sent up to be balanced revealed the fact that there was then just eighty
dollars standing to her credit. As Florence seldom filled in the
counterfoils of the checks she drew, this information had been a painful
shock to her. It was evident that she had spent a good deal more money
in Montreal than she had supposed, and that she could not pay the bills,
and there was no doubt that her husband would be signally displeased.
As a rule he was very patient. She was willing to own that, though she
now and then did so with a certain illogical irritation at his
complacency; but when it was a question of money he could be inflexible.
He had, however, treated her liberally, and to save her the necessity
of applying to him he paid so many dollars into her bank twice a year
and within that limit left her to control the domestic expenses as she
pleased. This, indeed, was what chiefly troubled her, for there should
have been enough to her credit to carry her on until harvest, when the
next payment would be made. This, however, was unfortunately not the
case. There was no doubt that she had to grapple with a financial
crisis.
She added up the bills several times and signally failed to make them
any less, though it was now perfectly clear that it would not be
advisable to show them to her husband. Thrusting them aside, she leaned
back in her chair and presently decided, with the renewal of an existing
grievance, that the situation was the result of Elcot's absurd retiring
habits. If he would only go about with her now and then, or bring a few
smart people out in the summer, she might be able to take pleasure in
less costly diversions and, to some extent at least, avoid extravagance.
On the other hand, however, there were, as she had already realized, one
or two reasons why it seemed just as well that Elcot should stay at
home. He now looked very much like a farmer, though he had not been
reared as one, and she fancied that his rather grim reserve, which was
broken now and then by attacks of sardonic candor, was scarcely likely
to be appreciated in the world she visited. As a matter of fact, his own
relatives with whom she sometimes stayed were in the habit of smiling
significantly when they mentioned him. He had, it seemed, flung up
excellent prospects when, in spite of his family's protests, he went
West with very inadequate means as a prairie farmer. That he had
succeeded was, she understood, largely due to the fact that an eccentric
relative who agreed with him had subsequently died and left him a few
hundred dollars.
In the meanwhile these reflections brought her no nearer a solution of
the difficulty. There was a big deficit, and she had no idea how she was
to meet it. Then she remembered that when she was married Elcot had
among other things settled a certain strip of land on her. He had failed
to interest her in its management, though she was pleased to receive the
proceeds of its cultivation, which he handed her after each harvest.
They were sowing again now, and she had heard that it was possible to
sell a crop, or at least to raise money on it in some way, beforehand.
She determined to question Nevis, who carried on a general business at
the railroad settlement, about the matter when he next drove over, which
he had said he would probably do during the next day or two. He might
even turn up that afternoon and, as Elcot was out of the way, she wished
he would. He was a man of prepossessing appearance and easy manners, and
he had now and then paid her a deferential homage which was not
unpleasant. Indeed, she had once or twice contrasted him with Elcot, and
the comparison had not been altogether in the latter's favor.
Half an hour later he drove up in a light buggy and handed the horse
over to one of the teamsters. Then he walked up on the veranda, where
Florence was still sitting with the bills before her. Turning around
when he had greeted her, he pointed to the plodding teams which moved
down the long furrows that ran back from the house.
"I didn't see Elcot at work with the boys as I drove by," he said.
"He is away and probably will not be back until after supper."
"I'm sorry I can't wait so long," Nevis replied, taking the chair to
which she pointed. "Anyway, it isn't a matter of much importance, and
I'll try to call again."
Florence sent for some tea, though it is seldom that refreshments of any
kind are provided between the regular meals on the prairie, and then
leaned back in her chair watching him while he sat with his cup in his
hand. He was, as she had decided on other occasions, a well-favored man,
dark-haired and dark-eyed, and, as usual, he was artistically dressed.
The hat he had laid on a neighboring chair was a genuine Panama, such as
Mexican half-breeds spend months in weaving; his rather tight,
light-colored clothes were excellently cut; and once more it struck her
with a sense of injury that it was a pity Elcot insisted on attiring
himself as his teamsters did.
"I had half expected to find you gone," he said; "you mentioned a visit
to Toronto when I last saw you. After all, if your husband can spare
you, it must be nice to get away. You must feel that you are rather
wasted here."
This was a point on which Florence was convinced already and she did not
in the least object to his mentioning it.
"Elcot," she replied dryly, "has his farm."
"Well," responded Nevis, "I'm glad you haven't gone. The rest of us can
badly spare the one bright light which shines upon our primitive
obscurity."
His hostess did not check him. The man was usually rather daring, and
she seldom resented a speech of this kind, no matter from whom it came.
"In any case, I am not going," she informed him. "That"--she pointed to
the bundle of papers--"is the reason."
"Bills? Permit me."
Before she could prevent it he took them up and flicked them over. Then
he turned and looked at her with a smile in his dark eyes.
"On examination of them I'm inclined to think the reason's a good one."
Florence recognized that he had ventured further in the last few minutes
than Elcot would have done in a month before he married her, and, though
she was not greatly displeased, she changed the subject, for a time.
"What did you want to see my husband about?" she asked.
"I'm anxious to disarm his opposition to the part I feel like taking in
the Bluff Creamery scheme. I'm willing to back the experiment on
reasonable terms, but I understand that Elcot's dubious about permitting
it; and Thorne has been advising the boys to have nothing to do with me.
Rough on a man who's ready to finance them, isn't it?"
Florence did not care whether it was rough or not. Except that she would
have liked to spend double her husband's income, financial questions
seldom interested her.
"I suppose you wish to do it to encourage them--out of philanthropy?"
she suggested with a yawn.
Nevis laughed good-humoredly.
"You can put that question to your husband or Thorne. I'm willing to
confess that in these affairs I'm out for business pure and simple,
though that doesn't prevent my taking an interest in my friends'
difficulties now and then." He tapped the bills with his fingers. "You
are at present short of three hundred dollars?"
"I'm short of nine hundred," corrected Florence with candor.
The next question was difficult. In fact, it was one that could not well
be put directly, and the man's voice became judiciously sympathetic.
"Wheat sold badly last fall, and Elcot has, no doubt, his share of
worries?" he suggested. "You naturally wouldn't like to add to them?"
They looked at each other and Florence was quite aware that he would go
a little farther as soon as he had ascertained whether she had any
intention of mentioning the deficit to her husband. She also recognized
that the fact that she had drawn his attention to the bills would make
this seem improbable.
"I'm not sure that I'm so unselfish," she said with a laugh. "In any
case, I'm independent; I don't care to bother other people with my
troubles."
The man leaned forward, looking at her as though begging a favor.
"I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that such a course might be a
little rough on some of them. Do you never make an exception?"
"I haven't done so yet."
"Then," said Nevis eagerly, "if you'll try it in this instance I'll tell
you what I'll do. The thing's in my line of business and I'll find those
nine hundred dollars for you."
Florence sat silent, watching him for a few moments. She meant to agree,
and though she quite realized that general opinion would have regarded
this as tantamount to placing herself in the man's power, that did not
trouble her. She had never yet been in any man's power and she did not
intend to be.
"Well," she consented at length; "but it mustn't be a favor."
Nevis tactfully declared that it could be done on a purely business
footing, with which object he suggested, after a few judicious
questions, that she should give him an order for the delivery of so many
bushels of wheat after harvest, which she did. That the document was
most informal and merely scribbled on a half-sheet of note-paper did not
seem to concern him. Then he wrote her out a check.
"I don't mind saying that I'm going to make eight per cent. out of you,
which is enough to content me," he explained. "You see, I never let an
opportunity go by."
Florence made no comment. Whether or not he would continue to be content
with the mere interest on the money was a question with which she would
be competent to deal when it arose.
In a few minutes he prepared to take his departure. He bowed over her
hand in a manner that was not common on the prairie, and she watched him
with a meaning smile when he drove away.