BENEFICENT RAIN
When Gallwey left him, Leland walked slowly through the bluff where the
birches rustled softly under the caress of a warm, gentle breeze. There
was a different note in their low murmur now, for the lace-like twigs
were covered with slender leaves, and a new scent rose from the steaming
mould. Leland noticed it vacantly, scarcely seeing the silver stems;
for, susceptible as he was to all of Nature's moods, he was, at the
time, bracing himself for the long struggle before him.
There was so much against him, and the loss of his horses had filled him
with an overwhelming indignation against the men who had wantonly
injured him. He was combative by nature, as every man with a strenuous
purpose must necessarily be. With vindictive bitterness, he thought of
the burnt and mangled beasts that had worked for him so well. Once more
his lips set, and, brushing heedlessly through the bluff, he clenched
one hard hand. Men and circumstances might prove too strong for him; but
he would, at least, go on until he was crushed, and leave his mark upon
his enemies before they brought him down.
Then, coming out from among the trees, he stopped with a little
indrawing of his breath as he glanced at the ploughing. It had been,
when he last saw it, a waste of clods rent into hot and dusty fragments,
but now all the wide basin and long slope of rise were sprinkled with
flecks of green, and he stood gazing at it with softening face and
glowing eyes. The kindly rain had touched the parched and dusty soil,
and the old familiar miracle had again happened.
Life had emerged from darkness; the wheat was up, in token that, while
man's faith may falter, and his hand grow slack, the great beneficent
influences are strongest still, and seedtime and harvest shall not fail.
As those who worked for him had cause to know, and as shrewd grain
buyers in Winnipeg admitted, Leland was an essentially practical man;
but there was in him, as there must be in the optimist, a vague
recognition of the mysterious, upholding purpose that stands behind, and
is partially revealed in the world of material things. He could drive
the long furrow, he could rend the clods, but there was that in the
red-gold wheat that did not come from them or him. It was the essence of
life, a mystery and a miracle, his to control, or even to annihilate,
but a thing he could never create.
He felt something of this while he stood there with the warm wind on his
face. The bitterness fell from him with his cares. Hope is eternal, and
it sprang up strong in him as his softening eyes wandered over the vast
sprinkling of sunny green. The harvest would follow the sowing, and toil
was indestructible. His courage, which, indeed, had never faltered,
changed its mood. It was no longer the grim resolution of a desperate
man, but a more hopeful and gentler thing. Then, and he was not
astonished, for it only seemed the natural sequence of things, his wife
came out from among the birches with a smile in her eyes.
"I have come to look for you. Breakfast is ready, and I have been
waiting ever so long," she said.
It was a trifling matter, but the man's heart beat faster than usual. It
had not been her habit to rise in time to breakfast with him. As often
happened when he felt the most, he could think of nothing apposite to
say, and stood looking at her in silence.
"I was almost afraid to venture until I saw you," she said. "I had
expected to find you angry. It wouldn't have been astonishing."
Leland laughed softly. "I'm afraid I was," he said "Still, it didn't
seem to last when I saw the wheat was up, and it was bound to vanish
when you came, anyway."
"Ah," said Carrie, with a faint warmth in her cheeks, "it's a long time
since you have even tried to say anything of that kind to me. Well, I
have something to say, and I would like you to believe it is not merely
what you once called the correct thing. I am very sorry for what has
happened."
"My dear, I think I know," and Leland smiled at her. "It was very good
of you, and the only thing that was needed to make my worries melt away.
I seem to feel I'm going to come out ahead of the market and the
rustlers, now. Could anybody be afraid when he had seen the wheat?"
The girl turned and gazed with only partial comprehension at the vast
sweep of green.
"Oh," she said, "I suppose it is a little wonderful. It looked so
hopeless yesterday. I am glad one, at least, of your troubles has
vanished, Charley."
"And yours?"
"Am I supposed to have any?"
She spoke without bitterness, as though questioning his faculty of
comprehension, and she saw the dark colour creep into his face. Still,
it was not the hue of anger, and, stooping, he gently seized the hand
that wore the ring.
"My dear," he said, "you must have many. I can feel it now, and, when I
married you, I was, perhaps, doing wrong. How could one expect you to be
content with such a man as I am?"
He stopped a moment, and smiled wistfully. "I almost think I know how
the life you lead here must look to you. You can see it stretching out
in front of you, all arid and hopeless, like those furrows yesterday.
Still, now you see them green with promise. The rain has come."
"Ah," said Carrie; "still, the wheat was hidden there, and in some of us
there are only weeds and tares, while, even if there is among them a
little wholesome grain, who knows if the rain will ever come at all?"
She looked up at him and hesitated. "Charley, do you feel that I have
cheated you very badly?"
"How?"
"Oh, I suppose you will not admit it. One could thank you for that, but
you know. Have I ever been a companion to you? Isn't your life harder
than it was before?"
Leland's grasp of her hand grew tighter. "Well," he said, "there are
times when one must talk, and I have felt that; but I felt, too, that,
if I could wait, there would be a change."
"I think you must have been always hopeful."
"Hope," said Leland gravely, "is a little like the germ in the wheat. It
lies dormant; but, while its husk lasts, it will not die. I think," and
he glanced back at the vast sweep of sprouting green, "I was like that
dusty ploughing, waiting for the rain."
The girl was silent for a while, though she, too, was conscious of a
curious stirring of her nature, which showed itself by the warmth in her
cheeks. The man had, she felt, chosen a peculiarly fitting symbolism,
for, when the beneficent rain had touched the arid clods, they had put
on beauty with sudden life and growth.
"And what do you expect, then?" she asked.
Leland smiled. "I don't quite know, but it must be something good and
beautiful. What is in all Nature is in us too. My dear," and he made a
little gesture, "one can feel, and not quite understand. The wheat
yonder doesn't know why and how it grows, but, since you gave me your
promise at Barrock-holme, I have been waiting for something to come to
me."
"Ah," said Carrie again, "after what has happened, you can expect it
still?"
The man looked at her gravely. "Hope is indestructible, and some day the
rain will come. One cannot hurry it, one can only work and wait."
Carrie smiled a little, though once more pride and a curious tenderness
struggled within her.
"Well," she said, "in the meantime, Jake is no doubt wondering whether
we are coming in to breakfast."
They turned, and went back to the house, with the sunshine bright upon
them, and the clean scents of the soil in their nostrils. The gladness
that was in all things reacted upon them both.
Half an hour later, Leland set about his work again, and, as he had
leagues to ride to visit one or two farms, and to see where there was
likely to be any wild hay in the sloos, dusk was closing down before he
came back again. In his absence, something had happened that left Carrie
confused and startled. The men were trooping in for the six o'clock
supper, when a light waggon swung into sight over the crest of the rise.
As it reached the door of the homestead, one of the two men in it sprang
down. Carrie was standing in the entrance hall when Jake showed him in,
and she caught her breath with a little gasp when she saw who it was.
The man who stood smiling at her with the sunlight on his face was the
one she had parted from on the path above the ravine at Barrock-holme.
"Reggie!" she said.
Urmston laughed. "Yes," he said. "In the flesh. I have ridden most of
two hundred miles on horseback and in a waggon to get here, in the
expectation that you would be pleased to see me."
Carrie stood still, thankful that she was in the shadow, though for the
moment she could not tell whether she was pleased or not. For one thing,
the man's assurance that she would feel so somewhat jarred upon her, and
the advantage was with him, for he had come there knowing that he would
see her, and she had not expected him.
"Of course I am," she said. "But the waggon?"
"I hired the man to drive me. I suppose he can put up here, and go back
to-morrow. Your husband will no doubt set me on my way to the railroad,
when I go."
Carrie Leland was not, as a rule, readily shaken out of her serenity,
but she was almost disconcerted now. Urmston evidently meant to stay,
and even the stranger has only to ask for shelter upon the prairie. The
man before her had once considered himself much more to her than a
stranger.
"Yes," she said. "He will be glad to see you. Sit down while I tell Jake
about the teamster, and see that your room is made ready."
She left him somewhat abruptly, and Urmston laughed a little. "Too
startled even to shake hands with me," he murmured. "I wonder if that is
significant."
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting down with Carrie and Mrs. Annersly
at supper, and was not altogether astonished when the elder lady, who,
he fancied, had never been fond of him, turned to him with a frank
question.
"What did you come here for?" she said.
"To see Carrie--and yourself, madam," and Urmston smiled with a
mischievous relish that made him look very young. "Could one venture to
hope that in your case the pleasure is reciprocated?"
"I am, at least, disposed to tolerate anybody from the Old Country,
though I can't go very much further. When one has been a few months
here, one is apt to become contented with the products of Canada."
"The wheat? Have you turned farmer?"
Eveline Annersly's eyes twinkled. "No," she said. "The men. They are,
after all, the finest thing this country raises."
Urmston laughed, though he felt that he had been favoured with a hint.
Mrs. Annersly, however, had more to say.
"Have you suddenly grown energetic, and decided to do something?" she
asked.
"No," said Urmston. "As a matter of fact, I came out to see the country
and enjoy myself, although I have an ostensible mission. Geoffrey
Crossthwaite is, as you are aware, a meddler in social economics, and
has lately become interested in one of the especially commendable
schemes for dumping into our dependencies the folks nobody seems to want
at home."
"Ah," said Eveline Annersly, "that explains the thing."
Urmston flushed a trifle, and forced a smile.
"Well," he said, "I'm not quite sure that it does in itself. I happen to
know a little about English farming, and am expected to report upon the
prospects of giving other undesirables a start in life here, though
there are two regular experts with the party."
"So you made a journey of two hundred miles to see Carrie and me, while
they did the work? Still, I have no doubt her husband will be able to
teach you a little about Canadian farming."
Urmston made a little gesture. "I am a stranger, madam, and in your
hands. Treat me gently."
This was said good-humouredly, and with some gracefulness; but, trifling
as the matter was, Carrie contrasted his attitude with the one she
fancied her husband would have adopted. He would have braced himself for
the encounter against much longer odds. She was grateful, however, to
Eveline Annersly for the bantering conversation, as it gave her time to
decide exactly what her own course must be. The circumstances were
certainly somewhat embarrassing. When at last the meal was over, Eveline
Annersly stuck to them persistently, and it was only when the chill of
the clear, cold evening settled down upon the prairie that she left them
alone upon the verandah. Urmston, who lay languidly graceful in a cane
chair, glanced at Carrie.
"I have been looking forward to seeing you for days, and now I feel that
this is not quite what I expected. You have changed," he said.
Carrie laughed, though she felt that the wistful note in his voice was
genuine. She remembered, too, that she had once been fond of and
believed in him, but she had, as she expressed it, grown since then,
while it was evident that he was still the same. In fact, she felt he
was remarkably young.
"Well," she said, "you have not."
"No," said Urmston; "I am, unfortunately, one of the people who don't
change at all. It would be so much easier for me if I did."
This was sufficiently plain, but it brought no gratification to the
girl. On the whole, she was rather annoyed with him, though she had a
lingering tenderness for him still. After all, he had loved her as well
as he was capable of loving, and that counts for a good deal with some
women.
"There was," he said, "only one woman who could have made the most out
of me, and have led me to a higher level."
"And she married another man. It is remarkably hard to reach a more
elevated level alone, and a woman would naturally rather lean on than
drag her companion."
Urmston's face flushed. "I think I could have been capable of a good
deal more than I probably ever shall be now, if you could have trusted
me."
"Still," said Carrie, with a half-wistful sense of regret she could not
wholly drive out, "the time when I might have done so has gone."
The man leant forward a trifle nearer her, "Carrie," he said, a trifle
hoarsely, "are you happy with this Canadian?"
The girl felt her cheeks burn, and was glad that the soft dusk was now
creeping into the verandah. "Well," she said, "I am as happy as I
deserve to be."
Then there was a drumming of hoofs, and she was only pleased when Leland
swung himself down, hot and dusty, from the saddle. He came into the
verandah, and stood a moment glancing at the stranger.
"Mr. Reginald Urmston--an old friend of mine at Barrock-holme," said the
girl. "I am not quite sure whether you have ever met my husband before."
Leland held out a hard hand, and Carrie was grateful for the swiftness
with which he did it. It suggested an unquestioning confidence in her.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I remember. Glad to see you, Mr. Urmston. Carrie's
friends are always welcome. Hope you'll stay here a month if you feel
like it."
Mrs. Annersly and Gallwey entered the verandah just then, and, when the
others left them shortly afterwards, remained there. Gallwey thought
that his companion had something to say to him. Though there was
nothing very definite to warrant it, he felt that they were allies.
"One could almost fancy that you didn't seem quite pleased
with--circumstances," he said.
"Well," said Eveline Annersly, "I don't think I am. If that man had
fallen out of his waggon and broken his leg before he got here, I almost
believe I should have been happier. I do not care in the least whether
that is a judicious speech or not."
Gallwey grinned. "There are," he said significantly, "a good many
badger-holes scattered about the prairie, and the horse that puts its
foot in one is apt to come down awkwardly. I wonder if there is anything
definite you expect from me?"
"I should suggest that you insist upon teaching Urmston farming, and
keep him busy at it," said Mrs. Annersly.