A WILLING SACRIFICE
Three weeks had slipped away since the evening Carrie Leland had asked
about her mother's jewels, when she and Eveline Annersly once more
referred to them as they sat in her room, a little before the supper
hour. The window was wide open, and the blaze of sunlight that streamed
in fell upon Carrie as she took up a letter from the little table before
her.
"Only a line or two to say the casket has been sent," she said, with a
half-suppressed sigh. "One could almost fancy they did not care what had
become of me at Barrock-holme. I might have passed out of their lives
altogether."
"I'm not sure it's so very unusual in the case of a married woman," said
her companion, a trifle drily. "Besides, it is quite possible that your
father was not exactly pleased at having to give the jewels up. In fact,
it may have been particularly inconvenient for him to do so. They are
worth a good deal of money."
"Still, they really belong to me."
"Yes," said Eveline Annersly, "they evidently do, or you would not have
got them. Of course, it would be a more usual thing for them to have
gone to Jimmy's wife when he married, but they were your mother's, and,
as you know, they came from her family. It was her wish that you should
have them, though I was never quite sure it was mentioned in her will.
In fact, to be candid, I am a little astonished that you have got them."
Carrie's face flushed.
"Aunt," she said, "I don't like to think of it, and I would not admit it
to anybody else, but I felt what you are suggesting when I wrote for
them. Still, I would have had them, even at the cost of breaking with
them all at Barrock-holme."
"I expected a break. Hadn't you better open the casket?"
"In a few minutes," said Carrie, leaving the room.
She wore a dinner-gown when she returned. Sitting down at the table, she
opened the little metal-bound box before her. There was an inner box,
and, when she opened that in turn, the sunlight struck a blaze of colour
from the contents of the little velvet trays. Carrie looked at them with
a curious softness in her eyes. When she turned to her companion,
however, there was a lingering wistfulness in her smile.
"I can't resist putting them on--just this once," she said. "I shall
probably never do it again."
Her companion watched her gravely as she placed a diamond crescent in
her dusky hair, and then hung a string of pearls about her neck. They
were exceptionally beautiful, but it was the few rubies that followed
them and the gleam of the same stones set in the delicate bracelet the
girl clasped on her wrist that roused Eveline Annersly, who had seen
them before, to a little gasp of admiration. The blood-red stones shone
with a wonderful lustre on the polished whiteness of Carrie's neck and
arm.
"They were, of course, never meant for a necklet, and your mother had
always intended to have them properly set, but I suppose money was
scarce at Barrock-holme then," she said. "You look positively dazzling,
but you carry them well, my dear."
Carrie turned to the mirror in front of her, and surveyed herself for a
minute with a curious gravity. Then the little wistful look once more
crept into her eyes. After all, she had been accustomed to the smoother
side of life, and the beauty of the gems appealed to her. She had worn
some of them once or twice before, and had seen them stir men's
admiration and other women's longing at brilliant functions in the Old
Country. She also knew that they became her wonderfully well, and yet it
was scarcely likely she would put them on again. Then she heard a little
gasp, and, turning suddenly, saw Mrs. Nesbit gazing at her from the
doorway in bewildered admiration.
"The boys are coming in. Shall I have the table set for supper?" she
said.
"Not yet," said Carrie. "You might ask Mr. Leland to come up. I want
him."
Mrs. Nesbit went out, apparently still lost in wonder. Carrie turned to
her companion impulsively.
"I should like Charley to see me as I am--for once," she said.
Five minutes later, Eveline Annersly slipped away as Leland came in,
dressed in worn and faded jean. He gave a start of astonishment and a
look that almost suggested pain when Carrie turned to him. She looked
imperial in the long, graceful dress. The diamonds in her dusky hair
glinted crystal-clear, and the rubies gleamed on the polished ivory of
her neck; but her eyes were more wonderful than any gem in their depths
of tenderness. Then the man saw himself in the mirror, bronzed and hot
and dusty, with hard hands and broken nails, and the stain of the soil
upon him. Another glance at her, and he turned his eyes away.
"Aren't you pleased?" said Carrie.
Leland turned again, slowly, with a little sigh, one of his brown hands
tightly clenched.
"You are beautiful, my dear," he said, "but, if you were old and dressed
in rags, you would always be that to me. With those things shining on
you, you are wonderful, but it hurts me to see them."
"Why?"
"They make the difference between us too plain. You should wear them
always. It was what you were meant for, and, when I married you, I had a
notion that I might be able to give you such things some day and take
you where other people wear them. Everything, however, is against me
now. We may not even keep Prospect, and you are only the wife of a
half-ruined prairie farmer."
Carrie held her arms out. "I wouldn't be anything else if I could. You
know that, too. Come and kiss me, Charley, and never say anything of the
kind again."
The man hesitated, and she guessed that he was thinking of his dusty
jean.
"Have I lost my attractiveness that you need asking twice?" she said.
Leland came towards her, and she slipped an arm about his neck,
regardless of the costly dress. Taking up his hard, brown hand, she
looked tenderly at the broken nails.
"Ah," she said, "it has worked so hard for me. Do you think I don't know
why you toil late and early this year, and never spend a cent on
anything that is not for my pleasure? I must have cost you a good deal,
Charley."
She saw the blood rise into the man's face, and laughed softly. "Oh, I
know it all. Once I tried to hate you for it--and now, if it hadn't made
it so hard for you, I should be almost glad. Still, Charley, I would do
almost anything to make you feel that--it was worth while."
"My dear," said Leland hoarsely, "I have never regretted it, and I would
not even if I had to turn teamster and let Prospect go, except for the
trouble it would bring you."
Carrie laughed softly. "Still, it will never come to that. This hand is
too firm and capable to let anything go, and I fancy I can do something,
too. After all, I do not think Mrs. Custer is very much stronger or
cleverer than I am."
She pushed him gently away from her. "Now go and get ready for supper. I
will be down presently."
Leland went away with glad obedience. When Eveline Annersly came in
later, she found Carrie once more attired very plainly, and the casket
locked. Her eyes were a trifle hazy, but she looked up with a smile.
"I shall not put them on again, but I do not mind," she said. "They will
go to ploughing and harrowing next season. There is something to be done
beforehand, and I want you to come in to the railroad station with me
to-morrow."
They went down to supper, during which Carrie was unusually talkative.
When Eveline Annersly left them after the meal was over, she turned to
her husband.
"Charley," she said, "you could get along alone for two or three days,
if I went into Winnipeg?"
"I could," said Leland. "Still, I wouldn't like it. But what do you want
to go there for?"
"Well," said Carrie, reflectively, "there are two or three things I
want, and one or two I have to do--business things at the bank. I had a
letter from Barrock-holme, you know. I suppose those bankers are really
trustworthy people?"
Leland laughed. "Oh, yes, I think they could be trusted with anything
you were likely to put into their hands."
"Well," said Carrie, "perhaps I will tell you what it is by and by. In
the meanwhile, since I am going to-morrow, there are several things I
have to see to."
Starting next morning with Eveline Annersly, she was on the following
day ushered into the manager's room at Leland's bank. The gentleman who
sat there appeared a trifle astonished when he saw her, as though he had
scarcely expected to see the stamp of refinement and station on Leland's
wife. He drew out a chair for her, and urbanely asked what he could do
for her. Carrie laid a casket and a small bundle of papers upon the
table.
"I think you are acquainted with my husband?" she said.
"Certainly," said the banker. "We have had the pleasure of doing
business with Mr. Leland of Prospect for a good many years."
"Then," said Carrie, decisively, "you are on no account to tell him
about any business you may do for me--that is, unless I give you
permission to do so."
The banker concealed any astonishment he may have felt, merely saying
that it was his part to fall in with his clients' wishes. Carrie held
out a pass-book.
"I suppose I could have this money any time I wished?" she said.
"Certainly. You have only to write a cheque for it."
Carrie opened a paper, and handed it to him. "I have had it all
explained to me, but I am afraid I don't understand it very well," she
said. "Until I was married I could get only a little of the money as my
trustees gave it to me, and they put the rest into an English bank for
me. I have the book here. You will see how much the dividends and
interest come to every year."
The banker studied the document carefully. Then he took the pass-book
she handed him. "Well," he said, "you can do whatever you like with it
now. Quite a sum of money has accumulated."
"I could put it into your bank here?"
"Of course. I should be glad to arrange it for you. You would also get
more interest for it than you seem to have done in England."
"Then I want you to do it. You lend people money. I wonder if you could
let me have as much now as I would get in the next four or five years.
Of course, you would charge me for doing it."
The banker smiled a little, and shook his head as he glanced at the
document. "You will excuse my mentioning that the interest on the money
involved is only to be paid--to you."
"Ah," said Carrie, "of course, I might die, and then, I remember, it
would go back again. Still, that only makes what I want to do more
necessary. I suppose I could make over to my husband all the money there
is in the English bank and anything else that really belongs to me? That
is, I could put it into his account here? You see, I don't want him to
know--anything about it for a little while."
The banker reflected. He had done business for years with Leland and
considered him a friend. This dainty woman's devotion to her husband
appealed to him. He decided that he might, for once, go a little further
than was usual from a business point of view. "Well," he said,
reflectively, "I think I should wait a little. If you kept the money in
your own name, you could hand him as much as you thought advisable at
any time it appeared necessary. On the whole, I fancy that would be
wiser."
"Why?"
Again the banker pondered. Nobody knew better than he how many of the
wheat-growers were near ruin that year, and he had naturally an accurate
notion of what would probably happen to Leland when, after harvest, the
wheat of the West was thrown train-load by train-load upon a lifeless
market.
"I think there are a good many reasons why it is sound advice I am
offering you. For one thing, wheat is still going down, you see."
Carrie made a little gesture of comprehension, for financial
difficulties had formed a by no means infrequent topic at Barrock-holme.
"Yes," she said quietly, "I understand. You will get the money and put
it to my name. But there is another thing. Will you please open that
casket?"
The man did so, and appeared astonished when he saw its contents. "These
things are very beautiful," he said.
"You could lend me part of their value?" asked Carrie, with a little
flush in her face.
The man looked thoughtful. The smaller banking houses in the West are
usually willing to handle any business they can get, but precious gems
are not a commodity with which they are intimately acquainted.
"They would have to be valued, and I fancy that could only be done in
Montreal," he said. "After getting an expert's opinion, we could, I
think, advance you a reasonable proportion of what he considered them
worth. Shall I have it done?"
"Of course," said Carrie, and went out ten minutes later with a sense of
satisfaction. She found Eveline Annersly waiting, and smiled as she
greeted her. "I have been arranging things, and perhaps I can help
Charley, after all. I am afraid he will want it," she said. "Now, if you
wouldn't mind very much, we can get the west-bound train this afternoon.
I am anxious to get back to Prospect again."
Eveline Annersly would have much preferred to spend that night in a
comfortable hotel, instead of in a sleeping-car, but she made no
protest. After lunch, they spent an hour or two in the prairie city,
waiting until the train came in. Ridged with mazy wires and towering
telegraph-poles, and open to all winds, Winnipeg stands at the side of
its big, slow river in the midst of a vast sweep of plain. Boasting of
few natural attractions, there is the quick throb of life in its
streets. As Carrie and her aunt made their way through bustling crowds,
past clanging cars, they gradually observed an undertone of slackness in
the superficial activity about them. The faces they met were sombre, and
there were few who smiled. The lighthearted rush of a Western town was
missing. Loungers hung about the newspaper offices, and bands of
listless immigrants walked the streets aimlessly. Carrie had heard at
Prospect that it was usually difficult in the Northwest to get men
enough to do the work, and this air of leisure puzzled her.
There was, however, a reason for this lack of enterprise. Winnipeg lives
by its trade in wheat, selling at a profit to the crowded East, and
scattering its store-goods broadcast across the prairie. Just then,
however, the world appeared to possess a sufficiency of wheat and flour,
and the great mills were grinding half-time or less, while it happened
frequently that Western farmers, caught by the fall in values, could not
meet their bills. When this happens, there is always trouble from the
storekeepers and dealers in implements who have supplied them throughout
the year. Carrie caught the despondent tone, wondering why she did so,
since she felt that it would not have impressed her a little while ago.
Perhaps it was because she had then looked upon the toilers with an
uncomprehending pity that was half disdain, and she had since gained not
only sympathy but appreciation. She stopped outside the newspaper office
where a big placard was displayed.
"Smitten Dakota wails," it read. "Crops devastated. Thunder and hail.
Ice does the reaping in Minnesota."
"Oh," she said. "I must have a paper."
Eveline Annersly smiled a little. It was between the hours of issue, and
the wholesale office did not look inviting, but Carrie went in, and a
clerk, who gazed at the very dainty lady with some astonishment, gave
her a paper.
"Now," she said, "we will go on to the depot. I must sit down and read
the thing."
By the time she had mastered the gist of it, the big train was rolling
out with her amidst a doleful clanging of the locomotive bell. It was
momentous enough. The hail, which now and then sweeps the Northwest, had
scourged the Dakotas and part of Minnesota, spreading devastation where
it went. Meteorologists predicted that the disturbance would probably
spread across the frontier. Carrie laid down the paper and glanced out
with a little shudder of apprehension at the sliding prairie, into which
town and wires and mills were sinking. She was relieved to see that
there hung over it a sweep of cloudless blue.
"There are hundreds ruined, and whole crops destroyed," she said.
"Perhaps the men who sowed them worked as hard as Charley. It would be
dreadful if it came to us."
"I am afraid it would," said Eveline Annersly. "Still, I don't think it
would have troubled you when you first came out. That is not so very
long ago, is it?"
Carrie smiled. "I think I have grown since then," she said.