PRESCOTT MAKES A PROMISE
The fortnight that followed Gertrude's drive to Sebastian passed
uneventfully, though the minds of three of the occupants of the homestead
were filled with disturbing thoughts. Prescott spent the time working
hard at his harvest, but he wished that something might relieve him of
his guests, whose presence he found embarrassing, since it forced him to
be continually on his guard. In spite of this, he was conscious of strong
sympathy for them and did what he could to ensure their comfort. He was
getting uneasy, for he saw that Cyril Jernyngham had involved him in a
maze of complications from which there seemed to be no escape. It was
obvious that appearances were against him; the evidence that Curtis had
obtained pointed to his being implicated in the death of his friend, and
the painstaking corporal might discover something more damaging. Prescott
fancied that one or two of his acquaintances who now and then rode across
his farm on different errands returned his greeting with a new and
significant coldness.
Jernyngham spent much of his time at the muskeg, encouraging the men who
searched it and often assisting in the work. The whole morass was being
systematically turned over with the spade, but no further discoveries had
been made. In addition to this, Jernyngham rode to and fro about the
prairie, talking to the farmers whom he met on the trail or found at work
in the fields. They were all sorry for him, but there was something
deterrent in his sternness and his formal English manner, and they were
less communicative than they might have been. This was why he failed to
learn that the Colstons had stayed at Prescott's homestead, though, for
that matter, the fact was not generally known. The man could not rest;
tormented by regrets for his past harshness, he was bent on making the
only amend he could by hunting down the slayer of his son. His whole mind
was fixed on the task, and he brooded over it in a manner that aroused
his daughter's concern. She dreaded the effect a continuance of the
strain might have.
Gertrude, however, was relieved of a more pressing anxiety. Though her
father steadfastly refused to entertain it, she shared Prescott's belief
that her brother was not dead. For one thing, Cyril was not the man to
come badly to grief; he had done many reckless things and somehow escaped
the worst results. Illogical as the idea was, she felt that his luck was
good. It was a comforting reflection and she was sensible of a growing
confidence in the farmer, who encouraged her to cling to it.
One afternoon she left the house and strolled across the harvest fields,
which had greatly changed in appearance since she had first seen them.
The oats were all stooked and stood in silvery sheaves, ready for the
thrasher; the great stretch of wheat had melted down to a narrow oblong,
round which the binders were working. Gertrude stopped to watch them. The
plodding horses, the bent figures of the men, the play of light on
falling grain, and the revolving arms of the machines fixed her eyes; the
rustle of sheaves, the crackle of stubble, and the musical tinkle of
metal, fell pleasantly on her ears. The mornings and evenings were cold
now, but the days were hot and bright, and the scene was steeped in vivid
hues: ocher, lemon, and coppery red below, dazzling blue above.
Prescott drove the leading binder and when it drew nearer she followed
his movements with careful scrutiny. She admitted that the man aroused
her interest. He was wonderfully virile, sanguine, and hopeful, with a
trace of what she thought of as the primitive strain; which tended toward
physical perfection; his vigor and muscular symmetry had their effect on
her. Though her father was a man of means and influence, her circle of
acquaintances had been restricted by the narrowness of his views; and the
men with whom she had been brought into contact were, for the most part,
distinguished rather by unexceptional morals and sound opinions than by
bodily grace and original thought.
By disposition as well as training Gertrude was a formalist and a prude,
but she was human and she unconsciously obeyed a law of nature which
ordains the union of the dissimilar. This was why, having met only men of
her own kind hitherto, she had escaped the touch of passion and now felt
drawn toward one who greatly differed from her.
After a while Prescott stopped his binder and opened a box attached to
it. He closed it sharply, as if annoyed, called to one of the men
gathering up the sheaves, and then walked toward the house.
"Run out of twine; I'll have to get some," he explained to Gertrude.
"You look tired," she said, stopping him. "You have been working very
hard."
"I don't feel quite as bright as usual," he confessed. "It's the heat, I
think, but I've turned out at four o'clock every morning since harvest
began."
"Then why not take a few minutes' rest? I'll make you a cup of tea; I was
going in to get some ready. It's an English custom."
He indicated his attire.
"I'd be glad, but I haven't time to make myself presentable."
"I'll excuse that." Gertrude smiled and added with unusual boldness: "You
don't seem to know that your dress is really most artistic. It suits
you."
He bowed to her.
"I'm flattered. This costume was adopted with a view to economy and
comfort. The worst of a man's wearing smart clothes is that whenever he
wants to do anything useful he has to take them off."
"Is that a great trouble?"
"It takes a lot of valuable time," he answered with a smile.
They turned toward the house, and after getting the twine he joined her
in a cool, shadowy room. Gertrude was watching a silver spirit-lamp; near
which two dainty cups and plates were laid out.
"That's a very pretty outfit," he remarked. "Is it English?"
"No; I bought it at a big store in Winnipeg--on Portage Avenue, I think."
"I know the place. So they're selling this kind of thing there! It's
significant. A few years ago they'd have got nobody to buy such truck."
He picked up a cup and held it to the light after examining the chaste
color, design, and stamp. "Anyway, it's English; the genuine article. I
believe the biscuit can't be imitated."
Gertrude had not expected him to understand artistic china.
"I've read about these things," he explained with a good-humored laugh;
"and I've a way of remembering. We have time in winter, and one is glad
to study anything that comes along. Still, I'll allow that I found
five-cent cans quite good enough when I first came out."
This was not a point of much importance, but it fixed Gertrude's
attention. She was in the habit of roughly sorting people into different
groups; there were, for example, those who appreciated beautiful things
and had been endowed with them as a reward of merit, and those of coarser
nature on whom they would be wasted, which was, no doubt, why they had
none. Yet here was a man with artistic taste, who was nevertheless
engaged in hard manual labor and had drunk contentedly out of common
cans. It did not fit in with her theories.
"I suppose this country has its influence on one?" she said, searching
for an explanation.
"That's so; the influence is strong and good, on the whole."
She considered this, quietly studying him. It was the first time she had
entertained at table a man in outdoor working attire; Prescott, out of
deference to his guests, had made some preparation for the meals they
shared. Still, the simple dress became him; he was, as she vaguely
thought of it, admirable, in a way. His hands and wrists were
well-shaped, though scarred and roughened by the rasp of the hot straw.
The warmth of the sun seemed to cling to his brown face; a joyous
vitality emanated from him, and he had mental gifts. She felt lightly
thrilled by his propinquity.
"But everything out here is still very crude," she said.
"That's where our strength lies; we're a new people, raised on virgin
soil out in the rushing winds. We haven't simmered down yet; we're
charged with unexhausted energies, which show themselves in novel ways.
In our cities you'll find semibarbarous rawness side by side with
splendor and art, and complicated machines run by men who haven't much
regard for the fastidious niceties of civilization, though they're
unexcelled in their engineering skill. We undertake big works in an
unconsidered manner that would scare your cautious English minds, make
wild blunders, and go ahead without counting the damage. We come down
pretty hard often, but it never brings us to a stop."
He saw that she did not grasp all he meant to convey, and he leaned back
in his chair with a laugh.
"This is the kind of fool talk you would expect from a boastful
Westerner, isn't it?"
"No," she replied somewhat formally; "that isn't what I thought. I find
everything I see and hear interesting, but there's much I can't
understand. One has to feel for its meaning."
"It's a very proper attitude," he rejoined with amusement. "So long as
you don't bring over a ready-made standard to measure our shortcomings
by, we'll explain all we can. In fact, it's a thing we're fond of doing."
Then his tone grew grave. "But I haven't seen your father since this
morning. Is he at the muskeg?"
"Yes. I'm getting anxious about him; the trouble is preying on his mind.
Grief, of course, is a natural feeling, but he thinks of nothing except
revenge. He's growing haggard and losing his judgment. I'm almost afraid
to think what may happen if he finds anything that looks like a clue. The
shock has shaken him terribly."
"And you?"
"I feel half guilty because I've been so calm since I came here, but I
can't believe the worst. You have reassured me." She paused and added
softly: "And I'm very grateful."
"I'm glad." Prescott's tone was sympathetic. "But I can imagine what your
father feels. From a few things he has told me, he seems to have led a
smooth, well-ordered life; no doubt he made too much of the trouble your
brother caused him."
"Yes; I think so now."
"Perhaps he half-consciously formed an idea that things would always go
tranquilly with him, and when it came without warning the shock of
Cyril's disappearance was too strong. And yet I firmly believe he's
mistaken in his fears."
Gertrude made a sign of agreement.
"Nothing I can say calms him. One can only wait."
"And that's always hard," Prescott said gently.
She roused him to strong compassion. She had, he thought, no great depth
of character, but her development had been checked by many restraints.
Her father had curbed each natural impulse, until the little originality
in her withered and died; she had grown up cold and colorless, with
narrow views, and petty, if quite blameless, aims. Prescott, however, was
wrong in crediting Jernyngham with too great a success. Gertrude's nature
had not been utterly repressed and stunted, and now, in time of stress,
it was expanding.
Romance had come late to her, but she was dimly conscious of it at last.
Her senses were stirring and she felt a half-guilty pleasure at seeing
the bronzed rancher's eyes bent on her tenderly. To think of him except
as her host for a few weeks was, of course, folly; but there was a
fascination in the gentleness he showed her. She was beginning to
understand and sympathize with Cyril's rash daring and contempt for
restraints. She felt tempted to follow her impulses; her frigid reserve
was melting.
"Will you have more tea?" she asked, shrinking back to safe ground.
"Thank you," he said, holding out the dainty cup.
"Hot water? It's rather strong."
"Before I had a housekeeper we made it black and drank it by the
kettleful."
"But the effect on your nerves!"
"Nerves?" he laughed. "We don't cultivate them in this country. Mine make
no trouble."
"You're to be envied," she said, and looked up sharply at a sound of
footsteps as her father came in.
His clothes were dusty and creased; the neatness which had characterized
him on his arrival had gone. His face had grown brown, but it was
haggard, hotly flushed, and beaded with perspiration; his lips were
tightly set, his eyes had an ominous glitter. Throwing down a riding
quirt he carried, he sat down; resting his arms on the table, in an
attitude of blank dejection.
"Nothing yet," he said listlessly. "It's hard to bear."
"There's a suggestion I want to make." Prescott spoke quietly. "The offer
of a reward here has led to nothing; send another round to the Alberta
and British Columbia papers, with a description of your son, saying
you'll pay a hundred dollars for trustworthy information about him. I
believe it will bring you good news."
Jernyngham turned to him in keen impatience.
"It would be useless--my son is dead! The police have proved that beyond
a doubt, and I cannot understand why you should persist in denying it!"
His eyes grew hard with sudden suspicion. "It looks as if you had some
motive."
"I'm afraid you're hardly just," Gertrude broke in. "Mr. Prescott only
wishes to lessen your anxiety, but he's convinced of what he says."
It was a rare thing for her to oppose him, but Jernyngham was too
preoccupied to be surprised at her boldness, and he made a gesture of
deprecation.
"You must forgive me, Mr. Prescott--my daughter's right. But to offer me
assurances that must prove false is rank cruelty. I have faced the worst;
I'm not strong enough to bear a second blow, which is what must follow if
I listen to you. As it is, the strain is merciless."
His voice and bearing showed it. Indeed, one could have imagined that it
would have been better had he yielded a little more, but his eyes
expressed a grim, vengeful determination. He was not the man to weaken,
he would hold out until he broke down; but his daughter and Prescott were
filled with fears for him.
"I'm sorry," said the rancher. "Has Curtis thought of anything new?"
"No," Jernyngham answered harshly. "The police can entertain only one
idea at a time; they can read the meaning of footprints and there their
ability ends. They have no power of organization; I can't force them to
make investigations on a proper scale, and I'm helpless until harvest's
over. Then, when men can be hired, I'll have every bluff and ravine in
the country searched. If I spend the rest of my life here, I'll find the
guilty man!"
He said nothing further, and there was a strained silence while he sat,
leaning forward limply, with bent head, and a thin hand clenched hard
upon the table. Rousing himself by and by, he took the cup of tea
Gertrude passed to him, and set it down without drinking. It made a sharp
clatter, but he left it setting near him as if he had forgotten it.
Unable to bear the sight of his distress, Prescott went quietly out, and
when he was leaving the house Gertrude joined him.
"Perhaps I should have stayed with him, but I was afraid to speak," she
said. "Besides, there was nothing to be said."
"This can't go on," Prescott declared. "It's too much for him. I can't
leave here until the harvest's over, and then the grain ought to be
hauled in, but I've thought of making a tour of inquiry along the new
railroad and round the Alberta ranches and the mines in British
Columbia."
Gertrude looked grateful.
"It would be a great relief to feel that something was being done. But--"
she added hesitatingly, "your time is valuable and there would be
expense. I have some means, Mr. Prescott, and though I dare not speak to
my father about it, you must draw on me."
"We'll talk about it later. I wish I could go now, but that's impossible,
and there's no use in suggesting that Mr. Jernyngham should send somebody
else. Besides, I believe I'd have the best chance of picking up the right
trail. You won't mind my saying that I'm very sorry for you?"
Her eyes grew soft and her whole expression gentle. It was an attractive
face Prescott looked into.
"I value your sympathy," she said softly. "Indeed, I can't tell you what
a comfort you have been. But you will undertake this search as soon as
possible, won't you?"
"Yes," Prescott replied firmly; "you can count on that. If I've made
things easier for you, I'm very glad."
Then he turned away and hurried back to the binder.