A COUNTER-STROKE
When Sadie got up next morning she ordered the buggy to be brought
round, and then went to look at Charnock. He was asleep, of which she
was rather glad, because there was something to be said and she was
highly strung. She could not trust her temper yet and might go too
far. Bob was generally docile, particularly when repentant; but it was
possible to drive him into an obstinate mood when nothing could be
done with him. She was angry, but her anger was mainly directed against
Wilkinson.
After breakfast she drove off across the plain. It was about eight
o'clock, but the sun was hot. The breeze was not so fresh as usual, and
a bank of dark clouds rolled up above the prairie's edge. They looked
solid and their rounded masses shone an oily black, and she wondered
whether they promised one of the thunder-storms that often broke upon
the plains on summer afternoons. She would have welcomed the savage
downpour, even if it had spoiled her clothes.
Sadie was getting anxious about the crop. Its failure would mean a
serious loss, and she hated to see labor and money wasted; but this was
not all. Knowing the risks the farmer ran on newly-broken land, she had
not adventured too much of her capital on the first year's harvest; but
success might encourage Bob, while failure would certainly daunt him.
He would work for an object he was likely to gain, but if disappointed,
regretted the exertions he had made, and refused, with humorous logic,
to be stirred to fresh effort.
“I'm not convinced that farming's my particular duty,” he once said.
“When I plow it's in the expectation of cashing the elevator warrants
for the grain. If I'm not to reap the crop, it seems to me that working
fourteen hours a day is a waste of time that might be agreeably employed
in shooting or riding about.”
Sadie urged that one got nothing worth having without a struggle. Bob
rejoined: “If you get the thing you aim at, the struggle's justified;
if you don't you think of what you've missed while you were uselessly
employed. Of course, if you like a struggle, you have the satisfaction
of following your bent; but hustling is a habit that has no charm for
me.”
Sadie reflected that the last remark was true. Bob never hustled; his
talk and movements were marked by a languid grace that sometimes pleased
and sometimes irritated her. It was difficult to make him angry, and
she was often silenced by his whimsical arguments when she knew she was
right. But he was her husband, and she meant to baulk the man who hoped
to profit by his carelessness.
Then she urged the horse. It was a long drive to the settlement where
she had kept the hotel, and she had not been there for some time. The
goods she and her neighbors bought came from the new settlement on the
railroad, which was not far off; but she had an object in visiting the
other. It was noon when she reached the hotel and sat down to dinner in
the familiar room. She did not know if she was pleased or disappointed
to find the meal served as well as before, but her thoughts were not
cheerful while she ate. She remembered her ambitions and her resolve to
leave the dreary plains and make her mark in Toronto or Montreal. Now
her dreams had vanished and she must grapple with dull realities that
jarred her worse than they had done.
The dining-room was clean, but unattractive, with its varnished board
walls, bare floor, and wire-mesh filling the skeleton door, which a
spring banged to before the mosquitoes could get in. There were no
curtains or ventilator-fans, the room was very hot, and the glaring
sunshine emphasized its ugliness. Then it was full of flies that fell
upon boards and tables from the poisonous papers, and a big gramophone
made a discordant noise. Sadie remembered Keller's pride in the machine
and how he had bought it, to amuse the boys, after hearing an electric
organ in a Montreal restaurant. Yet she knew her craving for society
must be gratified at such places as this; a rare visit to the settlement
was the only change from monotonous toil.
When she offered her meal-ticket at the desk the clerk shook his head.
“You don't need to open your wallet in this house. The boss left word
he'd be glad to see you at the store.”
Sadie, who had meant to see the proprietor, complied, and found him and
his wife in the back office, where she and Bob had often sat. The woman
gave Sadie a friendly smile.
“I hope they served you well. When you're in town we want you to use the
house like it still belonged to you.”
Sadie made a suitable reply. She had charged a good price for the
business, but had stuck to the Keller traditions and made a straight
deal. Stock and furniture had been justly valued, and when the buyers
examined the accounts she had frankly told them which debts were
doubtful and which were probably bad. It was about these things they
wished to talk to her, and she meant to indulge them.
“How's trade?” she asked, to give them a lead.
“In one way, it's good,” replied the man. “We're selling out as fast as
we can get the truck; but there's a point I want your views about. The
cheque I gave you wiped off most all the capital I had, wholesalers put
up their prices if you make them wait, and a number of the boys have a
bad habit of letting their bills run on. Now, if you can give me some
advice----.”
“Certainly,” said Sadie, who thought the woman looked anxious. “Suppose
you read out the names and what they owe?”
The man opened a ledger, and she told him what she knew about his
customers; whom he could trust and whom he had better refuse further
credit. Then she looked thoughtful when he said: “Wilkinson, of the
range--”
“He didn't deal with us.”
“But you know everybody round here and can tell me if he's likely to
make good,” the man urged.
“How much does he owe you?” Sadie asked.
The man named a rather large sum and she pretended to consider.
“Well,” she replied, “the boys have probably told you that Wilkinson's
not a friend of mine, and since that's so I'm not going to say much
about his character.”
“It's not his character we're curious about. Do you know how he's
fixed?”
Sadie was silent for a few moments. The others were young and newly
married and had admitted that the purchase of the business had strained
their resources. It was plain that a large bad debt might involve them
in difficulties. Wilkinson had forced her to fight, and she meant to
show him no mercy, but she must say nothing that could afterwards be
brought up against her.
“Character counts for as much as dollars,” she remarked. “That was my
father's motto, and he was never afraid to take steep chances by backing
an honest man. Although he had debts on his books for three or four
years, it was seldom a customer let him down. But he cut out a crook as
soon as he suspected what the fellow was. However, you want to know how
Wilkinson stands? Well, it's a sure thing he finds dollars tight.”
“Anyhow, a man can't disown his debts in this country.”
“That's so; but if he's a farmer, the homestead laws stop your seizing
his house and land and part of his stock, unless he has mortgaged them
to you. If somebody else holds a mortgage, you generally get stung.”
“The trouble is that if you're too hard on a customer, he tells his
friends, and the opposition gets his trade and theirs.”
“Sure,” said Sadie, “Keller's let the opposition have that kind of
trade. A crook's friends are generally like himself, and there's not
much profit in selling goods to folk who don't mean to pay.”
“Has Wilkinson given a mortgage?” the man asked.
“If he had, it's got to be registered. You can find out at the record
office, and I guess it would pay you to go and see.”
“Well, I hear he's just sold a good bunch of horses. That means he'll
have some money for a while.”
“Then you had better take your bills over and get them paid before the
money's gone,” Sadie answered in a meaning tone.
“If you had the store, would you risk his being able to pay all right
and afterwards dropping you?”
“I certainly would,” said Sadie. “I'd harness my team and start for the
range right now.”
The woman looked at her husband. “That's my notion, Tom; you'd better
go,” she said, and turned to Sadie. “It would hit us hard if Wilkinson's
bill got much longer and he let us down.”
Sadie left them and went to a new store farther up the street, after
which she called on an implement dealer who occasionally speculated in
real estate and mortgages, and one or two others. She knew them all, and
they knew that on business matters her judgment was sound. It was plain
that they were suspicious about Wilkinson, but, so far, undecided what
to do. They had doubts, but hesitated to admit that they had been rash,
and shrank from using means that might cost them a customer. Sadie gave
one information she had gathered from another, and added hints of what
she herself knew. The tact she used prevented their guessing that she
had an object, and she did little more than bring their own suspicions
to a head; but she was satisfied when she returned to the hotel.
When the horse had rested she drove out of the settlement. For some
distance a wire fence ran along the dusty, graded road, but it ended
at a hollow, seamed by deep ruts that united on the other side, where
a trail emerged. Then for a mile or two, she passed new scattered
homesteads with their windmills and wooden barns, until these dropped
behind and she drove across the empty wilderness. No rain had fallen,
the sky was getting clear and green, and a vivid crimson sunset burned
on the edge of the grass. The air was now cool, and although she was
anxious about the weather, Sadie felt more cheerful than when she had
come.
She had no scruples about what she had done. For one thing, she had
kept to the truth when she might have made her hints more damaging by a
little exaggeration. Her antagonist had struck her a treacherous blow;
he was dangerous, and must be downed. Then she smiled with grim humor
as she admitted that she had perhaps done enough for a time. Wilkinson's
creditors were on his track; it would be amusing to watch them play her
game.
It was dark when she reached the farm and found Charnock waiting on the
veranda. He looked dull but not embarrassed, and there was nothing to
indicate that he had been disturbed by her absence. Sadie did not tell
him where she had been and did not talk much. She had found out that it
was better not to make things too easy for Bob.
“I suppose you have a headache; you deserve it,” she said. “I'm tired
and don't want to hear your excuses now.”
“I really haven't begun to make excuses,” Charnock answered.
“Then don't begin. It's late, and you have got to start for the bluff at
sun-up and haul those fence-posts home. The job has been hanging on too
long and must be finished to-morrow.”
“It will be finished before dinner,” Charnock replied. “As a matter of
fact, I brought in most of the posts to-day.”
Sadie's look softened, but she did not mean to be gracious yet.
“I reckoned you'd be loafing round the house and finding fault,” she
said and left him.
When she had gone Charnock smiled. Sadie would, no doubt, come round
to-morrow, and it was lucky she knew nothing about the cheque he had
given Wilkinson; but he wondered where she had been. Now he came to
think of it, Wilkinson had said nothing abut the cheque when they met
at the railroad settlement; but after all there was perhaps no reason he
should do so.
About seven o'clock one evening a fortnight later, Festing threw down
the cant-pole he had been using to move a big birch log, and lighting
his pipe, stopped and looked about. A shallow creek flowed through a
ravine at the edge of the tall wheat, and below the spot where he stood
its channel was spanned by the stringers of an unfinished bridge. The
creek had shrunk to a thread of water, but Festing, who had been wading
about its bed, was wet and splashed with mire. Moreover he had torn his
threadbare overalls and his hot face was smeared where he had rubbed off
the mosquitoes with dirty hands.
The evening was hot, he felt tired and moody, and his depression was not
relieved when he glanced at the wheat. There was no wind now, but the
breeze had been fresh, and the ears of grain that were beginning to
emerge from their sheaths dropped in a sickly manner. The stalks had
a ragged look and fine sand lay among the roots. The crop was damaged,
particularly along its exposed edge, although it might recover if there
was rain. Festing, studying the sky, saw no hope of this. The soft blue
to the east and the luminous green it melted into, with the harsh red
glare of the sinking sun, threatened dry and boisterous weather. Unless
a change came soon, the wheat would be spoiled.
It was obvious that he had sown too large a crop, and the work this
implied had overtaxed his strength. He had felt the strain for some
time, and now things were going against him it got worse. Hope might
have braced him, but the thought of failure was depressing. For all
that, there were economies he must practise at the cost of extra labor,
and bridging the creek would lessen the cost of transport and enable him
to sell one of his teams. He was late for supper, but wanted to finish
part of the work before he went home.
By and by he saw Helen stop at the edge of the ravine. Her face was hot,
as if she had been walking fast, and she looked vexed.
“You have kept us waiting half an hour and don't seem ready yet,” she
said.
“I'm not ready,” Festing replied, and stopped abruptly. “Very sorry; I
forgot all about it,” he resumed.
Helen made a gesture of annoyance. She had invited some of their
neighbors to supper and had spent the day preparing the feast. Things,
however, had gone wrong; the stove had got too hot and spoiled her
choicest dishes.
“You forgot!” she exclaimed. “It really isn't often I trouble you with
guests.”
“That's lucky, because I haven't much time for entertaining people. I'm
overworked just now.”
Helen hesitated because she was afraid she might say too much. She
admired his persevering industry, but had begun to feel that he was
slipping away from her and devoting himself to his farm. Sometimes she
indulged an angry jealousy, and then tried to persuade herself it was
illogical.
“Then why give yourself another task by building the bridge?” she asked.
“I tried to explain that. I can get the thing done with less trouble
when the creek is nearly dry, and if we had to use the ford when hauling
out the grain, it would mean starting with a light load or keeping a
team of horses there. When I've built the bridge and graded back the
road we can take the full number of bags across, and that makes for
economy. It looks as if I'll have to be severely economical soon.”
Helen colored. She thought he did not mean to vex her, but he had
ventured on dangerous ground.
“You know that what is mine is yours,” she said.
“In a way, it is, but I put all my capital into the stock and crop, and
must try to get it back. I can't ask my wife for money if I loaf about
and lose my own.”
“You don't loaf,” Helen rejoined. “But if you lose your crop from causes
you can't prevent happening, there is no reason you shouldn't accept my
help.”
“I know you're generous and would give me all you had but--”
Helen shook her head. “You don't see the matter in the right way yet;
but we'll let it go. Get your jacket and come back at once.”
“Must I come?” Festing asked irresolutely.
“Isn't it obvious?”
“I don't think so. Can't you tell the folks I'd forgotten and started
something I must finish?”
“I can't,” said Helen sharply. “It hurts to know you had forgotten. The
farm is lonely and I haven't many friends; but I can't tell outsiders
how little that matters to you.”
“I'm sorry,” Festing answered with some embarrassment. “Still I think
you're exaggerating; nobody would look at it like that. Our neighbors
know one has to stay with one's work.”
“Bob finds time to go about with his wife.”
“He does,” said Festing dryly. “Driving about is easier than farming,
and Bob has no scruples about living on his wife's money. I expect that
was his object when he married her. There's another thing I forgot; he's
coming to-night.”
“He and Sadie have been at the house some time.”
Festing made a sign of resignation. “I could stand the others better.
They know what we may have to face, but nothing bothers Bob, and it's
hard to play up to his confounded cheerfulness when you're not in the
mood. Then I suppose I've got to put on different clothes?”
Helen forced a smile. When they first came to the homestead, Stephen
had changed his clothes for supper and afterwards devoted himself to her
amusement, sometimes playing chess, and sometimes listening while she
sang. Then, as the days got longer, he had gradually grown careless,
contenting himself with changing his jacket and half an hour's talk,
until at length he sat down to the meal in dusty overalls and hurried
off afterwards. Helen had tried to make excuses for him, but felt hurt
all the same. Stephen was getting slovenly and neglecting her.
“It's plain that you must take off those muddy overalls,” she said.
They went back, and supper was delayed while Festing changed. He
forced himself to be polite when he joined his guests, but it cost him
something, and the dishes Helen had carefully prepared were spoiled.
On the whole, he felt grateful to Sadie and Bob, who kept the others in
good-humor and relieved him from the necessity of leading the talk; but
he was glad when they left.
When the rigs melted into the shadowy plain he stood on the veranda and
yawned.
“Well,” he remarked, “that's over, and it will be some time before they
need come back. I hope none of them will think they have to ask us out
in return.”
“You gave them a very plain hint,” Helen said bitterly.
Festing did not answer and went into the house. He felt he had not been
tactful, but he was very tired, and if he ventured an explanation might
make things worse. Besides, he must get up at four o'clock next morning.
Helen sat still for some time, looking out on the prairie. She was
beginning to feel daunted by its loneliness. Except for Sadie Charnock,
visitors seldom came to the farm. Her neighbors lived at some distance,
but she had hoped to plan a round of small reunions that would break the
monotony. Stephen, however, had shown her that she could expect no help
from him, and had actually forgotten her first party. She felt wounded;
it was hard to think that so long as he had work to do she must resign
herself to being left alone.