A NEW UNDERTAKING
Soon after the rails were laid down the frost returned, and one cold
morning Festing sat in his shack, studying a letter from Helen. Norton's
cheque had helped him to overcome the worst of his difficulties, things
were going better, and Charnock would superintend the workmen until he
was ready to go out. Festing felt that he need not hurry, and wanted to
think.
Helen had written to him before, without any hint of resentment, and
he had told her what he was doing. She knew Bob was his partner, and
no doubt understood what this implied. It was obvious that he had been
wrong in disliking Bob and half suspecting him; besides Helen knew from
the beginning that he had not suspected her, although he had insisted
that she had been imprudent. This ground for difference had vanished,
but he wondered what she thought, and could not gather much from her
letter.
She wrote with apparent good-humor and stated that all was going
satisfactorily at the farm, where, indeed, nothing of importance could
be done until spring. For all that, there was some reserve. A personal
explanation was needed before they could get back to their old
relations of intimate confidence, and he was ready to own his mistakes.
Unfortunately, the explanation must be put off, because there was one
point on which he was still determined, although his resolve no longer
altogether sprang from pride. He must, if possible, repair his damaged
fortunes before he went home. Farming on a proper scale was expensive
work, and Helen's capital was not large. In order to raise a big crop,
one must speculate boldly, and he meant to do so with his own money.
He saw a danger in staying away too long, but his contract was only
beginning to be profitable. Besides, one thing led to another, and a
number of extras, for which the pay was good, had been added to the
original plans. Then he had been asked to undertake another job and had
arranged to go over the ground with Kerr and Norton that morning. In
a way, he would sooner have left it alone, because it would keep him
longer from home, but the terms offered a strong inducement to stop.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly time to meet the engineers.
He found them and Charnock near the half-finished bridge, which crossed
the river obliquely. The track approached its end in a curve and then
stopped where a noisy steam-digger was at work. Between the machine and
the bridge, the hillside fell in a very steep slope to the water, which
rolled in angry turmoil past its foot, and the channel dividing the bank
from the island that supported the central bridge-pier was deep. Here
and there a slab of rock projected from the slope, but, for the most
part, the latter consisted of small stones and soil. The surface was now
frozen beneath a thin crust of snow and the pines were white.
“You know roughly what we want,” said Kerr. “If you'll come along, you
can look at the shot-holes we made to test the ground. Then I'll show
you a car-load of the rock we want to use, but it's largely a lumber
job and that's why we thought of offering it you. You have some good
choppers besides the teams and plant required.”
They climbed about the bank by dangerous paths, and then stopped at the
end of the bridge.
“The thing can be done, but it will only make a temporary job,” Festing
remarked. “You will have to do it again, properly, in a year or two.”
“That the Company's business,” Kerr replied. “As soon as we start the
traffic improvements can be paid for out of revenue instead of piling up
construction costs.”
“You can imagine the cost if we cut back the hill far enough to ease
the curve and lay the track on solid ground,” Norton interposed. “The
half-measure of scooping out a shallow road-bed and dumping the stuff on
the incline is ruled out, because the spoil wouldn't lie and the river
would sweep the dirt away. If we filled up the channel with rock, we'd
turn the current on the bridge-pier.”
Then Charnock said something and Festing let them talk while he looked
about. Since a temporary job was required, he thought the plan was
perhaps the best that could be used. It called for a timber framework,
beginning about half-way up the bank, although its height would vary
with the ground. The gaps between the frames would be faced with
rockwork and then filled with rubble in order to make a bed for the
rails on top.
“If you will come to the office, I'll show you the detailed drawings,”
Norton said presently, and the others followed him.
When they reached the office Festing studied the drawings, and then
giving them to Charnock, lighted his pipe. He wanted to undertake the
contract, but hesitated. The work already on his hands would occupy him
for some time, and a lengthy absence might prejudice him with Helen.
Besides, he had taken risks enough and a new venture might prove a rash
challenge to fortune; one could not foresee all the difficulties that
might arise. But, if he succeeded, he would go home with the means to
resume his farming on a profitable scale. Then he saw Charnock looking
at him and knew he would agree to his decision. Festing put down his
pipe and knitted his brows.
“Well?” said Charnock.
Festing got up with a quick, resolute movement, and turned to Norton.
“We'll undertake the job.”
“That's all right,” said Norton. “I'll get the papers drawn up and send
them over for you to sign.”
They went out, and as they climbed the hill Charnock remarked: “This may
turn out a big thing, partner. Are you going home before we start?”
Festing looked up sharply, with a disturbed air. “No. To begin with,
I've got to be about because the thing is big.”
“Then, as matters are going smoothly now, I'll leave you for a week.”
“I can manage for a week and one of us must stay. But why d'you want to
leave?”
“On the whole, I think one of us had better go,” Charnock answered with
some dryness. “If you don't mind, I'll get off to-morrow.”
He started next morning, in the caboose of a returning supply train, and
Festing, who went to see him off, stood for a few minutes on the snowy
track while the rattle of wheels and snorting of the locomotive died
away. Bob had made a curious remark when he talked about going, and
Festing wondered what he meant, but dismissed the matter and went back
to his work.
It was a bitter afternoon when Charnock got down at the little prairie
station that was marked by a water-tank, the agent's shack, and the
lower frames of three unfinished grain elevators. He hired a rig at the
livery stable, and borrowing a fur-robe started on his drive across
the plain. The landscape was empty and featureless except for the gray
smears of distant bluffs. Nothing moved on the white expanse, and there
was no sound but the measured thud of the horses' feet; the air was
still and keen with frost. When the cluster of wooden houses sank behind
a gradual rise, the wavy, blue riband of the trail was the only sign of
human activity in the frozen wilderness.
The snowfall, however, is generally light on the Western plains, and the
trail was good. Its smooth surface was dusty rather than slippery and
the team went fast. Everything was different from the varied grandeur of
the mountains; the eye found no point to rest upon, and the level snow
emphasized the loneliness. In spite of the thick driving-robe, the
cold bit through Charnock's worn-out clothes, but he was conscious of a
strange and almost poignant satisfaction. This was not because he was at
heart still something of a sybarite and had borne many hardships on the
railroad; he was going home and in an hour or two Sadie would welcome
him. It was curious, but when he married Sadie he had not thought she
could inspire him with the feeling he had now. But he had learned her
value and understood something of what she had done for him.
When it got dark he urged the horses and tried to control his
impatience. Later he felt his heart beat as he drove round the corner of
a shadowy bluff and saw his home-lights twinkle across the snow. A hired
man came out to take the team, he got down, nearly too numbed to move,
and as he stumbled up the steps Sadie met him with a cry of delight. She
drew him in and when he stood, half-dazed by the brightness and change
of temperature, in the well-warmed room, she took her arm from round his
neck and moved back a pace or two.
Charnock's skin-coat was ragged, his mittens were tattered, and his long
boots badly worn. He looked tired and unkempt, but Sadie's eyes were
soft as she studied him.
“Your face is very thin, but I don't like it less,” she said. “You
haven't come back the same, Bob; I think you have grown.”
“Perhaps the pains account for the thinness,” Charnock answered with a
smile. “Anyway, you ought to be satisfied, because you tried to make me
grow, and in a sense I was very small when I left you. But we won't be
sentimental and I want to change my clothes.”
He found fresh clothes ready, and when he came back his slippers, pipe,
and a recent newspaper occupied their usual place. Sitting down with a
smile of content, he lazily looked about.
“This is remarkably nice,” he said. “The curious thing is that I feel
as if I'd only left the house five minutes since. Everything I want is
waiting, although you didn't know I was coming.”
“I knew you would come some day, and come like this, without letting me
know.”
“And so you kept everything ready?” Charnock rejoined. “Well, I imagine
that's significant! But you see, I didn't know I could leave camp until
the day before I started, and then it looked as if I'd get here as soon
as the mail.”
Sadie gave him a quick glance. “Then something happened that made you
leave?”
“Something did happen, but nothing bad. However, it's a long story and
I've not had much to eat.”
“Supper will be ready in five minutes, and I've got something that you
like.”
“Ah!” said Charnock, “I suppose that means you kept the thing I like
ready, too?”
They talked about matters of no importance until the meal was over, and
then Sadie made him sit down by the stove and light his pipe.
“Now,” she said, “you can tell me all you did at the construction camp,
and leave nothing out.”
Charnock was frank. He knew Sadie understood him, perhaps better than
he understood himself, and if his narrative gave her any pleasure, he
thought she deserved it. Moreover, when he wanted he talked rather well,
making his meaning clear without saying too much. When he finished she
gave him a level glance.
“You're surely a bigger man, Bob! I see that, not only by what you have
done but by what you think.”
“Well,” said Charnock, twinkling, “I'm glad you're satisfied, but you'll
probably find out that there's room for improvement yet.”
“I suppose you must joke,” Sadie rejoined with mild reproof. “But what
about Festing? Doesn't he meant to come back until the job's finished?”
“So far as I could gather, he does not. I tried tactfully to persuade
him he was acting like a fool and imagine he sees a glimmer of the
truth. All the same, he's obstinate.”
Sadie was silent for a minute, knitting her brows, and then looked up.
“You have only three days; I suppose I mustn't keep you after that?”
“It mightn't be prudent. If I stay longer, I shall, no doubt, feel
unequal to going back at all. My industrious fit's very recent and good
resolutions fail.”
“Pshaw!” said Sadie. “Try to be serious. I must see Helen to-morrow and
can't take you. She may have a message for her husband.”
“Couldn't she write the message, if you went after I had gone?”
“NO,” said Sadie firmly. “She must send it now.”
Charnock looked hard at her and nodded. “Well, perhaps it's a good plan.
Meddling is sometimes dangerous, but one can trust you.”
Sadie, wrapped in furs, drove across the prairie next afternoon, and
found Helen at home. The latter looked rather forlorn and dispirited,
and Sadie felt that she had undertaken a delicate task.
“Bob has come home for three days,” she said by and by. “He can't stop
longer, but I thought you'd like to know how they are getting on with
their contract.”
“Stephen writes to me,” Helen replied with a hint of sharpness.
“I guess he does,” Sadie agreed. “Still, from what Bob says, they
haven't much time for letters, and he talked to me about the work all
last evening. He could leave when Stephen couldn't because he's the
junior partner and doesn't know much about railroading yet.”
Helen smiled, rather curiously. “Do you feel you must explain why your
husband came home and mine did not?”
For a moment or two Sadie hesitated. It looked as if she had not begun
well, but she braced herself. If her tact were faulty, she would try
frankness.
“Yes,” she said; “in a way that was what I did come to explain, though
it's difficult. In the first place, I know why Stephen couldn't come.”
Helen waited, and then, as Sadie seemed to need some encouragement,
said, “Very well. I think I'd like to be convinced.”
“The reason Bob came and Stephen stayed begins with the difference
between them. We know them both, and I want to state that I'm quite
satisfied with Bob. That had to be said, and now we'll let it go. But
they are different. Bob will work for an object; for dollars, to feel
he's making good, or to please me. Your husband must work, whether he
had an object or not, because that's the kind of man he is.”
“Bob's way is easier understood,” Helen rejoined. “Besides, Stephen is
working for money enough to farm again on the old large scale.”
“He is; but you don't understand yet, and I want to show you why he
feels he has got to farm. Stephen's the kind we have most use for in
this country. In fact, he's my kind; perhaps I know him better than you.
Give him a patch of pine-scrub or a bit of poor soil in a sand-belt and
he'd feel it his duty to cultivate it, no matter how much work it cost.
Show him good wheat land lying vacant or rocks that block a railroad,
and he won't rest till he starts the gang-plow or gets to work with
giant-powder. He can't help it; the thing's born in him. Like liquor or
gambling, only cleaner!”
“But when such a man marries----”
“What about his wife? Well, she must help all she can or stand out and
let him work alone. It's a sure thing she can't stop him.”
Helen pondered, and then remarked: “Stephen is not your kind, as you
said. You wanted to leave the prairie and live in a town.”
“I certainly did, but I didn't know myself. Though I wanted to meet
smart people and wear smart clothes, to push Bob on and see him make his
mark in big business or perhaps in politics. Now I know I really wanted
power; to order folks about and get things done.”
“You found you must give up your ambitions.”
“I saw they had to be altered,” Sadie replied. “But when you can't get
things done by others, you can do them, in a smaller way, yourself, and
I find I can be satisfied with running a prairie farm as it ought to be
run.” She paused and resumed with a soft laugh: “Looks as if neither of
us was fixed quite as we like. I have a husband who must be hustled;
you want to hold yours back. Well, I guess we can't change that; we must
take the boys for what they are and make allowances. Besides, your man's
fine energy is perhaps the best thing he has.”
Helen was somewhat moved. Sadie's rude philosophy was founded on truth,
and having made sacrifices, she had a right to preach. After all, to
dull the fine edge of Stephen's energy would be an unworthy action and
perhaps dangerous. Helen had been jealous of his farm, but admitted that
she might have had worse rivals.
“Do you know 'The Sons of Martha'?” she asked and recited a verse.
“It's great,” said Sadie simply. “That man has our folks placed. Well, I
don't read much poetry, but there's a piece of Whitman's I like. When
I watch an ox-team break the first furrow in virgin soil, or a
construction train, loaded with new steel, go by, I hear him calling:
'Pioneers! Oh, Pioneers!'”
There was silence for a few moments, and then Sadie leaned forward. “I
don't know if I've said enough, or said too much, but Bob goes back in
three days and could take a message.”
The color crept into Helen's face, and her look was strangely soft.
“Let him tell Stephen to finish his work as well as he can; say I
understand.”