Foster spent the most part of the next day in the open air with his
host. Featherstone had a quiet, genial manner and seemed to have read
much, though he held the narrow views that sometimes mark the
untraveled Englishman. He appeared to be scrupulously just and showed
sound judgment about matters he understood, but he had strong
prejudices and Foster did not think him clever. With his rather
sensitive pride and fastidiousness he was certainly not the man to make
his mark in Canada, and Foster began to understand certain traits of
his comrade's that had puzzled him. Lawrence, although he had keener
intelligence, was not quite so fine a type as his father, and in
consequence stood rough wear better. But he too, in spite of his
physical courage, now and then showed a supine carelessness and tried
to avoid, instead of boldly grappling with, things that jarred.
They set out to go shooting, but Featherstone stopped to talk to
everybody they met, and showed keen interest in such matters as the
turnip crop and the price of sheep. It was clear that he was liked and
respected. Sometimes he turned aside to examine tottering gates and
blocked ditches, and commented to Foster upon the economics of farming
and the burden of taxes. The latter soon gathered that there was not
much profit to be derived from a small moorland estate and his host was
far from rich. It looked as if it had cost him, and perhaps his
family, some self-denial to send the money that had once or twice
enabled Lawrence, and Foster with him, to weather a crisis.
At noon they were given a better lunch than Foster had often been
satisfied with at a lonely farm, where Featherstone spoke of him as his
son's partner, and seemed to take an ingenuous pride in making it known
that Lawrence was prospering. This gave Foster a hint that he acted on
later. They, however, shot a brace of partridges in a turnip field, a
widgeon that rose from a reedy tarn, and a woodcock that sprang out of
a holly thicket in a bog. It was a day of gleams of sunlight, passing
showers, and mist that rolled about the hills and swept away, leaving
the long slopes in transient brightness, checkered with the green of
mosses and the red of withered fern. The sky cleared as they turned
homewards, and when they reached the Garth an angry crimson glow spread
across the west.
Tea was brought them in the hall and Foster, who had changed his
clothes, which was a rare luxury in Canada, sat with much content in a
corner by the hearth. He had been out in the raw wind long enough to
enjoy the rest and warmth, and the presence of two English ladies added
to the charm. Mrs. Featherstone was knitting, but Alice talked to her
father about the shooting and what he had noted on the farms. Foster
thought her cleverer than the others, but it was obvious that her
interest was not forced. She understood agriculture and her remarks
were singularly shrewd.
In a sense, this was puzzling, for she had, in an extra degree, the
fastidious refinement that marked the rest, and with it a touch of
quiet haughtiness. Although she often smiled, she was characterized by
a restful calm, and her glance was steady and level. Alice was tall,
with unusually regular features, brown eyes, and brown hair, but Foster
could not analyze her charm, which was somehow strengthened by a hint
of reserve. He was in the glow of the fire, and imagined that she once
or twice gave him a glance of thoughtful scrutiny.
The room was getting dim, but lights had not been brought, and the red
glow outside filled the large oblong of the casement window. Dark fir
branches cut against the lurid color and Foster, looking out, saw the
radiance strike through the straight rows of trunks.
"Something like Ontario, isn't it?" said Featherstone, indicating the
trees.
"Yes, in a way, but there's a difference," Foster replied. "In eastern
Manitoba and Ontario the bush is choked and tangled, and runs nearly
eight hundred miles. The small pines are half burned in places; in
others they're wrecked and rotten, and lean across each other as if
they were drunk. Then you can travel all day without finding an
opening, unless it's a lonely lake or a river tumbling among the rocks."
"It sounds depressing," Mrs. Featherstone remarked. "We must hope you
will find your stay here a pleasant change."
"The curious thing is that it doesn't feel strange. All I've seen so
far, including the Garth, seems familiar."
"But perhaps that isn't remarkable. You are English and were, I dare
say, brought up in the country and used to our mode of life."
Foster saw Alice glance at him and felt he must be frank.
"No," he said, "my life in England was different from yours. It was
spent in monotonous work, and when I went home at night to a shabby
room in a street of small dingy houses it was too late, and I was often
too dejected, to think of amusements. Twice I spent a glorious ten
days among the hills, but that was all I saw of England unspoiled by
tramway lines and smoke, and the holidays cost a good deal of
self-denial. Railway fares were a serious obstacle."
Alice smiled, but he thought the look she gave him hinted at approval.
"Self-denial isn't so unusual as you seem to think. We know something
about it at the Garth."
"But you sent my partner money when he needed it," Foster answered,
wondering how far he could go. "The last time it was a large amount
and helped us to turn an awkward corner. In fact, we should have gone
under for a time if it hadn't come, and I remember feeling that I owed
much to friends I might never see, because I shared the benefit with
your brother. In its Western sense, partner means more than a business
associate."
"That is obvious," Alice rejoined quietly, but with meaning.
"The main thing is that the money seems to have been well spent,"
Featherstone interposed. "For all that, we don't know much about what
Lawrence did with it or, indeed, about his life in Canada."
"It's curious that one gets out of the way of writing home in the West,
and it's often difficult to give one's friends a clear idea of how one
lives. Things are different------"
Mrs. Featherstone smiled, and Foster saw that his wish to make excuses
for his comrade's negligence was understood. Featherstone, however,
was franker than he expected.
"There were good reasons for Lawrence's not writing home and they made
it awkward for us to write to him for a time. You can now tell us what
he has done in Canada. We want to know."
Foster began with some hesitation by relating how he had first met his
comrade in the churned-up mud outside a logging camp after a dispute
with the bullying manager. The men were beaten, but Lawrence and two
or three more from the river-gang would not give in, and started in the
rain, without blankets and with very little food, which a sympathetic
cook stole for them, on a long march to the nearest settlement. There
they took a contract for clearing land, and Foster described how they
lived in a rude bark shack while they felled the trees and piled them
up for burning. It was strenuous work, and having been unable to
collect their wages from the lumber firm, the clothes they could not
replace went to pieces and they slept, for the most part, in the wet
rags they wore by day. But they held out until the work was done and
paid for. Foster tried to do his comrade justice and thought he had
not exaggerated, for Lawrence's philosophic good humor had encouraged
the rest and smoothed over difficulties that threatened to break up the
gang.
Then he stopped and glanced at the others, wondering whether he had
said too much and had drawn a picture they shrank from contemplating.
Alice's eyes were steadily fixed on him. Mrs. Featherstone looked
grave, but there was a hint of proud satisfaction in her husband's
face. Somewhat to his surprise, Foster saw that he had not jarred or
bored them.
"You made good; I believe that's the proper phrase," said Featherstone.
"Go on, please."
Foster did so. His adventures had not appeared remarkable when they
happened, and he did not think himself much of a story-teller, but he
meant to do his best, for his partner's sake. It would be something if
he could show Lawrence's people the courage and cheerfulness with which
he had faced his troubles. Still, he thought it better to vary the
theme, and related how they engaged themselves as salesmen at a
department store, where Lawrence rashly undertook to serve the drugs
and prescribed for confiding customers until a mistake that might have
had disastrous consequences led to his being fired. Foster went with
him, and they next undertook to cook, without any useful knowledge of
the art, for a railroad construction gang. Their incompetence became
obvious when Lawrence attempted to save labor by putting a week's
supply of desiccated apples to soak at once, with the consequence that
the floor of the caboose was covered with swollen fruit that had forced
itself out of the pot. One of the gang, who went in to steal some
fried pork, declared that the blamed apples chased him down the steps.
Featherstone's chuckle was encouraging, but Foster glanced at Alice and
thought he read another emotion than amusement in her sparkling eyes.
It was now nearly dark, but the glow of the fire touched the others'
faces and nobody seemed to think of ringing for lights.
He went on to describe their retreat in winter from a worthless mineral
claim, where they had remained until the snow surprised them when their
food was nearly gone. Eight or nine miles a day was the most they
could drag their hand-sledge through the tangled bush, and Foster got
his foot frozen through sleeping in wet boots. The frozen part galled
into a wound, but with provisions running out they could not stop to
rest. The tent and half their blankets had to be thrown away and
Lawrence hauled him on the sledge over rocks and fallen logs, with the
temperature at forty degrees below, until they reached a frozen river,
down which he struggled against a savage wind.
Then came a profitable contract, which Lawrence obtained against keen
opposition, for supplying telephone posts, and Foster was surprised to
find that the description of their efforts to get the logs out of a
rugged wilderness made a stirring tale. Although he paused once or
twice apologetically, the others made him resume, and he began to wish
he was not in the firelight when he saw that Alice was quietly studying
him. It was his partner's story he meant to tell, but since they were
together he could not leave himself out.
He could, however, change the scene, and skipping much, came to their
start as general contractors at Gardner's Crossing. The Hulton
Company, which was not so large then, gave them work, but they were
hampered by want of capital, and had to meet the competition of richer
and sometimes unscrupulous antagonists. Still they made progress;
staking all they had on the chance of carrying out risky work that
others would not touch, sometimes testing the patience of creditors,
and now and then outwitting a rival by an ingenious ruse. Lawrence
lived in the single-room office, cooking for himself on an oil-stove,
while Foster camped with their men where they were at work.
Then they built the sawmill with the help of Lawrence's check from
home, and soon afterwards met with their worst reverse. They had
engaged to supply the Hulton Company with lumber of a certain kind for
some special work, and then found that few of the trees they required
grew near the river. This meant that a skidway must be made over a
very rough hill and a gasolene winding engine bought or hired to haul
the logs out of the next valley. There was, however, another fir
easily accessible that might suit the purpose, but not quite as well,
and Foster related how he and his partner sat up late one night,
calculating costs and wondering whether they should pay Hulton a fine
to break the bargain. He added naively that they were some time
arguing if they should substitute the inferior wood.
"Whose opinion was it that you should supply the exact material you had
promised?" Featherstone asked.
"Well," said Foster, "Lawrence said so first, but I think we both meant
to let them have the best."
Featherstone's glance at his wife indicated relief, but something in
Alice's face showed that she had known what Foster's reply would be.
She had listened with keen interest, and he stopped, half amused and
half embarrassed. Perhaps he had talked too much, and while he meant
to do Lawrence justice, he did not want to play the part of the
indomitable pioneer for the girl's benefit. Moreover, he knew she
would detect, and despise him for, any attempt to do so, and as he
valued her good opinion, it was not modesty alone that led him to make
Lawrence the hero of the piece.
"So you stuck to your bargain!" Featherstone remarked. "Tell us how
you carried it out."
Foster forgot himself and the others as he continued, for he had a
vivid memory of the struggle. He took charge of the work in the woods,
while Lawrence tactfully pressed for payment of outstanding accounts,
put off creditors, and somehow provided money for wages. As extra
gangs had to be hired, Foster owned that he did not know how the thing
was done. He cut a grade for the skidway up the hill, slashing tangled
bush and blasting rocks, worked in the snow by moonlight long after his
men stopped, and afterwards learned that Lawrence often went without a
meal when pay-day got near. But they hauled out the logs and the
lumber was delivered. When he stopped, Featherstone looked up with
some color in his face.
"Thank you," he said. "It is a moving tale. The money we sent you was
well spent. I could have expected nothing better of my son. But I
suppose you found it paid to keep your promise."
"In this case, it did," Foster answered with a smile. "Hulton's gave
us the first chance of any work they did not care to do themselves; you
see, we had put in a few wood-working machines. In fact, after a time,
Hulton told Lawrence to walk through the factory now and then and send
in anything the heads of departments required. But I've talked long
enough and fear you're bored."
"No," said Featherstone simply, "you have given us great pleasure and
made us realize the bracing life my son is leading. You could have
done us no favor that would equal this."
Then he took Foster off to the gun-room, where they smoked and talked
about the day's shooting, until Featherstone said rather abruptly,
"Perhaps I had better tell you that I didn't send Lawrence the check
that enabled you to build the mill. It was not in my power to do so
then."
"But he said the money came from home."
"It did. Alice was left a small legacy and insisted on selling the
shares it consisted of in order to help her brother. I must confess
that I thought she was rash, but the money was hers. Now it is obvious
that the sacrifice she made was justified."
Featherstone began to talk about something else, but Foster felt
embarrassed. It looked as if he owed his success in business to the
girl's generosity, and although he could not see why this should
disturb him, it did.
He went down to dinner rather early and found Alice in the hall. There
was nobody else about, and by the way she looked up as he advanced he
thought she had been waiting for him. Alice had beauty, but it was her
proud reserve he felt most. She did not give her friendship lightly,
but he believed it was worth winning.
"I wanted to thank you for explaining things so well," she said. "It's
the first time we have really learned much about my brother's life in
Canada."
Foster hesitated, "I felt that you wanted to know. But, in a way, it
must have sounded rather egotistical. In fact, the thing wasn't as
easy as you perhaps think."
Alice smiled. "You couldn't leave yourself out, although it was
obvious that you meant to give my brother the leading part."
"I honestly don't think I exaggerated."
"No," she agreed, "it sounded real, and there were touches, little
personal characteristics, you couldn't have imagined. You see, I am
younger than Lawrence and thought him something of a romantic hero
before he left home." Then she paused for a moment. "I got a very bad
shock when he was forced to go. You know why he went?"
"I don't; I've sometimes thought he wanted to tell me."
"Then you never asked?"
"I did not; I think I didn't want to know."
She gave him a steady searching glance and he felt that if he had been
insincere she would have found out.
"But you knew there was something wrong. If he had injured somebody in
England, he might have injured you. What made you so trustful?"
"Your brother himself. Then he was, so to speak, my benefactor. If he
hadn't taken me up, I might have been chopping trees in the snow,
instead of enjoying a holiday in England and, to emphasize the
contrast, staying at a house like this."
"It doesn't follow; you might have found another opportunity. The
point is that you did trust Lawrence."
Foster disliked sentiment and knew that if he struck a false note it
would jar.
"Well," he said, "I don't claim that I'm a judge of character, but one
can't make progress in Canada and be a fool. We had gone hungry in the
bush together, and hauled the hand-sledge across the snow, when it was
very doubtful if we'd make the settlements. Perhaps there isn't a
better way of testing a partner than that. Then a man starts fair in
the new countries, and one feels that this is right. He may have given
way once to some strong temptation and go the straighter for it
afterwards."
Alice looked at him with a curious gleam in her eyes that made his
heart beat.
"It was a very strong temptation," she said quietly and stopped as Mrs.
Featherstone came in.