It was a still evening, and Major Coulthurst and Mrs. Esmond paced
slowly side by side up and down the terrace at Holtcar Grange. The house
looked westward, and the last of the sunshine rested lovingly upon its
weathered front, where steep tiled roof and flaking stone that had
silvery veins in it were mellowed to pale warm tints by age. Beyond it,
orchid house, fernery, and vinery flashed amidst the trees; while the
great cool lawn, shaven to the likeness of emerald velvet, glowing
borders, and even the immaculate gravel that crunched beneath the
major's feet conveyed the same suggestion to him. It was evident that
there was no need of economy at Holtcar Grange, and Coulthurst, who had
faced the world long enough to recognize the disadvantages of an empty
purse, sighed as he remembered the last budget the post had brought him.
He had served his nation sturdily, according to his lights, which,
however, were not especially brilliant, wherever work was hardest and
worst paid; while now, when it was almost time to rest, he was going out
again to the wilderness on the farthest confines of a new country, where
even those who serve the Government live primitively. He longed to stay
in England and take his ease, but funds were even lower than they
usually were with him. Still, he shrank from exposing his daughter to
the discomforts he was at last commencing to find it hard to bear, and
she had but to speak a word and remain, with all that any young woman
could reasonably look for, the mistress of Holtcar Grange. Though he
roused himself with an effort he felt that his conversation was even
less brilliant than usual and that his companion noticed it. It was
certain that she smiled when she surprised him glancing somewhat
anxiously across the lawn.
"You have quite decided on going out?" she asked.
"I have," said Coulthurst simply. "In ten days from to-day. The
commission's in my pocket--I was uncommonly glad to get it."
"Still," said Mrs. Esmond, "the pay cannot be very high, and it must be
a wild country."
"It is quite sufficient for a lonely man, and now Grace--"
He stopped abruptly, a trifle flushed in face, and his companion smiled
at him.
"Yes," she said, "I understand, and if it happens as we both wish I
shall be content. Geoffrey has been a good son, but I could not expect
to keep him always to myself--and I would rather it should be Grace than
any one else."
"Thank you!" said Coulthurst simply. "Whether I have done right in
allowing her to come here I do not know. In any case, I never suspected
what might happen until a month ago. Then I was a trifle astonished, but
the mischief was done."
Mrs. Esmond laughed, "You might have expressed it more happily, though
it is perhaps only natural that there was a day or two when I would not
have found fault with you."
Coulthurst said nothing further, but his thoughts were busy. He knew
better than most men what life in the newer lands is, and he had no
desire that Grace should share it with him. What she thought of Esmond
he did not know; but the latter had told him what he thought of her, and
his mother was, it seemed, content with the choice he had made. A good
deal depended on the girl's fancy.
They had turned again when she came towards them across the lawn as
though she did not see them, until, hearing their footsteps, she stopped
abruptly. Nobody spoke for a moment or two, but she felt their eyes upon
her, and the crimson grew deeper in her cheek as she turned to the elder
lady.
"I see you know," she said, with a little tremor in her voice. "You will
forgive me if he feels hurt over it--but I felt I could not. Geoffrey,
of course, is----"
The major groaned inwardly when she stopped, and there was a sudden
slight but perceptible change in his companion. Her face lost its usual
gentleness, and became for a moment not hard or vindictive, but
impressively grave.
"I am glad--because he is my only son--that you had the courage to do
the right thing--now," she said.
Grace flashed a swift glance at her, and the colour showed a trifle more
plainly in her face, but, saying nothing, she hastily turned away.
Coulthurst stood stiffly still, evidently perplexed at something in the
attitude of both, until Mrs. Esmond looked at him.
"I am disappointed," she said.
Coulthurst raised his hand in protest. "It is very good of you to say
so, but, while she is my daughter and I am naturally a trifle proud of
her, the advantages would in one sense have been so much in her
favour----"
"I don't think you apprehend me. These affairs seldom fall out as one
would wish them, which is, perhaps, now and then fortunate for all
concerned. It is Grace I am disappointed with."
Coulthurst smiled somewhat grimly. "I'm by no means sure that I do
understand, but one thing, at least, is plain: she has made her own
choice and must abide by it."
It was ten minutes later, and Mrs. Esmond had left him, when he came
upon Grace sitting where a shrubbery swept round a bend of the lawn. She
looked at him deprecatingly.
"I am very sorry--but it was out of the question--quite," she said.
Coulthurst made a little gesture of resignation, for if he seldom
foresaw a difficulty where others would have done so, he, at least, made
no futile protest when it had to be faced.
"I suppose," he said, "you realize what you have turned your back upon
to-day?"
"Still, I felt I had to do so."
Coulthurst checked a groan. "Then, since you presumably know your own
mind, there is nothing more to be said. You will be ready to come out to
the Northwest with me?"
Grace rose, and slipped her hand through his arm. "Father," she said,
"I'm sorry--dreadfully sorry. I must be a horrid responsibility."
Coulthurst smiled, somewhat ruefully. "So am I! No doubt we will worry
along as we have already done; but it is a very hard country we are
going to."
It was scarcely a sufficient expression of what he felt, but Coulthurst
had his strong points, and his daughter knew it was very unlikely he
would ever allude to the subject again. There were, however, as usual,
guests at Holtcar Grange just then, and they had formed a tolerably
correct opinion as to what was happening. It was also natural that they
should discuss it, and on that evening two matrons and the lady who had
taken Grace's part on a previous occasion expressed their views
concerning the conduct of the latter.
"The girl led him on shamefully," said one of them. "That was evident to
everybody, and one would have fancied the reason was equally so--though,
of course, we know now it wasn't the right one."
Grace's advocate appeared reflective, and, as it happened, her opinion
was usually listened to. "I have watched the girl, and she is
interesting as a study," she said. "I am, of course, not infallible, but
it seems to me from what I have heard of the major that she has
inherited his disregard of consequences. Coulthurst, one would conclude,
is not a man who ever saved himself or others trouble by anticipating
anything."
One of her companions signified concurrence. "And the fact that the
opportunity for a flirtation with the most eligible man in the vicinity
appealed to her natural arrogance accounts for the rest?"
"Not exactly, though you are in a measure right. I should rather call it
love of influence, for, though I'm not sure Grace Coulthurst realizes
it, one could fancy that the opportunity for dominating a man of
position, or more especially character, would prove almost irresistible
to her. Still, one must discriminate between that and the not unusual
fondness for love-making."
"The distinction is a little difficult. It seems to lead to much the
same thing."
The previous speaker, who was a woman of discernment, shook her head.
"There is a difference," she said. "The girl has, I think, a
personality--by which I do not altogether mean physical attributes--that
is apt to appeal to a man of character, though I almost fancy she will
sooner or later be sorry she was ever endued with it. There is a good
deal that is admirable in Grace Coulthurst, but unfortunately, in one
respect, perhaps, not--quite--enough."
It was not evident that the rest altogether understood her, but Mrs.
Esmond appeared just then, and the subject was changed abruptly.
In the meanwhile there were at least three people who would have found
no fault with Major Coulthurst's description of Western Canada. Having
discovered somewhat to their astonishment that the population of Quebec
and Montreal was already quite sufficient, and that strangers without
means were not greatly desired in either city, these three had, in
accordance with Ingleby's previous purpose, started West again, and on
the fifth day sat spiritlessly in a Colonist car as, with whistle
screaming, the long train rolled into sight of a little desolate station
on the Albertan prairie.
All the way from Winnipeg a dingy greyness had shrouded the apparently
interminable levels, which lay parched and white beneath an almost
intolerable heat, while the lurching cars swung through a rolling cloud
of dust that blurred the dreary prospect. Now, as they were slowing
down, grimy faces were thrust from the windows and perspiring men leaned
out from the platforms, gazing down the track and inquiring with
expletives why they were stopping again.
Hetty Leger, however, sat languidly still, where the hot draught that
blew in through an open window scattered the dust upon her. Her face was
damp, and unpleasantly gritty, for the water in the tank had long run
out. Her head ached, as did every bone in her body, for Colonist cars
are not fitted as the Pullmans are, and she had with indifferent success
for four nights essayed to sleep on a maple shelf which pulled out from
the roof above when one wanted it. She had certainly hired a mattress,
but its inch or two of thickness had scarcely disguised the hardness of
the polished wood beneath it; and although the cost of it and the little
green curtain had made a serious inroad on the few dollars left in her
scanty purse they had not solved the problem of dressing; while the
atmosphere of a close-packed Colonist car when the big lamps are lighted
in hot weather is a thing to shudder at. It is also, in view of the fact
that most of the passengers dispense with curtains, somewhat
embarrassing to rise in the morning and wait amidst a group of
half-dressed men and women for a place in the cupboard at the rear of
the car where ablutions may at least be attempted when there is any
water in the tank.
Presently, however, a big bell commenced to toll, and the jolting of the
air-brakes flung her forward in her seat, while in another few moments
the long cars stopped, and the conductor pushed his way through the
perspiring passengers who surged towards the vestibule.
"They've had a big washout up the track," he said. "You can light out
and admire the scenery for two hours, anyway, if you feel like it."
Hetty looked round, but could see nothing of her brother or Ingleby. She
had seen very little to admire at other prairie stations; but anything
seemed better than the close heat of the car, and when the vestibule was
clear at last she went out languidly and stepped down upon the track.
Beside it rose two desolate frame houses, a crude structure of
galvanized iron, and a towering water tank, but that was all, and beyond
them the gleaming rails ran straight to the rim of the empty wilderness.
Nothing moved on its interminable levels; the dingy sky seemed suffused
with heat, and along the track a smell that was stronger than the reek
of creosote rose from the baked and fissured earth. The withered grass
was of the same tint as the earth save where the clay on the bank of a
_coulee_ showed a harsh red, and the vast stretch of dusty prairie
seemed steeped in the one dreary grey. This, she reflected with a
sinking heart, was the land of promise to which she had journeyed five
thousand miles to find a home; but, though the track was suggestively
littered with empty provision cans, there was as yet very little sign of
the milk and honey.
Hetty was usually sympathetic, but the sight of the frowsy passengers
and unwashed children wandering aimlessly round the station aroused in
her a curious impatience that was tinged with disgust that hot
afternoon. She wanted to be alone, and noticing an ugly trestle bridge a
mile or so ahead followed the rails until she came to it. A river
swirled beneath it; but it, too, was utterly devoid of beauty, for the
banks of it were crumbling sun-baked clay, and it swept by a dingy,
slatey green, thick with the mud brought down by the Rockies' glaciers.
However, it looked cool, and she climbed down until she found a place
she could stand on, and laved her arms and face in it. Then, as it
happened, a piece of the crumbling clay broke away, and one foot slipped
in above the ankle, while the skirt of her thin dress trailed in the
water too. It was a trifling mishap, but Hetty was overwrought, and when
she had climbed back and taken off and emptied the little shoe she sat
down on the dusty grass and sobbed bitterly. She felt insignificant and
lonely in that great empty land, and its desolation crushed her spirits.
She did not know how long she sat there, but at last there were
footsteps behind her, and she coloured a little and strove to draw the
shoeless foot beneath the hem of the dripping skirt when she saw Ingleby
smiling down upon her. Then she remembered that the sleeves of the thin
blouse were still rolled back, and the crimson grew plainer in her wet
cheeks as with a little adroit movement she shook them down. Ingleby
smiled again, in a complacent, brotherly fashion which she found
strangely exasperating just then, and sitting down beside her took one
of her hot hands.
"Crying, Hetty? That will never do," he said.
Hetty glanced at him covertly. His face was compassionate, but there was
rather toleration than concern in it, and she pulled her hand away from
him.
"I wasn't--at least, not exactly," she said. "And if I was, it was the
weather--and why don't you go away?"
Ingleby smiled again, in a manner which while kind enough had yet a lack
of comprehension in it that made her still angrier.
"People don't generally cry about the weather," he said.
"Well," said the girl sharply, "some of them say things they shouldn't.
I heard you--in a crowded car, too."
She stopped abruptly, as she remembered the scanty privacy of the
Colonist train, and that she was supposed to have been asleep about the
time Ingleby had allowed his temper to get the better of him. He,
however, only laughed.
"Hetty," he said, "what is the matter? I always thought you brave, and I
have almost a right to know."
"I think you have," and there was a little flash in Hetty's eyes. "It
was you who brought us here, and this is a horrible country. It
frightens me."
Ingleby was a trifle perplexed, and showed it. He had known Hetty Leger
for four or five years, and had never seen her in a mood of the kind
before. It also occurred to him, as it did every now and then, that,
although she was not to be compared with Miss Coulthurst, Hetty was in
her own way beautiful. Just then a pretty plump arm showed beneath the
unfastened sleeve of the thin blouse, and the somewhat dusty hair with
the tint of pale gold in it, lying low on the white forehead, matched
the soft blue eyes, though there was a hint of more character than is
usually associated with her type in Hetty's white and pink face. Ingleby
noticed all this with impersonal appreciation, as something which did
not greatly concern him.
"Well," he said, "I'm sorry, and by no means sure I'm very much pleased
with the country myself; but I don't quite see what else I could have
done in the circumstances. Still, it hurts me to see you unhappy."
Hetty turned to him impulsively. "Never mind me. I'm an ungrateful
little--beast. That's the fact, and you needn't try to say anything
nice--I know I am. If it hadn't been for you Tom would have been in
prison now."
Ingleby looked out across the endless dusty levels. "I'm sure the
country must be a good deal better than it looks--when one gets used to
it," he said a trifle dubiously. "Anyway, we are three to one against
it, and needn't be afraid of it while we stick together. That is the one
thing we must make up our minds to do."
"There was a time when you didn't seem very sure you wanted Tom and me."
"Didn't you feel that I was right a little while ago?"
Hetty said nothing for a space. She was quick-witted, and not
infrequently understood her companion rather better than he understood
himself, while recollecting the half-shy delicacy which occasionally
characterized him she felt a trifle comforted. It was not, she fancied,
to please himself that he had been willing to leave her behind, and she
watched him covertly as he, too, sat silent, gazing at the prairie with
thoughtful eyes. He was not, she was quite aware, as clever as her
brother, and he certainly had his shortcomings--in fact, a good many of
them; but for all that there was something about him which, so far as
she was concerned, set him apart from any other man. Exactly what it was
she persuaded herself that she did not know, or, at least, made a brave
attempt to do so, for it was evident that he had only a frank, brotherly
regard for her. Still, the silence was getting uncomfortable, and she
flung a question at him.
"How much have we left?" she asked.
Ingleby laughed, somewhat ruefully. "Eight dollars, I believe. Still, we
shall cross the Rockies to-morrow, and start at once to heap up riches.
We are certainly going to do it, as others have; and you will never be
frightened any more."
Hetty had a stout heart of her own, but nevertheless she was glad of the
reassuring grasp he laid upon her shoulder as she looked out across the
muddy river and desolate, grey-white plain. However, she smiled at him,
and once more they sat silent until a curious and unexpected thing
happened.
Far away on the rim of the prairie there was a stirring of the haze, and
a dim smear of pinewoods grew out of the dingy vapour. Then a vista of
rolling hills rose to view, and was lost in mist again, until high above
them all a great serrated rampart of never-melting snow gleamed
ethereally against a strip of blue. It was a brief, bewildering vision,
sudden as the shifting of a gorgeous transformation scene, and then the
vapours rolled down again; but they felt that they had looked upon an
unearthly glory. Hetty turned to her companion with a little gasp.
"Oh," she said, "it was wonderful!"
"It was real, at least," said Ingleby. "Your first glimpse of the
country to which I have brought you. I think we shall be happy
there--and we will remember afterwards that we saw it together."
Again the little pink tinge crept into Hetty's cheek, but she said
nothing, and Ingleby's glance rested on the shoe, which he had not
noticed before.
"Hetty," he said severely, "do you want to catch cold? What is that
doing there?"
Hetty essayed to draw her foot farther beneath the hem of the dusty
skirt, and the colour grew a trifle plainer in her face; but Ingleby
made a little reproachful gesture, and taking up the shoe rubbed it with
his handkerchief.
"Now," he said, "I'm going to the bridge. Put it on!"
He turned away; but the leather was stiff with water, and Hetty
struggled fruitlessly with the buttons, and when she rejoined him
Ingleby noticed that she was walking somewhat awkwardly.
"Stand still a minute," he said. "You can't limp back along the track
like that."
He dropped on one knee, and Hetty turned her face aside when he looked
up again.
"It is such a pretty little foot," he said.
Then as they went back together they met Leger on the trestle. He said
nothing, but though he endeavoured to hide it there was concern in his
sallow face.