"There are times when most folks figure that their life has been a
blank;
You may be a homeless hobo or director of a bank,
But the thought will catch you nappin'--catch you sometime unawares--
That your life has been a failure, and that no one really cares."
_Prairie Born._
As the spring lengthened into summer the business in Gardiner's store
increased. The wheat had stooled well, and a couple of showers early in
May had relieved the drought that threatens before the thunder-storms of
June and July set in. The country was glorious in its verdure of growing
crops and green pastures, ponds of bright water not yet tinged with the
murkiness of vegetation, and little streams murmuring through the night
on their easy descent to the lower levels. Everything pointed to a
prosperous season, and the farmers, who, with Western optimism, always
buy on the prospects of the future, were patronising the local merchants
liberally. Gardiner and Burton had so far been able to keep up with the
rush, but when George Graves arrived on the afternoon train in search of
a position in a store, and showed Gardiner his references, he was
promptly engaged.
From the first Graves showed an interest in Burton amounting to an
attachment. He tried to get rooms at Mrs. Goode's in order that they
might be near each other, but the landlady too was enjoying a prosperous
season, and was unable to accommodate him.
"No, Mr. Grain, my house is quite plumb full, more's the pity, an' I'm
thinkin' o' you when I say it. It don't take folks long to find where
they can get a good meal, an' there ain't a boarder at my table but
speaks for himself. William!"--this in response to her husband's
footsteps in the hall--"William, go down and get the mail. I'm looking
for a letter from the new girl." Mrs. Goode considered her inferior half
a poor advertisement, and generally contrived to keep him out of the way
when customers were in prospect.
"No, Mr. Grange," she continued, "the work has got so heavy, what with
all home cookin' and sweepin' the upstairs every day, for if there's one
thing I says a young man wants it's a clean room and a good meal that's
cooked all through, an' what with it all I'm getting a new girl, all the
way from Torontuh, an' it'll be doublin' up as it is when she gets here,
an' two sleepin' in the parlour already."
Graves' disappointment was so evident that Mrs. Goode was touched by the
implied compliment, and ventured to suggest, "Maybe Mr. Burtle would
share with you."
This seemed a solution, but Burton was one of those young men who enjoy
their own company too much to forfeit it altogether, and although sorry
to refuse he could not be persuaded to let the new clerk room with him.
Graves, however, took no umbrage at Burton's refusal; on the contrary,
he seemed to seek the boy's companionship more than ever, and they soon
found they had many interests in common and proved to be congenial
associates.
But in Burton's eyes, at least, the arrival of the new clerk was much
eclipsed by the arrival of the new "girl" for Mrs. Goode's
boarding-house. Polly Lester was a lithe, dark young thing, with black
eyes accustomed to sleep dreamily through ordinary experiences, but they
glowed like a flame-shot thundercloud when aroused. Her hair, black and
luxuriant, her well-cut nose, thin but sensitive lips, and chin that sat
in a square, feminine defiance made her a girl to demand a second
glance. The neck sloped gently into the fold of her dress, clasped with
a modest black ornament at the throat, and when she spoke it was in a
voice low and vibrant, suggestive of moonlight walks and confidences
whispered in a friendly ear. Her step was quiet, almost stealthy, but
every poise from the ankle to the chin spoke courage and self-reliance.
A strange girl, this, to leave a city and seek a menial position in a
country boarding-house. She was a girl to direct, to command, to
engineer, and to execute; but here she waited on tables, made beds and
swept floors. When she looked at Burton, before she had so much as
spoken his name, he felt himself under the witching power of those
eyes--eyes that looked into him so calmly, but yet with such irresistible
attraction.
One night, a few days after Polly Lester's arrival at Plainville, Burton
closed the store and walked down to the little stream which the country
people dignified with the name of river. It was late in June, and heavy
rains had swollen the creek until it slipped by in rapid, muddy silence.
Through the clear evening air came the sound of the baseballers
practising for the great tournament on Dominion Day, now almost at hand;
although a mile away he heard the bass voice of the umpire calling balls
and strikes, and the cheers of the townspeople who sat about the diamond
when one of the boys made a hit or a sensational catch or contributed to
a double play. And although he could not hear them he knew that in
another part of the town eight young men and women were flushed and
laughing in the height of their excitement over a close fought game of
tennis, while on a score of verandahs little groups lounged after the
heat of the day and speculated on the outcome of "The First," or sipped
ice cream and nibbled cake. A muskrat across the stream sat on the muddy
bank and shot occasional cheeky glances at the intruder; a bird in the
willow overhead twittered snatches of her evening lullaby. The very air
was vital and vitalising, the lungs leaped in response to the optimistic
oxygen. It was a good world--for some. But to Burton it was a hard world,
and it was growing harder. He was under the shadow of a crime, and it
seemed the shadow would darken into a cloud that should blight his whole
life. Time was passing on, and nothing had occurred to relieve him of
the weight of suspicion which had fallen upon him. He would have to face
it out, he would probably be acquitted, but simply for lack of evidence.
His wages were small; under the circumstances he could ask no more;
indeed, he felt under an obligation to Gardiner for retaining him in his
employ at all. He had had a conference with his father, and the memory
did not reassure him. His father had made it plain that even he was
reserving judgment. A good lawyer would be engaged and every chance
given the lad to prove his innocence, but if he failed! Then there was
Miss Vane. He had met her once or twice in the store since the robbery,
and she had spoken to him as though nothing had happened. Indeed, he
even thought there was a soft tenderness in her words which he had not
detected before, but whether of love or pity, how should he discern? In
any case he could say nothing, do nothing, hope nothing until this
ordeal was over. And what could he hope then? What dared he hope? It was
folly, folly! He should love her always; he should paint her always in
the portrait gallery of his soul as he had seen her that exquisite
morning, ages ago, creamy white, from the tip of her shoes to the tip of
her hat, save where the rose nestled in her hair and a little brooch
glowed against the pink-veined ermine of her throat. Ah, that glimpse
that comes but once, that treasure to be hoarded for ever in the
chambers of the mind, where no minions of the law could find it, where
no judge and jury could wrest it away, where even life and death could
not lay tax, that was his, his for ever, for ever.... And as his eyes
moistened with the joy of that great revelation a vision rose from the
mist, dimly and undefined at first, but gradually revealing itself as
clear as if cut from a block of granite--a vision of raven hair and eyes
with the slumbering glow of the pent-up heavens. Burton gazed as though
at an apparition, and the fine features of Polly Lester stood reflected
in the mirror of his brain. At first the truth numbed him, but presently
he had grasped it at its real value. The polygamous instinct of the
human mind crushed in with a cruel shattering of ideals; his soul was
running riot with a chaos of overturned emotions.
He sprang to his feet. "My God," he cried, "and must I lose this too?
Can I not guard even the treasures of my own heart?"
"You are agitated, Mr. Burton," said a low voice at his side. "Have you
been seeing visions--in the water?"
He turned and looked in the face of Polly Lester.
"Not visions," he managed to say, "but reflections."
"Reflections should not disturb you, Raymond"--she used his first name as
though she had been his mother--"but you are straining your nervous
system to the breaking point. Here is a dry log--shall we sit down?"
She led him to the log and seated herself beside him. The sun was
setting after the long midsummer day, and the smooth, muddy water took
on a surface of quicksilver. Their faces looked back at them out of the
stream, and up from the young man's memory rushed a similar scene,
staged at Crotton's Crossing. And just as the thought struck home, by a
trick of the waving water the faces blended into one!
"You wonder that I, who have known you a week, should follow you here,
do you not?" she was saying. "I should have stayed behind, I should have
let you learn my secret for yourself. It is woman's lot to carry her
secret in her heart, guarded as a precious thing, until the object of
that secret pries it forth. But I am not a woman, as other women are. I
defy traditions; I defy conventions. I claim the right God gave me to
live my life as I will, where I will, how I will, with whom I will. When
first I looked into you--when first your eyes met mine, I knew--what you
knew. Why should we deceive ourselves? Why should we mock our own
destinies?"
"You speak strangely," said Burton. "I--I do not understand."
"Why do you lie to me, Raymond?" she asked, still in that low voice,
deep and vibrant, but without a suggestion of anger. "Why do you seek to
conceal--that which we both know?"
"You are a strange woman. I do not understand you."
"Oh, that is different. Of course you do not understand me. Nobody does.
I am so different. Instead of pretending I don't care for you, instead
of pretending I don't know that you care for me, I admit it all. I am
frank. I am truthful. I am, as you say, a strange woman."
"What are you doing in Plainville?" the young man demanded. "Why do you
work for Mrs. Goode, sweeping her boarders' rooms--a menial servant, a--a
chambermaid?"
"Fie on you, sir!" she cried, but there was a playful note in her voice.
"All honest work is honourable. There is nothing menial--except being
menial."
"But you--you don't need to do this. You are educated. Your speech
proclaims it. I have seen your handwriting; it is that of a business
woman. You have appearance. You have presence. You don't need to do this
work. Why do you do it?"
"Why should I answer that question?" she parried.
"I don't know. I suppose there is no reason. But you said you--you loved
me----"
"I didn't."
"You let me know it."
"You divined it. You found it out yourself. That saves me. If I had told
you I would be a shameless woman, but if you find it out my honour is
unscathed. Such are the decrees of convention."
"At any rate, now you have admitted it. Will you answer my question. Why
are you in Plainville?"
"Do you admit as much? You are interested in me. Do yourself the justice
to believe that I am interested in you."
"Admit that I love you? Yes, I believe I do."
The sun was down. Dusk was settling over the plain. The water ran black
before them. They sat for some time, gazing into its smooth depths. At
last she broke the silence.
"Do you know, Mr. Burton, you are rather undemonstrative in your
declaration of love." There was a sly, fascinating banter in her voice.
Burton made no answer. He saw a figure in white, and heard a voice
saying, "I have sometimes thought I could, perhaps, love a man, if I
found one who was not a liar." And he was wondering, weighing these two
women, each so powerful in her personality, although differing so much
in manner of expressing it. Miss Vane he understood, or at least thought
he did, but this girl was something so altogether different. He knew
that most men, and all women, would question her motives; he would be
sincere with her. At least he would not be a liar, active or passive.
"Perhaps I admitted more than I really meant," he ventured, at length.
"More than was true?"
"Yes, more than was quite true."
"Then you love another. It is that love that has made you honest with
me. I congratulate her. Tell me about her."
"You take rejection easily."
"Silly boy! A woman is never rejected while she lives. Is she pretty?"
"Yes, as pretty as you."
"How nice! And good?"
"Yes, better than you."
"Now I _am_ interested. How quickly you learn to be honest! I am hunting
the world for a man who isn't a liar."
The similarity of the expression was not lost on Burton, but his
companion continued:
"And you are going to be----"
"No."
"No? Why?"
"You know my trouble, don't you--Polly?"
"I have heard of it. But I believe nothing. Does she?"
"No, I am convinced she is as true as steel. But while this cloud is
over me I can say nothing--I can do nothing."
"But it will soon be gone. Your trial will come in the fall. All the
boarders say you can't be convicted. You will be free."
"Yes, free, with this stain of infamy upon me. Free to go West, to lose
myself in the great new country, to forget my past--if I can. But free to
marry her--never!"
"You mean that the real culprit must be found. There must be a positive
verdict, not a negative one?"
"That's it. The criminal must be run to earth. The money must be
discovered, if possible."
It was quite dark. Night blanketted the prairies, and night on the
prairies is always cold. Miss Lester shivered. Silently her form nestled
into the arms of Burton. A hand fell against his, and he shook as though
struck by an electric current. She raised her face to his, her warm
breath flooded his cheeks and eyes and stole into his nostrils and his
lungs.
"Raymond dear," she whispered. "You are carrying too much alone. You
will break down. I can help you. Will you let me? Will you--do you trust
me?"
And in a voice so low that she caught it by instinct rather than hearing
he answered, "I do."
"Then tell me--all."
"All?"
"Yes, tell me who took the money, and why, and where to find it, and I
pledge you my word--my honour--that you shall walk out of court not only
free, but justified. Remember, you trust me. You say you trust me--you do
trust me." She raised her hand and held the spread fingers, pointed,
towards his temples, her eyes were within a palm's width of his.
"Remember, you trust me, Raymond, you trust me. This log shall rise in
witness against you before I do. You trust me--tell me--ALL."
With a curse he threw her from him. "This, then, is your love, your
honour, your--your perfidy. God judge between me and you this night!"