"Hear ye a little lesson--can ye the truth divine?
Milk ye may mix with water, and water will mix with wine;
Mix as ye may on your prairies, mix in your hope and toil,
But know in all your mixing that water won't mix with oil!"
_The Empire Builders._
With only one run to the good, Harry Grant in the pitcher's box, the
bases full and nobody out, the finish of the ninth inning in the last
game of the Dominion Day tournament looked gloomy enough for Plainville.
The sun was gilding the crest of a great cloud which was already casting
its shadow over the prairie, the air was close and hot, the band had
long since exhausted their repertoire, and its members, big-lipped from
their day's exertions, gazed dry-throated at the tragedy on the diamond;
the Plainville backers, who all day long had placed their two to one on
the home team, were stamping up and down behind the ropes that winged
the grounds, chewing their cigars and swearing vaguely. The "rooting"
was over; there is a point beyond which no loyalty can "root"; the
situation was too dramatic for speech. Even the supporters of the
opposing team were too excited to hollo, they had holloed all day
against discouraging odds, and now, when a little lung power might well
have been brought to the support of their favourites, they found
themselves voiceless from sheer exhaustion and surprise.
In a buggy facing the grounds from the right fielder's corner sat
Gardiner and Miss Vane. The bright face and the electric mouth seemed
intent upon the game before them, but in the eyes was a hollow look that
might have told any keen observer the brain was wandering in far fields.
"It's bad," said Gardiner. "The worst possible. He can never climb out
of that hole."
"At any rate he will try," said the girl, absently. "You think he will
run away?"
Gardiner turned and looked at his companion quizzically. She gave a
little start and a flush stole through the deep ivory of her cheeks and
forehead. "I--I beg your pardon," she stammered. "I was thinking."
"You are thinking too much. If I had known it would spoil your day's
enjoyment I would not have told you."
"How could you think otherwise? You know he was, that is, he is, our
friend."
"Just a friend--is that all?" Gardiner pressed the question.
"Oh, look, that is two strikes. Harry is keeping his head. Let us watch
the game," and Miss Vane seemed lost in the scene before her.
The ropes along the wings stretched and swung with the mass of humanity
leaning over them; in the grand-stand every eye was on the pitcher, as
tense as though life itself depended upon the delivery of the next ball.
Harry saw one crooked finger below his catcher's mitt, and prepared a
hot in-shoot. An out and a drop were responsible for the batter's two
previous abortive swats, and this change should fool him. A right hand
batter seldom looks for an in-shoot with the bases full; the chance of a
walk is so big it frightens most pitchers, but Harry's catcher had
decided on heroic measures.
The base runner from third led up. Standing on his right foot, an inch
outside the pitcher's box, Harry feinted at third and drove the
adventurous runner back; the next instant he was back in the box and had
delivered the ball to the batter.
But his caution was his undoing. He purposely threw a little wide, to
avoid the possibility of striking the batter. Six feet from the base the
ball broke and cut straight for the centre of the plate. It was only a
fraction of an instant, but in that fraction the batter swung and caught
it a straight drive over second. A yell broke from his sympathisers as
he dashed for first.
Billy Haynes, the hardware clerk, was holding down second. Billy was
long and agile and a rapid thinker. He had the two first requisites of a
baseballer--a quick eye and a quick brain. As he saw the hot shot coming
four feet above his head he sprang two steps backward, jumped, and
brought it to earth, dropping it as he fell. The next instant he had one
hand on his base and the other on the ball, and almost before the umpire
could detect the play he had thrown, not to home, but first. For an
instant the third base runner hesitated, fearing a caught fly, and that
instant cost his side the game. He fully expected Haynes would play
home, and hesitated again; when he saw the ball delivered to first he
dashed forward, but he was too late. The sphere seemed hardly to stop at
first at all; it simply changed its course there and shot home, beating
the runner to the plate by a good two feet. The game was over.
Plainville had won. It was the only triple play seen on that diamond for
many a day, and the crowd went wild with enthusiasm. Billy Haynes was
borne aloft by his admirers, and the other participants in the play were
thumped and shaken by the hero-hungry mob. By dint of much profanity the
band leader was able to muster two cornets, a trombone and a base drum
to play the National Anthem as the crowd hurried from the grounds. It
would soon be closing time at the village bars, and there were many
thirsts to liquidate.
But even as they walked the short distance from the grounds to the town
the minds of the visitors were turned to another matter. The sun was
obscured, and up from the west a great mass of cloud heaved higher and
higher. The old-timers needed no second glance; a Dominion Day storm was
considered as much a matter of course as the baseball tournament and the
football game between English and Canadians, and young men and old
hurried to the livery stables and the stock-yards, where their horses
were tied, in an endeavour to get home before the weather broke.
Gardiner drove up town for a waterproof, and by the time he and Miss
Vane were at last on the road to the Grant homestead it had grown quite
dark. It was the eastern girl's first experience with a severe electric
storm on the prairie; several thunder showers had swept by during June,
but nothing so terrifying as this. The lightning became more and more
vivid, and after every flash the horse would pause, uncertain of his
footing in the darkness. Then the distant growl of the thunder added its
accompaniment, steadily growing in volume and intensity. Gardiner was
not an expert horseman and had some difficulty in keeping the animal on
the road. The poor creature had little relish for the trip and would
have much preferred to hurry back to his stable in town.
Suddenly a terrific squall of wind burst upon them, and before Gardiner
had time to square the horse up to it it had tipped the buggy and
whipped the reins from his hand. The animal, terrified by the storm,
staggering over one shaft, and feeling all control removed, dashed in a
panic across the prairie. Presently the rig struck a post, the shafts
were torn free, and the horse disappeared in the darkness.
Gardiner extricated himself from the wreckage. "Are you hurt, Miss
Vane?" he asked, anxiously.
"No, I think not," said the girl, as she dragged herself free. "Oh!" A
smothered cry escaped her lips.
"You are hurt," said Gardiner, as he raised her in his arms. "You are
hurt. Tell me. Let me help you."
The gale had swept by, and the air was very still and warm.
"No, I am not hurt--much," she answered. "But we cannot stay here. It
will rain soon, and the lightning is--" She closed her eyes. "Can't we go
somewhere? Can't we walk home?"
"I am afraid we must try," said her companion. "Or I might go back to
town for another rig?"
"No, we will walk home. We must be more than half way. Let me see--what
direction is that?"
"South, I think."
"No, it must be west. Surely it is west?"
"Let us follow the fence; it must lead somewhere."
At that moment a tongue of fire came leaping along the upper wire of the
fence. Both drew back, as though to dodge the electric current.
"The further from the fence the better," said Gardiner. "There is no
place so dangerous in a thunderstorm. Let us keep to the middle of the
roadway."
They moved to the right, but at the first step a groan escaped the
girl's lips. "My ankle," she moaned. "I--I must have hurt it."
Gardiner stood irresolute. "Can you lean on it at all?" he asked.
She placed her weight gently upon the ankle, but a flash of lightning
revealed a wince of pain across her face.
"I must carry you somewhere," said Gardiner. "We cannot stay here. The
rain is coming on, and perhaps hail with it. We shall be drenched, at
least."
"I think I can walk if you will help," she ventured bravely. "Stand
here, to the right. Let me rest my arm on your shoulder."
He obeyed. Resting her right hand on his left shoulder she limped
painfully a short distance through the darkness. The rain began to fall
in great scattered drops, then a vicious rent of lightning seemed to
shake the whole heavens, and it fell in floods.
They had worked their painful way about fifty yards. The road was now
running in water, and the slippery mud made walking still more
difficult. One little shoe drew off and was lost. At every flash they
took their bearings for a few feet further, but it became more and more
evident they would be unable to reach shelter.
"You must leave me," she said at last, shouting in his ear to make
herself heard. "I cannot go much further. You can find your way to town,
or perhaps to a neighbour's, and get another buggy. I will stay here."
"Then I will stay with you," her companion answered. "I cannot leave you
alone on the prairie in such a night. Besides, I don't know where we
are. I would never find my way back. We must--hello, what is that?"
"What? I saw nothing."
"Look this way." He pointed through the darkness. "Watch for the next
flash."
They had not long to wait. In a moment another bolt lit up the prairie
in all directions.
"It is a building--an old house, I think," she said. "I can walk that
far. It will be better than the prairie."
With much effort they dragged their way toward the building. It proved
to be a little log structure, built by a homesteader in the early days.
The windows were gone and the door was off its hinges, but inside was
comparatively dry. In an inner pocket Gardiner found some matches that
gave promise of a light. He struck one; it flared for an instant and was
whipped out by the breeze. But it had revealed a partition running
through the middle of the building. They groped their way around it and
found a more protected corner. Here he struck another match. It burned
steadily, disclosing a little, low room, papered with heavy building
paper. Against the logs of the outer wall tar paper had been nailed, but
years of damp and wind had loosened this pioneer protection, and the
paper now hung in long shreds or curled in uncertain rolls about the
bottom of the walls. The floor was decayed and broken through in several
places, as though cattle had walked on the rotten boards, and from the
sod roof the water trickled in little streamlets.
With a sigh of relief Miss Vane seated herself in a corner. "This is
better than outside at least," she said.
"Yes, indeed," Gardiner agreed. "By means of this tar paper and some of
these broken boards we will start a fire. We can surely find water
enough to hold it in check."
In a few minutes he had a little fire burning. Part of a broken crock
was found, and with this filled with water he stood guard over man's
best servant.
As the fire flickered up its light fell on the face of the girl, pale
and drawn with pain. The young man looked at her helplessly, and then
ventured, "You are suffering, Miss Vane. I wonder if you would let me be
surgeon?"
"Yes," she answered, simply.
He removed the shoe. The buckles were cutting into the flesh.
"No bones broken, I think," he said, after a brief survey, "but a bad
sprain."
With the scissors which every store clerk carries he cut away the foot
of the stocking. The ankle was badly swollen and discoloured.
Gardiner removed his coat and deftly cut the lining out of it. This he
cut into strips, and, dipping the strips in water, bandaged the injured
member. Presently the inflammation was somewhat relieved and the pain
became more bearable.
"You are very good," the girl whispered. "I feel better now."
"I am glad of that," he answered. "The accident is most regrettable, and
the fault is all mine."
"Not at all. It was an accident, and an accident is not a fault."
"Do you believe that these accidents are preordained--that they are part
of some great scheme of management, that we but vaguely recognise?"
"I don't know. I suppose there is a purpose to all things--even to this
sprained ankle." She smiled faintly. "If there is no purpose in little
things there can be no purpose in life, as life is made up of little
things."
He seized at her answer. "And what purpose, can you guess, lay behind
this mishap?"
"A warning, no doubt, in future to be home before dark," she answered,
with a return of her natural spirit. "And I shall have such splendid
hair after this rain-water bath."
The little fire flickered and shifted with every gust of wind that stole
into even this protected corner. The rain fell in torrents on the sod
roof and washed down the log walls of the hut. The lightning was
incessant, the thunder terrific, and as they spoke the trumpetings of
heaven often choked the words in their mouths.
"No," said Gardiner at length, "there was a deeper purpose in your
misfortune. It seems too bad to profit by it, but don't you know--can't
you see, Miss Vane, that I have wanted so long an opportunity to talk
with you alone?"
She drew up slightly in the corner where she sat, but did not speak.
"You must know that I have sought your company--your company, and none
but yours--since the night I first saw you. My interest--my attention--must
have told you long ago--that which I would speak to you in words
to-night."
He was standing, gazing at her across the fire. For months he had
rehearsed his declaration, and he felt that he had made a good start.
She had not stopped him, and he was encouraged.
"I am very tired," she murmured.
"As you said a little while ago, surely there must be a purpose in all
things," he continued. "Surely it was such a purpose that brought you to
Plainville, and permitted me to know the charm of your personality--the
sweet delight of your companionship. Miss Vane--Myrtle--I love you--have
loved you since first my eyes fell on your fair face--shall love you
always. May I hope?"
She looked up; in her eyes was a strange gleam that sent the young man's
pulses throbbing. Had he known her better he would have read a different
meaning in that deep light.
She waited until the echoes of a crack of thunder died away, and then
asked, very quietly, "Is it quite fair to press your question after all
that has happened to-day?"
For the moment he was taken back. "Of course, you know, I don't mean to
take any advantage," he stammered. "Certainly you are suffering, and I
must wait your answer until you can think it over calmly. Is it very
painful?"
"Oh, the ankle? I wasn't thinking about it."
"What then?"
"What, you ask? Oh, cannot you see, either? Must I tell you in so many
words?"
"Burton!" he exclaimed. "It is of him you are thinking?"
"How could I forget--so soon? You said he would fly--even now he is
probably a fugitive from jus--from the law.... It is a fitting night for
such a tragedy in his life. And still, black as it all looks, I cannot
think but he is more sinned against than sinning."
"Your loyalty does you credit. Burton is fortunate in having such a
friend." Under the soft voice there was just the suggestion of a sneer.
"Nevertheless," she said, ignoring his remark, "Burton will come back to
trial, if indeed he ever leaves. His innocence will yet be established."
"Your faith is equal to your loyalty," he answered. "I wish I could have
the same confidence. Indeed, I did believe in him until this latest
development, but now--one must believe his eyes," he said, with a shrug
of the shoulders. "I suppose I shall lose the amount of his bail, but I
forfeit it gladly for the sake of his liberty. I count such losses
nothing, if only I may hope to gain--what I have asked to-night."
"I cannot answer you now. You have been too good to me, and to my
friend, to be denied without at least the courtesy of consideration."
"Your words carry little encouragement. Listen. While I do not press for
an answer, surely I may state my case. I can offer you much that appeals
to every woman. I am not rich, but I have a profitable business. No
woman in Plainville will be better provided for. In a few years I hope
to have saved enough to enter business in a larger centre, and introduce
you to circles where your personality will command the admiration it
deserves. As for this boy----"
She made a gesture of dissent. "Your argument makes no appeal to me, Mr.
Gardiner. A profitable business is a small thing to offer for a woman's
affections. You undervalue the prize you seek. And if social status were
a consideration to me----" She left the sentence unfinished, but Gardiner
thought he understood.
"Forgive me if I have seemed to place too much stress on material
things. I merely wish to satisfy you that my declaration--my love--is
reasonable, and that I am in a position to carry it out to its logical
conclusion. Now, tell me I may hope?"
"Hark! What was that?" she whispered, her face tense with excitement.
"Surely I heard a sound?"
"It is nothing. The thunder, or the wind, or the rain. On such a night
the air is full of sound."
"But this was different; a real sound, a _human_ sound. I was sure I
heard it."
"Your nerves are playing tricks on you to-night, Miss Vane. I assure you
there was no sound but the elements. Compose yourself, and tell me I may
hope."
"I can tell you nothing now."
"Then to-morrow?"
"No, not to-morrow."
"When then? Set a limit to my uncertainty."
"Not until after the trial."
"Burton's trial. If he should be acquitted?"
"You will know your answer."
"And if convicted?"
"Then I will take time. Oh, please don't force me to be unkind. I cannot
give myself--you would not take the gift--without love. I must analyse my
own heart, and I cannot do that while this cloud hangs over--us. When it
has dispersed, or settled, I will know."
He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. "You are kind," he
said, "and fair."