"Then I gave him hopes he could not define and fears
that he could not flee;
And he heard my cry in the long, still night,
In my spirit-thrall I held him tight,
And his blind soul-eyes craved for the light;
But the light he could not see."
_Prairie Born._
Hiram Riles' temper was not improved by driving home through a soaking
rain from the Dominion Day sports at Plainville. Hiram's interest in
sports at best was purely negative. He enjoyed the discomfiture of the
defeated team; he gloated over the player whose costly error brought
upon him the wrath of the spectators. At a game Hiram always stood a
little to one side, watching, not for brilliant plays, but for errors,
and passing contemptuous remarks about such of the players as were
unfortunate enough to localise his displeasure. There had been only one
bright spot in the whole day's experiences. That was the news of the
stolen money being found in Burton's trunk. Riles had never forgiven the
affair at Grant's, and his nature was such that his hatred grew rather
than abated with the passage of time. He now felt that his young enemy
would be properly covered with shame; he could honourably dismiss the
matter from his mind, or at least lay it aside to be revived when Burton
regained his liberty. But the storm had interfered with his intended
carousal; Riles' appetite rarely got the better of his prudence, and
even the reflection that Burton was by this time probably safe in the
cells failed to give the pleasure such a happy situation warranted.
But Riles' displeasure during his drive home was a small thing compared
with his rage on discovering that the hailstorm had swept out forty
acres of his best crop. The destruction had caught only a corner of his
farm, and although his poor neighbour to the south had every stalk of
his crop destroyed Riles wasted no sympathy on neighbours, but walked
his floor all night nursing his anger and vexation. At an earlier hour
than usual he wakened London, and cuffed the boy soundly before he made
his escape to the stables. The cows in the corral yawned and rose
lazily, stretching their hind quarters to throw off the night's cramp,
as a soft mist rose from the warm spots where they had lain. London
glanced at the house, but there was no sign of Riles; then he softly set
the dog on the astonished cattle. For a minute or two they circled the
corral; then one old cow, more venturesome than the rest, sprang over
the fence, breaking the upper wire in the effort, and all followed her
to liberty.
"That'll give 'im somethink helse to worry habout," reflected the boy.
"'E'll think they broke away when the 'ail struck 'em."
Riles' temper showed no improvement during the day, nor for many days
thereafter. The loss of forty acres of grain was a matter calling for at
least as many days' mourning. The poor neighbour, whose crop was all he
had, had taken heart again, and whistled as he ploughed the ruin of the
storm underfoot, but Riles could not forget that Providence had been
most unfair to him, and was even more brutal than ever with his help,
both beast and human.
But London was not the child he had been when first he entered the
farmer's employ. He was now eighteen years old, and although small and
ungainly of stature, and erratic in many of his mental exploits, he had
imbibed something of the ambition and independence of the young men of
the district, and he chafed more than ever under Riles' authority. He
found opportunity frequently to visit the Grant farmhouse; in fact,
whenever the cattle were lost he first inquired at Grant's, and it was
noticed that on such occasions the stray animals were never discovered
until long after dark. This meant a booting from Riles, but London held
a couple of hours' respite with the Grant boys well worth the price.
Sometimes, too, he would chat with Susy Grant or Miss Vane, and neither
girl guessed the strange workings of his dwarfed little intellect.
"Everybody calls you London," said Miss Vane, one evening. "But that
must be a nickname. Tell me, what is your real name? What did your
mother call you, or do you remember your mother?" she added, softly.
"My real name is Wilfred Vickery," answered the boy, "but nobody calls
me that. Guess Hi'm not worth a real name," he continued, with a bitter
little laugh. "My mother gave me that name, but Hi never 'eard 'er speak
it, leastways, not as Hi remembers hof."
"That is a nice name," said Myrtle. "I am going to call you Wilfred. You
must not think you are not worthy of a good name. You must feel
worthy--and then be worthy."
"That's not wot they say hin the churches," the boy replied. "Once Hi
went to church hin the school'ouse, to see w'at hit was loike, an' the
preacher said as 'ow we was all sinners, an' 'ow we was hall to think
wot big sinners we was, an' 'ow we was all to think we was a bigger
sinner than anybody helse. Hi guess Hi am, too, bigger'n anybody--'cept
old Riles."
"Have you tried not to be a sinner?" the girl asked.
"Wot? Not to be a sinner? Hi tried to do wot the preacher said, an' be
the biggest sinner ever was. An' Hi guess Hi am--all but Riles."
"But that is not what the minister meant, Wilfred. He meant that you
must be humble, and that you must be sorry for your own wrongdoing."
"Wot is 'umble?"
"Why, to be humble is to feel that you are in the world to help, and to
be of service to other people, no matter who they may be."
"Are you 'umble, Miss Vane?"
The question was quite unexpected, and the girl hesitated for a moment
as she descended from the abstract to the concrete.
"I hope I am," she said at length.
"But people say as 'ow you are proud an' stuck hup."
"Do they Wilfred? Who say that?"
"Riles an' Mrs. Riles. She says as 'ow you're a 'ot-'ouse plant, fer
hornament more than use."
"Dear me, that is too bad," laughed the girl, and the ripple of her
voice was good to hear. Even London knew that it was--he couldn't
describe it--but _different_ from any other voice. "But, supposing Mrs.
Riles is right, don't you think that to be an ornament is to be useful?
Look at that tiger lily; is it not beautiful? But of what use is it?"
"Hi guess hit haint no use," said the boy. "But when Hi go over the
prairie after the cattle hoften Hi pull a lily, hand Hi loike to walk
w'ere they grow."
"And if God took all the beautiful flowers, and the wonderful clouds,
and the glorious sunsets and dawns, and the singing birds, and the weep
of the wind as it blows up out of the dark, and--and the beautiful people
out of the world, it wouldn't be such a nice place to live in, would
it?"
"No, because 'Ee would 'ave to take you, Miss Vane."
The girl coloured, pleased with the genuine and unexpected compliment.
But she turned it to account.
"Then it is possible for the ornamental to be useful, isn't it?"
The setting sun was crimsoning the fleecy clouds far overhead, and
throwing long shadows in the warm August evening. Everywhere was the
smell of ripening wheat. The tinkle of a cowbell came up from the
distance; a meadowlark sang its short liquid tune from a neighbouring
fence post.
"Hi guess you're right," said the boy, after a long pause: "Hi guess
hit's worth while bein' beautiful. Per'aps hit's jist has himportant to
be beautiful has to raise w'eat hand milk cows, but nobody hever talked
that wy to me before."
"It's worth thinking about, Wilfred. So many people in this country have
not learned that 'the life is more than food, and the body more than
raiment.' They can see the use of potatoes, but not of poetry. And they
are in such a hurry! Such a hurry to live, one would think they wanted
to get their lives over with. Poise and repose are lost arts."
She was looking at the gathering dusk in the east, and spoke as though
soliloquizing with herself. London brought her back to earth.
"Hi don't know hall you sy, but hi know wothever you sy his roight," he
declared, with sincere gallantry. "Hand Miss Vane, can Hi come at
noights w'enhever Hi can sneak away, an'--talk with you, loike we did
to-noight?"
"Yes, Wilfred, you may come whenever you can, and we will talk about
things that are beautiful, and things that are useful. And we will try
to remember that there is nothing so beautiful as a useful life, and
nothing so useful as a beautiful life. And there is nothing so precious
as--a friend."
She took the hand of the boy, so long friendless, in her own, and in
that moment the soul of the little Barnardo orphan burst the bonds of
eighteen years' environment and lit up the face of a _man_.
This evening's conversation was the first of many. Wilfred was an artist
at devising reasons and excuses for visiting Grants'. And soon an
unlooked-for opportunity presented itself. Miss Vane had taken a deep
interest in the boy, and did not hesitate to enlist her cousins in a
little plan for setting Wilfred at liberty in the evenings. Accordingly,
George Grant called on Riles, and, after the customary commonplaces
about the weather and the crops, mentioned his desire to get a boy to
sit up for an hour or two at night to watch the smudge fires, and put
them out after the cattle had settled down. Could Mr. Riles spare London
from nine to eleven for a job like that? They would either pay him in
money for the boy's services, or allow it when they exchanged labour in
threshing time. But perhaps London had enough to do as it was, and would
be better in bed after his day's----.
Not a bit of it. He was rusting for want of exercise. Of course, he
could go. Grants had always been good neighbours, and they would always
find Hiram Riles ready to do a favour. The boy would go over every night
as long as he was needed. For, be it said, it was one of the whims of
Riles' nature that he entertained no aversion to the Grants.
So it came about that Wilfred spent many of his evenings at the Grant
farm. The companionship of the Grant boys, the parental kindness of Mr.
and Mrs. Grant, the ready wit of Susy, which spared neither herself nor
her acquaintances, were a relevation to the boy, who had always
associated farm life with grim labour, hard words and sour dispositions.
At nine at night the farm company gathered about the kitchen table,
where were onions from the garden and buttermilk from the dairy; and as
they ate, the exploits of the day were re-enacted, and the best of cheer
and fellowship prevailed. And when the simple meal was over, and the
"old folks" had gone upstairs, the young people engaged in harmless
pastimes and amusements for another hour. Miss Vane was the soul of
kindness and courtesy to the orphan boy, and although she joined in all
the pleasantries of the evening she had through all a deeper purpose
than mere pastime, and she seldom failed to have a few serious words
with Wilfred before he started on his walk through the dew-laden grass
to the Riles' farm. And the lad was responding to her interest and her
confidence. A new spirit seemed to have been born in him, his slouchy
habits gave way to an air of brisk alertness, and his speech, although
not yet refined, had a tone of seriousness and responsibility unknown in
the past.
In conversation Myrtle seized every opportunity to quote to the boy from
the masters of literature such selections as his awakening intellect
could appreciate, and she had the satisfaction at length of finding his
interest excited, not only in the selections themselves, but in the
authors of them. She now knew that she had attained her first purpose;
she had made his world wider than the boundaries of a little farming
community; she had raised him to the point where his mental eye fastened
on something beyond his horizon of the past. She had wakened the desire
for knowledge; all other things were now possible.
Walking up the path from the pasture field one evening--the self-same
path she had walked with Burton in that spring that seemed so many years
ago--the light night wind stirred in the tops of the willows growing by
the little stream. Against the background of the faintly coloured west
distances took on an enchanted perspective, and the little limbs a few
feet above their heads could easily be seen as forest monsters
stretching into the lowering sky. They paused and sat on a grassy bank,
watching the dusk gather through the lattice-work of leaves, and as they
sat the girl repeated softly--
"I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky.
"It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy."
"I have heard old men choke on that last line, Wilfred," she added, but
was hardly prepared for his answer,--
"Yes, but they started 'igh up and grew down. Hi started low down and
ham--am, Hi mean--growing up. For me, Hi'm closer to 'even to-night than
w'en Hi was a boy--a little boy--for Hi'm a boy yet. Hi'm close to 'even
w'en Hi'm close to you," declared the lad, his face flushed with a light
she could not see in the darkness.
She laughed lightly, all unguessing the streams of passion of which his
sincerity should have made her aware. From an equal she could not have
accepted the remark without misgiving, but from Wilfred--the idea was so
unique that it did not even occur to her.
"Oo wrote that?" the boy demanded, after a silence.
"Thomas Hood," was the answer. "But the night is growing chilly. Let us
go to the house. I have a little volume of Hood's I will lend you--if you
will read it."
"Hindeed Hi will," he answered, as they walked up the path.
At the house they found that all had retired. Myrtle slipped a little
book into Wilfred's hand. "Read 'The Song of the Shirt,' and 'The Bridge
of Sighs' and--perhaps--'Eugene Aram.' Good night."
"Good night," he said, and disappeared in the darkness.
Myrtle sat down in the little parlour of the farmhouse. All was
stillness. The hard labour of agricultural life had driven the boys and
Susy early to their rooms. But their beautiful cousin had no thought of
sleep. As she walked up the pasture path a gust of memory swept over
her; the memory of a night, dark, with slight stirring breezes that
whispered eerily among the willows; the memory of a strong hand that had
helped her to her place on the pony, and had lain on his mane as they
walked slowly homeward. Burton's disappearance had been complete; since
the First of July celebration he appeared to have dropped out of
existence as absolutely as if the earth had swallowed him. Her strong
confidence in his innocence had battled bravely against overwhelming
evidence, but in the unequal conflict she knew it to be breaking down.
Since the night of their terrible experiences in the thunderstorm
Gardiner had not attempted to force his acquaintance with her, but while
she suffered from the injured ankle he telephoned a courteous inquiry
daily, and since had found occasion to make a couple of casual calls.
Miss Vane had received him kindly; he had been Burton's friend; he was,
indeed, her friend. Burton's disappearance placed Gardiner in the _role_
of a benefactor; he would forfeit the bail given for the young man's
liberty, and the fact that he seemed prepared to do so without a murmur
of protest gave him a strong claim upon Myrtle's regard. But she could
not lose sight of the fact that there was a purpose in all Gardiner's
conduct; that he sought her for his wife, and that he was only waiting
until there seemed no possibility of Burton's return before he pleaded
his suit once more with her.
And if Burton did not return--what? A hundred times she had thrown this
thought from her mind, but it intruded again more arrogantly than ever.
A hundred times she had said, "He will return." But time was wearing on,
and Burton's complete disappearance left little question as to his
purpose. Even while she told herself he would return the cold sweat of
doubt and uncertainty gathered on her brow. Early in the history of his
trouble she had written to her brother in the East, and had received an
answer of sound advice and practical encouragement; but Harry had soon
after sailed for Europe, and neither advice nor consolation was to be
had from him at present.
With a gesture as if warding off something unpleasant--something real and
unseen--she walked across the room and drew a little volume from a
book-case. It opened in her hand, and as she sat down her eyes fell upon
the lines--
"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last.
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast.
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by Life's unchanging sea."
With a sharp breath she closed the book. The whole scene stood before
her again; the house crowded with merry-makers, their curious faces
turned toward the reciter in courteous attention, but with an expression
as though to ask what it all was about; the young man, with slightly
flushed features but clear, deep, even voice; and then that wonderful
instant of telepathy when their eyes met, and she heard the voice deepen
and broaden as though a great storage of reserve energy had been
connected to the human dynamo.
She rose with the book still in her fingers, drew a shawl about her
slight figure, and stepped out into the night. It was absolutely dark. A
soft wind moved quietly, toying with the light folds of her dress; a few
heavy drops of rain spattered in the dust. God's heaven had descended in
a mantle of darkness and lay brooding over all the face of the prairies.
And somewhere under that mantle of darkness, somewhere under the heaven
of that same God, was a young man, sturdy and physically strong, but
bearing in his quiet eyes and melancholy mouth a load beyond his years.
How had his "stately mansions" narrowed in!
As high-strung natures will, she sought relief from her mental torment
in physical exercise. Regardless of the darkness and the threatening
rain she walked down the path and out at the gate; her feet found the
hard earth of the country road and she walked rapidly along, caring
little where she went. But the blood, demanded by her exercise, drew
away from the brain; the cool, moist wind salved the fever of her brow,
and presently she turned her footsteps homeward. As she passed the
summer-house a sudden impulse seized her; she entered, laid herself down
on a bench of woven willows, and in a few minutes was lost in sleep.