The Mistress of Bonaventure

"Ormesby!" the name was repeated by several passengers, and I read sudden suspicion in some of the faces, and sympathy in the rest, while one of them, with Western frankness, asked: "You're the Rancher Ormesby we've been reading about?"

"Yes," I answered, making a virtue of necessity. "I am on my way to surrender for trial, and redeem my bail. Now you can understand my hurry."

Several of the passengers nodded, and the dealer said: "It's tolerably plain you can't go like that; they're that proud of themselves in Empress they'd lock you up. So I'll try to find you something in my gripsack. Still, while I concluded you never done the thing, I'd like to hear you say straight off you know nothing about the burning of Gaspard's Trail."

"Then listen a second," I answered. "You have my word for it, that I know no more what caused the fire than you do. You will be able to read my defense in the papers, and I need not go into it here."

"That's enough for me," was the answer. "Now, gentlemen, if you have got anything you can lend my friend here in your valises, I'll guarantee they're either replaced or returned. Some of you know me, and here's my business card."

It may be curious, but I saw that most of those present, and they were all apparently from parts of the prairie, fully credited my statement, and one voiced the sentiments of the rest when he said: "I'll do the best I can. If Mr. Ormesby had played the fire-bug, he wouldn't be so mighty anxious to get back to court again."

The position was humiliating, but no choice was left me. I must either accept the willing offers or enter Empress half naked, and accordingly I made a hasty selection among the garments thrust upon me. Twenty minutes spent in the lavatory, with the colored porter's assistance, produced a comforting change, and when I returned to the car, one of the most generous lenders surveyed me with pride as well as approval.

"You do us credit, Rancher, and you needn't worry about the thanks. We've no use for them," he said. "Hope you'll get off; but if you are sent up for burning down that place, I'll be proud of having helped to outfit a famous man."

Perhaps my face was ludicrous with its mingled expressions of gratitude and disgust at this naïve announcement, for a general laugh went up which I finally joined in, and that hoarse merriment gave me the freedom of the Colonist car. Rude burlesque is interspersed amid many a tragedy, and I had seen much worse situations saved by the grace of even coarse humor. Thereafter no personal questions were asked, and most of my fellow-travelers treated me with a delicacy of consideration which is much less uncommon than one might suppose among the plain, hard-handed men who wrest a living out of the prairie.

Night had closed in some time earlier when I strolled out across the platform of the car and leaned upon the rails of the first-class before it. Tired physically as I was, the nervous restlessness which followed the mental strain would, I think, have held me wakeful, even if there had been anything more than a bare shelf of polished maple, which finds out every aching bone, to sleep on. This, however, was not the case, for those who travel Colonist must bring their own bedding, or do without it. It was a glorious summer night, still and soft and effulgent with the radiance of the full moon which hung low above the prairie, while the sensation of the swift travel was bracing.

There was no doubt that the Accelerated was making up lost time; and the lurching, clanking, pounding, roar of flying wheels, and panting of mammoth engines both soothed and exhilarated me. They were in one sense prosaic and commonplace sounds, but – so it seemed to me that night – in another a testimony to man's dominion over not only plant and beast upon the face of the earth, but also the primeval forces which move the universe. Further, the diapason of the great drivers and Titanic snorting, rising and falling rhythmically amid the pulsating din, broke through the prairie's silence as it were a triumphant hymn of struggle and effort, and toil all-conquering, as dropping the leagues behind it the long train roared on. I knew something of the cost, paid in the sweat of tremendous effort, and part in blood and agony, of the smooth road along which the great machines raced across the continent.

Perhaps I was overstrung, and accordingly fanciful; but I gathered fresh courage, which was, indeed, badly needed, and I had grown partly reassured and tranquil, when the door creaked behind me and there was a light step on the platform. Then, turning suddenly, I found myself within a foot of Lucille Haldane. She was bareheaded. The moon shone on her face, which, as I had dreamed of it, looked at once ethereal and very human under the silvery light. This, at least, was not a fancy born of overtaxed nerves, for while given to heartsome merriment, daring, and occasionally imperious, there was a large share of the spiritual in the character of the girl. Shrewd, she certainly was, yet wholly fresh and innocent, and at times I had seen depths of pity and sympathy which it seemed were not wholly earthly in her eyes. When one can name and number all the mysterious forces that rule the heart or brain of man, it may be possible to tell why, when Beatrice Haldane's idealized image was ever before me, I would have done more for her sister than for any living woman.

We were both a little surprised at the encounter, and I fancied I had seen a momentary shrinking from me in the eyes of the girl. This at once furnished cause for wonder, and hurt me. She had shown no shrinking at our last meeting.

"I did not expect to meet you when I came out for the sake of coolness. Are you going East?" I said.

Lucille Haldane was usually frank in speech, but she now appeared to be perplexed by, and almost to resent, the question. "Yes. I have some business which cannot be neglected in that direction," she said.

"Is Miss Haldane or your father on board the train?" I asked, and Lucille seemed to hesitate before she answered:

"No. My father is in Winnipeg, and Beatrice has gone to Montreal; but Mrs. Hansen, our housekeeper, is here with me."

I was partly, but not altogether, relieved by this information. It was no doubt foolish, but I had been at first afraid that every one of my friends from Bonaventure had seen in what manner I boarded the train. I would have given a good deal to discover whether Lucille had witnessed the spectacle, but I did not quite see how to acquire the knowledge.

"It must be important business which takes you East alone," I said idly – to gain time in which to frame a more leading question; but the words had a somewhat startling effect. A trace of indignation or confusion became visible in the girl's face as she answered: "I have already told you it is business which cannot be neglected; and if you desire any further information I fear I cannot give it to you. Now, suppose we reverse the positions. What has made you so unusually inquisitive to-night, Mr. Ormesby?"

The positions were reversed with a vengeance, somewhat to my disgust. I had neither right nor desire to pry into Lucille Haldane's affairs, and yet felt feverishly anxious to discover how much or how little she had seen at the station. It was no use to reason with myself that this was of no importance, for the fact remained.

"I must apologize if I seemed inquisitive," I said. "It would have been impertinence, but I will make a bargain with you. If you will tell me whether you boarded the cars immediately the train came in, and what seat you took, I will tell you the cause of it."

This struck me as a clever maneuver, for if, as I hoped, she had seen nothing, the story would certainly reach Bonaventure, and it seemed much better that she should hear it first, and carefully toned down, from my own lips. Lucille Haldane's face cleared instantaneously, and there was a note of relief in her laugh.

"Must you always make a bargain? You remember the last," but here she broke off suddenly and favored me with a wholly sympathetic glance. "I did not mean to recall that unfortunate night. You should come to the point always, for you are not brilliant in diplomacy, and shall have without a price the information you so evidently desire. I was standing on the car platform when you rode up to the station."

We are only mortal, and I fear I ground one heel, perhaps audibly, but certainly viciously, into the boards beneath me. Still, I am certain that my lips did not open. Nevertheless, I was puzzled by the sparkle in Lucille Haldane's eyes which the radiant moonlight emphasized. There was more than mischief in it, but what the more consisted of I could not tell. "Have you forgotten the virtues of civilized self-restraint?" she asked demurely.

I could see no cause for these swift changes, which would probably have bewildered any ordinary man, and I made answer: "It may be so; but on this occasion, at least, I said nothing."

Lucille Haldane laughed, and laid her hand lightly on my arm as the cars jolted. "Then you certainly looked it; but I am not blaming you. I saw you ride into the station, and I hardly grasp the reason for so much modesty. I do not know what delayed you, but I know you were trying to redeem the trust your neighbors placed in you."

I was apparently a prey to all disordered fancies that night, for it seemed a desecration that the little white hand should even bear the touch of another man's jacket, and I lifted it gently into my own hard palm. Also, I think I came desperately near stooping and touching it with my lips. Be that as it may, in another second the opportunity was lacking, for Lucille grasped the rails with it some distance away from me, and leaned out over them to watch the sliding prairie, her light dress streaming about her in the whistling draught.

"The cars were very stuffy, and I am glad I came out. It is a perfectly glorious night," she said.

The remark seemed very disconnected, but she was right. The prairie there was dead-level, a vast, rippling silver sea overhung by a spangled vault of softest indigo. In spite of the rattling ballast and puffs of whirled-up dust the lash of cool wind was grateful, and the rush of the clanking cars stirred one's blood. Still, in contrast to their bulk and speed, the slight figure in the fluttering white dress seemed very frail and insecure as it leaned forth from the rails, and I set my teeth when, with a sudden swing and a giddy slanting, we roared across a curving bridge. Before the dark creek whirled behind us I had flung my arm partly around the girl's waist and clenched the rails in front of her.

"I am quite safe," she said calmly, after a curious glance at me. "You look positively startled."

"I was so," I answered, speaking no more than the truth, for the fright had turned me cold; and she once more looked down at the whirling prairie.

"That was very unreasonable. You are not responsible for me."

Perhaps the fright had rendered me temporarily light-headed, for I answered, on impulse: "No; on the other hand, you are responsible for me."

"I?" the girl said quietly, with a demureness which was not all mockery. "How could that be? Such a responsibility would be too onerous for me."

"Why it should be I cannot tell you; but it is the truth," I said. "Twice, when a crisis had to be faced, it was your opinions that turned the scale for me; and I think that, growing hopeless, I should have allowed Lane to rob me and gone elsewhere in search of better fortune had it not been for the courage you infused into me. Once or twice also you pointed the way out of a difficulty, and the clearness of your views was almost startling. The most curious thing is that you are so much younger than I."

I had spoken no more than the truth, and was conscious of a passing annoyance when Lucille Haldane laughed. "There is no overcoming masculine vanity; and I once heard my father say you were in some respects very young for your age," she said. "I am afraid it was presumption, but I don't mind admitting I am glad if any chance word of mine nerved you to continue your resistance." Her voice changed a little as she added: "Of course, that is because your enemy's work is evil, and I think you will triumph yet."

Neither of us spoke again for a time, and I remember reflecting that whoever won Lucille Haldane would have a helpmate to be proud of in this world and perhaps, by virtue of what she could teach him, follow into the next. I could think so the more dispassionately because now both she and her sister were far above me, though, knowing my own kind, I wondered where either could find any man worthy.

So the minutes slipped by while the great express raced on, and blue heavens and silver prairie unrolled themselves before us in an apparently unending panorama. There had been times when I considered such a prospect dreary enough, but it appeared surcharged with a strange glamour that moonlit night.

"Will Miss Haldane return to Bonaventure?" I asked, at length.

"I hardly think so," said the girl. "We have very different tastes, you know; and as father will not keep more than one of us with him, we can both gratify them. Beatrice will leave for England soon, and in all probability will not visit Bonaventure again."

She looked at me with a strange expression as she spoke, and when her meaning dawned on me I was conscious of a heavy shock. I had braced myself to face the inevitable already, but the knowledge was painful nevertheless, and my voice was not quite steady when I said: "You imply that Miss Haldane is to be married shortly?"

"It is not an impossible contingency."

Lucille spoke gravely, and I wondered whether she had guessed the full significance of the intimation. Perhaps my face had grown a little harder, or the tightening of my fingers on the rail betrayed me, for she looked up very sympathetically. "I thought it would be better that you should know."

There was such kindness stamped on her face that my heart went out to her, and it was almost huskily I said: "I thank you. You have keen perceptions."

Lucille smiled gravely. "One could see that you thought much of Beatrice – and I was sorry that it should be so."

Her tone seemed to challenge further speech, and presently I found words again: "It was an impossible dream, almost from the beginning; but I awakened to the reality long ago. Still, nothing can rob me of the satisfaction of having known your sister and you, and your influence has been good for me. One can at least cherish the memory; and even a wholly impossible fancy has its benefits."

The girl colored, and said quietly: "It is not our fault that you overrate us, and one finds the standard others set up for one irksome. And yet you cannot be easily influenced, from what I know."

"Heaven knows how weak and unstable I have been at times, but I learned much that was good for me at Bonaventure, and should, whatever happens, desire to keep your good opinion," I said.

"I think you will always do that," said the girl, moving towards the door. "It is growing late, but before I go I want to ask you to go to your trial to-morrow with a good courage, and not to be astonished at anything you hear or see. If you are, you must try to remember that we Canadians actually are, as our orators tell us, a free people, and that the prairie farmers do not monopolize all our love of justice."

She brushed lightly past me, and the prairie grew dim and desolate as the door clicked to. I had long dreaded the news just given me, but such expectations do not greatly lessen one's sense of loss. Still, it may have been that my senses were too dulled to feel the worst pain, and I sat down on the top step of the platform with my arm through the railing in a state of utter weariness and dejection, which mercifully acted as an anesthetic. How long I watched the moonlit waste sweep past the humming wheels I do not know; but tired nature must have had her way, for it was early morning when a brakeman fell over me, and by the time the resultant altercation was concluded, the clustered roofs of Empress rose out of the prairie.

CHAPTER XXIII

LIBERTY

Sleep had brought me a brief forgetfulness, but the awakening was not pleasant when I painfully straightened my limbs on the jolting platform, while the twin whistles shrieked ahead. Every joint ached from the previous day's exertions, my borrowed garments were clammy with dew, and I shivered in the cold draught that swept past the slowing cars. The sun had not cleared the grayness which veiled the east, and, frowned down upon by huge elevators which rose higher and higher against a lowering sky, the straggling town loomed up depressingly out of the surrounding desolation. The pace grew slower, a thicket of willows choked with empty cans and garbage slid by, then the rails of the stockyards closed in on each hand, and we jolted over the switches into the station, which was built, as usual, not in, but facing, the prairie town.

There was no sign of life in its ill-paved streets, down which the dust wisps danced; bare squares of wooden buildings, devoid of all ornamentation, save for glaring advertisements which emphasized their ugliness, walled them in, and the whole place seemed stamped with the dreariness which characterizes most prairie towns when seen early on a gloomy morning by anybody not in the best of spirits. My fellow-passengers were apparently asleep, but I was the better pleased, having no desire for speech, and I dropped from the platform as soon as the locomotive stopped. Hurrying out of the station, I did not turn around until a row of empty farm wagons hid the track, which action was not without results.

One hotel door stood open, but knowing that its tariff was not in accordance with my finances, I passed it by and patrolled the empty streets until the others, or a dry goods store, should make ready for business. One of the latter did so first, and when I entered a mirror showed that the decision was not unnecessary. The borrowed jacket was far too small, the vest as much too large, while somebody's collar cut chokingly into my sunburnt neck. Still, the prices the sleepy clerk mentioned were prohibitive, and after wasting a little time in somewhat pointed argument – of which he had the better – I strode out of the store, struggling with an inclination to assault him. Western storekeepers are seldom characterized by superfluous civility, and there are disadvantages attached to a life in a country so free that, according to one of its sayings, any man who cannot purchase boots may always walk barefooted.

"I don't know what the outfit you've got on cost you, and shouldn't wonder, by the way it fits, if you got it cheap," he said. "We don't turn out our customers like scarecrows, anyway, and if you'd had the money we would have tried to make a decent show of you."

I was nevertheless able, after almost emptying my purse, to replace at least the vest and jacket at a rival establishment, whose proprietor promised to forward the borrowed articles to their legitimate owners. I afterwards discovered that they never received them.

"You look smart as a city drummer, the top half of you, but it makes the rest look kind of mean. You want to live up to that coat," he said, after a critical survey.

"I can't do it at the price, unless you will take your chances of getting paid when the stock go East," I said; and the dealer shook his head sorrowfully.

"We don't trade that way with strangers, and I don't know you."

I was in a reckless mood, and some puerile impulse prompted me to astonish him. "My name is Henry Ormesby!"

The man positively gasped, and then, with Western keenness, prepared to profit by the opportunity. "I'll fit you out all for nothing if you'll walk round to the photographer's and give me your picture with a notice to stick in the window that you think my things the best in town," he said. "It would be worth money every time the prairie boys come in, and I don't mind throwing a little of it into the bargain."

This was exasperating, but I could not restrain a mirthless laugh; and, leaving the enterprising dealer astonished that any man should refuse such an offer, I hurried out of the store; but by the time the breakfast hour arrived all trace of even sardonic humor had left me. It was with difficulty I had raised sufficient ready money for the journey, and there now remained but two or three silver coins in my pocket, while, remembering that the dealer had been justified in pointing out the desirability of a complete renovation, I reflected gloomily that it would be useless, because, in all probability, the nation would shortly feed and clothe me. I also remembered how I had seen men with heavy chains on their ankles road-making before the public gaze in a British Columbian town.

Meanwhile I was very hungry, and presently sat down to a simple breakfast in a crowded room. While waiting a few minutes my eyes fell on a commercial article in a newspaper, which, while noting a revival of trade, deplored the probable abandonment of much needed railroad extension. The writer appeared well posted, and mentioned the road we hoped so much from as one of the works which would not be undertaken. I laid down the journal with a sigh, and noticed that the men about me were discussing the coming trial.

"I expect they'll send Ormesby up," said one man, between his rapid gulps. "Don't know whether he done it, but he threatened the other fellow, and said he'd see him roasted before he helped; while that match-box would fix most anybody up."

"Well, I don't know," observed a neighbor. "The match-box looks bad; but I guess if I'd been burning a place up I shouldn't have forgotten it. Still, it might be fatal unless he could disown it. As to the other thing, I don't count much on what he said. A real fire-bug would have kept his mouth shut and helped all he was worth instead of saying anything."

"I'm offering five to one he goes up. Any takers?" said the first speaker; and it was significant that, although most Westerners are keen at a bet, nobody offered.

"I'd do it for less, 'cept for the match-box," said one.

I managed to finish my breakfast, feeling thankful that – because (so their appearance suggested) those who sat at meat had driven in from the prairie to enjoy the spectacle – none of them recognized me. The odds, in their opinion, were more than five to one against me, and I agreed with them. Slipping out I found Dixon, and reported my presence to the police; and, after what seemed an endless waiting at the court, it was early afternoon when Dixon said to me: "They'll be ready in five minutes, and I want you to keep a tight rein on your temper, Ormesby. I can do all the fancy talking that is necessary. You can keep your heart up, too. There are going to be surprises for everyone to-day."

I was called in a few minutes, and if the court had been thronged on previous occasions, it was packed to suffocation now. It was a bare, ugly, wood-built room, even dirtier than it was dingy. Neither is there anything impressive, save, perhaps, to the culprit, about the administration of Western justice, and I was thankful for a lethargy which helped me to bear the suspense with outward indifference. Nothing striking marked the first part of the proceedings, and I sat listening to the drawl of voices like one in a dream. Some of the spectators yawned, and some fidgeted, until there was a sudden stir of interest as the name "Thomas Wilkins" rang through the court.

"I guess that's the prosecution's trump ace," said a man beneath me.

I became suddenly intent as this witness took his stand. He was of the usual type of Canadian-born farm hand, bronzed and wiry, but not heavily built, and hazarded what I fancied was a meaning glance at me. I could not understand it, for he seemed at once ashamed and exultant.

"I was hired by Rancher Niven to help him at Gaspard's Trail, and remember the night of the fire well. Guess anybody who'd been trod on by a horse and left with broken bones to roast would," he said; and proceeded to confirm Niven's testimony. This was nothing new, and the interest slackened, but revived again when the witness approached the essential part of his story, and I could hear my own heart thumping more plainly than the slow drawling voice.

"I was round at the wreck of the homestead some time after the fire. Don't know the date, but Niven made a note of it. Kind of precise man he was. The place wasn't all burnt to the ground, and Niven he crawls in under some fallen logs into what had been the kitchen. The door opened right on to the prairie, and anybody could slip in if they wanted to. Niven grabbed at something on the floor. 'Come along and take a look at this,' says he; and I saw it was a silver match-box he held up. There was 'H. Ormesby' not quite worn off it. Niven he prospects some more, and finds a flattened coal-oil tin. Yes, sir, those you are holding up are the very things. 'We don't use that brand of oil, and buy ours in bigger cans,' says he."