The Major
by
Ralph Connor
Part 5 out of 8
"Yes, if you will help me with my things. I am in an awful hurry
and don't want to keep them waiting. Larry, this is Mr. Dean
Wakeham." The young man shook hands with cordial frankness, Larry
with suspicion in his heart.
"Let me have your check, Jane, and I will go and get your trunk,"
said Larry.
"No, you come with me, Larry," said Jane decidedly. "The trunk is
too big for you to handle. Mr. Wakeham, you will get it for me,
won't you, please? I will send a porter to help."
"Gladly, Miss Brown. No, I mean with the deepest pain and regret,"
said Wakeham, going for the trunk while Larry accompanied her in
quest of the minor impedimenta that constituted her own and her
father's baggage.
"Jane, have you any idea how glad I am to see you?" demanded Larry
as they passed into the car.
Jane's radiant smile transformed her face. "Yes, I think so," she
said simply. "But we must hurry. Oh, here is Papa."
Dr. Brown hailed Larry with acclaim. "This is very kind of you, my
dear boy; you have saved us a tedious wait."
"We must hurry, Papa," said Jane, cutting him short. "Mrs. Waring-
Gaunt, who has come for us in her car, has left her brother ill at
home." She marshalled them promptly into the car and soon had them
in line for the motor, bearing the hand baggage and wraps, the
porter following with Jane's own bag. "Thank you, porter," said
Jane, giving him a smile that reduced that functionary to the verge
of grinning imbecility, and a tip which he received with an air of
absent-minded indifference. "Good-bye, porter; you have made us
very comfortable," said Jane, shaking hands with him.
"Thank you, Miss; it shuah is a pleasuah to wait on a young lady
like you, Miss. It shuah is, Miss. Ah wish you a prospec jounay,
Miss, Ah do."
"I wonder what is keeping Mr. Wakeham," said Jane. "I am very
sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. Larry, would you
mind?"
"Certainly not," said Larry, hurrying off toward the baggage car.
In a few minutes Mr. Wakeham appeared with the doleful news that
the trunk was not in the car and must have been left behind.
"I am quite sure it is there," said Jane, setting off herself for
the car, the crestfallen Mr. Wakeham and the porter following
behind her.
At the door of the car the baggage man met her with regretful
apologies. "The trunk must have been left behind."
He was brusquely informed by Jane that she had seen it put on
board.
"Then it must have been put off by mistake at Calgary?" This
suggestion was brushed aside as unworthy of consideration. The
trunk was here in this car, she was sure. This the baggage man and
Mr. Wakeham united in declaring quite impossible. "We have turned
the blasted car upside down," said the latter.
"Impossible?" exclaimed Jane, who had been exploring the dark
recesses of the car. "Why, here it is, I knew it was here."
"Hurrah," cried Larry, "we have got it anyway."
Mr. Wakeham and the baggage man went to work to extricate the trunk
from the lowest tier of boxes. They were wise enough to attempt no
excuse or explanation, and in Jane's presence they felt cribbed,
cabined and confined in the use of such vocabulary as they were
wont to consider appropriate to the circumstances, and in which
they prided themselves as being adequately expert. A small
triumphal procession convoyed the trunk to the motor, Jane leading
as was fitting, Larry and Mr. Wakeham forming the rear guard. The
main body consisted of the porter, together with the baggage man,
who, under a flagellating sense of his incompetence, was so moved
from his wonted attitude of haughty indifference as to the fate of
a piece of baggage committed to his care when once he had
contemptuously hurled it forth from the open door of his car as to
personally aid in conducting by the unusual and humiliating process
of actually handling this particular bit of baggage down a steep
and gravelly bank and over a wire fence and into a motor car.
"Jane's a wonder," confided Larry to Mr. Wakeham.
"She sure is," said that young man. "You cannot slip anything past
her, and she's got even that baggage man tamed and tied and ready
to catch peanuts in his mouth. First time I have seen that done."
"You just wait till she smiles her farewell at him," said Larry,
hugely enjoying the prospect.
Together they stood awaiting the occurrence of this phenomenon.
"Gosh-a-mighty, look at him," murmured Mr. Wakeham. "Takes it like
pie. He'd just love to carry that blasted trunk up the grade and
back to the car, if she gave him the wink. Say, she ain't much to
look at, but somehow she's got me handcuffed and chained to her
chariot wheels. Say," he continued with a shyness not usual with
him, "would you mind introducing me to the party?"
"Come along," said Larry.
The introduction, however, was performed by Jane, who apparently
considered Mr. Wakeham as being under her protection. "Mrs.
Waring-Gaunt, this is Mr. Wakeham. Mr. Wakeham is from Chicago,
but," she hastened to add, "he knows some friends of ours in
Winnipeg."
"So you see I am fairly respectable," said Mr. Wakeham, shaking
hand with Mrs. Waring-Gaunt and Nora.
When the laughter had ceased, Mr. Wakeham said, "If your car were
only a shade larger I should beg hospitality along with Dr. and
Miss Brown."
"Room on the top," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt with a smile, "but it
seems the only place left. You are just passing through, Mr.
Wakeham?"
"Yes, I am going on to Manor Mine."
"Oh, that's only twenty miles down the line."
"Then may I run up to see you?" eagerly asked Mr. Wakeham.
"Certainly, we shall be delighted to see you," said the lady.
"Count on me, then," said the delighted Mr. Wakeham, lifting his
hat in farewell.
Dr. Brown took his place in the front seat beside Mrs. Waring-
Gaunt, the three young people occupying the seat in the rear.
"Who is he?" asked Larry when they had finally got under way.
"A friend of the James Murrays in Winnipeg. You remember them,
don't you? Ethel Murray was in your year. He is very nice indeed,
don't you think so, Papa?" said Jane, appealing to her father.
"Fine young chap," said Dr. Brown with emphasis. "His father is in
mines in rather a big way, I believe. Lives in Chicago, has large
holdings in Alberta coal mines about here somewhere, I fancy. The
young man is a recent graduate from Cornell and is going into his
father's business. He strikes me as an exceptionally able young
fellow." And for at least five miles of the way Dr. Brown
discussed the antecedents, the character, the training, the
prospects of the young American till Larry felt qualified to pass a
reasonably stiff examination on that young man's history, character
and career.
"Now tell me," said Larry to Jane at the first real opening that
offered, "what does this talk about a three days' visit to us mean.
The idea of coming a thousand miles on your first visit to your
friends, some of whom you have not seen for eight years and staying
three days!"
"You see Papa is on his way to Banff," explained Jane, "and then he
goes to the coast and he only has a short time. So we could plan
only for three days here."
"We can plan better than that," said Larry confidently, "but never
mind just now. We shall settle that to-morrow."
The journey home was given to the careful recital of news of
Winnipeg, of the 'Varsity, and of mutual friends. It was like
listening to the reading of a diary to hear Jane bring up to date
the doings and goings and happenings in the lives of their mutual
friends for the past year. Gossip it was, but of such kindly
nature as left no unpleasant taste in the mouth and gave no
unpleasant picture of any living soul it touched.
"Oh, who do you think came to see me two weeks ago? An old friend
of yours, Hazel Sleighter. Mrs. Phillips she is now. She has two
lovely children. Mr. Phillips is in charge of a department in
Eaton's store."
"You don't tell me," cried Larry. "How is dear Hazel? How I loved
her once! I wonder where her father is and Tom and the little
girl. What was her name?"
"Ethel May. Oh, she is married too, in your old home, to Ben--
somebody."
"Ben, big Ben Hopper? Why, think of that kid married."
"She is just my age," said Jane soberly, glad of the dusk of the
falling night. She would have hated to have Larry see the quick
flush that came to her cheek. Why the reference to Ethel May's
marriage should have made her blush she hardly knew, and that
itself was enough to annoy her, for Jane always knew exactly why
she did things.
"And Mr. and Mrs. Sleighter," said Jane, continuing her narrative,
"have gone to Toronto. They have become quite wealthy, Hazel says,
and Tom is with his father in some sort of financial business.
What is it, Papa?"
Dr. Brown suddenly waked up. "What is what, my dear? You will
have to forgive me. This wonderful scenery, these hills here and
those mountains are absorbing my whole attention. So wonderful it
all is that I hardly feel like apologising to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt for
ignoring her."
"Don't think of it," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
"Do you know, Jane," continued Dr. Brown, "that at this present
moment you are passing through scenery of its kind unsurpassed
possibly in the world?"
"I was talking to Larry, Papa," said Jane, and they all laughed at
her.
"I was talking to Jane," said Larry.
"But look at this world about you," continued her father, "and
look, do look at the moon coming up behind you away at the prairie
rim." They all turned about except Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, whose eyes
were glued to the two black ruts before her cutting through the
grass. "Oh, wonderful, wonderful," breathed Dr. Brown. "Would it
be possible to pause, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, at the top of this rise?"
"No," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, "but at the top of the rise beyond,
where you will get the full sweep of the country in both directions."
"Is that where we get your lake, Nora," inquired Jane, "and the
valley beyond up to the mountains?"
"How do you know?" said Nora.
"I remember Larry told me once," she said.
"That's the spot," said Nora. "But don't look around now. Wait
until you are told."
"Papa," said Jane in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, "what is it
that Tom is doing?" Larry shouted.
"Tom, what Tom? Jane, my dear," said Dr. Brown in a pained voice,
"does Tom matter much or any one else in the midst of all this
glory?"
"I think so, Papa," said Jane firmly. "You matter, don't you?
Everybody matters. Besides, we were told not to look until we
reached the top."
"Well, Jane, you are an incorrigible Philistine," said her father,
"and I yield. Tom's father is a broker, and Tom is by way of being
a broker too, though I doubt if he is broking very much. May I
dismiss Tom for a few minutes now?" Again they all laughed.
"I don't see what you are all laughing at," said Jane, and lapsed
into silence.
"Now then," cried Nora, "in three minutes."
At the top of the long, gently rising hill the motor pulled up,
purring softly. They all stood up and gazed around about them.
"Look back," commanded Nora. "It is fifty miles to that prairie
rim there." From their feet the prairie spread itself in long
softly undulating billows to the eastern horizon, the hollows in
shadow, the crests tipped with the silver of the rising moon. Here
and there wreaths of mist lay just above the shadow lines, giving a
ghostly appearance to the hills. "Now look this way," said Nora,
and they turned about. Away to the west in a flood of silvery
light the prairie climbed by abrupt steps, mounting ever higher
over broken rocky points and rocky ledges, over bluffs of poplar
and dark masses of pine and spruce, up to the grey, bare sides of
the mighty mountains, up to their snow peaks gleaming elusive,
translucent, faintly discernible against the blue of the sky. In
the valley immediately at their feet the waters of the little lake
gleamed like a polished shield set in a frame of ebony. "That's
our lake," said Nora, "with our house just behind it in the woods.
And nearer in that little bluff is Mrs. Waring-Gaunts home."
"Papa," said Jane softly, "we must not keep Mrs. Waring-Gaunt."
"Thank you, Jane," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "I fear I must go on."
"Don't you love it?" inquired Larry enthusiastically and with a
touch of impatience in his voice.
"Oh, yes, it is lovely," said Jane.
"But, Jane, you will not get wild over it," said Larry.
"Get wild? I love it, really I do. But why should I get wild over
it. Oh, I know you think, and Papa thinks, that I am awful. He
says I have no poetry in me, and perhaps he is right."
In a few minutes the car stopped at the door of Mrs. Waring-Gaunt's
house. "I shall just run in for a moment," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
"Kathleen will want to see you, and perhaps will go home with you.
I shall send her out."
Out from the vine-shadowed porch into the white light came
Kathleen, stood a moment searching the faces of the party, then
moved toward Dr. Brown with her hands eagerly stretched out. "Oh,
Dr. Brown," she cried, "it is so good to see you here."
"But my dear girl, my dear girl, how wonderful you look! Why, you
have actually grown more beautiful than when we saw you last!"
"Oh, thank you, Dr. Brown. And there is Jane," cried Kathleen,
running around to the other side of the car. "It is so lovely to
see you and so good of you to come to us," she continued, putting
her arms around Jane and kissing her.
"I wanted to come, you know," said Jane.
"Yes, it is Jane's fault entirely," said Dr. Brown. "I confess I
hesitated to impose two people upon you this way, willy-nilly. But
Jane would have it that you would be glad to have us."
"And as usual Jane was right," said Larry with emphasis.
"Yes," said Kathleen, "Jane was right. Jane is a dear to think
that way about us. Dr. Brown," continued Kathleen with a note of
anxiety in her voice, "Mrs. Waring-Gaunt wondered if you would mind
coming in to see her brother. He was wounded with a gunshot in the
arm about ten days ago. Dr. Hudson, who was one of your pupils, I
believe, said he would like to have you see him when you came. I
wonder if you would mind coming in now." Kathleen's face was
flushed and her words flowed in a hurried stream.
"Not at all, not at all," answered the doctor, rising hastily from
the motor and going in with Kathleen.
"Oh, Larry," breathed Jane in a rapture of delight, "isn't she
lovely, isn't she lovely? I had no idea she was so perfectly
lovely." Not the moon, nor the glory of the landscape with all its
wonder of plain and valley and mountain peak had been able to
awaken Jane to ecstasy, but the rare loveliness of this girl, her
beauty, her sweet simplicity, had kindled Jane to enthusiasm.
"Well, Jane, you are funny," said Larry. "You rave and go wild
over Kathleen, and yet you keep quite cool over that most wonderful
view."
"View!" said Jane contemptuously. "No, wait, Larry, let me
explain. I do think it all very wonderful, but I love people.
People after all are better than mountains, and they are more
wonderful too."
"Are they?" said Larry dubiously. "Not so lovely, sometimes."
"Some people," insisted Jane, "are more wonderful than all the
Rocky Mountains together. Look at Kathleen," she cried triumphantly.
"You could not love that old mountain there, could you? But,
Kathleen--"
"Don't know about that," said Larry. "Dear old thing."
"Tell me how Mr. Romayne was hurt," said Jane, changing the subject.
In graphic language Nora gave her the story of the accident with
all the picturesque details, recounting Kathleen's part in it with
appropriate emotional thrills. Jane listened with eyes growing
wider with each horrifying elaboration.
"Do you think his arm will ever be all right?" she inquired
anxiously.
"We do not know yet," said Nora sombrely.
"Nonsense," interrupted Larry sharply. "His arm will be perfectly
all right. You people make me tired with your passion for horrors
and possible horrors."
Nora was about to make a hot reply when Jane inquired quietly,
"What does the doctor say? He ought to know."
"That's just it," said Nora. "He said yesterday he did not like
the look of it at all. You know he did, Larry. Mrs. Waring-Gaunt
told me so. They are quite anxious about it. But we will hear
what Dr. Brown says and then we will know."
But Dr. Brown's report did not quite settle the matter, for after
the approved manner of the profession he declined to commit himself
to any definite statement except that it was a nasty wound, that it
might easily have been worse, and he promised to look in with Dr.
Hudson to-morrow. Meantime he expressed the profound hope that
Mrs. Waring-Gaunt might get them as speedily as was consistent with
safety to their destination, and that supper might not be too long
delayed.
"We can trust Mrs. Waring-Gaunt for the first," said Larry with
confidence, "and mother for the second." In neither the one nor
the other was Larry mistaken, for Mrs. Waring-Gaunt in a very few
minutes discharged both passengers and freight at the Gwynnes'
door, and supper was waiting.
"We greatly appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt," said Dr.
Brown, bowing courteously over her hand. "I shall look in upon
your brother to-morrow morning. I hardly think there is any great
cause for anxiety."
"Oh, thank you, Dr. Brown, I am glad to hear you say that. It
would be very good of you to look in to-morrow."
"Good-night," said Jane, her rare smile illuminating her dark face.
"It was so good of you to come for us. It has been a delightful
ride. I hope your brother will be better to-morrow."
"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "I should be glad to
have you come over to us. I am sure my brother would be glad to
know you."
"Do you think so," said Jane doubtfully. "You know I am not very
clever. I am not like Kathleen or Nora." The deep blue eyes
looked wistfully at her out of the plain little face.
"I am perfectly certain he would love to know you, Jane--if I may
call you so," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, impulsively kissing her.
"Oh, you are so kind," said Jane. "I will come then to-morrow."
The welcome to the Gwynne home was without fuss or effusiveness but
had the heart quality that needs no noisy demonstration.
"We are glad to have you with us at Lakeside Farm," said Mr. Gwynne
heartily, as he ushered Dr. Brown and Jane into the big living
room, where his wife stood waiting.
"You are welcome to us, Dr. Brown," said the little lady. And
something in the voice and manner made Dr. Brown know that the
years that had passed since his first meeting with her had only
deepened the feeling of gratitude and affection in her heart toward
him. "We have not forgotten nor shall we ever forget your kindness
to us when we were strangers passing through Winnipeg, nor your
goodness to Larry and Kathleen while in Winnipeg. They have often
told us of your great kindness."
"And you may be quite sure, Mrs. Gwynne," said Dr. Brown heartily,
"that Larry brought his welcome with him, and as for Kathleen, we
regard her as one of our family."
"And this is Jane," said Mrs. Gwynne. "Dear child, you have grown.
But you have not changed. Come away to your room."
Once behind the closed door she put her arms around the girl and
kissed her. Then, holding her at arm's length, scrutinised her
face with searching eyes. "No," she said again with a little sigh
of relief, "you have not changed. You are the same dear, wise girl
I learned to love in Winnipeg."
"Oh, I am glad you think I am not changed, Mrs. Gwynne," said Jane,
with a glow of light in her dark blue eyes. "I do not like people
to change and I would hate to have you think me changed. I know,"
she added shyly, "I feel just the same toward you and the others
here. But oh, how lovely they are, both Kathleen and Nora."
"They are good girls," said Mrs. Gwynne quietly, "and they have
proved good girls to me."
"I know, I know," said Jane, with impulsive fervour, "and through
those winters and all. Oh, they were so splendid."
"Yes," said the mother, "they never failed, and Larry too."
"Yes, indeed," cried Jane with increasing ardour, her eyes shining,
"with his teaching,--going there through the awful cold,--lighting
the school fires,--and the way he stuck to his college work.
Nora's letters told me all about it. How splendid that was! And
you know, Mrs. Gwynne, in the 'Varsity he did so well. I mean
besides his standing in the class lists, in the Societies and in
all the college life. He was really awfully popular," added Jane
with something of a sigh.
"You must tell me, dear, sometime all about it. But now you must
be weary and hungry. Come away out if you are ready, and I hope
you will feel as if you were just one of ourselves."
"Do you know, that is just the way I feel, Mrs. Gwynne," said Jane,
putting the final touch to her toilet. "I seem to know the house,
and everything and everybody about it. Nora is such a splendid
correspondent, you see."
"Well, dear child, we hope the days you spend here will always be a
very bright spot in your life," said Mrs. Gwynne as they entered
the living room.
The next few days saw the beginning of the realisation of that
hope, for of all the bright spots in Jane's life none shone with a
brighter and more certain lustre than the days of her visit to
Lakeside Farm.
CHAPTER XVI
HOSPITALITY WITHOUT GRUDGING
By arrangement made the previous evening Jane was awake before the
family was astir and in Nora's hands preparing for a morning ride
with Larry, who was to give her her first lesson in equitation.
"Your habit will be too big for me, Nora, I am afraid," she said.
"Habit!" cried Nora. "My pants, you mean. You can pull them up,
you know. There they are."
"Pants!" gasped Jane. "Pants! Nora, pants! Do you mean to say
you wear these things where all the men will see you?" Even in the
seclusion of her bedroom Jane's face at the thought went a fiery
red. Nora laughed at her scornfully. "Oh, but I can't possibly go
out in these before Larry. I won't ride at all. Haven't you a
skirt, a regular riding habit?"
But Nora derided her scruples. "Why, Jane, we all wear them here."
"Does Kathleen?"
"Of course she does, and Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, and everybody."
"Oh, she might, but I am sure your mother would not."
Nora shouted joyfully. "Well, that is true, she never has, but
then she has never ridden out here. Put them on, hurry up, your
legs are straight enough, your knees don't knock."
"Oh, Nora, they are just terrible," said Jane, almost in tears. "I
know I will just squat down if Larry looks at me."
"Why should he look at you? Don't you ever let on but that you
have worn them often, and he will never think of looking at you."
In face of many protests Jane was at length arrayed in her riding
apparel.
"Why, you look perfectly stunning," said Nora. "You have got just
the shape for them. Pull them up a little. There, that is better.
Now step out and let me see you."
Jane walked across the room and Nora rocked in laughter. "Oh,
Nora, I will just take them off. You are as mean as you can be.
I will pull them off."
"Not a bit," said Nora, still laughing, "only stretch your legs a
bit when you walk. Don't mince along. Stride like a man. These
men have had all the fun in the matter of clothes. I tell you it
was one of the proudest moments of my life when I saw my own legs
walking. Now step out and swing your arms. There, you are fine, a
fine little chap, Jane, round as a barrel, and neat as a ballet
dancer, although I never saw one except in magazines."
Trim and neat Jane looked, the riding suit showing off the
beautiful lines of her round, shapely figure. Shrinking, blushing,
and horribly conscious of her pants, Jane followed Nora from her
bedroom. A swift glance she threw around the room. To her joy it
was empty but for Mrs. Gwynne, who was ready with a big glass of
rich milk and a slice of home-made bread and delicious butter.
"Good morning, my dear," said Mrs. Gwynne, kissing her. "You will
need something before you ride. You will have breakfast after your
return."
Jane went close to her and stood beside her, still blushing. "Oh,
thank you," she cried, "I am really hungry already. I hope I won't
get killed. I never was on a horse before, you know."
"Oh, never fear, Lawrence is very careful. If it were Nora now I
would not be so sure about you, but Lawrence is quite safe."
At this point Larry came in. "Well, Jane, all ready? Good for
you. I like a girl that is always on time."
"How do you like her pants, Larry?" said Nora, wickedly.
"Perfectly splendiferous," cried Larry.
"Oh, you mean thing, Nora," cried Jane, dropping hurriedly into a
chair with scarlet face and indignant eyes.
"Come along, Jane, old chap, don't mind her. Those pants never
looked so well before, I assure you. We are going to have a great
time. I guarantee that in a few minutes you will be entirely
oblivious of such trivial things as mere pants."
They all passed out into the front yard to see Jane mount and take
her first lesson.
"This is Polly," said Larry. "She has taught us all to ride, and
though she has lost her shape a bit, she has still 'pep' enough to
decline to take a dare."
"What do I do?" said Jane, gazing fearfully at the fat and
shapeless Polly.
"There is just one rule in learning to ride," said Larry, "step on
and stick there. Polly will look after the rest."
"Step on--it is easy to say, but--"
"This way," said Nora. She seized hold of the horn of the saddle,
put her foot into the stirrup and sprang upon Polly's back. "Oh,
there's where the pants come in," she added as her dress caught on
to the rear of the saddle. "Now up you go. Make up your mind you
are going to DO it, not going to TRY."
A look of serious determination came into Jane's face, a look that
her friends would have recognised as the precursor of a resolute
and determined attempt to achieve the thing in hand. She seized
the horn of the saddle, put her foot into the stirrup and "stepped
on."
The riding lesson was an unqualified success, though for some
reason, known only to herself, Polly signalised the event by
promptly running away immediately her head was turned homeward, and
coming back down the lane at a thundering gallop.
"Hello!" cried Nora, running out to meet them. "Why, Jane, you
have been fooling us all along. You needn't tell me this is your
first ride."
"My very first," said Jane, "but I hope not my last."
"But, my dear," said Mrs. Gwynne, who had also come out to see the
return, "you are doing famously."
"Am I?" cried Jane, her face aglow and her eyes shining. "I think
it is splendid. Shall we ride again to-day, Larry?"
"Right away after breakfast and all day long if you like. You are
a born horsewoman, Jane."
"Weren't you afraid when Polly ran off with you like that?"
inquired Nora.
"Afraid? I didn't know there was any danger. Was there any?"
inquired Jane.
"Not a bit," said Nora, "so long as you kept your head."
"But there really was no danger, was there, Larry?" insisted Jane.
"None at all, Jane," said Nora, "I assure you. Larry got rattled
when he saw you tear off in that wild fashion, but I knew you would
be all right. Come in; breakfast is ready."
"And so am I," said Jane. "I haven't been so hungry I don't know
when."
"Why, she's not plain-looking after all," said Nora to her mother
as Jane strode manlike off to her room.
"Plain-looking?" exclaimed her mother. "I never thought her plain-
looking. She has that beauty that shines from within, a beauty
that never fades, but grows with every passing year."
A council of war was called by Nora immediately after breakfast, at
which plans were discussed for the best employment of the three
precious days during which the visitors were to be at the ranch.
There were so many things to be done that unless some system were
adopted valuable time would be wasted.
"It appears to me, Miss Nora," said Dr. Brown after a somewhat
prolonged discussion, "that to accomplish all the things that you
have suggested, and they all seem not only delightful but necessary,
we shall require at least a month of diligent application."
"At the very least," cried Nora.
"So what are we going to do?" said the doctor.
It was finally decided that the Browns should extend their stay at
Lakeside House for a week, after which the doctor should proceed to
the coast and be met on his return at Banff by Jane, with Nora as
her guest.
"Then that's all settled," said Larry. "Now what's for to-day?"
As if in answer to that question a honk of a motor car was heard
outside. Nora rushed to the door, saying, "That's Mrs. Waring-
Gaunt." But she returned hastily with heightened colour.
"Larry," she said, "it's that Mr. Wakeham."
"Wakeham," cried Larry. "What's got him up so early, I wonder?"
with a swift look at Jane.
"I wonder," said Nora, giving Jane a little dig.
"I thought I would just run up and see if you had all got home
safely last night," they heard his great voice booming outside to
Larry.
"My, but he is anxious," said Nora.
"But who is he, Nora?" inquired her mother.
"A friend of Jane's, and apparently terribly concerned about her
welfare."
"Stop, Nora," said Jane, flushing a fiery red. "Don't be silly.
He is a young man whom we met on the train, Mrs. Gwynne, a friend
of some of our Winnipeg friends."
"We shall be very glad to have him stay with us, my dear," said
Mrs. Gwynne. "Go and bring him in."
"Go on, Jane," said Nora.
"Now, Nora, stop it," said Jane. "I will get really cross with
you. Hush, there he is."
The young man seemed to fill up the door with his bulk. "Mr.
Wakeham," said Larry, as the young fellow stood looking around on
the group with a frank, expansive smile upon his handsome face. As
his eye fell upon a little lady the young man seemed to come to
attention. Insensibly he appeared to assume an attitude of greater
respect as he bowed low over her hand.
"I hope you will pardon my coming here so early in the morning," he
said with an embarrassed air. "I have the honour of knowing your
guests."
"Any friend of our guests is very welcome here, Mr. Wakeham," said
Mrs. Gwynne, smiling at him with gentle dignity.
"Good morning, Mr. Wakeham," said Jane, coming forward with
outstretched hand. "You are very early in your calls. You could
not have slept very much."
"No, indeed," replied Mr. Wakeham, "and that is one reason why I
waked so early. My bed was not so terribly attractive."
"Oh," exclaimed Nora in a disappointed tone, as she shook hands
with him, "we thought you were anxious to see us."
"Quite right," said the young man, holding her hand and looking
boldly into her eyes. "I have come to see you."
Before his look Nora's saucy eyes fell and for some unaccountable
reason her usually ready speech forsook her. Mr. Wakeham fell into
easy conversation with Mr. Gwynne and Dr. Brown concerning mining
matters, in which he was especially interested. He had spent an
hour about the Manor Mine and there he had heard a good deal about
Mr. Gwynne's mine and was anxious to see that if there were no
objections. He wondered if he might drive Mr. Gwynne--and indeed,
he had a large car and would be glad to fill it up with a party if
any one cared to come. He looked at Mrs. Gwynne as he spoke.
"Yes, Mother, you go. It is such a lovely day," said Nora
enthusiastically, "and Jane can go with you."
"Jane is going riding," said Larry firmly.
"I am going to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt's," said Jane. "I arranged with
her last night."
While they were settling Mrs. Gwynne's protests, and covered by the
noise of conversation, Mr. Wakeham managed to get close to Nora.
"I want you to come," he said in a low voice. "That's what I came
for."
Startled and confused by this extraordinary announcement, Nora
could think of no answer.
"I think you were to show me the mine," he added. Then while Nora
gasped at him, he said aloud, "My car is a seven passenger, so we
can take quite a party."
"Why not Kathleen?" suggested Jane.
"Yes, indeed, Kathleen might like to go," said Mrs. Gwynne.
"Then let's all go," cried Nora.
"Thank you awfully," murmured Mr. Wakeham. "We shall only be two
or three hours at most," continued Nora. "We shall be back in time
for lunch."
"For that matter," said Mr. Gwynne, "we can lunch at the mine."
"Splendid," cried Nora. "Come along. We'll run up with you to the
Waring-Gaunts' for Kathleen," she added to Mr. Wakeham.
At the Waring-Gaunts' they had some difficulty persuading Kathleen
to join the party, but under the united influence of Jack and his
sister, she agreed to go.
"Now then," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, "you have your full party, Mr.
Wakeham--Mr. and Mrs. Gwynne, Dr. Brown, and the three girls."
"What about me?" said Larry dolefully.
"I shall stay with you," cried Nora, evading Mr. Wakeham's eyes.
"No, Nora," said Jane in a voice of quiet decision. "Last night
Mrs. Waring-Gaunt and I arranged that I should visit her to-day."
There was a loud chorus of protests, each one making an alternative
suggestion during which Jane went to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt's side and
said quietly, "I want to stay with you to-day."
"All right, dear," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "Stay you shall." And,
then to the company announced, "We have it all arranged. Jane and
I are to have a visit together. The rest of you go off."
"And what about me, Jane?" again said Larry.
"You are going with the others," said Jane calmly, "and in the
afternoon we are to have our ride."
"And this is Jane," said Jack Romayne as Mrs. Waring-Gaunt ushered
the girl into his room. "If half of what I have heard is true then
I am a lucky man to-day. Kathleen has been telling me about you."
Jane's smile expressed her delight. "I think I could say the same
of you, Mr. Romayne."
"What? Has Kathleen been talking about me?"
"No, I have not seen Kathleen since I came, but there are others,
you know."
"Are there?" asked Jack. "I hadn't noticed. But I know all about
you."
It was a hasty introduction for Jane. Kathleen was easily a
subject for a day's conversation. How long she discoursed upon
Kathleen neither of them knew. But when Mrs. Waring-Gaunt had
finished up her morning household duties Jane was still busy
dilating upon Kathleen's charms and graces and expatiating upon her
triumphs and achievements during her stay in Winnipeg the previous
winter.
"Still upon Kathleen?" inquired Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
"Oh, I am learning a great deal and enjoying myself immensely,"
said Jack.
"You must be careful, Jane. Don't tell Jack everything about
Kathleen. There are certain things we keep to ourselves, you know.
I don't tell Tom everything."
Jane opened her eyes. "I have not told Jane yet, Sybil," said Jack
quietly. "She doesn't know, though perhaps she has guessed how
dear to me Kathleen is."
"Had you not heard?" inquired Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
"No, I only came last night, you see." Then turning to Jack, she
added, "And is--is Kathleen going to marry you?" Her astonishment
was evident in her voice and eyes.
"I hope so," said Jack, "and you are no more astonished than I am
myself. I only found it out night before last."
It was characteristic of Jane that she sat gazing at him in
silence; her tongue had not learned the trick of easy compliment.
She was trying to take in the full meaning of this surprising
announcement.
"Well?" said Jack after he had waited for some moments.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said hurriedly. "I congratulate you.
I think you are a very lucky man."
"I am, indeed," said Jack with emphasis. "And Kathleen? You are
not so sure about her luck?"
"Well, I don't know you yet," said Jane gravely, "and Kathleen is a
very lovely girl, the very loveliest girl I know."
"You are quite right," said Jack in a tone as grave as her own. "I
am not good enough for her."
"Oh, I did not say that. Only I don't know you, and you see I know
Kathleen. She is so lovely and so good. I love her." Jane's face
was earnest and grave.
"And so do I, Jane, if I may call you so," said Jack, "and I am
going to try to be worthy of her."
Jane's eyes rested quietly on his face. She made up her mind that
it was an honest face and a face one could trust, but to Jane it
seemed as if something portentous had befallen her friend and she
could not bring herself immediately to accept this new situation
with an outburst of joyous acclaim such as ordinarily greets an
announcement of this kind. For a reason she could not explain her
mind turned to the memory she cherished of her own mother and of
the place she had held with her father. She wondered if this man
could give to Kathleen a place so high and so secure in his heart.
While her eyes were on his face Jack could see that her mind was
far away. She was not thinking of him.
"What is it, Jane?" he said gently.
Jane started and the blood rushed to her face. She hesitated, then
said quietly but with charming frankness, "I was thinking of my
mother. She died when I was two years old. Father says I am like
her. But I am not at all. She was very lovely. Kathleen makes me
think of her, and father often tells me about her. He has never
forgotten her. You see I think he loved her in quite a wonderful
way, and he--" Jane paused abruptly.
Mrs. Waring-Gaunt rose quietly, came to her side. "Dear Jane, dear
child," she said, kissing her. "That's the only way to love. I am
sure your mother was a lovely woman, and a very happy woman, and
you are like her."
But Jack kept his face turned away from them.
"Oh, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt," cried Jane, shaking her head emphatically,
"I am not the least bit like her. That is one of the points on
which I disagree with father. We do not agree upon everything, you
know."
"No? What are some of the other points?"
"We agree splendidly about Kathleen," said Jane, laughing. "Just
now we differ about Germany."
"Aha, how is that?" inquired Jack, immediately alert.
"Of course, I know very little about it, you understand, but last
winter our minister, Mr. McPherson, who had just been on a visit to
Germany the summer before, gave a lecture in which he said that
Germany had made enormous preparations for war and was only waiting
a favourable moment to strike. Papa says that is all nonsense."
"Oh, Jane, Jane," cried Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, "you have struck upon a
very sore spot in this house. Jack will indorse all your minister
said. He will doubtless go much further."
"What did he say, Jane?" inquired Jack.
"He was greatly in earnest and he urged preparation by Canada. He
thinks we ought at the very least to begin getting our fleet ready
right away."
"That's politics, of course," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, "and I do
not know what you are."
"I am not sure that I do either," she replied, "but I believe too
that Canada ought to get at her fleet without loss of time."
"But what did he say about Germany?" continued Jack.
"I can't tell you everything, of course, but he assured us that
Germany had made the greatest possible preparation, that the
cities, towns and villages were full of drilling men; that there
were great stores of war material, guns and shells, everywhere
throughout Germany; that they were preparing fleets of Zeppelins
and submarines too; that they were ready to march at twenty-four
hours' notice; that the whole railroad system of Germany was
organised, was really built for war; that within the last few years
the whole nation had come to believe that Germany must go to war in
order to fulfil her great destiny. Father says that this is all
foolish talk, and that all this war excitement is prompted chiefly
by professional soldiers, like Lord Roberts and others, and by
armament makers like the Armstrongs and the Krupps."
"What do you think about it all, Jane?" inquired Jack, looking at
her curiously.
"Well, he had spent some months in Germany and had taken pains
to inquire of all kinds of people, officers and professors and
preachers and working people and politicians, and so I think he
ought to know better than others who just read books and the
newspapers, don't you think so?"
"I think you are entirely right, and I hope that minister of yours
will deliver that lecture in many places throughout this country,
for there are not many people, even in England, who believe in the
reality of the German menace. But this is my hobby, my sister
says, and I don't want to bore you."
"But I am really interested, Mr. Romayne. Papa laughs at me, and
Larry too. He does not believe in the possibility of war. But I
think that if there is a chance, even the slightest chance, of it
being true, it is so terrible that we all ought to be making
preparation to defend ourselves."
"Well, if it won't bore you," said Jack, "I shall tell you a few
things."
"Then excuse me," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "I have some matters to
attend to. I have no doubt that you at least, Jack, will have a
perfectly lovely time."
"I am sure I shall too," cried Jane enthusiastically. "I just want
to hear about this."
"Will you please pass me that green book?" said Jack, after Mrs.
Waring-Gaunt had left the room. "No, the next one. Yes. The
first thing that it is almost impossible for us Britishers to get
into our minds is this, that Germany, not simply the Kaiser and the
governing classes, but the whole body of the German people, take
themselves and their empire and their destiny with most amazing
seriousness. Listen to this, for instance. This will give you, I
say, the psychological condition out of which war may easily and
naturally arise." He turned the leaves of the book and read:
"'To live and expand at the expense of other less meritorious
peoples finds its justification in the conviction that we are of
all people the most noble and the most pure, destined before others
to work for the highest development of humanity.'
"One of their poets--I haven't got him here--speaks of the 'German
life curing all the evils of humanity by mere contact with it.'
You see that row of books? These are only a few. Most of them are
German. They are all by different authors and on different
subjects, but they are quite unanimous in setting forth the German
ideal, the governing principle of German World politics. They are
filled with the most unbelievable glorification of Germany and the
German people, and the most extraordinary prophecies as to her
wonderful destiny as a World Power. Unhappily the German has no
sense of humour. A Britisher talking in this way about his country
would feel himself to be a fool. Not so the German. With a
perfectly serious face he will attribute to himself and to his
nation all the virtues in the calendar. For instance, listen to
this:
"'Domination belongs to Germany because it is a superior nation, a
noble race, and it is fitting that it should control its neighbours
just as it is the right and duty of every individual endowed with
superior intellect and force to control inferior individuals about
him.'
"Here's another choice bit:
"'We are the superior race in the fields of science and of art. We
are the best colonists, the best sailors, the best merchants.'
"That's one thing. Then here's another. For many years after his
accession I believe the Kaiser was genuinely anxious to preserve
the peace of Europe and tried his best to do so, though I am bound
to say that at times he adopted rather peculiar methods, a mingling
of bullying and intrigue. But now since 1904--just hand me that
thin book, please. Thank you--the Kaiser has changed his tone.
For instance, listen to this:
"'God has called us to civilise the world. We are the missionaries
of human progress.'
"And again this:
"'The German people will be the block of granite on which our Lord
will be able to elevate and achieve the civilisation of the world.'
"But I need not weary you with quotations. The political literature
of Germany for the last fifteen years is saturated with this spirit.
The British people dismiss this with a good-natured smile of
contempt. To them it is simply an indication of German bad
breeding. If you care I shall have a number of these books sent
you. They are somewhat difficult to get. Indeed, some of them
cannot be had in English at all. But you read German, do you not?
Kathleen told me about your German prize."
"I do, a little. But I confess I prefer the English," said Jane
with a little laugh.
"The chief trouble, however, is that so few English-speaking people
care to read them. But I assure you that the one all-absorbing
topic of the German people is this one of Germany's manifest
destiny to rule and elevate the world. And remember these two
things go together. They have no idea of dominating the world
intellectually or even commercially--but perhaps you are sick of
this."
"Not at all. I am very greatly interested," said Jane.
"Then I shall just read you one thing more. The German has no idea
that he can benefit a nation until he conquers it. Listen to this:
"'The dominion of German thought can only be extended under the
aegis of political power, and unless we act in conformity to this
idea we shall be untrue to out great duties toward the human
race.'"
"I shall be very glad to get those books," said Jane, "and I wish
you would mark some of these passages. And I promise you I shall
do all I can to make all my friends read them. I shall begin with
Papa and Larry. They are always making fun of me and my German
scare."
"I can quite understand that," replied Jack. "That is a very
common attitude with a great majority of the people of England to-
day. But you see I have been close to these things for years, and
I have personal knowledge of many of the plans and purposes in the
minds of the German Kaiser and the political and military leaders
of Germany, and unhappily I know too the spirit that dominates the
whole body of the German people."
"You lived in Germany for some years?"
"Yes, for a number of years."
"And did you like the life there?"
"In many ways I did. I met some charming Germans, and then there
is always their superb music."
And for an hour Jack Romayne gave his listener a series of vivid
pictures of his life in Germany and in other lands for the past ten
years, mingling with personal reminiscences incidents connected
with international politics and personages. He talked well, not
only because his subject was a part of himself, but also because
Jane possessed that rare ability to listen with intelligence and
sympathy. Never had she met with a man who had been in such
intimate touch with the world's Great Affairs and who was possessed
at the same time of such brilliant powers of description.
Before either of them was aware the party from the mine had
returned.
"We have had a perfectly glorious time," cried Nora as she entered
the room with her cheeks and eyes glowing.
"So have we, Miss Nora," said Jack. "In fact, I had not the
slightest idea of the flight of time."
"You may say so," exclaimed Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "These two have
been so utterly absorbed in each other that my presence in the room
or absence from it was a matter of perfect indifference. And how
Jane managed it I don't know, but she got Jack to do for her what
he has never done for me. He has actually been giving her the
story of his life."
Jane stood by listening with a smile of frank delight on her face.
"How did you do it, Jane?" asked Kathleen shyly. "He has never
told me."
"Oh, I just listened," said Jane.
"That's a nasty jar for you others," said Nora.
"But he told me something else, Kathleen," said Jane with a bright
blush, "and I am awfully glad." As she spoke she went around to
Kathleen and, kissing her, said, "It is perfectly lovely for you
both."
"Oh, you really mean that, do you?" said Jack. "You know she was
exceedingly dubious of me this morning."
"Well, I am not now," said Jane. "I know you better, you see."
"Thank God," said Jack fervently. "The day has not been lost. You
will be sure to come again to see me," he added as Jane said good-
bye.
"Yes, indeed, you may be quite sure of that," replied Jane, smiling
brightly back at him as she left the room with Nora.
"What a pity she is so plain," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt when she had
returned from seeing Jane on her way with Nora and Mr. Wakeham.
"My dear Sybil, you waste your pity," said her brother. "That
young lady is so attractive that one forgets whether she is plain
or not. I can't quite explain her fascination for me. There's
perfect sincerity to begin with. She is never posing. And perfect
simplicity. And besides that she is so intellectually keen, she
keeps one alive."
"I just love her," said Kathleen. "She has such a good heart."
"You have said it," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, "and that is why Jane
will never lose her charm."
CHAPTER XVII
THE TRAGEDIES OF LOVE
When the week had fled Dr. Brown could hardly persuade himself and
his hosts at Lakeside Farm that the time had come for his departure
to the coast. Not since he had settled down to the practice of his
profession at Winnipeg more than twenty years ago had such a
holiday been his. Alberta, its climate, its life of large spaces
and far visions, its hospitable people, had got hold of him by so
strong a grip that in parting he vowed that he would not await an
opportunity but make one to repeat his visit to the ranch. And so
he departed with the understanding that Jane should follow him to
Banff ten days later with her friend Nora.
The ten days were to Jane as a radiant, swiftly moving dream. Yet
with so much to gratify her, one wish had remained ungratified.
Though from early morning until late night she had ridden the
ranges now with one and now with another, but for the most part
with Larry, Jane had never "done the mine."
"And I just know I shall go away without seeing that mine, and
Winnipeg people will be sure to ask me about it, and what shall I
say? And I have never seen that wonderful secretary, Mr. Switzer,
either."
"To-morrow," said Larry solemnly, "no matter what happens we shall
have you see that mine and the wonderful Mr. Switzer."
It was the seeing of Mr. Switzer that brought to Jane the only
touch of tragedy to the perfect joy of her visit to Alberta. Upon
arrival at the mine she was given over by Larry to Mr. Switzer's
courteous and intelligent guidance, and with an enthusiasm that
never wearied, her guide left nothing of the mine outside or in, to
which with painstaking minuteness he failed to call her attention.
It was with no small degree of pride that Mr. Switzer explained all
that had been accomplished during the brief ten weeks during which
the mine had been under his care. For although it was quite true
that Mr. Steinberg was the manager, Switzer left no doubt in Jane's
mind, as there was none in his own, that the mine owed its present
state of development to his driving energy and to his organising
ability. Jane readily forgave him his evident pride in himself as
he exclaimed, sweeping his hand toward the little village that lay
along the coolee,
"Ten weeks ago, Miss Brown, there was nothing here but a little
black hole in the hillside over there. To-day look at it. We have
a company organised, a village built and equipped with modern
improvements, water, light, drainage, etc. We are actually digging
and shipping coal. It is all very small as yet, but it is
something to feel that a beginning has been made."
"I think it is really quite a remarkable achievement, Mr. Switzer.
And I feel sure that I do not begin to know all that this means.
They all say that you have accomplished great things in the short
time you have been at work."
"We are only beginning," said Switzer again, "but I believe we
shall have a great mine. It will be a good thing--for the Gwynnes,
I mean--and that is worth while. Of course, my own money is
invested here too and I am working for myself, but I assure you
that I chiefly think of them. It is a joy, Miss Brown, to work for
those you love."
"It is," replied Jane, slightly puzzled at this altruistic point of
view; "The Gwynnes are dear people and I am glad for their sakes.
I love them."
"Yes," continued Switzer, "this will be a great mine. They will be
wealthy some day."
"That will be splendid," said Jane. "You see I have only got to
know them well during this visit. Nine years ago I met them in
Winnipeg when I was a little girl. Of course, Kathleen was with us
a great deal last winter. I got to know her well then. She is so
lovely, and she is lovelier now than ever. She is so happy, you
know."
Switzer looked puzzled. "Happy? Because you are here?"
"No, no. Because of her engagement. Haven't you heard? I thought
everybody knew."
Switzer stood still in his tracks. "Her engagement?" he said in a
hushed voice. "Her engagement to--to that"--he could not apparently
get the word out without a great effort--"that Englishman?"
Looking at his white face and listening to his tense voice, Jane
felt as if she were standing at the edge of a mine that might
explode at any moment.
"Yes, to Mr. Romayne," she said, and waited, almost holding her
breath.
"It is not true!" he shouted. "It's a lie. Ha, Ha." Switzer's
laugh was full of incredulous scorn. "Engaged? And how do YOU
know?" He swung fiercely upon her, his eyes glaring out of a face
ghastly white.
"I am sorry I said anything, Mr. Switzer. It was not my business
to speak of it," said Jane quietly. "But I thought you knew."
Gradually the thing seemed to reach his mind. "Your business?" he
said. "What difference whose business it is? It is not true. I
say it is not true. How do you know? Tell me. Tell me. Tell
me." He seized her by the arm, and at each "Tell me" shook her
violently.
"You are hurting me, Mr. Switzer," said Jane.
He dropped her arm. "Then, my God, will you not tell me? How do
you know?"
"Mr. Switzer, believe me it is true," said Jane, trying to speak
quietly, though she was shaking with excitement and terror. "Mr.
Romayne told me, they all told me, Kathleen told me. It is quite
true, Mr. Switzer."
He stared at her as if trying to take in the meaning of her words,
then glared around him like a hunted animal seeking escape from a
ring of foes, then back at her again. There were workmen passing
close to them on the path, but he saw nothing of them. Jane was
looking at his ghastly face. She was stricken with pity for him.
"Shall we walk on this way?" she said, touching his arm.
He shook off her touch but followed her away from the busy track of
the workers, along a quieter path among the trees. Sheltered from
observation, she slowed her steps and turned towards him.
"She loves him?" he said in a low husky voice. "You say she loves
him?"
"Yes, Mr. Switzer, she loves him," said Jane. "She cannot help
herself. No one can help one's self. You must not blame her for
that, Mr. Switzer."
"She does not love me," said Switzer as if stunned by the utterly
inexplicable phenomenon. "But she did once," he cried. "She did
before that schwein came." No words could describe the hate and
contempt in his voice. He appeared to concentrate his passions
struggling for expression, love, rage, hate, wounded pride, into
one single stream of fury. Grinding his teeth, foaming, sputtering,
he poured forth his words in an impetuous torrent.
"He stole her from me! this schwein of an Englishman! He came like
a thief, like a dog and a dog's son and stole her! She was mine!
She would have been mine! She loved me! She was learning to love
me. I was too quick with her once, but she had forgiven me and was
learning to love me. But this pig!" He gnashed his teeth upon the
word.
"Stop, Mr. Switzer," said Jane, controlling her agitation and her
terror. "You must not speak to me like that. You are forgetting
yourself."
"Forgetting myself!" he raged, his face livid blue and white.
"Forgetting myself! Yes, yes! I forget everything but one thing.
That I shall not forget. I shall not forget him nor how he stole
her from me. Gott in Himmel! Him I shall never forget. No, when
these hairs are white," he struck his head with his clenched fist,
"I shall still remember and curse him." Abruptly he stayed the
rush of his words. Then more deliberately but with an added
intensity of passion he continued, "But no, never shall he have
her. Never. God hears me. Never. Him I will kill, destroy." He
had wrought himself up into a paroxysm of uncontrollable fury, his
breath came in jerking gasps, his features worked with convulsive
twitchings, his jaws champed and snapped upon his words like a
dog's worrying rats.
To Jane it seemed a horrible and repulsive sight, yet she could not
stay her pity from him. She remembered it was love that had moved
him to this pitch of madness. Love after all was a terrible thing.
She could not despise him. She could only pity. Her very silence
at length recalled him. For some moments he stood struggling to
regain his composure. Gradually he became aware that her eyes were
resting on his face. The pity in her eyes touched him, subdued
him, quenched the heat of his rage.
"I have lost her," he said, his lips quivering. "She will never
change."
"No, she will never change," replied Jane gently. "But you can
always love her. And she will be happy."
"She will be happy?" he exclaimed, looking at her in astonishment.
"But she will not be mine."
"No, she will not be yours," said Jane still very gently, "but she
will be happy, and after all, that is what you most want. You are
anxious chiefly that she shall be happy. You would give everything
to make her happy."
"I would give my life. Oh, gladly, gladly, I would give my life, I
would give my soul, I would give everything I have on earth and
heaven too."
"Then don't grieve too much," said Jane, putting her hand on his
arm. "She will be happy."
"But what of me?" he cried pitifully, his voice and lips trembling
like those of a little child in distress. "Shall I be happy?"
"No, not now," replied Jane steadily, striving to keep back her
tears, "perhaps some day. But you will think more of her happiness
than of your own. Love, you know, seeks to make happy rather than
to be happy."
For some moments the man stood as if trying to understand what she
had said. Then with a new access of grief and rage, he cried, "But
my God! My God! I want her. I cannot live without her. I could
make her happy too."
"No, never," said Jane. "She loves him."
"Ach--so. Yes, she loves him, and I--hate him. He is the cause of
this. Some day I will kill him. I will kill him."
"Then she would never be happy again," said Jane, and her face was
full of pain and of pity.
"Go away," he said harshly. "Go away. You know not what you say.
Some day I shall make him suffer as I suffer to-day. God hears me.
Some day." He lifted his hands high above his head. Then with a
despairing cry, "Oh, I have lost her, I have lost her," he turned
from Jane and rushed into the woods.
Shaken, trembling and penetrated with pity for him, Jane made her
way toward the office, near which she found Larry with the manager
discussing an engineering problem which appeared to interest them
both.
"Where's Ernest?" inquired Larry.
"He has just gone," said Jane, struggling to speak quietly. "I
think we must hurry, Larry. Come, please. Good-bye, Mr. Steinberg."
She hurried away toward the horses, leaving Larry to follow.
"What is it, Jane?" said Larry when they were on their way.
"Why didn't you tell me, Larry, that he was fond of Kathleen?" she
cried indignantly. "I hurt him terribly, and, oh, it was awful to
see a man like that."
"What do you say? Did he cut up rough?" said Larry.
Jane made no reply, but her face told its own story of shock and
suffering.
"He need not have let out upon you, Jane, anyway," said Larry.
"Don't, Larry. You don't understand. He loves Kathleen. You
don't know anything about it. How can you?"
"Oh, he will get over it in time," said Larry with a slight laugh.
Jane flashed on him a look of indignation. "Oh, how can you,
Larry? It was just terrible to see him. But you do not know," she
added with a touch of bitterness unusual with her.
"One thing I do know," said Larry. "I would not pour out my grief
on some one else. I would try to keep it to myself."
But Jane refused to look at him or to speak again on the matter.
Never in her sheltered life had there been anything suggesting
tragedy. Never had she seen a strong man stricken to the heart as
she knew this man to be stricken. The shadow of that tragedy
stayed with her during all the remaining days of her visit. The
sight of Kathleen's happy face never failed to recall the face of
the man who loved her distorted with agony and that cry of despair,
"I have lost her, I have lost her."
Not that her last days at the ranch were not happy days. She was
far too healthy and wholesome, far too sane to allow herself to
miss the gladness of those last few days with her friends where
every moment offered its full measure of joy. Nora would have
planned a grand picnic for the last day on which the two households,
including Jack Romayne, who by this time was quite able to go about,
were to pay a long-talked-of visit to a famous canyon in the
mountains. The party would proceed to the canyon in the two cars,
for Mr. Wakeham's car and Mr. Wakeham's person as driver had been
constantly at the service of the Gwynnes and their guests during
their stay at the farm.
"But that is our very last day, Nora," said Jane.
"Well, that's just why," replied Nora. "We shall wind up our
festivities in one grand, glorious finale."
But the wise mother interposed. "It is a long ride, Nora, and you
don't want to be too tired for your journey. I think the very last
day we had better spend quietly at home."
Jane's eyes flashed upon her a grateful look. And so it came that
the grand finale was set back to the day before the last, and
proved to be a gloriously enjoyable if exhausting outing. The last
day was spent by Nora in making preparations for her visit with
Jane to Banff and in putting the final touches to such household
tasks as might help to lessen somewhat the burden for those who
would be left behind. Jane spent the morning in a farewell visit
to the Waring-Gaunts', which she made in company with Kathleen.
"I hope, my dear Jane, you have enjoyed your stay with us here at
Wolf Willow," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt as Jane was saying good-bye.
"I have been very happy," said Jane. "Never in my life have I had
such a happy time."
"Now it is good of you to say that," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "You
have made us all love you."
"Quite true," said her husband. "Repetition of the great Caesar's
experience veni vidi vici, eh? What?"
"So say I," said Jack Romayne. "It has been a very real pleasure
to know you, Jane. For my part, I shan't forget your visit to me,
and the talks we have had together."
"You have all been good to me. I cannot tell you how I feel about
it." Jane's voice was a little tremulous, but her smile was as
bright as ever. "I don't believe I shall ever have such a
perfectly happy visit again."
"What nonsense, my dear," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "I predict many,
many very happy days for you. You have that beautiful gift of
bringing your joy with you."
Jack accompanied them on their way to the road. "Kathleen and I
are hoping that perhaps you may be able to come to our wedding. It
will be very soon--in a few weeks."
"Yes, could you, Jane, dear?" said Kathleen. "We should like it
above everything else. I know it is a long, long journey, but if
you could."
"When is it to be?" said Jane.
"Somewhere about the middle of October." But Jane shook her head
disconsolately. By that time she knew she would be deep in her
university work, and with Jane work ever came before play.
"I am afraid not," she said. "But, oh, I do wish you all the
happiness in the world. Nothing has ever made me so glad. Oh, but
you will be happy, I know. Both of you are so lovely." A sudden
rush of tears filled the deep dark eyes as she shook hands with
Jack in farewell. "But," she cried in sudden rapture, "why not
come to us for a day on your wedding trip?"
"That's a splendid idea." For a moment or two Jack and Kathleen
stood looking at each other.
"Jane, we shall surely come. You may count on us," said Jack.
In the afternoon Mrs. Gwynne sent Jane away for a ride with Larry.
"Just go quietly, Larry," said his mother. "Don't race and don't
tire Jane."
"I will take care of her," said Larry, "but I won't promise that we
won't race. Jane would not stand for that, you know. Besides she
is riding Ginger, and Ginger is not exactly like old Polly. But
never fear, we shall have a good ride, Mother," he added, waving
his hand gaily as they rode away, taking the coolee trail to the
timber lot.
Larry was in high spirits. He talked of his work for the winter.
He was hoping great things from this his last year in college. For
the first time in his university career he would be able to give
the full term to study. He would be a couple of weeks late on
account of Kathleen's marriage, but he would soon make that up. He
had his work well in hand and this year he meant to do something
worth while. "I should like to take that medal home to Mother," he
said with a laugh. "I just fancy I see her face. She would try
awfully hard not to seem proud, but she would just be running over
with it." Jane gave, as ever, a sympathetic hearing but she had
little to say, even less than was usual with her. Her smile,
however, was as quick and as bright as ever, and Larry chattered on
beside her apparently unaware of her silence. Up the coolee and
through the woods and back by the dump their trail led them. On
the way home they passed the Switzer house.
"Have you seen Mr. Switzer?" said Jane.
"No, by Jove, he hasn't been near us for a week, has he?" replied
Larry.
"Poor man, I feel so sorry for him," said Jane.
"Oh, he will be all right. He is busy with his work. He is
awfully keen about that mine of his, and once the thing is over--
after Kathleen is married, I mean--it will be different."
Jane rode on in silence for some distance. Then she said,
"I wonder how much you know about it, Larry. I don't think you
know the very least bit."
"Well, perhaps not," said Larry cheerfully, "but they always get
over it."
"Oh, do they?" said Jane. "I wonder."
And again she rode on listening in silence to Larry's chatter.
"You will have a delightful visit at Banff, Jane. Do you know
Wakeham is going to motor up? He is to meet his father there. He
asked me to go with him," and as he spoke Larry glanced at her
face.
"That would be splendid for you, Larry," she said, "but you
couldn't leave them at home with all the work going on, could you?"
"No," said Larry gloomily, "I do not suppose I could. But I think
you might have let me say that."
"But it is true, isn't it, Larry?" said Jane.
"Yes, it's true, and there's no use talking about it, and so I told
him. But," he said, cheering up again, "I have been having a
holiday these two weeks since you have been here."
"I know," said Jane remorsefully, "we must have cut into your work
dreadfully."
"Yes, I have loafed a bit, but it was worth while. What a jolly
time we have had! At least, I hope you have had, Jane."
"You don't need to ask me, do you, Larry?"
"I don't know. You are so dreadfully secretive as to your feelings,
one never knows about you."
"Now, you are talking nonsense," replied Jane hotly. "You know
quite well that I have enjoyed every minute of my visit here."
They rode in silence for some time, then Larry said, "Jane, you are
the best chum a fellow ever had. You never expect a chap to pay
you special attention or make love to you. There is none of that
sort of nonsense about you, is there?"
"No, Larry," said Jane simply, but she kept her face turned away
from him.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS
The results of the University examinations filled three sheets of
the Winnipeg morning papers. With eager eyes and anxious hearts
hundreds of the youth of Manitoba and the other western provinces
scanned these lists. It was a veritable Day of Judgment, a day of
glad surprises for the faithful in duty and the humble in heart, a
day of Nemesis for the vainly self-confident slackers who had
grounded their hopes upon eleventh hour cramming and lucky shots in
exam papers. There were triumphs which won universal approval,
others which received grudging praise.
Of the former, none of those, in the Junior year at least, gave
more general satisfaction than did Jane Brown's in the winning of
the German prize over Heinrich Kellerman, and for a number of
reasons. In the first place Jane beat the German in his own
language, at his own game, so to speak. Then, too, Jane, while a
hard student, took her full share in college activities, and
carried through these such a spirit of generosity and fidelity as
made her liked and admired by the whole body of the students.
Kellerman, on the other hand, was of that species of student known
as a pot-hunter, who took no interest in college life, but devoted
himself solely to the business of getting for himself everything
that the college had to offer.
Perhaps Jane alone, of his fellow students, gave a single thought
to the disappointment of the little Jew. She alone knew how keenly
he had striven for the prize, and how surely he had counted upon
winning it. She had the feeling, too, that somehow the class lists
did not represent the relative scholarship of the Jew and herself.
He knew more German than she. It was this feeling that prompted
her to write him a note which brought an answer in formal and
stilted English.
"Dear Miss Brown," the answer ran, "I thank you for your beautiful
note, which is so much like yourself that in reading it I could see
your smile, which so constantly characterises you to all your
friends. I confess to disappointment, but the disappointment is
largely mitigated by the knowledge that the prize which I failed to
acquire went to one who is so worthy of it, and for whom I cherish
the emotions of profound esteem and good will. Your devoted and
disappointed rival, Heinrich Kellerman."
"Rather sporting of him, isn't it?" said Jane to her friend Ethel
Murray, who had come to dinner.
"Sporting?" said Ethel. "It is the last thing I would have said
about Kellerman."
"That is the worst of prizes," said Jane, "some one has to lose."
"Just the way I feel about Mr. MacLean," said Ethel. "He ought to
have had the medal and not I. He knows more philosophy in a minute
than I in a week."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Jane judicially. "And though I am
awfully glad you got it, Ethel, I am sorry for Mr. MacLean. You
know he is working his way through college, and has to keep up a
mission through the term. He is a good man."
"Yes, he is good, a little too good," said Ethel, making a little
face. "Isn't it splendid about Larry Gwynne getting the
Proficiency, and the first in Engineering? Now he is what I call a
sport. Of course he doesn't go in for games much, but he's into
everything, the Lit., the Dramatic Society, and Scuddy says he
helped him tremendously with the Senior class in the Y. M. C. A.
work."
"Yes," said Jane, "and the Register told Papa that the University
had never graduated such a brilliant student. And Ramsay Dunn
told me that he just ran the Athletic Association and was really
responsible for the winning of the track team."
"What a pity about Ramsay Dunn," said Ethel. "He just managed to
scrape through. Do you know, the boys say he kept himself up
mostly on whiskey-and-sodas through the exams. He must be awfully
clever, and he is so good-looking."
"Poor Ramsay," said Jane, "he has not had a very good chance. I
mean, he has too much money. He is coming to dinner to-night,
Ethel, and Frank Smart, too."
"Oh, Frank Smart! They say he is doing awfully well. Father says
he is one of the coming men in his profession. He is a great
friend of yours, isn't he, Jane?" said Ethel, with a meaning smile.
"We have known him a long time," said Jane, ignoring the smile.
"We think a great deal of him."
"When have you seen Larry?" enquired Ethel. "He comes here a lot,
doesn't he?"
"Yes. He says this is his Winnipeg home. I haven't seen him all
to-day."
"You don't mean to tell me!" exclaimed Ethel.
"I mean I haven't seen him to congratulate him on his medal. His
mother will be so glad."
"You know his people, don't you? Tell me about them. You see, I
may as well confess to you that I have a fearful crush on Larry."
"I know," said Jane sympathetically.
"But," continued Ethel, "he is awfully difficult. His people are
ranching, aren't they? And poor, I understand."
"Yes, they are ranching," said Jane, "and Larry has had quite a
hard time getting through. I had a lovely visit last fall with
them."
"Oh, tell me about it!" exclaimed Ethel. "I heard a little, you
know, from Larry."
For half an hour Jane dilated on her western visit to the Lakeside
Farm.
"Oh, you lucky girl!" cried Ethel. "What a chance you had! To
think of it! Three weeks, lonely rides, moonlight, and not a soul
to butt in! Oh, Jane! I only wish I had had such a chance! Did
nothing happen, Jane? Oh, come on now, you are too awfully
oysteresque. Didn't he come across at all?"
Jane's face glowed a dull red, but she made no pretence of failing
to understand Ethel's meaning. "Oh, there is no nonsense of that
kind with Larry," she said. "We are just good friends."
"Good friends!" exclaimed Ethel indignantly. "That's just where he
is so awfully maddening. I can't understand him. He has lots of
red blood, and he is a sport, too. But somehow he never knows a
girl from her brother. He treats me just the way he treats Bruce
and Leslie. I often wonder what he would do if I kissed him. I've
tried squeezing his hand."
"Have you?" said Jane, with a delighted laugh. "What did he do?"
"Why, he never knew it. I could have killed him," said Ethel in
disgust.
"He is going away to Chicago," said Jane abruptly, "to your
friends, the Wakehams. Mr. Wakeham is in mines, as you know.
Larry is to get two thousand dollars to begin with. It is a good
position, and I am glad for him. Oh, there I see Mr. MacLean and
Frank Smart coming in."
When the party had settled down they discussed the Class lists and
prize winners till Dr. Brown appeared.
"Shall we have dinner soon, Jane?" he said as she welcomed him. "I
wish to get through with my work early so as to take in the big
political meeting this evening. Mr. Allen is to speak and there is
sure to be a crowd."
"I shall have it served at once, Papa. Larry is coming, but we
won't wait for him."
They were half through dinner before Larry appeared. He came in
looking worn, pale and thinner even than usual. But there was a
gleam in his eye and an energy in his movements that indicated
sound and vigorous health.
"You are not late, Larry," said Jane; "we are early. Papa is going
to the political meeting."
"Good!" cried Larry. "So am I. You are going, Frank, and you,
MacLean?"
"I don't know yet," said MacLean.
"We are all due at Mrs. Allen's, Larry, you remember. It is a
party for the Graduating Class, too," said Jane.
"So we are. But we can take in the political meeting first, eh,
Mac?"
But MacLean glanced doubtfully at Ethel.
"I have just had a go with Holtzman," said Larry, "the German
Socialist, you know. He was ramping and raging like a wild man
down in front of the post office. I know him quite well. He is
going to heckle Mr. Allen to-night."
The girls were keen to take in the political meeting, but Larry
objected.
"There will be a rough time, likely. It will be no place for
ladies. We will take you to the party, then join you again after
the meeting."
The girls were indignant and appealed to Dr. Brown.
"I think," said he, "perhaps you had better not go. The young
gentlemen can join you later, you know, at Allens' party."
"Oh, we don't want them then," said Ethel, "and, indeed, we can go
by ourselves to the party."
"Now, Ethel, don't be naughty," said Larry.
"I shall be very glad to take you to the party, Miss Murray," said
MacLean. "I don't care so much for the meeting."
"That will be fine, Mac!" exclaimed Larry enthusiastically. "In
this way neither they nor we will need to hurry."
"Disgustingly selfish creature," said Ethel, making a face at him
across the table.
Jane said nothing, but her face fell into firmer lines and her
cheeks took on a little colour. The dinner was cut short in order
to allow Dr. Brown to get through with his list of waiting
patients.
"We have a few minutes, Ethel," said Larry. "Won't you give us a
little Chopin, a nocturne or two, or a bit of Grieg?"
"Do, Ethel," said Jane, "although you don't deserve it, Larry. Not
a bit," she added.
"Why, what have I done?" said Larry.
"For one thing," said Jane, in a low, hurried voice, moving close
to him, "you have not given me a chance to congratulate you on your
medal. Where have you been all day?"
The reproach in her eyes and voice stirred Larry to quick defence.
"I have been awfully busy, Jane," he said, "getting ready to go off
to-morrow. I got a telegram calling me to Chicago."
"To Chicago? To-morrow?" said Jane, her eyes wide open with
surprise. "And you never came to tell me--to tell us? Why, we may
never see you again at all. But you don't care a bit, Larry," she
added.
The bitterness in her voice was so unusual with Jane that Larry in
his astonishment found himself without reply.
"Excuse me, Ethel," she said, "I must see Ann a minute."
As she hurried from the room Larry thought he caught a glint of
tears in her eyes. He was immediately conscience-stricken and
acutely aware that he had not treated Jane with the consideration
that their long and unique friendship demanded. True, he had been
busy, but he could have found time for a few minutes with her.
Jane was no ordinary friend. He had not considered her and this
had deeply wounded her. And to-morrow he was going away, and going
away not to return. He was surprised at the quick stab of pain
that came with the thought that his days in Winnipeg were over. In
all likelihood his life's work would take him to Alberta. This
meant that when he left Winnipeg tomorrow there would be an end to
all that delightful comradeship with Jane which during the years of
his long and broken college course had formed so large a part of
his life, and which during the past winter had been closer and
dearer than ever. Their lives would necessarily drift apart.
Other friends would come in and preoccupy her mind and heart. Jane
had the art of making friends and of "binding her friends to her
with hooks of steel." He had been indulging the opinion that of
all her friends he stood first with her. Even if he were right, he
could not expect that this would continue. And now on their last
evening together, through his selfish stupidity, he had hurt her as
never in all the years they had been friends together. But Jane
was a sensible girl. He would make that right at once. She was
the one girl he knew that he could treat with perfect frankness.
Most girls were afraid, either that you were about to fall in love
with them, or that you would not. Neither one fear nor the other
disturbed the serenity of Jane's soul.
As Jane re-entered the room, Larry sprang to meet her. "Jane," he
said in a low, eager tone, "I am going to take you to the party."
But Jane was her own serene self again, and made answer, "There is
no need, Larry. Mr. MacLean will see us safely there, and after
the meeting you will come. We must go now, Ethel." There was no
bitterness in her voice. Instead, there was about her an air of
gentle self-mastery, remote alike from pain and passion, that gave
Larry the feeling that the comfort he had thought to bring was so
completely unnecessary as to seem an impertinence. Jane walked
across to where Frank Smart was standing and engaged him in an
animated conversation.
As Larry watched her, it gave him a quick sharp pang to remember
that Frank Smart was a friend of older standing than he, that Smart
was a rising young lawyer with a brilliant future before him. He
was a constant visitor at this house. Why was it? Like a flash
the thing stood revealed to him. Without a doubt Smart was in love
with Jane. His own heart went cold at the thought. But why? he
impatiently asked himself. He was not in love with Jane. Of that
he was quite certain. Why, then, this dog-in-the-manger feeling?
A satisfactory answer to this was beyond him. One thing only stood
out before his mind with startling clarity, if Jane should give
herself to Frank Smart, or, indeed, to any other, then for him life
would be emptied of one of its greatest joys. He threw down the
music book whose leaves he had been idly turning and, looking at
his watch, called out, "Do you know it is after eight o'clock,
people?"
"Come, Ethel," said Jane, "we must go. And you boys will have to
hurry. Larry, don't wait for Papa. He will likely have a seat on
the platform. Good night for the present. You can find your way
out, can't you? And, Mr. MacLean, you will find something to do
until we come down?"
Smiling over her shoulder, Jane took Ethel off with her upstairs.
"Come, Smart, let's get a move on," said Larry, abruptly seizing
his hat and making for the door. "We will have to fight to get in
now."
The theatre was packed, pit to gods. Larry and his friend with
considerable difficulty made their way to the front row of those
standing, where they found a group of University men, who gave them
enthusiastic welcome to a place in their company. The Chairman had
made his opening remarks, and the first speaker, the Honourable B.
B. Bomberton, was well on into his oration by the time they
arrived. He was at the moment engaged in dilating upon the peril
through which the country had recently passed, and thanking God
that Canada had loyally stood by the Empire and had refused to sell
her heritage for a mess of pottage.
"Rot!" cried a voice from the first gallery, followed by cheers and
counter cheers.
The Honourable gentleman, however, was an old campaigner and not
easily thrown out of his stride. He fiercely turned upon his
interrupter and impaled him upon the spear point of his scornful
sarcasm, waving the while with redoubled vigour, "the grand old
flag that for a thousand years had led the embattled hosts of
freedom in their fight for human rights."
"Rot!" cried the same voice again. "Can the flag stuff. Get busy
and say something." (Cheers, counter cheers, yells of "Throw him
out," followed by disturbance in the gallery.)
Once more the speaker resumed his oration. He repeated his
statement that the country had been delivered from a great peril.
The strain upon the people's loyalty had been severe, but the bonds
that bound them to the Empire had held fast, and please God would
ever hold fast. (Enthusiastic demonstration from all the audience,
indicating intense loyalty to the Empire.) They had been invited
to enter into a treaty for reciprocal trade with the Republic south
of us. He would yield to none in admiration, even affection, for
their American neighbours. He knew them well; many of his warmest
friends were citizens of that great Republic. But great as was his
esteem for that Republic he was not prepared to hand over his
country to any other people, even his American neighbours, to be
exploited and finally to be led into financial bondage. He
proceeded further to elaborate and illustrate the financial
calamity that would overtake the Dominion of Canada as a result of
the establishment of Reciprocity between the Dominion and the
Republic. But there was more than that. They all knew that
ancient political maxim "Trade follows the flag." But like most
proverbs it was only half a truth. The other half was equally true
that "The flag followed trade." There was an example of that
within their own Empire. No nation in the world had a prouder
record for loyalty than Scotland. Yet in 1706 Scotland was induced
to surrender her independence as a nation and to enter into union
with England. Why? Chiefly for the sake of trade advantages.
"Ye're a dom leear," shouted an excited Scot, rising to his feet in
the back of the hall. "It was no Scotland that surrendered. Didna
Scotland's king sit on England's throne. Speak the truth, mon."
(Cheers, uproarious laughter and cries, "Go to it, Scotty; down wi'
the Sassenach. Scotland forever!")
When peace had once more fallen the Honourable B. B. Bomberton went
on. He wished to say that his Scottish friend had misunderstood
him. He was not a Scot himself--
"Ye needna tell us that," said the Scot. (Renewed cheers and
laughter.)
But he would say that the best three-quarters of him was Scotch in
that he had a Scotch woman for a wife, and nothing that he had said
or could say could be interpreted as casting a slur upon that great
and proud and noble race than whom none had taken a larger and more
honourable part in the building and the maintaining of the Empire.
But to resume. The country was asked for the sake of the alleged
economic advantage to enter into a treaty with the neighbouring
state which he was convinced would perhaps not at first but
certainly eventually imperil the Imperial bond. The country
rejected the proposal. The farmers were offered the double lure of
high prices for their produce and a lower price for machinery.
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