Part 12 (1/2)
He was irritatingly formal, his tone was precise, but it changed as he added:
”So you knew Cyril!”
”Yes,” Prescott said gravely. ”I was fond of him.”
Jernyngham seemed to be struggling with some stirring of his deeper nature beneath the crust of mannerisms.
”Mr. Prescott,” he said, ”I may tell you that I now fear I treated the lad injudiciously, and perhaps with needless harshness. I looked upon extravagance and eccentricity as signs of depravity. It was a vast relief when I heard from Colston, whom you may have met; that Cyril had prospered and was leading an exemplary life in Canada.”
The blood crept into Prescott's face, and Jernyngham glanced at him curiously before he proceeded.
”We were somewhat hurt that he would not come home; but after past mistakes I could not urge him, and it seemed possible that he might change his mind later. Then the dreadful blow fell--crus.h.i.+ng and filling me with all the bitterness of useless regret. I had spoken too late; the opportunity I would not use in time had gone.”
He broke off, and his face had grown white and stern when he went on again:
”There is only one thing I can do, but if needful, I will devote the rest of my life to it--that is, to track down the man who killed my son!”
He was silent for the next few minutes, and then, after a few words on indifferent subjects, intended, Prescott thought, to cover his display of feeling, he turned away, leaving the rancher smoking thoughtfully.
CHAPTER VIII
A DAY ON THE PRAIRIE
A week after Jernyngham's arrival at the homestead he sat among the sheaves in the harvest field late one afternoon studying a letter which the mail-carrier had just brought him. His daughter, sheltered from the strong sunlight by the tall stocked sheaves, was reading an elegantly bound book of philosophy. Gertrude Jernyngham had strict rules of life and spent an hour or two of every day in improving her mind, without, so far as her friends had discovered, any enlargement of her outlook. Among her numerous virtues was an affectionate solicitude about her father's health, which was variable. Though still muscularly vigorous, Jernyngham was getting an old man, and he had been out of sorts of late.
”I'm glad you are looking much better than you did this morning,” she said, glancing at him after a while.
”Thank you,” Jernyngham rejoined punctiliously. ”I suppose it was the strain of the past few weeks that tried me, and perhaps I have been doing too much, traveling backward and forward between here and the muskeg.”
Then with an effort he banished his painful thoughts and smiled. ”I wonder how many years it is since I spent an afternoon in a harvest field! I'll confess that I find much to interest me.”
Gertrude laid down her book and glanced about. She was of a practical disposition and almost devoid of artistic susceptibilities, but the richness and color of the scene impressed her. Far away in front ran the long ranks of sheaves, gleaming in the suns.h.i.+ne amid the golden stubble which was flecked by their deep-blue shadows. The air was cooling, but the light was brilliant and the standing wheat was picked out with tints of burnished copper. By comparison with it, the oat stocks shone pale and silvery. Round the edge of the grain moved the binders, clas.h.i.+ng and tinkling musically, while their whirling arms flashed in the sunlight.
Prescott, lightly clad, drove the foremost machine. The fine modeling of his lean, muscular figure was effectively displayed; his uncovered arms and face were the color of the soil. Seated behind the big horses, he looked wonderfully virile. The man seemed filled with primitive vigor; he was a type that was new to Gertrude Jernyngham.
”Our host,” remarked her father, ”strikes one as tireless; though I'm inclined to think that during harvest everybody here works at a higher tension than would be borne at home. Their methods are rather wasteful--this tall stubble, for instance, continuous cereal crops, except for the short summer fallow--but they're no doubt adapted to the needs of the country. Having some experience in these matters, I should say this farm was excellently managed.”
In place of answering, Gertrude watched the rancher. The physical perfection of the man had an effect on her, though she was essentially prudish.
”I ought to drive in to the settlement and send off a cablegram, though I expect it will be difficult to get a team,” Jernyngham resumed, returning to his letter. ”Cranford wants instructions about a matter of importance that has cropped up since we left.”
”It wouldn't be wise for you to drive so far,” Gertrude said firmly. ”I might go instead; we'll speak to Mr. Prescott about it this evening.”
Shortly afterward there was a harsh clanking sound and Prescott, pulling up his team, sprang down from the binder. He became busy with hammer and spanner, and in a few minutes the stubble was strewn with pinion wheels, little shafts, and driving-chains. Then, while his guests watched him with growing interest, he put the machine together, started his team and stopped it, and again dismembered the complicated gear. This, as Gertrude realized, was work that needed a certain amount of skill. Finally, when the overtaking binders had stopped near-by, he took out a small shaft and held it up so that the harvesters could see it.
”Journal's bent; I'll have to go get a new piece,” he said. ”Go ahead with your teams.”
After that he unhitched his horses and was leading them past the place where the Jernynghams sat, when Gertrude spoke to him.