Part 14 (2/2)

This was not a point of much importance, but it fixed Gertrude's attention. She was in the habit of roughly sorting people into different groups; there were, for example, those who appreciated beautiful things and had been endowed with them as a reward of merit, and those of coa.r.s.er nature on whom they would be wasted, which was, no doubt, why they had none. Yet here was a man with artistic taste, who was nevertheless engaged in hard manual labor and had drunk contentedly out of common cans. It did not fit in with her theories.

”I suppose this country has its influence on one?” she said, searching for an explanation.

”That's so; the influence is strong and good, on the whole.”

She considered this, quietly studying him. It was the first time she had entertained at table a man in outdoor working attire; Prescott, out of deference to his guests, had made some preparation for the meals they shared. Still, the simple dress became him; he was, as she vaguely thought of it, admirable, in a way. His hands and wrists were well-shaped, though scarred and roughened by the rasp of the hot straw.

The warmth of the sun seemed to cling to his brown face; a joyous vitality emanated from him, and he had mental gifts. She felt lightly thrilled by his propinquity.

”But everything out here is still very crude,” she said.

”That's where our strength lies; we're a new people, raised on virgin soil out in the rus.h.i.+ng winds. We haven't simmered down yet; we're charged with unexhausted energies, which show themselves in novel ways.

In our cities you'll find semibarbarous rawness side by side with splendor and art, and complicated machines run by men who haven't much regard for the fastidious niceties of civilization, though they're unexcelled in their engineering skill. We undertake big works in an unconsidered manner that would scare your cautious English minds, make wild blunders, and go ahead without counting the damage. We come down pretty hard often, but it never brings us to a stop.”

He saw that she did not grasp all he meant to convey, and he leaned back in his chair with a laugh.

”This is the kind of fool talk you would expect from a boastful Westerner, isn't it?”

”No,” she replied somewhat formally; ”that isn't what I thought. I find everything I see and hear interesting, but there's much I can't understand. One has to feel for its meaning.”

”It's a very proper att.i.tude,” he rejoined with amus.e.m.e.nt. ”So long as you don't bring over a ready-made standard to measure our shortcomings by, we'll explain all we can. In fact, it's a thing we're fond of doing.”

Then his tone grew grave. ”But I haven't seen your father since this morning. Is he at the muskeg?”

”Yes. I'm getting anxious about him; the trouble is preying on his mind.

Grief, of course, is a natural feeling, but he thinks of nothing except revenge. He's growing haggard and losing his judgment. I'm almost afraid to think what may happen if he finds anything that looks like a clue. The shock has shaken him terribly.”

”And you?”

”I feel half guilty because I've been so calm since I came here, but I can't believe the worst. You have rea.s.sured me.” She paused and added softly: ”And I'm very grateful.”

”I'm glad.” Prescott's tone was sympathetic. ”But I can imagine what your father feels. From a few things he has told me, he seems to have led a smooth, well-ordered life; no doubt he made too much of the trouble your brother caused him.”

”Yes; I think so now.”

”Perhaps he half-consciously formed an idea that things would always go tranquilly with him, and when it came without warning the shock of Cyril's disappearance was too strong. And yet I firmly believe he's mistaken in his fears.”

Gertrude made a sign of agreement.

”Nothing I can say calms him. One can only wait.”

”And that's always hard,” Prescott said gently.

She roused him to strong compa.s.sion. She had, he thought, no great depth of character, but her development had been checked by many restraints.

Her father had curbed each natural impulse, until the little originality in her withered and died; she had grown up cold and colorless, with narrow views, and petty, if quite blameless, aims. Prescott, however, was wrong in crediting Jernyngham with too great a success. Gertrude's nature had not been utterly repressed and stunted, and now, in time of stress, it was expanding.

Romance had come late to her, but she was dimly conscious of it at last.

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