Part 9 (1/2)
Hester smiled in response.
”I'm sitting outside because it's rather damp and cold in the shack,”
she said. ”As you see, our house isn't finished yet.”
She rose as she spoke, and came forward, and Mrs. Broadwood looked at her admiringly. Hester was tall and naturally dignified, and her characteristic expression was grave composure. Besides, her visitor remarked the excellent taste and fit of her simple dress.
”I'm sure we're going to be friends,” said Mrs. Broadwood.
”I hope so,” Hester answered simply.
The visitor found a seat in the prairie hay, and sinking down in the soft gra.s.s, she breathed the smell of wild peppermint with delight. She noticed the hearth of parallel logs, with a big kerosene can, used as a was.h.i.+ng boiler, hanging from a tripod at one end; the camp oven; the sawing frame; and the scented cedar s.h.i.+ngles strewn about beside the framework of the house. All these things were familiar, for she was one of the pioneers.
”My!” she exclaimed. ”This _is_ nice! Makes me feel homesick.”
”It must be a change from Allenwood,” Hester answered with a smile.
”That's why I like it! I'm quite happy there; but this is the kind of place where I belong. Twice before I met my husband I helped make a new home on the plains, and this spot reminds me of the last time. We fixed camp by Stony Creek in early summer, when the gra.s.s was green and all the flowers were out. There were rows of the red prairie lilies. I never saw so many!--and I remember how the new birch leaves used to rustle in the bluff at night. Thinking of it somehow hurts me.” She laughed prettily. ”I'm what Tom calls a sentimentalist.”
”So am I,” said Hester; ”so you needn't stop.”
”Well, I remember everything about the night we put in our stakes--Sally baking bannocks, with the smoke going straight up; the loaded wagons in a row; the tired horses rolling in the gra.s.s; and the chunk of the boys'
axes, chopping in the bluff. Though we'd been on the trail since sun-up, there was work for hours, bread to bake and clothes to wash; and when we went to sleep, a horse got his foot in a line and brought the tent down on us. It was all hard in those days, a hustle from dawn to dark; but now, when things are different, I sometimes want them back. But I needn't tell you--I guess you know!”
”Yes; I know,” said Hester. ”Perhaps it's the work we were born for.”
She was silent for a few moments, looking far out over the prairie; then she asked abruptly:
”What are the Allenwood people like?”
”They're much the same as you and I, but they wear more frills, and when you rub against those who use the most starch you find them p.r.i.c.kly.
Then, they've some quaint notions that Walter Raleigh or Jacques Cartier must have brought over; but, taking them all round, they're a straight, clean crowd.” She looked intently at Hester. ”Somehow you make me feel that you belong to them.”
Hester smiled. Mrs. Broadwood was impulsive and perhaps not always discreet, but Hester thought her true.
”I don't understand that,” she replied. ”Though I think my mother was a woman of unusual character, she came from the Michigan bush. My father was English, but he had only a small farm and didn't bring us up differently from our neighbors. Still, he had different ideas and bought a good many books. Craig and I read them all, and he would talk to us about them.”
”Craig's your brother? I've seen him once or twice. Tell me about him.”
Hester nodded toward the trail that wormed its way across the prairie. A girl was riding toward them.
”Beatrice Mowbray,” Mrs. Broadwood said; ”the best of them all at Allenwood, though sometimes she's not easy to get on with.”
When Beatrice joined them, Mrs. Broadwood repeated her suggestion. She was frankly curious, and Hester was not unwilling to talk about her brother. Indeed, she made the story an interesting character sketch, and Beatrice listened quietly while she told how the lad was left with a patch of arid soil, and his mother and sister to provide for. Hester related how he braved his neighbors' disapproval of the innovations which they predicted would lead him to ruin, and by tenacity and boldness turned threatened failure into brilliant success. Then losing herself in her theme, she sketched the birth of greater ambitions, and the man's realization of his powers. Beatrice's eyes brightened with keen approval. She admired strength and daring, and Hester had drawn a striking picture of her brother.
When the visitors rose to go, Harding appeared. He had come, he explained, for an ox-chain clevis.
”I have another visit to make,” Beatrice said, when he had helped her to mount. ”The shortest way is across the ravine and there used to be a trail, unless you have plowed it up.”