Part 29 (1/2)
”How do you know all this?”
”She told mother everything.”
”And your mother told you. Why?”
”Because--say, mum, you remember the thing your husband called Bull Durham?”
”Brooke.”
”Fancy Brooke, the thing which Polly kept like a pet lap-dog. The thing which turned state's evidence to hang my poor old dad. Brooke's come to Spite House as Polly's manager. Yes, now you know why mother's got no more use for Polly--told me I'd best come to you and give you warning.
That thing is at Spite House, and mother's gone.”
”I see it all now. But one last question. How did you get to England?”
”Do you remember, mum, that my poor dad just thought the world of Jesse?”
”I remember, a legacy for you,--some ponies.”
”Well, Jesse found out somehow that I was at Spite House. He sent me the value of them ponies, with only a receipt for me to sign. I reckon, mum, that ruined and well-nigh starving, he rode a hundred and sixty miles through the black pines, because he's honest. That's why I spent the money comin' to you. I wants to help.”
CHAPTER II
THE IMPATIENT CHAPTER
_Kate's Narrative_
This chapter is so difficult to start. It deals with a time when life had become impossible unless one could jump from here to Wednesday next, and thence to Monday fortnight. Of course the book is only meant for Jesse, for David, for me, and for those to come who may revere us as their ancestors. Thank goodness, I am not a novelist! Think of the fate of the professional writer whose hosts of ”characters,” the bodiless papery creatures of his brain, will rise up in judgment to accuse their petty creator, to gibber at him, to make his dreams a nightmare. What novelist would escape that condemnation? d.i.c.kens might be saved, perhaps Balzac. Tourguenieff maybe, even Kipling, but in Heaven the writers will not be overcrowded.
My characters are ready to hand, and my events are real, but how can I possibly weld the notes in waiting, to make an harmonious, sane, restful chapter, whose very motif is worry? I give it up, for what am I that I should do this thing?
To three-fourths' pound of artistic temperament, add one cup Celtic blood; stir in a tablespoon of best Italian melody, add humor and laziness to taste; then fry in moonlight over a slow anthem, and there you are. That's me!
As a little girl I would prefer a hobgoblin I couldn't see, to a real doll stuffed with the best sawdust. If there happened to be any day-dreams about, visions or reveries, I would play hostess and be well amused; but fend me from accounts, from business men, and from all the things you catch, such as trains and influenza. Hateful practical affairs have to be faced, but I rush them to get through quick.
Have you noticed that artists who vend feelings as a grocer sells sugar, are always accused of being callous? I sent David with his nurse to stay with Father Jared, so mother called me a cold-blooded wretch. I abandoned my part at the opera to a weird ravening female who can't sing, so my manager called me an atheist. My maids had to pack and run to escape storage with the furniture at the ”Pecking and Tootham Emporiums”; my little home pa.s.sed to a gentleman with mourning nails, diamonds, and a lisp; my bits and sc.r.a.ps of stock were sold and the proceeds banked with the Hudson's Bay Company. Then came casual farewells to baby and Father Jared, and, just as the train pulled out, the district nurse threw a bunch of violets. So I broke down and howled, wondering damply why. Even then I longed for my dear wilderness where every wind blows clean, for the glamour of an austere land braving the naked eternities, the heart of a lonely man who dared to do his duty, all, all that was real and great in life, calling me, calling me home.
The keenest pleasure which ever money gave me came when Billy and I helped in the drafting of a cable order from the Hudson's Bay Company in London to that bland magnifico who manages their branch palace at Vancouver. One always feels that if one happened to want a Paris hat, a bag of nuts, and a monkey, this Vancouver potentate would make a parcel of them without the slightest fear of their getting mixed. As to surprising the company, one might as well tickle the Alps. So here is the telegram:--
”Provide three sleighs, each with two horses; engage two reliable bush teamsters; six months' guaranteed bonus for secrecy and fidelity.
”Referring to previous requirements of Jesse Smith, load No. 1 sleigh to capacity with provisions, luxuries, ammunition, books, consigned to him via bush trail from 59 Mile House, Cariboo Road.
Referring to Captain Taylor's past requirements and present sickness, load No. 2 sleigh with stores invalid comforts, consigned 100 Mile House. Each driver to present load, rig and team, with personal services, and to forward consignee's receipt.
”Hire third sleigh with team one month, furnish furs on approval, equipment, comforts suitable to bush travel and residence of a lady. Place in charge of young competent civil engineer, bringing instruments and a.s.sistant to report to Madame Scotson, arriving Ashcroft Pacific Limited 20 inst.
”Absolute secrecy required. Charge Scotson.”
So far the impulse had moved me to be quick before I repented, and the journey gave time for that. Leaving the sweet majesty and serene order of the English landscape, I made the usual pa.s.sage by _S.S. Charon_ across the Styx to New York, where I caught a stuffy train for the transit of an untidy continent. And so, in the starry middle of a night, I was met at Ashcroft.