The Manitoban: a romance

Front matter

Copyright N°

COPYRIGHT DEPOSITS

.

Contents

I. The Book of His Boyhood

II. The Book of His Birthright

III. The Book of His Kingdom

II

Over Carroll, asleep on its single line of railway, the June sun hung merciless and unblinking, nor was there on any horizon a cloud that might presently veil its brilliance.

The great world, golden and brown, rolling lazily through the hot hours, stretched itself into sleepy distances, purple and indefinite.

A few farm-houses, scattered sparsely over the bosom of the prairie, shone white and unpicturesque, backed by log stables and low stacks of last year’s hay.

Far down the line a little cloud of smoke and dust and the twinkle of metal revealed the approach of the day’s express.

It seemed to be travelling drowsily over the sunburned plains.

In the station yard a tired bronco stood motionless between the shafts of a buggy, the two flinging a sharp-cut shadow on the white dust.

On the platform, four or five men, blue-shirted, with broad hats, lounged impassively, giving no signs of life, save for an occasional expectoration of brown tobacco-juice.

And they were waiting for the day’s chiefest event.

And when at last the great engine panted up beside the platform, with its bell swinging and a considerable commotion of brakes and steam, the passengers who alighted were only two.

The one, a wrinkled old farmer, self-conscious in a boiled shirt, with a stiff collar, and a tie of many colours, nodded to the watchers in the shadow, and presently mounted the waiting buggy. The other, a lad, fresh-coloured, but pale by contrast to his swarthy observers, wearing a collar unknown to Carroll, and neatly clad in a flannel suit that was obviously foreign, stood undecided on the wooden platform. Somebody spat.

“ Reg’lar dude,” he observed slowly.

The others were silent, regarding the passenger with grave eyes.

Presently he summoned up courage.

“ Is there a porter anywhere ” ? he asked.

For a minute no one replied. Then a voice appealed to the silence.

“ Is there a portah anywhe-ah ? ”

There was the faintest gleam of teeth round the little circle, but nobody laughed.

Charlie grew uncomfortable.

Life had become a little bewildering on these 14 great plains, nor did these silent Canadians seem willing to solve its immediate problems.

“ How am I to get to Mr. Luke’s? ” he asked again, addressing the nearest.

“Are you goin’ to work fer old man Luke?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He looked round with a smile.

“You’ll like it,” he said.

“ It’s like heaven,” said another.

“ There’s no night there,” observed a third.

Charlie looked from one to another, at the lean hard faces, the grave eyes, the white teeth, and he grew red, his heart sinking strangely. He felt very insignificant and alone facing this new phase of life. Then a fresh voice behind him asked cheerfully:

“ Are you lookin’ fer old man Luke? ”

Charlie turned round quickly, glad to recognize a friendly tone. He looked into blue eyes at a little lower level than his own ; they laughed at him above a pair of ruddy brown cheeks.

“Yes,” he said.

“ Well, I guess the old man ain’t in town, but Jack Luke’s hitchin’ up right now at the livery. I’ll show you.”

Charlie looked at him gratefully, a robust little figure, clad solely in a white cotton shirt, rolled up at the elbows over a pair of sturdy brown i5 arms, and an ancient pair of knickerbockers surmounting dusty brown legs.

His bare feet were well apart, and his hands thrust comfortably into his pockets. He appeared to be surveying the little group of loungers behind Charlie with the profoundest contempt.

“ What’s the good o’ askin’ them ? ” he questioned. “ Eh — what’s the good o’ askin’ them ? They’re no good anyway, not one o’ them. They’re just bummers.”

“You take care, young Roddy, or you’ll die sudden,” said one.

Roddy swept him with a pitying glance.

“Well, I guess that’s better’n dyin’ o’ overeatin’, an’ doin’ nothin’,” he observed pointedly. And at this there was a roar of laughter. He grasped Charlie’s arm.

“ Come on,” he said, “ or we won’t catch him.”

They crossed the station yard, Roddy’s feet falling silently in the hot dust.

“ I say it’s awfully good of you,” began Charlie, but Roddy interrupted him.

“ That’s my nature,” he observed complacently.” Then with a sideway glance at Charlie’s brown boots and flannel suit, “Just come from the old country?”

“Yes.”

Roddy grinned, but made no further comment until they had crossed the road — Carroll’s one 16 thoroughfare, known magnificently as Main street; then:

“ I’m Roddy Laville,” he said. “ What’s your name ? ”

“ Charlie West.”

“Well, Charlie, I guess you’ll have to hustle some at old man Luke’s. He’s a fair terror.”

But Charlie smiled. He was getting his sixth-form confidence back again, and this barelegged youngster of fifteen was not going to frighten him.

“ That’s all right,” he said.

“ He works his hired men terrible, ’specially greenhorns.”

Charlie winced at the offensive word, and for a moment felt inclined to resent it. But reflection bade him cherish this first friend of his.

“ He’ll make you saw,” continued Roddy.

“Saw?”

“Yes. He’s always got wood on hand to break his greenhorns in, even in summer time. An’ till you can plough there’s nothin’ else goin’ till hayin’. There’s on’y breakin’ an’ fallow, an’ his own boys does that, I guess. He’s keepin’ you for hayin’ an’ harvest.”

Charlie looked at his companion, envious of his knowledge.

“ Can you plough? ” he asked.

Roddy grinned.

i7

“ Well, I should smile,” he said.

In the yard before the livery stable a young man was hitching up a pony, stooping over the traces.

The little mare was slender and sorrel, standing impatiently, with ears drawn back.

“That’s Jack Luke’s driver — she’s a daisy,” said Roddy, screwing up his blue eyes and looking admiringly at her slender, lean flanks and trim expectant hoofs.

The young man heard him and looked over his shoulder.

“ Hullo, Roddy! How’s yourself?” he said.

Roddy was obviously prospering.

“ Here’s your greenhorn,” he observed, indicating Charlie, whose face was pink and flushed under his straw hat.

Jack Luke rose, with one hand on the mare’s back, and looked silently at this newcomer.

His gaze travelled seriously from the straw hat with the school colours upon its ribbon to the brown boots, well made and spotless, and back again to Charlie’s half angry eyes.

Then he held out a brown hand.

“ I’m glad to see you.”

“ His name’s Charlie,” interposed Roddy.

“ I’m glad you’ve come, Charlie. Father’ll be surprised some. We didn’t expect you this week; but it’s all right. I’m glad you’ve come.”

They shook hands, and Charlie climbed up into the buckboard.

“ Hold her nose a minute, Roddy,” said Jack, lifting up Charlie’s bag and some scattered parcels of his own.

The little mare, impatient to be gone, and recognizing the strange hand upon her bridle began pawing the dust, shifting restlessly in the light harness.

A hard hoof fell suddenly upon Roddy’s bare toes, and the boy jumped back with a sudden shout, still holding the bridle. Then with an eloquent abandon he reviled the mare and all her ancestors, consigning the whole company to so lurid a destiny that Charlie gazed at him open-mouthed, almost shuddering.

Jack Luke listened impassively.

“You should be spryer with them feet o’ yours, Roddy,” he said. “ An’ you swear terrible fer a young ’un.”

Roddy laughed, the white teeth shining wholesomely in his round face.

“ Blast her eyes,” he observed, looking ruefully at his bruised toes. Then he handed up the reins.

“So long, Jack,” he said. “Good luck, Charlie, an’ don’t bust yourself.”

As they swung into the white roadway, Charlie looked back into the stable yard and waved his hand, but Roddy was nursing his battered foot and did not see him, and thus his first friend passed from view. Jack Luke proved a silent companion, keeping his eyes upon the trail, watching the mare’s stride, and skilfully dodging the deeper ruts.

The little town was soon behind them, the wooden houses with their painted fronts, the great elevators, the hot sidewalk, the long stables, the strange vehicles, the loungers lean and satirical, Roddy, kindly and brown and blasphemous, all fastened indelibly upon Charlie’s memory, an abiding impression above the gateway of his new life.

And now the prairie, stretching about him with so boundless an immensity, wrapping him with its incense, hot and strange and fragrant, spread before his eyes in a mosaic of gold and emerald, treeless utterly, save for an occasional bluff of silver poplars — oh ! it was a wonderful day that laid this new world at his feet.

For the first three or four miles he held his peace, filling his lungs with the unsullied air, gaining a gradual strange exhilaration as their way lay deeper into the plains. Occasionally, passing a team at work on prairie or summer fallow, Jack would pull up to exchange a word with some sunburned comrade, who would lean with brawny arms upon the side of the buckboard, 20 talking leisurely, and with the soft burr and lingering r’s that fell so curiously upon Charlie’s English ears.

Once a bright-eyed gopher, lithe and yellow, flashed across the trail, and Charlie asked what it was, leaning out with eager eyes to watch its progress. Jack smiled, telling briefly what he knew about it, and this, loosening their tongues, led to a long succession of queries and replies, given eagerly and responded to with the slow gravity that seemed to characterize all men’s speech upon these great plains.

Twelve miles from Carroll they drove by a little lake, blue and quiet, surrounded by a clump of stunted oaks and slender poplars, and the trail led through a farmyard, passing between a low log house and some crooked sod-roofed stables. Two or three children, with flaxen hair, looked at them curiously, and Jack waved his whip to them.

“ Icelanders,” he observed briefly. And in answer to Charlie’s question, told him that there were many of these people settled hereabouts. On a low hill behind them a little wooden building shone in the sun, and Jack explained that it was their Lutheran chapel.

On later Sabbaths Charlie saw many of them, gaily clad, travelling in wagons, gathering by various trails to their worship in the wooden 21 church. Two miles further on they swung round once more beside a great field of rising wheat, lusty and strong and burdened with promise. Jack’s eyes grew proud, and Charlie learned that they had reached their destination. On a low hillside two teams were at work upon the virgin prairie, driven by Jack’s younger brothers, and Charlie could see their white shirts gleaming as they walked slowly down the furrows behind the heavy oaken ploughs.

A little distance away stood the house, logbuilt, below, but wooden and shingle-roofed.

Stacked neatly in the yard was a large pile of wood, cut and split and arranged in tiers, and beside it a load or two of uncut poplars. On the saw-horse gleamed a buck-saw, and an axe with a twisted handle lay half buried in chips under the shadow of the wood-pile.

As they drove up, a small boy came out of the stables, greeting Jack, gazing gravely at Charlie, and in the doorway of the house lounged a half-grown girl, barefooted, with tangled hair and frank eyes.

At the sound of their arrival her mother, thin-faced and kindly, joined her and stood blinking out upon them, guarding her eyes from the sunlight slanting down between the buildings.

“This is Charlie West,” said Jack.

The old woman came out, peering up into Charlie’s English face as he stood, hat in hand, regarding his new home.

“I’m glad you’ve come,’’ she said. “Come right in an’ tell me how you liked your journey. That’s Becca, my youngest girl. Come right in.”

Charlie followed her first into the house, and thence, where she presently led him, into the lean-to kitchen.

She was busy preparing the evening meal, but talked ceaselessly, giving Charlie time to survey his new surroundings, as he sat upon a backless chair watching her at work.

They were a strange couple: she with her kilted skirts, bare-armed, bent above the stove ; he, swinging a clean straw hat, daintily clad, with hands unsoiled.

So this was the log shanty of his dreams, this confusion of pots and pans, earth floor and broken windows. Looking back into the dwelling-room he found it carpetless, a dismantled stove, used only in the winter, dominating the centre of the floor. A cracked looking-glass and a picture of John Wesley were the solitary mural decorations, but a couple of guns swung upon the rafters under the ceiling. On the bare table sundry plates and knives lay prepared for the evening meal, and on a cupboard in the corner rested a large Bible and a copy of the Carroll Gazette.

In the window stood a sewing-machine, and near it a stairway leading to the bedroom above.

At home it would have been the dwelling of a gardener or farm-labourer, he thought, not that of an owner of land ; and looking round upon its cheerlessness his heart sank already at closer grips with this new democracy.

His glance rested again on the old woman. Some pieces of pork lay bubbling in a large frying-pan on one corner of the cooking stove, and in another she was deftly browning pancakes, adding them by couples to the growing pile upon a neighbouring plate. Her silver grey hair, straggling about her forehead, occasionally strayed into her eyes, and she would throw back her head, laughing at him and making apologies for her appearance.

“You’ll have to get used to us,” she said, “ an’ it’s rough livin’ out here.”

Charlie smiled, telling her untruthfully that he did not care, and she looked over her shoulder and smiled back at him.

“ Now, I guess your own ma’s a bit tidier,” she said.

The sudden vision of a sweet face and shawlclad figure and the cool parlour of a Berkshire rectory that swept across his mind held him for 24 a moment dumb. He could almost hear the restful voice and the break in it as it had bidden him farewell.

But the old woman’s bird-like eyes were upon him and she seemed to have guessed his thoughts, laying a gnarled hand upon his shoulder.

“You’ll be findin’ it strange at first, Charlie,” she said. “ Do you like pancakes? ”

Charlie nodded, smiling in spite of himself.

For already to this latest child of hers the prairie had given her first gift of eager, healthy hunger, and presently, with unaccustomed hands, he found himself helping her, turning over the slabs of pork, with their inspiring, cheerful aroma, the immediate prospect of refreshment shining out of these sordid surroundings, their brightest feature.

It was only when they gathered at last round the clothless table that the lumps of pork, fat and utterly salt, filled him with nausea, so that he was glad to stay his hunger upon hot biscuits and pancakes.

The whole family had assembled round the supper table — the four boys and the girl, and they ate silently, gazing at Charlie with shy, furtive glances.

To him they all seemed to be moulded on one pattern, built in varying scales according to their several ages — brown, blue-eyed, and robust.

Looking from one to another he envied the firm set of their jaws, their young, round muscles and obvious physical fitness. The talk, such as it was, was largely unintelligible to him, touching on shears and earth-boards and coulters, smacking of furrow and headland. After supper the old man bade him come outside, leading him to the wood-pile.

“ Ever used a saw? ”

Charlie shook his head.

The old man jerked a poplar into the saw-horse, cutting off several lengths, which he presently split with a blunt axe, Charlie watching him with dubious eyes.

“ Guess you can get goin’ on that to-morrow,” he said, when he had finished. “We hadn’t time to get it all cleared up before the frost broke, an’ it’s got to be done by hayin’.”

So this was to be his first work upon the prairie, and the prospect of it seemed utterly distasteful. Left to his own devices, he strolled down to the stables, where two of the boys were currying down the teams that he had seen upon the ploughing.

The diffused scent of hay and straw was not unpleasant, and he lingered for some time, watching the deft hands and careless affection with which the boys went about their stable duties. When at last he came out upon the 26 yard again, the sound of bells fell upon his ear, and following the trail a little way he came upon the old corral, where the cows, milked some time before by Becca and her mother, were standing gratefully in the blue smoke of some smouldering wet straw, grunting contentedly and swinging lazy tails about their flanks.

The prairie lay bathed now in a wonderful tender light, and already in the deepening sky some early stars had crept into being, shimmering like jewels, pale and remote, in a setting infinitely soft.

Here and there upon the plains, growing swiftly dim, lay drowsy trails of smoke, smudges of straw and manure, in which the cattle might seek refuge from mosquitoes.

The night held no sound but the low breathing of the cows in the corral, and the croaking of the frogs in a slough hard by, and upon Charlie, leaning by the gate, the darkness and its vast silence fell with a strange awe and an irresistible sense of loneliness. It was hard to realize that after these long days of travel he had at length reached his destination.

In the still night, some of the scenes so swiftly passed and already half forgotten came back to his mind: a concert on board, light-hearted, running on into the early hours ; the ephemeral swift camaraderie of steamer society ; the long 27 railway journey by the giant forests, and deep inland lakes; a brown tent, with a couple of dark-skinned Indians; Winnipeg, with its arc lights, and brand-new self-importance; a fight which he had witnessed there between two olivecheeked half-breeds ; the leisurely journey over the plains; Carroll, with its ordeal of staring eyes ; Roddy and the little sorrel ; and now this shabby log-house, uncarpeted, sordid, and bare of the most primitive refinements; the old woman, crude and illiterate, and the barefooted girl, calling him Charlie with so complete an intimacy, accepting him with such an absolute familiarity as one of themselves ; already the old traditions were tottering, and should they fall about his ears what would remain to him ? Face to face with life on these solitary ranges, was he, indeed, superior to these brown-skinned young Canadians? Or was he an alien in this country with no social frontiers, infinitely below them in his mastery of the essentials of success ?

These were strange thoughts, indeed, forcing themselves insistently on his unwilling mind. Well, at the worst he could go back to his Berkshire home. But he shut his teeth. No, he would never do that, never admit failure.

Suddenly he saw a lantern wavering through the darkness from the stable to the house, and the sight of it reminded him of bed. He turned 28 slowly down the trail. It was all so different, so disappointing: to-morrow he had thought to gallop upon unbounded ranges, and, behold, he was to saw wood.

In the bedroom which he was to share with two of the boys he found them already half undressed. There was, then, no evening life here, no fireside talk, no books, or music, or recreation.

His bed-fellow, with down-bent head, was kneeling at his prayers, a habit that Charlie with other childish customs had given up on board.

Evinced in this shy Canadian boy it struck him unexpectedly.

Then he undressed carefully, donning a suit of pyjamas that brought wonder into two pairs of sleepy blue eyes.

Nor did the prairie withhold from him her second gift of ready and dreamless slumber, and in a few minutes he had forgotten that after many days he had found his promised land.

III Ill

Dick Blackett sat at his shanty door looking out meditatively upon the blue waters of Silver Lake.

Down the southward trail old man Luke with his buckboard and pony was growing rapidly smaller, but the letters that he had left with Blackett lay unopened in his hands.

There were but two, and the one was in a handwriting familiar enough. Blackett regarded it reverently.

The other was addressed in a bold and daring style, which for the moment baffled memory.

And yet it seemed familiar. Then he opened it carefully, and, catching sight of the crest and address, wondered suddenly at his forgetfulness, for who indeed could be the writer but Cyril Trevelyan — Trevelyan of the ardent soul, Trevelyan, the idealist, the social reformer?

Blackett smiled and wondered, for though they had been the closest of friends at school and college, yet letters had been rare between them, and their ways in life had diverged strangely.

Misfortune and bereavement had driven 3 33 him to Manitoba, where his lessened income had proved of far greater value to him, and his love of solitude and labour had already sent him far on the road to prosperity.

But Trevelyan, leaving Cambridge, had become secretary and man of affairs to his uncle, Sir George Laville, banker, landowner, and philanthropist, and had brought all his boyish enthusiasm into the conduct of Sir George’s social schemes for his fellow men’s redemption.

On the one or two occasions of Blackett’s visit to England Trevelyan’s eagerness and brilliance had left him a little breathless, but had nevertheless always strengthened his belief in the honesty and loftiness of his old friend’s aims and purposes. Now he read his letter with some curiosity.

My Dear Blackett:

You will doubtless be surprised at hearing from me after so long a silence, and though our friendship, I am happy to think, depends on nothing so flimsy as notepaper, yet I have often felt some sort of reproach — perhaps you have shared it — for never having continued in letters those interesting conversations which we had on your last visit.

Y our visits, by the way, are growing so rare that I fear your western plains are really proving too strong for you. And now to the subject of my letter. As you probably know, Sir George 34 of late years has come to leave his affairs more entirely in my hands. He is growing old, the pleasures of his library are entering more largely into his life, and, as a consequence my work has been considerably increased. Now, as perhaps you are aware, Sir George has only two sons, the elder of whom is a chronic invalid, and a bachelor, spending most of his time in continental watering-places, endeavouring to prolong a life that must inevitably close in a year or two. The younger, Henry, left home many years ago under circumstances to which I need not refer. Sir George has. been obdurate in his refusal to see him again, although an allowance is made to him in quarterly cheques. And it is because it has fallen to me to despatch these remittances to an address in Manitoba, which I have just learned is also your own, that I have written this letter to you. For Sir George has been pondering a good deal lately as to the disposal of his interests after his death. The elder son is, of course, out of the question, and though the entailed property, a few inconsiderable acres, must of necessity fall to Henry, Sir George is firmly resolved that he shall have nothing else.

He has, however, recently thrown out hints that he would like to learn if Henry has gotten himself an heir, and also to discover something more of his present circumstances than we have been able to gather. And so, as a friend and in confidence, I am writing to you for the help I feel sure you can give us. You will, of course, see that all enquiries are necessarily tentative, and that anything in the nature of a hope or promise must be absolutely out of the question at present.

The letter ended with some references to mutual friends and a reminiscence of days at Harrow. It was addressed from the Dorrington Club, in Mayfair, and was signed by Cyril Trevelyan.

Blackett pondered its contents for some while. It was curious that he should never have associated Sir George, whom he knew very well, with the blue-eyed bleary giant who was so familiar a figure in the Carroll hotels. The contrast was strange and a little pitiful. And yet, as Blackett knocked the ashes out of his pipe, he wondered if there were indeed a saloon in Canada that had not set its seal upon some such story as this.

IV

The shady side of the dry-goods store was always a favourite trysting-place for the youth of Carroll, and during the noon-day spell, when their elders were smoking in quiet places or snatching a few moments of slumber, a little group of sun-tanned youngsters was usually collected at this spot.

Their shrill voices suggested no desire for repose, nor did their sturdy limbs seem in any way conscious of the prevailing drowsiness. On this occasion, Roddy, standing in the roadway with his blue eyes screwed up into slits above his cheeks, was blinking contentedly in the sunlight, his hat pushed back over his short brown hair, his hands buried, English fashion, in his pockets. He was the complacent centre of interest to some half dozen barelegged boys and girls lounging in the shadow, and displayed a lean brown shin crossed by an angry weal.

“ Pete Lafayette is a son of a swine,” he observed, and there was a murmur of assent.

“ An’ what did he hit you for, Roddy? ” asked somebody.

“ He knocked off my hat with his whip as he drove by, an’ I called after him, ‘ Dirty old half- 39 breed ! ’ an’ then he cut back, an’ I hadn’t time

to dodge him, an’ he did that ” Here Roddy

ended in language entirely unrespectable, sticking out a bare leg for inspection and pity.

“ Hush, Roddy, you shouldn’t swear,” said a little girl.

She spoke in shocked tones, but Roddy smiled superiorly.

“ Guess you’d ha’ done if he’d hit you like that — guess anyone would ha’ done.”

The boys looked at him admiringly, though a little awed at the recklessness of his language, for Roddy scorned the half measures that at present marked their own furthest outposts in the realms of blasphemy. Moreover, he was revolving a plug of real tobacco between his teeth, while they for the most part were satisfying their young propensities with chewing gum, and this attainment alone was sufficient to place Roddy in a position of desirable supremacy.

Indeed, if it had not been for the unfortunately unanimous condemnation passed upon him by parental opinion, Roddy would long ago have been enthroned as the uncrowned king of juvenile Carroll.

As matters were, however, there was perhaps no child present who had not been warned at one time or another as to the undesirability of Roddy as a bosom companion. And thus it had 40 come about that Roddy, while entirely at his ease with all classes of this western community, had but few friends in any.

The recognized toughs of the place laughed at him, admired him, and treated him to black plug; the Methodists had made sundry strenuous but hitherto unsuccessful raids upon his soul; the Presbyterians, shaking their heads, had prophesied dismally; the mothers collectively , while letting him saw their wood, drive in their cows, or do odd jobs about the house, had always suppressed with an iron hand any rising intimacy between him and their own children; the fathers, to a man, said it was a pity that he was so evidently going the way of his father; and in their hearts they loved him. His father’s farm being a little more than a mile out of the town, Roddy was a frequent visitor to Carroll, spending indeed as much of his time as was not absolutely required by his parents in doing whatever work came to his hand, a remunerative occupation that was greatly more desirable in his eyes than unrecompensed labour upon the farm at home.

And since his father possessed only one team, which he drove himself, when sufficiently his own master to be able to do so, Roddy found a good deal of time to satisfy his desire for the companionships of town.

Henry Laville, a big invertebrate, younger son of good English stock, was a remittance man of the worst type, receiving every quarter a cheque sufficiently large to obviate the absolute necessity of farming his land well, and thus, since it was largely expended in drinks of varying size and quality, perfectly successful in keeping him perpetually and to the majority of his neighbours contemptibly poor.

Yet he had certain qualities that commanded some amount of respect. He was kindly and honourable. His wife, a pale, silent woman, whom he had married in Eastern Canada, made no complaints of ill-treatment to the few friends who visited her.