The Bail Jumper Part 10

Before being entrusted with the foster-parentage of an English orphan, Riles found that he must have his application supported by the recommendation of two reputable citizens and a resident clergyman. He at once appealed to his neighbour, David Grant, than whom there was no more respected farmer in the community. He hardly was prepared for Mr.

Grant's frankness.

"No, Hiram, I can't sign that paper. If one of my boys, ten or twelve years old, were to be left an orphan, I wouldn't want him to come under your influence for the next five years of his life. You're a good farmer, Riles, but being a good farmer is one thing, and being a good father's another. A great many people in this country seem to think it more important that a man should be able to break in a colt than bring up a boy."

"Oh, well," Riles answered, good naturedly enough, "if it was yer son of course it 'ud be different. They've always had a good home, better'n most boys, I'm thinkin'. But these English brats, herded out of the streets an' turned loose in this country to live or die-it's a charity for anyone to take them in. They don't know nothin', an' never will, but eat an' sleep an' lie an' steal when they get a chance. They've got to be broke in severe, an' I reckon Hiram Riles can do it 's well as the next one. 'Course, if yuh've got conscientious objections," continued Riles, the habitual sneer creeping back into his disfigured face, "I won't press you to sign the paper."

"After a speech like that I think you had better not," said Grant, quietly, but there was a significance in his voice that did not appear on the surface.

Nothing daunted, Riles called on his two English neighbours who were giving instruction in agriculture at so much per head. They signed his recommendation without question. A clergyman who had never been in Riles' home, who had never met Mrs. Riles, who knew nothing of their style of living, put his name to the paper, as he did so speaking some cheap plat.i.tudes about the privilege of giving a Christian home to "one of these little ones."

And so it came about that Wilfred Vickery, already introduced to the reader as "London," became the bond-servant of Hiram Riles and his wife, Eliza Riles.

For a week or so the little orphan boy found everything so strange and unreal that he went around as one in a trance. Pure English was difficult enough for him, but the slangy colloquialism of the Riles'

home was almost unintelligible. Half the time he did not know what they said to him, but stared in a vacant, meaningless way which they ascribed to downright stupidity. When he spoke they mocked his language, although using an equally corrupted tongue themselves. For a few weeks, while under the direct care of responsible officers of the Home, the little fellow had experienced a kindness and a personal interest which had begun to unfold before him a life of which he had never dreamed. He had been taught to sing a few hymns, he had been taught to utter a simple prayer, he had been taught that there is a great Father to whom every child is dearer than to even the kindest earthly father. He had never known what an earthly father was, but in the new, great land to which they were going he should soon know-he should find that for every little child in all G.o.d's world some heart beats with the joy of a father's love, some bosom swells with the wealth of a mother's devotion. He had been taught these things, and some glimpse of that great real world which lies just beyond the realm of the intellect had come to his poor dwarfed soul and fired his spirit with the unutterable yearning that no man has ever answered in terms of time and sense. He had learned that life is not merely a battle to fill the belly, that the earth is not only for fighting and swearing in, that Love is a _real_ thing, more powerful than hate. The slumbering germ of his spiritual life, deafened by a decade of London's roar, had been wakened by a brief contact with kindness, and in the birth of imagination the world had taken on a new interest and a new possibility. All these hidden emotions, touched to sudden life, were clamouring for expression, for utterance, when he had come-to this.

The boy's disillusionment was terrible and complete. They thought him stupid, but he found the guise of stupidity serve his purpose well, and he was more cunning than they. He stole to fill his stomach; he lied to cover his theft. He shirked his labour whenever he could; he destroyed property whenever he dared. When they cuffed him he cursed them; when they swore at him he swore back, and he had the advantage of vocabulary.

When they made him milk cows he would pour the milk on the ground and say the cow kicked it; when he was old enough to drive a team he would let it run away whenever opportunity offered. He was to have been sent to school, but he went only on those rare occasions when nothing could be found for him to do on the farm, but he was compelled to write periodical letters to the Home saying how happy he was and how kind Mr.

and Mrs. Riles were to him. He was held up as an object of contempt before neighbours and strangers; he was the b.u.t.t of their coa.r.s.e humour and the victim of their bullying authority.

The kind officers of the Home had taught him a little prayer, and told him never to forget the good people who were to be his foster-parents in the new land. And every night as he crawled to his musty mattress and blankets in the mouse-chamber already described he would kneel by the broken chair and repeat:

"Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night, Through the darkness be Thou near me.

Keep me safe till morning's light.

G.o.d bless Mr. and Mrs. Riles and make me a good boy, for Jesus'

sake, Amen."

He had repeated this prayer nightly for months. One night he had difficulty getting the calves into their pen; they would run every direction except the way he would have them go. He still had his cows to milk, his pigs to feed, his wood and water to carry in, but the calves refused to be housed. When he had them almost in they broke away, and raced into the darkness of the pasture field, jumping and frisking in appreciation of the joke. He ran after them as fast as his tired little legs would take him, sobbing and swearing as he ran, but without success. They could not be found in the darkness, and as he came back, defeated and utterly played out, he met Riles, who had just returned from town and was none the better for his potations. Without a word the ruffian knocked the boy down with a swinging blow on the face, and kicked him almost into insensibility. As he crawled to bed that night, stiff, bruised and battered, he knelt before his broken chair and repeated his nightly prayer. When he came to the words "G.o.d bless Mr.

and Mrs. Riles" he stopped. The significance of the words dawned upon him in a way he had never quite understood. He was only a little boy, against whom environment and ancestry seemed to have conspired, but he was no hypocrite. He was praying for a man he hated, and the words stuck in his teeth. For a long time he remained there on his knees, looking at the misty light in the half-blackened lantern, and thinking, thinking.

He was fighting one of those great fights which come earlier in boyhood than we sometimes think, and which decide in large measure the whole course of after life.

Finally his jaws closed with a snap. "d.a.m.n Mr. Riles," he said, and climbed into bed.

CHAPTER VIII-A MYSTERIOUS ACQUAINTANCE

"There are times when most folks figure that their life has been a blank; You may be a homeless hobo or director of a bank, But the thought will catch you nappin'-catch you sometime unawares- That your life has been a failure, and that no one really cares."

_Prairie Born._

As the spring lengthened into summer the business in Gardiner's store increased. The wheat had stooled well, and a couple of showers early in May had relieved the drought that threatens before the thunder-storms of June and July set in. The country was glorious in its verdure of growing crops and green pastures, ponds of bright water not yet tinged with the murkiness of vegetation, and little streams murmuring through the night on their easy descent to the lower levels. Everything pointed to a prosperous season, and the farmers, who, with Western optimism, always buy on the prospects of the future, were patronising the local merchants liberally. Gardiner and Burton had so far been able to keep up with the rush, but when George Graves arrived on the afternoon train in search of a position in a store, and showed Gardiner his references, he was promptly engaged.

From the first Graves showed an interest in Burton amounting to an attachment. He tried to get rooms at Mrs. Goode's in order that they might be near each other, but the landlady too was enjoying a prosperous season, and was unable to accommodate him.

"No, Mr. Grain, my house is quite plumb full, more's the pity, an' I'm thinkin' o' you when I say it. It don't take folks long to find where they can get a good meal, an' there ain't a boarder at my table but speaks for himself. William!"-this in response to her husband's footsteps in the hall-"William, go down and get the mail. I'm looking for a letter from the new girl." Mrs. Goode considered her inferior half a poor advertis.e.m.e.nt, and generally contrived to keep him out of the way when customers were in prospect.

"No, Mr. Grange," she continued, "the work has got so heavy, what with all home cookin' and sweepin' the upstairs every day, for if there's one thing I says a young man wants it's a clean room and a good meal that's cooked all through, an' what with it all I'm getting a new girl, all the way from Torontuh, an' it'll be doublin' up as it is when she gets here, an' two sleepin' in the parlour already."

Graves' disappointment was so evident that Mrs. Goode was touched by the implied compliment, and ventured to suggest, "Maybe Mr. Burtle would share with you."

This seemed a solution, but Burton was one of those young men who enjoy their own company too much to forfeit it altogether, and although sorry to refuse he could not be persuaded to let the new clerk room with him.

Graves, however, took no umbrage at Burton's refusal; on the contrary, he seemed to seek the boy's companionship more than ever, and they soon found they had many interests in common and proved to be congenial a.s.sociates.

But in Burton's eyes, at least, the arrival of the new clerk was much eclipsed by the arrival of the new "girl" for Mrs. Goode's boarding-house. Polly Lester was a lithe, dark young thing, with black eyes accustomed to sleep dreamily through ordinary experiences, but they glowed like a flame-shot thundercloud when aroused. Her hair, black and luxuriant, her well-cut nose, thin but sensitive lips, and chin that sat in a square, feminine defiance made her a girl to demand a second glance. The neck sloped gently into the fold of her dress, clasped with a modest black ornament at the throat, and when she spoke it was in a voice low and vibrant, suggestive of moonlight walks and confidences whispered in a friendly ear. Her step was quiet, almost stealthy, but every poise from the ankle to the chin spoke courage and self-reliance.

A strange girl, this, to leave a city and seek a menial position in a country boarding-house. She was a girl to direct, to command, to engineer, and to execute; but here she waited on tables, made beds and swept floors. When she looked at Burton, before she had so much as spoken his name, he felt himself under the witching power of those eyes-eyes that looked into him so calmly, but yet with such irresistible attraction.

One night, a few days after Polly Lester's arrival at Plainville, Burton closed the store and walked down to the little stream which the country people dignified with the name of river. It was late in June, and heavy rains had swollen the creek until it slipped by in rapid, muddy silence.

Through the clear evening air came the sound of the baseballers practising for the great tournament on Dominion Day, now almost at hand; although a mile away he heard the ba.s.s voice of the umpire calling b.a.l.l.s and strikes, and the cheers of the townspeople who sat about the diamond when one of the boys made a hit or a sensational catch or contributed to a double play. And although he could not hear them he knew that in another part of the town eight young men and women were flushed and laughing in the height of their excitement over a close fought game of tennis, while on a score of verandahs little groups lounged after the heat of the day and speculated on the outcome of "The First," or sipped ice cream and nibbled cake. A muskrat across the stream sat on the muddy bank and shot occasional cheeky glances at the intruder; a bird in the willow overhead twittered s.n.a.t.c.hes of her evening lullaby. The very air was vital and vitalising, the lungs leaped in response to the optimistic oxygen. It was a good world-for some. But to Burton it was a hard world, and it was growing harder. He was under the shadow of a crime, and it seemed the shadow would darken into a cloud that should blight his whole life. Time was pa.s.sing on, and nothing had occurred to relieve him of the weight of suspicion which had fallen upon him. He would have to face it out, he would probably be acquitted, but simply for lack of evidence.

His wages were small; under the circ.u.mstances he could ask no more; indeed, he felt under an obligation to Gardiner for retaining him in his employ at all. He had had a conference with his father, and the memory did not rea.s.sure him. His father had made it plain that even he was reserving judgment. A good lawyer would be engaged and every chance given the lad to prove his innocence, but if he failed! Then there was Miss Vane. He had met her once or twice in the store since the robbery, and she had spoken to him as though nothing had happened. Indeed, he even thought there was a soft tenderness in her words which he had not detected before, but whether of love or pity, how should he discern? In any case he could say nothing, do nothing, hope nothing until this ordeal was over. And what could he hope then? What dared he hope? It was folly, folly! He should love her always; he should paint her always in the portrait gallery of his soul as he had seen her that exquisite morning, ages ago, creamy white, from the tip of her shoes to the tip of her hat, save where the rose nestled in her hair and a little brooch glowed against the pink-veined ermine of her throat. Ah, that glimpse that comes but once, that treasure to be h.o.a.rded for ever in the chambers of the mind, where no minions of the law could find it, where no judge and jury could wrest it away, where even life and death could not lay tax, that was his, his for ever, for ever.... And as his eyes moistened with the joy of that great revelation a vision rose from the mist, dimly and undefined at first, but gradually revealing itself as clear as if cut from a block of granite-a vision of raven hair and eyes with the slumbering glow of the pent-up heavens. Burton gazed as though at an apparition, and the fine features of Polly Lester stood reflected in the mirror of his brain. At first the truth numbed him, but presently he had grasped it at its real value. The polygamous instinct of the human mind crushed in with a cruel shattering of ideals; his soul was running riot with a chaos of overturned emotions.

He sprang to his feet. "My G.o.d," he cried, "and must I lose this too?

Can I not guard even the treasures of my own heart?"

"You are agitated, Mr. Burton," said a low voice at his side. "Have you been seeing visions-in the water?"

He turned and looked in the face of Polly Lester.

"Not visions," he managed to say, "but reflections."

"Reflections should not disturb you, Raymond"-she used his first name as though she had been his mother-"but you are straining your nervous system to the breaking point. Here is a dry log-shall we sit down?"

She led him to the log and seated herself beside him. The sun was setting after the long midsummer day, and the smooth, muddy water took on a surface of quicksilver. Their faces looked back at them out of the stream, and up from the young man's memory rushed a similar scene, staged at Crotton's Crossing. And just as the thought struck home, by a trick of the waving water the faces blended into one!

"You wonder that I, who have known you a week, should follow you here, do you not?" she was saying. "I should have stayed behind, I should have let you learn my secret for yourself. It is woman's lot to carry her secret in her heart, guarded as a precious thing, until the object of that secret pries it forth. But I am not a woman, as other women are. I defy traditions; I defy conventions. I claim the right G.o.d gave me to live my life as I will, where I will, how I will, with whom I will. When first I looked into you-when first your eyes met mine, I knew-what you knew. Why should we deceive ourselves? Why should we mock our own destinies?"

"You speak strangely," said Burton. "I-I do not understand."

"Why do you lie to me, Raymond?" she asked, still in that low voice, deep and vibrant, but without a suggestion of anger. "Why do you seek to conceal-that which we both know?"

"You are a strange woman. I do not understand you."

"Oh, that is different. Of course you do not understand me. n.o.body does.

I am so different. Instead of pretending I don't care for you, instead of pretending I don't know that you care for me, I admit it all. I am frank. I am truthful. I am, as you say, a strange woman."

"What are you doing in Plainville?" the young man demanded. "Why do you work for Mrs. Goode, sweeping her boarders' rooms-a menial servant, a-a chambermaid?"

"Fie on you, sir!" she cried, but there was a playful note in her voice.

"All honest work is honourable. There is nothing menial-except being menial."

"But you-you don't need to do this. You are educated. Your speech proclaims it. I have seen your handwriting; it is that of a business woman. You have appearance. You have presence. You don't need to do this work. Why do you do it?"

"Why should I answer that question?" she parried.

"I don't know. I suppose there is no reason. But you said you-you loved me--"

"I didn't."