The Girl from Keller's Part 29

There was a charm in coming back to a home like this when he was tired and disappointed, but its taste and comfort were now disturbing. For one thing, he had perhaps not made the best use of his privileges, and, for another, Helen might have to be satisfied with a simpler mode of life.

It hurt him to think of this, because he had hoped to beautify the house still further, so that she should miss nothing she had been used to in the Old Country. It was obvious that she understood something of his misfortune, for her look was sympathetic; but she let him finish his supper before she began to talk.

"Your jacket is badly torn, Stephen," she remarked when he lighted his pipe. "And how did you cut your face?"

"The hail was pretty fierce."

"It was terrible. We never had storms like that in England. I was frightened when I thought of your being out on the prairie. But I don't mean the small bruises. How did you cut your forehead?"

"Oh, that!" said Festing awkwardly. "I did it when I fell over a stove at the settlement. The pipe came down and I imagine the edge struck me."

"You would have known if it hit you nor not."

"Well, it might have been the top of the stove. The molding was sharp."

"But how did you fall against the stove?" Helen persisted.

Festing did not want to tell her about the fight with Wilkinson. He had resolved to say nothing about the matter until morning.

"I tripped. There was a chair in the way and it caught my foot."

Helen did not look altogether satisfied, but let the matter go.

"Has the hail done much damage to the wheat?"

"Yes," said Festing, with grim quietness. "I imagine it has done all the damage that was possible. So far as I could see, the crop's wiped out."

They were sitting near together, and Helen, leaning forward, put her hand on his arm with a gesture of sympathy.

"Poor Stephen! I'm dreadfully sorry. It must have been a blow."

Festing's hard look softened. "It was. When I stopped beside the wreck I felt knocked out, but getting home braced me up. I begin to feel I might have had a worse misfortune and mustn't exaggerate the importance of the loss."

Helen was silent for a few minutes, but she was sensible of a certain relief. She was sorry for her husband, but there was some compensation, since it looked as if a ray of light had dawned on him. Although she had struggled against the feeling, she was jealous of the farm that had kept him away from her.

"I think you sowed too large a crop, and you could not have gone on working as you have done," she said. "It would have worn you out."

Festing put down his pipe and looked at her with surprise. "You don't seem to understand that I'll have to work harder than before."

"I don't understand," said Helen, taking away her hand. "To begin with, it's impossible; then I'd hoped the loss of money, serious as it is, would have made you cautious and, in a sense, more content."

"You hoped the loss of the money--!" Festing exclaimed. "Did you ever know losing money make anybody content? The thing's absurd!"

Helen made a gesture of protest. "Stephen, dear, try to see what I mean.

You have been doing too much, running too big risks, and fixing all your thought upon the farm. It has made you irritable and impatient, and the strain is telling on your health. This could not go on long, and although I'm truly sorry the wheat is spoiled, it's some relief to know you will be forced to be less ambitious. Besides, it's foolish to be disturbed. Neither of us is greedy, and we have enough. In fact, we have much that I hardly think you value as you ought."

"I haven't enough; that's the trouble."

"Oh," said Helen, "you know that all I have belongs to both."

"It doesn't," Festing answered in a stubborn tone. "You don't seem to realize yet that I can't change my views about this matter. I've lost most of my money, but that's no reason I should lose my wife's. Besides, since you bought the farm, you haven't a large sum left." He paused and indicated the handsome rugs and furniture. "Then it costs a good deal to live up to this kind of thing."

"We can change that; I can manage with less help and be more economical.

There is much that we can go without. I wouldn't mind at all, Stephen, if it would help you to take things easily."

Festing colored. "No. I can't let you suffer for my rashness. It's my business to give you all the comforts you need."

"Ah," said Helen, "I like you to think of me. But something's due to pride. I wonder how much?"

"I don't know," said Festing, rather wearily. "I'm what I am and haven't much time to improve myself. For that matter, I'll have less time now."

"Then what do you mean to do?"

"Make the most of what I have left. I'd hoped to give you a change this winter--take you to Montreal and go skating and tobogganing, but that's done with. I believe I have money enough to begin again in a small way and work up. It may take me two or three years to get back to where I was, but somehow I will get back."

"Then you are going on as before; concentrating all your mind upon the farm, taking no rest, denying yourself every pleasure you might have had?"

"I'm afraid that's the only way. It's a pretty grim outlook, but I think I can stand the strain."

"Then I suppose I must try," said Helen, very quietly.

She was silent afterwards, and Festing lit his pipe. Something stood between them, and she felt that it was not less dangerous because their motives were good. Had they differed from selfishness, agreement might have been easier, but an estrangement that sprang from principle was hard to overcome. She wanted to help her husband and keep him to herself; he meant to save her hardship and carry out a task that was properly his. But perhaps their motives were not so fine as they looked.

Suppose there was shabby jealousy on her side, and false pride on his?

Well, Stephen was tired and could not see things in the proper light, and it was some relief when he got up and went out. Helen picked up a book, in the hope of banishing her uneasy thoughts.

Next morning Festing came in for breakfast, feeling gloomy and preoccupied. He had not slept much and got up early to examine the damaged grain. It looked worse than he had thought and, for the most part, must be burned off the ground. There were patches that might, with difficulty, be cut, but he hardly imagined the stooks would pay for thrashing. Moreover, he had bought and fed a number of expensive Percheron horses, which ought to have been used for harvesting and hauling the grain to the railroad, and had engaged men at lower wages than usual, on the understanding that he kept them through the winter.

Now there was nothing for both to do, although their maintenance would cost as much as before.

He read Kerr's letter again. If he had not been married, it would have given him a chance of overcoming his difficulties. A man and a team of horses could do all that was required on the farm in winter, and he could have taken the others to British Columbia. Kerr would arrange for free transport, and, if he was lucky, he might earn enough on the railroad to cover part of his loss. But this was impossible. He could not leave Helen.

Then there was the other matter. He had not yet told her what Wilkinson had said, but she must be told, and Bob's visits must stop. The trouble was that he had already vexed her by refusing her help, and this would not make his delicate task easier. Besides, he was not in the mood to use much tact. His nerves were raw; the shock he had got had left him savage and physically tired. For all that, the thing could not be put off.

He said nothing until breakfast was over, and then, asking Helen to come with him, went on to the veranda. The sun was hot, the sky clear, and thin steam drifted across the drenched plain. Had the storm come without the hail a few weeks sooner, it would have saved his crop; but now the vivifying moisture seemed to mock him. It had come too late; the wheat had gone. Struggling with a feeling of depression, he turned to his wife.

"There's something we must talk about; and I hope you'll be patient with me if you get a jar."

He leaned against the bal.u.s.trade, nervously fingering his pipe, and Helen sat down opposite. She felt curious and disturbed.

"Well?" she said.

"To begin with, I'll tell you what happened at the settlement yesterday.

You must remember that the statements are Wilkinson's."

Helen's color rose, and when he stopped her face was flushed and her eyes were very bright.

"Ah," she said in a strained voice. "But what did you do?"

Festing smiled rather grimly. "I dragged the brute about the floor and threw him into the street. I don't know that it was a logical denial of the slander, but it was what the others expected and I had to indulge them."

"And that was how you cut your forehead?"