The Trail of the Axe: A Story of Red Sand Valley. Cullum Ridgwell
ago, occupied a seat near the open French window, ready to attend at a moment's notice to the preparing of supper.
Betty had been silent for quite a while. She was staring with introspective gaze out in the direction of the railroad depot. The two men had been discussing the best means of raising the funds for the building of a new church, aided by a few impracticable suggestions from Mrs. Chepstow, who had a way of counting her stitches aloud in the midst of her remarks. Suddenly Betty turned to her uncle, whose lean, angular frame was grotesquely hunched up in his deck-chair.
"Will old Mudley bring the mail over if the train does come in this evening?" she inquired abruptly.
The parson shook his head. His lean, clean-shaven face lit with a quizzical smile as he glanced over at his niece.
"Why should he?" he replied. "He never does bring mail round. Are you expecting a letter – from him?"
There was no self-consciousness in the girl's manner as she replied. There was not even warmth.
"Oh, no; I was wondering if I should get one from Maud Hardwig. She promised to write me how Lily's wedding went off in Regina. It is a nuisance about the strike. But it's only the plate-layers, isn't it; and it only affects the section where they are constructing east of Winnipeg?"
Her uncle removed his pipe.
"Yes. But it affects indirectly the whole system. You see, they won't put on local mails from Regina. They wait for the eastern mail to come through. By the way, how long is it since you heard from Jim?"
Betty had turned away and was watching the vanishing point of the railway track, where it entered the valley a couple of miles away. Dave's steady eyes turned upon her. But she didn't answer at once, and her uncle had to call her attention.
"Betty!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, uncle," she replied at once. "I was dreaming. When did I hear? Oh, nearly nine months ago."
Mary Chepstow looked up with a start.
"Nine months? Gracious, child – there, I've done it wrong."
Bending over her work she withdrew her hook and started to unravel the chain she was making.
"Yes," Betty went on coldly. "Nine months since I had a letter. But I've heard indirectly."
Her uncle sat up.
"You never told me," he said uneasily.
The girl's indifference was not without its effect on him. She never talked of Jim Truscott now. And somehow the subject was rarely broached by any of them. Truscott had nominally gone away for two or three years, but they were already in the fifth year since his departure, and there was as yet no word of his returning. Secretly her uncle was rather pleased at her silence on the subject. He augured well from it. He did not think there was to be any heart-breaking over the matter. He had never sanctioned any engagement between them, but he had been prepared to do so if the boy turned up under satisfactory conditions. Now he felt that it was time to take action in the matter. Betty was nearly twenty-seven, and – well, he did not want her to spend her life waiting for a man who showed no sign of returning.
"I didn't see the necessity," she said quietly. "I heard of him through Dave."
The parson swung round on the master of the mills. His keen face was alert with the deepest interest.
"You, Dave?" he exclaimed.
The lumberman stirred uneasily, and Mary Chepstow let her work lie idle in her lap.
"Dawson – my foreman, you know – got a letter from Mansell. You remember Mansell? He acted as Jim's foreman at his mill. A fine sawyer, Mansell – "
"Yes, yes." Parson Tom's interest made him impatient.
"Well, you remember that Mansell went with Jim when he set out for the Yukon. They intended to try their luck together. Partners, of course. Well, Mansell wrote Dawson he was sick to death of worrying things out up there. He said he'd left Jim, but did not state why. He asked him if my mill was going strong, and would there be a job for him if he came back. He said that Jim was making money now. He had joined a man named Broncho Bill, a pretty hard citizen, and in consequence he was doing better. How he was making money he didn't say. But he finished up his remarks about the boy by saying he'd leave him to tell his own story, as he had no desire to put any one away."
Mrs. Chepstow offered no comment, but silently picked up her work and went on with it. Her husband sat back in his chair, stretching his long muscular legs, and folding his hands behind his head. Betty displayed not the least interest in Dave's haltingly told story.
The silence on the veranda was ominous. Chepstow began to refill his pipe, furtively watching his niece's pretty profile as she sat looking down the valley. It was his wife who broke the oppressive silence.
"I can't believe badly – three treble in the adjacent hole" – she muttered, referring to her pattern book, "of him. I always liked him – five chain."
"So do I," put in Dave with emphasis.
Betty glanced quickly into his rugged face.
"You don't believe the insinuations of that letter?" she asked him sharply.
"I don't."
Dave's reply was emphatic. Betty smiled over at him. Then she jumped up from her seat and pointed down the track.
"There's the mail," she cried. Then she came to her aunt's side and laid a hand coaxingly on her shoulder. "Will you see to supper, dear, if I go down for the mail?"
Mrs. Chepstow would not trust herself to speak, she was in the midst of a complicated manipulation of the pattern she was working, so she contented herself with a nod, and Betty was off like the wind. The two men watched her as she sped down the hard red sand trail, and neither spoke until a bend in the road hid her from view.
"She's too good a girl, Dave," Chepstow said with almost militant warmth. "She's not going to be made a fool of by – by – "
"She won't be made a fool of by any one," Dave broke in with equal warmth. "There's no fear of it, if I'm any judge," he added. "I don't think you realize that girl's spirit, Tom. Here, I'll tell you something I've never told anybody. When Jim went away Betty came to me and asked me to let her study my mills. She wanted to learn all the business of 'em. All the inside of the management of 'em. If I'd have let her she'd have learnt how to run the saws. And do you know why she did it? I'll tell you. Because she thought Jim might come back broke, and he and she together could start up his old mill again, so as to win through. That's Betty. Can you beat it? That girl has made up her mind to a certain line of action, and she'll see it through, no matter what her feelings may be. No word of yours, or mine, will turn her from her purpose. She'll wait for Jim."
"Yes, and waste the best of her life," exclaimed Mrs. Chepstow. "One, two, three – turn."
Dave smiled over at the rotund figure crocheting so assiduously. Although Mary Chepstow was over forty her face still retained its youthful prettiness. The parson laughed. He generally laughed at his wife's views upon anything outside of her small household and the care of the sick villagers. But it was never an unkind laugh. Just a large, tolerant good-nature, a pronounced feature in his character. Parson Tom, like many kindly men, was hasty of temper, even fiery, and being a man of considerable athletic powers, this characteristic had, on more than one occasion, forcibly brought some recalcitrant member of his uncertain-tempered flock to book, and incidentally acquired for him the sobriquet of "the fighting parson."
"I don't know about wasting the best of her life," he said. "Betty has never wasted her life. Look at the school she's got now. And, mark you, she's done it all herself. She has three teachers under her. She has negotiated all the finance of the school herself. She got the government by the coat-tails and dragged national support out of it. Why, she's a wonder. No, no, not waste, Mary. Let her wait if she chooses. We won't interfere. I only hope that when Jim does come back he'll be a decent citizen. If he isn't, I'd bet my last cent Betty will know how to deal with him."
"She'll sure give him up, if he isn't," said Dave with conviction.
Mary looked up, her round blue eyes twinkling.
"Dave