The Girl from Keller's. Harold Bindloss
are you going to do about the other matter?”
Festing was silent for a few moments. He had to make a momentous choice, but had known that he must do so and did not hesitate.
“I'm going to quit and try farming. After all, I don't know very much about railroad building; up to now I've got on rather by determination than knowledge. Then, if I stop with you, I'll come up against a locked door whenever I try to push ahead.”
“There are locked doors in other professions.”
“That's so; but in a big organization you must knock and ask somebody to let you through, and unless you have a properly stamped ticket, they turn you back. When the job's your own you beat down the door.”
“I've seen farmers who tried that plan left outside with badly jarred hands. Frost and rust and driving sand are difficult obstacles.”
“Oh, yes,” said Festing. “But they're natural obstacles; you know what you're up against and can overcome them, if you're stubborn enough. What I really mean is, you don't trust to somebody else's good opinion; whether you fail or not depends upon yourself.”
“Well,” said Kerr, getting up, “I think you're making the right choice, but hope you won't forget me when you leave us. You'll have a friend in the company's service as long as I'm on the road.”
He went out and Festing lighted his pipe. Now he had come to a decision, there was much that needed thought; but, to begin with, he knew of a suitable piece of land. Living in camp, he had saved the most part of his pay, and had inherited a small sum from an English relative. In consequence, he could buy the land, build a comfortable wooden house, and have something over to carry him on until he sold his first crop.
He resolved to buy the land and set the carpenters to work, but could not leave the railroad for a month, when it would be rather late to make a start. Then he had worked without a break for twelve years, for the most part at camps where no amusement was possible, and resolved to take a holiday. He would go back to England, where he had a few friends, although his relatives were dead. This was, of course, an extravagance; but after the self-denial he had practised there was some satisfaction in being rash. Lighting another pipe, he abandoned himself to pleasant dreams of his first holiday.
CHAPTER V
A RASH PROMISE
A few days before he started for England, Festing went over to Charnock's homestead, which was shortly to be sold. The evenings were getting light, and although Festing had finished his day's work before he left the bridge, the glow of sunset flooded Charnock's living-room. The strong red light searched out the signs of neglect and dilapidation, the broken boots and harness that needed mending, the dust sticking to the resin-stains on the cracked walls, and the gumbo soil on the dirty floor. As Charnock glanced up a level ray touched his face and showed a certain sensual coarseness that one missed when the light was normal. Festing, however, knew the look, and although he had not remarked it when he first met Charnock, thought it had always been there.
The change he had noted in his friend was only on the surface. Charnock had not really deteriorated in Canada; the qualities that had brought him down had been overlaid by a spurious grace and charm, but it now looked as if moral slackness might develop into active vice. On the whole, he thought Sadie would have trouble with Bob, but this was not his business.
“I've come to say good-bye,” he remarked. “I won't see you again until my return, and expect you'll be married then.”
“Yes,” said Charnock, shortly. “I suppose you have made some plans for your trip. Where are you going to stop in England?”
Festing told him and he looked surprised. “I didn't know you had friends in that neighborhood. Will you be with them some time?”
“A month, anyway. Then I may come and go.”
Charnock pushed his chair back out of the light. “Well, this makes it easier; there's something I want to ask. We are friends and I've let you give me good advice, though I haven't always acted on it. I don't know if this gives me a claim.”
“If there's anything I can do——”
“There is,” said Charnock, who hesitated for a few moments. “I want you to go and see Helen Dalton. She's the girl I ought to have married, and doesn't live very far from your friends.”
“Ah!” said Festing with a start. “It was her portrait you meant to burn?”
Charnock gave him a sharp glance. “Just so. I imagine I did burn it, because I couldn't find it afterwards.”
There was silence for a few moments while Festing wondered whether the other suspected him. Bob had an air of frankness, but was sometimes cunning. This, however, was not important, and Festing was strongly moved by the thought that he might see the girl.
“Why do you want me to go?” he asked.
“In order that you can tell her how I was situated. I want her to know why I was forced to give her up.”
“But you have written and stated your reasons.”
“Of course. But I've no talent for explanation, and in a letter you say too little or too much; probably I didn't say enough. Then you can't tell how far the person written to will understand, and questions rise. But will you go?”
Festing wanted to go, although he saw his task might be embarrassing. He had been some time in Western Canada, where people are frank and do not shrink from dealing with delicate matters. Then Charnock was his friend.
“It will be an awkward job, but you can indicate the line you think I ought to take.”
“The line is plain. You will tell Helen what it means to lose one's crop, and try to make her understand the struggle I've had—how the weather was against me, and the debts kept piling up until I was ruined. You can describe the havoc made by drought, and frost, and cutting sand. Then there's the other side of the matter; the hardships a woman must bear on the plains when money's scarce. The loneliness, the monotonous drudgery, the heat, the Arctic cold.”
“Miss Dalton looks as if she had pluck. She wouldn't be easily daunted.”
“Do you think I don't know? But when you meet her you'll see that the life we lead is impossible for a girl like that.”
“It looks as if you wanted me to be your advocate,” Festing remarked rather dryly. “I'm to make all the excuses for you I can, and prove that you were justified in breaking your engagement. I doubt if I'm clever enough—”
Charnock stopped him. “No! Perhaps I used excuses, but my object is not to clear myself.” He paused and colored. “We'll admit that Helen lost nothing when I gave her up; but a girl, particularly a young, romantic girl, feels that kind of thing, and it might hurt worse if she thought she had loved a wastrel. I want her to feel that I broke my engagement for her sake, when nothing else was possible. That might soften the blow, and I really think it's true.”
“How much of it is true?” Festing asked bluntly.
“Ah,” said Charnock, “you're an uncompromising fellow. You meant that if you'd had my debts and difficulties, you could have made good?”
“I might; but we both know two or three other men whom I'd have backed to do so.”
“For all that, you'll admit that the thing was impossible for me?”
Festing knitted his brows. “I believe you could have overcome