Lorimer of the Northwest. Harold Bindloss
was nothing in the words, but the glance and tone conveyed the idea that he regretted the debt, while the whimsical look on Ormond’s face aided in stirring me, for we had democratic notions in that part of Lancashire.
“Ralph Lorimer, assistant cashier in the Orb Mill,” I said. “It was a slight service, and I did not consider the shortest way best;” while before the Colonel could answer I raised my hat to Grace, and, taking Robert the Devil’s head, turned him sharply around. Still, as I climbed into the dog-cart I saw that the burly master of Starcross House was chuckling at something, and I drove away feeling 22 strangely satisfied with myself, until I began to wonder whether after all to walk twice off the field defiantly before the enemy was not another form of cowardice. Alice met me on the threshold—for she heard the wheels—with a query as to why the Satanic Robert was in such a state; but for several reasons I did not fully enlighten her.
My uncle did not return that night, and I left for town the next morning. In the afternoon I sought an interview with him in his private office. It was with some trepidation that I entered, because Martin Lorimer was frank of speech and quick in temper, and I knew he was then busy with the details of a scheme that might double the output of his mill. He thrust the papers away and leaned forward on his desk, a characteristic specimen of his race, square in jaw and shoulder, with keenness and power stamped on his wrinkled face.
“Well, Ralph, what is it now?” he asked. “Johnson of Starcross has been telling me some tale about your running away with an heiress and giving his answer to Colonel Carrington. I’m not altogether sorry. I do not like that man. There is also a reason why he doesn’t like me.”
“It has nothing to do with that, sir,” I answered awkwardly. “You know I have never asked questions about the family money; and you have been very kind to me. But the fact is I can’t stand the mill, and I’m thinking of asking for whatever remains of my share and going out to Canada.”
Martin Lorimer smote the desk suddenly with his fist, and there was angry bewilderment in his eyes.
“Hast gone mad altogether, lad?” he asked.
I met his gaze steadily. “No,” I answered. “I can’t help longing for a life in the open air; and there is room in Canada for poor people like me.”
Then, thrusting his square jaw forward, he said: “Thy father left four hundred pounds in all. It is now five, under 23 my stewardship. Shall I ask the cashier to make out a statement? Thy father had whims and fancies, or it would have been four thousand. Tom Lorimer could never see which side of his bread was buttered. He was born a fool, like thee.”
Flinging back my head I rose facing him. But he thundered, “Stop! You ought to know my meaning. He was an open-handed gentleman, and my well-loved brother. If you take your share of the five hundred, what is going to educate your brother Reggie and your sister Aline? I presume you know the fees they charge at both those schools? And did you ever ask whether I had plans for thee?”
I was silent a moment. For the first time it struck me with sudden shame that Martin Lorimer had already most generously done his best to start his brother’s orphans well in life. Then I answered slowly:
“I beg your pardon. I recognize your goodness; but I know I should never be successful in the mill. I’m sorry, but that is only the simple truth. Let Reggie and Aline keep all, except enough for a third-class passage to Winnipeg. This is not a rash whim. It has taken me three years to make up my mind.”
“Then there’s an end of the matter,” said Martin Lorimer. “Stubbornness is in the family, and you are your father’s son. An archangel would hardly have moved poor Tom! Well, lad, you shall not go penniless, nor third-class, if it’s only for the credit of the name; and you can’t go until spring. I thank thee for telling me; but I’m busy, and we’ll talk again. Hast told thy cousin Alice about it?”
His eyes had lost their angry flash before I went out, and something in his change of tone revealed the hard bargain-maker’s inner self.
Minnie Lee smiled over the typewriter as I passed her room, and I went in to tell her about it. I felt I must talk 24 to some one; and, if not gifted with much sense, she was a sympathetic girl. She listened with a pretty air of dismay, and said petulantly, “So I shall lose my only friend in this dreary mill! Don’t they pay high wages for my work in Montreal and Winnipeg? Well, if you hear of a situation you can send straight back for me.”
Then a door slammed, and I saw a frown on my uncle’s face as, perhaps attracted by the sound of voices, he glanced into the room on passing. Still, it was some time afterward before I learned that he had heard the last words; and, remembering them eventually when recalled by events, Minnie’s careless speech proved an unfortunate one for both of us.
25
CHAPTER III
“THE LAND OF PROMISE”
It was a dismal afternoon in early spring when I lounged disconsolately about the streets of Winnipeg. The prairie metropolis had not then attained its present magnitude, but it was busy and muddy enough; for when the thaw comes the mire of a Western town is indescribable. Also odd showers of wet snow came down, and I shivered under my new skin coat, envying the busy citizens who, with fur caps drawn low down, hurried to and fro. One and all wore the stamp of prosperity, and their voices had a cheerful ring that grated on me, for I of all that bustling crowd seemed idle and without a purpose. So, feeling utterly forlorn, a stranger in a very strange and, at first sight, a forbidding land, I trudged up and down, waiting for the evening train which was to bear me west, and pondering over all that had happened during the past few weeks.
There was the parting with my uncle, who laid a strong hand on my shoulder and lapsed into the speech of the country as he said, “I need not tell thee to set thy teeth and hang on through the first few years, lad. Thy father played out a losing game only too staunchly; and it’s stey work at the beginning. I mind when I started the mill—but that’s an old story. It’s the man who can grin and bear it, coming up smiling after each fall, who wins in the end. And thou hast all the world before thee. Still, remember there are staunch friends behind thee here in Lancashire.” 26
I think his fingers shook a little, but Martin Lorimer was not addicted to much display of sentiment, and with a cough he hurried away; though I remember that the old cashier, who had served him since he started, putting a sealed envelope in my hand, said:
“It’s a draft for one hundred pounds on the Bank of Montreal, and it’s a secret; but I’m not debiting the estate with it. Thou’rt a gradely fool for thy trouble, Ralph Lorimer. But I knew thy father, and, like him, thou mun go thy own way. Well, maybe it’s for the best; and good luck go with thee.”
Next came my farewell from cousin Alice, who blushed as, laying before me a fine Winchester repeating rifle, which must have cost her some trouble to obtain in England then, she said:
“It’s only a little keepsake, but I thought you would like it—and you will remember your cousin when you use it. Ralph, you have chosen to work out your own destiny, and for many a night your uncle fumed over it until at last he said that the child who fought for scraps in the gutter grew to be worth any two of the spoon-fed. You know how fond he is of forcible simile, and he frowned when I suggested that Canada was not a gutter. Still, it is too late to consider whether you did well, and I ask, as a last favor, if you are ever unfortunate, if only for the sake of old times, you will let us know. And now I wish you all prosperity. Good-bye, Ralph dear, and God bless you.”
Her eyes were dim, and she looked so small and fragile that I stooped and kissed her, while though she drew herself suddenly away with the crimson mantling upward