The Night Hawk Mining
Company, after a period of doubt and
struggle, was solidly on its feet at last. True, its dividends
were not large, but at least it was paying its way, and it stood
well among the financial institutions of the country. Its
satisfactory condition was accounted for by its President, Sir
Robert Menzies, at the last Annual Meeting of the Company, in the
following words: "It is to the fidelity, diligence, good judgment,
and ability to handle men, shown by our young Manager, Mr. Kalmar,
during the past five years, that the Company owes its present
excellent standing."
The Foreign Colony and
the mine reacted upon each other, to their
mutual advantage, the one furnishing labourers, the other work and
cash. The colony had greatly prospered on this account, but
perhaps more on account of the influence of Dr. Brown and his
mission. The establishment of a Government school had relieved the
missionary of an exacting and laborious department of his work, and
allowed him to devote himself to his Hospital and his Training
Home. The changes apparent in the colony, largely as the result
of Dr. Brown's labours, were truly remarkable. The creating of a
market for their produce by the advent of the railway, and for
their labour by the development of the mine, brought the Galician
people wealth, but the influence of Dr. Brown himself, and of his
Home, and of his Hospital, was apparent in the life and character
of the people, and especially of the younger generation. The old
mud-plastered cabins were giving place to neat frame houses, each
surrounded by its garden of vegetables and flowers. In dress, the
sheep skin and the shawl were being exchanged for the ready-made
suit and the hat of latest style. The Hospital, with its staff
of trained nurses under the direction of the young matron, the
charming Miss Irma, by its ministrations to the sick, and more by
the spirit that breathed through its whole service, wrought in the
Galician mind a new temper and a new ideal. In the Training Home
fifty Galician girls were being indoctrinated into that most noble
of all sciences, the science of home-making, and were gaining
practical experience in all the cognate sciences and arts.
At the Night Hawk ranch
too were all the signs of the new order of
things. Fenced fields and imported stock, a new ranch house with
stables and granaries, were some of the indications that the coming
of the market for the produce of the ranch had synchronized with
the making of the man for its administration. The call of the New
Time, and the appeal of the New Ideal, that came through the
railroad, the mine, but, more than both, through the Mission and
its founder, found a response in the heart of Jack French. The
old laissez faire of the pioneer days gave place to a sense of
responsibility for opportunity, and to habits of decisive and
prompt attention to the business of the hour. Five years of
intelligent study of conditions, of steady application to duty,
had brought success not in wealth alone, but in character and in
influence.
But upon Kalman, more
than upon any other, these five years had
left their mark. The hard grind of daily work, the daily burden
of administration, had toughened the fibre of his character and
hardened the temper of his spirit, and this hardening and
toughening could be seen in every line of his face and in every
motion of his body. Twice during the five years he had been sent
by Jack French to the city for a three months' term in a Business
College, where he learned to know, not only the books of his
College curriculum, but, through Jack's introductions, the men who
were doing big things for the country. He had returned to his
place and to his work in the mine with vision enlarged, ideal
exalted, and with the purpose strengthened to make the best out of
life. In every sense the years had made a man of him. He was as
tall as Jack, lithe and strong; in mind keen and quick, in action
resolute. To those he met in the world of labour and of business
he seemed hard. To his old friends on the ranch or at the Mission,
up through all the hardness there welled those springs that come
from a heart kind, loyal, and true. Among the Galicians of the
colony, he was their acknowledged leader, because he did justly by
them and because, although a Canadian among Canadians, he never
forgot to own and to honour the Slav blood that flowed in his
veins, and to labour for the advancement of his people.
But full of work and
ambition as he was, yet there were times when
Jack French read in his eyes the hunger of his heart. For after
all, it is in the heart a man carries his life, it is through the
heart come his finest ideals, from the heart his truest words and
deeds.
At one such time, and
the week before she came again, Jack French,
looking through the window of his own heart and filled with a great
pity for the young man who had come to be more than brother to him,
had ventured to speak. But only once, for with such finality of
tone and manner as made answer impossible, Kalman had made reply.
"No, Jack, I had my
dream. It was great while it lasted, but it is
past, and I shall dream no more."
"Kalman, my boy, don't
make a mistake. Life is a long thing, and
can be very dreary." There was no mistaking the pain in Jack's
voice.
"Is it, Jack?" said
Kalman. "I am afraid you are right. But I can
never forget--my father was a foreigner, and I am one, and the
tragedy of that awful night can never be wiped from her mind. The
curse of it I must bear!"
"But, Kalman, you are
not ashamed of your blood--of your father?"
Then Kalman lifted up
his head and his voice rang out. "Of my
blood? No. But it is not hers. Of my father? No. To me he was
the just avenger of a great cause. But to her," his voice sank to
a hoarse whisper, "he was a murderer! No, Jack, it may not be."
"But, Kalman, my boy,"
remonstrated Jack, "think of all--"
"Think? For these five
years I have thought till my heart is sore
with thinking! No, Jack, don't fret. I don't. Thank God there
are other things. There is work, a people to help, a country to
serve."
"Other things!" said
French bitterly. "True, there are, and great
things, but, Kalman, boy, I have tried them, and to-night after
thirty years, as I speak to you--my God!--my heart is sick of
hunger for something better than things! Love! my boy, love is the
best!"
"Poor Jack!" said
Kalman softly, "dear old boy!" and went out. But
of that hunger of the heart they never spoke again.
And now at the end of
five years' absence she was coming again.
How vivid to Kalman was his remembrance of the last sight he had
of her. It was at the Night Hawk ranch, and on the night succeeding
that of the tragedy at the mine. In the inner room, beside his
father's body, he was sitting, his mind busy with the tragic pathos
of that grief-tortured, storm-beaten life. Step by step, as far as
he knew it, he was tracing the tear-wet, blood-stained path that
life had taken; its dreadful scenes of blood and heart agony were
passing before his mind; when gradually he became aware that
in the next room the Sergeant, with bluff and almost brutal
straightforwardness, was telling her the story of Rosenblatt's
dreadful end. "And then, begad! after grilling the wretch for all
that time, didn't the infernal, bloodthirsty fiend in the most
cheerful manner touch off the powder and blow the man into
eternity." Then through the thin partition he heard her faint cry
of horror. He remembered how, at the Sergeant's description of his
father, something seemed to go wrong in his brain. He had a dim
remembrance of how, dazed with rage, he had felt his way out to the
next room, and cried, "You defamer of the dead! you will lie no
more!" He had a vivid picture of how in horror she had fled from
him while he dragged out the Sergeant by the throat into the night,
and how he had been torn from him by the united efforts of Brown
and French together. He remembered how, after the funeral service,
when he had grown master of himself again, he had offered the
Sergeant his humble apology before them all. But most vivid of all
was his memory of the look of fear and repulsion in her eyes when
he came near her. And that was the last look he had had of her.
Gladly would he have run away from meeting her again; but this he
could not do, for Jack's sake and for his own. Carefully he
rehearsed the scene, what he would say, and how he would carry
himself with what rigid self-control and with what easy indifference
he would greet her.
But the meeting was
quite other than he had planned. It was at
the mine. One shiny September morning the heavy cars were just
starting down the incline to the mine below, when through the
carelessness of the operator the brake of the great drum slipped,
and on being applied again with reckless force, broke, and the car
was off, bringing destruction to half a dozen men at the bottom of
the shaft. Quick as a flash of light, Kalman sprang to the racing
cog wheels, threw in a heavy coat that happened to be lying near,
and then, as the machinery slowed, thrust in a handspike and
checked the descent of the runaway car. It took less than two
seconds to see, to plan, to execute.
"Great work!" exclaimed
a voice behind him.
He turned and saw Sir
Robert Menzies, and between him and French,
his daughter Marjorie.
"Glad to see you, Sir
Robert," he exclaimed heartily.
"That was splendid!"
said his daughter, pale and shaken by what she
had seen.
One keen searching look
he thrust in through her eyes, scanning her
soul. Bravely, frankly, she gave him back his look. Kalman drew
a deep breath. It was as if he had been on a long voyage of
discovery, how long he could not tell. But what he had seen brought
comfort to his heart. She had not shrunk from him.
"That was fine!" cried
Marjorie again, offering him her hand.
"I am afraid," he said,
holding back his, "that my hand is not
clean enough to shake with you."
"Give it to me," she
said almost imperiously. "It is the hand of a
brave man and good."
Her tone was one of
warm and genuine admiration. All Kalman's
practised self-control deserted him. He felt the hot blood rising
in his face. With a great effort he regained command of himself
and began pointing out the features of interest in the mine.
"Great changes have
taken place in the last five years," she said,
looking down the ravine, disfigured by all the sordid accompaniments
of a coal mine.
"Yes, great changes,"
said Kalman.
"At Wakota, too, there
are great changes," she said, walking a
little apart from the others. "That Mr. Brown has done wonderful
things for those foreigners."
"Yes," said Kalman
proudly, "he has done great things for my
people."
"They are becoming good
Canadians," replied Marjorie, her colour
showing that she had noted his tone and meaning.
"Yes, they will be good
Canadians," said Kalman. "They are good
Canadians now. They are my best men. None can touch them in the
mine, and they are good farmers too."
"I am sure they are,"
cried Marjorie heartily. "How wonderful the
power of this country of yours to transform men! It is a wonderful
country Canada."
"That it is," cried
Kalman with enthusiasm. "No man can tell, for
no man knows the magnificence of its possibilities. We have only
skirted round the edge and scratched its surface."
"It is a fine thing,"
said Marjorie, "to have a country to be made,
and it is fine to be a man and have a part in the making of it."
"Yes," agreed Kalman,
"it is fine."
"I envy you," cried
Marjorie with enthusiasm.
A shadow fell on
Kalman's face. "I don't know that you need to,
after all."
Then she said good-by,
leaving him with heart throbbing and nerves
tingling to his finger tips. Ah, how dear she was! What mad folly
to think he could forget her! Every glance of her eye, every tone
in her soft Scotch voice, every motion of hand and body, how
familiar they all were! Like the faint elusive perfume from the
clover fields of childhood, they smote upon his senses with
intoxicating power. Standing there tingling and trembling, he made
one firm resolve. Never would he see her again. Tomorrow he would
make a long-planned trip to the city. He dared not wait another
day. To-morrow? No, that was Sunday. He would spend one full
happy day in that ravine seeking to recatch the emotions that had
thrilled his boy's heart on that great night five years ago, and
having thus filled his heart, he would take his departure without
seeing her again.
It was the custom of
the people of the ranch to spend Sunday
afternoon at the Mission. So without a word even to French,
calling his dogs, Captain and Queen, Kalman rode down the trail
that led past the lake and toward the Night Hawk ravine. By that
same trail he had gone on that memorable afternoon, and though five
years had passed, the thoughts, the imaginings of that day, were as
freshly present with him as if it had been but yesterday. And
though they were the thoughts and imaginings of a mere boy, yet
to-day they seemed to him good and worthy of his manhood.
Down the trail, well
beaten now, through the golden poplars he
rode, his dogs behind him, till he reached the pitch of the ravine.
There, where he had scrambled down, a bridle path led now. It was
very different, and yet how much remained unchanged. There was the
same glorious sun raining down his golden beams upon the yellow
poplar leaves, the same air, sweet and genial, in him the same
heart, and before him the same face, but sweeter it seemed, and
eyes the same that danced with every sunbeam and lured him on. He
was living again the rapture of his boyhood's first great passion.
At the mine's mouth he
paused. Not a feature remained of the cave
that he had discovered five years ago, but sitting there upon his
horse, how readily he reconstructed the scene! Ah, how easy it
was! Every line of that cave, the new fresh earth, the gleaming
black seam, the very stones in the walls, he could replace.
Carefully, deliberately, he recalled the incidents of the evening
spent in the cave: the very words she spoke; how her lips moved as
she spoke them; how her eyes glanced, now straight at him, now from
under the drooping lids; how she smiled, how she wept, how she
laughed aloud; how her face shone with the firelight playing on it,
and the soul light radiating through it. He revelled in the memory
of it all. There was the very spot where Mr. Penny had lain in
vocal slumber. Here he had stood with the snowstorm beating on his
face. He resolved to trace step by step the path he had taken that
night, and to taste again the bliss of which he had drunk so deep.
And all the while, as he rode down the gorge, underneath the
rapture of remembering, he was conscious of an exquisite pain. But
he would go through with it. He would not allow the pain to spoil
his day, his last day near her. Down by the running water, as on
that night, underneath and through the crowding trees, out to where
the gorge widened into the valley, he rode. When hark! He paused.
Was that Queen's bay? Surely it was. "A wolf?" he thought. "No,
there are none left in the glen." He shrank from meeting any one
that afternoon. He waited to hear again that deep, soft trumpet
note, and strained his ear for voices. But all was still except
for the falling of a ripe leaf now and then through the trees. He
hated to give up the afternoon he had planned.
He rode on. He reached
the more open timber. He remembered that
it was here he had first caught the sound of voices behind that
blinding drift. Through the poplars he pressed his horse. It was
at this very spot that, through an opening in the storm, he had
first caught sight--what! His heart stood still, and then leaped
into his throat. There, on the very spot where he had seen her
that night, she stood again to-day! Was it a vision of his fond
imagination? He passed his hand over his eyes. No, she was there
still! standing among the golden poplars, the sunlight falling all
around her. With all his boyhood's frenzy in his heart, he gazed
at her till she turned and looked toward him. A moment more, with
his spurs into his horse's side, he crashed through the scrub and
was at her side.
"You! you!" he cried,
in the old cry. "Marjorie! Marjorie!"
Once more he had her in
his arms. Once more he was kissing her
face, her eyes, her lips. Once more she was crying, "Oh, Kalman!
Stop! You must stop! You must stop!" And then, as before, she
laid her head upon his breast, sobbing, "When I saw the dogs I
feared you would come, but I could not run away. Oh, you must
stop! Oh, I am so happy!" And then he put her from him and looked
at her.
"Marjorie," he said,
"tell me it is no dream, that it is you, that
you are mine! Yes," he shouted aloud, "do you hear me? You are
mine! Before Heaven I say it! No man, nothing shall take you from
me!"
"Hush, Kalman!" she
cried, coming to him and laying her hand upon
his lips; "they are just down by the river there."
"Who are they? I care
not who they are, now that you are mine!"
"And oh, how near I was
to losing you!" she cried. "You were going
away to-morrow, and I should have broken my heart."
"Ah, dear heart! How
could I know?" he said. "How could I know
you could ever love a foreigner, the son of a--"
"The son of a hero, who
paid out his life for a great cause," she
cried with a sob. "Oh, Kalman, I have been there. I have seen the
people, your father's people."
Kalman's face was pale,
his voice shaking. "You have seen? You
understand? You do not shrink from me?" He felt his very soul
trembling in the balance.
"Shrink from you!" she
cried in scorn. "Were I Russian, I should
be like your father!"
"Now God be thanked!"
cried Kalman. "That fear is gone. I fear
nothing else. Ah, how brave you are, sweetheart!"
"Stop, Kalman! Man,
man, you are terrible. Let me go! They are
coming!"
"Hello there! Steady
all." It was Brown's voice. "Now, then,
what's this?"
Awhile they stood side
by side, then Marjorie came shyly to Sir
Robert.
"I didn't mean to,
father," she said penitently, "not a bit. But I
couldn't help myself. He just made me."
Sir Robert kissed her.
Kalman stepped forward.
"And I couldn't help it, Sir," he said.
"I tried my best not to. Will you give her to me?"
"Listen to him, now,
will you?" said Sir Robert, shaking him warmly
by the hand. "It wasn't the fault of either of them."
"Quite true, Sir," said
French gravely. "I'm afraid it was partly mine.
I saw the dogs--I thought it would be good for us three to take the
other trail."
"Blame me, Sir," said
Brown penitently. "It was I who helped to
conquer her aversion to the foreigner by showing her his many
excellences. Yes," continued Brown in a reminiscent manner, "I
seem to recall how a certain young lady into these ears made
solemn declaration that never, never could she love one of
those foreigners."
"Ah," said Marjorie
with sweet and serious emphasis, "but not my
foreigner, my Canadian foreigner." |