Partners of the Out-Trail Part 31

They told Mrs. Winter at lunch, and Jim saw that she hesitated and looked at Carrie. The girl's face was, however, inscrutable, and she gave no sign. Jim felt puzzled. He thought Mrs. Winter liked Langrigg and she had developed since she came. She was not so thin, she had lost her careworn look and gained a certain ease of manner. At the store, she had been highly-strung and restless; now she was happily calm. Moreover, she was making her influence felt and quietly taking control. Jim had noted that things were done better and cost him less.

He wanted her to stay, because he thought she needed a rest and he would miss her if she went.

"Well," she said, doubtfully, "if you are all satisfied----"

"I am satisfied," Jim declared. "I imagine Jake is, but Carrie hasn't told us yet."

Carrie gave him a quick glance and he thought her color was rather high.

"You are kind," she said. "Mother looks younger than she has looked for long and perhaps we had better accept. But it is a big undertaking to drain the marsh. When do you begin?"

"I thought we might begin this afternoon. However, I don't expect to drain it all right off. There's a pretty dry piece where I mean to start. I reckon I've money enough for the experiment, and can develop my plans afterwards when I see what the first lot costs."

Carrie laughed and the hint of strain all had felt vanished. "You are certainly the hustling Jim we knew," she said. "I feel as if we were back in the woods."

After lunch Jim crossed the marsh with Jake and stopped where a ridge of higher ground broke off at the edge of a muddy creek. In the corner, partly sheltered by a bank of gorse, stood a small white house with a roof of rusty iron where the thatch had been. The whitewash had fallen off in places, exposing a rough, granulated wall, for the house was a dabbin, built of puddled clay. A window was broken and the door hung crookedly. Except for a few rows of withered potatoes, the garden was occupied by weeds. Three or four sh.e.l.lducks, hatched from wild birds' eggs, paddled about the creek.

"Shanks' dabbin; his father squatted here," Jim remarked. "I reckon I'm going to have trouble with the fellow."

He opened the broken gate and two men came out. One was bent and moved awkwardly, but Jake imagined that rheumatism rather than age had stiffened his joints. He looked at Jim with sullen suspicion. The other was young and strongly made.

"I've come to give you an offer, Shanks," Jim began. "This house is not fit to live in; I want you to use the cottage at Bank-end instead.

There's a good piece of garden and a row of fruit trees."

"Dabbin's bad, but it's mine," said Shanks. "You canna put me oot."

"I don't want to put you out; I want you to go. Anyhow, the dabbin isn't yours. You have no t.i.tle to the ground and I understand have been warned off, but we won't bother about that. Bank-end cottage is dry and comfortable and you can have it for your lifetime."

"I willun't gan."

Jim turned to the younger man. "This place is damp and falling down.

Can't you persuade your father?"

"I'm none for trying. He has t' right o' it."

There was silence for a few moments and then Shanks asked: "What for do you want the bit hoose?"

"I want to pull it down. The d.y.k.e I'm going to build starts here and the new cut for the creek must go through your garden."

Shanks looked at his son and remarked with dull surprise: "He's gan t'

d.y.k.e mars.h.!.+"

The other said nothing and Shanks turned to Jim. "If you were letten dry out marsh, t' wild geese and ducks wad gan."

"It's possible. We'll raise good gra.s.s and corn instead. Dairy cows are worth more than sh.e.l.lducks."

"But you'll niver be letten," Shanks replied doggedly.

"Shucks!" said Jim. "The marsh is mine. Although you have no claim to this place, I'll give you Bank-end, the garden, and if needful the small field. You and your son can make pretty good pay there if you like to work. If you'd sooner loaf and shoot, there's the creek and sands."

"'T' lag geese follow marsh," Shanks insisted.

Jim pondered and Jake studied the others. He had not seen men like these in Canada, where some of the Indians owned good farms and those who hunted had first-rate guns and canoes. Shanks and his son were ragged and dirty. They slouched and looked slack and dull, although now and then the younger man's eyes gleamed cunningly. Then Jim said:

"We won't argue about it. The dabbin must come down and when you're ready to move to Bank-end you can tell my teamster to take your household fixings along. If this doesn't meet the bill, I'll give you a hundred pounds and you can go where you like."

Shanks said nothing and Jim went off. When they were out of hearing Jake remarked: "I allow you had to be firm, but I don't like it, Jim.

Those fellows are what we call bad men."

"I imagine we have been up against worse."

"That's so. All the same, I wish you had been able to leave them alone."

"I can't leave them alone, because the d.y.k.e must cross that corner of the creek. They're about the meanest whites I've met, and I certainly don't want them at Bank-end. I'd sooner they took the hundred pounds and quit."

"How do they live?"

"By wildfowling and fis.h.i.+ng, though I'm told they snare rabbits and poach pheasants."

"Well, I suppose you're giving Shanks his chance of making good. The trouble is, he's forced to take the chance, whether he wants or not.

Some folks would sooner live like dogs than decent citizens."

"Do you think one ought to indulge their prejudice?"

"I don't," Jake admitted. "It would be bad economy. For all that I'd watch the fellows."

They let it go and talked about Jim's plans as they crossed the short gra.s.s where the silver-weed spread its carpet of yellow flowers. They trampled through belts of withered thrift and skirted winding creeks where tall reeds shook their bent leaves in the searching wind. Light and shadow sped across the marsh, and a flock of plover, s.h.i.+ning white and black, circled above the sands. Jake got a sense of s.p.a.ce and loneliness he had not expected to feel in England, but he smiled as he noted Jim's brisk step and the sparkle in his eyes. He knew his comrade and saw he was happy. The marsh was something to conquer and the struggle would absorb his energies.

Next day Jim returned to the market town. He was occupied for some time ordering tools, and driving back in the afternoon, hesitated as he got near the cross road that led to Whitelees. He wanted to see Evelyn, and Mrs. Halliday had told him to come when he liked, but it was perhaps significant that he wanted also to get on with his draining plans. Seeing Evelyn was a satisfaction he unconsciously reserved for his leisure; she was not, like Carrie, to some extent his working partner and critic. He took the road to Whitelees and smiled. Perhaps Carrie was patient when he thought her keen: it was possible that she was sometimes bored.

Mrs. Halliday received him in a room that looked full of ornaments and flowers, and gave him tea in beautiful china. He was half-afraid to handle the fragile cup and plate and hesitated about eating his slice of dainty cake. He had been examining machines and thought his clothes smelt of oil; somehow he felt big and awkward. By and by Mrs. Halliday asked what had occupied him in town, and he told her about his plans.

Evelyn looked interested.

"If you begin your d.y.k.e where you propose, won't Shanks' dabbin be in the way?"

"The dabbin must come down," Jim replied.

A question from Mrs. Halliday led to his relating his interview with Shanks, and Evelyn said, "Could you not have left the old man his cottage? After all, it is picturesque."

"It isn't picturesque when you are near. Does beauty go with dirt and neglect?"

"Perhaps it does not. I suppose the old Greeks gave us our standard of beauty and they attained it by careful cultivation. For all that, they rather conventionalized their type and one likes people with pluck enough to strike an independent note. To some extent, one can sympathize with Shanks, because he won't be clean by rule."

Jim unconsciously looked about the room, and Evelyn laughed. "Oh," she said, "we don't copy the Greeks! Their model was austere simplicity, the bold, flowing line: but we are luxuriously modern. However, it would have been a graceful plan to leave Shanks alone."

"It wouldn't have been sound. You can't neglect a job that ought to be put over, because you'd like to be graceful."

"You're not Greek," said Evelyn. "You're Roman."