Home > Authors Index > Ralph Connor > Foreigner > This page
Foreigner, a novel by Ralph Connor |
||
Chapter 16. How Kalman Found His Mine |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XVI. HOW KALMAN FOUND HIS MINE The girl's enthusiasm for her new-found friend was such that the whole party decided to accept his invitation. And so they did, spending a full day and night on the ranch, exploring, under French's guidance, the beauty spots, and investigating with the greatest interest, especially on Miss Marjorie's part, the farming operations, over which Kalman was presiding. That young man, in dumb and abashed confusion of face, strictly avoided the party, appearing only at meals. There, while he made a brave show, he was torn between the conflicting emotions of admiration of the easy nonchalance and self-possession with which Jack played the host, and of furious rage at the air of proprietorship which Mr. Edgar Penny showed towards Miss Marjorie. Gladly would he have crushed into a shapeless pulp the ruddy, chubby face of that young man. Kalman found himself at times with his eyes fixed upon the very spot where his fingers itched to grip that thick-set neck, but in spite of these passing moments of fury, the whole world was new to him. The blue of the sky, the shimmer of the lake, the golden yellow of the poplars, all things in earth and heaven, were shining with a new glory. For him the day's work had no weariness. He no longer trod the solid ground, but through paths of airy bliss his soul marched to the strains of celestial music. Poor Kalman! When on that fateful morning upon his virgin soul there dawned the vision of the maid, the hour of fate struck for him. That most ancient and most divine of frenzies smote him. He was deliciously, madly in love, though he knew it not. It is something to his credit, however, that he allowed the maiden to depart without giving visible token of this divine frenzy raging within his breast, unless it were that in the blue of his eyes there came a deeper blue, and that under the tan of his cheek a pallor crept. But when on their going the girl suddenly turned in her saddle and, waving her hand, cried, "Good-by, Kalman," the pallor fled, chased from his cheek by a hot rush of Slavic blood as he turned to answer, "Good-by." He held his hat high in a farewell salutation, as he had seen Jack do, and then in another moment she was gone, and with her all the glory of that golden autumn day. To Kalman it seemed as if months or years must have passed since he first saw her by her Aunt's tent on that eventful morning. To take up the ordinary routine was impossible to him. That very night, rolling up his blankets and grub for three days, and strapping on to his saddle an axe and a shovel, Kalman rode off down the Night Hawk Creek, telling Mackenzie gruffly, as he called his dogs to follow, that he purposed digging out a coyote's den that he knew lay somewhere between the lake and the Creek mouth. The afternoon of the second day found him far down the Creek, where it plunged headlong into the black ravine below, not having discovered his wolf den and not much caring whether he should or not; for as he rode through the thick scrub he seemed to see dancing before him in the glancing beams that rained down through the yellow poplar leaves a maiden's face with saucy brown eyes that laughed at him and lured him and flouted him all at once. At the edge of the steep descent he held up his broncho. He had never been down this way before. The sides of the ravine pitched sharply into a narrow gorge through which the Night Hawk brawled its way to the Saskatchewan two miles farther down. "We'll scramble down here, Jacob," he said to his broncho,--so named by Brown, for that he had "supplanted" in Kalman's affection his first pony, the pinto. He dismounted, drew the reins over the broncho's head, and began the descent, followed by his horse, slipping, sliding, hanging on now by trees and now by jutting rocks. By the edge of what had once been a small landslip, he clutched a poplar tree to save himself from going over; but the tree came away with him, and horse and man slid and rolled down the slope, bringing with them a great mass of earth and stone. Unhappily, Jacob in his descent rolled over upon the boy's leg. There was a snap, a twinge of sharp pain, and boy and horse lay half imbedded in the loose earth. Kalman seized a stick that lay near at hand. "Get up, Jacob, you brute!" he cried, giving him a sharp blow. Jacob responded with a mighty plunge and struggled free, making it possible for Kalman to extricate himself. He was relieved to discover that he could stand on his feet and could walk, but only with extreme pain. Upon examination he could find no sign of broken bones. He took a large handkerchief from his neck, bound it tightly about his foot and ankle. "I say, Jacob, we're well out of that," he said, looking up at the great cave that had been excavated by the landslip. "Quite a hole, eh? A great place to sleep in. Lots of spruce about, too. We'll just camp here for the night. I guess I'll have to let those coyotes go this trip. This beastly foot of mine won't let me dig much. Hello!" he continued, "that's a mighty queer rock. I'll just take a look at that hole." He struggled up over the debris and entered the cave. Through the earth there showed a glistening seam slanting across one side and ending in a broken ledge. "By Jove!" he cried, copying Jack French in his habit of speech as in other habits, "that looks like the coal we used to find along the Winnipeg tracks." He broke off a piece of the black seam. It crumbled in his hands. "I guess not," he said; "but we'll get the shovel at it." Forgetting for the time the pain of his foot, he scrambled down over the soft earth, got his shovel, and was soon hard at work excavating the seam. Soon he had a very considerable pile lying at the front of the cave. "Now we'll soon see," he cried. He hurriedly gathered some dry wood, heaped the black stuff upon it, lighted it, and sat down to wait the issue. Wild hopes were throbbing at his heart. He knew enough of the value of coal to realize the importance of the discovery. If it should prove to be coal, what a splendid thing it would be for Jack and for him! How much they would be able to do for Mrs. French and for his sister Irma! Amid his dreams a new face mingled, a face with saucy brown eyes, but on that face he refused to allow himself the rapture of looking. He dared not, at least not yet. Keenly he watched the fire. Was it taking hold of the black lumps? The flames were dying down. The wood had nearly burned itself out. The black lumps were charred and dead, and with their dying died his hopes. He glanced out upon the ravine. Large soft flakes of snow were falling lazily through the trees. "I'll get my blankets and grub under cover, and get some more wood for the night. It's going to be cold." He heaped the remains of the wood he had gathered upon the fire, and with great difficulty, for his foot was growing more and more painful with every move, he set about gathering wood, of which there was abundance near at hand, and making himself snug for the night. He brought up a pail of water from the Creek, and tethered his broncho where there was a bunch of grass at the bottom of the ravine. Before he had finished these operations the ground was white with snow, and the wind was beginning to sigh ominously through the trees. "Going to be a blizzard, sure," he said. "But let her blow. We're all right in here. Hello! where are those dogs? After the wolves, I'll be bound. They'll come back when they're ready." With every moment the snow came down more thickly, and the wind grew toward a gale. "If it's going to be a storm, I'd better lay in some more wood." At the cost of great pain and labour, he dragged within reach of the cave a number of dead trees. He was disgusted to find his stock of provisions rather low. "I wish I'd eaten less," he grumbled. "If I'm in for a three days' storm, and it looks like that, my grub will run out. I'll have a cup of tea to-night and save the grub for to-morrow." As he was busy with these preparations, a sudden darkness fell on the valley. A strange sound like a muffled roaring came up the ravine. In a single minute everything was blotted out before him. There hung down before his eyes a white, whirling, blinding, choking mass of driving snow. "By Jove! that's a corker of a blizzard, sure enough! I'll draw my fire further in." He seized his shovel and began to scrape the embers of his fire together. With a shout he dropped his shovel, fell on his knees, and gazed into the fire. Under the heap of burning wood there was a mass of glowing coal. "Coal!" he shouted, rushing to the front of the cave. "Coal! Coal! Oh, Jack! Dear old Jack! It's coal!" Trembling between fear and hope, he broke in pieces the glowing lumps, rushed back to the seam, gathered more of the black stuff, and heaped it around the fire. Soon his doubts were all at rest. The black lumps were soon on fire and blazed up with a blue flame. But for his foot, he would have mounted Jacob and ridden straight off for the ranch through all the storm. "Let her snow!" he cried, gazing into the whirling mist before his eyes. "I've got the stuff that beats blizzards!" He turned to his tea making, now pausing to examine the great black seam, and again going to the cave entrance to whistle for his dogs. As he stood listening to the soft whishing roar of the storm, he thought he heard the deep bay of Queen's voice. Holding his breath, he listened again. In the pause of the storm he heard, and distinctly this time, that deep musical note. "They're digging out a wolf," he said. "They'll get tired and come back soon." He drank his tea, struggled down the steep slope, the descent made more difficult by the covering of soft snow upon it, and drew another pail of water for evening use. Still the dogs did not appear. He went to the cave's mouth again, and whistled loud and long. This time quite distinctly he caught Queen's long, deep bay, and following that, a call as of a human voice. "What?" he said, "some one out in that storm?" He dropped upon his knees, put his hands up to his ears, and listened intently again. Once more, in a lull of the gale, he heard a long, clear call. "Heavens above!" he cried, "a woman's voice! And I can't make a hundred yards with this foot of mine." He knew enough of blizzards to realize the extreme danger to any one caught in those blinding, whirling snow clouds. "I can't stay here, and I can't make it with this foot, but--yes--By Jove! Jacob can, though." He seized his saddle and struggled out into the storm. Three paces from the door he fell headlong into a soft drift, wrenching his foot anew. Choking, blinded, and almost fainting with the pain, he got to his feet once more and fought his way down the slope to where he knew his horse must be. "Jacob!" he called, "where are you?" The faithful broncho answered with a glad whinny. "All right, old boy, I'll get you." In a few minutes he was on the broncho's back and off down the valley, feeling his way carefully among the trees and over stones and logs. As he went on, he caught now and then Queen's ringing bugle-note, and as often as he caught it he answered with a loud "Halloo!" It was with the utmost difficulty that he could keep Jacob's head toward the storm. Yard by yard he pressed his way against the gale, holding his direction by means of the flowing stream. Nearer and nearer sounded the cry of the hound, till in answer to his shouting he heard a voice call loud and clear. The valley grew wider, the timber more open, and his progress became more rapid. Soon, through the drifting mass, he caught sight of two white moving figures. The dogs bounded toward him. "Hello there!" he called. "Here you are; come this way." He urged forward his horse till he was nearly upon them. "Oh, Kalman! Kalman! I knew it was you!" In an instant he was off his horse and at her side. "You! You!" he shouted aloud above the howling gale. "Marjorie! Marjorie!" He had her in his arms, kissing her face madly, while sobbing, panting, laughing, she sank upon his breast. "Oh, Kalman! Kalman!" she gasped. "You must stop! You must stop! Oh! I am so glad! You must stop!" "God in Heaven!" shouted the man, boy no longer. "Who can stop me? How can I stop? You might have died here in the snow!" At a little distance the other figure was hanging to a tree, evidently near to exhaustion. "Oh, Kalman, we were fair done when the dogs came, and then I wouldn't stop, for I knew you were near. But my! my! you were so long!" The boy still held her in his arms. "I say, young man, what the deuce are we going to do? I'm played out. I cawn't move a blawsted foot." The voice recalled Kalman from heaven to earth. He turned to the speaker and made out Mr. Edgar Penny. "Do!" cried Kalman. "Why, make for my camp. Come along. It's up stream a little distance, and we can feel our way. Climb up, Marjorie." "Can I?" "Yes, at once," said Kalman, taking full command of her. "Now, hold on tight, and we'll soon be at camp." With the gale in their backs, they set off up stream, the men holding by the stirrups. For some minutes they battled on through the blizzard. Well for them that they had the brawling Creek to guide them that night, for through this swaying, choking curtain of snow it was impossible to see more than a horse length. In a few minutes Mr. Penny called out, "I say, I cawn't go a step further. Let's rest a bit." He sat down in the snow. Every moment the wind was blowing colder. "Come on!" shouted Kalman through the storm. "We must keep going or we'll freeze." But there was no answer. "Mr. Penny! Mr. Penny!" cried Marjorie, "get up! We must go on!" Still there was no answer. Kalman made his way round to the man's side. He was fast asleep. "Get up! Get up, you fool, or you will be smothered!" said Kalman, roughly shaking him. "Get up, I say!" He pulled the man to his feet and they started on once more, Mr. Penny stumbling along like a drunken man. "Let me walk, Kalman," entreated Marjorie. "I feel fresh and strong. He can't go on, and he will only keep us back." "You walk!" cried Kalman. "Never! If he can't keep up let him stay and die." "No, Kalman, I am quite strong." She slipped off the horse, Kalman growling his wrath and disgust, and together they assisted Mr. Penny to mount. By this time they had reached the thickest part of the woods. The trees broke to some extent the force of the wind, but the cold was growing more intense. "Single file here!" shouted Kalman to Marjorie. "You follow me." Slowly, painfully, through the darkness and drifted snow, with teeth clenched to keep back the groans which the pain of his foot was forcing from him, Kalman stumbled along. At length a misstep turned his foot. He sank with a groan into the snow. With a cry Marjorie was beside him. "Oh, Kalman, you have hurt yourself!" "It is this cursed foot of mine," he groaned. "I twisted it and something's broken, I am afraid, and it _is_ rather sore." "Hello there! what's up?" cried Mr. Penny from his saddle. "I'm getting beastly cold up here." Marjorie turned wrathfully upon him. "Here, you great lazy thing, come down!" she cried. "Kalman, you must ride." But Kalman was up and once more leading the way. "We're almost there," he cried. "Come along; he couldn't find the path." "It's just a great shame!" cried Marjorie, half sobbing, keeping by his side. "Can't I help you? Let me try." Her arm around him put new life into him. "By Jove! I see a fire," shouted Mr. Penny. "That's camp," said Kalman, pausing for breath while Marjorie held him up. "We're just there." And so, staggering and stumbling, they reached the foot of the landslip. Here Kalman took the saddle off Jacob, turned him loose, and clambered up to the cave, followed by the others. Mr. Penny sank to the ground and lay upon the cave floor like one dead. "Well, here we are at last," said Kalman, "thank God!" "Yes, thank God!" said Marjorie softly, "and--you, Kalman." She sank to her knees on the ground, and putting her face in her hands, burst into tears. "What is it, Marjorie?" said Kalman, taking her hands down from her face. "Are you hurt? What is it? I can't bear to see you cry like that." But he didn't kiss her. The conventionalities were seizing upon him again. His old shyness was stealing over his spirit. "Tell me what to do," he said. "Do!" cried Marjorie through her sobs. "What more can you do? Oh, Kalman, you have saved me from an awful death!" "Don't speak of it," said the boy with a shudder. "Don't I know it? I can't bear to think of it. But are you all right?" "Right?" said Marjorie briskly, wiping away her tears. "Of course I'm all right, an' sair hungry, tae." "Why, of course. What a fool I am!" said Kalman. "I'll make you tea in a minute." "No, let me," cried Marjorie. "Your poor foot must be awful. Where's your teapot? I'm a gran' tea maker, ye ken." She was in one of her daft moods, as Aunt Janet would say. Never was such tea as that which they had from the tin tea pail and from the one tin cup. What though the blizzard howled its loudest in front of their cave? What though the swirling snow threatened now and then to douse their fire? What though the tea boiled over and the pork burned to a crisp? What though a single bannock stood alone between them and starvation? What cared they? Heaven was about them, and its music was ringing in their hearts. Refreshed by their tea, they sat before the blazing fire, all three, drying their soaked garments, while Mr. Penny and Marjorie recounted their experiences. They had intended to make Wakota, but missed the trail. The day was fine, however, and that gave them no concern till the storm came up, when suddenly they had lost all sense of direction and allowed their ponies to take them where they would. With the instinct bred on the plains, the ponies had made for the shelter of the Night Hawk ravine. Up the ravine they had struggled till the darkness and the thick woods had forced them to abandon the ponies. "I wonder what the poor things will do?" interjected Marjorie. "They'll look after themselves, never fear," said Kalman. "They live out all winter here." Then through the drifts they had fought their way, till in the moment of their despair the dogs came upon them. "We thought they were wolves," cried Marjorie, "till one began to bay, and I knew it was the fox-hound. And then I was sure that you would not be far away. We followed the dogs for a while, and I kept calling and calling,--poor Mr. Penny had lost his voice entirely,--till you came and found us." A sweet confusion checked her speech. The heat of the fire became suddenly insupportable, and putting up her hand to protect her face, she drew back into the shadow. Mr. Penny, under the influence of a strong cup of boiling tea and a moderate portion of the bannock and pork,--for Kalman would not allow him full rations,--became more and more confident that they "would have made it." "Why, Mr. Penny," cried Marjorie, "you couldn't move a foot further. Don't you remember how often you sat down, and I had just to pull you up?" "Oh," said Mr. Penny, "it was the beastly drift getting into my eyes and mouth, don't you know. But I would have pulled up again in a minute. I was just getting my second wind. By Jove! I'm strong on my second wind, don't you know." But Marjorie was quite unconvinced, while Kalman said nothing. Over and over again they recounted the tale of their terrors and their struggle, each time with some new incident; but ever and anon there would flame up in Marjorie's cheek the flag of distress, as if some memory smote her with a sudden blow, and her hand would cover her cheek as if to ward off those other and too ardent kisses of the dancing flames. But at such times about her lips a fitful smile proclaimed her distress to be not quite unendurable. At length Mr. Penny felt sleepy, and stretching himself upon the dry earth before the fire, passed into unconsciousness, leaving the others to themselves. Over the bed of spruce boughs in the corner Kalman spread his blankets, moving about with painful difficulty at his task, his groans growing more frequent as they called forth from his companion exclamations of tender commiseration. The story of those vigil hours could not be told. How they sat now in long silences, gazing into the glowing coals, and again conversing in low voices lest Mr. Penny's vocal slumbers should be disturbed; how Marjorie told the short and simple story of her life, to Kalman all wonderful; how Kalman told the story of his life, omitting parts, and how Marjorie's tender eyes overflowed and her rosy cheeks grew pale and her hand crept toward his arm as he told the tragedy of his mother's death; how she described with suppressed laughter the alarms of her dear Aunt Janet that morning--was it a month ago?--how he told of Jack French, what a man he was and how good; how she spoke of her father and his strength and his tenderness, and of how he spoiled her, against which Kalman vehemently protested; how he told of Brown and his work for the poor ignorant Galicians, and of the songs they sang together; how she made him sing, at first in undertones soft and low, lest poor Mr. Penny's sleep should be broken, and then in tones clear and full, the hymns in which Brown and French used to join, and then, in obedience to her peremptory commands, his own favourite Hungarian love-song, of which he shyly told her; how her eyes shone like stars, her cheeks paled, and her hands held fast to each other in the ecstasy of her rapture while he told her what it all meant, at first with averted looks, and then boldly pouring the passion of his soul into her eyes, till they fell before the flame in his as he sang the refrain,
All this might be told, had one the art. But no art or skill of man could tell how, as they talked, there flew from eye to eye, hers brown and his blue-grey, those swift, fluttering signals of the heart; how he watched to see on her cheek the red flush glow and pale again, not sure whether it was from the fire upon the cave floor or from the fire that burns eternal in the heart of man and maid; how, as he talked and sang, she feared and loved to see the bold leap of passion in his eyes; and how she speedily learned what words or looks of hers could call up that flash; how, as she slept, he piled high the fire, not that she might be warm, but that the light might fall upon her face and he might drink and drink till his heart could hold no more, of her sweet loveliness; how, when first waking, her eyes fell on him moving softly about the cave, and then closed again till she could dream again her dream and drink in slow sips its rapture; how he feared to meet her waking glance, lest it should rebuke his madness of the night; how, as her eyes noted the haggard look of sleepless watching and of pain, her heart flowed over as with a mother's pity for her child, and how she longed to comfort him but dared not; how he thought of the coming days and feared to think of them, because in them she would have no place or part; how she looked into the future and wondered what like would be a life in this new and wonderful land--all this, no matter what his skill or art, no man could tell. It was still morning when Jack French and Brown rode up the Night Hawk ravine, driving two saddled ponies before them. Their common anxiety had furnished the occasion for the healing of the breach that for a year and more had held these friends apart. With voluble enthusiasm Mr. Penny welcomed them, plunging into a graphic account of their struggle with the storm till happily they came upon the dogs, who led them to Kalman and his camp. But French, brushing him aside, strode past to where, trembling and speechless, Marjorie stood, and then, taking her in his arms, he whispered many times in her ears, "Thank God, little girl, you are safe." And Marjorie, putting her arms around Jack's neck, whispered through radiant tears, "It was Kalman, Jack. Don't listen to yon gommeril. It was Kalman saved us; and oh, Jack, he is just lovely!" And Jack, patting her cheek, said, "I know all about him." "Do you, indeed?" she answered, with a knowing smile. "I doubt. But oh! he has broken his foot or something. And oh, Jack, he has got a mine!" And Jack, not knowing what she meant, looked curiously into her face and wondered, till Brown, examining Kalman's foot and finding a broken bone, exclaimed wrathfully, "Say, boy, you don't tell me you have been walking on this foot?" But Kalman answered nothing. "He came for me--for us, Mr. Brown, through that awful storm," cried Marjorie penitently; "and is it broken? Oh, Kalman, how could you?" But Kalman still answered nothing. His dream was passing from him. She was restored to her world and was no longer in his care. "And here's his mine," cried Marjorie, turning Jack toward the black seam. "By Jove!" cried Mr. Penny, "and I never saw it. You never showed it to me." But during those hours spent in the cave Kalman and Marjorie had something other to occupy their minds than mines. Jack French examined the seam closely and in growing excitement. "By the Lord Harry! Kalman, did you find this?" Kalman nodded indifferently. Mines were nothing to him now. "How did you light upon it?" And Kalman told him how. "He's just half dead and starved," said Marjorie in a voice that broke with pity. "He watched all last night while we slept away like a pair o' stirks." At the tone in her voice, Jack French turned and gave her a searching look. The quick, hot blood flamed into her cheeks, and in her eyes dawned a frank shyness as she gave him back his look. "I don't care," she said at length; "he's fair dune oot." But Jack only nodded his head sagely while he whispered to her, "Happy boy, happy boy! Two mines in one night!" At which the red flamed up again and she fell to examining with greater diligence the seam of black running athwart the cave side. In a few minutes they were mounted and away, Brown riding hard to bring the great news to the engineer's camp and recall the hunting parties; the rest to make the ranch, Marjorie in front in happy sparkling converse with Jack French, and Kalman, haggard and gloomy, bringing up the rear. A new man was being brought to birth within him, and sore were the parturition pangs. For one brief night she had been his; now back to her world, she was his no more. It was quite two days before the shining sun and the eager air had licked up from earth the drifts of snow, and two days before Marjorie felt quite sure she was able to bear again the rigours of camp life, and two days before Aunt Janet woke up to the fact that that foreign young man was altogether too handsome to be riding from morning till night with her niece. For Jack, meanwhile, was attending with assiduous courtesy the Aunt and receiving radiant looks of gratitude from the niece. Two days of Heaven, when Kalman forgot all but that she was beside him; two days of hell when he remembered that he was but a poor foreign boy and she a great English lady. Two days and they said farewell. Marjorie was the last, turning first to French, who kissed her, saying, "Come back again, little girl," and then to Kalman, sitting on his broncho, for he hated to go lame before them all. "Good-by, Kalman," she said, smiling bravely, while her lips quivered. "I'll no forget yon awful and," leaning slightly toward him as he took her hand, "yon happy night. Good-by for now. I'll no forget." And Kalman, looking straight into her eyes, held her hand without a word till, withdrawing it from his hold, she turned away, leaving the smile with him and carrying with her the quivering lips. "I shall ride a bit with you, little girl," said Jack French, who was ever quick with his eyes. She tried to smile at him, but failed piteously. But Jack rode close to her, talking bright nothings till she could smile again. "Oh, Jack, but you are the dear!" she said to him as they galloped together up the trail, Mr. Penny following behind. "I'll mind this to you." But before they took the descent to the Night Hawk ravine, they heard a thunder of hoofs, and wheeling, found Kalman bearing down upon them. "Mercy me!" cried Aunt Janet, "what's wrang wi' the lad?" "I have come to say good-by," he shouted, his broncho tearing up the earth by Marjorie's side. Reaching out his hands, he drew her toward him and kissed her before them all, once, again, and yet again, with Aunt Janet screaming, "Mercy sakes alive! The lad is daft! He'll do her a hurt!" "Hoots! woman, let the bairns be," cried Marjorie's father. "He saved her for us." But having said his farewell, Kalman rode away, waving his hand and singing at the top of his voice his Hungarian love-song,
|
||