The Bail Jumper

by Robert J. C. Stead

“There are times when most folks figure that their life has been a blank; You may be a homeless hobo or director of a bank, But the thought will catch you nappin’—catch you sometime unawares— That your life has been a failure, and that no one really cares.” Prairie Born.

As the spring lengthened into summer the business in Gardiner’s store increased. The wheat had stooled well, and a couple of showers early in May had relieved the drought that threatens before the thunder-storms of June and July set in. The country was glorious in its verdure of growing crops and green pastures, ponds of bright water not yet tinged with the murkiness of vegetation, and little streams murmuring through the night on their easy descent to the lower levels. Everything pointed to a prosperous season, and the farmers, who, with Western optimism, always buy on the prospects of the future, were patronising the local merchants liberally. Gardiner and Burton had so far been able to keep up with the rush, but when George Graves arrived on the afternoon train in search of a position in a store, and showed Gardiner his references, he was promptly engaged.

From the first Graves showed an interest in Burton amounting to an attachment. He tried to get rooms at Mrs. Goode’s in order that they might be near each other, but the landlady too was enjoying a prosperous season, and was unable to accommodate him.

“No, Mr. Grain, my house is quite plumb full, more’s the pity, an’ I’m thinkin’ o’ you when I say it. It don’t take folks long to find where they can get a good meal, an’ there ain’t a boarder at my table but speaks for himself. William!”—this in response to her husband’s footsteps in the hall—“William, go down and get the mail. I’m looking for a letter from the new girl.” Mrs. Goode considered her inferior half a poor advertisement, and generally contrived to keep him out of the way when customers were in prospect.

“No, Mr. Grange,” she continued, “the work has got so heavy, what with all home cookin’ and sweepin’ the upstairs every day, for if there’s one thing I says a young man wants it’s a clean room and a good meal that’s cooked all through, an’ what with it all I’m getting a new girl, all the way from Torontuh, an’ it’ll be doublin’ up as it is when she gets here, an’ two sleepin’ in the parlour already.”

Graves’ disappointment was so evident that Mrs. Goode was touched by the implied compliment, and ventured to suggest, “Maybe Mr. Burtle would share with you.”

This seemed a solution, but Burton was one of those young men who enjoy their own company too much to forfeit it altogether, and although sorry to refuse he could not be persuaded to let the new clerk room with him. Graves, however, took no umbrage at Burton’s refusal; on the contrary, he seemed to seek the boy’s companionship more than ever, and they soon found they had many interests in common and proved to be congenial associates.

But in Burton’s eyes, at least, the arrival of the new clerk was much eclipsed by the arrival of the new “girl” for Mrs. Goode’s boarding-house. Polly Lester was a lithe, dark young thing, with black eyes accustomed to sleep dreamily through ordinary experiences, but they glowed like a flame-shot thundercloud when aroused. Her hair, black and luxuriant, her well-cut nose, thin but sensitive lips, and chin that sat in a square, feminine defiance made her a girl to demand a second glance. The neck sloped gently into the fold of her dress, clasped with a modest black ornament at the throat, and when she spoke it was in a voice low and vibrant, suggestive of moonlight walks and confidences whispered in a friendly ear. Her step was quiet, almost stealthy, but every poise from the ankle to the chin spoke courage and self-reliance. A strange girl, this, to leave a city and seek a menial position in a country boarding-house. She was a girl to direct, to command, to engineer, and to execute; but here she waited on tables, made beds and swept floors. When she looked at Burton, before she had so much as spoken his name, he felt himself under the witching power of those eyes—eyes that looked into him so calmly, but yet with such irresistible attraction.

One night, a few days after Polly Lester’s arrival at Plainville, Burton closed the store and walked down to the little stream which the country people dignified with the name of river. It was late in June, and heavy rains had swollen the creek until it slipped by in rapid, muddy silence. Through the clear evening air came the sound of the baseballers practising for the great tournament on Dominion Day, now almost at hand; although a mile away he heard the bass voice of the umpire calling balls and strikes, and the cheers of the townspeople who sat about the diamond when one of the boys made a hit or a sensational catch or contributed to a double play. And although he could not hear them he knew that in another part of the town eight young men and women were flushed and laughing in the height of their excitement over a close fought game of tennis, while on a score of verandahs little groups lounged after the heat of the day and speculated on the outcome of “The First,” or sipped ice cream and nibbled cake. A muskrat across the stream sat on the muddy bank and shot occasional cheeky glances at the intruder; a bird in the willow overhead twittered snatches of her evening lullaby. The very air was vital and vitalising, the lungs leaped in response to the optimistic oxygen. It was a good world—for some. But to Burton it was a hard world, and it was growing harder. He was under the shadow of a crime, and it seemed the shadow would darken into a cloud that should blight his whole life. Time was passing on, and nothing had occurred to relieve him of the weight of suspicion which had fallen upon him. He would have to face it out, he would probably be acquitted, but simply for lack of evidence. His wages were small; under the circumstances he could ask no more; indeed, he felt under an obligation to Gardiner for retaining him in his employ at all. He had had a conference with his father, and the memory did not reassure him. His father had made it plain that even he was reserving judgment. A good lawyer would be engaged and every chance given the lad to prove his innocence, but if he failed! Then there was Miss Vane. He had met her once or twice in the store since the robbery, and she had spoken to him as though nothing had happened. Indeed, he even thought there was a soft tenderness in her words which he had not detected before, but whether of love or pity, how should he discern? In any case he could say nothing, do nothing, hope nothing until this ordeal was over. And what could he hope then? What dared he hope? It was folly, folly! He should love her always; he should paint her always in the portrait gallery of his soul as he had seen her that exquisite morning, ages ago, creamy white, from the tip of her shoes to the tip of her hat, save where the rose nestled in her hair and a little brooch glowed against the pink-veined ermine of her throat. Ah, that glimpse that comes but once, that treasure to be hoarded for ever in the chambers of the mind, where no minions of the law could find it, where no judge and jury could wrest it away, where even life and death could not lay tax, that was his, his for ever, for ever.... And as his eyes moistened with the joy of that great revelation a vision rose from the mist, dimly and undefined at first, but gradually revealing itself as clear as if cut from a block of granite—a vision of raven hair and eyes with the slumbering glow of the pent-up heavens. Burton gazed as though at an apparition, and the fine features of Polly Lester stood reflected in the mirror of his brain. At first the truth numbed him, but presently he had grasped it at its real value. The polygamous instinct of the human mind crushed in with a cruel shattering of ideals; his soul was running riot with a chaos of overturned emotions.

He sprang to his feet. “My God,” he cried, “and must I lose this too? Can I not guard even the treasures of my own heart?”