A September day in Alberta. There is no other day to be compared to it in any other month or in any other land. Other lands have their September days, and Alberta has days in other months, but the combination of September day in Alberta is sui generis. The foothill country with plain, and hill, and valley, and mighty mountain, laced with stream, and river, and lake; the over-arching sheet of blue with cloud shapes wandering and wistful, the kindly sun pouring its genial sheen of yellow and gold over the face of the earth below, purple in the mountains and gold and pearly grey, and all swimming in air blown through the mountain gorges and over forests of pine, tingling with ozone and reaching the heart and going to the head like new wine--these things go with a September day in Alberta.
And like new wine the air seemed to Jack Romayne as the Packard like a swallow skimmed along the undulating prairie trail, smooth, resilient, of all the roads in the world for motor cars the best.
For that day at least and in that motor car life seemed good to Jack Romayne. Not many such days would be his, and he meant to take all it gave regardless of cost. His sister's proposal to call at the Gwynnes' house he would have rejected could he have found a reasonable excuse. The invitation to the Gwynne girls to accompany them on their shoot he resented also, and still more deeply he resented the arrangement of the party that set Kathleen next to him, a close fit in the back seat of the car. But at the first feeling of her warm soft body wedged closely against him, all emotions fled except one of pulsating joy. And this, with the air rushing at them from the western mountains, wrought in him the reckless resolve to take what the gods offered no matter what might follow. As he listened to the chatter about him he yielded to the intoxication of his love for this fair slim girl pressing soft against his arm and shoulder. He allowed his fancy to play with surmises as to what would happen should he turn to her and say, "Dear girl, do you know how fair you are, how entrancingly lovely?
Do you know I am madly in love with you, and that I can hardly refrain from putting this arm, against which you so quietly lean your warm soft body, about you?" He looked boldly at the red curves of her lips and allowed himself to riot in the imagination of how deliciously they would yield to his pressed against them.
"My God!" he cried aloud, "to think of it."
The two ladies turned their astonished eyes upon him. "What is it, Jack? Wait, Tom. Have you lost something?""Yes, that is, I never had it. No, go on, Tom, it cannot be helped now. Go on, please do. What a day it is!" he continued. "'What a time we are having,' as Miss Nora would say.""Yes, what a time!" exclaimed Nora, turning her face toward them.
"Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, I think I must tell you that your husband is ****** love to me so that I am quite losing my head.""Poor things," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "How could either of you help it?""Why is it that all the nice men are married?" inquired Nora.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Nora," said Jack in a pained voice.
"I mean--why--I'm afraid I can't fix that up, can I?" she said, appealing to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
"Certainly you can. What you really mean is, why do all married men become so nice?" said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
"Oh, thank you, the answer is so obvious. Do you know, I feel wild to-day.""And so do I," replied Kathleen, suddenly waking to life. "It is the wonderful air, or the motor, perhaps.""Me, too," exclaimed Jack Romayne, looking straight at her, "only with me it is not the air, nor the motor.""What then!" said Kathleen with a swift, shy look at him.
"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness and a stranger intermeddleth not with its joy.'""That's the Bible, I know," said Kathleen, "and it really means 'mind your own business.'""No, no, not that exactly," protested Jack, "rather that there are things in the heart too deep if not for tears most certainly for words. You can guess what I mean, Miss Kathleen," said Jack, trying to get her eyes.
"Oh, yes," said the girl, "there are things that we cannot trust to words, no, not for all the world.""I know what you are thinking of," replied Jack. "Let me guess.""No, no, you must not, indeed," she replied quickly. "Look, isn't that the mine? What a crowd of people! Do look."Out in the valley before them they could see a procession of teams and men weaving rhythmic figures about what was discovered to be upon a nearer view a roadway which was being constructed to cross a little coolee so as to give access to the black hole on the hillside beyond which was the coal mine. In the noise and bustle of the work the motor came to a stop unobserved behind a long wooden structure which Nora diagnosed as the "grub shack.""In your English speech, Mr. Romayne, the dining room of the camp.
He is certainly a hustler," exclaimed Nora, gazing upon the scene before them.
"Who?" inquired Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
"Ernest Switzer," said Nora, unable to keep the grudge out of her voice. "It is only a week since I was up here and during that time he has actually made this village, the streets, the sidewalks--and if that is not actually a system of water pipes.""Some hustler, as you say, Miss Nora, eh, what?" said Tom.
"Wonderful," replied Nora; "he is wonderful."Jack glanced at the girl beside him. It seemed to him that it needed no mind-reader to interpret the look of pride, yes and of love, in the wonderful blue-grey eyes. Sick as from a heavy blow he turned away from her; the flicker of hope that his brother-in-law's words had kindled in his heart died out and left him cold.
He was too late; why try to deceive himself any longer? The only thing to do was to pull out and leave this place where every day brought him intolerable pain. But today he would get all he could, to-day he would love her and win such poor scraps as he could from her eyes, her smiles, her words.
"Glorious view that," he said, touching her arm and sweeping his hand toward the mountains.
She started at his touch, a faint colour coming into her face.
