Masters of the Wheat-Lands
by Harold Bindloss · English · Gutenberg #25922 · 609,786 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Masters of the Wheat-Lands
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Masters of the Wheat-Lands
Author: Harold Bindloss
Illustrator: Cyrus Cuneo
Release date: June 28, 2008 [eBook #25922]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25922
Credits: E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASTERS OF THE WHEAT-LANDS ***
E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Canada Team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 25922-h.htm or 25922-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/5/9/2/25922/25922-h/25922-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/5/9/2/25922/25922-h.zip)
MASTERS OF THE WHEAT-LANDS
by
HAROLD BINDLOSS
Author of "Thurston of Orchard Valley," "By Right of
Purchase," "Lorimer of the Northwest," etc.
With Four Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo
[Illustration: "IT'S GOING TO HURT, GREGORY, BUT I HAVE GOT TO GET YOU
IN"--Page 17]
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers :: New York
All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation
into Foreign Languages, Including the Scandinavian
Copyright, 1910, by Frederick A. Stokes Company
Published in England Under the Title, "Hawtrey's Deputy"
October, 1910
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Sally Creighton 1
II. Sally Takes Charge 11
III. Wyllard Assents 22
IV. A Crisis 33
V. The Old Country 44
VI. Her Picture 55
VII. Agatha Does Not Flinch 66
VIII. The Traveling Companion 78
IX. The Fog 92
X. Disillusion 104
XI. Agatha's Decision 117
XII. Wanderers 130
XIII. The Summons 143
XIV. Agatha Proves Obdurate 154
XV. The Beach 165
XVI. The First Ice 177
XVII. Defeat 187
XVIII. A Delicate Errand 199
XIX. The Prior Claim 209
XX. The First Stake 223
XXI. Gregory Makes Up His Mind 234
XXII. A Painful Revelation 244
XXIII. Through The Snow 254
XXIV. The Landing 265
XXV. News of Disaster 276
XXVI. The Rescue 287
XXVII. In the Wilderness 299
XXVIII. The Unexpected 308
XXIX. Cast Away 320
XXX. The Last Effort 331
XXXI. Wyllard Comes Home 342
MASTERS OF THE WHEAT-LANDS
CHAPTER I
SALLY CREIGHTON
The frost outside was bitter, and the prairie which rolled back from
Lander's in long undulations to the far horizon, gleamed white beneath
the moon, but there was warmth and brightness in Stukely's wooden barn.
The barn stood at one end of the little, desolate settlement, where the
trail that came up from the railroad thirty miles away forked off into
two wavy ribands melting into a waste of snow. Lander's consisted then
of five or six frame houses and stores, a hotel of the same material,
several sod stables, and a few birch-log barns; and its inhabitants
considered it one of the most promising places in Western Canada. That,
however, is the land of promise, a promise which is in due time usually
fulfilled, and the men of Lander's were, for the most part, shrewdly
practical optimists. They made the most of a somewhat grim and frugal
present, and staked all they had to give--the few dollars they had
brought in with them, and their powers of enduring toil--upon the
roseate future.
Stukely had given them, and their scattered neighbors, who had driven
there across several leagues of prairie, a supper in his barn. A big
rusty stove, brought in for the occasion, stood in the center of the
barn floor. Its pipe glowed in places a dull red, and now and then
Stukely wondered uneasily whether it was charring a larger hole through
the shingles of the roof. On one side of the stove the floor had been
cleared; on the other, benches, empty barrels and tables were huddled
together, and such of the guests as were not dancing at the moment, sat
upon the various substitutes for chairs. A keg of hard Ontario cider had
been provided for the refreshment of the guests, and it was open to
anybody to ladle up what he wanted with a tin dipper. A haze of tobacco
smoke drifted in thin blue wisps beneath the big nickeled lamps, and in
addition to the reek of it, the place was filled with the smell of hot
iron which an over-driven stove gives out, and the subtle odors of old
skin coats.
The guests, however, were accustomed to an atmosphere of that kind, and
it did not trouble them. For the most part, they were lean, spare,
straight of limb and bronzed by frost and snow-blink, for though
scarcely half of them were Canadian born, the prairie, as a rule,
swiftly sets its stamp upon the newcomer. Also, there was something in
the way they held themselves and put their feet down that suggested
health and vigor, and, in the case of most of them, a certain alertness
and decision of character. Some were from English cities, a few from
those of Canada, and some from the bush of Ontario; but there was a
similarity among them for which the cut and tightness of their store
clothing did not altogether account. They lived well, though plainly,
and toiled out in the open unusually hard. Their eyes were steady, their
bronzed skin was clear, and their laughter had a wholesome ring.
A fiery-haired Scot, a Highlander, sat upon a barrel-head sawing at a
fiddle, and the shrill scream of it filled the barn. To tone he did not
aspire, but he played with Caledonian nerve and swing, and kept the
snapping time. It was mad, harsh music of the kind that sets the blood
tingling, causes the feet to move in rhythm, though the exhilarating
effect of it was rather spoiled by the efforts of the little French
Canadian who had another fiddle and struck clanging chords from the
lower strings.
In the cleared space they were dancing what was presumably a quadrille,
though it bore almost as great a resemblance to a Scottish country
dance, or indeed to one of the measures of rural France, which was,
however, characteristic of the present country.
The Englishman has set no distinguishable impress upon the prairie. It
has absorbed him with his reserve and sturdy industry, and apparently
the Canadian from the cities is also lost in it, too, for his is the
leaven that works through the mass slowly and unobtrusively, while the
Scot and the habitant of French extraction have given the life of it
color and individuality. Extremes meet and fuse on the wide white levels
of the West.
An Englishman, however, was the life of that dance, and he was
physically a larger man than most of the rest, for, as a rule, the
Colonial born run to wiry hardness rather than to solidity of frame.
Gregory Hawtrey was tall and thick of shoulder, though the rest of him
was in fine modeling, and he had a pleasant face of the English
blue-eyed type. Just then it was shining with boyish merriment, and
indeed an irresponsible gayety was a salient characteristic of the man.
One would have called him handsome, though his mouth was a trifle slack,
and though a certain assurance in his manner just fell short of swagger.
He was the kind of man one likes at first sight, but for all that not
the kind his hard-bitten neighbors would have chosen to stand by them
through the strain of drought and frost in adverse seasons.
As it happened, the grim, hard-faced Sager, who had come there from
Michigan, was just then talking about him to Stukely.
"Kind of tone about that man--guess he once had the gold-leaf on him
quite thick, and it hasn't all worn off yet," said Sager. "Seen more
Englishmen like him, and some folks from Noo York, too, when I took
parties bass fishing way back yonder."
He waved his hand vaguely, as though to indicate the American Republic,
and Stukely agreed with him. They were right as far as they went, for
Hawtrey undoubtedly possessed a grace of manner which, however, somehow
failed to reach distinction. It was, perhaps, just a little too
apparent, and lacked the strengthening feature of restraint.
"I wonder," remarked Stukely reflectively, "what those kind of fellows
done before they came out here."
He had expressed a curiosity which is now and then to be met with on the
prairie, but Sager, the charitable, grinned.
"Oh," he responded, "I guess quite a few done no more than make their
folks on the other side tired of them, and that's why they sent them out
to you. Some of them get paid so much on condition that they don't come
back again. Say"--and he glanced toward the dancers--"Dick Creighton's
Sally seems quite stuck on Hawtrey by the way she's looking at him."
Stukely assented. He was a somewhat primitive person, as was Sally
Creighton, for that matter, and he did not suppose that she would have
been greatly offended had she overheard his observations.
"Well," he said, "I've thought that, too. If she wants him she'll get
him. She's a smart girl--Sally."
There were not many women present--perhaps one to every two of the men,
which was rather a large proportion in that country, and their garments
were not at all costly or beautiful. The fabrics were, for the most
part, the cheapest obtainable, and the wearers had fashioned their gowns
with their own fingers, in the scanty interludes between washing, and
baking, and mending their husbands' or fathers' clothes. The faces of
the women were a trifle sallow and had lost their freshness in the dry
heat of the stove. Their hands were hard and reddened, and in figure
most of them were thin and spare. One could have fancied that in a land
where everybody toiled strenuously their burden was heavier than the
men's. One or two of the women clearly had been accustomed to a smoother
life, but there was nothing to suggest that they looked back to it with
regret. As a matter of fact, they looked forward, working for the
future, and there was patient courage in their smiling eyes.
Creighton's Sally, who was then tripping through the measure on
Hawtrey's arm, was native born. She was young and straight--straighter
in outline than the women of the cities--with a suppleness which was
less suggestive of the willow than a rather highly-tempered spring. She
moved with a large vigor which barely fell short of grace, her eyes
snapped when she smiled at Hawtrey, and her hair, which was of a ruddy
brown, had fiery gleams in it. Anyone would have called her comely, and
there were, indeed, no women in Stukely's barn to compare with her in
that respect, a fact that she recognized.
"Oh, yes," said Sager reflectively; "she'll get him sure if she sets her
mind on it, and there's no denying that they make a handsome pair. I've
nothing against Hawtrey either: a straight man, a hustler, and smart at
handling a team. Still, it's kind of curious that while the man's never
been stuck for the stamps like the rest of us, he's made nothing very
much of his homestead yet. Now there's Bob, and Jake, and Jasper came in
after he did with half the money, and they thrash out four bushels of
hard wheat for Hawtrey's three."
Stukely made a little gesture of concurrence, for he dimly realized the
significance of his companion's speech. It is results which count in
that country, where the one thing demanded is practical efficiency, and
the man of simple, steadfast purpose usually goes the farthest. Hawtrey
had graces which won him friends, boldness of conception, and the power
of application; but he had somehow failed to accomplish as much as his
neighbors did. After all, there must be a good deal to be said for the
man who raises four bushels of good wheat where his comrade with equal
facilities raises three.
In the meanwhile Hawtrey was talking to Sally, and it was not
astonishing that they talked of farming, which is the standard topic on
that strip of prairie.
"So you're not going to break that new piece this spring?" she asked.
"No," answered Hawtrey; "I'd want another team, anyway, and I can't
raise the money; it's hard to get out here."
"Plenty under the sod," declared Sally, who was essentially practical.
"That's where we get ours, but you have to put the breaker in and turn
it over. You"--and she flashed a quick glance at him--"got most of yours
from England. Won't they send you any more?"
Hawtrey's eyes twinkled as he shook his head. "I'm afraid they won't,"
he replied. "You see, I've put the screw on them rather hard the last
few years."
"How did you do that?" Sally inquired. "Told them you were thinking of
coming home again?"
There was a certain wryness in the young man's smile, for though Hawtrey
had cast no particular slur upon the family's credit he had signally
failed to enhance it, and he was quite aware that his English relatives
did not greatly desire his presence in the Old Country.
"My dear," he said, "you really shouldn't hit a fellow in the eye that
way."
As it happened, he did not see the girl's face just then, or he might
have noticed a momentary change in its expression. Gregory Hawtrey was a
little casual in speech, but, so far, most of the young women upon whom
he bestowed an epithet indicative of affection had attached no
significance to it. They had wisely decided that he did not mean
anything.
The Scottish fiddler's voice broke in.
"Can ye no' watch the music? Noo it's paddy-bash!" he cried.
His French Canadian comrade waved his fiddle-bow protestingly.
"Paddybashy! _V'la la belle chose!_" he exclaimed with ineffable
contempt, and broke in upon the ranting melody with a succession of
harsh, crashing chords.
Then began a contest as to which could drown the other's instrument, and
the snapping time grew faster, until the dancers gasped, and men who
wore long boots encouraged them with cries and stamped a staccato
accompaniment upon the benches or on the floor. It was savage, rasping
music, but one player infused into it the ebullient nerve of France, and
the other was from the misty land where the fiddler learns the witchery
of the clanging reel and the swing of the Strathspey. It is doubtless
not high art, but there is probably no music in the world that fires the
blood like this and turns the sober dance to rhythmic riot. Perhaps,
too, amid the prairie snow, it gains something that gives it a closer
compelling grip.
Hawtrey was breathless when it ceased, and Sally's eyes flashed with the
effulgence of the Northern night when her partner found her a
resting-place upon an upturned barrel.
"No," she declared, "I won't have any cider." She turned and glanced at
him imperiously. "You're not going for any more either."
It was, no doubt, not the speech a well-trained English maiden would
have made, but, though Hawtrey smiled rather curiously, it fell
inoffensively from Sally's lips. Though it is not always set down to
their credit, the brown-faced, hard-handed men as a rule live very
abstemiously in that country, and, as it happened, Hawtrey, who
certainly showed no sign of it, had already consumed rather more cider
than anybody else. He made a little bow of submission, and Sally resumed
their conversation where it had broken off.
"We could let you have our ox-team to do that breaking with," she
volunteered. "You've had Sproatly living with you all winter. Why don't
you make him stay and work out his keep?"
Hawtrey laughed. "Sally," he said, "do you think anybody could make
Sproatly work?"
"It would be hard," the girl admitted, and then looked up at him with a
little glint in her eyes. "Still, I'd put a move on him if you sent him
along to me."
She was a capable young woman, but Hawtrey was dubious concerning her
ability to accomplish such a task. Sproatly was an Englishman of good
education, though his appearance seldom suggested it. Most of the summer
he drove about the prairie in a wagon, vending cheap oleographs and
patent medicines, and during the winter contrived to obtain free
quarters from his bachelor acquaintances. It is a hospitable country,
but there were men round Lander's who, when they went away to work in
far-off lumber camps, as they sometimes did, nailed up their doors and
windows to prevent Sproatly from getting in.
"Does he never do anything?" Sally added.
"No," Hawtrey assured her, "at least, never when he can help it. He had,
however, started something shortly before I left him. You see, the house
has needed cleaning, the last month or two, and we tossed up for who
should do it. It fell to Sproatly, who didn't seem quite pleased, but he
got as far as firing the chairs and tables out into the snow. Then he
sat down for a smoke, and he was looking at them through the window when
I drove away."
"Ah," commented Sally, "you want somebody to keep the house straight and
look after you. Didn't you know any nice girls back there in the Old
Country?"
She spoke naturally, and there was nothing to show that the girl's heart
beat a little more rapidly than usual as she watched Hawtrey. His face,
however, grew a trifle graver, for she had touched upon a momentous
question to such men as he. Living in Spartan simplicity upon the
prairie, there are a good many of them, well-trained, well-connected
young Englishmen, and others like them from Canadian cities. They
naturally look for some grace of culture or refinement in the woman they
would marry, and there are few women of the station to which they once
belonged who could face the loneliness and unassisted drudgery that must
be borne by the small wheat-grower's wife. There were also reasons why
this question had been troubling Hawtrey in particular of late.
"Oh, yes, of course, I knew nice girls in England, one or two," he
answered. "I'm not quite sure, however, that girls of that kind would
find things even moderately comfortable here."
A certain reflectiveness in his tone, which seemed to indicate that he
had already given the matter some consideration, jarred upon Sally.
Moreover, she had an ample share of the Western farmer's pride, which
firmly declines to believe that there is any land to compare with the
one the plow is slowly wresting from the wide white levels of the
prairie.
"We make out well enough," she asserted with a snap in her eyes.
Hawtrey made an expressive gesture. "Oh, yes," he admitted, "it's in
you. All you want in order to beat the wilderness and turn it into a
garden is an ax, a span of oxen, and a breaker plow. You ought to be
proud of your energy. Still, you see, our folks back yonder aren't quite
the same as you."
Sally partly understood him. "Ah," she replied, "they want more, and,
perhaps, they're used to having more than we have; but isn't that in one
way their misfortune? Is it what folks want, or what they can do, that
makes them of use to anybody else?"
There was a hard truth in her suggestion, but Hawtrey, who seldom
occupied himself with matters of that kind, smiled.
"Oh," he said, "I don't know; but, after all, it wouldn't be worth while
for us to raise wheat here unless there were folks back East to eat it,
and, if some of them only eat in the shape of dainty cakes, that doesn't
affect the question. Anyway, there will be but another dance or two, and
I was wondering whether I could drive you home; I've got Wyllard's
Ontario sleigh."
Sally glanced at him rather sharply. She had half-expected this offer,
and it is possible would have judiciously led him up to it if he had not
made it. Now, as she saw that he really wished to drive her home, she
was glad that she had not deliberately encouraged the invitation.
"Yes," she answered softly, "I think you could."
"Then," said Hawtrey, "if you'll wait ten minutes I'll be back with the
team."
CHAPTER II
SALLY TAKES CHARGE
The night was clear and bitterly cold when Hawtrey and Sally Creighton
drove away from Stukely's barn. Winter had lingered unusually long that
year, and the prairie gleamed dimly white, with the sledge trail cutting
athwart it, a smear of blue-gray in the foreground. It was--for Lander's
lay behind them with the snow among the stubble belts that engirdled
it--an empty wilderness that the mettlesome team swung across, and
during the first few minutes the cold struck through the horses with a
sting like the thrust of steel. A half moon, coppery red with frost,
hung low above the snow-covered earth, and there was no sound but the
crunch beneath the runners, and the beat of hoofs that rang dully
through the silence like a roll of muffled drums.
Sleighs like the one that Hawtrey drove are not common on the prairie,
where the farmer generally uses the humble bob-sled when the snow lies
unusually long. It had been made for use in Montreal, and bought back
East by a friend of Hawtrey's, who was possessed of some means, which is
a somewhat unusual thing in the case of a Western wheat-grower. This man
also had bought the team--the fastest he could obtain--and when the
warmth came back to the horses Hawtrey and the girl became conscious of
the exhilaration of the swift and easy motion. The sleigh was light and
narrow, and Hawtrey, who drew the thick driving-robe higher about Sally,
did not immediately draw the mittened hand he had used back again. The
girl did not resent the fact that it still rested behind her shoulder,
nor did Hawtrey attach any particular significance to the fact. He was a
man who usually acted on impulse. How far Sally understood him did not
appear, but she came of folk who had waged a stubborn battle with the
wilderness, and there was a vein of grim tenacity in her.
She was, however, conscious that there was something beneath her feet
which forced her, if she was to sit comfortably, rather close against
her companion; and it seemed expedient to point it out.
"Can't you move a little? I can't get my feet fixed right," she said.
Hawtrey looked down at her with a smile. "I'm afraid I can't unless I
get right outside. Aren't you happy there?"
It was the kind of speech he was in the habit of making, but there was
rather more color in the girl's face than the stinging night air brought
there, and she glanced at the bottom of the sleigh.
"It's a sack of some kind, isn't it?" she asked.
"Yes," Hawtrey answered, "it's a couple of three-bushel bags. Some
special seed Lorton sent to Winnipeg for. Ormond brought them out from
the railroad. I promised I'd take them along to him."
"You should have told me. It's most a league round by Lorton's place,"
Sally returned with reproach in her voice.
"That won't take long with this team. Have you any great objections to
another fifteen minutes' drive with me?"
Sally looked up at him, and the moonlight was on her face, which was
unusually pretty in the radiance of the brilliant night.
"No," she admitted, "I haven't any."
She spoke demurely, but there was a perceptible something in her voice
which might have warned the man, had he been in the habit of taking
warning from anything, which, however, was not the case. It was one of
his weaknesses that he seldom thought about what he did until he was
compelled to face the consequences; and it was, perhaps, to his credit
that he had after all done very little harm, for there was hot blood in
him.
"Well," he responded, "I'm not going to grumble about those extra three
miles, but you were asking what land I meant to break this spring. What
put that into your mind?"
"Our folks," Sally replied candidly. "They were talking about you."
This again was significant, but Hawtrey did not notice it.
"I've no doubt they said I ought to tackle the new quarter section," he
suggested.
"Yes," assented Sally. "Why don't you do it? Last fall you thrashed out
quite a big harvest."
"I certainly did. There, however, didn't seem to be many dollars left
over when I'd faced the bills."
The girl made a little gesture of impatience. "Oh, Bob and Jake and
Jasper sowed on less backsetting," she said, "and they're buying new
teams and plows. Can't you do what they do, though I guess they don't go
off for weeks to Winnipeg?"
The man was silent. He had an incentive for hard work about which she
was ignorant, and he had certainly done much, but the long, iron winter,
when there was nothing that could be done, had proved too severe a test
for him. It was very dreary sitting alone evening after evening beside
the stove, and the company of the somnolent Sproatly was not cheerful.
Now and then his pleasure-loving nature had revolted from the barrenness
of his lot when, stiff and cold, he drove home from an odd visit to a
neighbor, and arriving in the dark found the stove had burned out and
water had frozen hard inside the house. These were things his neighbors
patiently endured, but Hawtrey had fled for life and brightness to
Winnipeg.
Sally glanced up at him with a little nod. "You take hold with a good
grip. Everybody allows that," she observed. "The trouble is you let
things go afterwards. You don't stay with it."
"Yes," assented Hawtrey. "I believe you have hit it, Sally. That's very
much what's the matter with me."
"Then," said the girl with quiet insistence, "won't you try?"
A faint flush crept into Hawtrey's face. Sally was less than
half-taught, and unacquainted with anything beyond the simple, strenuous
life of the prairie. Her greatest accomplishments consisted of some
skill in bakery and the handling of half-broken teams; but she had once
or twice given him what he recognized as excellent advice. There was
something incongruous in the situation, but, as usual, he preferred to
regard it whimsically.
"I suppose I'll have to, if you insist. If ever I'm the grasping owner
of the biggest farm in this district I'll blame you," he answered.
Sally said nothing further on that subject, and some time later the
sleigh went skimming down among the birches in a shallow ravine. Hawtrey
pulled the horses up when they reached the bottom of the ravine, and
glanced up at a shapeless cluster of buildings that showed black amid
the trees.
"Lorton won't be back until to-morrow, but I promised to pitch the bags
into his granary," he said. "If I hump them up the trail here it will
save us driving round through the bluff."
He got down, and though the bags were heavy, with Sally's assistance he
managed to hoist the first of them on to his shoulders. Then he
staggered with it up the steep foot-trail that climbed the slope. He was
more or less accustomed to carrying bags of grain between store and
wagon, but his mittened hands were numbed, and his joints were stiff
with cold. Sally noticed that he floundered rather wildly. In another
moment or two, however, he vanished into the gloom among the trees, and
she sat listening to the uneven crunch of his footsteps in the snow,
until there was a sudden crash of broken branches, and a sound as of
something falling heavily down a declivity. Then there was another
crash, and stillness again.
Sally gasped, and clenched her mittened hands hard upon the reins as she
remembered that Lorton's by-trail skirted the edge of a very steep bank,
but she lost neither her collectedness nor her nerve. Presence of mind
in the face of an emergency is probably as much a question of experience
as of temperament, and, like other women in that country, she had seen
men struck down by half-trained horses, crushed by collapsing
strawpiles, and once or twice gashed by mower blades. This was no doubt
why she remembered that the impatient team would probably move on if she
left the sleigh, and therefore drove the horses to the first of the
birches before she got down. Then she knotted the reins about a branch,
and called out sharply.
No answer came out of the shadows, and her heart beat unpleasantly fast
as she plunged in among the trees, keeping below the narrow trail that
went slanting up the side of the declivity, until she stopped, with
another gasp, when she reached a spot where a ray of moonlight filtered
down. A limp figure in an old skin coat lay almost at her feet, and she
dropped on her knees beside it in the snow. Hawtrey's face showed an
unpleasant grayish-white in the faint silvery light.
"Gregory," she cried hoarsely.
The man opened his eyes, and blinked at her in a half-dazed manner.
"Fell down," he said. "Think I felt my leg go--and my side's stabbing
me. Go for somebody."
Sally glanced round, and noticed that the grain bag lay burst open not
far away. She fancied that he had clung to it after he lost his footing,
which explained why he had fallen so heavily, but that was not a point
of any consequence now. There was nobody who could help her within two
leagues of the spot, and it was evident that she could not leave him
there to freeze. Then she noticed that the trees grew rather farther
apart just there, and rising swiftly she ran back to bring the team. The
ascent was steep, and she had to urge the horses, with sharp cries and
blows from her mittened hand, among shadowy tree trunks and through
snapping undergrowth before she reached the spot where Hawtrey lay. He
looked up at her when at last the horses stood close beside him.
"You can't turn them here," he told her faintly.
Sally was never sure how she managed it, for the sleigh drove against
the slender trunks, and the fiery beasts, terrified by the snapping of
the undergrowth, were almost unmanageable; but at last they were facing
the descent again, and she stooped and twined her arms about the
shoulders of Hawtrey, who now lay almost against the sleigh.
"It's going to hurt, Gregory, but I have got to get you in," she warned
him.
Then she gasped, for Hawtrey was a man of full stature, and it was a
heavy lift. She could not raise him wholly, and he cried out once when
his injured leg trailed in the snow. Still, with the most strenuous
effort she had ever made she moved him a yard or so, and then staggering
fell with her side against the sleigh. She felt faint with the pain of
it, but with another desperate lift she drew him into the sleigh, and
let him sink down gently upon the bag that still lay there. His eyes had
shut again, and he said nothing now.
It required only another moment or two to wrap the thick driving-robe
about him, and after that, with one hand still beneath his neck, she
glanced down. It was clear that he was quite unconscious of her
presence, and stooping swiftly she kissed his gray face. She settled
herself in the driving-seat with only a blanket coat to shelter her from
the cold, and the horses went cautiously down the slope. She did not
urge them until they reached the level, for the trail that wound up out
of the ravine was difficult, but when the wide white expanse once more
stretched away before them she laid the biting whip across their backs.
That was quite sufficient. They were fiery animals, and when they broke
into a furious gallop the rush of night wind struck her tingling cheeks
like a lash of wires. All power of feeling went out of her hands, her
arms grew stiff and heavy, and she was glad that the trail led smooth
and straight to the horizon. Hawtrey, who had moved a little, lay
helpless across her feet. He did not answer when she spoke to him.
The team went far at the gallop. A fine mist of snow beat against the
sleigh, but the girl leaning forward, a tense figure, with nerveless
hands clenched upon the reins, saw nothing but the blue-gray riband of
trail that steadily unrolled itself before her. At length a blurred
mass, which she knew to be a birch bluff, grew out of the white waste,
and presently a cluster of darker smudges shot up into the shape of a
log-house, sod stables, and straw-pile granary. A minute or two later,
she pulled the team up with an effort, and a man, who flung the door of
the house open, came out into the moonlight. He stopped, and gazed at
her in astonishment.
"Miss Creighton!" he said.
"Don't stand there," cried Sally. "Take the near horse's head, and lead
them right up to the door."
"What's the matter?" the man asked stupidly.
"Lead the team up," ordered Sally. "Jump, if you can."
It was supposed that Sproatly had never moved with much expedition in
his life, but that night he sprang towards the horses at a commanding
wave of the girl's hand. He started when he saw his comrade lying in the
bottom of the sleigh, but Sally disregarded his hurried questions.
"Help me to get him out," she said, when he stopped the team. "Keep his
right leg as straight as you can. I don't want to lift him. We must
slide him in."
They did it somehow, though the girl was breathless before their task
was finished, and the perspiration started from the man. Then Sally
turned to Sproatly.
"Get into the sleigh, and don't spare the team," she said. "Drive over
to Watson's, and bring him along. You can tell him your partner's broke
his leg, and some of his ribs. Start right now!"
Sproatly did her bidding, and when the door closed behind him she flung
off her blanket coat and thrust plenty of wood into the stove. She
looked for some coffee in the cupboard, and put on a kettle, after which
she sat down on the floor by Hawtrey's side. He lay still, with the
thick driving-robe beneath him, and though the color was creeping back
into his face, his eyes were shut, and he was apparently quite
unconscious of her presence. For the first time she was aware of a
distressful faintness, which, as she had come suddenly out of the
stinging frost into the little overheated room that reeked with tobacco
smoke and a stale smell of cooking, was not astonishing. She mastered
her dizziness, however, and presently, seeing that Hawtrey did not move,
glanced about her with some curiosity, for it was the first time she had
entered his house.
The room was scantily furnished, and, though very few of the bachelor
farmers in that country live luxuriously, she fancied that Sproatly, who
had evidently very rudimentary ideas on the subject of house-cleaning,
had not brought back all the sundries he had thrown out into the snow.
It contained a table, a carpenter's bench, and a couple of chairs. There
were still smears of dust upon the uncovered floor. The birch-log walls
had been rudely paneled half-way up, but the half-seasoned boards had
cracked with the heat, and exuded streaks of resin to which the grime
and dust had clung. A pail, which contained potato peelings, stood amid
a litter of old long-boots and broken harness against one wall. The
floor was black and thick with grease all round the rusty stove. A pile
of unwashed dishes and cooking utensils stood upon the table, and the
lamp above her head had blackened the boarded ceiling.
Sally noticed it all with disgust, and then, seeing that Hawtrey had
opened his eyes, she made a cup of coffee and persuaded him to drink it.
After that he smiled at her.
"Thanks," he said feebly. "Where's Sproatly? My side stabs me."
Sally raised one hand. "You're not to say a word," she cautioned.
"Sproatly's gone for Watson, and he'll soon fix you up. Now lie quite
still, and shut your eyes again."
Hawtrey obeyed her injunction to lie still, but his eyes were not more
than half-closed, and she could not resist the temptation to see what he
would do if she went away. She had half risen, when he stretched out a
hand and felt for her dress, and she sank down again with a curious
softness in her face. Then he let his eyes close altogether, as if
satisfied, and by and by she gently laid her hand on his.
He did not appear to notice it, and, though she did not know whether he
was asleep or unconscious, she sat beside him, watching him with
compassion in her eyes. There was no sound but the snapping of the birch
billets in the rusty stove. She was anxious, but not unduly so, for she
knew that men who live as the prairie farmers do usually more or less
readily recover from such injuries as had befallen him. It would not be
very long before assistance arrived, for it was understood that the man
for whom she had sent Sproatly had almost completed a medical course in
an Eastern city before he became a prairie farmer. Why he had suddenly
changed his profession was a point he did not explain, and, as he had
always shown himself willing to do what he could when any of his
neighbors met with an accident, nobody troubled him about the matter.
By and by Sproatly brought Watson to the homestead, and he was busy with
Hawtrey for some time. Then they got him to bed, and Watson came back to
the room where Sally was anxiously waiting.
"Hawtrey's idea about his injuries is more or less correct, but we'll
have no great trouble in pulling him round," he said. "The one point
that's worrying me is the looking after him. One couldn't expect him to
thrive upon slabs of burnt salt pork, and Sproatly's bread."
"I'll do what I can," said Sproatly indignantly.
"You!" replied Watson. "It would be criminal to leave you in charge of a
sick man."
Sally quietly put on her blanket coat. "If you can stay a few hours,
I'll be back soon after it's light," she said. She turned to Sproatly.
"You can wash up those dishes on the table, and get a brush and sweep
this room out. If it's not quite neat to-morrow you'll do it again."
Sproatly grinned as she went out. A few moments later the girl drove
away through the bitter frost.
CHAPTER III
WYLLARD ASSENTS
Sally, who returned with her mother, passed a fortnight at Hawtrey's
homestead before Watson decided that his patient could be entrusted to
Sproatly's care. Afterwards she went back twice a week to make sure that
Sproatly, in whom she had no confidence, was discharging his duties
satisfactorily. With baskets of dainties for the invalid she had driven
over one afternoon, when Hawtrey, whose bones were knitting well, lay
talking to another man in his little sleeping-room.
There was no furniture in the room except the wooden bunk in which he
lay, and a deerhide lounge chair he had made. The stove-pipe from the
kitchen led across part of one corner, and then up again into the room
beneath the roof above. It had been one of Sproatly's duties since the
accident to rise and renew the fire soon after midnight, and when Sally
arrived he was outside the house, whip-sawing birch-logs and splitting
them, an occupation he profoundly disliked.
Spring had come suddenly, as it usually does on the prairie, and the
snow was melting fast under a brilliant sun. The bright rays that
streamed in through the window struck athwart the glimmering dust motes
in the little bare room, and fell, pleasantly warm, upon the man who sat
in the deerhide chair. He was a year or two older than Hawtrey, though
he had scarcely reached thirty. He was a man of average height, and
somewhat spare of figure. His manner was tranquil and his lean, bronzed
face attractive. He held a pipe in his hand, and was looking at Hawtrey
with quiet, contemplative eyes, that were his most noticeable feature,
though it was difficult to say whether their color was gray or
hazel-brown, for they were singularly clear, and there was something
which suggested steadfastness in their unwavering gaze. The man wore
long boots, trousers of old blue duck, and a jacket of soft deerskin
such as the Blackfeet dress so expertly; and there was nothing about him
to suggest that he was a man of varied experience, and of some
importance in that country.
Harry Wyllard was native-born. In his young days he had assisted his
father in the working of a little Manitoban farm, when the great grain
province was still, for the most part, a wilderness. A prosperous
relative on the Pacific slope had sent him to Toronto University, where
after a session or two he had become involved in a difference of opinion
with the authorities. Though the matter was never made quite clear, it
was generally believed that Wyllard had quietly borne the blame of a
comrade's action, for there was a vein of eccentric generosity in the
lad. In any case, he left Toronto, and the relative, who was largely
interested in the fur business, next sent him north to the Behring Sea.
The business was then a hazardous one, for the skin buyers and pelagic
sealers had trouble with the Alaskan representatives of American trading
companies, upon whose preserves they poached, as well as with the
commanders of the gunboats sent up north to protect the seals.
Men's lives were staked against the value of a fur, edicts were lightly
contravened, and now and then a schooner barely escaped into the
smothering fog with skins looted on forbidden beaches. It was a perilous
life, and a strenuous one, for every white man's hand was against the
traders; there were rangers in fog and gale, and the reefs that lay in
the tideways of almost uncharted waters; but Wyllard made the most of
his chance. He kept the peace with jealous skippers who resented the
presence of a man they might command as mate, but whose views they were
forced to listen to when he spoke as supercargo. He won the good-will of
sea-bred Indians, and drove a good trade with them; he not infrequently
brought his boat loaded with reeking skins back first to the plunging
schooner.
He fell into trouble again when they were hanging off the Eastern Isles
under double reefs, watching for the Russians' seals. A boat's crew from
another schooner had been cast ashore, and, as the men were in peril of
falling into the Russians' hands, Wyllard led a reckless expedition to
rescue them. He succeeded, in so far that the wrecked sailors were taken
off the beach through a tumult of breaking surf; but as the relief crews
pulled seaward the fog shut down on them, and one boat, manned by three
men, never reached the schooners. The vessels blew horns all night, and
crept along the smoking beach next day, though the surf made landing
impossible. Then a sudden gale drove them off the shore, and, as it was
evident that their comrades must have perished, they reluctantly sailed
for other fishing grounds. As one result of this, Wyllard broke with his
prosperous relative when he went back to Vancouver.
After that he helped to strengthen railroad bridges among the mountains
of British Columbia. He worked in logging camps, and shoveled in the
mines, and, as it happened, met Hawtrey, who, tempted by high wages, had
spent a winter in the Mountain Province. Wyllard's father, who had taken
up virgin soil in Assiniboia, died soon after Wyllard went back to him,
and a few months later the relative in Vancouver also died. Somewhat to
Wyllard's astonishment, his kinsman bequeathed him a considerable
property, most of the proceeds of which he sank in acres of virgin
prairie. Willow Range was now one of the largest farms between Winnipeg
and the Rockies.
"The leg's getting along satisfactorily?" Wyllard inquired at length.
Hawtrey, who appeared unusually thoughtful, admitted that it was.
"Anyway, it's singularly unfortunate that I'm disabled just now," he
added. "There's the plowing to begin in a week or two, and besides that
I was thinking of getting married."
Wyllard was somewhat astonished at this announcement. For one thing, he
was more or less acquainted with the state of his friend's finances.
During the next moment or two he glanced meditatively through the open
door into the adjoining room, where Sally Creighton was busy beside the
stove. The sleeves of the girl's light bodice were rolled up well above
the elbow, and she had pretty, round arms, which were just then partly
immersed in dough.
"I don't think there's a nicer or more capable girl in this part of
Assiniboia," he remarked.
"Oh, yes," agreed Hawtrey. "Anybody would admit that. Still, since you
seem so sure of it, why don't you marry her yourself?"
Wyllard looked at his comrade curiously. "Well," he said, "there are
several reasons that don't affect Miss Sally and only concern myself.
Besides, it's highly improbable that she'd have me." Before he looked up
again he paused to light his pipe, which had gone out. "Since it
evidently isn't Sally, have I met the lady?" he asked.
"You haven't. She's in England."
"It's four years, isn't it, since you were over there?"
Hawtrey lay silent a minute, and then made a little confidential
gesture.
"I'd better tell you all about the thing," he said. "Our folks were
people of some little standing in the county. In fact, as they were far
from rich, they had just standing enough to embarrass them. In most
respects, they were ultra-conventional with old-fashioned ideas, and,
though there was no open break, I'm afraid I didn't get on with them
quite as well as I should have done, which is why I came out to Canada.
They started me on the land decently, and twice when we'd harvested
frost and horse-sickness, they sent along the draft I asked them for.
That is one reason why I'm not going to worry them, though I'd very much
like another now. You see, there are two girls, as well as Reggie, who's
reading for the Bar."
"I don't think you have mentioned the lady yet."
"She's a connection of some friends of ours. Her mother, so far as I
understand it, married beneath her--a man her family didn't like. The
father and mother died, and Agatha, who was brought up by the father's
relations, was often at the Grange, a little, old-fashioned,
half-ruinous place, a mile or two from where we live in the North of
England. The Grange belongs to her mother's folks, but I think there was
still a feud between them and her father's people, who had her trained
to earn her living. We saw a good deal of each other, and fell in love,
as boy and girl will. Well, when I went back, one winter, after I'd been
here two years, Agatha was at the Grange again, and we decided then that
I was to bring her out as soon as I had a home to offer her."
Hawtrey broke off for a moment, and there was a trace of embarrassment
in his manner when he went on again. "Perhaps I ought to have managed it
sooner," he added. "Still, things never seem to go quite as one would
like with me, and you can understand that a dainty, delicate girl reared
in comfort in England would find it rough out here."
Wyllard glanced round the bare room in which he sat, and into the other,
which was also furnished in a remarkably primitive manner.
"Yes," he assented, "I can quite realize that."
"Well," said Hawtrey, "it's a thing that has been worrying me a good
deal of late, because, as a matter of fact, I'm not much farther forward
than I was four years ago. In the meanwhile, Agatha, who has some talent
for music, was in a first-class master's hands. Afterwards she gave
lessons, and got odd singing engagements. A week ago, I had a letter
from her in which she said that her throat was giving out."
He stopped again for a moment, with trouble in his face, and then
fumbling under his pillow produced a letter, which he carefully folded.
"We're rather good friends," he observed. "You can read that part of
it."
Wyllard took the letter, and a suggestion of quickening interest crept
into his eyes as he read. Then he looked up at Hawtrey.
"It's a brave letter--the kind a brave girl would write," he commented.
"Still, it's evident that she's anxious."
For a moment or two there was silence, which was broken only by Sally
clattering about the stove.
Dissimilar in character, as they were, the two men were firm friends,
and there had been a day when, as they worked upon a dizzy railroad
trestle, Hawtrey had held Wyllard fast when a plank slipped away. He had
thought nothing of the matter, but Wyllard was one who remembered things
of that kind.
"Now," said Hawtrey, after a long pause, "you see my trouble. This place
isn't fit for her, and I couldn't even go across for some time yet. But
her father's folks have died off, and there's nothing to be expected
from her mother's relatives. Any way, she can't be left to face the blow
alone. It's unthinkable. Well, there's only one course open to me, and
that's to raise as much money on a mortgage as I can, fit the place out
with fixings brought from Winnipeg, and sow a double acreage with
borrowed capital. I'll send for her as soon as I can get the house made
a little more comfortable."
Wyllard sat silent a moment or two, and then leaned forward in his
chair.
"No," he objected, "there are two other and wiser courses. Tell the girl
what things are like here, and just how you stand. She'd face it
bravely. There's no doubt of that."
Hawtrey looked at him sharply. "I believe she would, but considering
that you have never seen her, I don't quite know why you should be sure
of it."
Wyllard smiled. "The girl who wrote that letter wouldn't flinch."
"Well," said Hawtrey, "you can mention the second course."
"I'll let you have $1,000 at bank interest--which is less than any
land-broker would charge you--without a mortgage."
Again Hawtrey showed a certain embarrassment. "No," he replied, "I'm
afraid it can't be done. I had a kind of claim upon my people, though it
must be admitted that I've worked it off, but I can't quite bring myself
to borrow money from my friends."
Wyllard who saw that he meant it, made a gesture of resignation. "Then
you must let the girl make the most of it, but keep out of the hands of
the mortgage man. By the way, I haven't told you that I've decided to
make a trip to the Old Country. We had a bonanza crop last season, and
Martial could run the range for a month or two. After all, my father was
born yonder, and I can't help feeling now and then that I should have
made an effort to trace up that young Englishman's relatives, and tell
them what became of him."
"The one you struck in British Columbia? You have mentioned him, but, so
far as I remember, you never gave me any particulars about the thing."
Wyllard seemed to hesitate, which was not a habit of his.
"There is," he said, "not much to tell. I struck the lad sitting down,
played out, upon a trail that led over a big divide. It was clear that
he couldn't get any further, and there wasn't a settlement within a good
many leagues of the spot. We were up in the ranges prospecting then.
Well, we made camp and gave him supper--he couldn't eat very much--and
afterwards he told me what brought him there. It seemed to me he had
always been weedy in the chest, but he had been working waist-deep in an
icy creek, building a dam at a mine, until his lungs had given out. The
mining boss was a hard case and had no mercy on him, but the lad, who
had had a rough time in the Mountain Province, stayed with it until he
played out altogether."
Wyllard's face hardened as he mentioned the mining boss, and a curious
little sparkle crept into his eyes, but after a pause he proceeded
quietly:
"We did what we could for the boy. In fact, it rather broke up the
prospecting trip, but he was too far gone. He hung for a week or two,
and one of us brought a doctor out from the settlements, but the day
before we broke camp Jake and I buried him."
Hawtrey made a sign of comprehension. He was reasonably well acquainted
with his comrade's character, and fancied he knew who had brought the
doctor out. He knew also that Wyllard had been earning his living as a
railroad navvy or chopper then, and, in view of the cost of provisions
brought by pack-horse into the remoter bush, the reason why he had
abandoned his prospecting trip after spending a week or two taking care
of the sick lad was clear enough.
"You never learned his name?" Hawtrey asked.
"I didn't," answered Wyllard. "I went back to the mine, but several
things suggested that the name upon the pay-roll wasn't his real one. He
began a broken message the night he died, but the hemorrhage cut him off
in the middle of it. The wish that I should tell his people somehow was
in his eyes."
Wyllard broke off for a moment with the deprecatory gesture, which in
connection with the story was very expressive.
"I have never done it, but how could I? All I know is that he was a
delicately brought up young Englishman, and the only clew I have is a
watch with a London maker's name on it and a girl's photograph. I've a
very curious notion that I shall meet that girl some day."
Hawtrey, who made no comment, lay still for a minute or two, but his
face suggested that he was considering something.
"Harry," he said presently, "I shall not be fit for a journey for quite
a while yet, and if I went over to England I couldn't get the plowing
done and the crop in; which, if I'm going to be married, is absolutely
necessary."
There was no doubt about the truth of the statement, for the small
Western farmer has very seldom a balance in hand, and for that matter,
is not infrequently in debt to the nearest storekeeper. He must, as a
rule, secure a harvest or abandon his holding, since as soon as the crop
is thrashed the bills pour in. Wyllard made a sign of assent.
"Well," Hawtrey went on, "if you're going to England you could go as my
deputy. You could make Agatha understand what things are like here, and
bring her out to me. I'll arrange for the wedding to be soon as she
arrives."
Wyllard was not a conventional person, but he pointed out several
objections. Hawtrey overruled them, however, and eventually Wyllard
reluctantly assented.
"As it happens, Mrs. Hastings is going over, too, and if she comes back
about the same time the thing might be managed," he said. "I believe
she's in Winnipeg just now, but I'll write to her. By the way, have you
a photograph of Agatha?"
"I haven't," Hawtrey answered. "She gave me one, but somehow it got
mislaid on house-cleaning. That's rather an admission, isn't it?"
It occurred to Wyllard that it certainly was. In fact, it struck him as
a very curious thing that Hawtrey should have lost the picture which the
girl with whom he was in love had given him. He sat silent for a moment
or two, and then stood up.
"When I hear from Mrs. Hastings, I'll drive around again. Candidly, the
thing has somewhat astonished me. I always had a fancy it would be
Sally."
Hawtrey laughed. "Sally?" he replied. "We're first-rate friends, but I
never had the faintest notion of marrying her."
Wyllard went out to harness his team, and he did not notice that Sally,
who had approached the door with a tray in her hands a moment or two
earlier, drew back before him softly. When he had crossed the room she
set down the tray and, with her cheeks burning, leaned upon the table.
Then, feeling that she could not stay in the stove-heated room, she went
out, and stood in the slushy snow. One of her hands was tightly closed,
and all the color had vanished from her cheeks. However, she contrived
to give Hawtrey his supper by and by, and soon afterwards drove away.
CHAPTER IV
A CRISIS
While Wyllard made arrangements for his journey, and Sally Creighton
went very quietly about her work on the lonely prairie farm, it happened
one evening that Miss Winifred Rawlinson sat uneasily expectant far back
under the gallery of a concert-hall in an English manufacturing town. In
her back seat Miss Rawlinson could not hear very well, but it was the
cheapest place she could obtain, and economy was of some little
importance to her. Besides, by craning her neck a little to avoid the
hat of the strikingly dressed young woman in front of her, she could, at
least, see the stage. The programme which she held in one hand announced
that Miss Agatha Ismay would sing a certain aria from a great composer's
oratorio. Miss Rawlinson leaned further forward in her chair when a girl
of about her own age, which was twenty-four, slowly advanced to the
center of the stage.
The girl on the stage was a tall, well-made, brown-haired girl, with a
quiet grace of movement and a comely face. She was attired in a long
trailing dress of a shimmering corn-straw tint. Agatha Ismay had sung at
unimportant concerts with marked success, but that evening there was
something very like shrinking in her eyes.
A crash of chords from the piano melted into a rippling prelude, and
Winifred breathed easier when her friend began to sing. The voice was
sweet and excellently trained, and there was a deep stillness of
appreciation when the clear notes thrilled through the closely-packed
hall. No one could doubt that the first part of the aria was a success,
for half-subdued applause broke out when the voice sank into silence,
and for a few moments the piano rippled on alone; but it seemed to
Winifred that there was a look of tension in the singer's face, and she
grew uneasy, for she understood the cause for it.
"The last bit of the second part's rather trying," remarked a young man
behind her. "There's an awkward jump at two full tones that was too much
for our soprano when we tried it at the choral union. Miss Ismay's voice
is very true in intonation, but I don't suppose most of the audience
would notice it if she shirked a little and left that high sharp out."
Winifred had little knowledge of music, but she was sufficiently
acquainted with her friend's character to be certain that Agatha would
not attempt to leave out the sharp in question. This was one reason why
she sat rigidly still when the clear voice rang out again. It rose from
note to note, full and even, but she could see the singer's face, and
there was no doubt whatever that Agatha was making a strenuous effort.
Nobody else, however, seemed to notice it, for Winifred flung a swift
glance around, and then fixed her eyes upon the dominant figure in the
corn-straw dress. The sweet voice was still rising and the interested
listener hoped that the accompanist would force the tone to cover it a
little, and put on the loud pedal. The pianist, however, was gazing at
his music, and played on until, with startling suddenness, the climax
came.
The voice sank a full tone, rose, and hoarsely trailed off into silence
again. Then the accompanist glanced over his shoulder, and struck a
ringing chord while he waited for a sign. There was a curious stirring
in the audience. The girl in the shimmering dress stood quite still for
a moment with a spot of crimson in her cheek and a half-dazed look in
her eyes. Then, turning swiftly, she moved off the stage.
Winifred rose with a gasp, and turned upon the young man next her, who
looked up inquiringly.
"Yes," she said sharply; "can't you let me pass? I'm going out."
It was about half-past nine when she reached the wet street. A fine rain
drove into her face, and she had rather more than a mile to walk without
an escort, but that was a matter which caused her no concern. She was a
self-reliant young woman, and accustomed to going about unattended. She
was quite aware that the scene she had just witnessed would bring about
a crisis in her own and her friend's affairs. For all that, she was
unpleasantly conscious of the leak in one shabby boot when she stepped
down from the sidewalk to cross the street, and when she opened her
umbrella beneath a gas lamp she pursed up her mouth. There were holes in
the umbrella near where the ribs ran into the ferrule; she had not
noticed them before. She, however, resolutely plodded on through the
drizzle, until three young fellows who came with linked arms down the
pavement of a quieter street barred her way. One wore his hat on one
side, the one nearest the curb flourished a little cane, and the third
smiled at her fatuously.
"Oh my!" he jeered. "Where's dear Jemima off to in such a hurry?"
Winifred drew herself up. She was little and determined, and, it must be
admitted, not quite unaccustomed to that kind of thing.
"Will you let me pass?" she asked angrily. "There's a policeman at the
next turning."
"There really is," said one of the youths. "The Dook has another
engagement. Dream of me, Olivia!"
A beat of heavy feet drew nearer, and the three roysterers disappeared
in the direction of a flaming music-hall, where the second "house" was
probably beginning. Winifred, who had stepped into the gutter to avoid
the roysterer with the cane, turned as a stalwart, blue-coated figure
moved towards her.
"Thank you, officer," she said, "they've gone."
The policeman merely raised a hand as if in comprehension, and plodded
back to his post. Winifred went on until she let herself into a house in
a quiet street, and ascending to the second floor entered a simply
furnished room, which, however, contained a piano, and a table on which
a typewriter stood amid a litter of papers. The girl took off her
water-proof and sat down in a low chair beside the little fire. She was
not a handsome girl, and it was evident that she did not trouble herself
greatly about her attire. Her face was too thin and her figure too
slight and spare, but there was usually, even when she was anxious, as
she certainly was that night, a shrewdly whimsical twinkle in her eyes,
and though her lips were set, her expression was compassionate.
She was not the person to sit still very long, and in a minute or two
she rose to place a little kettle on the fire. She took a few scones, a
coffee-pot, and a tin of condensed milk from a cupboard. When she had
spread them out upon a table she discovered that there was some of the
condensed milk upon her fingers, and it must be admitted that she sucked
them. They were little, stubby fingers, which somehow looked capable.
"It must have been four o'clock when I had that bun and a cup of tea,"
she remarked, half aloud.
She glanced at the table longingly, for she occasionally found it
necessary to place a certain check upon a healthy appetite. The practice
of such self-denial is unfortunately, not a very unusual thing in the
case of many young women who work hard in the great cities.
"I must wait for Agatha," she said, with a resolute shake of the head.
Crossing the room toward the typewriter table she stopped to glance at a
little framed photograph that stood upon the mantel. It was a portrait
of Gregory Hawtrey taken years before, and she apostrophized it with
quiet scorn.
"Now you're wanted you're naturally away out yonder," she declared
accusingly. "You're like the rest of them--despicable!"
This seemed to relieve her feelings, and she sat down before the
typewriter, which clicked and rattled for several minutes under her
stubby fingers. The clicking ceased with sudden abruptness, and she
prodded the carriage of the machine viciously with a hairpin. As this
appeared unavailing, she used her forefinger, and when at length it slid
along the rod with a clash there was a smear of grimy oil upon her cheek
and her nose. The machine gave no further trouble, and she endeavored to
make up some of the time that she had spent at the concert. It was
necessary that it should be made up, but she was conscious that she was
putting off an evil moment.
At last the door opened, and Agatha Ismay, wrapped in a long cloak, came
in. She permitted Winifred to take her wrap from her, and then sank down
into a chair. There was a strained look in her eyes, and her face was
very weary.
"You're working late again," she observed.
Winifred nodded. "It's the men who loaf, my dear," she replied. "When
you undertake the transcription of an author's scrawl at ninepence the
thousand words you have to work hard, especially when, as it is in this
case, the thing's practically unreadable. Besides, the woman in it makes
me lose my temper. If I'd had a man of the kind described to deal with
I'd have thrashed him."
She was talking at random, partly to conceal her anxiety, and partly
with the charitable purpose of giving her companion time to approach the
subject that must be mentioned; but she rather overdid her effort to
appear at ease. Agatha looked at her sharply.
"Winny," she said, "you know. You've been there."
Winifred turned towards her quietly, for she could face a crisis.
"Yes," she confessed, "I have, but you're not going to talk about it
until you have had supper. Don't move until I make the coffee."
She was genuinely hungry, but while she satisfied her own appetite she
took care that her companion, who did not seem inclined to eat, made a
simple meal. Then she put the plates into a cupboard and sat down facing
Agatha.
"Well," she said, "you have broken down exactly as that throat
specialist said you would. The first question is, how long it will be
before you can go on again?"
Agatha laughed, a little harsh laugh. "I didn't tell you everything at
the time: I've broken down for good," she answered.
There was a moment of tense silence, and then Agatha made a dejected
gesture. "The specialist warned me that this might happen if I went on
singing, but what could I do? I couldn't cancel my engagements without
telling people why. The physician said I must go to Norway and give my
throat and chest a rest."
They looked at each other, and there was in their eyes the half-bitter,
half-weary smile of those to whom the cure prescribed is ludicrously
impossible. It was Winifred who spoke first.
"Then," she commented, "we have to face the situation, and it's not an
encouraging one. Our joint earnings just keep us here in decency--we
won't say comfort--and they're evidently to be subject to a big
reduction. It strikes me as a rather curious coincidence that a letter
from that man in Canada and one from your prosperous friends in the
country arrived just before you went out."
She saw the look in Agatha's eyes, and spread her hands out.
"Yes," she admitted; "I hid them. It seemed to me that you had quite
enough upon your mind this evening. I don't know whether the letters are
likely to throw any fresh light upon the question what we're going to
do."
She produced the letters from a drawer in her table, and Agatha
straightened herself suddenly in her chair when she had opened the first
of them.
"Oh," she cried, "he wants me to go out to him!"
Winifred's face set hard for a moment, but it relaxed again, and she
contrived to hide her dismay.
"Then," she suggested, "I suppose you'll certainly go. After all, he's
probably not worse to live with than most of them."
Miss Rawlinson was occasionally a little bitter, but, like others of her
kind, she had been compelled to compete in an overcrowded market with
hard-driven men. She was, however, sincerely attached to her friend, and
she smiled when she saw the flash in Agatha's eyes.
"Oh," she added, "you needn't try to wither me with your indignation. No
doubt he's precisely what he ought to be, and I dare say it will ease
your feelings if you talk about him again; at least it will help you to
formulate your reasons for going out to him. I'll listen patiently, and
try not to be uncharitable."
Agatha fell in with the suggestion. It was a relief to talk, and she had
a certain respect, which she would not always admit, for her friend's
shrewdness. She meant to go, but she desired to ascertain how a less
interested person would regard the course that she had decided on.
"I have known Gregory since I was a girl," she said.
Winifred pursed up her lips. "I understood you met him at the Grange,
and you were only there for a few weeks once a year," she replied.
"After all, that isn't a very great deal. It seems he fell in love with
you, which is, perhaps, comprehensible. What I don't quite know the
reason for is why you fell in love with him."
"Ah," responded Agatha, "you have never seen Gregory."
"I haven't," admitted Winifred sourly; "I have, however, seen his
picture. One must admit that he's reasonably good-looking. In fact, I've
seen quite an assortment of photographs, but it's, perhaps, significant
that the last was taken some years ago."
Agatha smiled. "Can a photograph show the clean, sanguine temperament of
a man, his impulsive generosity, and cheerful optimism?"
Miss Rawlinson rose, and critically surveyed the photograph on the
mantel.
"I don't want to be discouraging, but after studying that one I'm
compelled to admit that it can't. No doubt it's the artist's fault, but
I'm willing to admit that a young girl would be rather apt to credit a
man with a face like that with qualities he didn't possess." She sat
down again with a thoughtful expression. "The fact is, you set him up on
a pedestal and burned incense to him when you were not old enough to
know any better, and when he came home for a few weeks four years ago
you promised to marry him. Now it seems he's ready at last, and wants
you to go out to the new country. Perhaps it doesn't affect the
question, but if I'd promised to marry a man in Canada he'd certainly
have to come for me. Isn't there a certain risk in the thing?"
"A risk?"
Winifred nodded. "Yes," she said, "rather a serious one. Four years is a
long time, and the man may have changed. In a new country where life is
so different, it must be a thing they're rather apt to do."
A faint, half-compassionate, half-tolerant smile crept into Agatha's
eyes. The mere idea that the sunny-tempered, brilliant young man to whom
she had given her heart could have changed or degenerated in any way
seemed absurd to her. Winifred, however, went on again.
"There's another point," she said. "If he's still the same, which isn't
likely, there has certainly been a change in you. You have learned to
see things more clearly, and have acquired a different standard from the
one you had then. One can't help growing, and as one grows one looks for
more. One is no longer pleased with the same things; it's inevitable."
She broke off for a moment, and her voice became gentler.
"Well," she added, "I've done my duty in trying to point this out to
you, and now there's only another thing to say: since you're clearly
bent on going, I'm going with you."
Agatha looked astonished, but there was a suggestion of relief in her
expression, for the two had been firm friends and had faced a good deal
together.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "that gets over the one difficulty!"
Winifred made a little whimsical gesture.
"I'm not quite sure that it does. The difficulty will probably be when I
arrive in Canada, but I'm a rather capable person, and I believe they
don't pay ninepence a thousand words in Winnipeg. Besides, I could keep
the books at a store or a hotel, and at the very worst Gregory could,
perhaps, find a husband for me. Women, I hear, are held in some
estimation in that country. Perhaps there's a man out there who would
treat decently even a little, plain, vixenish-tempered person with a
turned-up nose."
Crossing the room again she banged the cover down on the typewriter, and
then turned to Agatha with a suggestion of haziness in her eyes.
"Anyway, I'm very tired of this country. It would be intolerable when
you went away."
Agatha stretched out a hand and drew the girl down beside her. She no
longer feared adverse fortune and loneliness, and she was filled with a
gentle compassion, for she knew how hard a fight Winifred had made, and
part at least of what she had borne.
"My dear," she said, "we will go together."
Then she opened the second letter, which she had forgotten while they
talked.
"They want me to stay at the Grange for a few weeks," she announced, and
smiled. "An hour ago I felt crushed and beaten--and now, though my voice
has probably gone for good, I don't seem to mind. Isn't it curious that
both these letters should have come to sweep my troubles away to-night?"
"No," answered Winifred, "it's distinctly natural--just what one would
have expected. You wrote to the man in Canada soon after you'd seen the
specialist, and his answer was bound to arrive in the next few days."
"But I certainly didn't write the folks at the Grange."
Winifred's eyes twinkled. "As it happens, I did, two days ago. I
ventured to point out their duty to them, and they were rather nice
about it in another letter."
With a little sigh of contentment Agatha stretched herself out in the
low chair. "Well," she said, "it probably wouldn't have the least effect
if I scolded you. I believe I'm horribly worn out, Winny, and it will be
a relief unspeakable to get away. If I can arrange to give up those
pupils I'll go to-morrow."
Winifred made no answer. Kneeling with one elbow resting on the arm of
Agatha's chair, she gazed straight in front of her. Both of the girls
were very weary of the long, grim struggle, and now a change was close
at hand.
CHAPTER V
THE OLD COUNTRY
It was a still, clear evening of spring when Wyllard, unstrapping the
rücksack from his shoulders, sat down beside a frothing stream in a
dale of Northern England. On his arrival in London a week or two earlier
he had found awaiting him a letter from Mrs. Hastings, who was then in
Paris, in which she said that she could not at the moment say when she
would go home again, but that she expected to advise him shortly.
After answering the letter Wyllard started North, and, obtaining
Agatha's address from Miss Rawlinson, went on again to a certain little
town, which, encircled by towering fells, stands beside a lake in the
North Country. He had already recognized that his mission was rather a
delicate one, and he decided that it would be advisable to wait until he
heard from Mrs. Hastings before calling upon Miss Ismay. There remained
the question, what to do with the next few days. A conversation with
several pedestrian tourists whom he met at his hotel, and a glance at a
map of the hill-tracks decided him. Remembering that he had on several
occasions kept the trail in Canada for close on forty miles, he bought a
Swiss pattern rücksack, and set out on foot through the fells.
Incidentally, he saw scenery that gave him a new conception of the Old
Country. He astonished his new friends, the tourists, who volunteered to
show him the way over what they considered a difficult pass. To their
great astonishment the brown-faced stranger, who wore ordinary
tight-fitting American attire and rather pointed American shoes, went up
the mountainside apparently without an effort, and for the credit of the
clubs to which they belonged it was incumbent on them to keep pace with
him. They did not know that he had carried bags of flour and mining
tools over very much higher passes, close up to the limit of eternal
snow, but they did know that he set them a difficult pace, and after two
days' climbing they were relieved to part company with him.
A professional guide who overtook them recognized the capabilities of
the man when he noticed the way in which he lifted his feet and how he
set them down. This, the guide decided, was a man accustomed to walking
among the heather, but he was wrong; for it was the trick the bushman
learns when he plods through leagues of undergrowth and fallen branches,
or the tall grass of the swamps; and it is a memorable experience to
make a day's journey with such a man. For the first hour the thing seems
easy, as the pace is never forced, but the speed never slackens; and as
the hours go by the novice, who flounders and stumbles, grows horribly
weary of trying to keep up with the steady, persistent swing.
Wyllard had traveled since morning along a ridge of fells when he sat
down beside the water and contentedly filled his pipe. On the one hand,
a wall of crags high above was growing black against the evening light,
and the stream, clear as crystal, came boiling down among great
boulders. But the young man had wandered through many a grander and more
savage scene of rocky desolation, and it impressed him less than the
green valley in front of him. He had never seen anything like that
either on the Pacific slope or in Western Canada.
Early as it was in the season, the meadows between rock and water were
green as emerald, and the hedge-rows, just flushed with verdure, were
clipped and trimmed as if their owner loved them. There was not a dead
tree in the larch copse which dipped to the stream, and all its feathery
tassels were sprinkled with tiny flecks of crimson and wondrous green.
Great oaks dotted the meadows, each one perfect in symmetry. It seemed
that the men who held this land cared for single trees. The sleek, tame
cattle that rubbed their necks on the level hedge-top and gazed at him
ruminatively were very different from the wild, long-horned creatures
whose furious stampede he had now and then headed off, riding hard while
the roar of hoofs rang through the dust-cloud that floated like a sea
fog across the sun-scorched prairie. Here, in the quiet vale, all was
peace and tranquillity.
Wyllard noticed the pale primroses that pushed their yellow flowers up
among the withered leaves, and he took account of the faint blue sheen
beneath the beech trunks not far away. There was a vein of artistic
feeling in him, and the elusive beauty of these things curiously
appealed to him. He had seen the riotous, sensuous blaze of flowers
kissed by Pacific breezes, and the burnished gold of wheat that rolled
in mile-long waves; but it seemed to him that the wild things of the
English North were, after all, more wonderful. They harmonized with the
country's deep peacefulness; their beauty was chaste, fairy-like and
ethereal.
By and by a wood pigeon cooed softly somewhere in the shadows, and a
brown thrush perched on a bare oak bough began to sing. The broken,
repeated melody went curiously well with the rippling murmur of sliding
water, and Wyllard, though he could not remember ever having done
anything of that sort before, leaned back with a smile to listen. His
life had been a strenuous one, passed for the most part in the
driving-seat of great plows that rent their ample furrows through virgin
prairie, guiding the clinking binders through the wheat under a blazing
sun, or driving the plunging dories through the clammy fog over short,
slopping seas. Now, however, the tranquillity of the English valley
stole in on him, and he began to understand how the love of that
well-trimmed land clung to the men out West, who spoke of it tenderly as
the "Old Country."
Then, for he was in an unusually susceptible mood, he took from his
pocket a little deerhide case, artistically made by a Blackfoot Indian,
and removed from it the faded photograph of an English girl. He had
obtained the photograph from the lad who had died among the ranges of
the Pacific slope, and it had been his companion in many a desolate camp
and on many a weary journey. The face was delicately modeled, and there
was a freshness in it which is seldom seen outside the Old Country; but
what pleased him most was the serenity in the clear, innocent eyes.
He was not in love with the picture--he would probably have smiled at
the notion--but he had a curious feeling that he would meet the girl
some day, and that it would then be a privilege merely to speak to her.
This was, after all, not so extravagant a fancy as it might appear, for
romance, the mother of chivalry and many graces, still finds shelter in
the hearts of men who dwell in the wide spaces of the newer lands.
Shrewd and practical as these men are, they see visions now and then,
and, what is more, with bleeding hands and toil incredible prove them to
be realities.
By and by Wyllard put the photograph back into his pocket, and filled
his pipe again. It was almost dark before he had smoked it out. The
thrush had gone, and only the ripple of the water broke the silence,
until he heard footsteps on the stones behind him. Looking around, he
saw a young woman moving towards the river. He watched her with a quiet
interest, for his perceptions were sharper than usual, and it seemed to
him that she was very much in harmony with what he thought of as the
key-tone of the place. She was tall and shapely, and she moved with
grace. When, poised upon a shelf of rock as if considering the easiest
way to the water, she stopped for a moment, her figure fell into
reposeful lines, but that was after all only what he had expected, for
he had half-consciously studied the Englishwomen whom he had met in the
West.
The Western women usually moved, and certainly spoke, with an almost
superfluous vivacity and alertness. There was in them a feverish
activity, which contrasted with the English deliberation, which had
sometimes exasperated him. Now he felt that this slowness of movement
was born of the tranquillity of the well-trimmed land, and he realized
that it would have troubled his sense of fitness if this girl had
clattered down across the stones hurriedly and noisily.
At first he could not see her face, but when she went on a little
further it became evident that she desired to cross the river, and was
regarding the row of stepping stones somewhat dubiously. One or two had
fallen over, or had been washed away by a flood, for there were several
wide gaps between them, through which the stream frothed whitely. As
soon as Wyllard noticed her hesitation, he rose and moved towards her.
"You want to get across?" he asked.
She was still glancing at the water, and although he was sure that she
had not seen him or heard his approach, she turned towards him quietly.
Then a momentary sense of astonishment held him in an embarrassed
scrutiny, for it was her picture at which he had gazed scarcely half an
hour before, and he would have recognized the face anywhere.
"Yes," she answered. "It is rather a long way around by the bridge, but
some of the stones seem to have disappeared since I last came this way."
She spoke, as Wyllard had expected, softly and quietly. Because he was
first of all a man of action, Wyllard forthwith waded into the river.
Then he turned and held out his hand to her.
"It isn't a very long step. You ought to manage it," he said.
The girl favored him with a swift glance of uncertainty. At first she
had supposed him to be one of the walking tourists or climbers who
usually invaded the valleys at Easter; but they were, for the most part,
young men from the cities, and this stranger's face was darkened by the
sun. There was also an indefinite suggestion of strength in the poise of
his lean, symmetrical figure, which could only have come from strenuous
labor in the open air. She noticed that while the average Englishman
would have asked permission to help her, or would have deprecated the
offer, this stranger did nothing of the kind. He stood with the water
frothing about his ankles, holding out his hand.
She had no hesitation about accepting Wyllard's aid, and, while he waded
through the river, she stepped lightly from stone to stone until she
came to a wide gap, where the stream was deep. She stopped a moment,
gazing at the foaming water, until the man's hand tightened on her
fingers, and she felt his other hand rest upon her waist.
"Now," he assured her, "I won't let you fall."
She was on the other side of the gap in another moment. Wondering
uneasily why she had obeyed the compelling pressure, but glad to see
that the stranger's face was perfectly unmoved, and that he was
evidently quite unconscious of having done anything unusual, she crossed
without mishap. When they stood on the shingle he dropped her hand.
"Thank you," she said. "I'm afraid you got rather wet."
The man laughed, and he had a pleasant laugh. "Oh," he replied, "I'm
used to it." There was a little silence and he asked: "Isn't there a
village with a hotel in it, a mile or two from here?"
"Yes," the girl answered, "this is the way. The path goes up to the
highroad through the larch wood."
She turned into the path, and, though she had not expected him to
accompany her, the man walked beside her. Still she did not resent it.
His manner was deferential, and she liked his face, while there was,
after all, no reason why he should stay behind when he was going the
same way. He walked beside her silently for several minutes as they went
on through the gloom of the larches, where a sweet, resinous odor crept
into the still evening air, and then he looked up as they came to a
towering pine.
"Have you many of those trees over here?" he asked.
A light dawned upon the girl, for, though he had spoken without a
perceptible accent, she had been slightly puzzled by something in his
speech and appearance.
"I believe they're not uncommon. You are an American?"
Wyllard laughed. "No," he replied. "I was born in Western Canada, but I
think I'm as English as you are, in some respects, though I never quite
realized it until to-night. It isn't exactly because my father came from
this country, either."
The girl was astonished at this answer, and still more at the indefinite
something in his manner which seemed to indicate that he expected her to
understand, as, indeed, she did. Her only dowry had been an expensive
education and she remembered that the influence of the isle she lived in
had in turn fastened on Saxons, Norsemen, Normans, and made them
Englishmen. What was more, so far as she had read, those who had gone
out South or Westwards had carried that influence with them, and, under
all their surface changes, and sometimes their grievances against the
Motherland, were, in the great essentials, wholly English still.
"But," she remarked at random, "how can you be sure that I'm English?"
It was quite dark in among the trees, but she fancied there was a smile
in her companion's eyes.
"Oh," he answered simply, "you couldn't be anything else!"
She accepted this as a compliment, though she knew that it had not been
his intention to flatter her. His general attitude since she had met him
scarcely suggested such, a lack of good taste. She was becoming mildly
interested in the stranger, but she possessed several essentially
English characteristics, and it did not appear advisable to encourage
him too much. She said nothing further, and it was he who spoke first.
"I wonder," he said, "if you knew a young lad who went out to Canada a
few years ago. His name was Pattinson--Henry Pattinson."
"No," the girl answered quickly. "I certainly did not. But the name is
not an uncommon one. There are a good many Pattinsons in the North."
Wyllard was not surprised by this answer. He had reasons for believing
that the name under which the lad he had befriended had enrolled himself
was not the correct one. It would, of course, have been easy to describe
the boy, but Wyllard was shrewd, and noticing that there was now a
restraint in the girl's manner he could not speak prematurely. He was
aware that most of the English are characterized by a certain reserve,
and apt to retire into their shells if pressed too hard. He did not,
however, mean to let this girl elude him altogether.
"It really doesn't matter," he responded. "I shall no doubt get upon his
trail in due time."
They reached the highroad a minute or two later, and the girl turned to
him.
"Thank you again," she said. "If you go straight on you will come to the
village in about a quarter of an hour."
She turned away and left him standing with his soft hat in his hand. He
stood quite still for almost a minute after she had gone. When he
reached the inn its old-world simplicity delighted him. It was built
with thick walls of slate, and roofed with ponderous flags. In Canada,
where the frost was Arctic, they used thin cedar shingles. The room in
which his meal was spread was paneled with oak that had turned black
with age. Great rough-hewn beams of four times the size that anybody
would have used for the purpose in the West supported the low ceiling.
There was a fire in the wide hearth and the ruddy gleam of burnished
copper utensils pierced the shadows. The room was large, but there was
only a single candle upon the table. He liked the gloomy interior, and
he felt that a garish light would somehow be out of harmony.
By and by his hostess appeared to clear the things away. She was a
little, withered old woman, with shrewd, kindly eyes, and a russet tinge
in her cheeks.
"There's a good light, and company in the sitting-room," she said.
"We've three young men staying with us. They've been up the Pike."
"I'd sooner stay here, if I may," replied Wyllard. "I don't quite know
yet if I'll go on to-morrow. One can get through to Langley Dale by the
Hause, as I think you call it?"
The wrinkled dame said that pedestrians often went that way.
"There are some prosperous folks--people of station--living round here?"
Wyllard asked casually.
"There's the vicar. I don't know that he's what you'd call prosperous.
Then there's Mr. Martindale, of Rushyholme, and Little, of the Ghyll."
"Has any of them a daughter of about twenty-four years of age?" Wyllard
described the girl he had met to the best of his ability.
It was evident that the landlady did not recognize the description, but
she thought a moment.
"No," she answered, "there's nobody like that; but I did hear that
they'd a young lady staying at the vicarage."
She changed the subject abruptly, and Wyllard once more decided that the
English did not like questions.
"You're a stranger, sir?" she inquired.
"I am," said Wyllard. "I've some business to attend to further on, but I
came along on foot, to see the fells, and I'm glad I did. It's a great
and wonderful country you're living in. That is," he added gravely,
"when you get outside the towns. There are things in some of the cities
that most make one ill."
He stood up. "That tray's too heavy for you. Won't you let me carry it?"
The landlady was plainly amazed at his words, but she made it clear that
she desired no assistance. When she went out Wyllard, who sat down
again, took out the photograph. He gazed at it steadfastly.
"There's rather more than mere prettiness there, but I don't know that I
want to keep it now," he reflected. "It's way behind the original. She
has grown since it was taken--just as one would expect that girl to
grow."
He lighted his pipe and smoked thoughtfully until he arrived at a
decision.
"One can't force the running in this country. They don't like it," he
said. "I'll lie by a day or two, and keep an eye on that vicarage."
In the meanwhile his hostess was discussing him with a niece.
"I'm sure I don't know what that man is," she informed the younger
woman. "He has got the manners of a gentleman, but he walks like a fell
shepherd, and his hands are like a navvy's. A man's hands now and then
tell you a good deal about him. Besides, of all things, he wanted to
carry his tray away. Said it was too heavy for me."
"Oh," replied her niece, "he's an American. There's no accounting for
them."
CHAPTER VI
HER PICTURE
Wyllard stayed at the inn three days without seeing anything more of the
girl whom he had met beside the stream, although he diligently watched
for her. He had long felt it was his duty to communicate with the
relatives of the lad that he had befriended, and the fact that he had
found the girl's photograph in the young Englishman's possession made it
appear highly probable that she could assist him in tracing the family.
Apart from this, he could not quite analyze his motives for desiring to
see more of the Englishwoman, though he was conscious of the desire. Her
picture had been a companion to him in his wanderings, and now and then
he had found a certain solace in gazing at it. Now that he had seen her
in the flesh he was willing to admit that he had never met any woman who
had made such an impression on him.
It was, of course, possible for him to call at the vicarage, but though
he meant to adopt that course as a last resort, there were certain
objections to it. He did not know the girl's name, and there was nobody
to say a word for him. So far as his experience went, the English were
apt to be reticent and reserved to a stranger. It seemed to him that,
although the girl might give him the information which he required,
their acquaintance probably would terminate then and there. She would,
he decided, be less likely to stand upon her guard if he could contrive
to meet her casually without prearrangement.
On the fourth day fortune favored him, for he came upon her endeavoring
to open a tottering gate where a stony hill track led off from the
smooth white road. As it happened, he had received a letter from Mrs.
Hastings that morning, fixing the date of her departure, and it was
necessary for him to discharge the duty with which Hawtrey had saddled
him as soon as possible. The Grange, where he understood Miss Ismay was
then staying, lay thirty miles away across the fells, and he had decided
to start early on the morrow. That being the case, it was clear that he
must make the most of this opportunity; but he realized that it would be
advisable to proceed circumspectly. Saying nothing, he set his shoulder
to the gate, and lifting it on its decrepit hinges swung it open.
"Thank you," said the girl. Remembering that the words were the last
that she had said to him, she smiled, as she added: "It is the second
time you have appeared when I was in difficulties."
In spite of his resolution to proceed cautiously, a twinkle crept into
Wyllard's eyes, and suggested that the fact she had mentioned was not so
much of a coincidence as it probably appeared. She saw the look that
told her what he was thinking, and was about to pass on, when he stopped
her with a gesture.
"The fact is, I have been looking out for you the last three days," he
confessed.
He feared the girl had taken alarm at this candid statement, and spread
his hands out deprecatingly. "Won't you hear me out?" he added. "There's
a matter I must put before you, but I won't keep you long."
The girl was a little puzzled, and naturally curious. It struck her as
strange that his admission should have aroused in her very little
indignation; but she felt that it would be unreasonable to suspect this
man of anything that savored of impertinence. His manner was reassuring,
and she liked his face.
"Well?" she said inquiringly.
Wyllard waved his hand toward a big oak trunk that lay just inside the
gate.
"If you'll sit down, I'll get through as quick as I can," he promised.
"In the first place, I am, as I told you, a Canadian, who has come over
partly to see the country, and partly to carry out one or two missions.
In regard to one of them I believe you can help me."
The girl's face expressed a natural astonishment.
"I could help you?"
Wyllard nodded. "I'll explain my reasons for believing it later on," he
said. "In the meanwhile, I asked you a question the other night, which
I'll now try to make more explicit. Were you ever acquainted with a
young Englishman, who went to Canada from this country several years
ago? He was about twenty then, and had dark hair and dark eyes. That, of
course, isn't an unusual thing, but there was a rather curious white
mark on his left temple. If he was ever a friend of yours, that scar
ought to fix it."
"Oh!" cried the girl, "that must have been Lance Radcliffe. I was with
him when the scar was made--ever so long ago. We heard that he was dead.
But you said his name was Pattinson."
"I did," declared Wyllard gravely. "Still, I wasn't quite sure about the
name being right. He's certainly dead. I buried him."
His companion made an abrupt movement, and he saw the sudden softening
of her eyes. There was, however, only a gentle pity in her face, and
nothing in her manner suggested the deeper feeling that he had half
expected.
"Then," she said, "I am sure that his father would like to meet you.
There was some trouble between them--I don't know which was wrong--and
Lance went out to Canada, and never wrote. Major Radcliffe tried to
trace him through a Vancouver banker, and only found that he had died in
the hands of a stranger who had done all that was possible for him." She
turned to Wyllard with a look which set his heart beating faster than
usual. "You are that man?"
"Yes," said Wyllard simply, "I did what I could for him. It didn't
amount to very much. He was too far gone."
Briefly he repeated the story that he had told to Hawtrey, and, when he
had finished, her face was soft again, for what he said had stirred her
curiously.
"But," she commented, "he had no claim on you."
Wyllard lifted one hand with a motion that disclaimed all right to
commendation. "He was dying in the bush. Wasn't that enough?"
The girl made no answer for a moment or two. She had earned her living
for several years, and she was to some extent acquainted with the grim
realities of life. She did not know that while there are hard men in
Canada the small farmers and ranchers of the West--and, perhaps above
all, the fearless free lances who build railroads and grapple with giant
trees in the forests of the Pacific slope--are as a rule, distinguished
by a splendid charity. With them the sick or worn-out stranger is seldom
turned away. Watching the stranger covertly, she understood that this
man whom she had seen for the first time three days before had done
exactly what she would have expected of him.
"I saw a great deal of Lance Radcliffe--when I was younger," she said.
"His people still live at Garside Scar, close by Dufton Holme. I presume
you will call on them?"
Wyllard said that he purposed doing so, as he had a watch and one or two
other mementos that they might like to have, and she told him how to
reach Dufton Holme by a round-about railway journey.
"There is one point that rather puzzles me," she said, after she had
made it plain how he was to find the Radcliffe family. "How did you know
that I could tell you anything about him?"
Wyllard thrust his hand into his pocket, and took out a little leather
case.
"You are by no means a stranger to me," he remarked as he handed her the
photograph. "This is your picture; I found it among the dead lad's
things."
The girl, who started visibly, flashed a keen glance at him. It was
evident that he had not intended to produce any dramatic effect. She
flushed a little.
"I never knew he had it," she asserted. "Perhaps he got it from his
sister." She paused, and then, as if impelled to make the fact quite
clear, added, "I certainly never gave it to him."
Wyllard smiled gravely, for he recognized that while she was clearly
grieved to hear of young Radcliffe's death, she could have had no
particular tenderness for the unfortunate lad.
"Well," he said, "perhaps he took it in the first place for the mere
beauty of it, and it afterwards became a companion--something that
connected him with the Old Country. It appealed in one of those ways to
me."
Again she flashed a sharp glance at him, but he went on unheeding:
"When I found it I meant to keep it merely as a clew, and so that it
could be given up to his relatives some day," he added. "Then I fell
into the habit of looking at it in my lonely camp in the bush at night,
and when I sat beside the stove while the snow lay deep upon the
prairie. There was something in your eyes that seemed to encourage me."
"To encourage you?"
"Yes," Wyllard assented gravely, "I think that expresses it. When I
camped in the bush of the Pacific slope we were either out on the gold
trail--and we generally came back ragged and unsuccessful after spending
several months' wages which we could badly spare--or I was going from
one wooden town to another without a dollar in my pocket and wondering
how I was to obtain one when I got there. For a time it wasn't much more
cheerful on the prairie. Twice in succession the harvest failed. Perhaps
Lance Radcliffe felt as I did."
The girl cut him short. "Why didn't you mention the photograph at once?"
Wyllard smiled at her. "Oh," he explained, "I didn't want to be
precipitate--you English folk don't seem to like that. I think"--and he
seemed to consider--"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't be repelled by
what might look like Colonial _brusquerie_. You see, you have been over
snow-barred divides and through great shadowy forests with me. We've
camped among the boulders by lonely lakes, and gone down frothing
rapids. I felt--I can't tell you why--that I was bound to meet you some
day."
His frankness was startling, but the girl showed neither astonishment
nor resentment. She felt certain that this stranger was not posing or
speaking for effect. It did not occur to Wyllard that he might have gone
too far, and for a moment or two he leaned against the gate, while she
looked at him with what he thought of as her gracious English calm.
Pale sunshine fell upon them, though the larches beside the road were
rustling beneath a cold wind, and the song of the river came up brokenly
out of the valley. An odor of fresh grass floated about them, and the
dry, cold smell of the English spring was in the air. Across the valley
dim ghosts of hills lighted by evanescent gleams rose out of the east
wind grayness with shadowy grandeur.
Then Wyllard aroused himself. "I wonder if I ought to write Major
Radcliffe and tell him what my object is before I call," he said. "It
would make the thing a little easier."
The girl rose. "Yes," she assented, "that would, perhaps, be wiser." She
glanced at the photograph which was still in her hand. "It has served
its purpose. I scarcely think it would be of any great interest to Major
Radcliffe."
She saw his face change as she made it evident that she did not mean to
give the portrait back to him. There was, at least, one excellent reason
why she would not have her picture in a strange man's hands.
"Thank you," she said, "for the story. I am glad we have met; but I'm
afraid I have already kept my friends waiting for me."
She turned away, and it occurred to Wyllard that he had made a very
indifferent use of the opportunity, since she had neither asked his name
nor told him hers. It was, however, evident that he could not well run
after her and demand her name, and he decided that he could in all
probability obtain it from Major Radcliffe. Still, he regretted his lack
of adroitness as he walked back to the inn, where he wrote two letters
when he had consulted a map and his landlady. Dufton Holme, he
discovered, was a small village within a mile or two of the Grange
where, as Miss Rawlinson had informed him, Agatha Ismay was then
staying. One letter was addressed to her, and he formally asked
permission to call upon her with a message from George Hawtrey. The
other was to Major Radcliffe, and in both he said that an answer would
reach him at the inn which his landlady had informed him was to be found
not far from both of the houses he intended to visit.
He set out on foot next morning, and, after climbing a steep pass,
followed a winding track across a waste of empty moor until he struck a
smooth white road, which led past a rock-girt lake and into a deep
valley. It was six o'clock in the morning when he started, and three in
the afternoon when he reached the inn, where he found an answer to one
of the letters awaiting him. It was from Major Radcliffe, who desired an
interview with him as soon as possible.
Within an hour he was on his way to the Major's house, where a
gray-haired man, whose yellow skin suggested long exposure to a tropical
sun, and a little withered lady were waiting for him. They received him
graciously, but there was an indefinite something in their manner and
bearing which Wyllard, who had read a great deal, recognized, though he
had never been brought into actual contact with it until then. He felt
that he could not have expected to come across such people anywhere but
in England, unless it was at the headquarters of a British battalion in
India.
He told his story tersely, softening unpleasant details and making
little of what he had done. The gray-haired man listened gravely with an
unmoved face, though a trace of moisture crept into the little lady's
eyes. There was silence for a moment or two when he had finished, and
then Major Radcliffe, whose manner was very quiet, turned to him.
"You have laid me under an obligation, which I could never wipe out,
even if I wished it," he said. "It was my only son you buried out there
in Canada."
He broke off for a moment, and his quietness was more marked than ever
when he went on again.
"As you have no doubt surmised, we quarreled," he said. "He was
extravagant and careless--at least I thought that then--but now it seems
to me that I was unduly hard on him. His mother"--and he turned to the
little lady with an inclination that pleased Wyllard curiously--"was
sure of it at the time. In any case, I took the wrong way, and he went
out to Canada. I made that, at least, easy for him--and I have been
sorry ever since."
He paused again with a little expressive gesture. "It seems due to him,
and you, that I should tell you this. When no word reached us I had
inquiries made, through a banker, who, discovering that he had
registered at a hotel as Pattinson, at length traced him to a British
Columbian silver mine. He had, however, left the mine shortly before my
correspondent learned that he had been employed there, and all that the
banker could tell me was that an unknown prospector had nursed my boy
until he died."
Wyllard took out a watch and the clasp of a workman's belt from his
pocket, and laid them gently on Mrs. Radcliffe's knee. He saw her eyes
fill, and turned his head away.
"I feel that you may blame me for not writing sooner, but it was only a
very little while ago that I was able to trace you, and then it was only
by a very curious--coincidence," he explained presently.
He did not consider it advisable to mention the photograph. It seemed to
him that the girl would not like it. Nor, though he was greatly tempted,
did he care to make inquiries concerning her just then. In another
moment or two the Major spoke again.
"If I can make your stay here pleasanter in any way I should be
delighted," he said. "If you will take up your quarters with us I will
send down to the inn for your things."
Wyllard excused himself, but when Mr. Radcliffe urged him to dine with
them on the following evening he hesitated.
"The one difficulty is that I don't know yet whether I shall be engaged
then," he said. "As it happens, I've a message for Miss Ismay, and I
wrote offering to call upon her at any convenient hour. So far, I have
heard nothing from her."
"She's away," Mrs. Radcliffe informed him. "They have probably sent your
letter on to her. I had a note from her yesterday, however, and expect
her here to-morrow. You have met some friends of hers in Canada?"
"Gregory Hawtrey," said Wyllard. "I have promised to call upon his
people, too."
He saw Major Radcliffe glance at his wife, and he noticed a faint gleam
in Mrs. Radcliffe's eyes.
"Well," she observed, "if you promise to come I will send word over to
Agatha."
Wyllard agreed to this, and went away a few minutes later. He noticed
the tact and consideration with which his new friends had refrained from
indicating any sign of the curiosity they naturally felt, for Mrs.
Radcliffe's face had suggested that she understood the situation, which
was beginning to appear a little more difficult to him. It was, it
seemed, his task to explain delicately to a girl brought up among such
people what she must be prepared to face as a farmer's wife in Western
Canada. He was not sure that this task would be easy in itself, but it
was rendered much more difficult by the fact that Hawtrey would expect
him to accomplish it without unduly daunting her. Her letter certainly
had suggested courage, but, after all, it was the courage of ignorance,
and he had now some notion of the life of ease and refinement her
English friends enjoyed. He was beginning to feel sorry for Agatha
Ismay.
CHAPTER VII
AGATHA DOES NOT FLINCH
The next evening Wyllard sat with Mrs. Radcliffe in a big low-ceilinged
room at Garside Scar. He looked about him with quiet interest. He had
now and then passed a day or two in huge Western hotels, but he had
never seen anything quite like that room. The sheer physical comfort of
its arrangements appealed to him, but after all he was not one who had
ever studied his bodily ease very much, and what he regarded as the
chaste refinement of its adornment had a deeper effect than a mere
appeal to the material side of his nature. Though he had lived for the
most part in the bush and on the prairie, he had somehow acquired an
artistic susceptibility.
The furniture was old, and perhaps a trifle shabby, but it was of
beautiful design. Curtains, carpets and tinted walls formed a harmony of
soft coloring, and there were scattered here and there dainty works of
art, little statuettes from Italy, and wonderful Indian ivory and silver
work. A row of low, stone-ribbed windows pierced the front of the room.
Looking out he saw the trim garden lying in the warm evening light.
Immediately beneath the windows ran a broad graveled terrace, which was
evidently raked smooth every day, and a row of urns in which hyacinths
bloomed stood upon its pillared wall. From the middle of the terrace a
wide stairway led down to the wonderful velvet lawn, which was dotted
with clumps of cupressus with golden gleams in it, and beyond the lawn
clipped yews rose smooth and solid as a rampart of stone.
It all impressed him curiously--the order and beauty of it, the signs of
loving care. It gave him a key, he fancied, to the lives of the cultured
English people, for there was no sign of strain and fret and stress and
hurry here. Everything, it seemed, went smoothly with rhythmic
regularity, and though it is possible that many Englishmen would have
regarded Garside Scar as a very second-rate country house, and would
have seen in Major Radcliffe and his wife nothing more than a somewhat
prosy old soldier and a withered lady old-fashioned in her dress and
views, this Westerner had what was, perhaps, a clearer vision. Wyllard
could imagine the Major standing fast at any cost upon some minute point
of honor, and it seemed to him that Mrs. Radcliffe, with all the graces
of an earlier age and the smell of the English lavender upon her
garments, might have stepped down from some old picture. Then he
remembered that, after all, Englishwomen lived somewhat coarsely in the
Georgian days, and that he had met in Western Canada hard-handed men
grimed with dust and sweat who also could stand fast by a point of
honor. Though the fact did not occur to him, he had, for that matter,
done it more than once himself.
He recalled his wandering thoughts as his hostess smiled at him.
"You are interested in all you see?" she asked frankly.
"Yes," said Wyllard. "In fact, I'd like to spend some hours here and
look at everything. I'd begin at the pictures and work right around."
Mrs. Radcliffe's smile suggested that she was not displeased.
"But you have been in London?"
"I have," said Wyllard. "I had one or two letters to persons there, and
they did all they could to entertain me. Still, their places were
different; they hadn't the--charm--of yours. It's something which I
think could exist only in these still valleys and in cathedral closes.
It strikes me more because it is something I've never been accustomed
to."
Mrs. Radcliffe was interested, and fancied that she partly understood
his attitude.
"Your life is necessarily different from ours," she suggested.
Wyllard smiled. "It's so different that you couldn't realize it. It's
all strain and effort from early sunrise until after dusk at night.
Bodily strain of aching muscles, and mental stress in adverse seasons.
We scarcely think of comfort, and never dream of artistic luxury. The
money we make is sunk again in seed and extra teams and plows."
"After all, a good many people are driven rather hard by the love of
money here."
"No," Wyllard rejoined gravely, "that's not it exactly. At least, not
with the most of us. It's rather the pride of wresting another
quarter-section from the prairie, taking--our own--by labor, breaking
the wilderness. You"--and he added this as if to explain that he could
hardly expect her quite to grasp his views--"have never been out West?"
His hostess laughed. "I have stayed down in the plains through the hot
season in stifling cantonments, and have once or twice been in Indian
cholera camps. Besides, I have seen my husband sitting, haggard and worn
with fever, in his saddle holding back a clamorous crowd that surged
about him half-mad with religious fury. There were Hindus and Moslems to
be kept from flying at each other's throats, and at a tactless word or
sign of wavering, either party would have pulled him down."
"You'll have to forgive me"--Wyllard's gesture was deprecatory, though
his eyes twinkled. "The notion that we're the only ones who really work,
or, at least, do anything worth while, is rather a favorite one out
West. No doubt it's a delusion. I should have known that all of us are
born like that."
Mrs. Radcliffe forgave him readily, if only for the "all of us," which
struck her as especially fortunate. A few minutes later there were
voices in the hall, and then the door opened, and the girl whom he had
met at the stepping stones came in. She was dressed in trailing garments
which became her wonderfully, and he noticed now the shapely delicacy of
her hands and the fine, ivory pallor of her skin. Mrs. Radcliffe turned
to him.
"I had better present you formally to Miss Ismay," she said. "Agatha,
this is Mr. Wyllard, who I understand has brought you a message from
Canada."
There was no doubt that Wyllard was blankly astonished, and for a moment
the girl was clearly startled, too.
"You!" was all she said.
She held out her hand before she turned to speak to Mrs. Radcliffe. It
was a relief to both when dinner was announced.
Wyllard sat next to his hostess, and was not sorry that he was called
upon to take part only in casual general conversation. He thought once
or twice that Miss Ismay was unobtrusively studying him. It was nearly
an hour after the dinner when Mrs. Radcliffe left them alone in the
drawing-room.
"You have, no doubt, a good deal to talk about, and you needn't join us
until you're ready," she said. "The Major always reads the London papers
after dinner."
Agatha sat in a low chair near the hearth, and it occurred to Wyllard,
who took a place opposite her, that she was too delicate and dainty, too
over-cultivated, in fact, to marry Hawtrey. This was rather curious,
since he had hitherto regarded his comrade as a typical well-educated
Englishman; but it now seemed to him that there was a certain streak of
coarseness in Gregory. The man, it suddenly flashed upon him, was
self-indulgent, and the careless ease of manner, which he had once
liked, was too much in evidence.
Agatha turned to him.
"I understand that Gregory is recovering rapidly?" she said.
Wyllard assured her that Hawtrey was convalescing, and Agatha said
quietly, "He wants me to go out to him."
Wyllard felt that if a girl of that sort had promised to marry him he
would not have sent for her, but would have come in person, if he had
been compelled to pledge his last possessions, or crawl to the tideway
on his hands and knees. For all that he was ready to defend his friend.
"I'm afraid it's necessary," he said. "Gregory was quite unfit for such
a journey when I left, and he must be ready to commence the season's
campaign with the first of the spring. Our summer is short, you see, and
with our one-crop farming it's indispensable to get the seed in early.
In fact, he will be badly behind as it is."
This was not particularly tactful, since, without intending it, he made
it evident that he felt his comrade had been to some extent remiss; but
Agatha smiled.
"Oh," she replied, "I understand! You needn't labor with excuses. But
doesn't the same thing apply to you?"
"It certainly did. Now, however, things have become a little easier. My
holding is larger than Gregory's, and I have a foreman who can look
after it for me."
"Gregory said that you were a great friend of his."
Wyllard seized this opportunity. "He was a great friend of mine and I
like to think it means the same thing. In fact it's reasonably certain
that he saved my life for me."
"Ah!" exclaimed Agatha; "that is a thing he didn't mention. How did it
come about?"
Wyllard was glad to tell the story. He was anxious to say all he
honestly could in Hawtrey's favor.
"We were at work on a railroad trestle--a towering wooden bridge, in
British Columbia. It stretched across a deep ravine with great boulders
and there was a stream in the bottom of it. He stood high up on a
staging close beneath the rails. A fast freight, a huge general produce
train came down the track, with one of the new big locomotives hauling
it, and when the cars went banging by above us we could hardly hold on
to the bridge. The construction foreman was a hustler, and we had to get
the spikes in. I was swinging the hammer when I felt the plank beneath
me slip. The train, it seems, had jarred loose the bolt around which we
had our lashings. For a moment I felt that I was going down into the
gorge, and then Gregory leaned out and grabbed me. He had only one free
hand to do it with, and when he felt my weight one foot swung out from
the stringer he had sprung to. It seemed certain that I would pull him
with me, too. We hung like that for a space--I don't quite know how
long."
He paused for a moment, apparently feeling the stress of it again, and
there was a faint thrill in his voice when he went on.
"It was then," he said, "I knew just what kind of man Gregory Hawtrey
was. Anybody else would have let me go; but he held on. I got my hand on
some of the framing, and he swung me on to the stringer."
He saw the gleam in Agatha's eyes. "Oh!" she cried, "that is just what
he must have done. He was like that always--impulsive, splendidly
generous."
Wyllard felt that he had succeeded, though he knew that there were men
on the prairie who called his comrade slackly careless, instead of
impulsive. Agatha spoke again.
"But Gregory wasn't a carpenter," she said.
"In those days when money was scarce we had to be whatever we could.
There wasn't much specialization of handicrafts out there then. The
farmer whose crop was ruined took up the railroad shovel, or borrowed a
saw from somebody and set about building houses, or anything else that
was wanted."
"Of course!" replied Agatha. "Besides, he was always wonderfully quick.
He could learn any game by just watching it a while. He did all he
undertook brilliantly."
It occurred to Wyllard that Gregory had, at least, made no great success
of farming; but that occupation, as practiced on the prairie, demands a
great deal more than quickness and what some call brilliancy from the
man who undertakes it. He must, as they say out there, possess the
capacity for staying with it--the grim courage to hold fast the tighter
under each crushing blow, when the grain shrivels under the harvest
frost, or when the ragged ice hurtling before a roaring blast does the
reaping. It was, however, evident that this girl had an unquestioning
faith in Gregory Hawtrey, and once more Wyllard felt compassionate
towards her. He wondered if she would have retained her confidence had
Hawtrey spent those four years in England instead of Canada, for it was
clear from the contrast between her and her picture that she had grown
in many ways since she had given her promise to her lover. He had said
what he could in Hawtrey's favor, but now he felt that something was due
to the girl.
"Gregory told me to explain what things are like out there," he said. "I
think it is because they are so different from what you are accustomed
to that he has waited so long. He wanted to make them as easy as
possible for you, and now he would like you to realize what is before
you."
He was surprised at the girl's quick comprehension, for she glanced
around the luxurious room with a faint smile.
"You look on me as part of--this? I mean it seems to you that I fit in
with my surroundings, and would be in harmony only with them?"
"Yes," answered Wyllard gravely, "I think you fit in with them
excellently."
Agatha laughed. "Well," she said, "I was once, to a certain extent,
accustomed to something similar; though, after all, one could hardly
compare the Grange with Garside Scar. Still, that was some time ago, and
I have earned my living for several years now. That counts for
something, doesn't it?"
She glanced down at her dress. "For instance, this is the result of a
great deal of self-denial, though the cost of it was partly worked off
in music lessons, and the stuff was almost the cheapest I could get. I
sang at concerts--and it was part of my stock in trade. After all, why
should you think me capable only of living in luxury?"
"I didn't go quite that far."
She laughed again. "Then is Canada such a very dreadful place? I have
heard of other Englishwomen going out there as farmers' wives. Do they
all live unhappily?"
"No," replied Wyllard, "at least, they show no sign of it, and some of
them and the city-born Canadians are, I think, the salt of this earth.
Probably it's easy to be calm and gracious in such a place as
this--though naturally I don't know since I've never tried it--but when
a woman who toils from sunrise to sunset most of the year keeps her
sweetness and serenity, it's a very different and much finer thing. But
I'll try to answer the other question. The prairie isn't dreadful; it's
a land of sunshine and clear skies. Heat and cold--and we have them
both--don't worry one there. There's optimism in the crystal air. It's
not beautiful like these valleys, but it has its beauty. It is vast and
silent, and, though our homesteads are crude and new, once you pass the
breaking, it's primevally old. That gets hold of one somehow. It's
wonderful after sunset in the early spring, when the little cold wind is
like wine, and it runs white to the horizon with the smoky red on the
rim of it melting into transcendental green. When the wheat rolls across
the foreground in ocher and burnished copper waves, it is more wonderful
still. One sees the fulfillment of the promise, and takes courage."
"Then," asked Agatha, who had scarcely suspected him of such
appreciation of nature, "what is there to shrink from?"
"In the case of a small farmer's wife, the constant, never-slackening
strain. There's no hired assistance. She must clean the house, and wash,
and cook, though it's not unusual for the men to wash the plates."
The girl evidently was not much impressed, for she laughed.
"Does Gregory wash the plates?" she asked.
Wyllard's eyes twinkled. "When Sproatly won't," he said. "Still, in a
general way they do it only once a week."
"Ah," observed Agatha, "I can imagine Gregory hating it. As a matter of
fact, I like him for it."
"Then the farmer's wife must bake, and mend her husband's clothes.
Indeed, it's not unusual for her to mend for the hired man, too. Besides
that, there are always odds and ends of tasks, but the time when you
feel the strain most is in the winter. Then you sit at night, shivering
as a rule, beside the stove in an almost empty log-walled room, reading
a book you have probably read three or four times before. Outside, the
frost is Arctic; you can hear the roofing shingles crackle now and then;
and you wake up when the fire burns low. There's no life, no company,
rarely a new face, and if you go to a dance or a supper somewhere,
perhaps once a month, you ride back on a bob-sled and are frozen almost
stiff beneath the robes."
"Still," interposed Agatha, "that does not last."
The man understood her. "Oh!" he said, "one makes progress--that is, if
one can stand the strain--but, as the one way of doing it is to sow for
a larger harvest and break fresh sod every year, there can be no
slackening in the meanwhile. Every dollar must be guarded and plowed
into the soil again."
He broke off, feeling that he had done all that could reasonably be
expected of him, and Agatha asked one question.
"A woman who didn't slacken could make the struggle easier for the man,
couldn't she?"
"Yes," Wyllard assured her, "in every way. Still, she would have a great
deal to bear."
Agatha's face softened. "Ah," she commented, "she would not grudge the
effort in the case of one she loved."
She looked up again with a smile. "I wonder," she added, "if you really
thought I should flinch."
"When I first heard of it, I thought it quite likely. Then when I read
your letter my doubts vanished."
He saw that he had not been judicious, for there was, for the first
time, a trace of hardness in the girl's expression.
"He showed you that?" she asked.
"One small part of it," assured Wyllard. "I want to say that when I
first saw this house, and how you seemed fitted to it, my misgivings
about Gregory's decision troubled me once more. Now,"--and he made an
impressive gesture--"they have vanished altogether, and they'll never
come back again."
He spoke as he felt. This girl, he knew, would feel the strain; but it
seemed to him that she had strength enough to bear it cheerfully. In
spite of her daintiness, she was one who, in time of stress, could be
depended on. He often remembered afterwards how they had sat together in
the luxuriously furnished room, she leaning back in her big, low chair,
with the soft light on her delicately tinted face. By and by he looked
at her.
"It's curious that I had your photograph ever so long, and never thought
of showing it to Gregory," he observed.
Agatha smiled. "I suppose it is," she admitted. "After all, except that
it might have been a relief to Major Radcliffe if he had met you sooner,
the fact that you didn't show it to Gregory doesn't seem of any
particular consequence."
Wyllard was not quite sure of this. He had thought about this girl
often, and certainly had been conscious of a curious thrill of
satisfaction when he had met her at the stepping-stones. That feeling
had suddenly disappeared when he had learned that she was his comrade's
promised wife. He had, however, during the last hour or two made up his
mind to think no more of her.
"Well," he declared, "the next thing is to arrange for Mrs. Hastings to
meet you in London, or, perhaps, at the Grange. Her husband is a
Canadian, a man of education, who has quite a large homestead not far
from Gregory's. Her relatives are people of station in Montreal, and I
feel sure that you'll like her."
They decided that he was to ask Mrs. Hastings to stay a few days at the
Grange, and then he looked at the girl somewhat diffidently.
"She suggests going in a fortnight," he said.
Agatha smiled at him. "Then," she said, "I must not keep her waiting."
She rose and they went back together to join their hostess.
CHAPTER VIII
THE TRAVELING COMPANION
A gray haze, thickened by the smoke of the city, drove out across the
water when the _Scarrowmania_ lay in the Mersey, with her cable hove
short, and the last of the flood-tide gurgling against her bows. A
trumpeting blast of steam swept high aloft from beside her squat funnel,
and the splash of the slowly turning paddles of the two steam tugs that
lay alongside mingled with the din it made. A gangway from one of them
to the _Scarrowmania's_ forward deck, and a stream of frowsy humanity
that had just been released from overpacked emigrant boarding-houses
poured up it. There were apparently representatives of all peoples and
languages among that unkempt horde--Britons, Scandinavians, Teutons,
Italians, Russians, Poles--and they moved on in forlorn apathy, like
cattle driven to the slaughter. One wondered how they had raised their
passage money, and how many years' bitter self-denial it had cost them
to provide for their transit to the land of promise.
At the head of the gangway stood the steamboat doctors, for the
_Scarrowmania_ was taking out an unusual number of passengers, and there
were two of them. They were immaculate in blue uniform, and looked very
clean and English by contrast with the mass of frowsy aliens. Beside
them stood another official, presumably acting on behalf of the Dominion
Government, though there were few restrictions imposed upon Canadian
immigration then, nor, for that matter, did anybody trouble much about
the comfort of the steerage passengers. Each steamer carried as many as
she could hold.
As the stream poured out of the gangway, the doctor glanced at each
newcomer's face, and then seizing him by the wrist uncovered it. Then he
looked at the official, who made a sign, and the man moved on. Since
this took him two or three seconds, one could have fancied that he
either possessed peculiar powers, or that the test was a somewhat
inefficient one.
A group of first-class passengers, leaning on the thwartship rails close
by, looked on, with complacent satisfaction or half-contemptuous pity.
Among them stood Mrs. Hastings, Miss Winifred Rawlinson, and Agatha. It
was noticed that Wyllard, with a pipe in his hand, sat on a hatch
forward, near the head of the gangway. Agatha drew Mrs. Hastings'
attention to it.
"Whatever is Mr. Wyllard doing there?" she asked.
Mrs. Hastings, who was wrapped in furs, to protect her from the sting in
the east wind, smiled at her.
"That," she answered, "is more than I can tell you; but Harry Wyllard
seems to find an interest in what other folks would consider most
unpromising things, and, what is more to the purpose, he is rather
addicted to taking a hand in them. It is a habit that costs him
something now and then."
Agatha asked nothing further. She was interested in Wyllard, but she was
at the moment more interested in the faces of those who swarmed on
board. She wondered what the emigrants had endured in the lands that had
cast them out; and what they might still have to bear. It seemed to her
that the murmur of their harsh voices went up in a great protest, an
inarticulate cry of sorrow. While she looked on the doctor held back a
long-haired man who, shuffling in broken boots, was following a haggard
woman. The physician drew him aside, and after he had consulted with the
other official, two seamen hustled the man towards a second gangway that
led to the tug. The woman raised a wild, despairing cry. She blocked the
passage, and a quarter-master drove her, expostulating in an agony of
terror, forward among the rest. Nobody appeared concerned about this
alien's tragedy, except one man, and Agatha was not surprised when
Wyllard rose and quietly laid his hand upon the official's shoulder.
A parley appeared to follow, somebody gave an order, and when the alien
was led back again the woman's cries subsided. Agatha looked at Mrs.
Hastings and once more a smile crept into the older woman's eyes.
"Yes," said Mrs. Hastings, "I guessed he would feel that he had to
interfere. That is a man who can't see any one in trouble." She added,
with a little whimsical sigh, "He had a bonanza harvest last fall,
anyway."
They moved aft soon afterwards, and the _Scarrowmania_ was smoothly
sliding seawards with the first of the ebb when Agatha met Wyllard. He
glanced at the Lancashire sandhills, which were fading into a pale ocher
gleam amid the haze over the starboard hand, and then at the long row of
painted buoys that moved back to them.
"You're off at last! The sad gray weather is dropping fast astern," he
said. "Out yonder, the skies are clear."
"Thank you," replied Agatha, "I'm to apply that as I like? As a matter
of fact, however, our days weren't always gray. But what was the trouble
when those steerage people came on board?"
Wyllard's manner, she noticed, was free alike from the complacent
self-satisfaction which occasionally characterizes the philanthropist,
and from any affectation of diffidence.
"Well," he answered, "there was something wrong with that woman's
husband. Nothing infectious, I believe, but they didn't seem to consider
him a desirable citizen. They make a warning example of somebody with a
physical infirmity now and then. The man, they decided, must be put
ashore again. In the meanwhile, somebody else had hustled the woman
forward, and it looked as if they would take her on without him. The tug
was almost ready to cast off."
"How dreadful!" said Agatha. "But what did you do?"
"Merely promised to guarantee the cost of his passage back if they would
refer his case to the immigration people at the other end. It is
scarcely likely that they'll make trouble. As a rule, they only throw
out folks who are certain to become a charge on the community."
"But if he really had any infirmity, mightn't it lead to that?"
"No," Wyllard responded dryly. "I would engage to give him a fair start
if it was necessary. You wouldn't have had that woman landed in
Montreal, helpless and alone, while the man was sent back again to
starve in Poland?"
He saw a curious gleam in Agatha's eyes, and added in a deprecating
manner, "You see, I've now and then limped without a dollar into a
British Columbian mining town."
The girl was touched with compassion, but there was another matter that
must be mentioned, though she felt that the time was inopportune.
"Miss Rawlinson, who had only a second-class ticket, insists upon being
told how it is that she has been transferred to the saloon."
Wyllard's eyes twinkled, but she noticed that he was wholly free from
embarrassment, which was not quite the case with her.
"Well," he said, "that's a matter I must leave you to handle. Anyway,
she can't go second-class now. One or two of the steerage exchanged when
they saw their quarters, for which I don't blame them, and they have
filled up every room."
"You haven't answered the question."
Wyllard waved his hand. "Miss Rawlinson is your bridesmaid, and I'm
Gregory's best man. It seems to me it's my business to do everything
just as he would like it done."
He left her a moment later, and, though she did not know how she was to
explain the matter to Miss Rawlinson, who was of an independent nature,
it occurred to her that he, at least, had found a rather graceful way
out of the difficulty. The more she saw of this Western farmer, the more
she liked him.
It was after dinner when she next met him and the wind had changed. The
_Scarrowmania_ was steaming head-on into a glorious northwest breeze.
The shrouds sang; chain-guy, and stanchion, and whatever caught the
wind, set up a deep-toned throbbing; and ahead ranks of little,
white-topped seas rolled out of the night. A half-moon, blurred now and
then by wisps of flying cloud, hung low above them, and odd spouts of
spray that gleamed in the silvery light leaped up about the dipping
bows. Wyllard was leaning on the rail when Agatha stopped beside him.
She glanced towards the lighted windows of the smoking-room not far
away.
"How is it you are not in there?" she asked, noticing that he held a
cigar in his hand.
"I was," answered Wyllard. "It's rather full, and it seemed that they
didn't want me. They're busy playing cards, and the stakes are rather
high. In a general way, a steamboat's smoking-room is less of a men's
lounge than a gambling club."
"And you object to cards?"
"Oh, no!" Wyllard replied with a smile. "They merely make me tired, and
when I feel I want some excitement for my money I get it another way.
That one seems tame to me."
"What sort of excitement do you like?"
The man laughed. "There are a good many that appeal to me. Once it was
collecting sealskins off other people's beaches, and there was zest
enough in that, in view of the probability of the dory turning over, or
a gunboat dropping on to you. Then there was a good deal of very genuine
excitement to be got out of placer-mining in British Columbia,
especially when there was frost in the ranges, and you had to thaw out
your giant-powder. Shallow alluvial workings have a way of caving in
when you least expect it of them. After all, however, I think I like the
prairie farming best."
"Is that exciting?"
"Yes," returned Wyllard, "if you do it in one way. The gold's
there--that you're sure of--piled up by nature during I don't know how
many thousand years, but you have to stake high, if you want to get much
of it out. One needs costly labor,--teams--no end of them--breakers, and
big gang-plows. The farmer who has nerve enough drills his last dollar
into the soil in spring, but if he means to succeed it costs him more
than that. He must give the sweat of his tensest effort, the uttermost
toil of his body--all, in fact, that has been given him. Then he must
shut his eyes tight to the hazards against him, or look at them without
wavering--the drought, the hail, the harvest frost, I mean. If his teams
fall sick, or the season goes against him, he must work double tides.
Still, it now and then happens that things go right, and the red wheat
rolls ripe right back across the prairie. I don't know that any man
could want a keener thrill than the one he feels when he drives in the
binders!"
Agatha had imagination, and she could realize something of the toil, the
hazard, and the exultation of that victory.
"You have felt it often?" she inquired.
"Twice we helped to fill a big elevator," Wyllard answered. "But I've
been very near defeat."
The girl looked at him thoughtfully. It seemed that he possessed the
power of acquisition, as well as a wide generosity that came into play
when by strenuous effort success had been attained. So far as her
experience went, these were things that did not invariably accompany
each other.
"And when the harvest comes up to your expectations, you give your money
away?" she asked with a lifting of her brows.
Wyllard laughed. "You shouldn't deduce too much from a single instance.
Besides, that Pole's case hasn't cost me anything yet."
Mrs. Hastings joined them, and when Wyllard strolled away the women
passed some time leaning on the rails, and looking at the groups of
shadowy figures on the forward deck. The attitude of the steerage
passengers was dejected and melancholy, but one cluster had gathered
around a man who stood upon the hatch.
"Oh," he declared, "you'll have no trouble. Canada's a great country for
a poor man. He can sleep beneath a bush all summer, if he can't strike
anything he likes."
This did not appear particularly encouraging, but the orator went on:
"Been over for a trip to the Old Country, and I'm glad I'm going back
again. Went out with nothing except a good discharge, and they made me
Sergeant of Canadian Militia. After that I was armorer to a rifle club.
There's places a blame long way behind the Dominion, and I struck one of
them when we went with Roberts to Afghanistan. It was on that trip I and
a Pathan rolled all down a hill, him trying to get his knife arm loose,
and me jabbing his breastbone with my bayonet before I got it into him.
I drove it through to the socket. You want to make quite sure of a
Pathan."
Miss Rawlinson winced at this. "Oh," she cried, "what a horrible man!"
"It was 'most as tough as when you went after Riel, and stole the
Scotchman's furs," suggested a Canadian.
The sergeant let the jibe go by. He said: "Louis's bucks could shoot! We
had them corraled in a pit, and every time one of the boys from Montreal
broke cover he got a bullet into him. Did any of you ever hear a dropped
man squeal?"
Agatha had heard sufficient, and she and her companions turned away, but
as they moved across the deck the sergeant's voice followed her.
"Oh, yes," he said, "a grand country for a poor man. In the summer he
can sleep beneath a bush."
For some reason this eulogy haunted Agatha when she retired to her
stateroom that night, and she wondered what awaited all those aliens in
the new land. It occurred to her that in some respects she was situated
very much as they were. For the first time, vague misgivings crept into
her mind as she realized that she had cut herself adrift from all to
which she had been accustomed. She felt suddenly depressed and lonely.
The depression had, however, almost vanished when, awakening rather
early next morning, she went up on deck. A red sun hung over the
tumbling seas that ran into the hazy east astern. The waves rolled up in
crested phalanxes that gleamed green and incandescent white ahead. The
_Scarrowmania_ plunged through them with a spray cloud flying about her
dipping bows. She was a small, old-fashioned boat, and because she
carried 3,000 tons of railway iron she rolled distressfully. Her tall
spars swayed athwart the vivid blueness of the morning sky with the
rhythmic regularity of a pendulum. The girl was not troubled by any
sense of sea-sickness. The keen north-wester that sang amid the shrouds
was wonderfully fresh; and, when she met Wyllard crossing the saloon
deck, her cheeks were glowing from the sting of the spray, and her eyes
were bright.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"Down there," answered Wyllard, pointing to the black opening in the
fore-hatch that led to the steerage quarters. "An acquaintance of mine
who's traveling forward asked me to take a look round, and I'm rather
glad I did. When I've had a word with the chief steward I'm going back
again."
"You have a friend down there?"
"I met the man for the first time yesterday, and rather took to him. One
of your naval petty officers, forcibly retired. He can't live upon his
pension, that is why he's going out to Canada. Now you'll excuse me."
"I wonder," ventured Agatha, "if you would let me go back with you?"
Wyllard looked at her curiously. "Well," he said, with an air of
reflection, "you'll probably have to face a good deal that you don't
like out yonder, and in one way you won't suffer from a little
preparatory training. This, however, is not a case where sentimental
pity is likely to relieve anybody. It's the real thing."
"I think I told you at Garside Scar that I haven't lived altogether in
luxury!" she replied.
Wyllard, who made no comment, disappeared, and merely signed to her when
he came back. They reached the ladder that led down into the gloom
beneath the hatch, and Agatha hesitated when a sour and musty odor
floated up to her. She went down, however, and a few moments later
stood, half-nauseated, gazing at the wildest scene of confusion her eyes
had ever rested on. A little light came down the hatchway, and a smoky
lamp or two swung above her head, but half the steerage deck was wrapped
in shadow, and out of it there rose a many-voiced complaining. Flimsy,
unplaned fittings had wrenched away, and men lay inert amid the
wreckage, with the remains of their last meal scattered about them.
There were unwashed tin plates and pannikins, knives, and spoons,
sliding up and down everywhere, and the deck was foul with slops of tea,
and trodden bread, and marmalade. Now and then, in a wilder roll than
usual, a frowsy, huddled object slid groaning down the slant of slimy
planking, but in every case the helpless passenger was fully dressed.
Steerage passengers, in fact, seldom take off their clothes. For one
thing, all their worldly possessions are, as a rule, secreted among
their garments, and for another, most of those hailing from beyond the
Danube have never been accustomed to disrobing. In the midst of the
confusion, two half-sick steward lads were making ineffective efforts to
straighten up the mess.
Agatha made out that a swarm of urchins were huddled together in a
helpless mass along one side of the horrible place. The sergeant was
haranguing them, while another man, whom she supposed to be the petty
officer, pulled them to their feet one by one. A good deal of his labor
was wasted, for the _Scarrowmania_ was rolling viciously, and as soon as
a few were placed upright half of them collapsed again. Wyllard glanced
towards the boys compassionately.
"I believe most of them have had nothing to eat since they came on
board, though it isn't the company's fault," he said. "There's food
enough served out, but before we picked the breeze up the men laid hands
upon it first and half of it was wasted in the scramble. Then it seems
they pitched these youngsters out of their berths."
"Don't they belong to anybody?" Agatha asked. "Is there no one to look
after them?"
Wyllard smiled. "I believe one of your charitable institutions is
sending them out, and there seems to be a clergyman, who has a curate
and a lay assistant to help him, in charge of them. The assistant won't
be available while this rolling lasts, and the other two very naturally
prefer the saloon. In a way, that's comprehensible."
He left her, and proceeded to help the man who was dragging the urchins
to their feet.
"Get up!" commanded the sergeant. "Get up, and fall in. Dress from the
left, and number off, the ones who can stand."
It appeared that the lads had been drilled, for they scrambled into a
line that bent and wavered each time the _Scarrowmania's_ bows went
down. After that, every other lad stepped forward at the word. The order
was, "Left turn. March, and fall in on deck," and when they feebly
clambered up the ladder Wyllard, who turned to Agatha, pointed to a door
in a bulkhead of rough white wood.
"It should have been locked, but I fancy you can get in that way, and up
through another hatch," he remarked. "The single women, and women with
children, are in yonder, and if you want to be useful there's a field
for you. Get as many as possible up on deck."
Agatha left him, and her face was rather white when at last she came up
into the open air, with about a dozen forlorn, draggled women trailing
helplessly after her. The lads were now sitting down in a double line on
deck, each with a tin plate and a steaming pannikin in front of him.
There were at least a hundred of them, and a man with a bronzed face and
the stamp of command upon him was giving them the order of the voyage.
He was the one she had already noticed.
"You'll turn out at the whistle at half-past six," he said. "Shake
mattresses, roll up blankets, and prepare for berth inspection. Then, at
the next whistle, you'll fall in on deck stripped to the waist for
washing parade. Fourth files numbering even are orderlies in charge of
the plates and pannikins."
"And," announced the sergeant, "any insubordination will be sharply
dealt with. Now, when I was with Roberts in Afghanistan----"
Wyllard, who was standing close by, turned to Agatha.
"I don't think we'll be wanted. You have probably earned your
breakfast."
They went back to the saloon deck, and the girl smiled when he looked at
her inquiringly.
"It was a little horrible, but I hadn't so many to deal with," she said.
"Do you, and those others, expect to bring any order out of that chaos?"
"No," answered Wyllard, "with a little encouragement they'll do it
themselves. That is, the English, Danes, and Germans. One can trust them
to evolve a workable system. It's in their nature. You can trace most
things that tend to wholesome efficiency back to the old Teutonic
leaven. By and by, they'll proceed to put some pressure on the Latins,
Slavs, and Jews."
"But is it your business to offer them that encouragement?"
Wyllard laughed. "Strictly speaking, it isn't in the least, but
unnecessary chaos is hateful, and, any way, I'm not the only one who
doesn't seem to like it. There's the petty officer, and our friend, the
sergeant, who was with Roberts in Afghanistan."
Agatha said nothing further. She was a little surprised to feel that she
was anxious to keep this man's good opinion, though that was not exactly
why she had nerved herself for the venture into the single women's
quarters. Leaving him out altogether, it seemed to her that there was
something rather fine in the way that the sergeant and the petty officer
who was going out almost penniless to Canada, had saddled themselves
with the task of looking after those helpless lads. It was wholly unpaid
labor, for which the men who preferred to remain within the safe limits
of the saloon deck would presumably get the credit. After all, she
decided, there were, no doubt, men in every station who helped to keep
the world sweet and clean, and she believed that Wyllard was to be
counted among them. He certainly differed in many ways from Gregory, but
then Gregory was unapproachable. She did not remember that it was four
years since she had seen Hawtrey, and that her ideas had been a little
unformed then.
In the evening, Mrs. Hastings, with whom he was evidently a favorite,
happened to speak of Wyllard, and the efforts he was making in the
steerage, and Agatha asked a question.
"Does he often undertake this kind of thing?"
"No," Mrs. Hastings answered with a smile. "Any way, not on so large a
scale. He's very far from setting up as a professional philanthropist,
my dear. I don't remember his offering to point out duty to other folks,
and I don't think he goes about in search of an opportunity of
benefiting humanity. Still, when an individual case thrusts itself
beneath his nose, he generally does what he can."
"I've heard people say that the individual method only perpetuates the
trouble," remarked Agatha.
Mrs Hastings shook her head. "That," she said, "is a subject I'm not
well posted on, but it seems to me that if other folks only adopted
Harry Wyllard's simple plan, there would be considerably less need for
organized charity."
CHAPTER IX
THE FOG
During the next two days before a moderate gale the _Scarrowmania_
shouldered her way westwards through the big, white-topped combers that
rolled down upon her under a lowering sky. There were no luxurious,
steam-propelled hotels in the Canadian trade at this time, and loaded
deep with railway metal as she was, the vessel slopped in the green seas
everywhere, and rolled her streaming sides out almost to her bilge. She
shivered and rattled horribly when her single screw swung clear and the
tri-compound engines ran away.
Wyllard went down to the steerage every now and then, and Agatha, who
contrived to keep on her feet, not infrequently accompanied him. She was
glad of his society, for Mrs. Hastings was seldom in evidence, and no
efforts could get Miss Rawlinson out of her berth. The gale blew itself
out at length, and the evening after it moderated Agatha was sitting
near the head of one fiddle-guarded table in the saloon waiting for
dinner, which the stewards had still some difficulty in bringing in.
Wyllard's place was next to hers, but he had not appeared, nor had the
skipper, who, however, did not invariably dine with the passengers. One
of the two doors which led from the foot of the branching companion
stairway into either side of the saloon stood open, and presently she
saw Wyllard standing just outside it.
He beckoned to the doctor, who sat at the foot of her table, and the
physician merely raised his brows a trifle. He was a rather consequential
person, and it was evident to the girl that he resented being summoned by
a gesture. She did not think anybody else had noticed Wyllard, and she
waited with some curiosity to see what he would do. He made a sign with a
lifted hand, and she felt that the doctor would obey it, as, in fact, he
did, though his manner was very far from conciliatory. By dint of
listening closely, she could hear their conversation.
"I'm sorry to trouble you just now," apologized Wyllard, "and I didn't
come in because that would have set everybody wondering what you were
wanted for; but one of those boys forward has been thrown down the
ladder, and has cut his head."
"Ah!" said the doctor. "I'll see to him--after dinner."
"It's a nasty cut," declared Wyllard. "He's losing a good deal of
blood."
"Then I would suggest that you apply to my assistant."
"As I don't know where he is, I have come to you."
The doctor made a sign of impatience. "Well," he said "you have told me,
which I think is as far as your concern in the matter goes. I may add
that I'm not accustomed to dictation on behalf of a steerage passenger."
Agatha saw Wyllard slip between the doctor and the entrance to the
saloon, but she saw also the skipper appear a few paces behind them, and
glance at them sharply. He was usually a silent man, at home in the ice
and the clammy fog, but not a great acquisition in the saloon.
"Something wrong down forward, Mr. Wyllard? They were making a great row
a little while ago," the skipper said.
"Nothing very serious," Wyllard answered. "One of the boys has cut his
head."
The skipper turned towards the doctor and Agatha guessed that he had
overheard part of the conversation. "Don't you think you had better
go--at once?" suggested the skipper.
The doctor evidently did, for he disappeared; and Wyllard, who entered
the saloon with the skipper, sat down at Agatha's side.
"How do you do it?" she asked.
"What?" returned Wyllard, beginning his dinner.
"We'll say persuade other folks to see things as you do."
"You evidently mean the skipper, and I suppose you heard something of
what was going on. In this case, I'm indebted to his prejudices. He's
one of the old type--a seaman first of all--and what we call bluff, and
you call bounce, has only one effect upon men of his kind. It gets their
backs up."
Agatha thought that he did not like it, either, but she changed the
subject.
"There really was a row forward," she said. "What was the trouble over?
You were, no doubt, somewhere near the scene of it."
Wyllard laughed. "I sat upon the steerage ladder, and am afraid I
cheered the combatants on. It was really a glorious row. They hammered
each other with tin plates, and some of them tried to use hoop-iron
knives, which fortunately doubled up. They broke quite a few of the
benches, and wrecked the mess table, but so far as I noticed the only
one seriously hurt was a little chap who was quietly looking on."
"And you encouraged them?"
"I certainly did. It was a protest against dirt, disorder, and the
slothfulness that's a plague to the community. Isn't physical force
warranted when there's no other remedy?"
A gray-haired Canadian looked up. "Yes," he agreed, "I guess it is. The
first man who pulled his gun in British Columbia was hanged right away,
and they've scarcely had to make an example of another since then,
though it was quite a while ago."
He paused, and smiled approvingly. "A mess of any kind worries us, and
we don't take long to straighten it out. Same feeling's in the Germans
and Scandinavians. I'll say that for them, any way. Your friends swept
up the steerage?"
"They took the Slavs and Jews, and pitched them down the second hatch on
to the orlop deck. Things will go smoothly now our crowd is on top."
"Your crowd?" said Agatha.
The Canadian nodded. "That's what he meant," he said. "There are two
kinds of folks you and the rest of them are dumping into Canada. One's
the kind that will get up and hustle, break land, and build new
homes--log at first, frame and stone afterwards. They go on from a
quarter-section and a team of oxen to the biggest farm they can handle,
and every fresh furrow they cut enriches all of us. The other kind want
to sit down in the dirt and take life easily, as they've always done.
The dirt worries everybody else, and we've no use for them. By and by
our Legislature will have to wake up and stop them from getting in."
He went on with his dinner, but his observations left Agatha thoughtful.
She was beginning to understand one side of Wyllard's character. He, it
seemed, stood for practical efficiency. There was a driving force in him
that made for progress and order. It was apparently his mission to
straighten things out. Some persons of his kind, she reflected, now and
then made a good deal of avoidable trouble; but there was in this man,
at least, a half-whimsical toleration, which rendered that an unlikely
thing in his particular case. Besides, she had already recognized that
she was in some respects fortunate in having such a man for her
companion.
Her deck chair was always set out in the most sheltered and comfortable
place. If there was anything to be seen he almost invariably appeared
with a pair of powerful glasses. She was watched over, her wishes were
anticipated, and the man was seldom obtrusively present when she felt
disposed to talk to somebody else. It struck her that she had thought a
great deal about him during the last few days, and rather less than
usual about Gregory, which was partly the reason she did not walk up and
down the deck with him, as usual, after dinner that evening.
Three or four days later, the _Scarrowmania_ ran into the Bank fog, and
burrowed through it with whistle hooting dolefully at regular intervals.
Now and then an answering ringing of bells came out of the clammy vapor,
and the half-seen shape of an anchored schooner loomed up, rolling
wildly on gray slopes of sea. Once, too, a tiny dory, half filled with
lines and buoys, slid by plunging on the wash flung off by the
_Scarrowmania's_ bows, and Agatha understood that the men in her had
escaped death by a hairsbreadth. They were cod fishers, Wyllard told
her, and he added that there was a host of them at work somewhere in the
sliding haze. She imagined, now and then, that the fog had a depressing
effect on him, and that when the dory lay beneath the rail there had
been an unusual look in his face.
A breeze came out of the northwest, with the sting of the ice in it, but
the fog did not lift, and the _Scarrowmania_ plunged on through it with
spray-wet decks and the gray seas smashing about her bows. It was
bitterly cold and the raw wind pierced to the bone, but the voyage was
rapidly shortening.
One evening Agatha paced the deck with Wyllard. The girl was in a
strangely unsettled mood. Perhaps it was merely the gloom of the sea and
sky reacting upon her that caused her to look forward to the landing
with a certain half-conscious shrinking. They stopped by the rails
presently, looking out upon the tumbling seas that, tipped with livid
froth, rolled out of the sliding haze, and the dreariness of the
surroundings intensified the girl's depression. There was something
unpleasantly suggestive in the sight of the fog that hid everything, for
Agatha had been troubled with a half-apprehensive longing to see what
lay before her. She noticed the lookout, a lonely, shapeless figure,
standing amid the spray that whirled about the plunging bows. By and by
she saw him turn and wave an arm toward the bridge behind her, and she
heard a hoarse cry. What it meant she could not tell, but in another
moment the _Scarrowmania's_ whistle shrieked.
A gray shape burst out of the vapor and grew with astonishing swiftness
into dim tiers of slanted sailcloth swaying above a strip of hull that
moved amid a broad white smear of foam. It was a brig under fore-course
and topsails, and as the girl watched the vessel it sank to the tilted
bowsprit, and a big gray and white sea foamed about the bows.
"Aren't we dreadfully near?" she asked.
Wyllard did not answer. He was gazing up at the bridge, and once more
the whistle gave a warning blast. It seemed that the two vessels could
hardly pass clear of each other.
Wyllard laid a hand upon Agatha's shoulder.
"The skipper's starboarding. We'll go around to the stern," he said.
His grasp was reassuring, and Agatha watched the straining curves of
canvas and the line of half-submerged hull. The brig rose with streaming
bows, swung high above the sea, sank again, and vanished with
bewildering suddenness into a belt of driving fog.
Agatha was not sure that there had been any peril, but it was certainly
past now, and she was rather puzzled by her sensations when Wyllard had
held her shoulder. For one thing, she had felt instinctively that she
was safe with him. She decided not to trouble herself about the reason
for this, and presently she looked up at him. The expression that she
had noticed now and then was once more in his face.
"I don't think you like the fog any more than I do," she said.
"No," responded Wyllard, with a quiet forcefulness that startled her. "I
hate it."
"Why?"
"It recalls something that still gives me a very bad few minutes every
once in a while. It has been worrying me again to-night."
"I wonder," said Agatha simply, "if you would care to tell me?"
The man looked down on her. "I haven't told it often, but you shall
hear," he replied. "It's a tale of a black failure." He stretched out a
hand and pointed to the ranks of tumbling seas. "It was very much this
kind of night, and we were lying, reefed down, off one of the Russians'
beaches, when I asked for volunteers. I got them--two boats' crews of
the finest seamen that ever handled oar or sealing rifle."
"But what did you want them for?"
"A boat from another schooner had been cast ashore. It was blowing hard,
as it usually does where the Polar ice comes down into the Behring Sea.
They'd been shooting seals. We meant to bring the men off if we could
manage it."
"Wouldn't one boat have been enough?"
"No," answered Wyllard dryly, "we had three, and I think that was one
cause of the trouble. There was one from the other schooner. You see,
those seals belonged to the Russians, and we free-lances could shoot
them only off shore. I'm not sure that the men in the wrecked boat had
been fishing outside the limit."
Agatha did not press for further particulars, and he went on.
"We managed to make a landing, though one boat went up bottom uppermost.
I fancy they must have broken or lost an oar then. We got the wrecked
men, but we had trouble while we were getting the boats off again. The
surf was running in savagely, and the fog shut down as solid as a wall.
Any way, we pulled off, and went out with a foot of water in one boat.
One of the rescued men took my oar when I let it go."
"Why did you let it go?"
Wyllard laughed in a grim fashion.
"My head was laid open with a sealing club," he said. "Some of the other
men had their scratches, but they managed to row. For one thing, they
knew they had to. They had reasons for not wanting to fall into the
Russians' hands. Well, we cleared the beach, and once or twice, as I
tried to bale, there was a shout somewhere near us, and the loom of a
vanishing boat. It was all we could make out, for the sea was slopping
into the boat, and the spray was flying everywhere. If there had been
only two boats we probably would have found out our misfortune, and
perhaps would have set it straight. As it was, we couldn't tell that it
was the same boat that had hailed us."
He broke off for a moment, and then added quietly:
"Two boats reached the schooners. There was a nasty sea running then,
and it blew viciously hard next day. There were three men in the other."
"Ah!" cried Agatha, "they were drowned?"
Wyllard made a forceful gesture. "I'm not quite sure. That's the
trouble. At least, the boat was nowhere on the beach next day, and it's
difficult to see how the men could have faced the sea that piled up when
the gale came down. In all probability, they had an oar short, and the
boat rolled them out when a comber broke upon her in the darkness." The
girl saw him close one hand tight as he added, "If one only knew!"
"What would have befallen them if they had reached shore?"
"It's difficult to say. They could have been handed over to the Russian
authorities. Still, sealers poaching up there have simply disappeared."
He stopped again, and glanced out at the gathering darkness. "Now," he
concluded, "you see why I hate the fog."
"But you couldn't help it," said Agatha.
"Well," answered Wyllard, "I asked for volunteers, and the money that is
now mine came out of those schooners. It's just possible those men are
living still--somewhere in Northern Asia. I only know that they
disappeared."
He abruptly began to talk of something else, and by and by Agatha went
down to the saloon, where Miss Rawlinson, who had not been much in
evidence during the voyage, presently made her appearance.
"Aren't you going into the music-room to play for Mr. Wyllard--as
usual?" she inquired.
Agatha was disconcerted. She had fallen into the habit of spending half
an hour or longer in the little music-room every evening, with Wyllard
standing near the piano; but now her friend's question seemed to place a
significance upon the fact.
"No," she replied, "I don't think I am."
"Then the rest of them will wonder whether you have fallen out with
him."
"Fallen out with him?"
Winifred laughed. "They've naturally been watching both of you, and, in
a general way, there's only one decision they could have arrived at."
Agatha flushed a little, but Winifred went on.
"I don't mind admitting that if a man of that kind was to fall in love
with me, I'd black his boots for him," she said. She added, with a
rueful gesture, "Still, it's most unlikely."
Agatha looked at her with a little glint in her eyes.
"He is merely Gregory's deputy," she said, with a subconscious feeling
that the word "deputy" was not a fortunate one. "In that connection, I
should like to point out that you can estimate a man's character by that
of his friends."
"Oh," rejoined Winifred, "then if Mr. Wyllard's strong points merely
heighten Gregory's virtues, I've nothing more to say. Any way, I'll
reserve my homage until I've seen Gregory. Perfection among men is
scarce nowadays."
She turned away, and left Agatha thoughtful. In the meanwhile, Mrs.
Hastings came upon Wyllard alone in the music-room.
"You look quite serious," she remarked.
"I've been thinking about Miss Ismay and Gregory," Wyllard replied. "In
fact, I feel a little anxious about them."
"In what way?"
"Without making any reflections upon Gregory, I somewhat feel sorry for
the girl."
Mrs. Hastings nodded. "As a matter of fact, that's very much what I felt
from the first," she admitted. "Still, you see, there's the important
fact that she's fond of him, and it should smooth out a good many
difficulties. Anyway, she's evidently rather a courageous person."
Wyllard sat silent a moment or two. "I wasn't troubling about the
material difficulties--lack of wealth and all that," he said. "I was
wondering if she really could be fond of him. It is some years since she
was much in his company."
"Hawtrey is not a man to change."
"That," returned Wyllard, "is just the trouble. I've no doubt he's much
the same, but one could fancy that Miss Ismay has changed a good deal
since she last saw him. She'll look for considerably more than she was
probably content with then."
"In any case, it isn't your affair." Mrs. Hastings smiled significantly.
"In one sense it certainly isn't; but I can't help feeling a little
troubled about the thing. You see, Gregory is quite an old friend."
"And the girl is going to marry him," said Mrs. Hastings, raising her
eyebrows.
Wyllard rose. "That reminder," he said, "is quite uncalled for. I would
like to assure you of it."
He went out, and Mrs. Hastings sat still in a reflective mood.
"If she begins to compare him with Hawtrey, there can be only one
result," she said.
The fog had almost gone next morning, and pale sunshine streamed down
upon a a froth-flecked sea. A bitter wind, however, still came out of
the hazy north, and the _Scarrowmania's_ plates were crusted with ice
where the highest crests of the tumbling seas reached them. The spray
froze, and the decks grew slippery. When darkness came, nobody but the
seamen faced the stinging cold. Agatha felt the engines stop late that
night, and when she went out next morning the decks were white, and she
could see dim ghosts of sliding pines through a haze of falling snow
that became bewilderingly thick at times, but the steamer slid on
through it with whistle hooting. At last toward sunset the snow cleared
away and Agatha stood shivering under a deck-house. She looked about her
with a curiously heavy heart.
A gray haze stretched across the great river, which was dim and gray,
and odd wisps of pines rose raggedly beneath the white hills that cut
against a gloomy, lowering sky. Deck-house, boat, and stanchion dripped,
and every now and then the silence was broken by a doleful blast of the
whistle. Nothing moved on the still, gray water, there was no sign of
life ashore, and they seemed to be steaming into a great desolation.
Presently, Wyllard appeared from somewhere, and, after a glance at her
face, slipped his hand beneath her arm, and led her down to the lighted
saloon. There her heart grew a little lighter. Once more she was
conscious of the feeling that she was safe with him.
CHAPTER X
DISILLUSION
The long train was speeding smoothly across the vast white levels of
Assiniboia, when Agatha, who sat by a window, looked up as the conductor
strode through the car. Mrs. Hastings asked him a question, and he
stopped a moment.
"Yes," he said, "we'll be in Clermont inside half an hour."
He went on, and Mrs. Hastings smiled at Agatha.
"We're a little late, and Gregory will be waiting for us in the station
now," she announced. "No doubt he's got the wagon fixed up right, but
I'd like to feel sure of it. There's a long drive before us, and I want
to reach the homestead before it's dark."
Agatha said nothing, but a faint tinge of color crept into her cheeks,
and Mrs. Hastings was glad to see it, for she had noticed that the girl
was looking pale and haggard. The strain of the last few months that she
had spent in England was beginning to tell on her. She had borne it
courageously, but a reaction had set in, and the trip had been
fatiguing. The _Scarrowmania_ had plunged along, bows under, against
fresh northwesterly gales most of the way across the Atlantic, and there
is very little comfort on board a small, deeply-loaded steamer when she
rolls her rails in, and lurches with thudding screw swung clear over
big, steep-sided combers. Moreover, Agatha had scarcely slept during the
few days and nights that she had spent in the train. It takes time to
become accustomed to the atmosphere of a heated sleeper, and since she
had landed she had been in a state of not unnatural nervous tension.
She had found it difficult to preserve an outward serenity, the previous
day. When, at last, the great train ran into the depôt at Winnipeg,
where Gregory had arranged to meet them, it was with a thrill of
expectancy and relief that she stood upon the car platform. There was,
however, no sign of Gregory, and, though Wyllard handed her a telegram
from him a few minutes later, the fact that he had not arrived had a
depressing effect on her. Quiet as she usually was, the girl was highly
strung. Something had gone wrong with Hawtrey's wagon while he was
driving in to the railroad, and as the result of it he had missed the
Atlantic train. She could not blame him for the accident, but for all
that his absence was an unpleasant shock.
Feeling that her companions' eyes were upon her, she turned, and looking
out of the window found no encouragement in what she saw. The snow had
gone, and a vast expanse of grass ran back to the horizon! But it was a
dingy, grayish-white, and not green, as it had been in England. The sky
was low and gray, too, and the only thing that broke the dreary monotony
of lifeless color was the formless, darker smear of a birch bluff that
rose out of the empty levels. Her heart throbbed unpleasantly fast as
the few remaining minutes slipped away. She started when a dingy mass of
something that looked like buildings lifted itself above the prairie.
"The Clermont elevators," said Mrs. Hastings. "We'll be in directly."
The mass separated itself into two or three tall component blocks. A
huddle of little wooden houses grew into shape beneath them, and a
shrill whistle came ringing back above the slowing cars. A willow bluff,
half filled with old cans and garbage, flitted by, a big bell began
tolling, and Agatha rose when Mrs. Hastings took up her furs from a seat
close by. After that, the girl found herself standing on the platform of
the car, though she did not quite know how she got there, for she was
sensible only of the fact that in another moment or two she would greet
the lover whom she had not seen for four years.
Though she paid no great attention to them the surroundings had a
depressing effect on her. There was, however, very little to see. The
mass of the great elevators that were silhouetted against a lowering
sky, the little cluster of houses, and the sea of churned-up mire
between them and the track comprised Clermont. There appeared to be no
station except a big water tank and a rather unsightly shed, about which
stood a group of blurred and shapeless figures. It seemed very cold, and
Agatha shivered as she felt the raw wind strike through her.
One of the figures detached itself from the rest and grew clearer. The
man wore an old skin coat spattered with flakes of mire, and his long
boots were covered with clots of mud. His fur cap looked greasy, and the
fur had been rubbed off it in patches. But while Agatha noticed these
things it was Hawtrey's face that struck her most distinctly, and she
became conscious of an astonishment which was mixed with vague
misgivings as she gazed at it, for it had subtly changed since she had
last seen it. The joyous sparkle that she remembered had gone out of the
eyes. They were harder, bolder, than they used to be. The mouth was
slack--it looked almost sensual--and the man's whole personality seemed
to have grown coarser. As she thrust the disconcerting fancies from her
the car stopped.
[Illustration: "SHE WAS CONSCIOUS OF A CERTAIN SHRINKING FROM HIS
EMBRACE" (Page 107)]
In another moment Hawtrey sprang up on the platform, and his arms were
about her. That brought the blood to her face, but she felt none of the
thrill that she had expected. Indeed, she was conscious of a certain
shrinking from his embrace. He must have lifted her down, for, when she
was next aware of the presence of the friends with whom she had
traveled, she stood beside the track with Mrs. Hastings, a man whom she
supposed to be Mr. Hastings, Winifred and Wyllard about her. Another man
also was standing close by, apparently waiting until they noticed him.
He was covered with mire, his skin coat was very dilapidated, and Agatha
thought that his boots never had been cleaned. His hair, which had
evidently been badly cut, straggled out from under his old fur cap.
Gregory apparently explained something to Mrs. Hastings. "No," he said,
"I'm sorry it can't be for another week. Horribly unfortunate. It seems
they've sent the Methodist on down the line, and we'll have to wait for
the Episcopalian. He'll be at Lander's for a few days."
Agatha's cheeks flamed, for she realized that it was her wedding of
which they were speaking; but it brought her a curious relief to hear
that it had been deferred. A moment or two later Gregory turned to her
with questions about his people in England.
Winifred had separated herself from the group. She was standing near her
baggage, which had been flung out beside the track, when Wyllard strode
up to her.
"Feeling rather out of it? I do, any way," he remarked. "Since we appear
superfluous, we may as well make the most of the opportunity, especially
as it will probably save you a long drive. There's a man here who wants
to see you."
Winifred had felt forlorn a few moments earlier, but the announcement
Wyllard made was reassuring, and she brightened perceptibly as he
signaled to a man who was standing a little further along the track. The
stranger wore rather good store clothes, and his manner was brisk and
wholly business-like. It was a certain relief to the girl to see that he
evidently regarded her less as a personality than as a piece of
commercial machinery, of which apparently he had been asked to make use.
She had found it easier to get on with men who looked upon her as merely
part of the office equipment.
"Mr. Hamilton is in charge of the elevator yonder," explained Wyllard,
pointing to one of the huge buildings.
Then he introduced Miss Rawlinson.
The elevator man made her the curtest of bows and proceeded to arrange
matters with a rapidity which almost took her breath away.
"Typist and stenographer?" he asked. "Know anything about keeping
accounts?"
Winifred admitted that she possessed these qualifications and Hamilton
appeared to reflect for a moment or two.
"Well," he said, "in a fortnight we'll give you a show. You can start
at--" and he mentioned terms which rather astonished Winifred. "If you
can keep things straight we may raise you later."
"Won't you want to see any testimonials?" she asked.
"No," answered Hamilton. "I've seen a good many and I'm inclined to
believe some of the folks who showed them to me must have bought them."
He waved his hand. "Mr. Wyllard assures me that you'll do, and that's
quite enough for me."
It struck Winifred as curious that, while Agatha had written to Hawtrey
on her behalf, it was Wyllard who had secured her the opportunity for
which she had longed.
"There's another matter," she said hesitatingly, when she was left with
Wyllard, "I'll have to live here?"
Wyllard smiled. "I've seen to that, though if you don't like my
arrangements you can alter them afterwards. Mrs. Sandberg will take you
in. She's a Scotch Calvinist, and even if she isn't particularly amiable
you'll be in safe hands. We'll consider it as fixed, but you're to stay
with Mrs. Hastings for a fortnight. Sproatly"--he signed to the man in
the skin coat--"will you get Miss Rawlinson's baggage into your wagon?"
The man took off his fur cap. "If Miss Rawlinson would like to see Mrs.
Sandberg, I'll drive her round," he suggested. "We'll catch you in a
league or so. Gregory has a bit of patching to do on his off-side
trace."
"He might have had things straight for once," grumbled Wyllard
half-aloud.
Winifred permitted Sproatly to help her into his wagon--a high,
narrow-bodied vehicle, mounted on tall, spidery wheels--but she had to
hold fast to the seat while they jolted across the track and through a
sea of mire into the unpaved street of the little town. She liked
Sproatly's voice and manner, though she was far from prepossessed by his
appearance. Two or three minutes later he stopped before a little wooden
house, where they were received by a tall, hard-faced woman, who frowned
at the man.
"Ye'll tak' your patent medicines somewhere else. I'm wanting none," she
said.
Sproatly grinned. "You needn't be afraid of them. They couldn't hurt
you. I was talking to a Winnipeg doctor who'd a notion of coming out a
day or two ago. I told him if he did he'd have to bring an ax along."
Then he explained that Wyllard had sent Miss Rawlinson there, and the
woman favored her with a glance of careful scrutiny.
"Weel," she said, "ye look quiet, anyway." She added, as if further
satisfied, "I'll make ye a cup of tea if ye can wait."
Sproatly assured her that they had not time to accept her hospitality.
The girl went into the house for a few moments and returned to the wagon
with relief in her face.
"I think I owe Mr. Wyllard a good deal," she said.
Sproatly laughed. "You're not exactly unusual in that respect," he
declared as he started the horses. "But you had better hold tight. These
beasts are less than half broken."
He flicked the horses with the whip, and they went across the track at a
gallop, hurling great clods of mud left and right, while the group of
loungers who still stood about the station raised a shout.
"Got any little pictures with nice motters on them?" asked one, and
another flung a piece of information after the jolting wagon.
"There's a Swede down at Branker's wants a bottle that will limber up a
wooden leg," he said.
Sproatly grinned, and waved his hands to them before he turned to
Winifred.
"We have to get through before dark, if possible, or I'd stop and sell
them something sure," he said. "Parts of the trail further on are simply
horrible."
It occurred to Winifred that the road was far from good as it was, for
spouts of mud flew up beneath the sinking hoofs and wheels, and she was
already unpleasantly spattered.
"You think you would have succeeded making a sale?" she asked with
amusement in her eyes.
"Oh, yes," Sproatly answered confidently. "If I couldn't plant something
on to them when they'd given me a lead like that, I'd be no use in this
business. At present, my command of Western phraseology is my fortune."
"You sell things, then?"
Sproatly pointed to two big boxes in the bottom of the wagon. "Anything
from cough cure to hair restorer, besides a general purpose elixir
that's specially prepared for me. It's adaptable to any complaint and
season. All you have to do"--and he lowered his voice confidently--"is
to put on a different label."
Winifred laughed when she met his eyes.
"What happens to the people who buy it?" she inquired.
"Most of them are bachelors, and tough. They've stood their own cooking
so long that they ought to be impervious to anything, and if anybody's
really sick I hold off and tell him to wait until he can get a doctor. A
sensitive conscience," he added reflectively, "is quite a handicap in
this business."
"You have always been in it?" asked Winifred.
"No," replied Sproatly, "although you mightn't believe it, I was raised
with the idea that I should have my choice between the Church and the
Bar. The idea, however, proved--impracticable--which is rather a pity.
It has seemed to me that a man who can work off cough cures and
cosmetics on to healthy folks and talk a scoffer off the field, ought to
have made his mark in either calling."
He looked at her as if for confirmation of this view, but Winifred, who
laughed again, glanced at the two wagons that, several miles away, moved
across the gray-white sweep of prairie.
"Shall we overtake them?" she asked.
"We'll probably come up with Gregory. I'm not sure about Wyllard."
"He drives faster horses?"
"That's not quite the reason. Gregory has patched up one trace with a
bit of string, and odd bolts are rather addicted to coming out of his
wagon. Sometimes it makes trouble. I've known the team to leave him
sitting on the prairie, thinking of endearing names for them, while they
came home with the pole."
"Does he generally let things fall into that state?"
Sproatly was evidently on his guard.
"Well," he rejoined, "it's certainly that kind of wagon."
He flicked the team again, and the jolting rendered it difficult for
Winifred to ask any more questions. The prairie sod was soft with the
thaw, and big lumps of it stuck to the wheels, which every now and then
plunged into ruts the other vehicles had made.
In the meanwhile, Agatha and Hawtrey had found it almost impossible to
sustain a conversation. It was a relief to the girl to be able to sit
silent and observant beside the man whom she had promised to marry. The
string-patched trace still held, and the wagon pole was a new one. The
white grass was tussocky and long, and the trail here and there had been
churned into quagmire. Hawtrey had packed the thick driving-robe high
about Agatha and had slipped one arm about her waist beneath it; but she
was conscious that she rather suffered this than derived any
satisfaction from it. She strove to assure herself that she was jaded
with the journey, which was, in fact, the case, and that the lowering
sky, and the cheerless waste they were crossing, had occasioned the
dejection that she felt. There was not a tree upon the vast sweep of
bleached grass which ran all around her to the horizon. It was
inexpressibly lonely, a lifeless desolation, with only the plowed-up
trail to show that man had ever traversed it. The raw wind which came
across the prairie set her shivering.
She was forced, however, to admit that her weariness and the dreary
surroundings did not quite explain everything. Gregory's first embrace
had brought her no happiness, and now the close pressure of his arm left
her quite unmoved. This was disconcerting; but while she would admit no
definite reason for it, there was creeping upon her a vague consciousness
that the man beside her was not the one of whom she had so often thought
in England. He seemed different--almost, in fact, a stranger--though she
could not exactly tell where the change in him began. His laughter jarred
upon her. Some of the things he said appeared almost inane, and others
were tinged with a self-confidence that did not become him. It seemed to
her that he was shallow and lacking in comprehension. Once she found
herself comparing him with another man. She broke off that train of
thought abruptly, and once more endeavored to find the explanation in
herself. Weariness had produced this captious, hypercritical fit, and by
and by she would become used to him, she said.
Hawtrey was, at least, not effusive, for which she was thankful. When
they reached a smoother stretch of road he began to talk of England.
"I suppose you saw a good deal of my folks when you were at the Grange,"
he said.
"No," answered Agatha, "I saw them once or twice."
"Ah!" he replied, with a trace of sharpness, "then they were not
particularly agreeable?"
It seemed to Agatha that he was tactless in suggesting anything of the
kind, but she replied candidly.
"One could hardly go quite so far as that," she told him. "Still, I
couldn't help a feeling that it was rather an effort for them to be
gracious to me."
"They did what they could to make things pleasant when they were first
told of our engagement."
Agatha was too weary to be altogether on her guard. His relatives'
attitude had wounded her, and she answered without reflection.
"I have fancied that was because they never quite believed it would lead
to anything."
She knew this was the truth now, though it was the first time the
explanation had occurred to her. Gregory's relatives, who were naturally
acquainted with his character, had not expected him to carry out his
promise. She felt that she had been injudicious in what she told him
when she heard his harsh laugh.
"I'm afraid they never had a very great opinion of me," he remarked.
"Then," said Agatha, looking up at him, "it will be our business to
prove them wrong; but I can't help feeling that you have undertaken a
big responsibility, Gregory. There must be so much that I ought to do,
and I know so little about your work in this country." She turned, and
glanced with a shiver at the dim, white prairie. "The land looks so
forbidding and unyielding. It must be very hard to turn it into wheat
fields--to break it in."
It was merely a hint of what she felt, and it was rather a pity that
Hawtrey, who lacked imagination, usually contented himself with the most
obvious meaning of the spoken word. Things might have gone differently
had he responded with comprehending sympathy.
"Oh," he said, with a laugh that changed her mood, "you'll learn, and I
don't suppose it will matter a great deal if you don't do it quickly.
Somehow or other one worries through."
She felt that this was insufficient, though she remembered that his
haphazard carelessness had once appealed to her. Now she realized that
to undertake a thing light-heartedly was a very different matter from
carrying it out successfully. Then it once more occurred to her that she
was becoming absurdly hypercritical, and she strove to talk of other
things.
She did not find it easy, nor, though he made the effort, did Hawtrey.
There was a restraint upon him, for when he first saw her he had been
struck by the change in the girl. She was graver than he remembered her,
and, it seemed, very much more reserved. He had tried and failed, as he
thought of it, to strike any response in her. He became uneasily
conscious that he could not talk to her as he could to Sally Creighton.
There was something wanting in him or her, but he could not at the
moment tell what it was. Still, he assured himself, things would be
different next day, for the girl was evidently very tired.
The creeping dusk settled down upon the wilderness. The horizon
narrowed, and the stretch of grass before them grew dim. The trail they
now drove into grew rapidly rougher, and it was quite dark when they
came to the brink of a declivity still at least a league from the
Hastings homestead. It was one of the steep ravines that seam the
prairie. A birch bluff rose on either side, and a little creek flowed
through the hollow.
Hawtrey swung the whip when they reached the top, and the team plunged
furiously down the slope. He straightened himself in his seat with both
hands on the reins, and Agatha held her breath when she felt the light
vehicle tilt as the wheels on one side sank deep in a rut. Something
seemed to crack, and she saw the off horse stumble and plunge. The other
horse flung its head up, Hawtrey shouted something, and there was a
great smashing and snapping of undergrowth and fallen branches as they
drove in among the birches. The team stopped, and Hawtrey, who sprang
down, floundered noisily among the undergrowth, while another thud of
hoofs and rattle of wheels grew louder behind them up the trail. In a
minute or two Hawtrey came back and lifted Agatha down.
"It's the trace broken. I had to make the holes with my knife, and the
string's torn through," he explained. "Voltigeur got it round his feet,
and, as usual, tried to bolt. We'll make the others pull up and take you
in."
They went back to the trail together, and reached it just as Hastings
reined in his team. Hastings got down and walked back with Hawtrey to
the stalled wagon. It was a minute or two before they reappeared again,
and Mrs. Hastings, who had alighted, drew Hawtrey aside.
"I almost think it would be better if you didn't come any further
to-night," she said.
"Why?" Gregory asked sharply.
"I can't help thinking that Agatha would prefer it. For one thing, she's
rather jaded, and wants quiet."
"You feel sure of that?"
There was something in the man's voice which suggested that he was not
quite satisfied, and Mrs. Hastings was silent a moment.
"It's good advice, Gregory," she said. "She'll be better able to face
the situation after a night's rest."
"Does it require much facing?" Hawtrey asked dryly.
Mrs. Hastings turned from him with a sign of impatience. "Of course it
does. Anyway, if you're wise you'll do what I suggest, and ask no more
questions."
Then she got into the wagon, and Hawtrey stood still beside the trail,
feeling unusually thoughtful as they drove away.
CHAPTER XI
AGATHA'S DECISION
It was with an expectancy which was toned down by misgivings that
Hawtrey drove over to the homestead where Agatha was staying the next
afternoon. The misgivings were not unnatural, for he had been chilled by
the girl's reception of him on the previous day, and her manner
afterwards had, he felt, left something to be desired. Indeed, when she
drove away with Mrs. Hastings, he had considered himself an injured man.
His efforts to mend the harness, and extricate the wagon in the dark,
which occupied him for an hour, had helped partly to drive the matter
from his mind, and when he reached his homestead rather late that night
he went to sleep, and slept soundly until sunrise. Hawtrey was a man who
never brooded over his troubles beforehand, and this was one reason why
he did not always cope with them successfully when they could no longer
be avoided.
When he had eaten his breakfast, however, he became sensible of a
certain pique against both Mrs. Hastings and Agatha. In planning for the
day he was forced to remember that he had no hired man, and that there
was a good deal to be done. He decided that it might be well to wait
until the afternoon before he called on Agatha, and for several hours he
drove his team through the crackling stubble. His doubts and irritation
grew weaker as he worked, and when, later, he drove into sight of the
Hastings homestead, his buoyant temperament was beginning to reassert
itself. Clear sunshine streamed down upon the prairie out of a vault of
cloudless blue, and he felt that any faint shadow that might have arisen
between him and the girl could be readily swept away. He was a little
less sure of this when he saw Agatha, who sat near an open window, in a
scantily furnished match-boarded room. She had not slept at all. Her
eyes were heavy, but there was a look of resolution in them which seemed
out of place just then, and it struck him that she had lost the
freshness which had been her distinguishing charm in England.
She rose when he came in, and then, to his astonishment, drew back a
pace or two when he moved impulsively towards her.
"No," she said, with a hand raised restrainingly, "you must hear what I
have to say, and try to bear with me. It is a little difficult, Gregory,
but it must be said at once."
Gregory stood still, gazing at her with consternation in his face, and
for a moment she looked steadily at him. It was a painful moment, for
she was gifted with a clearness of vision which she almost longed to be
delivered from. She saw that the impression which had brought her a
vague sense of dismay on the previous afternoon was wrong. The trouble
was that he had not changed at all. He was what he had always been, and
she had merely deceived herself when she had permitted her girlish fancy
to endow him with qualities and graces which he had never possessed.
There was, however, no doubt that she had still a duty toward him.
He spoke first with a trace of hardness in his voice.
"Then," he rejoined, "won't you sit down? This is naturally a
little--embarrassing--but I'll try to listen."
Agatha sank into a seat by the open window, for she felt physically worn
out, and before her there was a task from which she shrank.
"Gregory," she began, "I feel that we have come near making what might
prove to be a horrible mistake."
"We?" repeated Hawtrey, while the blood rose into his weather-darkened
face. "That means both of us."
"Yes," asserted Agatha, with a steadiness that cost her an effort.
Hawtrey went a step nearer to her. "Do you want me to admit that I've
made a mistake."
"Are you quite sure you haven't?"
She flung the question at him sharply with tense apprehension, for,
after all, if Gregory was sure of himself, there was only one course
open to her. He leaned upon the table, gazing at her, and as he studied
her face his indignation melted, and doubts crept into his mind.
She looked weary, and grave, almost haggard, and it was a fresh,
light-hearted girl with whom he had fallen in love in England. The mark
of the last two years of struggle was plain on her. He tried to realize
what he had looked for when he had asked her to marry him, and could not
get a clear conception of his vision. In the back of his mind was a
half-formulated idea that he had dreamed of a cheerful companion,
somebody to amuse him. She scarcely seemed likely to be entertaining
now.
Gregory was not a man who could face a crisis collectedly, and his
thoughts became confused until one idea emerged from them. He had
pledged himself to her, and the fact laid a certain obligation upon him.
It was his part to overrule any fancies she might be disposed to indulge
in.
"Well," he said stoutly, "I'm not going to admit anything of that kind.
The journey has been too much for you. You haven't got over it yet." He
lowered his voice, and his face softened. "Aggy, dear, I've waited four
years for you."
His words stirred her, for they were certainly true, and his gentleness
had also its effect. The situation was becoming more and more difficult,
since it seemed impossible to make him understand that he would in all
probability speedily tire of her. To make it clear that she could never
be satisfied with him was a thing from which she shrank.
"How have you passed those four years?" she asked, to gain time.
For a moment his conscience smote him. He remembered the trips to
Winnipeg, and the dances to which he had escorted Sally Creighton. It
was, however, evident that Agatha could have heard nothing of Sally.
"I spent them in hard work. I wanted to make the place comfortable for
you," he answered. "It is true"--and he added this with a twinge of
uneasiness, as he remembered that his neighbors had done much more with
less incentive--"that it's still very far from what I would like, but
things have been against me."
The speech had a far stronger effect than he could have expected, for
Agatha remembered Wyllard's description of what the prairie farmer had
to face. Those four years of determined effort and patient endurance, as
she pictured them, counted heavily against her in the man's favor. It
flashed upon her that, after all, there might have been some warrant for
the view that she had held of Gregory's character when he had fallen in
love with her. He was younger then. There must have been latent
possibilities in him, but the years of toil had killed them and hardened
him. It was for her sake he had made the struggle, and now it seemed
unthinkable that she should renounce him because he came to her with the
dust and stain of it upon him. For all that, she was possessed with a
feeling that she would involve them both in disaster if she yielded.
Something warned her that she must stand firm.
"Gregory," she said, "I seem to know that we should both be sorry
afterwards if I kept my promise."
Hawtrey straightened himself with a smile that she recognized. She had
liked him for it once, for it had then suggested the joyous courage of
untainted youth. Now, however, it struck her as merely hinting at empty,
complacent assurance. She hated herself for the fancy, but it would not
be driven away.
"Well," he replied, "I'm quite willing to face that hazard. I suppose
this diffidence is only natural, Aggy, but it's a little hard on me."
"No," replied the girl with emphasis, "it's horribly unnatural, and
that's why I'm afraid. I should have come to you gladly, without a
misgiving, feeling that nothing could hurt me if I was with you. I
wanted to do that, Gregory--I meant to--but I can't." Then her voice
fell to a tone that had vibrant regret in it. "You should have made
sure--you should have married me when you last came home."
"But I'd nowhere to take you. The farm was only half-broken prairie, the
homestead almost unhabitable."
Agatha winced at this. It was, no doubt, true, but it seemed horribly
petty and commonplace. His comprehension stopped at such details as
these, and he had given her no credit for the courage which would have
made light of bodily discomfort.
"Do you think that would have mattered? We were both very young then,
and we could have faced our troubles and grown up together. Now we're
not the same. You let me grow up alone."
Hawtrey shrugged his shoulders. "I haven't changed," he told her as she
looked at him with deep-seeing eyes.
He contented himself with that, and Agatha grew more resolute. There was
not a spark of imagination in him, scarcely even a spark of the passion
which, if it had been strong enough, might have swept her away in spite
of her shrinking. He was a man of comely presence, whimsical, and quick,
as she remembered, at light badinage, but when there was a crisis to be
grappled with he somehow failed. His graces were on the surface. There
was no depth in him.
"Aggy," he added humbly, when he should have been dominant and forceful,
"it is only a question of a little time. You will get used to me."
"Then," pleaded the girl, who clutched at the chance of respite, "give
me six months from to-day. It isn't very much to ask, Gregory."
Gregory wrinkled his brows. "It's a great deal," he answered slowly. "I
feel that we shall drift further and further apart if once I let you
go."
"Then you feel that we have drifted a little already?"
"I don't know what has come over you, Aggy, but there has been a change.
I'm what I was, and I want to keep you."
Agatha rose and turned towards him a white face. "If you are wise you
will not urge me now," she said.
Hawtrey met her gaze for a moment, and then made a sign of acquiescence
as he turned his eyes away. He recognized that this was a new Agatha,
one whose will was stronger than his. Yet he was astonished that he had
yielded so readily.
"Well," he agreed, "if it must be, I can only give way to you, but I
must be free to come ove
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/25922