Masters of the Wheat-Lands Part 3

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 embarra.s.s them. In most respects, they were ultra-conventional with old-fas.h.i.+oned 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-fas.h.i.+oned, 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 embarra.s.sment 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 a.s.sented, "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-cla.s.s 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 embarra.s.sment. "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 a.s.sent.

"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 a.s.sented.

"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.