Alison sat one afternoon in the shadow of a pile of sheaves in Farquhar's harvest field. She had a little leisure, and it was unpleasantly hot in the wooden house. There was some sewing in her hand, but even in the shade the light was trying and she leaned back languidly among the warm straw with half-closed eyes. Two men were talking some distance behind her as they pitched up the rustling sheaves, and the tramp of horses' feet among the stubble and the rattle of a binder which she knew Farquhar was driving drew steadily nearer. Presently another beat of hoofs broke in, and a minute or two later Hall rode past, looking very hot, apparently without seeing her. Then the rattle of the binder ceased and she heard the newcomer greet Farquhar.
"If you've got one of those bent-end-spanners you could let me have I'd be glad," he said. "I've mislaid mine somehow, and there's a loose nut I can't get at making trouble on my binder."
Farquhar sent his hired man for one and Hall referred to the grain.
"So you have made a start. Looks quite a heavy crop. Good and ripe, too, isn't it?"
"We put the binder in yesterday," answered Farquhar. "I'd have done it earlier only that I sent Pete over to Thorne's place for a few days after you left him."
"I was kind of sorry I had to leave. He's surely going to be beaten. I looked in on him yesterday."
Alison became suddenly intent. She drew her light skirt closer about her, for she did not wish it to catch the men's eyes and betray her, as she thought it probable that they would speak to each other unreservedly and she would hear the actual truth about Thorne. When she had questioned Farquhar he had answered her in general terms, avoiding any very definite particulars, and she now strained her ears to catch his reply to Hall.
"I was afraid of it after what Pete told me," he said. "I would have helped him more if I could have managed it, but I can't let a big crop like this stand over when I've bills to meet."
"That," declared Hall, "is just how I'm fixed, though I stayed with him as long as I could. The trouble is that he hasn't been able to hire a man since I left him. There seem to be mighty few of the Ontario boys coming in this season, and so far they've been snapped up farther back along the line."
"Has he tried any of the men who had their crops hailed out west of the creek?"
"They cleared as soon as they saw they had no harvest left. Most of them are out track-grading on the branch line, and I heard the rest went East. Mavy's surely up against it; he was figuring last evening that even if the weather held he'd be most a month behind."
"Then I'm afraid he'll have to give the place up. Nevis will come down on him the day that payment's due."
"Couldn't he raise the money somehow, for a month?" Hall inquired.
"It's scarcely likely. I can't lend him any, with wheatat present figure, and Hunter, who has already guaranteed him a thousand dollars, is very tightly fixed. Besides Mavy couldn't expect anything more from him. It wouldn't be much use going to a bank, either. With the bottom dropping out of the market they're getting scared of wheat, and he has nothing to offer them but a crop that isn't reaped, with Grantly's note calling for most of it."
"Then I guess he has just got to quit. Hunter would no doubt have lent him a binder and a couple of hired men, but he has them busy trying to straighten up his hailed crop and cut patches of it."
"It's a pity," Farquhar assented in a regretful voice. "It will hurt Mavy to give the place up."
The man arrived with the spanner and Alison heard Hall ride away. When the clash and rattle of the binder began again she lay still for a long time beneath the sheaves. The men's conversation had made it clear that Thorne would shortly be involved in disaster, and that alone was painful news, though by comparison with another aspect of the matter it was of minor importance. The man loved her, and it was for that reason he had undertaken this most unfortunate farming venture. Everybody seemed to know it, though he had never told her what was in his mind, and she had been content to wait. Now, however, she had no doubt that she loved him, and he would, it seemed, shortly go away and vanish altogether beyond her reach—at least, unless something should very promptly be done. She knew he would not claim her while he was an outcast and a ruined man.
She closed one hand tight and a flush crept into her face as she made up her mind on one point, and she was thankful while she did so that she was on the Canadianprairie, where the thing seemed easier than it would have done in England. In that new land time-honored prejudices and hampering traditions did not seem to count. Men and women outgrew them there and obeyed the impulses of human nature, which were, after all, elemental and existent long before the invention of what were, perhaps, in the more complex society of other lands, necessary fetters. Thorne, the pedler, farmer, railroad hand, or whatever he might become, should at least know that she loved him and decide with that knowledge before him whether he would go away.
Then, growing a little more collected, she considered the second point. Though Hall and Farquhar had cast considerable doubt upon his ability to help, there was just a possibility that Hunter might hold out a hand, and she would stoop to beg for any favor that might be shown her lover. This latter decision, however, she prudently determined to keep from Thorne in the meanwhile.
By and by she walked quietly back to the house and busied herself as usual, though late in the afternoon she asked Mrs. Farquhar for a horse and the buggy. Her employer did not trouble her with any questions as to why she wanted them, though she favored her with a glance of unobtrusive but very keen scrutiny, and soon after supper the hired man brought the buggy to the door. Then Alison came out from her room, where she had spent some time carefully comparing the two or three dresses she had clung to when she had parted with the rest in Winnipeg, one after another. She had attired herself in the one that became her best, for she felt that there must be nothing wanting in the gift she meant to offer her lover. She recognized that this was what her intention amounted to. What other women did withmore reserve, veiling their advances in disguises which were after all so flimsy that nobody except those who wished could be deceived, she would do with imperious openness.
The days were now rapidly growing shorter, and when she reached Thorne's homestead the sun hung low above the verge of the great white plain. The man was not in sight, which struck her as strange, as there would be light enough to work for some time yet, but she was not astonished that he had evidently not heard her approach, because she had driven slowly for the last mile, almost repenting of her rashness and wondering whether she should not turn and go back again. Once she had set about it, the thing she had undertaken appeared increasingly difficult. Indeed, she knew that had the man been less severely pressed nothing would have driven her into the action she contemplated. It was only the fact that he was face to face with disaster, beaten down, desperate, that warranted the sacrifice of her reserve and pride.
Getting down at length, she left the horse, which was a quiet one, and walked toward the house. The door stood open when she reached it, and looking in she saw the man sitting at a table, on which there lay a strip of paper covered with figures. His face was worn and set, and every line of his slack pose was expressive of dejection. He did not immediately see her, and a deep pity overwhelmed her and helped to sweep away her doubts and hesitation as she glanced round the room. It was growing shadowy, but it looked horribly comfortless, and the few dishes that were still scattered about the table bore the remnants of a singularly uninviting meal. There was a portion of a loaf, blackened outside, sad and damp within; butter that had liquefied and partly congealed again in discolored streaks; a morsel of half-cooked pork reposing in solid fat; and a can of flavored syrup, black with flies. She wondered how any one coming back oppressed with anxiety from a day of exhausting toil could eat such fare. Then she noticed a small heap of tattered garments, which he evidently had no leisure to mend, lying on the floor, and while it brought her no sense of repulsion, the sight of them further troubled her. These were things which jarred on the beneficent, home-making instincts which suddenly awoke within her nature, and they moved her to a compassionate longing to care for and shelter the lonely man.
Then he looked up and saw her, and she flushed at the swift elation in his face, which, however, almost immediately grew hard again. It was as though he had yielded for a moment to some pleasurable impulse, and had then, with an effort, repressed it and resumed his self-control.
"Come in," he invited, rising with outstretched hand, and she suddenly recalled how she had last crossed that threshold in his company. There had been careless laughter in his eyes then, he had moved and spoken with a joyous optimism, and now there was plain upon him the stamp of defeat. Even physically the man looked different.
She sat down when he drew her out a chair, but he remained standing, leaning with one hand on the table.
"Is Mrs. Farquhar outside?"
"No; I drove across alone."
He looked at her with a hint of astonishment and something that suggested a natural curiosity as to thecause for the visit, which she now found it insuperably difficult to explain.
"You haven't been at work this evening?" she asked.
"No," replied Thorne. "I rode in to the railroad early yesterday and I've just got back after calling at two or three farms west of the creek. It seemed possible that I might be able to hire a couple of men I'd wired for back along the line, but I found that somebody else had got hold of them at another station. As a matter of fact, I had expected it."
"Then you must have made the journey almost without a rest!"
"Volador's dead played out," answered Thorne. "I had to do something, though it seemed pretty useless in any case."
"Ah!" Alison exclaimed softly; "then you mean to go on?"
"Until I'm turned out, which will no doubt happen very shortly."
"I suppose that will hurt you?"
He looked at her for a moment with his face awry and signs of a sternly repressed longing in his eyes.
"Yes," he answered, "it will hurt me more than anything I could have had to face. In fact, the thought of it has been almost unbearable; but it's now clear that I shall have to go through with it."
This was satisfactory to Alison in some respects, and she was quick to sympathize.
"It must be very hard to give up the farm on which you have spent so much earnest work."
"Yes," assented Thorne, with something in his tone that suggested half-contemptuous indifference to the sacrifice; "it won't be easy to give up even the farm."
Then for the first time it occurred to him that there was an unusual hint of strain in her manner, and that he had never seen her dressed in the same fashion before. She did not look daintier, for daintiness was not quite the quality he would have ascribed to her, but more highly cultivated, farther beyond the reach of a ruined farmer, though there was a strange softness—it almost seemed tenderness—shining in her eyes. He gripped the table hard and his face grew stern as he gazed at her. He felt that it was almost impossible that he would ever have the strength to let her go.
"What will you do then?" she asked with what seemed a merciless persistency.
"Go away," declared Thorne. "Strike west and vanish out of sight. I've no doubt somebody will hire me to load up railroad ballast or herd cattle." He smiled at her harshly. "After all, it will be a relief to my few friends. They may be a little sorry—but my absence will save their making excuses for me."
Alison looked up at him steadily, though there was a flush of color in her cheeks.
"You must be just to them," she said. "Why should they invent excuses—when you have made such a fight with so much against you? Besides, you are wrong when you say they might be—a little sorry. Can you believe that it would be easy to let you go away?"
Thorne frowned as he met her gaze. He did not know what to make of this, but there was a suggestiveness in her voice that was almost too much for him.
"Is there any one who would have much difficulty in doing that?" he asked with a quietness that cost him a determined effort.
"Yes," murmured Alison, with suddenly lowered eyes;"there is at least one person who would feel it dreadfully."
He gazed at her, straining to cling to the resolution that had almost deserted him, though his face was firmly set.
"It is quite true," she added, with flaming cheeks. "I must say it. I mean myself."
He drew back a pace and stood very still, as though afraid to trust himself.
"Don't make it all unbearable!" he cried at length. "There's only one course open to me. It's hard enough already."
Alison faced him with a new steadiness.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "you can only look at it from your point of view—can't you understand yet that there is another? If you had meant to go away you should have gone—some time ago."
Thorne closed his hands firmly.
"I'm afraid you are right; but I believed that I might make a success of this farming venture."
The girl laughed with open scorn.
"Dare you believe that would have mattered so very much to me? Do you think I didn't know why you turned farmer, and why you have since then done things that none of your neighbors would have been capable of?"
"It seemed necessary," explained Thorne, still with the same expressive quietness. "I did so because I wanted you, and that is exactly what makes defeat so bitter now."
"And you imagined that you had hidden your motive? Can you believe that a man could change his whole mode of life and take up a burden he had carefully avoided, asyou have done, without having the woman on whose account he did it understand why? Are we so blind or utterly foolish? Don't you know that our perceptions and intuitions are twice as keen as yours?"
"Then you understood what my object was all along—and it didn't strike you as absurd and impossible?"
Alison smiled at him.
"Why should it seem absurd that I should love you, Mavy?"
He came no nearer, but stood still, looking at her with elation and trouble curiously mingled in his face, and she realized that the fight was but half won. He had of late sloughed off his wayward carelessness and she knew that there had always been a depth of resolute character beneath it. He was a man who would do what he felt was the fitting thing, even though it hurt him.
"Well," he said, speaking slowly in a tense voice, "ever since I first saw you I longed that this should come about. It was what I worked for, and nothing would have been too hard that brought me nearer you, but it's almost a cruelty that I should have succeeded—now."
"Why?" asked Alison, bracing herself for another effort, for the strain was beginning to tell. "Is what you have won of no value to you?"
Thorne spread out his hands as if in desperation.
"It is because it is so precious that I shrink from involving you in the disaster that is hanging over me. I am a ruined, discredited man, and in a few more weeks I will be driven out of my homestead without a dollar. It will be three or four years at least before I can struggle to my feet again."
"Is that so very dreadful, Mavy?" Alison smiled."I almost think that in the things that count the most many of you are, after all, more bound by traditions than we are. Your wildest flight was the driving about the prairie with a load of patent medicines, and now your imagination is bounded by a homestead and household comforts. You could teach a woman to love you, and then go away, driven by some fantastic point of honor, because you could not realize that her views might be wider than yours."
"I could hardly suppose that you would care to live in a wagon."
"I did it once—and it was not so very dreadful. I really think, if it were needful, I could do it again."
She leaned forward toward him.
"It would be very much worse, Mavy, if you went away and left me behind."
At length he came toward her and seized both her hands.
"Dear," he cried, "I have tried to do what I felt I ought—and now I'm not sorry that I find I'm not strong enough. I can't tell you how I want you—but I'm afraid you could not face what you would have to bear with me."
"Try!" said Alison simply.
He drew her to him with an exultant laugh.
"I've done what I could, and it seems I've failed. Now let Nevis turn me out and I'll almost thank him. After all, there are many worse places than a camp beside the wagon in the birch bluff."
Alison was not at all convinced that it would end in that, and indeed she did not mean it to if she could help it; but in another moment she felt his arms about her and his lips hot upon her face, and it was half an hourlater when they left the homestead together. The sun had dipped, and the vast dim plain stretched away before them under a vault of fading blue, but she drove very slowly while Thorne walked beside the buggy for almost a league.
As a result of this, it was very late when she reached the homestead, and she was relieved when Mrs. Farquhar came out alone as she got down. The light fell upon the girl's face as she approached the doorway, and her companion flashed a smiling glance at her.
"I suppose you have been to Thorne's place?"
"Yes," answered Alison quietly. "I am going to marry him."
Mrs. Farquhar kissed her.
"It's very good news. Still, from what I know of Mavy and how he's situated, I'm a little astonished that you were able to arrange it."
"Why do you put it that way?" Alison asked with a start.
Her companion laughed.
"My dear, I'm only glad that you had sense enough not to let him go. That man would be afraid of even a cold air blowing on you. Anyway, you have got the one husband I would most gladly have given you to."
Then she drew Alison into the house and called to Farquhar.
"Harry, take the horse in, and it isn't necessary for you to hurry back."
She drew Alison out a chair and sat down close beside her.
"The first thing you have to do is to drive over and see Florence Hunter. Her husband's the only person who can pull Mavy out of this trouble."
"I had thought of that."
"I believe it's necessary. We can't let Mavy be turned out now, and if he won't ask a favor of a man who would grant it willingly if he could, somebody must do it for him."
Then she laid her hand caressingly on the girl's shoulder.
"I haven't been so pleased for a very long while. Keep a good courage. We'll find some means of outwitting Nevis."
It was about the middle of the afternoon when Alison reached the Hunter homestead, and she was slightly astonished when, on inquiring for Florence, a maid informed her that the latter was busy and could not be with her for some minutes. Alison had imagined from what she had seen on previous visits that in the warm weather Florence invariably spent her afternoons reclining in a canvas chair on the veranda. A couple of chairs stood on it when she arrived, and after the maid had gone she drew one back into the shadow, and sitting down looked out across the great stretch of grain in front of the house.
All round the edge of it there were scattered men and teams, but they were moving very slowly, and almost every minute the clatter of one or another of the binders ceased and she saw stooping figures busy in front of the machine. Though she could not make out exactly what they were doing, the state of the harvest-field seemed to explain why the delays were unavoidable. Great patches of the wheat lay prone; the part that stood upright looked tangled and torn, and there were wide stretches from which it had partially disappeared, leaving only ragged stubble mixed with crumpled straw. Alison had, however, seen other crops that had been wholly wiped out by the scourging hail. She waited about a quarter of an hour before Florence appeared, looking rather hot and dressed with unusual plainness.
"You'll have to excuse me for keeping you, but I'm glad you came," she said. "I've been busy since seven o'clock this morning, and now that I've a little leisure it's a relief to sit down."
A gleam of amusement crept into Alison's eyes, and her companion evidently noticed it.
"It is rather a novelty in my case," she laughed. "On the other hand, there's no doubt that the exertion is necessary. The waste that has been going on in this homestead is positively alarming."
It cost Alison an effort to preserve a becoming gravity. Florence, who had presided over the place for several years, spoke as if the fact she mentioned, which had been patent to those who visited her for a considerable time, had only dawned upon her very recently.
"You are trying to set things straight?" she suggested.
"It threatens to prove a difficult task, but I'm making the attempt while I feel equal to it; and there's a certain interest even in looking into household accounts. For instance, I had an idea this morning that promised to save me three or four dollars a month, but when I mentioned it to Elcot he only grinned. There are one or two respects in which I'm afraid he's a little extravagant."
Alison laughed outright. The idea that Florence, who had hitherto squandered money with both hands, should trouble herself about the saving of three dollars and complain of her self-denying husband's extravagance was irresistibly amusing.
"When did the desire to investigate affairs first get hold of you?" she asked.
"I believe that it was when I came back fromToronto," answered Florence thoughtfully. "Afterward we had the hail, and it became clear at once that there would have to be some cutting down of our expenses." Her face grew suddenly anxious as she glanced toward the grain. "That," she added, "ought to explain why the subject's an interesting one to me."
Alison was somewhat puzzled. There were signs of a change in her companion, who hitherto had, so far at least as she had noticed, taken only a very casual interest in her husband's affairs.
"Yes," she replied, "it does. I was very sorry when I heard about it."
Florence made a little abrupt gesture, as though in dismissal of the topic.
"What brought you over? You haven't been very often."
It was difficult to answer offhand, and Alison proceeded circuitously.
"You and I were pretty good friends in England, weren't we?"
"Of course," assented Florence. "You stood by me when your mother turned against me, and I've always had an idea that you suffered for it. We'll admit the fact. What comes next?"
Her manner was abrupt, but that was not infrequently the case, and Alison, who was fighting for her lover, was not readily daunted.
"Well," she said, "I have never troubled you for any favors in return."
Florence regarded her in a rather curious fashion.
"No," she admitted, "you haven't. You made no claim on me, as, perhaps, you were entitled to do, when you first came out here. In fact, I have once or twicefelt slightly vexed with you because you went to Mrs. Farquhar."
Alison smiled as she remembered that her companion had not shown the least desire to prevent her doing the thing she now resented.
"Then there's a favor that I must ask at last; but first of all I'd better tell you that I'm going to marry Leslie Thorne."
"Mavy Thorne!" Florence gazed at her in open wonder. "I heard a whisper or two that seemed to point to the possibility of your doing something of the kind, but I resolutely refused to believe it."
"Why?"
Florence laughed.
"Oh, in half a dozen ways it's ludicrous. If you really mean it, you are as absurd as he is."
Alison rose with an air of quiet dignity.
"If you are quite convinced of that, there is nothing more to be said. You couldn't expect me to appreciate your attitude."
Her companion laid a restraining hand on her arm as she was about to move away.
"Sit down! If I vexed you, I'm sorry; but you really shouldn't be so quick in temper. Besides, you shouldn't have flung the news at me in that startling fashion. After all, I've no doubt he has something to recommend him. Most of them have a few good qualities which now and then become evident when you don't expect them."
She paused and looked up at Alison with a smile in which there was a hint of tenderness.
"For instance, it has been dawning on me of late that there's a good deal that's rather nice in Elcot. Nowtry to be reasonable, and tell me what the trouble is."
Alison's indignation dissipated. It was, after all, difficult to be angry with Florence, and she supplied her with a brief account of how Thorne was situated. Her companion listened with more interest than she had fancied her capable of displaying, and when Alison stopped she made a sign of comprehension.
"You want me to ask Elcot to send him over some of our men? I wish I could—I almost feel I owe you that—but it's difficult. Elcot's trying desperately to save the remnant of his crop. He has been very badly hit."
Alison sat silent in tense anxiety. She could not urge Florence to do anything that would clearly be to her husband's detriment, and she did not see how Hunter could help Thorne without neglecting his own harvest. Then her companion turned to her again.
"I quite realize that Thorne will be turned out unless he clears off the loan, but you haven't mentioned the name of the creditor who wishes to ruin him."
"It's Nevis."
An ominous sparkle crept into Florence's eyes, and her face grew hard.
"Then I'll try to explain it all to Elcot to-night, and if he can drive off Nevis by any means that won't cost him too great a sacrifice I think you can count on its being done."
Alison felt inclined to wonder why the mention of Nevis's part in the affair had had such an effect on her companion, but that, after all, did not seem a very important point, and when she drove away half an hour later she was in an exultant mood. When she had gone, Florence supervised the preparations for the men's supper, and after the meal was over she stopped Hunter as he was going out again through the veranda.
"If you can wait for a few minutes I have something to tell you," she said. "To begin with, Alison Leigh is going to marry Thorne."
Hunter did not look much astonished.
"I think Mavy has made a wise choice, but I'm very much afraid there's trouble in front of them," he said.
"That," returned Florence, "is exactly what I meant to speak about. Alison was here this afternoon, and she mentioned it to me. I want to save them as much as I can."
Hunter's face remained expressionless. It was the first time, so far as he could remember, that Florence had concerned herself about any other person's difficulties.
"Well," he asked gravely, "how do you propose to set about it?"
"In the first place, I thought I'd mention it to you."
A dry smile crept into Hunter's eyes.
"Then you'd better give me all the particulars in your possession. I have some idea as to the cause of the trouble, but I haven't been over to Mavy's place for some time, and he has sent no word to me."
Florence told him what she knew, and when she had finished he gazed at her reflectively.
"You want me to send him all the men and binders I can spare? That's the only useful course."
Florence hesitated, and when she spoke her manner was unusually diffident.
"I feel it's rather shabby to promise a favor and then hand on the work to you, but in this case I'm helpless. I should like you to get Thorne out of his trouble, if it'sonly on Alison's account; but on the other hand I don't want you to increase your own difficulties by sending men away. You stand first with me."
Hunter made no allusion to the last assurance.
"It seems very likely that what the boys are now doing will in the end come to much the same thing as changing a dollar and getting about ninety cents back for it, which naturally prevents me from feeling that I would be making very much of a sacrifice in discontinuing the operation."
"I don't quite understand how that could be. Even if the hail has almost spoiled the crop, you have the men, and it won't cost you any more if you keep them busy saving as much of it as is possible."
"That," explained Hunter, "is partly why I'm doing so, and the other reason is that I must have something that will keep me occupied just now. On the other hand, before I can get anything for the wheat it must be thrashed and hauled in to the elevators. Now, thrashing is usually done by contract—at so much the bushel—in this country, and I've reason to believe that the thrasher boys will charge me considerably more than the average rate. Considering the state of the crop, they'll have to do a great deal of work for a very little wheat. Besides, that little's damaged and would bring less than the market price, which is a particularly low one this year. Then there's the cost of haulage, which is an item, because it would entail keeping the hired men on, and I've the option of paying them off as soon as harvest's over."
"In short," said Florence in a troubled voice, "it would probably be more profitable to let the whole crop rot as it stands."
"I'm afraid that's the case," Hunter agreed.
Florence sat silent for almost a minute watching him covertly. It once more struck her that he looked very jaded, and she was touched by the weariness in his face. Then, though the occasion seemed most inopportune, she was carried away by a sudden impulse which compelled her to mention Nevis's loan.
"Elcot," she blurted out, "I have made things worse for you all along—and now there's another trouble I have brought upon you."
For a minute or two she poured out disjointed sentences, and though the man listened gravely, almost unmoved in face, she found the making of that confession about the most difficult thing she had ever done.
"How much did you borrow?" he inquired.
She told him; and raising himself a little from his leaning posture he looked down upon her with an embarrassing quietness.
"I was half afraid there might be something of that kind in the background," he said at length. "There's one point I must raise. Presumably, you wouldn't allow a man who was to all intents and purposes a stranger to lend you money?"
He spoke as if the matter were open to doubt, and Florence found the situation rapidly becoming intolerable, but it was to her credit that she recognized that half-measures would be useless then.
"No," she acknowledged.
"Then I must ask exactly what kind of interest you took in the man, and how far your acquaintance with him went?"
Florence's face burned, but she roused herself to answer him.
"He was amusing," she said slowly, picking her words. "He came here once or twice when you were out, and on a few occasions I met him by accident on the prairie and at the settlement. I suppose I was—pleasant—to him, but nobody could have called it more than that. Then there was a change in his attitude."
"It was to be expected," Hunter interposed dryly. "Do you wish me to understand that you were astonished?"
Florence rose and turned on him with hot anger in her eyes.
"Yes!" she exclaimed, "I was astonished and—you must believe it—horribly mortified! He tried to make me feel that I was in his power!"
She paused and clenched one hand tight before she cried:
"What can I do to convince you? I hate the man! I want you to crush and humble him!"
Hunter greeted this outbreak with a smile, but he made no answer; and growing calmer in a few moments she looked at him again.
"What are you going to do about it, Elcot?" she asked.
"In the first place, those two notes of yours must be paid when they fall due. After that I shall act—as appears advisable."
Florence sat down with relief in her face.
"Raising the money will be another difficulty," she said. "I will give up my allowance until it is paid off."
"That," replied Hunter, with undiminished dryness, "will no doubt have to be done."
He turned away from her and leaned heavily on the balustrade for a minute or two, apparently watchingthe hired men toiling among his ruined wheat. Then he slowly looked around again.
"Well," he observed, "I'm glad you have told me about the thing; but I'm somewhat surprised that you didn't realize that you could have disarmed Nevis—and freed yourself—by mentioning it earlier."
"I was ashamed—though there was in one sense no reason why I should be. It would have looked—so suggestive."
Hunter interrupted her with a little bitter laugh.
"No; when I asked you what interest you took in Nevis it wasn't quite what I meant. I merely thought your answer might throw some light on his views, which I wanted to be sure of. You are too dispassionate, and too much alive to your own benefit, to make much of a sacrifice for the sake of any man."
Florence winced at this, but she rose and laid her hand on his arm.
"Try me, Elcot," she begged. "I know I'm fond of ease and luxury—perhaps it's because I had so little of them before I married you, but now you must give me nothing for the next twelve months. Cut the household expenses down by half and send everybody but one maid away."
"I'm afraid you'll have to be prepared for something of the kind," replied Hunter quietly. "In the meanwhile, I'll take the boys and the binders over to Thorne's place in the morning."
He moved away toward his ruined crop without another word, but Florence did not resent the attitude he had adopted. Indeed, his uncompromising directness had appealed to her in his favor. When, soon after their marriage, she had by various means made it plainthat he was expected to keep his distance and leave her largely to her own devices it had been a relief that he had fallen in with her views without protest, though it had been evident that it had grievously hurt him. Then his forbearance and apparent content with the situation had by degrees grown galling, and now, when at last he seemed inclined to assert himself, she was not displeased. It had, as she had admitted to Alison, begun to dawn on her that she had somehow never recognized her husband's good qualities, and that there were unexpected possibilities in the simple farmer. Besides this, she was seized with a fit of wholly genuine penitence.
In the meanwhile Hunter climbed into the seat of a binder which he drove slowly through the tangled grain, and Florence, still lingering on the veranda, noticed the carefulness with which he and his men stooked the sheaves of wheat which might never be sold. The rows of black shadows behind them lengthened rapidly, until at last they coalesced and the stubble lay dim, while the western face of the grain along which the binders crept alone glowed with a coppery radiance as the red sun dipped. Then a wonderful exhilarating coolness crept into the air, and there was a stillness not apparent earlier through which the clash and clatter of the machines rang harshly distinct. They moved on with the bent figures which grew dimmer toiling behind them for another half-hour, and then while the others trooped off to the stables Hunter walked slowly toward the house. Florence noticed the suggestive slackness of his bearing and her heart smote her, for she knew it was not mere physical weariness which had crushed the vigor out of the man. When he came up the steps she turned to him.
"Is the wheat looking no better?"
"No," answered Hunter simply; "It's looking worse. I'm going in to write a letter—to the bank."
He strode on and disappeared into the house, but Florence, who presently saw a light stream out from one of the windows, sat still, though the dew was getting heavy and it was chilly now.
Lucy Calvert came over as often as she was able; but at length she was compelled to discontinue her visits to Thorne. Soon after she had done so, there was a welcome change in the almost torrid weather, and grass and grain lay still under a faintly clouded sky when he toiled among the sheaves one clear, cool afternoon. The binder which flung them out moved along the edge of the oats in front of him, and another man was busy among the crackling stubble a pace or two behind, for a neighbor had driven across to help him on the previous evening, and the station-agent had at last sent him out a man from the railroad settlement. They had been at work since early morning, but each time Thorne glanced at the oblong of standing grain he realized more clearly the futility of what he was doing.
The belt of knee-high stubble, which shone, a sweep of warm ochre tinting, against the white and gray of the parched grass beyond it, was widening steadily as the crop went down before the binder, but he had a good deal yet to cut, and there was another oblong of untouched grain running back from a deserted wooden shack some distance away. Thorne had followed the custom of the country, sowing oats on the newly broken land and wheat on that which had been worked before, though in the latter case he had agreed to pay a share of the proceeds to the owner of the soil. He had securedan option of purchasing this second holding, but it was quite out of the question that he should exercise it now, and a very simple calculation convinced him that at his present rate of progress less than half the crop would be ready when Grantly's note fell due.
There was no doubt that his activity was illogical, as it was obvious that the result of every hour's strenuous labor would only be to put so much more money into Nevis's pocket, but he could not force himself to give up the fight until the last moment. He still clung to a faint expectation that something might transpire to lessen the odds against him. He admitted that there was nothing to warrant this view, but in spite of it he toiled on savagely, and the stooked sheaves rose before him in lengthening golden ranks as he floundered with bowed shoulders and busy arms through the crackling stubble. The soil beneath the straw was dry and parched, and the dust which rose from it crept into his eyes and nostrils. Now and then he gasped, but he worked on with no slackening of effort, for that part of the crop was heavy and the sheaves were falling thick and fast in the wake of the machine. At length, however, it stopped at a corner, and Thorne straightened his aching back when the man who drove it got down.
"She wants a drop of oil," he explained, and looking round him pointed out across the prairie. "Seems as if Shafter was through with his harvest, and I guess he has to sell. Some of the storekeepers have been putting the screw on him."
Thorne gazed toward the spot he indicated and saw two or three teams and wagons etched upon the horizon where a low rise ran up to meet the sky. They were so far off that they appeared stationary, and it was onlywhen one of the binder's arms hid the first of them a moment or two later that he could see they moved. Then as he watched the others a hot fit of resentment and envy came upon him. It was clear that Shafter, who had plowed unusually early, had cut and thrashed his grain, for stacking is seldom attempted in that country, where very few farmers have any money in hand and storekeepers generally look for payment once the crop is in. In the latter case it is put on the market as soon as possible, though now and then the last of it is hauled in on the bob-sleds across the snow. Shafter, at least, could clear off his liabilities, and though Thorne did not grudge the man this satisfaction, the sight of his loaded wagons crawling slowly to the elevators was bitter to him. He could have done what Shafter was doing, and so escaped from Nevis's clutches, had he only been allowed a little longer time.
"When you're through with that oiling, we'll get on," he said harshly.
His companion made no answer, but climbed into the saddle and the binder moved steadily along the edge of the grain until they came to the second corner. Turning it, the driver looked out across a stretch of prairie which a birch bluff on one hand of them had previously hidden. Then he pulled up his team excitedly.
"Mavy!" he cried, "there's quite a lot of teams back yonder to the eastward, beyond the creek!"
Thorne sprang up on the binder, for where he had been standing a cluster of sheaves obscured his view. He saw that there undoubtedly were horses on the sweep of grass in the distance. What was more, they were moving in his direction.
"There's one wagon," declared his second companion."I can't quite make out the other things. If there was hay in the sloos still I'd say they were mowers."
Thorne's heart seemed suddenly to leap, and the man in the saddle of the machine burst into a hoarse laugh.
"Well," he said, "nobody would figure you'd been farming, unless you use the scythe down in Ontario. They're sure binders!"
He turned and smote Thorne encouragingly upon the shoulder.
"Mavy, it's the Hunter crowd! Guess you're going to have no trouble getting your crop in now!"
Thorne got down and leaned against the wheel of the binder. His face had grown paler than usual, and he felt almost limp with the relief which was too great for him to express. It was several moments before he broke the silence.
"They can't be here for a while. I think I'll have a smoke."
His companion nodded sympathetically.
"That's what you want, Mavy. Then you'll be fresh for a hustle; and we'll have to move quite lively to keep ahead of the Hunter boys. Hunter's no use for slouches and he knows how to speed up the crowd he hires."
He called to his horses, and the other man fell to work behind him when the machine clattered on, but Thorne sat down among the sheaves. He could now allow himself a brief relaxation, and for once his grip was nerveless, for his heart was overfull. His cares had suddenly vanished, and there was, he almost thought, victory in front of him. He had some trouble in shredding the tobacco to fill his pipe, and when the operation was accomplished he lay resting on one elbow watching the teams draw nearer with a satisfaction which came near to overwhelming him. By the time he had smoked the pipe out, however, he had grown a little calmer, and rousing himself he stood up and walked out upon the prairie to meet the newcomers. Hunter was driving a wagon in front of them and he stopped his team when he was a few yards away.
"We'll soon clean that crop up," he declared cheerily when Thorne had clambered to the seat beside him. "I've brought the smartest of the boys and the newest machines along."
"Thanks," Thorne replied simply. "Just now I can't say anything more, except that in one way I'm sorry you were able to come."
Hunter's face grew suddenly grave.
"I can believe it, Mavy. Had things been different it's quite likely I'd have had to keep the boys at home; I was only sure that I was throwing my time away yesterday. Anyway, I'm thankful that one hailed crop won't clean me out."
He dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand.
"As a matter of fact," he added, "though I'd probably come in any case, it was really Mrs. Hunter who sent me along."
"Mrs. Hunter!" ejaculated Thorne in what afterward occurred to him was very tactless astonishment.
"Sure!" laughed his companion. "She had a visitor shortly before she spoke to me about it, which may have had something to do with the thing, but the possibility of the notion's having struck Miss Leigh first wasn't any reason why I shouldn't come across. Mavy, it's my opinion that you're a very lucky man."
"It's mine, too," Thorne answered with a light in his eyes. "Still, I almost felt ashamed to admit it half anhour ago. The outlook seemed very black to me just then."
Hunter made a sign of comprehension.
"Well," he said, "from what I've seen of her, I don't think Miss Leigh would have fallen in with your point of view, though it was a very natural one. It strikes me there's a good deal of courage and a capacity for making the most of things in that girl. Anyway, there ought to be considerably fewer difficulties in front of both of you when we get this crop in; and that brings up another matter. The thrashers are leaving Shafter's for Tom Jordan's place to-morrow. Hadn't you better write to them right away and arrange for them to come along as soon as we're ready?"
Thorne recognized that this would be judicious, particularly as he expected that a neighbor who had spoken to him that morning would pass close by in the next hour or two. The man, who lived near Jordan, would, he felt confident, undertake to hand on the letter. A few minutes later he got down and entered his dwelling while Hunter drove on toward the grain. He found, however, that his ink had almost dried up, and when he sat down to write it was difficult to fix his thoughts on what he had to say. The relief he had experienced a little while ago had been great enough partly to bewilder him, and some time had passed before he produced a fairly intelligible letter. Putting it into his pocket, he went out again, and stopped a moment or two just outside the threshold with a sense of exultation that sent an almost painful thrill through him as he saw that Hunter had already got to work.
Plodding teams and machines, marshaled in careful order, were advancing in echelon through the grain,which melted away before them. Behind each, bowed, bare-armed figures set up the flung-out sheaves, which rose in ranks that now lengthened reassuringly fast. The still air was filled with the sounds of a strenuous activity; the crackle of the stubble, the rasp and tinkle of the knives, and the rustle of falling grain. Already there was a wide gap, which extended while he gazed at it, bitten out of one corner of the golden oblong. Along its indented edges the arms of the binders whirled and gleamed, half-buried in yellow straw, through which, as most of them were new, he caught odd glimpses of streaks of flaring vermilion and harshest green, while the dull blue garments and bronzed skin of the men who moved on stooping showed against the sweep of ochre and coppery hues. It was a medley of vivid color and a blending of stirring sound, and the jaded man forgot his aches and weariness as he gazed. The crop he had despaired of reaping was falling fast before his eyes.
Then he saw that his own team was leading, and there was only one figure struggling with the sheaves behind it. In another moment it became apparent that the man in the saddle was waving to him, and he set off at a run. When he reached the grain one of his companions glanced at him reproachfully.
"See where that binder's got?" he grumbled. "We went in first, but though I've most pulled my arms off they're crowding right on top of us with the next Hunter team. Do you want the boys to put it on us that we can't keep ahead of them?"
Thorne saw that the team of the following binder was very close behind, and that a wide strip of stubble strewed with fallen sheaves, which had accumulated in his absence, divided him and his companion from the machine that belonged to him.
"Well," he said with a cheerful laugh, "there's a good deal to pull up, but it has to be done."
They set about it vigorously, and drew away foot by foot from the men behind. Thorne had toiled hard before, but now he felt that he could do half as much again. After all, the grim courage of the forlorn hope provides a feebler animus than the thrill of victory. At length, however, his companion turned to him with a gasping expostulation.
"I guess you have me beat," he exclaimed. "We'll hook Jim off the binder and put you on instead. I'll own up I'd rather have him along with me just now."
They made the change, and Thorne contrived to drive a little faster than the other man had done. Hunter's men could not let him draw too far ahead, and everywhere the effort grew tenser still. Nobody objected when, as the supper hour drew near, Hunter said that since the days were shortening fast they would go on until dark fell before they made the meal, instead of working afterward. Still, as the time slipped by, a man here and there drew his belt tighter or stopped a moment to straighten his aching back, and by degrees the horses moved more and more slowly amid the falling grain. The clatter of the binders grew less insistent, there were halts to oil or tighten something now and then; and at last, when all the great plain was growing dim, it was with relief that the men desisted when Hunter called to them. He and Thorne loosed their teams, and the latter looked uneasy when they walked toward the house together.
"There's a thing that only struck me a few minutesago, and I'm rather troubled about it," he confessed. "The boys have worked hard enough already without being set to making flapjacks and cooking their supper, while I really don't know how I'm to tide over breakfast to-morrow."
Hunter laughed.
"That's not going to prove much of a difficulty, particularly as it's one Mrs. Hunter has provided for. As it happens, Hall looked in on us last night, and I gathered that he hadn't a very high opinion of your cookery and catering."
A minute or two later they came out from behind the barn into view of the house and Thorne saw that a bountiful meal was already spread out on the grass in front of it. A man, whose absence he had not noticed, was carrying a kettle and a frying-pan out of the doorway. It was the climax of a day of unexpected happenings and vanishing troubles, and when he looked at Hunter he found it difficult to speak. The latter, however, laughed.
"Mavy," he said, "you sit right down yonder. Supper's ready, and the boys are waiting."
Thorne took his place among the others, who ate in such determined fashion that in a very few minutes there was nothing left of the meal. Then two or three of them gathered up the plates, and the others, lying down on the grass, took out their pipes. In the meanwhile it had grown almost dark, though a few pale streaks of saffron and green lingered low upon the prairie's western verge. The long rows of sheaves stood out dimly upon the stubble, but the standing crop had faded into a blurred and shadowy mass, one edge of which alone showed with a certain distinctness above the sweep of the darkeningplain. Near the house, however, a little fire which somebody had lighted—probably because there was not room for all the cooking utensils on Thorne's stove—burned redly between the two birch logs, and its flickering glow wavered across the recumbent figures of the men.
Some of them lay propped up on one elbow, some had stretched themselves out full-length among the grass, and now and then a brown face or uncovered bronzed arm stood out in the uncertain radiance and vanished again. The men spoke in low voices, lazily, wearied with the day's toil, though at irregular intervals a hoarse laugh broke out, and once or twice the howl of a coyote came up faint and hollow out of the waste of prairie. A little apart from the others, Thorne and Hunter sat with their shoulders against the front of the house, talking quietly.
"I'll see you through with the hauling in," Hunter promised. "We'll start right away as soon as the thrashers can give us a load, and in my opinion you should have a reasonable surplus after clearing off Nevis's claim."
"Yes," assented Thorne with deep but languid content; "it looks almost as if another moderately good harvest would wipe out my last obligation and set me solidly on my feet. Once I'm free of Nevis, I don't anticipate any trouble with the other men. So long as they get their interest they'll hold me up for their own sakes."
"That's how it strikes me," Hunter agreed. "They don't run their business on Nevis's lines; which reminds me that I picked up a little information that suggested that he might have to make a change, when I was overat Brandon a week or two ago. I may say that as I had reasons for believing that the man hadn't a great deal of money of his own I've been rather astonished at the way he has gone on from one thing to another during the last few years, until Farquhar told me something which seemed to supply the explanation. He got it from Grantly, who declares that Brand, of Winnipeg, has been backing Nevis all along. Well, I spent an evening with one of the big milling people in Brandon, and he told me it was generally believed that Brand has been severely hit by the fall in wheat. It turns out that he and a few others were at the bottom of the late rally, which, however, only made things worse for them. The point is that if Brand is getting shaky he'll probably call in any money he has supplied to Nevis."
"Nobody would be sorry if he pulled him down altogether."
"It's almost too much to expect," replied Hunter, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. "By the way, I had a look round your house after supper, and it's my opinion that you only want a wagon-load of dressed lumber and a couple of carpenters for two or three days to make the place quite comfortable. A few simple furnishings won't cost you much, and you can, of course, add to them as you go on."
Thorne realized that this statement covered a question, and he smiled in a manner that indicated unalloyed satisfaction.
"I intend to consult with Alison about ordering them as soon as the thrashing's over."
His companion rose and stretched himself.
"Well," he yawned, "if we're to start at sunup we had better get off to rest."
He turned to the others.
"You'll find your blankets in the wagon, boys, and you can camp in the house. If you're particular about a soft bed there's hay in the barn."
Thorne's last load of wheat had been hauled in, and he had duly met his obligations, when he drove into Graham's Bluff early one evening. The days were rapidly getting shorter, and though it was not yet dark there was a chill in the air, and here and there a light blinked in the window of a store. Odd groups of loiterers stood about the sidewalk or strolled along the rutted street, for it was Saturday evening, and now that harvest was generally over the outlying farmers had driven in to purchase provisions or to gather any news that might be had, in accordance with their usual custom. It was about their only relaxation, and of late a supplementary mail arrived on Saturdays, which was another excuse for the visit.
Thorne was in an unusually optimistic mood. He had left his troubles behind him, there was an alluring prospect opening out ahead, and he expected to meet Alison and Mrs. Farquhar at the hotel. Besides, he had driven fast, and the swift motion had stirred his blood. He answered with a cheerful laugh when some of the loungers called to him. As he drove by one corner Corporal Slaney raised a greeting hand, and Thorne, wondering what he was doing there, waved his whip. It was, as a rule, only when he had some particular business on hand that the corporal was seen at Graham's Bluff. Supper had been over some time when Thorne stoppedhis team at the back of the hotel, and getting down handed it over to a man who came out from the stable.
"Has the mail-carrier got in yet, Bill?" he asked.
"No; he's most an hour behind his usual time. Guess you're late, too. They've cleared the tables quite a while ago."
"I got supper with Forrester as I came along. I suppose you haven't any idea as to what has brought Slaney over?"
Bill grinned.
"It is my opinion that's about the one thing Slaney's not going to explain, though he was in the stable talking, and I saw him looking kind of curious at Lucy Calvert. She's in town, and so is Mrs. Hunter. She came in alone, but somebody told me that Hunter had ridden round by Hall's place and would be along by and by."
"Are there any of my other friends about?"
"I don't know if you'd call Nevis one, but he's in the hotel; when I last saw him he looked powerful mad. Mrs. Hunter had pulled up before the dry-goods store when he walked up and started to talk to her. I don't know what she said to him, but it kind of struck me she'd have liked to lay into him with the whip, and Nevis came back across the road mighty quick. After that Mrs. Farquhar drove in with Miss Leigh and left word that you were to wait at the hotel."
Bill paused a moment and grinned at Thorne mischievously.
"Guess they didn't want you trailing round after them in the dry-goods store. Looks as if they'd been buying quite a lot, for it's most half an hour since they wentin. The lawyer man who came to see Miss Leigh has gone off up the street."
"The lawyer man!" exclaimed Thorne in some astonishment, for, though he could guess what Alison was buying, the last piece of news roused his interest.
"Parsons—from somewhere down the line. He has been in the settlement once or twice lately. Wanted to know where Miss Leigh was, and when she'd be back again."
Thorne, without asking any more questions, walked round to the front of the hotel, where he found Nevis talking to several farmers on the veranda. He was inclined to think the man had not noticed his arrival, and sitting down he took out his pipe without greeting him. He had treated Nevis to a somewhat forcible expression of opinion when he had met Grantly's note a few days earlier, and they had by no means parted on friendly terms. Soon after he sat down Symonds, the hotel-keeper, came out on the veranda.
"Are you going to stay here to-night, Mr. Nevis?" he inquired.
"Yes," said Nevis. "I didn't intend to when I drove in, but I think I'll stop over until Monday morning. I'll drive on to Hunter's place after breakfast then."
Thorne, remembering what Bill had told him, wondered how far Nevis's meeting with Mrs. Hunter might explain his change of mind. He could think of no very definite reason that would warrant the conjecture, but a stream of light from the room behind the veranda fell on the man's face and its expression suggested vindictive malice. Just then two or three newcomers strolled on to the veranda, and a teamster, who had been sitting at the farther side of it, moved toward Nevis.
"What do you want to go to Hunter's for?" he asked bluntly. "You and he haven't had any dealings since he beat you out of the creamery."
Thorne watched Nevis closely, and imagined that the ominous look in his face grew plainer still.
"Well," he said, with a jarring laugh, "Mrs. Hunter is a customer of mine."
There was a murmur of astonishment and the men gathered round the speaker, evidently in the expectation of hearing something more.
"Is that a cold fact?" one of them inquired.
"Certainly," answered Nevis; and Thorne joined the group.
"Even if it is, this isn't the place to discuss it!" he broke in. "Perhaps I'd better mention that if Hunter isn't in town already he will be very soon."
Nevis looked around at him, and Thorne fancied that the man, who was evidently filled with savage resentment, intended, with some vindictive purpose, to take the gathering group of bystanders into his confidence. Several more men were ascending the steps.
"Have you any reason to doubt what I'm saying?" he asked.
"Well," drawled Thorne, "there's your general character, for one thing."
Some of the others laughed, but it occurred to Thorne that his interference had not been particularly tactful when one of them asked a question.
"Are you telling us that Hunter, who has plenty of money, lets his wife go borrowing from people like you?"
"I can't say that he lets her," Nevis retorted meaningly. "I've the best of reasons, however, for being certain that she does so."
There was an awkward silence, which indicated that all who had heard it grasped the full significance of the last statement. Nevis smiled as he glanced round at them.
"You mean he doesn't know anything about it?" somebody exclaimed.
"If you insist, that's about the size of it," Nevis answered. "Since her husband cuts down her allowance to the last dollar, it's not an altogether unnatural thing that Mrs. Hunter should borrow from her friends without mentioning it to him."
The speech was offensive on the face of it, but there was in addition something in the man's manner which endued it with a gross suggestiveness. It implied that he could furnish a reason why the woman should have no hesitation in borrowing from him. Thorne stood still fuming. He recognized that an altercation with Nevis would in all probability only provide the latter with an opportunity for making further undesirable insinuations.
Just then, however, the group suddenly fell apart and another man strode across the veranda. He carried a riding-quirt, and his face showed white and set in the stream of light.
"It's a malicious lie!"
He raised the plaited quirt, and the hotel-keeper flung himself in front of Nevis.
"Stop there!" he cried. "Hold on, Hunter!"
Thorne, springing forward, grasped his friend's arm. He felt it his duty to restrain him, though it was one that he undertook most reluctantly.
"Thrashing him wouldn't be an answer," he insisted. "After what he has just said, it would be very much better if you gave us your account of the thing."
There was a murmur of approval from the assembly. The men had heard the accusation cunningly conveyed, and although the prospect of a sensational climax in which the riding-quirt should figure appealed to them, they felt it only fitting that they should also hear it proved or withdrawn.
"I'll do that—first," consented Hunter, very grimly. "I have just this to say. I'm perfectly aware that Mrs. Hunter borrowed from this man on two occasions, and to bear it out I'll state the fact that the loans fall due on Tuesday."
Nevis made no attempt to deny it, and one of the bystanders spoke.
"We can let it go at that, boys; Nevis said he was going over to Hunter's place on Monday."
"In that case," continued Hunter, "he will have the notes my wife gave him in his pocket. I'll mention what the amounts are, and afterward ask Nevis to produce the papers, and Symonds will tell you if I'm correct."
"Then if he doesn't want us to strip him he had better trot them out!" cried another man.
Nevis, who saw no help for it, produced two papers, which the hotel-keeper seized. The latter made a sign of agreement when Hunter spoke again.
"Yes," he confirmed; "you have given the figures right."
Hunter once more turned to the waiting men.
"I think I've made out my case. Are you convinced that he's a dangerous liar, boys?"
There were cries of assent.
"Lay into the hog with the quirt!" somebody added.
Thorne chuckled at the sight of Nevis's face. It was suffused with blood and dark with baffled malevolence. The man evidently recognized that he was discredited and would get no further hearing now. It occurred to Thorne, however, that his friend had succeeded better than he could reasonably have expected, for, after all, he had not disproved the fact that his wife had, in the first place at least, borrowed the money without his knowledge. The others, he thought, had not noticed that point.