CHAPTER XIXTHE PRIOR CLAIM
It was with confused feelings, among which a sense of repugnance predominated, that Agatha walked toward Hawtrey’s room. She was not one of the women who take pleasure in pointing out another person’s duty, for, while she had discovered that this task is apparently an easy one to some people, she was aware that a duty usually looks much more burdensome when it is laid upon one’s self. Indeed, she was conscious just then that one might be shortly thrust upon her, which she would find it very hard to bear, and she became troubled with a certain compunction as she remembered how she had of late persistently driven all thought of it out of her mind.
There was no doubt that she was still pledged to Gregory, and that she had loved him once. Both facts had to be admitted, and it seemed to her that if he insisted she must marry him. Deep down in her there was an innate sense of right and honesty, and she realized that the fact that he was not the man she had once imagined him to be did not release her. It was clear that, if he was about to commit a cruel and unjustifiable action, she was the one person of all others whose part it was to restrain him.
The color was a little plainer in her face than usual when she entered the room where he lay, pipe in hand, in a lounge chair. His attitude of languid ease irritated her. She had seen that there were several things outside which should have had some claim on his attention. A litter of letters and papers lay upon a little table at his side, butthe fact that he could not reach them as he lay was suggestive. He did not notice her entrance immediately. He rose, when he saw her, and came forward with outstretched hand.
“I didn’t hear you,” he said. “This is a pleasure I scarcely anticipated.”
Agatha sat down in the chair that he drew out for her near the stove. He noticed that she glanced at the papers on the table, and he laughed.
“Bills, and things of that kind. They’ve been worrying me for a week or two,” he said lightly. He seized the litter, and bundling it together flung it into an open drawer, which he shut with a snap. “Anyway, that’s the last of them for to-day. I’m awfully glad you drove over.”
Agatha smiled. The action was so characteristic of the man. She had once found no fault with Gregory’s careless habits, and his way of thrusting a difficulty into the background had appealed to her. It had suggested his ability to straighten out the trouble when it appeared advisable. Now she told herself that she would not be absurdly hypercritical, and, as it happened, he had given her the lead that she desired.
“I should think that you would have had to give them more attention as wheat is going down,” she remarked.
Hawtrey looked at her with an air of reproach. “It must be nearly three weeks since I have seen you, and now you expect me to talk of farming.” He made a rueful gesture. “If you quite realized the situation it would be about the last thing you would ask me to do.”
Agatha was astonished to remember that three weeks had actually elapsed since she had last met him, and they had only exchanged a word or two then. He had certainly not obtruded himself upon her, for which she was grateful.
“Nobody is talking about anything except the fall inprices just now,” she persisted. “I suppose it affects you, too?”
Gregory, who seemed to accept this as a rebuff, looked at her rather curiously, and then laughed.
“It must be admitted that it does. In fact, I’ve been acquiring parsimonious habits and worrying myself about expenses lately. The expenses have to be kept down somehow, and that’s a kind of thing I never took kindly to.”
“You feel it a greater responsibility when you’re managing somebody else’s affairs?” suggested Agatha, who was still awaiting her opportunity.
“Well,” replied Hawtrey, in whom there was, after all, a certain honesty, “that’s not quite the only thing that has some weight with me. You see, I’m not altogether disinterested. I get a certain percentage—on the margin—after everything is paid, and I want it to be a big one. Things are rather tight just now, and the wretched mortgage on my place is crippling me.”
It had slipped out before he quite realized what he was saying, and he saw the girl’s look of concern. She now realized what Sproatly had meant.
“You are in debt, Gregory? I thought you had, at least, kept clear of that,” she said.
“So I did—for a while. In any case, if Wyllard stays away, and I can run this place on the right lines, I shall, no doubt, get out of it again.”
She was vexed that he should speak so selfishly, for it was clear to her that, if Wyllard did not return until another crop was gathered in, it would be because he was held fast among the Northern ice in peril of his life. Then another thought struck her. She had never quite understood why Gregory had been willing to undertake the management of the Range. In view of the probability that Wyllard had plainly told him what to expect concerningherself, she had been greatly puzzled by his acquiescence. But he had made that point clear by admitting that he had been burdened with a load of debt. But why had he incurred debts? The answer came to her as she remembered having heard Mrs. Hastings or somebody else say that he had spent a great deal of money upon his house and the furnishings for it. It brought her a sudden sense of confusion, for as one result of that expenditure he had been forced into doing what she fancied must have been a very repugnant thing. And she had never even crossed his threshold!
“When did you borrow that money?” she asked sharply.
There was no doubt that Gregory was embarrassed, and her heart softened toward him for his hesitation. It was to further her comfort that he had laid that load upon himself, and he was clearly unwilling that she should know it. That counted for much in her favor.
“Was it just before I came out?” she asked again.
Hawtrey made a little sign of expostulation. “You really mustn’t worry me about these matters, Aggy. A good many of us are in the storekeepers’ or mortgage-jobbers’ hands, and there’s no doubt that if I have another good year at the Range I shall clear off the debt.”
Agatha turned her face away from him for a moment or two. The thing that Gregory had done laid a heavy obligation on her, and she remembered that she had only found fault with him! Even then, stirred as she was, she was conscious that all the tenderness that she had once felt for him had vanished. The duty, however, remained, and with a little effort she turned to him again.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry.”
Hawtrey smiled. “I really don’t think I deserve a verygreat deal of pity. As I have said, I’ll probably come out all right next year if I can only keep expenses down.”
Then Agatha remembered the task that she had in hand. It was a very inauspicious moment to set about it, but that could not be helped, and even for Gregory’s own sake she felt that she must win him over.
“There is one way, Gregory, in which I don’t think it ought to be done,” she said. “You assumed Mr. Wyllard’s obligations when you took the farm, and I think you should keep the two Morans.”
Hawtrey started. “Ah!” he replied. “Mrs. Hastings has been setting you on; I partly expected it.”
“She told me,” Agatha admitted. “Unless you will look at the thing as I do, I could almost wish she hadn’t. The thought of that man’s wife shut up in the woods all winter only to find that what she has had to bear has all been thrown away troubles me. Now Wyllard promised to keep those men on, didn’t he?”
“There was no regular engagement so far as I can make out.”
“Still, Moran seems to have understood that he was to be kept on.”
“Yes,” replied Hawtrey, “he evidently does. If the market had gone with us I’d have fallen in with his views. As it hasn’t, every man’s wages count.”
Agatha was conscious of a little thrill of repugnance. Of late Gregory’s ideas had frequently jarred on her.
“Does that release you?”
Hawtrey did not answer this.
“I’ll keep those men on if you want me to,” he promised.
Agatha winced at this. She had discovered that she must not look for too much from Gregory, but to realizethat he had practically no sense of moral obligation, and could be influenced to do justice only by the expectation of obtaining her favor positively hurt her.
“I want them kept on, but I don’t want you to do it for that reason,” she said. “Can’t you grasp the distinction, Gregory?”
A trace of darker color dyed Hawtrey’s face, but while she was a little surprised at the evidence that he felt her rebuke, he looked at her steadily. He had not thought much about her during the last month, but now the faint scorn in her voice aroused his resentment.
“Now,” he said, “there are just three reasons, Aggy, why you should have troubled yourself about this thing. You are, perhaps, a little sorry for Moran’s wife, but as you haven’t even seen her that can hardly count for much. The next is, that you don’t care to see me doing what you regard as a shabby thing; perhaps it is a shabby thing in some respects, but I feel it’s justifiable. Of course, if that’s your reason there’s a sense in which, while not exactly complimentary—it’s consoling.”
He broke off, and looked at her with a question in his eyes, and it cost Agatha an effort to meet his. She was not prudish or overconscious of her own righteousness, but once or twice, after the shock of her disillusionment in regard to him had lessened, she had dreamed of the possibility of endowing him little by little with some of the qualities she had once fancied he possessed, and, as she vaguely thought of it, rehabilitating him. Now, however, the thing seemed impossible, and, what was more, the desire to bring it about had gone. Hateful as the situation was becoming, she was honest, and she could not let him credit her with a motive that had not influenced her.
In the meanwhile, her very coldness and aloofness stirred desire in the man, and she shrank as she saw a spark ofpassion kindling in his eyes. She recognized that there was a strain of grossness in him.
“No,” she responded, “that reason was not one which had any weight with me.”
Hawtrey’s face darkened. “Then,” he said grimly, “we’ll get on to the third. Wyllard’s credit is a precious thing to you; sooner than anything should cast a stain on it you would beg a favor from—me. You have set him up on a pedestal, and it would hurt you if he came down. Considering everything, it’s a remarkably curious situation.”
Agatha grew pale. Gregory was horribly right, for she had no doubt now that he had merely thrust upon her a somewhat distressing truth. It was to save Wyllard’s credit, and for that alone, that she had undertaken this most unpleasant task. She did not answer, and Hawtrey stood up.
“Wyllard has his faults, but there’s this in his favor—he keeps a promise,” he said. “One has a certain respect for a person who never goes back upon his word. Well, because I really think he would like it, I’ll keep those men.”
He paused for a moment, as if to let her grasp the drift of his words, and then turned to her with something that startled her in his voice and manner. “The question is—are you willing to emulate his example?”
Agatha shrank from the glow in his eyes. “Oh!” she broke out, “you cannot urge me now—after what you said.”
Hawtrey laughed harshly. “Well,” he said, “I’ll come for my answer very shortly. It seems that you and Wyllard attach a great deal of importance to a moral obligation—and I must remind you that the time agreed upon is almost up.”
Agatha sat very still for perhaps half a minute, while a sense of dismay took possession of her. There was nodoubt that Gregory’s retort was fully warranted. She had insisted upon his carrying out an obligation which would cost him something, not because she took pleasure in seeing him do what was honorable, but to preserve the credit of another man. And now it was with intense repugnance that she recognized that there was apparently no escaping from the obligation she had incurred. Gregory’s attitude was perfectly natural and logical. She had promised to marry him, and he had saddled himself with a load of debt on her account, but the slight pity and tenderness that she had felt for him a few minutes earlier had utterly disappeared. Indeed, she felt that she almost hated him. His face had grown hard and almost brutal, and there was a look she shrank from in his eyes.
She rose with trembling limbs.
“Do you wish to speak to Mrs. Hastings?” she asked.
Hawtrey’s lip curled. “No,” he said, “if she’ll excuse me, I don’t think I do. If you tell her you have been successful, she’ll probably be quite content.”
Agatha went out without another word. Hawtrey lighted his pipe and stretched himself out in his chair, when he heard the wagon drive away a few minutes later. He did not like Mrs. Hastings, and had a suspicion that she had no great regard for him, but he was conscious of a grim satisfaction. There was, though it seldom came to the surface, a current of crude brutality in his nature, and it was active now. When Agatha had first come from England the change in her had been a shock to him, and it would not have cost him very much to let her go. Since then, however, her coldness and half-perceived disdain had angered him, and the interview which was just past had left him in an unpleasant mood. Though it was, perhaps, the last effect he would have expected, it had stirred him to desire a fulfillment of her pledge. It was consoling tofeel that he could exact the keeping of her promise. His face grew coarser as he assured himself of his claim, but he had never realized the shiftiness and instability of his own character. It was his misfortune that the impulses which swayed him one day had generally changed the next.
This became apparent when, having occasion to drive in to the elevators on the railroad a week later, he called at a store to make one or two purchases. The man who kept the store laid a package on the counter.
“I wonder if you’d take this along to Miss Creighton as a favor,” he said. “She wrote for the things, and Elliot was to take them out, but I guess he forgot. Anyway, he didn’t call.”
Hawtrey told the clerk to put the package in his wagon. He had scarcely seen Sally since his recovery, and he suddenly remembered that, after all, he owed her a good deal, and that she was very pretty. Besides, one could talk to Sally without feeling the restraint that Agatha’s manner usually laid on him.
The storekeeper laid an open box upon the counter.
“I guess you’re going to be married by and by,” he said. Hawtrey was thinking of Sally then, and the question irritated him.
“I don’t know that it concerns you, but in a general way it’s probable,” he replied.
“Well,” said the storekeeper good-humoredly, “a pair of these mittens would make quite a nice present for a lady. Smartest thing of the kind I’ve ever seen here; choicest Alaska fur.”
Hawtrey bought a pair, and the storekeeper took a fur cap out of another box.
“Now,” he said, “this is just the thing she’d like to go with the mittens. There’s style about that cap; feel the gloss of it.”
Hawtrey bought the cap, and smiled as he swung himself up into his wagon. Gloves are not much use in the prairie frost, and mittens, which are not divided into fingerstalls, will within limits fit almost anybody. This, he felt, was fortunate, for he was not quite sure that he meant to give them to Agatha.
It was bitterly cold, and the pace the team made was slow, for the snow was loose and too thin for a sled of any kind. Night had closed down and Hawtrey was suffering from the cold, when at last a birch bluff rose out of the waste in front of him. It cut black against the cold blueness of the sky and the spectral gleam of snow, but when he had driven a little further a stream of ruddy orange light appeared in the midst of it. A few minutes later he pulled his team up in front of a little log-built house, and getting down with difficulty saw the door open as he approached it. Sally stood in the entrance silhouetted against a blaze of cheerful light.
“Oh!” she cried. “Gregory!”
Hawtrey recognized the thrill in her voice, and took both her hands, as he had once been in the habit of doing.
“Will you let me in?” he asked.
The girl laughed in a strained fashion. She had been a little startled, and was not quite sure yet as to how she should receive him; but Hawtrey drew her in.
“The old folks are out,” she said. “They’ve gone over to Elliot’s for supper. He’s bringing us a package.”
Hawtrey, who explained that he had the parcel, let her hands go, and sat down somewhat limply. He had come suddenly out of the bitter frost into the little, brightly-lighted, stove-warmed room. The comfort and cheeriness of it appealed to him.
“This looks very cozy after my desolate room at the Range,” he remarked.
“Then if you’ll stay I’ll cook you supper. I suppose there’s nothing to take you home?”
“No,” declared Hawtrey with a significant glance at her, “there certainly isn’t, Sally. As a matter of fact, I often wish there was.”
He saw her sudden uncertainty, which was, however, not tinged with embarrassment, and feeling that he had gone far enough he went out to put up his team. When he returned there was a cloth on the table, and Sally was busy about the stove. He sat down and watched her attentively. In some respects, he thought she compared favorably with Agatha. She had a nicely molded figure, and a curious lithe gracefulness of carriage which was suggestive of a strong vitality. Agatha’s bearing was usually characterized by a certain frigid repose. Then Sally’s face was at least as comely as Agatha’s, though attractive in a different way, and there was no reserve in it. Sally was what he thought of as human, frankly flesh and blood. Her quick smile was, as a rule, provocative, and never chilled one as Agatha’s quiet glances sometimes did.
“Sally,” he said, “you’ve grown prettier than ever.”
The girl turned partly towards him with a slow, sinuous movement.
“Now,” she replied quickly, “you oughtn’t to say those things to me.”
Hawtrey laughed; he was usually sure of his ground with Sally.
“Why shouldn’t I, when I’m telling the truth?”
“For one thing, Miss Ismay wouldn’t like it.”
Gregory’s face hardened. “I’m not sure she’d mind. Anyway, Miss Ismay doesn’t like many things I’m in the habit of doing.”
Sally, who had watched him closely, turned away again, but a thrill of exultation ran through her. It had beenwith dismay she had first heard him speak of his marriage, and she had fled home in an agony of anger and humiliation. That state of mind, however, had not lasted long, and when it became evident that the wedding was postponed indefinitely, she began to wonder whether it was quite impossible that Hawtrey should come back to her. She felt that he belonged to her, although he had never given her any very definite claim on him. She was primitive and passionate, but she was determined, and now that he had done what she had almost expected him to do, she meant to keep him.
“You have fallen out?” she inquired, and contrived to keep the anxiety that she was conscious of out of her voice.
The question, and more particularly the form of it, jarred upon Hawtrey, but he answered it.
“Oh, no,” he said. “As a matter of fact, Sally, you can’t fall out nicely with everybody. Now when we fell out you got delightfully angry—I don’t know whether you were more delightful then or when you graciously agreed to make it up again.” He laughed. “I almost wish I could make you a little angry now.”
Sally had moved nearer him to take a kettle off the stove, and she looked down on him with her eyes shining in the lamplight. She realized that she would have to fight Miss Ismay for the man; but there was this in her favor—that she appealed directly to one side of his nature, as Agatha, even if she had loved him, could not have attracted him.
“Would you?” she asked. “Dare you try?”
“I might if I was tempted sufficiently.”
She leaned upon the table still looking at him mockingly, and she was probably aware that her pose and expression challenged him. Indeed, she could not have failed to recognize the meaning of the sudden tighteningof his lips, though she did not in the least shrink from it. She had not the faintest doubt of her ability to keep him at a due distance if it appeared necessary.
“Oh,” she taunted, “you only say things.”
Hawtrey laughed, and stooping down packed up a package he had brought from the store.
“Well,” he said, “after all, I think I’d rather try to please you.” He opened the package. “Are these things very much too big for you, Sally?”
The girl’s eyes glistened at the sight of the mittens he held out. They were very different from the kind she had been in the habit of wearing, and when he carelessly took out the fur cap she broke into a little cry of delight. Hawtrey watched her with a curious expression. He was not quite sure that he had meant Sally to have the things when he had purchased them, but he was quite contented now. The one gift he had diffidently offered Agatha since her arrival in Canada had been almost coldly laid aside.
In a few minutes Sally laid out supper, and as she waited upon him daintily or filled his cup Hawtrey thrust the misgivings he had felt further behind him. Sally, he thought with a feeling of satisfaction, could certainly cook. When the meal was finished he sat talking about nothing in particular for almost an hour, and then it occurred to him that Sally’s mother would be back before very long. She was a person he had no great liking for and he was anxious to go.
“Well,” he said, “I must be getting home. Won’t you let me see you with that cap on?”
Sally, who betrayed no diffidence, put on the cap, and stood before a dingy mirror with both hands raised while she pressed it down upon her gleaming hair. She flashed a smiling glance at him. It was quite sufficient, and asshe turned again Hawtrey slipped forward as softly as he could. She swung around, however, with a flush in her face and a forceful restraining gesture.
“Don’t spoil it all, Gregory,” she said sharply.
Hawtrey, who saw that she meant it—which was a cause of some astonishment to him—dropped his arms that were held out to embrace her.
“Oh,” he said, “if you look at it in that way I’m sorry. Good-night, Sally!”
She let him go, but she smiled when he drove away; and half an hour later she showed the cap and mittens to her mother with significant candor. Mrs. Creighton, who was a severely practical person, nodded.
“Well,” she said, “he only wants a little managing if he bought you these, and nobody could say you ran after him.”
CHAPTER XXTHE FIRST STAKE
A fortnight had slipped by since the evening Hawtrey had spent with Sally, when Winifred and Sproatly once more arrived at the Hastings homestead. The girl was looking jaded, and it appeared that the manager of the elevator, who had all along treated her with a great deal of consideration, had insisted upon her going away for a few days when the pressure of business which had followed the harvest had slackened. Sproatly, as usual, had driven her in from the settlement.
When the evening meal was finished they drew their chairs close up about the stove, and Hastings thrust fresh birch billets into it, for there was a bitter frost. Mrs. Hastings installed Winifred in a canvas lounge and wrapped a shawl about her.
“You haven’t got warm yet, and you’re looking quite worn out,” she said. “I suppose Hamilton has still been keeping you at work until late at night?”
“We have been very busy since I was last here,” Winifred admitted, and then turned to Hastings. “Until the last week or so there has been no slackening in the rush to sell. Everybody seems to have been throwing wheat on to the market.”
Hastings looked thoughtful. “A good many of the smaller men have been doing so, but I think they’re foolish. They’re only helping to break down prices, and I shouldn’t wonder if one or two of the big, long-headed buyers saw their opportunity in the temporary panic. In fact, if I’d a pile of money lying in the bank I’m not sure thatI wouldn’t send along a buying order and operate for a rise.”
Mrs. Hastings shook her head at him. “No,” she said; “you certainly wouldn’t while I had any say in the matter. You’re rather a good farmer, but I haven’t met one yet who made a successful speculator. Some of our friends have tried it—and you know where it landed them. I expect those broker and mortgage men must lick their lips when a nice fat woolly farmer comes along. It must be quite delightful to shear him.”
Hastings laughed. “I should like to point out that most of the farmers in this country are decidedly thin, and have uncommonly little wool on them.” Then he turned to the others. “I feel inclined to tell you how Mrs. Hastings made the expenses of her Paris trip; it’s an example of feminine consistency. She went around the neighborhood and bought up all the wheat anybody had left on hand, or, at least, she made me do it.”
Mrs. Hastings, who had means of her own, nodded. “That was different,” she declared; “anyway, I had the wheat, and I—knew—it would go up.”
“Then why shouldn’t other folks sell forward, for instance, when they know it will go down? That’s not what I suggested doing, but the point’s the same.”
“They haven’t got the wheat.”
“Of course; they wouldn’t operate for a fall if they had. On the other hand, if their anticipations proved correct, they could buy it for less than they sold at before they had to deliver.”
“That,” asserted Mrs. Hastings severely, “is pure gambling. It’s sure to land one in the hands of the mortgage jobber.”
Hastings smiled at the others. “As a matter of fact, it not infrequently does, but I want you to note the subtledistinction. The thing’s quite legitimate if you’ve only got the wheat in a bag. In such a case you must naturally operate for a rise.”
“There’s a good deal to be said for that point of view,” observed Sproatly. “You can keep the wheat if you’re not satisfied, but when you try the other plan the margin that may vanish at any moment is the danger. I suppose Gregory has still been selling the Range wheat, Winifred?”
“I believe we have sent on every bushel.”
Sproatly exchanged a significant glance with Hastings, whose face once more grew thoughtful.
“Then,” remarked Hastings, “if he’s wise he’ll stop at that.”
Mrs. Hastings changed the subject, and drew her chair closer in to the stove, which snapped and crackled cheerfully.
“It must be a lot colder where Harry is,” she said with a shiver.
She flashed a swift glance at Agatha, and saw the girl’s expression change, but Sproatly broke in again.
“It was bad enough driving in from the railroad this afternoon,” he said. “Winifred was almost frozen. That is why I didn’t go round for the pattern mat—I think that’s what Creighton said it was—Mrs. Creighton borrowed from you. I met him at the settlement a day or two ago.”
Mrs. Hastings said that he could bring it another time, and while the rest talked of something else Winifred turned to Agatha.
“It really was horribly cold, and I almost fancied one of my hands was frost-nipped,” she said. “As it happens, I can’t buy mittens like your new ones.”
“My new ones?” questioned Agatha.
“The ones Gregory bought you.”
Agatha laughed. “My dear, he never gave me any.”
Winifred looked puzzled. “Well,” she persisted, “he certainly bought them, and a fur cap, too. I was in the store when he did it, though I don’t think he noticed me. They were lovely mittens—such a pretty brown fur.”
Just then Mrs. Hastings, unobserved by either of them, looked up and caught Sproatly’s eye. His face became suddenly expressionless, and he looked away.
“When was that?” Agatha asked.
“A fortnight ago, anyway.”
Agatha sat silent, and was glad when Mrs. Hastings asked Winifred a question. She desired no gifts from Gregory, but since he had bought the cap and mittens she wondered what he could have done with them. It was disconcerting to feel that, while he evidently meant to hold her to her promise, he must have given them to somebody else. She had never heard of his acquaintance with Sally Creighton, but it struck her as curious that although the six months’ delay he had granted her had lately expired, he had neither sent her any word nor called at the homestead.
A few minutes later Mrs. Hastings took up a basket of sewing and moved towards the door. Sproatly, who rose as she approached him, drew aside his chair, and she handed the basket to him.
“You can carry it if you like,” she said.
Sproatly took the basket, and followed her into another room, where he sat it down.
“Well?” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
Mrs. Hastings regarded him thoughtfully. “I wonder if you know what Gregory did with those mittens?”
“I’m rather pleased that I can assure that I don’t.”
“Do you imagine that he kept them?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t an opinion on that point.”
“Still, if I said that I felt certain he had given them to somebody you would have some idea as to who it would probably be?”
“Well,” confessed Sproatly reluctantly, “if you insist upon it, I must admit that I could make a guess.”
Mrs. Hastings smiled in a manner which suggested comprehension. “So could I,” she said. “I shouldn’t wonder if we both guessed right. Now you may as well go back to the others.”
Sproatly, who made no answer, turned away, and he was talking to Agatha when, half an hour later, a wagon drew up outside the door. In another minute or two he leaned forward in amused expectation as Sally walked into the room.
“I’m going on to Lander’s, and just called to bring back the mat you lent us,” she said to Mrs. Hastings. “Sproatly was to have come for it, but he didn’t?”
Sproatly, who said he was sorry, fixed his eyes on her. It was clear to him that Agatha did not understand the situation, but he fancied that Sally was filled with an almost belligerent satisfaction. She was wearing a smart fur cap, and in one hand she carried a pair of new fur mittens which she had just taken off. Sproatly, who glanced at them, noticed that Winifred did the same. Then Mrs. Hastings spoke.
“I don’t think you have met Miss Ismay, Sally,” she said.
Sally merely acknowledged that she had not been introduced, and Sproatly became more sure that the situation was an interesting one, when Mrs. Hastings formally presented her. It was clear to him that Agatha was somewhat puzzled by Sally’s attitude.
As a matter of fact, Agatha, who said that she must have had a cold drive, was regarding the new arrival with acuriosity that she had not expected to feel when the girl first came in. Miss Creighton, she admitted, was comely, though she was clearly somewhat primitive and crude. The long skin coat she wore hid her figure, but her pose was too virile; and there was a look which mystified Agatha in her eyes. It was almost openly hostile, and there was a suggestion of triumph in it. Agatha, who could find no possible reason for this, resented it.
Sally had remained standing, and, as she said nothing further, there was an awkward silence. She was the dominant figure in the room, and the others became sensible of a slight constraint and embarrassment as she gazed at Agatha with unwavering eyes. In fact, it was rather a relief to them when at last she turned to Mrs. Hastings.
“I can’t stop. It wouldn’t do to leave the team in this frost,” said she.
This was so evident that they let her go, and Mrs. Hastings, who went with her to the door, afterwards sat down beside Sproatly a little apart from the rest.
“I’ve no doubt you noticed those mittens,” she commented softly.
“I did,” Sproatly admitted. “I think you can rely upon my discretion. If you hadn’t wanted this assurance I don’t suppose you’d have said anything upon the subject. It, however, seems very probable that Winifred noticed them, too.”
“Does that mean you’re not sure that Winifred’s discretion is equal to your own?”
Sproatly’s eyes twinkled. “In this particular case the trouble is that she’s animated by a sincere attachment to Miss Ismay, and has, I understand, a rather poor opinion of Gregory. Of course, I don’t know how far your views on that point coincide with hers.”
“Do you expect me to explain them to you?”
“No,” answered Sproatly, “I’m only anxious to keep out of the thing. Gregory is a friend of mine, and, after all, he has his strong points. I should, however, like to mention that Winifred’s expression suggests that she’s thinking of something.”
Mrs. Hastings smiled. “Then I must endeavor to have a word or two with her.”
She left him with this, and not long afterwards she and Winifred went out together. When the others were retiring she detained Agatha for a minute or two in the empty room.
“Haven’t the six months Gregory gave you run out yet?” she asked.
Agatha said they had, but she spoke in a careless tone and it was evident that she had attached no particular significance to the fact that Sally had worn a new fur cap.
“He hasn’t been over to see you since.”
The girl, who admitted it, looked troubled. Mrs. Hastings laid a hand upon her shoulder.
“My dear,” she said, “if he does come you must put him off.”
“Why?” Agatha asked, in a low, strained voice.
“For one thing, because we want to keep you.” Mrs. Hastings looked at her with a very friendly smile. “Are you very anxious to make it up with Gregory?” A shiver ran through the girl. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “I can’t answer you that! I must do what is right!”
To her astonishment, Mrs. Hastings drew her a little nearer, stooped and kissed her.
“Most of us, I believe, have that wish, but the thing is often horribly complex,” she said. “Anyway, you must put Gregory off again, if it’s only for another month or two. I fancy you will not find it difficult.”
She turned away, thus ending the conversation, but hermanner had been so significant that Agatha, who did not sleep well that night, decided, if it was possible, to act on the well-meant advice.
It happened that a little dapper man who was largely interested in the land agency and general mortgage business spent that evening with Hawtrey in Wyllard’s room at the Range. He had driven around by Hawtrey’s homestead earlier in the afternoon, and had deduced a good deal from the state of it, though this was a point he kept to himself. Now he lay on a lounge chair beside the stove smoking one of Wyllard’s cigars and unobtrusively watching his companion. There was a roll of bills in his pocket with which Gregory had very reluctantly parted.
“In view of the fall in wheat it must have been rather a pull for you to pay me that interest,” he remarked.
“It certainly was,” Hawtrey admitted with a rueful smile. “I’m sorry it had to be done.”
“I don’t quite see how you made it,” persisted the other man. “What you got for your wheat couldn’t have done much more than cover working expenses.”
Hawtrey laughed. He was quite aware that his visitor’s profession was not one that was regarded with any great favor by the prairie farmers, but he was never particularly cautious, and he rather liked the man.
“As a matter of fact, it didn’t, Edmonds,” he confessed. “You see, I practically paid you out of what I get for running this place. The red wheat Wyllard raises generally commands a cent or two a bushel more from the big milling people than anything put on the market round here.”
Edmonds made a sign of agreement. He had without directly requesting him to do so led Hawtrey into showing him around the Range that afternoon, and having of necessity a practical knowledge of farming he had been impressed by all that he had noticed. The farm, which wasa big one, had evidently been ably managed until a recent date, and he felt the strongest desire to get his hands on it. This, as he knew, would have been out of the question had Wyllard been at home, but with Hawtrey, upon whom he had a certain hold, in charge, the thing appeared by no means impossible.
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I suppose he was reasonably liberal over your salary.”
“I don’t get one. I take a share of the margin after everything is paid.”
Edmonds carefully noted this. He was not sure that such an arrangement would warrant one in regarding Hawtrey as Wyllard’s partner, but he meant to gather a little more information upon that point.
“If wheat keeps on dropping there won’t be any margin at all next year, and that’s what I’m inclined to figure on,” he declared. “There are, however, ways a man with nerve could turn it to account.”
“You mean by selling wheat down.”
“Yes,” said Edmonds, “that’s just what I mean. Of course, there is a certain hazard in the thing. You can never be quite sure how the market will go, but the signs everywhere point to still cheaper wheat next year.”
“That’s your view?”
Edmonds smiled, and took out of his pocket a little bundle of market reports.
“Other folks seem to share it in Winnipeg, Chicago, New York, and Liverpool. You can’t get behind these stock statistics, though, of course, dead low prices are apt to cut the output.”
Hawtrey read the reports with evident interest. All were in the same pessimistic strain, and he could not know that the money-lender had carefully selected them with a view to the effect he hoped to produce. Edmonds, whosaw the interest in Hawtrey’s eyes, leaned towards him confidentially when he spoke again.
“I don’t mind admitting that I’m taking a hand in a big bear operation,” he said. “It’s rather outside my usual business, but the thing looks almost certain.”
Hawtrey glanced at him with a gleam in his eyes. There was no doubt that the prospect of acquiring money by an easier method than toiling in the rain and wind appealed to him.
“If it’s good enough for you it should be safe,” he remarked. “The trouble is that I’ve nothing to put in.”
“Then you’re not empowered to lay out Wyllard’s money. If that was the case it shouldn’t be difficult to pile up a bigger margin than you’re likely to do by farming.”
Hawtrey started, for the idea had already crept into his mind.
“In a way, I am, but I’m not sure that I’m warranted in operating on the market with it.”
“Have you the arrangement you made with him in writing?”
Hawtrey opened a drawer, and Edmonds betrayed no sign of the satisfaction he felt when he was handed an informally worded document. He perused it carefully, and it seemed to him that it constituted Hawtrey a partner in the Range, which was satisfactory. He looked up thoughtfully.
“Now,” he said, “while I naturally can’t tell what Wyllard contemplated, this paper certainly gives you power to do anything you think advisable with his money. In any case, I understand that he can’t be back until well on in next year.”
“I shouldn’t expect him until late in the summer, anyway.”
There was silence for a moment or two, and during it Hawtrey’s face grew set. It was unpleasant to look forward to the time when he would be required to relinquish the charge of the Range, and of late he had been wondering how he could make the most of the situation. Then Edmonds spoke again.
“It’s almost certain that the operation I suggested can result only one way, and it appears most unlikely that Wyllard would raise any trouble if you handed him several thousand dollars over and above what you had made by farming. I can’t imagine a man objecting to that kind of thing.”
Hawtrey sat still with indecision in his eyes for half a minute, and Edmonds, who was too wise to say anything, leaned back in his chair. Then Hawtrey turned to the drawer again with an air of sudden resolution.
“I’ll give you a check for a couple of thousand dollars, which is as far as I care to go just now,” he announced with studied carelessness.
He took a pen, and Edmonds watched him with quiet amusement as he wrote. As a matter of fact, Hawtrey was in one respect, at least, perfectly safe in entrusting the money to him. Edmonds had deprived a good many prairie farmers of their possessions in his time, but he never stooped to any crude trickery. He left that to the smaller fry. Just then he was playing a deep and cleverly thought-out game.
He pocketed the check that Hawtrey gave him, and then discussed other subjects for half an hour or so before he rose to go.
“You might ask them to get my team out. I’ve some business at Lander’s and have ordered a room there,” he said. “I’ll send you a line when there’s any change in the market.”