CHAPTER XXXTHE LAST EFFORT
It was after a long and arduous journey which had left its mark on all of them that Wyllard and his companions, one lowering evening, lay among the boulders beside a sheltered inlet waiting for the dusk to fall. They were cramped and aching, for they had scarcely moved during the last hour. Their garments were badly tattered, and their half-covered feet were bleeding. With three knives and one rifle among them they were a pitiful company to seize a vessel, but there was resolution in their haggard faces.
Close in front of them the green water lapped softly among the stones. The breeze was light off shore, and the tide, which was just running ebb, rippled against the bows of a little schooner lying some thirty yards from the bank. The vessel had been seized for illegal sealing some years earlier, and it was evident that she had been little used since then. The paint was peeling from her cracked and weathered side, her gear was frayed and bleached with frost and rain, and only very hardpressed men would have faced the thought of going to sea in her. Wyllard and his companions were, however, very hardpressed indeed, and they preferred the hazards of a voyage in the crazy vessel to falling into the Russians’ hands. It was also clear that they had no choice. It must be either one thing or the other.
Some little distance up stream a low hill cut against the dingy sky. It shut off all of the upper part of the inlet which wound in behind it, but Wyllard and his companionshad cautiously climbed the slope earlier in the afternoon, and, lying flat upon the summit, had looked down upon the little wooden houses that clustered above the beach. He had then decided that this part of the inlet would dry out at about half-ebb, and as the schooner’s boat, which he meant to seize lay upon the shingle, it was evident that he must carry out his plans within the next three hours.
These plans were very simple. There was nobody on board the schooner, which lay in deeper water, and he believed that it would be possible to swim off to her and slip the cable; but they must have provisions, and there was, so far as he could see, only one way of obtaining them. A building which stood by itself close beside the beach was evidently a store, for he had seen two men carrying bags and cases out of it under the superintendence of a third in some kind of uniform, and it appeared to be unguarded. Wyllard had reasons for surmising that the store contained Government supplies, and had arranged that Charly and Lewson should break into it as soon as darkness fell. They were to pull off to the schooner with anything they could find inside. Whether they would succeed in doing this he did not know, and he admitted to himself that it scarcely seemed probable, but he could think of no other plan, and the attempt must be made.
A thin haze drove across the crest of the hill, the breeze freshened slightly, and the little ripples lapped more noisily along the shingle. There was evidently a great deal of fresh water coming down the inlet, and it was in a fever of impatience he watched the schooner strain at her cable. That evening had already seemed the longest he had ever spent in his life. By and by it began to rain, and little streams of chilly water trickled about the weary men, but they lay still, with lips tight set in tense suspense. What Lewson had had to face in the awful icy wastes to thenorth of them Wyllard could scarcely imagine, and Lewson could not tell, but he and his two other comrades had borne things almost beyond endurance since he began his search, and now there was far too much at stake for him to increase the odds against them by any undue precipitancy. He was then in a dangerous mood, but he had laid his plans with grim, cold-blooded caution, and he meant to adhere to them.
Very slowly the light faded, until the beach grew shadowy, and the schooner’s spars and rigging showed dim and blurred against a dusky background. The rise that shut off the settlement was lost in drifting haze, and the dull rumble of the surf on the outer beach came up more sharply through the gathering darkness. The measured beat of the tide’s deep pulsations almost maddened Wyllard as he lay and listened, for if all went right, in an hour or two he would be sliding out over the long heave with every sail piled on to the crazy schooner.
When there was only a faint gleam of water sliding by below, he rose stiffly to his feet, and Lewson stretched out a hand for the rifle that lay among the stones. There was a sharp click as he jerked the lever, and then he laughed, a little jarring laugh, as the magazine snapped back.
“They’ll treat us as pirates if they get hands on us—and I’ve been lashed in the face—with a sled-dog-whip,” he said.
Charly made no remark as he loosed the long seaman’s knife in his belt. Wyllard could not utter a remonstrance, for there is, as he recognized, a point beyond which prudence does not count. After what Overweg had once or twice told him, it was unthinkable that they should fall into Smirnoff’s hands.
Lewson and Charly melted away into the darkness. Wyllard and the Siwash walked quietly down to the water’sedge, a little up-stream of the schooner, as the stream was running strong. As they waited a few moments before plunging into the sea they stripped off nothing, for it was evident that none of the rags they left behind could be replaced, and they knew from experience that when the first shock is over a man swimming in icy water is kept a little warmer by his clothing. For all that, the cold struck through Wyllard when he flung himself forward and swung his left hand out. It was perhaps a minute before he was clearly conscious of anything beyond the physical agony and the mental effort to retain control of his faculties. Then he made out the schooner, a vague, blurred shape a little down-stream, and he swam furiously, his face dipping under each time his left hand came out.
He drew level with the vessel, clutched at her cable, a foot short, and was driven against her bows. The stream swept him onward, gasping, and clawing savagely at the slippery side of the schooner, until his fingers found a hold. It was merely the rounded top of a bolt that he touched, but with a desperate effort he clutched the bent iron that led up from it to one of the dead-eyes of the mainmast-shrouds. He could not, however, draw himself up any further, and he hung on, wondering when his strength would fail him. The Siwash, who had crawled up the cable, leaned down from above and seized his shoulder. In another moment he reached the rail, and went staggering across the deck, dripping and half-dazed.
Action was imperatively necessary, and he braced himself for the effort. The schooner was lying with her anchor up-stream, but he did not think it would be possible to heave her over it and break it out unless he waited until the others arrived, and it would then be a lengthy and, what was more to the purpose, a noisy operation. The anchor must be sacrificed, but there was the difficulty thatin the dark he could hardly expect to find a shackle on the cable. Running forward with the Siwash, he pulled out a chain stopper, and then shipping the windlass levers found with vast relief that it would work. It would make a horribly distinct clanking, he knew, but that could not be helped, and the next thing was to discover whether the end of the chain was made fast below, for it is very seldom that a skipper finds it necessary to pay out all his cable.
Dropping into the darkness of the locker beneath the forecastle, he was more fortunate than he could reasonably have expected to be, for as he crawled over the rusty links he felt a shackle. It appeared to be of the usual harp-pattern with a cottered pin, and he called out sharply to the Siwash, who presently flung him an iron bar and a big spike. He struck one of the two or three sulphur matches he had carefully treasured, and when the sputtering blue flame went out set to work to back the pin out in the dark. He smashed his knuckles and badly bruised his hands, but he succeeded, and knew that he had shortened the chain by two-thirds now.
He scrambled up on deck again and hurried aft for the vessel’s kedge had been laid out astern to prevent her swinging. There was a heavy hemp warp attached to it, and it cost them some time to heave most of it over, after which they proceeded to get the mainsail on to her. It was covered with a coat, and Wyllard cut himself as he slashed through the tiers in savage impatience. Then he and the Siwash toiled at the halliards desperately, for the task of raising the heavy gaff was almost beyond their powers.
There was no grease on the mast-hoops; the blocks evidently had not been used for months. Several times they desisted a moment or two, gasping, breathless, and utterly exhausted. Still, foot by foot they got the black canvas up, and then, leaving the peak hanging, ran forward to theboom-foresail, which was smaller and lighter. They set that, cast two jibs and the staysail loose, and let them lie. Wyllard sat down feeling that the thing they had done would, if attempted in cold blood, have appeared almost impossible. It was done, however, and now he must wait until the boat appeared. There was no sign of her, and as he gazed up the inlet, seeing only the glimmer of the water and the sliding mist, the suspense became almost intolerable. Minute after minute slipped by, and still nothing loomed out of the haze. The canvas rustled and banged above him, there was a growing splashing beneath the bows, and the schooner strained more heavily at her cable. Everything was ready, only his comrades did not appear. He clenched his hands and set his lips as he waited. He wondered at the Siwash, who sat upon the rail, a dim, shapeless figure, impassively still.
At last his heart leaped, for a faint splash of oars came out of the darkness. Both men ran forward to the windlass. The sharp clanking it made drowned the splash of oars, but in another minute or two there was a crash as the boat drove alongside, and Charly scrambled up with a rope while Lewson hurled sundry bags and cases after him. Then he climbed on deck in turn, and Charly began a breathless explanation.
“It’s all we could get. There’s nobody on our trail,” he said.
The last fact was most important, and Wyllard cut him short. “Get the jibs and staysail on to her,” he commanded.
The new arrivals worked rapidly while the cable clanked and rattled as the schooner drove astern, but at the first heave the rotten staysail tore off the hanks, and one jib burst as they ran it up its stay. For an anxious moment or two the cable jammed, and the anchor brought theschooner up. All four flung themselves upon the windlass levers, and after a furious effort the chain came up again and ran out faster, fathom by fathom, rattling horribly, until the end of it shot suddenly over the windlass. Then there was another check as the schooner brought up by the kedge swung suddenly across the stream.
Her banging canvas filled, she listed over, and it was evident to all of them that if the kedge started she would forthwith drive ashore. Tense with strain, its warp ripped out of the water, and she was swinging on it heading for the beach when Wyllard flung himself upon the wheel.
“Hang on to every inch or break it!” he roared. “Out main-boom; box your jib and staysail up to weather!”
In desperate haste they obeyed orders, amid a great clatter of blocks and thrashing of canvas, while Wyllard wrenched up his helm, and the schooner, straining on the warp, fell away with her bows down-stream. The sweat of effort dripped from Wyllard when he swung up an arm to Lewson, who was standing at the bollard to which the warp was made fast.
“Now!” he cried hoarsely, “let her go!”
The rope fell with a splash, the schooner lurched forward and drove away down the inlet with the stream running seaward under her, while Wyllard felt a trifle dazed from sheer revulsion of feeling. The rumble of the surf was growing louder; the deck slanted slightly beneath him. If they could keep her off the beach for the next few minutes there was freedom before them! He hazarded a glance astern, but could see no sign of a boat up the inlet. They had done a thing which even then appeared almost incredible.
The breeze came down fresher, the gurgle at the bows grew louder, and the deck began to heave with a slow and regular rise and fall. A long, shadowy point girt aboutwith spectral surf slipped by, and they were out in open water. They ran the schooner out for an hour or two and then, though the peak of the mainsail burst to tatters as they hauled her on a wind, let her stretch away northward following the trend of coast.
“We’ll stand on as she’s lying until we find a creek or river mouth. We must have water,” Wyllard said.
An hour later he called Charly to the wheel, and sitting down in the shelter of the rail, went to sleep, though this was about the last thing he had contemplated doing. It was gray dawn when he opened his eyes again, and aching all over and very cold, stood up to see that the schooner was tumbling over a spiteful sea with the hazy loom of land not far away from her. He glanced at the gear and canvas, and was almost appalled, while Charly, who was busy close by, saw his face and grinned.
“You don’t want to look at her too much,” he observed. “We took a swig on the peak-halliards a little while ago, and had to let up before we pulled the gaff off her. Boom-foresail’s worse, and the jibs are dropping off her, while the water just pours in through her top-sides when she puts another lee plank down.”
Wyllard made an expressive gesture, and leaned upon the rail. He realized then something of the nature of the task he had undertaken. They had no anchor, no fresh water, no fuel for cooking, and, so far as he was aware, very few provisions, while it seemed to him that the weathered, worn-out gear would not hold the masts in the vessel in any weight of breeze. Still, the thing must be attempted, and there was one want, at least, that could be supplied.
“Anyway,” he said, “we’ll beat her in. When we come abreast of the first creek you and Tom and the Siwash will go ashore.”
It was afternoon when they sighted a little stream,and they took most of the canvas off the vessel before three of them pulled away in the boat, leaving Wyllard at the helm. It was blowing moderately fresh off shore, and it was with feverish impatience that he watched them toiling at the oars, two of them pulling while the third man sculled. They disappeared behind a point, and an anxious hour went by before the boat, which now showed a very scanty strip of side above the tumbling foam, crept out from the beach again. Having no breakers, they had brought the water off in bulk, sitting in it as they pulled, and it was fortunate that the boat lurched off shore easily before the little splashing seas. They lost some of the water before they hove it into the big rusty tank, and then they held a consultation when they had swung the boat in and the schooner was running off to the east again.
“We’ve about stores enough to last two weeks—that is, if you don’t expect too much,” Lewson pointed out. “There’s an American stove in the deck-house, and while we can’t find anything meant to burn in it there’s an ax down forward, and we could cut out cabin floorings, or a beam or two, without taking too much stiffening out of her.”
Wyllard, who had inspected the stores, knew that a fortnight was the very longest that could be counted on, though they ate no more than would keep a modicum of strength in them. From their kind and quality he surmised that the provisions had been intended for the officials in charge of the settlement.
“How did you get them, Tom?” he asked.
“The thing;” said Lewson quietly, “was simple. It was dark and hazy, and raining quite hard. The first thing we did was to run the boat down and leave her nearly afloat. Then we crawled back, and lay by listening outside that store. We were figuring how we were to break it in when two men came along. They went in and came outwith a bag or two, and as they left the door open we figured they were coming back for more. We humped out a moderate load, and had just got it down to the boat when we saw those men, or two others, in the haze. I was for lying by, but Charly would get out then.”
Charly laughed dryly. “He wanted to take the rifle and go back to look for Smirnoff. I’d no use for any trouble of that kind, and I shoved the boat off while he was seeing how many ca’tridges there were in the magazine. He waded in and grabbed the boat when he saw I was sure going, but I shoved her away from him. Then it kind of struck him he had to get in or swim.”
Lewson’s expression grew grim. “That’s the thing that hurts the most—to go away before I got even with that man,” he declared. “Still, I may get over it if I try to think of him with his nose smashed hard to starboard.”
Wyllard made a sign of impatience. He felt that, after all, there was perhaps something to be said for Smirnoff’s point of view.
“There is just one plan open to us, and that’s to drive the schooner across to the eastward as fast as we can,” he said. “We might, perhaps, pick up an Alaska C. C. factory before the provisions quite run out if this breeze and the gear hold up. Failing that, we must try for one of the Western Aleutians.”
The others concurred in this, and very fortunately the breeze kept to the west and south, for Wyllard had very grave doubts as to whether he could have thrashed the schooner to windward through a steep head sea. Indeed, on looking back on that voyage and remembering the state of the vessel, it seemed to him that he and his companions had escaped as by a miracle. In any case, they hove the vessel to, one misty evening, in a deep inlet behind a promontory, and Wyllard, who sculled up the inlet alone in the growing darkness, badly startled the agent of an A.C.C.factory when he appeared, ragged, haggard, and wet with rain, in the doorway of a big, stove-warmed room.
The agent, however, was out for business, but when Wyllard produced a wad of paper money stained by wet and perspiration he appeared quite willing to part with certain provisions. He was told that no questions would be answered, and when he had given his visitor supper, Wyllard sculled away in the darkness leaving him none the wiser. Half an hour later the schooner slipped out to sea again.
The rest was by comparison easy. They had the coast of Alaska and British Columbia close aboard, and they crept southwards in fine weather, once running off their course when the smoke of a steamer crept up above the horizon. In a strong breeze, they ran for the northern tongue of Vancouver Island, and Wyllard, who had already decided that the vessel would fetch scarcely five hundred dollars, and that it would be better if all trace of her disappeared, pulled his wheel over suddenly as she was scraping by a surf-swept reef.
In another minute she was on hard and fast, and they had scarcely got the boat over when the masts went with a crash. A quarter of an hour later the wreckage was thrown up on the beach, and, before they set out on a long march through the bush, there was very little to be seen of the vessel.
Three or four days afterward they reached a little wooden town, and Wyllard, who slipped into it alone in the dusk, bought clothing for himself and his companions, who put it on in the bush. Then they went into the town together, and slept that night in a hotel.
Their troubles were over, and, what was more, Wyllard, who pledged the rest to secrecy, fancied that what had become of the schooner would remain a mystery.
CHAPTER XXXIWYLLARD COMES HOME
Harvest had commenced at the Range, and the clashing binders were moving through the grain when Hawtrey sat one afternoon in Wyllard’s room. It was about five o’clock, and every man belonging to the homestead was toiling, bare-armed and grimed with dust, among the yellow oats, but Hawtrey sat at a table gazing with a troubled face at the litter of papers in front of him. He wore a white shirt and store clothes, which was distinctly unusual in case of a Western farmer at harvest time, and Edmonds, the mortgage-jobber, leaned back in a big chair quietly watching him.
Edmonds had called at a singularly inconvenient time, and Hawtrey was anxious to get rid of him before the arrival of the guests that he expected. It was Sally’s birthday, and, since she took pleasure in simple festivities of any kind, he had arranged to celebrate it at the Range. He was, however, sufficiently acquainted with the money-lender’s character to realize that it was most unlikely that he would take his departure before he had accomplished the purpose which had brought him there. This was to collect several thousand dollars.
It was quite clear to Hawtrey that he was in an unpleasantly tight place. Edmonds held a bond upon his homestead, teams and implements as security for a short date loan, repayment of which was due, and he was to be married to Sally in a month or so.
“Can’t you wait a little?” he asked at length.
“I’m afraid not,” was the uncompromising reply. “Money’s tight this fall, and things have gone against me. Besides, you could pay me off if you wanted to.”
Edmonds turned toward an open window, and glanced at the great stretch of yellow grain that ran back across the prairie. Dusty teams and binders with flashing wooden arms moved half-hidden along the edge of the vast field, and the still, clear air was filled with a clash and clatter and the rustle of flung-out sheaves.
There was no doubt that money could be raised upon that harvest field. Indeed, Hawtrey fancied that his companion would be quite content to take a bond for the delivery of so many thousand bushels in repayment of the loan, but while he had already gone further than he had at one time contemplated doing, this was a course he shrank from suggesting. After all, the grain was Wyllard’s, and there was the difficulty that Wyllard might still come back. If Wyllard failed to return, an absence of another few months would entitle his executors to consider him dead. In either case, Hawtrey would be required to account for his property.
“No,” he decided, “I can’t take—that way.”
There was a trace of contempt in the mortgage-jobber’s smile. “You of course understand just how you’re fixed, but it seemed to me from that draft of the arrangement with Wyllard that you have the power to do pretty much what you like. Anyway, if you gave me a bond on as much of that grain as would wipe out the loan at the present figure, it would only mean that you would have Wyllard’s trustees for creditors instead of me, and it’s probable that they wouldn’t be as hard upon you as I’m compelled to be. As things stand, you have got to square up or I throw your place on the market.”
Hawtrey’s face betrayed his dismay; and Edmonds believedthat he would yield to a little further pressure. Gregory had not said anything about the mortgage to Sally, and it would be extremely unpleasant to be turned out upon the prairie within a month or two of his marriage, for he could not count upon being left in possession of the Range much longer.
“I’m only entitled to handle Wyllard’s money on his account,” he objected.
Edmonds appeared to reflect. “So far as I can remember there was nothing of that kind stated in the draft of the arrangement. It empowered you to do anything you thought fit with the money, but it’s altogether your own affair. I can, of course, get my money back by selling your homestead, and I must decide if that must be done or not before I leave.”
Edmonds had very little doubt as to what the decision would be. Hawtrey would yield, and afterwards it would not be difficult to draw him into some unwise speculation with the object of getting the money back, which he imagined that Hawtrey would be desperately anxious to do. As the result of this, he expected to get such a hold upon the Range that he would be master of the situation when the property fell into the hands of Wyllard’s trustees. That Hawtrey would be disgraced as well as ruined naturally did not count with him.
Gregory took up one of the papers, and read it through. Then he rose, and stood leaning on the table while he gazed at the teams toiling amid the grain. There was wealth enough yonder to release him from his torturing anxieties, and after all, he felt, something must turn up before the reckoning was due. It was not in his nature to face a crisis, and with him a trouble seemed less formidable if it could only be put off a little. Edmonds, who knew with what kind of man he had to deal, said nothing further, andquietly reached out for another cigar. He saw vacillation in his victim’s manner.
Meantime, though neither of the men were aware of it, Sally had alighted from her wagon on the other side of the house, and two other vehicles were growing larger upon the sweep of whitened prairie. As she entered the homestead the girl met Mrs. Nansen, who informed her that Hawtrey was busy with Edmonds in Wyllard’s room. Sally’s eyes sparkled when she heard it, and her face grew hard.
“That man!” she exclaimed. “Well, I guess I’ll go right in to them.”
In another minute she opened the door, and answered the mortgage-jobber’s embarrassed greeting with a frigid stare. Having had some experience with Sally’s uncompromising directness, he was inclined to fancy that the game was up, but he waited calmly.
“What’s this man doing here again?” Sally asked, fixing her eyes on Hawtrey. “You promised me you would never make another deal with him.”
Gregory flushed. Had he thought it would be the least use he would have made some attempt to get Sally out of the room, but he was unpleasantly sure that unless she was fully satisfied first it would only result in failure. Driven to desperation, as he was, he had a half-conscious feeling that she might provide him with some means of escape. Sally had certainly saved him once, and, humiliating as the thought was, he had an idea that she did not expect too much from him. She might be very angry, but Sally’s anger was, after all, less difficult to face than Agatha’s quiet scorn.
“I haven’t made another deal. It’s—a previous one,” Gregory explained lamely.
Sally swung around on Edmonds. “You have come here for money? You may as well tell me. I won’t leave you with Gregory until you do.”
It was quite evident that she would make her promise good, and Edmonds nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “about three thousand dollars.”
“And Gregory can’t pay you?”
Edmonds thought rapidly, and decided to take a bold course. He was acquainted with Hawtrey’s habit of putting things off, and fancied that his debtor would seize upon the first loophole of escape from an embarrassing situation. That was why he gave him a lead.
“Well,” he said, “there is a way in which he could do it if he wished. He has only to fill in a paper and hand it to me.”
Edmonds had not sufficiently counted on Sally’s knowledge of his victim’s affairs, or her quickness of wit, for she turned to Hawtrey with a commanding gesture.
“Where are you going to get three thousand dollars from?” she asked.
The blood rushed into Hawtrey’s face, for this was a thing he could not tell her; but a swift suspicion, flashed into her mind as she looked at him.
“Perhaps it could be—raised,” he answered.
“To pay this mortgage off?” Sally swung round on Edmonds now, as she questioned him.
“Yes,” he admitted, “he can easily do it.”
Then the girl turned to Hawtrey. “Gregory,” she said with harsh incisiveness, “there’s only one way you could get that money—and it isn’t yours.”
Hawtrey made no reply. He could not meet her gaze, and when he turned from her she looked back at the mortgage-broker.
“If you’re gone before I come back there’ll sure be trouble,” she informed him, and sped swiftly out of the room.
Hawtrey sat down limply in his chair, and Edmonds laughed in a jarring manner. The game was up, but, afterall, if he got his three thousand dollars he could be satisfied, for one way or another he had already extracted a great deal of money from Hawtrey.
“If I were you I’d marry that girl right away,” Edmonds advised Hawtrey. “You’d be safer if you had her to look after you.”
Hawtrey let the jibe pass. For one thing, he felt that it was warranted, and just then his anxiety was too strong for anger.
In the meanwhile, Sally had run out of the house to meet Hastings, who had just handed his wife down from their wagon. The girl drew him a pace or two aside.
“I’m worried about Gregory,” she said; “he’s in trouble—big trouble. Somehow we have got to raise three thousand dollars. Edmonds is inside with him.”
Hastings did not seem surprised. “Ah!” he said, “I guess it’s over that mortgage of his. It would be awkward for you and Gregory if Edmonds took the homestead and turned him out.”
Sally’s face grew white, but she met his gaze steadily.
“Oh,” she replied, “that’s not what I would mind the most.”
Hastings reflected a moment or two. He thought that it was a very difficult admission for the girl to make, and that she had made it suggested that Hawtrey might become involved in more serious difficulties. He had also a strong suspicion of what they were likely to be.
“Sally,” questioned Hastings quietly, “you are afraid of Edmonds making him do something you would not like?”
Though she did not answer directly, he saw the shame in the girl’s face, and remembered that he was one of Wyllard’s trustees.
“I must raise that money—now—and I don’t knowwhere to get more than five hundred dollars from. I might manage that,” she said.
“Well,” answered Hastings, “you want me to lead you then, and I’m not sure that I can. Still, if you’ll wait a few minutes I’ll see what I can do.”
Sally left him, and he turned to his wife, whose expression suggested that she had overheard part of what was said and had guessed the rest.
“You mean to raise that money? After all, we are friends of his, and it may save him from letting Edmonds get his grip upon the Range,” she said.
Hastings made a sign of reluctant assent. “I don’t quite know how I can do it personally, in view of the figure wheat is standing at, and I don’t think much of any security that Gregory could offer me. Still, there is, perhaps, a way in which it could be arranged, and it’s one that, considering everything, is more or less admissible. I think I’ll wait here for Agatha.”
Agatha was in the wagon driven by Sproatly. When Sproatly had helped her and Winifred to alight, Hastings, who walked to the house with them, drew Agatha into an unoccupied room.
“I’m afraid that Gregory’s in rather serious trouble. Sally seems very anxious about him,” he said. “It’s rather a delicate subject, but I understand that in a general way you are on good terms with both of them?”
Agatha met his embarrassed gaze with a smile. She knew that what he really wished to discover was whether she still felt any bitterness against Gregory or blamed him for pledging himself to Sally.
“Yes,” she answered, “Sally and I are good friends, and I am very sorry to hear that Gregory is in any difficulty.”
Hastings still seemed embarrassed, and she was becoming puzzled by his manner.
“Once upon a time you would have done anything possible to make things easier for him,” he said. “I wonder if I might ask if to some extent you have that feeling still?”
“Of course. If he is in serious trouble I should be glad to do anything within my power to help him.”
“Even if it cost, we will say, about six hundred English pounds?”
Agatha gazed at him in bewilderment.
“There are some twenty dollars in my possession which your wife handed me not long ago,” she remarked in a puzzled tone.
“Still, if you had the money, you would be glad to help him—and would not regret it afterwards?”
“No,” asserted Agatha decisively; “if I had the means, and the need was urgent, I should be glad to do what I could.” Then she laughed. “I can’t understand in the least how this is to the purpose.”
“If you will wait for the next two or three months I may be able to explain it to you,” replied Hastings. “In the meanwhile, there are one or two things I have to do.”
When he left her, Agatha sat still, wondering what he could have meant, but feeling that she would be willing to do what she could for Gregory. Hastings’ suggestion that it was possible that she still cherished any sense of grievance against him because he was going to marry Sally, brought a scornful smile to her lips. It was easy to forgive Gregory that, for she now saw him as he was—shallow, careless, shiftless, a man without depth of character. He had a few surface graces, and on occasion a certain half-insolent forcefulness of manner which in a curious fashion was almost becoming. There was, however, nothing beneath the surface. He was, it seemed, quite willing that a woman should help him out of the trouble in which hehad involved himself, for she had no doubt that Sally had sent Hastings on his incomprehensible errand.
Then a clear voice came in through the window, and turning towards it Agatha discovered that a young lad clad in blue duck was singing as he drove his binder through the grain. The song was a simple one which had some vogue just then upon the prairie, but her eyes grew suddenly hazy as odd snatches of it reached her through the beat of hoofs, the clash of the binder’s arms and the rustle of the flung-out sheaves.
“My Bonny lies over the ocean,
My Bonny lies over the sea.”
The youth called to his horses, and it was a few moments before she heard again—
“Bring back my Bonny to me.”
A quiver ran through her as she leaned upon the window frame. There was a certain pathos in the simple strain, and she could fancy that the lad, who was clearly English, as an exile felt it, too. Once more as the jaded horses and clashing machine grew smaller down the edge of the great sweep of yellow grain, his voice came faintly up to her with its haunting thrill of longing and regret—
“Bring back my Bonny to me.”
This in her case was more than anyone could do, and as she stood listening a tear splashed upon her closed hands. The man, by comparison with whom Gregory appeared a mere lay figure, was in all probability lying still far up in the solitudes of the frozen North, with his last grim journey done. This time, however, he had not carriedher picture with him. Gregory was to blame for that, and it was the one thing she could not forgive him.
She leaned against the window for another minute, struggling with an almost uncontrollable longing, and looking out upon the sweep of golden wheat and whitened grass with brimming eyes, until there was a rattle of wheels, and she saw Edmonds drive away. She heard voices in the corridor, and it became evident that Hastings was speaking to his wife.
“I’ve got rid of the man, and it’s reasonable to expect that Gregory will keep clear of him after this,” he said.
“Don’t you mean that Agatha did it?”
It was Mrs. Hastings who asked the question, and Agatha became intent as she heard her name. She did not, however, hear the answer, and Mrs. Hastings spoke again.
“Allen,” she said, “you don’t keep a secret badly, though Harry pledged you not to tell. Still, all that caution was a little unnecessary. It was, of course, just the kind of thing he would do.”
“What did he do?” Hastings asked, and Agatha heard Mrs. Hastings’ soft laugh, for they were just outside the door now.
“Left the Range, or most of it, to Agatha in case he didn’t come back again.”
They went on, and Agatha, turning from the window, sat down limply with the blood in her face and her heart beating fast. Wyllard’s last care, it seemed, had been to provide for her, and that fact brought her a curious sense of solace. In an unexplainable fashion it took the bitterest sting out of her grief, though how far he had succeeded in his intentions did not seem to matter in the least.. It was sufficient to know that amid all the haste of his preparation he had not forgotten her.
Becoming a little calmer, she understood what had beenin Hastings’ mind during the interview that had puzzled her, and was glad that she assured him of her willingness to sacrifice anything that might be hers if it was needed to set Gregory free. It was, she felt, what Wyllard would have done with the money. He had said that Gregory was a friend of his, and that, she knew, meant a great deal to him.
She suddenly realized that she must join the others if she did not wish her absence to excite comment. Going out, she came face to face with Sally in the corridor. The girl stopped, and saw the sympathy in her eyes.
“Yes,” she said impulsively, “I’ve saved him. Edmonds has gone. Hastings bought him off, and, though I don’t quite know how, you helped him. He stayed behind to wait for you.”
Agatha smiled. The vibrant relief in her companion’s voice stirred her, and she realized once more that in choosing this half-taught girl Gregory had acted with a wholly unusual wisdom. It was with a sense of half-contemptuous amusement at her own folly that she remembered how she had once fancied that Gregory was marrying beneath him. Sally was far from perfect, but in the essentials the man was not fit to brush her shoes.
“My dear,” responded Agatha, “I really don’t know exactly what I—have—done, but if it amounts to anything it is a pleasure to me.”
They went together into the big general room where Gregory was talking to Winifred somewhat volubly. Agatha, however, judged from his manner that he had, at least, the grace to feel ashamed of himself. Supper, she heard Mrs. Nansen say, would be ready very shortly, and feeling in no mood for general conversation, she sat near a window looking out across the harvest field until she heard a distant shout, and saw a wagon appear on the crest of thehill. To her astonishment, two of the binders stopped, and she saw the men who sprang down from them run to meet the wagon. In another moment or two more of the teams stopped, and a faint clamor of cries went up, while here and there little running figures straggled up the slope. All the occupants of the room clustered about her at the window, and Winifred turned to Hastings.
“What are they shouting for?” she asked. “They are all crowding about the wagon now.”
Agatha felt suddenly dazed and dizzy, for she knew what the answer to that question must be even before Mrs. Hastings spoke.
“It’s Harry coming back!” she gasped.
In another moment they all hastened out of the house, and Agatha found it scarcely possible to follow them, for the sudden revulsion of feeling had almost overpowered her. Still, she reached the door, and saw the wagon drawn up amid a cluster of struggling men. Presently Wyllard, whom they surrounded, broke from them. She stood on the threshold waiting for him, and in the moment of her exultation a pang smote her as she saw how gaunt and worn he was. He came straight toward her, apparently regardless of the others, and, clasping the hands she held out, drew her into the house.
“So you have not married Gregory yet?” he questioned, and laughed triumphantly when he saw the answer in her shining eyes.
“No,” she said softly, “it is certain that I will never marry him.”
Wyllard drew her back still further with a compelling grasp.
“Why?” he asked.
Agatha looked up at him, and then turned her eyes away.
“I was waiting for you,” she said simply.
Then he took her in his arms and kissed her before he turned, still with her hand in his, to face the others who were now flocking back to the house. In another moment they went in together, amid a confused clamor of good wishes.
THE END
THE END
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Alternative, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.Angel of Forgiveness, The.By Rosa N. Carey.Angel of Pain, The.By E. F. Benson.Annals of Ann, The.By Kate Trimble Sharber.Battle Ground, The.By Ellen Glasgow.Beau Brocade.By Baroness Orczy.Beechy.By Bettina Von Hutten.Bella Donna.By Robert Hichens.Betrayal, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Bill Toppers, The.By Andre Castaigne.Butterfly Man, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.Cab No. 44.By R. F. Foster.Calling of Dan Matthews, The.By Harold Bell Wright.Cape Cod Stories.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Challoners, The.By E. F. Benson.City of Six, The.By C. L. Canfield.Conspirators, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Dan Merrithew.By Lawrence Perry.Day of the Dog, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.Depot Master, The.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Derelicts.By William J. Locke.Diamonds Cut Paste.By Agnes & Egerton Castle.Early Bird, The.By George Randolph Chester.Eleventh Hour, The.By David Potter.Elizabeth in Rugen.By the author of Elizabeth and Her German Garden.Flying Mercury, The.By Eleanor M. Ingram.Gentleman, The.By Alfred Ollivant.Girl Who Won, The.By Beth Ellis.Going Some.By Rex Beach.Hidden Water.By Dane Coolidge.Honor of the Big Snows, The.By James Oliver Curwood.Hopalong Cassidy.By Clarence E. Mulford.House of the Whispering Pines, The.By Anna Katherine Green.Imprudence of Prue, The.By Sophie Fisher.
Alternative, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.
Angel of Forgiveness, The.By Rosa N. Carey.
Angel of Pain, The.By E. F. Benson.
Annals of Ann, The.By Kate Trimble Sharber.
Battle Ground, The.By Ellen Glasgow.
Beau Brocade.By Baroness Orczy.
Beechy.By Bettina Von Hutten.
Bella Donna.By Robert Hichens.
Betrayal, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Bill Toppers, The.By Andre Castaigne.
Butterfly Man, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.
Cab No. 44.By R. F. Foster.
Calling of Dan Matthews, The.By Harold Bell Wright.
Cape Cod Stories.By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Challoners, The.By E. F. Benson.
City of Six, The.By C. L. Canfield.
Conspirators, The.By Robert W. Chambers.
Dan Merrithew.By Lawrence Perry.
Day of the Dog, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.
Depot Master, The.By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Derelicts.By William J. Locke.
Diamonds Cut Paste.By Agnes & Egerton Castle.
Early Bird, The.By George Randolph Chester.
Eleventh Hour, The.By David Potter.
Elizabeth in Rugen.By the author of Elizabeth and Her German Garden.
Flying Mercury, The.By Eleanor M. Ingram.
Gentleman, The.By Alfred Ollivant.
Girl Who Won, The.By Beth Ellis.
Going Some.By Rex Beach.
Hidden Water.By Dane Coolidge.
Honor of the Big Snows, The.By James Oliver Curwood.
Hopalong Cassidy.By Clarence E. Mulford.
House of the Whispering Pines, The.By Anna Katherine Green.
Imprudence of Prue, The.By Sophie Fisher.