WYLLARD ASSENTS
Sally, who returned with her mother, passed a fortnight at Hawtrey's
homestead before Watson decided that his patient could be entrusted to
Sproatly's care. Afterwards she went back twice a week to make sure that
Sproatly, in whom she had no confidence, was discharging his duties
satisfactorily. With baskets of dainties for the invalid she had driven
over one afternoon, when Hawtrey, whose bones were knitting well, lay
talking to another man in his little sleeping-room.
There was no furniture in the room except the wooden bunk in which he
lay, and a deerhide lounge chair he had made. The stove-pipe from the
kitchen led across part of one corner, and then up again into the room
beneath the roof above. It had been one of Sproatly's duties since the
accident to rise and renew the fire soon after midnight, and when Sally
arrived he was outside the house, whip-sawing birch-logs and splitting
them, an occupation he profoundly disliked.
Spring had come suddenly, as it usually does on the prairie, and the
snow was melting fast under a brilliant sun. The bright rays that
streamed in through the window struck athwart the glimmering dust motes
in the little bare room, and fell, pleasantly warm, upon the man who sat
in the deerhide chair. He was a year or two older than Hawtrey, though
he had scarcely reached thirty. He was a man of average height, and
somewhat spare of figure. His manner was tranquil and his lean, bronzed
face attractive. He held a pipe in his hand, and was looking at Hawtrey
with quiet, contemplative eyes, that were his most noticeable feature,
though it was difficult to say whether their color was gray or
hazel-brown, for they were singularly clear, and there was something
which suggested steadfastness in their unwavering gaze. The man wore
long boots, trousers of old blue duck, and a jacket of soft deerskin
such as the Blackfeet dress so expertly; and there was nothing about him
to suggest that he was a man of varied experience, and of some
importance in that country.
Harry Wyllard was native-born. In his young days he had assisted his
father in the working of a little Manitoban farm, when the great grain
province was still, for the most part, a wilderness. A prosperous
relative on the Pacific slope had sent him to Toronto University, where
after a session or two he had become involved in a difference of opinion
with the authorities. Though the matter was never made quite clear, it
was generally believed that Wyllard had quietly borne the blame of a
comrade's action, for there was a vein of eccentric generosity in the
lad. In any case, he left Toronto, and the relative, who was largely
interested in the fur business, next sent him north to the Behring Sea.
The business was then a hazardous one, for the skin buyers and pelagic
sealers had trouble with the Alaskan representatives of American trading
companies, upon whose preserves they poached, as well as with the
commanders of the gunboats sent up north to protect the seals.
Men's lives were staked against the value of a fur, edicts were lightly
contravened, and now and then a schooner barely escaped into the
smothering fog with skins looted on forbidden beaches. It was a perilous
life, and a strenuous one, for every white man's hand was against the
traders; there were rangers in fog and gale, and the reefs that lay in
the tideways of almost uncharted waters; but Wyllard made the most of
his chance. He kept the peace with jealous skippers who resented the
presence of a man they might command as mate, but whose views they were
forced to listen to when he spoke as supercargo. He won the good-will of
sea-bred Indians, and drove a good trade with them; he not infrequently
brought his boat loaded with reeking skins back first to the plunging
schooner.
He fell into trouble again when they were hanging off the Eastern Isles
under double reefs, watching for the Russians' seals. A boat's crew from
another schooner had been cast ashore, and, as the men were in peril of
falling into the Russians' hands, Wyllard led a reckless expedition to
rescue them. He succeeded, in so far that the wrecked sailors were taken
off the beach through a tumult of breaking surf; but as the relief crews
pulled seaward the fog shut down on them, and one boat, manned by three
men, never reached the schooners. The vessels blew horns all night, and
crept along the smoking beach next day, though the surf made landing
impossible. Then a sudden gale drove them off the shore, and, as it was
evident that their comrades must have perished, they reluctantly sailed
for other fishing grounds. As one result of this, Wyllard broke with his
prosperous relative when he went back to Vancouver.
After that he helped to strengthen railroad bridges among the mountains
of British Columbia. He worked in logging camps, and shoveled in the
mines, and, as it happened, met Hawtrey, who, tempted by high wages, had
spent a winter in the Mountain Province. Wyllard's father, who had taken
up virgin soil in Assiniboia, died soon after Wyllard went back to him,
and a few months later the relative in Vancouver also died. Somewhat to
Wyllard's astonishment, his kinsman bequeathed him a considerable
property, most of the proceeds of which he sank in acres of virgin
prairie. Willow Range was now one of the largest farms between Winnipeg
and the Rockies.
"The leg's getting along satisfactorily?" Wyllard inquired at length.
Hawtrey, who appeared unusually thoughtful, admitted that it was.
"Anyway, it's singularly unfortunate that I'm disabled just now," he
added. "There's the plowing to begin in a week or two, and besides that
I was thinking of getting married."
Wyllard was somewhat astonished at this announcement. For one thing, he
was more or less acquainted with the state of his friend's finances.
During the next moment or two he glanced meditatively through the open
door into the adjoining room, where Sally Creighton was busy beside the
stove. The sleeves of the girl's light bodice were rolled up well above
the elbow, and she had pretty, round arms, which were just then partly
immersed in dough.
"I don't think there's a nicer or more capable girl in this part of
Assiniboia," he remarked.
"Oh, yes," agreed Hawtrey. "Anybody would admit that. Still, since you
seem so sure of it, why don't you marry her yourself?"
Wyllard looked at his comrade curiously. "Well," he said, "there are
several reasons that don't affect Miss Sally and only concern myself.
Besides, it's highly improbable that she'd have me." Before he looked up
again he paused to light his pipe, which had gone out. "Since it
evidently isn't Sally, have I met the lady?" he asked.
"You haven't. She's in England."
"It's four years, isn't it, since you were over there?"
Hawtrey lay silent a minute, and then made a little confidential
gesture.
"I'd better tell you all about the thing," he said. "Our folks were
people of some little standing in the county. In fact, as they were far
from rich, they had just standing enough to embarrass them. In most
respects, they were ultra-conventional with old-fashioned ideas, and,
though there was no open break, I'm afraid I didn't get on with them
quite as well as I should have done, which is why I came out to Canada.
They started me on the land decently, and twice when we'd harvested
frost and horse-sickness, they sent along the draft I asked them for.
That is one reason why I'm not going to worry them, though I'd very much
like another now. You see, there are two girls, as well as Reggie, who's
reading for the Bar."
"I don't think you have mentioned the lady yet."
"She's a connection of some friends of ours. Her mother, so far as I
understand it, married beneath her--a man her family didn't like. The
father and mother died, and Agatha, who was brought up by the father's
relations, was often at the Grange, a little, old-fashioned,
half-ruinous place, a mile or two from where we live in the North of
England. The Grange belongs to her mother's folks, but I think there was
still a feud between them and her father's people, who had her trained
to earn her living. We saw a good deal of each other, and fell in love,
as boy and girl will. Well, when I went back, one winter, after I'd been
here two years, Agatha was at the Grange again, and we decided then that
I was to bring her out as soon as I had a home to offer her."
Hawtrey broke off for a moment, and there was a trace of embarrassment
in his manner when he went on again. "Perhaps I ought to have managed it
sooner," he added. "Still, things never seem to go quite as one would
like with me, and you can understand that a dainty, delicate girl reared
in comfort in England would find it rough out here."
Wyllard glanced round the bare room in which he sat, and into the other,
which was also furnished in a remarkably primitive manner.
"Yes," he assented, "I can quite realize that."
"Well," said Hawtrey, "it's a thing that has been worrying me a good
deal of late, because, as a matter of fact, I'm not much farther forward
than I was four years ago. In the meanwhile, Agatha, who has some talent
for music, was in a first-class master's hands. Afterwards she gave
lessons, and got odd singing engagements. A week ago, I had a letter
from her in which she said that her throat was giving out."
He stopped again for a moment, with trouble in his face, and then
fumbling under his pillow produced a letter, which he carefully folded.
"We're rather good friends," he observed. "You can read that part of
it."
Wyllard took the letter, and a suggestion of quickening interest crept
into his eyes as he read. Then he looked up at Hawtrey.
"It's a brave letter--the kind a brave girl would write," he commented.
"Still, it's evident that she's anxious."
For a moment or two there was silence, which was broken only by Sally
clattering about the stove.
Dissimilar in character, as they were, the two men were firm friends,
and there had been a day when, as they worked upon a dizzy railroad
trestle, Hawtrey had held Wyllard fast when a plank slipped away. He had
thought nothing of the matter, but Wyllard was one who remembered things
of that kind.
"Now," said Hawtrey, after a long pause, "you see my trouble. This place
isn't fit for her, and I couldn't even go across for some time yet. But
her father's folks have died off, and there's nothing to be expected
from her mother's relatives. Any way, she can't be left to face the blow
alone. It's unthinkable. Well, there's only one course open to me, and
that's to raise as much money on a mortgage as I can, fit the place out
with fixings brought from Winnipeg, and sow a double acreage with
borrowed capital. I'll send for her as soon as I can get the house made
a little more comfortable."
Wyllard sat silent a moment or two, and then leaned forward in his
chair.
"No," he objected, "there are two other and wiser courses. Tell the girl
what things are like here, and just how you stand. She'd face it
bravely. There's no doubt of that."
Hawtrey looked at him sharply. "I believe she would, but considering
that you have never seen her, I don't quite know why you should be sure
of it."
Wyllard smiled. "The girl who wrote that letter wouldn't flinch."
"Well," said Hawtrey, "you can mention the second course."
"I'll let you have $1,000 at bank interest--which is less than any
land-broker would charge you--without a mortgage."
Again Hawtrey showed a certain embarrassment. "No," he replied, "I'm
afraid it can't be done. I had a kind of claim upon my people, though it
must be admitted that I've worked it off, but I can't quite bring myself
to borrow money from my friends."
Wyllard who saw that he meant it, made a gesture of resignation. "Then
you must let the girl make the most of it, but keep out of the hands of
the mortgage man. By the way, I haven't told you that I've decided to
make a trip to the Old Country. We had a bonanza crop last season, and
Martial could run the range for a month or two. After all, my father was
born yonder, and I can't help feeling now and then that I should have
made an effort to trace up that young Englishman's relatives, and tell
them what became of him."
"The one you struck in British Columbia? You have mentioned him, but, so
far as I remember, you never gave me any particulars about the thing."
Wyllard seemed to hesitate, which was not a habit of his.
"There is," he said, "not much to tell. I struck the lad sitting down,
played out, upon a trail that led over a big divide. It was clear that
he couldn't get any further, and there wasn't a settlement within a good
many leagues of the spot. We were up in the ranges prospecting then.
Well, we made camp and gave him supper--he couldn't eat very much--and
afterwards he told me what brought him there. It seemed to me he had
always been weedy in the chest, but he had been working waist-deep in an
icy creek, building a dam at a mine, until his lungs had given out. The
mining boss was a hard case and had no mercy on him, but the lad, who
had had a rough time in the Mountain Province, stayed with it until he
played out altogether."
Wyllard's face hardened as he mentioned the mining boss, and a curious
little sparkle crept into his eyes, but after a pause he proceeded
quietly:
"We did what we could for the boy. In fact, it rather broke up the
prospecting trip, but he was too far gone. He hung for a week or two,
and one of us brought a doctor out from the settlements, but the day
before we broke camp Jake and I buried him."
Hawtrey made a sign of comprehension. He was reasonably well acquainted
with his comrade's character, and fancied he knew who had brought the
doctor out. He knew also that Wyllard had been earning his living as a
railroad navvy or chopper then, and, in view of the cost of provisions
brought by pack-horse into the remoter bush, the reason why he had
abandoned his prospecting trip after spending a week or two taking care
of the sick lad was clear enough.
"You never learned his name?" Hawtrey asked.
"I didn't," answered Wyllard. "I went back to the mine, but several
things suggested that the name upon the pay-roll wasn't his real one. He
began a broken message the night he died, but the hemorrhage cut him off
in the middle of it. The wish that I should tell his people somehow was
in his eyes."
Wyllard broke off for a moment with the deprecatory gesture, which in
connection with the story was very expressive.
"I have never done it, but how could I? All I know is that he was a
delicately brought up young Englishman, and the only clew I have is a
watch with a London maker's name on it and a girl's photograph. I've a
very curious notion that I shall meet that girl some day."
Hawtrey, who made no comment, lay still for a minute or two, but his
face suggested that he was considering something.
"Harry," he said presently, "I shall not be fit for a journey for quite
a while yet, and if I went over to England I couldn't get the plowing
done and the crop in; which, if I'm going to be married, is absolutely
necessary."
There was no doubt about the truth of the statement, for the small
Western farmer has very seldom a balance in hand, and for that matter,
is not infrequently in debt to the nearest storekeeper. He must, as a
rule, secure a harvest or abandon his holding, since as soon as the crop
is thrashed the bills pour in. Wyllard made a sign of assent.
"Well," Hawtrey went on, "if you're going to England you could go as my
deputy. You could make Agatha understand what things are like here, and
bring her out to me. I'll arrange for the wedding to be soon as she
arrives."
Wyllard was not a conventional person, but he pointed out several
objections. Hawtrey overruled them, however, and eventually Wyllard
reluctantly assented.
"As it happens, Mrs. Hastings is going over, too, and if she comes back
about the same time the thing might be managed," he said. "I believe
she's in Winnipeg just now, but I'll write to her. By the way, have you
a photograph of Agatha?"
"I haven't," Hawtrey answered. "She gave me one, but somehow it got
mislaid on house-cleaning. That's rather an admission, isn't it?"
It occurred to Wyllard that it certainly was. In fact, it struck him as
a very curious thing that Hawtrey should have lost the picture which the
girl with whom he was in love had given him. He sat silent for a moment
or two, and then stood up.
"When I hear from Mrs. Hastings, I'll drive around again. Candidly, the
thing has somewhat astonished me. I always had a fancy it would be
Sally."
Hawtrey laughed. "Sally?" he replied. "We're first-rate friends, but I
never had the faintest notion of marrying her."
Wyllard went out to harness his team, and he did not notice that Sally,
who had approached the door with a tray in her hands a moment or two
earlier, drew back before him softly. When he had crossed the room she
set down the tray and, with her cheeks burning, leaned upon the table.
Then, feeling that she could not stay in the stove-heated room, she went
out, and stood in the slushy snow. One of her hands was tightly closed,
and all the color had vanished from her cheeks. However, she contrived
to give Hawtrey his supper by and by, and soon afterwards drove away.