GREGORY MAKES UP HIS MIND
Wheat was still being flung on to a lifeless market when Hawtrey walked
out of the mortgage jobber's place of business in the railroad
settlement one bitter afternoon. He had a big roll of paper money in his
pocket, and was feeling particularly pleased with himself, for prices
had steadily fallen since he had joined in the bear operation Edmonds
had suggested, and the result of it had proved eminently satisfactory.
This was why he had just given Edmonds a further draft on Wyllard's
bank, with instructions to sell wheat down on a more extensive scale. He
meant to operate in earnest now, which was exactly what the broker had
anticipated, but in this case Edmonds had decided to let Hawtrey operate
alone. Indeed, being an astute and far-seeing man, the broker had gone
so far as to hint that caution might be advisable, though he had at the
same time been careful to show Hawtrey only those market reports which
had a distinctly pessimistic tone. Edmonds was rather disposed to agree
with the men who looked forward to a reaction before very long.
Hawtrey glanced about him as he strode down the street. It was wholly
unpaved, and deeply rutted, but the drifted snow had partly filled the
hollows, and it did not look very much rougher than it would have
appeared if somebody had recently driven a plow through it. Along both
sides of it ran a rude plank sidewalk, raised a foot or two above the
ground, so that foot-passengers might escape the mire of the thaw in
spring. Immediately behind the sidewalk squat, weatherbeaten, frame
houses, all of much the same pattern, rose abruptly. On some of the
houses the fronts, carried up as high as the ridge of the shingled roof,
had an unpleasantly square appearance. Here and there a dilapidated
wagon stood with lowered pole before a store, but it was a particularly
bitter afternoon, and there was nobody out of doors. The place looked
desolate and forlorn, with a leaden sky hanging over it and an icy wind
sweeping through the streets.
Hawtrey strode along briskly until he reached the open space which
divided the little wooden town from the unfenced railroad track. It was
strewn with fine dusty snow, and the huge bulk of the grain elevators
towered high above it against the lowering sky. A freight locomotive was
just hauling a long string of wheat cars out of a sidetrack. The
locomotive stopped presently, and though Hawtrey could not see anything
beyond the big cars, he knew by the shouts which broke out that
something unusual was going on. He was expecting Sally, who was going
east to Brandon by a train due in an hour or two.
When the shouts grew a little louder he walked around in front of the
locomotive, which stood still with the steam blowing noisily from a
valve, and he saw the cause of the commotion. A pair of vicious,
half-broken bronchos were backing a light wagon away from the locomotive
on the other side of the track, and a fur-wrapped figure sat stiffly on
the driving seat. Hawtrey called out and ran suddenly forward as he saw
that it was Sally who was in peril.
Just then one of the horses lifted its fore hoofs off the ground, and
being jerked back by the pole plunged and kicked furiously, until the
other horse flung up its head and the wagon went backward with a run.
Then they stopped, and there was a series of resounding crashes against
the front of the vehicle. Hawtrey was within a pace or two of the wagon
when Sally recognized him.
"Keep off," she cried, "you can't lead them! They don't want to cross
the track, but they've got to if I pull the jaws off them."
This was more forcible than elegant, and the shrill harshness of the
girl's voice jarred upon Hawtrey, though he was getting accustomed to
Sally's phraseology. He understood that she would not have his help,
even if it would have been of much avail, which was doubtful, and he
reluctantly moved back toward the group of loungers who were watching
her.
"I guess you've no call to worry about her," said one of the men. "She's
holding them on the lowest notch, and it's a mighty powerful bit fixing.
Besides, that girl could drive anything that goes on four legs."
"Sure," said one of the others. "She's a daisy."
Hawtrey was annoyed to notice that in place of being embarrassed Sally
evidently rather enjoyed the situation, though several of the
freight-train and station hands had now joined the group of loungers and
were cheering her on. He had already satisfied himself that she had not
a trace of fear. In another moment or two, however, he forgot his slight
sense of disapproval, for Sally, sitting tense and strung up on the
driving seat with a glow in her cheeks and a snap in her eyes, was
wholly admirable. There was lithe grace, strength, and resolution in
every line of her fur-wrapped figure. It is possible that her appearance
would have been less effective in a drawing-room, but in the wagon she
was in her place and in harmony with her surroundings. Lowering sky,
gleaming snow, fur-clad men, and even the big, dingy locomotive, all
fitted curiously into the scene, and she made an imposing central figure
as she contended with the half-tamed team. Hawtrey was conscious of a
tumult of emotion as he watched her.
The struggle with the team lasted for several minutes, during which the
horses plunged and kicked again, until Sally stood boldly erect a moment
while the wagon rocked to and fro. Her tall, straight figure was
commanding and her face with a tress of loosened hair streaming out
beneath her fur cap was glowing with excitement. Again and again she
swung the stinging whip. Then it seemed that the team had had enough,
for as she dropped lightly back into the seat the bronchos broke into a
gallop, and in another moment the wagon, jolting noisily as it bounced
across the track, vanished behind the locomotive. Gregory heard a shout
of acclamation as he turned and hurried after it.
Sally drove right through the settlement and back outside it before she
could check the horses, and she had just pulled them up in front of the
wooden hotel when Hawtrey reached it. He stood beside the wagon holding
up his hand to her, and Sally, who laughed, dropped bodily into his
arms, which was, as he realized, a thing that Agatha certainly would not
have done. He set Sally down upon the sidewalk, and when a man came out
to take the team Hawtrey took her into the hotel.
"It was the locomotive that did it," she explained. "They were most too
scared for anything, but I hate to be beaten by a team. Ours know too
much to try, but I got Haslem to drive me in. I dropped him at Norton's,
who'll bring him on."
"He oughtn't to have left you with them," said Hawtrey severely.
Sally laughed. "Well," she replied, "I'd quit driving if I couldn't
handle any team you or Haslem could put the harness on."
The hotels in the smaller prairie settlements offer one very little
comfort or privacy. As a rule they contain two general rooms, in one of
which the three daily meals are served with a punctuality which is as
unvarying as the menu. The traveler who arrives a few minutes too late
for one meal must wait until the next is ready. The second room usually
contains a rusty stove, and a few uncomfortable benches; and there are
not infrequently a couple of rows of very small match-boarded cubicles
on the floor overhead. The Occident was, however, a notable exception.
For one thing, the building was unusually large, and its proprietor had
condescended to study the requirements of his guests, who came from the
outlying settlements. There were two rooms above the general lounging
place on the first floor, one of which was reserved for the wives and
daughters of the farmers who drove in long distances to purchase stores
or clothing. In the other, dry-goods traveling men were permitted to
display their wares, and privileged customers who wished to leave by a
train, the departure of which did not correspond with the hotel
arrangements, were occasionally supplied with meals.
It was getting dusk when Hawtrey and Sally entered the first of the two
rooms, where the proprietor's wife was just lighting the big lamp. The
woman smiled at Gregory, who was a favorite of hers.
"Go right along, and I'll bring your supper up in a minute or two," she
said. "I guess you'll want it after your drive."
Hawtrey strode on down a short corridor towards the second room, but
Sally stopped behind him a moment.
"Is Hastings in town?" she asked. "I thought I saw his new wagon
outside."
"His wife is," said the other woman. "She and Miss Ismay drove in to buy
some things."
Sally asked no further questions. It was evident that Mrs. Hastings
would not start home until after supper, and as the regular hour meal
would be ready in about half an hour it seemed certain that she would
come back to the hotel very shortly. That left Sally very little time,
for she had no desire that Hawtrey should meet either Mrs. Hastings or
Agatha until she had carried out the purpose she had in hand. It was at
Gregory's special request that she had permitted him to drive in to see
her off, and she meant to make the most of the opportunity. She had long
ago regretted her folly in running away from his homestead when he lay
helpless, but things had changed considerably since then.
When she entered the second room, she said nothing to Hawtrey about what
she had heard. The room was cozily warm and brightly lighted, and the
little table was laid for two with a daintiness very uncommon on the
prairie. It was a change for Sally to be waited on and to have a meal
set before her which she had not prepared with her own fingers, and she
sank into a chair with a smile of appreciation.
"It's real nice, Gregory," she remarked. "Supper's never quite the same
when you've had to stand over the stove ever so long getting it ready."
She sighed. "When I have to do that after working hard all day I don't
want to eat."
The man felt compassionate. Sally, as he was aware, had to work
unusually hard at the desolate homestead where she and her mother
perforce undertook a great many duties that do not generally fall to a
woman. Creighton, who was getting to be an old man, was of a grasping
nature, and hired assistance only when it was indispensable.
"Well," Hawtrey responded, "I'm not particularly fond of cooking
either."
Sally glanced at him with a provoking smile, for he had given her a
lead. "Then," she asked with a coquettish raising of the eyebrows, "why
don't you get somebody else to do it for you?"
This was, as Gregory recognized, almost painfully direct, but there was
no doubt that Sally looked very pretty with the faint flush of color in
her cheeks and the tantalizing light in her eyes.
"As a matter of fact, that's a thing I've been thinking over rather
often the last few months," he said, and he laughed. "It's rather a pity
you don't seem to like cooking, Sally."
Sally appeared to consider this. "Oh," she said, "it depends a lot on
who it's for."
Hawtrey became suddenly serious for a moment or two. There was no doubt
that at one time he would have considered it impossible that he should
marry a girl of Sally's description, and even now he had misgivings. He
had, however, almost made up his mind, and he was not exactly pleased
that the proprietor's wife came in with the meal, and stayed to talk a
while.
When the woman went out he watched Sally with close and what he imagined
was unobtrusive attention while she ate, and though he was aware of the
indelicacy of his scrutiny, he was relieved to find that she did nothing
that was actually repugnant to him. There was a certain daintiness about
the girl, and her frank appreciation of the good things set before her
only amused him. She was certainly much more companionable than Agatha
had been since she came out to Canada, and her cheerful laughter had a
pleasant ring.
When at last the meal was over Sally bade Gregory draw her chair up to
the stove.
"Now," she said, as she pointed to another chair across the room, "you
can sit yonder and smoke. I know you want to."
Hawtrey remembered that Agatha did not like tobacco smoke, and always
had been inclined to exact a certain conventional deference which he had
grown to regard as rather out of place upon the prairie.
"My chair's a very long way off," he objected.
Sally showed no sign of conceding the point as he had expected, and he
took out his pipe. He wanted to think, for once more instincts deep down
in him stirred in faint protest against what he almost meant to do.
There were also several points that required practical consideration,
and among them were his financial difficulties, though these did not
trouble him so much as they had done a few months earlier. For a minute
or two neither of them said anything, and then Sally spoke again.
"You're worrying about something, Gregory," she said.
Hawtrey admitted it. "Yes," he replied, "I am. My place is a poor one,
and when Wyllard comes home I shall have to go back to it again. Things
would be so much easier for me just now if I had the Range."
The girl looked at him steadily with reproach in her eyes.
"Oh," she said, "your place is quite big enough if you'd only take hold
and run it as it ought to be run. You could surely do it, Gregory, if
you tried."
The man's resistance grew feebler, as it usually did when his prudence
was at variance with his desires. Sally's words were in this case wholly
guileless, as he recognized, and they stirred him. He made no comment,
however, and she spoke again.
"Isn't it worth while, though there are things you would have to give
up?" she asked. "You couldn't go away and waste your money in Winnipeg
every now and then."
Hawtrey laughed. "No," he admitted; "I suppose if I meant to make
anything of the place that couldn't be done. Still, you see, it's
horribly lonely sitting by oneself beside the stove in the long winter
nights. I wouldn't want to go to Winnipeg if I had only somebody to keep
me company."
He turned towards her suddenly with decision in his face, and Sally
lowered her eyes.
"Don't you think you could get anybody if you tried?" she inquired.
"The trouble," said Hawtrey gravely, "is that I have so little to offer.
It's a poor place, and I'm almost afraid, Sally, that I'm rather a poor
farmer. As you have once or twice pointed out, I don't stay with things.
Still, it might be different if there was any particular reason why I
should."
He rose, and crossing the room, stood close beside her chair. "Sally,"
he added, "would you be afraid to take hold and see what you could make
of the place and me? Perhaps you could make something, though it would
probably be very hard work, my dear."
The blood surged into the girl's face, and she looked up at him with
open triumph in her eyes. It was her hour, and Sally, as it happened,
was not afraid of anything.
"Oh!" she exclaimed; "you really want me?"
"Yes," said Hawtrey quietly; "I think I have wanted you for ever so
long, though I did not know it until lately."
"Then," she said, "I'll do what I can, Gregory."
[Illustration: "'WOULD YOU BE AFRAID TO SEE WHAT YOU COULD MAKE OF
THE PLACE AND ME?'" (Page 242)]
Hawtrey bent his head and kissed her with a deference that he had not
expected to feel, for there was something in the girl's simplicity and
the completeness of her surrender which, though the thing seemed
astonishing, laid a restraint on him. As he sat down on the arm of her
chair with a hand upon her shoulder, he was more astonished still, for
she quietly made it clear that she expected a good deal from him. For
one thing, he realized that she meant him to take and to keep a foremost
place among his neighbors, and, though Sally had not the gift of clear
and imaginative expression, it became apparent that this was less for
her own sake than his. She was, with somewhat crude forcefulness, trying
to arouse a sense of responsibility in the man, to incite him to
resolute action and wholesome restraint, and, as he remembered what he
had hitherto thought of her, a salutary sense of confusion crept upon
him.
She seemed to recognize it, for at length she glanced up at him sharply.
"What is it, Gregory? Why do you look at me like that?" she asked.
Hawtrey smiled in a perplexed fashion. Hitherto she had made her appeal
through his senses to one side of his nature only. There was no doubt on
that point, but now it seemed there were in her qualities he had never
suspected. She had desired him as a husband, but it was becoming clear
that she would not be content with the mere possession of him. Sally, it
seemed, had wider ideas in her mind, and, though the idea seemed almost
ludicrous, she wanted to be proud of him.
"My dear," he faltered, "I can't quite tell you--but you have made me
heartily ashamed. I'm afraid it's a very rash thing you are going to
do."
She looked at him with candid anxiety, and then appeared to dismiss the
subject with a smile.
"There is so much I want to say, and it mayn't be so easy--afterwards,"
she said. "It's a pity the train starts so soon."
"We can get over that difficulty, anyway," said Hawtrey. "I'll come on
as far as I can with you, and get back from one of the way stations by
the Pacific express."
Sally made no objections, and drawing a little closer to him she talked
on in a low voice.