THROUGH THE SNOW
Next morning, the mail-carrier, who, half-frozen and white all over,
drove up to the homestead out of a haze of falling snow, brought Agatha
a note from Gregory. The note was brief, and Agatha read it with a smile
of half-amused contempt, though she admitted that, considering
everything, he had handled the embarrassing situation gracefully. This
attitude, however, was only what she had expected, and she recognized
that it was characteristic of Hawtrey that he had written releasing her
from her engagement instead of seeking an interview. Gregory, as she
realized now, had always taken the easiest way, and it was evident that
he had not even the courage to face her. She quietly dropped the
note--it did not seem worth while to fling it--into the stove.
Agatha could forgive Gregory for choosing Sally. Though she was very human
in most respects, that scarcely troubled her, but she could not forgive
him for persisting in his claim to her while he was philandering--and this
seemed the most fitting term--with her rival. Had he only been honest, she
would not have let Wyllard go away without some assurance of her regard
which would have cheered the brave seafarer on his perilous journey. And
it was clear to her that Wyllard might never come back again! Her face
grew hard when she thought of it, and she had thought of it frequently.
For that double-dealing she felt she almost hated Gregory.
A month passed drearily, with Arctic frost outside on the prairie, and
little to do inside the homestead except to cook and gorge the stove,
and endeavor to keep warmth in one's body. Water froze solid inside the
house, stinging draughts crept in through the double windows, and there
were evenings when Mrs. Hastings and Agatha, shivering close beside the
stove, waited anxiously for the first sign of Hastings and the hired
man, who were bringing back a sled loaded with birch logs from a
neighboring bluff. The bluff was only a few miles away, but men sent out
to cut fuel in the awful cold snaps in that country have now and then
sunk down in the snow with the life frozen out of them. There were other
days when the wooden building seemed to rock beneath the buffeting of
the icy hurricane, and it was a perilous matter to cross the narrow open
space between it and the stables through the haze of swirling snow.
The weather moderated a little by and by, and one afternoon Mrs.
Hastings drove off to Lander's with the one hired man that they kept
through the winter. Mr. Hastings had set out earlier for the bluff, and
as the Scandinavian maid had been married and had gone away, Agatha was
left in the house with the little girls.
It was bitterly cold, even inside the dwelling, but Agatha was busy
baking, and she failed to notice that the temperature had become almost
Arctic, until she stood beside a window as evening was closing in. A
low, dingy sky hung over the narrowing sweep of prairie which stretched
back, gleaming lividly, into the creeping dusk, but a few minutes later
a haze of snow whirled across it and cut off the dreary scene.
The light died out suddenly, and Agatha and the little girls drew their
chairs close up to the stove. The house was very quiet, and Agatha could
hear the mournful wailing of the wind about it, with now and then the
soft swish of driven snow upon the walls and roofing shingles.
The table was laid for supper, and the kettle was singing cheerfully
upon the stove, but there was no sign of the other members of the
family, and presently Agatha began to feel a little anxious. Mrs.
Hastings, she fancied, would stay one night at Lander's, if there was
any unfavorable change in the weather, but she wondered what could be
detaining Hastings. It was not very far to the bluff, and as he could
not have continued chopping in the darkness it seemed to her that he
should have reached the homestead.
He did not come, however, and she grew more uneasy as the time slipped
by. The wail of the wind grew louder and the stove crackled more
noisily. At last one of the little girls rose with a cry that she
thought she heard the beat of hoofs. The impression grew more distinct
until she was sure that some one was riding toward the homestead, and
Agatha heard the hoofbeats, but soon after that the sound ceased
abruptly, and she could not hear the rattle of flung-down logs which she
had expected. This struck Agatha as curious, since she knew that
Hastings generally unloaded the sled before he led the team to the
stable. She waited a moment or two, but except for the doleful wind
nothing broke the silence now, and when the stillness became oppressive
she moved towards the door.
The wind tore the door from her grasp when she opened it, and flung it
against the wall with a jarring crash, while a fine powder that stung
the skin unbearably drove into her face. For a few moments she could see
nothing but a whirling haze, and then, as her eyes became accustomed to
the change of light, she dimly made out the blurred white figures of the
horses standing still, with the load of birch logs rising a shapeless
mass behind them. There seemed to be nobody with the team, and, though
she twice called sharply, no answer came out of the falling snow. Then
she recognized the significant fact that the team had come home alone.
It was difficult to close the door, and before she accomplished what was
a feat of strength her hands had stiffened and grown almost useless, and
the hall was strewn with snow. It was every evident that there was
something for her to do. It cost her three or four minutes to slip on a
blanket skirt, and soft hide moccasins, with gum boots over them.
Muffled in her furs, she opened the door again. When she had contrived
to close it, the cold struck through her to the bone as she floundered
towards the team. There was nobody to whom she could look for
assistance, but that could not be helped. It was evident that some
misfortune had befallen Hastings and that she must act wisely and
quickly.
The first thing necessary was to unload the sled, and, though the
birches seldom grow to any size in a prairie bluff, some of the logs
were heavy. She was gasping with the effort when she had flung a few of
them down, after which she discovered that the rest were held up by one
or two stout poles let into sockets. Try as she would, she could not get
them out, and then she remembered that Hastings kept a whipsaw in a shed
close by. She contrived to find it, and attacked the poles in breathless
haste, working clumsily with mittened hands, until there was a crash and
rattle as she sprang clear. Then she started the team, and the rest of
the logs rolled off into the snow.
That was one difficulty overcome, but the next appeared more serious.
She must find the bluff as soon as possible, and in the snow-filled
darkness she could not tell where it lay. Even if she could have seen
anything of the kind, there was no landmark on the desolate level waste
between it and the homestead. She, however, remembered that she had one
guide.
Hastings and his hired man had recently hauled in a great many loads of
birch logs, and as they had made a well-worn trail it seemed to her just
possible that she might trace it back to the bluff. No great weight of
snow had fallen yet.
Before Agatha set out she had a struggle with the team, for the horses
evidently had no intention of making another journey if they could help
it, but at last she swung them into the narrow riband of trail, and
plodded away into the darkness at their heads. It was then that she
first clearly realized what she had undertaken. Very little of her face
was left bare between her fur cap and collar, but every inch of
uncovered skin tingled as if it had been lashed with thorns or stabbed
with innumerable needles. The air was thick with a fine powder that
filled her eyes and nostrils, the wind buffeted her, and there was an
awful cold--the cold that taxes the utmost strength of mind and body of
those who are forced to face it on the shelterless prairie.
Still the girl struggled on, feeling with half-frozen feet for the
depression of the trail, and grappling with a horrible dismay when she
failed to find it. She was never sure to what extent she guided the
team, or how far from mere force of habit they headed for the bluff, but
as the time went by, and there was nothing before her but the whirling
snow, she grew feverishly apprehensive. The trail was becoming fainter
and fainter, and now and then she could find no trace of it for several
minutes.
The horses floundered on, blurred shapes as white as the haze they crept
through, and at length she felt that they were dipping into a hollow.
Then a faint sense of comfort crept into her heart as she remembered
that a shallow ravine which seamed the prairie ran through the bluff.
She called out, and started at the faintness of her voice. It seemed
such a pitifully feeble thing. There was no answer, nothing but the soft
fall of the horses' hoofs and the wail of the wind, but the wind was
reassuring, for the volume of sound suggested that it was driving
through a bluff close by.
A few minutes later Agatha cried out again, and this time she felt the
throbbing of her heart, for a faint sound came out of the whirling haze.
She pulled the horses up, and as she stood still listening, a blurred
object appeared almost in front of them. It shambled forward in a
curious manner, stopped, and moved again, and in another moment or two
Hastings lurched by her with a stagger and sank down into a huddled
white heap on the sled. She turned back towards him, and he seemed to
look up at her.
"Turn the team," he said.
Agatha obeyed, and sat down beside him when the horses moved on again.
"A small birch I was chopping fell on me," he said. "I don't know
whether it smashed my ankle, or whether I twisted it wriggling
clear--the thing pinned me down. It is badly hurt anyway."
He spoke disconnectedly and hoarsely, as if in pain, and Agatha, who
noticed that one of his gum boots was almost ripped to pieces, realized
part of what he must have suffered. She knew that nobody pinned to the
ground and helpless could have withstood that cold for more than a very
little while.
"Oh," she cried, "it must have been dreadful!"
"I found a branch," Hastings added. "It helped me, but I fell over every
now and then. Headed for the homestead. Don't think I could have made it
if you hadn't come for me!" He stopped abruptly, and turned to her. "You
mustn't sit down. Walk--keep warm--but don't try to lead the team."
Agatha struggled forward as far as the near horse's shoulder. The team
slightly sheltered her, and it was a little easier walking with a hand
upon a trace. It was a relief to cling to something, for the wind that
flung the snow into her face drove her garments against her limbs, so
that now and then she could scarcely move. When her strength began to
flag, every yard of the homeward journey was made with infinite pain and
difficulty. At times she could scarcely see the horses, and again,
blinded, breathless and dazed, she stumbled along beside them. She did
not know how Hastings was faring, but she half-consciously recognized
that if once she let the trace go the sled would slip away from her and
she would sink down to freeze.
At last, however, a dim mass crept out of the white haze ahead, and a
moment later a man laid hold of her. The man told her that Mrs. Hastings
was with him, and that the homestead was close at hand. Agatha learned
afterwards that they had reached the house a short time previously and
had immediately set out in search of her and Hastings.
She floundered on beside the horses, with another team dimly visible in
front of her, until a faint ray of light streamed out into the snow.
Then the team stopped, and she had only a hazy recollection of
staggering into a lighted room in the homestead and sinking into a
chair. What they did with Hastings she did not know, but Mrs. Hastings,
who went with her to her room, kissed her before she left her.
Nobody could have faced the snow next morning, and it was several days
later when Watson, who had attended Hawtrey after his accident, was
brought over. Watson did what he could, but it was several weeks before
Hastings could use his injured foot again. Before Hastings recovered,
news was sent him of some difficulty in the affairs of a small creamery
at a settlement further along the line, in which he and his wife held an
interest, and Mrs. Hastings went East to make inquiries respecting it.
She took Agatha with her, and one evening after she had finished the
business she had in hand they left a little way station by the Pacific
train.
The car that they entered was empty except for two persons who sat close
together near the middle of it. A big lamp overhead shed a brilliant
light, and Agatha started when one of their fellow passengers looked
around as she approached him. In another moment she stood face to face
with Hawtrey, who had risen, while Sally gazed up at her with a curious
expression in her eyes. Agatha was perfectly composed. She felt no
sympathy for Hawtrey, who was visibly confused. She was not surprised
that he found the situation a somewhat difficult one.
"You have been to Winnipeg?" she asked.
"No," answered Hawtrey, with evident relief that she had chosen a safe
topic, "only to Brandon. Sally has some friends there, and she spends a
day or two with them once or twice each winter. Brandon is quite a
lively place after the prairie. I went in last night to bring her back."
He turned to his companion, "I think you have met Miss Ismay?"
Agatha was conscious that Sally's eyes were fixed upon her, and that
Mrs. Hastings was watching them all with quiet amusement, but she was a
little astonished when the girl moved some wraps from the seat opposite
her.
"Yes," she said, "I have. If Miss Ismay doesn't mind, I should like to
talk to her."
Hawtrey's relief was evident, and Agatha glanced at him with a smile
that was half-contemptuous. He had carefully kept out of her way since
he had written her the note, and now it seemed only natural that if
there was anything to be said, he should leave it to Sally.
"I think I'll go along for a smoke," he observed with evident impatience
to leave them, and he retired precipitately.
Mrs. Hastings looked after him, and laughed in a manner that caused
Sally to wince.
"He doesn't seem anxious to talk to me," she said. "You can come along
to the next car by and by, Agatha."
She moved away, and Agatha, who sat down opposite Sally, looked at her
questioningly.
"Well?" she said.
Sally made a little deprecatory gesture. "I've something to say, but
it's hard. To begin with, are you very angry with me?"
"No," answered Agatha. "I think I really am a little angry with Gregory,
but not altogether because he chose you."
Sally considered this statement for a moment or two before she looked up
again.
"Well," she confessed, "not long ago, I wanted to hate you, and I guess
I 'most succeeded. It made things easier. Still, I want to say that I
don't hate you now." She hesitated a moment. "I'd like you to forgive
me."
Agatha smiled. "I can do that willingly," she said.
Sally was disconcerted by her quiet ease of manner and perfect candor.
It was evidently not quite what she had looked for.
"Then you were never very fond of him?" she suggested.
"No," answered Agatha reflectively, "since you have compelled me to say
it, I don't think now that I ever was really fond of him, though I don't
know how I can make that quite clear to you. It was only after I came
out here that I--realized--Gregory. It was not the actual man I fell in
love with in England."
Sally turned her face away, for Agatha had made her meaning perfectly
plain. Somewhat to Sally's astonishment, she showed no sign of
resentment.
"Then," Sally responded, "it is way better that you didn't marry him."
She paused, and seemed to search for words with which to express
herself. "I knew all along all there was to know about Gregory--except
that he was going to marry you, and it was some time before I heard
that--and I was ready to take him. I was fond of him."
Agatha's heart went out to her. "Yes," she said simply, "it is a very
good thing that I let him go." She smiled. "That, however, doesn't quite
describe it, Sally."
Gregory's fiancée flushed. "I couldn't have said that, but you don't
quite understand yet. I said I knew all there was to know about him--and
you never did. You made too much of him in England, and when you came
out here you only saw the things you didn't like in him. Still, they
weren't the only ones."
Agatha started at this statement, for she realized that part of it was
certainly true, and she could admit the possibility of all of it being a
fact. Gregory might possess a few good qualities that she had never
discovered!
"Perhaps I did," she admitted. "I don't think it matters now."
"They're all of them mixed," persisted Sally. "One can't expect too
much, but you can bear with a great deal when you're fond of any one."
Agatha sat silent a while, for she was troubled by a certain sense of
wholesome confusion. It seemed to her that Sally had the clearer vision.
Love had given her discernment as well as charity, and, not expecting
perfection, it was the man's strong points upon which she fixed her
eyes.
"Yes," she replied presently. "I am glad you look at it that way,
Sally."
The girl laughed. "Oh!" she said, "I've only seen one man on the prairie
who was quite white all through, and I had a kind of notion that he was
fond of you."
Agatha sat very still, but it cost her an effort.
Her face asked the question that was in her heart.
"Harry Wyllard," announced Sally.
Agatha made no answer, and Sally changed the subject. "Well," said
Sally, "after all, I want you to be friends with me."
"I think you can count on that," replied Agatha with a smile, as she
rose to rejoin Mrs. Hastings.