HAIL
The air had grown very still again when Florence leaned on the veranda
balustrade, gazing into the darkness, which was now intense. The brief
shower of heavy rain had wet the grass, and waves of warm moisture
charged with an odor like that of a hothouse seemed to flow about her
and recede again, leaving her almost shivering in her gauzy dress, for
between whiles it was by contrast strangely cold. She could hear Hunter
calling to the horses, which apparently broke away from him now and then
in short, savage rushes, but she could see nothing of him or them.
Presently the sharp cries of one of the hired men broke in, and
Florence, who felt her nerves tingling, became conscious of an
unpleasant tension.
Then for a second, or part of it, the figures of moving men and beasts
became visible, etched hard and black against an overwhelming
brightness, as a blaze of lightning smote the prairie. The glare of it
was dazzling, and when it vanished Florence was left gripping the
balustrade, bewildered and wrapped in an intolerable darkness. After
that a drumming of hoofs and a hoarse cry broke upon her ears, but both
were drowned and lost in a deafening crash of thunder. It rolled far
back into the distance in great reverberations, and while her light
skirt fluttered about her in an icy draught another sound emerged from
them as they died away.
It grew nearer and louder in a persistent, portentous crescendo, for at
first it suggested the galloping of a squadron of horse, then a
regiment, and at length the furious approach of a division of cavalry.
Holding fast to the balustrade, she could even imagine that there were
mingled with it the crash of jolting wheels and a clamor of wild voices
as of a host behind pressing onward to the onslaught. The din was
scarcely drowned by a tremendous rumbling that twice filled the air; and
there was forced upon her a vague perception of the fact that it was a
very real attack upon the things that enabled her to have the ease she
loved. Wheat and cattle, stables and homestead must, it almost seemed,
go down, and there were, as sole and pitiful defense, two men somewhere
out in the darkness exposed to the outbreak of elemental fury. There was
now no sign of her husband or his companion. It was quite impossible to
hear any sound they made, and she stood quivering, until, loosing her
hold of the balustrade with an effort, she ran down the steps.
"Elcot!" she cried.
No answer reached her. She knew it was useless to call, but an
overmastering fear came upon her as she remembered the mad flight of the
terrified horses, and she ran on a few paces over the wet grass, crying
out again. Then she was beaten back, gasping, with her hands raised in a
futile attempt to shield her face and her dress driven flat against her,
as a merciless shower of ice broke out of the darkness. It swept the
veranda like the storm of lead from a volley, only it did not cease;
crashing upon the balustrade and lashing the front of the house, while
the very building seemed to rock in the savage blast. She staggered back
before it, too dazed and bewildered to notice where she was going,
until she struck the wall and cowered against the boards. There was a
narrow roof above her, but it did not keep off much of the wind-driven
hail, and she could not be sure that the whole of it was now standing.
The veranda was wrapped in darkness, for the lamp had blown out.
She never remembered how long she stood there. For a time, every sense
was concentrated on an effort to shelter her face from the hail which
fell upon her thinly covered arms and shoulders like a scourge of
knotted wire. Then, faint and breathless, she crept forward toward where
she supposed the door must be, and staggered into the unlighted room.
She struck a chair, and sank into it, to sit shivering and listening
appalled to the cataclysm of sound.
Then a terror which had been driven out of her mind for the last few
minutes crept back. Elcot was out amid the rush of hurtling ice; and she
knew him well enough to feel certain that he would stay in the paddock
until the horses were secured. She could picture him trying to guide the
maddened beasts out between the slip-rails, heading them off from the
perilous fence they rushed down upon at a terror-stricken gallop, or,
perhaps, lying upon the hail-swept grass with a broken limb. It was
horrible to contemplate, and she became conscious of a torturing anxiety
concerning the safety of the man for whose comfort she had scarcely
spared a thought since she married him.
Though it was difficult, she contrived to shut the door and window, and
to relight the lamp, and then she glanced round the room. Elcot's paper
had fallen to pieces and had been scattered here and there, while a
long pile of hail lay melting on the floor. She could understand now
why she felt bruised all over except where the fullness of her dress had
protected her, for she had never seen hail like this in England. The
jagged lumps were of all shapes, and most of them seemed the size of
hazelnuts. Then she became conscious that her hair was streaming about
her face and that her dress clung saturated to her limbs. This, however,
appeared of no moment, for her anxiety about her husband was becoming
intolerable.
Nerving herself for an effort, she moved toward the door. It was flung
back upon her when she lifted the latch, and she staggered beneath the
blow. Then, panting hard, she forced it to again and went back limply to
her chair. It was utterly impossible for her to face that hail. She had
the will to do so, and she was no coward, but the flesh she had pampered
and shielded failed her, which was in no way astonishing. Wheat-growers,
herders, police troopers, and, unfortunately, patient women learn that
the body must be sternly brought into subjection to the mind by long
repression before one can face wind-driven ice, snow-laden blizzard, or
the awful cold which now and then descends upon the vast spaces of
western Canada.
In a few more minutes the uproar subsided. The drumming on the walls and
roof suddenly ceased and the wind no longer buffeted the house. The
tumult receded in gradations of sinking sound, until at last there was
silence, except for the drip from the veranda eaves. It was shortly
broken by quick footsteps and Florence turned toward the door as Hunter
came in.
His face showed where the hail had beaten it, for his hat had gone; the
water ran from him, and one hand was bleeding. He looked limp and
exhausted, but what struck her most was the sternness of his expression.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
Hunter glanced down at his reddened hand.
"Nothing to speak of. I got a rip from the fence somehow, and one leg's
a little stiff; one of the horses must have kicked me. Guess I'll know
more about it to-morrow."
"And the horses?"
"We managed to get them out. But what were you doing outside? Your dress
is dripping."
Florence hesitated. It seemed extraordinary that while she had seldom
felt the least diffidence in dealing as appeared expedient with any of
the men she had known, she was unable to inform her husband that she had
been driven into the storm by anxiety for his safety; but somehow she
could not get the words out. She recognized that it had never occurred
to him that she could have been actuated by any motive of this kind,
though she was forced to own that, considering everything, this was no
more than natural. The thought brought a half-bitter smile into her
eyes.
"I was on the steps when the hail began, and I could scarcely get back
into the house," she said. "Can it have done very much harm?"
Hunter made a gesture of dejection.
"That's a point I'm most afraid to investigate, and it can't be done
to-night. In the meanwhile, hadn't you better get those wet things off?"
His preoccupied manner indicated that he was in no mood for
conversation, and Florence left him standing moodily still. It was some
minutes before he felt chilly and went upstairs to change his clothes,
but he came back almost immediately and took some papers and a couple
of account books from a bureau. After this he lighted his pipe and sat
down to make copious extracts, with a view to discovering how he stood.
He had no great trouble in ascertaining his liabilities, for he was a
methodical man, but it was different when he came to consider what he
had to set off against them. He had counted on his wheat crop to leave
him a certain surplus, but it now seemed unfortunately probable that
there would be no harvest at all that year. Admitting this, he busied
himself with figures in an attempt to discover how far it might be
possible to convert what promised to be a crushing disaster into a
temporary defeat, and several hours slipped by before any means of doing
so occurred to him. His expenses had been unusually heavy, there were
many points to consider and balance against each other, and a gray light
was breaking low down on the rim of the prairie when at length he rose
and thrust the books back into the bureau. The night's labor had at
least convinced him that if he were to hold his own during the next
twelve months it could be only by persistent effort and stern economy,
and he had misgivings as to how his wife would regard the prospect of
the latter.
On going out on to the veranda a few minutes later he was astonished to
hear footsteps behind him, and when he turned and waited Florence came
out of the doorway.
"I heard you moving and I came down," she said. "Are you going to look
at the wheat?"
"Yes," replied Hunter. "I'm afraid there won't be very much of it to
see."
The light was growing a little clearer and Florence noticed the
weariness of his face. He seemed to hold himself slackly and she had
never seen him fall into that dejected attitude. The man was, however,
physically jaded, for a day of severe labor had preceded the struggle in
the paddock and the hours he had spent in anxious thought, and he had,
as he was quite aware, a heavy blow to face.
"May I go with you?" she asked hesitatingly.
"Why?"
The question was not encouraging, nor was his manner, and Florence felt
reluctant to explain that her request had been prompted by a desire to
share his troubles. She was conscious that a statement to this effect
would probably appear somewhat astonishing, as she had never offered to
do anything of the kind hitherto.
"If you must have a reason, I'm as anxious to see what damage the hail
has done as you are. It can't very well affect you without affecting
me."
"Yes," agreed Hunter, "that's undoubtedly the case. I'm afraid you'll
have to put up with me and the homestead for the next twelve months.
It's quite likely that there'll be very few new dresses, either."
Florence endeavored to keep her patience. It was not often that she felt
in a penitent mood, and he did not seem disposed to make it any easier
for her.
"Do you suppose new dresses are a matter of vital importance to me?" she
asked.
"Well," answered Hunter, "since you put the question, several things
almost lead me to believe it."
He turned abruptly toward the steps.
"If you are coming with me, we may as well go along."
They crossed the wet paddock together, and now and then Florence
glanced covertly at her husband's face. It was set and anxious, but
there was no sign of surrender in it. She had, however, not expected to
see the latter, for she knew that Elcot was one who could, when occasion
demanded it, make a very stubborn fight.
At length they stopped and stood looking out across what at sunset had
been a vast sea of tall, green wheat. Now it had gone down, parts of it
as before the knife of a reaper, while the rest lay crushed and flung
this way and that, as though an army had marched through it. Lush blades
and half-formed ears were smashed into the mire and the odd clusters of
battered stalks that stood leaning above the tangled chaos only served
to heighten the suggestion of widespread ruin.
Florence watched her husband, but she did not care to speak, for there
are times when expressions of sympathy are superfluous. When he walked
slowly forward along the edge of the grain she followed him, without
noticing that her thin shoes were saturated and her light skirt was
trailing in the harsh wet grass. The ground rose slightly, and stopping
when they reached the highest point he answered her inquiring glance.
"It looks pretty bad," he said. "Some of it--a very little--may fill out
and ripen and we might get the binders through it, but the thing's going
to be difficult."
"Will this hit you very hard, Elcot?"
Hunter turned and looked at her with gravely searching eyes, and she
shrank from his gaze while a warmth crept into her face.
"Oh," she broke out indignantly, "I'm not thinking--now--of what I might
have to do without. Still, I suppose it was only natural that you should
suspect it."
The man's gesture seemed to imply that this was after all a matter of
minor importance, and it jarred on her.
"Well," he answered, "I guess I can weather the trouble, though it will
mean a long, stiff pull and a general whittling down of expenses. I
spent most of last night figuring on the latter, and I've got my plans
worked out, though it was troublesome to see where I was to begin."
Florence's heart smote her. Her allowance was a liberal one, but she
knew it would only be when every other expedient had failed that he
would think of touching that. It would have been a relief to tell him he
could begin with it, but she remembered Nevis's loan. The thought of
that loan was becoming a burden, and she felt that it must be wiped off
somehow at any cost.
"Yes," she sympathized, "it must have been difficult. You don't spend
much money unnecessarily, Elcot."
He did not answer, and she glanced at his hands, which were hard and
roughened like those of a workman. There was an untended red gash which
the fence had made across the back of one. Another glance at his
clothing carried her a little farther along the same line of thought,
for his garments were old and shabby and faded by the weather.
"Anyway," he said, apparently without having heeded her last
observation, "I'm thankful I have no debts just now."
It was an unconscious thrust, but Florence winced, for it wounded her,
and she began to see how Nevis had with deliberate purpose strengthened
the barrier between her and her husband. What was more, she determined
that the man should regret it. Why she had ever encouraged him she did
not know, but there was no doubt that she was anxious to get rid of him
now. She would have made an open confession about the loan then and
there, but the time was singularly inopportune. It was out of the
question that she should add to her husband's anxiety.
"After all, it doesn't often hail," she encouraged him. "Another good
year will set you straight again."
The man seemed lost in thought, but he looked up when she spoke.
"We can make a bid for it," he replied. "I must have bigger and newer
machines. Like most of the rest, I've been too afraid of launching out
and have clung to old-fashioned means. There will have to be a change
and a clearance before next season."
It was very matter-of-fact, but Florence knew him well enough to realize
what it implied. Defeat could not crush him; it only nerved him to a
more resolute fight, for which he meant to equip himself at any
sacrifice with more efficient weapons. Again she was conscious of a
growing respect for him.
"I'm afraid I have been a drag on you, Elcot, but in this case you can
count upon my doing--what I can."
He scarcely seemed to hear her, and she realized with a trace of bitter
amusement that her assurance did not appear of any particular
consequence to him.
"I have teams enough," he continued, picking up the course of thought
where he had broken off. "Anyway, one should get something for the old
machines."
Florence set her lips as they turned back toward the house. This was a
matter in which she evidently did not count; but there was no doubt that
in the light of past events the man's attitude was justified. It would
be necessary to prove that he was wrong, and, with Nevis's loan still to
be met, that promised to be difficult.
"Elcot," she said, "I don't think I've told you yet how sorry I am."
He looked at her in a manner which implied that his mind was still busy
with his plans.
"Yes--of course," he replied.