PRAIRIE HAY
It was the middle of a scorching afternoon when Carrie drew her waggon
over a low rise and down the long slope to the dried-up sloo. Urmston,
riding beside it, sprinkled white with dust, looked uncomfortably hot,
and Eveline Annersly, whose face was unpleasantly flushed, tried in vain
to shelter herself beneath her parasol in the jolting waggon.
"I am positively melting, and my head aches," she said. "If I had known
how hot it was, you would never have got me here, and, if Mrs. Custer
will keep me, I am not going back to Prospect to-night. How does your
husband work this weather?"
Carrie laughed as she pulled her team up near the sloo. She, at least,
looked delightfully fresh and almost cool in her long white dress and
big white hat.
"He would probably tell you it is because he has to," she said. "In any
event, he seems to be working rather harder than ever."
"It is one of Charley Leland's strong points that he knows when a thing
has to be done," and Eveline Annersly glanced at Urmston with a little
smile. "There are men who don't, and never will, though they are
sometimes able to shift the consequences on to the shoulders of other
people."
Then she turned, and blinked about her with half-dazed eyes. In front of
the waggon a haze of dust floated up against the intense blueness of the
sky, and under it a belt of tall, harsh grass rustled drily in the
scant, hot breeze. Everything seemed white and suffused with brightness.
Beyond them, the parched, grey prairie rolled back to the horizon. There
was no shade anywhere, nor, so far as the eye could travel, a single
speck of green.
"And this is a prairie sloo!" she said. "I had pictured a nice, cool
lake where the wild duck swim. Charley is, presumably, haymaking, though
I never saw it done this way before."
The dust settled a little, and, with a clashing tinkle, there came out
of it three big teams and lurching machines. The grass went down before
them crackling harshly, and the horses plodded on with tossing heads and
whipping tails amidst a cloud of flies. Men followed behind them heaping
the hay in piles, and across the mown strip of sloo more men, almost
naked, were flinging the last of the mounds into a waggon. There is no
need of turning and winnowing in that country. The one thing necessary
is to find grass tall enough to cut, and get it home before the fires do
the reaping.
The big machines came nearer with a clash and clatter and gleam of
sliding knives, and Leland, swinging his team out from the grass, got
down from his driving-seat.
"Where's my jacket, Tom?" he said to the man on the machine behind his.
"I expect it has gone home. You pitched it into the waggon," said Tom
Gallwey, who, swinging off his hat as his team went by, plunged into the
dust again.
Leland moved forward with a deprecatory gesture as he stopped beside the
waggon. He wore a coarse blue shirt and old jean trousers, both of which
were smeared with black grease, on which the dust had settled, for one
of the mowers had given him trouble that morning. There was dust, too,
on his dripping face and bare arms, which were scarred here and there.
Still, the thin attire lent a certain grace to his wiry figure, and he
appeared the personification of strength and activity. From another
point of view, his appearance was, however, distinctly against him, and
Carrie fancied she knew what Urmston was thinking, as he sat still in
his saddle, immaculate, save for a sprinkling of dust, in neat boots,
straw hat, and tweed. The difference between the men would have had its
effect upon her once, but now she looked down at Leland with an
understanding smile.
"You have been mowing all the time?" she said.
"Since sun-up," and Leland laughed. "I couldn't give the teams more than
an hour's rest, either. We have to clean this sloo up by dark."
Carrie glanced at the great belt of grass and wondered how it was to be
done.
"It looks out of the question, and it's very hot," she said. "Couldn't
you stop a little earlier, for once, and ride over to the Range? Mrs.
Custer half expects you at supper."
She evidently wanted him to come, and Leland, who seemed to feel it,
glanced back irresolutely at the sloo.
"I'm afraid not," he said. "It's quite a way, and I haven't a horse. The
others couldn't get done by dark without me, and we couldn't come back
here to-morrow. You'll have to excuse me."
Carrie was displeased, though she would not show it, for she had seen
the smile of satisfaction in Urmston's eyes. Appearances, she knew,
counted for a good deal with him, as much, in fact, as they had once
done with her, and she would sooner he had not been there when the dusty
haymaker made it evident that he was unwilling to leave his work,
although she had suggested that this would please her.
"I suppose it's necessary?" she said.
Leland appeared to hesitate a moment. "I must get this grass home
to-night, but, if it's not too late, I would like you to drive round and
pick me up. It would get me back 'most an hour earlier."
Carrie was sensible, with a little annoyance, that Urmston was watching
her. "Well," she said, "I can't exactly promise. It will depend upon
when Mrs. Custer lets us go."
Just then a light waggon came jolting down the opposite slope, and its
driver pulled his team up when it drew even with them.
"I've some letters for Prospect, and you have saved me 'most a league's
ride. That counts on a day like this," he said.
Leland caught the packet from him, and handed one or two of the letters
to Urmston. The man drove on again. As Carrie's waggon also jolted away,
Leland leant against the wheel of the mower, opening those addressed to
him. Gallwey, who was passing, pulled his team up and looked down at him
inquiringly.
"Anything of consequence?" he said.
Leland shrugged a weary shoulder. "The usual thing," he said. "The
implement man wants his money now, though I understood he was going to
wait until harvest. The fellow in Winnipeg can't sell the horses.
There's a letter from the bank, too. If I purpose drawing on them
further, they'd like something as security. The rest are unpleasantly
big accounts from the stores."
Then he thrust the papers into his pocket with a harsh laugh. "I'm not
going to straighten things out by standing here, and they want a lot."
He called to his horses, and the mower clashed on again. The dust rose
and settled on his face, once more set hard and grim. As he was toiling
on, with the perspiration dripping from him, Urmston rode beside
Carrie's waggon, exchanging light badinage with her. Carrie was feeling
a trifle hurt, but she would not have either of her companions become
aware of it. Urmston, she noticed, did not open his letters. After they
had been an hour at the Range, he came, with one of them in his hand,
into the room where she sat. His face was flushed, and there was an
anxious look in his eyes. He glanced round the shadowy room. "Where is
Eveline Annersly?" he asked.
Carrie smiled absently, though something in his attitude caused her a
slight uneasiness. "Looking at Mrs. Custer's turkeys, I believe," she
said. "It shows her good-nature, because I don't think they appeal to
her any more than they do to me."
Urmston stood a moment or two as though listening. There was no sound
from the buildings outside, and the house was very still. He moved
forward closer to her, and leant upon the table, his hand clenched on
the letter.
"I have been endeavouring to get rid of that insufferable Custer for the
last hour," he said. "There is something I have to tell you."
"Well?" The incisive monosyllable expressed inquiry without
encouragement.
"The men I came out with are going on north to Edmonton, and expect me
to go with them. In fact, they have been good enough to intimate that
they are astonished at my long absence, and it is evident that, if I am
to go on with the thing, I must leave Prospect to-day or to-morrow."
"Well," said Carrie, with a disconcerting lack of disquietude, "you
couldn't expect them to wait indefinitely."
The man gazed at her in evident astonishment. "Don't you understand? I
couldn't get back here from Edmonton."
"That is tolerably evident."
Urmston looked his disappointment, but he roused himself with an effort.
"Carrie," he said, "I can't go. You don't wish me to?"
Carrie looked at him steadily, though there was now a faint flush in her
cheeks.
"I think it would be better if you told me exactly what you mean by
that," she said.
"Is it necessary to ask me? You know that I loved you--and I love you
now. If you had been happy I might have hid my feelings--at least, I
would have tried--but when I find you with a ploughman husband who
could never understand or appreciate you, silence becomes impossible. He
cares nothing for you, and neglects you openly."
The girl glanced down at the ring on her finger. "Still," she said, with
portentous calm, "_that_ implies a good deal."
Urmston grew impatient. "Pshaw!" he said hoarsely, "one goes past
conventions. You never loved him in the least. How could you? It would
have been preposterous."
"And I once loved you? Well, perhaps I did. But let us be rational. What
is all this leading to?"
Her dispassionate quietness should have warned him, but it merely jarred
on his fastidiousness. He was not then in a mood for accurate
observation.
"Only that I cannot go away," he said. "This summer was meant for us.
Leland thinks of nothing, cares for nothing but his farm. He has not
even feeling enough to be jealous of you."
"Ah," said Carrie, while the red spot grew plainer in her cheek, "and
then? A summer, after all, does not last very long."
The man appeared embarrassed and confused at the girl's hard, insistent
tones.
"Go on," she said sharply. "What is to happen when the summer is gone?"
Again Urmston was silent, with the blood in his face. Carrie Leland
slowly rose. For a moment she said nothing, but he winced beneath her
gaze.
"You do not know?" she said. "Well, I think I can tell you. When I had
earned my husband's hate and contempt, you would go back to England.
You would not even take me with you, and you would certainly go; for
what would you do in this country? The life the men here lead would
crush you. Of course you realised it before you came to me to-day."
Urmston made a gesture of protest, but she silenced him with a flash
from her eyes.
"I have had patience with you, because there was a time when I loved
you, but you shall hear me now. If you had shown yourself masterful and
willing to risk everything for me, when we were at Barrock-holme, I
think I should have gone away with you and forsaken my duty; but you
were cautious--and half afraid. You could not even make love boldly.
Indeed, I wonder how I ever came to believe in such a feeble thing as
you."
"But," said Urmston hoarsely, "you led me on."
Again Carrie silenced him. "Wait," she said. "Did you suppose that if I
hated my husband and loved you still, I could have requited all that he
has done for me with treachery? Do you think I have no sense of honour
or any sense of shame? It was only for one reason I let you go as far as
you have done. I wanted to see if there was a spark of courage or
generosity in you, because I should have liked to think as well as I
could of you. There was none. After the summer you--would have gone
away."
She hesitated with a catch of her breath. "Reggie," she said, "do you
suppose that, even if you had courage enough to suggest it, anything
would induce me to leave my husband because--you--asked me to?"
The man winced again, and his face grew even hotter beneath her gaze.
"You would have done so once," he said, as though nothing else occurred
to him.
"And I should have been sorry ever since, even if I had never understood
the man I have married. As it is, I would rather be Charley Leland's
slave or mistress than your wife."
At last the man's eyes blazed. "You can love that ploughman, that
half-tamed brute?"
Carrie laughed softly. "Yes," she said, "I love him. If it is any
consolation, I think it was partly you who taught me to."
There was a moment's silence, and then Urmston, who heard footsteps in
the hall, swung round as Eveline Annersly came in. She looked at them
both with a comprehending smile, for she was shrewd, and their faces
made comparatively plain the nature of what had taken place.
"I wonder," she said, "if I am intruding?"
"No," said Carrie. "In fact, I think Reggie would like to say good-bye
to you. He is going away to-day."
"Ah," said Eveline Annersly, the twinkle still in her eyes, "I really
think that is wise of him. He must be keeping the farming experts
waiting. Indeed, I'm not sure it wouldn't have been more considerate if
he had gone before."
Urmston said nothing, but went out to make his excuses to Custer. In
another half-hour he was riding to the railroad across the prairie.
Carrie watched him from the homestead until at last he sank behind the
crest of a low rise. Then she went back into the house with a little
sigh of relief. Eveline Annersly, who was in the room when she came in,
smiled curiously.
"I am not going back to-night. The sun has given me a headache, for one
thing," she said. "Besides that, Mrs. Custer insists on keeping me for a
day or two. You can drive round for Charley."
"The waggon," said Carrie, "will easily hold three."
Her companion looked at her with twinkling eyes. "I almost think two
will be enough to-night."
Carrie made no answer, but did as was suggested. It was about nine
o'clock that evening when she pulled her team up beside the sloo.
Leland, who had found his jacket and brushed off some of the dust, was
standing there beside a pile of prairie hay. There was nobody else in
sight. A row of loaded waggons and teams loomed black against the sunset
at the edge of the prairie. There was a fond gleam in his eyes as he
looked up at Carrie.
"Eveline Annersly is staying all night," she said. "You will be worn
out; there is almost a load of the hay left."
Leland looked at the big pile of grass. "We couldn't get that lot up,
unfortunately. It's a long way to come back to-morrow."
"Well," said Carrie, merrily, "this waggon must have cost you a good
deal, and it is one of the few things about Prospect that has never done
anything to warrant its being there. I really don't think a little clean
hay would harm it."
Leland appeared astonished. "You are sure you wouldn't mind?" he asked.
"Of course not! I will help you to load it if you will hand me down."
The gleam in Leland's eyes was plainer when he reached up and grasped
her hands. Carrie, who remembered what had happened last time, shrank
from the caress she half expected. Perhaps Leland realised it with his
quick intuition, for he merely swung her down. Then she threw in the hay
by the armful while he plied the fork. The soft green radiance that
precedes the coming dusk hung above the prairie when he roped the load
down securely. It was piled high about the driving-seat of the waggon,
making a warm, fragrant resting place, into which he lifted his wife.
Then, as the team moved on slowly, he turned and looked at her.
"Thank you, my dear," he said; "that was very kind."
Carrie flushed. "Surely not, when you have so much to do. It saves you a
long drive to-morrow, doesn't it? But why were you waiting? I did not
promise to come round, and you could have ridden home on one of the
waggons. It must be six miles."
"Well," said Leland seriously, "it seemed quite worth while to wait most
of the night, even if I'd had to walk in afterwards. I knew Mrs.
Annersly meant to stay, and you and I have had only one drive together."
Carrie felt her cheeks grow warm again. Her usual composure had
vanished. During that other journey, she had lain half frozen in his
arms. There had been snow upon the prairie then, and she had shrunk from
him; but it was summer now, and all was different. The hay overhung and
projected all about them, so that there was very little room on the
driving-seat, and she felt her heart throbbing as she sat pressed close
against his shoulder. Leland said nothing, and the waggon jolted on
through the silent night to the tune of horses' hoofs, while the green
transparency faded into the dusky blueness of the night.