WYLLARD ASSENTS.
Sally, who brought her mother with her, spent a couple of weeks at
Hawtrey's homestead before Watson decided that his patient could be
entrusted to Sproatly's care; but she came back afterwards twice a week
or so with odd baskets of dainties to make sure that the latter, in
whom she had no confidence, was discharging his duties satisfactorily.
She had driven over again one afternoon, when Hawtrey, whose bones were
knitting well, lay talking to another man in his little sleeping room.
There was no furniture in it whatever, beyond the wooden bunk he lay
in, and a deerhide lounge chair he had made during the winter; but the
stovepipe from the kitchen led across part of it, and then up again
into the room beneath the roof above. It had been one of Sproatly's
duties during the past two weeks to rise and renew the fire when the
cold awakened his comrade soon after midnight. At present he was
outside the house, whipsawing birch-logs and splitting them into
billets, which was an occupation he cherished a profound dislike for.
Spring had, however, come suddenly, as it usually does on the prairie,
a few days earlier, 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 lay in the deerhide chair. He was a
year or two older than Hawtrey, though he had scarcely reached thirty,
a man of tranquil manner, with a rather lean and deeply bronzed face,
of average height, and somewhat spare of figure. He held a pipe in his
hand, and was then looking at Hawtrey with quiet, contemplative eyes.
They were, indeed, his most noticeable feature, though it was difficult
to say whether their colour was grey or hazel-brown, for they were
singularly clear, and there was something which suggested steadfastness
in their unwavering gaze. He wore long boots, trousers of old blue
duck, and a jacket of soft deerskin such as the Blackfeet dress; 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, and had in his young days assisted his
father in the working of a little Manitoban farm, when that great grain
province was still, for the most part, a wilderness. Then a more
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, in one of his schooners. The business was
then a remarkably hazardous one, for the skin buyers and pelagic
sealers had trouble all round with the Alaskan representatives of
American trading companies, whose preserves they poached upon, as well
as with the commanders of the gunboats sent up there 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 close aboard forbidden beaches. It
was a perilous life, and a strenuous one, for they had every white
man's hand against them, as well as fog and gale, and the reefs that
lay in the tideways of almost uncharted waters; but Wyllard made the
most of it. 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; won the good-will of
sea-bred Indians, and drove a good trade with them; and not
infrequently brought his boat back first to the plunging schooner
loaded with reeking skins.
Then 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 they were in
peril of falling into the Russians' hands, Wyllard led a reckless boat
expedition to bring them off again. He succeeded, in so far that the
wrecked men were taken off the roaring beach through a tumult of
breaking surf, but as they pulled seaward the fog shut down on them,
and one boat, manned by three men, never reached the schooners. They
blew horns all night, standing off and on, 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 came back to Vancouver.
After that he helped to strengthen railroad bridges among the mountains
of British Columbia, worked in logging camps, and shovelled in the
mines, and, as it happened, met Hawtrey, who, tempted by high wages,
had spent a winter in the Mountain Province after a disastrous harvest.
In the meanwhile, his father had sold out, and taken up virgin soil in
Assiniboia. He died soon after Wyllard went back to him, and a few
months later the relative in Vancouver also died. Somewhat to
Wyllard's astonishment, he bequeathed him a considerable property,
which the latter realised and sunk most of the proceeds in further
acres of virgin prairie. Willow Range was already one of the largest
farms between Winnipeg and the Rockies.
"The leg's getting along satisfactorily?" he said at length.
Hawtrey, who appeared unusually thoughtful, admitted that it was.
"Any way, it's singularly unfortunate that I'm broken up just now," he
added. "There's the ploughing to commence 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 her 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 said.
"Oh, yes," said 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 rather curiously. "Well," he said,
"there are one or two reasons that don't affect Miss Sally and only
concern myself. Besides, it's highly improbable that she'd have me."
He paused to light his pipe, which had gone out, before he looked up
again. "Since it evidently isn't Sally, have I met the lady?"
"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
harvest frost and horse-sickness, they sent the draft I asked them for
along. 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 folks didn't like. He
died, and, when by and bye his wife died, Agatha, who was brought up by
his relations, was often at the Grange. It's a little, old-fashioned,
half-ruinous place, a mile or two from where we live in the North of
England. It belongs to her mother's folks, but I think there was still
a feud between them and her father's people, who brought her up to earn
her living. We saw a good deal of each other, and fell in love as boy
and girl. 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 she could live in to offer
her."
He 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
brought up 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 realise that."
"Well," said his companion, "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 said. "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 said.
"Still, it's evident that she's anxious."
There was silence for a moment or two, which was only broken by Sally
clattering about the stove. Dissimilar in character, as they were, the
two were firm friends, and there had been a day when, as they worked
upon a dizzy railroad trestle, Hawtrey had held his comrade fast when a
plank slipped away. He had, it was characteristic, thought nothing of
the matter, but Wyllard was one who remembered things of that kind.
"Now," said Hawtrey, "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 many dollars 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 said, "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 said, "I'm
afraid it can't be done. I'd 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'd 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 he
told me what brought him there afterwards. It seemed to me he'd always
been weedy in the chest, but he'd 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
seemed to have had a rough time in the Mountain Province, stayed with
it until he played out altogether."
Wyllard's face hardened a little as he mentioned the mining boss, and a
rather curious little sparkle crept into his eyes, but after a pause he
proceeded quietly:
"We did what we could for him. In fact, it rather broke up the
prospecting trip, but he was too far through," he added. "He hung on
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 also knew 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?" he asked.
"I didn't," said Wyllard. "I went back to the mine, but several things
suggested that the name upon their pay-roll wasn't his real one. He
commenced 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."
He broke off for a moment with a 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 clue 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 after this,
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 ploughing
done and the crop in; which, if I'm going to be married, is absolutely
necessary."
There was no doubt about the latter point, 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," said Hawtrey, "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."
His comrade was not a conventional person, but he pointed out several
objections. Hawtrey over-ruled 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 her. By the way, have you a
photograph of Agatha?"
"I haven't," said Hawtrey. "She gave me one, but somehow it got
mislaid one house-cleaning. That's rather an admission, isn't it?"
It certainly occurred to Wyllard that it was. In fact, it struck him
as a very curious thing that Hawtrey should have lost the picture which
the girl he was in love with had given him. He sat silent for a moment
or two, and then stood up.
"When I hear from Mrs. Hastings I'll drive round again. Candidly, the
thing has somewhat astonished me. I always had a fancy it would be
Sally."
Hawtrey laughed. "Sally?" he said. "We're first-rate friends, but I
never had the faintest notion of marrying her."
Wyllard went out to harness his team, and, as it happened, 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 leaned upon the table, with
her cheeks burning. 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 colour had vanished from her
cheeks now. She, however, contrived to give Hawtrey his supper by and
bye, and soon afterwards drove away.