THE PRIOR CLAIM.
It was with confused feelings among which a sense of repugnance
predominated that Agatha walked towards Hawtrey's room. She was not
one of the women who take pleasure in pointing out another person's
duty, for while she had discovered that this task is apparently an easy
one to some people she was quite aware that a duty usually looks much
more burdensome when it is laid upon one's self. Indeed, she was
conscious just then that one might be shortly thrust upon her which she
would find it very hard to bear, and she became troubled with a certain
compunction as she remembered how she had of late persistently driven
all thought of it out of her mind.
There was no doubt that she was still pledged to Gregory, and that she
had loved him once. Both facts must be admitted, and it seemed to her
that if he insisted she must marry him. Deep down in her there was an
innate sense of right and honesty, and she realised that the fact that
he was not the man she had once imagined him to be did not release her.
In the meanwhile, it was clear that if he was about to commit a cruel
and unjustifiable action she was the one person of all others whose
part it was to restrain him.
The colour was a little plainer in her face than usual when she quietly
entered the room where he lay, pipe in hand, in a lounge chair, and,
for it seemed that he did not immediately notice her, his attitude of
languid ease irritated her. There were, as she had seen, several
things which should evidently have had some claim on his attention
outside. A litter of letters and papers lay upon a little table at his
side, but the fact that he could not reach them as he lay was
suggestive. Then he rose, and came forward with outstretched hand.
[Illustration: "It seemed that he did not immediately notice her."]
"I didn't hear you," he said. "This is a pleasure I scarcely
anticipated."
Agatha sat down in the chair he drew out for her near the stove, and he
seemed to notice that she glanced at the papers on the table, for he
laughed.
"Bills, and things of that kind. They've been worrying me for a week
or two," he said. Then he seized the litter, and bundling it together
flung it into an open drawer, which he shut with a snap. "Anyway,
that's the last of them for to-day. I'm awfully glad you drove over."
Agatha smiled. The action was so characteristic of the man. She had
once found no fault with Gregory's careless habits, and his way of
thrusting a difficulty into the background and making light of it had
appealed to her. It had suggested his ability to straighten out the
trouble when it appeared advisable. Now, she said, she would not be
absurdly hypercritical, and he had, as it happened, given her the lead
that she desired.
"I should have fancied that you would have had to give them more
attention as wheat is going down," she said.
Hawtrey looked at her with an air of reproach. "It must be nearly
three weeks since I have seen you, and now you expect me to talk of
farming." He made a whimsically rueful gesture. "If you quite
realised the situation it would be about the last thing you would ask
me to do."
Agatha was a little astonished to remember that three weeks had
actually elapsed since she had last met him, and they had only
exchanged a word or two then. He had certainly not obtruded himself
upon her, for which she was grateful.
"Nobody is talking about anything except the fall in prices just now,"
she persisted. "I suppose it affects you, too?"
The man, who seemed to accept this as a rebuff, looked at her rather
curiously, and then laughed.
"It must be admitted that it does. In fact, I've been acquiring
parsimonious habits and worrying myself about expenses lately. They
have to be kept down somehow, and that's a kind of thing I never took
kindly to."
"You feel it a greater responsibility when you're managing somebody
else's affairs?" suggested Agatha, who was still waiting her
opportunity.
"Well," said Hawtrey, in whom there was, after all, a certain honesty,
"that's not quite the only thing that has some weight with me. You
see, I'm not altogether disinterested. I get a certain percentage--on
the margin--after everything is paid, and I want it to be a big one.
Things are rather tight just now, and the wretched mortgage on my place
is crippling me."
It had slipped out before he quite realised what he was saying, and he
saw the girl's look of astonishment and concern. She now realised what
Sproatly had meant.
"You are in debt, Gregory? I thought you had, at least, kept clear of
that," she said.
"So I did--for a while. In any case, if Wyllard stays away, and I can
run this place on the right lines, I shall, no doubt, get out of it
again."
She was vexed that he had said this, for it was clear to her that if
Wyllard did not return until another crop was gathered in it would be
because he was held fast among the Northern ice in peril of his life.
Then another thought struck her. She had never quite understood why
Gregory had been willing to undertake the management of the Range, in
view of the probability of Wyllard having plainly told him what he had
said to her, but he had made that point clear by admitting that he had
been burdened with a load of debt, which suggested the question why he
had incurred the latter. The answer appeared in another moment or two,
as she remembered having heard Mrs. Hastings or somebody else say that
he had spent a good many dollars upon his house and furnishings for it.
It brought her a sudden sense of confusion, for as one result of that
expenditure he had been forced into doing what she fancied must have
been a very repugnant thing, and she had never even crossed his
threshold.
"When did you borrow that money?" she asked sharply.
There was no doubt that the man was embarrassed, and her heart softened
towards him for his hesitation. It was to further her comfort he had
laid that load upon himself, and he was clearly unwilling that she
should recognise it. That counted for a good deal in his favour.
"Was it just before I came out?" she asked again.
Hawtrey made a little sign of expostulation. "You really mustn't worry
me about these matters, Aggy. A good many of us are in the
storekeepers' or mortgage-jobbers' hands, and there's no doubt that if
I have another good year at the Range I shall clear off the debt."
Agatha turned her face away from him for a moment or two. The thing
the man had done laid a heavy obligation on her, and she remembered
that she had only found fault with him. Even then, however, stirred as
she was, she was conscious that all the tenderness she had once felt
for him had gone. The duty, however, remained, and with a little
effort she turned to him again.
"Oh!" she said, "I'm so sorry."
Hawtrey smiled. "I really don't think I deserve a very great deal of
pity. As I have said, I'll probably come out all right next year if I
can only keep expenses down."
Then Agatha remembered the task she had in hand. It was a very
inauspicious moment to set about it, but that could not be helped, and
even for the man's own sake she felt that she must win him over.
"There is one way, Gregory, in which I don't think it ought to be
done," she said. "You took over Wyllard's obligations when you took
the farm, and I think you should keep the two Morans on."
Hawtrey started. "Ah!" he said, "Mrs. Hastings has been setting you
on; I partly expected it."
"She told me," Agatha admitted. "Unless you will look at the thing as
I do, I could almost wish she hadn't. The thought of that woman shut
up in the woods all winter only to find that what she must have to bear
has all been thrown away troubles me. Wyllard promised to keep those
men on, didn't he?"
"There was no regular engagement so far as I can make out."
"Still, Moran seems to have understood that he was to be kept on."
"Yes," admitted Hawtrey, "he evidently does. If the market had gone
with us I'd have fallen in with his views. As it hasn't, every man's
wages count."
Agatha was conscious of a little thrill of repugnance. Of late
Gregory's ideas had rather frequently jarred on hers.
"Does that release you?"
Hawtrey did not answer this.
"I'll keep those men on if you want me to," he said.
Agatha winced at this. She had discovered that she must not look for
too much from Gregory, but to realise that he had practically no sense
of moral obligation, and could only be influenced to do justice by the
expectation of obtaining her favour positively hurt her.
"I want them kept on, but I don't want you to do it for that reason,"
she said. "Can't you grasp the distinction, Gregory?"
A trace of darker colour crept into Hawtrey's face, but while she was a
little astonished at this he looked at her steadily. He had not
thought much about her during the last month, but now the faint scorn
in her voice had stirred him.
"Now," he said, "there are just three reasons, Aggy, why you should
have troubled yourself about this thing. You are, perhaps, a little
sorry for Moran's wife, but as you haven't even seen her that can
hardly count for much. The next is, that you don't care to see me
doing what you regard as a shabby thing; perhaps it is a shabby thing
in some respects, but I feel it's justifiable. Of course, if that's
your reason there's a sense in which, while not exactly
complimentary--it's consoling."
He broke off, and looked at her with a question in his eyes, and it
cost Agatha an effort to meet them. She was not prudish or over
conscious of her own righteousness, but once or twice after the shock
of her disillusionment in regard to him had lessened she had dreamed of
the possibility of enduing him little by little with some of the
qualities she had once fancied he possessed, and, as she vaguely
thought of it, rehabilitating him. Now, however, the thing seemed
impossible, and, what was more, the desire to bring it about had gone.
Hateful as the situation was becoming, she was honest, and she could
not let him credit her with a motive that had not influenced her.
In the meanwhile, her very coldness and aloofness stirred desire in the
man, and she shrank as she saw a spark of passion kindling in his eyes.
It was merely passion, she felt, for she recognised that there was a
strain of grossness in him.
"No," she said, "that reason was not one which had any weight with me."
Hawtrey's face hardened. "Then," he said grimly, "we'll get on to the
third. Wyllard's credit is a precious thing to you; sooner than
anything should cast a stain on it you would beg a favour from--me.
You have set him up on a pedestal, and it would hurt you if he came
down. Considering everything, it's a remarkably curious situation."
Agatha grew a trifle pale. Gregory was horribly right, for she had no
doubt now that he had merely thrust upon her a somewhat distressing
truth. It was to save Wyllard's credit, and for that alone she had
undertaken this most unpalatable task. She did not answer, and Hawtrey
stood up.
"Wyllard has his faults, but there's this in his favour--he keeps a
promise," he said. "One has a certain respect for a person who never
goes back upon his word. Well, because I really think he would like
it, I'll keep those men."
He paused for a moment, as if to let her grasp the drift of this, and
then turned to her with something that startled her in his voice and
manner. "The question is--are you willing to emulate his example?"
Agatha shrank from the glow in his eyes. "Oh!" she broke out, "you
cannot urge me now--after what you said."
Hawtrey laughed harshly. "Well," he said, "I'll come for my answer
very shortly. It seems that you and Wyllard attach a good deal of
importance to a moral obligation--and I must remind you that the time
agreed upon is almost up."
Agatha sat very still for perhaps half a minute, while a sense of
dismay crept over her. There was no doubt that Gregory's retort was
fully warranted. She had, as she admitted, insisted upon him carrying
out an obligation which would cost him something, not because she took
pleasure in seeing him do what was honourable, but to preserve the
credit of another man, and now it was with intense repugnance she
recognised that there was apparently no escaping from the one she had
incurred. The man's attitude was perfectly natural and logical. She
had promised to marry him, and he had saddled himself with a load of
debt on her account, but the slight pity and tenderness she had felt
for him a few minutes earlier had utterly gone. Indeed, she felt she
almost hated him. His face had grown hard and almost brutal, and there
was a look she shrank from in his eyes.
Then she rose.
"Do you wish to speak to Mrs. Hastings?" she asked.
Hawtrey smiled rather grimly. "No," he said, "if she'll excuse me, I
don't think I do. If you tell her you have been successful, she'll
probably be quite content."
Agatha went out without another word, and Hawtrey lighted his pipe and
stretched himself out in his chair, when he heard the waggon drive away
a few minutes later. He did not like Mrs. Hastings, and had a
suspicion that she had no great regard for him, but he was conscious of
a somewhat grim satisfaction. There was, though it seldom came to the
surface, a taint of crude brutality in his nature, and it was active
now. When Agatha had first come out the change in her had been a shock
to him, and it would not have cost him very much to let her go. Since
then, however, her coldness and half-perceived disdain had angered him,
and the interview which was just over had left him in an unpleasant
mood. Though this was, perhaps, the last thing he would have expected,
it had stirred him to desire. It was consoling to feel that he could
exact the fulfilment of her promise from the girl. His face grew
coarser as he assured himself of it, but he had, as it happened, never
realised the shiftiness and instability of his own character. It was
his misfortune that the impulses which swayed him one day had generally
changed the next.
This became apparent when, having occasion to drive in to the elevators
on the railroad a week later, he called at a store to make one or two
purchases. The man who kept it laid a package on the counter.
"I wonder if you'd take this along to Miss Creighton as a favour," he
said. "She wrote for the things, and Elliot was to take them out, but
I guess he forgot; anyway, he didn't call."
Hawtrey told the clerk to put the package in his waggon. He had
scarcely seen Sally since his recovery, and he suddenly remembered
that, after all, he owed her a good deal, and that she was very pretty.
Besides, one could talk to Sally without feeling the restraint that
Agatha's manner usually laid on him. Then the storekeeper laid an open
box upon the counter.
"I guess you're going to be married by and bye," he said.
Hawtrey was thinking of Sally then, and the question irritated him.
"I don't know that it concerns you, but in a general way it's
probable," he said.
"Well," said the storekeeper good-humouredly, "a pair of these mittens
would make quite a nice present for a lady. Smartest thing of the kind
I've ever seen here; choicest Alaska fur."
Hawtrey bought a pair, and the storekeeper took a fur cap out of
another box.
"Now," he said, "this is just the thing she'd like to go with the
mittens. There's style about that cap; feel the gloss of it."
Hawtrey bought the cap, and smiled as he swung himself up into his
waggon. Gloves are not much use in the prairie frost, and mittens,
which are not divided into finger-stalls, will within limits fit almost
anybody. This, he felt, was fortunate, for he was not quite sure that
he meant to give them to Agatha.
It was bitterly cold, and the pace the team made was slow, for the snow
was loose and too thin for a sled of any kind, which, after all, is not
very generally used upon the prairie. As the result of this, night had
closed down and Hawtrey was frozen almost stiff when at last a birch
bluff rose out of the waste in front of him. It cut black against the
cold blueness of the sky and the spectral gleam of snow, but when he
had driven a little further a stream of ruddy orange light appeared in
the midst of it. A few minutes later he pulled his team up in front of
a little log-built house, and getting down with difficulty saw the door
open as he approached it. Sally stood in the entrance silhouetted
against a blaze of cheerful light.
"Oh!" she said. "Gregory!"
Hawtrey recognised the thrill in her voice, and took both her hands, as
he had once been in the habit of doing.
"Will you let me in?" he asked.
The girl laughed in a rather strained fashion. She had been a little
startled, and was not quite sure yet as to how she should receive him;
but in the meanwhile Hawtrey drew her in.
"The old folks are out," she said. "They've gone over to Elliot's for
supper. He's bringing us a package."
Hawtrey, who explained that he had got it, let her hands go, and sat
down somewhat limply. He had come suddenly out of the bitter frost
into the little, brightly-lighted, stove-warmed room. In another few
moments, however, the comfort and cheeriness of it appealed to him.
"This looks very cosy after my desolate room at the Range," he said.
"Then if you'll stay I'll make you supper. I suppose there's nothing
to take you home?"
"No," said Hawtrey, with a significant glance at her, "there certainly
isn't, Sally. As a matter of fact, I often wish there was."
He saw her sudden uncertainty, which was, however, not tinged with
embarrassment, and feeling that he had gone far enough in the meanwhile
he went out to put up his team. When he came back there was a cloth on
the table, and Sally was busy about the stove. He sat down and watched
her attentively. In some respects, he thought, she compared favourably
with Agatha. She had a nicely moulded figure, and a curious lithe
gracefulness of carriage which was suggestive of a strong vitality,
while Agatha's bearing was usually characterised by a certain rather
frigid repose. This and the latter's general manner had a somewhat
inciting effect on him when he was in her presence, but he now and then
remembered it afterwards with resentment. Then Sally's face was at
least as comely in a different way, and there was no reserve in it.
She was what he thought of as human, frankly flesh and blood. Her
quick smile was, as a rule, provocative, and never chilled one as
Agatha's quiet glances sometimes did.
"Sally," he said, "you've grown prettier than ever."
The girl turned partly round towards him with a slow, sinuous movement
that he found seductively graceful.
"Now," she said, "you oughtn't to say those things to me."
Hawtrey laughed; he was usually sure of his ground with Sally.
"Why shouldn't I, when it's just what you are?"
"For one thing, Miss Ismay wouldn't like it."
The man's face hardened. "I'm not sure she'd mind. Anyway, Miss Ismay
doesn't like a good many things I'm in the habit of doing."
Sally, who had watched him closely, turned away again, but a little
thrill of exultation ran through her. It had been with dismay she had
first heard him speak of his marriage, which was, perhaps, not
altogether astonishing, and she had fled home in an agony of anger and
humiliation. That state of mind had, however, not lasted long, and
when it became evident that the wedding was, at least, postponed
indefinitely, she commenced to wonder whether it was quite impossible
that Hawtrey should come back to her. She felt that he belonged to her
although he had never given her any very definite claim in him. She
was a trifle primitive and passionate, but she was determined, and now
he had done what she had almost expected him to do, she meant to keep
him.
"You have fallen out?" she said, and contrived to keep the anxiety she
was conscious of out of her voice.
The question, and more particularly the form of it, rather jarred upon
Hawtrey, but he answered it.
"Oh no," he said. "As a matter of fact, Sally, you can't fall out
nicely with everybody. Now when we fell out you got delightfully
angry--I don't know if you were more delightful then or when you
graciously agreed to make it up again." He laughed. "I almost wish I
could make you a little angry now."
Sally had moved a little nearer to take a kettle off the stove, and she
looked down on him with her eyes shining in the lamplight. She
realised that she would have to fight Miss Ismay for this man; but
there was this in her favour, that she appealed directly to one side of
his nature, as Agatha, even if she had loved him, would not have done.
"Would you?" she said. "Dare you try?"
"I might if I was tempted sufficiently."
She leaned upon the table still looking at him mockingly, and she was
probably aware that her pose and expression were wholly provocative.
Indeed, she could not have failed to recognise the meaning of the
sudden tightening of his lips, though she did not in the least shrink
from it. She had not the faintest doubt of her ability to keep him at
a due distance if it appeared necessary.
"Oh," she said, "you only say things."
Hawtrey laughed, and stooping down picked up a package he had brought
from the store.
"Well," he said, "after all, I think I'd rather try if I can please
you." He opened the package. "Are these things very much too big for
you, Sally?"
[Illustration: "'Are these things very much too big for you, Sally?'"]
The girl's eyes glistened at the sight of the mittens he held out.
They were very different from the kind she had hitherto been in the
habit of wearing, and when he carelessly took out the fur cap she broke
into a little cry of delight. In the meanwhile Hawtrey watched her
with a rather curious expression. He was not quite sure he had meant
Sally to have the things when he had purchased them, but he was quite
contented now. The one gift he had somewhat diffidently offered Agatha
since her arrival in Canada had been almost coldly laid aside.
In another few minutes Sally laid out supper, and as she waited upon
him daintily or filled his cup Hawtrey thrust the misgivings he had
felt further behind him. Sally, he thought with a little dry smile,
could certainly cook. When the meal was over he sat talking about
nothing in particular for almost an hour, and then stood up. It
occurred to him that Sally's mother would be back before very long, and
she was a person he had no great liking for.
"Well," he said, "I must be getting home. Won't you let me see you
with that cap on?"
Sally, who betrayed no diffidence, put on the cap, and stood before a
little dingy mirror with both hands raised while she pressed it down
upon her gleaming hair. Then she flashed a smiling glance at him. It
was quite sufficient, and as she turned again Hawtrey slipped forward
as softly as he could. She swung round, however, with a flush in her
face and a forceful, restraining gesture.
"Don't spoil it all, Gregory," she said sharply.
Hawtrey, who saw that she meant it--which was a cause of some
astonishment to him--dropped his hand.
"Oh," he said, "if you look at it in that way I'm sorry. Good-night,
Sally!"
She let him go, but she smiled when he drove away; and half an hour
later she showed the cap and mittens to her mother with significant
candour. Mrs. Creighton, who was a severely practical person, nodded.
"Well," she said, "he only wants a little managing if he bought you
these, and nobody could say you ran after him. I wouldn't, anyway;
some of them don't like it."