THROUGH THE SNOW.
Next morning, the mail-carrier, who drove up to the homestead
half-frozen and white all over out of a haze of falling snow, brought
Agatha a note from Gregory. It was brief, and she read it with a smile
of half-amused contempt, though she admitted that, considering
everything, he had handled the somewhat embarrassing situation
gracefully. This, however, was only what she had expected of him, and
she recognised that it was equally characteristic of the man that he
had written releasing her from her engagement instead of coming
himself. Gregory, as she realised now, had always taken the easiest
way, and it was evident that he had not even the courage to face her.
She quietly dropped his note--it did not seem worth while to fling
it--into the stove.
She could forgive him 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 him on his perilous journey, and
it was clear to her that he might never come back again. Her face grew
hard when she thought of it, and she had thought of it of late very
frequently. For that, at least, 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 endeavour to keep warmth in one. Water froze solid inside the
building, 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 neighbouring bluff. It was only a couple of 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
shirling snow.
The weather, however, moderated a little by and bye, and one afternoon
soon after it did so Mrs. Hastings drove off to Lander's with the one
hired man they kept through the winter. Her husband, who insisted upon
her taking him, had set out earlier for the bluff, and as the
Scandinavian maid had recently been married, 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 frost had once more 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 the dreary scene
in half. Then the light died out suddenly, and she and the little
girls drew their chairs close up to the stove. The house was very
quiet, but she could hear the mournful wailing of the wind about it,
and now and then the soft swish of driven snow upon the walls and
roofing shingles.
The table was laid for supper, and a kettle was singing cheerfully upon
the stove, but there was no sign of the others, and by and bye Agatha
commenced to feel a little anxious. Mrs. Hastings, she fancied, would
stay the night at Lander's if there was any unfavourable change in the
weather, which seemed to be the case, 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 already.
He did not come, however, and she grew more uneasy as the time slipped
by, while the wail of the wind grew louder and the stove crackled more
noisily, until at last one of the little girls rose with a cry, and she
fancied she heard a dull beat of hoofs. It grew plainer until she was
sure of it, 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 her 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 it became oppressive she moved towards the door.
The wind tore it 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 filmy, 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
them, and though she twice called sharply no answer came out of the
sliding snow. Then she recognised the significant fact that the team
had come home alone.
It was difficult to close the door, and before she accomplished it her
hands had stiffened and grown almost useless, and the hall was strewn
with snow, but it was very 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, and then, muffled
shapeless in her furs, she reassured the little girls, and 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 she could look to for assistance, but that could not be helped,
and it was evident to her that some misfortune had befallen Hastings.
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 of late hauled a good many
loads of birch logs in, and as this had made a worn-out trail it seemed
to her just possible that she might trace it back to the bluff. No
great weight of snow had fallen as yet.
Before she set out she had a struggle with the team, for the beasts had
evidently no intention of making another journey if they could help it,
but at length she swung them into the narrow riband of trail, and
plodded away into the darkness at their heads. It was then she first
clearly realised 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 though 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 she 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 for moments together. Indeed, she was never sure to
what extent she guided the team, and how far they headed for the bluff
from mere force of habit, 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, however, 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 latter was reassuring, for the volume of sound suggested that it
was driving through a bluff close by.
A few minutes later she 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.
[Illustration: "It shambled forward in a curious manner."]
"Turn the team," he said.
Agatha did it, 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 if
it smashed my ankle, or if I twisted it wriggling clear--the thing
pinned me down. It's badly nipped, any way."
He spoke disconnectedly and hoarsely, as if in pain, and Agatha, who
noticed that one of his gum boots was almost ripped to pieces, realised
part of what he must have felt. She knew that nobody held fast
helpless could have withstood that cold for more than a very little
while.
"Oh," she said, "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 broke off 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
beasts 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. Indeed, when her
strength commenced to flag, every yard of that journey was made with
infinite pain and difficulty. At times she could scarcely see the
horses, and again she stumbled along beside them for minutes, blinded,
breathless, and half-dazed. She did not know how Hastings was faring,
but she half-consciously recognised that if once she let the trace go
the sled would slip away from her and she would sink down to freeze.
At length, however, a dim mass crept out of the white haze ahead, and a
moment later a man laid hold of her. He told her that Mrs. Hastings
was with him, and that the homestead was close at hand. Agatha learned
afterwards that they had reached it a little earlier, and had
immediately set out in search of her and Hastings. In the meanwhile
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 teams 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 by and bye
his wife who went with her to her room kissed her before she went out
again.
Nobody could have faced the snow next morning, and it was some days
later when Watson, who had attended Hawtrey after his accident, was
brought over. He did what he could, but it was several weeks before
Hastings could use his injured foot again. Before he 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 they entered was empty except for two people who sat close
together near the middle of it. A big lamp overhead shed down a
brilliant light, and Agatha started when one of the two looked round as
she approached them. In another moment she stood face to face with
Hawtrey, who had risen, while Sally gazed up at her with a rather
curious expression in her eyes. Agatha, however, was perfectly
composed now, and felt no sympathy with Hawtrey, who was visibly
confused. She was not astonished that he found the situation a
somewhat difficult one.
"You have been to Winnipeg?" she said.
"No," said 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's 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 suggestively 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 said, and retired precipitately.
Mrs. Hastings looked after him, and laughed in a manner at which Sally
seemed to wince.
"He doesn't seem anxious to talk to me," she said. "You can come along
to the next car by and bye, Agatha."
Then she moved away, and Agatha who sat down opposite Sally looked at
her quietly.
"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," said Agatha. "I think I really am a little angry with Gregory,
but not altogether because he chose you."
Sally seemed to consider this for a moment or two before she looked up
again.
"Well," she said, "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. "In most respects I can do that willingly."
Sally seemed disconcerted by her quiet ease of manner and perfect
candour. It was evidently not quite what she had looked for.
"Then you were never very fond of him?" she suggested.
"No," said 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 when I came
out here I--realised--Gregory. It was not the actual man I fell in
love with in England."
Sally turned her face away, for Agatha had, as it happened, made her
meaning perfectly plain. Somewhat to the latter's astonishment, she
showed no sign of resentment when she looked round again.
"Then," she said, "it is way better that you didn't marry him." She
paused, and seemed to search for words to express herself with. "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." Then she smiled. "That, however,
doesn't quite describe it, Sally."
Her companion 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, for she realised that part of it was certainly
true, and she could admit the possibility of the rest being equally
correct. After all, 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 good deal when you're fond of any one."
Agatha sat silent awhile, for she was troubled by a certain sense of
probably 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 she fixed
her eyes upon.
"Yes," she said at length, "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.
"You mean?" she said at length.
"Harry Wyllard."
Agatha made no answer, and Sally changed the subject, "Well," she said,
"after all, I want you to be friends with me."
"I think you can count on that," said Agatha with a smile, and in
another minute or two she rose to rejoin Mrs. Hastings.