THE RESCUE.
Winifred's views were shortly proved correct, for Hastings, who drove
over to the Range a day or two after her visit, came back rather
disturbed in temper after what he described as a very unsatisfactory
interview with Hawtrey.
"I couldn't make the man hear reason," he informed his wife. "In fact,
he practically told me that the thing was no concern of mine. I
assured him that it concerned me directly as one of the executors of
Harry's will, and I'm afraid I afterwards indulged in a few
personalities. I expect that blamed mortgage broker has got a very
strong hold on him."
Mrs. Hastings looked reflective. "You have never told me anything
about the will."
"If I haven't, it wasn't for want of prompting," said Hastings drily.
"Still, the will was sealed, and handed me by Harry on the express
understanding that it was not to be opened until we had proof that he
was dead or the six months mentioned had expired. If he turned up it
would, of course, be handed back to him. He made me promise solemnly
that I would not offer the least hint as to its provisions to anybody."
Mrs. Hastings made a gesture of resignation. "In that case I suppose I
must be content, but he might have made an exception of--me. Anyway, I
think I see how we can put what appears to be a little necessary
pressure upon Gregory." Then she turned again to her husband rather
abruptly. "After all, is it worth while for me to trouble about the
thing?"
Hastings was taken off his guard. "Yes," he said decidedly, "if you
can put any pressure on Gregory I guess it would be very desirable to
do it as soon as possible."
"Then you think that Harry may turn up, after all?"
"I do," said Hastings gravely; "I don't know why. In any case it's
highly desirable--for several reasons--that Gregory shouldn't fling his
property away."
Mrs. Hastings smiled. "Well," she said, "I'll think over it. I'll
probably get Agatha to see what she can do in the first place."
She saw a trace of uncertainty in her husband's face, which was,
however, what she had expected.
"As you like," he said. "Something must be done, but on the whole I'd
rather you didn't trouble Agatha about the matter; it would be wiser."
Mrs. Hastings asked no more questions. She fancied she understood the
situation, and she had Agatha's interests at heart, for she had grown
very fond of the girl. There was certainly one slight difficulty in
the way of what she meant to do, but she determined to disregard it,
though she admitted that it might cause Agatha some embarrassment
afterwards. During the afternoon she found the latter alone, and sat
down beside her.
"My dear," she said, "I wonder if I may ask whether you are quite
convinced that Harry's dead?"
She felt that the question was necessary, though it seemed rather a
cruel one, and she saw signs of tension in the girl's expression.
"No," said the latter very quietly; "I can't quite bring myself to
believe it."
"Then, since you heard what Sproatly said, you would be willing to do
anything that appeared possible to prevent Gregory throwing Harry's
dollars away?"
"Yes," said Agatha, "I have been thinking about it." A little sparkle
of disdainful anger crept into her eyes. "Gregory seems to have been
acting shamefully."
"Then as he won't listen to Allen, we must get Sally to impress that
fact on him."
"Sally?" said Agatha in evident astonishment.
Mrs. Hastings smiled. "I don't think you understand Sally as well as I
do. Of course, like the rest of us, she falls a long way short of
perfection, and--though it's a difficult subject--there's no doubt that
her conduct in leading Gregory on while he was still engaged to you was
hardly quite correct. After all, however, you owe her something for
that."
"It isn't very hard to forgive her for it," said Agatha quietly.
"Well, I want you to realise Sally. Right or wrong, she's fond of the
man. Of course, I've told you this already, but I must try to make it
clear how that fact bears upon the business in hand. Sally certainly
fought for him, and there's no doubt that one could find fault with
several things she did; but the point is that she's evidently
determined on making the most of him now she has got him. In some
respects, at least, she's absolutely straight--one hundred cents to the
dollar is what Allen says of her--and although you might perhaps not
have expected this, I believe it would hurt her horribly to feel that
Gregory was squandering money that didn't strictly belong to him."
"Then you mean to make her understand what he is doing?"
"No," said Mrs. Hastings; "I want you to do it. I've reasons for
believing that your influence would go further with her than mine. For
one thing, I fancy she is feeling rather ashamed of herself."
Agatha looked thoughtful. She had certainly not credited Sally with
possessing any fine sense of honour, but she was willing to accept her
companion's assurance.
"The situation," she pointed out, "is rather a delicate one. You wish
to expose Gregory's conduct to the girl he is going to marry, though,
as you admit, the explanation will probably be painful to her. Can't
you understand that the course suggested is a particularly difficult
and repugnant one--to me?"
"I've no doubt of it," said Mrs. Hastings. "Still, I think it must be
adopted--for several reasons. In the first place, I fancy that if we
can pull Gregory up now we will save him from involving himself
irretrievably. After all, perhaps, you owe him the effort. Then I
think that we all owe something to Harry, and we can, at least,
endeavour to carry his wishes out. He laid down what was to be done
with his possessions in a will, and he never could have anticipated
Gregory dissipating them as he is doing."
The last reason, as she had foreseen, proved irresistible to Agatha,
and she made a sign of concurrence.
"If you will drive me over I will do what I can," she said.
Now she had succeeded Mrs. Hastings lost no time, and they set out for
the Creightons' homestead next day, while soon after they reached it
she tactfully contrived that Sally should be left alone with Agatha.
They stood outside the house together when the latter turned to her
companion.
"Sally," she said, "there is something that I must tell you."
Sally glanced at her face, and then walked quietly forward until the
log barn hid them from the house. Then she sat down upon a pile of
straw in its shadow and signed to Agatha that she should take a place
beside her.
"Now," she said sharply, "you can go on; it's about Gregory?"
Agatha, who found it very difficult to begin, though she had been well
primed by Hastings on the previous evening, sat down amidst the straw,
and looked about her for a moment or two. It was a hot afternoon,
dazzlingly bright, and almost breathlessly still. In front of her the
dark green wheat rolled waist-high, and beyond it the vast sweep of
whitened grass rolled back to the sky-line flooded with light. Far
away a team and a waggon slowly moved across it, but that was the only
sign of life, and no sound from the house reached them to break the
heavy stillness.
Then she nerved herself to the effort, and spoke quietly for several
minutes before she glanced at her companion. It was very evident that
the latter had understood all that she had said, for she sat very still
with a hard, set face.
"Oh!" she said, "if I'd thought you'd come to tell me this because you
were vexed with me, I'd know what to do."
This was what Agatha had dreaded. It certainly looked as if she had
come to triumph over her rival's humiliation, but Sally made it clear
that she acquitted her of that intention.
"Still," she said, "I know that wasn't the reason, and I'm not mad
with--you. It hurts"--and she made a little abrupt movement--"but I
know it's true." Then she turned to Agatha suddenly. "Why did you do
it?"
"I thought you might save Gregory, if I told you."
[Illustration: "'I thought you might save Gregory, if I told you.'"]
"That was all?" and Sally looked at her with incredulous eyes.
"No," said Agatha simply, "that was only part. It did not seem right
that Gregory should go against Wyllard's wishes, and gamble the Range
away on the wheat market."
She admitted it without hesitation, for she realised now exactly what
had animated her to seek this painful interview. She was fighting
Wyllard's battle, and that fact sustained her.
Sally winced. "Yes," she said, "I guess you had to tell me. He was
fond of you. One could be proud of that. Harry Wyllard never did
anything low down and mean."
Agatha did not resent her candour. Although this was a thing she would
scarcely have credited a little while ago, she saw that the girl felt
the contrast between her lover's character and that of the man whose
place he had taken, and regretted it. Then Agatha's eyes grew a trifle
hazy.
"Wyllard, they think, is dead," she said, in a low, strained voice.
"You have Gregory still."
Sally looked at her with unveiled compassion, and Agatha did not shrink
from it.
"Yes," she said, with a simplicity that became her, "and Gregory must
have someone to--take care of him. I must do it if I can."
There was no doubt that Agatha was stirred. This half-taught girl's
quiet acceptance of the burden that many women must carry once more
made her almost ashamed.
"We will leave it to you," she said.
Then it became evident that there was another side to Sally's
character, for her manner changed, and the suggestive hardness crept
back into her eyes.
"Well," she said, "I'd most been expecting something of this kind when
I heard that man Edmonds was going to the Range. He has got a pull on
Gregory, but he's surely not going to feel quite happy when I get hold
of him."
She rose in another moment, and, saying nothing further, walked back
towards the house, in front of which they came upon Mrs. Hastings.
Sally looked at the latter significantly.
"I'm going over to the Range after supper," she said.
Mrs. Hastings drove away with Agatha, and said very little to her
during the journey, but an hour after they had reached the homestead
she slipped quietly into the girl's room, and found her lying in a big
chair, sobbing bitterly. She sat down close beside her, and laid a
hand upon her shoulder.
"I don't think Sally could have said anything to trouble you like
this," she said.
It was a moment or two before Agatha turned a wet, white face towards
her, and saw gentle sympathy in her eyes. There was, she felt, no
cause for reticence.
"No," she said, "it was the contrast between us. She has Gregory."
Mrs. Hastings made a sign of comprehension. "And you have lost
Harry--but I think you have not lost him altogether. We do not know
that he is dead--but even if it is so, it was all that was finest in
him he offered you. It is yours still."
She broke off, and sat silent a moment or two before she went on again.
"My dear, it is, perhaps, cold comfort, and I am not sure that I can
make what I feel quite clear. Still, Harry was only human, and it is
almost inevitable that, had it all turned out differently, he would
have said and done things that would have offended you. Now he has
left you a purged and stainless memory--one I think which must come
very near to the reality. The man who went up there--for an idea, a
fantastic point of honour--sloughed off every taint of the baseness
that hampers most of us in doing it. It was a man changed and uplifted
above all petty things by a high chivalrous purpose, who made that last
grim journey."
Agatha realised the truth of this. Already Wyllard's memory had become
etherealised, and she treasured it as a very fine and precious thing.
Still, though he now wore immortal laurels, that would not content her
when all her human nature cried out for his bodily presence. She
wanted him, as she had grown to love him, in the warm, erring flesh,
and the vague, splendid vision was cold and far remote. There was a
barrier greater than that of crashing ice and bitter water between them.
"Oh!" she said. "I have felt that. I try to feel it always--but just
now it's not enough."
Then she turned her face away with a bitter sob, and Mrs. Hastings who
stooped and kissed her went out quietly. She knew what had come about,
and that the girl had broken down at last, after months of strain.
In the meanwhile, it happened that Edmonds, the mortgage broker, drove
over to the Range, and found Hawtrey waiting him in Wyllard's room. It
was early in the evening, and he could see the hired men busy outside
tossing prairie hay from the waggons into the great barn. They were
half-naked and grimed with dust, but Hawtrey, who was dressed in store
clothes, had evidently taken no share in their labours. When Edmonds
came in he turned to him with anxiety in his face.
"Well?" he said sharply.
"Market's a little stiffer," said Edmonds.
He sat down and stretched out his hand towards the cigar-box on the
table, while Hawtrey waited until he had picked one out with very
evident impatience.
"Still moving up?" he asked.
Edmonds nodded. "It's the other folks' last stand," he said. "With
the wheat ripening as it's doing, the flood that will pour in before
the next two months are out will sweep them off the market. I was half
afraid from your note that this little rally had some weight with you,
and that as one result of it you meant to cover now."
"That," admitted Hawtrey, "was in my mind."
"Then," said his companion, "it's a pity."
Hawtrey leaned upon the table with hesitation in his face and attitude.
He had neither the courage nor the steadfastness to make a gambler, and
every fluctuation of the market swayed him to and fro. He had a good
deal of wheat to deliver by and bye, and, for prices had fallen
steadily until a week or two ago, he could still secure a very
desirable margin if he bought in against his sales now. Unfortunately,
however, he had once or twice lost heavily in an unexpected rally, and
he greatly desired to recoup himself. Then, he had decided, nothing
would tempt him to take part in another deal.
"If I hold on and the market stiffens further I'll be awkwardly fixed,"
he said. "Wyllard made a will, and in a few months I'll have to hand
everything over to his executors. There would naturally be
unpleasantness over a serious shortage."
Edmonds smiled. He had handled his man cleverly, and had now a
reasonably secure hold upon him and the Range, but he was far from
satisfied. If Hawtrey made a further loss he would in all probability
become irretrievably involved.
"Then," he pointed out, "there's every reason why you should try to get
straight."
Hawtrey admitted it. "Of course," he said. "You feel sure I could do
it by holding on?"
His companion seldom answered a question of this kind. It was apt to
lead to unpleasantness afterwards.
"Well," he said, "Beeman, and Oliphant, and Barstow are operating for a
fall. One would fancy that you were safe in doing what they do. When
men of their weight sell forward figures go down."
This was correct, as far as it went, but Edmonds was quite aware that
the gentlemen alluded to usually played a very deep and obscure game.
He had also reasons for believing that they were doing it now. It was,
however, evident that his companion's hesitation was vanishing.
"It's a big hazard, but I feel greatly tempted to hang on," he said.
Edmonds, who disregarded this, sat smoking quietly. Since he was
tolerably certain as to what the result would be, he felt it was now
desirable to let Hawtrey decide for himself, in which case it would be
impossible for the latter to reproach him afterwards. Wheat, it seemed
very probable, would fall still further when the harvest commenced, but
he had reasons for believing that the market would rally first. In
that case Hawtrey, who had sold forward largely, would fall altogether
into his hands, and he looked forward with very pleasurable
anticipation to enforcing his claim upon the Range. In the meanwhile
he was unobtrusively watching his companion's face, and it had become
evident that in another moment or two Hawtrey would adopt the course
suggested, when there was a rattle of wheels outside. Edmonds, who saw
a broncho team and a waggon appear from behind the barn, realised that
he must decide the matter now.
"As I want to reach Lander's before it's dark I'll have to get on," he
said carelessly. "If you'll give me a letter to the broker, I'll send
it on to him."
Next moment a clear voice rose up somewhere outside. "I guess you
needn't worry," it said, "I'll go right in."
Then, while Gregory started, Sally walked into the room.
Edmonds was disconcerted, but he made her a little inclination, and
then sat down again, quietly determined to wait, for he fancied there
was hostility in the swift glance she flashed at him.
"That's quite a smart team you were driving, Miss Creighton," he said.
Sally, who disregarded this, turned to Hawtrey.
"What's he doing here?" she asked.
"He came over on a little matter of business," said Hawtrey.
"You have been selling wheat again?"
Hawtrey looked embarrassed, for her manner was not conciliatory.
"Well," he admitted, "I have sold some."
"Wheat you haven't got?"
Hawtrey did not answer, and Sally sat down. Her manner suggested that
she meant to thoroughly investigate the matter, and Edmonds, who would
have greatly preferred to get rid of her, decided that as this appeared
impossible he would appeal to her cupidity. The Creightons were
somewhat grasping folks, and he had heard of her engagement to Hawtrey.
"If you will permit me I'll try to explain," he said. "We'll say that
you have reason for believing that wheat will go down and you tell a
broker to sell it forward at a price a little below the actual one. If
other people do the same it drops faster, and before you have to
deliver you can buy it in at less than you sold it at. A good many
dollars can be picked up that way."
"It looks easy," Sally admitted, with something in her manner which led
him to fancy he might win her over. "Of course, prices have been
falling. Gregory has been selling down?"
"He has. In fact, there's already a big margin to his credit," said
Edmonds unsuspectingly.
"That is, if he bought in now he'd have cleared--several thousand
dollars?"
Edmonds told her exactly how much, and then started in sudden
consternation with rage in his heart, for she turned to Hawtrey
imperiously.
"Then you'll write your broker to buy in right away," she said.
There was an awkward silence, during which the two men looked at one
another until Edmonds spoke.
"Are you wise in suggesting this, Miss Creighton?" he asked.
Sally laughed harshly. "Oh yes," she said, "it's a sure thing. And I
don't suggest. I tell him to get it done."
She turned again to Hawtrey, who sat very still looking at her with a
flush in his face. "Take your pen and give him that letter to the
broker now."
There was this in her favour that Hawtrey was to some extent relieved
by her persistence. He had not the nerve to make a successful
speculator, and he had already felt uneasy about the hazard he would
incur by waiting. Besides, although prices had slightly advanced, he
could still secure a reasonable margin if he covered his sales. In any
case, he did as she bade him, and in another minute or two he handed
Edmonds an envelope.
The latter, who rose, took it from him quietly, for he was one who
could face defeat.
"Well," he said, with a gesture of resignation, "I'll send the thing
on. If Miss Creighton will excuse me, I'll tell your man to get out my
waggon."
Then he went out, and Sally turned to Hawtrey with the colour in her
cheeks and a flash in her eyes.
"It's Harry Wyllard's money," she said.