WYLLARD COMES HOME.
Harvest had commenced at the Range, and the clashing binders were
moving through the grain when Hawtrey sat one afternoon in Wyllard's
room at the Range. It was then about five o'clock, and every man
belonging to the homestead was toiling bare-armed and grimed with dust
among the yellow oats, but Hawtrey sat at a table gazing at the litter
of papers in front of him with a troubled face. He wore a white shirt
and store clothes, which was distinctly unusual in case of a Western
farmer at harvest time, and Edmonds, the mortgage jobber, leaned back
in a big chair quietly watching him.
The latter had, as it happened, called at a singularly inconvenient
time, and Hawtrey was anxious to get rid of him before the guests he
expected arrived. It was Sally's birthday, and since she took pleasure
in simple festivities of any kind he had arranged to celebrate it at
the Range. He was, however, sufficiently acquainted with his
companion's character to realise that it was most unlikely that he
would take his departure before he had accomplished the purpose which
had brought him there. This was to collect several thousand dollars.
It was quite clear to Hawtrey that he was in an unpleasantly tight
place. Edmonds held a bond upon his homestead, teams, and implements
as security for a short date loan, repayment of which was due, and he
was to be married to Sally in a month or so.
"Can't you wait a little?" he asked at length.
"I'm afraid not," was the uncompromising reply. "Money's tight this
fall, and things have gone against me. Besides, you could pay me off
if you wanted to."
Edmonds turned towards an open window, and glanced at the great stretch
of yellow grain that ran back across the prairie. Dusty teams and
binders with flashing wooden arms moved half-hidden along the edge of
it, and the still, clear air was filled with a clash and clatter and
the rustle of flung-out sheaves.
There was no doubt that money could be raised upon that harvest field.
Indeed, Hawtrey fancied that his companion would be quite content to
take a bond for the delivery of so many thousand bushels in repayment
of the loan, but while he had already gone further than he had at one
time contemplated doing, this was a course he shrank from suggesting.
After all, the grain was Wyllard's, and there was the difficulty that
Wyllard might still come back, while if he failed to do this an absence
of another few months would entitle his executors to presume him dead.
In either case, Hawtrey would be required to account for his property.
"No," he said, "I can't take--that way."
There was a trace of contempt in the mortgage jobber's smile. "You of
course understand just how you're fixed, but it seemed to me from that
draft of the arrangement with Wyllard that you have the power to do
pretty much what you like. Anyway, if you gave me a bond on as much of
that grain as would wipe out the loan at present figure, it would only
mean that you would have Wyllard's trustees for creditors instead of
me, and it's probable that they wouldn't be as hard upon you as I'm
compelled to be. As things stand, you have got to square up or I throw
your place on the market."
Hawtrey's face betrayed his dismay, and his companion fancied that he
would yield to a little further pressure. He had not said anything
about the mortgage to Sally, and it would be singularly unpleasant to
be turned out upon the prairie within a month or two of his marriage,
for he could not count upon being left in possession of the Range much
longer.
"I'm only entitled to handle Wyllard's money on--his--account," he
objected.
Edmonds appeared to reflect. "So far as I can remember there was
nothing of that kind stated in the draft of the arrangement. It
empowered you to do anything you thought fit with the money, but it's
altogether your own affair. I can, of course, get my dollars back by
selling your homestead up, and I have to decide if that must be done or
not before I leave."
He had very little doubt as to what the decision would be. Hawtrey
would yield, and afterwards it would not be difficult to draw him into
some unwise speculation with the object of getting the money back,
which he imagined that Hawtrey would be desperately anxious to do. As
the result of this, he expected to get such a hold upon the Range that
he would be master of the situation when the property fell into the
hands of Wyllard's trustees. That Hawtrey would be disgraced as well
as ruined naturally did not count with him.
The latter took up one of the papers, and read it through with
vacillation in his eyes. Then he rose, and stood leaning on the table
while he gazed at the teams toiling amidst the grain. There was wealth
enough yonder to release him from his torturing anxieties, and after
all, he felt, something must turn up before the reckoning was due. It
was not in his nature to face a crisis, and with him a trouble seemed
less formidable if it could only be put off a little. Edmonds, who
knew with what kind of man he had to deal, said nothing further, and
quietly reached out for another cigar.
In the meanwhile, though neither of the men were aware of this, Sally
had just got down from her waggon on the other side of the house, and
another couple of teams were already growing larger upon the sweep of
whitened prairie. As she entered the homestead she met Mrs. Nansen,
and the latter informed her that Hawtrey was busy with Edmonds in
Wyllard's room. Sally's eyes sparkled when she heard it, and her face
grew hard.
"That man!" she said. "Well, I guess I'll go right in to them."
In another minute she opened the door, and answered the mortgage
jobber's somewhat embarrassed greeting with a frigid stare. Having
some experience of Sally's uncompromising directness, he was inclined
to fancy that the game was up, but he said nothing further, and she
fixed her eyes on Hawtrey.
"What's this man doing here again?" she asked. "You promised me you
would never make another deal with him."
Hawtrey flushed. Had he fancied it would have been the least use he
would have made some attempt to get Sally out of the room, but he was
unpleasantly sure that unless she was fully satisfied first it would
only result in failure. Besides, driven to desperation, as he was, he
had a half-conscious feeling that she might provide him with some means
of escape. Sally had certainly saved him once already, and,
humiliating as it was, he fancied that she did not expect too much from
him. She might be very angry, but Sally's anger was, after all, less
difficult to face than Agatha's quiet scorn.
"I haven't made another deal. It's--a previous one," he said lamely.
Sally swung round on Edmonds. "You have come here for money? You may
as well tell me. I won't leave you with Gregory until you do."
It was quite evident that she would make her promise good, and Edmonds
nodded.
"Yes," he said; "about 3,000 dollars."
"And Gregory can't pay you?"
Edmonds reflected rapidly, and decided to take a bold course. He was
acquainted with Hawtrey's habit of putting things off, and fancied that
the latter would seize upon the first loophole of escape from an
embarrassing situation. That was why he gave him a lead.
"Well," he said, "there is a way in which he could do it if he wished.
He has only to fill in a paper and hand it me."
He had, however, not sufficiently counted on Sally's knowledge of his
victim's affairs, or her quickness of wit, for she turned to Hawtrey
with a commanding gesture.
"Where are you going to get 3,000 dollars from?" she asked.
The blood crept into Hawtrey's face, for this was a thing he could not
tell her; but a swift suspicion flashed into her mind as she looked at
him.
"Perhaps it could be--raised," he said.
"To pay his mortgage off?" and Sally swung round on Edmonds now.
"Yes," the latter admitted; "he can easily do it."
Then the girl turned to Hawtrey. "Gregory," she said with harsh
incisiveness, "there's only one way you could get that money--and it
isn't yours."
Hawtrey said nothing, but he could not meet her gaze, and when he
turned from her she looked back at the mortgage jobber.
"If you're gone before I come back there'll sure be trouble," she
informed him, and sped swiftly out of the room.
Then Hawtrey sat down limply in his chair, and Edmonds laughed in a
jarring manner. The game was up, but, after all, if he got his 3,000
dollars he could be satisfied, for he had already extracted a good many
from Hawtrey one way or another.
"If I were you I'd marry that girl right away," he said. "You'd be
safer if you had her to look after you."
Hawtrey let the jibe pass. For one thing, he felt that it was
warranted, and just then his anxiety was too strong for anger.
In the meanwhile, Sally ran out of the house to meet Hastings, who had
just handed his wife down from their waggon, and drew him a pace or two
aside.
"I'm worried about Gregory," she said; "he's in trouble--big trouble.
Somehow we have got to raise 3,000 dollars. Edmonds is inside with
him."
Hastings did not seem greatly astonished. "Ah!" he said, "I guess it's
over that mortgage of his. It would be awkward for you and Gregory if
Edmonds took the homestead and turned him out."
Sally's face grew rather white, but she met his gaze steadily.
"Oh," she said, "that's not what I would mind the most."
Hastings reflected a moment or two. He fancied that this was a very
difficult admission for the girl to make, and that she had made it
suggested that Hawtrey might become involved in more serious
difficulties. He had also a strong suspicion of what they were likely
to be.
"Sally," he said quietly, "you are afraid of Edmonds making him do
something you would not like?"
Though she did not answer directly he saw the shame in the girl's face,
and remembered that he was one of Wyllard's trustees.
"I must raise those dollars--now--and I don't know where to get more
than five hundred from. I might manage that," she said.
"Well," said Hastings, "you want me to lend you them, and I'm not sure
that I can. Still, if you'll wait a few minutes I'll see what I can
do."
Sally left him, and he turned to his wife, whose expression suggested
that she had overheard part of what was said and had guessed the rest.
"You mean to raise that money? After all, we are friends of his, and
it may save him from letting Edmonds get his grip upon the Range," she
said.
Hastings made a sign of reluctant assent. "I don't quite know how I
can do it personally, in view of the figure wheat is standing at, and I
don't think much of any security that Gregory could offer me. Still,
there is, perhaps, a way in which it could be arranged, and it's one
that, considering everything, is more or less admissible. I think I'll
wait here for Agatha."
Agatha was in the waggon driven by Sproatly close behind them, and when
he had handed her and Winifred down Hastings, who walked to the house
with them, drew her into an unoccupied room, while Mrs. Nansen took the
rest into the big general one.
"I'm afraid that Gregory's in rather serious trouble. Sally seems very
anxious about him," he said. "It's rather a delicate subject, but I
understand that in a general way you are on good terms with both of
them?"
Agatha met his somewhat embarrassed gaze with a smile. She fancied
that what he really wished to discover was whether she still felt any
bitterness against Gregory and blamed him for pledging himself to Sally.
"Yes," she said, "Sally and I are good friends, and I am very sorry to
hear that Gregory is in any difficulty."
Hastings still seemed embarrassed, and she was becoming puzzled by his
manner.
"Once upon a time you would have done anything possible to make things
easier for him," he said. "I wonder if I might ask if to some extent
you have that feeling still?"
"Of course. If he is in serious trouble I should be glad to do
anything within my power to help him."
"Even if it cost, we will say, about six hundred English pounds?"
Agatha gazed at him in bewildered astonishment. "There are some twenty
dollars in my possession which your wife handed me not long ago."
"Still, if you had the money, you would be glad to help him--and would
not regret it afterwards?"
"No," said Agatha decisively; "if I had the means, and the need was
urgent, I should be glad to do what I could." Then she laughed. "I
can't understand in the least how this is to the purpose."
"If you will wait for the next two or three months I may be able to
explain it to you," said Hastings. "In the meanwhile, there are one or
two things I have to do."
Agatha sat still when he left her, wondering what he could have meant,
but feeling that she would be willing to do what she had assured him.
His suggestion that it was possible that she still cherished any sense
of grievance against Gregory because he was going to marry Sally,
however, brought a little scornful smile into her eyes. It was
singularly easy to forgive Gregory that, for she now saw him as he
was--shallow, careless, shiftless, a man without depth of character.
He had a few surface graces, and on occasion a certain half-insolent
forcefulness of manner which in a curious fashion was almost becoming.
There was, however, nothing beneath the surface. When he had to face a
crisis he collapsed like a pricked bladder, which was the first simile
she could think of, though she admitted that it was not a particularly
elegant one. He was, it seemed, quite willing that a woman should help
him out of the trouble he had involved himself in, for she had no doubt
that Sally had sent Hastings on his somewhat incomprehensible errand.
Then a clear voice came in through the window, and turning towards it
she saw that a young lad clad in blue duck was singing as he drove his
binder through the grain. The song was a very simple one which had
some vogue just then upon the prairie, but her eyes grew suddenly hazy
as odd snatches of it reached her through the beat of hoofs, the clash
of the binder's arms, and the rustle of the flung-out sheaves.
"My Bonny lies over the ocean,
My Bonny lies far over the sea."
Then he called to his horses, and it was a few moments before she heard
again--
"Bring back my Bonny to me."
A quiver ran through her as she leaned upon the window frame. There
was a certain pathos in the simple strain, and she could fancy that the
lad, who was clearly English, as an exile felt it, too. Once more as
the jaded horses and clashing machine grew smaller down the edge of the
great sweep of yellow grain, his voice came faintly up to her with its
haunting thrill of longing and regret--
"Bring back my Bonny to me."
This in her case was more than anyone could do, and as she stood
listening a tear splashed upon her closed hands. The man, by
comparison with whom Gregory appeared a mere lay figure, was in all
probability lying still far up in the solitudes of the frozen North,
with his last grim journey done. This time, however, he had not
carried her picture with him. Gregory was to blame for that, and it
was the one thing she could not forgive him.
She leaned against the window for another minute, struggling with an
almost uncontrollable longing, and looking out upon the sweep of golden
wheat and whitened grass with brimming eyes, until there was a rattle
of wheels, and she saw Edmonds drive away. In another minute she heard
voices in the corridor, and it became evident that Hastings was
speaking to his wife.
"I've got rid of the man, and it's reasonable to expect that Gregory
will keep clear of him after this," he said.
"Don't you mean that Agatha did it?"
It was Mrs. Hastings who asked the question, and Agatha became intent
as she heard her name. She did not, however, hear the answer, and Mrs.
Hastings spoke again.
"Allen," she said, "you don't keep a secret badly, though Harry pledged
you not to tell. Still, all that caution was a little unnecessary. It
was, of course, just the kind of thing he would do."
"What did he do?" Hastings asked, and Agatha heard his wife's soft
laugh, for they were just outside the door now.
"Left the Range, or most of it, to Agatha in case he didn't come back
again."
They went on, and Agatha, turning from the window, sat down limply with
the blood in her face and her heart beating horribly fast. Wyllard's
last care, it seemed, had been to provide for her, and that fact
brought her a curious sense of solace. In an unexplainable fashion it
took the bitterest sting out of her grief, though how far he had
succeeded in his intentions did not seem to matter in the least. It
was sufficient to know that amidst all the haste of his preparation he
had not forgotten her.
Then, becoming a little calmer, she understood what had been in
Hastings's mind during the interview that had puzzled her, and was glad
that she assured him of her willingness to sacrifice anything that
might be hers if it was needed to set Gregory free. It was, she felt,
what Wyllard would have done with the money. He had said that Gregory
was a friend of his, and that, she knew, meant a good deal to him.
It was, however, evident that she must join the others if she did not
wish her absence to excite undesirable comment, and going out she came
face to face with Sally in the corridor. The girl stopped, and saw the
sympathy in her eyes.
"Yes," she said impulsively, "I've saved him. Edmonds has gone.
Hastings bought him off, and, though I don't quite know how, you helped
him. He stayed behind to wait for you."
Agatha smiled. The vibrant relief in her companion's voice stirred
her, and she realised once more that in choosing this half-taught girl,
at least, Gregory had acted with wholly unusual wisdom. It was with a
sense of half-contemptuous amusement at her folly she remembered how
she had once fancied that Gregory was marrying beneath him. Sally was
far from perfect, but when it was a matter of essentials the man was
not fit to brush her shoes.
"My dear," she said, "I really don't know exactly what I--have--done,
but if it amounts to anything it is a pleasure to me."
Then they went together into the big general room where Gregory was
talking to Winifred somewhat volubly. Agatha, however, fancied from
his manner that he had, at least, the grace to feel ashamed of himself.
Supper, she heard Mrs. Nansen say, would be ready very shortly, and
feeling in no mood for general conversation she sat near a window
looking out across the harvest field until she heard a distant shout,
and saw a waggon appear on the crest of the rise. Then, to her
astonishment, two of the binders stopped, and she saw a couple of men
who sprang down from them run to meet the waggon. In another moment or
two more of the teams stopped, and a faint clamour of cries went up,
while here and there little running figures straggled up the slope.
Then her companions clustered about her at the window, wondering, and
Winifred turned to Hastings.
"What are they shouting for?" she asked. "They are all crowding about
the waggon now."
Agatha felt suddenly dazed and dizzy, for she knew what the answer to
that question must be even before Mrs. Hastings spoke.
"It's Harry coming back," she said, and gasped.
In another moment they streamed out of the house, and Agatha found it
scarcely possible to follow them, for the sudden revulsion of feeling
had almost overpowered her. Still, she reached the door, and saw the
waggon drawn up amidst a cluster of struggling men, and by and bye
Wyllard, whom they surrounded, break out as if by force from the midst
of them. She stood on the threshold waiting him, and in the midst of
her exultation a pang smote her as she saw how gaunt and worn he was.
He came straight towards her, apparently regardless of the others, and
clasping the hands she held out drew her into the house.
"So you have not married Gregory yet?" he said, and laughed
triumphantly when he saw the answer in her shining eyes.
"No," she said softly, "it is certain that I will never marry him."
Wyllard drew her back still further with a compelling grasp.
"Why?" he asked.
Agatha looked up at him, and then turned her eyes away.
"I was waiting for you," she said simply.
[Illustration: "'I was waiting for you,' she said simply."]
Then he took her in his arms and kissed her before he turned, still
with her hand in his, to face the others who were now flocking back to
the house, and in another moment or two they went in together amidst a
confused clamour of good wishes.
THE END.