Part 17 (2/2)
He colored.
”That's true. I begin to feel I'm one of the party. Then, you see, Leslie's pretty talkative and agrees with Curtis. He might have a bad effect on your father; he might even shake your confidence.”
”Oh,” she begged, ”don't labor the explanation. You are one of the party and our friend.”
Prescott bowed.
”I'll try to make that good. I'm going off to look for your brother in a few more days, but it will cost me something to leave the homestead now.”
He had spoken the truth. Until lately the man had been bereft of all the amenities of life, but he had now grown to appreciate the society of cultured people; the task of cheering and encouraging his guests had become familiar; he might even have been drawn to the beautiful woman he had comforted had not his heart been filled with the image of Muriel.
”But after the summer's hard monotonous work, a change must be nice,” she suggested.
”Yes; in a way. The trouble is that I must leave my guests.”
Gertrude's eyes grew soft as they rested on him.
”We shall miss you,” she murmured. ”But you must go and find out all you can; I'm afraid the mystery and suspense are breaking my father down.”
They walked on in silence for a while, and then Svendsen appeared near the homestead, waving his arm.
”Looks as if I were wanted,” Prescott remarked; ”I believe there's a wagon to be fixed. Will you excuse me? I'll ride over and have a talk with Leslie in the morning.”
CHAPTER XI
A REVELATION
The sun had just dipped, leaving a rim of flaring color on the edge of the vast plain, when Prescott sat smoking on the stoop of the Leslie homestead a week after his evening walk with Gertrude. Leslie and his wife were simple people from Ontario, who had prospered in the last few years. Their crops had escaped rust and hail and autumn frost, and as a result of this, the rancher had replaced his rude frame dwelling with a commodious house, built, with lower walls of brick and wood above, in a somewhat ornate style copied from the small villas which are springing up on the outskirts of the western towns.
Leslie, an elderly, brown-faced man, sat near Prescott; the Jernynghams, who had driven over to welcome his friends, were inside, talking to Mrs.
Leslie.
”Guess you don't know much about the English people we're expecting?”
Leslie asked.
”No,” said Prescott; ”only that they're friends of the Jernynghams. I don't think I've even heard their names yet.”
”Mrs. Leslie knows,” rejoined the farmer; ”I forget it. I feel kind of sorry now that she agreed to take them in, but you made a point of it, and if the man's not so blamed stand-offish, I'll have somebody to talk to.”
”I wouldn't talk too much about Cyril Jernyngham.”
Leslie looked hard at him.
”There's one point, Jack, where I can't agree with you--you're the only man in this district who doesn't believe Jernyngham's dead. It strikes me that you know more about the thing than you have told anybody yet.”
<script>