Part 28 (1/2)

CHAPTER XVIII

A DELICATE ERRAND

There was a sharp frost outside, and the prairie was white with a thin sprinkle of snow, when a little party sat down to supper in the Hastings homestead, one Sat.u.r.day evening. Hastings sat at the head of the table, Mrs. Hastings at the foot with her little daughters, and Agatha, Sproatly, and Winifred between them. Sproatly and Winifred had just driven over from the railroad settlement, as they did now and then, and that was why the meal, which was usually served early in the evening, had been delayed an hour or so. The two hired men, whom Mrs. Hastings had not kept waiting, had gone out to some task in the barn or stables.

Sproatly took a bundle of papers out of his pocket and laid them on the table. There had been a remarkable change in his appearance, for he now wore store clothes, and the skin coat he had taken off when he came in was a new one. It occurred to Mrs. Hastings that there was a certain significance in this, though Sproatly had changed his occupation some time before, and now drove about the prairie as an agent for certain makers of agricultural implements.

”I called for your mail and Gregory's before we left,” he said. ”I had to go around to see Hawtrey, which is partly what made us so late, though Winifred couldn't get away as soon as she expected. They have floods of wheat coming in to the elevators and I understand that the milling people can't take another bushel in.”

Mrs. Hastings glanced at Agatha, who understood what the look meant, for Sproatly had hitherto spoken of Winifred circ.u.mspectly as Miss Rawlinson.

Hastings took the papers which Agatha handed to him and laid them aside.

”We'll let them wait until supper's over. I don't expect any news that's particularly good,” he said. ”The bottom's apparently dropping out of the wheat market.”

”Mr. Hamilton can't get cars enough, and we'll have to shut down in another day or two unless they turn up,” remarked Winifred. ”It's much the same all along the line. The Winnipeg traffic people wired us that they haven't an empty car in the yards. Why do you rush the grain in that way? It's bound to break the market.”

Hastings smiled. ”Well,” he explained, ”a good many of us have bills to meet. For another thing, they've had a heavy crop in Manitoba, Dakota and Minnesota, and I suppose some folks have an idea they'll get in first before the other people swamp the Eastern markets. I think they're foolish. It's a temporary scare. Prices will stiffen by and by.”

”That's what Mr. Hamilton says, but I suppose the thing is natural. Men are very like sheep, aren't they?”

Mr. Hastings laughed. ”Well,” he admitted, ”we are, in some respects.

When prices break a little we generally rush to sell. One or two of my neighbors are holding on, and it's hardly likely that very much of my wheat will be flung on to a falling market.”

”We have been getting a good deal from the Range.”

There was displeasure in Hastings' face. ”Gregory's selling largely on Harry's account?”

”They've been hauling wheat in to us for the last few weeks,” said Winifred.

Agatha noticed that Hastings glanced at his wife significantly, but Mrs.

Hastings interposed and forbade any further conversation on the subject until supper was over. After the table had been cleared Hastings opened his papers. The others sat expectantly silent, while he turned the pages over one after another.

”No,” he said, ”there's no news of Harry, and I'm afraid it's scarcely possible that we'll hear anything of him this winter.”

Agatha was conscious that Mrs. Hastings' eyes were upon her, and she sat very still, though her heart was beating faster than usual. Hastings went on again:

”The _Colonist_ has a line or two about a barque from Alaska which put into Victoria short of stores. She was sent up to an A. C. C. factory, and had to clear out before she was ready. The ice, it seems, was closing in unusually early. A steam whaler at Portland reports the same thing, and from the news brought by a steamer from j.a.pan all communication with Northeastern Asia is already cut off.”

No one spoke for a moment or two, and Agatha, leaning back in her chair, glanced around the room. There was not much furniture in it, but, though this was unusual on the prairie, door and double cas.e.m.e.nts were guarded by heavy hangings. The big bra.s.s lamp overhead shed a cheerful light, and birch wood in the stove snapped and cracked noisily, and the stove-pipe, which was far too hot to touch, diffused a drowsy heat. One could lounge beside the fire contentedly, knowing that the stinging frost was drying the snow to dusty powder outside. The cozy room heightened the contrast that all recognized in thinking of Wyllard.

Agatha pictured the little schooner bound fast in the Northern ice, and then two or three travel-worn men crouching in a tiny tent that was buffeted by an Arctic gale. She could see the poles bend, and the tricings strain.

After that, with a sudden transition, her thoughts went back to the early morning when Wyllard had driven away, and every detail of the scene rose up clearly in her mind. She saw him and the stolid Dampier sitting in the wagon, with nothing in their manner to suggest that they were setting out upon a perilous venture, and she felt his hand close tight upon her fingers, as it had done just before the vehicle jolted away from the homestead. She could once more see the wagon growing smaller and smaller on the white prairie, until it dipped behind the crest of a low hill, and the sinking beat of hoofs died away. Then, at least, she had realized that he had started on the first stage of a journey which might lead him through the ice-bound gates of the North to the rest that awaits the souls of sailors. She could not, however, imagine him shrinking from any ordeal. Gripping helm, or hauling in the sled traces, he would gaze with quiet eyes steadfastly ahead, even if he saw only the pa.s.sage from this world to the next. Once more a curious thrill ran through her, and there was pride as well as regret in it.

Presently she became conscious that Hastings was speaking.

”What took you around by the Range, Jim?” he asked.

”Collecting,” answered Sproatly. ”I sold Gregory a couple of binders earlier in the season, but I couldn't get a dollar out of him.” He laughed. ”Of course, if it had been anybody else I'd have stayed until he handed over the money, but I couldn't press Gregory too hard after quartering myself upon him as I did last winter, though I'm rather afraid my employers wouldn't appreciate that kind of delicacy.”