Part 8 (1/2)

Hetty Leger, however, sat languidly still, where the hot draught that blew in through an open window scattered the dust upon her. Her face was damp, and unpleasantly gritty, for the water in the tank had long run out. Her head ached, as did every bone in her body, for Colonist cars are not fitted as the Pullmans are, and she had with indifferent success for four nights essayed to sleep on a maple shelf which pulled out from the roof above when one wanted it. She had certainly hired a mattress, but its inch or two of thickness had scarcely disguised the hardness of the polished wood beneath it; and although the cost of it and the little green curtain had made a serious inroad on the few dollars left in her scanty purse they had not solved the problem of dressing; while the atmosphere of a close-packed Colonist car when the big lamps are lighted in hot weather is a thing to shudder at. It is also, in view of the fact that most of the pa.s.sengers dispense with curtains, somewhat embarra.s.sing to rise in the morning and wait amidst a group of half-dressed men and women for a place in the cupboard at the rear of the car where ablutions may at least be attempted when there is any water in the tank.

Presently, however, a big bell commenced to toll, and the jolting of the air-brakes flung her forward in her seat, while in another few moments the long cars stopped, and the conductor pushed his way through the perspiring pa.s.sengers who surged towards the vestibule.

”They've had a big washout up the track,” he said. ”You can light out and admire the scenery for two hours, anyway, if you feel like it.”

Hetty looked round, but could see nothing of her brother or Ingleby. She had seen very little to admire at other prairie stations; but anything seemed better than the close heat of the car, and when the vestibule was clear at last she went out languidly and stepped down upon the track.

Beside it rose two desolate frame houses, a crude structure of galvanized iron, and a towering water tank, but that was all, and beyond them the gleaming rails ran straight to the rim of the empty wilderness.

Nothing moved on its interminable levels; the dingy sky seemed suffused with heat, and along the track a smell that was stronger than the reek of creosote rose from the baked and fissured earth. The withered gra.s.s was of the same tint as the earth save where the clay on the bank of a _coulee_ showed a harsh red, and the vast stretch of dusty prairie seemed steeped in the one dreary grey. This, she reflected with a sinking heart, was the land of promise to which she had journeyed five thousand miles to find a home; but, though the track was suggestively littered with empty provision cans, there was as yet very little sign of the milk and honey.

Hetty was usually sympathetic, but the sight of the frowsy pa.s.sengers and unwashed children wandering aimlessly round the station aroused in her a curious impatience that was tinged with disgust that hot afternoon. She wanted to be alone, and noticing an ugly trestle bridge a mile or so ahead followed the rails until she came to it. A river swirled beneath it; but it, too, was utterly devoid of beauty, for the banks of it were crumbling sun-baked clay, and it swept by a dingy, slatey green, thick with the mud brought down by the Rockies' glaciers.

However, it looked cool, and she climbed down until she found a place she could stand on, and laved her arms and face in it. Then, as it happened, a piece of the crumbling clay broke away, and one foot slipped in above the ankle, while the skirt of her thin dress trailed in the water too. It was a trifling mishap, but Hetty was overwrought, and when she had climbed back and taken off and emptied the little shoe she sat down on the dusty gra.s.s and sobbed bitterly. She felt insignificant and lonely in that great empty land, and its desolation crushed her spirits.

She did not know how long she sat there, but at last there were footsteps behind her, and she coloured a little and strove to draw the shoeless foot beneath the hem of the dripping skirt when she saw Ingleby smiling down upon her. Then she remembered that the sleeves of the thin blouse were still rolled back, and the crimson grew plainer in her wet cheeks as with a little adroit movement she shook them down. Ingleby smiled again, in a complacent, brotherly fas.h.i.+on which she found strangely exasperating just then, and sitting down beside her took one of her hot hands.

”Crying, Hetty? That will never do,” he said.

Hetty glanced at him covertly. His face was compa.s.sionate, but there was rather toleration than concern in it, and she pulled her hand away from him.

”I wasn't--at least, not exactly,” she said. ”And if I was, it was the weather--and why don't you go away?”

Ingleby smiled again, in a manner which while kind enough had yet a lack of comprehension in it that made her still angrier.

”People don't generally cry about the weather,” he said.

”Well,” said the girl sharply, ”some of them say things they shouldn't.

I heard you--in a crowded car, too.”

She stopped abruptly, as she remembered the scanty privacy of the Colonist train, and that she was supposed to have been asleep about the time Ingleby had allowed his temper to get the better of him. He, however, only laughed.

”Hetty,” he said, ”what is the matter? I always thought you brave, and I have almost a right to know.”

”I think you have,” and there was a little flash in Hetty's eyes. ”It was you who brought us here, and this is a horrible country. It frightens me.”

Ingleby was a trifle perplexed, and showed it. He had known Hetty Leger for four or five years, and had never seen her in a mood of the kind before. It also occurred to him, as it did every now and then, that, although she was not to be compared with Miss Coulthurst, Hetty was in her own way beautiful. Just then a pretty plump arm showed beneath the unfastened sleeve of the thin blouse, and the somewhat dusty hair with the tint of pale gold in it, lying low on the white forehead, matched the soft blue eyes, though there was a hint of more character than is usually a.s.sociated with her type in Hetty's white and pink face. Ingleby noticed all this with impersonal appreciation, as something which did not greatly concern him.

”Well,” he said, ”I'm sorry, and by no means sure I'm very much pleased with the country myself; but I don't quite see what else I could have done in the circ.u.mstances. Still, it hurts me to see you unhappy.”

Hetty turned to him impulsively. ”Never mind me. I'm an ungrateful little--beast. That's the fact, and you needn't try to say anything nice--I know I am. If it hadn't been for you Tom would have been in prison now.”

Ingleby looked out across the endless dusty levels. ”I'm sure the country must be a good deal better than it looks--when one gets used to it,” he said a trifle dubiously. ”Anyway, we are three to one against it, and needn't be afraid of it while we stick together. That is the one thing we must make up our minds to do.”

”There was a time when you didn't seem very sure you wanted Tom and me.”

”Didn't you feel that I was right a little while ago?”

Hetty said nothing for a s.p.a.ce. She was quick-witted, and not infrequently understood her companion rather better than he understood himself, while recollecting the half-shy delicacy which occasionally characterized him she felt a trifle comforted. It was not, she fancied, to please himself that he had been willing to leave her behind, and she watched him covertly as he, too, sat silent, gazing at the prairie with thoughtful eyes. He was not, she was quite aware, as clever as her brother, and he certainly had his shortcomings--in fact, a good many of them; but for all that there was something about him which, so far as she was concerned, set him apart from any other man. Exactly what it was she persuaded herself that she did not know, or, at least, made a brave attempt to do so, for it was evident that he had only a frank, brotherly regard for her. Still, the silence was getting uncomfortable, and she flung a question at him.