Masters of the Wheat-Lands. Harold Bindloss
had been an expensive education and she remembered that the influence of the isle she lived in had in turn fastened on Saxons, Norsemen, Normans, and made them Englishmen. What was more, so far as she had read, those who had gone out South or Westwards had carried that influence with them, and, under all their surface changes, and sometimes their grievances against the Motherland, were, in the great essentials, wholly English still.
“But,” she remarked at random, “how can you be sure that I’m English?”
It was quite dark in among the trees, but she fancied there was a smile in her companion’s eyes.
“Oh,” he answered simply, “you couldn’t be anything else!”
She accepted this as a compliment, though she knew that it had not been his intention to flatter her. His general attitude since she had met him scarcely suggested such, a lack of good taste. She was becoming mildly interested in the stranger, but she possessed several essentially English characteristics, and it did not appear advisable to encourage him too much. She said nothing further, and it was he who spoke first.
“I wonder,” he said, “if you knew a young lad who went out to Canada a few years ago. His name was Pattinson—Henry Pattinson.”
“No,” the girl answered quickly. “I certainly did not. But the name is not an uncommon one. There are a good many Pattinsons in the North.”
Wyllard was not surprised by this answer. He had reasons for believing that the name under which the lad he had befriended had enrolled himself was not the correct one. It would, of course, have been easy to describe the boy, but Wyllard was shrewd, and noticing that there was now a restraint in the girl’s manner he could not speak prematurely. He was aware that most of the English are characterized by a certain reserve, and apt to retire into their shells if pressed too hard. He did not, however, mean to let this girl elude him altogether.
“It really doesn’t matter,” he responded. “I shall no doubt get upon his trail in due time.”
They reached the highroad a minute or two later, and the girl turned to him.
“Thank you again,” she said. “If you go straight on you will come to the village in about a quarter of an hour.”
She turned away and left him standing with his soft hat in his hand. He stood quite still for almost a minute after she had gone. When he reached the inn its old-world simplicity delighted him. It was built with thick walls of slate, and roofed with ponderous flags. In Canada, where the frost was Arctic, they used thin cedar shingles. The room in which his meal was spread was paneled with oak that had turned black with age. Great rough-hewn beams of four times the size that anybody would have used for the purpose in the West supported the low ceiling. There was a fire in the wide hearth and the ruddy gleam of burnished copper utensils pierced the shadows. The room was large, but there was only a single candle upon the table. He liked the gloomy interior, and he felt that a garish light would somehow be out of harmony.
By and by his hostess appeared to clear the things away. She was a little, withered old woman, with shrewd, kindly eyes, and a russet tinge in her cheeks.
“There’s a good light, and company in the sitting-room,” she said. “We’ve three young men staying with us. They’ve been up the Pike.”
“I’d sooner stay here, if I may,” replied Wyllard. “I don’t quite know yet if I’ll go on to-morrow. One can get through to Langley Dale by the Hause, as I think you call it?”
The wrinkled dame said that pedestrians often went that way.
“There are some prosperous folks—people of station—living round here?” Wyllard asked casually.
“There’s the vicar. I don’t know that he’s what you’d call prosperous. Then there’s Mr. Martindale, of Rushyholme, and Little, of the Ghyll.”
“Has any of them a daughter of about twenty-four years of age?” Wyllard described the girl he had met to the best of his ability.
It was evident that the landlady did not recognize the description, but she thought a moment.
“No,” she answered, “there’s nobody like that; but I did hear that they’d a young lady staying at the vicarage.”
She changed the subject abruptly, and Wyllard once more decided that the English did not like questions.
“You’re a stranger, sir?” she inquired.
“I am,” said Wyllard. “I’ve some business to attend to further on, but I came along on foot, to see the fells, and I’m glad I did. It’s a great and wonderful country you’re living in. That is,” he added gravely, “when you get outside the towns. There are things in some of the cities that most make one ill.”
He stood up. “That tray’s too heavy for you. Won’t you let me carry it?”
The landlady was plainly amazed at his words, but she made it clear that she desired no assistance. When she went out Wyllard, who sat down again, took out the photograph. He gazed at it steadfastly.
“There’s rather more than mere prettiness there, but I don’t know that I want to keep it now,” he reflected. “It’s way behind the original. She has grown since it was taken—just as one would expect that girl to grow.”
He lighted his pipe and smoked thoughtfully until he arrived at a decision.
“One can’t force the running in this country. They don’t like it,” he said. “I’ll lie by a day or two, and keep an eye on that vicarage.”
In the meanwhile his hostess was discussing him with a niece.
“I’m sure I don’t know what that man is,” she informed the younger woman. “He has got the manners of a gentleman, but he walks like a fell shepherd, and his hands are like a navvy’s. A man’s hands now and then tell you a good deal about him. Besides, of all things, he wanted to carry his tray away. Said it was too heavy for me.”
“Oh,” replied her niece, “he’s an American. There’s no accounting for them.”
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