Prescott of Saskatchewan. Harold Bindloss
Have you written to your people?”
Prescott felt embarrassed and guilty, as he generally did when, in confidential moments, she called him by Jernyngham’s name. Somehow he could not imagine her saying Jack.
“No,” he rejoined slowly. “Of course, they must be written to.”
Muriel did not answer. The turn their conversation had taken had filled her with a vague unrest as she looked back at the life she had led. Three or four years ago it had seemed filled with glamour and excitement, and she had entered on its pleasures with eager zest, but of late she had begun to find them wearisome. They no longer satisfied her. If this were the result of a few years’ experience, what would she feel when she had grown jaded with time and everything was stale? Then her glimpse of the simple, healthful western life had come as a revelation. It was real, a bracing struggle, in which no effort was wasted but produced tangible results: broad stretches of splendid wheat, sweeps of azure flax.
But this was not all. She felt drawn to her brown-faced companion, who had obviously redeemed whatever errors he had been guilty of in the past. She had known him for only about a fortnight, but she had seen his admiration for her with a satisfaction that was slightly tempered by misgivings. She could not tell exactly what she expected from him, but she had at least looked for some expression of a wish that their acquaintance should not end abruptly on the morrow. She did not think she would have resented a carefully modified display of the gallantry Cyril Jernyngham must be capable of, if reports were true. Considering what his past was supposed to have been, the grave man who watched her with troubled eyes was hard to understand.
“Cyril,” she asked, “has Harry given you our address at Glacier and Banff?”
He supposed that this implied permission to write to her, but he could not do so as Jack Prescott and he already bitterly regretted that he had allowed her to think of him as Jernyngham.
“Yes,” he said, with a carelessness which cost him an effort. “But I’m afraid I’m not a good correspondent. I’m too busy, for one thing.”
“Too busy?” she mocked, with a stronger color in her face. “Can’t you spare half an hour from your plowing to write to your friends?”
“Well,” he answered with forced coolness, “it’s difficult, except, of course, in the winter and you’ll be back in England then, with so many festivities on hand that you won’t be anxious to hear about Canada.”
She looked at him for a moment, puzzled and a little angry, and he guessed her thoughts. He was behaving like a boor; but it was better that she should think him one.
“How very un-English you have become!” she said.
“You mean I’m very Canadian? Anyway, I try to be sensible—I’ve done some wretchedly foolish things and I’ve got to pay for them. Of course, this visit’s only an episode to you; something that’s soon over and forgotten.”
There was trouble in his voice, though he strove to speak with indifference, and after a swift glance at him she answered coldly:
“I suppose it is. One impression rubs out another, and no doubt we shall see something novel and interesting farther on. However, we won’t stay in Canada very long and we shall see your father and sister as soon as we get home. It’s curious that you have scarcely mentioned them.”
“Oh, well,” he evaded awkwardly, “Harry has told me a good deal.”
He turned his head, dreading her curious eyes. His last evening in her company was proving more trying than he had expected; though usually tolerant and good-humored, the strain made him bitter. To-morrow he must put this girl out of his mind. After all, it was to Cyril Jernyngham, rake and wastrel, but a man of her own station, that she had been gracious and charming; had she known he was Jack Prescott, she would, no doubt, have treated him very differently; but in this supposition he did her wrong.
Puzzled by his lack of responsiveness and with wounded pride, she stopped and looked out toward the northwest across the prairie. Steeped in strong coloring, it seemed to run back into immeasurable distance, though a wonderful blaze of crimson marked its rim. The faint, cool air that flowed across it was charged with a curious exhilarating quality; there was a subtle fragrance of herbs in the grass.
“It’s getting late,” she said; “I must go in. This is the last sunset I shall watch on the prairie, and in several ways I’m sorry. You have made our stay here very pleasant.”
CHAPTER V
THE MYSTERY OF THE MUSKEG
Colston and his party had been gone a fortnight when Prescott called at the Jernyngham homestead one afternoon and found its owner sitting moodily in the kitchen, which presented a chaotic appearance. Unwashed plates and dishes were scattered about, the wood-box was overturned and poplar billets strewed the floor, there was no fire in the rusty stove, and the fragments of a heavy crock lay against the wall. The strong sunlight that streamed in emphasized the disorder of the room.
“I was passing and thought I’d come in,” Prescott explained. “Where’s Mrs. Jernyngham? The look of the place gives one the idea that she’s not at home.”
“It’s never remarkably tidy.” Jernyngham broke into a rueful smile. “I believe she started for the settlement when I was at work in the summer fallow this morning. The fact that the horse and buggy are missing points to it.”
“But don’t you know whether she has gone or not?”
“I don’t,” said Jernyngham. “She didn’t acquaint me with her intentions. As I see she has taken some things along, it looks as if she meant to visit Mrs. Harvey at the store. They’re friends now and then.”
His manner was suggestive, though he looked more resigned than disturbed, and Prescott, glancing at the shattered crock, ventured a question which he feared was not quite judicious:
“How did you break that thing?”
“It ought to be a warning. I didn’t break it; it was meant to break on me. Ellice flung it at my head a day or two ago, and fortunately missed, though as a rule she’s a pretty good shot. I suppose it’s significant that neither of us troubled to pick up the pieces.”
Prescott looked sympathetic, and hesitated, with his half-filled pipe in his hand.
“Shall I go, Cyril? I want to make Sebastian before it’s dark.”
“Sit still,” Jernyngham told him. “I’m in an expansive mood, and I’ve a notion that I’m not far off a crisis in my affairs. Ellice has been fractious lately; I seem to have been getting on her nerves, which perhaps is not surprising.”
Prescott made no comment and after sitting silent a few moments Jernyngham resumed:
“I was rather rash when I ventured to remonstrate about a bill. Ellice pointed out, with justice, that so long as I slouched round and let Wandle rob me, I’d no right to grumble at her for buying a few things. Most unwisely I maintained my point and”—he indicated the broken crock and littered table—“you see the consequences.”
“Wandle is a bit of a rogue,” said Prescott, choosing the safest topic. “I’ve told you so.”
“You have. For all that, he’s useful and I don’t mind being robbed in moderation; I’m a man who’s accustomed to losing things.” His half-mocking tone grew serious. “I wrote to my people, as soon as Colston left, telling them I’d determined to remain in Canada; but if it wasn’t for Ellice, I think I’d quit farming.”
Prescott