Prescott of Saskatchewan. Harold Bindloss
plunged into the deep gloom of a poplar bluff; and later, lurching down a steep declivity, swept through a shallow creek. The air was filled with the smell of dew-damped soil and unknown aromatic scents, the loneliness was impressive, the half-obscurity emphasized the strangeness of everything. Muriel felt as if she had left all that was stereotyped and matter-of-fact far behind. It was the unexpected and romantic that ought to happen in this virgin land.
Then, worn by several days’ journey in the jolting cars, she grew drowsy. The steady drumming of hoofs, the slapping of the traces, and the rattle of wheels were strangely soothing. She fancied that once or twice when they sped furiously down an incline, the driver held her fast, but she did not resent the support of his arm: it was a steady, reassuring grasp. At last, as they swung round a poplar bluff, she roused herself, for dim black buildings loomed up ahead, and one which had lighted windows took the shape of a small house. The team stopped, there were voices speaking with a curious accent which reminded her of Norway, and the rancher helped her down.
Afterward she followed her sister into a simply furnished, pine-boarded room with a big stove at one end of it, where a middle-aged woman set food and coffee before them. She spoke English haltingly, but her lined face lighted up when Muriel thanked her in Norse. Then there followed a flow of eager words, a few of which the girl caught, until the woman broke off when their host came in. He was silent, for the most part, during the meal, and shortly afterward Muriel was shown into a small room where she went to sleep in a few minutes.
CHAPTER III
JERNYNGHAM MAKES A DECISION
Prescott’s guests had spent a week at his homestead with content when Colston and his wife sat talking one morning.
“I’m frankly puzzled,” said Colston, opening his cigar case; “I can’t make Cyril out. He’s frugal, remarkably industrious—I think the description’s warranted—and, from all that one can gather, as steady as a rock. This, of course, is gratifying, but it’s by no means what I expected.”
“He certainly doesn’t fit in with the picture his sister Gertrude drew me, though she conveyed the impression that she was softening things down. There can be no doubt that he was wild. That might, perhaps, be forgiven, but one or two of the stories I’ve heard about him filled me with disgust.”
Her husband looked thoughtful. He had not noticed that Muriel was sitting just outside the open window, though Mrs. Colston, being in a different position, had done so. She thought their voices would reach the girl, and if anything strongly in Cyril’s disfavor cropped up during the conversation it might be as well that she should hear it. Mrs. Colston was willing that he should be reconciled to his relatives, but a reformed rake was not the kind of man to whom she wished her sister to be attracted. One could not tell whether the reformation would prove permanent.
“After all, I never heard any really serious offense proved against him,” Colston rejoined. “It’s sometimes easy to acquire a reputation without doing anything in particular to deserve it. People are apt to jump at conclusions.”
“When there’s a general concurrence of opinion it’s wiser to fall in with it. But what did he say about his father’s suggestion that he should go home?”
“Asked for a day or two to think it over; I fancied that he wished to consult somebody. Then he promised to give me an answer.”
“On the whole, I think they need have no hesitation about taking him back now,” Mrs. Colston responded; and Muriel agreed with her. “There’s another point,” she added. “How long shall we stay here?”
“I don’t know. I’ve a growing liking for Cyril, the place is pleasant, and though things are rather rudimentary, the air’s wonderfully bracing. He urged me to stay some little time, and I felt that he wished it.”
Mrs. Colston considered. She was enjoying her visit; everything was delightfully novel and she felt more cheerful and more vigorous than she had done for some time. But Muriel seemed to find the prairie pleasant, and there was a possibility of danger there.
“We might, perhaps, remain another week,” she suggested.
As it happened, Colston’s suspicion that his host wished to consult somebody was correct, for Prescott was then driving in to the settlement to lay his visitor’s message before the man it most concerned. He found him lounging in the hotel bar, and, drawing him into the general-room, he sat down opposite him in a hard wooden chair. The apartment had no floor covering and was cheerless and dirty; there was not even a table in it; and only a railroad time-table and advertisements of land sales hung on its rough pine walls. Jernyngham, however, looked in keeping with his surroundings. The dirty bandage still covered his forehead, his clothes were stained and untidy, and he had an unkempt, dissipated air.
“Well,” he asked with a grin, “how are you getting on with your new friends?”
“I don’t know; I’m curious about what they think of me. Anyway, I found the thing harder than I expected. Why didn’t you tell me Mrs. Colston was bringing her sister?”
“If I ever heard she had one, I forgot it; suppose I couldn’t have read the letter properly. What’s she like?”
“Herself,” said Prescott. “I can’t think of anybody we know I could compare her with.”
He had endeavored to speak carelessly, but something in his voice betrayed him and Jernyngham laughed.
“That’s not surprising. If you want to play your part properly, you had better make love to her. It’s what would be expected of me, and it couldn’t do any harm, because these people would very soon head you off. Harry Colston’s sister-in-law would look for an assured position and at least five thousand dollars a year. When are they going?”
“I’ve asked them to stay a little longer and I think they’ll agree. But that is not what I came to see you about. Colston laid a proposition before me—you’re formally invited to return home.”
“On what terms?”
Prescott detailed them, watching his companion. The latter sat silent for a minute or two, and then he said slowly:
“It’s a handsome offer, but it was made under a mistake. There’s no doubt that Colston was trusted with powers of discretion. He must be satisfied with you—don’t you feel complimented, Jack?”
“What I feel is outside the question.”
“Well,” continued Jernyngham thoughtfully, “I suppose if I indulged in a spell of hard work in the open and practised strict abstinence it might improve my appearance, and I could, perhaps, keep out of Colston’s way, or if needful, own up to the trick. The old man would hold to his bargain: he’s that kind. It’s a strong temptation—you see what I’d stand to gain—a liberal allowance, a life that’s wildly luxurious by comparison with the one I’m leading, the society of people of the stamp I’ve been brought up among. Jack, I feel driven to the point of yielding. But it’s a pity this offer has come too late.”
“Is it too late?”
“Think! Would it be fair to go? For a month or two I might keep straight, then—I’ve tried to describe my people—you can imagine their feelings at the inevitable outbreak. Besides, there’s a more serious difficulty.” Jernyngham’s tense face relaxed into a grim smile. “Can you imagine Ellice an inmate of an English country house, patronizing local charities, presiding over prim garden parties? The idea’s preposterous! And that’s not all.”
Prescott knew little about England, but he could imagine her making an undesirable sensation in