Prescott of Saskatchewan. Harold Bindloss
admiration in his glance, and she became suddenly filled with mischievous daring.
“Cyril,” she said, “you are either an excellent actor, or else—”
“I have been maligned. Is that what you meant?”
“I think I did mean something of the kind.”
“Then I’m a very poor actor. That should settle the question.”
“I’ve wondered how you became so very Canadian,” she said thoughtfully.
“What’s the matter with the Canadians?”
“Nothing. I haven’t met very many yet, but on the whole I’m favorably impressed by them. They’re direct, blunt, perhaps less complex than we are.”
“No trimmings,” he suggested. “They don’t muss up good material so that it can hardly be recognized. You can tell what a man is when you see him or hear him talk.”
“I don’t know,” Muriel argued. “I’ve an idea that it might be difficult, even in Canada.”
He let this pass.
“What do you think of the country?” he asked.
She glanced round. It was late in the afternoon and somewhat cooler than it had been. Half the plain lay in shadow, but the light was curiously sharp. A clump of ragged jack-pines stood on a sandhill miles away, and a lake twinkled in the remote distance. The powerful Clydesdale horses plodded through short crackling scrub; a fine scent of wild peppermint floated about.
“Oh,” she responded, “it’s delightful! And everybody’s so energetic! You move with a spring and verve; and I don’t hear any grumbling, though there seems to be so much to do!”
“And to bear now and then: crops wiped out—I’ve lost two of them. The work never slackens, except in winter, when you sit shivering beside the stove, if you’re not hauling in building logs or cordwood through the arctic frost. At night it’s deadly silent, unless there’s a blizzard howling; the plains are very lonely when the snow lies deep. Don’t you think you’re better off in England, taking it all ’round?”
He laid respectful fingers on the hem of her skirt, touching the fine material, as if appraising its worth.
“Our wheat-growers’ wives and daughters are lucky if they’ve a couple of moderately smart dresses, but I suppose you have several trunks full of things like this. That and the kind of life it implies must count for something.”
“I believe I have,” said Muriel with candor, answering his steady inquiring glance. “Still, I’ve felt that we drift along from amusement to amusement in a purposeless way, doing nothing that’s worth while. There might come a time when one would grow very tired of it.”
“It must come and bring trouble then. Here one goes on from task to task, each one bigger and more venturesome than the last; acre added to acre, a gasoline tractor to the horse-plow, another quarter-section broken. Mind and body taxed all day and often half the night. One can’t sit down and mope.”
This was, she thought, a curious speech for a man who had been described as careless, extravagant, and dissolute; but he was getting too serious, and she laughed.
“You were energetic enough in England, if reports are true. I’ve often thought of your right-of-way adventure. It must have been very dramatic when you appeared at the garden party covered with fresh tar.”
“Sounds like that, doesn’t it?” he cautiously agreed. “How do they tell the tale?”
“Something like this—you were at the Hall with Geoffrey when the townspeople were clamoring about Sir Gilbert’s closing the path through the wood, and for some reason you assisted them in attacking the barricade. It had been well tarred as a defensive measure, hadn’t it? Then you returned, triumphant, black from head to foot, when you thought the guests had gone, and plunged into the middle of the last of them—Maud always laughs when she talks about it. Sir Gilbert was somewhere out of sight when you related the rabble’s brilliant victory, but he dashed out red in face when he understood and never stopped until he jumped into his motor. I don’t think Geoffrey’s wife has forgiven you.”
Prescott smiled.
“Well,” he said, “I must have grown very staid since then.”
Muriel changed the subject, but they talked with much good-humor until they reached the homestead, where the man alighted and held out his arms to her. She hesitated a moment, and then was seized by him and swung gently to the ground, but she left him with a trace of heightened color in her face and went quietly into the house.
CHAPTER IV
MURIEL FEELS REGRET
It was pleasantly cool in the shadow of Jernyngham’s wooden barn, where Prescott sat, talking to its owner. Outside the strip of shade, the sun fell hot upon the parched grass, and the tall wheat that ran close up to the homestead swayed in waves of changing color before the rush of breeze. The whitened, weather-worn boards of the house, which faced the men, seemed steeped in glowing light, and sounds of confused activity issued from the doorway that was guarded by mosquito-netting. A clatter of domestic utensils indicated that Ellice was baking, and she made more noise than she usually did when she was out of temper. Jernyngham listened with faint amusement as he filled his pipe.
“Sorry I can’t ask you in, Jack,” he said. “The kitchen is a pretty large one, but when Ellice starts bread-making, there isn’t a spot one can sit down in. Of course, we’ve another living-room—I furnished it rather nicely—but for some reason we seldom use it.”
The mosquito door swung back with a crash and Ellice appeared in the entrance with a hot, angry face, and hands smeared with dough, her hair hanging partly loose in disorder about her neck, her skirt ungracefully kilted up.
“Ain’t you goin’ to bring that water? Have I got to wait another hour?” she cried, ignoring Prescott.
Jernyngham rose and moved away. Returning, he disappeared into the kitchen with a dripping pail and Ellice’s voice was raised in harsh upbraiding. Then the man came out, looking a trifle weary, though he sat down by Prescott with a smile.
“These things should be a warning, Jack,” he said. “Still, one has to make allowances; this hot weather’s trying, and Ellice got a letter that disturbed her by the last mail. I didn’t hear what was in it, but I suspect it was a bill.”
Prescott nodded, because he did not know what to say. Mrs. Jernyngham had, he gathered, been unusually fractious for the last week or two, and Cyril was invariably forbearing. Indeed, Prescott sometimes wondered at his patience, for he imagined that his comrade had outgrown what love he had borne her. The man had his virtues: he was rash, but he seldom failed to face the consequences with whimsical good-humor.
“Your friends are going to-morrow,” Prescott told him. “They understand that you will write home and explain your reasons for remaining.”
“I suppose I’ll have to do so, though it will be difficult. You see, to give the reasons that count most would be cruel. If it’s any comfort to my folks to think favorably of me, I’d rather let them. I’ve made a horrible mess of things, but that’s no reason why others should suffer.”
Prescott glanced round at the dilapidated house, the untidy stable, the door of which was falling to pieces, and the wagon standing with a broken wheel. There was no doubt that Jernyngham was right in one respect.
“Jack,” Cyril resumed,