Masters of the Wheat-Lands. Harold Bindloss

asked.

      “I didn’t,” answered Wyllard. “I went back to the mine, but several things suggested that the name upon the pay-roll wasn’t his real one. He began a broken message the night he died, but the hemorrhage cut him off in the middle of it. The wish that I should tell his people somehow was in his eyes.”

      Wyllard broke off for a moment with the deprecatory gesture, which in connection with the story was very expressive.

      “I have never done it, but how could I? All I know is that he was a delicately brought up young Englishman, and the only clew I have is a watch with a London maker’s name on it and a girl’s photograph. I’ve a very curious notion that I shall meet that girl some day.”

      Hawtrey, who made no comment, lay still for a minute or two, but his face suggested that he was considering something.

      “Harry,” he said presently, “I shall not be fit for a journey for quite a while yet, and if I went over to England I couldn’t get the plowing done and the crop in; which, if I’m going to be married, is absolutely necessary.”

      There was no doubt about the truth of the statement, for the small Western farmer has very seldom a balance in hand, and for that matter, is not infrequently in debt to the nearest storekeeper. He must, as a rule, secure a harvest or abandon his holding, since as soon as the crop is thrashed the bills pour in. Wyllard made a sign of assent.

      “Well,” Hawtrey went on, “if you’re going to England you could go as my deputy. You could make Agatha understand what things are like here, and bring her out to me. I’ll arrange for the wedding to be soon as she arrives.”

      Wyllard was not a conventional person, but he pointed out several objections. Hawtrey overruled them, however, and eventually Wyllard reluctantly assented.

      “As it happens, Mrs. Hastings is going over, too, and if she comes back about the same time the thing might be managed,” he said. “I believe she’s in Winnipeg just now, but I’ll write to her. By the way, have you a photograph of Agatha?”

      “I haven’t,” Hawtrey answered. “She gave me one, but somehow it got mislaid on house-cleaning. That’s rather an admission, isn’t it?”

      It occurred to Wyllard that it certainly was. In fact, it struck him as a very curious thing that Hawtrey should have lost the picture which the girl with whom he was in love had given him. He sat silent for a moment or two, and then stood up.

      “When I hear from Mrs. Hastings, I’ll drive around again. Candidly, the thing has somewhat astonished me. I always had a fancy it would be Sally.”

      Hawtrey laughed. “Sally?” he replied. “We’re first-rate friends, but I never had the faintest notion of marrying her.”

      Wyllard went out to harness his team, and he did not notice that Sally, who had approached the door with a tray in her hands a moment or two earlier, drew back before him softly. When he had crossed the room she set down the tray and, with her cheeks burning, leaned upon the table. Then, feeling that she could not stay in the stove-heated room, she went out, and stood in the slushy snow. One of her hands was tightly closed, and all the color had vanished from her cheeks. However, she contrived to give Hawtrey his supper by and by, and soon afterwards drove away.

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

A CRISIS

       Table of Contents

      While Wyllard made arrangements for his journey, and Sally Creighton went very quietly about her work on the lonely prairie farm, it happened one evening that Miss Winifred Rawlinson sat uneasily expectant far back under the gallery of a concert-hall in an English manufacturing town. In her back seat Miss Rawlinson could not hear very well, but it was the cheapest place she could obtain, and economy was of some little importance to her. Besides, by craning her neck a little to avoid the hat of the strikingly dressed young woman in front of her, she could, at least, see the stage. The programme which she held in one hand announced that Miss Agatha Ismay would sing a certain aria from a great composer’s oratorio. Miss Rawlinson leaned further forward in her chair when a girl of about her own age, which was twenty-four, slowly advanced to the center of the stage.

      The girl on the stage was a tall, well-made, brown-haired girl, with a quiet grace of movement and a comely face. She was attired in a long trailing dress of a shimmering corn-straw tint. Agatha Ismay had sung at unimportant concerts with marked success, but that evening there was something very like shrinking in her eyes.

      A crash of chords from the piano melted into a rippling prelude, and Winifred breathed easier when her friend began to sing. The voice was sweet and excellently trained, and there was a deep stillness of appreciation when the clear notes thrilled through the closely-packed hall. No one could doubt that the first part of the aria was a success, for half-subdued applause broke out when the voice sank into silence, and for a few moments the piano rippled on alone; but it seemed to Winifred that there was a look of tension in the singer’s face, and she grew uneasy, for she understood the cause for it.

      “The last bit of the second part’s rather trying,” remarked a young man behind her. “There’s an awkward jump at two full tones that was too much for our soprano when we tried it at the choral union. Miss Ismay’s voice is very true in intonation, but I don’t suppose most of the audience would notice it if she shirked a little and left that high sharp out.”

      Winifred had little knowledge of music, but she was sufficiently acquainted with her friend’s character to be certain that Agatha would not attempt to leave out the sharp in question. This was one reason why she sat rigidly still when the clear voice rang out again. It rose from note to note, full and even, but she could see the singer’s face, and there was no doubt whatever that Agatha was making a strenuous effort. Nobody else, however, seemed to notice it, for Winifred flung a swift glance around, and then fixed her eyes upon the dominant figure in the corn-straw dress. The sweet voice was still rising and the interested listener hoped that the accompanist would force the tone to cover it a little, and put on the loud pedal. The pianist, however, was gazing at his music, and played on until, with startling suddenness, the climax came.

      The voice sank a full tone, rose, and hoarsely trailed off into silence again. Then the accompanist glanced over his shoulder, and struck a ringing chord while he waited for a sign. There was a curious stirring in the audience. The girl in the shimmering dress stood quite still for a moment with a spot of crimson in her cheek and a half-dazed look in her eyes. Then, turning swiftly, she moved off the stage.

      Winifred rose with a gasp, and turned upon the young man next her, who looked up inquiringly.

      “Yes,” she said sharply; “can’t you let me pass? I’m going out.”

      It was about half-past nine when she reached the wet street. A fine rain drove into her face, and she had rather more than a mile to walk without an escort, but that was a matter which caused her no concern. She was a self-reliant young woman, and accustomed to going about unattended. She was quite aware that the scene she had just witnessed would bring about a crisis in her own and her friend’s affairs. For all that, she was unpleasantly conscious of the leak in one shabby boot when she stepped down from the sidewalk to cross the street, and when she opened her umbrella beneath a gas lamp she pursed up her mouth. There were holes in the umbrella near where the ribs ran into the ferrule; she had not noticed them before. She, however, resolutely plodded on through the drizzle, until three young fellows who came with linked arms down the pavement of a quieter street barred her way. One wore his hat on one side, the one nearest the curb flourished a little cane, and the third smiled at her fatuously.

      “Oh my!” he jeered. “Where’s dear Jemima off to in such a hurry?”

      Winifred drew herself