Ranching for Sylvia Part 57

Then West touched George's arm.

"You'll have to come. They've got two other victims--Hardie and Grant--and the supper's ready."

The reeve looked at him in stern rebuke.

"That isn't the way to speak of this function, Percy. If you feel like a victim, you can drop right out."

George was touched by the man's intimation. He expressed his satisfaction, and the whole a.s.sembly escorted him to the hotel. There he and Grant and Hardie were seated at the top of a long table near the reeve, who made a short opening speech.

"Business first, and then the supper, boys," he said. "Corporal Flett can't come; his bosses wouldn't approve of it; but I'll see it put in the Sentinel that he was asked, and we won't mind if that has some effect on them. There's another thing--out of deference to Mr. Hardie and the change in opinion he has ably led--you'll only get tea and coffee at this entertainment. Those who haven't signed his book, must hold out until it's over."

An excellent meal had been finished when he got up again, with three illuminated strips of parchment in his hand.

"I'll be brief, but there's something to be said. Our guests have set us an example which won't be lost. They saw the danger of letting things drift; one of them warned us plainly, although to do so needed grit, and some of us rounded on him, and if the others didn't talk, it was because that wasn't their end of the job. They knew their duty to the country and they did it, though it cost them something. We owe it to them that the police have smashed the rustler gang, and that from now on no small homesteader can be bluffed or tempted into doing what's sure to bring him into trouble, and no man with a big farm need fear to let his cattle run. What's more, instead of a haunt of toughs and hobos, we're going to have a quiet and prosperous town. I'm now proud that it's my duty to hand our guests the a.s.surance of our grateful appreciation. Corporal Flett's will be sent on to him."

He handed them the parchments, and George felt inclined to blush as he glanced at the decorated words of eulogy; while a half-ironical twinkle crept into Grant's eyes. Then Hardie rose to reply, and faltered once or twice with a sob of emotion in his voice, for the testimonial had a deeper significance to him than it had to the others. His audience, however, encouraged him, and there was a roar of applause when he sat down. Soon after that the gathering broke up.

George went to the parlor, which served as writing-room, and found Flora there. She smiled as she noticed the end of the parchment sticking out of his pocket.

"I dare say you're relieved that the ceremony's over," she said.

"It was a little trying," George confessed. "I was badly afraid I'd have to make a speech, but luckily we had Hardie, who was equal to the task."

"After all, you needn't be ashamed of the testimonial. I really think you deserved it, and I suppose I must congratulate you on the fortunate end of your dramatic adventures."

George stood looking at her. He was somewhat puzzled, for there was a hint of light mockery in her voice.

"I'll excuse you if you feel that it requires an effort," he said.

"Oh, you have had so much applause that mine can hardly count."

"You ought to know that it's my friends' good opinion I really value."

Flora changed the subject.

"You will be driving out in the morning?"

"I'm starting as soon as Edgar has the team ready. There's a good moon and I must get to work the first thing to-morrow."

The girl's face hardened.

"You seem desperately anxious about your crop."

"I think that's natural. There's a good deal to be done and I've lost some time. I came in to write a note before I see what Edgar's doing."

"Then I mustn't disturb you, and it's time I went over to Mrs.

Nelson's--she expects me to stay the night. I was merely waiting for a word with my father." She stopped George, who had meant to accompany her. "No, you needn't come--it's only a few blocks away. Get your note written."

Seeing that she did not desire his escort, George let her go; but he frowned as he sat down and took out some paper. Soon afterward Edgar came in, and they drove off in a few more minutes.

"Did you see Miss Grant?" Edgar asked when they were jolting down the rutted trail.

"I did," George said shortly.

"You seem disturbed about it."

"I was a little perplexed," George owned. "There was something that struck me as different in her manner. It may have been imagination, but I felt she wasn't exactly pleased with me. I can't understand how I have offended her."

"No," said Edgar. "It would have been remarkable if you had done so.

I suppose you told her you couldn't rest until you got to work at the harvest?"

"I believe I said something of the kind. What has that to do with it?"

"It isn't very obvious. Perhaps she felt tired or moody; it has been a blazing hot day. There's every sign of its being the same to-morrow.

I suppose you'll make a start after breakfast?"

"I'll make a start as soon as it's daylight," George told him.

He kept his word, and for the next few weeks toiled with determined energy among the tall white oats and the coppery ears of wheat. It was fiercely hot, but from sunrise until the light failed, the plodding teams and clinking binders moved round the lessening squares of grain, and ranks of splendid sheaves lengthened fast behind them. The nights were getting sharp, the dawns were cold and clear, and George rose each morning, aching in every limb, but with a keen sense of satisfaction.

Each day's work added to the store of money he would shortly hand to Sylvia. He saw little of Flora, but when they met by chance, as happened once or twice, he was still conscious of something subtly unfamiliar in her manner. He felt they were no longer on the old confidential footing; a stronger barrier of reserve had risen between them.

Before the last sheaves were stacked, the days were growing cool. The fresh western breezes had died away, and a faint ethereal haze and a deep stillness had fallen upon the prairie. It was rudely broken when the thrashers arrived and from early morning the clatter of the engine filled the air with sound. Loaded wagons crashed through the stubble, the voices of dusty men mingled with the rustle of the sheaves, and a long trail of sooty smoke stained the soft blue of the sky.

This work was finished in turn, and day by day the wagons, loaded high with bags of grain, rolled slowly across the broad white levels toward the elevators. Many a tense effort was needed to get them to their destination, for the trails were dry and loose; but markets were strong, and George had decided to haul in all the big crop. Sometimes, though the nights were frosty, he slept beside his jaded team in the shelter of a bluff; sometimes he spent a day he grudged laying straw on a road; rest for more than three or four hours was unknown to him, and meals were s.n.a.t.c.hed at irregular intervals when matters of more importance were less pressing. For all that, he was uniformly cheerful; the work brought him the greatest pleasure he had known, and he had grown fond of the wide, open land, in which he had once looked forward to dwelling with misgivings. The freedom of its vast s.p.a.ces, its clear air and its bright sunshine, appealed to him, and he began to realize that he would be sorry to leave it, which he must shortly do.

Sylvia, it was a pity, could not live in western Canada.

At length, on a frosty evening, he saw the last load vanish into the dusty elevator, and a curious feeling of regret crept over him. It was very doubtful if he would haul in another harvest, and he wondered whether the time would now and then hang heavily on his hands in England. There was a roar of machinery above him in the tail building that cut sharply against the sky; below, long rows of wagons stood waiting their turn, and the voices of the teamsters, bantering one another, struck cheerfully on his ears. Side-track and little station were bathed in dazzling electric glare, two locomotives were pushing in wheat cars, and lights had begun to glimmer in the wooden houses of the b.u.t.te, though all round there was the vast sweep of prairie.

There was a touch of rawness in the picture, a hint of incompleteness, with a promise of much to come. Sage b.u.t.te was, perhaps, a trifle barbarous; but its crude frame buildings would some day give place to more imposing piles of concrete and steel. Its inhabitants were pa.s.sing through a transition stage, showing signs at times of the primitive strain, but, as a rule, reaching out eagerly toward what was new and better. They would make swift progress, and even now he liked the strenuous, optimistic, and somewhat rugged life they led; he reflected that he would find things different in sheltered England.

After giving Grierson a few instructions, George turned away. His work was done; instead of driving home through the sharp cold of the night, he was to spend it comfortably at the hotel.

A week later, he and West drove over to the Grant homestead and found only its owner in the general-room. Grant listened with a rather curious expression when George told him that he was starting for England the following day; and then they quietly talked over the arrangements that had been made for carrying on the farm until Edgar's return, for George's future movements were uncertain. Edgar, however, was sensible of a constraint in the farmer's manner, which was presently felt by George, and the conversation was languishing when Flora came in. Shortly afterward George said that they must go and Flora strolled toward the fence with him while the team was being harnessed.

"So you are leaving us to-morrow and may not come back?" she said, in an indifferent tone.

"I can't tell what I shall do until I get to England."

Flora glanced at him with a composure that cost her an effort. She supposed his decision would turn upon Mrs. Marston's att.i.tude, but she knew Sylvia well, and had a suspicion that there was a disappointment in store for Lansing. Edgar had explained that he was not rich, and he was not the kind of man Sylvia was likely to regard with favor.

"Well," she said lightly, "when I came in, you really didn't look as cheerful as one might have expected. Are you sorry you are going away?"

"It's a good deal harder than I thought. The prairie seems to have got hold of me; I have good friends here."

"Haven't you plenty in England?"

"Acquaintances; only a few friends. I can't help regretting those I must leave behind. In fact"--he spoke impulsively, expressing a thought that had haunted him--"it would be a relief if I knew I should come back again."