A grey haze stretched across the great river, which was also dim and grey, and odd wisps of pines rose raggedly beneath the white hills that cut against a gloomy, lowering sky. Deck-house, boat, and stanchion dripped, and every now and then the silence was broken by a doleful blast of the whistle. Nothing moved on the still, grey water; there was no sign of life ashore; and they seemed to be steaming into a great desolation.

By and bye, Wyllard appeared from somewhere, and after a glance at her face slipped his hand beneath her arm, and led her down to the lighted saloon. Then her heart grew a little lighter. Once more she was conscious of an unreasoning feeling that she was safe with him.

CHAPTER X.
DISILLUSION

The long train was speeding smoothly across the vast white levels of Assiniboia, when Agatha, who sat by a window, looked up as the conductor strode through the car. Mrs. Hastings asked him a question, and he stopped a moment.

"Yes," he said, "we'll be in Clermont inside half an hour."

Then he went on, and Mrs. Hastings smiled at Agatha.

"We're a little late, and Gregory will be waiting for us in the depôt now," she said. "No doubt he's got the waggon fixed up right, but I'd like to feel sure of it. There's a long drive before us, and I want to reach the homestead before it's dark."

Agatha said nothing, but a faint tinge of colour crept into her cheeks, and her companion was glad to see it, for she had noticed that the girl was looking rather pale and haggard. This was partly due to the fact that the strain of the last few months she had spent in England was commencing to tell on her. She had borne it courageously, but a reaction had afterwards set in, and, as it happened, the Scarrowmania had plunged along bows under against fresh north-westerly gales most of the way across the Atlantic. There is very little comfort on board a small, deeply-loaded steamer when she rolls her rails in, and lurches with thudding screw swung clear over big, steep-sided combers. In addition to this, Agatha had scarcely slept during the few days and nights she had spent in the train. It takes some time to become accustomed to the atmosphere of a stove-heated sleeper car, and since she had landed she had been in a state of not altogether unnatural nervous tension.

Indeed, she had found it a little difficult to preserve an outward serenity the previous day, and when at length the great train ran into the depôt at Winnipeg, where Gregory had arranged to meet them, it was with a thrill of expectancy and relief that she stood upon the car platform. There was, however, no sign of him, and though Wyllard handed her a telegram from him a few minutes later the fact that he had not arrived had a depressing effect on her. Quiet as she usually was, the girl was highly strung. It appeared that something had gone wrong with Hawtrey's waggon while he was driving in to the railroad, and as the result of it he had missed the Atlantic train. She could not blame him for this, but for all that his absence had been an unpleasant shock.

Feeling that her companion's eyes were upon her, she turned, and looking out of the window found no encouragement in what she saw. The snow had gone, and a vast expanse of grass ran back to the horizon; but it was a dingy, greyish-white, and not green as it had been in England. The sky was low and grey, too, and the only thing that broke the dreary monotony of lifeless colour was when the formless, darker smear of a birch bluff rose out of the empty levels. Her heart throbbed unpleasantly fast as the few remaining minutes slipped away, and at length she started when a dingy mass of something that looked like buildings lifted itself above the prairie.

"The Clermont elevators," said Mrs. Hastings. "We'll be in directly."

The mass separated itself into two or three tall component blocks. A huddle of little wooden houses grew into shape beneath them, and a shrill whistle came ringing back above the slowing cars. Then a willow bluff, half filled with old cans and garbage, flitted by, a big bell commenced tolling, and Agatha rose when Mrs. Hastings took up her furs from a seat close by. After that, she found herself standing on the platform of the car, though she did not quite know how she got there, for she was sensible only of the fact that in another moment or two she would greet the lover she had last seen four years ago.

In the meanwhile, though she paid them no great attention, the surroundings had a depressing effect on her. There was, however, very little to see; the mass of the great elevators that cut against a lowering sky, the little cluster of houses, and the sea of churned-up mire between them and the track. There also appeared to be no station except a big water tank and a rather unsightly shed, about which stood a group of blurred and shapeless figures. It seemed very cold, and Agatha shivered as she felt the raw wind strike through her.

Then one of the figures detached itself from the rest and grew clearer. The man wore an old skin coat spattered with flakes of mire, and his long boots were covered with clots of the same material. His fur cap looked greasy, and the fur had been rubbed off it in patches; but while she noticed these things it was his face that struck her most, and she became conscious of an astonishment which was mixed with vague misgivings as she gazed at it, for it had subtly changed since she had last seen it. The joyous sparkle she remembered had gone out of the eyes. They were harder, bolder, than they used to be. The mouth was slack – it almost looked sensual – and the man's whole personality seemed to have grown coarser. Then as she thrust the disconcerting fancies from her the car stopped.

In another moment Hawtrey sprang up on the platform, and she felt his arms about her. That brought the blood to her face, but she felt none of the thrill she had expected. Indeed, she was subconsciously sensible of a certain shrinking from his embrace. Then, and she fancied he must have lifted her bodily down, she stood beside the track with Mrs. Hastings, a man whom she supposed to be the latter's husband, Winifred, and Wyllard about her. Another man was also standing close by, apparently waiting until they noticed him. He was flecked with mire all over, his skin coat was very dilapidated, and Agatha fancied that his boots had never been cleaned. His hair, which had evidently been very badly cut, straggled out from under his old fur cap.

In the meanwhile, Gregory was apparently explaining something to Mrs. Hastings. "No," he said, "I'm sorry it can't be for another week. Horribly unfortunate. It seems they've sent the Methodist on down the line, and we'll have to wait for the Episcopalian. He'll be at Lander's for a few days."

Then Agatha's cheeks flamed, for she recognised that it was her wedding they were speaking of; but it brought her a curious relief to hear that it had been deferred. A moment or two later Gregory turned to her with questions about her throat, and his people in England, and Winifred separated herself from the group. She was standing near her baggage, which had been flung out beside the track, a little, lonely figure, while the train went on, when Wyllard strode up to her.

"Feeling rather out of it? I do, any way," he said. "Since we appear superfluous, we may as well make the most of the opportunity, especially as it will probably save you a long drive. There's a man here who wants to see you."

Winifred had felt very forlorn a few moments earlier, but the announcement Wyllard had just made was reassuring, and she pulled herself together as he signed to a man standing a little further along the track. The latter wore rather neat store clothes, and his manner was brisk and wholly business-like. It was a certain relief to the girl to see that he evidently regarded her less as a personality than as a piece of commercial machinery, which he had apparently been asked to make use of. She had found it easier to get on with men who confined themselves to that point of view.

"Mr. Hamilton, in charge of the elevator yonder," said Wyllard, pointing to one of the huge buildings. "This is Miss Rawlinson."

The elevator man made her the curtest of inclinations, and proceeded to arrange matters with a rapidity which almost took her breath away.

"Typist and stenographer?" he said. "Know anything about account-keeping?"

Winifred admitted that she possessed these abilities, and Hamilton appeared to reflect for a moment or two.

"Well," he said, "in a fortnight we'll give you a show. You can start at – " and he mentioned terms which rather astonished Winifred. "If you can keep things straight we may raise you later."

"Won't you want to see any testimonials?" she asked.

"No," said Hamilton. "I've seen a good many, and I'm inclined to fancy some of the folks who showed them me must have bought them." He waved his hand. "Mr. Wyllard assures me that you'll do, and in the meanwhile that's quite enough for me."

It struck Winifred as curious that, while Agatha had written to Hawtrey on her behalf, it was Wyllard who had secured her the opportunity she had longed for; but she thanked the elevator man before she turned to him.

"There's another matter," she said hesitatingly. "I'll have to live here?"

Wyllard smiled. "I've seen to that, though if you don't like my arrangements you can alter them afterwards. Mrs. Sandberg will take you in, and even if she isn't particularly amiable you'll be in safe hands."

Hamilton laughed. "Oh, yes," he said. "She's Scotch – old type Calvinist at that. No frivolity about that woman. Married a Scandinavian, and was just breaking him in when he was killed back East along the track."

"We'll consider it as fixed, but in the meanwhile you're to stay with Mrs. Hastings for the fortnight," said Wyllard. "Sproatly" – and he signed to the man in the skin coat – "will you get Miss Rawlinson's baggage into your waggon?"

The man took off his fur cap. "If Miss Rawlinson would like to see Mrs. Sandberg, I'll drive her round," he suggested. "We'll catch you up in a league or so. Gregory has a bit of patching to do on his off-side trace."

"He might have had things straight for once," said Wyllard half-aloud.

Winifred permitted Sproatly to help her into his waggon – a high, narrow-bodied vehicle, mounted on tall, spidery wheels, but she had to hold fast to it while they jolted across the track and through a sea of mire into the unpaved street of the little town. She liked her companion's voice and manner, though she was far from prepossessed by his appearance. Two or three minutes later he drew up before a little wooden house, where they were received by a tall, hard-faced woman, who frowned at Sproatly.

"Ye'll tak' your patent medicines somewhere else. I'm wanting none," she said.

Sproatly grinned. "You needn't be afraid of them. They couldn't hurt you. I was talking to a Winnipeg doctor who'd a notion of coming out a day or two ago. I told him if he did he'd have to bring an axe along."

Then he explained that Wyllard had sent Winifred there, and the woman favoured her with a glance of careful scrutiny.

"Weel," she said, "ye look quiet, anyway." Then she added, as though further satisfied, "I'll make ye a cup of tea if ye can wait."

Sproatly assured her that this was not the case, and in a few more minutes the girl, who went into the house, got into the waggon again, with relief in her face.

"I think I owe Mr. Wyllard a good deal," she said.

Sproatly laughed. "You're not exactly singular in that respect, but you had better hold tight. These beasts are rather less than half broken."

He flicked them with the whip, and they went across the track at a gallop, hurling great clods of mud left and right, while the group of loungers who still stood about the station raised a shout.

"Got any little pictures with nice motters on them?" asked one, and another flung a piece of information after the jolting waggon.

"There's a Swede down at Branker's wants a bottle that will supple up a wooden leg," he said.

Sproatly grinned, and waved his hand to them before he turned to his companion.

"We have to get through before dark, if possible, or I'd stop and sell them something sure," he said. "Parts of the trail further on are simply horrible."

It occurred to Winifred that it was far from excellent as it was, for spouts of mud flew up beneath the sinking hoofs and wheels, and she was already getting unpleasantly spattered.

"You think you would have succeeded?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," said Sproatly. "If I couldn't plant something on to them when they'd given me a lead like that, I'd be no use in this business. At present, my command of Western phraseology is my fortune."

"You sell things, then?"

Sproatly pointed to a couple of big boxes in the bottom of the waggon. "Anything from cough cure to hair restorer, besides a general purpose elixir that's specially prepared for me. It's adaptable to any complaint and season. All you have to do" – and he lowered his voice confidentially – "is to put on a different label."

Winifred, who had not felt like it a little earlier, laughed when she met his eyes.

"What happens to the people who buy it?" she asked.

"Most of them are bachelors, and tough. They've stood their own cooking so long that they ought to be, and if anybody's really sick I hold off and tell him to wait until he can get a doctor. A sensitive conscience," he added reflectively, "is quite a handicap in this business."

"You have always been in it?" asked Winifred, who was amused at him.

"No," said Sproatly, "although you mightn't believe it, I was raised with the idea that I should have my choice between the Church and the Bar. The idea, however, proved – impracticable – which, in some respects, is rather a pity. It has seemed to me that a man who can work off cough cures and cosmetics on to healthy folks with a hide like leather, and talk a scoffer off the field, ought to have made his mark in either calling."

He looked at her as if for confirmation of this view, but Winifred, who laughed again, glanced at the two waggons that moved on, perhaps, two miles away across the grey-white sweep of prairie.

"Will we overtake them?" she asked.

"We'll probably come up with Gregory. I'm not sure about Wyllard."

"He drives faster horses?"

"That's not quite the reason. Gregory has patched up one trace with a bit of string, and odd bolts are rather addicted to coming out of his waggon. Sometimes it makes trouble. I've known the team leave him sitting on the prairie, thinking of endearing names for them, and come home with the pole."

"Does he generally let things fall into that state?"

Sproatly, however, was evidently on his guard.

"Well," he said, "it's certainly that kind of waggon."

Then he flicked the team again, and the jolting rendered it difficult for Winifred to ask any more questions. The prairie sod was soft with the thaw, and big lumps of it stuck to the wheels, which every now and then plunged into ruts other vehicles had made.

In the meanwhile, Agatha and Hawtrey found it almost as impossible to sustain a conversation, which was, on the whole, a relief to the girl. The string-patched trace still held, and the waggon pole was a new one, but where they were just then the white grass was tussocky and long, and the trail they occasionally plunged into to avoid it had been churned into a quagmire. Hawtrey had packed the thick driving robe high about his companion, and slipped one arm about her waist beneath it; but she was conscious that she rather suffered this than derived any satisfaction from it. She strove to assure herself that she was jaded with the journey, which was, in fact, the case, and that the lowering sky, and the cheerless waste they were crossing, had occasioned the dejection she felt, which was also possible. There was not a tree upon the vast sweep of bleached grass which ran all round her to the horizon. It was inexpressibly lonely, a lifeless desolation, with only the ploughed-up trail to show that man had ever traversed it; and the raw wind which swept it set her shivering.

She was, however, forced to admit that her weariness and the dreary surroundings did not quite explain everything. Even her lover's first embrace had brought her no thrill, and now the close pressure of his arm left her quite unmoved. This was almost disconcertingly curious; but while she would admit no definite reason for it, there was creeping upon her a vague consciousness that the man was not the one she had so often thought of in England. He seemed different – almost, in fact, a stranger – though she could not exactly tell where the change in him began. His laughter jarred upon her. Some of the things he said appeared almost inane, and others were tinged with a self-confidence that did not become him. It almost seemed to her that he was shallow, lacking in comprehension, and once she found herself comparing him with another man. She, however, broke off that train of thought abruptly, and once more endeavoured to find the explanation in herself. Weariness had induced this captious, hypercritical fit, and by and bye she would become used to him, she said.

Hawtrey was, at least, not effusive, for which she was thankful, but when they reached a somewhat smoother surface he commenced to talk of England.

"I suppose you saw a good deal of my folks when you were at the Grange?" he said.

"No," said Agatha, "I saw them once or twice."

"Ah!" said the man, with a trace of sharpness, "then they were not particularly agreeable?"

It seemed to Agatha that he was tactless in suggesting anything of the kind, but she answered candidly.

"One could hardly go quite so far as that," she said. "Still, I couldn't help a feeling that it was rather an effort for them to be gracious to me."

"They did what they could to make things pleasant when they were first told of our engagement."

Agatha was too worn-out to be altogether on her guard, which was partly why she had admitted as much as she had done, though his relatives' attitude had wounded her, and she answered without reflection.

"I have fancied that was because they never quite believed it would lead to anything."

She knew this was the truth now, though it was the first time the explanation had occurred to her. Gregory's folks, who were naturally acquainted with his character, had, it seemed, not expected him to carry his promise out. She, however, felt that she had been injudicious when she heard his little harsh laugh.

"I'm afraid they never had a very great opinion of me," he said.

"Then," said Agatha, looking up at him, "it will be our business to prove them wrong; but I can't help feeling that you have undertaken a big responsibility, Gregory. There must be so much that I ought to do, and I know so little about your work in this country." She turned, and glanced with a shiver at the dim, white prairie. "It looks so forbidding and unyielding. It must be very hard to turn it into wheat fields – to break it in."

It was merely a hint of what she felt, and it was rather a pity that Hawtrey, who lacked imagination, usually contented himself with the most obvious meaning of the spoken word. Things might have gone differently had he responded with comprehending sympathy.

"Oh," he said, with a laugh that changed her mood, "you'll learn, and I don't suppose it will matter a great deal if you don't do it quickly. Somehow or other one worries through."

She felt that this was insufficient, though she remembered that his haphazard carelessness had once appealed to her. Now, however, she realised that to undertake a thing light-heartedly was a very different matter from carrying it out successfully. Then it once more occurred to her that she was becoming absurdly hypercritical, and she strove to talk of other things.

She did not find it easy, nor, though he made the effort, did Hawtrey. There was a restraint that he chafed at upon him, for he had when he first saw her been struck by the change in the girl. She was graver than he remembered her, and, it seemed, very much more reserved. He had tried and failed, as he thought of it, to strike a spark out of her. She did not respond, and he became uneasily conscious that he could not talk to her as he could, for instance, to Sally Creighton. There was something wanting in him or her, but he could not at the moment tell what it was. Still, he said, things would be different next day, for the girl was evidently very weary.

In the meanwhile, the creeping dusk settled down upon the wilderness. The horizon narrowed in, and the stretch of grass before them grew dim. The trail they now drove into seemed to grow rapidly rougher, and it was quite dark when they came to the brink of a declivity still at least a league from the Hastings's homestead. It was one of the steep ravines that seam the prairie every here and there, with a birch bluff on the sides of it, and a little creek flowing through the hollow.

Hawtrey swung the whip when they reached the top, and the team plunged furiously down the slope. He straightened himself in his seat with both hands on the reins, and Agatha held her breath when she felt the light vehicle tilt as the wheels on one side sank deep in a rut. Then something seemed to crack, and she saw the off-side horse stumble and plunge. The other beast flung its head up, Hawtrey shouted something, and there was a great smashing and snapping of undergrowth and fallen branches as they drove in among the birches. Then the team stopped, and Hawtrey, who sprang down, floundered noisily among the undergrowth, while another thud of hoofs and rattle of wheels grew louder behind them up the trail. In a minute or two he came back and lifted Agatha down.

"It's the trace broken. I had to make the holes with my knife, and the string's torn through," he said. "Voltigeur got it round his feet, and, as usual, tried to bolt. Anyway, we'll make the others pull up and take you in."

They went back to the trail together, and reached it just as Hastings reined in his team. He got down and walked back with Hawtrey to the latter's waggon. It was a minute or two before they reappeared again, and Mrs. Hastings, who had got down in the meanwhile, drew Hawtrey aside.

"I almost think it would be better if you didn't come any further to-night," she said.

"Why?" the man asked sharply.

"I can't help thinking that Agatha would prefer it. For one thing, she's rather jaded, and wants quietness."

"You feel sure of that?"

There was something in the man's voice which suggested that he was not quite satisfied, and his companion was silent a moment.

"It's good advice, Gregory," she said. "She'll be better able to face the situation after a night's rest."

"Does it require much facing?" Hawtrey asked drily.

Mrs. Hastings turned from him with a sign of impatience. "Of course it does. Anyway, if you're wise you'll do what I suggest, and ask no more questions."

Then she got into the waggon, and Hawtrey stood still beside the trail, feeling unusually thoughtful when they drove away.