The Land of Promise Part 39

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Then why haven't you written to me but once since you were married?"

"I hadn't anything to say. And then," carrying the war into the enemy's quarter, "I'd been practically turned out of your house."

"I don't know what to make of you. Frank Taylor's kind to you and all that sort of thing, isn't he?"

"Very. But don't cross-examine me, there's a dear."

"When I asked you to come and make your home with me, I thought it mightn't be long before you married. But I didn't expect you to marry one of the hired men."

"Oh, my dear, please don't worry about me." Nora was about at the end of her endurance.

"It's all very fine to say that; but you've got no one in the world belonging to you except me."

"Don't, I tell you."

"Nora!"

"Now listen. We've never quarreled once since the first day I came here.

Now are you satisfied?"

She said it bravely, but it was with a feeling of unspeakable relief that she saw Reggie Hornby at the door.

She certainly had never before been so genuinely glad to see him. As she smilingly held out her hand, her eye took in his changed appearance.

Gone were the overalls and the flannel s.h.i.+rt, the heavy boots and broad belt. Before her stood the Reggie of former days in a well-cut suit of blue serge and spotless linen. She was surprised to find herself thinking, after all, men looked better in flannels.

"I was wondering what on earth you were doing with yourself," she said gayly.

"I say," he said, his eye taking in the bright little room, "this is a swell shack you've got."

"I've tried to make it look pretty and homelike."

"h.e.l.loa, what's this!" said Marsh, whose eye had fallen for the first time on the bowl of flowers.

"Aren't they pretty? I've only just picked them. They're mustard flowers."

"We call them weeds. Have you much of it?"

"Oh, yes; lots. Why?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Eddie tells me you're going home."

"Yes," said Reggie, seating himself and carefully pulling up his trousers. "I'm fed up for my part with G.o.d's own country. Nature never intended me to be an agricultural laborer."

"No? And what are you going to do now?"

"Loaf!" Mr. Hornby's tone expressed profound conviction.

"Won't you get bored?" smiled Nora.

"I'm never bored. It amuses me to watch other people do things. I should hate my fellow-creatures to be idle."

"I should think one could do more with life than lounge around clubs and play cards with people who don't play as well as oneself."

Hornby gave her a quick ironic look. "I quite agree with you," he said with his most serious air. "I've been thinking things over very seriously this winter. I'm going to look out for a middle-aged widow with money who'll adopt me."

"I recall that you have decided views about the White Man's Burden."

"All I want is to get through life comfortably. I don't mean to do a stroke more work than I'm obliged to, and I'm going to have the very best time I can."

"I'm sure you will," said Nora, smiling.

But her smile was a little mechanical. Somehow she could no longer be genuinely amused at such sentiments which, in spite of his airy manner, she knew to be real. And yet, it was not so very long ago that she would have thought them perfectly natural in a man of his position. Somehow, her old standards were not as fixed as she had thought them.

"The moment I get back to London," continued Hornby imperturbably, "I'm going to stand myself a bang-up dinner at the Ritz. Then I shall go and see some musical comedy at the Gaiety, and after that, I'll have a slap-up supper at Romano's. England, with all thy faults, I love thee still!" he finished piously.

"I suppose it's being alone with the prairie all these months," said Nora, more to herself than him; "but things that used to seem clever and funny--well, I see them altogether differently now."

"I'm afraid you don't altogether approve of me," he said, quite unabashed.

"I don't think you have much pluck," said Nora, not unkindly.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I've as much as anyone else, I expect, only I don't make a fuss about it."

"Oh, pluck to stand up and let yourself be shot at."--She flushed slightly at the remembrance of Frank standing in this very room in front of the gun in her hand. Would she ever forget his laugh!--"But pluck to do the same monotonous thing day after day, plain, honest, hard work--you haven't got that sort of pluck. You're a failure and the worst of it is, you're not ashamed of it. It seems to fill you with self-satisfaction. Oh, you're incorrigible," she ended with a laugh.

"I am; let's let it go at that. I suppose there's nothing you want me to take home; I shall be going down to Tunbridge Wells to see mother. Got any messages?"

"I don't know that I have. Eddie has just brought me a couple of letters. I'll have a look at them first."

She went over to the table and picked up Miss Pringle's letter and opened it.

After reading a few lines, she gave a little cry.

"Oh!"

"What's the matter?" asked Marsh.

"What _can_ she mean? Listen! 'I've just heard from Mr. Wynne about your good luck and I'm glad to say I have another piece of good news for you.'"

Dropping the letter, she tore open the other. It contained a check. She gave it a quick glance.

"A check for five hundred pounds! Oh, Eddie, listen." She read from Mr.

Wynne's letter: "'Dear Miss Marsh--I have had several interviews with Mr. Wickham in relation to the late Miss Wickham's estate, and I ventured to represent to him that you had been very badly treated. Now that everything is settled, he wishes me to send you the enclosed check as some recognition of your devoted services to his late aunt--five hundred pounds."

"That's a very respectable sum," said Marsh, nodding his head sagely.