Ranching for Sylvia Part 58

"After all, this is a hard country and we're a rather primitive people."

"You're reliable! Staunch friends, determined enemies; and even among the latter I found a kind of sporting feeling which made it a little easier for one to forget one's injuries." He glanced at the prairie which stretched away, white and silent, in the clear evening light.

"It's irrational in a way, but I'd be glad to feel I was going to work as usual to-morrow."

"I suppose you could do so, if you really wanted to," Flora suggested.

George turned and looked fixedly at her, while a mad idea crept into his mind. She was very alluring; he thought he knew her nature, which was altogether wholesome, and it flashed upon him that many of the excellent qualities she possessed were lacking in Sylvia. Then he loyally drove out the temptation, wondering that it had a.s.sailed him, though he was still clearly conscious of his companion's attractiveness.

"No," he said in a somewhat strained voice; "I hardly think that's possible. I must go back."

Flora smiled, though it was difficult. She half believed she could shake the man's devotion to her rival, but she was too proud to try.

If he came to her, he must come willingly, and not because she had exerted her utmost power to draw him.

"Well," she responded, "one could consider the reluctant way you spoke the last few words as flattering. I suppose it's a compliment to Canada?"

He failed to understand the light touch of mocking amus.e.m.e.nt in her tone; it had not dawned on him that this was her defense.

"It's a compliment to the Canadians, though my appreciation can't be worth very much. But I don't feel in a mood to joke. In fact, there's a feeling of depression abroad to-night; even your father seems affected. I'd expected a pleasant talk with him, but we were very dull."

"What made you think he was less cheerful than usual?" Flora cast a quick and rather startled glance at him.

"I don't know, but something seemed wrong. Edgar's the only one who looks undisturbed, and if he talks much going home, he'll get on my nerves."

"It's hardly fair to blame him for a depression that's your fault,"

said Flora. "You deserve to feel it, since you will go away."

Then Edgar came up with the wagon and George took Flora's hands.

"I shall think of you often," he told her. "It will always be with pleasure. Now and then you might, perhaps, spare a thought for me."

"I think I can promise that," Flora replied quietly.

Then he shook hands with Grant and got into the wagon. Edgar cracked the whip and the team plunged forward. With a violent jolting and a rattle of wheels they left the farm behind and drove out on to the prairie. Flora stood watching them for a while; and then walked back to the house in the gathering dusk with her face set hard and a pain at her heart.

Grant was sitting on the stoop, filling his pipe, but when she joined him he paused in his occupation and pointed toward the plain. The wagon was scarcely discernible, but a rhythmic beat of hoofs still came back through the stillness.

"I like that man, but he's a blamed fool," he remarked.

Strong bitterness was mingled with the regret in his voice, and Flora started. She was glad that the light was too dim for him to see her clearly.

"I wonder what makes you say that?"

"For one thing, he might have done well here." Flora suspected that her father was not expressing all he had meant. "He's the kind of man we want; and now he's going back to fool his life away, slouching round playing games and talking to idle people, in the old country. Guess some girl over there has got a hold on him." Then his indignation flamed out unchecked. "I never could stand those Percy women, anyway; saw a bunch of them, all dress and airs, when I was last in Winnipeg.

One was standing outside a ticket-office at Portage, studying the people through an eyegla.s.s on an ivory stick, as if they were some strange savages, and making remarks about them to her friends, though I guess there isn't a young woman in the city with nerve enough to wear the clothes she had on. It makes a sensible man mighty tired to hear those creatures talk."

Flora laughed, rather drearily, though she guessed with some uneasiness the cause of her father's outbreak. It appeared injudicious to offer him any encouragement.

"After all, one must be fair," she said. "I met some very nice people in the old country."

He turned to her abruptly.

"Do you know who has taken Lansing back?" he asked.

"I believe, from something West said, it is Mrs. Marston."

"That tras.h.!.+" Grant's sharp cry expressed incredulity. "The man can't have any sense! He's going to be sorry all the time if he gets her."

Then he knocked out his pipe, as if he were too indignant to smoke, and went into the house.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

A REVELATION

It was a winter evening and Sylvia was standing near the hearth in Mrs.

Kettering's hall, where the lamps were burning, though a little pale daylight still filtered through the drizzle outside. Sylvia was fond of warmth and brightness, but she was alone except for Ethel West, who sat writing at a table in a recess, although her hostess had other guests, including a few men who were out shooting. After a while Ethel looked up.

"Have you or Herbert heard anything from George during the last few weeks?" she asked.

Sylvia turned languidly. Her thoughts had been fixed on Captain Bland, whom she was expecting every moment. Indeed, she was anxious to get rid of Ethel before he came in.

"No," she said with indifference. "I think his last letter came a month ago. It was optimistic."

"They seem to have had a good harvest from what Edgar wrote; he hinted that he might make a trip across."

"It's rather an expensive journey."

"That wouldn't trouble Edgar, and there's a reason for the visit. He has made up his mind to start farming and wants to talk over his plans.

In fact, he thinks of getting married."

Sylvia showed some interest.

"To whom? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I only arrived this morning, and I wrote some time ago, asking if you could meet Stephen and me. You were with the Graysons then, but you didn't answer."

"I forgot; I don't always answer letters. But who is the girl? Not Miss Grant?"

"Helen Taunton. Do you know her?"

Sylvia laughed.

"The storekeeper's daughter! She's pa.s.sably good-looking and her father's not badly off, but that's about all one could say for her."

"Do you know anything against the girl?"

"Oh, no!" said Sylvia languidly. "She's quite respectable--in fact, they're rather a straight-laced people; and she doesn't talk badly.