Hawtrey's Deputy

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE RESCUE

Winifred's views were shortly proved correct, for Hastings, who drove over to the Range a day or two after her visit, came back rather disturbed in temper after what he described as a very unsatisfactory interview with Hawtrey.

"I couldn't make the man hear reason," he informed his wife. "In fact, he practically told me that the thing was no concern of mine. I assured him that it concerned me directly as one of the executors of Harry's will, and I'm afraid I afterwards indulged in a few personalities. I expect that blamed mortgage broker has got a very strong hold on him."

Mrs. Hastings looked reflective. "You have never told me anything about the will."

"If I haven't, it wasn't for want of prompting," said Hastings drily. "Still, the will was sealed, and handed me by Harry on the express understanding that it was not to be opened until we had proof that he was dead or the six months mentioned had expired. If he turned up it would, of course, be handed back to him. He made me promise solemnly that I would not offer the least hint as to its provisions to anybody."

Mrs. Hastings made a gesture of resignation. "In that case I suppose I must be content, but he might have made an exception of – me. Anyway, I think I see how we can put what appears to be a little necessary pressure upon Gregory." Then she turned again to her husband rather abruptly. "After all, is it worth while for me to trouble about the thing?"

Hastings was taken off his guard. "Yes," he said decidedly, "if you can put any pressure on Gregory I guess it would be very desirable to do it as soon as possible."

"Then you think that Harry may turn up, after all?"

"I do," said Hastings gravely; "I don't know why. In any case it's highly desirable – for several reasons – that Gregory shouldn't fling his property away."

Mrs. Hastings smiled. "Well," she said, "I'll think over it. I'll probably get Agatha to see what she can do in the first place."

She saw a trace of uncertainty in her husband's face, which was, however, what she had expected.

"As you like," he said. "Something must be done, but on the whole I'd rather you didn't trouble Agatha about the matter; it would be wiser."

Mrs. Hastings asked no more questions. She fancied she understood the situation, and she had Agatha's interests at heart, for she had grown very fond of the girl. There was certainly one slight difficulty in the way of what she meant to do, but she determined to disregard it, though she admitted that it might cause Agatha some embarrassment afterwards. During the afternoon she found the latter alone, and sat down beside her.

"My dear," she said, "I wonder if I may ask whether you are quite convinced that Harry's dead?"

She felt that the question was necessary, though it seemed rather a cruel one, and she saw signs of tension in the girl's expression.

"No," said the latter very quietly; "I can't quite bring myself to believe it."

"Then, since you heard what Sproatly said, you would be willing to do anything that appeared possible to prevent Gregory throwing Harry's dollars away?"

"Yes," said Agatha, "I have been thinking about it." A little sparkle of disdainful anger crept into her eyes. "Gregory seems to have been acting shamefully."

"Then as he won't listen to Allen, we must get Sally to impress that fact on him."

"Sally?" said Agatha in evident astonishment.

Mrs. Hastings smiled. "I don't think you understand Sally as well as I do. Of course, like the rest of us, she falls a long way short of perfection, and – though it's a difficult subject – there's no doubt that her conduct in leading Gregory on while he was still engaged to you was hardly quite correct. After all, however, you owe her something for that."

"It isn't very hard to forgive her for it," said Agatha quietly.

"Well, I want you to realise Sally. Right or wrong, she's fond of the man. Of course, I've told you this already, but I must try to make it clear how that fact bears upon the business in hand. Sally certainly fought for him, and there's no doubt that one could find fault with several things she did; but the point is that she's evidently determined on making the most of him now she has got him. In some respects, at least, she's absolutely straight – one hundred cents to the dollar is what Allen says of her – and although you might perhaps not have expected this, I believe it would hurt her horribly to feel that Gregory was squandering money that didn't strictly belong to him."

"Then you mean to make her understand what he is doing?"

"No," said Mrs. Hastings; "I want you to do it. I've reasons for believing that your influence would go further with her than mine. For one thing, I fancy she is feeling rather ashamed of herself."

Agatha looked thoughtful. She had certainly not credited Sally with possessing any fine sense of honour, but she was willing to accept her companion's assurance.

"The situation," she pointed out, "is rather a delicate one. You wish to expose Gregory's conduct to the girl he is going to marry, though, as you admit, the explanation will probably be painful to her. Can't you understand that the course suggested is a particularly difficult and repugnant one – to me?"

"I've no doubt of it," said Mrs. Hastings. "Still, I think it must be adopted – for several reasons. In the first place, I fancy that if we can pull Gregory up now we will save him from involving himself irretrievably. After all, perhaps, you owe him the effort. Then I think that we all owe something to Harry, and we can, at least, endeavour to carry his wishes out. He laid down what was to be done with his possessions in a will, and he never could have anticipated Gregory dissipating them as he is doing."

The last reason, as she had foreseen, proved irresistible to Agatha, and she made a sign of concurrence.

"If you will drive me over I will do what I can," she said.

Now she had succeeded Mrs. Hastings lost no time, and they set out for the Creightons' homestead next day, while soon after they reached it she tactfully contrived that Sally should be left alone with Agatha. They stood outside the house together when the latter turned to her companion.

"Sally," she said, "there is something that I must tell you."

Sally glanced at her face, and then walked quietly forward until the log barn hid them from the house. Then she sat down upon a pile of straw in its shadow and signed to Agatha that she should take a place beside her.

"Now," she said sharply, "you can go on; it's about Gregory?"

Agatha, who found it very difficult to begin, though she had been well primed by Hastings on the previous evening, sat down amidst the straw, and looked about her for a moment or two. It was a hot afternoon, dazzlingly bright, and almost breathlessly still. In front of her the dark green wheat rolled waist-high, and beyond it the vast sweep of whitened grass rolled back to the sky-line flooded with light. Far away a team and a waggon slowly moved across it, but that was the only sign of life, and no sound from the house reached them to break the heavy stillness.

Then she nerved herself to the effort, and spoke quietly for several minutes before she glanced at her companion. It was very evident that the latter had understood all that she had said, for she sat very still with a hard, set face.

"Oh!" she said, "if I'd thought you'd come to tell me this because you were vexed with me, I'd know what to do."

This was what Agatha had dreaded. It certainly looked as if she had come to triumph over her rival's humiliation, but Sally made it clear that she acquitted her of that intention.

"Still," she said, "I know that wasn't the reason, and I'm not mad with – you. It hurts" – and she made a little abrupt movement – "but I know it's true." Then she turned to Agatha suddenly. "Why did you do it?"

"I thought you might save Gregory, if I told you."

"That was all?" and Sally looked at her with incredulous eyes.

"No," said Agatha simply, "that was only part. It did not seem right that Gregory should go against Wyllard's wishes, and gamble the Range away on the wheat market."

She admitted it without hesitation, for she realised now exactly what had animated her to seek this painful interview. She was fighting Wyllard's battle, and that fact sustained her.

Sally winced. "Yes," she said, "I guess you had to tell me. He was fond of you. One could be proud of that. Harry Wyllard never did anything low down and mean."

Agatha did not resent her candour. Although this was a thing she would scarcely have credited a little while ago, she saw that the girl felt the contrast between her lover's character and that of the man whose place he had taken, and regretted it. Then Agatha's eyes grew a trifle hazy.

"Wyllard, they think, is dead," she said, in a low, strained voice. "You have Gregory still."

Sally looked at her with unveiled compassion, and Agatha did not shrink from it.

"Yes," she said, with a simplicity that became her, "and Gregory must have someone to – take care of him. I must do it if I can."

There was no doubt that Agatha was stirred. This half-taught girl's quiet acceptance of the burden that many women must carry once more made her almost ashamed.

"We will leave it to you," she said.

Then it became evident that there was another side to Sally's character, for her manner changed, and the suggestive hardness crept back into her eyes.

"Well," she said, "I'd most been expecting something of this kind when I heard that man Edmonds was going to the Range. He has got a pull on Gregory, but he's surely not going to feel quite happy when I get hold of him."

She rose in another moment, and, saying nothing further, walked back towards the house, in front of which they came upon Mrs. Hastings. Sally looked at the latter significantly.

"I'm going over to the Range after supper," she said.

Mrs. Hastings drove away with Agatha, and said very little to her during the journey, but an hour after they had reached the homestead she slipped quietly into the girl's room, and found her lying in a big chair, sobbing bitterly. She sat down close beside her, and laid a hand upon her shoulder.

"I don't think Sally could have said anything to trouble you like this," she said.

It was a moment or two before Agatha turned a wet, white face towards her, and saw gentle sympathy in her eyes. There was, she felt, no cause for reticence.

"No," she said, "it was the contrast between us. She has Gregory."

Mrs. Hastings made a sign of comprehension. "And you have lost Harry – but I think you have not lost him altogether. We do not know that he is dead – but even if it is so, it was all that was finest in him he offered you. It is yours still."

She broke off, and sat silent a moment or two before she went on again.

"My dear, it is, perhaps, cold comfort, and I am not sure that I can make what I feel quite clear. Still, Harry was only human, and it is almost inevitable that, had it all turned out differently, he would have said and done things that would have offended you. Now he has left you a purged and stainless memory – one I think which must come very near to the reality. The man who went up there – for an idea, a fantastic point of honour – sloughed off every taint of the baseness that hampers most of us in doing it. It was a man changed and uplifted above all petty things by a high chivalrous purpose, who made that last grim journey."

Agatha realised the truth of this. Already Wyllard's memory had become etherealised, and she treasured it as a very fine and precious thing. Still, though he now wore immortal laurels, that would not content her when all her human nature cried out for his bodily presence. She wanted him, as she had grown to love him, in the warm, erring flesh, and the vague, splendid vision was cold and far remote. There was a barrier greater than that of crashing ice and bitter water between them.

"Oh!" she said. "I have felt that. I try to feel it always – but just now it's not enough."

Then she turned her face away with a bitter sob, and Mrs. Hastings who stooped and kissed her went out quietly. She knew what had come about, and that the girl had broken down at last, after months of strain.

In the meanwhile, it happened that Edmonds, the mortgage broker, drove over to the Range, and found Hawtrey waiting him in Wyllard's room. It was early in the evening, and he could see the hired men busy outside tossing prairie hay from the waggons into the great barn. They were half-naked and grimed with dust, but Hawtrey, who was dressed in store clothes, had evidently taken no share in their labours. When Edmonds came in he turned to him with anxiety in his face.

"Well?" he said sharply.

"Market's a little stiffer," said Edmonds.

He sat down and stretched out his hand towards the cigar-box on the table, while Hawtrey waited until he had picked one out with very evident impatience.

"Still moving up?" he asked.

Edmonds nodded. "It's the other folks' last stand," he said. "With the wheat ripening as it's doing, the flood that will pour in before the next two months are out will sweep them off the market. I was half afraid from your note that this little rally had some weight with you, and that as one result of it you meant to cover now."

"That," admitted Hawtrey, "was in my mind."

"Then," said his companion, "it's a pity."

Hawtrey leaned upon the table with hesitation in his face and attitude. He had neither the courage nor the steadfastness to make a gambler, and every fluctuation of the market swayed him to and fro. He had a good deal of wheat to deliver by and bye, and, for prices had fallen steadily until a week or two ago, he could still secure a very desirable margin if he bought in against his sales now. Unfortunately, however, he had once or twice lost heavily in an unexpected rally, and he greatly desired to recoup himself. Then, he had decided, nothing would tempt him to take part in another deal.

"If I hold on and the market stiffens further I'll be awkwardly fixed," he said. "Wyllard made a will, and in a few months I'll have to hand everything over to his executors. There would naturally be unpleasantness over a serious shortage."

Edmonds smiled. He had handled his man cleverly, and had now a reasonably secure hold upon him and the Range, but he was far from satisfied. If Hawtrey made a further loss he would in all probability become irretrievably involved.

"Then," he pointed out, "there's every reason why you should try to get straight."

Hawtrey admitted it. "Of course," he said. "You feel sure I could do it by holding on?"

His companion seldom answered a question of this kind. It was apt to lead to unpleasantness afterwards.

"Well," he said, "Beeman, and Oliphant, and Barstow are operating for a fall. One would fancy that you were safe in doing what they do. When men of their weight sell forward figures go down."

This was correct, as far as it went, but Edmonds was quite aware that the gentlemen alluded to usually played a very deep and obscure game. He had also reasons for believing that they were doing it now. It was, however, evident that his companion's hesitation was vanishing.

"It's a big hazard, but I feel greatly tempted to hang on," he said.

Edmonds, who disregarded this, sat smoking quietly. Since he was tolerably certain as to what the result would be, he felt it was now desirable to let Hawtrey decide for himself, in which case it would be impossible for the latter to reproach him afterwards. Wheat, it seemed very probable, would fall still further when the harvest commenced, but he had reasons for believing that the market would rally first. In that case Hawtrey, who had sold forward largely, would fall altogether into his hands, and he looked forward with very pleasurable anticipation to enforcing his claim upon the Range. In the meanwhile he was unobtrusively watching his companion's face, and it had become evident that in another moment or two Hawtrey would adopt the course suggested, when there was a rattle of wheels outside. Edmonds, who saw a broncho team and a waggon appear from behind the barn, realised that he must decide the matter now.

"As I want to reach Lander's before it's dark I'll have to get on," he said carelessly. "If you'll give me a letter to the broker, I'll send it on to him."

Next moment a clear voice rose up somewhere outside. "I guess you needn't worry," it said, "I'll go right in."

Then, while Gregory started, Sally walked into the room.

Edmonds was disconcerted, but he made her a little inclination, and then sat down again, quietly determined to wait, for he fancied there was hostility in the swift glance she flashed at him.

"That's quite a smart team you were driving, Miss Creighton," he said.

Sally, who disregarded this, turned to Hawtrey.

"What's he doing here?" she asked.

"He came over on a little matter of business," said Hawtrey.

"You have been selling wheat again?"

Hawtrey looked embarrassed, for her manner was not conciliatory. "Well," he admitted, "I have sold some."

"Wheat you haven't got?"

Hawtrey did not answer, and Sally sat down. Her manner suggested that she meant to thoroughly investigate the matter, and Edmonds, who would have greatly preferred to get rid of her, decided that as this appeared impossible he would appeal to her cupidity. The Creightons were somewhat grasping folks, and he had heard of her engagement to Hawtrey.

"If you will permit me I'll try to explain," he said. "We'll say that you have reason for believing that wheat will go down and you tell a broker to sell it forward at a price a little below the actual one. If other people do the same it drops faster, and before you have to deliver you can buy it in at less than you sold it at. A good many dollars can be picked up that way."

"It looks easy," Sally admitted, with something in her manner which led him to fancy he might win her over. "Of course, prices have been falling. Gregory has been selling down?"

"He has. In fact, there's already a big margin to his credit," said Edmonds unsuspectingly.

"That is, if he bought in now he'd have cleared – several thousand dollars?"

Edmonds told her exactly how much, and then started in sudden consternation with rage in his heart, for she turned to Hawtrey imperiously.

"Then you'll write your broker to buy in right away," she said.

There was an awkward silence, during which the two men looked at one another until Edmonds spoke.

"Are you wise in suggesting this, Miss Creighton?" he asked.

Sally laughed harshly. "Oh yes," she said, "it's a sure thing. And I don't suggest. I tell him to get it done."

She turned again to Hawtrey, who sat very still looking at her with a flush in his face. "Take your pen and give him that letter to the broker now."

There was this in her favour that Hawtrey was to some extent relieved by her persistence. He had not the nerve to make a successful speculator, and he had already felt uneasy about the hazard he would incur by waiting. Besides, although prices had slightly advanced, he could still secure a reasonable margin if he covered his sales. In any case, he did as she bade him, and in another minute or two he handed Edmonds an envelope.