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Agatha held her hands up with one foot upon a spoke of the wheels as Wyllard leaned down, and next moment she was lifted upwards. She felt his supporting hand upon her waist. Then she found herself standing upon a narrow ledge, clutching at the hay while he tore out several big armfuls of it and flung it back upon the top of the load.
It was clear to Wyllard that he was already in this man's hands, since he could not reach the inlet without provisions, and Overweg could, if he thought fit, send back a messenger to the Russian authorities. He was one who could think quickly and make a momentous decision, and he realized that if he could not win the man's sympathy there must be open hostility between them.
I don't know that any man could want a keener thrill than the one he feels when he drives in the binders!" Agatha had imagination, and she could realize something of the toil, the hazard, and the exultation of that victory. "You have felt it often?" she inquired. "Twice we helped to fill a big elevator," Wyllard answered. "But I've been very near defeat." The girl looked at him thoughtfully.
The whole situation was horribly embarrassing, but there was courage in her. "Well," she said simply, "I will speak to him." They said nothing more until they approached the Range, and as they drove by the outbuildings Agatha glanced about her curiously. It occurred to her that the homestead did not look quite the same as it had done when Wyllard had been there.
The wrinkled dame said that pedestrians often went that way, and Wyllard asked a question casually. "There are some prosperous folks people of station living round here? "There's the vicar. I don't know that he's what you'd call prosperous. Then there's Mr. Martindale, of Rushyholme, and Little, of the Ghyll."
Another white man walked aft, and Wyllard, entering the little stern cabin, the top of which rose some feet above the deck, sloughed off his wet oilskins and crawled, dressed as he was, into his bunk. Evening was closing in, and for awhile he lay blinking at the swinging lamp, and wondering what the end of that search would be.
I wanted to make you safe. It's the most pressing difficulty." The resentment was still in the girl's eyes. "So far as I am concerned, you seem to believe it is the only difficulty. Oh, do you imagine that an offer of the kind you have made me, made as you have made it, would lead anyone to love you?" Wyllard spoke with a new tenderness.
It was, however, evident that this girl had an unquestioning faith in Gregory Hawtrey, and once more Wyllard felt compassionate towards her. He wondered if she would have retained it had the man spent those four years in England instead of Canada: for it was clear from the contrast between her and her picture that she had grown in many ways since she had given her promise to her lover.
Dampier, however, kept away from him, partly to allow his senses to readjust themselves, and partly because he rather shrank from the coming interview. At length, when dusk was falling, Charly came up to say that Wyllard, who seemed quite sensible, insisted on seeing him, and Dampier went down with some misgivings into the little cabin.
"No," she said slowly, "I can't denounce it. For one reason, I have no right of any kind to force my views on you." "You told Nellie Hastings that?" It seemed an unwarranted question, but the girl admitted it candidly. "In one sense I did. I suggested that there was no reason why you should listen to me." Wyllard smiled again.
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