That stirred her, for it was certainly true, and his gentleness had also its effect. The situation was becoming more and more difficult, for it seemed impossible to make him understand that he would in all probability speedily tire of her. She now recognised that, but to make it clear that she could never be satisfied with him was a thing she shrank from.
"How have you passed those four years?" she asked, to gain time.
For a moment his conscience smote him. He remembered the trips to Winnipeg, and the dances to which he had attended Sally Creighton. It was, however, evident that Agatha could have heard nothing of Sally.
"I spent them in hard work. I wanted to make the place more comfortable for you," he said. "It is true"—and he added this with a twinge of uneasiness, as he remembered that his neighbours had done much more with less incentive—"that it's still very far from what I would like, but things have been against me."
The speech had a far stronger effect than he could have expected, for Agatha remembered Wyllard's description of what the prairie farmer had to face. Those four years of determined effort and patient endurance, which was how she pictured them, counted heavily against her in the man's favour. It flashed upon her that, after all, there might have been some warrant for the view she had held of Gregory's character when he had fallen in love with her. He was younger then, there must have been latent possibilities in him, but the years of toil had killed them and hardened him. It was for her sake he had made the struggle, and now it seemed unthinkable that she should renounce him because he came to her with the dust and stain of it upon him. For all that, she was possessed with a curious, sub-conscious feeling that she would involve them both in disaster if she yielded. Something warned her that she must stand fast.
"Gregory," she said, "I seem to know that we should both be sorry afterwards if I kept my promise."
Hawtrey straightened himself with a smile she recognised. She had liked him for it once, for it had then suggested the joyous courage of untainted youth. Now, however, it struck her as only hinting at empty, complacent assurance. She hated herself for the fancy, but it would not be driven away.
"Well," he said, "I'm quite willing to face that hazard. I suppose this diffidence is only natural, Aggy, but it's a little hard on me."
"No," said the girl sharply, with a strained look in her eyes, "it's horribly unnatural, and that's why I'm afraid. I should have come to you gladly, without a misgiving, feeling that nothing could hurt me if I was with you. I wanted to do that, Gregory—I meant to—but I can't." Then her voice fell to a tone that had vibrant regret in it. "You should have made sure—married me when you last came home."
"But I'd nowhere to take you. The farm was only half-broken prairie, the homestead almost unhabitable."