“I had, but he left me three or four days ago. It’s a pity, since I’ve taken up rather more than I can handle this year.”
“Then why didn’t you keep him?”
“Martial was a little mulish, and I’m afraid I’m troubled with a shortness of temper now and then. We had a difference of opinion as to the best way to drive the mower into the slough, and he didn’t seem to recognize that he should have deferred to me. Unfortunately, as the boys were standing by, I had to insist upon his getting out of the saddle.”
He had turned a little further towards her, and Agatha noticed that there was a bruise upon one side of his face. After what he had just told her the sight of it jarred upon her, though she would not admit that there was any reason why it should. She could not deny that on the prairie a resort to physical force might be warranted by the lack of any other remedy, but it hurt her to think of him as descending to an open brawl with one of his men.
Then it occurred to her that the other man in all probability had suffered more, and this brought her a certain sense of satisfaction which she admitted was more or less barbarous. She had made it clear that Wyllard was nothing to her, but she could not help watching him as he lay back against the hay. His wide hat set off his bronzed face, which, though not exactly handsome, was pleasant and reassuring. The dusty shirt and old blue trousers accentuated the long, clean lines of his figure, and she realized with a faint sense of anger that his mere physical perfection, his strength and suppleness, stirred her heart. She recognized a feeling to be judiciously checked. After all, in spite of her denial of it, she was endowed with power to love as women close to nature love, with an emotion all-encompassing and not subject to cold reasoning.
They talked of trifles of no great consequence, for both of them were conscious of the necessity for a certain reticence; and when they reached the homestead Agatha joined Mrs. Hastings, while Wyllard pitched the hay off the wagon. He came in to supper presently with about half of his men, and they all sat down together in the long, barely furnished room. Wyllard was unusually animated. He drew Mrs. Hastings into a bout of whimsical badinage, which was interrupted when a beat of hoofs rose from the prairie.
“Somebody’s riding in; I wonder what he wants,” remarked Wyllard. “I certainly don’t expect anybody.”
The drumming of hoofs rang more sharply through the open windows, for the sod was hard and dry. It stopped suddenly and Agatha saw Wyllard start as a man came into the room. He was a little, thick-set man with a seamed and tanned face. He was dressed in rather old blue serge, and he walked as if he were a seaman.
The stranger stood still, looking about him, and Wyllard’s lips set tight. A thrill of apprehension ran through Agatha, for she felt that she knew what this stranger’s errand must be.
Wyllard rose and walked towards the man with outstretched hand.