Agatha was conscious that Mrs. Hastings’ eyes were upon her, and she sat very still, though her heart was beating faster than usual. Hastings went on again:
“The Colonist has a line or two about a barque from Alaska which put into Victoria short of stores. She was sent up to an A. C. C. factory, and had to clear out before she was ready. The ice, it seems, was closing in unusually early. A steam whaler at Portland reports the same thing, and from the news brought by a steamer from Japan all communication with Northeastern Asia is already cut off.”
No one spoke for a moment or two, and Agatha, leaning back in her chair, glanced around the room. There was not much furniture in it, but, though this was unusual on the prairie, door and double casements were guarded by heavy hangings. The big brass lamp overhead shed a cheerful light, and birch wood in the stove snapped and cracked noisily, and the stove-pipe, which was far too hot to touch, diffused a drowsy heat. One could lounge beside the fire contentedly, knowing that the stinging frost was drying the snow to dusty powder outside. The cozy room heightened the contrast that all recognized in thinking of Wyllard. Agatha pictured the little schooner bound fast in the Northern ice, and then two or three travel-worn men crouching in a tiny tent that was buffeted by an Arctic gale. She could see the poles bend, and the tricings strain.
After that, with a sudden transition, her thoughts went back to the early morning when Wyllard had driven away, and every detail of the scene rose up clearly in her mind. She saw him and the stolid Dampier sitting in the wagon, with nothing in their manner to suggest that they were setting out upon a perilous venture, and she felt his hand close tight upon her fingers, as it had done just before the vehicle jolted away from the homestead. She could once more see the wagon growing smaller and smaller on the white prairie, until it dipped behind the crest of a low hill, and the sinking beat of hoofs died away. Then, at least, she had realized that he had started on the first stage of a journey which might lead him through the ice-bound gates of the North to the rest that awaits the souls of sailors. She could not, however, imagine him shrinking from any ordeal. Gripping helm, or hauling in the sled traces, he would gaze with quiet eyes steadfastly ahead, even if he saw only the passage from this world to the next. Once more a curious thrill ran through her, and there was pride as well as regret in it. Presently she became conscious that Hastings was speaking.
“What took you around by the Range, Jim?” he asked.
“Collecting,” answered Sproatly. “I sold Gregory a couple of binders earlier in the season, but I couldn’t get a dollar out of him.” He laughed. “Of course, if it had been anybody else I’d have stayed until he handed over the money, but I couldn’t press Gregory too hard after quartering myself upon him as I did last winter, though I’m rather afraid my employers wouldn’t appreciate that kind of delicacy.”
Mrs. Hastings looked thoughtful. “Gregory should have been able to pay. He thrashed out a moderately good crop.”
“About two-thirds of what it should have been, and I’ve reason for believing that he has been putting up a mortgage. Interest’s heavy. There’s another matter. I wonder if you’ve heard that he’s getting rid of two of Harry’s hands? I mean Pat and Tom Moran.”
“You’re sure of that?” Hastings asked sharply.
“Tom told me.”