“No,” she said. “Nobody knows, and Mr. Prescott will never suspect; he’s not the man to think hard things of a woman. But I’m going to insist on your taking your father away.”
“But how can I?” cried Gertrude. “You know how determined he is!”
“You have influenced him already; you must do so again. You will regret it all your life if you let him stay.”
“Well,” Gertrude promised desperately, “I will try.” Then a thought struck her and her expression grew gentler. “Muriel, have you realized that if we leave here soon, the Colstons will accompany us and you will have to go with them?”
“No,” Muriel replied with a resolute smile; “I will stay.”
Gertrude turned her head and there was silence for a while. Then she said with an effort:
“I can’t ask your forgiveness; it would be too much, and I’m not sure that I wish to have it. But I feel that you are generous.”
“Take your father home,” Muriel responded, and getting up went quietly out.
During the next fortnight, Gertrude exerted all her powers of persuasion, without much success. Jernyngham was apathetic, moody, and morose, and his companions found the days pass heavily. Then one evening Prescott drove over with the excuse of a message for Leslie, and Muriel, putting on her furs, slipped out to speak to him before he left. They stood near the barn, talking softly, until there was a pause and Muriel looked out across the prairie. It was a clear, cold evening; a dull red glow blazed above the great plain’s rim, and the bluffs stood out in wavy masses with sharp distinctness. The snow had lost its glitter and was fading into soft blues and grays.
The darker line of the trail caught the girl’s eye and, following it, she noticed a horseman riding toward the homestead.