He kept his word, and for the next few weeks toiled with determined energy among the tall white oats and the coppery ears of wheat. It was fiercely hot, but from sunrise until the light failed, the plodding teams and clinking binders moved round the lessening squares of grain, and ranks of splendid sheaves lengthened fast behind them. The nights were getting sharp, the dawns were cold and clear, and George rose each morning, aching in every limb, but with a keen sense of satisfaction. Each day's work added to the store of money he would shortly hand to Sylvia. He saw little of Flora, but when they met by chance, as happened once or twice, he was still conscious of something subtly unfamiliar in her manner. He felt they were no longer on the old confidential footing; a stronger barrier of reserve had risen between them.
Before the last sheaves were stacked, the days were growing cool. The fresh western breezes had died away, and a faint ethereal haze and a deep stillness had fallen upon the prairie. It was rudely broken when the thrashers arrived and from early morning the clatter of the engine filled the air with sound. Loaded wagons crashed through the stubble, the voices of dusty men mingled with the rustle of the sheaves, and a long trail of sooty smoke stained the soft blue of the sky.
This work was finished in turn, and day by day the wagons, loaded high with bags of grain, rolled slowly across the broad white levels toward the elevators. Many a tense effort was needed to get them to their destination, for the trails were dry and loose; but markets were strong, and George had decided to haul in all the big crop. Sometimes, though the nights were frosty, he slept beside his jaded team in the shelter of a bluff; sometimes he spent a day he grudged laying straw on a road; rest for more than three or four hours was unknown to him, and meals were snatched at irregular intervals when matters of more importance were less pressing. For all that, he was uniformly cheerful; the work brought him the greatest pleasure he had known, and he had grown fond of the wide, open land, in which he had once looked forward to dwelling with misgivings. The freedom of its vast spaces, its clear air and its bright sunshine, appealed to him, and he began to realize that he would be sorry to leave it, which he must shortly do. Sylvia, it was a pity, could not live in western Canada.
At length, on a frosty evening, he saw the last load vanish into the dusty elevator, and a curious feeling of regret crept over him. It was very doubtful if he would haul in another harvest, and he wondered whether the time would now and then hang heavily on his hands in England. There was a roar of machinery above him in the tail building that cut sharply against the sky; below, long rows of wagons stood waiting their turn, and the voices of the teamsters, bantering one another, struck cheerfully on his ears. Side-track and little station were bathed in dazzling electric glare, two locomotives were pushing in wheat cars, and lights had begun to glimmer in the wooden houses of the Butte, though all round there was the vast sweep of prairie.
There was a touch of rawness in the picture, a hint of incompleteness, with a promise of much to come. Sage Butte was, perhaps, a trifle barbarous; but its crude frame buildings would some day give place to more imposing piles of concrete and steel. Its inhabitants were passing through a transition stage, showing signs at times of the primitive strain, but, as a rule, reaching out eagerly toward what was new and better. They would make swift progress, and even now he liked the strenuous, optimistic, and somewhat rugged life they led; he reflected that he would find things different in sheltered England.
After giving Grierson a few instructions, George turned away. His work was done; instead of driving home through the sharp cold of the night, he was to spend it comfortably at the hotel.
A week later, he and West drove over to the Grant homestead and found only its owner in the general-room. Grant listened with a rather curious expression when George told him that he was starting for England the following day; and then they quietly talked over the arrangements that had been made for carrying on the farm until Edgar's return, for George's future movements were uncertain. Edgar, however, was sensible of a constraint in the farmer's manner, which was presently felt by George, and the conversation was languishing when Flora came in. Shortly afterward George said that they must go and Flora strolled toward the fence with him while the team was being harnessed.
"So you are leaving us to-morrow and may not come back?" she said, in an indifferent tone.
"I can't tell what I shall do until I get to England."
Flora glanced at him with a composure that cost her an effort. She supposed his decision would turn upon Mrs. Marston's attitude, but she knew Sylvia well, and had a suspicion that there was a disappointment in store for Lansing. Edgar had explained that he was not rich, and he was not the kind of man Sylvia was likely to regard with favor.