There was a moment of deathly silence. Then Lightning thrust a gnarled forefinger into his mouth and hooked the chew of tobacco out of his cheek. He flung it on the ground and trod it underfoot. Then he hunched his shoulders and turned away.
In an instant contrition swept through Molly’s heart.
“You haven’t eaten, Lightning,” she said gently.
The old man paused and glanced round.
“Eaten?” he echoed. Then he shook his head. “No, Molly, gal,” he said almost dejectedly. “Guess I don’t feel like eatin’—now.”
CHAPTER XVII
A Golden Moment
ANDY McFARDELL’S drift was infinitely more rapid than appeared. The current of indolence was strong in him, and, to a nature such as his, it was irresistible. Since the day of the visit of Molly Marton to his homestead, and, later, the infinitely less welcome visit of Lightning, not another rod of seeding had been done, in spite of the week of perfect weather that had passed over his head.
The simple truth was that Andy McFardell belonged to a type to which discipline is an essential, to which it is sheer salvation. Robbed of the iron rule of the Mounted Police the man had quickly degenerated to the condition of a storm driven, rudderless, derelict. Inclination swayed him like the yielding grass on a wind-swept plain. The sturdy resistance of the forest tree was impossible to him. His moods impelled, and he drifted before them.
The drift had set for sheer and growing indolence where his farm was concerned. The fierce enthusiasm which had first supported him, had died out like the fitful blaze of an unfed camp-fire. And with its passing only the ashes of all that was best in him remained behind.
Two purposes dominated him entirely just now. The one was the thing which the shrewd mind of Lightning had suggested. And the other was the storm of passion which Molly Marton had set stirring in his selfish soul.