A curious smile flickered in the farmer’s eyes. “No,” he said slowly. “He was tolerably near it once or twice when he was alive, and, because of what he went through then, there may be something better in store for him.”
His companion appeared astonished, but said nothing further until he brought out the cards. They played for an hour beside the snapping stove, and then, when Witham flung a trump away, the officer groaned.
“I guess,” he said disgustedly, “you’re not well to-night, or something is worrying you.”
Witham looked up with a little twinkle in his eyes. “I don’t know that there’s very much wrong with me.”
“Then,” said the officer decisively, “if the boys down at Regent know enough to remember what trumps are, you’re not Lance Courthorne. Now after what I’d heard of you, I’d have put up fifty dollars for the pleasure of watching your game—and it’s not worth ten cents when I’ve seen it.”
Witham laughed. “Sit down and talk,” he said. “One isn’t always in his usual form, and there are folks who get famous too easily.”
They talked until nearly midnight, sitting close to the stove, while a doleful wind that moaned without drove the dust of snow pattering against the windows, and the shadows grew darker in the corners of the great log-walled room each time the icy draughts set the lamp flickering. Then the officer, rising, expressed the feelings of his guest as he said, “It’s a forsaken country, and I’m thankful one can sleep and forget it.”
He had, however, an honourable calling, and a welcome from friend and kinsman awaiting him when he went East again, to revel in the life of the cities, but the man who followed him silently to the sleeping-room had nothing but a half-instinctive assurance that the future could not well be harder or more lonely than the past had been. Still, farmer Witham was a man of courage with a quiet belief in himself, and in ten minutes he was fast asleep.
When he came down to breakfast his host was already seated with a bundle of letters before him, and one addressed to Courthorne lay unopened by Witham’s plate. The officer nodded when he saw him.
“The trooper has come in with the mail, and your friends in Canada are not going to worry you,” he said. “Now, if you feel like staying here a few days, it would be a favour to me.”
Witham had in the meanwhile opened the envelope. He knew that when once the decision was made there could only be peril in half-measures, and his eyes grew thoughtful as he read. The letter had been written by a Winnipeg lawyer from a little town not very far away, and requested Courthorne to meet and confer with him respecting certain suggestions made by a Colonel Barrington. Witham decided to take the risk.
“I’m sorry, but I have got to go into Annerly at once,” he said.
“Then,” said the officer, “I’ll drive you. I’ve some stores to get down there.”
They started after breakfast, but it was dusk next day when they reached the little town, and Witham walked quietly into a private room of the wooden hotel, where a middle-aged man with a shrewd face sat waiting him. The big nickelled lamp flickered in the draughts that found their way in, and Witham was glad of it, though he was outwardly very collected. The stubborn patience and self-control with which he had faced the loss of his wheat crops and frozen stock stood him in good stead now. He fancied the lawyer seemed a trifle astonished at his appearance, and sat down wondering whether he had previously spoken to Courthorne, until the question was answered for him.
“Although I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, I have acted as Colonel Barrington’s legal adviser ever since he settled at Silverdale, and am, therefore, well posted as to his affairs, which are, of course, connected with those of your own family,” said the lawyer. “We can accordingly talk with greater freedom, and I hope without the acerbity which in your recent communications somewhat annoyed the Colonel!”
“Well,” said Courthorne, who had never heard of Colonel Barrington, “I am ready to listen.”
The lawyer drummed on the table. “It might be best to come to the point at once,” he said. “Colonel Barrington does not deem it convenient that you should settle at Silverdale, and would be prepared to offer you a reasonable sum to relinquish your claim.”
“My claim?” said Witham, who remembered having heard of the Silverdale Colony, which lay several hundred miles away.
“Of course,” said the lawyer. “The legacy lately left you by Roger Courthorne. I have brought you a schedule of the wheat in store, and amounts due to you on various sales made. You will also find the acreage, stock, and implements detailed at a well-known appraiser’s valuation, which you could, of course, confirm, and Colonel Barrington would hand you a cheque for half the total now. He however, asks four years to pay the balance, which would carry bank interest in the meanwhile, in.”
Witham, who was glad of the excuse, spent at least ten minutes studying the paper, and realized that it referred to a large and well-appointed farm, though it occurred to him that the crop was a good deal smaller than it should have been. He noticed this, as it were, instinctively, for his brain was otherwise very busy.
“Colonel Barrington seems somewhat anxious to get rid of me,” he said. “You see, this land is mine by right.”
“Yes,” said the lawyer. “Colonel Barrington does not dispute it, though I am of opinion that he might have done so under one clause of the will. I do not think we need discuss his motives.”
Witham moistened his lips with his tongue, and his lips quivered a little. He had hitherto been an honest man, and now it was impossible for him to take the money. It, however, appeared equally impossible to reveal his identity and escape the halter, and he felt that the dead man had wronged him horribly. He was entitled at least to safety by way of compensation, for by passing as Courthorne he would avoid recognition as Witham.
“Still, I do not know how I have offended Colonel Barrington,” he said.
“I would sooner,” said the lawyer, “not go into that. It is, I fancy, fifteen years since Colonel Barrington saw you, but he desired me to find means of tracing your Canadian record, and did not seem pleased with it. Nor, at the risk of offending you, could I deem him unduly prejudiced.”
“In fact,” said Witham dryly, “this man who has not seen me for fifteen years is desirous of withholding what is mine from me at almost any cost.”
The lawyer nodded. “There is nothing to be gained by endeavouring to controvert it. Colonel Barrington is also, as you know, a somewhat determined gentleman.”
Witham laughed, for he was essentially a stubborn man, and felt little kindliness towards any one connected with Courthorne, as the Colonel evidently was.
“I fancy I am not entirely unlike him in that respect,” he said. “What you have told me makes me the more determined to follow my own inclinations. Is there any one else at Silverdale prejudiced against me?”
The lawyer fell into the trap. “Miss Barrington, of course, takes her brother’s view, and her niece would scarcely go counter to them. She must have been a very young girl when she last saw you, but from what I know of her character I should expect her to support the Colonel.”
“Well,” said Witham. “I want to think over the thing. We will talk again to-morrow. You would require me to establish my identity, anyway?”
“The fact that a famous inquiry agent has traced your movements down to a week or two ago, and told me where to find you, will render that simple,” said the lawyer dryly.
Witham sat up late that night turning over the papers the lawyer left him, and thinking hard. It was evident that in the meanwhile he must pass as Courthorne, but as the thought of taking the money revolted him, the next step led to the occupation of the dead man’s property. The assumption of it would apparently do nobody a wrong, while he felt that Courthorne had taken so much from him that the farm at Silverdale would be a very small reparation. It was not, he saw, a great inheritance, but one that in the right hands could be made profitable, and Witham, who had fought a plucky fight with obsolete and worthless implements and indifferent teams, felt that he could do a great deal with what was, as it were, thrust upon him at Silverdale. It was not avarice that tempted him, though he knew he was tempted now, but a longing to find a fair outlet for his energies, and show what, once given the chance that most men had, he could do. He had stinted himself and toiled almost as a beast of burden, but now he could use his brains in place of wringing the last effort out of overtaxed muscle. He had also during the long struggle lost, to some extent, his clearness of vision, and only saw himself as a lonely man fighting for his own hand with fate against him. Now, when prosperity was offered him, it seemed but folly to stand aside when he could stretch out a strong hand and take it.
During the last hour he sat almost motionless, the issue hung in the balance, and he laid himself down still undecided. Still, he had lived long in primitive fashion in close touch with the soil, and sank, as most men would have done, into restful sleep. The sun hung red above the rim of the prairie when he awakened, and going down to breakfast found the lawyer waiting for him.
“You can tell Colonel Barrington I’m coming to Silverdale,” he said.
The lawyer looked at him curiously. “Would there be any use in asking you to consider?”
Witham laughed. “No,” he said. “Now, I rather like the way you talked to me, and if it wouldn’t be disloyalty to the Colonel, I should be pleased if you would undertake to put me in due possession of my property.”
He said nothing further, and the lawyer sat down to write Colonel Barrington.
“Mr. Courthorne proves obdurate,” he said. “He is, however, by no means the type of man I expected to find, and I venture to surmise that you will eventually discover him to be a less undesirable addition to Silverdale than you are at present inclined to fancy.”
There were warmth and brightness in the cedar-boarded general room of Silverdale Grange, and most of the company gathered there basked in it contentedly after their drive through the bitter night. Those who came from the homesteads lying farthest out had risked frost-nipped hands and feet, for when Colonel Barrington held a levee at the Grange nobody felt equal to refusing his invitation. Neither scorching heat nor utter cold might excuse compliance with the wishes of the founder of Silverdale, and it was not until Dane, the big middle-aged bachelor, had spoken very plainly, that he consented to receive his guests in time of biting frost dressed otherwise than as they would have appeared in England.
Dane was the one man in the settlement who dare remonstrate with its ruler, but it was a painful astonishment to the latter when he said, in answer to one invitation, “I have never been frost-bitten, sir, and I stand the cold well, but one or two of the lads are weak in the chest, and this climate was never intended for bare-shouldered women. Hence, if I come, I shall dress myself to suit it.”
Colonel Barrington stared at him for almost a minute, and then shook his head. “Have it your own way,” he said, “Understand that in itself I care very little for dress, but it is only by holding fast to every traditional nicety we can prevent ourselves sinking into Western barbarism, and I am horribly afraid of the thin end of the wedge.”
Dane having gained his point, said nothing further, for he was one of the wise and silent men who know when to stop, and that evening he sat in a corner watching his leader thoughtfully, for there was anxiety in the Colonel’s face. Barrington sat silent near the ample hearth whose heat would scarcely have kept water from freezing but for the big stove, and disdaining the dispensation made his guests, he was clad conventionally, though the smooth black fabric clung about him more tightly than it had once been intended to do. His sister stood, with the stamp of a not wholly vanished beauty still clinging to her gentle face, talking to one or two matrons from outlying farms, and his niece by a little table turning over Eastern photographs with a few young girls. She, too, wore black in deference to the Colonel’s taste, which was sombre, and the garment she had laughed at as a compromise, left uncovered a narrow strip of ivory shoulder and enhanced the polished whiteness of her neck. A slender string of pearls gleamed softly on the satiny skin, but Maud Barrington wore no other adornment and did not need it. She had inherited the Courthorne comeliness, and the Barringtons she sprang from on her father’s side had always borne the stamp of distinction.
A young girl sat at the piano singing in a thin, reedy voice, while an English lad waited with ill-concealed jealousy of a too officious companion to turn over the music by her side. Other men, mostly young, with weather-bronzed faces, picturesque in embroidered deerskin or velvet lounge jackets, were scattered about the room, and all were waiting for the eight-o’clock dinner, which replaced the usual prairie supper at Silverdale. They were growers of wheat who combined a good deal of amusement with a little not very profitable farming, and most of them possessed a large share of insular English pride and a somewhat depleted exchequer.
Presently Dane crossed over, and sat down by Colonel Barrington. “You are silent, sir, and not looking very well to-night,” he said.
Barrington nodded gravely, for he had a respect for the one man who occasionally spoke plain truth to him. “The fact is, I am growing old,” he said, and then added, with what was only an apparent lack of connexion, “Wheat is down three cents, and money tighter than ever.”
Dane looked thoughtful, and noticed the older man’s glance in his niece’s direction, as he said, “I am afraid there are difficult times before us.”
“I have no doubt we shall weather them as we have done before,” said the Colonel. “Still, I can’t help admitting that just now I feel—a little tired—and am commencing to think we should have been better prepared for the struggle had we worked a trifle harder during the recent era of prosperity. I could wish there were older heads on the shoulders of those who will come after me.”
Just then Maud Barrington glanced at them, and Dane, who could not remember having heard his leader talk in that fashion before, and could guess his anxieties, was a little touched as he noticed his attempt at sprightliness. As it happened, one of the lads at the piano commenced a song of dogs and horses that had little to recommend it but the brave young voice.
“They have the right spirit, sir,” he said.
“Of course!” said Barrington. “They are English lads, but I think a little more is required. Thank God we have not rated the dollar too high, but it is possible we have undervalued its utility, and I fear I have only taught them to be gentlemen.”
“That is a good deal, sir,” Dane said quietly.
“It is. Still, a gentleman, in the restricted sense, is somewhat of an anachronism on the prairie, and it is too late to begin again. In the usual course of nature I must lay down my charge presently, and that is why I feel the want of a more capable successor, whom they would follow because of his connexion with mine and me.”
Dane looked thoughtful. “If I am not taking a liberty—you still consider the one apparently born to fill the place quite unsuitable?”
“Yes,” said Barrington quietly. “I fear there is not a redeeming feature in Courthorne’s character.”
Neither said anything further, until there was a tapping at the door, and, though this was a most unusual spectacle on the prairie, a trim English maid in white-banded dress stood in the opening.
“Mr. Courthorne, Miss Barrington,” she said.
Now Silverdale had adopted one Western custom in that no chance guest was ever kept waiting, and the music ceased suddenly, while the stillness was very suggestive, when a man appeared in the doorway. He wore one of the Scandinavian leather jackets which are not uncommon in that country, and when his eyes had become accustomed to the light, moved forward with a quiet deliberation that was characterized neither by graceful ease nor the restraint of embarrassment. His face was almost the colour of a Blackfoot’s, his eyes steady and grey, but those of the men who watched him were next moment turned upon the Colonel’s sister, who rose to receive him, slight, silver-haired, and faded, but still stamped with a simple dignity that her ancient silks and lace curiously enhanced. Then there was a silence that could be felt, for all realized that a good deal depended on the stranger’s first words and the fashion of his reception.
Witham, as it happened, felt this too, and something more. It was eight years since he had stood before an English lady, and he surmised that there could not be many to compare with this one, while after his grim, lonely life an intangible something that seemed to emanate from her gracious serenity compelled his homage. Then as she smiled at him and held out her hand, he was for a moment sensible of an almost overwhelming confusion. It passed as suddenly, for this was a man of quick perceptions, and remembering that Courthorne had now and then displayed some of the grace of bygone days he yielded to a curious impulse, and, stooping, kissed the little withered fingers.
“I have,” he said, “to thank you for a welcome that does not match my poor deserts, madam.”
Then Dane, standing beside his leader, saw the grimness grow a trifle less marked in his eyes. “It is in the blood,” he said half aloud, but Dane heard him and afterwards remembered it.
In the meanwhile Miss Barrington had turned from the stranger to her niece. “It is a very long time since you have seen Lance, Maud, and, though I knew his mother well, I am less fortunate, because this is our first meeting,” she said. “I wonder if you still remember my niece.”
Now, Witham had been gratified by his first success, and was about to venture on the answer that it was impossible to forget; but when he turned towards the very stately young woman in the long black dress, whose eyes had a sardonic gleam, and wondered whether he had ever seen anybody so comely or less inclined to be companionable, it was borne in upon him that any speech of the kind would be distinctly out of place. Accordingly, and because there was no hand held out in this case, he contented himself with a little bend of his head. Then he was presented to the Colonel, who was distantly cordial, and Witham was thankful when the maid appeared in the doorway again, to announce that dinner was ready. Miss Barrington laid her hand upon his arm.
“You will put up with an old woman’s company to-night?” she said.
Witham glanced down deprecatingly at his attire. “I must explain that I had no intention of trespassing on your hospitality,” he said. “I purposed going on to my own homestead, and only called to acquaint Colonel Barrington with my arrival.”
Miss Barrington laughed pleasantly. “That,” she said, “was neither dutiful nor friendly. I should have fancied you would also have desired to pay your respects to my niece and me.”
Witham was not quite sure what he answered, but he drew in a deep breath, for he had made the plunge and felt that the worst was over. His companion, evidently noticed the gasp of relief.
“It was somewhat of an ordeal?” she said.
Witham looked down upon her gravely, and Miss Barrington noticed a steadiness in his eyes she had not expected to see. “It was, and I feel guilty because I was horribly afraid,” he said. “Now I only wonder if you will always be equally kind to me.”
Miss Barrington smiled a little, but the man fancied there was just a perceptible tightening of the hand upon his arm. “I would like to be, for your mother’s sake,” she said.
Witham understood that while Courthorne’s iniquities were not to be brought up against him, the little gentle-voiced lady had but taken him on trial; but, perhaps because it was so long since any woman had spoken kindly words to him, his heart went out towards her, and he felt a curious desire to compel her good opinion. Then he found himself seated near the head of the long table, with Maud Barrington on his other hand, and had an uncomfortable feeling that most of the faces were turned somewhat frequently in his direction. It is also possible that he would have betrayed himself, had he been burdened with self-consciousness, but the long, bitter struggle he had fought alone had purged him of petty weaknesses and left him the closer grasp of essential things, with the strength of character which is one and the same in all men who possess it, whatever may be their upbringing.
During a lull in the voices, Maud Barrington, who may have felt it incumbent on her to show him some scant civility, turned towards him as she said, “I am afraid our conversation will not appeal to you. Partly because there is so little else to interest us, we talk wheat throughout the year at Silverdale.”
“Well,” said Witham with a curious little smile, “wheat as a topic is not quite new to me. In fact, I know almost more about cereals than some folks would care to do.”
“In the shape of elevator warrants or Winnipeg market margins, presumably?”
Witham’s eyes twinkled, though he understood the implication. “No,” he said. “The wheat I handled was in 250-pound bags, and I occasionally grew somewhat tired of pitching them into a wagon, while my speculations usually consisted in committing it to the prairie soil, in the hope of reaping forty bushels to the acre, and then endeavouring to be content with ten. It is conceivable that operations on the Winnipeg market are less laborious as well as more profitable, but I have no opportunity of trying them.”
Miss Barrington looked at him steadily, and Witham felt the blood surge to his forehead as he remembered having heard of a certain venture made by Courthorne, which brought discredit on one or two men, connected with the affairs of a grain elevator. It was evident that Miss Barrington had also heard of it, and no man cares to stand convicted of falsification in the eyes of a very pretty girl. Still, he roused himself with an effort.
“It is neither wise nor charitable to believe all one hears,” he said.
The girl smiled a little, but the man still winced inwardly under her clear brown eyes that would, he fancied, have been very scornful had they been less indifferent.
“I do not remember mentioning having heard anything,” she said. “Were you not a trifle premature in face of the proverb?”
Witham’s face was a trifle grim, though he laughed. “I’m afraid I was; but I am warned,” he said. “Excuses are, after all, not worth much, and when I make my defence it will be before a more merciful judge.”
Maud Barrington’s curiosity was piqued. Lance Courthorne, outcast and gambler, was at least a different stamp of man from the type she had been used to, and, being a woman, the romance that was interwoven with his somewhat iniquitous career was not without its attractions for her.
“I did not know that you included farming among your talents, and should have fancied you would have found it—monotonous,” she said.
“I did,” and the provoking smile still flickered in Witham’s eyes. “Are not all strictly virtuous occupations usually so?”
“It is probably a question of temperament. I have, of course, heard sardonic speeches of the kind before, and felt inclined to wonder whether those who made them were qualified to form an opinion.”
Witham nodded, but there was a little ring in his voice. “Perhaps I laid myself open to the thrust; but have you any right to assume I have never followed a commendable profession?”
No answer was immediately forthcoming, but Witham did wisely when, in place of waiting, he turned to Miss Barrington. He had left her niece irritated, but the trace of anger she felt was likely to enhance her interest. The meal, however, was a trial to him, for he had during eight long years lived for the most part apart from all his kind, a lonely toiler, and now was constrained to personate a man known to be almost dangerously skilful with his tongue. At first sight the task appeared almost insuperably difficult, but Witham was a clever man, and felt all the thrill of one playing a risky game just then. Perhaps it was due to excitement that a readiness he had never fancied himself capable of came to him in his need, and, when at last the ladies rose, he felt that he had not slipped perilously. Still, he found how dry his lips had grown when somebody poured him a glass of wine. Then he became sensible that Colonel Barrington, who had apparently been delivering a lengthy monologue, was addressing him.
“The outlook is sufficient to cause us some anxiety,” he said. “We are holding large stocks, and I can see no prospect of anything but a steady fall in wheat. It is, however, presumably a little too soon to ask your opinion.”
“Well,” said Witham, “while I am prepared to act upon it, I would recommend it to others with some diffidence. No money can be made at present by farming, but I see no reason why we should not endeavour to cut our losses by selling forward down. If caught by a sudden rally, we could fall back on the grain we hold.”
There was a sudden silence, until Dane said softly, “That is exactly what one of the cleverest brokers in Winnipeg recommended.”
“I think,” said Colonel Barrington, “you heard my answer. I am inclined to fancy that such a measure would not be advisable or fitting, Mr. Courthorne. You, however, presumably know very little about the practical aspect of the wheat question?”
Witham smiled. “On the contrary, I know a great deal.”
“You do?” said Barrington sharply, and while a blunderer would have endeavoured to qualify his statement, Witham stood by it.
“You are evidently not aware, sir, that I have tried my hand at farming, though not very successfully.”
“That, at least,” said Barrington dryly, as he rose, “is quite credible.”
When they went into the smaller room, Witham crossed over to where Maud Barrington sat alone, and looked down upon her gravely. “One discovers that frankness is usually best,” he said. “Now, I would not like to feel that you had determined to be unfriendly with me.”
Maud Barrington fixed a pair of clear brown eyes upon his face, and the faintest trace of astonishment crept into them. She was a woman with high principles, but neither a fool nor a prude, and she saw no sign of dissolute living there. The man’s gaze was curiously steady, his skin clear and brown, and his sinewy form suggested a capacity for, and she almost fancied an acquaintance with, physical toil. Yet he had already denied the truth to her. Witham, on his part, saw a very fair face with wholesome pride in it, and felt that the eyes which were coldly contemptuous now could, if there was a warrant for it, grow very gentle.
“Would it be of any moment if I were?” she said.
“Yes,” said Witham quietly. “There are two people here it is desirable for me to stand well with, and the first of them, your aunt, has, I fancy, already decided to give me a fair trial. She told me it was for my mother’s sake. Now, I can deal with your uncle.”
The girl smiled a little. “Are you quite sure? Everybody does not find it easy to get on with Colonel Barrington. His code is somewhat draconic.”
Witham nodded. “He is a man, and I hope to convince him I have at least a right to toleration. That leaves only you. The rest don’t count. They will come round by and by, you see.”
The little forceful gesture with which he concluded pleased Maud Barrington. It was free from vanity, but conveyed an assurance that he knew his own value.
“No friendship that is lightly given is worth very much,” she said. “I could decide better in another six months. Now it is perhaps fortunate that Colonel Barrington is waiting for us to make up his four at whist.”
Witham allowed a faint gesture of dismay to escape him. “Must I play?”
“Yes,” said the girl, smiling. “Whist is my uncle’s hobby, and he is enthusiastic over a clever game.”
Witham groaned inwardly. “And I am a fool at whist.”
“Then it was poker you played?” and again a faint trace of anger crept into the girl’s eyes.
Witham shook his head. “No,” he said. “I had few opportunities of indulging in expensive luxuries.”
“I think we had better take our places,” said Maud Barrington, with unveiled contempt.
Witham’s forehead grew a trifle hot, and when he sat down Barrington glanced at him. “I should explain that we never allow stakes of any kind at Silverdale,” he said. “Some of the lads sent out to me have been a trifle extravagant in the old country.”
He dealt out the cards, but a trace of bewildered irritation crept into his eyes as the game proceeded, and once or twice he appeared to check an exclamation of astonishment, while at last he glanced reproachfully at Witham.
“My dear sir! Still, you have ridden a long way,” he said, laying his finger on a king.
Witham laughed to hide his dismay. “I am sorry, sir. It was scarcely fair to my partner. You would, however, have beaten us, anyway.”
Barrington gravely gathered up the cards. “We will,” he said, “have some music. I do not play poker.”
Then, for the first time, Witham lost his head in his anger. “Nor do I, sir.”
Barrington only looked at him, but the farmer felt as though somebody had struck him in the face, and as soon as he conveniently could, bade Miss Barrington good night.
“But we expected you would stay here a day or two. Your place is not ready,” she said.
Witham smiled at her. “I think I am wise. I must feel my way.”
Miss Barrington was won, and, making no further protest, signed to Dane. “You will take Mr. Courthorne home with you,” she said. “I would have kept him here, but he is evidently anxious to talk over affairs with some one more of his age than my brother is.”
Dane appeared quite willing, and an hour later, Witham sat, cigar in hand, in a room of his outlying farm. It was furnished simply, but there were signs of taste, and the farmer who occupied it had already formed a good opinion of the man whose knowledge of his own profession astonished him.
“So you are actually going to sell wheat in face of the Colonel’s views?” he said.
“Of course,” said Witham simply. “I don’t like unpleasantness, but I can allow no man to dictate my affairs to me.”
Dane grinned. “Well,” he said, “the Colonel can be nasty, and he has no great reason for being fond of you already.”
“No?” said Witham. “Now, of course, my accession will make a difference at Silverdale, but I would consider it a friendly act if you will let me know the views of the colony.”
Dane looked thoughtful. “The trouble is that your taking up the land leaves less for Maud Barrington than there would have been. Barrington, who is fond of the girl, was trustee for the property, and after your—estrangement—from your father everybody expected she would get it all.”
“So I have deprived Miss Barrington of part of her income?”
“Of course,” said Dane. “Didn’t you know?”
Witham found it difficult to answer. “I never quite realized it before. Are there more accounts against me?”
“That,” said Dane slowly, “is rather a facer. We are all more or less friends of the dominant family, you see.”
Witham laid down his cigar and stood up, “Now,” he said, “I generally talk straight, and you have held out a hand to me. Can you believe in the apparent improbability of such a man as I am in the opinion of the folks at Silverdale getting tired of a wasted life and trying to walk straight again? I want your answer, yes or no, before I head across the prairie for my own place.”
“Sit down,” said Dane with a little smile. “Do you think I would have brought you here if I hadn’t believed it? And, if I have my way, the first man who flings a stone will be sorry for it. Still, I don’t think any of them will—or could afford it. If we had all been saints, some of us would never have come out from the old country.”
He stopped and poured out two glasses of wine. “It’s a long while since I’ve talked so much,” he said. “Here’s to our better acquaintance, Courthorne.”
After that they talked wheat-growing and horses, and when his guest retired Dane still sat smoking thoughtfully beside the stove. “We want a man with nerve and brains,” he said. “I fancy the one who has been sent us will make a difference at Silverdale.”
It was about the same time when Colonel Barrington stood talking with his niece and sister in Silverdale Grange. “And the man threw that trick away when it was absolutely clear who had the ace—and wished me to believe that he forgot!” he said.
His face was flushed with indignation, but Miss Barrington smiled at her niece. “What is your opinion, Maud?”
The girl moved one white shoulder with a gesture of disdain. “Can you ask—after that! Besides, he twice wilfully perverted facts while he talked to me, though it was not in the least necessary.”
Miss Barrington looked thoughtful. “And yet, because I was watching him, I do not think he plays cards well.”
“But he was a professional gambler,” said the girl.
The elder lady shook her head. “So we—heard,” she said. “My dear, give him a little time. I have seen many men and women—and can’t help a fancy that there is good in him.”
“Can the leopard change his spots?” asked Colonel Barrington, with a grim smile.
The little white-haired lady glanced at him as she said quietly, “When the wicked man——”
The dismal afternoon was drawing in when Witham, driving home from the railroad, came into sight of a lonely farm. It lifted itself out of the prairie, a blur of huddled buildings on the crest of a long rise, but at first sight Witham scarcely noticed it. He was gazing abstractedly down the sinuous smear of trail which unrolled itself like an endless riband across the great white desolation, and his brain was busy. Four months had passed since he came to Silverdale, and they had left their mark on him.
At first there had been the constant fear of detection, and when that had lessened and he was accepted as Lance Courthorne, the latter’s unfortunate record had met him at every turn. It accounted for the suspicions of Colonel Barrington, the reserve of his niece, and the aloofness of some of his neighbours, while there had been times when Witham found Silverdale almost unendurable. He was, however, an obstinate man, and there was on the opposite side the gracious kindliness of the little grey-haired lady, who had from the beginning been his champion, and the friendship of Dane and one or two of the older men. Witham had also proved his right to be listened to, and treated, outwardly at least, with due civility, while something in his resolute quietness rendered an impertinence impossible. He knew by this time that he could hold his own at Silverdale, and based his conduct on the fact, but that was only one aspect of the question, and he speculated as to the consummation.
It was, however, evident that in the meanwhile he must continue to pose as Courthorne, and he felt, rightly or wrongly, that the possession of his estate, was, after all, a small reparation for the injury the outlaw had done him, but the affair was complicated by the fact that, in taking Courthorne’s inheritance, he had deprived Maud Barrington of part of hers. The girl’s coldness stung him, but her unquestionable beauty and strength of character had not been without their effect, and the man winced as he remembered that she had no pity for anything false or mean. He had decided only upon two things, first that he would vindicate himself in her eyes, and, since nobody else could apparently do it, pull the property that should have been hers out of the ruin it had been drifting into under her uncle’s guardianship. When this had been done, and the killing of Trooper Shannon forgotten, it would be time for him to slip back into the obscurity he came from.
Then the fact that the homestead was growing nearer forced itself upon his perceptions, and he glanced doubtfully across the prairie as he approached the forking of the trail. A grey dimness was creeping across the wilderness and the smoky sky seemed to hang lower above the dully gleaming snow, while the moaning wind flung little clouds of icy dust about him. It was evident that the snow was not far away, and it was still two leagues to Silverdale, but Witham, who had been to Winnipeg, had business with the farmer, and had faced a prairie storm before. Accordingly he swung the team into the forking trail and shook the reins. There was, he knew, little time to lose, and in another five minutes he stood, still wearing his white-sprinkled furs, in a room of the birch-log building.
“Here are your accounts, Macdonald, and while we’ve pulled up our losses, I can’t help thinking we have just got out in time,” he said. “The market is but little stiffer yet, but there is less selling, and before a few months are over we’re going to see a sharp recovery.”
The farmer glanced at the documents, and smiled with contentment as he took the cheque. “I’m glad I listened to you,” he said. “It’s unfortunate for him and his niece that Barrington wouldn’t—at least, not until he had lost the opportunity.”
“I don’t understand,” said Witham.
“No,” said the farmer, “you’ve been away. Well, you know it takes a long while to get an idea into the Colonel’s head, but once it’s in it’s even harder to get it out again. Now Barrington looked down on wheat jobbing, but money’s tight at Silverdale, and when he saw what you were making, he commenced to think. Accordingly he’s going to sell, and, as he seems convinced that wheat will not go up again, let half the acreage lie fallow this season. The worst of it is, the others will follow him up, and he controls Maud Barrington’s property as well as his own.”
Witham’s face was grave. “I heard in Winnipeg that most of the smaller men who had lost courage were doing the same thing. That means a very small crop of western hard, and millers paying our own prices. Somebody must stop the Colonel.”
“Well,” said Macdonald dryly, “I wouldn’t like to be the man, and, after all, it’s only your opinion. As you have seen, the small men here and in Minnesota are afraid to plough.”
Witham laughed softly. “The man who makes the dollars is the one who sees farther than the crowd. Anyway, I found the views of one or two men who make big deals were much the same as mine, and I’ll speak to Miss Barrington.”
“Then if you will wait a little, you will have an opportunity. She is here, you see.”
Witham looked disconcerted. “She should not have been. Why didn’t you send her home? There’ll be snow before she reaches Silverdale.”
Macdonald laughed. “I hadn’t noticed the weather, and, though my wife wished her to stay, there is no use in attempting to persuade Miss Barrington to do anything when she does not want to. In some respects she is very like the Colonel.”
The farmer led the way into another room, and Witham flushed a little when the girl returned his greeting in a fashion which he fancied the presence of Mrs. Macdonald alone rendered distantly cordial. Still, a glance through the windows showed him that delay was inadvisable.
“I think you had better stay here all night, Miss Barrington,” he said. “There is snow coming.”
“I am sorry our views do not coincide,” said the girl. “I have several things to attend to at the Grange.”
“Then Macdonald will keep your team, and I will drive you home,” said Witham. “Mine are the best horses at Silverdale, and I fancy we will need all their strength.”
Miss Barrington looked up sharply. There had been a little ring in Witham’s voice, but there was also a solicitude in his face which almost astonished her, and when Macdonald urged her to comply she rose leisurely.
“I will be ready in ten minutes,” she said.
Witham waited at least twenty, very impatiently, but when at last the girl appeared, handed her with quiet deference into the sleigh, and then took his place, as far as the dimensions of the vehicle permitted, apart from her. Once he fancied she noticed it with faint amusement, but the horses knew what was coming, and it was only when he pulled them up to a trot again on the slope of a rise that he found speech convenient.
“I am glad we are alone, though I feel a little diffidence in asking a favour of you, because unfortunately when I venture to recommend anything you usually set yourself against it,” he said. “This is, in the language of this country, tolerably straight.”
Maud Barrington laughed. “I could find no fault with it on the score of ambiguity.”
“Well,” said Witham, “I believe your uncle is going to sell wheat for you, and let a good deal of your land go out of cultivation. Now, as you perhaps do not know, the laws which govern the markets are very simple and almost immutable, but the trouble is that a good many people do not understand their application.”
“You apparently consider yourself an exception,” said the girl.
Witham nodded. “I do just now. Still, I do not wish to talk about myself. You see, the people back there in Europe must be fed, and the latest news from wheat-growing countries does not promise more than an average crop, while half the faint-hearted farmers here are not going to sow much this year. Therefore when the demand comes for Western wheat there will be little to sell.”
“But how is it that you alone see this? Isn’t it a trifle egotistical?”
Witham laughed. “Can’t we leave my virtues, or the reverse, out of the question? I feel that I am right, and want you to dissuade your uncle. It would be even better if, when I return to Winnipeg, you would empower me to buy wheat for you.”
Maud Barrington looked at him curiously. “I am a little perplexed as to why you should wish me to.”
“No doubt,” said Witham. “Still, is there any reason why I should be debarred the usual privilege of taking an interest in my neighbour’s affairs?”
“No,” said the girl slowly. “But can you not see that it is out of the question that I should entrust you with this commission?”
Witham’s hands closed on the reins, and his face grew a trifle grim as he said, “From the point of view you evidently take, I presume it is.”
A flush of crimson suffused the girl’s cheeks. “I never meant that, and I can scarcely forgive you for fancying I did. Of course I could trust you with—you have made me use the word—the dollars, but you must realize that I could not do anything in public opposition to my uncle’s opinion.”
Witham was sensible of a great relief, but it did not appear advisable to show it. “There are so many things you apparently find it difficult to forgive me—and we will let this one pass,” he said. “Still, I cannot help thinking that Colonel Barrington will have a good deal to answer for.”
Maud Barrington made no answer, but she was sensible of a respect which appeared quite unwarranted for the dryly-spoken man who, though she guessed her words stung him now and then, bore them without wincing. While she sat silent, shivering under her furs, darkness crept down. The smoky cloud dropped lower, the horizon closed in as the grey obscurity rolled up to meet them across a rapidly-narrowing strip of snow. Then she could scarcely see the horses, and the muffled drumming of their hoofs was lost in a doleful wail of wind. It also seemed to her that the cold, which was already almost insupportable, suddenly increased, as it not infrequently does in that country before the snow. Then a white powder was whirled into her face, filling her eyes and searing the skin, while, when she could see anything again, the horses were plunging at a gallop through a filmy haze, and Witham, whitened all over, leaned forward with lowered head hurling hoarse encouragement at them. His voice reached her fitfully through the roar of wind, until sight and hearing were lost alike as the white haze closed about them, and it was not until the wild gust had passed she heard him again.
He was apparently shouting, “Come nearer.”
Maud Barrington was not sure whether she obeyed him or he seized and drew her towards him. She, however, felt the furs piled high about her neck and that there was an arm round her shoulder, and for a moment was sensible of an almost overwhelming revulsion from the contact. She was proud and very dainty, and fancied she knew what this man had been, while now she was drawn in to his side, and felt her chilled blood respond to the warmth of his body. Indeed, she grew suddenly hot to the neck, and felt that henceforward she could never forgive him or herself, but the mood passed almost as swiftly, for again the awful blast shrieked about them and she only remembered her companion’s humanity as the differences of sex and character vanished under that destroying cold. They were no longer man and woman, but only beings of flesh and blood, clinging desperately to the life that was in them, for the first rush of the Western snowstorm has more than a physical effect, and man exposed to its fury loses all but his animal instincts in the primitive struggle with the elements.
Then, while the snow folded them closely in its white embrace during a lull, the girl recovered herself, and her strained voice was faintly audible.
“This is my fault; why don’t you tell me so?” she said.
A hoarse laugh seemed to issue from the whitened object beside her, and she was drawn closer to it again. “We needn’t go into that just now. You have one thing to do, and that is to keep warm.”
One of the horses stumbled, the grasp that was around her became relaxed and she heard the swish of the whip followed by hoarse expletives, and did not resent it. The man, it seemed, was fighting for her life as well as his own, and even brutal virility was necessary. After that there was a space of oblivion, while the storm raged about them, until, when the wind fell a trifle, it became evident that the horses had left the trail.
“You are off the track, and will never make the Grange unless you find it!” she said.
Witham seemed to nod. “We are not going there,” he said, and if he added anything, it was lost in the scream of a returning gust.
Again Maud Barrington’s reason reasserted itself, and remembering the man’s history she became sensible of a curious dismay, but it also passed, and left her with the vague realization that he and she were actuated alike only by the desire to escape extinction. Presently she became sensible that the sleigh had stopped beside a formless mound of white and the man was shaking her.
“Hold those furs about you while I lift you down,” he said.
She did his bidding, and did not shrink when she felt his arms about her, while next moment she was standing knee-deep in the snow and the man shouting something she did not catch. Team and sleigh seemed to vanish, and she saw her companion dimly for a moment before he was lost in the sliding whiteness too. Then a horrible fear came upon her.
It seemed a very long while before he reappeared, and thrust her in through what seemed to be a door. Then there was another waiting before the light of a lamp blinked out, and she saw that she was standing in a little log-walled room with bare floor and a few trusses of straw in a corner. There was also a rusty stove, and a very small pile of billets beside it. Witham, who had closed the door, stood looking at them with a curious expression.
“Where is the team?” she gasped.
“Heading for a birch bluff or Silverdale, though I scarcely think they will get there,” said the man. “I have never stopped here, and it wasn’t astonishing they fancied the place a pile of snow. While I was getting the furs out they slipped away from me.”
Miss Barrington now knew where they were. The shanty was used by the remoter settlers as a half-way house where they slept occasionally on their long journey to the railroad, and as there was a birch bluff not far away, it was the rule that whoever occupied it should replace the fuel he had consumed. The last man had, however, not been liberal.
“But what are we to do?” she asked, with a little gasp of dismay.
“Stay here until the morning,” said Witham quietly. “Unfortunately I can’t even spare you my company. The stable has fallen in, and it would be death to stand outside, you see. In the meanwhile, pull out some of the straw and put it in the stove.”
“Can you not do that?” asked Miss Barrington, feeling that she must commence at once, if she was to keep this man at a befitting distance.
Witham laughed. “Oh, yes, but you will freeze if you stand still, and these billets require splitting. Still, if you have special objections to doing what I ask you, you can walk up and down rapidly.”
The girl glanced at him a moment, and then lowered her eyes. “Of course I was wrong! Do you wish to hear that I am sorry?”
Witham, answering nothing, swung an axe round his head, and the girl, kneeling beside the stove, noticed the sinewy suppleness of his frame and the precision with which the heavy blade cleft the billets. The axe, she knew, is by no means an easy tool to handle. At last the red flame crackled, and though she had not intended the question to be malicious, there was a faint trace of irony in her voice as she asked, “Is there any other thing you wish me to do?”
Witham flung two bundles of straw down beside the stove, and stood looking at her gravely. “Yes,” he said. “I want you to sit down and let me wrap this sleigh robe about you.”
The girl submitted, and did not shrink from his touch visibly when he drew the fur robe about her shoulders and packed the end of it round her feet. Still, there was a faint warmth in her face, and she was grateful for his unconcernedness.
“Fate or fortune has placed me in charge of you until to-morrow, and if the position is distasteful to you it is not my fault,” he said. “Still, I feel the responsibility, and it would be a little less difficult if you could accept the fact tacitly.”
Maud Barrington would not have shivered if she could have avoided it, but the cold was too great for her, and she did not know whether she was vexed or pleased at the gleam of compassion in the man’s grey eyes. It was more eloquent than anything of the kind she had ever seen, but it had gone and he was only quietly deferent when she glanced at him again.
“I will endeavour to be good,” she said, and then flushed with annoyance at the adjective. Half-dazed by the cold as she was, she could not think of a more suitable one. Witham, however, retained his gravity.
“Now, Macdonald gave you no supper, and he has dinner at noon,” he said. “I brought some eatables along, and you must make the best meal you can.”
He opened a packet, and laid it, with a little silver flask, upon her knee.
“I cannot eat all this—and it is raw spirit,” said Maud Barrington.
Witham laughed. “Are you not forgetting your promise? Still, we will melt a little snow into the cup.”
An icy gust swept in when he opened the door, and it was only by a strenuous effort he closed it again, while, when he came back panting with the top of the flask a little colour crept into Maud Barrington’s face. “I am sorry,” she said. “That at least is your due.”
“I really don’t want my due,” said Witham with a deprecatory gesture as he laid the silver cup upon the stove. “Can’t we forget we are not exactly friends, just for to-night? If so, you will drink this and commence at once on the provisions—to please me!”
Maud Barrington was glad of the reviving draught, for she was very cold, but presently she held out the packet.
“One really cannot eat many crackers at once; will you help me?”
Witham laughed as he took one of the biscuits. “If I had expected any one would share my meal, I would have provided a better one. Still, I have been glad to feast upon more unappetizing things occasionally!”
“When were you unfortunate?” said the girl.
Witham smiled somewhat dryly. “I was unfortunate for six years on end.”
He was aware of the blunder when he had spoken, but Maud Barrington appeared to be looking at the flask thoughtfully.
“The design is very pretty,” she said. “You got it in England?”
The man knew that it was the name F. Witham his companion’s eyes rested on, but his face was expressionless. “Yes,” he said. “It is one of the things they make for presentation in the old country.”
Maud Barrington noticed the absence of any attempt at explanation, and having considerable pride of her own, was sensible of a faint approval. “You are making slow progress,” she said, with a slight but perceptible difference in her tone. “Now, you can have eaten nothing since breakfast.”
Witham said nothing, but by and by poured a little of the spirit into a rusty can, and the girl, who understood why he did so, felt that it covered several of his offences. “Now,” she said graciously, “you may smoke if you wish to.”
Witham pointed to the few billets left and shook his head. “I’m afraid I must get more wood.”
The roar of the wind almost drowned his voice, and the birch logs seemed to tremble under the impact of the blast, while Maud Barrington shivered as she asked, “Is it safe?”
“It is necessary,” said Witham, with the little laugh she had already found reassuring.
He had gone out in another minute, and the girl felt curiously lonely as she remembered stories of men who had left their homesteads during a blizzard to see to the safety of the horses in a neighbouring stable, and were found afterwards as still as the snow that covered them. Maud Barrington was not unduly timorous, but the roar of that awful icy gale would have stricken dismay into the hearts of most men, and she found herself glancing with feverish impatience at a diminutive gold watch and wondering whether the cold had retarded its progress. Ten minutes passed very slowly, lengthened to twenty more slowly still, and then it flashed upon her that there was at least something she could do; and, scraping up a little of the snow that sifted in, she melted it in the can. Then she set the flask-top upon the stove, and once more listened for the man’s footsteps very eagerly.
She did not hear them, but at last the door swung open, and carrying a load of birch branches Witham staggered in. He dropped them, strove to close the door, and failed, then leaned against it, gasping, with a livid face, for there are few men who can withstand the cold of a snow-laden gale at forty degrees below.
How Maud Barrington closed the door she did not know; but it was with a little imperious gesture she turned to the man.
“Shake those furs at once,” she said; and drawing him towards the stove held up the steaming cup. “Now sit there and drink it.”
Witham stooped and reached out for the can, but the girl swept it off the stove. “Oh, I know the silver was for me,” she said. “Still, is this a time for trifles such as that?”
Worn out by a very grim struggle, Witham did as he was bidden, and looked up with a twinkle in his eyes, when with the faintest trace of colour in her cheeks the girl sat down close to him and drew part of the fur robe about him.
“I really believe you were a little pleased to see me come back just now,” he said.
“Was that quite necessary?” asked Maud Barrington. “Still, I was.”
Witham made a little deprecatory gesture. “Of course,” he said. “Now we can resume our former footing to-morrow, but in the meanwhile I would like to know why you are so hard upon me, Miss Barrington, because I really have not done much harm to any one at Silverdale. Your aunt”—and he made a little respectful inclination of his head which pleased the girl—“is at least giving me a fair trial.”
“It is difficult to tell you—but it was your own doing,” said Maud Barrington. “At the beginning you prejudiced us when you told us you could only play cards indifferently. It was so unnecessary, and we knew a good deal about you!”
“Well,” said Witham quietly, “I have only my word to offer, and I wonder if you will believe me now, but I don’t think I ever won five dollars at cards in my life.”
Maud Barrington watched him closely, but his tone carried conviction, and again she was glad that he attempted no explanation. “I am quite willing to take it,” she said. “Still, you can understand——”
“Yes,” said Witham. “It puts a strain upon your faith, but some day I may be able to make a good deal that puzzles you quite clear.”
Maud Barrington glanced at the flask. “I wonder if that is connected with the explanation, but I will wait. Now, you have not lighted your cigar.”
Witham understood that the topic was dismissed, and sat thoughtfully still while the girl nestled against the birch logs close beside him under the same furs; for the wind went through the building and the cold was unbearable a few feet from the stove. The birch rafters shook above their heads, and every now and then it seemed that a roaring gust would lift the roof from them. Still the stove glowed and snapped, and close in about it there was a drowsy heat, while presently the girl’s eyes grew heavy. Finally—for there are few who can resist the desire for sleep in the cold of the North-West—her head sank back, and Witham, rising very slowly, held his breath as he piled the furs about her. That done, he stooped and looked down upon her while the blood crept to his face. Maud Barrington lay very still, the long, dark lashes resting on her cold-tinted cheeks, and the patrician serenity of her face was even more marked in her sleep. Then he turned away, feeling like one who had committed a desecration, knowing that he had looked too long already upon the sleeping girl who believed he had been an outcast and yet had taken his word; for it was borne in upon him that a time would come when he would try her faith even more severely. Moving softly, he paced up and down the room.
Witham afterwards wondered how many miles he walked that night, for though the loghouse was not longer than thirty feet, the cold bit deep; but at last he heard a sigh as he glanced towards the stove, and immediately swung round again. When he next turned, Miss Barrington stood upright, a little flushed in face, but otherwise very calm; and the man stood still, shivering in spite of his efforts, and blue with cold. The wind had fallen, but the sting of the frost that followed it made itself felt beside the stove.
“You had only your deerskin jacket—and you let me sleep under all the furs,” she said.
Witham shook his head, and hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt, when he remembered that it must have been evident to his companion that the furs did not get into the position they had occupied themselves.
“I only fancied you were a trifle drowsy and not inclined to talk,” he said, with an absence of concern, for which Miss Barrington, who did not believe him, felt grateful. “You see”—and the inspiration was a trifle too evident—“I was too sleepy to notice anything myself. Still, I am glad you are awake now, because I must make my way to the Grange.”
“But the snow will be ever so deep, and I could not come,” said Maud Barrington.
Witham shook his head. “I’m afraid you must stay here; but I will be back with Colonel Barrington in a few hours at latest.”
The girl deemed it advisable to hide her consternation. “But you might not find the trail,” she said. “The ravine would lead you to Graham’s homestead.”
“Still,” said Witham slowly, “I am going to the Grange.”
Then Maud Barrington remembered, and glanced aside from him. It was evident this man thought of everything; and she made no answer when Witham, who thrust more billets into the stove, turned to her with a little smile.
“I think we need remember nothing when we meet again, beyond the fact that you will give me a chance of showing that the Lance Courthorne, whose fame you know, has ceased to exist.”
Then he went out, and the girl stood with flushed cheeks looking down at the furs he had left behind him.