CHAPTER XXXI
THE REACTION
The trial at Regina proved sensational. Crimes attended with violence were not unknown in the vicinity, and cattle were now and then stolen in the neighboring province of Alberta; but that such things as the prosecutor's tale revealed should happen aroused wide-spread astonishment and virtuous indignation. Nevertheless, they were proved, for Flett had procured a number of witnesses and, what was more, had secured their attendance.
In addition to this, other offenses were hinted at; the doings of an organized gang of desperadoes and their accomplices were detailed, and facts were brought to light which made the withdrawal of the Sachem license inevitable. The defense took strong exception to this mode of procedure, pointing out that the court was only concerned with a specified offense, and that it was not permissible to drag in extraneous and largely supposititious matter. During the sweltering days the trial lasted, there were brisk encounters between the lawyers, and several points the prosecution sought to prove were ruled irrelevant. As a climax, came George's story, which caused a sensation, though the close-packed assembly felt that he scarcely did justice to his theme.
In concluding, the Crown prosecutor pointed out how rapidly the outbreaks of turbulent lawlessness had spread. They were all, he contended, connected with and leading up to the last outrage, of which the men before him were accused. It was obvious that this unruliness must be sternly stamped out before it spread farther, and if the court agreed with him that the charge was fully proved, he must press for a drastic and deterrent penalty.
The odds were heavily against the defense from the beginning. The credibility of Flett's witnesses could not be assailed, and cross-examination only threw a more favorable light upon their character. Inside the court, and out of it as the newspapers circulated, Grant stood revealed as a fearless citizen, with a stern sense of his duty to the community; George, somewhat to his annoyance, as a more romantic personage of the same description, and Hardie, who had been brought in to prove certain points against which the defense protested, as one who had fought and suffered in a righteous cause.
In the end, the three prisoners were convicted, and when the court broke up the police applied for several fresh warrants, which were issued.
As George was walking toward his hotel, he met Flett, to whom he had not spoken since they separated in the bluff.
"I was waiting for you," said the constable. "I'm sorry we'll have to call you up again as soon as the rustler's leg is better. He's in the guard-room, and the boys got one of the other fellows; but we can talk about it on the train. I'm going back to my post."
George arranged to meet him, and they were sitting in a roomy smoking compartment as the big express sped across wide gray levels and past vast stretches of ripening grain, when the next allusion was made to the matter.
"I suppose you'll be sergeant shortly," George remarked.
"Corporal comes first," said Flett. "They stick to the regular rotation."
"That's true, but they seem to use some discretion in exceptional cases. I hardly think you'll remain a corporal."
Flett's eyes twinkled.
"I did get something that sounded like a hint. I'll confess that I felt like whooping after it."
"You have deserved all you'll get," George declared.
They spent the night at a junction, where Flett had some business, and it was the next evening when the local train ran into Sage Butte. The platform was crowded and as George and Flett alighted, there was a cheer and, somewhat to their astonishment, the reeve of the town advanced to meet them.
"I'm here to welcome you in the name of the citizens of the Butte," he said. "We have to request the favor of your company at supper at the Queen's."
"It's an honor," George responded. "I'm sensible of it; but, you see, I'm in a hurry to get back to work and I wired for a team. My harvest should have been started a week ago."
"Don't you worry 'bout that," said the reeve. "It wasn't our wish that you should suffer through discharging your duty, and we made a few arrangements. Four binders have been working steady in your oats, and if you don't like the way we have fixed things, you can alter them to-morrow."
Then West touched George's arm.
"You'll have to come. They've got two other victims—Hardie and
Grant—and the supper's ready."
The reeve looked at him in stern rebuke.
"That isn't the way to speak of this function, Percy. If you feel like a victim, you can drop right out."
George was touched by the man's intimation. He expressed his satisfaction, and the whole assembly escorted him to the hotel. There he and Grant and Hardie were seated at the top of a long table near the reeve, who made a short opening speech.
"Business first, and then the supper, boys," he said. "Corporal Flett can't come; his bosses wouldn't approve of it; but I'll see it put in the Sentinel that he was asked, and we won't mind if that has some effect on them. There's another thing—out of deference to Mr. Hardie and the change in opinion he has ably led—you'll only get tea and coffee at this entertainment. Those who haven't signed his book, must hold out until it's over."
An excellent meal had been finished when he got up again, with three illuminated strips of parchment in his hand.
"I'll be brief, but there's something to be said. Our guests have set us an example which won't be lost. They saw the danger of letting things drift; one of them warned us plainly, although to do so needed grit, and some of us rounded on him, and if the others didn't talk, it was because that wasn't their end of the job. They knew their duty to the country and they did it, though it cost them something. We owe it to them that the police have smashed the rustler gang, and that from now on no small homesteader can be bluffed or tempted into doing what's sure to bring him into trouble, and no man with a big farm need fear to let his cattle run. What's more, instead of a haunt of toughs and hobos, we're going to have a quiet and prosperous town. I'm now proud that it's my duty to hand our guests the assurance of our grateful appreciation. Corporal Flett's will be sent on to him."
He handed them the parchments, and George felt inclined to blush as he glanced at the decorated words of eulogy; while a half-ironical twinkle crept into Grant's eyes. Then Hardie rose to reply, and faltered once or twice with a sob of emotion in his voice, for the testimonial had a deeper significance to him than it had to the others. His audience, however, encouraged him, and there was a roar of applause when he sat down. Soon after that the gathering broke up.
George went to the parlor, which served as writing-room, and found Flora there. She smiled as she noticed the end of the parchment sticking out of his pocket.
"I dare say you're relieved that the ceremony's over," she said.
"It was a little trying," George confessed. "I was badly afraid I'd have to make a speech, but luckily we had Hardie, who was equal to the task."
"After all, you needn't be ashamed of the testimonial. I really think you deserved it, and I suppose I must congratulate you on the fortunate end of your dramatic adventures."
George stood looking at her. He was somewhat puzzled, for there was a hint of light mockery in her voice.
"I'll excuse you if you feel that it requires an effort," he said.
"Oh, you have had so much applause that mine can hardly count."
"You ought to know that it's my friends' good opinion I really value."
Flora changed the subject.
"You will be driving out in the morning?"
"I'm starting as soon as Edgar has the team ready. There's a good moon and I must get to work the first thing to-morrow."
The girl's face hardened.
"You seem desperately anxious about your crop."
"I think that's natural. There's a good deal to be done and I've lost some time. I came in to write a note before I see what Edgar's doing."
"Then I mustn't disturb you, and it's time I went over to Mrs. Nelson's—she expects me to stay the night. I was merely waiting for a word with my father." She stopped George, who had meant to accompany her. "No, you needn't come—it's only a few blocks away. Get your note written."
Seeing that she did not desire his escort, George let her go; but he frowned as he sat down and took out some paper. Soon afterward Edgar came in, and they drove off in a few more minutes.
"Did you see Miss Grant?" Edgar asked when they were jolting down the rutted trail.
"I did," George said shortly.
"You seem disturbed about it."
"I was a little perplexed," George owned. "There was something that struck me as different in her manner. It may have been imagination, but I felt she wasn't exactly pleased with me. I can't understand how I have offended her."
"No," said Edgar. "It would have been remarkable if you had done so. I suppose you told her you couldn't rest until you got to work at the harvest?"
"I believe I said something of the kind. What has that to do with it?"
"It isn't very obvious. Perhaps she felt tired or moody; it has been a blazing hot day. There's every sign of its being the same to-morrow. I suppose you'll make a start after breakfast?"
"I'll make a start as soon as it's daylight," George told him.
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.
"Well," she said lightly, "when I came in, you really didn't look as cheerful as one might have expected. Are you sorry you are going away?"
"It's a good deal harder than I thought. The prairie seems to have got hold of me; I have good friends here."
"Haven't you plenty in England?"
"Acquaintances; only a few friends. I can't help regretting those I must leave behind. In fact"—he spoke impulsively, expressing a thought that had haunted him—"it would be a relief if I knew I should come back again."
"After all, this is a hard country and we're a rather primitive people."
"You're reliable! Staunch friends, determined enemies; and even among the latter I found a kind of sporting feeling which made it a little easier for one to forget one's injuries." He glanced at the prairie which stretched away, white and silent, in the clear evening light. "It's irrational in a way, but I'd be glad to feel I was going to work as usual to-morrow."
"I suppose you could do so, if you really wanted to," Flora suggested.
George turned and looked fixedly at her, while a mad idea crept into his mind. She was very alluring; he thought he knew her nature, which was altogether wholesome, and it flashed upon him that many of the excellent qualities she possessed were lacking in Sylvia. Then he loyally drove out the temptation, wondering that it had assailed him, though he was still clearly conscious of his companion's attractiveness.
"No," he said in a somewhat strained voice; "I hardly think that's possible. I must go back."
Flora smiled, though it was difficult. She half believed she could shake the man's devotion to her rival, but she was too proud to try. If he came to her, he must come willingly, and not because she had exerted her utmost power to draw him.
"Well," she responded, "one could consider the reluctant way you spoke the last few words as flattering. I suppose it's a compliment to Canada?"
He failed to understand the light touch of mocking amusement in her tone; it had not dawned on him that this was her defense.
"It's a compliment to the Canadians, though my appreciation can't be worth very much. But I don't feel in a mood to joke. In fact, there's a feeling of depression abroad to-night; even your father seems affected. I'd expected a pleasant talk with him, but we were very dull."
"What made you think he was less cheerful than usual?" Flora cast a quick and rather startled glance at him.
"I don't know, but something seemed wrong. Edgar's the only one who looks undisturbed, and if he talks much going home, he'll get on my nerves."
"It's hardly fair to blame him for a depression that's your fault," said Flora. "You deserve to feel it, since you will go away."
Then Edgar came up with the wagon and George took Flora's hands.
"I shall think of you often," he told her. "It will always be with pleasure. Now and then you might, perhaps, spare a thought for me."
"I think I can promise that," Flora replied quietly.
Then he shook hands with Grant and got into the wagon. Edgar cracked the whip and the team plunged forward. With a violent jolting and a rattle of wheels they left the farm behind and drove out on to the prairie. Flora stood watching them for a while; and then walked back to the house in the gathering dusk with her face set hard and a pain at her heart.
Grant was sitting on the stoop, filling his pipe, but when she joined him he paused in his occupation and pointed toward the plain. The wagon was scarcely discernible, but a rhythmic beat of hoofs still came back through the stillness.
"I like that man, but he's a blamed fool," he remarked.
Strong bitterness was mingled with the regret in his voice, and Flora started. She was glad that the light was too dim for him to see her clearly.
"I wonder what makes you say that?"
"For one thing, he might have done well here." Flora suspected that her father was not expressing all he had meant. "He's the kind of man we want; and now he's going back to fool his life away, slouching round playing games and talking to idle people, in the old country. Guess some girl over there has got a hold on him." Then his indignation flamed out unchecked. "I never could stand those Percy women, anyway; saw a bunch of them, all dress and airs, when I was last in Winnipeg. One was standing outside a ticket-office at Portage, studying the people through an eyeglass on an ivory stick, as if they were some strange savages, and making remarks about them to her friends, though I guess there isn't a young woman in the city with nerve enough to wear the clothes she had on. It makes a sensible man mighty tired to hear those creatures talk."
Flora laughed, rather drearily, though she guessed with some uneasiness the cause of her father's outbreak. It appeared injudicious to offer him any encouragement.
"After all, one must be fair," she said. "I met some very nice people in the old country."
He turned to her abruptly.
"Do you know who has taken Lansing back?" he asked.
"I believe, from something West said, it is Mrs. Marston."
"That trash!" Grant's sharp cry expressed incredulity. "The man can't have any sense! He's going to be sorry all the time if he gets her."
Then he knocked out his pipe, as if he were too indignant to smoke, and went into the house.
CHAPTER XXXII
A REVELATION
It was a winter evening and Sylvia was standing near the hearth in Mrs. Kettering's hall, where the lamps were burning, though a little pale daylight still filtered through the drizzle outside. Sylvia was fond of warmth and brightness, but she was alone except for Ethel West, who sat writing at a table in a recess, although her hostess had other guests, including a few men who were out shooting. After a while Ethel looked up.
"Have you or Herbert heard anything from George during the last few weeks?" she asked.
Sylvia turned languidly. Her thoughts had been fixed on Captain Bland, whom she was expecting every moment. Indeed, she was anxious to get rid of Ethel before he came in.
"No," she said with indifference. "I think his last letter came a month ago. It was optimistic."
"They seem to have had a good harvest from what Edgar wrote; he hinted that he might make a trip across."
"It's rather an expensive journey."
"That wouldn't trouble Edgar, and there's a reason for the visit. He has made up his mind to start farming and wants to talk over his plans. In fact, he thinks of getting married."
Sylvia showed some interest.
"To whom? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"I only arrived this morning, and I wrote some time ago, asking if you could meet Stephen and me. You were with the Graysons then, but you didn't answer."
"I forgot; I don't always answer letters. But who is the girl? Not
Miss Grant?"
"Helen Taunton. Do you know her?"
Sylvia laughed.
"The storekeeper's daughter! She's passably good-looking and her father's not badly off, but that's about all one could say for her."
"Do you know anything against the girl?"
"Oh, no!" said Sylvia languidly. "She's quite respectable—in fact, they're rather a straight-laced people; and she doesn't talk badly. For all that, I think you'll get a shock if Edgar brings her home."
"That is not George's opinion. We wrote to him."
Sylvia laughed.
"He would believe in anybody who looked innocent and pretty."
Ethel's expression hardened; Sylvia had not been considerate.
"I don't think that's true. He's generous, and though he has made mistakes, it was only because his confidence was misled with a highly finished skill. One wouldn't look for the same ability in a girl brought up in a primitive western town."
"After all," said Sylvia tranquilly, "she is a girl, and no doubt Edgar is worth powder and shot from her point of view."
"It doesn't seem to be a commercial one," Ethel retorted. "Stephen had a very straightforward letter from this storekeeper. But I'm inclined to think I had better go on with my writing."
Sylvia moved away. She had no reason for being gracious to Ethel, and she took some pleasure in irritating her.
In a few minutes Bland came in. The hall was large, and Ethel was hidden from him in the recess. He strode toward Sylvia eagerly, but she checked him with a gesture.
"You have come back early," she said. "Wasn't the sport good? What has become of Kettering and the others?"
The man looked a little surprised. This was hardly the greeting he had expected, after having been promised a quiet half-hour with Sylvia; but, looking round, he saw the skirt of Ethel's dress and understood. Had it been George she wished to warn, she would have used different means; but Bland, she was thankful, was not hypercritical.
"The sport was poor," he told her. "The pheasants aren't very strong yet, and it was hard to drive them out of the covers. As I'd only a light water-proof, I got rather wet outside the last wood and I left the others. Kettering wanted to see the keeper about to-morrow's beat, but I didn't wait."
"Since you have been in the rain all day, you had better have some tea," said Sylvia. "They'll bring it here, if you ring."
He followed her to a small table across the hall, and after a tray had been set before them they sat talking in low voices. Presently Bland laid his hand on Sylvia's arm.
"You know why I came down," he said. "I must go back to-morrow and I want the announcement made before I leave."
Sylvia blushed and lowered her eyes.
"Oh, well," she conceded, "you have really been very patient, and perhaps it would be hardly fair to make you wait any longer."
Bland took her hand and held it fast.
"You are worth waiting for! But there were times when it was very hard not to rebel. I'd have done so, only I was afraid."
"You did rebel."
"Not to much purpose. Though no one would suspect it from your looks, you're a very determined person, Sylvia. Now I don't know how to express my feelings; I want to do something dramatic, even if it's absurd, and I can't even speak aloud. Couldn't you have got rid of Miss West by some means?"
"How could I tell what you wished to say?" Sylvia asked with a shy smile. "Besides, Ethel wouldn't go. She stuck there in the most determined fashion!"
"Then we'll have to disregard her. It must be early next year, Sylvia.
I'll see Lansing to-morrow."
He continued in a quietly exultant strain, and Sylvia felt relieved that her fate was decided. She had some time ago led him to believe she would marry him; but she had, with vague misgivings and prompted by half-understood reasons, put off a definite engagement. Now she had given her pledge, and though she thought of George with faint regret, she was on the whole conscious of satisfaction. Bland, she believed, had a good deal to offer her which she could not have enjoyed with his rival.
Presently a servant brought Ethel something on a salver, and a few moments later she approached the other two with a telegram in her hand.
"I thought I had better tell you, Sylvia," she explained. "Stephen has just got a letter from Edgar, written a day or two before he sailed. He should arrive on Saturday, and George is with him."
Sylvia had not expected this and she was off her guard. She started, and sat looking at Ethel incredulously, with something like consternation.
"It's quite true," said Ethel bluntly. "He'll be here in three more days."
Then Sylvia recovered her composure.
"In that case, I'll have to let Muriel know at once; he'll go straight there, and she's staying with Lucy. Perhaps I had better telegraph."
She rose and left them; and Bland sought Mrs. Kettering and acquainted her of his engagement, and begged her to make it known, which she promised to do. He failed to find Sylvia until she was coming down to dinner, when she beckoned him.
"Have you told Susan yet?" she asked.
"Yes," Bland beamed; "I told her at once. I should have liked to go about proclaiming the delightful news!"
Sylvia looked disturbed; Bland could almost have fancied she was angry.
As a matter of fact, troubled thoughts were flying through her mind.
It was obvious that she would shortly be called upon to face a crisis.
"After all," she said, with an air of resignation which struck him as out of place, "I suppose you had to do so; but you lost no time."
"Not a moment!" he assured her. "I felt I couldn't neglect anything that brought you nearer to me."
Then they went on, and meeting the other guests in the hall, Sylvia acknowledged the shower of congratulations with a smiling face. She escaped after dinner, however, without a sign to Bland, and did not reappear. During the evening, he found Ethel West sitting alone in a quiet nook.
"Mrs. Marston seemed a little disturbed at the news you gave her," he remarked.
"So I thought," said Ethel.
"I suppose the George you mentioned is her trustee, who went to Canada and took your brother? You once told me something about him."
"Yes," said Ethel. "You seem to have the gift of arriving at correct conclusions."
"He's an elderly man—a business man of his cousin's stamp—I presume?"
Ethel laughed.
"Oh, no; they're of very different type. I should imagine that he's younger than you are. He was at Herbert's one afternoon when you called."
"Ah!" said Bland. "I shall, no doubt, get to know him when next I come down."
Then he talked about other matters until he left her, and after a while he found Kettering alone.
"Did you ever meet George Lansing?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," said his host. "I know his cousin better."
"He has been out in Canada, hasn't he?"
"Yes; went out to look after Mrs. Marston's property. I understand he has been more or less successful."
"When did he leave England?"
Kettering told him, and Bland considered.
"So Lansing has been out, and no doubt going to a good deal of trouble, for two years," he said. "That's something beyond an ordinary executor's duty. What made him undertake it?"
Kettering smiled.
"It's an open secret—you're bound to hear it—that he had an admiration for Sylvia. Still, there's no ground for jealousy. Lansing hadn't a chance from the beginning."
Bland concealed his feelings.
"How is that? He must be an unusually good fellow if he stayed out there to look after things so long."
"For one reason, he's not Sylvia's kind. It was quite out of the question that she should ever have married him."
Feeling that he had, perhaps, said too much, Kettering began to talk of the next day's sport; and soon afterward Bland left him and went out on the terrace to smoke and ponder. Putting what he had learned together, he thought he understood the situation, and it was not a pleasant one, though he was not very indignant with Sylvia. It looked as if she made an unfair use of Lansing's regard for her, unless, in spite of Kettering's opinion, she had until lately been undecided how to choose between them. Nevertheless, Bland could not feel that he had now been rudely undeceived, for he had always recognized some of Sylvia's failings. He did not expect perfection; and he could be generous, when he had won.
He asked Sylvia no injudicious questions when they met the next morning, and during the day he called on Herbert Lansing, who was back in his office. The latter heard him explain his errand with somewhat mixed feelings, for there were certain rather troublesome facts that must be mentioned.
"Well," he said, "I have, of course, no objections to make; but, as one of her trustees, it's my duty to look after Sylvia's interests. As you know, she is not rich."
"I suppose these points must he talked over," Bland said, with indifference.
"It's usual, and in the present case, necessary. What provision are you able to make?"
Bland looked a little uncomfortable. "As a matter of fact, I'd find it difficult to make any provision. I get along fairly well, as it is, but I've only about four hundred a year besides my pay."
"How far does your pay go?" Herbert asked dryly.
"It covers my mess bills and a few expenses of that nature."
Herbert leaned back in his chair with a smile.
"Hasn't it struck you that you should have chosen a wife with money?"
"Now," said Bland rather sternly, "I don't want to lie open to any misconception, but I understood that Mrs. Marston had some means. I'm quite prepared to hear they're small."
"That's fortunate, because it may save you a shock. Sylvia owns a farm in Canada, which did not repay the cost of working it last year. During the present one there has been an improvement, and we expect a small surplus on the two years' operations. The place has been valued at—but perhaps I had better give you a few figures, showing you how matters stand."
Opening a drawer, he handed a paper to Bland, who studied it with a sense of dismay.
"I'll confess that this is an unpleasant surprise," he said at length; and then, while Herbert waited, he pulled himself together with a laugh. "After that admission, I must add that the mistake is the result of my having a sanguine imagination; Sylvia scarcely mentioned her Canadian property. Now, however, there's only one thing to be done—to face the situation as cheerfully as possible."
"It can't be an altogether attractive one." Herbert admired his courage and the attitude he had adopted.
"I shall certainly have to economize," Bland admitted; "and that is a thing I'm not accustomed to; but I may get some appointment, and by and by a small share in some family property will revert to me. Though I must go straight back to my garrison duties now, I'll come down for an hour or two and explain things to Sylvia, as soon as I can." He paused and broke into a faint smile. "I dare say the surprise will be mutual; she may have believed my means to be larger than they are."
"I should consider it very possible," replied Herbert dryly. "As I must see Sylvia, I'll give her an idea how matters stand and clear the ground for you."
Bland said that he would be glad of this; and after some further conversation he took his leave and walked to the station, disturbed in mind, but conscious of a little ironical amusement. There was no doubt that Sylvia had cleverly deluded him, but he admitted that he had done much the same thing to her. Had he realized the true state of her affairs at the beginning he would have withdrawn; but he had no thought of doing so now. It was obvious that Sylvia's principles were not very high, and he regretted it, although he could not claim much superiority in this respect. He was tolerant and, after all, she had a charm that atoned for many failings.
It was three or four days later when he arrived at Mrs. Kettering's house one evening and found Sylvia awaiting him in a room reserved for her hostess's use. She was very becomingly dressed and looked, he thought, even more attractive than usual. She submitted to his caress with an air of resignation, but he augured a good deal from the fact that she did not repulse him. As it happened, Sylvia had carefully thought over the situation.
"Sit down," she said; "I want to talk with you."
"I think I'll stand. It's more difficult to feel penitent in a comfortable position. It looks as if you had seen Herbert Lansing."
"I have." Sylvia's tone was harsh. "What have you to say for yourself?"
"Not a great deal, which is fortunate, because I haven't much time to say it in," Bland told her with a smile. "To begin with, I'll state the unflattering truth—it strikes me that, in one way, we're each as bad as the other. I suppose it's one of my privileges to mention such facts to you, though I'd never think of admitting them to anybody else."
"It's a husband's privilege," Sylvia rejoined pointedly. "Don't be premature."
"Well," said Bland, "I can only make one defense, but I think you ought to realize how strong it is. We were thrown into each other's society, and it isn't in the least surprising that I lost my head and was carried away. My power of reasoning went when I fell in love with you."
"That sounds pretty, but it's unfortunate you didn't think of me a little more," pouted Sylvia.
"Think of you?" Bland broke out. "I thought of nothing else!"
"Then it wasn't to much purpose. Don't you see what you want to bring me to? Can't you realize what I should have to give up? How could we ever manage on the little we have?"
The man frowned. He was sorry for her and somewhat ashamed, but she jarred on him in her present mood.
"I believe people who were sufficiently fond of each other have often got along pretty satisfactorily on less, even in the Service. It's a matter of keen regret to me that you will have to make a sacrifice, but things are not quite so bad as they look, and there's reason for believing they may get better. You will have as pleasant society as you enjoy now; my friends will stand by my wife." A look of pride crept into his face. "I dare say they have their failings, but they'll only expect charm from you, and you can give it to them. They won't value you by the display you make or your possessions. We're free from that taint."
"But have you considered what you must give up?"
Bland had hardly expected this, but he smiled.
"Oh, yes. I spent an evening over it and I was a little surprised to find how many things there were I could readily do without. In fact, it was a most instructive evening. The next day I wrote a bundle of letters, resigning from clubs I rarely went to, and canceling orders for odds and ends I hadn't the least real use for. But I'll confess that I've derived a good deal more pleasure from thinking of how much I shall get."
Sylvia was touched, but she did not mean to yield too readily.
"It would be dreadfully imprudent."
"Just so; one has often to take a risk. It's rather exciting to fling prudence overboard. I want to fix my whole attention on the fact that we love each other!" Bland glanced at his watch. "Now it strikes me that we have been sufficiently practical, and as I must start back to-night, I haven't much time left. Don't you think it would be a pity to waste it?"
He drew her down beside him on a lounge and Sylvia surrendered. After all, the man had made a good defense and, as far as her nature permitted, she had grown fond of him.
CHAPTER XXXIII
GEORGE MAKES UP HIS MIND
Dusk was closing in when George and Edgar alighted at a little English station. Casting an eager glance about, George was disappointed to see nobody from his cousin's house waiting to meet him. In another moment, however, he was warmly greeted by Ethel West.
"A very hearty welcome, George," she said. "You're looking very fit, but thinner than you were when you left us. Stephen's waiting outside. He told Muriel we would drive you over; Herbert's away somewhere."
"How's everybody?" George inquired.
"Sylvia looked as charming as ever when I last saw her a few days ago," Ethel answered with a smile, which George was too eager to notice was somewhat forced. "The rest of us, are much as usual. But come along; we'll send over afterward for your heavy things."
They turned toward the outlet, and found Stephen having some trouble with a horse that was startled by the roar of steam. Edgar got up in front of the high trap, George helped Ethel to the seat behind, and they set off the next moment, flying down the wet road amid a cheerful hammer of hoofs and a rattle of wheels. For the first few minutes George said little as he looked about. On one side great oaks and ashes raised their naked boughs in sharp tracery against the pale saffron glow in the western sky. Ahead, across a deep valley, which was streaked with trains of mist, wide moors and hills rolled away, gray and darkly blue. Down the long slope to the hollow ran small fields with great trees breaking the lines of hedgerows; and the brawling of a river swollen by recent rain came sharply up to him.
It was all good to look upon, a beautiful, well-cared-for land, and he felt a thrill of pride and satisfaction. This was home, and he had come back to it with his work done. A roseate future stretched away before him, its peaceful duties brightened by love, and the contrast between it and the stress and struggle of the past two years added to its charm. Still, to his astonishment, he thought of the sterner and more strenuous life he had led on the western plains with a faint, half-tender regret.
By and by Edgar's laugh rang out.
"The change in my brother is remarkable," Ethel declared. "It was a very happy thought that made us let him go with you."
"I'm not responsible," George rejoined. "You have the country to thank. In some way, it's a hard land; but it's a good one."
"Perhaps something is due to Miss Taunton's influence."
Edgar leaned over the back of the seat.
"That," he said, "is a subject of which I've a monopoly; and I've volumes to say upon it as soon as there's a chance of doing it justice. George, I hear that Singleton, who told us about the wheat, is home on a visit. Stephen has asked him over; you must meet him."
George said he would be glad to do so, and turned to Ethel when Edgar resumed his conversation with his brother.
"I wired Herbert to have everything ready at my place, though I shall spend the night at Brantholme."
"The Lodge is let. Didn't you know?"
"I understood that the man's tenancy ran out a few weeks ago."
"He renewed it. Herbert didn't know you were coming over; the terms were good."
"Then I'm homeless for a time."
"Oh, no!" said Ethel. "Stephen wanted me to insist on your coming with us now, but I know you will want to see Muriel and have a talk with her. However, we'll expect you to come and take up your quarters with us to-morrow."
George looked at her in some surprise.
"I'd be delighted, but Herbert will expect me to stay with him, and, of course—"
"Sylvia hadn't arrived this afternoon; she was at Mrs. Kettering's," Ethel told him. "But remember that you must stay with us until you make your arrangements. We should find it hard to forgive you if you went to anybody else."
"I wouldn't think of it, only that Herbert's the obvious person to entertain me," George replied, though he was a little puzzled by the insistence, and Ethel abruptly began to talk of something else.
Darkness came, but there were gleams of cheerful light from roadside cottages, and George found the fresh moist air and the shadowy woods they skirted pleasantly familiar. This was the quiet English countryside he loved, and a sense of deep and tranquil content possessed him. He failed to notice that Ethel cleverly avoided answering some of his questions and talked rather more than usual about matters of small importance. At length they reached the Brantholme gates, and Stephen looked down as George alighted.
"We'll expect you over shortly; I'll send for your baggage," he said as he drove off.
George, to his keen disappointment, found only Mrs. Lansing waiting for him in the hall, though she received him very cordially,
"Herbert had to go up to London; he didn't get your wire in time to put off the journey," she explained. "I'm sorry he can't be back for a few days."
"It doesn't matter; he has to attend to his business," George rejoined.
"But where's Sylvia?"
"She hasn't come back from Susan's," said Mrs. Lansing, quickly changing the subject and explaining why Herbert had re-let the Lodge. After that, she asked George questions until she sent him off to prepare for dinner.
George was perplexed as well as disappointed. Neither Ethel nor Muriel seemed inclined to speak about Sylvia—it looked as if they had some reason for avoiding any reference to her; but he assured himself that this was imagination, and during dinner he confined his inquiries to other friends. When it was over and Muriel led him into the drawing-room, his uneasiness grew more keen.
"Herbert thought you would like to know as soon as possible how things were going," Muriel said, as she took a big envelope from a drawer and gave it to him.
"He told me this was a rough statement of your business affairs."
"Thanks," said George, thrusting it carelessly into his pocket. "I must study it sometime. But I've been looking forward all day to meeting Sylvia. Wouldn't Susan let her come?"
Mrs. Lansing hesitated, and then, leaning forward, laid her hand on his arm.
"I've kept it back a little, George; but you must be told. I'm afraid it will be a shock—-Sylvia is to marry Captain Bland in the next few weeks."
George rose and turned rather gray in the face, as he leaned on the back of a chair.
"I suppose," he said hoarsely, "there's no doubt of this?"
"It's all arranged." Mrs. Lansing made a compassionate gesture. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, or how hateful it was to have to give you such news."
"I can understand why Sylvia preferred to leave it to you," he said slowly. "How long has this matter been going on?"
Mrs. Lansing's eyes sparkled with anger.
"I believe it began soon after you left. I don't know whether Sylvia expects me to make excuses for her, but I won't do anything of the kind; there are none that could be made. She has behaved shamefully!"
"One must be just," George said with an effort. "After all, she promised me nothing."
"Perhaps not in so many words. But she knew what you expected, and I have no doubt she led you to believe—"
George raised his hand.
"I think there's nothing to be said—the thing must be faced somehow. I feel rather badly hit; you won't mind if I go out and walk about a little?"
Mrs. Lansing was glad to let him go; the sight of his hard-set face hurt her. In another minute he was walking up and down the terrace, but he stopped presently and leaned on the low wall. Hitherto he had believed in Sylvia with an unshaken faith, but now a flood of suspicion poured in on him; above all, there was the telling fact that as soon as he had gone, she had begun to lead on his rival. The shock he had suffered had brought George illumination. Sylvia could never have had an atom of affection for him; she had merely made his loyalty serve her turn. She had done so even before she married Dick Marston; though he had somehow retained his confidence in her then. He had been a fool from the beginning!
The intense bitterness of which he was conscious was wholly new to him, but it was comprehensible. Just in all his dealings, he expected honesty from others, and, though generous in many ways, he had not Bland's tolerant nature; he looked for more than the latter and had less charity. There was a vein of hardness in the man who had loved Sylvia largely because he believed in her. Trickery and falseness were abhorrent to him, and now the woman he had worshiped stood revealed in her deterrent reality.
After a while he pulled himself together, and, going back to the house, entered Herbert's library where, less because of his interest in the matter than as a relief from painful thoughts, he opened the envelope given him and took out the statement. For a few moments the figures puzzled him, and then he broke into a bitter laugh. The money that he had entrusted to his cousin's care had melted away.
During the next two or three minutes he leaned back, motionless, in his chair; then he took up a pencil and lighted a cigar. Since he was ruined, he might as well ascertain how it had happened, and two facts became obvious from his study of the document: Herbert had sold sound securities, and had mortgaged land; and then placed the proceeds in rubber shares. This was perhaps permissible, but it did not explain what had induced an astute business man to hold the shares until they had fallen to their remarkably low value. There was a mystery here, and George in his present mood was keenly suspicious. He had no doubt that Herbert had left the statement because it would save him the unpleasantness of giving a personal explanation; moreover, George believed that he had left home with that purpose. Then he made a few rough calculations, which seemed to prove that enough remained to buy and stock a farm in western Canada. This was something, though it did not strike him as a matter of much consequence, and he listlessly smoked out his cigar. Then he rose and rejoined Mrs. Lansing.
"If you don't mind, I'll go over to Wests' to-morrow," he said. "They pressed me to spend some time with them, and there are arrangements to be made on which they want my opinion. Edgar is taking up land in Canada."
Mrs. Lansing looked troubled.
"Was there anything disturbing in the paper Herbert gave me for you? He doesn't tell me much about his business, but I gathered that he was vexed about some shares he bought on your account. I should be sorry if they have gone down."
"You would hardly understand; the thing's a little complicated," George said with reassuring gentleness. "I'm afraid I have lost some money; but, after all, it isn't my worst misfortune. I'll have a talk with Herbert as soon as he comes home."
He left Brantholme the next morning and was received by Ethel when he arrived at Wests'.
"We have been expecting you," she said cordially.
"Then you know?"
"Yes. I'm very sorry; but I suppose it will hardly bear talking about.
Stephen is waiting for you; he's taking a day off and Edgar's friend,
Singleton, arrives to-night."
Singleton duly made his appearance, but he was not present when George and Stephen West sat down for a talk after dinner in the latter's smoking-room. Presently George took out the statement and handed it to his host.
"I want advice badly and I can't go to an outsider for it," he said.
"I feel quite safe in confiding in you."
West studied the document for a while before he looked up.
"The main point to be decided is—whether you should sell these shares at once for what they will bring, or wait a little? With your permission, we'll ask Singleton; he knows more about the matter than anybody else."
Singleton came in and lighted a cigar, and then listened carefully, with a curious little smile, while West supplied a few explanations.
"Hold on to these shares, even if you have to make a sacrifice to do so," he advised.
"But they seem to be almost worthless," George objected.
"Perhaps I had better go into the matter fully," said Singleton. "I'll do so on the understanding that what I'm about to tell you reaches nobody else."
George looked at West, who nodded.
"Well," explained Singleton, "I've come over on a flying visit about this rubber business. The original company—the one in which you hold shares—was got up mainly with the idea of profiting by the rather reckless general buying of such stock. Its tropical possessions were badly managed, though a little good rubber was shipped, and when prices reached their highest point Mr. Lansing sold out."
"If he had sold my shares at the same time, there should have been a satisfactory margin?"
"Undoubtedly. Extensive selling, however, shakes the confidence of speculators, and a man desirous of unloading would accordingly prefer everybody else to hold on."
"I think I am beginning to understand now," George said grimly.
"Then," Singleton went on, "a new company was projected by the promoters of the first one, and I was sent out to report on its prospects. At the last moment Mr. Lansing withdrew, but his associates sent me south again. The slump he had foreseen came; nobody wanted rubber shares in any but firmly established and prosperous companies. Lansing had cleared out in time and left his colleagues to face a crushing loss."
"I don't see how all this bears upon the subject," George interrupted.
"Wait. You may be thankful Lansing didn't sell your shares. I found that the company could be placed upon a paying basis, and, what is more, that the older one possessed resources its promoters had never suspected. In fact, I discovered how its output could be greatly increased at an insignificant cost. I came home at once with a scheme which has been adopted, and I've every reason to believe that there will be marked rise in the shares before long. Anyway, there's no doubt that the company will be able to place high-class rubber on the market at a cost which will leave a very satisfactory margin."
George was conscious of strong relief. It looked as if his loss would be small, and there was a chance of his stock becoming valuable; but another thought struck him.
"When was it that Herbert sold his shares?"
"At the beginning of last winter."
"Shortly before we mentioned that you might come home," West interposed pointedly.
This confirmed George's suspicions; he could readily understand Herbert's preferring that he should stay away, but he remembered that it was Sylvia's letter which had decided him to remain in Canada. In the statement left him, he had been charged with half of certain loans Herbert had made to her, and he wondered whether this pointed to some collusion between them. He thought it by no means improbable.
"I understand that Herbert knows nothing about these new developments, and has no idea that the future of the two undertakings is promising?" he said.
Singleton laughed.
"Not the slightest notion. If he suspected it, there would be nothing to prevent his buying shares; nothing will transpire until the shareholders' meeting, which will not be held for some time. Lansing retired and sold out, because he was convinced that both companies were worthless." He paused and added dryly: "I can't see why we should enlighten him."
"Nor can I," responded George; and West nodded.
"Then," said Singleton, "when Lansing learns the truth, it will be too late for him to profit by the knowledge. I believe he has thrown away the best chance he ever had."
Shortly afterward Edgar came in and they talked of something else; but two days later Herbert returned and George went over to Brantholme. He was shown into the library where Herbert was sitting, and the latter was on his guard when he saw his cousin's face. He greeted him affably, however, and made a few inquiries about his farming.
George stood looking at him with a fixed expression.
"I think," he said shortly, "we had better talk business."
"Oh, well," replied Herbert. "I suppose you have studied my statement. I needn't say that I regret the way matters have turned out; but one can't foresee every turn of the market, or avoid a miscalculation now and then. It would hurt me if I thought this thing had anything to do with your going to Stephen's."
"We won't discuss that. I gave you authority to look after my affairs;
I want it back."
Herbert took a document from a drawer and laid it on the table.
"Here it is. But won't you let me try to straighten matters out?"
"Can they be straightened out?"
"Well," said Herbert with some embarrassment, "I'm afraid there's a serious loss, but it would be wiser to face it and sell off the shares."
"I can do what seems most desirable without any further assistance."
George leaned forward and, as he picked up the document, a flush crept into his cousin's face.
"I hardly expected you would take this line. Do you think it's right to blame me because I couldn't anticipate the fall in value?"
"It strikes me that the situation is one that had better not be discussed between us," George rejoined, with marked coldness. "Besides, my opinion won't count for much in face of the very satisfactory financial results you have secured. I'm sorry for what has happened, on Muriel's account."
He turned and went out; and met Ethel on reaching West's house.
"I must try to arrange for an interview with Sylvia and Captain Bland," he told her. "There are matters that should be explained to them."
"Won't it be painful?"
"That can't be allowed to count."
"After all," said Ethel thoughtfully, "it's no doubt the proper course."
A week later he visited Mrs. Kettering's, and was shown into a room where Sylvia awaited him alone. After the first glance at him, she turned her eyes away.
"George," she said, "I'm afraid I've behaved badly. Can you forgive me?"
"I think so," he answered with a forced smile. "Anyway, I'll try, and I'd like you to be happy. But it wouldn't be flattering if I pretended that I wasn't hurt."
"Ah," she exclaimed, "you were always so generous!"
He stood silent a moment or two looking at her.
She had cunningly tricked him and killed his love; but she was very attractive with her pretty, helpless air. He knew this was false, but there was no profit in bitterness; he would not cause her pain.
"It's more to the purpose that I'm hard, which is fortunate in several ways. But I came to talk about the farm; that is why I suggested that Captain Bland should be present."
"The farm?" Sylvia regarded him with a trace of mockery. "That you should think of it is so characteristic of you!"
George smiled.
"I can't help my matter-of-fact nature, and I've found it serviceable. Anyway, the farm must be thought of." He laid a hand gently on her shoulder. "Sylvia, I'm told that Bland isn't rich. If he loves you, take him fully into your confidence."
She blushed, which he had scarcely expected.
"I have done so—at least, I allowed Herbert to explain—there is nothing hidden." Then her tone changed to one of light raillery. "You were always an extremist, George; you can't hit the happy medium. Once you believed I was everything that was most admirable, and now—"
"I think you have done right and wisely in letting Bland know how things stand. It was only my interest in your future that warranted what I said."
"Well," she replied, "we will go up and talk to him; he's waiting. You can give your account to him."
George followed her, but for a while he was conscious of a certain restraint, which he fancied was shared by Bland. It was difficult to talk about indifferent subjects, and he took out some papers.
"I came to explain the state of Sylvia's Canadian affairs; she wished you to know," he said. "If you will give me a few minutes, I'll try to make things clear."
Bland listened gravely, and then made a sign of satisfaction.
"It's obvious that Sylvia placed her property in most capable hands.
We can only give you our sincere thanks."
"There's a point to be considered," George resumed. "Have you decided what to do with the property?"
"Sylvia and I have talked it over; we thought of selling. I don't see how we could carry on the farm."
"If you will let the matter stand over for a few weeks, I might be a purchaser. The land's poor, but there's a good deal of it, and I believe that, with proper treatment, it could be made to pay."
Sylvia looked astonished, Bland slightly embarrassed.
"We never contemplated your buying the place," he said.
"I've grown fond of it; I believe I understand how it should be worked. There's no reason why either of you should object to my becoming a purchaser."
"I suppose that's true," Bland agreed. "Anyway, I can promise that we'll do nothing about the matter until we hear from you; I don't think there's any likelihood of our disputing about the price. You can fix that at what it's worth to you."
George changed the subject; and when he went out, Sylvia smiled at
Bland.
"You needn't have been so sensitive about his buying the farm," she said. "It will have to be sold."
"I suppose so, but I wish we could have given it to him."
Sylvia touched his cheek caressingly.
"Don't be foolish; it's out of the question. You will have to be economical enough as it is, but you shan't make any sacrifice that isn't strictly necessary."
During the next few weeks George made some visits among his friends,
but he returned to the Wests shortly before Edgar sailed for Canada.
On the night preceding his departure they were sitting together when
Edgar looked at him thoughtfully.
"George," he remarked, "I wonder if it has ever struck you that you're a very short-sighted person? I mean that you don't realize where your interest lies."
"It's possible," said George. "What particular oversight are you referring to?"
"It isn't easy to answer bluntly, and if I threw out any delicate suggestions, they'd probably be wasted. You saw a good deal of Flora Grant, and if you had any sense you would have recognized what kind of girl she is."
"Miss Grant doesn't need your praise."
"I'm glad you admit it; appreciation's sometimes mutual. Now I can't undertake to say what Flora implied from your visits, but I've no doubt about what her father expected."
The blood crept into George's face as he remembered Grant's manner during their last interview.
"I did nothing that could have led him to believe—"
"Oh, no!" said Edgar. "You behaved with the greatest prudence; perhaps frigid insensibility would describe it better. Of course this is a deplorable intrusion, but I feel I must point out that it may not be too late yet."
"I've felt greatly tempted to buy Sylvia's farm," George said thoughtfully.
"That's good news. If you're wise, you'll consider what I've said."
George did so after Edgar's departure, though the idea was not new to him. He had long been sensible of Flora's charm, and had now and then felt in Canada that it would not be difficult to love her. Since he had learned the truth about Sylvia, Flora had occupied a prominent place in his mind. By degrees a desire for her had grown stronger; he had seen how admirable in many ways she was, how staunch and fearless and upright. Still, he feared to go back; she was proud and might scorn his tardy affection. He grew disturbed and occasionally moody, and then one day a cablegram was delivered to him.
"Believe you had better come back," it read, and was signed by Helen
Taunton.
George understood what it was intended to convey, and before night he had arranged to purchase Sylvia's farm.
Three days later he was crossing the Atlantic with an eager and thankful heart.