CHAPTER X—MAUD HARRINGTON’S PROMISE
Daylight had not broken across the prairie, when, floundering through a foot of dusty snow, Witham reached the Grange. He was aching from fatigue and cold, and the deerskin jacket stood out from his numbed body, stiff with frost, when, leaning heavily on a table, he awaited Colonel Barrington. The latter, on entering, stared at him and then flung open a cupboard and poured out a glass of wine.
“Drink that before you talk. You look half dead,” he said.
Witham shook his head. “Perhaps you had better hear me first.”
Barrington thrust the glass upon him. “I could make nothing of what you told me while you speak like that. Drink it, and then sit until you get used to the different temperature.”
Witham drained the glass and sank limply into a chair. As yet his face was colourless, though his chilled flesh tingled horribly as the blood once more crept into the surface tissues. Then he fixed his eyes upon his host as he told his story. Barrington stood very straight watching his visitor, but his face was drawn, for the resolution which supported him through the day was less noticeable in the early morning, and it was evident now at least that he was an old man carrying a heavy load of anxiety. Still, as the story proceeded, a little blood crept into his cheeks, while Witham guessed that he found it difficult to retain his grim immobility.
“I am to understand that an attempt to reach the Grange through the snow would have been perilous?” he said.
“Yes,” said Witham quietly.
The older man stood very still regarding him intently, until he said, “I don’t mind admitting that it was distinctly regrettable!”
Witham stopped him with a gesture. “It was at least unavoidable, sir. The team would not face the snow, and no one could have reached the Grange alive.”
“No doubt you did your best—and, as a connexion of the family, I am glad it was you. Still—and there are cases in which it is desirable to speak plainly—the affair, which you will, of course, dismiss from your recollection, is to be considered as closed now.”
Witham smiled, and a trace of irony he could not quite repress was just discernible in his voice. “I scarcely think that was necessary, sir. It is, of course, sufficient for me to have rendered a small service to the distinguished family which has given me an opportunity of proving my right to recognition, and neither you, nor Miss Barrington, need have any apprehension that I will presume upon it!”
Barrington wheeled round. “You have the Courthorne temper, at least, and perhaps I deserved this display of it. You acted with commendable discretion in coming straight to me—and the astonishment I got drove the other aspect of the question out of my head. If it hadn’t been for you, my niece would have frozen.”
“I’m afraid I spoke unguardedly, sir; but I am very tired. Still, if you will wait a few minutes, I will get the horses out without troubling the hired man.”
Barrington made a little gesture of comprehension, and then shook his head. “You are fit for nothing further, and need rest and sleep.”
“You will want somebody, sir,” said Witham. “The snow is very loose and deep.”
He went out, and Barrington, who looked after him with a curious expression in his face, nodded twice as if in approval. Twenty minutes later he took his place in the sleigh that slid away from the Grange, which lay a league behind it when the sunrise flamed across the prairie. The wind had gone, and there was only a pitiless brightness and a devastating cold, while the snow lay blown in wisps, dried dusty and fine as flour by the frost. It had no cohesion, the runners sank in it, and Witham was almost waist deep when he dragged the floundering team through the drifts. A day had passed since he had eaten anything worth mention, but he held on with an endurance which his companion, who was incapable of rendering him assistance, wondered at. There were belts of deep snow the almost buried sleigh must be dragged through, and tracts from which the wind had swept the dusty covering, leaving bare the grasses the runners would not slide over, where the team came to a standstill, and could scarcely be urged to continue the struggle.
At last, however, the loghouse rose, a lonely mound of whiteness, out of the prairie, and Witham drew in a deep breath of contentment when a dusky figure appeared for a moment in the doorway. His weariness seemed to fall from him, and once more his companion wondered at the tirelessness of the man, as, floundering on foot beside them, he urged the team through the powdery drifts beneath the big birch bluff. Witham did not go in, however, when they reached the house; and when, five minutes later, Maud Barrington came out, she saw him leaning with a drawn face against the sleigh. He straightened himself suddenly at the sight of her, but she had seen sufficient, and her heart softened towards him. Whatever the man’s history had been he had borne a good deal for her.
The return journey was even more arduous, and now and then Maud Barrington felt a curious throb of pity for the worn-out man, who during most of it walked beside the team; but it was accomplished at last, and she contrived to find means of thanking him alone when they reached the Grange.
Witham shook his head, and then smiled a little. “It isn’t nice to make a bargain,” he said. “Still, it is less pleasant now and then to feel under an obligation, though there is no reason why you should.”
Maud Barrington was not altogether pleased, but she could not blind herself to facts, and it was plain that there was an obligation. “I am afraid I cannot quite believe that, but I do not see what you are leading to.”
Witham’s eyes twinkled. “Well,” he said reflectively, “I don’t want you to fancy that last night commits you to any line of conduct in regard to me. I only asked for a truce, you see.”
Maud Barrington was a trifle nettled. “Yes?” she said.
“Then, I want to show you how you can discharge any trifling obligation you may fancy you may owe me, which of course would be more pleasant to you. Do not allow your uncle to sell any wheat forward for you, and persuade him to sow every acre that belongs to you this spring.”
“But however would this benefit you,” asked the girl.
Witham laughed. “I have a fancy that I can straighten up things at Silverdale, if I can get my way. It would please me, and I believe they want it. Of course, a desire to improve anything appears curious in me!”
Maud Barrington was relieved of the necessity of answering, for the Colonel came up just then; but, moved by some sudden impulse, she nodded as if in agreement.
It was afternoon when she awakened from a refreshing sleep, and descending to the room set apart for herself and her aunt, sat thoughtfully still awhile in a chair beside the stove. Then, stretching out her hand, she took up a little case of photographs and slipped out one of them. It was a portrait of a boy and pony, but there was a significance in the fact that she knew just where to find it. The picture was a good one, and once more Maud Barrington noticed the arrogance, which did not, however, seem out of place there, in the lad’s face. It was also a comely face, but there was a hint of sensuality in it that marred its beauty. Then with a growing perplexity she compared it with that of the weary man who had plodded beside the team. Witham was not arrogant but resolute, and there was no stamp of indulgence in his face. Indeed, the girl had from the beginning recognized the virility in it that was tinged with asceticism and sprang from a simple, strenuous life of toil in the wind and sun.
Just then there was a rustle of fabric, and she laid down the photograph a moment too late, as her aunt came in. As it happened, the elder lady’s eyes rested on the picture, and a faint flush of annoyance crept into the face of the girl. It was scarcely perceptible, but Miss Barrington saw it, and though she felt tempted, did not smile.
“I did not know you were down,” she said. “Lance is still asleep. He seemed very tired.”
“Yes,” said the girl. “That is very probable. He left the railroad before daylight, and had driven round to several farms before he came to Macdonald’s, and he was very considerate. He had made me take all the furs, and, I fancy, walked up and down with nothing but his indoor clothing on all night long, though the wind went through the building, and one could scarcely keep alive a few feet from the stove.”
Again the flicker of colour crept into the girl’s cheeks, and the eyes that were keen, as well as gentle, noticed it.
“I think you owe him a good deal,” said Miss Barrington.
“Yes,” said her niece, with a little laugh which appeared to imply a trace of resentment. “I believe I do, but he seemed unusually anxious to relieve me of that impression. He was also good enough to hint that nothing he might have done need prevent me being—the right word is a trifle difficult to find—but I fancy he meant unpleasant to him if I wished it.”
There was a little twinkle in Miss Barrington’s eyes. “Are you not a trifle hard to please, my dear? Now, if he had attempted to insist on a claim to your gratitude, you would have resented it.”
“Of course,” said the girl reflectively. “Still, it is annoying to be debarred from offering it. There are times, aunt, when I can’t help wishing that Lance Courthorne had never come to Silverdale. There are men who leave nothing just as they found it, and whom one can’t ignore.”
Miss Barrington shook her head. “I fancy you are wrong. He has offended after all?”
She was pleased to see her niece’s face relax into a smile that expressed unconcern. “We are all exacting now and then,” said the girl. “Still, he made me promise to give him a fair trial, which was not flattering, because it suggested that I had been unnecessarily harsh, and then hinted this morning that he had no intention of holding me to it. It really was not gratifying to find he held the concession he asked for of so small account. You are, however, as easily swayed by trifles as I am, because Lance can do no wrong since he kissed your hand.”
“I really think I liked him the better for it,” said the little silver-haired lady. “The respect was not assumed, but wholly genuine, you see; and whether I was entitled to it or not, it was a good deal in Lance’s favour that he should offer it to me. There must be some good in the man who can be moved to reverence anything, even if he is mistaken.”
“No man with any sense could help adoring you,” said Maud Barrington. “Still, I wonder why you believe I was wrong in wishing he had not come to Silverdale.”
Miss Barrington looked thoughtful. “I will tell you, my dear. There are few better men than my brother; but his thoughts, and the traditions he is bound by, are those of fifty years ago, while the restless life of the prairie is a thing of to-day. We have fallen too far behind it at Silverdale, and a crisis is coming that none of us are prepared for. Even Dane is scarcely fitted to help my brother to face it, and the rest are either over-fond of their pleasure or untrained boys. Brave lads they are, but none of them have been taught that it is only by mental strain, or the ceaseless toil of his body, the man without an inheritance can win himself a competence now. This is why they want a leader who has known hardship and hunger, instead of ease, and won what he holds with his own hand in place of having it given him.”
“You fancy we could find one in such a man as Lance has been?”
Miss Barrington looked grave. “I believe the prodigal was afterwards a better, as well as a wiser, man than the one who stayed at home, and I am not quite sure that Lance’s history is so nearly like that of the son in the parable as we have believed it to be. A residence in the sty is apt to leave a stain, which I have not, though I have looked for it, found on him.”
The eyes of the two women met, and, though nothing more was said, each realized that the other was perplexed by the same question, while the girl was astonished to find her vague suspicions shared. While they sat silent, Colonel Barrington came in.
“I am glad to see you looking so much better, Maud,” he said, with a trace of embarrassment. “Courthorne is resting still. Now, I can’t help feeling that we have been a trifle more distant than was needful with him. The man has really behaved very discreetly. I mean in everything.”
This was a great admission, and Miss Barrington smiled. “Did it hurt you very much to tell us that?” she asked.
The Colonel laughed. “I know what you mean, and if you put me on my mettle I’ll retract. After all, it was no great credit to him, because blood will tell, and he is, of course, a Courthorne.”
Almost without her intention, Maud Barrington’s eyes wandered towards the photograph, and then looking up she met those of her aunt, and once more saw the thought that troubled her in them.
“The Courthorne blood is responsible for a good deal more than discretion,” said Miss Barrington, who went out quietly.
Her brother appeared a trifle perplexed. “Now, I fancied your aunt had taken him under her wing, and when I was about to suggest that, considering the connexion between the families, we might ask him over to dinner occasionally, she goes away,” he said.
The girl looked down a moment, for, realizing that her uncle recognized the obligation he was under to the man he did not like, she remembered that she herself owed him considerably more and he had asked for something in return. It was not altogether easy to grant, but she had tacitly pledged herself, and turning suddenly she laid a hand on Barrington’s arm.
“Of course; but I want to talk of something else just now,” she said. “You know I have very seldom asked you questions about my affairs, but I wish to take a little practical interest in them this year.”
“Yes?” said Barrington, with a smile. “Well, I am at your service, my dear, and quite ready to account for my stewardship. You are no longer my ward, except by your own wishes.”
“I am still your niece,” said the girl, patting his arm. “Now, there is, of course, nobody who could manage the farming better than you do, but I would like to raise a large crop of wheat this season.”
“It wouldn’t pay,” and the Colonel grew suddenly grave. “Very few men in the district are going to sow all their holding. Wheat is steadily going down.”
“Then if nobody sows there will be very little, and shouldn’t that put up the prices?”
Barrington’s eyes twinkled. “Who has been teaching you commercial economy? You are too pretty to understand such things, and the argument is fallacious, because the wheat is consumed in Europe—and even if we have not much to offer, they can get plenty from California, Chile, India, and Australia.”
“Oh, yes—and Russia,” said the girl. “Still, you see, the big mills in Winnipeg and Minneapolis depend upon the prairie. They couldn’t very well bring wheat in from Australia.”
Barrington was still smiling with his eyes, but his lips were set. “A little knowledge is dangerous, my dear, and if you could understand me better, I could show you where you were wrong. As it is, I can only tell you that I have decided to sell wheat forward and plough very little.”
“But that was a policy you condemned with your usual vigour. You really know you did.”
“My dear,” said the Colonel, with a little impatient gesture, “one can never argue with a lady. You see—circumstances alter cases considerably.”
He nodded with an air of wisdom as though that decided it; but the girl persisted. “Uncle,” she said, drawing closer to him with lithe gracefulness, “I want you to let me have my own way just for once, and if I am wrong I will never do anything you do not approve of again. After all, it is a very little thing, and you would like to please me.”
“It is a trifle that is likely to cost you a good deal of money,” said the Colonel dryly.
“I think I could afford it, and you could not refuse me.”
“As I am only your uncle, and no longer a trustee, I could not,” said Barrington. “Still, you would not act against my wishes?”
His eyes were gentle, unusually so, for he was not as a rule very patient when any one questioned his will; but there was a reproach in them that hurt the girl. Still, because she had promised, she persisted.
“No,” she said. “That is why it would be ever so much nicer if you would just think as I did.”
Barrington looked at her steadily. “If you insist, I can at least hope for the best,” he said, with a gravity that brought a faint colour to the listener’s cheek.
It was next day when Witham took his leave, and Maud Barrington stood beside him as he put on his driving furs.
“You told me there was something you wished me to do, and, though it was difficult, it is done,” she said. “My holding will be sown with wheat this spring.”
Witham turned his head aside a moment and apparently found it needful to fumble at the fastenings of the furs, while there was a curious expression in his eyes when he looked round again.
“Then,” he said with a little smile, “we are quits. That cancels any little obligation which may have existed.”
He had gone in another minute, and Maud Barrington turned back into the stove-warmed room very quietly. Her lips were, however, somewhat closely set.
CHAPTER XI—SPEED THE PLOUGH
Winter had fled back beyond the barrens to the lonely North at last, and though here and there a little slushy snow still lay soaking the black loam in a hollow, a warm wind swept the vast levels when one morning Colonel Barrington rode with his niece and sister across the prairie. Spring comes suddenly in that region, and the frost-bleached sod was steaming under an effulgent sun, while in places a hardy flower peeped through. It was six hundred miles to the forests of the Rockies’ eastern slope, and as far to the Athabascan pines, but it seemed to Maud Barrington that their resinous sweetness was in the glorious western wind, which awoke a musical sighing from the sea of rippling grass. It rolled away before her in billows of lustrous silver-grey, and had for sole boundary the first upward spring of the arch of cloudless blue, across which the vanguard of the feathered host pressed on, company by company towards the Pole.
The freshness of it all stirred her blood like wine, and the brightness that flooded the prairie had crept into her eyes; for those who bear the iron winter of that lonely land realize the wonder of the reawakening, which in a little space of day, dresses the waste which has lain for long months white and silent as the dead, in living green. It also has its subtle significance that the grimmest toiler feels, and the essence of it is hope eternal and triumphant life. The girl felt the thrill of it, and gave thanks by an answering brightness, as the murmuring grasses and peeping flowerets did; but there was behind her instinctive gladness a vague wonder and expectancy. She had read widely, and seen the life of the cities with understanding eyes, and now she was to be provided with the edifying spectacle of the gambler and outcast turned farmer.
Had she been asked a few months earlier whether the man who had, as Courthorne had done, cast away his honour and wallowed in the mire, could come forth again and purge himself from the stain, her answer would have been coldly sceptical; but now, with the old familiar miracle and what it symbolized before her eyes, the thing looked less improbable. Why this should give pleasure she did not know, or would not admit that she did, but the fact remained that it was so.
Trotting down the slope of the next rise, they came upon him, and he stood with very little sign of dissolute living upon him by a great breaker plough. In front of him, the quarter-mile furrow led on beyond the tall sighting poles on the crest of the next rise, and four splendid horses, of a kind not very usual on the prairie, were stamping the steaming clods at his side. Bronzed by frost and sun, with his brick-red neck and arch of chest revealed by the coarse blue shirt that, belted at the waist, enhanced his slenderness of flank, the repentant prodigal was at least a passable specimen of the animal man, but it was the strength and patience in his face that struck the girl, as he turned towards her, bareheaded, with a little smile in his eyes. She also noticed the difference he presented with his ingrained hands and the stain of the soil upon him to her uncle, who sat his horse, immaculate as usual with gloved hand on the bridle, for the Englishmen at Silverdale usually hired other men to do their coarser work for them.
“So you are commencing in earnest in face of my opinion?” said Barrington. “Of course, I wish you success, but that consummation appears distinctly doubtful.”
Witham laughed as he pointed to a great machine which, hauled by four horses, rolled towards them, scattering the black clods in its wake. “I’m doing what I can to achieve it, sir,” he said. “In fact, I’m staking somewhat heavily. That team with the gang ploughs and cultivators cost me more dollars than I care to remember.”
“No doubt,” said Barrington dryly. “Still, we have always considered oxen good enough for breaking prairie at Silverdale.”
Witham nodded. “I used to do so, sir, when I could get nothing better, but after driving oxen for eight years one finds out their disadvantages.”
Barrington’s face grew a trifle stern. “There are times when you tax our patience, Lance,” he said. “Still, there is nothing to be gained by questioning your assertion. What I fail to see is where your reward for all this will come from, because I am still convinced that the soil will, so to speak, give you back eighty cents for every dollar you put into it. I would, however, like to look at those implements. I have never seen better ones.”
He dismounted and helped his companion down, for Witham made no answer. The farmer was never sure what actuated him, but, save in an occasional fit of irony, he had not attempted by any reference to make his past fall into line with Courthorne’s since he had first been accepted as the latter at Silverdale. He had taken the dead man’s inheritance, for a while, but he would stoop no further, and to speak the truth, which he saw was not credited, brought him a grim amusement as well as flung a sop to his pride. Presently, however, Miss Barrington turned to him, and there was a kindly gleam in her eyes as she glanced at the splendid horses and widening strip of ploughing.
“You have the hope of youth, Lance, to make this venture when all looks black—and it pleases me,” she said. “Sometimes I fancy that men had braver hearts than they have now when I was young.”
Witham flushed a trifle, and stretching out an arm swept his hand round the horizon. “All that looked dead a very little while ago, and now you can see the creeping greenness in the sod,” he said. “The lean years cannot last for ever, and, even if one is beaten again, there is a consolation in knowing that one has made a struggle. Now, I am quite aware that you are fancying a speech of this kind does not come well from me.”
Maud Barrington had seen his gesture, and something in the thought that impelled it, as well as the almost statuesque pose of his thinly-clad figure, appealed to her. Courthorne as farmer, with the damp of clean effort on his forehead and the stain of the good soil that would faithfully repay it on his garments, had very little in common with the profligate and gambler. Vaguely she wondered whether he was not working out his own redemption by every wheat furrow torn from the virgin prairie, and then again the doubt crept in. Could this man have ever found pleasure in the mire?
“You will plough all your holding, Lance?” asked the elder lady, who had not answered his last speech yet, but meant to do.
“Yes,” said the man. “All I can. It’s a big venture, and if it fails will cripple me; but I seem to feel, apart from any reason I can discern, that wheat is going up again, and I must go through with this ploughing. Of course, it does not sound very sensible.”
Miss Barrington looked at him gravely, for there was a curious and steadily-tightening bond between the two. “It depends upon what you mean by sense. Can we reason out all we feel, and is there nothing intangible but real behind the impulses which may be sent to us?”
“Well,” said Witham, with a little smile, “that is a trifle too deep for me, and it’s difficult to think of anything but the work I have to do. But you were the first at Silverdale to hold out a hand to me—and I have a feeling that your good wishes would go a long way now. Is it altogether fantastic to believe that the good-will of my first friend would help to bring me prosperity?”
The white-haired lady’s eyes grew momentarily soft, and, with a gravity that did not seem out of place, she moved forward and laid her hand on a big horse’s neck, and smiled when the dumb beast responded to her gentle touch.
“It is a good work,” she said. “Lance, there is more than dollars, or the bread that somebody is needing, behind what you are doing, and because I loved your mother I know how her approval would have followed you. And now sow in hope, and God speed your plough!”
She turned away almost abruptly, and Witham stood still, with one hand closed tightly and a little deeper tint in the bronze of his face, sensible at once of an unchanged resolution and a horrible degradation. Then he saw that the Colonel had helped Miss Barrington into the saddle and her niece was speaking.
“I have something to ask Mr. Courthorne, and will overtake you,” she said.
The others rode on, and the girl turned to Witham, “I made you a promise and did my best to keep it but I find it harder than I fancied it would be,” she said. “I want you to release me.”
“I should like to hear your reasons,” said Witham.
The girl made a faint gesture of impatience. “Of course, if you insist!”
“I do,” said Witham quietly.
“Then I promised you to have all my holding sown this year, and I am still willing to do so; but, though my uncle makes no protests I know he feels my opposition very keenly, and it hurts me horribly. Unspoken reproaches are the worst to bear, you know, and now Dane and some of the others are following your lead, it is painful to feel that I am taking part with them against the man who has always been kind to me.”
“And you would prefer to be loyal to Colonel Barrington even if it cost you a good deal?”
“Of course!” said Maud Barrington. “Can you ask me?”
Witham saw the sparkle in her eyes and the half-contemptuous pride in the poise of the shapely head. Loyalty, it was evident, was not a figure of speech with her, but he felt that he had seen enough and turned his face aside.
“I knew it would be difficult when I asked,” he said. “Still, I cannot give you back that promise. We are going to see a great change this year, and I have set my heart on making all I can for you.”
“But why should you?” asked Maud Barrington, somewhat astonished that she did not feel more angry.
“Well,” said Witham gravely, “I may tell you by and by, and in the meanwhile you can set it down to vanity. This may be my last venture at Silverdale, and I want to make it a big success.”
The girl glanced at him sharply, and it was because the news caused her an unreasonable concern that there was a trace of irony in her voice.
“Your last venture! Have we been unkind to you or does it imply that, as you once insinuated, an exemplary life becomes monotonous?”
Witham laughed. “No. I should like to stay here—a very long while,” he said; and the girl saw he spoke the truth as she watched him glance wistfully at the splendid teams, great ploughs, and rich, black soil. “In fact, strange as it may appear, it will be virtue, given the rein for once, that drives me out when I go away.”
“But where are you going to?”
Witham glanced vaguely across the prairie, and the girl was puzzled by the look in his eyes. “Back to my own station,” he said softly, as though to himself, and then turned with a little shrug of his shoulders. “In the meanwhile there is a good deal to do, and once more I am sorry I cannot release you.”
“Then, there is an end of it. You could not expect me to beg you to, so we will discuss the practical difficulty. I cannot under the circumstances borrow my uncle’s teams, and I am told I have not sufficient men or horses to put a large crop in.”
“Of course!” said Witham quietly. “Well, I have now the best teams and machines on this part of the prairie, and am bringing Ontario men in. I will do the ploughing—and, if it will make it easier for you, you can pay me for the services.”
There was a little flush on the girl’s face. “It is all distasteful, but as you will not give me back my word, I will keep it to the letter. Still, it almost makes me reluctant to ask you a further favour.”
“This one is promised before you ask it,” said Witham quietly.
It cost Maud Barrington some trouble to make her wishes clear, and Witham’s smile was not wholly one of pleasure as he listened. One of the young English lads, who was, it appeared, a distant connexion of the girl’s, had been losing large sums of money at a gaming table, and seeking other equally undesirable relaxations at the railroad settlement. For the sake of his mother in England, Miss Barrington desired him brought to his senses, but was afraid to appeal to the Colonel, whose measures were occasionally more draconic than wise.
“I will do what I can,” said Witham. “Still, I am not sure that a lad of the kind is worth your worrying over, and I am a trifle curious as to what induced you to entrust the mission to me?”
The girl felt embarrassed, but she saw that an answer was expected. “Since you ask, it occurred to me that you could do it better than anybody else,” she said. “Please don’t misunderstand me; but I fancy it is the other man who is leading him away.”
Witham smiled somewhat grimly. “Your meaning is quite plain, and I am already looking forward to the encounter with my fellow-gambler. You believe that I will prove a match for him?”
Maud Barrington, to her annoyance, felt the blood creep to her forehead, but she looked at the man steadily, noticing the quiet forcefulness beneath his somewhat caustic amusement.
“Yes,” she said simply; “and I shall be grateful.”
In another few minutes she was galloping across the prairie, and when she rejoined her aunt and Barrington, endeavoured to draw out the latter’s opinion respecting Courthorne’s venture by a few discreet questions.
“Heaven knows where he was taught it, but there is no doubt that the man is an excellent farmer,” he said. “It is a pity that he is also, to all intents and purposes, mad.”
Miss Barrington glanced at her niece, and both of them smiled, for the Colonel usually took for granted the insanity of any one who questioned his opinions.
In the meanwhile, Witham sat swaying on the driving-seat, mechanically guiding the horses and noticing how the prairie sod rolled away in black waves beneath the great plough. He heard the crackle of fibres beneath the triple shares, and the swish of greasy loam along the mouldboard’s side; but his thoughts were far away, and when he raised his head, he looked into the dim future beyond the long furrow that cut the skyline on the rise.
It was shadowy and uncertain, but one thing was clear to him, and that was that he could not stay in Silverdale. At first he had almost hoped he might do this, for the good land, and the means of efficiently working it, had been a horrible temptation. That was before he reckoned on Maud Barrington’s attractions; but of late he had seen what these were leading him to, and all that was good in him recoiled from an attempt to win her. Once he had dared to wonder whether it could be done, for his grim life had left him self-centred and bitter, but that mood had passed, and it was with disgust he looked back upon it. Now he knew that the sooner he left Silverdale, the less difficult it would be to forget her; but he was still determined to vindicate himself by the work he did, and make her affairs secure. Then, with or without a confession, he would slip back into the obscurity he came from.
While he worked the soft wind rioted about him, and the harbingers of summer passed north in battalions overhead—crane, brent goose, and mallard—in crescents, skeins, and wedges, after the fashion of their kind. Little long-tailed gophers whisked across the whitened sod, and when the great plough rolled through the shadows of a bluff, jack rabbits, pied white and grey, scurried amidst the rustling leaves. Even the birches were fragrant in that vivifying air, and seemed to rejoice as all animate creatures did; but the man’s face grew more sombre as the day of toil wore on. Still, he did his work with the grim, unwavering diligence that had already carried him, dismayed but unyielding, through years of drought and harvest hail, and the stars shone down on the prairie when at last he loosed his second team.
Then, standing in the door of his lonely homestead, he glanced at the great shadowy granaries and barns, and clenched his hand as he saw what he could do if the things that had been forced upon him were rightfully his. He knew his own mettle, and that he could hold them if he would; but the pale, cold face of a woman rose up in judgment against him, and he also knew that because of the love of her, that was casting its toils about him, he must give them up.
Far back on the prairie a lonely coyote howled, and a faint wind, that was now like snow-cooled wine, brought the sighing of limitless grasses out of the silence. There was no cloud in the crystalline ether, and something in the vastness and stillness that spoke of infinity brought a curious sense of peace to him. Impostor though he was, he would leave Silverdale better than he found it, and afterwards it would be of no great moment what became of him. Countless generations of toiling men had borne their petty sorrows before him, and gone back to the dust they sprang from; but still, in due succession, harvest followed seed-time, and the world whirled on. Then, remembering that, in the meanwhile, he had much to do which would commence with the sun on the morrow, he went back into the house and shook the fancies from him.
CHAPTER XII—MASTERY RECOGNIZED
There was, considering the latest price of wheat, a somewhat astonishing attendance in the long room of the hotel at the railroad settlement one Saturday evening. A big stove in the midst of it diffused a stuffy and almost unnecessary heat, gaudy nickelled lamps an uncertain brilliancy, and the place was filled with the drifting smoke of indifferent tobacco. Oleographs, barbaric in colour and drawing, hung about the roughly-boarded walls, and any critical stranger would have found the saloon comfortless and tawdry.
It was, however, filled that night with bronzed-faced men who expected nothing better. Most of them wore jackets of soft black leather or embroidered deerskin, and the jean trousers and long boots of not a few apparently stood in need of repairing, though the sprinkling of more conventional apparel and paler faces showed that the storekeepers of the settlement had been drawn together, as well as the prairie farmers who had driven in to buy provisions or take up their mail. There was, however, but little laughter, and their voices were low, for boisterousness and assertion are not generally met with on the silent prairie. Indeed, the attitude of some of the men was mildly deprecatory, as though they felt that in assisting in what was going forward they were doing an unusual thing. Still, the eyes of all were turned toward the table where a man, who differed widely in appearance from most of them, dealt out the cards.
He wore city clothes, and a white shirt with a fine diamond in the front of it, while there was a keen intentness behind the half-ironical smile in his somewhat colourless face. The whiteness of his long, nervous fingers and the quickness of his gestures would also have stamped him as a being of different order from the slowly-spoken prairie farmers, while the slenderness of the little pile of coins in front of him testified that his endeavours to tempt them to speculation on games of chance had met with no very marked success as yet. Gambling for stakes of moment is not a popular amusement in that country, where the soil demands his best from every man in return for the scanty dollars it yields him, but the gamester had chosen his time well, and the men who had borne the dreary solitude of winter in outlying farms, and now only saw another adverse season opening before them, were for once in the mood to clutch at any excitement that would relieve the monotony of their toilsome lives.
A few were betting small sums with an apparent lack of interest which did not in the least deceive the dealer, and when he handed a few dollars out he laughed a little as he turned to the bar-keeper.
“Set them up again. I want a drink to pass the time,” he said. “I’ll play you at anything you like to put a name to, boys, if this game don’t suit you, but you’ll have to give me the chance of making my hotel bill. In my country I’ve seen folks livelier at a funeral.”
The glasses were handed round, but when the gambler reached out towards the silver at his side, a big bronzed-skinned rancher stopped him.
“No,” he drawled. “We’re not sticking you for a locomotive tank, and this comes out of my treasury. I’ll call you three dollars and take my chances on the draw.”
“Well,” said the dealer, “that’s a little more encouraging. Anybody wanting to make it better?”
A young lad in elaborately-embroidered deerskin with a flushed face leaned upon the table. “Show you how we play cards in the old country,” he said. “I’ll make it thirty—for a beginning.”
There was a momentary silence, for the lad had staked heavily and lost of late, but one or two more bets were made. Then the cards were turned up, and the lad smiled fatuously as he took up his winnings.
“Now, I’ll let you see,” he said. “This time we’ll make it fifty.”
He won twice more in succession, and the men closed in about the table, while, for the dealer knew when to strike, the glasses went round again, and in the growing interest nobody quite noticed who paid for the refreshment. Then, while the dollars began to trickle in, the lad flung a bill for a hundred down.
“Go on,” he said a trifle huskily. “To-night you can’t beat me!”
Once more he won, and just then two men came quietly into the room. One of them signed to the hotel-keeper.
“What’s going on? The boys seem kind of keen,” he said.
The other man laughed a little. “Ferris has struck a streak of luck, but I wouldn’t be very sorry if you got him away, Mr. Courthorne. He has had as much as he can carry already, and I don’t want anybody broke up in my house. The boys can look out for themselves, but the Silverdale kid has been losing a good deal lately, and he doesn’t know when to stop.”
Witham glanced at his companion, who nodded. “The young fool,” he said.
They crossed towards the table in time to see the lad take up his winnings again, and Witham laid his hand quietly upon his shoulder.
“Come along and have a drink while you give the rest a show,” he said. “You seem to have done tolerably well, and it’s usually wise to stop while the chances are going with you.”
The lad turned and stared at him with languid insolence in his half-closed eyes, and, though he came of a lineage that had been famous in the old country, there was nothing very prepossessing in his appearance. His mouth was loose, his face weak in spite of its inherited pride, and there was little need to tell either of the men, who noticed his nervous fingers and muddiness of skin, that he was one who in the strenuous early days would have worn the woolly crown.
“Were you addressing me?” he asked.
“I was,” said Witham quietly. “I was, in fact, inviting you to share our refreshment. You see we have just come in.”
“Then,” said the lad, “it was condemnable impertinence. Since you have taken this fellow up, couldn’t you teach him that it’s bad taste to thrust his company upon people who don’t want it, Dane?”
Witham said nothing, but drew Dane, who flushed a trifle, aside, and when they sat down the latter smiled dryly.
“You have taken on a big contract, Courthorne. How are you going to get the young ass out?” he said.
“Well,” said Witham, “it would gratify me to take him by the neck, but as I don’t know that it would please the Colonel if I made a public spectacle of one of his retainers, I fancy I’ll have to tackle the gambler. I don’t know him, but as he comes from across the frontier it’s more than likely he has heard of me. There are advantages in having a record like mine, you see.”
“It would, of course, be a kindness to the lad’s people—but the young fool is scarcely worth it, and it’s not your affair,” said Dane reflectively.
Witham guessed the drift of the speech, but he could respect a confidence, and laughed a little. “It’s not often I have done any one a good turn, and the novelty has its attractions.”
Dane did not appear contented with this explanation, but he asked nothing further, and the two sat watching the men about the table, who were evidently growing eager.
“That’s two hundred the kid has let go,” said somebody.
There was a murmur of excited voices, and one rose hoarse and a trifle shaky in the consonants above the rest.
“Show you how a gentleman can stand up, boys. Throw them out again. Two hundred this time on the game!”
There was silence and the rustle of shuffled cards; then once more the voices went up. “Against him! Better let up before he takes your farm. Oh, let him face it and show his grit—the man who slings round his hundreds can afford to lose!”
The lad’s face showed a trifle paler through the drifting smoke, though a good many of the cigars had gone out now, and once more there was the stillness of expectancy through which a strained voice rose.
“Going to get it all back. I’ll stake you four hundred.”
Witham rose and moved forward quietly, with Dane behind him, and then stood still where he could see the table. He had also very observant eyes, and was free from the excitement of those who had a risk on the game. Still, when the cards were dealt, it was the gambler’s face he watched. For a brief space nobody moved, and then the lad flung down his cards and stood up with a greyness in his cheeks and his hands shaking.
“You’ve got all my dollars now,” he said. “Still, I’ll play you for doubles if you’ll take my paper.”
The gambler nodded, and flung down a big pile of bills. “I guess I’ll trust you. Mine are here.”
The bystanders waited motionless, and none of them made a bet, for any stakes they could offer would be trifles now; but they glanced at the lad who stood tensely still, while Witham watched the face of the man at the table in front of him. For a moment he saw a flicker of triumph in his eyes, and that decided him. Again, one by one, the cards went down, and then, when everybody waited in strained expectancy, the lad seemed to grow limp suddenly and groaned.
“You can let up,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve gone down!”
Then a hard brown hand was laid upon the table, and while the rest stared in astonishment, a voice which had a little stern ring in it said, “Turn the whole pack up, and hand over the other one.”
In an instant the gambler’s hand swept beneath his jacket, but it was a mistaken move, for as swiftly the other hard, brown fingers closed upon the pile of bills, and the men, too astonished to murmur, saw Witham leaning very grim in face across the table. Then it tilted over beneath him, and the cards were on the gambler’s knees, while, as the two men rose and faced each other, something glinted in the hands of one of them.
It is more than probable that the man did not intend to use it, and trusted to its moral effect, for the display of pistols is not regarded with much toleration on the Canadian prairie. In any case, he had not the opportunity, for in another moment Witham’s right hand closed upon his wrist, and the gambler was struggling fruitlessly to extricate it. He was a muscular man, with doubtless a sufficiency of nerve, but he had not toiled with his arms and led a Spartan life for eight long years. Before another few seconds had passed he was wondering whether he would ever use that wrist again, while Dane picked up the fallen pistol and put it in his pocket with the bundle of bills Witham handed him.
“Now,” said the latter, “I want to do the square thing. If you’ll let us strip you and turn out your pockets, we’ll see you get any winnings you’re entitled to when we’ve straightened up the cards.”
The gambler was apparently not willing, for, though it is possible he would have found it advisable to play an honest game across the frontier, he had evidently surmised that there was less risk of detection among the Canadian farmers. He probably knew they would not wait long for his consent, but in the first stages of the altercation it is not as a rule insuperably difficult for a fearless man to hold his own against an indignant company who have no definite notion of what they mean to do, and it was to cover his retreat he turned to Witham.
“And who the —— are you?” he asked.
Witham smiled grimly. “I guess you have heard of me. Anyway, there are a good many places in Montana where they know Lance Courthorne. Quite sure I know a straight game when I see it!”
The man’s resistance vanished, but he had evidently been taught the necessity of making the best of defeat in his profession, and he laughed as he swept his glance round at the angry faces turned upon him.
“If you don’t there’s nobody does,” he said. “Still, as you’ve got my pistol and ‘most dislocated my wrist, the least you can do is to get a partner out of this.”
There was an ominous murmur, and the lad’s face showed livid with fury and humiliation, but Witham turned quietly to the hotel-keeper.
“You will take this man with you into your side room and stop with him there,” he said. “Dane, give him the bills. The rest of you had better sit down here and make a list of your losses, and you’ll get whatever the fellow has upon him divided amongst you. Then, because I ask you, and you’d have had nothing but for me, you’ll put him in his wagon and turn him out quietly upon the prairie.”
“That’s sense, and we don’t want no circus here,” said somebody.
A few voices were raised in protest, but when it became evident that one or two of the company were inclined to adopt more draconic measures, Dane spoke quietly and forcibly, and was listened to. Then Witham reached out and grasped the shoulder of the English lad, who made the last attempt to rouse his companions.
“Let them alone, Ferris, and come along. You’ll get most of what you lost back to-morrow, and we’re going to take you home,” he said.
Ferris turned upon him, hoarse with passion, flushed in face, and swaying a trifle on his feet, while Witham noticed that he drew one arm back.
“Who are you to lay hands on a gentleman?” he asked. “Keep your distance. I’m going to stay here, and, if I’d have had my way, we’d have kicked you out of Silverdale.”
Witham dropped his hand, but next moment the ornament of a distinguished family was seized by the neck, and the farmer glanced at Dane.
“We’ve had enough of this fooling, and he’ll be grateful to me to-morrow,” he said.
Then his captive was thrust, resisting strenuously, out of the room, and with Dane’s assistance conveyed to the waiting wagon, into which he was flung, almost speechless with indignation.
“Now,” said Dane quietly, “you’ve given us a good deal more trouble than you’re worth, Ferris, and if you attempt to get out again, I’ll break your head for you. Tell Courthorne how much that fellow got from you.”
In another ten minutes they had jolted across the railroad track, and were speeding through the silence of the lonely prairie. Above them the clear stars flung their cold radiance down through vast distances of liquid indigo, and the soft beat of hoofs was the only sound that disturbed the solemn stillness of the wilderness. Dane drew in a great breath of the cool night air and laughed quietly.
“It’s a good deal more wholesome here in several ways,” said he. “If you’re wise, you’ll let up on card-playing and hanging round the settlement, Ferris, and stick to farming. Even if you lose almost as many dollars over it, it will pay you considerably better. Now that’s all I’m going to tell you, but I know what I’m speaking of, because I’ve had my fling—and it’s costing me more than I care to figure out still. You, however, can pull up, because by this time you have no doubt found out a good deal, if you’re not all a fool. Curiosity’s at the bottom of half our youthful follies, isn’t it, Courthorne? We want to know what the things forbidden actually taste like.”
“Well,” said Witham dryly, “I don’t quite know. You see, I had very little money in the old country, and still less leisure here to spend either on that kind of experimenting. Where to get enough to eat was the one problem that worried me.”
Dane turned a trifle sharply. “We are, I fancy, tolerably good friends. Isn’t it a little unnecessary for you to adopt that tone with me?”
Witham laughed, but made no answer, and their companion said nothing at all. Either the night wind had a drowsy effect on him or he was moodily resentful, for it was not until Witham pulled up before the homestead whose lands he farmed indifferently under Barrington’s supervision that he opened his mouth.
“You have got off very cheaply to-night, and if you’re wise you’ll let that kind of thing alone in future,” said Witham quietly.
The lad stepped down from the wagon and then stood still. “I resent advice from you as much as I do your uncalled-for insolence an hour or two ago,” he said. “To lie low until honest men got used to him would be considerably more becoming to a man like you.”
“Well,” said Witham, stung into forgetfulness, “I’m not going to offend in that fashion again, and you can go to the devil in the way that most pleases you. In fact, I only pulled you out of the pit to-night because a lady, who apparently takes a quite unwarranted interest in you, asked me to.”
Ferris stared up at him, and his face showed almost livid through the luminous night.
“She asked you to!” he said. “By the Lord, I’ll make you sorry for this.”
Witham said nothing, but shook the reins, and when the wagon lurched forward Dane looked at him.
“I didn’t know that before,” he said.
“Well,” said Witham dryly, “if I hadn’t lost my temper with the lad you wouldn’t have done now.”
Dane smiled. “You miss the point of it. Our engaging friend made himself the laughing-stock of the colony by favouring Maud Barrington with his attentions when he came out. In fact, I fancy the lady, in desperation, had to turn her uncle loose on him before he could be made to understand that they were not appreciated. I’d keep your eye on him, Courthorne, for the little beast has shown himself abominably vindictive occasionally, though I have a notion he’s scarcely to be held accountable. It’s a case of too pure a strain and consanguinity. Two branches of the family—marriage between land and money, you see.”
“It will be my heel if he gets in my way,” said Witham grimly.
It was late when they reached his homestead where Dane was to stay the night, and when they went in a youthful figure in uniform rose up in the big log-walled hall. For a moment Witham’s heart almost stood still, and then, holding himself in hand by a strenuous effort, he moved forward and stood where the light of a lamp did not shine quite fully upon him. He knew that uniform, and he had also seen the lad who wore it once or twice before, at an outpost six hundred miles away across the prairie. He knew the risk he took was great, but it was evident to him that if his identity escaped detection at first sight, use would do the rest, and while he had worn a short pointed beard on the Western prairie, he was cleanly-shaven now.
The lad stood quite still a moment staring at him, and Witham returning his gaze steadily felt his pulses throb.
“Well, trooper, what has brought you here?” he said.
“Homestead visitation, sir,” said the lad, who had a pleasant English voice. “Mr. Courthorne, I presume—accept my regrets if I stared too hard at you—but for a moment you reminded me of a man I knew. They’ve changed us round lately, and I’m from the Alberta Squadron just sent in to this district. It was late when I rode in, and your people were kind enough to put me up.”
Witham laughed. “I have been taken for another man before. Would you like anything to drink, or a smoke before you turn in, trooper?”
“No, sir,” said the lad. “If you’ll sign my docket to show I’ve been here, I’ll get some sleep. I’ve sixty miles to ride to-morrow.”
Witham did as he was asked, and the trooper withdrew, while when they sat down to a last cigar it seemed to Dane that his companion’s face was graver than usual.
“Did you notice the lad’s astonishment when you came in?” he asked. “He looked very much as if he had seen a ghost.”
Witham smiled. “I believe he fancied he had. There was a man in the district he came from whom some folks considered resembled me. In reality, I was by no means like him, and he’s dead now.”
“Likenesses are curious things, and it’s stranger still how folks alter,” said Dane. “Now, they’ve a photograph at Barrington’s of you as a boy, and while there is a resemblance in the face, nobody with any discernment would have fancied that lad would grow into a man like you. Still, that’s of no great moment, and I want to know just how you spotted the gambler. I had a tolerably expensive tuition in most games of chance in my callow days, and haven’t forgotten completely what I was taught then, but though I watched the game I saw nothing that led me to suspect crooked play.”
Witham laughed. “I watched his face, and what I saw there decided me to try a bluff, but it was not until he turned the table over I knew I was right.”
“Well,” said Dane dryly, “you don’t need your nerves toning up. With only a suspicion to go upon, it was a tolerably risky game. Still, of course, you had advantages.”
“I have played a more risky one, but I don’t know that I have cause to be very grateful for anything I acquired in the past,” said Witham with a curious smile.
Dane stood up and flung his cigar away. “It’s time I was asleep,” he said. “Still, since our talk has turned in this direction, I want to tell you that, as you have doubtless seen, there is something about you that puzzles me occasionally. I don’t ask your confidence until you are ready to give it me—but if ever you want anybody to stand behind you in a difficulty, you’ll find me rather more than willing.”
He went out, and Witham sat still very grave in face for at least another hour.
CHAPTER XIII—A FAIR ADVOCATE
Thanks to the fashion in which the hotel-keeper managed the affair, the gambler left the settlement without personal injury, but very little richer than when he entered it. The rest of those who were present at his meeting with Witham were also not desirous that their friends should know they had been victimized, and because Dane was discreet, news of what had happened might never have reached Silverdale, had not one of the younger men ridden in to the railroad a few days later. Odd scraps of conversation overheard led him to suspect that something unusual had taken place, but as nobody seemed willing to supply details, he returned to Silverdale with his curiosity unsatisfied. As it happened, he was shortly afterwards present at a gathering of his neighbours at Macdonald’s farm and came across Ferris there.
“I heard fragments of a curious story at the settlement,” he said. “There was trouble of some kind in which a professional gambler figured last Saturday night, and though nobody seemed to want to talk about it, I surmised that somebody from Silverdale was concerned in it.”
He had perhaps spoken a trifle more loudly than he had intended, and there were a good many of the Silverdale farmers with a few of their wives and daughters whose attention was not wholly confined to the efforts of Mrs. Macdonald at the piano in the long room just then. In any case a voice broke through the silence that followed the final chords.
“Ferris could tell us if he liked. He was there that night.”
Ferris, who had cause for doing so, looked uncomfortable, and endeavoured to sign to the first speaker that it was not desirable to pursue the topic.
“I have been in tolerably often of late. Had things to attend to,” he said.
The other man was, however, possessed by a mischievous spirit, or did not understand him. “You may just as well tell us now as later, because you never kept a secret in your life,” he said.
In the meantime, several of the others had gathered about them, and Mrs. Macdonald, who had joined the group, smiled as she said, “There is evidently something interesting going on. Mayn’t I know, Gordon?”
“Of course,” said the man, who had visited the settlement. “You shall know as much as I do, though that is little, and if it excites your curiosity you can ask Ferris for the rest. He is only anxious to enhance the value of his story by being mysterious. Well, there was a more or less dramatic happening, of the kind our friends in the old country unwarrantably fancy is typical of the West, in the saloon at the settlement not long ago. Cards, pistols, a professional gambler, and the unmasking of foul play, don’t you know. Somebody from Silverdale played the leading rôle.”
“How interesting!” said a young English girl. “Now, I used to fancy something of that kind happened here every day before I came out to the prairie. Please tell us, Mr. Ferris! One would like to find there was just a trace of reality in our picturesque fancies of debonair desperadoes and big-hatted cavaliers.”
There was a curious expression in Ferris’ face, but as he glanced round at the rest, who were regarding him expectantly, he did not observe that Maud Barrington and her aunt had just come in and stood close behind him.
“Can’t you see there’s no getting out of it, Ferris?” said somebody.
“Well,” said the lad in desperation, “I can only admit that Gordon is right. There was foul play and a pistol drawn, but I’m sorry that I can’t add anything further. In fact, it wouldn’t be quite fair of me.”
“But the man from Silverdale?” asked Mrs. Macdonald.
“I’m afraid,” said Ferris, with the air of one shielding a friend, “I can’t tell you anything about him.”
“I know Mr. Courthorne drove in that night,” said the young English girl, who was not endued with very much discretion.
“Courthorne!” said one of the bystanders, and there was a momentary silence that was very expressive. “Was he concerned in what took place, Ferris?”
“Yes,” said the lad with apparent reluctance. “Mrs. Macdonald, you will remember that they dragged it out of me, but I will tell you nothing more whatever.”
“It seems to me you have told us quite sufficient and perhaps a trifle too much,” said somebody.
There was a curious silence. All of those present were more or less acquainted with Courthorne’s past history, and the suggestion of foul play coupled with the mention of a professional gambler had been significant. Ferris, while committing himself in no way, had certainly said sufficient. Then there was a sudden turning of heads as a young woman moved quietly into the midst of the group. She was ominously calm, but she stood very straight, and there was a little hard glitter in her eyes, which reminded one or two of them who noticed it of those of Colonel Barrington. The fingers of one hand were also closed at her side.
“I overheard you telling a story, Ferris, but you have a bad memory and left rather too much out,” she said.
“They compelled me to tell them what I did, Miss Barrington,” said the lad, who winced beneath her gaze. “Now, there is really nothing to be gained by going any further into the affair. Shall I play something for you, Mrs. Macdonald?”
He turned as he spoke, and would have edged away but that one of the men, at a glance from the girl, laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t be in a hurry, Ferris. I fancy Miss Barrington has something more to tell you,” he said dryly.
The girl thanked him with a gesture. “I want you to supply the most important part,” she said, and the lad, saying nothing, changed colour under the glance she cast upon him. “You do not seem willing. Then perhaps I had better do it for you. There were two men from Silverdale directly concerned in the affair, and one of them at no slight risk to himself did a very generous thing. That one was Mr. Courthorne. Did you see him lay a single stake upon a card, or do anything that led you to suppose he was there for the purpose of gambling that evening?”
“No,” said the lad, seeing she knew the truth, and his hoarse voice was scarcely audible.
“Then,” said Maud Barrington, “I want you to tell us what you did see him do.”
Ferris said nothing, and though the girl laughed a little as she glanced at the wondering group, her voice was icily disdainful.
“Well,” she said, “I will tell you. You saw him question a professional gambler’s play to save a man who had no claim on him from ruin, and, with only one comrade to back him, drive the swindler, who had a pistol, from the field. He had, you admit, no interest of any kind in the game?”
Ferris had grown crimson again, and the veins on his forehead showed swollen high. “No,” he said, almost abjectly.
Maud Barrington turned from him to her hostess as she answered, “That will suffice, in the meanwhile, until I can decide whether it is desirable to make known the rest of the tale. I brought the new song Evelyn wanted, Mrs. Macdonald, and I will play it for her if she would care to try it.”
She moved away with the elder lady, and left the rest astonished to wonder what had become of Ferris, who was seen no more that evening, while presently Witham came in.
His face was a trifle weary, for he had toiled since the sun rose above the rim of the prairie, and when the arduous day was over, and those who worked for him were glad to rest their aching limbs, had driven two leagues to Macdonald’s. Why he had done so he was not willing to admit, but he glanced round the long room anxiously as he came in, and his eyes brightened as they rested on Maud Barrington. They were, however, observant eyes, and he noticed that there was a trifle more colour than usual in the girl’s pale-tinted face, and signs of suppressed curiosity about some of the rest. When he had greeted his hostess, he turned to one of the men.
“It seems to me you are either trying not to see something, Gordon, or to forget it as soon as you can,” he said.
Gordon laughed a little. “You are not often mistaken, Courthorne? That is precisely what we are doing. I presume you haven’t heard what occurred here an hour ago?”
“No!” said Witham. “I’m not very curious if it does not concern me.”
Gordon looked at him steadily. “I fancy it does. You see, that young fool Ferris was suggesting that you had been mixed up in something not very creditable at the settlement lately. As it happened, Maud Barrington overheard him and made him retract before the company. She did it effectively, and if it had been any one else, the scene would have been almost theatrical. Still, you know nothing seems out of place when it comes from the Colonel’s niece. Nor if you had heard her would you have wanted a better advocate.”
For a moment the bronze deepened in Witham’s forehead, and there was a gleam in his eyes, but though it passed as rapidly as it came, Gordon had seen it, and smiled when the farmer moved away.
“That’s a probability I never counted on,” he thought. “Still, I fancy if it came about, it would suit everybody but the Colonel.”
Then he turned as Mrs. Macdonald came up to him. “What are you doing here alone when I see there is nobody talking to the girl from Winnipeg?” she said.
The man laughed a little. “I was wondering whether it is a good sign, or otherwise, when a young woman is, so far as she can decently be, uncivil to a man who desires her good-will.”
Mrs. Macdonald glanced at him sharply, and then shook her head. “The question is too deep for you—and it is not your affair. Besides, haven’t you seen that indiscreet freedom of speech is not encouraged at Silverdale?”
In the meanwhile Witham, crossing the room, took a vacant place at Maud Barrington’s side. She turned her head a moment and looked at him.
Witham nodded. “Yes, I heard,” he said. “Why did you do it?”
Maud Barrington made a little gesture of impatience. “That is quite unnecessary. You know I sent you.”
“Yes,” said Witham a trifle dryly, “I see. You would have felt mean if you hadn’t defended me.”
“No,” said the girl, with a curious smile. “That was not exactly the reason, but we cannot talk too long here. Dane is anxious to take us home in his new buggy, but it would apparently be a very tight fit for three. Will you drive me over?”
Witham only nodded, for Mrs. Macdonald approached in pursuit of him, but he spent the rest of the evening in a state of expectancy, and Maud Barrington fancied that his hard hands were suspiciously unresponsive as she took them when he helped her into the Silverdale wagon—a vehicle a strong man could have lifted, and in no way resembling its English prototype. The team was mettlesome, the lights of Macdonald’s homestead soon faded behind them, and they were racing with many a lurch and jolt straight as the crow flies across the prairie.
There was no moon, but the stars shone far up in the soft indigo, and the grasses whirled back in endless ripples to the humming wheels, dimmed to the dusky blue that suffused the whole intermerging sweep of earth and sky. The sweetness of wild peppermint rose through the coolness of the dew, and the voices of the wilderness were part of the silence that was but the perfect balance of the nocturnal harmonies. The two who knew and loved the prairie could pick out each one of them. Nor did it seem that there was any need of speech on such a night, but at last Witham turned with a little smile to his companion, as he checked the horses on the slope of a billowy rise.
“One feels diffident about intruding on this great quietness,” he said. “Still, I fancy you had a purpose in asking me to drive you home.”
“Yes,” said the girl, with a curious gentleness. “In the first place, though I know it isn’t necessary with you, I want to thank you. I made Dane tell me, and you have done all I wished—splendidly.”
Witham laughed. “Well, you see, it naturally came easy to me.”
Maud Barrington noticed the trace of grimness in his voice. “Please try to overlook our unkindness,” she said. “Is it really needful to keep reminding me? And how was I to know what you were, when I had only heard that wicked story?”
Witham felt a little thrill run through him, for which reason he looked straight in front of him and shifted his grasp on the reins. Disdainful and imperious as she was at times, he knew there was a wealth of softer qualities in his companion now. Her daintiness in thought and person, and honesty of purpose, appealed to him, while that night her mere physical presence had an effect that was almost bewildering. For a moment he wondered vaguely how far a man with what fate had thrust upon him might dare to go, and then with a little shiver saw once more the barrier of deceit and imposture.
“You believe it was not a true one?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Maud Barrington. “How could it be? And you have been very patient under our suspicions. Now, if you still value the good-will you once asked for, it is yours absolutely.”