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<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Impostor, by Harold Bindloss, Illustrated
by Victor Prout</h1>
<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at <a
href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></p>
<p>Title: The Impostor</p>
<p>Author: Harold Bindloss</p>
<p>Release Date: May 14, 2012  [eBook #39698]</p>
<p>Language: English</p>
<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p>
<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMPOSTOR***</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h3 class="pg">E-text prepared by Roger Frank<br />
    and the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team<br />
    (<a href="http://www.pgdpcanada.net">http://www.pgdpcanada.net</a>)<br />
    from images of public domain material generously made available<br />
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<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr class="full" />
<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p class='center tight' style='font-size:1.4em;'>THE IMPOSTOR.</p>
<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; width:70%; margin:2em auto' />

<div style='text-align:center'>
<img src='images/illus-001.jpg' alt=''/>
<p class='caption'>“In the meanwhile, Maud Barrington sat by the open window in her room.” (Chapter XVI.)</p>
</div>
<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; width:70%; margin:2em auto' />

<p class='center tight' style='font-size:1.4em;margin-bottom:2em;'>THE IMPOSTOR</p>

<p class='center tight' style=''>By</p>

<p class='center tight' style='font-size:1.2em;margin-bottom:2em;'>HAROLD BINDLOSS</p>

<p class='center tight' style='font-size:0.8em;'>Author of “Hawtrey’s Deputy,” “The Liberationist,”</p>
<p class='center tight' style='font-size:0.8em;margin-bottom:2em;'>“A Sower of Wheat,” “The Pioneer,” etc.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p class='center tight' style=''>WARD, LOCK &amp; CO., LIMITED</p>

<p class='center tight' style='font-size:0.8em;'>LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO</p>
<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; width:70%; margin:2em auto' />

<p class='center tight' style='font-size:1.2em;'>CONTENTS</p>

<table id='toc' style='margin:auto' summary='TOC'>
<tr><td align='right'>I</td><td><a href='#clink01'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Rancher Witham</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>II</td><td><a href='#clink02'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Lance Courthorne</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>III</td><td><a href='#clink03'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Trooper Shannon’s Quarrel</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>IV</td><td><a href='#clink04'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>In the Bluff</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>V</td><td><a href='#clink05'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Miss Barrington Comes Home</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VI</td><td><a href='#clink06'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Anticipations</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VII</td><td><a href='#clink07'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Witham’s Decision</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>VIII</td><td><a href='#clink08'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Witham Comes to Silverdale</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>IX</td><td><a href='#clink09'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>An Armistice</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>X</td><td><a href='#clink10'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Maud Barrington’s Promise</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XI</td><td><a href='#clink11'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Speed the Plough</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XII</td><td><a href='#clink12'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Mastery Recognized</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XIII</td><td><a href='#clink13'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Fair Advocate</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XIV</td><td><a href='#clink14'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Unexpected</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XV</td><td><a href='#clink15'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Facing the Flame</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XVI</td><td><a href='#clink16'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Maud Barrington is Merciless</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XVII</td><td><a href='#clink17'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>With the Stream</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XVIII</td><td><a href='#clink18'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Under Test</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XIX</td><td><a href='#clink19'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Courthorne Blunders</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XX</td><td><a href='#clink20'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Face at the Window</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XXI</td><td><a href='#clink21'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Colonel Barrington is Convinced</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XXII</td><td><a href='#clink22'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Sergeant Stimson Confirms his Suspicions</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XXIII</td><td><a href='#clink23'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Revelation</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XXIV</td><td><a href='#clink24'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Courthorne makes Reparation</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XXV</td><td><a href='#clink25'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Witham Rides Away</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align='right'>XXVI</td><td><a href='#clink26'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Reinstation</span></a></td></tr>
</table>
<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; width:70%; margin:2em auto' />

<p class='center tight' style='font-size:1.4em;'>THE IMPOSTOR</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink01'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER I—RANCHER WITHAM</a></h2>

<p>It was a bitter night, for although there was no snow
as yet, the frost had bound the prairie in its iron grip,
when Rancher Witham stood shivering in a little
Canadian settlement in the great, lonely land which
runs north from the American frontier to Athabasca.
There was no blink of starlight in the murky sky, and
a stinging wind that came up out of the great waste
of grass moaned about the frame houses clustering
beside the trail that led south over the limited levels
to the railroad and civilization. It chilled Witham
through his somewhat tattered furs, and he strode
up and down, glancing expectantly into the darkness,
and then across the unpaved street, where the ruts
were ploughed a foot deep in the prairie sod, towards
the warm, red glow from the windows of the wooden
hotel. He knew that the rest of the outlying farmers
and ranchers who had ridden in for their letters were
sitting snug about the stove, but it was customary
for all who sought shelter there to pay for their share
of the six o’clock supper, and the half-dollar Witham
had then in his pocket was required for other purposes.</p>

<p>He had also retained through all his struggles a
measure of his pride, and because of it strode up and
down buffeted by the blasts until a beat of horse-hoofs
came out of the darkness and was followed by a rattle
of wheels. It grew steadily louder, a blinking ray
of brightness flickered across the frame houses, and
presently dark figures were silhouetted against the
light on the hotel veranda as a lurching wagon drew
up beneath it. Two dusky objects, shapeless in their
furs, sprang down, and one stumbled into the post
office close by with a bag while the other man answered
the questions hurled at him as he fumbled with stiffened
fingers at the harness.</p>

<p>“Late? Well, you might be thankful you’ve got
your mail at all,” he said. “We had to go round by
Willow Bluff, and didn’t think we’d get through the
ford. Ice an inch thick, anyway, and Charley talked
that much he’s not said anything since, even when
the near horse put his foot into a badger hole.”</p>

<p>Rude banter followed this, but Witham took no
part in it. Hastening into the post office, he stood
betraying his impatience by his very impassiveness
while a sallow-faced woman tossed the letters out
upon the counter. At last she took up two of them,
and the man’s fingers trembled a little as he stretched
out his hand, when she said—</p>

<p>“That’s all there are for you.”</p>

<p>Witham recognized the writing on the envelopes,
and it was with difficulty he held his eagerness in
check, but other men were waiting for his place, and
he went out and crossed the street to the hotel where
there was light to read by. As he entered it a girl,
bustling about a long table in the big stove-warmed
room, turned with a little smile.</p>

<p>“It’s only you!” she said. “Now I was figuring
it was Lance Courthorne.”</p>

<p>Witham, impatient as he was, stopped and laughed,
for the hotel-keeper’s daughter was tolerably
well-favoured and a friend of his.</p>

<p>“And you’re disappointed?” he said. “I haven’t
Lance’s good looks, or his ready tongue.”</p>

<p>The room was empty, for the guests were thronging
about the post office then, and the girl’s eyes twinkled
as she drew back a pace and surveyed the man. There
was nothing in his appearance that would have aroused
a stranger’s interest, or attracted more than a passing
glance, and he stood before her in a very old fur coat,
with a fur cap that was in keeping with it in his hand.
His face had been bronzed almost to the colour of a
Blackfoot Indian’s by frost and wind and sun, and
it was of English type from the crisp fair hair above
the broad forehead to the somewhat solid chin. The
mouth was hidden by the bronze-tinted moustache,
and the eyes alone, were noticeable. They were
grey, and there was a steadiness in them which was
almost unusual even in that country, where men look
into long distances. For the rest, he was of average
stature, and stood impassively straight, looking down
upon the girl without either grace or awkwardness,
while his hard brown hands, suggested, as his attire
did, strenuous labour for a very small reward.</p>

<p>“Well,” said the girl with Western frankness,
“there’s a kind of stamp on Lance that you haven’t
got. I figure he brought it with him from the old
country. Still, one might take you for him if you
stood with the light behind you, and you’re not quite
a bad-looking man. It’s a kind of pity you’re so
solemn.”</p>

<p>Witham smiled. “I don’t fancy that’s astonishing
after losing two harvests in succession,” he said.
“You see, there’s nobody back there in the old country
to send remittances to me.”</p>

<p>The girl nodded with quick sympathy. “Oh,
yes. The times are bad,” she said. “Well, you
read your letters; I’m not going to worry you.”</p>

<p>Witham sat down and opened the first envelope
under the big lamp. It was from a land agent and
mortgage-broker, and his face grew a trifle grimmer
as he read, “In the present condition of the money
market your request that we should carry you over
is unreasonable, and we regret that unless you can
extinguish at least half the loan we will be compelled
to foreclose upon your holding.”</p>

<p>There was a little more of it, but that was sufficient
for Witham, who knew it meant disaster, and it was
with the feeling of one clinging desperately to the last
shred of hope he tore open the second envelope. The
letter it held was from a friend he had made in a
Western city, and once entertained for a month at
his ranch, but the man had evidently sufficient
difficulties of his own to contend with.</p>

<p>“Very sorry, but it can’t be done,” he wrote. “I’m
loaded up with wheat nobody will buy, and couldn’t
raise five hundred dollars to lend any one just now,”</p>

<p>Witham sighed a little, but when he rose and slowly
straightened himself nobody would have suspected
he was looking ruin in the face. He had fought a
slow, losing battle for six weary years, holding on
doggedly though defeat appeared inevitable, and now
when it had come he bore it impassively, for the
struggle which, though he was scarcely twenty-six,
had crushed all mirth and brightness out of his life,
had given him endurance in place of them. Just then
a man came bustling towards him, with the girl who
bore a tray close behind.</p>

<p>“What are you doing with that coat on?” he said.
“Get it off and sit down right there. The boys are
about through with the mail and supper’s ready,”</p>

<p>Witham glanced at the steaming dishes hungrily,
for he had passed most of the day in the bitter frost,
eating very little, and there was still a drive of twenty
miles before him.</p>

<p>“It is time I was taking the trail,” he said.</p>

<p>He was sensible of a pain in his left side, which, as
other men have discovered, not infrequently follows
enforced abstinence from food, but he remembered
what he wanted the half-dollar in his pocket for. The
hotel-keeper had possibly some notion of the state of
affairs, for he laughed a little.</p>

<p>“You’ve got to sit down,” he said. “Now, after
the way you fixed me up when I stopped at your ranch,
you don’t figure I’d let you go before you had some
supper with me.”</p>

<p>Witham may have been unduly sensitive, but he
shook his head. “You’re very good, but it’s a long
ride, and I’m going now,” he said. “Good-night,
Nettie.”</p>

<p>He turned as he spoke, with the swift decision that
was habitual with him, and when he went out the girl
glanced at her father reproachfully.</p>

<p>“You always get spoiling things when you put your
hand in,” she said. “Now that man’s hungry, and
I’d have fixed it so he’d have got his supper if you had
left it to me.”</p>

<p>The hotel-keeper laughed a little. “I’m kind of
sorry for Witham because there’s grit in him, and
he’s never had a show,” he said. “Still, I figure he’s
not worth your going out gunning after, Nettie.”</p>

<p>The girl said nothing, but there was a little flush
in her face which had not been there before, when she
busied herself with the dishes.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile Witham was harnessing two bronco
horses to a very dilapidated wagon. They were
vicious beasts, but he had bought them cheap from a
man who had some difficulty in driving them, while
the wagon had been given him, when it was apparently
useless, by a neighbour. The team had, however,
already covered thirty miles that day, and started
homewards at a steady trot without the playful kicking
they usually indulged in. Here and there a man
sprang clear of the rutted road, but Witham did not
notice him or return his greeting. He was abstractedly
watching the rude frame houses flit by, and wondering,
while the pain in his side grew keener, when he
would get his supper, for it happens not infrequently
that the susceptibilities are dulled by a heavy blow,
and the victim finds a distraction that is almost welcome
in the endurance of a petty trouble.</p>

<p>Witham was very hungry, and weary alike in body
and mind. The sun had not risen when he left his
homestead, and he had passed the day under a
nervous strain, hoping, although it seemed improbable,
that the mail would bring him relief from his
anxieties. Now he knew the worst he could bear it as
he had borne the loss of two harvests, and the disaster
which followed in the wake of the blizzard that killed
off his stock; but it seemed unfair that he should
endure cold and hunger too, and when one wheel sank
in a rut and the jolt shook him in every stiffened limb,
he broke out with a hoarse expletive. It was his first
protest against the fate that was too strong for him,
and almost as he made it he laughed.</p>

<p>“Pshaw! There’s no use kicking against what
has to be, and I’ve got to keep my head just now,”
he said.</p>

<p>There was no great comfort in the reflection, but it
had sustained him before, and Witham’s head was a
somewhat exceptional one, though there was as a
rule nothing in any way remarkable about his conversation,
and he was apparently merely one of the
many quietly-spoken, bronze-faced men who are even
by their blunders building up a great future for the
Canadian dominion. He accordingly drew his old
rug tighter round him, and instinctively pulled his
fur cap lower down when the lights of the settlement
faded behind him and the creaking wagon swung out
into the blackness of the prairie. It ran back league
beyond league across three broad provinces, and the
wind that came up out of the great emptiness emphasized
its solitude. A man from the cities would have
heard nothing but the creaking of the wagon and the
drumming fall of hoofs, but Witham heard the grasses
patter as they swayed beneath the bitter blasts stiff
with frost, and the moan of swinging boughs in a far-off
willow bluff. It was these things that guided him,
for he had left the rutted trail, and here and there the
swishen beneath the wheels told of taller grass, while the
bluff ran black athwart the horizon when that had
gone. Then twigs crackled beneath them as the
horses picked their way amidst the shadowy trees
stunted by a ceaseless struggle with the wind, and
Witham shook the creeping drowsiness from him when
they came out into the open again, for he knew it is
not advisable for any man with work still to do to
fall asleep under the frost of that country.</p>

<p>Still, he grew a trifle dazed as the miles went by, and
because of it indulged in memories he had shaken off
at other times. They were blurred recollections of
the land he had left eight years ago, pictures of sheltered
England, half-forgotten music, the voices of
friends who no longer remembered him, and the
smiles in a girl’s bright eyes. Then he settled himself
more firmly in the driving-seat, and with numbed
fingers sought a tighter grip of the reins as the memory
of the girl’s soft answer to a question he had asked
brought his callow ambitions back.</p>

<p>He was to hew his way to fortune in the West, and
then come back for her, but the girl who had clung to
him with wet cheeks when he left her had apparently
grown tired of waiting, and Witham sent back her
letters in return for a silver-printed card. That was
six years ago, and now none of the dollars he had
brought into the country remained to him. He
realized, dispassionately and without egotism, that
this was through no fault of his, for he knew that
better men had been crushed and beaten.</p>

<p>It was, however, time he had done with these reflections,
for while he sat half-dazed and more than half-frozen
the miles had been flitting by, and now the team
knew they were not very far from home. Little by
little their pace increased, and Witham was almost
astonished to see another bluff black against the
night ahead of him. As usual in that country, the
willows and birches crawled up the sides and just
showed their heads above the sinuous crest of a river
hollow. It was very dark when the wagon lurched
in among them, and it cost the man an effort to discern
the winding trail which led down into the blackness
of the hollow. In places the slope was almost precipitous,
and it behoved him to be careful of the horses,
which could not be replaced. Without them he could
not plough in spring, and his life did not appear of any
especial value in comparison with theirs just then.</p>

<p>The team, however, were evidently bent on getting
home as soon as possible, and Witham’s fingers were too
stiff to effectively grasp the reins. A swinging bough
also struck one of the horses, and when it plunged
and flung up its head the man reeled a little in his seat.
Before he recovered the team were going down-hill at a
gallop. Witham flung himself bodily backwards with
tense muscles, and the reins slipping a trifle in his
hands, knowing that though he bore against them with
all his strength the team were leaving the trail. Then
the wagon jolted against a tree, one horse stumbled,
picked up its stride, and went on at a headlong gallop.
The man felt the wind rush past him and saw
the dim trees whirl by, but he could only hold on and
wonder what would take place when they came to
the bottom. The bridge the trail went round by was
some distance to the right and because the frost had
just set in he knew the ice on the river would not
bear the load, even if the horses could keep their
footing.</p>

<p>He had not, however, long to wonder. Once more
a horse stumbled, there was a crash, and a branch
hurled Witham backwards into the wagon, which
came to a standstill suddenly. When he rose something
warm was running down his face, and there was
a red smear on the hand he lighted the lantern with.
When that was done he flung himself down from the
wagon, dreading what he would find. The flickering
radiance showed him that the pole had snapped, and
while one bronco still stood trembling on its feet
the other lay inert amidst a tangle of harness. The
man’s face grew a trifle grimmer as he threw the light
upon it, and then, stooping, glanced at one doubled
leg. It was evident that fate, which did nothing by
halves, had dealt him a crushing blow. The last
faint hope he clung to had vanished now.</p>

<p>He was, however, a humane man, and considerate
of the beasts that worked for him, and accordingly
thrust his hand inside the old fur coat, when he had
loosed the uninjured horse, and drew out a long-bladed
knife. Then he knelt and, setting down the lantern,
felt for the place to strike. When he found it his courage
almost deserted him, and meeting the eyes that
seemed to look up at him with dumb appeal, turned
his head away. Still, he was a man who would not
shirk a painful duty, and shaking off the sense of revulsion
turned again and stroked the beast’s head.</p>

<p>“It’s all I can do for you,” he said.</p>

<p>Then his arm came down, and a tremor ran through
the quivering frame, while Witham set his lips tightly
as his hand grew warm. The thing was horrible to
him, but the life he led had taught him the folly of
weakness, and he was too pitiful to let his squeamishness
overcome him.</p>

<p>Still, he shivered when it was done, and rubbing
the knife in the withered leaves, rose and made shift
to gird a rug about the uninjured horse. Then he
cut the reins and tied them, and mounting without
stirrups rode towards the bridge. The horse went
quietly enough now, and the man allowed it to choose
its way. He was going home to find shelter from
the cold, because his animal instincts prompted him,
but otherwise, almost without volition, in a state of
dispassionate indifference. Nothing more he fancied,
could well befall him.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink02'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER II—LANCE COURTHORNE</a></h2>

<p>It was late when Witham reached his log-built
house, but he set out once more with his remaining
horse before the lingering daylight crept out of the
east, to haul the wagon home. He also spent most of
the day in repairing it, because occupation of any kind
that would keep him from unpleasant reflections appeared
advisable, and to allow anything to fall out
of use was distasteful to him, although as the wagon
had been built for two horses he had little hope of
driving it again. It was a bitter, grey day, with a low,
smoky sky, and seemed very long to Witham; but
evening came at last, and he was left with nothing
between him and his thoughts.</p>

<p>He lay in a dilapidated chair beside the stove, and
the little bare room through which its pipe ran was
permeated with the smell of fresh shavings, hot iron,
and the fumes of indifferent tobacco. A carpenter’s
bench ran along one end of it, and was now occupied
by a new wagon pole the man had fashioned out of a
slender birch. A Marlin rifle, an axe, and a big saw
hung beneath the head of an antelope on the wall
above the bench, and all of them showed signs of use
and glistened with oil. Opposite to them a few
shelves were filled with simple crockery and cooking
utensils, and these also shone spotlessly. There
was a pair of knee boots in one corner with a patch
partly sewn on to one of them, and the harness in
another showed traces of careful repair. A bookcase
hung above them, and its somewhat tattered
contents indicated that the man who had chosen and
evidently handled them frequently possessed tastes
any one who did not know that country would scarcely
have expected to find in a prairie farmer. A table
and one or two rude chairs made by their owner’s
hands completed the furniture; but while all hinted
at poverty, it also suggested neatness, industry, and
care, for the room bore the impress of its occupier’s
individuality, as rooms not infrequently do.</p>

<p>It was not difficult to see that he was frugal, though
possibly from necessity rather than taste, not sparing
of effort, and had a keen eye for utility, and if that
suggested the question why, with such capacities, he
had not attained to greater comfort, the answer was
simple. Witham had no money, and the seasons had
fought against him. He had done his uttermost with
the means at his disposal, and now he knew he was
beaten.</p>

<p>A doleful wind moaned about the lonely building
and set the roof shingles rattling overhead. Now and
then the stove crackled, or the lamp flickered, and
any one unused to the prairie would have felt the
little loghouse very desolate and lonely. There was
no other human habitation within a league, only a
great waste of whitened grass relieved about the homestead
by the raw clods of the fall ploughing; for,
while his scattered neighbours, for the most part, put
their trust in horses and cattle, Witham had been
among the first to realize the capacities of that land
as a wheat-growing country.</p>

<p>Now, clad in well-worn jean trousers and an old
deerskin jacket, he looked down at the bundle of documents
on his knee, accounts unpaid, a banker’s intimation
that no more cheques would be honoured
and a mortgage deed. They were not pleasant reading,
and the man’s face clouded as he pencilled notes
on some of them, but there was no weakness or futile
protest in it. Defeat was plain between the lines of
all he read, but he was going on stubbornly until the
struggle was ended, as others of his kind had done,
there at the western limit of the furrows of the plough
and in the great province further east which is one of
the world’s granaries. They went under and were
forgotten, but they showed the way, and while their
guerdon was usually six feet of prairie soil, the wheat-fields,
mills, and railroads came, for it is written
plainly on the new North-West that no man may live
and labour for himself alone, and there are many who,
realizing it, instinctively ask very little, and freely
give their best for the land that but indifferently
shelters them.</p>

<p>Presently, however, there was a knocking at the
door, and though this was most unusual, Witham
only quietly moved his head when a bitter blast came
in, and a man wrapped in furs stood in the opening.</p>

<p>“I’ll put my horse in the stable while I’ve got my
furs on. It’s a bitter night,” he said.</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “You know where the lantern
is,” he said. “There’s some chop in the manger, and
you needn’t spare the oats in the bin. At present
prices it doesn’t pay to haul them in.”</p>

<p>The man closed the door silently, and it was ten
minutes before he returned, and sloughing off his furs
dropped into a chair beside the stove. “I got supper
at Broughton’s, and don’t want anything but shelter
to-night,” he said. “Shake that pipe out and try
one of these instead.”</p>

<p>He laid a cigar case on the table, and though well
worn it was of costly make, with a good deal of silver
about it, while Witham, who lighted one, knew that
the cigars were good. He had no esteem for his visitor,
but men are not censorious upon the prairie, and
Western hospitality is always free.</p>

<p>“Where have you come from, Courthorne?” he
said quietly.</p>

<p>The other man laughed a little. “The long trail,” he
said. “The Dakotas, Colorado, Montana. Cleaned
up one thousand dollars at Regent, and might have
got more, but some folks down there seemed tired
of me. The play was quite regular, but they have
apparently been getting virtuous lately.”</p>

<p>“And now?” said Witham, with polite indifference.</p>

<p>Courthorne made a little gesture of deprecation.</p>

<p>“I’m back again with the rustlers.”</p>

<p>Witham’s nod signified comprehension, for the
struggle between the great range-holders across the
frontier and the smaller settlers who with legal right
invaded their cattle runs was just over. It had been
fought out bitterly with dynamite and rifles, and when
at last, with the aid of the United States cavalry, peace
was made, sundry broken men and mercenaries who
had taken the pay of both parties, seeing their occupation
gone, had found a fresh scope for their energies
in smuggling liquor, and on opportunity transferring
cattle, without their owners’ sanction, across
the frontier. That was then a prohibition country,
and the profits and risks attached to supplying it
and the Blackfeet on the reserves with liquor were
heavy.</p>

<p>“Business this way?” said Witham.</p>

<p>Courthorne appeared to consider a moment, and
there was a curious little glint which did not escape
his companion’s attention in his eyes, but he laughed.</p>

<p>“Yes, we’re making a big run,” he said, then
stopped and looked straight at the rancher. “Did
it ever strike you, Witham, that you were not unlike
me?”</p>

<p>Witham smiled, but made a little gesture of dissent
as he returned the other’s gaze. They were about the
same height and had the same English type of face,
while Witham’s eyes were grey and his companion’s
an indefinite blue that approached the former colour,
but there the resemblance, which was not more than
discernible, ended. Witham was quietly-spoken
and somewhat grim, a plain prairie farmer in appearance,
while a vague but recognizable stamp of breeding
and distinction still clung to Courthorne. He
would have appeared more in place in the States upon
the southern Atlantic seaboard, where the characteristics
the Cavalier settlers brought with them are not
extinct, than he did upon the Canadian prairie. His
voice had even in his merriment a little imperious
ring, his face was refined as well as sensual, and there
was a languid gracefulness in his movements and a
hint of pride in his eyes. They, however, lacked the
steadiness of Witham’s, and there were men who had
seen the wild devil that was born in Courthorne look
out of them. Witham knew him as a pleasant companion,
but surmised from stories he had heard that
there were men, and more women, who bitterly rued
the trust they had placed in him.</p>

<p>“No,” he said dryly. “I scarcely think I am like
you, although only last night Nettie at the settlement
took me for you. You see, the kind of life I’ve
led out here has set its mark on me, and my folks in
the old country were distinctly middle-class people.
There is something in heredity.”</p>

<p>Courthorne did not parry the unexpressed question.
“Oh, yes,” he said, with a little sardonic smile. “I
know. The backbone of the nation—solemn, virtuous,
and slow. You’re like them, but my folks
were different, as you surmise. I don’t think they
had many estimable qualities from your point of view,
but if they all didn’t go quite straight they never went
slow, and they had a few prejudices, which is why I
found it advisable to leave the old country. Still,
I’ve had my fill of all that life can offer most folks out
here, while you scarcely seem to have found virtue
pay you. They told me at the settlement things were
bad with you.”</p>

<p>Witham, who was usually correct in his deductions,
surmised that his companion had an object, and expected
something in return for this confidence. There
was also no need for reticence when every farmer in
the district knew all about his affairs, while something
urged him to follow Courthorne’s lead.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said quietly. “They are. You see,
when I lost my cattle in the blizzard, I had to sell out
or mortgage the place to the hilt, and during the last
two years I haven’t made the interest. The loan falls
due in August, and they’re going to foreclose on me.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Courthorne, “what is keeping you
here when the result of every hour’s work you put
in will go straight into another’s man’s pocket?”</p>

<p>Witham smiled a little. “In the first place, I’ve
nowhere else to go, and there’s something in the feeling
that one has held on to the end. Besides, until
a few days ago I had a vague hope that by working
double tides, I might get another crop in. Somebody
might have advanced me a little on it because the
mortgage only claims the house and land.”</p>

<p>Courthorne looked at him curiously. “No. We
are not alike,” he said. “There’s a slow stubborn
devil in you, Witham, and I think I’d be afraid of you
if I ever did you an injury. But go on.”</p>

<p>“There’s very little more. My team ran away
down the ravine, and I had to put one beast out of
its misery. I can’t do my ploughing with one horse,
and that leaves me stranded for the want of the dollars
to buy another with. It’s usually a very little
thing that turns the scale, but now the end has come,
I don’t know that I’m sorry. I’ve never had a good
time, you see, and the struggle was slowly crushing
the life out of me.”</p>

<p>Witham spoke quietly, without bitterness, but
Courthorne, who had never striven at all but stretched
out his hand and taken what was offered, the more
willingly when it was banned alike by judicial and
moral law, dimly understood him. He was a fearless
man, but he knew his courage would not have been
equal to the strain of that six years’ struggle against
loneliness, physical fatigue, and adverse seasons,
during which disaster followed disaster. He looked
at the bronzed farmer as he said, “Still, you would
do a little in return for a hundred dollars that would
help you to go on with the fight?”</p>

<p>A faint sparkle crept into Witham’s eyes. It was
not hope, but rather the grim anticipation of the man
offered a better weapon when standing with his back
to the wall.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said slowly. “I would do almost anything.”</p>

<p>“Even if it was against the law?”</p>

<p>Witham sat silent for almost a minute, but there
was no indecision in his face, which slightly perplexed
Courthorne. “Yes,” he said. “Though I kept it
while I could, the law was made for the safe-guarding
of prosperous men, but with such as I am it is every
man for his own hand and the devil to care for the
vanquished. Still, there is a reservation.”</p>

<p>Courthorne nodded. “It’s unlawful, but not
against the unwritten code.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham quietly, “when you tell me
what you want I should have a better opinion.”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed a little, though there was
something unpleasant in his eyes. “When I first
came out to this country I should have resented that,”
he said. “Now, it seems to me that I’m putting
too much in your hands if I make the whole thing
clear before you commit yourself in any way.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “In fact, you have got to trust
me. You can do so safely.”</p>

<p>“The assurance of the guileless is astonishing and
occasionally hard to bear,” said Courthorne. “Why
not reverse the position?”</p>

<p>Witham’s gaze was steady, and free from embarrassment.
“I am,” he said, “waiting for your offer.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Courthorne dryly, “here it is. We
are running a big load through to the northern settlements
and the reserves to-morrow, and while there’s
a good deal of profit attached to the venture, I have
a notion that Sergeant Stimson has had word of it.
Now, the Sergeant knows just how I stand with the
rustlers, though he can fasten no charge on me, and
he will have several of his troopers looking out for me.
Well, I want one of them to see and follow me south
along the Montana trail. There’s no horse in the
Government service can keep pace with that black
of mine, but it would not be difficult to pull him and
just keep the trooper out of carbine shot behind.
When he finds he can’t overtake the black he’ll go
off for his comrades, and the boys will run our goods
across the river while they’re picking up the trail.”</p>

<p>“You mentioned the horse, but not yourself,”
said Witham quietly.</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed. “Yes,” he said; “I will
not be there. I’m offering you one hundred dollars
to ride the black for me. You can put my furs on,
and anybody who saw you and knew the horse would
certify it was me.”</p>

<p>“And where will you be?”</p>

<p>“Here,” said Courthorne dryly. “The boys will
have no use for me until they want a guide, but they’ll
leave an unloaded packhorse handy, and, as it wouldn’t
suit any of us to make my connexion with them too
plain, it will be a night or two later when I join them.
In the meanwhile your part’s quite easy. No trooper
could ride you down unless you wanted him to, and
you’ll ride straight on to Montana—I’ve a route
marked out for you. You’ll stop at the places I tell
you, and the testimony of anybody who saw you on
the black would be quite enough to clear me if Stimson’s
men are too clever for the boys.”</p>

<p>Witham sat still a moment, and it was not avarice
which prompted him when he said, “Considering the
risk, one hundred dollars is very little.”</p>

<p>“Of course,” said Courthorne. “Still, it isn’t
worth any more to me, and there will be your expenses.
If it doesn’t suit you, I will do the thing myself
and find the boys another guide.”</p>

<p>He spoke indifferently, but Witham was not a fool,
and knew that he was lying.</p>

<p>“Turn your face to the light,” he said sharply.</p>

<p>A little ominous glint became visible in Courthorne’s
eyes, and there was just a trace of darker colour in his
forehead, but Witham saw it and was not astonished.
Still Courthorne did not move.</p>

<p>“What made you ask me that?” he said.</p>

<p>Witham watched him closely, but his voice betrayed
no special interest as he said, “I fancied I saw a mark
across your cheek. It seemed to me that it had been
made by a whip.”</p>

<p>The deeper tint was more visible on Courthorne’s
forehead, where the swollen veins showed a trifle, and
he appeared to swallow something before he spoke.
“Aren’t you asking too many questions? What has
a mark on my face to do with you?”</p>

<p>“Nothing,” said Witham quietly. “Will you go
through the conditions again?”</p>

<p>Courthorne nodded. “I pay you one hundred
dollars—now,” he said. “You ride south to-morrow
along the Montana trail and take the risk of the
troopers overtaking you. You will remain away a
fortnight at my expense, and pass in the meanwhile
for me. Then you will return at night as rancher
Witham, and keep the whole thing a secret from
everybody.”</p>

<p>Witham sat silent and very still again for more than
a minute. He surmised that the man who made the
offer had not told him all and there was more behind,
but that was, after all, of no great importance. He
was prepared to do a good deal for one hundred
dollars, and his bare life of effort and self-denial
had grown almost unendurable. He had now
nothing to lose, and while some impulse urged him
to the venture, he felt that it was possible fate had in
store for him something better than he had known
in the past. In the meanwhile the cigar he held
went out, and the striking of a match as Courthorne
lighted another roused him suddenly from the retrospect
he was sinking into. The bitter wind still
moaned about the ranch, emphasizing its loneliness,
and the cedar shingles rattled dolefully overhead,
while it chanced that as Witham glanced towards the
roof his eyes rested on the suspended piece of rancid
pork which with a little flour and a few potatoes had
during the last few months provided him with a
sustenance. It was of course a trifle, but it tipped
the beam, as trifles often do, and the man who was
tired of all it symbolized straightened himself with
a little mirthless laugh.</p>

<p>“On your word of honour there is nothing beyond
the risk of a few days’ detention which can affect
me?” he said.</p>

<p>“No,” said Courthorne solemnly, knowing that
he lied. “On my honour. The troopers could only
question you. Is it a deal?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham simply, stretching out his
hand for the roll of bills the other flung down on the
table, and, while one of the contracting parties knew
that the other would regret it bitterly, the bargain
was made.</p>

<p>Then Courthorne laughed in his usual indolent
fashion as he said, “Well, it’s all decided, and I don’t
even ask your word. To-morrow will see the husk
sloughed off and for a fortnight you’ll be Lance Courthorne.
I hope you feel equal to playing the rôle with
credit, because I wouldn’t entrust my good fame to
everybody.”</p>

<p>Witham smiled dryly. “I fancy I shall,” he said,
and long afterwards recalled the words. “You see,
I had ambitions in my callow days, and it’s not
my fault that hitherto I’ve never had a part to play.”</p>

<p>Rancher Witham was, however, wrong in this.
He had played the part of an honest man with a
courage which had brought him to ruin, but there
was now to be a difference.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink03'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER III—TROOPER SHANNON’S QUARREL</a></h2>

<p>There was bitter frost in the darkness outside when
two young men stood talking in the stables of a little
outpost lying a long ride back from the settlement
in the lonely prairie. One leaned against a manger
with a pipe in his hand, while the spotless, softly-gleaming
harness hung up behind him showed what
his occupation had been. The other stood bolt
upright with lips set, and a faint greyness which
betokened strong emotion showing through his tan.
The lantern above them flickered in the icy draughts,
and from out of the shadows beyond its light came
the stamping of restless horses and the smell of prairie
hay, which is pungent with the odours of wild peppermint.</p>

<p>The two lads, and they were very little more, were
friends, in spite of the difference in their upbringing,
for there are few distinctions between caste and caste
in that country where manhood is still esteemed the
greatest thing, and the primitive virtues count for
more than wealth or intellect. Courage and endurance
still command respect in the new North-West, and
that both the lads possessed them was made evident
by the fact that they were troopers of the North-West
police, a force of splendid cavalry whose duty it is to
patrol the wilderness at all seasons and in all weathers,
under scorching sun and in blinding snow.</p>

<p>The men who keep the peace of the prairie are
taught what heat and thirst are, when they ride in
couples through a desolate waste wherein there is
only bitter water, parched by pitiless sunrays and
whitened by the intolerable dust of alkali. They
also discover just how much cold the human frame
can endure, when they lie down with only the stars
above them, long leagues from the nearest outpost,
in a trench, scooped in the snow, and they know
how near one may come to suffocation and yet live
through the grassfire’s blinding smoke. It happens
now and then that two who have answered to the last
roster in the icy darkness do not awaken when the
lingering dawn breaks across the great white waste, and
only the coyote knows their resting-place, but the
watch and ward is kept, and the lonely settler dwells
as safe in the wilderness as he would in an English
town.</p>

<p>Trooper Shannon was an Irishman from the bush
of Ontario, Trooper Payne, English, and a scion
of a somewhat distinguished family in the old
country, but while he told nobody why he left it
suddenly, nobody thought of asking him. He was
known to be a bold rider and careful of his beast,
and that was sufficient for his comrades and the keen-eyed
Sergeant Stimson. He glanced at his companion
thoughtfully as he said, “She was a pretty girl.
You knew her in Ontario?”</p>

<p>Shannon’s hands trembled a little. “Sure,” he
said, “Larry’s place was just a mile beyont our
clearing, an’ there was never a bonnier thing than
Ailly Blake came out from the old country—but is it
need there is for talking when ye’ve seen her? There
was once I watched her smile at ye with the black
eyes that would have melted the heart out of any
man. Waking and sleeping they’re with me still.”</p>

<p>Three generations of the Shannons had hewn the
lonely clearing further into the bush of Ontario and
married the daughters of the soil, but the Celtic strain,
it was evident, had not run out yet. Payne, however,
came of English stock, and expressed himself differently.</p>

<p>“It was a—shame,” he said. “Of course he
flung her over. I think you saw him, Pat?”</p>

<p>Shannon’s face grew greyer, and he quivered
visibly as his passion shook him, while Payne felt his
own blood pulse faster as he remembered the graceful
dark-eyed girl who had given him and his comrade
many a welcome meal when their duty took them near
her brother’s homestead. That was, however, before
one black day for Ailly and Larry Blake when Lance
Courthorne also rode that way.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the lad from Ontario, “I was driving
in for the stores when I met him in the willow bluff,
an’ Courthorne pulls his divil of a black horse up
with a little ugly smile on the lips of him when I
swung the wagon right across the trail.</p>

<p>“‘That’s not civil, trooper,’ says he.</p>

<p>“‘I’m wanting a word,’ says I, with the black
hate choking me at the sight of him. ‘What have ye
done with Ailly?’</p>

<p>“‘Is it anything to you?’ says he.</p>

<p>“‘It’s everything,’ says I. ‘And if ye will not
tell me I’ll tear it out of ye.’</p>

<p>“Courthorne laughs a little, but I saw the divil in
his eyes. ‘I don’t think you’re quite man enough,’
says he, sitting very quiet on the big black horse.
‘Anyway, I can’t tell you where she is just now,
because she left the dancing saloon she was in down in
Montana when I last saw her.’</p>

<p>“I had the big whip that day, and I forgot everything
as I heard the hiss of it round my shoulder.
It came home across the ugly face of him, and then I
flung it down and grabbed the carbine as he swung the
black round with one hand fumbling in his jacket.
It came out empty, an’ we sat there a moment, the
two of us, Courthorne white as death, his eyes like
burning coals, and the fingers of me trembling on the
carbine. Sorrow on the man that he hadn’t a pistol,
or I’d have sent the black soul of him to the divil
it came from.”</p>

<p>The lad panted, and Payne, who had guessed at
his hopeless devotion to the girl who had listened to
Courthorne, made a gesture of disapproval that was
tempered by sympathy. It was for her sake, he
fancied, Shannon had left the Ontario clearing and
followed Larry Blake to the West.</p>

<p>“I’m glad he hadn’t, Pat,” said Payne. “What
was the end of it?”</p>

<p>“I remembered,” said the other with a groan,
“remembered I was Trooper Shannon, an’ dropped
the carbine into the wagon. Courthorne wheels
the black horse round, an’ I saw the red line across
the face of him.</p>

<p>“‘You’ll be sorry for this, my lad,’ says he.”</p>

<p>“He’s a dangerous man,” Payne said thoughtfully.
“Pat, you came near being a——ass that day.
Anyway, it’s time we went in, and as Larry’s
here I shouldn’t wonder if we saw Courthorne again
before the morning.”</p>

<p>The icy cold went through them to the bone as
they left the stables, and it was a relief to enter the
loghouse, which was heated to fustiness by the
glowing stove. A lamp hung from a rough birch
beam, and its uncertain radiance showed motionless
figures wrapped in blankets in the bunks round the
walls. Two men were, however, dressing, and one
already in uniform sat at a table talking to another
swathed in furs, who was from his appearance a
prairie farmer. The man at the table was lean and
weather-bronzed, with grizzled hair and observant
eyes. They were fixed steadily upon the farmer,
who knew that very little which happened upon
the prairie escaped the vigilance of Sergeant Stimson.</p>

<p>“It’s straight talk you’re giving me, Larry?
What do you figure on making by it?” he said.</p>

<p>The farmer laughed mirthlessly. “Not much,
anyway, beyond the chance of getting a bullet
in me back or me best steer lifted one dark night.
’Tis not forgiving the rustlers are, and Courthorne’s
the divil,” he said. “But listen now, Sergeant;
I’ve told ye where he is, and if ye’re not fit to corral
him I’ll ride him down meself.”</p>

<p>Sergeant Stimson wrinkled his forehead. “If
anybody knows what they’re after, it should be you,”
he said, watching the man out of the corner of his
eyes. “Still, I’m a little worried as to why, when
you’ll get nothing for it, you’re anxious to serve the
State.”</p>

<p>The farmer clenched a big hand. “Sergeant,
you that knows everything, will ye drive me mad,
an’ to —— with the State!” he said. “Sure, it’s
gospel I’m telling ye, an’ as you’re knowing well,
it’s me could tell where the boys who ride at midnight
drop many a keg. Well, if ye will have your
reason, it was Courthorne who put the black shame
on me an’ mine.”</p>

<p>Sergeant Stimson nodded, for he had already
suspected this.</p>

<p>“Then,” he said dryly, “we’ll give you a chance
of helping us to put the handcuffs on him. Now,
because they wouldn’t risk the bridge, and the
ice is not thick yet everywhere, there are just two
ways they could bring the stuff across, and I figure
we’d be near the thing if we fixed on Graham’s Pool.
Still, Courthorne’s no kind of fool, and just because
that crossing seems the likeliest he might try the
other one. You’re ready for duty, Trooper Payne?”</p>

<p>The lad stood straight. “I can turn out in ten
minutes, sir,” he said.</p>

<p>“Then,” and Sergeant Stimson raised his voice a
trifle, “you will ride at once to the rise a league
outside the settlement, and watch the Montana
trail. Courthorne will probably be coming over
from Witham’s soon after you get there, riding the
big black, and you’ll keep out of sight and follow
him. If he heads for Carson’s Crossing ride for
Graham’s at a gallop, where you’ll find me with
the rest. If he makes for the bridge, you will overtake
him if you can and find out what he’s after.
It’s quite likely he’ll tell you nothing, and you will
not arrest him, but bearing in mind that every
minute he spends there will be a loss to the rustlers
you’ll keep him so long as you can. Trooper Shannon,
you’ll ride at once to the bluff above Graham’s
Pool, and watch the trail. Stop any man who
rides that way, and if it’s Courthorne keep him
until the rest of the boys come up with me. You’ve
got your duty quite straight, both of you?”</p>

<p>The lads saluted, and went out, while the Sergeant
smiled a little as he glanced at the farmer, and the
men who were dressing.</p>

<p>“It’s steep chances we’ll have Mr. Courthorne’s
company to-morrow, boys,” he said. “Fill up
the kettle, Tom, and serve out a pint of coffee.
There are reasons why we shouldn’t turn out too soon.
We’ll saddle in an hour or so.”</p>

<p>Two of the men went out, and the stinging blast
that swept in through the open door smote a smoky
smear across the blinking lamp and roused a sharper
crackling from the stove. Then one returned with
the kettle and there was silence, when the fusty
heat resumed its sway. Now and then a tired trooper
murmured in his sleep, or there was a snapping in
the stove, while the icy wind moaned about the
building and the kettle commenced a soft sibilation,
but nobody moved or spoke. Three shadowy
figures in uniform sat just outside the light soaking
in the grateful warmth while they could, for they
knew that they might spend the next night unsheltered
from the Arctic cold of the wilderness. The Sergeant
sat with thoughtful eyes and wrinkled forehead
where the flickering radiance forced up his lean
face and silhouetted his spare outline on the rough
boarding behind him, and close by the farmer
sucked silently at his pipe, waiting, with a stony
calm that sprang from fierce impatience, the reckoning
with the man who had brought back shame
upon him.</p>

<p>It was about this time when Witham stood
shivering a little with the bridle of a big black horse
in his hand just outside the door of his homestead.
A valise and two thick blankets were strapped to
the saddle, and he had donned the fur cap and coat
Courthorne usually wore. Courthorne himself stood
close by, smiling at him sardonically.</p>

<p>“If you keep the cap down and ride with your
stirrups long, as I’ve fixed them, anybody would
take you for me,” said he. “Go straight through
the settlement, and let any man you come across
see you. His testimony would come in useful if
Stimson tries to fix a charge on me. You know
your part of the bargain. You’re to be Lance
Courthorne for a fortnight from to-day.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham dryly. “I wish I was
equally sure of yours.”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed. “I’m to be Rancher Witham
until to-morrow night, anyway. Don’t worry about
me. I’ll borrow those books of yours and improve
my mind. Possible starvation is the only thing
that threatens me, and it’s unfortunate you’ve
left nothing fit to eat behind you.”</p>

<p>Witham swung himself into the saddle, a trifle
awkwardly, for Courthorne rode with longer stirrup
leathers than he was accustomed to, then he raised
one hand, and the other man laughed a little as he
watched him sink into the darkness of the shadowy
prairie. When the drumming of hoofs was lost
in the moaning of the wind he strode towards the
stable, and taking up the lantern surveyed Witham’s
horse thoughtfully.</p>

<p>“The thing cuts with both edges, and the farmer
only sees one of them,” he said. “That beast’s
about as difficult to mistake as my black is.”</p>

<p>Then he returned to the loghouse, and presently
put on Witham’s old fur coat and tattered fur cap.
Had Witham seen his unpleasant smile as he did it,
he would probably have wheeled the black horse
and returned at a gallop, but the farmer was sweeping
across the waste of whitened grass at least a league
away by this time. Now and then a half-moon
blinked down between wisps of smoky cloud, but
for the most part grey dimness hung over the prairie,
and the drumming of hoofs rang stridently through
the silence. Witham knew a good horse, and had
bred several of them—before a blizzard which swept
the prairie killed off his finest yearlings as well as
their pedigree sire—and his spirits rose as the splendid
beast swung into faster stride beneath him.</p>

<p>For two weeks at least he would be free from
anxiety, and the monotony of his life at the
lonely homestead had grown horribly irksome.
Witham was young, and, now when for a brief space
he had left his cares behind, the old love of adventure
which had driven him out from England once more
awakened and set his blood stirring. For the first
time in six years of struggle he did not know what
lay before him, and he had a curious, half-instinctive
feeling that the trail he was travelling would lead
him farther than Montana. It was borne in upon
him that he had left the old hopeless life behind,
and, stirred by some impulse, he broke into a little
song he had sung in England, long and forgotten.
He had a clear voice, and the words, which were
filled with the hope of youth, rang bravely through
the stillness of the frozen wilderness until the horse
blundered, and Witham stopped with a little smile.</p>

<p>“It’s four long years since I felt as I do to-night,”
he said.</p>

<p>Then he drew bridle and checked the horse as
the lights of the settlement commenced to blink
ahead, for the trail was rutted deep and frozen into
the likeness of adamant, but when the first frame
houses flung tracks of yellow radiance across the
whitened grass he dropped his left arm a trifle and
rode in at a canter as he had seen Courthorne do.
Witham did not like Courthorne, but he meant to
keep his bargain.</p>

<p>As he passed the hotel more slowly a man who
came out called to him. “Hello, Lance! Taking
the trail?” he said. “Well, it kind of strikes me
it’s time you did. One of Stimson’s boys was down
here, and he seemed quite anxious about you.”</p>

<p>Witham knew the man, and was about to urge the
horse forward, but in place of it drew bridle, and
laughed with a feeling that was wholly new to him
as he remembered that his neighbours now and
then bantered him about his English and that Courthorne
only used the Western colloquialism when it
suited him.</p>

<p>“Sergeant Stimson is an enterprising officer,
but there are as keen men as he is,” he said. “You
will, in case he questions you, remember when you
met me.”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes,” said the other. “Still, I wouldn’t
fool too much with him—and where did you get
those mittens from? That’s the kind of outfit that
would suit Witham.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded, for though he had turned his
face from the light the hand he held the bridle with
was visible, and his big fur gloves were very old.</p>

<p>“They are his. The fact is, I’ve just come from his
place,” he said. “Well, you can tell Stimson
you saw me starting out on the Montana trail.”</p>

<p>He shook the bridle, laughed softly as the frame
houses flitted by, and then grew intent when the
darkness of the prairie once more closed down.
It was, he knew probable that some of Stimson’s,
men would be looking out for him, and he had not
sufficient faith in Courthorne’s assurances to court
an encounter with them.</p>

<p>The lights had faded, and the harsh grass was,
crackling under the drumming hoofs when the
blurred outline of a mounted man showed up on the
crest of a rise, and a shout came down.</p>

<p>“Hallo! Pull up there a moment, stranger.”</p>

<p>There was nothing alarming in the greeting, but
Witham recognized the ring of command, as well as
the faint jingle of steel which had preceded it, and
pressed his heels home. The black swung forward
faster, and Witham glancing over his shoulder, saw,
the dusky shape was now moving down the incline,
Then the voice rose again more commandingly.</p>

<p>“Pull up; I want a talk with you.”</p>

<p>Witham turned his head a moment, and remembering
Courthorne’s English, flung back the answer,
“Sorry, I haven’t time.”</p>

<p>The faint musical jingle grew plainer, there was a
thud of hoofs behind, and the curious, exhilaration
returned to Witham as the big black horse stretched
out at a gallop. The soil was hard as granite, but
the matted grasses formed a covering that rendered
fast riding possible to a man who took the risks
and Witham knew there were few horses in the
Government service to match the one he rode.
Still, it was evident that the trooper meant to overtake
him, and recollecting his compact he tightened
his grip on the bridle. It was a long way to the ranch
where he was to spend the night, and he knew that
the further he drew the trooper on the better it
would suit Courthorne.</p>

<p>So they swept on through the darkness over the
empty waste, the trooper who was riding hard
slowly creeping up behind. Still, Witham held the
horse in until a glance over his shoulder showed
him that there was less than a hundred yards between
them, and he fancied he heard a portentous rattle
as well as the thud of hoofs. It was not unlike
that made by a carbine flung across the saddle.
This suggested unpleasant possibilities, and he
slackened his grip on the bridle. Then a breathless
shout rang out, “Pull up or I’ll fire.”</p>

<p>Witham wondered if the threat was genuine or
what is termed “bluff” in that country, but as he had
decided objections to being shot in the back to
please Courthorne, sent his heels home. The horse
shot forward beneath him, and though no carbine
flashed, the next backward glance showed him that
the distance between him and the pursuer was drawing
out, while when he stared ahead again the dark
shape of willows or birches cut the skyline. As they
came back to him the drumming of hoofs swelled
into a staccato roar, while presently the trail grew
steep, and dark boughs swayed above him. In
another few minutes something smooth and level
flung back a blink of light, and the timbers of a
wooden bridge rattled under his passage. Then
he was racing upwards through the gloom of wind-dwarfed
birches on the opposite side, listening for the
rattle behind him on the bridge, and after a struggle
with the horse pulled him up smoking when he did
not hear it.</p>

<p>There was a beat of hoofs across the river, but
it was slower than when he had last heard it and
grew momentarily less audible, and Witham laughed
as he watched the steam of the horse and his own
breath rise in a thin white cloud.</p>

<p>“The trooper has given it up, and now for Montana,”
he said.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink04'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER IV—IN THE BLUFF</a></h2>

<p>It was very dark amidst the birches where Trooper
Shannon sat motionless in his saddle, gazing down
into the denser blackness of the river hollow. The
stream ran deep below the level of the prairie, as
the rivers of that country usually do, and the trees,
which there alone found shelter from the winds,
straggled, gnarled and stunted, up either side
of the steep declivity. Close behind the trooper a
sinuous trail seamed by ruts and the print of hoofs
stretched away across the empty prairie. It forked on
the outskirts of the bluff, and one arm dipped steeply
to the river where, because the stream ran slow just
there and the bottom was firm, a horseman might
cross when the water was low, and heavy sledges
make the passage on the ice in winter time. The
other arm twisted in and out among the birches
towards the bridge, but that detour increased the
distance to any one travelling north or south by
two leagues or so.</p>

<p>The ice, however was not very thick as yet, and
Shannon, who had heard it ring hollowly under him,
surmised that while it might be possible to lead
a laden horse across, there would be some risk
attached to the operation. For that very reason,
and although his opinion had not been asked, he
agreed with Sergeant Stimson that the
whisky-runners would attempt the passage. They were
men who took the risks as they came, and that
route would considerably shorten the journey it
was especially desirable for them to make at night,
while it would, Shannon fancied, appear probable
to them that if the police had word of their intentions
they would watch the bridge. Between it
and the frozen ford the stream ran faster, and the
trooper decided that no mounted man could cross the
thinner ice.</p>

<p>It was very cold as well as dark, for although the
snow, which usually precedes the frost in that country,
had not come as yet, it was evidently not far away,
and the trooper shivered in the blasts from the pole
which cut through fur and leather with the keenness
of steel. The temperature had fallen steadily
since morning, and now there was a presage of a
blizzard in the moaning wind and murky sky. If
it broke and scattered its blinking whiteness upon the
roaring blast there would be but little hope for any man
or beast caught shelterless in the empty wilderness,
for it is beyond the power of anything made of flesh
and blood to withstand that cold.</p>

<p>Already a fine haze of snow swirled between the
birch twigs every now and then, and stung the few
patches of the trooper’s unprotected skin as though
they had been pricked with red-hot needles. It,
however, seldom lasted more than a minute, and when
it whirled away, a half-moon shone down for a
moment between smoky clouds. The uncertain
radiance showed the thrashing birches rising from
the hollow, row on row, struck a faint sparkle from
the ice beneath them, and then went out, leaving the
gloom intensified. It was evident to Shannon that
his eyes would not be much use to him that night,
for which reason he kept his ears uncovered at the
risk of losing them, but though he had been born in
the bush and all the sounds of the wilderness had
for him a meaning, hearing did not promise to be of
much assistance. The dim trees roared about him
with a great thrashing of twigs, and when the wilder
gusts had passed there was an eery moaning, through
which came the murmur of leagues of tormented
grasses. The wind was rising rapidly, and it would,
he fancied, drown the beat of approaching hoofs as
well as any cry from his comrades.</p>

<p>Four of them were hidden amidst the birches
where the trail wound steeply upwards through the
bluff across the river, two on the nearer side not
far below, and Trooper Shannon’s watch would
serve two purposes. He was to let the rustlers pass
him it they rode for the ford, and then help to cut off
the retreat of any who escaped the sergeant, while if
they found the ice too thin for loaded beasts or rode
towards the bridge, a flash from his carbine would
bring his comrades across in time to join the others
who were watching that trail. It had, as usual
with Stimson’s schemes, all been carefully thought
out and the plan was eminently workable, but
unfortunately for the grizzled sergeant a better
brain than his had foreseen the combination.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile the lad felt his limbs grow stiff
and almost useless, and a lethargic numbness blunt
the keenness of his faculties as the heat went out of
him. He had more than usual endurance, and
utter cold, thirst, and the hunger that most ably
helps the frost, are not infrequently the portion of
the wardens of the prairie; but there is a limit to
what man can bear, and the troopers who watched
by the frozen river that night had almost reached it.
Shannon could not feel the stirrups with his feet.
One of his ears was tingling horribly as the blood
that had almost left it resumed its efforts to penetrate
the congealing flesh, while the mittened hands
he beat upon his breast fell solidly on his wrappings
without separate motion of the fingers. Once or
twice the horse stamped fretfully, but a touch of
hand and heel quieted him, for though the frozen
flesh may shrink, unwavering obedience is demanded
equally from man and beast enrolled in the service
of the North-West police.</p>

<p>“Stiddy now,” said the lad, partly to discover if
he still retained the power of speech. “Sure ye
know the order that was given me, and if it’s a
funeral that comes of it the Government will bury
ye.”</p>

<p>He sighed as he beat his hands upon his breast
again, and when a flicker of moonlight smote a
passing track of brightness athwart the tossing
birches his young face was very grim. Like many
another trooper of the North-West police, Shannon
had his story, and he remembered the one trace of
romance that had brightened his hard, bare life that
night as he waited for the man who had dissipated
it.</p>

<p>When Larry Blake moved West from Ontario,
Shannon, drawn by his sister’s dark eyes, followed
him, and took up a Government grant of prairie
sod. His dollars were few, but he had a stout heart
and two working oxen, and nothing seemed impossible
while Ailly Blake smiled on him, and she smiled
tolerably frequently, for Shannon was a well-favoured
lad. He had worked harder than most grown men
could do, won one good harvest, and had a few dollars
in the bank when Courthorne rode up to Blake’s
homestead on his big black horse. After that, all
Shannon’s hopes and ambitions came down with
a crash; and the day he found Blake grey in
face with shame and rage he offered Sergeant
Stimson his services. Now he was filled with
an unholy content that he had done so, for he
came of a race that does not forget an injury,
and had sufficient cause for a jealous pride in the
virtue of its women. He and Larry might have forgiven
a pistol shot, but they could not forget the
shame.</p>

<p>Suddenly he stiffened to attention, for though a man
of the cities would probably have heard nothing but
the wailing of the wind, he caught a faint rhythmic
drumming which might have been made by a galloping
horse. It ceased, and he surmised, probably correctly,
that it was Trooper Payne returning. It was, however,
his business to watch the forking of the trail,
and when he could only hear the thrashing of the
birches, he moved his mittened hand from the
bridle, and patted the restive horse. Just then
the bluff was filled with sound as a blast that drove
a haze of snow before it roared down. It was followed
by a sudden stillness that was almost bewildering,
and when a blink of moonlight came streaming down,
Trooper Shannon grabbed at his carbine, for a man
stood close beside him in the trail. The lad, who
had neither seen nor heard him come, looked down
on the glinting barrel of a Marlin rifle and saw a
set white face behind it.</p>

<p>“Hands up!” said a hoarse voice. “Throw
that thing down,”</p>

<p>Trooper Shannon recognized it, and all the fierce
hate he was capable of flamed up. It shook him
with a gust of passion, and it was not fear that
caused his stiffened fingers to slip upon the carbine.
It fell with a rattle, and while he sat still, almost
breathless and livid in face, the man laughed a little.</p>

<p>“That’s better; get down,” he said.</p>

<p>Trooper Shannon swung himself from the saddle,
and alighted heavily as a flung-off sack would have
done, for his limbs refused to bend. Still it was not
from lack of courage that he obeyed, and during one
moment he had clutched the bridle with the purpose
of riding over his enemy. He had, however,
been taught to think for himself swiftly and shrewdly
from his boyhood up, and realized instinctively
that if he escaped scathless the ringing of the rifle
would warn the rustlers who, he surmised, were
close behind. He was also a police trooper broken
to the iron bond of discipline, and if a bullet from the
Marlin was to end his career, he determined it should,
if possible, also terminate his enemy’s liberty. The
gust of rage had gone, and left him with the cold
vindictive cunning the Celt who has a grievous
injury to remember is also capable of, and there was
contempt in his voice as he turned to Courthorne
quietly.</p>

<p>“Sure it’s your turn now,” he said. “The
last time I put my mark on the divil’s face of ye.”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed wickedly. “It was a bad
day’s work for you; I haven’t forgotten yet,”
he said. “I’m only sorry you’re not a trifle older,
but it will teach Sergeant Stimson the folly of sending
a lad to deal with me. Well, walk straight into the
bush, and remember that the muzzle of the rifle is
scarcely three feet behind you!”</p>

<p>Trooper Shannon did so with black rage in his
heart, and his empty hands at his sides. He was a
police trooper and a bushman born, and knew that
the rustlers’ laden horses would find some difficulty
in remounting the steep trail and could not escape
to left or right once they were entangled amidst
the trees. Then it would be time to give
the alarm, and go down with a bullet in his body,
or by some contrivance evade the deadly rifle and
come to grips with his enemy. He also knew Lance
Courthorne, and, remembering how the lash had
seamed his face, expected no pity. One of them
it was tolerably certain would have set out on the
long trail before the morning, but they breed grim
men in the bush of Ontario, and no other kind ride
very long with the wardens of the prairie.</p>

<p>“Stop where you are,” said Courthorne presently.
“Now then, turn round. Move a finger or open your
lips, and I’ll have great pleasure in shooting you.
In the meanwhile you can endeavour to make favour
with whatever saint is honoured by the charge of
you.”</p>

<p>Shannon smiled in a fashion that resembled a
snarl as once more a blink of moonlight shone down
upon them, and in place of showing apprehension,
his young white face, from which the bronze had
faded, was venomous.</p>

<p>“And my folks were Orange, but what does that
matter now?” said he. “There’ll be one of us
in——to-morrow, but for the shame ye put on Larry
ye’ll carry my mark there with ye.”</p>

<p>Courthorne looked at him with a little glow in
his eyes. “You haven’t felt mine yet,” he said.
“You will probably talk differently when you do.”</p>

<p>It may have been youthful bravado, but Trooper
Shannon laughed. “In the meanwhile,” he said,
“I’m wondering why you’re wearing an honest
man’s coat and cap. Faith, if he saw them on ye,
Witham would burn them.”</p>

<p>Courthorne returned no answer and the moonlight
went out, but they stood scarcely three feet apart,
and one of them knew that any move he made would
be followed by the pressure of the other’s finger
on the trigger. He, however, did not move at all,
and while the birches roared about them they stood
silently face to face, the man of birth and pedigree
with a past behind him and blood already upon his
head, and the raw lad from the bush, his equal
before the tribunal that would presently judge their
quarrel.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile Trooper Shannon heard a drumming
of hoofs that grew steadily louder before
Courthorne apparently noticed the sound, and his
trained ears told him that the rustlers’ horses were
coming down the trail. Now they had passed the
forking, and when the branches ceased roaring again
he knew they had floundered down the first of the
declivity, and it would be well to wait a little until
they had straggled out where the trail was narrow
and deeply rutted. No one could turn them hastily
there, and the men who drove them could scarcely
escape the troopers who waited them, if they blundered
on through the darkness of the bush. So five
breathless minutes passed, Trooper Shannon standing
tense and straight with every nerve tingling as he
braced himself for an effort, Courthorne stooping a little
with forefinger on the trigger, and the Marlin rifle at
his hip. Then through a lull there rose a clearer thud
of hoofs. It was lost in the thrashing of the twigs
as a gust roared down again, and Trooper Shannon
launched himself like a panther upon his enemy.</p>

<p>He might have succeeded, and the effort was
gallantly made, but Courthorne had never moved
his eyes from the shadowy object before him, and
even as it sprang, his finger contracted further on
the trigger. There was a red flash and because he
fired from the hip the trigger guard gashed his mitten.
He sprang sideways, scarcely feeling the bite of the
steel, for the lad’s hand brushed his shoulder. Then
there was a crash as something went down heavily
amidst the crackling twigs. Courthorne stooped a
little, panting in the smoke that blew into his eyes,
jerked the Marlin lever, and, as the moon came through
again, had a blurred vision of a white, drawn face that
stared up at him still with defiance in its eyes. He
looked down into it as he drew the trigger once more.</p>

<p>Shannon quivered a moment, and then lay very
still, and it was high time for Courthorne to look to
himself, for there was a shouting in the bluff, and
something came crashing through the undergrowth.
Even then his cunning did not desert him, and
flinging the Marlin down beside the trooper, he
slipped almost silently in and out among the birches
and swung himself into the saddle of a tethered
horse. Unlooping the bridle from a branch, he
pressed his heels home, realizing as he did it that there
was no time to lose, for it was evident that one of
the troopers was somewhat close behind him, and
others were coming across the river. He knew
the bluff well, and having no desire to be entangled
in it was heading for the prairie, when a blink of
moonlight showed him a lad in uniform riding at a
gallop between him and the crest of the slope. It
was Trooper Payne, and Courthorne knew him for
a very bold horseman.</p>

<p>Now, it is possible that had one of the rustlers, who
were simple men with primitive virtues as well as
primitive passions, been similarly placed, he would
have joined his comrades and taken his chance
with them, but Courthorne kept faith with nobody
unless it suited him, and was equally dangerous to
his friends and enemies. Trooper Shannon had also
been silenced for ever, and if he could cross the frontier
unrecognized, nobody would believe the story of
the man he would leave to bear the brunt in place of
him. Accordingly he headed at a gallop down the
winding trail, while sharp orders and a drumming
of hoofs grew louder behind him, and hoarse cries
rose in front. Trooper Payne was, it seemed, at
least keeping pace with him, and he glanced over
his shoulder as he saw something dark and shadowy
across the trail. It was apparently a horse from
which two men were struggling to loose its
burden.</p>

<p>Courthorne guessed that the trail was blocked in
front of it by other loaded beasts, and he could not
get past in time, for the half-seen trooper was closing
with him fast, and another still rode between him
and the edge of the bluff cutting off his road to the
prairie. It was evident he could not go on, while
the crackle of twigs, roar of hoofs, and jingle of
steel behind him, made it plain that to turn was to
ride back upon the carbines of men who would be
quite willing to use them. There alone remained
the river. It ran fast below him, and the ice was
thin, and for just a moment he tightened his grip on
the bridle.</p>

<p>“We’ve got you!” a hoarse voice reached him.
“You’re taking steep chances if you go on.”</p>

<p>Courthorne swung off from the trail. There was
a flash above him, something whirred through the
twigs above his head, and the horse plunged as he
drove his heels in.</p>

<p>“One of them gone for the river,” another shout
rang out, and Courthorne was crashing through the
undergrowth straight down the declivity, while thin
snow whirled about him, and now and then he
caught the faint glimmer flung back by the ice
beneath.</p>

<p>Swaying boughs lashed him, his fur cap was
whipped away, and he felt that his face was bleeding,
but there was another crackle close behind him,
for Trooper Payne was riding as daringly, and he
carried a carbine. Had he desired it Courthorne
could not turn. The bronco he bestrode was madly
excited and less than half broken, and it is probable
no man could have pulled him up just then. It
may also have been borne in upon Courthorne, that
he owed a little to those he had left behind him in the
old country, and he had not lost his pride. There
was, it seemed, no escape, but he had at least a choice
of endings, and with a little breathless laugh he rode
straight for the river.</p>

<p>It was with difficulty Trooper Payne pulled his
horse up on the steep bank a minute later. A white
haze was now sliding down the hollow between the
two dark walls of trees, and something seemed to
move in the midst of it while the ice rang about it.
Then, as the trooper pitched up his carbine, there
was a crash that was followed by a horrible floundering
and silence again. Payne sat still, shivering a
little in his saddle until the snow that whirled about
him blotted out all the birches, and a roaring blast
came down.</p>

<p>He knew there was now nothing that he could do.
The current had evidently sucked the fugitive under,
and, dismounting, he groped his way up the slope,
leading the horse by the bridle, and only swung
himself into the saddle when he found the trail
again. A carbine flashed in front of him, two dim
figures went by at a gallop, and a third one flung an
order over his shoulder as he passed.</p>

<p>“Go back. The Sergeant’s hurt and Shannon
has got a bullet in him.”</p>

<p>Trooper Payne had surmised as much already, and
went back as fast as he could ride, while the beat of
hoofs grew fainter down the trail. Ten minutes
later he drew bridle close by a man who held a lantern,
and saw Sergeant Stimson sitting very grim in face on
the ground. It transpired later that his horse had
fallen and thrown him, and it was several weeks
before he rode again.</p>

<p>“You lost your man?” he said. “Get down.”</p>

<p>Payne dismounted. “Yes, sir, I fancy he is
dead,” he said. “He tried the river, and the ice
wouldn’t carry him. I saw him ride away from here
just after the first shot, and fancied he fired at
Shannon. Have you seen him, sir?”</p>

<p>The other trooper moved his lantern, and Payne
gasped as he saw a third man stooping, with the
white face of his comrade close by his feet. Shannon
appeared to recognize him, for his eyes moved a
little and the grey lips fell apart. Then Payne turned
his head aside while the other trooper nodded compassionately
in answer to his questioning glance.</p>

<p>“I’ve sent one of the boys to Graham’s for a
wagon,” said the Sergeant. “You saw the man
who fired at him?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” said Trooper Payne.</p>

<p>“You knew him?” and there was a ring in the
Sergeant’s voice.</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” said the trooper. “At least he was
riding Witham’s horse, and had on the old, long
coat of his.”</p>

<p>Sergeant Stimson nodded, and pointed to the
weapon lying with blackened muzzle at his feet.
“And I think you could recognize that rifle? There’s
F. Witham cut on the stock of it.”</p>

<p>Payne said nothing, for the trooper signed to him.</p>

<p>“I fancy Shannon wants to talk to you,” he said.</p>

<p>The lad knelt down, slipped one arm about his
comrade’s neck, and took the mittened hand in his
own. Shannon smiled up at him feebly.</p>

<p>“Witham’s horse and his cap,” he said, and then
stopped, gasping horribly.</p>

<p>“You will remember that, boys,” said the Sergeant.</p>

<p>Payne could say nothing. Trooper Shannon and
he had ridden through icy blizzard and scorching
heat together, and he felt his manhood melting as he
looked down into his dimming eyes. There was a
curious look in them which suggested a strenuous
endeavour and an appeal, and the lips moved again.</p>

<p>“It was,” said Shannon, and moved his head
a little on Payne’s arm, apparently in an agony of
effort.</p>

<p>Then the birches roared about them, and drowned
the feeble utterance, while, when the gust passed, all
three, who had not heard what preceded it, caught
only one word—“Witham.”</p>

<p>Trooper Shannon’s eyes closed, and his head
fell back, while the snow beat softly in to his upturned
face, and there was a very impressive silence, intensified
by the moaning of the wind, until the rattle of
wheels came faintly down the trail.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink05'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER V—MISS BARRINGTON COMES HOME</a></h2>

<p>The long train was slackening speed and two whistles
rang shrilly through the roar of wheels when Miss
Barrington laid down the book with which she had
beguiled her journey of fifteen hundred miles, and
rose from her seat in a corner of the big first-class
car. The car was sumptuously upholstered, and
its decorations tasteful as well as lavish, but just
then it held no other passenger, and Miss Barrington
smiled curiously as she stood, swaying a little, in
front of the mirror at one end of it, wrapping her
furs about her. There was, however, a faint suggestion
of regret in the smile, and the girl’s eyes
grew grave again, for the soft cushions, dainty curtains,
gleaming gold and nickel, and equable temperature
formed a part of the sheltered life she was about to
leave behind her, and there would, she knew, be a difference
in the future. Still, she laughed again as,
drawing a little fur cap well down upon her broad,
white forehead, she nodded at her own reflection.</p>

<p>“One cannot have everything, and you might
have stayed there and revelled in civilization if you
had liked,” she said.</p>

<p>Crossing to the door of the portico she stood a
moment with fingers on its handle, and once more
looked about her. The car was very cosy, and Maud
Barrington had all the average young woman’s
appreciation of the smoother side of life, although she
had also the capacity, which is by no means so
common, for extracting the most it had to give from
the opposite one. Still, it was with a faint regret
she prepared to complete what had been a deed of
renunciation. Montreal, with its gaieties and
luxuries, had not seemed so very far away
while she was carried West amid all the comforts
artizans who were also artists could provide for the
traveller, but once that door closed behind her she
would be cut adrift from it all, and left face to face
with the simple, strenuous life of the prairie.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington had, however, made her mind
up some weeks ago; and when the lock closed with a
little clack that seemed to emphasize the fact that
the door was shut, she had shaken the memories
from her, and was quietly prepared to look forward
instead of back. It also needed some little courage,
for, as she stood with the furs fluttering about her
on the lurching platform, the cold went through her
like a knife, and the roofs of the little prairie town
rose up above the willows the train was now crawling
through. The odours that greeted her nostrils
were the reverse of pleasant, and glancing down
with the faintest shiver of disgust, her eyes rested
on the litter of empty cans, discarded garments,
and other even more unsightly things which are
usually dumped in the handiest bluff by the citizens
of a springing Western town. They have, for the most
part, but little appreciation of the picturesque,
and it would take a good deal to affect their health.</p>

<p>Then the dwarfed trees opened out, and flanked
by two huge wheat elevators and a great water tank,
the prairie city stood revealed. It was crude and
repellent, devoid of anything that could please the
most lenient eye, for the bare frame houses rose
with their rough boarding weathered and cracked by
frost and sun, hideous almost in their simplicity,
from the white prairie. Paint was apparently an
unknown luxury, and pavement there was none,
though a rude plank platform straggled some distance
above the ground down either side of the street, so
that the citizens might not sink knee-deep in the
mire of the spring thawing. Here and there a
dilapidated wagon was drawn up in front of a store,
but with a clanging of the big bell the locomotive
rolled into the little station, and Maud Barrington
looked down upon a group of silent men who had
sauntered there to enjoy the one relaxation the
desolate place afforded them.</p>

<p>There was very little in their appearance to attract
the attention of a young woman of Miss Barrington’s
upbringing. They had grave, bronzed faces, and
wore, for the most part, old fur coats stained here
and there with soil. Nor were their mittens and
moccasins in good repair, but there was a curious
steadiness in their gaze which vaguely suggested
the slow, stubborn courage that upheld them
through the strenuous effort and grim self-denial of
their toilsome lives. They were small wheat-growers
who had driven in to purchase provisions or inquire
the price of grain, and here and there a mittened
hand was raised to a well-worn cap, for most of them
recognized Miss Barrington of Silverdale Grange.
She returned their greetings graciously, and then
swung herself from the platform, with a smile in her
eyes as a man came hastily and yet, as it were,
with a certain deliberation in her direction.</p>

<p>He was elderly, but held himself erect, while his
furs, which were good, fitted him in a fashion which
suggested a uniform. He also wore boots which
reached half-way to the knee, and were presumably
lined to resist the prairie cold, which few men at
that season would do, and scarcely a speck of dust
marred their lustrous exterior, while as much of his
face as was visible beneath the great fur cap was
lean and commanding. Its salient features were
the keen and somewhat imperious grey eyes and
long, straight nose, while something in the squareness
of the man’s shoulders and his pose set him apart from
the prairie farmers and suggested the cavalry officer.
He was, in fact, Colonel Barrington, founder and autocratic
ruler of the English community of Silverdale,
and had been awaiting his niece somewhat impatiently.
Colonel Barrington was invariably
punctual, and resented the fact that the train had
come in an hour later than it should have done.</p>

<p>“So you have come back to us. We have been
longing for you, my dear,” he said. “I don’t
know what we should have done had they kept
you in Montreal altogether.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington smiled, though there was a
brightness in her eyes and a faint warmth in her
cheek, for the sincerity of her uncle’s welcome was
evident.</p>

<p>“Yes,” she said, “I have come back. It was
very pleasant in the city, and they were all kind to
me; but I think, henceforward, I would sooner
stay with you on the prairie.”</p>

<p>Colonel Barrington patted the hand he drew
through his arm, and there was a very kindly smile
in his eyes as they left the station and crossed the
tract towards a little, and by no means very comfortable,
wooden hotel. He stopped outside it.</p>

<p>“I want to see the horses put in and get our
mail,” he said. “Mrs. Jasper expects you, and
will have tea ready.”</p>

<p>He disappeared behind the wooden building, and
his niece standing a moment on the veranda watched
the long train roll away down the faint blur of track
that ran west to the farthest verge of the great white
wilderness. Then with a little impatient gesture she
went into the hotel.</p>

<p>“That is another leaf turned down, and there
is no use in looking back; but I wonder what is
written on the rest,” she said.</p>

<p>Twenty minutes later she watched Colonel Barrington
cross the street with a bundle of letters in his
hand. She fancied that his step was slower than
it had been, and that he seemed a trifle preoccupied
and embarrassed; but he spoke with quiet kindliness
when he handed her into the waiting sleigh, and
the girl’s spirits rose as they swung smoothly northwards
behind two fast horses across the prairie.
It stretched away before her, ridged here and there
with a dusky birch bluff or willow grove under a
vault of crystalline blue. The sun that had no
heat in it struck a silvery glitter from the snow,
and the trail swept back to the horizon a sinuous
blue-grey smear, while the keen, dry cold and sense
of swift motion set the girl’s blood stirring. After
all, it seemed to her, there were worse lives than
those the Western farmers led on the great levels
under the frost and sun.</p>

<p>Colonel Barrington watched her with a little
gleam of approval in his eyes. “You are not sorry
to come back to this and Silverdale?” he said,
sweeping his mittened hand vaguely round the
horizon.</p>

<p>“No,” said the girl, with a little laugh. “At
least, I shall not be sorry to return to Silverdale.
It has a charm of its own, for while one is occasionally
glad to get away from it, one is even more pleased
to come home again. It is a somewhat purposeless
life our friends are leading yonder in the cities. I, of
course, mean the women.”</p>

<p>Barrington nodded. “And some of the men!
Well, we have room here for the many who are going
to the devil in the old country for the lack of something
worth while to do; though I am afraid there is
considerably less prospect than I once fancied there
would be of their making money.”</p>

<p>His niece noticed the gravity in his face, and sat
thoughtfully silent for several minutes, while, with
the snow hissing beneath it, the sleigh nipped into
and swung out of a hollow.</p>

<p>Colonel Barrington had founded the Silverdale
settlement ten years earlier, and gathered about him
other men with a grievance who had once served
their nation, and the younger sons of English gentlemen
who had no inclination for commerce, and
found that lack of brains and capital debarred them
from either a political or military career. He had
settled them on the land, and taught them to farm,
while, for the community had prospered at first when
Western wheat was dear, it had taken ten years to
bring home to him the fact that men who dined
ceremoniously each evening and spent at least a
third of their time in games and sport, could not
well compete with the grim bushmen from Ontario,
or the lean Dakota ploughmen, who ate their meals
in ten minutes and toiled at least twelve hours
every day.</p>

<p>Colonel Barrington was slow to believe that the
race he sprang from could be equalled and much
less beaten at anything, while his respect for and
scrupulous observance of insular traditions had
cost him a good deal, and left him a poorer man
than he had been when he founded Silverdale. Maud
Barrington had been his ward, and he still directed
the farming of a good many acres of wheat land which
she now held in her own right. The soil was excellent,
and would in all probability have provided one of the
Ontario men with a very desirable revenue, but
Colonel Barrington had no taste for small economies.</p>

<p>“I want to hear all the news,” said the girl.
“You can begin at the beginning—the price of
wheat. I fancied, when I saw you, it had been
declining.”</p>

<p>Barrington sighed a little. “Hard wheat is five
cents down, and I am sorry I persuaded you to hold
your crop. I am very much afraid we shall see the
balance the wrong side again next half-year.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington smiled curiously. There was
no great cause for merriment in the information
given her, but it emphasized the contrast between
the present and the careless life she had lately led
when her one thought had been how to extract the
greatest pleasure from the day. One had frequently
to grapple with the problems arising from scanty
finances at Silverdale.</p>

<p>“It will go up again,” she said. “Is there anything
else?”</p>

<p>Barrington’s face grew a trifle grim as he nodded.
“There is; and while I have not much expectation
of an advance in prices, I have been worrying over
another affair lately.”</p>

<p>His niece regarded him steadily. “You mean,
Lance Courthorne?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Barrington, who flicked the near
horse somewhat viciously with the whip. “He is
also sufficient to cause any man with my responsibilities
anxiety.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington looked thoughtful. “You fancy
he will come to Silverdale?”</p>

<p>Barrington appeared to be repressing an inclination
towards vigorous speech with some difficulty,
and a little glint crept into his eyes. “If I could
by any means prevent it, the answer would be,
No. As it is, you know that, while I founded it,
Silverdale was one of Geoffrey Courthorne’s imperialistic
schemes, and a good deal of the land was
recorded in his name. That being so, he had every
right to leave the best farm on it to the man he had
disinherited, especially as Lance will not get a
penny of the English property. Still, I do not
know why he did so, because he never spoke of him
without bitterness.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the girl, while a little flush crept into
her face. “I was sorry for the old man. It was a
painful story.”</p>

<p>Colonel Barrington nodded. “It is one that is
best forgotten—and you do not know it all. Still,
the fact that the man may settle among us is not the
worst. As you know, there was every reason to
believe that Geoffrey intended all his property at
Silverdale for you.”</p>

<p>“I have much less right to it than his own son,
and the colonial cure is not infrequently efficacious,”
said Miss Barrington. “Lance may, after all,
quieten down, and he must have some good qualities.”</p>

<p>The Colonel’s smile was very grim. “It is
fifteen years since I saw him at Westham, and they
were not much in evidence then. I can remember
two little episodes, in which he figured, with painful
distinctness, and one was the hanging of a terrier
which had in some way displeased him. The
beast was past assistance when I arrived on the
scene, but the devilish pleasure in the lad’s face
sent a chill through me. In the other, the gardener’s
lad flung a stone at a blackbird on the wall above
the vinery, and Master Lance, who, I fancy, did not
like the gardener’s lad, flung one through the glass.
Geoffrey, who was angry, but had not seen what I
did, haled the boy before him, and Lance looked
him in the face and lied with the assurance of an
ambassador. The end was that the gardener, who
was admonished, cuffed the innocent lad. These,
my dear, are somewhat instructive memories.”</p>

<p>“I wonder,” said Maud Barrington, glancing
out across the prairie which was growing dusky
now, “why you took the trouble to call them up
for me?”</p>

<p>The Colonel smiled dryly. “I never saw a Courthorne
who could not catch a woman’s eye, or had
any undue diffidence about making the most of
the fact; and that is partly why they have brought
so much trouble on everybody connected with them.
Further, it is unfortunate that women are not infrequently
more inclined to be gracious to the
sinner who repents, when it is worth his while,
than they are to the honest man who has done no
wrong. Nor do I know that it is only pity which
influences them. Some of you take an exasperating
delight in picturesque rascality.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington laughed, and fearlessly met her
uncle’s glance. “Then you don’t believe in
penitence?”</p>

<p>“Well,” said the Colonel dryly, “I am, I hope,
a Christian man, but it would be difficult to convince
me that the gambler, cattle-thief, and whisky-runner
who ruined every man and woman who
trusted him will be admitted to the same place as
clean-lived English gentlemen. There are, my dear,
plenty of them still.”</p>

<p>Barrington spoke almost fiercely, and then
flushed through his tan, when the girl, looking into
his eyes, smiled a little. “Yes,” she said, “I can
believe it, because I owe a good deal to one of them.”</p>

<p>The ring in the girl’s voice belied the smile, and
the speech was warranted; for, dogmatic, domineering,
and vindictive as he was apt to be occasionally,
the words he had used applied most
fitly to Colonel Barrington. His word at least
had never been broken, and had he not adhered
steadfastly to his own rigid code, he would have
been a good deal richer man than he was then.
Nor did his little shortcomings, which were burlesqued
virtues, and ludicrous now and then, greatly
detract from the stamp of dignity which, for
speech was his worst point, sat well upon him. He
was innately conservative to the backbone, though
since an ungrateful Government had slighted him,
he had become an ardent Canadian, and in all
political questions aggressively democratic.</p>

<p>“My dear, I sometimes fancy I am a hypercritical
old fogey!” he said, and sighed a little, while once
more the anxious look crept into his face. “Just
now I wish devoutly I was a better business man.”</p>

<p>Nothing more was said for a little, and Miss
Barrington watched the crimson sunset burn out
low down on the prairie’s western rim. Then the
pale stars blinked out through the creeping dusk,
and a great silence and an utter cold settled down
upon the waste. The muffled thud of hoofs, and
the crunching beneath the sliding steel, seemed to
intensify it, and there was a suggestion of frozen
brilliancy in the sparkle flung back by the snow.
Then a coyote howled dolefully in a distant bluff,
and the girl shivered as she shrank down further
amidst the furs.</p>

<p>“Forty degrees of frost,” said the Colonel.
“Perhaps more. This is very different from the
cold of Montreal. Still, you’ll see the lights of
Silverdale from the crest of the next rise.”</p>

<p>It was, however, an hour before they reached
them, and Miss Barrington was almost frozen when
the first square loghouse rose out of the prairie.
It and others that followed it flitted by, and then,
flanked by a great birch bluff, with outlying barns,
granaries and stables, looming black about it against
a crystalline sky, Silverdale Grange grew into
shape across their way. Its rows of ruddy windows
cast streaks of flickering orange down the trail,
the baying of dogs changed into a joyous clamour
when the Colonel reined in his team, half-seen men
in furs waved a greeting, and one who risked frost-bite,
with his cap at his knee, handed Miss Barrington
from the sleigh and up the veranda stairway.</p>

<p>She had need of the assistance, for her limbs
were stiff and almost powerless, and she gasped a
little when she passed into the drowsy warmth and
brightness of the great log-walled hall. The chilled
blood surged back tingling to her skin, and swaying
with a creeping faintness she found refuge in the
arms of a grey-haired lady who stooped and kissed
her gently. Then the door swung to, and she was
home again in the wooden grange of Silverdale,
which stood far remote from any civilization but
its own on the frozen levels of the great white
plain.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink06'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER VI—ANTICIPATIONS</a></h2>

<p>It was late at night, and outside the prairie lay
white and utterly silent under the Arctic cold,
when Maud Barrington, who glanced at it through
the double windows, flung back the curtains with a
little shiver, and turning towards the fire, sat down
on a little velvet footstool beside her aunt’s knee.
She had shaken out the coils of lustrous brown
hair which flowed about her shoulders glinting in
the light of the shaded lamp, and it was with a little
gesture of physical content she stretched her hands
towards the hearth. A crumbling birch log still
gleamed redly amidst the feathery ashes, but its
effect was chiefly artistic, for no open fire could have
dissipated the cold of the prairie, and a big tiled
stove brought from Teutonic Minnesota furnished
the needful warmth.</p>

<p>The girl’s face was partly in shadow, and her figure
foreshortened by her pose, which accentuated its
rounded outline and concealed its willowy slenderness;
but the broad white forehead and straight
nose became visible when she moved her head a
trifle, and a faintly humorous sparkle crept into
the clear brown eyes. Possibly Maud Barrington
looked her best just then, for the lower part of the
pale-tinted face was a trifle too firm in its modelling.</p>

<p>“No, I am not tired, aunt, and I could not sleep
just now,” she said. “You see, after leaving all
that behind one, one feels, as it were, adrift, and
it is necessary to realize one’s self again.”</p>

<p>The little silver-haired lady who sat in the big
basket chair smiled down upon her and laid a thin
white hand that was still beautiful upon the gleaming
hair.</p>

<p>“I can understand, my dear, and am glad you
enjoyed your stay in the city, because sometimes
when I count your birthdays, I can’t help a fancy
that you are not young enough,” she said. “You
have lived out here with two old people who belong
to the past too much.”</p>

<p>The girl moved a little, and swept her glance
slowly round the room. It was small and scantily
furnished, though great curtains shrouded door
and window, and here and there a picture relieved
the bareness of the walls, which were panelled with
roughly-dressed British-Columbian cedar. The floor
was of redwood, diligently polished and adorned,
not covered, by one or two skins brought by some
of Colonel Barrington’s younger neighbours from
the Rockies. There were two basket-chairs and a
plain, redwood table; but in contrast to them a
cabinet of old French workmanship stood in one
corner bearing books in dainty bindings, and two
great silver candlesticks. The shaded lamp was
also of the same metal, and the whole room with
its faint resinous smell conveyed, in a fashion not
uncommon on the prairie, a suggestion of taste
and refinement held in check by the least comparative
poverty. Colonel Barrington was a widower
who had been esteemed a man of wealth, but the
founding of Silverdale had made a serious inroad
on his finances. Even yet, though he occasionally
practised it, he did not take kindly to economy.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the girl, “I enjoyed it all—and it
was so different from the prairie.”</p>

<p>There was comprehension, and a trace of sympathy,
in Miss Barrington’s nod. “Tell me a
little, my dear,” she said. “There was not a great
deal in your letters.”</p>

<p>Her niece glanced dreamily into the sinking fire
as though she would call up the pictures there.
“But you know it all—the life I have only had
glimpses of. Well, for the first few months I almost
lost my head, and was swung right off my
feet by the whirl of it. It was then I was, perhaps,
just a trifle thoughtless.”</p>

<p>The while-haired lady laughed softly. “It is
difficult to believe it, Maud.”</p>

<p>The girl shook her head reproachfully. “I
know what you mean, and perhaps you are right,
for that was what Twoinette insinuated,” she said.
“She actually told me that I should be thankful I
had a brain since I had no heart. Still, at first I
let myself go, and it was delightful—the opera,
the dances, and the covered skating rink with the
music and the black ice flashing beneath the lights.
The whirr of the toboggans down the great slide was
finer still, and the torchlight meets of the snowshoe
clubs on the mountain. Yes, I think I was really
young while it lasted.”</p>

<p>“For a month,” said the elder. “And after?”</p>

<p>“Then,” said the girl slowly, “it all seemed to
grow a trifle purposeless, and there was something
that spoiled it. Twoinette was quite angry, and I
know her mother wrote you—but it was not my
fault, aunt. How was I, a guileless girl from the
prairie, to guess that such a man would fling the
handkerchief to me?”</p>

<p>The evenness of tone and entire absence of embarrassment
was significant. It also pointed to the
fact that there was a closer confidence between Maud
Barrington and her aunt than often exists between
mother and daughter, and the elder lady stroked
the lustrous head that rested against her knee with a
little affectionate pride.</p>

<p>“My dear, you know you are beautiful, and you
have the cachet that all the Courthornes wear.
Still, you could not like him. Tell me about him.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington curled herself up further. “I
think I could have liked him, but that was all,”
she said. “He was nice to look at and did all the
little things gracefully; but he had never done
anything else, never would, and, I fancy, had never
wanted to. Now, a man of that kind would very
soon pall on me, and I should have lost my temper
trying to waken him to his responsibilities.”</p>

<p>“And what kind of man would please you?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington’s eyes twinkled, but the fact
that she answered at all was a proof of the sympathy
between herself and the questioner. “I do not
know that I am anxious any of them should,” she
said. “But, since you ask, he would have to be a
man first: a toiling, striving animal, who could
hold his own amidst his fellows wherever he was
placed. Secondly, one would naturally prefer a
gentleman, though I do not like the word, and one
would fancy the combination a trifle rare, because
brains and birth do not necessarily tally, and the
man educated by the struggle for existence is apt to
be taught more than he ever would be at Oxford
or in the army. Still, men of that stamp forget a
good deal, and learn so much that is undesirable,
you see. In fact, I only know one man who would
have suited me, and he is debarred by age and
affinity—but, because we are so much alike, I can’t
help fancying that you once knew another.”</p>

<p>The smile in Miss Barrington’s face, which was
still almost beautiful as well as patient, became a
trifle wistful.</p>

<p>“There are few better men than my brother,
though he is not clever,” she said and dropped
her voice a little. “As to the other, he died in
India—beside his mountain gun—long ago.”</p>

<p>“And you have never forgotten? He must
have been worth it—I wonder if loyalty and chivalric
faith belong only to the past,” said the girl, reaching
up a rounded arm and patting her aunt’s thin
hand. “And now we will be practical. I fancied
the head of the settlement looked worried when he
met me, and he is not very proficient at hiding his
feelings.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington sighed. “I am afraid that is
nothing very new, and with wheat steadily falling
and our granaries full, he has cause for anxiety.
Then the fact that Lance Courthorne has divided
your inheritance and is going to settle here has been
troubling him.”</p>

<p>“The first is the lesser evil,” said the girl, with
a little laugh. “I wore very short frocks when I
last saw Lance in England, and so far as I can remember
he had the face of an angel and the
temper of a devil. But did not my uncle endeavour
to buy him off, and—for I know you have been
finding out things—I want you to tell me all about
him.”</p>

<p>“He would not take the money,” said Miss Barrington,
and sat in thoughtful silence a space. Then,
and perhaps she had a reason, she quietly recounted
Courthorne’s Canadian history so far as her brother’s
agents had been able to trace it, not omitting,
dainty in thought and speech as she was, one or
two incidents which a mother might have kept
back from her daughter’s ears. Still, it was very
seldom that Miss Barrington made a blunder. There
was a faint pinkness in her face when she concluded,
but she was not surprised when, with a slow, sinuous
movement, the girl rose to her feet. Her cheeks
were very slightly flushed, but there was a significant
sparkle in her eyes.</p>

<p>“Oh,” she said, with utter contempt. “How
sickening! Are there men like that?”</p>

<p>There was a little silence, emphasized by the
snapping in the stove, and if Miss Barrington
had spoken with an object she should have been
contented. The girl was imperious in her anger,
which was caused by something deeper than startled
prudery.</p>

<p>“It is,” said the little white-haired lady, “all
quite true. Still, I must confess that my brother
and myself were a trifle astonished at the report of
the lawyer he sent to confer with Lance in Montana,
One would almost have imagined that he had of late
been trying to make amends.”</p>

<p>The girl’s face was very scornful. “Could a
man with a past like that ever live it down.”</p>

<p>“We have a warrant for believing it,” said
Miss Barrington quietly, as she laid her hand on
her companion’s arm. “My dear, I have told you
what Lance was, because I felt it was right that
you should know; but none of us can tell what he
may be, and if the man is honestly trying to lead a
different life, all I ask is that you should not wound
him by any manifest suspicion. Those who have
never been tempted can afford to be merciful.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington laughed somewhat curiously.
“You are a very wise woman, aunt, but you are
a little transparent now and then,” she said.
“At least, he shall have a fair trial without
prejudice or favour—and if he fails, as fail he will,
we shall find the means of punishing him.”</p>

<p>“We?” said the elder lady a trifle maliciously.</p>

<p>The girl nodded as she moved towards the doorway,
and then turned a moment with the folds
of the big red curtain flung behind her. It forced
up the sweeping lines of a figure so delicately moulded
that its slenderness was scarcely apparent, for
Maud Barrington still wore a long, sombre dress
that had assisted in her triumphs in the city. It
emphasized the clear pallor of her skin and the
brightness of her eyes, as she held herself very
erect in a pose which, while assumed in mockery,
had yet in it something that was almost imperial.</p>

<p>“Yes,” she said. “We. You know who is the
power behind the throne at Silverdale, and what
the boys call me. And now, good night. Sleep
well, dear.”</p>

<p>She went out, and Miss Barrington sat very still
gazing, with eyes that were curiously thoughtful,
into the fire. “Princess of the Prairie—and it
fits her well,” she said, and then sighed a little.
“And if there is a trace of hardness in the girl it
may be fortunate. We all have our troubles—and
wheat is going down.”</p>

<p>In the meanwhile, late as it was, Colonel Barrington
and his chief lieutenant, Gordon Dane, sat
in his log-walled smoking-room talking with a man
he sold his wheat through in Winnipeg. The room
was big and bare. There were a few fine heads of
antelope upon the walls, and beneath them an
armoury of English-made shot guns and rifles,
while a row of riding crops, silver-mounted, and
some handled with ivory, stood in a corner. All
these represented amusement, while two or three
treatises on veterinary surgery and agriculture
lying amidst English stud-books and racing records,
presumably stood for industry. The comparison
was significant, and Graham, the Winnipeg wheat-broker,
noticed it as he listened patiently to the
views of Colonel Barrington, who nevertheless
worked hard enough in his own fashion.
Unfortunately, it was rather the fashion of the English
gentleman than that common on the prairie.</p>

<p>“And now,” he said, with a trace of the anxiety
he had concealed in his eyes, “I am open to hear
what you can do for me.”</p>

<p>Graham smiled a little. “It isn’t very much,
Colonel. I’ll take all your wheat off you at three
cents down.”</p>

<p>Now Barrington did not like the broker’s smile.
It savoured too much of equality; and, though he had
already unbent as far as he was capable of doing,
he had no great esteem for men of business. Nor
did it please him to be addressed as “Colonel.”</p>

<p>“That,” he said coldly, “is out of the question,
I would not sell at the last market price. Besides,
you have hitherto acted as my broker.”</p>

<p>Graham nodded. “The market price will be
less than what I offered you in a week, and I could
scarcely sell your wheat at it to-day. I was going
to hold it myself, because I can occasionally get a
little more from one or two millers who like that
special grade. Usual sorts I’m selling for a fall.
Quite sure the deal wouldn’t suit you?”</p>

<p>Barrington lighted a fresh cigar, though Graham,
noticed that he had smoked very little of the one
he flung away. This was, of course, a trifle, but it is
the trifles that count in the aggregate upon the
prairie, as they not infrequently do elsewhere.</p>

<p>“I fancy I told you so,” he said.</p>

<p>The broker glanced at Dane, who was a big,
bronzed man, and, since Barrington could not see
him, shook his head deprecatingly.</p>

<p>“You can consider that decided, Graham,” he
said. “Still, can you as a friendly deed give us
any notion of what to do? As you know, farming,
especially at Silverdale, costs money, and the banks
are demanding an iniquitous interest just now,
while we are carrying over a good deal of wheat.”</p>

<p>Graham nodded. He understood why farming
was unusually expensive at Silverdale, and was, in
recollection of past favours, inclined to be disinterestedly
friendly.</p>

<p>“If I were you I would sell right along for forward
delivery at a few cents under the market.”</p>

<p>“It is a trifle difficult to see how that would
help us,” said Barrington, with a little gesture of
irritation, for it almost seemed that the broker was
deriding him.</p>

<p>“No!” said the man from Winnipeg, “on the
contrary, it’s quite easy. Now I can predict that
wheat will touch lower prices still before you have
to make delivery, and it isn’t very difficult to figure
out the profit on selling a thing for a dollar and
then buying it, when you have to produce it at
ninety cents. Of course, there is a risk of the
market going against you, but you could buy at
the first rise, and you’ve your stock to dole out in
case anybody cornered you.”</p>

<p>“That,” said Dane thoughtfully, “appears
quite sensible. Of course, it’s a speculation, but
presumably we couldn’t be much worse off than we
are. Have you any objections to the scheme,
sir.”</p>

<p>Barrington laid down his cigar, and glanced with
astonished severity at the speaker. “Unfortunately,
I have. We are wheat growers, and not wheat
stock jugglers. Our purpose is to farm, and not
swindle and lie in the wheat pits for decimal
differences. I have a distinct antipathy to anything
of the kind.”</p>

<p>“But, sir,” said Dane, and Barrington stopped
with a gesture.</p>

<p>“I would,” he said, “as soon turn gambler.
Still, while it has always been a tradition at
Silverdale that the head of the settlement’s lead is to be
followed, that need not prevent you putting on the
gloves with the wheat-ring blacklegs in Winnipeg.”</p>

<p>Dane blushed a little under his tan, and then
smiled as he remembered the one speculative venture
his leader had indulged in, for Colonel Barrington
was a somewhat hot-tempered and vindictive man.
He made a little gesture of deprecation as he glanced
at Graham, who straightened himself suddenly in
his chair.</p>

<p>“I should not think of doing so in face of your
opinion, sir,” he said. “There is an end to the
thing, Graham!”</p>

<p>The broker’s face was a trifle grim. “I gave you
good advice out of friendship, Colonel, and there
are men with dollars to spare who would value a
hint from me,” he said. “Still, as it doesn’t seem
to strike you the right way, I’ve no use for arguing.
Keep your wheat—and pay bank interest if you want
any help to carry over.”</p>

<p>“Thanks,” said Dane quietly. “They charge
tolerably high, but I’ve seen what happens to the
man who meddles with the mortgage-broker.”</p>

<p>Graham nodded. “Well, as I’m starting out at
six o’clock, it’s time I was asleep,” he said. “Good-night
to you, Colonel.”</p>

<p>Barrington shook hands with Graham, and then
sighed a little when he went out. “I believe the
man is honest, and he is a guest of mine, or I should
have dressed him down,” he said. “I don’t like
the way things are going, Dane; and the fact is
we must find accommodation somewhere, because
now I have to pay out so much on my ward’s
account to that confounded Courthorne, it is necessary
to raise more dollars than the banks will give
me. Now, there was a broker fellow wrote me
a very civil letter.”</p>

<p>Dane, who was a thoughtful man, ventured to
lay his hand upon his leader’s arm. “Keep yourself
and Miss Barrington out of those fellows’
clutches, at any cost,” he said.</p>

<p>Barrington shook off his hand and looked at
him sternly. “Are you not a trifle young to adopt
that tone?” he asked.</p>

<p>Dane nodded. “No doubt I am, but I’ve seen a
little of mortgage jobbing. You must try to overlook
it. I did not mean to offend.”</p>

<p>He went out, and, while Colonel Barrington
sat down before a sheaf of accounts, sprang into
a waiting sleigh. “It’s no use; we’ve got to go
through,” he said to the lad who shook the reins,
“Graham made a very sensible suggestion, but
our respected leader came down on him, as he did
on me. You see, one simply can’t talk to the
Colonel; and it’s unfortunate Miss Barrington
didn’t marry that man in Montreal.”</p>

<p>“I don’t know,” said the lad. “Of course,
there are not many girls like Maud Barrington,
but is it necessary she should go outside Silverdale?”</p>

<p>Dane laughed. “None of us would be old enough
for Miss Barrington when we were fifty. The
trouble is, that we spend half our time in play,
and I’ve a notion it’s a man, and not a gentleman
dilettante, she’s looking for.”</p>

<p>“Isn’t that a curious way of putting it?” asked
his companion.</p>

<p>Dane nodded. “It may be the right one.
Woman is as she was made, and I’ve had more
than a suspicion lately that a little less refinement
would not come amiss at Silverdale. Anyway,
I hope she’ll find him, for it’s a man with grit and
energy, who could put a little desirable pressure
on the Colonel occasionally, we’re all wanting.
Of course, I’m backing my leader, though it’s
going to cost me a good deal, but it’s time he had
somebody to help him.”</p>

<p>“He would never accept assistance,” said the
lad thoughtfully. “That is, unless the man who
offered it was, or became by marriage, one of the
dynasty.”</p>

<p>“Of course,” said Dane. “That’s why I’m
inclined to take a fatherly interest in Miss Barrington’s
affairs. It’s a misfortune we’ve heard
nothing very reassuring about Courthorne.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink07'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER VII—WITHAM’S DECISION</a></h2>

<p>Farmer Witham crossed the frontier without
molestation and spent one night in a little wooden
town, where several people he did not speak to
apparently recognized him. Then he pushed on
southwards, and passed a week in the especially
desolate settlement he had been directed to. A few
dilapidated frame houses rose out of the white wilderness
beside the broad, beaten trail, and, for here the
prairie rolled south in long rises like the wakes of a
frozen sea, a low wooden building on the crest of one
cut the skyline a league away. It served as outpost
for a squadron of United States cavalry, and the
troopers daily maligned the Government which had
sent them into that desolation on police duty.</p>

<p>There was nothing else visible but a few dusky
groves of willows and dazzling snow. The ramshackle
wooden hotel was rather more than usually badly kept
and comfortless, and Witham, who had managed to
conciliate his host, felt relieved one afternoon when
the latter flung down the cards disgustedly.</p>

<p>“I guess I’ve had enough,” he said. “Playing
for stakes of this kind isn’t good enough for you!”</p>

<p>Witham laughed a little to hide his resentment, as
he said, “I don’t quite understand.”</p>

<p>“Pshaw!” said the American with a contemptuous
gesture. “Three times out of four I’ve spoiled your
hand, and if I didn’t know that black horse I’d take
you for some blamed Canadian rancher. You didn’t
handle the pictures that way when you stripped the
boys to the hide at Regent, Mr. Courthorne?”</p>

<p>“Regent?” said Witham.</p>

<p>The hotel-keeper laughed. “Oh yes,” he said.
“I wouldn’t go back there too soon, anyway. The
boys seem quite contented, and I don’t figure they
would be very nice to you. Well, now, I’ve no use for
fooling with a man who’s too proud to take my dollars,
and I’ve a pair of horses just stuffed with wickedness
in the stable. There’s not much you don’t know
about a beast, anyway, and you can take them out a
league or two if you feel like it.”</p>

<p>Witham, who had grown very tired of his host, was
glad of any distraction, especially as he surmised that
while the man had never seen Courthorne, he knew
rather more than he did himself about his doings.
Accordingly, he got into the sleigh that was brought
out by and by, and enjoyed the struggle with the half-tamed
team which stood with ears laid back, prepared
for conflict. Oats had been very plentiful, and prices
low that season. Witham, who knew at least as much
about a horse as Lance Courthorne, however, bent
them to his will and the team were trotting quietly
through the shadow of a big birch bluff a league from
town, when he heard a faint clip-clop coming down
the trail behind him. It led straight beneath the
leafless branches, and was beaten smooth and firm;
while Witham, who had noticed already that whenever
he strayed any distance from the hotel there was a
mounted cavalryman somewhere, in the vicinity,
shook the reins.</p>

<p>The team swung into faster stride, the cold wind
whistled past him, and the snow whirled up from beneath
the runners; but while he listened the rhythmic
drumming behind him also quickened a little. Then
a faintly musical jingle of steel accompanied the beat
of hoofs, and Witham glanced about him with a little
laugh of annoyance. The dusk was creeping across the
prairie, and a pale star or two growing into brilliancy
in the cloudless sweep of indigo.</p>

<p>“It’s getting a trifle tiresome. I’ll find out what the
fellow wants,” he said.</p>

<p>Wheeling the team, he drove back the way he came,
and, when a dusky object materialized out of the
shadows beneath the birches, swung the horses right
across the trail. The snow lay deep on either side of it
just there, with a sharp crust upon its surface, which
rendered it inadvisable to take a horse round the sleigh.
The mounted man accordingly drew bridle, and the
jingle and rattle betokened his profession, though it
was already too dark to see him clearly.</p>

<p>“Hallo!” he said. “Been buying this trail up,
stranger?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham quietly, though he still held
his team across the way. “Still, I’ve got the same
right as any other citizen to walk or drive along it
without anybody prowling after me, and just now I
want to know if there is a reason I should be favoured
with your company.”</p>

<p>The trooper laughed a little. “I guess there is.
It’s down in the orders that whoever’s on patrol near
the settlement should keep his eye on you. You see,
if you lit out of here we would want to know just
where you were going to.”</p>

<p>“I am,” said Witham, “a Canadian citizen, and I
came out here for quietness.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said the other, “you’re an American too.
Anyway, when you were in a tight place down in Regent
there, you told the boys so. Now, no sensible
man would boast of being a Britisher unless it was
helping him to play out his hand.”</p>

<p>Witham kept his temper. “I want a straight
answer. Can you tell me what you and the boys are
trailing me for?”</p>

<p>“No,” said the trooper. “Still, I guess our
commander could. If you don’t know of any reason,
you might ask him.”</p>

<p>Witham tightened his grip on the reins. “I’ll ride
back with you to the outpost now.”</p>

<p>The trooper shook his bridle, and trotted behind the
sleigh, while, as it swung up and down over the billowy
rises of the prairie, Witham became sensible of a
curious expectancy. The bare, hopeless life he had
led seemed to have slipped behind him, and though
he suspected that there was no great difference between
his escort and a prisoner’s guard, the old love of excitement
he once fancied he had outgrown for ever awoke
again within him. Anything that was different from
the past would be a relief, and the man who had for
eight long years of strenuous toil practised the grimmest
self-denial wondered with a quickening of all his
faculties what the future, that could not be more
colourless, might have in store for him.</p>

<p>It was dark, and very cold, when they reached the
wooden building, but Witham’s step was lighter, and
his spirits more buoyant than they had been for some
months when, handing the sleigh over to an orderly,
he walked into the guard-room, where bronzed men
in uniform glanced at him curiously. Then he was
shown into a bare, log-walled hall, where a young man
in blue uniform with a weather-darkened face was
writing at a table.</p>

<p>“I’ve been partly expecting a visit,” he said. “I’m
glad to see you, Mr. Courthorne.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed with a very good imitation of the
outlaw’s recklessness, and wondered the while because
it cost him no effort. He who had, throughout the
last two adverse seasons, seldom smiled at all, and
then but grimly, experienced the same delight in an
adventure that he had done when he came out to
Canada.</p>

<p>“I don’t know that I can return the compliment
just yet,” he said. “I have one or two things to ask
you.”</p>

<p>The young soldier smiled good-humouredly, as he
flung a cigar case on the table. “Oh, sit down and
shake those furs off,” he said. “I’m not a worrying
policeman, and we’re white men, anyway. If you’d
been twelve months in this forsaken place you’d know
what I’m feeling. Take a smoke, and start in with
your questions when you feel like it.”</p>

<p>Witham lighted a cigar, flung himself down in a hide
chair, and stretched out his feet towards the stove.
“In the first place, I want to know why your boys are
shadowing me. You see, you couldn’t arrest me unless
our folks in the Dominion had got their papers
through.”</p>

<p>The officer nodded. “No. We couldn’t lay hands
on you, and we only had orders to see where you went
to when you left this place, so the folks there could
corral you if they got the papers. That’s about the
size of it at present, but, as I’ve sent a trooper over to
Regent, I’ll know more to-morrow.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “It may appear a little astonishing,
but I haven’t the faintest notion why the police
in Canada should worry about me. Is there any
reason you shouldn’t tell me?”</p>

<p>The officer looked at him thoughtfully. “Bluff?
I’m quite smart at it myself,” he said.</p>

<p>“No,” and Witham shook his head. “It’s a
straight question. I want to know.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said the other, “it couldn’t do much harm if
I told you. You were running whisky a little while
ago, and, though the folks didn’t seem to suspect it,
you had a farmer or a rancher for a partner—it appears
he has mixed up things for you.”</p>

<p>“Witham?” and the farmer turned to roll the cigar
which did not need it between his fingers.</p>

<p>“That’s the man,” said his companion. “Well,
though I guess it’s no news to you, the police came
down upon your friends at a river-crossing, and farmer
Witham put a bullet into a young trooper, Shannon,
I fancy.”</p>

<p>Witham sat upright, and the blood that surged to
his forehead sank from it suddenly, and left his face
grey with anger.</p>

<p>“Good Lord!” he said hoarsely. “He killed
him?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” said the officer, “Killing’s not quite the
word, because one shot would have been enough to
free him of the lad, and the rancher fired twice into
him. They figured, from the way the trooper was
lying and the footprints, that he meant to finish
him.”</p>

<p>The farmer’s face was very grim as he said, “They
were sure it was Witham?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” and the soldier watched him curiously.
“Anyway, they were sure of his horse, and it was
Witham’s rifle. Another trooper nearly got him,
and he left it behind him. It wasn’t killing, for the
trooper don’t seem to have had a show at all, and I’m
glad to see it makes you kind of sick. Only that one
of the troopers allows he was trailing you at a time
which shows you had no hand in the thing, you
wouldn’t be sitting there smoking that cigar.”</p>

<p>It was almost a minute before Witham could trust
his voice. Then he said slowly, “And what do they
want me for?”</p>

<p>“I guess they don’t quite know whether they do or
not,” said the officer. “They crawl slow in Canada.
In the meanwhile they wanted to know where you
were, so they could take out papers if anything turned
up against you.”</p>

<p>“And Witham?” said the farmer.</p>

<p>“Got away with a trooper close behind him. The
rest of them had headed him off from the prairie, and
he took to the river. Went through the ice and drowned
himself, though as there was a blizzard nobody quite
saw the end of him, and in case there was any doubt
they’ve got a warrant out. Farmer Witham’s dead,
and if he isn’t he soon will be, for the troopers have
got their net right across the prairie, and the Canadians
don’t fool time away as we do when it comes to hanging
anybody. The tale seems to have worried you.”</p>

<p>Witham sat rigidly still and silent for almost a
minute. Then he rose up with a curious little shake
of his shoulders.</p>

<p>“And farmer Witham’s dead. Well he had a hard
life. I knew him rather well,” he said. “Thank
you for the story. On my word this is the first time
I’ve heard it, and now it’s time I was going.”</p>

<p>The officer laughed a little. “Sit right down again.
Now, there’s something about you that makes me like
you, and as I can’t talk to the boys, I’ll give you the
best supper we can raise in the whole forsaken country,
and you can camp here until to-morrow. It’s
an arrangement that will meet the views of everybody,
because I’ll know whether the Canadians want you or
not in the morning.”</p>

<p>Witham did not know what prompted him to agree,
but it all seemed part of a purpose that impelled him
against his reasoning will, and he sat still beside the
stove while his host went out to give orders respecting
supper and the return of the sleigh. He was also
glad to be alone for a while, for now and then a fit of
anger shook him as he saw how he had been duped by
Courthorne. He had heard Shannon’s story, and,
remembering it, could fancy that Courthorne had
planned the trooper’s destruction with a devilish
cunning that recognized by what means the blame
could be laid upon a guiltless man. Witham’s face
became mottled with grey again as he realized that
if he revealed his identity he had nothing but his
word to offer in proof of his innocence.</p>

<p>Still, it was anger and not fear that stirred him,
for nobody could arrest a man who was dead, and
there was no reason that would render it undesirable
for him to remain so. His farm would, when sold,
realize the money borrowed upon it, and the holder of
the mortgage had received a profitable interest already.
Had the unforeseen not happened, Witham would
have held out to the end of the struggle, but now he
had no regret that this was out of the question. Fate
had been too strong for him as farmer Witham, but
it might deal more kindly with him as the outlaw
Courthorne. He could also make a quick decision,
and when the officer returned to say that supper was
ready, he rose with a smile.</p>

<p>They sat down to a meal that was barbaric in its
simplicity and abundance, for men live and eat in
Homeric fashion in the North-West, while when the
green tea was finished and the officer pushed the
whisky across, his guest laughed as he filled his glass.</p>

<p>“Here’s better fortune to farmer Witham!” he
said.</p>

<p>The officer stared at him. “No, sir,” he said
“If the old folks taught me aright, Witham’s in——”</p>

<p>A curious smile flickered in the farmer’s eyes.
“No,” he said slowly. “He was tolerably near
it once or twice when he was alive, and, because of
what he went through then, there may be something
better in store for him.”</p>

<p>His companion appeared astonished, but said
nothing further until he brought out the cards. They
played for an hour beside the snapping stove, and
then, when Witham flung a trump away, the officer
groaned.</p>

<p>“I guess,” he said disgustedly, “you’re not well
to-night, or something is worrying you.”</p>

<p>Witham looked up with a little twinkle in his eyes.
“I don’t know that there’s very much wrong
with me.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said the officer decisively, “if the boys
down at Regent know enough to remember what
trumps are, you’re not Lance Courthorne. Now after
what I’d heard of you, I’d have put up fifty dollars
for the pleasure of watching your game—and it’s not
worth ten cents when I’ve seen it.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “Sit down and talk,” he said.
“One isn’t always in his usual form, and there are
folks who get famous too easily.”</p>

<p>They talked until nearly midnight, sitting close to
the stove, while a doleful wind that moaned without
drove the dust of snow pattering against the windows,
and the shadows grew darker in the corners of the great
log-walled room each time the icy draughts set the
lamp flickering. Then the officer, rising, expressed
the feelings of his guest as he said, “It’s a forsaken
country, and I’m thankful one can sleep and forget it.”</p>

<p>He had, however, an honourable calling, and a
welcome from friend and kinsman awaiting him
when he went East again, to revel in the life of the
cities, but the man who followed him silently to the
sleeping-room had nothing but a half-instinctive
assurance that the future could not well be harder or
more lonely than the past had been. Still, farmer
Witham was a man of courage with a quiet belief in
himself, and in ten minutes he was fast asleep.</p>

<p>When he came down to breakfast his host was
already seated with a bundle of letters before him,
and one addressed to Courthorne lay unopened by
Witham’s plate. The officer nodded when he saw
him.</p>

<p>“The trooper has come in with the mail, and your
friends in Canada are not going to worry you,” he
said. “Now, if you feel like staying here a few days,
it would be a favour to me.”</p>

<p>Witham had in the meanwhile opened the envelope.
He knew that when once the decision was made there
could only be peril in half-measures, and his eyes
grew thoughtful as he read. The letter had been
written by a Winnipeg lawyer from a little town not
very far away, and requested Courthorne to meet and
confer with him respecting certain suggestions made
by a Colonel Barrington. Witham decided to take
the risk.</p>

<p>“I’m sorry, but I have got to go into Annerly at
once,” he said.</p>

<p>“Then,” said the officer, “I’ll drive you. I’ve
some stores to get down there.”</p>

<p>They started after breakfast, but it was dusk
next day when they reached the little town, and
Witham walked quietly into a private room of the
wooden hotel, where a middle-aged man with a
shrewd face sat waiting him. The big nickelled
lamp flickered in the draughts that found their way
in, and Witham was glad of it, though he was outwardly
very collected. The stubborn patience and
self-control with which he had faced the loss of his
wheat crops and frozen stock stood him in good stead
now. He fancied the lawyer seemed a trifle astonished
at his appearance, and sat down wondering whether
he had previously spoken to Courthorne, until the
question was answered for him.</p>

<p>“Although I have never had the pleasure of meeting
you before, I have acted as Colonel Barrington’s
legal adviser ever since he settled at Silverdale, and
am, therefore, well posted as to his affairs, which are,
of course, connected with those of your own family,”
said the lawyer. “We can accordingly talk with
greater freedom, and I hope without the acerbity
which in your recent communications somewhat
annoyed the Colonel!”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Courthorne, who had never heard
of Colonel Barrington, “I am ready to listen.”</p>

<p>The lawyer drummed on the table. “It might
be best to come to the point at once,” he said.
“Colonel Barrington does not deem it convenient
that you should settle at Silverdale, and would be
prepared to offer you a reasonable sum to relinquish
your claim.”</p>

<p>“My claim?” said Witham, who remembered
having heard of the Silverdale Colony, which lay
several hundred miles away.</p>

<p>“Of course,” said the lawyer. “The legacy lately
left you by Roger Courthorne. I have brought you
a schedule of the wheat in store, and amounts due to
you on various sales made. You will also find the
acreage, stock, and implements detailed at a well-known
appraiser’s valuation, which you could, of
course, confirm, and Colonel Barrington would hand
you a cheque for half the total now. He however,
asks four years to pay the balance, which would carry
bank interest in the meanwhile, in.”</p>

<p>Witham, who was glad of the excuse, spent at least
ten minutes studying the paper, and realized that it
referred to a large and well-appointed farm, though
it occurred to him that the crop was a good deal smaller
than it should have been. He noticed this, as
it were, instinctively, for his brain was otherwise very
busy.</p>

<p>“Colonel Barrington seems somewhat anxious to
get rid of me,” he said. “You see, this land is mine
by right.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the lawyer. “Colonel Barrington
does not dispute it, though I am of opinion that he
might have done so under one clause of the will. I
do not think we need discuss his motives.”</p>

<p>Witham moistened his lips with his tongue, and
his lips quivered a little. He had hitherto been an
honest man, and now it was impossible for him to
take the money. It, however, appeared equally
impossible to reveal his identity and escape the halter,
and he felt that the dead man had wronged him
horribly. He was entitled at least to safety by way
of compensation, for by passing as Courthorne he
would avoid recognition as Witham.</p>

<p>“Still, I do not know how I have offended Colonel
Barrington,” he said.</p>

<p>“I would sooner,” said the lawyer, “not go into
that. It is, I fancy, fifteen years since Colonel Barrington
saw you, but he desired me to find means of
tracing your Canadian record, and did not seem
pleased with it. Nor, at the risk of offending you,
could I deem him unduly prejudiced.”</p>

<p>“In fact,” said Witham dryly, “this man who has
not seen me for fifteen years is desirous of withholding
what is mine from me at almost any cost.”</p>

<p>The lawyer nodded. “There is nothing to be
gained by endeavouring to controvert it. Colonel
Barrington is also, as you know, a somewhat determined
gentleman.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed, for he was essentially a stubborn
man, and felt little kindliness towards any one connected
with Courthorne, as the Colonel evidently
was.</p>

<p>“I fancy I am not entirely unlike him in that respect,”
he said. “What you have told me makes me
the more determined to follow my own inclinations.
Is there any one else at Silverdale prejudiced against
me?”</p>

<p>The lawyer fell into the trap. “Miss Barrington,
of course, takes her brother’s view, and her niece
would scarcely go counter to them. She must have
been a very young girl when she last saw you, but
from what I know of her character I should expect
her to support the Colonel.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham. “I want to think over
the thing. We will talk again to-morrow. You
would require me to establish my identity, anyway?”</p>

<p>“The fact that a famous inquiry agent has traced
your movements down to a week or two ago, and told
me where to find you, will render that simple,” said
the lawyer dryly.</p>

<p>Witham sat up late that night turning over the
papers the lawyer left him, and thinking hard. It
was evident that in the meanwhile he must pass as
Courthorne, but as the thought of taking the money
revolted him, the next step led to the occupation of
the dead man’s property. The assumption of it would
apparently do nobody a wrong, while he felt that
Courthorne had taken so much from him that the farm
at Silverdale would be a very small reparation. It
was not, he saw, a great inheritance, but one that in
the right hands could be made profitable, and Witham,
who had fought a plucky fight with obsolete and
worthless implements and indifferent teams, felt that
he could do a great deal with what was, as it were,
thrust upon him at Silverdale. It was not avarice
that tempted him, though he knew he was tempted
now, but a longing to find a fair outlet for his energies,
and show what, once given the chance that most men
had, he could do. He had stinted himself and toiled
almost as a beast of burden, but now he could use his
brains in place of wringing the last effort out of overtaxed
muscle. He had also during the long struggle
lost, to some extent, his clearness of vision, and only
saw himself as a lonely man fighting for his own hand
with fate against him. Now, when prosperity was
offered him, it seemed but folly to stand aside when
he could stretch out a strong hand and take it.</p>

<p>During the last hour he sat almost motionless, the
issue hung in the balance, and he laid himself down
still undecided. Still, he had lived long in primitive
fashion in close touch with the soil, and sank, as most
men would have done, into restful sleep. The sun
hung red above the rim of the prairie when he awakened,
and going down to breakfast found the lawyer
waiting for him.</p>

<p>“You can tell Colonel Barrington I’m coming to
Silverdale,” he said.</p>

<p>The lawyer looked at him curiously. “Would
there be any use in asking you to consider?”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “No,” he said. “Now, I rather
like the way you talked to me, and if it wouldn’t be
disloyalty to the Colonel, I should be pleased if you
would undertake to put me in due possession of my
property.”</p>

<p>He said nothing further, and the lawyer sat down
to write Colonel Barrington.</p>

<p>“Mr. Courthorne proves obdurate,” he said. “He
is, however, by no means the type of man I expected
to find, and I venture to surmise that you will
eventually discover him to be a less undesirable
addition to Silverdale than you are at present inclined
to fancy.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink08'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER VIII—WITHAM COMES TO SILVERDALE</a></h2>

<p>There were warmth and brightness in the cedar-boarded
general room of Silverdale Grange, and most
of the company gathered there basked in it contentedly
after their drive through the bitter night. Those
who came from the homesteads lying farthest out
had risked frost-nipped hands and feet, for when
Colonel Barrington held a levee at the Grange nobody
felt equal to refusing his invitation. Neither scorching
heat nor utter cold might excuse compliance with the
wishes of the founder of Silverdale, and it was not
until Dane, the big middle-aged bachelor, had spoken
very plainly, that he consented to receive his guests
in time of biting frost dressed otherwise than as they
would have appeared in England.</p>

<p>Dane was the one man in the settlement who dare
remonstrate with its ruler, but it was a painful astonishment
to the latter when he said, in answer to one
invitation, “I have never been frost-bitten, sir, and
I stand the cold well, but one or two of the lads are
weak in the chest, and this climate was never intended
for bare-shouldered women. Hence, if I come, I
shall dress myself to suit it.”</p>

<p>Colonel Barrington stared at him for almost a minute,
and then shook his head. “Have it your own
way,” he said, “Understand that in itself I care
very little for dress, but it is only by holding fast to
every traditional nicety we can prevent ourselves
sinking into Western barbarism, and I am horribly
afraid of the thin end of the wedge.”</p>

<p>Dane having gained his point, said nothing further,
for he was one of the wise and silent men who know
when to stop, and that evening he sat in a corner
watching his leader thoughtfully, for there was anxiety
in the Colonel’s face. Barrington sat silent near
the ample hearth whose heat would scarcely have
kept water from freezing but for the big stove, and
disdaining the dispensation made his guests, he was
clad conventionally, though the smooth black fabric
clung about him more tightly than it had once been
intended to do. His sister stood, with the stamp of a
not wholly vanished beauty still clinging to her gentle
face, talking to one or two matrons from outlying
farms, and his niece by a little table turning over
Eastern photographs with a few young girls. She,
too, wore black in deference to the Colonel’s taste,
which was sombre, and the garment she had laughed
at as a compromise, left uncovered a narrow strip of
ivory shoulder and enhanced the polished whiteness
of her neck. A slender string of pearls gleamed softly
on the satiny skin, but Maud Barrington wore no other
adornment and did not need it. She had inherited
the Courthorne comeliness, and the Barringtons
she sprang from on her father’s side had always borne
the stamp of distinction.</p>

<p>A young girl sat at the piano singing in a thin,
reedy voice, while an English lad waited with ill-concealed
jealousy of a too officious companion to
turn over the music by her side. Other men,
mostly young, with weather-bronzed faces, picturesque
in embroidered deerskin or velvet lounge jackets,
were scattered about the room, and all were waiting
for the eight-o’clock dinner, which replaced the usual
prairie supper at Silverdale. They were growers of
wheat who combined a good deal of amusement with
a little not very profitable farming, and most of them
possessed a large share of insular English pride and
a somewhat depleted exchequer.</p>

<p>Presently Dane crossed over, and sat down by
Colonel Barrington. “You are silent, sir, and not
looking very well to-night,” he said.</p>

<p>Barrington nodded gravely, for he had a respect
for the one man who occasionally spoke plain truth
to him. “The fact is, I am growing old,” he said, and
then added, with what was only an apparent lack of
connexion, “Wheat is down three cents, and money
tighter than ever.”</p>

<p>Dane looked thoughtful, and noticed the older
man’s glance in his niece’s direction, as he said, “I
am afraid there are difficult times before us.”</p>

<p>“I have no doubt we shall weather them as we have
done before,” said the Colonel. “Still, I can’t help
admitting that just now I feel—a little tired—and
am commencing to think we should have been better
prepared for the struggle had we worked a trifle
harder during the recent era of prosperity. I could
wish there were older heads on the shoulders of those
who will come after me.”</p>

<p>Just then Maud Barrington glanced at them, and
Dane, who could not remember having heard his
leader talk in that fashion before, and could guess
his anxieties, was a little touched as he noticed his
attempt at sprightliness. As it happened, one of the
lads at the piano commenced a song of dogs and horses
that had little to recommend it but the brave young
voice.</p>

<p>“They have the right spirit, sir,” he said.</p>

<p>“Of course!” said Barrington. “They are English
lads, but I think a little more is required. Thank
God we have not rated the dollar too high, but it is
possible we have undervalued its utility, and I fear I
have only taught them to be gentlemen.”</p>

<p>“That is a good deal, sir,” Dane said quietly.</p>

<p>“It is. Still, a gentleman, in the restricted sense,
is somewhat of an anachronism on the prairie, and it
is too late to begin again. In the usual course of
nature I must lay down my charge presently, and
that is why I feel the want of a more capable successor,
whom they would follow because of his connexion
with mine and me.”</p>

<p>Dane looked thoughtful. “If I am not taking a
liberty—you still consider the one apparently born
to fill the place quite unsuitable?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Barrington quietly. “I fear there
is not a redeeming feature in Courthorne’s character.”</p>

<p>Neither said anything further, until there was a
tapping at the door, and, though this was a most
unusual spectacle on the prairie, a trim English maid
in white-banded dress stood in the opening.</p>

<p>“Mr. Courthorne, Miss Barrington,” she said.</p>

<p>Now Silverdale had adopted one Western custom
in that no chance guest was ever kept waiting, and
the music ceased suddenly, while the stillness was
very suggestive, when a man appeared in the doorway.
He wore one of the Scandinavian leather jackets
which are not uncommon in that country, and when
his eyes had become accustomed to the light, moved
forward with a quiet deliberation that was characterized
neither by graceful ease nor the restraint of
embarrassment. His face was almost the colour of
a Blackfoot’s, his eyes steady and grey, but those of
the men who watched him were next moment turned
upon the Colonel’s sister, who rose to receive him,
slight, silver-haired, and faded, but still stamped with
a simple dignity that her ancient silks and lace curiously
enhanced. Then there was a silence that could
be felt, for all realized that a good deal depended
on the stranger’s first words and the fashion of his
reception.</p>

<p>Witham, as it happened, felt this too, and something
more. It was eight years since he had stood
before an English lady, and he surmised that there
could not be many to compare with this one, while
after his grim, lonely life an intangible something
that seemed to emanate from her gracious serenity
compelled his homage. Then as she smiled at him
and held out her hand, he was for a moment sensible
of an almost overwhelming confusion. It passed as
suddenly, for this was a man of quick perceptions, and
remembering that Courthorne had now and then
displayed some of the grace of bygone days he yielded
to a curious impulse, and, stooping, kissed the little
withered fingers.</p>

<p>“I have,” he said, “to thank you for a welcome
that does not match my poor deserts, madam.”</p>

<p>Then Dane, standing beside his leader, saw the
grimness grow a trifle less marked in his eyes. “It
is in the blood,” he said half aloud, but Dane heard
him and afterwards remembered it.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile Miss Barrington had turned from
the stranger to her niece. “It is a very long time
since you have seen Lance, Maud, and, though I knew
his mother well, I am less fortunate, because this is
our first meeting,” she said. “I wonder if you still
remember my niece.”</p>

<p>Now, Witham had been gratified by his first success,
and was about to venture on the answer that it
was impossible to forget; but when he turned towards
the very stately young woman in the long black dress,
whose eyes had a sardonic gleam, and wondered
whether he had ever seen anybody so comely or less
inclined to be companionable, it was borne in upon him
that any speech of the kind would be distinctly out
of place. Accordingly, and because there was no
hand held out in this case, he contented himself with
a little bend of his head. Then he was presented to
the Colonel, who was distantly cordial, and Witham
was thankful when the maid appeared in the doorway
again, to announce that dinner was ready. Miss
Barrington laid her hand upon his arm.</p>

<p>“You will put up with an old woman’s company
to-night?” she said.</p>

<p>Witham glanced down deprecatingly at his attire.
“I must explain that I had no intention of trespassing
on your hospitality,” he said. “I purposed
going on to my own homestead, and only called
to acquaint Colonel Barrington with my arrival.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington laughed pleasantly. “That,”
she said, “was neither dutiful nor friendly. I should
have fancied you would also have desired to pay your
respects to my niece and me.”</p>

<p>Witham was not quite sure what he answered, but
he drew in a deep breath, for he had made the plunge
and felt that the worst was over. His companion,
evidently noticed the gasp of relief.</p>

<p>“It was somewhat of an ordeal?” she said.</p>

<p>Witham looked down upon her gravely, and Miss
Barrington noticed a steadiness in his eyes she had
not expected to see. “It was, and I feel guilty because
I was horribly afraid,” he said. “Now I only
wonder if you will always be equally kind to me.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington smiled a little, but the man fancied
there was just a perceptible tightening of the
hand upon his arm. “I would like to be, for your
mother’s sake,” she said.</p>

<p>Witham understood that while Courthorne’s iniquities
were not to be brought up against him, the
little gentle-voiced lady had but taken him on trial;
but, perhaps because it was so long since any woman
had spoken kindly words to him, his heart went out towards
her, and he felt a curious desire to compel her
good opinion. Then he found himself seated near the
head of the long table, with Maud Barrington on his
other hand, and had an uncomfortable feeling that
most of the faces were turned somewhat frequently
in his direction. It is also possible that he would
have betrayed himself, had he been burdened with
self-consciousness, but the long, bitter struggle he had
fought alone had purged him of petty weaknesses and
left him the closer grasp of essential things, with the
strength of character which is one and the same in
all men who possess it, whatever may be their upbringing.</p>

<p>During a lull in the voices, Maud Barrington, who
may have felt it incumbent on her to show him some
scant civility, turned towards him as she said, “I am
afraid our conversation will not appeal to you. Partly
because there is so little else to interest us, we talk
wheat throughout the year at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham with a curious little smile,
“wheat as a topic is not quite new to me. In fact,
I know almost more about cereals than some folks
would care to do.”</p>

<p>“In the shape of elevator warrants or Winnipeg
market margins, presumably?”</p>

<p>Witham’s eyes twinkled, though he understood the
implication. “No,” he said. “The wheat I handled
was in 250-pound bags, and I occasionally grew
somewhat tired of pitching them into a wagon, while
my speculations usually consisted in committing it
to the prairie soil, in the hope of reaping forty bushels
to the acre, and then endeavouring to be content
with ten. It is conceivable that operations on the
Winnipeg market are less laborious as well as more
profitable, but I have no opportunity of trying
them.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington looked at him steadily, and Witham
felt the blood surge to his forehead as he remembered
having heard of a certain venture made by Courthorne,
which brought discredit on one or two men, connected
with the affairs of a grain elevator. It was evident
that Miss Barrington had also heard of it, and no man
cares to stand convicted of falsification in the eyes
of a very pretty girl. Still, he roused himself with an
effort.</p>

<p>“It is neither wise nor charitable to believe all one
hears,” he said.</p>

<p>The girl smiled a little, but the man still winced
inwardly under her clear brown eyes that would, he
fancied, have been very scornful had they been less
indifferent.</p>

<p>“I do not remember mentioning having heard anything,”
she said. “Were you not a trifle premature
in face of the proverb?”</p>

<p>Witham’s face was a trifle grim, though he laughed.
“I’m afraid I was; but I am warned,” he said.
“Excuses are, after all, not worth much, and when I
make my defence it will be before a more merciful
judge.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington’s curiosity was piqued. Lance
Courthorne, outcast and gambler, was at least a
different stamp of man from the type she had been
used to, and, being a woman, the romance that was
interwoven with his somewhat iniquitous career was
not without its attractions for her.</p>

<p>“I did not know that you included farming among
your talents, and should have fancied you would have
found it—monotonous,” she said.</p>

<p>“I did,” and the provoking smile still flickered in
Witham’s eyes. “Are not all strictly virtuous occupations
usually so?”</p>

<p>“It is probably a question of temperament. I
have, of course, heard sardonic speeches of the kind
before, and felt inclined to wonder whether those who
made them were qualified to form an opinion.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded, but there was a little ring in his
voice. “Perhaps I laid myself open to the thrust;
but have you any right to assume I have never followed
a commendable profession?”</p>

<p>No answer was immediately forthcoming, but Witham
did wisely when, in place of waiting, he turned
to Miss Barrington. He had left her niece irritated,
but the trace of anger she felt was likely to enhance
her interest. The meal, however, was a trial to him,
for he had during eight long years lived for the most
part apart from all his kind, a lonely toiler, and now
was constrained to personate a man known to be
almost dangerously skilful with his tongue. At first
sight the task appeared almost insuperably difficult,
but Witham was a clever man, and felt all the thrill
of one playing a risky game just then. Perhaps it
was due to excitement that a readiness he had never
fancied himself capable of came to him in his need,
and, when at last the ladies rose, he felt that he had
not slipped perilously. Still, he found how dry his
lips had grown when somebody poured him a glass
of wine. Then he became sensible that Colonel Barrington,
who had apparently been delivering a lengthy
monologue, was addressing him.</p>

<p>“The outlook is sufficient to cause us some anxiety,”
he said. “We are holding large stocks, and I can see
no prospect of anything but a steady fall in wheat.
It is, however, presumably a little too soon to ask
your opinion.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham, “while I am prepared to act
upon it, I would recommend it to others with some
diffidence. No money can be made at present by
farming, but I see no reason why we should not endeavour
to cut our losses by selling forward down. If
caught by a sudden rally, we could fall back on the
grain we hold.”</p>

<p>There was a sudden silence, until Dane said softly,
“That is exactly what one of the cleverest brokers
in Winnipeg recommended.”</p>

<p>“I think,” said Colonel Barrington, “you heard
my answer. I am inclined to fancy that such a measure
would not be advisable or fitting, Mr. Courthorne.
You, however, presumably know very little about
the practical aspect of the wheat question?”</p>

<p>Witham smiled. “On the contrary, I know a
great deal.”</p>

<p>“You do?” said Barrington sharply, and while
a blunderer would have endeavoured to qualify his
statement, Witham stood by it.</p>

<p>“You are evidently not aware, sir, that I have tried
my hand at farming, though not very successfully.”</p>

<p>“That, at least,” said Barrington dryly, as he rose,
“is quite credible.”</p>

<p>When they went into the smaller room, Witham
crossed over to where Maud Barrington sat alone, and
looked down upon her gravely. “One discovers
that frankness is usually best,” he said. “Now, I
would not like to feel that you had determined to be
unfriendly with me.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington fixed a pair of clear brown eyes
upon his face, and the faintest trace of astonishment
crept into them. She was a woman with high principles,
but neither a fool nor a prude, and she saw
no sign of dissolute living there. The man’s gaze
was curiously steady, his skin clear and brown, and
his sinewy form suggested a capacity for, and she
almost fancied an acquaintance with, physical toil.
Yet he had already denied the truth to her. Witham,
on his part, saw a very fair face with wholesome pride
in it, and felt that the eyes which were coldly contemptuous
now could, if there was a warrant for it,
grow very gentle.</p>

<p>“Would it be of any moment if I were?” she said.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham quietly. “There are two
people here it is desirable for me to stand well with,
and the first of them, your aunt, has, I fancy, already
decided to give me a fair trial. She told me it was for
my mother’s sake. Now, I can deal with your uncle.”</p>

<p>The girl smiled a little. “Are you quite sure?
Everybody does not find it easy to get on with Colonel
Barrington. His code is somewhat draconic.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “He is a man, and I hope to convince
him I have at least a right to toleration. That
leaves only you. The rest don’t count. They will
come round by and by, you see.”</p>

<p>The little forceful gesture with which he concluded
pleased Maud Barrington. It was free from vanity,
but conveyed an assurance that he knew his own
value.</p>

<p>“No friendship that is lightly given is worth very
much,” she said. “I could decide better in another
six months. Now it is perhaps fortunate that Colonel
Barrington is waiting for us to make up his four
at whist.”</p>

<p>Witham allowed a faint gesture of dismay to escape
him. “Must I play?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the girl, smiling. “Whist is my
uncle’s hobby, and he is enthusiastic over a clever
game.”</p>

<p>Witham groaned inwardly. “And I am a fool at
whist.”</p>

<p>“Then it was poker you played?” and again a
faint trace of anger crept into the girl’s eyes.</p>

<p>Witham shook his head. “No,” he said. “I
had few opportunities of indulging in expensive luxuries.”</p>

<p>“I think we had better take our places,” said Maud
Barrington, with unveiled contempt.</p>

<p>Witham’s forehead grew a trifle hot, and when he
sat down Barrington glanced at him. “I should
explain that we never allow stakes of any kind at
Silverdale,” he said. “Some of the lads sent out to
me have been a trifle extravagant in the old country.”</p>

<p>He dealt out the cards, but a trace of bewildered
irritation crept into his eyes as the game proceeded,
and once or twice he appeared to check an exclamation
of astonishment, while at last he glanced reproachfully
at Witham.</p>

<p>“My dear sir! Still, you have ridden a long way,”
he said, laying his finger on a king.</p>

<p>Witham laughed to hide his dismay. “I am
sorry, sir. It was scarcely fair to my partner. You
would, however, have beaten us, anyway.”</p>

<p>Barrington gravely gathered up the cards. “We
will,” he said, “have some music. I do not play
poker.”</p>

<p>Then, for the first time, Witham lost his head in
his anger. “Nor do I, sir.”</p>

<p>Barrington only looked at him, but the farmer felt
as though somebody had struck him in the face, and
as soon as he conveniently could, bade Miss Barrington
good night.</p>

<p>“But we expected you would stay here a day or
two. Your place is not ready,” she said.</p>

<p>Witham smiled at her. “I think I am wise. I
must feel my way.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington was won, and, making no further
protest, signed to Dane. “You will take Mr. Courthorne
home with you,” she said. “I would have
kept him here, but he is evidently anxious to talk
over affairs with some one more of his age than my
brother is.”</p>

<p>Dane appeared quite willing, and an hour later,
Witham sat, cigar in hand, in a room of his outlying
farm. It was furnished simply, but there were signs
of taste, and the farmer who occupied it had already
formed a good opinion of the man whose knowledge
of his own profession astonished him.</p>

<p>“So you are actually going to sell wheat in face of
the Colonel’s views?” he said.</p>

<p>“Of course,” said Witham simply. “I don’t like
unpleasantness, but I can allow no man to dictate
my affairs to me.”</p>

<p>Dane grinned. “Well,” he said, “the Colonel
can be nasty, and he has no great reason for being
fond of you already.”</p>

<p>“No?” said Witham. “Now, of course, my
accession will make a difference at Silverdale, but I
would consider it a friendly act if you will let me know
the views of the colony.”</p>

<p>Dane looked thoughtful. “The trouble is that
your taking up the land leaves less for Maud Barrington
than there would have been. Barrington, who
is fond of the girl, was trustee for the property, and
after your—estrangement—from your father everybody
expected she would get it all.”</p>

<p>“So I have deprived Miss Barrington of part of
her income?”</p>

<p>“Of course,” said Dane. “Didn’t you know?”</p>

<p>Witham found it difficult to answer. “I never
quite realized it before. Are there more accounts
against me?”</p>

<p>“That,” said Dane slowly, “is rather a facer.
We are all more or less friends of the dominant
family, you see.”</p>

<p>Witham laid down his cigar and stood up, “Now,”
he said, “I generally talk straight, and you have
held out a hand to me. Can you believe in the apparent
improbability of such a man as I am in the opinion
of the folks at Silverdale getting tired of a wasted
life and trying to walk straight again? I want your
answer, yes or no, before I head across the prairie
for my own place.”</p>

<p>“Sit down,” said Dane with a little smile. “Do
you think I would have brought you here if I hadn’t
believed it? And, if I have my way, the first man
who flings a stone will be sorry for it. Still, I don’t
think any of them will—or could afford it. If we
had all been saints, some of us would never have come
out from the old country.”</p>

<p>He stopped and poured out two glasses of wine.
“It’s a long while since I’ve talked so much,” he
said. “Here’s to our better acquaintance, Courthorne.”</p>

<p>After that they talked wheat-growing and horses,
and when his guest retired Dane still sat smoking
thoughtfully beside the stove. “We want a man
with nerve and brains,” he said. “I fancy the one
who has been sent us will make a difference at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>It was about the same time when Colonel Barrington
stood talking with his niece and sister in Silverdale
Grange. “And the man threw that trick away
when it was absolutely clear who had the ace—and
wished me to believe that he forgot!” he said.</p>

<p>His face was flushed with indignation, but Miss
Barrington smiled at her niece. “What is your
opinion, Maud?”</p>

<p>The girl moved one white shoulder with a gesture
of disdain. “Can you ask—after that! Besides, he
twice wilfully perverted facts while he talked to me,
though it was not in the least necessary.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington looked thoughtful. “And yet,
because I was watching him, I do not think he plays
cards well.”</p>

<p>“But he was a professional gambler,” said the girl.</p>

<p>The elder lady shook her head. “So we—heard,”
she said. “My dear, give him a little time. I have
seen many men and women—and can’t help a fancy
that there is good in him.”</p>

<p>“Can the leopard change his spots?” asked Colonel
Barrington, with a grim smile.</p>

<p>The little white-haired lady glanced at him as she
said quietly, “When the wicked man——”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink09'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER IX—AN ARMISTICE</a></h2>

<p>The dismal afternoon was drawing in when Witham,
driving home from the railroad, came into sight of a
lonely farm. It lifted itself out of the prairie, a blur
of huddled buildings on the crest of a long rise, but
at first sight Witham scarcely noticed it. He was
gazing abstractedly down the sinuous smear of trail
which unrolled itself like an endless riband across
the great white desolation, and his brain was busy.
Four months had passed since he came to Silverdale,
and they had left their mark on him.</p>

<p>At first there had been the constant fear of detection,
and when that had lessened and he was accepted
as Lance Courthorne, the latter’s unfortunate record
had met him at every turn. It accounted for the
suspicions of Colonel Barrington, the reserve of his
niece, and the aloofness of some of his neighbours,
while there had been times when Witham found
Silverdale almost unendurable. He was, however,
an obstinate man, and there was on the opposite side
the gracious kindliness of the little grey-haired lady,
who had from the beginning been his champion, and
the friendship of Dane and one or two of the older
men. Witham had also proved his right to be listened
to, and treated, outwardly at least, with due
civility, while something in his resolute quietness
rendered an impertinence impossible. He knew
by this time that he could hold his own at Silverdale,
and based his conduct on the fact, but that was only
one aspect of the question, and he speculated as to
the consummation.</p>

<p>It was, however, evident that in the meanwhile
he must continue to pose as Courthorne, and he felt,
rightly or wrongly, that the possession of his estate,
was, after all, a small reparation for the injury the
outlaw had done him, but the affair was complicated
by the fact that, in taking Courthorne’s inheritance,
he had deprived Maud Barrington of part of hers.
The girl’s coldness stung him, but her unquestionable
beauty and strength of character had not been without
their effect, and the man winced as he remembered
that she had no pity for anything false or mean. He
had decided only upon two things, first that he would
vindicate himself in her eyes, and, since nobody else
could apparently do it, pull the property that should
have been hers out of the ruin it had been drifting
into under her uncle’s guardianship. When this had
been done, and the killing of Trooper Shannon forgotten,
it would be time for him to slip back into the
obscurity he came from.</p>

<p>Then the fact that the homestead was growing
nearer forced itself upon his perceptions, and he glanced
doubtfully across the prairie as he approached
the forking of the trail. A grey dimness was creeping
across the wilderness and the smoky sky seemed to
hang lower above the dully gleaming snow, while
the moaning wind flung little clouds of icy dust about
him. It was evident that the snow was not far away,
and it was still two leagues to Silverdale, but Witham,
who had been to Winnipeg, had business with the
farmer, and had faced a prairie storm before. Accordingly
he swung the team into the forking trail and
shook the reins. There was, he knew, little time to
lose, and in another five minutes he stood, still
wearing his white-sprinkled furs, in a room of the birch-log
building.</p>

<p>“Here are your accounts, Macdonald, and while
we’ve pulled up our losses, I can’t help thinking we
have just got out in time,” he said. “The market
is but little stiffer yet, but there is less selling, and
before a few months are over we’re going to see a
sharp recovery.”</p>

<p>The farmer glanced at the documents, and smiled
with contentment as he took the cheque. “I’m
glad I listened to you,” he said. “It’s unfortunate
for him and his niece that Barrington wouldn’t—at
least, not until he had lost the opportunity.”</p>

<p>“I don’t understand,” said Witham.</p>

<p>“No,” said the farmer, “you’ve been away.
Well, you know it takes a long while to get an idea
into the Colonel’s head, but once it’s in it’s even
harder to get it out again. Now Barrington looked
down on wheat jobbing, but money’s tight at Silverdale,
and when he saw what you were making, he
commenced to think. Accordingly he’s going to sell,
and, as he seems convinced that wheat will not go up
again, let half the acreage lie fallow this season. The
worst of it is, the others will follow him up, and he
controls Maud Barrington’s property as well as his
own.”</p>

<p>Witham’s face was grave. “I heard in Winnipeg
that most of the smaller men who had lost courage
were doing the same thing. That means a very small
crop of western hard, and millers paying our own
prices. Somebody must stop the Colonel.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Macdonald dryly, “I wouldn’t like
to be the man, and, after all, it’s only your opinion.
As you have seen, the small men here and in Minnesota
are afraid to plough.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed softly. “The man who makes
the dollars is the one who sees farther than the crowd.
Anyway, I found the views of one or two men who
make big deals were much the same as mine, and I’ll
speak to Miss Barrington.”</p>

<p>“Then if you will wait a little, you will have an
opportunity. She is here, you see.”</p>

<p>Witham looked disconcerted. “She should not
have been. Why didn’t you send her home?
There’ll be snow before she reaches Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Macdonald laughed. “I hadn’t noticed the weather,
and, though my wife wished her to stay, there
is no use in attempting to persuade Miss Barrington
to do anything when she does not want to. In some
respects she is very like the Colonel.”</p>

<p>The farmer led the way into another room, and
Witham flushed a little when the girl returned his
greeting in a fashion which he fancied the presence
of Mrs. Macdonald alone rendered distantly cordial.
Still, a glance through the windows showed him that
delay was inadvisable.</p>

<p>“I think you had better stay here all night, Miss
Barrington,” he said. “There is snow coming.”</p>

<p>“I am sorry our views do not coincide,” said
the girl. “I have several things to attend to at the
Grange.”</p>

<p>“Then Macdonald will keep your team, and I will
drive you home,” said Witham. “Mine are the best
horses at Silverdale, and I fancy we will need all their
strength.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington looked up sharply. There had
been a little ring in Witham’s voice, but there was
also a solicitude in his face which almost astonished
her, and when Macdonald urged her to comply she
rose leisurely.</p>

<p>“I will be ready in ten minutes,” she said.</p>

<p>Witham waited at least twenty, very impatiently,
but when at last the girl appeared, handed her with
quiet deference into the sleigh, and then took his
place, as far as the dimensions of the vehicle permitted,
apart from her. Once he fancied she noticed
it with faint amusement, but the horses knew what
was coming, and it was only when he pulled them up
to a trot again on the slope of a rise that he found
speech convenient.</p>

<p>“I am glad we are alone, though I feel a little diffidence
in asking a favour of you, because unfortunately
when I venture to recommend anything you usually
set yourself against it,” he said. “This is, in the
language of this country, tolerably straight.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington laughed. “I could find no
fault with it on the score of ambiguity.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham, “I believe your uncle is
going to sell wheat for you, and let a good deal of
your land go out of cultivation. Now, as you perhaps
do not know, the laws which govern the markets
are very simple and almost immutable, but the
trouble is that a good many people do not understand
their application.”</p>

<p>“You apparently consider yourself an exception,”
said the girl.</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “I do just now. Still, I do not
wish to talk about myself. You see, the people back
there in Europe must be fed, and the latest news from
wheat-growing countries does not promise more than
an average crop, while half the faint-hearted farmers
here are not going to sow much this year. Therefore
when the demand comes for Western wheat there
will be little to sell.”</p>

<p>“But how is it that you alone see this? Isn’t it
a trifle egotistical?”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “Can’t we leave my virtues,
or the reverse, out of the question? I feel that I am
right, and want you to dissuade your uncle. It
would be even better if, when I return to Winnipeg,
you would empower me to buy wheat for you.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington looked at him curiously. “I
am a little perplexed as to why you should wish me
to.”</p>

<p>“No doubt,” said Witham. “Still, is there any
reason why I should be debarred the usual privilege
of taking an interest in my neighbour’s affairs?”</p>

<p>“No,” said the girl slowly. “But can you not see
that it is out of the question that I should entrust
you with this commission?”</p>

<p>Witham’s hands closed on the reins, and his face
grew a trifle grim as he said, “From the point of view
you evidently take, I presume it is.”</p>

<p>A flush of crimson suffused the girl’s cheeks. “I
never meant that, and I can scarcely forgive you for
fancying I did. Of course I could trust you with—you
have made me use the word—the dollars, but
you must realize that I could not do anything in
public opposition to my uncle’s opinion.”</p>

<p>Witham was sensible of a great relief, but it did not
appear advisable to show it. “There are so many
things you apparently find it difficult to forgive me—and
we will let this one pass,” he said. “Still, I
cannot help thinking that Colonel Barrington will
have a good deal to answer for.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington made no answer, but she was sensible
of a respect which appeared quite unwarranted
for the dryly-spoken man who, though she guessed
her words stung him now and then, bore them without
wincing. While she sat silent, shivering under
her furs, darkness crept down. The smoky cloud
dropped lower, the horizon closed in as the grey
obscurity rolled up to meet them across a rapidly-narrowing
strip of snow. Then she could scarcely
see the horses, and the muffled drumming of their
hoofs was lost in a doleful wail of wind. It also seemed
to her that the cold, which was already almost insupportable,
suddenly increased, as it not infrequently
does in that country before the snow. Then a white
powder was whirled into her face, filling her eyes and
searing the skin, while, when she could see anything
again, the horses were plunging at a gallop through a
filmy haze, and Witham, whitened all over, leaned forward
with lowered head hurling hoarse encouragement
at them. His voice reached her fitfully through the
roar of wind, until sight and hearing were lost alike
as the white haze closed about them, and it was
not until the wild gust had passed she heard him
again.</p>

<p>He was apparently shouting, “Come nearer.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington was not sure whether she obeyed
him or he seized and drew her towards him. She,
however, felt the furs piled high about her neck and
that there was an arm round her shoulder, and for a
moment was sensible of an almost overwhelming revulsion
from the contact. She was proud and very
dainty, and fancied she knew what this man had been,
while now she was drawn in to his side, and felt her
chilled blood respond to the warmth of his body.
Indeed, she grew suddenly hot to the neck, and felt
that henceforward she could never forgive him or
herself, but the mood passed almost as swiftly, for
again the awful blast shrieked about them and she
only remembered her companion’s humanity as the
differences of sex and character vanished under that
destroying cold. They were no longer man and
woman, but only beings of flesh and blood, clinging
desperately to the life that was in them, for the first
rush of the Western snowstorm has more than a
physical effect, and man exposed to its fury loses
all but his animal instincts in the primitive struggle
with the elements.</p>

<p>Then, while the snow folded them closely in its
white embrace during a lull, the girl recovered herself,
and her strained voice was faintly audible.</p>

<p>“This is my fault; why don’t you tell me so?”
she said.</p>

<p>A hoarse laugh seemed to issue from the whitened
object beside her, and she was drawn closer to it
again. “We needn’t go into that just now. You
have one thing to do, and that is to keep warm.”</p>

<p>One of the horses stumbled, the grasp that was
around her became relaxed and she heard the swish
of the whip followed by hoarse expletives, and did
not resent it. The man, it seemed, was fighting for
her life as well as his own, and even brutal virility
was necessary. After that there was a space of
oblivion, while the storm raged about them, until,
when the wind fell a trifle, it became evident that the
horses had left the trail.</p>

<p>“You are off the track, and will never make the
Grange unless you find it!” she said.</p>

<p>Witham seemed to nod. “We are not going
there,” he said, and if he added anything, it was lost
in the scream of a returning gust.</p>

<p>Again Maud Barrington’s reason reasserted itself,
and remembering the man’s history she became
sensible of a curious dismay, but it also passed, and
left her with the vague realization that he and she
were actuated alike only by the desire to escape extinction.
Presently she became sensible that the
sleigh had stopped beside a formless mound of white
and the man was shaking her.</p>

<p>“Hold those furs about you while I lift you down,”
he said.</p>

<p>She did his bidding, and did not shrink when she
felt his arms about her, while next moment she was
standing knee-deep in the snow and the man shouting
something she did not catch. Team and sleigh seemed
to vanish, and she saw her companion dimly for a
moment before he was lost in the sliding whiteness
too. Then a horrible fear came upon her.</p>

<p>It seemed a very long while before he reappeared,
and thrust her in through what seemed to be a door.
Then there was another waiting before the light
of a lamp blinked out, and she saw that she was
standing in a little log-walled room with bare floor
and a few trusses of straw in a corner. There was
also a rusty stove, and a very small pile of billets beside
it. Witham, who had closed the door, stood
looking at them with a curious expression.</p>

<p>“Where is the team?” she gasped.</p>

<p>“Heading for a birch bluff or Silverdale, though
I scarcely think they will get there,” said the man.
“I have never stopped here, and it wasn’t astonishing
they fancied the place a pile of snow. While
I was getting the furs out they slipped away from
me.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington now knew where they were. The
shanty was used by the remoter settlers as a half-way
house where they slept occasionally on their long
journey to the railroad, and as there was a birch bluff
not far away, it was the rule that whoever occupied it
should replace the fuel he had consumed. The last
man had, however, not been liberal.</p>

<p>“But what are we to do?” she asked, with a little
gasp of dismay.</p>

<p>“Stay here until the morning,” said Witham
quietly. “Unfortunately I can’t even spare you
my company. The stable has fallen in, and it would
be death to stand outside, you see. In the meanwhile,
pull out some of the straw and put it in the
stove.”</p>

<p>“Can you not do that?” asked Miss Barrington,
feeling that she must commence at once, if she was
to keep this man at a befitting distance.</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “Oh, yes, but you will freeze
if you stand still, and these billets require splitting.
Still, if you have special objections to doing
what I ask you, you can walk up and down
rapidly.”</p>

<p>The girl glanced at him a moment, and then
lowered her eyes. “Of course I was wrong! Do
you wish to hear that I am sorry?”</p>

<p>Witham, answering nothing, swung an axe round
his head, and the girl, kneeling beside the stove,
noticed the sinewy suppleness of his frame and the
precision with which the heavy blade cleft the billets.
The axe, she knew, is by no means an easy tool to
handle. At last the red flame crackled, and though
she had not intended the question to be malicious,
there was a faint trace of irony in her voice as she
asked, “Is there any other thing you wish me to do?”</p>

<p>Witham flung two bundles of straw down beside
the stove, and stood looking at her gravely. “Yes,”
he said. “I want you to sit down and let me wrap
this sleigh robe about you.”</p>

<p>The girl submitted, and did not shrink from his
touch visibly when he drew the fur robe about her
shoulders and packed the end of it round her feet.
Still, there was a faint warmth in her face, and she
was grateful for his unconcernedness.</p>

<p>“Fate or fortune has placed me in charge of you
until to-morrow, and if the position is distasteful to
you it is not my fault,” he said. “Still, I feel the
responsibility, and it would be a little less difficult
if you could accept the fact tacitly.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington would not have shivered if she
could have avoided it, but the cold was too great for
her, and she did not know whether she was vexed
or pleased at the gleam of compassion in the man’s
grey eyes. It was more eloquent than anything of
the kind she had ever seen, but it had gone and he
was only quietly deferent when she glanced at him
again.</p>

<p>“I will endeavour to be good,” she said, and then
flushed with annoyance at the adjective. Half-dazed
by the cold as she was, she could not think of
a more suitable one. Witham, however, retained
his gravity.</p>

<p>“Now, Macdonald gave you no supper, and he has
dinner at noon,” he said. “I brought some eatables
along, and you must make the best meal you can.”</p>

<p>He opened a packet, and laid it, with a little silver
flask, upon her knee.</p>

<p>“I cannot eat all this—and it is raw spirit,” said
Maud Barrington.</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “Are you not forgetting your
promise? Still, we will melt a little snow into the
cup.”</p>

<p>An icy gust swept in when he opened the door, and
it was only by a strenuous effort he closed it again,
while, when he came back panting with the top of
the flask a little colour crept into Maud Barrington’s
face. “I am sorry,” she said. “That at least is
your due.”</p>

<p>“I really don’t want my due,” said Witham with
a deprecatory gesture as he laid the silver cup upon
the stove. “Can’t we forget we are not exactly
friends, just for to-night? If so, you will drink this
and commence at once on the provisions—to please
me!”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington was glad of the reviving draught,
for she was very cold, but presently she held out the
packet.</p>

<p>“One really cannot eat many crackers at once;
will you help me?”</p>

<p>Witham laughed as he took one of the biscuits.
“If I had expected any one would share my meal, I
would have provided a better one. Still, I have
been glad to feast upon more unappetizing things
occasionally!”</p>

<p>“When were you unfortunate?” said the girl.</p>

<p>Witham smiled somewhat dryly. “I was unfortunate
for six years on end.”</p>

<p>He was aware of the blunder when he had spoken,
but Maud Barrington appeared to be looking at the
flask thoughtfully.</p>

<p>“The design is very pretty,” she said. “You got
it in England?”</p>

<p>The man knew that it was the name F. Witham
his companion’s eyes rested on, but his face was
expressionless. “Yes,” he said. “It is one of the
things they make for presentation in the old country.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington noticed the absence of any attempt
at explanation, and having considerable pride of her
own, was sensible of a faint approval. “You are
making slow progress,” she said, with a slight but
perceptible difference in her tone. “Now, you can
have eaten nothing since breakfast.”</p>

<p>Witham said nothing, but by and by poured a little
of the spirit into a rusty can, and the girl, who understood
why he did so, felt that it covered several of
his offences. “Now,” she said graciously, “you
may smoke if you wish to.”</p>

<p>Witham pointed to the few billets left and shook
his head. “I’m afraid I must get more wood.”</p>

<p>The roar of the wind almost drowned his voice,
and the birch logs seemed to tremble under the impact
of the blast, while Maud Barrington shivered
as she asked, “Is it safe?”</p>

<p>“It is necessary,” said Witham, with the little
laugh she had already found reassuring.</p>

<p>He had gone out in another minute, and the girl
felt curiously lonely as she remembered stories of
men who had left their homesteads during a blizzard
to see to the safety of the horses in a neighbouring
stable, and were found afterwards as still as the snow
that covered them. Maud Barrington was not unduly
timorous, but the roar of that awful icy gale would
have stricken dismay into the hearts of most men,
and she found herself glancing with feverish impatience
at a diminutive gold watch and wondering
whether the cold had retarded its progress. Ten
minutes passed very slowly, lengthened to twenty
more slowly still, and then it flashed upon her that
there was at least something she could do; and,
scraping up a little of the snow that sifted in, she
melted it in the can. Then she set the flask-top upon
the stove, and once more listened for the man’s footsteps
very eagerly.</p>

<p>She did not hear them, but at last the door swung
open, and carrying a load of birch branches Witham
staggered in. He dropped them, strove to close the
door, and failed, then leaned against it, gasping, with
a livid face, for there are few men who can withstand
the cold of a snow-laden gale at forty degrees below.</p>

<p>How Maud Barrington closed the door she did not
know; but it was with a little imperious gesture she
turned to the man.</p>

<p>“Shake those furs at once,” she said; and drawing
him towards the stove held up the steaming cup.
“Now sit there and drink it.”</p>

<p>Witham stooped and reached out for the can, but
the girl swept it off the stove. “Oh, I know the
silver was for me,” she said. “Still, is this a time
for trifles such as that?”</p>

<p>Worn out by a very grim struggle, Witham did as
he was bidden, and looked up with a twinkle in his
eyes, when with the faintest trace of colour in her
cheeks the girl sat down close to him and drew part
of the fur robe about him.</p>

<p>“I really believe you were a little pleased to see
me come back just now,” he said.</p>

<p>“Was that quite necessary?” asked Maud Barrington.
“Still, I was.”</p>

<p>Witham made a little deprecatory gesture. “Of
course,” he said. “Now we can resume our former
footing to-morrow, but in the meanwhile I would like
to know why you are so hard upon me, Miss Barrington,
because I really have not done much harm to
any one at Silverdale. Your aunt”—and he made a
little respectful inclination of his head which pleased
the girl—“is at least giving me a fair trial.”</p>

<p>“It is difficult to tell you—but it was your own
doing,” said Maud Barrington. “At the beginning
you prejudiced us when you told us you could only
play cards indifferently. It was so unnecessary,
and we knew a good deal about you!”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham quietly, “I have only my
word to offer, and I wonder if you will believe me
now, but I don’t think I ever won five dollars at cards
in my life.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington watched him closely, but his
tone carried conviction, and again she was glad that
he attempted no explanation. “I am quite willing
to take it,” she said. “Still, you can understand——”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham. “It puts a strain upon
your faith, but some day I may be able to make a
good deal that puzzles you quite clear.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington glanced at the flask. “I wonder
if that is connected with the explanation, but I will
wait. Now, you have not lighted your cigar.”</p>

<p>Witham understood that the topic was dismissed,
and sat thoughtfully still while the girl nestled
against the birch logs close beside him under the same
furs; for the wind went through the building and
the cold was unbearable a few feet from the stove.
The birch rafters shook above their heads, and every
now and then it seemed that a roaring gust would
lift the roof from them. Still the stove glowed and
snapped, and close in about it there was a drowsy
heat, while presently the girl’s eyes grew heavy.
Finally—for there are few who can resist the desire
for sleep in the cold of the North-West—her head
sank back, and Witham, rising very slowly, held
his breath as he piled the furs about her. That done,
he stooped and looked down upon her while the blood
crept to his face. Maud Barrington lay very still,
the long, dark lashes resting on her cold-tinted cheeks,
and the patrician serenity of her face was even more
marked in her sleep. Then he turned away, feeling
like one who had committed a desecration, knowing
that he had looked too long already upon the sleeping
girl who believed he had been an outcast and yet had
taken his word; for it was borne in upon him that
a time would come when he would try her faith even
more severely. Moving softly, he paced up and down
the room.</p>

<p>Witham afterwards wondered how many miles he
walked that night, for though the loghouse was not
longer than thirty feet, the cold bit deep; but at
last he heard a sigh as he glanced towards the stove,
and immediately swung round again. When he next
turned, Miss Barrington stood upright, a little flushed
in face, but otherwise very calm; and the man stood
still, shivering in spite of his efforts, and blue with
cold. The wind had fallen, but the sting of the frost
that followed it made itself felt beside the stove.</p>

<p>“You had only your deerskin jacket—and you
let me sleep under all the furs,” she said.</p>

<p>Witham shook his head, and hoped he did not look
as guilty as he felt, when he remembered that it must
have been evident to his companion that the furs did
not get into the position they had occupied themselves.</p>

<p>“I only fancied you were a trifle drowsy and not
inclined to talk,” he said, with an absence of concern,
for which Miss Barrington, who did not believe him,
felt grateful. “You see”—and the inspiration was
a trifle too evident—“I was too sleepy to notice anything
myself. Still, I am glad you are awake now,
because I must make my way to the Grange.”</p>

<p>“But the snow will be ever so deep, and I could
not come,” said Maud Barrington.</p>

<p>Witham shook his head. “I’m afraid you must
stay here; but I will be back with Colonel Barrington
in a few hours at latest.”</p>

<p>The girl deemed it advisable to hide her consternation.
“But you might not find the trail,” she
said. “The ravine would lead you to Graham’s
homestead.”</p>

<p>“Still,” said Witham slowly, “I am going to
the Grange.”</p>

<p>Then Maud Barrington remembered, and glanced
aside from him. It was evident this man thought
of everything; and she made no answer when
Witham, who thrust more billets into the stove,
turned to her with a little smile.</p>

<p>“I think we need remember nothing when we meet
again, beyond the fact that you will give me a chance
of showing that the Lance Courthorne, whose fame
you know, has ceased to exist.”</p>

<p>Then he went out, and the girl stood with flushed
cheeks looking down at the furs he had left behind
him.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink10'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER X—MAUD HARRINGTON’S PROMISE</a></h2>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Drink that before you talk. You look half
dead,” he said.</p>

<p>Witham shook his head. “Perhaps you had
better hear me first.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“I am to understand that an attempt to reach the
Grange through the snow would have been perilous?”
he said.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham quietly.</p>

<p>The older man stood very still regarding him intently,
until he said, “I don’t mind admitting that
it was distinctly regrettable!”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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!”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Barrington made a little gesture of comprehension,
and then shook his head. “You are fit for nothing
further, and need rest and sleep.”</p>

<p>“You will want somebody, sir,” said Witham.
“The snow is very loose and deep.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington was a trifle nettled. “Yes?”
she said.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“But however would this benefit you,” asked the
girl.</p>

<p>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!”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“I did not know you were down,” she said. “Lance
is still asleep. He seemed very tired.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Again the flicker of colour crept into the girl’s
cheeks, and the eyes that were keen, as well as
gentle, noticed it.</p>

<p>“I think you owe him a good deal,” said Miss Barrington.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington shook her head. “I fancy you are
wrong. He has offended after all?”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“You fancy we could find one in such a man as
Lance has been?”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>This was a great admission, and Miss Barrington
smiled. “Did it hurt you very much to tell us
that?” she asked.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“The Courthorne blood is responsible for a good
deal more than discretion,” said Miss Barrington,
who went out quietly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“Then if nobody sows there will be very little,
and shouldn’t that put up the prices?”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“But that was a policy you condemned with
your usual vigour. You really know you did.”</p>

<p>“My dear,” said the Colonel, with a little impatient
gesture, “one can never argue with a lady. You
see—circumstances alter cases considerably.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“It is a trifle that is likely to cost you a good deal
of money,” said the Colonel dryly.</p>

<p>“I think I could afford it, and you could not
refuse me.”</p>

<p>“As I am only your uncle, and no longer a trustee,
I could not,” said Barrington. “Still, you would
not act against my wishes?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“No,” she said. “That is why it would be
ever so much nicer if you would just think as I did.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>It was next day when Witham took his leave, and
Maud Barrington stood beside him as he put on his
driving furs.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Then,” he said with a little smile, “we are
quits. That cancels any little obligation which
may have existed.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink11'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XI—SPEED THE PLOUGH</a></h2>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“No doubt,” said Barrington dryly. “Still,
we have always considered oxen good enough for
breaking prairie at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>“You will plough all your holding, Lance?”
asked the elder lady, who had not answered his last
speech yet, but meant to do.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>“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?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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!”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“I have something to ask Mr. Courthorne, and
will overtake you,” she said.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“I should like to hear your reasons,” said Witham.</p>

<p>The girl made a faint gesture of impatience.
“Of course, if you insist!”</p>

<p>“I do,” said Witham quietly.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“And you would prefer to be loyal to Colonel
Barrington even if it cost you a good deal?”</p>

<p>“Of course!” said Maud Barrington. “Can
you ask me?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“But why should you?” asked Maud Barrington,
somewhat astonished that she did not feel more angry.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Your last venture! Have we been unkind to
you or does it imply that, as you once insinuated,
an exemplary life becomes monotonous?”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“But where are you going to?”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“This one is promised before you ask it,” said
Witham quietly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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?”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Yes,” she said simply; “and I shall be grateful.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink12'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XII—MASTERY RECOGNIZED</a></h2>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>The glasses were handed round, but when the
gambler reached out towards the silver at his side,
a big bronzed-skinned rancher stopped him.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said the dealer, “that’s a little more
encouraging. Anybody wanting to make it better?”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Now, I’ll let you see,” he said. “This time we’ll
make it fifty.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Go on,” he said a trifle huskily. “To-night
you can’t beat me!”</p>

<p>Once more he won, and just then two men came
quietly into the room. One of them signed to the
hotel-keeper.</p>

<p>“What’s going on? The boys seem kind of
keen,” he said.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>Witham glanced at his companion, who nodded.
“The young fool,” he said.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Were you addressing me?” he asked.</p>

<p>“I was,” said Witham quietly. “I was, in fact,
inviting you to share our refreshment. You see we
have just come in.”</p>

<p>“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?”</p>

<p>Witham said nothing, but drew Dane, who flushed
a trifle, aside, and when they sat down the latter
smiled dryly.</p>

<p>“You have taken on a big contract, Courthorne.
How are you going to get the young ass out?” he
said.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“That’s two hundred the kid has let go,” said
somebody.</p>

<p>There was a murmur of excited voices, and one rose
hoarse and a trifle shaky in the consonants above
the rest.</p>

<p>“Show you how a gentleman can stand up, boys.
Throw them out again. Two hundred this time on
the game!”</p>

<p>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!”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Going to get it all back. I’ll stake you four
hundred.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“You’ve got all my dollars now,” he said. “Still,
I’ll play you for doubles if you’ll take my paper.”</p>

<p>The gambler nodded, and flung down a big pile of
bills. “I guess I’ll trust you. Mine are here.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“You can let up,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve
gone down!”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“And who the —— are you?” he asked.</p>

<p>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!”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>There was an ominous murmur, and the lad’s face
showed livid with fury and humiliation, but Witham
turned quietly to the hotel-keeper.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“That’s sense, and we don’t want no circus here,”
said somebody.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Witham dropped his hand, but next moment the
ornament of a distinguished family was seized by the
neck, and the farmer glanced at Dane.</p>

<p>“We’ve had enough of this fooling, and he’ll be
grateful to me to-morrow,” he said.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Ferris stared up at him, and his face showed almost
livid through the luminous night.</p>

<p>“She asked you to!” he said. “By the Lord,
I’ll make you sorry for this.”</p>

<p>Witham said nothing, but shook the reins, and
when the wagon lurched forward Dane looked at him.</p>

<p>“I didn’t know that before,” he said.</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham dryly, “if I hadn’t lost my
temper with the lad you wouldn’t have done now.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“It will be my heel if he gets in my way,” said
Witham grimly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The lad stood quite still a moment staring at him,
and Witham returning his gaze steadily felt his
pulses throb.</p>

<p>“Well, trooper, what has brought you here?”
he said.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “I have been taken for another
man before. Would you like anything to drink, or a
smoke before you turn in, trooper?”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Did you notice the lad’s astonishment when you
came in?” he asked. “He looked very much as if
he had seen a ghost.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>He went out, and Witham sat still very grave in
face for at least another hour.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink13'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XIII—A FAIR ADVOCATE</a></h2>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Ferris could tell us if he liked. He was there
that night.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“I have been in tolerably often of late. Had
things to attend to,” he said.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Can’t you see there’s no getting out of it,
Ferris?” said somebody.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“But the man from Silverdale?” asked Mrs.
Macdonald.</p>

<p>“I’m afraid,” said Ferris, with the air of one
shielding a friend, “I can’t tell you anything about
him.”</p>

<p>“I know Mr. Courthorne drove in that night,”
said the young English girl, who was not endued
with very much discretion.</p>

<p>“Courthorne!” said one of the bystanders, and
there was a momentary silence that was very expressive.
“Was he concerned in what took place,
Ferris?”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“It seems to me you have told us quite sufficient
and perhaps a trifle too much,” said somebody.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“I overheard you telling a story, Ferris, but you
have a bad memory and left rather too much out,”
she said.</p>

<p>“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?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Don’t be in a hurry, Ferris. I fancy Miss Barrington
has something more to tell you,” he said dryly.</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>“No,” said the lad, seeing she knew the truth,
and his hoarse voice was scarcely audible.</p>

<p>“Then,” said Maud Barrington, “I want you to
tell us what you did see him do.”</p>

<p>Ferris said nothing, and though the girl laughed
a little as she glanced at the wondering group, her
voice was icily disdainful.</p>

<p>“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?”</p>

<p>Ferris had grown crimson again, and the veins
on his forehead showed swollen high. “No,” he
said, almost abjectly.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“It seems to me you are either trying not to see
something, Gordon, or to forget it as soon as you
can,” he said.</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>“No!” said Witham. “I’m not very curious
if it does not concern me.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“That’s a probability I never counted on,” he
thought. “Still, I fancy if it came about, it would
suit everybody but the Colonel.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “Yes, I heard,” he said.
“Why did you do it?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington made a little gesture of impatience.
“That is quite unnecessary. You know
I sent you.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham a trifle dryly, “I see.
You would have felt mean if you hadn’t defended
me.”</p>

<p>“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?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “Well, you see, it naturally
came easy to me.”</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“You believe it was not a true one?” he asked.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“But you may still hear unpleasant stories about
me,” said Witham, with a note the girl had not
heard before in his voice.</p>

<p>“I should not believe them,” she said.</p>

<p>“Still,” persisted Witham, “if the tales were true?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington did nothing by halves. “Then
I should remember that there is always so much we
do not know which would put a different colour
on any story, and I believe they could never be
true again.”</p>

<p>Witham checked a little gasp of wonder and
delight and Maud Barrington looked away across
the prairie. She was not usually impulsive and
seldom lightly bestowed gifts that were worth the
having, and the man knew that the faith in him she
had confessed to was the result of a conviction
that would last until he himself shattered it. Then,
in the midst of his elation, he shivered again and drew
the lash across the near horse’s back. The wonder
and delight he felt had suddenly gone.</p>

<p>“Few would venture to predict as much. Now and
then I feel that our deeds are scarcely contrived by
our own will, and one could fancy our parts had
been thrust upon us in a grim joke,” he said. “For
instance, isn’t it strange that I should have a share
in the rousing of Silverdale to a sense of its responsibilities?
Lord, what I could make of it if fate
had but given me a fair opportunity!”</p>

<p>He spoke almost fiercely, but the words did not
displease the girl. The forceful ring in his voice
set something thrilling within her, and she knew
by this time that his assertions seldom went beyond
the fact.</p>

<p>“But you will have the opportunity, and we
need you here,” she said.</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham slowly. “I am afraid not.
Still, I will finish the work I see in front of me.
That at least—one cannot hope for the unattainable.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington was sensible of a sudden chill.
“Still, if one has strength and patience, is anything
quite unattainable?”</p>

<p>Witham looked out across the prairie, and for a
moment the demons of pride and ambition rioted
within him. He knew there were in him the qualities
that compel success, and the temptation to stretch
out a daring hand and take all he longed for grew
almost overmastering. Still, he also knew how
strong the innate prejudices of caste and tradition
are in most women of his companion’s station, and
she had never hidden one aspect of her character
from him. It was with a smothered groan he
realized that if he flung the last shred of honour
aside and grasped the forbidden fruit it would turn
to bitterness in his mouth.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said very slowly. “There is a limit,
which only fools would pass.”</p>

<p>Then there was silence for a while, until, as they
swept across the rise, Maud Barrington laughed
as she pointed to the lights that blinked in the
hollow, and Witham realized that the barrier between
them stood firm again.</p>

<p>“Our views seldom coincide for very long, but
there is something else to mention before we reach
the Grange,” she said. “You must have paid out
a good many dollars for the ploughing of your land
and mine, and nobody’s exchequer is inexhaustible
at Silverdale. Now I want you to take a cheque
from me.”</p>

<p>“Is it necessary, that I should?”</p>

<p>“Of course,” said the girl, with a trace of displeasure.</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “Then I shall be prepared
to hand you my account whenever you demand it.”</p>

<p>He did not look at his companion again, but
with a tighter grip than there was any need for on
the reins, sent the light wagon jolting down the
slope to Silverdale Grange.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink14'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XIV—THE UNEXPECTED</a></h2>

<p>The sun beat down on the prairie, which was
already losing its flush of green, but it was cool
where Maud Barrington and her aunt stood in the
shadow of the bluff by Silverdale Grange. The
birches, tasselled now with whispering foliage,
divided the homestead from the waste which would lie
white and desolate under the parching heat, and that
afternoon it seemed to the girl that the wall of green
shut out more than the driving dust and sun-glare
from the Grange, for where the trees were thinner
she could see moving specks of men and horses
athwart the skyline.</p>

<p>They had toiled in the sun-baked furrow since the
first flush of crimson streaked the prairie’s rim, and
the chill of dusk would fall upon the grasses before
their work was done. Those men who bore the
burden and heat of the day were, the girl knew,
helots now, but there was in them the silent vigour
and something of the sombreness of the land of
rock and forest they came from, and a time would
come when others would work for them. Winning
slowly, holding grimly, they were moving on, while
secure in its patrician tranquility Silverdale stood
still, and Maud Barrington smiled curiously as she
glanced down at the long white robe that clung very
daintily about her and then towards her companions
in the tennis field. Her apparel had cost many
dollars in Montreal, and there was a joyous irresponsibility
in the faces of those she watched.</p>

<p>“It is a little unequal, isn’t it, aunt?” she said.
“One feels inclined to wonder what we have done
that we should have exemption from the charge
laid upon the first tiller of the soil we and the men
who are plodding through the dust there are descended
from.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington laughed a little as she glanced
with a nod of comprehension at the distant toilers,
and more gravely towards the net. Merry voices
came up to her through the shadows of the trees
as English lad and English maiden, lissom and
picturesque in many-hued jackets and light dresses,
flitted across the little square of velvet green. The
men had followed the harrow and seeder a while that
morning. Some of them, indeed, had for a few hours
driven a team, and then left the rest to the hired
hands, for the stress and sweat of effort that was to
turn the wilderness into a granary was not for such
as them.</p>

<p>“Don’t you think it is all made up to those
others?” she asked.</p>

<p>“In one sense—yes,” said the girl. “Of course,
one can see that all effort must have its idealistic
aspect, and there may be men who find their compensation
in the thrill of the fight, and the knowledge
of work well done when they rest at night.
Still, I fancy most of them only toil to eat, and their
views are not revealed to us. We are, you see,
women—and we live at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Her aunt smiled again. “How long is it since
the plough crossed the Red River, and what is
Manitoba now? How did those mile furrows come
there, and who drove the road that takes the wheat
out through the granite of the Superior shore?
It is more than their appetites that impelled those
men, my dear. Still, it is scarcely wise to expect
too much when one meets them, for though one
could feel it is presumptuous to forgive its deficiencies,
the Berserk type of manhood is not conspicuous
for its refinement.”</p>

<p>For no apparent reason Maud Barrington evaded
her aunt’s gaze. “You,” she said dryly, “have
forgiven one of that type a good deal already,
but, at least, we have never seen him when the fit
was upon him.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington laughed. “Still, I have no
doubt that, sooner or later, you will enjoy the
spectacle.”</p>

<p>Just then a light wagon came up behind them,
and when one of the hired men helped them in they
swept out of the cool shade into the dust and glare
of the prairie, and when, some little time later,
with the thud of hoofs and rattle of wheels softened
by the bleaching sod, they rolled down a rise, there
was spread out before them evidence of man’s
activity.</p>

<p>Acre by acre, gleaming chocolate brown against
the grey and green of the prairie, the wheat loam
rolled away, back to the ridge, over it, and on again.
It was such a breadth of sowing as had but once,
when wheat was dear, been seen at Silverdale, but
still across the foreground, advancing in echelon,
came lines of dusty teams, and there was a meaning
in the furrows they left behind them, for they were
not ploughing where the wheat had been. Each
wave of lustrous clods that rolled from the gleaming
shares was so much rent from the virgin prairie, and
a promise of what would come when man had
fulfilled his mission and the wilderness would blossom.
There was a wealth of food stored, little by little
during ages past counting, in every yard of the
crackling sod to await the time when the toiler
with the sweat of the primeval curse upon his forehead
should unseal it with the plough. It was
also borne in upon Maud Barrington that the man
who directed those energies was either altogether
without discernment, or one who saw further than
his fellows and had an excellent courage, when he
flung his substance into the furrows while wheat
was going down. Then, as the hired man pulled up
the wagon, she saw him.</p>

<p>A great plough with triple shares had stopped at
the end of the furrow, and the leading horses were
apparently at variance with the man who, while he
gave of his own strength to the uttermost, was
asking too much from them. Young and indifferently
broken, tortured by swarming insects,
and galled by the strain of the collar, they had laid
back their ears, and the wickedness of the bronco
strain shone in their eyes. One rose almost upright
amidst a clatter of harness, its mate squealed
savagely, and the man who loosed one hand from
the headstall flung out an arm. Then he and the
pair whirled round together amidst the trampled
clods in a blurred medley of spume-flecked bodies,
soil-stained jean, flung-up hoofs, and an arm that
swung and smote again. Miss Barrington grew
a trifle pale as she watched, but a little glow crept
into her niece’s eyes.</p>

<p>The struggle, however, ended suddenly, and
hailing a man who plodded behind another team,
Witham picked up his broad hat, which was trampled
into shapelessness, and turned towards the wagon.
There was dust and spume upon him, a rent in the
blue shirt, and the knuckles of one hand dripped
red, but he laughed as he said, “I did not know we
had an audience, but this, you see, is necessary.”</p>

<p>“Is it?” asked Miss Barrington, who glanced at
the ploughing. “When wheat is going down?”</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I mean, to me;
and the price of wheat is only part of the question.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington stretched out her hand, though
her niece said nothing at all. “Of course, but I
want you to help us down. Maud has an account
you have not sent in, to ask you for.”</p>

<p>Witham first turned to the two men who now stood
by the idle machine. “You’ll have to drive those
beasts of mine as best you can, Tom, and Jake will
take your team. Get them off again now. This piece
of breaking has to be put through before we loose
again.”</p>

<p>Then he handed his visitors down, and Maud
Barrington fancied as he walked with them to the
house that the fashion in which the damaged hat
hung down over his eyes would have rendered most
other men ludicrous. He left them a space in his bare
sitting-room, which suggested only grim utility, and
Miss Barrington smiled when her niece glanced at
her.</p>

<p>“And this is how Lance, the profligate, lives!” said
she.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington shook her head. “No,” she said.
“Can you believe that this man was ever a prodigal?”</p>

<p>Her aunt was a trifle less astonished than she
would once have been, but before she could answer
Witham, who had made a trifling change in his clothing,
came in.</p>

<p>“I can give you some green tea, though I am afraid
it might be a good deal better than it is, and our
crockery is not all you have been used to,” he said.
“You see, we have only time to think of one thing
until the sowing is through.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington’s eyes twinkled. “And then?”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Witham, with a little laugh, “there
will be prairie hay to cut, and after that the harvest
coming on.”</p>

<p>“In the meanwhile, it was business that brought
me here, and I have a cheque with me,” said Maud
Barrington. “Please let us get it over first of all.”</p>

<p>Witham sat down at a table and scribbled on a
strip of paper. “That,” he said gravely, “is what
you owe me for the ploughing.”</p>

<p>There was a little flush in his face as he took the
cheque the girl filled in, and both felt somewhat
grateful for the entrance of a man in blue jean with
the tea. It was of very indifferent quality, and he
had sprinkled a good deal on the tray, but Witham
felt a curious thrill as he watched the girl pour it out
at the head of the bare table. Her white dress gleamed
in the light of a dusty window, and the shadowy
cedar boarding behind her forced up each line of the
shapely figure. Again the maddening temptation
took hold of him and he wondered whether he had
betrayed too much, when he felt the elder lady’s eyes
upon him. There was a tremor in his brown fingers
as he took the cup held out to him, but his voice was
steady.</p>

<p>“You can scarcely fancy how pleasant this is,”
he said. “For eight years, in fact, ever since I left
England, no woman has ever done any of these graceful
little offices for me.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington glanced at her niece, and both of
them knew that, if the lawyer had traced Courthorne’s
past correctly, this could not be true. Still, there
was no disbelief in the elder lady’s eyes, and the girl’s
faith remained unshaken.</p>

<p>“Eight years,” she said, with a little smile, “is
a very long while.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham, “horribly long, and one year
at Silverdale is worth them all—that is, a year like
this one, which is going to be remembered by all who
have sown wheat on the prairie; and that leads up
to something. When I have ploughed all my own
holding I shall not be content, and I want to make
another bargain. Give me the use of your unbroken
land, and I will find horses, seed, and men, while we
will share what it yields us when the harvest is in.”</p>

<p>The girl was astonished. This, she knew, was
splendid audacity, for the man had already staken
very heavily on the crop he had sown, and while the
daring of it stirred her she sat silent a moment.</p>

<p>“I could lose nothing, but you will have to bring
out a host of men and have risked so much,” she said.
“Nobody but you, and I, and three or four others
in all the province, are ploughing more than half
their holdings.”</p>

<p>The suggestion of comradeship set Witham’s blood
tingling, but it was with a little laugh he turned over
the pile of papers on the table, and then took them
up in turn.</p>

<p>“‘Very little ploughing has been done in the tracts
of Minnesota previously alluded to. Farmers find
wheat cannot be grown at present prices, and there
is apparently no prospect of a rise,’” he said.</p>

<p>“‘The Dakota wheat-growers are mostly following.
They can’t quite figure how they would get
eighty cents for the dollar’s worth of seeding this
year.’</p>

<p>“‘Milling very quiet in Winnipeg. No inquiries
from Europe coming in, and Manitoba dealers generally
find little demand for harrows or seeders this
year. Reports from Assiniboia seem to show that
the one hope this season will be mixed farming and
the neglect of cereals.’”</p>

<p>“There is only one inference,” he said. “When
the demand comes there will be nothing to meet it
with.”</p>

<p>“When it comes,” said Maud Barrington quietly.
“But you who believe it will stand alone.”</p>

<p>“Almost,” said Witham. “Still there are a few
much cleverer men who feel as I do. I can’t give
you all my reasons, or read you the sheaf of papers
from the Pacific slope, London, New York, Australia;
but, while men lose hope, and little by little the stocks
run down, the world must be fed. Just as sure as the
harvest follows the sowing, it will wake up suddenly
to the fact that it is hungry. They are buying cotton
and scattering their money in other nations’
bonds in the old country now, for they and the rest
of Europe forget their necessities at times, but it is
impossible to picture them finding their granaries
empty and clamouring for bread?”</p>

<p>It was a crucial test of faith, and the man knew it,
as the woman did. He stood alone, with the opinions
of the multitude against him; but there was, Maud
Barrington felt, a great if undefinable difference
between his quiet resolution and the gambler’s recklessness.
Once more the boldness of his venture
stirred her, and this time there was a little flash in
her eyes as she bore witness to her perfect confidence.</p>

<p>“You shall have the land, every acre of it, to do
what you like with, and I will ask no questions
whether you win or lose,” she said.</p>

<p>Then Miss Barrington glanced at him in turn.
“Lance, I have a thousand dollars I want you to turn
into wheat for me.”</p>

<p>Witham’s fingers trembled, and a darker hue crept
into his tan. “Madam,” he said, “I can take no
money from you.”</p>

<p>“You must,” said the little white-haired lady.
“For your mother’s sake, Lance. It is a brave thing
you are doing, and you are the son of one who was
my dearest friend.”</p>

<p>Witham turned his head away, and both women
wondered when he looked round again. His face
seemed a trifle drawn, and his voice was strained.</p>

<p>“I hope,” he said slowly, “it will in some degree
make amends for others I have done. In the
meanwhile, there are reasons why your confidence humiliates
me.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington rose and her niece after her.
“Still I believe it is warranted, and you will remember
there are two women who have trusted you, hoping
for your success. And now, I fancy, we have kept
you too long.”</p>

<p>Witham stood holding the door open a moment,
with his head bent, and then suddenly straightened
himself.</p>

<p>“I can at least be honest with you in this venture,”
he said, with a curious quietness.</p>

<p>Nothing further was said, but when his guests drove
away Witham sat still awhile, and then went back
very grim in face to his ploughing. He had passed
other unpleasant moments of that kind since he came
to Silverdale, and long afterwards the memory of
them brought a flush to his face. The excuses he
had made seemed worthless when he strove to view
what he had done, and was doing, through those
women’s eyes.</p>

<p>It was dusk when he returned to the homestead
worn out in body but more tranquil in mind, and
stopped a moment in the doorway to look back on
the darkening sweep of the ploughing. He felt with
no misgivings that his time of triumph would come,
and in the meanwhile the handling of this great farm
with all the aids that money could buy him was a
keen joy to him; but each time he met Maud Barrington’s
eyes he realized the more surely that the
hour of his success must also see accomplished an
act of abnegation, which he wondered with a growing
fear whether he could find the strength for. Then
as he went in a man who cooked for his hired assistants
came to meet him.</p>

<p>“There’s a stranger inside waiting for you,” he
said. “Wouldn’t tell me what he wanted, but sat
right down as if the place was his and helped himself
without asking to your cigars. Wanted something
to drink, too, and smiled at me kind of wicked when I
brought him the cider.”</p>

<p>The room was almost dark when Witham entered
it and stood still a moment staring at a man who
sat, cigar in hand, quietly watching him. His appearance
was curiously familiar, but Witham could not
see his face until he moved forward another step or
two. Then he stopped once more, and the two, saying
nothing, looked at one another. It was Witham
who spoke first, and his voice was very even.</p>

<p>“What do you want here?” he asked.</p>

<p>The other man laughed. “Isn’t that a curious
question when the place is mine? You don’t seem
overjoyed to see me come to life again.”</p>

<p>Witham sat down and slowly lighted a cigar. “We
need not go into that. I asked you what you want.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Courthorne dryly, “it is not a great
deal. Only the means to live in a manner more befitting
a gentleman than I have been able to do lately.”</p>

<p>“You have not been prospering?” and Witham
favoured his companion with a slow scrutiny.</p>

<p>“No,” and Courthorne laughed again. “You
see, I could pick up a tolerable living as Lance Courthorne,
but there is very little to be made at my business
when you commence in new fields as an unknown
man.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham coldly, “I don’t know that
it wouldn’t be better to face my trial than stay here
at your mercy. So far as my inclinations go, I would
sooner fight than have any further dealings with a
man like you.”</p>

<p>Courthorne shook his head. “I fixed up the thing
too well, and you would be convicted. Still, we’ll
not go into that, and you will not find me unreasonable.
A life at Silverdale would not suit me, and
you know by this time that it would be difficult to
sell the place, while I don’t know where I could find
a tenant who would farm it better than you. That
being so, it wouldn’t be good policy to bleed you too
severely. Still, I want a thousand dollars in the
meanwhile. They’re mine, you see.”</p>

<p>Witham sat still a minute. He was sensible of a
fierce distrust and hatred of the man before him, but
he felt he must at least see the consummation of his
sowing.</p>

<p>“Then you shall have them on condition that you
go away, and stay away, until harvest is over. After
that I will send for you and shall have more to tell
you. If in the meantime you come back here, or
hint that I am Witham, I will surrender to the police
or decide our differences in another fashion.”</p>

<p>Courthorne nodded. “That is direct,” he said.
“One knows where he is when he deals with a man
who talks as you do. Now, are you not curious as to
the way I cheated both the river and the police?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham grimly, “not in the least. We
will talk business together when it is necessary, but I
can only decline to discuss anything else with you.”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed. “There’s nothing to be
gained by pretending to misunderstand you, but it
wouldn’t pay me to be resentful when I’m graciously
willing to let you work for me. Still, I have been
inclined to wonder how you were getting on with my
estimable relatives and connexions. One of them has,
I hear, unbent a trifle towards you, but I would like
to warn you not to presume on any small courtesy
shown you by the younger Miss Barrington.”</p>

<p>Witham stood up and set his back to the door.
“You heard my terms, but if you mention that lady
again in connexion with me it would suit me equally
well to make good all I owe you very differently.”</p>

<p>Courthorne did not appear in any way disconcerted,
but before he could answer a man outside opened the
door.</p>

<p>“Here’s Sergeant Stimson and one of his troopers
wanting you,” he said.</p>

<p>Witham looked at Courthorne, but the latter smiled.
“The visit has nothing to do with me. It is probably
accidental; but I fancy Stimson knows me, and it
wouldn’t be advisable for him to see us both together.
Now, I wonder whether you could make it fifteen
hundred dollars.”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham. “Stay, if it pleases you.”</p>

<p>Courthorne shook his head. “I don’t know that it
would. You don’t do it badly, Witham.”</p>

<p>He went out by another door almost as the grizzled
sergeant came in and stood still, looking at the master
of the homestead.</p>

<p>“I haven’t seen you since I came here, Mr. Courthorne,
and now you remind me of another man I
once had dealings with,” he said.</p>

<p>Witham laughed a little. “I scarcely fancy that
is very civil, Sergeant.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said the prairie-rider, “there is a difference,
when I look at you more closely. Let me see,
I met you once or twice back there in Alberta?”</p>

<p>He appeared to be reflecting, but Witham was on
his guard. “More frequently, I fancy, but you had
nothing definite against me, and the times have
changed. I would like to point that out to you
civilly. Your chiefs are also on good terms with us
at Silverdale, you see.”</p>

<p>The sergeant laughed. “Well, sir, I meant no
offence, and called round to requisition a horse. One
of the Whitesod boys has been deciding a quarrel with
a neighbour with an axe, and while I fancy they want
me at once, my beast got his foot in a badger hole.”</p>

<p>“Tell Tom in the stables to let you have your
choice,” said Witham. “If you like them, there’s
no reason you shouldn’t take some of these cigars
along.”</p>

<p>The sergeant went out, and when the beat of hoofs
sank into the silence of the prairie, Witham called
Courthorne in. “I have offered you no refreshment,
but the best in the house is at your service,” he said.</p>

<p>Courthorne looked at him curiously, and for the
first time Witham noticed that the life he had led was
telling upon his companion.</p>

<p>“As your guest?” he asked.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham. “I am tenant here, and,
that I may owe you nothing, purpose paying you a
second thousand dollars when the crop is in, as well
as bank-rate interest on the value of the stock and
machines and the money I have used, as shown in
the documents handed me by Colonel Barrington.
With wheat at its present price, nobody would give
you more for the land. In return, I demand the
unconditional use of the farm until within three
months from harvest I have the elevator warrants for
whatever wheat I raise, which will belong to me. If
you do not agree, or remain here after sunrise to-morrow,
I shall ride over to the outpost and make a
declaration.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Courthorne slowly, “you can consider
it a deal.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink15'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XV—FACING THE FLAME</a></h2>

<p>Courthorne rode away next morning, and some
weeks had passed when Maud Barrington came upon
Witham sitting beside his mower in a sloo. He did not
at first see her, for the rattle of the machines in a
neighbouring hollow drowned the muffled beat of
hoofs, and the girl, reining her horse in, looked down
on him. The man was sitting very still, which was
unusual with him, a hammer in his hand, gazing
straight before him, as though he could see something
beyond the shimmering heat that danced along the
rim of the prairie.</p>

<p>Summer had come, and the grass, which grew
scarcely ankle-deep on the great levels, was once more
white and dry; but in the hollows that had held the
melting snow it stood waist-high, scented with peppermint,
harsh and wiry, and Witham had set out with
every man he had to harvest it. Already a line of
loaded wagons crawled slowly across the prairie, and
men and horses moved half-seen amid the dust that
whirled about another sloo. Out of it came the
trampling of hoofs and the musical tinkle of steel.</p>

<p>Suddenly Witham looked up, and the care which was
stamped upon it fled from his face when he saw
the girl. The dust that lay thick upon his garments
had spared her, and as she sat, patting the restless
horse, with a little smile in her face which showed
just touched by the sun beneath the big white hat,
something in her dainty freshness reacted upon the
tired man’s fancy. He had long borne the stress and
the burden, and as he watched her a longing to taste
for at least a space the life of leisure and refinement
came upon him, as it had done too often for his tranquility
since he came to Silverdale. This woman
who had been born to it could, it seemed to him, lift
the man she trusted beyond the sordid cares of the
turmoil to her own high level, and as he waited for
her to speak, a fit of passion shook him. It betrayed
itself only by the sudden hardening of his face.</p>

<p>“It is the first time I have surprised you idle.
You were dreaming,” she said.</p>

<p>Witham smiled a trifle mirthlessly. “I was, but
I am afraid the fulfillment of the dreams is not for me.
One is apt to be pulled up suddenly when he ventures
over far.”</p>

<p>“We are inquisitive, you know,” said Maud Barrington;
“can’t you tell me what they were?”</p>

<p>Witham did not know what impulse swayed him,
and afterwards blamed himself for complying; but
the girl’s interest compelled him, and he showed her
a little of what was in his heart.</p>

<p>“I fancy I saw Silverdale gorging the elevators
with the choicest wheat,” he said. “A new bridge
flung level across the ravine where the wagons go
down half-loaded to the creek; a dam turning the
hollow into a lake, and big turbines driving our own
flouring mill. Then there were herds of cattle
fattening on the strippings of the grain that wasteful
people burn, our products clamoured for, east in the
old country, and west in British Columbia—and for
a background, prosperity and power, even if it was
paid for with half the traditions of Silverdale. Still,
you see it may all be due to the effect of the fierce sunshine
on an idle man’s fancy.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington regarded him steadily, and the
smile died out of her eyes. “But,” she said, slowly
“is all that quite beyond realization. Could you not
bring it about?”</p>

<p>Witham saw her quiet confidence and something
of her pride. There was no avarice in this woman,
but the slight dilation of the nostrils and the glow
in her eyes told of ambition, and for a moment his
soul was not his own.</p>

<p>“I could,” he said; and Maud Barrington, who
watched the swift straightening of his shoulders and
lifting of his head, felt that he spoke no more than the
truth. Then with a sudden access of bitterness,
“But I never will.”</p>

<p>“Why?” she asked. “Have you grown tired of
Silverdale, or has what you pictured no charm for
you?”</p>

<p>Witham leaned, as it were wearily against the
wheel of the mower. “I wonder if you could understand
what my life has been. The crushing poverty
that rendered every effort useless from the beginning,
the wounds that come from using imperfect tools, and
the numb hopelessness that follows repeated failure.
They are tolerably hard to bear alone, but it is more
difficult to make the best of them when the poorly-fed
body is as worn out as the mind. To stay here would
be—paradise—but a glimpse of it will probably have
to suffice. Its gates are well guarded and without are
the dogs, you know.”</p>

<p>Something in Maud Barrington thrilled in answer
to the faint hoarseness in Witham’s voice, and she
did not resent it. She was a woman with all her sex’s
instinctive response to passion and emotion, though
as yet the primitive impulses that stir the hearts of
men had been covered, if not wholly hidden, from her
by the thin veneer of civilization. Now, at least, she
felt in touch with them, and for a moment she looked
at the man with a daring that matched his own
shining in her eyes.</p>

<p>“And you fear the angel with the sword?” she
said. “There is nothing so terrible at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham, “I think it is the load I have
to carry I fear the most.”</p>

<p>For the moment Maud Barrington had flung off
the bonds of conventionality. “Lance,” she said,
“you have proved your right to stay at Silverdale,
and would not what you are doing now cover a great
deal in the past?”</p>

<p>Witham smiled wryly. “It is the present that is
difficult,” he said. “Can a man be pardoned and
retain the offence?”</p>

<p>He saw the faint bewilderment in the girl’s
face give place to the resentment of frankness unreturned,
and with a little shake of his shoulders shrank
into himself. Maud Barrington, who understood it,
once more put on the becoming reticence of Silverdale.</p>

<p>“We are getting beyond our depth, and it is very
hot,” she said. “You have all this hay to cut!”</p>

<p>Witham laughed as he bent over the mower’s
knife. “Yes,” he said, “it is really more in my line,
and I have kept you in the sun too long.”</p>

<p>In another few moments Maud Barrington was
riding across the prairie, but when the rattle of the
machine rose from the sloo behind her she laughed
curiously.</p>

<p>“The man knew his place, but you came perilously
near making a fool of yourself this morning, my dear,”
she said.</p>

<p>It was a week or two later, and very hot when,
with others of his neighbours, Witham sat in the big
hall at Silverdale Grange. The windows were open
wide, and the smell of hot dust came in from the white
waste which rolled away beneath the stars. There
was also another odour in the little puffs of wind that
flickered in, and far off where the arch of indigo
dropped to the dusky earth wavy lines of crimson
moved along the horizon. It was then the season when
fires that are lighted by means which no man knows
creep up and down the waste of grass, until they put
on speed and roll in a surf of flame before a sudden
breeze. Still, nobody was anxious about them, for
the guarding furrows that would oppose a space of
dusty soil to the march of the flame had been ploughed
round every homestead at Silverdale.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington was at the piano, and her voice was
good; while Witham, who had known what it is to
toil from red dawn to sunset without hope of more
than daily food, found the simple song she had chosen
chime with his mood: “All day long the reapers.”</p>

<p>A faint staccato drumming that rose from the
silent prairie throbbed through the final chords of it,
and when the music ceased, swelled into the gallop
of a horse. It seemed in some curious fashion portentous,
and when there was a rattle and jingle outside
other eyes than Witham’s were turned towards the
door. It swung open presently, and Dane came in.
There was quiet elation and some diffidence in his
bronzed face as he turned to Colonel Barrington.</p>

<p>“I could not get away earlier from the settlement,
sir, but I have great news,” he said. “They have
awoke to the fact that stocks are getting low in the
old country. Wheat moved up at Winnipeg, and
there was almost a rush to buy yesterday.”</p>

<p>There was a sudden silence, for among those present
were men who remembered the acres of good soil they
had not ploughed, but a little grim smile crept into
their leader’s face.</p>

<p>“It is,” he said quietly, “too late for most of us.
Still, we will not grudge you your good fortune, Dane.
You and a few of the others owe it to Courthorne.”</p>

<p>Every eye was on the speaker, for it had become
known among his neighbours that he had sold for a
fall; but Barrington could lose gracefully. Then
both his niece and Dane looked at Witham with a
question in their eyes.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said very quietly, “it is the turning of
the tide.”</p>

<p>He crossed over to Barrington, who smiled at him
dryly as he said, “It is a trifle soon to admit that
I was wrong.”</p>

<p>Witham made a gesture of almost impatient deprecation.
“I was wondering how far I might presume,
sir. You have forward wheat to deliver?”</p>

<p>“I have,” said Barrington; “unfortunately, a
good deal. You believe the advance will continue?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham simply. “Still it is but the
beginning, and there will be a reflux before the stream
sets in. Wait a little, sir, and then telegraph your
broker to cover all your contracts when the price
drops again.”</p>

<p>“I fancy it would be wiser to cut my losses now,”
said Barrington dryly.</p>

<p>Then Witham did a somewhat daring thing, for he
raised his voice a trifle, in a fashion that seemed to
invite the attention of the rest of the company.</p>

<p>“The more certain the advance seems to be, the
fiercer will be the bears’ last attack,” he said. “They
have to get from under, and will take heavy chances
to force prices back. As yet, they may contrive to
check or turn the stream, and then every wise man
who has sold down will try to cover, but no one can
tell how far it may carry us, once it sets strongly in.”</p>

<p>The men understood, as did Colonel Barrington,
that they were being warned, above their leader’s
head; and his niece, while resenting the slight, admitted
the courage of the man. Barrington’s face was
sardonic, and a less resolute man would have winced
under the implication as he said:</p>

<p>“This is, no doubt, intuition. I fancy you told
us you had no dealings on the markets at Winnipeg.”</p>

<p>Witham looked steadily at the speaker, and the
girl noticed with a curious approval that he smiled.</p>

<p>“Perhaps it is, but I believe events will prove me
right. In any case, what I had the honour of telling
you and Miss Barrington was the fact,” he said.</p>

<p>Nobody spoke, and the girl was wondering by what
means the strain, which, though few heard what Barrington
said, all seemed to feel, could be relieved, when
out of the darkness came a second beat of hoofs, and by
and by a man swaying on the driving-seat of a jolting
wagon swept into the light from the windows. Then
there were voices outside, and a breathless lad came
in.</p>

<p>“A big grass fire coming right down on Courthorne’s
farm!” he said. “It was tolerably close
when I got away.”</p>

<p>In an instant there was commotion, and every man
in Silverdale Grange was on his feet. For the most
part they took life lightly, and looked upon their farming
as an attempt to combine the making of dollars
with gentlemanly relaxation; but there were no laggards
among them when there was perilous work to
be done, and they went out to meet the fire joyously.
Inside five minutes scarcely a horse remained in the
stables, and the men were flying at a gallop across
the dusky prairie, laughing at the risk of a stumble
in a deadly badger hole. Yet in the haste of saddling,
they found time to arrange a twenty-dollar sweepstake
and the allowance for weight.</p>

<p>Up the long rise and down the back of it they swept,
stirrup as yet by stirrup and neck by neck, while
the roar of the hoofs reft the silence of the prairie
like the roll of musketry. Behind came the wagons,
lurching up the slope, and the blood surged to the
brave young faces as the night wind smote them and
fanned into brightness the crimson smear on the
horizon. They were English lads, and healthy
Englishmen, of the stock that had furnished their nation’s
fighting line, and not infrequently counted no sacrifice
too great that brought their colours home first
on the racing turf. Still, careless to the verge of irresponsibility
as they were in most affairs that did not
touch their pride, the man who rode with red spurs
and Dane next behind him, a clear length before the
first of them, asked no better allies in what was to be
done.</p>

<p>Then the line drew out as the pace began to tell,
though the rearmost rode grimly, knowing the risks
the leaders ran, and that the chance of being first to
meet the fire might yet fall to them. There was not
one among them who would not have killed his best
horse for that honour, and for further incentive the
Colonel’s niece, in streaming habit, flitted in front of
them. She had come up from behind them, and
passed them on a rise, for Barrington disdained to
breed horses for dollars alone, and there was blood
well known on the English turf in the beast she rode.</p>

<p>By-and-by a straggling birch bluff rose blackly
across their way, but nobody swung wide. Swaying
low while the branches smote them, they went through,
the twigs crackling under foot, and here and there the
red drops trickling down a flushed, scarred face, for
the slanting rent of a birch bough cuts like a knife.
Dim trees whirled by them, undergrowth went
down, and they were out on the dusty grass again,
while hurled straight, like field guns wanted at the
front, the bouncing wagons went through behind.
Then the fire rose higher in front of them, and when
they topped the last rise the pace grew faster still.
The slope they thundered down was undermined by
gophers and seamed by badger-holes, but they took
their chances gleefully, sparing no effort of hand and
heel, for the sum of twenty dollars and the credit of
being first man in. Then the smoke rolled up to
them, and when eager hands drew bridle at last a
youthful voice rose breathlessly out of it:</p>

<p>“Stapleton a good first, but he’ll go back on weight.
It used to be black and orange when he was at home.”</p>

<p>There was a ripple of hoarse laughter, a gasping
cheer, and then silence, for now their play was over,
and it was with the grim quietness, which is not
unusual with their kind, the men of Silverdale turned
towards the fire. It rolled towards the homestead, a
waving crimson wall, not fast, but with remorseless
persistency, out of the dusky prairie, and already
the horses were plunging in the smoke of it. That,
however, did not greatly concern the men, for the
bare fire furrows stretched between themselves and
it; but there was also another blaze inside the defences,
and, unless it was checked, nothing could save
house and barns and granaries, rows of costly binders,
and stock of prairie hay. They looked for a leader,
and found one ready, for Witham’s voice came up
through the crackle of the fire:</p>

<p>“Some of you lead the saddle-horses back to the
willows and picket them. The rest to the stables
and bring out the working beasts. The ploughs are
by the corral, and the first team that comes up is to
be harnessed to each in turn. Then start in, and turn
over a fall-depth furrow a furlong from the fire.”</p>

<p>There was no confusion, and already the hired
men were busy with two great machines until Witham
displaced two of them.</p>

<p>“How that fire passed the guards I don’t know,
but there will be time to find out later,” he said to
Dane. “Follow with the big breaker—it wants a
strong man to keep that share in—as close as you
can.”</p>

<p>Then they were off, a man at the heads of the leading
horses harnessed to the great machines, and
Witham sitting very intent in the driving-seat of one,
while the tough sod crackled under the rending
shares. Both the man and the reins were needed
when the smoke rolled down on them, but it was for
a moment torn aside again, and there roared up towards
the blurred arch of indigo a great rush of flame.
The heat of it smote into prickliness the uncovered
skin, and in spite of all that Witham could do, the
beasts recoiled upon the machine behind them. Then
they swung round wrenching the shares from the
triplex furrow, and for a few wild minutes man and
terrified beast fought for the mastery. Breathless,
half-strangled objurgations, the clatter of trace and
swivel, and the thud of hoofs, rose muffled through
the roar of the fire, for while swaying, plunging, panting,
they fought with fist and hoof, it was rolling on,
and now the heat was almost insupportable. The
victory, however, was to the men, and when the great
machine went on again, Maud Barrington, who with
the wife of one of her neighbours had watched the
struggle, stood wide-eyed, half-afraid, and yet thrilled
in every fibre.</p>

<p>“It was splendid!” she said. “They can’t be
beaten.”</p>

<p>Her companion seemed to shiver a little. “Yes,”
she said, “perhaps it was, but I wish it was over. It
would appeal to you differently, my dear, if you had
a husband at one of those horse’s heads.”</p>

<p>For a moment Maud Barrington wondered whether
it would, and then, when a red flame flickered out
towards the team, felt a little chill of dread. In
another second the smoke whirled about them, and
she moved backward choking with her companion.
The teams, however, went on, and, though the men
who led them afterwards wondered how they kept
their grip on the horses’ heads, came out frantic
with fear on the farther side. Then it was that
while the machines swung round and other men ran
to help, Witham, springing from the driving-seat,
found Dane amidst the swaying, plunging medley
of beasts and men.</p>

<p>“If you can’t find hook or clevis, cut the trace,”
he said. “It can’t burn the plough, and the devils
are out of hand now. The fire will jump these furrows,
and we’ve got to try again.”</p>

<p>In another minute four maddened beasts were
careering across the prairie with portions of their
trappings banging about them, while one man who
was badly kicked sat down grey in face and gasping,
and the fire rolled up to the ridge of loam, checked,
and then sprang across it here and there.</p>

<p>“I’ll take one of those lad’s places,” said Dane:
“That fellow can’t hold the breaker straight, Courthorne.”</p>

<p>It was a minute or two later when he flung a breathless
lad away from his plough, and the latter turned
upon him hoarse with indignation.</p>

<p>“I raced Stapleton for it. Loose your hold, confound
you. It’s mine,” he said.</p>

<p>Dane turned and laughed at him as he signed to
one of the Ontario hired men to take the near horse’s
head.</p>

<p>“You’re a plucky lad, and you’ve done what you
could,” he said. “Still, if you get in the way of a
grown man now, I’ll break your head for you.”</p>

<p>He was off in another moment, crossed Witham,
who had found fresh beasts, in his furrow, and had
turned and doubled it before the fire that had passed
the other barrier came close upon them. Once
more the smoke grew blinding, and one of Dane’s
beasts went down.</p>

<p>“I’m out of action now,” he said. “Try back.
That team will never face it, Courthorne.”</p>

<p>Witham’s face showed very grim under the tossing
flame. “They’ve got to. I’m going through,”
he said. “If the others are to stop it behind there,
they must have time.”</p>

<p>Then he and the husband of the woman who had
spoken to Maud Barrington passed on with the
frantic team into the smoke that was streaked with
flame.</p>

<p>“Good Lord!” said Dane, and added more as,
sitting on the horse’s head, he turned his tingling
face from the fire.</p>

<p>It was some minutes before he and the hired man
who came up loosed the fallen horse, and led it and
its fellow back towards the last defences the rest had
been raising, while the first furrows checked but did
not stay the conflagration. There he presently came
upon the man who had been with Witham.</p>

<p>“I don’t know where Courthorne is,” he said.
“The beasts bolted with us just after we’d gone
through the worst of it, and I fancy they took the
plough along. Anyway, I didn’t see what became
of them, and don’t fancy anybody would have worried
much about them after being trampled on by
a horse in the lumbar region.”</p>

<p>Dane saw that the man was limping and white in
face, and asked no more questions. It was evident
to him that Courthorne would be where he was
most needed, and he did what he could with those
who were adding furrow to furrow across the path
of the fire. It rolled up to them roaring, stopped,
flung a shower of burning filaments before it, sank
and swept aloft again, while the sparks rained down
upon the grass before the draught it made.</p>

<p>Blackened men with smouldering clothes were,
however, ready, and they fought each incipient
blaze with soaked grain bags, and shovels, some of
them also, careless of blistered arms, with their own
wet jackets. As fast as each fire was trampled out
another sprang into life, but the parent blaze that
fed them sank and died, and at last there was a
hoarse cheer. They had won, and the fire they had
beaten passed on divided across the prairie, leaving
the homestead unscathed between.</p>

<p>Then they turned to look for their leader, and did
not find him until a lad came up to Dane.</p>

<p>“Courthorne’s back by the second furrows, and
I fancy he’s badly hurt,” he said. “He didn’t appear
to know me, and his head seems all kicked in.”</p>

<p>It was not apparent how the news went round,
but in a few more minutes Dane was kneeling beside
a limp, blackened object stretched amidst the grass,
and while his comrades clustered behind her, Maud
Barrington bent over him. Her voice was breathless
as she asked, “You don’t believe him dead?”</p>

<p>Somebody had brought a lantern, and Dane felt
inclined to gasp when he saw the girl’s white face,
but what she felt was not his business then.</p>

<p>“He’s of a kind that is very hard to kill. Hold
that lantern so I can see him,” he said.</p>

<p>The rest waited silent, glad that there was somebody
to take a lead, and in a few moments Dane looked
round again.</p>

<p>“Ride in to the settlement, Stapleton, and bring
that doctor fellow out if you bring him by the neck.
Stop just a moment. You don’t know where you’re
to bring him to.”</p>

<p>“Here, of course,” said the lad, breaking into a
run.</p>

<p>“Wait,” and Dane’s voice stopped him. “Now,
I don’t fancy that would do. It seems to me that
this is a case in which a woman to look after him
would be necessary.”</p>

<p>Then, before any of the married men or their wives
who had followed them could make an offer, Maud
Barrington touched his shoulder.</p>

<p>“He is coming to the Grange,” she said.</p>

<p>Dane nodded, signed to Stapleton, then spoke
quickly to the men about him and turned to Maud
Barrington.</p>

<p>“Ride on at a gallop and get everything ready.
I’ll see he comes to no harm,” he said.</p>

<p>The girl felt curiously grateful as she rode out with
her companion, and Dane who laid Witham carefully
in a wagon, drew two of the other men aside
when it rolled away towards the Grange.</p>

<p>“There is something to be looked into. Did you
notice anything unusual about the affair?” he said.
“Since you asked me, I did,” said one of the men.
“I, however, scarcely cared to mention it until I
had time for reflection, but while I fancy the regulation
guards would have checked the fire on the
boundaries without our help, I don’t see how one
started in the hollow inside them.”</p>

<p>“Exactly,” said Dane very dryly. “Well, we
have got to discover it, and the more quickly we do
it the better. I fancy, however, that the question
who started it is what we have to consider.”</p>

<p>The men looked at one another, and the third of
them nodded.</p>

<p>“I fancy it comes to that—though it is horribly
unpleasant to admit it,” he said.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink16'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XVI—MAUD BARRINGTON IS MERCILESS</a></h2>

<p>Dane overtook the wagon close by the birch bluff
at Silverdale Grange. It was late then, but there
were lights in the windows that blinked beyond the
trees, and, when the wagon stopped, Barrington
stood in the doorway with one or two of his hired
men. Accidents are not infrequent on the prairie,
where surgical assistance is not always available,
and there was a shutter ready on the ground beside
him, for the Colonel had seen the field hospital in
operation.</p>

<p>“Unhook the tailboard,” he said sharply. “Two
of you pick up the shutter. Four more here. Now,
arms about his shoulders, hips, and knees. Lift and
lower—step off with right foot leading bearer, with
your left in the rear!”</p>

<p>It was done in a few moments, and when the bearers
passed into the big hall that rang with their shuffling
steps, Maud Barrington shivered as she waited with
her aunt in an inner room. That tramping was
horribly suggestive, and she had seen but little of
sickness and grievous wounds. Still, the fact scarcely
accounted for the painful throbbing of her heart,
and the dizziness that came upon her. Then the
bearers came in, panting, with Barrington and Dane
behind them, and the girl was grateful to her aunt,
who laid a hand upon her arm when she saw the
singed head, and blackened face that was smeared
with a ruddier tint, upon the shutter.</p>

<p>“Lower!” said Colonel Barrington. “Lift, as I
told you,” and the huddled object was laid upon the
bed. Then there was silence until the impassive
voice rose again.</p>

<p>“We shall not want you, Maud. Dane, you and
I will get these burnt things off him.”</p>

<p>The girl went out, and while she stood, feeling
curiously chilly in an adjoining room, Barrington
bent over his patient.</p>

<p>“Well put together!” he said thoughtfully.
“Most of his people were lighter in the frame. Well,
we can only oil the burns, and get a cold compress about
his head. All intact, so far as I can see, and I fancy
he’d pull through a good deal more than has happened
to him. I am obliged for your assistance, but I need
not keep you.”</p>

<p>The men withdrew, and when a rattle of wheels
rose from the prairie, Maud Barrington waylaid her
uncle in the hall. Her fingers were trembling, and,
though her voice was steady, the man glanced at her
curiously as she asked, “How is he?”</p>

<p>“One can scarcely form an opinion yet,” he said
slowly. “He is burned here and there, and his head
is badly cut, but it is the concussion that troubles
me. A frantic horse kicks tolerably hard, you know,
but I shall be able to tell you more when the doctor
comes to-morrow. In the meanwhile you had better
rest, though you could look in and see if your aunt
wants anything in an hour or two.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington passed an hour in horrible impatience,
and then stole quietly into the sick-room.
The windows were open wide, and the shaded lamp
burned unsteadily as the cool night breeze flowed in.
Its dim light just touched the man who lay motionless
with a bandage round his head, and the drawn pallor
of his face once more sent a shiver through the girl.
Then Miss Barrington rose and lifted a warning hand.</p>

<p>“Quite unconscious still,” she said softly. “I
fancy he was knocked down by one of the horses and
trampled on, but your uncle has hopes of him. He
has evidently led a healthy life.”</p>

<p>The girl was a little less serene than usual then, and
drew back into the shadow.</p>

<p>“Yes,” she said. “We did not think so once.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington smiled curiously. “Are you
very much astonished, Maud? Still, there is nothing
you can do for me, and we shall want you to-morrow.”</p>

<p>Realizing that there was no need for her, the girl
went out, and when the door closed behind her the
little white-haired lady bent down and gazed at her
patient long and steadily. Then she shook her head,
and moved back to the seat she had risen from, with
perplexity in her face.</p>

<p>In the meantime Maud Barrington sat by the open
window in her room, staring out into the night. There
was a whispering in the birch bluff, and the murmuring
of leagues of grasses rose from the prairie
that stretched away beyond it. Still, though the
wind fanned her throbbing forehead with a pleasant
coolness, the nocturnal harmonies awoke no response
in her. Sleep was out of the question, for her brain
was in a whirl of vague sensation, through which fear
came uppermost every now and then. Why anything
which could befall this man who had come out
of the obscurity and was he had told her, to go back
into it again, should disturb her, Maud Barrington
did not know; but there was no disguising the fact
that she would feel his loss grievously, as others at
Silverdale would do. Then with a little tremor she
wondered whether they must lose him, and, rising,
stood tensely still, listening for any sound from the
room where the sick man lay.</p>

<p>There was nothing but the sighing of the grasses
outside and the murmur of the birches in the bluff,
until the doleful howl of a coyote stole faintly out of
the night. Again the beast sent its cry out upon the
wind, and the girl trembled as she listened. The
unearthly wail seemed charged with augury, and
every nerve in her thrilled.</p>

<p>Then she sank down into her chair again, and sat
still, hoping, listening, fearing, and wondering when
the day would come, until at last her eyes grew heavy,
and it was with a start she roused herself when a
rattle of wheels came up out of the prairie in the
early morning. Then a spume-flecked team swept
up to the house, a door swung open, there was a murmur
of voices and a sound of feet that moved softly
in the hall, after which for what seemed an interminable
time, silence reigned again. At last, when
the stealthy patter of feet recommenced, the girl
slipped down the stairway and came upon Barrington.
Still, she could not ask the question that was trembling
on her lips.</p>

<p>“Is there anything I can do?” she said.</p>

<p>Barrington shook his head. “Not now! The
doctor is here, and does not seem very anxious about
him. The concussion is not apparently serious, and
his other injuries will not trouble him much.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington said nothing and turned away,
sensible of a great relief, while her aunt entering
her room an hour later found her lying fast asleep
but still dressed as she had last seen her. Then,
being a discerning woman, she went out softly with
a curious smile, and did not at any time mention
what she had seen.</p>

<p>It was that evening, and Barrington had departed
suddenly on business to Winnipeg, when Dane rode
up to the Grange. He asked for Miss Barrington and
her niece, and when he heard that his comrade was
recovering sensibility, sat down looking very grave.</p>

<p>“I have something to tell you, but Courthorne
must not know until he is better, while I’m not sure
that we need tell him then,” he said. “In the
meanwhile, I am also inclined to fancy it would
be better kept from Colonel Barrington on his return.
It is the first time anything of the kind has happened
at Silverdale, and it would hurt him horribly, which
decided us to come first to you.”</p>

<p>“You must be more concise,” said Miss Barrington
quietly, and Dane trifled with the hat in his hand.</p>

<p>“It is,” he said, “a most unpleasant thing,
and is known to three men only, of whom I am one.
We have also arranged that nobody else will chance
upon what we have discovered. You see, Ferris
is unfortunately connected with you, and his people
have had trouble enough already.”</p>

<p>“Ferris?” said Maud Barrington, with a sudden
hardening of her face. “You surely don’t mean——”</p>

<p>Dane nodded. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “I’m
afraid I do. Now, if you will listen to me for a
minute or two.”</p>

<p>He told his story with a grim, convincing quietness,
and the blood crept into the girl’s cheeks as she
followed his discoveries step by step. Glancing
at her aunt, she saw that there was horror as well as
belief in the gentle lady’s face.</p>

<p>“Then,” she said with cold incisiveness, “Ferris
cannot stay here, and he shall be punished.”</p>

<p>“No,” said Dane. “We have no room for a lad
of his disposition at Silverdale—but I’m very uncertain
in regard to the rest. You see, it couldn’t be done
without attracting attention—and I have the honour
of knowing his mother. You will remember how
she lost another son. That is why I did not tell
Colonel Barrington. He is a trifle—precipitate—occasionally.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington glanced at him gratefully. “You
have done wisely,” she said. “Ethel Ferris has
borne enough, and she has never been the same
since the horrible night they brought Frank home,
for she knew how he came by his death, though the
coroner brought it in misadventure. I also fancy my
brother would be implacable in a case like this,
though how far I am warranted in keeping the facts
from him I do not know.”</p>

<p>Dane nodded gravely. “We leave that to you.
You will, however, remember what happened once
before. We cannot go through what we did then
again.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington recalled the formal court-martial
that had once been held in the hall of the Grange,
when every man in the settlement had been summoned
to attend, for there were offences in regard
to which her brother was inflexible. When it was
over and the disgraced man went forth an outcast,
a full account of the proceedings had been
forwarded to those at home who had hoped for
much from him.</p>

<p>“No,” she said. “For the sake of the woman
who sent him here we must stop short of that.”</p>

<p>Then Maud Barrington looked at them both.
“There is one person you do not seem to consider
at all, and that is the man who lies here in
peril through Ferris’s fault,” she said. “Is there
nothing due to him?”</p>

<p>Dane noticed the sternness in her eyes, and glanced
as if for support towards Miss Barrington. “I fancy
he would be the last to claim it if he knew what
we do. Still, in the meanwhile, I leave the affair
to your aunt and you. We would like to have
your views before doing anything further.”</p>

<p>He rose as he spoke, and when he had gone out
Maud Barrington sat down at a writing table.
“Aunt,” she said quietly, “I will ask Ferris to come
here at once.”</p>

<p>It was next day when Ferris came, evidently ill
at ease, though he greeted Miss Barrington with
elaborate courtesy, and would have done the same
with her niece but the girl turned from him with
visible disdain.</p>

<p>“Sit down,” she said coldly. “Colonel Barrington
is away, but his sister will take his place, and after
him I have the largest stake in the welfare of Silverdale.
Now, a story has come to our ears which,
if it had not been substantiated, would have appeared
incredible. Shall Miss Barrington tell it
you?”</p>

<p>Ferris, who was a very young man, flushed, but
the colour faded and left his cheeks a trifle grey.
He was not a very prepossessing lad, for it requires
a better physique than he was endowed with to
bear the stamp of viciousness that is usually most
noticeable on the feeble, but he was distinguished
by a trace of arrogance that not infrequently served
him as well as resolution.</p>

<p>“If it would not inconvenience Miss Barrington,
it would help me to understand a good deal I can
find no meaning for now,” he said.</p>

<p>The elder lady’s face grew sterner, and very quietly
but remorselessly she set forth his offence, until
no one who heard the tale could have doubted the
origin of the fire.</p>

<p>“I should have been better pleased had you, if
only when you saw we knew everything, appeared
willing to confess your fault and make amends,”
she said.</p>

<p>Ferris laughed as ironically as he dared under
the eyes which had lost their gentleness. “You will
pardon me for telling you that I have no intention
of admitting it now. That you should be so readily
prejudiced against me is not gratifying, but, you
see, nobody could take any steps without positive
proof of the story, and my word is at least as credible
as that of the interloper who told it you.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington raised her head suddenly, and
looked at him with a curious light in her eyes, but the
elder lady made a little gesture of deprecation.</p>

<p>“Mr. Courthorne has told us nothing,” she said.
“Still, three gentlemen whose worth is known at
Silverdale are willing to certify every point of it.
If we lay the affair before Colonel Barrington, you
will have an opportunity of standing face to face
with them.”</p>

<p>The lad’s assurance, which, so far and no further,
did duty for courage, deserted him. He was evidently
not prepared to be made the subject of another
court-martial, and the hand he laid on the table in
front of him trembled a little.</p>

<p>“Madam,” he said hoarsely, “if I admit everything
what will you do?”</p>

<p>“Nothing,” said Maud Barrington coldly. “On
conditions that within a month you leave Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Ferris stared at her. “You can’t mean that. You
see, I’m fond of farming, and nobody would give me
what the place cost me. I couldn’t live among the
outside settler fellows.”</p>

<p>The girl smiled coldly. “I mean exactly what you
heard, and, if you do not enlighten them, the settlers
would probably not object to you. Your farm will
be taken over at what you gave for it.”</p>

<p>Ferris stood up. “I am going to make a last
appeal. Silverdale’s the only place fit for a gentleman
to live in in Canada, and I want to stay here.
You don’t know what it would cost me to go away,
and I’d do anything for reparation—send a big
cheque to a Winnipeg hospital and starve myself
to make up for it if that would content you. Only,
don’t send me away.”</p>

<p>His tone grew almost abject as he proceeded, and
while Miss Barrington’s eyes softened, her niece’s
heart grew harder because of it, as she remembered
that he had brought a strong man down.</p>

<p>“No,” she said dryly. “That would punish
your mother and sisters from whom you would
cajole the money. You can decide between leaving
Silverdale and having the story, and the proof of
it, put into the hands of Colonel Barrington.”</p>

<p>She sat near an open window regarding him with
quiet scorn, and the light that shone upon her struck
a sparkle from her hair and set the rounded cheek
and neck gleaming like ivory. The severity of her
pose became her, and the lad’s callow desire that
had driven him to his ruin stirred him to impotent
rage in his desperation. There were grey patches
in his cheeks, and his voice was strained and hoarse.</p>

<p>“You have no mercy on me because I struck
at him,” he said. “The one thing I shall always be
sorry for is that I failed, and I would go away with
pleasure if the horse had trampled the life out of him.
Well, there was a time when you could have made
what you wished of me, and now, at least, I shall
not see the blackleg you have showered your favours
on drag you down to the mire he came from.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington’s face had grown very colourless,
but she said nothing, and her aunt rose and
raised the hammer of a gong.</p>

<p>“Ferris,” she said, “do you wish to be led out
by the hired men?”</p>

<p>The lad laughed, and the hideous merriment
set the white-haired lady’s nerves on edge. “Oh,
I am going now; but, for once, let us be honest.
It was for her I did it, and if it had been any other
man I had injured, she would have forgiven me.”</p>

<p>Then with an ironical farewell he swung out of
the room, and the two women exchanged glances
when the door closed noisily behind him. Miss
Barrington was flushed with anger, but her niece’s
face was paler than usual.</p>

<p>“Are there men like him?” she said.</p>

<p>Miss Barrington shook off her anger and, rising,
laid a gentle hand on her niece’s shoulder. “Very
few, I hope,” she said. “Still, it would be better
if we sent word to Dane. You would not care for
that tale to spread?”</p>

<p>For a moment the girl’s cheek flamed, then she
rose quietly and crossed the room.</p>

<p>“No,” she said; and her aunt stood still, apparently
lost in contemplation, after the door swung softly
to. Then she sat down at the writing table. There
was very little in the note, but an hour after Dane
received it that night, a wagon drew up outside
Ferris’s farm. Two men went quietly in and found
the owner of the homestead sitting with a sheaf of
papers scattered about the table in front of him.</p>

<p>“Come back to-morrow. I can’t be worried
now,” he said. “Well, why the devil don’t you
go?”</p>

<p>Dane laid a hand on his shoulder. “We are
waiting for you. You are coming with us!”</p>

<p>Ferris turned and stared at them. “Where to?”</p>

<p>“To the railroad,” said Dane dryly. “After
that you can go just where it pleases you. Now,
there’s no use whatever making a fuss, and every
care will be taken of your property until you can
arrange to dispose of it. Hadn’t you better get
ready?”</p>

<p>The grim quietness of the voice was sufficient,
and Ferris, who saw that force would be used if it
was necessary, decided that it was scarcely likely
his hired men would support him.</p>

<p>“I might have expected it!” he said. “Of
course, it was imprudent to speak the truth to our
leader’s niece. You know what I have done.”</p>

<p>“I know what you did the night Courthorne
nearly lost his life,” said Dane. “One would have
fancied that would have contented you.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Ferris, “if you like to hear of a
more serious offence, I’ll oblige you.”</p>

<p>Dane’s finger closed on his arm. “If you attempt
to tell me, I’ll break your head for you.”</p>

<p>Next moment Ferris was lifted from his chair, and
in less than ten minutes Dane thrust him into the
wagon, where another man, who passed a hand
through his arm, sat beside him. It was a very
long drive to the railroad, but few words were exchanged
during it, and when they reached the settlement
one of Ferris’s companions mounted guard
outside the hotel he found accommodation in, until
the Montreal express crawled up above the rim of the
prairie. Then both went with him to the station,
and as the long cars rolled in Dane turned quietly
to the lad.</p>

<p>“Now, I am quite aware that we are incurring some
responsibility, so you need not waste your breath,”
he said. “There are, however, lawyers in Winnipeg,
if you fancy it is advisable to make use of them, and
you know where I and Macdonald are, if you want
us. In the meanwhile, your farm will be run better
than ever it was in your hands, until you dispose
of it. That is all I have to tell you, except that if
any undesirable version of the affair gets about,
Courthorne or I will assuredly find you.”</p>

<p>Then there was a scream of the whistle, and the
train rolled away with Ferris standing white with fury
on the platform of a car.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile, Maud Barrington spent a sleepless
night. Ferris’s taunt had reached its mark, and
she realized with confusion that it was the truth
he spoke. The fact that brought the blood to her
cheeks would no longer be hidden, and she knew
it was a longing to punish the lad who had struck
down the man she loved that had led to her insistence
on the former leaving Silverdale. It was a difficult
admission, but she made it that night. The outcast
who had stepped out of the obscurity and into
her peaceful life, had shown himself a man that any
woman might be proud to mate with; and, though
he had said very little, and now and then his words
were bitter, she knew that he loved her. Whatever
he had done—and she felt against all the teachings
of her reason that it had not been evil—he had
shown himself the equal of the best at Silverdale,
and she laughed as she wondered which of the men
there she could set in the balance against him. Then
she shivered a little, remembering that there was a
barrier whose extent he alone realized between
them, and wondered vaguely what the future would
bring.</p>

<p>It was a week or two before Witham was on his feet
again, and Maud Barrington was one of the first
to greet him when he walked feebly into the hall.
She had, however, decided on the line of conduct
that would be most fitting, and there was no hint
of more than neighbourly kindliness in her tone.
They had spoken about various trifles when Witham
turned to her.</p>

<p>“You and Miss Barrington have taken such good
care of me that, if I consulted my inclinations I
would linger in convalescence a long while,” he
said. “Still, I must make an effort to get away
to-morrow.”</p>

<p>“We cannot take the responsibility of letting
you go under a week yet,” said Maud Barrington.
“Have you anything especially important to do?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham—and the girl understood
the grimness of his face—“I have.”</p>

<p>“It concerns the fire?”</p>

<p>Witham looked at her curiously. “I would
sooner you did not ask me that question, Miss Barrington.”</p>

<p>“I scarcely fancy it is necessary,” said the girl,
with a little smile. “Still I have something to
tell you, and a favour to ask. Ferris has left Silverdale,
and you must never make any attempt to discover
what caused the fire.”</p>

<p>“You know?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Maud Barrington. “Dane, Macdonald,
and Hassal know, too; but you will not
ask them, and if you did they would not tell you.”</p>

<p>“I can refuse you nothing,” said Witham with a
laugh, though his voice betrayed him. “Still, I
want a <i>quid pro quo</i>. Wait until Ferris’s farm is
in the sale list, and then take it with the growing
crop.”</p>

<p>“I could not. There are reasons,” said the girl.</p>

<p>Witham gazed at her steadily, and a little colour
crept to his forehead, but he answered unconcernedly,
“They can be over-ridden. It may be the last
favour I shall ever ask you.”</p>

<p>“No,” said Maud Barrington. “Anything else
you wish, but not that. You must believe, without
wondering why, that it is out of the question!”</p>

<p>Witham yielded with a curious little smile. “Well,”
he said, “we will let it drop. I ask no questions.
You have accepted so much already without understanding
it.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink17'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XVII—WITH THE STREAM</a></h2>

<p>It was Witham’s last afternoon at the Grange, and
almost unpleasantly hot, while the man whose
vigour had not as yet returned to him was content
to lounge in the big window-seat listlessly watching
his companion. He had borne the strain of effort
long, and the time of his convalescence amidst
the tranquility of Silverdale Grange had, with the
gracious kindliness of Miss Barrington and her
niece, been a revelation to him. There were moments
when it brought him bitterness and self-reproach,
but these were usually brief, and he made the most of
what he knew might never be his again, telling himself
that it would at least be something to look back upon.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington sat close by, glancing through
the letters a mounted man had brought in, and the
fact that his presence put no restraint on her curiously
pleased the man. At last, however, she opened
a paper and passed it across to him.</p>

<p>“You have been very patient, but no doubt you
will find something that will atone for my silence
there,” she said.</p>

<p>Witham turned over the journal, and then smiled
at her. “Is there anything of moment in your
letters?”</p>

<p>“No,” said the girl with a little laugh. “I
scarcely think there is—a garden party, a big reception,
the visit of a high official, and a description of
the latest hat. Still, you know, that is supposed
to be enough for us.”</p>

<p>“Then I wonder whether you will find this more
interesting. ‘The bears made a determined rally
yesterday, and wheat moved back again. There
was later in the day a rush to sell, and prices now
stand at almost two cents below their lowest level.’”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Maud Barrington, noticing the sudden
intentness of his pallid face. “I do. It is serious
news for you?”</p>

<p>“And for you! You see where I have led you.
Ill or well, I must start for Winnipeg to-morrow.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington smiled curiously. “You and
I and a handful of others stand alone, but I told you
I would not blame you whether we won or lost.
Do you know that I am grateful for the glimpses
of the realities of life that you have given me?”</p>

<p>Witham felt his pulses throb faster, for the girl’s
unabated confidence stirred him, but he looked at her
gravely. “I wonder if you realize what you have
given me in return? Life as I had seen it was very
grim and bare—and now I know what, with a little
help, it is possible to make of it.”</p>

<p>“With a little help?” said Maud Barrington.</p>

<p>Witham nodded, and his face, which had grown
almost wistful, hardened. “Those who strive in
the pit are apt to grow blind to the best—the sweetness
and order and all the little graces that mean
so much. Even if their eyes are opened, it is usually
too late. You see, they lose touch with all that
lies beyond the struggle, and without some one to
lead them they cannot get back to it. Still, if I
talk in this fashion you will laugh at me; but every
one has his weakness now and then—and no doubt
I shall make up for it at Winnipeg to-morrow. One cannot
afford to be fanciful when wheat is two cents down.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington was not astonished. Tireless
in his activities and, more curious still, almost ascetic
in his mode of life, the man had already given her
glimpses of his inner self and the vague longings
that came upon him. He never asked her pity,
but she found something pathetic in his attitude, for
it seemed he knew that the stress and the turmoil
alone could be his. Why this was so, she did not
know, but it was with a confidence that could not
be shaken now she felt it was through no fault of his.
His last words, however, showed her that the mask
was on again.</p>

<p>“I scarcely fancy you are well enough, but if
you must go, I wonder whether you would do a good
turn to Alfreton?” she said. “The lad has been
speculating and he seems anxious lately.”</p>

<p>“It is natural that they should all bring their
troubles to you.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington laughed. “I, however, generally
pass them on to you.”</p>

<p>A trace of colour crept into the man’s face, and
his voice was a trifle hoarse as he said. “Do you
know that I would ask nothing better than to take
every care you had and bear it for you?”</p>

<p>“Still,” said the girl with a little smile, “that
is very evidently out of the question.”</p>

<p>Witham rose, and she saw that one hand was
closed as he looked down upon her. Then he turned
and stared out at the prairie, but there was something
very significant in the rigidity of his attitude,
and his face seemed to have grown suddenly careworn
when he glanced back at her.</p>

<p>“Of course,” he said quietly. “You see, I
have been ill, and a little off my balance lately.
That accounts for erratic speeches, though I meant
it all. Colonel Barrington is still in Winnipeg?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the girl, who was not convinced
by the explanation, very quietly. “I am a little
anxious about him, too. He sold wheat forward, and
I gather from his last letter has not bought it yet.
Now, as Alfreton is driving in to-morrow, he could
take you.”</p>

<p>Witham was grateful to her, and still more to
Miss Barrington, who came in just then; while
he did not see the girl again before he departed
with Alfreton on the morrow. When they had
left Silverdale a league behind, the trail dipped
steeply amidst straggling birches to a bridge which
spanned the creek in a hollow, and Witham glanced
at the winding ascent thoughtfully.</p>

<p>“It has struck me that going round by this
place puts another six miles on to your journey to
the railroad, and a double team could not pull a
big load up,” he said.</p>

<p>The lad nodded. “The creek is a condemned
nuisance. We have either to load light when we
are hauling grain in and then pitch half the bags off
at the bottom and come back for them—while, you
know, one man can’t put up many four bushel bags—or
keep a man and horses at the ravine until we’re
through.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “Now, I wonder whether you
ever figured how much those little things put up the
price of your wheat.”</p>

<p>“This is the only practicable way down,” said
the lad. “You can scarcely climb up one side
where the ravine’s narrow abreast of Silverdale.”</p>

<p>“Drive round. I want to see it,” said Witham.
“Call at Rushforth for a spool of binder twine.”</p>

<p>Half-an-hour later Alfreton pulled the wagon
up amidst the birches on the edge of the ravine,
which just there sloped steep as a railway cutting,
and not very much broader, to the creek. Witham
gazed at it, and then handed the twine to the hired man.</p>

<p>“Take that with you, Charley, and get down,”
he said. “If you strip your boots off you can wade
through the creek.”</p>

<p>“I don’t know that I want to,” said the man.</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham, “it would please me if
you did, as well as cool your feet. Then you could
climb up and hold that twine down on the other
side.”</p>

<p>The man grinned; and, though Alfreton remembered
that he was not usually so tractable with him,
proceeded to do Witham’s bidding. When he came
back there was a twinkle of comprehension in his
eyes; and Witham, who cut off the length of twine,
smiled at Alfreton.</p>

<p>“It is,” he said dryly, “only a little idea of mine.”</p>

<p>They drove on, and, reaching Winnipeg next
day, went straight to Graham the wheat-broker’s
offices. He kept them waiting some time, and in the
meanwhile men with intent faces passed hastily
in and out through the outer office. Some of them
had telegrams or bundles of papers in their hands,
and the eyes of all were eager. The corridor rang
with footsteps, the murmur of voices seemed to
vibrate through the great building; while it seemed
to Alfreton there was a suggestion of strain and
expectancy in all he heard and saw. Witham, however,
sat gravely still, though the lad noticed that his
eyes were keener than usual, for the muffled roar
of the city, patter of messengers’ feet, ceaseless
tinkle of telephone call bells, and whirr of the elevators,
each packed with human freight, all stirred him.
Hitherto, he had grappled with nature, but now he
was to test his judgment against the keenest wits
of the cities, and stand or fall by it, in the struggle
that was to be waged over the older nation’s food.</p>

<p>At last, however, a clerk signed to them from
a doorway, and they found Graham sitting before
a littered table. A man sat opposite him with the
telephone receiver in his hand.</p>

<p>“Sorry to keep you, but I’ve both hands full
just now. Every man in this city is thinking wheat,”
he said. “Has he word from Chicago, Thomson?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the clerk. “Bears lost hold this
morning. General buying!”</p>

<p>Just then the door swung open, and a breathless
man came in. “Guess I scared that clerk of yours
who wanted to turn me off,” he said. “Heard
what Chicago’s doing? Well, you’ve got to buy
for me now. They’re going to send her right up into
the sky, and it’s ’bout time I got out before the bulls
trample the life out of me.”</p>

<p>“Quite sure you can’t wait until to-morrow?”
asked Graham.</p>

<p>The man shook his head. “No, sir. When I’ve
been selling all along the line! Send off right away,
and tell your man on the market to cover every
blame sale for me.”</p>

<p>Graham signed to the clerk, and as the telephone
bell tinkled, a lad brought in a message. The broker
opened it. “‘New York lost advance and recovered
it twice in the first hour,’” he read. “‘At present
a point or two better. Steady buying in Liverpool.’”</p>

<p>“That,” said the other man, “is quite enough
for me. Let me have the contracts as soon as they’re
ready.”</p>

<p>He went out, and Graham turned to Witham.
“There’s half-a-dozen more of them outside,” he
said. “Do you buy or sell?”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “I want to know which a
wise man would do.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Graham, “I can’t tell you. The
bulls rushed wheat up as I wired you, but the other
folks got their claws in and worried it down again.
Wheat’s anywhere and nowhere all the time, and
I’m advising nobody just now. No doubt you’ve
formed your own opinion.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “It’s the last of the grappled,
and the bears aren’t quite beaten yet, but any time
the next week or two the decisive turn will come.
Then, if they haven’t got out, there’ll be very little
left of them.”</p>

<p>“You seem tolerably sure of the thing. Got
plenty of confidence in the bulls?”</p>

<p>Witham smiled. “I fancy I know how Western
wheat was sown this year better than any statistician
of the ring, and it’s not the bulls I’m counting on
but those millions of hungry folks in the old country.
It’s not New York or Chicago, but Liverpool the
spark is coming from.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Graham, “that’s my notion, too,
but I’ve no time for anybody who hasn’t grist for
me just now. Still, I’d be glad to come round and
take you home to supper if you haven’t the prejudice,
which is not unknown at Silverdale, against
eating with a man who makes his dollars on the
market and didn’t get them given him.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed, and held up a lean brown hand.
“All I ever had until less than a year ago I earned
with that. I’ll be ready for you.”</p>

<p>He went out with Alfreton, and noticed that the
lad ate little at lunch. When the meal was over
he glanced at him with a smile through the cigar
smoke.</p>

<p>“I think it would do you good to take me into
your confidence,” he said.</p>

<p>“Well,” said Alfreton, “it would be a relief
to talk, and I feel I could trust you. Still, it’s only
fair to tell you I didn’t at the beginning. I was an
opinionated ass, you see.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “I don’t mind in the least,
and we have most of us felt that way.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said the lad, “I was a little short of
funds, and proud of myself, and when everybody
seemed certain that wheat was going down for ever,
I thought I saw my chance of making a little. Now
I’ve more wheat than I care to think of to deliver,
the market’s against me. If it stiffens any further
it will break me; and that’s not all, you see. Things
have gone tolerably badly with the folks at home,
and I fancy it took a good deal of what should have
been the girls’ portion to start me at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Witham, “it’s no use trying to
show you how foolish you’ve been. That is the usual
thing, and it’s easy; but what the man in the hole
wants to know is the means of getting out again.”</p>

<p>Alfreton smiled ruefully. “I’m tolerably far in.
I could just cover at to-day’s prices if I pledged my
crop, but it would leave me nothing to go on with
and the next advance would swamp the farm.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham quietly, “don’t buy
to-day. There’s going to be an advance that will
take folks’ breath away, but the time’s not quite
ripe yet. You’ll see prices knocked back a little
the next day or two, and then you will cover your
sales to the last bushel.”</p>

<p>“But are you sure?” asked the lad a trifle hoarsely.
“You see, if you’re mistaken, it will mean ruin to me.”</p>

<p>Witham laid his hand on his shoulder. “If I am
wrong, I’ll make your losses good.”</p>

<p>Nothing more was said on that subject, but Alfreton’s
face grew anxious once more as they went up and
down the city. Everybody was talking wheat,
which was not astonishing, for that city and the
two great provinces to the west of it lived by the
trade in grain; and before the afternoon had passed
they learned that there had been a persistent advance.
The lad’s uneasiness showed itself, but when
they went back to the hotel about the supper hour
Witham smiled at him.</p>

<p>“You’re feeling sick?” he said. “Still, I don’t
fancy you need worry.”</p>

<p>Then Graham appeared and claimed him, and
it was next morning when he saw Alfreton again.
He was breakfasting with Colonel Barrington and
Dane, and Witham noticed that the older man did
not appear to have much appetite. When the meal
was finished he drew him aside.</p>

<p>“You have covered your sales, sir?” he asked.</p>

<p>“No, sir,” said Barrington. “I have not.”</p>

<p>“Then I wonder if it would be presumption if I
asked you a question?”</p>

<p>Barrington looked at him steadily. “To be
frank, I fancy it would be better if you did not.
I have, of course, only my own folly to blame for
believing I could equal your natural aptitude for
this risky amusement, which I had, and still have,
objections to. I was, however, in need of money,
and seeing your success, yielded to the temptation.
I am not laying any of the responsibility on you,
but am not inclined to listen to more of your suggestions.”</p>

<p>Witham met his gaze without embarrassment.
“I am sorry you have been unfortunate, sir.”</p>

<p>Just then Dane joined them. “I sat up late
last night in the hope of seeing you,” he said. “Now,
I don’t know what to make of the market, but
there were one or two fellows who would have bought
my estimated crop from me at a figure which would
have about covered working expenses. Some of
the others who did not know you were coming in,
put their affairs in my hands, too.”</p>

<p>“Sell nothing,” said Witham quietly.</p>

<p>It was an hour later when a messenger from Graham
found them in the smoking-room, and Colonel Barrington
smiled dryly as he tore up the envelope
handed him.</p>

<p>“‘Market opened with sellers prevailing. Chicago
flat!’” he read.</p>

<p>Dane glanced at Witham somewhat ruefully, but
the latter’s eyes were fixed on Colonel Barrington.</p>

<p>“If I had anything to cover I should still wait,”
he said.</p>

<p>“That,” said Dane, “is not exactly good news
to me.”</p>

<p>“Our turn will come,” said Witham gravely.</p>

<p>That day, and during several which followed
it, wheat moved down, and Dane said nothing to
Witham about what he felt, though his face grew
grimmer as the time went on. Barrington was
quietly impassive when they met him, while Alfreton,
who saw a way out of his difficulties, was hard to
restrain. Witham long afterwards remembered that
horrible suspense, but he showed no sign of what he
was enduring then, and was only a trifle quieter
than usual when he and Alfreton entered Graham’s
office one morning. It was busier than ever, while
the men who hastened in and out seemed to reveal
by attitude and voice that they felt something was
going to happen.</p>

<p>“In sellers’ favour!” said the broker. “Everybody
with a few dollars is hammering prices one way
or the other. Nothing but wheat is heard of in this
city. Well, we’ll simmer down when the turn comes,
and though I’m piling up dollars, I’ll be thankful.
Hallo, Thomson, anything going on now?”</p>

<p>“Chicago buying,” said the clerk. “Now it’s
Liverpool! Sellers holding off. Wanting a two-eights
more the cental.”</p>

<p>The telephone bell tinkled again, and there was a
trace of excitement in the face of the man who answered
it.</p>

<p>“Walthew has got news ahead of us,” he said.
“Chicago bears caved in. Buying orders from
Liverpool broke them. Got it there strong.”</p>

<p>Witham tapped Alfreton’s shoulder. “Now is
the time. Tell him to buy,” he said. “We’ll wait
outside until you’ve put this deal through, Graham.”</p>

<p>It was twenty minutes before Graham came out
to them. “I’ll let you have your contracts, Mr.
Alfreton, and my man on the market just fixed them
in time,” he said. “They’re up a penny on the
cental in Liverpool now, and nobody will sell, while
here in Winnipeg they’re falling over each other
to buy. Never had such a circus since the trade
began.”</p>

<p>Alfreton, who seemed to quiver, turned to his
companion, and then forgot what he had to tell him.
Witham had straightened himself and his eyes were
shining, while the lad was puzzled by his face. Still,
save for the little tremor in it, his voice was very
quiet.</p>

<p>“It has come at last,” he said. “Two farms
would not have covered your losses, Alfreton, if you
had waited until to-morrrow. Have supper with
us Graham—if you like it, lakes of champagne.”</p>

<p>“I want my head, but I’ll come,” said Graham,
with a curious smile. “I don’t know that it wouldn’t
pay me to hire yours just now.”</p>

<p>Then Witham turned suddenly, and running down
the stairway shook the man awaiting him by the arm.</p>

<p>“The flood’s with us now,” he said. “Find
Colonel Barrington, and make him cover everything
before he’s ruined. Dane, you and I, and a few
others, will see the dollars rolling into Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Dane found Barrington, who listened with a grim
smile to what he had to tell him.</p>

<p>“The words are yours, Dane, but that is all,” he said.
“Wheat will go down again, and I do not know that
I am grateful to Courthorne.”</p>

<p>Dane dare urge nothing further, and spent the rest
of that day wandering up and down the city, in a
state of blissful content, with Alfreton and Witham.
One of them had turned his losses into a small profit,
and the other two, who had, hoping almost against
hope, sown when others had feared to plough, saw
that the harvest would repay them beyond their
wildest expectations. They heard nothing but
predictions of higher prices everywhere, and the
busy city seemed to throb with exultation. The
turn had come, and there was hope for the vast
wheat lands it throve upon.</p>

<p>Graham had much to tell them when they sat
down to the somewhat elaborate meal Witham
termed supper that night, and he nodded approvingly
when Dane held out his glass of champagne and
touched his comrade’s.</p>

<p>“I’m not fond of speeches, Courthorne, and I
fancy our tastes are the same,” he said. “Still,
I can’t let this great night pass without greeting you
as the man who has saved not a few of us at Silverdale.
We were in a very tight place before you
came, and we are with you when you want us from
this time, soul and body, and all our possessions.”
Alfreton’s eyes glistened, and his hand shook a little
as he touched the rim of Witham’s goblet.</p>

<p>“There are folks in the old country who will
bless you when they know,” he said. “You’ll
forget it, though I can’t, that I was once against you.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded to them gravely, and when the
glasses were empty shook hands with the three.</p>

<p>“We have put up a good fight, and I think we
shall win; but, while you will understand me better
by-and-by what you have offered me almost hurts,”
he said.</p>

<p>“What we have given is yours. We don’t take
it back,” said Dane.</p>

<p>Witham smiled, though there was a wistfulness
in his eyes as he saw the faint bewilderment in his
companions’ faces.</p>

<p>“Well,” he said slowly, “you can do a little
for me now. Colonel Barrington was right when
he set his face against speculation, and it was only
because I saw dollars were badly needed at Silverdale,
and the one means of getting them, I made my
deal. Still, if we are to succeed as farmers we must
market our wheat as cheaply as our rivals, and we
want a new bridge on the level. Now, I got a drawing
of one and estimates for British Columbia stringers,
yesterday, while the birches in the ravine will give
us what else we want. I’ll build a bridge myself,
but it will cheapen the wheat-hauling to everybody,
and you might like to help me.”</p>

<p>Dane glanced at the drawing laid before him, but
Alfreton spoke first. “One hundred dollars. I’m
only a small man, but I wish it was five,” he said.</p>

<p>“I’ll make it that much, and see the others do
their share,” said Dane, and then glanced at the
broker with a curious smile.</p>

<p>“How does he do it—this and other things?
He was never a business man!”</p>

<p>Graham nodded. “He can’t help it. It was
born in him. You and I can figure and plan, but
Courthorne is different—the right thing comes to
him. I knew, the first night I saw him, you had got
the man you wanted at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Then Witham stood up, wineglass in hand. “I
am obliged to you, but I fancy this has gone far
enough,” he said. “There is one man who has
done more for you than I could ever do. Prosperity
is a good thing, but you at least know what he has
aimed at stands high above that. May you have
the head of the Silverdale community long with you!”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink18'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XVIII—UNDER TEST</a></h2>

<p>The prairie lay dim and shadowy in the creeping
dusk when Witham sat on a redwood stringer near
the head of his partly-finished bridge. There was no
sound from the hollow behind him but the faint
gurgle of the creek and the almost imperceptible
vibration of countless minute wings. The birches
which climbed the slope to it wound away sinuously,
a black wall on either hand, and the prairie lying
grey and still stretched back into the silence in
front of him. Here and there a smouldering fire
showed dully red on the brink of the ravine, but the
tired men who had lighted them were already wrapped
in heavy slumber.</p>

<p>The prairie hay was gathered, harvest had not
come, and for the last few weeks Witham, with his
hired men from the bush of Ontario, had toiled at
the bridge with a tireless persistency which had
somewhat astonished the gentlemen farmers of
Silverdale. They, however, rode over every now and
then, and most cheerfully rendered what assistance
they could, until it was time to return for tennis
or a shooting sweepstake, and Witham thanked
them gravely, even when he and his Ontario axemen
found it necessary to do the work again. He
could have told nobody why he had undertaken to
build the bridge, which could be of no use to him,
but he was in a measure prompted by instincts
born in him; for he was one of the Englishmen
who, with a dim recognition of the primeval charge
to subdue the earth and render it fruitful, gravitate
to the newer lands, and usually leave their mark
upon them. He had also a half-defined notion that
it would be something he could leave behind in reparation,
that the men of Silverdale might remember
the stranger who had imposed on them more leniently,
while in the strain of the mental struggle strenuous
occupation was a necessity to him.</p>

<p>A bundle of papers it was now too dim to see
lay beside him, clammy with the dew, and he sat
bareheaded, a pipe which had gone out in his hand,
staring across the prairie with an ironical smile in
his eyes. He had planned boldly and striven tirelessly,
and now the fee he could not take would surely
be tendered him. Wheat was growing dearer every
day, and such crops as he had sown had not been
seen at Silverdale. Still, the man, who had had
few compunctions before he met Maud Barrington,
knew now that in a little while he must leave all
he had painfully achieved behind. What he would
do then he did not know, for only one fact seemed
certain—in another four months, or less, he would
have turned his back on Silverdale.</p>

<p>Presently, however, the sound of horse-hoofs
caught his ears, and he stood up when a mounted
figure rose out of the prairie. The moon had just
swung up, round and coppery, from behind a rise,
and when horse and rider cut black and sharp against
it his pulses throbbed faster and a little flush crept
into his face, for he knew every line of the figure in
the saddle. Some minutes had passed when Maud
Barrington rode slowly to the head of the bridge,
and pulled up her horse at the sight of him.</p>

<p>The moon, turning silver now, shone behind her
head, and a tress of hair sparkled beneath her wide
hat, while the man had a glimpse of the gleaming
whiteness of rounded cheek and neck. Her face
he could not see, but shapely shoulders, curve of
waist, and sweeping line of the light habit were
forced up as in a daguerreotype, and as the girl sat
still looking down on him, slender, lissom, dainty,
etherealized almost by the brightening radiance,
she seemed to him a visionary complement of the
harmonies of the night. It also appeared wiser
to think of her as such than a being of flesh and
blood whom he had wildly ventured to long for, and
he almost regretted when her first words dispelled
the illusion.</p>

<p>“It is dreadfully late,” she said. “Pluto went
very lame soon after I left Macdonald’s, and I knew
if I went back for another horse he would have
insisted on riding home with me. I had slipped
away while he was in the granary. One can cross
the bridge?”</p>

<p>“Not mounted,” said Witham. “There are
only a few planks between the stringers here and
there, but, if you don’t mind waiting, I can lead your
horse across.”</p>

<p>He smiled a little, for the words seemed trivial
and out of place in face of the effect the girl’s appearance
had on him, but she glanced at him questioningly.</p>

<p>“No!” she said. “Now, I would have gone
round by the old bridge, only that Allardyce told
me you let him ride across this afternoon.”</p>

<p>“Still,” and the man stopped a moment, “it
was daylight then, you see.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington laughed a little, for his face was
visible, and she understood the slowness of his answer.
“Is that all? It is moonlight now.”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham dryly, “but one is apt
to make an explanation too complete occasionally.
Will you let me help you down?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington held out her hands, and when he
swung her down watched him tramp away with the
horse with a curious smile. A light compliment
seldom afforded her much pleasure, but the man’s
grim reserve had now and then piqued more than her
curiosity, though she was sensible that the efforts she
occasionally made to uncover what lay behind it were
not without their risk. Then he came back, and
turned to her very gravely.</p>

<p>“Let me have your hand,” he said.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington gave it him, and hoped the curious
little thrill that ran through her when his hard fingers
closed upon her palm did not communicate itself to
him. She also noticed that he moved his head sharply
a moment, and then looked straight in front again.
Then the birches seemed to fall away beneath them,
and they moved out across the dim gully with the
loosely-laid planking rattling under their feet, until
they came to a strip scarcely three feet wide which
spanned a gulf of blackness in the shadow of the trees.</p>

<p>“Hold fast!” said Witham with a trace of hoarseness.
“You are sure you feel quite steady?”</p>

<p>“Of course!” said the girl with a little laugh,
though she recognized the anxiety in his voice, and
felt his hand close almost cruelly on her own. She
was by no means timorous, and still less fanciful, but
when they moved out into the blackness that closed
about them above and beneath along the slender strip
of swaying timber she was glad of the masterful grip.
It seemed in some strange fashion portentous, for she
felt that she would once more be willing to brave
unseen perils, secure only in his guidance. What
he felt she did not know, and was sensible of an almost
overwhelming curiosity, until when at last well-stiffened
timber lay beneath them, she contrived to
drop a glove just where the moonlight smote the
bridge. Witham stooped, and his face was clear in
the silvery light when he rose again. Maud Barrington
saw the relief in it, and, compelled by some influence,
stood still looking at him with a little glow behind the
smile in her eyes. A good deal was revealed to both
of them in that instant, but the man dare not admit
it, and was master of himself.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said, very simply, “I am glad you are
across.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington laughed. “I scarcely fancy
the risk was very great, but tell me about the bridge,”
she said. “You are living beside it?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham, “in a tent, I must have
it finished before harvest, you see!”</p>

<p>The girl understood why this was necessary, but
deciding that she had on other occasions ventured
sufficiently far with that topic, moved on across the
bridge.</p>

<p>“A tent,” she said, “cannot be a very comfortable
place to live in, and who cooks for you?”</p>

<p>Witham smiled dryly. “I am used to it, and can
do all the cooking that is necessary,” he said. “It is
the usual home for the beginner, and I lived six
months in one—on grindstone bread, the tinctured
glucose you are probably not acquainted with as
‘drips,’ and rancid pork—when I first came out to
this country and hired myself, for ten dollars monthly,
to another man. It is a diet one gets a little tired of
occasionally, but after breaking prairie twelve hours
every day one can eat almost anything, and when I
afterwards turned farmer my credit was rarely good
enough to provide the pork.”</p>

<p>The girl looked at him curiously, for she knew how
some of the smaller settlers lived, and once more felt
divided between wonder and sympathy. She could
picture the grim self-denial, for she had seen the
stubborn patience in this man’s face as well as a
stamp that was not borne by any other man at Silverdale.
Some of the crofter settlers, who periodically
came near starvation in their sod hovels, and the men
from Ontario who staked their little handful of dollars
on the first wheat crop to be wrested from the prairie,
bore it, however. From what Miss Barrington had
told her, it was clear that Courthorne’s first year in
Canada could not have been spent in this fashion,
but there was no doubt in the girl’s mind as she
listened. Her faith was equal to a more strenuous
test.</p>

<p>“There is a difference in the present, but who
taught you bridge-building? It takes years to
learn the use of the axe,” she said.</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “I think it took me four, but
the man who has not a dollar to spare usually finds
out how to do a good many things for himself,
and I had working drawings of the bridge made in
Winnipeg. Besides, your friends have helped me
with their hands as well as their good-will. Except
at the beginning, they have all been kind to me, and
one could not well have expected very much from
them then.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington coloured a trifle as she remembered
her own attitude towards him. “Cannot you forget
it?” she said, with a curious little ring in her voice.
“They would do anything you asked them now.”</p>

<p>“One generally finds it useful to have a good
memory, and I remember most clearly that, although
they had very little reason for it, most of them
afterwards trusted me. That made, and still makes,
a great difference to me.”</p>

<p>The girl appeared thoughtful. “Does it?” she
said. “Still, do you know, I fancy that if they had
tried to drive you out, you would have stayed in spite
of them.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham dryly, “I believe I would, but
the fact that in a very little while they held out a
friendly hand to a stranger steeped in suspicion, and
gave him the chance to prove himself their equal,
carries a big responsibility. That, and your aunt’s
goodness, puts so many things one might have done
out of the question.”</p>

<p>The obvious inference was that the prodigal had
been reclaimed by the simple means of putting him
on his honour, but that did not for a moment suggest
itself to the girl. She had often regretted her own
disbelief, and once more felt the need for reparation.</p>

<p>“Lance,” she said, very quietly, “my aunt was
wiser than I was, but she was mistaken. What
she gave you out of her wide charity was already yours
by right.”</p>

<p>That was complete and final, for Maud Barrington
did nothing by half, and Witham recognized that
she held him blameless in the past, which she could
not know, as well as in the present, which was visible
to her. Her confidence stung him as a whip, and
when in place of answering he looked away, the girl
fancied that a smothered groan escaped him. She
waited, curiously expectant, but he did not speak,
and just then the fall of hoofs rose from behind the
birches in the bluff. Then a man’s voice came
through it singing a little French song, and Maud
Barrington glanced at her companion.</p>

<p>“Lance,” she said, “how long is it since you sang
that song?”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham, doggedly conscious of what
he was doing, “I do not know a word of it, and never
heard it in my life.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington stared at him. “Think,” she
said. “It seems ever so long ago, but you cannot
have forgotten. Surely you remember Madame
Aubert, who taught me to prattle in French, and the
day you slipped into the music-room and picked up
the song, while she tried in vain to teach it me. Can’t
you recollect how I cried, when you sang it in the
billiard-room, and Uncle Geoffrey gave you the half-sovereign
which had been promised to me?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham a trifle hoarsely, and with his
head turned from her watched the trail.</p>

<p>A man in embroidered deerskin jacket was riding
into the moonlight, and though the little song had
ceased, and the wide hat hid his face, there was an
almost insolent gracefulness in his carriage that
seemed familiar to Witham. It was not the
<i>abandon</i> of the swashbuckler stock-rider from across
the frontier, but something more finished and distinguished
that suggested the bygone cavalier.
Maud Barrington, it was evident, also noticed it.</p>

<p>“Geoffrey Courthorne rode as that man does,” she
said. “I remember hearing my mother once tell
him that he had been born too late, because his
attributes and tastes would have fitted him to follow
Prince Rupert.”</p>

<p>Witham made no answer, and the man rode on
until he drew bridle in front of them. Then he swung
his hat off, and while the moonlight shone into his
face looked down with a little ironical smile at the
man and woman standing beside the horse. Witham
closed one hand a trifle, and slowly straightened
himself, feeling that there was need of all his self-control,
for he saw his companion glance at him, and
then almost too steadily at Lance Courthorne.</p>

<p>The latter said nothing for a space of seconds, for
which Witham hated him, and yet in the tension of
the suspense he noticed that the signs of indulgence
he had seen on the last occasion were plainer in
Courthorne’s face. The little bitter smile upon his
lips was also not quite in keeping with the restlessness
of his fingers upon the bridle.</p>

<p>“Is that bridge fit for crossing, farmer?” he asked.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham quietly. “You must lead
your horse.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington had in the meanwhile stood very
still, and now moved as by an effort. “It is time I
rode on, and you can show the stranger across,” she
said. “I have kept you at least five minutes longer
than was necessary.”</p>

<p>Courthorne, Witham fancied, shifted one foot from
the stirrup, but then sat still as the farmer held his
hand for the girl to mount by, while when she rode
away he looked at his companion with a trace of anger
as well as irony in his eyes.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham. “What you heard was
correct. Miss Barrington’s horse fell lame coming
from one of the farms, which accounts for her passing
here so late. I had just led the beast across the
incompleted bridge. Still, it is not on my account
I tell you this. Where have you been and why have
you broken one of my conditions?”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed. “It seems to me you are
adopting a somewhat curious tone. I went to my
homestead to look for you.”</p>

<p>“You have not answered my other question, and
in the meanwhile I am your tenant, and the place is
mine.”</p>

<p>“We really needn’t quibble,” said Courthorne.
“I came for the very simple reason that I wanted
money.”</p>

<p>“You had one thousand dollars,” said Witham
dryly.</p>

<p>Courthorne made a little gesture of resignation.
“It is, however, certain that I haven’t got them
now. They went as dollars usually do. The fact
is, I have met one or two men recently who apparently
know rather more about games of chance
than I do, and I passed on the fame, which was my
most valuable asset, to you.”</p>

<p>“You passed me on the brand of a crime I never
committed,” said Witham grimly. “That, however,
is not the question now. Not one dollar, except
at the time agreed upon, will you get from me. Why
did you come here dressed as we usually are on the
prairie?”</p>

<p>Courthorne glanced down at the deerskin jacket
and smiled as he straightened himself into a caricature
of Witham’s mounted attitude. It was done
cleverly.</p>

<p>“When I ride in this fashion we are really not very
unlike, you see, and I let one or two men I met get a
good look at me,” he said. “I meant it as a hint
that it would be wise of you to come to terms with me.”</p>

<p>“I have done so already. You made the bargain.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Courthorne smiling, “a contract may
be modified at any time when both parties are willing.”</p>

<p>“One is not,” said Witham dryly. “You heard
my terms, and nothing that you can urge will move
me a hairsbreadth from them.”</p>

<p>Courthorne looked at him steadily, and some men
would have found his glance disconcerting, for now
and then all the wickedness that was in him showed
in his half-closed eyes. Still, he saw that the farmer
was unyielding.</p>

<p>“Then we will let it go; in the meanwhile,” he
said, “take me across the bridge.”</p>

<p>They were half-way along it when he pulled the
horse up, and once more looked down on Witham.</p>

<p>“Your hand is a tolerably good one so long as you
are willing to sacrifice yourself, but it has its weak
points, and there is one thing I could not tolerate,”
he said.</p>

<p>“What is that?”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed wickedly, “You wish me to be
explicit? Maud Barrington is devilishly pretty, but
it is quite out of the question that you should ever
marry her.”</p>

<p>Witham turned towards him with the veins on
his forehead swollen. “Granting that it is so, what
is that to you?”</p>

<p>Courthorne nodded as if in comprehension. “Well,
I’m probably not consistent, but one rarely quite loses
touch with everything, and if I believed that my
kinswoman was growing fond of a beggarly farmer,
I’d venture to put a sudden stop to your love-making.
This, at least, is perfectly <i>bona fide</i>, Witham.”</p>

<p>Witham had borne a good deal of late, and his
hatred of the man flared up. He had no definite
intention, but he moved a pace forward, and Courthorne
touched the horse with his heel. It backed,
and then growing afraid of the blackness about it
plunged, while Witham for the first time saw that
there was a gap in the loosely-laid planking close
behind it. Another plunge or flounder, and horse
and rider would go down together.</p>

<p>For a moment he held his breath and watched.
Then, as the beast, resisting its rider’s efforts, backed
again, sprang forward and seized the bridle.</p>

<p>“Get your spurs in! Shove him forward for your
life,” he said.</p>

<p>There was a momentary struggle on the slippery
planking, and, almost as its hind hoofs overhung the
edge, Witham dragged the horse away. Courthorne
swung himself out of the saddle, left the farmer the
bridle, and glanced behind him at the gap. Then he
turned, and the two men looked at each other steadily.
Their faces were a trifle paler than usual.</p>

<p>“You saw it?” asked Courthorne.</p>

<p>“Yes, but not until you backed the beast and he
commenced plunging.”</p>

<p>“He plunged once or twice before you caught the
bridle?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham quietly.</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed. “You are a curious man.
It would have cleared the ground for you.”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham dryly, “I don’t know
that you will understand me, but I scarcely think
it would. It may have been a mistake of mine to do
what I did, but I have a good deal on my shoulders
already.”</p>

<p>Courthorne made no answer as he led his horse
across the bridge. Then he mounted and looked
down on the farmer who stood beside him.</p>

<p>“I remember some things, though I don’t always
let them influence me to my detriment,” he said.
“I’m going back to the railroad, and then West,
and don’t quite know when you will have the pleasure
of seeing me again.”</p>

<p>Witham watched him quietly. “It would be
wiser if you did not come back until I send for you.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink19'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XIX—COURTHORNE BLUNDERS</a></h2>

<p>Lance Courthorne had lightly taken a good
many risks in his time, for he usually found a spice
of danger stimulating, and there was in him an irresponsible
daring that not infrequently served him
better than a well-laid plan. There are also men of
his type who, for a time at least, appear immune
from the disasters which follow the one rash venture
the prudent make, and it was half in frolic and half
in malice he rode to Silverdale dressed as a prairie
farmer in the light of day, and forgot that their occupation
sets a stamp he had never worn upon the tillers
of the soil. The same spirit induced him to imitate
one or two of Witham’s gestures for the benefit of his
cook, and afterwards wait for a police trooper, who,
apparently desired to overtake him when he had just
left the homestead.</p>

<p>He pulled his horse up when the other man shouted
to him, and trusting to the wide hat that hid most
of his face, smiled out of half-closed eyes when he
handed a packet.</p>

<p>“You have saved me a ride, Mr. Courthorne,
I heard you were at the bridge,” the trooper said,
“If you’ll sign for those documents I needn’t keep you.”</p>

<p>He brought out a pencil, and Courthorne scribbled
on the paper handed him. He was quite aware that
there was a risk attached to this, but if Witham had
any communications with the police it appeared
advisable to discover what they were about. Then
he laughed, as riding on again he opened the packet.</p>

<p>“Agricultural Bureau documents,” he said. “This
lot to be returned filled in! Well, if I can remember,
I’ll give them to Witham.”</p>

<p>As it happened, he did not remember; but he made
a worse mistake just before his departure from the
railroad settlement. He had spent two nights at a
little wooden hotel, which was not the one where
Witham put up when he drove into the place, and
to pass the time commenced a flirtation with the
proprietor’s daughter. The girl was pretty, and
Courthorne a man of different type from the wheat-growers
she had been used to. When his horse was
at the door, he strolled into the saloon where he found
the girl alone in the bar.</p>

<p>“I’m a very sad man to-day, my dear,” he said,
and his melancholy became him.</p>

<p>The girl blushed prettily. “Still,” she said,
“whenever you want to, you can come back again.”</p>

<p>“If I did, would you be pleased to see me?”</p>

<p>“Of course!” said the girl. “Now, you wait a
minute, and I’ll give you something to remember me
by. I don’t mix this up for everybody.”</p>

<p>She busied herself with certain decanters and
essences, and Courthorne held the glass she handed
him high.</p>

<p>“The brightest eyes and the reddest lips between
Winnipeg and the Rockies!” he said. “This is
nectar, but I would like to remember you by something
sweeter still!”</p>

<p>Their heads were not far apart when he laid down
his glass, and before the girl quite knew what was
happening an arm was round her neck. Next moment
she had flung the man backwards, and stood very
straight, quivering with anger and crimson in face,
for Courthorne, as occasionally happens with men of
his type, assumed too much, and did not always
know when to stop. Then she called sharply, “Jake.”</p>

<p>There was a tramp of feet outside, and when a big,
grim-faced man looked in at the door Courthorne
decided it was time for him to effect his retreat
while it could be done with safety. He knew already
that there were two doors to the saloon, and his finger
closed on the neck of a decanter. Next moment it
smote the newcomer on the chest, and while he
staggered backwards with the fluid trickling from
him, Courthorne departed through the opposite entrance.
Once outside, he mounted leisurely, but nobody
came out from the hotel, and shaking the bridle
with a little laugh he cantered out of the settlement.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile, the other man carefully wiped
his garments, and then turned to his companion.</p>

<p>“Now what’s all this about?” he said.</p>

<p>The girl told him, and the man ruminated for a
minute or two. “Well, he’s gone, and I don’t know
that I’m sorry there wasn’t a circus here,” he said.
“I figured there was something not square about that
fellow, anyway. Registered as Guyler from Minnesota,
but I’ve seen somebody like him among the boys from
Silverdale. Guess I’ll find out when I ride over about
the horse, and then I’ll have a talk with him quietly.”</p>

<p>In the meanwhile, the police trooper who had
handed him the packet returned to the outpost, and,
as it happened, found the grizzled Sergeant Stimson,
who appeared astonished to see him back so soon there.</p>

<p>“I met Courthorne near his homestead, and gave
him the papers, sir,” he said.</p>

<p>“You did?” said the Sergeant. “Now that’s
kind of curious, because he’s at the bridge.”</p>

<p>“It couldn’t have been anybody else, because he
took the documents and signed for them,” said the
trooper.</p>

<p>“Big bay horse?”</p>

<p>“No, sir,” said the trooper. “It was a bronco, and
a screw at that.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Stimson dryly, “let me have your
book. If Payne has come in, tell him I want him.”</p>

<p>The trooper went out, and when his comrade
came in Stimson laid a strip of paper before him.
“You have seen Courthorne’s writing,” he said;
“would you call it anything like that?”</p>

<p>“No, sir,” said Trooper Payne. “I would not!”</p>

<p>Stimson nodded. “Take a good horse and ride
round by the bridge. If you find Courthorne there,
as you probably will, head for the settlement and see
if you can come across a man who might pass for him.
Ask your question as though the answer didn’t count,
and tell nobody what you hear but me.”</p>

<p>Payne rode out, and when he returned three days
later, Sergeant Stimson made a journey to confer
with one of his superiors. The officer was a man
who had risen in the service somewhat rapidly, and
when he heard the tale said nothing, while he turned
over a bundle of papers a trooper brought him. Then
he glanced at Stimson thoughtfully.</p>

<p>“I have a report of the Shannon shooting case
here,” he said. “How did it strike you at the time?”</p>

<p>Stimson’s answer was guarded. “As a curious
affair. You see, it was quite easy to get at Witham’s
character from anybody down there, and he wasn’t
the kind of man to do the thing. There were one or
two other trifles I couldn’t quite figure out the
meaning of.”</p>

<p>“Witham was drowned?” said the officer.</p>

<p>“Well,” said Stimson, “the trooper who rode
after him heard him break through the ice, but
nobody ever found him, though a farmer came upon
his horse.”</p>

<p>The officer nodded. “I fancy you are right, and
the point is this. There were two men, who apparently
bore some resemblance to each other, engaged in an
unlawful venture, and one of them commits a crime
nobody believed him capable of, but which would
have been less out of keeping with the other’s character.
Then the second man comes into an inheritance, and
leads a life which seems to have astonished everybody
who knows him. Now, have you ever seen these
two men side by side?”</p>

<p>“No, sir,” said Stimson. “Courthorne kept out
of our sight when he could in Alberta, and I don’t
think I or any of the boys, except Shannon, ever saw
him for more than a minute or two. Now and then
we passed Witham on the prairie or saw him from the
trail, but I think I only once spoke to him.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said the officer, “it seems to me I had
better get you sent back to your old station, where
you can quietly pick up the threads again. Would
the trooper you mentioned be fit to keep an eye on
things at Silverdale?”</p>

<p>“No one better, sir,” said Stimson.</p>

<p>“Then it shall be done,” said the officer. “The
quieter you keep the affair the better.”</p>

<p>It was a week or two later when Witham returned
to his homestead from the bridge, which was almost
completed. Dusk was closing in, but as he rode
down the rise he could see the wheat roll in slow
ripples back into the distance. The steady beat of
its rhythmic murmur told of heavy ears, and where
the stalks stood waist-high on the rise, the last flush
of saffron in the north-west was flung back in a dull
bronze gleam. The rest swayed athwart the shadowy
hollow, dusky indigo and green, but that flash of
gold and red told that harvest was nigh again.</p>

<p>Witham had seen no crop to compare with it
during the eight years he had spent in the Dominion.
There had been neither drought nor hail that year,
and now, when the warm western breezes kept
sweet and wholesome the splendid ears they fanned,
there was removed from him the terrors of the harvest
frost, which not infrequently blights the fairest prospects
in one bitter night. Fate, which had tried
him hardly hitherto, denying the seed its due share
of fertilizing rain, sweeping his stock from existence
with icy blizzard, and mowing down the tall green
corn with devastating hail, was now showering favours
on him when it was too late. Still, though he felt
the irony of it, he was glad, for others had followed
his lead, and while the lean years had left a lamentable
scarcity of dollars at Silverdale, wealth would
now pour in to every man who had had the faith to
sow.</p>

<p>He dismounted beside the oats which he would
harvest first, and listened with a curious stirring of
his pulses to their musical patter. It was not the
full-toned song of the wheat, but there was that in
the quicker beat of it which told that each graceful
tassel would redeem its promise. He could not see
the end of them, but by the right of the producer
they were all his. He knew that he could also hold
them by right of conquest, too, for that year a knowledge
of his strength had been forced upon him. Still,
from something he had seen in the eyes of a girl and
grasped at in the words of a white-haired lady, he
realized that there is a limit beyond which man’s
ambition may not venture, and a right before which
even that of possession must bow.</p>

<p>It had been shown him plainly that no man of his
own devices can make the wheat grow, and standing
beside it in the creeping dusk he felt in a vague,
half-pagan fashion that there was, somewhere behind
what appeared the chaotic chances of life, a scheme
of order and justice immutable, which would in due
time crush the too presumptuous human atom who
opposed himself to it. Regret and rebellion were,
it seemed, equally futile, and he must go out from
Silverdale before retribution overtook him. He had
done wrong, and, though he had made what reparation
he could, knew that he would carry his punishment
with him.</p>

<p>The house was almost dark when he reached it,
and as he went in his cook signed to him. “There’s
a man in here waiting for you,” he said. “He
doesn’t seem in any way friendly or civil.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded as he went on, wondering with a
grim expectancy whether Courthorne had returned
again. If he had, he felt in a mood for very direct
speech with him. His visitor was, however, not
Courthorne. Witham could see that at a glance,
although the room was dim.</p>

<p>“I don’t seem to know you, but I’ll get a light in a
minute,” he said.</p>

<p>“I wouldn’t waste time,” said the other. “We
can talk just as straight in the dark, and I guess this
meeting will finish up outside on the prairie. You’ve
given me a good deal of trouble to trail you, Mr.
Guyler.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham dryly, “it seems to me that
you have found the wrong man.”</p>

<p>The stranger laughed unpleasantly. “I was figuring
you’d take it like that, but you can’t bluff me.
Well now, I’ve come round to take it out of you for
slinging that decanter at me, and if there is another
thing, we needn’t mention it.”</p>

<p>Witham stared at the man, and his astonishment
was evident, but the fact that he still spoke with an
English accentuation, as Courthorne did, was against
him.</p>

<p>“To the best of my recollection, I have never
suffered the unpleasantness of meeting you in my life,”
he said. “I certainly never threw a decanter or
anything else at you, though I understand that one
might feel tempted to.”</p>

<p>The man rose up slowly, and appeared big and
heavy-shouldered as he moved athwart the window.
“I guess that is quite enough for me,” he said.
“What were you condemned Englishmen made
for, anyway, but to take the best of what other
men worked for, until the folks who’ve got grit
enough run you out of the old country! Lord, why
don’t they drown you instead of dumping you and your
wickedness on to us? Still, I’m going to show one
of you, as I’ve longed to do, that you can’t play your
old tricks with the women of this country.”</p>

<p>“I don’t see the drift of a word of it,” said Witham.
“Hadn’t you better come back when you’ve worked
the vapours off to-morrow?”</p>

<p>“Come out!” said the other man grimly.
“There’s scarcely room in here. Well then, have it
your own way, and the devil take care of you!”</p>

<p>“I think there’s enough,” said Witham, and as
the other swung forward, closed with him.</p>

<p>He felt sick and dizzy for a moment, for he had
laid himself open and the first blow got home, but
he had decided that if the grapple was inevitable,
it was best to commence it and end it speedily.
A few seconds later there was a crash against the
table, and the stranger gasped as he felt the edge of
it pressed into his backbone. Then he felt himself
borne backwards until he groaned under the strain,
and heard a hoarse voice say, “If you attempt to
use that foot again, I’ll make the leg useless all your
life to you. Come right in here, Tom.”</p>

<p>A man carrying a lantern came in, and stared at
the pair as he set it down. “Do you want me to see
a fair finish-up?” he said.</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham. “I want you to see this
gentleman out with me. Nip his arms behind his
back; he can’t hurt you.”</p>

<p>It was done with a little difficulty, and there was a
further scuffle in the hall, for the stranger resisted
strenuously, but a minute later the trio reeled out of the
door just as a buggy pulled up. Then, as the evicted
man plunged forward alone, Witham, straightening
himself suddenly, saw that Colonel Barrington was
looking down on him, and that his niece was seated
at his side. He stood still, flushed and breathless,
with his jacket hanging rent half-way up about him,
and the Colonel’s voice was quietly ironical.</p>

<p>“I had a question or two to ask you, but can wait,”
he said. “No doubt I shall find you less engaged
another time.”</p>

<p>He flicked the horse, and as the buggy rolled away
the other man walked up to Witham.</p>

<p>“While I only wanted to get rid of you before, I
feel greatly tempted to give you your wish now,” said
the latter.</p>

<p>The stranger laughed dryly. “I guess you needn’t
worry. I don’t fight because I’m fond of it, and
you’re not the man.”</p>

<p>“Not the man?” said Witham.</p>

<p>“No, sir,” said the other. “Not like him, now I
can see you better. Well, I’m kind of sorry I started
a circus here.”</p>

<p>A suspicion of the truth flashed upon Witham.
“What sort of a man was the one you mistook for
me?”</p>

<p>“Usual British waster. Never done a day’s work
in his life, and never wanted to; too tired to open his
eyes more than half-way when he looked at you, but
if he ever fools round the saloon again, he’ll know
what he is before I’m through with him.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “I wouldn’t be rash or you
may get another astonishment. We really know
one or two useful things in the old country, but you
can’t fetch the settlement before morning, and we’ll
put you up if you like.”</p>

<p>“No, sir,” said the other dryly. “I’m not fond of
Englishmen, and we might get arguing, while I’ve had
’bout enough of you for one night.”</p>

<p>He rode away, and Witham went back into the house
very thoughtfully, wondering whether he would be
called upon to answer for more of Courthorne’s doings.</p>

<p>It was two or three days later when Maud Barrington
returned with her aunt from a visit to an outlying
farm, where, because an account of what took
place in the saloon had by some means been spread
about, she heard a story brought in from the settlement.
It kept her silent during the return journey,
and Miss Barrington said nothing, but when the
Colonel met them in the hall he glanced at his niece.</p>

<p>“I see Mrs. Carndall has been telling you both a
tale,” he said. “It would have been more fitting if
she had kept it to herself.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Maud Barrington. “Still, you do not
credit it?”</p>

<p>Barrington smiled a trifle dryly. “I should very
much prefer not to, my dear, but what we saw the
other night appears to give it probability. The man
Courthorne was dismissing somewhat summarily is,
I believe, to marry the lady in question. You will
remember I asked you once before whether the leopard
can change his spots.”</p>

<p>The girl laughed a little. “Still, are you not
presuming when you take it for granted that there are
spots to change?”</p>

<p>Colonel Barrington said nothing further, and it was
late that night when the two women reopened the
subject.</p>

<p>“Aunt,” said Maud Barrington, “I want to know
what you think about Mrs. Carndall’s tale.”</p>

<p>The little lady shook her head. “I should like to
disbelieve it if I could.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Maud Barrington, “why don’t
you?”</p>

<p>“Can you give me any reasons? One must not
expect too much from human nature, my dear.”</p>

<p>The girl sat silent awhile, remembering the man
whom she had at first sight, and in the moonlight,
fancied was like her companion at the time. It
was not, however, the faint resemblance that had
impressed her, but a vague something in his manner—his
grace, his half-veiled insolence, his poise in the
saddle. She had only seen Lance Courthorne on a few
occasions when she was very young, but she had seen
others of his race, and the man reminded her of them.
Still, she felt half-instinctively that as yet it would be
better that nobody should know this, and she stooped
over some lace on the table as she answered the elder
lady.</p>

<p>“I only know one, and it is convincing. That Lance
should have done what he is credited with doing is
quite impossible.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington smiled. “I almost believe so, too,
but others of his family have done such things somewhat
frequently. Do you know that Lance has all
along been a problem to me, for there is a good deal
in my brother’s question. Although it seems out of
the question, I have wondered whether there could be
two Lance Courthornes in Western Canada.”</p>

<p>The girl looked at her aunt in silence for a space,
but each hid a portion of her thoughts. Then Maud
Barrington laughed.</p>

<p>“The Lance Courthorne now at Silverdale is as
free from reproach as any man may be,” she said.
“I can’t tell you why I am sure of it—but I know I
am not mistaken.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink20'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XX—THE FACE AT THE WINDOW</a></h2>

<p>It was a hot morning when Sergeant Stimson and
Corporal Payne rode towards the railroad across the
prairie. The grassy levels rolled away before them,
white and parched, into the blue distance, where
willow grove and straggling bluff floated on the dazzling
horizon, and the fibrous dust rose in little puffs beneath
the horses’ feet, until Stimson pulled his beast
up in the shadow of the birches by the bridge, and
looked back towards Silverdale. There, wooden
homesteads girt about with barns and granaries rose
from the whitened waste, and behind some of them
stretched great belts of wheat. Then the Sergeant,
understanding the faith of the men who had sown
that splendid grain, nodded, for he was old and wise,
and had seen many adverse seasons, and the slackness
that comes, when hope has gone, to beaten men.</p>

<p>“They will reap this year—a handful of cents on
every bushel,” he said. “A fine gentleman is
Colonel Barrington, but some of them will be
thankful there’s a better head than the one he has at
Silverdale.</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” said Corporal Payne, who wore the
double chevrons for the first time, and surmised that
his companion’s observations were not without their
purpose.</p>

<p>Stimson glanced at the bridge. “Good work,”
he said. “It will save them dollars on every load
they haul in. A gambler built it! Do they teach
men to use the axe in Montana saloons?”</p>

<p>The corporal smiled and waited for what he felt
would come. He was no longer the hot-blooded lad
who had come out from the old country, for he had
felt the bonds of discipline, and been taught restraint
and silence on the lonely marches of the prairie.</p>

<p>“I have,” he said tentatively, “fancied there
was something a little unusual about the thing.”</p>

<p>Stimson nodded, but his next observation was
apparently quite unconnected with the topic. “You
were a raw colt when I got you, Payne, and the bit
galled you now and then, but you had good hands
on a bridle, and somebody who knew his business
had taught you to sit a horse in the old country.
Still, you were not as handy with brush and fork
at stable duty.”</p>

<p>The bronze seemed to deepen in the corporal’s face,
but it was turned steadily toward his officer. “Sir,”
he said, “has that anything to do with what you
were speaking of?”</p>

<p>Stimson laughed softly. “That depends, my lad.
Now, I’ve taught you to ride straight and to hold
your tongue. I’ve asked you no questions, but I’ve
eyes in my head, and it’s not without a purpose
you’ve been made corporal. You’re the kind they
give commissions to now and then—and your folks
in the old country never raised you for a police trooper.”</p>

<p>“Can you tell me how to win one?” asked the
corporal, and Stimson noticed the little gleam in his
eyes.</p>

<p>“There’s one road to advancement, and you know
where to find the trooper’s duty laid down plain,”
he said with a dry smile. “Now, you saw Lance
Courthorne once or twice back there in Alberta?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir; but never close to.”</p>

<p>“And you knew Farmer Witham?”</p>

<p>Payne appeared thoughtful. “Of course I met
him a few times on the prairie, always on horseback,
with his big hat on; but Witham is dead—that is,
I heard him break through the ice.”</p>

<p>The men’s eyes met for a moment, and Stimson
smiled curiously. “There is,” he said, “still a
warrant out for him. Now, you know where I am
going, and while I am away you will watch Courthorne
and his homestead. If anything curious happens
there you will let me know. The new man has
instructions to find you any duty that will suit you.”</p>

<p>The corporal looked at his officer steadily, and
again there was comprehension in his eyes. Then
he nodded. “Yes, sir. I have wondered whether,
if Shannon could have spoken another word that
night, it would have been Witham the warrant was
issued for.”</p>

<p>Stimson raised a restraining hand. “My lad,”
he said dryly, “the police trooper who gets advancement
is the one that carries out his orders and never
questions them until he can show that they are wrong.
Then he uses a good deal of discretion. Now you
know your duty?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” said Payne, and Stimson shaking his
bridle cantered off across the prairie.</p>

<p>Then, seeing no need to waste time, the corporal
rode towards Courthorne’s homestead and found its
owner stripping a binder. Pieces of the machine
lay all around him, and from the fashion in which
he handled them it was evident that he was capable
of doing what the other men at Silverdale left to the
mechanic at the settlement. Payne wondered, as
he watched him, who had taught the gambler to use
spanner and file.</p>

<p>“I will not trouble you if you are busy, Mr.
Courthorne; but if you would give me the returns
the Bureau ask for, it would save me riding round
again,” he said.</p>

<p>“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Witham. “You see,
I haven’t had the papers.”</p>

<p>“Trooper Bacon told me he had given them to
you.”</p>

<p>“I don’t seem to remember it,” said Witham.</p>

<p>Payne laughed. “One forgets things when he
is busy. Still, you had them—because you signed
for them.”</p>

<p>Witham looked up suddenly, and in another
moment smiled; but he was a trifle too late, for
Payne had seen his astonishment, and that he was
now on guard.</p>

<p>“Well,” he said, “I haven’t got them now. Send
me a duplicate. You have, no doubt, some extra
forms at the outpost.”</p>

<p>Payne decided that the man had never had the
documents, but was too clever to ask any questions
or offer explanations that might involve him. It was
evident he knew that somebody had personated him,
and the fact sent a little thrill through the corporal;
he was at least on the trail.</p>

<p>“I’ll bring you one round the next time I’m in the
neighbourhood,” he said; and Witham sat still with
the spanner lying idle in his hand when he rode away.</p>

<p>He realized that Courthorne had taken the papers,
and his face grew anxious as well as grim. The harvest
was almost ready now, and a little while would
see it in. Then his work would be over; but he had
of late felt a growing fear lest something, that
would prevent its accomplishment, might happen
in the meanwhile. Then almost fiercely he resumed
the stripping of the machine.</p>

<p>An hour or two later Dane rode up, and sat still
in his saddle looking down on Witham with a curious
smile in his face.</p>

<p>“I was down at the settlement and found a curious
story going round,” he said. “Of course, it had its
humorous aspect, but I don’t know that the thing
was quite discreet. You see, Barrington has once or
twice had to put a stern check on the indulgence in
playfulness of that kind by some of the younger men,
and you are becoming an influence at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>“You naturally believed what you heard. It
was in keeping with what you have seen of me?”</p>

<p>Dane’s eyes twinkled. “I didn’t want to, and I
must admit that it isn’t. Still, a good many of you
quiet men are addicted to occasionally astonishing
our friends, and I can’t help a fancy that you
could do that kind of thing as well as most folks,
if it pleased you. It fact, there was an artistic finish
to the climax that suggested your usual thoroughness.”</p>

<p>“It did?” said Witham grimly, remembering
his recent visitor and one or two of Courthorne’s
Albertan escapades. “Still, as I’m afraid I haven’t
the dramatic instinct, do you mind telling me how?”</p>

<p>Dane laughed. “Well, it is probable there are
other men who would have kissed the girl, but I don’t
know that it would have occurred to them to smash
a decanter on the irate lover’s head.”</p>

<p>Witham felt his finger tingle for a grip on Courthorne’s
throat. “And that’s what I’ve been doing
lately? You, of course, concluded that after conducting
myself in an exemplary fashion an astonishing
time it was a trifling lapse?”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Dane dryly. “As I admitted, it
appeared somewhat out of your usual line; but when
I heard that a man from the settlement had been
ejected with violence from your homestead, what
could one believe?”</p>

<p>“Colonel Barrington told you that!”</p>

<p>“No,” said Dane; “you know he didn’t. Still,
he had a hired man riding a horse he’d bought, and
I believe—though it is not my affair—Maud Barrington
was there. Now, of course, one feels diffident
about anything that may appear like preaching, but
you see a good many of us are following you, and I
wouldn’t like you to have many little lapses of that kind
while I am backing you. You and I have done with
these frivolities some time ago, but there are lads here
they might appeal to. I should be pleased if you
could deny the story.”</p>

<p>Witham’s face was grim. “I’m afraid it would not
suit me to do as much just now,” he said. “Still,
between you and me, do you believe it likely that I
would fly at that kind of game?”</p>

<p>Dane laughed softly. “Well,” he said, “tastes
differ, and the girl is pretty, while, you know, after
all they’re very much the same. We have, however,
got to look at the thing sensibly, and you admit you
can’t deny it.”</p>

<p>“I told you it wouldn’t suit me.”</p>

<p>“Then there is a difference?”</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “You must make the best of
that, but the others may believe exactly what they
please. It will be a favour to me if you remember
it.”</p>

<p>Dane smiled curiously. “Then I think it is
enough for me, and you will overlook my presumption.
Courthorne, I wonder now and then when I
shall altogether understand you!”</p>

<p>“The time will come,” said Witham dryly, to hide
what he felt; for his comrade’s simple avowal had
been wonderfully eloquent. Then Dane touched
his horse with his heel and rode away.</p>

<p>It was two or three weeks later when Witham,
being requested to do so, drove over to attend one
of the assemblies at Silverdale Grange. It was dark
when he reached the house, for the nights were drawing
in; but because of the temperature, few of the
great oil lamps were lighted, and the windows were
open wide. Somebody had just finished singing
when he walked into the big general room, and he
would have preferred another moment to make his
entrance, but disdained to wait. He, however, felt
a momentary warmth in his face when Miss Barrington,
stately as when he had first seen her in her rustling
silk and ancient laces, came forward to greet him
with her usual graciousness. He knew that every
eye was upon them, and guessed why she had done
so much.</p>

<p>What she said was of no moment, but the fact that
she had received him without sign of coldness was
eloquent, and the man bent very respectfully over
the little white hand. Then he stood straight and
square for a moment and met her eyes.</p>

<p>“Madam,” he said, “I shall know who to come
to when I want a friend.”</p>

<p>Afterwards he drifted towards a group of married
farmers and their wives, who, except for that open
warranty, might have been less cordial to him; and
presently, though he was never quite sure how it
came about, found himself standing beside Maud
Barrington. She smiled at him and then glanced
towards one of the open windows, outside which one
or two of the older men were sitting.</p>

<p>“The room is very hot,” said Witham tentatively.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the girl, “I fancy it would be cooler
in the hall.”</p>

<p>They passed out together into the shadowy hall,
but a little gleam of light from the doorway behind
them rested on Maud Barrington as she sat down.
She looked inquiringly at the man as though in wait
for something.</p>

<p>“It is distinctly cooler here,” he said.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington laughed impatiently. “It is,”
she said.</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham, with a little smile. “I will
try again. Wheat has made another advance lately.”</p>

<p>The girl turned towards him with a little sparkle
in her eyes. Witham saw it, and the faint shimmer
of the pearls upon the whiteness of her neck and then
moved his head so that he looked out upon the dusky
prairie.</p>

<p>“Pshaw!” she said. “You know why you were
brought here to-night.”</p>

<p>Witham admired her courage, but did not turn
round, for there were times when he feared his will
might fail him. “I fancy I know why your aunt
was so gracious to me. Do you know that her confidence
almost hurts me.”</p>

<p>“Then why don’t you vindicate it and yourself?
Dane would be your mouthpiece, and two or three
words would be sufficient.”</p>

<p>Witham made no answer for a space. Somebody
was singing in the room behind them, and through
the open window he could see the stars in the soft
indigo above the great sweep of prairie. He noticed
them vacantly, and took a curious impersonal interest
in the two dim figures standing close together outside
the window. One was a young English lad, and the
other a girl in a long white dress. What they were
doing there was no concern of his, but any trifle that
diverted his attention a moment was welcome in that
time of strain, for he had felt of late that exposure
was close at hand, and was fiercely anxious to finish
his work before it came. Maud Barrington’s finances
must be made secure before he left Silverdale,
and he must remain at any cost until the wheat was
sold.</p>

<p>Then he turned slowly towards her. “It is not
your aunt’s confidence that hurts me the most.”</p>

<p>The girl looked at him steadily, the colour a trifle
plainer in her face, which she would not turn from the
light, and a growing wonder in her eyes.</p>

<p>“Lance,” she said, “we both know that it is not
misplaced. Still, your impassiveness does not please
us.”</p>

<p>Witham groaned inwardly, and the swollen veins
showed on his forehead. His companion had leaned
forward a little, so that she could see him, and one
white shoulder almost touched his own. The perfume
of her hair was in his nostrils, and when he remembered
how cold she had once been to him, a longing
that was stronger than the humiliation that came
with it grew almost overwhelming. Still, because
of her very trust in him, there was a wrong he could
not do, and it dawned on him that a means of placing
himself beyond further temptation was opening to him.
Maud Barrington, he knew, would have scanty
sympathy with an intrigue of the kind Courthorne’s
recent adventure pointed to.</p>

<p>“You mean, why do I not deny what you have no
doubt heard?” he said. “What could one gain by
that if you had heard the truth?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington laughed softly. “Isn’t the
question useless?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham, a trifle hoarsely now.</p>

<p>The girl touched his arm almost imperiously as he
turned his head again.</p>

<p>“Lance,” she said, “men of your kind need not
deal in subterfuge. The wheat and the bridge you
built speak for you.”</p>

<p>“Still——” persisted Witham, and the girl checked
him with a smile.</p>

<p>“I fancy you are wasting time,” she said. “Now,
I wonder whether, when you were in England, you
ever saw a play founded on an incident in the life of
a once famous actor. At the time it rather appealed to
me. The hero, with a chivalric purpose, assumed
various shortcomings he had really no sympathy
with—but while there is, of course, no similarity
beyond the generous impulse between the cases,
he did not do it clumsily. It is, however, a trifle
difficult to understand what purpose you could have,
and one cannot help fancying that you owe a little to
Silverdale and yourself.”</p>

<p>It was a somewhat daring parallel; for Witham,
who dare not look at his companion and saw that
he had failed, knew the play.</p>

<p>“Isn’t the subject a trifle difficult?” he asked.</p>

<p>“Then,” said Maud Barrington, “we will end it.
Still, you promised that I should understand—a
good deal—when the time came.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded gravely. “You shall,” he said.</p>

<p>Then, somewhat to his embarrassment, the two
figures moved further across the window, and as they
were silhouetted against the blue duskiness, he saw
that there was an arm about the waist of the girl’s
white dress. He became sensible that Maud Barrington
saw it too, and then that, perhaps to save the
situation, she was smiling. The two figures, however,
vanished, and a minute later a young girl in a
long white dress came in and stood still, apparently
dismayed, when she saw Maud Barrington. She did
not notice Witham, who sat further in the shadow.
He, however, saw her face suddenly crimson.</p>

<p>“Have you been here long?” she asked.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Maud Barrington, with a significant
glance towards the window. “At least ten minutes.
I am sorry, but I really couldn’t help it. It was very
hot in the other room, and Allender was singing.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said the girl, with a little tremor in her
voice, “you will not tell?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Maud Barrington. “But you must
not do it again.”</p>

<p>The girl stooped swiftly and kissed her, then recoiled
with a gasp when she saw the man, but Maud
Barrington laughed.</p>

<p>“I think,” she said, “I can answer for Mr.
Courthorne’s silence. Still, when I have an opportunity,
I am going to lecture you.”</p>

<p>Witham turned with a twinkle he could not quite
repress in his eyes, and with a flutter of her dress the
girl whisked away.</p>

<p>“I’m afraid this makes me an accessory, but I
can only neglect my manifest duty, which would be
to warn her mother,” said Maud Barrington.</p>

<p>“Is it a duty?” asked Witham, feeling that the
further he drifted away from the previous topic, the
better it would be for him.</p>

<p>“Some people would fancy so,” said his companion.
“Lily will have a good deal of money by and by,
and she is very young. Atterly has nothing but an
unprofitable farm; but he is an honest lad, and I
know she is very fond of him.”</p>

<p>“And would that count against the dollars?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington laughed a little. “Yes,” she
said quietly. “I think it would if the girl is wise.
Even now such things do happen; but I fancy it is
time I went back again.”</p>

<p>She moved away, but Witham stayed where he
was until the lad came in with a cigar in his hand.</p>

<p>“Hallo, Courthorne!” he said. “Did you notice
anybody pass the window a little while ago?”</p>

<p>“You are the first come in through it,” said
Witham dryly. “The kind of things you wear admit
of climbing.”</p>

<p>The lad glanced at him with a trace of embarrassment.</p>

<p>“I don’t quite understand you; but I meant a man,”
he said. “He was walking curiously, as if he was
half asleep, but he slipped round the corner of the
building, and I lost him.”</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “There’s a want of finish in
the tale, but you needn’t worry about me. I didn’t
see a man.”</p>

<p>“There’s rather less wisdom than usual in your
remarks to-night; but I tell you I saw him,” said the
lad.</p>

<p>He passed on, and a minute later there was a cry
from the inner room. “It’s there again! Can’t
you see the face at the window?”</p>

<p>Witham was in the larger room next moment, and
saw, as a startled girl had evidently done, a face that
showed distorted and white to ghastliness through
the window. He also recognized it, and running back
through the hall was outside in another few
seconds. Courthorne was leaning against one of the
casements as though faint with weakness or pain, and
collapsed when Witham dragged him backwards into
the shadow. He had scarcely laid him down when
the window was opened and Colonel Barrington’s
shoulders showed black against the light.</p>

<p>“Come outside alone, sir,” said Witham. Barrington
did so, and Witham stood so that no light
fell on the pallid face in the grass. “It’s a man I
have dealings with,” he said. “He has evidently
ridden out from the settlement and fallen from his
horse.”</p>

<p>“Why should he fall?” asked the Colonel.</p>

<p>Witham laughed. “There is a perfume about him
that is tolerably conclusive. I was, however, on
the point of going, and if you will tell your hired man
to get my wagon out, I’ll take him away quietly.
You can make light of the affair to the others.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Barrington. “Unless you think the
man is hurt, that would be best, but we’ll keep him
if you like.”</p>

<p>“No, sir. I couldn’t trouble you,” said Witham
hastily. “Men of his kind are also very hard to kill.”</p>

<p>Five minutes later he and the hired man hoisted
Courthorne into the wagon and packed some hay
about him, while, soon after the rattle of wheels sank
into the silence of the prairie, the girl Maud Barrington
had spoken to rejoined her companion.</p>

<p>“Could Courthorne have seen you coming in?”
he asked.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the girl, blushing. “He did.”</p>

<p>“Then it can’t be helped, and, after all, Courthorne
wouldn’t talk, even if he wasn’t what he is,” said
the lad. “You don’t know why, and I’m not going
to tell you, but it wouldn’t become him.”</p>

<p>“You don’t mean Maud Barrington?” asked his
companion.</p>

<p>“No,” said the lad with a laugh. “Courthorne
is not like me. He has no sense. It’s quite another
kind of girl, you see.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink21'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XXI—COLONEL BARRINGTON IS CONVINCED</a></h2>

<p>It was not until early morning that Courthorne
awakened from the stupor he sank into, soon after
Witham conveyed him into his homestead. First,
however, he asked for a little food, and ate it with
apparent difficulty. When Witham came in, he
looked up from the bed where he lay, with the dust
still white upon his clothing, and his face showed grey
and haggard in the creeping light.</p>

<p>“I’m feeling a trifle better now,” he said; “still,
I scarcely fancy I could get up just yet. I gave you
a little surprise last night?”</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “You did. Of course, I knew
how much your promise was worth, but in view of
the risks you ran, I had not expected you to turn
up at the Grange.”</p>

<p>“The risks!” said Courthorne with an unpleasant
smile.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham wearily; “I have a good deal
on hand I would like to finish here, and it will not take
me long, but I am quite prepared to give myself up
now, if it is necessary.”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed. “I don’t think you need,
and it wouldn’t be wise. You see, even if you made
out your innocence, which you couldn’t do, you rendered
yourself an accessory by not denouncing me
long ago. I fancy we can come to an understanding
which would be pleasanter to both of us.”</p>

<p>“The difficulty,” said Witham, “is that an
understanding is useless when made with a man who never
keeps his word.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Courthorne dryly, “we shall gain
nothing by paying each other compliments, and
whether you believe it or otherwise, it was not by
intention I turned up at the Grange. I was coming
here from a place west of the settlement and you can
see that I have been ill if you look at me. I counted
too much on my strength, couldn’t find a homestead
where I could get anything to eat, and the rest may
be accounted for by the execrable brandy I had with
me. Anyway, the horse threw me and made off, and
after lying under some willows a good deal of the day,
I dragged myself along until I saw a house.”</p>

<p>“That,” said Witham, “is beside the question.
What do you want of me? Dollars, in all probability.
Well, you will not get them.”</p>

<p>“I’m afraid I’m scarcely fit for a discussion now,”
said Courthorne. “The fact is, it hurts me to talk,
and there’s an aggressiveness about you which isn’t
pleasant to a badly-shaken man. Wait until this
evening, but there is no necessity for you to ride to
the outpost before you have heard me.”</p>

<p>“I’m not sure it would be advisable to leave you
here,” said Witham dryly.</p>

<p>Courthorne smiled ironically. “Use your eyes.
Would any one expect me to get up and indulge in a
fresh folly? Leave me a little brandy—I need it—and
go about your work. You’ll certainly find me
here when you want me.”</p>

<p>Witham, glancing at the man’s face, considered
this very probable, and went out. He found his
cook, who could be trusted, and said to him, “The
man yonder is tolerably sick, and you’ll let him have a
little brandy, and something to eat when he asks for
it. Still, you’ll bring the decanter away with you,
and lock him in whenever you go out.”</p>

<p>The man nodded, and making a hasty breakfast,
Witham, who had business at several outlying farms,
mounted and rode away. It was evening before he
returned, and found Courthorne lying in a big chair
with a cigar in his hand, languidly <i>debonair</i> but apparently
ill. His face was curiously pallid, and his eyes
dimmer than they had been, but there was a sardonic
twinkle in them.</p>

<p>“You take a look at the decanter,” said the man,
who went up with Witham, carrying a lamp. “He’s
been wanting brandy all the time, but it doesn’t seem
to have muddled him.”</p>

<p>Witham dismissed the man and sat down in front
of Courthorne.</p>

<p>“Well?” he said.</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed. “You ought to be a witty
man, though one would scarcely charge you with that.
You surmised correctly this morning. It is dollars I
want.”</p>

<p>“You had my answer.”</p>

<p>“Of course. Still, I don’t want very many in the
meanwhile, and you haven’t heard what led up to the
demand, or why I came back to you. You are evidently
not curious, but I’m going to tell you. Soon
after I left you, I fell very sick, and lay in the saloon
of a little desolate settlement for days. The place was
suffocating, and the wind blew the alkali dust in. They
had only horrible brandy, and bitter water to drink
it with, and I lay there on my back, panting, with the
flies crawling over me. I knew if I stayed any longer
it would finish me, and when there came a merciful
cool day I got myself into the saddle and started off
to find you. I don’t quite know how I made the
journey, and during a good deal of it I couldn’t see
the prairie, but I knew you would feel there was an
obligation on you to do something for me. Of course,
I could put it differently.”</p>

<p>Witham had as little liking for Courthorne as he
had ever had, but he remembered the time when he had
lain very sick in his lonely log hut. He also remembered
that everything he now held belonged to this man.</p>

<p>“You made the bargain,” he said, less decisively.</p>

<p>Courthorne nodded. “Still, I fancy one of the
conditions could be modified. Now, if I wait for
another three months I may be dead before the reckoning
comes, and while that probably wouldn’t grieve
you, I could, when it appeared advisable, send for a
magistrate and make a deposition.”</p>

<p>“You could,” said Witham. “I have, however,
something of the same kind in contemplation.”</p>

<p>Courthorne smiled curiously. “I don’t know that
it will be necessary. Carry me on until you have sold
your crop, and then make a reasonable offer, and
it’s probable you may still keep what you have at
Silverdale. To be quite frank, I’ve a notion that my
time in this world is tolerably limited, and I want a
last taste of all it has to offer a man of my capacities
before I leave it. One is a long while dead, you know.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded, for he understood. He had also
during the grim cares of the lean years known the
fierce longing for one deep draught of the wine of
pleasure, whatever it afterwards cost him.</p>

<p>“It was that which induced you to look for a little
relaxation at the settlement at my expense,” he said.
“A trifle paltry, wasn’t it?”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed. “It seems you don’t know
me yet. That was a frolic, indulged in out of humour,
for your benefit. You see, your rôle demanded a
good deal more ability than you ever displayed in
it, and it did not seem fitting that a very puritanical
and priggish person should pose as me at Silverdale.
The little affair was the one touch of verisimilitude
about the thing. No doubt my worthy connexions
are grieving over your lapse.”</p>

<p>“My sense of humour had never much chance of
developing,” said Witham grimly. “What is the
matter with you?”</p>

<p>“Pulmonary haemorrhage!” said Courthorne.
“Perhaps it was born in me, but I never had much
trouble until after that night in the snow at the river.
Would you care to hear about it? We’re not fond
of each other, but after the steer-drivers I’ve been herding
with, it’s a relief to talk to a man of moderate
intelligence.”</p>

<p>“Go on,” said Witham.</p>

<p>“Well,” said Courthorne, “when the trooper was
close behind me, my horse went through the ice, but
somehow I crawled out. We were almost across the
river, and it was snowing fast, while I had a fancy
that I might have saved the horse but, as the
trooper would probably have seen a mounted man,
I let him go. The stream sucked him under, and,
though you may not believe it, I felt very mean when
I saw nothing but the hole in the ice. Then, as the
troopers didn’t seem inclined to cross, I went on
through the snow, and, as it happened, blundered
across Jardine’s old shanty. There was still a little
prairie hay in the place, and I lay in it until morning,
dragging fresh armfuls around me as I burnt it in
the stove. Did you ever spend a night, wet through,
in a place that was ten to twenty under freezing?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham dryly. “I have done it
twice.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Courthorne, “I fancy that night
narrowed in my life for me, but I made out across
the prairie in the morning, and as we had a good many
friends up and down the country, one of them took
care of me.”</p>

<p>Witham sat silent a while. The story had held
his attention, and the frankness of the man who lay
panting a little in his chair had its effect on him.
There was no sound from the prairie, and the house
was very still.</p>

<p>“Why did you kill Shannon?” he asked at length.</p>

<p>“Is any one quite sure of his motives?” said
Courthorne. “The lad had done something which
was difficult to forgive him, but I think I would have
let him go if he hadn’t recognized me. The world
is tolerably good to the man who has no scruples,
you see, and I took all it offered me, while it did not
seem fitting that a clod of a trooper without capacity
for enjoyment, or much more sensibility than the
beast he rode, should put an end to all my opportunities.
Still, it was only when he tried to warn
his comrades he threw his last chance away.”</p>

<p>Witham shivered a little at the dispassionate
brutality of the speech, and then checked the anger
that came upon him.</p>

<p>“Fate, or my own folly, has put it out of my power
to denounce you without abandoning what I have set
my heart upon, and after all it is not my business,”
he said. “I will give you five hundred dollars and
you can go to Chicago or Montreal, and consult
a specialist. If the money is exhausted before I
send for you, I will pay your hotel bills, but
every dollar will be deducted when we come to the
reckoning.”</p>

<p>Courthorne laughed a little. “You had better
make it seven-fifty. Five hundred dollars will not
go very far with me.”</p>

<p>“Then you will have to husband them,” said
Witham dryly. “I am paying you at a rate agreed
upon for the use of your land and small bank balance
handed me, and want all of it. The rent is a fair
one in face of the fact that a good deal of the farm
consisted of virgin prairie, which can be had from
the Government for nothing.”</p>

<p>He said nothing further, and soon after he went out
Courthorne went to sleep, but Witham sat by an open
window with a burned-out cigar in his hand, staring
at the prairie while the night wore through, until he
rose with a shiver in the chill of early morning to
commence his task again.</p>

<p>A few days later he saw Courthorne safely into a
sleeping car with a ticket for Chicago in his pocket,
and felt that a load had been lifted off his shoulders
when the train rolled out of the little prairie station.
Another week had passed, when, riding home one
evening, he stopped at the Grange, and, as it happened,
found Maud Barrington alone. She received
him without any visible restraint, but he realized
that all that had passed at their last meeting was to
be tacitly ignored.</p>

<p>“Has your visitor recovered yet?” she asked.</p>

<p>“So far as to leave my place, and I was not anxious
to keep him,” said Witham with a little laugh. “I
am sorry he disturbed you.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington seemed thoughtful. “I can
scarcely think the man was to blame.”</p>

<p>“No?” said Witham.</p>

<p>The girl looked at him curiously, and shook her
head. “No,” she said. “I heard my uncle’s
explanation, but it was not convincing. I saw the
man’s face.”</p>

<p>It was several seconds before Witham answered, and
then he took the bold course.</p>

<p>“Well?” he said.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington made a curious little gesture.
“I knew I had seen it before at the bridge, but that
was not all. It was vaguely familiar, and I felt I
ought to know it. It reminded me of somebody.”</p>

<p>“Of me?” and Witham laughed.</p>

<p>“No. There was a resemblance, but it was very
superficial. That man’s face had little in common
with yours.”</p>

<p>“These faint likenesses are not unusual,” said
Witham, and once more Maud Barrington looked at
him steadily.</p>

<p>“No,” she said. “Of course not. Well, we will
conclude that my fancies ran away with me, and
be practical. What is wheat doing just now?”</p>

<p>“Rising still,” said Witham, and regretted the
alacrity with which he had seized the opportunity
of changing the topic when he saw that it had not
escaped the notice of his companion. “You and I
and a few others will be rich this year.”</p>

<p>“Yes, but I am afraid some of the rest will find
it has only further anxieties for them.”</p>

<p>“I fancy,” said Witham, “you are thinking of
one.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington nodded. “Yes; I am sorry
for him.”</p>

<p>“Then it would please you if I tried to straighten
out things for him? It would be difficult, but I
believe it could be accomplished.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington’s eyes were grateful, but there
was something that Witham could not fathom behind
her smile.</p>

<p>“If you undertook it. One could almost believe
you had the wonderful lamp,” she said.</p>

<p>Witham smiled somewhat dryly. “Then all its
virtues will be tested to-night, and I had better make
a commencement while I have the courage. Colonel
Barrington is in?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington went with him to the door, and
then laid her hand a moment on his arm. “Lance,”
she said, with a little tremor in her voice, “if there
was a time when our distrust hurt you, it has recoiled
upon our heads. You have returned it with a splendid
generosity.”</p>

<p>Witham did not trust himself to answer, but walked
straight to Barrington’s room, and finding the door
open went quietly in. The head of the Silverdale
settlement was sitting at a littered table in front of
a shaded lamp, and the light that fell upon it showed
the care in his face. It grew a trifle grimmer when
he saw the younger man.</p>

<p>“Will you sit down?” he said. “I have been
looking for a visit from you for some little time. It
would have been more fitting had you made it earlier.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded as he took a chair. “I fancy I
understand you, but I have nothing that you expect
to hear to tell you, sir.”</p>

<p>“That,” said Barrington, “is unfortunate. Now,
it is not my business to pose as a censor on the conduct
of any man here, except when it affects the community,
but their friends have sent out a good many young
English lads, some of whom have not been too discreet
in the old country, to me. They did not do so
solely that I might teach them farming. A charge
of that kind is no light responsibility, and I look
for assistance from the men who have almost as
large a stake as I have in the prosperity of Silverdale.”</p>

<p>“Have you ever seen me do anything you could
consider prejudicial to it?” asked Witham.</p>

<p>“I have not,” said Colonel Barrington.</p>

<p>“And it was by her own wish Miss Barrington,
who, I fancy, is seldom mistaken, asked me to the
Grange?”</p>

<p>“Is is a good plea,” said Barrington. “I cannot
question anything my sister does.”</p>

<p>“Then we will let it pass, though I am afraid you
will consider what I am going to ask a further presumption.
You have forward wheat to deliver, and
find it difficult to obtain it?”</p>

<p>Barrington’s smile was somewhat grim. “In
both cases you have surmised correctly.”</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “Still, it is not mere
inquisitiveness, sir. I fancy I am the only man at Silverdale
who can understand your difficulties, and, what
is more to the point, suggest a means of obviating
them. You still expect to buy at lower prices before
the time to make delivery comes?”</p>

<p>Again the care crept into Barrington’s face, and
he sat silent for almost a minute. Then he said,
very slowly, “I feel that I should resent the question,
but I will answer. It is what I hope to do.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham, “I am afraid you will
find prices higher still. There is very little wheat in
Minnesota this year, and what there was in Dakota
was cut down by hail. Millers in St. Paul and
Minneapolis are anxious already, and there is talk
of a big corner in Chicago. Nobody is offering again,
while you know what land lies fallow in Manitoba,
and the activity of their brokers shows the fears of
Winnipeg millers with contracts on hand. This
is not my opinion alone. I can convince you from the
papers and market reports I see before you.”</p>

<p>Barrington could not controvert the unpleasant
truth he was still endeavouring to shut his eyes to.
“The demand from the East may slacken,” he said.</p>

<p>Witham shook his head. “Russia can give them
nothing. There was a failure in the Indian monsoon,
and South American crops were small. Now, I
am going to take a further liberty. How much are
you short?”</p>

<p>Barrington was never sure why he told him, but
he was hard pressed then, and there was a quiet
forcefulness about the younger man that had its
effect on him. “That,” he said, holding out a
document, “is the one contract I have not covered.”</p>

<p>Witham glanced at it. “The quantity is small.
Still, money is very scarce, and bank interest almost
extortionate just now.”</p>

<p>Barrington flushed a trifle, and there was anger
in his face. He knew the fact that his loss on this
sale should cause him anxiety was significant, and
that Witham had surmised the condition of his
finances tolerably correctly.</p>

<p>“Have you not gone quite far enough?” he said.</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “I fancy I need ask no more,
sir. You can scarcely buy the wheat, and the banks
will advance nothing further on what you have to
offer at Silverdale. It would be perilous to put
yourself in the hands of a mortgage-broker.”</p>

<p>Barrington stood up very grim and straight,
and there were not many men at Silverdale who
would have met his gaze.</p>

<p>“Your content is a little too apparent, but I can
still resent an impertinence,” he said. “Are my
affairs your business?”</p>

<p>“Sit down, sir,” said Witham. “I fancy they
are, and had it not been necessary, I would not have
ventured so far. You have done much for Silverdale,
and it had cost you a good deal, while it seems to
me that every man here has a duty to the head of
the settlement. I am, however, not going to urge
that point, but have, as you know, a propensity for
taking risks. I can’t help it. It was probably
born in me. Now, I will take that contract up for
you.”</p>

<p>Barrington gazed at him in bewildered astonishment.
“But you would lose on it heavily. How
could you overcome a difficulty that is too great for
me?”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Witham with a little smile, “it
seems I have some ability in dealing with these
affairs.”</p>

<p>Barrington did not answer for a while, and when
he spoke it was slowly. “You have a wonderful
capacity for making any one believe in you.”</p>

<p>“That is not the point,” said Witham. “If
you will let me have the contract, or, and it comes to
the same thing, buy the wheat it calls for, and if
advisable sell as much again, exactly as I tell you,
at my risk and expense, I shall get what I want out of
it. My affairs are a trifle complicated, and it would
take some little time to make you understand how
this would suit me. In the meanwhile you can
give me a mere I O U for the difference between what
you sold at, and the price to-day, to be paid without
interest and whenever it suits you. It isn’t very
formal, but you will have to trust me.”</p>

<p>Barrington moved twice up and down the room
before he turned to the younger man. “Lance,”
he said, “when you first came here, any deal of this
kind between us would have been out of the question.
Now, it is only your due to tell you that I have
been wrong from the beginning, and you have a good
deal to forgive.”</p>

<p>“I think we need not go into that,” said Witham,
with a little smile. “This is a business deal, and if
it hadn’t suited me I would not have made it.”</p>

<p>He went out in another few minutes with a little
strip of paper, and just before he left the Grange
placed it in Maud Barrington’s hand.</p>

<p>“You will not ask any questions, but if ever
Colonel Barrington is not kind to you, you can show
him that,” he said.</p>

<p>He had gone in another moment, but the girl,
comprehending dimly what he had done, stood still,
staring at the paper with a warmth in her cheeks
and a mistiness in her eyes.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink22'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XXII—SERGEANT STIMSON CONFIRMS HIS SUSPICIONS</a></h2>

<p>It was late in the afternoon when Colonel Barrington
drove up to Witham’s homestead. He had his niece
and sister with him, and when he pulled up his team,
all three were glad of the little breeze that came
down from the blueness of the north and rippled the
whitened grass. It had blown over leagues of sun-bleached
prairie, and the great desolation beyond
the pines of the Saskatchewan, but had not wholly
lost the faint wholesome chill it brought from the
Pole.</p>

<p>There was no cloud in the vault of ether, and
slanting sunrays beat fiercely down upon the prairie,
until the fibrous dust grew fiery, and the eyes ached
from the glare of the vast stretch of silvery grey.
The latter was, however, relieved by stronger colour
in front of the party, for, blazing gold on the dazzling
stubble, the oat sheaves rolled away in long rows that
diminished and melted into each other, until they
cut the blue of the sky in a delicate filigree. Oats
had moved up in value in sympathy with wheat, and
the good soil had most abundantly redeemed its
promise that year. Colonel Barrington, however,
sighed a little as he looked at them, and remembered
that such a harvest might have been his.</p>

<p>“We will get down and walk towards the wheat,”
he said. “It is a good crop, and Lance is to be
envied.”</p>

<p>“Still,” said Miss Barrington, “he deserved
it, and those sheaves stand for more than the toil that
brought them there.”</p>

<p>“Of course!” said the Colonel with a curious
little smile. “For rashness, I fancied, when they
showed the first blade above the clod, but I am less
sure of it now. Well, the wheat is even finer.”</p>

<p>A man who came up took charge of the horses,
and the party walked in silence towards the wheat.
It stretched before them in a vast parallelogram,
and while the oats were the pale gold of the austral,
there was the tint of the ruddier metal of their own
North-West in this. It stood tall and stately, murmuring
as the sea does, until it rolled before a stronger
puff of breeze in waves of ochre, through which the
warm bronze gleamed when its rhythmic patter swelled
into deeper-toned harmonies. There was that in the
elfin music and blaze of colour which appealed to
sensual ear and eye, and something which struck deeper
still, as it did in the days men poured libations on the
fruitful soil, and white-robed priest blessed it, when
the world was young.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington felt it vaguely, but she recognized
more clearly, as her aunt had done, the faith and
daring of the sower. The earth was very bountiful,
but that wheat had not come there of itself; and
she knew the man who had called it up had done
more than bear his share of the primeval curse
which, however, was apparently more or less evaded
at Silverdale. Even when the issue appeared
hopeless, the courage that held him resolute in face
of other’s fears, and the greatness of his projects, had
appealed to her, and it almost counted for less that
he had achieved success. Then, glancing further across
the billowing grain she saw him—still, as it seemed
it had always been with him, amidst the stress and
dust of strenuous endeavour.</p>

<p>Once more, as she had seen them when the furrows
were bare at seed time, and there was apparently
only ruin in store for those who raised the Eastern
people’s bread, lines of dusty teams came plodding
down the rise. They advanced in echelon, keeping
their time and distance with a military precision;
but in place of the harrows the tossing arms of the
binders flashed and swung. The wheat went down
before them, their wake was strewn with gleaming
sheaves, and one man came foremost, swaying in
the driving-seat of a rattling machine. His face
was the colour of a Blackfoot’s, and she could see the
darkness of his neck above the loose-fronted shirt
and a bare blackened arm that was raised to hold
the tired beasts to their task. Their trampling and
the crash and rattle that swelled in slow crescendo
drowned the murmur of the wheat, until one of the
machines stood still, and the leader, turning a moment
in his saddle, held up a hand. Then those that came
behind swung into changed formation, passed, and
fell into indented line again, while Colonel Barrington
nodded with grim approval.</p>

<p>“It is very well done,” he said. “The best of
harvesters! No newcomers yonder. They’re capable
Manitoba men. I don’t know where he got them, and,
in any other year, one would have wondered where
he would find the means of paying them. We have
never seen farming of this kind at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>He seemed to sigh a little, while his hand closed on
the bridle; and Maud Barrington fancied she understood
his thoughts just then.</p>

<p>“Nobody can be always right, and the good
years do not come alone,” she said. “You will
plough every acre next one.”</p>

<p>Barrington smiled dryly. “I’m afraid that will
be a little late, my dear. Any one can follow, but
since, when everybody’s crop is good, the price
comes down, the man who gets the prize is the one
who shows the way.”</p>

<p>“He was content to face the risk,” said Miss
Barrington.</p>

<p>“Of course,” said the Colonel quietly. “I
should be the last to make light of his foresight
and courage. Indeed, I am glad I can acknowledge
it, in more ways than one, for I have felt lately that I
am getting an old man. Still, there is one with greater
capacities ready to step into my shoes; and though it
was long before I could overcome my prejudice against
him, I think I should now be content to let him have
them. Whatever Lance may have been, he was born a
gentleman, and blood is bound to tell.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington, who was of a patrician parentage,
and would not at one time have questioned this
assertion, wondered why she felt less sure of it just
then.</p>

<p>“But if he had not been, would not what he has
done be sufficient to vouch for him?” she said.</p>

<p>Barrington smiled a little, and the girl felt that
her question was useless as she glanced at him. He
sat very straight in his saddle, immaculate in dress,
with a gloved hand on his hip and a stamp which he
had inherited, with the thinly-covered pride that
usually accompanies it, from generations of a similar
type, on his clean-cut face. It was evidently needless
to look for any sympathy with that view from him.</p>

<p>“My dear,” he said, “there are things at which
the others can beat us; but, after all, I do not think
they are worth the most; and while Lance has
occasionally exhibited a few undesirable characteristics,
no doubt acquired in this country, and has not
been always blameless, the fact that he is a Courthorne
at once covers and accounts for a good deal.”</p>

<p>Then Witham recognized them, and made a
sign to one of the men behind him as he hauled his
binder clear of the wheat. He had dismounted in
another minute and came towards them, with the
jacket he had not wholly succeeded in struggling into
loose about his shoulders.</p>

<p>“It is almost time I gave my team a rest,” he said.
“Will you come with me to the house?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Colonel Barrington. “We only stopped
in passing. The crop will harvest well.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham, turning with a little smile
to Miss Barrington. “Better than I expected, and
prices are still moving up. You will remember,
madam, who it was wished me good fortune. It
has undeniably come!”</p>

<p>“Then,” said the white-haired lady, “next
year I will do as much again, though it will be a
little unnecessary, because you have my good wishes
all the time. Still, you are too prosaic to fancy
they can have anything to do with—this.”</p>

<p>She pointed to the wheat, but though Witham
smiled again, there was a curious expression in his
face as he glanced at her niece.</p>

<p>“I certainly do, and your good-will has made
a greater difference than you realize to me,” he said.</p>

<p>Miss Barrington looked at him steadily. “Lance,”
she said, “there is something about you and your
speeches that occasionally puzzles me. Now, of
course, that was the only rejoinder you could make,
but I fancied you meant it.”</p>

<p>“I did,” said Witham, with a trace of grimness
in his smile. “Still, isn’t it better to tell any one too
little rather than too much?”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Miss Barrington, “you are going
to be franker with me by and by. Now, my brother
has been endeavouring to convince us that you
owe your success to qualities inherited from bygone
Courthornes.”</p>

<p>Witham did not answer for a moment and then he
laughed. “I fancy Colonel Barrington is wrong,”
he said. “Don’t you think there are latent capabilities
in every man, though only one here and there gets
an opportunity of using them? In any case, wouldn’t
it be pleasanter for any one to feel that his virtues
were his own and not those of his family?”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington’s eyes twinkled but she shook
her head. “That,” she said, “would be distinctly
wrong of him, but I fancy it is time we were getting
on.”</p>

<p>In another few minutes Colonel Barrington took
up the reins, and as they drove slowly past the
wheat his niece had another view of the toiling
teams. They were moving on tirelessly with their
leader in front of them, and the rasp of the knives,
trample of hoofs, and clash of the binders’ wooden
arms once more stirred her. She had heard those
sounds often before, and attached no significance to
them; but now she knew a little of the stress and
effort that preceded them; she could hear through
the turmoil the exultant note of victory.</p>

<p>Then the wagon rolled more slowly up the rise
and had passed from view behind it when a mounted
man rode up to Witham with an envelope in his
hand.</p>

<p>“Mr. Macdonald was in at the settlement, and
the telegraph clerk gave it him,” he said. “He
told me to come along with it.”</p>

<p>Witham opened the message, and his face grew grim
as he read, “Send me five hundred dollars. Urgent.”</p>

<p>Then he thrust it into his pocket and went on
with his harvesting, when he had thanked the man.
He also worked until dusk was creeping up across
the prairie before he concerned himself further
about the affair; and then the note he wrote was
laconic.</p>

<p>“Enclosed you will find fifty dollars, sent only
because you may be ill. In case of necessity, you
can forward your doctor’s or hotel bills,” it ran.</p>

<p>It was with a wry smile he watched the man ride
off towards the settlement with it. “I shall not
be sorry when the climax comes,” he said. “The
strain is telling.”</p>

<p>In the meanwhile, Sergeant Stimson had been
quietly renewing his acquaintance with certain
ranchers and herders of sheep scattered across the
Albertan prairie some six hundred miles away.
They found him more communicative and cordial
than he used to be, and with one or two he unbent
so far as, in the face of regulations, to refresh himself
with whisky which had contributed nothing to the
Canadian revenue. Now, the lonely ranchers have,
as a rule, few opportunities of friendly talk with
anybody, and as they responded to the sergeant’s
geniality, he became acquainted with a good many
facts, some of which confirmed certain vague suspicions
of his, though others astonished him. In consequence
of this, he rode out one night with two or three
troopers of a Western squadron.</p>

<p>His apparent business was somewhat prosaic.
Musquash, the Blackfoot, in place of remaining quietly
on his reserve, had in a state of inebriation reverted
to the primitive customs of his race, and taking the
trail not only annexed some of his white neighbours’
ponies and badly frightened their wives, but drove
off a steer with which he feasted his people. The
owner, following, came upon the hide, and Musquash,
seeing it was too late to remove the brand from it,
expressed his contrition, and pleaded in extenuation
that he was rather worthy of sympathy than
blame, because he would never have laid hands on
what was not his had not a white man sold him
deleterious liquor. As no white man is allowed
to supply an Indian with alcohol in any form, the
wardens of the prairie took a somewhat similar view
of the case; and Stimson was, from motives which
he did not mention, especially anxious to get his grip
upon the other offender.</p>

<p>The night when they rode out was very dark,
and they spent half of it beneath a birch bluff,
seeing nothing whatever, and only hearing a coyote
howl. It almost appeared that there was something
wrong with the information supplied them respecting
the probable running of another load of prohibited
whisky, and towards morning Stimson rode up to the
young commissioned officer.</p>

<p>“The man who brought us word has either played
their usual trick and sent us here while his friends
take the other trail, or somebody saw us ride out and
went south to tell the boys,” he said. “Now, you
might consider it advisable that I and one of the
troopers should head for the ford at Willow Hollow,
sir.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the young officer, who was quite
aware that there was as yet many things connected
with his duties he did not know. “Now I come to
think of it, Sergeant, I do. We’ll give you two
hours, and then, if you don’t turn up, ride over
after you; it’s condemnably shivery waiting for
nothing here.”</p>

<p>Stimson saluted and shook his bridle, and rather
less than an hour later faintly discerned a rattle of
wheels that rose from a long way off across the
prairie. Then he used the spur, and by and by it
became evident that the drumming of their horses’
feet had carried far, for though the rattle grew a
little louder there was no doubt that whoever drove
the wagon had no desire to be overtaken. Still,
two horses cannot haul a vehicle over a rutted trail
as fast as one can carry a man, and when the wardens
of the prairie raced towards the black wall of birches
that rose higher in front of them, the sound of wheels
seemed very near. It, however, ceased suddenly,
and was followed by a drumming that could only have
been made by a galloping horse.</p>

<p>“One beast!” said the Sergeant. “Well, they’d
have two men, anyway, in that wagon. Get down
and picket. We’ll find the other fellow somewhere
in the bluff.”</p>

<p>They came upon him within five minutes endeavouring
to cut loose the remaining horse from the
entangled harness in such desperate haste that
he did not hear them until Stimson grasped his
shoulder.</p>

<p>“Hold out your hands,” he said. “You have
your carbine ready, trooper?”</p>

<p>The man made no resistance, and Stimson laughed
when the handcuffs were on.</p>

<p>“Now,” he said, “where’s your partner?”</p>

<p>“I don’t know that I mind telling you,” said
the prisoner. “It was a low down trick he played
on me. We got down to take out the horses, when
we saw we couldn’t get away from you, and I’d
a blanket girthed round the best of them, when he
said he’d hold him while I tried what I could do
with the other. Well, I let him, and the first thing
I knew he was off at a gallop, leaving me with the
other kicking devil two men couldn’t handle. You’ll
find him rustling south over the Montana trail.”</p>

<p>“Mount and ride!” said Stimson, and when
his companion galloped off turned once more to his
prisoner.</p>

<p>“You’ll have a lantern somewhere, and I’d like
a look at you,” he said. “If you’re the man I
expect, I’m glad I found you.”</p>

<p>“It’s in the wagon,” said the other dejectedly.</p>

<p>Stimson got a light, and when he had released
and picketed the plunging horse, held it so that he
could see his prisoner. Then he nodded with evident
contentment.</p>

<p>“You may as well sit down. We’ve got to have
a talk,” he said.</p>

<p>“Well,” said the other, “I’d help you to catch
Harmon if I could, but I can prove he hired me to
drive him over to Kemp’s in the wagon, and you’d
find it difficult to show I knew what there was in the
packages he took along.”</p>

<p>Stimson smiled dryly. “Still,” he said, “I
think it could be done, and I’ve another count against
you. You had one or two deals with the boys some
little while ago.”</p>

<p>“I’m not afraid of your fixing up against me
anything I did then,” said the other man.</p>

<p>“No?” said Stimson. “Now, I guess you’re
wrong, and it might be a good deal more serious
than whisky-running. One night a man crawled
up to your homestead through the snow, and you
took him in.”</p>

<p>He saw the sudden fear in his companion’s face
before he turned it from the lantern.</p>

<p>“It has happened quite a few times,” said the
latter. “We don’t turn any stranger out in this
country.”</p>

<p>“Of course!” said the Sergeant gravely, though
he felt a little thrill of content as he saw the shot,
he had been by no means sure of, had told. “That
man, however, had lost his horse in the river, and it
was the one he got from you that took him out of the
country. Now, if we could show you knew what
he had done, it might go as far as hanging somebody.”</p>

<p>The man was evidently not a confirmed law-breaker,
but merely one of the small farmers who
were willing to pick up a few dollars by assisting
the whisky-runners now and then, and he abandoned
all resistance.</p>

<p>“Sergeant,” he said, “it was most a week before
I knew, and if anybody had told me at the time
I’d have turned him out to freeze before I’d have let
him have a horse of mine.”</p>

<p>“That wouldn’t go very far if we brought the
charge against you,” said Stimson grimly. “If
you’d sent us word when you did know, we’d have
had him.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said the man, “he was across the frontier
by that time, and I don’t know that most folks would
have done it, if they’d had the warning the boys sent
me.”</p>

<p>Stimson appeared to consider for almost a minute,
and then gravely rapped his companion’s arm.</p>

<p>“It seems to me that the sooner you and I have
an understanding, the better it will be for you,”
he said.</p>

<p>They were some time arriving at it, and the Sergeant’s
superiors might not have been pleased with all he
promised during the discussion. Still, he was flying
at higher game and had to sacrifice a little, while
he knew his man.</p>

<p>“We’ll fix it up without you, as far as we can;
but if we want you to give evidence that the man
who lost his horse in the river was not Farmer Witham,
we’ll know where to find you,” he said. “You’ll
have to take your chance of being tried with him,
if we find you trying to get out of the country.”</p>

<p>It was half an hour later when the rest of the
troopers arrived, and Stimson had some talk with
their officer aside.</p>

<p>“A little out of the usual course, isn’t it?” said
the latter. “I don’t know that I’d have countenanced
it, so to speak, off my own bat at all, but I had a
tolerably plain hint that you were to use your discretion
over this affair. After all, one has to stretch a
point or two occasionally.”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” said Stimson; “a good many now
and then.”</p>

<p>The officer smiled a little and went back to the
rest. “Two of you will ride after the other rascal,”
he said. “Now look here, my man; the first time
my troopers, who’ll call round quite frequently, don’t
find you about your homestead, you’ll land yourself
in a tolerably serious difficulty. In the meanwhile,
I’m sorry we can’t bring a charge of whisky-running
against you, but another time be careful who you
hire your wagon to.”</p>

<p>Then there was a rapid drumming of hoofs as
two troopers went off at a gallop, while when the
rest turned back towards the outpost, Stimson rode
with them, quietly content.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink23'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XXIII—THE REVELATION</a></h2>

<p>Witham’s harvesting prospered as his sowing had
done, for day by day the bright sunshine shone down
on standing wheat and lengthening rows of sheaves.
It was in the bracing cold of sunrise the work began,
and the first pale stars were out before the tired men
and jaded horses dragged themselves home again.
Not infrequently it happened that the men wore
out the teams and machines, but there was no stoppage
then, for fresh horses were led out from the corral
or a new binder was ready. Every minute was worth
a dollar, and Witham, who had apparently foreseen
and provided for everything, wasted none.</p>

<p>Then—for wheat is seldom stacked in that country—as
the days grew shorter and the evenings cool,
the smoke of the big thrasher streaked the harvest
field, and the wagons went jolting between humming
separator and granary, until the latter was gorged
to repletion, and the wheat was stored within a
willow framing beneath the chaff and straw that
streamed from the shoot of the great machine.
Witham had round him the best men that dollars
could hire, and toiled tirelessly with the grimy host
in the whirling dust of the thrasher and amidst the
sheaves, wherever another pair of hands, or the
quick decision that would save an hour’s delay, was
needed most.</p>

<p>As compared with the practice of insular Britain,
there were not half enough of them; but wages
are high in that country, and the crew of the thrasher
paid by the bushel, while the rest had long worked for
their own hand on the levels of Manitoba and in
the bush of Ontario, and knew that the sooner their
toil was over the sooner they would go home again
with well-lined pockets. So, generously fed, splendid
human muscle kept pace with clinking steel
under a stress that is seldom borne outside the sun-bleached
prairie at harvest time, and Witham forgot
everything save the constant need for the utmost
effort of body and brain. It was even of little
import to him that prices moved steadily upwards
as he toiled.</p>

<p>At last it was finished, and only knee-high stubble
covered his land and that of Maud Barrington;
while—for he was one who could venture fearlessly
and still know when he had risked enough—soon
after it was thrashed out the wheat was sold. The
harvesters went home with enough to maintain
them through the winter; and Witham, who spent
two days counting his gain, wrote asking Graham
to send him an accountant from Winnipeg. With
him he spent a couple more, and then, with an effort
he was never to forget, prepared himself for the
reckoning. It was time to fling off the mask before
the eyes of all who had trusted him.</p>

<p>He had thought over it carefully, and his first
decision had been to make the revelation alone
to Colonel Barrington. That, however, would, he
felt be too simple, and his pride rebelled against
anything that would stamp him as one who dare
not face the men he had deceived. One by one
they had tacitly offered him their friendship and
then their esteem, until he knew that he was virtually
leader at Silverdale; and it seemed fitting that he
should admit the wrong he had done them, and
bear the obloquy before them all. For a while
the thought of Maud Barrington restrained him,
and then he brushed that aside. He had fancied
with masculine blindness that what he felt for her
had been well concealed, and that her attitude to him
could be no more than kindly sympathy with one
who was endeavouring to atone for a discreditable
past. Her anger and astonishment would be hard
to bear, but once more his pride prompted him,
and he decided that she should at least see he had
the courage to face the results of his wrong-doing.
As it happened, he was also given an opportunity
when he was invited to the harvest celebration that
was held each year at Silverdale.</p>

<p>It was a still, cool evening when every man of the
community, and most of the women gathered in the
big dining-room of the Grange. The windows were
shut now, for the chill of the early frost was on the
prairie, and the great lamps burned steadily above
the long tables. Cut glass, dainty china and silver
gleamed beneath them amidst the ears of wheat
that stood in clusters for sole and appropriate ornamentation.
They merited the place of honour, for
wheat had brought prosperity to every man at
Silverdale who had had the faith to sow that year.</p>

<p>On either hand were rows of smiling faces: the
men’s burned and bronzed, the women’s kissed into
faintly warmer colour by the sun, and white shoulders
shone amidst the sombrely covered ones, while
here and there a diamond gleamed on a snowy neck.
Barrington sat at the head of the longest table, with
his niece and sister, Dane, and his oldest followers
about him, and Witham at its foot, dressed very
simply after the usual fashion of the prairie farmers.
There were few in the company who had not noticed
this, though they did not as yet understand its
purport.</p>

<p>Nothing happened during dinner, but Maud
Barrington noticed that although some of his younger
neighbours rallied him, Witham was grimly quiet.
When it was over, Barrington rose, and the men
who knew the care he had borne that year never
paid him more willing homage than they did when
he stood smiling down on them. As usual, he was
immaculate in dress, erect, and quietly commanding;
but, in spite of its smile, his face seemed worn, and
there were thickening wrinkles, which told of anxiety,
about his eyes.</p>

<p>“Another year has gone, and we have met again
to celebrate with gratefulness the fulfilment of the
promise made when the world was young,” he
said. “We do well to be thankful, but I think
humility becomes us, too. While we doubted, the
sun and the rain have been with us for a sign that,
though men grow faint-hearted and spare their
toil, seed time and harvest shall not fail.”</p>

<p>It was the first time Colonel Barrington had spoken
in quite that strain, and when he paused a moment
there was a curious stillness, for those who heard
him noticed an unusual tremor in his voice. There
was also a gravity that was not far removed from
sadness in his face when he went on again, but the
intentness of his retainers would have been greater
had they known that two separate detachments
of police troopers were then riding toward Silverdale.</p>

<p>“The year has brought its changes and set its
mark deeply on some of us,” he said. “We cannot
recall it, or retrieve our blunders, but we can hope
they will be forgiven us, and endeavour to avoid
them again. This is not the fashion in which I had
meant to speak to you to-night, but after the bounty
showered upon us I feel my responsibility. The
law is unchangeable. The man who would have
bread to eat or sell must toil for it, and I, in disregard
of it, bade you hold your hand. Well, we have had
our lesson, and we will be wiser another time; but I
have felt that my usefulness as your leader is slipping
away from me. This year has shown me that I am
getting an old man.”</p>

<p>Dane kicked the foot of a lad beside him, and
glanced at the piano as he stood up.</p>

<p>“Sir,” he said simply, “although we have differed
about trifles and may do again, we don’t want a
better one—and if we did, we couldn’t find him.”</p>

<p>A chord from the piano rang through the approving
murmurs, and the company rose to their feet before
the lad had beaten out the first bar of the jingling
rhythm. Then the voices took it up, and the great
hall shook to the rafters with the last “Nobody can
deny.”</p>

<p>Trite as it was, Barrington saw the darker flush
in the bronzed faces, and there was a shade of warmer
colour in his own as he went on again.</p>

<p>“The things one feels the most are those one can
least express, and I will not try to tell you how I
value your confidence,” he said. “Still, the fact
remains that sooner or later I must let the reins
fall into younger hands, and there is a man here who
will, I fancy, lead you farther than you would ever
go with me. Times change, and he can teach
you how those who would do the most for the Dominion
need live to-day. He is also, and I am glad of it,
one of us, for traditions do not wholly lose their
force, and we know that blood will tell. That
this year has not ended hi disaster irretrievable is
due to our latest comrade, Lance Courthorne.”</p>

<p>This time there were no musical honours or need
of them, for a shout went up that called forth an
answering rattle from the cedar panelling. It was flung
back from table to table up and down the great room,
and when the men sat down flushed and breathless,
their eyes still shining, the one they admitted had
saved Silverdale rose up quietly at the foot of the
table. The hand he laid on the snowy cloth shook
a little, and the bronze that generally suffused it
was less noticeable in his face. All who saw it felt
that something unusual was coming, and Maud
Barrington leaned forward a trifle with a curious
throbbing of her heart.</p>

<p>“Comrades! It is, I think, the last time you
will hear the term from me,” he said—“I am glad
that we have made and won a good fight at Silverdale,
because it may soften your most warranted resentment
when you think of me.”</p>

<p>Every eye was turned upon him, and an expression
of bewilderment crept into the faces, while a lad
who sat next to him touched his arm reassuringly.</p>

<p>“You’ll feel your feet in a moment, but that’s a
curious fashion of putting it,” he said.</p>

<p>Witham turned to Barrington, and stood silent a
moment. He saw Maud Barrington’s face showing
strained and intent, but less bewildered than the
others, and that of her aunt, which seemed curiously
impassive, and a little thrill ran through him. It
passed, and once more he only saw the leader of
Silverdale.</p>

<p>“Sir,” he said, “I did you a wrong when I came
here, and with your convictions you would never
tolerate me as your successor.”</p>

<p>There was a rustle of fabric as some of the women
moved, and a murmur of uncontrollable astonishment,
while those who noticed it remembered Barrington’s
gasp. It expressed absolute bewilderment,
but in another moment he smiled.</p>

<p>“Sit down, Lance,” he said. “You need make
no speeches. We expect better things from you.”</p>

<p>Witham stood very still. “It was the simple
truth I told you, sir,” he said. “Don’t make it
too hard for me.”</p>

<p>Just then there was a disturbance at the rear of
the room, and a man, who shook off the grasp of one
that followed him, came in. He moved forward
with uneven steps, and then, resting his hand on a
chair-back, faced about and looked at Witham.
The dust was thick upon his clothes, but it was his
face that seized and held attention. It was horribly
pallid, save for the flush that showed in either
cheek, and his half-closed eyes were dazed.</p>

<p>“I heard them cheering,” he said. “Couldn’t
find you at your homestead. You should have sent
the five hundred dollars. They would have saved
you this.”</p>

<p>The defective utterance would alone have attracted
attention, and, with the man’s attitude, was very
significant, but it was equally evident to most of
those who watched him that he was also struggling
with some infirmity. Western hospitality has, however,
no limit, and one of the younger men drew out
a chair.</p>

<p>“Hadn’t you better sit down, and if you want anything
to eat we’ll get it you,” he said. “Then you
can tell us what your errand is.”</p>

<p>The man made a gesture of negation, and pointed
to Witham.</p>

<p>“I came to find a friend of mine. They told me
at his homestead that he was here,” he said.</p>

<p>There was an impressive silence, until Colonel Barrington
glanced at Witham, who still stood, quietly
impassive, at the foot of the table.</p>

<p>“You know our visitor?” he said. “The Grange
is large enough to give a stranger shelter.”</p>

<p>The man laughed. “Of course, he does! It’s my
place he’s living in!”</p>

<p>Barrington turned again to Witham and his face
seemed to have grown a trifle stern.</p>

<p>“Who is this man?” he said.</p>

<p>Witham looked steadily in front of him, vacantly
noticing the rows of faces turned towards him under
the big lamps. “If he had waited a few minutes
longer, you would have known,” he said. “He is
Lance Courthorne!”</p>

<p>This time the murmurs implied incredulity, but
the man who stood swaying a little with his hand
on the chair, and a smile in his half-closed eyes, made
an ironical inclination.</p>

<p>“It’s evident you don’t believe it, or wish to.
Still, it’s true,” he said.</p>

<p>One of the men nearest him rose and quietly pushed
him into the chair.</p>

<p>“Sit down in the meanwhile,” he said dryly. “By
and by, Colonel Barrington will talk to you.”</p>

<p>Barrington thanked him with a gesture, and
glanced at the rest. “One would have preferred to
carry out this inquiry more privately,” he said, very
slowly, but with hoarse distinctness. “Still, you
have already heard so much.”</p>

<p>Dane nodded. “I fancy you are right, sir. Because
we have known and respected the man who
has, at least, done a good deal for us, it would be
better that we should hear the rest.”</p>

<p>Barrington made a little gesture of agreement, and
once more fixed his eyes on Witham. “Then will
you tell us who you are?”</p>

<p>“A struggling prairie farmer,” said Witham quietly.
“The son of an English country doctor, who died in
penury, and one who, from your point of view, could
never have been entitled to more than courteous
toleration from any of you.”</p>

<p>He stopped, but—for the astonishment was passing—there
was negation in the murmurs which followed,
while somebody said, “Go on!”</p>

<p>Dane stood up. “I fancy our comrade is mistaken,”
he said. “Whatever he may have been,
we recognize our debt to him. Still, I think he owes
us a more complete explanation.”</p>

<p>Then Maud Barrington, sitting where all could see
her, signed imperiously to Alfreton, who was on his
feet next moment, with Macdonald and more of the
men following him.</p>

<p>“I,” he said with a little ring in his voice and a
flush in his young face, “owe him everything, and
I’m not the only one. This, it seems to me, is the
time to acknowledge it.”</p>

<p>Barrington checked him with a gesture. “Sit
down, all of you. Painful and embarrassing as it is,
now we have gone so far, this affair must be elucidated.
It would be better if you told us more.”</p>

<p>Witham drew back a chair, and when Courthorne
moved, the man who sat next to him laid a grasp on
his arm. “You will oblige me by not making any
remarks just now,” he said dryly. “When Colonel
Barrington wants to hear anything from you he’ll
ask you.”</p>

<p>“There is little more,” said Witham. “I could
see no hope in the old country, and came out to this
one with one hundred pounds, a distant connexion
lent me. That sum will not go very far anywhere,
as I found when, after working for other men, I bought
stock and took up Government land. To hear how
I tried to do three men’s work for six weary years,
and at times went for months together half-fed,
might not interest you, though it has its bearing on
what came after. The seasons were against me, and
I had not the dollars to tide me over the time of
drought and blizzard until a good one came. Still,
though my stock died, and I could scarcely haul in
the little wheat the frost and hail left me, with
my worn-out team, I held on, feeling that I could
achieve prosperity if I once had the chances of other
men.”</p>

<p>He stopped a moment, and Macdonald poured out
a glass of wine and passed it across to him in a fashion
that made the significance of what he did evident.</p>

<p>“We know what kind of a struggle you made by
what we have seen at Silverdale,” he said.</p>

<p>Witham put the glass aside, and turned once more
to Colonel Barrington.</p>

<p>“Still,” he said, “until Courthorne crossed my
path, I had done no wrong, and I was in dire need of
the money that tempted me to take his offer. He
made a bargain with me that I should ride his horse
and personate him, that the police troopers might
leave him unsuspected to lead his comrades running
whisky, while they followed me. I kept my part
of the bargain, and it cost me what I fancy I can never
recover, unless the trial I shall shortly face will take
the stain from me. While I passed for him your
lawyer found me, and I had no choice between being
condemned as a criminal for what Courthorne had
in the meanwhile done, or continuing the deception.
He had, as soon as I had left him, taken my horse
and garments, so that if seen by the police they would
charge me. I could not take your money, but, though
Courthorne was apparently drowned I did wrong
when I came to Silverdale. For a time the opportunities
dazzled me; ambition drew me on, and I
knew what I could do.”</p>

<p>He stopped again, and once more there was a soft
rustle of dresses, and a murmur, as those who listened
gave inarticulate expression to their feelings. Moving
a little, he looked steadily at Maud Barrington,
and her aunt, who sat close together.</p>

<p>“Then,” he said very slowly, “it was borne in
upon me that I could not persist in deceiving you.
Courthorne, I fancied, could not return to trouble
me, but the confidence that little by little you placed
in me rendered it out of the question. Still, I saw
that I could save some at least at Silverdale from
drifting to disaster, and there was work for me here
which would go a little way in reparation, and now
that it is done I was about to bid you good-bye and
ask you not to think too hardly of me.”</p>

<p>There was a moment’s intense silence until once
more Dane rose up, and pointed to Courthorne sitting
with half-closed eyes, dusty, partly dazed by indulgence,
and with the stamp of dissolute living on him,
in his chair. Then, he glanced at Witham’s bronzed
face, which showed quietly resolute at the bottom
of the table.</p>

<p>“Whatever we would spare you and ourselves,
sir, we must face the truth,” he said. “Which of
these men was needed at Silverdale?”</p>

<p>Again the murmurs rose up, but Witham sat silent,
his pulses throbbing with a curious exultation. He
had seen the colour creep into Maud Barrington’s
face, and her aunt’s eyes, when he told her what had
prompted him to leave Silverdale, and knew they
understood him. Then, in the stillness that followed,
the drumming of hoofs rose from the prairie. It grew
louder, and when another sound became audible
too, more than one of those who listened recognized
the jingle of accoutrements. Courthorne rose unsteadily,
and made for the door.</p>

<p>“I think,” he said with a curious laugh, “I must
be going. I don’t know whether the troopers want
me or your comrade.”</p>

<p>A lad sprang to his feet, and as he ran to the door
called “Stop him!”</p>

<p>In another moment Dane had caught his arm,
and his voice rang through the confusion, as everybody
turned or rose.</p>

<p>“Keep back all of you,” he said. “Let him go!”</p>

<p>Courthorne was outside by this time, and only
those who reached the door before Dane closed it
heard a faint beat of hoofs as somebody rode quietly
away beneath the bluff, while as the rest clustered
together, wondering, a minute or two later, Corporal
Payne, flecked with spume and covered with dust
came in. He raised his hand in salutation to Colonel
Barrington, who sat very grim in face in his chair at
the head of the table.</p>

<p>“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s my duty to apprehend
Lance Courthorne,” he said.</p>

<p>“You have a warrant?” asked Barrington.</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” said the corporal.</p>

<p>There was intense silence for a moment. Then
the Colonel’s voice broke through it very quietly.</p>

<p>“He is not here,” he said.</p>

<p>Payne made a little deprecatory gesture. “We
knew he came here. It is my duty to warn you that
proceedings will be taken against any one concealing or
harbouring him.”</p>

<p>Barrington rose up very stiffly, with a little grey
tinge in his face, but words seemed to fail him, and
Dane laid his hand on the corporal’s shoulder.</p>

<p>“Then,” he said grimly, “don’t exceed it. If
you believe he’s here, we will give you every opportunity
of finding him.”</p>

<p>Payne called to a comrade outside, who was, as it
happened, new to the force, and they spent at least
ten minutes questioning the servants and going up
and down the house. Then, as they glanced into
the general room, the trooper looked deprecatingly
at his officer.</p>

<p>“I fancied I heard somebody riding by the bluff
just before we reached the house,” he said.</p>

<p>Payne wheeled round with a flash in his eyes.
“Then you have lost us our man. Out with you,
and tell Jackson to try the bluff for a trail.”</p>

<p>They had gone in another moment, and Witham
still sat at the foot of the table and Barrington at the
head, while the rest of the company were scattered,
some wonderingly silent, though others talked in
whispers, about the room. As yet they felt only
consternation and astonishment.</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink24'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XXIV—COURTHORNE MAKES REPARATION</a></h2>

<p>The silence in the big room had grown oppressive
when Barrington raised his head and sat stiffly upright.</p>

<p>“What has happened has been a blow to me, and
I am afraid I am scarcely equal to entertaining you
to-night,” he said. “I should, however, like Dane
and Macdonald, and one or two of the older men,
to stay a while. There is still, I fancy, a good deal
for us to do.”</p>

<p>The others turned towards the door, but as they
passed Witham, Miss Barrington turned and touched
his shoulder. The man, looking up suddenly, saw
her and her niece standing close beside her.</p>

<p>“Madam,” he said hoarsely, though it was Maud
Barrington he glanced at, “the comedy is over.
Well, I promised you an explanation, and now you
have it you will try not to think too bitterly of me.
I cannot ask you to forgive me.”</p>

<p>The little white-haired lady pointed to the ears of
wheat which stood gleaming ruddy-bronze in front
of him.</p>

<p>“That,” she said very quietly, “will make it easier.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington said nothing, but every one in the
room saw her standing a moment beside the man
with a little flush in her face and no blame in her eyes.
Then she passed on, but, short as it was, the pause
had been very significant, for it seemed that whatever
the elders of the community might decide, the two
women, whose influence was supreme at Silverdale,
had given the impostor absolution.</p>

<p>The girl could not analyse her feelings, but through
them all a vague relief was uppermost; for whatever
he had been, it was evident the man had done one
wrong only, and daringly, and that was a good deal
easier to forgive than several incidents in Courthorne’s
past would have been. Then she was conscious
that Miss Barrington’s eyes were upon her.</p>

<p>“Aunt,” she said with a little tremor in her voice,
“it is almost bewildering. Still one seemed to feel
that what that man has done could never have been
the work of Lance Courthorne.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington made no answer, but her face was
very grave; and just then those nearest it drew back
a little from the door. A trooper stood outside it,
his carbine glinting in the light, and another was
silhouetted against the sky, sitting motionless in
his saddle further back on the prairie.</p>

<p>“The police are still there,” said somebody.</p>

<p>One by one they passed out under the trooper’s
gaze, but there was the usual delay in harnessing and
saddling, and the first vehicle had scarcely rolled
away when again the beat of hoofs and thin jingle
of steel came portentously out of the silence. Maud
Barrington shivered a little as she heard it.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile, the few who remained had seated
themselves about Colonel Barrington. When there
was quietness again he glanced at Witham, who still
sat at the foot of the table.</p>

<p>“Have you anything more to tell us?” he asked.
“These gentlemen are here to advise me if necessary.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham quietly. “I shall probably
leave Silverdale before morning, and have now to
hand you a statement of my agreement with Courthorne
and the result of my farming here, drawn up
by a Winnipeg accountant. Here is also a document
in which I have taken the liberty of making
you and Dane my assigns. You will, as authorized
by it, pay to Courthorne the sum due to him, and
with your consent, which you have power to withhold,
I propose taking one thousand dollars only of
the balance that remains to me. I have it here now,
and in the meanwhile surrender it to you. Of the
rest, you will make whatever use that appears desirable
for the general benefit of Silverdale. Courthorne
has absolutely no claim upon it.”</p>

<p>He laid a wallet on the table, and Dane glanced
at Colonel Barrington, who nodded when he returned
it unopened.</p>

<p>“We will pass it without counting. You accept
the charge, sir?” he said.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Barrington gravely. “It seems it
is forced on me. Well, we will glance through the
statement.”</p>

<p>For at least ten minutes nobody spoke, and then
Dane said, “There are prairie farmers who would
consider what he is leaving behind him a competence.”</p>

<p>“If this agreement, which was apparently verbal,
is confirmed by Courthorne, the entire sum rightfully
belongs to the man he made his tenant,” said Barrington;
and Macdonald smiled gravely as he
glanced at Witham.</p>

<p>“I think we can accept the statement that it was
made, without question, sir,” he said.</p>

<p>Witham shook his head. “I claim one thousand
dollars as the fee of my services, and they should be
worth that much; but I will take no more.”</p>

<p>“Are we not progressing a little too rapidly, sir?”
said Dane. “It seems to me we have yet to decide
whether it is necessary that the man who has done
so much for us should leave Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Witham smiled a trifle grimly. “I think,” he said,
“that question will very shortly be answered for you.”</p>

<p>Macdonald held his hand up, and a rapid thud of
hoofs came faintly through the silence.</p>

<p>“Troopers! They are coming here,” he said.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham. “I fancy they will relieve
you from any further difficulty.”</p>

<p>Dane strode to one of the windows, and glanced
at Colonel Barrington as he pulled back the catch.
Witham, however, shook his head, and a little flush
crept into Dane’s bronzed face.</p>

<p>“Sorry. Of course, you are right,” he said. “It
will be better that they should acquit you.”</p>

<p>No one moved for a few more minutes, and then
with a trooper behind him Sergeant Stimson came
in, and laid his hand on Witham’s shoulder.</p>

<p>“I have a warrant for your apprehension, Farmer
Witham,” he said. “You probably know the charge
against you.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham, simply. “I hope to refute
it. I will come with you.”</p>

<p>He went out, and Barrington stared at the men
about him. “I did not catch the name before.
That was the man who shot the police trooper in
Alberta?”</p>

<p>“No, sir,” said Dane very quietly. “Nothing
would induce me to believe it of him.”</p>

<p>Barrington looked at him in bewilderment. “But
he must have done—unless,” he said, and ended with
a little gasp. “Good Lord! There was the faint
resemblance, and they changed horses—it is horrible.”</p>

<p>Dane’s eyes were very compassionate as he laid
his hand gently on his leader’s shoulder.</p>

<p>“Sir,” he said, “you have our sympathy, and I
am sorry that to offer it is all we can do. Now, I
think, we have stayed too long already.”</p>

<p>They went out and left Colonel Barrington sitting
alone with a grey face at the head of the table.</p>

<p>It was a minute or two later when Witham swung
himself into the saddle at the door of the Grange;
All the vehicles had not left as yet, and there was a
little murmur of sympathy—when the troopers
closed in about him. Still before they rode away,
one of the men wheeled his horse aside, and Witham
saw Maud Barrington standing bareheaded by his
stirrup. The moonlight showed that her face was
impassive but curiously pale.</p>

<p>“We could not let you go without a word; and
you will come back to us with your innocence made
clear,” she said.</p>

<p>Her voice had a little ring in it that carried far, and
her companions heard her. What Witham said, they
could not hear, and he did not remember it, but he
swung his hat off, and those who saw the girl at his
stirrup recognized with confusion that she alone had
proclaimed her faith, while they had stood aside from
him. Then the Sergeant raised his hand and the
troopers rode forward with their prisoner.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile, Courthorne was pressing south
for the American frontier and daylight was just
creeping across the prairie when the pursuers, who had
found his trail and the ranch he obtained a fresh
horse at, had sight of him. There were three of them,
riding wearily, grimed with dust, when a lonely
mounted figure showed for a moment on the crest of a
rise. In another minute it dipped into a hollow, and
Corporal Payne smiled grimly.</p>

<p>“I think we have him now. The creek can’t be
far away, and he’s west of the bridge,” he said.
“While we try to head him off, you’ll follow
behind him Hilton.”</p>

<p>One trooper sent the spurs in and, while the others
swung off, rode straight on. Courthorne was at
least a mile from them, but they were nearer the bridge,
and Payne surmised that his jaded horse would fail
him if he essayed to ford the creek and climb the
farther side of the deep ravine it flowed through.
They saw nothing of him when they swept across the
rise, for here and there a grove of willows stretched
out across the prairie from the sinuous band of trees
in front of them. These marked the river hollow,
and Payne knowing that the chase might be ended
in a few more minutes did not spare the spur. He
also remembered, as he tightened his grip on the
bridle, the white face of Trooper Shannon flecked
with the drifting snow.</p>

<p>The bluff that rose steadily higher came back to
them, willow and straggling birch flashed by, and at
last Payne drew bridle where a rutted trail wound
down between the trees to the bridge in the hollow.
A swift glance showed him that a mounted man could
scarcely make his way between them and he smiled
dryly as he signed to his companion.</p>

<p>“Back your horse clear of the trail,” he said; and
there was a rattle as he flung his carbine across the
saddle. “With Hilton behind him, he’ll ride straight
into our hands.”</p>

<p>He wheeled his horse in among the birches, and
then sat still, with fingers that quivered a little on
the carbine stock, until a faint drumming rose from
the prairie.</p>

<p>“He’s coming!” said the trooper. “Hilton’s
hanging on to him!”</p>

<p>Payne made no answer, and the sound that rang
more loudly every moment through the greyness of
the early daylight was not pleasant to hear. Man’s
vitality is near its lowest about that hour, and the
troopers had ridden furiously the long night through,
while one of them, who knew Lance Courthorne,
surmised that there was grim work before him.
Still, though he shivered as a little chilly wind shook
the birch twigs, he set his lips, and once more remembered
the comrade who had ridden far and kept many
a lonely vigil with him.</p>

<p>Then a mounted man appeared in the space
between the trees. His horse was jaded, and he rode
loosely, swaying once or twice in his saddle; but he
came straight on, and there was a jingle and rattle
as the troopers swung out into the trail. The man
saw them, for he glanced over his shoulder, as if at
the rider who appeared behind, and then sent the
spurs in again.</p>

<p>“Pull him up,” cried Corporal Payne, and his voice
was a little strained. “Stop right where you are
before we fire on you!”</p>

<p>The man must have seen the carbines, for he raised
himself a trifle, and Payne saw his face under the
flapping hat. It was drawn and grey, but there was
no sign of yielding or consternation in the half-closed
eyes. Then he lurched in his saddle, as from exhaustion
or weariness, and straightened himself
again with both hands on the bridle. Payne saw
his heels move and the spurs drip red, and slid his
left hand further along the carbine stock. The trail
was steep and narrow. A horseman could scarcely
turn in it, and the stranger was coming on at a gallop.</p>

<p>“He will have it,” said the trooper hoarsely.
“If he rides one of us down he may get away.”</p>

<p>“We have got to stop him,” said Corporal Payne.</p>

<p>Once more the swaying man straightened himself,
flung his head back, and with a little breathless laugh
drove his horse furiously at Payne. He was very
close now, and his face showed livid under the smearing
dust; but his lips were drawn up in a little bitter
smile as he rode straight upon the levelled carbines.
Payne at least understood it, and the absence of flung-up
hand or cry. Courthorne’s inborn instincts were
strong to the end.</p>

<p>There was a hoarse shout from the trooper, and no
answer, and a carbine flashed. Then Courthorne
loosed the bridle, reeled sideways from the saddle,
rolled half round with one foot in the stirrup and his
head upon the ground, and was left behind, while the
riderless horse and pursuer swept past the two men
who, avoiding them by a hairsbreadth, sat motionless
a moment in the thin drifting smoke.</p>

<p>Then Corporal Payne swung himself down, and,
while the trooper followed, stooped over the man who
lay, a limp huddled object, in the trail. He blinked
up at them out of eyes that were almost closed.</p>

<p>“I think you have done for me,” he said.</p>

<p>Payne glanced at his comrade. “Push on to the
settlement,” he said. “They’ve a doctor there.
Bring him and Harland the magistrate out.”</p>

<p>The trooper seemed glad to mount and ride away,
and Payne once more bent over the wounded man.</p>

<p>“Very sorry,” he said. “Still, you see, you left
me no other means of stopping you. Now, is there
anything I can do for you?”</p>

<p>A little wry smile crept into Courthorne’s face.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I had no wish to wait
for the jury, and you can’t get at an injury that’s
inside me.”</p>

<p>He said nothing more, and it seemed a very long
while to Corporal Payne and Trooper Hilton, who
rejoined him, before a wagon with two men in it
beside the trooper came jolting up the trail. They
got out, and one of them, who was busy with Courthorne
for some minutes, nodded to Payne.</p>

<p>“Any time in the next twelve hours. He may
last that long,” he said. “Nobody’s going to
worry him now, but I’ll see if I can revive him
a little when we get to Adamson’s. It can’t be
more than a league away.”</p>

<p>They lifted Courthorne, who appeared insensible,
into the wagon, and Payne signed to Trooper Hilton.
“Take my horse and tell Colonel Barrington. Let
him understand there’s no time to lose. Then you
can bring Stimson.”</p>

<p>The tired lad hoisted himself into his saddle and
groaned a little as he rode away, but he did his
errand, and late that night Barrington and Dane drove
up to a lonely homestead. A man led them into a
room where a limp figure was lying on a bed.</p>

<p>“Been kind of sleeping most of the day, but the
doctor has given him something that has wakened
him,” he said.</p>

<p>Barrington returned Payne’s greeting and sat down
with Dane close beside him, while, when the wounded
man raised his head, the doctor spoke softly to the
magistrate from the settlement a league or two away.</p>

<p>“I fancy he can talk to you, but you had better
be quick if you wish to ask him anything,” he said.</p>

<p>Courthorne seemed to have heard him, for he
smiled a little as he glanced at Barrington. “I’m
afraid it will hurt you to hear what I have to tell this
gentleman,” he said. “Now, I want you to listen
carefully, and every word put down. Doctor, a
little more brandy.”</p>

<p>Barrington apparently would have spoken, but
while the doctor held a glass to the bloodless lips the
magistrate, who took up a strip of paper, signed to
him.</p>

<p>“We’ll have it in due form. Give him that book,
doctor,” he said. “Now, repeat after me, and then
we’ll take your testimony.”</p>

<p>It was done, and a flicker of irony showed in Courthorne’s
half-closed eyes.</p>

<p>“You feel more sure of me after that?” he said,
in a voice that was very faint and strained. “Still,
you see, I could gain nothing by deviating from the
truth now. Well, I shot Trooper Shannon. You’ll
have the date in the warrant. Don’t know if it will
seem strange to you, but I forget it. I borrowed
Farmer Witham’s horse and rifle without his knowledge,
though I had paid him a trifle to personate
me and draw the troopers off the whisky-runners.
That was Witham’s only complicity. The troopers,
who fancied they were chasing him, followed me until
his horse which I was riding went through the ice;
but Witham was in Montana at the time, and did
not know that I was alive until a very little while
ago. Now, you can straighten that up and read it
out to me.”</p>

<p>The magistrate’s pen scratched noisily in the stillness
of the room, but before he had finished, Sergeant
Stimson, hot and dusty, came in. Then he raised
his hand, and for a while his voice rose and fell
monotonously until Courthorne nodded.</p>

<p>“That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll sign.”</p>

<p>The doctor raised him a trifle, and moistened his
lips with brandy as he gave him the pen. It scratched
for a moment or two, and then fell from his relaxing
fingers, while the man who took the paper wrote across
the foot of it, and then would have handed it to
Colonel Barrington, but that Dane quietly laid his
hand upon it.</p>

<p>“No,” he said. “If you want another witness,
take me.”</p>

<p>Barrington thanked him with a gesture; and Courthorne,
looking round, saw Stimson.</p>

<p>“You have been very patient, Sergeant, and it’s
rough on you that the one man you can lay your
hands upon is slipping away from you,” he said.
“You’ll see by my deposition that Witham thought
me as dead as the rest of you did.”</p>

<p>Stimson nodded to the magistrate. “I heard what
was read, and it is confirmed by the facts I have
picked up,” he said.</p>

<p>Then Courthorne turned to Barrington. “I sympathize
with you, sir,” he said, “This must be
horribly mortifying; but, you see, Witham once
stopped my horse backing over a bridge into a gully
when just to hold his hand would have rid him of me.
You will not grudge me the one good turn I have
probably done any man, when I shall assuredly not
have the chance of doing another.”</p>

<p>Barrington winced a little, for he recognized the
irony in the failing voice; but he rose and moved
towards the bed.</p>

<p>“Lance,” he said, a trifle hoarsely, “it is not that
which makes what has happened horrible to me, and
I am only glad that you have righted this man. Your
father had many claims on me, and things might
have gone differently if, when you came out to
Canada, I had done my duty by his son.”</p>

<p>Courthorne smiled a little, but without bitterness.
“It would have made no difference, sir; and, after
all, I led the life that suited me. By and by you will
be grateful to me. I sent you a man who will bring
prosperity to Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Then he turned to Stimson, and his voice sank
almost beyond hearing as he said, “Sergeant, remember
Witham fancied I was dead.”</p>

<p>He moved his head a trifle, and the doctor, stooping
over him, signed to the rest, who went out
except Barrington.</p>

<p>It was some hours later, and very cold, when Barrington
came softly into the room where Dane lay
half asleep in a big chair. The latter glanced at him
with a question in his eyes, and the Colonel nodded
very gravely.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said. “He has slipped out of the
troopers’ hands and beyond our reproaches—but I
think the last thing he did will count for a little.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink25'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XXV—WITHAM RIDES AWAY</a></h2>

<p>The first of the snow was driving across the prairie
before a bitter wind when Maud Barrington stood by a
window of the Grange looking out into the night. The
double casements rattled, the curtains behind her
moved with the icy draughts, until, growing weary
of watching the white flakes whirl past, she drew
them to and walked slowly towards a mirror. Then
a faint tinge of pink crept into her cheeks, and a
softness that became her into her eyes. They, however,
grew critical as she smoothed back a tress of
lustrous hair a trifle from her forehead, straightened
the laces at neck and wrist, and shook into more
flowing lines the long black dress. Maud Barrington
was not unduly vain, but it was some time before
she seemed contented, and one would have surmised
that she desired to appear her best that night.</p>

<p>The result was beyond cavil in its artistic simplicity,
for the girl, knowing the significance that
trifles have at times, had laid aside every adornment
that might hint at wealth, and the sombre draperies
alone emphasized the polished whiteness of her face
and neck. Still, and she did not know whether she
was pleased or otherwise at this, the mirror had
shown the stamp which revealed itself even in passive
pose and poise of head. It was her birthright,
and would not be disguised.</p>

<p>Then she drew a low chair towards the stove, and
once more the faint colour crept into her face as she
took up a note. It was laconic, and requested permission
to call at the Grange, but Maud Barrington
was not deceived, and recognized the consideration
each word had cost the man who wrote it. Afterwards
she glanced at her watch, raised it with a little
gesture of impatience to make sure it had not stopped,
and sat still, listening to the moaning of the wind,
until the door opened, and Miss Barrington came in.
She glanced at her niece, who felt that her eyes had
noticed each detail of her somewhat unusual dress,
but said nothing until the younger woman turned
to her.</p>

<p>“They would scarcely come to-night, aunt,” she
said.</p>

<p>Miss Barrington, listening a moment, heard the
wind that whirled the snow about the lonely building,
but smiled incredulously.</p>

<p>“I fancy you are wrong, and I wish my brother
were here,” she said. “We could not refuse Mr.
Witham permission to call, but whatever passes between
us will have more than its individual significance.
Anything we tacitly promise the others will
agree to, and I feel the responsibility of deciding for
Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington went out; but her niece, who
understood her smile and that she had received a
warning, sat with a strained expression in her eyes.
The prosperity of Silverdale had been dear to her,
but she knew she must let something that was dearer
still slip away from her, or, since they must come from
her, trample on her pride as she made the first advances.
It seemed a very long while before there
was a knocking at the outer door, and she rose with
a little quiver when light steps came up the stairway.</p>

<p>In the meanwhile, two men stood beside the stove
in the hall until an English maid returned to them.</p>

<p>“Colonel Barrington is away, but Miss Barrington
and Miss Maud are at home,” she said. “Will you
go forward into the morning-room when you have
taken off your furs?”</p>

<p>“Did you know Barrington was not here?” asked
Witham, when the maid moved away.</p>

<p>Dane appeared embarrassed. “The fact is, I did.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Witham dryly, “I am a little astonished
you did not think fit to tell me.”</p>

<p>Dane’s face flushed, but he laid his hand on his
comrade’s arm. “No,” he said. “I didn’t. Now,
listen to me for the last time, Witham. I’ve not
been blind, you see; and, as I told you, your comrades
have decided that they wish you to stay. Can’t
you sink your confounded pride and take what is
offered you?”</p>

<p>Witham shook his grasp off, and there was weariness
in his face. “You need not go through it all
again. I made my decision a long while ago.”</p>

<p>“Well,” said Dane, with a gesture of hopelessness,
“I’ve done all I could and, since you are going on,
I’ll look at that trace clip while you tell Miss Barrington.
I mean the younger one.”</p>

<p>“The harness can wait,” said Witham. “You are
coming with me.”</p>

<p>A little grim smile crept into Dane’s eyes. “I am
not. I wouldn’t raise a finger to help you now,” he
said, and retreated hastily.</p>

<hr class='tb' />

<p>It was five minutes later when Witham walked
quietly into Maud Barrington’s presence, and sat
down when the girl signed to him. He wondered if
she guessed how his heart was beating.</p>

<p>“It is very good of you to receive me, but I felt I
could not slip away without acknowledging the
kindness you and Miss Barrington have shown me,”
he said. “I did not know Colonel Barrington was
away.”</p>

<p>The girl smiled a little. “Or you would not have
come? Then we should have had no opportunity of
congratulating you on your triumphant acquittal.
You see it must be mentioned.”</p>

<p>“I’m afraid there was a miscarriage of justice,”
said Witham quietly. “Still, though it is a difficult
subject, the deposition of the man I supplanted went
a long way, and the police did not seem desirous of
pressing a charge against me. Perhaps I should have
insisted on implicating myself, but you would scarcely
have looked for that after what you now know of me.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington braced herself for an effort, though
she was outwardly very calm. “No,” she said, “no
one would have looked for it from any man placed as
you were, and you are purposing to do more than is
required of you. Why will you go away?”</p>

<p>“I am a poor man,” said Witham. “One must
have means to live at Silverdale.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said the girl with a soft laugh which cost
her a good deal, “it is because you prefer poverty,
and you have at least one opportunity at Silverdale.
Courthorne’s land was mine to all intents and purposes
before it was his, and now it reverts to me. I owe him
nothing, and he did not give it me. Will you stay and
farm it on whatever arrangement Dane and Macdonald
may consider equitable? My uncle’s hands are too
full for him to attempt it.”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham, and his voice trembled a little.
“Your friends would resent it.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said the girl, “why have they urged you
to stay?”</p>

<p>“A generous impulse. They would repent of it
by and by. I am not one of them, and they know it
now, as I did at the beginning. No doubt they
would be courteous, but you see a half-contemptuous
toleration would gall me.”</p>

<p>There was a little smile on Maud Barrington’s lips,
but it was not in keeping with the tinge in her cheek
and the flash in her eyes.</p>

<p>“I once told you that you were poor at subterfuge,
and you know you are wronging them,” she said.
“You also know that even if they were hostile to you,
you could stay and compel them to acknowledge you.
I fancy you once admitted as much to me. What has become
of this pride of the democracy you showed me?”</p>

<p>Witham made a deprecatory gesture. “You must
have laughed at me. I had not been long at Silverdale
then,” he said dryly. “I should feel very lonely
now. One man against long generations. Wouldn’t
it be a trifle unequal?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington smiled again. “I did not laugh,
and this is not England, though what you consider
prejudices do not count for so much as they used to
there, while there is, one is told quite frequently, no
limit to what a man may attain to here, if he dares
sufficiently.”</p>

<p>A little quiver ran through Witham, and he rose
and stood looking down on her, with one brown hand
clenched on the table and the veins showing on his
forehead.</p>

<p>“You would have me stay?” he said.</p>

<p>Maud Barrington met his eyes, for the spirit that
was in her was the equal of his. “I would have you
be yourself—what you were when you came here in
defiance of Colonel Barrington, and again when you
sowed the last acre of Courthorne’s land, while my
friends, who are yours too, looked on wondering. Then
you would stay—if it pleased you. Where has your
splendid audacity gone?”</p>

<p>Witham slowly straightened himself and the girl
noticed the damp the struggle had brought there on
his forehead, for he understood that if he would
stretch out his hand and take it what he longed for
might be his.</p>

<p>“I do not know, any more than I know where it
came from, for until I met Courthorne I had never
made a big venture in my life,” he said. “It seems
it has served its turn and left me—for now there are
things I am afraid to do.”</p>

<p>“So you will go away and forget us?”</p>

<p>Witham stood very still a moment, and the girl, who
felt her heart beating noticed that his face was drawn.
Still, she could go no further. Then he said very slowly,
“I should be under the shadow always if I stay, and
my friends would feel it even more deeply than I
would do. I may win the right to come back again
if I go away.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington made no answer, but both knew
no further word could be spoken on that subject until,
if fate ever willed it, the man returned again, and it
was a relief when Miss Barrington came in with Dane.
He glanced at his comrade keenly, and then, seeing
the grimness in his face, quietly declined the white-haired
lady’s offer of hospitality. Five minutes later the
farewells were said and Maud Barrington stood with
the stinging flakes whirling about her in the doorway,
while the sleigh slid out into the filmy whiteness that
drove across the prairie. When it vanished she turned
back into the warmth and brightness with a little
shiver and one hand tightly closed.</p>

<p>The great room seemed very lonely when, while the
wind moaned outside, she and her aunt sat down to
dinner. Neither of them appeared communicative,
and both felt it a relief when the meal was over.
Then Maud Barrington smiled curiously as she rose
and stood with hands stretched out towards the stove.</p>

<p>“Aunt,” she said, “Twoinette has twice asked me
to go back to Montreal, and I think I will. The
prairie is very dreary in the winter.”</p>

<p>It was about this time when, as the whitened horses
floundered through the lee of a bluff where there was
shelter from the wind, the men in the sleigh found
opportunity for speech.</p>

<p>“Now,” said Dane quietly, “I know that we have
lost you, for a while at least. Will you ever come
back, Witham?”</p>

<p>Witham nodded. “Yes,” he said. “When time
has done its work and Colonel Barrington asks me,
if I can buy land enough to give me a standing at
Silverdale.”</p>

<p>“That,” said Dane, “will need a good many
dollars, and you insisted on flinging those you had
away. How are you going to make them?”</p>

<p>“I don’t know,” said Witham simply. “Still,
by some means it will be done.”</p>

<p>It was next day when he walked into Graham’s
office at Winnipeg, and laughed when the broker
who shook hands, passed the cigar box across to him.</p>

<p>“We had better understand each other first,” he
said. “You have heard what has happened to me,
and will not find me a profitable customer to-day.”</p>

<p>“These cigars are the best in the city, or I wouldn’t
ask you to take one,” said Graham dryly. “You
understand me, anyway. Wait until I tell my clerk
that if anybody comes round I’m busy.”</p>

<p>A bell rang, a little window opened and shut again,
and Witham smiled over his cigar.</p>

<p>“I want to make thirty thousand dollars as soon
as I can, and it seems to me there are going to be
opportunities in this business. Do you know anybody
who would take me as clerk or salesman?”</p>

<p>Graham did not appear astonished.</p>

<p>“You’ll scarcely make them that way if I find you
a berth at fifty a month,” he said.</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham. “Still, I wouldn’t purpose
keeping it for more than six months or so. By that
time I should know a little about the business.”</p>

<p>“Got any dollars now?”</p>

<p>“One thousand,” said Witham quietly.</p>

<p>Graham nodded. “Smoke that cigar out, and
don’t worry me. I’ve got some thinking to do.”</p>

<p>Witham took up a journal, and laid it down again
twenty minutes later. “Well,” he said, “you think
it’s too big a thing?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Graham. “It depends upon the man,
and it might be done. Knowing the business goes a
good way, and so does having dollars in hand, but
there’s something that’s born in one man in a thousand
that goes a long way further still. I can’t tell you
what it is, but I know it when I see it.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Witham, “you have seen this thing
in me?”</p>

<p>Graham nodded gravely. “Yes, sir, but you don’t
want to get proud. You had nothing to do with the
getting of it. It was given you. Now, we’re going to
have a year that will not be forgotten by those who
handle wheat and flour, and the men with the long
heads will roll the dollars in. Well, I’ve no use for
another clerk, and my salesman’s good enough for me,
but if we can agree on the items I’ll take you for a
partner.”</p>

<p>The offer was made and accepted quietly, and when
a rough draft of the arrangement had been agreed upon,
Graham nodded as he lighted another cigar.</p>

<p>“You may as well take hold at once, and there’s
work ready now,” he said. “You’ve heard of the old
St. Louis mills back on the edge of the bush country.
Never did any good. Folks who had them were short
of dollars, and didn’t know how they should be run.
Well, I and two other men have bought them for a
song, and while the place is tumbling in, the plant
seems good. Now, I can get hold of orders for flour
when I want them, and everybody with dollars to
spare will plank them right into any concern handling
food-stuffs this year. You go down to-morrow with
an engineer, and, when you’ve got the mills running
and orders coming in, we’ll sell out to a company if
we don’t want them.”</p>

<p>Witham sat silent a space, turning over a big bundle
of plans and estimates. Then he said, “You’ll have
to lay out a pile of dollars.”</p>

<p>Graham laughed. “That’s going to be your affair.
When you want them the dollars will be ready, and
there’s only one condition. Every dollar we put down
has got to bring another in.”</p>

<p>“But,” said Witham, “I don’t know anything
about milling.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Graham dryly, “you have got to
learn. A good many men have got quite rich in this
country running things they didn’t know much
about when they took hold of them.”</p>

<p>“There’s one more point,” said Witham. “I must
make those thirty thousand dollars soon, or they’ll
be no great use to me, and when I have them I may
want to leave you.”</p>

<p>“That’s all right,” said Graham. “By the time
you’ve done it, you’ll have made sixty for me. We’ll
go out and have some lunch to clinch the deal if you’re
ready.”</p>

<p>It might have appeared unusual in England, but it
was much less so in a country where the specialization
of professions is still almost unknown, and the man who
can adapt himself attains ascendency, and on the
morrow Witham arrived at a big wooden building
beside a pine-shrouded river. It appeared falling to
pieces, and the engineer looked disdainfully at some
of the machinery, but, somewhat against his wishes,
he sat up with his companion most of the night in a
little log hotel, and orders that occasioned one of
Graham’s associates consternation were mailed to the
city next morning. Then machines came out by the
carload, and men with tools in droves. Some of them
murmured mutinously when they found they were
expected to do as much as their leader who was not a
tradesman, but these were forthwith sent back again,
and the rest were willing to stay and earn the premium
he promised them for rapid work.</p>

<p>Before the frost grew Arctic, the building stood
firm and the hammers rang inside it night and day
until when the ice had bound the dam and lead the
fires were lighted and the trials under steam again.
It cost more than water, but buyers with orders
from the East were clamouring for flour just then.
For a fortnight Witham snatched his food in mouthfuls,
and scarcely closed his eyes, when Graham
found him pale and almost haggard when he came
down with several men from the cities in response to
a telegram. For an hour they moved up and down,
watching whirring belt and humming roller, and then,
whitened with the dust, stood very intent and quiet
while one of them dipped up a little flour from the
delivery hopper. His opinions on, and dealings in
that product were famous in the land. He said nothing
for several minutes, and then, brushing the white
dust from his hands, turned with a little smile to
Graham.</p>

<p>“We’ll have some baked, but I don’t know that
there’s much use for it. This will grade a very good
first,” he said. “You can book me the thousand
two eighties for a beginning now.”</p>

<p>Witham’s fingers trembled, but there was a twinkle
in Graham’s eyes as he brought his hand down on his
shoulder.</p>

<p>“Gentlemen,” he said, “I was figuring right on
this when I brought the champagne along. It was
all I could do, but Imperial Tokay wouldn’t be good
enough to rinse this dust down with, when every
speck of it that’s on you means dollars by the handful
rolling in.”</p>

<p>It was a very contented and slightly hilarious party
that went back to the city, but Witham sat down
before a shaded lamp with a wet rag round his head
when they left him, and bent over a sheaf of drawings
until his eyes grew dim. Then he once more took up
a little strip of paper that Graham had given him,
and leaned forward with his arms upon the table.
The mill was very silent at last, for of all who toiled
in it that day one weary man alone sat awake, staring,
with aching eyes, in front of him. There was, however,
a little smile in them, for roseate visions floated
before them. If the promise that strip of paper held
out was redeemed, they might be materialized, for
those who had toiled and wasted their substance that
the eastern peoples might be fed would that year, at
least, not go without their reward. Then he stretched
out his arms wearily above his head.</p>

<p>“It almost seems that what I have hoped for may
be mine,” he said. “Still, there is a good deal to be
done first, and not two hours left before I begin it
to-morrow.”</p>

<h2 class='chapter' id='clink26'><a href='#toc'>CHAPTER XXVI—REINSTATION</a></h2>

<p>A year of tireless effort and some anxiety had passed
since Witham had seen the first load of flour sent to
the east, when he and Graham sat talking in their
Winnipeg office. The products of the St. Louis mills
were already in growing demand, and Graham appeared
quietly contented as he turned over the letters before
him. When he laid down the last one, however, he
glanced at his companion somewhat anxiously.</p>

<p>“We have got to fix up something soon,” he said.
“I have booked all the St. Louis can turn out for
six months ahead, and the syndicate is ready to take
the business over, though I don’t know quite whether
it would be wise to let them. It seems to me that
milling is going to pay tolerably well for another year,
and if I knew what you were wanting, it would suit me
better.”</p>

<p>“I told you I wanted thirty thousand dollars,”
said Witham quietly.</p>

<p>“You’ve got them,” said Graham. “When the
next balance comes out you’ll have a good many
more. The question is, what you’re going to do with
them now they’re yours?”</p>

<p>Witham took out a letter from Dane and passed it
across to Graham. “I’m sorry to tell you the Colonel is
getting no better,” it ran. “The specialist we brought
in seems to think he will never be quite himself again,
and now he has let the reins go, things are falling to
pieces at Silverdale. Somebody left Atterly a pile of
money, and he is going back to the old country,
Carshalton is going, too; and, as they can’t sell out
to any one we don’t approve of, the rest insisted on
my seeing you. I purpose starting to-morrow.”</p>

<p>“What happened to Colonel Barrington?” asked
Graham.</p>

<p>“His sleigh turned over,” said Witham. “Horse
trampled on him, and it was an hour or two before
his hired man could get him under shelter.”</p>

<p>“You would be content to turn farmer again?”</p>

<p>“I think I would,” said Witham. “At least, at
Silverdale.”</p>

<p>Graham made a little grimace. “Well,” he said
resignedly, “I guess it’s human nature; but I’m
thankful now and then there’s nothing about me but
my dollars that would take the eye of any young
woman. I figure they’re kind of useful to wake up a
man so he’ll stir round looking for something to offer
one of them, but he is apt to find his business must go
second when she has got it and him, and he has to
waste on house fixings what would give a man a fair
start in life. Still, it’s no use talking. What have
you told him?”</p>

<p>Witham laughed a little. “Nothing,” he said.
“I will let him come, and you shall have my decision
when I’ve been to Silverdale.”</p>

<p>It was next day when Dane arrived at Winnipeg,
and Witham listened gravely to all he had to tell him.</p>

<p>“I have two questions to ask,” he said. “Would
the others be unanimous in receiving me, and does
Colonel Barrington know of your mission?”</p>

<p>“Yes to both,” said Dane. “We haven’t a man
there who would not hold out his hand to you, and
Barrington has been worrying and talking a good
deal about you lately. He seems to fancy nothing
has gone right at Silverdale since you left it, and
others share his opinion. The fact is, the old man
is losing his grip tolerably rapidly.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Witham quietly, “I’ll go down with
you, but I can make no promise until I have heard
the others.”</p>

<p>Dane smiled a little. “That is all I want. I don’t
know whether I told you that Maud Barrington is
there. Would to-morrow suit you?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham. “I will come to-day.”</p>

<p>It was early next morning when they stepped out
of the stove-warmed car into the stinging cold of the
prairie. Fur-clad figures, showing shapeless in the
creeping light, clustered about them, and Witham
felt himself thumped on the shoulders by mittened
hands, while Alfreton’s young voice broke through
the murmurs of welcome.</p>

<p>“Let him alone while he’s hungry,” he said.
“It’s the first time in its history they’ve had breakfast
ready at this hour in the hotel, and it would not have
been accomplished if I hadn’t spent most of yesterday
playing cards with the man who keeps it and making
love to the young women!”</p>

<p>“That’s quite right,” said another lad. “When
he takes his cap off you’ll see how one of them rewarded
him. But come along, Witham. It—is—ready.”</p>

<p>The greetings might, of course, have been expressed
differently, but Witham also was not addicted to
displaying all he felt, and the little ring in the lads’
voices was enough for him. As they moved towards
the hotel he saw that Dane was looking at him.</p>

<p>“Well?” said the latter, “you see, they want you.”</p>

<p>That was probably the most hilarious breakfast that
had ever been held in the wooden hotel; and before
it was over, three of his companions had said to
Witham, “Of course, you’ll drive in with me!”</p>

<p>“Boys,” he said, as they put their furs on, and his
voice shook a trifle, “I can’t ride in with everybody
who has asked me unless you dismember me.”</p>

<p>Finally, Alfreton, who was a trifle too quick for the
others, got him into his sleigh, and they swept out
behind a splendid team into the frozen stillness of
the prairie. The white leagues rolled behind them,
the cold grew intense; but while Witham was for the
most part silent and apparently preoccupied, Alfreton
talked almost incessantly, and only once looked
grave. That happened when Witham asked about
Colonel Barrington.</p>

<p>The lad shook his head. “I scarcely think he will
ever take hold again,” he said. “You will understand
me better when you see him.”</p>

<p>They stopped awhile at mid-day at an outlying
farm, but Witham glanced inquiringly at Alfreton
when one of the sleighs went on. The lad smiled at
him.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said. “He is going on to tell them we
have got you.”</p>

<p>“They would have found it out in a few more hours,”
said Witham.</p>

<p>Alfreton’s eyes twinkled. “No doubt they would,”
he said dryly. “Still, you see, somebody was
offering two to one that Dane couldn’t bring you,
and you know we’re generally keen about any kind of
wager.”</p>

<p>The explanation, which was not quite out of keeping
with the customs of the younger men at Silverdale
did not content Witham, but he said nothing. So
far his return had resembled a triumph, and while
the sincerity of the welcome had its effect on him,
he shrank a little from what he fancied might be
waiting him.</p>

<p>The creeping darkness found them still upon the
waste, and the cold grew keener when the stars peeped
out. Even sound seemed frozen, and the faint muffled
beat of hoofs unreal and out of place in the icy stillness
of the wilderness. Still, the horses knew they were
nearing home, and swung into faster pace, while the
men drew fur caps down and the robes closer round
them as the draught their passage made stung them
with a cold that seemed to sear the skin where there
was an inch left uncovered on the face. Now and then
a clump of willows or a birch bluff flitted out of the
dimness, grew a trifle blacker, and was left behind;
but there was still no sign of habitation, and Alfreton,
too chilled at last to speak, passed the reins to Witham
and beat his mittened hands. Witham could scarcely
grasp them, for he had lived of late in the cities, and
the cold he had been sheltered from was numbing.</p>

<p>For another hour they slid onwards, and then a
dim blur crept out of the white waste. It rose higher,
cutting more blackly against the sky; and Witham
recognized with a curious little quiver the birch bluff
that sheltered Silverdale Grange. Then, as they
swept through the gloom of it, a row of ruddy lights
blinked across the snow; and Witham felt his heart
beat as he watched the homestead grow into form.
He had first come there an impostor, and had left it
an outcast; while now it was amidst the acclamations
of those who had once looked on him with suspicion
he was coming back again.</p>

<p>Still, he was almost too cold for any definite feeling
but the sting of the frost, and it was very stiffly he stood
up, shaken by vague emotions, when at last the horses
stopped. A great door swung open, somebody grasped
his hand, there was a murmur of voices, and partly
dazed by the change of temperature he blundered
into the warmth of the hall. The blaze of light
bewildered him, and he was but dimly sensible that
the men who greeted him were helping him to shake
off his furs; while the next thing he was sure of was
that a little white-haired lady was holding out her hand.</p>

<p>“We are all very glad to see you back,” she said,
with a simplicity that yet suggested stateliness.
“Your friends insisted on coming over to welcome you,
and Dane will not let you keep them waiting too long.
Dinner is almost ready.”</p>

<p>Witham could not remember what he answered, but
Miss Barrington smiled at him as she moved away, for
the flush in his face was very eloquent. The man was
very grateful for that greeting, and what it implied.
It was a few minutes later when he found himself
alone with Dane, who laughed softly as he nodded
to him.</p>

<p>“You are convinced at last?” he said. “Still
there is a little more of the same thing to be faced;
and, if it would relieve you, I will send for Alfreton,
who has some taste in that direction, to fix that tie
for you. You have been five minutes over it, and it
evidently does not please you. It’s the first time
I’ve ever seen you worry about your dress.”</p>

<p>Witham turned, and a curious smile crept into his
face as he laid a lean hand that shook a little on the
toilet table.</p>

<p>“I also think it’s the first time these fingers wouldn’t
do what I wanted them. You can deduce what you
please from that,” he said.</p>

<p>Dane only nodded, and when they went down
together laid a kindly grasp upon his comrade’s arm
as he led him into the great dining-room. Every
man at Silverdale was apparently there, as were most
of the women; and Witham stood still a moment, very
erect, with shoulders square, because the posture
enabled him to conceal the tremor that ran through
him when he saw the smiling faces turned upon him.
Then he moved slowly down the room towards Maud
Barrington, and felt her hand rest for a second between
his fingers, which he feared were too responsive.
After that, everybody seemed to speak to him, and
he was glad when he found himself sitting next to
Miss Barrington at the head of the long table, with
her niece opposite him.</p>

<p>He could not remember what he or the others talked
about during the meal, but he had a vague notion that
there was now and then a silence of attention when
he answered a question, and that the little lady’s face
grew momentarily grave when, as the voice sank a
trifle, he turned to her.</p>

<p>“I would have paid my respects to Colonel Barrington,
but Dane did not consider it advisable,” he
said.</p>

<p>“No,” said Miss Barrington. “He has talked a
good deal about you during the last two days, but he
is sleeping now, and we did not care to disturb him.
I am afraid you will find a great change in him when
you see him.”</p>

<p>Witham asked no more questions on that topic until
later in the evening, when he found a place apart from
the rest by Miss Barrington’s side. He fancied this
would not have happened without her connivance and
she seemed graver than usual when he stood by her
chair.</p>

<p>“I don’t wish to pain you, but I surmise that Colonel
Barrington is scarcely well enough to be consulted
about anything of importance just now,” he said.</p>

<p>Miss Barrington made a little gesture of assent.
“We usually pay him the compliment, but I am
almost afraid he will never make a decision of moment
again.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said Witham slowly, “you stand in his
place, and I fancy you know why I have come back
to Silverdale. Will you listen for a very few minutes
while I tell you about my parents and what my upbringing
has been? I must return to Winnipeg,
for a time, at least, to-morrow.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington signed her willingness, and the
man spoke rapidly with a faint trace of hoarseness.
Then he looked down on her.</p>

<p>“Madam,” he said, “I have told you everything,
partly from respect for those who only by a grim
sacrifice did what they could for me, and that you
may realize the difference between myself and the
rest at Silverdale. I want to be honest now at least,
and I discovered, not without bitterness at the time,
that the barriers between our castes are strong in the
old country.”</p>

<p>Miss Barrington smiled a little. “Have I ever
made you feel it here?”</p>

<p>“No,” said Witham gravely. “Still, I am going to
put your forbearance to a strenuous test. I want your
approval. I have a question to ask your niece to-night.”</p>

<p>“If I withheld it?”</p>

<p>“It would hurt me,” said Witham. “Still, I
would not be astonished, and I could not blame you.”</p>

<p>“But it would make no difference?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Witham gravely. “It would, but
it would not cause me to desist. Nothing would do
that, if Miss Barrington can overlook the past.”</p>

<p>The little white-haired lady smiled at him.
“Then,” she said, “if it is any comfort to you, you
have my good wishes. I do not know what Maud’s
decision will be, but that is the spirit which would
have induced me to listen in times long gone by!”</p>

<p>She rose and left him, and it may have been by her
arranging that shortly afterwards Witham found
Maud Barrington passing through the dimly-lighted
hall. He opened the door she moved towards a trifle,
and then stood facing her, with it in his hand.</p>

<p>“Will you wait a moment, and then you may pass
if you wish,” he said. “I had one great inducement
for coming here to-night. I wonder if you know what
it is?”</p>

<p>The girl stood still and met his gaze, though, dim
as the light was, the man could see the crimson in her
cheeks.</p>

<p>“Yes,” she said, very quietly.</p>

<p>“Then,” said Witham with a little smile, though
the fingers on the door quivered visibly, “I think
the audacity you once mentioned must have returned
to me, for I am going to make a very great venture.”</p>

<p>For a moment Maud Barrington turned her eyes
away. “It is the daring venture that most frequently
succeeds.”</p>

<p>Then she felt the man’s hand on her shoulder, and
that he was compelling her to look up at him.</p>

<p>“It is you I came for,” he said quietly. “Still,
for you know the wrong I have done, I dare not urge
you, and have little to offer. It is you who must
give everything, if you can come down from your
station and be content with mine.”</p>

<p>“One thing,” said Maud Barrington, very softly,
“is, however, necessary.”</p>

<p>“That,” said Witham, “was yours ever since we
spent the night in the snow.”</p>

<p>The girl felt his grip upon her shoulder grow almost
painful, but her eyes shone softly when she lifted her
head again.</p>

<p>“Then,” she said, “what I can give is yours—and
it seems you have already taken possession.”</p>

<p>Witham drew her towards him, and it may have
been by Miss Barrington’s arranging that nobody
entered the hall, but at last the girl glanced up at
the man half-shyly as she said, “Why did you wait
so long?”</p>

<p>“It was well worth while,” said Witham. “Still,
I think you know.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Maud Barrington softly. “Now, at
least, I can tell you I am glad you went away—but if
you had asked me I would have gone with you.”</p>

<p>It was some little time later when Miss Barrington
came in and, after a glance at Witham, kissed her
niece. Then she turned to the man. “My brother
is asking for you,” she said. “Will you come up
with me?”</p>

<p>Witham followed her, and hid his astonishment
when he found Colonel Barrington lying in a big chair.
His face was haggard and pale, his form seemed to
have grown limp and fragile, and the hand he held out
trembled.</p>

<p>“Lance,” he said, “I am very pleased to have
you home again. I hear you have done wonders in
the city, but you are, I think, the first of your family
who could ever make money. I have, as you will see,
not been well lately.”</p>

<p>“I am relieved to find you better than I expected,
sir,” Witham said quietly. “Still, I fancy you are
forgetting what I told you the night I went away.”</p>

<p>Barrington nodded, and then made a little impatient
gesture. “There was something unpleasant, but my
memory seems to be going, and my sister has forgiven
you. I know you did a good deal for us at Silverdale,
and showed yourself a match for the best of them in
the city. That pleases me. By and by, you will
take hold here after me.”</p>

<p>Witham glanced at Miss Barrington, who smiled
somewhat sadly.</p>

<p>“I am glad you mentioned that, sir, because I
purpose staying at Silverdale now,” he said. “It
leads up to what I have to ask you.”</p>

<p>Barrington’s perceptions seemed to grow clearer,
and he asked a few pertinent questions before he
nodded approbation.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said, “she is a good girl—a very good
girl, and it would be a suitable match. I should like
somebody to send for her.”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington came in softly, with a little glow
in her eyes and a flush in her face, and Barrington
smiled at her.</p>

<p>“My dear, I am very pleased, and I wish you every
happiness,” he said. “Once I would scarcely have
trusted you to Lance, but he will forgive me, and has
shown me that I was wrong. You and he will make
Silverdale famous, and it is comforting to know, now
my rest is very near, that you have chosen a man of
your own station to follow me. With all our faults
and blunders, blood is bound to tell.”</p>

<p>Witham saw that Miss Barrington’s eyes were a
trifle misty, and he felt his face grow hot, but the
girl’s fingers touched his arm, and he followed, when,
while her aunt signed approbation, she led him away.
Then, when they stood outside she laid her hands upon
his face and drew it down to her.</p>

<p>“You will forget it, dear, and he is still wrong.
If you had been Lance Courthorne, I should never have
done this,” she said.</p>

<p>“No,” said the man gravely. “I think there are
many ways in which he is right, but you can be content
with Witham the prairie farmer?”</p>

<p>Maud Barrington drew closer to him with a little
smile in her eyes. “Yes,” she said simply. “There
never was a Courthorne who could stand beside
him.”</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p class='center tight' style=''><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>London: Ward, Lock &amp; Co., Ltd.</span></p>

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