MAUD HARRINGTON'S PROMISE
Daylight had not broken across the prairie, when, floundering through
a foot of dusty snow, Witham reached the Grange. He was aching from
fatigue and cold, and the deerskin jacket stood out from his numbed
body, stiff with frost, when, leaning heavily on a table, he awaited
Colonel Barrington. The latter, on entering, stared at him and then
flung open a cupboard and poured out a glass of wine.
"Drink that before you talk. You look half dead," he said.
Witham shook his head. "Perhaps you had better hear me first."
Barrington thrust the glass upon him. "I could make nothing of what
you told me while you speak like that. Drink it, and then sit until
you get used to the different temperature."
Witham drained the glass and sank limply into a chair. As yet his face
was colourless, though his chilled flesh tingled horribly as the blood
once more crept into the surface tissues. Then he fixed his eyes upon
his host as he told his story. Barrington stood very straight watching
his visitor, but his face was drawn, for the resolution which
supported him through the day was less noticeable in the early
morning, and it was evident now at least that he was an old man
carrying a heavy load of anxiety. Still, as the story proceeded, a
little blood crept into his cheeks, while Witham guessed that he found
it difficult to retain his grim immobility.
"I am to understand that an attempt to reach the Grange through the
snow would have been perilous?" he said.
"Yes," said Witham quietly.
The older man stood very still regarding him intently, until he said,
"I don't mind admitting that it was distinctly regrettable!"
Witham stopped him with a gesture. "It was at least unavoidable, sir.
The team would not face the snow, and no one could have reached the
Grange alive."
"No doubt you did your best--and, as a connexion of the family, I am
glad it was you. Still--and there are cases in which it is desirable
to speak plainly--the affair, which you will, of course, dismiss from
your recollection, is to be considered as closed now."
Witham smiled, and a trace of irony he could not quite repress was
just discernible in his voice. "I scarcely think that was necessary,
sir. It is, of course, sufficient for me to have rendered a small
service to the distinguished family which has given me an opportunity
of proving my right to recognition, and neither you, nor Miss
Barrington, need have any apprehension that I will presume upon it!"
Barrington wheeled round. "You have the Courthorne temper, at least,
and perhaps I deserved this display of it. You acted with commendable
discretion in coming straight to me--and the astonishment I got drove
the other aspect of the question out of my head. If it hadn't been for
you, my niece would have frozen."
"I'm afraid I spoke unguardedly, sir; but I am very tired. Still, if
you will wait a few minutes, I will get the horses out without
troubling the hired man."
Barrington made a little gesture of comprehension, and then shook his
head. "You are fit for nothing further, and need rest and sleep."
"You will want somebody, sir," said Witham. "The snow is very loose
and deep."
He went out, and Barrington, who looked after him with a curious
expression in his face, nodded twice as if in approval. Twenty minutes
later he took his place in the sleigh that slid away from the Grange,
which lay a league behind it when the sunrise flamed across the
prairie. The wind had gone, and there was only a pitiless brightness
and a devastating cold, while the snow lay blown in wisps, dried dusty
and fine as flour by the frost. It had no cohesion, the runners sank
in it, and Witham was almost waist deep when he dragged the
floundering team through the drifts. A day had passed since he had
eaten anything worth mention, but he held on with an endurance which
his companion, who was incapable of rendering him assistance, wondered
at. There were belts of deep snow the almost buried sleigh must be
dragged through, and tracts from which the wind had swept the dusty
covering, leaving bare the grasses the runners would not slide over,
where the team came to a standstill, and could scarcely be urged to
continue the struggle.
At last, however, the loghouse rose, a lonely mound of whiteness, out
of the prairie, and Witham drew in a deep breath of contentment when a
dusky figure appeared for a moment in the doorway. His weariness
seemed to fall from him, and once more his companion wondered at the
tirelessness of the man, as, floundering on foot beside them, he urged
the team through the powdery drifts beneath the big birch bluff.
Witham did not go in, however, when they reached the house; and when,
five minutes later, Maud Barrington came out, she saw him leaning with
a drawn face against the sleigh. He straightened himself suddenly at
the sight of her, but she had seen sufficient, and her heart softened
towards him. Whatever the man's history had been he had borne a good
deal for her.
The return journey was even more arduous, and now and then Maud
Barrington felt a curious throb of pity for the worn-out man, who
during most of it walked beside the team; but it was accomplished at
last, and she contrived to find means of thanking him alone when they
reached the Grange.
Witham shook his head, and then smiled a little. "It isn't nice to
make a bargain," he said. "Still, it is less pleasant now and then to
feel under an obligation, though there is no reason why you should."
Maud Barrington was not altogether pleased, but she could not blind
herself to facts, and it was plain that there was an obligation. "I am
afraid I cannot quite believe that, but I do not see what you are
leading to."
Witham's eyes twinkled. "Well," he said reflectively, "I don't want
you to fancy that last night commits you to any line of conduct in
regard to me. I only asked for a truce, you see."
Maud Barrington was a trifle nettled. "Yes?" she said.
"Then, I want to show you how you can discharge any trifling
obligation you may fancy you may owe me, which of course would be more
pleasant to you. Do not allow your uncle to sell any wheat forward for
you, and persuade him to sow every acre that belongs to you this
spring."
"But however would this benefit you," asked the girl.
Witham laughed. "I have a fancy that I can straighten up things at
Silverdale, if I can get my way. It would please me, and I believe
they want it. Of course, a desire to improve anything appears curious
in me!"
Maud Barrington was relieved of the necessity of answering, for the
Colonel came up just then; but, moved by some sudden impulse, she
nodded as if in agreement.
It was afternoon when she awakened from a refreshing sleep, and
descending to the room set apart for herself and her aunt, sat
thoughtfully still awhile in a chair beside the stove. Then,
stretching out her hand, she took up a little case of photographs and
slipped out one of them. It was a portrait of a boy and pony, but
there was a significance in the fact that she knew just where to find
it. The picture was a good one, and once more Maud Barrington noticed
the arrogance, which did not, however, seem out of place there, in the
lad's face. It was also a comely face, but there was a hint of
sensuality in it that marred its beauty. Then with a growing
perplexity she compared it with that of the weary man who had plodded
beside the team. Witham was not arrogant but resolute, and there was
no stamp of indulgence in his face. Indeed, the girl had from the
beginning recognized the virility in it that was tinged with
asceticism and sprang from a simple, strenuous life of toil in the
wind and sun.
Just then there was a rustle of fabric, and she laid down the
photograph a moment too late, as her aunt came in. As it happened, the
elder lady's eyes rested on the picture, and a faint flush of
annoyance crept into the face of the girl. It was scarcely
perceptible, but Miss Barrington saw it, and though she felt tempted,
did not smile.
"I did not know you were down," she said. "Lance is still asleep. He
seemed very tired."
"Yes," said the girl. "That is very probable. He left the railroad
before daylight, and had driven round to several farms before he came
to Macdonald's, and he was very considerate. He had made me take all
the furs, and, I fancy, walked up and down with nothing but his indoor
clothing on all night long, though the wind went through the building,
and one could scarcely keep alive a few feet from the stove."
Again the flicker of colour crept into the girl's cheeks, and the eyes
that were keen, as well as gentle, noticed it.
"I think you owe him a good deal," said Miss Barrington.
"Yes," said her niece, with a little laugh which appeared to imply a
trace of resentment. "I believe I do, but he seemed unusually anxious
to relieve me of that impression. He was also good enough to hint that
nothing he might have done need prevent me being--the right word is a
trifle difficult to find--but I fancy he meant unpleasant to him if I
wished it."
There was a little twinkle in Miss Barrington's eyes. "Are you not a
trifle hard to please, my dear? Now, if he had attempted to insist on
a claim to your gratitude, you would have resented it."
"Of course," said the girl reflectively. "Still, it is annoying to be
debarred from offering it. There are times, aunt, when I can't help
wishing that Lance Courthorne had never come to Silverdale. There are
men who leave nothing just as they found it, and whom one can't
ignore."
Miss Barrington shook her head. "I fancy you are wrong. He has
offended after all?"
She was pleased to see her niece's face relax into a smile that
expressed unconcern. "We are all exacting now and then," said the
girl. "Still, he made me promise to give him a fair trial, which was
not flattering, because it suggested that I had been unnecessarily
harsh, and then hinted this morning that he had no intention of
holding me to it. It really was not gratifying to find he held the
concession he asked for of so small account. You are, however, as
easily swayed by trifles as I am, because Lance can do no wrong since
he kissed your hand."
"I really think I liked him the better for it," said the little
silver-haired lady. "The respect was not assumed, but wholly genuine,
you see; and whether I was entitled to it or not, it was a good deal
in Lance's favour that he should offer it to me. There must be some
good in the man who can be moved to reverence anything, even if he is
mistaken."
"No man with any sense could help adoring you," said Maud Barrington.
"Still, I wonder why you believe I was wrong in wishing he had not
come to Silverdale."
Miss Barrington looked thoughtful. "I will tell you, my dear. There
are few better men than my brother; but his thoughts, and the
traditions he is bound by, are those of fifty years ago, while the
restless life of the prairie is a thing of to-day. We have fallen too
far behind it at Silverdale, and a crisis is coming that none of us
are prepared for. Even Dane is scarcely fitted to help my brother to
face it, and the rest are either over-fond of their pleasure or
untrained boys. Brave lads they are, but none of them have been taught
that it is only by mental strain, or the ceaseless toil of his body,
the man without an inheritance can win himself a competence now. This
is why they want a leader who has known hardship and hunger, instead
of ease, and won what he holds with his own hand in place of having it
given him."
"You fancy we could find one in such a man as Lance has been?"
Miss Barrington looked grave. "I believe the prodigal was afterwards a
better, as well as a wiser, man than the one who stayed at home, and I
am not quite sure that Lance's history is so nearly like that of the
son in the parable as we have believed it to be. A residence in the
sty is apt to leave a stain, which I have not, though I have looked
for it, found on him."
The eyes of the two women met, and, though nothing more was said, each
realized that the other was perplexed by the same question, while the
girl was astonished to find her vague suspicions shared. While they
sat silent, Colonel Barrington came in.
"I am glad to see you looking so much better, Maud," he said, with a
trace of embarrassment. "Courthorne is resting still. Now, I can't
help feeling that we have been a trifle more distant than was needful
with him. The man has really behaved very discreetly. I mean in
everything."
This was a great admission, and Miss Barrington smiled. "Did it hurt
you very much to tell us that?" she asked.
The Colonel laughed. "I know what you mean, and if you put me on my
mettle I'll retract. After all, it was no great credit to him, because
blood will tell, and he is, of course, a Courthorne."
Almost without her intention, Maud Barrington's eyes wandered towards
the photograph, and then looking up she met those of her aunt, and
once more saw the thought that troubled her in them.
"The Courthorne blood is responsible for a good deal more than
discretion," said Miss Barrington, who went out quietly.
Her brother appeared a trifle perplexed. "Now, I fancied your aunt had
taken him under her wing, and when I was about to suggest that,
considering the connexion between the families, we might ask him over
to dinner occasionally, she goes away," he said.
The girl looked down a moment, for, realizing that her uncle
recognized the obligation he was under to the man he did not like, she
remembered that she herself owed him considerably more and he had
asked for something in return. It was not altogether easy to grant,
but she had tacitly pledged herself, and turning suddenly she laid a
hand on Barrington's arm.
"Of course; but I want to talk of something else just now," she said.
"You know I have very seldom asked you questions about my affairs, but
I wish to take a little practical interest in them this year."
"Yes?" said Barrington, with a smile. "Well, I am at your service, my
dear, and quite ready to account for my stewardship. You are no longer
my ward, except by your own wishes."
"I am still your niece," said the girl, patting his arm. "Now, there
is, of course, nobody who could manage the farming better than you do,
but I would like to raise a large crop of wheat this season."
"It wouldn't pay," and the Colonel grew suddenly grave. "Very few men
in the district are going to sow all their holding. Wheat is steadily
going down."
"Then if nobody sows there will be very little, and shouldn't that put
up the prices?"
Barrington's eyes twinkled. "Who has been teaching you commercial
economy? You are too pretty to understand such things, and the
argument is fallacious, because the wheat is consumed in Europe--and
even if we have not much to offer, they can get plenty from
California, Chile, India, and Australia."
"Oh, yes--and Russia," said the girl. "Still, you see, the big mills
in Winnipeg and Minneapolis depend upon the prairie. They couldn't
very well bring wheat in from Australia."
Barrington was still smiling with his eyes, but his lips were set. "A
little knowledge is dangerous, my dear, and if you could understand me
better, I could show you where you were wrong. As it is, I can only
tell you that I have decided to sell wheat forward and plough very
little."
"But that was a policy you condemned with your usual vigour. You
really know you did."
"My dear," said the Colonel, with a little impatient gesture, "one can
never argue with a lady. You see--circumstances alter cases
considerably."
He nodded with an air of wisdom as though that decided it; but the
girl persisted. "Uncle," she said, drawing closer to him with lithe
gracefulness, "I want you to let me have my own way just for once, and
if I am wrong I will never do anything you do not approve of again.
After all, it is a very little thing, and you would like to please
me."
"It is a trifle that is likely to cost you a good deal of money," said
the Colonel dryly.
"I think I could afford it, and you could not refuse me."
"As I am only your uncle, and no longer a trustee, I could not," said
Barrington. "Still, you would not act against my wishes?"
His eyes were gentle, unusually so, for he was not as a rule very
patient when any one questioned his will; but there was a reproach in
them that hurt the girl. Still, because she had promised, she
persisted.
"No," she said. "That is why it would be ever so much nicer if you
would just think as I did."
Barrington looked at her steadily. "If you insist, I can at least hope
for the best," he said, with a gravity that brought a faint colour to
the listener's cheek.
It was next day when Witham took his leave, and Maud Barrington stood
beside him as he put on his driving furs.
"You told me there was something you wished me to do, and, though it
was difficult, it is done," she said. "My holding will be sown with
wheat this spring."
Witham turned his head aside a moment and apparently found it needful
to fumble at the fastenings of the furs, while there was a curious
expression in his eyes when he looked round again.
"Then," he said with a little smile, "we are quits. That cancels any
little obligation which may have existed."
He had gone in another minute, and Maud Barrington turned back into
the stove-warmed room very quietly. Her lips were, however, somewhat
closely set.