THE UNEXPECTED
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.
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.
"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."
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.
"Don't you think it is all made up to those others?" she asked.
"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."
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."
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."
Miss Barrington laughed. "Still, I have no doubt that, sooner or
later, you will enjoy the spectacle."
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.
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.
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.
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."
"Is it?" asked Miss Barrington, who glanced at the ploughing. "When
wheat is going down?"
Witham nodded. "Yes," he said. "I mean, to me; and the price of wheat
is only part of the question."
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."
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."
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.
"And this is how Lance, the profligate, lives!" said she.
Maud Barrington shook her head. "No," she said. "Can you believe that
this man was ever a prodigal?"
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.
"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."
Miss Barrington's eyes twinkled. "And then?"
"Then," said Witham, with a little laugh, "there will be prairie hay
to cut, and after that the harvest coming on."
"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."
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."
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.
"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."
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.
"Eight years," she said, with a little smile, "is a very long while."
"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."
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.
"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."
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.
"'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.
"'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.'
"'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.'"
"There is only one inference," he said. "When the demand comes there
will be nothing to meet it with."
"When it comes," said Maud Barrington quietly. "But you who believe it
will stand alone."
"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?"
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.
"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.
Then Miss Barrington glanced at him in turn. "Lance, I have a thousand
dollars I want you to turn into wheat for me."
Witham's fingers trembled, and a darker hue crept into his tan.
"Madam," he said, "I can take no money from you."
"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."
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.
"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."
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."
Witham stood holding the door open a moment, with his head bent, and
then suddenly straightened himself.
"I can at least be honest with you in this venture," he said, with a
curious quietness.
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.
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.
"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."
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.
"What do you want here?" he asked.
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."
Witham sat down and slowly lighted a cigar. "We need not go into that.
I asked you what you want."
"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."
"You have not been prospering?" and Witham favoured his companion with
a slow scrutiny.
"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."
"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."
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."
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.
"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."
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?"
"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."
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."
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."
Courthorne did not appear in any way disconcerted, but before he could
answer a man outside opened the door.
"Here's Sergeant Stimson and one of his troopers wanting you," he
said.
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."
"No," said Witham. "Stay, if it pleases you."
Courthorne shook his head. "I don't know that it would. You don't do
it badly, Witham."
He went out by another door almost as the grizzled sergeant came in
and stood still, looking at the master of the homestead.
"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.
Witham laughed a little. "I scarcely fancy that is very civil,
Sergeant."
"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?"
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."
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."
"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."
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.
Courthorne looked at him curiously, and for the first time Witham
noticed that the life he had led was telling upon his companion.
"As your guest?" he asked.
"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."
"Well," said Courthorne slowly, "you can consider it a deal."