MAUD BARRINGTON IS MERCILESS
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.
"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!"
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.
"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.
"We shall not want you, Maud. Dane, you and I will get these burnt
things off him."
The girl went out, and while she stood, feeling curiously chilly in an
adjoining room, Barrington bent over his patient.
"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."
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?"
"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."
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.
"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."
The girl was a little less serene than usual then, and drew back into
the shadow.
"Yes," she said. "We did not think so once."
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Is there anything I can do?" she said.
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."
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.
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.
"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."
"You must be more concise," said Miss Barrington quietly, and Dane
trifled with the hat in his hand.
"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."
"Ferris?" said Maud Barrington, with a sudden hardening of her face.
"You surely don't mean----"
Dane nodded. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "I'm afraid I do. Now, if you
will listen to me for a minute or two."
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.
"Then," she said with cold incisiveness, "Ferris cannot stay here, and
he shall be punished."
"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."
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."
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."
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.
"No," she said. "For the sake of the woman who sent him here we must
stop short of that."
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?"
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."
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."
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.
"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?"
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.
"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.
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.
"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.
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."
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.
"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."
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.
"Madam," he said hoarsely, "if I admit everything what will you do?"
"Nothing," said Maud Barrington coldly. "On conditions that within a
month you leave Silverdale."
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."
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."
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."
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.
"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."
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.
"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."
Maud Barrington's face had grown very colourless, but she said
nothing, and her aunt rose and raised the hammer of a gong.
"Ferris," she said, "do you wish to be led out by the hired men?"
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."
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.
"Are there men like him?" she said.
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?"
For a moment the girl's cheek flamed, then she rose quietly and
crossed the room.
"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.
"Come back to-morrow. I can't be worried now," he said. "Well, why the
devil don't you go?"
Dane laid a hand on his shoulder. "We are waiting for you. You are
coming with us!"
Ferris turned and stared at them. "Where to?"
"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?"
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.
"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."
"I know what you did the night Courthorne nearly lost his life," said
Dane. "One would have fancied that would have contented you."
"Well," said Ferris, "if you like to hear of a more serious offence,
I'll oblige you."
Dane's finger closed on his arm. "If you attempt to tell me, I'll
break your head for you."
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.
"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."
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.
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.
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.
"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."
"We cannot take the responsibility of letting you go under a week
yet," said Maud Barrington. "Have you anything especially important to
do?"
"Yes," said Witham--and the girl understood the grimness of his
face--"I have."
"It concerns the fire?"
Witham looked at her curiously. "I would sooner you did not ask me
that question, Miss Barrington."
"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."
"You know?"
"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."
"I can refuse you nothing," said Witham with a laugh, though his voice
betrayed him. "Still, I want a _quid pro quo_. Wait until Ferris's
farm is in the sale list, and then take it with the growing crop."
"I could not. There are reasons," said the girl.
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."
"No," said Maud Barrington. "Anything else you wish, but not that. You
must believe, without wondering why, that it is out of the question!"
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."