THE REVELATION
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
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.
"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."
Dane kicked the foot of a lad beside him, and glanced at the piano as
he stood up.
"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."
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."
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.
"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."
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.
"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."
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.
"You'll feel your feet in a moment, but that's a curious fashion of
putting it," he said.
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.
"Sir," he said, "I did you a wrong when I came here, and with your
convictions you would never tolerate me as your successor."
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.
"Sit down, Lance," he said. "You need make no speeches. We expect
better things from you."
Witham stood very still. "It was the simple truth I told you, sir," he
said. "Don't make it too hard for me."
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.
"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."
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.
"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."
The man made a gesture of negation, and pointed to Witham.
"I came to find a friend of mine. They told me at his homestead that
he was here," he said.
There was an impressive silence, until Colonel Barrington glanced at
Witham, who still stood, quietly impassive, at the foot of the table.
"You know our visitor?" he said. "The Grange is large enough to give a
stranger shelter."
The man laughed. "Of course, he does! It's my place he's living in!"
Barrington turned again to Witham and his face seemed to have grown a
trifle stern.
"Who is this man?" he said.
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!"
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.
"It's evident you don't believe it, or wish to. Still, it's true," he
said.
One of the men nearest him rose and quietly pushed him into the chair.
"Sit down in the meanwhile," he said dryly. "By and by, Colonel
Barrington will talk to you."
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."
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."
Barrington made a little gesture of agreement, and once more fixed his
eyes on Witham. "Then will you tell us who you are?"
"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."
He stopped, but--for the astonishment was passing--there was negation
in the murmurs which followed, while somebody said, "Go on!"
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."
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.
"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."
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."
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."
"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."
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.
"We know what kind of a struggle you made by what we have seen at
Silverdale," he said.
Witham put the glass aside, and turned once more to Colonel
Barrington.
"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."
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.
"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."
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.
"Whatever we would spare you and ourselves, sir, we must face the
truth," he said. "Which of these men was needed at Silverdale?"
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.
"I think," he said with a curious laugh, "I must be going. I don't
know whether the troopers want me or your comrade."
A lad sprang to his feet, and as he ran to the door called "Stop him!"
In another moment Dane had caught his arm, and his voice rang through
the confusion, as everybody turned or rose.
"Keep back all of you," he said. "Let him go!"
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.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's my duty to apprehend Lance Courthorne," he
said.
"You have a warrant?" asked Barrington.
"Yes, sir," said the corporal.
There was intense silence for a moment. Then the Colonel's voice broke
through it very quietly.
"He is not here," he said.
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."
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.
"Then," he said grimly, "don't exceed it. If you believe he's here, we
will give you every opportunity of finding him."
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.
"I fancied I heard somebody riding by the bluff just before we reached
the house," he said.
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."
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.