ANTICIPATIONS
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.
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 modeling.
"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."
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.
"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."
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 paneled 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 neighbors 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 at 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 practiced it, he did not take kindly to
economy.
"Yes," said the girl, "I enjoyed it all--and it was so different from
the prairie."
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 about it in your letters."
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."
The white-haired lady laughed softly. "It is difficult to believe it,
Maud."
The girl shook her head reproachfully. "I know what you mean, and
perhaps you are right, for that was what Toinette 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 whir 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."
"For a month," said the elder. "And after?"
"Then," said the girl slowly, "it all seemed to grow a trifle
purposeless, and there was something that spoiled it. Toinette 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?"
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.
"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."
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."
"And what kind of man would please you?"
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."
The smile on Miss Barrington's face, which was still almost beautiful
as well as patient, became a trifle wistful.
"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."
"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."
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."
"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 endeavor to buy him off, and--for I know you have
been finding out things--I want you to tell me all about him."
"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.
"Oh," she said, with utter contempt. "How sickening! Are there men
like that?"
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.
"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."
The girl's face was very scornful. "Could a man with a past like that
ever live it down?"
"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."
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 favor--and if
he fails, as fail he will, we shall find the means of punishing him."
"We?" said the elder lady, a trifle maliciously.
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 molded that its
slenderness was scarcely apparent, for Maud Barrington still wore a
long somber 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.
"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."
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."
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 armory of English-made shotguns and rifles, while a row
of silver-mounted riding crops, 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.
"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."
Graham smiled a little. "It isn't very much, Colonel. I'll take all
your wheat off you at three cents down."
Now Barrington did not like the broker's smile. It savored 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."
"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."
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?"
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.
"I fancy I told you so," he said.
The broker glanced at Dane, who was a big, bronzed man, and, since
Barrington could not see him, shook his head deprecatingly.
"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."
Graham nodded. He understood why farming was unusually expensive at
Silverdale, and was, in recollection of past favors, inclined to be
disinterestedly friendly.
"If I were you, I would sell right along for forward delivery at a few
cents under the market."
"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.
"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."
"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?"
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."
"But, sir," said Dane, and Barrington stopped him with a gesture.
"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."
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.
"I should not think of doing so in face of your opinion, sir," he said.
"There is an end to the thing, Graham!"
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."
"Thanks," said Dane quietly. "They charge tolerably high, but I've
seen what happens to the man who meddles with the mortgage-broker."
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."
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."
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.
Barrington shook off his hand, and looked at him sternly. "Are you not
a trifle young to adopt that tone?" he said.
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."
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."
"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?"
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."
"Isn't that a curious way of putting it?" asked his companion.
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."
"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."
"Of course," said Dane. "That's why I'm inclined to take a fatherly
interest in Miss Barrington's affair. It's a misfortune we've heard
nothing very reassuring about Courthorne."