THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
It was a hot morning when Sergeant Stimson and Corporal Payne rode
towards the railroad across the prairie. The grassy levels rolled away
before them, white and parched, into the blue distance, where willow
grove and straggling bluff floated on the dazzling horizon, and the
fibrous dust rose in little puffs beneath the horses' feet, until
Stimson pulled his beast up in the shadow of the birches by the bridge,
and looked back towards Silverdale. There, wooden homesteads girt
about with barns and granaries rose from the whitened waste, and behind
some of them stretched great belts of wheat. Then the Sergeant,
understanding the faith of the men who had sown that splendid grain,
nodded, for he was old and wise, and had seen many adverse seasons, and
the slackness that comes, when hope has gone, to beaten men.
"They will reap this year--a handful of cents on every bushel," he
said. "A fine gentleman is Colonel Barrington, but some of them will
be thankful there's a better head than the one he has, at Silverdale."
"Yes, sir," said Corporal Payne, who wore the double chevrons for the
first time, and surmised that his companion's observations were not
without their purpose.
Stimson glanced at the bridge. "Good work," he said. "It will save
them dollars on every load they haul in. A gambler built it! Do they
teach men to use the ax in Montana saloons?"
The corporal smiled, and waited for what he felt would come. He was
no longer the hot-blooded lad who had come out from the old country,
for he had felt the bonds of discipline, and been taught restraint and
silence on the lonely marches of the prairie.
"I have," he said tentatively, "fancied there was something a little
unusual about the thing."
Stimson nodded, but his next observation was apparently quite
unconnected with the topic. "You were a raw colt when I got you,
Payne, and the bit galled you now and then, but you had good hands on a
bridle, and somebody who knew his business had taught you to sit a
horse in the old country. Still, you were not as handy with brush and
fork at stable duty,"
The bronze seemed to deepen in the corporal's face, but it was turned
steadily towards his officer. "Sir," he said, "has that anything to do
with what you were speaking of?"
Stimson laughed softly. "That depends, my lad. Now, I've taught you
to ride straight, and to hold your tongue. I've asked you no
questions, but I've eyes in my head, and it's not without a purpose
you've been made corporal. You're the kind they give commissions to,
now and then--and your folks in the old country never raised you for a
police trooper."
"Can you tell me how to win one?" ask the corporal, and Stimson noticed
the little gleam in his eyes.
"There's one road to advancement, and you know where to find the
trooper's duty laid down plain," he said, with a dry smile. "Now, you
saw Lance Courthorne once or twice back there in Alberta?"
"Yes, sir, but never close to."
"And you knew farmer Winston?"
Payne appeared thoughtful. "Of course I met him a few times on the
prairie, always on horseback with his big hat on, but Winston is
dead--that is, I heard him break through the ice."
The men's eyes met for a moment, and Stimson smiled curiously. "There
is," he said, "still a warrant out for him. Now, you know where I am
going, and, while I am away, you will watch Courthorne and his
homestead. If anything curious happens there, you will let me know.
The new man has instructions to find you any duty that will suit you."
The corporal looked at his officer steadily, and again there was
comprehension in his eyes. Then he nodded. "Yes, sir. I have
wondered whether, if Shannon could have spoken another word that night,
it would have been Winston the warrant was issued for."
Stimson raised a restraining hand. "My lad," he said dryly, "the
police trooper who gets advancement is the one that carries out his
orders and never questions them, until he can show that they are wrong.
Then he uses a good deal of discretion. Now you know your duty?"
"Yes, sir," said Payne, and Stimson, shaking his bridle, cantered off
across the prairie.
Then, seeing no need to waste time, the corporal rode towards
Courthorne's homestead, and found its owner stripping a binder. Pieces
of the machine lay all around him, and from the fashion in which he
handled them it was evident that he was capable of doing what the other
men at Silverdale left to the mechanic at the settlement. Payne
wondered, as he watched him, who had taught the gambler to use spanner
and file.
"I will not trouble you if you are busy, Mr. Courthorne, but if you
would give me the returns the Bureau ask for, it would save me riding
round again," he said.
"I'm afraid I can't," said Winston. "You see, I haven't had the
papers."
"Trooper Bacon told me he had given them to you."
"I don't seem to remember it," said Winston.
Payne laughed. "One forgets things when he is busy. Still, you had
them--because you signed for them."
Winston looked up suddenly, and in another moment smiled, but he was a
trifle too late, for Payne had seen his astonishment, and that he was
now on guard.
"Well," he said, "I haven't got them now. Send me a duplicate. You
have, no doubt, some extra forms at the outpost."
Payne decided that the man had never had the documents, but was too
clever to ask any questions or offer explanations that might involve
him. It was evident he knew that somebody had personated him, and the
fact sent a little thrill through the corporal; he was at least on the
trail.
"I'll bring you one round the next time I'm in the neighborhood," he
said, and Winston sat still with the spanner lying idle in his hand
when he rode away.
He realized that Courthorne had taken the papers, and his face grew
anxious as well as grim. The harvest was almost ready now, and a
little while would see it in. Then his work would be over, but he had
of late felt a growing fear lest something, that would prevent its
accomplishment, might happen in the meanwhile. Then almost fiercely he
resumed the stripping of the machine.
An hour or two later Dane rode up, and sat still in his saddle looking
down on Winston with a curious smile on his face.
"I was down at the settlement, and found a curious story going round,"
he said. "Of course, it had its humorous aspect, but I don't know that
the thing was quite discreet. You see, Barrington has once or twice
had to put a stern check on the indulgence in playfulness of that kind
by some of the younger men, and you are becoming an influence at
Silverdale."
"You naturally believed what you heard. It was in keeping with what
you have seen of me?"
Dane's eyes twinkled. "I didn't want to, and I must admit that it
isn't. Still, a good many of you quiet men are addicted to
occasionally astonishing your friends, and I can't help a fancy that
you could do that kind of thing as well as most folks, if it pleased
you. In fact, there was an artistic finish to the climax that
suggested your usual thoroughness."
"It did?" said Winston grimly, remembering his recent visitor and one
or two of Courthorne's Albertan escapades. "Still, as I'm afraid I
haven't the dramatic instinct, do you mind telling me how?"
Dane laughed. "Well, it is probable there are other men who would have
kissed the girl, but I don't know that it would have occurred to them
to smash a decanter on the irate lover's head."
Winston felt his fingers tingle for a grip on Courthorne's throat.
"And that's what I've been doing lately? You, of course, concluded
that after conducting myself in an examplary fashion an astonishing
time it was a trifling lapse?"
"Well," said Dane dryly, "as I admitted, it appeared somewhat out of
your usual line, but when I heard that a man from the settlement had
been ejected with violence from your homestead, what could one believe?"
"Colonel Barrington told you that!"
"No," said Dane, "you know he didn't. Still, he had a hired man riding
a horse he'd bought, and I believe--though it is not my affair--Maud
Barrington was there. Now, of course, one feels diffident about
anything that may appear like preaching, but you see, a good many of us
are following you, and I wouldn't like you to have many little lapses
of that kind while I'm backing you. You and I have done with these
frivolities some time ago, but there are lads here they might appeal
to. I should be pleased if you could deny the story."
Winston's face was grim. "I'm afraid it would not suit me to do as
much just now," he said. "Still, between you and I, do you believe it
likely that I would fly at that kind of game?"
Dane laughed softly. "Well," he said, "tastes differ, and the girl is
pretty, while you know, after all, they're very much the same. We
have, however, got to look at the thing sensibly, and you admit you
can't deny it."
"I told you it wouldn't suit me."
"Then there is a difference?"
Winston nodded. "You must make the best of that, but the others may
believe exactly what they please. It will be a favor to me if you
remember it."
Dane smiled curiously. "Then I think it is enough for me, and you will
overlook my presumption. Courthorne, I wonder now and then when I
shall altogether understand you!"
"The time will come," said Winston dryly, to hide what he felt, for his
comrade's simple avowal had been wonderfully eloquent. Then Dane
touched his horse with his heel and rode away.
It was two or three weeks later when Winston, being requested to do so,
drove over to attend one of the assemblies at Silverdale Grange. It
was dark when he reached the house, for the nights were drawing in, but
because of the temperature few of the great oil lamps were lighted, and
the windows were open wide. Somebody had just finished singing when he
walked into the big general room, and he would have preferred another
moment to make his entrance, but disdained to wait. He, however, felt
a momentary warmth in his face when Miss Barrington, stately as when he
had first seen her in her rustling silk and ancient laces, came forward
to greet him with her usual graciousness. He knew that every eye was
upon them, and guessed why she had done so much.
What she said was of no moment, but the fact that she had received him
without sign of coldness was eloquent, and the man bent very
respectfully over the little white hand. Then he stood straight and
square for a moment and met her eyes.
"Madam," he said, "I shall know whom to come to when I want a friend."
Afterwards he drifted towards a group of married farmers and their
wives, who, except for that open warranty, might have been less cordial
to him, and presently, though he was never quite sure how it came
about, found himself standing beside Maud Barrington. She smiled at
him, and then glanced towards one the open windows, outside which one
or two of the older men were sitting.
"The room is very hot," said Winston tentatively.
"Yes," said the girl. "I fancy it would be cooler in the hall."
They passed out together into the shadowy hall, but a little gleam of
light from the doorway behind them rested on Maud Barrington as she sat
down. She looked inquiringly at the man as though in wait for
something.
"It is distinctly cooler here," he said.
Maud Barrington laughed impatiently. "It is," she said.
"Well," said Winston, with a little smile, "I will try again. Wheat
has made another advance lately."
The girl turned towards him with a little sparkle in her eyes. Winston
saw it, and the faint shimmer of the pearls upon the whiteness of her
neck, and then moved his head so that he looked out upon the dusky
prairie.
"Pshaw!" she said. "You know why you were brought here to-night."
Winston admired her courage, but did not turn round, for there were
times when he feared his will might fail him. "I fancy I know why your
aunt was so gracious to me. Do you know that her confidence almost
hurts me?"
"Then why don't you vindicate it and yourself? Dane would be your
mouthpiece, and two or three words would be sufficient."
Winston made no answer for a space. Somebody was singing in the room
behind them, and through the open window he could see the stars in the
soft indigo above the great sweep of prairie. He noticed them vacantly
and took a curious impersonal interest in the two dim figures standing
close together outside the window. One was a young English lad, and
the other a girl in a long white dress. What they were doing there was
no concern of his, but any trifle that diverted his attention a moment
was welcome in that time of strain, for he had felt of late that
exposure was close at hand, and was fiercely anxious to finish his work
before it came. Maud Barrington's finances must be made secure before
he left Silverdale, and he must remain at any cost until the wheat was
sold.
Then he turned slowly towards her. "It is not your aunt's confidence
that hurts me the most."
The girl looked at him steadily, the color a trifle plainer in her
face, which she would not turn from the light, and a growing wonder in
her eyes.
"Lance," she said, "we both know that it is not misplaced. Still, your
impassiveness does not please us."
Winston groaned inwardly and the swollen veins showed on his forehead.
His companion had leaned forward a little so that she could see him,
and one white shoulder almost touched his own. The perfume of her hair
was in his nostrils, and when he remembered how cold she had once been
to him, a longing that was stronger than the humiliation that came with
it grew almost overwhelming. Still, because of her very trust in him,
there was a wrong he could not do, and it dawned on him that a means of
placing himself beyond further temptation was opening to him. Maud
Barrington, he knew, would have scanty sympathy with an intrigue of the
kind Courthorne's recent adventure pointed to.
"You mean, why do I not deny what you have no doubt heard?" he said.
"What could one gain by that if you had heard the truth?"
Maud Barrington laughed softly. "Isn't the question useless?"
"No," said Winston, a trifle hoarsely now.
The girl touched his arm almost imperiously as he turned his head again.
"Lance," she said. "Men of your kind need not deal in subterfuge. The
wheat and the bridge you built speak for you."
"Still," persisted Winston, and the girl checked him with a smile.
"I fancy you are wasting time," she said. "Now, I wonder whether, when
you were in England, you ever saw a play founded on an incident in the
life of a once famous actor. At the time it rather appealed to me.
The hero, with a chivalric purpose assumed various shortcomings he had
really no sympathy with--but while there is, of course, no similarity
beyond the generous impulse, between the cases--he did not do it
clumsily. It is, however, a trifle difficult to understand what
purpose you could have, and one cannot help fancying that you owe a
little to Silverdale and yourself."
It was a somewhat daring parallel, for Winston, who dare not look at
his companion and saw that he had failed, knew the play.
"Isn't the subject a trifle difficult?" he asked.
"Then," said Maud Barrington, "we will end it. Still, you promised
that I should understand--a good deal--when the time came."
Winston nodded gravely. "You shall," he said.
Then, somewhat to his embarrassment, the two figures moved further
across the window, and as they were silhouetted against the blue
duskiness, he saw that there was an arm about the waist of the girl's
white dress. He became sensible that Maud Barrington saw it too, and
then that, perhaps to save the situation, she was smiling. The two
figures, however, vanished, and a minute later a young girl in a long
white dress came in, and stood still, apparently dismayed when she saw
Maud Barrington. She did not notice Winston, who sat further in the
shadow. He, however, saw her face suddenly crimson.
"Have you been here long?" she asked.
"Yes," said Maud Barrington, with a significant glance towards the
window. "At least ten minutes. I am sorry, but I really couldn't help
it. It was very hot in the other room, and Allender was singing."
"Then," said the girl, with a little tremor in her voice, "you will not
tell?"
"No," said Maud Barrington. "But you must not do it again."
The girl stooped swiftly and kissed her, then recoiled with a gasp when
she saw the man, but Maud Barrington laughed.
"I think," she said, "I can answer for Mr. Courthorne's silence.
Still, when I have an opportunity, I am going to lecture you."
Winston turned with a twinkle he could not quite repress in his eyes,
and with a flutter of her dress the girl whisked away.
"I'm afraid this makes me an accessory, but I can only neglect my
manifest duty, which would be to warn her mother," said Maud Barrington.
"Is it a duty?" asked Winston, feeling that the further he drifted away
from the previous topic the better it would be for him.
"Some people would fancy so," said his companion, "Lily will have a
good deal of money, by and by, and she is very young. Atterly has
nothing but an unprofitable farm; but he is an honest lad, and I know
she is very fond of him."
"And would that count against the dollars?"
Maud Barrington laughed a little. "Yes," she said quietly. "I think
it would if the girl is wise. Even now such things do happen, but I
fancy it is time I went back again."
She moved away, but Winston stayed where he was until the lad came in
with a cigar in his hand.
"Hallo, Courthorne!" he said. "Did you notice anybody pass the window
a little while ago?"
"You are the first to come in through it," said Winston dryly. "The
kind of things you wear admit of climbing."
The lad glanced at him with a trace of embarrassment.
"I don't quite understand you, but I meant a man," he said. "He was
walking curiously, as if he was half-asleep, but he slipped round the
corner of the building and I lost him."
Winston laughed. "There's a want of finish in the tale, but you
needn't worry about me. I didn't see a man."
"There is rather less wisdom than usual in your remarks to-night, but I
tell you I saw him," said the lad.
He passed on, and a minute later there was a cry from the inner room.
"It's there again! Can't you see the face at the window?"
Winston was in the larger room next moment, and saw, as a startled girl
had evidently done, a face that showed distorted and white to
ghastliness through the window. He also recognized it, and running
back through the hall was outside in another few seconds. Courthorne
was leaning against one of the casements as though faint with weakness
or pain, and collapsed when Winston dragged him backwards into the
shadow. He had scarcely laid him down when the window was opened, and
Colonel Barrington's shoulders showed black against the light.
"Come outside alone, sir," said Winston.
Barrington did so, and Winston stood so that no light fell on the
pallid face in the grass. "It's a man I have dealings with," he said.
"He has evidently ridden out from the settlement and fallen from his
horse."
"Why should he fall?" asked the Colonel.
Winston laughed. "There is a perfume about him that is tolerably
conclusive. I was, however, on the point of going, and if you will
tell your hired man to get my wagon out, I'll take him away quietly.
You can make light of the affair to the others."
"Yes," said Barrington. "Unless you think the man is hurt, that would
be best, but we'll keep him if you like."
"No, sir. I couldn't trouble you," said Winston hastily. "Men of his
kind are also very hard to kill."
Five minutes later he and the hired man hoisted Courthorne into the
wagon and packed some hay about him, while, soon after the rattle of
wheels sank into the silence of the prairie, the girl Maud Barrington
had spoken to rejoined her companion.
"Could Courthorne have seen you coming in?" he asked.
"Yes," said the girl, blushing. "He did."
"Then it can't be helped, and, after all, Courthorne wouldn't talk,
even if he wasn't what he is," said the lad. "You don't know why, and
I'm not going to tell you, but it wouldn't become him."
"You don't mean Maud Barrington?" asked his companion.
"No," said the lad, with a laugh. "Courthorne is not like me. He has
no sense. It's quite another kind of girl, you see."