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.
CHAPTER XXIV – COURTHORNE MAKES REPARATION
The silence in the big room had grown oppressive when Barrington raised his head and sat stiffly upright.
“What has happened has been a blow to me, and I am afraid I am scarcely equal to entertaining you to-night,” he said. “I should, however, like Dane and Macdonald, and one or two of the older men, to stay a while. There is still, I fancy, a good deal for us to do.”
The others turned towards the door, but as they passed Witham, Miss Barrington turned and touched his shoulder. The man, looking up suddenly, saw her and her niece standing close beside her.
“Madam,” he said hoarsely, though it was Maud Barrington he glanced at, “the comedy is over. Well, I promised you an explanation, and now you have it you will try not to think too bitterly of me. I cannot ask you to forgive me.”
The little white-haired lady pointed to the ears of wheat which stood gleaming ruddy-bronze in front of him.
“That,” she said very quietly, “will make it easier.”
Maud Barrington said nothing, but every one in the room saw her standing a moment beside the man with a little flush in her face and no blame in her eyes. Then she passed on, but, short as it was, the pause had been very significant, for it seemed that whatever the elders of the community might decide, the two women, whose influence was supreme at Silverdale, had given the impostor absolution.
The girl could not analyse her feelings, but through them all a vague relief was uppermost; for whatever he had been, it was evident the man had done one wrong only, and daringly, and that was a good deal easier to forgive than several incidents in Courthorne’s past would have been. Then she was conscious that Miss Barrington’s eyes were upon her.
“Aunt,” she said with a little tremor in her voice, “it is almost bewildering. Still one seemed to feel that what that man has done could never have been the work of Lance Courthorne.”
Miss Barrington made no answer, but her face was very grave; and just then those nearest it drew back a little from the door. A trooper stood outside it, his carbine glinting in the light, and another was silhouetted against the sky, sitting motionless in his saddle further back on the prairie.
“The police are still there,” said somebody.
One by one they passed out under the trooper’s gaze, but there was the usual delay in harnessing and saddling, and the first vehicle had scarcely rolled away when again the beat of hoofs and thin jingle of steel came portentously out of the silence. Maud Barrington shivered a little as she heard it.
In the meanwhile, the few who remained had seated themselves about Colonel Barrington. When there was quietness again he glanced at Witham, who still sat at the foot of the table.
“Have you anything more to tell us?” he asked. “These gentlemen are here to advise me if necessary.”
“Yes,” said Witham quietly. “I shall probably leave Silverdale before morning, and have now to hand you a statement of my agreement with Courthorne and the result of my farming here, drawn up by a Winnipeg accountant. Here is also a document in which I have taken the liberty of making you and Dane my assigns. You will, as authorized by it, pay to Courthorne the sum due to him, and with your consent, which you have power to withhold, I propose taking one thousand dollars only of the balance that remains to me. I have it here now, and in the meanwhile surrender it to you. Of the rest, you will make whatever use that appears desirable for the general benefit of Silverdale. Courthorne has absolutely no claim upon it.”
He laid a wallet on the table, and Dane glanced at Colonel Barrington, who nodded when he returned it unopened.
“We will pass it without counting. You accept the charge, sir?” he said.
“Yes,” said Barrington gravely. “It seems it is forced on me. Well, we will glance through the statement.”
For at least ten minutes nobody spoke, and then Dane said, “There are prairie farmers who would consider what he is leaving behind him a competence.”
“If this agreement, which was apparently verbal, is confirmed by Courthorne, the entire sum rightfully belongs to the man he made his tenant,” said Barrington; and Macdonald smiled gravely as he glanced at Witham.
“I think we can accept the statement that it was made, without question, sir,” he said.
Witham shook his head. “I claim one thousand dollars as the fee of my services, and they should be worth that much; but I will take no more.”
“Are we not progressing a little too rapidly, sir?” said Dane. “It seems to me we have yet to decide whether it is necessary that the man who has done so much for us should leave Silverdale.”
Witham smiled a trifle grimly. “I think,” he said, “that question will very shortly be answered for you.”
Macdonald held his hand up, and a rapid thud of hoofs came faintly through the silence.
“Troopers! They are coming here,” he said.
“Yes,” said Witham. “I fancy they will relieve you from any further difficulty.”
Dane strode to one of the windows, and glanced at Colonel Barrington as he pulled back the catch. Witham, however, shook his head, and a little flush crept into Dane’s bronzed face.
“Sorry. Of course, you are right,” he said. “It will be better that they should acquit you.”
No one moved for a few more minutes, and then with a trooper behind him Sergeant Stimson came in, and laid his hand on Witham’s shoulder.
“I have a warrant for your apprehension, Farmer Witham,” he said. “You probably know the charge against you.”
“Yes,” said Witham, simply. “I hope to refute it. I will come with you.”
He went out, and Barrington stared at the men about him. “I did not catch the name before. That was the man who shot the police trooper in Alberta?”
“No, sir,” said Dane very quietly. “Nothing would induce me to believe it of him.”
Barrington looked at him in bewilderment. “But he must have done – unless,” he said, and ended with a little gasp. “Good Lord! There was the faint resemblance, and they changed horses – it is horrible.”
Dane’s eyes were very compassionate as he laid his hand gently on his leader’s shoulder.
“Sir,” he said, “you have our sympathy, and I am sorry that to offer it is all we can do. Now, I think, we have stayed too long already.”
They went out and left Colonel Barrington sitting alone with a grey face at the head of the table.
It was a minute or two later when Witham swung himself into the saddle at the door of the Grange; All the vehicles had not left as yet, and there was a little murmur of sympathy – when the troopers closed in about him. Still before they rode away, one of the men wheeled his horse aside, and Witham saw Maud Barrington standing bareheaded by his stirrup. The moonlight showed that her face was impassive but curiously pale.
“We could not let you go without a word; and you will come back to us with your innocence made clear,” she said.
Her voice had a little ring in it that carried far, and her companions heard her. What Witham said, they could not hear, and he did not remember it, but he swung his hat off, and those who saw the girl at his stirrup recognized with confusion that she alone had proclaimed her faith, while they had stood aside from him. Then the Sergeant raised his hand and the troopers rode forward with their prisoner.
In the meanwhile, Courthorne was pressing south for the American frontier and daylight was just creeping across the prairie when the pursuers, who had found his trail and the ranch he obtained a fresh horse at, had sight of him. There were three of them, riding wearily, grimed with dust, when a lonely mounted figure showed for a moment on the crest of a rise. In another minute it dipped into a hollow, and Corporal Payne smiled grimly.
“I think we have him now. The creek can’t be far away, and he’s west of the bridge,” he said. “While we try to head him off, you’ll follow behind him Hilton.”
One trooper sent the spurs in and, while the others swung off, rode straight on. Courthorne was at least a mile from them, but they were nearer the bridge, and Payne surmised that his jaded horse would fail him if he essayed to ford the creek and climb the farther side of the deep ravine it flowed through. They saw nothing of him when they swept across the rise, for here and there a grove of willows stretched out across the prairie from the sinuous band of trees in front of them. These marked the river hollow, and Payne knowing that the chase might be ended in a few more minutes did not spare the spur. He also remembered, as he tightened his grip on the bridle, the white face of Trooper Shannon flecked with the drifting snow.
The bluff that rose steadily higher came back to them, willow and straggling birch flashed by, and at last Payne drew bridle where a rutted trail wound down between the trees to the bridge in the hollow. A swift glance showed him that a mounted man could scarcely make his way between them and he smiled dryly as he signed to his companion.
