The Impostor

Witham flung two bundles of straw down beside the stove, and stood looking at her gravely. “Yes,” he said. “I want you to sit down and let me wrap this sleigh robe about you.”

The girl submitted, and did not shrink from his touch visibly when he drew the fur robe about her shoulders and packed the end of it round her feet. Still, there was a faint warmth in her face, and she was grateful for his unconcernedness.

“Fate or fortune has placed me in charge of you until to-morrow, and if the position is distasteful to you it is not my fault,” he said. “Still, I feel the responsibility, and it would be a little less difficult if you could accept the fact tacitly.”

Maud Barrington would not have shivered if she could have avoided it, but the cold was too great for her, and she did not know whether she was vexed or pleased at the gleam of compassion in the man’s grey eyes. It was more eloquent than anything of the kind she had ever seen, but it had gone and he was only quietly deferent when she glanced at him again.

“I will endeavour to be good,” she said, and then flushed with annoyance at the adjective. Half-dazed by the cold as she was, she could not think of a more suitable one. Witham, however, retained his gravity.

“Now, Macdonald gave you no supper, and he has dinner at noon,” he said. “I brought some eatables along, and you must make the best meal you can.”

He opened a packet, and laid it, with a little silver flask, upon her knee.

“I cannot eat all this – and it is raw spirit,” said Maud Barrington.

Witham laughed. “Are you not forgetting your promise? Still, we will melt a little snow into the cup.”

An icy gust swept in when he opened the door, and it was only by a strenuous effort he closed it again, while, when he came back panting with the top of the flask a little colour crept into Maud Barrington’s face. “I am sorry,” she said. “That at least is your due.”

“I really don’t want my due,” said Witham with a deprecatory gesture as he laid the silver cup upon the stove. “Can’t we forget we are not exactly friends, just for to-night? If so, you will drink this and commence at once on the provisions – to please me!”

Maud Barrington was glad of the reviving draught, for she was very cold, but presently she held out the packet.

“One really cannot eat many crackers at once; will you help me?”

Witham laughed as he took one of the biscuits. “If I had expected any one would share my meal, I would have provided a better one. Still, I have been glad to feast upon more unappetizing things occasionally!”

“When were you unfortunate?” said the girl.

Witham smiled somewhat dryly. “I was unfortunate for six years on end.”

He was aware of the blunder when he had spoken, but Maud Barrington appeared to be looking at the flask thoughtfully.

“The design is very pretty,” she said. “You got it in England?”

The man knew that it was the name F. Witham his companion’s eyes rested on, but his face was expressionless. “Yes,” he said. “It is one of the things they make for presentation in the old country.”

Maud Barrington noticed the absence of any attempt at explanation, and having considerable pride of her own, was sensible of a faint approval. “You are making slow progress,” she said, with a slight but perceptible difference in her tone. “Now, you can have eaten nothing since breakfast.”

Witham said nothing, but by and by poured a little of the spirit into a rusty can, and the girl, who understood why he did so, felt that it covered several of his offences. “Now,” she said graciously, “you may smoke if you wish to.”

Witham pointed to the few billets left and shook his head. “I’m afraid I must get more wood.”

The roar of the wind almost drowned his voice, and the birch logs seemed to tremble under the impact of the blast, while Maud Barrington shivered as she asked, “Is it safe?”

“It is necessary,” said Witham, with the little laugh she had already found reassuring.

He had gone out in another minute, and the girl felt curiously lonely as she remembered stories of men who had left their homesteads during a blizzard to see to the safety of the horses in a neighbouring stable, and were found afterwards as still as the snow that covered them. Maud Barrington was not unduly timorous, but the roar of that awful icy gale would have stricken dismay into the hearts of most men, and she found herself glancing with feverish impatience at a diminutive gold watch and wondering whether the cold had retarded its progress. Ten minutes passed very slowly, lengthened to twenty more slowly still, and then it flashed upon her that there was at least something she could do; and, scraping up a little of the snow that sifted in, she melted it in the can. Then she set the flask-top upon the stove, and once more listened for the man’s footsteps very eagerly.

She did not hear them, but at last the door swung open, and carrying a load of birch branches Witham staggered in. He dropped them, strove to close the door, and failed, then leaned against it, gasping, with a livid face, for there are few men who can withstand the cold of a snow-laden gale at forty degrees below.

How Maud Barrington closed the door she did not know; but it was with a little imperious gesture she turned to the man.

“Shake those furs at once,” she said; and drawing him towards the stove held up the steaming cup. “Now sit there and drink it.”

Witham stooped and reached out for the can, but the girl swept it off the stove. “Oh, I know the silver was for me,” she said. “Still, is this a time for trifles such as that?”

Worn out by a very grim struggle, Witham did as he was bidden, and looked up with a twinkle in his eyes, when with the faintest trace of colour in her cheeks the girl sat down close to him and drew part of the fur robe about him.

“I really believe you were a little pleased to see me come back just now,” he said.

“Was that quite necessary?” asked Maud Barrington. “Still, I was.”

Witham made a little deprecatory gesture. “Of course,” he said. “Now we can resume our former footing to-morrow, but in the meanwhile I would like to know why you are so hard upon me, Miss Barrington, because I really have not done much harm to any one at Silverdale. Your aunt” – and he made a little respectful inclination of his head which pleased the girl – “is at least giving me a fair trial.”

“It is difficult to tell you – but it was your own doing,” said Maud Barrington. “At the beginning you prejudiced us when you told us you could only play cards indifferently. It was so unnecessary, and we knew a good deal about you!”

“Well,” said Witham quietly, “I have only my word to offer, and I wonder if you will believe me now, but I don’t think I ever won five dollars at cards in my life.”

Maud Barrington watched him closely, but his tone carried conviction, and again she was glad that he attempted no explanation. “I am quite willing to take it,” she said. “Still, you can understand – ”

“Yes,” said Witham. “It puts a strain upon your faith, but some day I may be able to make a good deal that puzzles you quite clear.”

Maud Barrington glanced at the flask. “I wonder if that is connected with the explanation, but I will wait. Now, you have not lighted your cigar.”

Witham understood that the topic was dismissed, and sat thoughtfully still while the girl nestled against the birch logs close beside him under the same furs; for the wind went through the building and the cold was unbearable a few feet from the stove. The birch rafters shook above their heads, and every now and then it seemed that a roaring gust would lift the roof from them. Still the stove glowed and snapped, and close in about it there was a drowsy heat, while presently the girl’s eyes grew heavy. Finally – for there are few who can resist the desire for sleep in the cold of the North-West – her head sank back, and Witham, rising very slowly, held his breath as he piled the furs about her. That done, he stooped and looked down upon her while the blood crept to his face. Maud Barrington lay very still, the long, dark lashes resting on her cold-tinted cheeks, and the patrician serenity of her face was even more marked in her sleep. Then he turned away, feeling like one who had committed a desecration, knowing that he had looked too long already upon the sleeping girl who believed he had been an outcast and yet had taken his word; for it was borne in upon him that a time would come when he would try her faith even more severely. Moving softly, he paced up and down the room.

Witham afterwards wondered how many miles he walked that night, for though the loghouse was not longer than thirty feet, the cold bit deep; but at last he heard a sigh as he glanced towards the stove, and immediately swung round again. When he next turned, Miss Barrington stood upright, a little flushed in face, but otherwise very calm; and the man stood still, shivering in spite of his efforts, and blue with cold. The wind had fallen, but the sting of the frost that followed it made itself felt beside the stove.

“You had only your deerskin jacket – and you let me sleep under all the furs,” she said.

Witham shook his head, and hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt, when he remembered that it must have been evident to his companion that the furs did not get into the position they had occupied themselves.

“I only fancied you were a trifle drowsy and not inclined to talk,” he said, with an absence of concern, for which Miss Barrington, who did not believe him, felt grateful. “You see” – and the inspiration was a trifle too evident – “I was too sleepy to notice anything myself. Still, I am glad you are awake now, because I must make my way to the Grange.”

“But the snow will be ever so deep, and I could not come,” said Maud Barrington.

Witham shook his head. “I’m afraid you must stay here; but I will be back with Colonel Barrington in a few hours at latest.”

The girl deemed it advisable to hide her consternation. “But you might not find the trail,” she said. “The ravine would lead you to Graham’s homestead.”

“Still,” said Witham slowly, “I am going to the Grange.”

Then Maud Barrington remembered, and glanced aside from him. It was evident this man thought of everything; and she made no answer when Witham, who thrust more billets into the stove, turned to her with a little smile.

“I think we need remember nothing when we meet again, beyond the fact that you will give me a chance of showing that the Lance Courthorne, whose fame you know, has ceased to exist.”

Then he went out, and the girl stood with flushed cheeks looking down at the furs he had left behind him.

CHAPTER X – MAUD HARRINGTON’S PROMISE

Daylight had not broken across the prairie, when, floundering through a foot of dusty snow, Witham reached the Grange. He was aching from fatigue and cold, and the deerskin jacket stood out from his numbed body, stiff with frost, when, leaning heavily on a table, he awaited Colonel Barrington. The latter, on entering, stared at him and then flung open a cupboard and poured out a glass of wine.

“Drink that before you talk. You look half dead,” he said.

Witham shook his head. “Perhaps you had better hear me first.”

Barrington thrust the glass upon him. “I could make nothing of what you told me while you speak like that. Drink it, and then sit until you get used to the different temperature.”

Witham drained the glass and sank limply into a chair. As yet his face was colourless, though his chilled flesh tingled horribly as the blood once more crept into the surface tissues. Then he fixed his eyes upon his host as he told his story. Barrington stood very straight watching his visitor, but his face was drawn, for the resolution which supported him through the day was less noticeable in the early morning, and it was evident now at least that he was an old man carrying a heavy load of anxiety. Still, as the story proceeded, a little blood crept into his cheeks, while Witham guessed that he found it difficult to retain his grim immobility.

“I am to understand that an attempt to reach the Grange through the snow would have been perilous?” he said.

“Yes,” said Witham quietly.

The older man stood very still regarding him intently, until he said, “I don’t mind admitting that it was distinctly regrettable!”

Witham stopped him with a gesture. “It was at least unavoidable, sir. The team would not face the snow, and no one could have reached the Grange alive.”

“No doubt you did your best – and, as a connexion of the family, I am glad it was you. Still – and there are cases in which it is desirable to speak plainly – the affair, which you will, of course, dismiss from your recollection, is to be considered as closed now.”

Witham smiled, and a trace of irony he could not quite repress was just discernible in his voice. “I scarcely think that was necessary, sir. It is, of course, sufficient for me to have rendered a small service to the distinguished family which has given me an opportunity of proving my right to recognition, and neither you, nor Miss Barrington, need have any apprehension that I will presume upon it!”

Barrington wheeled round. “You have the Courthorne temper, at least, and perhaps I deserved this display of it. You acted with commendable discretion in coming straight to me – and the astonishment I got drove the other aspect of the question out of my head. If it hadn’t been for you, my niece would have frozen.”

“I’m afraid I spoke unguardedly, sir; but I am very tired. Still, if you will wait a few minutes, I will get the horses out without troubling the hired man.”

Barrington made a little gesture of comprehension, and then shook his head. “You are fit for nothing further, and need rest and sleep.”

“You will want somebody, sir,” said Witham. “The snow is very loose and deep.”

He went out, and Barrington, who looked after him with a curious expression in his face, nodded twice as if in approval. Twenty minutes later he took his place in the sleigh that slid away from the Grange, which lay a league behind it when the sunrise flamed across the prairie. The wind had gone, and there was only a pitiless brightness and a devastating cold, while the snow lay blown in wisps, dried dusty and fine as flour by the frost. It had no cohesion, the runners sank in it, and Witham was almost waist deep when he dragged the floundering team through the drifts. A day had passed since he had eaten anything worth mention, but he held on with an endurance which his companion, who was incapable of rendering him assistance, wondered at. There were belts of deep snow the almost buried sleigh must be dragged through, and tracts from which the wind had swept the dusty covering, leaving bare the grasses the runners would not slide over, where the team came to a standstill, and could scarcely be urged to continue the struggle.

At last, however, the loghouse rose, a lonely mound of whiteness, out of the prairie, and Witham drew in a deep breath of contentment when a dusky figure appeared for a moment in the doorway. His weariness seemed to fall from him, and once more his companion wondered at the tirelessness of the man, as, floundering on foot beside them, he urged the team through the powdery drifts beneath the big birch bluff. Witham did not go in, however, when they reached the house; and when, five minutes later, Maud Barrington came out, she saw him leaning with a drawn face against the sleigh. He straightened himself suddenly at the sight of her, but she had seen sufficient, and her heart softened towards him. Whatever the man’s history had been he had borne a good deal for her.

The return journey was even more arduous, and now and then Maud Barrington felt a curious throb of pity for the worn-out man, who during most of it walked beside the team; but it was accomplished at last, and she contrived to find means of thanking him alone when they reached the Grange.

Witham shook his head, and then smiled a little. “It isn’t nice to make a bargain,” he said. “Still, it is less pleasant now and then to feel under an obligation, though there is no reason why you should.”

Maud Barrington was not altogether pleased, but she could not blind herself to facts, and it was plain that there was an obligation. “I am afraid I cannot quite believe that, but I do not see what you are leading to.”

Witham’s eyes twinkled. “Well,” he said reflectively, “I don’t want you to fancy that last night commits you to any line of conduct in regard to me. I only asked for a truce, you see.”

Maud Barrington was a trifle nettled. “Yes?” she said.

“Then, I want to show you how you can discharge any trifling obligation you may fancy you may owe me, which of course would be more pleasant to you. Do not allow your uncle to sell any wheat forward for you, and persuade him to sow every acre that belongs to you this spring.”

“But however would this benefit you,” asked the girl.

Witham laughed. “I have a fancy that I can straighten up things at Silverdale, if I can get my way. It would please me, and I believe they want it. Of course, a desire to improve anything appears curious in me!”

Maud Barrington was relieved of the necessity of answering, for the Colonel came up just then; but, moved by some sudden impulse, she nodded as if in agreement.

It was afternoon when she awakened from a refreshing sleep, and descending to the room set apart for herself and her aunt, sat thoughtfully still awhile in a chair beside the stove. Then, stretching out her hand, she took up a little case of photographs and slipped out one of them. It was a portrait of a boy and pony, but there was a significance in the fact that she knew just where to find it. The picture was a good one, and once more Maud Barrington noticed the arrogance, which did not, however, seem out of place there, in the lad’s face. It was also a comely face, but there was a hint of sensuality in it that marred its beauty. Then with a growing perplexity she compared it with that of the weary man who had plodded beside the team. Witham was not arrogant but resolute, and there was no stamp of indulgence in his face. Indeed, the girl had from the beginning recognized the virility in it that was tinged with asceticism and sprang from a simple, strenuous life of toil in the wind and sun.

Just then there was a rustle of fabric, and she laid down the photograph a moment too late, as her aunt came in. As it happened, the elder lady’s eyes rested on the picture, and a faint flush of annoyance crept into the face of the girl. It was scarcely perceptible, but Miss Barrington saw it, and though she felt tempted, did not smile.

“I did not know you were down,” she said. “Lance is still asleep. He seemed very tired.”

“Yes,” said the girl. “That is very probable. He left the railroad before daylight, and had driven round to several farms before he came to Macdonald’s, and he was very considerate. He had made me take all the furs, and, I fancy, walked up and down with nothing but his indoor clothing on all night long, though the wind went through the building, and one could scarcely keep alive a few feet from the stove.”

Again the flicker of colour crept into the girl’s cheeks, and the eyes that were keen, as well as gentle, noticed it.

“I think you owe him a good deal,” said Miss Barrington.

“Yes,” said her niece, with a little laugh which appeared to imply a trace of resentment. “I believe I do, but he seemed unusually anxious to relieve me of that impression. He was also good enough to hint that nothing he might have done need prevent me being – the right word is a trifle difficult to find – but I fancy he meant unpleasant to him if I wished it.”

There was a little twinkle in Miss Barrington’s eyes. “Are you not a trifle hard to please, my dear? Now, if he had attempted to insist on a claim to your gratitude, you would have resented it.”

“Of course,” said the girl reflectively. “Still, it is annoying to be debarred from offering it. There are times, aunt, when I can’t help wishing that Lance Courthorne had never come to Silverdale. There are men who leave nothing just as they found it, and whom one can’t ignore.”

Miss Barrington shook her head. “I fancy you are wrong. He has offended after all?”

She was pleased to see her niece’s face relax into a smile that expressed unconcern. “We are all exacting now and then,” said the girl. “Still, he made me promise to give him a fair trial, which was not flattering, because it suggested that I had been unnecessarily harsh, and then hinted this morning that he had no intention of holding me to it. It really was not gratifying to find he held the concession he asked for of so small account. You are, however, as easily swayed by trifles as I am, because Lance can do no wrong since he kissed your hand.”

“I really think I liked him the better for it,” said the little silver-haired lady. “The respect was not assumed, but wholly genuine, you see; and whether I was entitled to it or not, it was a good deal in Lance’s favour that he should offer it to me. There must be some good in the man who can be moved to reverence anything, even if he is mistaken.”

“No man with any sense could help adoring you,” said Maud Barrington. “Still, I wonder why you believe I was wrong in wishing he had not come to Silverdale.”

Miss Barrington looked thoughtful. “I will tell you, my dear. There are few better men than my brother; but his thoughts, and the traditions he is bound by, are those of fifty years ago, while the restless life of the prairie is a thing of to-day. We have fallen too far behind it at Silverdale, and a crisis is coming that none of us are prepared for. Even Dane is scarcely fitted to help my brother to face it, and the rest are either over-fond of their pleasure or untrained boys. Brave lads they are, but none of them have been taught that it is only by mental strain, or the ceaseless toil of his body, the man without an inheritance can win himself a competence now. This is why they want a leader who has known hardship and hunger, instead of ease, and won what he holds with his own hand in place of having it given him.”

“You fancy we could find one in such a man as Lance has been?”

Miss Barrington looked grave. “I believe the prodigal was afterwards a better, as well as a wiser, man than the one who stayed at home, and I am not quite sure that Lance’s history is so nearly like that of the son in the parable as we have believed it to be. A residence in the sty is apt to leave a stain, which I have not, though I have looked for it, found on him.”

The eyes of the two women met, and, though nothing more was said, each realized that the other was perplexed by the same question, while the girl was astonished to find her vague suspicions shared. While they sat silent, Colonel Barrington came in.

“I am glad to see you looking so much better, Maud,” he said, with a trace of embarrassment. “Courthorne is resting still. Now, I can’t help feeling that we have been a trifle more distant than was needful with him. The man has really behaved very discreetly. I mean in everything.”

This was a great admission, and Miss Barrington smiled. “Did it hurt you very much to tell us that?” she asked.

The Colonel laughed. “I know what you mean, and if you put me on my mettle I’ll retract. After all, it was no great credit to him, because blood will tell, and he is, of course, a Courthorne.”

Almost without her intention, Maud Barrington’s eyes wandered towards the photograph, and then looking up she met those of her aunt, and once more saw the thought that troubled her in them.

“The Courthorne blood is responsible for a good deal more than discretion,” said Miss Barrington, who went out quietly.

Her brother appeared a trifle perplexed. “Now, I fancied your aunt had taken him under her wing, and when I was about to suggest that, considering the connexion between the families, we might ask him over to dinner occasionally, she goes away,” he said.

The girl looked down a moment, for, realizing that her uncle recognized the obligation he was under to the man he did not like, she remembered that she herself owed him considerably more and he had asked for something in return. It was not altogether easy to grant, but she had tacitly pledged herself, and turning suddenly she laid a hand on Barrington’s arm.

“Of course; but I want to talk of something else just now,” she said. “You know I have very seldom asked you questions about my affairs, but I wish to take a little practical interest in them this year.”