The sergeant went out, and when the beat of hoofs sank into the silence of the prairie, Witham called Courthorne in. "I have offered you no refreshment, but the best in the house is at your service," he said.

Courthorne looked at him curiously, and for the first time Witham noticed that the life he had led was telling upon his companion.

"As your guest?" he asked.

"Yes," said Witham. "I am tenant here, and, that I may owe you nothing, purpose paying you a second thousand dollars when the crop is in, as well as bank-rate interest on the value of the stock and machines and the money I have used, as shown in the doc.u.ments handed me by Colonel Barrington. With wheat at its present price, n.o.body would give you more for the land. In return, I demand the unconditional use of the farm until within three months from harvest I have the elevator warrants for whatever wheat I raise, which will belong to me. If you do not agree, or remain here after sunrise to-morrow, I shall ride over to the outpost and make a declaration."

"Well," said Courthorne slowly, "you can consider it a deal."

CHAPTER XV

FACING THE FLAME

Courthorne rode away next morning, and some weeks had pa.s.sed when Maud Barrington came upon Witham sitting beside his mower in a sloo. He did not at first see her, for the rattle of the machines in a neighbouring hollow drowned the m.u.f.fled beat of hoofs, and the girl, reining her horse in, looked down on him. The man was sitting very still, which was unusual with him, a hammer in his hand, gazing straight before him, as though he could see something beyond the shimmering heat that danced along the rim of the prairie.

Summer had come, and the gra.s.s, which grew scarcely ankle-deep on the great levels, was once more white and dry; but in the hollows that had held the melting snow it stood waist-high, scented with peppermint, harsh and wiry, and Witham had set out with every man he had to harvest it. Already a line of loaded wagons crawled slowly across the prairie, and men and horses moved half-seen amid the dust that whirled about another sloo. Out of it came the trampling of hoofs and the musical tinkle of steel.

Suddenly Witham looked up, and the care which was stamped upon it fled from his face when he saw the girl. The dust that lay thick upon his garments had spared her, and as she sat, patting the restless horse, with a little smile in her face which showed just touched by the sun beneath the big white hat, something in her dainty freshness reacted upon the tired man's fancy. He had long borne the stress and the burden, and as he watched her a longing to taste for at least a s.p.a.ce the life of leisure and refinement came upon him, as it had done too often for his tranquility since he came to Silverdale. This woman who had been born to it could, it seemed to him, lift the man she trusted beyond the sordid cares of the turmoil to her own high level, and as he waited for her to speak, a fit of pa.s.sion shook him. It betrayed itself only by the sudden hardening of his face.

"It is the first time I have surprised you idle. You were dreaming,"

she said.

Witham smiled a trifle mirthlessly. "I was, but I am afraid the fulfillment of the dreams is not for me. One is apt to be pulled up suddenly when he ventures over far."

"We are inquisitive, you know," said Maud Barrington; "can't you tell me what they were?"

Witham did not know what impulse swayed him, and afterwards blamed himself for complying; but the girl's interest compelled him, and he showed her a little of what was in his heart.

"I fancy I saw Silverdale gorging the elevators with the choicest wheat," he said. "A new bridge flung level across the ravine where the wagons go down half-loaded to the creek; a dam turning the hollow into a lake, and big turbines driving our own flouring mill. Then there were herds of cattle fattening on the strippings of the grain that wasteful people burn, our products clamoured for, east in the old country, and west in British Columbia--and for a background, prosperity and power, even if it was paid for with half the traditions of Silverdale. Still, you see it may all be due to the effect of the fierce sunshine on an idle man's fancy."

Maud Barrington regarded him steadily, and the smile died out of her eyes. "But," she said, slowly "is all that quite beyond realization.

Could you not bring it about?"

Witham saw her quiet confidence and something of her pride. There was no avarice in this woman, but the slight dilation of the nostrils and the glow in her eyes told of ambition, and for a moment his soul was not his own.

"I could," he said; and Maud Barrington, who watched the swift straightening of his shoulders and lifting of his head, felt that he spoke no more than the truth. Then with a sudden access of bitterness, "But I never will."

"Why?" she asked. "Have you grown tired of Silverdale, or has what you pictured no charm for you?"

Witham leaned, as it were wearily against the wheel of the mower. "I wonder if you could understand what my life has been. The crushing poverty that rendered every effort useless from the beginning, the wounds that come from using imperfect tools, and the numb hopelessness that follows repeated failure. They are tolerably hard to bear alone, but it is more difficult to make the best of them when the poorly-fed body is as worn out as the mind. To stay here would be--paradise--but a glimpse of it will probably have to suffice. Its gates are well guarded and without are the dogs, you know."

Something in Maud Barrington thrilled in answer to the faint hoa.r.s.eness in Witham's voice, and she did not resent it. She was a woman with all her s.e.x's instinctive response to pa.s.sion and emotion, though as yet the primitive impulses that stir the hearts of men had been covered, if not wholly hidden, from her by the thin veneer of civilization. Now, at least, she felt in touch with them, and for a moment she looked at the man with a daring that matched his own shining in her eyes.

"And you fear the angel with the sword?" she said. "There is nothing so terrible at Silverdale."

"No," said Witham, "I think it is the load I have to carry I fear the most."

For the moment Maud Barrington had flung off the bonds of conventionality. "Lance," she said, "you have proved your right to stay at Silverdale, and would not what you are doing now cover a great deal in the past?"

Witham smiled wryly. "It is the present that is difficult," he said.

"Can a man be pardoned and retain the offence?"

He saw the faint bewilderment in the girl's face give place to the resentment of frankness unreturned, and with a little shake of his shoulders shrank into himself. Maud Barrington, who understood it, once more put on the becoming reticence of Silverdale.

"We are getting beyond our depth, and it is very hot," she said. "You have all this hay to cut!"

Witham laughed as he bent over the mower's knife. "Yes," he said, "it is really more in my line, and I have kept you in the sun too long."

In another few moments Maud Barrington was riding across the prairie, but when the rattle of the machine rose from the sloo behind her she laughed curiously.

"The man knew his place, but you came perilously near making a fool of yourself this morning, my dear," she said.

It was a week or two later, and very hot when, with others of his neighbours, Witham sat in the big hall at Silverdale Grange. The windows were open wide, and the smell of hot dust came in from the white waste which rolled away beneath the stars. There was also another odour in the little puffs of wind that flickered in, and far off where the arch of indigo dropped to the dusky earth wavy lines of crimson moved along the horizon. It was then the season when fires that are lighted by means which no man knows creep up and down the waste of gra.s.s, until they put on speed and roll in a surf of flame before a sudden breeze. Still, n.o.body was anxious about them, for the guarding furrows that would oppose a s.p.a.ce of dusty soil to the march of the flame had been ploughed round every homestead at Silverdale.

Maud Barrington was at the piano, and her voice was good; while Witham, who had known what it is to toil from red dawn to sunset without hope of more than daily food, found the simple song she had chosen chime with his mood: "All day long the reapers."

A faint staccato drumming that rose from the silent prairie throbbed through the final chords of it, and when the music ceased, swelled into the gallop of a horse. It seemed in some curious fashion portentous, and when there was a rattle and jingle outside other eyes than Witham's were turned towards the door. It swung open presently, and Dane came in. There was quiet elation and some diffidence in his bronzed face as he turned to Colonel Barrington.

"I could not get away earlier from the settlement, sir, but I have great news," he said. "They have awoke to the fact that stocks are getting low in the old country. Wheat moved up at Winnipeg, and there was almost a rush to buy yesterday."

There was a sudden silence, for among those present were men who remembered the acres of good soil they had not ploughed, but a little grim smile crept into their leader's face.

"It is," he said quietly, "too late for most of us. Still, we will not grudge you your good fortune, Dane. You and a few of the others owe it to Courthorne."

Every eye was on the speaker, for it had become known among his neighbours that he had sold for a fall; but Barrington could lose gracefully. Then both his niece and Dane looked at Witham with a question in their eyes.

"Yes," he said very quietly, "it is the turning of the tide."

He crossed over to Barrington, who smiled at him dryly as he said, "It is a trifle soon to admit that I was wrong."

Witham made a gesture of almost impatient deprecation. "I was wondering how far I might presume, sir. You have forward wheat to deliver?"

"I have," said Barrington; "unfortunately, a good deal. You believe the advance will continue?"

"Yes," said Witham simply. "Still it is but the beginning, and there will be a reflux before the stream sets in. Wait a little, sir, and then telegraph your broker to cover all your contracts when the price drops again."

"I fancy it would be wiser to cut my losses now," said Barrington dryly.

Then Witham did a somewhat daring thing, for he raised his voice a trifle, in a fashion that seemed to invite the attention of the rest of the company.

"The more certain the advance seems to be, the fiercer will be the bears' last attack," he said. "They have to get from under, and will take heavy chances to force prices back. As yet, they may contrive to check or turn the stream, and then every wise man who has sold down will try to cover, but no one can tell how far it may carry us, once it sets strongly in."

The men understood, as did Colonel Barrington, that they were being warned, above their leader's head; and his niece, while resenting the slight, admitted the courage of the man. Barrington's face was sardonic, and a less resolute man would have winced under the implication as he said: