Then, for wheat is seldom stacked in that country, as the days grew shorter and the evenings cool, the smoke of the big thrasher streaked8 the harvest field, and the wagons9 went jolting10 between humming separator and granary, until the later was gorged11 to repletion12 and the wheat was stored within a willow13 framing beneath the chaff14 and straw that streamed from the chute of the great machine. Winston had around him the best men that dollars could hire, and toiled15 tirelessly with the grimy host in the whirling dust of the thrasher and amid the sheaves, wherever another pair of hands, or the quick decision that would save an hour's delay, was needed most.
As compared with the practice of insular17 Britain, there were not half enough of them, but wages are high in that country, and the crew of the thrasher paid by the bushel, while the rest had long worked for their own hand on the levels of Manitoba and in the bush of Ontario, and knew that the sooner their toil16 was over the sooner they would go home again with well-lined pockets. So, generously fed, splendid human muscle kept pace with clinking steel under a stress that is seldom borne outside the sun-bleached prairie at harvest time, and Winston forgot everything save the constant need for the utmost effort of body and brain. It was even of little import to him that prices moved steadily18 upward as he toiled.
At last it was finished, and only knee-high stubble covered his land and that of Maud Barrington, while, for he was one who could venture fearlessly and still know when he had risked enough, soon after it was thrashed out the wheat was sold. The harvesters went home with enough to maintain them through the winter, and Winston, who spent two days counting his gain, wrote asking Graham to send him an accountant from Winnipeg. With him he spent a couple more days, and then, with an effort he was never to forget, prepared himself for the reckoning. It was time to fling off the mask before the eyes of all who had trusted him.
He had thought it over carefully, and his first decision had been to make the revelation to Colonel Barrington alone. That, however, would, he felt, be too simple, and his pride rebelled against anything that would stamp him as one who dare not face the men he had deceived. One by one they had tacitly offered him their friendship and then their esteem19, until he knew that he was virtually leader at Silverdale, and it seemed fitting that he should admit the wrong he had done them, and bear the obloquy20, before them all. For a while the thought of Maud Barrington restrained him, and then he brushed that aside. He had fancied with masculine blindness that what he felt for her had been well concealed21, and that her attitude to him could be no more than kindly22 sympathy with one who was endeavoring to atone23 for a discreditable past. Her anger and astonishment24 would be hard to bear, but once more his pride prompted him, and he decided25 that she should at least see he had the courage to face the results of his wrong-doing. As it happened, he was given an opportunity, when he was invited to the harvest celebration that was held each year at Silverdale.
It was a still, cool evening when every man of the community, and most of the women, gathered in the big dining-room of the Grange. The windows were shut now, for the chill of the early frost was on the prairie, and the great lamps burned steadily above the long tables. Cut glass, dainty china and silver gleamed beneath them amidst the ears of wheat that stood in clusters for sole and appropriate ornamentation. They merited the place of honor, for wheat had brought prosperity to every man at Silverdale who had had the faith to sow that year.
On either hand were rows of smiling faces, the men's burned and bronzed, the women's kissed into faintly warmer color by the sun, and white shoulders shone amidst the somberly covered ones, while here and there a diamond gleamed on a snowy neck. Barrington sat at the head of the longest table, with his niece and sister, Dane and his oldest followers26 about him, and Winston at its foot, dressed very simply after the usual fashion of the prairie farmers. There were few in the company who had not noticed this, though they did not as yet understand its purport27.
Nothing happened during dinner, but Maud Barrington noticed that, although some of his younger neighbors rallied him, Winston 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 homage28 than they did when he stood smiling down on them. As usual he was immaculate in dress, erect29, 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 fulfillment of the promise made when the world was young," he said. "We do well to be thankful, but I think humility30 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 tremor31 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 retrieve32 our blunders, but we can hope they will be forgiven us and endeavor to avoid them again. This is not the fashion in which I had meant to speak to you tonight, but after the bounty33 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 so 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 murmurs34, and the company rose to their feet before the lad had beaten out the first bar of the jingling36 rhythm. Then the voices took it up, and the great hall shook to the rafters with the last "Nobody can deny."
Trite37 as it was, Barrington saw the darker flush in the bronzed faces, and there was a shade of warmer color 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 remains38 that sooner or later I must let the reins39 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 Dominion40 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 in disaster irretrievable is due to our latest comrade, Lance Courthorne."
This time there were no musical honors or need of them, for a shout went up that called forth41 an answering rattle42 from the cedar43 paneling. 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 suffused44 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 throbbing45 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 soften46 your most warranted resentment47 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 reassuringly48.
"You'll feel your feet in a moment, but that's a curious fashion of putting it," he said.
Winston 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 curiously49 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
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CHAPTER XXIII SERGEANT STIMSON CONFIRMS HIS SUSPICIONS
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CHAPTER XXV COURTHORNE MAKES REPARATION
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