Kitabı oku: «The Impostor», sayfa 19
“Then,” said Witham, “you have seen this thing in me?”
Graham nodded gravely. “Yes, sir, but you don’t want to get proud. You had nothing to do with the getting of it. It was given you. Now, we’re going to have a year that will not be forgotten by those who handle wheat and flour, and the men with the long heads will roll the dollars in. Well, I’ve no use for another clerk, and my salesman’s good enough for me, but if we can agree on the items I’ll take you for a partner.”
The offer was made and accepted quietly, and when a rough draft of the arrangement had been agreed upon, Graham nodded as he lighted another cigar.
“You may as well take hold at once, and there’s work ready now,” he said. “You’ve heard of the old St. Louis mills back on the edge of the bush country. Never did any good. Folks who had them were short of dollars, and didn’t know how they should be run. Well, I and two other men have bought them for a song, and while the place is tumbling in, the plant seems good. Now, I can get hold of orders for flour when I want them, and everybody with dollars to spare will plank them right into any concern handling food-stuffs this year. You go down to-morrow with an engineer, and, when you’ve got the mills running and orders coming in, we’ll sell out to a company if we don’t want them.”
Witham sat silent a space, turning over a big bundle of plans and estimates. Then he said, “You’ll have to lay out a pile of dollars.”
Graham laughed. “That’s going to be your affair. When you want them the dollars will be ready, and there’s only one condition. Every dollar we put down has got to bring another in.”
“But,” said Witham, “I don’t know anything about milling.”
“Then,” said Graham dryly, “you have got to learn. A good many men have got quite rich in this country running things they didn’t know much about when they took hold of them.”
“There’s one more point,” said Witham. “I must make those thirty thousand dollars soon, or they’ll be no great use to me, and when I have them I may want to leave you.”
“That’s all right,” said Graham. “By the time you’ve done it, you’ll have made sixty for me. We’ll go out and have some lunch to clinch the deal if you’re ready.”
It might have appeared unusual in England, but it was much less so in a country where the specialization of professions is still almost unknown, and the man who can adapt himself attains ascendency, and on the morrow Witham arrived at a big wooden building beside a pine-shrouded river. It appeared falling to pieces, and the engineer looked disdainfully at some of the machinery, but, somewhat against his wishes, he sat up with his companion most of the night in a little log hotel, and orders that occasioned one of Graham’s associates consternation were mailed to the city next morning. Then machines came out by the carload, and men with tools in droves. Some of them murmured mutinously when they found they were expected to do as much as their leader who was not a tradesman, but these were forthwith sent back again, and the rest were willing to stay and earn the premium he promised them for rapid work.
Before the frost grew Arctic, the building stood firm and the hammers rang inside it night and day until when the ice had bound the dam and lead the fires were lighted and the trials under steam again. It cost more than water, but buyers with orders from the East were clamouring for flour just then. For a fortnight Witham snatched his food in mouthfuls, and scarcely closed his eyes, when Graham found him pale and almost haggard when he came down with several men from the cities in response to a telegram. For an hour they moved up and down, watching whirring belt and humming roller, and then, whitened with the dust, stood very intent and quiet while one of them dipped up a little flour from the delivery hopper. His opinions on, and dealings in that product were famous in the land. He said nothing for several minutes, and then, brushing the white dust from his hands, turned with a little smile to Graham.
“We’ll have some baked, but I don’t know that there’s much use for it. This will grade a very good first,” he said. “You can book me the thousand two eighties for a beginning now.”
Witham’s fingers trembled, but there was a twinkle in Graham’s eyes as he brought his hand down on his shoulder.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I was figuring right on this when I brought the champagne along. It was all I could do, but Imperial Tokay wouldn’t be good enough to rinse this dust down with, when every speck of it that’s on you means dollars by the handful rolling in.”
It was a very contented and slightly hilarious party that went back to the city, but Witham sat down before a shaded lamp with a wet rag round his head when they left him, and bent over a sheaf of drawings until his eyes grew dim. Then he once more took up a little strip of paper that Graham had given him, and leaned forward with his arms upon the table. The mill was very silent at last, for of all who toiled in it that day one weary man alone sat awake, staring, with aching eyes, in front of him. There was, however, a little smile in them, for roseate visions floated before them. If the promise that strip of paper held out was redeemed, they might be materialized, for those who had toiled and wasted their substance that the eastern peoples might be fed would that year, at least, not go without their reward. Then he stretched out his arms wearily above his head.
“It almost seems that what I have hoped for may be mine,” he said. “Still, there is a good deal to be done first, and not two hours left before I begin it to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XXVI – REINSTATION
A year of tireless effort and some anxiety had passed since Witham had seen the first load of flour sent to the east, when he and Graham sat talking in their Winnipeg office. The products of the St. Louis mills were already in growing demand, and Graham appeared quietly contented as he turned over the letters before him. When he laid down the last one, however, he glanced at his companion somewhat anxiously.
“We have got to fix up something soon,” he said. “I have booked all the St. Louis can turn out for six months ahead, and the syndicate is ready to take the business over, though I don’t know quite whether it would be wise to let them. It seems to me that milling is going to pay tolerably well for another year, and if I knew what you were wanting, it would suit me better.”
“I told you I wanted thirty thousand dollars,” said Witham quietly.
“You’ve got them,” said Graham. “When the next balance comes out you’ll have a good many more. The question is, what you’re going to do with them now they’re yours?”
Witham took out a letter from Dane and passed it across to Graham. “I’m sorry to tell you the Colonel is getting no better,” it ran. “The specialist we brought in seems to think he will never be quite himself again, and now he has let the reins go, things are falling to pieces at Silverdale. Somebody left Atterly a pile of money, and he is going back to the old country, Carshalton is going, too; and, as they can’t sell out to any one we don’t approve of, the rest insisted on my seeing you. I purpose starting to-morrow.”
“What happened to Colonel Barrington?” asked Graham.
“His sleigh turned over,” said Witham. “Horse trampled on him, and it was an hour or two before his hired man could get him under shelter.”
“You would be content to turn farmer again?”
“I think I would,” said Witham. “At least, at Silverdale.”
Graham made a little grimace. “Well,” he said resignedly, “I guess it’s human nature; but I’m thankful now and then there’s nothing about me but my dollars that would take the eye of any young woman. I figure they’re kind of useful to wake up a man so he’ll stir round looking for something to offer one of them, but he is apt to find his business must go second when she has got it and him, and he has to waste on house fixings what would give a man a fair start in life. Still, it’s no use talking. What have you told him?”
Witham laughed a little. “Nothing,” he said. “I will let him come, and you shall have my decision when I’ve been to Silverdale.”
It was next day when Dane arrived at Winnipeg, and Witham listened gravely to all he had to tell him.
“I have two questions to ask,” he said. “Would the others be unanimous in receiving me, and does Colonel Barrington know of your mission?”
“Yes to both,” said Dane. “We haven’t a man there who would not hold out his hand to you, and Barrington has been worrying and talking a good deal about you lately. He seems to fancy nothing has gone right at Silverdale since you left it, and others share his opinion. The fact is, the old man is losing his grip tolerably rapidly.”
“Then,” said Witham quietly, “I’ll go down with you, but I can make no promise until I have heard the others.”
Dane smiled a little. “That is all I want. I don’t know whether I told you that Maud Barrington is there. Would to-morrow suit you?”
“No,” said Witham. “I will come to-day.”
It was early next morning when they stepped out of the stove-warmed car into the stinging cold of the prairie. Fur-clad figures, showing shapeless in the creeping light, clustered about them, and Witham felt himself thumped on the shoulders by mittened hands, while Alfreton’s young voice broke through the murmurs of welcome.
“Let him alone while he’s hungry,” he said. “It’s the first time in its history they’ve had breakfast ready at this hour in the hotel, and it would not have been accomplished if I hadn’t spent most of yesterday playing cards with the man who keeps it and making love to the young women!”
“That’s quite right,” said another lad. “When he takes his cap off you’ll see how one of them rewarded him. But come along, Witham. It – is – ready.”
The greetings might, of course, have been expressed differently, but Witham also was not addicted to displaying all he felt, and the little ring in the lads’ voices was enough for him. As they moved towards the hotel he saw that Dane was looking at him.
“Well?” said the latter, “you see, they want you.”
That was probably the most hilarious breakfast that had ever been held in the wooden hotel; and before it was over, three of his companions had said to Witham, “Of course, you’ll drive in with me!”
“Boys,” he said, as they put their furs on, and his voice shook a trifle, “I can’t ride in with everybody who has asked me unless you dismember me.”
Finally, Alfreton, who was a trifle too quick for the others, got him into his sleigh, and they swept out behind a splendid team into the frozen stillness of the prairie. The white leagues rolled behind them, the cold grew intense; but while Witham was for the most part silent and apparently preoccupied, Alfreton talked almost incessantly, and only once looked grave. That happened when Witham asked about Colonel Barrington.
The lad shook his head. “I scarcely think he will ever take hold again,” he said. “You will understand me better when you see him.”
They stopped awhile at mid-day at an outlying farm, but Witham glanced inquiringly at Alfreton when one of the sleighs went on. The lad smiled at him.
“Yes,” he said. “He is going on to tell them we have got you.”
“They would have found it out in a few more hours,” said Witham.
Alfreton’s eyes twinkled. “No doubt they would,” he said dryly. “Still, you see, somebody was offering two to one that Dane couldn’t bring you, and you know we’re generally keen about any kind of wager.”
The explanation, which was not quite out of keeping with the customs of the younger men at Silverdale did not content Witham, but he said nothing. So far his return had resembled a triumph, and while the sincerity of the welcome had its effect on him, he shrank a little from what he fancied might be waiting him.
The creeping darkness found them still upon the waste, and the cold grew keener when the stars peeped out. Even sound seemed frozen, and the faint muffled beat of hoofs unreal and out of place in the icy stillness of the wilderness. Still, the horses knew they were nearing home, and swung into faster pace, while the men drew fur caps down and the robes closer round them as the draught their passage made stung them with a cold that seemed to sear the skin where there was an inch left uncovered on the face. Now and then a clump of willows or a birch bluff flitted out of the dimness, grew a trifle blacker, and was left behind; but there was still no sign of habitation, and Alfreton, too chilled at last to speak, passed the reins to Witham and beat his mittened hands. Witham could scarcely grasp them, for he had lived of late in the cities, and the cold he had been sheltered from was numbing.
For another hour they slid onwards, and then a dim blur crept out of the white waste. It rose higher, cutting more blackly against the sky; and Witham recognized with a curious little quiver the birch bluff that sheltered Silverdale Grange. Then, as they swept through the gloom of it, a row of ruddy lights blinked across the snow; and Witham felt his heart beat as he watched the homestead grow into form. He had first come there an impostor, and had left it an outcast; while now it was amidst the acclamations of those who had once looked on him with suspicion he was coming back again.
Still, he was almost too cold for any definite feeling but the sting of the frost, and it was very stiffly he stood up, shaken by vague emotions, when at last the horses stopped. A great door swung open, somebody grasped his hand, there was a murmur of voices, and partly dazed by the change of temperature he blundered into the warmth of the hall. The blaze of light bewildered him, and he was but dimly sensible that the men who greeted him were helping him to shake off his furs; while the next thing he was sure of was that a little white-haired lady was holding out her hand.
“We are all very glad to see you back,” she said, with a simplicity that yet suggested stateliness. “Your friends insisted on coming over to welcome you, and Dane will not let you keep them waiting too long. Dinner is almost ready.”
Witham could not remember what he answered, but Miss Barrington smiled at him as she moved away, for the flush in his face was very eloquent. The man was very grateful for that greeting, and what it implied. It was a few minutes later when he found himself alone with Dane, who laughed softly as he nodded to him.
“You are convinced at last?” he said. “Still there is a little more of the same thing to be faced; and, if it would relieve you, I will send for Alfreton, who has some taste in that direction, to fix that tie for you. You have been five minutes over it, and it evidently does not please you. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you worry about your dress.”
Witham turned, and a curious smile crept into his face as he laid a lean hand that shook a little on the toilet table.
“I also think it’s the first time these fingers wouldn’t do what I wanted them. You can deduce what you please from that,” he said.
Dane only nodded, and when they went down together laid a kindly grasp upon his comrade’s arm as he led him into the great dining-room. Every man at Silverdale was apparently there, as were most of the women; and Witham stood still a moment, very erect, with shoulders square, because the posture enabled him to conceal the tremor that ran through him when he saw the smiling faces turned upon him. Then he moved slowly down the room towards Maud Barrington, and felt her hand rest for a second between his fingers, which he feared were too responsive. After that, everybody seemed to speak to him, and he was glad when he found himself sitting next to Miss Barrington at the head of the long table, with her niece opposite him.
He could not remember what he or the others talked about during the meal, but he had a vague notion that there was now and then a silence of attention when he answered a question, and that the little lady’s face grew momentarily grave when, as the voice sank a trifle, he turned to her.
“I would have paid my respects to Colonel Barrington, but Dane did not consider it advisable,” he said.
“No,” said Miss Barrington. “He has talked a good deal about you during the last two days, but he is sleeping now, and we did not care to disturb him. I am afraid you will find a great change in him when you see him.”
Witham asked no more questions on that topic until later in the evening, when he found a place apart from the rest by Miss Barrington’s side. He fancied this would not have happened without her connivance and she seemed graver than usual when he stood by her chair.
“I don’t wish to pain you, but I surmise that Colonel Barrington is scarcely well enough to be consulted about anything of importance just now,” he said.
Miss Barrington made a little gesture of assent. “We usually pay him the compliment, but I am almost afraid he will never make a decision of moment again.”
“Then,” said Witham slowly, “you stand in his place, and I fancy you know why I have come back to Silverdale. Will you listen for a very few minutes while I tell you about my parents and what my upbringing has been? I must return to Winnipeg, for a time, at least, to-morrow.”
Miss Barrington signed her willingness, and the man spoke rapidly with a faint trace of hoarseness. Then he looked down on her.
“Madam,” he said, “I have told you everything, partly from respect for those who only by a grim sacrifice did what they could for me, and that you may realize the difference between myself and the rest at Silverdale. I want to be honest now at least, and I discovered, not without bitterness at the time, that the barriers between our castes are strong in the old country.”
Miss Barrington smiled a little. “Have I ever made you feel it here?”
“No,” said Witham gravely. “Still, I am going to put your forbearance to a strenuous test. I want your approval. I have a question to ask your niece to-night.”
“If I withheld it?”
“It would hurt me,” said Witham. “Still, I would not be astonished, and I could not blame you.”
“But it would make no difference?”
“Yes,” said Witham gravely. “It would, but it would not cause me to desist. Nothing would do that, if Miss Barrington can overlook the past.”
The little white-haired lady smiled at him. “Then,” she said, “if it is any comfort to you, you have my good wishes. I do not know what Maud’s decision will be, but that is the spirit which would have induced me to listen in times long gone by!”
She rose and left him, and it may have been by her arranging that shortly afterwards Witham found Maud Barrington passing through the dimly-lighted hall. He opened the door she moved towards a trifle, and then stood facing her, with it in his hand.
“Will you wait a moment, and then you may pass if you wish,” he said. “I had one great inducement for coming here to-night. I wonder if you know what it is?”
The girl stood still and met his gaze, though, dim as the light was, the man could see the crimson in her cheeks.
“Yes,” she said, very quietly.
“Then,” said Witham with a little smile, though the fingers on the door quivered visibly, “I think the audacity you once mentioned must have returned to me, for I am going to make a very great venture.”
For a moment Maud Barrington turned her eyes away. “It is the daring venture that most frequently succeeds.”
Then she felt the man’s hand on her shoulder, and that he was compelling her to look up at him.
“It is you I came for,” he said quietly. “Still, for you know the wrong I have done, I dare not urge you, and have little to offer. It is you who must give everything, if you can come down from your station and be content with mine.”
“One thing,” said Maud Barrington, very softly, “is, however, necessary.”
“That,” said Witham, “was yours ever since we spent the night in the snow.”
The girl felt his grip upon her shoulder grow almost painful, but her eyes shone softly when she lifted her head again.
“Then,” she said, “what I can give is yours – and it seems you have already taken possession.”
Witham drew her towards him, and it may have been by Miss Barrington’s arranging that nobody entered the hall, but at last the girl glanced up at the man half-shyly as she said, “Why did you wait so long?”
“It was well worth while,” said Witham. “Still, I think you know.”
“Yes,” said Maud Barrington softly. “Now, at least, I can tell you I am glad you went away – but if you had asked me I would have gone with you.”
It was some little time later when Miss Barrington came in and, after a glance at Witham, kissed her niece. Then she turned to the man. “My brother is asking for you,” she said. “Will you come up with me?”
Witham followed her, and hid his astonishment when he found Colonel Barrington lying in a big chair. His face was haggard and pale, his form seemed to have grown limp and fragile, and the hand he held out trembled.
“Lance,” he said, “I am very pleased to have you home again. I hear you have done wonders in the city, but you are, I think, the first of your family who could ever make money. I have, as you will see, not been well lately.”
“I am relieved to find you better than I expected, sir,” Witham said quietly. “Still, I fancy you are forgetting what I told you the night I went away.”
Barrington nodded, and then made a little impatient gesture. “There was something unpleasant, but my memory seems to be going, and my sister has forgiven you. I know you did a good deal for us at Silverdale, and showed yourself a match for the best of them in the city. That pleases me. By and by, you will take hold here after me.”
Witham glanced at Miss Barrington, who smiled somewhat sadly.
“I am glad you mentioned that, sir, because I purpose staying at Silverdale now,” he said. “It leads up to what I have to ask you.”
Barrington’s perceptions seemed to grow clearer, and he asked a few pertinent questions before he nodded approbation.
“Yes,” he said, “she is a good girl – a very good girl, and it would be a suitable match. I should like somebody to send for her.”
Maud Barrington came in softly, with a little glow in her eyes and a flush in her face, and Barrington smiled at her.
“My dear, I am very pleased, and I wish you every happiness,” he said. “Once I would scarcely have trusted you to Lance, but he will forgive me, and has shown me that I was wrong. You and he will make Silverdale famous, and it is comforting to know, now my rest is very near, that you have chosen a man of your own station to follow me. With all our faults and blunders, blood is bound to tell.”
Witham saw that Miss Barrington’s eyes were a trifle misty, and he felt his face grow hot, but the girl’s fingers touched his arm, and he followed, when, while her aunt signed approbation, she led him away. Then, when they stood outside she laid her hands upon his face and drew it down to her.
“You will forget it, dear, and he is still wrong. If you had been Lance Courthorne, I should never have done this,” she said.
“No,” said the man gravely. “I think there are many ways in which he is right, but you can be content with Witham the prairie farmer?”
Maud Barrington drew closer to him with a little smile in her eyes. “Yes,” she said simply. “There never was a Courthorne who could stand beside him.”
