The Impostor

Dane’s eyes twinkled. “I didn’t want to, and I must admit that it isn’t. Still, a good many of you quiet men are addicted to occasionally astonishing our friends, and I can’t help a fancy that you could do that kind of thing as well as most folks, if it pleased you. It fact, there was an artistic finish to the climax that suggested your usual thoroughness.”

“It did?” said Witham grimly, remembering his recent visitor and one or two of Courthorne’s Albertan escapades. “Still, as I’m afraid I haven’t the dramatic instinct, do you mind telling me how?”

Dane laughed. “Well, it is probable there are other men who would have kissed the girl, but I don’t know that it would have occurred to them to smash a decanter on the irate lover’s head.”

Witham felt his finger tingle for a grip on Courthorne’s throat. “And that’s what I’ve been doing lately? You, of course, concluded that after conducting myself in an exemplary fashion an astonishing time it was a trifling lapse?”

“Well,” said Dane dryly. “As I admitted, it appeared somewhat out of your usual line; but when I heard that a man from the settlement had been ejected with violence from your homestead, what could one believe?”

“Colonel Barrington told you that!”

“No,” said Dane; “you know he didn’t. Still, he had a hired man riding a horse he’d bought, and I believe – though it is not my affair – Maud Barrington was there. Now, of course, one feels diffident about anything that may appear like preaching, but you see a good many of us are following you, and I wouldn’t like you to have many little lapses of that kind while I am backing you. You and I have done with these frivolities some time ago, but there are lads here they might appeal to. I should be pleased if you could deny the story.”

Witham’s face was grim. “I’m afraid it would not suit me to do as much just now,” he said. “Still, between you and me, do you believe it likely that I would fly at that kind of game?”

Dane laughed softly. “Well,” he said, “tastes differ, and the girl is pretty, while, you know, after all they’re very much the same. We have, however, got to look at the thing sensibly, and you admit you can’t deny it.”

“I told you it wouldn’t suit me.”

“Then there is a difference?”

Witham nodded. “You must make the best of that, but the others may believe exactly what they please. It will be a favour to me if you remember it.”

Dane smiled curiously. “Then I think it is enough for me, and you will overlook my presumption. Courthorne, I wonder now and then when I shall altogether understand you!”

“The time will come,” said Witham dryly, to hide what he felt; for his comrade’s simple avowal had been wonderfully eloquent. Then Dane touched his horse with his heel and rode away.

It was two or three weeks later when Witham, being requested to do so, drove over to attend one of the assemblies at Silverdale Grange. It was dark when he reached the house, for the nights were drawing in; but because of the temperature, few of the great oil lamps were lighted, and the windows were open wide. Somebody had just finished singing when he walked into the big general room, and he would have preferred another moment to make his entrance, but disdained to wait. He, however, felt a momentary warmth in his face when Miss Barrington, stately as when he had first seen her in her rustling silk and ancient laces, came forward to greet him with her usual graciousness. He knew that every eye was upon them, and guessed why she had done so much.

What she said was of no moment, but the fact that she had received him without sign of coldness was eloquent, and the man bent very respectfully over the little white hand. Then he stood straight and square for a moment and met her eyes.

“Madam,” he said, “I shall know who to come to when I want a friend.”

Afterwards he drifted towards a group of married farmers and their wives, who, except for that open warranty, might have been less cordial to him; and presently, though he was never quite sure how it came about, found himself standing beside Maud Barrington. She smiled at him and then glanced towards one of the open windows, outside which one or two of the older men were sitting.

“The room is very hot,” said Witham tentatively.

“Yes,” said the girl, “I fancy it would be cooler in the hall.”

They passed out together into the shadowy hall, but a little gleam of light from the doorway behind them rested on Maud Barrington as she sat down. She looked inquiringly at the man as though in wait for something.

“It is distinctly cooler here,” he said.

Maud Barrington laughed impatiently. “It is,” she said.

“Well,” said Witham, with a little smile. “I will try again. Wheat has made another advance lately.”

The girl turned towards him with a little sparkle in her eyes. Witham saw it, and the faint shimmer of the pearls upon the whiteness of her neck and then moved his head so that he looked out upon the dusky prairie.

“Pshaw!” she said. “You know why you were brought here to-night.”

Witham admired her courage, but did not turn round, for there were times when he feared his will might fail him. “I fancy I know why your aunt was so gracious to me. Do you know that her confidence almost hurts me.”

“Then why don’t you vindicate it and yourself? Dane would be your mouthpiece, and two or three words would be sufficient.”

Witham made no answer for a space. Somebody was singing in the room behind them, and through the open window he could see the stars in the soft indigo above the great sweep of prairie. He noticed them vacantly, and took a curious impersonal interest in the two dim figures standing close together outside the window. One was a young English lad, and the other a girl in a long white dress. What they were doing there was no concern of his, but any trifle that diverted his attention a moment was welcome in that time of strain, for he had felt of late that exposure was close at hand, and was fiercely anxious to finish his work before it came. Maud Barrington’s finances must be made secure before he left Silverdale, and he must remain at any cost until the wheat was sold.

Then he turned slowly towards her. “It is not your aunt’s confidence that hurts me the most.”

The girl looked at him steadily, the colour a trifle plainer in her face, which she would not turn from the light, and a growing wonder in her eyes.

“Lance,” she said, “we both know that it is not misplaced. Still, your impassiveness does not please us.”

Witham groaned inwardly, and the swollen veins showed on his forehead. His companion had leaned forward a little, so that she could see him, and one white shoulder almost touched his own. The perfume of her hair was in his nostrils, and when he remembered how cold she had once been to him, a longing that was stronger than the humiliation that came with it grew almost overwhelming. Still, because of her very trust in him, there was a wrong he could not do, and it dawned on him that a means of placing himself beyond further temptation was opening to him. Maud Barrington, he knew, would have scanty sympathy with an intrigue of the kind Courthorne’s recent adventure pointed to.

“You mean, why do I not deny what you have no doubt heard?” he said. “What could one gain by that if you had heard the truth?”

Maud Barrington laughed softly. “Isn’t the question useless?”

“No,” said Witham, a trifle hoarsely now.

The girl touched his arm almost imperiously as he turned his head again.

“Lance,” she said, “men of your kind need not deal in subterfuge. The wheat and the bridge you built speak for you.”

“Still – ” persisted Witham, and the girl checked him with a smile.

“I fancy you are wasting time,” she said. “Now, I wonder whether, when you were in England, you ever saw a play founded on an incident in the life of a once famous actor. At the time it rather appealed to me. The hero, with a chivalric purpose, assumed various shortcomings he had really no sympathy with – but while there is, of course, no similarity beyond the generous impulse between the cases, he did not do it clumsily. It is, however, a trifle difficult to understand what purpose you could have, and one cannot help fancying that you owe a little to Silverdale and yourself.”

It was a somewhat daring parallel; for Witham, who dare not look at his companion and saw that he had failed, knew the play.

“Isn’t the subject a trifle difficult?” he asked.

“Then,” said Maud Barrington, “we will end it. Still, you promised that I should understand – a good deal – when the time came.”

Witham nodded gravely. “You shall,” he said.

Then, somewhat to his embarrassment, the two figures moved further across the window, and as they were silhouetted against the blue duskiness, he saw that there was an arm about the waist of the girl’s white dress. He became sensible that Maud Barrington saw it too, and then that, perhaps to save the situation, she was smiling. The two figures, however, vanished, and a minute later a young girl in a long white dress came in and stood still, apparently dismayed, when she saw Maud Barrington. She did not notice Witham, who sat further in the shadow. He, however, saw her face suddenly crimson.

“Have you been here long?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Maud Barrington, with a significant glance towards the window. “At least ten minutes. I am sorry, but I really couldn’t help it. It was very hot in the other room, and Allender was singing.”

“Then,” said the girl, with a little tremor in her voice, “you will not tell?”

“No,” said Maud Barrington. “But you must not do it again.”

The girl stooped swiftly and kissed her, then recoiled with a gasp when she saw the man, but Maud Barrington laughed.