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.