Harding of Allenwood

When he had finished his work the next evening he drove over to the Grange, feeling depressed and tired, for he had begun at four o'clock that morning. It was very hot: a fiery wind still blew across the plain, although the sun had set, and Beatrice was sitting on the veranda with her mother and Mowbray. They had a languid air, and the prairie, which had turned a lifeless gray, looked strangely dreary as it ran back into the gathering dark.

"Not much hope of a change!" Mowbray remarked.

Beatrice gave Harding a sympathetic glance, and unconsciously he set his lips tight. She looked cool and somehow ethereal in her thin white dress and her eyes were gentle. It was horrible to think that he might have to give her up; but he knew it might come to this.

"You're tired; I'm afraid you have been working too hard," Beatrice said gently.

"The weather accounts for it, not the work," he answered. "It's depressing to feel that all you've done may lead to nothing."

"Very true," Mowbray assented. "You're fortunate if this is the first time you have been troubled by the feeling. Many of us have got used to it; but one must go on."

"It's hard to fight a losing battle, sir."

"It is," said Mowbray grimly. "That it really does not matter in the end whether you lose or not, so long as you're on the right side, doesn't seem to give one much consolation. But your crop strikes me as looking better than ours."

"I plowed deep; the sub-soil holds the moisture. Of course, with horse-traction – "

Harding hesitated, but Mowbray smiled.

"I can't deny that your machines have their advantages," the Colonel said. "They'd be useful if you could keep them in their place as servants; the danger is that they'll become your masters. When you have bought them you must make them pay, and that puts you under the yoke of an iron thing that demands to be handled with the sternest economy. The balance sheet's the only standard it leaves you – and you have to make some sacrifices if you mean to come out on the credit side. Your finer feelings and self-respect often have to go."

"I'm not sure they need go; but, in a way, you're right. You must strike a balance, or the machines that cost so much will break you. For all that, it's useful as a test; the result of bad work shows when you come to the reckoning. I can't see that to avoid waste must be demoralizing."

"It isn't. The harm begins when you set too high a value on economical efficiency."

Harding did not answer, and there was silence for a time. Mrs. Mowbray had a headache from the heat, and Beatrice felt limp. She noticed the slackness of Harding's pose and felt sorry for him. He differed from her father, and she could not think he was always right, but he was honest; indeed, it was his strong sincerity that had first attracted her. She liked his strength and boldness; the athletic symmetry of his form had its effect; but what struck her most was his freedom from what the Canadians contemptuously called meanness. Beatrice was fastidiously refined in some respects, and she thought of him as clean. Unconsciously she forgave him much for this, because he jarred upon her now and then. Her father's old-fashioned ideals were touched with a grace that her lover could not even admire, but, watching him as he sat in the fading light, she felt that he was trustworthy.

Mosquitos began to invade the veranda, and Mrs. Mowbray was driven into the house. The Colonel presently followed her, and Beatrice, leaving her chair, cuddled down beside Harding on the steps.

"Craig," she said, "you're quiet to-night."

"This dry weather makes one think; and then there's the difference between your father and myself. He wants to be just, but there's a natural antagonism between us that can't be got over."

"It isn't personal, dear."

"No," said Harding; "we're antagonistic types. The trouble is that you must often think as he does – and I wouldn't have you different."

"That's dear of you, Craig. But, even if we don't agree always, what does it matter? I like you because you're so candid and honest. You would never hide anything you thought or did from me."

They sat there in the gathering gloom. An early owl ventured out and hooted from his sheltered tree-top; a chorus of frogs down in the lake sent back an indignant reply; a honeysuckle vine that climbed over the veranda flaunted its perfumed blossoms to the hot, night air, luring pollen-bearers.

To Harding, the worries of the day were, for the moment, forgotten: a great peace filled him. And over the girl, as she felt his strong arm around her, there rested a deep, satisfying sense of security and trust.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ADVENTURESS

Before the wheat had suffered serious damage, a few thunder showers broke upon the plain, and Harding and his neighbors took courage. The crop was not out of danger; indeed, a week's dry weather would undo the good the scanty rain had done; but ruin, which had seemed imminent, was, at least, delayed. Then Harding got news from his agent that necessitated his return to Winnipeg, and Mrs. Mowbray and Beatrice, who wished to visit the millinery stores, arranged to accompany him.

It was hot and dry when they reached the city, but Harding was of sanguine temperament and, being relieved from fear of immediate disaster, proceeded with his plans for the consolidation of Allenwood. He could not carry them far, because even if he secured an abundant harvest, which was at present doubtful, he would have some difficulty in raising capital enough to outbid his rival. Acting cautiously with Jackson's help, however, he found two men who had lent Davies money and were now frankly alarmed by the general fall in values. One, indeed, was willing to transfer his interest to Harding on certain terms which the latter could not accept.

He was thinking over these matters one morning when, to his surprise, he saw Brand crossing the street toward him. They had not met since the evening of their encounter with Davies at the Grange, and Harding was sensible of some constraint. Brand was a reserved man whom he had neither understood nor liked, but he had thought him honorable until he learned the price he had demanded for helping Mowbray.

There was no embarrassment in Brand's manner. He looked as cool and inscrutable as usual.

"I'm rather glad we have met," he said.

"I thought you had gone back to the Old Country," Harding replied.

"No; I find it harder to sell my farm than I imagined. The settlement covenant's the trouble, and I don't feel inclined to give the land away. I want a talk with you. Will you come to my hotel?"

Harding agreed, and a few minutes later they sat down in a quiet corner of the hotel lounge.

"How's your campaign against the moneylender progressing?" Brand began abruptly.

"Then you know something about it?"

"I'm not a fool. I've been watching the game with interest for some time. I have a reason for asking; you can be frank with me."

Harding knew when to trust a man and, in spite of what had happened, he trusted Brand. When he had given him a short explanation, Brand seemed satisfied.

"Very well; now I have something to say. My prejudices are against you; they're on Mowbray's side, but I'm beginning to see that his position is untenable. It seems I can't get a fair price for my farm, and after spending some happy years on it, I have a sentimental affection for the place. Don't know that I'd care to see it fall into the hands of some raw English lad whose inexperience would be a danger to Allenwood. The drift of all this is – will you work the land for me if we can make a satisfactory arrangement?"

Harding hesitated.

"I don't know that I could take a favor – "

"From me? Don't make a mistake. I'm not acting out of any personal regard for you. On the whole, I'd rather see you in control of Allenwood than a mortgage broker; that's all."

"Thanks! On that understanding we might come to terms."

"Then there's another matter. Managing my farm won't help you much, and I feel that I owe something to the settlement. If it looks as if the moneylender would be too strong for you, and you're short of funds, you can write to me. I can afford to spend something on Allenwood's defense."

They talked it over, and when Harding left the hotel he had promised, in case of necessity, to ask Brand's help. Moreover, although he had not expected this, he felt some sympathy and a half reluctant liking for his beaten rival.

During the same day Davies had a confidential talk with Gerald.

"Do you know that your mother and sister are in town with Harding?" he asked.

"Yes; but I haven't seen them yet."

"Rather not meet Harding? Are you pleased that the man's going to marry your sister?"

"I'm not!" Gerald answered curtly.

He stopped writing and frowned at the book in which he was making an entry. He felt very bitter against Harding, who had insulted him, but he was moved by a deeper and less selfish feeling. It jarred upon his sense of fitness that his sister should marry a low-bred fellow with whom he was convinced she could not live happily. Beatrice had lost her head, but she was a Mowbray and would recover her senses; then she would rue the mistake she had made. She might resent Gerald's interference and would, no doubt, suffer for a time if he succeeded in separating her from her lover; but men, as he knew, got over an irregular passion, and he had no reason to believe that women were different.

"She will marry him unless something is done," Davies resumed cunningly.

"What is that to you?"

"Well, I think you can guess my hand. His marrying your sister would give Harding some standing at Allenwood, and he's already got more influence there than suits me. The fellow's dangerous; I hear he's been getting at one or two of the men who backed me. But we'll quit fencing. Do you want to stop this match?"

Although he had fallen very low, Gerald felt the humiliation of allowing Davies to meddle with the Mowbray affairs; but he overcame his repugnance, because the man might be of help.

"Yes," he answered shortly; "but I don't see how it can be stopped."

"You knew Coral Stanton in your more prosperous days, didn't you?"

Gerald admitted it. Miss Stanton described herself as a clairvoyante, but although there were then in the Western cities ladies of her profession who confined themselves to forecasting the changes of the markets and fortune-telling, the term had to some extent become conventionalized and conveyed another meaning. Coral had arrived in Winnipeg with a third-rate opera company, which she left after a quarrel with the manager's wife; and although it was known that gambling for high stakes went on in her consulting rooms, she had for a time avoided trouble with the civic authorities. The girl was of adventurous turn of mind and was marked by an elfish love of mischief.

"I can't see what my knowing Coral has to do with the matter," Gerald replied.

"Then I'll have to explain. Things have been going wrong with her since the Ontario lumber man was doped in her rooms. The police have given her warning, and I guess she wouldn't stick at much if she saw a chance of earning a hundred dollars easily."

"What d'you suggest that she should do?"

"If you'll listen for a few minutes, I'll tell you."

Davies chuckled as he unfolded a plan that appealed to his broad sense of humor; but Gerald frowned. Although likely to result to her ultimate benefit, the plot was, in the first place, directed against his sister. It was repugnant in several ways, but he thought it would work, for Beatrice, like his mother, had Puritanical views. Besides, he could think of nothing else.

"Well," he said, "will you talk to Coral?"

"Certainly not," Davies answered cautiously; "that's your part of the business. I'll put up the money."

The following day Harding was lunching with Beatrice and her mother at their hotel, when the waitress brought him a note. Beatrice, sitting next to him, noticed that it was addressed in a woman's hand and was heavily scented. Indeed, there was something she disliked in the insidious perfume. She watched Harding as he opened the envelope and saw that what he read disturbed him. This struck her as curious, but she did not see the note. He thrust it into his pocket and began to talk about something of no importance.

Beatrice thought over the incident during the afternoon, but by evening she had banished it from her mind. After dinner they sat in the big rotunda of the hotel. Harding was unusually quiet, but Beatrice scarcely noticed it, for she was interested in watching the people who sauntered in and out through the revolving glass door. They were of many different types: wiry, brown-faced plainsmen; silent, grave-eyed fellows from the forest belt; smart bank clerks and traders; mechanics; and a few women. One or two seemed to be needy adventurers, but they came and went among the rest, though it was obvious that they could not be staying at the hotel.

Beatrice's attention was suddenly attracted by a girl who came in. She was handsome, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and marked by a certain rakish boldness that was not unbecoming. Beatrice was struck by the darkness of her hair and the brilliance of her color, until she saw that something was due to art; then she noticed a man smile at another as he indicated the girl, and two more turn and look after her when she passed. Thereupon Beatrice grew pitiful, ashamed and angry, for she could not tell which of the feelings predominated; and she wondered why the hotel people had not prevented the girl's entrance. She was pleased to see that Harding was talking to a man who had joined him and had noticed nothing.

Her life at the Grange had been somewhat austere, and her relatives were old-fashioned people of high character who condemned what they called modern laxity. For all that, the adventuress roused her curiosity, and she watched her as she moved about the room. She drew near them, and Beatrice thought her eyes rested strangely on Harding for a moment. A strong scent floated about her – the same that had perfumed the note. Beatrice was startled, but she tried to persuade herself that she was mistaken. The adventuress passed on; but when Harding's companion left him she came up at once and gave him an inviting smile. He looked at her in surprise, but there was some color in his face. It was unthinkable that he should know the girl, but she stopped beside him.

"Craig," she cooed, "you don't pretend that you've forgotten me?"

Harding looked at her coldly.

"I have never seen you before in my life!" he said emphatically.

Coral laughed, and Beatrice noticed the music in her voice.

"Aw, come off!" she exclaimed. "What you giving us? Guess you've been getting rich and turned respectable."

Harding cast a quick glance round. Beatrice and Mrs. Mowbray sat near, and it would be difficult to defend himself to either. The girl had made an unfortunate mistake, or perhaps expected to find him an easy victim; now he began to understand the note. The blood filled his face and he looked guilty in his embarrassment and anger, for he saw that he was helpless. The hotel people would not interfere; and to repulse the woman rudely or run away from her was likely to attract the attention he wished to avoid.

"You have mistaken me for somebody else," he replied uneasily.

She gave him a coquettish smile.

"Well, I guess you're Craig Harding unless you've changed your name as well as your character. I reckoned you'd come back to me when I heard you were in town. You ought to feel proud I came to look for you, when you didn't answer my note."

There was something seductive and graceful in her mocking courtesy, but Harding lost his temper.

"I've had enough! You don't know me, and if you try to play this fool game I'll have you fired out!"

"That to an old friend – and a lady!" she exclaimed. "You've surely lost the pretty manners that made me love you."

Harding turned in desperation, and started to the door; but she followed, putting her hand on his shoulder, and some of the bystanders laughed. Beatrice, quivering with the shock, hated them for their amusement. Even if he were innocent, Harding had placed himself in a horribly humiliating position. But she could not think him innocent. All she had seen and heard condemned him.

Harding shook off the girl's hand and, perhaps alarmed by the look he gave her, she left him and soon afterward disappeared, but when he returned to the table Beatrice and her mother had gone. He was getting cool again, but he felt crushed, for no defense seemed possible. He could only offer a blunt denial which, in the face of appearances, could hardly be believed.

He left the hotel and spent an hour walking about the city, trying to think what he must do. When he returned a bell-boy brought him word that Mrs. Mowbray wished to see him in the drawing-room. Harding went up and found the room unoccupied except by Beatrice and her mother. The girl's face was white, but it was stern and she had her father's immovable look. Rising as he came in, she stood very straight, holding out a little box.

"This is yours," she said. "I must give it back to you. You will understand what that means."

Harding took the box, containing the ring he had given her, and steadily met her accusing eyes, though he could see no hope for him in them.

"I suppose there's no use in my saying that it's all a mistake or a wicked plot?"

"No; I'm afraid the evidence against you is too strong." She hesitated a moment, and he thought he saw some sign of relenting. "Craig," she begged, in a broken voice, "do go. I – I believed in you."

"You have no reason to doubt me now."

He turned to Mrs. Mowbray.

"Can't you be persuaded? I give you my solemn word – "

"Don't!" Beatrice interrupted. "Don't make it worse!"

"I'm sorry I must agree with my daughter's decision until I see more reason to change it than I can hope for at present," Mrs. Mowbray replied. "It would be better if you left us. We return to-morrow."

Her tone was final; and, with a last glance at Beatrice, Harding went out dejectedly.

CHAPTER XXVIII

FIRE AND HAIL

On the morning after her return from Winnipeg, Beatrice sat in her father's study, with Mowbray facing her across the table. He looked thoughtful, but not so shocked and indignant as she had expected.

"So you are determined to throw Harding over!"

"Yes," Beatrice said in a strained voice. "It seems impossible to do anything else."

"A broken engagement's a serious matter; we Mowbrays keep our word. I hope you're quite sure of your ground."

"What I heard left no room for doubt."

"Did you hear the man's defense?"

"I refused to listen," said Beatrice coldly. "That he should try to excuse himself only made it worse."

"I'm not sure that's very logical. I'll confess that Harding and I seldom agree, but one must be fair."

"Does that mean that one ought to be lenient?" Beatrice asked with an angry sparkle in her eyes.

Mowbray was conscious of some embarrassment. His ideas upon the subject were not sharply defined, but if it had not been his daughter who questioned him he could have expressed them better. Beatrice ought to have left her parents to deal with a delicate matter like this, but instead she had boldly taken it into her own hands. He had tried to bring up his children well, but the becoming modesty which characterized young women in his youth had gone.

"No," he answered; "not exactly lenient. But the thing may not be so bad as you think – and one must make allowances. Then, a broken engagement reflects upon both parties. Even if one of them has an unquestionable grievance, it proves that that person acted very rashly in making a promise in the first instance."

"Yes," said Beatrice; "that is my misfortune. I was rash and easily deceived. I made the bargain in confiding ignorance, without reserve, while the man kept a good deal back."

"But your mother tells me that he declared he had never seen the woman; and Harding is not a liar."

"I used to think so, but it looks as if I were mistaken," Beatrice answered bitterly as she turned away.

Leaving him, she found a quiet spot in the shadow of a bluff, and sat down to grapple with her pain. It had hurt more than she had thought possible to cast off Harding, and she could bear her trouble only by calling pride to her aid. There was, she told herself, much about the man that had from the first offended her, but she had made light of it, believing him steadfast and honorable. Now she knew she had been deceived. She had been ready to throw away all the privileges of her station; she had disregarded her friends' opinion – and this was her reward! The man for whom she would have made the sacrifice was gross and corrupt; but nobody should guess that she found it strangely hard to forget him.

Lance came upon her, there at the edge of the woods; but her head was buried in her arms and she did not see him. The boy turned at once and went to have a talk with his father. His expression was very resolute when he entered Mowbray's study.

"What are you going to do about Bee's trouble, sir?" he asked abruptly.

His father gave him an amused smile.

"I haven't decided," he said. "Have you anything useful to suggest?"

"I feel that you ought to put it right."

"Can you tell me how?"

"No. Of course, it's a delicate matter; but you have a wider knowledge and experience."

"Umh!" the Colonel grunted. "Why do you conclude that your sister's wrong?"

"I know the man. He's not the kind she thinks."

"Your mother saw the woman, and heard what she said."

"There's been a mistake," Lance persisted. "I've a suspicion that somebody may have put her up to it."

"Made a plot to blacken Harding, you mean? Rather far-fetched, isn't it? Whom do you suspect?"

Lance turned red, for his father's tone was sarcastic, and he thought of Gerald; but he could not drop a hint against his brother.

"I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out."

"When you have found out, you can tell me," Mowbray answered, and gave the boy an approving smile. "You're quite right in standing by your friend, and you certainly owe Harding something. If you can prove him better than we think, nobody will be more pleased than I."

Lance had to be satisfied with this. He did not know how to set about his investigations, but he determined to visit Winnipeg as soon as he could.

For the next week or two there was quietness at the Grange. The dry weather held, and boisterous winds swept the sunburned plain. The sod cracked, the wheat was shriveling, and although in public men and women made a brave pretense of cheerfulness, in private they brooded over the ruin that threatened them. To make things worse, three or four days a week, heavy clouds that raced across the sky all morning gathered in solid banks at noon, and then, as if in mockery, broke up and drove away. Few of the settlers had much reserve capital, and the low prices obtained for the last crop had strained their finances; but Harding was, perhaps, threatened most.

He had, as had been his custom, boldly trusted to the earth all he had won by previous effort, and this year it looked as if the soil would refuse its due return. Still, his taking such a risk was only partly due to the prompting of his sanguine temperament. While he had hope of winning Beatrice he must stake his all on the chance of gaining influence and wealth. He had lost her; but after a few black days during which he had thought of abandoning the struggle and letting things drift, he quietly resumed his work. What he had begun must be finished, even if it brought no advantage to himself. The disaster that seemed unavoidable braced him to sterner effort; but when dusk settled down he stood in the dim light and brooded over his withering wheat. Being what he was, a man of constructive genius, it cut deep that he must watch the grain that had cost so much thought and toil go to waste; but the red band on the prairie's edge and the luminous green above it held only a menace.

One day Harding drove with Devine to a distant farm, and they set out on the return journey late in the afternoon. It was very hot, for the wind had died away, and deep stillness brooded over the lifeless plain. The gophers that made their burrows in the trail had lost their usual briskness, and sat up on their haunches until the wheels were almost upon them. The prairie-chickens the horses disturbed would not rise, but ran a few yards and sank down in the parched grass. The sky was leaden, and the prairie glimmered a curious, livid white. Harding's skin prickled, and he was conscious of a black depression and a headache.