Harding of Allenwood

Beatrice was keenly curious about what he had said to her father. She imagined that her mother knew, but no hint was given to her, and when she met Brand it was always in the company of others and there was nothing to be gathered from his manner. It was, however, not often that he displayed his sentiments.

The thaw had begun when she walked home from the Broadwood farm one afternoon. The snow had vanished as if by magic, and shallow lagoons glittered among the bleached grass. The sky was a brilliant blue, and rounded clouds with silver edges rolled across it before the fresh northwest breeze which would blow persistently until summer was done. Their swift shadows streaked the plain and passed, leaving it suffused with light. There was a genial softness in the air.

Beatrice picked her way cautiously toward a straggling bluff, for the ponds along its edge had overflowed and the ground was marish. On reaching the woods she stopped in a sheltered nook to enjoy the sunshine. The birches and poplars were bare, but their stems were changing color and the twigs had lost their dry and brittle look. The willows in a hollow were stained with vivid hues by the rising sap, and there was a flush of green among the grass. Small purple flowers like crocuses were pushing through the sod. From high overhead there fell a harsh, clanging cry, and the girl, looking up, saw a flock of brent geese picked out in a wedge against the sky. Behind came a wedge of mallard, and farther off, gleaming snowily, a flight of sandhill cranes. Spring was in the air; the birds had heard its call, and were pressing on toward the polar marshes, following the sun. Beatrice felt a curious stirring of her blood. It was half pleasant, half painful, for while she responded to the gladness that pervaded everything the sunshine kissed, she was conscious of a disturbing longing, a mysterious discontent. She would not try to analyze her feelings, but she felt that her life was narrow and somehow incomplete.

She was startled presently by a drumming of hoofs; and she frowned as Brand rode out of the bluff. He had seen her, and she decided not to try to avoid him by walking on. If she must face a crisis, it was better to get it over. Brand got down and turned to her with a smile. He looked well in his wide, gray hat and his riding dress, for the picturesqueness of the fringed deerskin jacket, which was then the vogue at Allenwood, did not detract from his air of dignity. His features were regular, but his expression was somewhat cold.

"I'm glad we have met, and I'll confess that I expected to find you here. In fact, I came to look for you," he said with a smile.

Beatrice knew what was coming. While she felt that it would be better to meet the situation frankly, she nevertheless shrank from doing so.

"I have seen so little of you since you came home," she said, partly to defer his declaration, "that I haven't had an opportunity for expressing my sympathy."

"It was a shock," he answered. "I hadn't seen either of my cousins since they were boys, but we were good friends then, and I never expected to succeed them. Their yacht was run down at night, and when the steamer got her boat out only the paid hand was left."

"Will you go back to England now to live?"

"I think I'll stay at Allenwood. One gets used to Western ways – although there's a good deal to be said for either course, and it doesn't altogether depend on me."

Beatrice hesitated a moment, then:

"There is some one else to please?" she asked with charming innocence.

Brand drew a quick breath as he gazed at the young face so near him. She was leaning against a poplar trunk, the sun fretting her with gold between the bare branches, the wind caressing a few loose strands of hair that were blown across her cheek.

"I will please the girl I hope to marry," he said in a strained voice. "She loves the prairie, and she shall have her choice. I think you know, Beatrice, that I have long been waiting for you."

Beatrice was annoyed to find herself blushing.

"I'm sorry," she faltered. "You know I tried to show you – you must see it was difficult."

"It is not your fault that I wouldn't take a hint," he answered quietly. "But you are very young; and I knew that I would never change."

"You thought I might?"

"I hoped so. I was afraid that after the romantic admiration you have had from the boys, you might find me too matter-of-fact and staid. But there was a chance that you might get used to that, and I made up my mind to be patient."

"I'm sorry, for your sake, that you waited."

Her glance was gently regretful, and he read decision in it, but he was a determined man.

"It seems I haven't waited long enough," he returned with a faint smile. "But while you will grow more attractive for a long time yet, I have reached my prime, and inheriting the English property rather forced my hand. After all, our life here is bare and monotonous – you would have a wider circle and more scope in the Old Country."

Beatrice liked his terseness and in some ways she liked and respected him. Moreover she was offered a beautiful English country house, a position of some influence, and friends of taste and rank.

"You were very considerate," she said. "But I'm afraid what you wish is impossible."

"Wait!" he begged. "I haven't said much about myself, but I believe I appreciate you better than any of the boys is capable of doing; I could carry your wishes further and take more care of you." He paused with a grave smile. "I'm not a romantic person, but I think I'm trustworthy. Then, it would please your father."

"Ah! You have told him?"

"Yes; and he was good enough to express his full approval."

Beatrice's face was disturbed, but she answered frankly:

"Though I know you won't take an unfair advantage of his consent, I wish you hadn't gone to him. It may make things more difficult for me. And now, please understand that I cannot marry you."

Brand's lips came together in a straight line. He did not have a pleasant look; but his voice was unusually suave when he answered:

"It looks as if I must face my disappointment. I'll do nothing that might embarrass you. All the same, I warn you that I shall not despair."

"You must not think of me," Beatrice said firmly. "I'm very sorry, but I want to save you trouble."

He quietly picked up his horse's bridle.

"You are going home? May I walk with you as far as the trail-forks?"

Beatrice could not refuse this, and he talked pleasantly about Allenwood matters until he left her. She went on alone in a thoughtful mood. She wished that Brand had not made his offer, because she knew that her refusal had been a blow, and she did not like to think that she had wounded him. Moreover, his quiet persistence might still prove troublesome. Perhaps it was unfortunate that she could not return his affection; for Brand had many good qualities, and her father approved of him. Then, with a thrill of perplexing emotion, she thought of Harding. In some respects, he was too practical and matter-of-fact; but she knew that his character had another side. While he worked and planned, he had dreams of a splendid future which she thought would be realized. He was a visionary as well as a man of affairs; virile, daring, and beneath the surface generous and tender. It was curious how she knew so much about him, yet she felt that she was right.

Harding was, however, barred out, so to speak; divided from her by conventions and traditions that could not be broken, unless, indeed, love warranted the sacrifice. But she would not admit that she loved him. He loved her, she knew; but that was not enough. It was all complicated; nothing seemed right. She no longer noticed the sunshine or the bracing freshness of the wind as she moved on across the plain with downcast eyes.

Nerving herself for the encounter, she told her father that evening, and he sat silent for a few moments, looking hard at her while she stood by his writing table with an embarrassed air.

"It seems to me you are very hard to please," he said.

"Perhaps I am," she answered. "But I don't like him enough."

"I suppose that's an adequate reason, but I regret it keenly. It would have been a relief to know your future was secure, as it would have been with Brand."

Beatrice was touched. He had not taken the line she expected, and she saw that he was anxious.

"Perhaps it's better that you should learn the truth," he went on. "For the last few years my affairs have not gone well. Gerald's extravagance has been a heavy drain; Lance is young and rash; and I feel now that the prosperity of Allenwood is threatened. The American made me realize that. In fact, the fellow has brought us trouble ever since he came."

"Perhaps it might be wise to take a few of the precautions he recommended," Beatrice suggested, eager to lead him away from the subject of Brand.

Mowbray's eyes flashed with anger.

"No! If we are to be ruined, I hope we'll meet our fate like gentlemen – and it may not come to that. We have struggled through critical periods before, and can make a good fight yet without using detestable means."

Beatrice was troubled. She admired her father's pride and courage, but she had an uncomfortable suspicion that he was leading a forlorn hope. Unflinching bravery was not the only thing needful: one could not face long odds with obsolete weapons.

"But they are not all detestable," she urged. "You could choose the best – or, if you like, the least offensive."

"Compromise is dangerously easy; when you begin, you are apt to go all the way. I didn't expect this from you. I believed my own family staunch, and I must say it's a shock to find the tradesman's spirit in my children. Even Lance shows the taint. He actually is planning to sell his riding horses and buy some machine that will save a hired man's wages!"

Beatrice smiled.

"Perhaps that is better than following Gerald's example. But you mustn't be unjust. You know that none of us would think of thwarting you."

She crossed over to the back of his chair and put her arms around him.

"I'm sorry you are disappointed about Mr. Brand," she said softly; "but I know you'll forgive me."

Before he could answer, she had slipped out of the room. She went at once to find her mother.

"Your father would never force you to marry a man you do not care for," Mrs. Mowbray assured her. "So far as that goes, you have nothing to fear."

"What do you mean?" Beatrice asked in alarm.

Her mother's eyes were anxious, and there was a warning in the look she gave the girl.

"My dear, you would not find him compliant if you wished to marry a man he did not approve of."

Beatrice stooped to flick an imaginary piece of lint off of her skirt. She did not want her mother to see her face just then.

"After all," she answered, far more confidently than she felt, "that may never happen."

CHAPTER XIII

THE TRAITOR

The prairie was bright with sunshine, and the boisterous west wind was cut off by a bluff where Harding sat amid a litter of dismantled machinery. Behind him the newly opened birch leaves showed specks of glowing green, and a jack-rabbit, which had put off its winter coat and was now dappled white and gray, fed quietly, with a watchful eye turned toward the unconscious man; in front, the vast sweep of grass that flashed with a silvery gleam as it bowed to the wind was broken by the warm chocolate hue of a broad strip of plowing. The rows of clods, with their polished faces, stretched across the foreground; and on their outer edge Devine, dressed in overalls the color of the soil, drove a team of big, red oxen.

Harding, however, was absorbed in the study of several brass rings and coils of packing that had formed the gland of a pump. Near by stood a giant plow with a row of shares, looking out of place among the earth and grass with its glaring paint, its ugly boiler, and its sooty stack, though the work that it had done was obvious. Something had gone wrong, and Harding was trying to locate the trouble. The delay was embarrassing, for he had a wide stretch of land to break, and the loss of even an hour was serious. There was not a trained mechanic in the neighborhood; and if the plow were likely to give him trouble, the sooner he learned to master it the better. Every part of the machine seemed to be perfect; yet the steam had gone down on the previous evening, and he must find out the reason. It was exasperating work.

While Harding was struggling with the pump, Beatrice came along the trail through the bluff. Her companion, Banff, one of Lance's many dogs, had trailed off through the bushes, his nose to the ground, and she was, for the moment, alone. When she caught sight of Harding she stopped irresolutely. She felt that it might be wiser to pass on without disturbing him; yet something compelled her to wait.

She stood watching him. He attracted her – that much she admitted; but she persuaded herself that it was only because he was interesting to talk to and, unlike the other men she knew, he said things that made one think.

Harding was so deep in his machinery problem that he did not see her. He was once more fitting the different parts together, when Banff came bounding out of the bushes with a glad bark and the little gray rabbit scuttled off through the briars.

Harding turned quickly; and Beatrice saw his eyes light up.

"I'm glad you've come," he said, emptying a box of tools and turning it upside down. "That isn't a bad seat – and the sun's pleasant here."

Beatrice noticed that he took it for granted that she would remain; but, after all, he had some reason for this, for they seldom passed without stopping to speak when they met.

"Has the machine gone wrong?" she asked, sitting down where the sunlight fell upon her.

"Yes, pretty badly. I can't find out what's the matter. I suppose you think it's a just punishment for bringing such things to Allenwood?"

She laughed.

"Well, you gave our friends some offense when you brought your plow over and broke Kenwyne's land."

"I expected that. There'll no doubt be more remarks when I break the piece of stiff gumbo on Lance's holding."

Beatrice looked up sharply.

"You mean to do that? You must know it will cause trouble," she said with a frown.

"I'm sorry to displease you; but this is something that must be done."

"Why must it? Do you wish Lance to offend his father?"

"No; but Colonel Mowbray has no cause for complaint. He gave the land to Lance on the understanding that he worked it; there's no reason why he should object to his using the best implements. Then, Lance is your brother and I don't want to see him ruined."

Beatrice blushed under his frank gaze; and because she was annoyed at doing so, she flung out a taunt:

"Do you think the only way of escaping ruin is to copy you?"

Harding laughed. He loved her in that mood. She looked so alluring with a little frown between her brows and just the suspicion of a pout on her lips.

"You see," he explained, in a voice that he might have used to an offended child, "your Allenwood friends will have to make a change soon, or they'll suffer. And their attitude is not logical. Your father doesn't ask them to cultivate with the spade; they've dropped the ox-teams and bought Clydesdales; they've given up the single furrow and use the gang-plow. Why not go on to steam? After all, you're not standing still: you're moving forward a little behind the times. Why not keep abreast of them, or push on ahead?"

"It sounds plausible," she admitted. "In a way, perhaps, you're right; but – "

"I know. There's much that's fine and graceful in the customs of the past. But you can't preserve them without some adaptation. We're a new nation working in the melting pot. All the scum and dross comes to the top and makes an ugly mess, but the frothing up clarifies the rest. By and by the product will be run out, hard, true metal."

"You're an optimist."

Harding laughed.

"I'm talking at random; it's a weakness of mine."

Beatrice sat silent a moment, looking out over the stretch of brown furrows.

"Do you intend to continue the breaking to where your partner is at work?" she asked, putting her thoughts into words.

"I'm going farther back. You can see our guide-poles on the top of the last ridge."

"But isn't it rash to sow so much, unless you have a reserve to carry you over a bad harvest? Suppose the summer's dry or we get autumn frost?"

"Then," said Harding grimly, "there'll be a disastrous smash. I've no reserve: I'm plowing under every cent I have – staking all upon the chances of the weather."

"But why do you take such a risk? Doesn't it daunt you?"

He saw a gleam of sympathetic approval in her eyes. She had courage: it was in the blood of those who stood for lost causes. Suddenly swept off his feet, he determined to follow the lead she unconsciously had given him.

"Well," he said, leaning forward on the big plow, "I'll tell you."

He paused with a smile, for he saw that the position he accidentally had taken was unfortunate. He had associated himself with the machine which, in a sense, materialized the difference between her people and him. He did not change his position; instead, one hand moved caressingly over the clumsy plow while he spoke.

"One gets easily nothing that's worth having; it must be worked and schemed and fought for. I took the risk for you!"

Beatrice started and an indignant flush suffused her face. She was alarmed and angry, and yet the shock she felt was not surprise. He had once given her a plain warning, and she had continued to see him. Her traditions took arms against him, old prejudices revived, and her pride was wounded, but something in her turned traitor, and she felt a strange responsive thrill.

"You do not know what you are saying," she said haughtily, rising from the tool-box and turning toward a spot of bare ground where the dog was digging energetically. "Here, Banff!" Then, obeying some impulse which she did not understand, she added to Harding: "You scarcely know anything about me!"

"When I met you that night at the river and saw your face in the moonlight, I knew all that was needful."

The answer moved the girl. She wondered whether one could fall in love that way. But she must end the interview and escape from an embarrassing position.

"I am sorry our acquaintance has led to this; I would have prevented it if I could," she said. "And now, good-afternoon!"

Harding straightened up, and one hand clenched.

"Stop! We're going to thrash this matter out."

His manner was commanding and Beatrice waited, although she was not used to obeying.

"You were angry at first," he said. "You are rather angry now; but I did you no wrong."

"I admit that. But I wish this hadn't happened. It has spoiled everything."

"Then you liked me as a friend?"

"Yes," Beatrice answered hesitatingly; "I'll be frank. You are different from the men I know."

"Then what have you against me as a lover? Character, person, manners, or opinions?"

She was silent a moment, feeling that she ought to go away. In staying she was trifling with danger; but after all he had a right to be heard.

"Oh, I know your people's point of view," he went on; "but I think it is not altogether yours. In one respect, they're wrong. My mother was the daughter of a bush pioneer, and in all that's most important I'm her son; but my father belonged to your own rank. He was brought up as an English gentleman. I'll show you the evidence I have of this some day, though it makes no difference."

"It must make a difference," Beatrice insisted with a surprised look.

"It can make none. For some reason his relatives cast him off, and declined to claim me. I don't know why, and I shall never trouble to find out. I tell you this because I think you ought to know. It is as Craig Harding, the prairie farmer, that I stand or fall; my own faults and merits are the only things that count."

"It's a bold claim you make."

"Well," he said, "so far, I've been clearing the ground. The sure foundation is the bed-rock of human nature, and we must settle this as man and woman. I know what you are; I knew when I first saw you; and I want you. I need you, Beatrice. My love is great enough to master any doubt you may have, and to hold you safe from all harm. Then, if all goes well, I can give you what you wish, and put you where you want to be. The woman I marry will have a wider influence than the wife of any man at Allenwood; a small matter in the real scale of things, but with so much against me I must urge all I can." He paused and stretched out his hands. "You are not afraid, Beatrice. It is not too great a venture for you?"

She stood still, with a tense expression, struggling against something that drew her toward him. Prudence, training, and prejudice, urged her to resist, and yet she was on the point of yielding.

"I am afraid," she said. "Only one thing could justify such a risk."

"That's true; it's what encourages me. You couldn't have made me love you as I do, unless you were able to give love in return."

She was silent, knowing that what he said was true.

He took a step nearer her, and his own face was tense.

"If you can declare you care nothing at all for me, that it would cause you no regret if you never saw me again, I'll make the best fight I can with my trouble and leave you alone for good. You will answer honestly?"

The color swept into her face, for she felt compelled to speak the naked truth.

"I can't go so far as that," she said in a low voice. "I should feel regret."

"Then the rest will follow! Why do you hesitate?"

She smiled, for the matter was too serious for trivial embarrassment, and she knew the man would force her to deal frankly with plain issues.

"You seem so sure?"

"I am, of myself."

"The difficulty is that I'm not an isolated individual, but a member of a family, and belong to a race that has its code of rules. I must think of the shock to my parents and my friends; all the pain that any rash act of mine might give to others. They may be wrong, but what they think I feel, in a half-instinctive way, that reasoning can't change. I should have to stand upon defense against my subconscious self."

"I know," he said gently. "But the choice is one that many have to make. One must often stand alone. It's true that I have all to gain and you all to risk; but, Beatrice – "

He broke off, and held out both hands appealingly to her.

"Beatrice!"

The girl was deeply stirred. She had not expected him to plead like this. In her world one took things for granted and implied instead of asserting them. At Allenwood he was spoken of as a rude, materialistic iconoclast, but she had found him a reckless idealist; although he made her feel that instead of being impractical he was dealing with stern realities. She would have made the great adventure only that she was not sure of her own heart yet. The consequences were too serious for one to risk a mistake.

She stood motionless, her eyes veiled by her dark lashes, and he knew the struggle that was going on within her. In his own eyes there was a great yearning; but a birthright of the pioneer is patience.

"I'm afraid you ask too much," she said at last. "If you like, you may think I am not brave enough." She raised her eyes to his; and winced at the pain she saw there. But she went on bravely: "Had things been different, I might perhaps have married you, but I think our ways are separate. And now you must let me go, and not speak of this again."

He bowed, and it struck Beatrice that there was a great dignity in his bearing.

"Very well," he answered gravely. "I will not trouble you again unless, in one way or another, you give me permission."

She turned away, and he stood still until long after she and the dog had disappeared in the bluff. Then he roused himself with a laugh.

"I won't get her this way!" he said half aloud, and picked up some of the fittings of the pump.

Beatrice went straight to her mother, for there was strong confidence between the two.

"So you refused him!" Mrs. Mowbray said, after listening silently while Beatrice was telling her of the interview. "Did you find it hard?"

"Yes," she answered slowly; "harder than I thought. But it was the only way."