Harding of Allenwood

Beatrice was presently glad of an excuse for dismissing him, and when the others had gone she went to her father, who was standing moodily by the hearth.

"You don't look well to-night," she said.

"I'm not ill."

"Then you're anxious."

"I must confess that I have something to think about."

"I know," said Beatrice. "Things look black just now. With the wheat market falling——"

"What do you know about the market?" Mowbray asked in surprise.

"I read the newspapers and hear the boys talk. They're brave and take it carelessly, but one feels——"

Mowbray gave her a keen glance.

"Well, what do you feel?"

"That I'd like to help you in any way I can. So far, I've taken all you have given me and done nothing in return."

"You can help," he answered slowly. "It would ease my mind if you married Brand."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Not that! I'm sorry, but it's impossible."

He made a gesture of resignation.

"Well, I can't force you."

Beatrice was silent a moment.

"It's hard to refuse the only big thing you have ever asked," she said hesitatingly. "I really want to help, and I feel humiliated when I see how little I can do. Mrs. Broadwood and Hester Harding can manage a farm; Broadwood says he only began to make money after he married." She paused, seeing Mowbray's frown, and went on with a forced smile: "However, I can at least cease to be an expense. I have cost you a great deal one way and another, and now you must give me nothing more."

"I'm afraid I may have to cut down your allowance," he answered gloomily.

"That's one thing I can save you." She looked at him with diffident eagerness. "I've been thinking a good deal lately, and I see that if wheat keeps getting cheaper it may be serious for us all. Couldn't we take precautions?"

"What kind of precautions?"

"Oh, I can't tell you that—I don't know enough about farming. But perhaps we could make some changes and economies; break more land, for example."

"If we lose on what we have broken already, how shall we economize by plowing more?"

"It sounds logical; but can't you save labor and reduce the average expense by working on a large scale?"

"Perhaps. But it needs capital."

"A few new horses and bigger plows wouldn't cost very much. We are spending a good deal of money on other things that are not directly useful."

Mowbray looked at her with an ironical smile and Beatrice felt confused. She remembered that she had staunchly defended her father's conservative attitude to Harding, and now she was persuading him to abandon it.

"This is a new line for you to take," he said. "I should like to know what has suggested it. Has Mrs. Broadwood converted you, or have you been talking to the Americans?"

"I meet Mr. Harding now and then, and he generally talks about farming."

"I suppose you can't avoid the fellow altogether, but politeness is all that is required. He has a habit of exaggerating the importance of things, and he can only look at them from his point of view."

Beatrice felt guilty. Her father had not forbidden her speaking to the man; he trusted her to remember what was due to her station. She could imagine his anger were he to suspect that she had allowed Harding to make love to her.

"Kenwyne and Broadwood seem to agree with him," she urged.

"They're rank pessimists; you mustn't listen to them. Try to be as economical as you can; but leave these matters alone. You don't understand them."

She went to her room, feeling downcast. She had failed to influence him, but it was partly her fault that she had been unable to do so. She had wasted her time in idle amusements, and now she must take the consequences. Nobody except Harding would listen when she wished to talk about things that mattered. She felt ashamed of her ignorance and of her utter helplessness. But perhaps she might learn; she would ask Hester Harding to teach her.

CHAPTER XVIII
COVERING HIS TRAIL

All round the rude log-shacks, small, ragged pines, battered by the wind, and blackened here and there by fire, rose from the deep snow that softened the harsh contour of the rocky wilderness. This is one of the coldest parts of Canada. The conifers that roll across it are generally too small for milling, and its penetration is remarkably difficult, but a silver vein accounted for the presence of a few hard-bitten miners. Occasionally they ran some risk of starving when fresh snow delayed the transport of provisions, and it was only at irregular intervals that a mail reached them. An Indian mail-carrier had, however, arrived shortly before the survey party, and Gerald had a letter in his hand, and a Montreal newspaper lay beside him. The letter troubled him. He was thankful to be left alone for a few minutes, for he had much to think about.

Hardship and fatigue had no attractions for him, but he had grown tired of the monotony of his life at the Grange, and as qualified surveyors were not plentiful in the wilds, the authorities had been glad to obtain the services of an engineer officer. Though he was only an assistant, the pay was good, and he had thought it wise to place himself out of his creditors' reach. Unfortunately, some of the more persistent had learned where he had gone, and the letter contained a curt demand for the settlement of an account. Gerald could not pay it, but the newspaper brought a ray of hope. He had speculated with part of the money his father had once given him to pay his debts, and the mining shares he bought had turned out worthless. Now, however, they were unexpectedly going up; it seemed that the company had at last tapped a vein of promising ore. If he could hold out, he might be able to liquidate his most pressing debts. But this creditor's demand was peremptory and he could not see how he was to gain time. He wished the men whose harsh voices reached him from the store would stop talking. They were rough choppers, of whose society he had grown very tired; and the taciturn surveyor was not a much better companion.

The surveyor came in before Gerald found a solution of his difficulties. He was a big, gaunt man. Throwing off his ragged furs he sat down in a broken chair and lighted his pipe.

"Thermometer's at minus fifty, but we must pull out at sun-up," he remarked. "Now, as I have to run my corner-line as ordered and the grub we've been able to get won't last long, I can't take all the boys and hunt for that belt of farming land."

"Supposititious, isn't it?" Gerald suggested. "We've seen nothing to indicate there being any soil up here that one could get a plowshare into. Still, the authorities have rather liberal ideas of what could be called cultivatable land."

"That's so," the surveyor agreed. "Where I was raised they used to say that a bushman can get a crop wherever he can fire the seed among the rocks with a shotgun. Anyway, the breeds and the Indians talk about a good strip of alluvial bottom, and we've got to find out something about it before we go back."

"It will be difficult to haul the stores and camp truck if you divide the gang."

"Sure; but here's my plan." The surveyor opened a rather sketchy map. "I take the sleds and follow the two sides of the triangle. I'll give you the base, and two packers. Marching light, by compass, you'll join me where the base-line meets the side; but you'll do no prospecting survey unless you strike the alluvial bottom."

"What about provisions?"

"You can carry enough to see you through; the cache I made in advance is within a few marches of where we meet."

It was not a task that appealed to Gerald. It would be necessary to cross a trackless wilderness which only a few of the Hudson Bay half-breeds knew anything about. He must sleep in the snow with an insufficient camp outfit, and live on cut-down rations, with the risk of starving if anything delayed him, because the weight he could transport without a sledge was limited.

He would have refused to undertake the journey only that a half-formed plan flashed into his mind.

"Suppose I miss you?" he suggested.

"Well," said the surveyor dryly, "that might mean trouble. You should get there first; but I can't stop long if you're late, because we've got to make the railroad while the grub holds out. Anyhow, I could leave you rations for two or three marches in a cache, and by hustling you should catch up."

Gerald agreed to this, and soon afterward he went to sleep on the floor. It was early in the evening, but he knew that the next eight or nine days' work would try him hard.

It was dark when the storekeeper wakened him, and after a hasty breakfast he went out with the surveyor. Dawn was breaking, and there was an ashy grayness in the east, but the sky was barred with clouds. The black pines were slowly growing into shape against the faint glimmer of the snow. The cold was piercing and Gerald shivered while the surveyor gave him a few last directions; then he slung his heavy pack upon his shoulders and set off down the unpaved street. There were lights in the log shacks and once or twice somebody greeted him, but after a few minutes the settlement faded behind and he and his companions were alone among the tangled firs. No sound but the crunch of snow beneath their big shoes broke the heavy silence; the small trees, slanting drunkenly, were dim and indistinct, and the solitude was impressive.

Gerald's lips were firmly set as he pushed ahead. Theoretically, his task was simple; he had only to keep a fixed course and he must cut the surveyor's line of march, but in practise there were difficulties. It is not easy to travel straight in a rugged country where one is continually forced aside by natural obstacles; nor can one correctly allow for all the divergences. This, however, was not what troubled Gerald, for the plan he had worked out since the previous night did not include his meeting the surveyor. It was the smallness of the quantity of provisions his party could transport that he was anxious about, because he meant to make a much longer march than his superior had directed.

His companions were strong, stolid bushmen, whose business it was to carry the provisions and camp outfit. They knew nothing about trigonometry; but they were at home in the wilds, and Gerald was glad the weather threatened to prove cloudy. He did not want them to check his course by the sun. Properly, it was northwest; and he marched in that direction until it was unlikely that anybody from the settlement would strike his trail; then he headed two points farther west, and, seeing that the packers made no remark, presently diverged another point.

Traveling was comparatively easy all day. Wind and fire had thinned the bush, cleaning out dead trees and undergrowth, and the snow lay smooth upon the outcropping rock. Here and there they struck a frozen creek which offered a level road, and when dark came they had made an excellent march. Gerald was glad of this, because all the food he could save now would be badly needed before the journey was finished. For all that, he felt anxious as he sat beside the camp-fire after his frugal supper.

A bank of snow kept off the stinging wind; there was, fortunately, no lack of fuel, and, sitting close to the pile of snapping branches, the men were fairly warm; but the dark pines were wailing mournfully and thick gloom encroached upon the narrow ring of light. The eddying smoke leaped out of it and vanished with startling suddenness. Gerald's shoulders ached from the weight of his pack, and the back of one leg was sore. He must be careful of it, because he had a long way to go, and men were sometimes lamed by snowshoe trouble.

The two packers sat, for the most part, smoking silently. Gerald now and then gave them a pleasant word, but he did not wish their relations to become friendly, as it was not advisable that they should ask him questions about the march. Indeed, he shrank from thinking of it as he listened to the savage wind in the pine-tops and glanced at the surrounding darkness. The wilderness is daunting in winter, even to those who know it best; but Gerald with his gambler's instincts was willing to take a risk. If he went home with the surveyor, ruin awaited him.

For a time he sat drowsily enjoying the rest and warmth, and then, lying down on a layer of spruce-twigs, he went to sleep. But the cold wakened him. One of the packers got up, grumbling, and threw more branches on the fire, and Gerald went to sleep again.

Starting shortly before daylight, they were met by blinding snow, but they struggled on all day across a rocky elevation. The snow clogged their eyelashes and lashed their tingling cheeks until the pain was nearly unbearable; still, that was better than feeling them sink into dangerous insensibility. They must go on while progress was possible. The loss of a day or two might prove fatal, and there was a chance of their getting worse weather.

It overtook them two days later when they sat shivering in camp with the snow flying past their heads and an icy blizzard snapping rotten branches from the buffeted trees. Twigs hurtled about their ears; the woods was filled with a roar like the sea; the smoke was blinding to lee of the fire, and its heat could hardly reach them a yard to windward. Gerald drank a quart of nearly boiling black tea, but he could not keep warm. There was no feeling in his feet, and his hands were too numbed to button his ragged coat, which had fallen open. When he tried to smoke, his pipe was frozen, and as he crouched beneath the snow-bank he wondered dully whether he should change his plans and face the worst his creditors could do.

By altering his course northerly when he resumed the march he might still strike the surveyor's line, but after another day or two it would be too late. Still, he thought of his father's fury and the shares that were bound to rise. If he were disowned, he must fall back upon surveying for a livelihood. It was unthinkable that he should spend the winter in the icy wilds, and the summer in portaging canoes over rocky hills and dragging the measuring chain through mosquito haunted bush. He could not see how he was to avoid exposure when Davies claimed his loan; but something might turn up, and he was sanguine enough to be content if he could put off the day of reckoning.

The blizzard continued the next morning and no one could leave camp; indeed, Gerald imagined that death would have struck down the strongest of them in an hour. But the wind fell at night, and when dawn broke they set out again in Arctic frost. One could make good progress in the calm air, though the glitter was blinding when the sun climbed the cloudless sky as they followed a winding stream. Then a lake offered a smooth path, and they had made a good march when dark fell.

In the night it grew cloudy and the temperature rose, and when they started at daybreak they were hindered by loose, fresh snow. At noon they stopped exhausted after covering a few miles; and the next day the going was not much better, for they were forced to flounder through a tangle of blown-down trees. It was only here and there that the pines and spruces could find sufficient moisture among the rocks, and they died and fell across each other in a dry summer.

On the seventh day after leaving the settlement the three men plodded wearily through thin forest as the gloomy evening closed in. Their shoulders were sore from the pack-straps, the backs of their legs ached with swinging the big snowshoes, and all were hungry and moody. Provisions were getting low, and they had been compelled to cut down rations. Now the cold was Arctic, and a lowering, steel-gray sky showed between the whitened tops of the trees. The packers had been anxiously looking for blaze-marks all afternoon; and Gerald, knowing they would not find them, felt his courage sink. He was numb with cold, and he dully wondered whether he had taken too great a risk.

Presently one of the men, who had been searching some distance to the right, joined his comrade. They spoke together and then turned back to meet Gerald.

"Say, boss, isn't it time we struck the boys' tracks?" one asked.

"Yes," said Gerald, recognizing that much depended on how he handled the situation. "We should have picked them up this morning."

The men were silent for a moment.

"Looks as if we'd got off our line," one of them then said resolutely. "How were you heading?"

"Northwest, magnetic."

"No, sir. You were a piece to the west of that."

"You think so?"

The man laughed harshly.

"Sure! I was raised among the timber; guess I've broken too many trails not to know where I'm going."

"Well," said Gerald in a confidential tone, "I didn't mention it before because I didn't want to make you uneasy, but I'm afraid this compass is unreliable. It hasn't been swiveling as it ought; oil frozen on the cap, perhaps, or the card warped against the glass. I tried to adjust it once or twice, but my fingers were too cold." He held it out awkwardly for them to examine, and it dropped from his mittens. Clutching at it, he lost his balance and crushed the compass beneath the wooden bow of his shoe.

Then he stepped back with an exclamation, and the packer, dropping on his knees, groped in the snow until he brought out the compass with its case badly bent.

"You've fixed her for good this time; there's an old log where she fell," he said; and he and his comrade waited in gloomy silence while Gerald watched them.

They did not suspect him: the thing had passed for an accident; but Gerald felt daunted by the deadly cold and silence of the bush. His companions' faces were indistinct and their figures had lost their sharpness; they looked shaggy and scarcely human in their ragged skin-coats.

One of the packers suddenly threw down his load.

"We're going to camp right here and talk this thing out," he said, and taking off his net shoe began to scrape up the snow.

Half an hour later they sat beside a snapping fire, eating morsels of salt pork and flinty bannocks out of a frying-pan, with a black pannikin of tea between them. The smoke went straight up; now and then a mass of snow fell from the bending needles with a soft thud, though there was scarcely a breath of wind.

"I reckon we've been going about west-northwest since we left the settlement," one of the men said to Gerald. "Where does that put you?"

"Some way to the south of where I meant to be. Twenty degrees off our line is a big angle; you can see how it lengthens the base we've been working along while McCarthy makes his two sides. That means we've lost most of our advantage in cutting across the corner. Then we were held up once or twice, and we'll probably be behind instead of ahead of him at the intersection of the lines. Tell me the distances you think we have made."

After some argument, they agreed upon them, and Gerald drew a rude triangle in the snow, though its base stopped short of joining one side.

"If you're right about course and distance, our position's somewhere here," he said, indicating the end of the broken line.

This placed the responsibility for any mistake upon his companions; but one of them had a suggestion.

"If we head a few points north, we'll certainly cut McCarthy's track."

"Yes; but we'd be behind him and he can't wait."

"Then if we stick to the line we're on, we'll join."

"If we run it far enough, but we'll have to go a long way first. It's difficult to catch a man who's marching as fast as you are when you have to converge at a small angle upon his track."

This was obvious as they looked at the diagram.

"What are you going to do about it?" one of the packers asked.

Gerald hesitated, because his plan might daunt them; moreover he must be careful not to rouse their suspicion.

"We want food first of all, and we'll have to sacrifice a day or two in finding the cache. To do so, we'll cut McCarthy's line; this won't be hard if he's blazed it."

"You'll follow him after you find the grub?"

"No," said Gerald, "I don't think so. He can't leave us much, and we'd probably use it all before we caught him up. The best thing we can do is to strike nearly north for the Hudson Bay post. We might get there before the food runs out."

There was silence for a few moments, and he waited for the others to speak, for he had carefully ascertained the position of the factory before he left the settlement. If they missed the remote outpost, or did not get there soon enough, they could not escape starvation.

"Well," said the first packer, "I guess that's our only plan, but we'll certainly have to hustle. Better get to sleep now. There'll be a moon in the early morning, and we'll pull out then."

Gerald made a sign of agreement. His companions had taken the direction of affairs into their own hands, and he was glad to leave it to them. It relieved him of responsibility, and they were not likely to blunder where error would be fatal. When they reached the factory he must find an excuse for remaining until McCarthy arrived at the settlements and reported the party missing. It would be mentioned in the papers, a relief expedition might be despatched, and Gerald's creditors would wait until the uncertainty about his fate was dissipated. He meant to delay his reappearance as long as possible; but he knew there was a possibility of its never being made. One took many chances in the frozen North.

CHAPTER XIX
THE BLIZZARD

He had reached the factory scarcely able to walk from snowshoe lameness; and one of the packers had a frozen foot. The Scottish agent, who was short of stores, had not welcomed them effusively. It was, however, impossible to turn them away; he promised them shelter, but he declined to supply them with provisions to continue their journey. They might stay, he said, though they must put up with meager fare, and when fresh stores arrived from the railroad he would see what could be done.

The delay suited Gerald; he limped contentedly about the rude log-house for some time; but when he and the packer recovered, they found that they were expected to take part in the work of the post. When the weather permitted, Gerald was despatched long distances with a half-breed to collect skins from the Indian trappers; and when snow-laden gales screamed about the log-house and it might have been fatal to venture out of sight of it, he was employed in hauling cordwood from the clearing.

At last some dog-teams arrived with stores, and the agent, seizing the opportunity of sending out a load of furs, gave his guests just food enough to carry them to the settlements and let them go with a half-breed. The journey proved arduous, for during most of it they struggled through tangled forest filled with fallen pines, and when at length they reached the plains an icy wind met them in the teeth. Now, however, they were near the end, and Gerald, stumbling along, pinched with the bitter cold, speculated dully about the news awaiting him.

His creditors could have done nothing until they learned what had become of him. That was something gained; and there was a probability of his being able to pay them off. The shares he owned were going up; there would be developments when the new shaft tapped the main body of the ore. The tip he had got from a safe quarter when he made the purchase was to be trusted after all. Mining companies were not run solely for the benefit of outside investors, and the directors were no doubt waiting for an opportune moment for taking the public into their confidence about their long-delayed success. The last newspaper Gerald had read, however, indicated that some information had leaked out, and he hoped that an announcement which would send up the price had been made while he was in the wilds.

The lashing snow gained in fury. When Gerald looked up, the dogs were half hidden in the cloud of swirling, tossing flakes. Beyond them lay a narrow strip of livid white, dead level, unbroken by bush or tuft of grass. There was, however, no boundary to this contracted space, for it extended before them as they went on, as it had done without a change since the march began at dawn. Gerald felt that he was making no progress and was with pain and difficulty merely holding his ground. The half-breed struggled forward beside the dogs, white from head to foot, but Gerald could not see the packers, and felt incapable of looking for them. Snow filled his eyes and lashed his numbed cheeks, his lips were bleeding, and his hands and his feet felt wooden with the icy cold. Lowering his head against the blast, he stumbled on, pushing the back of the sledge and seeking refuge from bodily suffering in confused thought.

After all, he had no hope of getting free from debt. The most he could expect was to pay off the men who pressed him hardest; but that would be enough for a time. Gerald could not face a crisis boldly; he preferred to put off the evil day, trusting vaguely in his luck. Looking back, he saw that he might have escaped had he practised some self-denial and told the truth to his father and his friends. Instead, he had made light of his embarrassments and borrowed from one man to pay another; to make things worse, he had gambled and speculated with part of the borrowed sums in the hope that success would enable him to meet his obligations. Money had to be found, but Gerald would not realize that for the man who does not possess it, the only safe plan is to work. Sometimes he won, but more often he lost; and the Winnipeg mortgage broker watched his futile struggles, knowing that they would only lead him into worse difficulties.

Then Gerald began to wonder whether the half-breed, who had nothing to guide him, could find the settlement. It seemed impossible that he could steer a straight course across the trackless waste when he could see scarcely fifty yards ahead. They might have wandered far off their line, though, so far as one could judge, the savage wind had blown steadily in front. It was a question of vital importance; but Gerald was growing indifferent. His brain got numb, and his body was losing even the sense of pain. The only thing he realized plainly was that he could not keep on his feet much longer.

At last, when it was getting dark, there was a cry from the half-breed, and one of the packers stumbled past. He shouted exultantly, the dogs swerved off their course, and Gerald felt the sledge move faster. The snow got firm beneath his feet and he knew they had struck a trail. It must lead to the settlement, which could not be far ahead. Half an hour later, a faint yellow glow appeared, the worn-out dogs broke into a run, dim squares of houses loomed out of the snow, and lights blinked here and there. They were obviously moving up a street, and when they stopped where a blaze of light fell upon them Gerald leaned drunkenly upon the sledge. The journey was over, but he was scarcely capable of the effort that would take him out of the deadly cold.

He saw the half-breed unharnessing the dogs, and, pulling himself together, he struggled up a few steps, crossed a veranda with wooden pillars, and stumbled into a glaring room. It was filled with tobacco smoke and the smell of hot iron, and its rank atmosphere was almost unbreathable. Gerald began to choke, and his head swam as he made his way to the nearest chair. The place, as he vaguely realized, was a hotel, and the packers had already entered because he heard their voices though he could not see them. There was a stove in the middle of the room, and a group of men stood about it asking questions. Some one spoke to him, but he did not understand what the fellow said. Reeling across the room, he grasped the chair and fell into it heavily.

Exhausted as he was, it was some time before he recovered from the shock caused by the change of temperature. Some one helped him to throw off his furs, which were getting wet, and to free him of his big snowshoes. His sensations were acutely painful, but his head was getting clear, and, after a while, he followed a man into a colder room where food was set before him. He ate greedily; and feeling better afterward he went back to the other room and asked for a newspaper.

He turned to the financial reports; but he could not see the print well, for he was still somewhat dizzy and the light was trying. The figures danced before him in a blur, and when he found his shares mentioned it cost him some trouble to make out the price. Then he let the paper drop, and sat still for some minutes with a sense of confused indignation. The shares had gone up, but only a few points. The rogues in the ring were keeping information back until weak holders were forced to sell. It was a swindle on the public and, what was more, it meant ruin to him. The shares would be taken from him before they rose, because he could not hope to hide his return from his creditors.

The safe arrival of his party would soon be reported in the newspapers; and to disappear again would result in his being regarded as a defaulter and a statement of his debts being sent to the Grange. He had borne all the hardship and danger for nothing! He was no nearer escaping from his troubles than he had been when he broke his compass in the wilds.

There was, however, one hope left. He must see Davies in Winnipeg. The fellow was clever, and might think of something, particularly as it was to his interest to keep Gerald on his feet. He thought he could count on Davies' support until the loan on mortgage fell due. His thoughts carried him no farther. He was dazed by fatigue and the shock of disappointment.

After vacantly smoking for a while, Gerald went off to bed. His room was singularly comfortless, but a hot iron pipe ran through it and it struck him as luxurious by contrast with the camps in the snowy waste. Ten minutes after he lay down he was sound asleep.

The snow had stopped the next morning, and reaching the railroad after a long and very cold drive, he arrived in Winnipeg the following day and went straight to Davies' office.

The broker looked up with a curious expression as Gerald came in.

"This is a surprise," he said. "We thought you were lost in the timber belt."

"It ought to be a relief," Gerald answered, sitting down.

Davies looked amused.

"Oh, so far as my business interests go, it doesn't make much difference. I have good security for what you owe me."

"But I suspect you're not quite ready to prove your claim to my farm."

For a few moments Davies studied Gerald's face. He wondered how much he knew about his plans concerning Allenwood, and, what was more important, whether he might try to thwart them. Young Mowbray was not a fool, and these people from the Old Country had a strong sense of caste; they stood by one another and were capable of making some sacrifice to protect their common interests against an outsider. If Mowbray had such feelings, he would need careful handling; but Davies was more inclined to think him a degenerate who placed his own safety before any other consideration.

"I don't want to prove it yet. It will be time enough when the mortgage falls due. But what has this to do with things?"

"The trouble is that you may not be able to wait," said Gerald coolly. "If you will read this letter, you will understand, though I'm not sure it will be a surprise to you."

He gave Davies the letter demanding payment of his debt, and the broker saw that he was shrewder than he thought. As a matter of fact, Davies had been in communication with the other creditors.

"Well," he remarked, "you certainly seem to be awkwardly fixed."

"I am; but I suspect the situation's as awkward for you. This leads me to think you'll see the necessity for helping me out of the hole. If these fellows come down on me, their first move will be to try to seize my land, and you'll have to produce your mortgage. This will make trouble at Allenwood."

Davies pondered. Though he had long been scheming for a hold on Allenwood, his position was not very strong yet. He had spent a good deal of money over his plans and, although he was sure of getting it back, if he were forced into premature action he would fail in the object he aimed at. It might accordingly be worth while to spend a further sum. On the other hand, money was getting scarce with him. Wheat was falling, trade was slack, and land, in which he had invested his capital, was difficult to sell. Still, it was undesirable to spoil a promising scheme for the sake of avoiding a moderate risk.

"I understand your father's unable to pay the debt for you," he said.

"Yes; he'd probably disown me if he heard of it. I don't expect this to interest you, but some of his neighbors have money, and when they saw the settlement was threatened they'd raise a fund to buy you out. You might, of course, make them wait, but if they were ready to find the cash, you'd have to give up your mortgages when they fell due."

"If these men are so rich, why don't you ask them to lend you the money?"

"Because I've bled them as much as they will stand, and they'd think the matter serious enough to hold a council about. This would have the result I've just indicated. I think you see now that you had better help me to settle my most pressing claims."

Davies regarded him with a grim smile.

"It strikes me that your talents were wasted in the army. You might have made your mark in my business if you'd gone into it before you took to betting. That's your weak spot. A gambler never makes good."

"Perhaps. But what about the loan?"

"Your name wouldn't be worth five cents on paper," said Davies dryly. "However, if you could get somebody with means to endorse it, I might be able to discount it for you. The rate would be high."

"Men who wouldn't lend me money would be shy of giving me their signature."

"That's so; but there's the chance that they might not be called upon to make good. You'll have to persuade them that things are sure to change for the better in, say, three months. Can you do so? I must have a solid man."

Gerald sat quiet for a while, with knitted brows. He had been frank with Davies because frankness would serve him best; but he understood that the fellow wanted the signature of one of the Allenwood farmers because this would strengthen his grasp on the settlement. Gerald saw ruin and disgrace ahead, but by taking a worse risk than any he had yet run, he might put off the disaster for three months. Procrastination and a curious belief that things could not come to the very worst were his besetting weaknesses. He shrank from the consequences that might result; but he could see no other way of escape, and he looked up with a strained expression.

"All right. I will get you a name that you can take. I shall have to go to Allenwood."

Davies had been watching him keenly.

"Very well," he said. "Sign this, and look in again when you have got your friend's signature."

Three days later Gerald was back in the broker's office.

"Can you negotiate it now?" he asked nervously, producing the paper.

"Yes," said Davies. "The name's good enough. I know Harding."

After deducting a high rate of interest, he gave Gerald the money, and then locked the note away with a look of great satisfaction.

Harding's name was forged, and Davies knew it.

CHAPTER XX
A SEVERE TEST

In a few more months she must leave her brother's house and transfer to another the care and thought she had given him. She knew he would miss her, and now and then she wondered anxiously whether any other woman could understand and help him as she had done. Craig had faults and he needed indulging.

Then, too, he sometimes gave people a wrong impression. She had heard him called hard. Although in reality generous and often compassionate, his clear understanding of practical things made him impatient of incompetence and stupidity. He needed a wider outlook and more toleration for people who could not see what was luminously plain to him. Life was not such a simple matter with clean-cut rules and duties as Craig supposed. Grasping its main issues firmly, he did not perceive that they merged into one another through a fine gradation of varying tones and shades.

Rather late one night Hester sat sewing while Harding was busy at his writing table, his pipe, which had gone out, lying upon the papers. He had left the homestead before it was light that morning to set his steam-plow to work, though nobody at Allenwood had taken a team from the stable yet. Devine had told her of the trouble they had encountered: how the soft soil clogged the moldboards, and the wheels sank, and the coulters crashed against patches of unthawed ground. This, however, had not stopped Harding. There was work to be done and he must get about it in the best way he could. At supper time he came home in very greasy overalls, looking tired, but as soon as the meal was finished he took out some papers, and now, at last, he laid down his pen and sat with knitted brows and clenched hand.

"Come back, Craig!" Hester called softly.

He started, threw the papers into a drawer, and looked at his watch.

"I thought I'd give them half an hour, and I've been all evening," he said, feeling for his pipe. "Now we'll have a talk. I told Fred to order all the dressed lumber he wanted, and I'd meet the bill. The house he thought of putting up wasn't half big enough; in a year or two he'd have had to build again. Then we want the stuff to season, and there's no time to lose if it's to be ready for you when the harvest's in."

Hester blushed prettily.

"You have given us a good deal already, Craig. We would have been satisfied with the smaller homestead."

"Shucks!" returned Harding. "I don't give what I can't afford. You and Fred have helped to put me where I am, and I'd have felt mean if I hadn't given you a good start off when I'm going to spend money recklessly on another plan. Now that all I need for the summer's paid for, I've been doing some figuring."

"Ah! You think of buying some of the Allenwood land?"

"Yes," he said gravely. "It will be a strain, but now's the time, when the falling markets will scare off buyers. I hate to see things go to pieces, and they want a man to show them how the settlement should be run. They have to choose between me and the mortgage broker. It will cost me a tough fight to beat him, but I think I see my way."

"But what about Colonel Mowbray?"

"He's the trouble. I surely don't know what to do with him; but I guess he'll have to be satisfied with moral authority. I might leave him that."

Hester felt sorry for the Colonel. He was autocratic and arbitrary, his ways were obsolete, and he had no place in a land that was beginning to throb with modern activity. She saw the pathetic side of his position; and, after all, the man was of a finer type than the feverish money makers. His ideals were high, though his way of realizing them was out of date.

"Craig," she said, "it may be better for Allenwood that you should take control, but you're running a big risk, and somehow your plan looks rather pitiless. You're not really hard——"

She paused and Harding smiled.

"I'm as I was made, and to watch Allenwood going to ruin is more than I can stand for. It would be worse to let the moneylender sell it out to small farmers under a new mortgage and grind them down until they and the land were starved. Broadwood and one or two more will help me all they can, but they haven't the money or the grip to run the place alone."

"And you feel that you can do it. Well, perhaps you can, but it sounds rash. You are very sure of yourself, Craig."

"How can I explain?" he said with a half amused, half puzzled air. "The feeling's not vanity. I have a conviction that this is my job, and now that I begin to see my way, I have to put it through. I'm not swaggering about my abilities—there are smarter men in many ways at Allenwood; my strong point is this: I can see how things are going, and feel the drift of forces I didn't set in motion and can't control. All I do is to fall into line and let them carry me forward, instead of standing against the stream. The world demands a higher standard of economical efficiency; in using the best tools and the latest methods I'm obeying the call."

"What was it that first fixed your thoughts on Allenwood?" she asked.

"Beatrice Mowbray. I'm going to marry her if I make good."

"You have no doubts about that either?"

"Oh, yes; I have plenty. I know what I'm up against; but human nature's strongest in the end. She likes me as a man."

Hester understood him. She was to marry a man of her own station, which would save her many perplexities, but Craig, respecting no standard but personal merit, would have married above or beneath him with equal boldness. It was not because he was ambitious, but because he loved her that he had chosen Beatrice Mowbray. Yet Hester was anxious on his account.

"It's a big risk," she said. "The girl is dainty and fastidious. There's nothing coarse in you, but you have no outward polish. Perhaps the tastes you have inherited may make things easier."

"Well, sometimes I have a curious feeling about these Allenwood people. I seem to understand them; I find myself talking as they do. There was something Kenwyne said the other night about an English custom, and I seemed to know all about it, though I'd never heard of the thing before."

He got up and knocked out his pipe.

"All that doesn't matter," he said whimsically. "What's important now is that it's late, and I must have steam up on the plow by daybreak."

For the next week Harding was very busy; and then, coming back to the house one afternoon for some engine-packing, he found Beatrice alone in their plain living-room. She noticed the quick gleam of pleasure in his eyes and was conscious of a response to it, but she was very calm as she explained that Hester had gone to saddle a horse on which she meant to ride with her to Mrs. Broadwood's.

"That should give us ten minutes," Harding said. "There's something I once promised to show you and I may not have a better chance."

Unlocking a drawer, he took out a small rosewood box, finely inlaid.

"This was my father's. Hester has never seen it. I found it among his things."

"It is beautiful."

Harding opened the box and handed her a photograph.

"That is my mother," he said.

Beatrice studied it with interest. The face was of peasant type, with irregular features and a worn look. Beatrice thought the woman could not have been beautiful and must have led a laborious life, but she was struck by the strength and patience the face expressed.

Harding next took out a small Prayer-book in a finely tooled binding of faded leather and gave it to her open. The first leaf bore a date and a line of writing in delicate slanted letters: To Basil, from his mother.

"My father's name was Basil," Harding explained, and taking up another photograph he placed it with its back beside the inscription in the book. It was autographed: Janet Harding.

"I imagine it was sent to him with the book, perhaps when he was at school," Harding resumed. "You will note that the hand is the same."

This was obvious. The writing had a distinctive character, and Beatrice examined the faded portrait carefully. It was full length, and showed a lady in old-fashioned dress with an unmistakable stamp of dignity and elegance. The face had grown very faint, but on holding it to the light she thought she could perceive an elusive likeness to Hester Harding.

"This lady must have been your grandmother," she remarked.

"Yes," said Harding. "I have another picture which seems to make the chain complete."

He took it from the box and beckoned Beatrice to the window before he gave it to her, for the photograph was very indistinct. Still, the front of an English country house built in the Georgian style could be made out, with a few figures on the broad steps to the terrace. In the center stood the lady whose portrait Beatrice had seen, though she was recognizable rather by her figure and fine carriage than her features. She had her hand upon the shoulder of a boy in Eton dress.

"That," said Harding, "was my father."

Beatrice signified by a movement of her head that she had heard, for she was strongly interested in the back-ground of the picture. The wide lawn with its conventionally cut border of shrubbery stretched beyond the old-fashioned house until it ended at the edge of a lake, across which rounded masses of trees rolled up the side of a hill. All this was familiar; it reminded her of summer afternoons in England two or three years ago. Surely she had walked along that terrace then! She could remember the gleaming water, the solid, dark contour of the beechwood on the hill, and the calm beauty of the sunlit landscape that she glimpsed between massive scattered oaks. Then she started as she distinguished the tower of a church in the faded distance, its spires rising among the tall beech-trees.

"But this is certainly Ash Garth!" she cried.

"I never heard its name," Harding answered quietly.

Beatrice sat down with the photograph in her hand. Her curiosity was strongly roused, and she had a half disturbing sense of satisfaction.

"It looks as if your father had lived there," she said.

"Yes; I think it must have been his home."

"But the owner of Ash Garth is Basil Morel! It is a beautiful place. You come down from the bleak moorland into a valley through which a river winds, and the house stands among the beechwoods at the foot of the hill."

"The picture shows something of the kind," agreed Harding, watching her with a reserved smile.

Beatrice hesitated.

"Perhaps I could find out what became of your father's people and where they are now."

"I don't want to know. I have shown you these things in confidence; I'd rather not have them talked about."

"But you must see what they might mean to you!" Beatrice exclaimed in surprise.

He moved from the window and stood facing her with an air of pride.

"They mean nothing at all to me. My father was obviously an exile, disowned by his English relatives. If he had done anything to deserve this, I don't want to learn it, but I can't think that's so. It was more likely a family quarrel. Anyway, I'm quite content to leave my relatives alone. Besides, I promised something of the kind."

He told her about the money he had received, and she listened with keen interest.

"But did he never tell you anything about his English life?"

"No," said Harding. "I'm not sure that my mother knew, though Hester thinks she meant to tell us something in her last illness. My father was a reserved man. I think he felt his banishment and it took the heart out of him. He was not a good farmer, not the stuff the pioneers are made of, and I believe he only worked his land for my mother's sake, while it was she who really managed things until I grew up. She was a brave, determined woman, and kept him on his feet."

Beatrice was silent for a few moments. The man loved her, and although she would not admit that she loved him, it was satisfactory to feel that he really belonged to her own rank. This explained several traits of his that had puzzled her. It was, however, unfortunate that he held such decided views, and she felt impelled to combat them.

"But you need ask nothing from the people except that they should acknowledge you," she urged. "Think of the difference this would make to you and Hester. It would give you standing and position."

"Hester is going to marry a man who loves her for herself, and the only position I value I have made. What would I gain by raking up a painful story? The only relatives I'm proud to claim are my mother's in Michigan, and they're plain, rugged folks."

There was something in his attitude that appealed to Beatrice. He had no false ambitions; he was content to be judged on his own merits—a severe test. For all that, she set some value upon good birth, and it was distasteful to see that he denied the advantages of his descent. Then she grew embarrassed as she recognized that what really troubled her was his indifference to the opinion of her relatives. He must know that he had a means of disarming her father's keenest prejudice, but he would not use it.

"I understand that Hester knows nothing about these portraits," she said.

"No; I've never mentioned them. It could do no good."

"Then why have you told me?"

"Well," he answered gravely, "I thought you ought to know."

"I have no claim upon the secrets you keep from your sister."

Harding was silent, and Beatrice felt annoyed. After all, she understood why he had told her and she recognized that he had acted honestly in doing so. Still, if he really loved her, she felt, he should not let pride stand in the way of removing every obstacle to get her.

Hester came in and announced that the horses were ready; and soon afterward she and Beatrice were riding together across the prairie while Harding went doggedly back to his work.

CHAPTER XXI
THE DAY OF RECKONING

Davies suffered among the rest. He had foreseen a set-back, but it proved more severe than he expected. He had bought land he could not sell, had cooperated in erecting buildings which stood empty, and had made loans to men unable to repay them.

One morning he sat in his office, gloomily reading a newspaper which made a bold attempt to deal optimistically with the depressing situation. Among other news there was a report of a meeting of the shareholders in a mining company; and this Davies studied with interest. It was what is termed an extraordinary meeting, called to consider the course to be adopted in consequence of the engineer's failing to reach the ore after sinking a costly shaft; and Davies, glancing at another column, noted that the shares had sharply fallen. Gerald Mowbray had speculated in this stock, and Davies was then expecting a call from him.

Instead of Mowbray, Carlyon came in. The boy looked anxious, but he was calm.

"I suppose you know what I've come about," he began.

"Yes; you're behind with your interest."

Carlyon's ease of manner was perhaps overdone, but he hid his feelings pluckily.

"Then, as I can't pay, what are you going to do? I must know now; when you're farming, you have to look ahead."

"I'm going to sell you up when the mortgage falls in. You have some time yet."

"Can't you renew the loan upon any terms?"

"No," said Davies truthfully. "I would if I could. I have to meet my engagements and money's scarce."

Carlyon got up, turning an unlighted cigar in nervous fingers, but there was a smile in his eyes that showed he could face ruin with dignity.

"Then, if that's your last word, I needn't waste your time; and it wouldn't be fair to blame you for my foolishness. I dare say I can find a job as teamster; it seems the only thing that's left."

"You have grit. I'm sorry I can't keep you on your feet," Davies answered with more feeling than Carlyon had expected.

"Thanks. Mowbray's waiting outside; I'll send him in."

Davies looked up when the door opened a few moments later. Gerald's careless manner had gone; he showed obvious signs of strain. Indeed, there was something in his face that hinted at desperation. Davies was not surprised at this. After a curt greeting he took up the newspaper.

"I expect you have seen the report of the company's meeting."

"I have," said Gerald. "It doesn't leave much to the imagination. At last, the directors have treated us with brutal frankness. I've filled up my proxy in favor of appointing a committee to investigate."

"It can't do much good. The fellows can investigate until they're tired, but they can't find ore that does not exist."

"It would be some comfort if they found out anything that would put the rogues who deluded us into jail," Gerald answered savagely.

Davies smiled in a meaning way.

"Rather too drastic a proceeding." He gave the other a direct glance. "People who play a crooked game shouldn't appeal to the law."

The blood crept into Gerald's face and he wondered with dire misgivings what the man meant and how much he knew. He had counted on a report from the mining engineer that would send up the value of his shares, and had rested on this his last hope of escaping from a serious danger. Instead, he had learned that the mine was barren. It was a crushing blow, for he must find a large sum of money at once. The consequences would be disastrous if he failed.

"Well," he said, "the most important point is that my shares are worth next to nothing, and I've very little expectation of their ever going up. I don't suppose you'd take them as security for a loan at a quarter of their face value?"

"I would not," Davies answered firmly.

"Very well. My note falls due in a few days. What are you going to do?"

"Present it for payment."

Gerald looked at him keenly, to see if he meant it; but he could read in the broker's imperturbable face nothing to lead him to doubt this. He tried to pull himself together, and failed. Gerald had not inherited the stern, moral courage of the Mowbray stock.

"You can't afford to let me drop," he pleaded in a hoarse voice. "As soon as you take away your support the brutes I've borrowed from will come down on me like wolves, and, to protect your interests, you'll have to enforce your mortgage rights. I needn't point out that this will spoil your plans. You're not ready to make your grab at Allenwood yet."

Davies heard him unmoved. He was comparing his attitude with that of the ruined lad he had just dismissed. Carlyon was, of course, a fool who deserved his fate, but his pluck had roused the moneylender's sympathy. He did not mean to let it make him merciful, but he had some human feeling, and it inspired him with contempt for Mowbray. The fellow was clever enough to see that Davies' plans were directed against his relatives and friends, but this had not prevented his falling in with them for the sake of a temporary advantage. His pride was a sham; he forgot it when it threatened to cost him something. Moreover he had not been straight with Davies in several ways. He had a rogue's heart, but was without the rogue's usual nerve.

"I often have to change my plans," Davies said calmly. "Just now I'm short of money, and must get some in. Anyway, there's no secret about the mortgage; it had to be registered."

"Of course; but I don't suppose anybody knows about it, for all that. People don't spend their time turning up these records."

"It would be a wise precaution, when they dealt with you," Davies answered pointedly.

Gerald did not resent the taunt.

"But you can't get your money for the note," he urged. "It's impossible for me to meet it now."

"Or later, I guess. Well, I'll have to fall back on the endorser; he's a solid man."

A look of terror sprang into Gerald's face.

"You can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Well," Gerald faltered, "he never expected he'd have to pay the note."

"That's his affair. He ought to have known you better."

Gerald roused himself for a last effort.

"Renew it on any terms you like; I'll agree to whatever you demand. I have some influence at Allenwood, and can get you other customers. You'll find it worth while to have my help."

Davies smiled scornfully.

"You can't be trusted. You'd sell your friends, and that means you'd sell me if you thought it would pay. I'm willing to take a risk when I back a sport; but one can't call you that. You have had your run and lost, and now you must put up the stakes." He took a pen from the rack and opened a book. "There doesn't seem to be anything more to be said. Good-morning."

Gerald left, with despair in his heart; and when he had gone Davies took the note from his safe and examined the signature on the back with a thoughtful air. After all, though money was tight, he might retain his hold on Allenwood if he played his cards cleverly.

During the afternoon Carlyon and Gerald took the westbound train, and the next evening Gerald reached the Grange. There had been a hard rain all day, and he was wet after the long drive, but he went straight to the study where his father was occupied. It was not dark outside yet, but the room was shadowy and heavy rain beat against its walls. Mowbray sat at a table by the window, apparently lost in thought, for although there were some papers in front of him the light was too dim to read. He glanced up with a frown when his son came in.

"If you had thought it worth while to let me know you were going to Winnipeg, I could have given you an errand," he said, and added dryly: "One would imagine that these trips are beyond your means."

Gerald was conscious of some shame and of pity for his father, whom he must humble; but his fears for his own safety outweighed everything else.

"I want you to listen, sir. There's something you must know."

"Very well," said Mowbray. "It is not good news; your voice tells me that."

It was a desperately hard confession, and Mowbray sat strangely still, a rigid, shadowy figure against the fading window, until the story was finished. Then he turned to his son, who had drawn back as far as possible into the gloom.

"You cur!" There was intense bitterness in his tone. "I can't trust myself to speak of what I feel. And I know, to my sorrow, how little it would affect you. But, having done this thing, why do you slink home to bring disgrace on your mother and sister? Could you not hide your shame across the frontier?"

It was a relief to Gerald that he could, at least, answer this.

"If you will think for a moment, sir, you will see the reason. I don't want to hide here, but it's plain that, for all our sakes, I must meet this note. If it's dishonored, the holder will come to you; and, although I might escape to the boundary, you would be forced to find the money." Gerald hesitated before he added: "It would be the only way to save the family honor."

"Stop!" cried Mowbray. "Our honor is a subject you have lost all right to speak about!"

For a moment or two he struggled to preserve his self-control, and then went on in a stern, cold voice:

"Still, there is some reason in what you urge. It shows the selfish cunning that has been your ruin."

"Let me finish, sir," Gerald begged hoarsely. "The note must be met. If I take it up on presentation, the matter ends there; but you can see the consequences if it's dishonored."

"They include your arrest and imprisonment. It's unthinkable that your mother and sister should be branded with this taint!" Mowbray clenched his hand. "The trouble is that I cannot find the money. You have already brought me to ruin."

There was silence for the next minute, and the lashing of the rain on the ship-lap boards sounded harshly distinct.

Gerald saw a possible way of escape, but, desperate as he was, he hesitated about taking it. It meant sacrificing his sister; but the way seemed safe. His father would stick at nothing that might save the family honor.

"There's Brand," he suggested, knowing it was the meanest thing he had ever done. "Of course, one would rather not tell an outsider; but he can keep a secret and might help."

"Ah!" Mowbray exclaimed sharply, as if he saw a ray of hope. Then he paused and asked with harsh abruptness: "Whose name did you use on the note?"

"Harding's."

Mowbray lost his self-control. Half rising in his chair, he glared at his son.

"It's the last straw!" he said, striking the table furiously. "How the low-bred fellow will triumph over us!"

"He can't," Gerald pointed out cunningly, using his strongest argument in an appeal to his father's prejudice. "He will know nothing about the note if I can take it up when due."

Mowbray sank back in his chair, crushed with shame.

"It must be managed somehow," he said in a faltering voice. "Now—go; and, for both of our sakes, keep out of my way."

Gerald left him without a word, and Mowbray sat alone in the darkness, feeling old and broken as he grappled with the bitterest grief he had known. There had, of course, been one or two of the Mowbrays who had led wild and reckless lives, but Gerald was the first to bring actual disgrace upon the respected name. The Colonel could have borne his extravagance and forgiven a certain amount of dissipation, but it humbled him to the dust to realize that his son was a thief and a coward.