Harding of Allenwood

CHAPTER XXII
THE PRICE OF HONOR

"Your father has more trouble than you know. Perhaps I'd better tell you about it, as you must grasp the situation. You heard that Godfrey Barnett was dead, but you don't know that he died ruined by the failure of the bank."

"Ah! All our money was in Barnett's, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray. "It has all gone."

She stopped in distress. The task of influencing the girl to take a course she must shrink from was painful to her; but she had promised her husband and must go on with it. There was no other way, and it was in accordance with her traditions that the threatened honor of the family should come before her daughter's inclinations.

"Now you can see why it's impossible for your father to save Gerald by paying the money. It explains why he has been forced to ask help from Brand."

Beatrice drew back from her, as if overwhelmed.

"Blow after blow! How has he borne it all? And yet he is very brave."

"You are his daughter," said Mrs. Mowbray meaningly, though she felt that what she was doing was cruel. "You must be brave, too. I think you see how you can make things easier for him."

"Oh!" The girl drew a quick breath. Then she rose with a hot face, burning with fierce rebellion. "The fault is Gerald's, and he must suffer for it! Why should I! He has always brought us trouble; everything has been given up for the sake of the boys. Don't I know how you have had to deny yourself because of their extravagance? It's unjust! Not even my father has the right to ask this sacrifice from me!"

"Gerald cannot suffer alone. If he is arrested for forgery, it will crush your father and be a stain on Lance's name as long as he lives. Lance has been very steady since his accident, and I dare not think of his being thrown back into his reckless ways. Then the disgrace will reflect even more seriously on you—a girl is condemned for the sins of her relatives. I do not speak of myself, because the worst that could happen to me was to learn that my son had done this thing."

Beatrice's mood changed suddenly. Her high color faded and she made a hopeless gesture.

"It's true! I feel as if I were in a trap and could not get out. It's horrible!"

She sank down again by her mother's side and struggled for composure.

"Let us face the matter quietly," she said. "Brand is our friend; he cannot be so ungenerous as to ask a price for his help."

"He is a hard man, and very determined."

"Yes; I know. I have been afraid of him. He made me feel he was waiting until his opportunity came. But, for all that, I can't believe——"

Mrs. Mowbray gave her a glance of compassionate sympathy.

"Even if Brand does not claim his reward, we know what would persuade him to do us the great service your father must ask. Can we take this favor from him, and then deny him what he longs for? There is nobody else who can help us, and our need is pressing."

"But I am not asking the favor!" Beatrice urged in desperation. "The debt is not mine! It would be different if I were in Gerald's place."

"You must see that you are using a false argument," Mrs. Mowbray answered gently. "A girl cannot separate herself in this way from her father and brother: the family responsibilities are hers. It may sound very harsh, but you cannot repudiate the liability Gerald has incurred. When he did wrong, he made us all accountable."

Beatrice could not deny this. She had been taught that the family was not a group but a unit and its honor indivisible, and she had always been made to feel that it was her duty to reflect credit upon her name. It was a comfortable doctrine when things went well; when things went wrong, however, it became very cruel. Seeing no hope at all, she fell into mute despair, and it was some time before she could rouse herself. At last she got up with a quietly resolute expression.

"Well," she said slowly, as if it cost her a great effort, "I must try not to disgrace you by any foolish weakness. Since this is our debt, I must pay it. One understands that women have often done such things. It seems as if all the burdens were laid on our shoulders—and men call us weak!" She paused a moment, and then asked in a dead, indifferent voice: "Whose name did Gerald forge?"

"I don't know. Your father didn't tell me. I thought he tried to avoid it."

Moving calmly to the door, Beatrice was surprised to find Gerald waiting in the passage outside. She gave him a steady look. Her face was white and hard, and there was scorn in her eyes. Gerald drew back, almost as if she had struck him.

"You have been talking to Mother?" he asked awkwardly.

"Yes," she said; "and you know what we talked about. So far as anything I can do may count, you are safe. That, of course, was all you wanted to know."

She saw keen relief in his face.

"After all," he urged, "Brand is a very good fellow and has many advantages to offer."

She turned upon him with burning indignation.

"Don't be a hypocrite! You know it would not have mattered if he had been the meanest rogue in Canada—so long as you got free."

She swept past him and left him standing in the passage with a downcast air.

Seeking refuge in her room, she locked the door and tried to think. She must face the situation and not let futile anger and horror overcome her. Growing calm after a time, she began to wonder why the prospect of marrying Brand was so repugnant. He belonged to her own station, they had much in common, and, in a way, she liked him. Then, she had long known that she would be expected to make a good match, and Brand had kept his beautiful English house waiting for her; his wife would have the position and social influence Beatrice had been taught to value. But these things seemed worthless now.

She looked out through the open window at the prairie. It had grown green with the rain, though clumps of bleached grass still checkered it with silvery gray. Red lilies were opening here and there, and as she gazed the blue shadow of a cloud swept across the plain and vanished, leaving it bright with sunshine. Its vastness and the sense of freedom it conveyed appealed to the girl. There was a charm in the wide horizon; one never felt cramped upon the plains. She loved the spacious land, and did not want to live in England.

But this was a deceptive argument. Brand would stay at Allenwood if she wished. Indeed, she knew that he would make many a sacrifice to please her if she married him. She must look for a better reason.

It was not hard to find, for in this crisis she must be honest with herself. The blood crept to her face as she realized that she could not marry Brand because she loved some one else. Now that such love was hopeless and must be overcome, the disturbing truth was plain. She had fenced with and tried to deny it, but when it was too late, it had beaten her.

By way of relief, she tried to occupy her mind with another thought. Her father had been reluctant to tell whose name Gerald had forged. Beatrice knew that her brother would choose a man of wealth, otherwise the name would have no weight, and she did not think he had fixed on Brand. Her father's reticence made her feel that it must be Harding. Beatrice thought her father unjust and foolish. Harding would not take a shabby advantage of his position; he was generous, but, unfortunately, no help could come from him. She could not tell her lover that her brother was a thief; besides, this was a secret that must be carefully hidden from everybody outside the family. Brand, she reflected with a shudder of repugnance, would soon belong to it. There was no help anywhere.

Beatrice leaned against the window-frame, her head buried in her arms. The soft air from the prairie swept over her caressingly, the hot sunshine bathed her; but her heart was black with despondency. She was in a trap—a trap set by her own brother—and no escape was possible.

She threw her head up with a sudden resolve. At least she would make the sacrifice bravely, without murmur, as befitted the daughter of the house of Mowbray.

Her mood changing again as quickly, she threw herself across the bed and burst into a fit of passionate sobbing.

And while she lay there, worn with crying, her father sat in his study talking to Brand. He related with candor what had happened, making no attempt to hide the ugliest facts; and Brand grasped at the opportunity opened for him. He recognized that it would give him a strong claim on Mowbray's gratitude. It might be mean to take advantage of it; but he had waited a long time for Beatrice, and might lose her altogether if he let this chance slip.

"You have my sympathy, sir," he said suavely. "It must have been a great shock; but I am glad you have taken me into your confidence, because I can be of help. You can repay me whenever you find you can do so without trouble."

Mowbray gave a sigh of great relief.

"Thank you, Brand. You cannot understand how you have eased my mind. I know of no one else who would, or could, have done so much."

The Colonel sank back in his chair, and Brand noticed how worn he looked. The younger man was conscious of a slight feeling of pity; but he could not afford to indulge it: he must strike while the iron was hot.

"Now that things are going so hard for you, in a financial way, it would be some satisfaction to feel that your daughter's future was safe," he said.

Mowbray was silent a moment. Then he answered slowly.

"Yes. I wish indeed that she could see her way to marry you."

"I will speak plainly. I have been waiting patiently, but, so far as I can judge, I have gained nothing by this. I'm afraid I may lose all if I wait much longer. Beatrice likes me, we agree on many points, our tastes are similar, and I think there's every reason to hope she could be happy with me. I could give her all that a girl brought up as she has been could desire."

"Do you suggest that I should urge her to marry you?" Mowbray asked with some asperity.

Brand hesitated. He knew that he was doing an unchivalrous thing, but the passion he hitherto had kept in check mastered him.

"Well," he said, "I suppose that is what I really meant."

Mowbray looked at him in haughty surprise.

"You know I cannot refuse you; but I hardly expected you to take this line. It might have been better if you had relied upon my gratitude and my daughter's recognition of the service you have done us. We are not in the habit of forgetting our debts."

"The trouble is that I cannot afford to take a risk; there is some danger of Beatrice's becoming estranged from me. I would not press you if I saw any strong reason why she should not be happy as my wife, but I know of none, and I feel that this is my last chance."

"Then you mean to insist upon your claim?"

"Very reluctantly, sir."

Mowbray was silent for a moment or two, and then he looked up with a strained expression.

"You place me in a helpless position. You make me and my family your debtors, and then——" He broke off abruptly. "Did you mean to hint there was some particular danger of my daughter's becoming estranged from you?"

"Since you force me to be candid, I believe she is attracted by another man; perhaps I ought to say interested in him. I cannot suspect any attachment yet; but I am afraid."

"Who is he?"

Brand hesitated a moment before answering.

"I cannot give you his name, because I may be mistaken. Still, he is a man you would strongly disapprove of."

There was suspicion in Mowbray's eyes and his face hardened.

"What you hint at surprises me, Brand; but I cannot compliment you upon your conduct to-night. However, as Beatrice is the most interested person, it is, I think, only right that she should be allowed to speak."

He rang, and the servant who promptly answered was sent for Beatrice. When the door opened a few moments afterward, Mowbray was surprised to see not his daughter but the maid.

"Miss Mowbray is ill," she announced, "and begs you to excuse her."

The maid withdrew, and Mowbray frowned.

"When must my daughter pay this debt?" he asked.

"When is the forged note due?"

"I understand that the Winnipeg fellow will bring it to me here on Friday night."

"Then there are two days yet. I will leave Miss Mowbray free until Friday night. In the meantime I shall expect you to use your influence with her." He hesitated a moment, feeling that he might not be taking the right line. "I must urge you again, sir, to consider," he finished, "that it will be only for your daughter's good, in every way, to marry me."

When he left, Mowbray sat motionless in his chair for a long while, looking out over the prairie but seeing nothing in front of him. Then with an effort he roused himself. After all, he tried to believe, it would not be so bad for the girl. She was young; she might yet learn to love Brand, even though she married him under compulsion. As for Harding—— Mowbray dismissed the thought. He had no fear that his daughter would so far forget her station: the pride of caste had been drilled into her too strongly.

CHAPTER XXIII
A WOMAN INTERVENES

A gray streak of smoke that moved across the waste caught her eye. It was Harding, harrowing by steam or perhaps bedding down his seed-wheat with the land-packer. Beatrice thought of him with a poignant sense of regret. He loved her, and she had deceived herself in thinking she could not love him. She had been bound by foolish traditions and had not had the courage to break loose. It was too late now and she must pay the penalty of her cowardice. She longed to call Harding to her help; he was strong enough to save her. But the family disgrace must be kept secret. There was no way out; she seemed to be turning round and round in a narrow cage and beating herself vainly against the bars.

As she started her horse she saw in the distance the Broadwood homestead rising, a blur of gray buildings, and she rode toward it. She needed sympathy, and her mother had nothing but resignation to urge. Effie Broadwood was kind and fond of her; it would be some comfort to tell her that she was in trouble—though of course she could not go into particulars.

Mrs. Broadwood at once noticed the girl's troubled face, and knew that something had gone wrong. She led Beatrice into her plain little sitting-room and made her comfortable on a sofa. Then, sitting down beside her, she took her hand affectionately.

"Now, dear," she said, "we can have a quiet talk. I know that something is troubling you."

Beatrice was moved by her unaffected sympathy. She had friends at Allenwood but she could not go to them. They would think her rather to be envied than pitied; but this warm-hearted, unconventional woman would understand. She longed to take her into her confidence, and although this was impossible, the numbing despair in her heart began to melt.

"I can't tell you much; but—I suppose I shall be married soon."

Mrs. Broadwood looked keenly interested.

"Is it an Allenwood man?"

"Brand. I must tell him definitely to-morrow evening."

"Ah!" Mrs. Broadwood exclaimed. There was a pathetic note in the girl's voice that touched her. "But if you don't want the man you have only to let him know."

"I wish it were as easy as that!" Beatrice answered hopelessly.

Mrs. Broadwood was silent for a few moments, but her fingers clasped the small hand under them with a comforting pressure.

"I think I understand. Your father and mother are on his side; but if you'd hate to have him for a husband you must not sacrifice yourself."

"But I must!" said Beatrice desperately, and her forced calm suddenly broke down. Her companion's gentleness had destroyed it, and now a reaction from the strain she had borne had begun. "No," she added in a broken voice, "there's no way out! I've been trying to find one and I can't."

She buried her face in one of the pillows and broke into choking sobs. It was weak, she felt, and not what was to be expected from a Mowbray, but there was comfort in the bitter tears. For a while Mrs. Broadwood let her cry, but when she began to soothe her, Beatrice roused herself. She could not remember afterward what she said, but her confused excuses for her emotion and her fragmentary half confidences left a disturbing impression on Mrs. Broadwood's mind.

Beatrice rode home feeling slightly comforted, though she was no nearer a solution of her difficulties. She had, of course, been very weak and perhaps had said more than was wise, but she had not betrayed her brother; and Effie Broadwood was a true friend. Beatrice was justified in thinking so, for Mrs. Broadwood was to prove a better friend than she suspected.

When the girl had gone, Mrs. Broadwood spent some time in thinking over what she had heard. Although she had keen intelligence, there were points that puzzled her; she had been given several clues, but they broke off before they led her far. Then she decided that something might be learned by tactfully questioning her husband, and she went about her work until he came home in the evening. She let him finish his supper and light his pipe before she began.

"The Mowbrays are in trouble just now, aren't they, Tom?"

"I dare say; they certainly have their difficulties. Why?"

"Beatrice rode over this afternoon and she had something on her mind. What do you think's the matter?"

"For one thing, the Colonel must have lost a good deal since wheat began to go down. Then I heard something about the failure of an English bank; Lance once told me the family had shares in it. I expect the stoppage made a difference in their income."

"That doesn't quite account for it. Do you know of anything else?"

"Gerald may have been giving them trouble again. I know he has borrowed a good deal of money which he'd find it difficult to pay, and I'm afraid he's been mortgaging his land."

This confirmed some of Mrs. Broadwood's suspicions; but the matter was still far from clear.

"The Colonel would be very mad about the mortgage," she said. "Still, it's Gerald's land, and he can do what he likes with it."

"Not altogether. He's bound by the settlement covenant, and, as his father gave him the land, he ought to respect his opinions. Mowbray's convinced that to let in strangers would be hurtful to Allenwood."

While feeling sure that Gerald was the cause of the Mowbrays' troubles, Mrs. Broadwood did not think that Beatrice would marry a man she did not care for in order to benefit the settlement. There must be another reason.

"Suppose Gerald had already mortgaged his farm and wanted some more money, how would he borrow it?"

"He'd find it hard, as he has no security to offer," Broadwood answered with a smile. "I don't know much about these matters, and don't want to know anything more, but I believe the usual plan is something like this: you give the lender a note, an engagement to pay in, we'll say, three months, and get somebody to endorse it. His putting down his name makes him liable for the amount, and if the lender was satisfied about him, he'd give you the money at once and take off as much interest as he could."

"But who'd guarantee Gerald in that way?"

"I don't know. I certainly would not."

"He would have to be a man who was known to have money," she persisted.

"I suppose so; it would naturally make the transaction easier. But it's not our business to pry into the Mowbrays' affairs."

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Broadwood. "Still, I was sorry for Beatrice and it made me curious."

She changed the subject and after a time took up a book as an excuse for silence. She wanted to think, because she now felt sure that Gerald's financial difficulties accounted for the pressure that was being put upon Beatrice. The girl was being forced to marry Brand because he would supply the money to save her brother from disgrace. Mrs. Broadwood felt that it must be disgrace and not an ordinary debt. There would, however, be no great difficulty if he had given some one a note, for the man who endorsed it must have known that he might be called upon to pay. But suppose he had not heard about the transaction at all? Mrs. Broadwood dropped her book, for she saw that she had guessed the riddle. Gerald had not asked the man to guarantee him; he had forged his name. Taking this for granted made everything plain.

Then she began to wonder whose name Gerald had forged. It could not be his father's, for Mowbray was known to be far from rich. The only man with much money at Allenwood was Brand, but Mrs. Broadwood thought it could not be Brand, because she knew Mowbray's pride and believed that in spite of his anxiety to keep the matter quiet he would not force his daughter to marry a man his son had robbed. Admitting this, she must look for some one else. Then it dawned upon her that the man was Harding.

"What did you say?" Broadwood asked, looking up from his paper.

"I was thinking," his wife replied. "S'pose I must have thought aloud. Anyway it wouldn't interest you. How's wheat going?"

"Down," said Broadwood, and there was silence again.

Mrs. Broadwood saw what she could do. She admitted that she might make a deplorable mess of things if she were mistaken, but the need was serious enough to justify some risk. She had courage and she was fond of Beatrice.

The next afternoon she drove across the prairie to the spot where she thought Harding was at work. She found him busy with his engine at the end of a wide belt of plowing which the land packer had rolled down hard and smooth.

"Craig!" she called, pulling up her horse. "I want you a minute."

He came to the step of the buck-board, dressed in greasy overalls, with an oil smear on his hand, but she felt that he was to be trusted as she gave him an approving glance. She liked his level look and his steady eyes; there was force in his quiet face. He was the type of man she admired: swift in action, free from what she called meanness, and determined. Indeed, she felt inclined to hesitate as she thought of his resolute character. It would be easy to set him in motion, but once that was done he could not be stopped, and there might be startling developments. It was rather like firing the train to a mine; and there was a disturbing possibility that she might, after all, be wrong in her surmises.

But she gathered up her courage; and she knew that there was no time to be wasted.

"Craig," she said, "do you want Beatrice Mowbray?"

He started and his brown face flushed.

"I want her more than anything else in the world."

Mrs. Broadwood gave him a quick, approving nod.

"Do you know how she feels about you?"

"No. I only know what I hope."

"Well," said Mrs. Broadwood thoughtfully, "I believe she'd rather take you than Brand."

"Brand!"

"I expect she'll be engaged to him to-night, unless you act." Mrs. Broadwood checked him as he was about to speak. "This is your chance, Craig; you'll never get another half as good. Listen quietly for a few minutes."

He stood very still, without asking a question, until she had finished.

"I guess you're right," he said with set jaws; "and I know the man who holds the note. If Beatrice is to give Brand her answer to-night, it means that Davies is coming here to squeeze the Colonel, and if his train's on time, he ought to make the Grange in about three hours."

"And you'll be there to meet him?"

Harding smiled.

"When I'm wanted I like to be on hand, and I guess I'm wanted pretty badly now."

"You certainly are. I suppose you see what you must do?"

"If there's a note out with my name on it, it has got to be taken up. You can leave the thing to me. I meet my obligations."

Mrs. Broadwood saw that he had found a more effective way of dealing with the situation than had yet occurred to her.

"Craig," she exclaimed with frank admiration, "you're a wonder!"

He held out his hand with a twinkle of rather grim amusement.

"Anyway, I have to thank you for putting me on the track, and I'm not going to forget it. Now I have several matters to fix up before I start for the Grange."

She touched the horse with the whip and he stepped back.

"Good luck!" she called. "You deserve it!"

CHAPTER XXIV
A GREAT TRIUMPH

"I came to see your son, but I meant to ask for an interview with you before I left," the money-lender said to Mowbray, and then glanced at Brand. "I imagine that our business had better——"

"Mr. Brand is acquainted with it, and I prefer him to remain. My son has informed me that you hold a note of his. No doubt, you have brought it with you?"

"You propose to pay it for him?"

"Certainly," said Mowbray with a trace of haughtiness. "Since he was foolish enough to give you such a document it must be met."

Davies felt surprised; but he took out the paper. He had not expected it to be met, and as he stood with it in his hand, hesitating, he was strangely irritated by Mowbray's smile. Then he put the note on the table, and, after examining it, Mowbray gave it to Brand, who made a sign indicating that he was satisfied.

"Yes," he said, "it seems to be in order." Then he turned to Davies. "We'll keep this paper; I'll give you a check."

"Presently." Davies picked up the note. When he spoke, he addressed Mowbray. "I'll give you the note canceled in return for payment of half the amount; the rest to stand against a purchase I want to make."

"You can have it all. I have no wish to defer payment. And I don't understand what your purchases have to do with me."

"I'll explain. One of your young neighbors is giving up his farm. He hasn't broken much land and the buildings are small. The place ought to go cheap, and I'm open to buy it. Then there's a section of vacant land, and I'm willing to pay a small sum for an option of taking it up at a fixed price in a year's time."

Mowbray looked at him in cold surprise.

"To begin with, I cannot sell you my neighbor's property; nor can I give you an option on the vacant lot."

"In a sense that's true, but you can fix things as I want it if you like. Your word goes a long way in these matters."

"I see no reason why I should use my influence in your favor."

"It's impossible!" Brand interposed bluntly. "We are very careful whom we let in at Allenwood."

"In short, you mean to keep me out," Davies suggested with an ugly smile.

"Take it for granted that we cannot sell you the land you want."

"Very well," said Davies. "I must try to convince you that you had better indulge me." He fingered the note. "I have not parted with this document yet. It seems to me that there's something unusual about Mr. Harding's signature."

As a rule, both Brand and Mowbray were capable of self-control, but the attack was so unexpected that they showed their alarm. It had not occurred to them that the moneylender might suspect the forgery. Indeed, there was terror in the Colonel's face before he recovered himself, and Brand's grew angrily red.

"You scoundrel! What do you mean?" he cried.

"Only that I'm not sure Mr. Harding would know his own writing if I showed it to him."

Mowbray motioned Brand to be silent, and for a few moments both sat still, feeling overwhelmed. Brand saw that it was now out of his power to protect his companion; and the Colonel realized that the sacrifice of his daughter might prove useless. He was in the moneylender's hands, and to comply with his exactions would not end them. The honor of the Mowbrays was at the rascal's mercy.

There was a knock at the door.

"Mr. Harding!" a servant announced.

"I can't see him at present," said Mowbray with a start as he heard a quick, resolute step in the passage.

Before he finished speaking, Harding entered.

"This must look like an intrusion, and you'll have to excuse my not waiting your leave," he said. "The fact is, I was determined to get in."

"So it seems," Mowbray answered. "Since you have succeeded, may I ask if you came here by this gentleman's request?"

"Why, no!" Harding looked at Davies with a twinkle. "I guess my turning up is a surprise to him."

Davies' crestfallen air bore this out, but he waited silently, and for a moment or two neither Brand nor Mowbray spoke. The Colonel, to his astonishment, was conscious of some relief. After all, he would rather fall into Harding's hands than the moneylender's.

"Perhaps you will explain the object of your visit," Mowbray said, when the silence threatened to become awkward.

"Certainly; though it ought to be plain. Mr. Davies holds a note with my name on it, which I understand Mr. Gerald Mowbray cannot meet." He leaned forward and took the note. "It's due to-day."

Baffled rage shone in Davies' eyes.

"You admit your liability?" he cried indignantly.

"Of course! My name's here; I don't go back on my obligations."

Mowbray looked at him with dull astonishment; and Brand, whose wits were clearer, with reluctant admiration. He thought the farmer was playing his part well; but Davies would not give in yet.

"Am I to understand that you acknowledge this as your signature?" he asked in a calmer tone.

"Do you mean to tell me that you doubted it?" Harding returned. "You haven't the reputation of being a fool. Would you have lent money on a note you suspected was forged?"

Davies saw the game was up. Brand was Mowbray's friend, and Harding was an obviously hostile witness. Unless he were very careful he might lay himself open to a charge of conspiracy; and he was powerless to attack Mowbray so long as Harding acknowledged his signature.

"Well," resumed Harding, taking out his wallet, "I guess I'll keep this paper and give you a check."

Brand saw his last hope vanishing.

"Stop a minute!" he interposed. "You're taking too much for granted in concluding that Gerald cannot pay. The debt is his in the first place, and with the help of a friend he is able to find the money."

Mowbray looked up with a curious expression in which there was relief and shame. Though he would have forced his daughter into a marriage she shrank from, the necessity for doing so had preyed upon his mind and he seized the chance of freeing himself of his debt to Brand. He did not stop to reason, but acted on the vague feeling that Harding, whom he had distrusted, would prove an easier creditor.

"Gerald cannot pay this note," he said firmly.

Brand turned to him in surprise; but he saw that Mowbray was not to be moved, and he understood what had prompted the Colonel's sudden change. Brand had not played a straight game, and he had lost. At the last moment the prairie man had beaten him. All that he could do now was to bear his defeat with dignity.

"Very well, sir," he answered, getting up. "Since I cannot be of service, I will leave you to arrange matters with these gentlemen."

Mowbray went to the door with him, and closing it behind them laid his hand on Brand's arm.

"You pressed me hard, but you were willing to help when I needed it badly. I shall remember that with gratitude."

"I wish you could forget the rest, but it's too much to hope," Brand replied; and when Mowbray went back into the room he walked moodily down the passage.

Reaching the hall, he found Beatrice waiting there. She had seen Davies come in and had heard of Harding's arrival, and she now wondered with tense anxiety what was going on. She could form no conclusion and could not ask Gerald, because he had carefully kept out of her way. Looking up at Brand's step, she felt her heart beat with returning hope, for his lips were set and his brows knit. He had rather the air of a man who had received a heavy blow than that of a rejoicing lover. Something unexpected had happened to humble him and set her free.

"Well," he said with an effort, "I have lost you. Still, I want you to believe that I loved you."

Beatrice was trembling from the shock of relief, but she knew that it would be cruel to show what she felt.

"I never doubted that," she answered quietly; "but you took the wrong way."

"There was no other available. Now that I have lost, perhaps you will forgive me. I'm going to England in a week or two; I haven't the courage to stay here."

"I'm sorry," she said. "But to go away may be best."

Brand left her, and she leaned against the big newel-post and tried to keep calm. The thing she dreaded most was not to happen. In some miraculous way she was free! She wondered with keen anxiety what her father and Harding were talking about. Davies, she knew, had left the house a few moments after Brand.

As a matter of fact, the moneylender was promptly dismissed, with a check for the full amount of the note; and when Mowbray returned after closing the door behind him, Harding laid the note on the table.

"This is yours, sir," he said with a smile. "You may destroy it."

"Mine!" Mowbray showed his surprise. "You mean—you——" He stumbled over the words. "You admit your responsibility?" he finally ended.

"Of course!"

Harding picked up the note, tore it across twice, and threw the pieces into the open fire.

"There's an end of that," he smiled. "Since it bore my signature I don't know that I have any claim, but you can pay me when you like. I won't press you."

Mowbray did not answer for a moment. He felt overcome and could not collect his thoughts. His prejudices against Harding were strong, but they were, in a sense, impersonal. It was not the man he objected to, but what he stood for. The fellow's generosity humbled him.

"I'm afraid I have done nothing to warrant this great kindness," he said awkwardly. "Am I to understand that you offer it to me without conditions, asking nothing in return?"

"No; not altogether. I guess I might choose a better time, but I feel that you should know what I want. I'm going to ask a favor. I suppose you no longer think of compelling Miss Mowbray to marry Brand?"

"You can take it that I do not. But what is this to you?"

"Well," Harding said with a slight unsteadiness in his voice, "I want to ask you if you will give her to me?"

Mowbray straightened himself in his chair.

"So you, too, mean to make terms, when you know I cannot refuse!"

"No," Harding answered shortly, "I make none. If you had insisted on Miss Mowbray's marrying Brand, I might have had something to say. All I ask is that you give her a free choice; if she uses it to take somebody else, I won't complain."

"That is remarkably generous," Mowbray conceded.

"We'll let that go. Perhaps my request is something of a shock, but I want you to hear me out. If things go well with me this year, I can give my wife every comfort you have at Allenwood, and she can lead the life she likes best—except that I can't leave the prairie. Then there is nothing that need separate your daughter from you. Many of her friends are mine; they'll welcome me into the settlement. I did not go to them; they came to me."

Mowbray knew this was true. His own younger son firmly believed in Harding. Kenwyne, who had fastidious tastes, was his friend. There were others Mowbray could think of, and all were men of character and standing.

"May I ask how long you have entertained these views about my daughter?"

"Since the first time I saw her, and that was very soon after I came to this neighborhood. I knew as soon as she spoke to me that I would never marry any one else."

Mowbray studied him. He had not suspected Harding of romantic tendencies, but the man was obviously serious.

"Has she any reason to suspect your feelings?" he asked.

"The best of reasons; I have told her on more than one occasion. Still, I can't claim that she approves of me."

Had Harding made his proposal earlier, it would not have been entertained for a moment, but Mowbray had suffered during the last few days. He had found that it cost him more than he had expected to disregard his daughter's inclinations, and he shrank from doing so again. Then he owed much to Harding, who had behaved with somewhat surprising good taste. After all, if Beatrice were fond of him—Mowbray stopped here, feeling that the matter must be settled at once. He determined to confront the girl with Harding and learn the truth.

"I hope to give you an answer in a few minutes," he said, and left the room.

Somewhat to his surprise, Mrs. Mowbray agreed to his plan, and when he went back to his study he and Harding waited until Beatrice entered. She was highly strung but calm, though a trace of color crept into her face as she glanced at Harding.

"Gerald is safe," Mowbray told her. "Mr. Harding, who has acted very generously, has ensured that. Now he asks that I should allow you to marry him."

Beatrice look startled; her face grew dead-white and her expression strained.

"After what he has learned about us he is very rash. But this is not generosity!"

Mowbray stopped Harding, who would have spoken.

"I see that I did not make his meaning clear. He merely asks that I withdraw my objections, and not that I try to influence your decision. I am willing to do the former, but you must make your choice."

Beatrice gave Harding a swift, grateful look.

"I am sorry I misunderstood. I should have known you better," she said in a very low voice.

Then she was silent for a moment, with downcast eyes, and the two men waited tensely. When she looked up her eyes glistened with tears; but behind the tears there shone a great happiness.

"It is not hard to decide," she murmured, reaching her hand out timidly toward Harding.

He grasped it eagerly, and Mowbray forced himself to smile. In spite of the Colonel's prejudices, he felt that his daughter's quiet confidence in the prairie man was justified.

"I sincerely wish you well," he said. He laid one hand on Harding's arm, and there was a tremor in his voice as he continued: "We have not agreed on many points, but I have learned that you can be trusted. I am glad to remember it now."

"Thank you, sir," said Harding. "I know the value of what you have given me."

After a few more words Mowbray let them go, and when they sat together on the large black settle in a corner of the hall, the girl was conscious of a calm tenderness for her lover that was stronger than anything she had yet felt.

"Craig," she said softly, "I wasn't brave enough when you first urged me, but the hesitation I then felt has gone, and I am ashamed of it. I know that I am safe with you."

"Thank you for that," he answered and his face grew compassionate. "But you look very tired and distressed."

"I am tired—but I'm happy." A faint flush tinted her cheeks and she smiled shyly. "The last few days have been very trying, Craig; and when there seemed to be no way out, then I knew that I wanted you. Now I am still half dazed; my escape seems so wonderful!"

"I know," Harding said gently. "I was sorry for you all. It must have been hard for your father, but one can see his point of view. You must forget about it, dear. I am starting for Winnipeg to-morrow, and may be there a week. You will have time to get used to things before I come back."

"You are very considerate, and even kinder than I thought."

He smiled into her eyes.

"I am going to leave you now, because I feel that I ought to. But you know I want to stay!"

He lifted the hand she gave him and kissed it tenderly. Then a swift flood surged through him.

"Beatrice!" he breathed. "Oh, Beatrice! You don't know what it means to me!"

The little fingers were nearly crushed in his strong grasp; but he released them quickly and turned away.

"Good-by, dear!" he said.

Beatrice let him go, but her look was strangely tender and her heart beat fast. He had shown a fine unselfishness, and a tact that was perhaps remarkable. She had no hesitation about him now.

CHAPTER XXV
THE REBUFF

The storekeepers and implement dealers in the small settlements had many bad debts, and their charges were proportionately high, but Harding did not see why he and his friends should pay for the defaulters. Expensive machines were needed; and new wheat was being produced which would resist drought and ripen soon enough to escape the autumn frost; but local dealers were unable, or perhaps too careless, to obtain the seed. Then, Harding saw that a time was coming when mixed farming produce, which he called truck, would be in strong demand; and it was his custom to anticipate a need. Kenwyne and the others recognized the desirability of this, and had agreed to open a joint agency in Winnipeg. Harding was not sure that the expense could be recouped for a time, but he believed the undertaking would pay in the end.

After finding a suitable office, he called on a number of business men and the flour-millers who were then beginning what was to become the leading industry of the city. He wanted to learn their views about the kind of wheat best suited to their use, and to enter into direct relations with them. On the whole, he succeeded better than he had hoped, and had now only to appoint an agent. Two or three suitable men had offered their services, and it was difficult to decide.

He was thinking over the matter in the newly opened office, when Gerald came in. The Mowbray black sheep seemed to feel no embarrassment in meeting him, for his manner was inclined to be patronizing. Sitting down, he lighted a cigarette.

"This is a new venture. I don't know that it will meet with general approval at Allenwood," he remarked.

"One mustn't expect too much," Harding answered. "I guess the people who object now will come round by and by."

"I wonder how long you think it will be before my father falls into line," said Gerald with a careless laugh. "Everything considered, I rather admire your pluck."

Harding let this pass. It was not a tactful allusion to his engagement to Beatrice, and he was annoyed by Gerald's manner. He had not expected much gratitude, but the fellow did not even seem to realize that Harding had saved him from jail.

"I suppose you know I have been turned out of Allenwood," Gerald resumed.

Harding admitted that he had been told so.

"Since then I've heard from the Government people that they're not likely to want me for the new survey. As a matter of fact, I'm not sorry. The last man I went into the woods with was a sour, exacting brute."

"They've got to be hard. It isn't easy to run a line through a rough country."

"Nobody knows that better than I do," Gerald replied with feeling. "Well, I've been here a week, and can't find any congenial occupation."

"You don't look worried about it."

Gerald laughed.

"Oh, I'm not, as a rule, despondent; and I knew that I could as a last resort fall back on you. This explains my call. I believe you want an agent to manage your office."

Harding's expression indicated ironical amusement.

"Do you think what you have just told me is a recommendation for the job?"

"It seems to prove my need of it."

"But not your suitability. I'm not looking for a man whom nobody else will have."

Gerald looked at him in astonishment. Though he had not given the matter much thought, he had imagined that Harding would be glad to do him a favor for his sister's sake. It was something of a shock to be refused. And the manner of the refusal was mortifying. The fellow was a coarser brute than he had thought; but Gerald did not mean to let his resentment run away with him.

"I have a few useful qualifications," he said. "Some of the bigger implement dealers and the heads of the milling firms are men of taste and education. It's possible they might rather deal with me than with a drummer fellow, or a raw farmer fresh from the soil."

"I'm fresh from the soil, but I guess I could run this end of the business," Harding returned.

Gerald saw that he had blundered; but he did not feel beaten yet.

"Perhaps I'd better mention that I spoke to Kenwyne and Broadwood, and they were willing that I should have the agency."

"That's so. I have a letter from Kenwyne, who says he'd like to give you a lift, but leaves me to decide."

"Then his wishes ought to count. You must see that your position at Allenwood won't be easy; it will need some tact to make it comfortable, and your giving me the post would go a long distance in your favor. You can't afford to disregard our people's feelings until you've made your footing good."

"Can I not?" Harding's patience was exhausted. "Have I ever tried to gain your friends' favor by indulging any of their crank notions? If necessary, I'll put my plans through in spite of the crowd!" He checked himself. "But this has nothing to do with the matter. You're not the man I want."

"May I inquire what kind of a man you do want?"

"First of all, one I can trust."

Gerald colored, but he got up with some dignity and moved toward the door.

"You may regret your decision," he said threateningly.

Harding sat silent until the door closed, and then he went over to the window and looked out at the narrow street with a frown. He was angry, but he did not think he had been too severe. It was plain that he might have made things easier for himself by falling in with Gerald's suggestion; the fellow was a favorite at Allenwood, where his last offense was known only to one or two people. Harding had no doubt that Mowbray would have appreciated his giving his son another chance; and Beatrice would have thought it generous. For all that, the business of the settlement could not be done by wastrels; and Harding felt that he could not secure a personal advantage by a breach of trust.

Gerald's feelings about the matter were far from pleasant. Returning to his second-class hotel he endeavored to solace them with a drink before he sat down in the untidy lounge to consider. He had been grossly insulted; but he persuaded himself that this did not trouble him most. The worst was that Harding was a coarse, low-bred brute, and was, unfortunately, going to marry Beatrice. Gerald had not hesitated about sacrificing his sister to save himself, but it was easy for him now to feel that she was making a grave mistake. It was perhaps curious that he had preserved a keen sense of family pride, and a belief that people of his station must keep up their dignity; but he was honest as far as he went. He knew that he had by no means lived up to his creed; but, while some allowances must be made for men, this did not apply to women. It was essential that they should remember what was due to their birth and rank. On no account should a well-bred girl marry beneath her.

He went to the bar for another drink, and afterward became convinced that Beatrice's marriage to Harding could only end in disaster. It must, therefore, be prevented. He could not see how this was to be done, but chance might provide a means.

In the meanwhile he was confronted by the stern necessity for earning his living. Taking up a newspaper, he studied the advertisements; but unfortunately there seemed to be no demand for people with refined tastes and polite accomplishments in Canada. Farm teamsters were wanted, and shovel hands for a branch railroad; but these occupations did not appeal to Gerald. A clerk was required at a new hotel. Well, that was more in his line, and he set off to interview the proprietor. After a few curt questions the man dismissed him, and Gerald spent the next day or two moodily walking about the town, until it occurred to him that he had better see what Davies could do. The fellow, who knew the worst of him, owed him something. He felt much less bitter against the moneylender, who had helped to ruin him, than he did against Harding, whom he had injured.

Davies was disengaged when Gerald entered.

"So you're up against it!" he remarked. "Your friends at Allenwood have no use for you?"

"It looks like that. Otherwise I wouldn't have come here."

"I see they're opening an office in this city."

"Harding's in charge. I don't get on with him."

"Well, perhaps that's natural." Davies was keen enough to notice the rancor in Gerald's tone. He was afraid his plans about Allenwood might have to be abandoned, but if he were able to go on with them, Harding would prove his most dangerous opponent.

"I guess Mr. Harding talked pretty straight to you?" he suggested.

"He took an unfair advantage of my position!"

"So you thought you'd strike me for a job? I guess you know you're not worth much."

Gerald winced at this, but he could not resent it. His father had disowned him, and, except for a surreptitious gift from his mother, he had no resources.

"It's plain that I can't insist upon good terms," he replied. "I quite expected you to see it."

Davies considered. He did not suspect Mowbray of any fondness for steady work, and he thought his services as a clerk would be dear at five dollars a week; but the fellow was shrewd and plausible, and had what Davies called tone. Well-brought-up young Englishmen and a few Americans of the same stamp were coming into Manitoba looking for land, and Mowbray, who understood these people, might act as a decoy. Then, he knew all about Allenwood, and this knowledge might be useful later. On the whole, Davies thought he would take the risk of employing him.

"Well," he said, "I'll make you an offer."

It was not an advantageous one for Gerald, but after some objections he accepted it, and the next day reluctantly set to work. His occupation, however, proved less unpleasant than he had feared, and at the end of a few weeks Davies thought he had acted wisely. Mowbray was intelligent and unscrupulous, his judgment was good, and Davies began to take him into his confidence.

Harding, in the meanwhile, appointed an agent and went home. He hired a horse at the railroad settlement, and the first of the Allenwood farmsteads were rising above the edge of the plain when a mounted figure appeared near a bluff that the trail skirted. The figure was small and distant, but it cut sharp against the evening light, and Harding's heart beat fast as he recognized it. Touching his horse with the quirt, he rode on at a gallop and pulled up near Beatrice with an exultant gleam in his eyes.

"This is very kind!" he cried.

She looked at him shyly, with some color in her face.

"Didn't you expect me to meet you? How far have you ridden at that furious pace?"

"Since I saw you quite a way back. The horse wouldn't come fast enough!"

She smiled at him.

"If you are not in a great hurry to get home, let's walk as far as the ridge," she suggested.

Harding, springing down, held out his hand, and when she slipped from the saddle he caught her in his arms and held her fast while he kissed her. Beatrice was not demonstrative, but he felt her arms tighten about his neck, and the soft pressure of her cheek upon his face, and it gave him a thrill of triumph. Now he realized all that he had won.

For a long while they did not speak. Then Beatrice freed herself with a soft laugh, and they walked on across the prairie. But Harding would not release one little hand, which he clung to as they climbed the trail together.

The red sunset burned in front of them with the edge of the plain cutting against it in a hard, straight line. Above the lurid glow the wide arch of sky shone a vivid green, and the great sweep of grass ran forward steeped in deepening shades of blue. There was something mysteriously impressive in the half light and the riot of color.

"What a glorious evening!" Beatrice could not help exclaiming. "I am glad I shall not have to leave the prairie."

The crimson flush on the skyline merged into rose and magenta and mauve.

"It is lighted up in your honor," Harding said.

"You have a pretty imagination; but I fear the gray days are more in keeping with the life I've led. It was often rather dreary at the Grange, and I felt that I was objectless—drifting on without a purpose." She smiled at Harding. "You can't understand the feeling?"

"No," he said. "All my life I've had too much to do. One gets self-centered through thinking only of one's work. It may be better to stop now and then and look about."

"It depends upon what you see. If your surroundings never change, you come to know them too well and begin to think that nothing different is possible. It makes one narrow. We may both need patience, Craig, before we learn to understand each other's point of view."

Harding realized the truth of this. They looked at many things differently, and there were points on which their convictions were opposed.

She gave the strong hand that held hers a slight pressure of caress.

"I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been driven out of my way by the grass fire that night?" she questioned, woman-like.

"Nothing would have been different. I was bound to meet you sooner or later."

She laughed contentedly, and they walked on in silence for a while. Harding felt that he ought to tell her about Gerald, but he hesitated.

"Tell me what you have been doing in Winnipeg," she said, as if she had divined his thoughts.

He explained his business there carefully, and Beatrice was pleased that he took her interest and comprehension for granted.

"Gerald wanted me to make him our agent, and I refused," he ended.

She was conscious of disappointment, though she appreciated his candor.

"I'm afraid he will find things hard. Of course, it's his own fault, but that won't make his difficulties lighter. Couldn't you have taken the risk of giving him another chance?"

"No," said Harding. "I wanted to help him, for your sake, but I couldn't give him the post. You see, I was acting for others as well as for myself." He hesitated before he added: "I felt that we must have the best man we could get."

"And you could get more reliable men than my brother! Unfortunately, it's true. But the others were willing; Kenwyne told me so."

He looked at her in surprise, for there was a faint hardness in her voice.

"I don't think they quite understood how important the matter is. Anyway, they left it to me and I felt forced to do what seemed best for all."

"Well," she said, as if puzzled, "Gerald certainly wronged you."

"That didn't count; not the wrong you mean. The greatest injury he could have done me would have been in giving you to Brand. However, it was not this, but his unfitness for our work that made me refuse him."

He had blundered, and Beatrice felt hurt. She could have forgiven him for bitterly resenting Gerald's attempt to separate them, but he seemed to consider that comparatively unimportant. There was a hard strain in him; perhaps her father had been right in thinking him too deeply imbued with the commercial spirit.

He helped her to the saddle, and the misunderstanding was forgotten as they rode in confidential talk across the shadowy plain until the lights of the Grange twinkled out ahead. Harding left her at the forking of the trail, but he was thoughtful as he trotted home alone. He must exercise care and tact in future. Beatrice was proud, and he feared that he had not altogether won her yet.