Harding of Allenwood Part 39

Moving calmly to the door, Beatrice was surprised to find Gerald waiting in the pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage 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 gra.s.s 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 s.p.a.cious 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 pa.s.sionate 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 grat.i.tude. 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 pa.s.sion 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 grat.i.tude 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.