Harding of Allenwood Part 47

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harding hesitated, but Mowbray smiled.

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

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

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

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

Her father's old-fashioned ideals were touched with a grace that her lover could not even admire, but, watching him as he sat in the fading light, she felt that he was trustworthy.

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

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

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

"It isn't personal, dear."

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ADVENTURESS

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

It was hot and dry when they reached the city, but Harding was of sanguine temperament and, being relieved from fear of immediate disaster, proceeded with his plans for the consolidation of Allenwood.

He could not carry them far, because even if he secured an abundant harvest, which was at present doubtful, he would have some difficulty in raising capital enough to outbid his rival. Acting cautiously with Jackson's help, however, he found two men who had lent Davies money and were now frankly alarmed by the general fall in values. One, indeed, was willing to transfer his interest to Harding on certain terms which the latter could not accept.

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

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

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

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

"No; I find it harder to sell my farm than I imagined. The settlement covenant's the trouble, and I don't feel inclined to give the land away.

I want a talk with you. Will you come to my hotel?"

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

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

"Then you know something about it?"

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

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

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

Harding hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not!" Gerald answered curtly.

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

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