Bindloss Harold
Harding of Allenwood

CHAPTER XXII
THE PRICE OF HONOR

It was very quiet in the drawing-room of the Grange, where Mrs. Mowbray sat with an exhausted look, as if she had made an effort that had cost her much. She had just finished speaking, and was watching Beatrice, whose face was white and strained.

"But what has Gerald done? I think I have a right to know," the girl broke out.

"He wrote somebody else's name on the back of a promise to pay some money, which meant that the other man, who really knew nothing about it, guaranteed that the payment would be made."

"But that is forgery!" Beatrice cried, aghast.

"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray with a shudder; "I'm afraid it's forgery of a very serious kind, because it enabled him to obtain a good deal of money which he could not otherwise have got."

"Oh, how dreadful!" Beatrice impulsively crossed the floor and, kneeling down beside her mother, put her arm round her. "I know how you must feel it. And now I can understand Father's troubled look. He has been very quiet and stern since Gerald came home."

"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

The following afternoon Beatrice rode moodily across the plain. After another talk with her mother, she had passed a sleepless night and spent the morning wandering restlessly to and fro. It was horribly degrading to her to feel that Brand had bought her; but it was true, and it destroyed the hope that time might reconcile her to her lot. She could not forgive him that, but after all it was only part of an intolerable situation.

On a long gradual rise her horse began to slacken speed, and she pulled up when she reached the top. Sitting still for a time, she vacantly looked about. The hill commanded a wide view: she could see the prairie roll back, changing as it receded from vivid green to faint ethereal blue on the far horizon. White clouds swept across the sky, streaking the plain with shadows. There was something exhilarating in the picture, but Beatrice felt that she hated it for its mocking suggestion of space and freedom. There was no freedom at Allenwood; she was to be sold into shameful bondage.

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!"