Bindloss Harold
Harding of Allenwood

"You have no reason to doubt me now."

He turned to Mrs. Mowbray.

"Can't you be persuaded? I give you my solemn word – "

"Don't!" Beatrice interrupted. "Don't make it worse!"

"I'm sorry I must agree with my daughter's decision until I see more reason to change it than I can hope for at present," Mrs. Mowbray replied. "It would be better if you left us. We return to-morrow."

Her tone was final; and, with a last glance at Beatrice, Harding went out dejectedly.

CHAPTER XXVIII
FIRE AND HAIL

On the morning after her return from Winnipeg, Beatrice sat in her father's study, with Mowbray facing her across the table. He looked thoughtful, but not so shocked and indignant as she had expected.

"So you are determined to throw Harding over!"

"Yes," Beatrice said in a strained voice. "It seems impossible to do anything else."

"A broken engagement's a serious matter; we Mowbrays keep our word. I hope you're quite sure of your ground."

"What I heard left no room for doubt."

"Did you hear the man's defense?"

"I refused to listen," said Beatrice coldly. "That he should try to excuse himself only made it worse."

"I'm not sure that's very logical. I'll confess that Harding and I seldom agree, but one must be fair."

"Does that mean that one ought to be lenient?" Beatrice asked with an angry sparkle in her eyes.

Mowbray was conscious of some embarrassment. His ideas upon the subject were not sharply defined, but if it had not been his daughter who questioned him he could have expressed them better. Beatrice ought to have left her parents to deal with a delicate matter like this, but instead she had boldly taken it into her own hands. He had tried to bring up his children well, but the becoming modesty which characterized young women in his youth had gone.

"No," he answered; "not exactly lenient. But the thing may not be so bad as you think – and one must make allowances. Then, a broken engagement reflects upon both parties. Even if one of them has an unquestionable grievance, it proves that that person acted very rashly in making a promise in the first instance."

"Yes," said Beatrice; "that is my misfortune. I was rash and easily deceived. I made the bargain in confiding ignorance, without reserve, while the man kept a good deal back."

"But your mother tells me that he declared he had never seen the woman; and Harding is not a liar."

"I used to think so, but it looks as if I were mistaken," Beatrice answered bitterly as she turned away.

Leaving him, she found a quiet spot in the shadow of a bluff, and sat down to grapple with her pain. It had hurt more than she had thought possible to cast off Harding, and she could bear her trouble only by calling pride to her aid. There was, she told herself, much about the man that had from the first offended her, but she had made light of it, believing him steadfast and honorable. Now she knew she had been deceived. She had been ready to throw away all the privileges of her station; she had disregarded her friends' opinion – and this was her reward! The man for whom she would have made the sacrifice was gross and corrupt; but nobody should guess that she found it strangely hard to forget him.

Lance came upon her, there at the edge of the woods; but her head was buried in her arms and she did not see him. The boy turned at once and went to have a talk with his father. His expression was very resolute when he entered Mowbray's study.

"What are you going to do about Bee's trouble, sir?" he asked abruptly.

His father gave him an amused smile.

"I haven't decided," he said. "Have you anything useful to suggest?"

"I feel that you ought to put it right."

"Can you tell me how?"

"No. Of course, it's a delicate matter; but you have a wider knowledge and experience."

"Umh!" the Colonel grunted. "Why do you conclude that your sister's wrong?"

"I know the man. He's not the kind she thinks."

"Your mother saw the woman, and heard what she said."

"There's been a mistake," Lance persisted. "I've a suspicion that somebody may have put her up to it."

"Made a plot to blacken Harding, you mean? Rather far-fetched, isn't it? Whom do you suspect?"

Lance turned red, for his father's tone was sarcastic, and he thought of Gerald; but he could not drop a hint against his brother.

"I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out."

"When you have found out, you can tell me," Mowbray answered, and gave the boy an approving smile. "You're quite right in standing by your friend, and you certainly owe Harding something. If you can prove him better than we think, nobody will be more pleased than I."

Lance had to be satisfied with this. He did not know how to set about his investigations, but he determined to visit Winnipeg as soon as he could.

For the next week or two there was quietness at the Grange. The dry weather held, and boisterous winds swept the sunburned plain. The sod cracked, the wheat was shriveling, and although in public men and women made a brave pretense of cheerfulness, in private they brooded over the ruin that threatened them. To make things worse, three or four days a week, heavy clouds that raced across the sky all morning gathered in solid banks at noon, and then, as if in mockery, broke up and drove away. Few of the settlers had much reserve capital, and the low prices obtained for the last crop had strained their finances; but Harding was, perhaps, threatened most.

He had, as had been his custom, boldly trusted to the earth all he had won by previous effort, and this year it looked as if the soil would refuse its due return. Still, his taking such a risk was only partly due to the prompting of his sanguine temperament. While he had hope of winning Beatrice he must stake his all on the chance of gaining influence and wealth. He had lost her; but after a few black days during which he had thought of abandoning the struggle and letting things drift, he quietly resumed his work. What he had begun must be finished, even if it brought no advantage to himself. The disaster that seemed unavoidable braced him to sterner effort; but when dusk settled down he stood in the dim light and brooded over his withering wheat. Being what he was, a man of constructive genius, it cut deep that he must watch the grain that had cost so much thought and toil go to waste; but the red band on the prairie's edge and the luminous green above it held only a menace.

One day Harding drove with Devine to a distant farm, and they set out on the return journey late in the afternoon. It was very hot, for the wind had died away, and deep stillness brooded over the lifeless plain. The gophers that made their burrows in the trail had lost their usual briskness, and sat up on their haunches until the wheels were almost upon them. The prairie-chickens the horses disturbed would not rise, but ran a few yards and sank down in the parched grass. The sky was leaden, and the prairie glimmered a curious, livid white. Harding's skin prickled, and he was conscious of a black depression and a headache.

"If this only meant rain!" he exclaimed dejectedly. "But I've given up hope."

"Something's surely coming," Devine replied, glancing at a great bank of cloud that had changed its color to an oily black. "If this weather holds for another week, the crop will be wiped out, but somehow I can't believe we'll all go broke."

Harding had once thought as his comrade did, but now his optimistic courage had deserted him. The future was very dark. He meant to fight on, but defeat seemed certain. It would be easier to bear because he had already lost what he valued most.

Presently the wagon wheels sank in yielding sand, and that roused him.

"Our hauling costs us high with these loose trails. I'd counted on cutting more straw with the crop this year and using it to bind the road. But now we may not have any grain to send out."

The plan was characteristic of him, though his dejection was not. As a rule, straw has no value in a newly opened country, and not much is cut with the grain, the tall stubble being burned off; but Harding had seen a use for the waste material in improving the means of transport.

"Well," said Devine, "we'd better hustle. The team won't stand for a storm."

Harding urged the horses, and as the wheels ran out on firm ground the pace grew faster, and a distant bluff began to rise from the waste. When they were a mile or two from the woods there was a rumble of thunder and the light grew dim. The dark sky seemed descending to meet the earth, the bluff grew indistinct, but the burned grass still retained its ghostly whiteness. Then the temperature suddenly fell, and when a puff of cold wind touched his face Harding used the whip. He knew what was going to happen.

Throwing up their heads in alarm as a pale flash glimmered across the trail, the team broke into a gallop, while the light wagon rocked and swung as the wheels jolted over hummocks and smashed through scrubby brush. Harding did not think he could hold the horses in the open when the storm broke, and he did not wish to be hurled across the rugged prairie behind a bolting team. Springing down when they reached the trees, he and Devine locked the wheels and then stood waiting at the horses' heads. All was now very still again, but a gray haze was closing in. Now and then leaves stirred and rustled, and once or twice a dry twig came down. The faint crackle it made jarred on the men's tingling nerves.

Harding found it difficult to keep still. He slowly filled his pipe for the sake of occupation. The match he struck burned steadily, but its pale flame was suddenly lost in a dazzling glare as the lightning fell in an unbroken fork from overhead to a corner of the bluff. Then the pipe dropped and was trodden on, as the men swayed to and fro, using all their strength to hold the plunging team. It was only for a moment they heard the battering hoofs, for a deafening crash that rolled across the heavens drowned all other sound, and as it died away the trees began to moan. A few large drops of rain fell, and then, as the men watched it, gathering a faint hope, the rain turned to hail. A savage wind struck the bluff, the air got icy cold, and the hail changed from fine grains to ragged lumps. Harding could hear it roar among the trees between the peals of thunder, until the scream of wind and the groan of bending branches joined in and formed a wild tumult of sound.

Though the men stood to lee of the woods, the hail found them out, bruising their faces and cutting their wet hands; even their bodies afterward felt as if they had been beaten. It raked the bluff like rifle-fire, cutting twigs and shredding leaves, and the wild wind swept the wreckage far to leeward. Light branches were flying, and Harding was struck, but his grapple with the maddened horses demanded all his thought. The lightning leaped about them and blazed through the woods, silhouetting bending trees and the horses' tense, wet bodies, before it vanished and left what seemed to be black darkness behind.

Then, when the men were getting exhausted, the thunder grew fainter and the bitter wind died away. There was a strange, perplexing stillness in the heavy gloom, until the cloud-ranks parted and a ray of silver light broke through. The grass steamed as the beam moved across it, and suddenly the bluff was warm and bright, and they could see the havoc that had been made.

Torn branches hung from the poplars, slender birch-twigs lay in heaps, and banks of hail, now changing fast to water, stretched out into the wet, sparkling plain.

Harding's face was very stern as he picked up a handful of the icy pieces.

"With a strong wind behind it, this stuff would cut like a knife," he said. "Well, it has saved our putting the binders into the grain."

Devine made a sign of gloomy agreement. There was no hope left; the crop they had expected much from was destroyed.

They clambered into the wagon and drove for some time before the first farmstead began to lift above the edge of the plain. In the meanwhile the hail that glistened in the grass tussocks melted away, and only a few dark clouds drifting to the east marred the tranquillity of the summer evening. The men were silent, but Devine understood why his comrade drove so hard, holding straight across dry sloos where the tall grass crackled about the wheels, and over billowy rises where the horses' feet sank deep in sand. He was anxious to learn the worst, and Devine feared that it would prove very bad.

At last they crossed a higher ridge and Harding, looking down, saw his homestead lying warm in the evening light. He had often watched it rise out of the prairie, with a stirring of his blood. It was his; much of it had been built by his own labor; and he had won from the desolate waste the broad stretch of fertile soil that rolled away behind it. But he now gazed at it with a frown. As the buildings grew into shape, dark patches of summer fallow broke the gray sweep of grass, and then the neutral green of alfalfa and clover, running in regular oblongs, appeared. Behind, extending right across the background, lay the wheat, a smear of indefinite color darker than the plain. That was all they could see of it at that distance. They were going fast, but Harding lashed the horses in his impatience.

Devine, however, looked more closely about, and it struck him that the ground had dried with remarkable rapidity; indeed, if he had not felt the hail, he could hardly have believed the plain had been wet. For all that, not venturing to hope for fear of meeting a heavier shock, he said nothing to his comrade, and presently they dipped into a hollow. They could not see across the ridge in front, and Harding urged his horses savagely when they came to the ascent. The animals' coats were foul, spume dripped from the bits, and their sides were white where the traces slapped, but they breasted the hill pluckily. The men were grim and highly strung, braced to meet the worst. To Harding it meant ruin and the downfall of all his plans; to Devine his wedding put off. It might be some years before he made good, and he feared that he could no longer count on his comrade's help. If Harding were forced to give up his farm, he might leave the prairie.

At last, when the suspense was telling upon both, they reached the summit and Harding stood up to see better.

"Why, the ground has not been wet!" he exclaimed, unbelieving. "The hail has not touched us!"

It was true; the fire and the ragged ice had passed over that belt of prairie and left its wake of ruin farther on. Still, though the wheat was none the worse, it was none the better. It stood as when they had seen it last, limp from drought and cut by blowing sand. Disaster was only suspended, not removed. But there was hope.

"Things don't look half so bad as they might!" said Harding cheerfully. "I don't deserve it. I got savage and bitter; and bitterness is a bad substitute for grit. Now I'll brace up, and face the future the way a man ought!"

CHAPTER XXIX
A BRAVE HEART

Three days passed, and still no rain fell to save the withering grain. On the evening of the fourth day, Beatrice was walking home alone from one of the neighboring farms. She was lost in painful thought and scarcely noticed where she was until she passed a clump of prominent trees which she knew was at the edge of Harding's place. Then she stopped and looked about her.

The sun had dipped, but an angry orange glow flushed the wide horizon and the sky overhead was a cold dark blue. The great sweep of grain caught the fading light, and Beatrice knew enough about farming to see how it had suffered. She could not look at it unmoved; the sight was pitiful. The wheat had cost long and patient labor, and she knew with what hope and ambition the man who had sown it had worked. It was only after years of strenuous toil, careful thought, and stern economy, that he had been able to break the broad belt of prairie, and in doing so he had boldly staked his all. Now it looked as if he had lost, and she was grieved to see so much effort thrown away.

Harding had transgressed, but the work he did was good, and Beatrice began to wonder how far that might atone for his lack of principle. Human character was mixed; men might be true in many ways, and yet fall victims to a besetting sin. But it was a sin Beatrice could not forgive. Harding had sought the other woman while he professed his love for her. In Beatrice, pride, fastidiousness, and Puritanical convictions converged.

Letting her eyes travel farther along the grain, she started as she saw him. He had not noticed her, for he stood looking at his crop. His figure was outlined against the last of the light, and his pose was slack and stamped with dejection. It was obvious that he thought himself alone, for Harding was not the man to betray his troubles.

Beatrice's heart suddenly filled with pity. He must be very hard hit; and she believed that it was not the loss of fortune he felt most. Everything had gone against him. One could not refuse a man compassion because his sin had found him out.

To her surprise, she felt that she must speak to him. She did not know what she meant to say, but, half hesitating, she moved forward. Harding looked round at her step, and the fading glow struck upon his face.

It was brown and thin, and marked by a great physical weariness. The toil he had borne since the thaw came and the suspense he had suffered had set their stamp on him; he looked fined down, his face had an ascetic cast.

Beatrice caught her breath. By some strange inward power she grasped the truth. This man had done no wrong; there was no deceit in him. What she had believed of him was impossible! All that she had seen and heard condemned him; there was no weak point in the evidence of his guilt; but she trusted the prompting of her heart. Calm judgment and logical reasoning had no place in this matter. She had wronged him. And how she must have hurt him!

She held out both her hands, and there were tears in her eyes.

"Craig," she said, "I've come back. I couldn't stay away."

Harding could not speak. He took her into his arms – and suddenly the earth seemed to be giving way under his feet; his brain reeled and a great blackness settled down over him.

"Why, you're ill!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Oh, I have brought you to this!"

The anguish in her cry cut through him as he was losing consciousness, and he pulled himself together.

"No," he smiled, "I'm not ill; but you must give me a moment to realize that I really have you again."

They walked back the few paces to the trail. An old log lay beside it, half buried in grass and wild flowers, and here they sat together, in the cool stillness of the dusk, until the darkness came down and hovered round them. Out of the early night sky, one star shone down on them, like a blessing.

For the time being, it was nothing to them that the prairie sod was cracked and parched, and that the destroying wind would rise again at dawn.

On the way back to the Grange, Beatrice brought up the subject which she felt must be talked of and then dropped for good.

"How dreadfully mistaken I was about – the girl!" she said, hesitatingly.

"How did you find it out?"

"I haven't really found out anything; I'm afraid I can't explain. I suddenly saw the truth, and wondered why I had been blind."

"Do you mean – "

"I mean that I should never have left you, Craig dear. I know that you never saw that girl before in your life – but I did not know it until I saw you standing there, in the wheat, this evening."

Harding dropped the hand he was holding, and caught her to him.

"Dear!" was all he said.

"Can you explain what happened in Winnipeg?" she asked as they walked on again.

"No; I'm puzzled. But, for your sake, I shall not rest until I've cleared myself." Then, with a sudden shock, he remembered the wheat they had left. "But I was forgetting – I may be a ruined man."

"And I the daughter of another," Beatrice answered with a smile. "That could make no difference, Craig; and we're not ruined yet. Still, because I was hard and unjust at first, I should like you to remember that I came to you when you were in trouble, and didn't ask whether you were innocent or not."

"I'll remember it," said Harding, "as long as I live."

When they reached the house, Mowbray and his wife were sitting on the veranda, and Lance came down the steps to meet them with his hand held out. Neither spoke, but Harding was touched by the sincerity of his welcome.

Beatrice ran up the steps to her mother, and Harding, after a word of greeting turned away. He felt that, until he had cleared himself, it would be more becoming in him to keep away from the Colonel and Mrs. Mowbray.

The next morning Mowbray called Beatrice into his study.

"I am glad that your confidence in Harding has returned," he said. "You must, however, understand that the situation is still awkward."

"Yes; Craig and I talked it over last night."

"You talked this matter over!" Mowbray exclaimed.

"Of course," said Beatrice calmly. "It's of some importance to me. Are you surprised?"

"I must admit that I am. When I was young, a well-brought-up girl would hardly have ventured to mention such subjects to her mother, much less discuss them with her lover."

Beatrice smiled at him.

"I'm afraid your feelings must get many a rude jar in these degenerate times. Still, you know things are changing."

"That's true," said Mowbray. "I've had cause to realize it of late. For example, your brother Lance goes off to Winnipeg on some mysterious business without consulting me, and only tells me in a casual manner that he may have to go again. Respect for parents is not a characteristic of your generation. But I want to speak about Harding."

He talked very kindly and shrewdly, and when Beatrice left him she sought her favorite place in the shadow of a nearby bluff to think over what he had said.

There was less wind for the next two days, and driving sand no longer raked the grain. From early morning dingy clouds rolled up slowly from the west, and though not a drop of rain fell the distance grew blurred. The horses on the range were restless and galloped furiously now and then; the gophers scurried up and down the trails; men at work grew impatient over trifling obstacles, and often stopped to watch the clouds. These rolled on and vanished in the east, while many an anxious farmer wondered when the last would rise from the horizon and leave the pitiless sky uncovered again. Thirsty wild creatures stirred in the shadow of the bluffs and rustled through the withered grass beside the dried-up creeks. Leaves fluttered and hung still again with a strange limpness, their under sides exposed. It was as if the sun-scorched waste and all that lived on it were panting for the rain. And still the clouds that never broke rolled slowly on.

At dusk on the second evening, Beatrice and Harding walked across the prairie, speaking in low voices, anxious and yet serene.

"What are you thinking of, Craig?" Beatrice asked presently.

"Of the weather," Harding answered. "Wondering if these clouds will break or clear away again. It looks as if our future hung upon the chance of a storm. If it doesn't come, there's a long uphill fight before us; and I hate to think of what you may have to bear."

"I'm not afraid," said Beatrice. "If I stayed at Allenwood, I should not escape. Perhaps I have missed something by getting through life too easily. I really don't think I'm much weaker, or less capable, than Effie Broadwood, and she's not cast down."

Harding kissed the hand he held.

"A brave heart like yours carries one a long way, but training and experience are needed. Grit alone is not much use when you're up against a thing you don't know how to do."

"It helps you to learn. Am I so very stupid? Don't you see, dear, that I want to prove that I can be useful?"

"To carry heavy pails, bake, and mend old overalls? That would be an unthinkable waste of fine material. It's your business to be your beautiful and gracious self, a refining influence, a light in the home!"

Beatrice laughed.

"I'm afraid when you think about me you lose your usual sense. I should be as useful if I were made of painted wax, and you'd get tired of your goddess some day and want to break me up. I'm alive, you know. I want to be in the midst of the strife. I hear the bugles call."

Harding kissed her tenderly.

"I'm afraid we'll have to fall in with the firing line, but it will be my business to shield you from harm," he said.

"It's a good fight," she answered with sparkling eyes; "you have taught me that. The flag goes steadily forward with the pioneers in the van. There are great alkali barrens, rocks, and muskegs to be overcome, arid plains to be watered, forests cleared, the waste places to be made fruitful. That's why we have painted the Beaver of Industry in the field. But we have our camp-followers – and I might have been one – useless idlers, grafters, and dishonest contractors who rob the fighting men."

"When we've broken the wilderness, we'll have time to deal with them; but I'm afraid many a pioneer will go down before we march much farther."

"Ah!" said Beatrice softly. "But whether the fight is hard or not, you must teach me to do my part."

She stopped, holding out her hands with an excited cry:

"The rain, Craig; the rain!"

Her hands felt wet, something drummed upon her broad straw hat, and the dust leaped up from the grass; then the quick patter ceased, and there was stillness again. It lasted for several minutes while both stood tense and still, scarcely venturing to hope. Then there was a roar in the distance and a puff of cool wind, and Harding, touching the girl's arm, hurried her forward.

"It's coming!" he said hoarsely. "Coming in earnest!"

"Oh, let's stay!" cried Beatrice. "I want to feel it's true!"

Harding laughed, but led her on, and presently they met the advancing rain. It beat, wonderfully refreshing, on their hot faces, and soon Beatrice's thin dress was soaked. Steam rose from the parched earth; there was a hothouse smell, a dull roar, and a rustle among the beaten grass, and the fading light was shut off by a curtain of falling water. Alternating between happy laughter and silence, during which their thankfulness became too deep for speech, they hurried toward Harding's farm, and Beatrice threw her arms round Hester's neck when she met her at the door.

"Oh!" she cried. "Our troubles are over! The rain! The rain!"