Winter ended suddenly, as it generally does on the plains, and rain and sunshine melted the snow from the withered grass. Then the northwest wind awoke, and rioting across the wide levels dried the spongy sod, while goose and crane and duck, beating their northward way, sailed down on tired wings to rest a while among the sloos. For a week or two, when no team could have hauled a load over the boggy trails, Harding was busy mending harness and getting ready his implements. The machines were numerous and expensive, but he had been forced to put off their adjustment because it is risky to handle cold iron in the Canadian frost. He had been unusually silent and preoccupied of late; but Hester, knowing his habits, asked no questions. When he was ready, Craig would tell her what was in his mind, and in the meantime she had matters of her own to think about. All the work that could be done went forward with regular precision, and, in spite of Harding's reserve, there was mutual confidence between the two. Hester was quietly happy, but she was conscious of some regret.

In a few more months she must leave her brother's house and transfer to another the care and thought she had given him. She knew he would miss her, and now and then she wondered anxiously whether any other woman could understand and help him as she had done. Craig had faults and he needed indulging.

Then, too, he sometimes gave people a wrong impression. She had heard him called hard. Although in reality generous and often compassionate, his clear understanding of practical things made him impatient of incompetence and stupidity. He needed a wider outlook and more toleration for people who could not see what was luminously plain to him. Life was not such a simple matter with clean-cut rules and duties as Craig supposed. Grasping its main issues firmly, he did not perceive that they merged into one another through a fine gradation of varying tones and shades.

Rather late one night Hester sat sewing while Harding was busy at his writing table, his pipe, which had gone out, lying upon the papers. He had left the homestead before it was light that morning to set his steam-plow to work, though nobody at Allenwood had taken a team from the stable yet. Devine had told her of the trouble they had encountered: how the soft soil clogged the moldboards, and the wheels sank, and the coulters crashed against patches of unthawed ground. This, however, had not stopped Harding. There was work to be done and he must get about it in the best way he could. At supper time he came home in very greasy overalls, looking tired, but as soon as the meal was finished he took out some papers, and now, at last, he laid down his pen and sat with knitted brows and clenched hand.

"Come back, Craig!" Hester called softly.

He started, threw the papers into a drawer, and looked at his watch.

"I thought I'd give them half an hour, and I've been all evening," he said, feeling for his pipe. "Now we'll have a talk. I told Fred to order all the dressed lumber he wanted, and I'd meet the bill. The house he thought of putting up wasn't half big enough; in a year or two he'd have had to build again. Then we want the stuff to season, and there's no time to lose if it's to be ready for you when the harvest's in."

Hester blushed prettily.

"You have given us a good deal already, Craig. We would have been satisfied with the smaller homestead."

"Shucks!" returned Harding. "I don't give what I can't afford. You and Fred have helped to put me where I am, and I'd have felt mean if I hadn't given you a good start off when I'm going to spend money recklessly on another plan. Now that all I need for the summer's paid for, I've been doing some figuring."

"Ah! You think of buying some of the Allenwood land?"

"Yes," he said gravely. "It will be a strain, but now's the time, when the falling markets will scare off buyers. I hate to see things go to pieces, and they want a man to show them how the settlement should be run. They have to choose between me and the mortgage broker. It will cost me a tough fight to beat him, but I think I see my way."

"But what about Colonel Mowbray?"

"He's the trouble. I surely don't know what to do with him; but I guess he'll have to be satisfied with moral authority. I might leave him that."

Hester felt sorry for the Colonel. He was autocratic and arbitrary, his ways were obsolete, and he had no place in a land that was beginning to throb with modern activity. She saw the pathetic side of his position; and, after all, the man was of a finer type than the feverish money makers. His ideals were high, though his way of realizing them was out of date.

"Craig," she said, "it may be better for Allenwood that you should take control, but you're running a big risk, and somehow your plan looks rather pitiless. You're not really hard – "

She paused and Harding smiled.

"I'm as I was made, and to watch Allenwood going to ruin is more than I can stand for. It would be worse to let the moneylender sell it out to small farmers under a new mortgage and grind them down until they and the land were starved. Broadwood and one or two more will help me all they can, but they haven't the money or the grip to run the place alone."

"And you feel that you can do it. Well, perhaps you can, but it sounds rash. You are very sure of yourself, Craig."

"How can I explain?" he said with a half amused, half puzzled air. "The feeling's not vanity. I have a conviction that this is my job, and now that I begin to see my way, I have to put it through. I'm not swaggering about my abilities – there are smarter men in many ways at Allenwood; my strong point is this: I can see how things are going, and feel the drift of forces I didn't set in motion and can't control. All I do is to fall into line and let them carry me forward, instead of standing against the stream. The world demands a higher standard of economical efficiency; in using the best tools and the latest methods I'm obeying the call."

"What was it that first fixed your thoughts on Allenwood?" she asked.

"Beatrice Mowbray. I'm going to marry her if I make good."

"You have no doubts about that either?"

"Oh, yes; I have plenty. I know what I'm up against; but human nature's strongest in the end. She likes me as a man."

Hester understood him. She was to marry a man of her own station, which would save her many perplexities, but Craig, respecting no standard but personal merit, would have married above or beneath him with equal boldness. It was not because he was ambitious, but because he loved her that he had chosen Beatrice Mowbray. Yet Hester was anxious on his account.

"It's a big risk," she said. "The girl is dainty and fastidious. There's nothing coarse in you, but you have no outward polish. Perhaps the tastes you have inherited may make things easier."

"Well, sometimes I have a curious feeling about these Allenwood people. I seem to understand them; I find myself talking as they do. There was something Kenwyne said the other night about an English custom, and I seemed to know all about it, though I'd never heard of the thing before."

He got up and knocked out his pipe.

"All that doesn't matter," he said whimsically. "What's important now is that it's late, and I must have steam up on the plow by daybreak."

For the next week Harding was very busy; and then, coming back to the house one afternoon for some engine-packing, he found Beatrice alone in their plain living-room. She noticed the quick gleam of pleasure in his eyes and was conscious of a response to it, but she was very calm as she explained that Hester had gone to saddle a horse on which she meant to ride with her to Mrs. Broadwood's.

"That should give us ten minutes," Harding said. "There's something I once promised to show you and I may not have a better chance."

Unlocking a drawer, he took out a small rosewood box, finely inlaid.

"This was my father's. Hester has never seen it. I found it among his things."

"It is beautiful."

Harding opened the box and handed her a photograph.

"That is my mother," he said.

Beatrice studied it with interest. The face was of peasant type, with irregular features and a worn look. Beatrice thought the woman could not have been beautiful and must have led a laborious life, but she was struck by the strength and patience the face expressed.

Harding next took out a small Prayer-book in a finely tooled binding of faded leather and gave it to her open. The first leaf bore a date and a line of writing in delicate slanted letters: To Basil, from his mother.

"My father's name was Basil," Harding explained, and taking up another photograph he placed it with its back beside the inscription in the book. It was autographed: Janet Harding.

"I imagine it was sent to him with the book, perhaps when he was at school," Harding resumed. "You will note that the hand is the same."

This was obvious. The writing had a distinctive character, and Beatrice examined the faded portrait carefully. It was full length, and showed a lady in old-fashioned dress with an unmistakable stamp of dignity and elegance. The face had grown very faint, but on holding it to the light she thought she could perceive an elusive likeness to Hester Harding.

"This lady must have been your grandmother," she remarked.

"Yes," said Harding. "I have another picture which seems to make the chain complete."

He took it from the box and beckoned Beatrice to the window before he gave it to her, for the photograph was very indistinct. Still, the front of an English country house built in the Georgian style could be made out, with a few figures on the broad steps to the terrace. In the center stood the lady whose portrait Beatrice had seen, though she was recognizable rather by her figure and fine carriage than her features. She had her hand upon the shoulder of a boy in Eton dress.

"That," said Harding, "was my father."

Beatrice signified by a movement of her head that she had heard, for she was strongly interested in the back-ground of the picture. The wide lawn with its conventionally cut border of shrubbery stretched beyond the old-fashioned house until it ended at the edge of a lake, across which rounded masses of trees rolled up the side of a hill. All this was familiar; it reminded her of summer afternoons in England two or three years ago. Surely she had walked along that terrace then! She could remember the gleaming water, the solid, dark contour of the beechwood on the hill, and the calm beauty of the sunlit landscape that she glimpsed between massive scattered oaks. Then she started as she distinguished the tower of a church in the faded distance, its spires rising among the tall beech-trees.

"But this is certainly Ash Garth!" she cried.

"I never heard its name," Harding answered quietly.

Beatrice sat down with the photograph in her hand. Her curiosity was strongly roused, and she had a half disturbing sense of satisfaction.

"It looks as if your father had lived there," she said.

"Yes; I think it must have been his home."

"But the owner of Ash Garth is Basil Morel! It is a beautiful place. You come down from the bleak moorland into a valley through which a river winds, and the house stands among the beechwoods at the foot of the hill."

"The picture shows something of the kind," agreed Harding, watching her with a reserved smile.

Beatrice hesitated.

"Perhaps I could find out what became of your father's people and where they are now."

"I don't want to know. I have shown you these things in confidence; I'd rather not have them talked about."

"But you must see what they might mean to you!" Beatrice exclaimed in surprise.

He moved from the window and stood facing her with an air of pride.

"They mean nothing at all to me. My father was obviously an exile, disowned by his English relatives. If he had done anything to deserve this, I don't want to learn it, but I can't think that's so. It was more likely a family quarrel. Anyway, I'm quite content to leave my relatives alone. Besides, I promised something of the kind."

He told her about the money he had received, and she listened with keen interest.

"But did he never tell you anything about his English life?"

"No," said Harding. "I'm not sure that my mother knew, though Hester thinks she meant to tell us something in her last illness. My father was a reserved man. I think he felt his banishment and it took the heart out of him. He was not a good farmer, not the stuff the pioneers are made of, and I believe he only worked his land for my mother's sake, while it was she who really managed things until I grew up. She was a brave, determined woman, and kept him on his feet."

Beatrice was silent for a few moments. The man loved her, and although she would not admit that she loved him, it was satisfactory to feel that he really belonged to her own rank. This explained several traits of his that had puzzled her. It was, however, unfortunate that he held such decided views, and she felt impelled to combat them.

"But you need ask nothing from the people except that they should acknowledge you," she urged. "Think of the difference this would make to you and Hester. It would give you standing and position."

"Hester is going to marry a man who loves her for herself, and the only position I value I have made. What would I gain by raking up a painful story? The only relatives I'm proud to claim are my mother's in Michigan, and they're plain, rugged folks."

There was something in his attitude that appealed to Beatrice. He had no false ambitions; he was content to be judged on his own merits – a severe test. For all that, she set some value upon good birth, and it was distasteful to see that he denied the advantages of his descent. Then she grew embarrassed as she recognized that what really troubled her was his indifference to the opinion of her relatives. He must know that he had a means of disarming her father's keenest prejudice, but he would not use it.

"I understand that Hester knows nothing about these portraits," she said.

"No; I've never mentioned them. It could do no good."

"Then why have you told me?"

"Well," he answered gravely, "I thought you ought to know."

"I have no claim upon the secrets you keep from your sister."

Harding was silent, and Beatrice felt annoyed. After all, she understood why he had told her and she recognized that he had acted honestly in doing so. Still, if he really loved her, she felt, he should not let pride stand in the way of removing every obstacle to get her.

Hester came in and announced that the horses were ready; and soon afterward she and Beatrice were riding together across the prairie while Harding went doggedly back to his work.

CHAPTER XXI
THE DAY OF RECKONING

As the spring advanced, business men in Winnipeg and the new western towns began to feel an increasing financial pressure. Money was tight, and the price of wheat, upon which the prosperity of the country depended, steadily fell. It was the beginning of a sharp set-back, a characteristic feature of the sanguine West, during which all overdrafts on the natural resources of the prairie must be met. The resources are large, but their development is slow, depending, as it does, upon the patient labor of the men who drive the plow, while those who live upon the farmer are eager to get rich.

The tide of industrial progress is often irregular. There are pauses of varying length, and sometimes recoils, when reckless traders find their ventures stranded and in danger of being wrecked before the next impulse of the flood can float them on. They borrow and buy too freely; trafficking produce not yet grown; building stores and offices in excess of the country's needs. A time comes when this is apparent, speculation ceases, credit fails, and the new cities must wait until expanding agriculture overtakes them. In the meanwhile, the fulfilment of obligations is demanded and, as often happens, cannot be made.

Davies suffered among the rest. He had foreseen a set-back, but it proved more severe than he expected. He had bought land he could not sell, had cooperated in erecting buildings which stood empty, and had made loans to men unable to repay them.

One morning he sat in his office, gloomily reading a newspaper which made a bold attempt to deal optimistically with the depressing situation. Among other news there was a report of a meeting of the shareholders in a mining company; and this Davies studied with interest. It was what is termed an extraordinary meeting, called to consider the course to be adopted in consequence of the engineer's failing to reach the ore after sinking a costly shaft; and Davies, glancing at another column, noted that the shares had sharply fallen. Gerald Mowbray had speculated in this stock, and Davies was then expecting a call from him.

Instead of Mowbray, Carlyon came in. The boy looked anxious, but he was calm.

"I suppose you know what I've come about," he began.

"Yes; you're behind with your interest."

Carlyon's ease of manner was perhaps overdone, but he hid his feelings pluckily.

"Then, as I can't pay, what are you going to do? I must know now; when you're farming, you have to look ahead."

"I'm going to sell you up when the mortgage falls in. You have some time yet."

"Can't you renew the loan upon any terms?"

"No," said Davies truthfully. "I would if I could. I have to meet my engagements and money's scarce."

Carlyon got up, turning an unlighted cigar in nervous fingers, but there was a smile in his eyes that showed he could face ruin with dignity.

"Then, if that's your last word, I needn't waste your time; and it wouldn't be fair to blame you for my foolishness. I dare say I can find a job as teamster; it seems the only thing that's left."

"You have grit. I'm sorry I can't keep you on your feet," Davies answered with more feeling than Carlyon had expected.

"Thanks. Mowbray's waiting outside; I'll send him in."

Davies looked up when the door opened a few moments later. Gerald's careless manner had gone; he showed obvious signs of strain. Indeed, there was something in his face that hinted at desperation. Davies was not surprised at this. After a curt greeting he took up the newspaper.

"I expect you have seen the report of the company's meeting."

"I have," said Gerald. "It doesn't leave much to the imagination. At last, the directors have treated us with brutal frankness. I've filled up my proxy in favor of appointing a committee to investigate."

"It can't do much good. The fellows can investigate until they're tired, but they can't find ore that does not exist."

"It would be some comfort if they found out anything that would put the rogues who deluded us into jail," Gerald answered savagely.

Davies smiled in a meaning way.

"Rather too drastic a proceeding." He gave the other a direct glance. "People who play a crooked game shouldn't appeal to the law."

The blood crept into Gerald's face and he wondered with dire misgivings what the man meant and how much he knew. He had counted on a report from the mining engineer that would send up the value of his shares, and had rested on this his last hope of escaping from a serious danger. Instead, he had learned that the mine was barren. It was a crushing blow, for he must find a large sum of money at once. The consequences would be disastrous if he failed.

"Well," he said, "the most important point is that my shares are worth next to nothing, and I've very little expectation of their ever going up. I don't suppose you'd take them as security for a loan at a quarter of their face value?"

"I would not," Davies answered firmly.

"Very well. My note falls due in a few days. What are you going to do?"

"Present it for payment."

Gerald looked at him keenly, to see if he meant it; but he could read in the broker's imperturbable face nothing to lead him to doubt this. He tried to pull himself together, and failed. Gerald had not inherited the stern, moral courage of the Mowbray stock.

"You can't afford to let me drop," he pleaded in a hoarse voice. "As soon as you take away your support the brutes I've borrowed from will come down on me like wolves, and, to protect your interests, you'll have to enforce your mortgage rights. I needn't point out that this will spoil your plans. You're not ready to make your grab at Allenwood yet."

Davies heard him unmoved. He was comparing his attitude with that of the ruined lad he had just dismissed. Carlyon was, of course, a fool who deserved his fate, but his pluck had roused the moneylender's sympathy. He did not mean to let it make him merciful, but he had some human feeling, and it inspired him with contempt for Mowbray. The fellow was clever enough to see that Davies' plans were directed against his relatives and friends, but this had not prevented his falling in with them for the sake of a temporary advantage. His pride was a sham; he forgot it when it threatened to cost him something. Moreover he had not been straight with Davies in several ways. He had a rogue's heart, but was without the rogue's usual nerve.

"I often have to change my plans," Davies said calmly. "Just now I'm short of money, and must get some in. Anyway, there's no secret about the mortgage; it had to be registered."

"Of course; but I don't suppose anybody knows about it, for all that. People don't spend their time turning up these records."

"It would be a wise precaution, when they dealt with you," Davies answered pointedly.

Gerald did not resent the taunt.

"But you can't get your money for the note," he urged. "It's impossible for me to meet it now."

"Or later, I guess. Well, I'll have to fall back on the endorser; he's a solid man."

A look of terror sprang into Gerald's face.

"You can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Well," Gerald faltered, "he never expected he'd have to pay the note."

"That's his affair. He ought to have known you better."

Gerald roused himself for a last effort.

"Renew it on any terms you like; I'll agree to whatever you demand. I have some influence at Allenwood, and can get you other customers. You'll find it worth while to have my help."

Davies smiled scornfully.

"You can't be trusted. You'd sell your friends, and that means you'd sell me if you thought it would pay. I'm willing to take a risk when I back a sport; but one can't call you that. You have had your run and lost, and now you must put up the stakes." He took a pen from the rack and opened a book. "There doesn't seem to be anything more to be said. Good-morning."

Gerald left, with despair in his heart; and when he had gone Davies took the note from his safe and examined the signature on the back with a thoughtful air. After all, though money was tight, he might retain his hold on Allenwood if he played his cards cleverly.

During the afternoon Carlyon and Gerald took the westbound train, and the next evening Gerald reached the Grange. There had been a hard rain all day, and he was wet after the long drive, but he went straight to the study where his father was occupied. It was not dark outside yet, but the room was shadowy and heavy rain beat against its walls. Mowbray sat at a table by the window, apparently lost in thought, for although there were some papers in front of him the light was too dim to read. He glanced up with a frown when his son came in.

"If you had thought it worth while to let me know you were going to Winnipeg, I could have given you an errand," he said, and added dryly: "One would imagine that these trips are beyond your means."

Gerald was conscious of some shame and of pity for his father, whom he must humble; but his fears for his own safety outweighed everything else.

"I want you to listen, sir. There's something you must know."

"Very well," said Mowbray. "It is not good news; your voice tells me that."

It was a desperately hard confession, and Mowbray sat strangely still, a rigid, shadowy figure against the fading window, until the story was finished. Then he turned to his son, who had drawn back as far as possible into the gloom.

"You cur!" There was intense bitterness in his tone. "I can't trust myself to speak of what I feel. And I know, to my sorrow, how little it would affect you. But, having done this thing, why do you slink home to bring disgrace on your mother and sister? Could you not hide your shame across the frontier?"

It was a relief to Gerald that he could, at least, answer this.

"If you will think for a moment, sir, you will see the reason. I don't want to hide here, but it's plain that, for all our sakes, I must meet this note. If it's dishonored, the holder will come to you; and, although I might escape to the boundary, you would be forced to find the money." Gerald hesitated before he added: "It would be the only way to save the family honor."

"Stop!" cried Mowbray. "Our honor is a subject you have lost all right to speak about!"

For a moment or two he struggled to preserve his self-control, and then went on in a stern, cold voice:

"Still, there is some reason in what you urge. It shows the selfish cunning that has been your ruin."

"Let me finish, sir," Gerald begged hoarsely. "The note must be met. If I take it up on presentation, the matter ends there; but you can see the consequences if it's dishonored."

"They include your arrest and imprisonment. It's unthinkable that your mother and sister should be branded with this taint!" Mowbray clenched his hand. "The trouble is that I cannot find the money. You have already brought me to ruin."

There was silence for the next minute, and the lashing of the rain on the ship-lap boards sounded harshly distinct.

Gerald saw a possible way of escape, but, desperate as he was, he hesitated about taking it. It meant sacrificing his sister; but the way seemed safe. His father would stick at nothing that might save the family honor.

"There's Brand," he suggested, knowing it was the meanest thing he had ever done. "Of course, one would rather not tell an outsider; but he can keep a secret and might help."

"Ah!" Mowbray exclaimed sharply, as if he saw a ray of hope. Then he paused and asked with harsh abruptness: "Whose name did you use on the note?"

"Harding's."

Mowbray lost his self-control. Half rising in his chair, he glared at his son.

"It's the last straw!" he said, striking the table furiously. "How the low-bred fellow will triumph over us!"

"He can't," Gerald pointed out cunningly, using his strongest argument in an appeal to his father's prejudice. "He will know nothing about the note if I can take it up when due."

Mowbray sank back in his chair, crushed with shame.

"It must be managed somehow," he said in a faltering voice. "Now – go; and, for both of our sakes, keep out of my way."

Gerald left him without a word, and Mowbray sat alone in the darkness, feeling old and broken as he grappled with the bitterest grief he had known. There had, of course, been one or two of the Mowbrays who had led wild and reckless lives, but Gerald was the first to bring actual disgrace upon the respected name. The Colonel could have borne his extravagance and forgiven a certain amount of dissipation, but it humbled him to the dust to realize that his son was a thief and a coward.