Harding of Allenwood

"After a time Basil was ordered to a station where there was some European society and his wife was out of her element there. The other women of the post objected to her, and openly insulted her. Basil had one quarrel after another on her behalf, and finally, after an unusually stormy scene with the artillery major, Basil sent in his papers.

"His relatives refused to receive him, they cut off his allowance; but he clung to his wife until she died a couple years later. Then he came to Canada and vanished.

"His mother died; and one by one the others followed – all except Basil Morel, his mother's brother."

"Ah!" Beatrice interrupted.

The Colonel glanced at her a moment, and then went on:

"Morel had a very strong affection for Basil – he was his namesake and only nephew. Feeling that they had been too hard on him, Morel traced Basil in Canada, wrote him a long letter, and enclosed a draft for a thousand pounds, as part of back allowances. Basil wrote a brief and bitter note in answer, then deposited the money in a Winnipeg bank, to be given to his son after his death, on condition that the son never question where it came from. This son was by the second wife; there were no children by the first.

"Well, Basil died; the bank reported to Morel that the money had been paid to the son; and then – the old man, living alone at Ash Garth, was getting very lonely; he had time to brood over the injustice done Basil, and, before he died, he wanted to make it up to Basil's son. But the son had completely disappeared. He had left Dakota and gone to Manitoba; from there all trace of him had vanished. Morel is now a broken old man; but, because Basil and I were comrades, he confides many things to me, and I know that deep down in his heart there is still a hope that he will live long enough to find Basil's son."

The Colonel's voice was husky, and he paused a moment before he said:

"With your permission, Mr. Harding, I should like to send him a cable."

Harding nodded assent.

Beatrice was crying softly.

"Now I understand why Mr. Morel always looked so sad when I talked of the prairie," she said brokenly. "Mother, you must have known!" she added as an afterthought.

"Yes, but I didn't feel that it was my secret, dear," Mrs. Mowbray answered gently.

At the Colonel's request, Harding told them of his early life; and then he and Beatrice drove across the prairie to tell the story to Hester. Beatrice felt that it was the girl's right to know.

Harvest came, and although the crop was lighter than he had hoped, Harding saw that he would have a satisfactory margin. It was not so with most of his neighbors, and when the strain of forced effort slackened, and the smoke of the thrasher no longer streaked the stubble, there were anxious hearts at Allenwood. Even the buoyant courage of the younger men began to sink; hitherto they had carelessly borne their private troubles, but now they felt that the settlement was in danger. Those who had never taken thought before asked what must be done, and nobody could tell them. Harding and his friends had a surprise to spring on their neighbors, and on Davies as well, but they waited until the time was ripe.

Then one evening Mowbray rode over to Kenwyne's homestead.

"You and Broadwood have opposed me, but I have never doubted your sincerity," he said. "In fact, since Brand has gone, I feel I'd rather trust you and Harding than the boys who have given me their thoughtless support. We are threatened with grave trouble."

"We must try to justify your belief in us, sir," said Kenwyne. "What is the trouble?"

"Carlyon, Webster, and Shepstone came to me, and confessed that they have mortgaged their farms. To make things worse, I have a letter from the man in Winnipeg they borrowed from, informing me that he would seize Gerald's land unless a large sum is paid. You must see that this means disaster to Allenwood."

Mowbray looked harassed and worn, and Kenwyne felt sorry for him.

"I suggest that you let the fellow produce his mortgages and receive him at a council meeting. The matter's of interest to everybody."

"Then you have some scheme?" Mowbray asked eagerly.

"As it's far-reaching, we'd rather put it before the council. I'm half afraid we can't expect your approval until you know everything; but you should be able to command a majority if we don't convince you."

"I can do nothing to save the settlement," Mowbray said with dignity; "and I dare not refuse to let others try, even if their ways are not mine. We'll leave it at that. I'll call the meeting."

It was a calm, clear evening when all the Allenwood settlers assembled in the hall at the Grange. The days were getting shorter, and a lamp or two was lighted; but, outside, the last of the sunset glowed in a red band along the prairie's rim. Mowbray sat at the head of the table; Harding, Broadwood, Kenwyne, and Lance were close together; the rest scattered about the spacious room, some half hidden in the shadow, some where the partial illumination touched them. All were silent and expectant; they felt it would prove a memorable night for Allenwood.

There was a rattle of wheels outside, and soon afterward Davies was shown in. He was smartly dressed in well-cut city clothes, and his aggressive, self-conscious air contrasted with the easy grace of the brown-faced men in shooting jackets and fringed deerskin.

"I came here expecting a private interview," he said to Mowbray. "I do not understand why I'm asked to meet these gentlemen, most of whom I have not the pleasure of knowing."

"I cannot tell what you expected," Mowbray answered haughtily. "Your business is, however, of interest to us all, and to state it now will save some time, because nothing can be done until our council is informed of it."

Davies' glance wandered round the room, as if in search of somebody, but he did not notice Harding, who was in the shadow.

"Very well," he said, undoing a bundle of documents. "I hold mortgages on land and property belonging to Gerald Mowbray, Carlyon, Webster, and Shepstone." He read out particulars of the sums lent and interest due, and then put the papers on the table. "You are at liberty to examine them."

Carlyon turned to Mowbray, with a flushed face.

"They can't be contested, sir. Speaking for the others, as well as myself, I must say that we feel our position, and are very sorry that we have brought this trouble upon you and our friends."

Harding moved forward and picked up the mortgages, and Davies showed his surprise. After examining the documents carefully, Harding passed them to Broadwood, who looked over them in a silence that was accentuated by the rattle of a loose blind as puffs of wind swept into the room.

"All right," Broadwood said, and handed a sheet of paper to each of the debtors.

"Will you agree to these terms? Yes or no?" he asked.

One of the young men laughed hoarsely, as if from unexpected relief; another made a glad sign of assent; and Carlyon's eyes were bright as he turned to Broadwood.

"Agree?" he exclaimed. "We never hoped for such a chance as this!"

Broadwood put one of the papers in front of Mowbray.

"They consent, sir. We'd like your sanction."

"I cannot give it unreservedly. But as I cannot suggest anything better, I must not refuse." Mowbray addressed Davies. "As the farms were mortgaged against the provisions of our settlement covenant, I believe your claim might be disputed, but I won't urge that point. The money was borrowed and must be paid."

"With your permission, sir!" Harding took the big inkstand and placed it before Davies. "Write a formal discharge for these debts, and I'll give you a check."

Davies' face was hot with baffled fury, but he asked in a sneering tone:

"Will the bank make it good?"

"Here's their letter," said Harding dryly.

Davies glanced at the letter, and threw it down. Then he pulled himself together.

"It seems," he said to Mowbray, "that you have made some arrangement to finance these gentlemen, and they have agreed; but Mr. Gerald Mowbray owes a much larger sum, and I have his word that he is unable to pay. He left the matter in my hands, and before going any further I should like to suggest that we might arrive at some understanding – "

Mowbray cut him short.

"We can make no terms with you, if that is what is meant. My son owes you money; you must take what you are entitled to."

"But the debt is his. He must decide."

"He has decided," Harding said quietly. "Here's a telegram from him, answering a letter of mine which he probably got after you left. He agrees to transfer the mortgaged property to his father and another, on terms that don't concern you. Read it."

"Ah!" cried Davies, hoarse with anger. "Mowbray has gone back on me. I was a fool to trust him!"

Colonel Mowbray flushed, but did not answer, and Harding turned to Davies.

"This has nothing to do with our business. Write your receipts, including Gerald Mowbray's debt, and take your money."

Davies did so, and carefully examined the check Harding gave him. Then he got up and made Mowbray an ironical bow. One of the men opened the door, and he went out surlily.

There was a general movement and a murmur throughout the room, expressing relief and a slackening of tension.

"It's a satisfaction to see the last of the fellow," one man said, voicing the feelings of all. "The settlement has escaped a danger; but we must be careful not to let it fall into another. May I inquire about the agreement which Mr. Harding has made with our friends?"

Harding explained that they were to farm their land under his instructions, paying a moderate rate of interest. A fixed sum was to be set aside every year to redeem the loan, so that in time the debtors would again acquire possession, and any surplus would belong to them.

"Mr. Harding's position is now very strong," the man contended. "He can, if he wishes, dictate to the rest of us, and I think we ought to know his plans and how he expects to profit."

There was deep silence when Harding got upon his feet and glanced round the room. A few of the men were obviously suspicious, and one or two hostile, but some looked willing to give him fair play and some quietly confident in him.

"To begin with, I expect no direct profit from Allenwood," he said. "The advantage I shall gain will be the keeping down of my working expenses by your cooperation. With better trails we'll need fewer teams to bring out supplies and haul in our grain; and we can avoid using two half-empty wagons when one will take both loads. We can buy and sell on joint lines, saving all round, and can use the latest and biggest machines. Singly, we cannot afford them; combined, we can buy and, what is more, keep the implements employed. But we can work out details later. You have reached a turning-point to-night. Those of you with private means, if there are any such, may continue to farm as a pastime, but for the man who must live by his farming, it is serious work. There is a time of low prices before us that will weed out the slack; but with care and effort we can hold out until the flood of prosperity which is coming sweeps our difficulties away. We must perfect our methods, fall in with modern practise, and study economy. That I have now some power here is true; I ask your help, and value it, but if needful I can do without it. I and several more are going on, working together on the best plan we can find, as we have begun."

A murmur of applause greeted the close of the speech, for Harding's blunt candor had gained him the respect of his antagonists and strengthened the loyalty of his friends.

Then Mowbray leaned forward, holding up his hand.

"We have heard Mr. Harding's intentions declared with the straightforwardness one expects from him; and it must be clear to all that he has freed Allenwood from a peril." He paused, and his voice was strained as he resumed: "For a while we prospered here, and I like to think I led you well; but the times began to change without our recognizing it. I cannot change, but you must, for you are young; the future lies before you. I am old, and I feel my age to-night. The burden of rule gets heavy; I want to lay it down. You must choose another leader who understands these times, and I think you see where a wise choice lies."

For a moment nobody spoke, and then a unanimous cry of protest broke out. It rang with feeling, and when it died away man after man urged Mowbray to keep control.

He listened with a faint smile.

"I am honored by this mark of confidence," he said quietly. "But if I consent, you must give me the helper I need, and you must follow him with the loyalty you have always shown me. To some extent we shall counterbalance extremes in each other, which may be for the good of all, because I have much to learn from the present, and my helper something from the past. I could not ask you to obey an outsider, but the man I choose will soon become a member of my family. I nominate Mr. Harding, who has saved the settlement."

There were cries of agreement that swelled into a storm of satisfaction, and Harding said a few words in a voice that shook. This was a turn of affairs he had not expected, and he was moved by Mowbray's confidence and the number of friends he had made.

Then the council broke up, and when the last had gone Mowbray joined his wife on the veranda, where he sat looking with tired eyes toward the pale red glow on the skyline left by the setting sun. The prairie was formless and shadowy, but darkness had not quite closed in.

"I feel that all this is symbolical, my dear," he said. "My day is over, but the night has not yet come. Though it will not be by the way I would have chosen, I may still see Allenwood safe and prosperous."

Mrs. Mowbray took his hand caressingly.

"You have led the boys well, and taught them much; they will not forget it. You never shrank from a sacrifice that was for their good – and I know the cost of the one you have made to-night."

"I knew I could trust to your sympathy; you haven't failed me yet," he said gently. "I wonder why Gerald broke away from the rascal at last. I may be wrong, but I'd like to believe that when the time came he found he could not betray his friends; that his heart spoke, and a trace of the honor we tried to teach him awoke to life."

"I think you're right," Mrs. Mowbray answered. "I am sure there is hope for him."

Then she turned and her eyes rested on the dark figures of Beatrice and Harding, who had left the house and were walking slowly across the plain. Moving side by side, with love and confidence in their hearts, they looked toward the east, where the dawn would rise.