AT THE FORD
A few days after the council, Beatrice, Colonel Mowbray's only daughter,
sat talking with her mother in the drawing-room at the Grange. Beatrice
had returned on the previous evening from a visit to England, and it
struck her, perhaps by contrast with the homes of her mother's friends,
that the room had a dingy, cheerless look. The few pieces of good
furniture which Mowbray had brought with him had suffered during
transport and showed signs of age; the others, sent out from Toronto,
were crudely new. Rugs and curtains were faded, and there were places
that had been carefully mended. The matchboarded walls looked very bare.
More than all, it struck the girl that her mother seemed listless and
worn.
Mrs. Mowbray was a gentle, reserved woman. She was still beautiful, but
the years she had spent upon the prairie had left their mark on her. She
had lost her former vivacity and something of her independence of
thought; and, except to those who knew her well, her character seemed
colorless. Mowbray was considerate of his wife, but there was no room
under his roof for two directing wills or more than one set of opinions.
For all that, Mrs. Mowbray wore an air of quiet dignity.
Beatrice had a trace of her father's imperious temper. She looked very
fresh, for a life spent largely out of doors had given her a vigorous,
graceful carriage as well as a fine, warm color, and had set a sparkle
in her deep-blue eyes. There was a hint of determination about her
mouth, and her glance was often proud. She was just twenty-two, and the
fashionable English dress set off her gracefully outlined and rather
slender figure.
As she looked at her mother her face grew thoughtful.
"You are not looking well, Mother dear," she said.
"I am not ill," Mrs. Mowbray answered in a tired voice. "It has been a
very hot and trying summer, and the crop was poor. That had its effect
upon your father. Then you have heard that Gerald----"
There was a quick, indignant flash in Beatrice's eyes.
"Yes, I know! Of course, I stand up for him to outsiders, but I'm
getting ashamed of Gerald. His debts must have been a heavy tax on
Father. I think that too much has been done for the boys. I have nothing
to complain of; but we're not rich, and I'm afraid you have had to
suffer."
"My dear, you mustn't question your father's judgment."
Beatrice smiled.
"I suppose not, and my criticism would certainly be wasted; still, you
can't expect me to have your patience."
She went to one of the long windows in the drawing-room and threw it
open wide.
"How I love the prairie!" she exclaimed, looking out over the vast plain
that stretched away to a sky all rose and purple and gold.
A tired smile crept into her mother's face.
"It has its charm," she said; "but, after all, you have been away at
school, and have not seen much of it. One has to do without so much
here, and when you have gone through an unvarying round of duties day
after day for years, seeing only the same few people and hearing the
same opinions, you find it dreary. One longs to meet clever strangers
and feel the stir and bustle of life now and then; but instead there
comes another care or a fresh responsibility. You don't realize yet what
a bad harvest or a fall in the wheat market means; for, while the men
have their troubles, in a settlement like Allenwood, the heaviest burden
falls upon the women."
"You must have had to give up a good deal to come here," Beatrice said.
"I loved your father, and I knew that he could not be happy in England,"
was the simple answer.
Beatrice was silent for a few moments. It was the first time she had
understood the sacrifice her mother had made, and she was moved to
sympathy. Then, in the flighty manner of youth, she changed the subject.
"Oh, I must tell you about dear Mr. Morel!" Catching an alert look in
her mother's eyes, Beatrice laughed. Then, with a quick, impulsive
movement, she crossed the floor, took her mother's face between both her
hands, and kissed it. "No," she answered the question that had not been
spoken; "Mr. Morel is a lovely old man who lives all alone, with just
his servants, at Ash Garth, in a fine old house full of art treasures
that seem to have been collected from all over the world. And there's a
rose garden between the lawn and the river, and a big woods all round.
Mr. Morel is charming, and he was particularly kind to me, because he
and Uncle Gordon are such great friends."
"Did you see much of him?"
"Oh, yes; and I like him. But, Mother," Beatrice lowered her voice
dramatically, "there's a mystery in his life. I'm sure of it! I asked
Uncle Gordon; but if he knew he wouldn't tell. Then I tried to question
Mr. Morel----"
"Why, Beatrice!"
The girl laughed at her mother's shocked tone.
"Don't worry, Mother dear. He didn't know I was questioning him. And I
do love a mystery! All I learned was that it has something to do with
Canada. Whenever I talked about the prairie he looked so sad, and once I
even thought I saw tears in his eyes."
Beatrice's brows came together in a perplexed frown; then she laughed
gently.
"Mysteries have a fascination for me," she said; "I like to puzzle them
out. But I must leave you now; for I promised to go see Evelyn this
afternoon. I may not get home until late."
Half an hour later Beatrice was in the saddle riding across the bare
sweep of prairie to one of the distant homesteads. When she reached the
river, the stream was turbid and running fast, but a narrow trail
through the poplars on its bank led to the ford, and she urged her horse
into it fearlessly. On the other side the trail was very faint, and a
stake upon a rise indicated where the crossing was safe. A large grass
fire was burning some miles away, for a tawny cloud of smoke trailed
across the plain.
Beatrice spent a pleasant hour with her friend and started home alone as
dusk was falling. The sky was clear, and the moon hung some distance
above the horizon. A cold breeze had sprung up, and the grass fire had
grown fiercer. Beatrice could see it stretching toward the river in a
long red line; and after a while she rode into the smoke. It grew
thicker and more acrid; she could not see her way; and her horse was
getting frightened. When an orange glare leaped up not far away, the
animal broke into a gallop, pulling hard, and after some trouble in
stopping it Beatrice changed her direction. She was not afraid of
prairie fires, which, as a rule, can be avoided easily, but this one
would necessitate her making a round.
She found it difficult to get out of the smoke, and when she reached the
river it was at some distance above the stake. She could not ride back,
because the fire was moving up from that direction, cutting her off. She
glanced dubiously at the water. It ran fast between steep,
timber-covered banks. She did not think she could get down to it, and
she knew there was only one safe ford. Still, she could not spend the
night upon the wrong bank, and the fire was drawing closer all the time.
Worse still, her horse was becoming unmanageable. She rode upstream for
a mile; but the river looked deep, and the eddies swirled in a
forbidding way; the bank was abrupt and rotten, and Beatrice dared not
attempt it. In front, the moon, which was getting higher, threw a clear
light upon the water; behind, the smoke rolled up thickly to meet her.
The fire was closing in upon the stream. With his nostrils filled with
the sting of the smoke, the horse reared and threatened to dash over the
crumbling bank. Beatrice, realizing her danger, turned him back
downstream and gave him the rein.
She did not hope to reach the ford--there was a wall of impenetrable
fire and smoke between her and the stake; she could not attempt the
river where the bank was so steep and the current so swift.
With her own eyes smarting, and her breathing difficult, Beatrice
suddenly leaned forward and patted the trembling horse. He had not been
able to run far with his lungs full of smoke, and he had now stopped in
a moment of indecision.
"Good boy!" she coaxed, in a voice that was not quite steady. "Go a
little farther, and then we'll try the river."
"_Hello!_" came out of the darkness; and through the acrid haze she saw
a man running toward her.
She hailed him eagerly; but when he reached her she was somewhat
disconcerted to notice that he was not, as she had expected, one of the
Allenwood settlers.
She saw that he was waiting for her to speak.
"I want to get across, and the fire has driven me from the ford," she
said.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Grange."
"By your leave!"
He took the bridle and moved along the bank, though he had some trouble
with the frightened horse. When they had gone a few yards he turned
toward an awkward slope.
"Is this crossing safe?" Beatrice asked in alarm.
"It's not good," he answered quietly. "I can take you through."
Beatrice did not know what gave her confidence, because the ford looked
dangerous, but she let him lead the stumbling horse down to the water.
The next moment the man was wading knee-deep, and the stream frothed
about the horse's legs. The current was swift and the smoke was thick
and biting, but the man went steadily on, and they were some distance
from the bank when he turned to her.
"Pick up your skirt," he said bluntly; "it gets steeper."
Beatrice laughed in spite of her danger. The man certainly did not waste
words.
When they were nearly across, the moon was suddenly hidden behind a dark
cloud, and at that moment the horse lost its footing and made a frantic
plunge. Beatrice gasped. But her fright was needless, for her companion
had firm control of the animal, and in another few moments they were
struggling up the bank.
As they left the timber and came out of the smoke, into the broad
moonlight, she told him to stop, for the saddle had slipped in climbing
the bank. Then, for the first time, they saw each other clearly.
He was a big man, with a quiet brown face, and Beatrice noticed his
start of swift, half-conscious admiration as he looked up at her. It
caused her no embarrassment, because she had seen that look on the faces
of other men, and knew that she was pretty; but she failed to estimate
the effect of her beauty on a man unaccustomed to her type. Sitting with
easy grace upon the splendid horse, she had a curiously patrician air.
He noticed her fine calm, the steadiness of her deep-blue eyes, and the
delicate chiseling of her features; indeed, he never forgot the picture
she made, with the poplars for a background and the moonlight on her
face.
"Thank you; I'm afraid you got very wet," she said. "I know my way now."
"You can't ride on," he answered. "The cinch buckle's drawn."
"Oh!"
"You'd better come on to my place. My sister will look after you while I
fix it." He smiled as he added: "Miss Mowbray, I presume? You may have
heard of me--Craig Harding, from the section just outside your line."
"Oh!" Beatrice repeated. "I didn't know we had neighbors; I have been
away. Have you met any of the Allenwood people?"
"A sallow-faced man with dark eyes."
"Kenwyne," said Beatrice. "He's worth knowing. Anybody else?"
"There was a lad with him; about eighteen, riding a gray horse."
"Yes; my brother Lance."
Harding laughed softly.
"That's all," he said; "and our acquaintance didn't go very far."
Beatrice wondered at his amusement, and she gave him a curious glance.
He was dressed in old brown overalls, and she thought he had something
of the look of the struggling farmers she had seen in Manitoba,
hard-bitten men who had come from the bush of Ontario, but there was a
difference, though she could not tell exactly where it lay. Harding's
clothes were old and plain, and she could see that he worked with his
hands, yet there was something about him which suggested a broader mind
and more culture than she associated with the rude preemptors. Then,
though he was curt, his intonation was unusually clean.
She asked him a few questions about his farm, which he answered
pleasantly. They were walking side by side along one of the prairie
trails, and he was leading the horse. The breeze had fallen and the
night was unusually still, broken only by a coyote calling insistently
to his mate; the wide, bare prairie ahead of them lay bathed in
moonlight.
Presently a light twinkled across the plain; and Beatrice welcomed it,
because, in spite of the precautions she had taken, her long skirt was
wet and uncomfortable.
When they reached the camp they found Hester busy cooking at a fire.
Behind her stood a rude board shelter and a tent, and farther off the
skeleton of a house rose from the grass.
Beatrice studied Hester Harding with interest. Though she found her
simply dressed, with sleeves rolled back and hands smeared with flour,
the prairie girl made a favorable impression on her. She liked the
sensitive, grave face, and the candid, thoughtful look.
While the girth was being mended, the girls talked beside the fire. Then
Harding saddled his own horse, and he and Beatrice rode off across the
prairie. When the lights of the Grange were visible he turned back; and
soon afterward Beatrice was laughingly relating her adventure to her
mother and Lance.
"So it was Harding who helped you!" Lance exclaimed. "I made a rather
bad blunder in talking to him the other day--told him he mustn't cut
some timber which it seems was his. But, I must say, he was rather
decent about it."
He looked at his sister curiously, and then laughed.
"On the whole," he added, as she started up the stairs, "it might be
better not to say anything about your little experience to the Colonel.
I'm inclined to think it might not please him."
Beatrice saw that her mother agreed with Lance, and she was somewhat
curious; but she went on up to her room without asking any questions.
She began to feel interested in Harding.