THE OPENING OF THE RIFT
A week after his meeting with Beatrice Mowbray, Harding went out one
morning to plow. He was in a thoughtful mood, but it was characteristic
that he did not allow his reflections to interfere with his work. His
house was unfinished, and the nights were getting cold; but neither
Hester nor he placed personal comfort first, and there was a strip of
land that must be broken before the frost set in.
It was a calm morning and bright sunshine poured down upon the grass
that ran back, growing faintly blue in the distance, until it faded into
the mellow haze that shut in the wide circle of prairie. Here and there
the smooth expanse was broken by small, gleaming ponds and wavy lines of
timber picked out in delicate shades of indigo and gray, but the
foreground was steeped in strong color. Where the light struck it, the
withered grass shone like silver; elsewhere it was streaked with yellow
and cinnamon. The long furrows traced across it were a rich
chocolate-brown, and the turned-back clods had patches of oily
brightness on their faces. The leaves in a neighboring bluff formed
spots of cadmium; and even the big breaker plow, painted crude green and
vermilion, did not seem out of place. It was a new implement, the best
that Harding could buy, and two brawny red oxen hauled it along. Oxen
are economical to feed and have some advantages in the first stages of
breaking land, but Harding meant to change them for Clydesdale horses
and experiment with mechanical traction. He used the old methods where
they paid, but he believed in progress.
As he guided the slowly moving beasts and watched the clods roll back,
his brown face was grave; for he had been troubled during the past seven
days. When he looked up at Beatrice Mowbray on the river bank something
strange and disturbing had happened to him. He was not given to
indulgence in romantic sentiment and, absorbed as he had been, first by
the necessity of providing for his sister and himself, and afterward by
practical ambitions, he had seldom spared a thought to women. Marriage
did not attract him. He felt no longing for close companionship or
domestic comfort; indeed, he rather liked a certain amount of hardship.
True, his heart had once or twice been mildly stirred by girls he had
met. They were pretty and likable--otherwise he would not have been
attracted, for his taste was good.
In some respects, Harding was primitive; but this, perhaps, tended to
give him a clearer understanding of essential things, and he had a vague
belief that he would some day meet the woman who was destined to be his
true mate. What was more, he would recognize her when he saw her.
And when he had looked up at Beatrice in the moonlight, standing out,
clear cut, against the somber background of poplars, the knowledge that
she was the one woman had rushed over him, surging through him as strong
as the swift-running river through which he had brought her. But, now
that the thing had happened, he must grapple with a difficult situation.
He knew his own value, and believed that he had abilities which would
carry him far toward material success; but he also knew his limitations
and the strength of the prejudices that would be arrayed against him.
That he should hope to win this girl of patrician stock was, in a sense,
ludicrous. Yet he had read courage in her, and steadfastness; if she
loved him, she would not count too great any sacrifice she made for his
sake. But this was only one side of the matter. Brought up as she had
been, she might not stand the strain of such a life as his must be for a
time. A deep tenderness awoke within him; he felt that she must be
sheltered from all trouble and gently cared for.
Harding suddenly broke into a grim laugh. He was going much too
fast--there was no reason to believe that the girl had given him a
passing thought.
With a call to the oxen he went on with his plowing, and the work
brought him encouragement. It was directly productive: next fall the
prairie he ripped apart would be covered with ripening grain. He had
found that no well-guided effort was lost: it bore fruit always--in his
case, at the rate of twenty bushels of wheat, or fifty bushels of oats,
to the acre. When the seed was wisely sown the harvest followed; and
Harding had steadily enlarged his crop. Now he had made his boldest
venture; and he looked forward to the time when his labor should change
the empty plain into a fertile field.
A jolt of the plow disturbed him, and as he looked up the oxen stopped.
The share had struck hard ground. On one side, a sinuous line of trail,
rutted by wheels and beaten firm by hoofs, seamed the prairie; on the
other, the furrows ran across and blotted it out. It was a road the
Allenwood settlers used, and Harding knew well what he was doing when he
plowed into it. Still, the land was his and must produce its proper
yield of grain, while to clear the trail with his implements would
entail much useless labor. He had no wish to be aggressive, but if these
people took his action as a challenge, the fault would be theirs. It was
with a quiet, determined smile that he called to the oxen and held down
the share.
At noon he turned the animals loose, and going back to camp, felt his
heart throb as he saw Beatrice Mowbray talking to Hester. A team stood
near by, and the boy he had met in the bluff was stooping down beside a
light four-wheeled vehicle. Beatrice gave Harding a smile of recognition
and went on talking, but her brother came up to him.
"The pole came loose," he explained; "and I thought you might lend me
something to fasten it with."
"Certainly," Harding said, stooping to examine the damaged pole. "It
won't fasten," he added. "It's broken between the iron straps, and
there's not wood enough to bolt them on again."
Lance frowned.
"That's a nuisance!"
"I will give you a pole," Harding said. "There is some lumber here that
will do."
He picked up a small birch log as he spoke, and, throwing it upon two
trestles, set to work with an ax. When he had it about the right size,
Lance interrupted him.
"That's good enough. I'll get it smoothed off when the carpenter comes
out from the settlement."
"That is not my plan," Harding smiled. "I like to finish a job."
He adjusted a plane, and Beatrice watched him as he ran it along the
pole. It had not struck her hitherto that one could admire the simple
mechanical crafts, but she thought there was something fine in the
prairie farmer's command of the tool. She noticed his easy poise as he
swung to and fro, the rhythmic precision of his movements, and the
accurate judgment he showed. As the thin shavings streamed across his
wrist the rough log began to change its form, growing through gently
tapered lines into symmetry. Though he had only his eye to guide him,
Beatrice saw that he was skilfully striking the balance between strength
and lightness, and it was a surprise to find elements of beauty in such
a common object as a wagon-pole. She felt that Harding had taught her
something when he turned to Lance, saying:
"There! I guess we can put that in."
The irons were soon refitted, and while Lance harnessed the team,
Beatrice came to Harding with a smile.
"Thank you!" she said. "It's curious that you should help me out of a
difficulty twice within a week."
Harding flushed.
"If you should happen to meet with another, I hope I'll be near," he
returned.
"You like helping people?"
He pondered this longer than she thought it deserved.
"I believe I like straightening things out. It jars me to see any one in
trouble when there's a way of getting over it; and I hate to see effort
wasted and tools unfit for work."
"Efficiency is your ideal, then?"
"Yes. I don't know that it ever struck me before, but you have hit it.
All the same, efficiency is hard to attain."
Beatrice looked at him curiously.
"I don't believe you are really a carpenter," she said.
"Unless you have plenty of money when you start breaking prairie, you
have to be a number of things," he answered, smiling. "Difficulties keep
cropping up, and they must be attacked."
"Without previous knowledge or technical training?"
He gave her a quick, appreciative glance.
"You have a knack of getting at the heart of things!" he said in his
blunt way. "It's not common."
Beatrice laughed, but she felt mildly flattered. She liked men to treat
her seriously; and so few of them did. Somehow she felt that Harding was
an unusual man: his toil-roughened hands and his blunt manner of speech
were at variance with the indefinite air of culture and good-breeding
that hovered round him. There was strength, shown plainly; and she felt
that he had ability--when confronted with a difficult problem he would
find the best solution. It was interesting to lead him on; but she was
to find him ready to go much farther than she desired.
"I hope making the new pole for us wasn't too much trouble," she said
lightly.
"It gives me keen pleasure to be of any use to you," he said.
The color swept into Beatrice's face, for he was looking at her with an
intent expression that made it impossible to take his remark lightly.
She was angry with herself for feeling confused while he looked so cool.
"That sounds rather cheap," she replied with a touch of scorn.
"My excuse is that it's exactly what I felt."
Composure in difficult circumstances was one of the characteristics of
her family, yet Beatrice felt at a loss. Harding, she thought, was not
the man to yield to a passing impulse or transgress from unmeaning
effrontery; but this made the shock worse.
Lance saved the situation by announcing that the team was ready.
As the buggy jolted away across the plain, Beatrice sat silent. She felt
indignant, humiliated, in a sense; but thrilled in spite of this. The
man's tone had been earnest and his gaze steadfast. He meant what he
said. But he had taken an unwarrantable liberty. Nobody knew anything
about him except that he was a working farmer. Her cheeks burned as she
realized that she had, perhaps, been to blame in treating him too
familiarly. Then her anger began to pass. After all, it was easy to
forgive sincere admiration, and he was certainly a fine type--strong and
handsome, clever with his hands, and, she thought, endowed with unusual
mental power. There was something flattering in the thought that he had
appreciated her. For all that, he must be given no opportunity for
repeating the offense; he must be shown that there was a wide gulf
between them.
Lance broke in upon her thoughts.
"I like that fellow," he said. "It's a pity he isn't more of our kind."
Beatrice pondered. Harding was not of their kind; but she did not feel
sure that the difference was wholly in favor of the Allenwood settlers.
This struck her as strange; as it was contrary to the opinions she had
hitherto held.
"Why?" she asked carelessly.
"We might have seen something of him then."
"Can't you do so now, if you wish?"
"I'm not sure. It might not please the Colonel--you know his opinions."
Beatrice smiled, for she had often heard them dogmatically expressed.
"After all, what is there he could object to about Harding?" she asked.
"Not much in one sense; a good deal in another. You can't deny that the
way one is brought up makes a difference. Perhaps the worst is that he's
frankly out for money--farming for dollars."
"Aren't we?"
"Not now. We're farming for pleasure. But Kenwyne and one or two others
think there'll have to be a change in that respect before long."
"Then we'll be in the same position as Harding, won't we?"
"I suppose so," Lance admitted. "But the Colonel won't see it; and I
can't say that he's wrong."
"It seems rather complicated," Beatrice said dryly.
She was surprised to find herself ready to contend for Harding, and
rather than inquire into the cause of this, she talked about Allenwood
affairs until they reached home.
Harding, back at his plowing, was thinking of Beatrice. He knew that he
had spoken rashly, but he did not regret it. She now knew what he
thought of her, and could decide what course to take. He smiled as he
imagined her determining that he must be dropped, for he believed the
mood would soon pass. He did not mean to persecute the girl with
unwelcome attentions, but it would not be easy to shake him off. He was
tenacious and knew how to wait. Then, the difference between them was,
after all, less wide than she probably imagined. Harding had kept
strictly to his compact not to try to learn anything of his father's
people in England; but, for all that, he believed himself to be the
girl's equal by birth. That, however, was a point that could not be
urged; and he had no wish to urge it. He was content to stand or fall by
his own merits as a man; and if Beatrice was the girl he thought her,
she would not let his being a working farmer stand in the way. This, of
course, was taking it for granted that he could win her love. He was
ready to fight against her relatives' opposition; but, even if he had
the power, he would put no pressure on the girl. If he was the man she
ought to marry, she would know.
A breeze got up, rounded clouds with silver edges gathered in the west,
streaking the prairie with patches of indigo shadow, and the air grew
cooler as the sun sank. The big oxen steadily plodded on, the dry grass
crackled beneath the share as the clods rolled back, and by degrees
Harding's mind grew tranquil--as generally happened when he was at work.
He was doing something worth while in breaking virgin ground, in
clearing a way for the advancing host that would people the wilderness,
in roughing out a career for himself. Whatever his father's people
were, his mother sprang from a stern, colonizing stock, and he heard and
thrilled to the call for pioneers.
As the sun sank low, a man pulled up his horse at the end of the trail
and beckoned Harding. There was something imperious in his attitude, as
he sat with his hand on his hip, watching the farmer haughtily; and
Harding easily guessed that it was Colonel Mowbray. He went on with his
furrow, and only after he had driven the plow across the grass road did
he stop.
"Are you Mr. Harding, the owner of this section?" demanded the head of
Allenwood.
"Yes."
"Then I must express my surprise that you have broken up our trail."
"It was necessary. I dislike blocking a trail, but you can go round by
the road."
"You can see that it's soft and boggy in wet weather."
"Five minutes' extra ride will take you over gravel soil inside the
Allenwood range."
"Do you expect us to waste five minutes whenever we come this way?"
"My time is valuable, and if I let your trail stand it would cost me a
good deal of extra labor. I must have a straight unbroken run for my
machines."
"So, sooner than throw an implement out of gear while you cross the
trail, you take this course! Do you consider it neighborly?"
Harding smiled. He remembered that in Manitoba any help the nearest
farmer could supply had been willingly given. At Allenwood, he had been
left alone. That did not trouble him; but he thought of Hester,
enduring many discomforts in her rude, board shack while women
surrounded by luxury lived so near.
"I can't see any reason why I should be neighborly," he replied.
Mowbray glanced at him with a hint of embarrassment.
"Have you any complaint against us?"
"None," said Harding coolly. "I only mentioned the matter because you
did so."
He imagined that Mowbray was surprised by his reserve.
"You may be able to understand," the Colonel said, "that it's rash for
an intruding stranger to set himself against local customs, not to speak
of the discourtesy of the thing. When a new trail is made at Allenwood,
every holder is glad to give all the land that's needed."
"Land doesn't seem to be worth as much to you as it is to me, judging
from the way you work it. Every rod of mine must grow something. I don't
play at farming."
Mowbray grew red in the face, but kept himself in hand.
"Do you wish to criticize our methods?" he demanded.
"I've nothing to do with your methods. It's my business to farm this
section as well as it can be done. I've no wish to annoy your people;
but you do not use the trail for hauling on, and I can't change my plans
because they may interfere with your amusements."
"Very well," Mowbray answered coldly. "There is nothing more to be
said."
He rode away and Harding started his oxen. It might have been more
prudent to make a few concessions and conciliate the Colonel, but
Harding could not bring himself to do so. It seemed a shabby course. It
was better that the Allenwood settlers should know at the beginning how
matters stood and of what type their new neighbor was.
From all that Harding had learned of Colonel Mowbray, he felt that this
stretch of grassland would not be turned into a glowing sea of wheat
without more than one conflict between himself and the head of
Allenwood.