THE MORTGAGE BROKER
Davies sat at his desk sorting a bundle of papers. His office, a large
room in a smart, new building, was elaborately furnished; but the
furnishings spelled expense rather than taste. The walls were hung with
maps of the Canadian territories, plans of new town sites, and
photographs of buildings. Davies was one of a class that was, for a
time, to exercise a far-reaching influence on the Western prairie. His
business was to sell the new settlers land--which was seldom paid for on
the spot; the agent being willing to take what he could get and leave
the balance on mortgage. He also lent money to farmers who had suffered
from bad seasons, or who rashly determined to extend their operations
with borrowed capital.
Interest was then very high, and the scratch-farming generally practised
was not productive. Crops on the half-worked soil suffered from drought
and blight, and often ripened too late to escape the autumn frost; yet,
in spite of these disadvantages, the influx of new settlers forced up
the price of land. As a rule, the unfortunate farmer soon became
indebted to local storekeepers as well as to the man from whom he had
bought his holding. When he harvested a good crop, he paid off some
arrears of interest, and perhaps kept a few dollars to go on with; but
he seldom got out of debt, and so toiled on, living with stern
frugality, while the money-lender pocketed his earnings. Shylock ran no
risk, since the security was good and he could sell up the defaulter.
For a time, many of the small homesteaders struggled with dire poverty,
in spite of legislation intended to protect them; and it was not until a
succession of good harvests and the gradual development of the country
enabled them to break the yoke of the usurer that a tide of prosperity
flowed across the plains.
Davies was an unfavorable specimen of his class. There were some land
and mortgage agents who dealt fairly with their clients and even ran
some risk in keeping them on their feet; but Davies was cunning,
grasping, and pitiless.
When Gerald entered he gave him a curt nod, snapped a rubber band around
the papers, placed them carefully in a pigeonhole in his desk, and then
turned to his caller.
"Mr. Mowbray! I expected to see you sooner. Guess you have come to
settle your account."
Gerald found it hard to keep his temper. He had an aristocratic contempt
for all traders, and had, even in Canada, generally been treated with
some deference.
"In the first place, I don't see what you have to do with this debt," he
began. "I borrowed from parties in London, and I'm responsible to them."
"Here's my authority," Davies said, handing him a letter. "Whether the
lender instructed me to collect the money for him, or made other
arrangements doesn't matter to you. I can give you a receipt that will
stand good as soon as you put up the money."
"Unfortunately, that is more than I can do."
Davies did not look surprised.
"What's your proposition?" he asked.
"I'll think over yours," Gerald answered as coolly as he could.
Davies studied him for a moment or two. Gerald's expression was
supercilious, but his face did not indicate much strength of character.
Besides, the only justification for arrogance that Davies recognized was
the possession of money.
"You're the son of Colonel Mowbray of Allenwood, aren't you? Your people
hold a good piece of land there."
"You seem to know all about me. I'd better warn you, however, that you
won't find my relatives willing to pay my debts."
Davies smiled.
"I could try them. They might do something if I stated my claim."
This was what Gerald had feared, and he could not hide his alarm.
"It will save you trouble if you realize that you wouldn't get a
dollar," he said hastily.
Davies was silent for a few moments. As a matter of fact, he was by no
means anxious to be paid. Allenwood was isolated as yet, and the land
accordingly not worth much, but the homesteads were unusually good and
the advance of cultivation and settlement would largely increase their
value. Davies wanted a hold on Allenwood which might be turned to
advantage later, and he now saw an opportunity for getting it. Young
Mowbray obviously objected to having his friends learn how he was
situated, and this would make him easier to manage.
"Well," Davies said, "you have some land there, haven't you? What's the
acreage, township, and range?"
Gerald named them, and Davies made some calculations on a piece of paper
before he looked up.
"If I find this all right in the land register, I'll cancel your London
debt, and take a mortgage on your holding," he said, handing Gerald the
paper he had been writing on. "Here's an outline of the terms."
"The interest's extortionate!"
"If you think so, go round the town and see if you can find anybody
who'll be more liberal. If not, you can come back to-morrow and we'll
fix up the deal."
Davies felt safe in making the suggestion. He did not think Gerald had
much business ability, and trusted to his reluctance to make his
embarrassments known. Besides, the mortgage brokers had their hands full
and were not all so confident of the rapid advance of settlement as
Davies was. Indeed, there were men who declared that the country was
being opened up too rapidly, and predicted a bad set-back.
Gerald left Davies' office with a faint hope of being able to find a
safer way out of the difficulty. To give his land in pledge would be a
violation of the covenant that bound the Allenwood settlers. It was an
offense that his father and his neighbors could not forgive. He shrank
from the dangerous course; but the day went by without his finding any
escape, and the next morning he called on Davies and the mortgage was
signed.
While Gerald was at Winnipeg, Mrs. Broadwood startled the settlement at
Allenwood by calling on Harding's sister. The visit was prompted by
sympathy for the lonely prairie girl; but, coupled with that, Mrs.
Broadwood delighted in the feeling that all the Allenwood women would
disapprove of her course. She was small and pretty, with plenty of
determination and an exuberant cheerfulness which contact with her
husband's friends had somewhat toned down; and there was about her an
air of homely Western frankness that was charming.
When she reached Harding's camp, Hester sat sewing in the sun. The girl
made a remarkably pretty picture, she thought, seated beside a pile of
prairie hay, with a few purple asters springing up at her feet and,
behind her, a ragged pine-tree drooping its branches to the ground. And
over all the gold of sunshine.
"You look like a priestess of the sun!" Mrs. Broadwood greeted her,
laughing.
Hester smiled in response.
"I'm sitting outside because it's rather damp and cold in the shack,"
she said. "As you see, our house isn't finished yet."
She rose as she spoke, and came forward, and Mrs. Broadwood looked at
her admiringly. Hester was tall and naturally dignified, and her
characteristic expression was grave composure. Besides, her visitor
remarked the excellent taste and fit of her simple dress.
"I'm sure we're going to be friends," said Mrs. Broadwood.
"I hope so," Hester answered simply.
The visitor found a seat in the prairie hay, and sinking down in the
soft grass, she breathed the smell of wild peppermint with delight. She
noticed the hearth of parallel logs, with a big kerosene can, used as a
washing boiler, hanging from a tripod at one end; the camp oven; the
sawing frame; and the scented cedar shingles strewn about beside the
framework of the house. All these things were familiar, for she was one
of the pioneers.
"My!" she exclaimed. "This _is_ nice! Makes me feel homesick."
"It must be a change from Allenwood," Hester answered with a smile.
"That's why I like it! I'm quite happy there; but this is the kind of
place where I belong. Twice before I met my husband I helped make a new
home on the plains, and this spot reminds me of the last time. We fixed
camp by Stony Creek in early summer, when the grass was green and all
the flowers were out. There were rows of the red prairie lilies. I never
saw so many!--and I remember how the new birch leaves used to rustle in
the bluff at night. Thinking of it somehow hurts me." She laughed
prettily. "I'm what Tom calls a sentimentalist."
"So am I," said Hester; "so you needn't stop."
"Well, I remember everything about the night we put in our stakes--Sally
baking bannocks, with the smoke going straight up; the loaded wagons in
a row; the tired horses rolling in the grass; and the chunk of the boys'
axes, chopping in the bluff. Though we'd been on the trail since sun-up,
there was work for hours, bread to bake and clothes to wash; and when we
went to sleep, a horse got his foot in a line and brought the tent down
on us. It was all hard in those days, a hustle from dawn to dark; but
now, when things are different, I sometimes want them back. But I
needn't tell you--I guess you know!"
"Yes; I know," said Hester. "Perhaps it's the work we were born for."
She was silent for a few moments, looking far out over the prairie; then
she asked abruptly:
"What are the Allenwood people like?"
"They're much the same as you and I, but they wear more frills, and when
you rub against those who use the most starch you find them prickly.
Then, they've some quaint notions that Walter Raleigh or Jacques Cartier
must have brought over; but, taking them all round, they're a straight,
clean crowd." She looked intently at Hester. "Somehow you make me feel
that you belong to them."
Hester smiled. Mrs. Broadwood was impulsive and perhaps not always
discreet, but Hester thought her true.
"I don't understand that," she replied. "Though I think my mother was a
woman of unusual character, she came from the Michigan bush. My father
was English, but he had only a small farm and didn't bring us up
differently from our neighbors. Still, he had different ideas and bought
a good many books. Craig and I read them all, and he would talk to us
about them."
"Craig's your brother? I've seen him once or twice. Tell me about him."
Hester nodded toward the trail that wormed its way across the prairie. A
girl was riding toward them.
"Beatrice Mowbray," Mrs. Broadwood said; "the best of them all at
Allenwood, though sometimes she's not easy to get on with."
When Beatrice joined them, Mrs. Broadwood repeated her suggestion. She
was frankly curious, and Hester was not unwilling to talk about her
brother. Indeed, she made the story an interesting character sketch, and
Beatrice listened quietly while she told how the lad was left with a
patch of arid soil, and his mother and sister to provide for. Hester
related how he braved his neighbors' disapproval of the innovations
which they predicted would lead him to ruin, and by tenacity and
boldness turned threatened failure into brilliant success. Then losing
herself in her theme, she sketched the birth of greater ambitions, and
the man's realization of his powers. Beatrice's eyes brightened with
keen approval. She admired strength and daring, and Hester had drawn a
striking picture of her brother.
When the visitors rose to go, Harding appeared. He had come, he
explained, for an ox-chain clevis.
"I have another visit to make," Beatrice said, when he had helped her to
mount. "The shortest way is across the ravine and there used to be a
trail, unless you have plowed it up."
"No," he laughed; "I mean to improve that one. However, as it's not very
good, and there's an awkward place, I'll show you the way down."
They left the camp together, and Harding was not pleased to notice no
difference in the girl's attitude to him. He had not expected her to
show embarrassment, but he would not have minded a dignified aloofness.
It looked as if she had not thought it worth while to resent his
boldness when they last met. For all that, it made his heart beat fast
to be near her.
Beatrice glanced toward the dark-brown line of the fall plowing.
"Do you know what our people are saying about you? You haven't shown
much regard for your neighbors' feelings."
"I'd try to respect their needs."
"Well, that is something. Still, the trail was at least convenient, and
it had stood for a number of years."
"I'm afraid some more of the old landmarks will have to go. These are
changing times."
"And I suppose there's satisfaction in feeling that you are leading the
way?"
"I can't claim that," Harding answered with a smile. "As a matter of
fact, we're following a plain trail; the fur-traders blazed it for us
before the railroad came; and I dare say your father had broken ground
at Allenwood when I was learning to harness a team."
"It doesn't seem to make you diffident. Now, I agree with my friends
that there's a good deal to admire in the old order."
"That's so. All that's best in it will stay; you can't destroy it. In a
way, it's a comforting thought because we can't stand still, and
progress means a fight."
"And yet some people believe in throwing away the weapons our fathers
have used and proved."
Harding laughed.
"When they're fine steel, that's foolish; but we might be allowed to rub
off the rust and regrind them."
Beatrice liked his half-humorous manner, which she suspected covered a
strong sincerity. Besides, she had asked for his opinions; he had not
obtruded them. She gave him a quick glance of scrutiny as he led her
horse down the steep, brush-encumbered trail into the ravine; and she
admitted to herself that he improved on acquaintance. One got used to
his rough clothes and his line of thought which differed so widely from
the views held at Allenwood.
Yellow birch leaves shone about them, the pale-tinted stems were
streaked with silver by the sinking sun, and the ravine was filled with
heavy blue shadow. There was something strangely exhilarating in the
light, glowing color and the sharp wind; and Beatrice felt her senses
stirred. Then she noticed Harding's set lips and the concentrated look
in his eyes. He seemed to be thinking earnestly and perhaps exercising
some self-restraint. She suddenly recalled his presumption the last time
they were together. She had not carried out her plan of avoiding him,
but she thought it might be better to run no risk.
"I mustn't take you any farther," she said. "The trail is good up the
other side."
"All right," he acquiesced. "Turn out at the big poplar."
He stood there in the sunset, his rough felt hat in his hand, the
slanting rays playing through his fair hair, watching her until she and
her horse coalesced with the blue shadows of the hillside.
It would not be easy to win her, he knew. First, there was the life she
had led, in what a different environment from the rough, pioneer one
that he had known! Then there were the prejudices of her relatives to
consider. She must come to him happily, without one regret.
Harding sighed; but his jaws set determinedly. He had been taught, as a
child, that the sweetest apples hang on the highest branches: they are
not easy to reach, but, once secured, they are worth the having.