A MAN OF AFFAIRS
The warmth of the big stove, which glowed a dull red in places, had
melted holes in the frost that obscured the double windows of Davies'
office, but icy draughts flowed round the room, and the temperature of
the passage outside was down to zero. From where the stove-pipe pierced
the wall, drops of a black distillate trickled down, and the office was
filled with the smell of tar and hot iron. Rents gaped in the pine
paneling, and the door had shrunk to a remarkably easy fit. The building
was new, pretentious, and supposed to be centrally heated, but Winnipeg
was then passing through the transition stage which occurs in the
history of most Western towns: emerging from rude disorder with bold but
badly guided striving toward beauty and symmetry. Civic ambition was
poorly seconded by builder's skill, and the plans of aspiring architects
were crudely materialized.
From where Davies sat he could look into the snowy street; the view was
far from pleasing. The blackened wreck of a burnt-out store confronted
the office block, and behind it straggled a row of squalid shacks.
Farther on rose a wall of concrete with rusty iron framing sticking out
of it; and a mound of cut stone and sawed lumber, left as it lay when
the frost stopped work, encroached upon the plank sidewalk. Davies,
however, was not engrossed in the view, though he had lent money upon
some adjacent building lots. A survey map of the Allenwood district lay
on his table, and he alternately studied it and gazed out of the window
with a thoughtful air.
The Allenwood soil was good, consisting, as it did for the most part, of
stiff black gumbo; it was well watered and fairly well wooded; and it
occupied the center of a fertile belt. Its position had other natural
advantages, and the configuration of the country made it probable that
with the first railroad extension a line would run past the settlement
to the American frontier. Davies had reason to believe that his view was
shared by far-seeing railroad directors; but, whether the line were run
or not, the Allenwood farms would rise in value. Davies wanted a hold on
the settlement; and he had, to some extent, succeeded in getting it. He
held a mortgage on Gerald Mowbray's homestead; it seemed possible to get
the younger brother into his power; and he was negotiating with another
embarrassed settler. On the other hand, money was tight just then, and
Davies' schemes were hampered by a lack of capital. He had written to
Lance Mowbray, pressing for some interest that was overdue, and when the
lad begged for time had curtly summoned him to Winnipeg. Now he was
expecting him, for the east-bound train had arrived.
He heard steps in the passage and looked up with some surprise as two
men entered his office. Their bronzed faces and their cheap skin coats
suggested that they worked upon the land, but there was something in the
expression and bearing of the taller man that contradicted this. Davies
was a judge of character, and he read that something as a sense of
power.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," he said, with a suave smile. "I don't believe
I have an appointment with you, but I'm always open for business."
"My name is Harding," said the taller man; "and this is my partner, Mr.
Devine. You were expecting Lance Mowbray, of Allenwood; I've come
instead."
Davies would have preferred dealing with young Mowbray himself; this
substitute made him feel somewhat uneasy. After careful inquiries into
Mowbray's affairs, Davies did not expect to get the overdue interest.
What he wanted was to renew the loan at a higher rate as the price of
waiting.
Harding got down to business at once.
"Mowbray owes you some interest; I've come to pay it."
Davies' eyes narrowed.
"Rather a long and expensive journey, if that was all that brought you,"
he said with a sneer. "A check would have done."
"You seemed to think an interview needful; and I don't propose to bear
the cost," Harding answered quietly. "Anyway, now that I'm here I'll pay
up the principal, if we can come to terms."
"There are no terms to be arranged. I'll settle the account on receipt
of the sum Mowbray borrowed and the interest."
"I'll give you what he got," said Harding coolly.
Davies pondered a moment. The offer had been a shock to him, for it
suggested that Mowbray had found a way of escape. That meant that his
hold on Allenwood would be weakened. Harding looked shrewd and
businesslike; there was little possibility of hoodwinking such a man.
"Do you expect me to abandon my rights?" he asked.
"I'm here to look after Mowbray's. You charged him what you call
expenses, which you didn't incur. Guess you'll have to prove them if you
take the case to court."
"One has to make inquiries about the security when lending money."
"As a matter of fact, you knew the security was bad. Mowbray told you
that his land was held in trust until he was twenty-one. What you traded
on was his fear of the deal coming to his people's knowledge. I guess
his brother gave you all the information you required."
Davies' start indicated that the shot, made at a venture, had reached
its mark. He grew angry, but he quickly saw that this was no time to
lose his temper.
"It's a pretty cool proposition you make," he said.
"It's fair, and I don't press you to agree. Stick to your full claim, if
you like, and you'll get your interest on what you actually lent, but on
nothing more until payment of the principal is due. Then we'll give you
all the trouble we can. But your hold on the boy is gone now that you
know the money's ready."
Davies was forced to recognize that his debtor had escaped him; and, as
it happened, he was pressed for money.
"Well," he conceded, "it's a small matter, after all. I'll give you a
receipt if you'll put down the amount."
"I'd rather my bank paid this; it keeps a record. Then I want Mowbray's
note as well as the receipt."
Harding handed him a check, and Davies looked at it in surprise.
"You have made another deduction!"
"Certainly. You demanded an interview, and I've knocked off my fare to
Winnipeg. Now where's the note?"
Davies produced it, and then looked at him with an ironical grin.
"It's all straight, and I hope you're satisfied. A farmer, aren't you?
May I suggest that you have mistaken your profession?"
Harding laughed good-naturedly as he pocketed the papers.
"I don't know. My belief is that a farmer doesn't lose anything by
studying business methods."
When they reached the street, Harding turned to Devine.
"I've learned something I wanted to know," he said. "That fellow has a
mortgage on Gerald Mowbray's land. He's playing a deep game."
"I don't see what he's getting after."
"Allenwood. It's worth plotting for."
"I guess he'd find the Colonel a pretty big obstacle. Anyway, it's not
our business."
"No," Harding replied with a thoughtful air. "As far as I can see at
present, it's not my business.... Now we'll look up the steam-plow man."
They found the implement dealer disengaged, and spent the afternoon in
his store before Harding, who insisted upon several variations in the
standard design, finally ordered a steam gang-plow. The agent was struck
by the aptness of many of Harding's suggestions about improvements, and
he invited the men to his hotel for the evening. When they parted he
frankly admitted that he had picked up some useful hints. He also
surmised that Harding had learned all that was worth knowing about new
machines.
The two men left Winnipeg the next day, and Devine went to report to
Hester while Harding stopped at the Grange to see Lance.
The boy greeted him eagerly, and his eyes glistened with relief when
Harding handed him the papers.
"I'll square it off, every dollar, as soon as I can," he said. "In fact,
I feel so much about it that I can't express myself--if you'd been in my
place, you would understand. I see he didn't claim all my note called
for. How did you beat him down?"
"I knew the man I had to deal with," Harding smiled. "What you have to
do is to keep clear of debt in future."
"I've given you my word; but I can't get out of debt to you." Lance
looked at him with frank admiration. "You beat the fellow at his own
game!" he exclaimed.
Harding held out his hand.
"I must go now," he said; "I promised to meet Kenwyne and Broadwood.
We'll settle how you're to pay me the next time I come."
Mrs. Mowbray was waiting for him in the hall below.
"I want to thank you," she said to him. "I don't know what you have done
to my boy, but he is so very much better."
Harding met the gaze she quietly fixed on him. He saw that she knew
there was some secret between him and her son, but had confidence enough
to ask no questions.
"For one thing," he answered lightly, "I've given him some good advice,
which I think he'll act on."
"He seems to have a respect for your judgment--and I feel he's not
mistaken."
"That's very kind," said Harding. "I hope I shall be able to keep your
good opinion; though you may find it shaken by and by."
Mrs. Mowbray looked at him keenly, and then laid her hand gently on his
arm.
"You have helped my boy to get better and, whatever may happen, that
goes a long way," she said.
When Harding left her he felt that in Mrs. Mowbray he would have a
staunch ally in his fight for Beatrice.
He returned to the Grange one afternoon about a week later, and found
Beatrice alone. Lance, after his long confinement, had gone for his
first drive, and his mother had accompanied him to see that he kept the
robes properly wrapped about him. The Colonel and Gerald were at a
neighbor's.
Beatrice gave him her hand cordially.
"I am glad of this opportunity for seeing you alone, because there's
something I want to ask of you," she said.
"I shall do anything I can to please you."
"It's really something I want you not to do."
"Ah!" Harding smiled. "That's often harder."
They had entered a room which Beatrice and her mother used. It was not
large, and it was scantily furnished, but most of the articles it
contained, though worn and battered, were good. Curtains, rugs, and
chairs were of artistic design, and their faded coloring was harmonious.
By contrast with the rude prairie homesteads he had lived in, all that
Harding saw struck a note of luxurious refinement. What was more, the
room seemed somehow stamped with its occupants' character. Colonel
Mowbray, he knew, seldom entered it; it was the retreat of the two
delicate, high-bred women he admired. He felt it was a privilege to be
there. The unusual surroundings reacted upon him, and emphasized in a
curious way his companion's grace and charm.
For a few moments after they were seated, Beatrice was silent, gazing
thoughtfully before her. Her hair shone where the light touched it, and
reminded Harding of the glitter of a prairie lake on a breezy, sunny
day; her face was in profile, its fine chiseling forced up by a faded
purple curtain behind her, which harmonized agreeably with the
straw-colored dress that fell about her figure in graceful lines. As it
happened, Beatrice was feeling somewhat embarrassed. She had a favor to
ask, and she shrank with unusual timidity from placing herself in the
man's debt. She believed that he had saved her brother's life and
afterward rendered him some valuable service; but he had done this of
his own accord, and it would be different were he to comply with her
request.
"You have been urging some plans on Kenwyne and Broadwood," she began.
"You have heard about that! However, they didn't need urging; they
agreed with me about the necessity for the thing."
"It's possible." There was a touch of haughtiness in Beatrice's tone.
"Ralph Kenwyne has always been something of a revolutionary; and we know
where Broadwood gets his ideas."
"From his wife? You can't expect me to condemn them. She was brought up
as I was and thinks as I do."
Beatrice saw she was not beginning well and changed her ground.
"After all, that's not an important point. I suppose you know my father
is bitterly opposed to your plans?"
"I was afraid so. It's unfortunate."
"Then can't you see that it would be better to give them up?"
Harding felt disturbed but determined. He was keenly anxious to please
the girl, but to yield in this matter would be to act against his
principles. She did not know what she was asking.
"No," he said; "I can't see that."
"Do you consider it good taste to encourage our friends to thwart their
acknowledged leader?"
"It looks bad, as you put it," Harding replied. "For all that, a
leader's business is to lead. He can't keep his followers standing still
when they want to move on. Their wishes must be respected. Despotic
authority's out of date."
"What is the use of choosing a ruler if he isn't to be obeyed?" she said
haughtily.
"It sounds logical," Harding replied; "but it doesn't always work."
Beatrice was struggling hard with her wounded pride. Although on the
whole broadminded, she had inherited some of the convictions of her
caste; and, being the only daughter of the head of the settlement, she
had been treated with more deference by the men at Allenwood than was
perhaps good for her. It had cost her an effort to ask a favor from
Harding, but she had not doubted the result, and his refusal was a
shock. That the man who now proved obdurate had boldly shown his
admiration for her, made it worse. Yet, because she believed her cause
was good, she determined to disregard her injured feelings.
"If you persist in your plans, it will hurt Colonel Mowbray, and lead to
dissention here," she argued. "Why must you try to bring in these
changes? We have done very well as we are."
He rose and stood with his hand on a chair-back, looking steadily at
her; and she noticed with half-grudging approval the strength of his
figure and the resolution in his quiet, brown face.
"The trouble is that you can't continue as you are. Allenwood's
threatened from outside, and I'm not sure it's safe within."
"Is that your business?"
The cold pride in her tone hurt, for it implied that she regarded him as
an intruding stranger.
"In a way, yes; but we'll let that drop. If I could have pleased you by
giving up a personal advantage, I'd have gladly done so; but this is a
bigger thing. It isn't a matter of being content with a smaller crop;
it's letting land that was meant to be worked lie idle, wasting useful
effort, and trying to hold up a state of things that can't last. If I
give way, I'll be going back on all I believe in and betraying a trust."
Beatrice laughed scornfully; and saw him wince.
"I want you to understand what's behind this movement," he continued
gravely. "Your people can't keep Allenwood for a place of amusement much
longer, and some of those who see this have asked my help. I've
promised and I can't draw back. Besides, to break new soil and raise
good wheat where only the wild grasses grow is the work I was meant for;
the one thing worth while I'm able to do. I'd feel mean and ashamed if I
held off and let the waste go on."
"Of course, it would be too great a sacrifice to make for a prejudiced
old man, who has nevertheless always placed the good of Allenwood first,
and an inexperienced, sentimental girl!"
Harding flushed at the taunt. It was very hard to displease her, but he
would not be justified in giving way, and he thought that later, when
she understood better, she would not blame him for being firm. Moreover,
his temper was getting short.
"That's neither kind nor fair," he said. "Separate or together, your
people and I must move on. We can't stand still, blocking the way, and
defying Nature and the ordered procession of things. This land was made
for the use of man, and he must pay with hard work for all it gives
him."
"I am sorry you take that view; but there seems nothing further to be
said." She rose as she spoke. "I'm afraid it's impossible that we should
agree."
He left at once, and drove home in a downcast mood. No doubt, he had
disappointed her badly. He had not even had the tact to make his refusal
graceful; she must think him an iconoclastic boor, driven by a rude
hatred of all that she respected. Still, he had tried to be honest; he
could not shirk the task he was clearly meant to do. The struggle,
however, had tried him hard, and he drove with set lips and knitted
brows across the great white waste, oblivious of the biting cold.