THE ENEMY WITHIN
It was getting late, but the Allenwood Sports Club prolonged its sitting
at the Carlyon homestead. The institution had done useful work in
promoting good fellowship by means of healthful amusements, but recently
its management had fallen into the hands of the younger men, and the
founders contented themselves with an occasional visit to see that all
was going well. Some, however, were not quite satisfied, and Mowbray
entertained suspicions about the Club. He was an autocrat, but he shrank
from spying, or attempting to coerce a member into betraying his
comrades. Some allowance must be made for young blood; and, after all,
nothing that really needed his interference could go on, he felt,
without his learning about it. Nevertheless, he had a disturbing feeling
that an undesirable influence was at work.
Carlyon's room was unusually well furnished, and several fine London
guns occupied a rack on the matchboarded wall. The cost of one would
have purchased a dozen of the Massachusetts-made weapons which the
prairie farmers used. The photograph of a horseman in English hunting
dress with M.F.H. appended to the autograph was equally suggestive, and
it was known that Carlyon's people had sent him to Canada with money
enough to make a fair start. Unfortunately, he had not realized that
success in farming demands care and strenuous work.
He sat with a flushed, excited face at a rosewood table, upon which the
cigar ends, bottles, and glasses scarcely left room for the cards he was
eagerly scanning. Gerald Mowbray leaned back in his chair, watching him
with a smile. Emslie, the third man, wore a disturbed frown; opposite
him, Markham sat with a heavy, vacant air.
"Your luck's changing, Carlyon," Gerald said; "but we must stop at this
round. Markham's half asleep--and I'm not surprised, considering what
he's drunk; and the Colonel will wonder where I've been, if I stay much
longer."
Carlyon drained his glass.
"Very well," he consented, with a harsh laugh and a glitter in his eyes.
"As I've a good deal to get back, I'll double and throw my Percheron
team in. Does that take you?"
Markham immediately became alert.
"I think not. Go on, Gerald!"
Gerald put down a card, Emslie followed with a deepening frown, but
Markham chuckled as he played. Carlyon started, and then with an obvious
effort pulled himself together. For the next few moments all were quiet,
and the stillness was emphasized by the patter of the falling cards.
Then Carlyon pushed his chair back noisily and looked at the others, his
face pale and set.
"I thought it was a certainty; there was only one thing I forgot," he
said in a strained voice.
Markham leaned forward heavily.
"Fellows who play like you can't afford to forget, my boy. Know better
next time; let it be a lesson."
Carlyon glanced at a notebook and took out a wad of bills which he tried
to count.
"Sorry, but I seem to be five dollars short; don't know when you'll get
it, but I'll send the horses to the next Brandon sales. I dare say
somebody will help me with my plowing."
"Don't be an ass!" said Gerald. "Throwing in the team was a piece of
silly bluff. We're not going to take advantage of it."
Emslie nodded agreement; and Markham drawled:
"Don't want his splay-footed beasts, and won't lend him my good
Clydesdales to spoil. Count out the bills, Gerald; his hand is shaking."
Carlyon protested that he was a sportsman and paid his debts, but they
overruled him.
"Silly thing to do, unless you're made," Markham declared. Then he
turned to Gerald. "What's become of the younger brother? Never see him
now."
"Oh, he's reformed. On the whole, it's just as well, for there's not
room for two gamblers in the family. Besides, the Americans seem to have
got hold of him: they live like Methodists."
"You mean the girl has? Devilish handsome; has a grand way of looking at
you. Ask Carlyon; he knows."
Carlyon colored under Markham's broadly humorous gaze.
"Miss Harding won't trouble herself about Lance," he said. "I may add
that she doesn't appreciate a graceful compliment."
"Smacked your face?" suggested Markham with a chuckle. "Must be going.
Give me my coat."
A newspaper and some letters fell out of a pocket as he put it on, and
he picked them up.
"Quite forgot. Met the mail-carrier as I was driving in. Better look
what wheat is doing."
Carlyon eagerly opened the paper.
"Down again two cents at Chicago! Winnipeg will follow."
"There's a certain cure," said Markham thickly. "All stop plowing. If
you do nothing long enough, 'must send the market up. Call it a
brilliant idea; wonder nobody else thought of it. You look sober,
Emslie. Come and help me into my rig."
They went out, and a few minutes afterward a furious beat of hoofs and a
rattle of wheels rang out across the prairie.
"I hope he will get home without breaking his neck," Carlyon said to
Gerald.
"Oh, Markham can take care of himself. But we have something else to
think about now."
"That's true," Carlyon agreed with a depressed air. "I took your advice
and told that fellow in the Pit to buy wheat; but I wish I'd heard
Harding's speech at the council before I made the deal. Now it's clear
that I'm dipped pretty deep." He picked up the letters that were
scattered among the cards and started as he saw the embossed stamp on
one of them. "It's from my broker; I'll soon know the worst."
Gerald, lighting a cigarette, watched the tense expression of the boy's
face as he read the letter, and for a few moments nothing was said.
Carlyon looked crushed, but Gerald's position was too serious to allow
of his sympathizing much. Taking advantage of his friends' love of
excitement, he had won a number of small sums at cards, but this was of
no account against what he owed. After a moment Carlyon laid a statement
of account before him.
"You can see how much I'm out."
"Can't you carry it over?"
"Impossible," Carlyon answered dejectedly. "I didn't actually buy the
grain; I've got to find the difference. Besides, what would be the use
of holding on, if wheat's still going to drop?"
"It's awkward," Gerald agreed. "You might get some exemption under the
Homesteads Act, but this broker could sell you up. Would your people do
anything?"
"They won't be asked. Things were not going well with them when I left,
and I guess they find it hard enough to keep Dick at college and provide
for the girls. They gave me a good start, but it was understood that I'd
get nothing more."
"Then the only remedy is to borrow the money here."
Carlyon laughed.
"Who'd lend it to me? Besides, if the Colonel knew how I was fixed, he'd
turn me out of the settlement."
"I know a man in Winnipeg who does this kind of business, but he'd
charge you high and want a bond. That means he'd seize your land in a
year or two if you couldn't pay."
"The other fellow would seize it now," Carlyon said with eagerness. "If
I could get the money, I'd have time to see what could be done, and
something might turn up. Will you introduce me?"
The matter was arranged before Gerald left; and two days later they were
in Winnipeg. They found Davies willing to do business. Indeed, after
making a few difficulties as an excuse for raising the interest, he
supplied Carlyon with the money he needed, and when the men left his
office he lighted a cigar with a satisfied smile. He now held two
mortgages on land at Allenwood, and he thought that he could make good
use of them if, as he expected, the loans were not repaid. Then it was
possible that Mowbray might bring him another customer. He saw a big
profit for himself, and trouble for the Allenwood settlers, when the
reckoning came.
Shortly after Gerald's visit to Winnipeg, one of his neighbors returned
from England, where he had gone to look into matters connected with some
property he had recently inherited. His absence had been a relief to
Beatrice, and she was especially disturbed to learn that on his arrival
he had spent an hour in private talk with her father. Brand had
continually shown strong admiration for her, which she by no means
reciprocated. She did not actually dislike the man; but his attentions
annoyed her. She knew, however, that he enjoyed Colonel Mowbray's full
approval. He came of good family and his character was irreproachable;
moreover, being past forty, he had outgrown all youthful rashnesses. Of
rather handsome person and polished manners, Brand was generally
characterized by staid gravity, and Mowbray considered his views
exceptionally sound.
Beatrice was keenly curious about what he had said to her father. She
imagined that her mother knew, but no hint was given to her, and when
she met Brand it was always in the company of others and there was
nothing to be gathered from his manner. It was, however, not often that
he displayed his sentiments.
The thaw had begun when she walked home from the Broadwood farm one
afternoon. The snow had vanished as if by magic, and shallow lagoons
glittered among the bleached grass. The sky was a brilliant blue, and
rounded clouds with silver edges rolled across it before the fresh
northwest breeze which would blow persistently until summer was done.
Their swift shadows streaked the plain and passed, leaving it suffused
with light. There was a genial softness in the air.
Beatrice picked her way cautiously toward a straggling bluff, for the
ponds along its edge had overflowed and the ground was marish. On
reaching the woods she stopped in a sheltered nook to enjoy the
sunshine. The birches and poplars were bare, but their stems were
changing color and the twigs had lost their dry and brittle look. The
willows in a hollow were stained with vivid hues by the rising sap, and
there was a flush of green among the grass. Small purple flowers like
crocuses were pushing through the sod. From high overhead there fell a
harsh, clanging cry, and the girl, looking up, saw a flock of brent
geese picked out in a wedge against the sky. Behind came a wedge of
mallard, and farther off, gleaming snowily, a flight of sandhill cranes.
Spring was in the air; the birds had heard its call, and were pressing
on toward the polar marshes, following the sun. Beatrice felt a curious
stirring of her blood. It was half pleasant, half painful, for while she
responded to the gladness that pervaded everything the sunshine kissed,
she was conscious of a disturbing longing, a mysterious discontent. She
would not try to analyze her feelings, but she felt that her life was
narrow and somehow incomplete.
She was startled presently by a drumming of hoofs; and she frowned as
Brand rode out of the bluff. He had seen her, and she decided not to try
to avoid him by walking on. If she must face a crisis, it was better to
get it over. Brand got down and turned to her with a smile. He looked
well in his wide, gray hat and his riding dress, for the picturesqueness
of the fringed deerskin jacket, which was then the vogue at Allenwood,
did not detract from his air of dignity. His features were regular, but
his expression was somewhat cold.
"I'm glad we have met, and I'll confess that I expected to find you
here. In fact, I came to look for you," he said with a smile.
Beatrice knew what was coming. While she felt that it would be better to
meet the situation frankly, she nevertheless shrank from doing so.
"I have seen so little of you since you came home," she said, partly to
defer his declaration, "that I haven't had an opportunity for expressing
my sympathy."
"It was a shock," he answered. "I hadn't seen either of my cousins since
they were boys, but we were good friends then, and I never expected to
succeed them. Their yacht was run down at night, and when the steamer
got her boat out only the paid hand was left."
"Will you go back to England now to live?"
"I think I'll stay at Allenwood. One gets used to Western
ways--although there's a good deal to be said for either course, and it
doesn't altogether depend on me."
Beatrice hesitated a moment, then:
"There is some one else to please?" she asked with charming innocence.
Brand drew a quick breath as he gazed at the young face so near him. She
was leaning against a poplar trunk, the sun fretting her with gold
between the bare branches, the wind caressing a few loose strands of
hair that were blown across her cheek.
"I will please the girl I hope to marry," he said in a strained voice.
"She loves the prairie, and she shall have her choice. I think you know,
Beatrice, that I have long been waiting for you."
Beatrice was annoyed to find herself blushing.
"I'm sorry," she faltered. "You know I tried to show you--you must see
it was difficult."
"It is not your fault that I wouldn't take a hint," he answered quietly.
"But you are very young; and I knew that I would never change."
"You thought I might?"
"I hoped so. I was afraid that after the romantic admiration you have
had from the boys, you might find me too matter-of-fact and staid. But
there was a chance that you might get used to that, and I made up my
mind to be patient."
"I'm sorry, for your sake, that you waited."
Her glance was gently regretful, and he read decision in it, but he was
a determined man.
"It seems I haven't waited long enough," he returned with a faint smile.
"But while you will grow more attractive for a long time yet, I have
reached my prime, and inheriting the English property rather forced my
hand. After all, our life here is bare and monotonous--you would have a
wider circle and more scope in the Old Country."
Beatrice liked his terseness and in some ways she liked and respected
him. Moreover she was offered a beautiful English country house, a
position of some influence, and friends of taste and rank.
"You were very considerate," she said. "But I'm afraid what you wish is
impossible."
"Wait!" he begged. "I haven't said much about myself, but I believe I
appreciate you better than any of the boys is capable of doing; I could
carry your wishes further and take more care of you." He paused with a
grave smile. "I'm not a romantic person, but I think I'm trustworthy.
Then, it would please your father."
"Ah! You have told him?"
"Yes; and he was good enough to express his full approval."
Beatrice's face was disturbed, but she answered frankly:
"Though I know you won't take an unfair advantage of his consent, I wish
you hadn't gone to him. It may make things more difficult for me. And
now, please understand that I cannot marry you."
Brand's lips came together in a straight line. He did not have a
pleasant look; but his voice was unusually suave when he answered:
"It looks as if I must face my disappointment. I'll do nothing that
might embarrass you. All the same, I warn you that I shall not despair."
"You must not think of me," Beatrice said firmly. "I'm very sorry, but
I want to save you trouble."
He quietly picked up his horse's bridle.
"You are going home? May I walk with you as far as the trail-forks?"
Beatrice could not refuse this, and he talked pleasantly about Allenwood
matters until he left her. She went on alone in a thoughtful mood. She
wished that Brand had not made his offer, because she knew that her
refusal had been a blow, and she did not like to think that she had
wounded him. Moreover, his quiet persistence might still prove
troublesome. Perhaps it was unfortunate that she could not return his
affection; for Brand had many good qualities, and her father approved of
him. Then, with a thrill of perplexing emotion, she thought of Harding.
In some respects, he was too practical and matter-of-fact; but she knew
that his character had another side. While he worked and planned, he had
dreams of a splendid future which she thought would be realized. He was
a visionary as well as a man of affairs; virile, daring, and beneath the
surface generous and tender. It was curious how she knew so much about
him, yet she felt that she was right.
Harding was, however, barred out, so to speak; divided from her by
conventions and traditions that could not be broken, unless, indeed,
love warranted the sacrifice. But she would not admit that she loved
him. He loved her, she knew; but that was not enough. It was all
complicated; nothing seemed right. She no longer noticed the sunshine or
the bracing freshness of the wind as she moved on across the plain with
downcast eyes.
Nerving herself for the encounter, she told her father that evening,
and he sat silent for a few moments, looking hard at her while she stood
by his writing table with an embarrassed air.
"It seems to me you are very hard to please," he said.
"Perhaps I am," she answered. "But I don't like him enough."
"I suppose that's an adequate reason, but I regret it keenly. It would
have been a relief to know your future was secure, as it would have been
with Brand."
Beatrice was touched. He had not taken the line she expected, and she
saw that he was anxious.
"Perhaps it's better that you should learn the truth," he went on. "For
the last few years my affairs have not gone well. Gerald's extravagance
has been a heavy drain; Lance is young and rash; and I feel now that the
prosperity of Allenwood is threatened. The American made me realize
that. In fact, the fellow has brought us trouble ever since he came."
"Perhaps it might be wise to take a few of the precautions he
recommended," Beatrice suggested, eager to lead him away from the
subject of Brand.
Mowbray's eyes flashed with anger.
"No! If we are to be ruined, I hope we'll meet our fate like
gentlemen--and it may not come to that. We have struggled through
critical periods before, and can make a good fight yet without using
detestable means."
Beatrice was troubled. She admired her father's pride and courage, but
she had an uncomfortable suspicion that he was leading a forlorn hope.
Unflinching bravery was not the only thing needful: one could not face
long odds with obsolete weapons.
"But they are not all detestable," she urged. "You could choose the
best--or, if you like, the least offensive."
"Compromise is dangerously easy; when you begin, you are apt to go all
the way. I didn't expect this from you. I believed my own family
staunch, and I must say it's a shock to find the tradesman's spirit in
my children. Even Lance shows the taint. He actually is planning to sell
his riding horses and buy some machine that will save a hired man's
wages!"
Beatrice smiled.
"Perhaps that is better than following Gerald's example. But you mustn't
be unjust. You know that none of us would think of thwarting you."
She crossed over to the back of his chair and put her arms around him.
"I'm sorry you are disappointed about Mr. Brand," she said softly; "but
I know you'll forgive me."
Before he could answer, she had slipped out of the room. She went at
once to find her mother.
"Your father would never force you to marry a man you do not care for,"
Mrs. Mowbray assured her. "So far as that goes, you have nothing to
fear."
"What do you mean?" Beatrice asked in alarm.
Her mother's eyes were anxious, and there was a warning in the look she
gave the girl.
"My dear, you would not find him compliant if you wished to marry a man
he did not approve of."
Beatrice stooped to flick an imaginary piece of lint off of her skirt.
She did not want her mother to see her face just then.
"After all," she answered, far more confidently than she felt, "that may
never happen."