THE TRAITOR
The prairie was bright with sunshine, and the boisterous west wind was
cut off by a bluff where Harding sat amid a litter of dismantled
machinery. Behind him the newly opened birch leaves showed specks of
glowing green, and a jack-rabbit, which had put off its winter coat and
was now dappled white and gray, fed quietly, with a watchful eye turned
toward the unconscious man; in front, the vast sweep of grass that
flashed with a silvery gleam as it bowed to the wind was broken by the
warm chocolate hue of a broad strip of plowing. The rows of clods, with
their polished faces, stretched across the foreground; and on their
outer edge Devine, dressed in overalls the color of the soil, drove a
team of big, red oxen.
Harding, however, was absorbed in the study of several brass rings and
coils of packing that had formed the gland of a pump. Near by stood a
giant plow with a row of shares, looking out of place among the earth
and grass with its glaring paint, its ugly boiler, and its sooty stack,
though the work that it had done was obvious. Something had gone wrong,
and Harding was trying to locate the trouble. The delay was
embarrassing, for he had a wide stretch of land to break, and the loss
of even an hour was serious. There was not a trained mechanic in the
neighborhood; and if the plow were likely to give him trouble, the
sooner he learned to master it the better. Every part of the machine
seemed to be perfect; yet the steam had gone down on the previous
evening, and he must find out the reason. It was exasperating work.
While Harding was struggling with the pump, Beatrice came along the
trail through the bluff. Her companion, Banff, one of Lance's many dogs,
had trailed off through the bushes, his nose to the ground, and she was,
for the moment, alone. When she caught sight of Harding she stopped
irresolutely. She felt that it might be wiser to pass on without
disturbing him; yet something compelled her to wait.
She stood watching him. He attracted her--that much she admitted; but
she persuaded herself that it was only because he was interesting to
talk to and, unlike the other men she knew, he said things that made one
think.
Harding was so deep in his machinery problem that he did not see her. He
was once more fitting the different parts together, when Banff came
bounding out of the bushes with a glad bark and the little gray rabbit
scuttled off through the briars.
Harding turned quickly; and Beatrice saw his eyes light up.
"I'm glad you've come," he said, emptying a box of tools and turning it
upside down. "That isn't a bad seat--and the sun's pleasant here."
Beatrice noticed that he took it for granted that she would remain; but,
after all, he had some reason for this, for they seldom passed without
stopping to speak when they met.
"Has the machine gone wrong?" she asked, sitting down where the sunlight
fell upon her.
"Yes, pretty badly. I can't find out what's the matter. I suppose you
think it's a just punishment for bringing such things to Allenwood?"
She laughed.
"Well, you gave our friends some offense when you brought your plow over
and broke Kenwyne's land."
"I expected that. There'll no doubt be more remarks when I break the
piece of stiff gumbo on Lance's holding."
Beatrice looked up sharply.
"You mean to do that? You must know it will cause trouble," she said
with a frown.
"I'm sorry to displease you; but this is something that must be done."
"Why must it? Do you wish Lance to offend his father?"
"No; but Colonel Mowbray has no cause for complaint. He gave the land to
Lance on the understanding that he worked it; there's no reason why he
should object to his using the best implements. Then, Lance is your
brother and I don't want to see him ruined."
Beatrice blushed under his frank gaze; and because she was annoyed at
doing so, she flung out a taunt:
"Do you think the only way of escaping ruin is to copy you?"
Harding laughed. He loved her in that mood. She looked so alluring with
a little frown between her brows and just the suspicion of a pout on her
lips.
"You see," he explained, in a voice that he might have used to an
offended child, "your Allenwood friends will have to make a change
soon, or they'll suffer. And their attitude is not logical. Your father
doesn't ask them to cultivate with the spade; they've dropped the
ox-teams and bought Clydesdales; they've given up the single furrow and
use the gang-plow. Why not go on to steam? After all, you're not
standing still: you're moving forward a little behind the times. Why not
keep abreast of them, or push on ahead?"
"It sounds plausible," she admitted. "In a way, perhaps, you're right;
but----"
"I know. There's much that's fine and graceful in the customs of the
past. But you can't preserve them without some adaptation. We're a new
nation working in the melting pot. All the scum and dross comes to the
top and makes an ugly mess, but the frothing up clarifies the rest. By
and by the product will be run out, hard, true metal."
"You're an optimist."
Harding laughed.
"I'm talking at random; it's a weakness of mine."
Beatrice sat silent a moment, looking out over the stretch of brown
furrows.
"Do you intend to continue the breaking to where your partner is at
work?" she asked, putting her thoughts into words.
"I'm going farther back. You can see our guide-poles on the top of the
last ridge."
"But isn't it rash to sow so much, unless you have a reserve to carry
you over a bad harvest? Suppose the summer's dry or we get autumn
frost?"
"Then," said Harding grimly, "there'll be a disastrous smash. I've no
reserve: I'm plowing under every cent I have--staking all upon the
chances of the weather."
"But why do you take such a risk? Doesn't it daunt you?"
He saw a gleam of sympathetic approval in her eyes. She had courage: it
was in the blood of those who stood for lost causes. Suddenly swept off
his feet, he determined to follow the lead she unconsciously had given
him.
"Well," he said, leaning forward on the big plow, "I'll tell you."
He paused with a smile, for he saw that the position he accidentally had
taken was unfortunate. He had associated himself with the machine which,
in a sense, materialized the difference between her people and him. He
did not change his position; instead, one hand moved caressingly over
the clumsy plow while he spoke.
"One gets easily nothing that's worth having; it must be worked and
schemed and fought for. I took the risk for you!"
Beatrice started and an indignant flush suffused her face. She was
alarmed and angry, and yet the shock she felt was not surprise. He had
once given her a plain warning, and she had continued to see him. Her
traditions took arms against him, old prejudices revived, and her pride
was wounded, but something in her turned traitor, and she felt a strange
responsive thrill.
"You do not know what you are saying," she said haughtily, rising from
the tool-box and turning toward a spot of bare ground where the dog was
digging energetically. "Here, Banff!" Then, obeying some impulse which
she did not understand, she added to Harding: "You scarcely know
anything about me!"
"When I met you that night at the river and saw your face in the
moonlight, I knew all that was needful."
The answer moved the girl. She wondered whether one could fall in love
that way. But she must end the interview and escape from an embarrassing
position.
"I am sorry our acquaintance has led to this; I would have prevented it
if I could," she said. "And now, good-afternoon!"
Harding straightened up, and one hand clenched.
"Stop! We're going to thrash this matter out."
His manner was commanding and Beatrice waited, although she was not used
to obeying.
"You were angry at first," he said. "You are rather angry now; but I did
you no wrong."
"I admit that. But I wish this hadn't happened. It has spoiled
everything."
"Then you liked me as a friend?"
"Yes," Beatrice answered hesitatingly; "I'll be frank. You are different
from the men I know."
"Then what have you against me as a lover? Character, person, manners,
or opinions?"
She was silent a moment, feeling that she ought to go away. In staying
she was trifling with danger; but after all he had a right to be heard.
"Oh, I know your people's point of view," he went on; "but I think it is
not altogether yours. In one respect, they're wrong. My mother was the
daughter of a bush pioneer, and in all that's most important I'm her
son; but my father belonged to your own rank. He was brought up as an
English gentleman. I'll show you the evidence I have of this some day,
though it makes no difference."
"It must make a difference," Beatrice insisted with a surprised look.
"It can make none. For some reason his relatives cast him off, and
declined to claim me. I don't know why, and I shall never trouble to
find out. I tell you this because I think you ought to know. It is as
Craig Harding, the prairie farmer, that I stand or fall; my own faults
and merits are the only things that count."
"It's a bold claim you make."
"Well," he said, "so far, I've been clearing the ground. The sure
foundation is the bed-rock of human nature, and we must settle this as
man and woman. I know what you are; I knew when I first saw you; and I
want you. I need you, Beatrice. My love is great enough to master any
doubt you may have, and to hold you safe from all harm. Then, if all
goes well, I can give you what you wish, and put you where you want to
be. The woman I marry will have a wider influence than the wife of any
man at Allenwood; a small matter in the real scale of things, but with
so much against me I must urge all I can." He paused and stretched out
his hands. "You are not afraid, Beatrice. It is not too great a venture
for you?"
She stood still, with a tense expression, struggling against something
that drew her toward him. Prudence, training, and prejudice, urged her
to resist, and yet she was on the point of yielding.
"I _am_ afraid," she said. "Only one thing could justify such a risk."
"That's true; it's what encourages me. You couldn't have made me love
you as I do, unless you were able to give love in return."
She was silent, knowing that what he said was true.
He took a step nearer her, and his own face was tense.
"If you can declare you care nothing at all for me, that it would cause
you no regret if you never saw me again, I'll make the best fight I can
with my trouble and leave you alone for good. You will answer honestly?"
The color swept into her face, for she felt compelled to speak the naked
truth.
"I can't go so far as that," she said in a low voice. "I should feel
regret."
"Then the rest will follow! Why do you hesitate?"
She smiled, for the matter was too serious for trivial embarrassment,
and she knew the man would force her to deal frankly with plain issues.
"You seem so sure?"
"I am, of myself."
"The difficulty is that I'm not an isolated individual, but a member of
a family, and belong to a race that has its code of rules. I must think
of the shock to my parents and my friends; all the pain that any rash
act of mine might give to others. They may be wrong, but what they think
I feel, in a half-instinctive way, that reasoning can't change. I should
have to stand upon defense against my subconscious self."
"I know," he said gently. "But the choice is one that many have to make.
One must often stand alone. It's true that I have all to gain and you
all to risk; but, Beatrice----"
He broke off, and held out both hands appealingly to her.
"Beatrice!"
The girl was deeply stirred. She had not expected him to plead like
this. In her world one took things for granted and implied instead of
asserting them. At Allenwood he was spoken of as a rude, materialistic
iconoclast, but she had found him a reckless idealist; although he made
her feel that instead of being impractical he was dealing with stern
realities. She would have made the great adventure only that she was not
sure of her own heart yet. The consequences were too serious for one to
risk a mistake.
She stood motionless, her eyes veiled by her dark lashes, and he knew
the struggle that was going on within her. In his own eyes there was a
great yearning; but a birthright of the pioneer is patience.
"I'm afraid you ask too much," she said at last. "If you like, you may
think I am not brave enough." She raised her eyes to his; and winced at
the pain she saw there. But she went on bravely: "Had things been
different, I might perhaps have married you, but I think our ways are
separate. And now you must let me go, and not speak of this again."
He bowed, and it struck Beatrice that there was a great dignity in his
bearing.
"Very well," he answered gravely. "I will not trouble you again unless,
in one way or another, you give me permission."
She turned away, and he stood still until long after she and the dog
had disappeared in the bluff. Then he roused himself with a laugh.
"I won't get her this way!" he said half aloud, and picked up some of
the fittings of the pump.
Beatrice went straight to her mother, for there was strong confidence
between the two.
"So you refused him!" Mrs. Mowbray said, after listening silently while
Beatrice was telling her of the interview. "Did you find it hard?"
"Yes," she answered slowly; "harder than I thought. But it was the only
way."
"If you felt that, dear, it certainly was so."
Beatrice looked up in surprise, but her mother's face was quietly
thoughtful.
"You can't mean that I did not do right?"
"No; there's a heavy penalty for leaving the circle you were born in and
breaking caste. It would have hurt me to see you suffer as you must have
done. Only the very brave can take that risk."
The girl was puzzled. Her mother agreed with her, and yet she had
faintly reflected Harding's ideas.
"Well," Beatrice said, "I shrink from telling Father."
"I'm not sure that he need know. It would disturb him, and he might do
something that we should regret. On the whole, I think you had better
visit our friends in Toronto as you were asked. They would be glad to
have you for the summer."
"Do you wish me to run away?" Beatrice asked in surprise.
"It might be better for both. Harding is not one of us, but I think he
feels things deeply, and his is a stubborn nature. In a sense, it is
your duty to make it as easy as you can for him."
Beatrice looked at her mother curiously.
"You seem more concerned about Mr. Harding than I expected."
"He gave your brother his coat in the blizzard and saved his life," Mrs.
Mowbray answered. "That counts for something."
The girl hesitated a moment.
"Well, I'll go to Toronto," she promised.