HARVEST HOME
It was a good summer at Allenwood, for the June rains were prolonged.
The mornings broke cool and breezy, but, as a rule, at noon the clouds
which had sailed eastward singly began to gather in compact banks. Then
would come a roll of thunder and a deluge that might last an hour, after
which the prairie lay bright in the sunshine until evening fell. The
grass rippled across the waste in waves of vivid green, with flowers
tossing beneath the gusts like wreaths of colored foam. Wild barley
raised its spiky heads along the trails, and in the hollows the natural
hay grew rank and tall. No sand blew from the bare ridges to cut the
tender grain, which shot up apace and belted the prairie with its darker
verdure.
Harding found full scope for his energies. He worked late and early in
the fierce July heat. He had bought heavy horses because he could not
reap by steam, and he had to build barns and stables of ship-lap lumber.
Then there was prairie hay to cut, and after stripping the nearer
hollows he must drive far across the plain to seek grass long enough in
the sloos where the melted snow had run in the spring. This brought him
into collision with Mowbray, who came upon him one morning driving a
mower through dusty grass which the Colonel had marked down for his own.
Perhaps what annoyed the old man most was to see the American using an
extra horse and a knife that would cut a wider swath than any at
Allenwood. He thought this a sign of the grasping spirit of the times.
Mowbray contended that the grass was his, because it had long been cut
for use at the Grange; and Harding replied that, as the land was
unoccupied, neither had any prescriptive right and the hay could be
harvested by the firstcomer. When the Colonel grew angry, Harding
yielded the point and suggested that the sloos be mown turn about. To
this Mowbray agreed reluctantly, because he saw he could not keep in
front of a rival who had with perverse unfairness provided himself with
better implements.
After the hay was gathered Harding's new buildings had to be roofed, and
when the house grew insufferably hot Hester baked and cooked and washed
in a lean-to shed.
In the meanwhile, the grain was ripening fast, and when the riotous
Northwest wind began to die away the oats turned lemon and silver, and
the wheat burnished gold. The mornings were now sharply cold, and as the
green sunset faded the air grew wonderfully bracing.
Harding and Devine had been working steadily for fourteen hours a day,
but they must nerve themselves for a last tense effort. After the great
crop had been hauled to the elevators there would be time to rest, but
until this was done the strain both were feeling must be borne. The new
binders were got out when the Ontario harvesters, who had been engaged
by Harding's agents, began to arrive, bringing with them a Chinese cook.
Western harvesters are generously fed, and Harding would not have his
sister overtaxed.
Soon after he started his harvest, Beatrice returned from Toronto. It
was late afternoon when she drew near Allenwood. She was tired with the
long journey, but she did not object when Lance made a round which would
take them past Harding's farm. He said the longer trail was smoother.
The sun hung large and red on the horizon; the air was clear; and the
crimson light raked the great field of grain. In the foreground the
stooked sheaves, standing in long ranks, cast blue shadows across the
yellow stubble; farther back the tall wheat ran, it seemed, right across
the plain, shining in the sunset like burnished copper. Above the
crimson on the prairie's edge the sky was coldly green.
At first it was the magnitude of the field and its glow of color that
struck the girl. Harvest scenes were not new to her, and, indeed, she
seldom gazed on one without feeling stirred; but she had never seen a
harvest like this. It filled her with a sense of Nature's bounty and the
fruitfulness of the soil, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the glaring
light she noticed signs of human activity. The splendid crop had not
sprung up of itself. It was the reward of anxious thought and sturdy
labor, and she began to appreciate the bold confidence of the man who
had planted it.
Along the wall of wheat moved a row of machines, marshaled in regular
order and drawn by dusty teams. She could see by the raw paint that most
of them were new; and, leaning back in her seat, she listened to their
rhythmic clink. Noting their even distance, and the precision with which
the sheaves they flung aside rose in stooks behind them, she saw that
there was nothing haphazard here. The measured beat of this activity
showed the firm control of a master mind. No effort was wasted: action
had its destined result; and behind this thought she had a
half-conscious recognition of man's working in harmony with Nature's
exact but beneficent laws. Duly complied with, they had covered the
waste with grain. Glancing across it, the girl felt a curious thrill.
The primeval curse had proved a blessing; seed-time and harvest had not
failed; and here, paid for by the sweat of earnest effort, was an
abundance of bread.
Moved as she was, she had a practical as well as an imaginative mind,
and she noted the difference between Harding's and the Allenwood
methods. What he had told her was true: her friends could not stand
against such forces as he directed.
"It's worth looking at," Lance remarked. "I wanted you to see it because
Harding's being talked about just now. I can't explain how he has broken
so much ground with the means at his command, but it's a triumph of
organization and ability."
"I suppose Father isn't pleased?"
Lance laughed as he flicked up his horses.
"That hardly expresses it. I rather think he regards our friend's
industry as a dangerous example; but he's most of all surprised. He
fully expected to see Harding ruined."
Just then one of the binders stopped, and its driver raised his hand.
The machines behind swung round him as they came up and fell into line
again while he busied himself with his team. A few moments later he
mounted a big, barebacked Clydesdale that came at a clumsy gallop
through the stubble and passed on down the trail.
"It's Harding," said Beatrice. "He must have run out of twine."
"I don't think so," Lance answered. "Harding's not the man to run out of
anything. It's more likely a bolt has broken, and he's going for
another; he'll have duplicates on hand."
Beatrice did not wish to appear curious about their neighbor, but she
asked one or two cautious questions as they drove on.
"Well," said Lance, "though our experiments are not exactly popular,
several of us are trying to copy him in a modest way, and I'm glad I let
him do some breaking for me by steam. The Colonel was disagreeable about
it, but he admitted my right to do as I liked; and the result is that I
have a crop partly stooked up that will make it easy to pay Harding off,
and leave me some money in hand."
"What do you mean by paying Harding off?" Beatrice asked sharply.
Lance looked confused.
"I didn't intend to mention it--you'll keep it to yourself. I'd got into
a bit of a mess shortly before I was hurt at the ravine, and Harding
paid up the money-lender I'd gone to in Winnipeg. What's more, he beat
the fellow down, so that I only had to account for what I actually got."
"Ah!" said Beatrice. "Now I understand your restlessness when you were
ill. But on what terms did Harding lend you the money?"
"He made only one condition: that I wouldn't take another bet until I
was free again. Of course, I shall insist on paying him interest.
Harding's a remarkably fine fellow, and I mean to stick to him."
Beatrice felt troubled by the keenness of her gratitude. She was fond of
Lance, but she knew his weaknesses, and she saw that Harding had
rendered him a great service. Moreover, she thought Lance's admiration
for the man was justified. He had turned the lad out of a path that led
through quagmires and set him on firm ground; his influence would be for
good.
Lance gave her the news of the settlement; and when the lights of the
Grange shone out through the creeping dark, everything else was
forgotten in the pleasure of reaching home.
Three weeks later, when the thrasher had gone and the stooked sheaves
had vanished, leaving only the huge straw wheat bins towering above the
stubble, Harding drove to the Grange one evening with Hester and Devine.
He had not entered the house for several months, and felt diffident
about the visit, but Lance had urged him to come. The Allenwood Harvest
Home was, he said, a function which everybody in the neighborhood was
expected to attend. Besides, they had been fortunate in getting a
clergyman from a distant settlement to take the service, and he was
worth hearing.
The days were shortening rapidly, and when the party reached the Grange
a row of lamps were burning in the hall. The moose heads had gone, and
in their place sheaves of grain adorned the walls. Between the sheaves
were festoons of stiff wheat ears and feathery heads of oats, warm
bronze interspersed with cadmium and silver, and garlands of dry, blue
flax. All had been arranged with taste, and the new flag that draped the
reading desk made a blotch of vivid crimson among the harmonies of
softer color. A tall, silver lamp behind the desk threw its light on
the ruddy folds, and Harding, glancing at it, felt a certain admiring
thrill. That symbol was honored at Allenwood, standing as it did for
great traditions, and peace and order and justice had followed it to the
West, but it was not for nothing that the new country had quartered the
Beaver of Industry on its crimson field.
He was shown a place with his companions, and Mowbray gave him a nod of
recognition. Harding felt that the Colonel had proclaimed a truce while
they met for thanksgiving. Lance and several others smiled at him as he
quietly looked about in search of Beatrice, whom he could not see. The
hall was filled with handsome, brown-skinned men, and there was
something fine, but in a sense exotic, in their bearing and in the faces
of the women.
All rose respectfully when a young man in white surplice and colored
hood came in. He had a strong, clean-cut face, and carried himself well,
but his manner was quietly reverent. Harding felt that these people from
the Old Country knew how things should be done, and he had a curious
sense of kinship with them. It was as if he were taking part in
something familiar; though this was the first Anglican service he had
attended.
A man at the rather battered grand piano struck a few chords, and
Harding saw Beatrice when the opening hymn began. She stood a few yards
away, but her voice reached him plainly. It was, he recognized,
singularly sweet and clear, though he knew nothing of the training and
study that had developed it. He could pick it out from the others, and
as he listened his lips quivered and a mistiness gathered in his eyes.
Harding was not, as a rule, particularly imaginative or sensitive, but
he was capable at times of a strange emotional stirring.
"The sower went forth sowing,
The seed in secret slept."
He had heard it sung before, and it had meant little to him, but now he
saw how true it was in a stern, practical sense.
"Through weeks of faith and patience!"
Well, there was need of both, when glaring skies withheld all moisture
and withering winds swept the dead, gray waste. This year, however, the
prairie had blossomed under the genial warmth and rain. Bounty was the
note that the tall green wheat had struck. But the voice he loved sang
on:
"Within an hallowed acre,
He sows yet other grain."
The emotion he felt grew keener; memories awoke, and a line from
Longfellow ran through his mind, "Her mother's voice, singing in
Paradise." He heard the hymn, grasping its impressive analogy while he
thought of the strong, brave, patient woman who had upheld his
easy-going father at his uncongenial task. Harding knew now what he owed
his mother. He had, indeed, known it long, but love had quickened all
his senses and given him a clearer vision.
When the music stopped, he set himself to listen, with Beatrice's face
seen now and then in delicate profile. He saw that Psalm and Lesson and
Collect were chosen well, and that the order of these people's prayers,
with all its aids of taste and music, was not a mere artistic formula.
It was the embroidered sheath that held the shining sword.
Harding, however, was not the only one to feel an emotional quickening,
for there were those at Allenwood whose harvest thanksgiving was
poignant with regret. It reminded them too keenly of the quiet English
countryside where autumn mists crept among the stubble; of an ancient
church with stained glass windows and memorial brasses to those who bore
their name; of some well-loved, now sleeping beneath the sod. After all,
they were exiles, and though they had found a good country, the old one
called to them.
Mrs. Mowbray's face was sad, and her husband, who sat beside her, looked
unusually stern.
Beatrice, with all the rich imagery of harvest before her eyes and in
her ears, was thinking of one great wheatfield, and of the man who had
reclaimed it from the wilderness. She had seen him come in, and had
noticed that he looked worn. His figure was somewhat fined down and his
face was thin. It was a strong face and an attractive one; the character
it reflected was wholesome. There was nothing about the prairie man to
suggest the ascetic, yet Beatrice vaguely realized that strenuous toil
and clean ambition had driven the grosser passions out of him.
The clergyman walked to the flag-draped pulpit, and Beatrice tried to
collect her wandering thoughts. As he read out the text she started, for
it seemed strangely apposite.
"He that soweth little shall reap little; but he that
soweth plenteously shall reap plenteously."
She suspected him of no desire to attack the customs of his
congregation, for he must be ignorant of the line they took at
Allenwood, but his words were edged with biting truth. At first he spoke
of the great lonely land they had entered: a land that was destined to
become one of the world's granaries and, better still, a home for the
outcast and the poor. They, the pioneers, had a special duty and a
privilege--to break the way for the host that should come after them;
and of them was demanded honest service. To sow plenteously; to be
faithful in the minor things--choosing the wheat that ripened early and
escaped the frost, filling the seeder with an open hand, sparing no
effort, and practising good husbandry; and withal blazing the trail by
marks of high endeavor, so that all who followed it could see.
Then he spoke of the fruitful season and the yield of splendid grain.
The soil had returned them in full measure what they had sown, and he
pleaded that of this bounty they should give what they could spare. In
the Old Country which they loved there were many poor, and now in time
of stagnant trade the cities heard the cry of hungry children. There was
one institution which, sowing with generous recklessness, sent none away
unfed, and he begged that they would give something of their surplus.
He stopped, and Hester looked at Harding as the closing hymn began,
showing him the edge of a dollar in her glove.
"Craig," she whispered, "have you any money?"
He pressed three bits of paper into her hand, and, noticing the figures
on the margin of one, she gave him a surprised glance. His face was
unusually gentle, and there was a smile on it. She made a sign of
approval and softly doubled up the bills as she joined in the singing.
Five minutes later the congregation went out into the open air, and
Harding heard Mowbray press the clergyman to remain.
"I'm sorry, but as I'm to preach at Poplar on Sunday, I must make
Sandhill Lake to-night," he answered. "In fact, I must get away at once;
there's no moon and the trail is bad."
He climbed into his rig, and Harding, knowing there was a twenty-mile
journey before him with a dangerous ford on the way, watched him drive
off into the dark with a feeling of admiration. When he next heard about
the man it was that he had been found in winter, returning from a
distant Indian reservation, snow-blind and starving, with hands and feet
frozen.
While Harding was looking for Hester, Mrs. Mowbray came up to him.
"You must stay with the others for our supper and dance," she said. "I
have made your sister promise. I think we can sink all differences
to-night."
Harding smiled.
"I can't refuse. Somehow I feel that the differences aren't so great as
I once supposed."
"Perhaps that's true," Mrs. Mowbray answered thoughtfully. "Though I
dare say you and my husband must disagree about the means you use, you
have, after all, a good deal in common. One's object is the most
important thing."
She left him as Kenwyne came up, and went to speak to one of her
neighbors.
Mowbray had called Beatrice into his study.
"Count this for me," he said, giving her a brass tray filled with paper
currency and silver coin. "I promised I'd send it to the bank, and I may
as well make out the form before I lock the money up."
He went away to get a pen, and on coming back he looked surprised when
Beatrice told him the amount.
"There must be a mistake," he said. "We have never collected so much
before."
"I've counted it twice." Beatrice indicated three bills. "Though I think
everybody was generous, these perhaps explain the difference."
"Consecutive numbers and all fresh; from the same person obviously,"
Mowbray said and put down the bills. "Bad taste on my part and, in a
way, a breach of confidence, but you had seen them and I was surprised."
Then he counted and sealed up the money.
The supper was served in a big, wooden barn, which was afterward cleared
for dancing, and it was some time before Harding had an opportunity for
speaking to Beatrice. She could not avoid him all the evening, and she
did not wish to do so, but she was glad that he met her without
embarrassment.
"I've learned that you got Lance out of trouble," she said after they
had talked a while. "One way and another, he's deeply in your debt."
"Did he tell you?" Harding asked with a slight frown.
"No; that is, it slipped out, and I took advantage of the indiscretion."
Beatrice looked at him steadily. "It has made a difference to the boy; I
imagine he was at a dangerous turning, and you set him straight."
"You must tell nobody else."
"Do you always try to hide your good deeds?"
"I can't claim that they're numerous," Harding answered with a smile.
"Anyway, I had a selfish motive on this occasion; you see, I enjoy
beating a mortgage man."
Beatrice knew the explanation was inadequate, but she was grateful for
his reserve. He was very generous, as she had another proof, for she
knew who had given the three large bills which had surprised her father.
There was, however, nothing more to be said, and she chatted about
indifferent matters until she was called away.
Before the gathering broke up, Harding found himself seated in a corner
of the big hall talking quietly to Mrs. Mowbray. She was interested in
his farming plans and the changes he wanted made, and she listened
carefully, noting how his schemes revealed his character. Now and then
she asked a question, and he was surprised at her quick understanding.
Moreover, he felt that he had her sympathy, so far as she could loyally
give it. When, at length, he went away Mrs. Mowbray sat alone for some
minutes quietly thinking. She could find no opening for hostile
criticism. The honesty of the man's motives and his obvious ability
appealed to her.