THE DAY OF RECKONING
As the spring advanced, business men in Winnipeg and the new western
towns began to feel an increasing financial pressure. Money was tight,
and the price of wheat, upon which the prosperity of the country
depended, steadily fell. It was the beginning of a sharp set-back, a
characteristic feature of the sanguine West, during which all overdrafts
on the natural resources of the prairie must be met. The resources are
large, but their development is slow, depending, as it does, upon the
patient labor of the men who drive the plow, while those who live upon
the farmer are eager to get rich.
The tide of industrial progress is often irregular. There are pauses of
varying length, and sometimes recoils, when reckless traders find their
ventures stranded and in danger of being wrecked before the next impulse
of the flood can float them on. They borrow and buy too freely;
trafficking produce not yet grown; building stores and offices in excess
of the country's needs. A time comes when this is apparent, speculation
ceases, credit fails, and the new cities must wait until expanding
agriculture overtakes them. In the meanwhile, the fulfilment of
obligations is demanded and, as often happens, cannot be made.
Davies suffered among the rest. He had foreseen a set-back, but it
proved more severe than he expected. He had bought land he could not
sell, had cooperated in erecting buildings which stood empty, and had
made loans to men unable to repay them.
One morning he sat in his office, gloomily reading a newspaper which
made a bold attempt to deal optimistically with the depressing
situation. Among other news there was a report of a meeting of the
shareholders in a mining company; and this Davies studied with interest.
It was what is termed an extraordinary meeting, called to consider the
course to be adopted in consequence of the engineer's failing to reach
the ore after sinking a costly shaft; and Davies, glancing at another
column, noted that the shares had sharply fallen. Gerald Mowbray had
speculated in this stock, and Davies was then expecting a call from him.
Instead of Mowbray, Carlyon came in. The boy looked anxious, but he was
calm.
"I suppose you know what I've come about," he began.
"Yes; you're behind with your interest."
Carlyon's ease of manner was perhaps overdone, but he hid his feelings
pluckily.
"Then, as I can't pay, what are you going to do? I must know now; when
you're farming, you have to look ahead."
"I'm going to sell you up when the mortgage falls in. You have some time
yet."
"Can't you renew the loan upon any terms?"
"No," said Davies truthfully. "I would if I could. I have to meet my
engagements and money's scarce."
Carlyon got up, turning an unlighted cigar in nervous fingers, but there
was a smile in his eyes that showed he could face ruin with dignity.
"Then, if that's your last word, I needn't waste your time; and it
wouldn't be fair to blame you for my foolishness. I dare say I can find
a job as teamster; it seems the only thing that's left."
"You have grit. I'm sorry I can't keep you on your feet," Davies
answered with more feeling than Carlyon had expected.
"Thanks. Mowbray's waiting outside; I'll send him in."
Davies looked up when the door opened a few moments later. Gerald's
careless manner had gone; he showed obvious signs of strain. Indeed,
there was something in his face that hinted at desperation. Davies was
not surprised at this. After a curt greeting he took up the newspaper.
"I expect you have seen the report of the company's meeting."
"I have," said Gerald. "It doesn't leave much to the imagination. At
last, the directors have treated us with brutal frankness. I've filled
up my proxy in favor of appointing a committee to investigate."
"It can't do much good. The fellows can investigate until they're tired,
but they can't find ore that does not exist."
"It would be some comfort if they found out anything that would put the
rogues who deluded us into jail," Gerald answered savagely.
Davies smiled in a meaning way.
"Rather too drastic a proceeding." He gave the other a direct glance.
"People who play a crooked game shouldn't appeal to the law."
The blood crept into Gerald's face and he wondered with dire misgivings
what the man meant and how much he knew. He had counted on a report
from the mining engineer that would send up the value of his shares, and
had rested on this his last hope of escaping from a serious danger.
Instead, he had learned that the mine was barren. It was a crushing
blow, for he must find a large sum of money at once. The consequences
would be disastrous if he failed.
"Well," he said, "the most important point is that my shares are worth
next to nothing, and I've very little expectation of their ever going
up. I don't suppose you'd take them as security for a loan at a quarter
of their face value?"
"I would not," Davies answered firmly.
"Very well. My note falls due in a few days. What are you going to do?"
"Present it for payment."
Gerald looked at him keenly, to see if he meant it; but he could read in
the broker's imperturbable face nothing to lead him to doubt this. He
tried to pull himself together, and failed. Gerald had not inherited the
stern, moral courage of the Mowbray stock.
"You can't afford to let me drop," he pleaded in a hoarse voice. "As
soon as you take away your support the brutes I've borrowed from will
come down on me like wolves, and, to protect your interests, you'll have
to enforce your mortgage rights. I needn't point out that this will
spoil your plans. You're not ready to make your grab at Allenwood yet."
Davies heard him unmoved. He was comparing his attitude with that of the
ruined lad he had just dismissed. Carlyon was, of course, a fool who
deserved his fate, but his pluck had roused the moneylender's sympathy.
He did not mean to let it make him merciful, but he had some human
feeling, and it inspired him with contempt for Mowbray. The fellow was
clever enough to see that Davies' plans were directed against his
relatives and friends, but this had not prevented his falling in with
them for the sake of a temporary advantage. His pride was a sham; he
forgot it when it threatened to cost him something. Moreover he had not
been straight with Davies in several ways. He had a rogue's heart, but
was without the rogue's usual nerve.
"I often have to change my plans," Davies said calmly. "Just now I'm
short of money, and must get some in. Anyway, there's no secret about
the mortgage; it had to be registered."
"Of course; but I don't suppose anybody knows about it, for all that.
People don't spend their time turning up these records."
"It would be a wise precaution, when they dealt with you," Davies
answered pointedly.
Gerald did not resent the taunt.
"But you can't get your money for the note," he urged. "It's impossible
for me to meet it now."
"Or later, I guess. Well, I'll have to fall back on the endorser; he's a
solid man."
A look of terror sprang into Gerald's face.
"You can't do that!"
"Why not?"
"Well," Gerald faltered, "he never expected he'd have to pay the note."
"That's his affair. He ought to have known you better."
Gerald roused himself for a last effort.
"Renew it on any terms you like; I'll agree to whatever you demand. I
have some influence at Allenwood, and can get you other customers.
You'll find it worth while to have my help."
Davies smiled scornfully.
"You can't be trusted. You'd sell your friends, and that means you'd
sell me if you thought it would pay. I'm willing to take a risk when I
back a sport; but one can't call you that. You have had your run and
lost, and now you must put up the stakes." He took a pen from the rack
and opened a book. "There doesn't seem to be anything more to be said.
Good-morning."
Gerald left, with despair in his heart; and when he had gone Davies took
the note from his safe and examined the signature on the back with a
thoughtful air. After all, though money was tight, he might retain his
hold on Allenwood if he played his cards cleverly.
During the afternoon Carlyon and Gerald took the westbound train, and
the next evening Gerald reached the Grange. There had been a hard rain
all day, and he was wet after the long drive, but he went straight to
the study where his father was occupied. It was not dark outside yet,
but the room was shadowy and heavy rain beat against its walls. Mowbray
sat at a table by the window, apparently lost in thought, for although
there were some papers in front of him the light was too dim to read. He
glanced up with a frown when his son came in.
"If you had thought it worth while to let me know you were going to
Winnipeg, I could have given you an errand," he said, and added dryly:
"One would imagine that these trips are beyond your means."
Gerald was conscious of some shame and of pity for his father, whom he
must humble; but his fears for his own safety outweighed everything
else.
"I want you to listen, sir. There's something you must know."
"Very well," said Mowbray. "It is not good news; your voice tells me
that."
It was a desperately hard confession, and Mowbray sat strangely still, a
rigid, shadowy figure against the fading window, until the story was
finished. Then he turned to his son, who had drawn back as far as
possible into the gloom.
"You cur!" There was intense bitterness in his tone. "I can't trust
myself to speak of what I feel. And I know, to my sorrow, how little it
would affect you. But, having done this thing, why do you slink home to
bring disgrace on your mother and sister? Could you not hide your shame
across the frontier?"
It was a relief to Gerald that he could, at least, answer this.
"If you will think for a moment, sir, you will see the reason. I don't
want to hide here, but it's plain that, for all our sakes, I must meet
this note. If it's dishonored, the holder will come to you; and,
although I might escape to the boundary, you would be forced to find the
money." Gerald hesitated before he added: "It would be the only way to
save the family honor."
"Stop!" cried Mowbray. "Our honor is a subject you have lost all right
to speak about!"
For a moment or two he struggled to preserve his self-control, and then
went on in a stern, cold voice:
"Still, there is some reason in what you urge. It shows the selfish
cunning that has been your ruin."
"Let me finish, sir," Gerald begged hoarsely. "The note must be met. If
I take it up on presentation, the matter ends there; but you can see the
consequences if it's dishonored."
"They include your arrest and imprisonment. It's unthinkable that your
mother and sister should be branded with this taint!" Mowbray clenched
his hand. "The trouble is that I cannot find the money. You have already
brought me to ruin."
There was silence for the next minute, and the lashing of the rain on
the ship-lap boards sounded harshly distinct.
Gerald saw a possible way of escape, but, desperate as he was, he
hesitated about taking it. It meant sacrificing his sister; but the way
seemed safe. His father would stick at nothing that might save the
family honor.
"There's Brand," he suggested, knowing it was the meanest thing he had
ever done. "Of course, one would rather not tell an outsider; but he can
keep a secret and might help."
"Ah!" Mowbray exclaimed sharply, as if he saw a ray of hope. Then he
paused and asked with harsh abruptness: "Whose name did you use on the
note?"
"Harding's."
Mowbray lost his self-control. Half rising in his chair, he glared at
his son.
"It's the last straw!" he said, striking the table furiously. "How the
low-bred fellow will triumph over us!"
"He can't," Gerald pointed out cunningly, using his strongest argument
in an appeal to his father's prejudice. "He will know nothing about the
note if I can take it up when due."
Mowbray sank back in his chair, crushed with shame.
"It must be managed somehow," he said in a faltering voice. "Now--go;
and, for both of our sakes, keep out of my way."
Gerald left him without a word, and Mowbray sat alone in the darkness,
feeling old and broken as he grappled with the bitterest grief he had
known. There had, of course, been one or two of the Mowbrays who had led
wild and reckless lives, but Gerald was the first to bring actual
disgrace upon the respected name. The Colonel could have borne his
extravagance and forgiven a certain amount of dissipation, but it
humbled him to the dust to realize that his son was a thief and a
coward.