THE PRICE OF HONOR
It was very quiet in the drawing-room of the Grange, where Mrs. Mowbray
sat with an exhausted look, as if she had made an effort that had cost
her much. She had just finished speaking, and was watching Beatrice,
whose face was white and strained.
"But what has Gerald done? I think I have a right to know," the girl
broke out.
"He wrote somebody else's name on the back of a promise to pay some
money, which meant that the other man, who really knew nothing about it,
guaranteed that the payment would be made."
"But that is forgery!" Beatrice cried, aghast.
"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray with a shudder; "I'm afraid it's forgery of a
very serious kind, because it enabled him to obtain a good deal of money
which he could not otherwise have got."
"Oh, how dreadful!" Beatrice impulsively crossed the floor and, kneeling
down beside her mother, put her arm round her. "I know how you must feel
it. And now I can understand Father's troubled look. He has been very
quiet and stern since Gerald came home."
"Your father has more trouble than you know. Perhaps I'd better tell you
about it, as you must grasp the situation. You heard that Godfrey
Barnett was dead, but you don't know that he died ruined by the failure
of the bank."
"Ah! All our money was in Barnett's, wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray. "It has all gone."
She stopped in distress. The task of influencing the girl to take a
course she must shrink from was painful to her; but she had promised her
husband and must go on with it. There was no other way, and it was in
accordance with her traditions that the threatened honor of the family
should come before her daughter's inclinations.
"Now you can see why it's impossible for your father to save Gerald by
paying the money. It explains why he has been forced to ask help from
Brand."
Beatrice drew back from her, as if overwhelmed.
"Blow after blow! How has he borne it all? And yet he is very brave."
"You are his daughter," said Mrs. Mowbray meaningly, though she felt
that what she was doing was cruel. "You must be brave, too. I think you
see how you can make things easier for him."
"Oh!" The girl drew a quick breath. Then she rose with a hot face,
burning with fierce rebellion. "The fault is Gerald's, and he must
suffer for it! Why should I! He has always brought us trouble;
everything has been given up for the sake of the boys. Don't I know how
you have had to deny yourself because of their extravagance? It's
unjust! Not even my father has the right to ask this sacrifice from me!"
"Gerald cannot suffer alone. If he is arrested for forgery, it will
crush your father and be a stain on Lance's name as long as he lives.
Lance has been very steady since his accident, and I dare not think of
his being thrown back into his reckless ways. Then the disgrace will
reflect even more seriously on you--a girl is condemned for the sins of
her relatives. I do not speak of myself, because the worst that could
happen to me was to learn that my son had done this thing."
Beatrice's mood changed suddenly. Her high color faded and she made a
hopeless gesture.
"It's true! I feel as if I were in a trap and could not get out. It's
horrible!"
She sank down again by her mother's side and struggled for composure.
"Let us face the matter quietly," she said. "Brand is our friend; he
cannot be so ungenerous as to ask a price for his help."
"He is a hard man, and very determined."
"Yes; I know. I have been afraid of him. He made me feel he was waiting
until his opportunity came. But, for all that, I can't believe----"
Mrs. Mowbray gave her a glance of compassionate sympathy.
"Even if Brand does not claim his reward, we know what would persuade
him to do us the great service your father must ask. Can we take this
favor from him, and then deny him what he longs for? There is nobody
else who can help us, and our need is pressing."
"But I am not asking the favor!" Beatrice urged in desperation. "The
debt is not mine! It would be different if I were in Gerald's place."
"You must see that you are using a false argument," Mrs. Mowbray
answered gently. "A girl cannot separate herself in this way from her
father and brother: the family responsibilities are hers. It may sound
very harsh, but you cannot repudiate the liability Gerald has incurred.
When he did wrong, he made us all accountable."
Beatrice could not deny this. She had been taught that the family was
not a group but a unit and its honor indivisible, and she had always
been made to feel that it was her duty to reflect credit upon her name.
It was a comfortable doctrine when things went well; when things went
wrong, however, it became very cruel. Seeing no hope at all, she fell
into mute despair, and it was some time before she could rouse herself.
At last she got up with a quietly resolute expression.
"Well," she said slowly, as if it cost her a great effort, "I must try
not to disgrace you by any foolish weakness. Since this is our debt, I
must pay it. One understands that women have often done such things. It
seems as if all the burdens were laid on our shoulders--and men call us
weak!" She paused a moment, and then asked in a dead, indifferent voice:
"Whose name did Gerald forge?"
"I don't know. Your father didn't tell me. I thought he tried to avoid
it."
Moving calmly to the door, Beatrice was surprised to find Gerald waiting
in the passage outside. She gave him a steady look. Her face was white
and hard, and there was scorn in her eyes. Gerald drew back, almost as
if she had struck him.
"You have been talking to Mother?" he asked awkwardly.
"Yes," she said; "and you know what we talked about. So far as anything
I can do may count, you are safe. That, of course, was all you wanted to
know."
She saw keen relief in his face.
"After all," he urged, "Brand is a very good fellow and has many
advantages to offer."
She turned upon him with burning indignation.
"Don't be a hypocrite! You know it would not have mattered if he had
been the meanest rogue in Canada--so long as you got free."
She swept past him and left him standing in the passage with a downcast
air.
Seeking refuge in her room, she locked the door and tried to think. She
must face the situation and not let futile anger and horror overcome
her. Growing calm after a time, she began to wonder why the prospect of
marrying Brand was so repugnant. He belonged to her own station, they
had much in common, and, in a way, she liked him. Then, she had long
known that she would be expected to make a good match, and Brand had
kept his beautiful English house waiting for her; his wife would have
the position and social influence Beatrice had been taught to value. But
these things seemed worthless now.
She looked out through the open window at the prairie. It had grown
green with the rain, though clumps of bleached grass still checkered it
with silvery gray. Red lilies were opening here and there, and as she
gazed the blue shadow of a cloud swept across the plain and vanished,
leaving it bright with sunshine. Its vastness and the sense of freedom
it conveyed appealed to the girl. There was a charm in the wide horizon;
one never felt cramped upon the plains. She loved the spacious land,
and did not want to live in England.
But this was a deceptive argument. Brand would stay at Allenwood if she
wished. Indeed, she knew that he would make many a sacrifice to please
her if she married him. She must look for a better reason.
It was not hard to find, for in this crisis she must be honest with
herself. The blood crept to her face as she realized that she could not
marry Brand because she loved some one else. Now that such love was
hopeless and must be overcome, the disturbing truth was plain. She had
fenced with and tried to deny it, but when it was too late, it had
beaten her.
By way of relief, she tried to occupy her mind with another thought. Her
father had been reluctant to tell whose name Gerald had forged. Beatrice
knew that her brother would choose a man of wealth, otherwise the name
would have no weight, and she did not think he had fixed on Brand. Her
father's reticence made her feel that it must be Harding. Beatrice
thought her father unjust and foolish. Harding would not take a shabby
advantage of his position; he was generous, but, unfortunately, no help
could come from him. She could not tell her lover that her brother was a
thief; besides, this was a secret that must be carefully hidden from
everybody outside the family. Brand, she reflected with a shudder of
repugnance, would soon belong to it. There was no help anywhere.
Beatrice leaned against the window-frame, her head buried in her arms.
The soft air from the prairie swept over her caressingly, the hot
sunshine bathed her; but her heart was black with despondency. She was
in a trap--a trap set by her own brother--and no escape was possible.
She threw her head up with a sudden resolve. At least she would make the
sacrifice bravely, without murmur, as befitted the daughter of the house
of Mowbray.
Her mood changing again as quickly, she threw herself across the bed and
burst into a fit of passionate sobbing.
And while she lay there, worn with crying, her father sat in his study
talking to Brand. He related with candor what had happened, making no
attempt to hide the ugliest facts; and Brand grasped at the opportunity
opened for him. He recognized that it would give him a strong claim on
Mowbray's gratitude. It might be mean to take advantage of it; but he
had waited a long time for Beatrice, and might lose her altogether if he
let this chance slip.
"You have my sympathy, sir," he said suavely. "It must have been a great
shock; but I am glad you have taken me into your confidence, because I
can be of help. You can repay me whenever you find you can do so without
trouble."
Mowbray gave a sigh of great relief.
"Thank you, Brand. You cannot understand how you have eased my mind. I
know of no one else who would, or could, have done so much."
The Colonel sank back in his chair, and Brand noticed how worn he
looked. The younger man was conscious of a slight feeling of pity; but
he could not afford to indulge it: he must strike while the iron was
hot.
"Now that things are going so hard for you, in a financial way, it
would be some satisfaction to feel that your daughter's future was
safe," he said.
Mowbray was silent a moment. Then he answered slowly.
"Yes. I wish indeed that she could see her way to marry you."
"I will speak plainly. I have been waiting patiently, but, so far as I
can judge, I have gained nothing by this. I'm afraid I may lose all if I
wait much longer. Beatrice likes me, we agree on many points, our tastes
are similar, and I think there's every reason to hope she could be happy
with me. I could give her all that a girl brought up as she has been
could desire."
"Do you suggest that I should urge her to marry you?" Mowbray asked with
some asperity.
Brand hesitated. He knew that he was doing an unchivalrous thing, but
the passion he hitherto had kept in check mastered him.
"Well," he said, "I suppose that is what I really meant."
Mowbray looked at him in haughty surprise.
"You know I cannot refuse you; but I hardly expected you to take this
line. It might have been better if you had relied upon my gratitude and
my daughter's recognition of the service you have done us. We are not in
the habit of forgetting our debts."
"The trouble is that I cannot afford to take a risk; there is some
danger of Beatrice's becoming estranged from me. I would not press you
if I saw any strong reason why she should not be happy as my wife, but I
know of none, and I feel that this is my last chance."
"Then you mean to insist upon your claim?"
"Very reluctantly, sir."
Mowbray was silent for a moment or two, and then he looked up with a
strained expression.
"You place me in a helpless position. You make me and my family your
debtors, and then----" He broke off abruptly. "Did you mean to hint
there was some particular danger of my daughter's becoming estranged
from you?"
"Since you force me to be candid, I believe she is attracted by another
man; perhaps I ought to say interested in him. I cannot suspect any
attachment yet; but I am afraid."
"Who is he?"
Brand hesitated a moment before answering.
"I cannot give you his name, because I may be mistaken. Still, he is a
man you would strongly disapprove of."
There was suspicion in Mowbray's eyes and his face hardened.
"What you hint at surprises me, Brand; but I cannot compliment you upon
your conduct to-night. However, as Beatrice is the most interested
person, it is, I think, only right that she should be allowed to speak."
He rang, and the servant who promptly answered was sent for Beatrice.
When the door opened a few moments afterward, Mowbray was surprised to
see not his daughter but the maid.
"Miss Mowbray is ill," she announced, "and begs you to excuse her."
The maid withdrew, and Mowbray frowned.
"When must my daughter pay this debt?" he asked.
"When is the forged note due?"
"I understand that the Winnipeg fellow will bring it to me here on
Friday night."
"Then there are two days yet. I will leave Miss Mowbray free until
Friday night. In the meantime I shall expect you to use your influence
with her." He hesitated a moment, feeling that he might not be taking
the right line. "I must urge you again, sir, to consider," he finished,
"that it will be only for your daughter's good, in every way, to marry
me."
When he left, Mowbray sat motionless in his chair for a long while,
looking out over the prairie but seeing nothing in front of him. Then
with an effort he roused himself. After all, he tried to believe, it
would not be so bad for the girl. She was young; she might yet learn to
love Brand, even though she married him under compulsion. As for
Harding---- Mowbray dismissed the thought. He had no fear that his
daughter would so far forget her station: the pride of caste had been
drilled into her too strongly.