A WOMAN INTERVENES
The following afternoon Beatrice rode moodily across the plain. After
another talk with her mother, she had passed a sleepless night and spent
the morning wandering restlessly to and fro. It was horribly degrading
to her to feel that Brand had bought her; but it was true, and it
destroyed the hope that time might reconcile her to her lot. She could
not forgive him that, but after all it was only part of an intolerable
situation.
On a long gradual rise her horse began to slacken speed, and she pulled
up when she reached the top. Sitting still for a time, she vacantly
looked about. The hill commanded a wide view: she could see the prairie
roll back, changing as it receded from vivid green to faint ethereal
blue on the far horizon. White clouds swept across the sky, streaking
the plain with shadows. There was something exhilarating in the picture,
but Beatrice felt that she hated it for its mocking suggestion of space
and freedom. There was no freedom at Allenwood; she was to be sold into
shameful bondage.
A gray streak of smoke that moved across the waste caught her eye. It
was Harding, harrowing by steam or perhaps bedding down his seed-wheat
with the land-packer. Beatrice thought of him with a poignant sense of
regret. He loved her, and she had deceived herself in thinking she could
not love him. She had been bound by foolish traditions and had not had
the courage to break loose. It was too late now and she must pay the
penalty of her cowardice. She longed to call Harding to her help; he was
strong enough to save her. But the family disgrace must be kept secret.
There was no way out; she seemed to be turning round and round in a
narrow cage and beating herself vainly against the bars.
As she started her horse she saw in the distance the Broadwood homestead
rising, a blur of gray buildings, and she rode toward it. She needed
sympathy, and her mother had nothing but resignation to urge. Effie
Broadwood was kind and fond of her; it would be some comfort to tell her
that she was in trouble--though of course she could not go into
particulars.
Mrs. Broadwood at once noticed the girl's troubled face, and knew that
something had gone wrong. She led Beatrice into her plain little
sitting-room and made her comfortable on a sofa. Then, sitting down
beside her, she took her hand affectionately.
"Now, dear," she said, "we can have a quiet talk. I know that something
is troubling you."
Beatrice was moved by her unaffected sympathy. She had friends at
Allenwood but she could not go to them. They would think her rather to
be envied than pitied; but this warm-hearted, unconventional woman would
understand. She longed to take her into her confidence, and although
this was impossible, the numbing despair in her heart began to melt.
"I can't tell you much; but--I suppose I shall be married soon."
Mrs. Broadwood looked keenly interested.
"Is it an Allenwood man?"
"Brand. I must tell him definitely to-morrow evening."
"Ah!" Mrs. Broadwood exclaimed. There was a pathetic note in the girl's
voice that touched her. "But if you don't want the man you have only to
let him know."
"I wish it were as easy as that!" Beatrice answered hopelessly.
Mrs. Broadwood was silent for a few moments, but her fingers clasped the
small hand under them with a comforting pressure.
"I think I understand. Your father and mother are on his side; but if
you'd hate to have him for a husband you must not sacrifice yourself."
"But I must!" said Beatrice desperately, and her forced calm suddenly
broke down. Her companion's gentleness had destroyed it, and now a
reaction from the strain she had borne had begun. "No," she added in a
broken voice, "there's no way out! I've been trying to find one and I
can't."
She buried her face in one of the pillows and broke into choking sobs.
It was weak, she felt, and not what was to be expected from a Mowbray,
but there was comfort in the bitter tears. For a while Mrs. Broadwood
let her cry, but when she began to soothe her, Beatrice roused herself.
She could not remember afterward what she said, but her confused excuses
for her emotion and her fragmentary half confidences left a disturbing
impression on Mrs. Broadwood's mind.
Beatrice rode home feeling slightly comforted, though she was no nearer
a solution of her difficulties. She had, of course, been very weak and
perhaps had said more than was wise, but she had not betrayed her
brother; and Effie Broadwood was a true friend. Beatrice was justified
in thinking so, for Mrs. Broadwood was to prove a better friend than she
suspected.
When the girl had gone, Mrs. Broadwood spent some time in thinking over
what she had heard. Although she had keen intelligence, there were
points that puzzled her; she had been given several clues, but they
broke off before they led her far. Then she decided that something might
be learned by tactfully questioning her husband, and she went about her
work until he came home in the evening. She let him finish his supper
and light his pipe before she began.
"The Mowbrays are in trouble just now, aren't they, Tom?"
"I dare say; they certainly have their difficulties. Why?"
"Beatrice rode over this afternoon and she had something on her mind.
What do you think's the matter?"
"For one thing, the Colonel must have lost a good deal since wheat began
to go down. Then I heard something about the failure of an English bank;
Lance once told me the family had shares in it. I expect the stoppage
made a difference in their income."
"That doesn't quite account for it. Do you know of anything else?"
"Gerald may have been giving them trouble again. I know he has borrowed
a good deal of money which he'd find it difficult to pay, and I'm afraid
he's been mortgaging his land."
This confirmed some of Mrs. Broadwood's suspicions; but the matter was
still far from clear.
"The Colonel would be very mad about the mortgage," she said. "Still,
it's Gerald's land, and he can do what he likes with it."
"Not altogether. He's bound by the settlement covenant, and, as his
father gave him the land, he ought to respect his opinions. Mowbray's
convinced that to let in strangers would be hurtful to Allenwood."
While feeling sure that Gerald was the cause of the Mowbrays' troubles,
Mrs. Broadwood did not think that Beatrice would marry a man she did not
care for in order to benefit the settlement. There must be another
reason.
"Suppose Gerald had already mortgaged his farm and wanted some more
money, how would he borrow it?"
"He'd find it hard, as he has no security to offer," Broadwood answered
with a smile. "I don't know much about these matters, and don't want to
know anything more, but I believe the usual plan is something like this:
you give the lender a note, an engagement to pay in, we'll say, three
months, and get somebody to endorse it. His putting down his name makes
him liable for the amount, and if the lender was satisfied about him,
he'd give you the money at once and take off as much interest as he
could."
"But who'd guarantee Gerald in that way?"
"I don't know. I certainly would not."
"He would have to be a man who was known to have money," she persisted.
"I suppose so; it would naturally make the transaction easier. But it's
not our business to pry into the Mowbrays' affairs."
"Oh, no," said Mrs. Broadwood. "Still, I was sorry for Beatrice and it
made me curious."
She changed the subject and after a time took up a book as an excuse for
silence. She wanted to think, because she now felt sure that Gerald's
financial difficulties accounted for the pressure that was being put
upon Beatrice. The girl was being forced to marry Brand because he would
supply the money to save her brother from disgrace. Mrs. Broadwood felt
that it must be disgrace and not an ordinary debt. There would, however,
be no great difficulty if he had given some one a note, for the man who
endorsed it must have known that he might be called upon to pay. But
suppose he had not heard about the transaction at all? Mrs. Broadwood
dropped her book, for she saw that she had guessed the riddle. Gerald
had not asked the man to guarantee him; he had forged his name. Taking
this for granted made everything plain.
Then she began to wonder whose name Gerald had forged. It could not be
his father's, for Mowbray was known to be far from rich. The only man
with much money at Allenwood was Brand, but Mrs. Broadwood thought it
could not be Brand, because she knew Mowbray's pride and believed that
in spite of his anxiety to keep the matter quiet he would not force his
daughter to marry a man his son had robbed. Admitting this, she must
look for some one else. Then it dawned upon her that the man was
Harding.
"What did you say?" Broadwood asked, looking up from his paper.
"I was thinking," his wife replied. "S'pose I must have thought aloud.
Anyway it wouldn't interest you. How's wheat going?"
"Down," said Broadwood, and there was silence again.
Mrs. Broadwood saw what she could do. She admitted that she might make a
deplorable mess of things if she were mistaken, but the need was serious
enough to justify some risk. She had courage and she was fond of
Beatrice.
The next afternoon she drove across the prairie to the spot where she
thought Harding was at work. She found him busy with his engine at the
end of a wide belt of plowing which the land packer had rolled down hard
and smooth.
"Craig!" she called, pulling up her horse. "I want you a minute."
He came to the step of the buck-board, dressed in greasy overalls, with
an oil smear on his hand, but she felt that he was to be trusted as she
gave him an approving glance. She liked his level look and his steady
eyes; there was force in his quiet face. He was the type of man she
admired: swift in action, free from what she called meanness, and
determined. Indeed, she felt inclined to hesitate as she thought of his
resolute character. It would be easy to set him in motion, but once that
was done he could not be stopped, and there might be startling
developments. It was rather like firing the train to a mine; and there
was a disturbing possibility that she might, after all, be wrong in her
surmises.
But she gathered up her courage; and she knew that there was no time to
be wasted.
"Craig," she said, "do you want Beatrice Mowbray?"
He started and his brown face flushed.
"I want her more than anything else in the world."
Mrs. Broadwood gave him a quick, approving nod.
"Do you know how she feels about you?"
"No. I only know what I hope."
"Well," said Mrs. Broadwood thoughtfully, "I believe she'd rather take
you than Brand."
"Brand!"
"I expect she'll be engaged to him to-night, unless you act." Mrs.
Broadwood checked him as he was about to speak. "This is your chance,
Craig; you'll never get another half as good. Listen quietly for a few
minutes."
He stood very still, without asking a question, until she had finished.
"I guess you're right," he said with set jaws; "and I know the man who
holds the note. If Beatrice is to give Brand her answer to-night, it
means that Davies is coming here to squeeze the Colonel, and if his
train's on time, he ought to make the Grange in about three hours."
"And you'll be there to meet him?"
Harding smiled.
"When I'm wanted I like to be on hand, and I guess I'm wanted pretty
badly now."
"You certainly are. I suppose you see what you must do?"
"If there's a note out with my name on it, it has got to be taken up.
You can leave the thing to me. I meet my obligations."
Mrs. Broadwood saw that he had found a more effective way of dealing
with the situation than had yet occurred to her.
"Craig," she exclaimed with frank admiration, "you're a wonder!"
He held out his hand with a twinkle of rather grim amusement.
"Anyway, I have to thank you for putting me on the track, and I'm not
going to forget it. Now I have several matters to fix up before I start
for the Grange."
She touched the horse with the whip and he stepped back.
"Good luck!" she called. "You deserve it!"