THE REBUFF
Harding spent a busy week in Winnipeg, carrying out a scheme he had
agreed upon with Broadwood, Kenwyne, and one or two others, though he
feared it would again bring him into conflict with Colonel Mowbray. He
regretted this, but he could not allow it to influence him. Allenwood,
in which he now had a strong interest, must not be allowed to suffer
because of the Colonel's old-fashioned opinions. Harding saw what ought
to be done; and he felt that to leave it undone, in order to save
himself trouble, would be weak and, in a sense, treacherous to those who
now looked to him for a lead. He could not act against his convictions;
he must do what he thought best, and take the consequences.
The storekeepers and implement dealers in the small settlements had many
bad debts, and their charges were proportionately high, but Harding did
not see why he and his friends should pay for the defaulters. Expensive
machines were needed; and new wheat was being produced which would
resist drought and ripen soon enough to escape the autumn frost; but
local dealers were unable, or perhaps too careless, to obtain the seed.
Then, Harding saw that a time was coming when mixed farming produce,
which he called truck, would be in strong demand; and it was his custom
to anticipate a need. Kenwyne and the others recognized the
desirability of this, and had agreed to open a joint agency in Winnipeg.
Harding was not sure that the expense could be recouped for a time, but
he believed the undertaking would pay in the end.
After finding a suitable office, he called on a number of business men
and the flour-millers who were then beginning what was to become the
leading industry of the city. He wanted to learn their views about the
kind of wheat best suited to their use, and to enter into direct
relations with them. On the whole, he succeeded better than he had
hoped, and had now only to appoint an agent. Two or three suitable men
had offered their services, and it was difficult to decide.
He was thinking over the matter in the newly opened office, when Gerald
came in. The Mowbray black sheep seemed to feel no embarrassment in
meeting him, for his manner was inclined to be patronizing. Sitting
down, he lighted a cigarette.
"This is a new venture. I don't know that it will meet with general
approval at Allenwood," he remarked.
"One mustn't expect too much," Harding answered. "I guess the people who
object now will come round by and by."
"I wonder how long you think it will be before my father falls into
line," said Gerald with a careless laugh. "Everything considered, I
rather admire your pluck."
Harding let this pass. It was not a tactful allusion to his engagement
to Beatrice, and he was annoyed by Gerald's manner. He had not expected
much gratitude, but the fellow did not even seem to realize that Harding
had saved him from jail.
"I suppose you know I have been turned out of Allenwood," Gerald
resumed.
Harding admitted that he had been told so.
"Since then I've heard from the Government people that they're not
likely to want me for the new survey. As a matter of fact, I'm not
sorry. The last man I went into the woods with was a sour, exacting
brute."
"They've got to be hard. It isn't easy to run a line through a rough
country."
"Nobody knows that better than I do," Gerald replied with feeling.
"Well, I've been here a week, and can't find any congenial occupation."
"You don't look worried about it."
Gerald laughed.
"Oh, I'm not, as a rule, despondent; and I knew that I could as a last
resort fall back on you. This explains my call. I believe you want an
agent to manage your office."
Harding's expression indicated ironical amusement.
"Do you think what you have just told me is a recommendation for the
job?"
"It seems to prove my need of it."
"But not your suitability. I'm not looking for a man whom nobody else
will have."
Gerald looked at him in astonishment. Though he had not given the matter
much thought, he had imagined that Harding would be glad to do him a
favor for his sister's sake. It was something of a shock to be refused.
And the manner of the refusal was mortifying. The fellow was a coarser
brute than he had thought; but Gerald did not mean to let his resentment
run away with him.
"I have a few useful qualifications," he said. "Some of the bigger
implement dealers and the heads of the milling firms are men of taste
and education. It's possible they might rather deal with me than with a
drummer fellow, or a raw farmer fresh from the soil."
"I'm fresh from the soil, but I guess I could run this end of the
business," Harding returned.
Gerald saw that he had blundered; but he did not feel beaten yet.
"Perhaps I'd better mention that I spoke to Kenwyne and Broadwood, and
they were willing that I should have the agency."
"That's so. I have a letter from Kenwyne, who says he'd like to give you
a lift, but leaves me to decide."
"Then his wishes ought to count. You must see that your position at
Allenwood won't be easy; it will need some tact to make it comfortable,
and your giving me the post would go a long distance in your favor. You
can't afford to disregard our people's feelings until you've made your
footing good."
"Can I not?" Harding's patience was exhausted. "Have I ever tried to
gain your friends' favor by indulging any of their crank notions? If
necessary, I'll put my plans through in spite of the crowd!" He checked
himself. "But this has nothing to do with the matter. You're not the man
I want."
"May I inquire what kind of a man you do want?"
"First of all, one I can trust."
Gerald colored, but he got up with some dignity and moved toward the
door.
"You may regret your decision," he said threateningly.
Harding sat silent until the door closed, and then he went over to the
window and looked out at the narrow street with a frown. He was angry,
but he did not think he had been too severe. It was plain that he might
have made things easier for himself by falling in with Gerald's
suggestion; the fellow was a favorite at Allenwood, where his last
offense was known only to one or two people. Harding had no doubt that
Mowbray would have appreciated his giving his son another chance; and
Beatrice would have thought it generous. For all that, the business of
the settlement could not be done by wastrels; and Harding felt that he
could not secure a personal advantage by a breach of trust.
Gerald's feelings about the matter were far from pleasant. Returning to
his second-class hotel he endeavored to solace them with a drink before
he sat down in the untidy lounge to consider. He had been grossly
insulted; but he persuaded himself that this did not trouble him most.
The worst was that Harding was a coarse, low-bred brute, and was,
unfortunately, going to marry Beatrice. Gerald had not hesitated about
sacrificing his sister to save himself, but it was easy for him now to
feel that she was making a grave mistake. It was perhaps curious that he
had preserved a keen sense of family pride, and a belief that people of
his station must keep up their dignity; but he was honest as far as he
went. He knew that he had by no means lived up to his creed; but, while
some allowances must be made for men, this did not apply to women. It
was essential that they should remember what was due to their birth and
rank. On no account should a well-bred girl marry beneath her.
He went to the bar for another drink, and afterward became convinced
that Beatrice's marriage to Harding could only end in disaster. It must,
therefore, be prevented. He could not see how this was to be done, but
chance might provide a means.
In the meanwhile he was confronted by the stern necessity for earning
his living. Taking up a newspaper, he studied the advertisements; but
unfortunately there seemed to be no demand for people with refined
tastes and polite accomplishments in Canada. Farm teamsters were wanted,
and shovel hands for a branch railroad; but these occupations did not
appeal to Gerald. A clerk was required at a new hotel. Well, that was
more in his line, and he set off to interview the proprietor. After a
few curt questions the man dismissed him, and Gerald spent the next day
or two moodily walking about the town, until it occurred to him that he
had better see what Davies could do. The fellow, who knew the worst of
him, owed him something. He felt much less bitter against the
moneylender, who had helped to ruin him, than he did against Harding,
whom he had injured.
Davies was disengaged when Gerald entered.
"So you're up against it!" he remarked. "Your friends at Allenwood have
no use for you?"
"It looks like that. Otherwise I wouldn't have come here."
"I see they're opening an office in this city."
"Harding's in charge. I don't get on with him."
"Well, perhaps that's natural." Davies was keen enough to notice the
rancor in Gerald's tone. He was afraid his plans about Allenwood might
have to be abandoned, but if he were able to go on with them, Harding
would prove his most dangerous opponent.
"I guess Mr. Harding talked pretty straight to you?" he suggested.
"He took an unfair advantage of my position!"
"So you thought you'd strike me for a job? I guess you know you're not
worth much."
Gerald winced at this, but he could not resent it. His father had
disowned him, and, except for a surreptitious gift from his mother, he
had no resources.
"It's plain that I can't insist upon good terms," he replied. "I quite
expected you to see it."
Davies considered. He did not suspect Mowbray of any fondness for steady
work, and he thought his services as a clerk would be dear at five
dollars a week; but the fellow was shrewd and plausible, and had what
Davies called tone. Well-brought-up young Englishmen and a few Americans
of the same stamp were coming into Manitoba looking for land, and
Mowbray, who understood these people, might act as a decoy. Then, he
knew all about Allenwood, and this knowledge might be useful later. On
the whole, Davies thought he would take the risk of employing him.
"Well," he said, "I'll make you an offer."
It was not an advantageous one for Gerald, but after some objections he
accepted it, and the next day reluctantly set to work. His occupation,
however, proved less unpleasant than he had feared, and at the end of a
few weeks Davies thought he had acted wisely. Mowbray was intelligent
and unscrupulous, his judgment was good, and Davies began to take him
into his confidence.
Harding, in the meanwhile, appointed an agent and went home. He hired a
horse at the railroad settlement, and the first of the Allenwood
farmsteads were rising above the edge of the plain when a mounted figure
appeared near a bluff that the trail skirted. The figure was small and
distant, but it cut sharp against the evening light, and Harding's heart
beat fast as he recognized it. Touching his horse with the quirt, he
rode on at a gallop and pulled up near Beatrice with an exultant gleam
in his eyes.
"This is very kind!" he cried.
She looked at him shyly, with some color in her face.
"Didn't you expect me to meet you? How far have you ridden at that
furious pace?"
"Since I saw you quite a way back. The horse wouldn't come fast enough!"
She smiled at him.
"If you are not in a great hurry to get home, let's walk as far as the
ridge," she suggested.
Harding, springing down, held out his hand, and when she slipped from
the saddle he caught her in his arms and held her fast while he kissed
her. Beatrice was not demonstrative, but he felt her arms tighten about
his neck, and the soft pressure of her cheek upon his face, and it gave
him a thrill of triumph. Now he realized all that he had won.
For a long while they did not speak. Then Beatrice freed herself with a
soft laugh, and they walked on across the prairie. But Harding would not
release one little hand, which he clung to as they climbed the trail
together.
The red sunset burned in front of them with the edge of the plain
cutting against it in a hard, straight line. Above the lurid glow the
wide arch of sky shone a vivid green, and the great sweep of grass ran
forward steeped in deepening shades of blue. There was something
mysteriously impressive in the half light and the riot of color.
"What a glorious evening!" Beatrice could not help exclaiming. "I am
glad I shall not have to leave the prairie."
The crimson flush on the skyline merged into rose and magenta and mauve.
"It is lighted up in your honor," Harding said.
"You have a pretty imagination; but I fear the gray days are more in
keeping with the life I've led. It was often rather dreary at the
Grange, and I felt that I was objectless--drifting on without a
purpose." She smiled at Harding. "You can't understand the feeling?"
"No," he said. "All my life I've had too much to do. One gets
self-centered through thinking only of one's work. It may be better to
stop now and then and look about."
"It depends upon what you see. If your surroundings never change, you
come to know them too well and begin to think that nothing different is
possible. It makes one narrow. We may both need patience, Craig, before
we learn to understand each other's point of view."
Harding realized the truth of this. They looked at many things
differently, and there were points on which their convictions were
opposed.
She gave the strong hand that held hers a slight pressure of caress.
"I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been driven out of my way
by the grass fire that night?" she questioned, woman-like.
"Nothing would have been different. I was bound to meet you sooner or
later."
She laughed contentedly, and they walked on in silence for a while.
Harding felt that he ought to tell her about Gerald, but he hesitated.
"Tell me what you have been doing in Winnipeg," she said, as if she had
divined his thoughts.
He explained his business there carefully, and Beatrice was pleased that
he took her interest and comprehension for granted.
"Gerald wanted me to make him our agent, and I refused," he ended.
She was conscious of disappointment, though she appreciated his candor.
"I'm afraid he will find things hard. Of course, it's his own fault, but
that won't make his difficulties lighter. Couldn't you have taken the
risk of giving him another chance?"
"No," said Harding. "I wanted to help him, for your sake, but I couldn't
give him the post. You see, I was acting for others as well as for
myself." He hesitated before he added: "I felt that we must have the
best man we could get."
"And you could get more reliable men than my brother! Unfortunately,
it's true. But the others were willing; Kenwyne told me so."
He looked at her in surprise, for there was a faint hardness in her
voice.
"I don't think they quite understood how important the matter is.
Anyway, they left it to me and I felt forced to do what seemed best for
all."
"Well," she said, as if puzzled, "Gerald certainly wronged you."
"That didn't count; not the wrong you mean. The greatest injury he could
have done me would have been in giving you to Brand. However, it was not
this, but his unfitness for our work that made me refuse him."
He had blundered, and Beatrice felt hurt. She could have forgiven him
for bitterly resenting Gerald's attempt to separate them, but he seemed
to consider that comparatively unimportant. There was a hard strain in
him; perhaps her father had been right in thinking him too deeply imbued
with the commercial spirit.
He helped her to the saddle, and the misunderstanding was forgotten as
they rode in confidential talk across the shadowy plain until the lights
of the Grange twinkled out ahead. Harding left her at the forking of the
trail, but he was thoughtful as he trotted home alone. He must exercise
care and tact in future. Beatrice was proud, and he feared that he had
not altogether won her yet.