THE ADVENTURESS
Before the wheat had suffered serious damage, a few thunder showers
broke upon the plain, and Harding and his neighbors took courage. The
crop was not out of danger; indeed, a week's dry weather would undo the
good the scanty rain had done; but ruin, which had seemed imminent, was,
at least, delayed. Then Harding got news from his agent that
necessitated his return to Winnipeg, and Mrs. Mowbray and Beatrice, who
wished to visit the millinery stores, arranged to accompany him.
It was hot and dry when they reached the city, but Harding was of
sanguine temperament and, being relieved from fear of immediate
disaster, proceeded with his plans for the consolidation of Allenwood.
He could not carry them far, because even if he secured an abundant
harvest, which was at present doubtful, he would have some difficulty in
raising capital enough to outbid his rival. Acting cautiously with
Jackson's help, however, he found two men who had lent Davies money and
were now frankly alarmed by the general fall in values. One, indeed, was
willing to transfer his interest to Harding on certain terms which the
latter could not accept.
He was thinking over these matters one morning when, to his surprise, he
saw Brand crossing the street toward him. They had not met since the
evening of their encounter with Davies at the Grange, and Harding was
sensible of some constraint. Brand was a reserved man whom he had
neither understood nor liked, but he had thought him honorable until he
learned the price he had demanded for helping Mowbray.
There was no embarrassment in Brand's manner. He looked as cool and
inscrutable as usual.
"I'm rather glad we have met," he said.
"I thought you had gone back to the Old Country," Harding replied.
"No; I find it harder to sell my farm than I imagined. The settlement
covenant's the trouble, and I don't feel inclined to give the land away.
I want a talk with you. Will you come to my hotel?"
Harding agreed, and a few minutes later they sat down in a quiet corner
of the hotel lounge.
"How's your campaign against the moneylender progressing?" Brand began
abruptly.
"Then you know something about it?"
"I'm not a fool. I've been watching the game with interest for some
time. I have a reason for asking; you can be frank with me."
Harding knew when to trust a man and, in spite of what had happened, he
trusted Brand. When he had given him a short explanation, Brand seemed
satisfied.
"Very well; now I have something to say. My prejudices are against you;
they're on Mowbray's side, but I'm beginning to see that his position is
untenable. It seems I can't get a fair price for my farm, and after
spending some happy years on it, I have a sentimental affection for the
place. Don't know that I'd care to see it fall into the hands of some
raw English lad whose inexperience would be a danger to Allenwood. The
drift of all this is--will you work the land for me if we can make a
satisfactory arrangement?"
Harding hesitated.
"I don't know that I could take a favor----"
"From me? Don't make a mistake. I'm not acting out of any personal
regard for you. On the whole, I'd rather see you in control of Allenwood
than a mortgage broker; that's all."
"Thanks! On that understanding we might come to terms."
"Then there's another matter. Managing my farm won't help you much, and
I feel that I owe something to the settlement. If it looks as if the
moneylender would be too strong for you, and you're short of funds, you
can write to me. I can afford to spend something on Allenwood's
defense."
They talked it over, and when Harding left the hotel he had promised, in
case of necessity, to ask Brand's help. Moreover, although he had not
expected this, he felt some sympathy and a half reluctant liking for his
beaten rival.
During the same day Davies had a confidential talk with Gerald.
"Do you know that your mother and sister are in town with Harding?" he
asked.
"Yes; but I haven't seen them yet."
"Rather not meet Harding? Are you pleased that the man's going to marry
your sister?"
"I'm not!" Gerald answered curtly.
He stopped writing and frowned at the book in which he was making an
entry. He felt very bitter against Harding, who had insulted him, but
he was moved by a deeper and less selfish feeling. It jarred upon his
sense of fitness that his sister should marry a low-bred fellow with
whom he was convinced she could not live happily. Beatrice had lost her
head, but she was a Mowbray and would recover her senses; then she would
rue the mistake she had made. She might resent Gerald's interference and
would, no doubt, suffer for a time if he succeeded in separating her
from her lover; but men, as he knew, got over an irregular passion, and
he had no reason to believe that women were different.
"She will marry him unless something is done," Davies resumed cunningly.
"What is that to you?"
"Well, I think you can guess my hand. His marrying your sister would
give Harding some standing at Allenwood, and he's already got more
influence there than suits me. The fellow's dangerous; I hear he's been
getting at one or two of the men who backed me. But we'll quit fencing.
Do you want to stop this match?"
Although he had fallen very low, Gerald felt the humiliation of allowing
Davies to meddle with the Mowbray affairs; but he overcame his
repugnance, because the man might be of help.
"Yes," he answered shortly; "but I don't see how it can be stopped."
"You knew Coral Stanton in your more prosperous days, didn't you?"
Gerald admitted it. Miss Stanton described herself as a clairvoyante,
but although there were then in the Western cities ladies of her
profession who confined themselves to forecasting the changes of the
markets and fortune-telling, the term had to some extent become
conventionalized and conveyed another meaning. Coral had arrived in
Winnipeg with a third-rate opera company, which she left after a quarrel
with the manager's wife; and although it was known that gambling for
high stakes went on in her consulting rooms, she had for a time avoided
trouble with the civic authorities. The girl was of adventurous turn of
mind and was marked by an elfish love of mischief.
"I can't see what my knowing Coral has to do with the matter," Gerald
replied.
"Then I'll have to explain. Things have been going wrong with her since
the Ontario lumber man was doped in her rooms. The police have given her
warning, and I guess she wouldn't stick at much if she saw a chance of
earning a hundred dollars easily."
"What d'you suggest that she should do?"
"If you'll listen for a few minutes, I'll tell you."
Davies chuckled as he unfolded a plan that appealed to his broad sense
of humor; but Gerald frowned. Although likely to result to her ultimate
benefit, the plot was, in the first place, directed against his sister.
It was repugnant in several ways, but he thought it would work, for
Beatrice, like his mother, had Puritanical views. Besides, he could
think of nothing else.
"Well," he said, "will you talk to Coral?"
"Certainly not," Davies answered cautiously; "that's your part of the
business. I'll put up the money."
The following day Harding was lunching with Beatrice and her mother at
their hotel, when the waitress brought him a note. Beatrice, sitting
next to him, noticed that it was addressed in a woman's hand and was
heavily scented. Indeed, there was something she disliked in the
insidious perfume. She watched Harding as he opened the envelope and saw
that what he read disturbed him. This struck her as curious, but she did
not see the note. He thrust it into his pocket and began to talk about
something of no importance.
Beatrice thought over the incident during the afternoon, but by evening
she had banished it from her mind. After dinner they sat in the big
rotunda of the hotel. Harding was unusually quiet, but Beatrice scarcely
noticed it, for she was interested in watching the people who sauntered
in and out through the revolving glass door. They were of many different
types: wiry, brown-faced plainsmen; silent, grave-eyed fellows from the
forest belt; smart bank clerks and traders; mechanics; and a few women.
One or two seemed to be needy adventurers, but they came and went among
the rest, though it was obvious that they could not be staying at the
hotel.
Beatrice's attention was suddenly attracted by a girl who came in. She
was handsome, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and marked by a certain
rakish boldness that was not unbecoming. Beatrice was struck by the
darkness of her hair and the brilliance of her color, until she saw that
something was due to art; then she noticed a man smile at another as he
indicated the girl, and two more turn and look after her when she
passed. Thereupon Beatrice grew pitiful, ashamed and angry, for she
could not tell which of the feelings predominated; and she wondered why
the hotel people had not prevented the girl's entrance. She was pleased
to see that Harding was talking to a man who had joined him and had
noticed nothing.
Her life at the Grange had been somewhat austere, and her relatives were
old-fashioned people of high character who condemned what they called
modern laxity. For all that, the adventuress roused her curiosity, and
she watched her as she moved about the room. She drew near them, and
Beatrice thought her eyes rested strangely on Harding for a moment. A
strong scent floated about her--the same that had perfumed the note.
Beatrice was startled, but she tried to persuade herself that she was
mistaken. The adventuress passed on; but when Harding's companion left
him she came up at once and gave him an inviting smile. He looked at her
in surprise, but there was some color in his face. It was unthinkable
that he should know the girl, but she stopped beside him.
"Craig," she cooed, "you don't pretend that you've forgotten me?"
Harding looked at her coldly.
"I have never seen you before in my life!" he said emphatically.
Coral laughed, and Beatrice noticed the music in her voice.
"Aw, come off!" she exclaimed. "What you giving us? Guess you've been
getting rich and turned respectable."
Harding cast a quick glance round. Beatrice and Mrs. Mowbray sat near,
and it would be difficult to defend himself to either. The girl had made
an unfortunate mistake, or perhaps expected to find him an easy victim;
now he began to understand the note. The blood filled his face and he
looked guilty in his embarrassment and anger, for he saw that he was
helpless. The hotel people would not interfere; and to repulse the woman
rudely or run away from her was likely to attract the attention he
wished to avoid.
"You have mistaken me for somebody else," he replied uneasily.
She gave him a coquettish smile.
"Well, I guess you're Craig Harding unless you've changed your name as
well as your character. I reckoned you'd come back to me when I heard
you were in town. You ought to feel proud I came to look for you, when
you didn't answer my note."
There was something seductive and graceful in her mocking courtesy, but
Harding lost his temper.
"I've had enough! You don't know me, and if you try to play this fool
game I'll have you fired out!"
"That to an old friend--and a lady!" she exclaimed. "You've surely lost
the pretty manners that made me love you."
Harding turned in desperation, and started to the door; but she
followed, putting her hand on his shoulder, and some of the bystanders
laughed. Beatrice, quivering with the shock, hated them for their
amusement. Even if he were innocent, Harding had placed himself in a
horribly humiliating position. But she could not think him innocent. All
she had seen and heard condemned him.
Harding shook off the girl's hand and, perhaps alarmed by the look he
gave her, she left him and soon afterward disappeared, but when he
returned to the table Beatrice and her mother had gone. He was getting
cool again, but he felt crushed, for no defense seemed possible. He
could only offer a blunt denial which, in the face of appearances, could
hardly be believed.
He left the hotel and spent an hour walking about the city, trying to
think what he must do. When he returned a bell-boy brought him word that
Mrs. Mowbray wished to see him in the drawing-room. Harding went up and
found the room unoccupied except by Beatrice and her mother. The girl's
face was white, but it was stern and she had her father's immovable
look. Rising as he came in, she stood very straight, holding out a
little box.
"This is yours," she said. "I must give it back to you. You will
understand what that means."
Harding took the box, containing the ring he had given her, and steadily
met her accusing eyes, though he could see no hope for him in them.
"I suppose there's no use in my saying that it's all a mistake or a
wicked plot?"
"No; I'm afraid the evidence against you is too strong." She hesitated a
moment, and he thought he saw some sign of relenting. "Craig," she
begged, in a broken voice, "do go. I--I believed in you."
"You have no reason to doubt me now."
He turned to Mrs. Mowbray.
"Can't you be persuaded? I give you my solemn word----"
"Don't!" Beatrice interrupted. "Don't make it worse!"
"I'm sorry I must agree with my daughter's decision until I see more
reason to change it than I can hope for at present," Mrs. Mowbray
replied. "It would be better if you left us. We return to-morrow."
Her tone was final; and, with a last glance at Beatrice, Harding went
out dejectedly.