Harding of Allenwood Part 36

"My father's name was Basil," Harding explained, and taking up another photograph he placed it with its back beside the inscription in the book. It was autographed: _Janet Harding_.

"I imagine it was sent to him with the book, perhaps when he was at school," Harding resumed. "You will note that the hand is the same."

This was obvious. The writing had a distinctive character, and Beatrice examined the faded portrait carefully. It was full length, and showed a lady in old-fas.h.i.+oned dress with an unmistakable stamp of dignity and elegance. The face had grown very faint, but on holding it to the light she thought she could perceive an elusive likeness to Hester Harding.

"This lady must have been your grandmother," she remarked.

"Yes," said Harding. "I have another picture which seems to make the chain complete."

He took it from the box and beckoned Beatrice to the window before he gave it to her, for the photograph was very indistinct. Still, the front of an English country house built in the Georgian style could be made out, with a few figures on the broad steps to the terrace. In the center stood the lady whose portrait Beatrice had seen, though she was recognizable rather by her figure and fine carriage than her features.

She had her hand upon the shoulder of a boy in Eton dress.

"That," said Harding, "was my father."

Beatrice signified by a movement of her head that she had heard, for she was strongly interested in the back-ground of the picture. The wide lawn with its conventionally cut border of shrubbery stretched beyond the old-fas.h.i.+oned house until it ended at the edge of a lake, across which rounded ma.s.ses of trees rolled up the side of a hill. All this was familiar; it reminded her of summer afternoons in England two or three years ago. Surely she had walked along that terrace then! She could remember the gleaming water, the solid, dark contour of the beechwood on the hill, and the calm beauty of the sunlit landscape that she glimpsed between ma.s.sive scattered oaks. Then she started as she distinguished the tower of a church in the faded distance, its spires rising among the tall beech-trees.

"But this is certainly Ash Garth!" she cried.

"I never heard its name," Harding answered quietly.

Beatrice sat down with the photograph in her hand. Her curiosity was strongly roused, and she had a half disturbing sense of satisfaction.

"It looks as if your father had lived there," she said.

"Yes; I think it must have been his home."

"But the owner of Ash Garth is Basil Morel! It is a beautiful place. You come down from the bleak moorland into a valley through which a river winds, and the house stands among the beechwoods at the foot of the hill."

"The picture shows something of the kind," agreed Harding, watching her with a reserved smile.

Beatrice hesitated.

"Perhaps I could find out what became of your father's people and where they are now."

"I don't want to know. I have shown you these things in confidence; I'd rather not have them talked about."

"But you must see what they might mean to you!" Beatrice exclaimed in surprise.

He moved from the window and stood facing her with an air of pride.

"They mean nothing at all to me. My father was obviously an exile, disowned by his English relatives. If he had done anything to deserve this, I don't want to learn it, but I can't think that's so. It was more likely a family quarrel. Anyway, I'm quite content to leave my relatives alone. Besides, I promised something of the kind."

He told her about the money he had received, and she listened with keen interest.

"But did he never tell you anything about his English life?"

"No," said Harding. "I'm not sure that my mother knew, though Hester thinks she meant to tell us something in her last illness. My father was a reserved man. I think he felt his banishment and it took the heart out of him. He was not a good farmer, not the stuff the pioneers are made of, and I believe he only worked his land for my mother's sake, while it was she who really managed things until I grew up. She was a brave, determined woman, and kept him on his feet."

Beatrice was silent for a few moments. The man loved her, and although she would not admit that she loved him, it was satisfactory to feel that he really belonged to her own rank. This explained several traits of his that had puzzled her. It was, however, unfortunate that he held such decided views, and she felt impelled to combat them.

"But you need ask nothing from the people except that they should acknowledge you," she urged. "Think of the difference this would make to you and Hester. It would give you standing and position."

"Hester is going to marry a man who loves her for herself, and the only position I value I have made. What would I gain by raking up a painful story? The only relatives I'm proud to claim are my mother's in Michigan, and they're plain, rugged folks."

There was something in his att.i.tude that appealed to Beatrice. He had no false ambitions; he was content to be judged on his own merits--a severe test. For all that, she set some value upon good birth, and it was distasteful to see that he denied the advantages of his descent. Then she grew embarra.s.sed as she recognized that what really troubled her was his indifference to the opinion of her relatives. He must know that he had a means of disarming her father's keenest prejudice, but he would not use it.

"I understand that Hester knows nothing about these portraits," she said.

"No; I've never mentioned them. It could do no good."

"Then why have you told me?"

"Well," he answered gravely, "I thought you ought to know."

"I have no claim upon the secrets you keep from your sister."

Harding was silent, and Beatrice felt annoyed. After all, she understood why he had told her and she recognized that he had acted honestly in doing so. Still, if he really loved her, she felt, he should not let pride stand in the way of removing every obstacle to get her.

Hester came in and announced that the horses were ready; and soon afterward she and Beatrice were riding together across the prairie while Harding went doggedly back to his work.

CHAPTER XXI

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."