Harding of Allenwood

"I don't quite understand."

"It would certainly be egotistical if I bored you with my crude ideas," he answered, smiling.

"Never mind that. I want to know."

"Well," he said, "sometimes you look about to see how you can alter matters and what plans you can make; but when they're made they won't always work. It's different when you don't have to look."

Beatrice had a dim perception of what he meant, but she would let him explain. His point of view interested her; though she knew that she ran some risk in leading him into confidential talk.

"I don't think you have made it very clear yet."

"I meant that there are times when you see your work ready laid out. It's there; you didn't plan it – you simply can't mistake it. Then if you go straight ahead and do the best you can, you can't go wrong."

"But when you don't feel sure? When you haven't the conviction that it is your task?"

"Then," he said quietly, "I think it's better to sit tight and wait. When the time to act comes, you certainly will know."

Beatrice pondered this, because it seemed to apply with some force to herself. He had once urged her to take a daring course, to assert her freedom at the cost of sacrificing much that she valued. Though she had courage, she had shrunk from the venture, because she had not the firm conviction that it was justified. She felt drawn to Harding; indeed, she had met no other man whom she liked so well; but there was much against him, and nothing but deep, unquestioning love would warrant her marrying him. That she felt such love she would not admit. It was better to take the advice he had given her and wait. This was the easier for her to do because she believed that he had no suspicion of her real feeling for him.

"After all," she said, smiling, "your responsibility ends with yourself. I don't see why you should interfere with other people. You can farm your land as you think fit, without trying to make us copy you."

"That sounds all right; but when you come to think of it, you'll see that neither of us can stand alone."

"We got along pretty well before you came."

"I don't doubt it. The trouble is that what was best a few years ago isn't best now. I wish I could make your father realize that."

"Does it follow that he's mistaken because he doesn't agree with you?"

Harding laughed.

"If I were singular in my way of thinking, I'd be more modest, but all over the country farmers are getting ready for the change. There's a big expansion in the air, and your people can't stand out against it."

"Then I suppose we'll be crushed, and we'll deserve our fate." Beatrice smiled at him as she started the horses. "But at least it will not be from lack of advice!"

CHAPTER XVII

A HEAVY BLOW

Snow was drifting around the Grange before a bitter wind when Mowbray sat in his study with a stern, anxious face. The light of the lamp on his writing table fell upon a black-edged letter that lay beside a bundle of documents; the big stove in a corner glowed a dull red, and acrid fumes of burning wood escaped as the icy draughts swept in. Mowbray's hands and feet were very cold, but he sat motionless, trying to rally his forces after a crushing blow.

The sound of music reached him from the hall, where some of his younger neighbors were spending the evening, and he frowned when an outbreak of laughter followed the close of a song. He had left his guests half an hour before, when the mounted mail-carrier had called, and he could not force himself to rejoin them yet. He must have time to recover from the shock he had received. Since he left the hall he had been trying to think; but he had no control of his mind and was conscious of only a numbing sense of grief and disaster.

He looked up as his wife came in. Her movements were generally quiet, and when she sat down her expression was calm.

"I got away as soon as I could," she said. "I am afraid you have had bad news."

"Very bad. Godfrey's dead!"

Mrs. Mowbray started. Godfrey Barnett was her husband's cousin. He had been the managing director of an old-established private bank in which Mowbray's relatives were interested, and the dividend upon some of the shares formed an important part of the Colonel's income.

"I'm very sorry," Mrs. Mowbray said softly. "Godfrey was always a favorite of mine. But it must have been sudden; you did not know that he was ill."

Her heart sank as she saw her husband's face turn grim. The blow had been heavier than she thought.

"He said something about not being up to his usual form when he last wrote, and Alan alludes to a cablegram that should have prepared me, but I never got it. No doubt it was overlooked. He mentions that the strain was almost unbearable – the crisis at the office – and the inquest."

"The inquest!"

The Colonel took up an English newspaper.

"It's all here; Alan says there's nothing to add. I've been trying to understand it, but I can't quite realize it yet. The paper and the letter came together. I suppose he waited a few days, thinking he had cabled."

The Colonel paused, and Mrs. Mowbray gave him a sympathetic glance, for she knew what his forced calm cost. The Mowbrays were stern and quiet under strain.

"Well?" she said.

"They found Godfrey dead, with a bottle of some narcotic beside him. The doctor gave evidence that he had prescribed the drug; it seems Godfrey couldn't sleep and his nerves had gone to bits. The man was obviously tactful and saved the situation. The verdict was that Godfrey had accidentally taken too large a dose."

"Ah! You don't think – "

"I dare not think – he was my cousin." Mowbray shivered and pulled himself together. "Now for the sequel. You haven't heard the worst yet, if one can call what follows worse."

"Don't tell me. Give me the paper."

He handed her the journal published in an English country town and she read the long account with a feeling of deep pity. It appeared that when news of Godfrey's death spread there had been a run on the bank. Barnett's business was for the most part local; and struggling shopkeepers, farmers, small professional men, and a number of the country gentry hurried to withdraw their money. The firstcomers were paid, but the bank soon closed its doors. Then came the inquest, and Mrs. Mowbray wondered how the merciful verdict had been procured. It was all very harrowing, and when she looked up her eyes were wet.

"He must have known!" she said. "It seems heartless to talk about the financial side of the matter, but – "

"It must be talked about, and it's easier than the other. I think I know why the bank came down, and perhaps I'm responsible to some extent. When one of the big London amalgamations wanted to absorb Barnett's, Godfrey consulted me. I told him I wasn't a business man, but so far as my opinion went he ought to refuse."

"Why?"

"Barnett's was a small, conservative bank. Godfrey knew his customers; he was their financial adviser and often their personal friend. The bank would take some risk to carry an honest client over bad times; it was easy with the farmers after a poor harvest. Godfrey could give and take; he managed a respected firm like a gentleman. In short, Barnett's was human, not a mere money-making machine."

"I can imagine that," Mrs. Mowbray responded. "Would it have been different if he had joined the amalgamation?"

"Very different. Barnett's would have become a branch office without power of discretion. Everything would have had to be done on an unchangeable system – the last penny exacted; no mercy shown a client who might fall a day behind; one's knowledge of a customer disregarded in favor of a rule about the security he could offer. I warned Godfrey that so far as my influence could command it, every vote that went with the family shares should be cast against the deal; although the amalgamation had given him a plain hint that they meant to secure a footing in the neighborhood, whether they came to terms with Barnett's or not."

Mrs. Mowbray thought his advice to his cousin was characteristic of her husband, and, in a wide sense, she agreed with him. He was a lover of fair play and individual liberty; but the course Godfrey had taken was nevertheless rash. Barnett's was not strong enough to fight a combination which had practically unlimited capital. The struggle had no doubt been gallant, but the kindly, polished gentleman had been disastrously beaten. What was worse, Mrs. Mowbray suspected that her husband was now leading a similar forlorn hope at Allenwood.

"I suppose it means a serious loss to us," she said.

"That's certain. Alan has not had time to investigate matters yet, but I gather that my relatives do not mean to shirk their responsibility. Barnett's, of course, was limited, but the name must be saved if possible and the depositors paid. I will tell Alan that I strongly agree with this."

It was rash and perhaps quixotic, but it was typical of the man, and Mrs. Mowbray did not object.

"I'm sorry for you," she said caressingly. "It will hit you very hard."