Harding of Allenwood Part 38

For a moment or two he struggled to preserve his self-control, and then went on in a stern, cold voice:

"Still, there is some reason in what you urge. It shows the selfish cunning that has been your ruin."

"Let me finish, sir," Gerald begged hoa.r.s.ely. "The note must be met. If I take it up on presentation, the matter ends there; but you can see the consequences if it's dishonored."

"They include your arrest and imprisonment. It's unthinkable that your mother and sister should be branded with this taint!" Mowbray clenched his hand. "The trouble is that I cannot find the money. You have already brought me to ruin."

There was silence for the next minute, and the las.h.i.+ng of the rain on the s.h.i.+p-lap boards sounded harshly distinct.

Gerald saw a possible way of escape, but, desperate as he was, he hesitated about taking it. It meant sacrificing his sister; but the way seemed safe. His father would stick at nothing that might save the family honor.

"There's Brand," he suggested, knowing it was the meanest thing he had ever done. "Of course, one would rather not tell an outsider; but he can keep a secret and might help."

"Ah!" Mowbray exclaimed sharply, as if he saw a ray of hope. Then he paused and asked with harsh abruptness: "Whose name did you use on the note?"

"Harding's."

Mowbray lost his self-control. Half rising in his chair, he glared at his son.

"It's the last straw!" he said, striking the table furiously. "How the low-bred fellow will triumph over us!"

"He can't," Gerald pointed out cunningly, using his strongest argument in an appeal to his father's prejudice. "He will know nothing about the note if I can take it up when due."

Mowbray sank back in his chair, crushed with shame.

"It must be managed somehow," he said in a faltering voice. "Now--go; and, for both of our sakes, keep out of my way."

Gerald left him without a word, and Mowbray sat alone in the darkness, feeling old and broken as he grappled with the bitterest grief he had known. There had, of course, been one or two of the Mowbrays who had led wild and reckless lives, but Gerald was the first to bring actual disgrace upon the respected name. The Colonel could have borne his extravagance and forgiven a certain amount of dissipation, but it humbled him to the dust to realize that his son was a thief and a coward.

CHAPTER XXII

THE PRICE OF HONOR

It was very quiet in the drawing-room of the Grange, where Mrs. Mowbray sat with an exhausted look, as if she had made an effort that had cost her much. She had just finished speaking, and was watching Beatrice, whose face was white and strained.

"But what has Gerald done? I think I have a right to know," the girl broke out.

"He wrote somebody else's name on the back of a promise to pay some money, which meant that the other man, who really knew nothing about it, guaranteed that the payment would be made."

"But that is forgery!" Beatrice cried, aghast.

"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray with a shudder; "I'm afraid it's forgery of a very serious kind, because it enabled him to obtain a good deal of money which he could not otherwise have got."

"Oh, how dreadful!" Beatrice impulsively crossed the floor and, kneeling down beside her mother, put her arm round her. "I know how you must feel it. And now I can understand Father's troubled look. He has been very quiet and stern since Gerald came home."

"Your father has more trouble than you know. Perhaps I'd better tell you about it, as you must grasp the situation. You heard that G.o.dfrey Barnett was dead, but you don't know that he died ruined by the failure of the bank."

"Ah! All our money was in Barnett's, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray. "It has all gone."

She stopped in distress. The task of influencing the girl to take a course she must shrink from was painful to her; but she had promised her husband and must go on with it. There was no other way, and it was in accordance with her traditions that the threatened honor of the family should come before her daughter's inclinations.

"Now you can see why it's impossible for your father to save Gerald by paying the money. It explains why he has been forced to ask help from Brand."

Beatrice drew back from her, as if overwhelmed.

"Blow after blow! How has he borne it all? And yet he is very brave."

"You are his daughter," said Mrs. Mowbray meaningly, though she felt that what she was doing was cruel. "You must be brave, too. I think you see how you can make things easier for him."

"Oh!" The girl drew a quick breath. Then she rose with a hot face, burning with fierce rebellion. "The fault is Gerald's, and he must suffer for it! Why should I! He has always brought us trouble; everything has been given up for the sake of the boys. Don't I know how you have had to deny yourself because of their extravagance? It's unjust! Not even my father has the right to ask this sacrifice from me!"

"Gerald cannot suffer alone. If he is arrested for forgery, it will crush your father and be a stain on Lance's name as long as he lives.

Lance has been very steady since his accident, and I dare not think of his being thrown back into his reckless ways. Then the disgrace will reflect even more seriously on you--a girl is condemned for the sins of her relatives. I do not speak of myself, because the worst that could happen to me was to learn that my son had done this thing."

Beatrice's mood changed suddenly. Her high color faded and she made a hopeless gesture.

"It's true! I feel as if I were in a trap and could not get out. It's horrible!"

She sank down again by her mother's side and struggled for composure.

"Let us face the matter quietly," she said. "Brand is our friend; he cannot be so ungenerous as to ask a price for his help."

"He is a hard man, and very determined."

"Yes; I know. I have been afraid of him. He made me feel he was waiting until his opportunity came. But, for all that, I can't believe----"

Mrs. Mowbray gave her a glance of compa.s.sionate sympathy.

"Even if Brand does not claim his reward, we know what would persuade him to do us the great service your father must ask. Can we take this favor from him, and then deny him what he longs for? There is n.o.body else who can help us, and our need is pressing."

"But I am not asking the favor!" Beatrice urged in desperation. "The debt is not mine! It would be different if I were in Gerald's place."

"You must see that you are using a false argument," Mrs. Mowbray answered gently. "A girl cannot separate herself in this way from her father and brother: the family responsibilities are hers. It may sound very harsh, but you cannot repudiate the liability Gerald has incurred.

When he did wrong, he made us all accountable."

Beatrice could not deny this. She had been taught that the family was not a group but a unit and its honor indivisible, and she had always been made to feel that it was her duty to reflect credit upon her name.

It was a comfortable doctrine when things went well; when things went wrong, however, it became very cruel. Seeing no hope at all, she fell into mute despair, and it was some time before she could rouse herself.

At last she got up with a quietly resolute expression.

"Well," she said slowly, as if it cost her a great effort, "I must try not to disgrace you by any foolish weakness. Since this is our debt, I must pay it. One understands that women have often done such things. It seems as if all the burdens were laid on our shoulders--and men call us weak!" She paused a moment, and then asked in a dead, indifferent voice: "Whose name did Gerald forge?"

"I don't know. Your father didn't tell me. I thought he tried to avoid it."