The Way of the Strong Part 72

"I think it would do you good to go away to the sea, or the mountains, Mon," he said, in his lightest manner. "It could be easily fixed, if the Doc. says you can go. A special train, no stop anywhere. What do you think?"

But Monica only shook her head.

"I don't want to leave Deep Willows, and Phyl, and you," she said plaintively. "The happiest moments of my life have been spent here. I just never want to see Winnipeg ever again. Nor Toronto. No, dear, when our son is born I want him to be born--here."

Hendrie smiled tenderly down into the poor tired eyes. He bent and kissed her.

"Son?" he said gently.

"Yes, dear. I'm sure he will be our--son."

The man sighed. He was thinking of Frank. He was thinking of another woman who had said that to him. He was thinking of all he had come to tell this woman, and he knew he must remain silent. The doctor said she must not be excited. The way he had calculated to beat the man Tug was barred to him, and he knew he had thought more of beating him than of the honesty of his purpose.

Monica looked up at him with a little sigh.

"Tell me, dear, how are the Trust affairs going?" she asked, a little eagerly. "I seem to have lost all touch with them."

Hendrie promptly exerted himself.

"Why, things couldn't be better," he said, lying deliberately.

"I'm so glad. Your scheme will win out as your schemes always do. You are--a wonderful man, Alec." She sighed contentedly. "Tell me of them."

There was no escape, and Hendrie promptly resigned himself. He knew he must draw a glowing picture for this gentle, sick creature, who loved him, and he did his best.

He told her of the general position of things, carefully suppressing everything of an unpleasant nature, or glossing them over. He just hinted at the labor unrest, feeling it would be best to leave it alone.

But Monica eagerly caught at the hints.

"Ah," she cried, starting from his supporting arm. "I knew there was labor trouble."

"You knew? Who told you?" Hendrie's surprise was marked. It was an understood thing that all that was unpleasant should be kept from Monica. He wondered if Phyllis had been foolish enough to tell her.

Monica smiled up at him. Her eyes were feverish.

"You need not be afraid, Alec," she said, with a touch of reproach in her tone. "No one has told me; no one has disobeyed orders. But it is useless to try to keep these things from me, when--they are unpleasant.

Did I not tell you all my nights were crowded with dreams that are unpleasant? I have seen this labor trouble in my dreams. I have seen it, not as you talk of it, as something to be set aside as of no importance. I have seen it in its full horror of merciless antagonism of cla.s.s against cla.s.s. I have seen the poverty, the misery and starvation driving the wretched workers to fierce and criminal outrages. It has been war, bitter war for existence on the part of these, and desperate defence on the part of folks like ourselves. I have seen cities in flames, with the streets running blood. I have seen the whole countryside afire, and we, you and I, have been always in its midst, with my poor Frank at the head of the mob. Oh, it has been dreadful, awful."

Monica had quite suddenly worked herself up into a frenzy of fever, and the man at her side looked helplessly on. The moment she finished speaking he sought with all his might to soothe her jangling nerves.

"These are fancies, dear," he said, in his direct fashion. "These are the distortions of the darkness you complain about. Listen, I'll tell you. None of these things can hurt us, and I don't think your Frank will ever lead a mob. His thoughts and impulses are far too exalted.

For ourselves I am going to Calford to sell to-day. I am going to complete the deal before any word of labor trouble affecting us can reach the public. I sell to the speculators. Then--nothing matters."

His rea.s.surance had its effect, and the sick woman sighed.

"I'm so glad. You are always just a point cleverer than any one else.

Come and tell me about it when you get back, won't you? This sort of thing helps me." Suddenly Monica turned her head and claimed his whole attention. "Tell me, Alec, do you think Frank will ever come to me? Oh, if he would only come I--I believe these dreadful nightmares would leave me. If you only knew how I long to see him. If you----"

At that moment one of his headstrong fits seized the man. It was one of those moments when the will to do rose up in him, casting aside all reason, all caution in its tremendous purpose.

"He shall come," he cried. "I--I promise you!"

The sick woman clasped her hands in an ecstasy of hope and thankfulness.

"Oh, Alec," she cried, "you promise? Then--he will come. I can be happy now. Quite happy--till you return."

But immediately Hendrie realized how he had committed himself. He saw ahead the added danger of failure. And in his moment of realization he rose abruptly from his seat on the bed. But he would not yield to his momentary weakness. His promise once given must be fulfilled. He must set about it at once. He knew that his desperate feelings at the sight of the sufferings of this woman he loved, had trapped him.

"I must go now, Mon," he cried, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "I must fulfill my promise. You see my going to Calford is lucky, for I believe _our_ Frank is there. If he is I shall bring him back with me.

Good-bye, my dearest. G.o.d bless you. Our Frank shall help you to get well."

"G.o.d bless you, Alec. You will come back to me--soon?" she cried appealingly.

The man stooped, and the woman's thin arms caught and held him in their embrace. Then, reluctantly, he moved away and pa.s.sed from the room.

Beyond the door Phyllis was awaiting him. As he came out she raised a finger to her lips to enjoin silence, and led him down the corridor.

At the head of the stairs she turned, and her eyes were alight with excitement.

"I had to see you first, Mr. Hendrie," she said, in an excited undertone, as though fearful lest Monica might hear, even at that distance. "It's--it's about Frank. You know she's just all out to see him. She's dying--to see him. Well, I've had a letter from him. I'd written him, telling him he must come, and it's his answer. He--he says he's coming right away, and I've to go into Everton to meet him. I--had to ask you first. May he come--and see Monica? Will it hurt her? You see, I just guessed I'd write without saying a thing about it, and--and now he's coming."

A silent thankfulness went up from the millionaire's heart as he smiled down into the pretty, eager face before him.

"Our guardian angel," he cried impulsively. "Why, my dear, I've only just given my solemn promise that he shall come, and I was wondering how to fulfill it."

"Then he may come? The shock? The excitement? The doctor says she must be kept from all excitement," cried Phyllis doubtfully.

"Doctor be d.a.m.ned!" cried Hendrie, in his headstrong way. "Happiness never killed any one. And"--his eyes grew serious and his manner less full of hope--"anyway," he went on, in a pa.s.sionate tone, "I'd ten thousand times rather see poor Mon die happy than endure the heartbreaking sufferings she is doing now. Wire him, my dear, wire him not to delay, but to come along at once."

Then his manner grew thoughtful, and a touch of bitterness crept into it.

"I'm--I'm going into Calford right now," he said, "and--my absence will make it easier for him. Good girl."

He patted her gently on the shoulder, and pa.s.sed down the stairs.

CHAPTER XIII

FRANK LEARNS HIS DUTY

Time had been when Frank believed that no chance of life could ever bring him to the neighborhood of Deep Willows again. Now, within a brief two years, he was eagerly watching for the familiar scenes as his hired conveyance drew near the village of Everton.

However eagerly his eyes gazed out ahead, his spirit was sorely enough depressed. He felt that he hated the golden wheat fields as they came within his view, spreading their rich carpet over the earth far as the eye could reach. He was struck, too, at the distance they had seemed to lie back in his memory. They seemed to belong to some other, long past existence that had no relation to his present. A great gulf seemed to have been crossed, a gulf, dreadful in its profundity, and somehow these lands belonged to it.

The delicious air of the plains seemed to oppress him. He felt that the invigorating breezes choked him. The golden sunlight, too, shining down upon the burnished grain, failed to raise a single pulse beat. Two years ago it would all have been so different.

But he knew that the change was in himself. Young as he was he knew that something of his youth had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from him by the ruthless hand of life. He knew that here nothing was changed. The same breezes blew over the same fertile plains. The same sun shone down with its serene splendor. The same people dwelt on this glorious land. It was only he that was different.