The Way of the Strong Part 90

"Oh, Professor," she cried, "I've so--so wanted to say something to you before. But I've--I've been scared to. You see, a--a woman's so different from a man--and--Monica is--is a woman."

"Quite so."

Phyllis saw the smile which accompanied the surgeon's words, and her helpless groping suddenly pa.s.sed. She stifled her nervousness and spoke quickly.

"Yes, I know. I'm silly," she cried. "But--maybe no one's told you. You see, it's not easy. Yes, Mrs. Hendrie's trouble I think was largely brought on by grief."

"Ah."

"I can't--can't tell you what it was. It's--it's hers. I have no right to tell it--even to you. Anyway," she went on quickly, "that grief is still with her--I expect. But it could be removed in--in a moment," she added quickly. "It would be so simple--if the excitement were----"

The surgeon's eyes lit.

"Good girl," he cried, in his quietly cordial fashion. "Now, how can the trouble be--removed?"

There was a quiet eagerness in the man's demand.

"Why--by letting Frank see her," Phyllis exclaimed. "By letting him see her and tell her that he is here--living here--here for good."

The man reached out, and taking one of the girl's hands patted it gently.

"Good girl," he said. "Now, just run off and bring this--great Frank.

Tell him what you like, and then send him to me. He shall see Mrs.

Hendrie--alone. And trust me to ask no questions. Maybe we shall find him a better doctor than any of us. You can leave the--excitement to me."

So it came about that the long, dreary period of waiting for improvement was suddenly brought to an end. Frank was the first person, except the nurses, allowed into the sick room, and he proved the tonic she needed.

That which pa.s.sed between the two remained for them alone, but the effect upon Monica was miraculous. Improvement started from that moment, and Hinkling moved about the house, his dark eyes shining with the a.s.surance of victory.

So, at last, bright days came again at Deep Willows. The influence of Monica's sudden move forward toward recovery was reflected in the entire household. Even Angus, austere, "grouchy," felt it, for the millionaire and his incessant work no longer obsessed him. Even he was glad of the breathing s.p.a.ce which the change in his employer's mood gave him.

The news traveled like lightning, and, two days later, when the great surgeon prepared for his long-delayed departure, everybody in the neighborhood, everybody in the house, down to the humblest capacity of service, knew that the mistress of Deep Willows was marching down the broad high road to health with no wavering or uncertain steps.

The millionaire accompanied the surgeon to Calford when the day came for departure, and during the long run in the automobile, in spite of his change of feelings, in spite of his great thankfulness that he was leaving Monica behind him basking in the companionship of the man and girl whom she regarded with all the affection of a mother, he was unusually silent.

The two men were lounging back in the open car. One, at least, was reveling in the sweet fresh air of the prairie lands as he sped upon the first stage of his journey back to the crowded streets of the city to which he belonged.

"I think it will be best to give her a complete change," the surgeon said, after a long, thoughtful silence. "When I say complete I mean Europe, or travel about generally. Egypt, Palestine. Even China, or j.a.pan. Take her completely out of herself, and every surrounding she's used to. There's nothing like comfortable travel in easy stages for a woman who's gone through what Mrs. Hendrie has."

"I'd thought of it," said the millionaire, settling himself more deeply on the wide seat.

The surgeon smiled.

"Then put it into practice," he returned.

Hendrie nodded. He was gazing out ahead over the long even trail. There was a grave look in his steady eyes.

"Say," he inquired, a moment later, "guess she's pretty strong--now? No danger of a relapse?"

"None whatever--I should say."

The little man's eyes were surveying the other speculatively.

"I'm--glad," said Hendrie, with a heavy sigh. "None, eh?"

"Humanly speaking--none."

Hendrie nodded with his eyes averted.

Presently he turned, and the two looked into each other's eyes, as men will who understand each other.

"She's got to hear some--news," Hendrie said, in his blunt fashion.

"Likely it may knock her--hard."

The surgeon sat up.

"About that boy--Frank? Anything against him?"

Hendrie shook his head.

"No," he said. "It's--about me."

Professor Hinkling sat back in his seat with an a.s.sured smile.

"That's all right," he said easily. "It's only that boy matters--just now."

The evening sun was streaming in through the wide bow window of the boudoir, lighting up the delicate shades of color in the costly decorations with a suggestion of spring, rather than the mature days of early autumn which were already upon the world. There was hope in the aspect of the room, hope in the brilliancy of the sunlight, hope, too, engendered of the knowledge that here was no longer a sick room, but a delightful harmonious resting place where convalescence was to be converted into complete restoration to health.

A large lounge filled the s.p.a.ce beneath the window where the patient might lie, or sit, drinking in the health-giving fragrance of the pure prairie air; where the sight of the wide blue heavens, with their robes of fleecy white, might well inspire the desire for perfect health; where the golden sun in all its glory might bathe the ailing body in its generous light, and drive back the grim shadows of sickness to the realms of darkness where they rightly belonged.

The room was littered with all those things which told of kindly hearts and loving hands. This temporary imprisonment must be made something more than tolerable. It must be made a memory for after life to look back upon, not with shuddering repulsion, but with delight at the thought of the generous love striving to bring happiness once more into an ailing life.

There were flowers, wonderful and rare; flowers which had traveled leagues and leagues to bring their message of hope of summer days to come, and delight the eye with their wonders of delicate coloring, and ravish the senses with their subtle fragrance. There were books, too, books full of life's little romances to inspire that joy of thought and sympathy, for others less blessed in a struggling world. Fruits, delicious fruits from the most extravagant and luxurious corners of the earth. A hundred and one things there were waiting upon Monica's invalid whim, and, if need be, there would be a hundred and one more.

The wealth of one of the world's rich men was at her feet. She was his idol. Nothing should be denied. No desire of hers should remain unfulfilled, if only it might contribute to the restoration of that perfect health from which she had so long been separated.

Hendrie was with her now as she reclined upon the lounge. She was still a shadow of her former self, but her eyes were alight with a wonderful peace of mind, and the joy of living. She was propped up with soft cushions, facing her husband, who was leaning forward in his chair with his hands clasped loosely, his elbows resting upon his parted knees.

He had been talking for a long time. He was still talking in a voice that was unusually subdued and gentle. He was carrying out his deliberate purpose to its last detail. He was telling her the story of that past; that past so full of pa.s.sionate wrong-doing; so full of disgraceful, but strong manhood. He had shirked none of it. By not one fraction did he deviate from the bald truth, however ugly it might appear, in whatever painful light it might discover him. By not one touch of the brush of falsehood did he seek to gloss over the harsh surface of his own ruthless acts. It was a time when only truth could serve, and he had steeled his heart to abide by the result.

Just as he had always been the unyielding man, driving straight to the goal of purpose, so he was equally unyielding to the temptation to screen himself, equally strong in his frank self-accusing. He knew no middle course. There was no middle course for him. Such did not exist.

He had brought his story down to the final details of the recent happenings at Deep Willows.

"Mon," he said, gazing straight into the unwavering eyes he loved, and speaking with gentle earnestness, "you must judge me as you will. I tell you, cost me what it may, your judgment goes. The things I have done, and been, may seem unforgivable to you. It would surely be a miracle if they did not. But before you sit in judgment on me you must know all you have meant to my life. You must know something of the depth of my love for you."

He thrust one hand into his coat pocket and withdrew the revolver it had contained for so many weeks now.