THE WAY OF THE STRONG RIDGWELL CULLUM THE WAY OF THE STRONG BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE TWINS OF SUFFERING CREEK THE NIGHT-RIDERS THE ONE-WAY TRAIL THE TRAIL OF THE AXE THE SHERIFF OF DYKE HOLE THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS THE MUZZLE OF A REVOLVER WAS COVERING HIM THE WAY OF THE STRONG BY RIDGWELL CULLUM :i AUTHOR OF 'THE TRAIL OF THE AXE," "THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS, "THE NIGHT-RIDERS," ETC. PHILADELPHIA GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED PRINTED IN IT. S. A. CONTENTS PART I CHAP. PAGE I ON SIXTY-MILE CREEK 1 II THE ROOF OF THE NORTHERN WORLD 14 III THE DRIVING FORCE 24 IV LEO 33 V THE SHADOW OF DEATH 38 VI ALL-MASTERING PASSION 42 VII DEAD FIRES 50 VIII SI-WASH CHUCKLES 55 IX IN SAN SABATANO 62 X A PROMISE 69 XI TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO 76 PART II I AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS 91 II ALEXANDER HENDRIE 103 III THE PENALTY 110 IV THE BLINDING FIRES 120 V IN THE SPRINGTIME 126 VI LIFE THROUGH OTHER EYES ' 133 VII HAPPY DAYS 141 V ' vi CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE VIII ANGUS HEARS SOME TALK ... ................. 149 IX THE WHEAT TRUST .......................... 155 x MONICA'S FALSE STEP ........................ 163 XI WHICH DEALS WITH A CHANCE MEETING ........ 170 XII THE CLEAN SLATE ........................... 177 xiii HENDRIE'S RETURN .......................... 183 xiv A MAN'S HELL ............................... 186 XV PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS ........................ 190 XVI IN THE MOONLIGHT ......................... 201 XVII PAYING THE PRICE .......................... 208 XVIH A MAN'S HONOR XIX THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE ........... 220 XX THE VERDICT .............................. . 230 PART III I THE MARCH OF TIME . . . . v ................... 234 II WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD ..................... 244 III TWO LETTERS .............................. 259 IV ON THE RAILROAD .......................... 268 v A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE ..................... 279 VI IN TORONTO ................................ 289 VII THE DECISION .............................. 300 VIII THE SHADOW OF WAR ........................ 304 IX CAPITAL AND LABOR .................. . . 315 CONTENTS vii CHAP. X STRIKE TROUBLES SPREADING. ... .............. 327 xi LEYBURN'S INSPIRATION ...................... 336 XII HENDRIE SELLS ............................. 346 XIII FRANK LEARNS HIS DUTY ..................... 355 XIV THE STRIKE ................................ 364 XV PHYLLIS GOES IN SEARCH OF FRANK ............ 375 XVI THE DAWN OF HOPE ......................... 388 XVII A RAID .................................... 396 XVIII HIS BACK TO THE WALL ...................... 404 XIX TWO MEN .................................. 413 XX THE STORY OF LEO .......................... 421 xxi HENDRIE'S WAY. , . .435 ILLUSTRATIONS THE MUZZLE OF A REVOLVER WAS COVERING HIM Frontispiece FACING PAGE THEN CAME HER ARRIVAL AT DEEP WILLOWS 144 THE MAN LEAPED FROM HIS SEAT AND FACED ABOUT 216 PHYLLIS CAUGHT HIS HANDS AND HELD THEM TIGHTLY 386 THE WAY OF THE STRONG PART I * " * ** stance of his life. Some strange fate had driven him toward an opportunity that he was not the man to miss. Charlie, that mild, harmless partner of Tug was dead; and Tug well, Tug was probably living, but he had never been a friend of his. He had always felt subtly antagonistic toward him. What mattered if if he robbed him? Yes, that was what he intended. He would rob him, and He raised the flap of the tent and passed within, letting the curtain fall behind him. Not a sound broke the stillness outside. The dogs stirred without sound. Their ease was passing. It was almost as if they knew that the law of club and trace was soon to claim them again. In a few moments Leo reappeared. A fresh change had come over him. His work was in full progress, and now the light in his eyes was less straining, less passionate. Now he was once more the man of purpose, keen, swift-thinking, ready. The passionate obsession that was his was once more under control, its desire having been satisfied in the acquisition of the bag of gold he now hugged in his arms. The keenest essence of his thought was at work. Possibility after possibility opened out in a series of pictures before his mind's eye, and, with swift slashes, like the progress of the surgeon's knife, his brain cut them about, extracting every detail of importance, assimilating the living, the vital points. Though powerless to resist the temptation held out to him, he knew full well its meaning. He knew what possible consequences hovered on the horizon of his future. The morality of his act concerned him not at all, but those other considerations demanded his closest attention. All his plans must be reorganized. Now there was no need to return for laborious years on Sixty-mile Creek, and a great joy flooded his heart at the thought. He could take up his plans where they had been broken by the disaster in the storm. But there must be a difference. There must be considerable modifica- tion. He thought of Audie, and at once the necessary modifi- cations unrolled before the keen pressure of thought he was laboring under. 48 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Audie and the Indian could still go on, he thought, as his eyes surveyed the five great husky dogs with satisfaction All that had been arranged for her could remain for the present. She was still to remain a part of his life. He had given his promise, and he was more than satisfied to fulfill it when the time in his affairs came for such fulfillment. Then there was Tug. Tug must be provided for ; and as the thought came to him a grim, half smile twisted the corners of his compressed lips. Yes, he would leave him written instructions, which, if he knew the man, would not be ignored. These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind in the midst of action. He saw the whole situation as plainly and simply as though Providence itself had ordained the whole scheme. There was only one thing that could upset it Tug's premature return. But he set the thought aside. He would not contemplate it. That must take care of itself. He would deal with it when it occurred. Reluctantly enough he bestowed Tug's store of gold upon the sled, lashing it doubly secure after his disastrous ex- periences. Then he stored bedding and food upon the vehicle. He provided a sufficient but light enough load, for he knew he must travel fast and reach the coast long before those others. Si-wash was behind him, and Si-wash knew every inch of the trail, whereas he only had a vague knowledge which might fail him at any moment. Within half an hour the pack on the sled was complete, and the great dogs stood in their harness ready to do the behests of their new master as willingly as those of the old. But the last item of his program still remained to be at- tended to. Leo searched his pockets and found the stub of a pencil, but no paper rewarded his efforts. For a moment he was at a loss. Then he bethought him of the tent, and passed beneath the flap. In a few moments he returned with a sheet of waterproof paper, such as is used to line biscuit boxes, and he sat down on his pack and began to write. And all the time he was writing the grim twist of his lips remained. He seemed to find some sort of warped humor in what he was doing. His writing finished he secured the paper on the front of the tent where it must easily be seen. Then he stood off to read it. ALL-MASTERING PASSION 49 "Mr DEAR TUG: "I find it necessary to commandeer your gold. Mine is at the bottom of a precipice ten miles back, if you care to make the exchange. Si-wash will tell you where. I suggest you either wait here till they come along, or go back to my carnp in the woods, beyond the broken hill, and join Si-wash there. Anyway you can travel down with him. They have dogs and camp outfit, and I have left here sufficient food, etc., for your needs. I have found you a better friend than I ever hoped to. So long. Good luck. "LEO." Leo read his note over with evident satisfaction. He had no scruples whatever. He saw in one direction only. Straight ahead of him, his eyes turning neither to the right nor to the left of the path of life he had marked out for him- self. He believed that the battle must always go to the strong; sentimentality, pity, were feelings he did not ac- knowledge. He knew of their existence, and deplored them as the undermining germ responsible for the disease of de- cadence which has wrought the destruction of more than half the great empires in the world's history. And what the world's history had not taught him he had gleaned from the lives of great men, as he saw greatness. Greatness to him meant conquest, and the world's conquerors had been men utterly devoid of all the tenderer feelings of humanity. They had embarked upon their careers thrilling with the lust of the ancient savage, or the ruthless courage of the animal kingdom, qualities which he regarded as the essence of life, as Nature had intended it. So he gave himself up to a similar course. He would rather be a king by savage conquest, than the hereditary monarch of a race whose vitality is slowly being sapped by the vampire of sentimentality. He picked up Tug's gee-pole, and gave one swift final glance over the camp. Then, stooping, he covered the staring face of the dead man with a blanket and turned to the dogs. A sharp command and the traces were drawn taut. An- other, and the journey had begun. The dogs, fresh from their week of idleness, strained at their breast harness, and the sled moved slowly, heavily over the dry bed of the forest. 50 THE WAY OF THE STRONG But it soon gained impetus, and the twilit shadows of the primordial forest quickly swallowed it up. As the scrunch of the pine-cones under the steel runners died away the calm of ages once more settled upon the woods. The dying fire burned lower and lower, and the deathly still- ness was unbroken even by a crackle of sputtering flame. The solitude was profound and full of melancholy. The minutes crept on. They lengthened into an hour. Then far in the distance, it seemed, came the soft pad as of some prowling forest beast. But the pad quickly changed to the soft scrunch of moccasined feet, and, presently, a man, bearing a great load of wood upon his broad back, came on through the dusky aisles of the forest. CHAPTER VII DEAD FIRES TUG did most things with a smile; but it was never the happy smile of a pleasant nature. Nor was it even a mask. It was an expression of his attitude toward the world, toward all mankind. His eyes conveyed insolent contempt ; and his smile was one of the irritating irony and cynicism which permeated all his thoughts and feelings. But his smile was for those looking on. There were times when another man looked out of the same eyes ; a man whose cold heart loomed up ugly and threatening out of those deeper recesses of feeling which the shrewd might guess at, but were rarely admitted to. Tug was a man whose selfish desire was above and before all things. He was of that temper which saw injustice and wrong in every condition of life obtaining, in every estab- lished institution of man, even in the very edicts of Nature. It was impossible for him to see anything but through the jaundiced light of his own utter selfishness. Every condition over which he had no control contained a threat, which, in his view of things, was directed against the fulfillment of his desires. He wanted the world and all its possibilities for comfort, pleasure, profit, for his own, without the effort of making it so; and had he obtained it he would undoubtedly DEAD FIRES 51 have grumbled that there was no fence set up as a bar to all trespassers upon his property. He detested the thought that others held possessions which he had not. But it was not his way to air his griev- ance from a personal point of view. He adopted a subtler course, and a common enough course among men of his class. He cloaked his own selfishness under a passionate plea for those others similarly debarred, railing at the in- justice of the distribution of the world's benefits, and storm- ing against class distinctions and all the lesser injustices which went to make up the dividing line between capacity and incapacity. In short he was, though as yet unpro- fessed, a perfect example of the modern socialist whose utter selfishness prompts methods and teachings which are the profoundest outrage against the doctrines of the Divine Master, who demanded that man should love his neighbor as himsejf. Tug had not the moral courage for an open fight, and here he was far inferior to the greater adventurer, Leo. Leo would drive roughshod over everybody and everything; the whole wide world if necessary. He would gain his end by the frank courage of the fighter, which must always command a certain admiration, even if condemnation goes with it. But Tug had no such qualities. It was for him to wriggle and twist, using anybody and anything, by subtle underhand workings, to achieve a similar purpose. But again, even in his purpose he was Leo's inferior. Leo's desire was for victory, victory in the great struggle of modern life, and not for the fleshpots which that victory would entitle him to. Tug desired victory, too, but it was that he might taste the sweetest morsels which those flesh- pots contained. Whichever way the struggle went there could be little doubt as to who would claim the applause from the balconies at the fall of the curtain. When Tug reached his camping ground he found himself in a land of dead fires. The cold, gray ashes were every- where about him. Life had gone; hope had fled. And the charred embers of the camp-fire in the center of it were the symbol of the ruin. His quick eyes took in the picture, while his cold heart read something of the meaning of what he beheld. The 52 THE WAY OF THE STRONG absence of his dogs first drew his attention, and this was su ifty followed by the realization that his sled was nowhere to be seen. Then his eyes caught the notice which was written on biscuit paper and secured to the front of his tent. He threw down his burden of dead wood, which had still remained upon his back, and stood in front of the message Leo had left him. For long minutes he stood while the words, the bitter, ironical sentences, sank deep into his selfish heart. Here he was treated to the very attitude he loved to assume himself, and it lashed him to a cold, deadly fury. Again and again he read the message and each time he read it he found fresh fuel with which to build the icy fire of his rage. The theft itself was maddening, but strangely enough the tone of impudent triumph in which Leo addressed him drove him hardest. All that was worst in him was stirred, and the worst of this man was something so malignant and unsavory that the absent Leo might well have shrunk before its pur- suing shadow. No word passed his lips ; no expression changed his fea- tures, except for the sudden cold pallor which had spread itself over them. Words rarely expressed his deeper feel- ings ; he was not the man to storm in his despair. His whole mind and body were concentrated in a deadly desire to find a means of coming up with the man who had injured him. With each passing moment the words of the message gravened themselves deeper and deeper upon his mind, until they filled his whole thought, and left him panting for re- venge. As long as he lived that message would float before his mind's eye, that message which told him of the dead fires about him, that message staring out at him upon the wreck of all his hopes. Yes, as long as he lived that moment would stay with him. As long as he lived he would wait for the ruin, even the life of the man who had wronged him. Suddenly he made a movement with his moccasined heel. It was his only expression. The pine-cones crushed under it; and to him it was the life of the man, Leo, he was crush- ing out. With a steady hand he reached out and removed the paper from its fastenings. He folded it deliberately, carefully, and bestowed it in an inner pocket. Somehow its possession had DEAD FIRES 53 suddenly become precious to him, and a certain contentment was his as he turned away and seated himself on an up- turned box. It might have seemed curious that he made 110 attempt to search his camp. It would have been natural enough. But that was the man. In his mind there was no need for search. The message, he knew, told the truth, and the blow had fallen upon a nature that would not uselessly rack its feelings by vain hopes such as a search might inspire. Be- sides, he knew this man Leo. He knew him, and hated him; and in his hatred he believed that the thought of his vain searching would give his despoiler malicious pleasure. For long he sat there before the dead fire. His comrade remained unheeded. He was thinking, thinking desperately in his cold fashion. And curiously enough the possession of that paper helped to inspire him. Already he contem- plated it as a sort of token that, in the end, he would return an hundredfold the injury done him. Yes, it should be his mascot through life, it should be a guiding star to his whole career. It should be his inspiration when the moment came. No thought of any law entered his mind. He knew that the crimes of this bitter northern world were beyond the reach of the laws of civilized man. No, the only law that could serve him was the law that each made for him- self. He would make his own law when the time came. There would be no mercy. Mercy? He smiled. And it was a smile so cruel and cold that it might well have damped the courage of the great Leo himself. Night closed down before Tug stirred from his seat ; and when the movement came it w r as inspired by the bitter cold which had eaten into his stiffening joints, and the gnawings of hunger to which he had been so long oblivious. He rose abruptly. The present was with him again, the dread present of the bitter northern trail; and he set to work with all the deliberation of a man who understands the needs of the moment, and has no thought beyond them. He rekindled the fire, and boiled the water for his tea. He pre- pared the dried fish and cooked it. Then he sat down and devoured his meal with all the relish of a hungry man without a care in the world. But he did not seek his blankets afterwards. The fire had 54 THE WAY OF THE STRONG warmed his bones, and the food had satisfied his craving stomach. So he remained where he was, smoking and think- ing; dreaming the ugly dreams of a mind devoid of any of the tenderer thoughts of humanity. Hours passed, and the long sleepless night dragged on toward a gray, hopeless dawn; and, by the time the black woods began to change their hue, and the gray to creep almost imperceptibly down the aged aisles, his last plans were complete. Then he arose and stretched himself. He put his pipe away, and replenished the fire with the last of the wood, finally setting water thereon to boil. Then, picking up his axe, he moved off into the deeps of the wood. In half an hour he returned with a burden of rough-hewn stakes which he flung down beside the fire, while he prepared his breakfast. He devoured his meal hurriedly, and within another half hour was at work upon his final tasks. He stored all his property inside the tent, removing the furs and blankets from his dead comrade. It almost seemed like desecration. Yet Tug knew what he was at. It would not do to leave the body encased in warm furs. The man would have to be buried later. In the meantime the cold would freeze the body, and preserve it until such time. Now the purpose of his stakes became evident. Even Tug, selfish and callous as he was, acknowledged his duties to the dead. He knew the prowling scavengers of the forests too well to leave his comrade without sufficient protection. So he proceeded to secure the body under a cage of timber which would defy the attacks of marauding carnivora. With Charlie left secure his work was complete. Broad daylight was shining among the rugged crowns of towering pines. The moment had come for his departure. He would obey the letter of Leo's instructions. He would follow the path he had marked out for him. Afterwards he would choose his own path; a path which he knew, somewhere in the future, near or far, would eventually bring him within striking distance of the quarry he intended to hunt down. SI-WASH CHUCKLES 55 CHAPTER VIII SI-WASH CHUCKLES IT was Si-wash who first witnessed the approach of the newcomer ; and he at once realized that it was not the return of his friend, Leo, the man whom he still liked, in spite of the madness which he believed now possessed him. So he watched thoughtfully from the shadow of the fringe of the forest. He peered out over the white plain upon which an ineffective sun poured its steely rays, while he studied the details of figure and gait, which, in a country where contact with his fellows was limited, were not likely to leave him in doubt for long. Presently he vanished within the woods. He went to convey his news to the waiting woman, the woman whose heart was full of a dread she could not shake off, whose love was silently calling, calling for the return of the man who was her whole world. But his news must be told in his own way, a way which, perhaps, only an Indian, and those whose lives are spent among Indians, can understand. He came to the fire and sat down, squatting upon his haunches, and remained silent for some minutes. Then he picked up a red-hot cinder and lit his black clay pipe, which he produced from somewhere amidst the furs which encased his squat body. "We go bimeby," he said, after a long pause. "No storm no snow. Him very fine. Good." Audie's brooding eyes lifted from the fire to the Indian's broad face. All her fear, all her trouble was shining in their depths. The man saw and understood. But he did not comment. "We can't go yet," she said. "We must wait. Leo will come back. Oh, I'm sure he'll come back." The Indian puffed at his pipe, and finally spat a hissing stream into the fire. "Maybe," he said. The woman's face flushed. "Maybe? Of course he'll come back," she cried with heat. "He he has gone to collect wood." 56 THE WAY OF THE STRONG The Indian nodded and went on smoking. "Him fetch wood. Sure," he said presently. "Him go day night morning. Si-wash fetch wood. One hour two three. Then Si-wash come back. Si-wash not crazy." Suddenly Audie sprang to her feet. Her eyes flashed, and a fierce anger swept through her whole body. "Leo is not crazy. Don't dare to say he is," she cried vehemently. "I I could kill you for saying it." The Indian gave no sign before the woman's furious threat. He smoked on, and when she had once more dropped to her seat, and the hopeless light in her eyes had once more returned, he removed his pipe from his mouth. "Si-wash you kill 'em. It no matter. Leo, him crazy still. You stop here an' freeze. So. It much no good." The man's good humor was quite unruffled, and Audie, in spite of her brave defence of her lover, despairingly buried her face in her hands. "But he will come back, Si-wash!" she cried haltingly. "Say he will. You know him. You understand him. He must come back. Say he must. He can never travel this country on foot, without food or shelter. Oh, say he must come back!" But Si-wash was not to be cajoled from his conviction. He saw the woman's misery, but it meant nothing to his unsentimental nature. Leo had gone. Well, why should she worry? There were other men in the world. This is what he felt, but he would not have expressed it so. Instead of that he merely shook his head, and spoke between the puffs of his reeking pipe. "Leo no come. But the other, him come. Tug, him come quick. Maybe him speak of Leo." In a flash the girl's beautiful eyes shot a gleaming inquiry into the man's coppery face. "Tug? Tug coming here? It's it's you who're crazy. Tug is miles away. He must be getting near the coast by now. He must be safe by now, safe with his precious gold." "Maybe him not safe. Maybe him lose him gold, too." "You mean ?" Audie caught her breath as she left her inquiry unfinished. "Nothing. All same Tug him come here. I see him. Hark? Sho! That him he mak noise." SI-WASH CHUCKLES 57 The Indian turned slowly round and stared out into the twilit woods. Audie followed the direction of his gaze and sat spellbound, listening to the sound of hurrying feet as they crushed the brittle underlay of the woods. The Indian's dogs, too, had become alert. They were on their toes, with bristling manes and deep-throated grumbling at the intrusion. As Tug came up Si-wash rose and clubbed the dogs cordially. In a moment ,they had resumed their places beyond the fire circle, and, squatting on their haunches, licked their lips and yawned indifferently. "Tug !" Audie was on her feet staring at the apparition of the man she had believed was even now nearing the coast. Nor did the man's usual ironical smile fail him. "Sure. Didn't you guess I'd get around after what has happened?" Audie eyed him blankly as he waited for her to speak. The Indian, with his eyes fixed upon the fire, had not stirred from his seat. For the moment he was forgotten by these white people. He moved now. It was a slight movement. Very slight. He merely thrust one of his lean hands inside his furcoat. His movement was quite unnoticed by the others, and as Audie stared, quite at a loss for words, the man went on "Well? He's got away with it. Maybe you're satisfied." Tug's smile was unequal to the task. The cold rage under it made its way into his eyes. And as she listened a curious change crept into Audie's eyes, too. Si-wash, with his attention apparently on the fire, was yet quite aware of the change in both, and his hand remained buried in the bosom of his furcoat. Audie had suddenly become very cool. She pointed at the box which had been Leo's seat. "You'd better sit down," she said coldly. "You seem to have something to tell me." "Tell you?" Tug laughed. "Do you need telling?" he asked, as he dropped upon the seat. Audie resumed her place at the opposite side of the fire. The Indian smoked on. 58 THE WAY OF THE STRONG "You'd best tell us all you've got to tell," Audie said, with cold severity. "At the present moment you appear to be quite mad or foolish." Her manner had the effect of banishing the man's hateful smile. He stared at her incredulously, and, from her icy face, his eyes wandered to the motionless figure of the silent Indian. "What the hell!" he cried suddenly. "Do you want to tell me that you don't know what Leo's done? Do you want to tell me the whole lousy game isn't a plant, put up by the three of you? Do you want to tell me ?" "I want to tell you, you're talking like a skunk. If you've got anything to tell us tell it in as few words as possible, or get out back to your camp." It was a different woman talking now; a very different woman to the forlorn creature who had appealed to Si-wash a few minutes ago. Just for a second the Indian's eyes flashed a look in her direction, and it was one of cordial approval. But neither of the others saw it, and if they had it is doubtful if either would have understood. For the mind of Si-wash was one of those deep, silent pools, far more given to reflection than revealing their own secrets. Tug stared brutally into the woman's face. Audie was displaying a side to her character he had never witnessed before. She was alone with him the Indian didn't count in his reckoning she had no hesitation in dictating to him, even, as he chose to regard it, insulting him. His astonish- ment gave him pause, and he pulled himself together. Then he found himself obeying her in a way he had never thought of doing. Suddenly he thrust his hand into the bosom of his clothing and withdrew it swiftly. His whole action was the impulsive result of a rush of passionate feeling. Nor did it require his words to tell of the cgndition of mind he was laboring under. "Read that," he cried furiously, "if you are as ignorant of his doings as you make out. Read it, and and be damned." He flung out his arm across the fire, his hand grasping the biscuit paper on which the fateful message was written. SI-WASH CHUCKLES 59 Quite undisturbed by his brutality Audie took the paper and unfolded it. "It was left fastened on the front of my tent while I was away fetching wood," Tug went on bitterly. "I came back to find my dogs gone, my sled, half my stores, Charlie dead, he had been dying for a week, and and that paper. Read it curse it, read for yourself." The Indian never once lifted his eyes from the fire, the warmth of which was an endless source of comfort to him. He was thinking, thinking of many things in the deep, silent way of his race. Tug waited impatiently while the woman devoured the contents of the message. She read it once twice even a third time through; and while she read, though her expres- sion remained the same, all her emotions were stirred to fever heat. She was thinking swiftly, eagerly, her brain quickened to a pitch it had never realized before. Her love for Leo was urging her the more fully to grasp the position in which his latest act had placed him. This outrage against the man, Tug, in no way lessened her concern for her lover, for his welfare. The primitive woman was always uppermost in her. She cared not a jot that Tug had been despoiled. Leo was well, Leo was alive and safe. But was he safe now? A sudden alarm along fresh lines startled her. The meaning of what she read took a fresh complexion. Leo had robbed robbed this man. What must follow if it were known? For a moment this alarm shuddered through her body. Then she steadied herself. Her mind suddenly became very clear and decided. She suddenly saw her course clear before her, and her voice broke the tense silence round the crackling fire. She read the message for the fourth time. Read it aloud slowly. As she proceeded the impassive face of the Indian re- mained unchanged. He was listening listening acutely, but so still, so indifferent was his attitude that the chafing Tug scarcely realized his presence. Audie's voice ceased, and for a moment no one spoke. Then with a muttered imprecation Tug held out his hand. "Give me the =r-s paper," he cried roughly. 60 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Audie did not appear to hear him. "Pass it over!" he demanded, still more roughly. The woman looked up at him. Then she held the paper out, as though to pass it across to his outstretched hand. The next moment it dropped from her fingers and fluttered into the heart of the fire. With a wild ejaculation Tug sprang to rescue it, but even as he rose to his feet he stood transfixed. The muzzle of a revolver was covering him, and behind the muzzle was the copper-hued visage of the forgotten Si-wash. "Let 'em burn," he said, in his low guttural tones. "Him writing heap bad med'cine." The paper curled up and burst into flame. Tug, furious but helpless, watched the hungry flames devour it. Then, as it crumbled away into the red heart of the fire, Si-wash returned to his seat. But his revolver remained upon his knee, and his thin, tenacious fingers gripped the butt of it firmly. "Si-wash is right," said Audie coldly. She had not risen from her seat. "Leo was foolish to write that. Still, I am glad now that he did. It has told me what to do. You see, he said nothing when he went from here, and I thought I should never see him again. Now I know that I shall. Now I know that he is well and safe yes, safe, since that paper is destroyed. Well" she looked her visitor squarely in the eyes "what are you going to do? You are welcome to avail yourself of our transport, as Leo suggests under conditions." Tug's fury held him silent. His busy brain was searching for a means to escape from the dictation of this woman, for a means by which to assume domination of the position for himself. As yet he could see none. So Audie went on with the tacit approval of her faithful comrade. "You can travel with us, but you will carry no firearms. You see, I don't anticipate that your feelings are particu- larly kindly toward us. Anyway we'll take no chances. You can go home to your camp now. To-morrow morning, if the weather holds, you can join us. We'll meet you in the open, somewhere near your camp. Mind, in the open, and you'll come to us with your hands up. We shall then search you SI-WASH CHUCKLES 61 for weapons. After that, if things are satisfactory, we'll take your outfit on our sled, and you can travel with us. Remember, Leo's welfare is my one care. Well?" Tug rose. In a moment the Indian's gun was covering him. "Look 'im over for gun now," Si-wash said, addressing Audie in his brief guttural fashion. Audie nodded. "You'd best put up your hands, Tug," she said, with a smile, as she rose from her seat. "Si-wash is a dead shot." Tug obeyed. His hands went slowly up, and Audie passed round the fire, and undid his fur coat. As she did so her eyes sparkled. "You've got them both on," she said, unstrapping the ammunition belt supporting two revolvers about his waist. "That'll simplify matters. You see, I know them. One is Charlie's, and the other yours. They are the only guns you possess. Good. Now you best go." But the compelling gun of the Indian could no longer keep Tug silent, and his pent anger broke out in harsh abuse. "You !" he shouted. "You think I can't get back on you, but I can. I will. I'll get your man, Leo, if I wait years. I'll break him I'll break the life out of him. I'll "Maybe." There was a hard glitter in Audie's eyes as she interrupted him. "One thing, you've got no evidence against him. Charlie is dead, and that paper is burnt. It is your word against his. When you meet it will be man to man, and I don't guess there's a doubt who's the best man. You best go home now." Tug made no attempt to obey. He was about to speak again to hurl some filthy epithet at the woman, who had outwitted him for her love's sake, but the Indian gave him no chance. In a second the threatening gun was raised again. "Go 'm quick ! Dam quick !" Si-wash cried savagely. Tug's eyes caught the threatening ring of metal. For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned and strode off. The steady eyes of the Indian watched him until the woods had swallowed him up. Then he turned, and followed silently 62 THE WAY OF THE STRONG in his wake, while Audie remained to dream fresh and more pleasant dreams before the fire. Half an hour later she looked up as her comrade and champion returned. "Gone?" she asked, with upraised brows. "Sho' ! Him go." Si-wash crouched down over the fire and spread his hands out to the warmth. Presently he looked up with eyes twinkling with subtle amusement. "Him big feller, Leo. Good. Him much gold now. So. Tug him no good. When him find Leo, Leo kill him. Leo big feller." As he finished speaking a curious sound came from some- where deep in his throat. And though his impassive face remained unmoved, though not a ghost of a smile was ap- parent, Audie knew that the man was chuckling with sup- pressed glee. She, too, felt like laughing, and it was the first time she had so felt since the hideous nightmare of the storm, and its accompanying disaster. CHAPTER IX IN SAN SABATANO SAN SABATANO was not a big city, but it was a very busy one. At least its citizens thought so, and their four-sheeted two-cent local news-sheet fostered their belief. No doubt a New Yorker would have spoken of San Sabatano as a "Rube" town, an expression which implied extreme provincialism in the smallest possible- way. It also implied that its citizens had never turned their eyes upon those things which lay beyond the town-limits, within which they had been "raised." In short, that they knew nothing of the life of the great world about them, except what their paper told them in one single column. Naturally enough one column of the worlds news against twenty or more columns of local interest gave readers a false perspective, especially when every citi- zen of any local standing usually found a paragraph devoted to his own social or municipal doings. But then the editor was a shrewd journalist of very wide experience. No, he had not been "raised" in San Sabatano, IN SAN SABATANO 6S He had served his apprenticeship on the live journals of the East. He understood men, and the times in which he lived. More than all, he understood making money, and the factor which his women readers were in that process. So the world's news was packed into obscure corners, and San Sabatano was the hub around which his imagination revolved. So it came about that this individual had for months darkly hinted that the San Sabatano Daily Citizen had some- thing up its editorial sleeve with which it intended to stagger humanity, and startle its readers into a belief that an echo of the San Francisco earthquake, or something of that nature, had reached them. He told them that the mighty combination of brain that controlled the Daily Citizen and guided San Sabatano public opinion had given birth to an epoch-making thought ; a thought which, before long, when the rest of a sluggish world read of it, would lift San Sabatano as a center of enterprise, of learning, of culture, to the highest pinnacle of fame known to the world. San Sabatano stood agog with breathless expectancy for weeks. Then came the humanity staggerer. It occupied a whole page of the Daily Citizen. The type was enormous, and had been borrowed for the occasion. Fortunately it came in a slack time. The citizens of San Sabatano had been so long held agog that nothing much else had been doing to afford the editor local copy. There- fore the epoch-making brain wave had full scope, and the use of a prodigal supply of black and red ink. It was a competition. Yes, a mere competition. That was the first disappointing thought of everybody. It almost seemed as if the staggering business had fizzled. Then digestion set in, and hope dawned. Yes, it was not so bad. By Jove! As a competition it was rather good. Good ? why, it was splendid ! It was magnificent ! Wonder- ful! What was this? A competition for women clerks. Speed and accuracy in stenography and typing. Twelve prizes of equal value. Five hundred dollars each, or a month's trip to Europe, including Paris, Vienna, Berlin, Rome, London. And the final plum of all. The winning twelve to compete among themselves for a special prize in addition. A clerkship in the office of the Daily Citizen at 64 THE WAY OF THE STRONG two hundred dollars a month, an office to herself, and a year's contract! Yes, if he hadn't staggered humanity, the editor had certainly set excitement blazing in hundreds of young fem- inine hearts, and upset the even tenor of as many homes. For weeks, pending the trial of skill, that astute individual nursed his scheme and trebled his circulation. Nor was it to be wondered at that many times during the preliminary stages of organization, as he watched the increasing daily returns of his precious paper, he sat back in his creaking office chair and blessed the day he married the wife, whose sister had just won a similar competition somewhere at the other side of the continent. At the closing of the entries it was found there were just two thousand competitors. Success for the scheme was assured, and quarts of ink told the gaping multitude that this was so. Then came the day of the competition. It was to be held in the Town Hall. So well was the interest and excitement worked up that, all unpremeditated, half the smaller business houses were closed for the day ; a fact duly commented upon in the later issues of the paper. The competition lasted all day, and it was late at night when the last weary, palpitating competitors finally reached homes, which were still in a state of anxious turmoil. There was no news of the winners that night. There was none the next morning. Nor the next. The editor knew his business and talked columns in his own praise, and in praise of the manner in which the women of San Sabatano had responded to his invitation. A week passed, and then a special edition brought the long-awaited announcement which dashed the hopes of one thousand nine hundred and eighty-eight burstling feminine hearts. It was a simple sheet, with a simple heading. No splashes of colored ink. It gave the list of the twelve win- ners of the competition in dignified type, and invited them to meet at the editor's office at noon next day, to compete for the coveted special prize. Among the names of the winners was that of Monica Hanson. The following day Monica attended the final competition. IN SAN SABATANO 65 She did her utmost, spurred on by the driving necessity which had just been thrust upon her brave young shoulders. Now she was sitting in the San Sabatano Horticultural Gardens waiting for the evening issue of the paper which was to tell her, in cold, hard type, the news which was either to crush her eager young soul in despair, or uplift her to realms of ecstatic hope and delight. Oh, the teeming thought of those straining moments. It flew through her brain with lightning-like velocity, spasmodic, broken. One moment she had visions of pleasures hitherto denied her in a solitary career, eked out on a wholly inade- quate pittance doled out to her monthly by her dead mother's solicitors in far-off New York. At another she was obsessed by the haunting conviction that such good fortune was impossible. Yet she felt she had done well in the examina- tion, and, anyway, she would certainly take that five hundred dollars she had already won in preference to the European tour. It would mean so much to her, especially now now that this fresh call on her resources had been made. After long disquieting moments she finally sprang up from her seat. Her nerves were getting the better of her. She thought she heard the raucous call of the newsboy. She listened ; her pretty brows drawn together in plaintive doubt. Yes, no her heart was thumping under the white lawn shirt- waist she was wearing, in spite of the fact that it was still winter. But winter in San Sabatano was as pleasant as many another town's summer. In all the history of that beautiful southern Californian town the thermometer had never been known to register freezing point. She made a pretty picture standing there amid a setting of fantastic tropical vegetation. The cacti, great and small, with their wonder-hued blooms and strange vegetation, were a fitting background to the girl's golden beauty. She was quite southern in her coloring, that wonderful tone of rich gold underlying a fair almost transparent skin. Her waving, fair hair shone with a rich, ruddy burnish, crowning a face of perfect oval, lit with eyes of the deepest blue, which shone with pronounced intelligence and strength. No, her nerves had not played tricks with her. It was the newsboy. She could see him now, just beyond the park gates. He was selling his papers all too fast. So, with 66 THE WAY OF THE STRONG tumultuous feelings, and a heart hammering violently against her young bosom, she darted off to catch him. She reached the gates and slackened her pace to a decorous walk. The boy had just handed an elderly man his paper, and was searching for the odd cents of change waited for. Having paid his customer off he looked admiringly up into Monica's pale face. His shrewd eyes grinned impishly, and he winked abun- dantly, so that the whole of one side of his face became painfully distorted. "Say, ain't you Miss Hanson, Miss ?" he inquired, with the effrontery of his kind. Monica's heart beat harder. But she replied with an icy calmness. "Yes. That's my name. But " The boy's eyes sparkled. "Then I guess the paper is sho' worth 'two bits' to you," he cried, thrusting the folded sheet at her. Then his feelings and covetousness getting the better of him, he added, "Gee, five hundred dollars, an' two hundred a month! Say, how do it feel gettin' all that piled suddenly on to yer. Miss?" In a flash Monica's dignity had vanished. "What what do you mean?" she cried, almost hysteri- cally. "I " Her fingers trembled so violently that she tore the paper nearly to ribbons struggling to open it in the breeze. The boy grinned. "Gar'n. You ain't smart any. Guess you best hand me that 'quarter' an' I'll show you wher' to look." He was as good as his word, and handed her another paper folded at the right spot, nor, to his credit, did he wait for the money in advance. "You won it sho'," he said, and waited while in a daze Monica read the wonderful news " 'We have much pleasure in announcing that the winner of our Special Prize of a position on our staff at $200 per month is Miss Monica Hanson, whose wonderful speed, etc., etc.' ' Monica waited for no more. Snatching at her satchel she opened it and drew out a single one-dollar bill, and pushed it into the willing hand of the expectant boy. IN SAN SABATANO 67 "Keep the change," he heard her say, as she almost flew down the sidewalk of the tree-shaded main street. The boy looked after her. Then he looked at his dollar bill. "Wai, guess she ain't got all the luck goin'," he murmured philosophically, as he pocketed the well-worn note. Monica hurried on at a pace, though nearly a run, far too slow to suit her mood. Never, never in her life had she felt as she felt now. Never, never. It almost seemed as if the whole world were before her with loving, outstretched arms and smiling face, waiting to yield her all that her young heart most desired. In a vision every face that passed her by in her rush home seemed to be wearing a happy smile. Even the trees overhead rustled whispered messages of de- light and hope to her in the evening breeze. This was cer- tainly the one moment of moments in her brief seventeen years of life. She had hoped, she had dared to hope; but never in her wildest thoughts had she really expected to win this wonder- ful good fortune. Two hundred dollars a month for a year ! Five hundred dollars capital to work upon! And all this added to the pittance which thus far she had lived on while she studied stenography. It was too, too wonderful. She thought of all she could do with it; and at once there grew on her joyous horizon the first threatening cloud. There was her sister, the dearly loved, erring, actress sister who had come back to her out of those terrible wilds in the far north of Canada. Thank God this good fortune had come in time to help her. Poor, poor Elsie, or Audrey, as she called herself on the stage* What terrible troubles had been hers. Deserted by the man she loved, left alone with an Indian, and another unfortunate white man, to make her way back to civilization. The thought of her sister's sufferings smote her tender young heart even in the midst of her own rejoicings. She had al- ways disliked and feared Indians hitherto, but now, since she had listened to her sister's pitiful story of her husband's leaving her, and of the wonderful loyalty and generosity of the Indian, Si what was his name? Ah, yes, Si-wash somehow she warmed towards them. It seemed wonderful to think of an Indian having such generosity as to give poor 68 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Elsie the money to get to San Sabatano from Juneau out of the payment he had received in advance from the journey from Sixty-mile Creek. Why, it must have taken nearly all he had. Monica in her impulsive way felt that she would like to repay him, to shake hands with him, and thank him. But her sister had told her that he had gone back into the northern wilderness, which nothing could ever induce him to leave for long. It was a strange life and tney were strange people. Even her sister had acquired something of the reticence and somberness of the world she had left behind her. Poor Elsie. She seemed to have made such a mess of her life. She had been doing so well, too, in New York. Why had she thrown it all up to marry this man, Leo, and wander off to the Yukon ? What a funny name, Leo. It seemed to be his sur- name, too. Leo ; it was all right for a first name, but Elsie had insisted that it was his name, and the one she liked to call him by. And now, here she was fretting her poor heart out for him. Oh, it was a shame. Men were perfect brutes. And to leave her under such conditions, and at such a time. She blushed as she thought what she would feel if her husband had left her when she was going to have her first baby. The thought left her anxious. But even her anxiety for her sister was lessened by the knowledge of her own good fortune. She remembered the nurse, who was even now up in the small apartments she occupied, and the doctor she had engaged. A week ago she had trembled at the thought of how she was to pay these people, and provide her sister with even the bare necessities of a confinement. Now, now it was different, and a fresh wave of thankfulness for her good fortune flooded her simple heart. Yes, her sister should have every care. Everything she could do to make her happy and comfortable should be done. And then, when the baby came, wouldn't it be delight- ful? She would be its fairy god-mother. She hoped he would be a boy. Fancy Elsie with a son. Wasn't it wonder- ful? And she she would give him every moment of her spare time from the office. Ah, that wonderful thought the office. A PROMISE 69 So her thoughts ran on, keeping pace with her feet. The wonders of the new world opening out before her eyes were inexhaustible, and long before she was aware of the distance she had covered she found herself at the door of the cheap little apartment house where she lived on the top floor. There was no elevator, and she ran at the stairs, taking them two at a time. Her good news would not wait. She must tell her poor sister. She was dying to pour all the happy story into her ears, and watch the wistful smile grow upon Elsie's troubled, handsome face. On the sixth landing she stood breathlessly fumbling in her satchel for her key, when the door opened and the nurse appeared holding up a warning finger. "Come quietly," she whispered. "The doctor is with her now. It came on quite suddenly. I hope things will be all right, but she's in a bad way." In a moment all the joy and hope died out of Monica's tender heart. All the castles, all her dreams, fell into a tumbled ruin. Her sister, her beautiful, brave sister was in danger. She knew it. She knew that the nurse's words covered far more than they expressed. Oh, it was cruel, cruel. CHAPTER X A PROMISE THREE hopeless days since the coming of that brief mo- ment of overwhelming joy. The reaction had been all too terribly sudden for a young girl on the threshold of life. Monica sat at her dying sister's bedside crushed under a great grief. Those terrible three days. The demands made upon her by the reporters of the Daily Citizen. The interviews she had had to endure with the ech'tor. The letters she received. Some from strangers ; some from acquaintances. Letters of congratulation ; letters full of burning spite from some of the unsuccessful competitors; vampire letters demanding sympathy and practical help, pouring out stories of misery, sorrow and suffering. All these, in her simplicity, she felt 70 THE WAY OF THE STRONG it her duty to answer; and she must answer them with smil- ing tvords of hope and comfort. She must at all times keep a smiling face. To the reporter she had to talk and laugh while her heart was breaking. To the editor she must offer her most engag- ing smile that his personal goodwill be assured at the outset of her career. Nor, for one moment, did she permit a sign of the aching heart underneath it all. At the end of those three days she was an older woman by far than twice her seventeen years. She was learning from the book of life in a manner that left her almost despairing. How much she learned. That smiling world she had gazed upon as she ran home with her wonderful news was no longer smiling, its face had resumed its wonted expression which was careworn, lined with suffering, and sorrow, and regret; and was terribly, terribly old. She had learned something of what her success meant. She knew now that her success meant failure to hundreds of others. She knew that so it must always be. The successful path must be lined with a tangle of weeds of suffering and hope abandoned. For every success there must be, not one but hundreds of failures ; for such was the law of Life. Thus she was robbed of her joy and thrown back upon the grief which lay across her own threshold. The verdict had been given that morning by the doctor; and corroboration of it was in the steady eyes of the nurse. Her sister, her well-loved, admired elder sister was dying. She was dying not as the happy mother of a beautiful son, but as the deserted wife left to starve for all her husband cared. She was dying a broken-hearted creature whose won- derful, generous nature had been made the plaything of a cold, unscrupulous villain. All this Monica told herself over and over again as she sat beside the silent, uncomplaining woman during those long hours of waiting for the end. Her beautiful eyes were red with weeping, her pale cheeks looked so wan with the long hours of silent watching. The nurse was still there to do her work, but most of her work was now the care of the little life in the bed that had been put up at the other side of the room, rather than with the woman who had given up her life that her love might yield her absent man this one last pledge. A PROMISE 71 Poor little Monica was alone, utterly alone with her grief. There were no warm words of kindly comfort to soften her troubles. There was no loving mother's gentle hand to soothe her aching head. The world was there before her, hard, unsympathetic. She must face it alone, face it with what courage she might, doing the best she knew amid a grief which seemed everywhere about her. An infantile cry from the other bed startled her. She rose and passed across the room. The child seemed to be asleep, for its breathing was regular, and the cry was not repeated. She gazed down upon its tiny, crumpled face, and her young heart melted with a curious yearning and love for the little life that was robbing her of a sister. It was so small. It was so tender and and it had cost so much. She longed to take it in her arms and press it to her girlish bosom. She loved it. Loved it because it was her sister's and soon would be all she had in the world to remind her of the generous heart from which life was so swiftly ebbing. "Monica!" The girl started and looked round. The dying woman's eyes were wide open. "Come here." The voice was low, but the words were quite distinct. It was the first time she had spoken for more than twelve hours. Monica passed swiftly back to her place at the bedside. "Oh, Elsie, Elsie," she cried, "I'm so glad you have spoken. So, so glad." A faint smile flickered gently oVer the sick woman's emaci- ated features. "Are you?" "Yes, yes. Oh, Elsie, you feel better, stronger, don't you ? Say you feel better. I I know you do." Monica's last words came hesitatingly, for even while she was speaking a negative movement from the sick woman told her how vain were her hopes. "It is no use, Mon. But I'm perfectly easy now. That's why I called you. I want to talk about him. You you love my little son, don't you?" There was pleading in the voice as the woman asked the question. "I saw you bending over him just now, and and I thought hoped you did." "Oh, Elsie, he is yours. How could I help but love him?" 72 THE WAY OF THE STRONG The words came impulsively, and Monica dropped a warm hand upon the transparent flesh of her sister's. Her action was promptly rewarded by a feeble pressure of acknowledg- ment. "I I knew you would." After that neither spoke for some moments. Tears were softly falling down Monica's pretty cheeks. But her sister's eyes were closed again. It was almost as if she were gather- ing her strength and thoughts for a final effort. Presently Monica grew alarmed. She dashed the tears from her eyes, and bent over the bed. "Shall I fetch nurse? Is there anything I can do?" she asked eagerly. The big eyes opened at once, and the light in them was a calm smile. The dying woman looked almost happy. To Monica's growing understanding of such things her happi- ness might have been the inspiration of one who sees beyond the narrow focus of human life; whose swiftly approaching end had revealed to her tired eyes a glimpse of the wonder- ful world she was approaching, that golden life awaiting all, be they saint or sinner. "I don't want any one but you, dear now." The voice was tired, but a sense of peace was conveyed in the gentle pressure of her thin fingers upon the soft" warm flesh of her sister's hand. "I I want to tell you of things. And and I want you to promise me something. Oh, Mon, as you love me, as you love my boy, I want you to give me your promise." Monica seated herself on the edge of the bed and tearfully gave her promise with all the impulsiveness which her love inspired. "You only have to tell me what it is. I could promise you anything, Elsie. I have only one desire in the world now; it is to to help you." Her sister's eyes closed for a moment. Then they opened again. "Raise me up a little, dear. Put a pillow behind my shoul- ders. I want to to see the bed over there. I want to see my little son, his his boy. That's better." She sighed con- tentedly as Monica raised her up, and her big eyes at once fixed themselves upon the other bed. [There was nothing to A PROMISE 73 be seen but the carefully arranged bed clothes, but, for the time at least, it was sufficient. "I want to tell you the thing's I never told you before. I want to tell you about Leo; and I want to talk about my my boy. Leo and I were not married." A little gasp of horrified dismay escaped the young girl. She was so young that as yet her ideals of life were still intact. The thought of such a thing as her sister now spoke of had never entered her innocent head. "Ah, that that hurts you," the other went on. "I knew it would. I I that's why I lied to you before. I lied when I said Leo was my husband. Oh, Mon, don't let it make any difference to us now. The time is getting so short." "Nothing could ever make any difference between us," Monica said, in a low voice. "I was startled. You see " "I know. Ah, my dear, my dear, you don't know what it is to love as I love. I met Leo a long time ago>, when I was an actress. He knew me as Audrey Thorne, an actress, and I I wanted to marry him. But you see he had nothing on which to keep a wife an extravagant woman as I was then. So, he went away, and and I followed him. You must think me utterly, terribly bad but I loved him. I fol- lowed him right up into the wilds of the Yukon, and and I lived with him." "Poor, poor Elsie." Monica's dismay had passed, and she gently squeezed the hand she was still holding. The pressure seemed to give the other courage to proceed. "You mustn't pity me too much. I I was very happy. I was very happy until I knew about my little son. It was then that I realized the awful sin I had committed. It was then I knew the cruel wrong I had done to that unborn life. I I think I was nearly distracted when it all came upon me." Her voice had risen. It was almost strident with emotion. "For weeks I thought and thought what I could do to remedy my wrong, and at last I took my courage in both hands. I told Leo, and and asked him to marry me for the child's sake." "For the child's sake?" The admission which the words implied filled the simple Monica with something like panic. "You see, Leo never loved me as I loved him," 74 THE WAY OF THE STRONG "Oh, Elsie, Elsie!" "Yes, dear, I forced myself upon him." The tragedy of her sister's life had almost overwhelmed the girl. The whole pitiful story wrung her heart with its pathos, its shame. Her sister. Her beautiful, clever sister. Oh, it was too, too dreadful. After a while Elsie roused herself again. There was a lot yet to be said, and she knew her time was short. "I am all to blame. You mustn't blame Leo," she said earnestly. "He was a good man to me. I know you think he has deserted me. But he hasn't. That is not him. He promised to marry me, and, had I lived, he would have kept that promise. We were coming down country for that pur- pose." She paused. "Then something happened which made it necessary for him to go on ahead. That's how I came to make the journey with the Indian. It it couldn't be helped. You you mustn't blame Leo. He will be looking for me. Is very likely looking for me now. But it is too late. That is why I want you to promise me something." Monica waited. She could find nothing to say. She was learning another of the bitter lessons which life has to teach when the book is once opened. Presently the other went on "You see, neither of us can now remedy the wrong I have done my little son. As I said, it is too late. I shall be gone before Leo can marry me." The big eyes became eager. They looked up with piteous straining into the gentle face before them. "Do you see? Oh, Mon, do you understand? My boy our boy has no father; and very, very soon will have no mother. Oh, Mon, what can I do, what can I say? Can can you help me?" But Monica was gazing helplessly before her. The warmth of her love for her erring sister was no less. But she was thinking, thinking, striving with all her might to seek a solution to the painful tangle of her poor sister's life. "I I can't Tell me, Elsie tell me anything I can do for him. I don't seem able to think for myself," she cried hopelessly at last. Something of Monica's difficulty seemed to communicate itself to the other. Her brows drew together in perplexity. A PROMISE 75 "It is so hard," she said suddenly. "I have thought and thought, and I can only see one possible hope only one. That hope is you." "How? Oh, Elsie, tell me how. What can I do?" With a sudden effort the mother propped herself up with her elbows behind her. Her dying eyes were burning bright with feverish light. All the hope of her poor dying soul looked up into her sister's face as her final appeal rushed to her lips. "How? Why, why, by taking him as your own son. How? Oh, Mon, his own mother is taken from him. Then give him another. Make him your own child whose father is dead. It would be easy for you. You married young, and your your husband died died at sea. He will never know differently. No one will question it. Oh, my dear, don't you see? Bring him up as your own child, born in wedlock, and never let him know his "mother's shame. Promise me, your sacred promise to a dying woman, that he shall never know, through you, his mother's shame, and his own disgrace. Promise it to me, Mon, it is the only thing that can give me peace now. Forget everything I have told you. Forget the disgrace I have brought on you. Forget everything except except only your promise. Promise! Promise !" Her fingers tightened almost painfully upon Monica's hand. She was laboring under a fierce emotion, almost suf- ficient to bring on a collapse. The feverish eyes were blood- shot, and a hectic flush burned on her thin cheeks. The impulse of the moment was upon Monica, and she leaned forward. Her other hand was tenderly raised to the woman's moist brow, in a loving, soothing manner. "I promise, dear ; I promise on my sacred word that what you ask me shall be done. Henceforth he shall be my son. Nor shall he ever know through me the cruel wrong the world has done to you. I promise you, Elsie, dear, freely, freely. And all my life I will strive to keep the real truth of his birth from him." "Thank God!" The reaction was terrible. The dying woman fell back on her pillows, and her features suddenly became so ghastly that Monica sprang from her seat in wild alarm. She ran 76 THE WAY OF THE STRONG to the door to summon the nurse. But the voice from the bed stayed her. "No, Mon, not yet." Then the dying woman added with an irresistible appeal, "Give me my boy, for for a few minutes. After that Monica ran to obey with an only too thankful heart. But her instinct warned her that the end was not far off. She laid the sleeping child tenderly by its mother's side, and placed her thin arm gently under its shoulders. She felt maybe she was doing wrong, but poor Elsie. Elsie's eyes thanked her, but her voice remained silent. And for a long while there was an unbroken quiet in the room. Monica moved to the window and stood with her back turned to the bed. Somehow she felt that these moments were too sacred for another's eyes to witness. Slowly fresh tears gathered in her eyes, tears of sympathy and love, and one by one they rolled unheeded, slowly down her cheeks. And as they fell the last moments of her sister's life ebbed peacefully away. CHAPTER XI TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO MONICA'S life suddenly became filled to overflowing. She was no longer a child, but a woman of a maturity that was almost absurd in one so young. The happy, irresponsible girlhood she had so long enjoyed in her mother's modest uptown apartment had quite gone. Whatever the future might hold of happiness for her, certainly freedom from the more serious cares of life would never again be hers. Five years ago she and her mother had bade Elsie good-bye in the same humble apartment, when the elder girl had left San Sabatano to go on the stage in New York. Monica was twelve then. Twelve; and her young eyes and younger mind were filled with a boundless envy and admiration for the beau- tiful sister who was to bask in the wonderful limelight of the stage, and wear clothes far beyond the beauty of all TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO 77 dreams; and jewels jewels, whose splendor was incompara- ble to the beauty of her lovely, lovely Elsie. Had she only known it she was very near the truth when she thought of the jewels her sister would wear. Her mother was one of those quietly good women who contrive to inspire their children with something of their own qualities by example rather than precept. Neither Elsie nor Monica ever knew what it was to receive one of those harsh reprimands so common among mothers of less under- standing, of less ability. Her children must grow up guided rather than driven. All their lives this had been her method. Therefore it came as a terrible shock to her when the more wayward of the two, perhaps, in a sense, the bolder spirit of the two, suddenly announced her intention of leaving the sheltering dovecote, where money was never very plentiful, to earn her living in the flamboyant world of the stage. True to her methods, and with, perhaps, a deeper under- standing of her child, and the uselessness of refusal, the mother's permission was not long withheld. It was a reluc- tant enough permission, but given without any outward sign of the disapproval she really felt. Moreover, she was con- vinced of the rightness of her attitude. The girl, she knew, would live her life as she understood it. Her only duty re- maining, therefore, was to equip her with all the knowledge of the world that lay within her simple range of understand- ing. For the rest the child's fate was in the lap of the gods. But she never seemed to quite get over the parting. For a long time she bore up with great fortitude, and her devo- tion to Monica became a wonderful thing. It was almost as if she feared that she, too, her one remaining child, might be taken from her, and swallowed up by the hungry maw of the outside world. She heard regularly from Elsie for some time. Elsie was getting on quite well. Then letters became less frequent. And, finally, about the time that Elsie met Leo, they ceased altogether. It was then that the signs of break-up began to show in the patient woman at home. She had died quietly and quickly of heart failure just a year ago. Monica's grief was profound. But she was too young for any lasting effect to remain with her. She lived on in the apartment without any thought of leaving it. The 78 THE WAY OF THE STRONG whole thing seemed the most natural In the world to her. Her mother's solicitor wrote her, and offered her a home with his family, but, with prompt decision, she refused it. She told him that if her mother's affairs permitted it, she would rather remain in San Sabatano, where she had all her girlhood's friends, than break new ground among strangers. Her mother's affairs yielded her the barest living, so she remained, determined to make a way for herself in the world, her own world, as other girls of her acquaintance had done. Now she had reached the second, and, in many ways, the greater change in her life. Where, before, only her childish affections had been bruised and crushed at her mother's death, now she realized that she had all too suddenly passed from the sunlit paths of innocent childhood, to the harsher road down which all the world was journeying; struggling, jostling, each striving to seize for themselves the easier, the pleasanter paths along which to make the journey of life. But the change in her was subtle. There was no outward effect, there was no disturbing of the wholesome, happy nature that was the very essence of her being. The change was in an added knowledge, a quickening of naturally alert faculties. She realized that some strange force had suddenly plunged her into the midst of a life which demanded quick thought and swift action, so that her pulses might be kept beating in perfect time to the pace at which life sped on about her. She realized that she had suddenly become one of life's workers, and that grave responsibility was already knocking at her door. From the very beginning she accepted the new conditions gladly. She felt an added zest to the fact of living. The old days of dreaming were gone. Every mo- ment of her waking hours was filled with thought, keen, practical thought; and the demand thus made on her found her ready and able. There was no fluster, no confusion of any sort. Her healthy brain was quick and incisive, charac- teristics quite unsuspected even by herself. Not only was this so, but, with the added pressure, there came a quiet desire to test her newly discovered powers to the uttermost. There were other changes, too, changes of almost equal importance. She found herself witnessing the progress of affairs about her with an entirely new understanding of them. TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO 79 All her understanding of the precepts of her youth received revision ; a revision which was inspired by the story her sister had told her on her deathbed. The shock at first had been a little overwhelming, but, young as she was, her ready brain quickly assimilated the facts, and set itself to the task of readjusting its focus. There was no bitterness, no horror at her discoveries. She simply realized that here was a small slice of life cut out by the same ruthless knife which no doubt served hundreds of similar purposes among the rest of mankind. Who was she to criticize, who was she to condemn? Her knowl- edge was all to come, and maybe, as she went on, she would discover that such tragedies were part of the real life which up to now had been entirely hidden from her. She had no blame for her dead sister. Her memory was as sacred to her as if she had lived the most perfect life of purity under the social laws governing man's relationship to woman. Her love once given was not a thing to be promptly rescinded by the failure of its idol. The idol might fall, and become besmirched in the unsuspected mire, but her frank, kindly hands were ready to set it up again and again, and perhaps in time her broader knowledge would teach her how to secure it from further disaster. Perhaps the first real warning of the change in her came at the moment she considered her sister's funeral. Here un- doubtedly a shock was awaiting her, and, in a moment, there leaped into her focus a teeming picture of almost endless complications. Just for an instant all her nerves were set jangling, and an utter helplessness left her painfully dis- tressed. Then the feeling as abruptly passed, her mind cleared, and, one by one, she found herself reviewing each detail of the situation, and marking out the course she must adopt. First and foremost her sacred promise to the dying woman stood out in all its nakedness, entirely robbed of its cloak of impulse and affection, in which it had been clad at the time of its making. And from that promise, radiating in every direction, she saw boundless possibilities for more than unpleasant consequences. She knew she must make up her mind swiftly, and she did so in an astonishing manner. A sleepless night found her 80 THE WAY OF THE STRONG in the morning ready with her plans all clear in her mind. She still had nearly three weeks before taking up her new position in the office of the Daily Citizen. This would be ample time to put everything in order. It was necessary to take the doctor into her confidence. He had been their doctor for as long as she could remember. He had attended her mother in her last illness, and knew their whole family history as well as she knew it herself. Therefore she did not anticipate any difficulty with him. So the third morning after her sister's death she visited him at his house, and confided sufficient of her sister's story to him to enlist his sympathy, without any breach of the confidence reposed in her. She pointed out her own position, and begged his help in hushing the whole matter up. Dr. Bernard Strong was a man of wide sympathy and understanding, and in giving his promise of help, pointed out the gravity of the position which her quixotic .promise had placed her in. "My dear," he said, "this is almost a terrible business for you. Here you are, bound to this town for at least a year, with a newly born infant in your care, which you cannot explain away, without breaking your promise to poor Elsie. You are known. You have many friends. What in the world are you going to do?" It was then that Monica dispayed the quick, incisive working of her suddenly aroused mental faculties. She told him in brief, pointed words the plans she had made during the long, wakeful night. "It does not seem so so very difficult," she said. Then she plunged into the details of her schemes. She pointed out that her tenement was a weekly one, which she could get rid of as soon as Elsie was buried. This she would do. Then she would take rooms far out on the outskirts of the town. She would first find a house for the baby in the country, a few miles out, where he was not likely to be brought into contact with the townsfolk. That would be a start. After that she would meet any emergency as it arose. The help she wanted from him was to arrange the funeral, with all the secrecy possible, and see that the law was com- plied with in regard to the baby. His registration, etc. The quick practical manner in which she detailed all the TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO 81 minor details to this man of experience filled him with a profound admiration, and he told her so. "It is astounding to me, Monica," he said kindly, "that you, a girl of seventeen, can handle such a matter in the calm manner you are doing. Perfectly astounding. You certainly ought to do well in this business career you are about to begin. Really you have made things seem less er formidable. But, my dear child, I feel I must warn you. You see, I am so much older," he went on, with a smile. "I have seen so much of the world the sadder side of the world, that I cannot let this moment pass without telling you of the rocks I can see ahead, waiting to break up your little boat. Your tale of an early marriage and all that, if the boy becomes associated with you in the minds of people in the town, will never do. At once they will think the worst, and then what of your position on the Daily Citizen? Then when the time comes for you to marry? What then?" "I shall never marry now," was Monica's prompt and decided reply. The doctor shook his head. "It is so easy to say that. Believe me, my dear, you have tied a millstone about your neck that will take your utmost strength to bear. I even doubt if you will be able to bear it for long. You are about to embark on a career of false- hood which will find you out at almost every turn. It is quite terrible to think of. Poor Elsie did you the greatest wrong, the greatest injury, when she extracted that promise from you. And," he added, with a wry smile, "I fear, from my knowledge of you, you will carry it out to the bitter end until it utterly overwhelms you." Monica stepped off the veranda of the doctor's house with none of the lightness of gait with which she had mounted it. She realized the gravity of her position to the full now, and knew that, without breaking her sacred word to a dying woman, there was no means of remedying it. But she was quite determined, and walked away with her pretty lips tightly compressed, her blue eyes gazing out unflinchingly before her. Nothing should turn her from her purpose. It was Elsie's trust to her. It was the cross she had to bear. Come what might she would bear it to the end, even if at the last its weight were to crush the very life out of her. 82 THE WAY OF THE STRONG The next three weeks passed rapidly. Monica had no time to look back upon the trouble which had so involved her, she had little enough time to gaze ahead into the wide vista of troublous rocks the doctor had promised her. In fact she had no time at all for anything but the crowding emergencies of the moment, and keeping the well-meaning friends and curious neighbors as far from the secrets of her inner life as possible. Nor was it easy ; and without Dr. Strong's help many of her difficulties would have been well-nigh insurmountable. But he was as good, and even better, than his word. The whole of the funeral was achieved without any unnecessary publicity, and Monica and the doctor were the only mourners. Then the latter found a home for the boy on a farm, three miles out of the town, where a newly born babe had just died, and so, in the end, everything was accomplished just as Monica had planned, without one unnecessary question being asked. Thus, by the time the winner of the special prize took up her duties in the office of the Daily Citizen., of all San Sabatano Dr. Strong alone shared Monica Hanson's secret. A secret, it was her future object in life to keep en- tirely hidden from the world. Monica entered upon her duties with a lighter heart than she had known for weeks. Everything was as she could wish it. All traces of her sister's shame had been carefully covered. Practically no sign was left to delight the prying eyes of the curious scandalmongers. Her future lay before her, wide, and, to her, illimitable. Her aims and ambitions were fixed plainly in her mind. She must succeed; she must rise in the commercial world; she must make money. These things were not for herself. No, she required so little. They were for him, for the little life so cruelly wronged at its very outset. Henceforth her own life would be devoted to his. Her whole thought would be for him and his welfare, not only for the child's sake, but in memory of the love she had borne her dead sister. How well the editor of the Daily Citizen had judged the competitors for the special prize was quickly demonstrated. Monica's zeal was backed by the suddenly aroused acuteness of an unusually clever brain, and, before a month had passed, the complacent individual in the editorial chair had excellent TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO 83 reason for again congratulating himself. He had intended from the outset that the winner of the princely prize and unusual salary should earn every cent of it, but he found in his new clerk an insatiable hunger for work, and a capacity for simple organization quite astounding, and far beyond any demand he could make on it. In this beginner he quickly detected a highly developed germ of commercial instinct; that germ so coveted, so rare. He tried her in many ways, seeking in a more or less fumbling way for the direction in which her abilities most surely pointed. Stenography and typing, he quickly saw, were mere incidents to her. She had other and larger abilities. Frequently in dictating letters he found himself discussing matters pertaining to them with her, and she never failed to center her mental eye upon the point at issue, driving straight to the heart of the matter in hand. The man was frankly delighted with her, and, in the shortest possible time, she became a sort of confidential secretary, whose views on the organization of his paper were often more than useful to him. It was about this time that the editor's sanctum was in- vaded by a stranger; a big stranger of quite uncommon ap- pearance. The man was simply dressed in good store clothes, which covered a powerful, burly figure. But the chief interest lay in the man's face and head. It was a strong face. To use Mr. Meakin's own description of him to his young clerk some time later, he possessed a "tow head and a face like emery cloth." He gave no name, in fact he refused his name. He came to insert an advertisement in the paper, and to consult the editor upon the matter. His objects were so definite that, in spite of the refusal to give his name, Mr. Meakin decided to see him. Monica was away at dinner, or he would probably have turned him over to her. However, when the man finally appeared the editorial mind was pleased at the study his unusual personality offered him. The stranger very nearly filled up the doorway as lie entered the inner office. "Guess you're the editor?" he began at once, dropping into the chair Mr. Meakin kicked towards him. 84 THE WAY OF THE STRONG "Sure," Mr. Meakin was always sparing of words to strangers. "Ah." Then, so long did the man remain silent that the editor found it necessary to spur him on by a method he usually adopted in such cases. He pressed the button of his dummy telephone with his foot. The bell rang out, and he lifted the receiver to his ear. "Hullo! Who is it? Oh, that you, Allards? Oh, is it important? Well, I'm engaged just now. I shan't be three minutes. Yes, I'll come right along then. Goo'-bye !" He looked across at his visitor as he put the receiver up. "Sorry to interrupt you. I didn't just get what you said." A flicker of a smile passed across the visitor's serious face. "It's of no consequence," he said. "Guess I must have been thinking aloud. You see it's kind of a fool trick having the button of that dummy 'phone in sight under the table. Guess the feller who fixed it was a 'mutt.' ' "Eh?" Mr. Meakin's face went suddenly scarlet. He was about to make a hasty reply, but changed his mind, and laughed with a belated sense of humor. "It's served its purpose anyhow," he said genially. "What can I do for you?" The stranger responded to his humor at once. "Don't guess you can do much. Maybe you can tell me a deal. I'm looking for some one whose lately come to this city. A lady. Maybe you get a list of visitors to this city in your paper." "At the hotels yes." "Ah, I don't guess she's stopping at an hotel. Came to visit her sister. Her name's Audrey Thorne." "Audrey Thorne," Mr. Meakin searched the back cells of memory. He seemed to have heard the name at some time or other, but for the life of him he could not recall where. "Guess I'm not wise," he said at last, with a thoughtful shake of his head, while he eyed his visitor shrewdly. "Any- way, if I knew of the lady, tain't up to me to hand informa- tion to a stranger without; a name." The stranger promptly rose from his seat. "Just so," he said, with a sharp clip of his powerful jaws. TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO 85 "I'll ask you to read this over," he went on, producing a sheet of paper from his pocket, "and say what it'll cost to have it in your news-sheet for a week." He handed the paper across the desk, and Mr. Meakin admired the bold handwriting in which the advertisement was set out. " 'Will Audie send her address to Box 4926 P. O. Win- nipeg? Sign letter in full name. Leo.' ' Mr. Meakin read it over twice. Then he looked up keenly. "Guess it'll cost you ten dollars," he said. "Sunday edition two dollars extra. In advance." The stranger paid out the money without comment and moved towards the door. Then he looked back. "There'll be no mistake. It's particular," he said deliberately. "There'll be no mistake." "Thanks." The stranger pocketed the receipt for the money with some care. The door closed behind the man who signed himself as "Leo," and Mr. Meakin heard him pass down the passage to the outer office. Then he turned to the stack of local copy at his elbow. He was quite used to strange visits from stranger people, so he thought no more of the matter until nearly an hour later when Monica returned from her dinner. As she entered the wholesome, airy apartment, with its soft carpet and comfortable furniture, he looked up quickly. "Say, Miss Hanson," he said, holding out a pile of proofed copy. "This needs classifying. It goes in tomorrow's issue. Get it through before four. Say, and you might hand this in to the advertisement department. A guy with a tow-head, and a face like emery cloth handed me twelve dollars for a week and Sunday. Reckon he's chasm' up his lady friend, and she's guessin' to lie low." He passed her Leo's advertisement, and went on with his work. Monica waited for any further instructions to come, and, as she stood, glanced down at the sheet of paper containing the advertisement. In a moment her attention was riveted upon it, and a sickening feeling stole through her whole body. 86 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Then her pulses were set hammering with a nervousness she could not control, and she felt faint. At that moment Mr. Meakin happened to look up. "Well?" he inquired. Then he became aware of the pallor of the pretty face he was accustomed to admire, when Mrs. Meakin was safely within the walls of their home on the outskirts of the city. "Say, you're not well," he exclaimed kindly. Monica promptly pulled herself together. "It's it's just the heat," she stammered. "I'll go and see to these. Anything else?" "Nothin' else just now. Say, don't worry too much if the heat " But Monica had fled before he finished his well-intentioned admonition. Once in her own office she flung herself into the chair at her desk, and sat staring at the ominous sheet of paper. "Leo!" she muttered. "Whatever am I to do? Whatever am I to do?" For a long time the pile of copy remained untouched while she struggled with the problem confronting her. She viewed it from every aspect. And with each fresh view it troubled her the more. What was her duty? What was the right course to pursue? This man was Leo. Elsie's Leo. She had no doubt of it. Leo, the father of Elsie's boy. If Elsie had lived she would have welcomed him. But Elsie was dead. Elsie was dead and carried with her her promise never to let the child know his mother's shame. Ought she to tell the father of this child? Ought she to give him up? It would be an easy way out of all her difficulties. Yet she had prom- ised to bring him up as her own. No, she would not give the boy up. It was plainly her duty to keep him, and yes, she knew it her desire. But equally she had a duty of some sort to fulfil by this man. He must not be left in ignorance of Elsie's death. He must be told that or he would haunt this town, and become an everlasting source of disquiet to her. Yes, there was a duty to herself as well. She must safeguard herself; safeguard the child. And with this conclusion came an inspiration. She would write to him on her typewriter, and leave the letter unsigned. TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO 87 So she passed the advertisement on to its department, and, on a plain sheet of paper, sent the briefest possible message to the post office, Winnipeg. "Audie died in child birth." There was neither heading nor signature, and she deter- mined to have it mailed from another town. The more she considered it the more her message pleased her. She was keeping her promise to her sister, and fulfilling what she believed to be her duty to the man. He had asked for news of Elsie ; well, here was news which was the exact truth. Her work was duly completed by four o'clock, and she awaited a call from Mr. Meakin. There would be a number of letters to take down, she knew, when his editorial work was finished for the day. In the meantime she had leisure to reflect upon the visit of the man, Leo. It was curious. Almost a coincidence that he should call when she was out. Had she been in it would have fallen to her duty to have interviewed him first. As it was she had missed seeing him. It was a pity. She ought to have seen him. Yes, she would have given half a month's salary to have seen him A bell rang; but it was not Mr. Meakin's bell. It was from the outer office. She took up the 'phone at once. Could it be ? "Hello! Oh! Some one to see Mr. Meakin? Who is it? What's that? Austin Leyburn? What's that? He's dressed funny? All right, send him in to me. Right." Monica put up the receiver and waited. It was not Leo, and she was disappointed. Austin Leyburn. She didn't know the name. There was a knock at the door, and, in answer to the girl's summons, it was thrown open by the small boy who piloted visitors. "Mr. Austin Leyburn, Miss!" Monica indicated a chair as the door closed behind her visitor. He took it without hesitation, and she found herself gazing upon a most extraordinary object. He was obviously a powerfully built man with a keen, alert face and narrow eyes. He was smiling at her with a curiously ironical smile which rather annoyed her. But his general appearance was deplorable. His clothes were so unclean and ragged that, 88 THE WAY OF THE STRONG even among tramps, she never remembered seeing anything quite like them. They were patched and torn again in a dozen different places, and it would have been impossible to have described their original color with any accuracy. Yes, there could be no doubt he was a tramp of some sort. Yet when he spoke his manner was not that of a tramp. How- ever, as a precaution, Monica kept her foot over a push button which did not belong to a dummy 'phone. "If you'll state your business, I'll inquire if Mr. Meakin will see you," she said, in her most business-like way. "He's very busy. You see, the paper will be going to press soon." "I don't guess I need to worry the boss if you happen to know about things." The man's manner was sharp, but his smile remained. Monica became interested. There was noth- ing of the usual whine of the tramp here. "I deal with all inquiries," she said simply. "Confidential?" "That depends on the nature of the confidence." "Ah. Maybe what I'm after won't be reckoned confi- dential." "If you'll " "Just so, Miss. Well, see here, maybe it isn't a heap ex- cept to me. I'm after a feller who calls himself Leo," he said distinctly. Monica started. The man's quick, smiling eyes saw the start and drew his conclusions. "I see you know him. I knew he'd been here. Came this morning. You see he's after a woman belonging to this city. I guessed he'd get around. I'm on his trail and want him bad. Maybe you can put me wise where he's stopping?" Monica shook her head with a calmness she was by no means feeling. "I shouldn't tell you if I knew. You're quite right, I know the man by name, but that's all. You see, we know many people by name but there our information to strangers ends." "So." Mr. Leyburn eyed her coldly. "Maybe Mr. Meakin, as you call him, will " "Mr. Meakin will tell you no more. In fact, if this is your business Mr. Meakin will not see you." Monica pressed the bell under her foot. The man laughed harshly. TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO 89 "Well, it don't matter. Guess I'll come up with him sooner or later. Maybe he'll look into this office again another day." He rose, and his hard eyes shone with a metallic gleam. "If he does you can just tell him that Tug is on his heels. He's looking for him bad. So he best get busy. Good-day." The small boy threw open the door, and stood aside to allow the visitor to pass out. Nor, in spite of the curious threat in the man's words, could Monica help a smile at the impish manner in which the boy held his nose as the man passed by him. The stranger's visit left an unsavory flavor behind him. Monica was disturbed, and sat thinking hard. She was striv- ing hard to raise the curtain which shut out her view of the life lying behind all these people. She was striving to visualize something of that life with which poor Elsie had so long been associated. A number of vague pictures hovered before her mind's eye, but they were indistinct, unreal. She could not see with eyes of knowledge. How could she? Was not this life belonging to another world. A world she had never beheld, never been brought into contact with? No, it was useless to try to penetrate those dark secrets which she felt lay hidden behind the curtain she was powerless to draw aside. Yet she knew these things had not come to her to be set aside and forgotten. They had come to her for a purpose. What was that purpose? She tried to see with her sister's eyes. What would Elsie have done, with Leo threatened? Ah, that was it ; that was the purpose. Her sister's responsi- bility had devolved upon her. Elsie would have taken some action to help Leo. What would she have done? She thought and puzzled for a long time. Then she pressed the bell under her desk once more. An inspiration had come. When the boy appeared she demanded the proofs of the day's advertisements. She waited impatiently until the boy returned, and then kept him waiting while she hastily extracted the one she re- quired from the pile. She read it over carefully. Leo had worded it to suit her purpose well. Suddenly she took up her blue pencil. She dashed out the word "Winnipeg" and 90 THE WAY OF THE STRONG substituted "Toronto" in its place. And without another glance at it handed the papers back to the boy. "That's all," she said briefly. But the boy was full of the impertinence of his kind. "Toronto?" he read. "Say, Miss, ain't that the place they have ice palaces an' things?" he demanded, with a grin. Monica was in no mood to answer his questions. "Take them back," she said sharply. As the boy slouched off she leaned back in her chair with a sigh of relief. She had done her best to put the man calling himself Tug off the track of his quarry. AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS 91 PART II CHAPTER I AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS MONICA HANSON stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. For a long time she stood viewing her fair reflection with a smile at once half humorous, half tearful. Thirty-five ! It sounded terrible as she muttered the age she knew herself to be. Thirty-five! Yet the perfect blue eyes were not a day older, as they looked back at her out of the glass. There was no hardening in their depths; there were no gathering lines about their fringed lids. Perhaps there was a deeper, wiser look in them; a look suggesting a wider knowledge, a more perfect sympathy with the life into which they had peeped during her years of struggling. But there was no aging in them. The rich, ripe mouth, too, so wonder- fully firm, yet gentle, the broad, intelligent forehead with its fair, even brows. There was not one single unsightly line to disfigure these features which displayed so much of the strong character which lay behind them. Her wealth of fair, wavy hair, which since her earliest days had been her one little conceit, her constant joy and pride, was faultlessly dressed, nor had she ever yet found in its midst one of those silver threads whose discovery never fails to strike terror into the heart of an aging woman. No, she beheld nothing in her reflection to cause her a single pang, a single heartache. Yet her heart was aching; and the pain of it was in the smile which came back to her from her reflection. Had Monica only known it, the years had been more than kind to her. With a little more womanly vanity she would have understood that her girlish attractions had been in- creased a hundredfold. Not only had the years matured her figure to perfections which can never belong to early youth, but they had endowed her with a beauty of soul and mind, far more rarely found in one of such unusual physical attraction. 92 THE WAY OF THE STRONG But such ponderings before her glass were useless, per- haps harmful. It was all so impossible. So she turned away with a little impatient gesture, and, picking up the letter lying on her bed, she passed through the folding doors into her sitting-room beyond. The winter sun was shining in through frosty windows ; that wonderful winter sun which brightens and makes joyous the Canadian dead season, without shedding sufficient warmth to disturb the thermometer from its despairing depths of cold. She crossed to the window, and stood beside the heat radiator while she read her letter for perhaps the twentieth time. It was quite short, and intensely characteristic of the writer. Monica understood this. The lack of effusion in no way blinded her to the stormy passion which had inspired it. "DEAR MONICA : "I am going to call on you at 4 o'clock this afternoon, if you have no objection. If you have, 'phone me. I simply cannot rest until the subject of our talk the other night is settled. "Yours, "ALEXANDER HENDRIE." There was a wistful longing in her eyes as the woman looked up from the brief note. The subject of their talk. He could not rest. Had she rested, or known peace of mind since that evening? She knew she had not. She knew that come what might that calm which belongs to a heart un- touched by love could never again be hers. She knew that love, at last, had come knocking at the door of her soul ; nor had it knocked in vain, in spite of the impossibility of it all. She had not 'phoned. Instead she had spent two hours over her toilet to receive the man who was her employer, and had now become her lover. No one knew better than she the happiness that might have been hers in her newly found regard for this great wheat grower of Alberta, had things only been different. She loved him ; she had admired him ever since she came into his employ, but now she loved him with all the long-pent AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS 93 passion of a woman who has for years deliberately shut the gates of her soul to all such feelings. She knew her love must be denied. There was no hope for it. The trials she had gone through for the sake of her pledge to her dying sister were far too vividly in her mind to leave her with any hope for this love of hers. She must crush it out. She must once more steel herself, that her faith with the dead might be kept. She dropped upon the ottoman beside the window, and, gazing out on Winnipeg's busy main street, gave herself up to profound thought. Her incisive brain swiftly became busy, reviewing the career which had been hers since since young Frank, her beloved boy, the child who had cost her a sister's life, had become her one object and care. Her deep eyes grew introspective, and her pretty lips closed firmly. She had not traveled an easy road during those years. Far from it. The rocks prophesied by the kindly doctor had been quickly realized. They had come well-nigh to wrecking her craft at the outset. Only that its ribs were so stout, and the heart that guided it so strong, it must in- evitably have been doomed. So much for her youthful conceit ; so much for the bound- less optimism of her years. She was caught among the very first shoals that presented themselves in the ebb tide of her fortunes six months before the completion of her contract on the Dally Citizen. Would she ever forget the yes, tragedy of that moment? She thought not. Everything had gone along so smoothly. Her fears had been lulled. There was no sign to point the coming of the disaster. Yes, that was it. There had been overconfidence. The complications at her sister's death had been forgotten. There had been no unpleasant developments to remind her of the pitfalls with which she was surrounded. So she had grown careless in her confidence. In the warmth of her girl's heart, her rapidly growing love for the little life in her charge, she found herself spending every moment of her spare time with the child she intended to teach to call her "mother." They were happy days. The joy of them still remained. 94 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Nor, for all the trouble they had caused her, did she regret a single one of them. But her indiscretion grew, and so the blow fell. It was on a Sunday. In the afternoon. She remembered it well; a glorious sunny day in early summer. She was pushing the baby coach along the sidewalk of the broad coun- try road toward the city. She had paused to readjust the sunshade over the child's head. When she looked up it was to discover a light, top buggy, drawn by a fast trotter, rapidly approaching. Mr. Meakin was driving it, and beside him sat his little, chapel-going wife. They saw her and promptly pulled up; and instantly Monica knew that trouble was knocking at her door. Mrs. Meakin did not like her. She did not approve of her hus- band's secretary ; and Mrs. Meakin was one of those narrow, straight-laced puritans, who never cease to thank Provi- dence that they are so pure. "Why, it's Miss Hanson," she promptly exclaimed. "And oh, the lovely baby. Why " She looked at Monica's scarlet face and broke off. Mr. Meakin took up the greeting in the cordial fashion of a man who is well disposed. "Say, Miss Hanson, it's a hot day for you to be pushing that coach. You surely ought to be around an ice cream parlor with one of your beaus. Not out airing some friend's kid." But Monica's confusion only increased under the sharp eyes of Mrs. Meakin, which never left her face. "A baby can't have too much of this beautiful air," she said helplessly. "Why doesn't its mother look after it?" demanded Mrs. Meakin. "She's she's busy." Monica's attempts at evasion were so feeble, she had so little love for subterfuge, that, to a mind as prone to sus- picion as Mrs. Meakin's, the word "mystery" quickly pre- sented itself. "Whose is it?" The inevitable question seemed to thunder into the wretched girl's ears. Whose is it? Whose is it? It was useless to lie to this AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS 95 woman, whom she knew had no love for her. So on the spur of the moment she did the only thing that seemed possible, seeing Mr. Meakin was her employer. But she did it so badly that, even while she spoke, she knew her doom was sealed. "She belongs back there." Monica pointed at the distant farm house. "That house?" cried Mrs. Meakin sharply. "Why, that's Mrs. Gadly's. I " She turned abruptly to her hus- band. "We'd better drive on, or we'll be late back for supper, and that will make us late for chapel." With a flourish of his whip, and a cheery good-bye, Mr. Meakin set his "three^minute" trotter going again, and Monica was left to her dismay. She knew. She needed no instinct to tell her. It had all been written in Mrs. Meakin's icy face. The woman would find out all about the baby she had seen her husband's sec- retary with. She would smell out the whole trail with that nose which was ever sharp for an evil scent. She continued her walk thinking hard all the while, and finally took the child back to its nurse at the usual time. Mrs. Gadly met her at the front door, and Monica put a sharp question. "Has Mrs. Meakin been here?" "She surely has, mam," replied the woman, smiling. "And a God-fearin' woman she is. I've known her years an' years. I didn't jest know you was her good man's secretary. She's a lady, she is ; a real, elegant lady. An' she was all took up with the baby, an' the way I'd looked after him. She said as it was a great thing for a woman who 's lost her baby to have the care of another woman's child, kind o' softens the pain. An' when I told her as you paid me so liberal for it Why, mam, you ain't faint? Ah, it's the sun; you best come right inside and set down." It had been a terrible moment for Monica. She knew that her career in San Sabatano had suddenly terminated. The God-fearing Mrs. Meakin would have no mercy on her, particularly as she was her husband's secretary. She returned to her apartments that evening with her mind made up to a definite course; and, on the Monday morning following, before she went to her office, she looked 96 THE WAY OF THE STRONG up her contract with the Daily Citizen. She took it with her. She knew that the tiling she was about to do was a tacit admission of the child's parentage. But she intended it so to be, since truthful explanation was denied her. Mr. Meakin was amiability itself. But there was evident relief in the sigh with which he accepted the return of the girl's contract. "I'm real sorry, Miss Hanson, real sorry," he said sin- cerely. "But I guess you're right, seeing things are as they are. You see, Mrs. Mea you see, San Sabatano has no- tions. I'd just like to say right here, though, I'm the loser by your going. I'm the loser by a heap. An' whenever you're wanting a reference I'll hand you a bully one. Just you write me when you need it. Meanwhile the cashier'll hand you a check for salary, right away." Yes, whatever his wife's attitude toward her, Mr. Meakin stood her good friend, for, on her departure, the cashier handed her a check for three months' salary which she had not earned! After she left San Sabatano her fortunes, for a while, be- came more than checkered. Her "ups" were few, and her "downs" were considerably in the ascendant. For a long time her youth prevented her obtaining work in which there was any scope for her abilities and ambitions, consequently the salaries were equally limited in their possibilities. Often she had to accept "free lance" stenography and typing, and not infrequently auxiliary clerk work of a humdrum and narrowing order. But to none of these things would she definitely commit herself, nor would she permit them to shut out the sun of her ambitions. She would keep on working, and watching, and waiting, for that opportunity which she felt was bound to come in the end. Thus, with each reverse in the stern battle she was fight- ing, she grew wider in her knowledge of life as it was. Her upbringing had blinded her, and her own simple honesty and faith had further narrowed her focus. But these things were passing, and her view widened as the months lengthened into years. But her trials were many. Not the least of them was when, as Miss Hanson, it was discovered she was always accompanied by a boy with blue eyes and fair hair, practi- AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS 97 cally the color of her own. Nor was there any chance of quieting the voice of scandal, when it was known that the particular child always called her "mother." Twice this occurred in boarding houses of an ultra-re- spectable tone, which, on the whole, was not so damaging as it was annoying. But when her supposed offence attacked her livelihood, as, on more than one occasion, it very soon did, it was with heartache and grief that Monica realized that a drastic change must be brought about. She knew that, for his own sake, she must temporarily part with the boy. It was imperative that she earn the money necessary for his education, and, with this scandal attaching to her, that would very soon be made impossible. Furthermore, she realized that he w r as rapidly growing to years of childish understanding when it would be hopeless, and even dangerous, to attempt to answer the multiplicity of questions regarding his supposed father which flowed from his lips, without giving a damaging impression to his young mind. Later, when he grew up, she would tell him the false story which she had hardened her heart to, and trust to Providence that it might satisfy, and have no evil conse- quences. It was a terrible blow to part from him. She loved the boy, whom she had had christened Frank Burton, with all the profound affection of her ardent nature. He was pos- sibly more precious to her than her own son might have been, if only for the fact of the pains she was at to keep him, and the trials which his upbringing brought her. Then, too, she was never quite without a haunting fear that at any time some unforseen circumstance might arise and snatch him from her care. Besides these things, the boy inherited all his mother's generous nature; all her loyalty; and, in a hundred other ways, reminded her of the sister she had loved. To Monica he was the sweetest creature in the world, and the parting with him came well-nigh to breaking her heart. But it proved itself for the best. It almost seemed as if Frank's going were in some way responsible for the change of fortune which so quickly followed. Within a month, Monica secured an excellent position in a Chicago wheat broker's office at the biggest salary she had ever earned. 8 98 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Furthermore, she remained in this place for a year, with unqualified success. Thence she went to another wheat operator's office. Then on, from post to post, always ad- vancing her interests, and always in the wheat world. Truly the boy's going away to school seemed like the first stepping- stone to the successful career she so ardently desired. So Frank's education was completed in the manner Monica most desired. Her experience in the world of wheat inspired her with definite ideas as to his future; ideas in which, for- tunately, he readily concurred. No one knew better than Monica the fortunes to be won from the soil, and she was at pains to impress on his young mind that such fortunes were far more honestly and easily earned than in the commercial world to which she belonged. Therefore at the age of fifteen Frank repaired to an agri- cultural institution to learn in theory that which, later, he was to test in practice. It was during his career at the agricultural college that Monica first became the secretary of Alexander Hendrie, the greatest wheat grower and operator in the west of Canada. He was a man she had known by reputation for several years, ever since she first stepped within the portals of the wheat world. She had never come into actual contact with him before, but his name was a household word wherever wheat was dealt in. Besides being a big operator on the Winnipeg and Chicago markets, he owned something like thirty square miles of prairie land in Alberta under wheat cultivation, and was notorious for his scrupulous honesty and hard dealing. It was a saying in the world of which he was the uncrowned king that it was always safe to follow where he led, but only to follow. Of course he was a mil- lionaire several times over, but there was no ostentation, no vulgar display with him. He lived a sparing, hard-working life, and in such an employ Monica felt that she had reached the goal of her career. The manner of her meeting with him was curious, and almost like the work of Fate. But the manner of her en- gagement as his secretary was still more curious, yet char- acteristic of the man. It happened on the railroad. She was returning from the west coast with her then employer, Henry Louth, one of the AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS 99 most daring of the Chicago wheat men. Perhaps a better description of him would have been "reckless," but the news- papers reported him as daring until after his death. Like many another speculator in the past, this man had become disastrously involved in a wild endeavor to corner wheat. But he found, as others had found before him, in- stead of completing the corner he hoped to make, he had only created a Frankenstein which threatened him with destruc- tion. So far did he suddenly find himself involved that only financial assistance on an enormous scale could have saved him from ruin. His thoughts turned at once to Alexander Hendrie, who was then in Vancouver. He was the only man who could afford him adequate help. There was nothing for it but a desperate rush across the continent on his forlorn hope, and he undertook the journey at once, accompanied by Monica. But like the majority of forlorn hopes inspired by ill for- tune, the journey ended in dire disaster. When Louth put his proposition to the millionaire he learned to his horror that this man was actually the head of the syndicate who had been his undoing. It was an absurd blending of comedy and tragedy, yet the situation was wholly characteristic of the methods of Alexander Hendrie. The work had been carried out with all the subtlety of the astute mind which had lifted the man to his present position. It had been carried out by secret agents, and never for one moment had his name been allowed to figure in the affair. But it was Hendrie who was responsible for the shattering of the edifice of monopoly Louth had so recklessly attempted to set up; and the latter set out on his return journey a broken and beaten man. Monica would never forget that journey, and all it meant to her. While the train was held up by a heavy snowfall at a place called Glacier, in the Rocky Mountains, Henry Louth, in his private car, took the opportunity of shooting himself. The sensation, the hubbub, the excitement the affair caused was intense; and Monica attended him during his dying moments, afterwards watching at his bedside until his body was removed by the authorities. It was during this latter period, when the excitement had died down, and all was quiet again, that a large man 100 THE WAY OF THE STRONG entered the car from another part of the train. He came straight to the bedside and looked gravely at the dead man. Then he turned to the beautiful woman beside tht bed, and looked at her with unsmiling eyes. She knew him at once, and returned his look unflinchingly. It was Alexander Hendrie. She recognized the strong, rugged face of the man, and his abundant fair hair. In a moment a cold resentment at the intrusion rose up in her, and, for the life of her, she could not restrain the impulse to give it expression. "Well?" she inquired. "Are you satisfied?" "How?" The man displayed no emotion. His ejaculation was the expression of a mind preoccupied. "You you are responsible for this." Monica's challenge came with biting coldness. But Hendrie only shook his head. "Wrong. Guess you don't understand. Maybe most folks who don't understand will say that. But I'm not responsible for that." He indicated the dead man with a contemptuous nod. "I was on a legitimate proposition to prevent the consumers of wheat being plundered. I'm losing money by what I've done. Guess he hadn't the grit to stand the racket of his dirty game. Men like him are well out of it." Monica dropped her eyes from the steady gaze of the iron man before her. Somehow she felt ashamed of her impulsive accusation. In his concise fashion he had given her a new understanding of what had happened. "I hadn't seen it that way before," she said, almost humbly. Hendrie nodded. "You were his secretary," he said, with a subtle emphasis. "Yes." Again the man nodded. "I've heard of you." Then he turned as if about to go. But he did not go. He paused, and again his steady eyes sought hers. "Guess he's dead. I need another secretary. You can have the job." This was Monica's first encounter with a personality which had a strange and powerful attraction for her. AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS 101 Two weeks later she found herself in her new position, established in the millionaire's palal'a- offee-? i'i Winnipeg at, what was for her, a princely salary. At the end of nearly two years she was still with him, a privileged, confidential secretary ; and at last the woman in her was crying out against the head which had for so long governed her affairs. The woman in her had been too strenuously subjected in her eighteen years of a commercial career. She had shut her ears to every cry of rebellion for the sake of her quixotic pledge. But now they were too loud, too strong to be any longer ignored, and their incessant pleading found an almost ready ear. Alexander Hendrie had offered her marriage. He had done more. This apparently cold commercial machine had shown her a side of his nature which the eye of his world was never permitted to witness. He had thrown open the furnace doors of his masterful soul, and she had witnessed such a fire of passionate love that left her dazed and powerless before its fierce intensity. And she she had needed little urging. The wonderful attraction of this personality had ripened during her two years of service. She no longer worked with every faculty straining for the handsome salary he gave her; she worked for the man. Her whole heart was wrapped up in his achieve- ment. Yes, she knew that he stood before even her love for the boy whom she had taught to call her "mother." That was her trouble now. That was the one all-per- vading drop of gall in her cup of happiness. Dr. Strong had warned her, and now she was torn by the hardness of her lot as she gazed upon the frowning crags which loomed up on her horizon. She rose and crossed the room to her bureau. She picked a letter up that was lying on the top of it. It was the last letter she had received from young Frank, from the farm he was on, not far from Calford, just outside the little township of Gleber. She read it through again. One paragraph particularly held her attention and she read it a second time. "I've met such a bully girl. Her name's Phyllis Raysun. She's just about my own age. It was at a dance, at a farm twenty miles away. We danced ten dances together. Oh, 102 THE WAY OF THE STRONG mother, you will like her. She's fine. Pretty as anything, with dark eyes and dark hair " Monica went back to her seat at the window. There was a smile in her eyes, but there was trouble in them, too. She understood that Frank was grown up. He was grown up, and like all the rest of young people his thoughts were turn- ing toward girls and matrimony. Frank was still in ignorance of the facts of his birth. She, Monica, was his "moiher," so far as he knew, and he under- stood that his father was dead. This was the belief she had brought him up to. This was the belief she hoped to keep him in. But now, all too late, she was realizing through such letters as these that a time must soon come when he would want to' know more ; when the preliminary lies her sister had forced her into m*is be augmented by a whole tissue of falsehood to keep the secret of his mother's shame from him. Her determination to shield her sister was still her prin- cipal thought. At all costs her promise to the dying woman must be kept. There should be no weakening. She would carefully prepare her story. Lies it would all be lies. But she could not help it. She felt they were lies for which there was a certain justification, lies which possessed no base object, but rather the reverse. But no.w had come this fresh complication in the person of Alexander Hendrie. Here was something she had never even dreamed of. He became something more than a com- plication. He was a threat. She could not marry him. She must definitely refuse him. And then Despair took hold of her and wrung her heart. Marriage she knew was forever denied her. She had known it while she dressed herself and prepared to receive the man she loved that afternoon. She had known it even while she rejoiced in her own attractiveness, and the thoughts of the love she had inspired. She turned to the window with a deep sigh and stared hopelessly out of it at the keen winter sunshine. To contemplate marriage with a man as passionately in love as Alexander Hendrie, a man as strong, as masterful as he, with the existence of her boy to be explained away, would ALEXANDER HENDRIE 103 be rank madness. It was hopeless, impossible. It could not be. No, she knew. She needed no prompting. Her course lay clear before her. She dared not sacrifice the hard strug- gles of those eighteen years for this love which had at last come into her life. She knew now how she had sacrificed herself on the altar of affection when she pledged herself to the care of her sister's child. That sacrifice must go on to the end, come what might. It was hard, hard, but she reso- lutely faced the destiny which she had marked out for herself. That was why she had not telephoned to her employer to put him off. That was why she had specially prepared her toilet to receive him. She would definitely refuse to marry him. But she would rather lacerate her already wounded heart by the painful delight of an interview, than shut out of her life this one passionate memory under the cold seal of an envelope. It was her woman's way, but it was none the less sincere, none the less strong. CHAPTER II ALEXANDER HENDRIE HAD Monica only known it her weakness lay in the very strength of that loyalty which held her to her promise to her dead sister. She was far too honest to deal successfully in affairs which demanded the smallest shadow of subterfuge. At the best she could only hope to lie blunderingly, and to blunder in falsehood leads to sure disaster. So she had no real understanding of that which lay before her, the endless troubles she was preparing for herself and those belonging to her. The pity of it. One could almost imagine the Angel of Truth wringing his hands, and weeping for the mistaken honesty which clung to a quixotic promise given eighteen years ago to a dying woman. It was a nervous, troubled woman who started at the clang of the bell at her outer door. She turned with terrified eyes to the silver clock which stood on her bureau. It was four o'clock. Four o'clock to the minute; and instinctively 104 THE WAY OF THE STRONG her hands went up to her hair, and nimble fingers lightly patted it. For a moment she stood irresolutely staring before her. She seemed in desperate doubt, as though laboring under desire to greet her visitor, while instinctively fearing the out- come of his visit. The next moment her silken skirts rustled as she hurriedly passed out to her front door. Alexander Hendrie followed her into the sitting-room, and promptly its femininity gave way to the atmosphere which his personality seemed to shed upon all that encoun- tered it. It was not an essentially refined personality, it was too rugged, too grimly natural, too suggestive of Nature in her harsher moments to possess any of the softer refinements of life. A bald, broken crag set in the midst of a flower garden of perfect order would rob its surroundings of its delicate charm and trifling beauties. So it was with the man, Hendrie, in the essentially feminine room which was Monica's care. He dwarfed the refinements of it with a magnetic claim for his own rugged picturesqueness. He was a man of something over six feet in height. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon his muscular, erect form, which was clad in the simple fashion of a well- tailored man who takes but little interest in his clothes. But these things were almost lost sight of in the absorbing in- terest of his rather plain face. An artist painting the picture of a Viking of old would have reveled in such a face, and such a wealth of waving fair hair. He would have caught the look of confidence, the atmosphere of victory which lay in every detail of the strong mold in which his features were cast. It was a face full of faults, yet it was such a combination of strength and mentality that no eye trained to the study of physiognomy could have resisted it. The lines in it were pronounced. Yet every line was a definite indication of the power behind it. There was a contemplative light shin- ing in the keen gray eyes which told of perfect control of all emotions; there was a definite indentation between the fair, ample brows, which suggested a power of concentration. The nose was broad and pronounced, with curiously sensitive nostrils. The cheekbones were lean and broad. The mouth ALEXANDER HENDRIE 105 was broad, too, but firmly closed, and quite free from the least suggestion of animal sensuality. Yet it was a hard face; not hard in the sense of cruelty, it was hard in its definite, almost relentless purpose. Monica realized something of all this as she brought a large rocker forward for his use; and her heart failed her as she remembered the mission that had brought him to her apartment. "You're pretty comfortable here, Monica," he said, glanc- ing round with a faintly approving smile, as he dropped into the rocker. The woman followed his glance with a responsive smile. "Thanks to you," she said readily, without noting one detail of the tastefully arranged furnishings which had brought forth his comment. The man's brows went up in swift inquiry. "How?" Monica sat down. She was glad of the support, but her manner was perfectly easy. "The generous salary you pay me of course." Hendrie shook his head. "I never pay generous salaries. Those who receive my salaries earn them." Monica laughed. Slowly confidence was returning. "That's so like you," she said. "I wonder if I earn $5000 a year. I have often worked twice as hard for half the sum." "Quite so. But what was the work? From my point of view you earn the money, and perhaps more, by carrying the confidence I always know I can place in you. But, say, don't let's discuss the economy of commerce. Guess I came here on a different errand." Monica averted her gaze. She looked out of the window she was facing. "Yes," she said, with a sudden return of all her old apprehensions. The man leaned forward in his chair. His hands were clasped together, and his forearms pressed heavily on his knees. There was a faint flush on his cheeks, and the usual contemplative light had passed from his eyes, leaving them alight with a growing fire of passion. "Tell me," he cried suddenly, a deep note in his voice. 106 THE WAY OF THE STRONG "Have you anything to say to me? Anything about our talk the other night?" Monica kept her eyes averted. She was summoning all her courage, that she might the more successfully bruise and beat down her own love for this man. She shook her head without daring to face him. She knew, she felt the heat of passion shining in his gray eyes. "It it can't be," she said, stumbling fatally. She waited, hardly knowing what to expect. As the man remained silent the beatings of her heart seemed to have suddenly become so loud that she thought he must surely hear them; and hearing them, would understand the cow- ardice she was laboring under. Had she dared to look at him she must have seen the marked change her refusal had brought about. The same passionate fire was in his eyes, there was the same flush upon his cheeks. But there was an added something that was quite different from these things, something which she might have recognized, for she had witnessed it many times before in her intercourse with him. It was the fighting spirit of the man slowly rising, the light of battle gathering. He smiled, and his smile was strangely tender in a man of his known character. "Is that all?" he asked at last. "Is that your final word?" "Yes," she almost gasped, and desperately faced him. Then she abruptly rose from her seat and moved toward the window. She had seen more in his eyes than she could face, and still remain true to her decision. "But's it's insufficient, Mon." The man rose from his chair and followed her. He came near, and stood close behind her. She could feel his warm breath on the soft flesh which was left bare by the low neck of her costume. She trembled, and stood helplessly dreading lest he should recognize the trembling. Then she heard his low voice speaking, and her whole soul responded to the fire that lay behind his words. "I love you, Mon. I love you so that I cannot, will not give you up. I love you so that all else in my life goes for nothing. All my life I've reveled in the constant joy of ALEXANDER HENDRIE 107 anticipation of the success I have achieved. All my life I have centered my whole soul on these things, and trained brain and body for a titanic struggle to the top of the finan- cial ladder. And now, what is it, if if I can't win you, too ? Mon, it's simply nothing. Can't you understand what I feel when I say that? More than all the wealth and position I've dreamed of all my life I want you you. What is it ? Why ? Tell me why it can't be." But Monica could not tell him. She knew she could not; and she knew that she could not go on listening to the strong man's pleadings without yielding. Suddenly, in something like desperation, she turned and faced him. "I tried to make it plain to you the qther night," she cried, with a complaint that made her voice almost harsh. "I tried to tell you then that I could not marry you. But you wouldn't listen to me. You laughed my refusal aside. You told me you would not give me up. I can only reiterate what I tried to tell you then. Why why urge me when I say I I cannot marry you?" "Cannot?" "Yes cannot, cannot !" In desperation Monica added emphasis to her negative. "There can only be one reason for 'cannot,' " said Hen- drie, with an abrupt return to calmness. "Are you mar- ried? Have you a husband living?" The woman's denial flashed out without thought. "I am not married. I never have been married." In a moment she realized the danger of so precipitate a denial. The man's face lit more ardently than ever, and he drew closer. "Then you must take that word back, and say you 'will not.' But you can't say that," he smiled gently. "Why should you? Yes, I know you don't dislike me. You've always seen me as I am. I'm no different. Say, Mon, I'm not here to bully you into marrying me. I'm here to plead with you. I who have never in my life pleaded to man or woman. I want you to give me that which I know no money can ever buy, no position can ever claim. I want your love. I want it because I love you, and without you nothing is worth while." 108 THE WAY OF THE STRONG He was very near her now. He was so near that Monica dared not move. She could only stand helplessly gazing out of the window. As she remained silent he urged her again, placing one powerful hand gently upon her shoulder. "Tell me, do you dislike the hard, unscrupulous financier that men are only too ready to villify?" he asked, with a gentle smile of confidence. "Do you?" His hand moved till it dropped to the woman's soft, rounded upper arm. "Mon," he continued, "I want you so much. Tell me you don't dislike me." Monica's courage was swiftly ebbing. The task she had set herself was too hard for her. She was too simply human to withstand the approach of this great love. The touch of the man's hand, so gentle, so almost reverent, had sent the blood coursing through her veins in a hot, passionate tide. All her love for him surged uppermost, and drove her head- long to a reckless denial. "No," she cried, in a low voice. "How could I dislike you? What does it matter to me what men say of you? You have been the essence of goodness to me oh !" The exclamation came without fear, without resentment. It was the suddenness of it all. In a moment she lay crushed in the man's powerful arms ; his tall figure towered over her, and his plain face looked ardently down into hers while he poured out a passionate torrent of words into her willing ears. "Then I'll take no refusal," fye cried, with a ring of tri- umph and joy in his deep voice. "Look up, Mon, look up, my dear, and tell me that you don't love me. Look up, and tell me with your eyes looking right into mine, and I'll be- lieve you, and let you go. Look up, my darling, and tell me. Y r ou can't you can't. Say it's useless to try. Quit it, Mon, quit it. You love me, I know. I feel it here, right here in my heart, here, Mon, here," he cried triumphantly. "Right where your beautiful head is resting." He moved one hand from about her, and deliberately lifted her face so that he could gaze down upon the eyes hidden beneath the deeply fringed lids. "Come, Mon," he cried tenderly. "Speak up. Say, I can't just hear you. I want to hear you say you don't love me, you hate me for this. No? Then you must kiss me." ALEXANDER HENDRIE 109 He bent his head, and drew her face up to his. And an exquisite joy flooded Monica's heart as he rained burning kisses upon her lips, her eyes, her hair. So they remained for many minutes. He, speaking words which were ample caresses, she, listening like one in a won- derful, heavenly dream. But at last she stirred in his arms, and finally released herself. Then, with flushed face and bowed head, she flung herself upon the ottoman beside her with something almost like a sob. Hendrie waited for a moment. Then he drew up a chair and sat down, and deliberately removed the hands in which her face was buried. "What is it, Mon?" he inquired anxiously, but in his firm, decided way. "I I don't know," she cried, with the desperate helpless- ness of a child. "You you've made me love you, and and it's all wrong all wrong." Hendrie smiled confidently. "Is it? Ah, well, you do love me. That's all that matters really." She stared at him with suddenly widening eyes. Then she, too, smiled a tender, shy smile that still was full of trouble. "I'm afraid I do," she said. "But I didn't mean you to know " "Afraid?" Hendrie's smile was good to see. But it passed quickly, and he went on in the manner of a man always accustomed to dictate. "Now listen, Mon. We are going to be married without unnecessary delay. How soon can you be ready?" In a moment Monica realized the utter folly of what she had done. In a moment it swept over her, threatening and almost paralyzing her faculties. She paled. Then a deep flush leaped into her cheek, and, in a fever of apprehension, she pleaded for a respite. "No, no, not yet," she cried, with a sudden energy which quite startled her lover. "I cannot marry you until until You see," she blundered on, "there are so many things. I I have responsibilities. There ai 110 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Hendrie mercifully broke in upon her, and perhaps saved her from betraying in her hysterical apprehension those very things she wished to keep from him. "Don't be scared, Mon," he said quickly. "It's for you to say. It's right up to you. I shan't rush you. See. Think it over. I've got to go west to-morrow. Guess I'll be away a week. Say, this day week. You'll get it all fixed by then. I'll get right back and you can tell me when you'll marry me. You see, I just want you whenever you're ready." It was impossible to withstand him, and, in desperation, Monica realized that it was worse than useless to pit her rea- son against a love she desired more than all the world. She felt utterly helpless, like one swept off her feet by an irre- sistible tide. There was a recklessness, too, in her blood now, a recklessness flowing hotly through veins which for so long had been left unstirred in their perfect calm, and somehow the joy of it had intoxicated her reason and left her unable to adequately control it. Later it would be different. When he had gone she would be able to think soberly, and she knew she would have to think hard to repair the damage of these moments. She would wait till then when the toll was demanded of her, and now now? These moments were too sweetly precious to deny. She would not, she could not deny them. So, while she knew that every fraction of the penalty would be de- manded of her later, she thanked her God for this love that had come to her, and abandoned herself to its delight. CHAPTER III THE PENALTY IT was a changed woman who restlessly paced the narrow limits of her sitting-room four days later. Monica was awaiting another visitor ; again she was awaiting the ominous clang of the bell at the front door. But her feelings were very different now. The timid shrinking, the mere thrill of troubled apprehension with which she had awaited the coming of the man who had changed all those things into a wild, reckless joy, was nothing to the desperation with which she contemplated the coming visit. She knew that the penalty THE PENALTY 111 was about to be exacted, the toll, for the stolen moments when she had permitted the woman in her to taste of the sweets which surely she had a right to. The sober moments she had anticipated had come; oh, yes, they had come as she knew they inevitably must come. She had faced the consequences of the weakness she believed herself to have displayed in all their nakedness, and she saw before her such a tangle, the contemplation of which had set her head whirling, and filled her heart with despair. She was torn between her loyalty to the living, and her duty to the dead. She was torn between that which she knew she owed to herself, and all those other obligations which could be summed up as part of the strong moral side of her nature. She was seeking a central path which might satisfy in some degree each of the opposing claims. She was committing that fatal mistake of seeking the easiest road, with the full knowledge that it was a mistake. She had tasted life, and now she was powerless to continue the sacrifice she had for such long years marked out for herself. The habit of years was strong upon her. There was something almost superstitious in the way she clung to the promise she had so rashly given her sister. She could no more outrage that than she could deny the love that had come to her so late. Therefore she saw nothing but that perilous middle course open before her. She had sent for her boy, the man yes, he was a man now whom she had been at such pains to bring up with lofty aspirations, and a fine sense of love, and honor, and duty. She told herself she was going to lie to him, lie to him with all the heartless selfishness of an utterly weak and worthless woman. She tried to smother her conscience by reminding herself that she had always seen the necessity of ultimately lying to him, and now only the motive of the lies was changed. She told herself these things, but she did not convince herself. She knew that originally her contemplated lies were that he might be kept from the knowing of his mother's shame, and as such might even have found justifica- tion in the eyes of the Recording Angel. Now it was differ- ent; their motive was purely one of self, and for such there could be no justification. So she was desperate. All that was best in her was war- THE WAY OF THE STRONG ring with the baser human side of a really fine nature. She suffered agonies of torture while she waited for the coining of the man who would gaze at her with wide, frank, trusting eyes, while she lied something of his simple faith and youth- ful happiness away. Was there wonder that she dreaded his coming? Could it be otherwise? She could see no other course than the one she had decided upon. She was blinded by her newly found love for the man, Hendrie ; she was blinded by her promise to a dead woman. Frank must be persuaded into the back- ground. He must remain hidden, lest the breath of scandal reach Hendrie, and she be robbed of the happiness she so yearned for. He must be made the sacrifice for her selfish desires. In the midst of her desperate thought, the signal rang out through the apartments. Oh, that bell; how she hated its brazen note. But now that the moment of her trial had come there was no shrinking, no hesitation. She passed swiftly to the door and opened it, and, in a moment, was en- gulfed in a bear-like embrace by a great, fair-haired young giant who, tall as Monica was, quite towered over her. "Why, mother," he cried, as he finally released her, "I never had such a rush to get here so soon. Guess your wire set me on the dead jump. I drove twenty-five miles to the depot in under three hours, to catch the east-bound mail, and nearly foundered old Bernard's best team. But I'd made up my mind to " Monica's eyes shone with admiration and love. "That's so like you, Frank, dear," she cried. "Come right in and sit down. You're such an impulsive boy. But I'm glad you've come so glad." The delight at the sight of her beloved boy had almost died out of Monica's eyes as she finished speaking. It had all come back to her the meaning of his visit. Frank flung himself into the same rocking chair in which Alexander Hendrie had sat, and gazed up at the beautiful woman he called "mother" with a radiant smile on his handsome, ingenuous face. "Gee, I'm tired," he exclaimed. "Two nights and a day in the train. I didn't come sleeper. I didn't want to rush THE PENALTY 113 you too much. So I just dozed in the ordinary car where I sat." In spite of everything Monica's delight in this fatherless boy was wonderful. All her love was shining in her eyes again as she exclaimed "Oh, Frank! You didn't come sleeper? Why not? You shouldn't have considered the expense." The boy laughed joyously. "That's so like you, Mon, dear," he promptly retorted. He always called her "Moil" in his playful moods, declaring that she was far too young and pretty to be called "mother." "You really are an extravagant woman to have a growing and expensive family." "Growing?" Monica laughed happily. "I hope not. Goodness ! You always find it more convenient to sit down when you're talking to me." The boy nodded. "That's because I'm tired and hungry," he said lightly. "You see I haven't eaten since breakfast. Got any lunch?" "Lunch? Of course. Oh, Frank, really you're not to be trusted looking after yourself. Of course I've a lunch ready for you. It's just cold. I don't trust the janitor's cooking except for breakfast." "Bully ! I know your lunches. Come along." The boy sprang from his seat, and, seizing Monica about the waist, was for rushing her off to the dining-room. Monica abandoned herself to the delights of the moment. The boy could not have been more to her if he had really been her son. Her eyes were full of a maternal adoration. He was so tall, she thought; and his bright, shrewd, good- natured blue eyes full of half-smiling seriousness. Was there ever such a face on a boy ? How handsome he was with his finely cut, regular features, his abundant fair hair, which, since he had been on the farm, had been allowed to run riot. And then his hugely muscular body. Eighteen! Only eighteen! Little wonder, she thought, this Phyllis Raysun was ready to dance so often with him. "You're much too boisterous," she chided him, smiling happily. "Never mind, Mon," he cried, "take me to the ban Oh, I forgot. Your wire was 'rushed.' You wanted to see 9 114 .THE WAY OF THE STRONG me at once. That's why I nearly killed Bernard's team. There's there's nothing wrong, is there?" The blue eyes were serious enough now. He had come to a standstill, with his arms still about Monica's waist, half way across the room. But now it was Monica's turn to urge. All the joy had gone out of her eyes. He had reminded her of the tissue of falsehood she had prepared for him. No, no, she could not tell him yet, and, with all a coward's procrastination, she put him off. "I'll I'll tell you about it when you've eaten," she said hastily. "We've we've got to have a serious talk. But not now. Afterwards." Frank gave her a quick, sidelong glance. "Righto," he said simply. But a shadow had somehow crept into his eyes. So deep was the sympathy between these two that he promptly read something of the trouble underlying her manner. Frank was seated on the lounge beside the window. His attitude was one of tense, hard feeling. His blue eyes were full of bitterness as they stared out at the coppery sheen of the telegraph wires, which caught the winter sunlight, just outside the sitting-room window. Monica had just finished speaking. For some minutes the low pleading of her voice had reached him across the room. She was as far from him as the limits of the room would permit. Such was her repulsion at the lies she had to tell him that she felt the distance between them could not be too wide. Her story was told. She had branded herself with her sister's shame. The curious twist of her mind held her to her promise, even to this extent. Now she waited with bowed head for the judgment of this youth of eighteen who had been taught to call her "mother." And as she sat there waiting she felt that her whole life, her whole being was made up of degraded falsehood. The story was as complete as she could make it. The work was done. Her sister's name, and ill-fame, had been kept from her son. As the moments passed and no word came in answer, THE PENALTY 115 Monica's apprehension grew, and she urged him. She could face his utmost scorn better than this suspense. "That is all, Frank," she said, with a dignity she was wholly unaware of. The man stirred. He stretched out his great limbs upon the couch and drew them up again. Then he turned his eyes upon the waiting woman. They were unsmiling, but they had no condemnation in them. He had fought out his little battle with himself. "So I am a bastard," he said, slowly and distinctly. "Frank; oh, Frank! Not that word." The boy laughed, but without any mirth. "Why not? Why be afraid of the truth? Besides, I have always known at least suspected it." Monica suddenly buried her face in her hands. He had known. He had suspected. And all these years she had endeavored to keep the secret from him. The thought of it all hurt her as much as if the shame of it were really hers. Presently he left his seat and came to her side. "Don't worry, mother, dear," he said, with one hand ten- derly laid upon her shoulder. "You see, we never talked much of my father. You were never easy when you spoke of him. I guessed there was something wrong ; and being young, and perhaps imaginative, I found the truth without much guessing. Still I didn't ask questions. It was not up to me to hurt you. What was the use. I knew I should hear some day, and quite made up my mind how to act." He smiled. "You see, if you told me I knew I could bear it almost easily. I should have far less to bear than you who told it, and and that showed me how small a thing it was for me by comparison. If it came through other sources I should have acted differently, particularly if the telling of it came from a man." He paused, and Monica looked up at him with wondering admiration. "I want to tell you, mother," he hurried on, blushing pain- fully with self-consciousness, "that only a great and brave woman could have told her son what you have told me. And and I honor you for it. I want to tell you it's not going to make any difference between us, unless it is to increase my my love. As for me I don't see that it's 116 THE WAY OF THE STRONG going to give me sleepless nights, so so just let's for- get it." Frank's manner became hurried and ashamed as he fin- ished up. It seemed absurd to him that he should be saying such things to his mother. Yet he wanted to say them. He intended to say them. So he blundered as quickly and shamefacedly through them as he could. To his enormous relief Monica sighed as though the worst were over. But her sigh was at the wonderful magnanimity of this huge boy. He started to return to the lounge. Half way across the room he came to a sudden stop, and a look of perplexity drew his brows together. In his anxiety for his mother he had forgotten. Now he remembered. Suddenly he turned back. "You didn't send for me so urgently to tell me this?" he demanded. "This would have kept." Monica shook her head decidedly. She caught a sharp breath. "It would not have kept. It it had to be told now." "Now?" "Yes." "Why?" "Because I am going to be married." "Mother!" There was no doubt about the man's dismay. He stood there hardly daring to believe his senses. His mother was going to be married after after "But, mother, you don't mean that? You're not serious," he cried, his ingenious face flushed, his whole look incredu- lous. Something of the woman's resentment against the un- worthy part that had been forced upon her suddenly found expression. "Yes, I mean it," she cried sharply. "Of course I mean it. I am in no mood to trifle. Why else should I have sent for you now to tell you the miserable story you have just listened to, unless it were that my coming marriage made it impera- tive?" The flush deepened upon the man's face. "But you can't," he cried, with sudden vehemence. "You daren't ! Oh, mother, you must be mad to think of marriage THE PENALTY now I mean with with my existence to be accounted for." "That's just why I have sent for you." Monica sprang from her seat and ran to him. She reached up, and placed both hands upon his shoulders and gazed pleadingly into his face. "Don't fail me, Frank. Don't fail me," she cried, all her woman's heart stirred to a dreadful fear lest, after all, she should lose the happiness she was striving for, had lied for, was ready to do almost anything for. "You don't know what it means to me. How can you? You are only a boy. It means everything. Yes, it means my life. Oh, Frank, think of all the years I have gone through without a home, without any of those things which a woman has a right to*, except what I have earned for myself with my own two hands. Think of the loveless life I have been forced to live for all these years. Frank, Frank, I have given up everything in the world for you, and now now I love this man I love him with my whole soul." Her head was bowed, and the agitated boy led her back to her seat. He was beginning to understand things. His honest eyes were beginning to look life in the face, and to see there phases quite undreamed of in his youthful mind. "I think I am beginning to understand, mother," he said simply. "Tell me more. Tell me what you want of me. I you see, all this is a bit of a shock. I don't seem to know where I am. Who is the man?" "Alexander Hendrie." "Hendrie? The man you work for? The man who owns all those miles of wheat up our way? The millionaire?" Frank's eyes shone with a sudden enthusiasm as he de- tailed the achievements of the wheat king. For the moment he had forgotten the reason of the mention of his name. "Yes, yes." Something of his enthusiasm found an echo in Monica. "Isn't it wonderful ? Isn't it wonderful ? Can you wonder that I love him? Such a king among men. All my life I have longed for achievement in the commercial world. To me it is all that is worth while. This man has it. He is it. I have been his chief secretary for two years. I have had a most intimate knowledge of all his affairs, of the man. I have helped in my little way toward his success. I love this man, and he loves me. He will not hear of my refusing him. 118 THE WAY OF THE STRONG I intended to because of you, but but he is too strong for me. He has bent my will to his, and I I have yielded. Nor was it all unwillingly. Oh, no. I was ready enough to yield in spite of " "Does he know of my existence?" Frank demanded. His eyes were bright with alertness. Monica's eyes widened. "Of course not ! If he knew of you my poor dream would be shattered for ever. That is the terrible part. That is why why I have had to tell you everything." "I see." The man flung himself on the couch and clasped his hands behind his head. He was thinking hard. Bit by bit all that was in his mother's mind was coining to him. He let her go on talking while he readjusted his new focus. "Listen to me. Let us look at this thing from your point of view. You know all we have striven for in setting you up in life. We have been scraping and saving that you should be properly equipped. Now we are saving to buy you an adequate farm. You have got to do big things with that farm. You must go further than merely making a living, and marry, and bring up a large family. You must rise. You must become a wheat king, too. If I marry Alexander think of what it will mean to you. I shall be able to do these things for you almost at once. You shall start on the best farm money can buy. There will be no stinting. You can have everything. And you will rise as I want you to; as you want to. YOUJ too, will become a power in the wonderful, wonderful field of commerce. Oh, when I think of it it makes me desperate at the thought of losing it all." Frank remained lost in thought for some moments longer. Then he suddenly looked up as though he had come to a final decision. "Look here, mother. I suppose I haven't had experience enough to grasp the moral side of this thing. I I suppose there is a moral side to it," he said, with something almost like helplessness. "But it seems to me that that Hendrie's eyes must never light on me, as as any relation of yours. Is that it? You want me to know just how the position stands, and then hustle into the background, into my hole, like like any gopher." THE PENALTY 119 Monica sighed. The ready understanding of the boy was saving her worlds of painful explanation. "I'm afraid that's what it comes to, Frank, though it sounds dreadful put that way. It sounds as if we were con- spirators scheming to get the better of Alexander. Yes, it sounds awful. And yet Frank gave the first sign of impatience. "Does it matter what it sounds like? I don't think so," he said sharply. "You love this man, mother, and you want to marry him. Very well, marry him. I will never jeopardize your happiness. It is small enough return for all the sacri- fices you have made for me. I promise you Hendrie shall never know you are my mother. I promise you never to come near " "No, no, Frank. I don't want that," Monica cried des- perately. "I could not bear that. I must see you sometimes, and later, when when things have settled down " Frank shook his head. "You are taking a grave risk, mother," he said earnestly. "Far better let me pass out of your life altogether." "No, no ! I would rather never marry than that. Promise me that you will come and see me, and I will see you when- ever opportunity offers. Promise me, or " "All right, mother," replied the man, with his gentle, af- fectionate smile. "You go ahead. You can always rely on me for anything. And I give you my word of honor your husband shall never know that I am your son." That night Frank Burton leaned back in the upholstered seat of the ordinary car on the west-bound train. He made no attempt to read the Winnipeg Free Press which lay open on his lap. He was busy forming conclusions. One of them was that life was by no means the simple affair it had seemed to him two days ago. But he came to a more important conclusion than that. He tried to view things from his mother's standpoint, from the point of view of her feelings, and, while he deplored the gravity of the risk she, as a woman, was taking, he acknowl- edged that he would have done the same himself. He thought of Phyllis Raysun his Phyllis and went hot and cold as he tried to picture what his life would be if he 120 THE WAY OF THE STRONG were never to see her again. He knew, in the recklessness of his youthful courage, he would take any risk rather than lose her. Yes, love was a great and wonderful thing. He had just made the discovery. His interview with his mother had opened his eyes to the state of his own feelings. Love? Why it was more than worth any risk. To him, in the first flush of his eighteen years, it was the very essence of life. It was all that really mattered. And he almost laughed when he thought of the shock he had experienced when he had been deliberately told he was a bastard. CHAPTER IV THE BLINDING FIRES HENDRIE stood with one foot on the burnished rail of the anthracite stove which augmented the heating apparatus of Monica's sitting-room. He was smoking a cigarette in the pensive manner of a perfectly contented man. His eyes idly wandered over the simple but dainty furnishing of the room, while his mind, that wonderful mechanism with which he had carved his way to a mighty fortune, was busy dreaming dreams of the future, which, for once, contained no thoughts associated with the amassing of his immense wealth. He was contemplating rather the spending of money than the making of it. He was thinking pleasantly of those con- tracts which he had already given out for the colossal altera- tions which were being made in the mansion he owned out West, upon his wheat lands. He was thinking of the palatial residence which he had just purchased here, in Winnipeg, and of the wonderful decorations that he had already ar- ranged should be executed by the finest decorators in New York. He intended that nothing should lack for the delight and luxury of his bride. His whole being was permeated with a passion such as he had never believed himself capable of. And, for the moment, he was tasting the ripe delights of a wonderfully successful career. He loved more madly than any youthful lover; he loved for the first time in his strenuous life, and the exquisite joy of being able to THE BLINDING FIRES 121 give out of his overflowing 1 storehouses intoxicated him. He was a fine-looking figure as he stood there in his per- fectly fitting evening clothes. His spare frame suited the refreshing smartness of such a costume, which softened the harsher lines of his build, and even seemed to add to the fascination of his rugged features. He was awaiting Monica's pleasure while she arrayed her- self in the adjoining room. Nor did he display the least im- patience. He was rather enjoying the delay than otherwise. It afforded him those moments of delightful anticipation which rarely enough find their equal in realization. He watched her beautiful personality moving through luxuri- ously conceived pictures of their future life together. He saw her the head of his princely establishments, the woman of gracious presence and perfect form, a dazzling jewel in the crown of social success he intended eventually to wear. Nor were these dreams the outcome of mere selfish vanity. It pleased him to think that she was to become that perfect pivot upon which his life should revolve. He knew she was a good woman, a phrase he used only in the loftiest sense. He felt that to serve her, to minister to her happiness, was a wonderful delight and privilege, and that, in living for it, he had not lived in vain. No, he was not impatient. There was no reason for im- patience, even in face of that truly feminine delay to which Monica was treating him. He had come for the verdict she had promised him, and he knew that it was to be favorable to his desires. So he had made his arrangements with the deci- sion of a man who is unaccustomed to denial. They would dine out together, and afterward spend the evening at the theater. He threw his cigarette end into the stove. He was about to light a fresh one when a sound caught his ear. He sud- denly dashed the unlighted cigarette after the other, and stood erect, waiting. Yes, the soft rustle of skirts moving toward the dividing doors was unmistakable. Monica had completed her toilet, and was coming to him. A frank delight shone in his steady eyes as they turned to the folding doors. His lips were parted in a smile. Such was the ecstasy of his feelings that it seemed as if the whole earth, the whole universe were acclaiming his. happiness. THE WAY OF THE STRONG Her hand was upon the door handle. He strode hastily to her assistance, and flung the doors wide. Nor was his action one of mere conventional politeness. It was the impulse of one who felt that the future could hold no happier service than the care of this woman's well-being. Monica was in full evening dress, an exquisite picture of perfect womanhood. From the crown of her beautiful head, with its wonderful halo of soft, waving fair hair, to the soles of her satin slippers there was not a detail in her figure or gown that could offend. In Hendrie's eyes there was nothing on earth comparable with her. Her eyes shone with suppressed excitement, and her usu- ally delicately tinted cheeks were a trifle pale. Her bosom, so deliciously rounded, rose and fell a shade more rapidly than usual with the emotions of the moment, but these were the only outward signs she gave of the great love stirring her woman's heart. Hendrie stepped forward. "Mon!" In a moment she lay panting in his arms, and his kisses melted the pallor of her cheek. "Mine! Mine!" he cried, with a deep note of emotion in his voice. "Mine for ever!" he went on, his powerful arms crushing her yielding body to him. There was no verbal answer. Monica remained passive. The joy of those protecting arms had left her speechless. But her warm lips were nevertheless eloquent, and he was satisfied. After a few delirious moments his embrace relaxed. Quite abruptly his hands unclasped about her. He raised them to the warm flesh of her shoulders, and, gently grasping them, held her at arms' length from him. His head was bent forward, and his passionate eyes searched her face, but they could not penetrate the fringed lids which were lowered before her eyes lest he should see too deeply into the secrets of her woman's soul. "Mon, my Mon," he cried, in a low voice. "Look up. Look up into my eyes and tell me. Look up, and tell me you love me, with all your soul. Look up, and tell me that you'll give up all the world everything for me. I can't do with less," he went on hotly. "If you could only see into THE BLINDING FIRES my heart you'd understand. But you can't. There's nothing and no one in the world for me but you, and I want you all. D'you understand, Mon? I want no less, and you must tell me now now that this is your love for me, as it is mine for you." He paused, waiting for his answer, but remained gazing with devouring eyes upon the beauty that so ravished his senses. At last the eyelids slowly lifted. The doors of the woman's soul were opened, and he gazed within. And while he gazed her opening lips thrilled him as his ears drank in the answer that came from them. "I love you, dear," she murmured, with a softness inde- scribable. "I love you best in all the world." Then a shy smile lit her fair face, and she clung to him, hiding it against his breast. "Best in all the world," he repeated ardently. "Mon, it's good to hear. So good. Say, and you're my best in all the world. You always will be. You are before all things in my life." Then came long, silent moments, moments in which heart beat to heart and no spoken word but must have robbed them of something of their rapture. They were moments never to come again as long as both might live. With all the strength of mature years they loved for the first time, and the ripeness of imagination swept them with a perfect storm of delirious joy. They were moments when soul is laid bare to soul, and every nerve and sense is tuned in perfect sym- pathy. They were moments when the glad outpourings of two hearts mingled in a common flood which swept unchecked, unguided, speeding on to that far dreamland of perfect bliss. Such moments are mercifully brief, or the balance of mind would soon stand in mortal jeopardy. So it came that later on the harmonious flood, speeding distantly from its source, lessened its frantic speed, and gently fell to a stream of calm delight. They sat together talking, talking joyously of all those things which concerned the merging of their two lives. For Monica all her troubles, all her self-inflicted tortures were past and done with. There were no shadows. There was nothing on the horizon of her life to mar the sheen of a per- fect, sunlit sky. THE WAY OF THE STRONG For the man those moments meant the crowning of his life's ambitions, the crowning of all that was best in him. He asked no more of the gods of fortune. So the tension of the force which always spurred him was relaxed, and, for the time, at least, he lay supine in the arms of his own dreaming senses, basking in the realms of Love's pleasant sunlight. Then the spell was finally broken. Sanity was reawakened by the ticking clock, which stood among the trifling orna- ments upon Monica's desk. The man became aware of its hands. The irresistible march of time would not be denied. He nodded at the accusing face without any enthusiasm. "It's nearly seven," he said, with a smile. "Shall we go, or shall we ?" His voice was caressing, and its caress was hard for the woman to resist. She knew that it was only for her to- shake her head, and these moments of delight would be prolonged indefinitely. The temptation was great. Then, with all a loving woman's understanding of such things, she decided that the sparing of such moments would keep the store longer. "We'd better go," she said decidedly. Then she deferred to him. "Don't you think so?" Hendrie smiled happily. It was a new pleasure to find himself obedient to another's whim. "Yes," he said, promptly acquiescing. "You run along and get your wraps, while I go and see if the car is ready down- stairs." With a final embrace Monica hurried into her bedroom. Hendrie prepared to depart downstairs. But a final glance at the clock arrested him, and he stood staring at the desk. Slowly a flush crept into his lean cheeks, and the softness of his steady eyes gave place to the usual cold light with which the man was accustomed to face his world. The cold- ness changed again to a curious sparkle a sparkle which would not have found its way there with any other eyes to witness it. He took a step toward the desk and picked up an em- bossed silver photograph frame and stared down at the pic- ture it contained. For a moment he only noted the details of the face it portrayed. It was the picture of a man, a handsome, powerfully built THE BLINDING FIRES young man, dressed in flannels. The sweater he wore en- hanced his wonderfully athletic figure, and added a fine set- ting for the well-poised head. The photographer had done his work well, for never had Alexander Hendrie looked upon a more perfect picture of magnificent manhood. The glitter in his eyes hardened, and slowly a deep intense fire grew in their depths. His brows drew together, and he glowered w r ith something like deadly hatred upon the offend- ing picture. Suddenly he replaced it upon the desk, and, with a nervous thrust, his hands sought his trousers pockets, while he deliberately took a step toward the door. But he went no further. He swung about, and picked up the frame again. At that moment Monica re-entered from the bedroom. A sudden terror leaped into her eyes as she recognized the silver frame in his hand. One swift glance of his hot eyes left her terror apparent to him. He needed no more. A furious rage mounted to his brain. It was a rage of jealousy. The first passion of jealousy he had ever known, and he felt as though he were going mad. But a powerful restraint, the habit of years, served him. With one jerk of his muscular fingers the back of the frame was torn out, and the photograph removed. Then the frame fell to the floor, and its glass was shattered." "Who's picture is this ?" he demanded. Monica strove to steady her shaking limbs. She cleared her throat. "Why that's that's the son of an old friend of mine," she cried desperately. "I've known him all his life." The man deliberately tore the picture across. He tore it across again. Then he walked over to the stove. He opened it. One by one he dropped the fragments of Frank Burton's picture into the heart of the glowing coal. Then he reclosed the door. The next moment Monica was in his arms, and his eyes were devouring her beautiful, frightened face. "Guess you'll know him no more," he cried, with a laugh, which only seemed to accentuate the fury of his jealousy. "No more. There's just one man in this world for you now, and that man is He broke off and released her. Then, with a sudden return 126 THE WAY OF THE STRONG to his normal manner, and all sign of his mad jealousy passed, he led her toward the door. "Say, there's going to be no more shadows around, no more shadows to spoil things. The car's waiting 1 ready." CHAPTER V IN THE SPRINGTIME A GRAY twilight stealing across the sky heralded the com- ing of day. It was spring upon the flooded prairielands of Canada ; a season which is little more than a mere break be- tween an almost sub-tropical summer and the harshest winter the world knows. In the shadows of dawn the country looked like one vast marshland, rather than the rich pastures and fertile wheat country, which, in days yet to come, will surely fill the stomach of the whole human world. Wide stretches of water filled the shallow hollows; those troughs between the moun- tainous rollers of grass, where the land rose like the swell of a wind-swept ocean. These wide expanses of water were all that was left of snow to the depth of several feet; and in their turn would soon enough be licked up by a thirsty summer sun. This was the annual fertilizing process which left these hundreds of thou- sands of square miles capable of a harvest which might well set weeping with envy the toil-worn husbandman of older countries. Just now it was the feed ground of migratory visitors from the feathered world. Also it had consequently become the happy hunting-ground of every man and boy in the neigh- borhood capable of carrying a gun. They were all there, waiting in perfect silence, waiting with a patience which nothing else could inspire, for the golden light of day, and the winging of the unsuspecting birds. The dim, yellow streak on the eastern horizon widened, and the clacking of perhaps a hundred thousand tongues screamed out their joy of life. Doubtless the affairs of the day were being discussed, quarrels were being satisfactorily adjusted, courtships were in progress, hasty meals and fussy IN THE SPRINGTIME 127 toilets were being attended to. Doubtless in such a vast colony as had settled in the long hay slough, which Iooke4 like a broad, sluggish river, the affairs of life were as important as they are among the human denizens of a city. The clatter and hubbub went on, and left the rest of the world indifferent, as such clatter generally does. Old Sam Bernard and his pupil, Frank Burton, were among the waiting guns. The light was not yet sufficient, and the geese had not yet begun to rise. They were both armed with ten-bore, double-choke guns, the only weapons calculated to penetrate the heavy feathers of such magnificent game. Both were lying full-length upon the sodden highlands which lined the slough, thrilling with the inspiring tension of keen sports- men. Their half-bred spaniels crouched between them, their silky bodies quivering with joyous excitement, but their well- trained minds permitting no other demonstration. It was a moment worth living for, both for men and dogs. At last there came a heavy whirring sound down at the water. In a moment a great gray bird sailed up, winging in a wide circle toward Frank's deadly gun. It was the signal waited for. The dogs beat a tattoo with their feathered front feet. . A thrill shot down the two men's spines. Both raised their guns, but it was the sharp crack of the younger man's which sent the bird somersaulting to the ground. Now the whole length of the slough became alive with whirring wings and snapping guns. The panic of the birds was complete. The air was full of cumbersome speeding creatures, winging their way across the danger zone in their unhappy quest of safety. Everywhere they paid the heavy toll demanded of them ; and in less than half an hour five hun- dred brace and more had fallen to the forty-odd guns waiting for them. But the shoot did not finish there. That was the first rush. That was the pot hunting. The real sport of the morning came with the scattering and high flying of the terrified birds, shooting which required the greatest keenness and skill, Here the older hand had all the best of it, for coolness and judgment alone could fill the bag. The shoot went on well into the morning, and not until the birds became so wild that they utterly refused to come within range did the counting of the bag begin. 128 THE WAY OF THE STRONG By ten o'clock Sam Bernard and his pupil were returning home to the old man's farm in a buckboard laden down with nearly a hundred birds. It had been a great shoot, and Frank's enthusiasm was almost feverish. "It's the greatest game," he declared. "Forty-seven brace! Say, Sam, shall we get any more of 'em to-morrow?" Sam flicked the mare with the whip as he shook his gray head. "Guess not," he said, slowly rolling a chew of tobacco into the other cheek. They've smelled powder, an' I'd sure say it's a bokay they ain't yearnin' to sniff again. They'll be miles away by mornin'." "Seems a pity," murmured the blue-eyed giant beside him. The old man's eyes twinkled. "Maybe so," he observed, "I used to feel like that. Guess I don't now. "You mean a second go wouldn't be so fine." The gray head nodded. "Guess when I die I don't fancy no resurrectin' racket. I can't say but what I've lived most every day of my life but ther's nothin' on this earth worth repeatin' not even shootin' up a flock o' foolhead geese." Frank's eyes became pensive. "P'raps you're right." The farmer chirruped at his horse. "It's jest a notion," he said indifferently. Then he pointed out ahead with his whip. His wife was standing waiting for them at the door of the farm house. "There's the gentlest soul living'," he observed, with a smile. "Guess she couldn't wring a chicken's neck to save her life. But she'll sure handle these birds, an' reckon 'em up, with as much delight as a cannibal nigger smacks his lips over a steak off his pa's quarters." This man who was teaching him the business of farming was always a source of amusement to young Frank, and he laughed cordially at the absurdity of his comparison. Nor could he help watching the old farm-wife as they drove up. True enough the sight of the well-filled carry-all gladdened her eyes. "Guess I don't need to ask no fool questions about your sport," she cried. "Say, ain't they great? Look at 'em, all IN THE SPRINGTIME 129 bustin' with fat. They'll make real elegant eatin'. They surely will. How many? Forty-seven brace? Why don't you say it right? Ninety-four birds. The pore harmless birdies. I'd surely say you're the two worstest villains on two legs. But they'll make elegant eatin'. They will that." The two men exchanged smiling glances as they unloaded the buckboard. Then, as the choreman took it away to the barn, Mrs. Bernard remembered what was, perhaps, the most interesting thing in the life of the Canadian farmer. A neighbor had brought out their mail from Gleber that morn- ing. She dived into a capacious pocket in her ample print skirt, and her russet face smiled up into Frank's blue eyes. "My, but them birds has surely set me daft an' forgettin'," she cried. "Here's your mail, boy Frank," she added, pulling out a bulky envelope. "Jest one letter. An' it's a female writin' on it. Always a female writin'. You surely are some with the gals." Frank took his letter with a smile at the old woman's genial chaff. As he was about to pass into the house to change his wet clothes Sam called out "You don't need to hurry. Jest read your mail, an' when you're through changin', guess we'll get right on down to the forty-acre patch. We'll need to finish seedin' there this week. Say "Yes." Frank paused in the doorway. The old man grinned as he glanced in the direction of the cold storehouse, whither his wife had gone with some of the birds. "It don't make no difference to a woman," he said. "Don't matter if it was your Gran'ma instead of your Ma that was writin' you, she'd guess it was a sparkin' letter from some gal. Women is queer most ways." "Sure, Sam," Frank replied soberly. "Guess that's why we like 'em." "Like 'em? Well, I'd smile." Up in the attic, in the pitch of the roof, which served Frank as a bedroom, he sat down on the side of his bed to read his letter. The little place was homely and clean, but there were no comforts. There was not even a chair. Just the bare necessities, and they were ample for a youth as plain and cleanly living as its present occupant. 130 THE ^VAY OE THE STRONG For some moments the letter remained unopened in Frank's hand, and it was, perhaps, the first time in his life that he had reluctantly contemplated his mother's hand- writing. He certainly was reluctant now. It was not that he was not at all times delighted to receive word from her, but he knew, and was apprehensive of the contents of this bulky package. It was the first letter he had received from Monica since her marriage to Hendrie, which he knew had taken place nearly a month previously. How many times had he tried to convince himself of lus pleasure in his mother's contemplated happiness ? How many times had he argued and debated with himself, pointing out the naturalness, the desirability of it from a worldly point of view? How much his mother deserved the happiness he knew was now hers. He looked at the whole thing without thought of self; he looked at it with all the generosity of a goodly nature; he looked at it with eyes just beginning to open upon the life moving about him; and though he re- assured himself again and again, he knew that he regretted her action, and regretted it more than all for her own sake. It oppressed him with a sense of coming disaster which he could not shake off. He had not had an easy time since his flying visit to Winnipeg. Far from it. His devotion to his mother had fought and conquered the natural resentment and bitterness her story of his birth had inspired. But the effect of that battle remained. He knew that he was not as other men, he knew that he was not entitled to the same privileges as they. In a measure he was an outcast among his kind, and the finger of pitying scorn must always be leveled at him wherever the truth of his parentage became known. It was a painful blight under which to set out to face the world, and he felt like the leper of old, driven by the rest of a wholesome world to hide in the dim recesses of a wilder- ness, whither the eyes of man might not see him, and contact with his fellows became impossible. These were his feelings, but he had no thought of putting such ideas into practice. Nor had he any intention of allow- ing them to embitter him. He was young, his life, and a great capacity for its enjoyment, lay all before him. He would forget. He would make himself forget. He would IN THE SPRINGTIME 131 live like all those others he saw about him. He would work, play; he would love. For in spite of the accident of his birth all these things were part of the life given him. At last he tore open the envelope, and, in a moment, became absorbed in its contents. Here were the same warm words of affection he was accustomed to. The same ardent desire for his welfare; and, through it all, and through the sober accounts of her marriage, and the progress of her new life, which was all she could desire, ran that thrilling note of joy which told him of the completeness of her happi- ness. And yet he was not satisfied. The shadow was there lurking about him. It was in the corners of his sunny room, it floated about his head like an invisible pall, the presence of which depressed him. Nor could he rid himself of its oppressive weight. The last page of his letter he read twice over, and, at the second reading, he knew the source whence the shadow had sprung. The danger for his mother lay in him. In his sim- ple existence. He knew it. Not only did he know that her danger lay in him, but he knew that some sort of disaster would come through him. He rose and paced the floor, and as he paced he swore to himself that he would destroy his life rather than she should ever suffer through him. After a while, his feelings became relieved, and he turned again to that ominous last page, so full of kindly thought for him. "I believe I am on the track of the very farm for you It is a fine place, my agent tells me, dear boy. It consists 'of a whole section of land, with more to be acquired adjoining. Furthermore, it has three hundred and twenty acres already fenced, and some excellent buildings. It also has a water front of half a mile on Fish Creek with plenty of excellent timber. This is going for $7000. The agent assures me it is a gift at the price. It was built by two rich English boys who got tired of it, and went back home. Now, I shall be at Deep Willows, our great farm, on May 15 by myself. Alexander has to be in Chicago then. He wanted me to go with him, but I persuaded him to let me go to Deep Willows by myself that I might enjoy exploring its mag- 132 THE WAY OF THE STRONG iiificence. This, of course, was just an excuse so that I could meet you there and discuss the farm, and see about these things. You must run over as soon after thjit date as possible. It's less than thirty miles from Gleber, so you can easily manage it." There was more of it, much more, but Frank did not read further. He looked up with troubled eyes. Here, here was the threat overshadowing them both. He saw it in the subterfuge by which his mother was seeking to meet him. He saw it in the fearless manner in which she deliberately refused to shut him out of her life. Why not send him the money, and let him conduct his own affairs independently of her? It would, at least, be safe. And, in the midst of all his trouble, absurdly enough, he remembered Sam Ber- nard's remark: "Women is queer most ways." He smiled in spite of himself, but his smile did not for a moment ease his anxiety for his mother. Suddenly he heard the familiar voice of Sam calling up the narrow stairs to him "Ho, Frank! You ready?" Frank thrust the letter in his pocket, and, regardless of the fact he had not yet changed his clothes, hastily called back "Coming right along!" Downstairs the old man's twinkling eyes greeted him. "Guess your mail took a heap o' readin' you ain't changed." Frank smiled back at him. "No," he said abstractedly, for he was thinking of other things. "Jest so," retorted the old man promptly. Then, with a shrug: "Anyway, love letters are warm enough to dry most things. Say " "It was from my mother." "Ah." "And I want to ask you if you'll give me the afternoon off. I'd like to go across to the Raysun's." The old man eyed him shrewdly. "I didn't reckon to, lad," he said, after a moment's thought. "You see the seedin' needs to get on. But I LIFE THROUGH OTHER EYES guess you best go. Letters from your Ma generly need talkin' over with your best gal 'fore you're married." The old man's quiet geniality was quite irresistible, and Frank thanked him warmly. The more surely because he had come very near to guessing the purpose he had in making this visit. But his purpose was rather in conse- quence of, than to discuss his mother's letter. It was a purpose he had impulsively decided upon for no better reason than that all subterfuge was utterly repulsive to him, and he felt that before it was too late Phyllis must be told the painful truth about himself. In some measure his sudden decision comforted him, as he thought of the secret fashion in which it was demanded of him that he should visit his mother. At least there should be no such lack of openness between himself and the girl he hoped some day to make his wife. CHAPTER VI LIFE THROUGH OTHER EYES PHYLLIS RAYSUN was quite a remarkable girl when her parentage and simple, yet strenuous, upbringing were con- sidered. Her beauty was quite decided, and was admitted even by those female souls who were really fond of her. She was dark, with large, dark eyes, deeply fringed with black lashes, almost Celtic in their depth and sleepy fire. And with it all she wore an expression of keenness and decision at all times. She was tall, of a height which always goes so well with a purposeful face such as hers ; and the delightful contours of her figure were all the more grace- fully natural for the absence of corsets. But wherein lay the unusual side of her personality was the unconventional views of life she already possessed at the age of eighteen years. The breadth of them was often quite disconcerting in one so young, and frequently it made her the despair of her plump and doting, and very ordinarily helpless mother. Perhaps her mother's helplessness may have accounted in some measure for Phyllis's unusual mental development. It may have had a pronounced influence upon her, for they THE WAY OF THE STRONG two were quite alone. Years ago, when she was an infant, her father had died, leaving her mother in sorely straitened circumstances. From her earliest years Phyllis had had to think for herself, and help in the struggle against poverty. Then, as she grew older, she realized that they possessed a wholly neglected property which should yield them a living. So she set to work on the farm, and, little by little, she wrested from the soil that profit, which, as the years went on, grad- ually lifted them both from the depths of penury to a frugal comfort. Now the farm was nearing prosperity, and, with the aid of a hired man, Phyllis worked it with all the skill of an expert and widely experienced farmer. Her mother was simply a chorewoman ; a capable enough woman in this lowly capacity. She could never hope to rise above it. Nor was Phyllis ever disturbed by the knowledge. She valued the usefulness of her mother's work too well, and, besides, she loved the helpless old body, and delighted in the care of her as though she were some small child of her own. Phyllis had spent her morning out seeding, as every other farmer in the district was doing, while her hired man was busy with plough and team breaking the last year's fallows. The work was arduous and monotonous, but the girl felt neither of these things. She loved her little homestead with its hundred and sixty acres, and she asked nothing better than to tend it, and watch, and reap the results. She was robust in mind and body, and none of the claims of this agricultural life came amiss to her. But during the past six months a new interest had come into her life in the shape of a blue-eyed male giant of her own age; and from the moment she first set eyes upon him an added glow lit the heavens of her consciousness. She did not recognize its meaning at first. Only she realized that somehow the winter days were less dark and irksome, and an added zest became apparent in the everlasting looking for- ward. But by degrees he became an intimate in her life, and, finally, almost part of it. It was a wonderful time for Phyllis. Through it all he was always associated with the first apparition she had had of him. In her dreaming mind, LIFE THROUGH OTHER EYES 135 as she went about her work, she always saw him as she had seen him then, sitting on the back of a beautiful East-bred, golden chestnut horse, disconsolately viewing the distance with questioning blue eyes, seeking a direction he had abso- lutely lost. That was her first meeting with Frank Burton, and some- how she had been glad, from the first moment she set eyes on him, that hers had been the opportunity of relieving him from the dilemma in which he had found himself. Since then their friendship had ripened quickly. The pulses of youth had been quickly stirred, and almost before Phyllis was aware of it that glorious early spring day had dawned when the great golden sun of love had burst upon her horizon, and turned a chill, snow-clad world into a per- fect poet's dream of delight. Without a second thought she engaged herself to the boy, and the boy engaged himself to her. They loved, so what mattered anything else in the world? Their blood ran hot in healthy veins, and the whole wide world lay before them. Phyllis was returning at midday with the old mare that hauled her seeder. As she came she was reckoning up the time which the rest of the seeding would take. This year an added twenty-five acres was to be put under crop, and time in spring was always the farmer's nightmare. She had completed her figures by the time she drew near the house, when, looking up, with satisfied eyes, she beheld the figure of the man, whose presence never failed to raise a smile of delight in her eyes, standing at the door talking to her mother. "Ho, Frank!" she cried out joyously. The man turned at once and answered her greeting, but the smile on his handsome face had little of the girl's un- qualified joy in it. Her sensitive feelings quickly detected the lack, and she understood that there was something amiss. Frank came swiftly across to her, and relieved her of the mare, which he led to the barn while Phyllis walked at his side. "I just felt I had to come over, Phyl," he said impulsively. "I couldn't pass another night until I had seen you and told you all. I'm I'm utterly miserable. I " 136 THE WAY OF THE STRONG They had reached the barn and Phyllis halted. "You put the mare in, and feed her hay," she interrupted him quickly. "Dan will feed her oats and water her when he comes in." Her manner was studiously matter of fact. She had realized at once that Frank's condition must not be en- couraged. So she remained outside the barn, and waited for him. The boy found her sitting on the tongue of the wagon which stood close by, and the misery in his eyes deepened as he surveyed the charming, pensive face he loved so dearly. "Come and sit here, Frank. Then you can tell me about it." Phyllis looked up at him in that tender, mothering way she had learned in her years of care for her only parent. The man obeyed, and, for the first time since he had left Sam Bernard's farm that morning, a genuine smile of some- thing like contentment lit his hitherto somber face. "Phyl," he cried suddenly, "you you make me feel better already. You oh, it's wonderful the influence you exercise over me. I " He broke off, and, seizing her two hands, bent over and kissed her on the lips. "That's better," the girl exclaimed happily, when he had released her. "When two people really love each other they can generally manage to set the worst of any shadows scoot- ing off to the dark places they belong." The man smiled in spite of himself. "But but it's serious. It really is. It's simply awful." The girl's eyes were just a shade anxious, but her manner was lightly tender. "Of course it is. It surely is. Say, Frank, everything's awful that makes us unhappy. And I guess something's made you real unhappy. Now, just get very busy and tell me all about it." The man sat with his great body drooping forward, and his hands clasped, and hanging between his parted knees. "Unhappy? It's it's worse than that. I I came over here to tell you that that you can have your promise back if you want it." It was out. He had blurted it clumsily he knew, but it LIFE THROUGH OTHER EYES 137 was out. And now he sat fearing to look up into the truth- ful eyes he loved so dearly. Phyllis drew a sharp breath. She looked straight ahead of her for one brief moment while her sunny cheeks paled. Then the soft color came back to them, and, presently, a very tender, very wise pair of eyes studied his dejected profile. "And if I don't want it back?" she said gently. Frank raised his miserable eyes and looked straight into hers. "But you will when you know all," he cried, almost pas- sionately. "I know it. I feel it. I know that a good, honest girl like you could not bear disgrace. No disgrace has ever touched you, and, through me, no disgrace ever shall. When I asked for your promise I did not know all I know now. If I had I would rather have cut off my right hand than attempt to win your love. And now now I know that I had no right to it. I have no right to any good woman's love. I I have no right to anything. Not even to my name." "Frank!" Another sharp intake of breath came with the girl's ex- clamation. "Yes, I mean it," the boy went on, with passionate misery. "I have known it for six weeks, and I should have told you before, but but I hadn't the courage, the honesty. I I have no legitimate father. I I am a bastard." He made his final statement with his eyes upon the ground. To see this great, honest boy bowed with such a sincerity of misery was too much for Phyllis. "You didn't win my love, Frank," she said, with eyes that were tenderly smiling. "I gave it to you quite un- asked. I gave it to you such a long long time ago. I think I must sure have given it you before ever I saw you. And and as for my promise, I guess that was given most at the same time only I just didn't know 'bout it. I don't think I could take my promise back if I felt that way. But I don't not if you'd like to keep it." "Phyl, Phyl !" The boy's eyes were shining, but his sense of right made him protest. "You don't know what you're doing. You surely don't. Think of it. I I have no real 138 THE WAY OF THE STRONG name. Think what folks'll say when they know. Think of the disgrace for you. Think of your girl friends. Phyllis Raysun marrying a bastard. Oh, it's awful." "You do love me, Frank, don't you?" The girl's question came so simply that Frank turned in astonishment. The next moment she was in his arms, and the joy of his hot kisses pervaded her whole body. "Love you? Love you?" he cried. "You're all the world to me." Presently she released herself from his embrace and smiled up into his face. "Then what in the world else matters to us?" she de- manded frankly. Then she went on, looking straight before her at the tumbled-down sod house which had been her home ever since her birth. "Listen," she said. "You are illegitimate. I won't have that other word. It's brutal, and it's not right anyway. Do you ever think of our poor little lives? I do often. Guess I've thought so much I wonder folks make all the to-do they do about lots of things that can't possibly mat- ter. What is life? Why, it's a great big machine sort of tiling that none of us, the wisest, don't know a thing about. Why is it? Where does it come from? What is it? Is it? No, not the wisest man in all the world can answer one of those questions right. He can't. He can't. And yet everybody gets busy making crazy little regulations for running it. Do you see? We're built and developed by this wonderful, wonderful machine thing, and then we turn right around and tell anybody, even, yes, the wonderful machine thing that made us itself, how we should live the life which has already been arranged for. "Frank dear," she hurried on eagerly, "it's almost funny, only it's all so plumb crazy. Do you ever go to Meeting? I mean church?" "I'm afraid I don't," Frank admitted ruefully. "I do," cried the girl. "Oh yes, I do." Then she laughed. "It's more funny than you'd expect, if if you only think about it. I always think a lot when I go. It makes me think, but not in the way the parson would have me. I always start thinking about him. It seems so queer, him LIFE THROUGH OTHER EYES standing up there talking Bible stuff, and telling you what it means, just, for all the world, as if he'd wrote it, and knew all about it ; j ust as if he was a personal friend of that great machine thing that keeps this world buzzing around and sets us feeling, and doing, and happy, and miserable. Then he gets paid like any hired man for talking to us all, just as if we were silly folk who couldn't think just as well as him. But he don't really think far. He just tells you what he's told to tell you by those who pay him his wages, and if he told you anything else he'd lose his job, and maybe have to plow for a living, and then be told by some other feller every seventh day he was a fool and a sinner. "Then you go to another church or meeting house. It used to make me real bad one time. But it doesn't now, because I'm getting to understand better. Well, at the other place they tell you all different. And while you're listening it makes you think the other feller's a fool, and and ought to be making hay, or maybe eating it. Then you get mazed up with so much contradiction about Life, and God, and all the other things, so you find another church. Then that feller gets up and tells you that none of the others have got it right no one else in the world but him, as the representative of his particular religion. And he asks you to help him send out missionaries, and things, to tell everybody that don't think the same as him they're fools and worse, and and they're all going plumb to hell wherever that is. "Now what does it all come to, Frank?" she cried, with eyes glowing and cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. "Why, just this. We're born into this world, which is a wonderful, wonderful place, through none of our doing. A big God, somewhere, gives us our life, and implants in us a wonderful sense of right and wrong, and we've just got to use it the best we know. We don't know anything beyond the limits of understanding He's given us, and He doesn't intend us to know more. He just seems to say, 'Go right along and work out your own salvation; and when you've done, I'll come along and see how you've been doing, and, maybe, I'll fix it so your failures won't happen in the newer lives I set going.' That's how it seems to me. So you don't need to listen more than you want to what other folks, no wiser than 140 THE WAY OF THE STRONG yourself, tell you of what's right and what's wrong. You don't; because they don't know any better than you and that's a fact. So when you come and tell me you're dis- graced, just because your pa and momma weren't preached at by a feller all dressed in white, and they didn't have bells ringing, and she didn't have a trousseau, and the folks didn't get around and make speeches, and pile a shower of paper stuff down their backs, I say you're not. None of it matters. Nothing in the whole wide world matters so long as we don't let go our hold on that sense of right and wrong which the good God gave us. That's all that really does matter to us. It's no concern of ours what folks who came before us did, or the doings of folks who're coming after. We've got to do our work. We've got to love and live till it pleases our great big God to tell us to stop. And I'm most sure if we do that, and hold tight to our sense of right and wrong, and act as it prompts us, we're just doing His Will as He wants us to do it." Frank sat staring in wide astonishment at the girl's flushed face and bright, enthusiastic eyes. But the effect of her words, her understanding of things, upon him was none the less. He felt the great underlying truth in all she said, and it brought him a measure of comfort which his own lack of real thought had left him without. "Phyl!" he almost gasped. The girl broke into happy laughter. "Say, Frank," she cried, "don't tell me I'll I'll go to hell for it all. I I couldn't stand that from you." The boy shook his head. He, too, joined in the laugh. He felt he wanted to laugh. It was as though she had sud- denly relieved him of an intolerable burden. "I wouldn't tell you that, Phyl," he said, with heavy ear- nestness. "You'll go somewhere, but it won't be to hell." "And and you don't want me to take my promise back ?" she asked him, her gray eyes sobering at once. "No, dear, I just love you more than ever." He sighed in great contentment. "And we'll get married as soon as soon as mother buys me the farm she's going to. She's written me about it to-day." "Ah, yes, that farm." Phyllis rested her chin upon her hand, and gazed out at the old house abstractedly. HAPPY DAYS 141 "It's to be a swell place," the boy went on. "I'm so glad, Frank," she replied absently. Then she recalled her dreaming faculties. "And your momma's giv- ing it to you? She must be very rich." Frank flushed and turned his eyes away. "She has a good deal of money," he said awkwardly. The girl seemed to understand. She questioned him no further. "She must be a good and kind woman," she said gently. "I hope some day I may get to know her." T 5J Frank broke off. The promise he was rashly about to make remained unspoken. He knew he could not promise anything in his mother's name now. CHAPTER VII HAPPY DAYS ANGUS MORAINE was a dour, hard-headed business man such as Alexander Hendrie liked to have about him. He was also an agriculturalist from his finger-tips to his back- bone, and the millionaire's great farm at Deep Willows owed most of its prosperity to this hard, raw-boned de- scendant from the Crofters of Scotland. When he heard of his friend and employer's forthcoming marriage he shook his head, and his lean face took on an expression of added sourness. He saw visions of his own sphere of administration at Deep Willows becoming nar- rowed. He felt that the confidence of his employer was likely to be diverted into another channel. This meant more than a mere outrage to his pride. He knew it might affect his private pocket in an adverse degree. Therefore the news was all the more unwelcome. Pondering on these matters while on a round of inspection of the far-reaching wheat-lands which he controlled, he ab- ruptly drew up his sturdy broncho in full view of a great gray owl perched on the top of a barbed wire fence-post. He sat there surveying the creature for some moments, and finally apostrophized it, feeling that so uncanny and secretive a fowl was an admirable and safe recipient for his confidences. THE WAY OF THE STRONG "It's no sort of use, my gray and ugly friend," he said, in his wry way. "Folks call Master Alexander the Napoleon of the wheat world, and I'm not saying he isn't. But Napoleons generally make a mess of things when they marry. Their business is fighting, or -they wouldn't be Napoleons." Quite apart from his own interests he felt that Hendrie was making a grave mistake, and, later on, when he learned that he had married his secretary, his conviction became permanent. This time his disapproval was directed at the map of Alberta, which hung upon his office wall. He shook his bony forefinger with its torn and dirty nail at the silent witness, his narrow eyes snapping with angry scorn. "Female secretaries are pernicious," he cried angrily. "They're worse'n a colony of gophers in a wheat patch. You want a temperature of forty below to keep your office cool with a woman working in it. Hendrie always hated the cold." But his apprehensions did not end there. Later he learned that Deep Willows was to be Monica's future home, and the place was to be immediately prepared for her reception. This time the telephone over which he had received his instructions got the full benefit of his displeasure. It was cold and calm, and thoroughly biting. "I'll need to chase a new job, or the old one'll chase me," he muttered, and the thermometer of his feelings for women, as a race, dropped far below the zero at which it had hitherto stood. But there was far too much of the old Crofter's blood in Angus's veins to let him relinquish the gold mine which Hendrie's affairs were to him. However he disliked the new conditions of things he kept his feelings to himself, or only permitted their expression before silent witnesses. With all the caution of his forefathers he awaited developments, and refrained from any precipitate action; and, later on, he was more than glad he had exercised such restraint. The necessary preparations were duly put in hand, and Angus supervised everything himself. Every detail was car- ried out with that exactness for which Hendrie's manager was noted. He spared no pains, and that was his way. His native shrewdness had long ago taught him how best he could serve his employer's interests, and, consequently, hi3 HAPPY DAYS own. Implicit obedience to the millionaire left him with enormous pickings, and the building up of Hendrie's minia- ture world of wheat had left him comparatively a rich man, with small agricultural interests scattered all over the north- west. He was not the man to turn and rend the golden calf he worshiped, nor to attempt to cook his own tame golden goose in the fire of his displeasure. Besides, deep down in his rugged heart, he was utterly devoted to his employer. So he gave Monica and her husband a royal welcome to Deep Willows. After all Monica was not permitted to explore Deep Wil- lows by herself. Hendrie contrived to get his business in Chicago temporarily adjusted, and, as a surprise, explained at the last moment to his bride that he could not bring him- self to permit her going to Deep Willows for the first time without him. The news at once pleased and terrified Monica. Her thoughts flew to Frank, and her appointment with him, and it became necessary at once to despatch a "rushed" wire to put him off. When this had been done she felt more at ease, and abandoned herself to her pleasure in the thought that, after all, her husband was to accompany her to the home which she had decided should be theirs. But it left her with a fuller understanding of the diffi- culties and dangers with which she was beset. She realized that an added caution was needed. That it would be so easy to make a slip, and so run the risk of wrecking her newly found happiness. Yes, there was no denying it, she was utterly happy dur- ing those first weeks of her married life, and frequently she found herself wondering how she had had the courage to face the long years of her spinsterhood. It had been worth waiting for. She had married the man of her choice, the one man in all the world who appealed to her as the very essence of all that was great, and strong, and lovable in manhood. Here was no weakling to appeal to her sense of motherhood, but a powerful, commanding, yes, even ruthless personality, upon which she could lean in times when her woman's heart needed such strong support. Then, too, she saw a side of his character which the world was never likely to see, and her pride and delight in the THE WAV OF THE STRONG privilege were wholly womanly. To her he was the lover, tender, passionate, strong. And his jealous regard for her was an added delight to her woman's vanity and love. The thought of his power in the world, his Napoleonic methods of openly seeking liis adversary in the world of finance and crushing him to his will only made the intimacy of their lives all the sweeter to her. She was ambitious, ambitious for him, ambitious to stand at his side on every plane to which he soared. Then came her arrival at Deep Willows ; and at once she learned to her delight the chief reason of her husband's accompanj'ing her. She had expected a fine farm, built as farms were built in this new country. She had expected a great place, where comfort was sacrificed to the work in hand. She had ex- pected the rush and busy life of a great commercial under- taking, wonderful organization, wonderful machinery, won- derful, crude buildings for the surer storing of crops. But, though she found all the wonders of machinery, all the busy life she had expected, all the buildings, she found something more, something she had not been led to expect in a man of Hendrie's plain tastes. A miniature palace was awaiting her. A palace standing in its own wide grounds of park-like trees and delicious, shaded gardens. She found a home in which a king might have dwelt, one that had been designed by one of the most famous architects of the day. It was set on the banks of a river, high up on a rising ground, whence, from its windows, a wide view of the almost illimitable wheat-fields spread out before the eyes, and, di- rectly below, lay the roaring falls where the water of the river dropped churning into a wide gorge. Truly the setting of this home was as nearly perfect as a prodigal nature could make it. The land in its immediate vicinity had no regularity; it was a tumbled profusion of natural splendor, perfectly trained in its own delightful disorder. The farm buildings were nowhere visible from the house or grounds. They were hidden behind a great stretch of woodland bluff so that nothing should spoil the view from the house. All that was visible was the wheat, stretching away in every directioD THEN CAME HER ARRIVAL AT DEEP WILLOWS HAPPY DAYS 145 over the undulating plains as far as the eye could see, cen- tering about this perfect heart, and radiating to a distance of something like five miles. Such was the home which Monica's love for Hendrie had brought her; and the man's joy in offering it for her ac- ceptance was a thing to remember all her life. There was that light of perfect happiness in his gray eyes as he stood in what he called the office, but which was, in reality, a library furnished with every luxury unlimited wealth could command. He held out a long blue envelope on which her name was inscribed. "Now, Mon," he said, in a sober way which his eyes belied, "I guess you've seen most all, and and I've been real happy showing it you. Make me happier still by taking this. When you've read the contents, just have it locked away in your safe deposit. It's it's a present for a good girl." Monica drew out the papers and gasped out her delight when she discovered that they were a deed of gift to her of Deep Willows. The house, furniture, and the grounds as separate from the farm. "It's it's too much, Alec !" she cried. "Oh, I can scarcely believe it scarcely believe it." The man's face was a study in perfect happiness as he feasted his eyes upon her beautiful flushed face. The power to give in this princely fashion touched him more nearly than perhaps any other feeling, next to his love for her. But his commercial instinct made him laugh. "You'll believe it, dear," he said dryly, "if ever you get busy paying for its up-keep out of your marriage settle- ment." That night Monica realized that the culminating day of her love and ambitions had drawn to a close. Such a day could never come again, such moments could never be ex- perienced twice in a lifetime. Her good fortune had come at last, come in abundance. She was the wife of one of the country's richest and most successful men. His love for her, and her love for him was perfect, utterly complete. She owned a home whose magnificence any prince might envy. What more could she hope, or wish for? All that the world seemed to have to offer was hers. It was all too wonderful too wonderful. 11 146 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Then, strangely enough, in the midst of her content, her thoughts mechanically drifted to other scenes, other days. They floated back to the now dim and distant struggles that lay behind her, and at once centered round a blue-eyed, fair- haired boy whom she had mothered and watched grow to manhood. She slept badly that night. Her sleep was broken, fitful ; and every time she slept it was to dream of Frank, and every dream was of trouble, trouble that always involved him. A week later the call of business took Hendrie away. Such were his interests that he could never hope to remain for long in any one place. He went away after a brief, charac- teristic interview with Angus Moraine. It occurred in the library. "Angus," he said, "I want you to get a grip on this. Henceforth my wife represents me in all matters to do with this place. She's a business woman. So I leave her to your care. But remember, she's me." At that moment Angus Moraine's cup of bitterness was filled to overflowing. He had seen it coming from the out- set, and he cursed softly under his breath as the millionaire took his departure. With Hendrie's going, Monica's thoughts were once more free to think of that other interest in her life. Nor was she the woman to abandon any course she had once embarked upon. If it had been Hendrie's pleasure to give to her, it was no less her pleasure to complete the equipment of Frank, which had been her life's endeavor. Now, with all the means ready to hand, she decided to act at once. So, to this end, she wrote him full and careful instructions. Some days later a stranger registered at the Russell Hotel, in Everton, which was a small hamlet situated on the eastern boundary of Hendrie's farm. He was tall and young, blue-eyed and fair-haired, and he registered in the name of Frank Smith. On the same day Angus Moraine received word from Monica's order, "small hell" reigned among his foremen the day. She said she intended to explore the country round about; she wanted to see something of its people. HAPPY DAYS 147 With the coming of this order Angus understood that he was no longer master at Deep Willows, and his resentment was silent but deadly. He had foreseen the position. He had foreseen this ousting, he told himself, and now it had come. At no time was he an easy man, but he was reason- ably fair and just to those who worked under him. It was only in moments when things went wrong with him that the harsh, underlying cruelty of his nature was displayed. Things had gone wrong with him now, and, on the day he received Monica's order, "small hell" reigned amongst his foremen and overseers. Just now he was going through an unhappy time, and he was determined that something of it should be passed on to those within his reach. After a long day of arduous work he finally threw off the yoke of his labors, and prepared for his usual evening recreation. He had a fresh horse saddled, and rode off down the river towards Everton. Here it was his nightly custom to foregather, and, in his choice, he proved something of his Scottish ancestry. He rarely missed his evening whisky in the office of the little hotel. It was his custom to sit there for two hours or so, reading papers and sipping his drink, listening to, but rarely taking part in, the gossip of the villagers assembled. The latter was partly from the natural unsociability of his dis- position, and partly from pride of position. Here he was looked upon as a little king, and he was as vain as he was churlish. He drew near his destination. In the dusk the few odd lights of Everton shone out through the bluff of trees, in the midst of which the village was set. The man's habit was very strong. He always rode at a rapid gallop the whole of the six miles to the village, and he always drew his horse down to a walk at this point, where the private track from the farm converged with the main trail. The main trail was an old trading route of the Indian days which cut its way through the heart of Hendrie's land. It followed the south bank of the river and crossed the water at this point. It was for the purpose of avoiding this ford that the private road had been brought into existence. Likewise, at this point, Angus always filled and lighted his pipe, a rank-smelling briar, well burnt down on one 148 THE WAY OF THE STRONG side. There was always reason for what he did. He rode hard to give himself ample time for his evening's recreation. He walked his horse at this point to cool him off. He lighted his evening pipe here because he was beyond the range of the fields of wheat, and though there was no fear of fire at this season of the year, he preferred the habit to the risk of inadvertently setting fire to the crops when they were ripened. He pulled up his horse and struck a match, and, instantly, in the stillness of the evening, became aware of approaching wheels. He heard horses take the water at the ford; and so unusual was the phenomenon at this hour of the evening that he looked down the converging trail to see who was driving into the village. He heard voices, and so still was the evening that their tones came to him distinctly. Two people were evidently in the vehicle; a man and a woman. The horses had ceased to splash. He heard them coming up the slope, and, almost unconsciously, he drew back into the shadow of the trees. This left him with his view of the other trail shut off, but, ahead, he could see the convergence, and when the vehicle passed that point it would be in full view. He waited. The horses were abreast of him, beyond the trees. Suddenly the sound of their hoofs died out. They had come to a standstill, and he heard voices again. "Oh, Mon, it's been a glorious day. You are good to me. Was there ever such a woman in the world?" It was a man's voice speaking. Angus had caught the name "Mon," and his ears strained doubly hard to hear all that passed between them. Now the woman was speaking. He heard her laugh, a laugh he perfectly well knew. "Don't talk like that, you silly Frank," she cried. "But it has been a day, hasn't it? We've had it all to ourselves, without one single cloud to mar it. You'll be all right now. You can get back to the hotel and no one will be the wiser for our meeting. I'll write you when it is safe to come over again. It must be soon. I want you with me so much, and it is perfectly safe when Alec is away. Good night, dear boy." ANGUS HEARS SOME TALK 149 Angus heard a sound and recognized it. She had kissed the man. The blood mounted to his head. Then it receded, leaving him cold. He sat quite still. A moment later he heard the man walking toward the junction of the roads. Then he heard the scuffle of horses' hoofs as the vehicle was turned about. And again he heard the animals take the water. Still he sat on. Presently he beheld a tall, burly figure in tweeds emerge from the other trail. He was a powerfully built man, and, even in that light, he could see the thick, fair hair under the brim of the stranger's prairie hat. "So that's your game, mam, is it?" he muttered. "1 guessed Hendrie had made a mess of things marrying hi.s secretary. I wonder." He waited until the man had gained considerable distance. Then he lifted the reins, and permitted his impatient horse to walk on towards the village. CHAPTER VIII ANGUS HEARS SOME TALK ANGUS MORAINE'S whole attitude toward Monica under- went a sudden change. That his feelings changed is doubt- ful. His feelings rarely changed about anything. However, where before an evident, but tacit antagonism underlaid all his service of the new mistress of Deep Willows, now he only too readily acquiesced to her lightest wish, and even went far out of his way to obtain her confidence, and inspire her good feeling toward him. The unsuspicious Monica more than appreciated his efforts. He was her husband's trusted employee, he was a big factor in her husband's affairs, and it seemed good that she should be taken thus readily to the bosom of those who served the man she loved. Her days were hours of delight that were all too short. Yet with each passing moment, she felt that she was safely drawing nearer the completion of those plans which she had 150 THE WAY OF THE STRONG long ago designed for Frank. She knew that when finally settled, they would leave her without the tiniest shadow upon her horizon. The affairs of the farm she intended purchasing were well in hand. She and Frank had inspected it together, and both had approved. Now it w^as only for the lawyers, whom Monica had been careful to let Frank employ to complete the arrangements, and for the money she must provide to be forthcoming. In the meantime there was much to discuss, much to plan for the future, and, with Hendrie away, Monica did not hesi- tate to see Frank as often, perhaps more often than was necessary. Her husband always kept her posted as to his movements, and thus she was left perfectly safe and free for the repetition of these clandestine visits. Had she only known that Angus had recognized her and witnessed her parting from Frank after inspecting the new farm, her peace of mind would have known none of the ease it now enjoyed. But she remained in ignorance of the fact, and the astute Scot was determined to give her no cause for suspicion. Thus had he adopted his fresh attitude, but for what more subtle reason it would have been difficult to say. The change in his manner extended in other directions. It did not affect those who worked under him, but, to those whom he met during his evening recreations, it came well- nigh as a staggering surprise. For some evenings no one commented upon it. Perhaps his geniality was so extraordinary that men doubted their senses, and wondered if it were not a delusion brought on by their mild, nightly potions. But it continued with such definite persistence that remark at last found expression. The first mention of it came from Abe Hopkinson, who dealt in dry-goods and canned "truck." He was sitting with his feet thrust upon a table in the office of the Russell Hotel early one evening. For some time he had been re- flectively chewing. Suddenly his face flushed with emotion. He could stand the doubt no longer. "Say," he cried, thumping one heavily shod foot upon the well-worn blotter, and setting the inkstand rattling, "wot's hit old leather-belly?" His inelegant inquiry was addressed to the company gen- ANGUS HEARS SOME TALK 151 erally. Pete Farline, famed for his bad drugs and anti- quated "notion" department, breathed a deep sigh of relief. "I'm glad you ast that, Abe," he said. "I've been troubled some. Guessed I'd have to hit the water-wagon a piece." Sid Ellerton looked up from the pages of a cheap maga- zine. "Meaning the whisky souse from Scotland, via Deep Wil- lows ?" he asked vaguely, and returned to his reading. A fair-haired little man, by name Josh Taylor, who spent his winter days dissecting frozen beef, and his summer even- ings in his butcher's store smashing flies on the sides of beef with the flat of a knife, mildly reproved him. "Guess you read too much fiction, Sid. It makes you ask fool questions. Who else would Abe be talkin' of but that haggis-faced moss-back from the Hebrides? Ain't he made us all feel queer these days an' days ? Say, he's gettin' that soft I get around dead scared he'll get a fancy to kiss me." Abe grinned over at Josh's hard face, with its unshaven chin, and his hair standing rigidly on his bullet head. He shook his head. "I'd say Angus is soft, but ' A titter went round the room as Abe broke off. He had just seen the reflection of Angus Moraine in the broken mirror which adorned the opposite wall. He was standing in the doorway. Abe sat wondering how much of their talk the Scot had overheard when that individual's voice termin- ated the moment's merriment. "Feeling good, boys?" he inquired, in his new tone of amiability. Pete hastily jerked his feet on to the top of the cold stove, assuming a nonchalant air. "Feelin' good, Mr. Moraine?" he exclaimed. "Why, I'd say. Say, this tarnation country's settling that rapid I had a new customer to-day. Guess I'm figgerin' to start a drug trust." Angus smiled with the rest as he moved across to his usual seat, a rigid armchair under the lamp bracket on the wall. The table bell was within his reach, and he struck it, and picked up an illustrated Sunday paper more than a month old. 152 THE WAY OF THE STRONG "Who was your customer?" he asked indifferently. "Why, a guy that's been gettin' around a heap lately. He stops in this house when he comes. Dresses in fancy store clothes, and wears fair hair and blue eyes. Guess he's maybe twenty or more. Calls himself Frank Smith. He was buyin' fancy perfume for a lady." Sid looked up. "First got around soon after Mrs. Hendrie come to the farm," he said, and lost himself promptly in the pages of his magazine. "I've seen him," Angus said quietly, without lifting his eyes from the absorbing colored illustrations. "A flash- looking feller." "That's him," cried Pete quickly. "He ain't unlike Mr. Hendrie, only bigger. Guess he's a deal better to look at, too. Maybe he's a relation of the lady's." "Maybe," muttered Angus indifferently. Then, as the hotel proprietor, who was also bartender and anything else required in the service of his house, appeared in answer to the bell, he ordered whisky, and nodded comprehensively at the company. "Take the orders," he said shortly. But this was too much. Such a sensation could not be endured without some outward expression. Pete's feet fell off the stove with a clatter, and kicked the loose damper into the iron cuspidor. Abe swallowed his chew of tobacco and nearly choked. Sid Ellerton dropped his magazine, and, in his endeavor to save it from the splotches of tobacco juice on the floor, shot the chair from under him. Un- fortunately the chair struck Josh violently on the knee as it overturned, and set the hasty butcher cursing with a fine discrimination. However, these involuntary expressions of feeling subsided in time for each man to give his order, and Lionel K. Sharpe, the proprietor, precipitated himself from the room with his head whirling, and a wild fear gripping him lest Mr. Moraine's bill should be disputed at the end of the month. Abe took a fresh chew, and Pete's feet returned to the top of the stove, but Josh's knee still ached when the drinks arrived. Nor did poor Sid's loss of interest in a love story, so hopelessly smeared with tobacco juice, prevent him bright- ening visibly as he received his refreshment. ANGUS HEARS SOME TALK 153 The little man raised his glass to his lips and toasted his host. "Here's 'how,' Mr. Moraine, sir," he said, with a smile, feeling that, after all, there were still compensations for the loss of a besmirched love story. The chorus was taken up by the rest of the company, and they all solemnly drank. Somehow there was a pretty gen- eral feeling that it was not a moment for levity. "Smith stopping here now?" inquired Angus, setting his glass down a moment later. Abe turned to the tattered register. "Booked in yesterday," he said, thumbing down the page which contained the list of a whole year's guests. "Ah paid," he added, running his eye across to the "remarks" column. "Guess he's gone. I'd say that perfume was a parting gift to his lady friend, Pete." "And who may she be?" inquired Angus, innocently turn- ing the page of his paper. No one answered him. An exchange of glances went round the room, carefully leaving the manager out. Presently Angus looked up. "Eh?" he demanded. Abe cleared his throat. "Guess I don't know of any female running loose around here. They've most all got local beaus," he said, while he shifted his position uncomfortably. Sid caught his eye and shook his head. "Can't say," he observed. "I see him once with a gal. They wer' a long piece off. She was tall an' an' upstandin'. Didn't just recognize her." "Guess I see him with her, too," put in Pete, almost eagerly. "Seen him several times with her. They were way out riding. I was too far off to see them right." "She was tall, eh?" said Josh reflectively. "Guess that's who I met on the trail driving with him. Maybe she belongs to one of the farms." "Maybe," muttered Angus dryly. "Anyway, I don't guess it's up to us to worry our heads gray over him and his lady friend. But it's good to see folks coming around. This place is surely going to boom, fellers. It's going to be a great town, Hendrie's working on a big scheme that's going 154 THE WAY OF THE STRONG to bring the railway through here, and set values going up sky high. Don't say I told you nothing. I've closed a deal in town lots for myself, and if you've got any spare dollars I'd advise " He broke off and looked across at the doorway as another townsman came in. It was Charlie Maybee, the postmaster. "Evening, boys. Evening, Mr. Moraine," he cried, his genial face beaming cordially on everybody. "Say, Mr. Moraine, I guessed maybe I'd find you. I got some mail here for Mrs. Hendrie. It's local, and addressed to the post- office. We don't get mail much that way, so I thought I'd hand it to you. It'll save the lady comin' along in for it." He produced the letter and handed it to Angus while accepting his invitation to drink. "Mailed locally?" the manager inquired casually. "Yes, This morning." "Ah." The keen-eyed Scot intercepted another exchange of meaning glances, and looked from one to the other with some severity. "Say," he cried, with a sudden and studied return to his usual dour manner, "some of you boys seem to be saying one thing and thinking another. Maybe you know some- thing about this letter." An instant denial leaped to everybody's lips, but Angus was playing his part too well for these country town-folk. He maintained his atmosphere of displeasure and suspicion, and finally the impulsive butcher cleared his throat. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed nervously. "What's the use beatin' around? We're all good friends right here, an' we all feel that we owe Mr. Hendrie a mighty lot for what he's doing for this city. An', I guess, when there's things goin' on that don't seem right by him it's up to us to open our mouths. We don't know a thing about that letter, Mr. Moraine, but it just fits in with things we do know all of us. We know that just as soon as Mr. Hendrie disappears from the farm some other feller appears, and his name's Frank Smith, and he mostly gets around riding and driving with Mrs. Hendrie. That's what we know." The butcher's forehead was beaded with perspiration as THE WHEAT TRUST 155 he came to the end of his statement, but he stared defiantly round at the disapproving faces of his friends. Angus fixed him with a stern eye. "You surely do know a lot," he exclaimed, with angry sarcasm. "And I want to tell you that I know a lot too. This is what I know. What you're saying is a damned scandal. Do you get me? A damned scandal," he reiter- ated. "And if I told Mr. Hendrie he'd have you all for criminal libel or worse. Now, see here," he went on, after a dramatic pause, "I tell you plainly if I ever hear another breath of the like of this yarn going around I'll see that Mr. Hendrie has you all lagged for a pack of libelous rascals who ought to be in penitentiary." He finished up his angry denunciation by bringing his clenched fist down on the table bell with a force that brought Mr. Sharpe flying into the room on the dead run, and left the shamefaced townsmen glowering upon the flaming face of their unfortunate comrade. But the sensations of the evening did not end here. Angus furnished them with another, even greater than those which had preceded it. "Take the orders again!" he cried, as though hurling a challenge, and daring any one to refuse his hospitality. And such was the apprehension his manner inspired in the hearts of the gathered scandal-mongers, that all selection was reduced to a general call for whisky, that being the only refreshment their confused brains could think of under such a dreadful strain, CHAPTER IX THE WHEAT TRUST MONICA leaned forward in her saddle as her well-trained broncho came to a stand. She set her elbow on her knee, and the oval of her pensive face found a resting place in the palm of her hand. Thus she sat gazing out over the golden world, which rustled and rippled in the lightest of summer zephyrs, chanting its whispered song of prosperity to the delight of her listening ears. Summer was nearing its height and a perfect day shone 156 THE WAY OF THE STRONG down upon the world. There was no cloud to mar the per- fect azure of the sky, or shadow the ripening sun. The lightest of summer breezes scarcely stirred the perfumed air, which she drank in, in deep breaths, her whole being per- vaded with the joy of living. Everywhere about her spread out this rippling sea of golden wheat. Far as the eye could see, in the vague heat haze which hovered over the distant line of nodding grain, it washed the shores of an indefinite horizon, a monument to one man's genius, a testimony to the unflinching deter- mination with which he faced the world and wrested from life all those things his heart was set upon. A great pride stirred within her. It was a worthy labor; it w r as magnificent. Was there another man in the world comparable with this great husband of hers? She thought not. His was the brain which had conceived the stupendous scheme ; his was the guiding hand which had organized this vast feeding-ground of a hungry world ; his was the courage that feared neither failure nor disaster; his was the driving force which carried him on, surmounting every difficulty, or thrusting them ruthlessly from his path. What other schemes yet lay behind his steady eyes await- ing the moment of decision for their operation? She won- dered; and wondering smiled, confident in the knowledge that he had yet worlds to conquer, and that she would share in his victories. It all seemed very, very wonderful to this woman who, all her life, had only known desperate struggles for her bare needs. Suddenly she sat up and flung her arms wide open, as though in a wild desire to take to her bosom the whole world about her. Then she laughed aloud, a joyous, happy laugh, and set her horse galloping toward her home. She loved it all, every acre of it, every golden ear, every red grain that grew there. She loved it because of him. Her delight culminated as she reached the house. As the man-servant stepped forward to assist her to dismount he gave her the only information that could have added to her happiness at such a moment. "Mr. Hendrie is home, ma'am," he said. "He's in the office, awaiting your return." Monica sprang to the ground with an exclamation which, THE WHEAT TRUST 157 even to the well-trained footman, conveyed something of her feelings, and ran into the house. In a moment, almost, she was in her husband's arms, and returning his caresses. "I made home sooner than I hoped, Mon," he said, the moment of their greeting over. The woman's smiling eyes looked up into his face. "Yes. And I'm so glad. You said not until Thursday next, and this is only Saturday. You were full of a tremend- ous business in your letter last Tuesday. Something you couldn't trust to paper." The man smiled, but his powerful features wore that set look which Monica had long ago learned to understand meant the machine-like working of the brain behind it on some matter which occupied his whole attention. "That's it," he said, in his sparing manner when dealing with affairs. "Trust." "Trust?" Monica echoed the word, her eyes widening with inquiry. Hendrie nodded. "This has been a secret I've kept even from you," he said. "From the moment you promised to be my wife, why, I just determined to turn all my wheat interests into one huge trust. I determined to organize it, and become its president for a while. After it's good and going maybe I'll retire from active service and just hand over the rest of my life to you, and to those things which are, perhaps, more worth doing than than, well, growing wheat." The woman's face was a study in emotion. "Oh, Alec," she cried. "You you are doing this for me?" "I'm doing this, Mon, because I guess you've taught me something my eyes have been mostly blind to. I'm doing this because I'm learning things I didn't know before. One of them's this. The satisfaction of piling up a fortune has its limit. Maybe I've reached that limit. Anyway I seem to be groping around for something else something better. Guess I'm not just clear about things yet. But well, may- be, seeing you've made things look different, you'll help me sort it out." While he was speaking Monica had turned away to the window which looked out upon the beautiful stream far 158 THE WAY OF THE STRONG below them. Now she turned, and all her love was shining in her eyes. "Oh, Alec," she cried earnestly, "I thank God that this is so. With all my heart I thank Him that this wonderful new feeling has come through me." After that the man's attitude changed again to the cool, yet forceful method which had made him the financial prince he was. Nor, as she noted the swift changing of his moods, could Monica help remembering that other change she had once witnessed. That moment when on the discovery of Frank's picture in her apartments he had been changed in a flash from the perfect lover to a demon of jealous fury. She felt that she had untold depths to fathom yet, before she could hope to understand the mysteries of this man's soul. She listened to him now with all her business faculties alert. Once more he was the employer, and she the humble but willing secretary. "I have practically finished the preliminaries of this trust," he said. "When it's fixed there'll be a bit of a shout. Bound to be. But I don't guess that matters any. What really does matter is the result, and how it's going to affect the public. My principles are sound, and wholesome. We're not looking for big lumps of profit. We're not out to rob the world of one cent. We are out to protect the public as well as ourselves. And the protection we both need is against those manipulators of the market like Henry Louth, and other unscrupulous speculators. In time I'm hoping to make the trust world-wide. Meanwhile eighty per cent. of the grain growers of this country, and the northwestern states across the border, are ready to come in. For the rest it's just a question of time before they are forced to. Such will be the supplies of grain from our control in a few years that we can practically collar the market. Then, when the organization is complete, and the wheat growers are uni- versally bonded together, there's going to be no middle man, and the public will pay less for its bread, and the growers will reap greater profits. That's my scheme. I tell you right here no one's a right to come between the producer and the consumer. The man who does so is a vampire, and has no right to exist. He sits in his office and grows fat, THE WHEAT TRUST 159 sucking the blood of both the toiler in the field and the toiler in the city. He must go." Monica clasped her hands in the enthusiasm with which Hendrie always inspired her. She knew he was no dreamer, but a man capable of putting into practice the schemes of his essentially commercial genius. "Yes, yes!" she cried. "It is immense. I have always known that if only a man with sufficient courage and in- fluence and capital could be found some such scheme might be operated. And you you have thought of it all the time. It has been your secret. And now ' "Now? Now I'm going to ask for your contribution." Hendrie smiled. "Ah, Mon, I can't do without you. I am going to set you a task that'll tax all your capacity and devotion to me. You've got to run this great farm of ours. Oh, you haven't got to be a farmer," he said quickly, at sight of the woman's blank look. "You will have the same army of helpers under you that Angus has. It will be for you to see that the work is done. Guess yours will just be the organizing head. I'll need Angus in Winnipeg. He is a man of big capacity for the work I need. You see, I know I can trust him in things that I could trust to no other man." Hendrie rose from his seat at the writing table, and pressed a bell. "I'll send for him now," he explained. Monica came to his side, and laid a shaking hand upon his shoulder. Habit was strong in her. She could not alto- gether forget that he was no longer her employer. She approached him now in something of the old spirit. "Could not I do the work in Winnipeg?" she asked timidly. "Would it not be wiser to leave Angus ?" Hendrie's keen eyes looked straight down into hers. "We are battling with hard fighting men who demand cent per cent for their money, and can only get a fair in- terest," he said. "They must be dealt with by men as hard as themselves. No, it's not woman's work. Angus is the hardest man of business I know. I can trust him. There- fore I require him even in preference to you." Monica bowed her head. She accepted his verdict in this as in all things. 160 THE WAY OF THE STRONG "Yes," she said simply. "I think I understand." Then she went on in a thrilling voice. "But I am glad there is work for me to do. So glad. Oh, Alec, you are making me a factor in this great affair. You have allotted me my work in an epoch-making financial enterprise, and I I am very thankful." Her husband stooped and kissed her. Then he patted her on the shoulder, as he might have done when she was his secretary. "Good, Mon," he said, in the calm tone of approval Mon- ica knew so well. Then he went back to his seat. At that moment Angus Moraine appeared in the door- way. His coming was swift and silent, and, for the first time since she had known him, his cold face and colder eyes struck unpleasantly upon the woman who was to supersede him. Hendrie looked up, and, in one swift glance, noted all that Monica had seen in the manager's face without being in the least affected by it. He knew this man better than it is generally given to one man to know another. He adopted no roundabout methods now. "I'm going to take this place out of your hands, Angus, my boy," he said easily. "I want you in Winnipeg. I have a big coup on, which I will explain to you later. The essen- tial point is that I want you in Winnipeg. You must be ready in one month's time. The appointment will be to your advantage. Get me?" Then he smiled coolly. "A month will give you time to arrange your various wheat interests about here." Angus displayed no emotion of any sort. That the change was distasteful to him there could be no doubt. He had expected some such result with Monica's appearance on the scene. Nor did the millionaire's knowledge of his private interests disconcert him. It was not easy to take this man off his guard. "Yes," he said simply, and left the other to do the talking. But Hendrie turned again to his desk as though about to write. "That's all," he said shortly. Angus made no attempt to retire. Just for one second his eyes shot a swift glance in Monica's direction. She was standing at the window with her back turned. THE WHEAT TRUST 161 "Who supersedes me here?" he demanded. There was no warmth in Moraine's somewhat jarring voice. Monica looked round. Hendrie raised his massive head. "Eh? Oh my wife." And he turned to his writing again. Angus abruptly thrust a hand into his breast pocket and turned deliberately to Monica. "I met May bee last night the postmaster," he said, drawing a letter from his pocket. "He handed me this mail, addressed to the post office, for you, Mrs. Hendrie. He asked me to hand it to you. Guess I forgot it this morning. P'raps it's not important seeing it was addressed to the post office." For the life of her, Monica could not control the color of her cheeks, and Angus was quick to note their sudden pallor as he stood with the letter held out toward her. She took it from him with a hand that was unsteady. Neither did this escape the cold eyes of the man. Monica knew from whom the letter came. She knew with- out even glancing at the handwriting. Why had Frank written? She had seen him two evenings ago, and settled everything. She was terrified lest her husband should ques- tion her. "Did he do right sending it up?" There was a subtle irony in the Scot's cold words that did not escape the ears of the millionaire. He looked round. Without looking in her husband's direction Monica became aware of his interest. With a great effort she pulled herself together. "Quite right, Mr. Moraine," she said steadily, now smiling in her most gracious manner. "And thank you very much for taking such trouble. It has saved me a journey." Angus abruptly withdrew. Nor was he quite sure whether he had achieved his purpose. As he passed out of the house his doubt was still in his eyes. Nor, to judge by his general expression, was that purpose a kindly one. The moment the door closed behind Angus, Hendrie swung round in his chair. "Letters addressed to the post office ? Why ?" His steady eyes looked up into his wife's face with an intentness that 12 THE WAY OF THE STRONG suddenly reminded her of the dreadful display of jealousy she had witnessed once before. It was a desperate moment, It was one of those moments when it would have been far better to forget all else, and remember only her love for her husband, and trust to that alone. It was a moment when in a flash she saw the deadly side of the innocent deception she was practicing. It was a moment when her soul cried out to her that she was definitely, criminally wrong in the course she had marked out for herself. And, in that moment, two roads distinctly opened up before her mind's eye. One was narrow and threatening ; the other, well, it looked the broader and easier of the two, and she plunged headlong down it. She smiled back into his face. She held up the letter and waved it at him. She was acting. She bitterly knew she was acting. "Ah," she cried, with a gayety she forced herself to. "You must have your big secrets from me, I must have my little ones from you. That's only fair.'* Hendrie smiled, but without warmth. "Why, it's fair enough, but I told you my secret." Monica's laugh rippled pleasantly in his ears. "So you did. I'd forgotten that." Then she gave an exaggerated sigh. "Then I s'pose I must tell you mine. And I did so want to surprise you with it. You have always told me that I am a clever business woman, haven't you?" Hendrie nodded. "Sure," he said, his manner relaxing. "You settled one hundred thousand dollars on me when we were married all to myself, 'to squander as quickly as you like.' Those were your words. Well, I just wanted to show you that I am not one to squander money. I am in- vesting some of it in a concern that is to show a handsome profit. The letter is from the man who is to handle the matter for me. Oh, dear, you've robbed me of all my fun. It is a shame. I I'm disappointed." Hendrie rose, smiling. The reaction from his moment of suspicion was intensely marked. He came over to her. "May I see it?" he asked. Monica risked all on her one final card. "Oh, don't rob me of the last little bit of my secret," she MONICA'S FALSE STEP 168 cried. Then she promptly held the letter out. "Why, of course you can read it if you want to." She waited almost breathlessly for the verdict. If the suspense were prolonged she felt that she must collapse. A dreadful faintness was stealing over her, a faintness she was powerless to fight against. But the suspense was not prolonged, and the verdict came to her ears as though from afar off. "Keep your little secret, Mon," she heard her husband say. "It's good to give surprises when they're pleasant. Forgive me worrying you, but but I think my love for you is a sort of madness I ' She felt his great arms suddenly thrust about her and was thankful for their sup- port. CHAPTER X MONICA'S FALSE STEP ALEXANDER HENDRIE spent only two short days at the farm before he was called away on a flying visit to the seat of his operations at Winnipeg. But during those two days there was no rest for him ; his business pursued him through mail and over wire, and the jarring note of the telephone became anathema to the entire household at Deep Willows. The announcement of his going came as no surprise to Monica. She was prepared for anything in that way. She knew that in the days to come she was likely to see less and less of her husband, the penalty of her marriage to a man engaged in such monumental financial undertakings as his She was careful to offer no protest; she even avoided ex- pressing the genuine regret she felt. It was the best way she could serve him, she felt, forgetful of the possibility of her attitude being otherwise interpreted. To her, any such display could only be a hindrance, a deterrent to him, and, as such, would be unfair, would not be worthy of her as a helper in his great schemes. From the moment she learned that she was to take charge of the farm at Deep Willows she began to prepare herself; and with her husband's going, she was left even freer still to pursue the knowledge she had yet to acquire for her new 164 THE WAY OF THE STRONG responsibility. Her time was spent almost wholly out of doors ; and such was her enthusiasm that daylight was none too early to find her in the saddle, riding round the re- moter limits of the farm, watching and studying every de- tail of the work which was so soon to become her charge. That she reveled in the new life opening out before her there could be little doubt. Her rounded cheeks and seri- ous eyes, the perfect balance of her keen mind and health- fulness of body all bore testimony to its beneficial effects upon a nature eager to come to grips with the world's work. She had quite shaken off the effect of that moment of panic when the preservation of her innocent secret had hovered in the balance. Well enough she knew how des- perately all this happy life of hers had been jeopardized by the coming of Frank's letter through the hands of Angus Moraine. Had her husband only taken her at her word, opened it and read the heading, "Dearest mother" well, he hadn't. And she thanked her God for the inspiration of the moment that had prompted her to offer him the letter to read, and for the power and restraint which had been vouch- safed her to weather the threatening storm of almost insane jealousy she had witnessed growing in her passionate hus- band's eyes. But it had served her as a lesson, and she was determined to take no further risks. It was absolutely necessary to see Frank once more to hand him the purchase money for the farm, and his starting capital. She dared not risk the mail, and to pay him by check would be to court prompt disaster. Yes, she must see him that once more, and, after that, though it might wrench her feelings to the limit, Frank must pursue his career with only her distant eye watching over him. So her mind was made up, swiftly, calmly, after a careful study of the position. She arrived at her decision through no selfishness. Rather was it the reverse. She was sacri- ficing herself to her husband and her boy. To do otherwise was to risk wrecking her husband's happiness as well as her own, and to start Frank in life with Alexander Hendrie as a possible enemy would be far too severe a handicap. Now, as she rode round the western limits of the grain- lands she was occupied with thoughts of the Trust, nor could MONICA'S FALSE STEP 165 her devoted woman's mind fail to dwell more upon the man than his work. He had told her that his new aspect of life had been in- spired by her, and the memory of his words still thrilled her. That she was his influence for good filled her with a great and happy contentment. She felt that to be such to the man she loved was in itself worth living for. But he had plainly shown her how much more she could be to him than that. Could any woman ask more than to be a partner in the works his genius conceived? No; and in this thought lay the priceless jewel adorning her crown of womanhood. She was watching a number of teams and their drivers moving out to a distant hay slough. Forty teams of finely bred Shire horses moving out from the farm with stately gait, each driver sitting astride of his nearside horse's com- fortable back. She knew the mowers were already in the slough, where haying had been going on for days. It was a fine string of horses, but it was the merest detail of the stud which was kept up to carry on the work of the farm. And beside all this horse power there were the steam plows, reapers and binders, threshers. The wonders of the organi- zation were almost inexhaustible. The horses passed her by and vanished into a dip in the rolling plains. Their long day had begun, but unlike Mon- ica, they possessed no other incentive than to demonstrate the necessity of their existence. As yet the sun had only just cleared the horizon, and the chill of the morning air had not tempered towards the heat of the coming day. Monica felt the chill, and, as soon as the horses had passed her, she lifted her reins to continue her round. At that moment she became aware of a horseman riding at a gallop from the direction of the farm, and, furthermore, she recognized him at once as Angus Moraine, evidently about to visit the scene of the haying. She waited for him to come up, and greeted him pleasantly, in spite of the fact that, since the incident of the letter, her feelings toward him had undergone serious revision. "Good morning, Mr. Moraine," she cried, as the man reined his horse in. "They're out promptly," she added, following the trail of the haying gang with her eyes. 166 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Angus looked after them, too, and his thin lips twisted wryly. "They need to be," he declared coldly. "There's one time for farm work to start, Mrs. Hendrie that's daylight." "Yes. I suppose there's no deviation from that rule." "None. And we pay off instantly any one who thinks differently." "There's no excuse?" Angus shook his head. "None whatever. If a man's ill we lay him off until he's better. But they never are ill. They haven't time." Monica surveyed the Scot with interest. Her husband's opinion of him carried good weight. "You run this place with a somewhat steely rule," she said. "These men are so many machines, the horses, too. Each has to produce so much work. The work you set for them." Angus's eyes were turned reflectively upon the horizon. "You're thinking I'm a hard man to work for," he said. "Maybe I am." He glanced back at the miles of wheat, and Monica thought she detected something almost soft in the expression of his eyes. "Yes," he went on, "they're ma- chines of sorts. But the work any man on this farm has to do is work I can do have done, both in quantity and kind. As for the horses, I'm thinking of building a smaller sick barn. The one we've got is a waste of valuable room, it's so rarely used." He shook his head. "There's just one way to run a big farm, Mrs. Hendrie. It's the hardest work I know, and the boss has got to work just as hard as the least paid 'choreman. 5 " "I think I feel that," Monica agreed cordially. "The work must be done in season. And it's man's work." Angus calmed his restive horse. "You're right, mam," he exclaimed, with almost unneces- sary eagerness. "It is man's work not woman's." He looked her straight in the eyes, and Monica accepted the challenge. "You mean I am not the fit person to step into your shoes," she said, with a smile. Her smile in no way disconcerted the other. He returned her look, while his hard mouth twisted in its wry fashion. MONICA'S FALSE STEP 167 "P'raps I was thinking that; p'raps I was thinking of something else. I'll not say you can't run this show. But I'll say a woman oughtn't to." "And why not?" Monica's demand came sharply, but even while she made it she realized the man's hard, muscular figure as he sat there in his saddle, with his thin shirt open at his bronzed neck, and the cords of muscle standing out on his spare, bare arms. She understood her own bodily weakness com- pared to his strength, and acknowledged to herself the justice of his assertion. "Do you need to ask, mam?" Angus retorted, with just a suspicion of contempt. "Could you handle these guys when they get on the buck? Could you talk to 'em? Could you talk to 'em the way they understand?" Monica's eyes flashed. "I think so." "Then you're thinking ten times wrong, mam," came the manager's prompt and emphatic retort. "You'll have hell all around you in a day." Moraine's manner was becoming more aggressive, and Monica was losing patience. "You're not encouraging, but you're quite wrong. I can assure you I can run this farm with just as stern a discipline as you. Perhaps you have yet to learn that a woman's discipline can be far harsher, if need be, than any man's. Evidentlv you have not had much to do with women. Believe me, my sex are by no means the angels some people would have you believe/* "No." The man's negative came in such a peculiar, almost in- solent tone that Monica was startled. She looked at him, and, as she did so, beheld an unpleasantly ironical light in his cold eyes. She interpreted this attitude in her own way. "You seem to feel leaving your control here," she said sharply. The man's expression underwent a prompt change. He was her husband's employee once more. The insolent irony had utterly vanished out of his eyes. "I do, mam," he said earnestly. "I feel it a heap and 170 THE WAY OF THE STRONG CHAPTER XI WHICH DEALS WITH A CHANCE MEETING MONICA was more disconcerted than she knew, and finally set her horse at a gallop across country, regardless of whither her course might take her. Nor did she pause to consider her whereabouts until the wheat lands were left sev- eral miles behind her, and she found herself entering the woods which lined the deep cutting of a remote prairie creek. Here she drew rein and glanced about her for guidance. She looked back the way she had come, but the wheat fields were lost behind a gently undulating horizon of grass. Ahead of her, far as the eye could see, the wide-mouthed cutting of the creek stretched away toward a ridge of purple hills. To the right of her was the waving grass of the prairie, miles and miles of it, without the tiniest object on it to break the green monotony. She gazed out over the latter with mildly appreciative eyes. Her ride had done her good. Something of the effect of Angus upon her had worn off. She almost sympathized with him as she dwelt upon the reason of his rudeness to her. Presently she turned about. Her breakfastless condition was making itself felt, and, anyway, she had wasted enough time. She would return home and breakfast, and, after that, with a fresh horse, she would continue her round of the farm. She was about to put her purpose into operation when the sound of wheels coming up from the creek below drew her attention. At the same instant her horse pricked its ears and neighed. A responsive neigh echoed the creature's greeting, and, the next moment, a single-horse buckboard appeared over the shoulder of the cutting. Instead of moving on, Monica was held fascinated by the apparition. The spectacle of this solitary traveler was too interesting to be left uninvestigated ; and she smiled as she gazed upon the girlish occupant of the vehicle. The stranger's face was shadowed under a linen sunbonnet, and her trim figure was clad in the simplest of dark skirts and white shirt-waist. She was urging her heavy horse with words WHICH DEALS WITH A CHANCE MEETING 171 of encouragement, alternated by caressingly emitted chir- rups from a pair of as pretty lips as Monica remembered ever to have seen. "Good morning," Monica cried cordially, as the vehicle drew near. She sat smilingly waiting for the lifting of the sunbonnet, that she might obtain a glimpse of the face she felt sure was pretty beneath it. The girl looked up with a start. "My!" she cried. Then she remembered. "Good morn- ing mam !" The final suggestion of respect came as the speaker real- ized the perfect-fitting riding habit Monica was wearing. Her eyes were round with wonder, but there was no shyness in them. Equally there was no rudeness. Just frank, pleased astonishment. "I'm afraid I startled you," Monica said kindly, as the girl drew up her horse. "You were so very busy coaxing your horse." The stranger smiled in response. "He needs coaxing," she said. "The pore feller's pretty old, and we've surely come some way." "Not this morning," Monica protested, studying the girl's face with genuine admiration. She was not disappointed. The girl was a striking-looking creature. Her dark hair and brows threw up into strong relief the beautiful eyes which looked fearlessly up into her face as she made her reply. "Oh yes, mam," she said calmly. "You see, we started from Toogoods' at four o'clock. I want to be home by noon. Guess we'll make it tho'. Old Pete and I have made some long journeys together." "He looks a good horse," Monica hazarded. She knew little enough of horse flesh, but she liked the look of this girl and wanted to be agreeable. "How far have you to go now?" "Guess it's most twenty-two or thereabouts. Mamma'll be worried some if I don't make home by noon. I don't like worrying mamma, she's so good, and and she's dreadfully nervous." "An invalid?" suggested Monica. "Oh, no." The girl's eyes were still absorbed in the de- 17% THE WAY OE THE STRONG tails of Monica's dress. She had never seen anything quite like it before, and her shrewd mind was speculating as to this stranger's identity. "Say, where you from?" she asked suddenly, in a quick, decided manner. "Guess you belong to Deep Willows. May- be you're Mrs. Hendrie?" "Quite right how did you know?" The girl reddened slightly as she smiled. "Why your clothes. You see, we've all heard you're at Deep Willows." Monica, laughed, and the girl joined in. "My clothes folks don't wear riding habits much about here, I s'pose?" "No, mam." Monica nodded. "Now, I may ask who you are. I didn't like to before, but The girl smiled frankly. "You guessed it would be rude," she said quickly, "so you let me be rude instead." Monica laughed a denial. "Oh no," she said. "I just didn't think about it." "But it doesn't matter, mam," the girl went on. "Nothing's rude that isn't meant rude. I never mean to be rude. I don't like rudeness. I'm Phyllis Raysun, mam. We're farmers mamma an' me. Just a bit of a farm, if you can call it 'farm' not like Deep Willows." The girl's unmistakable awe when she spoke of Deep Wil- lows amused Monica. But now she scrutinized her with an added and more serious interest. So this was the Phyllis who had caught her boy's fancy. This was the girl he described as "bully" and she was frankly in agreement with him. She longed there and then to speak of Frank and learn something of Phyllis' feelings toward him, but she knew she must deny herself. "I dare say it's a very happy little place for all that, Phyllis," she said, deliberately using the girl's first name. She meant to begin the intimacy she had suddenly deter- mined to establish at once. "Who works it for you? Your father brother?" WHICH DEALS WITH A CHANCE MEETING 173 As she watched the changing expression of the girl's face Monica thought her the prettiest creature she had seen for years. "Neither, mam." There was a slight hesitation over the use of the respectful "mam." Monica's use of her own name had slightly embarrassed her. "There's just mamma and me, and we work it together. We've got a choreman, but that's all. It's it's only a quarter section." "You two never do all the work yourselves plowing?" Monica cried incredulously. The girl nodded. She liked this stranger. She was so handsome, so good. "Mamma an' me mam." Monica's eyes grew very soft. It seemed wonderful to her this courage in two lonely women. Suddenly she leaned forward in her saddle, and spoke very gently. "Would you like to oblige me very much?" She smiled into the girl's earnest face. Phyllis flushed with pleasure. "Why, surely mam." "Then don't call me 'mam,' " Monica said, in a tone cal- culated to leave the girl with no feeling of shame at her re- spectful attitude. Then she laughed in the way Phyllis liked to hear. "You see, I am just the same as you, Phyllis if I do wear a tailored riding habit. We're both farmers in our way." Phyllis blushed, but shook her head with a simple yet definite decision. "I won't call you 'mam 5 if you don't like it," she said readily. "But I can't help thinking there's a big big dif- ference, if you don't mind me speaking so plainly." Monica's interest was sincere. "Go on, child," she said. "I like to hear you talk. It- it reminds me of some one I'm interested in." The girl's luminous eyes brightened. "I wasn't going to say much only ' she hesitated doubtfully, "only I hear so many folk say there's no differ- ence. Most of them say it sort of spitefully, and you can see they don't say it because because they really believe it. They sort of want to make out they're as good as any- 174 THE WAY OF THE STRONG body else, and all the time most of 'em can't even think right. It's just conceit, and spite, and envy. And, oh, there's such a big difference all the time. Take two men. Take our choreman, and your your husband. Our man can plow a furrow but not so straight and true as I can. I'd say he can clean a barn out right. Maybe he could drive a team down a straight trail without hurting anything. But that's all he can do. Say, he hasn't got brains enough to wash himself wholesome and clean. Then look at Mr. Hendrie. Was there ever such a great man? He doesn't sit down and shout he's better than other folk. Maybe he don't think he is. But he gets right up and does things that come near making the world stare. And it's done out of his own head. He thinks, and and does. And if other folks were as good as him they'd be doing just the same, and there'd be nothing to wonder at in in anybody. I wouldn't be rude to you indeed I wouldn't, but but there's a heap of difference between folk, it shows in the result of their lives." Monica was startled. She was filled with an intense won- der at this youthful, humble prairie flower. Where did she get such thoughts, such ideas from at her age? She answered her very carefully. She felt that it was necessary it was imperative. Somehow she felt that this child's brain, albeit immature, was perhaps superior to her own. "Well, Phyllis," she said, "there's a great deal in what you say, but perhaps we are looking at things from different points of view. I was thinking of the moral aspect. I maintain a good woman's a good woman, whatever her sta- tion. No clothes, no education can alter that. Every good man or good woman is entitled to the same consideration, whatever the condition of of their lives." Phyllis watched her new friend eagerly while she spoke. She drank in her words, and sorted them out in her own quaint fashion. The moment she ceased speaking she was ready with her answer. "Sometimes I think I'd like to see it that way," she said, with simple candor. "Then sometimes, most generally, I think I wouldn't. To me that sort of makes the good God kind of helpless. And He isn't. Not really. You've just WHICH DEALS WITH A CHANCE MEETING 175 got to look around and see what He's done to understand that. Look at the trees, the prairie, the hills, the water. See how He's provided everything for us all. Well, the way you think makes out that He's just created us and all this. He's made us all in the same pattern, and dumped us right down here just for amusement, and sort of said: 'There you are; I've done my best ; just get right to it and see how you can make out.' Well, when I look around and see all He's done I kind o' feel we're all working out just as He wants us to. We're not so much His children as we're His servants, and like all servants we've got our places, some high, some low. And according to our places we ought to say 'sir' and 'mam' to those above us, just as we feel all of us ought to say it to Him. Guess maybe I can't make it all clear maybe you'll think me a sort of fool child, but if I live to be a hundred I'll feel I want to say 'mam' to you, and 'sir' to Mr. Hendrie. And that's because any one must see I'm not your equal, and never will be." Monica was left with no answer. She might have answered, but she was afraid to. She was afraid that any further contradiction of such obviously wholesome ideas might affect this simple nature adversely. Therefore she permitted her- self only to marvel. "Who do you talk to about these things," she asked after a brief pause. Phyllis flushed. She was afraid she had offended where she had meant no offense. Monica's tone had been almost cold. "I don't generally talk so much," she said hastily. "I like to think most when I'm plowing, or working on the farm. I talk to my beau sometimes," she added, with a blush. "You have a beau," said Monica, with a ready smile. "But of course you must have with your pretty face." "Oh, yes, and we're going to get married soon," Phyllis hurried on, basking once more in the other's smile. "His mamma's going to buy him a swell farm and start him right, and we're going to get married. Frank's awfully kind. He's he's " "Frank? Frank who?" Monica had no need of the information, but she was anxious to encourage the girl. 176 THE WAY OF THE STRONG "Frank Burton. He's much bigger than me, and he thinks a heap. I just love him. I just love him so I don't know what I'd do if I hadn't got him. He's only a boy. We're the same age, and he's got the loveliest face." "And when is he going to get this farm?" "Soon. Quite soon. Then we'll be married. It's it's good to love some one and feel they love you," Phyllis went on, almost abstractedly. It makes you feel that you can work ever so. The days get short, and the nights shorter still. It makes the air all full of things that make you want to laugh, and sing, and be good to everything even to spiders and and bugs and things. Yes, it sets every- thing moving quick about you, and all the time it's just you, because you're full of happiness and looking forward. The only thing that's slow is the time between seeing him." Monica smiled, and Phyllis laughed happily. The mistress of Deep Willows could have sat on indefinitely talking and laughing with this frank, ingenious child, but she knew that, however reluctantly, she must tear herself away. Already the sun was high in the sky, and Phyllis had to reach home by noon, while she had her round to com- plete. So she lifted her reins, and her dozing broncho threw up its head alertly. "I think you'll be very happy with your beau, Phyllis," she said, gently. "You would make any man happy. If this Frank Burton is all you say he is, and I'm sure he is, I fancy you'll live to see the day when you have quite lost your desire to say 4 nmm' when you speak to me. The girl shook her head seriously. "I hope not." Monica's smile was at thoughts which were quite impossible for the other to read. "I hope that day will come," she said. "So there we must agree to think differently. Meanwhile, may I come and see you, and will you come and see me?" Her eyes grew almost pathetically appealing. "Will you?" she urged. A flush of embarrassment swept over the girl's happy face. In a moment she was struggling to express her grati- tude. "Oh, ma Mrs. Hendrie," she cried. "Me come to Deep Willows ? I I oh, it would be too much." THE CLEAN SLATE 177 "Will you?" Monica had set her heart on obtaining this girl's promise. "Oh yes if if " "There must be no 'ifs,' " Monica cried. Then she urged her horse nearer the buckboard and held out her hand. "Good-bye, Phyllis," she said, lingering over the girl's name caressingly. "I shall keep you to your word. And I shall come to see you. Good-bye, my dear," she cried again. "A pleasant journey." The girl pressed the neatly gloved hand her new friend held out to her, and her old horse, after its welcome rest, started off with added briskness. She was loath enough to go, but she had yet many miles to travel before noon. She called out a warm good-bye, and waved her small brown hand. "I surely will come," she cried, "I'll never never forget." Monica watched them go till the rattling old buckboard dropped behind one of the rising prairie rollers. Then, with a deep sigh, she set off toward her home. CHAPTER XII THE CLEAN SLATE MONICA'S chance meeting with Phyllis Raysun was not without its effect on both their lives. An effect both marked and immediate in each case. The girl drove on home in a state of considerable elation, and told her story of the "great lady" to her sympathetic, if not very clever mother, Pleasant Raysun. She told it not as one might speak of a passing incident on her journey, but as an important factor in her uneventful life. "Mamma," she said, after a thoughtful pause, the story having come to its commonplace ending, "it likely don't sound great to you; maybe you'll forget about it, or, if you don't, you'll say I'm just a sentimental girl whose feel- ings get clear away with her. And maybe I am, maybe you're right; but I don't think so. She's a lovely, lovely woman, and somehow I kind of feel I'm all mixed up with her already. I don't think folks make friends. Friends are just friends. They are, or they aren't* Even if you don't 13 178 THE L WAY OF THE STRONG know them, they are your friends, waiting till the time comes when you meet. That's how I feel about Mrs. Hendrie. I I'm sure we're friends, and always have been." Pleasant Raysun was a plump body, whose dark eyes and soft mouth were strangely opposed in their efforts to display the character behind. She was just a gentle, soft creature, quite devoid of any attainments beyond a capacity for physical work, and an adoring affection for the daughter to whom she looked for guidance. "Maybe you're right, my dear," she said amiably, "you generally are. How you know things beats me all to deatji. Whoever would 'a' guessed Pop Toogood was sick all this way off like you did? I'm sure I wouldn't. An' then about buy in' a new plow an' binder by instalments. Who'd V thought o' that? It surely must be instinc', as you often say, only wher' you get it beats me. I never had instinc'. Nor did your pop. Leastways he never showed it me. Sometimes I sort o' know when the coffee's just right maybe that's instinc' which reminds me the hash must be nigh overbaked." She rose from her rocker and toddled across to the cook- stove, leaving her daughter to her reflections. She had no power of entering into any of the girl's thoughts and feel- ings. Her love for her offspring extended to an unreason- ing admiration for her capacity and beauty, the only prac- tical expression of which was a simple, loving care for her creature comforts. With Monica the effect of that meeting on the trail was marked in a wholly different manner. She had at last seen this girl whom her boy had told her of in such glowing terms. She had seen, and she knew that she approved his choice. As she listened to her talk, as she became aware of her views upon matters on which she believed so few girls of her age ever thought seriously, she became more and more convinced that her boy had blindly stumbled upon the one girl to be his helpmeet in the upward career they had marked out for him. Thus she spent the rest of her day with an added light shining in upon Frank's future, and with it came a swift decision to act promptly, and carry out her carefully con- sidered plans without any further delay. She felt it to be THE CLEAN SLATE 179 best from every point of view. It would be best for Frank, since it would leave him free to begin his real business of life at the moment he selected; it would be best for her, since she would then be free to enter upon her control of the farm with a slate wiped perfectly clean of the last shadow of the past which marred its surface. So she sent word to Angus that she required the best team of drivers and a buggy, since Hendrie's automobile was away, to take her in to Calford the next day. Her order was received without enthusiasm, but with con- siderable suspicion by her husband's manager. So much so that the company at the Russell Hotel that night were treated to a more than usual morose severity on the part of this local magnate. He wrapped himself in an impene- trable and sour silence, out of which the most ardent devo- tion to his favorite spirit could not rouse him. Monica spent her last hours before retiring to bed in writing a long letter to Frank. She chose the library, or office, as her husband preferred to call it, for her corre- spondence. She preferred this room to any other in the house. Perhaps it was the effect of her long years spent in a business career. Perhaps it was because it was so soon to become the seat of her administration. Perhaps, again, it was the thoughts of the man who had designed it for his own accommodation that inspired her liking. It was a luxurious place, and the great desk in the center of it was always a subtle invitation to her. The subdued light focusing down upon the clean white blotting pad, with its delicately chased silver corners, never failed to please her whenever she entered the room at night. Just now she felt more satisfaction than ever as she contemplated ridding herself of this last shadow which marred her happy outlook. Her maid had insisted on changing her from her habit, which Monica warmly regarded as her business dress, to a semi-evening toilet of costly simplicity. This was a feature of her new life which Monica found it difficult to appreciate. She had looked after herself for so long that she rather feared the serious eyes and deliberate devotion to the con- ventions of the well-trained Margaret. There was one service that she could not induce herself to submit to. It was that of being prepared for her nightly repose. On this point 180 THE WAY OF THE STRONG the mistress of Deep Willows was adamant, and Margaret was unwillingly forced to give way. Now she took her seat at the desk. She drew a sheet of notepaper from the stationery cabinet, and, for some mo- ments, sat gazing at it, lost in pleasant thoughts of the young girl she had met that morning. It was curious what a sudden and powerful hold this child of eighteen had taken upon her affections. She thought she had never encountered any one of her own sex who so pleased her, and she sat there idly dreaming of the days to come, when this boy and girl would marry, and she could subtly, almost unnoticed, draw them into her life. Yes, it could be done; it could be done through Phyllis. Frank was far too loyal ever, by word or deed, to jeopardize her in her husband's regard. Everything was simplifying itself remarkably. Fortune was certainly with her. She smiled as she thought how they would come to her. A local farmer and his wife, in whom she was interested. Her hus- band would be rather pleased. He would undoubtedly en- courage her in her whim. Then, if he should recognize Frank as the original of the photograph he had once torn up, that would be easily explained and would be an added reason for befriending the couple seeing that Frank would then be married. Oh, yes, a little tact, a little care, and she would have a daughter as well as a son. Then she would eventually get Alexander interested in the boy. And when that was achieved she would begin to develop her plans. Frank might be taken into some of her husband's schemes, after which it would be easy stepping upwards toward that fortune she had designed for him. But she was suddenly awakened to her waste of time, and her own physical tiredness, by the chiming of the little clock in front of her, which was accusingly pointing the hour of ten. It reminded her, too, of the early morning start she must make in the morrow, so she snatched at a pen to begin her letter. Habit was strong with Monica. An ivory penholder and gilt nib had 'no charms for her, so the humble vulcanite of the stylograph of her stenography days was selected, and she prepared to write. But for once her humble friend refused adequate service. THE CLEAN SLATE 181 It labored thickly through the heading, "My dearest Frank," and, in attempting to punctuate, a sudden flow of ink left a huge blot in place of the customary comma. With a regretful expostulation Monica turned the paper over and blotted it on the pad, and, after readjusting the pen, went on with her writing, detailing her instructions swiftly but clearly, so that no mistake could be possible. In less than half an hour the letter was finished and ready for dispatch. So she hurried away to bed, deciding to mail it in Calford when she arrived there next day. That night Angus returned to the farm about half-past eleven o'clock. There was nobody up to receive him, ex- cept the man to take his horse. Nor was his mood improved by the realization that since Mrs. Hendrie's coming he had been definitely robbed of his high estate. He knew he was no longer the master of Deep Willows. In the eyes of the staff of servants, brought from the East, he was one like themselves, a mere employee. The thought galled him, but he was not the man to publicly display his chagrin. He let himself into his quarters which were situated in an extreme wing of the building, lit the lamp in his office, and flung himself into a chair. He sat there staring moodily before him, chewing the cud of grievance which was mo- mentarily getting a stronger and stronger hold upon him. He was not the man to submit easily, nor was he likely to display any recklessness in dealing with the situation. His nature was a complex affair, which combined many ad- mirable qualities oddly mixed up with a disposition as sour and spleenful, even revengeful, as well could be. His grievance now was not against Hendrie ; there was a peculiar quality of loyalty in him which always left Hendrie far above any blame that he might feel toward others. It was the woman he was thinking of. The woman who had usurped his place ; and all the craft of his shrewd mind was directed toward her undoing. Just now he was speculating as to her reason for suddenly taking the long journey into Calford. He was considering that, and, in conjunction with it, he was thinking of a tele- gram which Maybee had handed him. It was addressed to Monica, and the postmaster had assured him it was from 182 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Hendrie, announcing his unexpected ability to return home to-morrow. At first Angus had felt spitefully pleased that Hendrie would meet his wife on the trail, but this hope had been dashed by Maybee's subsequent information that the telegram had been dispatched from a place called Gleber, which he knew lay thirty odd miles to the northwest of Everton, and in an almost opposite direction to Calford. Now he was considering, while apparently doing his best to deliver the message, how best he could arrange that Monica should not see it before she went away. His reason was not quite clear. Only he felt, in the light of what he knew of Monica's clandestine meetings with Mr. Frank Smith, that she was not taking this journey with her husband's knowledge. More than that, he felt that she had no particular desire to advertise it, and that when Hendrie discovered his wife's absence explanations would have to be forthcoming. Angus was a great believer in his own instinct. What he believed to be intuition had served him well on more than one occasion, and just now he felt that his peculiar faculties in this direction were particularly alert. After some minutes of deep thought he rose from his chair with a wry smile twisting the corners of his hard mouth. A thought had come to him which might serve. He made his way to the library and lit the lamp over the desk, and as he did so he sniffed vigorously at the air. He detected perfume, and glanced quickly around him. Then his eyes fell on the blotting-pad where he was about to place the telegram. In a moment he saw that the pad had been recently used, and the perfume told him by whom. He had no scruples whatever. Monica had been writing letters, and he wondered. He picked up the pad and carefully removed the uppermost sheet of blotting paper. Reversing it, he held it before the light, and studied it carefully. Then he replaced it, but, in doing so, deliberately left the reverse side uppermost. "Guess you ought to know better, my lady," he muttered, his face genuinely smiling. "Thick pens are cursed things for telling tales on a blotting-sheet." He carefully placed the telegrapm exactly over the blotted words "My dearest Frank," which now read as they had HENDRIE'S RETURN 183 been written by his unsuspecting victim. Then he forth- with hurried back to his quarters, feeling in a better frame of mind than he had felt all day. CHAPTER XHI HENDRIE'S RETURN ANGUS MORAINE'S little plan worked out exactly as he had anticipated. Monica did not visit the library before her somewhat rushed departure the following morning. Her preparations had been completed overnight, and there was nothing left which required a visit to the room where the telegram had been deposited. Her departure took place shortly after daylight, at which hour even the chance visit of a servant to the library was not likely to occur. Thus it happened that the envelope and its contents remained in their place quite unheeded, even by the girl whose duty it was to dust and set the room in order, until two o'clock in the afternoon, at which hour Alexander Hendrie returned. The millionaire's return was the result of an impulse, inspired by finding himself with something in the nature of a "loose end." His business of the great trust had un- expectedly taken him to meet a deputation of local grain- growers at Gleber, just as he was about to leave Calford for Winnipeg. From thence a flying visit to Deep Willows was only a deviation of route whereby he might fill in spare hours which, otherwise, he would have had to spend waiting for the east-bound mail in Calford. The idea of surprising Monica had pleased him. He knew the delight it would give her, and, for himself, every moment spent away from her was more than begrudged. Absorbed as Hendrie was in his maelstrom of affairs, it was curious how the human side of the man had developed since his first meeting with Monica. He was still the colossal money-making machine, but it was no longer his whole being as hitherto it had been. There could be no doubt that Monica was now foremost in his thoughts, and he loved with all the strength of his maturity as jealously as any school- boy, 184 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Consequently, on his arrival at Deep Willows, his dis- appointment was of the keenest when he learned that Monica had, only that morning, departed 'suddenly far Calford. However, he was not the man to give way to such feelings for long, especially with means of alleviating them to his hand. His decision was prompt. There was only one thing to do. He would go straight on and join her in Calford, just as soon as sufficient petrol could be put on board the car. With this resolve most of his disappointment evaporated, and he passed on to the library, while a man was despatched to notify Angus of his return. Angus was on hand. He had arranged that this should be so. He had no intention of missing his cues in the little drama his own mischief had inspired. He meant to be an actor in it, though possibly only taking a small part. For the rest he would stand in the prompter's corner, and watch the progress of his handiwork. He responded to the millionaire's summons without any undue display of alacrity. He left him ample time in the library before presenting himself. His purpose was obvious and well calculated. When he finally entered the room, he came almost without any sound, turning the handle of the door with what seemed unnecessary caution. Again was his object plain. His first sight of Alexander Hendrie was of a great man standing before a window ex- amining, with painful intensity, a large sheet of white blot- ting-paper. This was as Angus had hoped, but there was something else that gave him even keener satisfaction. He was studying the man's head, with its wonderful mane of fair hair. His face was turned three-quarters toward him, so that the light of the window shone down on the white surface of the paper. He had seen Hendrie in most of his moods, he had studied him a hundred times, but never, in all his long years of association with him, had he witnessed such an expression as he now beheld. The fair, rather sunburned complexion was deadly pale, the bushy brows were drawn harshly together, the lips, con- trary to their usual custom in repose, were slightly parted. But it was the steel-gray eyes of the man that most held and, perhaps, pleased Angus. There was no light in them HENDRIE'S RETURN 185 that suggested violent fury. They were cold, dreadfully cold and cruel, like the steely gray of a puma's. There was pain in them, too. But it was a pain that did not suggest helpless yielding. On the contrary Angus recognized the look he had once or twice seen before, when Hendrie had con- templated crushing some opponent to his schemes. There was an atmosphere about his whole expression that was utterly merciless. Angus moved across the soft carpet without any sound. He halted in full view of the sheet of paper, bearing its im- press of those three tell-tale words with the culminating blot. So engrossed was Hendrie that he did not appear to observe his manager's approach, yet he gave no start, or sign, when the latter's harsh voice broke the silence "You sent for me? I'd heard you'd got back." Then a strange thing happened. Hendrie laughed with- out looking up. "Why, yes," he said. "I sent for you. You can tell the man I shan't need the automobile." Angus waited, studying the profile of the man beside him. He felt that something was coming. The stillness, the un- natural calm of the other was too pronounced. Presently Hendrie looked up, and Angus mentally rubbed his eyes. The man was smiling smiling pleasantly. But he did not put the paper aside. "Sort of curious," he said, with a half humorous dryness. "You never think of the blotting-pad you're writing on. It's just there, and when you've written you just turn your paper over and blot it. You do it a hundred times, and it never seems to occur to you that you're doing something foolish. Guess the folks who used to use sand had more sense." Angus nodded. Something told him that his eyes were clear enough now. He gazed meaningly at the paper. "Guess Mrs. Hendrie being away, the maids just fancy they can do as they please." In a moment the change Angus had been awaiting came. In a flash hell seemed to be looking out of the millionaire's eyes. "That's my wife's writing!" he cried, while one great hand gripped the manager's shoulder with crushing force. 186 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Angus stared into the man's livid face, and, as eye sought eye, he knew that at last he was gazing into the torn soul of his employer. CHAPTER XIV DESPERATE, silent moments passed while the terrible eyes of the millionaire looked into, through, beyond, the almost expressionless face of his manager. Then, at last, all at once, his hand relaxed its painful grip upon the man's mus- cular shoulder, and he laughed. His laugh was unaccompanied by any words that justified the abrupt change. To Angus it brought a feeling of relief. His imagination was not acute. It is doubtful if he realized the lack of mirth, the hollow, false ring of that laugh. All he knew was that he felt as though some living volcano under him had suddenly ceased to threaten, and he was given a respite. Alexander Hendrie walked across to the desk, and flung his bulk into the sumptuously upholstered chair that stood before it. He swung it round, and pointed at a chair near by, and facing him, so placed that the light fell full upon the face of its occupant. "Sit down," he commanded, with cold authority. Angus obeyed, waiting and wondering. Hendrie' s present mood was entirely new to him. He had stirred the fires in this man, and must now watch, and wait, to see how they burned. But the result was elusive. Hendrie reached out and drew the cigar cabinet toward him. With deliberate care he selected a cigar, and pushed the cabinet within the other's reach. "Smoke," he said laconically; and Angus fingered one of the priceless cigars tenderly. Hendrie pierced the end of his cigar with elaborate care. He lit it. Then he leaned back in the chair, and, locking his fingers, rested his elbows upon the arms of it, while his eyes remained upon the blotting-sheet in front of him. Presently he looked round, and a swift, cold glance shot into Angus Moraine's face. A MAN'S HELL 187 "When I came in here I'd sent for you," he said. "You were in your quarters which was not usual at this time." He paused. Then he went on. "Being in your quarters you could have joined me in thirty seconds. You came after ten minutes or so. When you came, you came quietly. Guess you stole into the room to see what I was doing. Why? Because you had discovered this blotting-sheet with its writing. You'd found it, examined it, and placed it back in the pad reversed; and you knew it was my wife's writing. Guess you've something to tell me go ahead." The directness of the challenge was so characteristic of Hendrie that Angus was not wholly unprepared for it. The keen analysis of his personal attitude disconcerted him, perhaps, but, after a moment's thought, it left him com- paratively untroubled. It was only another exhibition of Hendrie's wonderful mentality that mentality which had carried him soaring above the heads of all his rivals. "How much d'you want to know?" For a second Hendrie's cold, gray eyes lit, then his swift command came with tremendous yet restrained heat. "All, damn you, all!" Angus flushed. There was no resentment in him at the other's tone. His flush was inspired by some feeling of satisfaction. He pointed at the blotting-sheet. "Guess that Frank has another name. Leastways I should say it is 'Frank Smith,' who registers in that name at the Russell Hotel in Everton mostly when you're away." The millionaire's eyes were intent upon the blotting-sheet. He offered no comment. "The townsfolk have seen him riding with Mrs. Hendrie quite a lot when you're away. He's a big feller. Bigger than you. He's got thick fair hair, and is a good-looker." For a second, Hendrie's eyes lifted. "Young?" "Anything up to twenty-five." Hendrie was no longer contemplating the incriminating paper. He was gazing at it, and beyond it, searching the cells of memory. "Go on," he said. His cigar had gone out. Angus eyed his employer squarely. Strangely enough a 188 THE WAY OF THE STRONG a twinge of compunction was making itself felt. He drew a deep breath. Somehow the atmosphere of the room had suddenly become oppressive. His cigar had gone out, too. "Yes," he said. "I saw that writing. I read it. I left it so that when you came in you couldn't miss it. I did these tilings because of what I've seen." "Seen?" Again the millionaire's eyes lifted in the other's direction. It was only for a second. They were back again in an instant, staring beyond the blotting-sheet. "Yes. It was soon after Mrs. Hendrie came here. You had gone away with the automobile. She wanted a buggy and team. She wanted to study the country and people she was living among. She was away all day. That night I went into Everton. I came to the ford. Guess I heard voices beyond the bluff that separated me from it. One was Mrs. Hendrie's." "The other?" "A man's." Angus paused. The oppressiveness of the room almost stifled him. "They had spent the day together. The woman was say- ing what a great time they'd had together. She was arrang- ing when she would see him again. They parted. I heard them kiss each other." Hendrie swung his chair slowly round. He was smiling. Angus was alarmed. For the first time in his life he experi- enced a sensation of fear of another man. "They kissed?" There was no emotion in the millionaire's voice. He might have been asking a question of merely ordinary interest. Angus nodded. "Yes," he said. "I heard them. I wasn't mistaken, I'm dead sure. Then they parted. Mrs. Hendrie got back across the ford, on to the lower trail with the buggy. The man traipsed on to the hotel. 1 saw him. It was the man who registers there as 'Frank Smith.' ' "A big man, with thick, fair hair, and a good-looker?" Hendrie detailed the description as though registering it in his memory, and comparing it with a picture already there. "Yes." A MAN'S HELL 189 "Anything else?" The millionaire reached for a match and relit his cigar. "Only this business of going to Calford with you away. That on top of the writing. That writing was done last night, I guess, and Mrs. Hendrie has mailed no letter since. Maybe she's taken it with her. Maybe she's going to meet him there. Maybe I'm only guessing, but I thought it time you knew 'bout things." Angus breathed a sigh. He had done all he intended to do, and now he wondered. The millionaire was searching his face with his cold, keen eyes, but he was still smiling. It was that smile which Angus feared. However, he faced the scrutiny, watching the upward curling of the smoke from the other's cigar, while he relit and puffed a little unsteadily at his own. "Well?" he said, after a long silence. Hendrie withdrew his gaze and turned to his desk again. "Better not cancel the car. I'll need it after all." Angus rose. "That all?" Hendrie reached for a pen, and dipped it in the ink as though about to write. He replied without looking up. "That's all." Angus moved toward the door. As he reached it the millionaire's voice stopped him. "Angus !" The manager turned. Across the room he beheld a pair of glowing eyes fixed upon him. He saw nothing else. They seemed to occupy his entire focus, devouring him with their merciless stare. "If what you've told me is not true I'll kill you." The words were quietly spoken. They were spoken too quietly. They came coldly to the departing man, and like an icy blast they left him shivering. He knew they were meant, not as a mere expression of anger, but literally. He knew that this man would have no scruples, no mercy. No one who had offended need expect mercy from him not even the wife whom he knew he loved above all things in the world. "They are true," he returned. 190 THE WAY OF THE STRONG The basilisk eyes passed out of his focus as Hendrie's head bent over the paper before him. "We shall see." As the door softly closed behind the manager, Hendrie flung his pen down upon the writing-pad. He sat back in his chair, and his eyes stared in the direction of the closed door. He sat quite still. His hard face had lost no color, there was not a sign of emotion in it. His cold eyes gazed on a dead level at nothing. Never was there an exhibition of more perfect outward control of a storming brain within. He was thinking, thinking with the lightning rapidity of the perfect machinery of a powerful brain. He was thinking along lines all wholly unexplored and new to him, and such was his concentrative power that no feelings were permitted to confuse the flow. His whole future was at stake. His whole life. Every- thing everything that mattered. The time passed rapidly. Still that silent figure sat on. The automobile was brought round, and a servant announced it. It was kept waiting. What agony of mind and heart Alexander Hendrie went through as he sat there in his splendid library none would ever know. That hell had opened before his startled eyes, that the wounded heart within him had received a mortal blow, there could be no possible doubt. But his sufferings were his own. He had all the brute nature in him which sends a dying animal to the remotenesses of the forest, where no eyes can witness its sufferings, where it may yield up its savage spirit beyond the reach of the pity and sympathy of its fellow-creatures. CHAPTER XV PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS ANGUS MORAINE had done his work. That his motive in enlightening his employer upon those matters which went on in his absence was largely spleenful, even revengeful, there could be no doubt. But, curiously enough, he had kept to the baldest truth. He had neither exaggerated nor in- PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS 191 vented. Perhaps he had felt that there was no need for either. As he marshaled his facts they were so complete, so entirely damning, that it is doubtful if imagination would have served his purpose better. In spite of Hendrie's threat against his life he was well enough satisfied with the effect of his story upon his employer. Later on, when Hendrie finally departed, he was still more satisfied ; for it was then, as the latter paced the broad, flagged terrace fronting the entrance to the house, he had walked at his side for more than half an hour, receiving final instructions, and listening to some necessary details of fu- ture plans. Hendrie was going away, and Angus was to inform his wife, when she returned from Calford, that he did not ex- pect to return for at least two weeks. In the meantime he gave his manager a telephone number in Gleber ! This number would find him at any time, after his wife's return from Calford. Further, he told him that the only message he required from him was news of Mr. Frank Smith's re- appearance in Everton. He did not know, as a matter of fact, that he would want it at all, but it must be sent. Fur- thermore, on Mr. Frank Smith's reappearance in Everton, Angus must hold himself on hand at the Russell Hotel. "See here," Hendrie concluded, in his concise fashion. "You'll need to be on hand at any moment while this man's around. And you must know his movements to the last detail. Get me?" Angus understood. Nor had he forgotten the coldly de- livered threat in the library. "Well," the other went on, with a calmness that was still the marvel of the Scot, "guess I'll get going. I'm going right on to Calford to meet Mrs. Hendrie. She'd be disap- pointed if I didn't look her up, having missed her here. So long." Hendrie entered the waiting car, and the two men parted without a sign of that which lay between them. Angus watched the machine roll away down the winding trail, which followed the bend of the picturesque river bank. Then, as it disappeared from view, he turned thoughtfully away, and moved off in the direction of his quarters. His years of association with the millionaire had taught 192 THE WAY OF THE STRONG him much that the world did not know of that individual's character. There were times, even, when he believed he knew all there was to know of it. There were other times when he was not so sure ; just as there were times when some trifling detail brought out a trait that was entirely new to him. At such times he was wont to admit that the man was unfathomable. That is what he admitted to himself now. What did he contemplate? What subtle scheme was in the back of his great head? There was some definite purpose, he felt sure ; some definite and, perhaps, deadly purpose. And it was demanded of him to play his part in it, not with eyes wide open, and with full understanding. But blindly groping in the dark. He thought for long as he sat in his office. He considered every detail of the instructions he had received. But the ultimate object of them eluded him. However, his mind was made up from the outset. Come what may, his life was bound up with the life of this man. He would follow him whithersoever he led, and, since it was necessary blindly. The supper-room in the Strathmore Hotel at Calford was a blaze of light. The string band, screened off behind a decorative display of palms and ferns, was playing the latest and most popular ragtime. But the room, with its hundred tables, was less than half full, in spite of the important agri- cultural congress that was being held in this capital of the wheat lands. The truth was that the late meal was always at an awkward hour in the hotels which catered for a wealthy transient custom. The east and west-bound mails met at Calford at eleven-thirty at night, just at the time when most of the hotel guests were either preparing to start, or trans- acting the last few details of their business before departing on their transcontinental journeys. But Monica was delighted at this absence of a crowd. For her, it was one of those happy, utterly unanticipated moments in life which are too precious to miss. Just as she had retired to her room after dinner, a chambermaid had announced the arrival of her husband. Her journey had been taken quite openly. There had been no secrecy about it. She was here purely on business, PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS 193 the nature of which was her own. Therefore she had nothing to fear, and was frankly overjoyed at this unexpected re- union. Alexander Hendrie was in his best spirits. He explained to her his journey to Deep Willows, and his subsequent dis- appointment at not finding her there. Then, hearing that she had driven over to Calford, he had followed her at once. The journey, he explained, suited his purpose well, for he must leave by the night mail for Winnipeg, and did not anticipate returning home for ten days, or even two weeks. So Monica spent a happy evening with her husband. His manner was the brightest she had ever known. He never questioned her presence in Calford, but took it for granted she was "doing" the stores. He talked to her of his work and informed her of the progress of the Trust. His hopes and fears he talked of unreservedly, and Monica felt that never was a woman so blessed with the perfect confidence of such a husband. Thus the brief evening was spent until the final meal of the day came round. Monica required nothing more to eat, and suggested that her husband's meal should be served in her sitting-room. But Hendrie demurred, and it was finally arranged that the.y should adjourn to the supper- room, where Monica could partake of an oyster cocktail, while he fortified himself against his journey. As the meal drew to a close, and the man leisurely sipped his coffee, he expressed his cordial regrets at his prolonged absences from home. "It'll soon be over, Mon," he said thoughtfully. "I can see the end of things looming already. Such separations as ours are not good, are they? I shall be glad when things are settled." Monica gazed happily into his steady eyes. "I'm simply yearning for that time to come, Alec," she cried, her eyes shining across the table into his. "But these separations will soon pass," she went on hopefully, "now that I am going to be so busy. Do you know, I don't think Angus thinks I'm capable of running the farm? But I'm just going to show him that I am." Hendrie's eyes looked a swift inquiry. "Has he said so to you?" he asked. 14 194 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Monica remembered in time. She had no desire to injure the man. "Oh, no," she declared. "Only only I don't think he trusts me. I don't think he has much of an opinion of women." At that moment a waiter approached. "The east-bound mail has been signaled, Mr. Hendrie. She's due in twenty minutes." "Thanks." Hendrie nodded and turned to Monica. "Angus is a curious fellow but he's very loyal to me. He would never do anything he considered detrimental to my interests, and he'd surely see that no one else did. I don't know about his opinions of women, but" he smiled "I think he's sore at leaving the farm." Monica nodded and smiled. "I'm sure he is," she said, as they rose from the table. They passed out into the vestibule where a man stood waiting to assist the millionaire to the train. "However, Mon," Hendrie said, smiling inscrutably. "I don't think you'll find any lack of attention or considera- tion on Moraine's part during my present absence. I've left him definite instructions to help you in your study of the farm. It's my wish you see everything carried out in the work. And I've told him so. I don't guess he'll make any mistake. And you, Mon I want you to learn it all. Even if things sometimes come amiss, or or at awkward times, and inconvenience you. I want you to promise me all this, too." Monica smiled joyously. "Promise? Why, of course, Alec," she cried. "Why, if I have to turn out in the middle of the night it will be no great hardship." "Splendid." Hendrie smiled, but his eyes avoided the woman's. "Well, now good-bye," he said, and held out his hand. For a moment Monica hesitated. Then she remembered where she was, and they shook hands like two friends. "Good-bye dear," she murmured. A moment later the waiter was enveloping Hendrie in his light traveling coat. With a nod and a wave of the hand he hastily followed PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS 195 the man, and made his way through the revolving door, which was the hotel entrance to the railroad depot. Monica looked after him, feeling a little depressed. It was the first time since her marriage that her husband had left her with a formal parting. She knew it could not have been otherwise in the vestibule of a busy hotel. It would have been different had they supped in private ah, well, soon there would be no such partings as these. In contrast to the brilliant surroundings of the Strath- more Hotel the humble homestead over which Phyllis Raysun reigned was a crude, even squalid affair. Poverty was stamped all over it, that is, if lack of worldly possessions and general dilapidation must be taken as the hallmark of poverty. Phyllis did not admit such to be the case. She claimed a wealth which she would not have exchanged for the lot of a royal princess. She was a healthy, happy girl, loving and beloved, and she admitted she could ask no more of the perfect life in the midst of which she found herself. For her mother's occasional grumbles she would adapt her mental attitude to a different focus. That weak but amiable creature had different views. She had lived through that life Phyllis was only just beginning, and therefore the golden focus of youth was dimmed, and the buoyant hope of younger life had resolved itself into a yearning for all those bodily comforts which had somehow passed her by. At such times when her mother's bitterness and complaint found expression, Phyllis, with her ready understanding, sought to comfort her, to encourage her. Some such desire stirred her on a morning when a neighbor brought her a letter from Frank. It was a letter passed on from hand to hand, across country, without the service of the mail. Frank would be over at the midday meal, and Mrs. Raysun was deploring the poverty of their larder, as she prepared a stew at the cook stove in their only living-room. "It makes me fair ashamed, Phyl," the old woman cried in distress, as she cut up the mixture of vegetables for the simmering pot. "It surely does. To think of your beau comin' over to a meal like this. And him a college-bred boy, with elegant manners, and with a ma with thousands o* 196 THE WAY OF THE STRONG dollars. I kind o' feel the shame's all on me your mother." Phyllis laughed in her buoyant fashion. "Is it, momma?" she cried. "Where? How? Oh, you dear old old goose. If I was a princess with all the world mine, and I gave half of it to Frank, I shouldn't be giving him any more than that stew. The best we've got is Frank's, and we sure can't do more. And," she added ten- derly, "I guess Frank wouldn't want more." Then she smiled slyly. "Frank would rather have one of your stews here than oysters on the half shell in any other house." "House? House, my dear? Call this hog pen a house?" cried Pleasant, a flush of shame dyeing her plump cheeks. "It's a palace to Frank and me when we're eating your stew in it. Yes, momma, and the meal's a banquet. Oh, don't you see, dear? We're just two silly folks up to our eyes in love with each other, and and nothing matters. Listen, momma. Frank's getting his money right away. He's located his farm, and he's going to buy it in a week or two. We're going to get married, and and we're going to move to the new farm just as soon as we've harvested our crops here all of us. You, too. It's a swell house, just what you like. And we're going to have 'hands' to work for us, and Frank's fairy godmother looking on and helping us to be as happy as happy. Oh, momma, we won't grumble a thing. Just let's remember that we've got to do our best in whatever lot we find ourselves." Pleasant Raysun could never resist her daughter's bright hope for long. The girl never failed to put fresh heart into her. Like all weak natures, she needed the constant support of a heart stronger than her own. Phyllis understood this, and the support was never begrudged, never withheld. Nor was the girl's declaration lacking in confirmation when Frank appeared. He had lost the last vestige of any outward signs of the shame he believed attached to him through his birth. Here again it was Phyllis who had dis- pelled the ugly clouds which had threatened to envelop and stifle him. Now, as he came, he sniffed the air pervading the kitchen with appreciation, and Phyllis smiled across at her mother. "I didn't know I was hungry until now," he declared. "It surely was a bright thought of mine letting you two know PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS 197 ahead I was coming, Phyl. I bet five dollars it's a jack- rabbit stew. Any takers?" He looked from one to the other with his happy, open face, all smiles. Then, as Phyllis shook her head, he pre- tended disappointment. "No luck," he said, with an absurd air of dejection. The girl admonished him in the lightest spirit of raillery. "You don't want it all the luck, I mean, not the stew," she said severely. "Anyway, you're not getting the stew yet. Momma's particular how long it cooks." "Not for nigh an hour," smiled Pleasant from the stove. "Then I'll tighten my belt like a starving explorer," cried the boy. The old woman turned about, and waved a tin spoon at them both. "If you're that hungry you can't wait, Frank Burton, I guess Phyl'd better take you out to the barn an' feed you hay. There's more than bosses and cattle eats hay." Phyllis laughed. "There you are, Frank. That's deadly insult. What you going to do 'bout it? Do you hear what momma's calling you?" The youth fingered one ear ruefully. "They must have grown some," he said doubtfally. Then he looked up with a laugh. "Guess maybe she's right, though. Come on, Phyl, sweet hay's not half bad fodder for a hungry Say, if you come right along, I'll tell you all about the farm while I eat it. How's that?" Phyllis needed no second bidding, and, together, they passed out of the kitchen. It was a favorite place of theirs to sit outside the low doorway of the sod-built barn. An old log served the girl as a resting place, and the huge youth spread himself on the ground beside her, propping his elbow on the same log, so that his tawny head was nearly on a level with her rounded shoulder. "Phyl," he cried, as soon as they were settled, "mother's a a trump. It's all fixed. I've given old Sam Bernard notice I'm quitting. The old boy's hard hit in a way. I believe he likes me some. I told him I'd come along back and help him harvest. And I'm going to help you harvest, too. 198 THE WAY OF THE STRONG But that's afterwards. First I'm going to see mother and get the money, then I'm going to buy the farm. Then I'm going to see certain things put in readiness for fall work. Then I'm coming along back here, and we're going right in to Calford to buy up fixings for our new home. Then, after harvest, we're going to get married. How?" Phyllis smiled down into the eager, upturned face, with that wise motherly little smife which was so much a part of her attitude toward those belonging to her, those she loved. "How? Why, then you're going to come right down to earth and say it all over again," she said, with gentle eager- ness. "Say it all again, Frank, and say it slowly. I I don't want to miss any of it. It's all all too good to miss. Oh, I'm so happy I want to laugh and cry at the same time. I I want to take the whole world in my arms and hug it." "Won't I do?" suggested the young giant, sitting up promptly. The girl nodded demurely. "Perhaps, as a substitute." She bent over him, and placing her arms about his great neck kissed him very tenderly. She sighed as she released him. "Now let's be sensible," she said soberly. "Now tell it me all again." She was promptly obeyed. But again Frank's enthusiasm took hold of him, and he poured out in a rapid flow all his hopes of their future. He ran over in brief review the many trifling schemes he had already worked out in conjunction with the running of their new farm. He rattled on over num- berless developments he proposed. He told her of the beau- tiful red pine frame farm buildings, which must have cost as much to build as he was paying for the whole place. He spoke of the acres of splendid timber in glowing terms. Then there was the river frontage, and, yes actually the outcrop of a coal seam was jutting right out of its bank. When he had finished, the girl's delight was shining in her eyes. "And and when am I going to see it all?" she asked, as he paused for breath. The man's fair face flushed and beamed. "Ah," he cried, "that's what I've been saving up. I never PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS 199 suggested jour seeing it before, Phyl, because because " his eyes became thoughtful, "well I didn't just want to take a risk. You see, I was 'most afraid something might happen to queer things. Guess I wouldn't disappoint you for worlds. I'd a notion to wait till there was no chance of anything going wrong with the deal. Say, you're going with me to pay the money you and your mother. Then we're going on to see the farm." The girl did not answer. She was gazing out at the barren sky-line, all her happy soul shining in the wonderful light of her eyes. Mutely she was thanking God for the love of this man, thanking Him for the wonderful blessings He was pouring upon her. Whatever else might come in the long years of life before her, the memory of this moment would live with her to her dying day. She was very very happy. After a while she drew a deep sigh, and, reaching out, pointed away to the distant lines where the sharp horizon of the prairie cut across the sky. "Look!" she cried, in a thrilling voice. "Look, Frank, over there in the East ! There's not a cloud anywhere. It's bright, bright. The sky's just blue with a wonderful color that shines down upon a thankful world, watching and wait- ing for the harvest. We're waiting for the harvest, too. Perhaps ours isn't just the same harvest other folks are waiting for. Maybe ours is the harvest of our souls. Let it be an omen to us. Just as it is the omen the farmer looks for. It kind of seems to me all blessings come from yonder. Guess that's where the sun rises, bringing with it the hope of the world. Hope and light. Yes, it kind of seems to me everything good comes out of the East. That's how the Bible tells us. We don't look west till afternoon, the after- noon of life. That's because it's full of decay. That's where a tired sun just hangs heavily in the sky. A poor old sun, looking kind of sad and weary. It's got so busy making folks happy in the morning that its plumb beat, and can't help itself against those banks of black cloud all fixed up with deep angry light, trying to deceive the poor old thing, and make it believe they aren't just going to swallow it right up, and stifle it, and put out its light. No, this is still our morning, so we'll look out east for all the good things to come. It's very, very bright." 200 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Frank mechanically followed the direction of the girl's happy eyes. But his own feelings, though no less happy and thankful, had no such means of expression. "Yes," he said lamely. "It is bright, isn't it?" "Bright?" The shining eyes looked down into his hand- some face, and again they smiled with that sweet, motherly tenderness. "Yes, dear." Her simple agreement set the other racking his brains to let her understand that he appreciated her mood. He flushed as he reached for one of her hands and squeezed it. "That's how I want to make it for you always," he said, with clumsy sincerity. "Just sunshine. We mustn't have clouds." The girl shook her head. "But we must, dear," she said decidedly. "Say, Frank, just think what life would be without them." Her manner had once more drifted into that curious earnestness that sat so oddly upon one of her years and happy temperament. "Think of it. A whole long life spent in the glaring light of a summer's day. It couldn't be done, Frank. It sure couldn't. That way there'd be no sort of hope, no sort of ambition, and and our hearts would be all wilted up with a terrible sickness. No, we want clouds, too in their season. Do you know, Frank, it's just in the dark, dark clouds that hope hides itself. No clouds, no hope. And hope's just what we live on. Happiness helps to make us strong, but too much happiness would be the worst misery." The youth beside her sat up. "Phyl," he cried, helpless, "you do know an awful lot. Say " But Phyllis laughed and shook her head. "I know I'm dreadfully happy," she cried. Then she gazed seriously into his eyes. "Tell me, Frank, doesn't it make you think notions when you're dreadful happy?" The other shook his head. "I just feel happy," he said. "That's all." "It does me," Phyllis cried rapturously. "And it's times like this that I just want to know know know, until there's not a thing left to know. Do you know, sometimes I've a sort of crazy notion, there's some one big trying to* teach me lots an lots. He often seems to be around 'spe- cially when I'm not out plowing. I'm mostly happy then, IN THE MOONLIGHT 201 It's somebody very big and wide and he's always whisper- ing to me just as if he was in the air of these plains " Frank threw out one great hand to stay her. A sudden inspiration had penetrated his simple mind. "I know," he cried, breaking in quickly. "That's not somebody. That's you. That's you, Phyl." He drew him- self up on to his knees in the excitement of his discovery. 'That's your soul talking to you, Phyl. It's feeling so good it must tell you 'bout things. I know. I've had it. And you sort of listen and listen, and you you just know what it says is is right. And you don't need any one to tell you it isn't, because because you know it is ' "Ho ! you two folks, the stew's through !" Frank swung round at the sound of Mrs. Raysun's voice calling, and he flushed self-consciously as he realized the ridiculousness of his attitude. Phyl sprang from her seat and, catching hold of his great hand, helped him to his feet. "Come along, dear," she cried, smiling merrily. "Momma's stews are too good to keep waiting, even if our souls want to tell us a whole heap that is good for us to know." Then, as they walked side by side toward the house, she drew a deep breath. "Heigho !" she sighed. "And to think in a few weeks we'll have left all this behind us for a lovely, lovely farm of our own a beautiful frame house folks working for us and and money in the bank. Say, Frank, isn't it a beautiful world? It surely is some world." CHAPTER XVI IN THE MOONLIGHT ANGUS MORAINE flung down his pen impatiently. Leaning back in his chair he turned toward the sunlit window, gazing through it at the distant view of golden wheat as a man will who seeks relief from intolerable thought. His thought was intolerable. It was growing more and more intolerable as the days passed and the time drew on when he must hand Deep Willows over to his successor. All the best years of his life had been spent in the making of Deep Willows, All his energy, all that was best in him; 202 THE WAY OF THE STRONG these things had been given freely, without stint, without thought of sparing himself in the work, and he believed the result to be a worthy achievement. But it was not yet finished. He doubted if it would ever be finished. He had dreamed his dreams, and those dreams had carried him into realms of such colossal fancy that he knew, if he lived to a hundred, the time would be wholly inadequate for the fulfilment of his ambitions. The wealth which must inevitably come in the process of the achievement he had set himself was not the goal he desired to win. He admitted the use of such wealth, and knew that without it the rest must fall to the ground. But his dream was of achievement alone. He had no desire to be remem- bered for the fortune he had amassed. His absorbing passion was to be thought of, by coming generations, for an achieve- ment unlike that of any other. Deep Willows was the nucleus about which he had hoped to build his edifice. Vaguely he saw it the center of a world of wheat. He imagined the whole prairie lands of Canada clad in the golden raiment of a perfect wheat harvest. Not merely a farm, but a country of wheat, acknowledging a single control. Nor did it matter to him whose the control so long as his was the making. This was his dream and now he saw it fading before his very eyes at the whim of the man he had so long and so faithfully served. The thought of it was intolerable. Some- times, even, rebellion choked all his friendship, all his loyalty to the man who had made something of the realization of his dreams possible. But there was just one shadow of hope left to him. It was very slight, very vague, and he hardly understood whither it led, he hardly knew if it were worth serious con- sideration at all. But the feeling was there ; nor would it be denied. If only he knew what far-reaching scheme, with re- gard to his wife, lay in the back of Hendrie's great head he might feel easier. But he did not know, and, until such schemes were put into practice, he was not likely to know. Still the fact remained ; Mrs. Hendrie had been appointed his successor, and, since that appointment, she had fallen from her high place in her husband's regard, or, at least, was tot- tering on her exalted pedestal. IN THE MOONLIGHT 203 The thought gave him some slight satisfaction. If if only something would happen in time. If only. He felt at that moment he would willingly give half his possessions to be able to search the hidden recesses of Hendrie's secret thought and find out for certain what was going to hap- pen. He sighed and stirred restlessly, and, as he did so, a horse- man rode past the window and pulled up at his door. Then Angus Moraine did something quite contrary to his rule. He rose swiftly from his chair, and, crossing the room hastily, flung open the door. The horseman was a special messenger he had sent into Everton. The man was one of his foremen, a young Swede to whom he generally entrusted any confidential duty. "Weil, Jan?" he demanded, with something like cordiality, as the man flung out of the saddle. The Swede dived one hand into the bosom of his loose cotton shirt. "One letter, boss," he replied, producing an ordinary business envelope. "Ah. Anything else?" There was eagerness in Angus's inquiry as he took the letter and read the address in Hendrie's handwriting. "Guess I took a peek at the hotel register," Jan replied at once. "Yes ?" There was a further quickening of interest in the manager's tone. "I see the name you wanted. Frank Smith. Guess he registered in at dinner time." The narrow eyes of the Scot lit. "At dinner time?" "Yep. That's how it was marked. Say " "Well?" "He's a tall guy. Sort o' tow hair. Young. Maybe round about twenty?" Angus nodded. 'Then I see him, too. He was sittin' in the office." "Good." There was no doubt as to Moraine's approval now, and Jan felt he had done well. "Anything else, boss?" he inquired confidently. 204 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Angus remained thinking for some seconds. Then he shook his head. "Nothing," he said finally. The Swede mounted his horse. As he was about to ride off Angus detained him. "Send me over my horse," he said casually. "After that you best get around and see they're setting those 'smudge' fires right. We're going to get a chill to-night. We must do what we can to keep the frost out of the crops." The man rode off, and Angus turned back into his office. The manager's mood had entirely changed for the better. A sense of elation had replaced the desperate irritation of a few moments before. Was something going to happen at last? It almost looked like it. Frank Smith had registered at Ever- ton, and here was a letter from Hendrie. A letter. It was not Hendrie's way to write letters with the telegraph handy, and the telephone to his hand. He sat down and tore the envelope open. It contained eight closely written sheets of very thin paper, and Angus smiled as he realized the writer's purpose. The envelope had appeared quite thin. There had been nothing about it to attract attention from the curious. Straightening out the sheets he settled himself to the pe- rusal of his chief's letter. It was very long, and full of carefully detailed instructions. Furthermore, it was dated at Gleber, and it also informed him of Frank Smith's arrival in Everton! But these things were only a tithe of what the letter told him. It told him so much that his whole interest was fully engrossed, and a curious wonder at the man who had written it stirred within him. With his first reading of the letter a wild hope leaped within him, and, by the time he had finished his second reading, he realized that he need have no further fears of being banished from Deep Willows. The "something" he had longed for had happened. The scheming mind of Alexander Hendrie had revealed itself to him. After all, fortune was with him, and it was only neces- sary for him to carry out the instructions set out in the letter for everything to be as he wished. But there was no time to indulge in the pleasurable reac- tion inspired by his letter. His orders were imperative and demanded prompt attention. Therefore he refolded the IN THE MOONLIGHT 205 pages and bestowed them safely. Then, when liis horse ar- rived, he set out at once in the direction of Everton. Angus Moraine's fears of a summer frost looked like being realized. The night closed down brilliantly fine, with a threatening chill pervading the air. There was no wind, and this was significant. To the weatherwise the sudden drop- ping of the thermometer was possible at any moment, and the farming world might easily awaken on the morrow to find the harvest prospects destroyed, and the highest grade wheat reduced to something little better than fodder for hogs. The full moon shone down upon the golden world with a steely gleam upon its cold face, leaving the starry sheet of a cloudless sky rendered almost invisible. It was a dreadfully perfect night, one that might suit lovers, might inspire the romantic, but was anathema to those who lived by the pro- duce of the soil. The village of Everton was very still and silent amid the woodland shadows in which it lay. The little wooden houses were in darkness, and no sign of life was visible anywhere, except at the hotel, where the yellow lamplight still battled feebly with the overwhelming rays of the brilliant summer moon. At that moment the whole world seemed to be slumbering peacefully, in the full confidence that no disturbing elements were abroad. Peace a wonderful peace, such as is only known in close contact with the soil, seemed to reign every- where. But the mind and heart of man rarely shares in Nature's gentler moods. In waking hours the great battle of life is always raging, and in sleep, restless dreaming pursues its victim. There is little enough of peace for striving humanity. It was nearly ten o'clock when the glass door of the hotel was pushed open, and a tall man stood gazing out into the brilliant night. The doorway was narrow, and he almost entirely filled it up. The yellow lamplight from behind shone dully upon his fair, bare head, and the cold moonlight shed an artificial pallor upon his good-looking face. He stood for some moments thus, and his expression was scarcely happy. He seemed lost in some thought which gave 206 THE WAY OF THE STRONG him little enough pleasure. Presently he stirred and thrust the prairie hat he held in his hand upon his head, and drew the brim well down over his eyes. Then with a hunch of the shoulders, the deliberate movement as of a man spurring himself to an unpleasant task, he stepped from the doorway out into the full light of the moon. He strode off down the trail, white in the brilliant light, at the rapid, swinging gait of one whose destination is defi- nite, and who is anxious to reach it with as little delay as possible. Presently the woodland bluff in the direction of the river swallowed him up, and even the faint sound of his rapid foot- steps became lost in the silence that seemed to close over him. Scarcely had the last sound of his retreating steps died out when the door of a near-by house opened and a man stepped out on to the veranda. This house, like its fellows, was in darkness. Nor was there any light by which to judge his appearance, but that which was shed by the moon. However, this revealed his size, which was much above the average, and showed him to be a man of years and full proportions. He waited for a moment, gazing about him, then, as an- other figure appeared round the side of the hotel, he quickly left his veranda and hurried across the intervening space to join the newcomer. After a few moments' earnest conversation they, too, set off down the trail. But whereas the first man's movements were devoid of any attempt at concealment, these two moved cautiously, even furtively, as though they had no desire for recognition. Finally the woodland bluff swallowed them up, and all was still again. But it was not for long. Within ten minutes the hotel door was again thrust open. This time the figure that ap- peared was a perfectly familiar one. It was Angus Moraine, and he was accompanied by the proprietor of the place. There was apparently nothing unusual about him, except a marked cordiality. He might simply have been terminating his customary evening visit of recreation, for, as he appeared a "hand" brought his horse round from the barn, and stood awaiting the manager's pleasure to mount. But for once Angus kept him waiting. His cordial mood IN THE MOONLIGHT 207 would not permit of a hurried departure, and he stood talk- ing to his companion for some moments. "I certainly should think about it, Sharpe," he said ear- nestly. "Guess I'm not a feller given to slinging hot air. I'd start to build quick. Be first. When a place begins to boom you want to be right there, and collar the trade be- fore other folks get busy. You want to be the leading hotel, and if my help in the way of patronage and recommendation is worth anything to you why you can have it." Lionel K. Sharpe listened eagerly. "It's real kind of you, Mr. Moraine," he said warmly. "But I'm guessin' it's a matter of capital. If this place is to boom " "Capital?" Angus snorted. "Pshaw, man! It's nothing to raise the capital." "No o." The hotel keeper looked dubious. Then he brightened. "Say, maybe you don't fancy comin' in on the deal yourself, Mr. Moraine?" He eyed his guest shrewdly. The next moment he received a shock. Angus laughed. And his laugh was the most cordial thing Lionel K. Sharpe ever remembered to have heard emanate from the manager of Deep Willows. "Why, I hadn't thought of it," that individual declared, when his mirth had subsided. Then he became quite serious. "Say, it's not a bad idea though. You see, I'm here a sort of fixture for life, and I guess it wouldn't be half a bad scheme putting my odd cents into a bright enterprise in Everton. Why, yes, I'll think it over, Sharpe, I'll surely think it over." He stepped from the porch and took his horse from the patient "hired" man, who promptly vanished to his rest in the harness room of the barn. He sprang lightly into the saddle. "That's a good notion, Sharpe," Angus went on, as he gathered up the reins. "Guess we'd run a cracking hotel together. Well, so long. We'll talk it over later. So long." He turned his horse about and set off down the trail, and, in a few moments, he, too, was swallowed up by the woodland shadows. 208 THE WAY OF THE STRONG CHAPTER XVII PAYING THE PRICE THE sumptuous library at Deep Willows held a great fasci- nation for Monica. She used it in her solitary moments, dur- ing her husband's absences, more than any other living-room in the great house. Perhaps the attraction was the sugges- tion of office which the beautifully carved mahogany desk gave it. There was the great safe, too, let deep into the wall just behind it, with its disguising simple mahogany door. There were the elaborate filing drawers, and various other appurtenances necessary in a room where business was trans- acted. Perhaps these things helped to remind her of other days, days that had been often troublesome, but, nevertheless, of a memory that was very dear. But the official atmosphere of the room was very limited. There was nothing official in the bookcases lining the walls, containing their hundreds of volumes of modern and classical literature. There was nothing suggestive of commerce in the bronzes and marble statuary which adorned the various an- tique plinths and pedestals. And the pictures, too, modern certainly, but both oil and water colors were by the best liv- ing masters. Nor were the priceless Persian rugs the floor coverings one would expect to find on an office floor. Monica loved the room. There was the character of the man she loved peeping out from every corner at her, every shelf of the bookcases. There was a simple, direct, almost severe style about the place, which reminded her so much of the strength of the man who had taken possession of her soul. Something of this was in her thought as she sat there in a comfortable rocker on this particular night. A book was in her lap, but she was not reading. There was too much rioting through her busy brain for her to devour the transla- tion of a stodgy, obscure Greek classic. She had taken the book from its place almost at haphazard, as women sometimes will, and her sincere purpose had been to read it. But her purpose lacked the necessary inclination, the moment the cover had been opened. PAYING THE PRICE She made a beautiful picture sitting there in the soft lamp- light. Her elaborately simple evening gown was delightfully seductive, and the light upon her fair face surmounted by its crown of waving hair completed an attraction few men could have resisted. The years had left no trace of their rapid passing in her outward seeming, unless it were in the added beauty of her perfect figure. She was happy, very, very happy, and to-night even more so than usual. To-night ! Ah, yes, she had reason to be happy to-night. Was it not the night when the culmination of so many little plans of hers was to be reached? Little plans that had for their inception the purest affection, the most tender loyalty to the dead as well as the living? Monica was a woman to draw the most perfect happiness from such feelings. The mainspring of her whole nature was a generous kindliness, an earnest desire for all that belonged to the better side of life. She knew that she was about to launch two young people upon the great rough sea of life, and the thought that her hand was to pour the calming oil about their little craft was something quite exquisite to one of her nature. Her gaze wandered across at the mahogany door of the safe, and she smiled as she thought that behind it lay the oil awaiting her distribution. From the safe her eyes passed on to the clock upon the desk. Its hands were nearing mid- night. She was glad. They could not move fast enough for her just now. The whole house was silent. The servants had long since retired; even her maid, that stickler for her duties, had been satisfactorily dismissed for the night. Angus had returned. She had just heard him ride past the house on his way to hand over his horse to the sleepy stable hand awaiting him. There was nothing nothing at all to interfere with her Hark! She started from her seat and darted across to the heavy curtains drawn over the French window, which she had pur- posely left open. The sound of steps approaching had reached her. She stood for a moment with hands ready to draw the curtains aside. Then she flung them open, and, with a low exclamation, embraced the fair-haired young giant who stepped in through the window. "Frank, oh, Frank," she cried. "My dearest, dearest boy. 15 210 THE WAY OF THE STRONG I'm so thankful you've come. I knew you wouldn't fail me in spite of of what you said in your letter." The young man gently released himself, and glanced back shamefacedly at the curtains which had closed behind him. "That's just it, mother," he said, his honest face flushing. "I I just hate this backdoor business. Oh, I know it's all right." he went on, as Monica shook her head. "I know there's nothing wrong in it. How can there be ? You are my mother. It's not that. It's the feeling it gives me. You don't know how mean it makes me feel." "Of course it does, dear," Monica said soothingly. "It is like you to feel that way. You have always been the soul of honor, and you feel like a criminal stealing into another man's house. But you are not trespassing, my dear. Don't you understand? You are entering a house to which you have every right. Is it not my home, and am I not your mother?" "Yes, yes," the man broke in, almost impatiently. "That's where the trouble comes. You are my mother. What if if I were discovered? What if ?" Just for a moment a slight look of alarm shadowed Mon- ica's eyes. In the joy at seeing her boy again she had lost sight of the risk this visit really entailed. But she recovered herself quickly, and protested with a lightness she did not really feel. "Don't let's think of it. Alec is away, and the whole house- hold is in bed and asleep. The last person to go to bed here is Angus Moraine, and he came in from town a few minutes ago. So "Angus Moraine?" Frank raised his brows inquiringly. "He was at the hotel. I saw him there. I have seen him often, and I don't think I like him." Monica smiled as she walked across to the safe. "Sit down at that desk, dear," she said happily, "while I hand you a wedding present, birthday present, coming of age present, all rolled into one. Talking of Angus, I don't think I like him either. But there, we two are very much the same in our likes and dislikes, aren't we?" Then she glanced back at the huge figure obediently settling itself at the desk while she fumbled the combination of the lock. "We both like Phyl Ray sun, don't we?" she added slyly. PAYING THE PRICE Frank jumped up from his chair, and his young face had lost its last look of trouble. "I'm so glad you like her, mother," he cried. "She's a perfect delight. She's so so wise, too. She's simply fear- fully clever. You noticed that. I remember you said so in your letter. And and isn't she beautiful ?" The safe door swung open, and Monica drew out a large bundle of notes. "She's as beautiful as only a lover's eyes can see her," she said, with a smile. "She's such a delight, and so beautiful, and so wise, that I'm adding a dowry to the amount I am go- ing to give you to start in business with. It's just a little extra housekeeping money." There was no doubt of Monica's happiness at that moment. Her eyes were shining with the perfect delight of giving to those she loved. "Seriously," she went on, "I'm very pleased with Phyl a pretty name by the way. I'm so glad she is poor, and has been brought up as she has. I don't think you could possibly have made a better choice. I'm sure she's a dear girl. Re- member, Frank, you must always treat her well. She adores you, and I want you always to remember that a good woman's love is something to be treasured above well, everything. Though I am a woman, I warn you it is a priceless thing, and something which, in its unreasoning devotion, in its utter self- sacrifice, in its yielding up of all its most sacred thoughts and feelings, comes straight from God Himself. Care for your little Phyl very tenderly, Frank." She sighed happily and glanced down at the notes in her hand. Then she went on "Now let us consider something much more material. Here is the money, dear. There are twelve thousand dollars in this bundle for you, and another five thousand for vour Phyl, and all my love to you both goes with them." Monica laid the packet of notes on the desk in front of the man, who stared up at her in wondering amazement. "Oh, mother," he cried, "this is too good altogether. You surely don't mean " But his protest was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the telephone bell, and his amazed look was abruptly changed THE WAY OF THE STRONG to one of something like apprehension as he stared at the wretched instrument. But the sudden emergency found Monica alert. She snatched up the receiver and placed it against her ear. Two men moved silently along in the shadow of the house. Their feet gave out no sound as they stealthily drew on toward the library windows. They were not walking together, One of them was leading by some yards, as though he were the principal actor in the scene, and the other was there sim- ply to obey his commands. The face of the leader was stern and set, but his eyes were shining with a desperate passion which belied his outward calm. The other wore a more impassive look. He was alert, but displayed neither eagerness nor emotion. The leader drew near the open French window and paused listening. He could hear voices ; a man's and a woman's, and for a moment, wondered that the window had been left open. Then the thought was quickly followed up by others of a very different nature, while his ears strained to catch the words passing beyond the drawn curtains. But the sound was muffled, and though the temptation to draw nearer was great he resisted it. He was waiting waiting for something, and the strain upon his patience was very great. Then suddenly, faint and muffled, he heard the silvery ringing of a telephone bell. He breathed a sigh as of relief, and, signing to his companion to remain where he was, moved cautiously forward until he stood within the opening of the window. Now he could plainly hear the woman's voice at the tele- phone. It was sharp, a little bit unnatural, but it was plainly recognizable and familiar, and, at the sound of it, the man's teeth shut with a vicious snap. "A letter, did you say? Oh! Yes, I heard you pass. I was busy with some work. . . . Oh you must see me to- night? . . . Oh. . . . Imperative I act on his instruc- tions to-morrow morning. ... I see. . . . Well, if it's so important I'll come along to your office. . . . No, don't come to me. . . . I'll be with you in a moment. . . . You won't keep me more than a few minutes? . . . All right. . . . It's no trouble.* 5 PAYING THE PRICE The waiting man heard the receiver being hung up in its place. Then the woman began speaking rapidly to her com- panion. "Oh, Frank, what a nuisance," she cried, in unmistakable annoyance. "It's Angus Moraine. He's had a letter from Alec. It's full of important instructions which he wants me to act on to-morrow morning, so I've got to get them to-night. He says he saw a light in the library when he passed and was relieved to find I was still up. It is a bother, dear, just when I wanted to be with you. Still, he says he won't keep me more than a few minutes. Just think of it, he had intended to come and see me. Suppose he had." The man's answer came at once. "If he had the game would have been up all right." The woman laughed. "Yes. But he isn't coming. And to make sure I must hurry. Now don't you go dear. It's going to be such a long time before I see you again. I want to make the most of this opportunity. You wait here. I'll be back directly." "What if any one comes?" The question came sharply from the man and the eavesdropper's lips pursed grimly. "No one will come," said the woman promptly. "But suppose ?" "Well, if you should hear any one coming, if you should hear anything that alarms your sensitive soul, why, then you have the money, and all my love, take them both, and go the way you came. In the meantime, in case " The man at the window writhed as he heard the distinct sound of a kiss. The control he was exercising was strained to its limits. The next moment the rustle of skirts, and, at last, the closing of a door, told him all he had been waiting for. Suddenly he drew the curtains apart and closed them sharply behind him. THE WAY OF THE STRONG CHAPTER XVIII A MAN'S HONOR "WELL?" The monosyllabic challenge bit through the silence of the room. It was hard, cruel, and full of unmistakable menace. The man at the desk leaped from his seat and faced about, glaring in the direction whence the voice had proceeded. He faced the accusing figure of- Alexander Hendrie with a desperate, hunted look in his widening eyes, and, curiously, in the horror of the moment, amid the turmoil of alarm that filled his heart and brain, he found himself surveying the intruder with a closeness of observation only to be expected in moments of perfect tranquility. His eyes caught the man's mane of hair, slightly graying at the temples. He noted the cold gleam of the gray eyes leveled straight at his. He realized the meaning of the harsh, tightly compressed mouth, and the gripping muscles of the wide, bull-dog jaw. There was a peculiar hunch to the man's broad shoulders, which suggested nothing so much as an animal crouching to spring. All these things he saw, and read, and he knew that a merciless fury was raging behind the calm mask of this husband of his mother. In a flash his own nerve steadied, and a desperate calmness succeeded the first shock of horror. "Well?" he retorted, and moistened his parching lips. To an on-looker, undisturbed by the tension of the moment, a curious realization must inevitably have occurred. It was the extraordinary likeness existing between these two. The older man displayed the maturity of his years in his increasing bulk, but the likeness was scarcely lessened by it. There was the same hair, the same cast of feature. The younger man's eyes were blue and his height was greater, but the breadth of shoulder, the bone and muscle were similar. Yet neither of them realized the likeness. All their A MAN'S HONOR 215 thought was eaten up by a growing antagonism, antagonism in one that was well-nigh murderous, and in the other, simply that of a man, who finds himself pre- judged, found guilty and sentenced for some crime of which he is wholly ignorant and innocent. Hendrie caught at the retort with lessening restraint. He pointed at the open safe and the bundle of notes which Frank still clutched in his hand. "Red-handed," he said. Then as the incredulous youth made a movement of protest, the other's hand slipped round to his hip pocket with a movement not to be mistaken. "Don't move," he said quickly. Hendrie's command had instant effect. Frank stood quite still. Then his appalled amazement found sudden and violent expression. "Good God!" he cried. "What do you mean? Do you take me for a low-down thief?" Hendrie's eyes never once relaxed their cruel stare. "What are you then?" Frank glanced at the open safe, and his horrified eyes came back to the pile of notes he was still grasping. "You mean " he began. Then indignation overcame every other feeling. "This money was " Again he broke off, and this time a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead. Only just in time did he realize what the admission he was about to make would entail. Suddenly he beheld the hideous trap gaping to ensnare him. To say that his mother, this man's wife, had given him the money, that her hand had unlocked the safe, that he and she had been in that room together, would be to betray her secret and yield up to the last man in the world whom she wished should learn it, the story of her shame. His throat had dried up suddenly, and an awful sickness pervaded his stomach. His imagination became fired. What could he do? The possibility of such a situation had never entered his head. He was helpless. Explanation was denied him. He could only stand there, a convicted felon, caught, as Hendrie had so mercilessly declared, "red- handed." Not for one moment did he dream of taking the other course. To betray his mother, the woman who had devoted her life to him, it was out of the question. His 216 THE WAY OF THE STRONG nature was incapable of such a tiling. Cost him what it might even life itself her honor was safe with him. As the realization of his terrible position came to him, a fresh anxiety grew; an anxiety that was wholly unselfish. He dreaded lest she should return. He knew her goodness, her generosity. That painful secret she had hugged to herself for all these long years would be promptly yielded up to save him. He prayed that her return to the room might be delayed until until He looked into the merciless eyes of his accuser whose harsh voice broke the silence "You were going to say it was given you. Go on." But Frank had no answer. A dogged silence seemed to be the only thing possible, and Hendrie was left to do the talking. "You were going to say that that money had been given you by some one my wife?" He laughed without mirth. "Guess you'd best finish your story. Shall I send for my wife to corroborate it? How'd you fancy that? I'd think a thief would have a better yarn than that. The money was given you!" The man's sarcasm goaded his victim beyond endurance, and dogged silence gave way before it. "You lie," he cried passionately. "I am no thief !" The younger man's sudden heat was not without its effect upon Hendrie. A flush crept over his level brows. It dyed his cheeks, and added a fresh gleam of malignant hatred to the cold cruelty of his eyes. He drew a step nearer, and pointed at the chair. "Sit down!" he commanded. And Frank found himself mechanically obeying. After a moment's pause, Hendrie went on with a delibera- tion that contained an infinitely greater threat than any passionate outburst could have conveyed. "You're a thief," he cried. "Do you get me? A thief. You're a low-down, dirty cur of a thief, not half as good as the man who steals money. Say, you're the sort of skunk who steals in through back doors chasing other men's women- folk. You came to steal my wife. You've been at the game weeks. You've been watched both of you you and your paramour. Back !" THE MAN LEAPED FROM His SEAT AND FACED ABOUT A MAN'S HONOR 217 In a wild fury Frank precipitated himself from his chair to choke the filthy accusations in the man's throat. But he was brought to a stand by the shining muzzle of a revolver, held at his body. He dropped back to his chair. "Say, you can quit that right here," Hendrie went on. "I'm ready for any play that way. You see, I fixed this trap for you. Guess I was wise to your being here. Say, you're going to pay for your gambol, my friend. Maybe you don't know what you're up against, You're going to pay and pay bad. Maybe you don't know what my money can do. It can do a heap, and I'm ready to spend my last cent so you get the dose I want you to get. "But you've made it easy for me. Plumb easy. I find you here with my safe open, and a pile of money taken from it. A safe robber, eh? The money in your hand, and you got in through this window. Get me? Burglary. House- breaking. Safe-robbing. When the law's fixed you right for that, and you've served your term then, why, I guess there's more to follow. Say, you're going to get it good for just so long as we both live. I'm going to beat you down, down, down, till I've crushed you out of your rotten existence. "Oh, I know you've not stolen that money," he went on savagely. "I know that. I recognize you for the man whose picture I tore up in my wife's rooms before I married her. You're her lover, I know, but you're going to be treated just as hard as the law can fix you for those other things." Under the merciless lash of the millionaire's tongue Frank grew steadily calmer. But it was the calm of despair. Full well he saw the hopelessness of his position. He had been trapped beyond all chance of escape, and even ill luck had worked for his undoing. As Hendrie paused he felt, though he knew denial was useless, that he must make a final effort. "I tell you, you are wrong utterly wrong," he cried desperately. "I have never stolen anything in my life. As for your wife, if you would only put this madness out of your head you would see that there is only one man in all the world she loves, and that man is you. Oh, I know it's useless to deny anything while you are in this state of mind. But it is as I say. You can do your worst with me. You 218 THE WAY OF THE STRONG can employ jour millions as you choose for my hurt, but I tell you the day will come when you will regret it, regret the wrong you are doing your wife me, and would give your right hand to undo the mischief you have wrought through this this insane jealousy." The millionaire gazed at the earnest young face, and slowly a smile grew in his eyes, a smile which only rendered their expression more tigerish. "Come," he said, in his level tones, "that's better. If what you say is true guess the whole thing's up to you. You'll have your opportunity in the prisoner's dock. Just explain things to the court, to the press reporters, waiting to telegraph the news all over America. Just tell 'em what your relations with the wife of Alexander Hendrie are. Call her a witness that she gave you that money. Do this. I'll be satisfied for you to do it. But remember when you get through with the court, you're not through with me." He crossed the room and drew the curtains apart while Frank's desperate eyes followed his movements. There was no thought in the youngster's mind of anything but the absolute fiendishness in the man's final proposal. The heartless subtlety of it was tremendous. Call his mother a witness ! Call her a witness with a ravening horde of reporters gasping for scandal. He under- stood that Hendrie believed he would expose her to the shame of this liaison, and so punish her by such a process. He knew how little the man guessed the awakening such a course would in all probability bring him. In that moment Frank saw more clearly than ever the necessity for silence and submission. But, realizing these things, he saw, too, an added danger. "One moment," he said, with studied calmness. He had half read the other's intention as he moved the curtains. "What will happen when Mrs. Hendrie hears of my con- viction. Have you considered that?" The millionaire glanced over his shoulder. A triumphant light shone in his eyes. "Guess I've considered everything. Your paramour after to-night, will never see or hear of you again unless you call her as a witness at your trial." He waited for the anticipated outburst. But it did not A MAN'S HONOR 219 come. To his surprise his victim's face was smiling, and the sight of it set him searching for its cause. Frank nodded. "Right," he said, almost cheerily. "You can call your man. I have no intention to resist now." The next moment a man stepped into the room through the parted curtains. Frank surveyed him almost indiffer- ently. He recognized him as Douglas, the Sheriff of Everton. It was a recognition that told him, had he needed to be told, that the millionaire's purpose was no "bluff/ 5 His heart sank, but his determination remained unaltered. He thought of Phyllis, he thought of the farm he was to have purchased, he thought of a hundred and one things, and, though he gave no outward sign, he felt he could almost have wept. Presently he was roused by their touch as the cold irons were slipped upon his wrists, and he heard Hendrie delivering his charge to the sheriff. Then he found himself standing up. Somebody passed him his hat. Then he knew that he was walking beside the sheriff, and passing out of the room by the window through which he had entered it. Alexander Hendrie gazed after the two retreating figures until the ground seemed to swallow them up as they dropped down to the lower level of the river-bank, where the trail for Everton ran along it. Then he turned back to the room. He crossed swiftly to the safe and closed it. He thrust the packet of money into an inner pocket of his coat. Then he set the chair at the desk straight. After that he passed out through the window, carefully closing it behind him. Ten minutes later a high-powered automobile was ap- proaching Deep Willows by the Everton trail. It only had two occupants. The chauffeur was in the driving seat. Be- hind him, surrounded by his baggage, and enveloped in his heavy traveling coat, sat Alexander Hendrie. THE WAY OF THE STRONG CHAPTER XIX THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE "GUESS he won't make home to-night, man." Angus Moraine broke the silence which followed on the protracted, but absorbing discussion which had just taken place in the stuffy precincts of his office. Monica smiled. She was sitting in a well-worn chair, Angus Moraine's own particular chair, which he had placed for her beside his desk in the full light of the lamp, and directly facing him. "It's impossible to say," she replied, with the confidence of her understanding of the man under discussion. "If business does not interfere, and the mood takes him, Mr. Hendrie will be home to-night." Her manner was delighted. She was feeling very happy. Such had been her interest in Angus's news, and the earnest discussion of affairs involved in her husband's letter to his manager, that, for the moment, all thought of Frank waiting for her in the library at the far end of the house had passed out of her head. She had visited this man with no sort of feeling of friendli- ness, with nothing but resentment at the interruption, but the moment she entered the tobacco-laden atmosphere of his room, and glanced at the long letter which Angus promptly handed her, all her displeasure vanished, and she became fully interested. Nor was the change to be wondered at. The letter was one which had been written with the express purpose of inter- esting her. It was not the brief, terse letter of a business man. Every word had been carefully considered. The writer's whole object had been to afford food for discussion, that his instructions to Angus, to keep her there for a definite time, might the more easily be carried out. The paragraph which chiefly held her interest had been subtly placed by the writer at the opening of the letter. "There is a big labor movement afoot," he wrote. "It is normally the bonding of all agriculturalists, and has THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE for its stated purpose their protection against em- ployers. This may be so. But I have a shrewd idea that the primary object is the furthering of the Socialis- tic movement that is causing so much harm to the world's industries, and is fostering the deplorable dis- content prevailing in labor circles all the world over. However, with such a movement afoot, it is, of course, quite impossible to forecast what unpleasant develop- ments the near future may have for us at Deep Willows. "In removing you, and leaving Mrs. Hendrie in con- trol of my interests there, I am confident enough of successful operation in the ordinary way. But under these new conditions I do not feel so sure. It seems to me that the necessity for the strength of a man's controlling hand in dealing with the situation will soon make itself apparent. Therefore it is better to anti- cipate. Such anticipation will cause a change of plans which, for some reasons, I reluctantly intend to make, and, for others, leaves me well enough satisfied. "I shall, therefore, require you to remain at Deep Willows, and I will ask you to see Mrs. Hendrie at once, convey her my compliments, and urgently request her to join me in Winnipeg by the first east-bound mail. I must confess this change falls in with the present trend of my business as well as, I need hardly say, my per- sonal inclinations. I find that affairs will keep me pretty well tied to Winnipeg and its surroundings, to say nothing of the tours I shall soon have to make from these headquarters. There is also a great deal to be done on the social side. It is becoming more and more necessary to entertain largely, and this, of course, I cannot do without my wife's co-operation. So, perhaps, all things considered, the change will turn out for the best. "I am sorely pressed for time or I should have writ- ten Mrs. Hendrie fully on the subject. But, as this would have entailed two long letters of explanation, and since it is imperative to write you upon other matters relating to the work in hand, I must ask you to convey my apologies to my wife for thus sending her instruc- tions through a third party. Any way, this letter is THE WAY OF THE STRONG only precautionary lest I should not be able to reach Deep Willows as I hope to." Just for one moment, while reading, Monica had ex- perienced the slightest feeling of pique that her husband should have chosen Angus as the recipient of his instructions for herself. But such smallness was quickly banished as she read on to the end of the letter, through a perfect maze of intricate orders and countermandings of affairs connected with Deep Willows. She realized that it would have been perfectly ridiculous to send this letter to her, and as he was "sorely pressed for time" the excuse was more than sufficient. So she readily entered into the discussion which followed her reading of the letter. Even if he did not reach Deep Willows she was to rejoin her husband permanently, and this was far more to her taste than to work apart from him, even though she knew it was in his best interests. In the discussion Angus surpassed himself for interest and amiability, and Monica found herself wondering how it was she had hitherto had such a dislike for him. Had she only known it the man was only carrying out secret in- structions, which became all the more easy since the change of plans had left him free from the nightmare of leaving Deep Willows, which had pursued him for so many days. Yes, Angus found it very pleasant, very easy talking to this brilliantly handsome woman, whose physical charms might well have found warmth in an iceberg. And, curiously enough, now that her husband was aware of what he believed to be the laxity of her morals, he no longer viewed them with so much resentment. So pleasant did he make himself, so interesting in his wide knowledge of her husband's affairs, that Monica found herself talking on and on, with no thought of the rapidly passing time. She was utterly absorbed in the man whose life she shared, absorbed to the exclusion of all else even the waiting Frank. Now they were considering Hendrie's possible return that night. Angus had done his work, and was waiting, sitting there expectantly till the time of the final development which was yet to come. "It'll need to be a 'special,' mam," he said, with a smile. THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE Monica laughed lightly. "Then let it be a 'special.' That, and his automobile, will serve him well enough. You see She broke off listening. Faintly, but quite distinctly, the low purr of a high-powered car penetrated the dense atmosphere of the office. Angus started up. He, too, heard the sound, and he turned to the waiting woman. "Guess it was a 'special' all right. Say " He broke off as his narrow eyes took in the expression of Monica's face. % He ran to her side as though to support her. "You're faint, mam!" he cried. "It's the heat of this room. It's But Monica shook him off. Her face was deadly pale, and she stood supporting herself against the arm of her chair. Her eyes were alight with a dreadful alarm, as she gazed incredulously at the hands of the clock on the desk. It was half-past one, and all this time Frank had been wait- ing in the library for her. The thought of her folly and carelessness was maddening. She would never, never forgive herself if harm came through it. Harm? It must not. She must get away at once. She must give him warning. Then she remembered her companion. His sharp eyes were upon her. With a great effort she pulled herself to- gether. It would be fatal for him to realize the truth of her feelings. She forced herself to a reassuring smile. "It's nothing," she said, passing one hand wearily across her forehead. "Just the heat of the room." Angus's face remained a picture of concern, and she was satisfied. "I'll go and open the front door," she said, with studied calmness. "Everybody is in bed. I Angus had turned to the door, and now opened it. In doing so Monica's attempt to leave the room was frustrated, for he raised a warning hand, and she found herself forced to listen as well. Presently his eyes met hers. "Guess you don't need to worry with that door," he said. "He's coming along over the upper trail. He'll pass us here." 224* THE WAY OF THE STRONG So Monica had no alternative. She must remain. And this knowledge threw her into a fresh fever of apprehension. She searched for further excuse. But none was forthcoming. Her tumultuous brain refused to serve her, and, in a few moments, there came the ominous metallic clank as the clutch was released, and the breaks drew the millionaire's machine to a standstill at the door. It was too late. Already her husband's voice could be heard talking to the chauffeur. "Hand me that suit case and leave the rest in the car," he said. "You best get to bed, and be ready for an early start tomorrow." There was nothing left for Monica but to go out and meet him. In spite of her trouble it was good to see her husband again. But even while she listened to his greeting the thought whirled through her brain, had Frank heard his arrival, too ? Had he made good his escape? "Why, Mon, this is great. I hadn't expected it." Hendrie spoke heartily. There was no mistaking the delight of his manner, and the troubled woman felt a thrill of satisfaction, even though danger was pressing. "Gee, I've moved some to get here," he went on. Then he came up to her as she stood in the doorway, and, under the watchful eyes of Angus, embraced her warmly. For a moment he stood her off at arm's length. "But what are you doing up at this hour?" he demanded, with pretended severity. Then he turned to his manager with a laugh. "Keeping late hours with you, Angus, my friend? It won't do." "You've got your own letter to blame for that, Alec," retorted Monica. "If you must send messages to your wife through Angus you must expect the unexpected." She laughed in spite of her anxiety. Hendrie responded with a smile. "Well, as long as he's told you everything I'll forgive him this time. Say," he drew out his cigar case and carefully selected a cigar. His eyes were shadowed for a moment, and their expression was hidden from his wife "will you be able to start East first thing to-morrow. It's important." THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE There was emphasis in his last remark, and the eyes he raised to his wife's face were gently commanding. Monica took him literally. She was only too glad to be able to fall in with his wishes. ''Why yes, dear," she said at once. "We can go on ahead, and Margaret can pack up and follow later. That will be quite easy." The command died out of the man's eyes as he surveyed her. She was very, very beautiful as she stood there in the lamplight. Her fascination for him was enormous. Then her readiness to please him. No one but a man afflicted with his insane jealousy could have doubted her perfect, utter devotion to him. But Hendrie was an unusual man. His extraordinary powers were so abnormally developed that perhaps there was a slight lack of balance. The driving force which urged him left him little margin for the more subtle understanding of human nature. He lived at fever heat. He had no desire to seek understanding through tolerance. It was for him to dominate. It was for him to bend, and even break, those who ran foul of his will. "Splendid, Mon," he cried, as he pierced the end of his cigar and placed it firmly between his teeth. "You're always ready to help me. Splendid." His eyes shot a quick glance at Angus, who was standing watchfully by. "Now see, Mon," he went on. "You best get right off to bed. It's devilish late, and you've got some journey in front of you. Just give me half an hour with Angus while I smoke this cigar and I'll join you." Monica's heart leaped. Here was all she needed to dispel the last shadow. She could warn "Yes, I am tired, dear," she said readily. "It's been a long day, and I have been working hard." Hendrie nodded. "Sure you have." "Still it doesn't matter," the simple woman went on. "There's lots and lots of work still before us. And Angus," she smiled over at the Scot playfully, " well, I think he's really glad I'm going. Aren't you?" Angus flushed. Then his eyes met the curious gleam in his employer's. 16 THE WAY OF THE STRONG "I think it's best I stay, mam," he said guardedly. "If labor troubles get busy I'd say I'm the more fitted to deal with them." "Of course you are." Monica was quite herself again, and she laughed as she picked up her husband's suit case. "I'll take this along for you, dear," she went on. "Good night, Angus. Good night, Alec for the present." She hurried out of the room, bearing the suit case in her hand, and, replying to her salutation, the two men stood watching her as she went. The door closed. For some moments Hendrie did not move. His great head was slightly inclined out of its usual erect position. Angus waited for him to speak. For himself he had nothing to say. At last the cigar in the millionaire's mouth was tilted and he turned. He reached out and drew the chair Monica had occupied toward him. Then he sat down quite suddenly. "Guess she'll find the library empty," he said, in a curi- ously dull tone. He crossed his legs and reached for a match. "He's well on his way to Calford now," he added, without enthusiasm. Angus nodded. "They've got him?" The millionaire did not answer. Nor did he display the least elation at the success of the trap he had laid and successfully worked. Only the stony light of his eyes remained. If he had no elation it is doubtful that he possessed any feeling of a gentler nature. He had simply done what he had set out to do done the thing he intended, as he always did. He rarely experienced any feeling of triumph in the working of his plans. That he possessed passionate human feelings there was little enough doubt. But these were quite apart from the scheming of his machine-like brain. His cigar glowed under the pressure at which he was smoking, and this was the only indication Angus beheld of any unusual emotion. The manager stirred uneasily at the lengthening silence. "She tried to go when you first came," he said hesitat- ingly. THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE Hendrie only nodded, and the quick glance of his eyes silenced any further attempt on the part of the other. Angus watched him silently, and, as he watched, it almost seemed to him that somehow the man's great figure had shrunk. Maybe it was the way he was sitting, huddled in his chair. Certainly the old command of his personality seemed to have lessened, he looked older, and there was a curious, gray look about his face. He looked weary, an utterly tired man. Yes, if he could only have associated such a thing with Alexander Hendrie, he looked like a beaten man. But at last the silence was broken, and with it vanished the last sign which Angus had read so pessimistically in his employer. The great head was lifted alertly, and the steady eyes lit anew. "Guess you don't know much about women, Angus," he said thoughtfully. Angus shook his head. "Don't want to," he replied coldly. "Guess I got all I need worrying out wheat." The other accepted the denial, and went on "Maybe I don't know as much as I ought at my age. Maybe we've both been too busy worrying wheat." Angus smiled coldly. But there was no smile in Hendrie's eyes. He was gazing steadily before him, his cigar poised, forgotten, in his hand. He had definitely addressed himself to Angus, but now he seemed to have forgotten his presence. "Pshaw! What's the use?" he cried suddenly, with an irritable shift of his position. "It's not the woman's fault ever. It's the man's the dirty, low-down cur who can always trade on her weakness. I ought to know. By God! I ought to know." He picked up a match almost mechanically and struck it. But his cigar remained where it was, and the match was allowed to burn out in his fingers. He threw the end of it away with a vicious movement. Suddenly he looked up and caught his manager's eyes fixed on him curiously. "What are you staring at, man?" he cried. Then with sudden heat, "What in hell are you staring at? Do you think me a doddering fool a weak imbecile? That's it!" 228 THE WAY OF THE STRONG he cried, working himself up into a sort of frenzy, and break- ing into a laugh, as terrible a sound as Angus remembered to have heard. "I tell you she's not to blame," he went on furiously. "I tell you I'll not give her up. Say, you cold- blooded, herring-bodied Scotchman, have you ever loved a woman in the whole of your grouchy life?" Again he laughed. Again Angus felt the horror of it. "Never!" he went on furiously. "Never, never, never! Love? God, it's hell ! Thank your God, you miserable, cold-blooded fish, you are incapable of loving any woman." He reached out again for a match and struck it. But he threw it away from him at once. "I can't give her up," he said, in a low, passionate tone. "I can win her back. I will win her back." His voice rose. "She is mine, and he God have mercy on him, for I won't. Say, there's hell waiting for him. He'll be tried and con- demned, and not a word of his trial will reach the outside world. He is utterly cut off from the world. I have seen to that. And then afterwards. By God, I'll hunt him down. I'll hunt him to his grave, if it costs me every cent I possess. Rob me? He would rob me of my love? Love? It's the worst hell ever man blindly fell into, but it's worth while." Again he broke off, and his companion waited uneasily for what might yet come. He knew that for the moment something like madness had been turned loose in him. A passing madness, but still something to be dreaded. He had not long to wait. All abruptly the gray eyes lit anew, and flashed in his direction. "Why don't you say something?" he cried fiercely. "Why do you sit there in silence? Are you afraid to speak? Bah! Say, Angus, when you told me those things I promised you, if they were not true, I'd kill you. You remember? They were true. And because they were true" the man's eyes glowered "I'd like to kill you anyway. Yes, I'd like to tear your miserable heart out of you, as you have helped to tear the heart out of me." Angus offered no protest. He sat there still and watchful. He knew that the man's brain was fighting for sanity. Now had come the awful reaction. His purpose had been accom- plished, the strain was over, and there was nothing left him THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE but the knowledge of his own terrible disaster. He felt that any ill-timed word of his might upset the balance. This man, who had proved victorious in a thousand battles in the arena of commerce, was now torn in conflict with his own soul. He must fight his battle alone. He must fight it to the end. "God! If you'd help rob me of all the wealth I possess you could not have begun to hurt me as as you have hurt me in this. All that I have, or am, is in that woman's love. All that makes my life worth while is in her smile. Do you understand? No. Or you'd never have come to me with your miserable tale." His face was working. "You're all the same. You're all in the conspiracy. Oh, I could crush you, as well as the others, with these two hands. I could squeeze the wretched life out of you, and it would please me. Yes, it would please me." Angus held his watchful attitude. The man was breathing hard, and his usually cold eyes were burning. He shifted his position spasmodically. Presently a deep sigh came from between his clenched teeth. Again he moved, but this time it was to cross his legs. Angus saw the movement, and, all unconsciously, he sighed, too. He understood the relaxing of tension which permitted such a movement. Was the end near? Had the battle worn itself out? Had the man emerged victorious? Suddenly Hendrie turned to the cigar, still poised between his fingers. He smiled. And Angus knew that victory was within sight. A match was again struck, and this time the millionaire lit his cigar. The next moment his companion beheld a glimpse of the suffering heart so deeply hidden in that broad bosom. "I'm I'm sorry, old friend," Hendrie said, with an un- usual note of genuine kindness in his voice. "I'm sorry. Guess I said a whole heap of rotten stuff to you. Maybe you'll forget. Maybe you understand something of what I'm feeling about now. You see I just love her, and, well I just love her." 230 THE WAY OF THE STRONG CHAPTER XX THE VEEDICT THE machinery at the command of Alexander Hendrie had been set in motion. Nor was its power in doubt for a single moment. Wealth may not be able to bias the ruling of a court, but it can do all those things which can force conviction upon the mind of the most upright judge on the bench. It's subtle working in the hands of men who live by corruption is more powerful than, perhaps, the ordinary mind would believe. No innocence is sufficient that its vic- tim need not fear for liberty even for life itself. Frank Burton, charged in Calford as Frank Smith, a name which, to the last, he claimed for his own, was soon enough to learn something of this extraordinary, intangible power. To his horror he found himself utterly powerless before an array of evidence which conveyed a cruelly com- plete story of his alleged malef actions, characterized as house-breaking with violence. Some of the witnesses against him were men whom he had never seen or heard of, and strangely enough, Alexander Hendrie did not appear against him. The charge was made by Angus Moraine. For his defence he had only his absurdly bare declaration of innocence, a declaration made from the passionate depths of an innocent heart, but one which, in the eyes of the court, amounted to nothing more than the prerogative of the vilest criminal. What use to fight? His counsel, the counsel appointed by the court, did his conscientious best, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. There was no hope from the outset, and he knew it. However, he had his fee to earn, and he earned it to the complete satisfaction of his conscience. In view of his client's declaration of absolute innocence this worthy man endeavored to drag from him a plausible explanation of his presence at Deep Willows, with the money taken from the open safe in his possession. But on this point Frank remained obstinately silent. He had no ex- THE VERDICT planation to offer. His mother's honor was more to him than his liberty more to him than his life. So the mockery of justice went on to the end. In the meantime Alexander Hendrie was no nearer the scene of persecution than Winnipeg, but the six hundred odd miles was bridged by telephone wires, and he was in constant touch with those whose service was at his com- mand. The completeness with which the last details of his plans were executed was at once a tribute to his consummate manipulation, and the merciless quality of his hatred. The cruelty he displayed must have been indefensible except for that one touch of human nay, animal nature, which belongs to all life. He honestly believed in this man's guilty relations with his own wife, and his blindly furious jealousy thus inspired he saw no penalty, no vengeance too cruel or too lasting to deal out to the offender. Alexander Hendrie had no scruples when dealing with his enemies. His was the merciless fighting nature of the brute. But he was also capable of prodigal generosities, lofty passions, and great depths of human gentleness. No feeling of pity stirred him as he sat in his office in Winnipeg, with the telephone close to his hand, on the afternoon of his victim's trial. He was waiting for the news of the verdict which was to reach him over those hundreds of miles of silent wire. He was waiting patiently, but absorbed in his desire that word should reach him at the earliest moment. His desk was littered with business papers which required his attention, but they remained untouched. It was an acknowledgment that paramount in the man's mind is passionate feeling for the woman he had married. It was a strange metamorphosis in a man of his long- cultivated purpose. All his life success had been his most passionate desire. Now he almost regarded his millions with contempt. Nature had claimed him at last, and the lateness of her call had only increased the force and peremp- toriness of her demands. Even now, while he waited, his thoughts were in that up-town mansion where Monica was waiting for him. Nor were they the harsh thoughts of the wronged husband for THE WAY OF THE STRONG the woman in whom his faith had been shattered. He was thinking of her as the wonderful creature, so fair, so perfect in form, so delightful in the appeal of her whole personality, around whom shone the deepest, most glowing fires of his hopes. She was to him the fairest of all God's creatures; she was to him the most desirable thing in all the world. The fierce tempest which had so bitterly raged in his soul at the first discovery of her frailty had abated, it had almost worn itself out. Now he had taken the wreckage and deliberately set it behind him, and once more the flame of his passion had leaped up fanned by the breath of the strong life which was his. Another might have cast the woman out of his life; another of lesser caliber. This man might have turned and rent her, as he had turned and rent the man who was her secret lover. But such was not Alexander Hendrie. His passions were part of him, uncontrolled by any luke- warm considerations of right and wrong. To love, with him, was to hurl aside all caution, all deliberation, and yield himself up to it, body and soul. To have cast Monica out of his life must have been to tear the heart from the depths of his bosom. The time crept on, and still the telephone remained silent. But the waiting man's patience seemed inexhaustible. His was the patience of certainty. So he smoked on in his leisurely fashion, dreaming his dreams in the delicate spirals of fragrant smoke which rose upon the still air of the room to the clouded ceiling above. He had no thought for the innocent young life he was crushing with the power of his wealth so many miles away. He cared not one jot for the ethics of his merciless actions. His thwarted love for his erring wife filled all his dreams to the exclusion of every other consideration. . A secretary entered and silently left some papers upon his desk. He retired voicelessly to wonder what fresh man- ipulation in the wheat world his employer was contemplating. A junior entered with several telegrams. They, too, were silently deposited, and he vanished again to some distant corners of the offices. Still Hendrie dreamed on, and still the telephone had no word to impart. His cigar was burning low. The aroma THE VERDICT 233 of its leaf was less delicate. Perhaps it was the latter that broke in on his dreaming, perhaps it was something else. He stirred at last, and dropped the lighted stump into a cuspidor, and thrust his chair back. At that moment the bur-r-r of the telephone's dummy bell broke the silence. Without haste, without a sign of emotion he drew his chair forward again, and leisurely placed the receiver to his ear. "Yes Who's that? oh! Calf ord." Hendrie waited a moment, the fingers of his right hand drumming idly on his desk. Presently he went on: "Yes, yes you are Cal- ford. Who is it speaking? Eh? That you, Angus? Damn these long-distance 'phones, they're so indistinct! Yes. This is Hendrie speaking. Well? Oh. Finished, is it? Yes. And? oh splendid. Five years Good Five years penitentiary. Excellent. Thanks. Good-bye." He replaced the receiver and quietly began to deal with the accumulation of work which had lain so long untouched upon his desk. THE WAY OF THE STRONG PART III CHAPTER I THE MARCH OF TIME IN the rush of new life in Winnipeg, Monica was left with little enough time for anything but those duties which, in her husband's interests, were demanded of her. A fresh vista of life's panorama had opened out before her, making it necessary to obtain a definite readjustment of focus. She quickly found herself tossed about amid the rapids of the social stream, and, however little the buffeting of its wayward currents appealed to her, hers was a nature not likely to shrink before it. It was her duty, as the wife of one of the richest men in the country, to make herself one of the pivots about which revolved a narrow, exclusive social circle, and toward that end she strove with her greatest might. But the life was certainly not of her choosing. For her its glamor had no appeals. She regarded it as a splendid show, built upon the sands of insincerity, hypocrisy, self- indulgence, vulgarity, all of which were far enough removed from her true nature. However, she was not without her compensation. She felt she was an important spoke in the wheel of fortune her husband was spinning, and, for his sake, she was glad to endure the slavery. So, in her great mansion, in the most exclusive portion of the city, she dispensed lavish and tasteful hospitality ; and, in turn, took part in all the functions that went to make up the program of the set in which she found herself some- thing more than an ordinary star. Within three months her popularity was achieved, and in six she was voted the most brilliant hostess in the city. She spared herself not at all. All her tact, her discretion, her mentality were exerted in the service of the man she loved, who, watching her uncomplaining efforts, saw that they were good. Whatever her feelings and longings for the peace of the golden plains of Deep Willows, her reward lay in the quiet acknowledgment, the smiling approval and THE MARCH OF TIME 235 systematic devotion of the man whose slave she was only too willing to be. It would all end some day, she knew. Some day, her husband's work completed, she would find herself at his side, shoulder to shoulder, hand clasped in hand, supported always by his strong affection, completing their little journey through life in the proud knowledge that the work they had set themselves was well and truly done. Hendrie's satisfaction with her was very apparent. Whatever his secret thoughts and feelings, whatever his bitterness of memory, no sign of these was permitted to escape him. She moved through his life an idol. She was something in the nature of a religion which reduced him to the verge of fanaticism. Thus Monica was absorbed during her first six months of Winnipeg. But in her moments of respite her thoughts more than frequently drifted in the direction of young Frank, and the girl he was to make his wife. At first she recalled with satisfaction the fact that she had been able to help him, and she found herself building many castles for his occupation. Then, as the time slipped by, she began to wonder at his silence. There was no sense of alarm. She just wondered, and went on with her pictures of his future. She thought of the new home she had helped him select, and saw him in its midst, preparing it for the reception of the young wife he was so soon to take to his bosom. Frank married! It seemed so strange. The thought carried her happily back to the picture of a blue-eyed, crumpled-faced baby as it had looked up from its cot with that meaningless stare, so helpless, yet so ravishing to the mother instinct. It seemed absurd to think of Frank mar- ried. And yet Why had he not written? She was puzzled. At first her puzzlement was merely passing, as other im- portant matters drove it from her thoughts. But, as the days passed without any word, it recurred with greater and greater frequency. Gradually a subtle worry set in, a worry both undermining and harassing. Then she seriously began to consider the puzzle of it, and, in a moment, genuine alarm took hold of her. 236 THE WAY OF THE STRONG She reviewed the night of her husband's sudden return to Deep Willows. She remembered how, immediately on leaving Angus's office, she had gone straight to her library. It was empty. The safe was locked ; all was in order. Even the window was closed. All this told her what she wanted to know. Frank had taken his departure safely. The final touch of the window remaining unfastened, pointed the fact that he had closed it after him. Yes, he was safely away. Of that there was no doubt in her mind. Then, why this silence? Could an accident have occurred? Could he be ill? It did not seem likely. In either case he would have let her know. Could he be ? No, she thrust the thought of his death aside as too horrible to contemplate. Then she thought of the money. It was a large sum. Had he been robbed? It was a possibility, but one that did not carry conviction. It was not likely, she told herself. Knowing him as she did it seemed impossible. No one knew of his possession, and he was not likely to proclaim it. He was quite cautious, and, besides, he knew the people he was likely to find himself among. At length she wrote to him. This was about three months after her arrival in Winnipeg. She wrote him at the farm where he had worked, feeling that the letter would be for- warded on if he had left the place. Days passed; two weeks. There was no reply to her letter, and her fears increased. A month later she wrote again, this time addressing the letter to his new farm. The result was the same. His silence remained unbroken. Then came a shock which reduced her to a condition of panic. Her first letter was returned to her through the mail, and the envelope bore the ominous blue pencil message, "not known." A few days later her second letter came back with similar words. The return of the second letter had a curious effect upon Monica. For a long time she found herself unable to think clearly upon the matter. Her panic seemed to have paralyzed her capacity for clear thought, and she was left helplessly dreading. The truth was she had no one to whom she could open her heart. No one to whom she could confide, and with THE MARCH OF TIME 237 whom she could discuss the situation. So she was left with an awful dread weighing her down. Something had happened to the boy, something dreadful. And she dared not, even in thought, admit the nature of her fears. Nor was her trouble without its outward, physical effect. Sleepless nights and anxiety rapidly began to leave their mark. She became nervous and irritable. Her beautiful rounded cheeks lost something of their delicate beauty. Her eyes grew shadowed, and the nervous strain left blood- shot markings in the pearly whiteness of her eyes. Her faithful Margaret was quick to perceive these signs. But in her ignorance of the real facts she read them as due to the constant drain of her mistress's social duties upon a system unused to such a life. "Madam must rest," she assured her charge, as the latter sat before her mirror, while the girl's deft fingers prepared her hair for Mrs. Lionel K. Horsley's ice carnival at the great skating rink. "Madam will be a ghost of herself soon. She will be so so ill." But "madam" had no reply for the girl's well-meant warn- ing. She sat silently studying her reflection in the mirror for many minutes. The result of that study was a sudden determination to do something by which she might hope to stay these inroads. Her resolve took the form of a desire for action. She must set her doubts at rest. She must find out definitely the actual reason of her boy's silence. So once more she set herself to study the dreary list of possibilities. It was a hopeless, blind sort of groping, and led nowhither. Nor was it until some days had passed that her inspiration really came. It came in the middle of a long, sleepless night, and she only marveled that she had not thought of it before. If there was one person in the world likely to know of Frank's whereabouts it w r as Phyllis Ray sun. Why had she not thought of it before? Forthwith she left her bed and wrote a letter. Nor did the possible consequences of what she was doing occur to her until she had sealed the envelope. Then realization came sharply enough. She remembered Phyllis's unusual keen- ness. Who was she, Monica, to require information about Frank? What relationship was there between them? 338 THE WAY OF THE STRONG The girl was aware of Frank's illegitimacy. Well? Yes, she would guess the secret she, Monica, had been at such pains to keep. On the impulse of the moment she tore the letter up. But, almost immediately, she wrote another. The second was shorter. It was more formal, too, and she left out of it all excuse for requiring the information. Phyllis must guess, if she chose. If she guessed, when she answered, she, Monica, would tell her the truth of her relationship to Frank, or, at least, the story she had told Frank himself. It would be the best course to take the only course she could see. With the letter written she enjoyed the first real night's sleep she had had for many days. She felt better. She felt she was on the right track, and now, at last, was actively moving to clear up the mystery which had robbed her of so much peace of mind. She mailed the letter herself next morning, and then prepared to await the result with what patience she could. In due course her answer arrived. It came in the shape of a cheap envelope bulging to its capacity. For a moment Monica's excitement was almost painful. Perhaps it con- tained the long-awaited letter from Frank himself. Perhaps, through some mischance, he had been away, and unable to write her before. Perhaps all her fears had been unnecessary. She tore off the outer covering. But the first paragraph written in a girlish hand, dashed every hope, and plunged her to the depths of despair. Monica read the letter to the end the bitter, bitter end and she read the simple story of a heartbroken girl, who, like herself, had been waiting, waiting for word from the man who was her whole world. She had no news of him whatsoever. She knew nothing of his whereabouts. She could find no trace of him. He had vanished. He had gone out of her life without a word. From the moment he had left Gleber to visit his mother, nothing had been seen of him by any one in the vicinity of the farm upon which he had been working. Not one doubt of the man himself did the girl express. She was convinced that some terrible accident had befallen. Death alone, she declared, would have kept him from her, and in this belief her grief left her overwhelmed. Monica's THE MARCH OF TIME 239 tears fell fast as she read the letter. They were tears for the child who had written it, tears for herself, tears for the unhappy boy whom she looked upon and loved as a son. But the appeal of the girl's story had another effect upon her. It stiffened her courage, and, for some strang reason, left her utterly unconvinced of the rightness of the surmise the letter contained. Frank was not dead, she told herself, and the denial came from her heart rather than her head. From that moment a definite change became very marked in Monica. All her old keenness and aptitude for business returned to her aid. No stone should be left unturned to discover the boy, whatever it cost her. Grown to manhood as he was, he was still her charge, bound to her by the ties of her duty to the dead, bound to her by the tie of a wonder- ful maternal love. She steeled herself to face every pos- sibility. She flinched at rio consequence to herself. If she searched the world to its ends, Frank should be found. Her plans were quickly made. In her emergency they required less thought than had been necessary in the midst of her doubts. With Frank definitely lost, the matter resolved itself into a question of dollars. Dollars? She had them. She had them in unlimited quantities, and they should be poured out like water. She promptly engaged the services of the best detectives in the country, and set them to work. In their supreme confidence they promised her that if the man was above ground they would find him. If he were not, then they would at least point the spot at which he was buried. Monica was satisfied, and the long weeks of waiting for news began. She wrote a warm, womanly letter of great kindness to Phyllis, and told her what she was doing. She also told her the story of Frank's birth as she had told it to the boy himself. She promised her, among many other encouragements, that she would wire her news as soon as it reached her. For herself she was quite desperate, and weighed none of the possible consequences, should word of what she was doing reach her husband. She was content to await such conse- quences and deal with them as they presented themselves. It was the mother-love in her at war with her love for her husband, and, somehow, the former, for the time, at least, 240 THE WAY OF THE STRONG seemed to possess the stronger hold upon her. At that moment, no sacrifice was too great for her to make. But, for all the confidence expressed by the men she had employed, weeks grew into months, and a year passed since Frank's disappearance, and she was still waiting for news of him. Her patience was sorely taxed, and a great grief and melancholy settled down upon her. Her agents still remained optimistic, and with difficulty persuaded her from employing additional aid. The ice having been broken, she kept in constant com- munication with Phyllis, and the intercourse helped her to endure the dreary waiting, as it helped the lonely girl so many miles away. It was a solace, however meager, to both, and it served to save them from the crushing effects of a burden which threatened to overwhelm them both. Once, in a fit of depression, Monica made up her mind to abandon Winnipeg and return to Deep Willows. % She had no very definite reason for the change. It might have been that she wanted to return to the place where she had last seen her boy. It may have been that she wanted to be within reach of Phyllis, the only person to whom she could open her troubled heart. Then, too, perhaps her presence would help the girl, whom, in her own trouble, Monica had come to look upon with something more than friendliness. She told her husband of her purpose one night on their way to dinner at the house of Joseph P. Lachlan, a great railroad magnate. Hendrie expressed no surprise, but appeared to display the keenest sympathy. "You've done great work, Mon," he said cordially. "I don't know how I should have got through without your help on the social side. You're a bully partner. You've never grumbled. And yet you must be worn out. It's been worrying me lately. I've seen how all this is telling on you. Ye s. You certainly must have a holiday. I hope to be finished soon. Then I shall be able to join you. But there are one or two matters I can't leave yet. I hope to bring off a big coup the night of our big reception, a month hence. You see, Cyrus Burd, the New York banker, must be brought into the trust. The whole thing is a question of overwhelming capital to carry on the fight against the THE MARCH OF TIME market when we declare ourselves. And Burd is the man the last man we want. I dare say I can worry that reception through without you. I shall have to. Anyway your health is the first consideration with me, and Deep Willows is just the place for you to recuperate in." Instantly Monica's denial leaped. Her health was nothing to his affairs, she said. A month more or less would make no difference to her. There must be no chance of anything going wrong through her defection. She would not leave Winnipeg till after that reception. . Then Hendrie tried to persuade her to go. But her mind, she declared, was definitely made up, and she was quite immovable. So Hendrie, with an air of reluctance, was finally forced to acquiesce. "If you insist, Mon, I have nothing more to say," he said, with a sigh. "At least when it is over, we'll take a long rest. We'll visit Europe and spend a lazy month or so." Monica was clay in his hands. The last place he wanted her to visit was Deep Willows yet. She had reason to be glad of her decision two weeks later. It was nearly noon one morning when her private telephone at the side of her bed rang. She was sipping her morning coffee. The rolls on her plate were as yet untouched. Margaret was occupied in preparing for her mistress's toilet. The girl promptly left her work and took up the receiver, while Monica waited to hear who it was ringing her up. "Who is it? the girl inquired. "I can't hear. Red" Monica spoke sharply. "Give me the thing," she said. "You never could hear over a 'phone." The girl obeyed, and left the room, as was her rule when Monica used the telephone. It was the Redtown Inquiry Agency, and Monica's heart leaped as she listened. Their representative wanted to see ber urgently. Would she call upon him before two o'clock? It was preferable she should go to him. Would she kindly do so ? He could not trust a message of importance to the wire. It was just one o'clock when Monica was ushered into the private office of Mr. Verdant, the representative of the Red town Agency. 17 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Mr. Verdant greeted her with the cordiality he always displayed toward a rich client. After placing her in a chair, where the light from the window shone full upon her face, he moved noiselessly over to the door, and, with some display, ascertained that it was tightly shut. Then, as noiselessly, he returned to his desk, dropped into his swing chair, adjusted his glasses, and gazed squarely into his visitor's face. Having satisfactorily staged himself, and conveyed to the anxious woman that he was reading her like an open book, he drew a memorandum pad toward him and spoke without looking up. "We have not found your the person you are interested in, Mrs. Hendrie," he said, with studied effect. "You have not found him?" Monica's heart sank. Then she went on in an aggrieved tone. "Then then why have you sent for me? You said it was urgent." The man looked up. It was a keen face he turned toward his client. He was a clever detective, but he was also a shrewd business man. "Just so, madam," he said. It is urgent. I have brought you here to tell you that my people have decided to abandon the case.'* Monica stared. "But but I don't understand." "Precisely, madam, and I am here to explain." "Please explain and quickly. I have no time to waste." Monica was angry. She was grievously disappointed, too. All the way down Main Street she had buoyed herself with the belief that her boy had at last been found. "I'm sorry, mam," Mr. Verdant went on, "but we're busi- ness men as well as inquiry agents. Maybe we're busi- ness men first. You'll naturally understand that our in- quiries frequently lead us into strange places, also they frequently land us up against people whom, as business men, we cannot afford to vulgarly speaking run up against. This is our position now with regard to your er in- quiries." "You mean you are afraid to go on with my case?" Monica made no attempt to conceal her annoyance, even contempt. THE MARCH OF TIME "You can put it that way if you choose," Mr. Verdant went on imperturbably. "The point is that as inquiry agents I regret to say my chiefs have decided to abandon the case, and, in my capacity as their representative, it is my duty to notify you personally." "But this is outrageous," cried Monica, suddenly giving full vent to angry disappointment. "I pay you. Whatever you ask I am willing to pay. And you coolly, without any explanation, refuse to continue the case. It is a scan- dalous outrage!" Her flushed face and sparkling eyes told the detective more plainly than her words the state of mind his ultimatum had thrown her into. He assumed at once a more con- ciliatory tone. "Madam," he said, "you are just a little hard upon us. There are some things far better left alone, and, in this case, it is 'explanation.' The fact that this is so should tell you that we have been by no means idle. We have simply gone as far as we dare in our investigations." But Monica was not so easily appeased. "If you have done the work you say; if you have made discoveries which you refuse to disclose to me, after accepting my money for your work, then you are committing a fraud which the law will not tolerate." Mr. Verdant listened quite unimpressed. "One moment, madam. I beg of you to keep calm. I have done my duty as an official of this agency. Now I am going to do my duty by you, as the detective' in charge of your case. You desire to know the whereabouts of Mr. Frank Burton. I can tell you how to find his whereabouts in half an hour." "But you said you had not found him!" Monica was beginning to wonder if the man were not a lunatic as well as a fraud. "I have not found him." "Then gracious, man, speak out. How can I find him?" "Ask your husband. Ask Mr. Alexander Hendrie where he is." Mr. Verdant had risen from his seat as he spoke, and now stood holding the door open for his visitor to pass out. 244 THE WAY OF THE STRONG CHAPTER H WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD "AsK your husband. Ask Mr. Alexander Hendrie where he is." The words beat into Monica's brain. They hammered upon her ear-drums. They rose before her eyes, mocking her. She was back in her own home. She had gone straight to her bedroom and locked herself in. She was due at a luncheon party, and, on her return, Margaret had hurried to wait upon her. But the girl was promptly dismissed, and the luncheon forgotten. It was a matter of no importance now. Monica would go nowhere; she would receive no one. She was ill, she said, and refused to be disturbed. So Margaret was left wondering and frightened. Monica paced her room for hours. She was vainly en- deavoring to think connectedly. She was trying desperately to fathom the meaning of the man Verdant's challenge. It was useless. All continuity of thought was gone. Her ideas, her thoughts just tumbled pell-mell through her har- assed brain, eluded her grasp, and vanished in the darkness whence they had leaped. "Ask your husband. Ask Mr. Alexander Hendrie where he is." "It was maddening; and fever coursed through her veins. Her head grew hot with her effort. It ached, as did her eyes. Things about her began to seem unreal. Even the familiar objects in the room seemed to belong to some long-past, almost forgotten period in her life. She pulled herself together, and even began to question herself. Where was she? Ah, yes, this was her husband's house "Ask your husband." For a moment the fever left her cold. Then it was on her again. She must ask her husband! A hundred times the words came back, but she could proceed no further. Instinctively she understood something of the ugliness lying beyond them. WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD The distraught woman endured this torture for hours. It seemed ages; and at times she believed she was struggling to keep her reason. If her husband knew of Frank's whereabouts, then but she dared go no further. Once she paused in her restless pacing and stood before the mirror on her dressing-table. She stared at it as though reading the man's words written there. Suddenly she became aware of her own -reflection, which seemed to be mocking her. She fled precipitately and flung herself into a chair, burying her face in her hands. But such a state of mind could not endure and sanity remain. It was the result of shock, and the worst of shocks must give way before the recuperative powers of healthy nature. So it was now. The late afternoon sun had just fallen athwart the great bay window, when the troubled woman, with a sigh as of utter exhaustion, flung herself upon her bed in a flood of hysterical tears. For a while the storm remained unabating. It almost seemed that the flood-gates of a broken heart had been opened; as though life had no longer any joy remain- ing; as though all the most treasured possessions of her woman's heart had been ruthlessly torn from her bosom, so hopeless, so dreadful were her tears. But it was the saving reaction. Within half an hour the storm had lessened. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased altogether. Monica sat up. For one painful moment she gazed stupidly about her. Then one by one the details of her room grew upon her, and, slowly, a subtle change crept into her eyes. For a moment they hardened, as though she were spurring herself to some painful resolve. Then, at last, they softened again to their natural expression. She left her bed, and passed through the doorway which led into her private bathroom. Presently she emerged. A cold douche had done its work. She was quite calm now, and all her movements became deliberate. She walked up to her mirror, and gazed at the reflection of her swollen eyes. Then, with a weary sigh, she finally turned away and pushed the electric bell at her bedside. Margaret obeyed the summons with suspicious alacrity. 246 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Truth to tell the devoted girl had been near by, waiting for the summons. Her mistress's unusual attitude had seriously troubled her. Now she came, hoping but anxious, and, after one glance at Monica's swollen eyes she gave vent to her distress. "Oh, but, madam " she cried. She was silenced with a look. "I'll begin to dress now," Monica said coldly. But the girl's anxiety was too sincere. "But, madam, it is only half-past five! Dinner dinner is at eight." Monica turned away coldly, and seated herself upon the ottoman, which stood in the center of the room. "I will dress now," she said finally. Margaret understood her charge. It was useless to protest when Monica's mind was made up. So she set about her work at once. Monica watched her as she threw open the wardrobes. Her eyes followed her as she vanished to prepare the bath. But it was not with any interest. The girl's movements simply conveyed a sense of activity to her. That was all. But it helped her. It helped her, in the midst of her teeming thought, as nothing else could have done. She endured the process of her toilet like one in a dream. Nor was it until it came to the necessary selection of a gown that she displayed any real interest. Then she roused herself and startled Margaret with her peevish indecision. Nothing seemed to please her. Several new gowns, just home from the extravagant costumer, who poured "crea- tions" upon her, were flung ruthlessly aside before the girl's dismayed eyes. She would have none of them, and Margaret was at her wit's end. There were only a few simple black gowns left, and Margaret hated black. But what was she to do? She produced them, being careful, at the same time, to display her own disapproval. Promptly selection was made. Monica knew the value of soft black chiffon against her beautiful fair hair and fairer 'skin. No one knew it better. Another uncomfortable half hour was spent while the girl dressed her mistress's hair. Never had Monica been so WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD 247 difficult to please. But even this was finally satisfactorily achieved, and Margaret sighed her relief. However, her surprises were not yet done with. There was still another forthcoming. Monica surveyed herself in the mirror. She gazed at herself from every point of view. She beheld a perfectly molded figure, unusually tall, with the delicious tint of flesh like alabaster glowing warmly through the gauzy folds of the simple black chiffon of which her gown was composed. She saw a face that was slightly pale, but of exquisite, mature beauty. She saw eyes of a deep blue, full of warmth, full of that precious suggestion of passionate possibilities which no man can witness unmoved. And even in those moments of trouble she knew that she had done well in her choice of gowns. She knew that she was very beautiful. She turned at last to the waiting girl, who was gazing at her in open admiration. "Go and find out if Mr. Hendrie has come in yet. If he hasn't, leave word I am to be told the moment he arrives. Also, let him be told that I wish to see him in the library before he goes to dress." The girl moved toward the door. "One moment." Monica spoke over her shoulder. "Put the rouge out for me, and an eye pencil." This final order was too much for the girl's sense of the beautiful. "But, madam," she cried. "Oh, madam is too beautiful for " "Do as I tell you!" The order came sharply, almost harshly, and Margaret hastened to obey. For once Monica was stirred out of her customary kindliness. Her nerves were on edge. She had yet to face an ordeal, which, with each passing moment, was slowly sapping her courage. She knew she had none to spare, and dreaded lest her strength should fail her at the last. Monica was standing in the archway beyond which two great French windows looked out over the street. One beau- tiful, rounded arm was upraised, and its be jeweled hand was nervously clutching the edge of the heavy crimson curtain. 248 THE WAY OF THE STRONG It was no pose. She was clinging to the curtain for support. It was still daylight. The setting sun still lit the street outside. The room was lined from its polished floor to the ceiling with dark mahogany bookcases, which, with the crim- son hangings, and the deep-toned Turkey carpet, helped to soften the light to a suggestion of evening. The sound of a step in the hall beyond startled her. She clutched the curtain still more tightly. She knew that firm tread. The handle of the door turned. Instantly she yielded her hold upon the curtain. Her husband must witness no sign of her fear. The next moment a deep, familiar voice greeted her. "I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, Mon. I " Hendrie broke off in astonishment. Just for a moment his eyes surveyed the wonderful picture she made. And, in that moment, Monica realized that her efforts had not been in vain. His eyes were drinking in her beauty, and she understood that never, in their brief married life, had she appealed to him more. "Why, Mon," he cried. Then in a sudden burst of ad- miration. "You you look just splendid." And after a pause. "Splendid!" Monica smiled up at him. "You haven't kept me waiting. I I was anxious to see you at once, so I I dressed early." Hendrie had drawn nearer, as though about to embrace her. But her halting fashion of explanation checked him. All unconsciously he leaned against the edge of a table in- stead. It was as though something had warned him to wait. "I'm glad I didn't keep you waiting," he said, and some- thing of the warmth had gone out of his tone. "Something important ?" The woman was seized with a man longing to flee from the room. The ordeal she was about to go through was almost more than she could bear. "Yes I'm afraid it is," she said, in a low, unsteady voice, while she turned away toward the window. "Afraid?" Monica turned again and looked up into his eyes. A sudden weakness left her knees shaking. WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD 249 "Yes," she said, and stammered on. "I I hardly know where to begin. " Hendrie left the table and drew a step nearer. "You're in some trouble, my Mon," he said kindly. "I can see it in your face. Tell me, dear." His words had their effect. Monica's fears lessened, and something of her courage returned. Suddenly she threw up her head. "No, no ! You tell me, Alec !" she cried. "Tell me truly, as though you were answering your own soul, is there is there a condition, a moment, a situation in life when it be- comes wrong to keep a solemn vow given to the dead? I hold that a vow to the dead is the most sacred thing in life. Am I right or wrong?" The man's gray eyes expressed neither surprise nor curi- osity. They were calmly considering, and in their calm they were painfully cold. He shook his head. "You are wrong," he said simply. "The most sacred thing in life is Truth. When Truth demands, no vow to dead or living can bind." Monica sighed. "You are sure?" "Sure. Quite sure." The man was deliberate. As no answer was forthcoming, he went on "Come, Mon, tell me. Guess there's something behind all this. Well I am here to listen." The woman stirred. She clenched her hands. Then her answer came. "And I am here to tell you," she cried, with a sharp intake of breath. "I have lost something^ I have lost something which is almost as precious to me as as your love. I have been told that you can tell me where to find him." "Him?" The word rang through the quiet room. It was the man's only comment, and a dreadful inflection was laid upon the word. There are moments in life when acts are performed, when words are spoken without thought, even without actual im- pulse of our own. They are, perhaps, moments when Fate steps in to guide us into the path she would have us tread. 250 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Perhaps it was such a moment in Monica's life, in Hendrie's. Certainly the woman had spoken without thought. She had no understanding of what her words could possibly mean to her husband. And Hendrie, surely he was unaware that murder looked out of his furious gray eyes at what he believed to be the mention of the man for whose downfall he had perjured his own soul. "Yes him, him!" cried Monica, becoming hysterical. "My my dead sister's child." Hendrie recovered himself at once. He smoothed back his hair like a man at a loss. "I don't think I quite get it," he said slowly. Then his bushy brows lifted questioningly. "Your sister's child? I didn't know you had a sister. You never told me. Say how should I know where this child is ?" He was puzzled. Yet he was not without some doubts. Monica swallowed with difficulty. Her throat and tongue were parched. "No," she said, struggling for calmness. "I never told you because because I had vowed to keep the secret. Questions would have followed the telling, which I could not have an- swered. I was bound bound, and I could not break my promise." "You best tell me all there is to tell," the man said coldly. "This secrecy, this promise. I don't understand any of it." Never had his wife's beauty appealed to Hendrie more than it did at that moment. A great depth of passionate feeling was stirring within him, but he permitted it no dis- play. He was growing apprehensive, troubled. His doubt, too, was increasing. Monica suddenly thrust out her hands in appeal. "Oh, Alec, it is so hard, even now, to to break my faith with the dead. And yet I know you are right. It it is more than time for the truth. I think yes, I believe if poor Elsie knew all, she would forgive me." "Elsie?" The man's voice was sharply questioning. "Yes, Elsie my poor, dead sister." "Go on." "Yes, yes. I must go on." Monica drew a deep breath. "I can't understand. I don't seem to Oh, tell me where he is. My Frank, my poor Frank, Elsie's boy. The boy I WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD 261 have brought up to manhood, the boy I have cared for all these years, the boy I have struggled and fought for. He he is lost. He has been spirited away as though he had never existed. And I am told by the detectives to ask you where he is." Hendrie's eyes were upon the carpet. He was no longer looking into the troubled face before him. "Tell me," he said sharply; "when did you see him last?" Monica no longer hesitated. Her husband's manner had become suddenly compelling. "It was the last night I spent at Deep Willows," she said at once. "Just before you came home." Hendrie raised his eyes. They were full of a dawning horror. "The truth does demand," he cried almost fiercely. "Tell me ! Tell me as quickly as you can." Monica was caught in the man's sudden excitement. "Yes, yes, I will," she cried. "Oh, but it is a long story and and a sordid one. It all happened when I was a young girl. I was only seventeen. Poor Elsie. She had been away a long time from home. Then she came home to me, her only relative. She came home to die, and dying gave birth to her son. You see, she was never married." She paused, but went on at once at the man's prompt urging. "She was never married, and the man left her in the hour of her direst need. Poor girl, even in her extremity she did not blame him. She loved him almost as much as she loved his little baby boy. She knew she was dying, nor did she seem to mind, except for her baby. He was her great anxiety. But even in that, her anxiety was chiefly that the child should never know of his mother's shame. So, almost with her last breath, she made me swear that I would bring him up as my own child. That I would keep her secret from him, and account for his father as being dead, with any story I chose to tell him. And I I, a girl of seventeen, promised." She paused. Then she hurried on as the questioning eyes of the man were again raised to her face. "But what does it matter?" she cried suddenly. "She was my only sister and I loved her. From that day Frank be- came my own son, and, for nearly twenty years, I battled THE WAY OF THE STRONG with the world for him. Nor in our worst trials did I feel anything but the greatest joy in our mutual love. Oh, yes, when he grew up, I had to lie to him. I have had to lie, lie, lie all through. And when you came into my life I had to lie harder than ever. It was either that, or betray my sister's secret. That I could not do even for your love. I chose the easier path. I lied so that I should not have to give you up." "It is not quite clear the necessity?" The man again raised his eyes to her face, but, almost at once, they turned back to the carpet. "It is simple enough," Monica went on dully. "If I mar- ried you, to keep my sister's secret I must keep Frank in the background. Otherwise I should have to give explanations. To keep him in the background I must tell him a story that made it necessary. I did so. So that he should know nothing of Elsie's shame, and as I had brought him up to call me 'mother,' I did the only thing that seemed to me possible. I took the whole responsibility upon myself. I told him that though he was my son I had never been married. You see, I knew his love for me. I knew his chivalrous spirit. He wanted me to be happy in my newly found love, so he ac- cepted the situation." Hendrie shook his head. "You kept the letter of your promise to your sister, and betrayed the spirit of it." Monica hung her head. "I know. I did it because I could not give you up." Hendrie looked up with something like anguish in his eyes. "Oh, woman, woman," he cried. "Why didn't you take me into your confidence? These lies could have been saved, and and all these other, and even more, terrible conse- quences. Listen to me, and I will tell you all the rest. I can see it now. I can see it more clearly than you can tell me. He called himself Frank Smith?" Monica started. "Yes. Whenever he visited me at Deep W 7 illows. His real name was Frank Burton." Hendrie's gaze wandered toward the window. The street lamps had just been lit. Never in his life had he known what it was to humble himself before another. Never had he known WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD 253 what it was to excuse himself for any act of his. Now he knew he must do both of these things. Monica stepped eagerly forward from the shadow of the curtains. "You you know where he is ?" she demanded. Hendrie nodded. Then a strange thing happened. A harsh, mirthless laugh rang through the darkening room. Monica stared at the man's unsmiling face, horrified, and at a loss to understand. "Then where is he?" she cried blankly. "He is in the penitentiary, serving five years for breaking into Deep Willows, and robbing my safe of a bunch of money that belonged to you." "Oh, God have mercy !" The cry rang through the room. Monica reeled and would have fallen. In a moment her husband's arms were about her. But she flung him off, and her action was one of something like loathing. She stood up facing Hm, and pointing at him, while her agonized eyes challenged his. "You you!" she cried fiercely. Then: "Go on! Tell me tell me quickly ! It is you you who have done this !" Hendrie drew himself up. There was no hesitation about him, no shrinking before the story he had to tell. "Yes, I did it," he said. "I I ! I have listened to your story. Now listen to mine, and when you blame me, you must blame yourself as well. I have loved you desperately. I love you now. God knows how I love you. If I did not I could never have endured what I have endured in the past and kept my reason. That is my excuse for what I have done. "I saw that picture in your rooms and took the man to be an old lover. I hated him, and I tore it up. I told you then there could only be one man in your life. I destroyed that pasteboard as I would destroy any one who came be- tween us." Monica remained silent while the man choked down his rising emotion. "After we were married I became aware of the clandestine visits of a handsome man, to you, at Deep Willows. You were known to have embraced him." "You you spied !" "I did not spy then. I learned these things, nor does 254 THE WAY OF THE STRONG it matter how. I determined to crush this man I believed to be your lover. I determined to be rid of him once and for all. My love for you was so great that what I believed to be your guilt left me quite untouched. It was men I under- stood ; men with whom I was accustomed to deal. I meant to deal with this man. So I set to work. I need not tell you how I tracked him down and kept him watched. It is suffi- cient that I knew of his visit to Deep Willows on the night in question. My plans were carefully laid. I left very little to chance. You were in the library with him, and Angus sum- moned you, to give you some important news he had received from me. I had arranged that. At the time the telephone bell rang I was beyond the window with the sheriff of Ever- ton. The moment you left the room I entered it. I found this man with a bunch of money in his hand, and the safe open behind him. I had not hoped for such luck. I charged him then and there with the theft. Oh, I knew he had not stolen it. You had given it him, and it made me the more furious. I could have shot him where he stood. But it could not have been sufficient punishment. I meant to crush him. "Then I did the cruelest thing I could think of. I told him that I knew he had not stolen the money. I told him that he could clear himself of the charge by calling you into the witness box. In that way I knew that what I believed to be your shame would reach the whole world. But soon I was to see the stuff he was made of. He would not drag your name into the matter. He submitted to the charge with a simple declaration of his innocence, and I was well enough satisfied. The rest was sheriff's work. Within certain limits I knew I could buy the law, and I bought it. The case was kept out of the papers, and you were sent well away from any possibility of hearing of it. The name he was tried under, and which he clung to, helped further to disguise his identity. That night when you returned to the library, as I knew you would, you found the place in order, and the boy gone. You had no possible suspicion of what had occurred. You could have none. You remember I drove up later, as from Everton, in my automobile." Hendrie ceased speaking. Monica remained silent. She stood quite still looking into his face as though she were WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD 255 striving to read all that lay behind it, trying to fathom to the very limits the primitive motives which had driven this man to the dreadful cruelty he had so readily inflicted. He had sent Frank, her boy, to a felon's prison. Sent him with- out one single scruple, without mercy. He had committed, besides, every base action he could have been guilty of to achieve his purpose, and all for love of her. She tried to think it all out clearly. She tried to see it through his eyes, but she could not. The hideousness of it all was too terrible. It was unforgivable. At last she spoke. Her voice was hard and cold. In it Hendrie detected, he believed, the sentence her woman's heart had passed upon him. "He must be released at once," she said, in a tone that warned him of all he had lost. "If you do not contrive this at once the world shall know the whole story yours as well as mine." The man made a slight movement. It was as though he had flinched before a blow in the face. "He shall be released," he said. "He must be released at once." Monica's icy tone was final. She turned away, moving toward the door. Then sud- denly she paused, and a moan of despair broke from her. "Oh, Alec," she cried, "how how could you? How could you do it?" The man was at her side in a moment. "I love you, Mon," he cried, in deep tones. "You are more precious to me than all the world than life itself. Can't you understand? Can't you see just something of what my eyes saw? Where you are concerned it is all so different. I could not, dared not lose you. I hated this man, who I believed had robbed me of your love." Monica's agonized eyes were raised to his for a moment. "But where was your faith? Where your trust?" she cried. "Why, why did you not openly accuse me?" "Accuse you ? Mon, you have yet to learn all that my love means. You think me, the world thinks me, a strong, even ruthless man. There is truth enough in the latter God knows. But for the rest, where you are concerned, I am weak so weak. I am more than that. I am an utter coward, THE WAY OF THE STRONG too. While my heart might break at the knowledge of your infidelity, it would be incomparable to losing you out of my life. Why did I not accuse you openly? Because I was afraid to hear the truth from your lips. Do you know what would have happened had you confessed to me that you loved this man? It would have meant murder. Oh, not your death," as Monica drew away horrified at the terrible sin- cerity of the threat. "That man would have died. Now can you understand? Won't you understand?" There was a dreadful moment of doubt, of anxiety, while the man waited an answer to his appeal. No prisoner could have awaited sentence with more desperate hope. His eyes devoured the woman's averted face, while his heart hungered for the faintest gleam of hope it might hold out. And waiting he wondered. Was there anything in a woman's love at all, or was he to be condemned to a life with the doors of her soul closed and barred against him for ever? It seemed an endless waiting. Then she gave a sign. She turned to him, and raised a pair of eyes, whose sadness and distress smote him to the heart, and looked up into his face. Then he knew, however undeserved, her love was still his. "Perhaps I can understand, Alec, but but give me time." Monica spoke in a deep, tender voice that was full of pain, full of suffering. "I am beginning to understand many things I did not comprehend before. You, perhaps, are not so much to blame as I thought. I have been so weak, too. A little candor and honesty on my part might have saved it all. We are both terribly to blame, and perhaps most of it lies at my door. Let us try to forget ourselves. Let us forget everything but that which we owe to Frank. We both owe him so much. Oh, when I think of the way I have ful- filled poor Elsie's trust I feel as though my heart would break." "If ever a trust was carried out truly, yours has been, Mon." The man's arms were about her, and he gently drew her to him. He gazed tenderly down upon her now tear-stained face. "No woman could have done more than you have," he went on. "If things have gone awry it is no fault of yours." He smoothed her beautiful hair with one tender hand. "I WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD 257 give you my sacred word your Frank shall be released. I swear it by the memory of your poor dead sister. I can still undo the mischief which my mad jealousy has wrought, and your Elsie will forgive." He bent and kissed her upturned face, while she clung to him for support. "Yes, yes, she will forgive. It was her nature to for- give," Monica said, in a wave of tender memory. "To the last she would not hear one word against the wretched father of her boy. Do you know, Alec, I sometimes wonder that Heaven allows such men to go about working their cruel mischief upon trusting women." Hendrie stirred uneasily, and his arms gently released her. "Tell me of her of him," he said, his eyes turned upon the streaming light from the street lamps. Monica became thoughtful. "I know so little about him," she said, after a slight pause. "You see, I never saw him ; and Elsie she would say so little. It seems she met him in New York. I forgot to tell you Elsie was an actress. She acted under the name of Audie Thome." The man started. Then, slowly, his eyes came back to her face. Fortunately their expression was lost upon her, and, before she could turn in his direction, he was once more gazing out at the brilliant light which, somehow, he was no longer aware of. He was listening to his wife's voice, but her words conveyed little enough to him now. His mind was far back in a dim, almost forgotten past. "I don't know how it all happened," Monica went on. "She was doing so well on the stage. Then she met this man, Leo. The next thing she was up in the Yukon with him. He was prospecting. Then they were traveling down country- overland with an Indian scout. That's when he deserted her. She only managed to reach me, in San Sabatano, through the aid of the scout. He gave her money. Money paid him for the trip." Then a world of contempt crept into her voice. "I suppose it was the coming of Elsie's baby which frightened him the cowardly brute." Hendrie nodded, his face studiously averted. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But one can never be sure of such a man's motives." "Motives?" There was unutterable scorn in the woman's 18 258 THE WAY OF THE STRONG voice. "And while he goes free, she, poor soul, is left to suffer and die in the gutter!" "But you sheltered her? You cared for her?" The man's voice was almost pleading. "Thank God, I could at least do that but it was not through any doing of his. Oh, if only I had the punishing of such as he." "Perhaps he will get his punishment, even as you could desire it. Perhaps he has got it." "I pray God it may be so." Quite suddenly Hendrie turned about and faced her. His face was thrown into the shadow by the light of the window, which was now behind him. "These are past days, Mon," he said, in his decided fashion. "We have to do with errors, faults of the present. I must get to work at once to repair something of the damage I have done. You employed detectives. Who?" "The Redtown Agency." "Good. I will see them at once. You must dine alone to- night. I will report later." The man moved suddenly across to his desk, and one hand fell heavily upon the carved mahogany of it. He looked across into the face of the woman he loved, and the fire of a great purpose shone in his eyes. "Thank God I am the rich man I am !" he cried. "Thank God for the power of wealth. You shall see, Mon, you shall see ! Leave me now, for I must work. Hark !" The deep note of the dinner gong rang out its opulent song in the hall. "Dinner !" Hendrie remained standing. "You had better go now." Monica reluctantly moved toward the door and opened it. "Very well, dear," she said. "You will tell me all you have done later. Thank God, there is no more need for secrecy between us." The brilliant light of the hall silhouetted her figure as she stood. But for once, though his eyes took in every detail of the picture she made, Alexander Hendrie remained wholly unappreciative. His mind was already far away, moving swiftly over other, long past scenes. He was not even thinking of the innocent TWO LETTERS 259 victim of his jealousy. He was traveling again the long, lean, cruel winter trail. He was once more toiling amid the snows of the bitter north. "You are sure, sure it can be done?" The spell was broken. "Sure," the man replied, with a heavy sigh. The door closed. The darkened room was still and silent. For some moments the man remained standing where he was. Then he slowly moved over the soft rugs to the light switch on the wall, and his hand rested upon it. He hesitated. Then, with an impatient movement, he pressed the brass knob, and the room was flooded with light. He stared out across the sumptuous furnishings, but did not attempt to move. His face was ghastly in the glare of light. His eyes were full of horror and straining. Presently he moved a step toward the desk. It was only one step. He halted. Slowly his look of horror deepened. He raised one great hand and passed the fingers of it through his mane of tawny hair. It was the movement of a man half dazed. Then his lips moved. "Audie !" he murmured, in a hoarse whisper. "Audie !" CHAPTER III TWO LETTERS NUMBER "FORTY-NINE" was standing just inside and clear of the door of his cell. It was dinner time in the Alston Peni- tentiary. On the gallery outside the faint hubbub of the distribution of food just reached him. He was hungry, even for prison fare. "Forty-nine" heard the trolley stop at the door of the next cell. He heard the click of the lock as the door was opened. Then came the sodden sound of something moist emptied into a pannikin, and then the swish of liquid. The door clicked again, and he knew his turn was next. The trolley stopped. His door opened. A man, in the hideous striped costume, like his own, of a fellow-convict, winked up into his face. It was the friendly wink of an evil 260 THE WAY OF THE STRONG eye. The man passed him in a loaf of black bread. Then, with a dexterity almost miraculous, a second loaf shot into "forty-nine's" hands, and was immediately secreted in the rolled hammock, which served for a bed. The whole thing was done almost under the very eyes of a watchful warder. But he remained in ignorance of it. The double ration was a friendly act that was more than appreci- ated, however evil the eye that winked its sympathy. The prisoner's shining pannikin was filled, and a thin stream of cocoa was poured into his large tin cup. Then the trolley and its attendants passed on, and the door automatically closed. "Forty-nine" glanced about him, and, finally, sat on the floor of his cell. He sniffed at the vegetable stew in his pannikin, and tasted it. Yes, he was too hungry to reject the watery slush. He took a loaf, tore it in shreds with his fingers and sopped it in the liquid. Then he devoured it as rapidly as the hard black crust would permit. After that his attention was turned to the cocoa. The same process was adopted here, and, by the time his meal was finished, and the process of cleaning his utensils was begun, his appetite was fully appeased. It was a hideous place, this dreadful cell. It was bare from the ceiling above to the hard floor on which he was sitting. In one corner a hammock was rolled up to a uni- versal pattern adopted throughout the prison. There was a small box in one corner in which cleaning materials were carefully packed, and close by were placed two books from the prison library. For the rest there was nothing but the bare walls, in which, high up, was set a grated aperture to admit light and air. After cleaning up his utensils in orthodox fashion "forty- nine" went to his box and produced a lump of uneatable, half cured bacon fat, left from his breakfast. With this he calmly set to work on a process of massaging his hands. The work of the convict prison was cruel. In a short while hands would become a mere mockery of their original form. To obviate this, the fat bacon process had been adopted, and "forty- nine" had learned it from the fellow-convi'cts, more familiar with the ways and conditions of prison life. "Forty-nine's" self-appointed task was just completed TWO LETTERS 61 when, without warning, the door of his cell suddenly opened, and the burly form of a rubber-shod warder appeared. "Forty-nine ! For the governor. Right away !" There was just a suspicion of softening from the warder's usual manner in the order. "Forty-nine" looked up without interest. His eyes were hollow, his cheeks drawn. A deep, hopeless melancholy seemed to weigh upon his whole expression. A year of one of the hardest penitentiaries in the country, with the pros- pect of years of service yet to complete, left hope far beyond the reach of his crushed spirit. He stood up obediently. His manner was pathetically submissive. His great frame, little more than frame, towered over his guard. The man stood aside from the doorway and the convict passed out. The governor looked up from his desk in the center of a large, simply furnished hall. Behind a wrought iron cage at the far end of the apartment stood number "Forty-nine," with the warder close behind. The governor turned to his secretary and spoke in an undertone. He was a youngish, baldheaded man who had acquired nothing of the hardness of visage to be found in his subordinates. Just now there was something almost like a kindly, sympathetic twinkle in his eyes as he opened out a sheaf of papers, evidently to do with the man just ushered into his presence. The secretary rose from his seat and walked over to the iron cage. Unfastening a heavy lock he flung it open. To the prisoner, full of the bitterness of his lot, it almost seemed as though he were some wild beast being suddenly released from captivity. The secretary signed to the warder to bring his charge into the room. This unusual proceeding left the astonished warder at a loss. And it required a sharp order from the governor himself to move him. "Forty-nine" was conducted to the far side of the desk, and the governor looked him in the face. "I am pleased to be able to inform you er a free par- don has been er extended to you." The announcement was made in formal tones, but the THE WAY OF THE STRONG look in the eyes of the speaker was the only human thing to be found in the notorious Alston Penitentiary. Even the worst criminals who were brought into contact with Gover- nor Charles Raymond had, however grudgingly, to admit his humanity, which only left it the greater mystery that the methods of his prison were all so directly opposed to his nature. "Forty-nine" started. For a moment the settled melan- choly of his cadaverous face lightened. A hand went up to his head as though to ascertain that he was not dreaming. It came into contact with the bristles of his cropped hair, and dropped at once to his side. "I'm to go free, sir?" "That's precisely what I'm telling you." "Forty-nine's" eyes rolled. He looked from the governor to the secretary. "Pardon?" he said. Then a hot light grew in his eyes at an inner sense of injustice in the method of his release. "But I've done nothing wrong, sir." Charles Raymond smiled. But his smile was genuine and expressed none of the usual incredulity. "That is a matter for yourself. I simply receive my orders from the usual authorities. Those orders are that a free pardon has been extended to you. I also have here a letter for you, which, since it is in a lady's handwriting, and you are to be released at once, I have waived the regulations and refrained from opening. You will receive your railroad fare to whatever place in the country you wish to go. Also the usual prison allowance in cash. That will do. The prison chaplain will visit you before you go out." "I don't need to see him, sir. He tires me." The secretary looked up sharply at the fiercely resentful tone of the prisoner's denial. But the governor only smiled. "As you will," he said, and signed again to the warder. "Your letter will be handed to you at the outer gate with the other things." "Forty-nine" was marched off. He re-entered the iron cage and vanished amid the labyrinth of iron galleries beyond. As he passed out of the office the governor turned to his secretary. TWO LETTERS 263 "I've looked up the record of that man's trial. Guess there's some mystery behind it. Poor devil. Only a young- ster, too. I wonder." Then he turned to his papers again. "Well, they got him by the heels, and started him on the road to hell, anyway. Poor devil." The secretary's murmured agreement with his chief's commiseration was non-committal. He had no sympathy. He took his salary and anything else that came his way. To him convicts were not human. It was late in the afternoon when Frank Burton found himself at the outer wicket of the prison. He was clad now in his own clothes; the clothes he had worn on the night of his arrest. His prairie hat was crushed unusually low upon his close-cropped head. As he approached he called out his number for the last time. "Forty-nine!" The guard was ready for him. "Going to Toronto?" he said, pushing a paper and pen toward him. "Twenty-eight dollars and seventy cents. Prison allowance four dollars fifty. Your letter. Sign!" The money was handed to him in separate amounts, and the letter was placed beside them. Frank signed in a trem- bling hand, and took his possessions. Then he moved toward the wicket. "So long!" cried the chief guard. Then he added face- tiously. "Maybe I'll see you again some day." Frank made no answer. He was beyond words. He passed through the wicket, which the guard opened for him, and stood outside in the summer evening light a free man. But he experienced no feeling of elation. A sort of apathy had got hold of him. His liberty now seemed almost a matter of indifference, and it was merely a mechanical movement that took him away from the frowning gray stone ramparts which had held him for a long twelve months. He had no thought of whither his steps were taking him. That, too, seemed to be a matter of no importance. He moved on and on, quite slowly. His letter was still unopened in his pocket, whence it had been thrust along with his money. The trail wound its way down the hill upon which the prison stood. It led on, nearly two miles away, to 264 THE WAY OF THE STRONG the village of Alston, But it might have been Chicago for all Frank cared. He was thinking of the past year, and all the events which led up to his incarceration, with the bitterness of spirit which only such unutterable degradation could inspire. Nor, curiously enough, were his feelings directed against the author, or the methods by which his downfall had been brought about. All that had long since exhausted itself during the interminable hours of wakefulness spent in his stuffy cell. His feelings against the man had worn them- selves out, that is, they had settled down to a cold, unemo- tional hatred. No, it was the thought of life itself which haunted him like an evil shadow, from which he would gladly have escaped. For him life seemed to be ended. Whichever way he looked it was the same. Nothing could help him, nothing could save him from the hideous stigma under which he lay. He was a convict, an ex-convict, and to the hour of his death so he would remain. Wherever he went the pointing finger would follow him. There was no escape. The brutalizing influence under which he had existed for twelve months had got into his very bones. He told himself that he belonged to the underworld, to the same world to which some of those wretched beings be- longed who had only escaped death at the hands of the law on some slight quibble, and with whom he had so recently herded. The daylight could never again be for him. He be- longed to the darkened streets where recognition was less easy, where crime stalked abroad, and flitting shadows of pursuer and pursued hovered the night long. He sank wearily at the roadside. His weariness was of spirit. His body was as hard as nails from the tremendous physical labors of the past year. A morbid craving to re- view his wrongs was upon him, that and an invincible desire to wait for the gathering of the evening shadows. The westering sun was shining full upon him. A great waste of open land stretched away toward a purple line of low hills, fringed with a darker shadow of woods. Not a living soul was about, no one but himself seemed to be upon that trail and he was glad. For long hours he sat brooding, and, with' each passing TWO LETTERS 265 minute, his morbid fancies grew. He felt that from the be- ginning he had been doomed to disaster, and he only won- dered that he had not realized it before. Was he not a bastard? Was he not a nobody? His father? He never had a father, only the wretched creature whose selfish pas- sions had brought him into the world. He saw it all in its true colors now. He could more fully understand it. That was the brand under which he was born, and it was a brand which was part of the criminal side of life. His thoughts drifted on to Phyllis. She had not under- stood when he told her. How could she? She was clean, she was wholesome, she was born in wedlock. She but he turned impatiently from the drift of his thoughts. He could never go back to her. She, like his mother, was a part of that life which was over and done with. He belonged to another world now. The underworld. The underworld. But why why should he live on, part of a world he hated and loathed? Why should he permit the cruel injustice of such a fate? There was a way to defeat this ruthless enemy. Why not adopt it? Why live? He had no desire to do so. He had the means at his disposal. He had money with which to procure a gun. Why go to Toronto at all? Why show his shaven head to the world, an object for that hateful, pointing finger? For a while the idea pleased him. It was such a simple remedy for all his sufferings. He had passed out of Phyllis's life, so why risk the finger of scorn being pointed at her through the fact of his existence. And his mother. His gentle mother. He caught his breath. The finger of scorn would never be a burden to her. She was not like others. Her memory still retained the faintest sheen of light amid his darkness. He knew, even in those dark moments, that his self-inflicted death would utterly destroy her life. No. He was condemned to this under He remembered his unopened letter, and drew it from his pocket. He had not looked at it before. It had never oc- curred to him that he had any connection still with a world beyond the gray stone prison walls. Now he looked at the envelope, and felt the hot blood of shame sweep up to his tired brain as he saw that it bore his 266 THE WAY OF THE STRONG mother's handwriting. He opened it reluctantly enough. Folded carefully inside a number of sheets of closely writ- ten paper was a large sum of money. He took it out and examined it. There were five thousand dollars. Most of it was in bills of large denomination, but on the top, with careful forethought, there were half a dozen which ran from ten dollars down to one dollar bills. He understood, and the careful attention only left him the more pained. With these was a smaller envelope. It was addressed in Phyllis's well-known hand. This, with the money, he be- stowed in an inner pocket and proceeded to read his mother's letter first. But the pathos of it, the breaking heart, which was suffi- ciently apparent in every line of that long story she had to tell, passed him utterly by, and left him unmoved. Just now he had no sympathy for anything or anybody in the world but himself, and it would have needed the heart of a Puritan to have blamed him. Yet his reading was not without in- terest in spite of the hardness of his mood. It was a long, long story that Monica had to tell him, and it was full of that detail, rambling detail, inspired by the knowledge that she no longer had anything to conceal, the knowledge that the truth could be indulged in, in a manner that had been so long denied her. From the very outset she told him the real facts of his birth, and it was with some- thing approaching regret that he learned that she, Monica, was not his mother. Somehow the shame of his birth, as it had reflected upon her, was forgotten. Somehow the stigma seemed to belong to him solely. In her story she carried him through the old, old days of their life together, reminding him of trials and struggles never before fully explained. Tribulations which pointed for him her devotion and loyalty to the dead and the living. Then she passed on to the manner in which he had been trapped by her husband. Here were displayed her passion- torn feelings, which left the man cold. She gave all the de- tails in uncolored nakedness, and while condemning utterly? the cruelty and injustice of her husband, she yet pointed his motives and pleaded for him. Then she passed on to the manner of her own discovery of his whereabouts in prison, her own discovery of her hus- TWO LETTERS 267 band's ruthless handiwork. And again came that note of pleading for the man she loved. She told him how Hendrie, directly he discovered his hideous mistake, moved heaven and earth, and scattered money broadcast, to obtain his release; and how, at last, he had succeeded. Finally she appealed to him with all the ardor of a mother's love to come back to her at once. To come back and receive all the reparation which she and her husband were yearning to make. At the end of the reading Frank refolded the letter and returned it to his pocket. In spite of the identity of its author, in spite of his own natural kindliness of heart, there was not one sign of softening in his now hardened blue eyes. It was different, however, with his second letter. Phyllis had no story to tell, she had no forgiveness to plead for any one. She merely had the fullness of her own simple, loving heart to pour out at his feet. Not once through four pages of closely written paper did she hint at his hardships, his dreadful wrongs. She loved him, she wanted him, as she be- lieved he loved and wanted her; and so she just told him, as only Phyllis, with her wide understanding and simplicity of heart could have told him. As he returned this letter to his pocket there was a marked difference in his manner. There was a lingering ten- derness in his actions, and a dewy moisture about his hollow eyes. The sun had set, and a golden twilight was softening the world to a gentle, almost velvet tone as he rose from the edge of the grass-lined trail. He stood erect. That painful slouch he had acquired during the past year appeared to have left his shoulders. His head was lifted, and he began to walk down the trail at a gait full of decision and purpose. Phyllis's love had heartened him as it always heartened him. Something of his morbid shadows had receded before the brightly burning lamp of her love. He felt a better man, and a spirit of defiance had risen to combat the claims of that underworld which had threatened to swallow him up. At Alston he made his way to a store where he could pro- cure some letter paper and envelopes. Just for one mo- ment he hesitated at the door of the building. He was about to meet a free citizen. One who had never known 268 9 THE WAY OF THE STRONG prison bars. With a thrust he drew his hat well down to his ears, squared his shoulders and went in. His precautions proved needless. The man who served him was used to such visitors, and quite indifferent. He scarcely even looked at him as he fulfilled his order, and took the prison money. Frank hurried away. His self-consciousness was quite painful. But he meant to beat it. His next effort was a restaurant. He was a long time making his selection. Nor did it occur to him to wonder at the number of cheap eating houses this small village sup- ported. Finally, however, he accepted the doubtful hospi- tality of a Chinese establishment where they dispensed a cheap chop-suey. Again his appearance cause no surprise as he gave his order and then sat down at a corner table. Here he drew out his letter paper and laid it on the much- stained table before him, and, in a moment, had forgotten the almond-eyed attendant who was preparing his food. He felt it necessary to answer Monica's letter at once. His purpose was definite and quite clear in his mind. The past, his past, their past was done with. He would face the world alone, and on his own resources. The letter was quite short and was finished before the Chinaman brought him his food. His meal finished and bill settled, he waited until the lynx- eyed Mongolian was engaged elsewhere. Then he placed the letter and the five thousand dollars into an envelope and ad- dressed it to Monica at Winnipeg. It was his intention to mail the packet from Toronto. CHAPTER IV ON THE RAILROAD No man may serve a term of imprisonment in a modem prison and return to freedom on the same moral plane as he left it. A man may fall, but he may rise again, provided he is saved from that lifelong branding which a penal prison leaves upon its victim. Innocent or guilty the modern prison system is an invention which must rob its victim for ever of his confidence, his self-respect, almost of his hope. It is an ON THE RAILROAD 269 institution set up to protect the free citizen, and terrorize the wrong-doer into better ways. And it does neither of these thing's. Instead, it pours upon society, daily, a stream of hopeless, hardened, bitter creatures, who, through its merci- less process, have abandoned what little grip the} 7 ever had upon their moral natures, and drives them along the broad, ill-lit road of crime. Instead of being the deterrent it is supposed to be, it is the worst creator of crime known to civilization. These were some of the reflections forced upon young Frank Burton after twelve months' bitter experience in Alston Penitentiary, And now, with each passing moment of his new freedom, the truth of these painful observations was more and more surely brought home to him. An innocent man, he had come out into the light of freedom, dreading and shrinking before every eye that was turned in his direction. His self-confidence was shaken. All his old trust and belief in the goodness of the life about him seemed to have melted into dark and painful suspicion, and, for the time at least, he was forced into those darkened purlieus which belong to the world of crime. The light was unendurable. He had changed terribly from the buoyant lad he had been. He had seen so much, thought so much during those twelve long months, that now he was weighted down by a maturity that belonged to twice his years. He knew he could never go back to the old life. That he had long since made up his mind up to. More than that, he could not accept benefits from those who belonged to it, whom he had known and loved. Even Phyllis, for all her ardent affection, she, too, belonged to a life that was wholly dead. The future, his future, lay in his own two empty hands. Those whom he loved, and those whom he hated and despised could have no part in it. Were it otherwise he felt that to see Monica would be to bring him into contact with Hendrie, and such contact could only stir in him all the evil influ- ences of the prison, influences from which it was his deter- mination to escape. Phyllis? Little Phyllis? No. She must go, too. The band of the criminal had sunk too deeply into his soul. She must be left free. No 270 THE WAY OF THE STRONG such contamination must be brought into her life. His love for her was far too great for him to submit her to such a dreadful disaster as marriage with an ex-convict. He had thought of all these tilings before, he thought again of them now. They were rarely absent from his mind. The moment he read Monica's letter he knew what he in- tended to do. And it was the same when he hungrily de- voured the words of devotion he received from Phyllis. Dealing with Monica's letter had been simple enough. With Phyllis's it was a far different matter. He wanted her to understand. He knew he must hurt her, but he felt that by presenting all his feelings to her, she, with her wide under- standing, would appreciate and accept his decisions. The whole journey from Alston to Fieldcoats, in the old- fashioned rumbling "stage," was given up to these hopeless meditations of an outcast. And he was glad of it. He was glad that he had the time to think of the letter he must send this girl at once. It was dark when the twinkling lights of Fieldcoats, the nearest town where he would take train for Toronto, came into view, and he was glad of that friendly obscurity. His shrinking from the light was no morbid feeling. With his close-cropped head the story of his recent past was open for every one to read. He did not complete the journey to the final halting place of the stage, but dropped off it in the lower and more ob- scure part of the town. It was here that he meant to begin his new life. A cheap, clean bed was all he desired, just a place where he could rest between sheets, and write his long letter to Phyllis. He wanted something solid on four legs. Something which would not remind him of the hammock he had learned to hate. He found the place he required without difficulty. It vaunted the title, "The Alexandra Hotel," and its beds, in cubicles, were let out at twenty-five cents and ten cents a night. It was a mere "dossing house," but that was quite a matter of indifference. He felt he had no right to squeam- ishness. He booked one of the higher priced cubicles and ascer- tained that it was clean. Then, with a sigh of resignation, and some squaring of the shoulders, he prepared to face the ON THE RAILROAD 271 curious eyes of the derelicts who haunted the "office" of the establishment. To face even these, with his close-cropped head, Frank found no light task, but he knew that for weeks yet he must keep himself hardened to the consciousness of his prison brand. The only thing possible was a desperately bold front, a front that would intimidate, the curious, and, if necessary, he must follow it up with all it threatened. So he entered the room and calmly looked about him. He was big, spare, and enormously powerful. His hard blue eyes deliberately sought for any eye that might be turned in his direction. His trouble was wasted. He forgot that these poor creatures, lounging upon the hard Windsor chairs, reading papers, or staring hopelessly before them while they smoked, were derelicts like himself. Nobody gave him the slightest heed, and he was left to seek out his obscure corner where he could write in peace. Once assured of his immunity, Frank began his letter, and promptly became completely lost to his surroundings. The long-pent thoughts of the past year flowed passionately as he attempted to show the girl he loved all that which lay deep down in his simple heart. It was not, perhaps, the convincing letter of a deep thinker. It was not a letter full of the refinement of logical argument. He wrote just as he thought, and felt, and saw, with a mind tinged by the dark hues of his own sufferings and the sufferings of others. He told her, simple creature that he was, of all his love for her. He told her of the aching heart which this definite p-arting left him with, and, in the same breath almost, he told her that he regarded it as his sacred duty to shield her from contamination with a disgrace such as his. He forgot that where a real woman's love is concerned, duty, and per- haps any other scruple is willingly flung aside. His simplicity carried him into deeper water, for he wrote long and ardently of his own future, a future conceived, and to be founded upon all he had seen and experienced in prison. Again he forgot the wide mind of the girl he was writing to, and blindly believed that the sincerity and honesty of his motives must appeal to her. It was altogether a headlong sort of letter. He wrote as THE WAY OF THE STRONG he thought and felt, and scarcely paused for a word or phrase. The gist of it was a yearning for a sort of sublime socialism. He could not longer bear the thought of self- seeking. He had seen so much of the disastrous results of it that he felt and knew that the whole process of it was utterly wrong. The prisons were filled with its results. Those things, he said, had started his train of thought, and, with each passing day, his eyes had become more fully opened. All the old ambitions, he told her, had been rooted out of him for ever. They were the natural impulses of a heart and mind all untutored, and far too immature for the real un- derstanding of life. He had desired wealth and place in the world, and it had seemed good to him to so desire. Nor was it to be wondered at. Such desires had been inspired by honest motives, if, perhaps, selfish. They were just the first teachings of life until it presented the reverse side of the picture. He had been shown the reverse of the picture, and it had come in time. For twelve months he had gazed upon it and learned its lessons. For twelve months he had groped amid the cobwebs of life and sought among the darkened corners. That which he had discovered there had plainly shown him that, for him, past and future ambitions were divided by a gulf that could never be bridged again. In future his life would be cast on the side of the helpless and struggling, on the side of the oppressed, and those who were less endowed for the battle of life. The battle of life? There should be no battle. There never was a battle intended. Why should there be? Was there not more than enough to go round? It was only be- cause the laws of man permitted accumulations to the indi- vidual and so reduced more than half the world to a position bordering on starvation, a condition which lay at the very root of all crime. The old belief in the survival of the fittest was a dead one. It applied to simple physical conditions, not to the right to enjoy a fair share of those blessings a beneficent Creator had provided for the benefit of all. Think of it, he appealed, think of the king of beasts cornering all the food upon which his species depended to support life. Picture one proud brute standing over a hoard of rotting ON THE RAILROAD flesh, flourishing his tail and snarling defiance at a crowd of starving creatures of his own kind. Would they permit it? Would they leave him in possession? No, they would set upon him in their numbers, and, in desperation, they would tear him limb from limb. Brotherhood and Equality ! That was to be the keynote of his future. Henceforth all his power, all his heart should be flung into the only cause that could make the world endurable. So he wrote to this girl of more than common wisdom, and he told himself she would understand. He told himself that though their lives could never come together again, at least he would possess her sympathy. It was long past midnight when Frank's letter was folded in its cheap envelope and addressed. But its writing had done him good. It had been inspired by a big heart, if little wisdom, and he felt that he had taken his first step upon the new road opening out before him. There were still stragglers in the office when he finally re- tired to his cubicle. Some were sleepily drunk, after an even- ing spent in "cadging" drinks among the low-class saloons in the neighborhood. Some were merely utterly weary with a long day of vain searching for some means of livelihood. All were unkempt and tattered, and most of them dirty. These were some of the poor creatures belonging to the ranks of those, who, in his lofty ideals of the work that lay before him, Frank hoped to range himself on the side of. In his youthful blindness he failed utterly to recognize the workings of the definite laws of compensation. He missed entirely the most glaring fact of life. It passed him by that the majority of these were able-bodied men who had wilfully thrown away the chances which life never fails to offer, for the indulgence of those selfish passions which in his heart he abhorred. That night he slept the fitful sleep of a man unusued to his surroundings, but he was sufficiently refreshed when the hour appointed for arising in such places arrived. He turned out quite ready to face all that the day might bring forth. He knew that he must endure many trials of patience and feelings. But he intended to face them with a brave heart. Ten cents was all he allowed himself for his breakfast. 19 274 THE WAY OF THE STRONG He required only sufficient to sustain life, nor did he obtain more for the money. Then he made his way to the railroad depot, forcing himself to a blindness for the attention his appearance attracted. Here he made inquiries as to the train, and booked his passage. The train for Toronto left just before noon, so he purchased a newspaper and sat down in the waiting-hall. He intended to pass the time scanning the advertisements, that he might learn the best means of obtaining employment when he arrived at his destination. The train was "on time," and, in due course, Frank boarded it. The car he selected was fairly empty. At the far end of it a party of people, evidently a family party, oc- cupied several seats. For the rest five or six men and two women were scattered about its length. He took his place in the rear seat of the coach, feeling that it was preferable to have no inquisitive eyes behind him. Those who displayed marked attention from in front he felt confident of being able to deal with. But he reckoned with- out his host. The first part of his journey was quite uneventful. But at the first important town at which the train stopped sev- eral passengers boarded the car. Among them was a man with closely trimmed iron gray hair, and quick, searching eyes that closely scanned the faces of each person in the car. His stare was not wholly rude. It was the searching glance of a man who is accustomed to studying his fellows, who never fails to do so at any opportunity. He took a corner seat just across the aisle of the car, and on the level immediately in front of Frank. He sat turned so that the whole view of the car came within his focus. Nor was it a matter of more than moments before Frank's cropped head came under his observation. Frank felt that this was so, although he was studiously intent upon his paper, and, as the fixed contemplation re- mained, he chafed under it. For some time he endured it, hoping that, the man's curiosity satisfied, he would turn away. But nothing of the sort happened. The stranger's interest became riveted. Frank felt himself grow hot with resentment. He deter- mined to put an end to it by the simple process of staring the man out of countenance. To this end he looked up ON THE RAILROAD 275 sharply, and with anything but a friendly expression in his cold eyes. As their eyes met there was something like a de- liberate challenge in the exchange. The man made no at- tempt to withdraw his gaze, and Frank found himself looking into a clean-shaven, keen, determined face, lit by a pair of hard, satirical eyes. Promptly the position became more than intolerable, and Frank was driven to a very natural verbal protest. He sprang from his seat and crossed the aisle. Leaning across the back of the stranger's seat he voiced his annoyance de- liberately and coldly. "It seems to me you'll probably know me when you see me again," he said, with angry sarcasm. The stranger smiled amiably. "Just depends when I meet you," he retorted, with a meaning glance at the close-cropped hair displayed under the brim of Frank's hat. A sudden anger lit the boy's eyes at the taunt, and a vio- lent protest leaped to his lips. But the stranger anticipated him. "Say," he drawled, "sit right down here. I wasn't meaning offence. What got me looking was you're so like an old friend of mine. You brought the other on yourself. Won't you sit right down?" The stranger's manner was so disarmingly cordial that Frank's heat began to die down. Still, he had no intention of accepting the invitation. "Maybe you didn't intend rudeness, but that isn't the point," he said deliberately. "I'm not the man to stand rude- ness from anybody." "Sure," said the other calmly. "Guess that's how we all feel. Say, it's the queerest thing. Guess you're 'bout twenty or so. Just about his age. You're the dead image of my friend, when he was your age. You got blue eyes and his were gray. It's the only spark of difference. Going up Toronto way?" Frank nodded. He somehow felt he could do no less, with- out returning in cold silence to his seat. Somehow he felt that to do so would be churlish, in spite of the fact that he was the aggrieved. The keen-eyed stranger recognized his advantage in ob- 276 THE WAY OF THE STRONG taining the admission, and promptly followed it up. He in- dicated the seat beside him and persisted in his invitation. "Best sit," he said, with a pleasant smile. "It's quite a long piece to Toronto. I'd a heap like to yarn with you." The stranger was altogether too much for the simplicity of the other. Besides, there was nothing but amiability in his manner. Perhaps after all he had been hasty, Frank thought. He was so sensitive about the brand of the prison he carried about with him. The shame of it was always with him. Anyway, it could not hurt talking to this man, and it would help pass the time. 'He allowed himself to be per- suaded, and half reluctantly dropped into the seat. "Say, that's friendly," commented the stranger, with a sharp, sidelong glance at Frank's strong profile. "There's just one thing I got set against this country. It's a hell of a ways between cities. Maybe you don't get that across in England." "I've never been in England," Frank admitted. "Ah. Maybe States?" Frank nodded. And the man laughed. "The land of Freedom, Graft and Finance." "Yes, it's an odd mixture," agreed Frank. "It's also a land of slavery. A queer contradiction, but nevertheless true. Three parts of the people are held in bondage to the other fourth, who represent Capital." The stranger stirred and settled himself. He gazed keenly into his companion's face. "Guess you were one of the 'three parts,* and found the fourth oppressive." Frank shifted his position uneasily. Then with a sudden curious abandonment he spread his hands out. "Say," he cried, his cheeks flushing, "I don't know what makes me talk to you a stranger. You're the first man who has wanted to speak to me since I came out. I know you've spotted my cropped head, so what's the use of trying to deny it. Yes, I've found it, I suppose. But not in the States. Just right here in Canada, where things are much the same. I've just come out of Alston Penitentiary. I was sentenced wrongfully to five years, and now, at the end of one of them they've found out my innocence, and given me a free pardon for not being guilty." ON THE RAILROAD 277 "A free pardon?" The stranger's eyes were reading his companion through and through. "Yes, a free pardon for an offence I never com- mitted," Frank went on, with bitter indignation. "It doesn't matter how or where it happened. But the whole thing was worked. I mean my trial, by a man of well, one of the millionaire class one of the other 'fourth.' Perhaps you'll understand now why I hated you staring at me." The stranger nodded sympathetically. "Guess I'm real sorry," he said. Frank shook his head. 4 "It doesn't matter now. It's done me good to tell somebody. See." He drew out his prison discharge and showed it to his companion, who read it over carefully. "You don't need to take my word. That'll tell you all you need to know." The other looked up. "Frank Smith?" he said. "Frank Burton's my name. I used the other so as to keep it from folks I didn't want to know about it." "I see." The stranger was studying the clean cut of the ingenuous face beside him. "And now they'll know I s'pose ?" "They've found out for themselves." The youngster's blue eyes were shadowed in gloom. "Ah!" The other glanced out of the window a moment. "And what are you going to do? Go back to 'em?" The gloomy blue eyes were turned away. Frank was staring introspectively down the aisle of the car. "No," he said at last. "I'm not going back to them." Then he sat up and looked at his companion earnestly. "To go back would mean to become one of the other 'fourth.' The ranks of the submerged three-quarters is my future. I've learned a lot in the last twelve months. Say, have you ever been inside a prison. The stranger's sharp eyes lit with a brief smile. It was not a really pleasant face with its narrow eyes ; nor was it a pleasant smile. He shook his head. "I've seen 'em from the outside. I'm not yearning to get a peek inside." 278 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Frank looked disappointed. "It's a pity," he said. "You see, you won't understand just how I see things. Do you know, the prisons are just full to overflowing with folks who'd be free to-day if it weren't for the existence of that other 'fourth' ? Oh, I don't mean they've been deliberately put away by the wealthy folk. I'm just learning that one of the greatest causes of all crime, is that, under present conditions, there isn't enough to go round." The stranger's smile had become more encouraging. "And the cure for it is Socialism, eh? Frank started. Then he nodded. "I suppose that's what folks would call it. I call it Brotherhood and Equality." "Go a step further," said the other. "It's that 'fourth,' we are talking about, who get rich and live on the efforts of the worker whom they sweat and crush into the very ground over which their automobiles roll. Put it in plain words, man. It is the worker, the poor wretch that just manages to scrape existence by grinding toil, who feeds the rich and makes possible the degrading luxury of their lives. And when the first hope of youth gets swamped by the grind of their labors, and they see their equally wretched wives and hungry children going without the barest necessities of life, and before them lies nothing but the dreary road of incessant toil, with no earthly chance of bettering themselves, then they grow desperate, and help to fill those hells of despair we call penitentiaries. That's what you've realized in prison." Frank stared at the man. The force of his manner was such as to carry absolute conviction of his personal feelings upon this matter, feelings which also lay so deep in the heart of the ex-convict. He wondered at the strange chance which had brought him into contact with a man who shared these new feelings and beliefs of his. Could it be ? "You believe that way, too?" he asked eagerly. At that moment a waiter from the dining-car entered the coach. "First call for dinner ! First call for dinner !" He passed down the car issuing his invitation in high, nasal tones. The stranger fumbled in his waistcoat pockets, and, as the A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE 279 waiter passed, he produced his card, and held it out toward his companion. "Say," he observed, lapsing once more into his more genial manner. "Guess you'll be yearning for a billet when you get along to Toronto. Just keep that by you, and when you're needing one, come and look me up. We're always needing recruits for our work. I'll take it kindly if you'll eat with me right now." Frank took the card and read the name on it MR. AUSTIN LEYBURN, 2012 MORDATTNT AvENTTE, TORONTO, OKT. President of the Agricultural Helpers' Society of Canada. Gen. Sec. Bonded Railroaders. Asst.-Gen. Sec. Associated Freighters' Combine. CHAPTER V A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE WITH her determined little chin thrust into the palm of her hand, and her elbow propped upon the window ledge of the railroad car, Phyllis made a delightful picture of country simplicity. She was dressed in a plain gown of some soft, dark blue material, and flung back from her shoulders was a heavy, plaid-lined cape, a garment she had borrowed for the journey. On the seat in front of her was a well-worn suit case of cheap compressed cane. It had evidently seen much service, though such service could hardly have been given in the city world toward which she was speeding. Reposing on top of this was her black felt hat. Here, again, her western farm upbringing was evidenced. It was a mixture, con- trived out of a man's prairie hat into something of that mod- ern product affected by young girls, beneath which its wearer reveals little but nose and chin. It was Phyllis's "best," and she rather liked it. But she was quite unconscious of the country brand she bore. She was at all times unconscious of herself, in spite 280 THE WAY OF THE STRONG of her youth. Yet she attracted a good deal of notice among her fellow-passengers. A commercial drummer had vainly striven for hours to attract her attention, his florid face set ready at a moment's notice to wreath itself into an engaging smile, should she chance to glance in his direction. Then, too, a youth, in the company of an elderly female relative, had gone through a severe process of neck wringing, several seats in front of her, in the vain hope that her in- terest in the absurd fields of wheat through which they were passing might abate in his favor. Besides these it was a curious fact that this particular car demanded so much attention from the train crew. One official bore down on her, and, with unusual courtesy, asked her if he should open a window near her to cool the air. Having achieved his purpose of receiving smiling thanks, he added a few remarks, passed on, and another came along and threatened pleasantly to close it, as he was sure she was in a draught. A third brought her a pillow and refused to take money for it, the significance of which left her wholly unconscious. But the guard. Well, the guard seemed to have nothing in the world to do but examine her ticket. The railroad officials certainly did their very best for her. Through it all, the girl's whole interest seemed to lay in the wonderful cloth of gold spread over the world through which they were passing. That and its trimmings in the shape of farm houses, small settlements, townships just starting, ver- dant bluffs and gleaming rivers, all of which glided swiftly by, a delightful panorama before her wondering eyes, as the transcontinental mail swept across the prairie lands upon its east-bound journey. It was all fresh to her, but none of it was new. She had been brought up in a corner of this very wheat world, so she knew it all. Sometimes it was grander and looked more prosperous, sometimes it was smaller and poorer. But the method of it was always the same. Still, she was traveling abroad for the first time in her young life, and she wanted to see everything there was to see. Thus, she had traveled for more than two whole days, nor had she yet exhausted the resources of Canada's great A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE granary. Indian Head, Moose jaw, Regina, Moosemin, Brandon, all these places, miles and miles apart, had van- ished into the dim distance behind her, but still the cloth of golden wheat remained, as she knew it would remain until Winnipeg was reached. Funds had not permitted her the luxury of a "sleeper," so she had faced the discomforts of long days and longer nights in the ordinary day car. But with her heart set upon a definite purpose such things were no real hardships to Phyllis. Just now her one desire in life was to reach Winni- peg, so nothing else mattered. It was nearly noon when the conductor of the train entered the car for perhaps the tenth time that morning. Phyllis saw him moving down the aisle, and, from force of habit, got her ticket ready. But the amiable man spared her this time. He hurried along toward her, and, with the sigh of an overworked man, dropped into the seat beside her suit case. "Guess you'll soon be in Winnipeg, now,'* he observed, having learned her anxiety to reach her destination some twenty or thirty visits to her before. Phyllis smiled, and her whole face lit up. The conductor grinned his pleasure at the sight. "I'm so glad," the girl sighed. "Still, I've had a real pleasant journey," she added quickly. "You folks have been very kind to me." The man's delight was written all over his face. "Why, that's good of you. But 'tain't just nothin'. Gals travelin' on their lonesome, it ain't all pie for 'em. We just like to do our best when they ain't on the grouch." Phyllis had abandoned her study of the view. "I haven't been a grouch, have I ?" she demanded. "Never in your life. Say you couldn't grouch. 'Tain't your nature." Phyllis became aware of the "drummer." His grin was in full blast. But she quickly ignored him. "I s'pose you know Winnipeg well?" she hazarded to her companion, with some eagerness. "Live there," the man replied, comprehensively. "Ah, I'm glad. Maybe you know Grand Avenue?" The man's eyes opened wide. THE WAY OF THE STRONG "Sure I know Grand Avenoo. That's where the big fellers live. All small houses. Sort o' Fifth Avenoo, Noo York." Then he grinned. "Say, you ain't figurin' on a hotel in Grand Avenoo?" Phyllis flushed. "Oh, no," she disclaimed hurriedly. "I just want to get there to to see a lady who lives there." The conductor nodded his understanding. "Sure," he said. "Service. Domestic." Phyllis's flush deepened. "Oh, no," she cried. "I'm I'm just on a visit." The conductor realized his mistake, and tried to glide over the fence. "If you were to tell me the part of Grand Avenoo you're needing, maybe I could give you the right surface car to take." "That would be very kind," Phyllis said earnestly. Then her dark brows drew together perplexedly. "It's rather difficult," she went on. "You see, I don't really know just whereabouts Mrs. Hendrie lives." "Mrs. Hendrie, d'you say, miss? Mrs. Alexander Hendrie?" "Yes, yes. That's the lady," Phyllis cried eagerly. "Do you know where her house is?" "Gee!" "What did you say? I didn't " "Beg pardon, miss I I just said 'Gee!'" The man rose from his seat rather hurriedly. "You see, I didn't just figure you were goin' to Mrs. Alexander Hendrie. You see, Mr. Hendrie is just about the biggest man in the coun- try, and well " Phyllis laughed. "And it seemed queer me going to see them. Of course it does," she went on, to help the man's confusion. "But if you'll tell me best how to find Grand Avenue, why, you'll be doing me a real kindness, just one more." The girl's tact had prompt effect. "I'll sure be most pleased, miss," the conductor said, with some emphasis on the last word. "You just go right out of the booking hall at the depot, and get on to the first Main Street car you see. It'll take you along up to Grand. Just A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE give word to the ticket man, an' he'll see you get off right. We'll be in in less than two hours. We're plumb on time." He moved away quickly, and Phyllis vaguely understood that his going had something to do with the fact that she was going to see the wife of one of the biggest men in the country. But she quite missed the necessity for the rail- roader's exchange of attitude. Grand Avenue was bathed in sunlight when Phyllis stepped off the car and looked about her. Automobiles and pair- horse carriages sped upon their dazzling ways down the great wide road with a speed and frequency that, for some moments, left the country girl almost dazed. Her unac- customed eyes were wide and wondering, and she clung to her cane suit case as though for support against the over- whelming tide of traffic. After a while, either the stream slackened, or her nerves became more accustomed, for she made a dash for the side- walk, and reached safety once more. Then further dismay attacked her. She gazed along at the great detached man- sions, which lined the avenue, and the sight gave her under- standing of the train conductor's suggestion that she was about to enter domestic service. It was in one of these splendid palaces, she thought, that Mrs. Hendrie lived, and probably one of the biggest. For a moment she looked down at her suit case as though she hated it. Her weakness, however, was quickly passed. She remem- bered the object of her visit, and clenched her small white teeth. All she cared for in the world was at stake in this desperate visit, and nothing should daunt her. A large policeman was passing. Noting the girl's evident hesitation he slackened his pace. He was a genially rubi- cund specimen of the force, and inspired confidence. Phyllis promptly set her suit case down, drew a letter from her pocket-book and went up to him. "Will you tell me in which direction that number is, sir?" she inquired, awed by the man's authority as she held up the address for his inspection. The officer's bulging eyes surveyed her from head to foot. That "sir" had tickled his vanity, and he approved of her. "One thousand and one?" he said. "Why, that's Alex- 884 THE WAY OF THE STRONG ander Hcndrie's house. Right here behind you er miss. That's Mr. Hendrie's house." Phyllis thanked him warmly. Then she went back to her suit case, picked it up, and made for the house with a rapidly beating heart. It was almost as if everything had been made especially easy for her, and, in spite of her grow- ing nervousness, she was very thankful. The house was well back from the road. It was ap- proached by a short, unenclosed carriage sweep, lined on each side by smooth turf, dotted with shrubs and young trees. The air of wealth was conveyed in the splendidly kept condition of everything rather than any ostentatious display. The house itself was a modern production of decorative architecture, built of massive, beautifully cut gray stone. The entrance door was beneath a glass and wrought-iron shelter, which stretched out across the drive and was supported on massive wrought-iron columns of exquisite design. It was not without many heart quakings that Phyllis ascended the white marble steps and pressed the great but- ton of the electric bell. Nor were these lessened when the door was opened with magical abruptness, and she found herself gazing up at the liveried footman in wonder and dismay. The man's cold survey of her was disheartening. Plainly as looks could speak, he regarded her visit as an impertinent intrusion, while he waited for her to speak. It was a critical moment, and Phyllis knew it. The sit- uation demanded all her courage. Assuming a decision which quite belied her real feelings, she endeavored to over- awe the man, quite forgetful of the strange hat and stranger costume she was arrayed in; to say nothing of the deplor- able suit case. "I want to see Mrs. Hendrie," she demanded shortly. The man's reply was slow in coming. He devoured her with eyes which plainly conveyed a definite and contemp- tuous refusal. "Can't be done," he said at last, and prepared to close the door. But Phyllis had not traveled all these hundreds of miles to be defeated by a mere footman. A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE 285 "Oh, yes, it can," she declared tartly. "And you'll do best if you remember that you're speaking to a lady. Mrs. Hendrie is expecting me. Please to tell her Miss Phyllis Raysun is here from Gleber." The absurd dignity of this quaint figure was not without its effect. The man's manner underwent a slight change, but he still remained barring the way. At his sign a boy in uniform stepped forward from some dark corner where he had been lurking unseen by Phyllis. He stood ready with a silver tray in his hand. "Inquire if Mrs. Hendrie is at home," said the footman loftily. "If she is, will she receive Miss er Phyllis Ray- sun?" The boy remained with his tray held out. Phyllis was at a loss. Then she nodded. "Yes. That's right," she said, failing to understand the silent demand for a card. With a smile, which somehow added further to the girl's angry feelings, the youth hurried away. But the man still kept her waiting on the step. Without knowing what she ought to have expected, Phyllis felt that she was being treated shamefully. She knew that these liveried underlings were treating her as if she were some undesirable tramp. It was quite infuriating. But with so much at stake she felt it safest not to display too much resentment, so she choked back her indignation and accepted the affront. Then quite suddenly a wonderful change came upon the scene. A change that was evidently utterly unexpected by the churlish man-servant. There was a sound of rustling skirts hurrying downstairs. Then some one brushed the man aside and seized Phyllis's two ungloved hands, one of which still held the deplorable suit case. "My dear, my dear, however did you get here?" It was Monica. Then she turned angrily upon the dis- comforted footman as she drew the girl into the house. "How dare you keep this lady standing out on the door- step? How dare you? It's an outrage. It is an outrage I won't permit in my house. I never heard of such a thing." 286 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Then she turned upon the scared-faced boy, waiting just behind her. "Tell the housekeeper I wish to see her in the library in an hour's time." Then, in a moment, she was back again to Phyllis. "Come along, dear. Come up to my room, and get your things off. Henson will see to your grip," But Phyllis clung to the suit case, which she was growing to hate more and more every moment. She was sure now that it had had something to do with the rude treatment she had been subjected to. "But I I can carry it, M Mrs, Hendrie," she cried, the inevitable "mam" nearly slipping out in spite of her best efforts. Monica laughed. She remembered how she, herself, had felt once upon a time facing an army of servants. "Very well, dear," she said gently, "but come along." She took the bewildered girl by the arm, and hurried her through the great entrance hall. Then up the wide stair- case, and, having left the sharp-eared servants well behind, opened out a battery of eager questions. "How ever did you get here all by yourself from that little far-away farm of yours?" she demanded. "How how dared you attempt such a thing, my dear?" she went on, with genuine concern. "You shouldn't have done it. You really shouldn't, without letting me know, so that I could have arranged for your comfort." They had reached the first floor, and Monica's arm was about the girl's supple waist. "I never heard of such a thing," she hurried on, pushing open the door of her boudoir. "Weren't you frightened to death? How how ever did you manage to find this house you, who've never been away from your prairie home in your life?" "I I had to come, mam," Phyllis cried. "I I hope you're not angry, but I just had to come. I got a letter from from Frank, and he told me he was never coming back to me, and was going to to enlist or something, in the army of workers and give his life to bettering their lot, and and a lot of other silly non- sense like that. And and I just had to come and A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE 287 see you since I knew that that you loved him, too." There were tears crowding the girl's beautiful, appealing eyes as she looked up into Monica's face. Monica stooped and kissed her quite suddenly. Then she unfastened and removed the unsightly cape and took the offending suit case from her. She laid them aside, and then strove to reassure this child, who, though she had only seen her once before in her life, and only knew her through writ- ing to her, somehow seemed to have become a part of her life. "I'm so glad you came to me, Phyl," she cried. "There's so much to say so much for us both to think of. Oh, my dear, my dear, my heart is broken. I don't know what to think, or what to do. My poor, poor boy." An hour passed. The housekeeper waited to see Mrs. Hendrie in the library, but she did not come. Two hours passed. Monica and Phyllis still remained together in the former's room. As Monica had said, there was much for both to think of. Again she poured out the dreadful story of Frank's disaster. She was thankful, too, for the girl's sympathetic ears. It eased her own feelings, and helped her to think more clearly, which she had not been able to do since receiving Frank's curt note refusing her money. But at last there was nothing more left to tell, and Monica broke down, weeping over the havoc she felt that she alone had wrought. "Oh, Phyl, Phyl," she cried desperately. "It is all my doing; all through my wretched selfishness. You even you can't blame my husband. The fault was mine alone." Phyllis's dark eyes were hard as she flung in her denial. "But I do blame him," she cried. "Even if Frank had been guilty it was a wicked, cruel thing to do. I can't help it if it hurts you, Mrs. Hendrie. I do certainly blame your husband." Monica shook her head. "He was in a fury of jealousy, and no man is quite sane under such circumstances." Phyllis's challenge had given Monica the firmness of decision, which, in her grief, she had utterly lacked. "I am to blame. I can see it all now. Had 288 THE WAY OF THE STRONG I never lied to Frank in my ridiculous sense of duty to my dead sister, and my selfish desire to marry my husband; had I never told the boy that I was his mother this would never have happened. In his great goodness and chivalry, the poor boy sacrificed himself for what he believed was my honor. It is too terrible. Just God, what a punish- ment for my lies. Never, never, never, as long as I live, can I forgive myself. And now? Oh, what can I do? Whatever can we do?" Monica's tears flowed fast, and in sympathy for the suf- fering woman Phyllis wept, too. Her anger, her resent- ment against those who had injured her love were powerless to resist the appeal of this woman's grief. However she loved Frank, she remembered that Monica loved him, too. All his life she had struggled and slaved for him. But she was there for a greater purpose than to help another woman in her suffering. She was there to help the man she loved. More than that, she was there to win him back to herself, to that happiness she believed she alone could give him. She knew him so well. She felt in her simple way that he needed her, in spite of his long, long letter giving her back her promise, and full of his unalterr able resolve to put his past and all that belonged to it, be- hind him forever. She intended to pit herself against his desperate purpose. She was determined to restore the old Frank she knew, the old Frank she loved better than her life. "What can you do?" she cried, a glowing light of strength and love shining in her beautiful, half-tearful eyes. "What can we do? Why, everything. But we're not going to do it by writing letters, mam. You love him? You? And you can just sit at home right here, and hand him words written on paper, and push money into the envelope, money which means nothing to either of you, when he comes out of the prison you helped to send him to? Oh, mam, mam, how could you? Your place was at the gates of Alston prison as it was mine, if I had known, like you did. It was for us to have been along there, ready to reach out, and and help him. What can we do? What can I do? I'll tell you. Oh, I know it's not for me to tell you things. Maybe I'm young and foolish. Maybe I don't know much. IN TORONTO 289 * I'm just not going to write my Frank in answer to his his nonsensical stuff. But I won't take back my promise to be his wife.. I'm I'm going to marry him because I know he wants me, and* I want him. Oh, no, I'm not going to marry a man who gets worrying to make strikes and things, and calls it helping labor. I'm not going to marry a man who's always making trouble in the world, who leaves kiddies starving for what he calls a 'principle,' and most folks generally miserable. But I'm going to marry my Frank, and I'm going right on to Toronto to find him if I have to walk there." The girl finished up breathlessly. All her love and cour- age were shining in her eyes. Monica had been held spell- bound by the force and determination underlying every un- considered word Phyllis uttered, and now she sprang from her seat, caught in the rush of the other's enthu&iasm. "Oh Fhyl, Phyl," she cried, catching the girl by the shoulders, and looking down into her ardent face. "You brave, brave child. I never thought. I could never have thought, fool that I am. Yes, yes, we will go to him. Not you alone. I will go, too. You are the bravest, wisest child in the world, and I love you for it." CHAPTER VI IN TORONTO THE street cars hummed in the still summer air. The sun awnings were stretched out from the endless array of stores, across the super-heated sidewalk. A busy life per- spired beneath them. Toronto's central shopping areas were always crowded about midday, not with the smart woman shopper, but with the lunching population of the commercial houses. It was more than a month since Frank's memorable jour- ney from the hopeless precincts of Alston to one of Canada's gayest cities ; a month during which he had found his days far easier than he expected, if more full of the responsibili- ties of life. From the moment of his meeting with Austin 20 890 THE WAY OF THE STRONG Leyburn he had permitted himself a looking forward, if not with anything approaching youthful hope and confidence, at least to a life full of that work which his understanding suggested to him might serve to deaden bitter memories, and help him to face a useful future. His new aspirations, his new convictions, sprang from a simple, impulsive heart rather than from any deep study of Socialistic doctrine. He had no logic on the matters of his beliefs, he needed none. It was sufficient that he had seen, had felt, and he hugged to himself the thoughts thus in- spired^ For the moment the man Leyburn, with his narrow eyes, his purposeful face, was something little less than a god to young Frank. Here was a champion of those very people whom he believed needed all the help forthcoming. Here was a man who, from sheer belief in his own principles, had devoted himself, nay, perhaps, sacrificed himself, to those very ideals which he, Frank, had only just awakened to. His official positions in the organized societies of labor surely testified to the sincerity of his purpose. Thus it was certainly the work of Providence that he, Frank, had been thrown into such contact at the moment of his need. On that eventful train journey, Leyburn had promised to enroll him among the workers for the good of the submerged ranks of labor. Moreover he had proved as good as his word. He had done more. For some unexplained reason he took Frank into his own personal office, keeping him un- der his direct supervision, associating with him, and treat- ing him to a confidence that was by no means usual in one of the most powerful heads of the labor movement in Canada. It was a strange association, these two. On the one hand a man of great organizing powers, of keen, practical understanding of Socialistic principles; and, on the other, a youth of lofty ideals which had little enough to do with the bitter class hatred belonging to the sordid modern prod- uct of Socialism. Yet the older man's interest was very evident, and was displayed in many different ways. He frequently lunched with his protege, and never failed to take him to any demonstration of labor at which it was his duty to speak. IN TORONTO 291 Frank responded readily to this kindly treatment. Nor did it ever occur to him to wonder at it. So it came about, that, bit by bit, this kindly man with the narrow eyes and hard smile, drew from him the complete story of his life's disaster. It was on the occasion when the last detail of the story was passionately poured into his apparently sympathetic ears that Austin Leyburn treated his protege to something of his platform oratory. "Out of evil comes good sometimes," he said, with a twisted, satirical smile. "You certainly have been the vic- tim of the class against which all our efforts are directed. Think of it," he went on, thrusting his elbows upon the luncheon table which stood between them they were in the fly-ridden precincts of the cheap restaurant which Leyburn always affected and raising his voice to a denunciatory pitch. "Think of it. Every man with power to think, with power to work, who comes within the web of this wealthy man you speak of whoever he is is open to the possibilities for evil of his accumulations of wealth. That man, a millionaire, openly confesses to being able to buy the law sufficiently to legally crush the moral, almost the physical life out of those who offend him." Then he smiled whimsically. "Can you wonder at the class hatred existing, and of which I know you do not wholly approve?" Then he shrugged, as though to dismiss the matter. "As I said, good out of evil sometimes. But for that experience you would undoubtedly have joined the ranks of the oppressors and assimilated their creed." "Yes, yes," cried Frank eagerly. "I see all that. I see the iniquity of it all that such tyranny should be possible. I agree entirely. It is against the very principles of all creation that any one man should possess such power. No man, woman, or child is safe with such possibilities in our midst. But this class hatred. The opposition of labor is not directed sufficiently against the principle. It is directed against the individual, and so becomes class hatred." "Remember you are dealing with human nature," Ley- burn objected. "When such forces as we control are put into active protest against a principle, the principle must become merged in the individual who represents it. It is the 292 THE WAY OF THE STRONG tangible evidence which an ignorant mass of labor needs of the existence of offense against the principle which causes the bitterness of its lot." "My objection is against that fact," Frank persisted, in the blindness of enthusiasm. "Class hatred! It is dread- ful. Christ never preached class hatred; and no man who ever walked this earth had a greater understanding of real life than He. Listen, I read in one of your books, written by a man reputed to be a great thinker, that if the work- ing men and women of the world were wiped out, capital and its class would become useless, paralyzed. He also said that if, on the other hand, those who represent capital were wiped out, if all but the working men and women were ex- terminated, the world would still go on undisturbed, because of the worker left behind." Leyburn nodded. "That is one of the strongest bases of the labor move- ment. Why should the man or woman who lives by the sweat of others enjoy the luxury which is denied to the people who make that luxury possible? Is the argument not per- fectly, humanly just?" Frank leaned back in his hard chair. This man was damping some of his enthusiasm by the argument which seemed to him as purely selfish as were the existing con- ditions of the methods of capital. "Then the husbandman in the vineyard was all wrong?" he demanded. "On the contrary, he was quite right if he could get no more than the penny he engaged for," replied Leyburn cynically. Frank returned again to the attack. "Now you are preaching for the worker the very methods of present-day capital. You are telling him to grab." "So long as capital grabs, labor must do likewise. Un- fortunately this is an age of grab, and until evolution carries it away, like any other pestilential influence, we must all grab, or die in the gutter." Frank shook his head. "No, no," he cried desperately. "I can't believe it. This war of classes is all wrong. It is against all the ethics of brotherhood. It is the war of body against brain. Leave IN TORONTO out the individual and stick to the principle. If the work- ing class were wiped out to-morrow the brain, which is really the life of the world, would only change its tactics. After a brief stagnation it would evolve a fresh condition of things. It would throw itself into the necessary work, and, after a while, its powers would contrive a means whereby the world's work would still go forward. On the other hand, if the great minds, the thinking minds of those who represent capital, were wiped out, after a brief spell of chaos, the vitality of the body would recreate a guiding system, and things would become the same as they were before. There would again be capital and labor, with its endless problem. All that we can humanly demand is equality and brother- hood for the human race in their various conditions of life. If a man works his best he must be able to enjoy life as he sees life. The rest belongs to a Divine Power over which we can have no control. The world's goods must be proportionately divided, according to all requirements. Nor do we all need the same, because of that unequal distribution by divine hand of the power to do. Oh, maybe I cannot make it plain. But I can see it all, if only man will work in a common interest, as I feel sure he was intended to do. It is a government of common good we need. One that will provide as well for the laborer as the thinker. They are two portions of one whole, without either of which the other cannot exist. Sever them, destroy either, and the lot of the other is to be deplored." Frank waited with flushed face and anxious eyes for the other's reply. Leyburn's cynical eyes looked up from the stained table- cloth on which the remains of the meal were still scattered. "And in the meantime?" he inquired. "What do you mean?" "How are you going to achieve this government, this good and merciful government that is going to provide for us, each according to our needs? By sitting down and sub- mitting to the sweaters who rule the lives of the present-day laboring world, making its condition just what their own quality of selfishness demands, just because the Divine Hand has bestowed upon them a greater power to think than It has upon the worker? I tell you, boy, we are fighting for 294 THE WAY OF THE STRONG all that which you have outlined; and we are fighting - which is the only way. I said that this was an age of grab and, as far as I can see, it is a pestilential influence that must remain for years to come. The brain must be forced to yield up its selfish desires by the body; it will never be persuaded. You used the analogy. I will use it, too. As you say, the brain represents the thinkers. In human life the brain thinks, it is selfish in its desires, and its desires grow. They frequently grow beyond the endur- ance of the body, and finally it submits the body to such conditions of disease that at last the poor stricken thing rebels. Harmony and well-being cannot endure in human life with the domination of any one part of it. Capital is dominating labor now, so that the disease of hopelessness has spread to every section. Life is a burden. Therefore labor has rebelled, is rebelling, will continue to rebel, until capital is abolished and the harmony of equality is restored. Believe me, I am only viewing your ideals through practical eyes. Come, my boy, we must to work again. There is that case of tyranny to be looked into. The discharge of that fireman for drinking when off duty on the North Sas- katchewan Railroad. There is also the question of colored agricultural workers to be considered. You, my friend, are young. You are enthusiastic and idealistic, and I like you for it. But you will soon see that that which a long experi- ence has taught me is right." Leyburn rose from his seat and beckoned the waiter. He settled the bill, while Frank picked up his hat. The young- ster had no longer need to press it down to his ears. His hair was rapidly growing to that luxuriant, wavy mass, which had always been Monica's pride. At the door of the restaurant, Leyburn turned to him with his peculiarly ungracious smile, and sniffed the sicken- ing atmosphere of hot food. "We've satisfied our appetites, and now we hate the smell," he said, with a laugh. "Human nature is ungrate- ful. By the way, you'd best go on to the Saskatchewan Railroad offices and ask for that report they promised to send me. I'll go back to the office." Then, as an after- thought : "Say," he added, with a laugh, "I'm going to send you up West later. Along the line. To do some talking. IN TORONTO 295 But you'll need to cut all that stuff right out. I mean the ideal racket. So long." He turned sharply away, and hurried down the heat- laden street. Left alone, Frank looked after him. He shook his head. "He's a good feller," he said to himself. "But he's wrong dead wrong in some things." At that moment somebody bumped into him, and he turned to apologize. Seeing it was a woman, he raised his hat. Then an exclamation, half joyous, half of dismay, broke from him. "Phyl!" he cried. "You? Li Toronto?" In her turn the girl started and stared. "Frank!" she cried incredulously. Then, regardless of the passers-by: "Thank God, I've found you! Oh, Frank, I'm so so glad. We have been hunting Toronto these weeks ; and now now " "We?" The girl's delight and evident love almost seemed to have passed Frank by. With a rush all the old pain of parting from her, all the dreary heartache he had endured when writing his farewell to her, was with him once more, as his troubled eyes searched the sweet face looking so radiantly up into his. "Yes,