The Way of the Strong

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 difficulties 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 during 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 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 his 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 accompanying 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 expected the rush and busy life of a great commercial undertaking, wonderful organization, wonderful machinery, wonderful, 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, directly 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 direction over the undulating plains as far as the eye could see, centering 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 acceptance 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 settlement."

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 experienced 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.

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, characteristic 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 outset, 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.

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 reasonably 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 disposition, 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 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 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. "I guessed Hendrie had made a mess of things marrying his 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.