Kitabı oku: «The Way of the Strong», sayfa 12

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.

CHAPTER VIII
ANGUS HEARS SOME TALK

Angus Moraine's whole attitude toward Monica underwent a sudden change. That his feelings changed is doubtful. 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 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 was 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 hesitate 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 reflectively 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 generally. Pete Farline, famed for his bad drugs and antiquated "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 magazine.

"Meaning the whisky souse from Scotland, via Deep Willows?" 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 evenings 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 terminated 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.

"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. Unfortunately 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 brightening visibly as he received his refreshment.

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 general 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 turning 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 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 something 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 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 reiterated. "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 down upon the world. There was no cloud to mar the perfect 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 pervaded 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 determination 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 was 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 awaiting the moment of decision for their operation? She wondered; 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, 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 tremendous 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, maybe, 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 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 trusty 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 universally 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, 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 influence 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 altogether 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 interest," 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. Therefore I require him – even in preference to you."

Monica bowed her head. She accepted his verdict in this as in all things.

"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 Monica knew so well. Then he went back to his seat.

At that moment Angus Moraine appeared in the doorway. 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 essential 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.

"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 Maybee 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 without 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 question 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.