The Way of the Strong

by Ridgwell Cullum

THE DAWN OF HOPE

Alexander Hendrie started round at the sound of the servant's voice.

He was in the library. Night had fallen, and the room was in darkness. He had been staring blankly at one of the windows, across which the curtains had not yet been drawn. For hours his mind had been concentrated upon the one eternal problem which confronted him. He was beset with doubts, hopes, fears, each one of which he examined closely, dismissed or accepted, and pigeon-holed the latter in the back cells of memory for future use.

The man was obsessed with one idea only. The fulfilment of Doctor Fraser's demands, and the saving of the one precious life which was far more to him than his own. The nervous tension at which his efforts left him made him literally jump at the sound of the voice of the man who had entered the room so silently.

"Miss Raysun would be glad to know if you would spare her a few minutes, sir. She say's it's a matter of importance."

The millionaire swung his chair about, and faced the man in the darkness.

"Turn on the lights," he said sharply. "You can draw the curtains; then tell Miss Raysun to come right along."

The electric switch clicked and the room was flooded with light. Then the servant crossed the room silently and drew the curtains. Then he moved over to the door, hesitated, and finally stopped.

"She has some one with her, sir," he said doubtfully.

This man was in full possession of the gossip of the house. Besides, he valued his position.

"Who?"

Hendrie's question came with an alert inflection. He understood the man's doubt.

"It's Mr. Smith—Mr. Frank Smith—I think, sir."

"Well?"

There was no mistaking the tone of the second inquiry. The man hastened to remedy his mistake.

"Beg pardon, sir, I—I thought I'd just mention it."

"That will do."

Hendrie appeared to occupy himself with the papers on his desk as the man hurried out.

But the moment he was alone the millionaire gave up the pretense. Again he sat back in his chair, and gazed unblinkingly at the reading lamp before him. All in a moment, it seemed, from comparative indifference at Phyllis's desire for an interview, his mood had leaped to impatience for her coming. Frank was with her—why? Here, at a moment when he knew he was face to face with, perhaps, the greatest disaster of his life; here, when almost every man's hand seemed to be turning against him; here, when all his powers of achievement were being taxed to the limit, he was to be confronted with his own natural son, Frank. Again his groping mind questioned—why?

Thought traveled swiftly back over other scenes, scenes he would gladly have shut out of memory—now. But they were always there ready to confront him with his own mis-doings. He thought of the poor woman on the lonely Yukon trail. He thought of the hardships with which she must have been beset. He thought of the young life-burden she had been bearing. Then he remembered the stalwart youth who had refused to betray Monica's secret, preferring to face penal servitude as an alternative. Then he remembered the honest youth championing the cause of the oppressed before his cold argument. And again he questioned the meaning of his coming now.

But his reflections were cut short. He glanced across at the door as it opened, and Phyllis hurried in. She was still dressed in her riding suit, her face and eyes, beneath the soft, wide-brimmed prairie hat she was wearing, shining with an excitement she could hardly restrain. Behind her came the great figure of Frank, and the millionaire's eyes were for him alone.

He rose and silently placed a chair for the girl. But Phyllis refused it and remained standing. She turned to Frank.

"You sit down, Frank," she said, with a peremptoriness begot of her excitement.

Without thinking the man obeyed.

Hendrie's eyes were still upon him.

"Well?" he inquired, almost gently.

Frank glanced up at the girl. The situation troubled him. But the memory of the scene he had just witnessed was still with him, and his sudden and utter loathing for the man Leyburn sent hot words surging to his lips.

"I hadn't a thought to come here, Mr. Hendrie," he cried, on the impulse of his feelings. "Maybe you won't thank me for it, anyway. Still, I've got to tell you things. I've come to tell you, you were right, and I was all wrong. I've come to tell you there's no honesty in these professional leaders of labor—to tell you that the whole game is a baser and far worse side of the competition of life than is that of the men it is directed against. Yes, I see it all now. The bonding of labor is the raising of an army of physical force, normally to work peacefully for its common welfare, but, in reality, to tyrannize and to wrest by any means in its power, by violence, by fire, by bloodshed, if necessary, those benefits which it covets, regardless of all right and justice, and which, individually, its members have not the capacity to achieve honestly for themselves. I want to tell you this now while my heart is burning with the realization of the truth; while my eyes are open to the deviltry of these men who endeavor to blind the world to their own selfish motives by crying out in the name of justice and fair dealing. There is no justice in them. It is all self, and the purblind workers are the helpless tools by which they seek to achieve their ends. I have done with it forever. There is no such thing as universal brotherhood—there never can be. You are right. So long as human nature remains human nature, self will dominate the world, and charity must become a luxury for moments of cessation from hostilities in the battle of life."

The tide of the man's hot words swept on without pause for a second, and both Phyllis and the millionaire knew they came from his heart.

But now, having made clear his own feelings, he rushed headlong to the warning he had to impart.

"It doesn't matter—the details—how I witnessed it, how Phyllis, here, shared with me in the contemplation of a scene such as we never want to witness again. It was the man I have been working with, the most prominent figure in the labor movement of this country, the man who has organized the railroad strike which is to bar the way to the help my moth—Mrs. Hendrie needs, talking to your workers who are on strike."

"Austin Leyburn," said Hendrie dryly.

"Yes," cried Frank. "That is the scoundrel who disguises his villainous heart under a cloak of philanthropy. That is the man. He has come down here secretly, leaving his legitimate work at Calford and Winnipeg to incite your hands to burn your crop out, and to drive the niggers off the land by violence, by shooting them down. Why he has come is beyond my comprehension. I can only imagine that he has some personal grievance against you which he wishes to satisfy. Whatever it is the fact remains. The men have been made half drunk, when they cannot be wholly responsible for their actions, and he is urging them to burn you out and shoot up the niggers. Mr. Hendrie, something's got to be done at once. I don't know what, I don't know how, but that man is driving them to a great crime which they would never otherwise dream of. That crime must be stopped. Oh, if I could only think how. But I can't. You—you, Mr. Hendrie. It is for you to think of this thing, and whatever your plan you can count on me for—anything."

Frank was leaning forward in his chair. His great hands were clasped, and hung down between his parted knees, upon which his elbows rested. The earnest light of his eyes was shining with a deep fire, and Phyllis, watching him, yearned to fling her arms about him, and tell him something of the love and sympathy running such riot in her heart.

Alexander Hendrie had turned toward his desk. A paper knife was in his right hand, and its ivory blade was gently tapping the pad of blotting-paper spread out before him.

He spoke at last, and his manner was quite unusual. Ordinarily he would have attacked the threat against himself in a sharp, brusque way. But somehow Frank's presence had a distinctly softening effect upon him.

"It's not easy, is it, boy?" he said, glancing round with a half-smile.

"Easy? But it—means murder. Murder of those niggers."

The thought revolted the man. It seemed to him that Hendrie had missed the appalling nature of the situation.

"Yes. It looks like it," said Hendrie, still almost indifferently. "But I think we can save that. The moment Angus returns the niggers can be scattered. Angus will be back soon—to-night."

"To-night? But we must act—now."

"Yes." Hendrie agreed. Then he smiled confidently. "But there's more time than you think, boy. I know men. These boys won't start shooting till they've worked themselves up to it. They'll likely work 'emselves up by firing my crop."

Frank started incredulously.

"You—you will let them?" he gasped.

Phyllis was watching the millionaire. He shrugged.

"It'll help to manure the soil—for next year," he said indifferently.

"But—but—the loss!" Frank's protest came in an awed whisper.

Hendrie smiled.

"That's up to me," he said enigmatically. Then he faced round, and fixed Frank with his steady eyes. "See here, listen. You don't just reckon all this means to me—your coming and telling me this, and that other—that you've quit Austin Leyburn," he said. "It's put something into me. I can't just explain—now. But I want to tell you of other things. There's things in my mind just now that make matters like the burning of my crop, yes, and even the shooting up of niggers seem kind of small. Don't think I'm standing for a racket like that. No, sir. We'll see those black devils right, or—— However, it's about this Leyburn. Guess you're right. He's got a grievance, and it's so big it's got to come to a burst up between us. One of us'll have to get right down and out." He drew a deep breath, and his manner became thoughtful. "Guess it'll have to be Leyburn," he said, after a pause. "Yes, there's work for me yet." Suddenly he looked up with a question in his eyes. "Say, boy, you don't owe me a hell of a lot. And yet you come to me with—all this?" He gazed thoughtfully, studying the strong, earnest young face before him.

"I told you I hadn't thought of coming until——" Frank broke off as Phyllis completed the explanation.

"I persuaded him, Mr. Hendrie. You see——"

"I guessed that." Hendrie nodded. Then he smiled. "Guess it's generally a woman fixes things easy for men-folk, when the road's rough."

Then quite suddenly he leaned forward in his chair, his great hands gripping its arms with enormous force.

"Say, you two," he cried, a sudden fierce light shining in his t yes, "we're wasting precious minutes. You, boy, you've come to me with talk of this crime to be committed. Guess your heart's just full of it. But I've no room for it now. I'm just full to the brim of another crime that your man Leyburn's committed. He can burn my crop; he can shoot down every nigger in the country for all I care, while this other thing is threatening. Say, there's no nigger or white man I'd raise a hand to help if it's at the expense of one moment I need to stop the completion of that other crime. Boy, boy, I don't care if the roof of this world falls in and crushes every living soul, so long as Monica is saved. She, and she alone, is my one thought, and I tell you right here that if she dies—she will not die alone. Oh, don't think I am mad," he cried, as Frank stared in alarm at the passionate, working face. "I am sane—sane as you are. Now answer me, answer me as you love your God, as you love the woman who cared for you from your childhood. Why are you here? I want the blank truth. You have no love for me, and that you've cut Leyburn out of your life is insufficient reason. Why—why are you here?"

He gazed into the boy's face as though he would compel him. Phyllis waited without a word.

Frank needed little consideration. His reply came promptly, and full of sincerity.

"I came to see if I could help her in any way." he said. "You're right. I should not have come for those other matters. Phyllis could have warned you. I am not here because of you. I am here because I—I helped to make that railroad strike, and I love my—I love Mrs. Hendrie. I said you could count on me for—anything, and I meant it. I'd willingly sacrifice everything, even my life, for Monica."

Hendrie suddenly released his hold upon the arms of his chair and sat back. His eyes were smiling, and, just for a moment, a wave of great peace swept over his stormy heart.

"I'm glad, boy," he said simply. "Monica is lying upstairs surrounded by everything the world can give her but the help which alone can save her life. You owe her much, but you owe her nothing compared with my debts to her. Now she is in need of the payment of every outstanding debt, and it is up to us. How can we bring Professor Hinkling from Winnipeg? That is the question that is now filling my heart and brain. When we have solved it, when that help is brought to her, then some of our debts will have been paid. How? How? How can this be done? How can this man Leyburn be bested. How?"

The man's words came hotly. He was not asking his questions of the others. He was simply reiterating the straining thought in his mind. Phyllis understood this, but Frank accepted the question as addressed to himself. His mind was not subtle. His simplicity at times was almost child-like. His prompt answer had something of that nature in it now.

"Why, the railroad is the only way," he said.

Hendrie threw up his hands in an ecstasy of irritation.

"The strike, man! The strike!" he cried. "There's not a passenger can travel. If it were attempted the permanent way would be torn up by Leyburn's orders. The railroad company would never risk the attempt."

Frank's eyes opened wide.

"Well?" he cried. "That's all right, If he can order the track torn up, he can order a train through—or order the strikers to let a train through."

The millionaire's eyes were fixed on the other's ingenuous face. He was exasperated at what he considered his display of almost imbecile childishness.

"But I tell you he would do anything to hurt or ruin me," he cried, rapidly losing all patience.

The sight of his evident impatience had a marked effect upon Frank. Phyllis, watching both men, saw her lover's eyes suddenly harden. His rather large mouth, so like the millionaire's, suddenly shut tight, and the movement was accompanied by a fierce setting of the jaws. A wave of anxiety for what was coming swept over her. Then came Frank's voice, as fierce and harsh as ever she had heard in Alexander Hendrie.

"If this man Hinkling's coming means saving Mrs. Hendrie's life, and Leyburn has power to let him through in time, and refuses it, I'll kill him, Mr. Hendrie," he cried, in a deep, stern voice. "I'll choke the rotten life out of him with these two hands," he added, in a sudden frenzy, reaching out toward the other with his fists clenching, as though they were grasping the labor leader's throat.

Hendrie's eyes lit as he heard the other's words and saw the murderously inspired action. The man meant it. He recognized the fierce spirit which underlay a nature of kindliness and gentle feeling, and, curiously enough, it warmed him, as the gentler side of the man had left him untouched.

He was about to reply when quite suddenly Phyllis cried out.

"I see. I see," she said. "Frank's right, Mr. Hendrie. Leyburn has the power, and, if he will not use it, he must be made to——"

But before she could proceed further the door was unceremoniously flung open, and Angus Moraine, lean, vulture-like, hurried in.

"It's no good, Mr.—— Oh, beg pardon. I didn't just know——" He paused, as though about to withdraw at the sight of Frank and Phyllis. "Guess I'll come along later," he said. "There's a fire way out to the west. I saw it as I came along. Looks like the prairie. I'll just get around. You won't need the automobile. It'll take me quicker."

Phyllis started.

"Fire?" she demanded, in sudden alarm.

"Out west?" cried Frank, rising abruptly from his seat.

Angus nodded.

"Why, yes," he said. "Guess it's just the prairie."

Suddenly the millionaire laughed aloud.

"Prairie?" he cried. "Say, Angus, my boy, that's my crop. They've fired the crop. They're going to break me. Austin Leyburn and his scallywags. They're going to smash me by burning my crop, and then they're going to shoot down every nigger on the place while they let my wife die in her bed for want of a surgeon's aid. Do you get that all? Do you? That's Leyburn. Austin Leyburn, who came here days ago and promised he'd smash me for things done way back on the old Yukon trail. Hey! Stop right here and listen. I've got it now, and this boy, here, and this child, too, have shown me the way. There's no train to go through, eh? That's what they've told you in Calford. A million dollars won't take one through. Well, a tram's going through, and for a deal less than a million. The railroaders need Leyburn's order. Leyburn's order!" He laughed in a wild sort of sarcasm. "Well, by God, he shall give it! This boy and girl are on. It don't need any telling. You are on, my dour Scot—I know you. We'll let him burn the crop, let him shoot up the niggers, I don't care a curse. He's going to send that train through. Sit right down and I'll tell you 'bout it."