TWO MEN
The devastation of the wheat lands of Deep Willows was complete. The home of Alexander Hendrie itself, stood out scathless, the center of a blackened, charred waste. It was a mockery, a pitiful mockery of its recent glory. Against its somber, naked surroundings the delicate paint work of its perfect wooden structure left a vulgar, even tawdry impression of the mind. It looked as out of place as bright colors at a plumed funeral. The home farm, the outlying farms for miles around, they, too, stood as they had stood before, while all the live stock, their "feed," the machinery, had escaped the ravages of the sea of fire by reason of the well-planned "fire-breaks" which the cautious Scot kept in perfect order.
The fire had stripped the river banks, too. The beautiful wooded slopes, the pride and delight of their owner and his manager, were now mere blackened skeletons whose moldering limbs were beyond even the power of time to heal.
It was a terrible destruction, so wanton, so useless, even as an expression of human hatred. So utterly was it lacking in this respect that it became nothing short of an insult to the Creator of all things rather than an act of vengeance of human upon human. The only real sufferers would be those whose hands had wrought the mischief, a suffering that must be surely just.
Hendrie himself did not witness daylight's revelation. Long before morning he was in Calford, accompanied by Frank, whose work had been the secret bestowal of Leyburn's chauffeur, and his automobile, until such time as the man could safely be permitted to return to the world to which he belonged. Hendrie and his helpers had committed themselves to their conspiracy in no uncertain fashion. Whatever the outcome for them they had been prepared to risk all for the life, which at least two of them valued above all else.
But the man whose watch and ward this beautiful farm had been, the man whose fortunes had for so long been bound up in it, was early enough abroad, and his sunken eyes, brooding, regretful, hating, witnessed the utter ruin of his years of labor.
Angus Moraine suffered far deeper than any words could tell. It was like a mother witnessing the destruction of an only child, for this farm, and all pertaining to it, was as his only child. He loved it with a depth of affection almost incongruous in a man so hard, so unsympathetic as he. Yet his love was so real that the sight that daylight revealed to his horror-stricken eyes well-nigh broke his heart, and set him hating as he had never hated in his life. So, as he gazed abroad, he thanked Providence that his was the charge of their captive, even though that captivity were only to last a week.
Yes, Leyburn was his prisoner—was in his sole charge. Perhaps in thus committing him Hendrie had understood something of what that charge would mean. Whether he did or not, certain it is that Leyburn, before the week was out, had reason to curse the day that had brought him once more into contact with the great Leo.
The doings of the night before, the bringing of the captive to Deep Willows, had been kept a profound secret from the household. Long before morning Leyburn had been further spirited off to the inner recesses of a remote farm building where his jailer promptly instituted a rigor of treatment far less merciful than that of the harshest penitentiary. Then came Angus Moraine's despair at the sight of the utter destruction about him, and, from that moment, he laid himself out to the punishment of his victim, as only his peculiar mind could conceive it. For every pang he suffered he determined that the author of them should suffer double, and his manner of achieving it was inspired by the coldly cruel streak which was part of his hard nature.
True to his intentions he achieved a hatred in Leyburn for himself that scarcely ranked less than the labor leader's hatred for his arch-enemy, Leo. Angus baited his prisoner by methods of almost devilish ingenuity. He spared no pains, no trouble, and that which passed between them was for them alone. Certain it is that long before the termination of the imprisonment, the Scot's dour temper had improved, a sure sign that even from the great disaster which had befallen his wheat lands he had contrived to draw some slight satisfaction.
In the meantime the two men in Calford were engaged on a delicate mission, in spite of their possession of Leyburn's written instructions to his colleagues. Upon Frank devolved the chief work. Alexander Hendrie dared not appear in it. Frank was known to be Leyburn's lieutenant, and, as such, he was received.
But there was much formality, an exhaustive inquisition as to Leyburn, his whereabouts, the work he was engaged upon, the purpose of his order and Frank was forced to lie as never in his life had he lied before. Money had to be spent freely in every direction. The railroad company had to be adequately reassured and indemnified. Its fears of disaster to itself had to be lulled, and, in the process, the expenditure of money was staggering. The conflicting forces at work in every direction were appalling. Among the strikers, their leaders, and then the railroad company. So much inhumanity and ignorance prevailed under the cloak of humanity that almost at any moment during the negotiations the whole project might well have fallen to the ground.
Finally, however, the last obstacle was overcome, the last difference adjusted, and the hour for departure came. Adhering to their methods of conducting the negotiations, the final Godspeed was spoken in the privacy of Hendrie's rooms in the hotel at which he was staying.
It was brief enough, as became the existing relations between the two men.
Frank received his final instructions concerning Professor Hinkling, and stood waiting.
Hendrie paused for a moment, considering. Then he looked into the boy's serious, earnest face, with a shadowy smile in his steady eyes.
"Keep it in your mind, boy, that poor Mon is depending on you," he said. "Her life is in your hands—for the moment. Bring him back with you. Bring him back if you have to fight the whole way, and—well, I guess God'll bless you for it."
Frank nodded. Then the millionaire, after a fractional pause, crossed to the door and held it open. Frank looked into his face for one fleeting second. Then he moved toward the door. A look of indecision was in his eyes, but finally he turned deliberately, and with decision.
"Good-bye, Mr. Hendrie," he said. Then he added in a low, earnest tone. "I thought I hated you, sir, but—I don't."
The millionaire made no reply, and the boy passed out.
Nor was the latter conscious of the deepening tenderness in the older man's eyes. All he felt, all he knew, was that the last shadow of the past, of his past sufferings at this man's hands, had been swallowed up in the great bond of sympathy now existing between them. Each man was ready to lay down even his life for one poor, helpless, sick woman; each was inspired by a love that now knew no limits to its sacrifice of self.
Hendrie turned back from the door with a deep sigh. He raised his right hand and stood thoughtfully gazing at it. It was almost as if he were examining it, seeking something his conscience told him he would find upon it. He knew, too, that his thought was of something unclean. He knew, too, that however much he had longed to grip the departing boy's hand in honest affection he had no right to do so—yet.
His return to Deep Willows was almost precipitate. He wanted to spend not a moment more than was necessary away from the roof which sheltered Monica. The chaotic condition of railroad affairs in Calford interested him not one whit now. He cared nothing for the rights or wrongs of the battle raging between labor and capital. The weary women and hungry children of the strikers, for all he cared could die in the ditches their husbands had dug for them.
As for the employers, let them fight their battles out as best they could. It mattered not at all if the country's entire trade were left at a standstill, nor was it of consequence what anarchy reigned. The stock markets might collapse, and shares might fall beyond redemption. His wealth counted for nothing in the stress of his feelings. Just one thing counted; one poor, flickering, suffering life.
So he rushed headlong back to Deep Willows to pass the time of waiting with what patience he could. Humanly speaking, he had played his last card for the saving of that one life, so there was nothing left for him but to pace the floors of his luxurious home hoping and fearing, now threatening to himself the life of the man who had made the chances of timely help so remote, now praying to Almighty God, as never in his life he had prayed before, to spare him the life he loved.
He had reached the one terrific moment in his life when he realized that the world, in which his heart and mind had been so long wrapped, meant nothing. He was down to the bare skeleton of human nature when primal passions alone counted. He knew that he had shed for ever the coat of civilization. It had always fitted him ill. Now the natural love of man for woman, male for female, in its simplest form, dominated his whole being. And with it came all those savage instincts with which the natural world seeks to protect its own.
The destruction of his wheat lands passed him by. He did not see that blackened world as his loyal servant Angus saw it. He had neither patience nor inclination to listen to lamentations, just as he had no lamentation to make over it for himself.
His attitude reflected itself in his surroundings. The house remained silent as the grave. Angus avoided him, and devoted all his attention to his prisoner. The nurses and the doctor devoted themselves to the last ounce of their strength to their patient; and the servants went about their duties with hushed voices, which left the great house with the atmosphere of a sepulcher.
Hendrie rarely left his library. Hour after hour he spent in desperate solitude. His pretence was work, but he did none. And Phyllis alone dared to approach him.
From her he drew some comfort. Her wonderful tact, and even affection, showed her the way to bring him a measure of that mental ease he so desperately needed. Only once during that terrible week of waiting did she make a mistake. She knew she had made it the moment the words had passed her lips, and it became a lesson she knew she would never need again.
It was on the fourth day of Frank's absence. She was beginning to catch something of the infection of Hendrie's restless unease. Doubt of the success of Frank's mission was creeping through her armor of optimism. She was troubled, and so her moment of weakness came.
"I—I wonder if he'll succeed. I wonder—if he'll be in time," she said.
Then in a moment she caught her breath at the sudden and awful expression of the man's eyes. They blazed up with a wild, insane light. He broke into a loud, harsh laugh.
"If he doesn't, you'll see me at the gallows, girl," he cried.
Phyllis had cried out in protest. Then, in something like panic, she rushed from the room.
That night she was haunted by dreams so hideous that long before daylight she had left her bed, and joined the night nurse.
Once more her fear got the better of her, but here she was met by the practical trained mind of a woman who was devoted to her work.
"If Hinkling doesn't get here to-morrow, or the next day—well, poor soul, she's in the hands of some one who knows best. Doctor Fraser gave too big a margin, I think. Still—we must hope for the best. Poor soul, she knows nothing—so she can't be suffering. I see Mr. Hendrie's light is still burning in the library. He'll be in the doctor's hands if Hinkling doesn't get here—in time."
Phyllis agreed. She knew it, too. She knew the desperate condition of the man's mind, and her knowledge told her that the balance was wavering.
The fifth day dawned. Still there was no news. But none could reach them. The day after Hendrie's return from Calford the telegraph wires had been cut, and, since then, all communication had been left intermittent. The wires were repaired, and, within a few hours, cut again. And so it had gone on. The automobile had been waiting in Calford for two days now, and all knew that the only indication of the success of Frank's mission would be the return of the vehicle with its precious freight.
Thus on this day all eyes and thoughts turned upon the trail through the blackened wheat fields.
*****
It was noon. Phyllis and the millionaire were standing at the entrance porch. The sun was beating down upon their bare heads all unnoticed, all uncared. The eyes of the man never left the sweep of the trail where it rounded the skeleton woods which lined the river bank. The girl had wearied of the straining, and now watched her companion.
In her heart was a great pity for him. His eyes were no longer the steady eyes she knew so well. They were bloodshot and sunken. The veins at his temples, and of his neck, were standing out like ropes. It seemed to her imagination that all his great bodily strength was concentrated at the breaking point. Painful as was her own anxiety, it was as nothing beside the fear his attitude inspired her with. If Frank failed?—but she dared not think of it.
Suddenly she started. Just for one moment a look of dreadful doubt looked out of her eyes, now abruptly turned upon the trail again. Had her prairie-trained ears deceived her, or——? She dared not glance again in Hendrie's direction until she was sure. She listened. Then a wild excitement lit her face. She moved. She reached out. One hand suddenly gripped the arm of the man beside her. He made a movement as though to free himself, but her nervous clutch only tightened.
"Listen!" she cried. Then in a moment: "Oh, if he's succeeded. Oh, if he's only got him with him!"
"Silence, child!"
The man's harsh voice rang out, and Phyllis, even in her excitement, quailed at the tone.
Now, side by side, with eyes and ears straining, the girl still clinging to the man's arm, they stood waiting.
That familiar purr. Soft, soft, a low, deep note thrilling with hope for the watchers. But it was far away, so far that the man, whose ears were less well trained, could only just hear it.
To Phyllis it was distinct now, and growing in volume with each passing moment. Oh, that precious note. What music. No such perfect music could ever have fallen on straining ears. Its gentle softness suggested but one thing to the girl. It was the hope of life. She felt that no such warmth, no such modulation could have been in that which was the herald of disaster.
The man's imagination was less sensitive. His usually firm mouth was twitching. There was water in his eyes, but it was not tears, nor was it the result of excitement. It was the strain he was putting forth to catch the first sight of the vehicle, and count its passengers as it came.
He shivered once. The girl felt the shiver, and she, too, shook with excitement. She was leaning forward.
At last she could stand it no longer. She broke from her companion, and flew down the trail as fast as her active young limbs could carry her. She must be the first to convey the good news to the breaking heart of the man who remained standing, like one paralyzed, by the porch of his splendid home.
On she ran, on and on, till she came to the bend where the river turned away, and the open trail went straight on, and the bluffs of Everton lay in full view.
Here she halted and gazed out. For some moments she stood watching, watching. Then, at last, she turned and began to run back, waving her hands in a frenzy of ecstasy as she came.
In a few moments she was within hailing distance of the man, and she halted.
"Four of them!" she gasped frantically. "Four of them in the car! Frank's brought him! Frank's brought him!"