The Way of the Strong Part 32

"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 investing 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 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 support.

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 expressing the genuine regret she felt. It was the best way she could serve him, she felt, forgetful of the possibility of her att.i.tude 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 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 remoter limits of the farm, watching and studying every detail 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 serious eyes, the perfect balance of her keen mind and healthfulness 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 desperately 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 G.o.d 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 vouchsafed her to weather the threatening storm of almost insane jealousy she had witnessed growing in her pa.s.sionate husband'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 sacrificing 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 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 inspired 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 s.h.i.+re horses moving out from the farm with stately gait, each driver sitting astride of his nearside horse's comfortable 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 organization were almost inexhaustible.

The horses pa.s.sed her by and vanished into a dip in the rolling plains.

Their long day had begun, but unlike Monica, 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 pa.s.sed 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.

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 machines of sorts. But the work any man on this farm has to do is work I can do--have done, both in quant.i.ty 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 'ch.o.r.eman.'"

"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 unnecessary 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 fas.h.i.+on.