The Way of the Strong Part 42

"It's real kind of you, Mr. Moraine," he said warmly. "But I'm guessin'' it's a matter of capital. If this place is to boom----"

"Capital?" Angus snorted. "Pshaw, man! It's nothing to raise the capital."

"No--o." The hotel keeper looked dubious. Then he brightened. "Say, maybe you don't fancy comin' in on the deal yourself, Mr. Moraine?" He eyed his guest shrewdly.

The next moment he received a shock. Angus laughed. And his laugh was the most cordial thing Lionel K. Sharpe ever remembered to have heard emanate from the manager of Deep Willows.

"Why, I hadn't thought of it," that individual declared, when his mirth had subsided. Then he became quite serious. "Say, it's not a bad idea though. You see, I'm here a sort of fixture for life, and I guess it wouldn't be half a bad scheme putting my odd cents into a bright enterprise in Everton. Why, yes, I'll think it over, Sharpe, I'll surely think it over."

He stepped from the porch and took his horse from the patient "hired"

man, who promptly vanished to his rest in the harness room of the barn.

He sprang lightly into the saddle.

"That's a good notion, Sharpe," Angus went on, as he gathered up the reins. "Guess we'd run a cracking hotel together. Well, so long. We'll talk it over later. So long."

He turned his horse about and set off down the trail, and, in a few moments, he, too, was swallowed up by the woodland shadows.

CHAPTER XVII

PAYING THE PRICE

The sumptuous library at Deep Willows held a great fascination for Monica. She used it in her solitary moments, during her husband's absences, more than any other living-room in the great house. Perhaps the attraction was the suggestion of office which the beautifully carved mahogany desk gave it. There was the great safe, too, let deep into the wall just behind it, with its disguising simple mahogany door.

There were the elaborate filing drawers, and various other appurtenances necessary in a room where business was transacted.

Perhaps these things helped to remind her of other days, days that had been often troublesome, but, nevertheless, of a memory that was very dear.

But the official atmosphere of the room was very limited. There was nothing official in the bookcases lining the walls, containing their hundreds of volumes of modern and cla.s.sical literature. There was nothing suggestive of commerce in the bronzes and marble statuary which adorned the various antique plinths and pedestals. And the pictures, too, modern certainly, but both oil and water colors were by the best living masters. Nor were the priceless Persian rugs the floor coverings one would expect to find on an office floor.

Monica loved the room. There was the character of the man she loved peeping out from every corner at her, every shelf of the bookcases.

There was a simple, direct, almost severe style about the place, which reminded her so much of the strength of the man who had taken possession of her soul.

Something of this was in her thought as she sat there in a comfortable rocker on this particular night. A book was in her lap, but she was not reading. There was too much rioting through her busy brain for her to devour the translation of a stodgy, obscure Greek cla.s.sic. She had taken the book from its place almost at haphazard, as women sometimes will, and her sincere purpose had been to read it. But her purpose lacked the necessary inclination, the moment the cover had been opened.

She made a beautiful picture sitting there in the soft lamplight. Her elaborately simple evening gown was delightfully seductive, and the light upon her fair face surmounted by its crown of waving hair completed an attraction few men could have resisted. The years had left no trace of their rapid pa.s.sing in her outward seeming, unless it were in the added beauty of her perfect figure. She was happy, very, very happy, and to-night even more so than usual.

To-night! Ah, yes, she had reason to be happy to-night. Was it not the night when the culmination of so many little plans of hers was to be reached? Little plans that had for their inception the purest affection, the most tender loyalty to the dead as well as the living?

Monica was a woman to draw the most perfect happiness from such feelings. The mainspring of her whole nature was a generous kindliness, an earnest desire for all that belonged to the better side of life. She knew that she was about to launch two young people upon the great rough sea of life, and the thought that her hand was to pour the calming oil about their little craft was something quite exquisite to one of her nature.

Her gaze wandered across at the mahogany door of the safe, and she smiled as she thought that behind it lay the oil awaiting her distribution. From the safe her eyes pa.s.sed on to the clock upon the desk. Its hands were nearing midnight. She was glad. They could not move fast enough for her just now.

The whole house was silent. The servants had long since retired; even her maid, that stickler for her duties, had been satisfactorily dismissed for the night. Angus had returned. She had just heard him ride past the house on his way to hand over his horse to the sleepy stable hand awaiting him. There was nothing--nothing at all to interfere with her---- Hark!

She started from her seat and darted across to the heavy curtains drawn over the French window, which she had purposely left open. The sound of steps approaching had reached her. She stood for a moment with hands ready to draw the curtains aside. Then she flung them open, and, with a low exclamation, embraced the fair-haired young giant who stepped in through the window.

"Frank, oh, Frank," she cried. "My dearest, dearest boy. I'm so thankful you've come. I knew you wouldn't fail me in spite of--of what you said in your letter."

The young man gently released himself, and glanced back shamefacedly at the curtains which had closed behind him.

"That's just it, mother," he said, his honest face flus.h.i.+ng. "I--I just hate this backdoor business. Oh, I know it's all right," he went on, as Monica shook her head. "I know there's nothing wrong in it. How can there be? You are my mother. It's not that. It's the feeling it gives me. You don't know how mean it makes me feel."

"Of course it does, dear," Monica said soothingly. "It is like you to feel that way. You have always been the soul of honor, and you feel like a criminal stealing into another man's house. But you are not trespa.s.sing, my dear. Don't you understand? You are entering a house to which you have every right. Is it not my home, and am I not your mother?"

"Yes, yes," the man broke in, almost impatiently. "That's where the trouble comes. You are my mother. What if--if I were discovered? What if----?"

Just for a moment a slight look of alarm shadowed Monica's eyes. In the joy at seeing her boy again she had lost sight of the risk this visit really entailed. But she recovered herself quickly, and protested with a lightness she did not really feel.

"Don't let's think of it. Alec is away, and the whole household is in bed and asleep. The last person to go to bed here is Angus Moraine, and he came in from town a few minutes ago. So----"

"Angus Moraine?" Frank raised his brows inquiringly. "He was at the hotel. I saw him there. I have seen him often, and--I don't think I like him."

Monica smiled as she walked across to the safe.

"Sit down at that desk, dear," she said happily, "while I hand you a wedding present, birthday present, coming of age present, all rolled into one. Talking of Angus, I don't think I like him either. But there, we two are very much the same in our likes and dislikes, aren't we?"

Then she glanced back at the huge figure obediently settling itself at the desk while she fumbled the combination of the lock. "We both like Phyl Raysun, don't we?" she added slyly.

Frank jumped up from his chair, and his young face had lost its last look of trouble.

"I'm so glad you like her, mother," he cried. "She's a perfect delight.

She's so--so wise, too. She's simply fearfully clever. You noticed that. I remember you said so in your letter. And--and isn't she beautiful?"

The safe door swung open, and Monica drew out a large bundle of notes.

"She's as beautiful as only a lover's eyes can see her," she said, with a smile. "She's such a delight, and so beautiful, and so wise, that I'm adding a dowry to the amount I am going to give you to start in business with. It's just a little extra housekeeping money."

There was no doubt of Monica's happiness at that moment. Her eyes were s.h.i.+ning with the perfect delight of giving to those she loved.

"Seriously," she went on, "I'm very pleased with Phyl--a pretty name by the way. I'm so glad she is poor, and has been brought up as she has. I don't think you could possibly have made a better choice. I'm sure she's a dear girl. Remember, Frank, you must always treat her well. She adores you, and I want you always to remember that a good woman's love is something to be treasured above--well, everything. Though I am a woman, I warn you it is a priceless thing, and something which, in its unreasoning devotion, in its utter self-sacrifice, in its yielding up of all its most sacred thoughts and feelings, comes straight from G.o.d Himself. Care for your little Phyl very tenderly, Frank."

She sighed happily and glanced down at the notes in her hand. Then she went on--

"Now let us consider something much more material. Here is the money, dear. There are twelve thousand dollars in this bundle for you, and another five thousand for your Phyl, and all my love to you both goes with them."

Monica laid the packet of notes on the desk in front of the man, who stared up at her in wondering amazement.

"Oh, mother," he cried, "this is too good altogether. You surely don't mean----"

But his protest was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the telephone bell, and his amazed look was abruptly changed to one of something like apprehension as he stared at the wretched instrument.

But the sudden emergency found Monica alert. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver and placed it against her ear.

Two men moved silently along in the shadow of the house. Their feet gave out no sound as they stealthily drew on toward the library windows. They were not walking together. One of them was leading by some yards, as though he were the princ.i.p.al actor in the scene, and the other was there simply to obey his commands.

The face of the leader was stern and set, but his eyes were s.h.i.+ning with a desperate pa.s.sion which belied his outward calm. The other wore a more impa.s.sive look. He was alert, but displayed neither eagerness nor emotion.