A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE
With her determined little chin thrust into the palm of her hand, and
her elbow propped upon the window ledge of the railroad car, Phyllis
made a delightful picture of country simplicity. She was dressed in a
plain gown of some soft, dark blue material, and flung back from her
shoulders was a heavy, plaid-lined cape, a garment she had borrowed for
the journey. On the seat in front of her was a well-worn suit case of
cheap compressed cane. It had evidently seen much service, though such
service could hardly have been given in the city world toward which she
was speeding. Reposing on top of this was her black felt hat. Here,
again, her western farm upbringing was evidenced. It was a mixture,
contrived out of a man's prairie hat into something of that modern
product affected by young girls, beneath which its wearer reveals
little but nose and chin. It was Phyllis's "best," and she rather liked
it.
But she was quite unconscious of the country brand she bore. She was at
all times unconscious of herself, in spite of her youth. Yet she
attracted a good deal of notice among her fellow-passengers.
A commercial drummer had vainly striven for hours to attract her
attention, his florid face set ready at a moment's notice to wreath
itself into an engaging smile, should she chance to glance in his
direction.
Then, too, a youth, in the company of an elderly female relative, had
gone through a severe process of neck wringing, several seats in front
of her, in the vain hope that her interest in the absurd fields of
wheat through which they were passing might abate in his favor.
Besides these it was a curious fact that this particular car demanded
so much attention from the train crew. One official bore down on her,
and, with unusual courtesy, asked her if he should open a window near
her to cool the air. Having achieved his purpose of receiving smiling
thanks, he added a few remarks, passed on, and another came along and
threatened pleasantly to close it, as he was sure she was in a draught.
A third brought her a pillow and refused to take money for it, the
significance of which left her wholly unconscious.
But the guard. Well, the guard seemed to have nothing in the world to
do but examine her ticket. The railroad officials certainly did their
very best for her.
Through it all, the girl's whole interest seemed to lay in the
wonderful cloth of gold spread over the world through which they were
passing. That and its trimmings in the shape of farm houses, small
settlements, townships just starting, verdant bluffs and gleaming
rivers, all of which glided swiftly by, a delightful panorama before
her wondering eyes, as the transcontinental mail swept across the
prairie lands upon its east-bound journey.
It was all fresh to her, but none of it was new. She had been brought
up in a corner of this very wheat world, so she knew it all. Sometimes
it was grander and looked more prosperous, sometimes it was smaller and
poorer. But the method of it was always the same.
Still, she was traveling abroad for the first time in her young life,
and she wanted to see everything there was to see. Thus, she had
traveled for more than two whole days, nor had she yet exhausted the
resources of Canada's great granary. Indian Head, Moosejaw, Regina,
Moosemin, Brandon, all these places, miles and miles apart, had
vanished into the dim distance behind her, but still the cloth of
golden wheat remained, as she knew it would remain until Winnipeg was
reached.
Funds had not permitted her the luxury of a "sleeper," so she had faced
the discomforts of long days and longer nights in the ordinary day car.
But with her heart set upon a definite purpose such things were no real
hardships to Phyllis. Just now her one desire in life was to reach
Winnipeg, so nothing else mattered.
It was nearly noon when the conductor of the train entered the car for
perhaps the tenth time that morning. Phyllis saw him moving down the
aisle, and, from force of habit, got her ticket ready. But the amiable
man spared her this time. He hurried along toward her, and, with the
sigh of an overworked man, dropped into the seat beside her suit case.
"Guess you'll soon be in Winnipeg, now," he observed, having learned
her anxiety to reach her destination some twenty or thirty visits to
her before.
Phyllis smiled, and her whole face lit up. The conductor grinned his
pleasure at the sight.
"I'm so glad," the girl sighed. "Still, I've had a real pleasant
journey," she added quickly. "You folks have been very kind to me."
The man's delight was written all over his face.
"Why, that's good of you. But 'tain't just nothin'. Gals travelin' on
their lonesome, it ain't all pie for 'em. We just like to do our
best--when they ain't on the grouch."
Phyllis had abandoned her study of the view.
"I haven't been a grouch, have I?" she demanded.
"Never in your life. Say--you couldn't grouch. 'Tain't your nature."
Phyllis became aware of the "drummer." His grin was in full blast. But
she quickly ignored him.
"I s'pose you know Winnipeg well?" she hazarded to her companion, with
some eagerness.
"Live there," the man replied, comprehensively.
"Ah, I'm glad. Maybe you know Grand Avenue?"
The man's eyes opened wide.
"Sure I know Grand Avenoo. That's where the big fellers live. All small
houses. Sort o' Fifth Avenoo, Noo York." Then he grinned. "Say, you
ain't figurin' on a hotel in Grand Avenoo?"
Phyllis flushed.
"Oh, no," she disclaimed hurriedly. "I just want to get there to--to
see a lady who lives there."
The conductor nodded his understanding.
"Sure," he said. "Service. Domestic."
Phyllis's flush deepened.
"Oh, no," she cried. "I'm--I'm just on a visit."
The conductor realized his mistake, and tried to glide over the fence.
"If you were to tell me the part of Grand Avenoo you're needing, maybe
I could give you the right surface car to take."
"That would be very kind," Phyllis said earnestly. Then her dark brows
drew together perplexedly. "It's rather difficult," she went on. "You
see, I don't really know just whereabouts Mrs. Hendrie lives."
"Mrs. Hendrie, d'you say, miss? Mrs. Alexander Hendrie?"
"Yes, yes. That's the lady," Phyllis cried eagerly. "Do you know where
her house is?"
"Gee!"
"What did you say? I didn't----"
"Beg pardon, miss--I--I just said 'Gee!'" The man rose from his seat
rather hurriedly. "You see, I didn't just figure you were goin' to Mrs.
Alexander Hendrie. You see, Mr. Hendrie is just about the biggest man
in the country, and--well----"
Phyllis laughed.
"And it seemed queer me going to see them. Of course it does," she went
on, to help the man's confusion. "But if you'll tell me best how to
find Grand Avenue, why, you'll be doing me a real kindness, just one
more."
The girl's tact had prompt effect.
"I'll sure be most pleased miss," the conductor said, with some
emphasis on the last word. "You just go right out of the booking hall
at the depot, and get on to the first Main Street car you see. It'll
take you along up to Grand. Just give word to the ticket man, an' he'll
see you get off right. We'll be in in less than two hours. We're plumb
on time."
He moved away quickly, and Phyllis vaguely understood that his going
had something to do with the fact that she was going to see the wife of
one of the biggest men in the country. But she quite missed the
necessity for the railroader's exchange of attitude.
*****
Grand Avenue was bathed in sunlight when Phyllis stepped off the car
and looked about her. Automobiles and pair-horse carriages sped upon
their dazzling ways down the great wide road with a speed and frequency
that, for some moments, left the country girl almost dazed. Her
unaccustomed eyes were wide and wondering, and she clung to her cane
suit case as though for support against the overwhelming tide of
traffic.
After a while, either the stream slackened, or her nerves became more
accustomed, for she made a dash for the sidewalk, and reached safety
once more. Then further dismay attacked her. She gazed along at the
great detached mansions, which lined the avenue, and the sight gave her
understanding of the train conductor's suggestion that she was about to
enter domestic service. It was in one of these splendid palaces, she
thought, that Mrs. Hendrie lived, and probably one of the biggest. For
a moment she looked down at her suit case as though she hated it.
Her weakness, however, was quickly passed. She remembered the object of
her visit, and clenched her small white teeth. All she cared for in the
world was at stake in this desperate visit, and nothing should daunt
her.
A large policeman was passing. Noting the girl's evident hesitation he
slackened his pace. He was a genially rubicund specimen of the force,
and inspired confidence. Phyllis promptly set her suit case down, drew
a letter from her pocket-book and went up to him.
"Will you tell me in which direction that number is, sir?" she
inquired, awed by the man's authority as she held up the address for
his inspection.
The officer's bulging eyes surveyed her from head to foot. That "sir"
had tickled his vanity, and he approved of her.
"One thousand and one?" he said. "Why, that's Alexander Hendrie's
house. Right here behind you--er--miss. That's Mr. Hendrie's house."
Phyllis thanked him warmly. Then she went back to her suit case, picked
it up, and made for the house with a rapidly beating heart. It was
almost as if everything had been made especially easy for her, and, in
spite of her growing nervousness, she was very thankful.
The house was well back from the road. It was approached by a short,
unenclosed carriage sweep, lined on each side by smooth turf, dotted
with shrubs and young trees. The air of wealth was conveyed in the
splendidly kept condition of everything rather than any ostentatious
display. The house itself was a modern production of decorative
architecture, built of massive, beautifully cut gray stone. The
entrance door was beneath a glass and wrought-iron shelter, which
stretched out across the drive and was supported on massive
wrought-iron columns of exquisite design.
It was not without many heart quakings that Phyllis ascended the white
marble steps and pressed the great button of the electric bell. Nor
were these lessened when the door was opened with magical abruptness,
and she found herself gazing up at the liveried footman in wonder and
dismay.
The man's cold survey of her was disheartening. Plainly as looks could
speak, he regarded her visit as an impertinent intrusion, while he
waited for her to speak.
It was a critical moment, and Phyllis knew it. The situation demanded
all her courage. Assuming a decision which quite belied her real
feelings, she endeavored to overawe the man, quite forgetful of the
strange hat and stranger costume she was arrayed in; to say nothing of
the deplorable suit case.
"I want to see Mrs. Hendrie," she demanded shortly.
The man's reply was slow in coming. He devoured her with eyes which
plainly conveyed a definite and contemptuous refusal.
"Can't be done," he said at last, and prepared to close the door.
But Phyllis had not traveled all these hundreds of miles to be defeated
by a mere footman.
"Oh, yes, it can," she declared tartly. "And you'll do best if you
remember that you're speaking to a lady. Mrs. Hendrie is expecting me.
Please to tell her Miss Phyllis Raysun is here--from Gleber."
The absurd dignity of this quaint figure was not without its effect.
The man's manner underwent a slight change, but he still remained
barring the way. At his sign a boy in uniform stepped forward from some
dark corner where he had been lurking unseen by Phyllis. He stood ready
with a silver tray in his hand.
"Inquire if Mrs. Hendrie is at home," said the footman loftily. "If she
is, will she receive Miss--er--Phyllis Raysun?"
The boy remained with his tray held out. Phyllis was at a loss. Then
she nodded.
"Yes. That's right," she said, failing to understand the silent demand
for a card.
With a smile, which somehow added further to the girl's angry feelings,
the youth hurried away. But the man still kept her waiting on the step.
Without knowing what she ought to have expected, Phyllis felt that she
was being treated shamefully. She knew that these liveried underlings
were treating her as if she were some undesirable tramp. It was quite
infuriating. But with so much at stake she felt it safest not to
display too much resentment, so she choked back her indignation and
accepted the affront.
Then quite suddenly a wonderful change came upon the scene. A change
that was evidently utterly unexpected by the churlish man-servant.
There was a sound of rustling skirts hurrying downstairs. Then some one
brushed the man aside and seized Phyllis's two ungloved hands, one of
which still held the deplorable suit case.
"My dear, my dear, however did you get here?"
It was Monica. Then she turned angrily upon the discomforted footman as
she drew the girl into the house.
"How dare you keep this lady standing out on the door-step? How dare
you? It's an outrage. It is an outrage I won't permit in my house. I
never heard of such a thing."
Then she turned upon the scared-faced boy, waiting just behind her.
"Tell the housekeeper I wish to see her in the library in an hour's
time." Then, in a moment, she was back again to Phyllis. "Come along,
dear. Come up to my room, and get your things off. Henson will see to
your grip."
But Phyllis clung to the suit case, which she was growing to hate more
and more every moment. She was sure now that it had had something to do
with the rude treatment she had been subjected to.
"But I--I can carry it, M--Mrs. Hendrie," she cried, the inevitable
"mam" nearly slipping out in spite of her best efforts.
Monica laughed. She remembered how she, herself, had felt once upon a
time facing an army of servants.
"Very well, dear," she said gently, "but come along."
She took the bewildered girl by the arm, and hurried her through the
great entrance hall. Then up the wide staircase, and, having left the
sharp-eared servants well behind, opened out a battery of eager
questions.
"How ever did you get here all by yourself from that little far-away
farm of yours?" she demanded. "How--how dared you attempt such a thing,
my dear?" she went on, with genuine concern. "You shouldn't have done
it. You really shouldn't, without letting me know, so that I could have
arranged for your comfort."
They had reached the first floor, and Monica's arm was about the girl's
supple waist.
"I never heard of such a thing," she hurried on, pushing open the door
of her boudoir. "Weren't you frightened to death? How--how ever did you
manage to find this house--you, who've never been away from your
prairie home in your life?"
"I--I had to come, mam," Phyllis cried. "I--I hope you're not angry,
but I just had to come. I got a letter from--from Frank, and he told me
he was never coming back to me, and was going to--to--enlist--or
something, in the army of workers and give his life to bettering their
lot, and--and a lot of other silly nonsense like that. And--and I just
had to come and see you--since I knew that--that you loved him, too."
There were tears crowding the girl's beautiful, appealing eyes as she
looked up into Monica's face.
Monica stooped and kissed her quite suddenly. Then she unfastened and
removed the unsightly cape and took the offending suit case from her.
She laid them aside, and then strove to reassure this child, who,
though she had only seen her once before in her life, and only knew her
through writing to her, somehow seemed to have become a part of her
life.
"I'm so glad you came to me, Phyl," she cried. "There's so much to
say--so much for us both to think of. Oh, my dear, my dear, my heart is
broken. I don't know what to think, or what to do. My poor, poor boy."
*****
An hour passed. The housekeeper waited to see Mrs. Hendrie in the
library, but she did not come. Two hours passed. Monica and Phyllis
still remained together in the former's room. As Monica had said, there
was much for both to think of. Again she poured out the dreadful story
of Frank's disaster. She was thankful, too, for the girl's sympathetic
ears. It eased her own feelings, and helped her to think more clearly,
which she had not been able to do since receiving Frank's curt note
refusing her money. But at last there was nothing more left to tell,
and Monica broke down, weeping over the havoc she felt that she alone
had wrought.
"Oh, Phyl, Phyl," she cried desperately. "It is all my doing; all
through my wretched selfishness. You--even you can't blame my husband.
The fault was mine alone."
Phyllis's dark eyes were hard as she flung in her denial.
"But I do blame him," she cried. "Even if Frank had been guilty it was
a wicked, cruel thing to do. I can't help it if it hurts you, Mrs.
Hendrie. I do certainly blame your husband."
Monica shook her head.
"He was in a fury of jealousy, and no man is quite sane under such
circumstances." Phyllis's challenge had given Monica the firmness of
decision, which, in her grief, she had utterly lacked. "I _am_ to
blame. I can see it all now. Had I never lied to Frank in my ridiculous
sense of duty to my dead sister, and my selfish desire to marry my
husband; had I never told the boy that I was his mother--this would
never have happened. In his great goodness and chivalry, the poor boy
sacrificed himself for what he believed was my honor. It--is--too
terrible. Just God, what a punishment for my lies. Never, never, never,
as long as I live, can I forgive myself. And now? Oh, what can I do?
Whatever can we do?"
Monica's tears flowed fast, and in sympathy for the suffering woman
Phyllis wept, too. Her anger, her resentment against those who had
injured her love were powerless to resist the appeal of this woman's
grief. However she loved Frank, she remembered that Monica loved him,
too. All his life she had struggled and slaved for him.
But she was there for a greater purpose than to help another woman in
her suffering. She was there to help the man she loved. More than that,
she was there to win him back to herself, to that happiness she
believed she alone could give him. She knew him so well. She felt in
her simple way that he needed her, in spite of his long, long letter
giving her back her promise, and full of his unalterable resolve to put
his past and all that belonged to it, behind him forever. She intended
to pit herself against his desperate purpose. She was determined to
restore the old Frank she knew, the old Frank she loved better than her
life.
"What can you do?" she cried, a glowing light of strength and love
shining in her beautiful, half-tearful eyes. "What can we do? Why,
everything. But we're not going to do it by writing letters, mam. You
love him? You? And you can just sit at home right here, and hand him
words written on paper, and push money into the envelope, money which
means nothing to either of you, when he comes out of the prison you
helped to send him to? Oh, mam, mam, how could you? Your place was at
the gates of Alston prison as it was mine, if I had known, like you
did. It was for us to have been along there, ready to reach out,
and--and help him. What can we do? What can I do? I'll tell you. Oh, I
know it's not for me to tell you things. Maybe I'm young and foolish.
Maybe I don't know much. I'm just not going to write my Frank in answer
to his--his nonsensical stuff. But I won't take back my promise to be
his wife. I'm--I'm going to marry him--because I know he wants me, and
I want him. Oh, no, I'm not going to marry a man who gets worrying to
make strikes and things, and calls it helping labor. I'm not going to
marry a man who's always making trouble in the world, who leaves
kiddies starving for what he calls a 'principle,' and most folks
generally--miserable. But I'm going to marry my Frank, and I'm going
right on to Toronto to find him--if I have to walk there."
The girl finished up breathlessly. All her love and courage were
shining in her eyes. Monica had been held spellbound by the force and
determination underlying every unconsidered word Phyllis uttered, and
now she sprang from her seat, caught in the rush of the other's
enthusiasm.
"Oh Phyl, Phyl," she cried, catching the girl by the shoulders, and
looking down into her ardent face. "You brave, brave child. I never
thought. I could never have thought, fool that I am. Yes, yes, we will
go to him. Not you alone. I will go, too. You are the bravest, wisest
child in the world, and--I love you for it."