THE DECISION
Monica and Frank were alone in the former's private sitting-room at the
Eldorado Hotel. Phyllis had conducted him to the door of the room,
where she waited until he had passed safely within. Then she discreetly
withdrew to pass many anxious moments pacing the narrow limits of her
own bedroom on the same floor.
The sitting-room was a large, handsomely furnished apartment with two
lofty windows looking out upon the busy street, directly over the
hotel's entrance porch. At one of these windows Frank was standing,
with his back turned upon the room and the woman who had drawn so near
to him. His troubled blue eyes were fixed upon the busy life outside,
but it had no interest for him. Whatever he had gone through before, he
believed that he was now facing the climax of his life. It had arisen
so suddenly, so unexpectedly, as such climaxes do; and it found him
ready for impulsive action that had to be controlled.
Monica was just behind him, and a little to one side. One hand was
resting upon the cold radiator as though she needed its support. Her
beautiful face was drawn, and pale, great dark rings surrounded her
eyes. Her age was strongly marked just now, it was even exaggerated,
and had somehow communicated itself to her shoulders, which drooped in
an unusually hopeless manner.
It had been a long, and for both, a painful interview. It had been a
scene of love and humility on the part of the proud wife of Alexander
Hendrie, and of affection yet decision, not untouched with bitterness,
on the part of the boy who had developed so quickly into a man of
responsibility. The mother love had pleaded with a humility that was
pathetic, and the man had listened, steeling his heart against the
inroads which the sound of that gentle voice made upon his
determination.
Never for one moment did he find aught of blame for her. Never did he,
by word or look, convey anything but the love she had always known. How
could it be otherwise? Nothing could have broken down a love such as
his, founded as it was upon long years of self-sacrificing devotion
toward himself. Monica was still to him all she had ever been--his
mother.
But now her final appeal, that he should abandon his present life and
return to her, had been made, and, as the end came, she handed him a
letter in Alexander Hendrie's handwriting.
The letter remained unread in his hands, held limply, a thing
apparently of no interest to him.
"Won't you read it, Frank? Won't you read it--for my sake?" Monica
urged, after a long, painful silence.
There was something like tears in her voice, and the sound became
irresistible to the man.
He sighed, and glanced down at the folded paper.
"Where is the use?" he asked gently. "There can be nothing in it to
alter my determination. Oh, Mon, don't you understand? If I can hear
you plead and still remain certain my purpose is right, how can
anything this man has to say, turn me from it?"
Monica drew a step nearer. Her hand had left the cold iron. Now the
other was laid tenderly upon his shoulder.
"I know, I know, Frank," she cried. "But--won't you read it? When you
have read it you will understand why I want you to do so. It is the
letter of a man with a mind as big as his passions are--violent. It is
the letter of a man whose proud head is bowed in the--dust with grief
at the wrong he has done to you. If you knew him as I know him, you
would realize all that the writing of that letter must have cost him.
Were it not that I know something of the great, passionate heart that
beats in his body I could not have believed such a letter written by
him possible. Oh, Frank, if nothing I can say, can turn you from the
purpose of your life, let me plead, as I have never pleaded to any one
before, be your just, kindly self for a few moments, and--listen while
he speaks to you."
Frank unfolded the letter, and, after a moment's hesitation, withdrew
his gaze from the window, and began to read, Monica waited
breathlessly. The letter, in a clear, bold handwriting, was without
heading or date.
"I cannot begin this with a conventional heading. I cannot expect that
you would tolerate any sort of demonstrativeness. Therefore, what I
have to say must be short, sincere, and to the point. I am sending this
by Monica, to ensure your receiving it, and in the hope that she will
persuade you to read it. I can think of only one wrong, ever committed
by man, greater than that which I have done to you. The wrong I refer
to was done some two thousand years ago. The horror of that crime has
remained to those whose forbears committed it, and will remain so long
as their lives last. The horror of my crime will so remain with me.
This may sound extravagant to you, however bitter your feelings, but
you do not know, perhaps you never will know, all that is in my mind as
I write. However, that is for me, and it is not easy. The expression of
all my regrets would be useless to convey what I feel. Let them pass.
There are things I desire to do, and I implore you, as you may hope for
future salvation, as you may pity a mind and heart racked with torture,
to come back with Monica, and accept an equal partnership in all I have
in the world. It is here, waiting for you at all times between now and
the day I die. I hope that some day you may learn to forgive the wrongs
I have inflicted upon you.
"Alexander Hendrie."
The letter remained in Frank's hand as his eyes were once more lifted
to the window. There was a slight change in them, a slight softening in
their expression. Monica, watching him, drew a sharp breath. For an
instant hope leaped within her, and a whispered urging escaped her.
"Frank!"
The man made no movement, but the softening passed swiftly out of his
eyes.
"You will--come?"
He held out the letter in reply.
"Take it, Mon, take it back to him," he said deliberately, yet without
harshness. "I will not write a reply, but you can take him this
message. The past is over, and, though perhaps it cannot easily be
forgotten, I have no longer any feeling about it beyond hatred of the
injustice which makes it possible for the weight of one man's wealth to
bring about such persecution as was dealt out to me. Tell him I cannot
accept that which he has no right to be able to give. Tell him there
are thousands--hundreds of thousands of men and women who could be
benefited by that which he would now give to me."
Monica drew back sharply, the caressing weight of her hand slipped from
his shoulder.
"You mean that? Oh, no, no, Frank! You cannot answer him like that. It
is not you--never, never!"
"That is the answer, dear." Frank had turned from the window, and came
towards this woman who had been more than a mother to him. "That is the
answer to his letter, and to all that you have asked me. But you are
right, it is not I--it is the teaching of the suffering and misery I
have witnessed that is speaking, and to that teaching I remain loyal."
"Frank is right, Mrs. Hendrie."
The man looked across the room with a start, and Monica turned
abruptly. Phyllis was standing just inside the room with her back to
the door she had just closed behind her. She nodded in answer to their
looks of surprise, and her eyes were smiling, but with suspicious
brightness.
"You're going, Frank?" she demanded. "You're just going right back to
those--you've--you've joined?"
The girl's voice was so quiet, so soft. Nor was any of her aching heart
permitted to add one touch of appeal to her manner. The man cleared his
throat. He averted his eyes.
"Yes, Phyl," he said hoarsely.
He stood there feeling as though he was once more before a tribunal,
awaiting sentence. Phyllis had drawn close to Monica's side, and her
strong young arm had slipped protectingly about the elder woman's
waist. The girl understood her suffering, and her own added to the
sympathy of her action.
Her eyes shone up into the man's face. Their brightness was the
brightness of tears she would not shed.
"Then--it's 'good-bye'?" she said gently.
The man nodded. He dared not speak until he had full mastery of himself.
Phyllis sighed.
"We came here, Frank, to show you all that was in the hearts of two
women who--who love you," she said slowly. "Maybe we haven't done it
well. I can't rightly say." Her smile was a little wistful, yet almost
pathetically humorous. "It's the way with folks who try hard--isn't it?
They never just seem to get things right. But, say, it doesn't really
figure any, does it? You see," she went on, "we both wanted you back.
But I needed something more than that. You told me in your--that long,
long letter of yours, marriage between us was impossible. Well, say,
dear, there's just one thing, and only one thing could make that so. If
you don't need me then it's just--impossible. I asked you that, and you
didn't tell me in words. But everything else you told me about, you
just did want me."
The man made a movement as though to interrupt her, but she would not
allow him to speak.
"Don't worry, dear. Guess you got all you need that way coming. I just
want you to know I love you through and through, and that surely
goes--just as long as I live. Meanwhile," she added, her smile gaining
in confidence as her thoughts probed ahead into the distant future,
"I'm going right back to home, and mother; right back to that little
tumble-down shack you know, dear, and I'm going to get on with
my--plowing. And later on, dear, when you just get the notion, and come
along, why--I guess you'll find me waiting around for you--and I shan't
be fixed up in black--and bugles. Good-bye, dear--for the present."