PHYLLIS GOES IN SEARCH OF FRANK
Hendrie's return home became something like an epoch in the life of
Phyllis Raysun. It was the moment of her passing from girlhood to the
full maturity of a woman. She began to see with eyes more widely open,
and a mind whitted to the keenest understanding of the actions and
motives of those about her.
Ever since her first coming to Deep Willows, Hendrie, with all her
reason for abhorrence of him, had never failed to interest her. Nor was
it long before this interest begat forgiveness, and even liking. His
colossal powers for dealing with affairs excited her youthful
imagination and impelled admiration. But more than all else, his
evident passionate devotion to Monica appealed to her.
When he had first learned that Monica was to yield him her woman's
pledge of love and devotion, he had displayed a side of character she
had deemed impossible in one of his obvious characteristics. His
boisterous, almost youthful joy was quite unrestrained. She had never
dreamed of such a display in anybody, much less in Hendrie, the hard,
stern financier. It became painful and even pathetic in such a man.
But now, since the latest scene in Angus's office, she had read the
real truth of his personality. She had always watched and studied him
closely, she had detected many almost unaccountable weaknesses, but
when the climax in her observations was reached in his insane outburst,
she felt she held the key to the driving force which hurled him so
frequently blundering down the path of life.
To her he appeared a complex mechanism tremendously organized in one
definite direction, which left all other directions utterly
uncontrolled. All his life, it seemed to her, he had concentrated his
mind and energies upon the process of accumulating wealth, and the
power of wealth. Nothing else had been permitted to appeal to him. He
had rigorously torn every other inclination up by the roots and flung
them aside, to be left behind him in the race to win his ambitions. He
had treated himself like a mere thinking machine, a machine to be
driven in the only direction in which he desired to think. He had
utterly forgotten that he was a human being, created with a hundred and
one feelings, all of which must be duly cared for, and used, and
controlled. The only control over his more human passions he had ever
attempted to use must have been of a nature which endeavored to crush
them out of existence.
Now the result was manifest. Human nature had rebelled. Human nature
was fighting for its existence. The human nature in him all
uncontrolled by careful, studied training, drove him whithersoever it
listed. All his great, machine-made brain broke down before its
tremendous flood-tide, and he was swept along upon its bosom toward the
brink of disaster. His passions once stirred, there was no telling
where they might bring him up. She believed that under their influence
he would stop at nothing.
Fortunately it seemed that all his passions were wrapped up in Monica.
She was certainly their guiding star, and from this thought she drew
comfort and hope. She felt that if Monica could only be saved, all
would be well with him. While, on the other hand, her loss suggested to
her imagination possibilities all too dreadful to contemplate.
Thus was her fevered anxiety stirred to its limits during the rest of
the day, and the following morning, Doctor Fraser was to make his final
examination of his patient, and give his definite verdict to the
husband. Phyllis dreaded that verdict. Whatever it might mean for
Monica, it was the man for whom she most feared.
Her mind was kept fully alert for all that was passing during the time
of waiting. She knew that Hendrie kept himself tremendously busy. She
knew that the wires were speeding messages from the house at Deep
Willows, and it required little trouble to find out that Professor
Hinkling, of Winnipeg, was in direct communication with the master of
Deep Willows. She ascertained, too, that he was the greatest surgeon in
the country for all matters to do with Monica's condition.
Then Angus had disappeared, and Hendrie was left at the head of affairs
at the farm. Here, too, she soon learned that he had been speeded to
Calford in the automobile to endeavor, by every means known to the
power of money, to arrange for a special train to be allowed to run
from Winnipeg to Calford, and bring the great surgeon to Monica's aid.
All these things left an atmosphere of suppressed excitement and
anxiety pervading the whole place, and, coupled with the strike of farm
hands, which, as promised, began at sundown, a chaotic state seemed to
reign everywhere.
The real crisis arrived with the hour of the noonday meal. The entire
household was aware that Doctor Fraser's report was due at any moment.
Phyllis and the millionaire sat down to their meal together. Neither
required anything to eat, and only Phyllis made any pretense. Hendrie
sat at the head of the great table, surrounded by all the luxury he had
heaped upon his wife, wrapped in morose silence. His attitude was such
that even Phyllis feared to arouse the storm she felt to be brooding
behind his sullen eyes.
It was in the midst of the final course that Doctor Fraser made his
appearance. Phyllis felt her head whirl at sight of his pale, grave
face. Then, with an effort, she pulled herself together, and covertly
watched the millionaire.
A strange light had crept into his eyes, as the thin, clever face
appeared in the doorway. It was a light of desperate hope, of a heart
yearning for some trifling encouragement where conviction made all hope
impossible. She pitied this man of millions from the bottom of her
heart.
But Fraser was speaking in slow, deliberate tones. He was reciting the
medical aspect of the case, and, though only understanding half of what
he said, the girl listened acutely. Finally he summed up the situation.
"It means this, Mr. Hendrie," he said, with a gesture, the significance
of which was quite unmistakable. "Nominally, I suppose, there are two
lives at stake. I contend there is only one. I think we can put the
child's life out of the question. The complications are such that there
is little doubt the child would be still-born. Everything points that
way. Anyway, in my opinion, the complications are such that it would be
absolutely fatal to allow Mrs. Hendrie to face the labors of
child-birth. In a younger woman there might have been a shadow of hope.
In her case I am convinced there is none. In my opinion--mind it is but
one man's opinion--you have only one alternative. The child must be
sacrificed by operation."
Phyllis's eyes were upon Alexander Hendrie's set face. She beheld the
strong, drawn mouth twitch nervously. She also noted that one great
fist was clenched tightly as it rested upon the white cloth of the
table.
She sighed as she awaited his reply.
Suddenly he raised his head, and his passionate eyes shot a swift
inquiry into the doctor's face.
"And the time limit--for the operation?" he asked.
He was thinking only of his wife. Phyllis understood.
The doctor deliberated.
"A week. Perhaps less."
Phyllis caught her breath.
"How much less?"
The exactness of Hendrie's mind demanded satisfying.
"Safety in five days. Risk in seven. That's the utmost limit."
Again the girl caught her breath. Hendrie did not move a muscle.
Presently he spoke again.
"Failing--all else--will--you undertake the operation?"
Doctor Fraser cleared his throat.
"It is my duty," he said slowly.
Then he passed one hand quickly across his forehead as though striving
to remove a weight from his mind.
"For God's sake, don't let it come to that, Mr. Hendrie," he cried. "I
am an ordinary practitioner. This is a desperate case for a specialist.
If you offered me a fee of one hundred thousand dollars I'd gladly
refuse it. Surely you can get Hinkling here in time."
Suddenly Hendrie's fist lifted and crashed down upon the table.
"Yes, by God, yes!" he cried.
Then he sat quite still. A moment later he ran his fingers through his
hair, and they remained there while he spoke very quietly.
"I'd pay you half a million," he said, in a low, deep voice, "if I
thought you could do this--successfully. As it is I wouldn't offer you
ten cents. I'm sorry--Doc--but----"
He rose from the table and walked heavily out of the room.
Phyllis followed his example. As she passed the doctor she paused.
"Is there no--hope?" she asked pleadingly.
The man shook his head.
"None--unless Hinkling can be got here--in time."
She passed on out of the room without a word. There was nothing more to
be said. Anyway she was quite beyond words.
Phyllis went straight to her bedroom. She could not go to Monica yet,
with the knowledge of what she had just heard. It was dreadful. It
seemed utterly, utterly hopeless. Five days. Seven at the most.
Seven--and the railroad completely shut down. Monica's life must be
sacrificed because some wretched workman was not satisfied, or some
equally absurd thing. It was too awful to contemplate.
In the extremity of her grief her thoughts strayed to Frank. It was the
natural womanly impulse causing her to turn to the man she loved. As
the boy's image rose before her distraught mind she remembered that he
belonged to those who had brought this desperate state of things about.
And in her moment of realization she cried out her bitterness--
"Oh, Frank, Frank, how could you?"
The words echoed through the silent room, and came back to her with
startling effect. She shivered at their sound, and flung herself upon
her bed in a passion of grief. She remained there sobbing for many
minutes. The strain had been too much for her, and now the hopelessness
of it all wrung her heart.
But after a while the storm passed, and she sat up. Then, once more,
she abandoned herself to thought. Curiously enough, Frank was still
uppermost in her mind. A wild longing, quite impossible to resist, to
see him, and tell him of all that had happened, possessed her, and she
tried to think where he might be found.
She did not know. She could not think. He was in the neighborhood. That
was certain. But where, where? She paced the room puzzling her brains
as to how she might find him. Then, quite without realizing her
actions, she opened a drawer in her bureau and drew out the riding suit
Monica had given her. She had only worn it a few times before Monica
had been taken seriously ill. She looked it over. It had been her great
pride--once. Its divided skirt and beautiful long coat had been a
positive joy.
Suddenly an irresistible impulse made her lay it out on her bed. The
next moment she began to remove her own costume.
*****
Far out on the outskirts of those wheat lands which acknowledged the
direct control of the master of Deep Willows, at a point where the
cultivated land yielded to the wood-lined slopes of the river valley, a
great crowd of men, made to look almost insignificant by comparison
with their wide surroundings, were listening eagerly to a speaker,
perched upon the prostrate form of a huge tree trunk.
It was evening, and the westering sun lolled heavily upon the skyline,
cradled in a cauldron of fiery cloud rising to bear it upon its long
night journey. Everywhere was the profound peace when Nature composes
itself for repose at the close of day. The air was sweet with the
perfume of ripening foliage, blended with the dank which rose from the
racing waters below. It was a moment for peace and good-will; it was a
moment when all life should yield its thanks for blessings bestowed by
the unseen hand of Nature; it was a moment when the heart of man should
bow before the Creator of a beneficent life.
Yet neither peace nor good-will reigned. The arrogant heart of man was
stirred by passions of discontent, and even evil. Life and all its
benefits and blessings they possessed, and possessing them they cared
nothing for such possession. These things were forgotten in a craving
for more. This crowd was foregathered that it might learn how best to
satisfy its discontent, which had been stirred by mischievous tongues
in hearts hitherto contented.
The man on the tree trunk was no mere flamboyant orator preaching a
doctrine of profound socialism. He was not talking "principle," so
beloved of the tub-thumper. He was there with a mind packed full of
venom against one man, a venom he was spitting into the ears of these
workers for that one man's undoing.
This man had traveled far to satisfy his hatred. He had put himself at
enormous inconvenience to address this meeting. His coming, too, had
been heralded by other talkers, who were his satellites. His audience
had been promised the joy of listening to the words of the greatest
labor leader in the country; the privilege of hearing what the most
powerful figure in the country's labor movement had to promise them;
what he could do to wrest from their employer a bettering of their lot.
Austin Leyburn was paying something like a secret visit to those
people, and so carefully had his coming been nursed that his words
became as the words of divine inspiration to those dull-witted workers
he was addressing.
It was the first evening of the strike at Deep Willows, and his coming
had been anticipated in another way. A liberal supply of drink had
found its way to the strikers. No one quite knew where it came from. No
one cared very much. It was there for their indulgence, and they
thirstily availed themselves of it.
The result was all that might have been hoped by those whose mischief
was at work. A sense of elation prevailed. A sense of injustice against
Alexander Hendrie was uppermost in blurred minds. A vaunting demand for
something, something they did not possess, lay at the back of pretty
well every mind, and an arrogant determination to possess it was
stirring. Then, too, prejudice against the colored race became a
prejudice no longer, it had swiftly lashed itself into an active hatred
that suggested grave possibilities.
This was the attitude of mind desired, and carefully fostered, before
the great man's words could be received as he demanded they should be
received. Then, with a blare of oratorical trumpets he appeared in
their midst.
It was the perfection of organization, organization such as only Austin
Leyburn understood.
Frank had been abroad among the smaller farms in the district, pursuing
his work with indifferent enthusiasm. Now he was returning to Everton
for the night, weary in body, but still more weary in heart. His mind
was full of that which he had witnessed in Monica's home. He was
thinking of the mother he had always known, lying in her richly
appointed sickroom, crying out in her delirium all the pain and anguish
through which she had passed, and was still passing.
Something was urging him to hasten on his way, and, hastening, to
diverge, and break his journey at Deep Willows. He felt that he could
not pass another night, he could not endure another day of the work
that had somehow grown so distasteful to him, without ascertaining
Monica's condition. It was little more than twenty-four hours since his
mind and heart had been distracted almost beyond endurance by a sight
of her sufferings. And during those few hours he seemed to have passed
through an eternity.
His way brought him along the north bank of the river. It was a short
cut to the boundary of Hendrie's wheat lands, which he must skirt on
his journey to Everton. His horse was tired. It had been under the
saddle since noon.
He had been riding along the lower slopes down by the river bank, and,
as he came to the limits of Deep Willows, he dismounted and led the
weary creature up the steep sides of the valley.
It was just as he neared the shoulder of the rising ground that a
sudden burst of cheering startled his horse and made it lunge
backwards, and it was some moments before Frank could pacify it. At
last, however, he induced the frightened beast to stand. Then he
hitched it to a bush and moved forward on foot.
He, too, had been startled, but he guessed something of the meaning of
the cheering. He had heard so much of that sort of thing lately. It
seemed to him that his whole life was spent listening to crowds of
dishevelled creatures cheering men who made them promises which could
never be fulfilled.
He made his way through the foliage, and as he feared its fringe he
moved more cautiously. Nor was he aware of his caution. There was no
reason for it. If this were what he suspected it was, a strike meeting,
it was surely his duty to witness it. However, his movements became
cautious, even furtive.
A moment later he was glad they had been so, for, as he pushed the last
of the bush aside, and beheld the crowd beyond, and saw the figure of
Austin Leyburn addressing it, and heard his powerful voice hurling
invective against Alexander Hendrie from his tree trunk, he thanked his
stars that his presence was unknown.
Austin Leyburn here! Austin Leyburn in the neighborhood of Deep
Willows, while the great railroad strike was in full operation! It was
almost unbelievable.
These were something of Frank's amazed thoughts as he watched the
gesticulating figure silhouetted against the ruddy skyline.
But now, as he stood, the man's words reached him, and, in a moment,
their startling purpose held him spellbound.
What was that he was saying? Hark!
Leyburn's harsh voice rang out in clarion tones--
"I hadn't intended to come along yet, boys," he was saying. "I hadn't
intended to come till next year. You see, this is a new union, and
funds are not big. It needs money to fight these gilded hogs. But when
I saw the way things were going; when I heard the way you were herded
alongside a crowd of lousy niggers, and set to work with 'em, like a
pack of galley slaves; when I heard these things, and learned that
these dirty blacks were taking the place of legitimate white workers
for less wages, then my blood just got red hot, and I couldn't sleep o'
nights. Say, boys, it broke me all up. I couldn't eat nor sleep till
I'd rushed through a financial arrangement with other labor
organizations, which sets you clear beyond the chances of want. There's
money and plenty for a strike right now. Money and plenty to kill the
harvest of these swine of men who roll about in their automobiles,
every bolt of which, every soft cushion they sit on, has been paid for
by the sweat of your big hearts.
"What's your wages? A dollar a day? Don't you wish it was? Don't you
wish they'd let you have it? I was going to say 'earn' it. By hell,
earn it! You're earning hundreds a day for this skunk of a man,
Hendrie. Hundreds and hundreds. Say, he's got millions, no one knows
how rich he is, and you boys are the fellows who earn it for him. Do
you get that? Do you get its meaning right? Here's one man sits around
on top, with you boys lying around whining at his feet for a fraction
of the result of your own work."
Frank murmured the word "syndicalism" to himself. But the rabid tongue
of Leyburn was still at work.
"Say, d'you know what set war raging between the northern and southern
states? Do you know what set sons and fathers at each other's throats?
I'll tell you. It was the high-minded folk of the north couldn't stand
for slavery, even of the blacks. Do you know what you are to-day?
You're slaves, slaves of this man--white slaves. 'Out you go into my
fields,' he says, 'and I'll let you live--just live--that's all. His
fields, mark you. His! By what right are they his? Ain't they yours?
Didn't the Creator set you out here just the same as him, and hand you
this world for your own? His fields! And out you go into them, and you
grind, and sweat, and you fill his safe full of money, so he can live
in a luxury you can never enjoy."
"The cur," muttered the listener. "The miserable cur." Something
stirred behind him, but it remained unnoticed.
"Listen to me," Leyburn shouted above the hubbub of agreement and
applause which arose from the half-drunken portion of the crowd. "Do
you know what's going to happen right here, quite soon? Course you
don't. You don't know these gilded hogs same as I do. I'll tell you
what's going to happen. Hendrie told me himself. He says niggers are
easier dealt with than whites. He says he can get them cheaper. He says
they work just as well. He says he'll run Deep Willows on black labor
entirely--soon, just as soon as he can get enough of 'em. He cares
nothing for any of you, not even for you boys who've worked years for
him. Out you got to go--the lot of you, so he can make bigger money out
of the black. Get that? You know what it means to you? Will you stand
for it?"
A great shout of "no" accompanied by a yell of blasphemy greeted his
challenge.
"All lies, lies, lies," muttered the listening man, and a soft-voiced
echo from somewhere behind agreed with him.
"Of course you won't," Leyburn roared, with a harsh laugh. "And that's
why I'm right here talking to you, because you're the real grit. You've
quit work to-night, and you're going to get your strike pay right away,
and when you get it, I'll tell you what you'll do, if you'd beat this
skunk into treating you right. There's his crop--worth hundreds of
thousands of dollars. You reckon to let it rot at harvest. Will it rot?
Mind he's still got his rotten black slaves. Do you know what he'll do?
No, you hadn't thought of it. But I'll tell you. He'll set them to work
it. While you're making a stand for labor, his black slaves'll rob you
of the fruits of your work. See?"
Another fierce shout went up from the audience, and the speaker grinned
his delight.
Frank waited breathlessly for what was to follow, and a low sigh, like
the breath of the night breeze in the trees, sounded behind him.
"Now, you're going to beat him, and I'll show you how. See this?"
Leyburn drew a box of matches from his pocket, and held it up for all
to see.
"Fire the damned crop," shouted a voice in the crowd. And in a moment
the word "fire" roared from a hundred tongues.
The speaker nodded and laughed.
"That's it," he cried. "Make a big bluff at him, and he's got to
weaken. He won't listen without, so he'll have to be made to listen.
Fire his crop, and you steal his purse. It's fair game. This is
war--labor war. Fire his crop, and he's on his knees, and you can make
your own terms. The damned niggers don't amount to a row of shucks. If
they butt in, out 'em. Get after 'em with a gun, shoot 'em up--the
crowd of you. Then the government'll get busy and stop black labor in a
white country. They can't afford to quarrel with the workers. They want
their votes. They're yearning for office. Get redhot after the niggers
and out 'em. Chase 'em back to the place they belong. Are you on?"
A great cheer rose from the crowd. It was prolonged. And with it was
the laugh of mischief Leyburn wanted to hear. He knew that he had
tickled their sense of humor, and love of violent horse-play. Firing
the crop appealed. But, even more, the routing of the niggers would be
a joy not readily missed.
"That's it," Leyburn cried. "But before I've done I want to say right
here----"
Frank passed one great hand across his perspiring forehead. It was
unbelievable that it could be Leyburn urging these men to nothing less
than anarchy and crime. He could scarcely credit his ears. Yet there it
was--and he was still speaking.
A furious and utter loathing for the man, even for the cause of the
benighted worker, rose up in his heart and sickened him.
"It's awful!" he said aloud.
"It's the saddest sight I've seen in my life."
Frank swung round at the sound of the voice. In a moment his arms were
outstretched.
"Phyl!" he cried. "You?"
Phyllis caught his hands and held them tightly.
[Illustration: Phyllis Caught His Hands and Held Them Tightly]
"Yes, Frank. I've--I've been chasing for you all the afternoon. Say----"
"Oh, Phyl, Phyl, did you hear? Did you hear all that man said?" Frank
broke in. "That's Austin Leyburn. That's the man to whom my duty is
pledged. Was there ever such a lying, despicable traitor to humanity?
He tells them to burn--to kill their fellows. And that's the man whom I
have been helping. Never, never, never again. Just God! I have done
with it all. Was there ever such vile criminal teaching or methods?
Thank God, my eyes are open to it all--at last."
Phyllis drew his two hands toward her and placed them about her neck.
Then she reached up to him, tip-toeing, and kissed him on the lips.
"And I thank God too, dear."
The man drew her to him in a great embrace.
"Never again, Phyl," he said more calmly, after a moment. "Never again,
so long as I live." He kissed her tenderly.
Then, as the strident tones of Leyburn still reached them, the girl
looked up.
"Frank," she cried, with a slight start. "I had almost forgotten. You
made me forget. I--I came to find you. I want you to come back to Deep
Willows. Will you come? Mr. Hendrie is there."
"Alexander Hendrie?"
"Yes."
The man stood silent for a moment, and the girl's eyes became intensely
earnest.
"Will you come and tell him--what we have heard--to-night?" she begged.
"Will you come and tell him--what you have told me? But it's not that I
want you for most. There's trouble around. Desperate trouble for--for
Monica." She clasped her hands in her anxiety. "Oh, come--come and
help. Come and help us--her. Doctor Fraser says she cannot live
unless--unless she is operated on by--by a surgeon from Winnipeg. But
the railroad strike has made it impossible to get him--in time."
Frank started back and his arms dropped abruptly from about the girl's
slim body.
"Monica?" he cried. "Monica dying?" Then, with a gasp. "Oh, God, and I
helped to make that strike!"