"Yes, you're right, Leo. Oh, you're right," Leyburn retorted passionately. "It'll keep till later. Meanwhile I'll get on with the story." He turned again to Frank. "You're this man's bastard. You understand – his bastard. Twenty years ago we were on the Yukon together – "

"Not together. We were both there," corrected Hendrie.

"Yes, we were both there. You were living with your paramour – the woman Audie – this fellow's mother. I was with my partner, Charlie. He was sick to death. We'd got a big wad of gold from the creek, and because Charlie was sick – "

"And you'd got enough gold to suit your purposes," put in Hendrie quietly.

"We decided to return to civilization." Leyburn went on, ignoring the interruption. "I hoped to get him cured."

"So you made him face the winter trail." Hendrie's addition was made quite without passion.

"We set out down country with our dogs, and all our goods, and gold, and got held up by a blizzard. We were camped in a bluff. Charlie could not stand the weather. He got so weak we couldn't travel. Then before we struck camp he died. I didn't know he was dead, and I had gone to gather firewood. Meanwhile, this man and your mother made up their minds to return to civilization. He had a big wad of gold. You were to be born before winter was out, and your mother was scared to have you born up there. So she made this man bring her down. She reckoned he was honest, and would marry her. She reckoned like that because she was a woman," he added, with burning contempt.

He waited for Hendrie's comment, which came promptly.

"She reckoned that way because she knew it was my purpose," he said coldly.

"But you didn't marry her, did you?" Leyburn cried tauntingly.

"I didn't marry her because she was dead when I finally found her whereabouts."

"But she did not die till after you deserted her," cried Leyburn, with venomous triumph.

"Best go straight on with the story. You want the boy to know it all – not in pieces." Hendrie went on smoking.

Leyburn turned to Frank again.

"And it's a pretty story," he assured him. "Listen. A week after we started down the trail these two followed us with a scout. They, too, got caught in the blizzard. They got caught in the open. They were high up in the hills. An accident happened. They lost their gold, dropped with a lot of their baggage over a precipice. This man got mad. He loved gold. He cared for nothing else. Your mother was nothing beside it. She was just a burden. Finally they made camp a few miles from us. After a while this man saw our smoke in the distance. He stole out on the excuse of fetching wood. He tramped to our camp. He came there when I was away for wood and Charlie had just died. Finding Charlie dead, and no one about, he stole our gold, our dogs and sled, our provisions and blankets, and hit the trail south, leaving your mother with the scout, and me to walk back to their camp or starve. That's the man who is your father. That's the man you've gone over to, and sacrificed your pledges to humanity for. Do you understand what you've done? Do you? You've helped this criminal, this skunk of a man who dishonored your mother, and left her and her unborn child on the long winter trail to die, this thief, this ghoul who could rob the dead, and renounced your most sacred pledges. By God, you are your father's son!"

The scorn and hatred the man flung into his final charge was far, far beyond the power of words.

He looked for its effect, waiting for Frank to take up his challenge. But he remained disappointed.

"Well?" he urged, with gathering fury.

Still there was no answer in the darkened room.

But though he remained silent Frank's heart was beating hard. A strange excitement was plunging wildly through his veins. He felt that he wanted to reach out his strong young hands and do hurt. He felt at that moment, and during the moments he was hearkening to the venomous story, aggravated by every hateful inflection that could goad, that relief could only come in violence. And his desire was to silence that hateful voice, and choke the story it was telling back into the throat of the man telling it. It did not hurt him to hear these things of his own father because he was his father. They hurt him because they were on the tongue of this man, who, from the bottom of his heart, he had learned so to despise and hate.

Alexander Hendrie shot a sidelong glance into the boy's face. It was a furtive glance, watchful and anxious. Then his eyes returned to their dark brooding.

A moment later, as Frank made no response to the man's challenge, Hendrie removed the cigar from his mouth.

"You stuck nearer the truth than I expected you would. Maybe you knew it would be useless to do otherwise, seeing I'm here to put you right," he said, in his deep, unruffled tones. "Now – "

He broke off, and glanced quickly at the door as a sharp knock made itself heard. Suddenly he held up his hand, as though to enjoin silence, and, in a moment, his eyes lit with a mingling of wild hope and abject fear.

The door opened and, silhouetted against the brilliantly lit hall beyond, stood the slight figure of an elderly man with iron gray hair.

Hendrie sprang to his feet and pressed the switch of the electric light. Then he turned and faced Professor Hinkling as the surgeon advanced into the room.

The little man came straight up to him with his hand out-stretched. His clean-cut features were smiling, but he looked tired and nervous.

"I think," he said deliberately, "we have turned the corner, Mr. Hendrie. I have every reason to believe Mrs. Hendrie will recover. The operation has been quite successful. I shall remain with Dr. Fraser to watch the case for a few days, but I have no fears of ultimate recovery. We were only just in time. Another day." He held up his hands to signify disaster, and the millionaire understood. "My best congratulations, my dear sir. She should be about again in less than a month."

The door closed on the retreating figure of the great surgeon. For a moment Hendrie stood looking after him. Then he abruptly turned and flung the end of his cigar into the cuspidor beside his desk. Then he turned again, and his eyes flashed round upon the three men who had remained perfectly silent during the surgeon's brief visit. They were different eyes now which finally settled upon the man who had so recently heaped accusation and insult upon his head. They were full of that great fighting spirit which they all knew so well.

He strode up to Austin Leyburn, who sat watching him speculatively, who was waiting for whatever development was yet to come.

"Get up!" he cried, with a deep, underlying ferocity in his voice and manner. "Get right up on to your hind legs. You heard what he said? You heard?" He drew his right hand from his coat pocket and produced a revolver. "If his verdict had been otherwise you would never have left this room. Every chamber of this gun is loaded, and each bullet would have found its way into your rotten body. As it is, you can go. You are free. Your car, and your man, will meet you in Everton. Take my advice and get away from this neighborhood without delay. When you are away remember this. You can take what action you like for what has happened here. I don't care a curse. But I'll warn you right here and now, that you have committed criminal conspiracy in playing the stock market, and when I give the word, the machinery for prosecution will be set moving against you. Further, I'd warn you that if one word of the story you've told here to-night reaches the world outside, that word will be given, and you'll pay as you never yet guessed you'd ever pay for the luxury of a private revenge. You get me? Now go! Go quick!"

Austin Leyburn was on his feet. The two men stood eye to eye. With all his faults, the difference between them left the balance absurdly in the millionaire's favor.

"Yes, I'll go. And I'll remember," cried Leyburn fiercely. "You can shout now, but I'll remember everything. You won't have to set that machinery in motion, but when the time comes – and I'll be looking for that time all my life – you'll find I have remembered everything, both for you and – your bastard son."

As his last words leaped from between his clenched teeth he moved swiftly across to the door. Hendrie shot a quick glance at Angus, and the watchful Scot promptly followed him out.

"It's a pretty story, Frank."

Hendrie's lips were smiling, but his eyes were half anxious, half questioning.

"Guess it hasn't gained niceness from that feller," he went on. "No," he added thoughtfully. "Nothing ever gained in niceness from those lips. Tug never had pleasant ways. Still, there it is – and – " In spite of himself his eyes were wholly anxious now – "it's true, when you clean his tone off it."

Frank rose from his chair and moved away across the room. His movement seemed objectless, yet his father understood. He knew that a great conflict was going on within that silent heart, and he wondered.

But Leyburn's venomous manner of telling his, Hendrie's, story had satisfied the millionaire. He preferred that his son should know it from its worst possible aspect. That was why he had forced it from the labor man's lips. He desired no smoothing over of the roughnesses of his past character. Certainly not for his own son's benefit. He was determined that this boy should sit in judgment upon him with his eyes wide open to all his shortcomings. He wanted him to know his father as he was.

"I wanted him to tell Monica, too," Hendrie went on, after a pause. "But she's not fit to hear it – yet. Now I'll have to tell her myself. I shan't cover things up, anyway. There's just one thing I want to add. It's right I should add it. Leyburn didn't know it." He smiled. "Guess no one knew it but me. I wanted the truth from him, so we'll have it all. I want to tell you, after your mother got down to civilization I spent most of Tug's gold trying to find her – to marry her. It took me weeks and weeks. Then I found she was dead, and you – I had lost you, too."

Frank turned round, and there was thankfulness and no condemnation in the eyes that looked into his father's across the room. Instantly Hendrie's face became set.

"Say," he cried quickly, "don't think I'm squealing. Don't think I'm shuffling. These are just facts, same as the others. Get a grip on things, boy. I'm wholly unrepentant for the things I've done. Especially for – helping myself to Tug's gold. I don't go back on anything I do. These things were, and I – stand for them. There's just one other thing I'd like you to know. I didn't know you were my son till I set about getting you released from the penitentiary. I learned that from Monica, when she told me about you. I didn't tell her of my discovery – again this is the truth – because I was scared to lose her love. You see, boy, there are some things make cowards of us in spite of ourselves. I told you that before.

"That's pretty well all. Maybe there's things you'd like to know later, when you aren't feeling so hot about this. Well, I'll be glad to tell you when you want to hear them. I'm your father, boy, and Monica is your stepmother. This is your home, same as any other place I own. You've just to open your lips and say the word, and your share of all I have is waiting for you – everything I have or – am. You get that? It's all up to you. You're just as free as you were before. Your own decision goes with me. I just want you to get me clearly. I want you to understand all that's in my head. You are my son, and I'm proud and pleased about it. But – I bend the knee to no man – not even to you – my son."

The man's curious dignity, his crude truth, and deliberate honesty of purpose were superlative. Frank was looking upon the man as he was, shorn of everything that could hide, in however slight a degree, the rugged character that was his, and he knew it.

This was the father whose violent youthful passions had brought him into the world. This was the father who had given him the breath of life which had borne him upon its stormy bosom. This unrepentant sinner. This strong man among strong men. This human creature so ready to err, yet so full of human nature, was his father.

The knowledge somehow left him no sense of outrage. He had neither resentment nor dislike. Only, in the back of his simple mind, was a lurking admiration for one who had the courage to talk as he had just talked, to do as he had just done.

He drew a step nearer.

"Father," he said. Then he paused. After a moment he repeated the word. "Father – it sounds queer to call you 'father,' doesn't it?"

The millionaire nodded. His eyes were smiling.

"Your ways may not be my ways," he went on. "I don't know. Anyway, I fancy you just see things your own way, and I mine. All that man said left me cold – except one thing. He said you – deserted my mother. You've cleared that up – and I'm glad. I'd sooner believe the truth from you than from him. But I seem to have heard such a heap. I seem to have lived through years this past week. I can't just get that full grip you spoke of. Maybe I will after a while. Still – there's a thing standing right out in my mind, and – and I'm glad. Our Mon is going to get through. God's been pretty good to us in that. She's going to live for us both. Say, we had to fight hard – and it's good to fight – after all. Since I've tasted what fighting means I seem to understand some of your life, seem to understand something of you. I'm glad we were to – gether in this. I think I'll get out, and – just walk around. I – yes, I want to – think."

The millionaire remained where he was. He made no movement. His eyes were on his son's face. He saw its color come and go in the brilliant light of the room. His halting speech told him far more than his words. He knew, deep down in his heart, that all he desired, all he longed for, was to be fulfilled.

He knew that in the midst of the threatening disaster that had so long hung over him, when all the world, and the powers of Fate had seemed to be working against him, not only was the woman he loved to be restored to him, but he was to find and recover his – son.

He nodded kindly.

"Yes, boy. I kind of know how you're feeling. Just get around, and – sort things out," he said. "When you've done, just round-up your Phyllis and tell her the things you've heard. I'd like you to. After that, if you've the notion, you can come right back to me."

Frank drew another step nearer. His father waited.

"Yes – father. I – think I will."

There was doubt and hesitation in the boy's words and movements. Hendrie remained quite still. Suddenly Frank turned away and walked toward the door. Half-way across the room he paused again irresolutely. He glanced back. The smiling eyes of his father caught his.

In a moment his indecision passed, and he strode back quickly with long, firm strides.

As he drew near, his great right hand was thrust out.

"Won't – won't you shake hands, father?" he cried.

In an instant his hand was caught in a crushing grip.

"Why, yes, lad," cried Hendrie, a great light shining in his eyes. "Say, this is just the greatest moment in my life."

CHAPTER XXI
HENDRIE'S WAY

In spite of Professor Hinkling's best assurance, a month of weary nursing and watching followed before Monica's recovery became assured. The operation was absolutely successful, but the patient herself obstinately refused to respond to the skill that sought her complete recovery. It almost seemed as though her recuperative powers had been completely destroyed, for she lingered close to the border which she had so nearly crossed, and Nature, generally so accommodating, utterly refused to carry her away from it.

Thus it was that Professor Hinkling stayed on and on at Deep Willows, puzzled and anxious. He sacrificed his great practice to that one flickering life. He was even better than his word, for he rarely ever left the house, and remained in constant attendance.

Alexander Hendrie, a prey to every misgiving which his love could inspire, watched these things with thankfulness and gratitude to the man who could so generously bestow his great skill. He was glad. Though he knew his debt to this man was beyond the reach of mere wealth he was glad that it was within his power to make a princely effort to repay.

Frank and Phyllis, too, found themselves well-nigh despairing. Whenever Phyllis could drag herself from the vicinity of the sick room, which no one but nurses and doctors were permitted to enter, she spent her time at her lover's side. Together they shared this weary trouble, as they shared all things, buoying each other with words of hope and confidence which had no stable foundations in their minds. In Hendrie's presence they avoided the subject of Monica's health altogether. It was enough for them to witness his brooding eyes, with their gloomy, stormy look, which was rarely absent from them now.

The reaction from his moment of buoyant hope, when he had dismissed Austin Leyburn, was painful to all who observed it. The man's heart was well-nigh breaking, and a great dread filled his stormy brain. He could not rest. Work – work was the only thing, and he set himself a pace which human machinery could never hope to keep up. He avoided everybody except Angus, and these two spent every moment of their time in the repairing of the damage done by the strikers to the farm.

They were full enough weeks for everybody. Events were happening in almost every direction, the influence of which was felt throughout the whole farming world.

The strike of farm hands had fallen utterly flat since Leyburn had departed from Deep Willows, and the strikers had discovered that harvesting was going on in every direction without their aid. Instead of the employers being brought to their knees as promised, they, the strikers at Deep Willows, as a result of their own mischief, found themselves without the prospect of work, and a winter yet to face. When they attempted to gain employment on other farms, they found themselves not required. Their plight was bad, and, in very little time, they were glad enough to approach Deep Willows, as Hendrie had prophesied, pretty well on their knees.

Nor did they come in vain. In less than a week a hundred plows, steam and horse, were at work burying the last signs of recent destruction. But whatever Hendrie's feelings, whatever his attitude toward these misguided creatures, Angus Moraine's was unmistakable. He was a born martinet, nor could he forget their wanton destruction of his beloved farm.

Then, too, within two weeks of Leyburn's release, a further lightening of the labor horizon came. The significance of it was lost to the general public. Quite suddenly the railroad strike came to an end. The world was told that a compromise had been effected between the men and the company. Perhaps, too, the men were told this by their leaders.

Hendrie had his own ideas upon the subject, and Angus Moraine shared them.

"There's only one thing for the gopher when the watch-dogs get loose, Angus," the millionaire said, when he received the confirmation of the rumor. "They need to hunt their holes – quick."

Angus agreed, but his eyes only half smiled.

"Sure," he said.

"Leyburn's a pretty wise guy," Hendrie went on thoughtfully. "Guess the bottom's dropped right out of his play. It'll take him a while patching it. But he'll be on to a fresh mischief later, and we'll need to keep a skinned eye. But I guess it won't be playing stocks through labor strikes. Say, he'll quit labor – after a while."

How true was Alexander Hendrie's surmise time soon showed. Austin Leyburn did resign from his official capacity in labor circles. And within a year he suddenly reappeared in the financial world, which brought him under closer observation by the wheat operator.

These events came, passed, and soon were relegated to the mere memory of a stormy period, scarcely pleasant to dwell upon. In the meantime Monica's retarded recovery occupied every mind at Deep Willows. It was so wholly inexplicable.

One day, toward the end of the third week, Professor Hinkling, who had taken a great fancy to Phyllis, opened his heart to her upon the subject.

It was one morning. Phyllis was on the landing not far from the door of the sick room. She was waiting, as was her custom, for the surgeon's report. He had been with his patient longer than usual and the girl was worried, and more than usually depressed. All sorts of fancies had taken hold of her imagination, and she feared a change for the very worst. At last the door opened and she saw the man's slim figure emerge.

He saw her, too. He knew she would be there. Now his eyes had lost their usual cheerfulness. His brows were knitted, and he looked troubled. He shook his head as he came up.

"No improvement, my dear young lady," he said, in his crisp way.

"None? None at all?" The girl's face fell.

The man shook his head again.

"It is – quite extraordinary," he said thoughtfully. "She is comparatively young. I should say she was normally a – healthy woman. The operation was absolutely successful. She – she ought to be better – very much better. It almost seems – as if she doesn't want to recover."

"Oh, but," the girl cried impulsively, and broke off. All of a sudden the man's final remark became full of significance to her woman's mind.

"But – what?" inquired the man, with his amiable smile.

"I – I don't know," declared Phyllis lamely.

The man shook his head.

"That won't do," he said kindly. "You – you were thinking of something. Something suggested by my saying she seemed not to want to recover." His keen eyes were searching her strong, young face. "Listen, young lady," he went on, after a pause, while the girl felt as though he were reading her through and through. "We surgeons are frequently up against psychological forces in our patients which not infrequently undo all the good we attempt to do. Believe me, a skillful operation often fails by reason of the antagonistic forces I refer to. There is no physical reason that I can discover why Mrs. Hendrie should not recover. Her history – the history of her trouble – suggests that the psychological side has been instrumental in bringing about her – deplorable condition. I know no absolute facts, but I have reason to believe that her mental attitude is such as to retard, even destroy the chances of her recovery. Can you tell me? But I know you can."

The girl suddenly clasped and unclasped her hands. Her anxiety became almost painful. The waiting man saw that he was on a hot scent, and, like the clever man he was, refrained from pressing her.

Presently she looked up into his face with desperate eyes.

"Oh, Professor," she cried, "I've so – so wanted to say something to you before. But I've – I've been scared to. You see, a – a woman's so different from a man – and – Monica is – is a woman."

"Quite so."

Phyllis saw the smile which accompanied the surgeon's words, and her helpless groping suddenly passed. She stifled her nervousness and spoke quickly.

"Yes, I know. I'm silly," she cried. "But – maybe no one's told you. You see, it's not easy. Yes, Mrs. Hendrie's trouble I think was largely brought on by grief."

"Ah."

"I can't – can't tell you what it was. It's – it's hers. I have no right to tell it – even to you. Anyway," she went on quickly, "that grief is still with her – I expect. But it could be removed in – in a moment," she added quickly. "It would be so simple – if the excitement were – "

The surgeon's eyes lit.

"Good girl," he cried, in his quietly cordial fashion. "Now, how can the trouble be – removed?"

There was a quiet eagerness in the man's demand.

"Why – by letting Frank see her," Phyllis exclaimed. "By letting him see her and tell her that he is here – living here – here for good."

The man reached out, and taking one of the girl's hands patted it gently.

"Good girl," he said. "Now, just run off and bring this – great Frank. Tell him what you like, and then send him to me. He shall see Mrs. Hendrie – alone. And trust me to ask no questions. Maybe we shall find him a better doctor than any of us. You can leave the – excitement to me."

So it came about that the long, dreary period of waiting for improvement was suddenly brought to an end. Frank was the first person, except the nurses, allowed into the sick room, and he proved the tonic she needed.

That which passed between the two remained for them alone, but the effect upon Monica was miraculous. Improvement started from that moment, and Hinkling moved about the house, his dark eyes shining with the assurance of victory.

So, at last, bright days came again at Deep Willows. The influence of Monica's sudden move forward toward recovery was reflected in the entire household. Even Angus, austere, "grouchy," felt it, for the millionaire and his incessant work no longer obsessed him. Even he was glad of the breathing space which the change in his employer's mood gave him.

The news traveled like lightning, and, two days later, when the great surgeon prepared for his long-delayed departure, everybody in the neighborhood, everybody in the house, down to the humblest capacity of service, knew that the mistress of Deep Willows was marching down the broad high road to health with no wavering or uncertain steps.

The millionaire accompanied the surgeon to Calford when the day came for departure, and during the long run in the automobile, in spite of his change of feelings, in spite of his great thankfulness that he was leaving Monica behind him basking in the companionship of the man and girl whom she regarded with all the affection of a mother, he was unusually silent.

The two men were lounging back in the open car. One, at least, was reveling in the sweet fresh air of the prairie lands as he sped upon the first stage of his journey back to the crowded streets of the city to which he belonged.

"I think it will be best to give her a complete change," the surgeon said, after a long, thoughtful silence. "When I say complete I mean Europe, or travel about generally. Egypt, Palestine. Even China, or Japan. Take her completely out of herself, and every surrounding she's used to. There's nothing like comfortable travel in easy stages for a woman who's gone through what Mrs. Hendrie has."

"I'd thought of it," said the millionaire, settling himself more deeply on the wide seat.

The surgeon smiled.

"Then put it into practice," he returned.

Hendrie nodded. He was gazing out ahead over the long even trail. There was a grave look in his steady eyes.

"Say," he inquired, a moment later, "guess she's pretty strong – now? No danger of a relapse?"

"None whatever – I should say."

The little man's eyes were surveying the other speculatively.

"I'm – glad," said Hendrie, with a heavy sigh. "None, eh?"

"Humanly speaking – none."

Hendrie nodded with his eyes averted.

Presently he turned, and the two looked into each other's eyes, as men will who understand each other.

"She's got to hear some – news," Hendrie said, in his blunt fashion. "Likely it may knock her – hard."

The surgeon sat up.

"About that boy – Frank? Anything against him?"

Hendrie shook his head.

"No," he said. "It's – about me."

Professor Hinkling sat back in his seat with an assured smile.

"That's all right," he said easily. "It's only that boy matters – just now."

The evening sun was streaming in through the wide bow window of the boudoir, lighting up the delicate shades of color in the costly decorations with a suggestion of spring, rather than the mature days of early autumn which were already upon the world. There was hope in the aspect of the room, hope in the brilliancy of the sunlight, hope, too, engendered of the knowledge that here was no longer a sick room, but a delightful harmonious resting place where convalescence was to be converted into complete restoration to health.

A large lounge filled the space beneath the window where the patient might lie, or sit, drinking in the health-giving fragrance of the pure prairie air; where the sight of the wide blue heavens, with their robes of fleecy white, might well inspire the desire for perfect health; where the golden sun in all its glory might bathe the ailing body in its generous light, and drive back the grim shadows of sickness to the realms of darkness where they rightly belonged.

The room was littered with all those things which told of kindly hearts and loving hands. This temporary imprisonment must be made something more than tolerable. It must be made a memory for after life to look back upon, not with shuddering repulsion, but with delight at the thought of the generous love striving to bring happiness once more into an ailing life.

There were flowers, wonderful and rare; flowers which had traveled leagues and leagues to bring their message of hope of summer days to come, and delight the eye with their wonders of delicate coloring, and ravish the senses with their subtle fragrance. There were books, too, books full of life's little romances to inspire that joy of thought and sympathy, for others less blessed in a struggling world. Fruits, delicious fruits from the most extravagant and luxurious corners of the earth. A hundred and one things there were waiting upon Monica's invalid whim, and, if need be, there would be a hundred and one more. The wealth of one of the world's rich men was at her feet. She was his idol. Nothing should be denied. No desire of hers should remain unfulfilled, if only it might contribute to the restoration of that perfect health from which she had so long been separated.

Hendrie was with her now as she reclined upon the lounge. She was still a shadow of her former self, but her eyes were alight with a wonderful peace of mind, and the joy of living. She was propped up with soft cushions, facing her husband, who was leaning forward in his chair with his hands clasped loosely, his elbows resting upon his parted knees.