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.
He had been talking for a long time. He was still talking in a voice that was unusually subdued and gentle. He was carrying out his deliberate purpose to its last detail. He was telling her the story of that past; that past so full of passionate wrong-doing; so full of disgraceful, but strong manhood. He had shirked none of it. By not one fraction did he deviate from the bald truth, however ugly it might appear, in whatever painful light it might discover him. By not one touch of the brush of falsehood did he seek to gloss over the harsh surface of his own ruthless acts. It was a time when only truth could serve, and he had steeled his heart to abide by the result.
Just as he had always been the unyielding man, driving straight to the goal of purpose, so he was equally unyielding to the temptation to screen himself, equally strong in his frank self-accusing. He knew no middle course. There was no middle course for him. Such did not exist.
He had brought his story down to the final details of the recent happenings at Deep Willows.
"Mon," he said, gazing straight into the unwavering eyes he loved, and speaking with gentle earnestness, "you must judge me as you will. I tell you, cost me what it may, your judgment goes. The things I have done, and been, may seem unforgivable to you. It would surely be a miracle if they did not. But before you sit in judgment on me you must know all you have meant to my life. You must know something of the depth of my love for you."
He thrust one hand into his coat pocket and withdrew the revolver it had contained for so many weeks now.
"See this gun?" he went on. "It's loaded in every chamber. No, don't be afraid, dear," he smiled as a look of trouble crept into his wife's eyes. "I had no thought of suicide. That is an act of cowardice; and, whatever my shortcomings, I am not afraid to face trouble when it comes along. But I want to let you see into my heart and mind, and know the man I am. That gun was meant for Austin Leyburn. The man I had wronged, and who was bent on revenge. His vengeance meant nothing to me personally. If he had succeeded in ruining me utterly I could still have laughed at him—so long as I had you. But all unconsciously he had made it possible that the help you needed, the help that was to save your precious life to me, might not be forthcoming. Had you died, I should have shot him dead. Furthermore, I should have been glad that my hand had crushed out his life. There is nothing more for me to say now, dear," he went on, after a pause. "You know me now as I am, or at least as I know myself to me. The future, my future is in your hands."
He sat up and returned the ominous weapon to his pocket, while Monica remained silent. Her eyes were no longer upon him. Their lids were lowered to hide the thought so busy behind them.
The man glanced at her. Illness had left its mark. Lines of suffering had drawn themselves about the corners of her beautiful mouth, where lines had not been before. Deep shadows were gathered about her eyes, and the hollowed cheeks displayed the ravages of ill-health.
But, even so, her beauty had in no wise departed. To this man, at least, there was no difference from the superb beauty once hers. It was the woman he loved, the soul and mind. Those things which he felt no ravages of illness could ever change.
He waited wordless. Of that which his heart might fear he gave no sign. It was his way.
At last Monica sighed. Then her eyes were slowly raised, and for one long, ardent moment she gazed upon the man whose blemishes were so many and whose virtues were so few, and yet whose manhood was far, far greater to her than that of any other she had ever known. She saw in him that wonderful thing which few women can look upon unmoved. She saw courage and manhood, and she bowed her woman's love of all the virtues to the instinct of her sex. She would not, could not judge. Nature had created in her an ardent woman's soul, full of the power of love, regardless of the right and wrong of her feelings. She had loved this man, and it was beyond her power to recall, or change those feelings. So her words came, thrilling with gratitude and love for the man who knew no other life than at her side.
"I'm glad, dear, so glad," she cried passionately. "Oh," she went on, with a ring of wonderful delight which carried joy into the man's stormy heart, and set his every sense thrilling, "I'm glad of it all. I'm glad I am here—you are near me. I'm glad that this wonderful evening sun is shining, and that my eyes can look upon it. I am glad that I am breathing this fresh, pure air, and that God has seen fit to let you drag me back from those dark and painful ways. But more than all I am glad of you, Alec, glad that I can reach out and touch you—so."
She thrust out one almost transparent hand, which was seized and gently clasped in both her husband's.
"It is good, dear, to feel your great, strong, warm hands in mine. It is good to know they are always with me, ready to fight for me, ready to caress me. Lift me up, dear—so."
The man reached out and supported her frail body, so that her fair head rested against his shoulder as he drew her to him.
"So, yes, it is good to have you with me," she went on happily. "Now kiss me, dear; kiss me, and tell me that the shadows are all gone by, that never again, so long as we live, shall we let others replace them. So—yes." She sighed in perfect contentment and happiness. "God has been very good to us—far, far better than either of us deserve."
So there fell a wonderful, perfect silence upon the room. The great sun beyond the window lolled heavily to his rest, and the shadows grew out of the remoter corners of the room. Peace seemed to reign everywhere; a wonderful, perfect peace.
And after a while, a long, long while it seemed, the woman stirred in her husband's arms. Presently she looked up.
Her happy, wandering gaze had drifted to the window and beyond. There, in the darkening shadows of the skeleton woodlands, she beheld two figures strolling idly, hand in hand. The growing twilight left them clearly outlined against the blackened trees. The man's great figure towered over the slim woman by his side, who was still by no means dwarfed. Monica thrilled with delight as she beheld them. They were those whom she loved best in the world, next to this man at her side.
"Look, Alec," she cried. "Look there. They, too, have at last found perfect happiness. Soon—soon they will be launching their little craft upon the world's troubled waters. Soon they, too, will know the real meaning of life. We have learned together, dear, haven't we? And now—now we can sit by, and watch them, and help them launch their little boat. Beyond that we cannot go. Theirs it is to set their course and keep it. Theirs it is to put their hands to the tiller and weather every storm. And they are many—very, very, many, even for the most fortunate. God be with them."
The man was watching the idly wandering lovers with eyes of deep affection.
"He's a good boy," he said, in a tone that was full of paternal pride. "There's no bad streak in him, as there is in——" He sighed. "I'm glad of it. I want to wonder when I think what he's suffered at my hands. And after all these years he's come to me. It's good, Mon. It's good to think of.
"Yes," he went on, after a pause, "and what a girl for any man. I feel glad, so glad, I don't just know how to speak it. But I can do a lot. Say, when it comes to launching that boat, I don't guess they need to lay a hand to it. That's right up to me."
Monica gazed up into his strong face. Emotion was working behind that wonderful mask. She knew. But she would not let him know that she could read so deeply.
"How—how, shall you help to—launch that boat, dear?" she asked gently.
The man smiled, and his eyes were shining with generous impulse.
"How? Why, he comes into my business on a half share. You see, he's in my life on a half share already."
Monica's eyes thanked him. He wanted no words.
"And—little Phyllis—Phyl?" she asked with a tender inflection on the familiar abbreviation.
The man's smile broadened.
"Why, Phyl?" he cried. "For Phyl, whatever you say goes. Guess I'd like to hand her the house in Winnipeg as a present—on my own—though. She's just worth—everything."
Monica nodded.
"We have many debts to pay," she said. "There's that other, too."
"Other?" For a moment Hendrie looked at her in some doubt. Then he smiled again. "Ah—you mean—Angus."
"Yes, your beloved—Angus."
There was a note of gentle raillery in Monica's reply.
The man nodded.
"Sure," he said, with unmistakable conviction. Then he added: "The thing he's yearning for is this farm. He's just loved it years. Guess my attorney's fixing it over to him—right now."
The man's prodigal generosity left Monica speechless.
"He's worth it," he went on. "He's worth all I can do." Then he smiled. "You see, he's a feller whose rough exterior conceals a deal of what's worth while."
The woman's eyes were again turned toward the window, and the two figures beyond it. Their magnetism was irresistible.
"Those who possess most of—what isreallyworth while, often contrive to hide it under an exterior of denial," she said. Then, as an afterthought. "It's—it's the way of the strong."
The man agreed and his smile was almost humorous.
"Guess the strong folks often find themselves mighty short of the more—delicate virtues," he said, with a laugh. "Seems a pity—eh, Mon? Guess if things weren't that way, we'd be having a world full of perfect men, hopping around like rabbits, and chasing glory by the light of their own halos."
Monica laughed, too, and finally smiled up into his face as she nestled closer to him.
"I don't think halos are becoming—anyway," she said. "I'm glad you don't wear—a halo."
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