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diff --git a/49361.txt b/49361.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 35fa3e4..0000000 --- a/49361.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11349 +0,0 @@ - MAM'SELLE JO - - - - -This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at -http://www.gutenberg.org/license. If you are not located in the United -States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are -located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Mam'selle Jo -Author: Harriet T. Comstock -Release Date: July 04, 2015 [EBook #49361] -Language: English -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAM'SELLE JO *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - -[Illustration: Cover art] - - - - -[Illustration: "Jo Morey was forty and as dark as a midwinter day -deprived of the sanctifying warmth of the sun. She was formed for -service, not charm."] - - - - - *MAM'SELLE JO* - - - BY - - HARRIET T. COMSTOCK - - - - Illustrated - By - E. F. Ward - - - - TORONTO - THE MUSSON BOOK CO. - LIMITED - 1918 - - - - - PRINTED IN GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. S. A. - - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION - INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN - - - - - *DEDICATION* - - Beside each cradle--so an old legend runs--Fate stands - and with just scale weighs the sunshine and shadow to - which every life is entitled. But if Dame Fate is in a - kindly mood 'tis said she throws in a bit of extra - brightness for the pure joy of giving. - - BARBARA WILSON COMSTOCK - you are - "THE EXTRA BIT" - To you I dedicate this book - -HARRIET T. COMSTOCK. - -_Flatbush--Brooklyn, N. Y._ - - - - - *CONTENTS* - -CHAPTER - - I. Mam'selle Jo Is Set Free - II. Mam'selle Must Buy a Husband - III. Mam'selle Does Not Buy a Husband - IV. But Mam'selle Makes a Vow - V. Enter Donelle - VI. Mam'selle Hears Part of the Truth - VII. Marcel Takes Her Stand by Jo - VIII. The Priest and the Road Mender - IX. Woman and Woman - X. Pierre Gets His Revenge - XI. The Great Decision - XII. The Hidden Current Turns - XIII. The Inevitable - XIV. A Choice of Roads - XV. The Look - XVI. The Story - XVII. The Blighting Truth - XVIII. Tom Gavot Settles the Matter - XIX. The Confession - XX. Gavot Gets His Call - XXI. Donelle at Last Sees Tom - XXII. Norval Comes Back - XXIII. Both Norval and Donelle--See - XXIV. The Glory Breaks Through - - - - - *LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS* - -"Jo Morey was forty and as dark as a midwinter day deprived of the -sanctifying warmth of the sun. She was formed for service, not charm" . -. . _Frontispiece_ - -"At the foot of the cross, her head bowed and her tears falling, Donelle -shivered and prayed" - -"Tom looked at her. He saw the thrill of life, adventure, and youth -shake her. He saw with an old, old understanding that because he was -going away, alone, upon the road, he meant to her what he never could -have meant had he remained" - -"'Indeed, Mr. Norval, it is your sacred duty to tell it to--to that girl -in Canada. You promised and she ought to know'" - - - - - *LIST OF CHARACTERS* - - -This is a story of a woman who having no beauty of face or form was -deprived for a time of the beautiful things of life. - -Then she prayed to the God of men and He gave her material success. -Having this she raised her eyes from the earth which had been her -battlefield and made a vow that she would take what was possible from -the odds and ends of happiness and weave what she could into love and -service. - -Through this she won a reward far beyond her wildest dreams and found -peace and joy. - -"You are a strange man"--she said to him who discovered her. - -"You are a very strange woman, Mam'selle"--he returned. - -Besides these two there are: - -Captain Longville--and his wife Marcel. - -Pierre Gavot--and his wife Margot who found life paid because of her boy -Tom. - -Old Father Mantelle--more friend than priest who helped them all. - -But Dan Kelly--of Dan's Place--better known as The Atmosphere--made life -difficult for them all. - -Then after a time the Lindsays of the Walled House drew things together -and opened a new vista. Here we find: - -Man-Andy; called by some, The Final Test, or Old Testy. - -James Norval--who had some talent and an occasional flash of genius. - -Katherine Norval, his wife, who from the highest motives nearly drove -him to hell. - -There are Sister Angela with the convenient memory and Little Sister -Mary with the Lost Look. - -Mary Maiden who happened into the story for a second only. - -And lastly: Tom Gavot who dreamed of roads, played with roads, made -roads, and at last found The Right Road which led him to the top, from -that high point he saw--who can tell what? - -And--Donelle who early prayed that she might be part of life and vowed -that she was willing to suffer and pay. Life took her at her word, and -used her. - - - - - *MAM'SELLE JO* - - - - *CHAPTER I* - - *MAM'SELLE JO IS SET FREE* - - -One late afternoon in September Jo Morey--she was better known in the -village of Point of Pines as Mam'selle Jo--stood on the tiny lawn lying -between her trim white house and the broad highway, lifted her eyes from -the earth, that had long been her battlefield, and murmured aloud as -lonely people often do, - -"Mine! Mine! Mine!" - -She did not say this arrogantly, but, rather, reverently. It was like a -prayer of appreciation to the only God she recognized; a just God who -had crowned her efforts with success. Not to a loving God could -Mam'selle pray, for love had been denied her; not to a beautiful God, -for Jo had yet to find beauty in her hard and narrow life; but to the -Power that had vindicated Itself she was ready to do homage. - -"Mine! Mine! Mine!" - -Jo was forty and as dark as a midwinter day deprived of the sanctifying -warmth of the sun. She was short and muscular, formed for service, not -charm. Her mouth was the mouth of a woman who had never known rightful -self-expression; her nose showed character, but was too strong for -beauty; heavy brows shaded her eyes, shielding them from the -idly-curious, but when those eyes were lifted one saw that they had been -in God's keeping and preserved for happier outlooks. They were -wonderful eyes. Soft brown with the sheen of horsechestnut. - -Mam'selle's attire was as unique as she was herself. It consisted, for -the most part, of garments which had once belonged to her father who had -departed this life fifteen years before, rich in debts and a bad -reputation; bequeathing to his older daughter his cast-off wardrobe and -the care of an imbecile sister. - -Jo now plunged her hands in the pockets of the rough coat; she planted -her feet more firmly in the heavy boots much too large for her and, in -tossing her head backward, displaced the old, battered felt hat that -covered the lustrous braids of her thick, shining hair. - -Standing so, bare headed, wide eyed, and shabby, Jo was a dramatic -figure of victory. She looked at the neatly painted house, the hill -rising behind it crowned with a splendid forest rich in autumn tints. -Then her gaze drifted across the road to the fine pastures which had -yielded a rare harvest; to the outhouses and barns that sheltered the -wealth chat had been lately garnered. The neighing of Molly, the strong -little horse; the rustling of cows, chickens, and the grunting of pigs -were like sounds of music to her attentive ears. Then back to the house -roved the keen but tender eyes, and rested upon the massive wood pile -that flanked the north side of the house beginning at the kitchen door -and ending, only, within a few feet of the highway. - -This trusty guardian standing between Jo and the long, cold winter that -lurked not far off, filled her with supreme content. Full well she knew -that starting with the first log, lying close to her door, she might -safely count upon comfort and warmth until late spring without -demolishing the fine outline of the sturdy wall at the road-end! - -That day Jo had paid the last dollar she owed to any man. She had two -thousand dollars still to her credit; she was a free woman at last! -Free after fifteen years of such toil and privation as few women had -ever known. - -She was free--and---- - -Just then Mam'selle knew the twinge of sadness that is the penalty of -achievement. Heretofore there had been purpose, necessity, and -obligation but now? Why, there was nothing; really nothing. She need -not labour early and late; there was no demand upon her. For a moment -her breath came quick and hard; her eyes dimmed and vaguely she realized -that the struggle had held a glory that victory lacked. - -Fifteen years ago she had stood as she was standing now, but had looked -upon a far different scene. Then the house was falling to decay, and was -but a sad shelter for the poor sister who lay muttering unintelligible -words all day long while she played with bits of bright coloured rags. -The barns and outhouses were empty and forlorn, the harvest a failure; -the wood pile dangerously small. - -Jo had but just returned from her father's funeral and she was -wondering, helplessly, what she could do next in order to keep the -wretched home, and procure food and clothing for Cecile and herself. She -was thankful, even then, that her father was dead; glad that her poor -mother, who had given up the struggle years before, did not complicate -the barren present--it would be easier to attack the problem single -handed. - -And as she stood bewildered, but undaunted, Captain Longville came up -the highway and paused near the ramshackle gate. Longville was the -power in Point of Pines with whom all reckoned, first or last. He was -of French descent, clever, lazy, and cruel but with an outward courtesy -that defied the usual methods of retaliation. He had money and capacity -for gaining more and more. He managed to obtain information and secrets -that added to his control of people. He was a silent, forceful creature -who never expended more than was necessary in money, time, or words to -reach his goal--but he always had a definite goal in view. - -"Good day, Mam'selle," he called to Jo in his perfect English which had -merely a trace of accent, "it was a fine funeral and I never saw the -father look better nor more as he should. He and you did yourselves -proud." Longville's manner and choice of words were as composite as -were his neighbours; Point of Pines was conglomerate, the homing place -of many from many lands for generations past. - -"I did my best for him," Jo responded, "and it's all paid for, Captain." - -The dark eyes were turned upon the visitor proudly but helplessly. - -"Paid, eh?" questioned Longville. This aspect of affairs surprised and -disturbed him. "Paid, eh?" - -"Yes, I saved. I knew what was coming." - -"Well, now, Mam'selle, I have an offer to make. While your father lived -I lent, and lent often, laying a debt on my own land in order to save -his, but pay day has come. This is all--mine! But I'm no hard and fast -master, specially to women, and in turning things about in my mind I -have come to this conclusion. Back of my house is a small cabin, I -offer it to you and Cecile. Bring what you choose from here and make -the place homelike and, for the help you give Madame when the States' -folks summer with us, we'll give you your clothing and keep. What do you -say, eh?" - -For full a minute Jo said nothing. She was a woman whose roots struck -deep in every direction, and she recoiled at the idea of change. Then -something happened to her. Without thought or conscious volition she -began to speak. - -"I--I want the chance, Captain Longville, only the chance." - -"The chance, eh? What chance, Mam'selle?" - -"The chance to--to get it back!" The screened eyes seemed to gather all -the old, familiar wretchedness into their own misery. - -Longville laughed, not brutally, but this was too much, coming as it did -from Morey's daughter. - -"Why, Mam'selle," he said, "the interest hasn't been paid in years." - -"The interest--and how much is that?" murmured Jo. - -"Oh, a matter of a couple of hundreds." This was flung out -off-handedly. - -"But if--if I could pay that and promise to keep it up, would you give -me the chance? My money is as good as another's and the first time I -fail, Captain, I'll fetch Cecile over to the cabin and sell myself to -you." - -This was not a gracious way to put it and it made Longville scowl, still -it amused him mightily. There was a bit of the sport in him, too, and -the words, wild and improbable as they were, set in motion various -ideas. - -If Jo could save from the wreck of things in the past enough money to -pay for the funeral might she not, the sly minx, have saved more? -Stolen was what Longville really thought. Ready money, as much as he -could lay hands on, was the dearest thing in life to him and the fun of -having any one scrimping and delving to procure it for him was a joy not -to be lightly thrown away. And might he not accomplish all he had in -mind by giving Jo her chance? He did not want the land and the -ramshackle house, except for what they would bring in cash; and if -Mam'selle must slave to earn, might she not be willing to slave in his -kitchen as well as in another's? To be sure he would have, under this -new dispensation, to pay her, or credit her, with a certain amount--but -he could make it desirably small and should she rebel he would threaten -her, in a kindly way, with disinclination to carry on further business -relations with her. - -So Longville pursed up his thin lips and considered. - -"But the money, the interest money, Mam'selle, the chance depends upon -that." - -Jo turned and walked to the house. Presently she came back with a -cracked teapot in her hands. - -"In this," she said slowly as if repeating words suggested to her, -"there are two hundred and forty-two dollars and seventy-nine cents, -Captain. All through the years I have saved and saved. I've sold my -linens and woollens to the city folks--I've lied--but now it will buy -the chance." - -A slow anger grew in Longville's eyes. - -"And you did this, while owing everything to me?" he asked. - -"It was father who owed you; your money went for drink, for anything and -everything but safety for Cecile and me. The work of my own hands--is -mine!" - -"Not so say our good laws!" sneered Longville, "and now I could take it -all from you and turn you out on the world." - -"And will--you?" Jo asked. - -She was a miserable figure standing there with her outstretched hands -holding the cracked teapot. - -Longville considered further. He longed to stand well in the community -when it did not cost him too much. Without going into details he could -so arrange this business with Jo Morey that he might shine forth -radiantly--and he did not always radiate by any means. - -"No!" he said presently; "I'm going to give you your chance, Mam'selle, -that is, if you give me all your money." - -"You said--two hundred!" - -"_About_, Mam'selle, _about_. That was my word." - -"But winter is near and there is Cecile. Captain, will you leave me a -bit to begin on?" - -"Well, now, let us see. How about our building up your wood pile; -starting you in with potatoes, pork, and the like and leaving say -twenty-five dollars in the teapot? How about that, eh?" - -"Will you write it down and sign?" Jo was quivering. - -"You're sharp, devilishly sharp, Mam'selle. How about being good -friends instead of hard drivers of bargains?" - -"You must write it out and sign, Captain. We'll be better friends for -that." - -Again Longville considered. - -The arrangement would be brief at best, he concluded. - -"I'll sign!" he finally agreed, "but, Mam'selle, it's like a play -between you and me." - -"It's no play, Captain, as you will see." - -And so it had begun, that grim struggle which lasted fifteen long years -with never a failure to meet the interest; and, in due time, the -payments on the original loan were undertaken. Early and late Jo -slaved, denying herself all but the barest necessities, but she managed -to give poor Cecile better fare. - -During the second year of Jo's struggle, two staggering things had -occurred that threatened, for a time, to defeat her. She had known but -little brightness in her dun-coloured girlhood, but that little had been -connected with Henry Langley the best, by far, of the young men of the -place. He was an American who had come from the States to Canada, as -many others had, believing his chance on the land to be better than at -home. He was an educated man with ambitions for a future of -independence and a free life. He bought a small farm for himself and -built a rude but comfortable cabin upon it. When he was not working out -of doors he was studying within and his only extravagances were books -and a violin. - -Jo Morey had always attracted him; her mind, her courage, her defiance -of conditions, called forth all that was fine in him. Without fully -understanding he recognized in her the qualities that, added to his own, -would secure the success he craved. So he taught her, read with her, -and made her think. He was not calculating and selfish, the crude -foundation was but the safety upon which he built a romance that was as -simple and pure as any he had ever known. The plain, brave girl with -her quiet humour and delicate ideals appealed mightily to him. His -emotions were in abeyance to his good common sense, so he and Jo had -planned for a future--never very definite, but always sincere. - -After the death of Morey, Jo, according to her bargain with Longville, -went to help in the care of the summer boarders who, that year, filled -Madame Longville's house to overflowing and brought in a harvest that -the Captain, not his womankind, gathered. That was the summer when poor -Jo, over-worked, worried at leaving Cecile alone for so many weary -hours, grew grim and unlovely and found little time or inclination to -play the happy part with Langley that had been the joy and salvation of -their lives. And just then a girl from the States appeared--a delicate, -pretty thing ordered to the river-pines to regain her health. She -belonged to the class of women who know no terminals in their lives, but -accept everything as an open passage to the broad sea of their desires. -She was obliged to work for her existence and the effort had all but -cost her her life; she must get someone, therefore, to undertake the -business for the future. Her resources were apparently limited, while -the immediate necessity was pressing. Since nothing was to her finite -and binding, she looked upon Henry Langley and beheld in him a -possibility; a stepping stone. She promptly began her attack, by way of -poor Jo, who, she keenly realized, was her safest and surest course to -Langley's citadel. She made almost frantic efforts to include the tired -drudge in the summer frivolities; her sweet compassion and delicate -prettiness were in terrific contrast to Jo's shabbiness and lack of -charm. While Langley tried to be just and loyal he could but acknowledge -that Jo's blunt refusals to accept, what of course she could not accept, -were often brutal and coarse. Then, as his senses began to blind him, -he became stupidly critical, groping and bungling. He could not see, -beneath Jo's fierce retorts to his very reasonable demands, the -scorching hurt and ever-growing recognition of defeat. - -It was the old game played between a professional and an amateur--and -the professional won! - -Quite unbeknown to poor Jo, toiling in Madame Longville's kitchen, -Langley quietly sold his belongings to the Captain and, taking his prize -off secretly, left explanations to others. - -Longville made them. - -"Mam'selle," he said, standing before Jo as she bent over a steaming pan -of dishes in the stifling kitchen, "we've been cheated out of a merry -wedding." - -"A wedding?" asked Jo listlessly, "has any one time to marry now?" - -"They made time and made off with themselves as well. Langley was -married last night and is on his way, heaven knows where!" - -Jo raised herself and faced Longville. Her hair was hanging limply, her -eyes were terror-filled. - -"Langley married and gone?" she gasped. Then: "My God!" - -That was all, but Longville watching her drew his own evil conclusions -and laughed good-naturedly. - -"It's all in the day's work, Mam'selle," he said, and wondered silently -if the slave before him would be able to finish out the summer. - -Jo finished out the summer efficiently and silently. In September Cecile -simply stopped babbling and playing with rags and became wholly dead. -After the burial Jo, with her dog at her heels, went away. No one but -Longville noticed. Her work at his house was over; the last boarder had -departed. - -Often Jo's home was unvisited for weeks at a time, so her absence, now, -caused no surprise. Two weeks elapsed, then she reappeared, draggled -and worn, the dog closely following. - -That was all, and the endless work of weaving and spinning was resumed. -Jo invented three marvellously beautiful designs that winter. - -But now, this glorious autumn day, she stood victoriously reviewing the -past. Suddenly she turned. As if playing an appointed part in the grim -drama, Longville again stood by the gate looking a bit keener and -grayer, but little older. In his hands, signed and properly executed, -were all the papers that set Jo free from him forever unless he could, -by some other method, draw her within his power. That money of hers in -the bank lay heavy on his sense of propriety. - -"Unless she's paying and paying me," he pondered, "what need has she of -money? Too much money is bad for a woman--I'll give her interest." - -And just then Jo hailed him in the tone and manner of a free creature. - -"Ah, Captain, it's a good day, to be sure. A good day!" - -"Here are the papers!" Longville came near and held them toward her. - -"Thanks, there was no hurry." - -"And now," Longville leered broadly. "'Tis I as comes a-begging. How -about those hundreds in the bank, Mam'selle? I will pay the same -interest as others and one good turn deserves another." - -But Jo shook her head. - -"No. I'm done with borrowing and lending, Captain. In the future, when -I part with my money, I will give it. I've never had that pleasure in -my life before." - -"That's a course that will end in your begging again at my door." -Longville's smile had vanished. - -"If so be," and Jo tossed her head, "I'll come humbly, having learned my -lesson from the best of teachers." - -Jo plunged her hands deeper in the pockets of her father's old coat. - -"A woman and her money are soon parted," growled Longville. - -"You quote wrong, Captain. It is a fool and money; a woman is not -always a fool." - -Longville reserved his opinion as to this but assumed his grinning, -playful manner which reminded one of the antics of a wild cat. - -"Ah, Mam'selle, you must buy a husband. He will manage you and your -good money." - -A deep flush rose to Jo's dark face; her scowling brows hid her -suffering eyes. - -"You think I must buy what I could not win, Captain?" she asked quietly. -"God help me from falling to such folly." - -The two talked a little longer, but the real meaning and purpose that -had held them together during the past years was gone. They both -realized this fully, for the first time, as they tried now to make talk. - -They spoke of the future only to find that they had no common future. -Jo retreated as Longville advanced. - -They clutched at the fast receding past with the realization that it was -a dead thing and eluded them already. - -The present was all that was left and that was heavy with new emotions. -Longville presently became aware of a desire to hurt Jo Morey, since he -could no longer control her; and Jo eyed the Captain as a suddenly -released animal eyes its late torturer: free, but haunted by memories -that still fetter its movements. She wanted to get rid of the -disturbing presence. - -"Yes, Mam'selle, since you put it that way," Longville shifted from one -foot to the other as he harked back to the words that he saw hurt, "you -must buy a husband." - -"I must go inside," Jo returned bluntly, "good afternoon, Captain." And -she abruptly left him. - -It was rather awkward to be left standing alone on Jo Morey's trim lawn, -so Longville muttered an uncomplimentary opinion of his late victim and -strode toward home. - - - - - *CHAPTER II* - - *MAM'SELLE MUST BUY A HUSBAND* - - -Longville turned the affairs of Jo Morey over and over in his scheming -mind as he walked home. He had made the suggestion as to buying a -husband from a mistaken idea of pleasantry, but its effect upon Jo had -caused him to take the idea seriously, first as a lash, then as purpose. -By the time he reached home he had arrived at a definite conclusion, had -selected Jo's future mate, and had all but settled the details. - -He ate his evening meal silently, sullenly, and watched his wife -contemplatively. - -There were times when Longville had an uncomfortable sensation when -looking at Marcel. It was similar to the sensation one has when he -discovers that he has been addressing a stranger instead of the intimate -he had supposed. - -He was the type of man who among his own sex sneers at women because of -attributes with which he endows them, but who, when alone with women, -has a creeping doubt as to his boasted conclusions and seeks to right -matters by bullying methods. - -Marcel had been bought and absorbed by Longville when she was too young -and ignorant to resist openly. What life had taught her she held in -reserve. There had never been what seemed an imperative need for -rebellion so Marcel had been outwardly complacent. She had fulfilled -the duties, that others had declared hers, because she was not clear in -her own mind as to any other course, but under her slow outward manner -there were currents running from heart to brain that Longville had never -discovered, though there were times, like the present, when he stepped -cautiously as he advanced toward his wife with a desire for -cooeperation. - -"Marcel," he said presently with his awkward, playful manner, "I have an -idea!" - -He stretched his long legs toward the stove. He had eaten to his fill -and now lighted his pipe, watching his wife as she bent over the -steaming pan of dishes in the sink. - -Marcel did not turn; ideas were uninteresting, and Longville's generally -involved her in more work and no profit. - -"'Tis about Pierre, your good-for-nothing brother." - -"What about him?" asked Marcel. Blood was blood after all and she -resented Longville's superior tone. - -"Since Margot died he has had a rough time of it," mused the Captain, -"caring for the boy and shifting for himself. It has been hard for -Pierre." - -"You want him and Tom--here?" Marcel turned now, the greasy water -dripping from her red hands. She had small use for her brother, but her -heart yearned over the motherless Tom. - -"God forbid," ejaculated Longville, "but a man must pity such a life as -Pierre's." - -"Pierre takes his pleasures," sighed Marcel, "as all can testify." - -"You mean that a man should have no pleasure?" snapped the Captain. -"You women are devilish hard." - -"I meant no wrong. 'Tis no business of mine." - -"'Tis the business of all women to marry off the odds and ends"; and now -Longville was ready. He launched out with a clear statement of Jo -Morey's finances and the absolute necessity of male control of the same. -Marcel listened and waited. - -"Mam'selle Jo Morey must marry," Longville continued. He had his pipe -lighted and between long puffs blinked luxuriously as he outlined the -future. "She has too much money for a woman and--there is Pierre!" - -"Mam'selle Jo and Pierre!" Almost Marcel laughed. "But Mam'selle is so -homely and Pierre, being the handsome man he is, detests an ugly woman." - -"What matters? Once married, the good law of the land gives the wife's -money to her master. 'Tis a righteous law. And Pierre has a way with -women that breaks them or kills them--generally both!" - -This was meant jocosely, but Marcel gave a shudder as she bent again -over the steaming suds. - -"But Mam'selle with money," she murmured more to herself than to -Longville. "Will Mam'selle sell herself?" - -This almost staggered Longville. He took his pipe from his lips and -stared at the back of the drudge near him. Then he spoke slowly, -wonderingly: - -"Will a woman marry? What mean you? All women will sell their souls -for a man. Mam'selle, being ugly, must buy one. Besides----" And here -Longville paused to impress his next words. - -"Besides, you remember Langley?" - -For a moment Marcel did not; so much had come and gone since Langley's -time. Then she recalled the flurry his going with one of the summer -people had caused, and she nodded. - -"You know Langley walked and talked with Mam'selle before that red and -white woman from the States caught him up in her petticoat and carried -him off?" - -It began to come back to Marcel now. Again she nodded indifferently. - -"And some months after," Longville was whispering as if he feared the -cat purring under the stove would hear, "some months later, what -happened then." Marcel rummaged in her litter of bleak memories. - -"Oh! Cecile died!" She brought forth triumphantly. - -"Cecile died, yes! And Mam'selle went away. And what for?" The -whispered words struck Marcel's dull brain like sharp strokes. - -"I do not know," she faltered. - -"You cannot guess--and you a woman?" - -"I cannot." - -"Then patch this and this together. Why does a woman go away and hide -when a man has deserted her? Why?" - -Marcel wiped the suds from her red, wrinkled hands. She stared at her -husband like an idiot, then she sat down heavily in a chair. - -"And that's why Mam'selle will buy Pierre." - -For a full moment Marcel looked at her husband as if she had never seen -him before, then her dreary eyes wandered to the window. - -Across the road, in the growing darkness, lay three small graves in a -row. Marcel was seeking them, now, seeking them with all the fierce -love and loyalty that lay deep in her heart. And out of those pitiful -mounds little forms, oh! such tiny forms, seemed to rise and plead for -Jo Morey. - -Who was it that had shared the black hours when Marcel's babies -came--and went? Whose understanding and sympathy had made life possible -when all else failed? - -"I'll do no harm to Mam'selle Jo Morey!" The tone and words electrified -Longville. - -"What?" he asked roughly. - -"If what you hint is true," Marcel spoke as from a great distance, her -voice trailing pitifully; "I'll never use it to hurt Mam'selle, or I -could not meet my God." - -"You'll do what I say!" - -But as he spoke Longville had a sense of doubt. For the second time that -day he was conscious of being baffled by a woman; his purposes being -threatened. - -"You may regret," he growled, "if you do not help along with this--this -matter of Pierre. There will come a time when Pierre will lie at your -door. What then, eh?" - -"Is that any reason why I should throw him at the door of another -woman?" Marcel's pale face twitched. "Why should a man expect any -woman's door to open to him," she went on, "when he has disgraced -himself all his life?" - -Longville stirred restlessly. Actually he dared not strike his wife, -but he had all the impulse to do so. He resorted to hoary argument. - -"'Tis the unselfish, the noble woman who saves--man!" he muttered, half -ashamed of his own words. - -At this Marcel laughed openly. Something was rising to the surface, -something that life had taught her. - -"It's a poor argument to use when the unworthy one is the gainer by a -woman's unselfishness," retorted Marcel. "Unless she, too, gets -something out of her--her nobleness, I should think a man would hate to -fling it always in her teeth." - -Longville half rose; his jaw looked ugly. - -"'Tis my purpose," he said slowly, harshly, "to marry Mam'selle and -Pierre. I have my reasons, and if you cannot help you can keep out of -the way!" - -"Yes, I can do that," murmured Marcel. She had taken up her knitting -and she rarely spoke while she knitted. She thought! - -But if Longville's suggestion seemed to die in the mind of his own -woman, it had no such fate in that of Jo Morey. When she went into her -orderly house, after leaving the Captain, she put her papers on the -table and stood staring ahead into space. She seemed waiting for the -ugly thought he had left to follow its creator, but instead it clung to -her like a stinging nettle. - -"Buy a husband!" she repeated; "buy a husband." - -Into poor Jo's dry and empty heart the words ate their way like a spark -in the autumn's brush. The flame left a blackened trail over which she -toiled drearily back, back to that one blessed taste she had had of love -and happiness. Memories, long considered dead, rose from their shallow -graves like spectres, claiming Mam'selle for their own at last. - -She had believed herself beyond suffering. She had thought that -loneliness and hard labour had secured her at least from the agony she -was now enduring, but with the consciousness that she could feel as she -was feeling, a sort of terror overcame her. - -Her past days of toil had been blessed with nights of exhausted slumber. -But with the newly-won freedom there would be hours when she must -succumb to the tortures of memory. She could not go on slaving with no -actual need to spur her, she must have a reason, a motive for existence. -Like many another, poor Jo realized that while she had plenty to retire -on, she had nothing to retire to, for in her single purpose of freeing -herself from Longville, she had freed herself from all other ties. - -But Jo Morey would not have been the woman she was if obstacles could -down her. She turned abruptly and strode toward the barn across the -road. Nick, her dog, materialized at this point. Nick had no faith in -men and discreetly kept out of sight when one appeared. He was no -coward, but caution was a marked characteristic in him and unless -necessity called he did not care, nor deem it advisable, to display his -feelings to strangers. - -Jo felt for Nick an affection based upon tradition and fact. His mother -had been her sole companion during the darkest period of her life and -Nick was a worthy son of a faithful mother. Jo talked to the dog -constantly when she was most troubled and confused. She devoutly -believed she often received inspiration and solution from his strange, -earnest eyes. - -"Well, old chap," she said now as she felt his sturdy body press against -her knee. "What do you think of that?" - -Nick gave a sharp, resentful yelp. - -"We want no man planting his tobacco in our front yard; do we, sir? He -might even expect us to plant it!" - -Jo always spoke editorially when conversing with Nick. "And fancy a man -sitting by the new stove, Nick, spitting and snoring and kicking no -doubt _you_, my good friend, if not me!" - -Nick refused to contemplate such a monstrous absurdity. He showed his -teeth in a sardonic grin and, to ease his feelings, made a dash after a -giddy hen who had forgotten the way to the coop and was frantically -proclaiming the fact in the gathering darkness. - -"If that hussy," muttered Jo, "don't stick closer to the roost, I'll -have her for dinner!" Then a light broke upon Jo's face. From trifles, -often, our lives are turned into new channels. "I declare, I'll have -her anyway! I'll live from now on like folks." - -States' folks, Jo had in mind, the easy-going summer type. "Chicken -twice a week, hereafter, and no getting up before daybreak." - -Nick had chased the doomed hen to the coop and was virtuously returning -when his mistress again addressed him. - -"Nick, the little red cow is about to calve. What do you think of -that?" - -Nick thought very little of it. The red cow was a nuisance. She calved -at off times of the year and had an abnormal affection for her -offspring. She would not be comforted when it was torn from her for -financial reasons. She made known her objections by kicking over milk -pails and making nights hideous by her wailing; then, too, she had a way -of looking at one that weakened the moral fibre. Nick followed his -mistress to the cow shed and stood contemplatively by while Jo smoothed -the glossy head of the offending cow and murmured: - -"Poor little lass, you cannot understand, but you do not want to be -alone, do you?" The animal pressed close and gave a low, sweet sound of -appreciation. - -"All right, girl. I'll fill Nick up and take a bite, then I'll be back -and bide with you." - -The mild maternal eyes now rested upon Nick and his grew forgiving! - -"Come, Nick!" called Jo. "We'll have to hurry. The little red cow, once -she decides, does not waste time. It's a snack and dash for us, old -man, until after the trouble is over. But there's no need of early -bed-going to-night, Nick, and before we sleep we'll have the fire in the -stove!" - -So Nick followed obediently, ate voraciously but rapidly, and Jo took -her snack while moving about the kitchen and planning for the -celebration that was to follow the little red cow's accouchement. - -It must be a desolate life indeed, a life barren of imagination, that -has not had some sort of star to which the chariot of desire has been -hitched. Jo Morey had a vast imagination and it had kept her safe -through all the years of grind and weariness. Her star was a stove! - -Back in the time when her relations with Longville were growing less -strained and she could look beyond her obligations and still see--money, -she had closed the fireplace in the living room and bought, on the -instalment plan, a most marvellous invention of iron, nickle, and glass, -with broad ovens and cavernous belly, and set it up in state. - -Jo's conception of honesty would not permit her to build a fire in the -monster until every cent was paid, but she had polished it, almost -worshipped before it, and had silently vowed that upon the day when she -was free from all debt to man she would revel in such warmth and glory -as she had never known before. - -"No more roasted fronts and frozen backs," - -Mam'selle had secretly sworn. "No more huddling in the kitchen and -scrimping of fires. From the first frost to the first thaw I'll have -two fires going. The new stove will heat the north chamber and perhaps -the upper room as well. 'Tis a wondrous heater, I'm told." - -But the red cow's affairs had postponed the thrilling event. Still -neither Jo nor Nick ever expected perfection in fulfillment and they -took the delay with patient dignity. - -Later they again started for the cow shed, this time guided by a -lantern, for night had fallen upon Point of Pines. - -Jo took a seat upon an upturned potato basket with Nick close beside -her, and so they waited. Waited until all need and danger were past; -then, tenderly stroking the head of the newly-made mother, Jo spoke in -the tone that few ever heard. Margot Gavot had heard it as she drifted -out of life, her hungry eyes fastened on Jo and the sobbing boy--Tom. -Marcel Longville had heard it as she clung to the hard, rough hand that -seemed to be her only anchor when life and death battled for her and -ended in taking her babies. The little red cow had heard it once before -and now turned her grateful eyes to Mam'selle. - -"So! So, lass," murmured Jo; "we don't understand, but we had to see it -through. Brave lass, cuddle the wee thing and take your rest. So, so!" - -Then back to the house went Jo and Nick, the lantern swinging between -them like a captured star. - -A wonderful, uplifted feeling rose in Jo Morey's heart. She was unlike -her old, unheeding self, she heeded everything; she started at the -slightest sound and drew her breath in sharply. She was almost afraid -of the sensation that overcame her. Depression had fled; exhilaration -had taken its place. A sense of freedom, of adventure, possessed her. -She was ready at last to fling aside the bonds and go forth! Then Nick -stopped short and strained forward as if sensing something in the dark -that not even the lantern could disclose. - -"So, Nick!" laughed Jo, "you feel it, too? It's all right, old man. -The mystery of the shed has upset us both. It's always the same, -whether it comes to woman or creature. Something hidden makes us see -it, but our eyes are blind, blind to the meaning." - -Then Jo resorted to action. She carried a load of wood from the pile to -the living room; with bated breath she placed it in the stove. - -"Suppose it shouldn't draw?" she whispered to Nick, and struck a match. -The first test proved this fear ungrounded. The draw was so terrific -that it threatened to suck everything up. - -In a panic Jo experimented with the dampers and soon had the matter in -control. She was perspiring, and Nick was yelping and dashing about in -circles, when the fire was brought to a sense of its responsibility, -ceased roaring like a wild bull, and settled down into a steady, -reliable body of glowing heat. - -Then Jo drew a chair close, pulled up her absurd skirts, put her -man-shod feet into the oven, and gave a sigh of supreme content. - -Nick took the hint. Since this was not an accident but, apparently, a -permanent innovation, it behooved him to adapt himself as his mistress -had done. Behind the fiery monster there was a space, hot as Tophet, -but commanding a good view. It might be utilized, so Nick appropriated -it. - -"There seems no end to what this stove can do," muttered Jo, twisting -about and disdaining the smell of overheated leather and wool. "No more -undressing in the kitchen and freezing in bed in the north chamber. -I've never been warm in winter since I was born, but that's done with -now! I shouldn't wonder if I might open the room upstairs after a -bit--I shouldn't wonder!" - -Then Jo caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror over the stove! -As she looked, her excitement lessened, the depression of the afternoon -overcame her. She acknowledged that she looked old and ugly. A woman -first to be despised, then ridiculed, by men. "Buy a husband!" She, Jo -Morey, who had once had her vision and the dreams of a woman. She, who -had had so much to offer in her shabby youth, so much that was fine and -noble. Intelligence that had striven with, and overcome, obstacles; a -passion for service, passion and love. All, all she had had except the -one, poor, pitiful thing called beauty. That might have interpreted all -else to man for her and won her the sacred desires of her soul. - -She had had faith until Langley betrayed it. She had scorned the doubt -that, what she lacked, could deprive her of her rights. - -Through a never-to-be-forgotten spring and early summer she had been as -other girls. Love had stirred her senses and set its seal upon the man -who shared her few free hours. He had felt the screened loveliness of -the spirit and character of Jo Morey; had revelled in her appreciation -and understanding. He had loved her; told her so, and planned, with her, -for a future rich in all that made life worth while. That was the spring -when Jo had first noticed how the sand pipers, circling against the blue -sky, made a brown blur that changed its form as the birds rose higher or -when they dipped again, disappearing behind the tamarack pines on the -hilltop. - -That was the spring when the swift, incoming tide of the St. Lawrence -made music in the fragrant stillness and she and Langley had sung -together in their queer halting French "A la Claire Fontaine" and had -laughed their honest English laughs at their clumsy tongues struggling -with the rippling words. - -And then; the girl had come, and--the end! - -Jo believed that something had died in her at that time, but it had only -been stunned. It arose now, and in the still, hot room demanded its -own! - -"Fifteen years ago!" murmured Jo and looked about at the evidences of -her toiling years: the quaint room and the furnishings. The floor was -painted yellow and on it were islands of gay, tinted rugs all woven by -her tireless hands. There were round rugs and square rugs, long ones -and short ones. In the middle of the room was a large table covered by -a cloth designed and wrought by the same restless hands. Neatly painted -chairs were ranged around the walls, and beneath the low broad window -stood a hard, unyielding couch upon which lay a thick blanket and -several bright pillows stuffed with sweet-grass. - -At the casement were spotless curtains, standing out stiffly like -starched skirts on prim little girls, and behind them rows of tin cans -in which were growing gorgeous begonias and geraniums pressed against -the glistening glass, like curious children peering into the black outer -world. So had Jo's inarticulate life developed and expressed itself in -this home-like room, while her mind had matured and her thoughts -deepened. Then her eyes travelled to the winding stairway in the -farthest corner. Her gaze kept to the strip of yellow paint in the -middle of the white steps. It mounted higher and higher. Above was the -upper chamber, the Waiting Room! - -Long years ago, while serving in Madame Longville's home, Jo had -conceived an ambition that had never really left her through all the -time that had intervened. Some day she would have a boarder! Not upon -such terms as the Longvilles accepted, however. - -Her boarder was not merely to pay and pay in money, but he would be to -her an education, a widening experience. She, alone, would reap the -reward of the toil she expended upon him. And so with this in mind she -had furnished the upper chamber, bit by bit, and had calculated over and -again the proper sum to charge for the benefits to be derived and given. - -"And now," said Jo, panting a little as if her eyes mounting the stairs -had tired her. "Come summer I will get my boarder, but love of heaven! -What price shall I set?" - -The wind was rising and the pine trees were making that sound that -always reminded Jo of poor Cecile's wordless moan. - -Something seemed to press against the door. Nick started and bristled. - -"Who's there?" demanded Mam'selle. There was no reply--only that tense -pressure that made the panels creak. - - - - - *CHAPTER III* - - *MAM'SELLE DOES NOT BUY A HUSBAND* - - -The tall clock in the kitchen struck eight in a sharp, affrighted way -much as a chaperone might have done who wished to call her heedless -charge to the demands of propriety. - -Eight o'clock in Point of Pines meant, under ordinary conditions, just -two things: house and bed for the respectable, Dan's Place--a reeking, -dirty tavern--for the others. - -And while Jo Morey's door creaked under the unseen pressure from -without, Pierre Gavot and Captain Longville smoked and snoozed by the -red-hot stove at Dan's, occasionally speaking on indifferent subjects. - -These two men disliked and distrusted each other, but they hung -together, drank together; for what reason who could tell? Gavot had -eaten earlier in the day at the Longville house and during the meal the -name of Jo Morey had figured rather prominently. However, Gavot had paid -little heed, he had little use for women and no interest, whatever, in -an ugly one. A long past French ancestry had given Gavot as it had -Longville a subtle suavity of manner that somewhat cloaked his -brutality, and he was an extremely handsome man of the big, dark type. - -Suddenly now, in the smoky drowsiness of the tavern, Mam'selle Morey's -name again was introduced. - -"Mam'selle! Mam'selle!" muttered Pierre impatiently; "I tire of the -mention of the black Mam'selle. Such a woman has but two uses: to serve -while she can, to die when she cannot serve." - -"But her service while she can serve, that has its value," Longville -retorted, puffing lustily and blowing the smoke upward until it quite -hid his eyes, no longer sleepy, but decidedly keen. - -"The Mam'selle has money, much money," he went on, "that and her service -might come in handy for you and Tom." - -And now Pierre sat a little straighter in his chair. - -"Me and Tom?" he repeated dazedly. "You mean that I get the Mam'selle -to come to my--my cabin and work?" - -Somehow this idea made Longville laugh, and the laugh brought a scowl to -Pierre's face. - -"Tom will be going off some day," the Captain said irrelevantly, "then -what?" - -"Tom will stick," Gavot broke in, "I'll see to that. Break the spirit of -a woman or child and they stick." - -But as he spoke Gavot's tone was not one of assurance. His boy Tom was -not yet broken, even after the years of deprivation and cruelty, and -lately he had shown a disposition for work, work that brought little or -no return. This worried Gavot, who would not work upon any terms so -long as he could survive without it. - -"You can't depend upon children," Longville flung back, "a woman's safer -and handier, and while the Mam'selle, having money, might not care to -serve you for nothing, she might----" here the Captain left an eloquent -pause while he leered at his brother-in-law seductively. Gradually the -meaning of the words and the leer got into Gavot's consciousness. - -"Good God!" he cried in an undertone, "you mean I should--marry the ugly -Mam'selle Morey?" But even as he spoke the man gripped the idea -savagely and, with a quickness that always marked the end of his muddled -conclusions, he began to fix it among the possibilities of his wretched -life. - -"She needs a man to handle her money," Longville was running on. He saw -the spark had ignited the rubbish in Gavot's mind. "And she's a -powerful worker and saver. She cooks like an angel; she studies that -art as another might study her Bible. She has a mind above most women, -but properly handled and with reason----" - -"What mean you, Longville, properly handled and with reason? Would any -man marry Mam'selle?" - -"A wise man might--yes," Longville was leading his brother-in-law by the -most direct route, but he smiled under cover of the smoke. The Morey -money in Gavot's hands meant Longville control in the near future. So -the Captain smiled. - -"She'd marry quick enough," he rambled on, refilling his pipe. "A man -of her own is a big asset for such a woman as the Mam'selle. And then -the law stands by the husband; woman's wit does not count." - -Gavot was not heeding. His inflamed imagination had outstripped -Longville's words. Once he had mastered the physical aspect of the -matter, the rest became a dazzling lure. Never for an instant did he -doubt that Jo Morey would accept him. The whole thing lay in his power -if---- - -"She's old and ugly," he grunted half aloud. - -"What care you?" reassured Longville, "ugliness does not hamper work, -and her age is an advantage." - -"But, what was that Langley story----?" Pierre was groping back -helplessly. - -Point of Pines had its moral standards for women, but it rarely -gossiped; it stood by its own, on general principles, so long as its own -demanded little and was content to take what was offered. - -"That? Why, who cares for that after all this time?" Longville spoke -benignly. "If Langley left the Mam'selle with that which no woman, -without a ring, has a right to, she was keen enough to rid herself of -the burden and cut her own way back to decent living. She has asked no -favours, but she'd give much for a man to place her among her kind once -more." - -A deep silence followed, broken only by the guzzling and snoring of the -other occupants of Dan's Place. - -Suddenly Gavot got to his feet and reached for his hat. His inflamed -face gave evidence of his true state. - -"Back to Mastin's Point?" Longville asked, stretching himself and -yawning. - -"No, by heaven! but to Mam'selle Jo Morey's." - -This almost staggered Longville. He was slower, surer than his wife's -brother. - -"But your togs," he gasped, "you're not a figure for courting." - -"Courting?" Gavot laughed aloud. His drinking added impetus to every -impulse and desire. "Does Mam'selle have to have her pill coated? Will -she not swallow it without a question?" - -"But 'tis late, Gavot----" - -"And does the chaste Mam'selle keep to the early hours of better women?" - -"But to-morrow--the next day," pleaded Longville, seeking to control the -situation he had evolved. He feared he might be defeated by the force he -had set in motion. - -"No, by heaven, to-night!" fiercely and hoarsely muttered Gavot, -"to-night or never for the brown and ugly Mam'selle Jo. To-night will -make the morrows safe for me. If I stopped to consider, I could not put -it through." - -With that Gavot, big, handsome, and breathing hard, strode from the -tavern and took to the King's Highway. - -The wind rushed past him; pushed ahead; pressed at Jo's door with its -warning. But she did not speak, and only when Gavot himself thumped on -the panel was Jo roused from her revery and Nick from his puppy dreams. - -"Who's there?" shouted Mam'selle, and clumped across the floor in her -father's old boots. She slipped on one of the rugs and slid to the -entrance before regaining her balance. - -"It is I, Mam'selle, I, Pierre Gavot." - -Jo opened the door at once. - -"Well," she said with a calmness and serenity that chilled the excited -man, "it's a long way from here to Mastin's and the hour's late, tell -your business and get on your way, Pierre Gavot. Come in, sit by the -fire. My, what a wind is stirring. Now, then--out with it!" - -This crude opening to what Pierre hoped would be a dramatic scene, -sweeping Jo Morey off her feet, nonplussed the would-be gallant not a -little. He sat heavily down and eyed Nick uneasily. The dog was -sniffing at his heels in a most suspicious fashion. Every hair of his -body was on guard and his eyes were alert and forbidding. - -"Well, Pierre Gavot, what is your errand?" - -This did not improve matters and a shuffling motion toward Nick with a -heavy boot concluded the investigation on the dog's part. Nick was -convinced of the caller's disposition; he showed his teeth and growled. - -"Come, come, now," laughed Mam'selle, whistling Nick to her, "you see, -Pierre Gavot, I have a good care-taker. That being settled, let us -proceed." Then, as Gavot still shuffled uneasily, she went on: - -"Maybe it is Tom. I heard the other day that 'twas whispered among your -good friends that unless you did your duty by Tom, there would be a sum -raised to give the poor lad a chance--away from his loving father." Jo -laughed a hard laugh. She pitied Tom Gavot with her woman-heart while -she hated the man who deprived the boy of his rights. - -Gavot shut his cruel lips close, but he controlled the desire to voice -his real sentiments concerning the bit of gossip. - -"Indeed there is no need for my neighbours showing their hate, -Mam'selle. Tom's best good is what I'm seeking. He's young, young -enough to be cared for and watched. I'm thinking more of Tom than of -myself, and yet I ask nothing for him from you, Mam'selle Jo." - -"So, Gavot! Well, then, I am in the dark. Surely you could ask nothing -of me for yourself!" - -Again Pierre was chilled and inclined to anger. All his fire and fury -were deserting him; his intention of taking Jo by storm was -disappearing; almost he suspected that she was getting control of the -situation. He slyly looked at her dark, forbidding face and weighed the -possibilities of the future. Jo, he realized, was secure now in her -unusual independent position. Once let him, backed by the good law, -which covers the just and the unjust husband with its mantle of -authority, get possession of her future and her body, he'd manage--ah! -would he not--to utilize the one and degrade the other! - -"Mam'selle, I come to you as a lone and helpless man. Mam'selle, I -must--Mam'selle, I want that you should live the rest of the time of our -lives--with me!" - -Jo was aroused, frightened. She turned her luminous eyes upon the man. - -"You--you are asking me to marry you, Pierre Gavot?" - -Gavot, believing that the meaning of his visit had at last brought her -to his feet at the first direct shot, replied with a leer: - -"Well, something like that, Mam'selle." - -And now Jo's brows drew close; the eyes were darkened, the lips twitched -ominously. As if to emphasize the moment, Nick, abristle and teeth -showing, snarled gloomily as he eyed Gavot's feet. - -"Something like that?" repeated Jo with a thrill in her tones. "You -insult me, Gavot! Something like that. What do you mean?" - -"God of mercy, Mam'selle," Gavot was genuinely alarmed, "I ask you -to--be--my wife." - -Jo leaned back in her chair. "I wish you'd talk less of the Almighty, -Gavot. I reckon the Lord can speak for himself, if men, specially such -men as you, get out of his way. It sickens me to have to find the -meaning of God through--men. And you ask me to be your wife? You. And -I was with Margot when she died!" - -Gavot's eyes, for an instant, fell. - -"Margot was out of her head," he muttered. "She talked madness." - -"It was more truth than fever, Gavot. Her tongue ran loose--with truth. -I know, I know." - -"Well, then, Mam'selle, 'tis said a second wife reaps the harvest the -first wife sowed. I have learned, Mam'selle Jo." - -"Almost it is a greater insult than what I first thought!" Jo sighed -sadly. "But 'tis the best you have to offer--I should not forget -that--and some women would lay much stress on the chance you are -offering me. One thing Margot said, Gavot, has never passed my lips -until now--though often I've thought of it. When she'd emptied her poor -soul of all that you had poured into it, when she had shriven herself, -and was ready to meet her God, the God you had never let her find before -because you got in between, she looked at Tom. The poor lad sat huddled -up on the foot of the bed watching his mother going forth. 'Jo,' she -whispered, 'when all's said and done, it paid because of Tom! When I -tell God about Tom and what Tom meant, He'll forgive a lot else. He -does with women.'" - -Gavot dared not look up, and for a moment a death-like silence fell in -the hot, tidy room. Jo looked about at her place of safety and freedom -and wondered how she could hurry the disturbing element out. - -Just then Gavot spoke. He had grasped the only straw in sight on the -turgid stream. - -"Mam'selle, you're not too old yet to bear a child, but you'll best -waste no time." And then he smiled a loathsome smile that had its roots -in all that had soiled and killed poor Margot Gavot's life. Jo recoiled -as if something unclean were, indeed, near her. - -"Don't," she shuddered warningly, "don't!" Then quite suddenly she -turned upon the man, her eyes blazing, her mouth twisted with revolt and -disdain. - -"I wonder--if you could understand, if I showed you a woman's heart?" -she asked with a curious break in her voice. "Long, long years I've -ached to show the poor, dead thing lying here," she put her -work-hardened hands across her breast, "to someone. There have been -times when I have wondered if the telling might not help other women in -Point of Pines; might not make men see plainer the wrong they do women; -but until now there has never been any one to tell." - -Expression was crying aloud, and the incongruity of the situation did -not strike Jo Morey in her excitement. - -"You've got to hear me out, Pierre Gavot," she went on. "You've come, -God knows why, to offer me all that you have to give in exchange -for--well! I'm going to give you all that I have to give you--all, all! - -"There was a time, Gavot, when I longed for the thing that most women -long for, the thing that made Margot take you--you! She knew her -chances, poor soul, but you seemed the only way to her desires, so she -took you! - -"'Tis no shame to a woman to want what her nature cries out for, and the -call comes when she's least able to understand and choose. Here in -Point of Pines a girl has small choice. It is all well enough for them -who do not know to talk of love and the rest. The burning desire in man -and woman is there with or without love; it's the mercy of God when love -is added. I knew what I wanted, all that counted to me must come -through man, and love--my own love--sanctified everything for me. I did -not understand, I did not try to, I was lifted up----" - -Jo choked and Gavot twisted uneasily in his chair. This was all very -boring, but he must endure it for the time being. - -"I--I was willing to play the game and take my chances," Jo had got -control of herself, "and I never feared, until it was forced upon me, -that my ugliness stood in the way. All that I had to offer, and I had -much, Gavot, much, counted as nothing with men because their eyes were -held by this face of mine and could not see what lay behind. - -"Perhaps that was God's way of saving me. I thought that for the first -when I saw Margot dying. - -"I had my love killed in me, but the desire was there for years and -years; the longing for a home of my own and--children, children! After -love was gone, after I staggered back to feeling, there were times when -I would have bartered myself, as many another woman has, for the rights -that _are_ rights. But, since they must come by man's favour, I was -denied and starved. Then the soul died within me, first with longing, -then with contempt and hatred. By and by I took to praying, if one -could call my state prayer. I prayed to the God of man. I demanded -something--something from life, and this man's God was just. He let me -succeed as men do, and this, this is the result!" - -Jo flung her arms wide as if disclosing to Gavot's stupid eyes all that -his greed ached to possess: her fields and barns; her house and her fat -bank account. But the man dared not speak. He seemed to be confronting -an awful Presence. He looked weakly at Jo Morey, estimating his chances -after she had had her foolish way with him. Vaguely he knew that in the -future this outburst of hers would be an added weapon in his hand; not -even yet did he doubt but what he would gain his object. - -"It's all wrong," Jo rushed on, seemingly forgetting her companion, -"that women should have to wait for what their souls crave and die for -until some man, looking at their faces, makes it possible. A pretty -face is not all and everything: it should not be the only thing that -counts against the rest. Why, the time came, Gavot, when a man meant -nothing to me compared with--with other things." - -The fire and purpose died away. The outbreak, caused by the day's -experience, left Jo weak and trembling. She turned shamed and hating -eyes upon Gavot. She had let loose the thought of her lonely years. - -"And now you come, you!" she said, "and offer me, what?" - -Pierre breathed hard, his time had come at last. - -"Marriage, Mam'selle. I'm willing to risk it." - -"Marriage! My God! Marriage, what does that mean to such as you, -Pierre Gavot? And you think I would give up my clean, safe life for -anything you have to offer? Do men think so low of women?" - -Gavot snarled at this, his lips drew back in an ugly smile. - -"God made the law for man and woman, Mam'selle----" - -"Stop!" Jo stood up and flung her head back. "Stop! What do such as -you know of God and his law? It's your own law you've made to cover all -your wickedness and selfishness and then you--you label it with God's -mark. But it's not God's fault. We women must show up the fraud and -learn the true from the false. Oh! I've worked it out in my mind all -these years while I've toiled and thought. But, Gavot, while we've been -talking something has come to me quite clear. Not meaning to, you've -done me a good turn. - -"There's one way I can get something of what I want, and it's taken this -scene to show me the path. Come to-morrow. You shall see, all of you, -that I'm not the helpless thing you think me. Thinking isn't all. When -we've thought our way out, we must act. And now get along, Gavot, the -Lord takes queer ways and folks to work out his plans. Good-night to you -and thank you!" - -Pierre found himself on his feet and headed toward the door which Jo was -holding open. - -Outraged and flouted, knowing no mercy or justice, he had only one thing -to say: - -"Curse you!" he muttered; "curse and blast you." - -Then he slunk out into the wild, black night. - -A woman scorned and a man rejected have much in common, and there was -the explanation to the Longvilles to be faced! - - - - - *CHAPTER IV* - - *BUT MAM'SELLE MAKES A VOW* - - -After Mam'selle was certain that Gavot was beyond seeing her next move, -she flung the door wide open, letting the fresh, pure night air sweep -through the hot room. - -Nick sprang to his feet but, deciding that the change in temperature had -nothing to do with the late guest, he sidled over to Jo who stood on the -threshold and pushed his questioning nose into her hand. - -"Come, old fellow," she said gently, "we do not want sleep; let us go -out and have a look at the sky. It will do us both good." - -Quietly they went forth into the night and stood under a clump of pine -trees back of the house and near the foot of the hill. - -The clouds were splendid and the wind, like a mighty sculptor, changed -their form and design moment by moment. They were silver-edged clouds, -for a moon was hidden somewhere among them; here and there in the rifts -stars shone and the murmuring of the pines, so like Cecile's cry, -touched Mam'selle strangely. It seemed to her, standing there with Nick -beside her, that something of the old, happy past was being given back -to her. She smiled, wanly, to be sure, and tears, softer than had -blurred her eyes for many a year, wet her lashes. In a numb sort of way -she tried to understand the language of the night and the hour; it was -bringing her peace--after all her storms. It was like having passed -from a foul spot in a dark valley, to find oneself in a clear open space -with a safe path leading----? With this thought Jo drew in her breath -sharply. As surely as she had ever felt it in her life, she now felt -that something new and compelling was about to occur. The meaning and -purpose of her life seemed about to be revealed. Jo was a mystic; a -fatalist, though she was never to realize this. Standing under the -wind-swept sky she opened her arms wide, ready to accept! And then it -came to her in definite form, the thought that had arisen during her -talk with Gavot. She had said that she could have done without man if -only the rest had been vouchsafed. - -Well, then, what remained? She had house and lands and money. She -might be denied the travail and mystery of having a child, but there -were children; forgotten, disinherited children. They were possible, -and if she accepted what was hers to take, her life need not be aimless -and cheerless. She might yet know, vicariously, what her poor soul had -craved. - -A wave of religious exaltation swept over Jo Morey. Such moments have -been epoch-making since the world began. The shepherds on Judea's -plains, caught in the power of this emotion, lifted their eyes and saw -the guiding star that led them to the Manger and the world's salvation! -Down the ages it has turned the eyes of lesser men and women to their -rightful course, and it now pointed Jo Morey to her new hope! - -"I will adopt a child!" she said aloud and reverently as if dedicating -herself. "A man child." - -And then, in imagination, she followed the star. - -Over at St. Michael's-on-the-Rocks there was a Catholic institution -where baby driftwood was taken in without question. St. Michael's was a -harbour town boasting a summer colony. Women there, as elsewhere, paid -for too much faith or unsanctified greed, and the institution was often -the solution of the pitiful outcome. - -Jo had repeatedly contributed to the Home. She had no affiliation with -the church that supported it, but the priest of Point of Pines had -gained her respect and liking, and for his sake she had secretly aided -causes that he approved. Tom Gavot, for instance, and the St. Michael's -institution. - -"Come, Nick," she said presently, "we'll sleep on it." - -All night Mam'selle tossed about on her bed trying to argue herself into -common sense. When she came down from the heights her decision appeared -wild and unreasonable. - -What would people say? - -Rarely did Jo consider this, but it caught and held her now. Her hard, -detached life had set her apart from the common conditions of the women -near her. She was in many ways as innocent and guileless as a child -although the deepest meanings of suffering and sorrow had not been -hidden from her. That any one suspected her of being what she was not, -had never occurred to her. She had shrunk from everyone at the time of -Langley's desertion, because she neither wanted, nor looked for, -sympathy and understanding. She was grateful for the indifference that -followed that period of her life, but never for a moment had she known -of that which lay hidden in the silence of her people. - -Poor Jo! What Point of Pines was destined to think was impossible for -her to conceive, because her planning was so wide of the reality that -was to ensue. Tossing and restless, Jo tried to laugh her sudden -resolve to scorn, but it would not be scorned either by reason or mirth. - -"Very well!" she concluded for the second time, "I'll adopt a child, a -man child! No girl things for me. I could not watch them straining out -for their lives with the chance of losing them. A man can get what he -wants and I'll do my best, under God, to make him merciful." - -Toward morning Jo slept. - -The next day she cooked and planned as calmly as if she were arranging -for an invited guest. All her excitement and fire were smothered, but -she did not falter in her determination. She explained to Nick as she -tossed scraps to him. Nick was obligingly broad in his appetite and -tastes, bones and bits of dough were equally acceptable, and he patted -the floor thankfully with his sturdy little tail whenever Jo remembered -him. - -"We'll take it as a sign, Nick," she said, "that what I'm trying to do -is right if there is at St. Michael's a man-thing, handsome and under a -year old. We must have him handsome, that's half of the battle, and he -must be so young that he can't remember. I want to begin on him. - -"Now I'll bet you, Nick, that the Home is bristling with girl children -and we'll have none of them." - -Nick thumpingly agreed to all this but kept his eye on a plate of -cookies that Mam'selle was lavishly sugaring. Nick did not spurn scraps -but, like others, he yearned for tidbits. - -All day Jo worked, cooking and setting her house in order. - -Late in the afternoon she contemplated cutting a door between the two -north chambers, her own and the one her father had used, which had never -been occupied since. - -"The child will soon need a place of his own," mused Jo, already looking -ahead as a real mother might have done. Suddenly she started, recalling -for the first time since before Pierre Gavot's diverting call her -ambition concerning a boarder. - -"Well, the boarder will have to wait," she thought, "they hate babies, -and boys are terribly noisy and messy. I'll take a boarder when the lad -goes away to school. I'll need company then." - -By nightfall the little white house was spotless and in order. The -fragrance of cooking mingled with the odour of wood fire was soothing to -Jo's tired nerves; it meant home and achievement. - -"I'll not let on about the child," she concluded just before she went to -sleep. "When the doors of St. Michael's close on a child going in or -out, they close, and that is the end of it. If folks care to pry it -will give them something to do and keep them alive, but it's little -they'll get from the Sisters or me. - -"I'm a fool, a big fool, but I can pay for my folly and that's more than -many women can do." - -Early on the following morning Jo set forth in her broad-bellied little -cart in which were a hamper of goodies for the waifs of St. Michael's, -and a smaller basket containing Jo's own midday meal. Jo, herself, sat -on the shaft beside the fat Molly and bobbed along in the best of -spirits. - -"You're to watch the place, Nick," she commanded, "and if he returns, -you know who, just save a nip of him for me, that's a good beastie." - -With this possibility of adventure, Nick had to be content. - -Madame Longville saw Jo pass and remarked to the Captain who was eating -the pancakes his wife was making: - -"There goes Mam'selle, and so early, too; somehow she doesn't look as if -she had taken up with Pierre." - -"How does she look?" asked the Captain with his mouth full. - -"Sort of easy and cheerful." - -"Fool," muttered Longville and reached for more cakes. "Is she afoot?" - -"No. She's in the little cart and it's empty." - -"She's going to fetch Gavot, bag and baggage." Longville felt that he -had solved the problem. "It takes a woman like Mam'selle to clinch a -good bargain." - -Then Longville laughed and sputtered. - -"It was a good turn I did for your rascal brother when I turned him on -to Mam'selle," he continued. "I took the matter in my own hands." - -"I'm glad you did," Marcel returned, "but all the same Jo Morey doesn't -look as if she had taken up with Pierre." - -The repetition irritated Longville and again he muttered "fool!" then -added "damn fool" and let the matter rest. - -But Jo was out of sight by that time and seemed to have the empty world -to herself. And what a world it was. The wind of the past few hours -had swept the sky clear of clouds and for that time of year the day was -warm. - -Presently Jo found herself singing: "A la Claire Fontaine" and was -surprised that it caused her no heartache. So grateful was she for -this, that she dismounted and stood under one of the tall crosses by the -wayside and prayed in her silent, wordless fashion, recalling the years -that were gone as another might count the beads of a rosary. Her state -of mind was most perplexing and surprising, but it was wonderful. What -did it matter, the cause that resulted in this sense of freedom, and, at -the same time, of being used and controlled? Jo felt herself a part of -a great and powerful plan. Surely there is no truer freedom than that. -At noon the roofs of St. Michael's were in plain sight over the -pastures; by the road was a delectable pine grove with an opening broad -enough to drive in, so in Jo drove. She unhitched Molly and fed her, -then taking her own food to a log lying in the warm sunlight, she laid -out her feast and seated herself upon the fragrant pine needles. She -was healthfully hungry and thirsty and, for a few minutes, ate and drank -without heeding anything but her needs. Then a stirring in the bushes -attracted her attention. She raised her eyes and noted that the -branches of a crimson sumach near the road were moving restlessly. -Thinking some hungry but shy creature of the woods was hiding, Jo kept -perfectly still, holding a morsel of food out enticingly. - -The branches ceased trembling, there was no sound, but suddenly Jo -realized that she was looking straight into eyes that were holding hers -by a strange magnetism. - -"What do you want?" she asked. "Who are you?" - -There was no reply from the flaming bush, only that stare of fright and -alertness. - -"Come here. I will not hurt you. No one shall hurt you." - -Either the words, or actual necessity, compelled obedience: the branches -parted and out crawled a human figure covered by a coarse horse blanket -over the dingy uniform of St. Michael's. - -For a moment Jo was not sure whether the stranger were a boy or girl, -for a rough boyish cap rested on the head, but when the form rose -stiffly, tremblingly she saw it was that of a girl. She was pale and -thin, with long braids of hair known as tow-colour, a faintly freckled -face, and marvellous eyes. 'Twas the eyes that had caught and held Jo -from the start, yellow eyes they were and black fringed. They were like -pools in a wintry landscape; pools in which the sunlight was reflected. - -"I--I am starving to death," said the girl advancing cautiously, slowly. - -"Sit down and eat, then," commanded Jo, and her throat contracted as it -always did when she witnessed suffering. "After you've had enough, tell -me about yourself." - -For a few minutes it seemed as if there were not enough food to satisfy -the hungry child. She ate, not greedily or disgustingly, but -tragically. At last, after a gulp of milk, she leaned back against a -tree and gave Jo a grateful, pitiful smile. - -"And now," said Jo, "where did you come from?" - -"Over there," a denuded chicken bone pointed toward the Home. - -"You live there?" - -"I used to. I ran away last night. I've run away many times. They -always caught me before." - -The words were spoken in good, plain English. For this Jo was thankful. -French, or the composite, always hampered her. - -"Where were you last night?" she asked. - -"Here in the woods." - -Remembering the manner of night it was, Jo shivered and her face -hardened. - -"Were they cruel to you over there?" she said gruffly. - -"Do you mean, did they beat me? No, they didn't beat my body, but they -beat something else, something inside of me, all out of shape. They -tried to make me into something I am not, something I do not want to be. -They, they flattened me out. They were always teaching me, teaching me." - -There was a comical fierceness in the words. Jo Morey recognized the -spirit back of it and set her jaw. - -"I never saw you at the Home," she said; "I've often been there." - -"They only show the good ones--the ones they can be sure of. I took -care of the babies when I wasn't being punished, locked up, you know. -You see, I learned and could teach." - -"They locked you up?" Mam'selle and the child were being drawn close by -ties that neither understood. - -"Yes, to keep me from running away. You're not going to tell them about -me, are you?" - -The wonderful eyes seemed searching Jo's very soul. - -"No. But where are you going?" - -"I'm, I'm looking for someone." As she spoke the light vanished from -the yellow eyes, a blankness spread over the pale, thin face. - -"Looking for whom?" - -"I do not know." - -"What is your name?" Jo was struck by the change in the girl, she had -become listless, dull. - -"I do not know. Over there they call me Marie, but that isn't my name." - -"I can't let you go off alone by yourself," Jo was talking more to -herself than to the girl. - -"Then, what are you going to do with me? Please try to help me. You -see I was very sick once and I--I cannot remember what happened before -that, but it keeps coming closer and closer and pressing harder and -harder--here." The girl put her hand to her head. "Once in awhile I -catch little bits and then I hold them close and keep them. If I could -be let alone I think soon I would remember." - -The pleading eyes filled with tears, the lips trembled. - -Now the obvious thing to do, Jo knew very well: she ought to bundle the -girl into the cart and drive as fast as possible to the Home. But -Mam'selle Jo knew that she was not going to do the obvious thing, and -before she had time to plan another course she saw two black-robed -figures coming across the pasture opposite. The girl saw them, too, and -rushed to Jo. She clung to her fiercely and implored: - -"God in heaven, save me! If they get me, I will kill myself." - -The appeal turned Jo to stone. - -"Get in the cart," she commanded, "and cover up in the straw." - -The two Sisters from the Home were in the road as Jo bent to gather up -the debris of the meal. - -"Ah, 'tis the Mam'selle Morey," said the older Sister. "You were coming -to St. Michael's perhaps, with your goodly gifts?" The words were -spoken in pure French. - -"I was coming, Sister--to--to adopt a child!" - -The blunt statement, in bungling words, made both Sisters stare. - -"'Tis like your good heart to think of this thing, Mam'selle Morey. -Another day we will consider it." - -"Why not to-day, Sister? My time is never empty. I want a boy, very -young and--and good to look at." - -"Oh, but Mam'selle Morey, one does not adopt a child as one does a stray -cat. Another day, Mam'selle, and we will consider gladly, but -to-day----" - -"What of to-day, Sister?" - -"Well, one of our little flock has strayed, a child sadly lacking but -dearly loved; we must find her." - -"She has been gone long?" Jo was moving to the cart with her basket and -bottles. - -"She has just been missed. We will soon find her." - -Jo's hand, searching the straw, was patting the cold one that trembled -beneath her touch. "May I give you a lift along the road?" she asked -grimly, the humour of the thing striking her while she reassured the -hidden girl by a whispered word. - -"Thanks, no, Mam'selle. We will not keep to the roads. The lost one -loved the woods. She'd seek them." - -Jo waited until the Sisters had departed, her hand never having left the -trembling one beneath hers. - -"You are going to--to take me with you?" The words came muffled, from -the straw. - -"Yes." - -"And where?" - -"To Point of Pines." - -"What a lovely name. And you, what may I call you?" - -"Jo, Mam'selle Jo." - -"Mam'selle Jo. That is pretty, too, like Point of Pines. How kind you -are and good. I did not know any one could be so good." - -"Lie down now, child, and sleep." - -Jo was hitching Molly to the cart; her hands fumbled and there was a -deep fire in her dark eyes. - -"We're going home," she said presently, but the girl was already asleep. - -Through the autumn sunset and under the clear stars the little cart -bobbed along to Point of Pines. The stirring in the straw, the touch, -now and then, of a small, groping hand were all that disturbed Jo's -troubled thoughts. When she reached her darkened house, Nick met her at -the gate. Very solemnly Jo dismounted and took the dog's head in her -hands. - -"Nick," she explained, "Nick, it's a girl, and an ugly one at that. -She's old enough to remember, too, but she don't--she don't, Nick. God -help me! I'm a fool, but I could do nothing else." - - - - - *CHAPTER V* - - *ENTER DONELLE* - - -Many times during the next few weeks Jo Morey repeated that "I could do -nothing else." It was like a defense of her action to all the opposing -forces. - -Poor Jo! She, who had stood before Longville a free woman but a short -time ago; she who had flouted Gavot and sworn to have something of her -own out of life in spite of man, was now held in the clutch of Fate. - -The girl she had brought into her home was raving with fever and tossing -restlessly on Jo's own bed in the little north chamber. No one ever -sent for a doctor in Point of Pines until the need of one was -practically past. Every woman was trained to care for the sick, and -Mam'selle Jo was a master of the art, so she watched and cared for the -sufferer, mechanically dazed by conditions and reiterating that she -could have done nothing else. - -The sweet autumn weather had changed suddenly, and winter came howling -over the hills sheathed in icy rain that lashed the trees and houses and -flooded the roads. No one came to disturb Jo Morey, and her secret was -safe for the time being. But the long, dark, storm-racked nights; the -dull days filled with anxiety and hard work, wore upon Jo. Constant -journeys to the wood pile were necessary in order to keep the fires to -their full duty; food had to be provided and the animals cared for. - -Nick grew sedate and nervous; he followed his mistress closely and often -sat by the bed upon which lay the stranger who had caused all the -disturbance. - -And so the storm raged, and in the loneliness poor Jo, like Nick, -developed nerves. - -She moved about, looking over her shoulder affrightedly if she heard an -unusual sound. She forced herself to eat and when she could, she slept, -lying beside the sick girl, her hand upon the hot body. At such times -the flesh looses its hold upon the spirit and strange things happen. At -such times, since the world began, miracles have occurred, and Jo became -convinced, presently, that she had been led to do what she had done, by -a Power over which she had no control and which she had no longer any -desire to defy. She submitted; ceased to rebel; did not even reiterate -that she could have done nothing else. - -At first she listened to the sick girl's ravings, hoping she might learn -something of the past, but as no names or places entered into the -confused words she lost interest. Nevertheless, the words sank into her -subconsciousness and made an impression. The fevered brain was groping -back past the St. Michael days, groping in strange, distant places, but -never finding anything definite. There seemed to be long, tiresome -journeys, there were pathetic appeals to stop and rest. More than once -the hoarse, weak voice cried: "They'll believe me if I tell. I saw how -it was. Let me tell, they'll believe me." - -But when Jo questioned as to this the burning eyes only stared and the -lips closed. At other times the girl grew strangely still and her face -softened. - -"The white high-top is all pink," she once whispered looking toward the -north window against which the sheet of icy rain was dashing; "it is -morning!" - -Jo grew superstitious; she felt haunted and afraid for the first time in -her life and finally she decided to call in Marcel Longville and let her -share the secret vigil. - -The night of the day she decided upon this, something remarkable -happened. Toward evening the rain ceased and the wind took to sobbing -remorsefully in long, wearied gasps. The girl in the north chamber lay -resting with lowered temperature and steadier pulse. "The crisis is -past," murmured Jo, and when all was made comfortable, she went to the -living room, put her feet in the oven, and looked at her weary, haggard -face in the glass. The reflection did not move her, she was too utterly -worn out, but she did think of the morrow and the coming of Marcel. - -"Now that there is no need," she muttered, "I must have someone. I'm -all but done for. I cannot think straight, and there has got to be some -straight thinking from now on." - -She was still looking at her plain face in the glass when she heard the -clock in the kitchen strike ten and heard the even breathing of the girl -in her north chamber. She was still looking in the glass, still -hearing--what? Why, footsteps coming up the little white-shell path! -Familiar steps they were, but coming from, oh! such a distance, and out -of the many years! They caused no surprise nor alarm, however, and Jo -smiled. She saw, quite distinctly, the face in the glass smiling, and -now it was no longer old and haggard, and it seemed right that those -steps should be near. Jo's smile broadened. - -The steps came close; they were at the door. There was a quick, sharp -knock as if the comer were hurrying gladly. Mam'selle sprang up -and--found herself standing in the middle of the room, the fire all but -burned out, the lamp sputtering! - -"I've been dreaming!" murmured Jo, pushing her hair back from her face. - -"Nick!" - -Mam'selle was fully roused by now and her eyes were riveted upon her -dog. He stood near the door all a-bristle, as if awaiting the entrance -of one he knew and loved. Then he whined and capered about for all the -world as if he were fawning at the feet of someone. - -"Nick, come here!" - -But Nick paid no heed. - -"None of that, sir!" - -The cold sweat stood on Jo Morey's face. "None of that!" Then, with a -gasp, "You, too, heard the steps, the steps that have no right here. -Nick!" - -And now the dog turned and came abjectly toward his mistress. He looked -foolish and apologetic. - -"We're both going mad!" muttered Jo, but bent to soothe poor Nick before -she turned to the north chamber. - -Under the spell of her dream she trembled, and was filled with -apprehension. How quiet the sick room was! The candle sputtering in -its holder made flashes of light and cast queer shadows. The girl was -not sleeping, her eyes were wide open, her hands groping feebly. - -"Father," she moaned as Jo bent over her, "father, where are you? I'll -remember, father. The name--Mam'selle Jo Morey, and she will -understand!" - -Then--all was still, deadly, terribly still. During the past weeks of -strain and watching a door had been gradually opening into a darkened -room, but now a sudden light was flashed and Jo saw and understood! - -Undoubting, stunned, but keenly alive, she believed she was looking upon -Henry Langley's child and felt that she had always known! It was most -natural, Langley had been coming home to her: because he could trust -her; knew that she would understand. Understand--what? But did that -matter? Something had happened, Jo meant to find all that out later. -Now she must act, and act quickly. The crisis had not passed; it was -here. Jo set to work and for hours she fought death off by primitive -but effective means. She knew the danger; counted the chances and -strained every nerve to her task. When morning came she saw she had -saved the girl and she dropped by the bedside, faint and listless, but -lifting up her soul, where another woman would have prayed, to the Power -that she acknowledged and trusted. - -Mam'selle did not send for Marcel Longville, she was given strength to -go on alone for a little longer. The sick girl rallied with wonderful -response to Jo's care which now had a new meaning. She was docile, -sweet, and pathetically grateful, but she did not want Jo long out of -her sight. - -"It is queer, Mam'selle," she sometimes said, "but when you go out of -the door it seems as if something, a feeling, got me. And when you come -in again, it goes." - -"What kind of a feeling, child?" - -"I do not know, but I am afraid of it and _It_ is afraid of you. You're -like a light, making the darkness go. When I was sickest, sometimes I -felt I was lost in the blackness. Then I touched your hand, and I found -my way back." - -After awhile the "Mam'selle" was shortened to "Mam'sle," then, and quite -unconsciously, to Mamsey. To that the girl clung always. And Jo, for -no reason but a quaint whim, disdained the Marie by which the girl had -been known and called her Donelle after poor Mrs. Morey who had died at -Cecile's birth. - -The winter after the ice storm settled down seriously. It had no more -tantrums, but grew still and white and lonely. The snow was deep and -glistening, the sky blue and cloudless and the pines cracked in the cold -like the rifles of hunters in the woods. Donelle crept, a little, pale -ghost, from the north chamber to the sunny living room. By putting her -hand on Nick's head she walked more steadily and laughed at the progress -she made. Jo tucked her up on the hard couch under the glowing begonias -and geraniums. - -"Good Mamsey! It's like coming back from a far, far place," whispered -the girl. As strength returned Donelle grew often strangely thoughtful. - -"I thought," she confided one night to Jo, "that when I was left alone I -could remember, but I cannot." - -Then Jo took things in her own hands. She was always one to muster all -the help in sight, and not be too particular. She was developing a deep -passion for the girl she had rescued; she meant to see the thing through -and _well_ through. As soon as she could she meant to go to St. -Michael's and learn all that the Sisters knew of the girl's past. She -felt she had a power over them that might wring the truth from their -frozen silence. Then she meant to use her last dollar in procuring the -proper medical skill for the girl. There was a big doctor every summer -at St. Michael's Hotel; until summer Jo must do her best. - -As her nerves grew calm and steady the experiences of the night of -Donelle's crisis lost their hold. - -"She heard my name at the Home," Jo argued, "and I myself spoke it when -she was the most frightened and on the verge of fever. In the muddle -and confusion of delirium it came to the surface with the rest of the -floating bits. That's all." - -Still there was a lurking familiarity about the girl that haunted Jo's -most prosaic hours. It lay about the girl's mouth, the way she had of -looking at Jo as if puzzled, and then a slow smile breaking. Langley had -that same trick, back in the spring and summer of the past. He would -take a long look, then smile contentedly as if an answer to a longing -had come. But something else caught and held Jo Morey's attention as -she watched the girl. That charm of manner, that poise and ease; how -like they were to--but Jo dared not mention the name, for the hurt had -broken out afresh after all the years! - -"But such things do not happen in real life," she argued in her sane, -honest mind. "She wouldn't have been hiding in those bushes just when I -stopped to eat! I'm getting wild to fancy such things, wild!" - -So Jo turned from the impossible and attacked the possible, but as often -happens in life, she confused the two. - -"See here, child," she said one day when Donelle was brooding and sad, -"You've been very sick and you're weak yet, but while you were at the -worst you remembered, and it will all come back again soon." - -The girl brightened at once. - -"What did I remember, Mamsey?" she asked. - -Jo, weaving a new design, puckered her brow. "Oh, you told of travels -with your father," then with inspiration, "they must have been in -far-off places, for you spoke about high-tops white with snow and the -sun making them pink. They must have been handsome." - -Donelle's eyes widened and grew strained. - -"Yes," she said dreamily; "they must have been handsome. But my father, -Mamsey, what about my father?" - -"Well, child, he died." Jo made the plunge and looked for the results. - -"Yes, I think I knew he was dead. Did you know my father, Mamsey?" - -Again Jo plunged. - -"Yes, child, long ago. He must have been bringing you to me when -something happened. Then you were ill and the Sisters took you----" - -"But why did they not bring me to you?" Donelle was clinging to every -word. - -"I think they did not know. You forgot what had happened. Your father -was dead----" - -"Yes, I see. But always I was trying to get away. Many times I did get -out of the gates, but always they found me until the time when I found -you. Things happen very queer sometimes." - -Then, quickly changing the subject; - -"Mamsey, did you know my mother, too?" - -"Yes, child." And now poor, honest, simple Jo Morey bent her head over -the loom. - -"Was she a good--mother?" - -For the life of her Jo could not answer. The wide sunny eyes of the -girl were upon her, the awful keenness of an awakening mind was -searching her face and what lay behind her troubled eyes. - -The moment of silence made the next harder; conclusions had been reached -by the girl. She came toward Jo, stood before her, and laid her hands -upon her shoulders, - -"Mamsey," she faltered; "we will not talk about my mother if it hurts -you." The quick gratitude and sympathy almost frightened Jo. - -And they did not for many a year after that speak of Donelle's mother. - -"But, child," Jo pleaded, "just do not push yourself, it will all come -back to you some day. You must trust me as your father did. And -another thing, Donelle, you are to live with me now, and--and it was -your father's wish, it is best that you take my name. And you must not -let on about--about--the Home at St. Michael's." - -Donelle shivered. - -"I will not!" she said. "Do they know where I am?" - -"No. But when you are able to be left, I am going to tell them!" This -came firmly. "They will be glad enough to forget you and leave the rest -to me. They have great powers of forgetting and remembering, when it -pays. But they are through with you, child, forever." - -"Oh! Mamsey, thank God!" - -Donelle folded her thin arms across her breast and swayed to and fro. -This gesture of hers was characteristic. When she was glad she moved -back and forth; when she was troubled she moved from side to side, -holding her slim body close. - -"I will mind nothing Mamsey, now. I will begin with you!" - -"And I," murmured Jo gruffly, "I will begin with you, Donelle. You and -I, you and I." - -But of course the outside world soon had to be considered. People came -to Jo Morey's door on one errand or another, but they got no further. - -"I cannot make Mam'selle out," Marcel Longville confided to the Captain, -"she has always been quick to answer a call when sickness was the -reason. Now here is poor Tom laid up with a throat so bad that I know -not what to do and when I went she opened her door but halfway and said, -'send for a doctor!'" Longville grunted. He had his suspicions about -Mam'selle and Gavot, but he could get nothing definite from Pierre and -surely there was nothing hopeful about Jo Morey's attitude. - -"I'll call myself," he decided. But to his twice-repeated knocks he got -no response; then he kicked on the door. At this Jo opened a window, -risking the life and health of her begonias and geraniums by so doing. - -"Well?" was all she said, but her plain, haggard face startled the -Captain. He had formulated no special errand; he had trusted to -developments, and this unlooked-for welcome to his advances threw him -back upon a flimsy report of Tom Gavot's sore throat. - -"I'm sorry, Captain," Jo said, "but I'm not able to do anything to help. -There's no reason why you shouldn't get a doctor. If it's a case of -money, I'll pay the bill for the sake of the poor boy and his dead -mother." - -"Mam'selle, you're not yourself," Longville retorted. - -"I'm just myself," Jo flung back. "I've just found myself. But I'm -going off for a few days, Captain, so good-bye." - -Longville retreated from the house in a sadly befuddled state. Surely -something serious was the matter with Jo Morey. She looked ill and -acted queer, almost suspiciously queer. And she was going away! No one -went away from Point of Pines unless dire necessity drove them. Why -should people ever go away from anywhere unless forced? - -Then Longville's thoughts drifted back to the time when Mam'selle had -gone away before and came back so bedraggled and spent. - -It was all very odd and unsettling. - -"Surely Mam'selle needs watching," mumbled Longville and he decided to -watch. - -Night favoured his schemes. He forsook the tavern and made stealthy -trips to the little white house, only to be greeted by blank darkness, -except for a dim gleam at the edges of the curtain at the window of the -small north chamber. - -"Mam'selle has not yet gone," concluded Longville, but that was little -comfort. Then one night he got bolder and crept close to the rear and -listened under the chamber window. - -Jo was talking to---- At that instant the kitchen door was flung open -and out dashed Nick. - -"At him!" commanded Mam'selle, standing in the panel of light, laughing -diabolically, "It's a skunk, no doubt; drive him off, Nick; don't touch -him!" - -Longville escaped, how, he could not tell, for Nick sniffed at his -retreating heels well down the highway. - -Three or four nights after, Longville, discreetly keeping to the road, -where he had a perfect right to be, paused before the white house again. -It was a dark night, with occasional flashes of moonlight as the wind -scattered the clouds. - -Presently the house door opened and Mam'selle came out with Nick close -beside her. They stood quite still on the little lawn, their faces -turned upward. And just then Longville could have sworn he heard a sob, -a deep, smothered sob, and Nick certainly whined piteously. Then the -two went back into the house and Longville, with a nervous start, turned -and faced--Gavot! - -"What do you make of it?" whispered Pierre. - -"Make of what?" demanded Longville. - -"Oh, I've done some watching myself," Gavot replied, "I've watched you -_and_ her! A man doesn't keep to the night when the tavern has a warm -place for him. I've kept you company, Longville, when you didn't know -it." - -"Well, then, what's the meaning that you make out, Pierre?" - -"The Mam'selle Morey is up to--to tricks," Gavot nodded knowingly, "and -she's not going to escape me." - -"'Tis not the first caper she has cut," Longville snorted, "and she will -well need an eye kept on her." - -Then the two went amicably arm in arm to Dan's Place. - -"Four eyes, brother Longville," said Gavot who always grew nauseously -familiar when he dared. "Four eyes on Mam'selle and four _such_ eyes!" - - - - - *CHAPTER VI* - - *MAM'SELLE HEARS PART OF THE TRUTH* - - -Jo Morey came out of her house quite boldly and locked the door! - -She had left Nick inside, a most unusual proceeding. Then she harnessed -Molly to the caliche, also an unusual proceeding, for the picturesque -carriage was reserved for the use of summer visitors and brought a good -price when driven by one of the young French-Canadians from the -settlement a few miles away. Openly, indeed encouraging nods and -conversation, Jo started toward St. Michael's in her Sunday best and -nicely poised on the high seat. - -"Good morning, Captain," she greeted as she passed Longville on the -road; "I'm off at last, you see! So you can take a rest from watching." - -"When do you return, Mam'selle?" asked the Captain, quite taken aback by -the sight. - -"That depends," and Jo smiled, another rare proceeding, surely; "the -roads are none too good and time is my own these days." - -Then she bobbed along, the high feather on her absurd hat waving -defiance. - -But Jo was quite another person to young Tom Gavot whom she met a mile -farther on. The boy was a handsome, shabby fellow and at present his -throat was bound close in a band of red flannel. His clothing was thin -and ragged and his bare hands rested upon the handle of a shovel which -he held. He leaned slightly on it, as he paused to greet Mam'selle -Morey. - -"Tom, you've been sick," said Jo, stopping short and leaning toward him. -"I hated not to come to you--but I couldn't." - -"'Tis all right, now, Mam'selle. I went to the cure when my throat was -the worst and the good Father took me in and sent for the doctor." - -"I'll remember that, Tom, when the cure asks for help this winter. And, -Tom, how goes life?" - -The boy's clear, dark eyes looked troubled. "I want to get away, -Mam'selle Jo. I can never make anything of myself here. Sometimes," -the boy smiled grimly, "sometimes I find myself--longing to forget -everything in----" - -"No, Tom, not the tavern! Remember what I've always told you, boy, of -the night your mother went. She said you paid for all she had suffered! -Tom, when you get down and things look black, just remember and keep on -being worth what she went through. It was worse than anything you'll -ever be called upon to bear." - -The boy's eyes dimmed. - -"I'm holding close," he said grimly. "Holding close to--I don't know -what." - -"That's it, Tom, we don't know what; but it's something, isn't it?" - -"Yes, Mam'selle." - -"Now listen, Tom. How old are you? Let me see----" - -"Sixteen, Mam'selle." - -"To be sure. And you study hard at the school, the cure has told me. -And you mend the roads in the summer with the men?" - -"Yes, Mam'selle," Tom grinned, "and get a bit of money and hide it well. -There's nearly twenty dollars now." - -"Good! Well, Tom, this winter, study as you never have before and next -summer, if the men come, work and save. You shall go away some day, -that I swear. I'll promise that, but it must be a secret. You shall -have your chance." - -"Mam'selle!" Tom instinctively took off his hat and stood beside Jo -like a ragged and forlorn knight. - -"You've got to pay for all your mother suffered!" Jo's lips quivered. -"It's the least you can do." - -Then with a nod and a cheery farewell, Jo bobbed along while Tom Gavot -returned to his self-imposed task of filling in the ruts on the road. -Occasionally a traveller tossed him a coin, and the work kept him -occupied, but best of all it assumed the dignity of a job and made him -capable of helping intelligently when the real workers came in the late -spring. - -Just after midday Jo Morey drew up before the Home of St. -Michael's-on-the-Rocks. She was very quiet, very dignified and firm, -but her heart was pounding distractedly against her stiffly boned waist. -She was to learn, at last, all there was to learn about the girl who, at -that moment, was locked in the white house behind drawn shades, with -instructions to remain hidden until Jo's return. - -There was little doubt now in Mam'selle's mind but that the fantastic -conclusions she had drawn during the strenuous hours of illness were -mere figments and not to be relied upon. They could all be easily -explained, no doubt. - -Poor Jo! - -But, no matter what she was to hear, and undoubtedly it would be most -prosaic, she meant to keep the girl even if she had to threaten in order -to do so! She, plain, unlovable Jo Morey, had developed a sudden and -violent fancy for the girl she had rescued. Jo was almost ashamed of -her emotions, but she could not, inwardly, control them. Outwardly, she -might scowl and glower, but her heart beat quick at the touch of the -girl's hands, her colour rose at the tones of the low voice; some women -are thus moved by little children. Jo, repressed and suppressed, was -like a delicate instrument upon which her own starved maternal instinct -now played riotously. - -She was led to the bare little reception room of the Home and left to -her own devices while a small maid scurried away to summon the Sister in -charge. - -Alone, Jo sat on the edge of a hard chair and tried to believe that she -was prepared for anything--or nothing, but all the time she was getting -more and more agitated. When things were at the tensest she always -looked the sternest, so when Sister Angela entered the room, she was -rather taken aback by the face Mam'selle turned toward her soft -greeting. Sister Angela was the older of the two nuns who had questioned -Jo while the lost girl lay hidden under the straw in the cart that first -day. - -"Ah, it's Mam'selle Morey! A good day to you, Mam'selle." - -"Have you found that girl yet?" bluntly spoke Jo. - -The manner and question took the Sister off her guard. - -"Oh! the girl! I remember, Mam'selle. We met you while we were looking -for her. The child is quite safe, thank you. We have long wanted to -find a good home for her." - -"So you found her?" - -Mam'selle was struggling with the fragments of French at her command and -making poor work with them. The Sister pretended not to understand. - -"The girl," Jo was losing what little control she had, "is over at my -house; she's been terribly ill." - -Sister Angela's face grew ashy and she drew her chair close. "And now?" -she whispered. - -"She's going to get well." Jo settled back. - -"And--and she has talked? She had an illness here once, the physician -told us another shock might restore her memory. That sometimes does -happen. Mam'selle, the girl has remembered and--talked?" - -"She's talked, yes!" Jo was groping along. "I want her story, Sister." - -"What is there to tell, Mam'selle?" Sister Angela took a chance. "We -always give the sinning mothers an hour in which to consider whether -they will keep their children or not. We try to make them see their -duty, if they will not, we assume it. And the past is dead. You know -our way here, we do the best we can for the children. 'Tis wiser to -forget--much." - -"Sister Angela, I said the girl talked and she remembered!" - -Under Jo's lowering brows the dark eyes gleamed. - -"Then, Mam'selle, if the girl remembered and talked surely you can see -why it was best to hush her story?" - -The colour again receded from Sister Angela's face. She did not look -guilty, but she looked anxious. - -She had circulated a report that the missing girl was on probation in a -good home; she had carried on a still hunt untiringly; and now if -Mam'selle Jo Morey could be prevailed upon to adopt the girl, how -perfectly everything would work out. And there was to be a meeting of -the managers in a week! - -"Sister, I mean to take this girl if it can be done legally and quietly, -but I will not unless I hear all I can from you, all there is to know." - -"Very well, Mam'selle, we only have the girl's good at heart, I assure -you. Our Sister Mary was the one who brought the girl to us four years -ago. I will send her to you. As to the legal steps, they are practical -and easy, and when one of our fold goes to another, that is the end! We -have educated this girl carefully; she is well trained. We had always -her interest at heart. And now I will send Sister Mary." - -Left alone again, Jo clasped her hands close and stiffened as for an -ordeal. - -The door opened and closed. A very pale little Sister took a chair near -Mam'selle and, holding to her crucifix as to an anchor, she said gently: - -"I am to tell you of the little girl, Marie. 'Tis not much of a story. -We know very little, but the little were best forgot; it is not a pretty -story. - -"Four years ago word came from a tavern back in the hills that a man and -child were very ill there and I went over to nurse them. The girl had -fallen and hurt her head. She was quite out of her mind and I decided -to bring her here; the doctor said she could be moved. The man, he was -the father of the child, was dying. I sent for a priest and waited -until the priest came. - -"The man was a bit delirious and talked wildly, but at every question he -hushed suddenly as if he were mortally afraid of something. - -"He said he wanted no priest, insisted that he was able to start on. He -was taking the child to someone who, he kept repeating, would believe -him and understand. - -"When I asked him what there was to believe and to whom he was taking -the child, he looked at me strangely and laughed! He died before the -priest came. I brought the girl away and somehow the report got around -that she, too, had died, and we thought it best to let the matter rest -there. - -"A year later two men came to hear what we had to tell about the man who -had died; he was wanted for--murder!" - -To Morey sprang to her feet. - -"Not--that!" she panted. Then quickly regaining her self-control, "I -see now why you felt you must keep the story secret," she continued, and -sank back limply in her chair. - -"Exactly," nodded Sister Mary, then glanced about the room and lowered -her voice. - -"I told the men about the father's death--and--I said the girl had died -later. Mam'selle, I took that course because one of the men, he said he -had known the dead man, wanted the girl, and I could not trust the man; -his eyes were bad. I feared for the child. 'Twas better that she stayed -where she was, shielded, cared for. I had grown to be fond of her. I -taught her carefully, she was a great help with the younger children. I -hoped she would come into the Sisterhood, but perhaps it is best she -should have a safe home." - -"Is that all? Did those men tell you nothing of the past?" Jo's words -came like hard, quick strokes. - -The waxen face of Sister Mary did not change expression. She had left -life's sordid problems so far behind that they were mere words to her. - -"Oh! they had their story," she said. "The dead man had shot his wife -because he discovered that she had a lover. He shot her in the presence -of the little girl and the lover. Mam'selle, I believe the man with the -officer was the lover. He wanted the child for reasons of his own; that -was why I said--she was dead. - -"That's all, Mam'selle." - -Jo Morey felt a strange sympathy with the pale little Sister and a deep -gratitude. - -"You're a good woman!" she said to Sister Mary. - -"I did my best for the girl," the Sister went on, still holding to her -crucifix, "she never recovered her memory for that, God be praised! But -she had a bright mind and I trained that carefully. She knows much from -books; all that I could get for her. She never took kindly to--religion, -and that is why Sister Angela was thinking of finding a home for her; -the girl was not happy here, but we did our best." - -"I am sure you did, Sister!" Jo looked grateful. "I understand. But -those men, did they not mention the name of the man they sought?" - -Sister Mary drew her brows together. "The name? Yes, but it has -escaped me. It was an English name if I recall rightly, something -like--Long--no--yes--it was Longley or Longdon, something sounding like -that." - -Never in her life had Jo fainted, but she feared she was going to do so -now. The bare little room was effaced as though a huge, icy blackness -engulfed it. In the darkness a clock on a shelf ticked madly, dashingly, -like blow upon blow on iron. - -"Here is a glass of water, Mam'selle, you are ill." - -Sister Mary pressed the glass to Jo's lips and she drank it to the last -drop. - -"I have nursed this girl through a long sickness," she explained. "I am -tired. But I will keep her. Tell Sister Angela to make arrangements and -let me know." - -"Very well, Mam'selle. And the girl, Marie; she remembers, Sister -Angela says. 'Tis a miracle. I shall miss her, but God has been kind to -her." - -"She will remember only what I tell her, from now on!" Jo set her teeth -over her tingling tongue. "And now, I must go." - -Mam'selle almost expected to find it dark when she went out from the dim -room, but it was broad daylight, and when she looked at the clock in the -church tower she saw that she had been but an hour inside. - -In all the years of her life she had never experienced half so much as -she had during the space of time with the two Sisters. She was -conscious of trying to keep what she had heard in the Home, out of her -mind; she was afraid to face it in the open. There were children playing -about; a Sister or two looked at her curiously; she must be alone before -she dared take her terrible knowledge into consideration. Gravely she -went to the caleche, stiffly she took the reins and clicked to Molly. A -mile from St. Michael's, much to Molly's disgust, they turned from the -main road and struck into a wood trail where the snowy slush made travel -difficult. Jo did not go far, she merely wanted to hide from any chance -passerby. Then she let the reins drop in her lap and staring straight -ahead--thought! - -It was growing cold, that dead cold that comes when the mercury is -dropping. But Jo was back in the summer time of her life, she was -studying Langley, and the woman who had lured him, with the mature power -that suffering years had later evolved in Jo herself. By some psychic -force she seemed able to follow them far, far. So far she went in -imagination that she saw the "white high-tops" changing from shade to -shade. Jo, who had never been fifty miles from her birthplace, went far -in that hour! - -She understood Langley as she never had before. She suffered with him, -no longer because of him. The dreadful scene in the lonely wood-cabin; -the stranger man who had told his story! And against that story who -could prevail? But would Langley have been coming to her with his child -had he been guilty of the crime with which he was charged? And -Donelle's words: "They will believe me. Let me tell, I saw how it was." - -Mam'selle, stiff with cold, smiled with rare radiance as one might who, -considering her dishonoured dead, knows in her heart that he is -innocent. - -"If the child ever remembers, then I can speak," thought poor Jo. "I -believe the man who came to the Home is the guilty one. He wanted the -girl, wanted to hush her story. He must think her dead, dead, unless -she can prove--the truth." - -The black tragedy into which poor Mam'selle had been plunged quickened -every sense. Her one determination was to hide Langley's child, not -only for her own safety, but in order that the horrible story of the -crime might be stilled. Langley was dead, he must rest in peace. But -that man might be alive; the merest suspicion of Donelle's existence -would bring about the greatest disaster. He might claim the girl, by -pretending relationship, and then go to any lengths to insure her -silence. No; come what might, all must be hidden. - -It was dark when Mam'selle Jo reached Point of Pines. She took Molly to -the stable and fed her, then silently made her way to the little house. -Not a gleam of light shone from the windows; all was quiet and safe. - -But was it? As Jo reached the lowest step of the porch she saw a black -figure crouching under the living-room window. So absorbed was the -watcher that he had not heard Jo's approach; neither did he notice when, -on tiptoes, she mounted and stood behind him, the better to see what -might be the object of his spying. - -The shade of the broad window was lowered, but the bottom rested on the -pots of flowers, and there was a space through which one might look into -the room. The fire was burning brightly and its radiance clearly showed -Donelle on the couch by the window, fast asleep, Nick crouching beside -her, his eyes glaring at the intruder outside and his teeth showing! - -"Well, Captain!" - -Longville jumped up as if he had been shot. For an instant Jo had the -master position, but only for an instant; then Longville spoke. - -"So that's what you have been hiding!" he said. - -"And this is the way you take to find out?" Jo looked dangerous. She -was thinking quickly. She had meant to guard the future by safe -courses, but she had little choice now. Only one thing was clear, she -must save the secret she had just learned. In reaching this conclusion -Jo did not consider how badly she was plunging into dangerous depths. -For herself she gave no thought, her innocence and ignorance made her -blind; she stood before her persecutor and answered blankly like one who -must reply, and does not count the cost. - -"Whose girl is that?" - -"Mine." - -"Yours and Langley's, by God! And you have the shamelessness to stand -there and tell me so to my face. So that's what you went away for, the -summer Langley turned you adrift. All these years you've kept your -disgrace hidden--where?" - -Horrified, Jo staggered back and confronted Longville with desperate -eyes. She had meant to tell him that she had adopted the girl; had even -felt she might go so far as to mention the Home, but now! What was she -to do? This mean and suspicious mind had fastened on an explanation of -the child's presence in her house that had not even occurred to her. No -matter what she said she doubted if Longville would believe her. She -stood in the dark, face to face with the Captain, while her mind battled -with the question. "Shall I say the child is my own?" thought Jo. -"That will stop all further questions, no one need ever know about the -murder, and Donelle can be kept safe from the hateful suspicion that -I----" she could not even say the horrible thing to herself. - -"Answer me!" Longville, feeling that his victim feared, flung all -disguise aside. - -Still she stared and debated with herself. She knew that if she said -that she had adopted Donelle, Longville would not believe her mere -statement; she would have to bare this whole awful story to this -scandal-monger; the man would expect proofs, he would ferret out the -last detail. Everyone in the village would know it next day, the child -would be questioned, her house would be the centre of the curious. - -The other horn of the dilemma would be safer for the child; they would -be let alone, she could live the evil name down. Sometime the truth -would come out. - -Jo had decided. She faced Longville, her head up, her jaws clamped, -silent. - -"Answer me--you--harlot!" - -The word stung Jo Morey and she sprang forward. Longville thought she -was going to strike him and like the coward he was, he dodged. - -"You dare not speak for yourself," he snarled. - -Then Jo laughed. The sound frightened her. She did not feel like -laughing, heaven knew; but the relief of it steadied her. Then, as one -does who sees a struggle is useless, she let herself go. - -"Oh! yes; I can speak for myself, Captain. The girl is mine. Where -I've kept her is my business, and you and I have finished business -together. That--that brother-in-law of yours came after my money; was -willing to marry me for it, and flung some hateful words in my face. -But he set me thinking. Why should a woman do without a child because a -man will have none of her, or only that which he wants? If I could not -have my own in man's way, I take it in my own. I have my child, and -now--what will you do? If you make my life and hers a hell here I have -money and can go elsewhere. Go so far that your black words will not be -heard. On the other hand, if you mind your business and leave me and -mine alone, we'll stay. And now get off my property." - -Longville was so utterly dumbfounded that he slunk from the porch and -was in the road before he regained his self-control. Then he started -back, but Jo had gone inside, locked the door noisily, and was pulling -the shade down to its extreme limit! - - - - - *CHAPTER VII* - - *MARCEL TAKES HER STAND BY JO* - - -Apparently Longville decided to mind his business, but that, he declared -did not exclude Mam'selle's. Greed, curiosity, and indecision caused -him to refrain from persecution. Indeed the psychology of the situation -was peculiar. For the first time in her life Jo Morey became -interesting. A woman with a past may, or may not be happy, but she -certainly affords speculation and conjecture. Point of Pines, when it -had considered Jo before, felt an amused sort of pity for her and, since -she asked nothing of it, left her completely alone. But now, at this -late day, she sailed into the open in such an unlooked-for manner that -she inspired awe rather than the contempt or outraged scorn of Point of -Pines. Without stir or fuss she simply annexed the child, and went the -even gait that she had heretofore gone alone. - -She was a mystery, and the men, generally in the fragrant atmosphere of -Dan's Place, discussed her smartness and independence with resentment, -and a--smothered--admiration! The women, especially those with whom Jo -had shared hours of pain and sorrow, wondered where she had been when -her own hour overtook her; whose hands had helped her who never refused -help to others. And who had kept Jo's child? That question stirred in -Dan's Place and in the houses roundabout. - -"Perhaps some hill woman has kept the child," whispered the women over -their work; but to hunt among the hills would be futile. Besides, -Mam'selle's money had undoubtedly closed any lips which might be able to -furnish facts. - -It was a thrilling situation. One not to be despised by the lonely -hamlet. Some were for, some against, Mam'selle Morey; but no one -wanted, or dared, to ignore her utterly. Marcel Longville issued forth -from the cloud of indecision, girded on her armour, and struck a blow -for Jo Morey. - -In order to make known her position, she wrapped herself in a shawl one -day, and boldly walked to Jo's house in the middle of the afternoon, -when several men, her husband among them, were sitting about the stove -in the tavern, their faces turned to the highway. - -"A woman like Mam'selle Morey can corrupt a town unless--" It was Gavot -who spoke, and he sniffed disagreeably, looking down the road. Longville -was watching his wife pass; he grew hot with anger, but made no reply. - -"Marcel can cut her up with her tongue. It takes a woman to slash a -woman," Pierre continued. - -The proprietor, Dan Kelly, came to the fore. He rarely took part in -conversation. He was like a big, silent, congenial Atmosphere. He -pervaded his Place, but did not often materialize in conversation. Now -he spoke. - -"Queer, ain't it," he drawled, "how we just naturally hate to get our -women mixed up? Lord knows we must have both kinds--we've fixed things -that way--but when they edge toward each other we get damned religious -and moral, don't we? Why?" - -The words rolled around the stifling room like a bomb. Every man -dodged, not knowing whether the thing was aimed at him or not, and -everyone was afraid it might explode. - -"Why?" continued Dan. - -Then, getting no verbal answer, he went to the chair behind the bar, his -throne, and became once more an Atmosphere. - -But by that time Marcel was sitting in a rocker in the middle of Jo -Morey's cheerful living room, watching Donelle asleep upon the couch. -Jo was at her loom and both women whispered as they talked. - -"I had to come, Mam'selle," said Marcel, "not because you need me or -because I want to act a part, making myself better or different; it -isn't that. I just want to stand a bit closer because I feel you are a -good woman. I've always felt that, and my opinion hasn't changed, only -I want you to know." - -Jo tried not to smile; she felt she was taking of Marcel's best under -false pretences. Had she been what they all thought, this neighbourly -act would have bowed her with gratitude. As it was she felt a deeper -sympathy for Marcel than she had ever felt, and she yearned to confide -in her--but she dared not. - -"Nights I get to thinking," Marcel droned on while Jo's busy fingers -flew at her task, "how it was with you when she came," Marcel nodded -toward the couch. - -And now Jo's face twitched. How little any one guessed, or could guess, -how it had been with her at the time when another woman gave birth to -the girl. - -"I got through somehow," she replied vaguely. - -"We never get to a wall without finding an opening to crawl through, -Marcel. It may be a pretty tight squeeze, but we get through." - -"God knows those times are hard for a woman, Mam'selle." - -"They are, bitter hard." - -"And men folks don't take them into account." - -"How can they, Marcel? It wouldn't be reasonable to expect it." - -"It's queer, Mam'selle, how this--this thing that makes women willing to -go through it, goes on and on. It means one thing to a woman; another -to a man, but it seems to pay, though the Lord knows why, or how." - -Jo was thinking of the subtle something that she, poor Tom Gavot, -Marcel, and all the rest clung to. The thing that none of them -understood. - -"I'm glad you've got her!" Marcel suddenly broke in fiercely, again -nodding toward the sleeping girl. "It just proves that you, Mam'selle, -had the woman's reason, not the man's. That makes the difference. A -woman cannot, a decent woman I mean, forgive a woman for acting like a -man; casting off her young and all that, but she can understand--this! -And isn't she fine and rare, Mam'selle. It's another queer thing, how -many a child that comes in the straight and narrow way isn't half what -it should be. Sometimes they just haven't spirit enough to stay, mine -didn't, and then such children as--as yours, Mam'selle, seem to have -God's blessing shining all over them." - -So firmly and simply had Marcel accepted what, in reality, did not exist -that poor Jo felt the uselessness of confession drawing closer and -closer about her. For some days past she had been considering Marcel as -a recipient for the truth, for Jo hated to accept, without some protest, -the belief that she felt was spreading among her silent people. It -might ease her own conscience to confide in Marcel; it might be a bit of -proof in the future, but unless she told all the truth she could hardly -hope to impress even the kindly Marcel, for she saw that the shabby, -down-trodden woman was accepting her as the most vital and absorbing -thing that had ever happened in her life. Jo, in her real self, had -never inspired Marcel. Jo, in her present guise, not only claimed -interest, but aroused purpose. She brought to life the struggling -nobility that was inherent in Marcel but which life had never before -utilized. - -"I'm going to stand by her," Marcel nodded toward the couch, "by her and -you--so help me God!" - -Jo went to the quivering woman and laid her hand on the thin, drooping -shoulder. She was mutely thanking Marcel in the name of all women who -sadly needed such support. - -"I'd rather have been a--a bad woman," Marcel quivered, using the term -almost reverently, "and have had such as this to comfort me, than be the -thing men think I ought to be, and have----" She did not finish, but Jo -knew she meant those piteous little graves on the hillside. - -"It don't pay to be good, Mam'selle!" - -"Yes; it does, Marcel, it does." Jo's voice shook. "It pays to do your -best with the things that _are_, as you see them. It's when we try to -do what others think is good, others who haven't our problems, that we -get lost. We women folks have got to blaze our own way and stick to it. -No man, or man's God, is ever going to side-track me. And, Marcel, I -thank you for what you came to do for me. There may be a time coming -when you can serve me, and I'm sure you will. But if ever I did you a -good turn, you've more than paid me back to-day." - -Long after Marcel had gone to her cheerless home Jo Morey thought and -thought, and as her heart grew soft her head grew hard. While her lips -trembled her eyes glowed with fire, and from that moment she was able, -in a strange, perplexed way, to project herself into the position that -was falsely forced upon her. As she accepted it, Langley's wife was -largely eliminated. It was Jo, herself, who had followed Langley to the -far places; it was she who had borne and reared his child out of her -great love. It was she, Jo Morey, who had stood by him, shielded him to -the end, and was now determined to fill his place and her own toward the -girl!--and to keep the secret! Langley had loved fine things, books, -music. Jo recalled how he could fiddle and whistle, why, he could -imitate any bird that sang in the summer woods. Well, somehow Donelle -should have those things! Jo went later to the attic, and brought down -books, long-hidden books, among them one Langley had given her because -he loved some verses in it. Donelle should have learning, too. Jo meant -to consult the priest about that. In short, the girl should have her -chance. Poor Jo; even then she did not take into consideration the harm -she was unconsciously doing the girl. She felt all-powerful. Her -starved and yearning affection went out to Donelle and met no obstacle, -for the girl, her health regained, was the sunniest, most grateful -creature that one could imagine. No need to warn her to silence -concerning St. Michael's, that experience was apparently as if it never -had been. - -The legal steps had been taken, and Jo was in complete control. The -gates of St. Michael's were closed forever upon the girl known as Marie. -She now faced the world, though she did not know it, as Mam'selle's -illegitimate child. - -Sometimes this fact frightened Jo, but she knew her people fairly well. -The ugly belief about herself had been so silently borne that she -trusted that when Donelle went among them her advent would not loose -tongues. For the rest; she meant constantly to guard the girl, meant, -in time, to send her away to school. Jo dreamed long dreams and, -mentally keen and wise, was stupid in her ignorance of the more sordid -aspects of life. - -"If they'll only keep still!" she fervently hoped. And she based her -present life on that. - -In the meantime Donelle, in a marvellous fashion, had appropriated -everything about her, Jo included. Nick was the girl's abject slave. -Sometimes he'd turn his eyes on his mistress remorsefully, as he edged -toward Donelle; his affections were sorely torn. The animals all -learned to watch for Donelle, Molly, the horse, was foolishly -sentimental. The house rang with girlish laughter and song. In the -once-still rooms a constant chatter went on whenever Jo and the girl -were together. Donelle, especially, had much to say and she said it in -a strange, original way that set Jo thinking on many new lines. - -How was she to keep this girl from knowing the truth, once she mingled -with others? And how was she to keep her apart? Donelle had a passion -for friendliness. To Jo, who had lived her life alone, the girl's -constant desire for conversation and companionship was little less than -appalling. Then, too, Donelle was a startling combination of -precociousness and childishness. Her mind had been well-trained; early -she had been utilized in teaching the younger children of the Home. She -had absorbed all the books at her command; her imagination was -ungoverned, and some of the Sisters had shared confidences with her that -had added fuel to the inquisitive, bright mind. - -There were times when Jo Morey felt absurdly young compared with -Donelle, young and crude. Then suddenly the light would fade from the -girl's face, something, probably her incapacity to go back of her life -in the Home, would make her helpless, weak, and appealing. - -So far, the little white house, Jo, and the animals, supplied Donelle's -every need, but Mam'selle sensed complications for the future. She -watched and listened while Donelle read and then enlarged romantically -upon what she read; she felt lost already in the face of the problem. - -"Mamsey," Donelle suddenly exclaimed one night, "I want you to take off -those horrid old man-things. Let us burn them." - -Jo was rigged out in her father's ancient garments; she had been to the -outhouses working long and hard. - -"What's the matter with them?" she asked half-guiltily. - -"They're ugly and they're smelly." This was true. "Besides, they hide -you and most folks wouldn't find you. They go with your scrouchy -frown," here Donelle mimicked Jo's most forbidding manner, "and your -tight mouth. Why, Mamsey, it took, even me, a long while to find you -behind these things. I had to keep remembering how you looked while I -was so sick in the long, dark nights; how you looked when you -kept--It--away." - -The vague look crept to Donelle's eyes, she rarely beat against the wall -that hid her past. For that, Jo was hourly thankful. - -"But of course now I can always find you, Mamsey. I just say to the -thing you put up in front of you, 'Get out of the way' and then I see -you, my kind, my dear, faithful, blessed Mamsey, shining!" - -Poor Jo as a shining object was rather absurd; but the colour rose to -her dark face, as it might have at the tones of a lover. - -"You're a beautiful Mamsey when you don't hide. I suppose my father -could find you, and that's why he wanted to bring me to you. Mamsey, -did you love my father?" - -Poor Jo, standing by the stove, her ugly garments steaming and hot, -looked at the girl as a frightened culprit might; then she saw that the -question was put from the most primitive viewpoint and so she said: - -"Yes, I loved him." - -"Of course. Well, now, Mamsey, will you let me burn those ugly old, -smelly clothes?" - -"No; but I'll put them in the attic, child." - -"That's a good Mamsey. And the scowl and the tight mouth, will you put -them in the attic, too?" - -Jo grinned. The relaxation was something more complete than a smile. - -"You're daft," was all she said, but her deep, splendid eyes met the -clear, golden ones with pathetic surrender. - -And then, later on toward spring, when Jo was revelling in the richness -of her life and putting away the thoughts that disturbed her concerning -Donelle's future, several things occurred that focussed her upon -definite action. - -She and the girl were sitting in the living room one evening while a -soft, penetrating rain pattered against the windows. - -"That rain," Jo remarked, her knitting needles clicking, "will get to -the heart of things, and make them think of growing." Donelle looked up -from her book. Her eyes were full of warmth and sunlight. - -"You say beautiful things sometimes, Mamsey." Then quite irrelevantly, -"Why doesn't any one ever come here? I should think everyone would be -here all the time, other places are so ugly and other people -so--so--well, so snoozy." - -What Jo had feared rose to the surface. She stopped knitting and gazed -helplessly at Donelle. - -"At first," the girl went on musingly, "I thought there were no folks; -it was so empty outdoors. Then I saw people once in a while crawling -along. Why do they crawl, Mamsey? You and I don't. And then I ran -around a bit, when no one was looking, and there are some horrid places, -one place where only men go. It is nasty, dirty, and bad. It sort of -makes all the houses seem smudgy. There was a big man at the door, and -he saw me and he said, 'So you're Mam'selle Jo Morey's girl!'" just like -that. And with this Donelle impersonated Dan Kelly so that his merest -acquaintance would have recognized him. "And I made a very nice bow," -to Jo's blank horror, Donelle showed how she had done it, "and I said 'I -am, sir; and who are you?' And he put his hand in his pockets, so! and -he said, 'I'm Dan, Dan Kelly, and any time you want a little chat, come -to the side door. Mrs. Kelly and I will make you welcome.' And--what -is the matter, Mamsey?" - -For Jo's knitting had fallen to the floor, and her face was haggard. - -"You--you must never go near that place again," she gasped. - -"I never will, Mamsey, for the smell kept coming back to me for days and -days. And the man's eyes--I saw them in my sleep, they were dirty -eyes!" - -"My God!" moaned Jo, but Donelle was off on another trail. - -"But Mamsey, why don't we have folks in our lives. Is it because it is -winter, and the roads bad?" - -"Yes----" this was said doubtfully; but something had to be said. - -"Well, I'm glad of that, for I love people. I even liked some of the -Sisters. There was one who made me guess whenever I saw her, it was -Sister Mary, she was little and pretty and had a sorry face as if she -was lost and couldn't find the way out. Almost I wanted to ask her to -run away with me every time I tried to do it myself. And the babies -were so jolly, Mamsey. I used to play that I could make nice, happy -little lives for them. There was one," Donelle's eyes dimmed, "Patsy I -called her, her name was Patricia--such a big, hard name for such a -cunning little tot. I fixed up a perfectly dear life for Patsy, but -poor Patsy didn't seem to want any kind of a life. She'd rather lie in -my arms and rock. I used to sing to her. Then she died!" - -The tragedy touched Jo strangely. She had heard little of the details -of Donelle's institution life; but those details, few as they were, had -been vital and impressive. - -"Yes, Patsy died. I missed her terribly. Oh! Mamsey, I couldn't do -without folks. Why, I want to tell you something; you like to have me -tell you everything, don't you, Mamsey?" - -"Yes; yes." Jo took up her knitting, dropped two stitches, made an -impatient remark under her breath, and caught them up. "If you didn't -tell me everything I'd feel pretty bad," she went on lamely. - -"Well, it's this way, Mamsey. I don't cry any more because I can't -remember. I begin with you and me. You see what I don't remember is -like the preface in a book; I never read it and it doesn't matter, -anyway. So we begin--you and I, and everyone is supposed to know about -us without telling; and the things that happened before are just helps -to get us into the first chapter. Then, after that, folks come along -and we don't ask them any questions, they just get mixed up with our -story and on we all go until that stupid old word End, brings us up with -a jolt. Mamsey, dear, I want to get all tangled with stories and -stories and people and people; I want to be part of it. I'm willing to -pay, you have to, all the books show that. I'll suffer and struggle -along, and fall and get up again, but I must be part of it all." - -Jo had drawn a full needle out, leaving all the helpless stitches -gaping. "Lord!" she murmured under her breath, and at the moment -decided to go to Father Mantelle on the morrow and get what help she -could. - -Aloud she said, quite calmly, very tenderly for her, poor soul: - -"I wish you'd take that old book," it was the one Langley had given her; -there was no name or date in it, "and read me some of those verses that -sort of make you feel good, good and--sleepy." - -"I just love this," Donelle said, quick to fall into Jo's mood: - - The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry - Of bugles going by. - And my lonely spirit thrills - To the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills. - - -"Why, you don't like the words? Your eyes are wet, Mamsey!" - -"I'm tired, my eyes ache with the knitting and weaving. The winter -always gets me." Jo was gathering up her work. "We must go to bed, -child. I'm glad spring is coming and we can work in the open." - -But Donelle was singing, to a tune of her own, other lines of the -interrupted poem: - - And my heart is like a rhyme - With the yellow and the purple keeping time. - - - - - *CHAPTER VIII* - - *THE PRIEST AND THE ROAD MENDER* - - -The following day was warm. Jo went to the upper pasture early in the -day to make plans for the spring sowing. It was a day full of promise; -winter seemed almost a memory. - -Donelle had been left to finish the work about the house. It should -have taken her until Jo returned, but things flew through the girl's -hands, she was so eager to get out of doors. She sang and gavotted with -Nick who, by the way, had sneaked into hiding rather than make a choice -as to whether he should follow Jo or remain with Donelle. When he came -forth all responsibility was ended. He remained with Donelle! - -"Nick," she said presently, "how would you like to take a walk?" - -A frantic thump gave proof of Nick's feelings. - -"All right, come on! We've got to find folks if folks won't find us, -Nick. I'm pretty nearly starved to death for folks!" - -Donelle made a wide sweep back of Dan's Place. Jo's words were in her -mind, but more, the memory of Dan's "dirty eyes" warned her. She took -to the woods on the river side, and was soon fascinated by the necessity -of jumping from rock to rock in order to escape the mushy, mossy earth. -Nick was frantic with delight. Jo never would jump or nose around among -the trees where such delectable scents lurked. - -Finally the two emerged on the highway a mile beyond the little cluster -of houses which was Point of Pines, and nothing was in sight but a -lonely, boyish figure apparently carrying mud from one place on the road -and depositing it in another. - -"That's an awfully funny thing to do," Donelle mused. "Maybe he's a -moon calf." - -Donelle had seen Marcel and Longville, had even talked with Marcel and -liked her. She had heard Jo speak of others, the Gavots among them, but -they were mere names to which, occasionally, Jo had added an -illuminating description. - -"That low-down beast, Gavot," Mam'selle had picturesquely said to Marcel -once when not noticing Donelle's presence, "ought to have Tom taken from -him. That boy will be driven to Dan's, if we don't look out. We ought -to raise money and give the boy a start." - -"I shouldn't wonder," mused Donelle, now, standing in the road and -eyeing the only other figure on the landscape, "I shouldn't wonder if -that was Gavot's Tom. I'll just see!" So she walked on sedately and -came upon her quarry unexpectedly. - -"I believe," she said, showing her teeth in a friendly smile, "I believe -you must be Tom Gavot." - -The boy turned abruptly, spilling as he did so the shovelful of soft -earth he was carrying. - -"And--you--are Mam'selle's girl!" - -Tom was very handsome with a frank, appealing look that seemed to -deprecate the rags and sordidness that hampered his appearance. - -"Yes. What are you doing?" - -"Mending the roads. And you?" - -"Taking a walk on the road you mend." - -They both laughed at this, Tom flinging his head back, Donelle folding -her arms over her slim body. - -"How did you know me?" asked Tom. - -"Why--why, I heard Mamsey talk about your father." - -Tom's face clouded. His father, like his rags, hampered his very -thoughts. - -"How did you know me?" Donelle was growing shy. - -"I think maybe you won't like it if I tell you." - -Tom felt very old compared to this girl in her short skirts and long, -light braids. He had never felt young in his life, but he had inherited -that ease and grace of manner which his father abused so. - -"I should just love to hear," Donelle was fingering Nick's ears -nervously. - -"Well, then, I spied on you. All winter, I spied. I heard them talking -about you, and I had to see for myself. I always have to know things -for myself." - -"So do I. But after you spied," Donelle laughed, her yellow eyes -shining, "what did you think?" - -"Oh! I don't know." Tom shifted his position. "I thought you were all -right." - -They both laughed again at that. - -"Are you mostly on the roads?" Donelle asked presently. Nick was -growing restless under her hands. - -"Yes, when I'm not somewhere else. I fish some, and Father Mantelle -teaches me and I read a lot, but I'm on the road a good deal." - -"I think," Donelle beamed, "I think your Father Mantelle is going to -teach me. I heard Mamsey talking about it. Does he keep school?" - -"No. He's the cure. He teaches only a few. He knows everything in the -world. He once lived in Quebec. He's old so they sent him here." - -"Well!" Donelle suddenly turned. "I'm going now, but I shall often -walk on the road." She flung this back mischievously. At a distance -her shyness disappeared. - -A few days later she met Tom again, this time she was more at her ease. -They were young, lonely, and the spring helped thaw the superficial -crust of convention. - -It was after they had seen each other several times that Tom confided to -Donelle his feeling about roads. - -"They're like friends," he said, blushing and laughing. - -"A road doesn't mean anything to me," Donelle replied, "but something to -walk or ride on, something that gets you somewhere." - -"Yes, it does get you somewhere, but you don't always have to ride or -walk on it. If you think about it, it gets you somewhere," said Tom. - -Donelle paused to whistle Nick back, the dog was after something in the -bushes. - -"You're very queer," she said at last eyeing Tom furtively. "Now I -think about dogs and cats and birds as real, but I never thought about a -road being real." - -Donelle was looking at the ground as if it were something alive upon -which she had stepped inadvertently. - -"Tell me more about roads," she said. - -"There isn't much, I've never told any one before--they would laugh." - -"I will not laugh." And indeed Donelle was very serious. - -"It began when I was a little chap. I didn't have much to play with and -a boy has to have something. I used to wonder where the road went and -when I was only five I got to the top of the hill and looked beyond. My -father walloped me for running away. I wasn't really running away, but -of course he wouldn't have understood, and my mother was frightened. I -didn't go again for a long time. I was always a bit of a coward and I -remembered the whipping." - -"I don't believe you are a coward, Tom Gavot." - -"I am, a little. You see, I hate to be hurt, I sort of--dread it, but -once I make the start, I forget and go on like everyone else." - -"I think that's being braver than most people. If you are afraid and -still do things, that's not cowardly." Donelle spoke loyally and Tom -gave her a long side glance of gratitude. - -The spring was in Tom's blood, this lately-come friend was developing -him rapidly. - -"Well, anyway, by the time I was seven I managed the hill again. From -that time on I went every day. I think there must be a dent in a rock -where I used to sit, playing with the road." - -"Playing with the road! Playing with the road!" Donelle repeated. "Oh! -but you are queer. What did you play, Tom Gavot?" - -"Oh! I sent people up and down it. The people I did not like I sent -down and never let them come back." - -"That is perfectly lovely. Go on, Tom." - -"And then I made up my mind that when I was big enough I'd run away with -my mother. I always meant to explain to her about the road, but I -didn't. Sometimes I fancied that people would come over the road -bringing to me the things I wanted." - -"What things, Tom?" - -"Oh! all sorts of things that boys want and don't get. After I grew -older and Father Mantelle began to teach me, I still felt as if the road -was a friend, but I did not play with it any more. Then one summer some -surveyors and engineers came and one man, he was a great sort, let me -talk to him and he made me think about roads in quite another way. I -tell you, my road had got pretty rutty, so I began filling in the holes. -It was the only decent thing I could do when I'd used it so; and besides -it kept me near the men and they helped me to know things that I really -wanted." - -"What, Tom Gavot?" - -"Why, I want to learn how to make roads. When I can, I am going away -and I'm not coming back until I can do more than fill in holes." - -"I shall miss you dreadfully when you go!" said Donelle. It all seemed -imminent and real to her now. "Of course you must go, but--well, the -road will be pretty lonely until you come back." Then the girl looked -up. - -"I sort of feel," she said whimsically, "that I ought to be the right -kind--of a girl to walk on your road, Tom Gavot." - -"Well, you are." - -"No, I haven't told Mamsey that I know you. I've come with Nick when -Mamsey was off on the farm. She thinks I'm spinning or weaving, but I -hurry through and get out. I've hoped that someone would tell her, but -they haven't." - -"Would she mind if she knew?" asked Tom, and his dark face reddened. - -"I don't know, but I think I must _think_ she would or I would have -told. She and I talk of everything right out; everything but you." - -For a moment the two walked on in silence. Then Tom spoke. - -"You'd better tell her," he said. Then with a brave attempt at -cheerfulness: "When I come back, Donelle, all the world can see us -walking on the road and it won't matter." - -"I'm going to tell Mamsey to-day," murmured Donelle. Somehow she felt -as if she had wronged Tom. "This very day." - -Gavot looked into her face. He suddenly felt old and detached as if he -had got a long way ahead of her on the road. - -"Your eyes are a strange colour," he said, "they look as if there was a -light behind them shining through." - -They both laughed at that, and then Donelle whistled Nick to her and -turned. - -"I'm going to tell Mamsey," she said, "good bye." - -Tom looked after her and his eyes grew hard and lonely. - -"Good-bye," he repeated. "Good-bye," but the girl was out of sight. - -That afternoon she told Jo, but she advanced toward her confession by so -indirect a route that she mislead Mam'selle. - -"I wish you'd tell me about Tom Gavot," she said. - -"Why? What does Tom matter? Poor lad, he's got a beast of a father." - -"Was his mother a beast?" - -"No. She was a sad, hunted soul." - -"It is too bad she died, if she had waited Tom would have taken her on -his road." - -Jo looked up from her sewing. - -"What are you talking about?" she asked. - -"Tom Gavot. He used to play with the road and now he mends it. Some -day he's going to make roads. They'll be splendid roads, I'm sure, -and----" - -"What do you know of Tom Gavot, Donelle?" - -Jo started as she had when Donelle had told her of Dan Kelly. - -"Mamsey, don't be angry, I know I should have told you. I don't know -why I didn't, but while you were away I hurried and got through my work -and then I was so lonely. I went out on the road--Nick and I, and I -found Tom Gavot." - -"You've seen him--often?" - -And now Jo's eyes were stern and frightened. - -"Why, yes, I suppose so. I didn't count. It seems as if I had always -known him. He's wonderful. Besides knowing about roads, he knows books, -all kinds. Father Mantelle teaches him. I'd like to go, too, and learn -from Father Mantelle." - -"Well, you'll not study with Tom Gavot!" Jo was perplexed. She decided -to go the very next day to the priest. - -"Why not, Mamsey?" - -"One sort of learning for girls; another for boys." Jo snapped her -thread. - -"I wonder why, Mamsey! They both travel the same road." - -The word made Jo nervous. - -"No, they do not!" she said sharply. - -"Well, I shall. You can choose your road, can't you, Mamsey? I mean -the sort of things you learn?" - -"No." - -"It's all wrong then." - -"Stop asking stupid questions, child, about things you do not know," Jo -broke in. - -"But that's why I ask questions, because I don't know. Are they -stupid?" - -"Yes, very. Now come, Donelle, and help me get supper." - -It was mid-afternoon of the next day when Jo started for Father -Mantelle's. Her errand was a very simple one: she wanted the old man to -teach Donelle. Not while he was instructing Tom Gavot, however! - -As she walked along the muddy road, picking her way as she could, Jo was -thinking of how much or how little she should tell of her relations with -Donelle. She had grown to accept what she felt people believed and it -no longer caused her indignation; there were graver problems. But the -incident that Donelle had related of her conversation with Dan Kelly had -thoroughly aroused her. Her consciousness of injustice could not save -her from the shock of the brutal meaning of Dan's attitude. - -"They'll get to think the girl's common property if I don't set her -above their reach," muttered Jo, and then wondered whether it would be -safer to lay the truth bare to Father Mantelle. Would it be safer for -Donelle to come forth in her true character, as the daughter of a -supposed murderer, or to remain as she was, the supposed love-child of a -deserted woman? For herself Jo Morey took little heed; the self-respect -that had always upheld her came to her support now. Had Donelle been -hers, she believed her inheritance would have been better than that -which was rightfully hers from her real mother. - -"A minister's words can't make or mar these things," she muttered, "and -since my blood doesn't flow in the girl's veins, my common sense can -save her, God helping me!" - -As she plodded on poor Jo thought of Langley himself. She had never -believed the accusation brought against him. She could not, but what -proof had she to support her belief? And somewhere, in the world, -possibly, that man was still alive who had brought forth the charge. -Might he not at this late day materialize and menace Donelle were she, -Jo, to let the full light of truth on her? - -What reason was there for that strange man to want to get possession of -Langley's child? Was he afraid of her? Did he want to silence her, -or--and here poor Jo stopped in the road and breathed hard--had he -believed that Donelle was his? - -For a moment Jo grew dizzy. Suppose he did think so. How could she -prove the contrary? Would her insistence as to resemblance or her innate -belief in her love going true, weigh against any proof which that -unknown man might have? - -Less and less did Jo believe that Donelle would ever recall the past. -And if she did, what would it avail? - -"I think I will have to let the poor child stagger along with me tacked -to her past," she concluded, "her chances for safety are better, though -she may never know it. I may be able to keep her from hearing, people -do forget, and my money and her learning may help." Jo sighed and -trudged on. - -The relations between Father Mantelle and Mam'selle were very peculiar. -The old priest admired her intelligence and was amused by her keen wit -and independence. He simply could not account for her and that added to -his interest. He had not been in Point of Pines long, he rarely left -it, and never had company unless a passing father stopped for -refreshment or a report. In short, Mantelle was as much a mystery as -Mam'selle, and for that very reason they unconsciously respected each -other. - -They never discussed religion, but Mantelle's attitude toward Jo had -been always one of esteem and neighbourliness. - -"In loneliness the poor soul has worked out her own redemption," -Mantelle had decided. At first he had pondered upon Mam'selle's -loneliness, but had never questioned it, having much sympathy for any -one who, for any reason, could not mingle freely with his fellows. - -When Jo entered the priest's house his servant, an old Indian woman, -showed her to a rear room in which she had never been before. - -It surprised Jo by its comfort and even luxury. Books lined the walls, -rugs covered the rude board flooring; there were comfortable chairs, -broad tables, and a clear fire burning on the spotless hearth. - -The old man sat before the fire, and as he looked up and saw Jo his -delicate face flushed. Something in his manner caught her attention at -once. Subtle as it was, she was keenly sensitive of it. - -"He's heard!" thought Jo, and stiffened. - -Father Mantelle had heard and he thought, he certainly hoped, that the -erring daughter had come to confess. It was not in the church, but that -did not matter; more was dragged out of heavily-burdened souls in that -comfortable room than was ever got in the small church on the hill. - -The priest meant to be very kind, very tolerant; he knew the world -outside Point of Pines and was extremely human when men and women -deserved his kindness. But until they were brought to the proper state -of mind, mercy must be withheld, and this disclosure of Jo's past had -shaken him tremendously. Certainly whatever he had thought about her, -he had not thought this! He felt that he, in his office and character, -had been grossly deceived. He had been permitted to associate on equal -terms with a woman outside the pale. It was outrageous. - -Something intangible, but strangely like Dan Kelly's manner toward -Donelle, marked Mantelle's attitude at the present moment. A -half-concealed familiarity, an assumption of authority. - -"Well, well, you have come, daughter," he said, and pointed Jo to the -chair across the hearth. He thought Jo had been driven to him in her -extremity, he had never addressed her as "daughter" before. - -"Father," Jo began bluntly, "I've come to ask your help with this young -girl I've adopted." - -The priest thought Mam'selle hard. Indeed Longville had told him, in -strict privacy, that she was hard and defiant. For the good of her own -soul and the soul of other women likely to defy the laws of God and man, -she must be brought to a repentant state. Now that he understood -conditions, Mantelle was prepared to reduce Jo to that desirable state. -He smiled kindly, blandly; he was a bit daunted but he realized that, -erring as Mam'selle was, she was no ordinary woman. - -He kindly led her on. - -"Though you have seen your duty late, daughter," he said gently, "there -is still time to strive for the child's best good." - -Then Jo told him quite concisely of her desires for Donelle. - -"I want to have her learn all that you can teach her, Father," she said, -"and after that--well, I have no plans, but my money and life will be -devoted to the girl." - -There was a suspicion of defiance and bitterness in Mam'selle's tone. - -Now Mantelle had only seen Jo's adopted daughter at a distance. Having -no authority over the parish of St. Michael's he had not connected the -girl's past with the institution there. He had asked Longville whence -Mam'selle Morey had brought the girl, but as Longville did not know, he -had let the matter drop as non-essential, but it puzzled him. - -"You think it wise to keep the child in Point of Pines?" he asked. "You -think it for her good, after all these years, to--to bring the -unfortunate past to the--the surface?" - -"Yes," Jo answered and her lips drew close. She was thinking of Dan -Kelly, but she believed Father Mantelle and she could outwit him. - -"My daughter, do you think this would be fair to the girl?" - -"Why not?" - -"Is it right, or just, that she should suffer for the wrong of -a--another?" - -"No, it is not right." Jo said this as a general truth. - -"But you think your money can buy favour? Mam'selle, you are wrong. -There are some things money, not even years of blameless life, can buy. - -"Your people, I am sure, have treated you kindly, compassionately, and -they will continue to do so, if you show the proper spirit. But you -must not, daughter, think that gold can wipe away the result of defiance -to the laws of God and man. You must be repentant, prove that you have -the best interests of this girl at heart, and then, then only can the -future be secure." - -The thin, delicate face was pale and stern, the deep eyes burned. Not -only the sanctity of Mantelle's authority, but his position among men -was being questioned by the woman before him. And Jo was defiant, there -was no doubt about that. - -"Your kind heart, daughter, has betrayed you into error. Before -bringing this child here you should have consulted me. Much might have -been saved for us all." - -"What would you have advised?" Mam'selle dropped her eyes and the -forbidding brows seemed to hide every kindly expression of her face. - -"I should have strongly advised against letting the innocent suffer for -the guilty!" Mantelle's voice was stern. - -"Yes, but she had to have a home; care, the best possible." - -"To give that, daughter, is not in your power. In violating the most -sacred emotions of life, in spurning the very safeguards of society, you -put yourself outside the pale, as far as the child's best good is -concerned. Women should fully understand this before they take the -fatal step. The price must be paid! If, by assuming your duty at this -late day you could condone the past, I would help you, but I cannot -advise keeping this girl here. For her truest good, she should be -saved, where only such unfortunates can be saved." - -"And that is?" Mam'selle's voice was slow and even. - -"In the bosom of the church, daughter. Send the child to St. Michael's; -let them train her there for a life of devotion and service in a field -where temptation, inherited weakness----" - -Mantelle got no further for Jo--laughed! - -The priest rose in his chair, white with anger. - -"You laugh?" he said as if his hearing had betrayed him. - -"Forgive me, Father, but it struck me as being rather hard on the girl -that, for a wrong she never committed, she should be condemned to--to -exile; not even given a chance of her own." - -"You stole that from her, daughter!" - -"I? Why, how could I? And is the Church able to accept whatever -service, my--this young girl might give, while the world is unable to do -so?" - -"It can." - -Then Mam'selle stood up. Her patient, work-worn hands were folded -before her, she raised her deep, sad eyes. - -"Father," she said calmly, "you feel that you have a right to assume -this attitude toward me, without even hearing my side? My life, as you -know it, has done nothing to save me from this--this mistake of yours. -You have taken my money, what help I could give, and I believed that you -were my friend." - -"I am; your real and only friend." Mantelle was deceived by the tone -and words. - -"You have shown me that a man cannot be a friend to a woman! He cannot -give her justice." - -"You are not speaking to a man, daughter!" - -The desire to laugh again consumed Jo, but she mastered it. - -"In that capacity alone did I regard you, Father Mantelle, and you have -failed me. For the rest, I let no one stand between my conscience and -my God! No. If I ask help again it will be from a woman; she at least -can understand." - -"A woman is hardest upon women in such cases as yours, Mam'selle!" - -Jo was thankful that at last the priest had dropped the objectionable -"daughter." - -"She will be the first who will turn against you." - -"And was it a woman who came to you, Father, with my--my trouble?" - -Mantelle's face flushed and Jo shook her head sadly. - -"I see it was not. So the first and second who have turned against me -have been men. Good day, Father, and"--Mam'selle stopped at the -door--"if you ever need help in giving that poor Tom Gavot his chance, I -stand ready to do what I have always promised to do, and I do it for the -sake of his mother." - -Condemnation and contempt rang in Jo's voice. It was her last arrow and -it sank home. - -The priest was practical and having done his Christian duty he could -afford to be human. - -"It speaks well for your good sense, Mam'selle," he said; "that you do -not utterly shut yourself away from your people." Then Mantelle paused, -"Mam'selle!" he said. - -"Yes, Father." Jo turned and lifted her deep eyes to his face. - -"I wonder if you _have_ something to tell me that I should know in -justice to you?" - -"You should have thought of that first, Father. It is too late now." - -"We may"--the man's recent manner fell from him like an unnecessary -garment--"be friends, still?" - -Again Jo laughed. She felt that she had by some kindly power regained -something of her lost position with this lonely old man. Since he could -not understand her, save her, he was willing to accept her. - -"Father, I have too few friends to cast them off heedlessly." - -And then she went out, more of a mystery than ever to Mantelle. - - - - - *CHAPTER IX* - - *WOMAN AND WOMAN* - - -It was early June when Mam'selle heard that the Walled House, the -country place of some rich people from the States, was to be opened. - -It had been closed for many years, but recently the master had died and -his wife, with a staff of servants and an old, blind, white-haired man, -had returned. - -The moment Jo heard that, her spirits rose. Here was a most -unlooked-for opportunity for advice and, perhaps, assistance. - -The Lindsays of the Walled House had always mingled freely with their -neighbours; Mr. Lindsay was a Canadian. Jo, in her earlier days, had -often served them; had sold her linens and wools to them at, what seemed -to her, fabulous prices. Mrs. Lindsay, having taken a fancy to -Mam'selle, often tried to annex her to her establishment, but to that -the independent Jo would not consent. - -"Well, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay had said during the last interview they -had had, "if I ever can help you, please let me." - -"I'll go to her now!" decided Mam'selle. - -A week later, dressed in her absurd best, she made the journey in her -caliche. Her days of sitting on the shaft by Molly, her economies in -clothes, were over, she was living up to her ambitions for Donelle and -her defiance of Point of Pines' morality. Outwardly, Jo was fairly -awe-inspiring and even Dan Kelly was impressed; inwardly, Jo was a good -deal chastened by her visit to Father Mantelle. - -There were doubts now in her heart as to the role she had assumed for -Donelle's sake. Perhaps it would be better to let the girl shoulder her -father's possible crime and her foolish mother's wrongdoing, rather than -the disguise which Jo had self-sacrificingly wrought for her. - -And yet, even now she could not bring herself to lay the dead Langley -open to a charge she did not believe, but could not disprove, and the -girl, herself, to danger. And so as she drove to the Walled House she -was very quiet, very subdued, but her faith was strong. She meant to -give as much as she dared of the past to the woman whose sympathies and -assistance she was about to interest. She was ready to put all her -future wools and linens at Mrs. Lindsay's disposal in return for any -help she could obtain for the betterment of Donelle. Poor Jo was ready -to abdicate, if that were best. After her months of happiness with the -girl, after living in the dear companionship and love of the sunny young -nature, she was willing to stand aside for the girl's future good. - -"She shall not be condemned to death!" Jo snorted, and Molly reared. -"St. Michael's shall not get her. But there must be a place for her, -and I love her well enough to get out of her way. I only took her for -the best, her best, and if I cannot keep her, I can let her go!" - -Jo found Mrs. Lindsay on the beautiful shaded porch, found her changed, -but none the less lovely and kindly. - -"Why, it is the dear Mam'selle of the wonderful linens!" Alice Lindsay -cried, stretching out her slim hands in welcome. "I have been thinking -of you. How glad I am to see you. You have heard?" Mrs. Lindsay looked -down at the thin black gown she wore. - -"I have heard," Jo said and her throat grew dry. - -"I--I have come back because my husband seems more here than anywhere, -now. He loved the Walled House so much; he loved his Canada, -Mam'selle." - -Jo was thinking of two bleak, lonely weeks in her own past when she had -stolen away and gone to Langley's deserted cabin because he, _the he_ -that she had known and loved--seemed more there than anywhere else. She -had buried her hatred and bitterness toward him there. She knew it, -now, as she had never known it before. The two women were drawing close -by currents of sympathy. - -They had tea together, they talked of future linens and wools, and then -Jo told her story, taking small heed of the impression she was giving. -She was blindly thinking only of Donelle, and Mrs. Lindsay did not hurt -her by question or voiced doubt. - -That night, when a great silence reigned over the Walled House, broken -only by the soft, tender tones of a violin played at a distance in the -moonlit garden, Alice Lindsay wrote a long letter to Anderson Law, her -father's oldest friend, her own faithful advisor and closest confidant. - -Law was an artist and critic. Old Testy he was called by those whom he -often saved from the folly of their false ambitions; The Final Test, by -those who came humbly, tremblingly, faithfully to him with their great -hopes. To a few he was Man-Andy, the name that Alice Lindsay had given -to him when she was a little child. - - -MAN-ANDY: I have had a wonderful day. I have waited to tell you that -your advice as to my coming here was good. I know it is cowardly to run -away from one's troubles, dear. Troubles, as you say, have their divine -lessons, but I could not believe, at first, that I would find Jack here. -I dreaded the emptiness and loneliness, but you were right, right! I am -not desolate here and I have the blessed feeling of peace that can only -come when one has chosen the right course. - -I felt that everything worth while had been taken: Jack, my babies. -Only the money remained, and that I hated, because it could not keep -what I wanted. But you were splendid when you said, "make the thing you -despise a blessing!" I've tried, Man-Andy, to make it a blessing to -others, and it is becoming a blessing to me. I feel I am using it for -Jack and for the babies and that they are making it sacred. I feared -that in this big, empty house the ghosts would haunt me; not the strange -old history ghosts of great ladies and dashing men who used to forget -their homesickness for their mother-countries by revelling in this -shelter in the New World. I did not think of them, for do you not -remember Jack's comical ghost hunts? How he joked about it, saying that -he'd yet lure some old English or French aristocrat to stay and sanctify -our presence by his sponsorship? But oh! I did fear the memories of my -man's dear, jovial ways, the pretty babble of my little babies. - -And then--I know I am rambling shamefully, but I cannot sleep, the -moonlight is flooding the garden--I hear Professor Revelle's violin. -Andy, he has actually recovered to the extent of music when he thinks I -do not know. As I look at the dear old soul, so like a gentle wraith, I -remember how you and father and Jack adored his music and how Jack -grieved when illness and poverty stilled it. But you found him, -Man-Andy, and you lent him to me to save, and his music at least has -been given back to him. Not with its old fire and passion--I think if -any demand were made upon him he might be aroused. I may take lessons -myself some day. But he plays dreamily, softly when he is alone, -generally in the garden and at night. He forgets his blindness then. - -But to-day I had a caller. I wonder if you remember the nice Mam'selle -Jo Morey that Jack and I used to talk about? You have some of her -linens in your studio. You may recall the incident of the summer when -we told you of her troubles; her desertion by a man of the place and the -death of her imbecile sister? I had almost forgotten it myself, so much -has happened since then, but it all came back to me to-day when she came -with her story. - -Andy, her story is quite the most tragic a woman can have; such things -happen even here. She did not cringe or whine, I would have hated her -if she had; you know how I feel about such things. My Mam'selle Jo does -not whine! - -There was a child, and now that Mam'selle can afford to do well by it, -she has taken it. She has done this so quietly and simply that it has -shocked the breath out of the very moral Point of Pines. Still, before -the breath left the body of the hamlet, it hissed! And when it recovers -its breath it is going to hound this poor Mam'selle, whose shoes it is -not worthy to touch. It's going to hound and snarl and snap, two of its -inhabitants have done it already, and the Mam'selle Morey is not going -to have her child harried for what she is innocent of! - -Isn't this a situation? - -The Mam'selle knows her world, however, and all worlds are pretty much -alike, Andy, and she is prepared, in exchange for her child's happiness, -to renounce her! It almost broke my heart as she told me; she saw no -other way and she fiercely demands that justice be shown the girl. I -tell you it takes the fine, large courage to renounce, when love tempts. -Mam'selle loves this child as such children often are loved, -passionately because they cost so much. - -And this Mam'selle Morey came to me. She felt I could understand, -advise. Well, I do understand because of Jack's attitude toward such -things, and yours and father's. Thank God, the men I have known have -helped me uphold my standard, and I understand because of my dear, dear -babies, who left so much of themselves with me when they had to go away. - -I grew hot and cold as I listened, Man-Andy, and I grew puffed up and -chesty, too. How I gloried, for the moment, in my power. It's all right -to have power if you keep it in its proper place. - -I kept saying to myself, "Mam'selle, you and I will win out! And you -shall not be the sacrifice, either! Together we can play the game; two -women ought to be able to see that one innocent child has its rights!" - -Man-Andy, I rolled up my sleeves, then and there, and that dear old poem -you love came to my mind, it often does; that one about tears: - - By every cup of sorrow that ye had - Loose us from tears and make us see aright - How each hath back what once he stayed to weep - Homer, his sight; David, his little lad? - - -I thought of dear old blind Revelle; he has something back, even though -much is withheld. He has safety, and his fiddle. And then I vowed that -this brave, strong Mam'selle Morey should have her little lass. She -shall not be taken from her; I will help, and give the girl her chance, -I am quite fierce about it. And my Mam'selle shall keep her in the end, -somehow I'll manage that. With other things, this girl shall get a -comprehension of--her mother! - -Man-Andy, tell me what you think of all this and tell me of yourself; of -the Norvals, and the rest of the folks I love but do not need just now. -And tell me of your sad duty, dear man. Do you go every week to the -Lonely Place? Some day, when it is all past, you will come here to this -Walled House. You and I will go out on the highway and kneel under one -of the tall black and white-tipped crosses and give thanks! Man-Andy, -to-night I can give thanks that I am being used, that the power my money -can give is being used, and that I am not left to my tears. - - -To this long outpouring of the heart Anderson Law replied within the -month. - - -MY GIRL: you have only proved yourself. It took a little time, but I -knew you were not the sort to hide your face and run. Revelle and his -fiddle are about the best combination I know, I certainly hadn't counted -on the fiddle. I thought with care and safety he'd find peace and I -knew he would be good for you; but I feared his blindness would kill his -music. - -It's a great thing, too, girl, that your children did not shut the door -of your motherhood when they went out. You'd hardly have been worthy of -them if you had not learned the lesson they taught. - -As for us here: Jim Norval is doing some good things in his moments of -genius. When plain talent grips him, he's not so good. Katherine, from -perfectly exalted motives, is driving him to hell. It's the most -puzzling situation I ever saw. You cannot advise a man to leave a -high-natured, moral, devoted wife just because she's pushing him to -perdition and depriving him of his birthright, but that's the situation -in the Norval family. Their child somehow did not get its lesson over! - -The Lonely House still holds my duty, but if the time ever comes when I -can stand beside you under the cross, there will be many things, hard to -bear now, that will then make thanks possible. ANDY. - - -Law's letter came after Donelle had entered the Walled House where she -was to stay from Monday till Friday of each week. The week-ends -belonged to Mam'selle Jo! - -"For awhile, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay had said, holding Jo's hands as -she had made plain her understanding, "I will teach the child myself and -learn to know her. We need not plan far ahead. There is a dear, old, -blind musician living with me; if the girl has any inclination for -music, she will be a god-send to him." - -"I am sure she will have, Mrs. Lindsay," Jo's plain face was radiant, -"her father had, and she sings the day through." - -"You must bring her at once, Mam'selle, and believe me, whatever comes -or does not come, she will always be yours. She is your recompense." - -And within the week Donelle Morey came to the Walled House. - -Her entrance was dramatic and made a deep impression upon Mrs. Lindsay. - -There had been a struggle between Jo and Donelle before the matter had -been arranged, so, while not sullen, the girl was decidedly on guard. - -Propelled by Jo she came into the great, sunny hall. She was very pale -and her yellow eyes were wide and alert. - -"My dear," Alice Lindsay had said, "I hope you are going to be very -happy here." - -"I did not come to be happy, I came to learn," Donelle returned, and her -voice saved the words from rudeness. - -"Perhaps you can be both, dear," but Donelle looked her doubts. - -Still from the first she played her part courageously. She studied -diligently and, when she was given the freedom of the library, she -showed a keen and vital interest. - -She was not indifferent, either, to the kindness and consideration shown -her, but the wildness in her blood reasserted itself and she often felt, -as she had felt at St. Michael's, a desire to fly from restraint; even -this kindly restraint. Point of Pines had given her a sense of liberty -that was now lacking. The refinements and richness of the Walled House -oppressed her, she yearned for Jo, for the hard, unlovely tasks, for the -chance talks with Tom Gavot. But, oddly enough, it was the thought of -Tom that kept her to her duty. Somehow she dared not run away and hope -to keep his approval. Something of her struggle Alice Lindsay saw, and -she considered it seriously. To win the girl wholly from her yearnings -just then might mean winning her from Mam'selle. While not a child, -Donelle was very unformed and might easily, if she were conquered, be -lost to Jo whom she regarded simply in the light of an adopted guardian. -She was grateful, she loved Jo, but the secret tie that Alice Lindsay -believed existed held no part in her thoughts. - -"But she shall be saved for Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay vowed. "I will -not permit any other solution. If the time ever comes when she -understands she shall know the splendour of this dear soul." - -So Alice Lindsay took Jo into her confidence. - -"You must not, Mam'selle," she said, "even think yourself renouncing -her. She is yours and you ought not to forget that, nor deprive her of -yourself. Take things for granted; let her see you as I see you!" - -Jo's face twitched. - -"There's no earthly reason," Alice Lindsay went on, "for blotting you -out. Why, the girl will never know another woman as fine as you, -Mam'selle. Think of how you have studied and thought yourself into a -place that many a woman with untold advantages has not attained!" - -"Donelle's father was a scholar," Jo faltered, not knowing how to act in -the strained moment. "He taught me, not only books, but how to think." - -"Yes, and to suffer, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay controlled her true -emotions. Then: - -"Mam'selle, Donelle must learn to appreciate her inheritance from you. -She shall, she shall! Now throw off your usual manner with her; let her -see you!" - -"She always has, Mrs. Lindsay." - -"Very well, don't let go of her now!" - -And so Jo permitted herself the luxury of doing what her heart longed to -do, she put off her guarded manner and played for the first time in her -life. - -It was during Donelle's week-end visits home that she first came forth -in her new character of comrade. In an especially fine spell of weather -she suggested camping out in the woods. Donelle and Nick were beside -themselves with delight, for Mam'selle was a genius at camping. Never -had she so truly revealed herself as she did then, and Donelle looked at -her in amazement. - -"Mamsey," she said, "is it because I'm away from you so much that you -seem different? You are wonderful and you know about the loveliest wood -things and stars. It's like magic." - -It was like magic, and Jo rightly concluded that something in Donelle's -early life responded to these nights in the woods. She recalled the -girl's delirium, her references to weary wanderings. - -"It seems," Donelle once said, hugging her knees beside the glowing -fire, "it seems as if I'd been here before." - -"One often feels that way," Jo replied as she prepared a fragrant meal, -"and I'm not saying but what we do pass along the same way more than -once. It may take more than one little life to learn all there is to -know." - -And then Donelle talked of a book she had been reading and they grew -very chummy. Once Jo suggested--it was when Donelle told her how she -lived through the weeks, only because the week-ends were in view--that -Nick should stay at the Walled House. - -"Nick, would you leave Mamsey?" Donelle held the dog's face in her -hands. It was an awful moment for Nick. He actually slunk. - -"I'd hate you if you would!" Donelle continued. "Now, sir, who is your -choice?" - -Nick saved the day, he ambled over to Jo and licked her hand. - -"There!" exultingly cried Donelle; "that shows his blood." - -"It shows his common sense," laughed Jo. - -Once Tom Gavot shared their campfire for a night. He was waiting for -them when they dismounted, his eyes shining. He wore a new, and whole, -suit. - -"I am going away," he explained. This was no news to Jo, but it took -Donelle by surprise. - -"I am going to Quebec," he went on. "Father Mantelle has a friend there -who is to take me into his office. I'm going to learn about roads. You -see, I always knew I'd get a chance!" - -He was very gay and full of hope. - -"And how does your father take it?" asked Jo, bending over the flames. - -The boy's face darkened. - -"Father Mantelle talked to him," was all he said. - -But that evening Jo was wondrously kind. She gave permission to Tom to -make his own pine-bough bed in the woods; she even seemed to be asleep -when, by the fire, Donelle, holding her body close, her pale face -shining in the glow, said to Tom: - -"I am never going to forget about roads, Tom Gavot. I always think of -them as real things, I always have ever since you told me how to see -them. I'm sure your roads are going to be very splendid ones." - -"They'll be mighty lonely, just at first," Tom, stretched by the fire, -smiled grimly. - -"Yes," Donelle nodded, "yes; they will. Why, Tom, I stand by the gates -of the Walled House and look at the road and it is the loneliest -feeling. I think of Mamsey at one end and something in me goes -stretching out until it hurts. It goes stretching and pulling along the -road until I can scarcely bear it." - -"That's the way it will be with me, Donelle," then poor Tom's face -flushed a deep red. "You won't mind, will you, if I tell you -something?" - -"I'd love it." Donelle smiled happily. - -"You see, I haven't ever had any one who cared since my mother died. I -never dared tell any one but you about the roads. You seemed to -understand; you didn't laugh. And when I'm off in Quebec and something -in me goes stretching over the road until it hurts, it's going to be you -at the other end! You're not laughing?" - -"No, Tom Gavot, I'm--I'm crying a little." - -"I think it's your eyes, they're like lights. And then you are kind, -kind." - -Just then Jo shook herself and awoke. - -A few days later Tom was off for Quebec and Donelle's homesickness and -longing for Mam'selle were to be lessened by an unlooked-for occurrence. - -Mrs. Lindsay had not thought of Donelle being in the slightest musical, -though Jo had suggested it, for she never sang in the Walled House as -she did at Point of Pines. There were lessons and walks and drives; -Mrs. Lindsay was growing genuinely attached to the girl, and more and -more determined to see that life should play fair with her, but the idea -of interesting old Professor Revelle did not occur to her. The shy, -delicate old man shrank from strangers with positive aversion. He was -not unfriendly, but his loss of eyesight was recent. His late poverty -and illness, from which Anderson Law had rescued him, had left their -scar, and he kept to the rooms Mrs. Lindsay set aside for him with -gentle gratitude. Sometimes she dined with him there; often sat evenings -with him; but for the most the old man was happiest alone. - -Then came the day when the silent garden tempted him. He had heard the -carriage depart earlier and thought that Mrs. Lindsay and the stranger -girl had both gone driving. - -With his violin under his arm Revelle groped his way from the house; he -was learning, slowly, as the lately-blinded do, to walk alone. At the -far end of the garden there was an arbour, Revelle knew it was -rose-covered by the fragrance, and he loved to play there, for no one -ever disturbed him. To-day he found the place and sat down. His old -face was growing peaceful, full of renunciation; the fear and bitterness -were gone. - -The roses thrilled him, he could touch them by reaching out his hand; -they were soft and velvety, and he hoped they were pink. He had always -loved pink roses. And then he played as he had not played for years. - -Close to him sat Donelle. She had been reading when he entered. She -did not move or speak though she longed to help and guide him. She knew -all about him, pitied and respected his desire to be alone in a very -lonely and dark world, but she had never heard him play before. As she -listened the yellow eyes darkened. Never had Donelle heard such music; -never had she been so gloriously happy. Something in her felt free, -free! Then something, quite beyond her control, floated after the -notes; it rested and throbbed, it ... but just then Revelle, with a wide -sweep of the bow, stopped! - -Donelle crept to his side, his quick ear caught the sound. - -"Who is it?" he asked sharply. - -"It's--it's Donelle, Donelle Morey. I--couldn't go away; please do not -mind--if you only knew!" - -"Knew what?" - -"Why, it's what I've wanted all my life. I did not know; how could I? -But now I know, the music has told me." - -The voice, the intensity and passion stirred the old man. - -"Come here!" he said, reaching out his hand. "The love you have, does it -mean that you sing? Your voice is--is rather fine. Let me have the -fingers." - -Half afraid, Donelle placed her hand in his. - -"Oh!" Revelle was feeling every inch of the slim hand and fingers. -"The long hand and wide between the fingers! And the finger tips; it is -the musician's hand unless nature has played a trick. Will you let me -find out if nature has spoken true?" - -"I--I do not know what you mean." - -"Are you a young child?" - -"No, I am old, quite old." - -"Stand up, let me feel how tall you are. Ah! you are of the right age! -Young enough to obey; old enough to hunger. Are you beautiful?" - -"Oh! No. I'm sure I'm ugly." - -"Of the light or the dark?" - -"I'm white, I--I am thin, too." - -"May I touch your face?" - -Quite simply Donelle knelt again and quivered as the delicate fingers -passed over her brow, eyes, and mouth. - -"You have a soul!" murmured Revelle. - -"A soul?" murmured Donelle. - -"Ah! yes. You do not know. One never finds his soul until he suffers. -You are young, but you have a soul. Keep it safe, safe; and while you -wait, let me see if nature has made you for use. If you can learn, I -shall find joy. I had thought my life was over." - -And so Donelle began to find her way out upon her road. - - - - - *CHAPTER X* - - *PIERRE GETS HIS REVENGE* - - -The first year passed, with those blessed weekends coming now, not as -the only bright spots, but always loved. - -"The girl may not have the great genius," Revelle told Mrs. Lindsay, -"she may not go much further, but as she goes, she goes radiantly. Her -tone it is pure, her ear it is true, and her soul, it is a hungry soul, -a waiting soul. She will suffer, but she will be the better for that. -If she is ever to be great it will be when she has learned to know -suffering." - -Donelle had a strange habit that amused them all; she played best when -she could move about. Gropingly, painstakingly, she practised with the -old, blind man beside her. At times she would wander under the trees on -the lawn, her violin tucked lovingly under her chin. - -"Pretty, little pale thing," Alice Lindsay often said. "What is life -going to do with her?" - -When three years had passed, Donelle was no longer a simple girl. Point -of Pines was as detached from her real interests as St. Michael's was. -She loved to be with Jo and Nick, but the luxury and comfort of the -Walled House had become part of her life. She wished it might be that Jo -and Nick could come to her; not make it necessary for her to go to them. -She was not more selfish or ungrateful than the young usually are, but -she was artistic and temperamental and her mind and soul were full of -music and beauty. Unconsciously, she was pressing on into life by the -easiest way. Life, she must have; life to the full, that had always -been her ambition, but she had yet to learn, poor child, that the short, -direct path that stretched so alluringly from the Walled House was not -the best one for her own good. - -For Mrs. Lindsay she had a deep affection; for Revelle a passion of -gratitude and yearning. He it was who had opened her heaven for her; he -it was who subtly developed her. With no set purpose, but with the -insistence that Art always demands, he brought to bear upon Donelle the -arguments of devotion to her gift, her God-given gift, he reiterated. -She must not let anything, any one stand in its path. She was not -worthy of it unless she forsook all else for it. - -Donelle had accepted what was offered to her. She believed Jo Morey had -the best of reasons for burying the past. As she grew older, she saw -the wisdom of forgetting much and in proving herself worthy of becoming -what Jo, what Mrs. Lindsay, and most of all Revelle, hoped for her. - -The St. Michael days were blotted out, they were but an incident at -best. Jo was giving her every advantage, she must do her part. She saw -the Point of Pines people on the road as she drove with Mrs. Lindsay or -Jo and they were like shadows to her, they had no place in her -sheltered, beautiful life. She heard indirectly from Tom Gavot, he was -bravely hewing and hacking his road, poor chap. He was helping to -support his unworthy father; he was coming home some day to show -himself, but the time went by and he did not come! - -And then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Lindsay decided to close the Walled House -and go abroad. Professor Revelle's health was restored and Anderson Law -had obtained employment for him. - -"I want to take Donelle with me," Alice Lindsay said. "She's quite your -own, Mam'selle; you stand first with her, so I can take her with a clear -conscience and give her all the advantages she should have. She will -come back to you in the end, or you will come to her." - -Jo's lips drew close. - -"Will my linens pay for this?" she asked. - -"They will help, Mam'selle, and you have no right to stand in Donelle's -way now that we have gone so far. Some day Donelle can repay me -herself, she has great gifts." - -Jo thought hard and quickly. In her heart she had always felt this day -would come, lately she had been haunted by it. It was inevitable. Only -God knew how she dreaded the separation, but she would not withhold her -hand. - -"I suppose, Mam'selle, this is what Motherhood means?" Alice Lindsay -spoke the fact boldly, splendidly. - -"It's all right," said Jo, "it's all it should mean. I'm glad I do feel -as I do about her." - -"And, Mam'selle, this girl loves you very tenderly. Sometimes I think we -ought to tell her----' - -"No, no, Mrs. Lindsay." Jo started and flushed. - -"When she's found her place and made it sure: when she has so much that -this won't matter, then she shall know everything. I haven't overlooked -this, but I couldn't stand it now. I want her to be able to -understand." - -"All right, Mam'selle. And now it is your part to make her feel that it -is your desire that she should make the most of her gifts. Send her -forth happy, Mam'selle, that will mean much to her." - -So Jo began the new role and actually made Donelle unhappy in the effort -to achieve the reverse. Alone, in the white house at Point of Pines, Jo -found her father's old clothes and contemplated them gravely. She was -slipping back, poor soul, to her empty life. - -Donelle had not accepted the proposed plans without a struggle. She was -wonderfully sensitive and compassionate and her quick imagination made -it possible for her to understand what the future would mean to poor Jo. -Then, too, she shrank from the uprooting. Her dreams of what lay before -were exciting and thrilling, but with sincere kinship she loved the -quiet hills, the marvellous river, and the peace, freedom, and -simplicity which were her birthright. - -"Sometimes I fear," she said to Mrs. Lindsay, "that it will deafen me, -hush me, kill me!" - -"It will not, dear; and I will always be near." - -"Unless you were, I would not dare. You are the only hope, Mrs. -Lindsay." - -"That's not so, Donelle. The real hope is your gift. You are taking it -there to make it perfect." - -"I hope so. And when I have learned, I must get Mamsey into my new -life, quick." - -"Indeed, yes!" Mrs. Lindsay nodded cheerfully. - -"Isn't it queer how some people are part of you? Mamsey is part of me, -Mrs. Lindsay." Then softly, "I suppose you know how Mamsey got me and -from where?" - -Alice Lindsay started. - -"Yes, Mam'selle told me," she said. - -"I never speak of it. Mamsey thought best that I should not; but I do -not forget! Often, when we are driving past St. Michael's--I remember." - -"Donelle, why do you tell me this now?" - -"Just because I want you to understand how I feel about Mamsey. She -didn't have to do things for me, she chose to, and I know all about her -spinning and weaving and--the rest. I have cost her a good deal, and I -mean to make it all up." - -Proudly, happily Donelle stood. And looking at her, Mrs. Lindsay -fervently wished the real truth might be kept away from the girl. -Better the uncertainty of birth to such a spirit than the ugly fact. -Safer would her relations with Mam'selle be if she could keep her -present belief. - -"Come," she said suddenly, "take your violin and stand--so! This is the -way my good friend Anderson Law is to paint you." - -Donelle took the violin; she tucked it under her chin and drew her bow -lovingly across it. The uplifted face smiled serenely. Donelle was no -longer afraid; something bigger than herself caught her and carried her -to safety. - -Alice Lindsay's eyes grew dim. - -"Life is not all that is lying in wait for the child," she thought. -"What is love going to do with her?" - -And then, it was two days before they were to start for the States, -Donelle went for a walk along the quiet highway! She had bidden Jo -good-bye! Her heart ached with the haunting fear that she had not been -quite sure about Mamsey. Was it enough that she was going to prepare -for life? Were her purpose and joy quite unselfish? How about those -long empty days, when the Walled House would be but a memory? - -And Nick! The dog had acted so strangely. His awful eyes, yes, they -were quite awful, had been fixed upon her a long, long time, then he had -gone--to Jo! After that he could not be lured from her. It was as if -he said: - -"Very well, think what you choose, _I_ will never desert Mamsey!" - -Jo had tried to force the dog from her; had scolded him sharply, but he -would not stir. - -His silent protest had angered Donelle, and she remembered it now, -walking on the road. She felt her tears rising. - -It was a day of calm and witchery. Never had the trees been more -splendid, never the river more changing and beautiful. And the quiet, -was there in all the world so sacred and safe a place as this? - -And just then, toward Donelle, came a staggering, wretched figure. The -girl stopped short and the man, seeing her, stopped also, not twenty -feet away. - -"It's Tom Gavot's terrible father," thought Donelle. She had never been -so close to anything so loathesome before. She was not really -frightened, the day made things safe enough, but she estimated the best -chances of getting by the ugly thing and escaping from it. - -Gavot knew her. All Point of Pines knew her and snapped their hateful -remarks about her at Dan's Place. They were like a pack that had been -defeated. Even Father Mantelle had the feeling that he had been -incapable of coping with a situation that should not exist. It was -putting a premium on immorality. - -"Ha!" Pierre Gavot reeled and laughed aloud. When he was in the first -stages of drunkenness he was diabolically keen. His senses always put -up a revolt before they surrendered. - -"So!" he called in his thick voice and with that debauched gallantry -that marked him, "So! it is Mam'selle's bastard dressed and ready to -skip out as her damned father did before her, leaving the Mam'selle to -make the most of the broken bits. Curse ye, for what ye are!" - -The veins swelled in Gavot's face, a confused, bestial desire for -revenge on somebody, somehow, possessed him. - -"Ye've taken all she had to give, as your father did before ye, blast -him! And now, like him, ye kick her out of your way. Her, who spent -herself." - -The words were scorching into Donelle's soul, but they numbed sensation -as they went. It was later the hurt would come! Now, there was but one -thing to do, pass the beast in the road and get behind the walls of -safety. - -And so Donelle darted forward so suddenly that Gavot staggered aside in -surprise. She gave him one horrified look and was gone! - -No one saw her enter the house. She was breathing hard, her face was -like a dead face, set and waxen. In the great hall was a book stand. -On it was a dictionary. - -Donelle was repeating over and again in her mind a word. A strange, -fearful word, she must know about that--word. It would explain -something, perhaps. - -The trembling hands found it, the wide eyes read it once--twice--three -times. - -Slowly, then, the heavy feet mounted the shallow stairs. As old, blind -Revelle used to grope in the upper hall, so Donelle groped now. She -reached her room, closed the door and locked it. Then she sat down by -the window and began to--suffer. The safe ground upon which she had -trodden for the last few years crumbled. At last she managed to reach -St. Michael's. Yes, she remembered St. Michael's, but how long she had -been there before Jo found her she could not remember! - -But it was clear: Jo, not her father, had put her there. Jo had made up -the sad story to save her, Donelle! She bore Jo's name, and that was to -save her, too. And her father had deserted poor Mamsey long ago and she -had made the most of the bits that were left! - -That is what the horrible man had said. And they had all known, always. -That was why people never came to the little white house; that was why -Jo had put her in the Walled House, to save her. And Jo had stayed -outside as she always had done, outside, making the most of the bits! - -At last, a wild, hot fury smote the girl, a kind of fury that resented -the love that placed her in a position which unfitted her for the only -part she could decently play. Of course they must have realized that -she would know some day, and have to give up! She could not go on with -the sham and be happy. They had defrauded her of life while thinking -they had saved her for life. It was cruel, wicked! The yellow eyes -blazed and the slender hands clenched. - -"What have they done to me?" she moaned. - -And so through the afternoon, alone and driven to bay, Donelle suffered. -The sun went down, leaving its benediction on the wonderful river which -glistened and throbbed as it swelled with the high, full tide, but there -was no peace for Donelle. A shame she could not understand overcame -her. Her unawakened sex battled with the grim spectre. - -Then memory helped the girl and she became a woman as she sat alone in -the still room; a woman so pure and simple that Jo was saved. - -How great poor Jo's love must have been, always! How little she had -asked, how bravely she had borne her punishment! - -The care and devotion of the long nights, when Donelle was so ill, -returned like dreams and haunted the girl. That was the beginning of -Jo, and this was the end? But was it? - -It was all in her, Donelle's, hands, to decide. She could keep still! -She could take her life, make it beautiful, and by and by she could come -back to Mamsey. Then she would say, "This I have done for you! But I -could not do it then! I could not give up then," Donelle murmured. - -Then the present held the girl, drove away the temptation. There was -the little, lonely white house under the hill at Point of Pines and -Mamsey who that morning had said: - -"Child, I'm gladder than you know to be able to give you your chance." - -Her chance! - -Just then a maid tapped at the door and gave her a message. - -Mrs. Lindsay would be detained for dinner and would not be home until -late. - -"We are to start to-morrow," the girl said, "very early." - -And again Donelle was alone with her chance! - -Later she ate her dinner quietly in the dim oak dining room. Candles -burned; there was an open fire on the hearth and pale yellow hothouse -roses on the table. Never was the girl to forget that last meal in the -Walled House. And then, she was once more alone upstairs with--her -chance! - -She went to the window and looked out. A rising moon was lighting the -road, The Road! - -Suddenly Tom Gavot seemed to stand in the emptiness and beckon her from -that road with which he had played when he was a sad and neglected -child. How clean and fine he had made it seem; he who had come from such -a father! In that moment Pierre Gavot shrank from sight, he had -polluted the road, but Tom had sanctified it. - -The road was open now for Donelle to choose. Should she go over the hill -to life or---- And so she struggled. She heard Mrs. Lindsay return, -but it did not occur to her to confide in any one. The shame was only -bearable if she bore it in secret, but where should she bear it? Out, -over the hill, where no one knew; where Mrs. Lindsay and Jo would keep -people from knowing? Could she be happy and forget? - -Donelle took up her violin. She clutched it to her. It could make her -forget, it _must_! Even if she wakened the household she felt she must -play. - -But she could not play! Her hand was heavy, her brain dull. - -Then something Revelle had once said to her flashed into her mind. - -"Always live right, child. You can never have your gift at its best -unless you keep its place holy. No matter what any one may tell you, -keep the place clean and right in which your gift lives!" - -Then it was that Donelle dressed herself in a plain, warm suit, packed a -little bag, took her violin, left a note on her dressing table, and went -on--Tom Gavot's Road! Just for a moment she stood outside the tall -gates and looked wistfully up the hill, then she turned as if -relinquishing all the joy and promise of life, and set her face toward -Point of Pines. - - - - - *CHAPTER XI* - - *THE GREAT DECISION* - - -Donelle made herself a little fire that night in the shelter of a pine -grove. She slept, too, with her back against a sturdy tree and the -sound of the river in her ears. - -She had walked fast for many miles. She was tired, but she meant to go -on and reach Point of Pines before any one saw her; before Mrs. Lindsay -could get there and talk to Jo. - -At three o'clock she roused herself and went on. There was no one else, -in all the world, it seemed, she was alone, alone. But something was -strengthening her, she no longer grieved or felt remorse. She was, poor -child, learning a tremendous lesson, she had an ideal for which she was -ready to suffer and die. She had found her soul and a peace had come to -her; a peace that the world can neither give nor take away. - -"I'm glad!" murmured Donelle; "I'm not a bit sorry. I'd have hated -myself if I had gone away, after I knew." - -The gray dawn was creeping with chilly touch over the empty road when -Donelle, footsore and aching in every muscle, came in sight of the -little house. - -"Why, there's a light burning!" she said, "a light in the living room. -Maybe Mamsey is ill, ill and all alone." - -The fear drove her on more quickly. - -Up the steps she went softly and peered into the room. Nothing mattered -now to Jo, she had nothing to hide, so she had not even lowered the -shade. - -And there she sat, nodding before the stove in which the fire had long -since died. She wore her father's old discarded clothes--she had -resurrected them after returning from bidding Donelle good-bye--she had -worked hard until late, had fallen asleep exhausted by the fire, and -forgotten to go to bed. - -Close to Jo, so close that his faithful head rested against her arm, was -Nick! - -He was not asleep, he was on guard. He had heard those steps outside; -he knew them and his ears were tilted and alert. Still, he would not -leave Jo! The time for choice had come and passed with Nick. His heart -might break but he had decided. - -The door opened softly, Jo never locked it, and Donelle came tiptoeing -across the room. Nick tapped the floor, but otherwise did not move. - -Beside the sleeping Jo the girl crouched down and waited. She was -crying, blessed, happy tears, and one tired hand lay upon Nick's head. - -The clock in the kitchen struck in its surprised, alarmed way. How well -Donelle remembered! The sun edged in through the east window, and found -the little group by the cold stove. - -Then Jo awoke. She did not move, she only looked! She could not make -it out, and gave an impatient exclamation. She felt that her mind was -betraying her. - -"Donelle!" she said presently, "what does this mean?" - -"Only that I--I have come, Mamsey." - -"Tell me everything." The words were stern. - -"Why, Mamsey, there isn't much to tell--except--that I'm here." - -"How did you get here?" - -"I--I walked. I walked all night." - -"And Mrs. Lindsay, she knows?" - -"Oh! no, Mamsey, she was away, but I left a note. I had to come Mamsey, -I had to. You see," brightly, piteously, "I--I couldn't play my fiddle. -It would not be played. When I got to thinking of how it would be out -where I was going, I just couldn't! The pretty dresses and the--the -excitement made me forget for a little time, but all of a sudden I saw -how it was going to be. Then I tried to play, and I couldn't! Then I -knew that I must stay, because more than anything, Mamsey, I -wanted--you!" - -"This is sheer nonsense!" said Jo, but her voice shook, and the hand -lying against Donelle's cheek trembled. - -"You mad child! Why, Donelle, don't you see you are running away from -your life?" - -"It will have to find me here, then, Mamsey. Don't send me away. I -would hate it as I would have hated St. Michael's if you had sent me -back there. You see, Mamsey, when I run away I always run to what is -really mine. Don't you see?" - -"Are you sick, child?" - -Jo felt, now, the uplifted face. - -"No, but I would have been, off there! And I couldn't play. What good -would anything have been, if I couldn't play?" - -Jo was thoroughly alarmed. - -"Can you play here?" she asked, bewildered, not knowing what to think, -but seeking to calm the girl on the floor. - -"Why, Mamsey, let me try!" - -And Donelle tried, rising stiffly, fixing the violin and raising the -bow. - -A moment of indecision, of fear; then the radiance drove the haggard -lines from the tired, white face. - -She could play! She walked about the plain home-room. She forgot Jo, -forgot her troubles, she knew everything was all right now! The final -answer had been given her! When she finished she stood before Jo, and -Nick crept toward her. He, too, felt that something, which had been -very wrong, was righted. - -Mrs. Lindsay came later. She was alarmed and angry. She and Jo -attacked poor Donelle's position and were indignant that they were -obliged to do so; they, women and wise; she, a stubborn and helpless -girl! - -"I couldn't leave Mamsey," was her only reply, and she looked faint from -struggle. - -"But Mam'selle does not want you!" Mrs. Lindsay said almost brutally, -seeing that she had succeeded only too well in preserving this girl for -Jo. "You have no right to become a burden, Donelle, when you have the -opportunity of independence." - -"Am I a burden?" Donelle turned weary, patient eyes on Jo. And Jo -could not lie. That white, girlish face wrung her heart. - -"This is temperament run mad!" exclaimed Alice Lindsay. "I have a great -mind to take you by force, Donelle. I will if Mam'selle gives the -word." - -"You won't though, will you, Mamsey?" - -Jo could not speak. Then Donelle turned kind, pleading eyes to Mrs. -Lindsay. - -"You see, I couldn't play if I were dragged. When I'm dragged I can -never do anything. I wish I could tell you how sorry I am and how much -I love you; but I am so tired. When I got to thinking of Mamsey here -alone, and the Walled House closed, why----" - -Alice Lindsay turned from the sad eyes, the quivering mouth. - -"Listen, dear!" she said in her old, gentle tones; "I've lived enough -with natures like yours to understand them. Stay with Mam'selle this -winter, Donelle, and think your way out. You have a clear mind, you -will see that what we all want to do for you is right. In the spring I -will return, we'll have another summer in the Walled House. A year from -now all will be safe and right. The trip abroad can wait, everything -shall wait, for you. Now will you be good, Donelle?" - -She turned smilingly to the girl, and Donelle gratefully stretched out -her hands. - -"Oh! how I thank you," she said, "and I do love and trust you. I will -try to be good. Oh! if you only really knew!" - -"Knew what, Donelle?" - -"Why, how I could not live away off there, even with you, if I -remembered Mamsey sitting here making the best of the bits that are -left." Then Donelle broke down and wept violently. - -Still she was not ill. She was worn to the edge of endurance, but after -a day and night of rest in the room beside Jo she got up, quite herself -again. - -"And we'll say no more about it until spring," vowed Jo, but a wonderful -light had crept into her eyes. - -"I'm a selfish, unworthy lot----" But the light stayed in her eyes. - -Then one day Donelle took her fiddle and strolled out alone to test the -virtue of her safe, happy feeling. She went down to the river and sat -upon the bare, black rocks. The tide was low and the day was more like -spring than early autumn. - -"And now," whispered Donelle, "I'll play and think. I have to act too -much when Mamsey is watching." - -Donelle knew she had to untangle many loose ends, now that she had -snapped her thread. She did not want, above anything on earth, that Jo -should know her deep, real reason for returning. But how could she make -sure with that horrible man, Pierre, loose in Point of Pines? It did -not matter how lonely she and Jo might be, if only they could have each -other without their common secret rising between them. - -Donelle had stayed close to Jo since she had come back, she shrank from -everyone. She meant, some day, to go to Marcel Longville--when the -Captain was at a safe distance. She meant to have Marcel tell her many -things, but not now! She was going to face the future quite bravely, -without shame or cringing. Jo should have that reward at least. - -In the meantime, Donelle wished fervently, and with primitive -directness, that Pierre Gavot would die a quick and satisfactory death -and be well out of the way before he again got drunk enough to open his -vile lips. - -"If he were here now," mused Donelle, the while playing a charming -sonata, "I'd push him off the rocks and have done with it! What good is -he? All his life he's been messing things, and I'm horribly afraid of -him. I wish he was dead." - -A crackling of the dry bushes startled her and she turned to see, coming -down the Right of Way leading from the road to the river, Tom Gavot! - -Donelle knew him at once though his good clothes, his happy, handsome -face did their best to disguise him. - -"Why!" she cried, getting up with a smile, "when did you get back?" - -"A week ago," said Tom, "and it's about time. It has been three years -since I went away." He beamed upon the girl. "I've learned how to see -a road where there isn't even a trail," he went on. "I'm a surveyor. -And you?" He glanced at her violin. - -"I've learned to fiddle." Donelle's eyes could not leave the dark, -handsome face. It was such a good, brave face, and the mere fact of Tom -Gavot having returned seemed to make things safer. Tom was like that, -quiet, strong, and safe! In a flash Donelle realized that the sense of -shame and degradation which had driven her from the Walled House was -driving her now to Tom Gavot. She felt sure that he, that all the -others, had known what she herself knew now, and yet it had not made Tom -despise her. - -Her lips quivered and her eyes filled. - -"It is so good to see you!" she said softly. - -Tom's face was suddenly very serious. - -"I came back to see how things were going," he said quietly, "and now -that I am here, I'm going to stay." - -"How long?" the question was weighted with longing. - -"Until there is no more need," said Tom. Then he threw caution to the -winds. "My father has told me!" he breathed hard, "he told me! Are -you, a girl like--like you, going to let the mad words of a drunken man -turn you back?" - -For an instant Donelle faltered. Could there be a mistake? She had not -thought of that. - -"If what he said, Tom Gavot, was true, I had to turn back. The words -_were_ true, were they not?" - -Tom longed to lie, longed to set her free from the horror that he saw -filled her, but he was too wise and just. - -"Suppose they were, suppose they were! Suppose Mam'selle did have the -blackest wrong done her that a man can do a woman; hasn't she paid for -it by her life and goodness?" - -"Yes, Tom, she has!" - -Hope had gone from the girlish face, but purpose and strength were -there. - -"And that is why I came back to her. For a moment, Tom Gavot, I stood -on your road, the road you played with and mended. I wanted to run up -and over the hill. I wanted to turn my back on the awful thing I had -heard, but I couldn't, Tom, I couldn't. I would have seemed too mean to -be on your road. I believe something died in me as I stood, but when I -could think once more, I didn't suffer except for Mamsey. I'm so -thankful I feel this way. I want to make up to her--for--for my father. -He left her, but I never will. Why once, Tom, I asked her about my -father, it was long ago, and she said he was a _good father_. And then -I asked her about--about my mother, and she kept still. She let me -think my mother was--not good; she would not hurt my father! But oh! if -I can only keep her from knowing that I know. If I could only make her -think I came back to her simply because I wanted her! I do not want her -to think the truth! That would kill her, I know. She is so proud. So -fine. I want to make her happy in my own way." - -"She shall think that, if I can help!" said Tom. - -"But you mustn't stay here for me, Tom. I couldn't bear that." - -"See here, Donelle. If you have turned back, so will I. I had my -choice of going to the States or overseeing some work back in the hills -here. I have chosen." - -"But, Tom, you mustn't turn back." - -"Perhaps neither of us has turned back," Tom's dark face relaxed. "When -things make you dizzy you cannot always tell which is back or forward. -I wish you would play your fiddle." - -Donelle looked up at him with a kind of glory in her eyes. - -"I will," she said; "and after, you must tell me about your roads, the -roads that you can see when there are no roads!" - -"It's a bargain." - -So Tom sat down upon a rock and Donelle paced to and fro on the leafy -path and, as she played and played, she smiled contentedly at Tom over -her bow. When she was tired she dropped beside him and leaned against a -tree. - -"Now," she whispered; "I want to hear about your roads." - -"It's splendid work," said Tom. "You can imagine such a lot. Someone -wants a road built; you go and see only woods or rocks or plains, then -suddenly, you see the road--finished! You set to work overcoming the -obstacles, getting results with as little fuss as possible, always -seeing that finished road! It's great!" - -"Yes, it must be. I think, Tom, the work we love is like that. When I -am practising and making mistakes, the perfect music is singing in my -ears and I keep listening and trying to follow. Yes, it is great!" - -They were both looking off toward the river. - -"It's the sort of work for me," Tom murmured, thinking of his roads. -"You know I like to lie out of doors nights. I like the sky over me and -a fire at my feet. Do you remember," he laughed shyly, "the night -before I went away; how Mam'selle made believe to be asleep while we -talked?" - -"Yes," Donelle's eyes were dreamy; "dear Mamsey, how she has made -believe all her life." - -"Donelle, I only learned a little while ago that it was Mam'selle's -money that sent me off, gave me my chance." - -"Tom!" And now Donelle's eyes were no longer dreamy. - -"Yes. She worked and saved and never told." Tom's voice was vibrant -with emotion. - -"And she worked and saved that I might have my chance," murmured -Donelle. - -"I'm going to pay her back double," Tom said. - -"Now, Tom Gavot," Donelle rose as she spoke, "you can see why I came -back. I am going to pay her back--double. Some day I may go away and -learn how to make money, much money, but first I have to show Mamsey -that I love her best in all the world." - -"I guess you know your way," Tom replied. "And, Donelle, I want to tell -you, I'm not going to live with my father. I couldn't. Here, can you -see that little hut down there?" - -Donelle bent and peered through the trees. - -"Yes," she said. - -"Well, I'm going to clean that up and live there. It has a chimney, and -the windows look right on the river. When you open the wide door it's -almost as good as being out under the sky. That's where I'm going to -set up housekeeping." - -"How wonderful, Tom! And Mamsey and I will help you. We'll make rugs -and curtains. We'll make it like a home." - -"It will be the first, then, that I've ever had." Tom did not say this -bitterly, but with a gentle longing that touched Donelle. - -"I'll come and see you, sometimes, Tom. Mamsey and I. It will be great -fun to sit by your fire and hear about your roads." - -"And you'll fiddle, Donelle?" - -"Oh! yes, I'll fiddle until you tell me to stop." Then suddenly -Donelle grew grave. "Tom, do you think you can keep your father -straight if you are so far away?" - -"I'll keep him _quiet_!" Tom answered. "I'll see to that." - -"After a little while, no one will remember," Donelle went on slowly. -"Point of Pines is like that. Mamsey knew, they all knew. But if I can -keep them from thinking that I know, I do not mind." - -"They shall!" Tom promised. - -What Tom Gavot did not tell Donelle, but what burned and blistered his -soul, was this: Pierre, sober and keenly vicious, had welcomed Tom with -eagerness and cunning. Tom meant money and perhaps care. Tom was -redeemed and successful, he would have to look after his poor father in -order to keep the respect he had wrung from better folk. - -After a maudlin display of sentiment and devotion Pierre had said: - -"That girl of Mam'selle Morey's, Tom, she's yours for the getting!" - -"What do you mean?" Tom had asked, turning his young and awful eyes upon -his father, "I thought Mam'selle--I thought Donelle was with the -Lindsays and going to the States. Father Mantelle wrote----" - -"Ah! but that was before I played my game, Tom." And Pierre had given -an ugly laugh. "They took the girl and put her out of our reach, they -thought; even the good Father frowned at that. He tried to speak the -truth up at the Walled House, but they would not hear. The girl was -kept from knowing, and the pride of her was enough to make an honest -soul sick. She looked down on us--us! But I waited my chance and when I -got it, I flung the truth in her white face, and it sort of did for her! -I saw that the pride they had put in her couldn't stand mud! - -"And so she's here, Mam'selle's girl, and when one is not over -particular and knows the worst, he can take and make---- What's the -matter? Leave off shaking me, Tom. I'm your old father! Mother of -Heaven, let me go!" - -But Tom, holding the brute by the shoulders, was shaking him like a bag -of rags. The flaming young eyes were looking into the bleary, old ones, -looking with hate and loathing. The tie that held the two together -added horror to the situation. - -"You--did this thing, you! You killed my mother; you have tried to damn -everything you ever touched; you pushed this young girl into hell--you! -And you tell me I can pull her out, in order to shove her back? You! - -"Well, then, hear me! I'll try, God helping me, to get her out, but -nothing that belongs to you shall harm her. And if your black tongue -ever touches her or hers, I'll kill you, so help me God!" - -Then Pierre found himself panting and blubbering on the floor with Tom -rising above him. - -"Father Mantelle shall know of this," groaned Gavot. "He'll put the -curse of the Church on you." - -"I'll fling him beside you, if he dares speak of this thing." - -Actual horror now spread over Pierre's face. If natural ties and the -fear of the Church were defied, where did authority rest? - -"See here," poor Tom, having conquered his father, was now conquering -himself, "see here. So long as you keep your tongue where it belongs, I -will see that you do not want, but I'm going to be near enough to _know_ -and keep you to the line. I couldn't breathe in this hole, it's too -full of--of dead things, but I'll be near, remember that." - -And Pierre accepted the terms. He grovelled in spirit before this son -of his, and his lips were free of guile while he ate and drank and slept -and hated. And the others, too, left Jo and Donelle alone. There seemed -nothing else to do, so the little flurry fell into calm as the winter -settled. - - - - - *CHAPTER XII* - - *THE HIDDEN CURRENT TURNS* - - -The winter passed and spring came. Point of Pines awoke late but very -lovely. Mam'selle and Donelle had at last burned the old clothes of the -long-dead Morey. That phase, at least, was done with and much else had -been laid on the pyre with them. - -"And you came just because you wanted to, child?" Jo often asked when -she even yet doubted her right to happiness. - -"Yes, Mamsey, just for that. Wasn't I a silly?" And then Donelle would -look into Jo's deep, strange eyes and say: - -"You never run and hide any more, Mamsey. I see how glad you are; how -you love me! Kiss me, Mamsey. Isn't it strange that I had to teach you -to kiss me? Now don't keep thinking you mustn't be happy, it's our duty -to be happy." Donelle gloried in her triumph. - -Jo dropped a good many years in that winter and Nick inherited his -second puppyhood. He no longer doubted, he no longer had a struggle of -choice, for Mam'selle and Donelle kept close. - -They read and worked together, and sometimes while Jo worked Donelle -played those tunes that made Nick yearn to howl. But he saw they did -not understand his feelings so he controlled himself. - -"And when spring comes, child, you will go to Mrs. Lindsay, won't you?" - -Jo played her last card. - -"You see, it has all been going out and nothing coming in for years. -You cost a pretty figure, Donelle, though I never grudged a cent, God -knows! But you must help now, I'm seeing old age in the distance." - -"Come spring," whispered Donelle, and she struck into the Spring Song, -"we'll see, we'll see! But, Mamsey, we can always keep boarders. I -should love that and you have always dreamed of it. That room -upstairs," the lovely tones rose and fell, "I can just see how some -tired soul would look into that room and find peace. We'd make good -things for him to eat, we'd play the fiddle for him, and----" - -"A man's so messy," Jo put in, "I'd hate to have the room messed after -all these years." - -"Well, there are women boarders," Donelle was adaptable to -possibilities. "We'd be firm about messiness; man or woman. How much -are you going to charge, Mamsey?" - -This was a joke between them. - -Longville's rapacity disgusted Jo. On the other hand, she felt that -what one got for nothing he never valued. It was a nice question. - -"I'm figuring about the price, child. The Longvilles never count what -the boarders give them besides money." - -"What do they give, Mamsey?" - -"Rightly handled, they give much. Think, Donelle," Jo's eyes lighted, -"they come from here, there, and everywhere! If they are treated right, -they can let you share what they know. Why once, when I was waiting on -table at the Longvilles', there was a man who had been around the world! -Around the world, child, all around it. One day he got talking, real -quiet, to the man next to him and I'll never forget some things he said. -I got so interested I stood stock still with a dish in my hands. I -stood until----" - -"Until what, Mamsey?" - -"Until the Captain called from the kitchen." - -"Oh! my poor, Mamsey. Well, dear, our boarder shall talk and we'll not -stop him and you shall not be called from the kitchen." - -"You are laughing, Donelle." - -"No, Mamsey, just planning." - -"But you must go away, child. You must learn, and then perhaps they'll -take you at the St. Michael's Hotel. Someone always plays there -summers, you know. Could folks dance to your tunes, Donelle?" - -The girl stared. - -"Anyway you could learn," Jo sought to comfort. - -"Perhaps I could, Mamsey, but I'd rather take boarders." - -"We could do both, Donelle," Jo was all energy. "Old age is within eye -shot, but I'm long sighted. There's a good bit of power in me yet, -child, and I'm eager for you to go with Mrs. Lindsay when she comes." - -Poor Jo, having had the glory of Donelle's choice, was almost desperate -now in her desire to send the girl forth. She had not been blind; she -was wise, too, and she realized that if the future were to be secure and -her own place in it worthy of love and respect, she must refuse further -sacrifice. And sacrifice it would be, a dull, detached life in Point of -Pines. - -It was May when a letter came to Jo from Anderson Law. It was a brief -letter, one written when the man's heart was torn with grief and shock. -It told of Mrs. Lindsay's sudden death just when she was preparing for -her return to the Walled House. - -It dwelt upon Law's knowledge of the affection and ambition of Mrs. -Lindsay for her protegee, and while her will did not provide for the -carrying out of her wishes, Law, himself, would see to it that -everything should be done that was possible. - -He would come to Canada later and consult with "Mam'selle Morey." - -Jo looked at Donelle blankly. - -What the two had thought, dreamed, and hoped they, themselves, had not -fully realized until now. In the passing of Alice Lindsay they felt a -door closing upon them. - -Donelle was crying bitterly. At the moment she felt only the personal -loss, the sense of hurt; later the conviction grew upon her that what -had unconsciously been upholding her was taken away. She had been -hoping, hoping. The blow given her by Pierre Gavot, the paralyzing -effect of it, had worn away during the secluded winter months; she was -young, the world was hers, nothing could really take it away. Nothing -had really happened in Point of Pines and they all knew! The larger -world would not care, either. She had adjusted herself and in silence -the fear and shame had departed, she had even grown to look at Jo as -if--it were not true! But now, all was different. - -"This man, this Mr. Law," Jo comforted, "will have some plan. And there -are always my linens, Donelle, and if there is a boarder----" - -But Donelle shook her head; a little tightening of her lips made them -almost hard. - -"This Mr. Law does not come, Mamsey," she said, "and besides, what could -I do in that big, dreadful city with just him?" - -"There would be that Professor Revelle," Jo's words were mere words, and -she, herself, knew it. Donelle again shook her head. - -But what humiliated her most of all was that she had let Jo see the -truth! All the fine courage that had borne her from the Walled House to -Point of Pines; where was it? She had meant to make up to poor Jo for -the bitter wrong that was a hideous secret between them, and all the -time there had been the longing for release; the expectation of it. - -"I am like my father," shuddered the girl, "just as that awful Pierre -said--only I did not run away." - -With this slight comfort she began her readjustment, but her hope was -dead. She struggled to forget that it had ever existed, and she put her -violin away. - -This hurt Jo cruelly, but she did not speak. Instead she wrote, in her -queer, cramped handwriting, to Anderson Law. - -It was a stilted, independent letter, for poor Jo was struggling between -the dread of losing her self-respect and her fear that Donelle should -lose her opportunity. - -Law received the letter and read it while young James Norval was in his -studio. - -"Jim, do you remember that girl that Alice Lindsay discovered up in -Canada?" he said; he was strangely moved and amused by Jo's words. - -"The little Moses?" Norval was standing in front of an easel upon which -rested one of his own pictures, one he had brought for Law's verdict. - -"What?" Law stared at Norval. - -"Oh! wasn't that the girl that some woman said she had adopted out of a -Home?" - -"Yes. What of it?" - -"Only a joke, Andy. You remember Pharaoh's daughter _said_ she took -Moses out of the bulrushes. Don't scowl, Andy; you don't look pretty." - -"Listen to this letter, Jim, and don't be ribald." Law read the letter. - -"What are you going to do, Andy?" Norval was quite serious now. - -"As soon as I can I'm going up there, and take a look at things." - -"You are going to help the girl?" - -"Yes, if I can." - -"After all, Andy, can you? Could Alice? The girl would have to be -rather large-sized to overcome her handicaps, wouldn't she?" - -"Alice had faith." - -"I know, but a man might muddle things." - -"I shall run up, however." Law was still scowling. - -Then Norval changed the subject. - -"How's Helen?" he asked, deep sympathy in his eyes. The insane wife of -Anderson Law was rarely mentioned, but her recent illness made the -question necessary. - -"Her body grows stronger, her mind----" Law's face was grim and hard. - -"Andy, can't you be just to yourself? Have the years taught you -nothing? There can be but one end for Helen and if you see to her -comfort, you have every right to your freedom." - -"Jim, I cannot do it! God, Man! I've had my temptations. When I saw -her so ill, I saw--Jim, I saw hope; but while she lives I cannot cast -her off. It would be like stealing something when she wasn't looking." - -"But Lord, Andy! Helen can never come back. They all tell you that." - -"It seems so, but while life remains she might. She loved me, Jim. The -woman I loved in her died when our child came but I cannot forget. I'm -a fool, but when I've been most tempted the thought has always come: how -could I go on living if she _did_ recover and found that I had deserted -her?" - -"You're worn to the edge, Andy, better chuck the whole thing and come -off for a vacation with me. But first look at this, tell me what you -think." - -Law's face relaxed. He shifted his burden to where it belonged, and -walked over to the easel. - -"Umph!" he said, and stepped to the right and to the left, his head -tilted, his eyes screwed up. - -"Another, eh?" - -"Yes." - -"Jim, what in thunder ails you to let a woman play the devil with you?" - -"You ask that, Andy?" - -"Yes. Our cases are quite different, Helen's dead, but Katherine knows -damned well what she is doing." - -"She doesn't, Andy. In one way she's as dead as Helen, she hasn't waked -up." - -"And you think she will? You think the time will come when she can see -your genius and get her little carcass out of the way?" - -"Hold up, Andy! I came to have you criticise my picture, not my wife." - -But Law did not pay any attention. - -"She ought to leave you alone, if she cannot understand. No human being -has a right to twist another one out of shape." - -Norval retreated; but he was too distraught to refuse any haven for his -perplexity. - -"After all," he said, "there's no more reason for my having my life than -for Katherine having hers. She wanted a husband and we were married. If -I had known that I couldn't be--a husband, I might have saved the day, -but I didn't, Law, I didn't. Getting married seemed part of the game, -nearly everyone does get married. And then, well, the trouble began. -There are certain obligations that go with being a husband. Katherine -has never exacted more than her due only----" - -"Only, her husband happened to be a genius and Katherine doesn't know a -genius when she sees one. From the best intentions she's driving you to -hell, Jim." - -"Oh! well, I may be able to get the best of it, Andy, and paint even if -I do keep to the well-trodden paths of husbands. A fellow can't call -himself a genius to his own wife, you know, especially when he hasn't -proved it. One hates to be an ass. You see, Andy, when all's said and -done, I can wring a thing or two out. This is good, isn't it?" - -The two men looked at the picture. - -"It's devilish good, but it has been wrung out! Jim, it's no use. The -home-loving, society-trotting, movie-show husband role will be the end -of you." - -"Well, if I slam my studio door in Katherine's face and leave her to go -about alone, or sit by herself, that would be the end of her. Andy, the -worst of it is that when she puts it up to me, I see she's right. We're -married and she only wants her share." - -"I suppose this meant," Law was gravely contemplating the picture, -"nights of prowling and days when you felt as if you'd kill any one who -spoke to you?" - -"Something like that, and all the while Katherine was entertaining and -I'd promised to help. I didn't go near them once." - -"Umph!" - -"So you see, Testy, it isn't Katherine's fault. The two roles don't -jibe, that's the long and short of it." - -"And your love," Law was thinking aloud. "Your love and sense of -right----" - -"I'm not a cad, Andy." - -"Leave this thing here for a day or two, Jim," Law raised the picture -and carried it to the window. "I never saw such live light," he said. -"Where did you get it." - -"I--I was lying under the Palisades one night and just at daybreak I saw -it. It's a home product, though it looks Oriental, doesn't it?" - -"Yes, it does." - -There was silence for a few moments, then Norval asked in quite his -natural manner, "And you won't come away for a clip, Andy?" - -"Not until autumn, Jim, then I'm going to run up into Canada." - -"All right. Having got the--the live light out of my system, and if you -won't play with me, I'm going to coax Katherine to take me to any summer -orgy she wants to. I owe it to her, she hasn't had a good dance for -ages." - -"Jim, you're a fool or----" - -"A modest reflection of yourself, Testy." - -But something snapped that summer which sent the Norvals and Anderson -Law whirling in widely different directions. In the upheaval Donelle -and her small affairs were forgotten. - -Mrs. Law died suddenly. - -The doctors sent for Law and he got there in time. - -"She may, toward the end," they told him, "have a gleam of -consciousness. Such things do happen. You would want to be with her." - -"Yes, in any case," Law replied and he took his place by the bed. In -his heart was that cold fear which many know in the presence of death. - -The long afternoon hours drifted by. The face on the pillow, so -tragically young because it did not show the tracings of experience, -scarcely moved. Toward evening Law went to the west window to raise the -shade, there was a particularly splendid sky. When he came back he saw -that a change had come; the change, but instead of blotting out -expression in his wife's eyes, it was giving expression, meaning, to -what had been, for so long, vacuous. Law wanted to call for help, but -instead he sank limply into the chair and took the hand that was groping -toward his. - -"I'm glad you're here----" said the strained, hoarse voice. - -"I am glad, too, Helen." - -For years Law had not addressed his wife by name. That would have seemed -sacrilege. - -"Have you been here all the time?" - -"Yes, dear." - -"That was like you! And the baby; it is all right?" - -"Yes, quite all right." - -"It is a boy?" - -Law struggled, then said: - -"Yes, Helen, a boy." - -"I'm glad. I want him to be like his father." - -She smiled vaguely; the light went out of her eyes, she drifted back. - -There were a few hours more of blank waiting, then it was over. - -A week later Law left a note for Norval. - -"I'm sorry, old chap, that I could not see you. Pass my regrets along. -I'm off for the ends of the earth, and I've neglected buying a return -ticket." - -And just when Norval was most sensitive to shock; just when Law's -trouble and desertion left him in the deepest gloom, Katherine -devastated the one area, which he believed to be sane and impregnable, -by a most unlooked-for assault. - -She was the sort of woman who comes slowly and secretively to -conclusions. She was as unconscious of this herself as others were. -Apparently she was a most conservative, obvious person, a person with an -overwhelming sense of duty and obligation and untiring in her efforts to -prove this. - -Since Helen Law's death, Norval had gone as little to his studio as -possible; had devoted himself to Katherine; had condoned her coldness -and indifference. - -"I deserve all she gives," he thought and rose to greater effort. He -even got to the point of noticing her beauty, her grace, and concluded -that they, and what they represented, meant more than paint pots and -canvases. - -"A man cannot have everything," he confessed, "he must make a choice." - -Virtually Norval had made his choice, when Katherine blotted out, for -the time being, all his power to think straight. - -He was trying to plan for the summer, he was patiently setting forth the -charms of the watering places he loathed but which promised the most -dissipation. - -"I am not going away with you, Jim." Katharine's soft face grew hard. -"I have a duty to myself, I see it at last. All my life I have -sacrificed everything for you, Jim." - -This was humiliating, but Norval assented. - -"Even my talent!" Katherine flung this out defiantly. - -They were in their home, having one of their endless get-no-where talks. - -Norval meant to do his full part, but the trouble was that he had no -part in the actual life of his pretty, commonplace wife. - -"Your talent, Katherine, your talent?" - -Norval did not question this derisively, but as if she had told him of -having an eye in the middle of her forehead. - -"You have not even been interested enough to notice." This with -bitterness. - -Norval, for some idiotic reason, or lack of it, stared at the middle of -her smooth, white brow. - -"I've written this; I did not tell you until it was between covers." - -Norval took a book she offered as he might have taken a young and very -doubtful baby. - -"It looks ripping!" he said. - -"It--it is well spoken of," Katherine's eyes were tear-dimmed. - -Norval gingerly handed the book back. - -"You--you don't even care, now! You won't open it. I have dedicated it -to you. The first copy is yours. I don't believe you'll even read it." - -"I will, Kit," Norval grabbed the book back fiercely. He was so stunned -that he could not think at all. - -Katherine writing a book! It would be as easy to think of her riding -the circus ring. - -"I'll sit up nights reading it, Kit. That's what folks always do, they -don't lay it down until the last word, even if it takes all night! What -is it about?" - -"It is called 'The Awakened Soul.'" Katherine tried to repress a sob. -Her anger, too, was rising. - -"Good God!" gasped Norval, forgetting his wife's hatred of profanity. - -Katherine reached for the book and held it to her hurt heart. - -"You are selfish, you are an egotist, Jim. Your talent, your freedom to -develop it have made you callous, brutal. There are more ways of -killing a woman than to--beat her. Now that I am sure I have a sacred -spark that must be kept alive, I shall demand my rights; freedom equal -to your own!" - -"Of course, Kit, if you've gone in for this sort of thing, we'll have to -shift our bases a little. I know that." - -"Jim, we're not fitted for each other!" The sob rose triumphant and -because in his soul Norval knew that she spoke the truth, he was furious -and ready to fight. - -"Rot!" he cried. "Now see here, Kit, don't get the temperament bug; -there's nothing in it! You can do your job and yet keep clean and safe; -do it best by playing the game honest. Good God! I haven't smutted up -my life along with my canvas, you don't have to. It's the fashion, -thank the Lord, to be decent, although gifted. Your book has run you -down, old girl. Let's cut and forget it!" - -The indignation of the narrow, weak, and stubborn swayed Katherine -Norval. - -"Jim," she said, gulping and holding desperately to "The Awakened Soul," -"I think we should be--be--divorced." - -"Punk!" Norval snapped his fingers. "Unless you've given cause, there -isn't any." - -"I--I cannot live under present conditions, Jim." - -"All right, we'll get a new set." - -"You are making fun and I am deadly in earnest." - -"You mean you want to chuck me?" Norval frowned, but something was -steadying him. - -"I mean that I must live my life." - -"Of course, Katherine, this all sounds as mad as a March hare, and it's -August, you know. Why, we couldn't get free if we wanted to, we're too -decent." - -"But you're not happy, Jim." - -"Well, who is, all the time?" - -"And, Jim, you do your best work when you are leaving me horribly alone. -I've noticed." This was another hideous truth and it stung. - -"I've done my best, Kit," he said lamely. - -"And it hasn't worked, Jim. I will not stand in your way. Though I -die, I will do my duty, now I seek!" - -"Don't, Kit, for heaven's sake, don't." - -"I mean every word that I say. I will not submit longer to being--being -eliminated. I must have reality of some kind. Jim, you don't fit into -home life. Our baby died. You can forget me, and I have had to forget -you. I want my freedom." - -For a full moment they stared helplessly over the chasm that for years -had been widening without their knowing it. They could not touch each -other now, reach as they might. - -"I--why--I'm stunned," said Norval. - -"I alone have seen it coming," Katherine went on. "If my staying made -you happier, better, I would stay even now; but it does not, Jim." - -And Norval continued to stare. - -"I feel I am doing you and--and your Art a great service by letting you -go." Katherine looked the supreme martyr. - -"On what grounds?" mumbled Jim, "'An Awakened Soul'?" - -This was most unfortunate. - -"I'm leaving for California to-morrow!" Katherine spoke huskily, she no -longer cried. - -"Everything ready, only good-bye, eh? Well, Kit, you've worked -efficiently once you began." - -They looked at each other like strangers. - -"I shall not follow you. When you want me, come to me. My soul has not -been awakened as yours has, I'll keep on right here and fly the flag -over the ruins. My God! This _is_ a shot out of a clear sky." - -"Jim, I've seen the clouds gathering ever since----" - -"When, Kit?" - -"That first picture that Andy said meant genius, not plain talent, and -since the baby went." - -"Poor girl." - -"But not so poor as I might have been," Katherine again clutched her -book proudly. - -"It's the heat, Kit. By autumn we'll be rational. A vacation apart will -fill up the cracks." - -"Until then, Jim, we'll be friends?" - -"Friends, Kit, friends!" Norval clutched the straw. On this basis a -sense of relief came. - -And so Katherine went to California--and Jim Norval? - - - - - *CHAPTER XIII* - - *THE INEVITABLE* - - -Jim Norval took to the Canadian north-west. - -He had meant to be quite tragic and virtuous. He had meant to stay in -the studio and fight out the biggest problem of his life, but he did -not. Undoubtedly the shock Katherine had given him stunned him at first. -But, as he revived, he was the victim of all sorts of devils which, -during his life, had been suppressed by what he believed was character. - -Perhaps if the season had been less humid and Anderson Law had been near -with his plain ideals and picturesque language, things might have been -different. But the humidity was infernal and Law obliterated. - -The man is the true conservative. Realizing how cramping this is, he -has verbally relegated the emotion to woman; but he has not escaped -actuality. No matter how widely a man's fancy may wander, his -convictions must be planted on something. Norval, having married, -believing himself in love, took root. Now that he was confronted by the -possibility of either shrivelling or clutching to something else, he -found he could make no decision in the old environment. For a week he -contemplated following Katherine, it would be easier than floundering -around without her. The next week he decided to telegraph. He grew -calm as he wondered whether it would be wiser to capitulate; take the -position of an outraged but masterful husband, or to say he was on the -verge of death? - -Then something over which Norval had no control calmed and held him. - -"A summer apart will hurt neither of us," he concluded, and took the -train for Banff. Mentally and physically, he let go. He kept to the -silent places, the deep woods and big rivers. He took no note of time. - -Once a letter was forwarded from Anderson Law. Law wrote: - - -When I came to, I found myself on the way to Egypt. It was too late to -turn back, Jim, or I would have done so and got you to come with me, I -can bear folks now. If you think well of it, come along anyway. And, -by the way, in the general jamboree do you know I completely forgot the -little girl of Alice Lindsay's, fiddling away up in Canada. I do not -usually forget such things, and I'm deeply ashamed. If you don't come -to Egypt, perhaps you would not mind looking her up and explaining. -I'll be back in a year or so. - - -Norval smiled. It was his first smile in many a day. It was mid -September then and, though he did not realize it, he was edging toward -home. Home! After all, it was good for a man and woman to know the -meaning of home. Of course you had to pay for it, and he was ready to -pay. It's rather shocking to drift about and have no place to anchor -in. That side of the matter had been uppermost in Norval's mind for -weeks. He meant to make all this very clear to Katherine; he wondered -if she, too, were edging across the continent. There must be hours in -the studio, of course. He and Katherine had enough to live on, but a -man ought to have something definite in the way of work. Painting was -more than play to Norval, it was a profession, a job! If he made -Katherine look at it as a job, everything would smooth out. Then, too, -he meant to focus on her newly discovered talent. Perhaps she was -gifted and he had been brutally blind. No wonder she had resented it. -And, thank God, he was not one of the men who wanted the world for -themselves. It would really be quite jolly to have Katherine write -about Awakened Souls and things of that sort while he painted. Then, -after business hours, they would have a common life interest, maybe they -could adopt children. Norval adored children. Yes, it was as he had -hoped; a summer apart had brought them together! - -And just then Katherine's letter came. - -It ran: - - -JIM, I am not coming back. Here in my little bungalow I have found -myself and I mean to keep myself! - -I feel very kindly. All the hurt is gone now or I would not write. I -see your genius, I really do, and I also see that it would be impossible -for me to help you. I tried and failed horribly. Had you married a -woman, the waiting, thankful sort, the kind of woman who would always be -there when you came back, always glad to have you making your brilliant -way and basking in your light, all would have been well. But, Jim, I -want something of my own out of life, and I wasn't getting it. I was -starving. I feared I would starve here, but I haven't and---- Well, -Jim, I don't know how divorces are managed when people are as -respectable as we, but unless you want to leave things as they are, do -try to help me out. After all, you must be just enough to admit that -there is something to be said for me? - - -The last feeling of security died in Norval's heart as he read. He had -been flung into space when his wife had first spoken. He was not angry -now. He was not really grieving, but he felt as a man might who, in -falling, had been clutching to what he thought was a sturdy sapling only -to find it a reed. - -He had been falling ever since Katherine had shown him the "Awakened -Soul," but he had reached out on the descent for anything that might -stop him, even the partial relinquishing of his ambition. And here he -was with nothing! Falling, falling. - -Then, as one notices some trivial thing when one is most tense and -shocked, Norval thought of that little girl of Alice Lindsay's fiddling -away in Canada! - -"I'll get down to Chicoutimi and take to the river; Point of Pines is on -the way and I can do this for old Andy. It's about the only thing for -me to do anyway, just now." - -There were forest fires all along the route and travel was retarded. -When Point of Pines was seen in the distance, its location marked by a -twinkling lantern swung from a pole on the dock, the captain of the -_River Queen_ was surly because one lone traveller was determined to be -put ashore. - -"Why not go on to Lentwell?" he argued; "we're late anyway. You could -get a rig to bring you back to this God-forsaken hole to-morrow. It's -only six miles from Lentwell." - -But Norval insisted upon his rights. - -"What in thunder do you want to go for?" the captain grew humorously -fierce. "No one ever goes to Point of Pines." - -"I'm going to surprise them," Norval rejoined. "Give them a shock, make -history for them." - -"Your luggage is at the bottom of the pile," this seemed a final -argument, "you didn't say you were going to get off." - -"I didn't know just where the place was; but chuck the trunks at -Lentwell, I'll send for them." - -So the _River Queen_ chugged disgustedly up to the wharf and in the -gloom of the early evening Norval, with a couple of bags, was deposited -on it. - -A man took in the lantern that had made known to the captain of the -departing boat that Point of Pines was doing its duty. Then a voice, -not belonging to the hand, called from a short distance back of the -wharf: - -"Jean Duval, did a box come for us?" - -"No, Mam'selle." - -"Didn't anything come?" - -"Nothing, Mam'selle." - -"Why, then, did the boat stop?" - -"To make trouble, Mam'selle, for honest people." - -With this the unseen man departed, grumbling. He had either not seen -Norval or had decided not to court further trouble. - -Norval laughed. The sound brought a young girl into evidence. She was -a tall, slight thing, so fair that she seemed luminous in the dim shadow -caused by the hill which rose sharply behind her. - -"Well!" she said, coming close to Norval. "Well! How did you get here?" - -"The _River Queen_ left me," Norval explained, "probably instead of the -box you expected." - -"Why?" asked the girl. - -"Heaven knows! I rather insisted, to be sure, but I don't know why. I -wonder if any one could give me a bed for the night? Do you know?" - -"Perhaps Mam'selle Morey could. All her life she's been getting ready -for a boarder." - -Norval started. - -"Mam'selle Morey?" he said slowly; "and you----?" - -"I'm Donelle Morey. I have Molly and the cart here. We can try, if you -care to." - -So Norval put his bags in the cart and stretched out his hand to help -the girl. - -"Thanks," she said; "I will ride beside Molly on the shaft." - -"But--why, that's absurd, you know. The seat is wide enough for us -both." - -"I prefer the shaft." - -The air, manner, and voice of the girl were proofs enough of Alice -Lindsay's work, but Norval was determined to keep his own identity, for -the time being, secret. - -"I'm Richard Alton," he said, as the little creaking cart mounted the -Right of Way. - -"Good evening, Mr. Richard Alton," came the reply from the shaft. It -was improbable that the slip of a girl sitting there was laughing at -him, but the man on the seat had his doubts. - -"I'm a painter," he added. - -"A painter? Do you paint houses?" - -"Oh! yes, and barns and even people and trees." - -This seemed to interest the voice in the gloom, for they had entered the -woods and it was quite dark. - -"You are making fun?" - -"Far from it, Mam'selle." - -"I am not Mam'selle. I'm Donelle." - -How childish the words and tones were! - -"Excuse me, Donelle." - -"And here's home!" Suddenly Molly had emerged from the trees and stood -stock still in the highway in front of the little white house. - -"Would you rather wait until I let Molly into the stable, or will you go -in?" Standing in the road, with the moonlight touching her, Donelle -looked like nothing so much as a silver birch in the shadowy woods. - -"I'd much rather wait. I'm horribly afraid." - -"Afraid of what?" - -"That Mam'selle Morey may not approve of me as a boarder." - -"Then she will say so," comforted the girl, turning to open the gate -across the road for the horse. "Molly," she said, "you trot along and -make yourself easy, I'll be back in a few minutes." Then she turned to -Norval. "We'd better go right in. If you are not to stay here you'll -have to try Captain Longville's and that is a good three miles." - -"Good Lord!" muttered Norval, and began to straighten his tie and hat in -a desperate attempt at respectability. - -As long as he lived Norval was to remember his first glimpse of Jo Morey -and the strangely home-like room that greeted him. Perhaps because his -need was great the scene touched his heart. - -The brilliant stove was doing its best. The hanging lamp was like -electricity for clearness. The brightness, comfort, and Jo at her loom -made a picture upon which the tired, heartsore man looked reverently. - -Jo lifted her glad face to welcome Donelle and saw the stranger! - -Instantly the protecting brows fell, but not until Norval had seen the -worship that filled the eyes. - -"Mamsey!" Donelle went quickly forward and half whispered. - -"This--this is a boarder! Now, don't----" Norval could not catch the -rest, but it was a warning to Jo not to put her price too high. - -"A boarder?" Jo got upon her feet, plainly affected. She took life -pretty much as it came, but this unexpected appearance of her secret -desire almost stunned her. - -"Where did you get him, Donelle?" - -Then the girl told her story while her yellow eyes danced with childish -amusement. - -"He's just like an answer to prayer, isn't he, Mamsey?" - -"And I'm quite prayerful in my attitude," Norval put in. "Anything in -the way of a bite and a bed will be gratefully received. Name your -price, Mam'selle." - -Now that the hour had come Jo's conscience and her sense of justice rose -in arms against each other. - -"He looks as if he could pay," she mused. - -"But see how tired he looks--and interesting!" Conscience and -inclination pushed Jo to the wall. However, she was hard-headed. - -"How about five dollars a week?" she ejaculated. - -"Oh!" gasped Donelle to whom money was a dead language; "Mamsey, that is -awful." - -Norval was afraid he was going to spoil everything by roaring aloud. -Instead he said: - -"I can stand that, Mam'selle. I suppose you'll call it a dollar if I'm -put out to-morrow?" - -"Surely." - -Then Jo bustled about preparing food while Donelle went back to Molly, -with Nick hurtling along in the dark beside her. - -And so Norval, known as Alton, occupied the upper chamber of Jo Morey's -house. His artist's eye gloated over the rare old furniture; he touched -reverently the linen and the woollen spreads; he laid hands as gentle as -a woman's on the dainty curtains; and he gave thanks, as only a -weary-souled man can, for the haven into which he had drifted. He was -as nervous as a girl for fear he might be weighed and found wanting by -Mam'selle Morey. He contemplated, should she give him notice, buying -her. Then he laughed. He had not been in the little white house -twenty-four hours before he realized that his landlady was no ordinary -sort and to view her in the light of a mercenary was impossible. - -But Jo did not dismiss her boarder. His adaptability won her from the -start and, although she frowned upon him, she cooked for him like an -inspired creature and hoped, in her heart, that she might prove worthy -of the fulfilment of her dreams. To Donelle's part in the arrangement -she gave, strangely enough, little thought except that the money would -ease the future for the girl. Perhaps poor Jo, simple as a child in -many ways, believed that it was inherent in a boarder to be exempt from -the frailties of other and lesser men. She never thought of him in -terms of sex, and Donelle was still to her young, very young. - -Alton had been with her a week when Marcel Longville, embodying the -sentiments of the village, came deprecatingly into Jo's kitchen and sat -dolefully down on a hard yellow chair. She sniffed critically. Marcel -was a judge of cooking, but no artist. She cooked of necessity, not for -pleasure. Jo revelled in ingredients and had visions of results. - -"Crullers and chicken!" said Marcel. "You certainly do tickle the -stomach, Mam'selle." - -"He pays well and steady," Jo answered, attending strictly to business. -"And such a relisher I've never seen. Not even among your best payers, -Marcel. They always ate and thought afterward if they wanted to, or had -to; mine thinks while he eats. I've watched him pause a full minute -over a mouthful, getting the flavour." - -"That's flattering to a woman, certainly," Marcel sighed. Then: "Father -Mantelle says your boarder is handsome, Mam'selle, and young." - -"Tastes differ," Jo basted her chicken with steady hand; "he's terrible -brown and lean. As to age, he wasn't born yesterday." - -"What's he doing here, Jo?" - -"Eating and sleeping, mostly eating. He wanders some, too. He's -partial to woods." - -"Hasn't he any excuse for being here?" - -"Marcel, does any one have to have an excuse for being in Point of -Pines? What's the matter with the place?" - -"The Captain argues that he is a prospector." Marcel brought the word -out carefully. - -"What's that?" Mam'selle dipped out her crullers from the deep fat. - -"Sensing about timber or land, or something that someone secret wants to -buy, and has sent him to spy on." - -"Well, I don't believe the Captain has shot the right bird," Jo laughed -significantly, "the Captain isn't always a good shot. My boarder is a -painter." - -"A painter? What does he think he can get to do here? We leave our -houses to nature." - -"He's going to fix up the wood-cabin." Jo spoke indifferently, but her -colour rose. The wood-cabin was Langley's deserted house. Years ago -she had bought it, for a song, and then left it alone. - -"He goes there every day. I shouldn't wonder if he was going to paint -that. It will take gallons, for the knotholes will just drink paint." - -"Mam'selle," here Marcel panted a bit, "you don't fear for Donelle?" - -Jo stood still, wiped her hands on her checked apron, and stared at -Marcel. - -"Why should I?" she asked. - -"Jo, a strange man and Donelle growing wonderful pretty, and----" - -Still Jo stared. - -"Mam'selle, the men have fixed the world for themselves; you know that. -They have even fixed the women. Some are to labour and bend under their -loads until they break, then the scrap heap! Others, the pretty ones, -are to be taken or bought as the case may be. And young girls innocent -and longing do not count the cost. Oh! Mam'selle, have you thought of -Donelle?" - -Poor Marcel's eyes were tear-filled. - -Jo looked dazed and helpless. Presently she said, with that slow -fierceness people dreaded: - -"Marcel, I haven't lived my life for nothing. No man fixes my life for -me nor labels me or mine. Donelle is nothing but a child. Why, look at -her! When she's a woman, if a man wants her, he's going to hear -something that I'm keeping just for him, and unless he believes it, he's -not fit for the girl. In the meantime, my boarder is my boarder." - -With this Marcel had to be content, and the others also. For they were -waiting for the result of the interview like hungry animals afraid to go -too near the food supply, but full of curiosity. - -Yet for all her scornful words, Jo watched the man within her house. -She realized that he was still young and for all his leanness and -brownness, handsome, in a way. He had a habit, after the evening meal -was done, of sitting astride a chair, and, while smoking, laughing at -Donelle. - -"He'd never do that if he saw in her a woman," thought Jo with relief. -"She amuses him." - -And that surely Donelle did. Her mimicry was delicious, her abandon -before Alton most diverting. She knew no shyness, she even returned his -teasing with a quick pertness that disarmed Jo completely. - -"Well, Mr. Richard Alton," Donelle said one night as she watched him -puff his pipe, "I went up to the wood-cabin to-day to see how much -painting you'd done and I found it locked. I looked into the window and -there was something hung inside." - -"Little girls mustn't snoop," said Alton. - -Donelle twisted her mouth and cocked her head. - -"Very well," she said, "keep your old cabin. I know another that is -never locked against me." - -"Meaning whose?" - -"You'll have to hunt and find, Mr. Richard Alton." - -Norval laughed and turned to Jo. - -"Why don't you spank her, Mam'selle?" he asked. "She's a little -rascal." Then: "Whose fiddle is that?" for Donelle never played. - -Donelle's eyes followed his and rested upon the case standing against -the wall. - -"How did you know it was a fiddle?" she asked. - -"Well, it's a fiddle case. Of course, Mam'selle may keep cheese in it!" - -"It's--it's my fiddle," Donelle's gaiety fled, "but I don't play it any -more." - -"Why?" - -"Well, everything that went with the fiddle has gone! I'm trying to -forget it." - -"Mam'selle," Norval frowned his darkest, "have you ever heard of a bird -who could sing and wouldn't?" - -"No, Mr. Alton, never!" Jo was quite sincere. Her boarder was always -giving her interesting information. - -"It can be made to, Mam'selle. Again, I advise spanking." - -Surely there was no fear that her boarder and Donelle might come to -grief! Jo laughed light heartedly. Her own bleak experience in the -realm of love and danger was so far removed that it gave her no -guidance. She might have felt differently had she seen what happened -the following day. But at that time she was diligently building her -wood pile while Donelle, among the trees on the hilltop, was supposed to -be instructing a couple of boys in sawing wood. - -But Donelle had finished her instructions, the boys were working -intelligently, and she had wandered away with her heart singing within -her, she knew not why. Then she threw back her head and laughed. She -knew the reason at last, Tom Gavot was coming back! Tom had been seeing -roads in the deeper woods for nearly three weeks, but he was coming -back. Marcel had said so. Of course that was why Donelle was happy. - - And my heart is like a rhyme, - With the yellow and the purple keeping time; - The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry - Of bugles going by. - - -Over and over Donelle said the words in a kind of chant which presently -degenerated into words merely strung together. - -"Like a rhyme--keeping time--like a cry--going by----" and then suddenly -she heard her name. - -"Donelle!" Standing under a flaming maple was Norval. - -"I have been following you," he said, and his eyes, dark, compelling, -were holding hers. - -"Why, Mr. Richard Alton?" - -"Because I am going to make you promise to play your fiddle again." - -"No, I am happier when I forget my fiddle." - -"Why, Donelle Morey, are you happier?" - -"You would not understand." - -"I'd try. Come, sit here on this log. The sun strikes it and we will -be warm." - -Donelle stepped off the narrow path and reached the log, while Norval -sat down beside her. - -"Now tell me about that fiddle." - -"Once," Donelle raised her eyes to his, "once, for a long time I stayed, -you would not know if I told you where, but it was near here and yet so -far away. Everything was different--I thought I belonged there and I was -the happiest girl, and had such big dreams. They taught me to play; a -wonderful old man said I could play and I did. A dear lady opened the -way for me to go on! Then something happened. It was just a word, but -it told me that I did not belong in that lovely place, and if I went on -I would be--cheating somebody; somebody who had let me have my life and -never asked anything, who never would, but who would go on, making the -best of----" Donelle's eyes were full of tears, her throat ached. - -"Of what, little girl?" - -"The--the bits that were left." - -"Perhaps," Norval, quite unconsciously laid his hand over Donelle's -which were clasped on her knees, "perhaps that somebody could have made -quite a splendid showing of the bits, dear girl. And you might have -made the place yours, the one that did not seem quite your own. Places -are not always inherited, you know. Often they are--conquered." - -"You make me afraid," said Donelle as she looked down at the hand -covering hers. "You see, I want to do the thing you say. I almost did -it, but the dear lady died. I'm not very brave; I think I would gave -gone." - -"She may not be the only one, child." - -"But I couldn't take anything unless I had it, clean and safe. I -wouldn't want it, unless I, myself, made it sure first. I'm like that. -Don't you think something you are afraid of being sometimes keeps you -from being what you want to be?" - -"Yes. But, little girl, come, some time, to the cabin in the woods and -play for me; will you? I might help you. And you could help me, I am -trying to find my place, too." - -"You?" - -"Yes, Donelle." Then, quite irrelevantly, as once Tom Gavot had done, -he said: "Your eyes are glorious, child, do you know that? The soul of -you shines through. Donelle, it is almost as bad to starve a soul as to -kill it. Will you bring the fiddle some day?" - -"Yes, some day." - -She was very sweet and pretty sitting there with the autumn light on her -face. - -"Donelle!" - -"Yes." - -"Just Donelle. The name is like you. You will keep your promise?" - -"Some day, yes." - - - - - *CHAPTER XIV* - - *A CHOICE OF ROADS* - - -Day after day Donelle looked at her fiddle, but turned away. Day after -day she sang the hours through, working beside Jo, or playing with Nick. -Something was happening to her; something that frightened her, but -thrilled her. She kept remembering the touch of Norval's hand upon hers! -In the night, when she thought of it, she trembled. When she saw him -she was shy. - -"I wish Tom Gavot would come back," she said to herself, for Tom had -been detained. Then, at last, one day she heard that he was on his way. -He would leave the little train, five miles below Point of Pines, and -would walk the rest of the way. She knew the path so she went to meet -him. - -It was mid afternoon when she saw him coming, swinging along in his -rough corduroys and high boots, his cap on the back of his handsome -head, his bag slung over his shoulder. - -She stepped behind a tree, laughing, and when he was close she suddenly -appeared and grasped his arm. - -"Donelle, I thought----" - -"Did I frighten you, Tom?" - -"Well, you know there is always the bit of a coward in me. Why are you -here?" - -"I came to meet you, Tom." - -"Has anything gone wrong?" His face darkened; poor Tom never expected -things had gone right. His life had not been formed on those lines. - -"No, but I wanted you, Tom. There are so many things to talk about, -wonderful things. I've gone to your cabin, Tom, and made it ready for -you. Every day I've lighted a fire the nights are cold. I thought you -might come at night." - -Donelle had lighted a fire of which she knew nothing, and Tom could not -tell her! - -"You're kind," was all he said as he looked at her. Then: "I never had a -home until I got that cabin, Donelle. While I am away, I see the -curtains you and Mam'selle made and the bedspread and all the rest. -When I've been shivering in camp, I saw the fire on my own little -hearth, and I was warm!" - -Donelle smiled up to him. - -"Tell me about your road," she said. - -"Well, there's going to be one! I meant to come back ten days ago, but -something happened and I decided to start work this fall, not wait for -spring, so I stayed on. There was sickness at a settlement back in the -woods. Many people almost died, some of them did, because they couldn't -get a doctor and proper care. It's criminal to put women and children -in such a hole; there's got to be a road connecting those places -with--help! A man is a brute to take a woman with him under such -conditions. What _he_ wants goes! He never thinks of _her_ part." - -"But, Tom, maybe she, the woman, wants to go." - -"He ought not to let her, he knows." - -"But if she just will go, what then, Tom?" - -"It doesn't make it right for him, he knows." - -"But it might be worse to stay back, Tom. A woman might choose to go." - -"But _she_ doesn't know; _he_ does." - -"But she may want to know, and be willing to pay." - -"Donelle, you're a crazy little know-nothing." - -Tom looked down and laughed. He was wondrously happy. "Always wanting -to pay for what isn't worth it." - -"You're wrong, Tom. It is worth it." - -"What?" - -"Why, the thing that makes a woman want to go into the woods with a man, -even when there are no roads; the thing that makes her willing to pay -before she knows." - -Tom breathed hard. - -"I suppose it is--love, Tom." - -"It's something worse, often!" Gavot turned his eyes away from the -upturned face. - -"Lately, Tom," Donelle came close to him and touched his arm as she -walked beside him, "I've been thinking about such a lot of new things -and love among them." - -"Love!" And now Tom stood still, as if an unseen blow had stunned him. - -"Yes, and I had no one to talk to. I couldn't speak to Mamsey. Always -I think of you, Tom, whenever thoughts come. You see everything, just -as you see your roads in the deep woods. Are you tired, Tom?" - -"No," Gavot got control of himself, "no, not tired." - -"You see," and now they were going on again, "the big feelings of life -just come to everyone. They don't pick, and when you are young, you have -young thoughts. That is the way it seems to me, and often, Tom Gavot, -the very things that you ought to have an old head to think about come -when you haven't any sense at all." This tremendous truth fell from the -girlish lips quite irrelevantly. "And then you just take and pay what -you must, but often you have to pay more than you ought, because--well, -because you are young when you bought----" - -Donelle sobbed. "I've been thinking of Mamsey," she ended pitifully. -Tom stopped short. He flung his pack on the ground and laid his strong, -work-hardened hands on Donelle's shoulders. - -"You don't have to pay for Mam'selle," he said in a whisper; "she's -paid, God knows." - -"But I've got to pay for my father, Tom." - -"What do you mean?" - -"Why, you see, lately I've known that I must be like my father more than -like, like Mamsey. She learned and stayed and paid, he ran away. Oh, -Tom, it's good to be able to say this to you, out here under the trees, -alone. It has been choking me for days and days. You see, Tom, a big -feeling comes up in me that wants and wants. And, always, too, there is -another feeling. I do not want to pay, as Mamsey did. It would be -easier to run and hide! But, Tom, I'm not going to, I'm not! I'm going -to pay for my father!" - -"What ails you, Donelle? Has any one been talking?" Tom still held -her, his hungry heart yearned to draw her close, but he held her at -arm's length. - -"No, it is only--thoughts that have been talking. I just cannot settle -down by Mamsey, and know I'm to stay here without that running away -feeling. Then I say: 'I don't care, I want to go and I'll go,' and -then--why, I cannot, Tom, for I know I must pay for my father." - -"Go where?" - -"Go, Tom, where my fiddle would take me. Go where people do not know; -go and learn things, and then if any one did find out--pay!" - -Poor Tom was weary almost to the breaking point. Nights in rough camps, -days of wood tramping had worn upon him, the fire of which Donelle knew -nothing sent the blood racing through his veins. Her touch on his arm -made him tremble. - -"See here, Donelle," he said; "would you come along my road with me? -Would you, could you, learn enough--that way?" - -But Donelle smiled her vague smile, "I think I must have my own road, -Tom. The trouble is I cannot see my road as you see roads. I only feel -my feet aching. But, Tom, surely you must have seen life a little in -Quebec, tell me: could a great big strong love keep on loving even if it -knew about me and Mamsey?" - -"Yes." The word was more like a groan. - -"Even if it had to keep Mamsey from knowing that we know?" - -"Yes." - -"Why, Tom, dear Tom, you make me feel wonderful. You always do, you big, -safe Tom. I just knew how it would be; that is why I had to come and -meet you." - -She rubbed her cheek against the rough sleeve of his jacket. "I think -your mother would just worship you, Tom." - -Then Gavot laughed, laughed his honest laugh, and picked up his pack. - -"Donelle," he said presently, "you ought to make your music again. You -have no right not to." - -"You, you really mean that, Tom?" - -"Yes, I do." - -"Well, I think I'll get the fiddle out some day, soon, and come to your -cabin. While you draw your roads on your paper, I'll see if the tunes -will come back." - -But Donelle did not speak of Richard Alton. - -The autumn lingered in Point of Pines; even the gold and red clung to -the trees to add to the delusion that winter was far off. The mid-days -were warm, and only now and then did the frost nip. - -Norval kept saying to himself, as he lay on that wonderful bed in Jo -Morey's upper chamber, "I must go back!" But he made no move southward. -The quiet of the woods, the lure of the river held him, and then he -began to ask why he _should_ go back? - -Law was still in Egypt, Katherine was undoubtedly in her bungalow; why -not have what he always had wanted, a winter away from things? - -Then a letter forwarded by his lawyer clarified his thoughts. It was -from Katherine, who had discovered a new set of duties and was -hot-footed to perform them. - -She wrote: - - -JIM, until you are willing to die for something, you have never lived. -In letting loose what really was never mine, my own came to me. I have -a new book out. Shall I send you a copy? I've called it "The Soul Set -Free." I do not want to be too personal, but I find the world loves the -close touch. - -You have not said one word, Jim, about a divorce and I have waited. I -think you owe me assistance along this line, and now I must insist. -For, Jim, with the rest of what is my own has come a startling -realization, that love, understanding love, is to be mine, too. Until I -hear from you I will not name the man who discovered my talent before he -saw me. He read the manuscript of my first book, he had never heard of -me then. Only recently has he come to California. He is my mate, Jim, -I know that, and I owe him a great duty. I must go as I see duty, but I -must go with a clear conscience. I owe him that, also. - - -Norval read this amazing letter lying on a couch before a blazing fire -in his wood-cabin. He read and reread it. He felt as he might have -felt had a toy dog--or a fluffy kitten, risen up and smitten him. -Katherine had been giving him a series of tremendous thumps ever since -she had shown him her awakened soul. Little by little she had receded -from his understanding of her; but to come forth now in this stupefying -characterization of the untrammeled woman, was---- Norval laughed, a -hard, bitter laugh. - -Then he went to his improvised desk, the cabin was filled with his -attempts at furniture making; it was a remarkable place. - -He wrote rather unsteadily: - - -KIT, do you remember the story of the mouse that ran in the whiskey -drippings, licked his legs, got drunk, and then took his stand, crying, -"Where's that damned cat I was so afraid of yesterday?" Well, you make -me think of that. You were once, unless I was mistaken, a nice little -mouse of a thing, pretty well scared of the conventional cat--the world, -you know. Then came the whiskey lickings, your talent. I'm afraid -you're drunk, child, drunk as a lord. But there you are, all the same, -with your back up against the wall, defying the cat. Well, you're -thirty-two, and although you were afraid of the cat, you certainly know -something about the animal. I agree with you that we were not suited to -one another, and I'm ready to let your soulmate have a show. I do not -quite know how to do it, but if you think you will not be defrauding him -too much--and if your sense of duty will permit, give me time to get my -breath and I swear I'll think up some sort of "cause" that will set you -free. Just now I am hidden away in the woods, painting as I used to -paint when Andy stared and stared. I can tell quality now. I'm on the -right road and do not want to be jerked back until I've made sure. -Perhaps the law in California would make it easy for you. Anything short -of making a villain of me, I'm willing to consider. - - -Then Norval, having written, stalked down to the Post Office, sent his -ultimatum off with the Point of Pines official stamp on it, and went to -Dan's Place for no earthly reason but to forget. He drank a little, -scorned himself for taking that road out of his perplexity, drank a -little more with old, grimy Pierre Gavot, and then started back to the -wood-cabin. He did not want to face Jo Morey--or Donelle. He felt -unclean; he was, in a befuddled way, paying for Katherine. - -The sun was setting in a magnificent glory of colour and cloud banks. -There was a flurry of snow in the clouds, and until it fell there would -be that chill in the air that was vicariously cooling Norval's hot -brain. - -He wanted the seclusion of the cabin more than he wanted anything else -just then. He had left a fire on the hearth, he could stretch himself -on the couch for the night. He did not want food, but he was frantic to -get to his canvas; he had begun a few days ago a fantastic thing, quite -out of his ordinary style. While there was light enough he could work. -So he pressed on. - -The clouds quite unexpectedly gave up their burden, and Norval was soon -covered with snow as he flew along, taking a short cut to the cabin. -But having given up the snow, the clouds disappeared and the daylight -was lengthened. Pounding the snow from his feet, shaking himself like a -bear, Norval entered the cabin and saw--Donelle standing transfixed -before the easel! - -She did not turn as he came in; she was rigid, her hands holding her -violin case. - -"You--you said you were a painter!" she gasped when she felt Norval was -near her. - -"And you think I'm not?" Something in the voice startled her, she -looked at him. - -"You said you painted houses and barns and----" - -"People sometimes and trees. I spoke the truth, but you think I'm no -painter?" - -"Why, I've been--I've been thinking I was dreaming until just now. See -these woods," she was gazing at the unfinished thing on the easel, "They -are my woods. I know the very paths, they are back of the lumber -cutting. See! is there a face, somewhere in the dark, a face back of -those silver birches, is there?" - -Norval, with the Joan of Arc conception in mind, had painted those woods -while Donelle's face had haunted him. - -"Can you see a face?" he asked. He was close to the girl now, so close -that her young body touched him. - -"Is it only a fancy?" - -"Look again, Donelle. Whose face?" - -"I--I do not know!" - -But she did know, and she looked mutely at him. - -"Donelle, why did you come here?" - -"I promised I was going to--to play for you." - -"Then, in God's name, do it! See, go over there by the window." Norval -had folded his arms over his breast. He was afraid of himself, of the -madness that Katherine and Dan's Place had evolved. "Play, and I'll -finish this thing." - -"I can play best if I move about." - -"Move, then, but fiddle!" - -"You are sure you want me? I can come again. You are strange, I should -not have stolen in, but once I had seen--I couldn't get away." - -"Donelle, you are to stay. Do you hear? For your sake and mine you are -to stay. Now, then." - -He turned his back on her, flung off his coat, and fell to work. - -Donelle tuned her violin, tucked it under her chin, and slowly walking -to and fro, she played and played until the hunger in her heart grew -satisfied. Like a little pale ghost she passed up and down the rude -room, smiling and happy. - -After half an hour Norval looked at her; he was haggard, but quite -himself. - -Then Donelle turned and, nodding over her bow, said: - -"It's all right, the joy of it has come back and---- Oh! I see the -face among the trees. What a beautiful picture! It's like a wood with -a heart and soul; it's alive like Tom Gavot's road. Now we must go -home, Mr. Richard Alton. We're tired, you and I. - -"Home?" Norval laughed. "Home?" - -"Yes, to Mamsey. I always am so glad of Mamsey when I'm tired." - -"Donelle, I meant to stay here to-night." - -"But instead, you are coming with me!" Donelle put out her hand, -"Come!" - -Norval raised the hand to his lips. - -"You little, white wood-spirit," he said, "they did not teach you to -play, they only let you free. Donelle, are you a spirit?" - -"No," and now the yellow eyes sought and held his, "I'm a--woman, Mr. -Richard Alton." - - - - - *CHAPTER XV* - - *THE LOOK* - - -And Donelle began to know what love was. Know it as passionate, daring -natures know it. She thought of her father, of Mamsey, in a new light. -She grew to understand her supposed mother with a tragic realization and -she shuddered when she reflected upon her father. - -"To go and leave love!" she thought. "Oh! how could he?" - -Then Donelle took to gazing upon Jo with the critical eyes of youth, and -yet with pity. - -What manner of girl had Jo been? Had she always been plain? - -The word caused Donelle pain. It sounded disloyal to Jo; but it sent -her to her mirror in the little north chamber beside Mam'selle's. - -The face that looked back at Donelle puzzled her. Was it pretty? What -was the matter with it? - -The eyes were too large, they looked hungry. The mouth, too, was queer; -it did things too easily. It smiled and quivered; it turned up at the -corners, it drooped down, all too easily. The nose was rather nice as -noses go, but it had tiny freckles on it that you could see if you -looked close. Those freckles were, in colour, something like the eyes. - -"I like my hair!" confessed Donelle, and she smoothed the soft, pale -braids wound about her delicately poised head. "My throat is too long, -but it's white!" - -Then she tried on her few dresses, one after the other, and chose a -heavy dark blue one. Jo had woven the material, it was very fine and -warm. - -"I think I will take my fiddle and go up to the wood-cabin," thought -Donelle, and then her face grew bright and rose-touched. - -But instead, Donelle went to Tom Gavot's hut. - -Once outside the house, she simply could not go to the wood-cabin. She -knew Alton was there, he painted constantly when he was not tramping the -sunny forests or sitting with Jo and Donelle, reading in the smothering -heat of the overworked stove. - -"Some time when he is away, then I'll go." - -But oh! how she wanted to go. The very thought of Alton made her -thrill. Sometimes she saw him looking at her, when Jo was bent over her -loom or needles, and the look always called something out of Donelle; -something that went straight to Alton and never returned! - -On that winter day, a still white day, Donelle carried her violin under -her long fur coat; she must play to somebody, and Jo had gone to the -distant town for the day. - -The door of Tom's hut was closed, but a curl of smoke rose from the -chimney so Donelle knocked rather formally. - -Tom's step sounded inside, he took down the bar which secured the door -and flung it open. His eyes were dark and his brow scowling. - -"Why, Tom," laughed Donelle, "who are you locking and barring out? -Maybe you do not want company?" - -"I don't, but I want you." - -"Tom, who do you call company?" - -"Mam'selle's boarder, that Mr. Alton." Tom had run across Norval once -or twice since his return. - -"Don't you like him, Tom?" - -Donelle had come inside and taken a chair by the hearth, now she flung -her coat aside and laid the violin on her knee. - -"Yes, I like him well enough, and that's the trouble. I don't want to -like people unless there is a reason. I can't find a reason for this -man." - -Donelle laughed. - -"What is he here for anyway, Donelle?" - -"Why don't you go up to his wood-cabin and see, Tom? He's asked you." -She had heard Norval do so rather insistently. - -"Yes. But I'm not going." - -"Why, Tom?" - -"I'm too busy." - -"I wish you would go, Tom. I wish you could see his pictures. Why, -Tom, you'd feel like taking the shoes off your feet." - -Tom laughed grimly. - -"Not while the weather's so cold," he said. - -"But, Tom, that's the reason for Mr. Alton. He is getting our woods and -skies and river safe on his canvases. He's going to take them back to -people who have never seen such things." - -"Why don't they come and board here, then, and see them for themselves?" -Tom threw a log viciously on the fire. "You don't mean he's doing this -to give a lot of people pleasure?" - -"Tom, he sells his pictures; he gets a great deal of money for them." - -"Umph!" Then, "Has he ever put you in the pictures, Donelle?" - -There was a slight pause. Remembering the faint suggestion in the first -picture she had ever seen in the cabin, Donelle said softly: - -"No, Tom." - -"I'm glad. I'd hate to have a lot of strangers staring at you." - -"Tom, you're scrouchy. Let me play for you." - -And, while she played, growing more rapt and absorbed as she did so, Tom -took his drawing board to the window and bent over his blueprints. -Gradually the look of doubt and irritation left his face, a flood of -happiness swept over him. He began to see roads. Always roads. He -wanted to go to Quebec in the spring and tell his firm about something -he had discovered lately; and it was on Mam'selle Morey's land, too. If -there were a road back among the hills over which to haul that which he -had found, haul it by a short cut to the railroad, by and by Mam'selle -and Donelle would not have to take objectionable strangers into their -home and---- - -Donelle played on unheedingly, but Tom started as a knock fell on the -door! - -"I will not open it!" he thought savagely. "Let him think what he damn -pleases." - -The tune ran glidingly on. - -"You like this tune, Tom?" Donelle was far away from the still cabin. - -"Yes, I like it, Donelle, but play something louder, faster." - -"Well, then, how about this?" and with a laugh Donelle swung into a new -theme. - -Again the knock! This time softer but more insinuating. - -Then all was quiet, but the mad music was filling the warm room. - -Just then the visitor at the door stepped around the house and came in -full view of the window before which Tom sat, rigid and defiant. It was -Norval, and he paused, came nearer and stood still. Tom got up, and the -movement attracted Donelle's attention. She turned and saw the two men -glaring at each other, the glass between. - -"Curse him!" muttered Tom, "curse him!" - -Norval vanished instantly, but not before Donelle had caught the -expression in his eyes. - -"Tom," she said affrightedly, "what did he think?" - -"What does it matter what he thought?" - -"But, Tom, tell me, what did he think to make him look like that? -Perhaps, perhaps he thinks I should not be here, alone with you." - -"Damn him. What right has he to stare into my place?" - -"But, Tom, his eyes, I cannot bear to think of the look in his eyes. -It--it was laughing, but it hurt." - -"Who cares about what he thought?" Tom was savage. - -"I do," Donelle whispered. She was putting her violin away. "I do. I -couldn't stand having a man look at me like that. Why, Tom, it made me -feel ashamed." - -Again Gavot cursed, but under his breath. - -"You going?" he asked. "Wait, I'll come with you. Wait, Donelle." - -But the girl did not pause. - -"I'd rather go alone," she called back. - -But she did not go directly home, she took a round-about way and reached -the hill back of the little white house. The tall pines rose black from -the untrodden snow, the winter sky was as blue as steel, and as cold. -In among the trees, where it was sheltered, Donelle sat down. There she -could think! - -The power of a look is mighty. The mere instant that Norval had gazed -upon Donelle through the window was sufficient to carry the meaning in -the man's mind to the sensitive girl. - -It took her some time to translate the truth as she sat under the trees -on the hilltop, but slowly it all became clear. - -"He does not know, but he thinks wrong of me." Donelle spoke aloud as -if repeating a lesson. - -"Why should he think wrong?" questioned the hard teacher. - -Then Donelle remembered her father and Jo, and the word with which -Pierre Gavot had polluted her life. - -"That's why he laughed," shuddered the girl. Her own secret interpreting -the hurting look though knowing him only as Richard Alton, she had no -reason to believe he knew her story. - -Then the relentless teacher pointed her back to the look in Dan Kelly's -eyes, the look that had frightened her and had made Jo send her away to -the Walled House. - -"Unless I save myself," moaned Donelle, "no one can keep people from -looking--those looks!" - -Quietly she got up and walked down the hill, a tall, slim, ghostly form, -with eyes haunted by knowledge. - -That night after the evening meal Norval stayed in the bright living -room and tortured Donelle. He knew he was brutal, but something drove -him on. He was suffering dumbly, suffering without cause, he believed. -Why should he care that a girl about whom he knew too much should hide -herself away with a rough young giant behind a locked door in a lonely -hut? - -Then he concluded it was because he knew how Alice Lindsay and Law might -feel, that he suffered. They would be so shocked. - -"After all," Norval tried to reason himself into indifference, "blood -will cry out. The world may be damned unjust to women, but there is -something lacking when a girl like this makes herself--cheap." - -Then it was that Norval began his torture. Jo was in the kitchen at the -moment, Donelle was clearing the table. - -"Where were you this afternoon?" Norval was carefully filling his pipe, -sitting astride his chair. - -"Part of the time I was in the woods on the hill," Donelle glanced at Jo -through the open door. - -"That's odd!" Norval puffed slowly and Donelle's eyes pleaded -unconsciously. For no real reason she did not want Jo to know she had -been with Tom. She was haunted by the look! - -"Why don't you come up to my cabin and play to me?" This in a tone so -low that Mam'selle could not hear. - -"I--I don't know. I might be in the way while you work." - -"On the contrary. Come up to-morrow, Donelle, I'll paint you with your -fiddle. You'll make the town stare, the town back home." - -The colour rose to Donelle's face. She remembered Tom's words. - -"I do not want strangers staring at my face," she said with some spirit. - -"Why not? It's a pretty face, Donelle." - -Then the girl crossed the room and stood before him. - -"If you talk and look like that," she warned in an undertone, "I'll make -Mamsey send you away." - -Norval laughed. - -"I don't believe you will," he said, and reached out toward her. - -And, for hours that night, after everything was still, Donelle lay in -her dark room and cried while she struggled with her confused emotions. - -"He shall go away! He shall _not_ dare to look at me so, and whisper!" - -Then she tossed about. - -"But he must not go until I make him ashamed to look at me--so. But how -can I? How can I?" - -Toward morning sleep came and when Donelle awoke, Norval had had his -breakfast and gone. - -After the morning's work was finished Jo asked Donelle to go on an -errand. A poor woman back among the hills was ill and needed food of -the right sort. - -"I have a crick in my back, Donelle," Jo explained, "I don't believe I -could walk there, and the road is unbroken. Molly is too old to force -her way through. If you take the wood path, it won't be too far." - -"I'd love to go, Mamsey. It's such a still day, and did you ever see -such sunlight?" - -The release was welcome, poor Donelle still was thrashing about in her -confused emotions. She was grateful that Alton was gone; she yearned to -see him, and so it went. - -"I'll be back as soon as I can, Mamsey. Is the basket packed?" - -It was only eight o'clock when Donelle set forth. She wore her long, -dark fur coat, a cowl-like hood of fur covered her pale hair, her -delicate, white face shone sweetly in the soft, dusky setting. The eyes -were full of sunlight but her mouth drooped pathetically. - -Jo remembered the look long after the girl had departed. - -"I mustn't keep her here," she reasoned; "I'm going to write again to -that Mr. Law. I will wait until spring; he couldn't come now. I'm -going to ask him to come up here and talk things over." - -Then Mam'selle went to her loom and worked like a Fate; there were piles -of wonderful things to sell. Surely they would help Donelle to her own! -And so Jo worked and dreamed and feared, while Donelle made her way over -the crusty snow, through the silent, holy woods, over the shining hill -to the sick woman in her distant cabin. - -For an hour the girl worked in the lonely house. She built a roaring -fire, carried in a store of wood, fed and cheered the poor soul on her -hard bed, and then turned her face toward Point of Pines. - -Almost childishly she dallied by the way, trying to set her feet in the -marks she had made on the way up. So interested did she become in this -that it made her _almost_ forget that queer, sad feeling in her heart. - -"I'll make a new path," she decided, and that caused her to think of Tom -Gavot and Alton and--the Look! - -Then she forgot all else and drifted far away. She was unhappy as the -young know unhappiness; no perspective, no comparison. Never had there -been such a case as hers! Never had any one suffered as she was -suffering because no one had ever had the same reason! - -When Donelle recalled herself, she found that she was on the highway -several miles beyond Point of Fines. The sun was sloping down, the west -was golden, and a solemn stillness, almost deathly, pervaded space. - -There was a tall cross close beside Donelle. Black it rose from the -unsullied snow, white tipped it was and shining against the glowing sky. -Beneath it someone had evidently knelt, for the crust of the snow was -broken. What meaning all this had for Donelle, who could tell? But the -confusion and hurt of the last few hours clutched at her heart, and she -who had never been urged by Jo Morey to consider religion in any form -went slowly to the cross and sank down! - -The teachings of St. Michael's claimed her, the memory of little Sister -Mary with the lost look clung to her; then a peace entered into her -soul. - -"No one could hurt me there," she sobbed. "No one could look at -me--with that look." Then, at the foot of the cross, her head bowed and -her tears falling, Donelle shivered and prayed. - -[Illustration: "At the foot of the cross, her head bowed and her tears -falling, Donelle shivered and prayed."] - -Presently she raised her face; it was calm and pale. There was a round -teardrop on her cheek that had not fallen with the others. She turned -and there by the roadside stood Norval. How long he had been there he -could hardly have told himself. - -When he had gone to the white house for his noon-day meal, Jo had told -him, quite inconsequently, of Donelle's errand and he had followed her, -for what reason God only knew. - -"Donelle!" he said, "Donelle!" - -The terrible look in his eyes was gone, gone was the mocking smile of -the night before. Pity, divine pity, moved him. - -"Donelle!" - -"Yes, Mr. Richard Alton." The poor girl strove to be her teasing self, -but her lips trembled and suddenly a strange, almost an awful, dignity -and detachment overcame her. Standing with clasped hands, in her -nun-like garb, she seemed to have taken farewell of the world that women -crave. - -"What are you doing, Donelle, by that cross?" Norval did not draw near, -and a distance of several feet separated them. - -"Thinking and praying." - -"Thinking what? And praying for what?" - -The trouble in his eyes met the trouble in hers and called for simple -truth. - -"I was thinking of how you looked at me yesterday when I was in Tom -Gavot's hut and of how you made me suffer last night. And I was praying -to God to help me, help me to stop loving you." - -So naive and direct were the words that they made Norval breathe hard. -In a flash he saw the true nature of the girl before him. She was old, -gravely, inheritedly old; and she was, too, a young and pitiful child. - -People had only touched the outer surface of her character and -personality. Alone she had learned the primitive and desperate lessons -of womanhood. - -"Stop loving me?" Norval repeated the words slowly. - -"Yes, I was beginning to love you very much, more than everything else. -Then, when you looked as you did yesterday, I remembered and all night I -was afraid. Oh! I am glad you did not get to loving me. It hurts so!" - -"How do you know that I have not got to loving you? How do you know but -that it was because I love you that I looked as I did yesterday?" - -"Ah, no, Mr. Richard Alton, you couldn't have looked so had you loved -me." Donelle tried to smile and made a pitiful showing. - -"You don't know men, Donelle." - -"But I know love." - -Now that she had taken her last leave of it, Donelle could talk of it as -little Sister Mary might have done, for she had vowed beside the cross -to go back to St. Michael's. Long ago Sister Angela had said that she -would find peace there. Then she spoke suddenly to Norval. - -"You see, maybe you have heard something about Mamsey and me, but you -did not quite understand and you felt you had a right to look as you -did. I wonder why men want to make it harder for--for women, when women -try to forget?" - -Norval winced; the shaft had sunk into its rightful place. - -And still the white-faced girl stood her distance, and tried to smile. - -"I am going to tell you all about Mamsey and me," she said. "I will -tell you as we walk along." - - - - - *CHAPTER XVI* - - *THE STORY* - - -How little she really knew of life! But how the last year of suffering -and renunciation had filled the void with a young but terrible -philosophy. Norval did not speak. With bowed head, hands clasped -behind him, he walked beside Donelle as she went along, bearing her -cross and poor Jo's. - -"You see I could not let Mamsey know that I knew. I could not hurt her -so. She would have made me go away, and always I would have remembered -her here alone where my father left her. And Tom Gavot has helped me -keep the people still. He stays here, and he wanted to go way, way off, -and be something so different. That is why I can play for Tom in his -cabin. He knows and understands; he couldn't hurt Mamsey and me, he -couldn't! Women like Mamsey and me feel a hurt terribly, that's why I am -telling you this, I want you to be kind. Don't make things harder, they -are bad enough!" - -"Donelle, for God's sake, spare me!" - -The words were wrung from Norval, but he did not look up. - -"I'm sure now that you know, you never will hurt us again," Donelle's -voice soothed and caressed unconsciously. "I!--I wanted to be happy -just as if nothing had happened, before I was born, to keep me from -being happy. I thought about love, just as girls will. They cannot -help it. Then you came and I wanted you!" - -A quivering fierceness shot through the words. Norval gave a quick -glance at the face near him and saw that the purest, most primitive -statement of a mighty truth held the girl's thought. If she had said, -she, the first woman, to him, the first man: - -"You are mine, I want you," she could not have said it more divinely. - -"I wanted to make you happy; to play for you while you painted your -beautiful pictures, and then when you were tired and I was tired, why, -our big love would bring us more and more happiness. Then, well, then -you looked at me through Tom Gavot's window and somehow I understood!" - -Donelle and Norval were nearing the little white house, they could see -the smoke rising from the chimney. Norval's thoughts were racing madly -ahead, crowding upon him, choking him. He meant to make the future safe -for this young girl, safe from himself and the sacredest passion of his -life which, he now acknowledged, had mastered him. Reason, -world-understanding, had no part in it, he wanted her. He must have her, -and was prepared to clear the path leading to an honest love. But he -could not tell her of Katherine, of himself, there was no time; no time -and her experience could not possibly have prepared her for bearing it. - -"I am going to tell you a great secret," Donelle half whispered, "back -there by the cross I remembered what the Sisters at the Home used to -tell me. They knew, but I did not--then. For girls like me--well, I am -going back to St. Michael's-on-the-Rocks and teach the babies. That's -why I could tell you what I have just told you." - -Then Norval turned and took her in his arms. So swiftly, so -overpoweringly did he do this, that Donelle lay quiet and frightened, -her white face pressed against his breast, her wonderful eyes searching -his stern, strange face. - -"No, by God! You are not going back to St. Michael's!" he whispered. -"You little white soul, can't you see I love and adore you? Can't you -see it was because I couldn't bear another man to--to have you, that I -was a brute to you? Do you think that any wrong others have done can -keep you from me, from letting me take you where you belong? Donelle! -Donelle, kiss me, child." - -Only the deep eyes moved; they widened and grew dark. - -"May I--kiss you?" - -"No." And Norval did not kiss her! - -"But you are mine, Donelle, and all the powers in the world cannot alter -that. I am going to make you believe me. What do I care for anything -but this? You have driven everything but yourself from sight. When you -play, great heavens, Donelle, when you play to me, moving about as you -did that first and only time in my cabin, you took me into a Great -Place. Don't tremble, little girl, don't. Every quiver hurts me. I am -going to make you forget the brute in me; I'm going to meet your love, -dear heart, with one as fine, so help me God! Trust me, Donelle, trust -me and when you can tell me that you do trust me, we will go to -Mam'selle. She will understand, she has the mighty soul. Oh, Donelle!" - -Norval leaned over the tender face, almost touched it with his lips, but -did not. - -"My little white love!" he whispered. "But you will come and play for -me?" he pleaded. - -"Yes." - -"And you will, you will give me a fair show?" She smiled wanly. - -"If I ever give you cause again to fear me, I hope----" - -Then Donelle raised her hand and laid it across his lips. - -"I am so afraid of this wonderful thing that is happening to me," she -said, "and you mustn't say--well! what you were going to say just then." - -"Don't fear the love, my darling. It's the sacredest thing in the -world." Norval had taken the hand from his lips and now held it in his -own. "And we'll keep it holy, Donelle. That is our part." - -"Yes, yes; but to think, to think!" - -"Don't think, sweet, here. Come close and try to--to--love for a moment -without remembering." - -"Why, how can I?" - -"Try." - -And so they stood with the golden light of the west on their faces. -Norval did the thinking. He thought of the quickest possible method of -setting Katherine free and making it right for him to kiss Donelle. He -thought of the wild realization of his true nature--a nature that had -been distorted and contracted by inheritance and training. He did not -want the beaten tracks, that had always been the trouble. He wanted the -unbroken trails, God! how he had thirsted and hungered for just what -this little, wild, sweet thing in his arms represented. Love, simple, -primitive love, music, understanding! And then Norval thought of -Anderson Law! Thought of him, longed for him at that moment as a blind -man might long for guiding, not to the right path, but on it. - -"You may kiss me now!" This in a whisper. - -The quick surrender startled Norval. He bent his head, still thinking -of Law. - -"My woman," he said to that uplifted face, "when I have the right, that -somehow I forfeited, I will kiss you." - -"But you said we were not to think; when you think, you remember." - -"Yes, Donelle, we remember and we look ahead with faith." - -Gently Norval let her free. He smiled at her, and the look in his eyes -made her stand very straight, but she smiled back. - -"I am so happy," she said simply. "And I thought I was never to be -happy again." - -"And I--why, Donelle, you've taught me what happiness means. And you -will keep your promise about coming to the wood-cabin?" - -"Yes, Mr. Richard Alton." Donelle made a courtesy. - -"And you'll bring the fiddle?" - -"Of course." - -"And Donelle, before you, dear child, I beg the pardon and forgiveness -of Tom Gavot." - -"I wish he could know that you are what you are," Donelle's eyes -saddened. - -"He shall, child. That, I swear. Next to Mam'selle," here, almost -unconsciously Norval raised his cap, "next to Mam'selle, Tom Gavot shall -know. Come, little girl, here's home!" - -And together they went up to Jo's house. It was marvellous how they -managed the great thing that had happened. Never outwardly did it -overcome them. - -The winter grew still and hard, the people shrank into their houses. -There were trodden paths, like spokes of a wheel, leading from most of -the houses to the hub, which was Dan's Place; there were more or less -broken paths reaching to the river, where, under the ice, fish were -obtainable. - -Tom Gavot just at that time was called to duty and left his father with -money enough to keep him silent; and food and fuel enough to keep him -safe. - -Jo, with a growing content and happiness, cooked for her boarder, -revelled in his society during the long evenings, and was perfectly -oblivious of the stupendous thing that was going on under her very eyes. - -Norval sent for books, many of them. Books of travel; Jo grew -breathless over them. - -"I can sit in this rocker," she often said to Marcel Longville, "shut my -eyes, and there I am in those far places. I see palm groves and I hear -the swishing of the sea. Mercy! Marcel, just fancy a body of water as -long as the St. Lawrence and as wide as it is long!" - -"I can't," said Marcel. "And I wouldn't want to. Water isn't what I -take to most. But I do like the palm countries, Mam'selle. They are, -generally speaking, warm. Sometimes I feel as if I never would be warm -again as long as I live." - -While Norval read aloud to Jo and Donelle, he would often lift his eyes -to find Donelle looking at him. Over the gulf of silence that separated -them they smiled and trusted. - -Norval wrote to his lawyer, instructed him to take legal steps at once, -upon whatever ground he could, legitimately, select. "Leave my wife and -me free," he said; "with as decent characters as our stupid laws permit. -I don't see why society should feel more moral if we are sullied." - -But Norval did not write to Katherine. He left that for his lawyers to -do. He did, however, send a pretty fair statement of the case of -himself and his wife to Anderson Law who, at that time, was basking -under Egypt's calm skies, wandering in deserts, forgetting, and pulling -himself together. - -And according to her promise Donelle went often to the cabin in the -woods. Because it was winter and Point of Pines in a subnormal state, -no one knew of the secret visits. Not even the joyous notes of the -violin attracted attention. Norval painted as he never had in his life -before. His genius burned bright. He knew the difference now; it made -him humble and grateful. He painted the winter woods with an inspired -brush. They were asleep, but not dead. His sunlight was alive; his -moonlight, pure magic. He caught the frozen river with its strange, -shifting colours; he dealt appealingly with the lonely, scattered -houses; they seemed, under his hand, to ask for sympathy in their -isolation. - -Guided by Donelle's interpretation, he painted a road full of mystery -and delight. A long road leading to a hilltop. - -"Oh!" Donelle cried when she stood close and beheld the picture. "Now I -see what Tom saw long ago, but you had to teach me. The road is alive, -it is a--a friend! You just would not want to hurt it or make it -ashamed. Oh! how the sunlight lies on it. I believe it moves!" - -Norval lifted his face, his yearning eyes claimed the love he saw in -Donelle's. - -"Sweetheart, trot around and play for me," he would suddenly say, his -lips closing firm, "play and play while I make Tom Gavot's road ready -for him. Child, when I give Tom Gavot this picture, I'll make him -understand many things." - -"And you will give him the Road? He'll be so happy." Donelle was -moving about, her eyes dreamy. - -"I wonder!" breathed Norval. - -"Wonder what?" Donelle paused. - -"About a thousand things, my sweet." - -By and by Norval painted his love; painted it in the splendid picture -that afterward hung in a distant gallery and was known as "Fairer than -morning, lovelier than the daylight." - -In it sat Donelle where the western glow fell upon her. With a rapt -expression in her yellow eyes, her violin poised, the bow ready, she was -looking and smiling at the vision that had caught and held her. - -"I seem to be looking at you," Donelle whispered as, standing beside -him, she gazed at the canvas. "Waiting for you to tell me what to play. -I believe, I believe you are saying to me, 'play our pretty little -French song.' Shall I play it now?" - -"Yes, my beloved, and then," Norval was sternly intent upon his brushes, -"then we'll go for a tramp with Nick. That infernal little scamp is -like an alarm clock. Look, Donelle, he's coming up the path, coming to -tell us the evening meal is ready. Sometimes I wonder if Mam'selle -guesses?" - -After some delay a letter came from Norval's lawyer. - -It said: - - -I think by summer we can bring everything to a satisfactory conclusion. -I can take no definite steps at present because Mrs. Norval's lawyer -writes that she has been quite ill and has gone to the mountains to -recuperate. - - -Norval frowned, he was getting impatient of delay, he wanted to take -Donelle to Egypt in the early summer. He wanted Law to set his seal of -approbation upon her. - -But Donelle saw no reason for perplexity; she existed in so glorious a -state that no disturbing thing ever entered. It was enough for her to -waken in the morning and to know that her love was in Jo's upper -chamber, safe and near. It was joy for her to look at Jo herself and -think that the world could no longer hurt her. How could it, with the -big love holding them all? - -When Norval touched her, Donelle felt the thrill of trust and -understanding. She never doubted now and often she would laugh as she -remembered her vow by the cross and thought of St. -Michael's-on-the-Rocks. - -"Oh! but it is the magic that has caught me!" she whispered to herself, -hugging her slim body and wishing, with happy tears, that all the world, -her little world, could know. - -She wanted Jo to know, and Tom Gavot! She couldn't bear to have Tom -nursing a hate while he was away making his roads. She wanted everyone -in Point of Pines to know, even old Pierre. - -She wished, almost pathetically, that Mrs. Lindsay and Professor Revelle -could know. - -"For they made me just a little more like my dear love," She said to -herself. "They brightened me and gave me the music. My dear loves me -to be pretty and he loves my music." - -But it was not all so easy for Norval. There were times when, alone -with Donelle in the wood-cabin, the crude side of love made its -tremendous claim. - -How desirable Donelle was when, casting her violin aside, she flung -herself in a chair by the hearth and said: - -"Come, put the paints away and wipe the brushes carefully. Come tell me -a story and then, dear man, I'll stir you some maple and put in a lot of -nuts. Oh! but I will make it good." - -Norval, at such commands, felt his strength departing. - -"There's one story I'd like to tell you, little woman," he once flung -back to her desperately. - -"And that is what?" - -"A story of a man and woman." - -"Go on, go on," Donelle urged. "That will be the best of all." - -"You bet it will!" Then Norval tossed his brushes aside. - -"I'm coming over to take you in my arms and kiss you, sweet!" he warned, -but did not move. - -"Well, why don't you? And then we can tell Mamsey." - -Norval frowned. - -"Shall I come to you, dear man?" - -Oh! how she lured and tempted from her safe, innocent love. "I trust -you now. I beg your pardon because I once did not. I will come half -the way." - -"My sweet, when I take you in my arms to tell you the story I mean to -tell you, I will come all the way! Now stir the syrup, you hard little -bargainer. Throw in an extra handful of nuts for the crimes you commit -but know not of." - -"And now you are laughing!" cried Donelle. - -"Far from it, I'm thinking of swearing." - -"At what?" Donelle was cracking the nuts. - -"At the absolute stupidity of----Good Lord, child"--Norval sprang toward -her--"your skirt was on fire! He crushed the sparks and held her for a -moment. - -"If anything happened to you," he muttered. - -"What would you do?" Donelle trembled a little in his arms. - -"I'd go--don't look at me that way, Donelle--I'd go to St. -Michael's-on-the-Rocks." - - - - - *CHAPTER XVII* - - *THE BLIGHTING TRUTH* - - -Then spring came softly, fragrantly up the hill from the river. Almost -every day a new little flower showed its head. Tom Gavot came back -grim, tired, and eager. He found his cabin swept and shining, a fire -upon the hearth, and a bunch of timid snow blossoms in a cracked mug on -the table--that made him laugh. But at the sight of them Tom's -weariness vanished and he sat down by his own fireside with a sigh of -complete content. - -Jo sang at her work that spring, actually sang "A la Claire Fontaine." -She sang it boldly, without reservations, and Nick forgot his years and -a growing dimness of the eyes. He smelled around among the delectable -new things in the woods, found the scent for which he was searching, and -trotted off gaily, feeling young and dapper once again. Molly, the -sturdy horse, felt her oats; she almost ran away once, tossing Jo from -the shaft into the muddy road. - -But Jo only laughed aloud. It was all so absurd and natural. - -"The little red cow," Jo said to Donelle that spring, "is old, old. I -really do not know that it's wise to keep her longer. She eats her head -off." - -"But you are going to keep her, Mamsey, aren't you? You just couldn't -send her away? Think of all her pretty calves, and she has been so -faithful." - -Suddenly Mam'selle recalled the night before Donelle came: when she and -Nick had bided with the little red cow. - -"Of course," she blurted out, "I am going to keep her. I was only -supposing." - -"Oh! Mamsey, you are such fun, and you never hide any more. You're -really getting to be handsome. Do you know Mr. Alton, Mr. Richard -Alton, says he'd like to paint you as 'The Woman With the Hoe.' He says -you'd show the man--I don't know who he means--what a hoe can do for the -right sort." - -"Well, Mr. Richard Alton isn't going to mess me up in his paints. It's -an awful waste of time for a full-grown man to make pictures all day. I -wonder when he's going home?" - -"I wonder?" whispered Donelle. - -"We'll never have another boarder like him, child." - -"Oh! never, Mamsey." - -"I wish he'd stay through the summer. I'd like to fling him in the -teeth of Marcel's boarders." - -"Oh! Mamsey." - -"The Captain says he's all ready for folks now; he's opened sooner -because Father Mantelle prophesies an early summer." - -Then one night, after everyone was in bed, the _River Queen_ sneaked up -to the wharf--there is no other word for her action--and a lone figure, -with several bags and a trunk, was deposited. - -Jean Duval, who had swung out the lantern from the pole, took charge. - -"I'll just take you up to Captain Longville's," he said. "The Captain -can manage." - -The following morning Donelle found, upon going to the living room, that -Alton had departed at daybreak. - -"He wanted to see the sunrise on the river," Jo explained; "he took -lunch enough to feed a dozen; fried chicken and doughnuts and pickles. -He's the biggest pickle eater I ever saw," Jo laughed. Then added: -"Donelle, I'm going to the village to-day with my linens. The man in -the shop over there has offered a tidy sum for them. I don't think I -can get back to-night. Molly acts like a colt, but her staying powers -are nothing to boast of. You better go to Marcel----" - -"But I hate to, Mamsey." - -"Child, I'd rest easier----" - -"Then I'll go, Mamsey. I'd even go to that dirty old Pierre's or to the -Kelly's if you would rest easier, Mamsey. Isn't life just like a book?" - -"It is!" murmured Jo with conviction. "It certainly is wonderfully like -a book." - -After Jo had gone and Donelle had put the little house in order she -closed the door and windows and whistled to Nick. - -"Come on, you old dear," she said, "and how thankful I am you can't -talk, Nick. You can look and thump your tail all you want to; no one -understands that. Nick, when _he_ gets back, he'll be tired. We'll be -there to meet him. Come on, Nick!" - -The sun was warm and bright, it filtered through the trees and reached -the brave spring flowers showing in the moss and the rich, black earth. - -"Don't step on the flowers, Nick. Where are your manners?" Donelle -gave a laugh and Nick made wide circles. And so they came to the -wood-cabin and went inside. Donelle left the door open for she meant to -make a rousing fire, and the day was too fine to be shut out. Nick -pattered around the room for a few moments and then curled up in the -window seat. - -"There, now," said Donelle at last, "I think everything is right and -cosey, I can finish that book." - -So she took the story she and Norval had been reading and, buried in the -deep chair, with her back to the door, she was soon absorbed. - -She heard a step outside, smiled, and made believe she was asleep. - -Someone entered, saw her, and quickly drew conclusions; bitter, cruel -conclusions, but conclusions that drove an almost defeated sense of duty -to the fore. - -"Good morning. Is this Mr. Norval's--" there was a pause--"studio?" - -Donelle sprang up as if she had been shot. A thin, desperately -sick-looking woman in rich velvet and furs confronted her. The -incongruous garments, the strangely haunting name, made Donelle stare. - -"Is this Mr. Norval's--studio? I asked." The thin, sharp voice seemed -to awaken Donelle at last. - -"No," she replied, "this cabin is where Mr. Richard Alton paints his -pictures." - -"Indeed! He's changed his name, I see. I--" and now the stranger came -in and closed the door after her, closed it with an air of -proprietorship--"I am Mrs. James Norval," she said, sitting down. "And -you, I suppose, are--let me see if I can recall your name, it is rather -an odd one. Now I have it, Donelle Morey. That's right, isn't it?" - -"Yes." Donelle stood staring. She was not quite sure that she was -awake, but--yes, there was Nick snoring on the window seat and the -lovely river picture was on the easel. Besides, like a stab, the name -she had just heard became vividly familiar, it belonged to the Walled -House. - -"Yes, I'm Donelle Morey," she managed to say faintly. - -"I know all about you. Mrs. Lindsay was my friend. I thought Mr. Law -was going to look after you. Has he been up here, Mr. Anderson Law?" - -Katherine Norval was glancing about the room, her keen eyes taking in -the pictures. How splendid they were! - -"No, Mr. Law has never been here." - -Donelle was groping, groping among other familiar names in this suddenly -quickened moment. - -"I suppose he sent Mr. Norval?" - -A righteous anger seized upon Katherine Norval; she felt she understood. -Anderson Law had urged her husband to act for him. Norval had come, -disguised, and had taken his own method of solving matters. He was -making "cause" for his divorce undoubtedly, while at the same time he -was deluding an innocent and trusting girl. - -A stern sense of duty arose in her. "I will save the girl as far as I -can," she thought, "but what a dastardly thing!" - -"My dear," she said, "I do wish you would sit down. You make me feel -quite uncomfortable." Katherine meant to disregard, before Norval's -victim, what she really believed. - -Donelle groped toward a chair and sat down. - -"I quite understand your surprise," said Katherine. "You have known my -husband as--as Richard Alton. You see, Mr. Law was going abroad; he was -to have carried out Mrs. Lindsay's wishes for you, but he sent my -husband instead. I suppose Mr. Norval wanted to know you well before he -disclosed his errand." - -Donelle was experiencing the same sensation she had felt when Pierre -Gavot, upon the lonely road, had spoken the terrible word years and -years before! - -"I see I have surprised you, child?" - -Katherine Norval was growing restive under the look in the wide, glowing -eyes fixed upon her. "It is always a bit of a shock to find that -someone has--played with you. But I'm sure my husband meant no harm, at -first; and then he would not know how to get out of his scrape. That -would be like him, too." A laugh followed the words, a hard, thin, but -sweet laugh. - -Still Donelle sat looking straight before her and keeping that awful -silence which was becoming irritating. - -"Perhaps you do not believe me," Katherine said rather desperately and -with a distinct sense of the absurdity of her position. "See here!" - -Taking a locket from her bosom she opened it and held it before -Donelle's staring eyes. - -"These are my husband and baby!" - -The picture of Norval was perfect; the child, young and lovely, seemed -to be smiling trustfully at him. - -"It's a pretty baby," Donelle said, and her voice seemed to come from a -long distance. Then she got up quickly. - -"Where are you going?" asked Katherine Norval. - -"I--I don't---- Oh! yes, I'm going to Tom Gavot's." - -"Don't you think you better wait here with me until--until Mr. Norval -returns? He will speak openly to you then and explain everything." - -"No, oh, no, I couldn't!" - -A great fear rose in Donelle's eyes. - -"My dear, I am very sorry for you!" And Katherine spoke the truth. She -was sorry, deeply so, but she was more shocked and indignant than she -had ever been in her life before. It was to Norval's credit that she -did not believe the worst of him. She concluded that stupidity, rather -than viciousness, had led him on to deceive this simple girl without -realizing what the actual result would be. - -"And so you will not wait with me?" She watched Donelle cross the room. -"I am so sorry, child. I wish now that I had come before." - -"Good-bye!" Donelle gave her a long, sad look. Then she whistled to -Nick and went out, closing the cabin door behind her as one does who -leaves a chamber of death. - -She walked along slowly, feeling nothing keenly, but noticing with a -queer sort of concentration the flickering shadows; there were clouds -coming up, it was growing darker. She was glad that she had closed the -little house before leaving. If there were a storm all would be safe. -Presently she came to Tom Gavot's hut and went in, thankful that it was -empty, though she knew Tom would soon be coming. - -She made a fire, brushed the hearth, and sat down upon the floor, trying -hard to think--think! But she could not get very far. Round and round -the one fact her thoughts whirled. The man she loved, the man she had -trusted, had wronged her in the deadliest way. He had killed something -in her, something that had made her happy and good. She did not want to -remember anything now; she wanted to put herself beyond the reach of the -look Norval had once given her, and of his later words--words which had -made her trust him. Donelle grasped at the thought of St. Michael's -with a yearning that hurt her. If little Sister Mary were there, she -would understand. Donelle was sure the lost look in Sister Mary's eyes -would make her understand. But St. Michael's was a long way off, and -Donelle meant to place herself out of reach of more hurt before Norval -could see her. Pride, love, shame, and then--desperation swept over the -girl. Everything had failed her, everything, and all because her father -had left her mother! That was why people dared to--to play with her. - -And just then Tom Gavot came in, shaking the wet of a sudden shower from -his fuzzy coat. - -"Well!" he cried, looking at Donelle with startled eyes; "what's the -matter?" - -"Tom, I wonder if you would do--something for me? It's a big thing, and -you'd just have to trust me more than any man ever trusted a girl -before." A feverish colour flamed in Donelle's cheeks. - -The light flickered in Gavot's eyes, his lips twitched as he looked at -her. - -"I guess you know there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, Donelle," -he said, coming close and standing over her protectingly. - -"It--it isn't fair to you, Tom, but I'll live my whole life making it up -to you. And you know I can keep my word." - -"What is it, Donelle?" - -"Tom, I want you to--to marry me. Marry me, now, this very afternoon!" - -"My God!" murmured Tom and sat down, leaning forward over his clasped -hands. - -"It's this way," Donelle went on slowly, as if afraid she might not make -herself clear and yet fearing more that she might wrong another in her -determination to reach safety. "It is Mr. Richard Alton. He--he isn't -Mr. Alton at all, he's Mr. Norval. Mrs. Lindsay used to talk about him, -and he came here to--to get to know me without my knowing him. And -then--something happened!" - -"What?" The word issued from Tom's lips like a snarl. - -"We loved each other very much, Tom. We couldn't help it, but you see I -am the kind of girl that makes it seem as if it did not matter very -much, I guess. I am sure he didn't mean to hurt me; it just happened, -and neither of us could help it, Tom." - -"God! I'll kill him." - -"Oh! no, Tom, you will not, you shall not hurt him. You will just help -me, and then he'll think, I--I--did not care very much, that I was -playing, just as he was. I want him to think that, more than anything -else, for then everything will be easy. He must not think I care!" - -"Did he tell you that he would marry you?" asked Tom with a terrible -understanding in his eyes. - -"Well, not exactly," Donelle tried to be very just, very true, "it was -the big love, you know, and I just thought of being always with him." - -"Why have you stopped thinking so?" - -"Well, Tom, I will tell you. I was up in his cabin, waiting for him -this morning, and his wife came. I know about her, too. When I heard -her name I knew everything. And she told me many things and she showed -me their baby's picture. It is such a pretty baby--oh! Tom." - -The misery on Donelle's face roused in Gavot a cruel hate. - -"Blast his soul!" he cried, then took Donelle's face in his cold hands -and looked deep into her eyes. His soul revolted at the question he was -about to put, it was like giving poison to a child: "Donelle, tell me -before God, has he done to you what--what your father did to Mam'selle -Jo?" - -For an instant Donelle repeated the words in her inner consciousness -until the meaning was quite plain. Her lovely eyes never faltered, but -suddenly a new knowledge rose in them. - -"No," she whispered, "no, Tom, not that. It was only--the love." - -"Thank God, then, I've got you in time." - -"Yes, in time, Tom. That's what I meant. He would never hurt me that -way, Tom--never! But I do not want him to know that he could hurt me at -all! Don't you see, Tom, if he thought that I was caring for you all -the time and just playing with him, it----" - -The quivering face writhed in Tom's hands. - -"Oh! Tom, I know it is wicked for me to ask you to do this for me, but -all my life long I will repay you!" - -The man looked down at the girl, who was pleading with him to take that -for which his soul hungered--at any price! Full well he knew that she -would keep her bargain, poor little hurt thing. And he could slave and -work for her--he could shield her from harm and make her safer than she -could be in any other way. The devil tempted him, and for the moment, -claimed him. - -"Yes, by God!" he cried. "I will take you to Father Mantelle's now! -We'll make our future beyond the reach of that infernal scoundrel, -Norval, or whatever his name is!" - -"Tom, never any more must we talk about him. We must just begin from -now--you and I. All these years Mamsey has let people think well--of my -father. I think I am a little like Mamsey, Tom, and from now on, it is -just you and I. You must promise or I could not marry you." - -"Come on, Donelle! See, it is raining, you must wear this heavy coat, -it will quite cover you. Come!" - -Tom had appropriated her, taken command. His face was almost terrible -in its set purpose. - -She followed him mutely, obediently, as any little hill woman might have -done. Her face was ghastly, but she did not tremble. Side by side they -made their way to Father Mantelle's; the rain poured upon them, their -steps sloughed in the soft earth, and behind them trudged Nick, looking -old and forsaken! - -Father Mantelle did his duty--as he saw it. He made sure that Tom fully -understood what he was undertaking; he made sure that Donelle was wiser -than he had believed her. He winced as she confessed that her love for -Mam'selle Morey had, after full comprehension of their relation, brought -her back and kept her silent. She had known about herself all along. - -"And that's why," Tom put in, "that we insist upon silence now. I'm -going to run things hereafter." - -And so Father Mantelle married them and put the blessing of the Church -upon them. - -It was quite dark when they left the priest's house; dark and still -storming in the quiet, persistent way that spring knows. - -"Was Mam'selle going to leave you in the house with--with that man -to-night?" Tom asked suddenly. - -"No--I was going to Marcel's. But, Tom, I must go and feed the -animals." Almost Donelle had forgotten the helpless creatures. She was -terribly afraid that she might encounter the man she most dreaded in the -world, for he was quite one of the family and often made his own meal -when Jo and Donelle were away. But if he had gone to the wood-cabin -first, she argued, he would not come to the little white house. Of that -she felt sure! - -So she and Tom fed the animals and made them safe for the night. In -doing the homely, familiar tasks Donelle felt a certain peace, but she -had not yet recovered from her terrible shock; she was spiritually numb. - -"Come, now!" Tom said at last. "We must get back to the hut, you're wet -to the skin and I haven't eaten since morning." - -"Tom!" Donelle was aghast; and then she remembered that she, too, had -fasted since breakfast. - -So, silently, stolidly they went down the Right of Way to the river-hut. -The fire was still burning on the hearth, the room was hot and still. - -"Come in, Nick!" called Tom to the dog who had kept close to them; "come -in!" - -Wet and bedraggled Nick slouched in and, eyeing Donelle as if she were a -stranger, passed to the far side of the room and lay down, his head upon -his paws, his eyes alert. - -Tom brought out food and they all ate, Nick condescending to come -nearer. - -The heat, the weariness and suffering of the day, began to tell upon -Donelle and presently a terror seized her--a terror she had never known -in her life before. She looked at Tom with wide eyes, her face became -livid. - -The rain outside beat against the window and pattered on the roof. - -The devil that had tempted Tom earlier was taking control of the -situation. His face was tense, his eyes burning. He was thinking, -thinking, and his thoughts scorched. He was thinking of women, women, -his mother, Mam'selle Morey--even that unknown woman, the wife of the -man who had all but ruined Donelle. Then he thought of Donelle herself, -but he dared not look at the pale little thing by the fire. She was -his! She had done him a great injustice, it was only fair that he -should hold her to her bargain. She had only thought of herself, how to -save herself, she ought to pay for that. - -Pay--pay--pay! The word was hateful and ugly. Again Tom thought of his -mother, and her face rose sharply before him. - -Then the finest thing that Tom ever did in his life he did at that -moment. - -In the still, hot room, with eyes at last resting upon Donelle's bowed -head, he vowed to his God that _she_ should not pay, not if it cost him -all that life held dear! If the time ever came when she could give--Tom -breathed hard. Then he spoke. - -"Donelle," his voice was deep and solemn, "you're tired, done almost to -death, but you're safe--safer than you know. I want you to go to that -bed"--Gavot pointed to his cot in the far corner by the side of which -Nick lay curled--"and you are to sleep. I'm going to pile the fire high, -and----" - -"Tom, let me go to Marcel's just for to-night, please, Tom!" - -The agony in Donelle's eyes made Gavot shudder. - -"I guess I'd rather have my wife stay here," he said. Then added, "You -must do what I say, Donelle. I've done my part, you've got to do -yours." - -"I will, Tom. I will." - -Gropingly she walked across the room, while Tom piled wood on the fire. -In the dark shadows she waited. Then Tom rose up, took his heavy coat, -his fur cap, and went toward the door. - -"Good-night," he said. It was like a groan. "Good-night, and you're -safe, Donelle, so help me God! After I am gone, draw the bar across the -door." - -Then Donelle was alone with Nick. She stood and looked blankly after -Tom. Then she tiptoed across the room, took the bar in her hand, -paused, lifted it, and--let it fall! Proudly she went back, her eyes -were aflame, her heart beat until it hurt. She lay down upon the wide -cot, drew over her the heavy blankets Mam'selle had donated for Tom's -comfort, and fear left her. - -"Nick," she whispered, "Nick, come here!" - -The dog came close, licked the hand reaching out to him in the darkness, -then lay down close to the bed. - -For an hour Donelle listened, waited, then she began to suffer. But she -made no moan and always no matter how she thrashed the matter over, she -saw St. Michael's-on-the-Rocks. It seemed like home after a hard -journey; her home, the place where she belonged. The only place to -which she had a right to go. - - - - - *CHAPTER XVIII* - - *TOM GAVOT SETTLES THE MATTER* - - -The rain had detained Norval. He had watched the sunrise on the river -and he had caught as much of it as his soul could take in. He had eaten -a hasty lunch at noon and then became absorbed by the beauty of the gray -mists that were rising, where, but a little time before, the glory had -controlled everything. He painted until mid-afternoon, then a raindrop -caused him to glance up. - -"Hello!" he said, and scrambled for his belongings. In a few minutes he -was on his way back, but to protect his sketches, he had to pause every -now and then, when the downpour was heaviest. - -He had meant to go right to Jo's and get dry clothing, but by skirting -the road he could reach the cabin _en route_, leave his paints and -canvases, and the rest did not matter. It was after five when he came -in sight of his cabin. - -"By all that's holy," he said, and laughed, "that little rascal is -there, she's made a fire. Of course this is all wrong, she mustn't---- -But to think she has no fear!" Somehow this elated Norval considerably. -He hastened on, meaning to get Donelle and start out at once for -Mam'selle's, as it was growing very dark. - -He opened the door with an amused smile on his face, then he fell back. - -"My God! Katherine," he said, "what does this mean?" - -"I think, Jim, you better come in and close the door. I cannot go out -in this rain and we can have our talk here." Katherine spoke as if her -presence there was the most natural thing in the world; her voice was -hard and even. She knew her duty; she had even acknowledged, during the -hours she had sat alone after Donelle went, that part of the blame for -all this confusion rested upon her. She had fallen short in her -estimate of her original duty to Norval. She had deserted him, not -without some cause to be sure, but no matter what his selfishness and -indifference had been in the past they had not made it right for a wife -to forsake the sacred tie that bound her. - -After Donelle had left the hut Katherine went over and over the matter -from the day when with her "Awakened Soul" in her hands she had demanded -a freedom that it was in no man's power to bestow. It had taken her a -long time to learn her lesson, but once having learned it, having come -back, her path of duty was, to her, quite plain. She gave not a -moment's thought to the shock her sudden appearance would give Norval; -she was rallying from the effects of the shock that Donelle had given -her. She must make sure, of course, but the more she considered, the -more confident she became that no real harm had been done. She had come -in time. - -Self-centred, incapable of wide visions, Katherine Norval had leaped -over non-essentials and had arrived at safe conclusions. But her -husband was unnerving her; he made her feel as that white slip of a girl -had and she resented it. - -Norval was deliberately taking off his wet coat. Having done this he put -on an old velvet jacket, came to the fire, leaned his arm on the -mantel-shelf and looked down upon his wife. That she was still his wife -he had to confess, though she seemed the merest stranger. - -"I don't suppose there is a chance that I am dreaming?" he said grimly -in an effort to relieve a situation that was becoming hideously awkward. -"You don't happen to be an optical illusion, do you?" - -"I'm quite myself, Jim. Is it such an unusual thing for a wife to come -and see her husband, especially when she has much--much business to -discuss? And your work----" Katherine was struggling with the growing -impression that she was bungling something, though absurdly enough she -did not quite know what. "You've worked to some purpose, Jim." - -Norval ignored her reference to his work. - -"It's a bit queer to have my especial kind of wife here," he said. "You -see, Katherine, I had every reason to believe that you desired to -eliminate me; I'd taken every step possible to assist you. I simply -cannot account for you, that's all." - -Norval noted her pallor and thinness, then he remembered that she had -been ill. - -"Jim," she said suddenly, her sharp little chin raised, her cold, clear -eyes searching his, "before we go any further I must ask you a question: -This girl, this Donelle Morey, what is she to you? What are you to -her?" - -"What right have you to ask that?" Norval grew rigid. "How did you -manage to get here? How did you know I was here, anyway, Katherine?" - -"You sent a letter once with the postmark on it. Then I remembered! For -awhile, I did not care. Then things became different. Jim, I must know, -I have a right to know, has this girl any claim upon you? I could make -nothing of her, I----" - -"Good God! Have you seen her?" Norval sprang a step forward. "Have -you talked to her?" - -"Why do you glare at me so, Jim? Of course I have seen her, talked to -her. I came last night. I am staying at a house down the road. I heard -that a painter by the name of Alton lived with Mam'selle Jo Morey, made -pictures in a cabin in the woods; I put things together. I went to -Mam'selle Morey's, found the house empty. I came here and found -the--the young girl quite at home, apparently waiting for you." - -The cold voice was calm and deadly distinct, the eyes were -indignant--but just. - -"And then you talked!" There was a sneer in Norval's voice. "I suppose -you felt it your duty to talk? What did you talk about, Katherine?" - -Norval was in a dangerous mood, but his wife had never been afraid of -him and she knew no fear now. Besides, she had the whip hand. He knew -it; she knew it! - -"I told her your name, for one thing. I do not question your -conscience, Jim. I leave that to you." - -"Thank you, and what next did you tell her?" - -"I told her the truth. Are you afraid of the truth? Are you afraid of -the truth, Jim? You were flying under false colours, were you not?" - -"Yes." - -"I told her Anderson Law sent you; he did, did he not, Jim?" - -"He asked me to come, yes." - -"And you think you have fulfilled your duty to Anderson Law? You think -he would approve?" - -Norval winced. - -"I ask you again, Jim, has this girl any hold on you?" - -"If you mean the vile thing I fear you mean, no! As God hears me, no!" -Norval spoke in a still fury. "If you mean has she the highest claim a -woman can have on a man, yes. Katherine, it may be best for us to get -this over as soon as possible. If I seem brutal, you'll have to forgive -me. I'm pretty far gone in my capacity of self-control. I dare say -you've spoken nothing but the truth to the girl you found here. I make -no excuse for her or myself. Think what you please, patch it up anyway -you can. Whatever wrong has been committed is mine, not hers. She never -knew of your existence until you informed her. She is as simple as a -child, as wonderful as a woman can be before the world has spoiled her. -I love her and she loves me. I meant to tell her everything when I was -free; she could not understand before. My only desire is to--to marry -her and know the first pure joy of my life. But I suppose your plain, -damnable truth has killed her. If it has, I swear----" - -"It has not killed her, Jim." And there was a glint in Katherine's -steely eyes. "She said she was going to a Tom Gavot, whoever he may be. -And, Jim, doesn't it sound a bit, well, peculiar, for you to speak as -you have just spoken to--to your wife? For, after all, I still am your -wife." - -"But that tie will soon be broken. Why did you come here; why, in -heaven's name?" - -An impotent fear held Norval. Katherine was there, and Donelle had gone -to Tom Gavot! That was about all he could take in. Suddenly Katherine -Norval's face softened, her head dropped, she looked terribly ill and -haggard. - -"Please, Jim," she pleaded, "sit down, I must tell you something I came -here to tell you, and I'm not very strong." - -Norval sat down, still repeating in his clogged thoughts: - -"Donelle has gone to Tom Gavot." - -"I suppose," Katherine's words ran along, at times sinking into Norval's -confused brain, "I suppose I had to pass through a certain phase of -life, as many do. I had been so sheltered, so, well suppressed by my -training and experience. Then, when I believed I could write, I felt I -could not resist the thing that rose up in me. I almost hated you -because you seemed to stand between me and my--my rights. Then for a -time I was bewildered by my success, and when he, the man I told you -about, came into my life, I was driven astray! He seemed to see only -me, my life. He subjugated everything to my wishes. He was getting for -me what I did not know how to get for myself; recognition and--and a -great deal of money. Jim, I, who had never earned a penny! It was -wonderful! Then, I was taken ill and he wanted me to get my divorce and -marry him at once. I tried to, I really felt it was right, I wanted to, -but as soon as I saw him in the light of a husband, Jim, a dreadful -revulsion came. I kept seeing you, in him. I wonder if you can -understand? When he came to my room I saw you and when I saw him I was -afraid. It seemed so fearfully wrong. - -"I was sent away into the hills where it was cold. I had had pneumonia -and the doctors thought I should have the mountain treatment. I would -not let him come, Jim. I went alone, and I was so lonely; so -miserable----" Katherine was weeping desolately and sopping the tears -up with her delicate handkerchief. - -"Often I longed to die and be put under the snow, where it would be -warmer and I could forget. And then I began to think of you, Jim, as I -never had before. I saw you always patient with my moods, always kind. -I saw you so humble about your great talent, trying so hard to hide it -and live down to me! Yes, Jim, down to me. And then I hated myself and -the silly ideas I had had. I was afraid to die until I told you. I was -afraid to go to our--our baby, until you understood. And so I came -back, Jim, and I found that girl--here. Oh! Jim, I may have only a -little while to stay, please go with me for the rest of the way!" - -Katherine stretched out her thin hands. - -But Norval did not move. He stood looking at the woman before him with -compassionate eyes, but his soul saw Donelle. Alone in the midst of all -this trouble stood Donelle who had done no wrong, who had come into her -great love with trust and purity. Must she be the sacrifice? She, for -whom he hungered and thirsted with the best that was in him? - -And yet, if he defended Donelle's claim, could he hope to make -Katherine, make any one, believe that he was not seeking his own ends -first, Donelle's afterward? The easiest thing to do may often be the -bravest, and after a moment Norval made his choice. - -"Katherine," he said, "this is heart-breaking, incomprehensible. Things -have gone too far for us to retrace our steps as simply as you think. -You must try to believe that I do not want to hurt you, but I fear I -must. You and I were never fitted for each other, though I did not -realize it until you took your stand. Your decision knocked life all -out of gear for me and I wandered about like a lost soul. I came here to -see this young girl for Andy Law's sake and with no other intention than -doing him a good turn and learning all I could. I grew to love Donelle -Morey and learned to know what love was for the first time in my life. -Oh! I know what you, what our world would say; she's not your kind, -their kind. But before God, she's my kind! I cannot set her aside. I -did not oppose your wishes, Katherine, even before I saw this girl. I -felt I had no right to stand in your way. Have you a right to stand in -mine, now? Is there no justice in my case? Katherine, you think only of -yourself. You are a selfish woman!" - -Dumbly Katherine looked at Norval. She was capable of drawing only one -conclusion--he was a man! He felt no duty, no sacred relationship. She -was ill, desperate; he wanted to be free and seek love where youth, -health, and fascination were. She felt she understood and she must save -him from himself. - -"Jim, think of our child!" She thought she was putting herself aside, -she resented the thing Norval had called her. - -"I do think of him, Katherine. I have never forgotten him. I was glad -he was dead when, when you went away." - -"But, Jim, has the past no hold upon you? No claims?" - -"Yes, and because it has, I dare not make any further mistakes. Listen, -Katherine, I am going to tell this--this young girl, Donelle, the whole -ugly, confused thing. I'm going to lay my soul, yours, too, if I can, -open before her and she shall decide. She, young as she is, has a -spirit that can face this tremendous situation, and she has a mighty -love that can save us all. May I take you to your boarding-place, -Katherine, or will you wait here? I must go to Donelle." - -"Jim, Jim, what are you thinking of? Dare you burden this child with -this hideous decision?" - -"Yes." Norval strode toward the door. - -Katherine wept afresh. "I will wait here. I'm tired and I cannot -endure the long walk in this storm." - -And then Norval was gone out into the night, closing the door behind him -with a sound so final that the woman by the hearth moaned. - -Crashing through the thicket Norval went to Gavot's cabin only to find -it empty. But the fire burned freshly upon the hearth. - -"She's been here and made his place ready for him," thought Norval, "and -then she went back home." - -So up the Right of Way Norval plodded to Mam'selle's house. He went -into the living room and lighted the lamp. There on the table lay one -of Jo's queer notes of instruction. - -"I can't get back to-night. There's chicken and stuff in the pantry. -Donelle's staying with Marcel Longville." - -Norval smiled at the note and clutched it close. How trustingly it had -been left. And Donelle was safe with the Longville's. There was a -gleam of comfort in the blackness. - -Norval walked to the kitchen and took two glasses of milk. He then went -upstairs, changed his wet clothes, came down, extinguished the light -and, with cap drawn over his face, hands plunged in his heavy coat -pockets, set forth in the drizzle on the three-mile walk to Longville's. -Before he reached the house he paused. What had his wife told them? -Did he dare present himself? He stood still on the road to consider. -Just then Marcel came to the door, candle in hand, and spoke to the -Captain, who was behind her in the room. - -"It's queer that that Mrs. Norval don't come back, Captain. I wonder if -she's lost. I wonder if we oughtn't to set out and look her up?" - -"Like as not she's found Mam'selle and Donelle more to her taste. You -told her how to reach them, didn't you? She's safe enough. Her kind -hates water as a cat does, she's under shelter. Mam'selle will look -after her, try to keep her like as not, now that she's out for -business." - -"It's early for the boarding season, anyway," murmured Marcel, going -within, "too early by far." - -"I must go back to Gavot's!" thought Norval, and turned wearily to -retrace his way over the wet, slimy road. - -It was nearly nine when he reached Tom's place and he was just in time -to see Gavot come out of the house with bowed head and stumbling step. -He went close and spoke before Tom realized that any one was near. - -"Gavot, in heaven's name, have you seen Donelle Morey?" - -Tom reeled back against a tree. - -"You dare come here?" he growled under his breath. "Damn you!" - -"Hold on, Gavot, you're too big a fellow to judge a man unheard. I know -things are black against me; I'm going to try to explain. It's your due -and I can trust your common sense. Can we go inside and have it out?" - -"No, I want none like you to enter my house." - -"Then you shall hear what I have to say here." Norval drew nearer. - -"Not so fast, you!" Tom warned him off. "Answer me a few questions -first, no talk, just plain answers. Then we'll argue about the rest, -I'm thinking. Is your name what you've held it to be, Richard Alton?" - -"No, Gavot----" - -"Are you a married man?" - -"Gavot, in God's name, let me----" - -"Answer me, or I swear I'll try to kill you." - -"Don't be an ass, Gavot." - -"Have you a wife?" - -"Yes, but----" - -"And you made a girl love you, with all this in your soul? Well, she -came to me, curse you, before--before much harm was done. When she -heard what she heard this morning, her eyes were opened and she came -where she rightfully belonged. Donelle came to me! She told me, and we -were married an hour ago. I've always wanted her, she knew that, and -when she knew about you, she came to her senses." - -"You lie!" Norval made a movement toward Gavot, but Tom stayed him. - -"If you touch me," he said threateningly, "I'll do my best to end you. -Go to Father Mantelle, if you doubt my word. But first, look here; look -through the window you spied through once before." - -Like thieves the two men went to the side of the house. Just then, in -the fireplace a large log fell, the sparks lighting up the room inside. -In the glow Norval saw Donelle curled up on the bed, her hand on the -head of faithful Nick. A deep moan escaped him, he turned to Gavot like -a stricken man. - -"By all you hold holy," he whispered, "deal with her as you hope for -God's mercy. She was driven to you when she was beside herself. I -cannot help her, but it lies in your power, Gavot, to keep her out of -hell." - -"I know what to do with my own, you! See to it that you do the same." -Tom glared at Norval. - -Then Norval turned and went back to the wood-cabin. His face had grown -old and stern, his eyes hard. Katherine was awake; she was still -crying. - -"Jim--what--what--is it to be?" - -"I'm going the rest of the way with you, Katherine. And as you value the -future, let us bury everything here. To-morrow, we must take the boat -back to New York." - -Early the next morning Norval, he and Katherine having passed as -comfortable a night as possible in the cabin, went to Mam'selle Jo's and -hastily packed most of his clothing. He sent a boy to Longville's for -Katherine's luggage, giving them no explanations, left a brief note for -Jo, and--drifted from Point of Pines. - -Mam'selle returned from her business trip late in the afternoon. Marcel -stopped her as she passed. - -"I think you'll find company at your house," she said, quite excitedly -for her. "A boarder came here day before yesterday; she walked down to -Point of Pines the next morning. She knows your boarder. The storm must -have kept her. I daresay Donelle made her comfortable." - -"Donelle?" Jo stared. "Wasn't Donelle with you last night, Marcel?" - -"No." - -Jo waited to hear no more. She laid the whip on Molly's surprised back -and bent over the reins. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIX* - - *THE CONFESSION* - - -Jo was not one to take any step hurriedly. Though her heart broke, she -was cautious. Upon entering her quiet house she found a note from Alton. -It merely said that Donelle would explain. Going to the room above, Jo -saw that a hurried but orderly departure had evidently been made. - -"He hasn't messed much," she muttered vaguely, while a great fear rose -in her heart, she knew not why. - -"Well, there's nothing to do but wait for Donelle," she concluded, and -began the waiting. - -She went to the stable and sheds. The animals had evidently been fed -the night before, so Jo milked the cow, did the chores, and whistled -aimlessly for Nick. She was comforted by his absence, he was with -Donelle. But where was Donelle? The sun was setting, what should be -done? - -Jo decided to wait until the sun had gone wholly down before she took -any steps. She was not one to set tongues wagging. - -It was nearing sundown when Marcel Longville, standing by her kitchen -window, saw Donelle coming toward the house. The Captain was at Dan's -Place. Donelle walked slowly, and when she saw Marcel, smiled wanly and -opened the door. - -"Marcel," she began, and her voice was tired and thin, "I want you to do -something for me. I want you to--to tell a lie for me." - -"Why, child, what's the matter?" - -"Marcel, Mamsey thought I was here last night. Will you please tell her -I was?" - -Marcel's hands were in biscuit dough; she leaned forward heavily, and -the soft, light mass rose half-way up her arms. - -"Lord! child, where were you last night? I thought you were keeping my -boarder as well as your own. Mam'selle just stopped here; she looked -queer enough when she found you were not here. There's no use of the -lie, child. She knows." - -For a moment Donelle looked as though nothing mattered, as if the earth -had slipped from beneath her feet. - -From Gavot's window she had seen the _River Queen_ depart with its two -passengers from Point of Pines. Tom had not been visible since -daybreak, the world had drifted away. Alone, in space, Donelle waited, -looking dumbly at Marcel. - -"Where were you, child?" - -"I was at Tom's cabin. I'm married to him. Father Mantelle married us." - -Marcel raised herself, the dough clinging to her hands. She shook it -off, tore it off, went to a bucket of water and soaked it off, then sank -into a chair. - -"I'm fainting," she announced in a businesslike tone, and seemed, for an -instant, to have lost consciousness. - -This brought Donelle to her senses, she sprang to Marcel and put her arm -around the limp form. - -"It's quite true," she faltered, "but of course you could not know. All -my life has happened to me since yesterday morning. I've got used to -it, but I forgot you did not know. Nothing is any use now, nothing need -be hidden. I am going back to Mamsey and tell her -everything--everything." - -Marcel was reviving. She still lay on the young, protecting arm, her -eyes fastened on the white, sad face above her. - -"You better go slow, Donelle, when you tell Mam'selle. You don't want -to stop her heart," she cautioned. - -"No, I do not want to stop her heart. But I'm going to tell her -everything, beginning from the time I came back from the Walled House, -after Pierre Gavot told me--who I was! I can tell her now because it -does not matter; nothing matters since I'm married to Tom Gavot." - -"It will kill her, Donelle! Mam'selle brought you from the place where -she hid you. She's had high hopes for you. It will kill her to know -you're married to Tom. Whatever made this happen?" - -"Why, whatever makes such things happen to any one?" Donelle sighed. -Then: "If you are better, I'm going now to Mamsey." - -"And I'm going with you!" - -Marcel sprang to her feet. - -"Come, I'm ready," she said, wrapping her rough shawl about her head and -shoulders. - -And together they went to Jo, followed by poor Nick. - -They found Jo sitting in the living room, knitting, knitting. Every -nerve was strained, but outwardly she was calm as ever. - -"Well, child," she said as they entered, "you look worn to the death. -You need not talk now unless you want to." She rose and went to -Donelle. - -"I want to, Mamsey. I want to." - -"And you want Marcel to stay?" Jo spoke only to the girl. No one -entered the sacred precincts of her deepest love when Donelle needed -her. - -"Yes, I want her, too, Mamsey, because she is your friend and mine." - -Marcel blinked her tears back and sat down. Jo went back to her chair -and Donelle dropped beside her and quietly told her pitiful story; both -women sat like dead figures while they listened. - -"You see, Mamsey, there was no other way, I had to do something quick. -But," and here she smiled dimly, "there must have been some reason for -what happened. Maybe the love was so big it caught him and would not -let him go. I do not know, but just as you have kept still about my -father after he left you, so I am going to keep still about my man. Tom -knows, you, and now Marcel Longville, know. No one else matters, shall -ever matter!" - -But Jo was rousing herself. Her deep eyes flamed, she forgot Marcel, -she leaned over the girl at her feet. - -"How did you know your father left me?" she whispered. - -"Pierre Gavot told me!" - -"When?" - -Donelle described the scene on the road by the Walled House, but she -withheld the ugly word. - -"And you came back because of that? You believed I was----" - -"I knew you were my mother, and I could not hurt you as my father had. -You had never hurt him. I had to do his part. But now, Mamsey, I am -glad, oh! so glad, for now I understand everything that life meant for -me. I'm safe here with you and Tom and I mean to--pay--pay. You know I -always said I would pay, if I were part of life, and I will!" - -Jo got up unsteadily. She seemed tall and menacing, her breath came -hard and quick. - -"Whose step is that outside?" she asked suddenly. The two had not -noticed, but to Jo's "Come" Father Mantelle entered. He meant to make -sure that all was well; he had seen Mam'selle return and had come as -soon as he could. - -"Father," Jo said solemnly, "take a seat. I am going to confess! Once -you would not give me an opportunity, now I am going to take it." - -Her trembling hand lay upon Donelle's head. The girl did not move. - -"This child is not mine. I swear it before my God. Her father left me -for another woman. Marcel can testify to that. My heart broke within -me, and later, when my poor sister died, I went away. I went to--to -Langley's cabin in the woods. I fought out my trouble there, and then -came back to my years of labour, that you all know of. I never knew, -until long after, the black thoughts that were held against me. I lived -alone--alone." Here Jo rose majestically, threw back her head, and let -her flaming eyes rest upon the two petrified listeners. Her hand was -still touching with a marvellously gentle touch the bent head of -Donelle, who was crouched on the floor at her feet, and was listening, -listening, her breath coming in quick, soft little gasps. - -"And then," the stern voice went on, "Pierre Gavot did me the most -hideous wrong a man can do a woman, Gavot, Pierre Gavot, a man unworthy -of looking at an honest woman, offered to--to marry me, for my money! -He sought to get control of the only thing that I had won from life for -my own protection. But out of his foul lips something was sent to guide -me. He somehow made me see that I might yet have what my soul had -hungered and almost died for--a child! I went to St. Michael's. I meant -to take what some other woman had disinherited. I meant to take a -man-child, because I felt I could not see another woman endure what I -had endured! But God worked a miracle. He drove me aside, He -sent"--and here Jo's eyes fell upon Donelle with a glance of supreme -pity and of worship--"He sent this girl to me, I found her in the woods. -During the weeks of her sickness, which followed her coming to my house, -she revealed--her identity. It was marvellous. I was frightened, but -in my soul I knew God was having His way with me. He had sent me the -child of the man I had loved, of the woman who had betrayed me! - -"I went, when I could, to St. Michael's and got the Sisters' story, and -I found----" Jo paused. Even now she hesitated before delivering her -best beloved to the danger she long had feared. Then she remembered Tom -Gavot and lifted her eyes. - -"This girl's father had been accused of taking the life of his wife. He -was bringing his child to me because he knew I would understand. He -died before he could reach me. But a man, who, before God, I believe -was the guilty one, was after the girl, wanted to get possession of her. -For what reason, who can tell? The Sisters saved her. When I took her, -I tried to save her by giving her my name. I felt that I was less -harmful to her than--than the things the world might say. But I see," -poor Jo's voice quivered, almost broke, "I see I was wrong. How could I -prove my belief in the innocence of Henry Langley, though I could stake -my soul's salvation on my belief that he did not kill his wife?" - -Donelle was slowly rising to her feet. A dazed but brilliant light -flooded her eyes, she reached out to Jo as she used to do in those first -nights of delirium and fever. - -"Mamsey, Mamsey, he did not! It was this way. My father came into the -cabin, he had been hunting. My mother was there. I was there, and--and -the man! I cannot, oh! Mamsey, I cannot remember his name, but I hated -him. I was afraid. He used to say he would carry me off if--if I told! -When my father came into the cabin--I cannot remember it all, for I ran -and hid behind a door. But yes, I can remember this: the man said I -was--his! Then my father ran toward him and he screamed something, and -my mother," Donelle was crouching, looking beyond Mantelle and Marcel, -at what no eyes but hers could see, "and my mother cried out that what -the man said was a lie! And then my father and the man struggled. They -fought and the gun went off--and--and--my mother fell! - -"Mamsey, I--I cannot remember the rest. I was always tired, always -going somewhere, but my father did not do that awful thing!" - -A sudden stillness filled the dim room, a silence that hurt. Then Jo's -tones rang out like a clanging bell: - -"Father, this girl is Tom Gavot's wife?" - -"She is." The priest was as white as death. Marcel was silent. - -"Then no harm can reach her from that man, wherever, whoever, he is?" - -"None." - -"And that boy took my girl believing what the world thinks is the -worst?" Jo's voice suddenly softened, her eyes dimmed. There was no -reply to this. Marcel was crying softly, persistently, her face covered -by her poor, wrinkled hands. The priest's white face shone in the -shadowy room. - -Then Jo laughed and lifted Donelle up. - -"Child, you have seen the worst and the best in man. We still have Tom -Gavot and he will keep all harm from you." Then she turned to Marcel. -"Margot would have been proud of Tom, could she have known," she said. -Marcel groped her way across the room. Her eyes were hidden, her sobs -choked her. - -"Mam'selle," she faltered, "Mam'selle Jo!" - -Then the two women clung together. Father Mantelle watched them. What -he thought no one could know, but a radiance overspread his face. - -"Mam'selle Morey," he said quietly at last, "you have opened my eyes. -God's peace be with you." - -Then, as if leaving a sacred place, he turned and went out into the -early evening. - -Marcel soon followed, but she was not crying when she went. Donelle had -kissed her, Jo had held her hands and smiled into her eyes. Marcel had -received her blessing from them. - -Then, when they were alone, Jo lighted the lamp and piled wood in the -stove. - -"And now we will eat, child," she said. Donelle was still dazed, -trembling. - -"I remember!" was what she kept repeating. "How strange, Mamsey, but I -see it clear and true after all these years." - -"And now, forget it, Donelle. The vision was given to you from God. It -has done its work. We must forget the past." And for years it was -never talked of between them. - -"But, Mamsey----" - -"Not another word, Donelle. We must eat and then talk of Tom." - -It was after eight when, the work indoors and out finished, Jo and -Donelle talked of Tom Gavot. By that time Donelle was quiet and -strangely at peace. - -"All night, Mamsey, while Nick and I were in his cabin," she said, "he -was out in the rain! I crept to the window many times and always he was -there walking about or sitting by a little fire that he made in a dry -spot to warm his poor, wet body. Mamsey, he told me to put the bar -across the door, and I wanted to, but I did not." Donelle's eyes shone. -"Somehow I felt safer with the bar off. And then, when it was morning, -Tom was gone." - -"He will come again!" breathed Jo, her breast heaving. "And what then -will you do with him, child?" - -"I do not know, Mamsey." - -"He has done the greatest thing for you that it is possible for man to -do." - -"Yes, I know, I know. But, Mamsey," the agony of deadly hurt shook -Donelle's voice, "Mamsey, for a little time I want, I must stay with -you. And we must never speak of the other! You kept still when, when my -father----" - -"Yes, yes, Donelle, I understand," Jo clutched the girl to her. "You -shall stay with me for a little time, but I think the day will come when -you will go to Tom Gavot on bended knees." - -"Perhaps, Mamsey, perhaps. I love Tom for his great goodness. I see -him always, so safe, so kind, so splendid, but just now---- Oh! -Mamsey," the girl shuddered, "the love has me! I know I am wrong and -wicked to let it hold me. I know I was selfish and bad to let Tom save -me. You see I had to do something quick; I was so alone. But by and -by, Mamsey, the way will be easier and then I will think only of Tom -Gavot. I promised." - -In the upper chamber were a few articles belonging to Norval. Jo put -them under lock and key the following day, and set the room in its -sweet, waiting orderliness once more. The cabin in the wood too, was -securely closed against prying eyes and hands. A few sketches and -pictures were still there--"The Road" among them. The others had been -hastily gathered together. Books rested on a shelf and table, the -oil-stained coat hung on a peg. Jo longed, with human revolt, to set -fire to the place where she and Langley's child had known Gethsemane, -but her hand was held. - -And still Tom Gavot did not return. No word came from him for a week, -and a great fear rose in Jo's heart. Then came a brief note to Donelle. - - -You know you can trust me. Father Mantelle has written to me about you -and Mam'selle; it's a big thing. And, Donelle, I'm never going to take -anything you don't want to give! I didn't marry you to hurt you. I did -it to help you. It seemed the only way, in the hurry. - -I'm staying here in Quebec for a few months. Nothing can harm you now -and I am thinking of longer and bigger roads, farther away, where I can -make more money and get ahead. It can't harm you, Donelle, to tell you -that, always from the first time I saw you, I loved you better than -anything else. I love you now better than myself, my roads, anything! -And because I love you this way, I'm leaving you with Mam'selle. - - -How they all evaded Norval. It was as if he had never been. Point of -Pines was like that. - -Since Tom had not killed him, he was able to blot him out. - -"Tom is a man, a big one!" murmured Jo. "Donelle, you will be able to -see him by and by." - -"Yes, Mamsey, by and by." - -Then summer came warmly, brightly, over the hills, but with it stalked a -grim, black shadow. A shadow that no one dared speak about aloud, -though they whispered about it at Dan's Place, on the roads, and in the -quiet houses. Father Mantelle felt his old blood rising hot and fierce. -He remembered his France; but he remembered that his France had driven -his Order from its fasthold. He remembered England, with traditional -prejudice. Then he gazed into the depth of the black shadow that would -not depart, and preached "peace, peace," even before his people had -thought of anything else but peace. It was full summer. The States' -people filled Marcel's house, the Point of Pines hamlet throbbed and -waited. Then the shadow stood revealed--War! And from over the sea -England called to her sons. And they no longer paused. They lifted up -their stern young faces and turned from field, river, and woods, turned -back again Home! - -And the women! At first they were stunned; horrified. It could not be! -It could not be! - -Soon, soon, they were to learn the lesson of patience, bravery, and -heroism, but at first they saw only their boys going away. They saw the -deserted houses, farms, and river, their own great helplessness, their -agony of fear. - -They saw their children grow old in a night with the acceptance of this -call they could not quite comprehend, but which could not be -disregarded. It was such a strange call, it sounded depths they, -themselves, had never known. It found an answer in their untried youth. -They simply had to go. - -The old men were sobered, exalted. Even Pierre Gavot forgot the tavern, -put on his best clothes, and waited for Tom. Were all the others going, -and not his son? Gavot was full of anxiety. He did not want to drink -and forget. He was obliged to stay clearheaded and watch for Tom's -return. He even forgot himself and his demands on Tom. He'd manage -somehow, but he could not endure the shame of Tom's not going overseas. - -It was an hour when souls were marching up to the Judgment Seat, each -according to its kind. - -And one day Jo Morey met Pierre on the high-road, her burning -woman-heart not yet adjusted to the shock that was reverberating through -Canada. - -"And so, Gavot," she said, "'tis taking this cause to bring you to your -senses? I hear of your talking of Tom as if he was a big thing. Why, -he's been big ever since he was born, and you took no heed." - -Pierre drew back. Tom was not yet revealed as a hero, but Gavot could -not conceive of the boy being anything else. - -"I'm ready to lay my only son on the altar," mumbled Pierre -grandiloquently. "I can sacrifice my all for my country." - -Jo laughed, a hard, bitter laugh. - -"You men!" she sneered, "ever since Abraham carried his poor boy up the -mountain to lay him on the altar, you've all been alike, you fathers! -You don't lay yourselves on the fire, not you! You don't even live your -decent best when you might, but you're ready enough with the sacrifice -of your young. Gavot, have you ever noticed that the Sarahs of the -world don't carry their sons to the altar?" Jo's feelings choked her. - -Gavot looked at the woman before him with bleared and strangely serious -eyes. "That's wild talk," he mumbled, "bad talk. The right has to be -done. Could such as _I_ fight?" - -Jo looked at the wretched creature by the roadside and she did not laugh -now. That intangible something that was settling on the faces of her -people hushed her. - - - - - *CHAPTER XX* - - *GAVOT GETS HIS CALL* - - -And Tom Gavot was in Quebec. The alarm had stilled, for an instant, his -very heart, and the first terrible sense of fear that always came to him -in danger rose fiercely within him. His vivid imagination began to burn -and light the way on ahead. Horrors that he had read of and shuddered -at clutched at his brain and made it ache and throb. - -No one knew of his sad marriage. He was going about his work bearing -his heavy secret as best he could, but now he began to view it in a new -light. He was married; he could remain behind with honour. But could -he? - -"Going to enlist, Tom?" the head of his firm asked one day. "We'd hate -to lose you, we want to send you to Vancouver. There's something -special to do there. After all, the matter will soon be settled and we -need some boys here." - -"I'm thinking it over," Tom replied, and so he was, over and over while -his quivering flesh challenged his bright spirit. - -He walked daily in front of the Chateau Frontenac and watched and -watched the gallant boys, oh! so pitifully young, marching, drilling -with that look in their eyes that he could not comprehend. He went to -the Plains of Abraham and stood spellbound while the past and present -flayed his fevered imagination. He stood in front of the pictured -appeals that the Government posted on fences and buildings, and still -his flesh held his spirit captive. Then one day, quite unconsciously, -the Government reached him--him, Tom Gavot! There was a new picture -among the many, an old mother with a transfigured face, her hand on the -shoulder of her boy. - -"My son, your country needs you." - -Tom looked, and turned away. It did not seem fair to--to bully fellows -like that. He was angry, but he went back. The boy's face seemed to -grow like his own! Poor Tom, he could not realize that it was the face -of young Canada. The woman why, she was like the long-dead mother! Tom -felt sure, had his mother lived, that she would have been old and -saintly. Yes, saintly in spite of everything, for would not he have -seen to that? He, and his roads? - -Tom thought of his roads, his peaceful, beautiful roads. Would he be -fit to plan them, travel on them if he let other men make them safe for -him? - -Then one September day he said quietly--and the man to whom he spoke -never forgot his eyes--"I'm going to enlist. I'm going back to my home -place. I'd like to start with the boys from there." So Tom went back to -Point of Pines. He almost forgot that he was the husband of Donelle -Langley. He had taken farewell of many, many things without realizing -it: his own fear, his wife, his roads, his hope of Donelle. - -He went back very simply, very quietly, and with that new look in his -sad young eyes he seemed like a stranger. Not for him was the glory and -the excitement. He was going because he dared not stay. His soul was -reaching out to an ideal that was screened in mystery, he had only just -courage enough to press on. Pierre looked at his boy pleadingly. - -"Tom," he whimpered, "I'm not much of a father. I can't send you off -feeling proud of me, I've held you back all your life. But I can make -you feel easier about me by telling you that I've got work. You won't -have to fash yourself about that." - -Tom regarded his father with a vague sense of gladness; then he reached -out falteringly and took his hand! - -Marcel drew Tom to her heart. All her motherhood was up in arms. - -"Tom," she whispered, "all through the years I've broken my heart over -those little graves on the hill, but to-day I thank God they're there!" - -Tom held the weeping woman close. - -"Aunt Marcel," he asked quietly, "if they, the children, were here, -instead of on the hill, would you bid them stay?" - -"That's it, Tom, I couldn't, and that's why I thank God He's taken the -choice from me." - -Tom kissed her reverently with a mighty tenderness. - -"Aunt Marcel," he went on, "when I'm over there I shall think of you and -of the children on the hill. I'll try and do my best for you and them. -I may fail, but I'll try." - -And at last Tom went up the road to Mam'selle and Donelle. They saw him -coming and met him on the way. Jo's head was bent; her breast heaving. -A terrible fear and bitterness made her face hard and almost cruel. - -All night she had been recalling Tom's pitiful youth. And now this -renunciation! But on Donelle's face shone the glory of the day. - -Quietly, firmly she took Tom's hands and lifted her eyes. - -"Oh! but you are splendid," she whispered. "I thought perhaps you might -feel you ought to stay back for me! But, Tom, everything is all right -and safe! Always you are going to grow bigger, nearer, until you make -me forget everything else. Why, Tom now, now I would go with you on -your road, if I could! You must believe that, dear." - -Tom looked at her. He saw the thrill of life, adventure, and youth -shake her. He saw with an old, old understanding that because he was -going away, alone, upon the road, he meant to her what he never could -have meant had he remained. He saw that his renunciation had awakened -her sympathy and admiration, but he saw that love lay dead in her eyes. - -[Illustration: "Tom looked at her. He saw the thrill, of life, adventure -and youth shake her. He saw with an old, old understanding that because -he was going away, alone, upon the road, he meant to her what he never -could have meant had he remained."] - -And then Tom bent and kissed her. He could in all honour because -something deep in his heart told him that he was indeed bidding her -good-bye. - -"When I come back," he was saying, while he felt far, far away, "we'll -just try the road, Donelle. I know you'll do your part. And always keep -this in mind: when I look back home I'll see you at the other end of the -road, girl. Your eyes will have the yellow light in them that will -brighten the darkest night I'll ever tramp through. I had to tell you -that." - -"Thank you, Tom." - -"It wasn't the honest thing to marry you the way I did. I had no -right." - -"Yes, you had, Tom. Yes. Yes!" - -"No. I think we could have found a better way, if we had taken time, -but I was sort of blinded." - -"And so was I, Tom, blinded and crazed." - -"Donelle--" - -"Yes, Tom." - -"I've got to tell you something--now that I'm going. He--he came back -that night. He came to me and he would not believe, until I let him -look in the window to see you as you lay there asleep. He wanted to -tell me something, and I wouldn't let him! But, Donelle, before God, I -think we need not hate him and if he ever gets a chance let him tell you -what he wanted to tell me." - -"Tom, oh! Tom!" Donelle was weeping now in Gavot's arms. "Thank you, -thank you, my own good Tom! And when you come back, I'll be waiting for -you, no matter what I hear." - -But Tom understood. Again he bent and kissed her pretty hair, her -little white face, then gently pushed her toward Jo. - -"Mam'selle," he said and smiled his good smile: "I'm going, with -heaven's help, to make up to my mother." - -"You have, Tom, you have!" Jo rushed to him. "You have by your clean, -fine life and they have no right to take that young life; they have no -right, no right!" - -But Tom went away, smiling, with the little company of Point of Pines' -men. The women watched the going with still faces and folded hands. -Those boys going on, on to what, they knew not; just going! Some looked -self-centred, proud, senselessly uplifted. Others looked grim, not -knowing all, but sensing it. - -Tom looked at his group, his father, Marcel, Longville, Jo, and Donelle, -turned a last glance at the white, set face of Father Mantelle, and so -said good-bye to Point of Pines. - -Together Jo and Donelle returned to the little white house. It was like -going back from a freshly made grave. - -"I'll not help the bad business, no, not I!" vowed Mam'selle, the hard -look still upon her face. Donelle looked piteously at her. - -"It is a great evil, a damnable sin; no words can make it right. For us -to work and forgive is but to help the sin along. I will not stand for -the cursed wrong." - -"Mamsey, it is all wrong, but it is not their wrong, Tom's and all the -other boys. They are just doing what they have to: holding to that -something that won't let go of us. Mamsey, we must go along with them. -We cannot leave them alone. I don't quite see yet what we can do, but -Mamsey, we, too, must hold on. See, here is the loom. Spin, spin, dear -Mamsey." - -"No, the loom stands still!" Jo shut her lips. But Donelle led her -forward. - -"Mamsey, it will save us," she said, "save us. We must work all the -time; spin, weave, knit. We've got to. It is all we can do." - -"Yes. And because we have always spun and woven and knitted, they are -going off there, those boys! Donelle, I will not touch the loom!" - -But Donelle was placing her fingers on the frame. - -Suddenly, groping for the threads, Jo said, while her voice broke: - -"Where's Nick, child?" - -"He's following Tom as far as he can, Mamsey. I did not call him back." - -At that Jo bent her head until it rested on the loom. - -"That's all dogs and women can do!" she moaned; "follow them as far as -they can." - -"Yes, Mamsey, and catch up with them--somehow. We will, we will." - -The two women clung together and wept until only grief was left, the -bitterness melted. - -And afar in Egypt Anderson Law heard the summons and saw the blackening -cloud. - -"I'm too old to take a gun," he muttered grimly, "but my place is home! -Every man to his hearth, now, unless he can serve his neighbour." - -It was October when Law reached New York. In his long-deserted studio -lay much that claimed his immediate attention. Norval had had a key to -the apartment and had seen that it was kept ready for its absent master. -A mass of mail lay upon the table, among it a note from Norval himself. - - -ANDY, when you can, go to Point of Pines. If any man in God's world can -mend the mischief I made there, it is you! I went innocently enough and -at a time when I was down and out. I managed to evolve about as much -hell as possible. I don't expect you will ever be able to excuse or, in -any sense, justify my actions. I am only thinking of that little girl -of Alice Lindsay's, the only love of my life. - - -Law was petrified. This was a letter Norval had written from Point of -Pines, it had got no farther than New York, for Norval in his -abstraction had addressed it there. - -For an instant even the war sank into insignificance as Law read on: - - -The divorce that Katherine desired was about to be consummated. I -reckoned without Katharine's sense of justice and duty, which got active -just when I thought the road was clear. Well, Andy, you know how -damnable truth can become when it is handled in the dark? Katherine -came to Point of Pines; saw Donelle alone. Need I say more? Only this, -Andy: I did not wrong the girl, I only loved her. - -I've left a picture. I want you to see it before you leave for Canada. -You'll find it by your north window. - -I'm going to the Adirondacks with Katherine. She's developed -tuberculosis, this is her only chance, and, short or long, I've sworn to -go the rest of the way with her. - - -Law went across the room to his north window. With fumbling hands he -uncovered the canvas standing there and placed it on an easel before he -dared look at it. - -A bit of paper was attached to the picture. Law read: - -"Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight." - -Then standing in his coldest, most critical attitude, Anderson Law -feasted his eyes upon Donelle! - -Not only the sweet, appealing beauty of the rare, girlish face held Law, -but the masterfulness of the hand that had reproduced it, clutched his -senses. Such colour and light! Why, for a moment it seemed almost as if -there were movement. - -"Good God!" muttered Law. "I stayed in Egypt too long." - -It was like him, however, to make ready at once to go to Point of Pines. -He did not write to Norval; how could he? Of course he disapproved -heartily of what he knew and suspected. No man, he reflected, has a -right to take chances at another's expense. Norval was a fool, a damned -fool, but he was no merely selfish wretch. That he could swear to. But -the girl--well, how could a man keep his senses cool with those eyes -fixed upon him? - -"That white-flame sort," mused the man in the still room, "is the most -far reaching. There's so much soul along with the rest." - - -A week later the _River Queen_, rather dignifiedly, puffed up to the -wharf of Point of Pines. The sturdy boat was doing her bravest bit that -summer. She went loaded down the river; she panted back -contemplatively, knowing that she must bear yet other loads away. Away, -always, away! - -"I want Mam'selle Jo Morey's," Anderson Law said as he was deposited, -with other freight and bags on the dock. "She takes boarders?" - -Jean Duval frowned. - -"She took one," he replied, "but he ran away. I'm thinking the Mam'selle -Jo is not reaching out for more." - -"Then I will go to her," said Law in his most ingratiating manner; "she -shall not reach out for me." - -Jo was in the barn, but Donelle stood by the gate, her fair, uncovered -head shining in the warm October light. - -"I am Anderson Law!" - -Donelle turned and her wide eyes grew dark. - -"I have come late, I'm afraid, child," Law saw that his name was -familiar to the girl, saw her lips quiver, "but I'll do my best now to -mend the trouble. You must accept me for Alice Lindsay's sake." - -Bluntly, but with grave tenderness, he put out his hand. - -There are some people who come into the world for no other reason, -apparently, than to lighten the burdens of others. The mere sight of -them is the signal for the shifting of heavy loads. Weary, lost ones -know their deliverers. Donelle gave a long, long look, her eyes filled -with sudden and sadly-suppressed tears. All the weight she had borne -since the time she had entered the Walled House cried out for support. - -"Oh! I am so glad you've come. So glad!" - -And Donelle's hands lay in Law's. - -And so Mam'selle found them, clinging to each other like shipwrecked -souls, when she came up with Nick wheezing at her heels. Nick wheezed -now, there was no denying it. - -"And, sir, you are----?" she said, standing with her feet astride, her -hands reaching down to where her father's old pockets used to be. - -"A boarder, Mam'selle, heaven willing." - -"I can take no more boarders, sir. But I can hitch up Molly and drive -you to Captain Longville's." - -"Mam'selle Morey, I am Alice Lindsay's friend, Anderson Law." - -Then Jo, who had always been a burden-bearer herself, scented another of -her kind. She came a step nearer. Her lifted brows disclosed her -wonderful eyes, the eyes of a woman who had suffered and made no cry. - -Law held her by a long glance; a searching glance. - -"Mam'selle," he said; "I half believe you will reconsider and take me -in." - -"I half believe I will!" Jo's lips twitched. - -Her instinct guided her. - -"The upper chamber is ready," she added, "and the noon meal is about to -be set on the table." - -"And I'll show you the way!" Donelle went on before Law, a new look -upon her face, a gladder look than had rested there for many a day. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXI* - - *DONELLE AT LAST SEES TOM* - - -"The greatest wrong Norval did was to leave you in the dark." - -Law and Donelle sat in the wood-cabin, and the room was warm and bright. -Norval's deserted pictures were hung in good light and now some of Law's -own had also found a place on the rough walls. - -"You are woman enough to have understood." - -"Yes, I would have understood," Donelle replied from her seat near the -window. She was knitting; knitting, always knitting. - -"Love is a thing you cannot always manage. I would have understood. -Love just came to us and when it got hurt, I did wrong in going to Tom -Gavot, my husband. But you see he had helped me before. It was wrong, -but there did not seem to be any other way. I think I felt I had to -make it impossible--for--for Mr. Norval to do anything." - -"But, my child, of course--Norval wronged you by withholding the whole -truth. Still, I wish he could have spoken for himself, not left it for -me." - -"You have done it beautifully, Man-Andy!" - -The name fell lingeringly from Donelle's lips. Law had urged her to call -him by it. - -It was February now and still Law lingered. He could hardly have told -why, but Canada seemed more homelike to him than the States. He was one -of the first to resent his country's holding back from entering the -terrific struggle that was sucking the other countries into its hellish -maw. - -"If I cannot bear a gun," Law often vowed in Jo's upper chamber, "I'll -hang around close to them who are bearing them. The boys will be coming -back soon, some of the hurt chaps, I'll lend a hand here in Canada." - -So he remained and the little white house was happy in its welcome. - -Law went among the people. He became a constant visitor in Father -Mantelle's house; went with the old priest to the homes, already -bereaved, because of the son or father who had marched away and would -never come back. The war dealt harshly with the men of Canada who, -counting not the cost, went grimly to the front and took the heavier -blows with no thought of turning back. - -"And, Man-Andy," Donelle was talking quietly while Law smoked by the -fire, "I have often thought that Mr. Norval"--the stilted words were -shy--"might have felt that I came first. He might have." - -"I think he might." The cloud of smoke rose higher. "That would have -been like him." - -"But it wouldn't have been right. The big love we couldn't help, but he -once told me that it was our part to keep it holy. If--if--he forgot -for a minute, Man-Andy, it was for me to remember. I think I was afraid -I might _not_, and that was why something drove me to Tom, my husband." - -Law winced at the constant reiteration of the "husband." It was as if -she were forcing him to keep the facts clearly in mind. - -"I wouldn't have had my love be anything but what I knew him, Man-Andy. -And now I am almost happy thinking of him doing what is right. It's -better, even if it is hard." - -"Yes, I suppose so!" And Law knew whereof he spoke. - -"But you?" he lifted his eyes to Donelle's white, sweet face. - -"I? Why, it is all right for me, Man-Andy. You see, there are many -kinds of love, and Tom, my husband, why, I love him. He is strong, and -oh! so safe. When his country does not need him any more, I will make -him happy. I can. I am sure I can, for Tom is not one who wants all. -He has had so little in his life that he will be glad, very glad with -me. He has the big love, too, Man-Andy." - -"You are quite beyond me!" muttered Law. "You and your Mam'selle, you -are a pair." - -"I love to think that. Mam'selle has been more than a mother to me. I -am so glad you know all about us." - -Law did know, from Father Mantelle. - -"I feel, wrong as it may seem," the priest had once confided to Law, -"like making the sign of the cross whenever I come in the presence of -Mam'selle Morey." - -"Well, crosses have apparently been quite in her line," Law laughed -back, "she'd naturally take it as a countersign." - -Law had a habit that reminded Jo of Langley, of Donelle and, indeed now -that she reflected, of others besides, who knew her more or less -intimately. He would sit and watch her while she worked and then, -without rhyme or reason, smile. Often, indeed, he laughed. - -"Am I so amusing?" she asked Law once. - -"Not so amusing, Mam'selle, as consumedly comical." - -"Comical, Mr. Law?" Jo frowned. - -"No good in scowling, Mam'selle. I mean no reflection. The fact is, -you've taken us all into camp, we might as well laugh." - -"Camp, Mr. Law?" The brows lifted. - -"Yes, you made us look like small beer and then you forgive us, and -label us champagne!" - -"Mr. Law, you talk!" Jo sniffed. - -"I certainly do, Mam'selle." - -"I do not understand your tongue." - -"I'll wager a dollar to a doughnut that Donelle does." - -"Umph! Well, then, Donelle, just you tell me what he means." - -They were all sitting around the hot stove, a winter storm howling -outside. - -"I'm afraid I cannot very well, Mamsey. But I know what he means." - -"Do your best, child. I hate to be kept guessing." - -"Well, it is something like this:" Donelle looked at Law, getting -guidance from his eyes, "some people, not as blessed as you, Mamsey, -might not have forgiven all those years when no one knew! You were so -big and silent and brave, you made them all look pretty small. And now -when they do know, you somehow let them do the large, kind things that -you make possible, and you stand aside, praising them." - -"Nonsense!" Jo snapped. "Who's blowing my horn, I'd like to know?" - -"Oh! Mamsey, it's your horn, but you let others think it isn't. Who -was it that made Father Mantelle come out and compel his people to go -overseas?" - -"That's silly, Donelle. When he came to his senses, he saw he'd be -mobbed if he didn't." - -"Oh! Mamsey, you bullied him outrageously. And who sees to old Pierre?" - -"You, child. You can't see your husband's father want, when it's -rheumatism, not bad whiskey, that's laying him low." - -"Oh! Mamsey! And who got Marcel little flags to put on--on those -graves on the hill because it would make her feel proud?" - -"Donelle you _are_ daft. Marcel felt she had to do something to make it -her war, too, and she's too busy to weave and knit. Why"--and here Jo -turned to Law whose eyes were twinkling through the smoke that nearly -hid his face--"in old times the people around here used to light fires -on St. John's Day in front of their houses, to show there had been a -death. I told Marcel about that and she herself thought of the flags. -She would have given her children if they had lived; she's brought -herself, like the rest of us, to see there is nothing else to do but -give and give!" - -Mam'selle choked over her hurried words and Law suddenly changed the -subject. - -"Mam'selle," he asked, "is there a chimney place behind this red-hot -monster?" he kicked the stove. - -"There is, Mr. Law, one about twice too large for the house." - -"Let's take the stove down and have the chimney place!" - -"Take the stove down?" Jo dropped ten stitches. "Take that stove down! -Why, you don't know what it cost me! I--I am proud of that stove." - -"Really, Mam'selle?" - -"Well, I used to be prouder than I am now. It is a heap of trouble to -keep clean, but it's going to stay where it is. When things cost what -that did, they stay. It's like Nick and the little red cow----" - -"And me!" put in Donelle softly. - -"You ought to be ashamed, Donelle," Jo turned indignant eyes upon her, -"putting yourself beside stoves and dogs and cows." - -"And other things that cost too much. Oh! Mamsey." - -And still Law stayed on, the peace in his eyes growing each day deeper, -surer. He felt, in a vague way, as Norval had, the sense of _living_ -for the first time in his life. The wood-cabin he called the -co-operative workshop. In time he got Donelle to play there for him. -At first she tried and failed. Weeping, she looked at him helplessly and -put her violin aside. - -"You have no right," he said to her with infinite tenderness, "to let -any earthly thing kill the gift God gave you." - -The philosophy that had upheld poor Law had given him courage to pass it -on to others. It now drove Donelle to her duty. - -Old Revelle had prophesied that suffering would develop her and her -talent; and it was doing so. Her face became wonderfully strong and fine -as the months dragged on and the Fear grew in waiting hearts. In -forgetting herself she made place for others and they came to her -faithfully. Her music was heard in many a hill cabin; down by the -river, where the older men worked, while their thoughts were overseas. -She taught little children, helped make the pitiful black dresses which -meant so much to the lonely poor who had given their all and had so -little with which to show respect to their sacred dead. - -Jo watched her girl with eyes that often ached from unshed tears. - -"It will be the death of her," she confided to Anderson Law. "She'll -break." - -"No," Law returned, "she will not break. She's as firm and true as -steel; she's getting ready." - -"Ready for what?" Jo's voice shook. - -"For life. So many, Mam'selle, simply get ready to live. Life is going -to use this little Donelle." - -"Men have caused a deal of trouble for women," Jo remarked irrelevantly. - -"Ah! there you have us, Mam'selle. The best of us know that we're bad -bunglers. Most of us, in our souls, are begging your pardon." - -"Well, you're all boys, mere children." Jo was clicking her needles -like mad. "Sometimes I think it would settle the whole question if we -could bunch all the men in one man and give him a good spanking." - -Law's eyes twinkled. - -"And after that, after the spanking, Mam'selle, what would you do?" - -"Give him an extra dose of jam, like as not. We're fools, every last one -of us, God help us!" - -"Yes, thank God, you are!" - -It was March when a letter came from Norval that sent Law to the -wood-cabin and to his knees. - - -ANDY: - -It's over! Poor Katherine! I'm going to leave her body here under the -snow and the pines. It came quite suddenly at the last. She just could -not stand it. - -I'm glad I went the rest of the way with her. I never could have done -it except that you showed me the path. You've been here with me close, -old friend, all these months. I wonder if you can understand me when I -say that I am glad for Katherine, for her alone, that she is safe under -the snow? It is easier to think of her so, than to remember the losing -battle she waged for her health. I'm sure my being here made her less -lonely, and she grew so tender and generous, so understanding. - -She begged me to return to Point of Pines. She never knew about Gavot. - -And now, Andy, before you get this, I will be on my way over-seas to -offer what I have to France. I'm strong, well, and have nothing to hold -me back. I can do something there, I'm sure. - - -Law looked at the date on the letter, then noticed that the postmark was -nearly a month later. There was no need to hurry back; Norval was gone. - -Law did not tell Donelle or Jo of his news. Everything was being tossed -into the seething pot; the outcome must be awaited with patience and -whatever courage one could muster. - -When spring came the little _River Queen_ came regularly to the dock. -She came quietly, reverently, bearing now her children home: the sick, -the tired, the hopelessly maimed, the boys who had borne the brunt of -battle and had escaped with enough mind and body to come back. Some of -them had news of others; they had details that waiting hearts craved. -Under the soft skies of spring they told their brave stories so simply; -oh! so divinely simply. The bravado, the jest were stilled; they had -seen and suffered too much to dwell upon glory or upon the tales of -adventure. - -Poor old Pierre went from one to another with his question: - -"Tell me about my Tom." - -Tom had been transferred here, there, and everywhere. Only an -occasional comrade who had left home with him had been near him -overseas. But one or two had stories about Tom that soon became public -property. - -"Old Tom was always talking about being afraid," said one. "In the -trenches, while we were waiting for orders, he'd beg us to see that if -he were a coward his home folks might not know the truth. He always -expected to be the cur, and then, when the order came, up the old duffer -would get and scramble to the front as if he was hell-bound for suicide. -It got to be a joke and the funny part was, when it was over, he never -seemed to know he'd done the decent thing. He'd ask us how he had -acted. He'd believe anything we told him. After awhile we got to -telling him the truth." - -Marcel wept beside her little row of graves after hearing about Tom and -wished, at last, that a son of her own could be near that poor Tom of -Margot's. - -Jo's eyes shone and she looked at Donelle. She felt the girl's big -heart throb with pity, but she knew full well that even in his tragic -hour of triumph Tom had not called forth Donelle's love. - -Sometimes she was almost angry at Donelle. Why could not the girl see -what she had won, and glory in it? What kind of reward was it to be for -Tom to have her "keep her promise?" - -"Women were not worthy of men!" she blurted out to Anderson Law. "Think -of those young creatures offering all they have to make a world safe for -a lot of useless women!' - -"They ought to be spanked, the useless women," Anderson remarked -solemnly. - -"That they should!" agreed Jo. - -"Ah, well, Mam'selle," Law's face grew stern, "we are all, men and -women, getting our punishment alike. But what has the rebel, Donelle, -now done?" - -"She will not see Tom Gavot, her husband, as he is! She only sees him -as a brave soldier. Instead, he is a man!" - -"Ah! Mam'selle Jo, wait until he comes home and _needs her_. Then she -will give him the best she has to give. Is that not enough?" - -"No!" Jo exploded. "No! it is not. She ought to give him, poor lad, -what she has not in her power to give." - -Then they both laughed. - -It was full summer when the word came that Tom Gavot had made the -supreme sacrifice. - -Law brought the official announcement, the bald, hurting fact. He had, -on his way past Dan's Place, rescued Pierre before he had begun -drinking. - -"Come to Mam'selle Morey's," he commanded calmly. "I have news of your -boy." - -"And he is still brave? It is good news?" - -Gavot shuffled on beside Law. - -"He's still brave, yes." - -"That's good; that's good. Tom was always one who began by trembling -and ended like iron." - -Jo was at her loom, Donelle at her knitting, when the two men entered -the sunny home-room of the little white house. - -"This has come," said Law, and reverently held up the envelope. - -They all knew what it was. In Point of Pines the bolt had fallen too -often to be misunderstood. By that time every heart was waiting; -waiting. - -"It's Tom?" asked Donelle and her face shone like a frozen, white thing -in the cheerful room. - -Law read the few terrible words that could not soften the blow, though -they tried hard to do so. - -"The war office regrets to announce----" - -Pierre staggered to his feet. - -"It's a lie!" he said thickly, "a lie!" Then he began to weep aloud -like a frightened child. - -Law went to him and shook him roughly. - -"Stop that!" he said sternly. "Can't you try to be worthy of your boy?" - -"But--but I wanted him to know how I have been trying, even when I -couldn't quite make it. And now----" - -"Perhaps he does know," Law spoke more softly, "perhaps he does." - -Jo did not move, but her eyes seemed to reflect all the misery of her -stricken country. - -"Mam'selle, can you not help us?" Law spoke from his place beside the -groaning Pierre. - -"I--I'm afraid not, Mr. Law. Not just now." Poor Jo; for the first -time in her life she was overpowered. "I somehow," she spoke as if to -herself, "I somehow thought I understood how it felt when I saw the -others. But I didn't; I didn't." Then she turned to Donelle. "Where -are you going?" she asked. - -"Mamsey, I'm going down to--to Tom's hut. It seems as if he will be -there." - -Then Jo bent her head. - -"Go, child," she said with a break in her hard voice. "Go." - -And later Law found Donelle there in the little river-hut. She was -sitting by the open door, her face, tearless and tragically white, -turned to the river whose tide was coming in with that silent, mighty -rush that almost took away the breath of any one who might be watching. - -"Dear, little girl!" said Law soothingly, taking his place at her feet, -"I wish you would cry." - -"Cry? Why, Man-Andy, I cannot cry." - -She was holding an old coat of Tom's, the one he had discarded for the -uniform of his country. - -"I wish we could have known just how he went--my Tom!" - -"We may some day, child. But this we both know: he went a hero." - -"Yes, I'm sure of that. He would be afraid, but he would do the big -thing. He was like that. I think such men are the bravest. Listen, -Man-Andy!" - -Law listened. The strange, swift, silent, incoming tide filled his -ears. - -"I have been thinking," Donelle whispered, "thinking as I sat here of a -wide, shining road and a great many, many men and boys rushing along it -making the sound of the river. I think it is that way with the many -boys who have died so suddenly; so soon. They are hurrying along some -safe, happy road; and oh! Man-Andy, it seems as if it were Tom's road. -All the afternoon as I have been sitting here in the only place he ever -knew as home," Law glanced back into the pitiful, plain, empty room, "I -have seen Tom at the head of the great crowd going on and on. He seems -to be leading them, showing them the way over the road he loved." - -The water was covering the highest black rocks, the rushing, still sound -was indeed like the noise of boyish feet hurrying eagerly home. - -Law stood up and took Donelle in his arms. She frightened him by her -awful calm. - -"Little girl," he whispered, "try to cry. For God's sake, try to cry!" - -"But, Man-Andy, how can I? If only I could have kissed him just once so -he could have remembered----" And then Donelle broke down. She relaxed -in Law's arms; she clung to him sobbing softly, wildly. - -"Why, Man-Andy, I'm going to remember always that I couldn't give him -what he deserved most in all the world." - -"My dear, my dear! You gave him of your best, he understands that now -as he could not before." - -"And oh!" here Donelle lifted her tear-stained face, "I'm so thankful I -did not bar the door against him." - -Law thought her mind was wandering. - -"What door, child?" he asked. - -"This door, the night we were married. He--he knew, I am sure he knew, -as he watched outside, that I trusted him." - -Law's eyes dropped. - -"Your husband was a big man," was all he said. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXII* - - *NORVAL COMES BACK* - - -Anderson Law was sawing wood behind Mam'selle's little white house. He -was mighty proud of his success in manual labour; to help Jo with her -wood pile was a delight, altruistically and vaingloriously. - -The summer with its heart throbs had made people indifferent to the -winter on ahead, but the days were growing colder and shorter and even -the most careless were aware that some provision must be made at once if -one were to escape needless suffering. - -Law was thinking as he worked, and occasionally wiped the perspiration -from his brow. There were so many things to think about in Point of -Pines; to think about, smile about tenderly, and grieve about. - -There was old Pierre, the Redeemed, he was called now. Since Tom's -going the wretched father had ceased drinking, was housed by Father -Mantelle, and had fallen into a gentle, vague state that called forth -pity and tolerance. - -Early and late he was on the highway with his shovel or rake making the -road easy for the feet of his boy! - -If any one came over the hill into Point of Pines the wandering, bleary -eyes would be raised and the one question would break from the trembling -lips: "Have you seen my Tom?" - -If any one went away over the hill, Pierre had a message: - -"Tell my Tom I'm filling in the ruts. He won't find it such hard -travelling when he comes back." - -Anderson Law often kept old Gavot company--for Tom's sake. Even -Mam'selle had forgiven him and, quite secretly, helped the priest in his -generous support. - -The Longvilles, the Captain at least, had forsaken Pierre. Marcel, poor -soul, gave what, and when, she could. - -As Law bent to his task at the wood pile, the priest hailed him from the -road. - -"I go now," he explained as he declined the invitation to enter, "to -pray for rain. The forest fires are bad, but until the crops were in I -would not pray." - -So simply did the cure say this that Law refrained from smiling, but he -did say, looking afar to where the heavy smoke-cloud hung above the -trees: - -"Ah! well, Father, now that the harvest is in, you had better give the -Lord a free hand or there will be a sad pay-day on ahead." - -"I go to pray," Mantelle rejoined and passed on. - -Amused and thoughtful, Law looked after the tall, thin, bent figure. He -recalled how the patient old soul taught and encouraged the children, -held the older ones--children too, in their simplicity and -superstition--to the plain, common paths of life with what success he -might; remembered how day or night he travelled near and far to watch -with the dying or comfort those from whom death had torn their sacredest -and best. - -"At such," Law thought, "one cannot scoff." - -And just then a fragrant odour came to Anderson Law. Pleasant and -welcome it was. He looked up and, at a little distance, saw Mam'selle -at her outdoor oven, pushing into its yawning mouth a tray of noble -loaves of bread. - -Down went Law's saw, out came his sketching pad; Jo before that oven was -a sight for the reverent. - -"Eighteen loaves!" called Mam'selle, not realizing that she was becoming -immortal, "eighteen loaves at a lick, Mr. Law, and but a drop in the -bucket. The boys, whatever else was knocked out of them over there, -managed to keep their stomachs. There's no filling the lads up, but the -good Lord knows that it's little enough for us to do, trying to fill -them." - -"To-morrow will be Friday," cried a cheery young voice from the highway, -"so we must fish to-day, Mam'selle. I'm off to the river, but I swear I -cannot get past the smell of your oven. And I wanted to tell you, I -have my old job back. Hereafter I swing the light from the dock." - -Law and Jo turned. A boy in the garb of a great country stood leaning -on his crutches, smiling; smiling, but with that look in his eyes that -was never to depart. The look the trenches had put there; the hall mark -of the world's wrong to its young. - -"Ah! it's that nice boy, Jean," laughed Jo eagerly. "Wait, son," the -wounded and sick were all "sons" to Mam'selle now, "wait, here is a -large, brown, hot loaf. Take it along to munch while you catch your -fish. And it's glad I am about the job, Jean. No one ever swung the -lantern as you did. The _River Queen_ will perk up when she sees you -back." - -Jean laughed and patted his hot loaf of bread. - -"Ah! Mam'selle. And to think I used to run from you when I was a silly -lout of a kid. I did not know your great heart then, Mam'selle," he -said. - -The boyish eyes were lifted to Jo's face as she pressed the crisp loaf -in his bag. - -"It's my turn to run after you now," she said softly. "It is worth the -run, though, son. You're good sorts, the lot of you." - -Law was watching and listening. Jo affected him strangely. Lately he -was aware of a glow whenever he got to thinking of her. If he meant -ever to escape from Point of Pines he had better make a hasty retreat. -That was what the glow meant. As if to challenge this state of mind Jo -now came toward him. - -"It's a noble pile you've cut, Mr. Law," she said. "For a painter-man -you're not the useless truck one might expect. Mr. Law, I'll think of -you often when I burn this wood. And now that I'm rather soft in my -feelings for your sex--those hurt boys have pleaded for you--I might as -well tell you that I'm going to put my stove in the outhouse and open up -the chimney in the living room." - -"Mam'selle! This is surrender indeed! A triumph of soul over matter!" -cried Law. - -"This winter you can think of me toasting my shins and shivering up the -back, Mr. Law." Jo smiled broadly. - -Anderson Law threw his head back and laughed. Jo's plain, unvarnished -Anglo-Saxon was like a northwest wind to his mind. - -And just then the postman jogged in sight, reading the postcards with -relish and letting his old horse find his own way along the road. - -"Where is Donelle?" Law was asking as the mail man paused at the gate. -Jo's eyes darkened. - -"Knitting and thinking down in the river-cabin. Nick's with her. Mr. -Law, there are times when I think that dog has a soul." - -"I never doubt it, Mam'selle. One look in his eyes is enough. But -what, now, about Nick?" - -"When he thinks the child has been alone long enough he goes after her. -She says he tugs at her skirt until she follows. He cries if she holds -back. Mr. Law, I fear Donelle is--is--taking to Tom's road." - -Poor Jo turned away. - -"Nonsense, Mam'selle." - -Law often thought this, too, so his denial was doubly intense. - -"We'll find a way yet to get Donelle on the road that belongs to her. -Ah! a letter," he broke in, seeing the postman waving an envelope from -the cart. - -Law went forward and took the letter, tore it open, and read the few -words enclosed. It was from his lawyer. For a moment Anderson Law -could not speak. The bright day seemed suddenly to darken. Then he -said slowly, though his thoughts were swift: - -"Mam'selle, Jim Norval is back in New York. He's not able to see just -now; something's gone wrong with his eyes, and his legs, too. There's -hope, but I must go." Then, as if inspired, "Mam'selle, I must take -Donelle." - -"No!" Jo sprang back as if Law had hit her. - -"Mam'selle, I must take Donelle. Have these hurt boys, here, not taught -you a lesson?" - -"But, Mr. Law, this is not decent." - -"Norval's wife died last summer, Mam'selle. He went abroad because there -was nothing else for him to do. Now may I have Donelle?" - -Jo reflected. - -"But it will kill her," she said half-heartedly, "the strangeness. And -what may happen." - -"It will cure her," Law went on; "no matter what happens. She's part of -it all; she must bear what is hers." - -"Mr. Law----" - -"Ah! Mam'selle," and here Anderson Law took Jo's hand, "there is so -little, after all, that we older ones can do for them. May I have -Donelle?" - -"Yes. God help us all, Mr. Law." And poor Jo bowed her head. - -"Thank you, Mam'selle. The conventions have all crumbled, we're all -stripped down to our bare souls. We cannot afford to waste time looking -forward or back. Keep that fire burning on the opened hearth, -Mam'selle. Some of us will come back to you, God willing, soon. We -must hurry. See! there is the child coming up the Right of Way, Nick -clinging to her skirt. Donelle!" - -Law called to her and went to meet her. - -"Child, I'm going to take you to the States with me. Norval needs you!" - -Just for an instant the white face twitched and the yellow eyes -darkened. - -"When do we go?" was all the cold lips said. Never a doubt; never a -pause. - -"What did I tell you?" Law turned to Jo. "Conventions be damned! - -"To-day we start, Donelle. And, Mam'selle, just you 'tend to that -fire!" - -When Norval had been landed in New York he was taken to a hospital--to -die. But he did not die, though he tried hard enough, and gave no end -of trouble to his doctors and nurses. - -"Whom shall we send for?" he was asked when, helpless and blinded, he -lay in the small, quiet, white room. - -"Am I going west?" The phrase clung like an idiom of a foreign -language. - -"Good Lord, man, no! You're getting on rippingly." The young house -doctor was tireless in his service to this stricken man. - -"Then send for no one. I'm not eager to have a chance acquaintance -gaping at my useless legs and sightless eyes." - -"But you're going to come around all right. It's the effect of shock, -you know. How about your relatives?" - -"Haven't got any, thank the Lord." Norval's chin stiffened. The young -doctor gripped the clasped hands on the counterpane. - -"I wish you'd try a bit to buck up," he said. - -"What for?" - -"Well, just for your country's sake." - -"My country! Why isn't my country where I have been, helping to lower -the temperature of hell?" - -The bitter tone rang through the words. Norval was glad for the company -of this young doctor; glad to have someone, who, really did not matter, -share with him the moments when the memory of horrors he had witnessed -overwhelmed him. - -"Our country is going to be there soon!" The doctor's voice was -strained. "A big country like this has to go slow." - -"Slow be damned! This is no time to put on brakes. Are they, are they -actually steaming up, Burke? You're not saying this to--to quiet my -nerves?" - -"No. Your nerves are settling into shape. Yes, our country is heaving -from the inside." - -"Thank God!" Norval sighed. - -"And you bet, Mr. Norval, I'm going on the first ship if I have to go as -a stoker. If there's one blessed trick of my trade that can help -fellows like you, lead me to it!" - -"Burke, you're a devilish good tonic." - -A week later Norval had young Burke again to himself. - -"Old man, I feel that I am not going west. It's rotten bad form for me -to be holding down this bed any longer. I suppose I could be moved?" - -"Yes, Mr. Norval. It would do you good, I think you ought to make an -effort. - -"I don't see why, old chap, but--here goes! Send for this man," he -named Law's lawyer. "There is only one person in God's world I care to -have see me now. Let them send for him." - -So the lawyer came to the hospital, viewed Norval with outward calm; -felt his heart tighten and his eyes dim, then wrote the short, stiff -note that reached Anderson Law by Mam'selle's wood pile. - -From that moment events moved rapidly. Taken from the still place where -death seemed to have crushed everything, Donelle aroused herself slowly. -She simply could not realize the wonderful thing that was happening; the -marvellous fact that life still persisted and that she was part of it. - -"He--he will not die?" she asked Law over and over again, apparently -forgetting that she had put the question before. - -"Die? Jim Norval? Certainly _not_," vowed Law with energy born of fear -and apprehension. - -"And," here Donelle's eyes would glow, "he did his duty to, to the last! -I am so glad that he stayed with her, Man-Andy, until she needed him no -longer. Then I'm glad he went over there to help. There will be -nothing to be sorry for now. It was worth waiting for. And does he know -about Tom, my husband?" - -The word husband seemed to justify the rest. - -"He does not, Donelle. And see here, child, we've got to go slow. -Norval is going to come around all right and God knows he needs you, -though he may not know it himself." - -"But why, Man-Andy? And what is the matter with him, exactly? You have -not told me." - -There had been so much to say and do that details had been artistically -eliminated. - -"Well, his legs are wobbly." Law sought for the least objectionable -symptoms. - -"Wobbly? But he _has_ them, hasn't he?" Donelle thought of the boys of -Point of Pines who--had not. - -"Legs? Jim Norval? Well, I should say so! But they've rather gone back -on him for the moment. And his eyes----" - -"His eyes?" Donelle clutched Law. "What about his eyes?" - -"Now, see here, Donelle. I'm taking you to Norval because I believe you -alone can cure him; make him want to live, but you've got to behave -yourself. My girl, I don't know much myself, they've simply sent for -me." - -The river steamer was nearing New York. It was early morning and the -gray mysterious mists were hiding the mighty, silent city. It was like -a dream of a distant place. A solemn fear that strengthened and -hardened Donelle rose in her at Law's words. She groped for, found, and -held his hand like a good comrade. - -"Whatever it is, Man-Andy," she whispered, "I'm ready. If--he never -walks again, I can fetch and carry. If--if his dear eyes can never see -the--the things he loved, he shall use my eyes, always." - -Law then understood that the girl near him drew her strength and force -from hidden sources. He knew that he could depend upon her. He -tightened his clasp of the little hand. - -"And now," he explained, gulping unvoluntarily, "you'll understand why I -cannot take you right to Norval." - -"Yes, Man-Andy." The white face grew set. - -"I'm going to have him moved from the hospital to my studio. I've got -plenty of room and he'd like it there." - -"Yes, have him moved, have him moved." Donelle said the words over as -if learning a lesson. She was trying to visualize the helpless man. - -"As for you, little girl, I'm going to send you to Revelle. He's -waiting for you. I telegraphed from Quebec. There's a nice young body -keeping house for him, a Mary Walden, who once mistook love of art _for_ -art. She got saved and is now making a kind of home for--well, people -like you and old Revelle. She's found her heaven in doing this and -you'll be safe and happy with her until you can come to Norval." - -"Yes. Quite safe and happy, Man-Andy." - -And through the days that followed Donelle made no complaint; no -demands. She kept near Revelle; listened to his music with yearning -memories; grew to love Mary Walden, who watched over her like a kind and -wise sister. - -Law came daily with his happy reports. Norval was gaining fast; had -been overjoyed at the change from hospital to the studio; had borne the -moving splendidly. - -But still there was no mention of Donelle going to him, and the girl -asked no questions. - -At last Law was driven into the open. He was in despair. He'd got -Norval to the studio, but there he seemed to find himself up against a -wall. - -He took Donelle into his confidence. - -"Perhaps if we could get him to Point of Pines," she suggested, her own -longing and homesickness adding force to the words. The noise and -unrest of the city were all but killing her. - -"No," Law shook his head. "I touched on that but he said he'd be -hanged, or something to that effect, if he'd be carried like a funeral -cortege to Point of Pines." - -"Doesn't he ever speak of me?" The question was heavy with heartache -and longing. - -"No, and I wonder if you can get any happiness out of that? You ought -to." - -The deep eyes were raised to Law's. - -"Yes. I see what you mean," Donelle smiled. Then: "Man-Andy, there are -times when I think I must go to him. Fling everything aside and say -'here I am!'" - -"There are times when I've wished to God you could, Donelle, but I asked -the doctor and he said a shock would be a bad thing. No, we must wait." - -Then he turned to Mary Walden, who was quietly sewing by the window. -The plain, comfortable little woman was like a nerve tonic. - -"Mary," he said, "I'm going to ask you to do something for me." - -"Yes, Mr. Law." The voice in itself restored poise to the poiseless. - -"I'm tuckered out, I want you to come for two or three hours each day -and read to Norval. My voice gets raspy and he absorbs books like a -sponge. Besides, I want to paint. I've got an idea on my chest. -Revelle can take care of Donelle while you are with me." - -And then, so suddenly that Law fell back before the onslaught, Donelle -rushed to him. - -"Why can't I go?" she demanded. No other word could describe the look -and tone. "He could not see me!" - -"But, good Lord, he still has his hearing, devilish sharp hearing." - -"I could talk like Mary Walden! Why, Man-Andy, always I could act and -talk like others, if I wanted to. Mamsey could tell you. I used to -make her laugh. Please listen----" - -And then in a kind of desperation Donelle made an effort, such a pitiful -one, to speak in the calm, colourless tones of Mary Walden. They all -wanted to laugh, even Revelle who, at the moment, entered the room, but -the strained, tense look on the girl's face restrained them. - -But a week later Donelle made a test. From another room she carried on -quite a conversation with Law and, until she showed herself, he could -have sworn he was talking to Mary Walden. - -"Now, then!" Donelle exclaimed, confronting him almost fiercely, "you've -got to let me try. Mary Walden and I have worked it all out. I'm to -wear a red wig and a black dress with white collar and cuffs. If the -bandages should slip, and he happened at that moment to see, he wouldn't -know me. My voice is--is perfect, Man-Andy, and besides," here Donelle -quivered, "I'm going to him, anyway!" - -"In that case," and Law shrugged his shoulders, "I'll surrender. You're -a young wonder, Donelle." - -Then Law laughed, and laughs were rare treats to him those days. - -And that night he broke the plan to Norval in the following manner: - -"See here, boy, I'm willing to go on with this job of getting you on -your feet provided I have my usual half holidays." - -"I know I'm using you up, Andy. Why not put me in a home for -incurables?" - -"Nothing doing, Jim. They'd discover you even in this disguise." - -"It's a sin not to have a law that permits the demolishing of -derelicts." Norval's chin looked grim. - -"So it is, but there you are!" - -There was a pitiful pause. Then Law brought forth his suggestions as to -a certain Mary Walden. - -"She could read you to sleep while I daub, Jim." - -"She? Good heavens! What is it, a pretty young female thing yearning -to do her bit?" - -"On the other hand, she's as plain as a pipe stem and is an equal wage -advocate. She's red-headed," Law had seen the new wig, "dresses for her -job, and is warranted to read without stopping for three hours at a -stretch." - -"Good Lord." Norval moved uneasily. - -"Shall we corral her, Jim?" - -"Yes, run her in mornings, I can smoke and snooze afternoons, and the -evenings are your best times, Andy. You're almost human then. Yes, -engage the red head." - -So Donelle, after a few days of further practice in mimicking Mary -Walden's calm, even voice, went to Norval. - - - - - *CHAPTER XXIII* - - *BOTH NORVAL AND DONELLE--SEE* - - -When Donelle stood on the threshold of Anderson Law's studio and looked -within, her courage almost deserted her. There, stretched on the -steamer chair, was Norval, his eyes bandaged, his helpless legs covered -by a heavy rug. He was very still and his long, thin hands were folded -in a strange, definite way that seemed to say eloquently, "Finis." - -The tears rose to Donelle's eyes, overflowed, and rolled down her white -cheeks. She stretched out her empty, yearning arms toward the man -across the room. Law, standing by, shook his head warningly. He feared -the beautiful, dramatic plan was about to crumble, but in another moment -he realized that the strength of Donelle lay in her depths, not her -surfaces. - -"Jim," he said, "here's Miss Walden." - -Norval was alert on the instant. Making the best of things, as both -Donelle and Law saw, he smiled, put out a hand, and said: - -"Glad to see you, Miss Walden. It's awfully good of you to spend hours -making life a little less of a bore to a fellow." - -Donelle tried her brand-new voice: - -"One has to make a living, Mr. Norval. This is a very pleasant way to -do it." - -Mary Walden had framed that speech and had coached her pupil. Then: - -"May I go in the inner room and take off my hat?" - -"Law, show her, please. You see, Miss Walden, I'm a squatter. This is -Mr. Law's place." - -In ten minutes Donelle was back, red wig, trim gown, white collar and -cuffs, a demure and tragically determined young person. - -Law began to enjoy the sport now that he knew Donelle was not going to -betray him. - -"I'm going over to the north end of the room," he said, "and daub. -There's a book on the stand, Miss Walden, that Norval likes. There's a -cigarette stump between the pages where we left off." - -"Reading will not disturb you, Mr. Law?" Donelle was reaching for the -book when suddenly Norval started up as if an electric current had gone -through him. Donelle shivered, that cigarette stump had made her -careless. - -"What is the matter, Mr. Norval?" she asked in Mary Walden's most casual -and businesslike tones. - -"Oh! just for a moment, please excuse me, but you made me think of -someone I once knew. The blind are subject to all sorts of fancies. -Law, did you notice----" but Norval stopped short and Anderson Law waved -frantic hands at Donelle. - -She did not let go of herself after that for many days; not until her -assumed voice became so familiar to Norval that those undertones lost -their power over him. - -Donelle read tirelessly, her practice with Jo stood her in good stead. -Books, books, books! Greedily Norval demanded them, motionless he lay -upon his couch, and listened while Law at the north window painted and -dreamed, and then painted his dreams. He got Jo at the oven on canvas -for the spring exhibit. Donelle silently wept before it, kissed the -blessed face, and gave Law a bad half hour painting off the kiss! - -Always while life lasted Donelle was to look back upon those studio days -as a sacred memory. Life was using her and she was ready to pay--to pay. -New York, until years later, meant to her only three high notes: terror -of its bigness and noise, patience while she waited with Mary Walden -until she was used, glory as she served the man she loved. - -The flights through the city streets grew to be mere detail. She -neither saw nor heeded the bustle and unrest. She was like a little, -eager soul seeking, unerringly, its own. - -There was to be a time when Donelle would know the splendour and meaning -of the City, but not then. She was conscious at that time only of the -crude joy of existence near her love. - -He depended upon, watched for her; the maternal in her was so rapidly -developed that at length Norval, from his dark place of helplessness, -confided in her! - -"Your voice is tired," he said one day; they had been reading Olive -Schreiner's "Dreams." - -"Oh, no, I'm not tired, only the little Lost Joy sort of filled me up." -That was an expression of Jo's. - -"But it's infernally true," Norval went on, "these 'Dreams' are about as -gripping as anything I know of. If we cannot have exactly what we want -in life, we are as blind as bats to, perhaps, the thing that is better -than our wishes." Then, so suddenly that Donelle drew back in alarm, he -asked: - -"Are you a big young person, or a little one?" - -"Why, I'm thin, but I'm quite tall." The voice was sterner than Mary -Walden could have evolved. - -"You think me rude, presuming?" - -"Oh! no, Mr. Norval. I was only wishing I was, well--rather nicer to -talk about." - -Law, by the north window, went through a series of contortions that -lightened the occasion. - -"You know, here in the dark where I live now, one has to imagine a lot. -Lately I've wanted to know exactly--exactly as words can portray, just -how you look. Andy?" - -"Yes, Jim. What's up?" - -"Come here." - -Law came forward, smudgy and dauby, pallette on thumb. - -"Tell me how Miss Walden looks. I want to place her. She has a ghastly -habit of escaping me when I'm alone and thinking her over. I can't seem -to fix her." - -"Well," Law stood off and regarded Donelle seriously, "She's red headed -and thin. She ought to be fed up. I don't believe she can stand the -city in summer. She doesn't walk very well, she's at her best when -running." - -"Oh! Mr. Law." Donelle found herself laughing in spite of herself. - -"Well, you are. I've caught you running two or three times on the -street. You looked as if you had your beginnings in wide spaces and -could not forget them." - -"I--I am a country girl," the practical young voice almost broke. "I -hate the city. Maybe I do run sometimes. I always feel that something -is after me." - -"What?" asked Norval, and he, too, was laughing. - -His old depression seldom came now when his faithful reader was present. - -"I cannot describe it. I read a child's story once about a Kicker. It -was described as a big, round thing with feet pointing in every -direction. One didn't stand a chance when the Kicker got after him. -The city seems like that to me. The round thing is full of noise, -noise, noise; it just hurls itself along on its thousands of feet. I do -run when I get thinking of it." - -Norval leaned his head back with a delighted chuckle. - -"Law," he asked presently, "does Miss Walden ever remind you of any -one?" - -Law looked at the red wig. - -"No," he said contemplatively, "she doesn't." - -A week after that, it was a warm, humid day, the windows of the studio -were open. - -"I suppose you'll go away when summer comes?" Norval asked. - -"And you?" Donelle laid down her book. - -"No. I'll stay on here. I mean to get a man to look after me. I'm -going to send Law on an errand." - -"I wish," Donelle's eyes were filled with the yellow glow so like -sunlight. "I wish, Mr. Norval, that you would try to walk. Your -masseur says you are better." - -"What's the use, Miss Walden? At the best it would mean a crutch or a -cane. I couldn't bring myself to that. A dog would be better, but I -never saw but one dog I'd cotton to for the job." - -"Where is that dog, Mr. Norval?" - -"The Lord knows. Gone to the heaven of good, faithful pups, probably." - -"Mr. Norval?" - -"Yes, Miss Walden." - -"I wish, while Mr. Law is out every morning for his airing, that you -would try--you could lean on my shoulder--to walk! Just think how -surprised he'd be some day to find you on your feet by the north -window." - -"Would that please you, Miss Walden, to act the part of a nice little -dog leading a blind man?" - -"I'd love it! And you must remember, your doctor says your eyes are -better. Mr. Norval," here the words came with almost cruel sternness, -"I think it is--it is cowardly for you not to try and make the best of -things. Even if you can't see very well, or walk very well, you have no -right to hold back from doing the best you can! It is mean and small." - -Ah! if Norval could have seen the eyes that were searching his grim -face. - -"You may be right. I begin to feel I am not going to die!" Norval drew -in a deep breath, his lips relaxed. - -"The shock is passing," Donelle's voice softened. "You will recover, I -know you will--if you are brave." - -"The shock! Good God, the shock! It was like hell let loose. For -months I heard the splitting noise, the hot sand in my face----!" - -It was the first time Norval had spoken of the war, and the drops of -perspiration started on his forehead. - -"Don't talk of it, Mr. Norval. Please let me help you to your feet. -Just a few steps." - -Donelle was afraid of the excitement she had aroused. - -In self-defense Norval let her help him. He would not lie still and -remember. His self-imposed silence, once broken, might overpower him. -Something dynamic was surging in him. - -"I cannot stand," he said weakly. "You see?" - -"Of course the first time is hard. You may fall halfway, but I'll catch -you, and I--I won't tell." - -Norval laughed nervously. - -"You're a brick," he faltered. - -"Now then, Mr. Norval. Put your hand on my shoulder, the other hand on -this chair. Why, you're not falling. Come on!" - -Two, three steps Norval took, while the veins stood out on his temples. - -"Good God!" he muttered under his breath, "I'm not crumbling, that's a -sure thing." - -The next day he did a little better; the tenth day he reached the north -window with the aid of the chair and the little shoulder, that felt, -under his hand, like fine steel. They kept their mighty secret from -Law. - -"What's on the easels?" Norval asked on the morning of the fourteenth -day when he felt the breeze from the north coming in through the -half-opened window. - -"One easel has a girl on it; a girl with a fiddle." - -Norval breathed hard, then gave a laugh. - -"Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight," he whispered. - -"Yes. Why, yes, Mr. Norval. Those words are on a piece of paper -hanging from the frame. How did you know?" - -"Miss Walden, I painted that picture. You may not believe it, but I -did. It is a portrait of about the purest soul I ever met." - -"Can you tell me about her?" - -"No, she's not the kind to tell about." - -"I beg your pardon, Mr. Norval." But Donelle's face was aglow. - -"And the other easel?" Norval was asking. "What's on that?" - -"Such a dear, funny woman. She's standing by a big oven, an outdoor -oven; she's got loaves of bread on something that looks like a flat -spade." - -Norval's face was a study. - -"Where do they use those ovens?" Donelle asked. - -"Oh! somewhere in Canada." - -"Did you ever know this dear, funny woman, Mr. Norval." - -"She's not the kind one _knows_. I've seen her, thank heaven! I'm glad -to be able to recall her when I'm alone." - -"Yes--she looks like that kind." Donelle threw a kiss to the pictured -Jo. - -Another week and then the chair was discarded. Quite impressively -Norval, his hand on the small, steady shoulder, did the length of the -studio. - -"It's great," he said like a happy boy. "Miss Walden, you ought to have -the cross, iron, gold, or whatever it is they give to brave women." - -"I have," Donelle whispered delightedly; "I have." - -"What is it made of, Miss Walden, this cross that you have won?" - -"You'll have to guess." - -"You're a pert young secretary if that is the title your job goes by. -Aren't you afraid I'll bounce you?" - -"I'm going to bounce myself." - -"What!" The hand on the shoulder tightened. "You're going away?" - -"Yes, I cannot stand a summer in the city. That Kicker almost caught me -this morning." - -"You treat me like a spoiled child, Miss Walden. Amusing me, coaxing me; -you'll be bringing me toys next." - -"You're a strong man, now, Mr. Norval, that is why I'm going away. Soon -you will not need me. The doctor told Mr. Law yesterday that surely you -would see." - -"Did he? Don't fool me, Miss Walden. I do not want to be eased up. -Did he say that?" - -"Yes, I heard him." - -A growing excitement stirred Norval and that afternoon he met Law -halfway across the room! Not even the little shoulder aided him. He -stretched out his hand and said: - -"Andy, here I am!" - -For a moment Law reeled back. Of late he feared that Norval would -defeat all their hopes by his indifference. - -"You--you've done this?" he said to Donelle, who stood behind Norval, -her trembling hands covering her quivering lips. - -"No, he did it quite by himself, Mr. Law. He's been so brave," she -managed to say, the tears in Law's eyes making her afraid that she might -lose control over her own shaking nerves. - -"Lord, Jim!" Law was gripping Norval's hand. "I feel as if--well, as if -I'd seen a miracle." - -The next day the specialist confirmed what Donelle had said about the -eyes. - -"You're going to see again, Norval," was the verdict. "You'll have to -go slow, wear dark glasses for awhile, but most of all, forget what -brought this about. Your nerves have played the deuce with you." - -"Yes," Norval replied, "for some time I've had that line on my nerves, -ever since Miss Walden bullied me into walking." - -The afternoon of that same day Norval surprised Donelle by announcing -that he was dead tired of reading. - -"I want to talk," he said. "Where is Law?" - -"He went to--to see Professor Revelle. He said he wanted some music; -that you," the pale face broke into a pathetic smile, "that you had got -on his nerves. Unless he got out he'd be----" - -"What, Miss Walden? What, exactly?" - -"Well, he'd be damned! That is what he said, exactly." - -"He's beginning to treat me like a human being, Miss Walden. I love Law -when he's at his worst. I suppose I've been a big trial, moping here. -Have I injured your nerves?" - -"No--o! Not for life." - -"You're a comical little codjer. Excuse me, Miss Walden. There are -times still when you remind me of someone to whom I once dared to speak -my mind." - -Then, quite suddenly: - -"Where are you going this summer?" - -"I have not decided yet, Mr. Norval. Why?" - -"Nothing, I was only thinking, but I'll have to speak to Law first. One -thing is sure, I'm not going to be an ass much longer. See here, Miss -Walden, you're a sturdy sort; you've stuck it out with me at my lowest. -I'm going to repay you for the trouble I've made you by making more for -you. I'm going to go away this summer, too. I've wanted to go lately. -I've got to dreaming about it. I'm going to a little place hidden away -in Canada. I have something to do there." - -"Yes?" The word was a mere breath. - -"For a time I couldn't contemplate it; I was too proud to show my -battered hulk. Now it seems that I have no longer any right to consider -myself. I was going to ask Mr. Law to carry a message for me to a young -girl there; the girl on that canvas by the window. Instead--I'm going -to carry it!" - -Donelle's hands gripped each other. She struggled to keep her voice -steady, cold. - -"I think you ought to carry your message yourself, if you can. You have -no right to consider only yourself," she faltered. - -"I wasn't, entirely." This came humbly from Norval. "The girl to whom -I am going is the sort who would be deeply sorry for me; she'd go to any -lengths to make up to me, if she could. Of course, you understand, I -would not let her, but I'd hate to make life harder for her." - -"Perhaps she has a right to--to judge for herself." Donelle was holding -firm. - -"Well, I don't know, Miss Walden. Such a woman as you might judge -wisely--even for yourself. She wouldn't. She's the kind that risks -everything; she's what you might call a divine gambler." - -"Poor girl!" - -"Yes, that's what I often say of her--poor girl!" - -It was twilight in the quiet studio; there was no one to see Donelle's -tears. - -"I'm going to tell you something," Norval said suddenly, "something that -has been troubling me lately. At first it didn't seem vital, it seemed -rather like a detail. I'm wondering how a woman would consider it." - -"I'd love to hear unless you'd rather have me read to you, Mr. Norval." - -"No, for a wonder, I'd rather tell you a story." - - - - - *CHAPTER XXIV* - - *THE GLORY BREAKS THROUGH* - - -And then Norval told Donelle about Tom Gavot. - -"You see that girl in Canada is married--was married, I mean; the young -fellow is dead. He lies under French earth in a pretty little village -that's been battered to the ground. Some day it will rise gloriously -again. I like to think of that Canadian boy sleeping there, waiting. - -"He was a surveyor and, before a dirty sniper got him, he used to prowl -about the desolated country and lay out roads! In his mind, you know. -He was a fanciful chap, but a practical worker. - -"I ran across him one day; I had known him before. He had never liked -me when I knew him in Canada, but most anything goes when you're over -there. He got to--to rather chumming with me at last, and many a laugh -I've had with him over the roads he saw through the hell about us. - -"Once we had silently agreed to ignore the past--and the poor fellow had -something to forgive in it, though not all he had supposed--we got on -famously. We really got to feel like brothers. You do--there. He was a -queer chap through and through. He always expected he was going to do -the white-livered thing and he always did the bravest when the snap -came. He did his thinking and squirming beforehand. At the critical -moment he just acted up like--well, like the man he was. - -"Why, he would talk by the hour of what a good idea it was of the -Government's to let the families of men, shot as traitors, think them -heroes who had died serving their country. He often said it didn't -matter, one way or the other, for the man who got what was coming to -him, but for them who had to live on it was something to think the best, -even if it were not so. - -"Then he'd write letters and cards, to be sent home in case he should -meet a traitor's death. Poor devil! I have some of those letters now." - -A throbbing, aching pause. Then: - -"Miss Walden, does this depress you too much?" - -"No, it--I--I love it, Mr. Norval. Please go on; it is a beautiful -story." - -Donelle sat in the deepening shadows, her eyes seeming to hold the -sunlight that had long since faded behind the west. - -"Well, there isn't much more to tell and the end--unless one happens to -know how things are over there: how big things seem little, and little -things massive--the end seems almost like a grisly joke. - -"We had got to thinking the French place where we were billeted was as -safe as New York. I wasn't a trained man, I was doing whatever happened -to be lying around loose. They called it reconstruction work. Good -Lord! My special job, though, just then was driving an ambulance. -Well, quite unexpectedly one night the enemy got a line on us from God -knows what distance, and they just peppered us. There was a hospital -there, too. They must have known that, the fiends, and, for a time, -things were mighty ticklish. The boys knew their duty, however, and did -it magnificently. Those Canadians were superb; given a moment to catch -their breath, they were as steady as steel. By morning the worst was -over, the shelling, you know, and they began to bring the boys in; back -from the fight, back to where the hospital used to be. Out in the open -doctors and nurses were working; the ones who had escaped I never saw -such nerve; they just worked over the poor hurt fellows as if nothing -had happened. - -"I was jumping about. There was plenty to do even for an unskilled -fellow who could only drive an ambulance. I kept bringing in -loads--such loads! And I kept an eye open for the chap from Canada that -I knew best of all. - -"About noon a giant of a fellow who, they said, had fought like a devil -all night, came up to me blubbering like a baby. It seems my man had -been fighting beside this boy, doing what one might expect, the big -thing! The two of them had crawled into a shell-hole and worked from -that cover where they were comparatively safe. In a lull--and here -comes the grim joke--a poor dog ran in front of them with a piece of -barbed wire caught about his haunches. The brute was howling as he ran -and my--my chap just went after him, caught him, pulled the wire out, -and--keeled over himself. A sniper had done for him! - -"He wanted me; had sent his comrade to find me. I got there just before -the end. - -"'You've heard?' he asked, and when I nodded he whispered that I was to -tell his wife; he knew she would understand. He was quite firm about my -telling her, he was like a boy over that, and I promised. He only spoke -once again. - -"'It paid!' he said, and with that he went over to his rest. - -"Are you crying, Miss Walden?" - -"Yes, yes, but oh! how glorious they are, those boys!" - -"I should not have told you this story." - -"I thank God you have! And indeed, Mr. Norval it is your sacred duty to -tell it to--to that girl in Canada. You promised and she ought to -know." - -[Illustration: "'Indeed, Mr. Norval, it is your sacred duty to tell it -to--to that girl in Canada. You promised and she ought to know.'"] - -"You, a woman, think that? Don't you think it might be better for her -if she didn't know?" - -"How dare you! Oh! forgive me, Mr. Norval. I was only thinking -of--of--the girl." - -"Well, lately, I've been wondering. You see, Miss Walden, soon after I -saw my friend safe, I got my baptism shock--gas and the rest. It -flattened me out, but now I am beginning to feel, to suffer. Using my -legs has brought me to myself." - -"And you will go and keep your promise, Mr. Norval, you will?" - -"Yes, that is what I've been turning over in my mind." - -"You see," Donelle was holding herself tight, "that, that girl in Canada -might be thinking, knowing her husband, that he had not played the man -at the last. The truth might save so much. And don't you understand -how he, that poor boy, had to save the dog? It was saving himself. -Another could have afforded to see the folly of exposing himself, but he -could not. Had he stayed in the hole he might have been a coward -after!" - -"I had not thought of that, Miss Walden. The deadly absurdity of the -act made me bitter. I saw--just the dog part, you know." - -"I believe the girl in Canada will see the man part." The words came -solemnly. "Yes, it did pay; it did!" - -"You have convinced me, Miss Walden. I must go and keep my promise. - -"To-morrow they are going to make a big test of my eyes. After that I -will start. I want you and Law to come, too." - -"Oh! I----" - -"Couldn't you do this just as a last proof of your good heartedness, -Miss Walden?" - -Donelle struggled with her tears. Her heart was beating wildly; beating -for Tom and for the helpless man before her. She, sad little frail -thing, stood between the dead and the pitiful living. - -"Yes, I will go," she said at length. - -"Thank you, Miss Walden." - -Norval smiled in the darkness. - -The next day the test came--the test to his eyes. Norval meant that his -first look should rest upon Miss Walden! - -He heard her moving about, getting books and tables out of the doctor's -way. He heard Law excitedly directing her, and then--the bandages fell -away. There was a moment of tense silence. - -"What do you see, Norval?" the doctor asked. - -Norval saw a slim, little black-robed back and a red head! But all he -said was: - -"I see Andy's ugly mug!" - -The words were curiously broken and hoarse. Then: - -"Andy, old man, get a hold on me; it's almost too good to be true!" - -In July they went to Canada. By that time Norval could make quite a -showing by walking between Law and Miss Walden. He wore heavy dark -glasses and only had periods of "seeing things." At such moments Miss -Walden was conspicuously absent. - -The _River Queen_ swept grandly up to the dock in the full glory of high -noon. Jean Duval was there on his crutches; he was at his old job, -grateful and at peace. - -"Where are we going?" Norval asked. He had hardly dared put the -question. - -"Mam'selle Jo Morey is going to take us in," Law replied. "At least -she'll feed us. It's a cabin in the woods for us, Jim." - -"That sounds good to me, Andy." Norval drew in his breath sharply. - -"The pines are corking," he added. Then: "Miss Walden, how do you like -the looks of the place?" - -Donelle, under a heavy veil, was feasting her eyes on Point of Pines; on -a blessed figure waiting by a sturdy cart. - -"It looks like heaven!" replied the even voice of Mary Walden. - -Jo Morey came to the gang plank, and found her own among the passengers. -Then her brows drew close, almost hiding her eyes. - -"Those are my boarders!" she proclaimed loudly, seizing Donelle. "This -way, please." - -Law was the only one who spoke on the drive up. Jo sat on the shaft, the -others on the broad seat. - -"I miss Nick," he remarked. - -Mam'selle turned and gave him a stern look. Could he not know, the -stupid man, that Nick would have given the whole thing away? Nick had a -sense that defied red wigs and false voices. Nick was at that moment -indignantly scratching splinters off the inside of the cow-shed door. - -There was a sumptuous meal in the spotless and radiant living room. -There was a gentle fire on the hearth, though why, who could tell? - -And then, according to orders when the sun was not too bright, Norval -announced that he was going to take off his "screens." - -"I'm going to look about for a full hour," he said quietly, but with -that tone in his voice that always made Donelle bow her head. - -"Mam'selle!" - -"Yes, Mr.----" Jo wanted to say Richard Alton, instead she managed the -Norval with a degree of courtesy that put heart in the man who listened. - -"Mam'selle, I haven't noticed Donelle's voice. Where is she?" - -"She'll come, if you want her, Mr. Norval." - -Want her? Want her? The very air throbbed with the want. - -"She's upstairs," added Jo, looking grimmer than ever. - -"I--I have something to tell her about Tom Gavot--her husband." Norval -smiled strangely. - -"I'll call her, Mr. Norval." - -Then they all waited. - -Law walked to the window and choked. In the distance he could hear the -howling demands of the imprisoned Nick and the swishing of the outgoing -tide. - -Mam'selle stood by the foot of the little winding stairs. She was -afraid of herself, poor Jo, afraid she was going to show what she felt! - -Norval sat in the best rocker, his hands clasped rigidly. He had not -removed his screens, he did not intend to until he heard upon the stairs -the step for which he hungered. - -And then Donelle came so softly that the listening man did not know she -was there until she stood beside him. She had put on a white dress that -Mam'selle had spun for her. The pale hair was twisted about her little -head in the old simple way; the golden eyes were full of the light that -had never shone there until love lighted it. - -Law and Jo had stolen from the room. - -"Here I am!" - -Then Norval took down the screens and opened his arms. - -"My love, my love," he whispered, "come!" - -"Why----" Donelle drew back, her eyes widened. - -"Donelle, Donelle, do you think you could hide yourself from me? Why, -it was because I saw you that I wanted to live; wanted to make the most -of what I had. - -"Child, the day you got me out of the chair I was sure! Before that I -hoped, prayed; then I knew! I drew the bandage off a little and I saw -your eyes." - -"My beloved!" - -And Donelle, kneeling beside him, raised her face from his breast. - -"I am going to kiss you now, Donelle," he said, "but to think that such -as I am is the best that life has for you, is----!" - -"Don't," she whispered, "don't! Remember the dear Dream of First Joy, -my man. I never lost our First Joy. God let me keep her safe." - -From across the road came the wild, excited yelps of the released Nick. -Slowly, for Nick was old, he padded up the steps, into the room, up to -the girl on the floor beside the chair. Donelle pressed the shaggy head -to her. - -"Nick always has kept First Joy, too," she whispered. And oh, but her -eyes were wonderful. - -"And you'll play again for me, Donelle?" Norval still held her, though -he heard Law and Mam'selle approaching. - -"Sometime, dear man, sometime I'll bring the fiddle to the wood-cabin. -Sometime after I get strings. The strings, some of them, have snapped." - -Late that evening, quite late, nine o'clock surely, Law and Jo stood -near the hearth where the embers still glowed. - -"Where are the children?" Law asked as if all the mad happenings of the -day were bagatelles. - -"Out on the road, the road!" Jo's face quivered. "The moonlight is -wonderful, the road is as clear as day." She was thinking of Tom Gavot -while her great heart ached with pity of it all. - -"Queer ideas that young Gavot had about roads," Law said musingly, "Jim -has told me." - -"Poor boy, he got precious little for himself out of life," Jo flung -back. - -The bitterness lay deep in Mam'selle's heart. Almost her love for -Donelle, her joy in her, were darkened by what seemed to Jo to be -forgetfulness. That was unforgivable in her eyes. - -"I wonder!" Law said gently; he was learning to understand the woman -beside him. - -"If this were all of the road, you might feel the way you do. But it's -a mighty little part of it, Mam'selle. To most of us is given short -sight, to a few, long. I would wager all I have that young Gavot always -saw over the hilltop." - -"That's a good thing to say and feel, Mr. Law." Jo tried to control her -brows, failed, and let Law look full in her splendid eyes. - -"Life's too big for us, Mam'selle," he said, "too big for us. There are -times when it lets us run along, lets us believe we are managing it. -Then comes something like this war that proves that when life needs us, -it clutches us again. - -"It needs those two out there on the road in the moonlight, one groping, -the other leading; on and on! Life will use them for its own purposes. -No use in struggling, Mam'selle; life has us all by the throat." - -"You're a strange man, Mr. Law." - -Jo was trembling. - -"You're a strange woman, Mam'selle." - -There was a pause. Out on the road Donelle was singing a little French -song, one she had brought with her out of the Home at St. Michael's. - -"You and I," Law continued, "have learned some of life's lessons in a -hard school, Mam'selle. Many of our teachers have been the same; they've -made us _hew_ where others have molded, but I'm thinking we have come to -know the true values of things, you and I. The value of labour, -companionship on the long road, a hearth fire somewhere at the close of -the day." - -And now Law held out his hand as a good friend does to another. - -"I wish, Mam'selle," his voice grew wonderfully kind, "I wish you could -bring yourself to--travel the rest of the way with me." - -The door was wide open, the fair moonlight lay across the porch, but Jo -was thinking of another night when the howling wind had pressed a -warning against the door and Pierre Gavot defiled the shelter she had -wrung from her life battle--Pierre the Redeemed! - -"Are you asking me to marry you, Mr. Law?" Jo's deep eyes were seeking -an answer in the look which was holding her. She was dazed, frightened. - -"Will you honour me by bearing my name, Mam'selle? Will you let me help -you keep the fire upon the hearth for them?" - -Nearer and nearer came Donelle and Norval, Donelle still singing with -the moonlight on her face. - -"I have fought my way up from lonely boyhood, Mam'selle. I've lived a -lonely man! And you, Mam'selle, I know your story. When all is said -and done, loneliness is the hardest thing to bear." - -Tears stood in Jo's eyes--tears! - -"You are a strange man," she repeated. - -"And you a strange woman, Mam'selle." - -But they were smiling now, smiling as people smile who, at the turn of -the road, see that it does not end, but goes on and on and on. - - - - THE END - - - - - THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS - GARDEN CITY, N. Y. - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAM'SELLE JO *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49361 - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so -the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. -Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this -license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg(tm) -electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg(tm) concept and -trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be -used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific -permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, -complying with the rules is very easy. 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