BETTY TAKES COVER
In the office they found Parson Tom at work with pencil and note-book.
The latter he closed as they came in.
"For goodness' sake shut that door behind you," he laughed. "I've been
trying to think of the things I need for my journey to-night, but that
uproar makes it well-nigh impossible."
The words brought Betty back to matters of the moment. Everything had
been forgotten in the interest of her tour of the mills at Dave's side.
Now she realized that time was short, and she too must make her
preparations.
Dave closed the door.
"We'd best get down to the barn and fix things there," he said. "Then
you can get right back home and arrange matters with Mary. Betty could
go on and prepare her."
The girl nodded her approval.
"Yes," she said, "and I can get my own things together."
Both men looked at her.
She answered their challenge at once, but now there was a great change
in her manner. She no longer laughed at them. She no longer carried
things with a high hand. She intended going up to the camps, but it
almost seemed as though she desired their justification to support her
decision. Somehow that tour of the mills at Dave's side had lessened
her belief in herself.
"Yes," she said, "I know neither of you wants me to go. Perhaps, from
your masculine point of view, you are both right. But--but I want to
go. I do indeed. This is no mere whim. Uncle, speak up and admit the
necessity for nursing. Who on earth is up there to do it? No one."
Then she turned to Dave, and her earnest eyes were full of almost
humble entreaty.
"You won't refuse me, Dave?" she said. "I feel I must go. I feel that
some one, some strange voice, is calling to me to go. That my presence
there is needed. I am only a woman, and in these big schemes of yours
it is ridiculous to think that I should play a part. Yet
somehow--somehow---- Oh, Dave, won't you let me help, if only in this
small way? It will be something for me to look back upon when you have
succeeded; something for me to cherish, this thought that I have helped
you even in so small a way. You won't refuse me. It is so little to
you, and it means so--so much to me."
Her uncle was watching the grave face of the lumberman; and when she
finished he waited, smiling, for the effect of her appeal.
It was some moments before Dave answered. Betty's eyes were shining
with eager hope, and at last her impatience got the better of her.
"You said 'yes' once to-night," she urged softly.
Her uncle's smile broadened. He was glad the onus of this thing was on
the broad shoulders of his friend.
"Betty," said Dave at last, looking squarely into her eyes, "will you
promise me to keep to the sick camps, and not go about amongst the
'jacks' who aren't sick without your uncle?"
There was something in the man's eyes which made the girl drop hers
suddenly. She colored slightly, perhaps with vexation. She somehow felt
awkward. And she had never felt awkward with Dave in her life before.
However, she answered him gladly.
"I promise--promise willingly."
"Then I'll not go back on my promise. Go and get ready, little girl,"
he said gently.
She waited for no more. Her eyes thanked him, and for once, though he
never saw it, nor, if he had, would he have understood it, there was a
shyness in them such as had never been there before.
As the door closed behind her he turned with a sigh to his old friend.
"Well, Tom," he said, with a dry, half regretful smile, "it strikes me
there are a pair of fools in this room."
The parson chuckled delightedly.
"But one is bigger than the other. You wait until Mary sees you. My
word!"
Betty hurried out of the mill. She knew the time was all too short;
besides, she did not want to give the men time to change their minds.
And then there was still her aunt to appease.
Outside in the yards the thirsty red sand had entirely lapped up the
day's rain. It was almost as dry as though the summer rains were mere
showers. The night was brilliantly fine, and though as yet there was no
moon, the heavens were diamond-studded, and the milky way spread its
ghostly path sheer across the sky. Half running in her eagerness, the
girl dodged amongst the stacks of lumber, making her way direct to a
point in the fence nearest to her home. To go round to the gates would
mean a long, circuitous route that would waste at least ten minutes.
As she sped, the din of the mill rapidly receded, and the shadows
thrown by the flare lights of the yards behind her lengthened and died
out, merged in the darkness of the night beyond their radiance. At the
fence she paused and looked about for the easiest place to climb. It
was high, and the lateral rails were wide apart. It was all the same
whichever way she looked, so, taking her courage in both hands, and
lifting her skirts knee high, she essayed the task. It was no easy
matter, but she managed it, coming down on the other side much more
heavily than she cared about. Still, in her excited state, she didn't
pause to trouble about a trifle like that.
She was strangely happy without fully understanding the reason. This
trip to the hills would be a break in the monotony of her daily
routine. But somehow it was not that that elated her. She loved her
work, and at no time wanted to shirk it. No, it was not that. Yet it
was something to do with her going. Something to do with the hill
camps; something to do with helping--Dave--ah! Yes, it was that. She
knew it now, and the knowledge thrilled her with a feeling she had
never before experienced.
Her course took her through a dense clump of pine woods. She was far
away from the direct trail, but she knew every inch of the way.
Somehow she felt glad of the cool darkness of those woods. Their depth
of shadow swallowed her up and hid her from all the rest of the world,
and, for the moment, it was good to be alone. She liked the feeling
that no one was near her--not even Dave. She wanted to think it all
out. She wanted to understand herself. This delight that had come to
her, this joy. Dave had promised to let her help him in his great work.
It was too good to be true. How she would work. Yes, she would strain
every nerve to nurse the men back to health, so that there should be no
check in the work.
Suddenly she paused in her thought. Her heart seemed to stand still,
then its thumping almost stifled her. She had realized her true motive.
Yes, she knew it now. It was not the poor sick men she was thinking of.
She was not thinking of her uncle, who would be slaving for sheer love
of his fellow men. No, it was of Dave she was thinking. Dave--her Dave.
Now she knew. She loved him. She felt it here, here, and she pressed
both hands over her heart, which was beating tumultuously and thrilling
with an emotion such as she had never known before. Never, even in the
days when she had believed herself in love with Jim Truscott. She
wanted to laugh, to cry aloud her happiness to the dark woods which
crowded round her. She wanted to tell all the world. She wanted
everything about her to know of it, to share in it. Oh, how good God
was to her. She knew that she loved Dave. Loved him with a passion that
swept every thought of herself from her fevered brain. She wanted to be
his slave; his--his all.
Suddenly her passion-swept thoughts turned hideously cold. What of
Dave? Did he?--could he? No, he looked upon her as his little "chum"
and nothing more. How could it be otherwise? Had he not witnessed her
betrothal to Jim Truscott? Had he not been at her side when she
renounced him? Had he not always looked after her as an elder brother?
Had he----
She came to a dead standstill in the heart of the woods, gripped by a
fear that had nothing to do with her thoughts. It was the harsh sound
of a voice. And it was just ahead of her. It rang ominously in her ears
at such an hour, and in such a place. She listened. Who could be in
those woods at that hour of the night? Who beside herself? The voice
was so distinct that she felt it must be very, very near. Then she
remembered how the woods echo, particularly at night, and a shiver of
fear swept over her at the thought that perhaps the sound of her own
footsteps had reached the ears of the owner of the voice. She had no
desire to encounter any drunken lumber-jacks in such a place. Her heart
beat faster, as she cast about in her mind for the best thing to do.
The voice she had first heard now gave place to another, which she
instantly recognized. The recognition shocked her violently. There
could be no mistaking the second voice. It was Jim Truscott's. Hardly
knowing what she did, she stepped behind a tree and waited.
"I can't get the other thing working yet," she heard Truscott say in a
tone of annoyance. "It's a job that takes longer than I figured on.
Now, see here, you've got to get busy right away. We must get the
brakes on him right now. My job will come on later, and be the final
check. That's why I wanted you to-night."
Then came the other voice, and, to the listening girl, its harsh note
had in it a surly discontent that almost amounted to open rebellion.
"Say, that ain't how you said, Jim. We fixed it so I hadn't got to do a
thing till you'd played your 'hand.' Play it, an' if you fail clear
out, then it's right up to me, an' I'll stick to the deal."
Enlightenment was coming to Betty. This was some gambling plot. She
knew Jim's record. Some poor wretch was to be robbed. The other man was
of course a confederate. But Jim was talking again. Now his voice was
commanding, even threatening.
"This is no damned child's play; we're going to have no quibbling. You
want that money, Mansell, and you've got to earn it. It's the spirit of
the bargain I want, not the letter. Maybe you're weakening. Maybe
you're scared. Damn it, man! it's the simplest thing--do as I say
and--the money's yours."
At the mention of the man's name Betty was filled with wonder. She had
seen Mansell at work in the mill. The night shift was not relieved
until six o'clock in the morning. How then came he there? What was he
doing in company with Jim?
But now the sawyer's voice was raised in downright anger, and the
girl's alarm leapt again.
"I said I'd stick to the deal," he cried. Then he added doggedly, "And
a deal's a deal."
Jim's reply followed in a much lower key, and she had to strain to hear.
"I'm not going to be fooled by you," he said. "You'll do this job when
I say. When I say, mind----"
But at this point his voice dropped so low that the rest was lost. And
though Betty strained to catch the words, only the drone of the voices
reached her. Presently even that ceased. Then she heard the sound of
footsteps receding in different directions, and she knew the men had
parted. When the silence of the woods had swallowed up the last sound
she set off at a run for home.
She thought a great deal about that mysterious encounter on her way. It
was mysterious, she decided. She wondered what she should do about it.
These men were plotting to cheat and rob some of Dave's lumber-jacks.
Wasn't it her duty to try and stop them? She was horrified at the
thought of the depths to which Jim had sunk. It was all so paltry,
so--so mean.
Then the strangeness of the place they had selected for their meeting
struck her. Why those woods, so remote from the village? A moment's
thought solved the matter to her own satisfaction. No doubt Mansell had
made some excuse to leave the mill for a few minutes, and in order not
to prolong his absence too much, Jim had come out from the village to
meet him. Yes, that was reasonable.
Finally she decided to tell Dave and her uncle. Dave would find a way
of stopping them. Trust him for that. He could always deal with such
things better--yes, even better than her uncle, she admitted to herself
in her new-born pride in him.
A few minutes later the twinkling lights through the trees showed her
her destination. Another few minutes and she was explaining to her aunt
that she was off to the hill camps nursing. As had been expected, her
news was badly received.
"It's bad enough that your uncle's got to go in the midst of his
pressing duties," Mrs. Tom exclaimed with heat. "What about the affairs
of the new church? What about the sick folk right here? What about old
Mrs. Styles? She's likely to die any minute. Who's to bury her with him
away? And what about Sarah Dingley? She's haunted--delusions--and
there's no one can pacify her but him. And now they must needs take
you. It isn't right. You up there amongst all those rough men. It's not
decent. It's----"
"I know, auntie," Betty broke in. "It's all you say. But--but think of
those poor helpless sick men up there, with no comfort. They've just
got to lie about and either get well, or--or die. No one to care for
them. No one to write a last letter to their friends for them. No one
to see they get proper food, and----"
"Stuff and nonsense!" her aunt exclaimed. "Now you, Betty, listen to
me. Go, if go you must. I'll have nothing to do with it. It's not with
my consent you'll go. And some one is going to hear what I think about
it, even if he does run the Malkern Mills. If--if Dave wasn't so big,
and such a dear good fellow, I'd like--yes, I'd like to box his ears.
Be off with you and see to your packing, miss, and don't forget your
thickest flannels. Those mountains are terribly cold at nights, even in
summer." Then, as the girl ran off to her room, she exploded in a final
burst of anger. "Well there, they're all fools, and I've no patience
with any of 'em."
It did not take long for Betty to get her few things together and pitch
them into a grip. The barest necessities were all she required, and her
practical mind guided her instinctively. Her task was quite completed
when, ten minutes later, she heard the rattle of buckboard wheels and
her uncle's cheery voice down-stairs in the parlor.
Then she hurried across to her aunt's room. She knew her uncle so well.
He wouldn't bother to pack anything for himself. She dragged a large
kit bag from under the bed, and, ransacking the bureau, selected what
she considered the most necessary things for his comfort and flung them
into it. It was all done with the greatest possible haste, and by the
time she had everything ready, her uncle joined her and carried the
grips downstairs. In the meantime Mary Chepstow, all her anger passed,
was busily loading the little table with an ample supper. She might
disapprove her niece's going, she might resent the sudden call on her
husband, but she would see them both amply fed before starting, and
that the buckboard was well provisioned for the road.
For the most part supper was eaten in silence. These people were so
much in the habit of doing for others, so many calls were made upon
them, that such an occasion as this presented little in the way of
emergency. It was their life to help others, their delight, and their
creed. And Mary's protest meant no more than words, she only hesitated
at the thought of Betty's going amongst these rough lumber-jacks. But
even this, on reflection, was not so terrible as she at first thought.
Betty was an unusual girl, and she expected the unusual from her. So
she put her simple trust in the Almighty, and did all she knew to help
them.
It was not until the meal was nearly over that Chepstow imparted a
piece of news he had gleaned on his way from the mill. He suddenly
looked up from his plate, and his eyes sought his niece's face. She was
lost in a happy contemplation of the events of that night at the mill.
All her thoughts, all her soul was, at that moment, centred upon Dave.
Now her uncle's voice startled her into a self-conscious blush.
"Who d'you think I met on my way up here?" he inquired, searching her
face.
Betty answered him awkwardly. "I--I don't know," she said.
Her uncle reached for the salad, and helped himself deliberately before
he enlightened her further.
"Jim Truscott," he said at last, without looking up.
"Jim Truscott?" exclaimed Aunt Mary, her round eyes wondering. Then she
voiced a thought which had long since passed from her niece's mind.
"What was he doing out here at this hour of the night?"
The parson shrugged.
"It seems he was waiting for me. He didn't call here, I s'pose?"
Mary shook her head. Betty was waiting to hear more.
"I feel sorry for him," he went on. "I'm inclined to think we've judged
him harshly. I'm sure we have. It only goes to show how poor and weak
our efforts are to understand and help our fellows. He is very, very
repentant. Poor fellow, I have never seen any one so down on his luck.
He doesn't excuse himself. In fact, he blames himself even more than we
have done."
"Poor fellow," murmured Aunt Mary.
Betty remained silent, and her uncle went on.
"He's off down east to make a fresh start. He was waiting to tell me
so. He also wanted to tell me how sorry he was for his behavior to us,
to you, Betty, and he trusted you would find it possible to forgive
him, and think better of him when he was gone. I never saw a fellow so
cut up. It was quite pitiful."
"When's he going?" Betty suddenly asked, and there was a hardness in
her voice which startled her uncle.
"That doesn't sound like forgiveness," he said. "Don't you think, my
dear, if he's trying to do better you might----"
Betty smiled into the earnest face.
"Yes, uncle, I forgive him everything, freely, gladly--if he is going
to start afresh."
"Doubt?"
But Betty still had that conversation in the woods in her mind.
"I mustn't judge him. His own future actions are all that matter. The
past is gone, and can be wiped out. I would give a lot to see
him--right himself."
"That is the spirit, dear," Aunt Mary put in. "Your uncle is quite
right: we must forgive him."
Betty nodded; but remained silent. She was half inclined to tell them
all she had heard, but it occurred to her that perhaps she had
interpreted it all wrong--and yet--anyway, if he were sincere, if he
really meant all he had said to her uncle she must not, had no right to
do, or say, anything that could prejudice him. So she kept silent, and
her uncle went on.
"He's off to-morrow on the east-bound mail. That's why he was waiting
to see me to-night. He told me he had heard I was going up into the
hills, and waited to catch me before I went. Said he couldn't go away
without seeing me first. I told him I was going physicking, that the
camps were down with fever, and the spread of it might seriously
interfere with Dave's work. He was very interested, poor chap, and
hoped all would come right. He spoke of Dave in the most cordial terms,
and wished he could do something to help. Of course, that's impossible.
But I pointed out that the whole future of Malkern, us all, depended on
the work going through. Dave would be simply ruined if it didn't.
There's a tremendous lot of good in that boy. I always knew it. Once he
gets away from this gambling, and cuts out the whiskey, he'll get right
again. I suggested his turning teetotaler, and he assured me he'd made
up his mind to it. Well, Betty my dear, time's up."
Chepstow rose from the table and filled his pipe. Betty followed him,
and put on her wraps. Aunt Mary stood by to help to the last.
It was less than an hour from the time of Betty's return home that the
final farewells were spoken and the buckboard started back for the
mill. Aunt Mary watched them go. She saw them vanish into the night,
and slowly turned back across the veranda into the house. They were her
all, her loved ones. They had gone for perhaps only a few weeks, but
their going made her feel very lonely. She gave a deep sigh as she
began to clear the remains of the supper away. Then, slowly, two
unbidden tears welled up into her round, soft eyes and rolled heavily
down her plump cheeks. Instantly she pulled herself together, and
dashed her hand across her eyes. And once more the steady courage which
was the key-note of her life asserted itself. She could not afford to
give way to any such weakness.