arisen most of the remarks upon his uncertain locomotion, leaped up and
charged headlong into the ranks of the enemy.
Very much relieved, Donald skated back eagerly to Jessie. When he
reached the spot where he had left her, he saw her disappearing with
his rival up the glittering pathway. Donald's face grew dark with
anger. He was too indignant to consider that he had returned much
sooner than she expected. He realised only that she had left him on
this his last night, and for that fellow! He turned with a fierce
jerk, and almost skated into Maggie. That young lady was darting
wildly here and there in her efforts to elude Syl Todd. Whatever
trouble Syl might have with his head, he was the perfection of
nimbleness with his feet, and Maggie was almost cornered. She clutched
Donald's arm.
"Oh, Don," she cried, "get me out o' this. That crazy little mosquito
is after me again!"
Glad of an excuse for swift motion, Donald caught her hands and swept
her forward with a force that made her gasp. Away they spun in a mad
race up the river, Maggie propelled by the impulse of a wild glee,
Donald by the anger that was consuming him. Neither had any thought of
the direction they were taking, neither dreamed that their winged
flight was to be a race with death.
A few moments earlier Jessie had declared that they must turn back.
They had gone farther up the river than they had ever ventured before,
and she was troubled at the thought that Donald might be waiting. John
Egerton felt chagrined at her evident anxiety to return. He could not
shut his eyes to the fact that Donald was very much to her, perhaps
everything. "Let us cross here, and go down the other side," he
suggested, wishing to prolong the pleasure. They glided out from the
shadow of the overhanging cliffs, the ice ringing beneath their feet.
Here the banks were close together, and a narrow strip of moonlight
marked the middle of the stream. Just as they touched its silvery
edge, there came a loud crackling sound. John Egerton realised with
appalling suddenness that he had made a fatal mistake. With a powerful
swing of his arm he sent the girl flying forward. "To the shore!" he
shouted. Before Jessie could grasp his meaning she felt herself
darting forward with the impetus from his arm, and at the same instant
the ice beneath her companion gave way with a sickening crash, and he
was engulfed in the swirling black water.
The girl's wild scream of terror was scarcely uttered when there was a
rush past her; she realised as if in a dream that Maggie was beside her
and that someone was darting out towards the middle of the river,
grasping a stout rail. The sisters clung to each other for an instant
in dumb fear, as they saw in the narrow strip of moonlight, the
minister's head, just above the black hole. He was clinging
desperately to the edge of the ice, which broke off now and then in his
benumbed grasp. Donald shouted a word of encouragement, and laying the
rail upon the ice he threw himself across it and worked cautiously
forward. As he went down upon the rail there was a cry from the bank.
"Oh, Jess, Don's in too!" gasped Maggie, faint with terror. Jessie's
heart stood still. In the darkness of the shadow Donald's figure was
scarcely discernible to her terrified gaze.
"Oh, he's gone down," she cried; "if he drowns I'll die!" She tore
herself from Maggie's grasp and shot down the stream calling for help.
As Donald reached cautiously forward and clutched the drowning man in
an iron grip, Jessie's cry of terror floated out to him. He never
dreamed of applying the words to himself. In the whirl of the moment
he scarcely grasped their meaning. That came to him later with
overwhelming force. With all his strength he was struggling to draw
his burden up on the ice. But already Jessie had returned with
assistance; another rail was being propelled towards the dangerous
spot, another pair of strong arms were stretched out and in a few
moments the young minister was dragged back, unconscious, into safety.
The next morning brought to John Egerton a vivid recollection of the
last night's events. His first impulse was to get out of his bed and
go straight to Donald and thank him from the bottom of his full and
humble heart. But Mrs. McNabb sat at his side, sympathetic but
inexorable. He was not to move out of his bed that day, she commanded;
Mrs. Fraser had left instructions to that effect. The helpless
prisoner appealed to Peter Junior. That young man came into the room
before going to his work to see if his hero had quite recovered. "See
what your mother's doing to me, Pete," he complained, half laughingly.
"I'm as well as you are, and she won't let me get up. I want to see
Donald. He pulled me out all alone, didn't he?"
Peter Junior was a garrulous youth of seventeen indiscreet summers. He
was enthusiastic over Donald's courageous deed. "You just bet he did,
Mr. Egerton!" he cried, seating his blacksmith's overalls on the
minister's immaculate white counterpane, too eager to notice that his
mother was telegraphing frantic disapproval. "You just bet! Mack
Fraser got there in time to give a little pull, but Don did the most of
it. Say! but it was fine though! All the fellows 'round said it was
jist nip an' tuck for about a minit whether he'd go in himself or not!"
"It was simply splendid of him!" cried the minister warmly. "I shall
never be able to thank him."
Mrs. McNabb left the room for a few minutes and her son became
confidential.
"Say, though," he exclaimed sympathetically, "all the fellows was
sayin' last night it must be kind o' awkward for you, havin' Don pull
you out. They're all wonderin' how Jessie Hamilton'll take it."
If Mrs. McNabb had happened to take her patient's temperature at that
moment she would have been highly alarmed. But it was impossible to
resent Peter's blundering sympathy.
"Where's Donald?" he asked, with an effort. "I must see him."
"He went off this mornin' early. Sandy drove him to Mapletown. Don't
know what he was in such a fearful rush for. Allan Fraser's goin' on
the same train an' he doesn't go till the afternoon. Hello, there's
Flo yellin' at me. Now, you take care o' yourself, an' do what mother
tells you," he added, rising, and gazing affectionately at the young
minister. "You'll soon be all right. There's been about a thousand
people here this mornin' already askin' for you."
John Egerton scarcely heard the kindly words. Left alone he turned his
face to the wall. He was descending the valley of bitter humiliation
and regret. Donald Neil, the young man he had almost hated, had saved
his life at the risk of his own, and had then gone off apparently to
escape his thanks. Did the young man despise him so much then? His
conscience smote him relentlessly as he went over the events of the
past two weeks. How must his conduct have looked in Donald's eyes?
And he the minister, the guide and example of the young men of the
community. It was impossible to bear his self-accusation and lie
inactive. In spite of his landlady's prayers and protests he insisted
upon rising. He felt rather weak and giddy, but he got to his writing
desk and there poured out his repentant soul in a letter to Donald. He
thanked him humbly from the bottom of his heart for the great service
he had rendered him. He hinted that if he had ever done Donald an
injury, either in word or action, he was willing to make amends
ten-fold. He declared that he was ready, nay anxious, to do anything
or everything that Donald might suggest that would in any small way
help to repay him for what he had done.
Donald was touched by the letter. It was impossible not to read the
sorrow and repentance in it, not to feel its ring of truth. He
pondered over it deeply. A man who could write such a letter as that
could not but be honourable, he reflected. And why should he blame him
for falling in love with Jessie? Indeed Donald confessed that he did
not see how he could help it. And was he justified in hating the man
because he had won that which he himself had lost? It was hard to be
generous, but Donald's nature was so essentially honest he could not
but respond to the heartfelt words. He intended to answer the letter
the very next evening, but was prevented by an invitation to the home
of one of his professors.
Donald was glad to escape from his own moody thoughts, so, early in the
evening, he found himself packed into a layer of fellow students
against the wall of the crowded drawing-room. He was listening
absently to the strains of music that floated in from another room,
when he felt himself clutched violently from behind. He turned to meet
an elegant young man, small and dapper, who was struggling eagerly to
his side. Donald recognised him as a law student whose field of labour
was in society, and who went by the name of Dickey Deane.
"I say, McDonald," he whispered eagerly, when he had dragged Donald
aside, "don't you hail from Glenoro, or some such place, and don't you
occasionally masquerade under the title of Neil?"
Donald confessed that he was guilty on both counts.
The young man slapped him joyously upon the back. "By Jove!" he cried
enthusiastically, "I've found you at last! Come along here, my Eureka;
there's a young lady here waiting to fall down and worship you. Didn't
you pull the Reverend Egerton out of a hole in the ice at Christmas?
You close beggar, why couldn't you tell people? And Jack Egerton's
your minister! Well, Jupiter, wouldn't that drive anyone to drink!
You'll know all about Miss Weir-Huntley, then. She's had me doing
amateur detective work for nearly a week, running down a glorious hero
by the name of Neil. I didn't know you had to travel incog. Come
along here; you may be a questionable character, for all I know, but
she thinks you're Neptune's own son. There she is, under the lamps,
the goddess in pale green. Isn't she a stunner? Don't you wish you
had let the Reverend Jack go under?"
Donald's grip brought the young man's headlong progress to a sudden
termination. His brain was in a whirl. The young lady's name had
awakened vague memories of Glenoro gossip.
"Hold on there," he said firmly, "what are you raving about? Who is
Miss Weir-Huntley anyway, and what under the canopy does she want with
me?"
"Why, you unshorn, backwoods lamb, she's the belle of Toronto! She's
Jack Egerton's dearly-beloved, and finally and most important of all,
she's the faithful and adoring worshipper of your glorious self!"
But Donald was in no mood for levity. He looked across the heads of
the crowd at the regal young woman beneath the chandelier. "Do you
mean to tell me," he asked, "that she's engaged to--to marry our
minister, Mr. Egerton?"
"Why, of course. Everybody knows that. She's waiting till he gets
famous. Don't faint! By Jove, old fellow, I believe you're hit
already! All the fellows get that way over her; I'm a chronic case
myself. Cheer up; shouldn't wonder if she'd throw Jack over for you.
She's awfully taken with you already, and when she sees you----" He
broke off with an extravagant gesture of admiration which was not
altogether feigned.
Donald did not notice him; he was asking himself why he had not let the
double-dealing cad drown, but the next moment he was bowing over a
beautiful, jewelled hand and a pair of dark eyes were looking
unutterable gratitude into his, and Donald felt ashamed. He left her
as soon as was possible without seeming rude, and went home to face the
matter squarely. This man, this despicable creature who had won
Jessie's affection, was playing with her. He was amusing himself
making love to the little country girl while this haughty young queen
held his heart. Donald was torn by conflicting emotions. Should he
write to Jessie and tell her? He was too sorely hurt to do that,
besides she would not listen to him. Should he write to John Egerton
and tell him in a few scorching words what he thought of him? In the
end he did neither, and two in Glenoro who expected to hear from him
wondered at his silence.
Miss Weir-Huntley found young Mr. McDonald a difficult puzzle. She
wanted to show her gratitude to the young man who had saved Jack's
life, but this strange youth would have none of her favours. He
refused coldly all her invitations. Donald could not be friendly
towards John Egerton's betrothed; Jessie's cry was still ringing in his
ears. The young lady gave him up at last, concluding that he must be a
boor in spite of his fine appearance and his courage. Only once was
she able to show him any attention. She was driving home in her
carriage when she came upon Donald crossing the campus. She insisted
upon his taking the seat at her side as far as his boarding-house. As
Donald stepped from the carriage and stood on the sidewalk bowing his
thanks very gravely, Allan Fraser appeared at the street door. That
young man was profoundly impressed.
"My eye!" he gasped, watching the elegant equipage disappear down the
street, "the Prince o' Wales and all the royal family! I say, Don, is
that the girl little Deane says is all gone on you? Who is she,
anyway?"
Donald turned his back upon him in disgust. "Oh, shut up, will you?"
he cried, slamming the door in his friend's face.
Allan uttered a long whistle. "Hello! it's serious, all right," he
said to himself. "Christmas, but isn't she a daisy! I'm glad he's got
over mooning for that little Hamilton flirt, anyway!"
XII
JESSIE
The first great January snowfall was heralded by a leaden sky and a
surly looking sunrise, and early in the forenoon down came the white
flakes, thick and fast, whirling this way and that, until the valley
and the surrounding hills lay pure and soft under their fairy covering.
In the afternoon Miss Cotton took her sewing, put a shawl over her
head, and ran over to the Hamiltons'. She was lonely, and, besides,
she had some news to tell.
"Here's 'Liza comin'," announced Maggie to the group sitting around the
dining room stove. "Chuck full o' news, too, I know. I can tell by
the way she's hoppin' along. Old Mother Fraser's jist gone away from
there; she's been tellin' her something new about Mr. Egerton, I guess!"
She ran out to the hall and flung open the door. "Hello, 'Liza! Come
along in; we're all here, Sarah'n all. It was too snowy for her to go
to school. My, but you needn't bring all the snow in; leave a little
outdoors for sleighin'."
"If you weren't such a lazy poke, Maggie Hamilton, you'd have a path
shovelled to your gate; it looks like the track to a wigwam!"
"It's jist too bad, 'Liza," said Mrs. Hamilton as she swept the snow
from her visitor's feet and skirts. "If I've told them girls once to
sweep that path, I've told them a dozen times. Where's Mary Fraser
been?"
"Up to see old Duncan Polite." Miss Cotton spread her cold hands over
the stove, and surveyed the four girls sharply. "My, but you're
pretendin' to be awful busy! An' Maggie sewin', too, as I'm alive!
The poor old man's got brownkaties, she says."
Sarah covered her face with her French Grammar and giggled.
"Oh yes, smarty! You've got to snicker at somethin'. I s'pose they've
learned you some new-fangled way o' sayin' it at the High School. But
brownkaties is good enough for ordinary folks, an' bad enough, too.
An' that's what the poor old fellow's got anyhow. They had a doctor
out from Mapletown, an' Betsey Neil's been there three nights. He's
had a cold all fall, Mrs. Fraser says, an' wouldn't look after it."
"Dear, dear," said Mrs. Hamilton in distress. "One o' you girls must
run up to-morrow with some beef-tea or something. That's too bad. Sit
close to the fire, 'Liza, it's dreadful cold."
"You'd better send Jessie up with the stuff," remarked the visitor,
planting two trim feet upon the stove damper. "Maybe she'll get news
o' Donald."
"How d'ye know she don't get news anyhow?" demanded Maggie.
"Well, I got some news I'll bet she never got. Don's up sides with you
now, Miss Jessie!"
Jessie looked at her with a startled expression in her grey eyes.
"I don't know what you mean," she said with attempted lightness.
"Well, Mrs. Fraser told me to-day that Annie got a letter from Allan
yesterday and he said Donald Neil was jist gone crazy over a city lady,
a real high-flier, too, rich as a Jew, mind you; she has a carriage and
she calls at the college every afternoon for my gentleman Donald and
drives him home, coachman and footman and everything. Now wouldn't
that kill you? I guess nobody in Glenoro'll be good enough for Don,
now; he'll be gittin' stuck up, like all the other folks that take to
book-learnin'"--she cast a meaning glance at Sarah, who smiled good
naturedly. She rather enjoyed being considered proud of her
educational attainments.
"Well, what do you think o' your old beau now, Jessie?" continued the
visitor.
Jessie's cheeks were very pink, but she returned Miss Cotton's gaze
steadily. "Why, I guess he's got a right to do anything he likes," she
said indifferently.
"Well I should hope so, specially when you've been carryin' on with the
minister all fall. I guess Don thought two could play at that game."
She looked sharply at the girl, in some doubt. She really hoped she
did not care, for 'Liza Cotton's heart was a kindly one, and she never
told her tales from malice, but from a sheer inability to be quiet.
"You'd better look out you don't lose both your beaux," she added.
"You and the minister don't seem so chummy since Christmas. Did you
have a tiff?"
Jessie's eyes sparkled, and the garrulous visitor knew she had gone too
far. "I think that's my affair," said the girl quietly.
Miss Cotton laughed easily. "There now, you needn't get mad over it.
Goodness me, I always thought you were the good-tempered one o' the
family; you'll soon be as bad as Sarah for firin' up."
Sarah flew to defend herself, and incidentally to establish more firmly
her reputation as the bad-tempered member of the household, and in the
war of words which ensued Jessie's embarrassment was forgotten. Mrs.
Hamilton sat and stitched placidly through the altercation, breaking in
at last to ask if Mrs. Fraser had said Duncan Polite could eat
anything. There was some chicken broth in the house she could send up
with Babbie when she came home from school.
Jessie slipped away, when the conversation turned from her affairs and
crept upstairs. So this was the reason of Don's silence. Someone else
had her place in his heart. She realised with a sharp pang that it was
her own fault. She had trifled with his love, because the minister's
attentions flattered her, and now she was reaping her just reward. It
was the first real trial of the girl's bright, easy life. But she came
of a stock of pioneers, hardy folk, accustomed to shoulder the
adversities of life, and she bore her burden bravely. Only her mother
knew that the news of Donald meant more to her than wounded vanity.
Every day during Duncan Polite's illness, Mrs. Hamilton, as was her
custom in all cases of sickness in the village, sent one of the girls
to his house with some tempting delicacy, jellies or custards or gruel
or beef-tea, the best she could produce. Jessie had refused
positively, from the first, to take her turn at these errands of mercy;
though she had always been very willing under such circumstances in the
past. But 'Liza Cotton's words had aroused a feeling of delicacy
regarding a visit to Donald's uncle.
But one day she found it impossible to refuse. Sarah and the little
girls were at school, Bella and Maggie were away, and her mother was
preparing to make the snowy journey up to Duncan Polite's house, when
Jessie interfered. She would go this once, she said, but never again.
The morning was clear and bright, the world a dazzling vision of white,
with here and there intense blue shadows. Above, stretched a cloudless
dome of the same deep azure. The air was mild, and the girl let her
dark coat fly open, revealing a jaunty scarlet blouse; her cheeks were
pink and her eyes bright from the exercise. So it was no wonder that
as she passed the McNabbs' a pair of admiring eyes watched her, their
owner wishing he could find some plausible excuse for going up the hill
that morning. But it was Friday, and his sermon was not yet commenced.
Duncan Polite saw Jessie coming. He was able to sit up at his window
by this time and look over his little hedge of blooming geraniums at
the glittering white world. One of the little girls had always come
formerly, and he had been able to reward her with a wonderful story of
the fairies that danced on the heather in the old land, or of Bonnie
Prince Charlie, or some other charming personage. But this young lady
was different. Duncan had scarcely spoken to her since the days she
used to sit on his knee and have her turn at the stories. But he had
long known that she was Donald's sweetheart, and he saw her come with
feelings of mingled embarrassment and joy.
He arose quickly with all the natural courtesy that had earned him his
name, and had the door wide open, before Jessie reached the steps. "Oh
indeed, indeed, it would be too kind of you and your mother to be
troubling," he said deprecatingly, as he took the little tin pail.
"Come away in, come away!"
"You should not come to the door when you are sick, Mr. McDonald," said
the girl kindly. "Are you better to-day?"
"Oh, yes indeed, yes indeed, I will jist be all right," cried Duncan,
sweeping the snow from her small, neat boots. "And now you will jist
be sitting by the fire for a rest after your long walk."
His tone was so eager that Jessie's heart was touched. She took the
proffered seat, and Duncan in his pleasure and overwhelming hospitality
began to cram the stove full of wood.
"Oh, I'm not cold, Mr. McDonald," she said, "not a little bit. Why, I
was _hot_ coming up the hill, the sun is so strong."
Duncan smiled at the bright, beautiful face. "Ah, it will be good to
be young," he said, sinking into his old rocking chair again. "Oh yes,
indeed. Then you will be taking off your things for a little?" he
questioned nervously.
The girl slipped off her jacket and fur cap, and sat by the window, her
curly head and her bright dress making a pretty picture in the bare
little room. Duncan regarded her with a wistful admiration.
"Oh yes, yes," he sighed. "You will be minding me o' the times when
Betsey would be a lass, and my father and mother would be here."
Jessie's soft grey eyes were full of sympathy. "I suppose everything
has changed for you since then, hasn't it?"
Duncan nodded. How sadly things had changed for him, the girl could
not guess.
"Father always says," she continued, "that people aren't nearly as good
now as they were in the old times, when Mr. McAlpine used to come here.
He says we young folks have too good a time." She gave a little
half-apologetic laugh.
Duncan looked up suddenly with a feeling of joyful surprise. He had
not dreamed that this bright young creature would understand or
appreciate his troubles, but she had touched the keynote at once. His
sensitive nature opened to sympathy as a morning glory to the sunrise:
his reticent tongue was immediately loosened.
"I will be afraid that sometimes us old folk will not be giving the
young ones the credit they deserve," he said indulgently. "But indeed
the lads and lasses in the Glen will be doing work in the church we
would never be having in my young days. There will be this new
society, whatever, the Christian Endeavour."
Jessie looked out through the red and green of the geraniums at the
brilliant blue and silver of the landscape. She knew that the purpose
of the new society was above reproach, but somehow she could not quite
understand just what good it did. "Yes," she said vaguely.
"And you will be a member of the church now," Duncan ventured gently.
"And I would be very glad to see all the young folk that would be
coming to the Lord's table at the last communion, for it will be a very
holy consecration to God."
Jessie felt her cheeks growing hot; she looked down at the bare, white
floor.
"It will be a fine thing to be giving up the life to the Lord's work in
youth," continued Duncan softly.