"FLOATED THE GLEAM"
Ever since Leslie Graham was old enough to know what she wanted she had
always managed to get it. She was the only child of wealthy parents,
as Algonquin counted wealth. Her father was absorbed in business, and
felt he had done his duty by his daughter when he gave her money enough
to be the best dressed girl in the town. Her mother's creed in regard
to bringing up children was to give the dears a good time when they
were young, they would grow old soon enough. So Leslie's time and
energies were bent to the two main tasks of life, unconsciously set her
by her parents, to spend as much money as possible on clothes, and to
have a good time.
She had been named, as many another girl of the congregation, Margaret
Leslie, after the minister's wife; she was a member of the church; she
had been brought up to attend Sunday-school and mission band, and to be
helpful in all social functions of the congregation; and withal she was
frankly and happily, and entirely pagan.
The earliest lesson life had taught her was that, if she wanted
anything, screams generally produced the desired object. The second
lesson was that, when screams failed, one must scramble down from one's
high chair and go after the prize and wrest it from table or sideboard
or high eminence, no matter how much hard climbing or bumps were
entailed.
So when Roderick McRae became desirable in her eyes, in her usual
straightforward manner, she frankly sought him out and demanded his
attention. His sudden appearance on the evening of her loss of
self-confidence, the appeal his rescue had made to her girlish
imagination, and the charm of the forbidden that hung over Old Angus
McRae's son made him a real Prince Charming. She was quite certain
that he needed only to know that she liked him, to be immediately her
slave. He seemed very shy and hard to convince that she cared, but
that was natural, considering the wide difference in their social
positions.
On the Monday morning after her father's arrival home, when he was
ready to go down to the bank, she suddenly appeared, dressed in her
prettiest white gown and announced her intention of accompanying him.
"Well, well, I feel highly flattered," he declared, as they walked down
the garden path together. Then, as he opened the gate for her, he
asked, with a knowing twinkle in his eye, for he was an astute business
man, and accustomed to divining people's motives, "Now, what do you
want to wheedle out of me this morning? You've been for a trip
already, and it can't be a new dress."
She laughed and, as was her way, went straight to the point. "No, it's
a new young man, Daddy. I want you to do something nice for Roderick
McRae. Haven't you a big chunk of business you need a lawyer for?"
Her father frowned. "Tut, tut, if I've got to give some work to every
young man that does you a favour, my business will be gone to the dogs
in a month."
"A favour! Why, Father Graham, he saved my life!" cried the girl
solemnly.
"Yes, dear, I realise that, and I'd like to do something for him. But
Ed Brians, I can't stand. He wants to run everything in the town. He
pretty nearly does, but he's not going to run my business. You mind
that!"
Though Lawyer Ed had completely forgotten the cause of the trouble
between them, Alexander Graham had not. Upon a certain date, years
earlier, the belligerent young elder had tramped into a managers'
meeting, denounced a money-saving scheme of Manager Graham's, and
called the assembled brethren all misers and skinflints. The managers
had succumbed, in the most friendly manner, all except Sandy Graham.
He had resigned instead, and had tended his grievance carefully until,
from a small shoot, in ten years it had grown up into a flourishing
tree with deep and tenacious roots.
There was another cause of dissension, too. Alexander Graham had a
brother named William, a lawyer, who lived in New York and was reputed
fabulously wealthy. And he was an old and staunch friend of Lawyer Ed,
who could not and would not be moved from his loyalty, no matter how
many grievances Sandy placed before him. Bill was forever putting
business in the way of Edward Brians, and his brother's jealousy and
ill-feeling grew stronger as the years passed.
Lawyer Ed paid not the slightest attention to Sandy Graham's enmity.
He invariably treated the old friend with an overwhelming good-humour
which only served to increase the irritation.
Leslie Graham knew all this, but she cared not a pin's worth for her
father's quarrels. She was not going to have her plans spoiled by a
mere parent.
"Now, Daddy dear!" she cried, knowing exactly how to manage him, "I
should think you'd have wit enough to see that Lawyer Ed would hate you
to give your business to his young partner far worse than to give it to
Willoughby. There's that new lumber scheme. You can give Roderick
that and tell him Lawyer Ed's not to know anything about it, eh?"
The man hesitated. He was at that moment on his way to the law firm of
Willoughby and Baldwin to put into their hands the work of negotiating
with the British North American R. R. Company regarding some timber
limits in New Ontario. It was a complicated piece of business, needing
careful handling. He had not much faith in Willoughby--he was too old,
and less in Baldwin, who was too young. This young McRae, being the
son of Angus McRae, would be honest, there was no doubt of that, and
evidently he had ability. And while he hesitated, and his daughter
argued and cajoled, they came to the door of Lawyer Ed's office.
Roderick was standing there alone, having just seen his partner off
down the street. Miss Leslie Graham took matters into her own hands
with her usual charming audacity.
"Good morning, Mr. Roderick McRae," she cried. "Here's my respected
parent can't make up his mind about a piece of backwoods he owns away
back of beyond somewhere, so I just steered him down here. He was just
saying on the way down that he would rather have the firm of Brians and
McRae do his business than any one he knew of. Weren't you, Papa? Now
you go in there with Roderick, and I shall call for you when I come
back from my shopping. Bye, bye."
She shoved him up the steps and right in at the door, and skipped away,
laughing over her shoulder at the trick she had played. Her father
stood a moment looking after her, not knowing whether to be angry or
amused. She turned and winked at him when she reached the bottom of
the steps, and his anger vanished. He laughed indulgently, threw up
his hands with a helpless gesture and followed Roderick into the
office. And before he stated his business he spent a half-hour telling
how much his daughter was to him and how grateful he was to Roderick
for what he had done.
Roderick's eyes shone when the new work was laid before him. It was a
big thing, bigger than had ever come the way of that little office in
all the years it had done business in Algonquin. It fired his ambition
to make good. The shrewd business man saw the look in the young
lawyer's eye, and he did not regret the step Leslie had forced him to
take.
"If you see that those rascals don't get the better of us, Mr. McRae,"
he said in parting, "I need not tell you that you will profit by it as
well as ourselves."
Roderick thanked him for his trust. "When Mr. Brians comes in--" he
commenced, but his client interrupted.
"I want it to be distinctly understood that this is your work entirely,
Mr. McRae," he said. "Mr. Brians will understand."
Lawyer Ed did understand, and laughed long and loud over what he called
Sandy Graham's extreme Scotchness. But he was vastly pleased that
Roderick was to have a chance of showing what he could do, and that the
wide business interests of Graham and Company were to be once more in
their hands.
And now Roderick plunged into work with all his might. When the news
spread that Graham and Co. had given a big transaction into the hands
of Lawyer Ed's young partner, others followed. Lawyer Ed himself was a
shrewd advocate, but every one knew that his business tendencies ran on
certain lines. His chief concern had always been to settle family
troubles, rather than to make money out of them. Many a puzzled farmer
he had saved from losing in an unjust bargain when the opposite course
would have meant money for himself. Many a family on the verge of
disintegration over a will had been brought together and made happy,
because their lawyer was more bent on their welfare than his own.
Roderick intended fully to keep up the fine old standards of the firm
as far as possible. But he was determined to be much more than the
legal adviser of all the folk living around Algonquin who couldn't do
business themselves.
He took his mid-day meal at the Algonquin House, the leading hotel, and
won the favour of Mr. Crofter, the proprietor. And there came to the
office of Brians and McRae one day, much to the senior partner's
amazement, Mr. Crofter himself, with some mining concerns he had in the
north. Mr. Crofter had never quite seen eye to eye with Lawyer Ed,
since the latter had declared flatly and loudly, at a tea-meeting given
by the Sons of Temperance, that a man who sold liquor over a bar was a
curse to the community. But Mr. Crofter knew when he wanted his
business well done. He distrusted almost every one in Algonquin, but
he knew old Angus McRae's son would be incapable of dishonesty.
The second surprise came a few months later when the success of
Crofter's deal had made the young lawyer's name. Alexander Graham took
all his business out of the hands of the Willoughby firm, and gave it
to Brians & McRae.
That evening Roderick was asked to the Grahams for dinner, as a further
honour. He went with some trepidation, as it was his first venture
into society. Mr. Graham was exceedingly genial, and Leslie was
charming, but the lady of the house was rather distant. She could not
help seeing Leslie's partiality towards Roderick and resented it. As
her husband's lawyer, the young man was quite acceptable, but as a
possible aspirant to his daughter's favour he would be entirely out of
place. Fred Hamilton was the only other one present outside the
family. The young man sat in sulky silence most of the evening, a
circumstance which seemed to put his pretty hostess into a high good
humour.
The invitation to the Grahams was the signal for other doors to open.
Roderick was invited everywhere. And wherever he went there was Miss
Leslie Graham, the belle of every occasion, and always ready to bestow
her greatest favours upon him. He always looked about him at these gay
gatherings of young people half-expecting to see the young lady he had
met on the _Inverness_; but he was always disappointed, and wondered
why she did not appear.
Helen Murray, herself, often wondered why she was not bidden to the
many festivities of which she heard the gay Miss Annabel talk.
"You will probably be invited out a great deal, Miss Murray," Miss
Armstrong cautioned her, "and I hope you will select very carefully the
places you visit. You see you are practically one of our family, and
though we respect all grades of society, you must realise that we have
a position to maintain. And I hope you won't think me interfering, my
dear; but if you would consult Annabel and me, as to accepting an
invitation, I think it would be wise. We should like so much to have
you of our set."
Helen obeyed, a little puzzled, but afraid to act against the judgment
of her august hostess. So she found herself soon bidden to afternoon
teas and receptions and all the affairs where the older set attended.
She met no one of her own age, however, except Miss Annabel who called
them all old frumps, and declared married folk were deadly dull, and
she would never go near their parties again so long as she lived. And
she fell into a state of nervous apprehension, when the approach of the
next afternoon tea was rumoured abroad, lest she should not be invited.
Poor Miss Annabel was being slowly but surely pushed on into the older
set by the younger generation. She hated her position, but it was the
only one left, and it was better than the dread desolation of no
position at all.
Helen kept away from the whirl, finding her duties at school sufficient
excuse. She often longed for some young life, however, and wondered
why she did not meet the daughters of the ladies who were so kind to
her when she went out under Miss Armstrong's wing.
She did not know as yet that the reason was two-fold. First, the
younger set were a little more exclusive than the one in which the
Misses Armstrong moved. Young Algonquin had but recently awakened to
the fact that society was not society unless you built a fence about it
and kept somebody--it didn't matter much who--out. The other and more
potent reason was Helen's unfortunate sex. There were already far too
many young ladies in Algonquin. A young man with exactly her claims to
recognition would have been received with acclaim. But, except in
holiday time, there was always a sad dearth of young men in Algonquin,
if not an actual famine. So no wonder the young ladies rather resented
the appearance of another girl to join their already too swollen ranks,
and especially a girl so undeniably attractive as the new school
teacher.
Quite unconscious of all this, Helen spent many a lonely evening at her
window looking down at the gay crowds passing along the street towards
the lake, and listening drearily to their happy voices floating under
the leafy tunnel of the trees.
She dared not join the groups that would have welcomed her, the young
folk who earned their living and who made the church a centre of social
intercourse for the lonely. Miss Armstrong had politely given her to
understand that she would not be welcome in Rosemount, if she
associated with the girls who stood behind the counter, or worked in a
dress-maker's shop.
She often saw Miss Leslie Graham as she darted into the house and out
again, on a flying visit to her grandmother, but she had no opportunity
of meeting her.
So in spite of her brave attempts to forget her grief in her work, and
in spite of Madame's unfailing kindness and help, the girl was often
very lonely. The big echoing house of Rosemount was always deserted of
an evening. Grandma went to bed, and either Helen or the little maid
was left on guard, while the two ladies went to a dinner-party or an
evening at cards.
One soft languorous September evening, the loneliness promised to be
unbearable, and she determined to go alone for a walk. Madame was
always too tired for a tramp after school, and she knew no one else who
would accompany her.
She spoke of it at the tea-table in the faint hope that Miss Annabel
might suggest coming too, but was disappointed.
"Why that'll be lovely, dearie," she cried, "go and have a run in the
park. It will do you good. I'd dearly love to go with you, but
there's Mrs. Captain Willoughby's musicale. There won't be a soul
there that isn't old enough to be in her dotage, but I promised that
nothing short of sudden death would make me miss it."
"Annabel, I am surprised at you," said her sister reprovingly. "I
wouldn't go far in the evening alone, Miss Murray," she added in her
stately way. "It does not seem just--well--exactly proper, don't you
know."
"Nonsense, Elinor. How's the poor child to help going alone, when
there's no one to go with her?"
Helen had learned to look for these slight altercations at the table.
While the sisters were apparently of one mind on all the larger issues
of life, they had a habit of arguing and cavilling over the little
things that often left their young boarder in a state of wonder.
She slipped away as soon as the meal was over, for the evenings were
growing short and she wanted to see the lake in its sunset glory. The
night was warm and all the young people were on the lake. The streets
were deserted. But on the pretty vine-clad verandas, the heads of
families sat sewing or reading and smoking, with the little ones
tumbling about the grass. On one veranda a gramophone, the first in
the town, screeched out a strain from a Grand Opera to the wonder and
admiration of all the neighbours. Helen moved along the street more
lonely than ever in the midst of all this home happiness. She passed a
little cottage where a young man and woman were tying up a rose vine,
beaten down by recent rains. Madame had told her they had been married
just the week before. They looked very happy, laughing and whispering
like a couple of nest-building robins, as they worked together to make
their little home more beautiful. She had to hurry away from the
pretty scene. Some one had promised her once that there should be a
rose vine over their porch in the new home he had been planning for her.
She turned a corner and was alarmed by a great churning and puffing
noise ahead, as though the _Inverness_ had left her native element and
come sailing up Main Street. But it was only Captain Willoughby in his
new automobile. It was the first, and as yet the only machine in
Algonquin, and its unhappy owner would have sold it to the lowest
bidder could he have found any one foolish enough to bid at all. For
so far, the captain had had no opportunity to learn to run it. His
first excursions abroad had been attended with such disaster, such mad
careering of horses, and plunging into ditches, such dismaying
paralysis of the engine right in the middle of a neighbour's gateway,
such inexplicable excursions onto the sidewalk and through plate glass
windows, such harrowing overturning of baby-carriages, that Mrs.
Captain Willoughby took an attack of nerves every time he went abroad,
and the town fathers finally requested that the captain take out his
Juggernaut car only at such hours as the streets were clear. So on
quiet evenings such as this one, when there were not likely to be any
horses abroad, Mrs. Willoughby telephoned all her friends and told them
to take in the children for the captain was coming. And so, heralded,
like the Lady Godiva, the trembling motorist went forth, while the
streets immediately became as empty as those of Coventry, with rows of
peeping Toms, safe inside their fences, jeering at the unhappy man's
uneven progress. He whizzed past Helen at a terrible speed, grazing
the side-walk and giving her almost as great a fright as he got
himself, and went whirring up the hill.
She did not want to join the crowds in the park so she followed the
familiar street past the school, and out along the Pine Road toward the
lake shore. But when she found her way was leading her through Willow
Lane, where all the dirty and poor people of Algonquin lived, she
turned off into a path that crossed a field and led to the water.
Helen had some little pupils from Willow Lane, and their appearance did
not invite a closer acquaintance with their homes.
She did not know that she was passing near the back of Old Peter
McDuff's farm, but she noticed that the fences were conveniently broken
down, and left a path clear down to the water's edge.
Lake Algonquin lay before her in its evening glory, a glory veiled and
softened by the amethyst veil the autumn was weaving. The water was as
still and as clear as a mirror. To her left the town nestled in a soft
purple mist, the gay voices from the park were softened and sweetened
by the distance. Straight ahead of her lay Wawa island, an airy thing
floating lightly on the water, and reflected perfectly in its depths.
At one end of its dark greenery autumn had hung out a banner to herald
her coming--a scarlet sumach. A yellowing maple leaf fell at Helen's
feet as she passed. Along the water's edge where the birches grew
thick arose a great twittering and chattering. The long southern
flight was already being discussed. Away out beyond the island a canoe
drifted along on the golden water. Some one seated in it was picking a
mandolin and singing, "Good-bye, Summer."
Helen slipped down the path where the birches and elms, entwined with
the bitter-sweet, hung over the water. A little point jutted out with
a big rock on the end of it. She took off her hat, seated herself upon
the rock, and drank in the silence and peace of the calm evening.
A little launch went rap-rap-rap across the clear glass of the water,
leaving a long trail of light behind it like a comet, and the sweet
evening odours were mingled with the unsavoury scent of gasoline.
Helen had often sped joyfully over the bay at home in just such a noisy
little craft, quite unconscious of being obnoxious to any one else. It
was not the first time she had found her view-point was changing. She
seemed to have been drifted ashore in a wreck, and to be sitting
looking on at the life she had lived with wonder and sometimes with
disapproval. The launch passed, the evening shadows deepened, but she
still sat wrapped in the deeper shadows of her own sad thoughts.
She had no idea how long she had sat there when she was roused by the
sudden appearance of a canoe right at her side. It had stolen up
silently, propelled by the noiseless stroke of a practised paddler, and
went past her like a ghost. The young man kneeling in the stern had
something of the perfectly balanced play of muscle, and poise of lithe
figure that belonged to the Indian. For in spite of his Anglo-Saxon
blood, Roderick McRae was as much a product of this land of lake and
forest as the Red Skin. He had almost passed her, when he looked up
and saw her for the first time. He gave a start; it seemed too good to
be true. But she bowed so distantly that his hesitating paddle dipped
again. He went on slowly, too shy to intrude. He had taken but a few
strokes when from away behind her on the darkening land, came a loud
sound of singing. Peter Fiddle was drunk again. Feeling very grateful
to Peter for the excuse, Roderick turned about, with an adroit twist of
his paddle, and glided back till he was opposite her.
"Excuse me, Miss Murray," he stammered, feeling his old shyness return,
"but--are you alone here?"
"Yes," said the girl a slight wonder in her voice at the question. "I
came down for a walk and--" she turned and glanced behind her and gave
an exclamation at the darkness of the woods. She had forgotten the
magic power the water has of gathering and holding the sunset light
long after darkness has wrapped the earth. "Oh, I had no idea it was
so late!" she cried in dismay.
Roderick joyfully ran his canoe up close to the rock. The fear in her
voice made him forget his embarrassment. "I don't wish to trouble
you," he said, "but it isn't wise to go home that path through the
woods alone." He hesitated. He did not like to tell her that Old
Peter might come down there raging drunk, and that at the head of
Willow Lane she might meet with another drunken row between Mike
Cassidy and his wife. "Oh dear!" she cried, "how could I be so
foolish? I never dreamed of its being so dark and I forgot--"
"If you will let me I'll take you home," said Roderick eagerly, "in my
canoe."
He was immeasurably relieved at her answer.
"Let you?" she cried gratefully. "Why, I'll be ever so much obliged to
you. I am sorry to be such a trouble. I don't see how I was so
careless," she added in frank apology.
Roderick knew he ought to say it was no trouble, but a pleasure. But
he was too shy and too happy. He succeeded only in mumbling, "Oh, not
at all," or something equally vague.
He brought the canoe close to the rock and held out his hand. She
stepped in very carefully, and with something the air of one venturing
out on a very thin piece of ice.
"It's the first time I ever stepped into a canoe," she said a little
tremulously. He steadied her with his hand, smiling a little at her
graceful awkwardness. Then he showed her how to place herself in the
little seat in the centre, with a cushion at her back. He did it
clumsily enough for he was embarrassed and nervous in her presence. In
all his years of paddling about the lake it was but the second time he
had taken a young lady into his canoe, and the first one he had rescued
out of the water, and this one off a lonely point of land. So he was
not versed in the proper things to say to a lady when taking her for a
paddle.
The canoe slipped silently out from the rock and slid along the
darkening shore. Only the faintest suggestion of the sunset glow lay
on the softly glimmering surface of the water. But they had gone only
a few yards, when there came a new miracle to remake the scene. From
behind the black bulk of the pine clad island peeped a great round
harvest moon, and suddenly the whole world of land and water was
painted anew in softer golden tints veiled in silver. The girl sat
silent and awe-struck. Was there never to be an end to the wonders of
this place? "Oh," she said in a whisper, "isn't it beautiful?"
Roderick looked, and was silent too.
Yes, it was very wonderful he thought, more wonderful to him than she
dreamed. He felt as if he could paddle on forever over the shining
lake with the magic colours of moon-rise and sunset meeting in the
golden hair of the girl opposite him. They went on for a long time in
silence. They passed into the shadow of the island with silver lances
through the trees barring their path. The dewy scent of pine and cedar
stole out from the dark shore. The silver light grew brighter, the
whole lake was lit up with a soft white radiance.
"Have you always lived here?" she asked at last in a whisper, an
unspoken fear in her voice lest a sound disturb the fair surroundings
and they vanish, leaving them in a common, every day world of material
things.
"Always," said Roderick in the same hushed tone, though for a different
reason. "I was born on the old farm back here."
"Then I wonder if you know how lovely it all is?"
"Perhaps not. But it is home to me, you know, and that gives an added
charm."
"Yes," she said and checked a sigh. "And you've always paddled about
here I suppose."
"I never remember when I learned. But I remember my first excursion
alone. I was just six. Old Peter McDuff who lives on the next farm
used to tell me fairy tales. And he told me there was a pot of gold at
the end of the rainbow, waiting for the man bold enough to go after it.
I felt that I was the man, and I paddled off one evening when there was
a rainbow in the sky. I got lost in the fog, and my father and a
search-party found me drifting away out on the lake. And I didn't
bring home the pot of gold."
"Nobody ever does," she said drearily. "And every one is hunting it."
They were silent for a moment, the girl thinking of how she too had
gone after a vanishing rainbow. Then the memory of that vision of the
first Sunday morning in Algonquin church came to her. There was a
rainbow somewhere, with the treasure at the foot; one that did not
vanish either if one persisted in its pursuit.
She tried to say something of this to Roderick, fearing her sombre
words had set him to recalling her secret.
"I suppose it is perfect happiness," he said. "If so, I never met any
one who had found it, except--yes, I believe I know one."
"Who?" she asked eagerly.
"My father," answered Roderick gently.
"I have heard of him," she said, smiling at the glow of pride in the
son's eyes. "And where did he discover it?"
Roderick laughed. "I suppose it's in the heart, after all; but my
father is never so happy as when he is in the midst of misery. His pot
of gold seems to lie down on Willow Lane."
"On Willow Lane? Why that's where all those dreadfully poor, dirty
people live, isn't it?"
"Yes. They are an unsavoury bunch down there. That's where Mr. and
Mrs. Cassidy throw the household furniture at each other, and Billy
Perkins starves his family for drink, and where the celebrated Peter
McDuff plays the fiddle every night at the tavern. He might have
serenaded you, if you had gone back home by the road."
She smiled gratefully and her smile was very beautiful. But her
thoughts were in Willow Lane. There were worse things there that
Roderick did not mention, but she had heard of them. It was a strange
and wonderful thing that the saintly-faced old man with the white hair,
whom she had seen with Roderick at church, should find his happiness
among such people.
Roderick had paddled as slowly as it was possible to move, but he could
not prolong the little voyage any further. They were at the landing.
"I have made you come away back here," she said, "and now you will be
so late getting home. I must let you go back at once. Good night, and
thank you."
Roderick had been hoping that he might walk up to Rosemount with her,
but felt he was dismissed. He wanted, too, to ask her if she would not
come out on the lake again, but his shyness kept him silent.
As he helped her out, the yellow light of the wharf lamp fell upon her
light dress and shone on the gold of her hair, and at the same moment a
canoe slid silently out of the dimness beyond and glided across the
track of the moon. In the stern knelt one of Algonquin's young men
wielding a lazy paddle, and in the low seat opposite, with a filmy
scarf about her dark hair, reclined Miss Leslie Graham. She sat up
straight very suddenly, and stared at the girl who was stepping from
the canoe. But she did not speak, and Roderick was too absorbed to
notice who had passed. And the young man with the lazy paddle wondered
all the way home what had happened to make the lively young lady so
silent and absent-minded.
Helen Murray thought many times of what Roderick had told her about his
father's interest in Willow Lane. She could not help wondering if
others could find there the peace that shone in the old man's eyes.
She was wondering if she should go down and visit the place, when, one
day, Willow Lane came to her. It was a warm languorous October day, a
day when all nature seemed at a standstill. Her work was done, she was
resting under her soft coverlet of blue gossamer, preparing for her
long sleep. Helen had had a hard day, for she had not yet learned her
new strange task. The room was noisy, fifty little heads were bent
over fifty different schemes for mischief, and fifty sibilant whispers
delivered forbidden messages. The teacher was writing on the board,
and turned suddenly at the sound of a heavy footstep in the hall. The
door was open, letting in the breeze from the lake, and in it stood a
big hairy man with a bushy black head and wild blue eyes. Helen stood
and stared at him half-frightened.
The fifty small heads suddenly whirled about and a hundred eyes stared
at the visitor, but there was no fear in them. A giggling whisper ran
like fire over the room. "It's Peter Fiddle!" The man shook his fist
at them, and the teacher went with some apprehension towards the door.
"Can I do anything for you, sir?" she enquired, outwardly calm, but
inwardly quaking. He took off his big straw hat and made her a
profound bow.
"I'll be Peter McDuff," he said with a stately air, "an' I'll loss a
pig."
"I--I don't think it's here," faltered Helen, dismayed at a visit from
the notorious McDuff. "You might ask some other place," she suggested
hopefully.
"I'll be wantin' the bairns to be lookin' for it," he said, making
another bow. He turned to the children, now sitting, for the first
time since their teacher had set eyes on them, absolutely still and
attentive.
"If you see a pig wis a curly tail," he announced, "that's me!"
The whole school burst into a shout of laughter, and the man's face
flamed with anger. He shook his fist at them again, moving a step into
the room. "Ye impident young upstarts!" he shouted. "I'll be Peter
McDuff!" he cried proudly. "And I'll be having you know they will not
be laughing at the McDuff whatefer!"
"I--I'm sure they didn't mean to be rude, Mr. McDuff," ventured the
frightened teacher.
"My name'll be Peter McDuff," he insisted, coming further into the room
while she stepped back in terror. "I'll be sixty years of old, and
I'll neffer be casting a tory vote! An' if you'll be gifing me a man
my own beeg and my own heavy--" he brandished his fists fiercely.
"Peter!"
The McDuff turned. Behind him stood Angus McRae, his gentle face
distressed. He laid his hand on Peter's shoulder with an air of quiet
power. "Come away home with me, Peter man," he said soothingly.
"We'll be finding the pig on the road."
Peter stumbled out grumbling, and Angus McRae, pausing a moment to
deliver an apology to Helen, followed. Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby came
along the hall rocking with laughter.
"You poor child!" she cried. "I heard him, and was coming to the
rescue when I saw old Angus. I knew you'd be scared. But Peter
wouldn't hurt a hair of a woman's head."
"That Mr. McRae seemed to have some strange power over him," whispered
Helen, watching, with some apprehension, the two climb into an old
wagon.
"So he has. And he's the only one that has. He keeps Peter in order
when he's drunk and keeps him sober, when he can. Ah, dear me! dear
me! There's a clever man all gone wrong. Angus McRae's been working
with him for years. He lives out there past what they call Willow
Lane. Ever been down there?"
"No, but I've heard of it often."
"It's that bit of street that runs from the end of the town where that
old hotel is. I'm going down there after school to see about Minnie
Perkins. Come along for a walk. Now, you children, go right back
there, do you hear me?" For the primary grade had overflowed and was
flooding the halls. And Madame swept them back and slammed her door.
When school was dismissed and the last noisy youngster had gone
storming forth Helen went down the hall to her friend's room. Madame
came swaying out carrying a bunch of gay spiked gladiolus, her
draperies floating about her with cherubs peeping from their folds,
like a saint in an old picture.
She dismissed her satellites firmly at the first corner, except those
who lived beyond or on Willow Lane, a ceremony that necessitated a
great deal of shooing and scolding.
The first eye-sore on Willow Lane was the old hotel, still standing
there, forlorn and ugly, as though ashamed of all the evil it had
wrought.
As the years passed there was always a new generation of loungers to
sit and smoke and spit on its sagging veranda. From it ran the old
high board fence plastered with ugly advertisements of soap or circus
or patent medicine. It disfigured the whole street and shut off a
possible glimpse of the lake. Away on the other side of it was a
meadow where in spring-time the larks soared and sang, and beyond it
the lake and the woods where the mocking bird and the bee made music.
But here in Willow Lane was neither sound nor sight that was pleasant.
The street consisted of a single sorry-looking row of houses with
narrow box-like yards shoved up close to the road, as though there were
not acres and acres of open free meadow land behind them. The hills
upon which Algonquin was situated ceased abruptly here, and the land
spread away in a flat plain along the lake shore. The ground was low
and damp, and every house in Willow Lane that had the misfortune to
possess a cellar was the abode of disease. A deep ditch ran parallel
to the rickety board side-walk. There had just been a week of
unceasing rain and it was full of green water.
"Oh dear!" said Helen, in distress. "I had no idea there was such a
place as this in Algonquin."
"People have lived here for years and still seem to have no idea," said
Madame. She paused and looked back. "Do you see that house 'way up on
the hill yonder? The one with the tower sticking up between the trees?
That's Alexander Graham's mansion. And he makes a good deal of his
money out of the rents of these houses, and nobody seems to care very
much. The people of the churches send down turkeys and plum puddings,
and everything good at Christmas time, and seem to think that will do
for another year. But the only man who tries to do anything all the
time is Angus McRae. I suppose you know that Lawyer Ed calls him the
Good Samaritan, and this the Jericho Road."
The first house in the dreary row was the turbulent home of Mr.
Cassidy, the gentleman who commanded so much of Lawyer Ed's attention.
Mrs. Cassidy was on the front veranda washing. It was a pastime she
seldom indulged in, for there was never much water in the old leaky
rain barrel at the corner of the house. For while Willow Lane had
water, water everywhere, the inhabitants had not any drop in which to
wash themselves. But the overflowing rain-barrels had tempted Judy
to-day, and so her little figure was bobbing up and down over the
washboard like a play Judy in a show. She was scrubbing her own
clothes, but not her husband's, for Mr. Cassidy and his wife lived each
an entirely independent life. They occupied different sections of the
house even, and the lady saw to it that her husband's apartments were
the coldest in winter and the hottest in summer. This arrangement had
been held to, ever since the day that Mike thrashed Judy. It had not
been without some provocation, it is true; for though very small, Mrs.
Cassidy had a valiant spirit, and had many and varied ways of
exasperating her husband's inflammable temper. But Lawyer Ed had
appealed to Father Tracy, and that muscular shepherd of his flock had
come down upon Willow Lane and thrashed Mike thoroughly and soundly.
Since then there had been a sort of armed neutrality in the home of the
Cassidys.
"Good day, Mrs. Cassidy," called Madame over the little fence. "It's a
beautiful day after the rain."
"Aw, well now and is that you, Mrs. Adam?" enquired Judy, her little
face peering out of the clouds of steam. "Sure it's yerself would be
bringin' beautiful weather, aven if it was poorin'."
Her voice was soft, her manner ingratiating, there was no sign of the
warrior spirit beneath.
"I hope the rain'll keep off till you get your clothes dry," said
Madame pleasantly, but passing resolutely on, for Mrs. Cassidy showed
sighs of a desire to come to the gate and have a friendly chat. "We
must get out of her way. If she starts to talk we'll never escape,"
she whispered. "Just look at that will you!"
The second place was one where some pitiful attempts at beautifying had
been made. The yard was swept clean and a little drain had been dug at
the side to let the water run off. A few drowned flowers leaned over
on their hard clay beds, and there was a neat curtain and a mosquito
netting on each window. But right against the window that overlooked
the Cassidys' yard, Mrs. Cassidy had piled all the old boards, boxes
and rubbish she could find, to obstruct the view to the town, of her
too ambitious neighbour. "Now, what do you think of that?" cried
Madame. "Isn't she the malicious little soul?"
"Good day, Mrs. Kent, and how are you to-day?"
"Good day, Mrs. Adam," from a sharp-faced neat woman, sitting at the
doorway of the barricaded house, knitting rapidly.
"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" said Madame ingratiatingly.
"Lovely," responded the woman. "It's a great thing we had so much
rain, we need a lot down here, we're that dry."
Madame chose to take the sarcasm as a joke, and laughed blithely.
But the woman did not smile. "She's had to work too hard, poor soul,"
whispered the visitor when they had passed. "She's clean and thrifty
but she has to wash to support a crippled boy and a consumptive girl.
No wonder she's sour."
They passed two or three more sorry-looking houses and finally paused
before the gate of the home of Madame's little pupil. The bare
grassless yard was filled with old boxes and rubbish. A big lumbering
lad of about fourteen sprawled over the doorstep playing with a string.
He looked up with vacant eyes, and clutched at the visitors' skirts,
muttering and jabbering in idiot glee.
Madame put her hand tenderly on his small, ill-shaped head.
"Poor Eddie," she whispered, "poor boy."
She fumbled in her big black satchel and brought out a gay candy stick.
He grabbed it with strange cries of joy. The sounds brought a ragged
little ghost of a woman to the door, carrying a tiny bundle on her arm.
"Well, well, is that you, Madame?" she cried, smiling a broad toothless
smile. "I thought it was you, an' Minnie she says, I believe that's my
teacher, Ma."
Madame climbed the steep steps, Helen following. The room was dirty
and untidy. A rusty stove and table, three chairs and an ill-smelling
cupboard in the corner, with some gaudy glass dishes upon it, were the
only furniture.
"And how are you, Mrs. Perkins? This is the new teacher, Miss Murray.
When Minnie passes out of my room, she'll he under this lady's care.
And how is my little girl this afternoon?"
Madame passed to the door of the tiny bedroom. The bed filled the
whole space with just room enough to stand left between it and the
wall. A little girl was lying on it, her hollow cheeks pink, her eyes
bright. The sun poured in at the bare window and the room was hot and
breathless. The swarming flies covered her face and arms. She brushed
them away fretfully, and stretched out her hot hands for the flowers.
"Oh, teacher," she cried, trying to strangle her cough, "I watched and
I watched for you all day and I was scared you wasn't comin'."
Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby sat down on the edge of the dirty bed and put
her cool hand on the little girl's burning forehead.
Helen placed herself rather gingerly on a proffered chair, and looked
at the wee bundle in the woman's arms.
"Why, it's a baby," she whispered in awe. The mother's faded face lit
up with pride. She held the little scrap of humanity towards the
visitor. "'E's a grite little rascal, 'e is," she exclaimed fondly.
"As smart as a weasel, an' 'im only a fo'tnight old last Sunday."
Helen was positively afraid to touch the little bundle, but the look of
utter exhaustion on the woman's face overcame her repugnance. She held
out her arms and the mother dropped the baby into them and sank upon a
chair with a sigh of relief.
"Only a little over two weeks," gasped Helen, looking at the wee
wrinkled face peeping from the bundle.
The mother's face beamed with joy and pride. She thought that the
visitor's astonishment was for the wonderful baby, all unconscious of
herself.
"Yes'm, just but a fo'tnight, and a little over. Oh 'e's a grite
little tyke, 'e is. Ain't 'e, now?"
"Has Doctor Blair been to see Minnie?" asked Madame softly.
"Yes'm. Old Angus 'e was 'ere on Monday, and 'e sent 'im. 'E says
it's 'er lungs." She looked at her visitors with child-like
simplicity. "Is it very bad for Minnie to 'ave anything wrong with 'er
lungs do you think, Mrs. Adam?"
Madame's gentle face was eloquent with pity. "Doctor Blair is a good,
kind doctor," she said evasively. "He'll do his best for her. You do
everything for her that he asks."
"Yes'm. Old Angus 'e was trying to tell me wot to do, but I ain't much
of a 'and at sickness. Minnie she gets up and gets wot she wants but I
tell 'er she ought to lie abed."
The little girl had fallen into a doze, under the soothing touch of her
teacher's hand. Madame took off the veil from her hat and spread it
over the child's face as a protection from the flies. She came back
into the kitchen. The idiot boy came in and rolled about the floor
muttering and whining.
"And how's Mr. Perkins?" asked Madame. "Is he keeping well?" It was
her gentle way of asking if he was keeping sober. The woman's tired
face lit up.
"Yes, ma'am. 'E is that. 'E's been keepin' fine since three weeks
come Sunday. That was the night Old Angus took 'im to the Harmy an'
got 'im saved. An' 'e's ben keepin' nicely saved ever since. We've
been 'avin' butter," she added proudly. "Ever since 'e got 'imself
converted. But we 'ad to 'ave the doctor for pore Minnie." Her thin
little face quivered. "If Minnie'd only get better now, we'd be
gettin' a good start, an' we'd all be 'appy."
"Mr. Perkins has work now, hasn't he?" said Madame comfortingly.
"Yes'm. It's not steady, but Old Angus 'e's goin' to get 'im another
job. It's ben rather 'ard on my man," she added apologetically, "just
a comin' out from the hold country. It's 'ard gettin' work at first.
An' I wan't much use with 'im a comin'," she added, touching the bundle
reverently.
"So this is the only Canadian baby you have," said Madame.
"Yes'm." The mother forgot her troubles and smiled and fawned on the
bundle in delight.
"He's Johny Canuck, isn't he?" asked Madame, with a feeble attempt at
gaiety.
"Oh, no, ma'am," cried the mother hastily. "'E's William 'Enery, after
'is paw. We ain't got 'im christened yet. But jist as soon's I can
get 'im a dress the pawson,--'e's a foine man,--'e says 'e'll come an'
do 'im, an' if my man jist keeps nicely saved, we'll be gettin' a
dress. But it's been 'ard on my man. Eddie there 'e's not much 'elp,
poor lad. But 'e goes out on the railroad track an' picks me up a bit
o' coal. An' Old Angus 'e's been that good. Oh, we'd never a' got on
without Old Angus. But if my Minnie 'adn't took sick--"
She wiped a tear on the baby's dirty dress. It was the quiet,
dispassionate tear of a woman long accustomed to hardship. "I'll be
all right when I get a bit stronger an' can work," she added hopefully.
The visitors rose to go. Madame held the woman's hand a long time,
trying to explain, as though to a little child, how the sick girl must
be treated. The case seemed so pitiful she was at a loss what to say.
"I'm afraid I can't get back for a few days, Mrs. Perkins," she said.
"I'll come and see Minnie to-morrow," said Helen Murray suddenly. The
morrow was her precious Saturday that brought a rest from the week's
hard work, but the words seemed forced from her. The look of childish
fear in the woman's face made some sort of promise necessary for her
own peace of mind.
The woman looked up at her gratefully as she took the baby.
"It's awful good o' you, Miss," she cried, "and indeed I'll be thet
grateful, if you'd just come and tell me the best thing to do for
Minnie. I'm not much of a 'and in sickness." She looked at the two
visitors wistfully. "It does a body good jist to 'ave a word with
somebody that's sorry for you," she added.
Helen went away, her heart sore and sick with the woman's pain.
The idiot boy followed them to the gate, grinning and muttering. His
mother called him from the doorway, and he shambled towards her.
Glancing back, Helen saw his long, ungainly body folded in her little
thin arms, while she patted him tenderly on the back.
As they stepped out on the rickety side-walk, a tall girl of about
sixteen came and stood staring at them from the doorway of the next
house. She had a bold, handsome face and her hair and untidy dress
were arranged in an extravagant imitation of the latest fashion.
"Good day, Gladys," said Madame kindly, but the girl answered with only
a curt nod. When the visitors had passed, she called shrilly to some
one in the house behind her.
"Maw! Hurry out an' see the parade! Willow Lane's gettin' awful
high-toned!" There was a loud cackle of laughter and Madame's
shoulders shook with suppressed merriment. "That's Gladys Hurd," she
said, shaking her head. "Poor Gladys, I'm afraid she's not a very good
girl. She's not got a very good mother."
As they were turning off Willow Lane, the rattle of a buggy behind them
made Madame turn.
"There he is again," she cried. "I suppose he's taken Peter home and
found his pig for him. I don't believe I could bear the thought of all
the misery on Willow Lane if I didn't know that Old Angus McRae was
doing so much to lighten it."
Helen turned. Angus had pulled up in front of the Perkins' house and
the idiot lad with queer cries of delight came stumbling out to meet
him. The girl named Gladys ran out too, and the old man handed her a
sheaf of glowing crimson dahlias. She buried her face in them and
hugged them to her in a passion of admiration for their beauty.
"Look, look at Mrs. Cassidy will you?" cried Madame in delight.
Mrs. Cassidy had come to the door at the first sound of the wheels, and
when she saw who was near, she darted out and swiftly and stealthily
removed the obstruction from her neighbour's window. Then she went to
the gate to greet Old Angus, suave and gentle of speech, and as
innocent looking as the meek heap of boards now lying in a corner of
her yard.
"Well, well, well," laughed Madame as they walked on. "Even if Old
Angus would merely drive up and down Willow Lane I believe he would
make the people better."
When Helen reached Rosemount she slipped in at the side door and up the
back stair. It was the day the Misses Armstrong entertained the whist
club, and a clatter of teacups and a hum of voices told her the guests
were not yet gone. She removed her hat, and smoothed her hair
absently; her thoughts were down on Willow Lane busy with the complex
problem of the Perkins family. The windows were opened, and the sound
of swishing skirts and laughing voices came up to her from the garden
walk. A couple of well-dressed women were going out at the gate.
"Poor old things," cried one in a light merry voice. "They do get up
the most comical concoctions at their teas. And Miss Annabel in a
ten-year-old dress! Will she ever grow up?"
"The poor dears can't afford anything better. They are just struggling
along," answered her companion. "They had that house left them, and
the old lady gets her allowance, but the daughters hadn't a cent left
them, and they would both fall dead if they weren't invited to
everything. But I don't know where they get money to dress at all."
"I suppose that is why they took that girl to board."
"Of course, poor old Elinor is so scared--" The voice died away and a
sharp rap on her door took Helen from the window. She opened the door
and there, to her surprise, stood Miss Leslie Graham, looking very
handsome in the splendour of her rose silk gown. She smiled radiantly.
"Good day, Miss Murray. I think you know who I am and I think it's
time we met. I ran up here to get away from that jam of people. Those
women take such an lasting age to get away. May I sit with you for a
minute?"
Helen offered her a chair gladly. She had often seen Miss Graham, and
her unfailing gay spirits had made her wish she could know her. The
visitor flung her silver purse upon the bed, her gloves upon the table,
her white parasol upon the bureau, and sank into the chair.
"Oh I'm dead," she groaned. "I've passed ten thousand cups of tea, and
twenty thousand sandwiches. Don't you pity and despise people that
don't know any better than to come to a thing indoors on a hot day?"
Helen smiled. "But you came," she said.
"But I had to. When any of my relations give a tea I am always
tethered to a tray and a plate of biscuits." She stopped suddenly and
looked at Helen keenly, with a stare that puzzled the girl. Then she
jumped up and seated herself upon the bed, rumpling the counterpane.
In the few minutes since she had entered the room she had made the
place look as if a whirlwind had swept through it, and Helen felt a
nervous fear of Miss Armstrong's walking in and witnessing her untidy
condition.
"Do you like it here?" she enquired directly.
"Yes, I--think I do. Algonquin is so beautiful, but--"
"But you can't stand my poky aunts, and Grandma's jokes, eh?"
"Oh, no," cried Helen aghast. "Both the Misses Armstrong have been
very kind and Mrs. Armstrong is delightful--but, of course, I get
homesick." She stopped suddenly for that was a subject upon which she
dared not dwell.
The other girl stared. "My goodness. I would love to know what
homesickness is like, just for once. I've never been away from home
except for a visit somewhere in the holidays, and then I was always
having such a ripping time, that the thought of going home made me
sick."
She sat for a little while, again looking steadily at Helen. "You
certainly are pretty," she exclaimed. "There's no doubt about that."
"I beg your pardon!" said Helen amazed, and doubting if she had heard
aright.
"Oh, nothing, never mind!" cried the other with a laugh. She tore off
her costly hat and flung it on top of the table. Then she threw
herself backwards on the bed staring at the ceiling. She made such a
complete wreck of the starched pillow covers and the prim white
bedspread that were the pride of Miss Armstrong's heart, that Helen
shuddered.
"Well, I don't wonder at you getting homesick here. These ceilings are
such a vast distance away they make you feel as if you were a hundred
miles from everywhere. I remember sleeping in this room once, when
there was an epidemic of scarlet fever or something among the Armstrong
kids. All the well ones were dumped on our aunts, after the custom of
the family, and I was sent off with a dozen others and we were marooned
upstairs, like a gang of prisoners, the girls in this room and the boys
in Grandma's. Six in a bed--more or less. I remember we used to lie
awake in the early morning before Aunt Elinor would let us get up, and
study the outburst of robins and grapes on the ceiling. And one day we
got the boys in with their toy guns and tried to shoot the tails off
the birds. Cousin Harry Armstrong hit one. Do you see the ghastly
remains of that bird without the tail? That was the one. I never hit
anything, but I tried hard enough. I am responsible for the bangs on
the ceiling. Each one tells when I missed my aim."
Helen laughed all unawares. She was surprised at herself. It was so
long since she had laughed she thought she had forgotten how.
"That robin proved to be the Albatross for us," continued Leslie
Graham, sitting up again, "for Aunt Elinor found out about it, and we
had no more good luck from that day till we went home." She sprang up.
"Dear me! here I am jabbering away, and Mother must be gone." She
caught up her hat, dislodging a couple of books that went over on the
floor. "Oh, dear, I've knocked something over." She did not make any
motion to pick them up, however. "Mother says I always leave a trail
behind me."
She stood before the glass arranging her hat, a radiant figure. Helen
looked at her wistfully. There was nothing this girl wanted, surely,
that she could not have; and yet she seemed so restless and
dissatisfied.
"Do you go out much?" she asked.
"Not very much," said Helen. "My school keeps me busy." She did not
say that she knew so very few young people she had no one to go with.
Miss Graham turned to the mirror again. She seemed embarrassed. "The
lake's lovely here for paddling. Only the season is nearly over. Have
you been out on the water much?" She did not look at the girl as she
asked the question.
"No," said Helen, and the other faced round and stared at her. "I
don't know how to paddle and I am rather afraid of a canoe."
"Do you mean to say you've never been on the lake since you came here?"
asked Leslie Graham, standing and staring with a hat-pin in her mouth.
"Oh, yes, I was--once," said Helen innocently. She did not think it
necessary to tell all about Roderick's rescue of her from the point;
for already she had heard the Misses Armstrong coupling his name with
their niece's in tones of high disapproval. "I was once--but only
once."
Leslie Graham's face grew radiant.
"Is that all?" she cried in a tone expressing decided relief.
She amazed Helen by suddenly darting towards her and putting her arm
around her. "Why you poor little lonesome thing," she cried, "you must
learn to paddle; I will teach you myself. Now, good-bye, I think we
are going to be real good friends." She kissed Helen warmly and
tripped out, singing a gay song, and leaving her late hostess standing
amazed in the middle of her dishevelled room.