Then Jo laughed. The sound frightened her. She did not feel like
laughing, heaven knew; but the relief of it steadied her. Then, as one
does who sees a struggle is useless, she let herself go.
"Oh! yes; I can speak for myself, Captain. The girl is mine. Where
I've kept her is my business, and you and I have finished business
together. That--that brother-in-law of yours came after my money; was
willing to marry me for it, and flung some hateful words in my face.
But he set me thinking. Why should a woman do without a child because a
man will have none of her, or only that which he wants? If I could not
have my own in man's way, I take it in my own. I have my child, and
now--what will you do? If you make my life and hers a hell here I have
money and can go elsewhere. Go so far that your black words will not be
heard. On the other hand, if you mind your business and leave me and
mine alone, we'll stay. And now get off my property."
Longville was so utterly dumbfounded that he slunk from the porch and
was in the road before he regained his self-control. Then he started
back, but Jo had gone inside, locked the door noisily, and was pulling
the shade down to its extreme limit!
*CHAPTER VII*
*MARCEL TAKES HER STAND BY JO*
Apparently Longville decided to mind his business, but that, he declared
did not exclude Mam'selle's. Greed, curiosity, and indecision caused
him to refrain from persecution. Indeed the psychology of the situation
was peculiar. For the first time in her life Jo Morey became
interesting. A woman with a past may, or may not be happy, but she
certainly affords speculation and conjecture. Point of Pines, when it
had considered Jo before, felt an amused sort of pity for her and, since
she asked nothing of it, left her completely alone. But now, at this
late day, she sailed into the open in such an unlooked-for manner that
she inspired awe rather than the contempt or outraged scorn of Point of
Pines. Without stir or fuss she simply annexed the child, and went the
even gait that she had heretofore gone alone.
She was a mystery, and the men, generally in the fragrant atmosphere of
Dan's Place, discussed her smartness and independence with resentment,
and a--smothered--admiration! The women, especially those with whom Jo
had shared hours of pain and sorrow, wondered where she had been when
her own hour overtook her; whose hands had helped her who never refused
help to others. And who had kept Jo's child? That question stirred in
Dan's Place and in the houses roundabout.
"Perhaps some hill woman has kept the child," whispered the women over
their work; but to hunt among the hills would be futile. Besides,
Mam'selle's money had undoubtedly closed any lips which might be able to
furnish facts.
It was a thrilling situation. One not to be despised by the lonely
hamlet. Some were for, some against, Mam'selle Morey; but no one
wanted, or dared, to ignore her utterly. Marcel Longville issued forth
from the cloud of indecision, girded on her armour, and struck a blow
for Jo Morey.
In order to make known her position, she wrapped herself in a shawl one
day, and boldly walked to Jo's house in the middle of the afternoon,
when several men, her husband among them, were sitting about the stove
in the tavern, their faces turned to the highway.
"A woman like Mam'selle Morey can corrupt a town unless--" It was Gavot
who spoke, and he sniffed disagreeably, looking down the road. Longville
was watching his wife pass; he grew hot with anger, but made no reply.
"Marcel can cut her up with her tongue. It takes a woman to slash a
woman," Pierre continued.
The proprietor, Dan Kelly, came to the fore. He rarely took part in
conversation. He was like a big, silent, congenial Atmosphere. He
pervaded his Place, but did not often materialize in conversation. Now
he spoke.
"Queer, ain't it," he drawled, "how we just naturally hate to get our
women mixed up? Lord knows we must have both kinds--we've fixed things
that way--but when they edge toward each other we get damned religious
and moral, don't we? Why?"
The words rolled around the stifling room like a bomb. Every man
dodged, not knowing whether the thing was aimed at him or not, and
everyone was afraid it might explode.
"Why?" continued Dan.
Then, getting no verbal answer, he went to the chair behind the bar, his
throne, and became once more an Atmosphere.
But by that time Marcel was sitting in a rocker in the middle of Jo
Morey's cheerful living room, watching Donelle asleep upon the couch.
Jo was at her loom and both women whispered as they talked.
"I had to come, Mam'selle," said Marcel, "not because you need me or
because I want to act a part, making myself better or different; it
isn't that. I just want to stand a bit closer because I feel you are a
good woman. I've always felt that, and my opinion hasn't changed, only
I want you to know."
Jo tried not to smile; she felt she was taking of Marcel's best under
false pretences. Had she been what they all thought, this neighbourly
act would have bowed her with gratitude. As it was she felt a deeper
sympathy for Marcel than she had ever felt, and she yearned to confide
in her--but she dared not.
"Nights I get to thinking," Marcel droned on while Jo's busy fingers
flew at her task, "how it was with you when she came," Marcel nodded
toward the couch.
And now Jo's face twitched. How little any one guessed, or could guess,
how it had been with her at the time when another woman gave birth to
the girl.
"I got through somehow," she replied vaguely.
"We never get to a wall without finding an opening to crawl through,
Marcel. It may be a pretty tight squeeze, but we get through."
"God knows those times are hard for a woman, Mam'selle."
"They are, bitter hard."
"And men folks don't take them into account."
"How can they, Marcel? It wouldn't be reasonable to expect it."
"It's queer, Mam'selle, how this--this thing that makes women willing to
go through it, goes on and on. It means one thing to a woman; another
to a man, but it seems to pay, though the Lord knows why, or how."
Jo was thinking of the subtle something that she, poor Tom Gavot,
Marcel, and all the rest clung to. The thing that none of them
understood.
"I'm glad you've got her!" Marcel suddenly broke in fiercely, again
nodding toward the sleeping girl. "It just proves that you, Mam'selle,
had the woman's reason, not the man's. That makes the difference. A
woman cannot, a decent woman I mean, forgive a woman for acting like a
man; casting off her young and all that, but she can understand--this!
And isn't she fine and rare, Mam'selle. It's another queer thing, how
many a child that comes in the straight and narrow way isn't half what
it should be. Sometimes they just haven't spirit enough to stay, mine
didn't, and then such children as--as yours, Mam'selle, seem to have
God's blessing shining all over them."
So firmly and simply had Marcel accepted what, in reality, did not exist
that poor Jo felt the uselessness of confession drawing closer and
closer about her. For some days past she had been considering Marcel as
a recipient for the truth, for Jo hated to accept, without some protest,
the belief that she felt was spreading among her silent people. It
might ease her own conscience to confide in Marcel; it might be a bit of
proof in the future, but unless she told all the truth she could hardly
hope to impress even the kindly Marcel, for she saw that the shabby,
down-trodden woman was accepting her as the most vital and absorbing
thing that had ever happened in her life. Jo, in her real self, had
never inspired Marcel. Jo, in her present guise, not only claimed
interest, but aroused purpose. She brought to life the struggling
nobility that was inherent in Marcel but which life had never before
utilized.
"I'm going to stand by her," Marcel nodded toward the couch, "by her and
you--so help me God!"
Jo went to the quivering woman and laid her hand on the thin, drooping
shoulder. She was mutely thanking Marcel in the name of all women who
sadly needed such support.
"I'd rather have been a--a bad woman," Marcel quivered, using the term
almost reverently, "and have had such as this to comfort me, than be the
thing men think I ought to be, and have----" She did not finish, but Jo
knew she meant those piteous little graves on the hillside.
"It don't pay to be good, Mam'selle!"
"Yes; it does, Marcel, it does." Jo's voice shook. "It pays to do your
best with the things that _are_, as you see them. It's when we try to
do what others think is good, others who haven't our problems, that we
get lost. We women folks have got to blaze our own way and stick to it.
No man, or man's God, is ever going to side-track me. And, Marcel, I
thank you for what you came to do for me. There may be a time coming
when you can serve me, and I'm sure you will. But if ever I did you a
good turn, you've more than paid me back to-day."
Long after Marcel had gone to her cheerless home Jo Morey thought and
thought, and as her heart grew soft her head grew hard. While her lips
trembled her eyes glowed with fire, and from that moment she was able,
in a strange, perplexed way, to project herself into the position that
was falsely forced upon her. As she accepted it, Langley's wife was
largely eliminated. It was Jo, herself, who had followed Langley to the
far places; it was she who had borne and reared his child out of her
great love. It was she, Jo Morey, who had stood by him, shielded him to
the end, and was now determined to fill his place and her own toward the
girl!--and to keep the secret! Langley had loved fine things, books,
music. Jo recalled how he could fiddle and whistle, why, he could
imitate any bird that sang in the summer woods. Well, somehow Donelle
should have those things! Jo went later to the attic, and brought down
books, long-hidden books, among them one Langley had given her because
he loved some verses in it. Donelle should have learning, too. Jo meant
to consult the priest about that. In short, the girl should have her
chance. Poor Jo; even then she did not take into consideration the harm
she was unconsciously doing the girl. She felt all-powerful. Her
starved and yearning affection went out to Donelle and met no obstacle,
for the girl, her health regained, was the sunniest, most grateful
creature that one could imagine. No need to warn her to silence
concerning St. Michael's, that experience was apparently as if it never
had been.
The legal steps had been taken, and Jo was in complete control. The
gates of St. Michael's were closed forever upon the girl known as Marie.
She now faced the world, though she did not know it, as Mam'selle's
illegitimate child.
Sometimes this fact frightened Jo, but she knew her people fairly well.
The ugly belief about herself had been so silently borne that she
trusted that when Donelle went among them her advent would not loose
tongues. For the rest; she meant constantly to guard the girl, meant,
in time, to send her away to school. Jo dreamed long dreams and,
mentally keen and wise, was stupid in her ignorance of the more sordid
aspects of life.
"If they'll only keep still!" she fervently hoped. And she based her
present life on that.
In the meantime Donelle, in a marvellous fashion, had appropriated
everything about her, Jo included. Nick was the girl's abject slave.
Sometimes he'd turn his eyes on his mistress remorsefully, as he edged
toward Donelle; his affections were sorely torn. The animals all
learned to watch for Donelle, Molly, the horse, was foolishly
sentimental. The house rang with girlish laughter and song. In the
once-still rooms a constant chatter went on whenever Jo and the girl
were together. Donelle, especially, had much to say and she said it in
a strange, original way that set Jo thinking on many new lines.
How was she to keep this girl from knowing the truth, once she mingled
with others? And how was she to keep her apart? Donelle had a passion
for friendliness. To Jo, who had lived her life alone, the girl's
constant desire for conversation and companionship was little less than
appalling. Then, too, Donelle was a startling combination of
precociousness and childishness. Her mind had been well-trained; early
she had been utilized in teaching the younger children of the Home. She
had absorbed all the books at her command; her imagination was
ungoverned, and some of the Sisters had shared confidences with her that
had added fuel to the inquisitive, bright mind.
There were times when Jo Morey felt absurdly young compared with
Donelle, young and crude. Then suddenly the light would fade from the
girl's face, something, probably her incapacity to go back of her life
in the Home, would make her helpless, weak, and appealing.
So far, the little white house, Jo, and the animals, supplied Donelle's
every need, but Mam'selle sensed complications for the future. She
watched and listened while Donelle read and then enlarged romantically
upon what she read; she felt lost already in the face of the problem.
"Mamsey," Donelle suddenly exclaimed one night, "I want you to take off
those horrid old man-things. Let us burn them."
Jo was rigged out in her father's ancient garments; she had been to the
outhouses working long and hard.
"What's the matter with them?" she asked half-guiltily.
"They're ugly and they're smelly." This was true. "Besides, they hide
you and most folks wouldn't find you. They go with your scrouchy
frown," here Donelle mimicked Jo's most forbidding manner, "and your
tight mouth. Why, Mamsey, it took, even me, a long while to find you
behind these things. I had to keep remembering how you looked while I
was so sick in the long, dark nights; how you looked when you
kept--It--away."
The vague look crept to Donelle's eyes, she rarely beat against the wall
that hid her past. For that, Jo was hourly thankful.
"But of course now I can always find you, Mamsey. I just say to the
thing you put up in front of you, 'Get out of the way' and then I see
you, my kind, my dear, faithful, blessed Mamsey, shining!"
Poor Jo as a shining object was rather absurd; but the colour rose to
her dark face, as it might have at the tones of a lover.
"You're a beautiful Mamsey when you don't hide. I suppose my father
could find you, and that's why he wanted to bring me to you. Mamsey,
did you love my father?"
Poor Jo, standing by the stove, her ugly garments steaming and hot,
looked at the girl as a frightened culprit might; then she saw that the
question was put from the most primitive viewpoint and so she said:
"Yes, I loved him."
"Of course. Well, now, Mamsey, will you let me burn those ugly old,
smelly clothes?"
"No; but I'll put them in the attic, child."
"That's a good Mamsey. And the scowl and the tight mouth, will you put
them in the attic, too?"
Jo grinned. The relaxation was something more complete than a smile.
"You're daft," was all she said, but her deep, splendid eyes met the
clear, golden ones with pathetic surrender.
And then, later on toward spring, when Jo was revelling in the richness
of her life and putting away the thoughts that disturbed her concerning
Donelle's future, several things occurred that focussed her upon
definite action.
She and the girl were sitting in the living room one evening while a
soft, penetrating rain pattered against the windows.
"That rain," Jo remarked, her knitting needles clicking, "will get to
the heart of things, and make them think of growing." Donelle looked up
from her book. Her eyes were full of warmth and sunlight.
"You say beautiful things sometimes, Mamsey." Then quite irrelevantly,
"Why doesn't any one ever come here? I should think everyone would be
here all the time, other places are so ugly and other people
so--so--well, so snoozy."
What Jo had feared rose to the surface. She stopped knitting and gazed
helplessly at Donelle.
"At first," the girl went on musingly, "I thought there were no folks;
it was so empty outdoors. Then I saw people once in a while crawling
along. Why do they crawl, Mamsey? You and I don't. And then I ran
around a bit, when no one was looking, and there are some horrid places,
one place where only men go. It is nasty, dirty, and bad. It sort of
makes all the houses seem smudgy. There was a big man at the door, and
he saw me and he said, 'So you're Mam'selle Jo Morey's girl!'" just like
that. And with this Donelle impersonated Dan Kelly so that his merest
acquaintance would have recognized him. "And I made a very nice bow,"
to Jo's blank horror, Donelle showed how she had done it, "and I said 'I
am, sir; and who are you?' And he put his hand in his pockets, so! and
he said, 'I'm Dan, Dan Kelly, and any time you want a little chat, come
to the side door. Mrs. Kelly and I will make you welcome.' And--what
is the matter, Mamsey?"
For Jo's knitting had fallen to the floor, and her face was haggard.
"You--you must never go near that place again," she gasped.
"I never will, Mamsey, for the smell kept coming back to me for days and
days. And the man's eyes--I saw them in my sleep, they were dirty
eyes!"
"My God!" moaned Jo, but Donelle was off on another trail.
"But Mamsey, why don't we have folks in our lives. Is it because it is
winter, and the roads bad?"
"Yes----" this was said doubtfully; but something had to be said.
"Well, I'm glad of that, for I love people. I even liked some of the
Sisters. There was one who made me guess whenever I saw her, it was
Sister Mary, she was little and pretty and had a sorry face as if she
was lost and couldn't find the way out. Almost I wanted to ask her to
run away with me every time I tried to do it myself. And the babies
were so jolly, Mamsey. I used to play that I could make nice, happy
little lives for them. There was one," Donelle's eyes dimmed, "Patsy I
called her, her name was Patricia--such a big, hard name for such a
cunning little tot. I fixed up a perfectly dear life for Patsy, but
poor Patsy didn't seem to want any kind of a life. She'd rather lie in
my arms and rock. I used to sing to her. Then she died!"
The tragedy touched Jo strangely. She had heard little of the details
of Donelle's institution life; but those details, few as they were, had
been vital and impressive.
"Yes, Patsy died. I missed her terribly. Oh! Mamsey, I couldn't do
without folks. Why, I want to tell you something; you like to have me
tell you everything, don't you, Mamsey?"
"Yes; yes." Jo took up her knitting, dropped two stitches, made an
impatient remark under her breath, and caught them up. "If you didn't
tell me everything I'd feel pretty bad," she went on lamely.
"Well, it's this way, Mamsey. I don't cry any more because I can't
remember. I begin with you and me. You see what I don't remember is
like the preface in a book; I never read it and it doesn't matter,
anyway. So we begin--you and I, and everyone is supposed to know about
us without telling; and the things that happened before are just helps
to get us into the first chapter. Then, after that, folks come along
and we don't ask them any questions, they just get mixed up with our
story and on we all go until that stupid old word End, brings us up with
a jolt. Mamsey, dear, I want to get all tangled with stories and
stories and people and people; I want to be part of it. I'm willing to
pay, you have to, all the books show that. I'll suffer and struggle
along, and fall and get up again, but I must be part of it all."
Jo had drawn a full needle out, leaving all the helpless stitches
gaping. "Lord!" she murmured under her breath, and at the moment
decided to go to Father Mantelle on the morrow and get what help she
could.
Aloud she said, quite calmly, very tenderly for her, poor soul:
"I wish you'd take that old book," it was the one Langley had given her;
there was no name or date in it, "and read me some of those verses that
sort of make you feel good, good and--sleepy."
"I just love this," Donelle said, quick to fall into Jo's mood:
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.
"Why, you don't like the words? Your eyes are wet, Mamsey!"
"I'm tired, my eyes ache with the knitting and weaving. The winter
always gets me." Jo was gathering up her work. "We must go to bed,
child. I'm glad spring is coming and we can work in the open."
But Donelle was singing, to a tune of her own, other lines of the
interrupted poem:
And my heart is like a rhyme
With the yellow and the purple keeping time.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*THE PRIEST AND THE ROAD MENDER*
The following day was warm. Jo went to the upper pasture early in the
day to make plans for the spring sowing. It was a day full of promise;
winter seemed almost a memory.
Donelle had been left to finish the work about the house. It should
have taken her until Jo returned, but things flew through the girl's
hands, she was so eager to get out of doors. She sang and gavotted with
Nick who, by the way, had sneaked into hiding rather than make a choice
as to whether he should follow Jo or remain with Donelle. When he came
forth all responsibility was ended. He remained with Donelle!
"Nick," she said presently, "how would you like to take a walk?"
A frantic thump gave proof of Nick's feelings.
"All right, come on! We've got to find folks if folks won't find us,
Nick. I'm pretty nearly starved to death for folks!"
Donelle made a wide sweep back of Dan's Place. Jo's words were in her
mind, but more, the memory of Dan's "dirty eyes" warned her. She took
to the woods on the river side, and was soon fascinated by the necessity
of jumping from rock to rock in order to escape the mushy, mossy earth.
Nick was frantic with delight. Jo never would jump or nose around among
the trees where such delectable scents lurked.
Finally the two emerged on the highway a mile beyond the little cluster
of houses which was Point of Pines, and nothing was in sight but a
lonely, boyish figure apparently carrying mud from one place on the road
and depositing it in another.
"That's an awfully funny thing to do," Donelle mused. "Maybe he's a
moon calf."
Donelle had seen Marcel and Longville, had even talked with Marcel and
liked her. She had heard Jo speak of others, the Gavots among them, but
they were mere names to which, occasionally, Jo had added an
illuminating description.
"That low-down beast, Gavot," Mam'selle had picturesquely said to Marcel
once when not noticing Donelle's presence, "ought to have Tom taken from
him. That boy will be driven to Dan's, if we don't look out. We ought
to raise money and give the boy a start."
"I shouldn't wonder," mused Donelle, now, standing in the road and
eyeing the only other figure on the landscape, "I shouldn't wonder if
that was Gavot's Tom. I'll just see!" So she walked on sedately and
came upon her quarry unexpectedly.
"I believe," she said, showing her teeth in a friendly smile, "I believe
you must be Tom Gavot."
The boy turned abruptly, spilling as he did so the shovelful of soft
earth he was carrying.
"And--you--are Mam'selle's girl!"
Tom was very handsome with a frank, appealing look that seemed to
deprecate the rags and sordidness that hampered his appearance.
"Yes. What are you doing?"
"Mending the roads. And you?"
"Taking a walk on the road you mend."
They both laughed at this, Tom flinging his head back, Donelle folding
her arms over her slim body.
"How did you know me?" asked Tom.
"Why--why, I heard Mamsey talk about your father."
Tom's face clouded. His father, like his rags, hampered his very
thoughts.
"How did you know me?" Donelle was growing shy.
"I think maybe you won't like it if I tell you."
Tom felt very old compared to this girl in her short skirts and long,
light braids. He had never felt young in his life, but he had inherited
that ease and grace of manner which his father abused so.
"I should just love to hear," Donelle was fingering Nick's ears
nervously.
"Well, then, I spied on you. All winter, I spied. I heard them talking
about you, and I had to see for myself. I always have to know things
for myself."
"So do I. But after you spied," Donelle laughed, her yellow eyes
shining, "what did you think?"
"Oh! I don't know." Tom shifted his position. "I thought you were all
right."
They both laughed again at that.
"Are you mostly on the roads?" Donelle asked presently. Nick was
growing restless under her hands.
"Yes, when I'm not somewhere else. I fish some, and Father Mantelle
teaches me and I read a lot, but I'm on the road a good deal."
"I think," Donelle beamed, "I think your Father Mantelle is going to
teach me. I heard Mamsey talking about it. Does he keep school?"
"No. He's the cure. He teaches only a few. He knows everything in the
world. He once lived in Quebec. He's old so they sent him here."
"Well!" Donelle suddenly turned. "I'm going now, but I shall often
walk on the road." She flung this back mischievously. At a distance
her shyness disappeared.
A few days later she met Tom again, this time she was more at her ease.
They were young, lonely, and the spring helped thaw the superficial
crust of convention.
It was after they had seen each other several times that Tom confided to
Donelle his feeling about roads.
"They're like friends," he said, blushing and laughing.
"A road doesn't mean anything to me," Donelle replied, "but something to
walk or ride on, something that gets you somewhere."
"Yes, it does get you somewhere, but you don't always have to ride or
walk on it. If you think about it, it gets you somewhere," said Tom.
Donelle paused to whistle Nick back, the dog was after something in the
bushes.
"You're very queer," she said at last eyeing Tom furtively. "Now I
think about dogs and cats and birds as real, but I never thought about a
road being real."
Donelle was looking at the ground as if it were something alive upon
which she had stepped inadvertently.
"Tell me more about roads," she said.
"There isn't much, I've never told any one before--they would laugh."
"I will not laugh." And indeed Donelle was very serious.
"It began when I was a little chap. I didn't have much to play with and
a boy has to have something. I used to wonder where the road went and
when I was only five I got to the top of the hill and looked beyond. My
father walloped me for running away. I wasn't really running away, but
of course he wouldn't have understood, and my mother was frightened. I
didn't go again for a long time. I was always a bit of a coward and I
remembered the whipping."
"I don't believe you are a coward, Tom Gavot."
"I am, a little. You see, I hate to be hurt, I sort of--dread it, but
once I make the start, I forget and go on like everyone else."
"I think that's being braver than most people. If you are afraid and
still do things, that's not cowardly." Donelle spoke loyally and Tom
gave her a long side glance of gratitude.
The spring was in Tom's blood, this lately-come friend was developing
him rapidly.
"Well, anyway, by the time I was seven I managed the hill again. From
that time on I went every day. I think there must be a dent in a rock
where I used to sit, playing with the road."
"Playing with the road! Playing with the road!" Donelle repeated. "Oh!
but you are queer. What did you play, Tom Gavot?"
"Oh! I sent people up and down it. The people I did not like I sent
down and never let them come back."
"That is perfectly lovely. Go on, Tom."
"And then I made up my mind that when I was big enough I'd run away with
my mother. I always meant to explain to her about the road, but I
didn't. Sometimes I fancied that people would come over the road
bringing to me the things I wanted."
"What things, Tom?"
"Oh! all sorts of things that boys want and don't get. After I grew
older and Father Mantelle began to teach me, I still felt as if the road
was a friend, but I did not play with it any more. Then one summer some
surveyors and engineers came and one man, he was a great sort, let me
talk to him and he made me think about roads in quite another way. I
tell you, my road had got pretty rutty, so I began filling in the holes.
It was the only decent thing I could do when I'd used it so; and besides
it kept me near the men and they helped me to know things that I really
wanted."
"What, Tom Gavot?"
"Why, I want to learn how to make roads. When I can, I am going away
and I'm not coming back until I can do more than fill in holes."
"I shall miss you dreadfully when you go!" said Donelle. It all seemed
imminent and real to her now. "Of course you must go, but--well, the
road will be pretty lonely until you come back." Then the girl looked
up.
"I sort of feel," she said whimsically, "that I ought to be the right
kind--of a girl to walk on your road, Tom Gavot."
"Well, you are."
"No, I haven't told Mamsey that I know you. I've come with Nick when
Mamsey was off on the farm. She thinks I'm spinning or weaving, but I
hurry through and get out. I've hoped that someone would tell her, but
they haven't."
"Would she mind if she knew?" asked Tom, and his dark face reddened.
"I don't know, but I think I must _think_ she would or I would have
told. She and I talk of everything right out; everything but you."
For a moment the two walked on in silence. Then Tom spoke.
"You'd better tell her," he said. Then with a brave attempt at
cheerfulness: "When I come back, Donelle, all the world can see us
walking on the road and it won't matter."
"I'm going to tell Mamsey to-day," murmured Donelle. Somehow she felt
as if she had wronged Tom. "This very day."
Gavot looked into her face. He suddenly felt old and detached as if he
had got a long way ahead of her on the road.
"Your eyes are a strange colour," he said, "they look as if there was a
light behind them shining through."
They both laughed at that, and then Donelle whistled Nick to her and
turned.
"I'm going to tell Mamsey," she said, "good bye."
Tom looked after her and his eyes grew hard and lonely.
"Good-bye," he repeated. "Good-bye," but the girl was out of sight.
That afternoon she told Jo, but she advanced toward her confession by so
indirect a route that she mislead Mam'selle.
"I wish you'd tell me about Tom Gavot," she said.
"Why? What does Tom matter? Poor lad, he's got a beast of a father."
"Was his mother a beast?"
"No. She was a sad, hunted soul."
"It is too bad she died, if she had waited Tom would have taken her on
his road."
Jo looked up from her sewing.
"What are you talking about?" she asked.
"Tom Gavot. He used to play with the road and now he mends it. Some
day he's going to make roads. They'll be splendid roads, I'm sure,
and----"
"What do you know of Tom Gavot, Donelle?"
Jo started as she had when Donelle had told her of Dan Kelly.
"Mamsey, don't be angry, I know I should have told you. I don't know
why I didn't, but while you were away I hurried and got through my work
and then I was so lonely. I went out on the road--Nick and I, and I
found Tom Gavot."
"You've seen him--often?"
And now Jo's eyes were stern and frightened.
"Why, yes, I suppose so. I didn't count. It seems as if I had always
known him. He's wonderful. Besides knowing about roads, he knows books,
all kinds. Father Mantelle teaches him. I'd like to go, too, and learn
from Father Mantelle."
"Well, you'll not study with Tom Gavot!" Jo was perplexed. She decided
to go the very next day to the priest.
"Why not, Mamsey?"
"One sort of learning for girls; another for boys." Jo snapped her
thread.
"I wonder why, Mamsey! They both travel the same road."
The word made Jo nervous.
"No, they do not!" she said sharply.
"Well, I shall. You can choose your road, can't you, Mamsey? I mean
the sort of things you learn?"
"No."
"It's all wrong then."
"Stop asking stupid questions, child, about things you do not know," Jo
broke in.
"But that's why I ask questions, because I don't know. Are they
stupid?"
"Yes, very. Now come, Donelle, and help me get supper."
It was mid-afternoon of the next day when Jo started for Father
Mantelle's. Her errand was a very simple one: she wanted the old man to
teach Donelle. Not while he was instructing Tom Gavot, however!
As she walked along the muddy road, picking her way as she could, Jo was
thinking of how much or how little she should tell of her relations with
Donelle. She had grown to accept what she felt people believed and it
no longer caused her indignation; there were graver problems. But the
incident that Donelle had related of her conversation with Dan Kelly had
thoroughly aroused her. Her consciousness of injustice could not save
her from the shock of the brutal meaning of Dan's attitude.
"They'll get to think the girl's common property if I don't set her
above their reach," muttered Jo, and then wondered whether it would be
safer to lay the truth bare to Father Mantelle. Would it be safer for
Donelle to come forth in her true character, as the daughter of a
supposed murderer, or to remain as she was, the supposed love-child of a
deserted woman? For herself Jo Morey took little heed; the self-respect
that had always upheld her came to her support now. Had Donelle been
hers, she believed her inheritance would have been better than that
which was rightfully hers from her real mother.
"A minister's words can't make or mar these things," she muttered, "and
since my blood doesn't flow in the girl's veins, my common sense can
save her, God helping me!"
As she plodded on poor Jo thought of Langley himself. She had never
believed the accusation brought against him. She could not, but what
proof had she to support her belief? And somewhere, in the world,
possibly, that man was still alive who had brought forth the charge.
Might he not at this late day materialize and menace Donelle were she,
Jo, to let the full light of truth on her?
What reason was there for that strange man to want to get possession of
Langley's child? Was he afraid of her? Did he want to silence her,
or--and here poor Jo stopped in the road and breathed hard--had he
believed that Donelle was his?
For a moment Jo grew dizzy. Suppose he did think so. How could she
prove the contrary? Would her insistence as to resemblance or her innate
belief in her love going true, weigh against any proof which that
unknown man might have?
Less and less did Jo believe that Donelle would ever recall the past.
And if she did, what would it avail?
"I think I will have to let the poor child stagger along with me tacked
to her past," she concluded, "her chances for safety are better, though
she may never know it. I may be able to keep her from hearing, people
do forget, and my money and her learning may help." Jo sighed and
trudged on.
The relations between Father Mantelle and Mam'selle were very peculiar.
The old priest admired her intelligence and was amused by her keen wit
and independence. He simply could not account for her and that added to
his interest. He had not been in Point of Pines long, he rarely left
it, and never had company unless a passing father stopped for
refreshment or a report. In short, Mantelle was as much a mystery as
Mam'selle, and for that very reason they unconsciously respected each
other.
They never discussed religion, but Mantelle's attitude toward Jo had
been always one of esteem and neighbourliness.
"In loneliness the poor soul has worked out her own redemption,"
Mantelle had decided. At first he had pondered upon Mam'selle's
loneliness, but had never questioned it, having much sympathy for any
one who, for any reason, could not mingle freely with his fellows.
When Jo entered the priest's house his servant, an old Indian woman,
showed her to a rear room in which she had never been before.
It surprised Jo by its comfort and even luxury. Books lined the walls,
rugs covered the rude board flooring; there were comfortable chairs,
broad tables, and a clear fire burning on the spotless hearth.
The old man sat before the fire, and as he looked up and saw Jo his
delicate face flushed. Something in his manner caught her attention at
once. Subtle as it was, she was keenly sensitive of it.
"He's heard!" thought Jo, and stiffened.
Father Mantelle had heard and he thought, he certainly hoped, that the
erring daughter had come to confess. It was not in the church, but that
did not matter; more was dragged out of heavily-burdened souls in that
comfortable room than was ever got in the small church on the hill.
The priest meant to be very kind, very tolerant; he knew the world
outside Point of Pines and was extremely human when men and women
deserved his kindness. But until they were brought to the proper state
of mind, mercy must be withheld, and this disclosure of Jo's past had
shaken him tremendously. Certainly whatever he had thought about her,
he had not thought this! He felt that he, in his office and character,
had been grossly deceived. He had been permitted to associate on equal
terms with a woman outside the pale. It was outrageous.
Something intangible, but strangely like Dan Kelly's manner toward
Donelle, marked Mantelle's attitude at the present moment. A
half-concealed familiarity, an assumption of authority.
"Well, well, you have come, daughter," he said, and pointed Jo to the
chair across the hearth. He thought Jo had been driven to him in her
extremity, he had never addressed her as "daughter" before.
"Father," Jo began bluntly, "I've come to ask your help with this young
girl I've adopted."
The priest thought Mam'selle hard. Indeed Longville had told him, in
strict privacy, that she was hard and defiant. For the good of her own
soul and the soul of other women likely to defy the laws of God and man,
she must be brought to a repentant state. Now that he understood
conditions, Mantelle was prepared to reduce Jo to that desirable state.
He smiled kindly, blandly; he was a bit daunted but he realized that,
erring as Mam'selle was, she was no ordinary woman.
He kindly led her on.
"Though you have seen your duty late, daughter," he said gently, "there
is still time to strive for the child's best good."
Then Jo told him quite concisely of her desires for Donelle.
"I want to have her learn all that you can teach her, Father," she said,
"and after that--well, I have no plans, but my money and life will be
devoted to the girl."
There was a suspicion of defiance and bitterness in Mam'selle's tone.
Now Mantelle had only seen Jo's adopted daughter at a distance. Having
no authority over the parish of St. Michael's he had not connected the
girl's past with the institution there. He had asked Longville whence
Mam'selle Morey had brought the girl, but as Longville did not know, he
had let the matter drop as non-essential, but it puzzled him.
"You think it wise to keep the child in Point of Pines?" he asked. "You
think it for her good, after all these years, to--to bring the
unfortunate past to the--the surface?"
"Yes," Jo answered and her lips drew close. She was thinking of Dan
Kelly, but she believed Father Mantelle and she could outwit him.
"My daughter, do you think this would be fair to the girl?"
"Why not?"
"Is it right, or just, that she should suffer for the wrong of
a--another?"
"No, it is not right." Jo said this as a general truth.
"But you think your money can buy favour? Mam'selle, you are wrong.
There are some things money, not even years of blameless life, can buy.
"Your people, I am sure, have treated you kindly, compassionately, and
they will continue to do so, if you show the proper spirit. But you
must not, daughter, think that gold can wipe away the result of defiance
to the laws of God and man. You must be repentant, prove that you have
the best interests of this girl at heart, and then, then only can the
future be secure."
The thin, delicate face was pale and stern, the deep eyes burned. Not
only the sanctity of Mantelle's authority, but his position among men
was being questioned by the woman before him. And Jo was defiant, there
was no doubt about that.
"Your kind heart, daughter, has betrayed you into error. Before
bringing this child here you should have consulted me. Much might have
been saved for us all."
"What would you have advised?" Mam'selle dropped her eyes and the
forbidding brows seemed to hide every kindly expression of her face.
"I should have strongly advised against letting the innocent suffer for
the guilty!" Mantelle's voice was stern.
"Yes, but she had to have a home; care, the best possible."
"To give that, daughter, is not in your power. In violating the most
sacred emotions of life, in spurning the very safeguards of society, you
put yourself outside the pale, as far as the child's best good is
concerned. Women should fully understand this before they take the
fatal step. The price must be paid! If, by assuming your duty at this
late day you could condone the past, I would help you, but I cannot
advise keeping this girl here. For her truest good, she should be
saved, where only such unfortunates can be saved."
"And that is?" Mam'selle's voice was slow and even.
"In the bosom of the church, daughter. Send the child to St. Michael's;
let them train her there for a life of devotion and service in a field
where temptation, inherited weakness----"
Mantelle got no further for Jo--laughed!
The priest rose in his chair, white with anger.
"You laugh?" he said as if his hearing had betrayed him.
"Forgive me, Father, but it struck me as being rather hard on the girl
that, for a wrong she never committed, she should be condemned to--to
exile; not even given a chance of her own."
"You stole that from her, daughter!"
"I? Why, how could I? And is the Church able to accept whatever
service, my--this young girl might give, while the world is unable to do
so?"
"It can."
Then Mam'selle stood up. Her patient, work-worn hands were folded
before her, she raised her deep, sad eyes.
"Father," she said calmly, "you feel that you have a right to assume
this attitude toward me, without even hearing my side? My life, as you
know it, has done nothing to save me from this--this mistake of yours.
You have taken my money, what help I could give, and I believed that you
were my friend."
"I am; your real and only friend." Mantelle was deceived by the tone
and words.
"You have shown me that a man cannot be a friend to a woman! He cannot
give her justice."
"You are not speaking to a man, daughter!"
The desire to laugh again consumed Jo, but she mastered it.
"In that capacity alone did I regard you, Father Mantelle, and you have
failed me. For the rest, I let no one stand between my conscience and
my God! No. If I ask help again it will be from a woman; she at least
can understand."
"A woman is hardest upon women in such cases as yours, Mam'selle!"
Jo was thankful that at last the priest had dropped the objectionable
"daughter."
"She will be the first who will turn against you."
"And was it a woman who came to you, Father, with my--my trouble?"
Mantelle's face flushed and Jo shook her head sadly.
"I see it was not. So the first and second who have turned against me
have been men. Good day, Father, and"--Mam'selle stopped at the
door--"if you ever need help in giving that poor Tom Gavot his chance, I
stand ready to do what I have always promised to do, and I do it for the
sake of his mother."
Condemnation and contempt rang in Jo's voice. It was her last arrow and
it sank home.
The priest was practical and having done his Christian duty he could
afford to be human.
"It speaks well for your good sense, Mam'selle," he said; "that you do
not utterly shut yourself away from your people." Then Mantelle paused,
"Mam'selle!" he said.
"Yes, Father." Jo turned and lifted her deep eyes to his face.
"I wonder if you _have_ something to tell me that I should know in
justice to you?"
"You should have thought of that first, Father. It is too late now."
"We may"--the man's recent manner fell from him like an unnecessary
garment--"be friends, still?"
Again Jo laughed. She felt that she had by some kindly power regained
something of her lost position with this lonely old man. Since he could
not understand her, save her, he was willing to accept her.
"Father, I have too few friends to cast them off heedlessly."
And then she went out, more of a mystery than ever to Mantelle.
*CHAPTER IX*
*WOMAN AND WOMAN*
It was early June when Mam'selle heard that the Walled House, the
country place of some rich people from the States, was to be opened.
It had been closed for many years, but recently the master had died and
his wife, with a staff of servants and an old, blind, white-haired man,
had returned.
The moment Jo heard that, her spirits rose. Here was a most
unlooked-for opportunity for advice and, perhaps, assistance.
The Lindsays of the Walled House had always mingled freely with their
neighbours; Mr. Lindsay was a Canadian. Jo, in her earlier days, had
often served them; had sold her linens and wools to them at, what seemed
to her, fabulous prices. Mrs. Lindsay, having taken a fancy to
Mam'selle, often tried to annex her to her establishment, but to that
the independent Jo would not consent.
"Well, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay had said during the last interview they
had had, "if I ever can help you, please let me."
"I'll go to her now!" decided Mam'selle.
A week later, dressed in her absurd best, she made the journey in her
caliche. Her days of sitting on the shaft by Molly, her economies in
clothes, were over, she was living up to her ambitions for Donelle and
her defiance of Point of Pines' morality. Outwardly, Jo was fairly
awe-inspiring and even Dan Kelly was impressed; inwardly, Jo was a good
deal chastened by her visit to Father Mantelle.
There were doubts now in her heart as to the role she had assumed for
Donelle's sake. Perhaps it would be better to let the girl shoulder her
father's possible crime and her foolish mother's wrongdoing, rather than
the disguise which Jo had self-sacrificingly wrought for her.
And yet, even now she could not bring herself to lay the dead Langley
open to a charge she did not believe, but could not disprove, and the
girl, herself, to danger. And so as she drove to the Walled House she
was very quiet, very subdued, but her faith was strong. She meant to
give as much as she dared of the past to the woman whose sympathies and
assistance she was about to interest. She was ready to put all her
future wools and linens at Mrs. Lindsay's disposal in return for any
help she could obtain for the betterment of Donelle. Poor Jo was ready
to abdicate, if that were best. After her months of happiness with the
girl, after living in the dear companionship and love of the sunny young
nature, she was willing to stand aside for the girl's future good.
"She shall not be condemned to death!" Jo snorted, and Molly reared.
"St. Michael's shall not get her. But there must be a place for her,
and I love her well enough to get out of her way. I only took her for
the best, her best, and if I cannot keep her, I can let her go!"
Jo found Mrs. Lindsay on the beautiful shaded porch, found her changed,
but none the less lovely and kindly.
"Why, it is the dear Mam'selle of the wonderful linens!" Alice Lindsay
cried, stretching out her slim hands in welcome. "I have been thinking
of you. How glad I am to see you. You have heard?" Mrs. Lindsay looked
down at the thin black gown she wore.
"I have heard," Jo said and her throat grew dry.
"I--I have come back because my husband seems more here than anywhere,
now. He loved the Walled House so much; he loved his Canada,
Mam'selle."
Jo was thinking of two bleak, lonely weeks in her own past when she had
stolen away and gone to Langley's deserted cabin because he, _the he_
that she had known and loved--seemed more there than anywhere else. She
had buried her hatred and bitterness toward him there. She knew it,
now, as she had never known it before. The two women were drawing close
by currents of sympathy.
They had tea together, they talked of future linens and wools, and then
Jo told her story, taking small heed of the impression she was giving.
She was blindly thinking only of Donelle, and Mrs. Lindsay did not hurt
her by question or voiced doubt.
That night, when a great silence reigned over the Walled House, broken
only by the soft, tender tones of a violin played at a distance in the
moonlit garden, Alice Lindsay wrote a long letter to Anderson Law, her
father's oldest friend, her own faithful advisor and closest confidant.
Law was an artist and critic. Old Testy he was called by those whom he
often saved from the folly of their false ambitions; The Final Test, by
those who came humbly, tremblingly, faithfully to him with their great
hopes. To a few he was Man-Andy, the name that Alice Lindsay had given
to him when she was a little child.
MAN-ANDY: I have had a wonderful day. I have waited to tell you that
your advice as to my coming here was good. I know it is cowardly to run
away from one's troubles, dear. Troubles, as you say, have their divine
lessons, but I could not believe, at first, that I would find Jack here.
I dreaded the emptiness and loneliness, but you were right, right! I am
not desolate here and I have the blessed feeling of peace that can only
come when one has chosen the right course.
I felt that everything worth while had been taken: Jack, my babies.
Only the money remained, and that I hated, because it could not keep
what I wanted. But you were splendid when you said, "make the thing you
despise a blessing!" I've tried, Man-Andy, to make it a blessing to
others, and it is becoming a blessing to me. I feel I am using it for
Jack and for the babies and that they are making it sacred. I feared
that in this big, empty house the ghosts would haunt me; not the strange
old history ghosts of great ladies and dashing men who used to forget
their homesickness for their mother-countries by revelling in this
shelter in the New World. I did not think of them, for do you not
remember Jack's comical ghost hunts? How he joked about it, saying that
he'd yet lure some old English or French aristocrat to stay and sanctify
our presence by his sponsorship? But oh! I did fear the memories of my
man's dear, jovial ways, the pretty babble of my little babies.
And then--I know I am rambling shamefully, but I cannot sleep, the
moonlight is flooding the garden--I hear Professor Revelle's violin.
Andy, he has actually recovered to the extent of music when he thinks I
do not know. As I look at the dear old soul, so like a gentle wraith, I
remember how you and father and Jack adored his music and how Jack
grieved when illness and poverty stilled it. But you found him,
Man-Andy, and you lent him to me to save, and his music at least has
been given back to him. Not with its old fire and passion--I think if
any demand were made upon him he might be aroused. I may take lessons
myself some day. But he plays dreamily, softly when he is alone,
generally in the garden and at night. He forgets his blindness then.
But to-day I had a caller. I wonder if you remember the nice Mam'selle
Jo Morey that Jack and I used to talk about? You have some of her
linens in your studio. You may recall the incident of the summer when
we told you of her troubles; her desertion by a man of the place and the
death of her imbecile sister? I had almost forgotten it myself, so much
has happened since then, but it all came back to me to-day when she came
with her story.
Andy, her story is quite the most tragic a woman can have; such things
happen even here. She did not cringe or whine, I would have hated her
if she had; you know how I feel about such things. My Mam'selle Jo does
not whine!
There was a child, and now that Mam'selle can afford to do well by it,
she has taken it. She has done this so quietly and simply that it has
shocked the breath out of the very moral Point of Pines. Still, before
the breath left the body of the hamlet, it hissed! And when it recovers
its breath it is going to hound this poor Mam'selle, whose shoes it is
not worthy to touch. It's going to hound and snarl and snap, two of its
inhabitants have done it already, and the Mam'selle Morey is not going
to have her child harried for what she is innocent of!
Isn't this a situation?
The Mam'selle knows her world, however, and all worlds are pretty much
alike, Andy, and she is prepared, in exchange for her child's happiness,
to renounce her! It almost broke my heart as she told me; she saw no
other way and she fiercely demands that justice be shown the girl. I
tell you it takes the fine, large courage to renounce, when love tempts.
Mam'selle loves this child as such children often are loved,
passionately because they cost so much.
And this Mam'selle Morey came to me. She felt I could understand,
advise. Well, I do understand because of Jack's attitude toward such
things, and yours and father's. Thank God, the men I have known have
helped me uphold my standard, and I understand because of my dear, dear
babies, who left so much of themselves with me when they had to go away.
I grew hot and cold as I listened, Man-Andy, and I grew puffed up and
chesty, too. How I gloried, for the moment, in my power. It's all right
to have power if you keep it in its proper place.
I kept saying to myself, "Mam'selle, you and I will win out! And you
shall not be the sacrifice, either! Together we can play the game; two
women ought to be able to see that one innocent child has its rights!"
Man-Andy, I rolled up my sleeves, then and there, and that dear old poem
you love came to my mind, it often does; that one about tears:
By every cup of sorrow that ye had
Loose us from tears and make us see aright
How each hath back what once he stayed to weep
Homer, his sight; David, his little lad?
I thought of dear old blind Revelle; he has something back, even though
much is withheld. He has safety, and his fiddle. And then I vowed that
this brave, strong Mam'selle Morey should have her little lass. She
shall not be taken from her; I will help, and give the girl her chance,
I am quite fierce about it. And my Mam'selle shall keep her in the end,
somehow I'll manage that. With other things, this girl shall get a
comprehension of--her mother!
Man-Andy, tell me what you think of all this and tell me of yourself; of
the Norvals, and the rest of the folks I love but do not need just now.
And tell me of your sad duty, dear man. Do you go every week to the
Lonely Place? Some day, when it is all past, you will come here to this
Walled House. You and I will go out on the highway and kneel under one
of the tall black and white-tipped crosses and give thanks! Man-Andy,
to-night I can give thanks that I am being used, that the power my money
can give is being used, and that I am not left to my tears.
To this long outpouring of the heart Anderson Law replied within the
month.
MY GIRL: you have only proved yourself. It took a little time, but I
knew you were not the sort to hide your face and run. Revelle and his
fiddle are about the best combination I know, I certainly hadn't counted
on the fiddle. I thought with care and safety he'd find peace and I
knew he would be good for you; but I feared his blindness would kill his
music.
It's a great thing, too, girl, that your children did not shut the door
of your motherhood when they went out. You'd hardly have been worthy of
them if you had not learned the lesson they taught.
As for us here: Jim Norval is doing some good things in his moments of
genius. When plain talent grips him, he's not so good. Katherine, from
perfectly exalted motives, is driving him to hell. It's the most
puzzling situation I ever saw. You cannot advise a man to leave a
high-natured, moral, devoted wife just because she's pushing him to
perdition and depriving him of his birthright, but that's the situation
in the Norval family. Their child somehow did not get its lesson over!
The Lonely House still holds my duty, but if the time ever comes when I
can stand beside you under the cross, there will be many things, hard to
bear now, that will then make thanks possible. ANDY.
Law's letter came after Donelle had entered the Walled House where she
was to stay from Monday till Friday of each week. The week-ends
belonged to Mam'selle Jo!
"For awhile, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay had said, holding Jo's hands as
she had made plain her understanding, "I will teach the child myself and
learn to know her. We need not plan far ahead. There is a dear, old,
blind musician living with me; if the girl has any inclination for
music, she will be a god-send to him."
"I am sure she will have, Mrs. Lindsay," Jo's plain face was radiant,
"her father had, and she sings the day through."
"You must bring her at once, Mam'selle, and believe me, whatever comes
or does not come, she will always be yours. She is your recompense."
And within the week Donelle Morey came to the Walled House.
Her entrance was dramatic and made a deep impression upon Mrs. Lindsay.
There had been a struggle between Jo and Donelle before the matter had
been arranged, so, while not sullen, the girl was decidedly on guard.
Propelled by Jo she came into the great, sunny hall. She was very pale
and her yellow eyes were wide and alert.
"My dear," Alice Lindsay had said, "I hope you are going to be very
happy here."
"I did not come to be happy, I came to learn," Donelle returned, and her
voice saved the words from rudeness.
"Perhaps you can be both, dear," but Donelle looked her doubts.
Still from the first she played her part courageously. She studied
diligently and, when she was given the freedom of the library, she
showed a keen and vital interest.
She was not indifferent, either, to the kindness and consideration shown
her, but the wildness in her blood reasserted itself and she often felt,
as she had felt at St. Michael's, a desire to fly from restraint; even
this kindly restraint. Point of Pines had given her a sense of liberty
that was now lacking. The refinements and richness of the Walled House
oppressed her, she yearned for Jo, for the hard, unlovely tasks, for the
chance talks with Tom Gavot. But, oddly enough, it was the thought of
Tom that kept her to her duty. Somehow she dared not run away and hope
to keep his approval. Something of her struggle Alice Lindsay saw, and
she considered it seriously. To win the girl wholly from her yearnings
just then might mean winning her from Mam'selle. While not a child,
Donelle was very unformed and might easily, if she were conquered, be
lost to Jo whom she regarded simply in the light of an adopted guardian.
She was grateful, she loved Jo, but the secret tie that Alice Lindsay
believed existed held no part in her thoughts.
"But she shall be saved for Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay vowed. "I will
not permit any other solution. If the time ever comes when she
understands she shall know the splendour of this dear soul."
So Alice Lindsay took Jo into her confidence.
"You must not, Mam'selle," she said, "even think yourself renouncing
her. She is yours and you ought not to forget that, nor deprive her of
yourself. Take things for granted; let her see you as I see you!"
Jo's face twitched.
"There's no earthly reason," Alice Lindsay went on, "for blotting you
out. Why, the girl will never know another woman as fine as you,
Mam'selle. Think of how you have studied and thought yourself into a
place that many a woman with untold advantages has not attained!"
"Donelle's father was a scholar," Jo faltered, not knowing how to act in
the strained moment. "He taught me, not only books, but how to think."
"Yes, and to suffer, Mam'selle," Alice Lindsay controlled her true
emotions. Then:
"Mam'selle, Donelle must learn to appreciate her inheritance from you.
She shall, she shall! Now throw off your usual manner with her; let her
see you!"
"She always has, Mrs. Lindsay."
"Very well, don't let go of her now!"
And so Jo permitted herself the luxury of doing what her heart longed to
do, she put off her guarded manner and played for the first time in her
life.
It was during Donelle's week-end visits home that she first came forth
in her new character of comrade. In an especially fine spell of weather
she suggested camping out in the woods. Donelle and Nick were beside
themselves with delight, for Mam'selle was a genius at camping. Never
had she so truly revealed herself as she did then, and Donelle looked at
her in amazement.
"Mamsey," she said, "is it because I'm away from you so much that you
seem different? You are wonderful and you know about the loveliest wood
things and stars. It's like magic."
It was like magic, and Jo rightly concluded that something in Donelle's
early life responded to these nights in the woods. She recalled the
girl's delirium, her references to weary wanderings.
"It seems," Donelle once said, hugging her knees beside the glowing
fire, "it seems as if I'd been here before."
"One often feels that way," Jo replied as she prepared a fragrant meal,
"and I'm not saying but what we do pass along the same way more than
once. It may take more than one little life to learn all there is to
know."
And then Donelle talked of a book she had been reading and they grew
very chummy. Once Jo suggested--it was when Donelle told her how she
lived through the weeks, only because the week-ends were in view--that
Nick should stay at the Walled House.
"Nick, would you leave Mamsey?" Donelle held the dog's face in her
hands. It was an awful moment for Nick. He actually slunk.
"I'd hate you if you would!" Donelle continued. "Now, sir, who is your
choice?"
Nick saved the day, he ambled over to Jo and licked her hand.
"There!" exultingly cried Donelle; "that shows his blood."
"It shows his common sense," laughed Jo.
Once Tom Gavot shared their campfire for a night. He was waiting for
them when they dismounted, his eyes shining. He wore a new, and whole,
suit.
"I am going away," he explained. This was no news to Jo, but it took
Donelle by surprise.
"I am going to Quebec," he went on. "Father Mantelle has a friend there
who is to take me into his office. I'm going to learn about roads. You
see, I always knew I'd get a chance!"
He was very gay and full of hope.
"And how does your father take it?" asked Jo, bending over the flames.
The boy's face darkened.
"Father Mantelle talked to him," was all he said.
But that evening Jo was wondrously kind. She gave permission to Tom to
make his own pine-bough bed in the woods; she even seemed to be asleep
when, by the fire, Donelle, holding her body close, her pale face
shining in the glow, said to Tom:
"I am never going to forget about roads, Tom Gavot. I always think of
them as real things, I always have ever since you told me how to see
them. I'm sure your roads are going to be very splendid ones."
"They'll be mighty lonely, just at first," Tom, stretched by the fire,
smiled grimly.
"Yes," Donelle nodded, "yes; they will. Why, Tom, I stand by the gates
of the Walled House and look at the road and it is the loneliest
feeling. I think of Mamsey at one end and something in me goes
stretching out until it hurts. It goes stretching and pulling along the
road until I can scarcely bear it."
"That's the way it will be with me, Donelle," then poor Tom's face
flushed a deep red. "You won't mind, will you, if I tell you
something?"
"I'd love it." Donelle smiled happily.
"You see, I haven't ever had any one who cared since my mother died. I
never dared tell any one but you about the roads. You seemed to
understand; you didn't laugh. And when I'm off in Quebec and something
in me goes stretching over the road until it hurts, it's going to be you
at the other end! You're not laughing?"
"No, Tom Gavot, I'm--I'm crying a little."
"I think it's your eyes, they're like lights. And then you are kind,
kind."
Just then Jo shook herself and awoke.
A few days later Tom was off for Quebec and Donelle's homesickness and
longing for Mam'selle were to be lessened by an unlooked-for occurrence.
Mrs. Lindsay had not thought of Donelle being in the slightest musical,
though Jo had suggested it, for she never sang in the Walled House as
she did at Point of Pines. There were lessons and walks and drives;
Mrs. Lindsay was growing genuinely attached to the girl, and more and
more determined to see that life should play fair with her, but the idea
of interesting old Professor Revelle did not occur to her. The shy,
delicate old man shrank from strangers with positive aversion. He was
not unfriendly, but his loss of eyesight was recent. His late poverty
and illness, from which Anderson Law had rescued him, had left their
scar, and he kept to the rooms Mrs. Lindsay set aside for him with
gentle gratitude. Sometimes she dined with him there; often sat evenings
with him; but for the most the old man was happiest alone.
Then came the day when the silent garden tempted him. He had heard the
carriage depart earlier and thought that Mrs. Lindsay and the stranger
girl had both gone driving.
With his violin under his arm Revelle groped his way from the house; he
was learning, slowly, as the lately-blinded do, to walk alone. At the
far end of the garden there was an arbour, Revelle knew it was
rose-covered by the fragrance, and he loved to play there, for no one
ever disturbed him. To-day he found the place and sat down. His old
face was growing peaceful, full of renunciation; the fear and bitterness
were gone.
The roses thrilled him, he could touch them by reaching out his hand;
they were soft and velvety, and he hoped they were pink. He had always
loved pink roses. And then he played as he had not played for years.
Close to him sat Donelle. She had been reading when he entered. She
did not move or speak though she longed to help and guide him. She knew
all about him, pitied and respected his desire to be alone in a very
lonely and dark world, but she had never heard him play before. As she
listened the yellow eyes darkened. Never had Donelle heard such music;
never had she been so gloriously happy. Something in her felt free,
free! Then something, quite beyond her control, floated after the
notes; it rested and throbbed, it ... but just then Revelle, with a wide
sweep of the bow, stopped!
Donelle crept to his side, his quick ear caught the sound.
"Who is it?" he asked sharply.
"It's--it's Donelle, Donelle Morey. I--couldn't go away; please do not
mind--if you only knew!"
"Knew what?"
"Why, it's what I've wanted all my life. I did not know; how could I?
But now I know, the music has told me."
The voice, the intensity and passion stirred the old man.
"Come here!" he said, reaching out his hand. "The love you have, does it
mean that you sing? Your voice is--is rather fine. Let me have the
fingers."
Half afraid, Donelle placed her hand in his.
"Oh!" Revelle was feeling every inch of the slim hand and fingers.
"The long hand and wide between the fingers! And the finger tips; it is
the musician's hand unless nature has played a trick. Will you let me
find out if nature has spoken true?"
"I--I do not know what you mean."
"Are you a young child?"
"No, I am old, quite old."
"Stand up, let me feel how tall you are. Ah! you are of the right age!
Young enough to obey; old enough to hunger. Are you beautiful?"
"Oh! No. I'm sure I'm ugly."
"Of the light or the dark?"
"I'm white, I--I am thin, too."
"May I touch your face?"
Quite simply Donelle knelt again and quivered as the delicate fingers
passed over her brow, eyes, and mouth.
"You have a soul!" murmured Revelle.
"A soul?" murmured Donelle.
"Ah! yes. You do not know. One never finds his soul until he suffers.
You are young, but you have a soul. Keep it safe, safe; and while you
wait, let me see if nature has made you for use. If you can learn, I
shall find joy. I had thought my life was over."
And so Donelle began to find her way out upon her road.
*CHAPTER X*
*PIERRE GETS HIS REVENGE*
The first year passed, with those blessed weekends coming now, not as
the only bright spots, but always loved.
"The girl may not have the great genius," Revelle told Mrs. Lindsay,
"she may not go much further, but as she goes, she goes radiantly. Her
tone it is pure, her ear it is true, and her soul, it is a hungry soul,
a waiting soul. She will suffer, but she will be the better for that.
If she is ever to be great it will be when she has learned to know
suffering."
Donelle had a strange habit that amused them all; she played best when
she could move about. Gropingly, painstakingly, she practised with the
old, blind man beside her. At times she would wander under the trees on
the lawn, her violin tucked lovingly under her chin.
"Pretty, little pale thing," Alice Lindsay often said. "What is life
going to do with her?"
When three years had passed, Donelle was no longer a simple girl. Point
of Pines was as detached from her real interests as St. Michael's was.
She loved to be with Jo and Nick, but the luxury and comfort of the
Walled House had become part of her life. She wished it might be that Jo
and Nick could come to her; not make it necessary for her to go to them.
She was not more selfish or ungrateful than the young usually are, but
she was artistic and temperamental and her mind and soul were full of
music and beauty. Unconsciously, she was pressing on into life by the
easiest way. Life, she must have; life to the full, that had always
been her ambition, but she had yet to learn, poor child, that the short,
direct path that stretched so alluringly from the Walled House was not
the best one for her own good.
For Mrs. Lindsay she had a deep affection; for Revelle a passion of
gratitude and yearning. He it was who had opened her heaven for her; he
it was who subtly developed her. With no set purpose, but with the
insistence that Art always demands, he brought to bear upon Donelle the
arguments of devotion to her gift, her God-given gift, he reiterated.
She must not let anything, any one stand in its path. She was not
worthy of it unless she forsook all else for it.
Donelle had accepted what was offered to her. She believed Jo Morey had
the best of reasons for burying the past. As she grew older, she saw
the wisdom of forgetting much and in proving herself worthy of becoming
what Jo, what Mrs. Lindsay, and most of all Revelle, hoped for her.
The St. Michael days were blotted out, they were but an incident at
best. Jo was giving her every advantage, she must do her part. She saw
the Point of Pines people on the road as she drove with Mrs. Lindsay or
Jo and they were like shadows to her, they had no place in her
sheltered, beautiful life. She heard indirectly from Tom Gavot, he was
bravely hewing and hacking his road, poor chap. He was helping to
support his unworthy father; he was coming home some day to show
himself, but the time went by and he did not come!
And then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Lindsay decided to close the Walled House
and go abroad. Professor Revelle's health was restored and Anderson Law
had obtained employment for him.
"I want to take Donelle with me," Alice Lindsay said. "She's quite your
own, Mam'selle; you stand first with her, so I can take her with a clear
conscience and give her all the advantages she should have. She will
come back to you in the end, or you will come to her."
Jo's lips drew close.
"Will my linens pay for this?" she asked.
"They will help, Mam'selle, and you have no right to stand in Donelle's
way now that we have gone so far. Some day Donelle can repay me
herself, she has great gifts."
Jo thought hard and quickly. In her heart she had always felt this day
would come, lately she had been haunted by it. It was inevitable. Only
God knew how she dreaded the separation, but she would not withhold her
hand.
"I suppose, Mam'selle, this is what Motherhood means?" Alice Lindsay
spoke the fact boldly, splendidly.
"It's all right," said Jo, "it's all it should mean. I'm glad I do feel
as I do about her."
"And, Mam'selle, this girl loves you very tenderly. Sometimes I think we
ought to tell her----'
"No, no, Mrs. Lindsay." Jo started and flushed.
"When she's found her place and made it sure: when she has so much that
this won't matter, then she shall know everything. I haven't overlooked
this, but I couldn't stand it now. I want her to be able to
understand."
"All right, Mam'selle. And now it is your part to make her feel that it
is your desire that she should make the most of her gifts. Send her
forth happy, Mam'selle, that will mean much to her."
So Jo began the new role and actually made Donelle unhappy in the effort
to achieve the reverse. Alone, in the white house at Point of Pines, Jo
found her father's old clothes and contemplated them gravely. She was
slipping back, poor soul, to her empty life.
Donelle had not accepted the proposed plans without a struggle. She was
wonderfully sensitive and compassionate and her quick imagination made
it possible for her to understand what the future would mean to poor Jo.
Then, too, she shrank from the uprooting. Her dreams of what lay before
were exciting and thrilling, but with sincere kinship she loved the
quiet hills, the marvellous river, and the peace, freedom, and
simplicity which were her birthright.
"Sometimes I fear," she said to Mrs. Lindsay, "that it will deafen me,
hush me, kill me!"
"It will not, dear; and I will always be near."
"Unless you were, I would not dare. You are the only hope, Mrs.
Lindsay."
"That's not so, Donelle. The real hope is your gift. You are taking it
there to make it perfect."
"I hope so. And when I have learned, I must get Mamsey into my new
life, quick."
"Indeed, yes!" Mrs. Lindsay nodded cheerfully.
"Isn't it queer how some people are part of you? Mamsey is part of me,
Mrs. Lindsay." Then softly, "I suppose you know how Mamsey got me and
from where?"
Alice Lindsay started.
"Yes, Mam'selle told me," she said.
"I never speak of it. Mamsey thought best that I should not; but I do
not forget! Often, when we are driving past St. Michael's--I remember."
"Donelle, why do you tell me this now?"
"Just because I want you to understand how I feel about Mamsey. She
didn't have to do things for me, she chose to, and I know all about her
spinning and weaving and--the rest. I have cost her a good deal, and I
mean to make it all up."
Proudly, happily Donelle stood. And looking at her, Mrs. Lindsay
fervently wished the real truth might be kept away from the girl.
Better the uncertainty of birth to such a spirit than the ugly fact.
Safer would her relations with Mam'selle be if she could keep her
present belief.
"Come," she said suddenly, "take your violin and stand--so! This is the
way my good friend Anderson Law is to paint you."
Donelle took the violin; she tucked it under her chin and drew her bow
lovingly across it. The uplifted face smiled serenely. Donelle was no
longer afraid; something bigger than herself caught her and carried her
to safety.
Alice Lindsay's eyes grew dim.
"Life is not all that is lying in wait for the child," she thought.
"What is love going to do with her?"
And then, it was two days before they were to start for the States,
Donelle went for a walk along the quiet highway! She had bidden Jo
good-bye! Her heart ached with the haunting fear that she had not been
quite sure about Mamsey. Was it enough that she was going to prepare
for life? Were her purpose and joy quite unselfish? How about those
long empty days, when the Walled House would be but a memory?
And Nick! The dog had acted so strangely. His awful eyes, yes, they
were quite awful, had been fixed upon her a long, long time, then he had
gone--to Jo! After that he could not be lured from her. It was as if
he said:
"Very well, think what you choose, _I_ will never desert Mamsey!"
Jo had tried to force the dog from her; had scolded him sharply, but he
would not stir.
His silent protest had angered Donelle, and she remembered it now,
walking on the road. She felt her tears rising.
It was a day of calm and witchery. Never had the trees been more
splendid, never the river more changing and beautiful. And the quiet,
was there in all the world so sacred and safe a place as this?
And just then, toward Donelle, came a staggering, wretched figure. The
girl stopped short and the man, seeing her, stopped also, not twenty
feet away.
"It's Tom Gavot's terrible father," thought Donelle. She had never been
so close to anything so loathesome before. She was not really
frightened, the day made things safe enough, but she estimated the best
chances of getting by the ugly thing and escaping from it.
Gavot knew her. All Point of Pines knew her and snapped their hateful
remarks about her at Dan's Place. They were like a pack that had been
defeated. Even Father Mantelle had the feeling that he had been
incapable of coping with a situation that should not exist. It was
putting a premium on immorality.
"Ha!" Pierre Gavot reeled and laughed aloud. When he was in the first
stages of drunkenness he was diabolically keen. His senses always put
up a revolt before they surrendered.
"So!" he called in his thick voice and with that debauched gallantry
that marked him, "So! it is Mam'selle's bastard dressed and ready to
skip out as her damned father did before her, leaving the Mam'selle to
make the most of the broken bits. Curse ye, for what ye are!"
The veins swelled in Gavot's face, a confused, bestial desire for
revenge on somebody, somehow, possessed him.
"Ye've taken all she had to give, as your father did before ye, blast
him! And now, like him, ye kick her out of your way. Her, who spent
herself."
The words were scorching into Donelle's soul, but they numbed sensation
as they went. It was later the hurt would come! Now, there was but one
thing to do, pass the beast in the road and get behind the walls of
safety.
And so Donelle darted forward so suddenly that Gavot staggered aside in
surprise. She gave him one horrified look and was gone!
No one saw her enter the house. She was breathing hard, her face was
like a dead face, set and waxen. In the great hall was a book stand.
On it was a dictionary.
Donelle was repeating over and again in her mind a word. A strange,
fearful word, she must know about that--word. It would explain
something, perhaps.
The trembling hands found it, the wide eyes read it once--twice--three
times.
Slowly, then, the heavy feet mounted the shallow stairs. As old, blind
Revelle used to grope in the upper hall, so Donelle groped now. She
reached her room, closed the door and locked it. Then she sat down by
the window and began to--suffer. The safe ground upon which she had
trodden for the last few years crumbled. At last she managed to reach
St. Michael's. Yes, she remembered St. Michael's, but how long she had
been there before Jo found her she could not remember!
But it was clear: Jo, not her father, had put her there. Jo had made up
the sad story to save her, Donelle! She bore Jo's name, and that was to
save her, too. And her father had deserted poor Mamsey long ago and she
had made the most of the bits that were left!
That is what the horrible man had said. And they had all known, always.
That was why people never came to the little white house; that was why
Jo had put her in the Walled House, to save her. And Jo had stayed
outside as she always had done, outside, making the most of the bits!
At last, a wild, hot fury smote the girl, a kind of fury that resented
the love that placed her in a position which unfitted her for the only
part she could decently play. Of course they must have realized that
she would know some day, and have to give up! She could not go on with
the sham and be happy. They had defrauded her of life while thinking
they had saved her for life. It was cruel, wicked! The yellow eyes
blazed and the slender hands clenched.
"What have they done to me?" she moaned.
And so through the afternoon, alone and driven to bay, Donelle suffered.
The sun went down, leaving its benediction on the wonderful river which
glistened and throbbed as it swelled with the high, full tide, but there
was no peace for Donelle. A shame she could not understand overcame
her. Her unawakened sex battled with the grim spectre.
Then memory helped the girl and she became a woman as she sat alone in
the still room; a woman so pure and simple that Jo was saved.
How great poor Jo's love must have been, always! How little she had
asked, how bravely she had borne her punishment!
The care and devotion of the long nights, when Donelle was so ill,
returned like dreams and haunted the girl. That was the beginning of
Jo, and this was the end? But was it?
It was all in her, Donelle's, hands, to decide. She could keep still!
She could take her life, make it beautiful, and by and by she could come
back to Mamsey. Then she would say, "This I have done for you! But I
could not do it then! I could not give up then," Donelle murmured.
Then the present held the girl, drove away the temptation. There was
the little, lonely white house under the hill at Point of Pines and
Mamsey who that morning had said:
"Child, I'm gladder than you know to be able to give you your chance."
Her chance!
Just then a maid tapped at the door and gave her a message.
Mrs. Lindsay would be detained for dinner and would not be home until
late.
"We are to start to-morrow," the girl said, "very early."
And again Donelle was alone with her chance!
Later she ate her dinner quietly in the dim oak dining room. Candles
burned; there was an open fire on the hearth and pale yellow hothouse
roses on the table. Never was the girl to forget that last meal in the
Walled House. And then, she was once more alone upstairs with--her
chance!
She went to the window and looked out. A rising moon was lighting the
road, The Road!
Suddenly Tom Gavot seemed to stand in the emptiness and beckon her from
that road with which he had played when he was a sad and neglected
child. How clean and fine he had made it seem; he who had come from such
a father! In that moment Pierre Gavot shrank from sight, he had
polluted the road, but Tom had sanctified it.
The road was open now for Donelle to choose. Should she go over the hill
to life or---- And so she struggled. She heard Mrs. Lindsay return,
but it did not occur to her to confide in any one. The shame was only
bearable if she bore it in secret, but where should she bear it? Out,
over the hill, where no one knew; where Mrs. Lindsay and Jo would keep
people from knowing? Could she be happy and forget?
Donelle took up her violin. She clutched it to her. It could make her
forget, it _must_! Even if she wakened the household she felt she must
play.
But she could not play! Her hand was heavy, her brain dull.
Then something Revelle had once said to her flashed into her mind.
"Always live right, child. You can never have your gift at its best
unless you keep its place holy. No matter what any one may tell you,
keep the place clean and right in which your gift lives!"
Then it was that Donelle dressed herself in a plain, warm suit, packed a
little bag, took her violin, left a note on her dressing table, and went
on--Tom Gavot's Road! Just for a moment she stood outside the tall
gates and looked wistfully up the hill, then she turned as if
relinquishing all the joy and promise of life, and set her face toward
Point of Pines.
*CHAPTER XI*
*THE GREAT DECISION*
Donelle made herself a little fire that night in the shelter of a pine
grove. She slept, too, with her back against a sturdy tree and the
sound of the river in her ears.
She had walked fast for many miles. She was tired, but she meant to go
on and reach Point of Pines before any one saw her; before Mrs. Lindsay
could get there and talk to Jo.
At three o'clock she roused herself and went on. There was no one else,
in all the world, it seemed, she was alone, alone. But something was
strengthening her, she no longer grieved or felt remorse. She was, poor
child, learning a tremendous lesson, she had an ideal for which she was
ready to suffer and die. She had found her soul and a peace had come to
her; a peace that the world can neither give nor take away.
"I'm glad!" murmured Donelle; "I'm not a bit sorry. I'd have hated
myself if I had gone away, after I knew."
The gray dawn was creeping with chilly touch over the empty road when
Donelle, footsore and aching in every muscle, came in sight of the
little house.
"Why, there's a light burning!" she said, "a light in the living room.
Maybe Mamsey is ill, ill and all alone."
The fear drove her on more quickly.
Up the steps she went softly and peered into the room. Nothing mattered
now to Jo, she had nothing to hide, so she had not even lowered the
shade.
And there she sat, nodding before the stove in which the fire had long
since died. She wore her father's old discarded clothes--she had
resurrected them after returning from bidding Donelle good-bye--she had
worked hard until late, had fallen asleep exhausted by the fire, and
forgotten to go to bed.
Close to Jo, so close that his faithful head rested against her arm, was
Nick!
He was not asleep, he was on guard. He had heard those steps outside;
he knew them and his ears were tilted and alert. Still, he would not
leave Jo! The time for choice had come and passed with Nick. His heart
might break but he had decided.
The door opened softly, Jo never locked it, and Donelle came tiptoeing
across the room. Nick tapped the floor, but otherwise did not move.
Beside the sleeping Jo the girl crouched down and waited. She was
crying, blessed, happy tears, and one tired hand lay upon Nick's head.
The clock in the kitchen struck in its surprised, alarmed way. How well
Donelle remembered! The sun edged in through the east window, and found
the little group by the cold stove.
Then Jo awoke. She did not move, she only looked! She could not make
it out, and gave an impatient exclamation. She felt that her mind was
betraying her.
"Donelle!" she said presently, "what does this mean?"
"Only that I--I have come, Mamsey."
"Tell me everything." The words were stern.
"Why, Mamsey, there isn't much to tell--except--that I'm here."
"How did you get here?"
"I--I walked. I walked all night."
"And Mrs. Lindsay, she knows?"
"Oh! no, Mamsey, she was away, but I left a note. I had to come Mamsey,
I had to. You see," brightly, piteously, "I--I couldn't play my fiddle.
It would not be played. When I got to thinking of how it would be out
where I was going, I just couldn't! The pretty dresses and the--the
excitement made me forget for a little time, but all of a sudden I saw
how it was going to be. Then I tried to play, and I couldn't! Then I
knew that I must stay, because more than anything, Mamsey, I
wanted--you!"
"This is sheer nonsense!" said Jo, but her voice shook, and the hand
lying against Donelle's cheek trembled.
"You mad child! Why, Donelle, don't you see you are running away from
your life?"
"It will have to find me here, then, Mamsey. Don't send me away. I
would hate it as I would have hated St. Michael's if you had sent me
back there. You see, Mamsey, when I run away I always run to what is
really mine. Don't you see?"
"Are you sick, child?"
Jo felt, now, the uplifted face.
"No, but I would have been, off there! And I couldn't play. What good
would anything have been, if I couldn't play?"
Jo was thoroughly alarmed.
"Can you play here?" she asked, bewildered, not knowing what to think,
but seeking to calm the girl on the floor.
"Why, Mamsey, let me try!"
And Donelle tried, rising stiffly, fixing the violin and raising the
bow.
A moment of indecision, of fear; then the radiance drove the haggard
lines from the tired, white face.
She could play! She walked about the plain home-room. She forgot Jo,
forgot her troubles, she knew everything was all right now! The final
answer had been given her! When she finished she stood before Jo, and
Nick crept toward her. He, too, felt that something, which had been
very wrong, was righted.
Mrs. Lindsay came later. She was alarmed and angry. She and Jo
attacked poor Donelle's position and were indignant that they were
obliged to do so; they, women and wise; she, a stubborn and helpless
girl!
"I couldn't leave Mamsey," was her only reply, and she looked faint from
struggle.
"But Mam'selle does not want you!" Mrs. Lindsay said almost brutally,
seeing that she had succeeded only too well in preserving this girl for
Jo. "You have no right to become a burden, Donelle, when you have the
opportunity of independence."
"Am I a burden?" Donelle turned weary, patient eyes on Jo. And Jo
could not lie. That white, girlish face wrung her heart.
"This is temperament run mad!" exclaimed Alice Lindsay. "I have a great
mind to take you by force, Donelle. I will if Mam'selle gives the
word."
"You won't though, will you, Mamsey?"
Jo could not speak. Then Donelle turned kind, pleading eyes to Mrs.
Lindsay.
"You see, I couldn't play if I were dragged. When I'm dragged I can
never do anything. I wish I could tell you how sorry I am and how much
I love you; but I am so tired. When I got to thinking of Mamsey here
alone, and the Walled House closed, why----"
Alice Lindsay turned from the sad eyes, the quivering mouth.
"Listen, dear!" she said in her old, gentle tones; "I've lived enough
with natures like yours to understand them. Stay with Mam'selle this
winter, Donelle, and think your way out. You have a clear mind, you
will see that what we all want to do for you is right. In the spring I
will return, we'll have another summer in the Walled House. A year from
now all will be safe and right. The trip abroad can wait, everything
shall wait, for you. Now will you be good, Donelle?"
She turned smilingly to the girl, and Donelle gratefully stretched out
her hands.
"Oh! how I thank you," she said, "and I do love and trust you. I will
try to be good. Oh! if you only really knew!"
"Knew what, Donelle?"
"Why, how I could not live away off there, even with you, if I
remembered Mamsey sitting here making the best of the bits that are
left." Then Donelle broke down and wept violently.
Still she was not ill. She was worn to the edge of endurance, but after
a day and night of rest in the room beside Jo she got up, quite herself
again.
"And we'll say no more about it until spring," vowed Jo, but a wonderful
light had crept into her eyes.
"I'm a selfish, unworthy lot----" But the light stayed in her eyes.
Then one day Donelle took her fiddle and strolled out alone to test the
virtue of her safe, happy feeling. She went down to the river and sat
upon the bare, black rocks. The tide was low and the day was more like
spring than early autumn.
"And now," whispered Donelle, "I'll play and think. I have to act too
much when Mamsey is watching."
Donelle knew she had to untangle many loose ends, now that she had
snapped her thread. She did not want, above anything on earth, that Jo
should know her deep, real reason for returning. But how could she make
sure with that horrible man, Pierre, loose in Point of Pines? It did
not matter how lonely she and Jo might be, if only they could have each
other without their common secret rising between them.
Donelle had stayed close to Jo since she had come back, she shrank from
everyone. She meant, some day, to go to Marcel Longville--when the
Captain was at a safe distance. She meant to have Marcel tell her many
things, but not now! She was going to face the future quite bravely,
without shame or cringing. Jo should have that reward at least.
In the meantime, Donelle wished fervently, and with primitive
directness, that Pierre Gavot would die a quick and satisfactory death
and be well out of the way before he again got drunk enough to open his
vile lips.
"If he were here now," mused Donelle, the while playing a charming
sonata, "I'd push him off the rocks and have done with it! What good is
he? All his life he's been messing things, and I'm horribly afraid of
him. I wish he was dead."
A crackling of the dry bushes startled her and she turned to see, coming
down the Right of Way leading from the road to the river, Tom Gavot!
Donelle knew him at once though his good clothes, his happy, handsome
face did their best to disguise him.
"Why!" she cried, getting up with a smile, "when did you get back?"
"A week ago," said Tom, "and it's about time. It has been three years
since I went away." He beamed upon the girl. "I've learned how to see
a road where there isn't even a trail," he went on. "I'm a surveyor.
And you?" He glanced at her violin.
"I've learned to fiddle." Donelle's eyes could not leave the dark,
handsome face. It was such a good, brave face, and the mere fact of Tom
Gavot having returned seemed to make things safer. Tom was like that,
quiet, strong, and safe! In a flash Donelle realized that the sense of
shame and degradation which had driven her from the Walled House was
driving her now to Tom Gavot. She felt sure that he, that all the
others, had known what she herself knew now, and yet it had not made Tom
despise her.
Her lips quivered and her eyes filled.
"It is so good to see you!" she said softly.
Tom's face was suddenly very serious.
"I came back to see how things were going," he said quietly, "and now
that I am here, I'm going to stay."
"How long?" the question was weighted with longing.
"Until there is no more need," said Tom. Then he threw caution to the
winds. "My father has told me!" he breathed hard, "he told me! Are
you, a girl like--like you, going to let the mad words of a drunken man
turn you back?"
For an instant Donelle faltered. Could there be a mistake? She had not
thought of that.
"If what he said, Tom Gavot, was true, I had to turn back. The words
_were_ true, were they not?"
Tom longed to lie, longed to set her free from the horror that he saw
filled her, but he was too wise and just.
"Suppose they were, suppose they were! Suppose Mam'selle did have the
blackest wrong done her that a man can do a woman; hasn't she paid for
it by her life and goodness?"
"Yes, Tom, she has!"
Hope had gone from the girlish face, but purpose and strength were
there.
"And that is why I came back to her. For a moment, Tom Gavot, I stood
on your road, the road you played with and mended. I wanted to run up
and over the hill. I wanted to turn my back on the awful thing I had
heard, but I couldn't, Tom, I couldn't. I would have seemed too mean to
be on your road. I believe something died in me as I stood, but when I
could think once more, I didn't suffer except for Mamsey. I'm so
thankful I feel this way. I want to make up to her--for--for my father.
He left her, but I never will. Why once, Tom, I asked her about my
father, it was long ago, and she said he was a _good father_. And then
I asked her about--about my mother, and she kept still. She let me
think my mother was--not good; she would not hurt my father! But oh! if
I can only keep her from knowing that I know. If I could only make her
think I came back to her simply because I wanted her! I do not want her
to think the truth! That would kill her, I know. She is so proud. So
fine. I want to make her happy in my own way."
"She shall think that, if I can help!" said Tom.
"But you mustn't stay here for me, Tom. I couldn't bear that."
"See here, Donelle. If you have turned back, so will I. I had my
choice of going to the States or overseeing some work back in the hills
here. I have chosen."
"But, Tom, you mustn't turn back."
"Perhaps neither of us has turned back," Tom's dark face relaxed. "When
things make you dizzy you cannot always tell which is back or forward.
I wish you would play your fiddle."
Donelle looked up at him with a kind of glory in her eyes.
"I will," she said; "and after, you must tell me about your roads, the
roads that you can see when there are no roads!"
"It's a bargain."
So Tom sat down upon a rock and Donelle paced to and fro on the leafy
path and, as she played and played, she smiled contentedly at Tom over
her bow. When she was tired she dropped beside him and leaned against a
tree.
"Now," she whispered; "I want to hear about your roads."
"It's splendid work," said Tom. "You can imagine such a lot. Someone
wants a road built; you go and see only woods or rocks or plains, then
suddenly, you see the road--finished! You set to work overcoming the
obstacles, getting results with as little fuss as possible, always
seeing that finished road! It's great!"
"Yes, it must be. I think, Tom, the work we love is like that. When I
am practising and making mistakes, the perfect music is singing in my
ears and I keep listening and trying to follow. Yes, it is great!"
They were both looking off toward the river.
"It's the sort of work for me," Tom murmured, thinking of his roads.
"You know I like to lie out of doors nights. I like the sky over me and
a fire at my feet. Do you remember," he laughed shyly, "the night
before I went away; how Mam'selle made believe to be asleep while we
talked?"
"Yes," Donelle's eyes were dreamy; "dear Mamsey, how she has made
believe all her life."
"Donelle, I only learned a little while ago that it was Mam'selle's
money that sent me off, gave me my chance."
"Tom!" And now Donelle's eyes were no longer dreamy.
"Yes. She worked and saved and never told." Tom's voice was vibrant
with emotion.
"And she worked and saved that I might have my chance," murmured
Donelle.
"I'm going to pay her back double," Tom said.
"Now, Tom Gavot," Donelle rose as she spoke, "you can see why I came
back. I am going to pay her back--double. Some day I may go away and
learn how to make money, much money, but first I have to show Mamsey
that I love her best in all the world."
"I guess you know your way," Tom replied. "And, Donelle, I want to tell
you, I'm not going to live with my father. I couldn't. Here, can you
see that little hut down there?"
Donelle bent and peered through the trees.
"Yes," she said.
"Well, I'm going to clean that up and live there. It has a chimney, and
the windows look right on the river. When you open the wide door it's
almost as good as being out under the sky. That's where I'm going to
set up housekeeping."
"How wonderful, Tom! And Mamsey and I will help you. We'll make rugs
and curtains. We'll make it like a home."
"It will be the first, then, that I've ever had." Tom did not say this
bitterly, but with a gentle longing that touched Donelle.
"I'll come and see you, sometimes, Tom. Mamsey and I. It will be great
fun to sit by your fire and hear about your roads."
"And you'll fiddle, Donelle?"
"Oh! yes, I'll fiddle until you tell me to stop." Then suddenly
Donelle grew grave. "Tom, do you think you can keep your father
straight if you are so far away?"
"I'll keep him _quiet_!" Tom answered. "I'll see to that."
"After a little while, no one will remember," Donelle went on slowly.
"Point of Pines is like that. Mamsey knew, they all knew. But if I can
keep them from thinking that I know, I do not mind."
"They shall!" Tom promised.
What Tom Gavot did not tell Donelle, but what burned and blistered his
soul, was this: Pierre, sober and keenly vicious, had welcomed Tom with
eagerness and cunning. Tom meant money and perhaps care. Tom was
redeemed and successful, he would have to look after his poor father in
order to keep the respect he had wrung from better folk.
After a maudlin display of sentiment and devotion Pierre had said:
"That girl of Mam'selle Morey's, Tom, she's yours for the getting!"
"What do you mean?" Tom had asked, turning his young and awful eyes upon
his father, "I thought Mam'selle--I thought Donelle was with the
Lindsays and going to the States. Father Mantelle wrote----"
"Ah! but that was before I played my game, Tom." And Pierre had given
an ugly laugh. "They took the girl and put her out of our reach, they
thought; even the good Father frowned at that. He tried to speak the
truth up at the Walled House, but they would not hear. The girl was
kept from knowing, and the pride of her was enough to make an honest
soul sick. She looked down on us--us! But I waited my chance and when I
got it, I flung the truth in her white face, and it sort of did for her!
I saw that the pride they had put in her couldn't stand mud!
"And so she's here, Mam'selle's girl, and when one is not over
particular and knows the worst, he can take and make---- What's the
matter? Leave off shaking me, Tom. I'm your old father! Mother of
Heaven, let me go!"
But Tom, holding the brute by the shoulders, was shaking him like a bag
of rags. The flaming young eyes were looking into the bleary, old ones,
looking with hate and loathing. The tie that held the two together
added horror to the situation.
"You--did this thing, you! You killed my mother; you have tried to damn
everything you ever touched; you pushed this young girl into hell--you!
And you tell me I can pull her out, in order to shove her back? You!
"Well, then, hear me! I'll try, God helping me, to get her out, but
nothing that belongs to you shall harm her. And if your black tongue
ever touches her or hers, I'll kill you, so help me God!"
Then Pierre found himself panting and blubbering on the floor with Tom
rising above him.
"Father Mantelle shall know of this," groaned Gavot. "He'll put the
curse of the Church on you."
"I'll fling him beside you, if he dares speak of this thing."
Actual horror now spread over Pierre's face. If natural ties and the
fear of the Church were defied, where did authority rest?
"See here," poor Tom, having conquered his father, was now conquering
himself, "see here. So long as you keep your tongue where it belongs, I
will see that you do not want, but I'm going to be near enough to _know_
and keep you to the line. I couldn't breathe in this hole, it's too
full of--of dead things, but I'll be near, remember that."
And Pierre accepted the terms. He grovelled in spirit before this son
of his, and his lips were free of guile while he ate and drank and slept
and hated. And the others, too, left Jo and Donelle alone. There seemed
nothing else to do, so the little flurry fell into calm as the winter
settled.
*CHAPTER XII*
*THE HIDDEN CURRENT TURNS*
The winter passed and spring came. Point of Pines awoke late but very
lovely. Mam'selle and Donelle had at last burned the old clothes of the
long-dead Morey. That phase, at least, was done with and much else had
been laid on the pyre with them.
"And you came just because you wanted to, child?" Jo often asked when
she even yet doubted her right to happiness.
"Yes, Mamsey, just for that. Wasn't I a silly?" And then Donelle would
look into Jo's deep, strange eyes and say:
"You never run and hide any more, Mamsey. I see how glad you are; how
you love me! Kiss me, Mamsey. Isn't it strange that I had to teach you
to kiss me? Now don't keep thinking you mustn't be happy, it's our duty
to be happy." Donelle gloried in her triumph.
Jo dropped a good many years in that winter and Nick inherited his
second puppyhood. He no longer doubted, he no longer had a struggle of
choice, for Mam'selle and Donelle kept close.
They read and worked together, and sometimes while Jo worked Donelle
played those tunes that made Nick yearn to howl. But he saw they did
not understand his feelings so he controlled himself.
"And when spring comes, child, you will go to Mrs. Lindsay, won't you?"
Jo played her last card.
"You see, it has all been going out and nothing coming in for years.
You cost a pretty figure, Donelle, though I never grudged a cent, God
knows! But you must help now, I'm seeing old age in the distance."
"Come spring," whispered Donelle, and she struck into the Spring Song,
"we'll see, we'll see! But, Mamsey, we can always keep boarders. I
should love that and you have always dreamed of it. That room
upstairs," the lovely tones rose and fell, "I can just see how some
tired soul would look into that room and find peace. We'd make good
things for him to eat, we'd play the fiddle for him, and----"
"A man's so messy," Jo put in, "I'd hate to have the room messed after
all these years."
"Well, there are women boarders," Donelle was adaptable to
possibilities. "We'd be firm about messiness; man or woman. How much
are you going to charge, Mamsey?"
This was a joke between them.
Longville's rapacity disgusted Jo. On the other hand, she felt that
what one got for nothing he never valued. It was a nice question.
"I'm figuring about the price, child. The Longvilles never count what
the boarders give them besides money."
"What do they give, Mamsey?"
"Rightly handled, they give much. Think, Donelle," Jo's eyes lighted,
"they come from here, there, and everywhere! If they are treated right,
they can let you share what they know. Why once, when I was waiting on
table at the Longvilles', there was a man who had been around the world!
Around the world, child, all around it. One day he got talking, real
quiet, to the man next to him and I'll never forget some things he said.
I got so interested I stood stock still with a dish in my hands. I
stood until----"
"Until what, Mamsey?"
"Until the Captain called from the kitchen."
"Oh! my poor, Mamsey. Well, dear, our boarder shall talk and we'll not
stop him and you shall not be called from the kitchen."
"You are laughing, Donelle."
"No, Mamsey, just planning."
"But you must go away, child. You must learn, and then perhaps they'll
take you at the St. Michael's Hotel. Someone always plays there
summers, you know. Could folks dance to your tunes, Donelle?"
The girl stared.
"Anyway you could learn," Jo sought to comfort.
"Perhaps I could, Mamsey, but I'd rather take boarders."
"We could do both, Donelle," Jo was all energy. "Old age is within eye
shot, but I'm long sighted. There's a good bit of power in me yet,
child, and I'm eager for you to go with Mrs. Lindsay when she comes."
Poor Jo, having had the glory of Donelle's choice, was almost desperate
now in her desire to send the girl forth. She had not been blind; she
was wise, too, and she realized that if the future were to be secure and
her own place in it worthy of love and respect, she must refuse further
sacrifice. And sacrifice it would be, a dull, detached life in Point of
Pines.
It was May when a letter came to Jo from Anderson Law. It was a brief
letter, one written when the man's heart was torn with grief and shock.
It told of Mrs. Lindsay's sudden death just when she was preparing for
her return to the Walled House.
It dwelt upon Law's knowledge of the affection and ambition of Mrs.
Lindsay for her protegee, and while her will did not provide for the
carrying out of her wishes, Law, himself, would see to it that
everything should be done that was possible.