"I think you'd find that he is unaware of class distinctions. He
certainly would not regard them. He might be vindictive; he might make
all sorts of trouble for you, and is sure to for Grace."
"Oh, but that's just the point! I want to protect her from him!"
"It is not your place to!" But then he turned towards her, and she
knew he smiled through the darkness. "Play Lady Bountiful, if you
will, but do take my advice and let poor Grace work out her own
salvation."
She had no answering smile. "Oh," she said, "I thought you were above
such phrases."
"Well, I thought so, too; but I'm not above anything when it's a
question of danger to--you."
The slight deepening of his tone was enough to make her hold her
breath; but she would not let emotion affect her desire to make her
intention clear to him.
"I do not believe there is any danger," she said, "but if there is I
think I cannot regard it. I--I am not sure I can make you
understand--but I want to! It is not just an idle whim that makes me
stay here this winter; it is not because I am tired of other things,
things I've always had. I have been restless, I confess, but it is not
restlessness that has made me decide to stay here. I have no theories
of life. I'm afraid I've rather scorned the people who have; but
somehow I know that I have something to do here. I cherish the belief
that I have. I have never had any special thing to do, before, you
see! So even if I knew that there was danger in my living in that
little brown house, and having poor Grace with me, I should ignore the
danger, because--well, because there is something for me to do here,
and I am going to try to do it."
They were down in the valley by this time, Mother Cary's lamp twinkling
far above them; there was light enough from the starlit sky for her to
see that he had taken off his old cap, worn out of deference to her
arrival, and that he ran his fingers backward through his hair, as
always when he was troubled. He did not reply until they turned into
the shadow of the wooded road and Rosy was climbing the last half mile
of their drive.
"God knows, there's work a-plenty for every comer," he said. "It is
not for me to tell you to keep out of it. But I hadn't thought of it
in that way--for you."
"Perhaps I ought to tell you," she said, "that I can help in another
way. I have heard Mother Cary talk about the people farther back in
the mountains--the people you see, but that only come out, she says,
when the 'summer folks' are gone. Grace has told me about them, too.
I--I have some money at my disposal--I know where I can get a good
deal. I thought perhaps you might--and Grace--use it in some way--you
would know how, wouldn't you?"
The thought of her deception, if such it was, made her hesitate in her
speech; but her disappointment was quick and keen that he did not at
once accept her suggestion. When at last he spoke, his voice sounded
tired, and she did not understand his answer until she had pondered it
that night in her own room at Mother Cary's.
"I am afraid," he said, "that even with what you think is a good deal,
we should need another miracle of the loaves and fishes."