BILLY MEETS A DIVINITY
Billy spent the days preceding the reopening of the Valley School
much as a criminal awaiting execution might spend his last hours of
life. The fact that Trigger Finger Tim had always accepted the
inevitable sentence of fate with calm and undaunted spirit was the
one buoy to which he might cling in a turbulent sea of uncertainty.
There had been so much to do; so little had been done. The hiding
place of old Scroggie's will was still a secret; no check had been
put upon the preparations of the interloper who claimed to be the
heir of the Scroggie estate; the mystery surrounding the store
robbery remained a mystery; his friend Frank Stanhope was growing
thin and pale from secret suffering. And on Monday morning the
Valley School would open!
It was tough! Billy felt sure that had he been allowed a little more
time he might have solved one or more of the problems which weighed
him down. He felt like a man who was being cut suddenly off from his
usefulness. Saturday he spent roaming the big woods alone. On
Saturday evening Maurice came over and the two went down to Levee
Creek, set sail in the old punt and steered up-bay towards the
light-house.
Arriving they found Hinter there, so did not remain long. It was
while Erie Landon was preparing a lunch for them that Billy got an
opportunity to whisper something in her ear. The girl's cheeks
flushed and her blue eyes grew deep with feeling.
"You tell him, Billy Boy, that the light he feels is my promise of
fidelity," she said softly, "my love, my prayers, my hope. And tell
him that I know all will be well."
That night, after separating from Maurice, Billy went over to the
Stanhope cottage. It was late but Frank Stanhope was standing beside
the white gate, his arms folded on its top, his chin upon them.
He raised his face at sound of the boy's step. "Ho, Billy!" he
called cheerfully. "Is it you?"
"Yes, teacher." Billy came close to him and the two stood for a long
time in the silence of mute understanding. Then the boy delivered
the message just as Erie had whispered it. Stanhope did not speak.
He simply lifted his face to the stars, eyes streaming, lips moving
dumbly. Billy moved softly away through the shadows.
Next day was Sunday and Billy did not like Sundays. They meant the
scrubbing of his face, ears and neck with "Old Brown Windsor" soap
until it fairly cracked if he so much as smiled, and being lugged off
with his parents and Anse to early forenoon Sunday School in the
little frame church in the Valley. There was nothing interesting
about Sunday School; it was the same old hum-drum over and over
again--same lessons, same teachers, same hymns, same tunes; with
Deacon Ringold's assertive voice cutting in above all the other
voices both in lessons and singing and with Mrs. Scraff's shrill
treble reciting, for her class's edification, her pet verse: "Am I
nothing to thee, all ye who pass by?"--only Mrs. Scraff always
improvised more or less on the scriptures, and usually threw the
verse defiantly from her in this form: "You ain't nuthin to me, all
you who pass me by."
Billy knew exactly what he was going to hear at Sunday School, and
what he was going to see, and there wasn't much of interest in that
for a live boy. Consequently he was quite unprepared for the
unexpected shock he received on this particular morning, when he
trailed dejectedly into the Sunday School room behind his mother and
Anson.
As he passed up the aisle something strange and mysterious seemed to
draw his eyes toward a certain spot. He looked and there, gazing at
him from eyes of blue, rose-bud lips half parted in a smile, was a
girl--and such a girl!
Billy stood stock still in the aisle and stared at the vision of
loveliness. She was dressed in white and her hair was curly and as
golden as that of the pictured angel in his mother's Bible. Never
before had he seen such a gloriously beautiful creature.
He became conscious that the droning hum of teachers and classes had
given place to hushed calm; that all eyes were turned upon him,
standing there in the aisle and staring at this picture of absolute
perfection. With an effort he drew his eyes away and stumbled
forward to his place in elass.
Several times during the next half hour Billy, allowing his gaze to
wander across the church, caught those blue eyes fastened upon him
and his heart began to flutter strangely. An ungovernable desire to
misbehave himself took possession of him. Never in his life had his
head felt so light--unless it was the night when he and Maurice had
inadvertently mistaken hard cider for sweet and had nearly disgraced
themselves. He was not even aware of who was beside him on his seat,
until a pair of stubby fingers pinched his leg and he came down to
earth to look into Jim Scroggie's grinning face.
"Oh, hello," he whispered, coldly. He was irritated at such
unwarranted interruption of his soul-feast. He settled low in his
seat and pretended to give his attention to the teacher, Cobin Keeler.
Tim nudged him. "What you think of her?" he asked proudly.
Billy frowned. "Who?"
Jim nodded across to the girl in white. "That's Lou," he informed
Billy, "my sister."
Billy gave such a perceptible start that he knocked the "Sunday
Lesson Helps" sheet out of the hands of Elgin Scraff, on his left.
That this snub-nosed, flat-faced, beefy boy beside him could possibly
be a brother to the dainty, angelic creature who had caused his heart
to turn such violent flip-flops and disorganize his whole mental
poise was inconceivable.
And still, it must be true. Immediately his manner towards Scroggie
underwent a change. All the antipathy that a woods-born boy can feel
toward a city-bred one vanished suddenly at the intelligence imparted
to him. It was the look of true comradeship, the smile that always
won him confidence and fidelity, that he gave Jim now, as he
whispered: "Any time you want'a borrie my shot-gun, Jim, jest let me
know."
Scroggie beamed. Being the son of his father he lacked nothing in
astuteness. He realized, as all brothers realize sooner or later,
that a pretty sister is an asset.
"An' the punt too?" he asked.
Billy nodded. Jim, had he but known it, might have had everything
Billy owned, including Croaker, Ringdo, Moll and the pups.
Mr. Keeler had finished the reading of the lesson, skipping most of
the big words and laying particular stress on those he was sure of,
and had stood up facing his class of boys, to ask them certain
questions pertaining to the lesson, thereby bringing all whispered
conversation to a halt. He cleared his throat and ran a critical eye
down the line of upturned faces. When Mr. Keeler asked a question it
was in a booming voice that carried from pulpit to ante-room of the
building.
"Kin any boy in this here class tell me why Christ walked on the sea
of Galilee?" he now asked.
Nobody answered. Billy, casting a quick glance across the aisle,
found Lou Scroggie's blue eyes watching him intently. They seemed to
say "Surely, you can answer that."
Billy shifted uneasily in his seat. He was sorry now that he had not
paid closer attention to the reading of the lesson.
"Why did Christ walk on the sea of Galilee?" repeated Mr. Keeler,
folding his arms impressively and looking hard at Billy, who once
more shot a side-long glance across the room. The blue eyes were
wide open with wonder and astonishment now, that he could not answer
so simple a question as that. Billy's mind worked with lightning
speed. He would answer that question if it cost him his life.
Promptly he stood up.
Mr. Keeler looked surprised; so did Billy's class-mates; so did all
members of all the classes and the teachers. So did Billy himself.
The drowsy hum of reciting voices died suddenly and a great stillness
succeeded it. It seemed to Billy that he was standing alone on top
of a flimsy scaffold, hundreds of feet in the air, waiting for Mr.
Keeler, high executioner, to spring the trap-door that would launch
him into oblivion.
He glanced at the window. It was raised but a few inches; exit was
effectively closed in that direction. He made up his mind to reach
for his hat and walk with dignity from the class, the church and
those soulless, sinister-faced people who watched and waited
gloatingly for his downfall. No, there was still a better plan. He
would stagger and grope his way out like one who had been suddenly
stricken with sickness. Yes, that was what he would do.
Then through the haze of uncertainty two wide blue eyes seemed to
meet his own; eyes that smiled to him confidence in his ability to
make good; eyes that said as plainly as words: "I knew you could do
it."
Billy braced himself. At the same time he caught a glimpse of
Anson's leering face and inwardly vowed that that young man should
have plenty of reason to regret that leer.
Mr. Keeler was leaning across the back of the long seat, smiling
commendingly upon him.
"William Wilson will tell us why Christ walked on the sea of
Galilee," he boomed. "Come William, answer up, my boy."
Billy drew in his breath hard. He fully intended that none of those
straining ears should miss his answer. Suddenly it had come to him
that it was an easy question to answer; there could in fact be but
one answer to it.
"_Because He didn't have no boat!_"
In the deep silence following his answer Billy sat down. Then a
murmur of gasps, whispers and giggles grew up, which died suddenly to
silence again, as Mr. Keeler's voice rang out.
"Correct! Now, boys, we will get on with our lesson."
During the closing hymn Billy managed to evade the eyes of his elders
long enough to slip outside. He wanted to be alone--alone to ponder
over this great and wonderful thing that had come into his life. It
was love--yes it certainly was love, strong worshipful love such as
comes to but few, and to those few only once. Such love had made
Trigger Finger Tim leap a fifty-foot chasm, swim a swift,
ice-encumbered river and fight single-handed a band of painted
savages to free his sweetheart from their murderous clutches. Billy
knew that he would do as much for _her_!
He strayed into the beech grove sighing, striving to realize all that
had suddenly happened to him. Never in all his dreams had he
imagined such a face could belong to mortal girl. He must see her
again--yes, he must see her soon again--perhaps speak with her. The
very thought of it made him dizzy.
He wanted to tear up a sapling by the roots and bust something with
it, wanted to shout, wanted to let all the world know his joy. But
he didn't. He compromised by standing on his head and walking the
full length of the mossy grove on his hands.
That day at dinner for the first time in his life he found it
impossible to eat. Food choked him. He left the others eating, with
a word or two about having eaten heartily of thimble-berries and not
caring for anything more.
Out in the shed he found Moll, anxious over one of her pups which
seemed stupid and sick. Billy picked up the pup and cuddled it. He
found himself crying over its sniffling whimpers of pain. Love is a
grand thing if only because of the softening influence it exerts in
the savage breast of man. Billy could not remember ever having
actually cried over a sick puppy before. It was as though she stood
there, white hands clasped, blue eyes filled with commiseration, the
gold of her hair forming a halo above her bent head. He could almost
hear her voice saying: "Great, tender heart, cease thy tears. Am I
not close beside thee to help thee bear thy sorrow?" That's what
Avilee Rochaw had said to Trigger Finger, in the book.
He put the pup tenderly down beside its mother and went out behind
the wood-pile to wait for Anse. He wanted to tell him that he
forgave him for being such a low-down tattle-tale and the meanest
brother that ever lived. That's what _she_ would have him do, he
knew. He was a changed being. If he was to win her love, he was
going to be worthy.
He waited for an hour but Anson did not come. How was he to know
that Billy had undergone a change of heart? Had he not caught the
cold glint in Billy's eyes, when he had sneered at him in the class?
Previous experiences had taught him caution. He had watched his
brother go out behind the wood-pile and had promptly made tracks in
the opposite direction.
At supper time Billy's appetite had not returned. He did make
something of a pretense at eating but it did not deceive the eyes of
his watchful mother, who for reasons of her own restrained herself
from making any reference to his mopishness.
That night as he was undressing for bed Mrs. Wilson came softly up
the stairs, a tumbler half filled with a smoky liquid in one hand, a
black strap in the other.
"Here, you Willium," she commanded, "you drink these here salts and
not a word out o' you, or I'll tan you good and plenty."
Billy turned slowly, his fingers fumbling with his cotton braces. He
looked at the noxious dose in the tumbler, then at his mother's face.
"All right," he said gently, "I'll take 'em, Ma; give 'em here."
His mother gasped. Whatever was coming over the boy, she wondered.
Never before had she been able to get a dose of medicine down him
without a struggle. There could be only one answer. He was
sick--sicker than he let on.
She set the glass on the little table and let the strap slip to the
floor. She put her hands on his shoulders and turned him about so
that the light fell full on his face. She saw that it was really
pale--yes, and wistful. Anse had told her about having seen Billy
kiss the pup and cry over it. Now a lump came into her throat as she
looked into the grey, unwavering eyes. With a sob, she threw her
arms about his neck and drew him close to her. Billy patted her
shoulder and let her cry. He could not guess her reason for it, but
for that matter he could not understand why he was crying too, unless
indeed it was his great and worshipful love still working overtime.
Mrs. Wilson subsided at last and wiped her eyes on her apron. Then
she took Billy's face between her hands and kissed him on the
freckled nose. "I know how much you miss your own Ma, Willium," she
said, "and I know I kin never take her place, but I love you, an' it
worries me awful to think anythin' might happen to you."
"Nuthin's goin' to happen to me, Ma," Billy assured her. "I'm
feelin' bully. Don't you worry none."
Mrs. Wilson sighed. "Well, if you're sure you don't need these here
salts--" she lifted the glass and stood hesitating, "why, I don't
s'pose there's re'lly any call fer you to take 'em. It seems too bad
to waste 'em, though."
Billy turned toward Anson's bed, from which, for the second time, he
was sure had come a faint titter. "I was thinkin'," he said in
answer to his mother's quick look, "that it wouldn't hurt Anse none
to have a dose. He does grit his teeth somethin' awful when he's
asleep."
"You don't tell me, Willium! Why then, salts is jest what he needs.
I'll wake him up an' give 'em to him."
* * * * *
It was long after his mother had left the loft and Anse's wails of
protest and wild promises of vengeance had given place to the regular
breathing of peaceful sleep that Billy lay awake, gazing wide-eyed
through the dark.
Above him bent a face with tender blue eyes and red, half-smiling
lips beneath a crowning glory as golden as frost-pinched maple leaf.
And she would be at school in the morning! It was while pondering on
how he might contrive to wear his Sunday clothes on the morrow that
Billy fell asleep to dream that he was old man Scroggie's ghost and
that he was sitting in the centre of Lake Erie with the big hardwoods
bush on his knees, waiting for _her_ to come that he might present it
all to her.