A GOLDEN WEDDING GIFT
Bad news travels fast but good news wings its way quite as speedily.
Life teaches the human heart to accept the one bravely and to laugh
happily with the other, for after all life is just a ringing note
that sounds through and above the eternal weaving of God's
shuttle--at times clear, reaching to the highest stars; at other
times a minor wail of pain. But the weaving goes on, drab threads
mingling with the brighter ones; and so the heart learns to
withstand, and better still to hope. It may be, when the shuttle
runs slower and the fabric is all but woven, if the weaver is brave
and strong he is able to decipher the riddle of it all. "If you
would experience happiness, find it in the happiness of others."
Now the unrest and uncertainty which had overshadowed Scotia for
months had been miraculously lifted and in its place was rest and
certainty. Sorrow and pity for the man who had been stricken with
blindness gave place to joy and congratulation. Swifter-winged than
the harbinger of sorrow, which sometimes falters in its flight as
though loath to cause a jarring note deep within God's harmony,
flashed the joyful news that Frank Stanhope had come into his
inheritance and would see again. For a week following the wonderful
news the people of the Settlement did little else than discuss it
together. Man, woman and child they came to the vine-covered cottage
to tell Stanhope they were glad.
Pennsylvania Scroggie had been one of the first to offer his
congratulations. "Young man," he said to Stanhope, "I'm some rough
on the outside but I reckon I'm all right inside. You've got your
sight back and you've got, in this fine piece of land my old uncle
left you, what promises to be a real oil field. Hinter and I are
going to develop it for you, if you've no objections. And you've got
a whole lot more than that," glancing at Erie, who stood near. And
Stanhope, sensing the sterling worth of the man, shook hands gladly.
Lawyer Maddoc and Doctor Cavinalt had gone back to Cleveland,
promising to return every fall so long as their welcome held out and
Billy was there to guide them about and save their lives, if
necessary.
Old Harry O'Dule's dream was about to be realised, Stanhope had
assured him that he would see to it that he should play his whistle
beneath Ireland's skies before another autumn dawned.
It was a world of silence, a world bathed in golden haze, that
Stanhope gazed upon with the restoration of his sight. A long time
his eyes dwelt upon the vista before him, with its naked trees
piercing the mauve-line of morning mist shimmering above the yellow
wood-smoke. The girl beside him knew from the tightening hand on
hers and the awe that paled his quivering face that the silence spoke
a thankfulness which mere words could never express. So she waited,
and after a long time he turned slowly and holding her at arm's
length, smiled down into her eyes.
"And you, too," he whispered. "With all this, I have you, too."
"You know that you have always had me, Prank," ahe said softly.
"But more than ever I want you now; more than ever I need you.
Erie," he said earnestly, "are you willing to marry me right
away--next week?"
"Oh Frank--" she began, but he checked her utterance with his lips.
"The Reverend Reddick is available at any day, any hour, Lighthouse
girl; he's conducting revival services in the Valley church. It will
all be so simple. Won't you say next week?"
She gazed into his radiant face with serious eyes. "But Frank," she
whispered, "it may be cold and dismal next week, I--I always thought
that I should like our wedding to be---"
Her head went down to hide against his arm.
"Go on, Lighthouse girl. You always thought you would like our
wedding to be--when?"
"On a golden, Indian summer day like this," she finished and closed
her eyes as his arms went about her.
* * * * *
"And ut's married they were this mornin', whilst the dew still clung
to the mosses, and ut's meself was witness to the j'inin' av two av
the tinderest hearts in all the wurruld." Old Harry O'Dule, on his
rounds to spread the joyful tidings of Frank and Erie's marriage, had
met Billy leading a fat bay horse along a sun-streaked forest path.
Billy stared at the old man; then his face broke into a grin. "O
Gee!" he sighed, and sinking on a log, closed his eyes. "O Gee!" he
repeated--leaping to his feet and throwing his arms about the neck of
the bay and yelling into that animal's twitching ear. "Hear that,
you Thomas? They're married, Erie an' Teacher Stanhope's married!"
"Billy, is ut clane crazy ye've gone?" chided the old man, "that ye'd
be afther deafenin' the poor steed wid yer yellin'? Listen now, fer
ut's more I'll be tellin' ye."
Billy kicked his hat high in air and turned a handspring. "Tell me
all about it, Harry. You saw 'em married, did you?"
"Faith and I did," cried Harry. "And play 'em a weddin' march on me
whistle I did, soft as a spring rain and swate as the very joy they
do be feelin' this day. A king he looked, Billy, and his bride a
quane, ivery inch av her. But no more av your questions now," he
broke off, "fer step along I must, singin' me thankfulness from me
whistle, and spakin' the good tidings to them I mate along the way."
Billy watched the old man move down the path, the wild strains of the
Irish tune he was playing falling on his ears long after the player
had been swallowed up in the golden haze. Then he too passed on, bay
Thomas walking sedately behind. As he rounded a bend he met Maurice
Keeler and Jim Scroggie, heads close together and speaking animatedly.
"Ho, Bill!" cried Maurice. "Bringin' bay Thomas up to the stable fer
winter, eh? Gee! Jim, look at that horse; did you ever see such a
change in anythin' in your life?"
"Thomas has sure fattened up," grinned Jim. "I guess it would puzzle
old Johnston to know our horse now, eh, Bill?"
"You mean your horse, Jim," corrected Billy.
"No, I don't either; he's only a third mine. One third's yours and
the other third's Maurice's."
Maurice and Billy stared at him. "It was your money paid fer him,"
Billy asserted.
"Well, what of it? Maurice found him a soft hidin' place and good
pasture on his Dad's farm, didn't he?"
"Sure, but then--"
"And it's you who's gain' to see that he gets cared for all winter,
ain't it?"
"You bet it is," cried Billy.
"Well then, I claim he's a company horse an' you an' me an' Maurice
is that company. Now, that's settled, let me tell you what Maurice
and me was talkin' about when you met us."
Billy unsnapped the tie-strap from Thomas' halter so that he might
crop the wayside grass without hindrance and sat down on a log
opposite the one occupied by his friends.
Jim nudged Maurice but Maurice shook his head. "You tell him," he
said.
"Bill," Jim cried eagerly. "I got a bit of news for you that'll make
you want to stand on your head and kick splinters off the trees."
Billy grinned. "An' I got a piece of news fer you fellers, too," he
returned. "But go on, your news first, Jim."
"Teacher Stanhope has made over a deed of Lost Man's Swamp to you,
Bill," said Jim. "I heard Dad telling Mr. Hinter all about it. Dad
was there when Lawyer Maddoc drew up the deed--Maurice, you crazy
hyena, will you keep quiet?"
Maurice had rolled backward off the log, the while he emitted cries
that would have done a scalp-hunting Indian credit. "Three cheers
fer Bill!" he yelled. "He discovered Lost Man's Swamp oil field.
Trigger Finger Tim ain't got nuthin' on our Bill."
Billy was standing up now, his perplexed face turned questioningly on
his chums.
"That's right, Bill," cried Jim. "You really did discover it, you
know. Hinter said he was the only one who knew the oil was there
until you rafted out to the ponds and saw the oil-bubbles breakin' on
'em. He says that a fortune likely lies there, so you see--"
"An' Teacher Stanhope, he deeded the swamp to me," said Billy
dazedly. He got up from the log and squared his shoulders. "Well,"
he spoke, "that was mighty good of him, but I ain't wantin' that
swamp."
"But Bill," urged Jim, "the oil they've found there'll make you rich."
Billy shook his head. "I'm as rich as I ever want'a be right now,
Jim."
"Look here, Bill," cried Maurice. "You don't want'a hurt Teacher
Stanhope's feelin's, do you!"
Billy glanced at him quickly, a troubled look in his eyes. "N-no,"
he said, "you bet I don't."
"Then that's all there is to it; you keep Lost Man, that's what you
do."
Billy considered. "I ain't sayin' jest what I'll do," he spoke
finally. "I gotta ask another person's advice on this thing. But if
I do take it you, Jim, an' you, Maurice, are goin' to be my partners
in Lost Man same's you are in bay Thomas. Here, Maurice, you take
Thomas to our stable an' give him a feed. I gotta go somewhere
else." And leaving Jim and Maurice sitting, open-mouthed, Billy
ducked into the timber.
Not until he had put some distance between himself and hia friends
did he remember that he had not told them the great and wonderful
news that had been imparted to him by old Harry. Well, never mind,
they would hear it soon. Harry would see to that. He turned into a
path that strayed far up among clumps of red-gold maples and
ochre-stained oaks. The whistle of quail sounded from a ridge of
brown sumachs. Up the hill, across the deep valley, where
wintergreen berries gleamed like drops of blood among the mosses, he
passed slowly and on to the beech-crowned ridge.
Here he paused and his searching eyes sought the lower sweep of
woodland. A clump of tall poplars gleamed silvery-white against the
dark green of the beeches; far down at the end of the sweep the
yellow tops of hardy willows stood silhouetted against the undying
green of massed cedars and pines. Billy gazed down upon it all and
his heart swelled with the deep joy of life, his nerves tingled to
the tang of the woodland scents. Something deep, stirring,
mysterious, had come to him. He did not know what that something
was--it was too vague and incomprehensible for definition just yet.
His arm about the trunk of a tree, he laughed softly, as his eyes,
sweeping the checker-board of autumn's glories, rested at last on the
grove of coniferous trees. So that was the haunted grove? That
dark, silent, spicy bit of isolated loneliness far below was the spot
he had so feared! But he feared it no longer. _She_ had cured him
of that. _She_ had said that fear of the supernatural was foolish;
and of course she was right.
A fat red-squirrel frisked down a tree close beside hia and halted,
pop-eyed, to gaze upon him. "I tell you," Billy addressed it
gravely, "it takes a good woman to steady a man." The statement was
not of his own creation. He had heard it somewhere but he had never
understood its meaning before. It seemed the fitting thing to say
now and there was nobody to say it to except the squirrel.
A blue-jay and a yellow-hammer flashed by him, side by side, racing
for the grubbing-fields of the soft woods below, their blue and
yellow bodies marking twin streaks against the hazy light. Blue and
yellow, truly the most wonderful colors of all the colorful world,
thought Billy. The scene faded and in its place grew up a face with
blue, laughing eyes and red, smiling lips, above which gleamed a halo
of spun gold. Then the woodland picture swam back before him and the
squirrel, which with the characteristic patience of its kind had
waited to watch this boy who often threw it a nut-kernel, called
after him chidingly as he dipped down into the valley.
Billy was still thinking of the only girl when he topped the farther
ridge and descended into the valley where stood the haunted grove.
He wondered what she would say when he told her the great news he had
to tell her. He thought he knew. She would put her hand on his arm
and say: "Billy, I'm glad." Well, he was on his way to hear her say
it. As he entered a clump of cedars he saw her. She wore a cloak of
crimson; her hat had slipped to her shoulders and her hair glowed
softly through the shadowy half lights. She stood beside old man
Scroggie's grave, a great bunch of golden-rod in her arms.
Billy called and she turned to him with a smile.
"Oh, I'm so glad you came, Billy," she said. "You can help me
decorate uncle's grave."
She dropped the yellow blossoms on the mound and they went out into
the sunshine together and gathered more. When they had finished the
task they went across to the weedy plot in which stood the
tumble-down hut. There, seated side by side beneath a gnarled
wild-apple tree, Billy told her all he had to tell her, and heard her
say, just as he knew she would say, "Billy, I'm glad."
Then between them fell silence, filled with understanding and
contentment and thoughts that ran parallel the same long track
through future promise. Billy spoke, at length: "He's goin' to take
the school ag'in. An' him an' me are goin' to build that sail-boat
we've always wanted--a big broad-beamed, single sticker that'll carry
all of us--you, me, teacher, Erie an' anybody wants to come along.
Gee! ain't it great?"
The girl nodded. "And what will you name her?" she asked. Into
Billy's cheeks the blood sprang as into his heart joy ran riot.
"I aim to call her _Lou_," he said hesitatingly. "That is if you
don't mind."
The golden head was bowed and when it was raised to him, he saw a
deeper color in the cheeks, a softer glow in the eyes. "Come," she
said softly, "we must be getting back."
They crossed the sunflecked grass, hand in hand. As they reached the
pine grove the girl pointed away above the trees. "Look," she
whispered.
Billy's gaze followed hers. High above the trees a black speck came
speeding toward them, a speck which grew quickly into a bird, a big,
black bird, who knew, apparently, just where he was going.
"It's Croaker," Billy whispered. "Stand right still, Lou, an' we'll
watch an' find out what his game is."
He drew her a little further among the pines and they peered out to
see Croaker alight on the broken-backed ridge pole of the log hut.
Here, with many low croaks, he proceeded to search his surroundings
with quick, suspicious eyes, straining forward to peer closely at
scrub or bush, then cunningly twisting about suddenly as though
hoping to take some skulking watcher behind him unawares.
Finally he seemed satisfied that he was alone. His harsh notes
became soft guttural cooes. He nodded his big head up and down in
grave satisfaction, tip-toeing from one end of the ridge-pole to the
other and chuckling softly to himself. Then suddenly, he vanished
from sight.
"Where has he gone?" whispered Lou.
"Hush," warned Billy. His heart was pounding.
The watchers stood with eyes glued to the ridge-pole. By and by they
saw a black tail-feather obtrude itself from a hole just beneath the
roof's gable. A black body followed and Croaker came tiptoeing back
along the ridge.
The girl felt her companion's hand tighten spasmodically on hers.
She glanced up to find him staring, wide-eyed at the bird.
"Billy!" she whispered, almost forgetting caution in her anxiety.
"What is it?"
He pointed a shaking finger at Croaker. "See that shiny thing that
old rogue has in his bill, Lou!" he asked. "What do you 'spose that
is?"
"Why, what is it?"
"It's one of the gold pieces your uncle hid away. Come on, now we'll
see that Croaker throw a fit."
They stepped out into plain view of the crow, who was muttering to
the gold-piece which he now held before his eyes in one black claw.
Croaker lowered his head and twisted it from side to side in sheer
wonder. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Then as Billy stepped
forward and called him by name his black neck-ruff arose in anger
and, dropping his prized bit of gold, he poured out such a torrent of
abuse upon the boy and girl that Lou put her fingers in her ears to
stop the sound.
"He's awful mad," grinned Billy. "He's been keepin' this find to
himself fer a long time." At sound of his master's voice Croaker
paused in his harangue and promptly changed his tactics. He swooped
down to Billy's shoulder and rubbed the top of his glossy head
against the boy's cheek, whispering low and lying terms of endearment.
Lou laughed, "What's he up to now, Billy?"
"He's tryin' to coax me away from his treasure," Billy answered.
"Now, jest watch him."
"What you want'a do, Croaker?" he asked, stroking the bird's neck
feathers smooth.
"Kawak!" said Croaker, and jumping to the ground he started away,
head twisted backward toward the boy and girl, coaxing sounds pouring
from his half open beak.
"No, sir," cried Billy. "You don't fool me ag'in. I'm goin' to
climb up there an' see jest how much gold is hid in that hole under
the gable."
Croaker watched him reach for a chink in the logs and raise himself
toward the treasure house. Then he became silent and sat huddled up,
wings drooping discontentedly, his whole aspect one of utter despair.
Lou, bending to caress him, heard Billy give an exclamation, and ran
forward. "It's here, Lou," he cried excitedly, "a tin box an' a
shot-bag full of gold in a hollered-out log. The bag has been ripped
open by Croaker. I'll have to go inside to get the box out."
He dropped to the sward and stepped through an unglazed window into
the hut. Nailed to one end was a crude ladder. Billy climbed the
ladder and peered closely at the log which held the money. To all
appearances it was exactly like its fellows, no door, no latch to be
seen. And still, he reasoned, there must be an opening of some kind
there. He lit a match and held it close to the log. Then he
whistled. What he had mistaken for a pine knot was a small button
fixed, as he saw now, in a tiny groove. He moved the button and a
small section of the log fell, spraying him with musty dust.
Another moment and he was outside beside Lou, bag and box in his
arms. Croaker was nowhere to be seen; neither was the gold piece
which he had dropped in his amazement at sight of Billy and Lou.
"He went back and got it," said the girl, in answer to Billy's look
of amazement. "And, Billy, he flew away in an awful grouch."
"Oh, he'll soon get over it," laughed Billy. "We'll find him waitin'
fer us farther on."
They crossed the lot and went through the pines to the sunny open.
There, on a mossy knoll, Lou spread her cloak, and Billy poured the
gold from bag and box upon it.
Lou started to count the money. Billy sat back, watching her. "Yes,
sir," he mused, "it certainly takes a good woman to steady a man."
For ten glorious minutes he built air castles and dreamed dreams.
"Two thousand nine hundred and forty dollars," Low announced, and
Billy jumped up.
"Whew!" he whistled, "an' all gold, too. The three pieces that
Croaker took make the even three thousand."
They placed the money back in the box and bag. Then Billy, picking
up the treasure, spoke gently.
"It'll make 'em a grand weddin' gift, Lou."
"Yes," she answered, "a grand wedding gift, Billy."
In silence they passed on through the upland gowned in hazy, golden
spray. At the height of land they paused to look down across the
sweeping country below them. Then blue eyes sought grey and hand in
hand, with a new glad vista of life opening before them, they went on
into the valley.
THE END.