give up her life, her will, her spirit! Why? Why? Why must she?
It would take her spirit out of the freedom of the hills and make it
follow a trodden way. It would take her life out of her hands and
maybe ask her to shut herself up, away from the sun and the wind, in a
darkened convent. It would take her will, the will of a soldier's
daughter, and break it into little pieces to make a path for her to
walk upon!
No! No! No! Through all the endless night she moaned her protest. She
would not! She would not give in to it.
It would never let her rest. Through all her life that voice of the
Choir Unseen would strike the strings of her heart. She knew it.
But she would not. Never would she give in to it.
In the morning, even before the coming of the dawn, the music came
again; and it beat upon her worn, ragged nerves, and tore and wrenched
at her heart until she could stand it no longer.
The sisters were taking up again the burden and the way of the day.
She could not stand it! She could not stay here! She must go back to
her hills, where there was peace for her.
She heard the sister going down to unlock the street door so that
Father Tenney could walk in when it was time and go up to the chapel
for the sisters' early mass.
That was her chance! The sisters would be in chapel. The girls would
be still in their rooms.
She dressed hastily and threw her books into a bag. She would take
only these and her money. She had enough to get home on. The rest did
not matter.
When she heard the priest's step pass in the hall, she slipped out and
down the dim, broad stairs.
The great, heavy door of the convent stood like the gate of the world.
It swung slowly, deliberately, on its well-oiled, silent hinges.
She stood in the portal a moment, drinking hungrily the fresh, free
air of the morning that had come down from her hills. Then she fled
away into the dawn.
The sun was just showing over Lansing mountain as Jeffrey Whiting came
out of his mother's house dragging a hair trunk by the handle. His
uncle, Cassius Bascom, drove up from the barn with the team and sled.
Jeffrey threw his trunk upon the sled and bent to lash it down safe.
It was twenty-five miles of half broken road and snowdrifts to
Lowville and the railroad.
Jeffrey Whiting was doing what the typical American farm boy has been
doing for the last hundred years and what he will probably continue to
do as long as we Americans are what we are. He is not always a
dreamer, your farm boy, when he starts down from his hills or his
cross-roads farm to see the big world and conquer it. More often than
you would think, he knows that he is not going to conquer it at all.
And he is not, on the other hand, merely running away from the
drudgery of the farm. He knows that he will probably have to work
harder than he would ever have worked on the farm. But he knows that
he has things to sell. And he is going down into the markets of men.
He has a good head and a strong body. He has a power of work in him.
He has grit and energy.
He is going down into the markets where men pay the price for these
things that he has. He is going to fight men for that price which he
knows his things are worth.
Jeffrey's mother came out carrying a canvas satchel which she put on
the sled under Cassius Bascom's feet.
"Don't kick that, Catty," she warned, "Jeff's lunch is in it. And,
Jeff, don't you go and check it with the trunk." There was just a
little catch in the laugh with which she said this. She was
remembering a day more than twenty years before when she had started,
a bride, with big, lumbering, slow-witted, adoring Dan Whiting,
Jeffrey's father, on her wedding trip to Niagara Falls, with their
lunch in that same satchel. Dan Whiting checked the satchel through
from Lowville to Buffalo, and they had nearly starved on the way. It
was easy to forgive Dan Whiting his stupidity. But she never quite
forgave him for telling it on himself when they got back. It had been
a standing joke in the hills all these years.
She was just a typical mother of the hills. She loved her boy. She
needed him. She knew that she would never have him again. The boys do
not come back from the market place. She knew that she would cry for
him through many a lonely night, as she had cried all last night. But
she was not crying now.
Her deep grey eyes smiled steadily up into his as she stretched her
arms up around the neck of her tall boy and drew his head down to kiss
her.
He was not a dull boy. He was quick of heart. He knew his mother very
well. So he began with the old, old lie; the lie that we all tried to
tell when we were leaving.
"It'll only be a little while, Mother. You won't find the time
slipping by, and I'll be back."
She knew it was a lie. All the mothers of boys always knew it was a
lie. But she backed him up sturdily:
"Why, of course, Jeff. Don't worry about me. You'll be back in no
time."
Miss Letitia Bascom came hurrying out of the house with a dark, oblong
object in her hands.
"There now, Jeff Whiting, I know you just tried to forget this on
purpose. It's too late to put it in the trunk now; so you'll just have
to put it in your overcoat pocket."
Jeffrey groaned in spirit. It was a full-grown brick covered with
felt, a foot warmer. Aunt Letty had made him take one with him when he
went down to the Academy at Lowville last winter, and he and his brick
had furnished much of the winter's amusement there. The memory of his
humiliations on account of that brick would last a lifetime. He
wondered why maiden aunts could not understand. His mother, now, would
have known better. But he dutifully put the thing into the pocket of
his big coat--he could drop it into the first snowback--and turned to
kiss his aunt.
"I know all about them hall bedrooms in Albany," she lectured. "Make
your landlady heat it for you every night."
A noise in the road made them all turn.
Two men in a high-backed, low-set cutter were driving into the yard.
It was evident from the signs that the men had been having a hard time
on the road. They must have been out all night, for they could not
have started from anywhere early enough to be here now at sunrise.
Their harness had been broken and mended in several places. The cutter
had a runner broken. The horses were cut and bloody, where they had
kicked themselves and each other in the drifts.
As they drove up beside the group in the yard, one of the men
shouted:
"Say, is there any place we can put in here? We've been on that road
all night."
"Drive in onto the barn floor, and come in and warm yourselves," said
Mrs. Whiting.
"Rogers," said the man who had spoken, addressing the other, "if I
ever get into a place that's warm, I'll stay there till spring."
Rogers laid the lines down on the dashboard of the cutter and stepped
stiffly out into the snow. He swept the group with a sharp, a praising
eye, and asked:
"Who's the one to talk to here?"
Jeffrey Whiting stepped forward naturally and replied with another
question.
"What do you want?"
Rogers, a large, square-faced man, with a stubby grey moustache and
cold grey eyes, looked the youth over carefully as he spoke.
"I want a man that knows this country and can get around in it in this
season. I was brought up in the country, but I never saw anything like
this. I wouldn't take a trip like this again for any money. I can't do
this sort of thing. I want a man that knows the country and the people
and can do it."
"Well, I'm going away now," said Jeffrey slowly, "but Uncle Catty here
knows the people and the country better than most and he can go
anywhere."
The big man looked doubtfully at the little, oldish man on the sled.
Then he turned away decisively. Uncle Cassius, his kindly, ugly old
face all withered and puckered to one side, where a splinter of shell
from Fort Fisher had taken away his right eye, was evidently not the
kind of man that the big man wanted.
"Where are you going?" he asked Jeffrey sharply.
"Albany Law School," said Jeffrey promptly.
"Unstrap the trunk, young man. You're not going. I've got something
for you right here at home that'll teach you more than ten law
schools. Put both teams into the barn," the big man commanded loudly.
Jeffrey stood still a moment, as though he would oppose the will of
this brusque stranger. But he knew that he would not do so. In that
moment something told him that he would not go to law school; would
never go there; that his life was about to take a twist away from
everything that he had ever intended.
Mrs. Whiting broke the pause, saying simply:
"Come into the house."
In the broad, low kitchen, while Letitia Bascom poured boiling tea for
the two men, Rogers, cup in hand, stood squarely on the hearth and
explained himself. The other man, whose name does not matter, sank
into a great wooden chair at the side of the fire and seemed to be
ready to make good his threat of staying until spring.
"I represent the U. & M. railroad. We are coming up through here in
the spring. All these farms have to be given up. We have eminent
domain for this whole section," said Rogers.
"What do you mean?" asked Jeffrey. "The railroad can't run _all over_
the country."
"No. But the road will need the whole strip of hills for timber.
They'll cut off what is standing and then they'll stock the whole
country with cedar, for ties. That's all the land's good for,
anyway."
Jeffrey Whiting's mouth opened for an answer to this, but his mother's
sharp, warning glance stopped him. He understood that it was his place
to listen and learn. There would be time enough for questions and
arguments afterward.
"Now these people here won't understand what eminent domain means,"
the big man went on. "I'm going to make it clear to you, young man. I
know who you are and I know more about you than you think. I'm going
to make it clear to you and then I'm going to send you out among them
to make them see it. They wouldn't understand me and they wouldn't
believe me. You can make them see it."
"How do you know that I'll believe you?" asked Jeffrey.
"You've got brains. You don't have to _believe_. I can _show_ it to
you."
Jeffrey Whiting was a big, strong boy, well accustomed to taking
responsibilities upon himself. He had never been afraid of anything
and this perhaps had given him more than the average boy's good
opinion of himself. Nothing could have appealed to him more subtly
than this man's bluff, curt flattery. He was being met man to man by a
man of the world. No boy is proof against the compliment that he is a
man, to be dealt with as a man and equal of older, more experienced
men. Jeffrey was ready to listen.
"Do you know what an option is?" the man began again.
"Of course I do."
"I thought so," said Rogers, in a manner that seemed to confirm his
previous judgment of Jeffrey's brains. "Now then, the railroad has
got to have all these farms from Beaver River right up to the head of
Little Tupper Lake. I say these people won't know what eminent domain
means. You're going to tell them. It means that they can sell at the
railroad's price or they can hold off and a referee will be appointed
to name a price. The railroad will have a big say in appointing those
referees. Do you understand me?"
"Yes. I see," said Jeffrey. "But--"
"No buts at all about it, young man," said Rogers, waving his hand.
"The people have got to sell. If they give options at once--within
thirty days--they'll get more than a fair price for their land. If
they don't--if they hold off--their farms will be condemned as forest
land. And you know how much that brings.
"You people will be the first. You can ask almost anything for your
land. You'll get it. And, what is more, I am able to offer you,
Whiting, a very liberal commission on every option you can get me
within the time I have said. This is the thing that I can't do. It's
the thing that I want you to do.
"You'll do it. I know you will, when you get time to think it over.
Here are the options," said the big man, pulling a packet of folded
papers out of his pocket. "They cover every farm in the section. All
you have to do is to get the people to write their names once. Then
your work is done. We'll do the rest and your commissions will be
waiting for you. Some better than law school, eh?"
"But say," Jeffrey stammered, "say, that means, why, that means my
mother and the folks here, why, they'd have to get out; they'd have to
leave their home!"
"Of course," said Rogers easily. "A man like you isn't going to keep
his family up on top of this rock very long. Why, young fellow, you'll
have the best home in Lowville for them, where they can live in style,
in less than six months. Do you think your mother wants to stay here
after you're gone. You were going away. Did you think," he said
shrewdly, "what life up here would be worth to your mother while you
were away. No, you're just like all boys. You wanted to get away
yourself. But you never thought what a life this is for her.
"Why, boy, she's a young woman yet. You can take her out and give her
a chance to live. Do you hear, a chance to live.
"Think it over."
Jeffrey Whiting thought, harder and faster than he had ever tried to
think in his life. But he could make nothing of it.
He thought of the people, old and young, on the hills, suddenly set
adrift from their homes. He thought of his mother and Uncle Cassius
and Aunt Letitia without their real home to come back to. And he
thought of money--illimitable money: money that could do everything.
He did not want to look at his mother for counsel. The man's talk had
gone to his head. But, slowly, unwillingly his eyes came to his
mother's, and he saw in hers that steady, steadfast look which told
him to wait, wait. He caught the meaning and spoke it brusquely:
"All right. Leave the options here. I'll see what we'll do. And I'll
write to you next week."
No. That would not do. The big man must have his answer at once. He
stormed at Jeffrey. He appealed to Mrs. Whiting. He blandished Miss
Letitia. He even attacked Uncle Cassius, but that guileless man led
him off into such a discussion of cross grafting and reforestation
that he was glad to drop him.
In the end, he saw that, having committed himself, he could do no
better than leave the matter to Jeffrey, trusting that, with time for
thought, the boy could not refuse his offer.
So the two men, having breakfasted and rested their horses, set out on
the down trip to Lowville.
Late that night Jeffrey Whiting and his mother came to a decision.
"It is too big for us, Jeff," she said. "We do not know what it means.
Nobody up here can tell us. The man was lying. But we do not know why,
or what about.
"There is one man that could tell us. The White Horse Chaplain, do you
remember him, Jeffrey?"
"I guess I do. He sent Ruth away from me."
"Only to give her her chance, my son. Do not forget that. He could
tell us what this means. I don't care anything about his religion.
Your Uncle Catty thinks he was a ghost even that day at Fort Fisher. I
don't. He is the Catholic Bishop of Alden. You'll go to him to-morrow.
He'll tell you what it means."
* * * * *
Bishop Joseph Winthrop of Alden was very much worried. For the third
time he picked up and read a telegram from the Mother Superior of the
Sacred Heart Convent at Athens, telling him that Ruth Lansing had left
the convent that morning. But the third perusal of the message did not
give him any more light on the matter than the two previous readings
had done.
Why should the girl have gone away? What could have happened? Only the
other day he had received a letter from her telling of her studies and
her progress and of every new thing that was interesting her.
The Bishop thought of the lonely hill home where he had found her
"Daddy Tom" dying, and where he had buried him on the hillside.
Probably the girl would go back and try to live there. And he thought
of the boy who had told him of his love and that he wanted to keep
Ruth there in the hills.
As he laid down the telegraph form, his secretary came to the door to
tell him that the boy, Jeffrey Whiting, was in the waiting room asking
to see him and refusing even to indicate the nature of his business to
any one but the Bishop himself.
The Bishop was startled. He had understood that the young man was in
Albany at school. Now he thought that he would get a very clear light
upon Ruth Lansing's disappearance.
"I came to you, sir," said Jeffrey when the Bishop had given him a
chair, "because you could tell us what to do."
"You mean you and your--neighbour, Ruth Lansing?"
"Why, no, sir. What about her?" said Jeffrey quickly.
The Bishop gave the boy one keen, searching look, and saw his mistake.
The boy knew nothing.
"This," the Bishop answered, as he handed Jeffrey the open telegram.
"But where's she gone? Why did she go?" Jeffrey broke out, as he read
the message.
"I thought you were coming to tell me that."
"No," said Jeffrey, reading the Bishop's meaning quickly. "She didn't
write to me, not at all. I suppose the sisters wouldn't have it. But
she wrote to my mother and she didn't say anything about leaving
there."
"I suppose not," said the Bishop. "She seems to have gone away
suddenly. But, I am forgetting. You came to talk to me."
"Yes." And Jeffrey went on to tell, clearly and shortly, of the coming
of Rogers and his proposition. Though it hurt, he did not fail to tell
how he had been carried away by the man's offer and his flattery. He
made it plain that it was only his mother's insight and caution that
had held him back from accepting the offer on the instant.
The Bishop, listening, was proud of the down-rightness of the young
fellow. It was good to hear. When he had heard all he bowed in his
old-fashioned, stiff way and said:
"Your mother, young man, is a rare and wise woman. You will convey to
her my deepest respect.
"I do not know what it all means," he went on, in another tone. "But I
can soon find out."
He rang a bell, and as his secretary opened the door the Bishop said:
"Will you see, please, if General Chandler is in his office across the
street. If he is, give him my respects and ask him to step over here a
moment."
The secretary bowed, but hesitated a little in the doorway.
"What is it?" asked the Bishop.
"There is a young girl out there, Bishop. She says she must see you,
but she will not give a name. She seems to be in trouble, or
frightened."
Jeffrey Whiting was on his feet and making for the door.
"Sit down where you were, young man," said the Bishop sharply. If Ruth
Lansing were out there--and the Bishop half believed that she
was--well, it _might_ be coincidence. But it was too much for the
Bishop's credulity.
"Send the girl in here," he said shortly.
Ruth Lansing walked into the room and went straight to the Bishop. She
did not see Jeffrey.
"I came straight here all the way," she said, "to tell you, Bishop,
that I couldn't stay in the convent any longer. I am going home. I
could not stay there."
"I am very glad to see you, Ruth," said the Bishop easily, "and if
you'll just turn around, I think you'll see some one who is even more
pleased."
Her startled cry of surprise and pleasure at sight of Jeffrey was
abundant proof to the Bishop that the coming of these two to his door
was indeed a coincidence.
"Now," said the Bishop quickly, "you will both sit down and listen. It
concerns both of you deeply. A man is coming here in a moment, General
Chandler. You have both heard of him. He is the political power of
this part of the State. He can, if he will, tell us just how serious
your situation is up there, Jeffrey. Say nothing. Just listen."
Ruth looked from one to the other with surprise and perhaps a little
resentment. For hours she had been bracing her courage for this ordeal
of meeting the Bishop, and here she was merely told to sit down and
listen to something, she did not know what.
The Bishop rose as General Oliver Chandler was ushered into the room
and the two veterans saluted each other with the stiffest of military
precision.
"These are two young friends of mine from the hills, General," said
the Bishop, as he seated his old friend. "They both own farms in the
Beaver Run country. They have come to me to find out what the U. & M.
Railroad wants with options on all that country. Can you, will you
tell them?"
The General plucked for a moment at the empty left sleeve of his
coat.
"No, Bishop," he said finally, "I cannot give out what I know of that
matter. The interests behind it are too large for me. I would not
dare. I do not often have to say that."
"No," said the Bishop slowly, "I never heard you say that before."
"But I can do this, Bishop," said the General, rising. "If you will
come over here to the end of the room, I can tell you, privately, what
I know. You can then use your own prudence to judge how much you can
tell these young people."
The Bishop followed to the window at the other end of the room, where
the two men stood and talked in undertones.
"Jeffrey," said Ruth through teeth that gritted with impatience, "if
you don't tell me this instant what it's all about, I'll--I'll _bite_
you!"
Jeffrey laughed softly. It took just that little wild outbreak of hers
to convince him that the young lady who had swept into the room and
faced the Bishop was really his little playmate, his Ruth, after all.
In quick whispers, he told her all he knew.
The Bishop walked to the door with the General, thanking him. From the
door the General saluted gravely and stalked away.
"The answer," said the Bishop quietly, as he came back to them, "is
one word--Iron."
To Ruth, it seemed that these men were making a mysterious fuss about
nothing. But Jeffrey saw the whole matter instantly.
"No one knows how much there is, or how little there is," said the
Bishop. "The man lied to you, Jeffrey. The road has no eminent domain.
But they can get it if they get the options on a large part of the
farms. Then, when they have the right of eminent domain, they will
let the options lapse and buy the properties at their own prices."
"I'll start back to warn the people to-night," said Jeffrey, jumping
up. "Maybe they made that offer to other people besides me!"
"Wait," said the Bishop, "there is more to think of. The railroad, if
you serve it well, will, no doubt, buy your farm for much more than it
is worth to you. There is your mother to be considered first. And they
will, very likely, give you a chance to make a small fortune in your
commissions, if you are faithful to them. If you go to fight them,
they will probably crush you all in the end, and you will be left with
little or nothing. Better go slowly, young man."
"What?" cried Jeffrey. "Take their bribe! Take their money, for
fooling and cheating the other people out of their homes! Why, before
I'd do that, I'd leave that farm and everything that's there and go up
into the big woods with only my axe, as my grandfather did. And my
mother would follow me! You know that! My mother would be glad to go
with me, with nothing, nothing in her hands!"
"And so would I!" said Ruth, springing to her feet. "I _would_! I
_would_!" she chanted defiantly.
"Well, well, well!" said the Bishop, smiling.
"But you are not going up into the big woods, Jeffrey," Ruth said
demurely. "You are going back home to fight them. If I could help you
I would go back with you. I would not be of any use. So, I'm going
back, to the convent, to face my fight."
"But, but," said Jeffrey, "I thought you were running away."
"I did. I was," said Ruth. "Last night I heard the voice of something
calling to me. It was such a big thing," she went on, turning to the
Bishop; "it seemed such a pitiless, strong thing that I thought it
would crush me. It would take my life and make me do what _it_ wanted,
not what I wanted. I was afraid of it. I ran away. It was like a Choir
Unseen singing to me to follow, and I didn't dare follow.
"But I heard it again, just now when Jeffrey spoke that way. Now I
know what it was. It was the call of life to everybody to face life,
to take our souls in our hands and go forward. I thought I could turn
back. I can't. God, or life won't let us turn back."
"I know what you mean, child. Fear nothing," said the Bishop. "I'm
glad you came away, to have it out with yourself. And you will be very
glad now to go back."
"As for you, young man," he turned to Jeffrey, "I should say that your
mother _would_ be proud to go anywhere, empty-handed with you.
Remember that, when you are in the worst of this fight that is before
you. When you are tempted, as you will be tempted, remember it. When
you are hard pressed, as you will be hard pressed, _remember it_."
III
GLOW OF DAWN